UC-NRLF B 3 SSD 7DE I THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA <• ALUMNUS BOOK FUND OLIYE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. % NotJfl. BY , JOHN CORDY JEAFFRESON. AUTHOR OF "ISABEL," "A BOOK ABOUT DOCTORS," &c. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FKANKLIN SQUARE. 18 6 4. ALUMNUS OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD ¥OEK. BOOK I. DREA31LAND :— BEING PART THE FIRST OF MISS TABITHA TREE'S NOTE-BOOK. CHAPTEE I. DECLARATIONS. / We lived at Farnham Cobb — I, and my grand- ' father, and Mrs. Skettlc, and sister Etty, and about two luindred and fifty neighbors of vari- ous degrees of social humility. Farnham Cobb is in "the corn country." It is as well that the reader should bear this in mind, as to do so may prevent confusion. Six miles on the southeast of Farnliam Cobb "the light lands" begin, with their vast fields of sand and their interminable sweeps of sheep-walk ; and beyond "tlie light lands" is the sea, the wild wide sea, creaming the shingle, and lash- ing the white headlands of the coast ; but Farn- ham Cobb lies in the richest vein of '" the corn country." My story begins at a date somewhere about thirty or forty years since ; but all the same for that, its opening scenes are in tlie "good old times;" for Farnham Cobb, when I lived in it, was remote from the bustle of modern England. The corn country was more than a hundred and thirty miles from London. It had not even heard of the iron roads and locomotives of Northumbria ; and its grand turnpike road, at the nearest point to us, did not come within twelve miles of my grandfather's gate. So let it be understood that we are in "the good old time." The sleepy, the sunny, the peaceful, the "rich old time" — full of abuses which it was too happy to fret about, full of wickedness that it was too ignorant — and, par- don the paradox, too innocent — to be shocked at, full of tyranny that it was too contented to groan under. Yeomen were still content to be yeomen, and lived in the same ample kitchens with their farm-servants. Young, pale-faced curates had not learned to slip about the hedge- rows with hands crossed over their breasts. In- deed, there was scarce a curate within twenty miles of Farnham Colib. In those days every benefice had its priest, and almost every priest had his benefice. Neitlier in cloth nor in corn had competition come into fashion. The stocks and the whipping-post stood side by side in the crossing of the village ways, but they had not been used within the memory of man. The stocks and the whipping-post were chopped up for fire-wood ten years since. I wonder who took tlic trouble to demolish them. Doubtless those whose interest it was to make away with such instruments of penal correction. I awoke betimes on the morning at which this history commences. The tall, antique clock in the hall had not struck five when I was down stairs and high busy in the inquest-room. For it was the grand day of the year with us. It was "Declarations," and I knew that at ten o'clock A.M. I should have to present my class for examination in the inquest-room. Farnham Cobb College, of which my grand- father was Gerent, and I, Tabitha Tree, astat. twenty-Mvo, was Vice-gerent, had its "Declara- tions'" on the last Thursday of August in each year. And "Declarations" caused me, and Mrs. Skettle, and Etty no little trouble. Buns and ale had to be provided for all the parishion- ers who chose to present themselves at the cere- mony; and these cakes and ale invariably at- tracted at least fifty of our poorer neighbors — that is to say, all the women of the village who could quit their cottages or gleaning, and all the men M'ho could slip away from their work. A cold collation of bread and meat had also to be set before the twelve members of my class, and the inquest-room had to be "put to rights." This last task was no trifling one ; for on all the days of the year save tlie last Thursday in August the inquest-room was devoted to uses very diiferent from that of " Declarations." We kept our stores of apples and potatoes in it. We kept our gardening tools, and garden seeds, and stuff in it. Sometimes we stowed away a load of fagots in it. It may therefore be easily im- agined what labor it was to me to get the apart- ment in order. On the present occasion, however, I, with the help of old Isaac Stoddart, removed the lumber, swept out the room, dusted the desks, and knock- ed some of the blackest cobwebs from the win- dows with unusual celerity. At breakfast I was able to assure my dear grandfather that all was ready. "The College" stands three hundred j^ards from the nearest habitation, on the summit of a steep hill. Tlie rough by-road that runs below the wall of College garden is the principal way from Laughton, in the heart of the corn country, to Orford, on the coast ; but not five carriages of any sort are dragged up it per day, and of the few travelers who make the ascent not one in ten gets a glimpse of the College ; for the old house, with its red-brick basement and plaster walls topped with gables, is Iiidden by the boughs of many elms and walnut-trees. At the foot of tlie hill lies in slovenly tranquillitj- the village 997 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. of Farnliam Col)b, witli its church, of which my graiulfutlicr was vicar. Tiic antique doclc iu tlic hall struck ten. Tlic tenth stroke had not ceased to vibrate when my grandfather aj)i)eared at the chief entrance of "the College," arrayed in his full canonicals. A i)icture of a village pastor he was. Imagine him, venerable with threescore and fourteen years, erect to the full height of six feet, with the placid dignity of benevolence and gentle nurture on his handsome face — his long legs clothed in breech- es, black silk stockings, shoes and buckles ; his silk gown caught up by a. merry breeze bent on displaying his portly figure, covered not with a cassock, but with a capacious waistcoat, from the open front of which came the snowy whiteness of a deep linen frill ; his head uncovered, its white locks being drawn back into a tail ! Such was my grandfather to look upon — the Reverend Sol- omon Easy. As he descended the steps from the hall door and crossed the grass-]3lot on his way to the inquest-room the assembled parishioners declared their parson was " a figure of a man." In another minute the vicar sat on his official seat in the inquest-room, in the character of Ce- rent of Farnham Cobb College. When he entered I sat with beating heart at the lower desk in the room, at the head of my class, consisting of twelve lads from the village of ages varying between six and sixteen. The Gerent was followed into the place of assembly by the villagers who had come up for the spec- tacle of the inquest. The clatter of their feet was subsiding as they found places on the bench- es arranged for their accommodation, when Mrs. Skettlc made her appearance, followed by Etty. Etty was then almost sixteen years old, and at the apparition of her lovely face, and golden hair, and delicate form a buzz of admiration rose from the rustic assembly. Glancing timidly around her, Etty glided through the room to the grandfather's desk, and took her station at his elbow, just as he raised in his hand a huge birch rod, that, like the ceilings and windows of the inquest-room, was covered with cobwebs. It is needless to say that this mockery of scholastic terrors was used only as an emblem of authority, not as an instrument of torture. " Declarasne ?" cried my grandfather, sternly, bringing down, the mouldy twigs with a crash on his desk. " Declare," I answered audibly, but with my heart jumping to the top of my tliroat. "Declarasne?" repeated my grandfather again, with increased severity of intonation. "Declaro, domine," I responded. " Vcni" was the rejoinder, made in a milder voice, the Gerent at the same time laying down his rod, as if lie relinquished an intention to use it. At tills signal 1 rose from my seat and marched uj) the middle of the room, between the spectators occu])ying the two sets of benches, and presenting myself before my grandfather made a humble reverence. Etty had something very like a laugh on her merry ])ink lips, and the folds of her light muslin dress were agitated, a.s if she had a hard struggle to compress her sense of amusement, and keep it within the limits of her own consciousness ; but I was very nervous. My grandfather's desk and chair were on a raised dais, and resembled in every respect i the old-fashioned pedagogic throne of a provin- cial grannnar-school ; and as he looked at me over the rail that ran along the front of the of- ficial table, and then peered at me through the little balustrades that supported the rail, my knees trembled beneath me. It was all very fine for Etty to laugh. She had no resjjonsibility on her inexijcricnced shoulders. But as for me, what if my hob-nailed pu])ils broke down under the searching scrutiny into their knowledge on matters theological and secular, to which the Gerent of the College was about to submit them ? So nervous and apprehensive was I of calamity that I half made an internal resolve, in case I came well out of the next hour's ordeal, I would ever afterward give my class two hours' instruc- tion on the evening of one " week day" in each week, in addition to the two hoiu-s of Sunday tuition to which my labors, as Vice-gerent of "the College,"' had hitherto been confined. "It's ten minutes past ten o'clock," said my grandfather, solemnly, taking his luige gold time-piece from his Maistcoat pocket and laying it out on the desk before him. " Let us proceed to business. Now, senior respondent, what's your name?" "Bill Stackhouse," roared out the senior re- spondent, laudibly endeavoring to make him- self heard, but through excess of zeal and the in- convenience of a cracked voice causing the roof of the inquest-room to vibrate from the sound. " 'William' would on the present occasion be more suitable than 'Bill,''' observed my grand- father, solemnly. "Plaze, yer riv'rence," roared out the senior respondent — louder than ever, "that's a jest what Miss Tree is alius a tellin' on me. But, yer riv'rence, I can't linlp it, an' it's not my fiiult in the lessest ; fur I'm alius called 'Bill,' and my remembrances alius were a short one." "Well, William, well, well," replied my grandfather, encouragingly, "you must take jiains. A weak memory can be strengthened by practice. Exercise it, William — exercise it. There's nothing like exercise for overcoming weakness." "Ah, yer riv'rence, you've jest got the right on it there. That's jest what I a found out with my wind ; fur though I ha' got a short remem- brances I ha' got a precious good wind. I be the longest-winded boy i' the whole parish. Jest give me a long run, with a few hardies and a dike ivory bunder yods or so, and I'll run any boy my own size. There ain't a boy the whole country round dust wager me. There ain't a boy's wind the whole country roimd can touch my wind. That's jest the trewth on it, and the whole trewth on it. But when I fust beginned to run, why, stars alive, yer riv'rence, nowtiiing more noi- a hop skip and a jump would blow me wlioUy and out right. And that's jest a fact and the trewth, yer riv'rence." 1 thought that boy William Stackhouse would never have come to an end. It was exactly like him. As intelligent and good a lad as ever breathed on all other questions, he was impudent and locjuacious almost to insanity on the subject of his "wind;" and here, ])nsitively, when he ought to have been saying who gave him his name of William, and what his godfathers and godmothers theimed for him, he was taking uj) the time of the whole College and all the spec- OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 5 tators with roaring out this ruhbish about the length of "Ills wind." I longed to set him down. 1 longed to tell liim that he ouglit to know his jihiee better than to speak in that way about "his wind" in the jircsenee of his elders, and at "Declarations' of all imaginable occa- sions. My tongue tingled to inform him that I knew several boys more long-winded than lie w'as. But who was I ? I had no right to speak. I was only Viee-gprent ; and the Gerent, far from calling the garrulous lout to order, only listened to him courteously, and smiled with every appearance of satisfaction. I was crimson with vexation. I knew that every one present, save my grandfather, thought the boy had gone mad. I knew, though I dared not for the life of me look at her, that Etty had turned away from the company, and was staring fixedly at tlie wall, in tlie hojje of concealing the I'isible emotions she could no longer control. But what could I do? I liad not made the boy's "wind." It was no fault of mine tliat it was a long one. It was no fault of mine that he would talk about it. Luckily the rest of the ceremony went off well. All the boys knew their "pieces" of the Cate- chism, of "Martyr History," and of the multi- plication-table, and the tables of weights and measures. More than a few times, indeed, tiie Gerent put the wrong questions to the wrong boys, and thereby elicited, among other equally remarkable assertions, the somewhat striking statements that three barley-corns went to a fir- kin of butter, and tliat Pontius Pilate was burn- ed in Smithfield by Queen Mary ; but these mistakes were my grandfather's, and not the boys'. He ought to have put the right ques- tions, and then he would have had in return the right answers. Luckily, however, the absurdity of the replies never disturbed my dear grandfa- ther's equanimity. He either did not heed them, or did not care to show that he heeded them. So all went comfortably. "It's ten minutes past eleven!" at lengtli ex- claimed the Gerent. "The hour required by the Statutes is finished." Then the Gerent rose and addressed me in a Latiti speech, of the meaning of which I had not the faintest glimmering, save when there oc- curred in it the words dominus and declaro, de- cliirans and declaraliones, and other variations of declaro. The speech at an end, the Gerent called up the senior respondent, and jjresented him with a live-shilling jiiece, as an emolument due to his dignity as Captain of the College. It was all my doing that William Stackhouse had figured as senior respondent. Had I so willed it, little Bob Pratt, with the curly liair and brown eyes, might liave had the part and .the jjremium. But a sense of justice had induced me to prefer that big lubberly Stackhouse to my pet pu])il. And then the boy had behaved as he had be- haved. It was very vexing. It was, however, no time to think of my vex- ation. There was plenty else fur me to be busy about. My grandfather declared ' ' Declarations" at an end, and that the inquest-room woukl forth- with 1)0 closed for another year. Tlien the com- pany adjourned to the grass-plot in front of "the College," and were entertained with har- vest-buns and harvest-ale. The boys of my class had a regular dinner set out for them on a table under the biggest walnut-tree, and the senior re- s])ondent carved. It was a ])ieasant sight ; tlie village women clacking and feasting under the sluulow of the elms, and Mrs. Skettle quietly go- ing on with her knitting as she sat on one of the College ste])s ; Etty springing to and fro, ligiit as a young fawn and merry as music ; and my grandfather, still habited in his si)lendid canon- icals, stockings, shoes, and buckles, moving about among his guests, doing the honors of hosj)itali- ty to tliem as if they had been the first persons in the county. "Miss Tree," said the senior respondent to me, penitentially, as he was about to depart, " I du hopee. Miss Tree, as how you'll see fit to take my 'xcuses and grarnt me yer pardin. For yer see, I couldner holj) it, that I couldner. In most things I am a rcponsilile lad and conform- able, and do my duty in that station as ha been seen fit ; but when I hear any motter as fare to touch on my wind, I must hev my sai. Yer know. Miss Tree — dontee? Yer see. Miss Tree, I ha'n't got many gifts to put me above my neigh- bors, but I have got a long wind, and you know, Miss — dontee ? So I du hopee you'll pardin." When Vv''illiam Stackhouse tried to be seduc- tive he always gave this pronunciation to "hope." "W^ell, William," I answered, avoiding the whole question of wind, "what are you going to do with the five-shilling piece? have you made up your mind ?"' "Oh, Miss Tree," the awkward lad answered, a glow of triumph suffusing his big lum]iy feat- ures, ' ' I am right glod — that I am — fur the crown ; fur mother was sai-ing, only yesserday wor six weeks, that the highmost top o' liar wish wor to fit out little Tommy in a new set o' things. And fur a new set o' things mother shall have the crown. That she shall. Miss ; and I'll shake hands on what I now sai wi' any man." I was delighted with the awkward earnestness of my senior respondent. "Will Stackhouse," I said, warmly, laying my right hand sharply on the shoulder-piece of his fustian jacket, "you're the longest-winded boy in the whole country. And if any body says you are not, tell him that Miss Tree sa\"s you are." The senior respondent pulled his forelock in token of respect to me, and took his dcjiarture. By four o'clock our numerous band of visitors had sauntered down the hill into the village, or hurried off" to the gleaning fields ; and the Vicar and I, and ^Mrs. Skettle and Etty, were left by ourselves in the College garden. CHAPTER II. AN EVENING IN AUGUST. By six o'clock, our customary hour for taking tea, the Rev. Solomon Easy had put aside his canonicals and his silver buckles, and was taking his ease in a long, loose, gray coat and slippers, the knee-strings of his breeches being untied and pendent. But even in this negligent costume he looked well-dressed and fit for a drawing- room. It was a characteristic of a divine of "the old school," that he always had the air of being well-dressed. "The College," as our old house was called. OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. consisted of an enormous and lofty hall, paved with square slabs of black and white marble, a quaint old oak staircase extending from the hall to the very top of tlie house, several large and drauglity ])assages and corridors, a dozen quaint little olci-fasliionod rooms, altogether out of i)ro- portion with the great hall and huge staircase and capacious passages ; and a multitude of at- tics, closets, and dark dens, into which we none of us ever cared to look. Of the kitchens and dairy I need not here sjicak. The windows were laced with vine-branches, the porch was covered with roses, wild and cultivated ; and the exte- rior of the sturdy brick tower, which did lis serv- ice as chimney, was hidden in ivy. In the sum- mer montlis, while the warmth j^ermitted us to inhabit so airy an ajjartment, we used to make the hall our living-room ; but in the colder sea- sons we retreated to one or another of the small pigeon-hole rooms that ojjcned into the hall. Of these rooms the most admired was "the tea-room," in which (whatever might be the temj^erature) we always took tea the whole year round. Even in July and August, when we were glad to sit on the cool chess-board floor of the marble liall, we were wont to adjourn to the tea-room every evening at six o'clock. A faded and ill-furnished little room it was, but my dear grandfather liked it. It contained my mother's portrait, was redolent of dried rose-leaves, and possessed a piano, made a long generation be- fore the great Mr. Broadwood was even thought of. My grandfather had a lively respect for this piano, believing it to be in perfect tune, and the prime of its existence, and invariably speaking of it as "the instrument." IMy grandfather looked at his watch, saw thut the time was ten minutes past six, rubbed his slippers uneasily against each other, and then glancing at me, who occupied the sofa of the tea-room, put his watch back without saying a word. Mrs. Skettle was counting the stitches of her knitting, and Etty was at the open window talking to her white mice. Ten minutes more ]iassed on. "Jly dear Tibby," said my grandfather at length, with an air of reluctance, "he won't come to-night." "Who won't come?" I answered, pretending that Julian Gower was not in my thoughts. "Julian Gower," replied my grandfather. "It's too late now. So let's have tea." " Oh, of course, Julian won't join us to-night. It's his uncle's birtliday, and of course he can't get away ; though he certainly did ])romise to join us." "I am sorpy Jule won't come," put in Etty, leaving the window and depositing her mice on the table, "for I want to S])cak to him." . "Oh, ladj^-bird," rejoined my grandfother, with a laugh, "you like Jule, do you? You can't be happy without him." " IIap])y without liim? Bless you, grandad, I don't want him to make me ha])])y ; for I have got luy wliite mice, and when I'm tired of them I've got you, to play witli. And Jule doesn't conic to sec me. He is Til)by's friend. Oh, you shf)uld hear, my dear Mr. Easy, how they do talk togctlier all about the earth's formation, and a lot of other long things." My grandfather laughed lightly. Ilis laugh- ter was never loud. As for me, a flush came to my face as I glanced at Etty ; but the artless ex- l>rcssion of her countenance reassured me that she had oidy Jut me with a random shot. "I'm just nobody, you know. Sir," the child ran on, with the dashing pertness her grand- father was never tired of listening to. "I'm a little nursery chit, allowed to live down stairs witli my elders, because Tibby has not got a nursery to ])ut me in. Here I am. Look at me — sliort white frock and sash, long trowsers with big frills round the anlcles, pink slippers, coral necklace, lots of curls. Only a child, that's all. What should she know about Jule, and the earth's formation, and safety lam])s, and explosions? There, Tibby, don't keep looking at me just as if my French exercise was all mis- takes, or ni}- sums wouldn't add up, or I had said that Cromwell killed Charles the Second. I am going to rout you all up to-night, and go ma^." Whenever Etty took it into her head to "go mad," as she termed it, my grandfather had a rich feast of fun. So at the threat he now brightened uj-), and said, •' That's it, Etty, go mad." "Not till after tea, Mr. Easy; I must have my tea in peace and quietness, with lots of bread and new honey, and then I'll go mad with a vengeance." My grandfather did not care much for tea, though he took i£ systematically in large cujis every morning, and little round cups witliout handles every night, out of respect to the ladies of his establishment, for whom he regarded the Chinese beverage as especially suited. His fa- vorite drink was mild home-brew, with the vari- ation on festive occasions of a few glasses of Ma- deira, or that fine old wine — port, which I hear is going out of fashion, and will in the course of another generation be obsolete. " Give me a bottle of port,'' I have often heard him say, "when I have a friend with me; and give me two glasses of Madeira wdien I am alone. You young ladies must remain faithful to your tea-pot. You have your complexions to think about." Acting on this principle, as soon as I and j\Irs. Skettle had had our tea, and Etty had devoured in addition to her cups of the hot fragrance two prodigious rounds of lirend and honey, my grand- father led the way back into the hall, and taking a decanter of Madeira from the side-board sat down at the great table to enjoy liimself. "Ah, my dears," he said, with a sigh, pour- ing out glass No. 1, "time was when 'Declara- tions' were merry days. Poor Dr. Sayers and poor Ilany Cotton used always to come in for a glass of port and a rubber. But they are both gone. God preserve them ! What fine fellows of the 'old .school' they were! I have never touched a card since poor Harry followed tlie Doctor. No, I am wrong. I played one even- ing at the Laughton club with the young man who has succeeded to Sayers's practice. But it wouldn't do, my dears. The young man would persist in talking about the rules of the game. When I was a young man I never presumed to talk about the rules of the game ; it was quite enough for me to observe them. I was glad at knowing that he was all Avrong, and did not understand even the A B C of what he professed to be so familiar with. Of course I did not dis- pute with him. I held my tongue and thought OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. how that sort of thiiig would have been tolerated fifty years since. I hope it was not evil in me to feel a satisfaction at the young man's blunders — and then Mr. What's-his-name (I forget what the young man is called) had an atrocious habit of smacking down his winning trumps on the ta- ble, as if forsooth the strength lay in himself and not in the cards ; and then he swept up the cards of each trick as if forsooth he was a mighty smart fellow for sweeping np the cards like so many marbles ; and whenever he won with the fourth card, of course he put down his card and took up his trick so that no one could see what the winning card was ; and if he could not see through the finesse of his partner's play, sure as the deal came about he would ask, ' Why did you refuse my so-and-so?' or, 'Why did you trump my so-and-so?' or, 'Don't you think you ought to have led through the so-and-so?' Ah, my dears, he was a terrible young man ! You may rely on me, whist is a game that will never be i-eally played again in this country. You'll of course have men sit down at tables in parties of four, and deal out cards, and win money, and lose temper, and ask questions, and think all the time that tliey are playing whist, but whist it won't be. Let the ' old school' once die out, and gentlemanly high-minded whist will be an extinct game. No, no, I'll never touch a card again, but be content for the rest of my days to play backgammon with Etty." "I have beaten you I don't know how many gammons and you never pay one," popped in Etty, alluding to a certain accumulation of six- pences, which she maintained her grandpapa owed her. "Then come here, Miss Saucy, and be paid in kisses," cried the debtor, putting down his empty glass, and after dragging Etty to his lap proceeding to kiss her. "Oh, yer riv'rence," cried Etty, imitating the village j)eople, as soon as she had struggled from the arms of her captor, " before you kiss a pretty girl like me you shoidd shave yourself. You are so rough — oh, so disgracefully rough!" "Then scratch the beauty out of your face, my doll, if you don't like my wooing," cried his reverence, proudly, filling up glass No. 2 as he looked at his lovely grandchild ; " for, " he added, singing a stanza of an old song : " ' Wliilat KittyVs eyes are soft and blue. To Kitty I'll be servant tnte. Whilst Kitty's lips are fresh as May, And fair her clieek and tender, I vow I'll nothing liave to say To others of her gender. But should her beauty take to flight— A fig for honor's jargon! — To love her eyes without their light Is no part of my bargain. It is but law I do upliold, Love's law as taught by Benjamin Bold.' " The execrable sentiments of Mr. Benjamin Bold had so very ludicrous an effect, coming from the lips of our reverend and excellent grand- father, that Etty and I Imrst out laughing, and even Mrs. Skettle seemed inclined to cry encore. "Ah, my children," said my graiidfiither, putting down glass No. 2, and modulating his voice to a tone of pathetic reminiscence, "the first time I heard that song sung poor Jack Ilar- greaves was the singer. What a noble fellow Jack was ! His ship was lying off the White Foreland— his Majesty's ship The Infernal, as fine a man-of-war as over peppered a French- man — and Jatk entertained all the elite of the neighborliood with a ball on board. LadyCai'- oline Glint was there — do you happen ever to have met Lady Caroline, my dear Tibby?" "No, oh dear, no, grandpajja," I answered, respectfully. "Why, lioio should she ever have met Lady Caroline Glint?" popped in Etty, with her cus- tomary confidence. ''Lady Caroline Glint died when you were a young man, and Tibby is only six years older than I am. How can you talk such nonsense?''' "Ah," returned my grandfather, mildly, fold- ing his white hands slowly over each other, "is it so indeed? How quickly time flies! How very quickly !" A minute's silence. The pause broken by Etty striking in with — "Now, Mr. Easy, Jack be nimble. Jack be quick, Jack jump over the candlestick ! No waiting to consider — answer me — what's Dec- larations?" " An inquest, to be sure, you little simpleton." "And what's an inquest?" "An examination." ' ' Well, but who set Declarations going ? How did they come about ? What's the good of tak- ing the potatoes and kindling out of the inquest- room once a year just to hear twelve boys say their catechism and tables, when you might just as well have them up here into the hall?" ' ' The statutes — the rules of the College — re- quire that the examination should take place in the inquest-room." "Who made the rules?" ' ' They were settled at the foundation. " "Who made the foundation?" "Why," replied the grandfather, raising his voice in consternation at this torrent of inter- rogatories, "the founder, to be sure." "And who was the founder?" "The iDious and venerable Lady Arabella Howard, who, dying at the age of ninety-three, bequeathed her large landed estates to trustees for the support and instniction of the poor of this vicinity." "Oh ! then the founder was an old woman ?" "Yes, an old woman." "Well, now!" exclaimed Etty, coming to a triumphant conclusion, "that's exactly what I supposed before I began to ask my questions." We were all convulsed with laughter. "There!" cried Etty; "now I have 'gone mad' with a vengeance, haven't I? Go on laughing, Mr. Easy, for two minutes longer, and then I'll be down stairs once more, and have a hit at backgammon with you." As she said these last words she skipped light- ly up the oak staircase. My grandfather's laughter ceased as soon as he had lost sight of the child's white petticoats from the dark gallery ; and moving his head, so that his lips were close to my ear, he said, in a confidential tone, not much above a whisper, "My dear Tibby, your little sister, when slie grows uj>, will be a very remarkable woman — a iMrs. Chapone, or a Miss Porter. Of course she won't write a book. She won't disgrace the family by doing any thing that does not become the delicacy of woman. But she will be a very remarkable woman — she'll be heard of. * 8 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. I left my grandfuther and Etty at the back- gammon-board, having first lighted candles for their aceommodation.' That housewifely duty done, I went out into the garden for a quiet stroll in the heceh avenue, from the end of which I could watch the setting sun, and survey the valley sinking to rest. Solitude, however, was not permitted me. "My dear," said Mrs. Skettle behind me. Mrs. Skcttle so seldom spoke that I turned roimd with additional surprise — surprise at be- ing addressed by any one, and surprise at being addressed by her. At the time of these occurrences I took life as it came, without inquiring why it came in one way rather tlinn another. It had never occurred to me to make investigations into my own self- consciousness, and bother myself with trying to find out why "I" was "I." Still less had I ever cared to ask why Mrs. "Skettle" was Mrs. "Skettle." Enough for me that she was in the house, ready to do a great deal of odd work in a very unobtrusive manner, and to say a very little indeed in a manner and under circumstances calculated to make that little eminently impress- ive. We all are too apt to miss seeing the mar- vels of life by neglecting to examine the ground at our feet. So it was with Mrs. Skettle and my knowledge of her. Although I broke daily bread with her, I knew very little of her, for the simple reason tliat I was too self-absorbed to be curious about an old lady with a bronze face, till attractive features, green-glass spectacles, and dusty raiment. She was somehow or other a friend of the fam- ily. She had nursed my mother in her dying illness, when I was only seven years old, and Etty was a babe in arms. She hardly ever open- ed her lips to speak. She was one of the per- manent inmates of "the College." She took the house-linen and the crockery under her es- pecial supervision. She liked assisting me in the large kitchen and dairy, where it was my daily use to work for the creature wants of "the Col- lege." She expected to be asked, out of court- esy, her opinion on the arrangements for each day's dinner ; and out of courtesy she alwaj's de- clined giving a decided ojtinion. Slie every day dusted the whole of the house from top to bot- tom, but always took great pains that no eye sliould see her. Her mode of achieving this ob- ject was singular. Whenever she was disturb- ed in her dusting ojjerations — on staircase or gallery, chamber or tea-i-oom, or hall — she sat down, slipped her duster in her pocket as though it were a handkercliief, took out her knitting, and played awaj- wilii her pins till the intruder had passed away. In consequence of this liabit of hers, I have caught her knitting in some most extraordinary places — on tlie top of high ward- robes, and in the middle of passages, where she had only the boards or i)ricks to sit upon. The explanation of this most eccentric ancl rather ob- jectionable line of conduct was this : She had been so habituated to housework in early life that she could not be comfortable without it. She therefore indulged her menial propensities, taking, however, all possible jirecaution they should not bring discredit on "the College," which slie had some vague niecc for it, in that mackerels were not then in season. True it was the fish come too late for your ma, for Etty was born or ever the man got back from Ilythe. But said I, 'Do what Natur tells you is right ;' and so we had the fish cooked, and we give just a morsel of it to Etty, babe though slue was, and notwithstanding she had not been three hom-s born. Dr. Sayers objurgated to my wish, and Mr. Easy half gave in to the doctor's objur- OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. gations, but I had my way, holdin<:; on fast to the old Bible rule, ' Do what Natiir tells you is right. '"^ Mrs. Skettle paused, but she sjjcedily resumed the narrative of lier j^rounds for exultation. "Then, my dear, long ere ever the poor child could be taken down stairs I took her up to the Tcry toj) of ' the College ;' and it isn't, Miss Tree, every child who has the chance of being born'in such a high house as the College, which, count- ing ground-floor and watch-tower attic, has five rooms one atop of another. Mind me, my dear, if ever you have a baby, have her took np stairs afore ever you let it be carried n step down ; for if you don't so mind, that babe — be it boy or be "it girl — will never rise in life. Poor folks know this, and what the simple know surely the gentle ought not to be ignorant of. Bless you, there is not a poor woman the country round, wliose child is born in a cottage-chamber, with no room nor loft above, but gives it a chance of rising by clambering with it in her arms on to the top of two chairs and a set of drores built np to make- believe a staircase. And a poor chance that is, compared with what one gets in a house like the College." "And did no one take the same pains for me ?" I asked, when ]\Irs. Skettle came to a pause. I put the question eagerly and despondingly ; for though I did not believe in the superstition, I did not like that it should stand against my interests. "Well, my dear, no one did, and that's a truth. I was not by when yon were born, or you'd have been as well done by as Etty. But you were born in foreign parts — at Portsmouth, where your pa's I'cgiment was ; and your poor ma told me that you were cared for after the fashion of those parts ; but there's no need for you to be disheartened, for it's more than likely that what holds good for these parts does not hold for those ))arts. But you ask the question, and the question I answer. You were not done by after my notions. Yoir weren't raised — and you had the nails of your fingers cut before j'ou were six months old. Now if Etty, seeing that she was born in these parts, had had her nails shortened with knife or scissors afore she was six months old, she'd have been light-fingered, lady though she be, and have the best blood of the country in her veins." "You must remember mamma well, Mrs. Skettle?" I inquired, with the curiosity of filial affection, and an inclination to turn the conver- sation from my early misfortunes and Etty's su- perior advantages. "Weill I should think I do remember her ■well ! Poor gentle soul!" returned ]\Irs. Skettle, sighing. "Slie died in my arms. Surely you remember her?" "I tr3% but I can't. You remember how young I was when she died — only seven years old. Sometimes I think I can recall her feat- ures ; but then I go to her picture in the tea- room, and look at that, and it contradicts all iny recollections. I almost wisli we hadn't that por- trait. Yet it seems \\icked to say so." "Well, my dear, I don't wish to speak against the picter, for it cost five golden guineas, as Mr. Easy once told me, and it's handsome furnitur ; but regarding it as a draught of your ma, a pepper-box is more like a flour-hutch than that take-off is like Annette Tree, born Easy." "Was my father a good man, Mrs. Skettle?" I asked. "He was a military man, my dear," answered j Mrs. Skettle, avoiding the question. ' "Tell me something about him." "It isn't much I know about him, dear," the old lady answered. " I only saw him twice in all his days, and those two times were after din- ner, when he, of course, couldn't talk much — bein' as he was of the military jjrofession." "Did he and mamma live together haijjiily ?" "Oh yes; my dear," replied Mrs. Skettle, huskily; "why shouldn't they live happily to- gether? I never heard any harm of him. He married for love, which I always think better of a man for. He drank deep, there's no doubt ; but being of the military profession.hc was ex- pected to drink deep ; and he spent all your dear ma's fortune, and a good deal besides, but that, of course, though a cause of trouble, was excus- able in a gentleman of the military profession. And he was killed in a duel — more shame on the man who shot him !" Here were revelations. As Mrs. Skettle came to a close of the last sentence we were at the far end of the beech avenue. I did not care for the minute to ask any more questions, but sat down on a log chair, that was the extreme limit of the walk, and buried my face in my hands, recognizing to myself that Mrs. Skettle's con- cluding words had frightened me. I was soon calm and self-possessed again, and looked up to continue my ^interrogatories, but Mrs. Skettle was no longer by my side. She had left me as noiselessly and s.uddenly as she had come upon me. I took two- or three more turns in the avenue, and having stood still for five minutes looking at the quiet valley, just visible in the starlight, I retraced my steps down the blackness of the garden "walk, and re-entei"ed the College. Etty had already gone to bed. Mrs. Skettle also had retired to rest ; and my grandfather was alone in the hall smoking his pipe. He kissed me, and called me his "little ghost." He often called me by that name, but it had never on any previous occasion seemed, in my opin- ion, ai)plicable to me. "I declare, grandfather, I feel like a ghost," I answered. "You look like one," he said; "you are whiter than ever. Where have you been ?" "In the garden, with Jlrs. Skettle." "Then you've been silent and moping, my little ghost." "No. Mrs. Skettle has been very talkative." "I did not know she ever talked," responded Mr. Easy, between the whift's of his jiipe. I did not tell him what our conversation had been about ; but lighting my candle, I bade him good-niglit, and went up the old oak staircase. Etty's bedroom was next to mine, and oiiened into the same galler3% Before saying my jirayers I crept into her room and watched hor — fast aslee]) and snrpassingl}' beautiful. She had dressed her hair for the night carelessly, and the golden tresses, unfastened by the movement of her head on the pillow ere she fell asleep, curled like a cloud round her face. "Darling," I whispered, "I hope vou'll rise in life!" Then I went to mv own r'ooni. and in due 10 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. course committed myself to sleep, my last mo- mcTits of cnnscioiisiu's.s l)eing divided between thoughts of Julian Gmver and tlie sound of my grandfathei-'s footstei)s in the gallery as he pro- ceeded to his bedroii;cti(inat)l(; name tu convey my meaning) dangled a watcli-chain, with a ])lain seal at- tached. I may here also, ])arenthetically, state that this same ]iortion of Mr. Clawline imme- diately under the lower ])art of his long ]||^ waistcoat was (his station of life heing consil^ ered) singularly large. If I add also that his visage was so freckled tliat the freckles in some favored spots seemed to lie on the top of each other, I shall have said enough of Mr. Clawline's physical jieculiarities. However hot the weather was, Mr. Clawline always wore thick leather gaiters, and a douhle- brcasted velveteen coat. Even when he was at work with a, rake, or a very light pitchfork, ho never relaxed himself by throwing aside either of these component parts of his official costume. "Fur yer knoo. Miss Tree," he explained to me when I once suggested tliat he should not wear so heavy a coat in the broiling sun, "I am his riv'rence's foreman, an' it 'ud nivcr du if I woz tu strip tu my work. There is grades and grades all the world uver. There's them as may strip tu their work, and tliere's them as must strip tu their work, and there's them as marnt strip tu their work. If I war to shoo along o' my men in shart-sleeves and blew lindsey-woolscy calves, how 'ud my men knoo as I war a foreman, and not one o' theirselves. I wish I could strip mj'- self, but I marn't in my poosition of 'sponsibili- ty. When a man talks a poost of 'sponsibility, he enjies the sweets on it, and he dewu't shark the bitter." The principal treatment to which Mr. Claw- line subjected his o's was to make the full and broad o into oo, and the soft oo into ein ; but he had many variations on this simple and ingen- ious method. "Where are the men, Mr. Clawline?" in- quired my grandfather. "Well, yer riv'rcnce, they're just finishing o' rippin' i' the Long Piece ; an' when they've fin- ished the ripping, I shall mewve 'em all off to Little Bell, an' maike a job o' the cartin." "They've made haste, Mr. Clawline." "I dewn't sai they hevn't, yer riv'rence. They've been looked arter. It's wholly s'prizing what a difference it maike, wlicthor men are looked arter, or whether they arn't looked arter." "Ah," said my grandfatlicr, after lazily sur- veying the breadth of corn land lying before us, "it's a splendid harvest! I never remember a better harvest. All the years I have been a farmer I have never soon better croi)s. What say you, Mr. Clawline?" During my grandfather's last sentence, whicli was enunciated verj- leisurely and after a jiauso, Mr. Clawline had taken some ears of wheat from his pocket and rubbed them together in his hands. He had now thrown away tlie stalks, and was winnowing the chatV from the grain by blowing into the hollow of his hands and shifting the corn from one palm to another. At last the delicate o]ioration was brought to a conclusion, and then — but not till then — Mr. Clawline made response. "What sai yew, Mr. Clawline? Look at these aer corns. That's what Michael Clawline sai. Ded yer riv'rence iver see better corns ? I knoo yer riv'rence niver did see better corns. A harvest? I should think it war a harvest. Wheats is good. Barleys is good. W'oats is good. Peas is icerij good. Beans is vnrominon good. Boots show well. But times ain't wjiat they war. Noo, yer riv'rence, times ain't what they war." Between each of these short sentences Mr. Clawline opened his mouth wide and chucked what ho termed "a corn ' into it ; and he did not proceed to another of his series of interjectional remarks until he had bitten "the corn" twice, and packed it away in his moutli without any manifest eftbrt of deglutition. It is to be observed that this plan of dealing with an obsen'ation M'as a strong point of Mr. Clawline's convei-sational system. He would first construct a very commonplace packet of words, and throw it on the ground, just as any ordinary agriculturist might do. But instead of passing on and leaving it to its fate, he would l)ick it up, and develop tlic secrets of its internal structure by pulling off its folds one after another just as you might peel an onion. With Mr. Clawline for an operator this was an interesting process. As he stripped off the skin of a sable epithet, and displayed a silver adjective under it, he smiled with a self-complacency that was very irritating to a nervous spectator, but was oil and wine to a beholder of a tranquil temperament. The man was so steeped in a sense of his own importance, and a consciousness that no other person could peel grammatical onions in the same masterly style ! And there was forbearance in him too. He did not fling the husks of his sen- tentiousness in your face, but allowed them to drop lazily to the ground, fluttered about by the M'ind, as matters of no imjiortancc. "Never mind the times!" resumed his rever- ence, cheerfully. "I never had better crops." "/ niver had better crops," rejoined Mr. Clawline, doggedly. "/ never had finer wheat in the Long Piece," exclaimed my gi'andfather, with a rising color, and a rising voice, and a rising emphasis on the egotistic pronoun. ' ' / niver had finer wheats i' the Long Piece, " rejoined Mr. Clawline, viciously. " I ! I ! I ! How many I's go to sjiell i/oti ? Can you answer me that, Mr. Clawline?" asked my dear grandfiither, with an unmistakable flash of anger. "Who do you think. Sir, is the master of this farm ? Your crops, indeed ! Who's master here, you or I ?" "Now, yer riv'rence, how can yew go for to aix sech a kivestishun as that, M'ith Miss Tree (my humble suvvis to her) a setting i' the hobbj'- cairt by your side ? I master? Who's master? Well, i niver he'erd tell i' the like. But a kives- tishun must be ansvered. Who's masiev? Why, surelic, yew're master. Yew're the lliv'rcnt Solo- mon Easy of Farnham-Cobb College, and owner o' Sandhill. That's wiiat yew arc. Now, who's I? I"ll jest toll yer riv'rence what I am. lam yer riv'rence's right-hand man, and not awl the wigs at Sissions or 'Zizes can countersai but what I am yer right-hand man. If the wigs at the Sissions or 'Zizes war to aix what I air, I should sai 'I'm his riv'rence's right-hand man, and fur his riv'rence I'm oop airly and I'm down late, an' I eat the sweat o' carefulness.' That's jest as I should put it. ' Fur his riv'rence,' I should sai out o' the book, 'I cat the sweat o' careful- ness.' And not a wig at the Sissions or 'Zizes OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 13 eonld countersai mc. But to go for to aix mc •who I am?' is nothing but to crow over a poor man." "Tusii, tiisli, man," responded my grand- father, quite mollified toward his right-hand man, "you're a most faithful steward of my interests. I was wrong, Mr. Clawline, I was wrong. I meant to say ' ^oe had never had bet- ter crops.' " " Well, yer riv'rence, it's jest like yeiv to j)ut it so, "responded Mr. Clawline, concluding the con- troversy and pocketing his winnings. My grandfather had filliped up the "little horse," and we were again progressing along the drift, when Mr. Clawline called after us, "I har 'bout them ship." "Them ship ? what ship ?" inquired my grand- father, pulling up. "Them tew score o' South-Downs, as I tonid yer riv'rence on. An' I got 'era sax-pins er hid under what yer counted." "Ah," said my grandfather, taking all the merit of his right-hand man's bargain to himself, "I always get my stock a little under market- price. I'm a terrible near hand at a bargain." " Ah, yer riv'rence is jest that," responded Mr. Clawline, with a scarcely visible grin. "I am the nearest hand at a bargain in the whole county," added my grandfather, pursuing his course of exultation, and shaking his head as . he reflected on what a close-fisted, wicked old dealer he was. "The neaiiBst hand at a bargain in the whole county !" repeated Mr. Clawline, with a subdued chuckle, and a mischievous light in his eye. "That's jest what yer riv'rence is — leastwise, when there ain't none but what's furder off." Having enunciated this enigmatical sentence, Mr. Clawline slowly raised himself to the to]) of a stile, and then slowly let himself down, and then slowly disappeared behind a high hedge, to make a short and easy route to the Long Piece. The reaping was done in the Long Piece ; and in ihalf an hour's time I was sitting mider a hedge, that warded off the rays of the falling sun, at the top of the inclosure called Little Bell. The creaking wagon had already taken the first load past me to the stack-yard. The scene was cheerful to look at, and the line of workmen in the amber sunlight moving the sheaves with a flock of gleaners in their rear had so picturesque an effect, and such a fresh ' southwest breeze played about the stubble, that as I sat in the shade I did not think of the toil, and heat, and dust endured by the actors in the panorama be- fore me. I attributed to them the happiness I myself experienced. They seemed to me to be only amusing themselves. I had my "tatting" work in my hand. On one side of me on the bank lay my grandfather's coat, and gaiters, and three-cornered hat. (The buckles and silk stockings he only wore at "Dec- larations.") He was hard at it among the work- men, with his white shirt-sleeves and stockings conspicuously contrasting with his dark raiment. As he was not foreman he could ' ' strip tew his wark." On my other side was a basket con- taining a bottle of cider and a harvest-cake; and sitting close against this basket was Julian \Gower. Julian had walked over from Beechcy, and had worked all the morning long in the wheat- field. It was such fine weather, he said, that it seemed a pity my grandfather should not get up his crojjs in it, and secure himself against the chances of a change of weather. So Julian had done the l)est he could do, with his strong arms, and broad chest, and athletic frame, to aid at the ingathering. Julian was just my age, though he looked younger, as he had not even a prom- ise of whisker, and only a little dark down on his up]ier lip. He lacked, however, no other ])hysical sign of manfulness. He was six feet high, and was a nolAc youth to look at — grace- ful, gracious, bright-eyed, and full of fun. The toil of the day had slightly sobered him, and given him more of a pensive air than he usually had ; and I thought, as I looked at his bright brown curls, and his clear eyes, and truthful lips, that I had never seen him more to my taste. As he had been working for so many hours fii the broiling sun, it was only natural that he should like to rest himself by my side, and re- fresh himself with a glass of cider and a little chat. "Then jolly little Etty is at her lessons?" he asked, in continuation of a previous question. "Puzzling over her Telemachus at this pres- ent moment," I answered. "I suppose she'll go to school soon for a fin- ish," suggested Julian, after a pause. This was quite a new thought to me, and I said so. "You were younger when you went for two years to Bridgeham. She is not so very young, and for the matter of that she is hot so very lit- tle — though I called her so just now. She is creeping up. She is considerably taller than you as it is, although she wears short frocks." "I declare you're right, Julian," I answered; "but I do assure you till this minute I have al- ways considered her as a mere nursery pet, just as she was ten years ago. I hope we haven't been inconsiderate to her feelings, and made her too young." "That I am sure you haven't," responded Julian, quickly; "she has had a happy child- hood — a very happy childhood. Who wouldn't be happy, Tibby, living under your serene influ- ence ? I was only gossiping as an old friend may gossip." " Jule," I said, quietly settling the matter in my own mind, "you're very kind to point it out to me. Etty shall go into long dresses this very week, whether she like it or not. And what's more, I'll ask grandpapa to send her to school. She ought now to have better instruction than I can give her." It may seem strange that I and Julian Gower • — neither engaged to each other, nor related in blood to each other, nor in any way connected with each other save by the ties of warm friend- ship, ay, warm alfection, cherished from child- hood upward — should thus discuss the propriety of putting my sister Annette (familiarly called Etty) into long dresses, and the advisability of sending her to school. But Julian and I had long been close friends. We were exactly of the same age — twenty-two on the sixteenth of July last past. We had been playmates from the time of my mother's death. While he was at school at Laughton he wrote to me regularly once a week. The greater part of each of his 14 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. holidays he had spent at "the College," when we used to fisii, and birdsnest, and hunt rats, and slide on tlie ice together. Dnrinp; his five years' apprenticeship in tiie horrible Nortlium- berlaiul mines he continued his corresjjondence, sending me a monthly letter, expensive thongii postage was in those days; and every 3^ear he had paid me a visit. And now that his a])pren- ticcship was finished, and he was able to take a six weeks' lioliday, he was s))ending all the six weeks at Beechey, for the .sake of being near me and my grandtiither and Etty. It was, there- fore, only a matter of course tliat Julian Gower talked fully and frankly about every thing that interested me. '•' I say," said Julian, suddenly, after a min- ute's silence, "don't you think old Clawline is a humbug ?" This inquiry was suggested by the apparition •f the foreman passing slowly down imder the opposite hedge of the lield in the direction of the wagons and harvest-men. " Grandpapa thinks him a very valuable serv- ant," I answered, coldly. I thought that Julian was for once inclined to be uncharitable. "A valuable servant! a foreman I" respond- ed Julian, in a tone of undisguised contempt. "I'll tell you, Tiliby, what I should like to do. I should like to pull that fellow's velveteen jacket off his hack, and take his leather gaiters olf, and put a jiitchfork in liis hand, and say to him, 'Now, Master Clawline, just make your- self handy ; and if you don't work to my satis- faction I'll give you a jolly good thrashing with this ash-stick !' I dislike that fellow enormous- ly. He is the only strong man in the field, with the exception of myself; he is paid three times as much as any workman in the field ; and yet he is the only man in the field who all this scorching day has not done a single stroke of work." "Well, well, Julian," I said, in an altered tone, for the sterling truth and earnestness of Julian's criticism had in the space of a few mo- ments caused Mr. Clawline to sink considerably in my estimation, "that's no doubt true what you say of Clawline. Onlj' don't tell grandpapa what you think ; don't disturb him." "Bless you, Tibby, I should not think of do- ing any such thing!" Julian replied, emjihatic- ally. "What good could come of paining dear IMr. Easy ? What I say to you is said in confi- dence to you." That was all right then. And as it was " in confidence to me," w^hy I liked Julian all the better for having said it. It was seven o'clock when the harvest born sounded through the distance — floating from the ridge of the Bilsbury hills over the mere and the ozier ground to our jiarty in Little Bell. At tlie very moment that the fir.-t of the mellow notes reached us our last load of wheat was topped, and went off reeling to the farm buildings amidst the cheers of the men and the gleaners. Then Tom Hilt, who had lost three fingers and an eye in his Majesty's service, seized a horn and answered back the melody of the Bilsbury hills. Then other h(n-ns from other distant harvest fields were heard at various ])oinls and different de- grees of remoteness ; and the gleaners, tying up th3 mouths (jf their sacks, began to move out of Little Bell in a long, irregular coUunn. " How's the gleaning ?" inquired my gvr.ndfa- ther. "Pretty good 'r*' "The bestest glinning i' th' sax parishes," cried a shrill-voiced woman ; "there ain't no glinning i' th' whol' land like yer riv'rence's. And God bless yer for't, Parson Easy; God bless yer for't !" And as a general chorus of "God bless yer for't, Parson Easy !" rose from the gleaners, ray grandfather became very red in the face and bright in the eyes. As soon as my grandfather had had a glass of cider and a slice of cake, and had buttoned on his gaiters, and put his straw-hat in a poke, and aiTayed himself once more in his three-cornered hat and black coat, Julian drove the •' little horse" into the field, all readv for our home- ward journey. At "the sounding of the horns" Julian had run off to the homestead and har- nessed the pony into the gig himself, and was already on his way to the field when he met Tom Hilt, whom the dignified Mr. Clawline had dispatched to "see after his riv'rence's hobby- cairt." It took some little time for Julian to arrange us to his satisfaction in the gig, for we had to convey to " the College" a largish hamper of po- tatoes, a bag of turnips for the table, and an- other smaller hamj)er containing eggs and honey. To accommodate all this luggage we had to dis- pose of our legs with more regard to the possible ihan the graceful. My grandfather's right foot (on the final settlement of difficulties) rested on the step, and his left foimd lodgm^t on the top of the little dash-board, the arch thus formed by his left leg being built up with the turnip-bag and egg-basket. As for me, both my feet were on the lid of the ])otato-hamper, and both my knees were within half a foot of my chin. When "the little horse" was put in motion, Julian Gower cried out to us cheerily "Good- night ! " and leaping a fence made off for Beechey. And my grandfather and I once more drove with much jingling and rattling through the lanes of the corn country. In the gentle twi- light we made our way back to Farnham Cobb with scarce the exchange of a word. I remem- ber that I enjoyed that drive very much. I was so very hajipy that, though I tliought of Julian Gower, I never troubled myself with conjectur- ing what would become of me in the after-life. It was not till I got out of the gig at the College gate that I discovered I was cramped through sitting in a consti-ained attitude. CHAPTER IV. LTMM HALL. TniiE to my promise that I Avould pro\ide Etty with habiliments suitable to a grown-up young lady, and also do my best to secure her a better education than she had hitherto enjoyed, I attacked my grandfather on the two points as we were jogging along the lanes to Lymm on the 2d of September. The 2d of Se])tembcr was my grandfather's birthday, and on tliat day we al- wnvs made an excursion to Lymm — for reasons tliat will appear in the course of this chapter. On the 2d of September we always dined on cold partridgc-])ie — in a fashion tliat will be narrated in the course of this chapter. OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOKK. U I felt that morning somewhat dissatisfied with Etty. Perhaps I should speak more of whole truth if I said that I had felt somewhat unamia- bly toward her. She had not been well i)leascd with my proposing to leave her alone at the Col- lege all day while I made a pleasant trip with my grandfather. She was in a mode for com- pany, and knew the arrangement would cause licr to have a dull time of it. For really Mrs. Skettle was no company at all for a child of her age. As for me, I would readily have stopped at home, and allowed her to take the trip ; but the Lymm excursion was an annual and alto- gether exceptional affair, and my grandfather always wished me to make it with him. On one occasion, when I could not take it with him, he went alone rather than have another com])anion. The knowledge of that, however, could not rec- oncile Etty to her day's prospect ; and she took out her drawing materials, and slates, and les- son-books in not the best of humors. ' ' How strange it is," she said, as I was setting her the quantity of French exercise and Telemachus I expected of her, "that I should have to obey a little snub-nosed, wall-eyed thing like j^oxx!" Now this saucy speech touched me to the quick, and made me for an instant quite angiy. The dear child had not intended to annoy me. She only wished to push oif her sense of disappoint- ment with one of h^^Quaint sallies. She was far too generous to tbHi|>f Avounding me through any personal defects J^might suifer imder; and she was too beautiful herself, and too careless of her beauty, to tliink seriously that an absence of beauty was a gravely important matter. But I was angry, and my ej'cs flashed angrily ; and I was about to give uttei-ance to a stinging reply when the darling, seeing my vexation, in her madly impetuous fashion threw her arms round my neck, and suffocating me with kisses and tears, exclaimed, "Oh, dear Tibby, how unkind, how cruel, how base, how vile, how utterly dis- honorable you must think me ! But indeed — indeed I didn't mean what I said! I wouldn't hurt you for the world. I only intended to be merry. Don't think severely of me, dear. Do forgive !" The tiff was soon over. I cried a little in a foolish, half-joyful way, and laughed a great deal more, a:nd kissed Etty inordinately, and then ran off to join my grandfather. But knowing how sensitive the dear child was, and how she would not all the day long be comfortable in her own mind from recollecting her idleness and my silly anger, I could not be easy as I sat behind the little horse and was carried through the lanes. Tlie way to Lymm is for the most part one continuous arch-way of leafage ; and that morning the sun was out bright in the blue heavens, and the checkered shade was very pleasant. I should have thoroughly .enjoyed it if I could have gone back to Farnham Cobb, just for two seconds, to assure Etty that I loved her better than my own life. "Grandfather," I said, as we rattled into a long straight lane of avenue — a perfect tunnel of greenery. "Ay," said my grandfather, looking down at me through his silver-rimmed spectacles. "I am going to put Etty into long dresses." "Goodness, child!" exclaimed my grandfa- ther with astonishment, dropping his whip to the dash-board, and letting go the reins in his astonishment. " Goodness, child ! don't be ri- diculous! You'll be making her the laughing- stock of the whole parisli. A child like that in a woman's dress ! The notion is prcjjosterous I" "She is taller than I am," I quietly answer- ed. " She is no longer the little pert fatty — all smiles and dimjiles — that she was two and three years since. She has grown prodigiously of late. You would hardly think it, but I have actually, in the last twelve months, let out four inches of tuck in her old short skirts and frilled drawers, and they are still too short for her. She grows like a scarlet-runner. She'll be a perfect Maypole." "Um!" observed my grandfather; and he drove the next mile without opening his lijjs, in deep thought. "I declare, Tibby," he at last exclaimed, with an energy and a suddenness that made me start in my seat, "you're quite right. As usual, you're quite right. Your judgment, my dear girl, is unassailable. Etty docs grow like a scar- let-runner. She'll be as tall a woman as her great-grandmother Watson. She must go into long dresses instantly." So far so good ! Point No. 1 was gained. Now for point No. 2. "And don't you think, grandfather, she ouglit to go to school ? Say for a year and half, or a couple of years — just for a finish." Mv dear grandfather shook in his seat. " Um !" he said again. This second period of consideration extended over two miles of green lane, crossed a brook, and went as far as the middle of Tattham Com- mon. I watched him with anxious curiosity as he fidgeted in his seat, dropped the reins, picked them up again, and filliped the little horse with his whip. I was grieved to see an expression of trouble come over his face, as if a mental pain tried him. "My dear Tibby," at last the dear old man rejoined, in a tone of expostulation, "I reall}- don't see the necessity. You are yourself high- ly accomplished. No expense has been spared on your education." " Oh, dear me, none," I jiut in, quickly. " You paint in water-colors — you are a modern linguist," continued my grandfather, running through the intellectual attainments he supposed me to possess; "you are a sufficient historian; you are a pianist ; you are a sound theologian ; and — 1/ou have the instrument.^' The concluding particular of the catalogue re- ferred to the old piano, already mentioned in these pages, for which my grandfather had a re- spect almost amounting to superstition. I do verily believe that in his more romantic moments he thought * ' the instrument" was by itself able to educate a 3'oung lady in all the departments of useful and ornamental knowledge. ILad he s.topped when he called me a sound theologian, I could have debated the point with him. But the emphasis he laid on his last words rendered me vmable to rc])ly. He was silent again for a few minutes, when he turned round njion me and said, slowly — bringing the little horse to a dead stop, in order that his words might b- the more impressive — "My dear Tibby, you must dismiss this thouglit 16 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. from your mind. I c:in not consent to send Etty to school." Having said tliis he turned away his face, and I saw that the look of trouble was still on it. This may apjjcar to some a trifling incident to make so "much of, but it impressed me much at the time. Of course I did not renew my ap]ieal. At- tributing my dear grandfather's refusal to an af- fectionate reluctance on his part to send his play- mate, Etty, out of the circle of his daily interests, I determined at tlie moment never again to re- peat my j)ainful proposal. It never occurred to me that one of his reasons for declining to accede to my request was the pe- cuniary cost of com])liance. Still further from my mind was any suspicion that the cost was be- yond his means. He had sent me to the best girls' school in our side of the county ; it was therefore only natural in nxe to suppose that he could aiford to do the same for my sister. But considerations of money at that time of my life never entered into my head. Simple as our \h'e was, it was secure for the period from any of the chilling and nipping influences of poverty. We lived in a house well supplied with seiwants and generous fare. Our apparel was far superior to that of any other inhabitants of Farnham Cobb. We were the gentlefolk of the village ; looked up to, courted, imitated. It was true, we led a very secluded life ; never had company ; never heard of dinner-parties or tea-parties, had not more than half a dozen acquaintances of our rank to bow to in the whole world, never by any chance went out on a staying visit ; and, conse- quently, did not indulge in many of those daily expenses which are usual with people in the mid- dle way of life. But as in our limited field of experience 'we never had to deny ourselves any object of our wishes, because we couldn't aif(n-d it, and as we were manifestly much richer than our immediate neighbors, I had never regarded myself, and Etty, and my grandfather as at all aji- jn-oaching the condition of the poor. How, there- fore, was I to imagine thai my dear grandfather, on my asking him to give Etiy as good an educa- tion as he had given me, thought of a narrow in- come, and its inability to eft'ect what I desired ? My education was by no means so complete as my dear grandfather sujiposed. As to my being a sound theologian, I sinii)ly was in the habit of reading the ])rayer-book and homilies as well as the Bible. But partly because I was quick at fetching out any text my grandfather might need for touching up liis sermons, and partly because he had appointed me, on the foundation, Vice- gerent of the College, with a salary of £10 ]ier annum, and partly because I played our old or- gan in the village church, he would j)ersist in trying to make out that I was as learned as a bishop. It was rather ]irovoking (jf him some- times. It was true I could read French with fa- cility, and knew a little Italian, and thatli)aint- ed very badly indeed in water-colors. But surely those accomidishments were slender accomjilish- ments to make so much fuss about. Bridgehnm School was an excellent one, kept by a good, gen- tle, and zealous mistress ; but it was all on the oldest possible fashion. More attention was paid in it to the young ladies' fancy work than any thing else. Every young lady, in her last year before leaving, hud to work witli her needle an exquisite little baby's cap and shirt — to take with her and kec]) against the time she should marry and have a little baby to wear them. In my last year I embroidered those quaint articles of ap- l)arel. The shirt was of the finest French lawn, and I let into each shoulder-] )iece an elaborate ])iece of i)oint lace, half an inch wide, and of my own work too. The cap and the little lawn jack- et were in my lavender drawer at "the College," and sometimes I really enjoyed taking them out from among my stock of treasures and wonder- ing how many years it would be before they would be used. It would be thought very reprehensible and highly indelicate to put young ladies at board- ing-school to such pastime now. I imagine that any schoolmistress at Brighton, or Bath, or else- where, who should dare to set up a baby-linen class, would be accused of putting wrong notions and mischievous ideas into her pupils' heads, and would S])eedily come to ruin. But reflecting on my own happy and innocent girlhood, I can hon- estly say that if I bad a little girl now, I should like" her to be brought up in every particular as I was brought up in "the good old time." As I rode on toward Lymm, thinking of my old school-days at Bridgeliam, I was determin- ing to do my best to supply Etty's want of a school education. On arriving at Lymm — a village containing two small and humble f^m-houses and about twenty cottages, made uhko a sort of street — we left our "little horse^B be cared for by the landlord of "The Eye and Spectacle," or "Eye and S])ettacle," as the inhabitants of Lymm called it ; and taking from the gig our basket, holding the cold partridge-jjic, and Madeira, and the et cetera, Ave walked ofi" to spend the day, surveying the graves and the home of my grandfather's immediate ancestors. We first went into the church and saw the tonabs of the Easies and the Trees, who had for generations owned the land of the large and fer- tile pai'ish of Lymm, and had thr()Uglu)ut all tho generations been fast friends, though they had never intermarried, until the last of the Trees married my mother, and contributed me and Etty to the population of Great Britain. The grandest of the Easy monuments was a square marble chest, inscribed "Sacred to the Memory of Marmaduke Easy, Gentleman, of Lymm Hall, and Five Hundred Acres of Heavy Land in This Parish. He died, ii:TAT. 50, a.d. 1780." As my grandfather stood over this mon- ument his head and hands shook, for it contained the ashes of his father, the blutf, hearty Marma- duke Easy, who quitted the world shortly after the slight, thoughtful, pale-faced Solomon Easy- had taken orders. On the head of my great-grandfather's tomb was sculjjtured the family device — a shield with a solitary human eye in its centre, and with "Oculus Videt" under it fur a motto. It was a i)unning device on the name of the Easies or Eye-sees. A similar heraldic atrocity attested the gentility of the Trees. The stone beneath which my father and motlier slejjt was engraven with a shield bearing tiiuke mockeries of trees (closely resembling /icaiih-briislies), and a motto, "Tres Vircnt." ]My dear grandfather was a scholar and a gentleman, and yet he took (]uite a lively pleasure in dusting out these absurd memorials of family pretension, and in staring OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. n at them with all his might. I could not sympa- thize with him, and I very nearly told him so. Quitting the cliurch, we walked to the cot- tage of old Simon Lee. Simon was ninety-six years old, and had in his day been a farm-la- borer, serving my great-grandfather Marma- cluke, and his fattier before him. Simun had for years lived out of ray grandfather's purse in- stead of the parish chest ; but he was now in so dila])idated a condition that he could not recog- nize his benefactor, and, it would ajjpcar, did no- thing for days together but cough and breathe hard. "Father, here's his riv'rence," cried Sinffon's daughter, a woman aged seventy, in a shrill voice — "the Kiv'rent Solomon Easy. Don't yer knoo him ?" I should say that the woman pronounced our name "Azy," as it was invariably pronounced by the poor people of "the corn country." No sign of intelligence on the part of Simon. "Azy — Azy — Azy," screamed the daughter into her father's ear. "Azy — Azy." " Ugh !" grunted poor old Simon, shifting his body in the bed to which he had been confined for years. "Azy!; — Ugh — alius — war — Azys." After repeating these three words several times, Simon fell back into stertorous breath- ing, and could not be again aroused. Simon's daughter, however, was much elated at the suc- cess of her device for making her father talk. She maintained that no one else could have ex- tracted so much from her sire ; and becoming metaphorical and imaginative as she proceeded in her course of exultation, she declared "she could plai on th' oold man jest fur awl the world u- if he war an oold flewte." .My grandfather also was much gratified with old Simon's testimony to the antiquity of the Easy family, and notified his delight by jnitting a gold piece on the table, and saying, "Fine old uian — faithful old man !" Bidding a silent farewell to Simon, we con- tinued our excursion, sauntering leisurely across the church paddock and the low meadows, climb- ing the bold grass ridge known as the Lymm banks, passing under tlie gnarled and ancient branches of the Lymm oaks, and presenting our- selves before Lymm Hall. An old, higli-battlemcntcd hall, built of red brick, abounding in bow-windows, and rich in works of grotesque sculjiture, perched on the top of turrets or stuck in tlie corners of projecting walls. Yellow lichen on the massive stone ■ frames of windows, glazed with diamond-shaped panes — ever so small. A very liroad, deep moat coin])letely surrounding the liouse, its garden, ! and precinct. The surface of the moat in places I covered with water-lilies in blossom, in jdaces covered with a scum of bright green vegetation, showing yellow in the flecks of sunlight, and at- tracting swarms of flies and minute insects. The qui^'t water of the moal touching the walls and lying under the bow-windows of the lower rooms. Gr,;cn meadow grass, kc])t smooth and fine by the mouths of browsing sheep, running down to the edgfe of the water. Rich tufts of "forget- me-not" glinting out on the bank's verge here and there. A herd of oaks and forest trees, nei- ther crowded nor regular, throwing their enor- toious branches over the moat in the direction of faie turrets and steep roof; other huge trees in B the mo.ated garden sending their branches to meet those on the opposite bank. Sunlight and shadow in marked contrast ; scorching light above the trees, cool shade under them. No .sound but the jdash of the fish fitfully leaping and rollicking about in the water. Imagine this scene, and the old man, with his grand-daugh- ter by his side, looking at it. Such a place to look upon was Lymm Hall, the strong-hold for centuries of the old feudal Lords of Lymm, that had ])assed during the pro- tectorate of Cromwell from its original possess- ors to the family of Giles, and a century later was transferred from the Gileses to the house of Easy. AH the dates and particulars of these changes of ownershij) may be read in Quantock's History of tlie Corn Country. Enough for the present journal to say that the Barons of Lymm came into possession attended by men in armor bearing jjikes in their hands, and that the Gileses and Easies walked into the seat of their earthly grandeui: guarded by scriveners, with pens be- hind their ears. " Yo— lio ! Such fishing ! I have had al- most enough. So you make as much noise as you like," cried a cheering, ringing voice from the other side of the moat. It was Julian Gower. Stationed on a grass clump, under a canopy of yew, with tackle and laniling-net by his side, Julian was still jdaying with the fish. He had had sport! Of that there was no doubt. We went round to the bridge, crossed the moat, and joined him in the garden, when we found him (other minor prey excepted) triumphant over an enormous pike, which, on being put in the scales. proved to be more tlian 30 pounds in weight. "Good sport. Sir?" inquired Julian, looking deferentially at my grandfather. "Capital. How did you get leave?" ' ' I saw Jlr. Gurley last week, and he gave mc an order for one day's sport. The keeper didn't half like the appearance of Mr. Gurley's sig|^ ture ; but he could not oft'er positive opposition, and I gave him five shillings." " Jule," said my grandfather, with some fer- vor, " time was you should have fished here night and day, and shot over the land from the beginning of September to the end of October, and no keeper should have" dared to have an opinion on the matter." "Thank you, Mr. Easy," Julian answered: just as if my grandfather had presented him with the right of fishing and shooting. " I'm sure — I'm much obliged to you." "But," he added, "I am very hungry, Mr. Easy. Sha'n't we dine ? The table is all ready." We dined under the Queen Oak (so called from a tradition that Queen Elizabeth, on a visit to Lymm Hall, had admired it, and feasted at its foot), on a table spread and set out by Julian, with the hospitable aid of the tenant-farmer, who was now the sole occupant of the hall ; and when I had put upon "the white cloth the cold par- tridge-pie, and the Madeira, and the et cetera that I had brought with me, I thought I never had seen a prettier table — Julian had ornament- ed it so tastefully with flowers. After dinner my grandfather went into the hall to climb up the oak staircase, to pry about the old corners, to look through the bits of stained-glass window, to vi.sit the room where 18 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK his mother was most accustomed to sit over her needle-work in the after-jjart of tiie day, to sit a while in the little jiarlor where his father best loved to drink his spiced cup and sing his hunt- ing songs. While he was so occupied Julian and I strolled about the walks of the garden, once trim and dainty, but now overgrown and neglected. A rank green moss covered the gravel on which brightly-attired ladies and gentlemen had paced, coquetting and vowing, laughing and love-mak- ing, centuries before. We talked about our past and present expe- riences, and a little about our future cares and joys — my life in the southern corn country, his life on the banks of the Tyne. I told him that Etty was to be made more of a woman of, but that she wouldn't be sent to school. And when I narrated to him the particulars of my conver- sation with my grandfather on the latter sub- ject, he warmly praised me for the part I had taken in it, and especially enjoined me that I should not again speak to Mr. Easy on the mat- ter. He encouraged me to get Etty as forward, and make her as clever as I could, by myself. Then he talked more fully of his new engage- ment in the North — as an under-viewer in one of the mines of Mr. Martin Orger, the richest mine-owner in all the north of England. He even told me exactly how much he was to be paid every ibrtnight, and what his prospects were. It made me for a short minute or two rather sad to think his prospects were not brighter ; but he was very hopeful — as I have invariably found all great, manful, noble natures to be. "I shall do well one day, Tibby," he said, with a laugh. "I am poor now, but I sha'n't be so always. I am a servant now, but one of these days I'll be a master." "And a good one too, Julian," I answered. "Ay, I trust so. Any how, I won't take a leaf out of old Clawline's book. I won't think iiiteneath me to take off my coat 'tew my wark,' and I'll try to be a good master. You know, Tibby, a good master is a grand thing." "Is it?" I asked, not wanting any assurance on the point, but wishing to bring him out into an earnest talk. I liked him when he was mer- ly and mischievous ; I felt pride in him when he displayed his strengFli, either of body or of intel- ligence ; but I was solemnly hap])y when he spoke seriously on gravely important matters. "You know," he said, clenching his fist, and bringing it down with a blow on his knee (we were sitting on the ground at the time), " I must have the real thing of both words — a master who is really a master, and goodness that is really goodness. This is just how it is with my own lieart. I declare to you, Tibby, I do thoroughly enjoy obeying a first-rate master — a man who knows more than myself, is every way stronger than myself, has lots of jiluck, shows considera- tion for others, and doesn't think himself every body. Give me a captain like that, and I enjoy oljcying him as much as I should enjoy being first in command myself. But once in my short life I had to be under a little, dictatorial, jire- sumiituous, ill-conditioned fool — always afraid that people shouldn't take him at his own esti- mate, jealous to madness of every one naturally superior to himself, and always putting himself into pig-headed passions. Well, you know, Tib- by, I couldn't help, really, and without any mis- take about it, hutbuj that fellow ! I could almost imagine myself in some hot moment, after years of provocation, knocking him on the head, and doing for him. I could, indeed!" " What's his name ?" I asked. "Oh, never mind his name," was the generous answer. " If I tell you his name you'll be j)rejudiced against him, and dislike him at first sight, if ever you should meet him. And that would not be fair to him. It's enough that I hated him, and that I don't believe it's in human nature, taking a wide view of it, to hate really gooci masters, or to be any thing but very fond of them." "What sort of a man will be over you at Shorten?" "Oh, a stunner, Tibby — a regular stunner. To be such ' a chief as Mr. Clay, Mr. Orger's head-viewer, is the highest point of my ambi- tion. To be such a man as he is, and have such a place as he has, is all I wish for. But you know it did me a real lot of service to smart and grind my teeth for a few months under the other fellow." "Did you good, Julian ? How should it have done you good ?" "It taught me," he said, slowly and very im- pressively, but very simply — not at all as if he were preaching — "how bitter and cruel and grievous a thing it is to be treated unjustly by a superior. And that's a lesson, Tibby, -which (as the world goes) it's well worth a man's learning thoroughly once in his life, if he is an honest man, wishing to do what is right in life. It teaches him why and how he should think for others." We were silent for a minute. "Ah," he repeated after the pause, reverting to his former thought, "to be such a man as Mr. Clay is all I wish!" "All — every thing?" I asked, feeling a little nettled. "Every thing," he answered. I felt disappointed. "You know," he added, in an explanatory manner, " Mr. Claj" has a wife and a family of children, of whom he is very fond." "Then you'd want them ?" I asked, now quite ])leased. "You know I should," he answered, looking at me with his magnificent dark eyes, so that my heart beat very fast, and I was afraid I had displeased him. "You know I should. But you know also I mayn't think of having a wife and children till I am a master." " You'll liave them in good time," I answered, though I felt my voice falter, "and be a very liajqiy man ; and in the mean time — " "In the mean time don't put your last ques- tion to me again." "You are not angrv, Julian?" I asked, in a fright. "Bless yon, Tibby," he cried, playfully, jump- ing up from the ground and assisting me to rise, gallantly kissing my right hand as he did so — ' ' what a silly notion ! I angry with you ? Com.', it's clear we've been here long enough. Lr't's make haste and find Mr. Easy. The evening is beginning to close in." Wc found my grandfather on the bridge, and in company with him wc sauntered down the OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOKK. 19 Lymm Banks, every now and then turning round to look at the setting sun. At the "Eye and Spcttacle" my grandfather and I resumed our nuidest equipage, and iiaving bade adieu to Ju- lian, drove back — slowly, very slowly — the long twelve miles to Farnham Cobb. My grandfather was unusually taciturn on his way home. At first I made a few inett'ectual attempts to rouse him to conversation ; but find- ing my exertions fruitless, I also lapsed into a fit of silence that lasted for nearly an hour. The quiet stars were out in the heavens, and I turned my face up to them, watching them without try- ing to read my fortune in them. "Yes, Tibby,"said my grandfather, suddenly recalling me from my star-gazing, "he is a young man of great promise — of singular prom- ise." "I am glad to hear you say so, grandpapa," I answered, for I knjw well on whom his thoughts ran. "And he has splendid fortunes before him." "Splendid?" "Ay, my deai", golden," returned my grand- fiither, warmly, twirling his whip round in his ardor till it cracked. " Whoever lives to see thirty years after I am in my grave, will see that young man opulent, powerful, honored. The large fortunes of the country are made in the North — not the tranquil South. Wherever large fortunes are being made there is a field for tal- ent, character, and address such as Julian pos- sesses. My dear, Julian will be a successful man. What's more, he'll be a good man. And she'll be a happy woman who becomes his wife. Mark my words." I did mark his words. I distrusted them then. I feared the}' were the outpouring of a too san- guine temperament, and could not all be realized. But as I recall them now I must admit they have been fulfilled with startling accuracy. Opulent, powerful, honoi-ed, all these is Julian Gower, and his wife is the happiest of women. It was past nine o'clock when we alighted at the College gate. Isaac Stoddart, lantern in hand, took our little horse, and I tripped quick- ly under the walnuts to announce our return to Mrs. Skettle and Etty. It was dark in the gar- den, and I slipped into the hall unobserved. At a table in a distant corner sat Etty, busy with her drawing materials, lier back toward the garden entrance, and the light on the table be- fore her, flashing its rays against her golden hair, and giving the scene a light-and-shade ef- fect that called to my mind some engravings of Dutcli pictures I had once seen. "Boh!" I cried, when I had come close be- hind Etty's chair. She started up, and began to scold me for startling her. "Why, child," was my next exclamation, " what are you about ?" "It's your portrait, Tibby !" cried the child, in high glee. "I've been copying it from my birthday locket, and shading it in after my own mind — for I do so like thinking about your face, dear !" "Althoitgh I am a snub-nosed little thing, and have wall-eyes." "Oh don't, Tibby!" supplicated Etty, red- dening up. "Do forget that, dear!" Etty had really managed her portrait very well. Tlie birthday locket she spoke of was a trinket given her by my grandfather — my ])or- trait on one side, and hers on the reverse — done by that black court-plaster process which was popular in "the old time." CHAPTER V. TWO SHORT YEARS. 'J The next Sunday Mas Julian's last day of vacation in "the corn country." He spent it with us, walking over the eight miles from Beechey to our breakfast, attending me down to the church when I went there to instruct my class, blowing the organ while I played on it during the afternoon service, sauntering with me and Etty round the common before tea, and in the evening luring my grandfather on to tell ns some of his old stories. When he left the College he had a hearty benediction from us all. I\Iy grandfather insisted on his having another, and yet another, glass of our ancient "yellow seal ;" and bade him, on getting once more to Tyne side, not forget his old friends in the South. " Good-by, Jule, write often to ns," I said to him at the hall door. He took my hand, and besides shaking it warmly, raised it to his lips and kissed it, say- ing, "Tiiink of me often, Tibby, and bear in mind what I said to you the other day in Lymm Hall garden." "That I will, Jule," I answered, warmly, "and it will make me very happy to think about it." "Unkind, cruel Julian, to kiss Tibby's hand and only shake mine!" cried Etty, shaking her golden curls at him. He looked at the beautiful creature for an in- stant, and blushing slightly, stooped and kissed her on the forehead. The child was astonished and pleased ; but, though I doubt not her little heart was sad enough at parting with our old playmate, she could not restrain her customary merriment. " Thank you, Jule," she cried ; "but since you are so liberal with your attentions, don't forget Mrs. Skettle." "Surely not," replied Julian, gravely, instant- ly giving the old lady the old-fashioned salute. Had a ci'acker exploded mider Mrs. Skettle's hoop she could not have been more astonished. She had not recovered from the first shock of her surprise ere the door closed on Julian, and he was gone. He kept his promise of writing to us often — long letters full of the miflutest particulars of every subject that interested him. I do verily believe that the inmates of our secluded home at Farnham Cobb knew as much of Northumbria / and her affairs as the keenest business men of the North. I am sure we knew more than Mr. Martin Orger himself about the Shorten mines — about the depth, and extent, and quality of the seams ; about the spots where ventilation was most difficult, and foul air most abundant ; about the pitmen and their labors. Etty knew all about the safety-lamps of Dr. Clanny, and George Stephenson, and Sir Humphrey Davy, and was able any day of the week to write off a 20 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOEK. chapter on the history of mining. Long ere our slecj)v neighbors had begun to take any interest in railways, we were familiar with all the past and present of iron-roads and locomotives. Indeed the young under-viewer of the Shorton mines was the hero of Farnham Cobb College. In the long winter evenings we used to talk about him before gossiping on other topics, and when we had exhausted all other topics our tongues went back to him. My grandfather on tliat subject became a romancist and poet of the higliest order, representing in glowing terms the wealth, and dignity, and distinctions that await- ed that "singularly promising young man." It was only natural "that Etty should symjiathize with me and my grandfather, and grow up to regard Julian as the greatest and best of men. Not unfrequently Julian's letters contained a sheet written for my private eye. These sheets were written (after the commencement of his life at Shorton) in a vein unlike the spirit of any of his former compositions ; and as lime Avent on, their peculiar object was even more and more plainly declared. They were variations and ex- pansions of that old hope first communicated to ma in the Lynnn Hall garden — that one day he v.ould have a wife and children to love and l)e loved by. He particularly enjoined me not to let Etty read or guess the contents of these sheets. It was too soon, he said, for her to know her elders entertained such thoughts. In this I fully concurred ; and I liked Julian all the better for wishing to confine to our breasts the delicious secret — which only two hearts should know — the secret which even he only vaguely indicated to his solitary confidante ! It was con- siderate to Etty, delicate to me, and chivalric in himself, that he was so particular on this point. And days passed on — swiftly and happily, with seed-time and harvest, in the fat and sleepy corn country. At the end of twelve months Julian Gower came down from Northumberland for a visit of three days. He could not stop longer, for his duties at Shorton were urgent, and the time spent in traveling from the Tyne to the South consumed the chief part of his short holidays. During those days he was altogether with us, save at nights when he ran over the country to Beechey ; and Etty seemed to enjoy his company not less than I did. Of that I was very glad ; for I loved Julian Gower, and I wanted all who cared for me to love him also. Yes, I loved him — with all the intensity and purity of a woman's love. The time was when I dared not say this — when to acknowledge it would have brought ruby shame into my cheeks and humiliation to my eyes. But that time was long since. And now I write with exultant pride — I loved Julian Gower with all my heart, and soul, and strength. Again Julian left us. Again the sunny, yellow harvest-tide came round. And Mith it came again Julian Gower. . BOOK II. JULIAN GOWEPw : BEING WRITTEN BY MR. JULIAN GOWER, AT THE REQUEST OF THE REV. SOLOMON EASY'S GRAND-DAUGH- TER TABITHA. first time were less inclined to credit me with good qualities and efiicient abilities. And they were justified in to a certain extent mistrusting me. Confidence is a plant of slow growth, and a young man ought not to be angry because he docs not find it full-grown, in blossom, and ready for him to pluck in strange breasts, be they old or young. Among the good and beneficial accidents of my life, for which I am deeply grateful to the Disposer of all human events, I hold it foremost that in my youth I was brought up and educated in the country among simple and honest people, gentle in their natures, and pure in their habits — conscientious and devout. If in my course through life I have been enabled to attach men to me, and influence them on some occasions for the better, I attribute it to a sound knowledge of ordinary everyday human nature, acquired by thorough "familiarity in early life with a few honest persons, mingling with each other in all candor, and without concealment or pretension, as the members of a rural society are more like- Iv than the inhabitants of cities to mingle witli each other. The circumstances of life in an agricultural district arc, I think, favorablt to honesty — the moral infiucncc being strong; and vciy observant person knowing thoroughly the CHAPTER I. BIRTH, PARENTAGK, ETC. Having been requested by the Rev. Solomon Easy's grand-daughter Tabitha to write a brief account of certain specified occurrences in my life, I consent to do so, only stipulating that no- thing I here write shall be in any way altered either by herself, or by any person to whom she may hereafter intrust its publication. JMy pur- suits have never led me to encourage any literary faculty I may possess, and my contribution to her collection of memoirs may consequently be very faulty. But I like things to be genuine. Whenever I read a document, or hear a s])eech, I like to feel assured that my mind is receiving the genuine thoughts of the writer or orator, without subtraction, addition, or superficial spurious adornment of any kind. I have, there- fore, laid a particular injunction on the lady not to dress up or smooth down my communication to her. I am at the present day not unknown, but I v.as once an obscure young man — industrious and well-intentioned, but poor. It is of myself at th^ time that I was an obscure young man thai [ am going to speak. I was as strong and healthy, and in every way respectable a man ^ tlicn as I am now, but those who met me for the 1 histories and actions of his neighbors, and being OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 21 aware that his history and actions arc in like manner known. My father was an officer in the East India Company's army, and was the son of a well-to- do London merchant. He married a pretty girl, the daughter of a farmer in "the corn country," oftending in some sliglit measure his family by tlie step. They thought a farmer's daughter beneath them, and frankly told my fa- ther so. He with equal frankness retorted that he wanted neither their criticisms nor their ap- proval ; and then went his way to the East, taking liis bride with him. In three years he and my motiier had passed from this world, leaving me and my younger brother to the good- will of our relations and tlie protection of that noble institution — the old East India Comjiany. My father's relations did not i)ay me and my brother much attention. I can not altogether blame them for keeping us at a distance. They were rich, we were poor. It is certainly xevy disagreeable for prosperous and fashionable peo- ple to be surrounded and pounced on by jwor kindred. It would have been chivalrie if my fiither's brother and his set had made more friendly advances to us. But they didn't. And it would unquestionably have been petty and mean if we on our parts had nursed any thing like heart-burning for the slight. We did no such thing. Our grand nncle, and splendid aunt, and exquisite cousins grew, as we ap- proaclied 3'ears of discretion, to be subjects of joke with vis, our boyish tempers not being em- bittered by the knowledge that in tlic composi- tion of the family statue we were the clay and not the gilding. ISIy brother Monkton and I were sent do-\vn to "the corn country" to pass our childhood in the house of a bachelor uncle (on my mother's side) — a small tenant-farmer, who never in all his days wore a coat that' was not made of fustian, or a waistcoat was not a red one. The farm- servants lived in the same room, and fed off the same bacon and dumplings, with us. This cus- tom no longer exists in the corn country, and in the face of glib gentlemen who are severe on the gross sensuality and crass ignorance of farmers in tlie good old time, and who maintain that every thing was corrupt and abominable in the good old time, I do not hesitate to lament that this usage has expired. The increased personal refinement of the wealthier of the humbler classes tells against the well-being of tlie humblest class of all. A farmer and his daughters would now- adays find the society of servants unpalatable. I don't at all blame them for it — I only state tlie fact. They keep themselves to themselves, and only approach their menials and workmen to order, supervise, scold, or pay them money. But fifty years since agricultural workmen, sitting at board with their social superiors, had a better and more humanizing time of it tiian they have now. They heard tlieir masters and mistresses gossip about the affairs of the neighborhood, the news of the papers, the business and amusements of tlie .markets and county town. They were thus raised a grade — perhai)S only a trifling one, but Still a grade — above their servile cares, and drawn into harmonious action with those above them. Masters nowadays prate about human- izing and ameliorating the lower orders, and hope to achieve their object by feasting their servants once a year, or preaching to them once a month. Fifty years since, these masters would have lived with their servants, and carved for them daily. Many of my friends tell me I am u little mad on this subject, and that I lose my common sense when 1 begin to talk about the good old times. Perhaps they are right. All I can say is — I wish to remain in the wrong. Living at Becchey in the holidays, Monkton and I spent the greater ))ortion of our days at Laughton, as boarders at the Laughton Gram- mar School — playing cricket in the park of Laughton Abbey, and bathing or skating (ac- cording to the seasons) in or on "the Abbey water." A very good education we got there, in company with forty or fifty other lads — sons of the richer farmers and the ])etty gentry of the district. Tlie head-master was a clergyman, and a very learned man. If I recollect rightly he wrote a Greek treatise, proving that Eve and Semiramis were the same. I know he professed the most awful opinions ; but as he never pro- mulgated them save in a learned language he did no one any harm, and never shocked public opinion. I know also that he was ])Ositively terrific in his use of the birch. People tell us nowadays that the birch was one of the degrad- ing engines and abominable contrivances of the good old time, and that its use in oiw public schools breaks down the dignity and independ- ence and all that sort of thing of the Anglo- Saxon boy. Fudge! — it certainly never de- graded Monkton ; and I don't believe it de- graded me. And as for the doctor — he was no barbarian. Not a bit of it. I dined with him twenty j'ears after I left school, and found him a very fine old fellow with most courtly man- ners. Our pensions from the E. I. C. paid the school- bills and furnished us with oitr wardrobes. In the holidays our honest uncle gave us bed and board at Beeehey ; and about once in two years we were had up to London to stay in a big house in Russell Square with our "grand relatives." i A pretty time we used to have of it with my magnificeut aunt ! She used to deplore our bad manners — confound her ! she didn't mend them ! She used to laugh at the outrageously bad make of our clothes — confotmd her ! her money never l)ought us better ! Then our cotisins, just oixi* own ages, used by turns to fight shy of us, or snub us with the information that we "should have to work for our living." Poor little blood- less creatures, it was a precious good job for them that they hadn't to work for theirs ! So ]jerfectly disgusted were Monkton and I with the tone of society in Russell Square that I do verily believe wo, at the early ages of twelve and ten, should have stuck down at Beeche}', and "cut" our magnificent relatives, if it hadn't been for the fun of the theatres, and the ride on the stage-coach up to town, and the stupendous and very novel dishes we got on party nights. On the whole, it was just as well that we did not cut my uncle. For in a certain sort of in- solent way he did look out for our interests ; and just as j\Ionkton was entering on his siixteenth year (I being two years younger) he procured r the lad a commission in the Bengal Native In- fantry. It was a sad day for me when Monkton start- ed for India, full of heroic resolves, and wonder- 22 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. ing how long he would have to wait for a mus- tache. I Poor fellow ! I never saw him again ! His absence greatly altered Laughton school and "the corn country" to me. I was at first very unhappy for want of him, although my importance was increased at school by having a brother "an officer." CPL\PTER II. AT SCHOOL. I PELL in love when I was seventeen. Most lads of seventeen years, when they fall in love, fix their aifections on middle-aged women. I didn't. My first luve was a young lady — the grand-daughter of the Reverend Solomon Easy, Gerent of Earnham Cobb College, Vicar of Farn- liam Cobb, and owner of Sandhill, a bad farm iu the corn country. How I first came to know the Reverend Sol- omon Easy, and be received iu Earnham Cobb College as one of the vicar's family, deserves narration. It was in my first half-year at Laugh- ton Grammar School. The boys were returning from cricket in the Abbey Park, marching uj) the Higt Street in a long trooj), bearing bats and balls. I was at the tail of the army, lagging be- hind under a burden of wickets, about ten yards in the rear of the boy next in front of myself. I was not so big then as I am now; my legs could not get over the ground so quickly as those of the other boys ; and, moreover, 1 had to bear a load, that was not an affair of indifterence to a little boy. I don't mention these facts as {grounds of complaint: far from it. I was the smallest boy in the school ; it was therefore quite right that I should carry the six stumps and a man's-size bat on my shoulders. Tomkins was six feet high, and the biggest and oldest boy in the school ; it was therefoi-e quite right that he should only be required to carry the bails in the pocket of his fiannel jacket. The arrangement was a fit and beneficial one. It prepared me for the rules of the larger and sterner world outside the school-gates, wliero labor is the duty of the 3'oung, and relaxation is the privilege of the old. " How old are you, my little fellow?" inquired a strange voice behind me. Before answering I turned round to examine my questioner. "just seven years old. Sir," I then replied, seeing by his style, which strongly prepossessed inc in his favor, that lie was a. gentleman, and consequently was guilty of no impertinence in accosting me. At that early age I had an enor- mous notion of mj' own dignity. "Dear me, just poor little Tibby's agel" ]nit in my interlocutor, whom from his dress I mark- ed down as a clergyman. "You must be the Fmallest boy in the school." " I can't help thai, Sir," I answered. " I can run faster than a good many of them." "Don't you find your load too much for you?"' " Dear me, nc) ! I could carry a hundred times as much. Sir," I answered respectfully, but with a flash of pride. The clergyman (he was an elderly man) was clearly pleased witli my answei', for he laughed, and when he had done laughing, asked, " "What's your name, my fine little fellow?" This inquiry seemed to me exactly of a piece with all the rest of his impudence, and I thought of resenting it as I looked up at him archly ; but he was so kind and jolly a gentleman to regard, and, moreover, spoke so politely to me, that I an- swered, civilly, " Julian Gower, Sir." "Gower — Gower? Julian Gower? To be sure, you have an imcle, a farmer, who lives at Beechey ?" " Beechey is my home." " Ay, I shoot over your uncle's farm every year. " "Do you, Sir?" I rejoined. And then put- ting in a word for my honest uncle's interests, I added, "He's particularly fond of jugged hare." The gentleman laughed outright at this, and patted me on the head. I could not for the life of me see what there was in my simple intima- tion to tickle him so immensely. "I knew your mother, my little friend, before she married ; and she was, in her day, the pret- tiest girl all the country round." "I am glad of that." "Why?" " Because I never heard she was pretty before, and I like to know it. But, Sir, I must be run- ning on, or I shall get shut out, and then there'll be a rov,-."' " Bless me, my dear young friend," cried the gentleman, in a voice of alarm, as if he had a lively appreciation of what the "row" might be, "don't let me get you into trouble. Here be oft', but oblige me by taking this." He oft'cred me half a crown. "No, I thank you. Sir," I replied, drawing back and turning scarlet, as I declined to accept the tip. "Why," said the gentleman, with a look of ovei-jjowering sui-prise, "whv won't you take it?" "Because I don't know you. Sir." "A capital reason, I declare," exclaimed my com]3anion, warmly; "an excellent distinction, an admirable rule for a school-boy ! You don"t know me — but I'll enter my pig-tail at New- market races if you sha'n't know me." AVith these words the gentleman abruptly turned away into the yard of the principal inn in the High Street ; and I, running at the top of my speed, overtook my school-fellows just as they were jiassing "through gates," as we used to term it. On getting into the play-ground I immediate- ly sought out my elder brother and loyally con- fided to him the particulars of this inteiwiew. I had a great respect for Monkton. He used to thrash me every now and then, when I was cocky and required to be taken down a peg or two ; so I looked up to him with a kind of filiiil awe. At the same time he never permitted any boy he could thrash to molest me. He appeared to me therefore in the light of a protector. "It's a, Jind," said Monkton, sententiously, when I had come to the end of my storj-. ' ' What do you mean by ' a find ?' " I asked, childishly, for I w.as then so new to school-life that I did not understand some of the simplest expressions. " Something'll come of it," explained Monk- ton. OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 23 "What sort of thing, Monkton ?" " Oh ! I should say he'll ask you to his house, and send you oceans of ' badgers!' " At Laughton Grammar School hampers of prog were called badgers. "I'm sure I hope you're right, Monkton," I answered, glowing with the thought of the hos- pitality I would exercise to every body in the box- room. "But, young'un," added Monkton, with an air of parental authority and grave worldly wis- dom, ' ' I advise you to keep this to yourself. I sha'n't speak about it, and you'd better not. You see, perhaps Tomkins might not like it." "Why shouldn't he?" "Well, your orders were to carry tlie stumps and the bat, not to talk to gentlemen in the Higli Street ; and perhaps Tomkins mayn't like it. He is very kind, but still he is captain of the school, and you were out of orders. " "Thank you, Monkton." My dear brother had a lively veneration for all constituted authorities; so have I. Monkton was right. Something did come of it. There was a regulation at Laughton Gram- mar School, permitting boarders to visit their friends on Saturdays, stopping out all Sunday, and returning early on jNIonday. This consid- erate arrangement had never as vet brought good either to me or my brother, for we had no intimate friends in the corn country Mfe my uncle, and Beechey was too far from Laughton for him to think of having us home for so short a time as a day and two nights. The Saturday next succeeding my adventure saw me called into " the doctor's" study to "sec a gentleman." My heart beat high, and I felt sure who "the gentleman" was ; and I was right in my conjecture, for on entering the doctor's awe-inspiring sanctum "the gentleman" (who turned out to be the Reverend Solomon liasy) shook me by the hand. "Gower, Secundus," observed the doctor, smiling at me with polite benevolence, "you were quite right to decline the half-crown this gentleman kindly offered you. I approve your conduct, and believe you'll turn out a gentleman when you grow up." The doctor's speech pleased me so much that I loved him heartily for about five minutes, and hoped it would never be his painful duty to flog me. The next communication made to me was that Mr. Easy had, with my uncle's approval, invited me to Farnham Cobb, and that I was forthwith to get myself ready for a drive to that charming locality. CHAPTER III. . THE CO.VL COUNTRY. MoKivfoN went only twice to Farnham Cobb, though he obtained like me a general invitation to visit the College. He disdained little Tabitha Easy, thought the Reverend Solomon Easy a "slow coach," and (notwithstanding frequent and regular arrivals of badgers at the "school," directed by the hand of Mrs. Skettle, the house- keeper at Farnham Cobb College) maintained that my strangely-found acquaintance was after all no "very particular find." Of Mrs. Skettle he used to speak in the most disrespectful man- ner, calling her "Old Mother Nightcap," and "Old Mrs. Brown Dumj)ling." Monkton was such a capital fellow in all other respects that 1 knew how to construe his conduct on this point. He honorably regarded Farnham Cobb as "rwy find." Indeed he once spoke of the College as "Julian's preserve;" and he in his usual fine- ' spirited way resolved not to poach on my prop- erty. And then, to disguise his generous pur- pose, he put on a lot of supercilious contempt for "ugly little chits" and "frumpy old women." As for me, I became warmly attached to my friends at Farnham Cobb ; and, when Monkton went off" to India, "the College" became almost as nuicii my home as Beechey. Tibby and I were just of one age. So in the holidays we , were always together. In all little matters we had no secrets from each other. In close league we read, played, birdsnested, made fire-works, fished, hunted rats, and were up to all sorts of mischief. Indeed, we did every thing that boy and girl could with propriety do, except fall in love with each other. To love little Tibby never entered my head in those days as possible for me or any other human creature. She was very tigly as well as small. Of that there w.as no doubt. When Monkton told me she was "an ugly little chit," I could only respond \vith a sarcasm to the eflfect that he "wasn't so wonderfully good-looking as one could see he thought himself." White-faced, diminutive, with a large mouth, and eyes not set quite straight in her head, she was a queer little object when I first beheld her. As she grew toward womanhood her eyes came right, — ■ as far as position was concerned, and the mis- proportion of her mouth to the rest of her face disa])peared ; but she was still plain. On re- turning home from Bridgeham School she was delicately neat in her costume, had a slight and piquant figure, small white hands, and a coun- tenance that, for expressing sheer amiability and quick intelligence, beat all countenances I had ever seen then and have ever seen since. But all the same for that, she was decidedly plain. Nothing could alter that. Her brown eyebrows had a few white hairs in them, and her eyes, when she was excited, had a strange uncertainty of color that at times was uncomfortable to re- gard. As a little girl she was to me all that a school- boy would nowadays designate as " a brick of a girl." On reaching womanhood she fulfilled my "ideal" of goodness. I write this gravely and with deliberation. She will read it and learn nothing new from it, for she is well aware in what estimation I ever held and still hold her. I never knew any one so habitually cheerful and considerate of other persons' feelings. She was the most thoroughly unseifish girl that ever breathed. Why then did I not, as a school-boy, fall in love with her? . Simply because she hadn't beauty. It was ' part of my constitution to overvalue physical loveliness. The same defect of judgment, al- though I well know it to be a grave source of error, still influences me. I never look from under my iron-gray curls and through the crow's- feet pucker of my eyelids at a pretty woman 24 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. without immediately setting her down as a good woman, and romancing about her accordingly. If I had known Tibby less intimately, the con- vei-se of this sentiment would doubtless have held sway over the poetry of my life, and I should have construed an absence of beauty as an ab- sence of virtue, and have seen in physical de- formity the outward clothing of a feeble or vi- cious nature. Tibby, however, saved m.c from this mistake. Whenever, as a young man, I saw plain women, and (owing to the fault of my nature) was on the point of judging them un- charitably or unjustly, I remembered my old playmate Tibby, and saved myself from making a mistake. Still I didn't fall in love with Tibby Tree when I was a school-boy, as I unquestionably should have done had she l)ecn pretty. I did not lose my heart till I was seventeen years old, and then I was a school-boy no longer. At the close of my sixteenth year my rich uncle in London settled my vocation in life. A friend of his in the North had a mining connec- tion, and. persuaded him that the best field ojten to a poor lad, with his way to make for himself in the world, and anxious to acquire wealth, was the vocation of a viewer or superintendent of the operations connected with the interior working of mines. My rich uncle's friend was not very wrong. From time immemorial min- ing engineers had been either self-taught, or else altogether ignorant men. The body, of whom Trevithiek was one, of course comprised men of intellect and wonderful ingenuity ; but in too many cases the Cornish "captain" and the Northumbrian "viewer" were stupid blockheads, through whose inefficiency speculators lost an- nually a prodigious amount of money. The time had come for a superior class of mining agents — men of education, familiar with the re- cent discoveries in chemistry and geology, as well as acquainted with the purely practical part of their business. My uncle therefore wrote me a brief note, an- nouncing that at the end of the next three months he proposed apprenticing me to Mr. Clout, a mine viewer near Newcastle. I can not say the announcement altogether pleased me. The son of an officer in the Indian army, and with a brother in the same service, I had hoj)ed that a more gentlemanly career would be proposed to me. In fact, I deemed the voca- tion beneath my rank. Such folly, I trust, may be pardoned in a boy. My uncle was firm. His plan was to be ac- ceded to, or his countenance would be forfeited. For suc^h a i)ursuit lie would forward the money required for the premium, and also would make me such an allowance that I should be able to live and learn, until I should be able to live by my own work. For any other object he would aid me neither with counsel nor a five-pound note. In short, it was the only opening offered mc, for my honest uncle, the farmer at Becchey, could do nothing for me. His purse was, like his heart, open to me ; but unlike his heart, there was nothing of value in it. His farm was poor in quality and liigii in rent, just such an occupa- tion as the application of ab;indMiit capital alone could turn to profit; and he, kind num, had year after year to borrow from the bank the money he needed to get his harvest in. I found out that this was the case just as my Uncle Gowcr made me his offer. I need not say that the discovery gave me another inducement to accc]it that offer. I hoped to save a little from my rich uncle's .allowance to repay my matern- al uncle at Beechcy some of the money his hos- ])itality to me and my brother had taken from his needy exchequer. It is a source of lively gratification to mo to reflect that this hope was fulfilled, and that, aided by Monkton, who sent me an annual slice of his pay, I managed to make the last years of my dear uncle's life as comfortable as ever they had been ; in fact, to keep him in the farm at Beechey till the day of his death. I was fortunate in being allowed a clear month's holiday every year during my appren- ticeship. This month 1 devoted to a trip to the "corn country." The expenses of the journey made a great hole into my income, but it was the only expense I indulged in for purely per- sonal gratification. In dress, clothing, and liv- ing I was economical even to parsimony. Even a glass of beer or "yell," as they call it in the Northern coal field, was a rarely permitted lux- ury in my diet. At first my Nortlinmberland experiences were in cruel contrast to my ])revious habits. Liking con ntat sports and country scenery, I had to consuiP the freshness of my days in dark coal mines. Trim and fastidious as to personal clean- liness and to costume, I had daily to dress my^- self like a ragged ruffian, and spend hours in tiie slush and grime and distressing atmos- phere of the subterranean fields. As for so- ciety, I had for years literally none, save that of]jitmen, engine-wrights, and clerks. The work also, separated from its surrounding conditions, was not to my taste. It was drudgery and no- thing else. At first I couldn't get on with the pitmen, whom I was naturally anxious to attach to me. They suspected me of incompetence and unamiable. qualities, because I was "fram the Sooth." In short, I had a hard life of it. But amidst all my trials there was one bright point. I could look forward to my next ' ' month's visit" in the autumn to "the corn country." I had another source of happiness, and let rae graitefally acknowledge it. Dear Tibby wrote to me regularly — such letters, such pictures of domestic humor and gossip and felicity, as I don't believe any other woman ever penned ! No wonder that " the corn country" and all per- taining to it — the old school at Laughton, the old farm at Becchey, the old houses at Farnham Cobb, the old faces that turned loving eyes on my boyhood — had for me singular fascinations. I don't profess to be a man of fine feelings ; I am a banker, and a member of Parliament. I am no poet. * I am a practical man, and no "idealist," as they nowadays term it in maga- zines ; but I do thank God with hearty gratitude that in the days when I toiled in the black dust and the black mud of the coal field I could not think of "the corn country" — of "home," as I used to call it — without being inclined to put my grimed coat-cuffs up to my eyes. It was in n/y first autumn visit to "the corn country" after the commencement of my a]iprcn- ticeship that I fell in love. I had come down via London, where I spent six hours in walking OLIVE i3LAKES GOOD WORK. 25 to look at Apsley House (in those da3's I never visited London without indulging myself with a look at the outside of "the Duke's" town resi- dence), and visiting my relations in Kussell Square. My aunt was "not at home," but I saw my uncle, who expressed a wish that I sliould "leave a card" on his wife whenever I was in town. Of course I scrupulously attend- ed to his request. I had my name engraved on a plate of copper, and had fifty impressions struck off, for the sole purpose of obeying him. I thought that his pecuniary assistance to me de- manded tliat I should obey him. So I spent a few shillings on the purchase of my first calling cards. In the course of the next four years I managed to dispose of ten out of my fifty cards. One I gave to Tibby as a curiosity. The other nine I left in Russell Square. The remaining forty I have by me at the present day. I never needed to leave a card in "the corn country." My friends there were always "at home." CHAPTER IV. FIRST LOVE. As I have said once or twice before, I fell in love when I was seventeen years old. I can not exactly account for it. I think tiie singing of birds in certain walnut- trees, the playing of a southern breeze over a bed of roses, and the fierce autumn sun bearing down on a brick wall covered with green-gages and nectarines, had something to do with it. Any how, immediately before I fell in love with the Rev. Solomon Easy's grand-daughter I had spent two hours in the garden of Earnham Cobb College. I was so young that of course I kept my folly to myself; and she was so young that it would have been simply preposterous to have hinted the state of my feelings — I should rather say, the freak of m}^ imagination — to her. And under the circumstances it would have been gross in- delicacy to talk about my hopes to any one else. I therefore kept my own counsel — almost entire- ly for seven long years, and altogether for five years — witliout a hint to any mortal living. With a delight, and an awe, and an anxiety I nursed my secret, gazing at it in the dark cav- erns of the coal country, and fearfully specula- ting on it as a possibility of a brighter future. The prospect — in the far distance, separated from me tliough it was by years of repulsive toil and bitter mortification — which my secret held out to mc saved me from despondency and sin. It was (of course) a mere boyish sentiment, a dream, an absurd fancy, a ridiculous nothing ; but it reconciled me to a hard lot, saved me from the baneful influences of a youth of disappoint- ment, kept my heart fresh, and preserved my young life from the defilement of unholy pleas- ures. This was something for "a mei^e boyish sentiment" to accomplish ! In these wise days, when wisdom comes to men before they get their beards, and leaves them just as they are cutting their first gray hairs, I often hear grave philoso- phers of fivc-and-twenty laugh at the folly of early marriages, and the madness of those who care heartily for any thing that may not be con- verted into the Three per Cents. But I always bluntly tell them, "Boys, I like the fashion of 'the good old time,' and if I had my life over again I would do exactly as I did years back. I would fall in love at seventeen, even if I could not hope to marry till I was forty." On finishing my api)rcnticeship I obtained an engagement as an under-viewer in the Shorten mines — a property belonging to Mr. Martin Or- ger, the great Northumbrian capitalist. The work of the post was heavy, but the wages were considerable, and Mr. Martin Orger had helped so many of his efticient servants to higher ap- pointments and affluence, that like a sanguine youth I regarded my "first engagement" as a decided step on the road to fortune. LTnder these circumstances I could not resist the temptation to communicate a hint of my se- cret to Tibby, just to see if I was secure of her sympatliy. Being, therefore, in "the corn coun- try" for a few weeks previous to taking up my abode at Shorton, I vaguely sketched out the sort of future to which my day-dreams pointed. The interview in which I did this occurred in the gardens of Lymm Hall — an old moated hall, which several generations of the Easy family had possessed. From that day I found great pleasure in re- newing my hints and cautious intimations to Tibby. At Lymm Hall, I know, I resolved nev- er again for years to aiUule to the subject; and I remember enjoining Tibby that she should not induce me to sijeak more fully to her till I was a richer man. But I could not act on this pru- dent decision. The letters I wrote to Tibby on my return to the North were all more or less col- ored by the partial disclosure I had made to her. My pen like my thoughts would persist in run- ning to the forbidden topic. Of course I did not tlirow aside all caution or reserve, for I felt it would be unkind and selfish and dishonorable to lead Tibby to commit herself to my plans, and to place her hopes upon them, Mhen I had no sufiicient grounds of confidence that I should be able to carry them out. In my romantic epistles, therefore, I always confined myself to. ^enern/ ex- pressions, and never put the names of individu- als into the imaginary sketches of my pen. At the end of my first year at Shorton I made a flying visit into "the corn country," not even stopping' in London to leave a card on my aunt. I slept only three nights at Beechcy, and spent only three days at Earnham Cobb ; but they were happy days — very hap)3y ones. My old friends were delighted to see me. Etty was the most al- tered. Almost seventeen, and fast advancing to tlie full perfection of her matchless beauty, she was the loveliest creature that I liad ever seen — that I have ever seen. The braids and curls and folds of her golden hair were richer, finer, more glossy than ever. Her slight, airy figure, wheth- er she remained still or moved, was the language of grace ; to look at it made me feel as if I list- ened to music. Her eyebrows, always of a richer color than her hair, had grown yet dark- er, and were very soft and thick, and her soft blue eyes looked through long lashes. At every turn made by her head upon the slender neck on which it was set, I saw a difterent curve — of lip, of cheek, of chin, of brow — and every succeed- ing curve seemed more beautiful than those ex- hibited before. She was not a beauty of one smile, but of a hundred smiles, all differing in 26 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. character, but equal in their i)0\vcr to delight. I would talk of her little mouth, with its short and sharjily-curvcd ujiper lip, her small white hands, and her tiny feet ; but I may not cata- logue her charms, and ])ut them into an inven- tory, as if they were articles of furniture. I was very near telling her my secret, even more plainly than I had told it to Tibby ; for I was of course not less desirous to get her ap- proval to my i)lan than I had been to win her sister's, of which I by this time felt secure. But I thouglit it wiser to defer the revelation. So without speaking about my secret I returned once more to the coal country, where a strange adventure awaited me. CHAPTER V. P E T E K M ' C A B E. Evert other Saturday, on pay-days, it was my custom to walk into Newcastle from Shorten. Sometimes I had business connected with Mr. Orger's mines to transact in " the canny town ;" but even when business did not necessitate my making the visit, inclination led me to Tyne- side. The eiglit miles' walk was an agreeable change, reminding me of my frequent pedestrian excursions between Beechcy and Farnham Cobb, although tlie black dust of the Northumbrian roads bore small resemblance to the clean, bright lanes of '" the corn country." It was also a pleas- ant diversion to me, having no altogether con- genial associates with whom I could mix on terms of intimacy, to watch the busy crowds of pitmen and work-j)eople doing their marketing, and en- joying their holiday in the jjieturesque and pre- ci])itous streets of the "old town," and in the imposing thoroughfares of the "new town." The shops were always brilliantly illuminated on "pay-niglits," and their glaring light enlivened me after a fortnight of gloomy pitwork. JMore- over, the surrounding buzz and brightness had the effect of enabling me, as I strolled up and down the pavements, to call up vivid pictures of life in Farnliam Cobb College. Dusk was rapidly deepening into darkness, on one of these occasions, at the end of my engage- ment at Shorton, when I was standing near the old town-liall, amusing myself with watching the Cullercoats fisherwomeii, as they wrangled over the close of their day's work, and watching tlie shi])S on the river, which is now spanned by Rob- ert Steplienson's sjilcndid high-level bridge, wlien a hand was laid on my shoulder, and a voice said, " Maister Gower, will ye gang hamc wi' me ?" ^t that moment I hapi)ened to be reflecting on the mere luck, as some would call it, that led to my intimacy with Mr. Easy. rcrha])S this circumstance added to the ex]iression of surprise in my countenance and delayed my answer. "Ay, jod — nae oft'cnse, Ar hope," said the elderly gentleman who owned the voice. "Indeed no, Mr. M'Cabe," I answered, rais- ing my hat. " I sliall be delighted to accom- jjany yon ; and if I did not acee]it your invita- tion at once, tlic reason was that I was too much Burpriscd." ' ' Ye hae na mony frins?" rejoined Mr. M'Cabe, divining one cause of my astonishment. "Not many — indeed hardly any in tlie North." "Ay, ye cam fra the Sooth; but niver mind — ye canna help thot. It was jest ye'cr failier's misdeed." " And at the very instant that you touclied me I was reflecting that one of the best and dearest friends I have in the world I first knew thron^rh his accosting me in a public street, without niiy introduction, as you have just done — and off'r- ing me kindness, as you have also just done." " Tliot's a vara strange coeencidence," return- ed Mr. M'Cabe ; "but gie us ye'er arm, an' let us gang oop toon." I had never spoken to ]\Ir. Peter M'Cabe be- fore, but I knew him very well by repute as the inventor of several mechanical contrivances for carrying out mining oi)erations, and as a man of great wealth. Thirty years ago no man stood higher in Newcastle than Peter M'Cabe. He had in early life raised himself in a coal-pit from the lowest to the highest grade of the mining craft. A Northumbrian distich runs, "Trapper, Traiumer, Hewer, Under-overman, and tlien Viewer." Years back Mr. M'Cabe had discharged all these offices; and then giving up his business as viewer, and turning merchant, he had risen to be one of the leading capitalists of Newcastle. He was, moreover, a popular man — not the less so because he was known to be rich, and was a bachelor without children. "Ye canstapthenicht, ay?'* wasMr. M'Cabe's first question, after I had taken a seat in his din- ing-room, in the principal terrace of the new town, at a table furnished with materials for a "substantial tea." I hesitated. "Iloot mon — Ar's got the bed ready for ye." "Got the bed ready for me?" I rejoined with surprise. "Ay, an' ye dinnaneed to stare at me i' tliot way," responded my host, with a smile of exult- ation at his sagacity. "'Twasbut this morning Ar told my hoosekeeper to get the spare room ready for ye. The Shorton mines dinna need ye thae nicht. Sae sleep here, for Ar hae set- tled to mak' ye'er acquentance." " I am obliged to you. Sir — and I shall enjoy stopping," I replied, beginning to suspect that my entertainer had some object beyond a desire to display his hospitality in seeking me out. "Thot's guid," remarked Mr. M'Cabe, laying a strong em])hasis on "guid," and then deliber- ately continuing his explanations. "Y'e see Ar's talked to Clay aboot ye, an' Ar hear ye'cr a bra' lod, bent on doing weel in the warrld. He wad hae sent ye to me, but Ar said Ar knew Ar could fin ye i' pay-night wi'out trooblin' him. An' ye see my wark is joost as guid as my promise. An' ye dootless nccdnabc toold thot Ar hae na brocht ye here fin* nacthing." Mr. M'Cabe jiansed — I bowed. "Ye see," continued my host, "I hae joost a pra])pooseetion to lay before ye." " I shall be most h.appy to hear it, Sir." "Nae, nae — niver be in sic a hurry. We're nae at the quay noo. Let's hae a drap o' whas- key with a vara leetle hot water in it, and than we'll coonverse." Of course I complied. We had tea; and the table being refurnished with the ai>paratus for drinking, I'eter M'Cabe OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 27 mixed himself a stift' tumbler of hot whisky tod- dy, and passing the spirit bottle over to me, left me to mix for myself. I need not say that I availed myself of the advantages of my position to pnt a very liberal pro])ortion of water and a very modest allowance of " whasky" into my ghiss. Shrewdness and benevolence I knew were among Peter M'Cabe's characteristics; and it -soon became manifest to me that self-esteem and egotism, of the least offensive kind, were also to be numbered among his prominent qualities. "Ye see, my lod," he said, toward the end of his second tumbler of ' whasky,' with ' vara leetle water in it' — "yc see, my lod, Ar's a self-made mon, thot's wot Ar am. Ar made my ain for- tunes, sic as they are ; an' noo as Ar walk doon Pilgrim Street to Quay-side, the lods whasj)er to ain anifher as Ar pass, ' Hech, mon, there's Pe- ter jNI'Cabe wi'a hoonder thoosan in his pooch !' An' that's what not mony o' the New-Cassel lods can say o' theirsel." Having mixed a third tumbler, certainly not less stiff than its preciirsoi's, Peter M'Cabo smoothed his gray locks with his hands, and having composed his comely face before a mir- ror, sat down once more and resumed the story of his early rise and present greatness. " Ar had nae eddication when Ar was a lod. On cooming to be a mon, Ar toclit mysel spellin' an' writin', but eddication Ar liad nane. Not a penny did my eddication cost my father, when Ar rin aboot the pit-mooth at Callerton as bare- legged as iver Natnr madi' a bairn. An' Ar've done vara weel wi'oot eddication. Ar mak' noo vara grand opeenion o' them as ar? eddicated. Pot afore me an cddi^atcd mon an' an oneddi- catcd mon, an' the deeference atwecn the twa "11 be, that the oneddicatcd mon '11 be doosed sicht cooter, an' hae a doosed sicht mair i' liis noddle than the eddicated mon. Xae, my lod. tak the warrld thro', an' Ar have nae opeenion Avhativer o', ony mon but what is oneddicatcd. 13ut that I say betwixt ye an' myscl." As I knew Peter i\I'Cabe had an amount of information and book-learning tliat could only be the result of strenuous efforts on his part to make up by self-culture for the defects of early education, 1 was not much troubled how to esti- mate his eulogy on the advantages of being un- taught. It had already become ajjparent to me that whatever Peter M'Cabe had endured, seen, or contended with, it was best, in his opinion, for human nature tliat every man should in like manner experience and encounter — in short, that Peter ]\I'Cabe was " the grandest mon i' a' New- Casscl," and therefore those were next best who in extraction and vicissitudes most nearly resem- bled him. « "Nae," continued Peter, "Ar sair meestrust a' eddicated ])eople. Ar was what ye ca' i' the Sooth an eelligeetimato chiel. Ar was a mis- come bairn. Noo, mony a mon with a noddle shaped like a sparrow's or an ould tom-cat's wad blush to confess himsel ony sic thin as a bairn wi'oot an honest mither. But Ar hae nae sic weakness. All the cootest an' strangest men Ar've met in a' my days hae been eelligeeti- mate, wi'oot ony exception. In fact, my lad, betwixt ye an' myself Ar hae nae grand oj>eenion o' ony mon but what is eelligeetimate." I began to fear that Peter Jil'Cabe Avould fin- ish up by telling me that he had no good opin- ion of me, as I had neither the reconmiendation of illegitimate birtii nor that of total want of ed- ucation. lie did not, however, make so personal an ap- plication of his doctrines. Notwithstanding his extravagant crotchets I felt drawn by kindly feel- ings to my new acquaintance. It's a belief of mine that the voice is a much more faithful and trust-worthy indicator of character than either feature, figure, expression of countenance, or bearing. I have had dealings with a great va- riety of men, and in my various undertakings I have not escaped the clutches of knaves and ras- cals. I do not blush to acknowledge that a few times in my life I have been completely taken in — thoroughly bamboozled. But whenever the quality of a person's voice has said to me, " Trust the man who owns me," or "Be suspicious of the man who owns me," I have never found the warn- ing a false one. Now Peter M'Cabe's voice was that of a kindly and thoroughly honest man ; it was a soft, drowsy, chuckling, happy voice. " Ye'er time at Shorton will be oop in sax weeks frae this pay-nicht," observed Peter, look- ing into the bottom of his fourth tumbler with sober but twinkling eyes. " JMy engagement will terminate then. But I think I may say that if I wish to continue there I need not fear any difficulty in renewing my engagement." " Hech — an' why so?" put in Peter, sharply. "Because I have discharged my duties to the best of my ability, and I believe I enjoy the ap- proval of Mr. Clay." "Because ye've discharged your duties to the best o' ye'er abeelity, " replied Peter, deliberate- ly repeating my words with a shrewd sarcastic emphasis. "Noo, I'll joost tell 'ee. Ye wad hae me to onderstond that ye hae said, ' My abeelities are vara far fra ordinaire, an' Mr. Clay an' Mr. jMartin Orger wad fine it nae easy thing to get an under-viewer like me.' " "Indeed, Mr. M'Cabe, J would say no such thing." "O' coorse ye wadna, an' o'' coorse ye didna. Ye pot it in a mair modest manner. An' ye do richt well to be modest; but oh, my lod, dinna be o'ermodest, dinna be o'ermodest. Modesty is a sweet, plaisant vairtu in a yong mon — vara agreeable to the elders he eats an' drinks wi' — bot ye may hae too muckle on it, an' too gret a quantity o' modesty has been the downfa' o' mony a bra' lod. But noo ye wad be liking to hear what the prappooseetion may be I spoke on but joost noo." I brightened up. "Noo," continued Peter, brightening up also at the sight of my expression of lively interest — "wad it na' be a bonny jest if Ar was to tell 'ee after a' that I hae nae prappooseetion whativer to mak' to yc?" CHAPTER VI. THE NEXT DAT. H.wiNG had his joke, Peter M'Cabe proceed- ed to "mak' a prajijiooseetion" to me. When he had finished making it he lighted the bed- room candles, and conducted me to the door of r8 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. my sleeping apartment, where he bade me good- night. Tiic sound sleep that Peter hospitably wished me on moving oft' for his own pillow was a sim- ple impossibility to one who had only just been made the recipient of a proposal which, if lie de- cided to shape his conduct by it, would altogetli- cr change his present course, and in all proba- bility influence his career throughout life. For hours I lay awake, calculating the chances of the future, and regarding them all in reference to jiiy " corn country" secret. Toward dawn I got a brief period of slumber, but it was so light a sleep that the rattling of a carriage under my window broke it, and presented me with the Irishman's assurance that it was " next day." Kising and dressing, I descended the staircase of Mr. M'Cabe's house, and, drawing the bolts of the hall door, I let myself out in the street. No one was stirring in the town, and the quiet of the Sunday dawn and the freshness of the breeze made me congratulate myself on having quitted my bed ; and a walk of an hour's dura- tion over the leazes and the Towu Moor, on the dewy grass and amidst tlie sweet breath of tiie freemen's cows, gave me more composure and refreshment than I should have gained from a prolonged occupation of my restless bed. Peter JM'Cabe had informed me that his break- fast-hour was half past seven o'clock. So I reg- ulated my steps in such a manner that I was back again at his door by six o'clock. As I ]iut my foot on the door-ste]) I looked up the ter- race, and found that he was "stirring" — taking a breath of fresh air on the pavement, which he paced up and down in a meditative humor. " Hech — an' hoo did ye sleep?" was his first question. "Not very well, Sii'," I answered, bidding him good-morning. " I had too much to think about." "Aha I" he rejoined, with a twinkle of satis- faction in his eyes, " Ar thoct ye wadna sleep anyhoo but puirly. Ar thoct ye wad hae enoo to do in turning aboot my ])rappooseetion." We took two or three turns up and down the sunny pavement in silence — my companion lajis- ing into his meditative mood, and I being in no temper to originate conversation. i Tiie servant-girls were by tins time busy in the i areas of the houses sweeping and cleaning, and | making courtesies as we passed. Newcastle servants are not lavish of their politeness; but Peter M'Cabe was the ])opnlar resident in the j terrace, and would, in his more social moods, resjjond to their obeisances w ith such exclama- tions as "A breet nK)riiinV' or "Thankye, my hinnie," or "It'll nac be lang eer a yonger lotl than Peter M'Cabe maks his boo to ye." On the jjrescnt occasion lie was too absorbed for ur- banity, and only exjiressed his satisfaction with j the attention offered him by saying to me in an j tmder-tone as he turned iuto his house, " They're a' bonny lasses. Ar niver knew a lass that wasna bonny somehoo or anither." Entering the hall of his residence, he paused at the large oak table that was its jirincipal ])icce of furniture, and pointing to a pile of old musty folios, in ancient leather binding, stacked on tiie table, intimated tliat he wished me to look at them. "They're a bonny lot of bulks, bcant 'ec ?" I opened the topmost folio of the pile, aud found, to my surprise, that it was a copy of Xeno))hon's works. "Where did you get them. Sir?" " Oh, frae the market. It's vara heavy buik, isna' it ?" he asked, taking the ponderous tome in his hands, and testing its weight by swaying it uj) and down as if it were a baby. "I bocht joost twa hoonderweight, an odd" lot joost for ■ foornitur, but I wad like to knoo wdiat they are. Noo, what d'ye ca' the buik?" [ "It's a Xenojihon, Sir," I replied, gladly availing myself of my slender classical attain- ments. " Ye dinna say so ?" answered Peter M'Cabe, with a movement of lively astonishment. "A Xayno]ihon ! Ye dinna say so ? The Laird pro- tect us! Who'd ha thoct o' that? A Xayno- phon ! An' noo, if it beant too grct a thing to ask ye, my lad — what is a Xaynojihon ?" I explained that Xenophon was a very distin- guished man m his day — a historian of renown — whose works, written in Greek, then lay be- fore me "Weel noo," said Peter M'Cabe, evidently deeply imjircssed by my erudition, " what ye say is sic remarkable an' exclusive information that I wad like, if ye hae nae objaiction, to mak' a note o' it." Seeing that my host suspected I might not like to lose my peculiar property in "sic remark- able an' exclusive information," I hastened to disabuse him of any such feeling; when he, on being assured that he might "mak' a note o' it," took a pencil from his pocket and wrote in large romid hand, on the fly-leaf of his new acquis!-' tion, the words "Greek," " Historian," "Xeno- ])hon" — the words being placed one above an- other, and the last word being (as a singular mystery of scholarship) spelled according to my ex]iress directions. The other volumes were passed in review. Four folios of ragged County Histories, two of Clarendon's History of the Great Rebellion, a stray volume of the Biographia Britannica, a collection of Tracts, and Johnson's Dictionaiy, were the principal items of the lot, till I came to the last and the largest "buik" of the entire col- lection. "There," said Peter, with manifest pride, and a simplicit}'' that was perfect!}' childish, "that is the vara biggest, and wi'oot ony excep- tion the bonniest buik I iver clapt my sight on in a' my days." On insjicction I ascertained that the folio so highly ])raiscd was an old edition of the Greek Testament. On my imparting this fact to the owner of the volume surprise and delight filled his face with radiance, and almost sent his eyes out of his head. I am not exaggerating when I say that I never saw a man appear more pleased. "Maister Gower — be quick — that's the Scrip- turs in the original?" " A part of them, Sir." " Hech I to think o' it ! Ar was sure 'twere a vara remarkable buik. Joost to fancy it ! The Scripturs in the original ! The vara buik itsel' ! Noo, my lod, dinna tell a mon i' the toon that Ar hae it. Y'e niauna spread the news, or there'll joost be oonders o' greedy fellows after it ; but not anc o' 'em shall hae it." Of course very careful notes had to be made OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD \Y()TiK. 29 of this treasurp. At my dictation, Peter M'Cabc wrote oil tlie titlc-jiage " Greek Testament," and at the commLMiccnu'iit of each sejjarato book he wrote "Bejiiniiini; of Matthew," "Beginning of Mark," and so on till we came to lievolation. When tlic notes were completed, Beter M'Cabe shut the volume, and said, in a low voice, "This biiik is a gret acqniseetion, and I'm richt thank- fu' for it. Ar's a sinfu' mon, and my hairs are fast growing white, and Ar feel it i' the mornins, as I didna years syne, when Ar hac been o'er indulgent wi' wliasky o'er niciit. Sac Ar'U keep the bulk to mysel' in my ain Strang chest, and say nocht aboot it to mortal man ; and I hac nae doot it'll do me good,, body and saul. " As he uttered these words he dusted the moth- eaten covers of the folio with pious care, and having finished the sentence lie lifted up the vol- ume with both hands, as if he meditated bearing it off to liis strong chest without delay. TJien another thought struck him, and he looked at me wishfully — as though he contemplated mak- ing a further demand on my scholarship, but out .of motives of delicacy hesitated to do so. "Noo, my lod, it's a vara straunge fancy, but it wad delight me vara much to hear ye read a chapter in tlie original, joost as it war i' the be- ginning. Ar shouldna onderstond it, but still it wad gie me jileasure. We're ganging to have a bird or twa for breakfast, an' Ar will na hae 'em oop t' th' table for half an hour, if you'll but read me a cha])ter." Of course refusal was out of the question. So the birds were ordered for half an hour later, and entering the breakflxst-room I and Peter M'Cabe commenced our theological labors. lie sat on one side of the fire-place in an easy chair, all attention, holding up his hands in mute aston- ishment, and swaying his head to and fro, while I, occupying another chair at the oyiposite end of the hearth-rug, read aloud the first chapter of St. John's Gospel. When I had read about ten verses, I paused to see if my auditor had not had enough of it. "Hoot- mon," he cried, throwing his right hand out energetically, "gang on. 'Tis nae a'. Let's hae it a'. Gie me fu' measure, rinning o'er. A bargain's a bargain — gie mn a'." So I went on steadily to the end of the cliaj)- ter. When I had finished, my host gave utter- ance to his opinion that he had had "a vara bonny jireach — a vara bonny preach, and vara suitably for the Laird's ain day." Having re- peated this criticism about a score times ho rose and rang the bell for the birds and the hot tea and coffee. "Ar canna," he said, at the close of break- fast, reverting to his novel entertainment, " hot pot it amang the lyaist extraordinaire events o' my life, that Peter M'Cabe, an eelligeetimate and wholly oncddicated lod, should live to hear the Scripturs read i' th' original — to hac the original in his ain keeping, bo't in a chance lot of ould bulks i' th' New-Cassel market — an', mare- over, to hae the original read to him by a lod who is himsel naethin gretter than th' under- viewer o' Shorton mines. Maister Gower — Maister Gower — there are far mair wonderfu' things than Trevittic's iron dragon to think aboot, if we did but know where i' th' airth to look for "em." After breakfast Peter, having first carried to its appointed ))laco of (Wnfincmcnt his " Scri])- turs i' th' original," drove me out sixteen miles in his gig to dine with a friend — a landed jjro- ])rictor of small estate, about eight miles from Shorton. The drive was one of amusement and jirofit, for Peter confided to me, in his character- istic vein of self-complacent shrewdness, all the principal vicissitudes, difficulties, and triumphs of his career. The achievement that "made him a man," as he expressed it, was the ventila- tion of a valuable mine in North America iVom which human labor had been driven by a scries of awful exjilosions, and by the apparent im])os- sibility of dissijiating its noxious gases. After trying numerous futile experiments for the re- covery of their jiropcrty, the owners of the mine determined as a last resource to get the assist- ance of a Northumbrian mine-viewer. The im- mediate result of their decision was that Peter M'Cabe undertook to serve them, on the agree- ment that they should pay him all his expenses of journeying to aud from America, and of liv- ing in America for six months, and that, if with- in the said six months he should "cure the mine," he should be put in possession of a cer- tain number of shares in the property, and £10,000 in cash. A poor but sagacious man, Peter made his voyage of adventure, expecting to s])end six months on the other side of the At- lantic. By the end of the third month after landing in the States he started on his home- ward voyage to Liveqiool, victorious and a man of wealth. Such was the substance of a story which, as Peter M'Cabe told it, was an admirable romance. Coming as it did to me from tlie lips of the ad- venturer himself, who had only the night before made mc a "prappooseetion," the narrative liad peculiar force. The gentleman to whose house Peter took me — an old, broken-down, illiterate, and battered Northumbrian Squire — was little to my taste ; and as soon as I could do so with pro]3riety I rose from the table where we three had had our mid-day dinner and took my leave, on the plea that it was necessary for me to walk home to Shorton. "Than, Maister Gower," said Mr. M'Cabe, dryly, and in a business-like manner, as I wa?- dc])arting, "ye'll gie meye'er answerby the end o' the Aveek." "Yes, Sir," I answered. "Ganging, mon?" put in Mr. Tilcot, the Squire. "Ganging? Nae, nae, stap an' hae mair wine, an' by the time the sun gangs doon we'll hae the hat water an'- the whasky on the tabic." 1 declined to profit by this hospitable- sugges- tion. " Ay, lod," said Peter, gravely, and with some pathos, filling up his glass as he spoke, " dinna tak to drink. Its o'er airly for ye to be raisin' y.t'cr finger to ye'er lip. Yc're yong an' bra' — fu' of health an' hope. Dinna tak to drinking till yc're ould. A mon wi' white hairs on his noddle can hac naething better to do." ''The Sliorton mines yield weel?" asked the Squire, thinking he might get a little more gos- sip out of me. I assented. "Ay, ay," the Squire rejoined, " reeches mak' reeches. Martin Orgcr is a reech nion : ajid a' 30 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. liis kin arc vara rcccl^ Joost noo he's got his heiress niece wi' 'cm, a bonny hiss with twice twa hoondcr thoosau' in her hand. (Jnly to thinls o' it !" "Indeed?" said I, asking a question in my turn, for though I was one of Mr. Martin Orger's servants, I knew so little of him and his family history that I had not even heard he had a rich niece. "Who is she?" I "Hech, dinna ye know Miss Olive Blake? Bot nae wonder — "for she's niver been here be- fore ; she was born an' bred i' the Sooth, an' what's o' mair importance still, 'tis i' th' Sooth that she'll tak her man. She's joost the ainly bairn o' the banker Blake — Blake an' Petersham — yc've heard the names. Her father's dead, an' willy-nilly she maun wed ould Petersham's ainly son. That's hoo to keep the money the- gither ! That's hoo to graze ye'er ain sheep an' kill ye'er ain mutton, as ye say i' th' Sooth. Ha !* ha ! an' they tell me, wi' a' her money, she cares mair for jiaintin' a lot o' picters, an' scrib- bling a lot o' bulks, than for aught else ! Ha ! ha!" Neither Mr. Tilcot's wit, nor his laughter at it, were sufficiently pleasant to induce me to ])ro- long my visit, so I bade him another farewell, and was soon striding over Fenton Moor, in the direction of Shorton, as the dusk of evening fell' around me. CHAPTER VII. AN OPENING IN LIFE. Should I agree to leave my country for five long years and endure the heat of a tropical climate, and run all the risks comprised in such endurance? On the one side, I might, if the "Mariquita and Pamplona Mining Company" answered the expectations of its most sanguine promoters, return a rich man at the end of the above-mentioned period, with an interest in a vast source of wealth that would enable me to take my place among the opulent of my opulent country. On the other hand, 1 might fall in the bold venture ; death might come to me by fever, exhaustion, anxiety, or the bullet of a thief. Well ! did not every year sec thousands of hope- ful men drop in the pursuits of ambition? why should I not add myself to tiieir number ? There was also the medium between these two extremes — no enormous fortune won at the end of five years but this reward — honorable and instructive employment for five'years; employment that would assuredly lead to something else ; and an income for five years large enough to admit of my helping my uncle at Becchey more liberally, and also of my laying by a comfortable sum, say a solid £100 per annum, as a fund for future operations. Such were the principal questions I asked myself as I strode back toward Shorton. Such were the first considerations suggested by Peter IM'Cabe's " prappooseetion" to send me out as principal Mining Engineer to the recently-formed " Mariquita and Pamplona Mining Company." I was then a few weeks more than four-and- twenty years of age, and regarded the whole subject from the point of view whicli that age would be most likely to take. Need I say that I took the hopeful aspect of all the points of the case? that the risks and disadvantages of the appointment seemed much less, while its emolu- ments, dignity, privileges, and probable benefi- cial results appeared much greater than tliey really were? By degrees all the gloomy features of my life's prospect vanished. The chances of early death, of a constitution prematurely destroyed, of bro- ken ties, and all the grounds of apprehension or caution disa])peared, leaving before my mental vision nothing save the picture of a bronzed but vigorous young man who, having returned from distant lands, was standing in Farnham Cobb Church with the girl of his heart beside him, and the Reverend Solomon Easy, venerable with more than fourscore years, converting them twain into one. Mj- blood was singing in the tij)s of my fingers, and the muscles of my limbs were causing me to shoot over Fenton Moor at racing speed, as my imagination was busy filling up the outline of tiiis jjicture, when I was arrest- ed in my course by a voice saying, " I am fairly vanquished, and you must take me home.'"' I turned, and in the dim light of the dusk and the soft light of the rising moon I saw distinctly a lady, young, well-looking, richly dressed, and evidently of the higher rank of life. I was walk- ing so fast at the time she spoke, that sheer im- petus carried me two or three paces beyond her ere I pulled up, and took off my hat in courtesy to her. "Come, you have stopped yourself at last," she said, with a light laugh ; "that's lucky. I called to you twice before you heard me, and at last I almost screamed. Then you heard me. Of course you were not deaf to my cry of dis- tress. Now, whatever you are after, you must help me. This is my case : I started out by my- self — slipped out of my uncle's house without even one of the servants seeing me, in order that I might explore the immediate district, and see for myself, all alone and without a guide, wliat a ])it-village was like. Well, I have been out in the open air for three or four hours ; I have completely lost my way ; I have not the slightest notion whor,' I am ; I am not yet tired, but 1 soon shall bo ; and yon must take me home." "I can assure you," I answered, still keeping myself uncovered, "it will delight me to render sucii a service to you. Where may I have the pleasm-e of conducting you ?" "Back to my uncle's, of course." "But, lady, I do not yet know who your uncle is, or where to find him." Site was young and tall, not beautiful — not for an instant to be compared with Etty Tree in the corn country — but graceful, and with a tone of voice and manner that impressed me with a feel- ing that she was of a social degree superior to any lady I had ever before spoken with. The absence of entreaty in her style of address, her playful self-possession, and her musical intona- tions, assured me that she had been educated to look for nothing but delicate consideration from those whom she encountered. In my boyhood, as well as in my later days, I could on first ap- proaching a woman always "feel" — by some process of sensation that it would be impossible for me more minutely to describe — whether or no she had a right to be called " a lady." Well, OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 31 I now " felt" that I was talking to " a lady" — a woman who, by birtli, education, pursuits, asso- ciations, tastes, and aims, had tiic fullest and most indisputable right to the high, tlH)ugh much-abused, title of "a lady." " Oh, my uncle lives at Benton Park. My uncle is Mr. Martin Orger," she said, in a tone of slight surprise. It immediately occurred to me that my com- panion was the heiress of whom Mr. Tilcot had an hour before spoken. "Indeed!" I answered, bowing again. "Then you have another reason for commanding me. I am one of your uncle's servants — the resident Superintendent of the Shorten mines." I described myself thus briefly and frankly, feeling that it was due to her to let her know the exact rank occupied by the person with wliom she, mv employer's niece, was holding conversa- tion. I, of course, did not see or even speculate how her interview with me could be a source of embarrassment to her ; but still I deemed it ap- propriate to warn her that my social position was very different from hers. Some persons may think I had no business to trouble my head with sucii considerations; and perhaps they may be right. Of course, had the stranger been a man, I should have made no such explanation; but I then thought (as I do now) that, in his bearing to a lady, a man ought to think in every imag- inable way of and for "her feelings," and never waste a moment's care on his own. Her reply showed that she did not misconstrue my woi'ds. " You don't look much like any man's servant, as you are pleased to term yourself, Mr. Gower ; and if I do not read your fortune wrongly, it will not be many years ere you have a place of com- mand assigned you in the division of the world's work. I thank you, however, for condescending to be my servant. Allow me to lean on your arm, and let us be walking to Benton. How far distant is it?" "Bather more than three miles." "Let us make haste then. There will be an alarm at the hall, for such a great lady as Olive Blake does not take flight from her uncle's roof without sooner or later causing a conmiotion. You started just now when I mentioned your name ; but you by this time remember, I sup- pose, having seen me before." "You visited the Shorton mines with ]\Ir. Martin Orger three weeks since?" I rejoined, at the instant recalling that I had seen her soft oval face and brown eyes in the gloom of tiie Shorton pit. "To be sure, Mr. Gower, "she answered, in a hearty, frank way. " So you see after all we are old friends, and it is not the first time I have trusted to your guidance. I do not, however, wonder at your not recognizing me — I was so cloaked up that day, in the vain hope of defend- ing myself from the coal dust. And I was too busy observing the novel sight to utter three words during the whole inspection. Yours is a terrible business, Mr. Gower — a business of dan- ger and toil, unrelieved by glory. Do you like it?" "The business is just what you have described it, Miss Blake, and consequently I don't like it. I had a strong distaste for it as a boy, and that distaste has grown to a mor'c positive form of disaj)provaI. But I continue in it from feelings of duty cpiiie as much as of interest." " Duty reconciles us to any course that is not positively criminal," slie said, leaning with a slight degree more of force on my arm, and looking up into my face as she did so. "Yes," I answered, "duty reconciles us to circumstances, just in the same way that pru- dence makes us come to terms with tiie adver- sary we can neither conquer nor avoid ; but all the same for that, the circumstances are not agrceal)le to our wislics." "True; but duty and prudence ought not to be coupled together. The one presides only over vile calculations, the other is the source of human goodness." She did not say this in a tone of reproof or even of instruction, but with the same simple heartiness with whicli slie had at first addressed me. Now I reflect, I think I remember detect- ing something of solemnity in her soft voice, but ])erhaps the jiresence of after-occurrences in my mind suggests that which was not really the case. "I fully agree with you, Miss Blake," I an- swered. "I hope I did not speak lightly." " You spoke the truth, and it's always good to hear that. A life of duty is not one of pleasure, and it does harm to argue that the case is other- wise. I am glad I have been to visit your wild and harsh countrv, Mr. Gower ; it will give me much to think about." ' ' It is not my country. I was born in the South, and I do not intend to fix myself hero ])ermanentl_y." "Indeed?" she put in, with an expression of interest. "I am going to South America, as mining engineer to the ' Mariquita and Pamplona Min- ing Company,'" said I, becoming confidential; for I had determined to go to South America, and like a hot-tempered young man I was brim- ming over with my new enterprise. " It was only late last night that I was offered the post, which will give me an income and a position very different from what I at present enjoy. Perhaps you think I have taken too siiort a time to make up my mind on so important a point; but all the same for that, I have decided to try my fortunes in Colombia." "No wonder that you were absorbed when I called to you," she answered, just as a man's own sister under similar circumstances might answer. "I heartily wish you success; and as for the haste of your decision. I don't blame that. Young men must jump at every opening, and not dally — choosing and refusing. Nay, nay, you're right. Of course, as your plan is so novel to you, you'd rather I should not, in recounting my afternoon's adventures, tell my uncle that he is going to lose the undcr-viewer of the Shorton mines. Of course you'd like to make such a communication yourself, at your own time and in your own terms." I liked the consideration her words displayed, and I told her so. "But," she continued, "how will the young lady in the South approve of your plan?" I was amused — and the expression of my face allowed her to see it. " No, you are not engaged,'' was her composed answer to my look of denial and curiosity, "but 82 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. you mean to be cngapcd before you leave the country. There's a girl in the South whom you mean to make your wife. From boyhood you've planned it. While you've been working in the dark gloom of the Northumbrian ])its, a vision of a ]ia]i])y future, with her for the queen of your home, has kept liojie alive in you and made life comfortable. Your holidays have been spent in visiting her. Your chief object in go- ing to South America is that you may bring back the wealth that will enable you to marry her. Even as I met you on the moor, you were debating how you should make your offer to her." " Good Heavens, Miss Blake !" I cried, in gen- uine apprehension that I had been guilty of an unusual form of lover's extravagance — the folly j of telling my secret to the winds — "I trust I was not talking out loud." "No, no — you were behaving well enough on the moor. You were not quite so attentive to my first exclamations — not quite so desirous of rescuing ladies in distress as a true knight would have been." "Tell me, then — ^liow do you know my se- cret? how did you discover it?" I asked, my anxiety being only slightly diminished. Olive Blake's merry laugh called me to my senses, and ])utme in possession of all her tricks. Blushing at its complete success, I stammered out an entreaty that she would guard it even as it was my duty to guard it. "You're a woman of the world, Miss Blake," I concluded my exhortation by saying, "and know well how to ])lay on the feelings of a sim- pb young man, little used to society, and still less accustomed to converse with brilliant ladies like yourself. But I do not fear you'll make a, merry story of the dextrous fashion in which you turned out the secret of my life against my will. Ypu might show little mercy to me ; but you would not disregard what is due to one of your own sex." " D(m't preach to me what I may or may not do ; -above all, do not threaten me with penalties if 1 break your code," she said, stopping short, and facing toward the moon. "Here, Mr. Gower," she continued, playing as a high-ljred girl might play with an old friend on her father's lawn, "stand in front of me, and look full into my face ; the moon is shining on it. Now do you see a trace of falsehood in it?" I answered in the negative, and I was com- pelled to acknowledge to myself that uij- gen- uine judgment accorded with my words. "1 beg your j)ardon for the impertinence I have been guilty of toward you," she went on to say. "Don't stop me, for you deserve an apol- ogy. It was easy for me to read in your feat- ures, and voice, and bearing, that you have a generous nature ; and knowing your dis])osition, I had l)ut small difliculty in deducing from the little you let drop the story of one side at least of your affections. \Vitii men of your nature a woman has small need of cunning to be rej)Uted wise. Tlie more my shame for prying into what you didn't intend me to see. I need no re- proof, save that which my better taste is con- tinually giving my high spirits. Indeed, I beg- your pardon. Sir. Now let us continue our way, good friends." She was so manifestly sincere in her expres- sions of dissatisfaction that I was anxious to less- en, if not to remove, her discomfort. I wished she had not apologized with such unaffected fervor, making a grave fault of her petty indis- cretion. It would, however, never do for me to say so. I was at a loss how to proceed, when in an instant it flashed upon me how I might ])Ut her at her case, and give myself pleasure at the same time ; and the thought no sooner oc- curred to me than I acted upon it. "Be good enough. Miss Blake," I said, "to give me your advice. I never expected to have a confidante on this matter before I spolie my- self on the subject to the young lady wlio, I pray God, may one day promise to be my wife. But I should now feel truly obliged if you would, first, listen to me for a few minutes while I talk about myself, and would, secondly, advise me what course to pursue." " Go on, I pray you. I see you know how to forgive." I went on. I told her (stranger though she was) the whole history of my boyish love; how I had nursed it within the recesses of my own breast for years ; how I had not even yet given utter- ance to it to her whom it most concerned ; and how I M'as alreadj' troubled whether it would be wiser to leave England for South America with my secret undeclared. Of course I communi- cated to her all the particulars requisite for the formation of a sound judgment on my case — such as the age, experience, character, and so- cial position of the girl I hoped to bear away as my bride. Olive Blake listened attentively. A few times she put a clear, practical question, showing that she accurately a])preciated the difficulties of my ]!Ositi(>n, and had mastered the facts already communicated to her. When -I had comjjleted my statement she maintained for three or four minutes a silence which she concluded by saying, in a clear and decided voice — "I do not see that the case admits of a doubt. You must go out to America unmarried. But you ought, be- fore you leave the country, to let her know the state of your feelings.'" "Thank yon. Miss Blake. I am obliged to you. I will in the cour.se of the next few weeks go down into the South and act upon your ad- vice. I say again I am very much obliged to you. You would not think my gratitude excess- ive if you know what it is to be a man, situated like myself, without mother, or sister, or even an intimate friend. And here we arc at the east gate of Benton Park." " I'll trouble you for your escort through the ])ark. The moon gives a good light, so I could easily find my way ; but I do not like jjassinj deer and strange cattle alone when peojjle are no longer near to protect me." Com])liance with this request lengthened our walk by another mile and a half. " Mr. Gower," the lady said, on finally shalv ing hands with me at the garden gate, "I ho])C we shall meet again. Possibly we shall at some distant day laugh over this our first interview. In the mean time believe me to be your very good friend. I sincerely wish you liap])ines.s, I am greatly deceived if you do not deserve it more than most men." OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOEK. 33 "If we meet again, yoii will loarn the effect your influence has had on my life. We have been thrown together by what we may as well term accident, and I have been led to s])eak to you as an old friend. I shall now act on your counsel as if you were an old friend." " If it is my destiny," she said, lightly at first, and then seriously as she came to the close of her parting sentence, "to inlluence your life, I hope I may be its good fairy, bringing bright- ness to your days whenever they need consola- tion. Perhaps such a work may be appointed to me. When the stories of our lives come to be written, it may possibly be seen that the young man and the young woman, who met not two hours since for the first time on a wild moor, and who now bid each other farewell, were brought together by the Power that regulates the most trifling as well as the grandest oj)cra- tions of His universe. Some good work wrought out and perfected in the far-off mysterious future may be the result of to-day's adventure. But whether we meet again, or part forever, I sincere- ly wish you success and wise guidance at this critical period of your life. And should dark days come to you, remember what I said at the commencement of our interview, 'Duty recon- ciles us to any course that is not positively crim- inal.'" She left me without another word, moving along the path leading to the terraces. I watched her climbing the tiers of white steps one after another. I saw her pause for a minute before the fountains, and, turning, look in my direction and over the glistening park. Her black figure was a mere speck as she ascended the entrance steps of the hall, and then that small speck also disappeared. Long after she had entered the house I con- tinued standing where she left me, recovering from my surprise, recalling her words, fearing she might regret having spoken to me with such familiarity, finding it hard to understand our in- tercourse could not be repeated. It took me two hours to walk to the High Col- liery at Shorten, where I had my lodging. The exercise of the day, the sleeplessness of the pre- ceding niglit, and the mental excitement of the entire twenty-four hours, mtist have consumed a considerable supply of what the doctors call '•nervous energy ;" but ere I went to rest I took out of my desk a manuscript-book in which it was my wont to note the important events of my life. It was a rare occasion when I made an entiy in my volume of memoranda. On that night, however, I penned in three sheets of close writing the notes from which this chapter has been composed, heading them "Interview with Miss O B ." This literaiy labor accomplished, finding my- self quite ready for rest, I forthwith proceeded to my bed. Slumber soon came to me ; but ere its advent I had time to review the proceedings of the day, and congi-atulat'^ myself on having spoken so frankly to Miss Olive Blake, stranger though she was. Had she been an ordin.ary wo- man, I should have regretted my impetuosity and want of discretion. j\Iy reflections, however, were not disturbed by a shadow of self-condem- nation ; for I knew that Olive Blake was in the highest sense of the word a "lady.'' CHAPTER VIII. FAREWELL. My visit to " the corn country," and the reve- lation which I\Iiss Blake advised me to make, re- sulted in my engagement to Etty Tree. There is no need to tell how I composed divers magnifi- cent and pathetic speeches (all of them in their stilted bombast and maudlin sentimentality com- pletely unlike myself), with the i)urposc of pour- ing them into her ear in one unbroken current of eloquent supplication ; and how, when I had decoyed her from the hall of Farnliam Cobb Col- lege into the little "tea-rooni," and, with her mother's portrait looking down upon ug, had gasped out the first three words of my petition, all my beautiful phrases, and insinuating tones, and subtle considerations, and even all the com- monest words of the dictionary and clumsiest sentences of oi'dinary life, deserted me, and I could say little more than, "Dear Etty, do tell me you will !" It is enough that dear Etty knew what I wanted, and said "Yes" a most unnec- essary number of times, and allowing me to kiss her, burst into a flood of tears. It was only that old, old scene — so often acted and reacted since the foundation of human society ; and yet, I do verily believe, never yet acted in the smooth, and graceful, and triumphant fashion described in novels; never yet acted without the occur- rence of some absurd blunder of forgetfulness or awkwardness. The weeks intervening between our betrothal and my departure for South America were prin- cipally occupied in preparations for my voyage. I had to take out with me a strong party of Northumbrian and Cornish miners, and London mechanics, together with a large and costly store of machinery, implements, ammunition, and provisions. Indeed the scale of my operations caused me great anxiety and some consterna- tion ; but the_y gratified Etty and my other Farn- ham Cobb friends, for their magnitude caused me to appear before them as a man of prodigious importance. While they were in progress I had to be in London with more business on my hands than I could well get through, for though I had then plenty of courage and endurance, I was young and inexperienced. Twice, however, I traveled dow'n on the roof of the mail-coach into "the corn country," and visited Farnham Cobb, spending nearly all of my time with Etty, and only just escaping the guilt of neglect to my dear uncle at Beechey. They were happy days. The m.emory of them never faded. Fresh and lovely, as in their brief period of rapid transition, they rose before me after- ward, when, thousands of miles away from kin- dred and friends, I toiled on, endeavoring to the utmost of my insufficient power to cope with overwhelming difficulties. When I lay at death's- door, wasted by fever, surrounded by mutinous workmen, and apprehending the irru])tion of the robbers of the Andes — those days waited upon me, ministering to me like angels, whispering words of hope, assuring me that the Providence who had brightened my childhood with love, and guarded my youth from sin, would not suiTender me in my manhood to despair- Yes, in that dark passage of tronble those words were my comforters. Years afterward, also — in the vet more distant 34 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. future — often and often, in the silent night and with the gloomy dawn, they reappeared in all their terrible beauty, when to think of them j'as to shrink from them, and to groan under one long ])aroxysm of anguish that, while it lasted, seemed always at its Sharpest. A generation of human life separated me from the first com- mencement of that old grief, and yet the pen trembles in my hand as I recall the ghastly, hor- rible loveliness of those days — that would per- sist in haunting me, when they could speak to me only of sin and shame and eternal woe. FACT BOOK III. -BEING PART THE SECOND OF MISS TABITHA TREE'S NOTE-BOOK. CHAPTER L MY FIRST AND ONLY LIE. I CHRISTEN this book "Faet," because it re- lates to a jieriod of my life when I passed from "Dream-land" into the domain of stern fact. Julian Gower's jjcn has revealed the first and greatest secret of my existence. Let no woman blush at my hardihood in publishing that secret to the world, for, as the course of my tale will show, I am in a position to make the avowal without sacrificing my own dignity, or shocking the delicacy of others. It was a strange, and to myself a bitterly cruel, misfortune that I did not discover my mistake in imagining that Julian Gower loved me until he had resigned his appointment at the Shorton Colliery, imtil he was once more in the College at Farnham Cobb, until he had made his offer to Etty and had been accepted by her. Indeed it was from Etty's lips, overflowing with tri- umphant happiness and sisterly love, that I re- ceived the announcement, which told at once my blindness, and folly, and egotism. "Dearest, dearest Tibby!" my sister whis- pered, with an air of intense excitement, as she seated herself by my side in my favorite seat in the beech avenue. "What is the matter, dear?" I answered. " You are pale and frightened, but you look very happy." My lovely sister — no longer playful school-girl Etty, romping and laughing in the exuberance of childish mirth, but a woman, tall, slight, deli- cate, and thoughtful — put her arm round my diminutive body, and nestling close u]) against my small frame (as if she in all the rich bloom and perfection of beauty required my care and protection more than ever), made her confes- sion. ' "Tibby, I have seen Julian." I started in my seat. "Yes, he has come suddenly from the North. He found me alone in the tea-room, and I have been sitting there with him for more than an hour. He has now started off to Beechcj-, but he will be back here in the evening to sec grand- papa on his return to Laughton." What! Julian had entered the College, had been in it more than an hour, and left, it without seeking out his old playmate Tibby? What could it mean? I did not say tliis, but the thoughts darted througli my l)rain, and there was a bird fluttering in my ])reast, where a heart ought to have been hannncring out steady and punctual strokes. "He has walked away. He said he could not see you till I had broken the news to you, anx- ious as he is for your lips to assure him of your approval." Etty still spoke in the same quick whisper in which she had begun her communication, her words leaving her white lips in one fast, unbroken current, but it seemed to me that she would be an hour in coming to the point. What was the news? Of what could Julian be anxious to ob- tain my approval ? " He loves me, Tibby, and has begged me to be his wife, and I've told him that I love him and will be his wife, when he returns from South America. Oh, dear Tibby ! I am so happy, and you have helped to make me so. It isn't all Julian's doing. You taught me how to see and value his noble qualities, and all these long si- lent years since I was a little child you have been training me up to be worthy of him. Tib- by, dearest Tibby, when I am his, every night that I kneel down by his side, and put my hands on his knees, and pray God to make and keep me a good wife, I will pray also to be enabled to be a good sister." It was not all Julian's doing ! I had taught her to sec and value his noble qualities ! The whole course, and all the windings through more than seven years, of my long error flashed upon me ! What was I to do? What did duty — my love to Etty, my loyalty to Julian, my respect for myself — Ciimmand me to do? Mind, I do not say I was right to do as I did. I would not confound good and evil ; and if these confessions lead me to the admission that for one purpose of my life I used the language of guile, I make the admission in no defiant tone, but ask my sisters and brothers to judge me generously, even as I implore my Heavenly Father to pardon me mercifully. I told Etty a lie ; the first and the last lie my life is stained by. Jt was but one falsehood, only one; but out of how many hniulreds aiul thou- sands of lies was it built u]j? It took years to tell it. I began to utter it when I nmde answer to her in the beech-tree walk — I had not spoken the last of it when all tlie fair creation of hope, which in my impious presum]>tir)n I had striven at my soul's peril to preserve, was dashed to the ground, its ruin covering at least one noble na- ture in gloom and anguish tor years. I have read the writings of gentlemen learned, observant, acute, and wonderfully trained to dress up the bitterness of sarcasm and the gall of disappointment, so that they appear mere [ jjlcasantry and light-heartedn?ss. With wit ex- OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. quisitely brilliant aiul ]nnii,fcnt, and a Protean diversity of iiumorous illustrations, these gentle- men have fur three hundred years been telling us that "the false" is woman's aim and habit — the air she breathes, the world she dwells in, and the workl she prefers before all others. She finesses at the breakfast-tabic and in the ball- room ; on father, brothers, husbaml, dejiendents she plays oif one endless series of triclvs and ar- tilices, some of them with selfish ambition for an object, but many of them elaborated for the sake of " the pure sin of them," without any other end in view than the delight of being deceitful. This is the woman of plays, songs, novels, his- tories ; and she is as unreal and fantastic as any thing in fairy-land. Such a woman no more rules in English homes than the foolish image of Gog or Magog sways the sceptre of the Brit- ish throne. I should like to see this paltry but hurtful falsehood, this poor tradition derived centuries since from Heaven knows what impure source, this distasteful libel on human nature, driven from the domain of art. Women are not untruthful. They hate falsehood as much as men do ; and if there is one thought which crosses a woman's mind oftener than another in the discharge of her daily round of duties, it is an anxious, half-instinctive reference to truth, so that her minutest actions and most trivial words may accord therewith, and that she, on laying her head on her pillow and summing up the day's proceedings, may have no recollection of any, even the minutest, deflection from the narrow line of truth resting on her conscience and rendering her uneasy. Gentlemen, do not laugh at a simple woman's words. If she could make you think better of herself and sisters, she and they would doubtless be happier, and in your fuller confidence have another aid and mo- tive to goodness ; but you would be gainers also ! So I began to tell Etty the one falsehood of my life. I must call it one falsehood, though it led to so many. "Etty," I said, wondering at my calmness, marveling that my voice did not betray me, and, as I spoke, covering the object of my artifice with a profusion of affectionate demoiistrations, " I am very, very glad. For years I have longed for this day. When yon were a child, and your beauty was still only in its rare promise, and I saw (young and inexperienced as I was) how noble a nature Julian Gower possessed, 1 first conceived the hope that you and Julian might live to love each other. Had I been myself less devoid of jjcrsonal attractions, I might possibly have entertained other hopes with regard to one I so enthusiastically admired as I do Julian ; but my little feeble frame, and pale face, and unalluring features early taught me that I was not fashioned for the love of men, and that my surest as well as most evident road to earthly happiness was to devote myself to you, and make you, and your husband, and the children that would naturally come to you, regard me with a warmth of affection that does not often gladden the life of an old maid. This lesson is a hard one to most women ; but it came to me so early in life that it seemed like a part of the estab- lished order of things, and had therefore less especial bitterness for me." "Dear, dear Tibby!" Etty broke in, with a pathetic ardor that smote my conscience, "it was long ere I susitected your goodness ; but during the last year I felt and saw what you now tell me. My love for Julian quickened my aff'ections, making me think more for you ; and last autumn, when we first began to spend our evenings here in the garden talking about Ju- lian, and when your eyes used lo /i///it uji with a fire as you described what a man he would be, and how proud his wife would be of him, I felt that you were anxious above all things to secure me that pride. I sometimes tried to push you on to plainer speaking : once or twice 1 wa.j on the point of speaking more plaiidy myself. But I did not dare to do it ; no, not even to my sis- ter; for though I might hope, I did not know that Julian ever Joved or could ever love me." The " color I'ose to the roots of her golden hair" as slie ended this sentence, and the thin cui"ve of her short upper lip moved like ribbon in the wind, and she would have cried if she had not relieved her feelings with giving me many more kisses and caresses. On her becoming calmer I continued the com- mencement of my one lie. I told her that when I first detected, years back, that Julian's heart was set toward her, I resolved — knowing how high, and unselfish, and noble he was — that she should not fail to esteem him through not having a judicious companion by her side, ever ready to direct her attention to his fine qualities. I told her that when I had a full and reasonable as- surance that she felt for Julian as warmly as I could wish her, I was so elated with triumphant gladness that I could scarcely forbear break- ing through that reserve w liich sisterly care and womanly delicacy enjoined me to maintain to- ward her. I told her that the occasions " when my eyes used to light up with a fire" were the occasions when I found it most difficult to re- strain my impetuosity and curb my inclination to congratulate her on loving and having secured the love of the man whom, beyond all others, I wished to see her husband. I told her much more in the same strain. We were together all that day till Julian's re- turn ; I would not let Etty out of my sight for a minute. I dared not be alone. There was a madness in my veins that scared me, and caused me to dread myself, and cling instinctively to society. We remained in the beech avenue till dinner, by turns sitting on the bench and walking up and down. We talked very fast and confusedly of the past, present, and future — each thinking the other very happy, each herself too excited for real enjoyment. At two o'clock we went into the hall and dined with Mrs. Skettlc, my grandfather having gone over for the day to Laughton. jNIy high spirits and Etty's face, by turns pale and flushed, were facts that ruffled even Mrs. Skettle's tranquillity, and she looked at us several times inquisitively over her knife and fork. "Mr. Julian Gower has been here, my dears?'' observed the old lady, in an interrogative tone, at the close of the repast. "Yes, Mrs. Skettle," I answered, seeing an expression of nervousness come over Etty's face. "lie didn't stop long?" continued the old lady, whose curiosity had been roused by Ju- lian's unexpected visit and sudden departure. " Not long ; but he'll be here again this even- 8G OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. ing to drink tea with grandpajja. He's looking very wclk" "Cuming again tliis evening ! Umph ! Then he'll be wanting ]Mr. Easy to do him some fa- vor." "Not a doubt about that,'' I answered, with a laugh, as Etty flushed scarlet in an instant. "And yet he isn't in the ordinary way after wanting favor-s," added ^Irs. Skettle, very per- plexed, and unusually fidgety. "Do you think, Mrs. k?kettle, he can want me for his wife, and is bent on asking grand- papa to let him take me away with him iu that ca]iacity?" "Miss Tree, I am ashamed of you!" ex- claimed Mrs. Skettle, tartly, and genuinely of- fended. "I am ashamed of you, talking in such a way before a child like Etty !" This was too much for Etty, who rose quick- ly, and, giving JMrs. Skettle a hurried kiss on her way to the door, made her exit from the hall before grace had been said. " Lor, Miss Tree, I hope I ha^-e not offended Etty by calling ^her a child!" obsen'ed Mi's. Skettle, in consternation. " AYliat a ridiculous notion ! didn't she kiss you ?" I said, also rising, and hastening after Etty, by whose side I again was ere she had been a minute out of my sight. My grandfather returned to tea, and had a long interview with Julian before that entertain- ment. When he entered the room with my dear old school-fellow — or, as he most frequently call- ed him, " that promising young man" — by his side, he seemed cheerful and glad, but when I had sprung fonvard to Julian, and after greet- ing him with a torrent of congratulations and sisterly good wishes, had given him a cup of tea to present to Etty, I looked again at my grand- father, and discerned that same expression of silent, long-enduring sadness which I had wit- nessed for the first time more than two years be- fore (when I asked him to send Etty to school), and had since observed more than once. As I regarded him, he raised his eyes and saw that I was watching him. The good old man did not drop his eyes, but looked me full in the face : and I in return met his gaze, and we looked right into each other's hearts. / iconkl not lie looked down. Just as I was on the point of be- ing overcome by my feelings, and laughing hys- terically, my grandfather dropped his gaze, and I gained the victory. After that I could not throughout the evening catch my grandfather's eye, though I repeatedly watched him, and though I felt, whenever I was not watching him, that his observation was upon me. After tea Julian and Etty walked about the garden together, as lovers should; and I in the sombre silence of the beech avenue mused by myself on the days when Julian and I were in- separable companions, and we occasionally gave Etty a little condescending attention. It was the period of the year when the even- ings close in rapidly ; so, notwithstanding the early hour at which we had tea, I had but little time for my solitary meditations ere the darkness and cold of an autumnal night were around me. Indoors all was warm and bright, the talk be- ing all the livelier for Julian's high sjnrits. "How many years is it since you knew 'my secret?'" inquired he of me, as the party was breaking up at a later hour than our usual time for retiring to rest. "You remember our talk at Lymm Hall?" I answered, jiarrying question with question. "Surely," was his answer. "Do you think I knew any thing of your se- cret before then ?" I asked. "That's w'hat I wish to know." "Julian Gower," I replied, "I'll answer your, question when you have been married ten years, if after those ten years of married life can you say, ' Little Tibby Tree, wlio helped me to make love to her beautiful sister Etty, and never asked for more confidence than it ^vas my humor to jjlace in her, was a true friend to me when I was a boy, and now that I have been married ten years, I don't know where to look (my wife ex- cepted) for a more trust-worthy and sympathiz- ing companion !' " Then little Tibby Tree lighted her candle, and climbed the black oak staircase, having first given her grandfather a kiss without looking at him. As Etty went into her room little Tibby Tree joined the happy girl, and did not leave her till she was in bed ; and Etty w«s not packed in bed that night until she had had much more talk and cosseting than she ordinarily received from her sister during the course of her nightly toilet. Then little Tibby Tree went to her own room ; and hours after eveiy one else, including even Etty, was sound asleep, she sat before her look- ing-glass, wondering whether she would have courage, and resolution, and constancy enough to act her "first lie'' out to the last. Slowly her candle burned down to its last two inches, w'hen it spluttered and guttered into such a wrin ding- sheet as surely was never before witnessed in the superstitious corn countr}' of the old time. The flame went down, diminishing till it was nothing more to the sight than a minute phosphorescent speck on a piece of charred wick. Then all of a sudden it flared up into a dazzling blaze, speedi- ly collapsing, however, into a long fit of throb- bings and tlutterings, which terminated in its perishing utterly, and leaving the victory to the darkness. But still little Tibby Tree retained her seat, thinking how ghastly and revolting the semblance of her pallid ugliness had been in the mirror the while the candle-light had died in convulsive fiickeriugs — recalling too, strange- ly enough, a childish pet of Etty's, rather more tlian two years before, when the beautiful spoil- ed girl had said, " How strange it is, Tibby, that I should have to obey a little snub-nosed, waU-eyed chit like you!" CHAPTER II. THE LESSON OF THE EOSK. Till Julian's vessel sailed from Liverpool, my life was so full of excitement, consequent on a continued variety of incidents requiring a cor- responding variety of effort at self-control, that I was spared the i)ain of looking out years be- fore me, as I did after his departure. But when he had looked his last farewell upon us, and I, and Etty, and my dear grandfather knew that we should not be warmed by his smile for five long years, and we had turned away from the garden (in which we had said adieu to Ju- 1 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 37 linn), and by different paths sought out the soli- tude in which we did not despair of finding com- foi-t, another current of experiences began to set in. For many days Etty was very subdued and pensive. A silence, that contrasted strongly with her ordinary mood, came upon her ; and the gentleness of her sweet disposition was intensi- fied. All my days it had been my use to tend on her, but now she insisted on playing the serv- ant to me — waiting upon me, fetching and car- rying for me, and continually coming up to my side and stroking my scanty tresses. "Dear Tibby," she once said, "you must teach me to be like you ; forgetful of myself, Ihoughful of others, and cheerful under trial. I must learn to be worthy of Julian. It is the only occupa- tion that will make me endure life and enjoy the blessings round me, now he is away." I knew I did not merit such commendation, but it pleased me, as praise always does, and the more as it was evidence she had not detected the sorrow which I had wrapped up in my lie. My dear grandfather and I also came closer together. Ever since Julian's acceptance by Etty there had been an embarrassment between my grandfather and me. He knew my secret ; I was well aware he knew it; and he knew that I had that knowledge of his knowledge. And yet we had never given, the either to the other, a single hint of what was always in the thoughts of each. We felt it right to look away from the secret, and so with an awkward consciousness of mutual constraint we used to look away from each other. This new and unnamed burden on' our intercourse was very grievous to me. But soon my dear grandfather removed it with one of those simple and eloquent courtesies, of which gentlemen of " the old school" were consummate masters. It was late in the autumn. We had said good-by to roses, Etty and I having weeks be- fore plucked the last of the scented leaves for our annual stock of ^'■pot pourri" when, as I descended the College steps after breakfast for an hour's exercise in the dry wind and leaves that swept over the garden paths, my grandfa- ther approached me with a rose in his hand and a rosy light in his countenance. "I bring you an offering, lady, a rare treas- ure at this time of the year. I found it in a warm corner, all by itself, and crowning the top of a blighted bush that seemed not to have sap enough to feed its own dry sticks. And when I plucked it, I said, ' I'll bear it to a lady who is wise enough to find a lesson in it — that — ' " He paused, for he knew his words were not needed to point the moral of the rose. "I will keep it, dear," I said, slowly, looking at him so that he might see I wished my words to convey their full meaning, "and even when it is dead I'll read its lesson — that there is no lot in life so stern,' and cold, and hard, but that it has somewhere a warm and secret corner in which human affection can blossom. Be sure of that, dear. I am glad you see so well that I stand in need of such a lesson. It comforts, dnd will comfort me to know that the sympatliy of your fine nature surrounds my sorrow and weak- ness, tliough we shall never talk about them." The dear old man only said, "God bless thee, child!" "And, dear," I added, more in my customa- ry tone of matter-of-fact cheerfulness, " I am' go- ing to change my bedroom for one distant from Etty's. You see, sometimes I shall sit up, and be wakeful during the night, and might disturl) Etty in my jjresent quarters. So I mean to seek out my own ' warm, secret corner,' like the rose. rerhai)S when I come down to breakfast in the morning you'll have sometimes to kiss a pale, white face, and look at two leaden eyes that have slci>t but ill ; but you won't mind that, for you'll know I have only been trying to carry out the teaching of the rose." ]My grandfather made no answer; but as I moved away to the beech avenue he raised his old three-cornered hat from his gray locks, and remained uncovered as lon^j as I was in sight. Had I been a queen he coidd not have done more. His homage was so simple and full of dignity, and so eloquent of his loyal nature. I was his little grand-daughter, whom he had nursed on his knee and reared with parental so- licitude ; but not to her was his reverence offered. I was tried to the full endurance of which a wo- man's heart is capable, and I was endeavoring to bear my lot with becoming fortitude. For the moment, my suffering and appropriate res- olution were to him tj'pes of certain qualities which in all ages have drawn to women the love and fealty of generous men. To them — and not to me — he stood uncovered with the autumn wind buffeting his white hair. CHAPTER III. A DEIVE OVER THE RED LE.WES. A FEAV days after my grandfather had pointed out to me the lesson of the rose, he surprised me by announcing in a cheery voice that he was bent on driving his little horse over to Laugh- ton, and should be well pleased with my com- pany on the exciu-sion. A journey to Laughton was a rare event with i my grandfather, although it was one of the prin- cipal towns of our division of the corn country, was only twelve miles distant from Farnham Cobb, and was, moreover, the place in which resided Mr. Gurley, the solicitor of the Reverend 1 Solomon Easy, of Farnham Cobb College. Cer- tainly my grandfather did not on the average pay more than two visits a year to the market- town, and those two visits he was in the habit of making without a companion, and since his • last expedition to Laughton only a few weeks had elapsed. I had therefore reason to feel sur- prised at his pro]iosal. Of course I did not decline the invitation. Laughton was still to me a grand centre of in- telligence. Its population of three thousand in- • habitants, its member of Parliament, its market, the legal proceedings at its magistrates' sittings, its book-club, its supply of "Paris fashions," its turnpike-road, with four " up" and four "down" coaches a day, made it a great oljject of interest to me. The fact that Julian had been educated in its grammar school did not make me less cu- rious about it, and yet in the whole course of my life I had not been a dozen times in the streets of Laughton ; my last visit to it being on the oc- casion of my last return from school, when I 38 OLHE BLAKE'S GOOD "WORK. was deposited by the guard of "The Telepra]ih" at the "Bhie Boar," and was received by my giuiidfather, who, without an interval of tliree minutes, ]nit me and my boxes in a hired chaise and drove me oif to Farnliam Cobb. Mv grandfatlier liad some reason for dislik- ing Laughton, and never entered it save when business compelled him. The same dislike made him uneasy when any member of his family went there. The consequence was that I and Etty were cut off from one communication with the outer world, ^\liieh girls living in a secluded country district usually enjoy. Our shopj)ing was all done at the petty shojjs of our own and two neighboring villages, and when those estab- lishments could not su]iply our wants they went unsupplied, unless one of tlie village dealers obligingly went over to Laughton for the re- quired article. It is needless to say that this tended to raise Laughton in our estimation. It, was an emporium for articles of taste and lux- ury, which we could not arrive at save through the agency of our neighbors. A drive to Laughton was therefore pleasant as a jiroposal, and was not less agreeable as an actf- ual experience. My grandfather was in the best of spirits as we drove through the lanes, smootli and dry for the time of year, but still quite free from dust. On either side of the ways the red leaves lay in heaps, at places effectually muffling our wheels, that were only too much given to rattling. The bare branches of the stripped timber ran up to a lofty angle over our heads, and through their stark cordage were visible the gray clouds which, tliough they altogether fenced out the dazzle of the sun, were far from gloomy. Fashionable ladies often tell mc nowadays that "the fixU of the leaf" is an unhealthy season, which can only be passed with security by the sea-side, or in a few high, dry, and singidarly favored localities. It may he so, but I never found it out when I lived in the " corn country" in the good old time. Occasionall)' our course was enlivened by the reports of guns fired in the covers flanking the lanes, or on distant ridges — clear, clean, mellow percussions, that ])leasantly broke the monotony of the low humming wind. My grandfather had not "shot" for several years, but he divert- ed mc with a series of sporting anecdotes, from which it appeared that he was in his day one of the quickest and surest "guns" in the corn country. These stories led him to "the game" which the peasants with zealous and nnbought service used to preserve for him at Sandhill, the mention of wliich locality induced him next to speak of Mr. Michael Chnvline in the old terras of hearty eulogy. "He is an excellent and most honest fellow, the best bailiff in the whole coun- ty, and sincerely attailied to me. Like all old servants he is sometimes a little jealous about liis dignity, and so on ; and then I have to come down sharp upon him, and ask him if he knows what his master's name is, and tliat's a little dis- agreeable. But then I know him so thorough- ly that I can manage him with very little diffi- cidty." As my granilfatlier uttered these words he looked round at me, and twirled his whip em- pliatically, as though he would have relislied an expression of assent on my jiart. But I could not find heart to encourage liim in that way ; for somehow, in spite of my sincere wish to live in charity with all my fellow-crcatnrcs, there liad grown up within me a distrust of Mr. Claw- line. Ever since Julian had in the harvest field indulged in a fit of indignation against Michael Clawline for disdaining to "strip tew his wark," I had watched that bailiff more closely, and crit- icised him more shrewdly, and the result was I did not like him. Of course I did not tell my grandfather so. More than two or three times as we drew nearer to Laughton we encountered a ponderous family coach, belonging to one of the surround- ing gentry. In those days wealthy yeomen gen- try, living ordinarily in the same kitchens with their servants, and enjoying the society of the village ale-houses, felt their dignity concerned in keeping up their old family coaches. Wonder- ful structures they were ! Built some hundred years before, big enough to hold a dozen persons, clamped at every corner with heavy iron bands, possessing windows so small that an inside pas- senger could only look through them, one eye at a time, and made with a box elevated ten or twelve feet above the ground, they had been handed down from generation to generation, been bequeathed as valuable legacies, been treat- ed as heir-looms. They were drawn by two, four, or six hairj'-legged cart-horses taken from the plow, and were driven now by one farm servant, now by another — the same ]ionderous coat, covered with tarnished lace, being, how- ever, used by the Jehu, M'hoever he might be. TL'he yeoman pro])rietor, of course, never climbed into one of these locomotive strong-holds. He rode on horseback. For unmixed enjoyment or ordinary farm-house intercoui-se his lady also rode her stout nag (on a pillion); but she "had out the family coach" every Sunday to go to church, because it was both dignified and jnons, its use (like the employment of Sunday clothes) enhancing the resjiectability of the family, and showing res])ect to the Lord of the Day. She "had it out" also whenever she drove into the nearest county town, because it Mas dignified and vsr/ul; its panels displaying the family quai- terings, and its capacious interior affording am- ple room for the heavy wares of grocery, dra- ])ery, and vintner's stuff", which had to be period- ically conveyed from "town" to the "manor- house." In my childhood I have seen in "the corn country" as many as six of these lumber- ing vehicles round a village church during an ordinary Sunday sei-vice, their owners (yeomen farmers as they called themselves, gentry as they deemed themselves) being inhabitants of the ]}arish whose church they thus honored. In less conservative districts smart bounding gigs cxijclled these lumbering equipages at the 0]ien- ing of the jiresent century ; but in the corn coun- try they lingered on for another generation. Such were the carnages my grandfather and I encountered as we trundled over the red leaves toward Laughton. ""Why, grandj)ajia," I exclaimed, "wc never went this way before!" "No, my dear," he answered, filliping up the little horse, "I have alwaj-s driven into Laugh- ton by another road — for a purpose." The last words were uttered with marked sig- nificance ; but instead of asking what the "pur- pose" might be, I quietly held my peace, and I OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 89 waited till further explanation should come spon- taneously. Emeriiinj:^ from a tunnel of dove-tailing brauches, we passed from the soft bed of leaves beneath them to tlie hard white turnpike-road. Startled l)y the chanj^c of sound consecpientupon the wheels and his hoofs aeting on a tirmer sur- face, the little horse broke into a canter, and we rattled merrily down the turnpike-road, between the palings and skirting wood of a gentleman's park, and with the town of Laughtou lying in a valley, about a mile before us. "What is that house, grandpapa? what a beautiful place it is!" I exclaimed, as a man- sion of Italian architecture, seated on the bold- est swell of a fine hill ridge, and surrounded by the magnificent trees of the finest wooded park I have ever seen in my life, burst upon my sight. The hill ridge declined toward us, down to the marge of a piece of artificial water, almost large enough to deserve the title of a "lake," and ornamented with little islands, beautifully planted for the accommodation of the aquatic birds that were playing in separate companies at ditferent points of the water. The bank on our side rose with a gentle acclivity, which was uni- formly maintained by the park, until it reached the level of the high-road, from which it was only separated by one of Kent's ha-ha's. A similar sunk fence ran on the other side of the road, be- yond which the park extended, as far as the eye could reach, through avenues, vistas, clumps, and belts ; the large park, even in its most re- mote parts, having been laid out by a designer anxious to illustrate on a magnificent scale the rules of that art from which Humphrey Repton (the "Suffolk" Gardener) subsequently derived his title of Landscape Gardener. I was so lost in the beauties of the park, through which we were literally driving, and the attractions of which we could (thanks to the liberality of the sunk fences !) see at our ease, that I forgot to repeat my question, but left my grandfather at his leisure to answer it about a minute after it was asked. " The place is called 'Laughton Abbey,' " said my grandfather ; " there, behind yon trees, down at tlie turn of the water, you may see the ruins of the old abbey from which that fine gewgaw place takes its name." He checked the little horse to a slow walk, in order that I might have time to survey the scene, and as he spoke pointed with his whip in the direction of the ruins, far lovelier to look upon in their gray age than the palace crowning the hill above them. " I spent much of my time in that house when I was a young man," my grandfather said, slow- ly : "it was for a few weeks the home to me of a brief happiness ; it has been for threescore years the source of a long-enduring pain. That house knows the reason why I never come into this to\vn without the renewal of an old grief, and yet can not altogether keep myself from it. Till the other day I didn't wish you ever to see it ; but you have more claim on my confidence than ever. You can name now a jiart of my motives for never before showing you the place." While he sjioke we were progressing slowly, and as he finished we had reached a new point of interest. On our right hand, standing in the middle of a circle of lofty elms, appeared Laugh- ton church, its high flint tower facing the road, and looking at a picturesque cottage ornee, sit- uated on the opjiosite side of the road, in a cor- iu;r of the park. The church was a beautiful ed- ifice, and the cottage was the jirettiest structure of the kind imaginable. A garden surrounded the picturesque little dwelling, which was then undergoing repair at the hands of a strong band of cari)cnters, whose exertions were at that very moment being superintended by Mr. Gurley. "Ah! ha!" exclaimed JMr. Gurley, looking 7 squarcr than ever, and running out of the gar- den to greet us in some such fashion as a very stout old oak box might be supposed to run, " my dear old friend, Mr. Solomon Easy, and Miss Tree. My dear Miss Tree, allow me to welcome you to Laughton. You so rarely visit us it is really quite an event to see you here. You should have come before the leaves were off the tr JOS. But now you are here. Miss Tree, tell us haw you like the look of iis ?" Mr. Gurley's question had no immediate rela- tion to himself, but to the property of which he was (as I soon found out) steward, and was (as I also soon found out) as proud of as if it belonged to himself. "It is a beautiful place ; but really, Mr. Gur- ley," I answered, "I admire the cottage you are now putting in repair as much as any thing 1 have at present seen." "A pretty thing, certainly, a very pretty thing," answered Mr. Gurley, putting out his square lump of a hand patronizingly, as if he wished to pat the cottage on the back, "but a mere toy. A part of the property you see. And as long as I am the steward of this property, and am responsible for the pi-eservation of this prop- erty, I'll have every thing in repair. That's my rule. The carpenters and bricklayers don't ob- ject to it, I can tell you. Still, it is a pretty thing. Miss Tree, I'll remember you call it, and think it, a pretty thing. Perhaps one of these days you may want a pretty little toy of a cottage, and then I shall know where to find a good ten- ant for the Laughton Abbey property. Now, Mr. Easy, what arc you going to do to-day ?" My grandfather blushed a little as he answer- ed, "Well, Mr. Gurley, to tell you all my plans, Tibby and I are going to look over the Abbey to-day — the house I mean, the inside of it." ' " Exactly, " said Mr. Gurley, raising the square lids of his eyes, and taking a jiinch of suufi'. "You see," added mj' grandfather, in an ex- planatory manner, and with more of an apolo- getic tone than was altogether consistent with Iiis usual dignity of bearing, " it's only to gratify me with a review of old associations. There can be no harm in gratifying a taste for old associa- tions." "Unless they lead to expense," put in Mr. Gurley, sententiously. "I remember that con- sideration always, whenever I am asked my opin- ion about an indulgence of any kind. Bless you, I can point to scores of noble and opulent fami- lies irrecoverably impoverished by simply in- dulging in old associations. Old associations, Mr. Easy, are sometimes very dangerous asso- ciates. A passion for the turf is sometimes less mischievous than a taste for old associations."' "Well," returned my grandfather, laughing with genuine pleasure at his lawyer's worldly shrewdness and energetic manner, "old asso- 40 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOKK. ciations won't niin me to-day. Five shillings to tlio housekeeper will just about cover the ex- pense." "Come and tell me sD this evening over a mutton cutlet and a glass of my old Madeira." "Will you be idone?" inquired my grandfii- thcr. Mr. Gurley's countenance fell, for he knew Avhat would be the result of his reply. "Almost alone. Nobody but Choatc and his daughters." "Pah!" exclaimed my grandfather, with a look of lively disgust in his countenance : ' ' what, tlie young man who plays such an insuflferahle game of whist ! No, no, Gurley ; I couldn't sit in the same room for half an hour with that young ijaan without (old as I am) tiying to thrash him." " He's wonderfully improved," said Mr. Gur- ley, laughing. " Come and judge for yourself." "No, no! I'll come some other day when you haven't the young man with you," said my grandfather, whisking his whip, and driving on to the Blue Boar, High Street, Laughton. CHAPTER IV. LAUGHTON ABBEY. Tub little horse having been consigned to the hostler of the Blue Boar, we walked back up the High Street, and turning to our left througli the clmrch-yard, crossed the bridge which spanned "the fall" of the park-water, and in half an hour were standing at the chief entrance of the mansion. The door was answered by a maid-servant, who, on seeing my grandfather, immediately ran for Mrs. Tate, the housekeeper. "Lor, your reverence, who'd have thought of seeing you again so soon ?" exclaimed that lady, with loquacious good-humor. "Why it were but the other day that your reverence did us the honor of a visit. And your reverence's visits are visits ! My best respects to you, ma'am." "My grand-daughter, Mrs. Tate," said my grandfather, briefly introducing me to the re- spectable and elderly dame ; and adding, as an explanation for my benefit — "I am in the habit of coming here once a year or so, Til)by. My last call was made a few weeks since, on the very same day on which our dear boy Julian jiaid us his unexpected visit. Mrs. Tate is so good as to gratify an old man's wliim, and let him wander at his leisure through the' rooms in which, as a boy, he spent many ha])py hours. It's very good of her." Mrs. Tate's face beamed with satisfaction at this respectful style of language, and she broke in with — " And I should like to know, your rev- erence, who has a better right to walk through the rooms than you, unless it be — " "Hish! hish!" i)ut in my grandfather, rais- ing his hand dcprecatingly. " Never mind that now. Let by-gones be by-gones." "As your reverence ])leases," responded the good woman. "Of course on such matters my tongue is your reverence's. And here. Sir, are the keys." Taking the keys, my grandfather crossed the hall, and ojicning a door with one of them, led me into a long picture-gallery, closing the lock' carefully behind us. Every turn in the mansion was known to him. Throngh a series of ajjart- ments, all of them appearing to my unsophisti- cated eyes as of uua))proachable magnificence, although the furniture was covered with chint» wrai)])crs, we ))assed. On the ground-fioor a succession of lofty drawing-rooms, a banqueting' room, a billiard-room, a concert-room, a superb' ly-fitted library, divers cozy little parlors; uy stairs a still greater number of bedrooms, dress' ing-rooms, morning-rooms, boudoirs, snuggeries, with a perplexing intricacy of ])assagcs, corri- dors, and staircases ! Every spot and article had a freshness and brightness tiiat testified the house was not deserted by the wealthy. What- ever its history might be, it was clear that its ordinary occupants were by no means confined to Mrs. Tate and her maid. "Who is the owner of this splendid place, grandfather?" I inquired, when we had contin- ued our inspection in unbroken silence for at least half an hour. " Hush ! don't ask questions yet. I'll tell you all by-and-by," he answered, somewhat gruffly. "Be silent now, and look at a portrait I will show you." These words were exchanged in a room fitted- itp as a music-room, with a piano-forte, harp, and other instruments — a room that would have been a feature of an ordinary country-house, but was lost in that superb ])alace. The last of them was scarcely uttered when my grandfather press- ed with his hand against a concealed spring, and a secret door flew open, revealing the daintiest, most costly, and exquisite boudoir that surely ever a daughter of wealth possessed for purposes of luxurious retirement. The walls were cov- ered with rose-colored satin, a velvet carpet of the same tint made the feet fall silent on the floor; through glass of the same delicate color the liglit came in from the park ; the door, win- dow-frames, and all the wood-work necessary in such a closet were of polished rose-wood ; the cornices, door-handles, and mantle-piece were of ivory inlaid with gold and valuable stories ; and a corresponding lavish ex]5cnditure of wealth was manifest in every article of furniture. And the picture ? There it was ; the one sole object of which my grandfiithcr's eyes took no- tice ! A portrait of a you7ig and lovely woman ; a woman not less beautiful than Etty, and in some respects — such as the long neck, delicate outline of features, golden hair, and blue ej'es — bearing a considerable resemblance to her. In an evening dress, her snowy arms and shoulders bare in their dazzling whiteness, her rich tresses looped with strings of softly effulgent pearls, and the stomacher of her ball-dress flashing with dia- monds ! Dignified, but without a touch of arro- gance or pride. Gentle, delicate, coy ! " Grandfather, come away, " I said. " Come away. I've seen her." I sjioke these words, for there was that in my dear grandfather's face which positively fright- ened me* He was so entranced by that lovely ])ortrait, a nervous dread ran through me that the deep emotion it roused might have even a more jiaiufid result than a temporary overthrow of self-control. "That was Gertrude Clare," he said, hoarse- ly, turning away, and hastening back to the mu- sic-room without another word. OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOKK. 41 He sat on a sofa in that room for several min- utes, till tlie blood had returned to his whiten- ed cheek and he had recovered his eomposure. Then he rose, and leading mc back to the large ^picture-gallery on the ground-floor — ))ast the portraits of armed knights, and rutfed sages, and plumed warriors, and ringlet-wearing gal- hmts — directed my attention to a full-length portrait of a handsome soldier, who woi-e a scar- let uniform of a comjjaratively modern fashion. My grandfather had no need to tell me the of- ficer's name, for on the frame, beneath the spurred feet, was painted, " Sir JMarmaduke Clare, K.C.B." " He was Gertrude's husband," said my grand- fiitiier, curtly. In less than five minutes w'e had, with an ap- propriate acknowledgment, returned the bor- rowed keys to JNIrs. Tate, and were again walk- ing in tlie park. "And now, Tibby," said my grandfather, sit- ting down on a clump of fallen stone amidst the abljey ruins, to which our steps had taken us, . " I'll tell you a story — a}', the story of my life." He waited till I had nestled down at his feet, on the ground, careless of autumn damp and wind, as a country girl ought to be; and then he proceeded : . '• When I was a lad, fresh from college, I was itutor to the heir of this noble estate, Arthur Jciare by name. He was a noble boy, but he died early, when he had been my pupil scarcely two years ; and his great wealth devolved on his only sister, Gei'trude, the lovely girl whose por- trait, you saw just now. Young as he was, and short as was my connection with him, Arthur had formed a warm attachment to me, and I was treated by him and all the members of his family with a familiarity and respect not usual- ly exhibited to the tutors of the wealthy by their employers. Well, I was mad enough — fool enough — to fall in love with Gertrude Clare, who was her brother's senior by two years. She had tlien no great possessions or expectations, and I was of a gentle yeoman fiiraily, with an affluent father, and the culture of a gentleman ; so my presumption was not at first so enormous as it afterward appeared — as it still appears. Any how, I vowed that Gertrude Clare should be my wife. • I had a brother in those daj's, and I made him the sole confidant of my hopes ; ex- plaining to him my resolve, and at the same time describing all the ditficulties in my way — above all, the difticulty of hinting my passion to a lady so much my social superior. Having gone thus fiir, I contrived to introduce ray brother to Ar- thur Clare, and so obtained for him an invita- tion to Laughton, where he soon became a fre- quent visitor, and even a greater favorite than myself." He paused for a minute, leaving me to imag- ine a cruel drama. I had never before heard my grandfather speak of his brother, never even knew that he had had one. " Well, Tibby, like many other young men, I wooed ill vain. Gertrude Clare made another choice — a choice disapproved by her guardians — and eloped with a man not better born than myself, and not very much richer. And I, out of no higher motive than spite, led to church an honest farmer's daughter — a pure, simple girl, but in every respect much beneath my condi- tion. I never wronged her ; and she did nmch better by me than 1 descrveil in presenting me with a charming daughter — in due course, my dear, to become your mother." "Dear grandfather," said 1, foolishly think- ing that such silly words could comfort him, "Gertrude Clare was not w^orthy of you." "Lord, Tibby darling," he said, with some- thing like a laugh softening his bitterness, rais- ing as he spoke his right arm to his eyes, " what does that matter to a man who's in love ? I knew that as well then as you do now, but tlw knowledge no more comforts me now than it did then. I tell thee, if in my bitterest grief I could but have said, ' She's far too good for me, and 'tis better for her as it is,' my trouble would have been lightened by one-half. I woirld cut ofl' my right hand to be able even now to say it hon- estly." ' ' And who was Gertrude's husband ? — a blood relation ?" I inquired, the name of Marmaduke Clare misleading me. "What! haven't I been plain enough?" ex- claimed my grandfather, with excitement — in- deed, almost fiercely. "Yes, yes, quite enough!" I answered, rising quickly from the ground. " Say nothing more. I see it all. Oh, dear grandfather, how very horrible !" "Ay, girl," the old man continued, in spite of my entreaty, ' • my brother Marmaduke — my . own brother, of the same father and mother as / myself, stole her from me. The brother to whom I had trusted every thing, the brother who never beheld her till he had learned how I loved her, the brother wdio if I had not so confided in him could never have even approached her presence — stole her from me, and then laughed at me. He took her name, just as he took every thing I ever valued in life. He joined Lymm Hall to her fine estate, and made it a farm. Forty years ago his name was on every body's lips. Brave as a lion on the field of battle, he won honors in the tirte of war only to disgrace them in time of peace. The gambling-table and every conceivable ex- travagance brought Lymm Hall and all his wife's possessions into the hands of money-lenders. He \ broke Gertrude's heart. His sons and daugh ters are outcasts. He died himself twenty years since, in senile decay, though he was scarce past the middle time of life. And as soon as his wretched, beggarecl grandchildren come of age, tuat fine house up there and all in it, Lymm Hall and every inch of land he c^■er called his own, will, by a decree of the Court of Chancery, come to the auctioneer's hammer, and be knock- ed down to the highest bidder. Such was my only brotlier." "Grandfather," I said, "twenty years is a long time, and it is all that long time since he went to his account. Surely you have forgiven him." In a minute he was calm and quiet as a placid child, and with pathetic solemnity asked, "Tib- by, have-yon ever known me tell an untruth?" "Never, grandfather," I answered, mdignant- "Do you think I could be guilty of false- hood?" "No.'' ' ' Then hear me, Tibby. Long ere my brother died I foi-gave him as completely as I hope to be 42 OLIVE IJLAKE'S GOOD WORK. forgiven. For years I chcrishcil a resolve never to mention these things to you, or any other liv- ing person, Imt yon see I have clianged my mind, not, however, ont of resentment to him, or out "of any disresjject to liis memory." As we walked over the park once more on our way back to the Blue Boar I was well pleased that my grandfatlier had declined Mr. Gurley's invitation. I had so mucli to tliink about, that the society of even more agreeable ])ersons than the young man "who played such an insuft'er- able game of whist" would have been irksome to me. Important as the disclosures, and exciting as the occupation of the day had been, they had consumed comparatively little time. It was not three o'clock in the afternoon, when my grand- father and I, having partaken of refreshment at the Blue Boar, started on our homeward journey over the red leaves, and through the dusk)' lanes. He had altogether mastered his agitation ; and as he drove the little horse, he told me in his customary placid manner some more particulars relating to Laughton Abbey, and my relations whom I had never seen — never before even heard of. Sir Marmaduke Clare, he informed me, ; had left three children — aJl living abroad in that I poverty which not seldom covers the fallen mem- bers of our proud aristocracy. Of these three children, two — a son and a daughter — had nu- merous children, the youngest of whom would come of age in two or three years, \vhen the Laughton property would be sold. No member of the Clare family would ever return to the county. To my question whether he ever had any intercourse with any of the younger genera- tion, he said he never saw his brother or Ger- trude after their marriage, and had never held communication of any kind with any of their descendants. Possibly, he suggested, they had never heard of me, any m.ore than till that day I Ijad heard of them. He added also, that ever since Sir Marmaduke Clare's death, Mr. Gurley had acted as steward to the Laughton estates, having manifested in that capacity the same in- telligence tliat he displayed in every thing he took in hand, and having saved and collected much money for the creditors of the estate which would otherwise have been lost. Among other jilans adopted by Mr. Gurley to increase the income of the estate, was that of keeping the " house" in the same state of perfect repair and elaborate adornment as it was char- acterized by when the Clares were in the zenitli of their prosperity, and letting it to tenants of the highest condition. The attractions of the place, its vicinity to the town of Laughton, whose member of Parliament was in most cases little else than the nominee of the Abbey estate, and the alntndant materials oft'ered by the estate for shooting and other sport, nuide the wealthiest and most distinguished personages of the land, front time to time, occujjants of the Abbey. Just then the house was witliout a tenant- l)ut Mr. Gurley was already m conununication wiih Mr. Artluir Byfield Petersliam, of tlic famous banking-house known as *' Petersliam and Blake, of Lombard Street.' which gentleman thought of hiring the Abbey for a shooting-box during the antiinui and wmter months. "Let us liave tea, Tibliy," said my grand- father, as the little horse lugged us slowly up the Farnham Cobb hill ; and lowering his voice, he added impressively, "and mind, my dear, tell no one any thing of to-day's adventures and reve- lations until I am in my grave. Beyond that I don't wish to bind you." That evening 1 felt myself drawn to Ettv with' an unusual tenderness. As it was chill, we sat in the tea-room, with a bright brisk fire crack- ling and bubbling u]i the chimney ; while Etty, occujjying a seat before her writing-desk, was busy for more than an hour with her pen. I watched her, and as I saw her cheejc by turns glow with her thoughts, and become tranquil as she deliberately set them ont on her jjajier, I knew that she was preparing her second monthly dispatch for Julian Gower ; and looking on her serene face, I was from the very bottom ^1' my heart glad that she had deprived me oi" my cor- respondent. I was her lady's-maid that night, dressing her sunny hair for the pillow, and tucking her in as I had done years before when she was only a little child. And as she slowly dozed c«ft' to a calm slumber, I remained by her bedside and pretended to be reading one of Miss Edgeworth's novels, but was all the time stealing glances at her from over the pages ot the book. How light a trial was mine compared with that which had embittered my dear grand- father's days ! My sister had won my hero's love, bvt she had not stolen it ! I had confided in her, but she had not betrayed me! "Dearest, dearest Etty !" I repeated to myself many times, " how I love you ! how I love you !" How merciful it is that God does not permit his feeble creatures to foresee ail the sorrow the future is to bring them ! ' CHAPTER V. A SEPAKATION. I WAS never again to drive over the red leaves to Laughton with my grandfather. The autumn was followed by a long, cold winter — of snow deejier than the memory of man could recall as having ever before covered the "corn country'" — and of sharp frost that nipped the young, and bit the aged to the vcr^' marrow of the bones. And when the snows had slowly dissolved, a cheerless spring sent a raw east-wind moaning over the wet country. To me and Ett}' it was a spring of disaster, a spring that gave a gloom to all the bright suns of futm-e Aprils. My dear grandfather bore \\\i bravely through the shar]i cold of January and February ; but with the setting in of the March thaw his en- durance failed, and he was attacked with that slow, depressing malady, which in the old time was called throughout the corn country "a bad cold," but is nowadays termed influenza, and bronchitis, and half a dozen other inex])ressive names. I had never known him ill before. The nrilical practitioner who doctored the i)oor of tile ])arisli hardly ever had occasion to enter our doors, from which mental quiet, dn.e exercise, and healthy ways of life, united to the powers of sound constitutions, warded oft' disease. Now and then one of our servants ailed a little, and then the doctor's art was had recourse to S])aring- ly ; but since Etty recovered from scarlatina in OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. i-i her eighth year, neither slie, nor I, nor Mrs. Siiettle, nor my grandfather, had ever talien u dose of medicine bjyond tlie compounds of tliat traditionary pharmacoixxia, which, under tlic head of house-physic, maintained its ground in the store-rooms of the cora country even down to the present generation. "A cold" was to us then "only a cold ;" and it was not till I found my dear grandfather suf- fering acutely under the rapid progress of in- ternal inflammation that I became alarmed, or thought of urging liim to take medical advice. And when I timidly proffered this prudent coun- sel, he rejected it with the irritation of a sick man. No, he would have nothing to do with physic. He would soon throw oft' the cold ; but, alas ! it was he who was thrown oft', and not the cold. He went out for a walk in the chill, raw air, bent on " walking oft" his malady," and when he returned in half i\n horn- liis prostration was so cruel to witness, tliat T, on my own resjionsibili- ty, dispatched Isaac Stoddart over to Laughton with a note to Mr. Gurlej', asking him what was to bo done. I knuw very little of Mr. Gurlcy, save that he was a gentleman much respected by my grandfather for his kindness of heart and sound common sense. But I literally had no other friend to apply to in my difficulty. I acted as I thought best, and fortunately I did no harm. The rain was descending in torrents, and the wind was howling round the College gables with such fury, that sitting by my grandfather's bed- side I could not hear the clock in the hall strike eight when Mr. Gurley drove up to the gate. He had come promptly through the storm and darkness, bringing with him in his gig the first medical practitioner of Laughton. But ere this arrival I had led my dear grand- fiither to bed, and given him a cup of warm drink which seemed to revive him. For half an hour he lay in a state of composure, and then he spoke to me, saying distinctly, and without effort, all the words that passed his lijjs. "Tibby, we are alone?" "Yes, dear grandfather, quite alone." *' Whatever hai7[)ens to you in life — whatever clouds may rise over you, whatever temptations you may have to resist — let nothing separate you from Etty. Cling to her ; make her cling to you." " Surely I will, dear grandfather. You can not fear I shall f;til to do so ?" "Darling, I know your goodness, and could trust any thing to it. But still I say cling to her. Make every allowance for her. Never quarrel with her whatever she may do. I think of your happiness more than hers when I say this. To quarrel with one's own blood is to cut through one's own heart. I know it." He said no more, and I did not break his silence, for I was pondering what could have in- duced him to speak in so unwonted a manner just then. Mrs. Skettle tapped at the door in another minute, and whispered to me that Mr. Gurley had arrived. "What is the matter ?" asked my grandfather. '■^Ir. Gurley is here, grandfather, and he would like to see you," I answered, timidly. For an instant an expression of annoyance crossed his face, but my air of embarrassment and pain made him look at the interrujjti.ai dif- ferently, and he answered cordially, "I siiall very much like to see him." Directly Mrs. Skettle had dejjarted to conduct Mr. Gurley uj) stah-s my grandfather took my hand, and, with a reassuring smile, said, "You sent for Gurley. Thank yiMi, Tibby. You did quite right. In all your life you iiave been a great comfort to me." I left Mr. Gurley alone with my grandfather till the ringing of his bell summoned me. "My dear," said my grandfather, with in- creased difliculty, when I answered the sum- mons, "^Ir. Gurley tells me that his friend Mr. Choate is in the tea-room. Ask him if he will have the goodness to pay me a visit." I had never seen Mr. Choate, knowing of him only as the first surgeon of Laughton, and as "the young man who played such an insuffer- able game of whist." Though my grandfather called him "young," Mr. Choate had seen at least fifty j'ears, and appeared to me (when I found him conversing in the tea-room with Mrs. Skettle and Etty) a good-looking, well-manner- ed, burly gentleman. " Will you. Sir, let me conduct yoii to my grandf;ither's room?" I said. "My dear Miss Tree," he answered, in an honest, manly voice, that was at the same time loud and gentle, "I am delighted to hear he will allow me the pleasure of seeing him." From this reply I saw that Mr. Choate was aware of my dear grandfather's antagonism to him, and that notwithstanding the chances ia favor of his visit being unacceptable, he had come out twelve miles that inclement night in the lioije that he might be allowed to do good. I knew that Mr. Choate was neither in want of patients nor at all the man to seek them simply out of considerations of self-interest. "Ah, my dear Sir!" exclaimed my grandfa- ther, raising himself m his bed on Mr. Choate's entry, and greeting him with the cordial suavity of departed manners, "I am delighted to see you in my house. I thank you for coming, for I want to assure you'" (and as he spoke a twinkle of amusement and conciliatory animation played in my dear grandfather's eye) "that after all I am of opinion that your game was the right one. Under the circumstances your trump was the card to play." "Ah, Sir!" returned Mr. Choate, with nice tact, "my game was the right one, but I ])layed it in the wrong way. And I am greatly indebt- ed to you for frankly telling me so years since." A tear rolled down each of my grandfather's cheeks, and his lips twitched ; and then, holding forth both his hands to his kind-hearted guest, he exclaimed, "What little trumpery things keep good fellows apart in this strange world! But it is too late now ; I shall never play anoth- er rubber with you.'' At these words I slipped out of the room to pace up and down the oak-gallery with a heart beating fast from terror ; for the tone in which my dear grandfather had uttered these last sim- ple words informed me that he knew and sym- pathized with my worst apprehensions. And *,he terrible blow fell so suddenly! Ere another morning dawned his life was no longer ours. A week passed, and I and Etty stood side by 44 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. side in Lymm cluircli, and saw the coffin of our dear grandfather lowered to a place beside his father's. Dear, dear grandfather ! my first true friend ! simple, stainless, guileless gentleman ! how, as the i)en falters in my hand, do all the minutest circumstances of that awful night and solemn day stand out upon my memory clear and shar]) ! How do your words come from the silence of thrice ten years — "Whatever happens to you in life — whatever clouds may rise over you, what- ever temptations you may have to resist, let no- thing separate you from Etty. Cling to her; make her cling to you." -^ CHAPTER VI. WHAT NEXT? My grandfather left a will — a very simple one. All his debts were to be paid, and the residue of his jiroperty, whatever it might be, was to be paid over to me. This brief will, of which Mr. Gurley was sole executor, was made during the last year of the testator's life. At first, it sur- prised and even pained me ; but Mr. Gurley 's explanations soon caused me to regard it with different feelings. Up to the time of his death the Reverend Solomon Easy had maintained the appearance of comfortable circumstances, if not of wealth. As Gerent of the college he had a good residence and a stipend of £100 per annum. Ilis vicarage gave him £200 per annum, and he M'as jjrojirie- tor of Sandhill — a farm comprising a hundred and eighty acres of productive mixed soil land, and taking its name of Sandhill, not from the poverty of its texture, but simply because it was lighter than "the heavy lands" around it. A clergyman with such ostensible resources and no expensive tastes manifest to general observation, would even now, in " the corn country," be look- ed at as " a warm man." A person who "owns land" is, in a rural district, always reputed to be richer than a neighbor who has thrice his wealth invested in the funds, and such other less palpable forms of stock. It had never occurred to me to speculate as to the amount and nature of my grandfather's pos- sessions. Beyond a vague but most comfortable sense of security from the hardships of very strait- ened circumstances, which security, I presumed, I and Etty would enjoy during the course of our lives, I had not had a thought about money matters. When I heard my grandfather's curt will read, I at first su])posed m3'self the possessor of some consideral)le wealth, and was ])aincd that my dear grandfather had seen fit to leave all of it to me, and none of it to Etty. The course of a few days, however, showed me that I was in error, and enlightened me that, far from being well ])rovided for, 1 and my sister were onl}' just removed from being very, very poor. Mr. Gurley calculated that the sale of all my grandfather's effects, and the ]>ayment of his debts, would reduce his estate to £250 or £300. If the i)ro]icrty sold well, there might be a sur- plus of £500 , hut I must not be too sanguine in my expectations of such a result. My fiice showed Mr. Gurley my surprise at this announcement. "I do not wonder at your astonishment," lie said. " But poor Mr. Easy fell into cmbarr:i'->( il circumstances through bis own good-nature and mistaken sense of honor. In business affairs ^^i m h1- nature and fine honor should never be all()\\i d full i)lay, Miss Tree'. Now there was no cartlily reason why Mr. Easy should have refused that annuity he might at one i)eriod of his life have secured on the Laughton Abbey estate. Theie was no earthly reason why Mr. Easy should ha-\-e gone on advancing large sums of money to his son-in-law — your lamented father, Miss Tree — when his reckless and incurable extravagance had been proved beyond a doubt. There was still less to say in defense of his absurd (excuse the strength of the word) conduct in paying off ' Captain Tree's debts, on the demise of that gal- ' lant gentleman, under the imjiression that if they ' remained unpaid the}^ would be a stigma of shame ■ on you and Miss Etty, then a babe at her nurse's breast. It is such a pity. Miss Ti'ee, that nun of honor won't confine their sentiments to ques- tions of honor, but icill mix them up Avitli affairs of business. Half the misery of this world, ]\Iiss Tree, is caused by gentlemen troubling them- selves about the course most fit for gentlemen to take, when they ought onl}^ to be looking out sharp for pounds, shillings, and pence." " I honor my grandfather for his conduct, Sir. Gurley," I said. "Don't speak slightingly of him, Sir. He was your friend, and 'never spoke so of you." "Slightingly!" exclaimed Mr. Gurley with natural warmth. "Heaven forbid I should s])eak slightingly of him ! He was the finest-sjjirited man that ever lived ! I was not speaking slighting- ly of /n?n, but only of his way of doing business." Mr. Gurley was a hard man, but fixr from be- ing devoid of kindness. I never felt his hard- ness, and angularity, and self-comi)lacent abrupt- ness more than I did when he talked with me freely about my dear gi'andfather's aft'airs, and in his character of " business man" laid his square hands plump on all the tender and most sensitive points of my affections. And yet, though he Avas continually making me wince, he obtained a strong hold over my confidence, and I felt that he woidd act to me as a wise adviser, and as a true friend. He came over frequently to Farnham Cobb during the month following my grandfather's death, visiting Sandhill and making arrange- ments for the sale of that place and all the stock upon it. He moreover brought over Mr. Choatc with him to prescribe for Etty, who was pale and dejected, and to look at Mrs. Skettle, who had become alarmingly indisposed. Now that sickness and death had entered our once hap]iy home, it seemed that those dread powers were determined to maintain their abode there. In ten days after her first attack JNIrs. Skettle followed ]wv old friend and master to the silent land. I and Etty felt only slightly the loss and the awe of the quiet old lady's death. It was another dark stroke in our life-picture; but it was made at a time when it could not add to the gloom of desolation around us. Another month passed. INIrs. Skettle had been buried ten days, and my dear grandfather we had not seen for nearly seven weeks. "Well, my dear IVIiss Tree, what will j'ou do ?" asked Air. Gurley. OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 45 What would I do? He was quite riglit for putting the question. He was kind in troubling himself about my futui-e steps, and yet I winced under the inquiry. It was really kind, but it seemed cruel. " My dear young lady," continued Mr. Gurlcy, "yon must look the world in the face. You see, when a woman dies, all we have to do is to put her chair in the corner ; but when a man dies, as a general rule, a woman has to be turned out of doors. The time is already growing short for you to remaiji here. Mr. Easy's successor, as Gerent and Vicar, has already written to me twice, inquiring when he can take possession of the house. He is going to marry, and he wants to be at work, papering and painting and restor- ing the College, so that it may be in fit order to receive his bride. That's the way the world goes. See-saw — one up, another down. A scramble — one gets, another loses. A game of ' Catch-a- corner' — one in, another out. But I told the gentleman, my dear Miss Tree, that he shouldn't annoy you — as long as you had a legal right to remain in this house — no, not if he were the Sultan of Turkej', and wished to bring all his harem to Farnhara Cobb." It was not the season of the j'ear for agricul- tural auctions ; but land can be sold at any time, and Mr. Gurley had found a tenant for Sandhill, who was ready to take all the live and dead stock upon it at a liberal valuation. The task of dis- posing of my grandfather's estate had thus been rendered comparatively simple and easy, and had already been accomplished on fair terms. The result was, that after paying off a heavy mortgage on Sandhill, after liquidating various small debts, after paying an unexpectedly large sum for " di- lapidations" to my grandfather's successor, and after refunding to Mr. Gurley money which he had in the course of years advanced to my grand- father on personal security, my grandfather's executor had a sum of £321 8s. 5^(1. to pay over to me. What would I do ? "I need not point out to yon. Miss Tree," ob- served Mr. Gurley, "that the interest of such a sura of money as that can not be made to sup- port you and your sister." "Of course not. I must work. But what can I do ?" "Spoken sensibly, Miss Tree. You must work. Your sister one day will marry. Beautiful creat- ure she is ! But in the mean time she must work too. Julian Gower won't be able to marry her while he is in South America ; and it is not unlikely that he'll have to wait several years after his five years there are finislied ere he can su])iJort a wife and family. She must work too. Now of course }-ou'd like to live togetlier. It follows, therefore, that you must tiy to find ^^•ork that you can do together." I cordially assented to this statement of the case, and thanked him for patting it so plain- ly- *' But what are we to do ? What can we do ?" I asked. " Miss Tree, I hope you won't think me a busy-body," replied Mr. Gurley, with a needless and unusual attempt at an apology. "I have been trying to answer those questions for you. Indeed Choate and I have taken the liberty of talking it over. Rufus Choate is a sensible and kind fellow, and an excellent man of business, though there is no doubt that he was, years back, tlie most insuflerable whist-player that ever took thirteen cards in liand. ^le used to play as if the chief object of the game was to show the three men he jilaycd with that he thought them ^ools. But he doesn't do so now. He is a capi- tal fellow. Now Rufus Choate has two little girls. I have three little girls. Choate sug- gested to me that if you and your sister found it necessaiy to go out as governesses, one of you might like to be governess in his family, and the other might take the same post in mine. You and your sister would thus see almost as much of each other as you do now ; for Choate and I are very intimate — almost like brothers, and our children really hardly know wliich of our two houses is their own. That was Choate's sugges- tion." ' ' It was veiy, very kind of him, " I said, warm- ly. " I'll write and thank him this very day for his proposal, whether I act on it or not." "Well, now for my part in meddling with other people's aftairs," continued Mr. Gurley. "I thought over Choate's plan. Then I said to him, 'No, if we make any proposal, let it be a modification of yours. Why shouldn't Miss Tree and Miss Etty take The Coltar/e and keep a school of their own ?' Choate liked the thought prodigiously. You remember the cottage. Miss Tree, the little place in the corner of the park, with the cedar-tree, and trellis-work, and gables, and fish-pond, that you admired so much last autumn ? If yon came there and opened a school you'd find pupils immediately. Choate and I are rather important personages in our little town ; and our little girls, who would join your school instantly, would soon attract others. You might have six boarders and a whole regiment of day-pupils. By this plan you'd be mistresses of your own house ; indeed, in a sort of way, you'd be living on family property. If you came to live in my house I shouldn't annoy you, be- cause I am always in my ofiice or driving about the country after business — and my wife would be very kind to you, because slie couldn't help herself; but still you'd somehow feel yourself a stranger with us. A woman likes to be head of a house. She likes a little power. If there's any good in her, she enjoys deciding whetlier the servants may go out to tea, and every now and then having all the window -blinds washed when they don't want it." "Mr. Gurley," I said, rising with an effort, and trying to be calm, though I felt hot tears on my cheeks, "God has indeed raised up friends for the orphans." "Pooh, my dear," returned Mr. Gurley, flur- ried for the minute out of his customary sharp manner, "don't talk so. You women always will take such romantic views of mei'e matters of business. Well, well, we are friends. That's all right. Let's always keep so. Don't you re- member dear Mr. Easy's words, 'What little trumpery things keep good fellows apart in this strange world !' I shall never forget them. No, as long as I live I shall never forget them. They were an entire life of sermons." And all of a sudden Mr. Gurley remembered that he hadn't seen his horse rubbed down. He'd just go to the stable and see if Isaac Stoddart had rubbed him down. And in another mo- 46 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. mciit he had run out of tlic room, leaving me to ery out my gratitude by myself, like the weak, blubbering little fool I was. CHAPTER Vn. OLD SCHOOLS AND NEW. Mr. Gurley's proposal was not only so kind, but was in every respect so exeellent, that Etty and I did not hesitate to act on it promptly. To my suggestion that she would prefer we should wait till the mail should bring us Julian's opin- ion ere we took any steps definitively commit- ting us to establish a school at Laughton, she replied that, as he would certainly approve our undertaking, and cordially congratulate us on having such a field of profitable exertion offered to us, we had better waste no time, and had bet- ter write him a full account of what we meant to do, not what we icished to do. My judgment accorded with her decision, but still I felt it right more than once again to suggest that we should refer our intended movements to Julian before making them irrevocably. But she would not admit of such a line ot action. "It would be making the dear fellow of too much importance!" she said, in her old playful way, when we had for the last time reconsidei'ed the question. "Bless me! he has no right yet to dictate to me what I am to do, and what I am to leave undone. Moreover, though he will, if he continue to behave himself properly, be my master one of these days, he is not and never will be yours." Poor girl, she little dreamed how completely he was < my master ! how many years he had been so ! I did not chide her for her levity ; for I was glad once again to see the old merry light in her eyes and on her lips. And I had already grown accustomed to hear her speak of Julian with a playfulness that seemed to me almost irreverent. I knew that in her heart she cherished a high ideal of a wife's character and duties, and that with solemn earnestness she was bent on being all that she understood by the words "a good wife." But still it not seldom jarred against my feelings to listen to the ligiit vein in which sUe would prattle about "her naughty boy," "her handsome slave," "her quaint, blunder- ing Julian." His deep, generous passion, too, seemed often more a source of amusement than a proper cause for lively gratitude to God and to him. I recalled, as so many visions of pure and holy delight, the occasions when he had been stirred by my words, or had been mani- festly satisfied with my conduct ; but she, pleased as she was with them, could all but jest at his more extravagant expressions of admiration. It may not be supposed that she Iietrayed any un- seemly personal vanity, or ever boasted with un- feminine triumjih of her infiuence over him. Of such conduct she was incapable. But in various ways — too trilling and too subtle for me to be able to describe them in words — she uncon- sciously betrayed that she regarded his love as "a mere matter of course," a tribute naturally her due — and that, in tlieir relations, it was she who (javc, and he who received. I tried not to think so, for the thought seemed something that might one day grow into a severe and unchari- tal)lc judgnu-nt of my only sister; but I could not escape the ])ain of suspecting that slie ratecl the hap])iness conferred by herself on him more highly than the honor and joy conferred by him on her. And how natural it was that such a traitorous self-complacence should creep into her young mind, when every mirror that she passed flattered her more than ever Julian's words could ! So the important question was decided ; and for the next few weeks I and Etty were busy in making preparations for our new vocation. Such of our old furniture as was of a kind to be use- ful to us we moved to "The Cottage." ]Many things we had to buy. "The instrument" which my dear grandfather held in such high estima- tion, though its notes were all exi)iring beyond a chance of recovery, we took with us — partly out of a feeling that our "possible little pujiils" might use it to learn their five notes and scales on, and partly out of sheer love for the poor old rattling sideboard ; but we felt it necessary to invest £40 (an enormous sum we deemed it) in a bran-new cottage-jjiano, bought at the near- est cathedral town through the agency of Mr. Gurley. Other heavy expenses we had in furnishingjj our new residence, and getting a proper trade- stock, as Mr. Gurley called it ; so that when we spent our first evening at home in "The Cot- tage," and counted u]) our money, Etty and I found that we had in hand for current expenses very little more than £100. But we had before us a reassuring prospect. Through the interest of Mr. Gurley and Mr. Choate we started with five boarders (six being the number for which we had accommodation) and eight little girls as day-pupils — five of themi being the children of the kind-hearted doctoti and lawyer. Our school, therefore, was a com- mercial success from the day on which it was opened. All professional success is pleasant; and ours was the more so from the fact that w.e received convincing proof from the leading in- habitants of Laughton that the town was in want of a good girls' school, and was really glad to receive us into its population. What a long letter was Etty's next monthly budget to Julian ! and how much more cheerful than its three immediate precursors ! And thus we turned our backs on Farnhamj Cobb: quitting it with many tears and a vague i discomforting prevision that the next twenty j years of our lives would have more sorrow than iiad marked the tranquil days we had passed in f the dear old College. Farnham Cobb is a very different place now \ from what it was in my girlhood. My grand-; father's successor was of "a new school," and' was very much shocked with all the arrange- ments of the College and the parish. He imme- diately introduced sweeping reforms and altera- tions of all sorts. He found out that the College was "a flagrant abuse;" we had only found' it a very hapjiy home. And active measures were taken to convert it from its condition of flagrant abuse into the highest possible state of efficiency. Tiie kindling, and the potatoes, and the gardening tools were taken out of the in- (pu'st-room — once mure and forever. The brick floor of the inquest-room was cleaned with a new OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 47 scnih-brash, and a prodijiious quantity of fidl- ev's-earth. T lie desks and tonus were all cleansed with another new scrub-brush, and a liberal sup- ply of soft soap. The ceilings and walls were covered ever so thick with new whiCe-Avash. The ilusry, stumpy old rod was chopjied up and burned as an abominable remnant of the barbar- ous ages. The cobwebs in the windows were so vigorously attacked tliat more than a score panes were "shivered by the renovating broom- handle. The statutes were brought out and carefully perused; and in consequence of this exanunition, "Declarations" were forthwith held four times a year. But Mr. Ardent (my grandfather's successor) feeling it unnecessary to observe the directions of the statutes, in respect of costutne, as punctiliously as my dear grand- father had done, did not provide himself with knee-breeches, and black silk stockings, and shoes with silver buckles. The statutes said no- thing about the feast of cakes and ale to the vil- lagers after "Declarations;" so that pleasant but rather troublesome and somewhat costly usage was discontinued. It would take a vol- ume to name all the changes for the better made by Mr. Ardent. * I believe him to have been a gootl man ; I 1 know he was a very zealous one. But he was Vrong, and guilty of cruel injustice in saying that my dear grandfather neglected his duty, and was a disgrace to his profession. My dear grandfather did no such thing, was no such thing. True, he was a clergyman of an old and '■ obsolete school. In his youth he rode with the 1 hounds, and he followed ganre, with a gun in I his hands and a keeper at his heels, as long as [bodily vigor enabled him to enjoy strong exer- cise. He was sometimes to be seen at the coun- ty races, and he liked "gentlemanly whist." He did not think himself out of phace wrestling or plajing camp with the farmers, and artisans, and workmen on the "four parishes' common." He had to the last only one service each Sunday in his church. But he neither did harm nor caiised harm in others ; on the contrary he daily wrought much good : his life was a modest ex- ample of manly gentleness and exquisite chari- ty : he did not feel it necessary to be so active in doctrinal instruction as his successor deemed it right to be, but with a never-flagging and unob- trusive sympathy with the poor (which I fervent- ly hope is as common now as it was in " the good old time"), he was the beloved personal as- sociate of every old man and old woman, and every young man, and o^^ery young woman, and every little child in his parish. He did not make formal visits on his cottagers. He lounged in npon them, sometimes in his slippers and a brown-holland coat (when the weather was hot), and sat gossiping with them, for hours togeth- er, about their children, their spinning, their bees, their garden-stuff, their bargains, their fi-iendships, and their quarrels; winning their hearts because he 7-eal/i/ enjoyed their society, and actunllij felt an interest in their concerns — not mcn-ely out of sense of duty pretending that such was the case. Such a man was my dear grandfather; and when Mr. Ardent reflected on him as a sluggard in his Master's work he was greatly in error, and did injustice to a dead man, not from want of rectitude of intention, but from taking a nar- row view of extinct manners, which should al- ways be viewed liberally or not considered at all. I should be sorry if these last jjages led any reader to supjfose that I would depreciate the merits, or sjieak, save with the most sincere ven- eration, of the modern school of clergymen. Far from it. They worthily represent the goodness of this generation ; but so in like manner did their predecessors rei>resent what was best in the old time. I have lived long enough to see many changes. Sometimes the changes, I admit it, have given me pain ; but even when they have shocked my prejudices and treated harshly old and tender associations I have endeavored to hope ^or the best possible consequences from them, to judge their promoters charitably, and to place a generous reliance in times and ways to which I feel I do not exactly belong. If I have a tendency to complain egotistically about any thing, it is that I do not find a correspond- ing generosity always disjjlayed to myself. I be- long to "the good old time," my affections hav- ing been enlisted in its defense in my earliest childhood. I love "the good old time," and it does acutely pain me to hear, every day of my life, careless people attribute all the possible and impossible vices of human society to it, simply because it hadn't a parliamentary reform bill, had no railways, disliked Frenchmen and polit- ical economists, paid the Prince Eegent's clebts, and drank a great deal too nmch wine. I have therefore, under much provocation, made bold to advance a modest plea for that "good old time," and to defend the character of one whose virtues taught me to venerate the clergy of the old school. Surely there are some who sympathize with me! CHAPTEE VIII. A GENTLEWOMAN OF ANCIENT DESCENT. Lacghton was verj' different from Farnham Cobb. It had but three thousand inhabitants ; yet it was the largest town Etty had ever seen, and it appeared to her in the light of a metropo- lis. The reader can hardly imagine how excit- ing its society and events were to me and raj sister. Having lived all our days iir a secluded corner of a fat, tranquil county — a corner that could be only approached by rutted lanes — where we had no diversity of pursuits, or amusements, or companions, we felt scarcely less in a whirl, during our first six weeks of residence in Laugh- ton, than the daughter of a county house feels at the opening of her first London season. Mrs. Gurley was very kind to us. She took us by the hand as her especial prot^rjces, and made an evening party for the express purpose of introducing us to the principal people of the town. It makes me smile to remember how we had recourse to Mrs. Gurley for advice as to our most trivial movements. She was, like me, little in stature ; but she was also very fat, and had small, laughing black eyes that expressed the genuine benevolence of her disposition. She had in girlhood been well-looking ; and that universal good-nature, which caused her to see only the brightest side of the world and of every object in it, preserved her from the painful knowl- edge that time had changed the clear brnnette 48 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOEK. complexion of her youth into a deep gamboge tan, and liad so increased the girth of her once piquant tigtirc that Etty was really ahnost justi- fied in saying that to walk round the dear lady was a very good day's exercise. Mrs. Gurley, over and above her imperturba- ble temper and active amiability, participated largely in her husband's shrewdness and com- mon sense. A more judicious, as well as cordial fi'iend, it was impossible for me and Etty to have found. Laughton, like every other little, town, and evei'v great town too, had its sets, and cliques, and rivalries, and classes separated'from, yet running into, each other. In entering a new world the success of an adventurer depends very much on tlie first start. A bad introduction, leading at the outset to a few injudicious friend- ships, is often the source of endless embarrass- ment and jjermanent injury to a stranger set- tling in a new community. Now, had it not been for Mrs. Gurley, I and Etty should never have dreamed of this ; for at Farnham Cobb, and in that secluded part of the corn country in which we had been brought up, there was no "society," in the most artificial sense of the ^^•ord, and we had known and spoken familiarly to every one who crossed our path without ever for a moment debating whether it was prudent to do so. At Laughton we found it was neces- sary to be very careful about "our position" until it was exactly ascertained and generally allowed. The dissenters (there were no dissenters at Farnham Cobb) of Laughton held little com- munion with church-goers ; but notwithstand- ing that Etty and I were known to be the grand- daughters of a clergyman, the ladies of the dis- senting interest called on us, inviting us to tea, and ofiering us their children as daj'-pupils. Left to ourselves, Etty and I would have grate- fully accepted these hospitable advances, and snai)ped at the proffered additions to our class. But jMrs. Gurley fortunately came to our rescue, and saved us fi-om the grave disaster of giving offense to the rector's family, and the best fami- lies of the town, by holding an unwise intercourse with the non-conformist sects. I can not say I liked it when I discovered the necessity for this caution. I should unquestionably have preferred either that there had been no dissenters, or that I had been at liberty to deal with them without reference to their peculiar ojnnions and social position ; but I and Etty had to take the world as we found it. We had not settled the world's ways and institutions ; and if they were in fault, it was no appointed work of ours to reform them. The laws of society' were to us the opinions of our elders and superiors, and the wishes of our ben- efactors; and like modest young women we did our best to regulate our conduct by them. So we wisely trusted to Mrs. Gurley's guidance ; and she, with her inseparable kindness and perfect knowledge of the world in which she lived, showed us how to keep the dissenting ladies at a distance and yet give them no needless pain. Mrs. Gurley had great claims on our gratitude, and I am pleased to recollect that those claims were fully recognized by us. But still it makes me smile to remember how the little round lady instructed us in the veriest A B C of polite life. She prevailed upon us to discard our old cluni- Bily-made bonnets, and scant skirts, and thick shoes, and marvelous cloaks — which at Farnham Cobb had been regarded as being in the highest fashion — and place ourselves in the hands of the chief milliner of Laughton, who had a box of London goods by nearly every "down" coach that entered the town. I shall never forget how delighted and nervous Etty and I were over our first really well-constructed bonnets, and shoes of Paris kid, and silk cloaks, and Dent's kid gloves. We were thoroughly ]jloased with them, although they were black, and my dear grand- father had been dead quite six months. What talk we had over the "new things!" and how we criticised and admired each other in our new dresses "all stuffed out" with a very simjde ap- paratus that was at Farnham Cobb conijiletely unknown to us. The first time we went to church in our new attire we thought every one was looking at us — and, to be sure, every one did look at us. Mrs. Gurley, too, jjrocurcd us our first calling-cards, and instructed us in the proper way of using them. At Farnham Cobb I question whether I ever saw a calling-card, save those dear Julian had his own name en- graved on, at his uncle Gower's request, for the purpose of leaving them on his grand aunt in Russell Square. One of the cards he gave me as a curiosity, and I have it among my private stores to this day. We had scarcely opened our school when a great piece of good fortune happened to me. The post of organist to the Laughton church be- came vacant, and through Mr. Gurley's influence ,with the rate-payers it was conferred on me. The salaiy of £30 per annum was an acceptable addition to our income ; but even more accept- able was the privilege of entering the church by a private key whenever we liked for the purpose of practicing on the organ, which was a noble one, presented to the parish by Sir Marmaduke Clare. Etty had quite as much command over the organ as myself, though I was the official or- ganist ; and we used to take turns both in prac- ticing and in performing to the congregation during divine service. After the duties of our school were over it was a refreshing relaxation to enter the church and break the solemn silence of the sacred place with floods of yet more sol- emn music. In the evenings of summer, and when the autumnal moons sent their rays across the dark aisles, Etty and I, having first seen our "boarders" in bed and asleep, used to steal un- der the cedar-tree of our pretty garden, and crossing over the road, enter the church togeth- er for an hour or two hours' enjoyment. We would ]>lay to each othei- by turns. The towns- people soon heard of our custom, and they began to walk in the church-yard during the evenings for the sake of hearing the music within the walls. But our auditors never embarrassed us. As soon as the organ ceased to send forth sounds, the ten, or twenty, or thirty listeners (collected on the precinct) quickly dispersed ; and when Etty and I emerged from the church we were still alone, and — tlianks to the delicacy of those to whom we had lieen jdaying — we recrossed the road and re- entered our garden imwatched. It was not long ere we discovered that we were held in much estimation among the townsmen as young ladies of high quality. Mr. Gurley and Mr. Choate, wishing to secure us the best possi- ble footing in the higher families of the town and its immediate vicinity, had spoken of us as mem- OLIVE BLARES GOOD WORK. 49 bers of the Laughton Abbey family. Perhaps they were not wise in all respects for doing so ; but their course of action was entered upon from the kindest motives to us, ami it would have been difficult to assign any reason why they should have refrained from mentioning a fact which was well known to others besides themselves. They did not know that my grandfather had brought us up in perfect ignorance of our near rplationship to the once great, but now fallen, county family ; and that, up to the very time of her commencing her residence in "The Cot- tage," Etty had never been told she was the grand-niece of Sir Marmaduke Clare, had never even heard that distinguishctl person's name. Among the first families to call ujioii ns at "The Cottage" was the rector. The Rev. Au- gustus Butterworth was the rector's name; and as his living was worth nearly 4;2000 per annum, and as he was a county magistrate, he was an important personage in the town and for five miles round it. Indeed, when there was no "family" at the Abbey, Mr. Butterworth was Ljrd-Lieutenant of Laughton and all its de- pendencies. A gaunt, florid, and sleepy man, he was a widower with three expensive sons in the army, and three maiden sisters of advanced years, who lived in the rectory, and drove out daily in their brother's huge yellow barouche, with a powdered footman — powdered exactly as the Abbey footmen were — balancing himself on a board behind, and flattening his nose with a silver-headed cane as he stared at the coachman (also powdered) on the box. As the rectory was at the other end of the town, and at least a mile and a half distant from the church, this equipage always brought the rectory party down to the Sunday services — the Rev. Augustus Butterworth sitting arrayed in his canonicals, and his three maiden sisters of advanced years looking rather thin and very stately. These three ladies had the reputation in Laugh- ton of being very proud. Indeed Mrs. Gurley, in privacy and stiict confidence, told me and Etty that they were as "proud as Lucifer, and as weak as gruel." But they were very affable to us when they called, though their big carriage nearly filled up our little garden, and the finest branch of our cedar-tree caught their footman's Splendid gold-laced hat, and sent it rolling into the fish-pond. " What a sweet, pretty place !" obsei'ved Miss Argentine Butterworth, graciously, having sur- veyed the garilen while her two sisters were get- ting into the carriage, and Etty and I, to do full honor to our guests, were standing under the clematis whieli covered our porch to witness their departure. "Really an exquisite place! and so delightful for you to have such a view of your family proj)erty." Of the three sisters Miss Argentine Butter- worth was the most talkative. She spoke in a full and authoritative tone, and was prone to state matters known to every body in a voice implying that, till she o))ened her lips, they were known only to herself. "The park and abb?y form a beautiful scene," I said. "Ay !" responded Miss Argentine in her most magnificent style, "and it is not simply their beauty that you enjoy. You have a thousand sweet, domestic associations and a fine historic D pride to endear that noble prospect to your af- fections. In these republican times the jileasiires which a properly constituted mind derives from the contemplation of ancestral dignity are fre- (piently made the subject of vulgar ridicule. But gentlewomen of ancient descent, like our- selves, Miss Tree, are not likely to show favor to a pernicious heresy." I was rather uneasy at this speech. I was afraid Etty woidd say something that would be- tray her ignorance of our connection with the Abbey family, and so necessitate an awkward explanation of a family secret. To tell the truth also, I did not care to sink in Miss Argentine Butterworth's estimation. I would not deceive her, but why should I present her with a series of needless communications which would only make her feel less kindly tome? It was, there- fore, with a sensation of relief that I saw Miss Argentine take her seat and bow us a farewell ere Etty had sjioken another word. The huge yellow equipage rolled out of the gaiden, bearing the grand footman behind, with his magnificent hat, rescued from the fish-pond, and (from the combined effects of cold water and subsequent brushing) shining like a new piece of invtent leather. " In the name, Tibby," exclaimed Etty, open- ing her eyes to their extreme width, as soon as the carriage had turned into the road — "In the name of all the mysteries on the earth, and in the earth, and in the waters under the earth, what did that old cockatoo mean by calling you ' a gentlewo- man of ancient descent?' I have heard poor dear Mrs. Skettle say, ' When gentlefolks meet, compliments pass;' but I never dreamed of such stuff" as that. A gentlewoman of ancient de- scent ! Who ever heard such nonsense ? Mrs. Gurley is always preaching to us about 'the rules of good society:' I'll ask her if it's ac- cording to the ' rules of good society' for two la- dies, clothed and in their right minds, who know just nothing of each other, to call each other all sorts of polite names ? What's the matter with the woman, Tibby? Tell me that. Has she escaped from Bedlam ? Is she going to die and leave you a large fortune ? Are you a Queen of England, and I a Princess Royal? What does it mean ?" "Hush, Etty 1" I exclaimed as soon as I had nerve enough to break in upon her torrent of questions, iijtermingled with laughter. "Hush, Etty, you'll get us into disgrace. Some of the children will hear you." "Bother the children!" answered Etty, flatly, stamjiing her litilc foot on the ground, just as she used to do when she ])layed "going mad" as a little gill. " It's a half-holiday. The day- pupils are not here, and the others are busy, writing their weekly letters home." " But, my dear Etty, you should be more cau- tious," I exjjostidated ; "you must keep a curb on your tongue, and not let it run riot. Think what the consequences would be if Miss Argen- tine Butterworth were to hear that you had spoken of her as 'that old cockatoo?' Indeed, Etty, we must be cautious, and not shock the public sense of propriety !" I put on my gravest air as I said this. "Oh, my dear little 'gentlewoman of ancient descent, 'how admirably you scold ! you've caught quite the knack of it ! If yon only go on in this 60 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. way our school will be the best one all through the county. I declare we ought to raise the terms. Not call her ' that old cockatoo ?' Then why docs she wear a jiink bonnet and a blue par- asol ?" What was I to do with her ? I could not be angry — she was so bewitchingly and roguishly beautiftd as she ran on this mad way. I could almost have cried witli vexation, and I knew my tears would reduce her to submission. It was, as she said, a lialf-holiday. So I put my arms round her waist and pulled her along with me into the summer-house. "There, Miss Madcaj)," I said, when she liad taken a seat quietly by my side, "here is the park, and up on the hill stands the mansion whicli Sir Marmaduke Clare restored and beau- tified. Listen to me while I tell j-ou a story about it and him." Then I told lier faithftdly and accurately as I knew it the story of the two brothers — the story of Sir Marmaduke Clare and the Ilev. Solomon Easv. CHAPTER JX. A WISE RESOLUTION. Mt story had an attentive auditor, and from that day Etty frequently reverted to its subject, which had a strong captivation for my mind as well as hers. There are few objects that appeal more forcibly to the imagination of inexperienced persons than a palace suiTounded by a noble park. It is one of the most imposing and beautiful forms in which wealth can be displayed ; and wealth has a fascination for human creatures of every rank, and pursuit, and disposition. So beauti- ful and magnificent an abode as Laughton Ab- bey neither Etty nor I had elsewhere seen, and days befoi-e she learned that the fair domain be- longed to her kindred she had constructed many pretty romances about its history and owners. A vision of a beautiful heiress had occupied her idle moments. And more than once the thought had crossed her mind as to what she would do with so splendid an estate if a benign fairy were to present it to her. She told me so, with much energy of manner and many blushes for her ab- surd folly. The charms of the beautiful landscape that surrounded our cottage were now, ^otli to her and me, enhanced by the sort of ])ersonal inter-' est that we felt we had a right to take in it. We contracted a habit of speaking of the Abbey es- tate as belonging to "our cousins," though we had never known those cousins. It will doubt- less raise the reader's derision ; but candor com- pels me to confess that I cherished a silly pride in my distant relations whom I well knew to be destined to as humble a lot as our own, and, in all j)robability, to a less useful career than that by which I was earning my Ijread. We borrowed from Mr. Gurley his two ponderous volmnes of County History and read the cliaptcr whicli re- lates tlie grandeur and achievements of tlie Clares in former centuries, long l)efore my dear grand- father's unworthy brotlier had seized their wealtii by an act of base perfidy ; and by the time we returned the history to our benefactor" we al- most conceived ourselves to be tv.o unfortunate princesses. Fortunately for us the gratification of this contemptible vanity was only the amuse- ment of our leisure and private moments, and did not lure us from an honest discharge of our daily duties ; so it did not injure others, though it did both me and Etty grievous harm. The shooting season was fast approaching, and the Abbey was undergoing preparation for an in- llux of visitors. The place had been hired for three years liy Artliur Byfield Petersham, the only son and heir of Mr. Petersham, the great) banker and loan-contractor of the house of • " Petersham and Blake." Week after week the county papers gave us fresh particulars concern- ■ ing the importance of that powerful firm, and i the gentleman who was to succeed to its accum- i ulations. Mr. Petersham, senior, was an East India director, an active and venerable member, of the House of Commons, and the owner of land . in several difltbrent counties, by virtue of which he had at his command five votes in the Com- mons. It was remarked that his son, Arthur i Byfield Petersham, had no place in Parliament, though it was manifest that he might long since on his father's nomination have commanded that| dignity. The rumor s])rcad that the young man was anxious of securing the representation of Laughton, and tliat his wish to do so was one : reason why he had hired the Abbey. It was | also understood that if Mr. Arthur Byfield Pe- i tersham's residence at Laughton should y)rove ■ agreeable to him, he contemplated purchasing the estate at the sale which would take i)lace on the expiration of his three years' lease. Mr. Gurley, as steward of the Abbey estate, ■ was of coiu-se well-informed on the antecedents and position of the Petersham family. Lombard Street had known the house of Petersham for more than a hundred and fifty years. The com- mercial prosperity of the house had been of slow but unchecked growth until the closing years of Napoleon's career, when, in consequence of trans- actions with continental ])Owers, it liad made rap- id advances and reached its present eminence. At the close of the last century Mr. Blake was taken into partnershi]), and the house became "Petersham and Blake." The first Mr. Peter- sham of that partnership had died long since, be- ing the grandsire of Arthur Byfield Petersham. Mr. Blake also had died some eight or ten years back, leaving enormous wealth behind him, which an only daughter, Miss Olive Blake, and the children that should be born to her would, un- der certain conditions, enjoy. There was some sort of family comi)act that the heiress of the one partner, and the heir of the other — viz., Mr. Ar- tliur Byfield Petersham and Miss Olive Blake — should unite by marriage the fortunes amassed by their fatlicrs. Before the arrival of "the family" Etty and I, accom]iaiiitd by our boarders, made an expedi- tion to tlie Abbey, and calling on Mrs. Tate easily prevailed on that good woman to take us tiirough the rooms I liad about ten months before visited with my dear grandfather. I particularly direct- ed Etty's attention to tlie portraits of Gertrude Clare and Sir Marmaduke Clare; and then we minutely inspected the gardens surrounding ll.c mansion — passing througli the pineries and con- servatories, the garden of the fountains, and ilie quaint, old, geometric garden, with its grotesque- ly-cut box-trees and fences fashioned hy topiary art (which had existed for generations, long be- OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 61 fore the old rod-brick hall had been covered with an Italian front, and enlarged witli wings), the tennis-court, the bowling-green, the grottoes, and the maze shrubberies. We enjoyed our excursion very much at the time ; but when the day was at an end, and when, our pupils in bed, we sat down to our cus- tomary quiet supper of fruit and rice-milk, we were botii so out of spirits that we could not par- take of any thing. The ))ortraits of Gertrude and Sir Marmaduke had brought back vividly to me tiie recollection of my dear grandfather — how he had loved and been betrayed ; how in his sere and white old age he had gazed with bitter anguish on the semblance of the fair creat- ure who had set his life wrong at its outset ! It was scarce credible that he had been dead so short a time, and I had made so many new in- terests, and found so many new cares, and given myself up to so many new vanities, that I only now and then thought of him ! "Tibby, "said my sister, breaking my mourn- ful reflections, "do have the supper taken away. I do not want it. I am thinking of dear grand- papa, and tiiinking that I am a very wicked, heartless girl." And having said this, she fell into a long fit of that hysteric weeping which young and delicate girls are liable to when they are deeply agitated. " Oh, Tibby, Tibby, what a cruel life was his! what cruel sorrow he had to endure I" the dear child continued. "Only to think of it! If I had but known it, I should have been a better child to him ! If he were but alive again, I should know how to comfort him !" " Darling," I said, " sooner or later every hu- man heart finds its allotted sorrow. If the grief appointed to our dear grandfather was far be- yond that appointed to most men, his was a no- ble nature — able to suffer it without complain- ing, and endure it without deterioration " "Don't talk calmly about it, Tibby," she aTi- swered, passianately. "Your words won't com- fort me, for I can't bear them. To have his love basely robbed from him by his own brother ! As I saw that hateful portrait in the gallery to-day it made me shiver. Oh, my ]ioor, poor grand- father ! Even suppose his brother had not with vile perfidy abused his confidence, but had un- conscioushj stepped in bcibre him — even then how hard his fate! Think, Tibby, of me and Ju- lian : how coifte I feel as a sister to you, if you, ignorant that I loved Julian, had won his heart from me?" Addressed to me, these words were literally so terrible that I started from my seat by her side. I can not even now account for my sensations, but can only state them without reasoning upon them. For a moment a feeling of acute, vin- dictive resentment toward the innocent cause of my hidden sorrow shot througli my breast. I am right to use the word. It slmt ihrmujh my breast. It did not stay there; but was there for such a speck of time that it is a marvel how it affected me so deeply, that I even now can re- call it as vividly as I felt it. Had it held the mastery of me for a single minute, I do verily believe that all the good would have been driven out of my nature, and that my whole after-life would have been scarred and wasted by passion. But an angel was by my side protecting me, and saying in clear silver tones, "Whatever tempta- tions you may have to resist, let nothing separate you from Etty. Cling to her ; make her cling to you. To quarrel with one's own blood is to cut through one's own heart." " Had such been tlie case, dear Etty," said I, resuming my seat by her side, "you would not have left off feeling for me as a sister. You would have been twice a sister to me — adding to your former love for me all the love you had for Julian." I then led her to talk of Julian ; and wlien she had dried her tears and grown calm, I in- duced her to bring out her collection of his let- ters, and we read them together, as we had more than once read them before. "Etty, darling,"! said, when we had finished the South American epistles, "your birthday is fast coming. When it has arrived I'll make you a present of all the letters Julian ever wrote to me. You ought to have them." I sat by Etty after she was in bed that night, talking to her after the old fashion ; and when at a late hour I rose to give her a final kiss and to take my departure, she said, " Tibby, for our own sakes, I wish we had no connection with the Clares of Laughtoa Abbej. We can't undo the past, but let us try to forget it." " Quite right, my dear, and bravely said. We will forget all about it," I answered. And I went off to my bed far happier than I had been ever since that ridiculous stuff about our belonging to a grand family, and being un- fortunate members of the aristocracy, had crept into my head. CHAPTER X. MT FIRST GREAT ACQUAINTANCE. About a week after our excursion to Laugh- ton Abbey Etty and I were in the school-room at "morning's lessons." Etty had the little spell- ing-class before her, and I was hearing the sec- ond French class say their vei-bs. Jessie East- bourne was beating away at the barren keys of the old Farnharm Cobb " instrument," and Ma- bel Rice (my best drawing-pupil) was shading in a picturesque old barn — with a superb lake, an oak-tree of the cabbage formation, and an old woman in the fore-ground. There were no Harding's "Studies" in those days, and children were put to copy the most atrocious forms of unartistic misrejjrescntation. Indeed, when Etty and I kept school at Laughton, the common forms (as lawyers would say) of educational pro- ceedings were of a very crude and unelaborated kind. ]\Ir. Gurley, whose sound practical sa- gacity made him in many respects a man before his generation, often told us so — using that very expression. W^e were thus engaged when Etty exclaimed, "Oh, look!" In an instant the eyes of all the college were turned to the window, and a general chorus ex- claimed, "What a beautiful pony!" "It's Mr. Petersham, the 'millionaire,' "I said, demurely, and in a tone of authority — pleased with myself for seeing so quickly the secret of the position, and almost feeling that I was im- parting a valuable piece of infonnation to my liujiils. " 'Tis Mr. Petersham, riding round the 52 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. park to see liow he likes it." Of course I spoke not of the i)oiiy hut its rider. "Oil!" exehiimed the college, stopping work and breaking uj) the classes, and making the sciiool-room a scene of unprecedented confu- sion. The cause of our commotion was this: Tlie school-room was at the end of the cottage near- est the park, not ten yards of garden lawn in- tervening between its princijial window anil the sunk fence, which separated us from the Abbey inclosure. As light was a great desideratum in the school-room, and no one was in the habit of passing before the window, w^hich ran from the ceiling almost down to the ground, we had not furnished it with a muslin curtain or blind, but sat with no artificial material save glass between us and the timber of the outer park. The ajjparition of a large and beautiful milk- white pony, led by a game-keeper, and bearing an old gentleman — and passing before our win- dow — within twelve yards of Etty's official chair, was an occurrence justifying excitement. It was a positive spectacle for me. The pony! I had never seen such a beautiful creature ! Fourteen hands high, white and rieh in coat as a creamy kid glove, the muscles of its broad chest and round hind-quarters giving emphasis to the del- icacy of its thin clean legs, a snuffing nostril and a curved neck, silky mane and forelock, and a dainty tread on the green turf! Such were tlie graces of the animal. In a very different way the rider was not less imposing. His dress, term- inating in huge boots and leggings of fine black cloth, showed me at a glance that his lower ex- tremities were well-nigh cri])pled with gout. In- deed I found out afterward that he had to be lifted up and put on the pony's back like a child. An ami)le breadth of body — it might indeed be termed corpulence — indicated that he was not averse to the pleasures of the table. But the head and face ! As he passed our window at a slow walk and looked round at us, observantly but doubtless with a knowledge that mere rus- tics would not object to being stared at by him, I understood that intellect and high character of a certain kind are necessary for the production of a great financier and capitalist as well as any thing else that is great. The eye that glanced at us from beneath a full snowy ej'cbrow was black, and as keen and liriglit as ever a young man's could be. His face, like his body, was ])ltim]) and rather more than merely well-fed; i)Ut to its regular profile, large but \\ell-si)a])i'd mouth, and broad as well as high white brow, ])ower, and calm self-reliance, and long-cndnring pur- pose had given their distinctive aspect. The old man's white hair, moreover, was not long, and straight, and thin, as the gray locks of agi; usu- ally are, but it came in soft curls down to tiie collar of his shooting-c(iat, and had a yelU)w tint that causecl me to think of the rich juices, rather tlmn the sere exhaustion, of life. Fifty yards beyond us ran a ]ilantation, skirt- ing the outer park, and screening a turnip-field fruni the observation of the mansion on the dis- i:nit liill. A covey of hu:kless ])artiiiiges had chanced to cmnc from the turni])-ficld over the fence (iildiig which the |il:iiifali(iii ran) for a walk in the ])ark. Moving up silently iind(!r the fence, the white pony came down upon them before they were aware of the ajiin-oaching dan- ger. The birds ran forward and rose, and be- ing strong ill the wing they were getting away, when Mr. I'etersham deliberately took the gun l)roffered to him by the keejjer, and firing off i)otli barrels brought down the two hindmost birds, that flew madly, and apart from each other, out of the line taken by the rest of the feathered herd. I could not hclj) remarking that the veteran sportman was in no hurry to take his gun, but waited, ere he handled it, till the birds were at a h^ng range from him, and that when he did use it he fired not at the body of the covey but at the two last birds. I c('cted to arrive from the Abbey. They were doomed to disappointment. Etty and I, with our boarders before us, i)assed through the gate. ]iunclual to our customary time, but perha])S nut without a wish that the Abbey "family" should arrive at the .same moment with ourselves; and when we took our scats in the gallery and looked duwn into the body of the church, we found the Abbev pew already occu])icd by two ladies and OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOKK. 53 the same number of jjciitlemcn. They had walk- ed over the park, and entered the ehurch, unob- served, by the small posturn door. It was easy to see which was Lady Caroline f Petersham (for JNIrs. Gurley wliisjiered to me at the foot of the gallery stairs that Lady Caioline was iu ehureli). A tall, comely lady, still hand- some, inclined to fat as a lady of her aye and high rank might be allowed to be, richly but plainly dressed, and about ten or fifteen years younger than her husband, Mv. Petersham, sen- ior. Not less easy was it to distinguisli the rest of the party ; for I, like all the other Laughton peo- ple, was familiar with their names, and had heard their personal characteristics described over and over again. ' The other lady was Miss Dent, Lady Caro- line's companion, a plain and insignificant little person like myself I made up my mind on the spot that I should like to know her. , Major Watchit was a very tall and attenuated man. Standing six feet and two inches, he look- ed even taller from being so very thin. His frame was wiry and vigorous, and could endure any amount of fatigue in any sort of climate ; but all the same for that it struck at me at first — as a mere frame, and nothing more — as an absolute Bkeleton. He might be five-and-thirty years of age, but he was of just that appearance that I should not have been surprised to find him ten years older, or ten years younger. I could see where the muscles of his tawny visage ran into eaeh other, so little was there besides bronzed skin to cover them. His dark hair was cropjied close in a military fashion, and the black mus- tache on his upper lip was kept down by scissors, so that it did not stand out more thaii the hairs of his eyebrow. It glistened, however, and re- : ally was not much unlike a piece of court-)ilas- ,' ter, cut into the shape of a mustache. His fore- ' head was high and (though brown) of a lighter I li'.ie tiian the rest of his face. But his most re- m.irkal>le features were his eyes. Tiiey were like bird's eyes — small, round, black, prominent, eager, restless, suspicious. Altogether, INIajor Watchit was a very singular persmiage in his appeai-ance, and when I first saw him, although I I was in church, I felt inclined to laugh — or at 'Jea>t to smile. Bat the stranger in whom the congregation I took most interest was Arthur Byiield Peter- , shtim, Esq. I will describe him, not only as he a;i])2ared while standing in the Abbey ]>cw, but : with a few touches derived from my subsequent knowledge. Standing in the pew, by the side of Major Watchit, Mr. Arthur Byfield Peter- sham had the appearance of a mean and under- sized man ; but he was just five feet ten inches higli, and was not ill-proportioned. Physically he was altogether inferior to his fine old father; for, besides having important disfigurements in a very freckled complexion, in an uneasy nerv- ous action of the eyelids (which, when excited, he twitched close and open in a very uncomfort- able manner), and in a malformation of the up- per lip known as harelip, which surgical treat- ment had almost, but not quite, obliterated, he had not that frank and lofty cxjiression which one likes to see in persons put in authority. Still he was not altogether without claims to ](er.son- al attraction. He was a peculiar-looking man, and to be that is .something. His flaxen hair he wore long, not ciu-ling, but waving over the vel- vet collar of his blue coat, whicii was cut high in the neck, as was the fashion of the time. His eyes were large blue ones, neither expressive nor clear, but singularly prominent, seeming almost to look down out of their sockets uijon the scar of his upper lip. His speech, too, was not in his favor; for his utterance, though it did not lack cither decision or earnestness, had a slight im- pediment. Yet in spite of his drawbacks there was, or (which was the same to the Laughton observer) there seemed to be. a style about him which proclaimed him emijhatically a member of the upper classes. His dress was alwaj's well chosen, and faultless in its finished simplicity ; and he moved, notwithstanding an ungraceful whole-footed tread, with a dignity which is sel- dom found in men of inferior appearance. I try to ])aint his portrait faithfully, and not to color it with the aversion which, when I came to know him thoroughly, I could not do other- wise than cherish for him. It is needless to say that the eyes of the con- gregation were fixed on the Abbey pew more than on Ak". Butterworth and his curate through- out the service. I did my best to fix my atten- tion on my devotions, but curiosity overpowered my will, and my eyes continually wandered to the "great people." On leaving the church, after the dispersion of the congregation, we found at the church-yard gate a little pony-carriage, drawn by one Shet- land pony, for the accommodation of Lady Car- oline Petersham and Miss Dent ; but the gen- tlemen, after handing the ladies into this mod- est vehicle, turned into the park on foot. "Well, I like that, my dears," observed Mrs. Gurley, bustling up to us as we entered ' The Cottage' garden, " I like the absence of display in really grand peo]jle. It ought to be a lesson to the Butterworths ; but, bless you, my dear, they won't profit by it." If Mrs. Gurley ever displayed any asperity of temper it broke forth in her criticisms of the Butterworth grandeur. "And you observed, my dear," continued the lady, detaining me, and letting Etty proceed with the children, "how Mr. Petersham and Major Watchit looked at Etty as she left the church?" "Indeed, no. Surely they could not have been so impertinent," I answered, hotly. "You must be mistaken, Mrs. Gurley." "Mistaken! Bless you, my dear, I'm never mistaken — never was mistaken in all my life, save when I thought you weren't as nice a girl as your sister. And that blunder only lasted during the first five minutes after Gurley intro- duced me to both of you. Take my word for it, both the gentlemen were very much struck with Etty." " 1 trust not." " Lor', my dear, don't say tliat ; for ])erhaps you'll be invited to the Abbey, and if you don't care about that it'll be as good as a finishing ed- ucation to Etti/ to see a little high society." .Mrs. Gurley said no more ; but as I hastened through my toilet for dinner, and as I carved for the children, I recalled her words, and saw no reason why I should dislike them. During the next ten days we saw nothing more of "the family" save a repetition of the 54 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOKK. Sunday's Qntcrtainnicnt already described, and two or three glinijises of Lady Caroline as her carriage drove tiirough the town, and as many observations of the gentlemen as they walked or drove out to their shooting. The Butterworths jf coarse made an early call at the Abbey, and Ladj Caroline i)romj)tly returned their visit. We observed also the carriages of the leading aris- tocracy and gentry of the district rolling through the ])ark to tiie Abbey, and we presumed that Lady Caroline's drives took her about the coun- try to return these calls. But the news and gos- sip about the new-comers was by no means so exciting as had been anticipated. On the eleventh day, however, as I was prac- ticing np a piece of music on our new cottage- piano, which was the grand article of furniture in our little drawing-room, who should be sliown into the apartment but Lady Caroline Peter- sham herself! I was alone at the time of her irruption, Etty being then on ]jlay-hours' duty in the school-room. "Please, Miss, here's a lady," was the curt an- nouncement of my maid, who, in spite of Mrs. Gurley's assiduous instructions, was only slowly mastering the elements of polite servitude. Luckily, however, an awkwardness of that kind never put me out ; and even if I had lost my countenance, Lady Caroline would soon have restored it. I found her a charming old lady. "Ah, my dear Miss Tree," she said, com- mencing the conversation, and taking it for granted that I knew who she was, "I am very pleased to make j'our acquaintance. I didn't tell the girl my name, for I thought it might frighten her. It's such a sweet day that I am taking a long walk. There's nothing like walk- ing for the health, and nothing like health for a good complexion. You young ladies should re- member that. It doesn't matter what kind of complexion an old woman like me has." I answered that I was a great walker, and found the park an admirable lield for my favor- ite exercise. "Well, I've fairly walked myself tired; so I thought I'd ask you to give me a rest and a glass of water before setting out again," contin- ued the lady, falling back comfortably on my sofa, as if she had known me and it for years. "So you are practicing. That's right — for you are a teacher. Did you make that crayon sketch of sja-coast, my dear?" I answered in the affirmative to this question, when I had rung for the water. "And capitally done it is too," continued my visitor. " NVhy, my dear, you have a great deal of talent! You must be a positive acquisition to this little town. You jilayed the organ beau- tifully last Sunday, and so did your sister the Sunday ])elore. Arc you not going to let me see her?" "Tell Miss Annette that a lady is here who would like to see her," I said to the maid, wlio brought in the cold water and tumliler. " Tliank you, my dear, for waiting on mc so prettily," the old lady next said, as she received the tumbler from my hand and took a hearty draught. " Cold water is one of my best friends — a much better friend it is, too, tlian many ^vll() profess to be warmer. And your sister is called Annette, is she? A very pretty name!" "I always call her 'Etty,' Indeed she was always called 'Etty' till we came here." "I like that better still, and if I like her, my dear, I'll call her Etty too. Once on a time ev- ery one called me 'Carry.' But now no one save my good oid gray-headed husband would think of calling me ' Carry.' Ah ! my dear, one of the saddest und surest signs that a woman is growing old is the gradual diminution of the nura.ber of people who call her by a short ]>ct name!" I had just time to explain that Etty was then in the school-room, amusing and sujierintcnding our pupils during j)lay-hours, when the dear girl entered, sliglitly Hushed with excitement, but not at all nervous, with her golden linglets failing upon her high dress of black merino, and lookv ing as lovely as I ever saw her in n)y life. "I know a little about you," said the granj lady, when she had gone on chatting for a tVw minutes longer. "When I asked Miss Argen- tine Butterworth who lived in this jjretty cot- tage, I learned from her that you were cousina of the Clares who still own the property here." "Oh, Lady Caroline, "I exclaimed quickly — Etty cordially supporting what I said by her looks — "you mayn't suppose us to be at all closiely connected with such great ))eople. Sir Marmaduke Clare was my grandfather's broth- er, but we have never known any thing of his descendants. They are our distant cousins, but Etty and I never saw them in all our lives, and never entered the Abbey save as members of the public, by paying the customary fee to the house- kee]jer." Our visitor looked at me steadily, and paused for nearly a minute before she made re]jly in the following words — uttered with the full emphnsis of deliberation, and an increased cordiality of tone — " My dear Miss Tree, you show singular good taste, and some courage, in telling me this so frankly. And I heartily like you for it. It is positively refreshing to lind two young women in a little country town who're above pretension." "But it's the simjjle fact, Lady Caroline," Etty and I both exclaimed together, blushing with surprise and pleasui-e. "My pretty bird !" retorted the old lady, look- ing at Etty, "simple facts are just the facts which foolish ijcople think it concerns their dignity to keep to themselves. Questionable facts, discred- itable facts, they often make ]jlenty of boasting of. I can't bear living with ' toadies,' whiuh as- suming people always are. Little peojjle in the country are usually insutferable, because they are syco])liants on one side and and)itious jiretcnd- ers on tlie other, and all hollow as a drum in the middle. I see, my dears, we shall get on to- gether. If you don't greatly object to the socie- ty of a humdrum old woman, you must come to the Abljcy and, see me." Of course Etty and I said we should be de- lighted to accept her invitations. Before our visitor went she had induced us to show her all over the house. She walked into the school -room, gossiping to the children and ])attiug them on the head by turns. She climbed our narrow staircase, and declared herself im- mensely delighted with tiie children's little bed- rooms, and their wee beds with white curtains trimmed with pink. "My dears," she said, when the inspection OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 55 was completed, "I have a fjreat deal of money, wiiich of course, like all other rich pcoi)le, I am very proud of, but I'd give you every penny of it if you would make mo a little girl again and take me into your scliool. But I must be trot- ting home, for I have letters to write." She sliook hands heartily with me. " I must have a kiss from you, my dear," she said to Etty, as if she were asking a favor. The simplicity witli which she bade us fare- well in these different fashions tickled me im- mensely, and she saw my amusement in my eyes. "Ah, my dear Miss Tibby," she said, with animation (for the first time using my short name, which she had caught up), " you see I'm no flatterer, after all. I prefer a /dss from Etty, but I think that I would rather have you for a /riend." When Blrs. Gurley called upon ns at the close of the day, and was entertained with a recital of the events of the morning, I jdeased her very much by saying that she and Lady Caroline Pe- tersham strongly resembled each other in man- ner and style, though not in ai)pearance. And this was indeed the case. Mrs. Gurley was only a wealthy farmer's daughter, and had never seen better society than that afforded her by the little country town in which we dwelt ; and yet her manner put rae in mind of Lady Caroline, the daugiuer of an earl, tlic wife of one of the wealth- iest commoners of England, and a lady who had passed a long life in the higliest and most refined circles of the aristocracy. The key to the mys- tery I found in the fact that Mrs. Gurley was constitutionally a very amiable and unselfish wo- man, whose chief hapi)iness lay in creating en- joyment for others ; wliile Lady Caroline Peter- sham (I don't pretend to speak positively about her qualities of temper) had grown old among people possessed of too much good taste to wear their worst characteristics on the outside, as per- sons of less refinement are apt to do. In youth and in her prime of life to please had been with her a favorite art, until in old age the art had become a habit. Since my residence in Laugh- ton I have seen as much of the world as most quiet English women, who prefer domestic pri- vacy to a more public and diversified life ; and I have had occasion more than once to remark ladies of humble origin and impeifect culture, who were ambitious of achieving a distinguished style and passing for great people, and who, not- withstanding their considerable natural endow- ments and graces, failed to accomplish their ob- ject, simply because they could neither be nor seem to be forgetful of themselves and thought- ful for others. "Ah, my dear ladies," I have thought, "good Mrs. Gurley, the attorney's wife of Laughton, could have given you a lesson." CHAPTER XI. A GAME OF BOWLS. The Petershams were at Laughton for two montlis, during which time numerous parties of friends came and went, none of them appearing to stay for more- than tin-ee or four days. Mr. Petersham, senior, did not renew his visit, but Lady Caroline remained at the head of her son's establisiiment throughout tiie entire two montlis ; which last fact rather surprised me, for she spoke as if slie lived on the most afVoctionate terms with her husband. Siie was continually alluding to him as "her dear old man," and yet she was well content to be away from him for two months at a time. Use reconciles people to queer and uncomfortable arrangements ; but I did not think that if 1 had had a luisband who dearly loved me I should like to be so long away from him. Altogether Etty and 1 jiaid seven distinct vis- its to Lady Caroline. Twice we went togetlicr, Mrs. Gurley kindly taking care of our boarders on the half-holidays, when we were at the Ab- bey; but on the other occasions we went sepa- rately, I on one day, Etty on another. Lady Caroline Petersham certainly liked our society, for site would send or come for us in the middle of the day, take us home with her to lunch, and not let us return till ten o'clock at night. They never had visitors in the house when we came, and her ladyship frankly told me the reason why. "It doesn't at all follow, my dear," she said, "that because I like yon the people who come to see me would do the same ; and if they didn't, they'd be sure to re- sent your presence as a kind of affront. It's no use trying to force people of different ranks of life together. If they like each other, and choose to overstep the boundaries between them, by all means let them ; but if I tried to thrust you on other people's prejudices, I should only be sub- jecting yoii to a risk of pain. So it'll be best for us to enjoy each other's society when we are by ourselves, and at full liberty to do as we please." " St. Luke's little summer" was very fine that October, and lasted so long that day after day we had to express our astonishment at, and con- gratulate ourselves upon, the warmth and seren- ity of the weatlier. Five of our Abbey visits were made during its sunny brightness, and we were able to pass the time on those occasions, between lunch and dinner, out of doors. Mr. Petersham and Major Watchit paid us the com- pliment of returning from their shooting early, so that they might play bowls with us in the bowling-green. Those afternoons were there very pleasant. Lady Caroline occupied an easy chair and table, jjlaced in a warm nook of the high l)ox-tree wall (which London and Wise, the "heroic poets" of the topiary art, as Addi- son termed them in the Spectator, had arranged on a scale and fashion of "absurd magnifi- cence"), and busied hei-self with her letters or fancy netting, while Etty and I and the two gen- tlemen played bowls. I was almost always on Major Watchit's side, and Etty with our oppo- nent. Major Watchit and I always won, not by luck, but by good i>lay, for the major was a consum- mate master of games of all sorts. He was re- ally a very singular and out-of-the-way person. In my eyes his exterior remained just as ludi- crous as when I first saw him, and yet I could not do otherwise than recognize in him a vast amount of power. He was the most taciturn man I ever met in my life ; I really am not ex- aggerating this peculiarity of his when I say that ten words exceeded the average sura of his ut- terances per hour when he was most animated by the presence of congenial companions. He stood straight up in his rigid lankiness, grace- 66 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. less lis a ]am]i-iiost, but not quite so perpendicu- lar ; tor the stiuight line of his sinewy body ran in such a manner tliat his cadaverous and tawny visage was about two inclies in advance of his boots. He usually had a half-silly expression, a gabyish leer on his mouth; and the jjupils of his eyes always seemed its if they would drop out upon you, in which case you ex])ected to find tliem notiiing but beads of polished ebony. Wlien he and Mr. Tetersliam used to toss for jiartners, and he had won me (I played better than Etty, otherwise the tossing would have had a different result), he only pointed to Mr. Teter- sliam and Etty, thus saving his word.«, while he indicated that Etty and his friend were to op- pose us. It was not till the moment for action came that it was manifest he had something in him. He and Mr. retersliam wore both fond of athletic sports and games of chance ; but at every trial of strength, fortune, or skill he was the winner. When they returned from shoot- ing and reported their aciiievemcnts, the major's score of heads of game bagged always greatly exceeded his friend's. We saw them play at *' fives" — when directly the game began, the long, wiry limbs of the soldier leaped about with most surprising agility ; and wherever the ball fell it rose into his hand, and was sent by a firm stroke flying against the wall like a shot. Mr. rctersham had only to look on for more than half the time, and, turning to us, say, '• W-won-der- fiil f-fellow ! D-did y-you ever see such a fel- low, Miss Tree?" stammering slightly at the be- ginning of his sentences, according to his wont. At billiards it wcis just the same. jNIr. Peter- sham showed us a superb horse in his stables, which had just arrived from town in a van. It was so ferocious that neitiier he nor his men could even mount it. " What are you going to do with it here then, Mr. rctersham ?" I asked. "Oh, Watchit is going to break him in," was the anrver; and that JIajor Watchit should be unable to reduce the beast to submission was clearly, in Mr. Petersham's estimation, a contin- gency that did not require consideration. After playing bowls for ati hour and a half, on the occasion of our first visit to the Abbey, we desisted from the game, when Mr. Petersham said, "N-now, W- Watchit, h-how much do I owe you? Let's see, how many games have I lost?" The two gentlemen always ])layed for money, in which resjieet, of course, Etty and I did not follow their example. To save himself the labor of talking, the ma- jor took a slip of paper, on which he had kejit the score, out of his pocket, and put it into his questioner's hand. "T-then t-there's the money, Watchit," an- swered Mr. Petersham, looking at the result, marked on the paper, and giving his friend three sovereigns, which were received and jioeketed without a word. " W-what 1-luck you have, man. I w-wish I had your luck. St-siill, I don't com])hiin." "Which would you rather have, luck or mon- ey. Major Watchit?" incjuireil Lady Caroline, putting her netting away, anil asking the ques- tion, as I fancied, in order that we niiglit be amused by a further exhil)ition of the major's )K'culiarities. Major Watchit answered by taking the money he haxi just won out of his waistcoat jiocket, anil I looking at it significantly, without uttering a word. I "Ay : but, my dear mute, how am I to inter- I pret your dumb show?" said Lady Caroline. "Do you show the gold ])ieces to inqily that you prefer 'money?' or that you prefer 'luck' which is able to win money?" Major Watchit looked perplexed and trou- bled, as though he saw ho way by which he could avoid using his tongue. At length he said, "Ask Petersham, he's a banker." "H-he m-means," struck in Arthur Byfield Petersham, with a flush springing into his' face, and a new animation appearing in his dull blue eyes, " that money and luck are so closely allied to each other, that it is difficult to discern some- times where the one ends and the other begins. T-they ar-re doubly related to each other, as cause and effect, acting and reacting on each other, luck bringing money to the poor man, and money giving luck to the rich man, so that he can add more to what he has already. L-luck and m-money arc the two greatest powers in the universe ! They rule society, govern countries, shape the destiny of nations, and comprise every source of pleasure that makes life worth having. T-taken s-separately each is a divine power, but money is the greater. M-money i-is omnipo- tent — it is concentrated success: it is toil of brain and body, fear, hope, triumph, and every passion of the human mind; it is the true poet- ry of existence, reduced by a wonderful process (compared A\ith which the dreams of alchemy arc without a charm) to such a form that its ])0s- sessor can enjoy their fruits and their sweetness without any counterbalancing sorrow. M-mon- ey is omnipotent, every thing bends before it. I-it r-raises the serf to be the companion of princes, presents old age with the love that youth ]jines for and is not jjcrmitted to reach — it even takes away the terrors of death. H-how m-many sinners on their death-beds have escaped the pangs of a stricken conscience, and made — at least believed tliey made — their peace with God by money! Oh give me money! It is the true nectar of the gods. Bnt still it passes away with- out luck, and can not without luck be amassed in j)rodigious quantities. Give me them both, then — first the grand source of enjoyment, and then the ])owers which create and gtuird the means of enjoyment. Sages, and moralists, and piiests may toll you what they will, but the i)os- session of the greatest conceivable amount of good-fortune, united with the greatest conceiva- l)lc amount of money, constiiutcs the grandest ideal of hajjijiness wliich our limited mental ca- jiacities can entertain." This extravagant s])cecli was intended to be received as burlescpie, and it was commenced in a tone of subdued mockery; but the vehemence of tiie speaker's feelings completely carried him fix)m his original inteiiiion of concealing his true character under an assumption of irony. He held himself erect, wilh an expanded chest, and with something of a defiant look in his face, as, without pause or hesitation of any kind, he ut- tered the concluding words. Etty and 1 were as astonished as Lady Caro- line was amused at this outburst. "What that man has said is as true as Gos- j)el or I'rophecy," observed Major Watchit 'de- liberately, in a small, clear, and musical voice. OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 57 The words caused Etty and mc a start and a smile, (ov tliey were so conlidently and daintily littered, and we had not bet'ore had such a flow of eloquence from their sjjeaker. •' Nay, nay," said Lady Caroline, looking slily at us, and jiroudly at "her l>oi/," as she called Mr. Petersham, "he is neither evangelist nor prophet — he's only a banker's son." After dinner (which I tlioroughly enjoyed, be- cause the courses and dishes, und ornaments of glass and plate, were for the most part as new to me as the mode of waiting adopted by the tall footmen) we spent an hour or two in the music- room. Both Mr. Petersham and the Major were accomplished musicians, understanding music as a science, and having a perfect artistic com- mand of a variety of instruments. Etty and I soon found ourselves scarcely fit to accomijany them in the most unpretending pieces ; but they, with good-breeding ami happy tact, discovered in a trice what we could do best, and encour- aged us to do that. "Watchit, you don't talk, but you can sing," observed Mr. Petersham, when we had gone through several instrumental pieces. Having looked at us, and received an assur- ance that we should listen to him with pleasure, the taciturn soldier seated himself at a ])iano — looking, if such a thing be jjossible, rather more awkward than men usually look at that instru- ment, and sang two or three of Moore's Melo- dies with singular judgment and e.xcpiisite feel- ing. That done, he rose from the music-stool and stationed himself in a distant corner of the room, as dumb as an old clock that has not been wound up for years. At ten o'clock we put on our cloaks and bon- nets, and walked home in the moonlight, tlie two gentlemen accompanying us across the park to our garden-gate, and our maid walking a lit- tle in the rear. ."Etty," I said, as soon as we were alone, " they are very accomplished men. Even in London they must be very remarkable men. What is there that they can't do? Tiiey paint, they are musicians, they 'have traveled every where, they talk every language under the sun." " Uo they indeed?" retorted Etty, in her old, pert way. "For my part, I can't say much for their talking. Why ]Mr. Petersham can't speak a word witiiout stammering, and the other man is little short of dumb." "He sings beautifully," I said, feeling it my duty to defend Major Watchit from deprecia- tion ; "and for my part I like him quite as well AS I do Mr. Petersham." "As ivell?" answered Etty, throwing up her chin ; "I should think so, indeed. Why if I had to marry one of tliem, I'd rather marry Ma- jor Watchit ten times than his friend once." Somehow these words grated on my ears. Wliat business had Etty to talk, even in jest, of marrying any man but Julian ? "Alajor Watchit is a man of action," contin- ued Etty. " He does not talk with words, but deeds. I declare 'twas mucli lietter to observe him silently doing first one thing and then an- other — and doing every tiling he attempted in- comparal)ly — than to listen to the ]iriggish, self- satisfied stammering of that Mr. Petersham." " Why, Etty !" I exclaimed, giving expression to my astonishment. "Why, Tibby!"she returned, mocking mc. "But what I tell you is the truth, and nothing either more or less. Have you ever dreamed or imagined or read in a novel of such purse-proud insolence? Money! Money! Money! The true nectar of the gods! And you could see he meant it. I declare to you, Tibby, tiie man roused my venom, and I felt as if I should like to teach him that there was something in this world more powerful than the mo.iey he is so proud of!" " j\Ioney is very ]wwcrful, Etty. I think you are a little captious," I returned. "True, money is powerful, but so are other things." "What?" ' ' Beauty — for one. " "Tut, child, that cant last many years, but money nunj endure for ages." " I was not talking of its permanence, but its power." "AVell, we won't argue about it; good-night, dear!" I said, lighting my candle. For some reast:)n not known to myself I didn't like Etty that night. She was in such a strange, wayward luinior. I felt it would not be advisa- ble either to jiet her or to cosset her, so I kissed her coldly and went up stairs to bed. CHAPTER Xn. AVUY THK PETERSHAMS DID IT ! Our first visit to Lady Caroline Petersham may be taken by the reader as a fair sample of our entertainments at the Abbey. Miss Dent I saw little of; and for the reason already stated, there were never any other visitors. The gen- tlemen, however, were always tiiere, amusing us greatly, and otiering us all those attentions which, as long as the world remains a world, will be al- ways acceptable to women. They usually went to their shooting or returned from it by the way of our cottage, and scarcely a day passed that they did not ofi'er us some delicate civility. They left us game and fruit in abundance, always tak- ing care to state that Lady Caroline sent the jjresents. That lady also called on us contin- ually, making herself almost as much at home in our cottage as if it belonged to her. Mrs. Gurley was highly triumphant at the at- tentions paid us by "the family." "Didn't I tell yon so, my dear?" the kind woman said to me. " I was sure how it would be ! Bless you, they may be great people, but such a beautiful creature as Etty doesn't cross their path every day !" I had no objection to this explanation of the kindness of "the family," for I was as proud of my sister's beauty as I could have been of it had it been my own ; and as to any danger to her from its being the object of admiration at the Abbey, the idea was simply ridiculous. We had told Lady Caroline all about Julian Gowcr, so that she and her .son knew as well as I did that Etty was engaged. And even if she had been free to accept any new matrimonial overtures, the Abbey seemed about the last place in the world where she had any chance of receiving them. Mr. Petersham (we knew from Lady Caroline as well as from Mr. Gurley) was to 58 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. marry Miss Olive Blake in the course of the next few years; ;ind as for Mnjor Watcliit — a man who never spoke more tlian ten words an hour in the presence of a lady could not be suspected of wishing to win her licart. Moreover, the whole nature of our intercourse with "the family" was of a kind that forbade me to entertain the thought tiiat Etty's beauty was any reason why wo should be cautious on the subject of Lady Caroline's attentions. The whole case was such a simple one. She was a benevolent old lady, who having taken an inter- est in us, found an amiable jilcasure in ))rattling with us about our concerns and in patronizing us. The course of a few weeks also showed that she desired to confer substantial benefit on us as well as amusement. "My dear MissTibby," the kind old lady said, shortly before her stay at Laughton terminated, " I'm going away next week ; but I have direct- ed the gardener to keej) yon well supplied with fruit and cut flowers, and also to set some of his men at work, from time to time, to keep your garden in order for you. And the game-kce])er will leave you some game every week. Arthur wished me to settle these matters for him. He said, very justly, that such attentions would be more agreeable to you and your sister if yon knew that the orders had been given to the serv- ants by me. Young women must be very care- ful. And it would never do for us to set the Laughton busy-bodies saying that Arthur was paying too nmch attention to you and your sister." "Really, Lady Caroline,"' I replied to this ad- ditional jn'oof of kindness, "I don't know which to admire the more — your goodness to us, or Mr. Petersham's delicate thoughtfnlness." "That's right, my dear; I like your grati- tude. It makes up for tlie want of it in others to whom I've tried to show kindness, and got only hard words for my ])ains. And surely we, who have so much of tlie good things of the world, ought to be considerate for others. By- thc-hy, my dear, Arthur wished mc to say that, if it is quite convenient for you to receive him to-morrow, he would like to call on you as he goes out shooting, to talk over a little matter of business." " Indeed ! Of course I shall be glad to see him," 1 answered. As Lady Caroline left without ex]>laining what the " little matter of business" might be, Etty and I were in great excitement for the rest of the day. She had very much modified her first o])inion of Mr. Arthur Petersham. What- ever faults he might have, and however false a view he might take of life from his high watch- tower of wealth, he had displayed so much true delicacy to us, that my sister eonUl not do otli- erwisc than jiardon his arrogance, and think fa- vorably of him. The next morning at nine o'clock the chief of the Abbey keejiers jjaused before our garden with a shooting ])ony, covered with bags for game; and whistling two beautiful s|)orting dogs to his feet, he waited wiiih; his master had an interview with me. It was the first time that Mr. Petei"sham had ever been in our house, and I wms ])leased to ob- Bcn'e that, although he was evidently quite at his case, his maimer was more deferential and formal than usual. It seemed to imply that ho esteemed it a privilege to be allowed to enter my drawing-room. As soon as our first greetings were over he went straight to his "little matter of business." " A-although I-I have no daughters," he said, "to put to school. Miss Tree, I have a little ward named Amy Reickart. Iler father was a Danish merchant, who died a few years since, very far from rich, but still leaving a small proi>- erty, as well as one child, behind him. Amy is really as sweet a little girl for .seven years of age as you can imagine. The object of my visit is to learn if you can receive her among your pu- pHs. My mother tells me you have still one va- cancy for a boarder." "I can receive her, Mr. Petersham," I an- swered, highly delighted, " and will do so glad- ly. It will do my school much good to have it known that your ward is with me." " T-that i-is a reason," he answered, in his kindest manner, "for me to feel additional sat- isfaction in having found her so happy a home. I do not wish the child to be treated in any way differently from the rest of your ])arty, but I want you to take the entire charge of her. Of course when I am down here she will pay us frequent visits, but I don't want to be bothered in any way with jniternal duties or paternal responsi- bilities. In short, I want you to take care of the poor little orphan just as if she were a sister of your own; to clothe her, teach her, and rear her without reference to me save in case of dan- gerous sickness. This will be a grave responsi- bility for you, and one you must be jiaid for in an exceptional manner. My mother tells me that your charge for an ordinary pupil is £'65 l)er annum — a sum, I must say, that seems to me startlingly little for such advantages as you give your girls. Now will you take my ward off my hands for a payment of £200 per annum ? I make this offer with reference to her fortune, ^s well as your services. Were she richer, I should suggest a larger sum." I need not say that this munificent (as it seemed to me) proposition was prom}jtly ac- cejjted. "I-I t-thank you," my visitor then said, ris- ing, with an air of relief. " Now that is off my mind. You must excuse me for entering into tliese matters of business. But as a business man and the child's guardian I felt it right to do so." He then left my drawing-room. The next time he had an interview with me there alone the business was of a different na- ture I At that second interview I stood before him — with sns])icion, and horror, and shame warring witjiin my breast ! But I may not an- ticipate events. My story must be told as it was acted. I attended Mr. Petersham to the garden ]iorch on his way out, and admired his dogs, which were under the keeper's care. While we \'.ere doing so Etty entered the garden with onr little girls, on their return from a walk before morn- ing lessons. " I-I h-have taken the liberty to call on your sister, to say good-by to you and her," he said, raising his hat. " I leave Laughton in a day or two, and shall not, in all probability, be at the Abbey till the partridges are ready for me next OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. .69 year. Should I, however, in the mean time find that my enj^agcmcnts will permit me to alter my determination, the reeollectiou of the jileasant weeks I have just spent will certainly bring me down sooner." The manner in which this speech was made implied that the pleasure of the preceding weeks had, in a great measure, been deri\'td from ns. Ettv saw tiie compliment, and replied to it by cortlially shaking hands witli our new ])atron, and ex])ressing a hope that his absence from tlic Abbey would not be as long as he threatened. Mr. Petersham left us, and I immediately communicated to Etty the nature of " his little matter of business." "What a nice, kind man he is!" exclaimed Etty, enthusiastically. " 1 resolve, Tibby, from this time forth never to judge people uncharita- bly. How very considerately lie managed the business ! Every step taken in it by him has ex- pressed his respect for us as ladles ! He didn't come to Its as if we were some mere ordinary country-town schoolmistresses, whose business it was to be accessible to any one who brought them a pupil ; but first of all he asked Lady Caroline to ascertain if he might call u]ion us. That done, and permission being granted him to come, he makes his munificent ]iroposition; not as if he were laying us under a heavy and eter- nal obligation to him, but as if he were receiv- ing a favor from us. He arranges it all, too, with the fewest possible words and no fuss. An ordinary vulgar man would have told me all he had been doing, and would have exacted an ex- pression of gratitude for his patronage ; but he never even alluded to the subject, lea\ ing you to communicate the good news to me. How nice it would be always to live with ijcople who^rcat you in that style!" I was amused at Etty's change of tone with regard to Mr. Petersham. But she was quite right. Mr. Petersham had behaved in the mat- ter with the delicacy of a gentleman ; and it would have been unworthy in Etty not to have highly apjjreciated such treatment, and been grateful for it. So I supported her opinions cordially. That we were going to receive Mr. Petersham's ward into our school was a jiiece of intelligence which flew through the town like lightning. Im- mediately after morning school I tripped across the road to Mrs. Gurley, whose house almost adjoined the church-yard, and told her the as- toimding news. That amiable lady's congratu- lations were as hearty as her surprise was intense. She had never imagined such an explanation to the flattering attentions with which "the fami- ly" had loaded us. How foolish it had been in her to attribute them all to Eity's beauty ! Of course she was a very lovely girl, but it was equally clear that JNlr. Petersiiam and Lady Caroline did not want to buy her good looks for a chimney ornament. It was all so ])lain now that she could never all through her life forgive herself for not having seen through so simple a game. The case was just this: Lady Caroline and Mr. Petersham were looking out for an un- exceptionable home for a little girl, a home in which she would be really well cared for in eve- ry respect, a home in which she would be secure of a happy childhood, and in which they could with easy consciences leave her, thus altogether freeing themselves from an irksome responsibil- ity. Such being the state of aff'airs, the lady and gentleman visit Laughton ; and the lady, being first struck by the i)ictures({ue ajipearance of a cottage ])ut in the corner of her son's i)ark, inquires who may inhabit it. The answer (made by a consequential jjea-hen of a woman who should be nameless) informs the lady that the cottage is occupied by two young ladies, the or- phan daughters of an ofiicer of the king's army, the grand-daughters of a much-respected bene- ficed clergyman, and the distant cousins of an old county family who still are the legal owners of Laughton Abbey, and that the said young la- dies keep a school. Having learned thus much, the lady, good-natured no doubt, but still look- ing after her own interests, calls at the cottage to see what it is like inside — whether the young ladies are as superlative young ladies as is re- ])orted, whether the school-room is a cheerful one, whether the bedrooms are bright, and fresh, and airy. Liking what she sees at this first visit, the lady of rank calls again frequently, at all liours and seasons, popping suddenly into the school-room without rapping, and entering un- announced while dinner is on the table, to assure herself that every thing is as fair as it seems, that the table is a simple and wholesome and gener- ous one, that there are no scholastic pains and penalties kept in the back-ground. The lady of rank then has the two schoolmistresses up to the Abbey, all unconscious of the real object of the ]K)liteness offered them, and induces them to talk, and play, and exhibit their accomplishments be- fore two observant, scrutinizing, and polite men of the world. Well, the result of the inspection is, that the two young ladies are declared fit guardians and teachers for a young lady of for- tune, and that the young lady of fortune is forth- with to be sent to them ! Mrs. Gurley had upbraided herself for want of sagacity and for dullness of vision. It was now my place to applaud her acuteness in see- ing the design and harmonious entirety of a game, of which I, one of the chief players, had seen only the outward self-evident moves and the immediate i-esult. Certainly Mrs. Gurley's in- terpretation was not agreeable to my self-love. I had flattered myself that Etty and I were in- vited to the Abbey, to afford acceptable recrea- tion to our distinguished entertainers, not to un- dergo examination whether or no we were la- dies. I had supposed Lady Caroline visited us because she liked us — not that she might ascer- tain v.hcther we starved our pupils, or boxed their ears, when no one was looking at us. I confess jNIrs. Gurley's version of our relations witli the great people at the Abbey was a bitter draught to me ; but I had no doubt that her shrewd common sense had led her to the truth. I told Etty so when I had returned to the cot- tage and had repeated to her Mrs. Gurley's re- marks ; and I shall never forget the derision, and anger, and indignation with which the dear girl received my statement that my opinion con- curred with that of our friend. "I never in all my life, Tibby, heard any thing so ridiculous, so insulting, so spiteful. I did think that Mrs. Gurley was incapable of sucii mean, petty spite as to put such uncomfortal)le, and degrading, and irritating notions into your head. It's enoutfh to make me sav I'll never again believe Co. OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. ill liuman poodnoss. 1 had thouf:;Vit Mrs. Gur- li\v the quinlessciice of benevolence, incapable of saying an uncharitable thing, and, wliat's more, I iiad thought her a very sensible woman, I)ut now I find her as foolish and malevolent as the rest of the world. Just because she hasn't been asked to the Abbey, and ive've been made a great deal of by Lady Caroline Petersham, she. turns upon us, and says all kinds of contcmjituous things of us; and my own sister (and there's the sting — and I shall never, never forget it) turns traitor to the cause, abandons me in the h(nir of trial — and — and — oh, Tibby I I had thouglit bet- ter of you !" The fact is, Etty (usually the swectcst-tem- l)ered girl imaginable) went into an im])etuous sort of storm that very closely resembled " a ]ias- sion." But she did look so proudly beautiful — her i)ink lips curved, and her delicate complex- ion brightened up, and her lithe figure rose, and her chest heaved and drojjiied, and her violet eyes flashed, and she threw back her lung neck, and shook her golden curls at me in such a man- ner that, though I thought her very f(jolish to make such a fuss about nothing, I thoroughly cnjox'cd looking at her. Still I could not let her speak in that way of our best friend, Mrs. Gur- ley. I reminded her of all the kindness Mrs. Gurley had shown ns and all the care she had taken of us, and I told her that it was flagrant ingratitude to use such language nnder emotions of resentment toward one who had such strong claims on our love. In short, I gave her a down- right good scolding, such as she had never be- fore received from mc. And, to my great de- light, my s]jirited conduct brought her into a very different frame of mind ; for she had a good fit of crying, and then made a cordial recanta- tion of all the worst of iier charges against Mrs. Gurley. "Well, Tibl)V," .she said, "I own I was in the wrong to talk in that way about Jlrs. Gurley. I know she i» quite as amiable and be- nevolent as you say, and I am sure she wouldn't, if she knew it, hurt onr feelings or those of any one else. But it is so scaldingly indignation- raising, Tibby, to be told ijiat we arc not ladies, and not fit companions for those banker-jicople who have hired the house that belongs to our cousins, and that we arc nothing better than the veriest and most tumble-down cheese-mongers." At this I smiled, and suggested that Mrs. Gur- ley had never hinted that in tlie ojiinion of L;idy Caroline Petersham we were "tumble-down cheese-mongers," but two ladies " keeping a pchool for little girls." "Well, well, Tiljbyl" she answered, "I ad- mit all that, and I have retracted all the unkind things I have said of Mrs. Gurley. Only, as to the main point, the reason why Lady Caroline Petersham liked iis and showed us attention, she is altogether wrong. She has simjily fallen into an egregious blunder, and dragged yon along with her; and of course I can never have the same high esteem for .Mrs. Gurley's judgment as I had before. That is not to be expected." The dear girl uttered these, last words with such a magnificent emphasis that I almost burst out laughing; and imleed I should have done Ro had not a fear of rousing her again, just as siie was calming down so nicely, restrained mc. In the evening, when .Mr. Gnrhy called upon U8 to otter his congratulations on our good luck, Etty was entirely herself again — having quite left her transient ill-temper behind her, and being quite in the humor to look on the substoritia/ i/ood of Mr. Petersham's "little matter of business," without troubling herself about the purely senti- mental considerations attached to it. To tell the truth, onr new acquisition had al- ready removed a heavy an.xiety from my mind. It was true that our school had succeeded; but the success of such a school in a little country town was so slender a piece of good fortune that I could not lean on it with confidence. Our terms were necessaiiiy very low, for our jiupils were only the children of "country-town gentle- folk ;" and I had already had experience enough in my business to see that, however economical I might be, I could not, even with my school al- ways full, hope to lay by more than~£30 per an- num. The only margin I could make out on jjaper between the limits of our greatest possible income and its least jjossiblc attendant expenses was £40 or £45 a }ear, and my experience as Iiousekceper at Farnliam Cobb had tauglit me that a surplus hoped for is always materially less than the surplus attained Under the most fa- vorable circumstances. Mine is by no means a gloomy or despondent tem])erament ; but the reverse of fortune I had recently sustained had taught me to look beyond the sunshine around me to the probability of a cloud or a storm ris- ing up in the distance and coming upon ns. In short, I had an nncomfortable incredulity in the I'Crmanence of that enviable degree of worldly ]iros])erity which Etty and I had achieved. Some of our jjupils might leave ns before we had oth- ers to re]jlace them. Scarlatina might break u]> onr school, and deprive ns of our income for a quaiter of a year. Other expenses might come u]ion us. In case of a series of misfortunes ab- sorbing my small fund of reserved money, what should we do ? I knew Mr. Gurley and Mr. Choate wonld be ready to assist us. But I could not endure the thought of taking money help from them. Etty's elastic s])irits hajijiily .se- cured her from a single gloomy anticipation; and of course I was careful not to cloud her clieeifulness by imposing iqion her a participa- tion in my business anxiety. She was so yomig and ardent, I could not think of depressing her Avith my fears about money matters. And now I found all cause for anxiety removed from my minil I "My dear young ladies,"' said our business friend, "you must raise your terms immedi- ately." " That I should not like to do, Mr. Gurley," I answered. "It wouldn't be fair to the parents of onr old pupils." "Of course you mayn't alter your terms to old ])upils; but you are jicrfectly at liberty to say how much more you mean to have for your new ones. Clap £!'» a year on your charge for boarders, and £10 a year for day-boarders. For day-pupils, who don't dine with you, you need make no alteration. Don't lose any time. I'll have a new pros]7Cctus for you printed immedi- ately. As soon as it gets known (and that won't be many days) that Mr. Arthur Byfield Peter- sham has jilaeed his ward with you, you'll have a new and higher cla.ss of peo])le wishing to send you their children. Make them ]iay, my dears — there's nothing like it for making peoi)le re- I OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOKK. 61 spect you. That's what I always say to myself, Miss Tree, when I draw out a J)ill of eliarf^i^s — 'The moro you pay me for my law, the better opinion you'll have of its quality.' Thai's what I say to myself when I'm nervous about tlie size of a 'sum total.' Whatever you charj;e, my dears, those who pay you won't come to you be- cause they love you, but because they want what you sell. ' Take my advice. I am a business man. Lord, my dears, do you only work away quietly here for a few years, and by the time Julian Gower is ready to marry Miss Etty she'll have a little fortune of her own. How say you, Miss Etty ? wouldn't you rather enter your husband's house, for the first time, with £500 of your own than go to him empty handed ?" "Mr. Gurley," I said, "poetry and business are blended in you as surely they never were in any man before !" "Lor, my dear Miss Tree V he answered, with a laugh, evidently much pleased with my com- plimentary speech, ^'business, looked at from a right point of view, is the grandest poctrij ; and poetry, looked at from any ])oint of view, is sometimes the poorest, sorriest business that can be imagined." All my scruples fell before ^Nlr. Gurley's sug- gestion that, in endeavoring to earn more money and save more money, I should be making a purse against Etty's wedding-day, for her to give to Julian Gower. Five hundred pounds! Why with raised terms and Mr. Petersham's ward for a pupil we might lay by £200 a year. By the end of five years, when Julian and Etty would marry, we should have £1000 at least. And Etty sliould have the whole of it to take to Ju- lian Gower! And wlien she was married I would continue to live in my quiet cottage, still keeping school, and earning fortunes for Ju- lian Gower's children I This was my life-plan taken on the instant, and adhered to for almost a year. So Mr. Gurley left us. with ratthority to get our new business prospectuses. His judgment was not at fault. A week did not elapse before three or four leading jiersons, of the minor landed gentry of the district, had arranged to send us their children. Airs. Sin- gleton Poppet, of Farley House, would let vis have her three little girls as day-pupils. Farley Hous.i was only four miles distant, and the chil- dren would b3 conveyed to and fro every day in the Farley House carriage. In like manner Mrs. Jlirth, of Brierley Paddock, arranged to send us a carriage -load of her children every day. "Miss Argentine Buttorworth mentioned to me," observed Mrs. Mirth, '• that she had been the means of introducing you to Lady Caroline Petersham, and subsequently of securing to you for a pupil Mr. Petersham's ward. I was not at all surprised to hear it. Argcniine Butter- worth is a noble creature. That sweet girl lit- erally overflows with amiability. She beams with it. Miss Tree. I assure you, sheer unadul- terated beneficence sometimes makes Argentine Butterworth absolutely phosphorescent." Mrs. Mirth, of Brierley Paddock, s])oke in a voice and style evidently copied from the object of her admiration. "What insufferable impertinence !" exclaimed Etty, as soon as Mrs. Mirth had taken her leave. " What iiisufferat)le impertinence it is for that Miss Argentine Butterworth to assume and pro- claim that slie is our benefactress !" For me, I was in no humor to scold about a trifle which th(U-oughly amused me. "Why what docs it matter, Etty?" I said. "Look how j)leasaiiily tlie sun is shining in the garden! Let's go out and enjoy it. Miss Argentine But- terworth may say that she introduced us to tho sun, if she likes." "That's right, Tibby. That's how I ought to feel, but I don't. I can't endure these little gem teel people. I should like just for nine months or a year to be put at the head of society intliis neighborhood, over the Mrs. Poppets and Mrs. Mirths of the district, with their Farley Houses and their Brierley Paddocks ! Wouldn't I rule tlieni u-ith a rod of iron !" The playful affecta- tion of vengeance with which she said this made me receive it only as a jest ; but had I then known that which subsequently came to my knowledge I should have seen a terrible earn- estness lurking under her merry humor. Mr. Gurley was of course well pleased that his advice had been followed, and J^et more j leased that our interests had been so manifestly ad- vanced by its adoption. "Mr. Petersham," the shrewd solicitor remarked to us, shortly after Amy lleickart and our other hyper-gentcel pu- ]jils had come to us, " Mr. Petersham is a clever man and understands the world. He is sure of being returned our member if he should like to stand for Laughton next election. By simijly putting his ward in the best possible home he could find for her, and i)aying liberally for it, ho has made himself more iwinilar in the town than he coidd have made himself by giving us towii.<- people a series of dinner-parties. The towu.-;- people take the little girl's presence here as a com])liment to themselves, and an earnest of i"u- ture favors from the wealthy banker. Of course I don't go so far as to say that JNIr. Petersham in taking so wise a stej) was actuated by motives of policy. But this 1 know — the step has se- cured him a seat in Parliament (if he wishes for it), which before now has cost a successful can- didate several thousands of pounds." "Pooh!" said Etty, tossing up her head, as soon as Mr. Gurley had left us. "How silly every one is to be inventing every irrational and utterly impossible reason for Mr. Peter- sham's natural conduct in putting his ward with us ! Mr. Gurley has caught the mad fever of his wife, and now he'll run about the eounirj' biting every one who comes in his way !" IMr. Gurley's remarks a])i)eared to me veni' sen- sible ; but past ex])eriences warned me not to say so. My object was to smooth down difficulties with Etty, who had for several days past been strangely irritable and fanciful. But that w;\.s not to be wondered at: for how should she be otherwise than unsettled, with Julian so far away — for so many years ? " Well, Etty," I said, cheerfully, " never mind Air. Petersham's motives, and don't trouble your head about eceri/ one's gossip. I advise you to set to work and write word to Julian that when he returns to England he'll find us quite rich women." 62 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. CHAPTER XIII. SOCIAL DISTINCTIONS. "If a person of an liumble position with only ordinuiT strcnjitli of charactei- wishes to lead in the country a sim])le, upright, honest life, don't let him fix Iiis dwelling near the gate of a great man's jjark." This is one of Julian Gower's maxims, and my individual experience makes me most cordially echo it. I enjoy rural life as thoroughly as it is passi- ble for any human creature to do, preferring it far before the excitement and greater intellect- ual activity of cities ; but I would sooner em- brace a lot, dooming me to a perpetual impris- onment amidst tlie bricks and mortar and noisy contention of London, unbroken by even an oc- casional visit to suburban haunts, than one which should require me with limited means to abide for nine months of each year in a country cot- tage within sight of a great man's park-lodge. And I am not led to this opinion simply by an observation of my own cliaracter, though that alone would be n sufficient justification for my embracing it. In my time I have lived mucli and intimately with a variety of families of my own rank in the country — with farmers and yeo- men, countr}' doctors and country lawyers, coun- try clergymen and country merchants — and I have invariably found their lives more or less healthy and dignified, just in proportion as they are more or less remote from the j^alaces of tlic aristocracy. This sentiment will seem fantastic to some of my readers, and contemptible to many more; yet it is a deliberate expression of a view which I am ready to maintain by an abundance of illustration. Rank and wealth are prone ev- ery where to obtain too jjowerful an influence over ordinary minds; and in the country their sway amounts to downright despotism over the moral nature of those who either are destitute of them or possess them in only a limited degree. In cities, where they are abundant and are sur- rounded by other sources of interest, I do not think about them. In the country I always find I have to .strive against their tyranny; and how- ever steadily I strive against them, I find inva- riably that in a long struggle the}' get a certain limited mastery over me. The carriage from the Hall passes as I am taking a contemplative, stroll in the lanes; I see the ladies in their rich dresses, wearing their proud, languid looks as they lay down their books on the scat before them, or exchange words with the gentlemen who attend them. The carriage turns into my lord's avenue, and as it dis.a]j]K'ars fi-om my sight I am wondering who they are, whethir they are happy, what careers of s])lendid and)ition are be- fore tliem, instead of searching the wayside bank fi)r flowers, or keeping a briglit look-out for a landscaj)C to paint, or recalling the last ]X)em read, or ])ondering on gocxl resolves for fiituri' action. Nature, art, high thought, have all been sent flying by the high-stcjjping luirses and the liveries j)assing mulcr the elms oi'his lordship's park. In short, if I were to say truly what has been the hardest struggle of my moral life, I slioidd say — not to be a snoh. Men, with their superior strength and greater variety of pursuits, do not experience this difficulty so frequently, or in so great a degree, as women ; and yet I took for my text to this homily the words of the firm- est, bravest man of action I have ever known. I am sure that if we had not lived at Laugh- ton, with that grand house, and park, and lake continually before us, I should have been a bet- ter woman, and Etty a happier. We did not settle well to our work after the dcjiarture of "the family." Lady Caroline Pe- tersiiam, and Mr. Petersham, and ^Injor Watchit, though we knew so little of them, had more of our thoughts than our friends in Laughton, who had received us with cordial welcome when we most needed it. The mere flies that buzzed about the warmth and brightness of the Peter- sham ])rosperity became to us as birds of para- dise. I liked to have Miss Argentine Butter- worth, and Mrs. Po]ipet, and Mrs. ]\Iirth call upon us, and I listened to them with gradually increasing interest as they instructed me on the pedigree, and dignity, and wealth of the sur- rounding county families. Amy Reickart was a charming cliild ; but as the ward of the mighty Mv. Petersham she had fascinations for us which she woidd not have otherwise possessed. I blush to reflect on all this miserable pettiness, and I only nairate it thus minutely because it is right for mc to do so. Was I not justified in saying that the differ- ence between life at Farnham Cobb and life at Laughton was very great? It was hard to be- lieve that only twelve miles of rutted lanes lay between us and our old home. We soon left off talking of Farnham Cobb. The little news that came to us from that parish was not alto- gether of a kind to jileasc us. Mr. Ardent's in- novations were reported to lis with exaggera- tions ; and I heard with no sincere feelings of pleasure that Mr. Michael Clawline had become the tenant of Sandhill, and was beginning to be looked upon as a farmer of some importance. I like to hear of men rising in the world by the exercise of honest industry and sagacity ; but as to Mr. Clawline's industry, he nevencondescend- ed, even in harvest-time, "to strip tew his wark ;" and as to his sagacity, I could not see how mere intelligence in the oi)crations of husbandry, aided by thrift, could lia\ c ■.-.nsed a man in the course of twenty-five years I'lom a farm-servant to an occu]>icr of .a considei"aI)Ie farm. It was unrea- sonaijle in me to be annoyed at it. I knew that "business" was a game, in which the stakes steadily and imperceptibly passed out of the Innids of such men as the Rev. Solomon I'^asy into the canvas bags of the Michael Clawlines. My chagrin, therefore, was out of place when it took the form of iiTitation against a rule of life as ancient as That good old plan, Tli;it they should take who have the pOHer, And they should keep who can. Had my dear grandfather lived to know want the case would have been different — attcction for hiin would then have justified my indignation. I fraiddy told Mr. Gurley my feelings on this subject ; hut instead of sympathizing with mc, he replied with incomparable sonrj froid, "Oh that's nothing to be annoyed at I Business is business. Of course Michael Clawline robbed your grandfather — in the way of business. Ev- ery body, all the country through, robbed your grandfather — in the way of business. He was a safe annuity to all the sharp dealers and jobbeis OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 68 witliin twelve miles of him. Li my time I took A greiit deal of money out of his pocket. Of course I never rohbed him — tiie members of my profession never do that kind of thinf; — but I squeezed him lirmly. JSurcly I was rij.;ht in do- inir so. His money is much safer and more use- fully cmi)Ioyed in my hands than it would be in Chuvline's." In the Christmas holidays (and also on the following Mid-summer vacation) there was an oiubreak of gayety in Laughton. The towns- people entertained each other at dinner and qua- drille parties, and there were two or three grand rece]itions of a festive kind at the Rectory. About half a dozen or a dozen young men — students at the hospitals in London or the Inns of Court, articled clerks to metropolitan solicitors, under- graduates of Oxford or Cambridge, and one or two young barristers — visited the town and neighborhood, traveling down from London on the roofs of the coaches which dashed ])ast our gate several times ii day. These young men brought with them a transient etlervescence of hilarity that was an agreeable change to the usual monotony of the neighborhood- Their conversation and general tone conveyed an im- pression that the pursuit of gayety was the one business of their lives. By day they went out shooting, or skated on the Abbey water, or jjlayed billiards in the billiard-room of the Blue Boar, or, mounting their fathers' hacks, rode up and down the Higli Street, and along the turnpike- road, in the most fidgety and clattering fashion imaginable. At niglit they appeared at " the party" of the evening, dancing wildly througli quadrilles or whirling madly in waltzes, abound- ing in laughter and jokes, drinking wine with reckless freedom at sujjper, and finishing uji by putting cigars in their mouths and attending iheir fair partners to their houses, at the doors of which they parted with them, in the silly sentimental style which young men of that day affected. Etty and I were asked to these parties, and, in obedience to Mrs. Gurley's counsel, attended them. Our grandfather had been so recently dead that we would i-ather have declined the in- vitations to the Christmas revels ; but on Mrs. Gurley assuring us that to do so would render us liable to misconstruction, we took part in the rejoicing, and had from the milliner, already mentioned, some white muslin di-esses trimmed with mourning ribbons. I was glad that we did so, for Etty enjoyed the parties very much. Her dancing (acquired from the professor who came to the cottage to teach our children) was declared to be very graceful, and her. beauty made her the belle of the town. Indeed she created a "sensation;" and although we had taken pre- cautions that her engagement to Julian Gower should be known, she had to refuse an offer be- fore tlie holidays were over, besides being pes- tered Ijy the attentions of Captain Mervin But- terworth, of the Royal Artillery. Of course, while Laughton was rejoicing I was a person of . comparative insignificance. I went every where, and was hospitably received wherever I went ; but it was seldom that I was asked to dance; and as I always declined the few proffers that were made me, it came to be understood that my office was to do duty as chaperon to my pret- ty sister, and play quadrilles and waltzes when | there was no hired pianist present. I had not before had a really good opportuni- ty of studying Laughton society. Hitiicrto we iuid known the jicople only at a distance as strangers,or mere ac(piainlances to bow to in the streets. Tiiose who iiad jjupils to send us were comjjaratively few ; and it was only with those few tiiat we had, up to the Christinas holidays, held j)ersonal interccjurse. On the whole, a close examination did not tend to raise the ])eople in my estimation. Tiiey were so divided by class rivalries and political prejudices. "The fami- ly," and "the family before tlie Petershams,"' and " the family before the family that came before the Petershams," were everlasHngly be- ing dragged into conversation. All the tempo- rary residents at the Abbey previous to the Pe- tershams had, for electioneering purposes, main- tained visiting relations with the leading towns- j)eoj)le ; and we were constantly hearing such sentences as, "When I dined with Sir Arthur ^Nlarrytage at the Abbey," and, "When Lord and Lady Bellhaven did us tlie honor of dining at our table." Every peer, or baronet, or gov- ernment placeman, who had staid in the ])arish during any day of tht ])revious twenty years was mentioned in terms of friendship by persons who had only shaken hands witli tiiem before ;in elec- tion contest. This folly was only aggravated by the pugnacious opposition of the few ])ersons who, either from genuine, but embittered, right feeling, or from jjrivate pique, did battle with it. The modes in which the war of Simjilicity versus Assumption was carried on were some- times very grotesque. One gentleman, a retired naval ofiieer, had been guilty of the bad taste of decorating his plate with arms to which he had no right. As a jirotest against this absinxlity, Mr. Prince, an ojuilent merchant, known to bo a member of an old gentle family of the district, had the arms erased from all his liousehold goods which had for generations been ornamented with them. His conduct was the cause of a hot quar- rel ; but he persisted in directing the attention of his guests to the blemished spoons and tank- ards from which he had scratched his armorial bearings. Mr. Prince was intensely ])roud of his virtue in this jiarticular. But I could not see much to admire in it ; and I thought his pride was just as false as that which he so extravagant- ly despised in his oi)i)onent. " Oh, Etty," 1 said, as the holidays came to a close with a dance at Mr. Prince's house, " what a number of sweet Howers never come to their l)erfection in that little town, and all through tlie cold shade flung u])on them by the trees of tliis niagnificent jiark !" "Rubbish, Tibby!" was my sister's answer. " Rather say wliat a number of graces you find in the rustic inhabitants of that little town, sim- ])Iy because they get occasional lessons in a high school of manners !" It is a small matter to remark u]ion, and yet it is worthy of observation that Etty and I al- ways spoke of the town of Laughton (though it was not a quarter of a mile away from our cot- tage) as if we didn't. belong to it. Its inhabitants were to us "the townspeople." We were resi- dents in the park. «1 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOKK. CHAFrER XIV. JULIAN'S BAD NEWS. I HAVE said ciiouf;h to show that our life in "The Cottage," hiii)py and prosj)crons as it ap- i pcarcd to outside observers, contained w'ithin it ' the seeds of dis([niet and moral deterioration. I am of a hardy nature, and the position of trust in which I was as a child jihiced by the early deatii of my mother had ^iven me an armor suit- able for a contest with moral adversaries. It was, however, otherwise with dear Etty. At Farnham Cobb she had, to the last days of my grandfather's life, been the child, the pet, the ^ plaything ; and now she felt need of the strength which different circumstances had given me. I I watclied her with lively anxiety. There was j reason for my doing so. The laughing, glee- | some child of Farnham Cobb, the child whose buoyant sjiirits had been jjcrijetual music and sunshine in the old College, began to suffer from attacks of dejection. Not seldom I found her with tears in her eyes. She would make her appearance at our breakfast-table wi!h a cloud- ed brow ; and (greatest change of all) she be- trayed frequent signs of petulance and irritabili- ty. To the children, however, she was invaria- bly jiatient and loving. They hung upon her, playing with her golden curls and kissing her pretty face. They wrote home, also, simple ac- counts of her goodness and sweetness. Little Amy Reickart's nerils of the road, and the mysteries of the town ; what places to visit, what coach fares to ])ay, what extortions to avoid. He and Mrs. Gurley knew more of London than any other l)eoj)le of their age in Laughton ; for they had s])ent the honey-moon, twciUy years before, at the Bull and Mouth, near the far-famed Blue Coat School, and they had sojourned in it three sejiarate times since. We and our kind friends met together several evenings in succession, after onr children were in bed, and discussed the details of our scheme, Mr. Gurley with a map of London, and a hand- book of London, and a whole sheaf of antique jilay-bills on the table before him. Nothing could be more hearty than the interest he mani- fested in our contemplated movements. First he took us up the road, giving us, by the help of a topographical dictionary, a vivid and accu- rate view of the various towns through which we should pass, particularly impressing upon us that when the coach stopped to breakfast and dine wc were not to wait for ceremony, but seize hold of whatever lay before us, only taking care to avoid very hot dishes. For he explained to us that the landlords of the Winchat Arms and the Burfield Boaster were in the habit of delay- ing the dinner till the coach was oit the very point of starting again, and then would seduce the unwary into taking basins of scalding soup and vitriolic Irish stews which no mortal mouth could consume till they had cooled down. Then Mr. Gurley drew out, for our guidance and pres- ervation iu t/ie city of the world, three se])aratc lists of memoranda, headed resi)cctively "things to be seen," "things to be avoided," "things to be borne in mind." In addition to this, ]\Ir. Gur- ley ])resented ns with a nmnual containing lists of the distances between a great number of dif- ferent places within the walls of London, and added to it a bulky abstract, in his own hand- writing, of the laws relating to hacknej-coaches. And finally, that I might not commence my per- ilous expedition without all possible foreknowl- edge of what I should encounter, IMr. Gurley lent me for a jjrivate perusal an old copy of "Tom and Bob in London." I need not say that Julian's discouragii^ in- telligence ])Ut an end to this fascinating jn-oject. We had a better use for thirty pounds than the expense of a trip to Loudon. So we returned " Tom and Bob," ami the " Manual of Hackney- Coach Fares," and the manuscrijjt abstract of the laws relating to hackney-coaches to Mr. Gur- ley, with the intimation tliat we had relinquished our intention. At lirst he was astonished; but when we frankly told him the reason, he approved €6 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOKK. our conduct emphatically. "Quite riglit, vouuk ladies!" he said. " Enjoyment is a good tiling, but it may cost too nuuli." We remained in Laughton, therefore, during the Mid-summer holidays, taking ])art in tiio second outbreak of festivity, already mentioned. The horticultural show, and cricket matches, and numerous iiicnics, were the princi])al features of the gayety ; hut we did not enjoy tliem so much as we iuid enjoyed the Christmas dances. I was very sad in my secret heart, and it was generally remarked how ])ale and ill Etty looked. To me, however, it aj)peared that she was stronger in bodily health, though subject to depression of spirits. One bad sign in her could not escajjc my observation. I noticed that she no longer counted the days imiiatienily till the arrival of the mail which brought Julian's letters. I re- marked that when we were in iMr. Gurley's house she no longer took his daily jiaper into a retired corner of the room, and perused the shipping news, to see whether the vessel bearing the youth American mails had been " spoken with," or was announced as entering the Thames. I saw, too, that, when her heavy monthly packet was at length brought to her by the postman, a look of trouble came over her face (as though she were being reminded of an old sorrow), instead of the sunny outbreak of gladness with which she used to run forward and seize the budget. I observed also that she seemed almost reluctant to set about answering Julian's letters, and would delay do- ing so until three or four days before the start- ing of the outward mail, when she had time only for a meagre ej^stle. I took one of these later letters in my hand in her ])rcsence after it was sealed and linished, and I balanced it on my fingers. " What are you thinking, Tibby ?" she asked, sharjily. "llather short weight," I answered laconic- ally, with a smile. "Oh, Tibby," she answered, piteously, "don't watch me so ! Surely you would not have me send my heaviness of s)iirit to him." About this time, also, she contracted a hal)it of speaking of Julian as "Poor Julian," and " Poor dear Julian." I could bear with her de- jection and her irritability, and what I had al- ready come to regard as her want of courage ; but this commiseration for ^'' Poor Julian" 1 could not endure. It cut me to the heart. I know that my eyes flashed and my bauds trem- bled when I heard the word " poor" a.pplied to him ; and I was afraid that I should betray to Etty how much she disturbed me by so using the word. At last that which I had feared might hap- pen did take jilace, and irritation overcame my wise resolution to control it. '■'■Poor Julian ! Poor Julian !" I said, bitter- ly. "Can't you say brave Julian ? That would be a better word to a])jily to him." "I was thinking of him selfishly," she an- swered, not seeming to resent my correction. "What I really mean is — jioor Etty." "And why are you jmor Etty?" I returned, with outward composure, but a tide of anger rising in my heart. "What, Tiliby," she answered, "do ?/o?< ask me why 1 call myself ;>oor Etty ? The man that I am engaged to is ])oor, and bids fair always to be so ; surely then I am guilty of no great im- propriety in calling myself poor. This is the jirospcct before me. Four years hence Julian will return to Englaml, and begin life again I just as he was when he went on that luckless ' expedition to South America. He'll be an nn- der-viewer once again in Northumberland, with an income ail'ording him bare subsistence. And lij will say to me, ' Etty, we must wait and hope ! wait and hope! Ten or fifteen years hence I may jteriiaps have a ]iermanent post, and a sal- ary of four or five hundred pounds per annum, and then, when you are between thirty and for- ty, and I am between forty and fifty years old, we shall be able to marry. Only we must wait and hope !' Oh, Tibby, just think of me all this time, waiting and hoping! Air I not indeed 'poor Etty?' " This to me who knew so well a far deeper sor- row ! whose only prospect in life was to wait — without the jirivilege of hoping ! It was now my turn to be selfish and to judge harshly. For a few brief minutes, that brought with them years of disaster, I could not see the heavy burden of temptation placed njion her — a burden so out of ]n-oportion to her strength. All I could think of was her cowardly rej)ining over the sternness of her lot, and the hardshij)s of her case, and her ajiparent forgetfulncss of Ids trials and self-sacrificing heroism. "Etty," I said, hotly, "yon are unworthy the love of Julian. If 1 were betrothed to him, with the prospect of waiting and hoping through twen- ty years of adversit}', I should not wail because the unspeakable hajipiness to which I looked was deferred to a vague, far-olf future — because / had to battle with povcrtj-— because, while oth- ers enjoyed the sunny places of life, / was con- fined to humble toil. If I wailed at all, it should be l)ccause lie was overtasked and in trouble, and had (with all the forces of an impetuous nature rendering him intolerant of delay, and impatient of obstacles in the w'ay of his designed career) to wait and hope. I would not think of myself, but of Kim — Ids courage. Ids truthfulness. Ids magnificent disregard of self, and yet withal his bitter sense of deferred hope. Etty think more of hhn — less oi yourself.'''' "It's a pity, Tibby, ''she said, scoffingly, when I had brought my imprudent and very repre- hensible sj)eech to an end, "that he did not make you iin oifer. You would make him a much better wife than ever I shall." " Oh, Etty !" I exclaimed, flashing up, and as suddenly checking myself in my anger, "I woulil to (jod that he — " " Go on, Tibby," she rejoined quickly, her vi- olet eyes sending a shock through me. I was silent, ami, ]iutting my hand on the table to steady myself, was in fifty seconds much calmer. "Go on, Tibby,'' she again said, stooping down from the proud .elegance of her height, till her eyes were on a level with mine, when she added, slowly, "You mean to say you wish he had made you an offer. You would then have aecejitcd him ?" 1 drew away from her, not suddenly, and as though her inquiry had touched my conscicnic, but deliberately, as I might have drawn b.ick from a ]iassionatc child. Then I said, slowly, "Etty, recall what you have said. How dare you i)Ut such a question to me?" j\ly words, or my manner, or some reaction OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOKK. C7 of feeliiifj in her own breast subdued ber; for without saying more slic left tlie room. And for tlic second time since I had been an inmate of the cottage my grandfather's words recurred to mc, with such force that they seemed to be actually uttered in my room by a small clear voice, "Let nothing separate you from Etty; cling to her, make her cling to you. To quar- rel with one's own blood is to cut through one's own heart." The look that Etty had given me was a look that I had before experienced. Ilcr glance was the same as that my dear grandfather gave me on the evening of that day when Julian made his oli'er to my sister. It was the same glance, aimed at the same secret of my life ; and I could not conceal from myself that, in spite of myself, I had responded to it by the same self-betray- ing glance which I bad involuntarily directed to my dear grandfather on the occasion alluded to. My words, literally interpi-eted, had not publish- ed the secret, which it was clear Etty suspected, and which I would not for my life have her know. But had she seen my glance? Had she inter- preted it as thoroughly as my dear grandfather had done ? The storm was at end, and when I saw Etty again she was all smiles and tenderness. But I was not easy under her tenderness. What, I thought, had softened her so to me? We nev- er again spoke a harsh word to each other ; but tlicre was an embarrassment, of which we were both equally sensible, between us. We each knew that the other suffered under this embar- rassment. We still spoke of Julian, but with caution and restraint. By degrees we got into the habit of spending our hours of recreation apart from each other, and we manifested an in- clination not to intrude on each other's private moments. When Etty in her Ipisure time play- ed the organ in the church I never intruded on her solitude. And she acquired a habit of tap- jiing, ere she entered, at the door of my little closet, where I kept my books and liked to sit reading. CHAPTER XVI. ANOTHER AUTUMN. It was a relief to have the children back from their jNlid-summer holidays, and be at work again. A sense that life was going wrong with me, and that powers were silently in action bear- ing me on to unseen and unimagined disaster, robbed leisure of its sweetness. Occupation caused me, in spite of myself, to live in the pres- ent, and leave the future to take care of itself. Etty, I thought, resembled myself in this ; for with the recommencement of school duties some- thing of her old cheerfulness returned to her. For days together she would appear almost hap- ]./. But I never heard the silver laugh of her childhood ringing out peal upon peal. No, nev- er again was I to hear that laugli ! Sejjtember came, and on the first of the month Mr. Arthur Byfield Petersham was siiooting the partridges at Laughton. He was in deep mourn- ing for his mother; whose death, INIr. Gtudey informed us, would be assigned to the neighbor- ing county fiimilies as a reason for their not be- ing entertained with hospitality at the Abbey, as they were during the previous autumn. It was uuilerstood tiiat he had been greatly affected by Lady Caroline's death, and was desirous of quiet and retirement. On the fourth of September he called at the Cottage, and sat with me and Etty for more than half an hour. Ho was jiale, subdued in manner, and appeared to be very unwell ; but he talked to us freely, and in a vein of flattering confidence. The cottage, he said, put him in mind of Lady Caroline, and of the hapjty hours ' she had spent with us. He was pleased to see that our garden had been kept in such good or- der, and he surprised us agreeably by saying that he had that morning requested Mr. Gurley to give directions for the building of a small green- house at the south end of the cottage. "You see," he added, that we might make light of this kind and costly jjresent, " I feel that in building a green-house for yon 1 shall be both doing as my dear mother would wish me, and at the same time shall be only imjn'oving a pretty corner of my own property ; for my mother con- ceived a warm affection for you, and I have de- cided to buy this estate when it isoflered for sale." He told us that he meant to live in strict se- clusion during the six weeks or two months of his stay at the Abbey. He should shoot, for to do so would induce him to take the exercise requisite for his health ; and his old friend and school-fellow, Major Watchit, would join him in the course of a day or two. But otherwise he meant to have neither friend nor amusement to help him to get through his vacation. "In fact I want to be quiet," he said, witli a smile, "and Watchit's tongue won't disturb my medi- tations. He returns to India at the close of this year or at the beginning of next, and wishes to see as much of me as possible befox-e we part again for a term of many years. We are strong- ly attached to each other. Brothers are seldom good friends; but I feel for him just that senti- ment which simple people call brotherly love. yVll his queer ways have a charm for me. His deep imperturbable silence, covering as it does such extraordinary power, is far more pleasant to me than the talkativeness of other men." We suggested that he would like to see Amy Reickart, but he declined having an interview with her then. He would wait a day or two, and when he wished for the child's com])any he v.'ould send her an invitation to the Abbey ; "and possibly," he added, "when she conies you ladies will do me the honor of jiaying me a visit also, just as if my dear mother was — , just as you did last year." Of course Etty and I both of us reiilied that it would give us pleasure to accompany our pupil to his house. At the close of the week Major Watchit came down — posting in a handsome carriage, with a valet in the scat at the back. I mention thi^s trivial circumstance because it surprised me at the time. jNIajor Watchit was an officer in the Indian army, a service that did not rank so high thirty years since as it does now; and from that fact I had inferred that Major Watchit was not rich enough to maintain an equipage, and to travel in the style of a millionaire. Indeed, I said that much to Etty when, instead of concur- ring with me, she answered, "Oh, he is not a poor man, but has a fine unincumbered estate, lie was only a younger son when he went to 68 OLIVr. BLAKE'S GOOD "WOPxK. liuiia; but tlic death of an micle and an cliler lirotlicr altered liis circumstances altogether. He, however, likes the service too M'cll t(3 leave i'. anil lie has a certain prospect of the higliest promotion on his return to the East." Etty said this in a simple enoupli way. hut I vas jiuzzled to account for her being so Iji-im- ful of information that I had been completely in ignorance of. " How did you know all this?" I asked. "Mr. Petersham told me so last year," she answered. "But YOU never repeated it to me till now. I never heard that Major Watchit was rich." "If I did not speak about it, it was because I did not think it worth mentioning." I was, however, struck at the time by the fact that Etty had never communicated her knowl- edge of IMajor "NVatchit's circumstances to me before, seeing that she had attained her knowl- edge in the previous autumn, when I thought we had scarcely a secret fi-om each other. If she liad mentioned last week or last month as t!ie (late of her enlightenment on the matter in ques- tion, I should have felt no astonishment; for since then, and even before then, I had lived by myself, and siie by herself, though all the days lin-ough wc were liolding intercourse with each tither. So soon and so completely may sisters, eating at one table and sitting by one hearth, be severed ! On Sunday ]Mr. Petersham and his friend made their appearance at church ; but beyond returning their salute when they raised tlieir hats to us after service in the church-yard we held no communication with them. During the following day, however, a note came to Amy licickart inviting her to join her guardian's lunch < n the morrow. Another note addressed to me, (•x]jrcssed a lio])e on the part of Mr. Petersham that I and Etty would accompany his ward to the Abbey. "We can not both go, Etty." I said. " One nf us must remain here with the children, as Tuesday is not a half-holiday." "Oh, IMrs. Gurley will take the lessons for ns," suggested Etty. "No — no," I answered, (irmly; "Mrs. Gnr- 1p}- has once or twice taken charge of the girls (-n a half-holiday, hut I will not think of asking her to superintend liie school. Do you accom- ) any Amy. You"ll injuy the change." "No, I won't seize a treat in that way, Tibby. J.et us draw lots for it." Here are two pieei-s of ];apcr. You liold tlie .slijis and I'll draw. Come, the long one wins !" The drawing was in her favc>r ; so after morn- ing school she and Amy went to the Alibey, and returned to the Cottage for our six o'clock "tea," Mr. Petersham and JMajor ^Yatchit aicom])any- ing them as far as the clim-ch. During the next SIX weeks the same invitation was repeated five limes to Amy, and the child on each occasion ( f being so summoned went to her guardian's house attended by Etty or myself. I acted as her escort only twice ; indeed I ])urposcly ab- srained iVom discharging that d\ity oftener, for I hncw that the child preferred Etry to my.self, and I knew that Etty liked the recreation of a vi.'.ir to the great house. I therefore saw very little of the two gentlc- r,.cn, and Etty, as I imagined, also saw less of them tlian she did during the ])rcvions autumn. They never stopj)ed at our gate, leaving game for us and exchanging sentences of conversation as they did in the last shooting-season. Of course I attributed the discontinuance of these little ' courtesies to a careful consideration for ladies living without the jjrotection of near relatives of tlie sterner sex. In jjast days, as I have already stated, the attentions were always offered to us under Lady Caroline's name. It was, therefore, only appro))riate, now Lady Caroline was no more, that the acts of personal courtesy should come to an end. Whatever we might miss in one way, however, Mr. Petersham showed his anxiety to make up in another. The game- keeper left us more frequent presents of game, and the gardener lavished upon us a yet great- er alnindance of flowers and fruit ; and already, in consequence of Mv. Petersham's request, the carpenters and bricklayers were busily emjiloyed in constructing onr green-house, so that we might have it in perfect order and efficiency by the commencement of the cold season. Still tlie presence of Mr. Petersham in the Abbey made comparatively little diflfcrcnee to my life ; and in Etty I observed nothing that led me to siqipose she found the tenor of her days materially diversified. She did not take so mucli interest as I iii the erection of the green-house ; but she was cheerful, and continued with un- broken regularity her evening exercises upon the church o'rgan. As I have before stated, I left her the un- broken solitude of the church ; but as I walked in the moonlight under my cottage windows, after having ]iut my babes to bed, I would listen to the mellow tones of tlie organ, as its waves of deep-rolling sound ]}assed through the open win- dows of the church, and through the assembly of the silent tress, and rising to the silver heav- ens died away in cadences of solemn sweetness. More than once I marveled how Etty managed to win such magnificent volumes of music from I lie organ which, ever and again, would speak like a magnificent living creature — not like a mere contiivance of human ingenuit}*. "She is ha]ij)y now," I said, on several diflercnt occa- sions, "or she could not jilay in that manner. She must be hajjjiy. If her heart were breaking those sounds coidd fill it with gladness. Per- ha])S she is thinking of Julian, and, sweeping in triumph over all the temptations that sin'rotnul her life, is resolving to love him throughout her days on earth with all her soul and all her strength."' Ah me ! even then the tempter was by her side ; and .'^he, drinking in the poison of subtle words, was forming a hideous resolve to neglect her duty to man and to God! October came again, and with it the warmth and gladness of St. Luke's little summer. Om- Michaelmas holidays we had, at the request of some of our inq)ils' parents, postponed for a week or ten days; but they had begun and were drawing to an end. Indeed it was the last dny hut one of the holidays, and I was looking for- ward with the a]ipetite of a hungry person to the refreshment and solace of " another quarter's" ))rofitable work, when all the course of my life was al)ru])tly changed. I took tea with Etty and Amy Reickart in the usual way, and when the moon came uji to sur- vey the tranquil earth, from which an unusually OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD ^VOKK. C9 abundant harvest had been gathered, I put on my garden cloak and liat for my customary saunter and meditations bcoeatli tlie dark arms of our cedar-tree. I was in tlic garden more than two hours, and when I re-entered tlie cot- tage I remembered with surprise that the music of the organ had not been a ])art of my enter- tainment. It was strange ; for Etty had not for weeks omitted to visit tlie cluirch iu tlic evening. Wiiat could slie be about ? As I ascended the stairs to my bedroom I tapi)ed at her door, and said, " Good-night, Etty, darling ! Are you well ? I haven't heard the organ to-night. What have you been do- ing?" "Come in, Tibby," she responded, "and kiss me." On this invitation I opened tlic door, and en- tering found her at her writing. (She was writ- ing on the thin paper she ordinarily used for her letters to Julian. I was glad to see that. Per- haps I was at fault in thinking that she looked happy as she raised her dear eyes to me, and said, " I am busy writing, Tibby. But come and give me a kiss. I love 3'ou, my dear, very much to-night." "Love me so always, my beautifiJ sister of whom I am so proud," I answered. She rose and embraced me very tenderly. *' But you may not make me jilay, Tibby," she said, "for I am in the humor to write.'" I took the hint, saying lightlj-, as I left the room, "Etty, tell lain that his old friend wishes him to remember her affectionately." I meant these words as they were spoken — lovingly; but she started from them as a patient starts from an electric shock. Her emotion, as far as its outward exhibition is concerned, was not of two seconds' duration ; but it taught me a cruel lesson. We exchanged the words " good-night" again, and then I went to my room, saying to myself, "This is a torture greater than I can endure. What ! I may not even mention A/.* name to her — may not even send a word of love to him ! When they are married I must live apart from them. Oh, merciful Father, take this anguish from me !" Was it accident, or was it that guarding and All-mighty power whoso grandeur is best seen Ijy his feelile creatures in the care he takes of " lit- tle things," that led me to my cabinet of sacred treasures, and caused me to open a book and turn to a leaf on which a dried rose was ])ressed and fixed ? The rose had been given to nic! by one I loved well, and beneath it were written these words: "The lesson of the rose. There is no lot in life so stern, and cold, and hard, but it has somewhere a warm and secret corner in whirh human affection can blossom." "Oil, dear, dear grandfather!" I cried, "can not you come down to me from heaven and teach me how to cliny to Etty ?" CHAPTER XVII. TIIK LAST BLOW. "Run and call Miss Etty, and scold her for being so late, my dear little friend Amy," I said to Amy Reickarr, as we met in tiie breakfast- room the next morning. Etty was usually an early riser. But knowing- how she was occupied after we had jiarted on thj previous night, I had no dilheulty in finding a reason for her absence from the breakfast-table, although the clock on the mantle-piece hail struck half past eight o'clock. It was clear that she had written so late that she had cilh<.>r overslept herself, or was with design prolonging her rest on that last morning of the holiday.-, in order that she might begin "the quarter" with a full stock of physical vigor. " I have tajjjied at her door six times, Mi>s Tree," said Amy, returning from her mission, "and she doesn't answer me. Shall I go in? I should like." "Certainly. Go in.. Amy, .and shake her well, and call her a lazy, naughty girl," was my answer. Amy ran off in high glee with these second instructions. They were evidently to her mind, for she was Etty's pet, and they often had "a good game of play" together. " Miss Tree, she isn't there !" cried Amy, re- turning quickly from her second mission, with an expression of unusual animation and guile- less excitement in her pretty "child's foce," "and I don't believe she has been in bed. At least it's all just as neat as if it hadn't been used. The counterpane is all smooth, without a rum- 1 pie, and there was nothing on it but this note." I "Give it to me, child !" I exclaimed, spring- ing forward and clutching the paper in a man- ner so unlike my usual self that Amy was fright- ened, and began to cry. Here is a copy of the letter I took from the child's hand, sealed and directed to me : "Dear Tibbt, — You will not see me again for a long time, perhaps not for many years. As to whither I am going, for what object, and under what conditions, I can not tell you more than you will learn from the circumstances of my departure. This reserve is forced upon me, and is necessary. " Wait patiently, iear Tibby, and think of me as kindly as you can, until I may tell you all the ])artieulars of my conduct — all tlie considerations that have induced me to leave you in a manner tluit you will be tempted to stigmatize as heart- less and dislinnorablo. " I have already written to Julian, telling him tliat I can never be his wife. The step that I iiave now taken shows that I never really loved him — indeed, shows that I am incajiable of lov- ing him as he deserves. If I could persuade myself that he would forgive the wrong I've done him and — (yes, I will write it) — the shame I have brought upon him, and so far be led by the power of old associations and the memory of the strong friendship of his boyhood as to confer on you tli-! affection which I have rejected, I should linve one consolation in a life which, however brilliant it may eventually be, will have many sorrows, much bitter humiliation, and countless hours i,f regret. " Dear Tibby, do think charitably of me. Try to remember only the best of me. If I were like you, you would have nothing but what is best to remember. •• I will write to you, occasionally, from abroad. But you will only seldom hear from me — not oft- ener than once a vear. Etty." 70 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOKK. I was still standing, dizzy from the first read- ing of this letter, when my hoiisc-maid entered with a frightened look and told mc that Mr. Petersham was in the drawing-room and wished to see me instantly. I had not had an interview alone with him in that room since the day when he called to ar- range abont i)laeing Amy Kcickart witl) me. It was strange 1 should remember that, as I entered the drawing-room on the present occasion. It was strange that, as I looked on the mourning in wiiieh he was now attired, I should remember every article of the lighter costume he then wore. Even still more nnaccountable it may ajipear to some, that e\er and again, while I spoke to ]Mr. Petersham, my scared eyes a]ipeared to me to rest on Lady Caroline (dead, poor lady, and at rest), sitting on the sofa. I can remember almost every thing, even the most trivial and unim])ortant matters connected with that interview, save the exact words spoken to me by iMr. Petersham, (if them I can only remember the purport. He told mc that on be- ing roused by his servant that morning at an early hour he had learned that Major Watchit, without having communicated his intention of leaving the Abbey either to him or to the house- keeper, had taken his dejiarture on the jjrevious night, shortly after the family had retired to rest, lie and the Major scjiarated for the night at half ])ast ten, and the Major left the Abbey in his traveling carriage shortly after midnight, four post-horses having been brought to the Abbey, for the jNIajor's service, from the Blue Boar. Surprised at the intelligence, JMr. Petersham had sent for the landlord of the inn, and had learned from him that the ])Ost-hoys first con- veyed the Major to the great gate of the park, near the church, and there remained for more than. an hour — the carriage and the horses being drawn np under the cover of the trees, and the Major himself standing at the heads of the lead- ers. At the expiration of from an hour to an hour and a quarter a lady came into the avenue, through the gate from the i*)ad, closely wrapped in a dark traveling cloak and with a veil drawn over her face. A few words ] assed between Major Watchit and tiic lady, when he handed her into the carriage and took a seat by her side. As soon as the Major's valet had shut the car- riage and s])rung into his seat behind, "the boys" (who had not np till that time learned their des- tination) were ordered to make all sjiced along th.e London road to Short field-Br.zzard. On reaching Sliortfield-I'uzzard, frc-h horses anil hoys were taken, those in the service of tlK^ land- lord of the Blue Boar being dismissed by the val- et, with an additional crown-])iecc for each boy. The post-boys, on being examined by Mr. Pe- tersham, stated that they eouKl not stale [josi- tively who the lady was, but they believed she was one of the Miss Trees — the tall and beauti- ful Miss Tree. The lady's height and figure, which distinguished her from any oilier lady in or near Laughton, contrii)uted to tiuir forma- tion and adoption of this susjiieion; but they were chieily led to tlieir oiiinion by the gossiji of the town, and hy their knowledge that Major Watchit had of late been in the habit of meeting ISIiss'J'ree in tlie chuieh and playing the organ with JK'r. The laudlonl of Uie Blue Boar, on being re- examined by Mr. Petersham as to the rumors mentioned by his boys, stated that it was well known in the town that Major Watchit had fre- quently played the organ at the time the youn- ger Miss Tree was accustomed to practice on the instrument, and while that lady was in the church. There had in consequence been much idle gossip among his customers; hut he (the landlord) knowing the high character the ladv bore, and that she had been made known to Major Watchit by Lady Caroline Petersham, and was moreover a lady highly esteemed by all the gentry of the town, had discountenanced such impertinent conversation. I can recall that Mr. Petersham uttered some vague words, w hieh led me to exclaim, " Oh, Sir, you can not sus])ect that I You can not suppose my sister would be so base — so unutterably wick- ed!" I remember, too, that he tried to soothe my agitation, endeavoring to reassure me w'ith various futile words of solace, telling me that society would exempt me from all blame, that I was an object of commiseration, that he ■wtnild still continue to give me his countenance, and hoped that I would still lake charge of his ward. I remember feeling insulted by these paltry sug- gestions. More I can not recall, save that I was utter- ing some incoherent words of .shame and anger, when Mr. and Mrs. Gurley entered the room, and Miu Gurley clasped me in her arms. CHAPTER XVIII. FLIGHT. Was I right in christening this book "Fact"' — stern, hard fact — breaking down every crea- tion of ho]'e in wiiich my sjiirit had sought refuge from its tr(uible ? Or was I wrong not to call it " Shame ?" Dear Mrs. Gurley remained hy my side in the first hours of my anguish and humiliation, o])- ])Osing her jnire womanly goodness to all the shafts that idle curiosity aimed at mc. She did not essay to comfort mc with her lijis, but con- tented herself will) shielding me from ]:ain — l>y action. I do not think she uttered half a dozen sentences throughout the whole of that horrible day, but ]iermitte(l me to lie u])on the sofa un- disturbed by idle words. She busied herself at my writing-tlcsk with ]ien and ]iaper, sitting with noiseless delermiuation at her work, and only now and tiicn turning upon mc a look of ti nder but unobtrusive concern. "The notes to tiie ]iu])ils' friends, ])ost])oning the reassembling of tlie school till further notice," she said, curtly, on rising from the desk (after two hours' work) with a handful of« letters. Having disiiatcjieil the letters, she returned and look a chair by ihe window, from which she conld command a view of tlie entrance of ihe garden, and see every one who apjiroached the house. Of course the call- ers at tlic Cottage were frequent that morning; but none of tliem, save Mrs. Gurley, apjiroached my room. Noiselessly she left mc at the aji- ))roach of every visitor, and having firmly kept off" the intruder by the brief annonncemont that "I was loo ill to be dislnrbed," ri'lnrncd to her post of silent observation. Tlie hours jiassed on, and the sun was beginning to decline in the OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 71 west, throwing a soft splendor over the trees and water of the park, when the kind lady brought me a small tumbler of liot negus, and said, "Drink tliat, dear. You may trust me. I am not a troublesome nurse." It was impossible to refuse obedience to a request so preferred ; and in docile fashion, like a child, I drank otf the compound and was revived by it. " Amy Reick- art — where is she?" I asked, a dull sense of so- cial responsibility coming over me for the first time since I had received the awful news. "At my house, dear. She's with my children, and will be well taken care of. You have no busi- ness to think about. I and Gurley will manage every thing for you." 'j^fus did the merciful woman think for me and act for me. I remained shut up and strictly defended from intrusion for two days, during which time I be- came so calm that I was astonished at myself. I recognized all the aspects of my calamity, and I looked at them steadily, even as I would ad- vise every woman to face her sorrow and exam- ine it, not shrinking from it like a coward. I asked myself in silence — What could I do? What might I do ? What ought I to do ? What should I do ? And I answered all these ques- tions for myself to the best of my ability ; arftl having answered them, I decided on the course I would adopt, having frequently on my knees, in earnest prayer, asked God to guide, protect, and help me. On the third day Mrs. Gurley left me (as the afternoon wore on toward the evening), promis- ing that she would see me early the next day. Ere she departed I kissed her, and made her see — as far as poor feeble words and looks could do so — how deeply I was moved by her good- ness. "To-morrow, dear," she said, "I sliall bring my little girls with me. It will do you good to kiss them again." At which womanly speech, so full of poetry, so eloquent of that whieli ev- ery good woman knows to be the guiding senti- ment of a good woman's heart, I almost broke down ; when Mrs. Gurley, seeing my fortitude so severely tried, abruptly left me. That evening I wrote two letters in the follow- ing order : No. 1. "Dear Mr. and Mrs. Gurley, — I shall have left Laughton by the night - mail some hours ere you read this. You will not be angry with me for thus taking leave of you. I can not live in Laughton or in any place where my history and shame are known. I am well as- sured that every one would be very, very kind to me; but I could not bear their kindness — even your sympathy, were I near you, would be torture to me. In London I shall seek for some honest employment by which I may earn my bread so long as it may seem right to my Heav- enly Father to keep me here ; and I trust that the way may be shown me to do more good to my fellow-creatures than in my careless and hap- j)y cliildhood I have ever done them. "Dear jNIr. Gurley, I leave to your strong friendsliip for me the task of settling my affairs in Laugliton. ily debts are very few, amount- ing in all to not a tenth of wliat the furniture of the Cottaue will sell for. Be good enough tJ dispose of the furniture, and afier jiaying t'ac tradesmen their bills, place the rest of the money obtained by the sale to my account at the bank, wliere I already liave (thanks to your goodness !) nujrc than £300. The money can remain wliere it is. Half of it belongs to poor Etty, and per- haps slie will one day need the whole. Oil, God have mercy on her and jirotect her! "For myself — dear good friends, I beg you to dismiss anxiety for nic. I have an ample supply of money. If ever I should need more than my labor supplies me with, I promise to write to you and ask you to remit me some of my store. I will write to you occasionally to assure you of my well-doing ; and if ever I re- ally stand in need of a friend in London, I will apply to Mrs. Gurley's cousin in Oxford Street, whose address I have by me. Don't condemn me for my flight. You know I am not ungrate- ful to you. But I must bury myself until tliis dark cloud has passed away from the eyes of all who know me. "Dear Mrs. Gurley, if ever you are sad, by day or by night, remember your kindness to luj in the days of my affliction. Oh! dear, dear woman, the angels round the throne of Heaven have recorded it ! God bless you. " Your loving, grateful friend, "TiBBY Tree." No. 2. "Dear Julian, — The same mail that brings you this letter brings you another from my poor, wretched sister who has separated herself from you forever, and from me also forever, unless misery that I dare neither name nor think of sliould make her need again the sister she has tied from. Ferha])S she may have told vou more of her movements than she has imparted to me. All I know of tliem is gained from the letter she left for me to read after her flight (a copy of which I send you), and from the meagre inform- ation of the servants who aided lier in her clan- destine departure with Major Watchit. "Dear Julian, in my present deep horror of shame I think more of your misery than her sin or my own disgrace. My conscience tells me that since you left us I have neither overlooked, nor neglected, nor omitted any thing the per- formance of which, or attention to which, ap- peared to me likely to keep her love of you alive in her heart, and to make her worthy of you. Indeed, I have been your true, zealous, faithful friend, even as I was in our childhood, ere we spoke together in Lymm Hall Gardens. Do be- lieve this of me. I implore you to believe this of me. "In a few hours I shall leave Laughton. I could not endure in my degradation the jiity of those who have known me in my honor. What consolation would it b3 to me that the charity of my old friends and new acquaintances ex- empted me from the ignominy of ])articipatiou in, or connivance at, my sister's guilt ? How could it comfort me to know that the finger of scorn avoided me only that it might ]>oint the more directly at the poor misguided child, whose shame is mine, even as her suft'erings, if I ever hear of them, will be shared by me. I intend to seek tlic means of livelihood in London, where I shall enjoy the best chance of escaping the rec- (ignitii)n of tliosc who have ever heard of me, or Laugliton, or dear Farnham Cobb. When you 72 OLIVE IJLAKES GOOD WORK. return to England do not try to hunt nic out. If yon discovered mc I sliould shrink from you j\nd feel for you as an enemy. Forget, Julian, the little girl wlio played with you in your boy- hood, and the woman who shared your oonli- denees in early manhood. Both for me and for yourself it is right that you should, by a strong clfort of your mighty will, wi])e out the ])ast from your memory. You ean make for yourself an- other and brighter career than any you ho])ed for with my sister for your wife. The God who orders all things for us, and who even in this work of sorrow has a benetieent purpose, ean still lead your ste])s to gladness. But if all your after-days here below are darkened — dear, dear Julian, bear in your mind that the longest life here is but a brief sojourn, and that when the toil and anguish of the Cliristian's saddest lot have terminated he goes home to a loving Father, who will, even as His jiromises arc sure, comfort him and make him glad forever. '"Your old faithful friend, "TiKLiY Tree." Having written these letters I jjackcd up, in a small case, a few articles of wearing a|iparel, and selected from my limited wardrobe a dura- ble dress of black merino, which I had relin- quished in the preceding spring when I cast aside the mourning dresses made in respect for my dear grandfather. I furbished up also my old black bonnet and winter cloak of black cloth. These ])reparations acconijilished, I waited ])a- tiently till the clock in the church-tower struck the half hour after midnight. The maids after bringing me my supper, according to Mrs. Gur- ley's directions, had retired to rest three hours before, and the Cottage was thrc^ghout as tran- quil as the slacp of innocence. With a candle in my hand I crept through the rooms, taking a last look at the little house and the vacant bed- rooms ; Etty's deserted bed, w ith the jnllow on which she had so often laid her golden hair; the dining-room, with a crayon sketch of Etty on the wall ; the school-room, with the arm-chair in which Etty used to sit at the head of her class; the little kitchen in which Etty would sometimes make herself so hap]iy with the bus- tle of housewifery. Through all th'ese rooms I went, gazing at them sadly. Then 1 returned to my bedroom, and having arrayed myself in deep mourning, already mentioned, I consider- ed whether I had forgotten any thing. Yes. There were two things I would take with me, out of my cabinet of treasures — Juliaifs letters, and the book in whicli I had put ''the rose." All the other things in the cabinet jMrs. Gurley might inspect, and do what she thought right with them. But Ids letters (the letters I had de- termined to give to her on her next birthday) I would still keep. And I would not give uj) tiic les.son of the rose. "There is no lot in life so stern, and cold, and hard but it has s(mie\vherc a \varm and secret corner in which human ati'ec- lion can blossom!" Surely I needed the com- fort of that lesson more than ever! There was just enough nmii)i)ropriated room in the i)acking-casc for the letters and tiie man- uscrij)t book. Having put them in the case and duly locked it, I .secretly — as secretly as Etty had departed a few nights before — left the Cottage. Tiie night-mail, I knew, changed horses at the Blue Boar at two o'clock : so I had ample time to walk the mile l)ctween the cottage and the tavern. I found, however, my packing-case heavier thati 1 had anticipated. Its weiglit com- pelled me to "change hands" frequently, and made very accei)table the brief rest I indulged in while I posted my letters — No. 1 and No. 2 — at tho ]iost-ofHce in the High Street. When I reached the Blue Boar the night- mail was due, but it had not arrived. I entered the booking-ollice aiul asked if I could have an inside place. The clerk stared at me with sur- lirisc, as he well might, for he doubtless knew mc; and then answcax-d that be could not an- swer me till the arri;#l of the coach. As he was still sjicaking the mail dashed up, and the clerk ran out to see whether there was a vacant place f>ir me. To my great relief I heard the coach- man respond, with an cxclanuition of anger, that he hadn't a single inside jiassenger. That was a comfort. So I paid my fare — £2 lO.s. — out of the £25 I had iir my pocket, and, having in- duced the guard to place my ])acking-case un- der tiie seat, I slipped into the coach, and throw- ing myself back in a dark corner, hoped to es- cajie observation. "Between "Tiie Cottage" and the Blue Boar I had not encountered a single individual of any kind whatever. Not a foot was to be heard in the High Street save my own ; and the clouds, hanging in thick masses above, effectually cur- tained the moon and stars. At the booking-of- fice, however, there was some bustle with the hostlers, and stable-helpers, and two or three young men who stood about smoking cigars. Sitting in the coach, I listened with a beating heart to the clatter of the horses' feet as they came from or entered the yard of the Blue Boar, and to the conversation of the coachman with the guard, office-clerk, and loungers. The brill- iant lamps of the mail and the lanterns of the hostlers enabled me, sitting in the darkness, to discern all that went on at the door of the hotel, and gave a picturesque effect to the pavement, and the tavern walls, and the people — all whicli objects, even then, I remarked. "It'll be a rough night," said the coachman, drawing on his huge white over-coat, abounding in cajjes. "Ay ; but it was a splendid sunset and even- ing,'' said the guard. "That won't make the night any the better, or the morning either," replied the coachman, surlily. "Who's inside ?" "One passenger — a lady," rejilicd the guard. "Come; no old joke like that." "Nonsense, mate, I don't mean the mad wo- man. Y'ou know there is a passenger. And so I answ'cr to your question — one small lady, with a small leather jiacking-case." " Umjih ! that all ?" answered the surly coach- man. "Better luck then for my horses." As he said this the coachman and guard went together into the Blue Boar for a glass, and dur- ing their absence I heard the following conver- sation carried on in mysterious mnttcrings and whispers, by three voices, close to the coach- window — the state of the atmosjihere testifying that the voices were intimately connected with a strong smell of tobacco smoke. First voice. " Nonsense ; yer caarn't mean it ?" Second voice. " Brought all Jicr luggage her- OLIVE ULAKE'S GOOD WORK. 73 self, I tell you — paid her fare for Loiulon, £2 10s., just as if she could buy the wliolo coun- ty. And now she's off to meet her precious sis- ter." Third voice. " Well, I'm blowcd. Can't make it out. Who'd ha' thought it? Any how the money isn't drawn. There warn't no check pre- sented at four o'clock this afternoon." First voice. "That's a rummy go. Surely they won't think the swag beneath their no- tice." ^''econJ yotce (bitterly). "Pooh! I know what's what. That money'U all be drawn fast enough. Leave them alone for that. Didn't I tell you that's how she would run? didn't I say — 'Keep your eye on the night-mail for one week, and you'll see what you will see ?' There were some as laughed. But you see I've caught my bird — Ah! she's just as bad as the pretty one." Third voice. "She's worse: for she isn't pret- ty, and hasn't in consequence no temptation to go wrong." First voice. " Caarn't we see her? I should like a sight on her afoi'e she goes." Second voice. " Wait a moment, stupid ! The guard '11 be here directly with a light." Third voice (triumphantly). "Well, we're ahead of the town — respecting the latest intelli- gence. How mad Tom Chivers '11 be !" The second voice was right. In another min- ute the guard came and put a lamp into the coach. " I would rather be in the dark," I said hur- riedly to the guard. "It's against orders. Miss," he answered, civ- illy. "I should like to oblige you, but my or- ders arc, always to light the inside wlien there's an inside jjassengcr." Of course I had nothing to do but to consent to the inconvenient arrangement. The lamp was a dim one, but it was sufficient for the jjur- pose of the possessors of the voices, who crowd- ed round the window and stared at me as though I were a famous criminal. In one of them I rec- ognized the undcr-clcrk of the Laughton bank. Fortunately my veil was a thick one, and I had not to endure tlnjir impertinent curio^ity long, for at the very moment that they were gratified with "a sight" of me the rain fell down in tor- rents, and swept them away like leaves ; and be- fore the storm had abated the four horses of the night-mail were galloping out of the town on the London road. The last jiouse of any importance at the Lon- don end of the straggling town was the gram- mai--school. where Julian and his brother had received their education. As the night-mail rattled under its avails I recalled how, in the previous JNIid-summer holidays, I had obtained access to the deserted play-ground, and had found, cut in the red brick of the boundary wall, the inscription " Jnlianus Gower fecit hoc, May 22, 18 — ." He had cut the inscription when he was quite a little fellow. BOOK IV. PART THE FIRST OF A WOMAN'S STORY :— BEING THE NAR- RATIVE OF OLIVE BLAKE'S SIN. CHAPTER I. A SOCIAL QUESTION. There has of late years been more than an average force of satire directed against merce- nary marriages, and those measures which, in an artificial state of life, parents, anxious to se- cui'e the happiness of their offspring, employ to secure their daughters against the miseries of ill-conceived and imprudent matrimonial alli- ances. In some eases this satire is a protest against the conduct of people of the opulent classes, who object to unite themselves with in- dividuals of humble rank and necessitous condi- tion. Sometimes it seems to be little more than the petulant arrogance of young men, smarting under the humiliating pressure of discontented poverty, and insolently proclaiming their natu- ral right to lead off, as wives, ladies whose nat- ural and adventitious endowments render them of distinction in the society of the distinguished. Occasionally it presents itself with more modes- ty, and adopts language closely resembling that of connnon sense. The lesson, however, that it woidd teach, whether the language of mere bombast, or the sarcasms of wounded vanity, or the sim])le i)hrascs of childish sentimentality be employed, is always this — that viariii(;es de con- venance are detestable compacts — detestable be- cause they set at defiance the grandest and most beautiful laws of nature — and thrice detestable bectause their resitlt is an enormous harvest of hutnan wretchedness. I nutst beg leave to refuse my assent to this general proposition. I am not sure that viariacjes de couvennncf htq arrangements to be discountenanced. Looking for facts from which I may generalize, I read (and I do not blush to own it) the i-evelations of tlie Divorce Court — where broken vows, brutal passions, satanic vengeance, vile desires, loath- some appetites, contemptible caprice, petty pee- vishness, and all the various forms of evil that occasionally fester under the fitir exterior of do- mestic life, are put before the eyes of vulgar spectators in all their hideous and repulsive re- ality. I read these revelations, carefully study- ing the histories, so far as I can arrive at them, of the unhajipy creatures whose crimes and wrongs are held up to ins])ection, and systemat- ically endeavoring to trace to its source the moral defilement thus cxiiibited. But it is only seldom that my search for "tiie beginning" leads me to tlie kind of matrimonial union against which our novel-writing m(u-alists arc so severe. On the whole, the love-match, witli its bower of bliss, seems to bo a more frequent commence- ment than the mariage de convenance, with its care- 74 OLIVE BLAKES GOOD WORK. fully-proiiarcd settlements, to those painful trag- edies wliieh close with jtulfjnicnt in a law court and sensation on tiie jiart of outraged society. Fre(]uently, of course, tlic ordinary matrimo- nial alliance, which ]\Iay-Fair practically ap- j)lauds and theoretically condemns, lias an nn- hapjiy conclusion. But do not other unions turn out ill ? And is it not more than probable that the misery of many of these loudly-assailed "family arrangements" which do result in dis- aster is to be attributed not so much to the na- ture of the compact, as to the fact that the par- ties to them have not from the outset of life been soberly and appropriately trained for entering into them? 1 do not venture to make any de- cided answer to this question, for I am disin- clined to dogmatize to society on matters of liigh pul)lic im[)ortance. I would I'ather leave the discussion and settlement of such grave affairs to the strength and earnestness of the masculine intellect. All that I say here I would offer only by way of suggestion ; and it would greatly i>ain me to have an undue value given to my expres- sion of regret that English girls of the iiighcr ranks, wliilc they are really destined for mur'xKjcs de convenancc, should be in their first day-s])ring of feeling either educated and expressly instruct- ed to jiblior them, or at least be encouraged to adopt the sentiment that it is more noble for a woman to remain in a single state all her days than to marry a man who does not in every re- spect come up to her ideal of manly perfection. 1 can not liclj) thinking that the elders of society manifest some mental confusion, and still more moral cowardice, on tliis subject of matrimony. Since experience and usage support the system of )jriident matrimonial comjiacts, why arc satir- ists jjermitted, witliont reproof, to brand them with the odious term of merrenary ? why does society give an insincere countenance to the cal- umny? and, above ail, why arc girls, who are appointed to live and move in a world of arti- ficial construction, incited to shape their course according to the dictates of their natural suscep- tibilities, and to embrace views suited only to a state of society very much better, or a state of society very much worse, than that which we at present enjoy ? '' Here," my friends will say, " is Olive Blake flying again in the face of the world, according to her wont ! Has she not sufficiently scandal- ized society liy publishing her last volume of poems witli (jreek notes? Must she now be pugnacious against the existing order of things on the subject of the marriage bonii ? Wliat can be her motive?" My motive, my kind questioners, is sim])ly tliis. I am going to tell the story of my early life — how I was betrothed while I was in the nurserv, hoAv, at the direction of a dearly beloved father, I was married to a man almost if not quite old enough to be mj' sire, and how my marriage — Wf)rse than no marriage — brought u))on me suffering and shame immeasurable. 1'he course of my tale will ])oiiit me out as the victim of .a mariai/p de coin-ciumre. And if it were not for the foregoing jjj'elude, my autobio- graphical sketch would lead my readers ro infer that I altogether condemn a .•-ystcm which bore hardly on myself, whereas I ilo not ])resume to make my misfortunes a ride for all the world. For the system, 1 am undecided whether it be good or bad. I have therefore guarded myself against a misconstruction that would represent me as attacking that system. Here is my mo- tive for being ''pugnacious against the existing order of thin^rs." CHAPTER II. A FAMILY COMPACT. My childhood was so hapjiy, and at the same time so unlike that of most English girls of my time, that it demands a few words of retrosjicct- ivc description. English parents are rapidly im- proving, and the cross-grained, churlish, egotist- ic, selfish English parent is fast becoming an ex- tinct species of our national humanity ; but thir- ty, forty, and fifty years since (the further back one goes to Aubrey, and beyond him to Sir Roger Ascham, and beyond Sir Roger to the Raston Letters, one finds the unpleasant features of p'arental and filial relations to increase in num- ber and emrmity), childhood was too frequently a long jieriod of mortification and bitter experi- ence. To be badgered incessantly with '"you inmjn'f, do this," and "you iinist do that,'' to be twitted and taunted about defects consequent on 0- fyeblc constitution, to be convicted by circum- stantial evidence of disobedience, insubordina- tion, "qucerness," and all the other horrible crimes which persons of tender years can perpe- trate, to be goaded into rebellion, and then starved and dark-closeted into a servile prostra- tion of individual will — this was the ordinary childhood of half a century since. Let the merry, petted little tyrants of the present genera- tion in due course learn that such was the case, . and the memory of far-distant nursery gladness, standing out in contrast with the niemoiy that vii(jlit /idve occujiied its place, will render doubly jileasant the task of ministering to the failing powers of those who cherished them tenderly when they were little ones. Fortunately my father was a man, in all that respected his paternal character, far before his time. A mother I had never known, for my birth was her death ; but my father's tenderness more than sujjplied the loss I thus sustained. I\ly wishes were never thwarted. If their grati- fication would have been hurtful, devices were emjiloj'ed to make me forget them, but they were never met with harsh and unsympathetic refusal. .Speaking after the light of their days, my father's friends of the siU'ter sex impressed ujion him that he would spoil me, and that under his too in- dulgent 7-c;/iiiie I should grow up cajjricious, self- willed, oiiinionated, and violent. There was just enough natural tendency to these faults in me to justify the apprehensions of the good la- dies ; and 1 do fully believe that any kind of education, difterent from my father's lenient and enlightened system, wotdd have brought me u)) to the fidl staiuLard of the evil predicted of me. As it was — thanks to my father's consistent gen- tleness! — I enjoyed my childhood thoroughly, and entered life with a temjicr unembittercd and slow to take offense, although it was constitution- allv excitable, and sometimes even irritable. As the only child of Matthew Blake, the wealthy banker of the firm of " retershani and Blake," I was reared in luxury, and with all those best means of educational jn'ogress which .^ I OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 75 money can purchase. I do not think any one Would call nie "plain;" I am tall, and have a face which, thougii it is not altogether free from the signs of mental trial and bodily suffering, is sufficiently well-looking ; but I am no beauty. Even at seventeen I could not have persuaded myself that I was a beauty. Whatever natural endowments I have beyond the ordinary run of women may be summed up tiius; A good mem- ory, some imagination, a strong taste for the quiet jjursuits of the study and the studio, a con- siderable natural faculty for music, anti a very unusual amount of perseverance. With these gifts (the most important of which is the last) I have achieved a reputation for genius, without having one solitary spark of it; and I believe that any woman similarly qualified might do the like. I do not know whether this assurance will be a consolation to any of those " objectless spinsters" who just now are raising their eyes from the earth's surface, and are irajiloring the moon to give them something to think about ; but I trust it may. In my education I was singularly fortunate — far more so than the majority of English ladies can hope to be. For every accomplishment I ]i;ul a professor of the very bast kind. Masters came from London to my fatlier's villa at Ful- liani, from the time that I was six till I was six- teen, and instnicted a willing puyiil. Sometimes a 5 many as three masters visited iiie in the course of the day. I had three music-masters, who came to me three times a week — one for the ))iano-forte, one for the Inrp, and one for sing- ing. A distinguished Royal Academician in- structed me in the use of the pencil ; and Girtin, till his genius was gatli a-ed from us by an un- timely death, taught mj to paint with water- colors. An accurate knowledge of Frencli and Italian was imparted to me by jjrofessors of note. German I did not acquire till a comparatively recent date ; but before I was fourteen I had gained my father's permission to learn Latin, imder the guidance of an Oxford scholar. I liad also riding masters and dancing professors in continuous succession. It may not, however, be imagined that I was overdone with instruction — that I was crammed. So far was this from being the case, I never had' one minute's experience of school-room head- ache. My masters were agreeable, entertaining gentlemen, and were paid liberally to amuse as _well as to teach me. I did, and they did, just as much as I liked, and no more. They seemed almost my playmates, I laughed and ])rattled with them so freely. I was to tiiein " Mattliew Blake's little heiress," "Matthew Blake's ]>reco- cious little child," and they had ample reasons for striving to make nn like them. My father also was at great pains to find me abundance of cheerful society, and I had a long list of ac- quaintances and "dearest friends" of my own age. On the amount and regularity of my dai- ly exercise my dear father was very particular. Every day, when the weather permitted me. to do so, I rode at least twelve miles about the /neighborhood on one of my ponies, a dainty lit- tle page-groom, booted and sjjurred, and simi- larly mounted, following close at my heels — while, for greater security, one of my father's grooms, or the old coachman, rode behind us, at a distance of fiftv vards. In wot weather I took walking exercise, skipped ropes, and rode my ponies in the centre of the prodigious con- servatory, which had been built as large as a riding-school for my express accommodation. Perhaps, however, the clement of my early education which had the most i)ernianent infiu- ence on my character was my dear father's treat- ment of me. He always displayed to me the rc- s])ect due to a woiiuin. He sometimes, when I was a very little one, nurseil me on his knee, and to the last he would be ])layful to me in words and acts; but he never caused me to feel that I was only a cliild. I always dined with him when he was alone. One of my earliest recollections is of sitting at the head of his table (when I could not have been more than five years of age), while he and I gravely pledged each other — he, drinking a glass of wine, and I putting my lips to a little wine-glass, filled with toast-water. I remember that occasion also by the fact that my father's sister (Mrs Wilby, who died lately in extreme old age) was of the jiarty, and looked on with surprise. I had never be- fore seen her, and was informed after dinner that she had come to reside with us, and act as my companion and chaperon. 'And in such capac- ity of grave domestic friend the kind old lady continued to live with me till the time of her death. In the same way that INIatthew Blake drank to his little child's health, he talked to her with the gravity which ciiildren always enjoy, but are seldom honored with, in intercourse with their elders. He always converged with her, as tar as it was possible to do so, on sulyects which in- terested him, and in such a manner that they interested her. He was a connoisseur and col- lector of works of art, having in his elegant and sjiacious villa many valuable paintings, and a precious museum of rare engravings, old etch- ings, coins, and curious gems. About all these he used to speak to his precocious little girl in so entertaining a manner that she could not do otherwise than remember what he said, and in time came to know almost as much about them as her tutor. As years went on he introduced her to matters of business, explaining to her all the ])henomena and mysteries of the credit sys- tem which sustains the gigantic operations of modern commerce. It is no exaggeration of the strange truth to say that, when the little girl was thirteen or fourteen years of age, she knew as much about the history and worth of public se- curities, the modes by which governments raise loans, and the means by which sj)eculators turn such loans to their advantage, as most young men do who §pend all their hours in the atmos- j)here of Lombard Street. Among my other absurd manifestations of pre- cocity was a taste for scribbling. The comjiosi- tion of my first poem I can not recall ; but my first volume of jioetry was printed when I was only thirteen years of age. The edition con- sisted of tirelve copies, which, it is needless for me to say, were jealously confined to private circulation. I have my fondly ]iroud father's co]iy now iii my possession, with the following entry on the lly-leaf, in his handwriting: "My wt)nderful chilli's j)oems, ]irinted in the first month of her fourteenth year. — Matthew Blake." I was just sixteen years of age when this in- dulgent father, as we sat over the dessert one 7G OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. winter evening, said to me : "Olive, I have ask- ed Mrs. Willn- to leave us alone for a few hours, and to sec that we arc not disturbed. Can you spare nic that time for the consideration of im- portant business?" "Certainly, dear papa," I answered, leavin<; my seat at the head of the table, and taking,' possession of a chair close to him. "That my health has long been in a jnccari- ous state you arc well aware, Olive?" "You are not worse?" I inquired, remember- ing, as I did so, that for several days past he had been more pale and thoughtful than usual. " No, not worse than 1 knew I should be, only nearer my end. My darling girl, it is now ten years since I first ascertained that I had within me the seeds of a malady that ^\'ould jircvent my seeing extreme old age. Uad 1 been nervous or dejiressed by the discovery, you would have lost me years since; but I am of an equable tcmijcr- ament, and in every division of my life I have had cause for contentment, so I have had a longer term of pleasurable existence than my physician ten years since thought probable or even possible. The time has now come, how- ever, when I must iA?sign myself to a termination of this life. Another medical opinion has con- firmed the decision of my old and trusted phy- sician that I can not continue here much longer. Most likely the course of the next twelve months will make you an orphan." I was silent, and gave no sign of emotion save that I took my father's right hand and j)ressed it against my lips. I. knew that any stronger ex- pression of my grief and dismay would trouble him, and I felt that he had only begun his im- portant communications, and needed all iiis strength and mental composure for what he had still to say. "Thank you. You arc a brave girl," he said, with an air of relief, as he read in my face no signs of womanly weakness, and saw in my eyes 110 lack of filial concern ; "I knew I coukl trust you. Now the worst of my evening's business is over." He mixed himself a tumbler of wine-and-wa- ter, and having delilierately refreshed himself with a portion of it, he turned to me and com- menced a statement of his wishes wiili regard to me that effectually controlled my course when he was in the grave. " I iiave never treated you as a child is oidi- narily treated. You have been my friend as well as my child ; and young as you are I have few secrets from you. I am now going to give you a last proof of my confidence by telling you the contents of my will, and the. reasons that have indusicd me to make it. I am now just sixty years of age. Fivc-and-forty years ago I entered the bank of the late Mr. Petersham in Lombard Street, witli a salary of £80 jier annum, and no prosjiect of any advanc'ement save by a disjdiiy of intelligence and zeal. I was then a poor lad, without a single wealthy relation or opulent friend; whereas now, though I am still only ajiproaehing tin; entrance to old age, I have rather more than i;;55(),0()() — ail that wealth, and the luxury with which I have lived for more than a quarter of a century, being a consequence of my connection with a master able to dis(!ern business capacity in a servant, and generous enough to reward it with a liberal hand. I do not need on the present occasion to describe mi- nutely or even to name the services which, while I was still ordy a clerk, I was able to ivnder my benefactor, and which earned for me his confi- dence and even his gratitude. It is enough for me to say that they led to my obtaining a ])art- nershi]5 in his business, and to my being now one of the most infiuential men in the city of London. Alfeetion not less than jiride made me, as they still make me, value highly mv po- sition as a member of the house of ' Petersham and Blake.' The strong attachment I formed for the late Mr. Petersham — whom it is now as much my ]nide as ever it was to style my bene- factor — was not confined to him. When I was made a ]jartncr in the house it was with the cor- dial consent of the present Mr. Petersham, whom you have often seen, and who was even tlicn his father's partner. That gentleman, though twelve or fifteen years my senior, had on my first intro- duction to him, as the j'oungest of his numerous clerks, formed a favorable opinion of me — an ojiinion destined s-lowly to become a warn) and genuine friendship that, after many trials, is at the ju'csent date as steadfast as ever it was. " Vou may now, Olive, dismiss from your mind (for the jjresent) all thought of my first benefactor, as I shall henceforth s]jeak of my re- lations with his son — our very dear friend, and the i)rcsent head of the firm. Sound from base to summit as our firm is, and wealthy as are its members, Mr. Petersham and I have more than once discussed the effect it would have on its character if my accumulations were withdrawn from it. My wealth, I need not tell you, is tri- fling compared with his; but from causes wliicli you will fully a])preeiate directly they are jjoint- ed out to yon, his projierty is not so available as nunc for those emergencies which frequently oc- cur in the career of such a house as ours. Mr. Petersham's position and name in the monetary world are the affairs of generations, and he now not unnaturally is ambitious of mei'ging his com- mercial honors in that patrician dignity which is the highest object of worldly ambition to a British subject. For himself he has no other wish than to die a commoner as his father did before him, but he has for years labored to attain an iMiglish ]ieerage foi' — I was going to say his son, but it would bo more right for me to say his /loiise. It may be a foolish aim in the eyes of ])hiloso])hy ; but still it is his and)ition — it is an ambiiion which his noble father would not have disap]irf)ved — and it is an ambition with which I heartily sympathize. My dear friend in mo- ments of ])rivaey and confidence has fre(piently said to ine, 'I do nut want a scat in the House of Lords for myself. I should be (luite hapjn' if I could ])Ut matters in such a train that 1 could feel sure my boy would arrive at the honor when I am in the grave.' And as often I have said, ' Petersham, as surely as you are my old bene- factor's son and my own true friend, your am- bition shall 1)0 min;'.' "'J\) acquire iniluenco ^\ith ministries, who arc the channels through which the honors of I he Crown flow to subjects, Mr. Petersham has for many years pursued the not unwise ]iolicy of purchasing landed estates, the possession of which is accompanied with the control of adja- cent boroughs. A very large i)roportion, there- fore, of his vast property has been expended on I OLIVE BLAKE'S GODD WORK. 77 the acquisition of laiul, wliieh, from its jieciiliai- niiture, is always sold at liutitioiis, ami froquL'iit- ly at enormous, j)ri(.-t's. As a consecinence of this, 'the house' so much dejmids — 1 will not say for its stability, but for it^^tijort — on my property, which, every f;irthin<^ of it, is engaged ia its o])erations, that if I were to withdraw from its capital that amount of my accumulations, which I am at liberty to withdraw at any mo- ment I please, the result would be a serious in- convenience to Mr. Petersham, though not ex- actly a blow to the security of ' Petersham and Blake.' If I were to be so ungrateful and ut-' terly dishonorable as to take the step just men- tioned, my friend would have at an enormous loss to convert much of his land into personal estate ; would possibly have the annoyance of ■witnessing ' the house' for a few weeks an object of distrust ; and would certainly have to surren- der his life-long schemes under circumstances that would subject him to many causes of pain, among which the ridicule of rivals would be not the least." I now discerned one object that lay near my father's heart, and with a natural desire to show how fully I sympathized with him, and was anx- ious to obey every hint of his wishes, I said, "Dear father, do not trouble yourself with need- less explanation. Whatever arrangement you may make of your wealth, I shall regard as best because you made it. Indeed, you oppress me with kindness in thus condescending to give me explanations on a subject which properly rests on your decision alone." "Nay, dear Olive," he answered, with one of his sweetest smiles, "though I give you pain, and ojijiress you with kindness, I must continue ; for ere I have done I have to speak to you on a subject that concerns you more nearly than gold." Of course I was silent. "You see, then, without more words," con- tinued my father, "that I desire the bulk of my pro]jerty to remain after my death in the hands of 'Petersham and Blake.' It still remains for me to state the conditions on which my dear friend Petersham Avould like that either he or his son should benefit by such an arrangement. It has long been his hope and mine that on at- taining a marriageable age you would become I the wife of Arthur Byfield Petersham, and share I with him the dignity whicli we trust he will one '■day derive from our united wealth." I only b'jwed my liead at tliis announcement, which, I own, greatly disturbed me. " You are young, far too young, my cliild," resumed my fatlier with emotion, after a jiause, '' to have your head troubled witli such tlioughts as these. But still you are so old, that I should not like to look upon you in the last moments of my life, and know that I had kept you in ignorance of my plans for you. Between this and the hour of my death I covet a perfect con- fidence with you, Olive. If, when my dust is committed to the earth, it should be allowed me to hold communion with your mother, I should exult in being able to assure her that you and I were friends indeed, without one touch of fear troubling, and without one reserve limiting, our love. I could not endure on my bed of sick- ness to imagine you saying, after my li])s had ceased to move, 'Oh that my father had told me this!' "You can not in your heart, Olive, for an in- stant sujipose that 1 would liy my will force ujion you a distastcfid marriage. It is true that Air. Arthur Petersham is fifteen years your senior; but he is an honorable and highly accomjilishod young man, much admired in .society, and one who, descended from a gentle line on his father's side, and born of a mother of a high patrician family, might, even had he no more than a Iiiin- dretltii part of his wealth, without j)resumpti(jn seek an alliance with any lady of our aristocracy. Moreover, I do not bind yon to marry him. Let me tell you the provisions of my will. On my death the trustees of my i)roi)erty will invest £50,000 in the funds. That £50,000 and this villa, with the little land around it, will be strict- ly settled on you and your children, whoever ho may be whom you marry. The rest of my prop- erty (which we will call £300,000) will i-emain invested as it is at present in the house of ' Pe- tersham and Blake,' the same interest that is now paid upon it being still paid at certain specified periods to the trustees for your sole benefit, until you attain the age of five-and- twenty. When you have attained that age, and not before, I wish you, unless you feel an in- superable objection to do so, to marry Mr. Arthur Petersham. In case such marriage should take ])lace, I direct that the duties of your trustees, as far as regards the capital invested in 'Petci'- sham and Blake,' terminate — that capital, on the solemnization of the marriage, becoming without restriction of any kind the pro])erty of your husband. But now listen to me, Olive, for I come to the provisions of m.v will, in case the marriage I desire should not take place. Sliould the proposed union not eventuate through Mr. Arthur Petersham being disinclined or unabla by his own act to become your husband on your attaining the age of twenty-five, tlie trustees named in my will are directed to withdraw the capital already mentioned from 'Petersham and Blake,' and pay it over to yon for your sole and unrestricted use. In the same way if, on attaining tlie specified age, you should decline to fulfill your engagement with Mr. Arthur Pe- tersham, because lie has been proved guilty of certain acts (specified in my will) which would render him unlit to be your husband, you in like manner will, as under the former contingencies, obtain unlimited possession of the £300.000. On the other hand, if when you are twenty- five Mr. Arthur Byfield Petersham is willing an 1 able to marry you, and has not proved himself by the conduct specified unworthy of you, and yet you see fit to refuse to become his wife, the £300,000 invested in 'Petersham and Blake' will be his, just as if he had mar- ried you ; yon in such case enjoying only this villa and the £50,000 settled uj)on you, and such sums as have accumulated in the hands of the trustees in the discharge of their trust be- tween my death and your reaching the age of five-and-twenty. I have also j)rovided against another contingency. Yon may, bet\)re attain- ing the age of five-and-twenty, marry, if you are so inclined, another suitor ; but in tliat case, if Mr. Arthur Petersham be alive, the £300,000 will be his on your attaining twenty-five years of age, just as if he had married you. "Thus, you see, Olive, I leave you free as to the choice of your husband, though I intimate 78 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOEK. to voii ill a forciliK' infinner tlic man I wish you to "niiirry. I la'li^'vc tiuit by becoming the wife of Mr. Artluir retersham you will luhicve an lionorable ami envied ]>osition, anil be jihiceil most favorably for enjoying life. At the same time, I wish you to exercise your own judgment as to the advisability of the step, when your judgment has arrived at maturity. I have there- fore named the age of twenty-five — that is to say, your twenty-fifth birthday — as the date when you are to give your final decision on tlie sub- ject. You will then be at liberty to say ' Nay' or ' Yea' as you like. Should circumstances have transjjired that would indicate Mr. Arthur Byfield Petersham as a man not calculated in my opinion to make you happj'^, you \\ill be able to say 'Nay' without any detriment to your worldly circumstances. Should he, however, fulfill all the requirements I desire of him, and be at forty years of age as honorable and well- living a man as he is now at thirty, you will also still bo able to say 'Nay,' at the sacrifice, truly, of magnificent prospects, but still retaining the enjoyment of wealth so considerable that, united to your personal and intellectual gifts, it will secure you another alliance — perhaps not less to be desired than a union with Mr. Peter- sham. My final testament is thus calculated, as far as poor human sagacity can see, to discharge my debt of love to my child, and my debt of gratitude to the family of Petersham, from whom my wealth is derived. This, dear Olive, is the explanation I wished to make. You will now be in a position to inter]n-et the provisions of my will when I am no more, knowing, as you now do, that it has been made with two objects — first, to secure your welfare ; secondly, to advance and protect the interests of our best friends." I have already stated that the first announce- ment of my father's wishes as to my matrimo- nial settlement greatly disturbed me. I knew Mr. Arthur Petersham intimately as a frequent visitor at Fulham, and far from having con- ceived a dislike to him, I found a ])lcasnrc in his society. lie was, though jilain and without the dignified bearing of his father, of a suffi- ciently agreeable appearance and address. Ills disposition was reputed to be amiable. He had traveled much and seen much of the world, at a time when even men of wealth were by no means so iniiversally accustomed to travel as they are at the present time. Moreover his mother, Lady Caroline Petersham, liad been always one of my dearest and most favorite friends. There w'as, therefore, nothing to account for my disturbance at my father's proposal, save its unexpected character and its reference to a subject which I was too much a child ever before to have thought of, and yet which, child as I was, I would rather have had left altogether to my own free-will to deal with in due time as I liked. It was no time, however, to resent any intru- sion, on the part of my beloved and indulgent father, into the secret and delicate recesses of my nature. I therefore listened in silence. It was well 1 did so ; for, as my dear father continued his revelatioTis, I found that in making arrange- ments for the aciiicvement of his desire he had considered with characteristic tenderness, and provided with characteristic generosity, for every contingency likely to aifect my interests. Mij dignity, my hajijiines?, my security were the first ohjects of his care. He said truly that to dis- charge his debt of gratitude to the family from whom he hat^K;quired so much of his life's pros])erit3', ancWPlio had siu-h a strong hold on ills aftections, was only a second consideration. For three minutes, at least, after my father had done speaking- 1 sat in silence on the little low cliair I had during his communications oc- cupied by his side ; and with my elbows on my knees, and my hot head resting on my hands, I thought on all I had just heard. The result of my meditations was that I rose from my scat, and having kissed my dear father, said to him, slowly and with emotion, " Dear father, of all your innumerable proofs of affection for your cliild, the greatest is the confidence you have just i>laced in her. 1 will now say nothing which shall fetter my freedom of action in the future, or circumscribe that lib- erty of decision which you so nobly desire should be preserved to me inviolate. As for love — the love that women feel for those whom they con- sent to marry — from personal experience I nei- ther know nor wish for many a day to know what it is. My poems and novels tell me that such love is .an affection which even those wo- men whose lives are governed by a strong and holy sense of duty can not alwajs control. Per- haps on reaching the age of five-and-twenty I shall find myself unable to swear that I will love Mr. Arthur Petersham (though he be a true and honorable gentleman) as long as we shall both live. If such should be the case, I will exercise that right of rejection wliicli my kind father has reserved for me ; but at the same time I shall find it a stibject of hearty congratulation that my inability to love where my father wishes me to love will not cut off, from the possession of the larger portion of his wealth, the family he loves so honorably and reasonably. But while I re- tain this right of final decision, I will give full weight to the words of my dear father who has reserved it to me. I will, now that I am about to enter womanhood, accustom my thoughts to picture myself as the future wife of Mr. Arthur Petersham. I will always, without violating my reason and knowledge, habitually think of him as a man worthy to be mj' husband, because my di'ar fatlier at the present time so esteems him. I will always remember also that, in becoming his wife under circumstances which my con- science shall approve, I shall be acting in ac- cordance with the wishes of a dear father who, in his love for me, has been more tender, and who in life has been more noble than any fa- ther I have ever seen, or read of, or can imag- ine." I was shedding foolish, idle tears when I term- inated this earnest speech ; and my father, tak- ing me into his arms as if I had been a little chilli, fondled and caressed me, stroking my hair and kissing my forehead, and calling me his "noble Olive." "We never again alluded to the subject of that evening's conversation, but I have the assurance — an assurance that is more than a consolation for all my subsequent suffering and disgrace — that its result was a source of great comfort to him in the concluding months of his illness. The si)ring came and blossomed into summer, and the summer reddened into autumn, and the OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 79 autumn was cnniiiiLr to a cIdsc ; :nul tlin)Ui;;li spriii}; and suninicr ami c^irly autumn \vc were friends, witliout a single reserve of conlidenee. Ere the autumn closed a guileless, simjde, devout man — a man of unscllisli aims and noble intellect — was taken from the world ; but ere his eyelids met in their last repose, he said (they were his last words), "Olive, if it be permitted me to see and know and speak to thy mother, I shall have my wish." CHAPTER III. THE FULFILLMENT OF THE COMPACT. It was thus that before I was introduced into society my destination as a married woman was fixed. On my father's death I still made Fulhani my home, the villa being placed nominally under the superintendence and control of Mrs. AVilby — a quiet, amiable woman, conversant with the world, and, though she made no profession of having any element of mental su]ieriority, close- ly resembling her brother (my dear father) in quickness of perception and sound judgment. It speaks more for the goodness and sweetness of her disposition than my own, that her authority over me was invariably a source of pleasure to both of us. My life, however, was not all spent in seclusion at Fulham. I made three foreign tours, accom- panied by Mrs. Wilby, and in the society of eli- gible persons of my own rank. Twice I paid long visits to my uncle, Mr. Martin Orger, of Shorton Park, in Northumberland ; and I made other prolonged sojourns in various parts of the country. At the opening of my nineteenth year Lady Caroline Petersham took me with her to court ; and up to the time of Lady Caroline's death I passed several weeks of each London •season in her house in Grosvenor Square — ac- companying her wherever she went in those fashionable circles, of which she had been from girlhood an admired and ])0]nilar personage. Of course it was generally known that I was be- trothed to My. Arthur Bylield Petersham, but that did not preclude me from being an object of attention to gentlemen desirous of settling in life as married men. Between my twentieth and twenty-fourth year I was embarrassed and complimented with several matrimonial over- tures. Far from seeming desirous C)f guarding me from such solicitations, Lady Caroline ap- peared at times almost to manifest an anxiety that I should accept one of my unauthorized suitors. Indeed, she had no especial object to serve in securing me as her son's wifj. She liked me well enough ; but if I chose to marry any other man, before attaining the age of five-and- twenty, or at five-and-twcnty declined to be the bride of her son, the wealth he as a bachelor would acquire by my conduct would have more than compensated her for any slight chagrin she might have experienced at the defeat of the family compact. One or two things made me suspect she would have been better pleased if my father's will had fixed an earlier date for my final decision witii regard to Mr. Artlnu" Petersham. Forty years is in truth an advanced age in a mo- ther's eyes for the settlement of an only son ; and it more than once struck m;' that '-he would have congratulated herself on any (ururrence (save, of course, that of my death) whicii left him free to select a suitable bride and marry without delay. Slic was an amiable and imj)nlsivo woman ; singularly simple in iier manners, but inordi- nately ](roud (if her jiatrieian descent — and, with- al, very andntious. It was therefore not im- probable that she would have preferred f- shirc and hastened to the bedside of his dying father. Mr. Petersham senior died in December, and at his re(|uest was interred in the mausoleum of his Yorkshire seat, where Lady Caroline Peter- sham had been buried three or four years be- fore. After the funeral my husband returned to Hampshire, but he was unable to spend many days with me. The atfliirs of the bank, and the various matters of i)usiness suddenly thrown upon hiui by his father's ileath, required him to visit various parts of the Continent without delay, and as his route was as uncertain as the dura- tion of bis absence, he jji-oposed to make his journey alone, leaving mc, when I was tired of ilamiisiiire, to take u]) my residence once more with Mrs. Wilby, in my dear old home at Ful- ham, where he would join me as soon as possi- ble, and remain with me till we should take up OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 81 our quarters in Grosvcnor Square for tlic ensu- ing season. As I had only recently been on the Conti- nent (and foreign travel, a generation since, was by no means so luxurious an amusement as it is now), and as I was already anticipating much pleasure in the resumption of my old studious life at Fulhara, I was by no means in a humor to demur to his proposal. Considerations of Jjealth, moreover, disinclined nie to travel again just then. Mr. Petersham's plan, therefore, re- ceived a heartier approval from me than it possi- bly might have met if I had been only eighteen years of age and he tive-and-twenty. At the end of si.x. weeks Mr. Petersham was with me at Fulham ; and toward the end of February we came up to our town-house, which had been decorated and furnished afresh for my reception. Of course gayety formed no part of our immediate programme, my father-in-law's recent death being of itself a barrier to our en- tering into general society. We had other mo- tives for quitting Fulham and fixing ourselves in Grosvenor Square. Mr. Petersham wished to be as near as possible to Lombard Street, the clubs, and the House of Commons ; and I, with the nervousness of a young wife expecting soon to be a mother, wished to be near my physicians. Mrs. Wilby, with her usual readiness to oblige me, left Fulham, and became my visitor in Gros- venor Square ; and, surrounded by my ordinary means of amusement, as well as having an ad- mirable library at my command, I was soon lead- ing the same tranquil life I affected previous to my marriage. It was just as well that I could make myself happy without Mr. Petersham's so- ciety (although it was at all times agreeable to me), for ere the end of Marcli he was again compelled to visit the Continent, and I was, for a second time during my brief period of wedded experience, called upon to play the part of a widow. Mr. Petersham left me on the 2lst of March, returning to me exactly at the expiration of twenty-eight days. It is my intention now to relate certain occur- rences which made his absence a memorable pe- riod of my existence. Shortly after 11 o'clock a.m., on the 3d of Api'il, a servant opened the door of the library, in my house in Grosvenor Square, and surprised me with the announcement that a lad}- had called, wishing to see me on particular business. As she had not offered a card to the porter, he had asked her what name she w'ished to be sent in to me ; her reply to this question being that she did not ■wisli to give her name to him, but desired only to have a personal interview with his mistress. On tills, he, acting on his general directions, had replied that I was not at home, and that the lady had better call again. Instead of being re])clled by this answer, the lady had said in a kind but decided manner, "I think you had better not re- fuse me admission without first letting Mrs. Pe- tersham know that I wish to see her. She would he sorry if she learned that you had turned me from her door." Tiie porter was so perplexed by the air of command with which the lady spoke that he admitted the stranger into one of the waiting-rooms, and then, before he was alto- gether aware of what he had done, went and consulted with the servant then speaking with me, whose business it was to take messages into the library. Tiie man evidently expected reproof for the fault committed by the porter, as my orders had been given in explicit terms, that no stranger, declining to give his or her name and address, should ever be admitted into the house beyond the porter's table. ''Is she a lady?" 1 asked, the emphasis laid on the last word, showing that my inquiry re- ferred to the station, and not merely the sex of the intruder. "Oil yes, ma'am, quite a lady," was the con- fident answer. "/s«(r her." "Well, Johnson, if you saw her, and were satisfied," I answered, tickled by the self-com- placency of the man, "perhaps I ought to ad- mit her." " I think she's a lady, ma'am," returned John- son, lowering his tone. Mrs. Wilby was sitting by the library fire, with a novel helping her slight deafness to make her unconscious of what was going forward. So I roused her and referred the matter to her de- cision. " You're sure she's a lady ?" inquired my aunt of Johnson, after with some ditiiculty (for her sense of hearing was very obtuse) having received my statement. "Well — m'm — I, I — should say she was a lady," replied the man, all his confidence in his own judgment ebbing away under the repetition of the interrogatory. "You may say I'm at home, and ask her into this room," I said, settling the difficulty for my- self and for my aunt at the same time. " I think you are unwise, Olive," observed my aunt, as soon as the door was closed on the serv- ant's retreating steps. " Possibly, aunt ; but if it is some poor creat- ure begging, I can give her what she wants, just for once, though it would not do for me to have my regulation set aside often." I had scarcely uttered this sentence when the door fepened again, and I saw approaching me timidly, from the most distant corner of the libra- ry, as lovely a girl as I have ever seen. Dressed in rich and well-made, but simple mourning (even as I and my aunt were), and with riclr bands of golden hair folded under a plainly- trimmed bonnet, she was clearly a person to be treated with consideration. She looked as a del- icate girl recovering from a slight indisposition might look — somewhat pale and subdued ; biit I had not time to criticise the separate elements of her beauty, when, slightly j)utting out her hands as she came nearer, she said, " I am much obliged to you, Mrs. Petersham, for admitting me. It was kind of you — a kindness not mis- placed." Ere Johnson closed the door I caught the eye of the worthy old man, and he responded to ray look- with a glance that said, "Well, ma'am, and isn't she a lady ?" "Do take that chair by the fire," I said, hos- pitably to my caller ; adding, with a smile, "As I have not yet the pleasure of knowing your name, I can not introduce you to my aunt in the usual manner." Ere tlie fair creature rested her slight figure on the seat to which I jiointed, slic bowed stiffly to my aunt, and then said in an imploring tone, 82 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. wliicli fortunately was too low for Mrs. Wilby to l)c able to iiear tho words uttered, "Oh, let me sec you alone ! Do let us be alone ! What I have to tell you I should not wish to say before third person. Do let us be alone !" " Surely, if you wish it," I answered, with sur- prise. "Here, dear, follow me." So saying, to the unspeakable astonishment of Jlrs. Wilby, 1 led my mysterious caller out of the libr;uy into ni}^ painting-room. "There,"! said, stirring the fire, and causing the coals to crackle and to blaze cheerily, "we shall be by ourselves here. Now sit you down on the sofa." 1 thought that she obeyed me with an effort, and a ])eculiar unsteadiness of expression In her deep violet eyes made me for an instant uneasy in her presence. "Now for business ? What is it? You must begin," I continued, with a slight laugh, intend- ed to be reassuring. " 1 7)ntst .'" she gasped, turning white in a mo- ment, and beginning to tremble. I waited patiently for something to come of this "?;««^" "It is so hard. I do not know how to be- gin," she continued. "Then I'll put you in a way to begin," was my reply. " First tell me your name." The suggestion was very simple, but it made her start in her seat, and drew a flash from her large eyes that gave me a shudder. "You arc right, JMrs. Petersham," she an- swered, soon calming herself, and seeming to consider aloud — to herself rather than to me — "you should know my name first. But let me see — which name shall I give you? my own name, or the one I bore before I married ? Yes, I'll give you that name. My name was Etty Tree.^' "Ah, then, dear girl," I said, with a smile, " I know you. How is Julian Gower ? Can I help him ?" A river of scarlet covered the poor girl, and she rose from her seat shaking in every limb. "What?" she said — holding down a shriek in a whis])er — "you do know me then ? You remem- ber the name?" " Yes, yes, I remember the name. But don't be alarmed !"I answered. "Has any ill befallen him? I will helj) him. I saw him years since in Northumberland for a short hour or two." She answered me. I have heard various epithets, more or less forcible, ajjplied to human voices, expressive of pain, suffering, and alarm ; but never liave 1 heard or read a description of sucli a voice as that in which Etty Tree made hei- answer. It was a thin, harsh, thready voice, fall of agony, and remorse, and bitterness. Though it was harsh and thin, it was still a whisper — such a whisper as a soul suffering the torture that never ends might crave a drop of water with. " But I didn't marry him. I promised to love him, and to be liis wife, and I broke my word. And perhaps I liave broken his heart too. I was false to him. Despise me — hate me. Oh, why did you mention his name?" "Lot us be calm, my jioor child," I said, adopting a maternal tone to her, though she was not inncli younger than my.self; "you want to make an iinj)ortant communication — evidently a painful one also — to me. Nerve yourself then, and he of good courage. Shall I ask you an- other question?" "Yes." "Who is your Juisband ? Tell me your his- tory. Whatever errors you may have commit- ted, my breast shall have pity for you. Who is your husband ?" She looked at me with an unspeakable ten- derness, and a fearful hoi-ror combined, as she au.swered my question with a movement of her lips. Not a sound issued from them. Never did the silence of li])S that only moved, and no- thing more, make a more hideous declaration. "What?" I cried, starting in my turn. She only nodded a support to the movement of her lips. " Speak it again !" I exclaimed. "I have said it." " What ? — my husband ?" "The man," she answered, steadily, in a low voice, "who calls him.self your husband married me more than three years since, and he is the father of my child." She said no more, but sat before me, with her delicate face turned to the ground, as though fearing to meet my eyes. As I looked at her I should have been grateful could I have persuaded myself that she was one of those wicked, aban- doned girls who, I knew, abounded in London and every great city, to bring dishonor on my sex. But there was nothing to justify such a suspicion — nothing on which to ground such a hope. Grief, pain, humiliation were expressed in her face, but no trace of impious life. She had been misled by simple, childish vanity; by her own confession she had broken her plighted troth to as noble a young man as the British race had ever reared to fight against an adverse destiny. But truth sat upon her lips, and wo- manly virtue, in the narrow (but withal most sacred) sen.se of the word, was in every line of her countenance. Moreover, I now saw such a profound wretchedness settle, like an unhealthy blight, on her gentle features, that even in my vindictive agitation I was compelled to pity licr. "Oh, dear lady! would to God that my ma- ternal duty did not compel me thus to pain you !" she said, at last putting a period to the silence which I could not trust my voice to break. Her maternal duty ! Had 1 too no maternal aft'ections to consider? "You say you know my husband,'' I at, length answered. "You would have me believe evil of him. Tell me all you know. You talk of a marriage. Where did it take ]jlace ?" "I will tell you all," she reiilicd, slowl}-, in a feeble, imjdoring tone. "Only do not look at me so sternly. I do not want him to recognize me, I do not threaten to disturb you. It is only justice to my child I ask. Do not judge me. God will do that. I have been very wicked, but my soul knows no stain why you should look at me so." " l}cgin your story. I know something of you, for I have heard my husliaml and his dead mo- ther speak of you and 3'our sister. Begin at the time when you lived at Laughton in the cottage, close by the ])ark, ere you broke (as you tell vie) your vow to Jnliun i lower." Satan had hold of me, and I could not speak less bitterly. OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. "It is my duty to obey you," she answered, meekly. And after a pause in wliich she gatli- ered strcngtii and composure, she told me the following story; "It was when I was living at Laugliton that Mr. rctersham came and led me from my duty. lie told mo that he loved me, and he promised to make me his wife — the lady of Laughton Abbey and vt' all the wealth (and even more) that my family once possessed. I will say nothing in defense of my evil deed, for which God has punished and will punish me. I tried to be true to Julian Gower, but I could not. I knew that Mr. Petersham and you were en- gaged ; but he made light of that, and told me he was ready to give up all your wealth for love of me. Ob, lady, bow was I to believe that he did not really love me ? All he asked of me was to marry him secretly and without delay. At last I consented, and I fled from Laughton, trav- eling up to London, as he desired me, and on the second day after I left the country he married me." "Where?" I put in, sharply. "At the church of St. Thomas, Kennington.'' ' ' Are you sure ? — St. Thomas's, Kennington." "Quite sure; for I wrote the name of the church down in my note-book on the day we were married." "Goon." "He told me that he selected that obscure church as one where we should run little risk of detection. He was very anxious that his father should never hear of our marriage; for, he said, the intelligence would kill the poor old man, so bent was he upon the marriage which would send down in one line the wealth of ' Petersham and Blake.' All he asked of me in return for the sacrifices he made was to consent to our mar- riage being kept secret till bis fathers death. The consequence of his father discovering our union would be his disinheritance and ruin. As I was so base as to obey him when be told me to desert Julian, of course I obeyed him too in this." "You were married?" I said, recalling her, and striking the floor with my foot. "I want the facts." " Immediately after ^ve had been married and had signed our names in the register, I left En- gland. Mr. Petersham put me into the carriage in which I was carried away from London. We parted at the church door, and I proceeded straight to Dover, with Major Watchit (perba]3s you know him, he is now Sir George Watchit). Jly husband did not like to travel with me, for fear of being recognized on the road ; so he con- fided me to the care of ^lajor Watchit, and fol- lowed us to our destination." " Where was that?'' "To Castellare — three or four hours' vide I from Mentone, in the iirincijiality of ilonaco. My husband had secured, in that secluded vil- I lage, a retreat for me. Oh, it is a lovely land ; I and our cottage (surrounded by an orange grove, and b^'dded in a garden where the harebells blos- somed in the middle of Christmas) commanded a view of a valley leading through one ridge of the mountains that wall tlie Bay of Genoa. We traveled over France, staying a few days in .Par- is, and when we reached is'ice Mr. Petersham joined us, and took me to our home iu the mount- ain village. Tliere was no fear of our seclusion being broken at Castellare. English travelers never came there. A few peasants, speaking a jtatois I could not to the last well understand, were-my only friends and neighbors and servants, with the exception of .Major Watchit and my hus- band and their men. It was a strange life for nic, but I was ba])i)y when ^Ir. i'etersham was . with me. At least, I should have been haj)i)y if it had not been for the jjust. When I was alone I could not forget Tibby and Julian. They haunted me !" "You were left alone, sometimes?" "Oh, Mr. Petersham often left me. Ho coiUd not help it. . But Major Watchit protected me in his absence till the cud of the second year after my marriage, and tlicn I had my child for a companion. And soon after Major Watchit left for India, where Mr. Petersham's fatlier had secured for him a high command, my husband, fearing that our retreat might be discovered, took me to Nice, and placed me and my child in the family of a physician — and since then 1 have only seen him once." "Only once?" "Ay — only once. He left me in the third year after my marriage, and did not return. 1 wrote to him, but be sent no answers to my let- ters. At first I thought the letters bad miscar- ried ; but when the delay continued, and I spoke to Dr. Brunod — the physician who had charge of me and baby — he only smiled, and said that my husband would return soon enough. It was all the answer I could get from him. I do not know why it was, but I i'.arcd Dr. Brunod. He was kind to me, but I drc ;dcd him. In Janua- ry my husband came to In ice, but he was — oh it made me mad I He is a fearful man I He nev- er kissed me. lie scarce shook hands with me. He wanted to take away my child, to be educa- ted — to be educated (why it could only just say ' mamma") — to be educated ! Oh it was too hor- . rible ! He wanted to rob me of my child. I spoke to him — but I can not say what I did say — but instead of touching bis heart I only made him turn away, and, looking at Dr. Brunod, say, ' Poor thing, take care of her, doctor !' What did that pity mean ? " Dr. Brunod sjioke to him, and he went away, leaving me my child. Yes, he did leave me that. But I felt that further evil was in- tended for me. Dr. Brunod was very, very kind to me ; but still I feared him more. He treated me like a friend, and showed me every respect : his house stood in the environs of Nice, and I was at liberty to walk in his garden and about the neighborhood ; and whenever I liked I and my baby bad a drive in a carriage. And so it went on till the l)eginning of last March, when among Dr. Brunod's letters I saw one in my hus- band's handwriting. It was among several oth- ers left on the table I)y the Doctor, who bad ([uitted the room for an instant with ^ladamc Brunod. I took up the letter and read it. It was very short, and ended, 'I shall be with you at the beginning of April, when I must have the child. The jmor girl can not do better than re- main under your kind care. JMy dear friend, I am sure, would wish it. But the child she may no longer have charge of. As a jirofcssional mau, you know I am right.' I knew that if I waited there* Avas no hope for me — that ho would separate me from my child ; that — oh 84 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. he is worse tliaii I over imagined bad men were ! So 1 lied." "Jlut how did you eontrivc to get here from Nice without bcins apiirchended on the road ?" She tossed her head, and gave me a mehm- choly smile of triumpli — the saddest and most frightened smile that can be imagined — as she responded, sjjeaking very quickly, and repeated- ly iu her haste running her words into each oth- er. "1 iiad no money, and no passport. What was I to do ? Oh, Dr. Brunod had little fear of my escaping ! There was no need to watch me ! But I made one bold essay to save my child, and it succeeded ! I used to walk in Dr. Brunod's garden with baby, nursing it in my own arms, and singing to it about England and home. I used sometimes to stray beyond the boundary of our inclosure, and walk on the public coach- road. One day I was so walking, when a mag- nificent equipage ajiproaehed me. There were two carriages, with four horses in each, and serv- ants behind. At a glance I saw they were En- glish carriages and horses, and another glance assured me that the ladies in the first carriage were )ny countrywomen. Fortunately the horses were proceeding slowly, and the ladies were looking to me as I advanced holding out baby in my hands. Tlie ladies gave a quick order to the servants, and in twenty seconds the carriage stopped, and I was speaking to its occupants. " 'What do you want?' asked one of the la- dies, kindly. " 'You arc an English lady and my country- woman, ' I answered, ' and you must help me. You viHst take me to England. I am an En- glish wife and mother, kept here against my will. They want to separate me from my child. For dear Christ's sake, help me ! Take me to our country, and I can find justice. If charity docs not rescue mc I am lost, for I have no money or passport, and if I had them I could not reach En- gland without ]M-otection. Oh, do not hesitate, ladies ! At this moment I may be watched !' "There were three ladies in the carriage, and they spoke together in whispers. I heard them whisper among themselves, 'She is certainly a lady.' 'She is sweety pretty, and the picture of distress and innocence.' 'It is strange, but cruelty is sometimes strange even in this world.' 'We can not do wrong in helping her.' 'She can have the vacant place with the children, and pass for the nurse we have left behind us.' ' Of course we must' help her.' At last the chief lady of the three, the one who had first sjjoken, said, in a voice of welcome, ' Don't fear, my ]irctty countrywoman, that we will not grant your ])e- tition. Here, my dear girl, get in here at once. Y'ou can ride with ns for the first stage, and then you can take your own i>lacc ? You must con- sent to pass as our servant.' As she spoke the lady witii her own hand turned the handle of the carriage-door nearest me. ' Oh God bless you ! I am saved!' I said, and in anotlier instant I, with baby in my arms, was the occupant of the fourth seat of the open carriage. As soon as the carriage was in motion I burst into tears, and the ladies wei-e so delicate and discerning as to leave me to my sorrow — content with their own good deed, and not troubling me with words. As we drew near the end of the first stage I became composed, and, looking at the ladies, I saw, by their i)roud gentleness of face, that I could trust them. 'Now at this town you will assume your new character,' said one of them, witli a smile ; 'what shall we call you?' — 'Oh call me Etty — that is my name,' I answered. So they from that time called me Etty. On the second car- riage coming up to us at the post-house, where we stopped to refresh ourselves and the horses (for the ladies were traveling slowly with their own servants and horses), the chief lady went to it and spoke to her children and maid-servants, who were in it or upon it, and gave directions that I and baby should be admitted into the car- riage. They were lovely children, with blue eyes and fine flaxen curls, and I made them love me, during the short time I was with them, by sing- ing to them and telling them fairy stories. ' You are a capital nurse,' the ladies said to me fre- quently. And so I traveled with them to Ly- ons, where a gentleman joined the party, who, on hearing my story from the ladies, offered to take me straight to England, as he had a ])assport made out for himself and wife and infant. And I accepted his offer and parted from my jjreserv- ers. Oh they were so kind to me ! They did not ask me one question as to my history all the time I was with them ! Not one curious look or ])rying word did they give me ; and when I took my leave of them with tears in my eyes, the chief lady gave me a purse containing twen- ty pieces of gold, and said, ' My dear girl, take this. You will want money on first reaching London, of which you say you know nothing. When you can conveniently do so, and really want the money no longer, take it to the Secre- tary of the Children's Hospital in Marchioness Street. It is an admirable institution, and has claims on the affections of every young mother.' And so I parted with them, and was taken to London. This is all. There is nothing more." "It is enough!" I said, bitterly. " Oh, it is more, far more than enough. Dear lady, I am so sorry for you," she answered, with a tone of deep commiseration, in the genuine- ness of which I was compelled to believe. " Whatever wrong, and injustice, and cruel deception," I said, slowly, "you may have ex- jjerienced from others, you have none to fear from me. I ])romise to investigate your statements — and if 1 find them true, there is no feeling of pride, or care for myself, or even of love for off- spring yet unborn, that I will not sacrifice to do you justice. I promise this ; and the God who watches over the actions of his creatures shall see that I am true to my word ! My husband is abroad — " " I told you so," she put in sharply. " He is on his way to Nice ; or he is there now, mar- veling that I have fled." "My husband is on the Continent," I said, beginning again, without noticing her interrup- tion. "During his absence from liunie I will investigate the Jiicts on which youi- perfectly in- credible story rests. I will see you again, when I have made the first of those investigations. Where are you living? What is your address?" " I am in lodgings," she answered, evasively. "Where is your child?" I asked, putting what I deemed to be my former inquiry in another form. She started as if with affright, and bit her lips, and clenched her hands, ere she answered, "That I will not tell you." OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 85 "I do not bltimc you," I answered. "You are right to distrust me. I distrust you. Until we see more elearly all the cireumstiinces of our cases, we must necessarily distrust each other. But we nmst liave intercourse. Will you make an appointment to be here this day week at the same hour at which vou called this morning?" " I will." As she said this a pallor came over her slight face, and 1 saw that, the excitement of making her revelations being over, a reaction of the nerv- ous system was in pi'ogress, and she was in dan- ger of fainting. I rang the bell instantly and ordered wine to be brought. While the servant was obeying my orders she said, quickly, as if a necessity for precaution had just struck her — "//e — Mr. retersham — won't be here so soon?" " I do not expect him, " was my reply. ''But should he return sooner than I anticipate, and be in the house when you call, you may rely on not being admitted, but receiving instead a note from lue fixing a meeting elsewhere. The por- ter shall give you the note instead of admitting you. !So let your mind be easy." The wine came, and I mixed her a tumbler of strong wine-and-water and gave it to her with my own hands. She drank the beverage with avidity — showing by her manner a strong con- sciousness of her urgent need of a powerful stinuilant. The remedy was efficacious, for the color returned to her complexion — or, rather I should say, the ghastly pallor left it, and rising, she herself placed the empty tumbler on the table. "Oh, dear lady," she said again, as she had done several times before, avoiding the use of my title as a married woman, "you must re- gard me as an enemy; bvu be a generous en- emy to me, and say you pity uie. I have been a lieartless, wayward, vain, false girl — but now I am steeped in wretchedness. Surely you pity me!" I could not altogether resist this appeal, but all the more for that I nursed a vindictive scorn for the simple and unhappy creature that had such power over me. Still full of bitterness I answerecf, "I pity you from the bottom of my heart, ^ou arc pitiable, if you have been wronged — ana thrice jiitiable if you are only trying to wrong others." CHAPTER V. ST. Thomas's, kexningtox. Ir was incredible that l\Ir. Petersham had per- petrated such a crime as the girl charged him with ! That he was the most vulgar and hateful of criminals, a bu/aiiiist, defeated in an attempt to confine his wife in a foreign town, to keep her under the surveillance of an agent (whose business in all ])robability was the care of insane persons), while he himself was studious to main- tain in England that reputation for an observ- ance of domestic decorum which in Great Brit- ain is an affair of high importance to the man who would succeed in public life. I could not believe it ! Why, the circumstances of the im- puted crime made the accusation ridiculous ! How, in the first place, could he expect that a marriage duly solemnized in a London church, with his well-known name entered in a London register, could be a nuitter of secrecy? Sup- l)osiiig that in a moment of weakness and mad- ness he had married the girl as she herself stated, and then, finding himself unable to sacrifice to his foolish love the possession of my wealth, he had married again hoping to keep her a secure prisoner in a foreign country— sujiposiug all this, could I credit that he would have taken no surer precautions for the success of his scheme than those his victim (as she termed herself) enumer- ated ? Why, by her own story she had suflPered no bodily restraint ; and was allowed so much free- dom that she was aljle to escape as easily as any English lady might drive from Hyde Park to Richmond Hill. A man of Mr. Petersham's rank, guilty of a crime the discovery of which would sink him in ignominy, would take sm'er means for its concealment. And yet I found it difficult to suspect her of willful fabrication. No one could look in her face and not be impressed with a belief in her honesty. As I said before, I tried to think the worst of her, and was unable. This was how I looked at the affair for the first ten minutes after Etty Tree had taken her de- parture (having previously left with me the date of her wedding). But then the horror of the thought, "But ivhut i/ it should he true?'" upset my self-possession ; and I reflected on all the circumstances within my knowledge that in any wa}' supported the statements of my husband's accuser. I knew that Mr. Petersham had seen her at Laughton more than once, and that he had taken considerable interest in her. But that was throitrjh vie. In Northumberland I had met on my uncle's estate a splendidly handsome young man, Julian Gower, who told me, stran- ger as I was to him, the story of his love with such ingenuous candor and enthusiasm that he carried me for a few months quite away from common sense, and nothing suited me better than devising schemes for serving him. While this romance was at its height Mr. Petei-sham was arranging to take as an autumn residence, for himself and Lady Caroline, Laughton Ab- bey, the principal seat in the county in which (as Julian Gower had told me) Etty Tree lived. I communicated to JMr. Petersham and Lady Caroline all the circumstances of my interview with Julian Gower, and asked them, in case they hired the Abbej^, to inquire in Laughton if there was in the neighborhood any j'oung lady nam^d Etty Tree, so surpassingly lovely as she had been reiiresented to me. Of course I was well laughed at by Lady Caroline for my folly; and ^Ir. Petersham, who was a clever caricaturist with his pencil, drew on a sheet of ])aper a design for a grand allegorical picture of Youthful Cour- age rescuing Virgin Indiscretion from Darkness and Despair. Whenever I was a little absent in mind, Laily Caroline would laugh and say, "Ah, you are roaming over that wild moor again I" In due course my husband and his mother went to Laughton, and to their gratifi- cation found the girl, in whom I had interested them, keeping a small school, together with her sister, in the corner of Laughton Abbey park. Mr. Petersham instantly wrote to me on the 8G OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. subject, and by doing so revived an interest that liad almost died a natural death. Tiic steward of liie Abbey estate was the younj; ladies' chief friend and i)atron, and told Mr. retershani that they were members of a fallen county family. Inileed, Laughton Abbey and the splendid jiark their cottage windows looked upon still belonged to tlieir kin. It also appeared that they had re- cently lost their grandfather, a much-respected clergyman, whose death had left them in very straitened circumstances. Several letters passed between me and Lady Caroline on the subject, the result of which was that wo resolved to give the country schoolmistresses a chance of improv- ing their worldly condition, and even of earning a modest fortune for "the beautiful Miss Etty" by the time her lover should return from Amer- ica. Two or tlireq years previous to the occur- rences just mentioned, ^[r. Reickart, one of the jirincipal clerks in "Petersham and Blake's" bank in Lombard Street, had died under painful cir- cumstances, leaving one little girl totally un])ro- vided for. As JMr. Reickart had been a useful agent in the house, and liad been for many years much respected by the partners, it was determ- ined by 5lr. Petersham and his father to give the orphan Amy Reickart a good education and a small provision that would })lace her above the risk of absolute want. At my suggestion this child was placed as a pupil in ]\Iiss Tree's school, my future husband generously offering to ])ay from his private purse an annual sum of £200 for her maintenance. This arrangement, and the pleasure which it caused me for a few days, soon passed from my mind. Other interests rose to occupy my atten- tion ; and if I did not forget, I at least omitted to remember that Julian Gower, and Etty Tree, and Amy Reickart had ever moved across the drama of ray cares. Laughton Abbey had only been hired for three years, and Mr. Petersham only visited it once after his mother's death, and then only for sliooting. At one time Mr. Peter- sliam senior had contemplated purchasing tjie estate, but the certainty that the town would be disfranchised at the passing of the coming Re- form Bill caused him to relinquish the inten- tion. I therefore knew that Mr. Petersham had oc- cupied a position toward the sisters that would give him a claim to their confidence. Again, it was not to be sujjposed that ]\Iiss Etty Tree had no foundation for her astounding announcement. i\Ir. Petersham had s])ent many months in eacli of tlie two years jireceding our marriage on the Continent ; and, a circumstance that troubled me still more tiian the mere fre- quency of his foreign trijis (which the business of the bank would account for satisfactorily), ho had more than once visited the jirincipality of Monaco to stay with his old friend and scIkjoI- fellow Sir George Watcliit. This I was aware of from his own conmiunications. Sir George had a cottage at Castellarc, wiiere he lived in a studious retirement. The luxurious yet invigor- ating climate, and the magnificent scenery around Mentoiie, had -made a lively imjjression on my husband, and he had more than once expressed a wish to take me there, as that I might share in the iileasurc of some of his reminiscences. Startling as the intelligence was, it was within belief that Etty Tree had been there, u resident I in Sir George's cottage, at the same time as my I husband. But that being granted, in what char- j acter had she been there ? It was a source of I much painfid suspicion that my husband had j never mentioned the girl in connection with his I periods of residence in Castellare. Otherwise I had no reason to feel surprise at his never allud- I ing to the pretty country girl, of whom he had j been a benefactor. Indeed the brief episode of I my interest in Julian Gower and the Laughton belle had been so completely wiped from my memory by the excitement of novel and engross- ing experiences, that I was at no loss to account for my husband's having also lost sight of it. Still if Etty Tree had been his daily compan- ion at Castellare (and I could not persuade my- self to disbelieve that much of her story), tv/ii/ had he not mentioned t lie fact to me? And as I asked myself this question, the hor- ror of the thought that the accusation might be true returned with increased force, and drove me almost beside myself. Could little Amy Reickart tell me any thing ? Was she still at Laughton ? I had never paid tlie child any personal attention. Indeed I had never in all my life seen the luck]^ss little orjjhan. I had only heard' of her through my husband, who, in regretting the death of her father, had told me that he and Mr. Petersham senior had determined to take charge of her education, and give her (when she married or came of age) a fortune of £2000. Where was she ? Was she still a pupil in the school at Laughton? Was the school still carried on by the elder IMis^ Tree ? And then, what could that lady, if I found her, tell me of Etty's course ? The poor girl had spoken of flying from her sister. Possi- bly her sister knew less of her madness than I. And again the horror returned with increas- ing intensity ; and an anticipation, which stirred my most tender affections, deeply as such an an- ticipation will ever stir a woman's nature, made me fall on my knees, and in an agony of dread offer a prayer to that everlasting Power, whose presence we never feel so sensibly as when the waters of trouble roll over us. When I rose from my knees I was calmer, and I soon resolved to visit Laughton without delay. But first I wo§ld ascertain if the register of the church of St. Thomas at Kennington con- tained any memorial of an event which I would not believe, and yet could not rest without dis- proving. Had I been only nineteen years of age, and married to a man of years near my own, whom I had chosen to be my husband from no considerations save those of love, I shoidd of course indignantly and with an imijulse of the heart have cast off any suggestions directed against his honor, without seeking in facts a jus- tification of my decision. But in the simjdest and least unpleasant sense of the term I was a woman of the world, accustomed to hear, see, and speak of facts that put an end to much of the ignorance of innocence. My husband also was a man of the world, honorable and humane (as I had enjoyed ami)le means of ascertaining), but still a man who, ere he married me, had lived to the age of forty years with gentlemen indulging in the i)ursi!its and j)assions of fashion- able society. I was unable then simply to say, "It is false," and to rest content. OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 87 The first step to be taken was the inspec- tion of the register of St. Thonias's, Kenning- ton. Before iiroceeding to that locality, I deemed it requisite not only to order my carriage, but to have an interview with my coachman, for it struck me as far from improbable that he was as ignorant of the exact locality of Kennington as I was myself. In this, however, I was wrong. The coachman knew Kennington Church well, and also tlie clerk's office where the church regis- ters were kept. That ascertained, I ordered the man to bring the carriage without delay. For a person jealous of her individual inde- pendence, Mrs. Wilby was a delightful com])an- ion. She never required a reason, or explana- tion, or excuse from me, however glaring might be the eccentricities of my behavior. As soon as my visitor had departed lunch was announced ; whereupon I sent word to my aunt that, as I did not wish for any lunch, I trusted she would not keep the repast waiting for me. In the same off-hand manner I now sent her word that, as I was about to take a drive in the carriage, and desired to be alone, she would oblige me by tak- ing her airing in the phaeton without me, if she desired carriage exercise. At the expiration of half an hour I drove up to the gate of St. Thomas's Chui-ch by a route quite new to me ; and when I looked on all sides as the carriage stopped I felt a reasonable con- fidence that, whatever niight be the excitement caused in the neighborhood by my equipage, there was no danger of my being recognized in tliat quarter of the town. The official who had custody of the register of marriages expressed his surprise at my ap- pearance by staring at me with a gaze of stupid amazement. " Yuu want the register of marriages!" he said, laying an accent of incredulity on the first word of the sentence. " Yes, my good man ; I have told you so half a dozen times." "Beg your pardon, madam, but I'm hard of hearing, and I thought my hearing must have been mistaken." "Well, you understand me now. Can you let me look at the register here in the carriage, or shall I follow you into your office ?" "Look at the register in the carriage I" ex- claimed the old man, elevating his chin, and [ putting his silver-rimmed spectacles closer to [ his eyes, so that he might have the best possible view of the woman who had presumed to make such an audacious proposal. "Look at the reg- ister in tlie carriage ! Why, you mayn't do that. You must come into the vestry. But you ! must come at the proper time. The hours for I searching the registers are from nine o'clock in I the morning till luxlf past twelve." I Interpreting this simple statement as a mode ' of asking for an additional fee, in consideration j of the irregularity of my application to see the I parish archives, I took from my purse a couple i of sovereigns and offered them to him. ' Instead of being mollified by my liberality, the unaccountable ofhcial burst out in a paroxysm of anger and fear combined. My generosity was 10 lavish that he look the proffered gold as a bribe to corru])t liis honest purpose of holding the church i)apcrs in safe custody. "What, love you, madam — you don't think I'm going to sell you the registers in broad daylight !" He was such a stupid, staring, slow old man that I begun to apprelientl his sheer stupidity might cause me trouble of a more serious nature than two minutes' irritation. Luckily old Johnson, my dear father's favor- ite servant, was in attendance (standing at the carriage-door in readuiess to open it for me), and set matters straight "Nonsense, old man" (Johnson was a young-looking man himself for seventy, and was accustomed to adopt a dispar- aging tone when speaking of old age), "the lady only wants to look at the register, and as the lady would like to come and search tlie book without a whole rabble rolongation of my toil, termina- ting with the discovery I did not wisli to make. "Because you didn't ask for them,"' was the sharp answer. "Let me have them instantly," I replied. "Oh, dear me, madam" (raising his hands and lowering his tone piteously), " do you want all of them?" " Of course I do. Come, let me have them." "All at the same time, madam?" (with an air of resignation.) "Ay; Give me tlicm all. I won't leave this jilace to-night till I liave satisfied my curiosity. " Raising the iionderous lid of the fire-proof iron-cliest in wliich the registers were kei)t the custodian jiroccedcd to obey. "There, madam, there's the register beginning in KJOO, and here's the IGoO one." "Heaven protect my patience, man! I don't want these old books. I liave already told you the date of the period I wish to search." " Well, madam" (sorely ])er])lexcd), " and yon have searched it." "Then am I to understand that all the mar- riages that have l)een solemnized in this church between (let me see — what is the first date of the book?) — 1810 and the present time are entered in this book which I have already examined ?" " Why, of course, madam, every marriage is there. How could it be possible for any mar- riage to escape being there?" "Then the other six registers are old ones?" ' ' To be sure, madam. Of course they're old ones." "Then I have no need to occupy your time any longer. Good-morning." '■'■(Jood-vwrning, madam!" (with a start and a scream of surprise) — "good-morning! Why, it's nirjhl, and the lam))s is being lit in the street, and the shops is being shut up." " Good-night, then. But I forgot. You have not taken your money yet. Here, I'll give you another sovereign for having kept you waiting so long. Here, take the three sovereigns." "But, madam," I'eturned the old man, soften- ing toward my ignorance as he regarded the magnitude of the fee, "you haven't had a cer- tificated co])y of any thing. I can't take your monc}' till I have done my work. What certi- ficated copies would you wish me to make out ?" "Dear me, old gentleman," said Johnson, loftily, again coming to my relief, " what need have j'ou to trouble your head about certificated copies? The lady offers you the mono}-, and does not want you to do any more work. Sure- ly you don't want to grumble at that bargain. Take the lady's money, and thank her." "Oh, if that's all madam means — of course. But how could I have supposed it?" Once more I was in my carriage. "Where to, ma'am?" asked my faithful old footman. "Home. But, Johnson, isn't he a terribly tiresome old man ?" " He's the most ignoromeous official I ever met, ma'am," resjionded Johnson, with magnifi- cent disdain, as he packed up the steps and closed the door. In another minute I was being whirled through the busy thoroughfares on my way back to l\Iay- fair. The streets had in truth the ordinary "as- pect of London streets on a clear, dry, cold night in early sjiring, with shops lirilliantly illumina- ted, with pavements thronged by foot-passengers, and with carriages and equestrians dashing jiast each other in the mid-road. But I found it dif- ficult to jjersuade myself that they were not more than ordinarily crowded, and bright, and festive. The people on foot pursuing or passing each other in xmbroken currents struck me as being all bent ui)on enjoynient. The carriages aji- jieared to roll over the dry ground with unpre- cedented velocity, and with a rumble that was ]}ositively musical. ^ly own horses seemed to fly. As I crossed over the river, and from the bridge surveyed the silent Thames, I did not think of its cold, deep silence, but the beauty of the light which, sent from factory and palace and street lamj), ])laycd iqion its surface. Any how the marriage had never taken ]ilace as stated. That surely was a cause for exulta- tion. Why, it made my heart dance witli tri- umph ; and that anticipation of coining glad- ness already mentioned, b;'Coming a living v.dce within me, cried — "Rejoice!" f OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 89 And I did rejoice — that what had threatened to be 1111/ cit/iiinity wonkl turn out to be only an- other s siu .' CHAPTER VI. DOWN THE KOAD AND UP. To sleep that night was out of the domain of the jjossible. Eiuly the next morning I rose unrefreshed from bed, and resolved to proceed without de- lay to Laughton. I could not see my way to making inquiries about Miss Etty Tree in that town, cither by letter or by third person, witli- out communicating the subject of my tiioughts to others, or in some degree drawing attention to my own uncomfortable position. If I dis- patched a messenger into the country to gather intelligence, I should liave to make him my con- fidant, and in all probability he would impart my secret to others. If I wrote under an as- sumed name to the clergyman of Laughton, and he answered my letter, I knew I should be una- ble to rest satistied with the information so ob- tained. I determined, therefore, to be my own S))y, and to visit Laughton with every justifiable care to conceal my name from its inhabitants. At first I thought of traveling down into " the corn country" as a passenger of one of the stage- coaches. But I relinquished this plan for two considerations. It would any how expose me to the observation and curiosity of my fellow- travelers, among whom there might possibly be some one who knew me personally. And again, I felt that my husband would have good grounds for displeasure if he learned that his wife had m;\de a long journey in a jjublic conveyance. It was clearly best that, as I was bent on making tlie excursion, I should carry out my intention ia such a manner as should violate none of the rules of society. My course of action was soon laid out. " My dear aunt," I said at breakfast to Mrs. "Wilbv, "I have occasion to go into the country on imi)ortant business for two or tliree days. So I do not be alarmed at my absence." " Surely you are not going to Fulham ?" \ "Xo, not to Fulliam." I " Where, then ?" I "That (question I can not answer at present. ! You must allow me to be a little mysterious." 1 "You would like me to accompany you, I ' suppose, as Mr. retersham is not in Great Brit- ain ?" "No, I thank you, dear aunt. I shall take no one with me but my maid. I shall travel in poor dear papa's traveling-carriage, which has no device on the panels, and is fortunately in town. I shall post, so I shall not need the at- tendance of any of our men." Mrs. Wilby ojicned her eyes with astonish- ment. In my wayward girlhood I had caused them to open in that same way more than once. "Remember, Olive," she said, mildly, after a pause, "you are a married woman now, and in whatever you do you should consider what your husband would approve. You will forgive me for venturing to remind you of that. Don't be 'mad Olive Blake,' now you are Mrs. Peter- iham." This was about as decided a scolding as my dear aunt had ever given me, and I liked her for it. Her words were so just and approjiriate, and withal they were said so mildly. "Thank you, dear aunt, for your hint," I said, rising and giving her a kiss ; " you not only are able to give good advice, but you have the happy art of giving it in an acceptable man- ner. 1 had, however, thought of my duty to my husband. This journey I am going to make is not a freak of wildness, but an affair of duty. The truth is, the young lady who called on me yesterday told me something which I feel bound to investigate. Never mind just now what that something is. My only reason for not asking you to accompany me is, that I am desirous of traveling faster tlian your strength would allow me if you were my traveling companion. Aunt Wilby, you can trust your niece, Olive ?" "Surely, my dear," returned the old lady, kindly, "now I hear you speak in that voice. God bless you, child ; of course I can trust you. IIow long will you be gone ?" "I hope I shall not be absent more than two nights, or three nights at the ntmost." In another hour I was lying back in the trav- eling-carriage and studying the latest edition of Paterson's Road-Book as four post-horses bore me rapidly through one of the eastern suburbs of London on my way to "the corn country." The journey before mc required fifteen hours to be spent on the road. In this more fortunate generation it requires only three hours, passed in a luxurious car, flying at express speed, along iron lines. I divided the journey down to Laugh- ton thus : I traveled twelve hours without stop- ping, save to change horses, the only refresh- ment I took during that time consisting of wine and biscuits, eatcji in the carriage. Between 1 1 o'clock r. Ji. and midnight I drove up to the prin- ciiial inn in a county town, within five short stages of Laughton. Having refreshed myself with sleep there, I was on the road again by 7 o'clock A.M. ; so that while the clock oir the an- tique town-hall was striking 10 a.m. I was pass- ing up the High Street of Laughton, and in five minutes more turned in the rector's carriage- drive. The unexpected appearance of my carriage before the Rev. Augustus Butterworth's house doubtless caused some excitement to its inmates. As I spoke to the servant who came out to in- quire my business I glanced at the windows of tlie rectory, and saw at least seven human faces directed toward me. On asking if iSIr. Butter- worth was at home, and if I could see him, the man responded with a prom])t " yes," o])cned the carriage-door for me so that I could descend, and then conducted me across a light and airy hall. "Stay," I said to the man, remembering the seven curious faces, and feeling no inclination to find myself the centre of a family grouj), "as my business requires that I should see Mr. But- tcrworth alone, take me into tiie study — or some room where there are no ladies." The immediate effect of this direction was that the servant turned to his right hand (whereas, before I spoke, he was inclining to his left), and introduced me to a dingy room, furnished for the most ]jart with fowling-jiicccs, hunting-whips, many jjairs of boots, and an old-fashioned book- shelf, stocked with sermons, eighteenth century 90 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. novels, the Gentleman's 3fa(/azine, and some Ti"cutiscs on La^\- — written expressly for country justices. Clearly the library was not the strong point of the rectory. The Kev. Augustus Buttcrworth was soon with me, apologizing for his servant's stupidity in showing mc into the library instead of the draw- ing-room. Mr. Butterworth was far advanced in middle age, and was a gentleman, but pom- pous and fussy, as gentlemen who lead a country life frequently arc. "Thank you, Mr. Butterworth," I replied to his opening ajiology, "do not blame your serv- ant, for I myself took the liberty of asking him to show me into a room where I could see you alone without disturbing your family. I have traveled from town to obtain some information which I think you, as rector of this parish, can give me at once." "I shall be most happy to give any informa- tion in my power to any lady of my acquaint- ance." These words, as far as mere construction went, were only a formal expression of politeness ; but the accent laid on the "o/'mj/ acquaintance," said as plainly as any sentence, " Before I can give you the information you require I must know your name." Gentlemen who lead a country life are fre- quently very curious. "If I were a man," I said, taking firm hold of his lance, instead of merely turning it aside, "you might reasonably say, 'Our interview miist begin ^yith a statement of who you are ; ' but a lady, who wishes to preserve an incognita, may reasonably expect to have her humor in- dulged. • That you may not misconstrue my mo- tives for maintaining a reserve to you, Mr. But- terworth, let me assure you that considerations of what is due to others, more than of what is most agreeable to myself, induce me to conceal my name." Mr. Butterworth blushed. Gentlemen who lead a country life usually blush when they receive a rebuff from a lady* "I shall be happy, madam," he said, stiffly, " to give you any information which I can with propriety give to a stranger." "The object of my inquiries is a young lady, named Tree — Annette Tree — who a few years — three or four j'ears — since kej)! a school here. She has recently appeared in the circle of my own early experiences ; and the welfare of those most dear to me requires that I should be cor- rectly and minutely informed as to her history. Can j'ou tell me in what esteem she was held while she resided in this town? what circum- stances led to her leaving it ? and in what man- ner she took her dejjarture ?" Mr. Butterworth bowed, seated himself at his writing-desk, and taking out a sheet of foolscap paper wrote down my (juestiuns. He appeared to regard himself as acting in an official capacity, and treated me more as if I were a witness under cross-examination than as if he were being ex- amined by me. "You have, madam, asked me three qties- tions," he then said, "relative to a young per- son, whose lirief and sad career in this town is only too well known to every inhabitant of this neighborhood. Question No. 1 . In what esteem was the young person named Etty (short for An- nette) Tree held during her residence in Laugh, ton ? Question No. 2. What were the circum- stances that led to her leaving Laughton? Question No. 3. In what manner did she leave Laughton ? To answer these questions it is nec- essary that I should speak freely to you (a stran- ger to mc) of the character of a person who doubtless would not fail to use every possible means in her power to be revenged on those sjieaking the truth of her. I might, therefore, from prudential motives, reasonably decline to YQ\)\y to your interrogatories ; but it so h:ip])ens that I can readily conceive it to be my duty to act otherwise. The young person in question, namely, Etty (short for Annette) Tree, is such a character that I can well understand individuals of her own sex may need to be put on their guard against her. I will therefore answer your ques- tions fully ; but as I do so I will make an ab- stract of my replies on this sheet of paper, and you shall a])pend a statement to such abstract, testifying that it is an accurate condensation of my ■\erbal communications to you. To such statement I shall not require your signature. Your handwriting Avill be sufiicient." I have more than once observed that gentle- men who have lived long in the country are very fond of drawing up statements of occurrences. "Question No. 1," continued the Kev. Au- gustus Buttei'worth, taking a pinch of snuff out of a gold snuft'-box, "In what esteem was the young person named Etty (short for Annette) Tree held during her residence in Laughton? Answer. In the highest possible esteem. She was singularly fortunate in her personal endow- ments. Indeed in a higher rank of life her beauty woiild have advanced her to the highest eminence of social distinction. My son, Captain Mervin Butterworth, of the Royal Artillery, did not hesitate to call her 'one of the most beauti- ful girls he hod ever danced with.' My sister, Miss Argentine Butterworth, was not less struck M'ith her personal attractions, and was so" misled by them as to form a high opinion of her dispo- sition and moral qualities. Indeed I and my family gave the young person and her sister that countenance (on their first opening a school in the Abbey Cottage) without which new-comers would in vain hope to succeed in Laughton. My countenance won for the orphan sister the cordial aid of Mr. Rufus Choate of this town (an intelligent and much respected apothecary), and also that of Mr. Gurley, an attorney of this town, and also a highly res])cctable man. The re])re- sentations made by my sister Argentine to the late Lady Caroline Petersham (who then resided at Laughton Abbey, with her son, the well- known capitalist, and my very good friend, Mr. Arthur Petersham) induced that lady also to countenance the Miss Trees, and ultimately led Mr. Arthur Petersham to place his ward (a lit- tle girl named Amy Reickart) in their school. Not content with these exertions on behalf of the young peo]ile, my sister Argentine procured them the daughters of several of our county neighbors as pu])ils, and so advanced their interests that they were able to heighten their terms, and ob- tain a flourishing school. If they had onh' had moral character, they might have achieved not only com])etence but affluence in this town ; for had they continued to ap]iear to deserve it, I and my sister Argentine would never have withdrawn OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 91 our countenance from tliom. You may there- fore see that the vounj;; ]iersou was held in hif,'li esteem during lier residence, here, when I tell you that she succeeded in concealing her true character from myself and my sister Argentine up to the very time of her scandalous departure. This is my answer to Ouestion No. 1 ; and I will write down the substance of it before I proceed to answer Question No. 2." After using his pen for about ten minutes, Mr. Butterworth was satisfied with the completeness of his abstract, and continued, " Question No. 2. What circumstances led the young person to Iea\w Laughton? In the lirst place, my answer is (briefly), that the circumstances were infamous. In the second place, I will endeavor, without shocking your feelings, to detail what they were. As I have' already stated, the late Lady Caroline Petersham was induced by my sister, Jliss Ar- gentine Butterworth, to offer the young person and her sister considerable attention. Like my sister. Lady Caroline was led away by her nat- ural amiability. Her ladyship's conduct was indiscreet, but it was certainly kind. She had the two young persons frequently to the Abbey when there were no visitors who could be pained by being brought into familiar intercourse with young women of their humble condition. The consequences of Lady Caroline's goodness wei-e most painful. Perhaps the young person's van- ity, tickled by the flattering attention paid her, imagined that her beauty could win for her a matrimonial alliance witli the aristocracy. I am willing to believe that her guilt had its origin in that foolish notion, and in no more hideous source. A constant visitor at the Abbey during the residence there of Lady Caroline and her son was Sir George Watchit, K.B. — then Major Watchit — the officer who only the other day pre- served an important section of our Indian em- pire. An energetic and highly accomplished^ but singularly taciturn man. Major Watclut (for it will be better to speak of him by the rank and title he then held) had all the virtues and faults of a gallant soldier. Highly honorable in all other respects. Major Watchit showed by his conduct that his notions of right and wrong in all tliat related to the gentler sex were of the laxest morality. I am loth to speak with dis- respect of so splendid and brave a commander — the more so as I sliot with him several times in two following years, and found him a consum- mate sportsman — but still I am compelled to ad- mit that on one subject his life is reprehensible in the extreme. He did not hesitate to make an easy trium))h of the foolish girl who had been thrown across his path. Possessed of many ac- complishments, he was a good musician, play- ing several instruments with great and powerful effect — among others, the organ. Of the several benefits I conferred on the young person and her sister, the post of organist in my church was one. The ratepayers at my direction raised the salary of their organist from £25 per annum to £30 per annum, and I gave the post to the young person's eldest sister, the young person herself being permitted to assist her sister in the dis- charge of the duties. It was the young person's custom to practice the organ almost every even- ing during the summer and autumn months. Having by my permission the unrestnctcd use of a key of the church, she used to enter the church hy herself, and play on the organ, alone, for hours together. After her scandalous de- l)arturel found that Major Watchit had, during the preceding five orsix\vecks, been accustomed to meet her clandestinely in the church, and in- struct her in the art of managing that solemn instrument by the judicious use of which wc add so greatly to tiie sublime efi'ect of our church services. As this, madam, is my answer to Question No. 2, I will, with your permission, pause and make another abstract." On the completion of the second abstract Mr. Butterworth again cleared his voice and re- sumed, "Question No. 3. In what manner did the young jjerson leave Laughton ? Tlie young person, madam, left Laughton by night, secret- ly, in a carriage drawn by four post-horses, with ^lajor Watchit, who immediately took her abroad. The last I heard of her was that she was in the south of Europe, living witli Major Watchit as (you'll excuse the word) his ' mis- tress.' What became of her when that gentle- man returned to India I do not know. Of her present life I am altogether ignorant. I should add, as i\Ir. Petersham's name has been intro- duced several times into my answers, that no- thing could exceed the surprise, consternation, grief, and anger of that gentleman, when he was informed of Major Watchit's unjustifiable conduct. He called on me during the early part of the day after the major's clatulestine de- partiire with — with — the young person. And in the following autumn, when he Ciime to the Abbey, and staid three nights before going on the Continent, his mortification at his old school- fellow's flagrant indiscretion was by no means lessened. A gentleman of the highest honor, an unassuming Christian, and a stanch support- er of our ancient institutions, -Mr. Arthur Peter- sham was greatly antl genuinely affected. In- deed, to his sorrow at the painful occurrence may be attributed his declining to purchase the Abljcy estate, when the descendants of the fam- ily of the Clares sold it some two years since. This is all I have to say, madam ; I will there- fore draw up another abstract, and then having read over to you all the notes of my entire state- ment, ask for the certificate of youi" handwrit- ing." Another quarter of an hour was thus con- sumed ; but at the expiration of that time the pompous, prosy gentleman finished reading his abstracts,. and I wrote beneath them : "The fore- going absti-act of statements made by the Rev. Augustus Butterworth to me on this day of is minute and truthful. — The Unhnoivn Lacli/.^' '•By-the-by," said I, remembering a ]ioint of some importance when these formalities had been brought to a conclusion, "what has become of the elder sister? Does she still keep the school ?" "Miss Tabitha Tree left," answered the rec- tor, "this town by the night-mail, almost im- mediately (let us say, with the interval of two or three days) after her sister's departure. She went to London, but what has become of her I can not say. She was altogether an inferior person to her sister, being small, and of homely apjicarance. Whether she is morally superior to her abandoned sister I can not say, but I have no very high opinion of her. My sister Argeu- 92 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. tine thinks her 'sly,' and I should not wonder if that is the case. I understand that slie has ■written, since her departtiro, to her jjarticulur friend, Mrs. Gurley (the wife of our jirincijjal attorney, whom I have already mentioned), and she says that she is in comfort, as far as lier worldly circumstances are concerned ; but as to the means from which that comfort is derived I can not even ofier a suggestion. Possibly she participates in some way in tlie fruits of her sis- ter's misconduct. Sir George Watehit is (I be- lieve) rich, and would probably be inclined to act generously to the young woman's sister. But of that I know nothing. A most suspicious fact, however, is, that since her departure Miss Tabi- tha Tree has never drawn a single ])enny from a considerable sum of money lying in her name at our bank." " Perhaps it would be as well for me to sec Mr. Gurley before leaving the town?" I suggested. "Well, you can please yourself, madam, about that," replied the rector, smiling humorouslj', as though he wished to imply that Mr. Gurley was the strangest, and most unaccountable, and most ludicrous parishioner imaginable, "but I don't think Gurley will help you much. He is a very worthy and honorable man, but a fussy man — good-natured and well-meaning, but still — Well, if you go to Gurley, you may be sure of a civil reception, but you must make up your mind to be bored a little. The fact is, Gurley likes to make .1 great deal of fuss about matters of veiy small importance." "Then as I have no need to trouble yoti fur- ther, Mr. Butterworth,"" I said, "I'll bid you good-morning, with many thanks for the atten- tion you have paid me." "I should advise you," returned the rector, shaking the hand I offered him, "if you want further information to go straight to Mr. Peter- sham himself. He is an excellent man, and would, I am sure, receive with courtesy any lady of condition and bearing. " I did not stop to ask JNIr. Butterworth what he understood by "a lady of condition and bear- ing," and was moving away, when he called me back, and said, "I think though, before you leave, it would be a wiser and more prudent course, if you permitted me to append to my ab- stract a curt summary of the additional and sup- plemental conversation that has just passed be- tween us." There being no coiu'sc open to me but sid3- mission, I of course resumed my seat, and did not take my departure till I had lieard the sum- mary of the additional and suj)i)lemcntal con- versation read, and had testified to its correct- ness by my handwriting. At length I regained my carriage, and hav- ing directed that I should be taken to the princi- pal inn of the town, I there oVttained fresli horses. After driving througli the Abbey park, and in- specting the exterior of tlie mansion and the cottage, in which I had a ])ainful interest, I proceeded forthwith upon my journey uj) to town. On Mr. Gurley I did not call ; for I judged that he could tell me notliing it was im])ortant for me to know. Kelieved of certain additions, due to tlie insolence and droll arrogance of his nature, tlic conmmnications of Mr. Butterworth were quite reliable, and altog(!ther sufficient for my purpose. I had learned from him — the rec- tor of the parish, and a man highly respected (as I knetv) in the neighborhood — that Etty Tree was as abandoned and sliameless as she was beautiful. What her object was in forcing her- self into my house with an impudent lie (now proved to be "a lie" by my reference to the reg- isters of St. Thomas's, Kennington, and by the result of my journey to Laughton) I could not say, and did not care to inquire. My husband's reason for never alluding to the wretched girl was also clear. Her history was to him a subject of acute pain — because I, his wife, had taken a passing fit of poetic interest in her fortunes ; and because she had been im^one (at least, as far as her gravest sin was concerned) by his old school-fellow and friend — whom he dearly loved, and I had been taught to think of with respect. While I seemed to have forgotten the jjoor girl's existence, it was only natural that he should avoid recalling a subject fraught witli sorrow to my mind. That night I slept at the same inn as I staid at on my downward journey ; and the next night, shortly before 12 o'clock p.m., utterly prostrated with excitement and fatigue, I was lifted from my carriage in Grosvenor Square, and was wel- comed into my own house with a kiss and an embrace from dear Aunt Wilby. CHAPTER VII. THE APPOINTMENT. The week came round, and on the appointed day Etty Tree presented herself in Grosvenor Square. If I had not pledged my word to re- ceive her, I should have directed the porter to denj' her admission ; but it appeared to me right to keep a promise — even to her. I received her 'in the library. More pale, and delicate, and careworn (as if the intense excite- ment of reckless adventure were trying her nerves beyond their capability of endurance), but even lovelier to look ujjon than at our first interview, she entered the room witli the same light step and winning timidity of address. This time, however, she did not come close up to me. As on the former occasion, she extended both her hands slightly as she approached ; but when I rose, and, drawing myself to my full height, fixed my gaze njjon her with searching scrutiny, she knew that lier place was to be at a distance from me. My look forbade her to advance, and she stofiped still, where a copy of the Venus of jMilo, in marble of dazzling whiteness, looked down upon her. As my vision rested on the form of the eloquent stone and the fair outline of the girl's soft face, the thought crossed me whether tlie beauty (dead in the silence covering tliou- sands of generations) which had wanned the sculptor's breast gave i)ower for ill to one as wicked as the fair creature before me. She answered my steady gaze — not with a glow of shame, nor with a flash of defiance, nor even with the discomfort of abasliment, but with a look of innocent surprise. Perhaps there was trouble in her face, but surely not one sign of guilt. Could nothing, I asked myself, dash her serene hjqiocrisy ? "I have been to the church," I said, expect- ing that that would touch her. OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 93 "Well?" she answered, quietly. "I have inspected the register," I continued. "Well?" she replied again, adding, however, as I remained silent, "you might as well have believed mc." There was no eliange of color in her calm face as she said this, and she stood unshaken. I thouglit I would touch another string. ''Since you were here I have made a journey down to Laughtou." She did start tlicn, and a pang shot through her; but she only said, "What! to see my sis- ter? I could not dare to see her now." "If you went there you would not find her. The cottage has no tenant." "What !" she exclaimed with a scream, start- ing as a patient does under an electric shock, "is she dead?" Was she then so wicked? — a:id did she still care for her sister ? "And what if she be, girl ?" I answered, pour- ing upon her all the pent-up forces of my scorn, and loathing, and hate. " What if she bo ? She were better dead than living to see you in your shame, perjured to your own true love — perjured, I say, to Julian Gower — and cast off as the vile thing you are by your seducer. I wish, in mercy to her not less than in anger to yourself, I could add one grain's weight to the consciousness of crime and degradation that must lurk under your pretty form, by being able to tell you she were dead. But I did not hear that. All I learned was that soon after your midnight flight with my husband's friend — to whom you sold j^our beauty for gold — she too fled. Some perhaps say she fled for shame, powerless to endure the ignominy brought upon her by your sin. Others say she only left Laugh- ton in order that she might share in the golden fruits of your degradation. That cry of yours I believe, though it is almost the only true utter- ance that has come to me from your lips. You don't know where your sister hides her head, dis- honored by your inex]jiable guilt. Imagine her then in some wretched lurking den of poverty — and know that it is the home to which you have brought her. What ! I have touched you now ? You bore my gaze unmoved wlien I told you I had seen the register which gave the lie to your fabrication. You were disturbed only for an in- stant when I told you of my journey to Laugh- ton, where your infamy and JVIajor Watchit's tri- umph are the jest and gossip of vilhige profli- gates. But now you are stirred at the thought of your sister. Tiiink of Iier, then. Think, too, of Julian Gower. Remember him as he was when he lavished his royal love on your miser- able vileness, and then think of liim as lie is now, heart-broken in a pestilential climate. Re- call your hopes when you were an innocent girl, walking in the old garden round your hajipy home — your visions of coming joy, when you should be his one companion, his solace and his pride. Recall, I sa}', the future that then lay before you, and compare it with the days fast coming upon you — the days that, distant as they may be, haunt you now, as they will forever haunt you, though you dare not look at them." I stopped, not because I had exhausted my bitterness, but rather because I was faint frorii agitation. Then she approached me. I still looked at her — proudly and forbiddingly as ever ; but my eye had lost its charm over her. Nearer she came, till she was quite close to me. Then she regarded me. She was taller than I, and as she gazed down ujjon me I was forced, despite my will, to look up at her ; and as I did so I saw in her violet eyes true tears of tender- ness, such as good women shed for those they love. "Oh, poor lady," she said, in clear silver notes, "from the bottom of my heart I pity you. Last time when I was here I asked you to pity me. It is now my turn to pity. I have been a wicked, vain, heartless girl ; but indeed you wrong me ; and in His own time God will jjrovc me innocent of what you lay to my charge." She said no more, but turning away left me. As she departed my eyes, instead of following her, fell to the ground ; and wlien I raised them agam they met only the cold statue. CHAPTER VIII. MY HUSBAND S RETURN. Eight days intervened between my second in- terview with Etty Tree and the return of my husband — eight days passed by me in fever of body and in mental restlessness. My physician called my malady a nervous fever. 'Tis the name always given by doctors to a great lady's indisposition, when they know neither its cause nor its proper treatment. When Mr. Petersham returned he too seemed worn and harassed ; but he professed himself glad to be at home again. The pallor and un- usual delicacy of my face (thougli I had used every art of the toilet to obliterate all traces of illness) struck iiim, immediately he entered the room (where I lay on a sofa) and put an end to our temporary separation. He inquired the cause of my altered looks ; and as he did so, I tliought his scrutinizing eyes Avere unusually keen and significant, but that might have been nothing more than a ground-fancy of my excited mind. " S-something h-has gone wrong with you, Olive. W-what is it?" Tlie voice in which he said this was very soft and winning. " Come, tell me. Though it be bad news, and I am but just back from a journey of much grief and no profit, let me know all." "A fortnight since I was cruelly disturbed, Arthur, by a girl named Etty Tree, tlic girl we I tried to help years since. Slie lias been here, ' and I have seen her twice."' He started, as he well might ; and when he first spoke he stammered considerably — but then a slight hesitation at tlie commencement of each of his sentences was a natural defect with him. lie was siiocked by my announcement, but only on my account. "M-my p-poor Olive," he said, battling with liis vocal impediment, "you have indeed good reason to look pale. How she must have alarmed you ! Who was with you ?" " No one besides the girl. I saw her twice." "B-by Il-IIeavens, how fearful!" exclaimed my husband. "Imagine it, you to hear that poor mad girl's story, and to be with her — with- out a protector! Was it not a fearful spectacle, tliat matchless beauty clothing a shattered mind ? 94 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. Wliy, Olive, I have wept over it, hard man as I am. Dill it not well-nigh kill you ?" "I did not know she was mad. She was so collected, and calm, and in cveiy respect so like a sane jjerson, that — that — " "T-tliat y-you believed her story? S-surely n-not, Olive?" "No — no !" I exclaimed, earnestly protesting against the accusation of distrust implied by his questions. "I did not put faith in her state- ments, but they haunted me so that I could not forbear from journeying down to Laughton to make inquiries about her. Are you disjdeased with me for that?" " D-displeased, 0-Olivc?" he answered, cord- ially. "I am heartily glad you did so. It was the proper step for my wife to take. Why should I be angry with you for taking it ?" " I did not discern that her intellects were dis- ordered, I only thought her very wicked. Her statements were so surpassingly terrible!" "Y-you n-need not repeat them, my dear," said my husband, regaining all his composure, "I-I kn-know them well. Poor thing! her historjr is the most cruel story of crime and fast- pursuing punishment that any romancist could invent. I have no need to go over each of the ghastly facts to you, as you have learned them for yourself. I will only toucli on such jioints as are necessary for yon in order to understand my relations with her, and to ])erceive the prin- cipal features of her remarkable hallucination. W-when W-Watchit (with that sad want of principle which has throughout life been his chai'acteristie on one subject, but, in justice as well as friendship to him, I am bound to add, on that one subject only^ carried her away from Laughton, my surprise, and indignation, and sorrow were such that they threw me upon a bed of sickness. Watchit took the girl witli him to a mountain village in Monaco, to his cottage in Castellare, that you have often heard me speak about, and from that spot wrote to me, inviting me to join him. Incensed as I was with my old school friend I accepted the invitation promptly — for the sake of his netim, not for the pleasure of his society. At great inconvenience I went to Castellare and found tlicni glad to see me. I had for your sake, Olive, always shown the poor girl much kindness, and she had conceived for me just that attachment which a young creature in her rank of life might be expected to form for a considerate patron. W-Watchit t-told me that she had greatly dreaded my arrival at Cas- tellare, fearing that I should scold her for her misl)ehavior. When, then, instead of u] (braid- ing her, I greeted her witli my old manner of consideration, she was very grateful. At Cas- tellare, on my first visit, I found — what I had | feared was the ease — that she and Watchit were' not married. Our old friendsliip entitled me to speak to him freely on this subject; and I told liim that it was his duty to make the girl his wife forthwith. I reminded him that she was a girl of gentle descent, the daughter of an officer of the British army, and, until he had met lier in my mother's drawing-room, a young lady of | spotless reputation. I even ventured to say that the interest which my future wife liad conde- Bcended to take in her was one consideratiini that ought to ]iave,exem])ted her from the ad- vances of his libertinism. These representations , were taken in good part by my old friend. Il-he a-acknowledged their force, and said that he had 1 always intended to marry the girl. He had even proposed to her before leaving England that they should be married in tlie church of St. Thomas's, Kcnnington ; but he had relincpiished that plan, from a fear that the ceremony solemnized in any church, however obscure, might become known to certain atHuent relations from M'hom he had expectations. I urged upon him to be married there in Monaco, by a ]iriest of the Romish Church, rather than to continue his existing in- tercourse. The poor girl knew how I interested myself in her behalf, and the knowledge of course strengthened her grateful feeling toward me. "M-my f-f- first visit at Castellare, how- ever, terminated without the ceremony having been performed. Still I did not despair to cany my point. That Watchit might remain longer within the range of my influence, I exerted my- self with my father and his brother Directors of the East India Company to procure him an ex- tension of his furlough ; and when he had been in Italy eight or nine months I saw him again. He was then ex]3ecting the birth of a child — a fact which gave additional force to my renewed exhortations to him to marry. She, poor girl, was much altered. Cut off from all communica- tion with her sister, suffering under the burden of guilt which weighed on her conscience, she had become subject to fits of obstinate depres- sion. Unhappy creature — she had enough to make her sad. And possil)ly, among graver causes for wretchedness, the discovery that Watchit was a comjjaratively poor man (instead of the very rich one she had supposed) was not without a mel- ancholy eftect. My presence, however, bright- ened her up. I brought her out with me as a jjrescnt a large box of English books ; and the delight with which she recei^'cd this gift was literall}' extravagant. I again urged on Watch- it ll:e propriety of marriage ; and as another in- ducement for him to take the step, I made him a jiiomise that I would secure for him a certain command in India (which would, in all proba- bility, be vacant in the course of another year) if ho would accede to my request. I had, how- ever, again to leave without the fulfillment of my wishes. " S-six m-months passed, and Watchit was in cruel trouble- He was a father ; but the mo- ther of his child, after Mceks of extreme suffering and )(eril, had manifested unmistakable symp- toms of a disordered intellect. Besides the ob- stinate mental dejection with which j'oung mo- ther,, are occasionally afflicted, she M'as the vic- tim of a most unaccountable — and most painful — hallucination. ' She was firmly convinced that I was the father of her child, that I was also her husband, and that Major Watchit had himself been the witness of our marriage. On receiving tliis intelligence I immediately hastened out to Jlonaeo, once more to give consolation and ad- vice. Poor Watchit — a singularly reserved and self-contained man, but withal one of tender sensibilities — was utterly unmanned. It seemed to me that his mind would follow that of the ])()or girl's. No marriage had taken place, and none could take jilace between my friend and a ])()(ir demented creature who was firmly con- vinced slie had a husband living. OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 96 "I-I c-could do little for her. It was to my wretched friend that my best and first thoughts were given. It w;is necessary for me to do something to rouse him from the stupor of despondence into wliich lie liad fallen. For- tunatel}' the command in India (already spoken of) fell vacant, and I j)rocured' it for him. Spirited persuasion induced him to accept his promotion ; and I sent him oft" to the East — where he has distinguished himself so splendid- ly. But ere he left, I promised to take a pa- ternal care of the poor girl and her child. In discharge of this undertaking I moved her to Nice, and placed her under the surveillance of a humane and most enlightened physician, Dr. Brunod. The doctor was not a rich man, so I went to the expense of fitting him up a house in the environs of Nice. The journey I have just returned from was taken in order that I might see her, and also place her child in proper hands, with a view to its education. It of course would not be fit that slie, suft'cring under such a delu- sion, should have the custody of her child, now that its intelligence is becoming active. Well, Olive, on my arrival at Nice, what was my sur- prise to find that the girl had made her escape from Dr. Brunod's gentle hands ! I forthwith instituted search and pursuit after her ; but not a trace of her movements had I discovered when I entered this room an hour since." Such was the intelligible but heart-stirring narrative of my husband. Such was the ex-, planation of my terrible mystery. "Oh, Arthur," I said to my husband, "how deeply I regret having used the language of bit teraess and scorn to her ! " With these words I closed my minute ac- count to him of all that had transpired, with- in the circle of my experiences, during his ab- sence. "D-don't w-worry your head about that," he answered, reassuring me with an air of great good-humor. "A-a b-better remedy, I dare say, could not have been devised for her. A knowledge of how those who do not possess the secret of her delusion must regard her will doubtless act as a wliolesome medicine." What a change had my husband's words ef- fected ! When he rose and went to dress for dinner he left me on the sofa the happiest and proudest wife in all London. I never before had felt so much like reaUy loving him. The bloom soon returned to my cheek, and the freshness to my spirits, and ere three days had passed over us I was able almost to laugh at my alarms of the previous three weeks. On the third day after my husband's return, our old and very intimate friend. Sir Charles Norton, the well-known Secretary of State, dined with me and Mr. Petersham — no other visitor being present. Sir Charles was on such very confidential terms with us, that my husband in a very humorous manner told him the annoy- ance to which I had been placed — by the irrup- tion of a mad woman, declaring that she was really Mrs. Petersham. Sir Charles was very much tickled with the narrative, and also with the notion of his friend's having two wives. "Well," I said, concluding my part of the conversation on tlie subject, "I trust the poor creature won't trouble me again." "No fear of tliat, my dear. She won't re- peat her visit," said my husband; and as he said this, I noticed that ho and Sir Charles ex- changed glances. CHAPTER IX. MY SIN. She was only a mad girl, and the annoyance she caused me was quickly f(jrgottcn ; but the day was coming on black, fast wings when her words, so earnestly si)oken, and at the time of their utterance so little heeded by me, were to rc-forui themselves, and strike to my heart. ' ' Oh, poor lady,'' the mad girl had said, "from the bottom of my heart I pity you ! Last time I was here I asked you to pity me. It is now my turn to pity. I have been a wicked, vain, heartless I girl ; but indeed you wrong me, and in His own time God will prove me innocent of what you lay to my charge." Strange words these for a mad girl ! But the insane know well how to cut a listener with pa- thetic speeches. Why did I not go forth and seek her? drop comfort into her wretched heart? and find her the protection of such a lionie as a fraction of my wealth could procure ? I knew her history well; that she had neither father nor mother; that she had no money to secure her the greedy care of expectant relatives ; that she was sepa- rated from the sister who might have shielded her ; that she had been betrayed by a brave sol- dier, who for all his gallantry was a selfish lib- ertine; that for sins, into which she had been betrayed hy childish vanity and a seducer's guile, she had paid the penalty of a shattei'ed intellect; that, though her mind was broken, her beauty still remained to her for the wicked to mark as prey. I knew all this : and I remained quiet and cheerful, and nursing an anticipation of com- ing gladness^ — living in my proud mansion, re- freshing my eyes with the works of painters and sculptors, courted by crowds of friends, and play- ing fastidiously with the labor, and thought, and genius of tiiose who fed my tastes and gratified my caprices. And ijray, what was the mad girl to me that I should deviate from my ])leasant paths to help her? She had been false to her first love ; false to her sister ; false to her sex. She had approach- ed me, l)ut uninvited ; and she had come to mo only to besmear my delicacy with the defilements of her wicked experiences and crazy brain. Sure- ly the lunatic as\lums could take care of their own without my interference ! Why should I vex myself about such a creature? Why should I wa.ste a thought upon her ? . And yet I had j^ven her many thoughts when I had never seen her; when her existence, known of only by the ear, was a fiinciful ornament in my drawing-room visions of life's romance. At lengtli I had met her in the stern life of fact, and I put my hands down before me, and drew my skirts from hers, and ])assed on. I ab- stained from mentioning her name to my hus- band, for it was an unpleasant subject. And soon I never thought of her, because it was an un- pleasant suhject. This was my sin ! Do any of my sisters think "sin" a hard name 96 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. for siuli neglect of tlie duties of Christian char- ity—a iu'f,'left justilieil, as the phrase goes, by social t'xii;eiK-ie.s ? I will judge myself, so tliat 1 may nut be judged. The mad girl came to me, hungry for wo- man's counsel, and 1 gave her the censure of an angry tongue ; thirsting for pity, and I gave her scorn ; a stranger to all human love, and I gave her hate; naked of her honor, and I did my ut- most to tear from her any thin veil of self-respect still left to her ; sick to the cove of her heart, and imprisoned in remorse — and J fonjot her. A slight sin ! Why, it was a sin in which sin folded itself within sin, like the leaves of an un- burst rose-bud. It was made up of sins innu- merable. I did not see them then — the bud had not burst; but they were there, incased in a smooth, neat covering. And I know a book which says that they who have committed such sins, and die unrepenting, shall go away into pun- ishment. BOOK V. SUBMISSION :— BEING THE THIRD OF MISS TABITHA TREE'S NOTE-BOOK. CHAPTER I. JIARCHIONESS STREET. It is a sunmier evening at the end of July, and I am sitting at one of the many large win- dows on the first floor of the Hospital for Sick Children in Marchioness Street, Bloomsbury, W.C. (as it is described in the Post-Office Direct- ory for 1861), and I am looking into the dusky street. In the times of Queen Anne, and George I., and George II., Marchioness Street was in great favor with the aristocracy, whose capacious and conspicuously decorated coaches, drawn by four or six horses, and heavily weighted with tawdry menials, were constantly rumbling over its tin- even ground. It is a street of deserted man- sions, of marble halls that have no gay visitors, of wide staircases no longer climbed by haughty nobles and scheming ministers of state, of lofty dining-rooms that have seen no banquet for many a day, of magnificent drawing - rooms whose ceilings, rich in costly moulding and an- tique ornament, long since looked down on proud jjatrician girls as they danced chacones, and cybells, and sarabands, and minuets, and contre-dances, and flirted their fans, to the ad- miration of patch-bearing gallants and high-born mohocks — wasting an hour in good, ere_ they enjoyed themselves in bad, society, and rushed wildly rioting through the town. The flash of lights and the brightness of burnished mirrors, the waving of white i)lumes and the rustling of choicest silks, the dazzle of diamonds and the joyous sweep or merry jig of dance-music, brill- iant uniforms and ringing laughter — they've all left Marchioness Street for the far West! On the wettest and most miserable of winter nights, when no one but the night policeman is beating the pavements. Marchioness Street, however, is brighter now than it was in its days of splendor, after the aristocracy had put out their lights, and shut their street doors, and gone to rest. On either side of the street a row of gas-lamps runs from one end to the other, and as the way is straight as an arrow, all the lamps shed light on the belated wanderer's course. What a con- trast to old times! Projecting from the rusty railings, or attached to iron-work, curving down from the door-posts, the awkward extinguishers yet remain, in which the link-boys, who follow- ed the then great folks' equipages, were accus- tomed to put out their torches. Dingy and deserted as it is, garnished with cobwebs instead of muslin blinds as it is, and covered as to its wood-work with smuts of ages instead of paint as it is. Marchioness Street is still jncturesque — indeed very much so by lamp- light, when the once-white facings to the red- brick mansions look white as ever, and the cob- webs and smuts are less depressing than they are by daylight. The door-ways are many of them very imposing, their posts being elaborately carved, and at least half a dozen of them hav- ing porches, the roofs of which are sup])ortcd on curved pillars, and are decorated with an excess of sculptured wood or stone — fat cherubs, smiling Cupids, exuberant clusters of grapes, lyres, flutes, music-books, and such other devices as great people used, once on a time, to pile upon their door-ways. When the nobility gave np IMarchioness Street it fared worse, and fell into the hands of the lawyers. Indeed, it stands in a district even yet called by old-fashioned people "the law neigh- borhood," in which the last of judges (to reside there) only the other day sold his mansion. It was a convenient locality for rich barristers and solicitors, for Gray's Inn is hard by, and Chan-.- eery Lane is near to Gray's Inn, and Lincoln's Imi and the Temples are near Chancery Lane. The lawyers lived in Marchioness Street, drink- ing their ])ort and playing whist, till the houses got so i)crfectly out of repair that they needed i-e-roofing, and, in some cases, rebuilding ; and then the gentlemen of the long robe left, as Ju- lian Gower protests, without eflecting the requi- site restorations, or even paying their taxes : and Marchioness Street, all cracked, and dilapi- dated, and draughty, and unpainted, fell down another grade in social dignity. It was seized on by Charitable Objects. It is the iicculiar home of Charitable Objects at the present moment. The IIos]>ital for Sick Children occupies two of the largest mansions, containing some seventy beds, each bed containing a child suffering much, though it can haA'C only sinned a little. Next door, standing on ground once occupied by a mighty earl's house, stands another asylum for OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 97 the afflicted of our species. Then tli v' me "homes," and "retreats," and " rct'iij^cs"' tor all sorts of Cliaritable Objects. It is Sunday evening, and the humbler folk going to and fro for devotion or pleasuring make tha j)avements lively. I count at least twelve persons in the street at one time. Usually there is almost no trafhc in Marchioness Street; the carriages of a dozen physicians and those of the lady jjatronesses of the benevolent institutions being the only vehicle* accustomed to the ways of good society that enter it. For the most part the friends of the Charitable Objects come to see them on foot. The square at the end of JMar- chioness Street (also full of deserted mansions, which, instead of being inhabited by Charitable Olijccts, has a population of lodgers and lodging- jiouse keepers of the mouldiest description) is a cnl-de-sac, and when a young cabman, ignorant of ins profession, drives down the street, hoping to make a short cut, he has to go back without eifecting his object. It is therefore very quiet in Marchioness Street. Now that I am tired of the view out of the front windows of the Hospital for Sick Children I go round to the other side of the building, and survey the fine gardens at the backs of the de- serted mansions — gardens full of magnificent trees, limes, and elms — the high red-brick walls covered with vines and fig-trees, all untrained and fruitless, but still veiy luxuriant, and fresh and green to look upon. The nobility and the rich lawyers little thought how their spacious pleasure-grounds would be enjoyed by the Charitable Objects. CHAPTER II. HOW I CAME TO BE THERE. The evening just recalled is of the past — di- vided from me by many years and many changes. I had left Laughton eight years, and was thir- ty-four years of age. How had life gone with me since then ? Eight years is a long time. When one reads carelessly in the paper the words of a judge, " Prisoner, your sentence is that you undergo penal servitude for seven years," one finds it difficult to realize all the significance of the curt decision — to imagine what a diflerent aspect life will bear to the crim- inal at the expiration of his punishment — how he will look beyond himself for friends whom death has removed, or prosperity has exalted, and look within himself for powers once delicate and highly trained, but now weakened or de- stroyed by long endurance and ignominious toil. Why, one year is a very long time — long enough to cover happy homes with desolation, and make men assume forgetfulness of faces they once kiss- ed ! Even a night has made men old ; and I know where an idle s])cecii, to utter which con- sumed only ^fraction of a iiiiuute, broke to pieces the friendship of a life. Eight years ! The hair on my head was turn- ing gray, and I often caught myself vainly en- deavoring to recall names once familiar to me as household words. Since leaving Laughton by the night-mail I had never i-evisited it. Twice a year I had writ- tea to dear Mr. and Mrs. Gurlev, telling them I G was well, as happy as I had a right to be, and possessed of as nuicli prosperity as I had any de- sire; for. liiit I never let them know where I lived. They wrote to me from time to time in answer to my conmiunications, but their epistles were directed to an address where they were kept for me till I called for them. In the course of eight j'cars 1 changed my secret address twice. Mr. and Mrs. Gurley's letters were a great com- fort to me, giving me such news from "the corn country" as they knew would be pleasant to me, although I fled from it in slianie. Eight years made no alteration in those dear friends ; they wrote to me as freely and confidingly and ten- derly as ever. Three times Mr. Gurley wrote to me of Julian Gower. Julian had returned from SoLith America, not poor, as we had an- / tiei])ated, bi,;t with modest alHuence. The mines had turned out better than he had expected. On his arrival in England he went down to Laughton, and had an interview with Mr. Gur- ley, expressing a great desire to discover me and make provision for my comfort. Loyal to the confidence placed in him, Mr. Gurley con- cealed from him the fact of his correspondence with me, but wrote to me urging me to recon- sider my decision never again to see the play- mate of my childhood. To this counsel I re- sponded with a firm reiteration of my resolve. Twice since then had Mr. Gurley mentioned Julian's affairs — once to tell me that he had been appointed engineer to a prosperous mining speculation in the North of England, and again to inform- me that his old friend Mr. Peter M 'Cabe had died in Newcastle, and left him a legacy of £10,000. These were the only occa- | sions of Mr. Gurley's saying any thing about Julian ; but I had further information as to his proceedings. A crisis had arisen for enterpris- ing mechanics and self-taught engineers to make large fortunes. Railways were in course of con- struction in various parts of the kingdom; and Julian, whose capacity was known to the Ste- / l^hensons, was employed to lay down more than one important line. He had therefore in a cer- tain way become a public man, and every now and then I saw his name in the columns of the daily jjapers. Oh, poor, poor Etty, if she had but known the coming fortime of the man who loved her so well! But though that regretful reflection would persist in rising, it seemed to me unreasonable, and selfish, and wicked. Since she had proved herself unworthy of him, ought I not rather to rejoice that he was not closely united to her? I had not heard of Etty. When I left Laugh- ton I had a confidence that she would write to | me as she promised, and 1 felt it more than prob- ' able that ere a year or so should elapse I should hear from her. But she never sent me either letter or message. For two years I made sure that a letter forwarded to me from Laughton would be waiting for me at my secret address the next time I presented myself at it, and asked "Have j-ou any letter for me?" Nearly every month (for the first two years of my London life I could not go oftener) I had for eight years put this question to the agents who received my let- ters. Time after time my letter receivers (smil- ing sadly and grieving to wound me) had to an- swer, "No, ma]ttm, no letter for you;" and on the occasions ^raen they did hand me a letter 98 OLIVP: BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. from ;\rr iiiul >ris. Giivl^'y with ii choeriiig '* Ves, iii;r:uii, there is :i h'lter for you tliis time !" a {ihiiK'u ;it my eyes tokl ilicm thiit it was not the letter of all letters which I required. Of course, I put the worst construction on Etty's silence. But how had I managed to live in London for eight years? Without much difficulty. Lon- don has its terrors; hut as a general rule it has an ahundance of work for willing laborers. For the first two years after leaving Laughton I was nursery-governess to IMrs. Monk, of Clap- ton. 1 often read in volumes of fiction that the governess is usually worse treated and worse paid than any other worker. I trust this is not the case ; but if it be a fact, I have another rea- son for gratitude in having been led to Mrs. Monk"s door. She was a devout and excellent lady — a kind mistress to me when I was her servant — and in after-years one uf my very best friends. An advertisement in a newspaper was the cause of my seeking admission to Mrs. Monk's service ; and at the interview, when she engaged me, she told me the nature of my duties, and the terms she offered. The latter were liberal, for Mr. Monk was a rich man — rich even among London's rich merchants. It was when Mrs. Monk asked for my testimonials to character that the difficulty of our interview became ap- parent. "I have no character, madam," I answered. ''I have never before held a paid situation in any family. Since it was necessary for me to earn my living I have kept a school in the coun- try until now." "Can you, then," inquired the lady, "give me a reference to the parents of any of your old pupils?" "No, I can not," I answered, with an eff"ort. " And why not?" "Ten days since, Mrs. IMonk, I had dozens of friends I could have referred you to, but I have fled from the place in ^vhieh my name was respected — and in whieh, I give you my word, my character is still stainless in the estimation of those who know me. I have come to London to earn my living as a good woman may earn it. I wish to enter your service, but I can not, in order that 1 may do so, speak of the trouble from which 1 have fled ; I can not even give you the means of learning for yourself the sorrow of my life. This I can assure you — there is nothing in my wretched history which, if you knew it, would decide you not to engage me as the instructor and attendant of your little children." "That will do, Miss Tree," answered the lady. " You must come and live with me. Your char- acter is written in your eyes, and I have read it by a heart that has known something of sorrow." The good woman who thus spoke to me years since is in her grave now. Would that my gratitude could reach her in the place where her soul is at rest with God ! . 1 remained for two years the chief su])erintend- ctu of Mrs. Monk's nurscuy, exercising am-oeil- I'liirc over the nurse-maids, and instructing the younger children. ])uring the last six months of that period one of Mrs. Monk's children, a lovely boy of six summers, died after a jiainftil illness, in which I nursed hiiu.% I only rendered the poor little fellow the services I was bound to ]iay liim, but the mother's heart, tliat "had known something of sorrow," led ]\Irs. Monlv to jiut another estimate on my services, and when we returned from the side of the grave in which we had placed him we were no longer mere mistress and dependent, hutj'riends. Our common grief roused us from the imcon- scious selfishness in which the well-intentioned and amiable pass too much of their lives, and we began to sympathize, in a way we had never before done, with those iliousands of poor mo- thers whose children, in the vast "city of the world," die, not as our darling had perished, sus- tained to the last with all the care of science, and means of wealth, as well a's with afiectionate so- licitude — but die when timely nourishment and medical aid would have preserved them in health and beaitty. In some measure this sj-mpathj' roused in Mrs. Monk's breast was the seed from which Tlie Hos- pital for Sick Children sprung. Any how, she was one of a few other benevolent persons who established the institution. It had an humble be- ginning. For four j-ears it could scarcely hold its position in the smaller of the two mansions which it at present occupies ; for benevolent ttn- dertakings, not less than commercial enterprises, when they take shape as householders have to ])ay rent and taxes, and at first subscribers were slow to give their support to the new charity. It was a work of great labor to give the mere existence of the hosi)ital publicity beyond a very confined circle. Even at this date there are hundreds — ay, thousands of rich mothers — with- in an hour's drive of Marchioness Street, who have never heard of The Hospital for Sick Chil- dren. If any such rich mothers amuse an idle hour with these pages, I here beg them, when they are distributing a small fraction of their in- comes in charity at the close of the year, not to forget "the poor child's home in illness." Have they children, struck with maladies the course of which they with a fearful effort of resignation leave God to determine? Let them, even as they imj>lore mercy, show mercy to the wives of ])Oor craftsmen whose babes are similarly afflict- ed ! Have they infitnts fresh and blooming ; with round limbs well-formed, and white, and tender; with faces full of coy, roguish smiles; and with ]iink lips roaring out an unintelligible jargon of delight? For such blessings let their ileeds give thanks. But still the question remains to be answered — How came I on that summer evening to be sitting at a window overlooking Marchioness Street ? It ha])pcned thus. On the establishment of The Hospital for Sick Children I solicited Mrs. Monk to do her ntnmst to i)rocure for me the post of matron. The ob- jections off'ered by her to my undertaking the arduous and irksome duties of the situation I overruled. I managed to convince her that no cm]iloyment held out to me more attractions. I should be effecting good, should be doing work that I was ]ieculiarly qualified to do well, should have trust i)laced in me and the control over others, should, moreover, be able to maintain my intercourse with her. I rejircscntcd that, at the first establishment of a hos])ital, it was es- pecially necessary to keep down every expense (connected with the mere machinery of the af- OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 99 fair) at a minimum ; and I felt confident tlie originators could not ]>rocure so good a cliicf- HursG as I for the wages I was ready to accept. The result was, that in due course the Com- mittee appointed me nuvtron of the hospital , and one dull November afternoon IVIrs. Monk drove me up from Clapton into town and left me in the desolate mansion of Marchioness Street, which continued to be my home for sev- eral years afterward. At first, as I have already intimated, the hos- pital had a hard struggle for life. Mrs. ]Monk and her immediate coadjutors wei'e compara- tively rich, but they could not by themselves maintain the institution eflicicntly. At the end of our fourth year atiairs looked so badly that the Committee were very near relinrised at finding how cheerful I was now and then. There was one side of deep gloom to my life, but otherwise I had much to be tlumkful for. By degrees a terrible certainty had grown ujjon me — that there was only one explanation to Etty's silence. I did not conceive it possible that she was under a physical restraint that jjre- cluded her from sending a letter to me ; and I was sm-e that were she married she would at least have communicated to me that mucii of her position. It never occurred to me that she might be dead. After she had maintained her silence for two entire years I always thought of her as erring. God, who comforted me in my trouble, knows how, in the silent hours of night, the tears of my old aft'ection for her wetted my ]iillow. But I schooled myself to fulfill her last request. "Dear Tibliy," she had written, "do think charitably of me. Try to remember only the best of me." And in a great degree I suc- ceeded in doing as she had asked me. I habit- ualh', when recalling her, compelled myself to think of all that was sweetest and most beauti- ful in our life at Farnham Cobb — the old far- off" time when she used nightly to kneel at my knees, and, turning up her six-year-old face to me, pray to "Our Father, who art in heaven;" the day when she was confirmed; the sacred morning on which she for the first time took the sacrament; the efforts she had made to subdue her too impetuous temper ; the solemn purpose she had formed'to be a woman worthy to be Ju- lian's wife ! It was on such jioints in her life and character that I resolutely mused. And to my doing so I very much attribute a pleasant and most cheering hope (which grew up within me till it amounted to a sense of certainty) that one day she would return to me again, and be my own Etty, and join with me in daily suppli- cation to Our Father to preserve us from evil. It did not occur to me, till long after all oc- casion for such comfort had ceased, that this hope was granted to me by the Heavenly Mercy as a support to my weakness, and a refreshment in my sharjjcst moments of dejection. I there- fore never thanked God for it then as I do now. By degrees this sweet anticipation so colored my entire life that on New-Year's Days, when I reflected on the past year and looked forward to the coming one, I used to wonder if that open- ing year were the one in which my confidence would be justified. And I used to say, "Oh, dear Father, if it seem good to Thee, let Etty come home ere this year be done !" By " home" I meant my embrace. That was the home I had to offer her. 100 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. Thus I luul more content than I can well make the ivader inulcrstand. But in other ways I found peace. Fortunate- ly mv jirivate grief did not embitter me. I saw so clearly that my sorrow was exceptional, that it was in no way wliatever an indication as to the ordinary distribution of tribulation in this world. And in enabling me to see this, God showed signal care for me. When I had fairly recognized the fact that a ])reponderance of hap- piness was the rule of human life, my exceptional sorrow became greatly less. It would ill become me, who have been so singularly blessed, to speak in aself-suflBcientway about my own experiences, or to imply that any portion of the suffering of those who were once my fellow-sufferers is due to fault of theirs ; but with earnest and unob- trusive sympathy I suggest to the unhappy of the earth, that they should strive to look beyond their individual trials, and not permit grief to discolor their vision. For myself I know the great comfort I derived, in my retreat in Mar- chioness Street, from meditating on the happi- ness from which I Was cut off; and I am sure that if God had not led me to do so, I should have been far more sad. For mere pleasure I rarely went beyond the precincts of the hospital, save at night, and then only for a walk up and down the pavement, or for a saunter in Gray's Inn Garden, all liy myself; but whenever I did so, I relished the sight of hapjiiness. I enjoyed seeing the little children at close of day, jjlaying on their fathers' and mothers' knees in the shops of Lamb's Conduit Street, and Red Lion Street. I said, "Heaven bless you ! I wish I might go with you I" when a carriage full of bright girls in evening dress, bound for the ball-room or the theatre, passed me in the street. And a favorite diversion of mine, when my day's work was over, and my little jKvtients were all asleep in the wards, was to get a healthy, hajipy English novel — descriptive of joyful home life — and for- get the world in its pages. My sorrow vaiicd very much in intensity. It came upon my soul in distinct tides with regu- larly recurrent paroxysms, even as fever makes its war on the body, or pain racks the nerves. But fortunately the Power that presided over my rising up and my lying down taught me how to take a pjiilosophic view of my case, and to treat my mental afHiction judiciously. When- ever my grief had strongest jjossession of me, I fixed my thoughts with more than ordinary reso- lution on the little nameless duties of the day. Instead of looking within myself at every idle moment, I looked out of myself at the clock, and said, " Another twenty minutes and Dr. Merrion will be here ;" or " Ten minutes hence Mr. Giles, the sui'geon, will want the new bandages;" or I found out I must hasten down into tlic kitchen and look after the souj), or bustle about and see that tea and evening meal for the convalescents should not be a moment after the appointed time. If I were asked what, above all other mundane conditions, I most desire fur those who labor and are heavily laden with sornnv, I should answer, that tlicy may have each day of their lives an endless succession of trivial offices to discharge ; offices the performance of which requires no great mental strain, but compels the actor in some measure to forget his or her own self. This was one way in which duty comforted me. But I had another solace from duty. A fiiithful discharge of my a])i)ointed tasks saved me from a sense of isolation amidst the dense multitudes of my fellow-creatures, spared me that most dreary, and dismal, and torpifying conviction which those groan under who (with- out pleasures to divert them) stand in the court of their own consciences accused of utter uselcss- ness in the great human family. From such a benumbing consciousness my humble toil saved me ; and at the times when the blackest tides were rolling over me I could always say at night, while I lay awake without power to sleep, " When it is daylight I shall be happier, for then I shall have more work to do. I know my work is needed. And so I will go on as I have begun till Etty comes home." I had yet another solace from duty, and, next to a secret hope that my patient labor was a service acceptable to my Saviour, it was the greatest of all the A-arious consolations so derived. I slowly made friends among the fathers and mothers of the sick children. Months after their babes had been restored to health or placed in the grave, some of them would call upon me, to tell me how the sick child I'estored was prosper- ing, or how the sick child taken to heaven Mas remembered. And thus it came to pass also that when I went into Lamb's Conduit Street, or Red Lion Street, or Theobald's Road, to make purchases of articles necessary for the hospital, I seldom returned home without a smile and a hearty word. The lesson of the rose had come home to me : "There is no lot in life so stern, and cold, and hard, but it has somewhere a warm and secret corner in which human affection can blossom." Dear, dear grandfather, your words proved true ! CHAPTER IV. HTDE PARK. The July to which the reminiscences of the three preceding chapters have more than once pointed was a month in which I suffered much l)odily indisposition, consequent on heat and fa- tigue. I was so much more pale and thin than it was my wont to be, that people began to cheer me with symjiathetic assui'ances that I looked very ill indeed. "What a white, ghostly sort of person your head-nurse is !" I overheard a lady from the West End of the town (jjaying a visit of charity to the hospital) say to Dr. Alerrion, who, much to my relief, replied (though he did not know I was within car-shot), ''Never mind tliat, she is a capital matron." And the next day the kind physician said to me in his soft, winning A'oice, "Don't you think, Miss Tree, a change of air and scene would do j^ou good? Now my wife is staying with her children at Brighton. She has a large house there, and would be delighted to receive yon as her visitor. Do get into the coach and make a trip to Brighton. The sea-breeze would put color into your checks." I told the considerate doctor what I thought of his invitation, but I declined to avail myself of it, saying that London had been a good friend to me for eight j'cars, and I did not wish to lay my temporary lassitude to its charKC. OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 101 Tlie next day Mr. Rover, the house-surgeon (a fine-heurtcd young man who had recently en- tered the hospital, after com])lcting his course of study at St. Bartholomew's), attacked me on the same subject in a ditl'ercnt but not less cor- dial manner. "I say, Miss Tree," observed the young sur- geon, "it'll never do for you to get out of health. Dr. Merrion tells me you won't leave town ; but any how you ought to take the change of a cheerful walk in the bright quarters of the town every day. I am like you in not thinking very highly of the countr}-, but I couldn't get on if I never stirred out of this dingy old street. You ought to take an omnibus up to Hyde Park, and give your head and lungs a holiday under the green trees. You'll hardly know you are breathing when you get tliere, the atmosphere at the West End is so much more clear and pure than it is here." It was quite a new thought to me. Hyde Park — sunny, green, and full of gay equipages ! "Mr. Rover," I said, " I'll take 3-our advice. On Monday next I'll get into an omnibus and ride up to Hyde Park." "Bravo ! you're a sensible woman. Miss Tree If you'll allow me, I'll put on my best hat and coat and escort you." "No," I answered, "that would obviate the purpose of the trip. I want to get out of the way of ever}^ thing tliat can put me in mind of IMarchioness Street, of which j'ou are a part." The good-natured young man laughed hearti- ly at my thus declining his company, and left me with an exhortation I should any how carry out my resolution. Hyde Park ! — I had been eight years in Lon- don, and had never seen either Hyde Park, or Regent's Park, or St. James's Park, or Regent Street, or Westminster Abbey, or St. Paul's Ca- thedral. The streets and squares in the imme- diate neighl>orhood of Marchioness Street were the extent of my ordinary perambulations. Hol- born I had strayed into about half a dozen times ; and lately, by the friendship of the keeper of the northern gate of Gray's Inn, I had frequently enjoyed a walk after dark in Bacon's avenue, in the Gray's Inn Gardens. I of course Avas not altogether ignorant of the places I have just mentioned as having never seen, for I had read of them in books and newspapers ; and years ago I had heard Mr. Gurley describe them, when Etty and I had planned a vacation excursion to the metropolis. " Is it possible," I can imagine some of my readers exclaiming, "that a well- educated woman, having health and a certain amount of liberty, can have lived eight years in London, in this nineteenth century, without hav- ing ever seen Hyde Park ?" Is it possible ? Oh, my dear friends, there are f;ir stranger things, and nearer to your own doors than Marchioness Street, that you know nothing of! The orr^nibus dro])ped me at the corner of the Edgeware Road, and, entering the jiark, I looked on a scene far finer than any thing I had antici- pated would reward ni}^ enterjjrisc. Tlie m>\Ae mansions, tlie trees, the water, and the ex])ansc of green ! The astonishment and the gladness caused by what I saw made tears conic into my eyes. It was such a contrast to Marchioness Street. That I should have lived so many years in London, and know nothing of it but my own quarter ! I asked a gentleman my way to the "Duke of Wellington's house." He smiled at my incpiiry (doubtless thinking it strange that I had not called it " Ajisley House"), and walked with me for a hundred yards to a jioint where he could direct my attention to the windows, covered with wire fences. Then the gentleman left me, and I paced to and fro, gazing at the Duke's house, and recalling how Julian Gowcr (as school-boy and young man) never passed through London without looking at the resi- dence of the Pater PatriiC. The season, which had been a long one, was near its end ; but there were still many grand people in town, and fortunately for me it was just the hour when the aristocracy were accus- tomed to ride and drive in the park. Carriages of every description rolled by me in every direc- tion, and equestrians (ladies as well as gentle- men) on sleek blood-horses, that reminded me of Mr. Petersham's stud at Laughtou Abbey, passed before me. I spent an hour in gazing at the brilliant equi- pages, the well-dressed jjedestrians, and all the features of the gay, inspiriting exhibition, when I I'etired from the ibot-patli which runs round the jioint where the Achilles stands, and seated my- self on a wooden bench under the trees, where 1 had a command of the scene on three sides of me. It was with diiificulty that I could persuade myself that demure and dingy Tibby Tree, the matron of the Hospital for Sick Children, was really looking at the bright objects and noble people before her, and was not in a dream. It did really cross my mind that, from causes ei- ther within me or without me, I was the victim of an illusion. And this feeling came back with greater strength when I saw a lady pass before me, and look at me with an unmistakable ex- pression of recognition and surprise, and then pass on. iShe was tall, slight, rather well-looking, dress- ed richly, but with striking plainness, in silk of that neutral tint which milliners call "slight" or "half" mourning. It was evident that she was a lady — I mean by that a member of the gentle and jiolite classes. Her whole stjde told me this ; her elegant figure and graceful walk, the fault- less taste of her attire, and the benignant com- posure of her face, which was her least attract- ive point. And she knew me ! Who could she be? Eight years ago I had left Laughton, so that I might live where no one would know me, and since that time I had never, to my knowl- edge, been seen by any person acquainted with ■my early history. The time was when the un- known lady's recognition of me would have trou- bled me ; but I had in part outgrown my morbid fear of observation. Two or three minutes cla])scd and the lady re- turned, as before, with no conqianion, cither of her own or a menial rank. I watched her as she ap])roached, and decided that she could not be more than my own age however well she bore her years. Of course, with all the advant- ages of toilet, she looked mucli younger than I. This time she did not pass me, but coining straight to the bench on which I was sitting took a seat by my side. " This is a pleasant change for you after the 102 OLIVE BLAKES GOOD WORK. confiucnient and tuil of tlic hospital," she said, in a soft and conciliating nuunier. '• Why,'' I ansAvcrcd, starting as it flashed ii])on me that I had seen her on the jirevious day, ''I saw you last Sunday evening in Marchioness Street ; you i)assed down the street twice, and each time you passed jou looked up at the Hos- pital for Sick Children." ''Yes ; and I saw the matron sitting at one of tlic windows of 'Grace Temple,'" was the an- swer, made with all possible composure. "I wondered how you came there," I ob- served. "Oh," she replied, carelessly, "I have often heard of the place ; indeed, my name is on your list of suljscril)ers, and I thought last Sunday evening I should like to see the outside of the hospital, although I liad never penetrated into its interior." Wc continued our conversation. Partly in an- swer to her inquiries and partly without solicita- tion, and simply because I liked her aspect and first address, I gave her a little insight into my mode of life in the institution which her purse helped to maintain. I told her that it was my first visit to the park in the whole course of my life, and that though I had been for six years matron of the hospital, I very rarely went be- yond the immediate neighborhood of INIarchion- ess Street. She asked me if I did not find my existence cheerless in so desolate a jjlace, and I replied in the negative ; then she inquired, ^^ ith a sort of finc-lad}' bewonderment (which I thought affected and not natural to her), how I could en- dure such an employment as I had there, and yet speak of it contentedly ; to which rather ill-judged renuirk I responded simjily that I liked the em- ployment "because the duties were congenial to my tastes." "That's good," she said, with a satisfied air, to this answer; "contentment is a great thing. You would do good work if you would manage to impart some of your serenity to the grand people who take the air here, and would die of fright if they were even driven through your gloomy street." "They seem very happy," I answered. ^'- Do they?" she answered, sharply, yet not scofiingly, but rather with a womanly sadness. " Surely they don't strike you as happy ! Their carriages and horses and servants have a holiday aspect, and their clothes are delicate as wedding garments ; but ilun arc miserable enough." "I would rather not think them so," I an- swered. "Why?" " Because to do so would pain me. Before you ])assed me here the first time I was sitting in the midst of visions of their liap]>iness. When I saw a young girl drive by, with her mother by her side, and a gentleman of an age suitable for her husband in the carriage on the seat ojiposite to her, I said, ' She'll be bride soon.' AVlien a caiTiage full of young children, imder the care of a lady, went by, I said, ' What a happy mo- ther ! how full of gladness she must be with those lovely ehildien !' If I were to accept your doc- trine I couldn't do this." "No. You would think how the young girl was scheming, and fawning, and pretending, and /y"'.7 (tirf a rough word for a lady's lips), witli smiles and soft speeches, to catch a rich husband who would sign her a check with the right Ii;.iid for every kiss she gave him, as he did so, on the left cheek. You'd think how the lovely children were only gamesters and coquettes, knaves and flirts — disguised by inf:\ncy." ' ' Do not speak so, " I answered. ' ' Your gentle voice contradicts your words. Should 1 lie bet- ter, or the world better, if I put faith in them?" " 'Tis best to take true views of life." " Every view of life," I answered, " is an ideal that in some way or other is contradicted by the ' world's practice. But the view of life, which is at the same time best and nearest to truth, is the ideal formed from an observation of what good people try to be in their best moments." " Such an ideal would lead those who cherish it into grave mistakes." "Oh, madam," I answered, gravely, "a wo- man shouldn't say so." I did not wish to exchange more words with her. I felt that we were ill-matched companions ; and for all tliat her voice was so silver sweet, and her eyes were powerful with earnest gentleness, I feared that her life was tainted with a poison that was infectious. So I looked as though I did not care to look at her again. "Come," she said, "I'll tell you a story of real life, and you shall say how it fits in with your ideal. Had you been here two years since, at this hour of almost any day in the summer months, you would have seen a more lovely girl by far than any you have seen this day. She would have appeared before you riding on a black or white horse (she rode them on alternate days, wlien she did not drive a phaeton drawn by a j)air of cream-colored ponies), and as she ap- ])raaclied you, you would have seen the noblest of the land raise their hats and bow profoundly to her. As her glossy horse passed you, daintily stepping or lightly caracoling, champing its bit and throwing about its silky tail after the flies ; and as the girl with a radiant smile of trustful innocence returned the deferential salutations which greeted her on all sides, you, with your blind faith and unsophisticated credulity, would have said, ' That sweet girl is born of a noble house ; purity without stain, sacred love, divine mercy have set their seals upon her brow ; thrice happy the man of proud lineage and ancient hon- ors who can win her for a wife !' Now I'll give you the reverse of the picture. I'll recount that fair girl's history." I knew that she was bent on shocking mc with a revelation of crime ; I could not (though I dreaded the coming narrative as a child might dread the blows of an unkind nurse) implore her to spare me. There was a fascination in her voice that. forbade interruption ; ay, more, a fiis- cination that made mc, even in my dread, wish for the anguish she was about to inflict. "The girl was born and educated in the coim- try. She and her sister were the oqilian grand- daughters of a worthy old clergyman, who edu- cated them tenderly, and in all respects as girls of their rank of life should be educated. When the old man died the girls were left poor ; but they were able to earn a comfortable livelihood without any sacrifice of those notions of dignity to which they had been reared. They set up a school in a little country town, and prospered in their calling; the sound good sense of tlie elder sister (who was, as I have been told, a plain little OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 103 boily) and the graceful attractions of the beauti- ful sister (about whom 1 am going to tell you) forming a good combination of qualities for com- mercial purposes. Tlic beautiful sister was en- gaged to a young man in her own rank of life — a young man holding some sort of agency in foreign parts, whetlier in America, or Cliina, or elsewliere, I can not say. He has been descril)ed to mc as a young man altogether snjjcrior to tlie common lierd of young men. On both sides it was an engagement of love. He had no money, the girl no prospects ; but they hoped, as inexpe- rienced lovers are wont to hope, that a few years, spent in waiting and working, would terminate in their wedding. Uo I tire you? Would you like to hear more ?" "You know I am listening," I said, hoarsely, my heart thum])ing against my breast, and al- most choking me. "Adjoining to the town where the sisters had their school was a great county-house, on the en- largement and decoration of which a vain par- venu spent tlie tliousands his beggared descend- ants now sorely need. This house was visited, as sucli houses are, by wliat simple folk term 'distinguished society;' and 'tlie distinguished society,' having nothing better to do in the coun- try, amused themselves with petting and flatter- ing the village schoolmistresses who lived at the park gate in a picturcsijue cottage omce. Among tills distinguished society was an ofticer in the Indian army, wlio carried the game so far as to swear he loved (die pretty sister, with her inno- cent face and golden hair. Well, wliat do you think she did ? Told her magnilicent suitor that her hand was already disposed of? Said him 'nay,' because womanly honor and duty, as well as atfjction, precluded her from returning his passion ? No such tiling ! He was a member of ' distinguished society' — was reputed to be wealthy. A fig for lier lover in foreign parts ! She put herself in the hands of ' the officer' (poor doll I — the title tickled her! The young man in foreign parts was only ' a clerk'), and he treated her as she deseiwed to bo treated. She had thrown the ' clerk' aside without com- punction, and when it answered his purpose to do so the distinguished officer and member of 'high society' tlirew her aside just as contempt- uously. Possibly tlie man offered to marry her, but if §0, he didn't fulfill his promise ; and in due course, when he had grown tired of his toy, he went back to India, wliere he has become a hero. But the sweet innocent cliild knew how to console herself. She established herself in town, and commenced a career of unblushing sin — of triumpliant wickedness — such as I can not reflect upon without giving utterance to the indignant contempt which a woman feels when she witnesses the shame of her sex. As I told you, when that creature, with her innocent smiles, and her waxen face, and her blue eyes, rode or drove her ponies in the jiark, at least one Aa^'of the world rendered her more respect than the same beauty united to virtue could ever have commanded. How does my story fit in with your ideal ?" I did not rejily to the cruel question ; but, looking into tlie hidy's face, I said, "Where is that ])oor girl ? Take me to her. The sight of me would make her repent." " I lead you to lier I Bless mc, I Iiave no no- tion where she is. I have been talking of two years since. Slie had already been a feature of the ])ark for a season. Two summers are a long life for such butterflies. I^ast summer slie did not make her appearance, and tliis year all the j)roud nobles who used to raise their hats to her have forgotten tliat such a character ever en- gaged tiieir attention. Slie has gone down the stream. The current of fashionable frivolity quickly bore the frail, airy vessel of her beauty over these sliining waters. Dancing to and fro, slie left her j)atrician admirers ; borne on to her ajjpointed end, she is now perhaps sailing over a less translucent portion of the stream, which ever grows more murky and impure, more cov- ered with unwholesome scum, and more thickly populated with unsightly objects, as it approacli- es nearer to that dead, silent, motionless sea to wiiicli it flows — merrily enough at first, but very sluggishly at last. Perhaps her voyage is al- ready at an end. Possibly her cockle-shell of a boat went down beneath tlie scum of tlie river, or is lying at tlie bottom of tlie dead, and silent, and motionless sea of corruption !" I heard no more of lier words. She continued to speak ; but the strain of her utterances, min- gled with the strain of sound caused by the hol- low rumble of the rolling carriages, and with the breeze fluttering the leaves above us, so that not one word of them could be separated from the confused murmur. Then objects flitted quickly before my eyes, and came back and danced round me. The carriages, and horses, and riders, and prattling pedestrians had the appearance of sur- rounding me and doing something with me. ■ The next fact I remember of that day's pro- ceedings was being lifted out of a carriage in Marchioness Street, and being conveyed uj) the wide staircase of "Grace Temple" to my bed- room. On quite coming to myself all that I could learn from the hospital nurses was that I had fainted in Hyde Park, and that a lady, who Avas passing at the time, and knew where I lived, had brought me home in her carriage. The nurse, who had oi)ened the door of the hospital to admit-me, had endeavored to make the lady state her name, by observing that "Miss Tree would, when she 'came round,' like to know the name of the lady to whom she was indebted for her kindness." But this mode of interroga- tion was met by the lady with crushing frank- ness. "No; 1 ilon't mean to give you my name, because I don't wish either you or Miss Tree to know it." This was the lady's answer. The nurses described the lady as tall, and sliglit, and well-looking — dressed in silk, which had the aspect of half-mourning. I was uncon- scious when the carriage stopped in JMarchioness Street, but I had "come to myself" on being lifted out of the vehicle. On hearing that I iiad opened my eyes, and recov(>red possession of my faculties, the lady (who had entered the Imspilal before I "came to") took an immediate depart- ure, without again looking at me. It struck the nurses that the lady wished to avoid being recognized by me. Tills was all the nurses could tell me ; and consoipiently I was left in doubt as to whether flic lady who had accom|ianied me from Hytle Park to Marchioness Street was the same lady with whom I had talked under ihe trees. 104 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. CHAPTER V. CLUSTER-TATTING. I piD not repeat my excursion to Hyde Park. The murky neighborhood of Marchioness Street was the proper quarter for me. It never occurred to me to question for a moment wlietlier the strange lady, who had ac- costed me near Apsley House, had been sjjealc- ing of my sister or of another girl ; so certain Avas I that Etty, and no one else, had been the object of portraiture. If I felt doubt on any point connected with the mysterious interview, it was on the question whether the lady knew she was telling the history of my dear lost cliild to that same lost child's sister. The lady was a subscriber to the hospital, and as such of course had a copy of the annual rejjort of the Com- mittee regularly transmitted to her. My name of "Tabitha Tree" always ai)i)eared in the list of the officers and servants attached to tlie in- stitution. It was therefore in all probability known to the lady who was so familiar with the misdeeds and shame of "Annette Tree." It was true, she had said nothing which demon- strated she knew eitlier my name, or that of tlie wi-etched girl whose course she had so forcibly described. It was also more tlian probable that Etty on leaving Laugliton had desisted from using lier own name. "But," I said to myself, when r had summed these and many other simi- lar points of consideration, "what does it mat- ter whether I am recognized or not ? The re]i- utation I have earned here will shield me from unkind criticism ; and I have outlived the feel- ings which once confused my ideas of misfortune and shame." But though I said this, I did not send my proper address to Mr. and Mrs. Gurley. A se- cretive habit is perhaps tlie strongest and most incurable of all habits ; and consequentl}-, now that a sense of humiliation and disgrace no lon- ger compelled me to hide myself from observa- tion, 1 still wished to run as few chances as pos- sible of being unearthed by my old friends of the corn country. After all, the paiufid intelligence communi- cated by the lady in Hyde Park was only a vivid picture of what I had myself for years vaguely imagined. I had long regarded my sister as erring ; and the lady's narrative had proved to me that my opinion was correct. It eilected, however, something more. It raised in my breast a feeling that the time was fast approach- ing when Etty would come home to me. Two years before she had taken her last rides in the park. Since then she had vanished from those bright scenes of her butterfly triumph, and fall- en into more obscure, if not less rcprehensilile, ways. To use the lady's simile, tlie poor child's frail bark of beauty had gone lower down the stream ; but my certain confidence (God be praised !) still remained unshaken, that it would neither sink beneatli the scum of the murky river, nor dro]) down irrecoverably in tlie silent, motionless sea. IIo])e wliispered to me that ere the year ended my darling would come liome. I recovered my strength without going out of town ; but when my vigor liad returned I still sorely needed mental composure I became restless, unable to sleep at night, subject, to sud- den startings, and liable to fancy ni\-licant for admission, and, on finding him or her a fit subject for medical or surgical treatment iu the wards, coimtersigned the order of admission. On this the patient was entitled to all the benefits of the institution ; and I had to enter in the college register such pa- tient's name, age, parentage, residence of par- ents, and the name of the recommending gov- ernor, together with an inventory of the clothes worn by the patient at the date of admission. I had also to make the mother or responsible friend of each child (depositing such child in the hos- pital) sign a printed form, engaging to remove the child promptly on receiving a notice from me to do so, and also engaging, in case of death, to provide the child with suitable interment. The reader is now in a position to imderstand the following entry in the Hospital Register for Indoor Patients : Patient. iVo. 176G. Name. Alfred JourJain. Age. Six years and nine montlis. Sex. Male. Parentage. Motlier dead. Father, Robert Jourdain, a shoemaker with irregular employment ; residing at 4 Lis- son Court, New Road. Name of lieconvniendinq Governor. Miss Grace Temple. Name and Address of Person de- "] Anna Harney, the ■positing the Child (adding, if2MSsi- Grandmother of the ble, the relation of such jyerson to !>child ; residing at 4 the child) and engaging to 2}rovide, Lisson Court, New in case of Death, for its interment. J Road. Inventory of Articles of Clothing, brought b'j Alfred Joiu-dain into the Hospital for Sic/c Children: 1. A cap. 2. A coat of black and white cheek stuff. 3. A liuen shirt. 4. A pair of trowsers of the same material as the coat. 5. A pair of cotton socks. 6. One boot. 7. A woolen comforter for the neJk. The words in Italics constititted the ordinary printed form of tlie Hospital Register Book. The •words filling up the vacant spaces of the form were in my handwriting. I was present in the receiving-room when Al- fred Jourdain (Indoor Patient No. 17GG) was brought into the aijartment by Anna Harney — a stout, dirty, coarse, harsh-looking woman. Dr. Merrion had already sjient two hours of his val- uable time in examining applicants for admis- sion and prescribing for out-patients ; and he, as well as I, supposed his morning's work over, when this Anna Harney entered with the child in her arms, swaddled in a thick shawl. The name affixed to her order of admission imme- diately attracted Dr. Merrion's attention, for though Miss Grace Temple had so greatly bene- fited the hos])ital she had never before sent a pa- tient to it. At Ic'iiglh, however, she had trans- mitted to us one in a bad ]ilight. Although he was ajjproaching the close of his seventh year, the child was as diminutive as many children only three or four years old. The thin face, with all the curves of healthy childhood straight- ened out so as to give acute angles at the chin, the nose, the check, and jawbones ; the nervous, watchful eyes having in their prodigious pupils an ex])ression of pathetic earnestness ; the pink flush in the centre of his pallid checks ; the dry lips, and the bowed frame, gave the particulars of the child's state to the most casual observers. Dr. Merrion took his stethoscope, and, having listened for a few seconds to the child's breath- ing, said, with a glance that I knew well how to interpret, "Acute Tuberculosis — Miss Tree. Far advanced. Yon must manage to give the child a bed." Though neither the sick child nor Anna Harney had a glimjjse of the doctor's real com- munication, I imderstood him to say, just as plainly as if he had said so in the most exjjlicit words, "This poor little boy is suffering from the pulmonary consumption of young children. He'll be dead in a few days. As we can not by any possibility do him any good, I would rather not admit him, for the fatal termination of his hopeless case will help to swell otir mortality list, and frighten the public. But I must admit him — for, look, he brings Miss Grace Temple's or- der!" So the miserable child was given into my custody ; and Anna Harney having engaged to be, in case of his death, responsible for Alfred Jourdain's suitable interment, took her depart- ure, just as Dr. Merrion ran off to his carriage to visit his West End patients. In the extract just put before the reader from the Hospital Register, he can not fail to have observed another remarkable entry, besides the name of the recommending governor — the en- try, namely, of a linen shirt among the articles of the boy's wearing apparel. How came the child possessed of a linen shirt ? Stich a piece of clothing no child before him had brought into the institution, from the day of its being opened. The shirts of poor children are made of the coars- est material; whereas this child had an under- garment of linen of the finest texture. What made this circumstance all the stranger, was that in other respects the child was wretchedly clad. A reference to the inventory will satisfy the read- er of that. The number of new admissions to the wards that day was unusually great ; and the ntirses were proportionately busy — as it was a rule of the institution that no child should be taken into the wards where other children were until it had had a warm bath, and (if the precaution seemed necessary) had been clothed in fresh raiment supplied by the hospital. Alfred Jourdain had therefore to lie on a cottch, warmly covered up, before the waiting-room fire, for ipore than an hour, ere he cotxld have his bath and be put to bed. At length, however, that task was accom- plished ; and just about the same time I took up his discarded clothes (in lieu of which he was sup]ilicd witii a flannel jacket and night-dress from my stores) and examined them, before de- scribing them in the register. "Linen," I said, as my touch recognized the soft, cool material, so unlike harsh, hot cotton — 106 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD AVORK. "it can not 1)C." But linen it was — filthily be- primed and ragf]!cd, without a donht, but still linen. It was already getting dark ; for though there was no fog, the month of November was, according to its wont, causing the days to close in early. I went to the window to examine the little shirt more nearly, when I found it was or- namented with a lace edging round the lappets. The lace, like the rest of the garment, was as black as if it had been just taken from a dust- hole ; but it had a stronger effect upon me than the linen fabric. It was an edging, of the work known among ladies as "tatting." As a girl at Farnham Cobb, I had been very fond of and clever in the management of tatting-work. I invented three altogether new patterns, one of W'hich was very pretty, and was consequently a source of much pride to me. I called it "cluster-tatting," because it was made in little bunches or clusters of work done in imitation of the "forget-me-not" blossom. "Merciful Heavens!" I exclaimed to myself, "this is my work. This is some of the cluster-tatting I made for Etty, I did it." Men perhaps will be incredulous as to the possibility of a person's re- cognizing her own fancy work, after ton or t\^•elve years have elapsed since its manufacture. But such incredulity will not be shared by women. I knew it was impossible that I was mistaken. That was my cluster-tatting — the same that I had invented, and wrought thread by thread, and made of most exquisite fineness and delicacy for a New-Year's present for Etty. How came the poor child, just admitted to the hospital with Miss Grace Temple's order, to be dressed in a garment so ornamented with the work of my fingers ? No, it could not be ! It was impossible ! Hastening to the ward in which I had ordered a bed to be ])rcpared for the child, I sought him out, and subjected him to a searching scrutiny. " Why do you look so, ma'am ?" the little fel- low said. "I have done nothing wrong." I kissed him, and comforting him with the as- surance that I believed him to be a very good boy, I knelt down by his bedside and spoke to him— enticing him to confide in me. "Have you any brothers and sisters, dear?" I asked. "No," he said, shaking his head ; "no broth- ers and sisters, only grandmother." "Have you always lived in Lisson Court?" " Oh — no — not ahva3's ; but a long time. Since mamma died. When she was alive I didn't live in Lisson Court." It was strange the child should talk of his mamma and his grand/Ho//(fr. " Where did yon live ? Can you recollect the name of the jilace?" " No," he answered, shaking his head wearily ; "but it was not Lisson Court." "Was it in the country?" I inquired. " The country," he repeated. " Where is the country, ma'am ? I don't know where the coun- try is." "It's where the green trees and the flowers are." "Oh," he exclaimed, a smile of intelligence and triumph — the saddest cliild's smile I have ever witnessed — crossing his wan face, and sharp- ening all Us numerous acute angles, "you mean the sqxtare! No, we didn't live in the sqitare." " Had your mamma hair like vours, or was it black ?" " I don't remember," he said, after musing a few seconds, "but she was very pretty — she was like the lady in the theatre, only much prettier." As he said this he closed his eyes in sheer weariness, and in two minutes he was asleej). As soon as I saw him fiist held by tranquil slumber I went down into the kitchen, and hav- ing transacted my business in that quarter ascend- ed to the ward in which he was, bearing a sup- ply of beef-tea and wine for him. When I came again to his bedside he was still asleep, his ex- treme ])rostration having presented him with two hours of unbroken repose. I roused him, and gave him some of my strong beef-tea and two or three tea-spoonfuls of wine. " Thank you, dear mamma," he said, after taking the refreshment, " I shall be better soon. Thank you, mamma." As he murmured for a second time the most sa- cred human title a child can utter, he closed his eyes, and once more was asleep. He looked at me agam three hours afterward, when I induced him to take some more refresh- ment ; and after surveying me in a doubtful, half- frightened manner, and after twice thanking me for my care, and the nice things I gave him, he said, "Please, ma'am, may I say my prayers?' "Surely, dear child," I answered. On this permission being granted, he coiled his Ihnbs up wearily on his bed, and turned round on to his knees, and taking hold of my hand, he said the same child's prayer which I and Etty (like so many hundreds of thousands of children before and after us) used to say. But as a con- clusion to his supplications he added, "And, pray God, take care of aunt !" "Have you only one aunt, dear?" I asked, when he laid his head down again on his pillow. He evidently did not understand me. "Who is your aunt?" "/ haven't an aunt," he answered, with his old troubled look. "Tiien why do you say, 'Pray, God, take care of aunt I'" "Oh!" he cried, the same sad look of exult- ant intelligence crossing the sharpened featuj-es, "aunt isn't mine more than yours. She's the best woman that ever lived." " Who taught you that ])rayer, dear ?" I asked. "Oh, mamma — to be sure— dear mamma." As the child said this he raised his little thin hand and laid it upon the outside of the coverlet, and in another half-minute he was asleep again. I had taken charge of that ward for the night, and as all the children were aslec]i, and no one was present to disturb me, and I had not already offered my nightly service of devotion, I said my I)rayers — kneeling by the little boy's bed, with my hand on his. CHAPTER VI. A TESTIMONIAL OF REGARD. Thi; next day Dr. Merrion told me that about ten days would in all probability be the extent of Alfred Jourdain's sickness and life. Of course he could not s])cak with certaintj' as to the ex- act daj'. The child might even live for three weeks or a month. But his case was ho))cless, and there was nothing to be done for him but to OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 107 keep him as comfortable as possible, by means of slight doses of stimulants and composing med- icines administered alternately, with short inter- vals. Ou Mondays and Fridays the ])arents and friends of sick children were in the habit of visiting them, no visitor being admitted into the wards on other daj's without a governoi"'s order. For Friday, therefore, 1 waited im])aticntly, hop- ing that Anna Harney would visit her grand- child. Friday, however, came and passed away without Anna llaruey appearing in Marchioness Street. Perhaps she would come on the follow- ing Monday, and give me an opportunity of ex- amining her as to the history of the tatting and the wearer thereof. Possibly the garment might have been pureliased in a lot of old clothes ; but however it had come into Alfred Jonrdain's pos- session it was a clew, by following out which I might discover Etty. Would Anna Harney come on ]\fcnday ? I could not remain quiet, and let the day bring with it its own events. It was necessary for me to see Alfred Jourdain's grandmother forthwith, so I dispatched by the post the following note to Anna Harney, 4 Lis- son Court, Neio Road: "Miss Tree, the matron of the Hospital for Sick Children in Marchioness Street, wishes to see Anna Harney without delay. Perhaps Anna i Harney conld com-j to the hospital immediately i she receives this note." 1 I waited impatiently for the result of this mis- ' sive, but it brought neither the woman nor an- swer of any kind. When JNIonday had come to I an end, and I had not seen the woman, I began I to suspect that Alfred Jourdain had been left at the hospital with a false address. Occasionally, but by no means often, we had children left at the hospital by persons who never came to see them again, giving us all the trouble of trans- mitting them, on their recovery from sickness, to the parish authorities, or, on their death, to the grave. Rare as such frauds were, they were still frequent enough for ns under ordinary cir- cumstances to exercise precaution against them. Usually when I felt uncertain as to the character of the "responsible" friend, engaging to fetch a child on being summoned to do so, I caused a messenger to visit the "responsible" friend's ad- dress, and inquire about her, and report to me the result of his inquiries, before definitively ad- mitting a new applicant among my flock, and dismissing the said " responsible friend." The appearance of Anna Harney was by no means prepossessing, and would have fully justified the investigation of suspicion. But the name of the recommending governor to the case made inquiry out of i)lace, for even if we had suspected a fraud was about to be perpetrated on the hospital, the Committee would rather have submitted to it than have refused an apiilicant recommended by our . great benefactress. Miss Grace Temple. It would be an abuse of language to say that little Alfred Jourdain grew worse. He only passed on quickly to his end. Dr. IMcrrion's prognostication was right to a day. On the con- clusion of the tenth day after his admission he expired. During those ten days I scarcely closed my eyes to sleep. It was my custom to walk at all hours of the night noiselessly about the wards of "The Doctor" and "Grace Temjilo," passing in review the lines of little cots containing my patients, slowly climbing the enormous staircases of polished and dark-brown oak, and pausing for rest in the corners of the cold marblc-lioored halls or long ))assages — to watcdi the Venuses, and Graces, and Satyrs that variegated the vast windows through whicli the moonliglit streamed, or the unsteady street-lamps sent a flickering il- lumination. The nurses on night-duty were therefore accustomed to see mc m(n'ing about at all hours. Some of them believed that I never slept. They had grounds for such an opinion during the last ten days and nights of— Case 1 766 — Tuberculosis. Whenever the poor child slept, I left him. Whenever he opened his eyes, I saw their lids unclose. Most of his time was spent in tranquil slumber; and during his brief periods of com- parative consciousness he took quietly and grate- fully the nourishment and medicines ottered to him — more often than not thinking he received them from the hands of his mamma. When he was more completely roused he would recognize me, thanking me for my goodness to him, and talking in his usual soft, plaintive, weary fashion of his dear dead mamma, wlio was so much pret- tier than "tlie lady at the theatre." Morning and night he coiled his little feeble, languid limbs up, and (as on the first night after his ad- mission) keeping a hold (at the same time so firm and so frail) of my hand, repeated those old, old prayers. Such was the life of little Alfred Jourdain until the end came. "Oh, ma'am," the little fellow said to me on the evening of the tenth day, " I can see mam- ma, and I can see heaven. It's all lamps and music. It's like a theatre." They were his last words. Ere another hour had ended he knew more than the wisest, and strongest, and most power- ful of this world. He was in a land brighter than any "theatre," and was surrounded by forms more lovely than any "lady at the theatre" he had seen during his sad life. By early dawn the next morning I sent the hospital messenger to Lisson Coui-t for Anna Harney. The man returned, as I expected would be the case, with the announcement that no such persons as Anna Harney and Robert Jourdain were known of in that court. It was as I sus- pected. The cliild had been deserted by its un- natural "natural protectors." The day next following Alfred Jourdain's death was the day for the weekly committee meeting. According to my invariable custom I jn-esented myself ^\■ith my register, my reports, my receipts, and lists of articles required for con- sumption during the next week. When my ac- counts had been inspected, the death which had occun'cd in one of the wards on the ])revious night was mentioned by the gentleman in the cliair, and I drew his attention to the fact stated in my week's report, that tiie child's friends could not bo discovered. "Then," said the chairman, "the hospitai must bear the ex])euse of the funeral in the usual way. The child's was a bail case for admission ; l)ut still it would have been wrong to shut the door on any one bearing Miss Grace Temple's introduction. You will give the necessary orders about the funeral." "If, Sir," I answered to the chairman, "you have no objection, and if the other gentlemen of 108 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. the Committee liave no objection, I should like to bury the poor child myself." "Surely, you can do that, Miss Tree," an- swered the chairman, opening his eyes slightly witli an astonishment that was clearly sympa- thized in by the rest of the Committee. "But why should you incur the expense of his inter- ment ? It will consume a considerable sum out of your small annual salary. Don't let a passing sentiment mislead you. The hospital can afford Buch an expense better than you." "I wish to bury the child," I answered quick- ly, "because I love him very dearly." And having said these words, I picked up my papers and register, and hurried out of the room. Dr. Jlerrion was in the committee-room when this occurred ; and about two hours afterward, ere he left the hospital, he came into my private sitting-room, and sj)oke to me. " Miss Tree, " said the doctor, " the Committee have requested me to give you this trifling ex- pression of their warm regard for you. They presume that the feelings which lead you to take upon yourself the charge of interring this poor child would be gratified by erecting a monument to his memory. The Committee have therefore asked me to present you with this purse contain- ing twelve guineas, subscribed by them after you left the committee-room this morning. They •will be obliged if you will expend the money on a memorial of the little boy, in whatever way you think best." Such kindness fairly broke me down. I had slept so little and watched so much during the preceding ten days that my nerves were un- steadied. So on Dr. Merrion thus addressing me I began to shed idle tears. "Oh, dear Dr. Merrion!" I said, "what makes you all so good to me ?" " My dear Miss Tree," the physician answered, shaking my hand, "there is not a man of us in the habit of coming to this hospital, and of ob- serving what goes on in its wards, who does not feel for you as he does for his own sisters." CUAPTEE VII. AXOTHER HOME. I BURIED Alfred Jourdain in the Highgate Cemetery. But ere I took any steps to placing a memo- rial over his grave, T determined to satisfy my- self more completely as to his birth and history. When I expressed my thanks to the Commit- tee of the hospital for their compliment and their gift, I said to the chairman, "My reason for feeling so warm an interest in the little boy is that I think 1 knew liis mother years since. I may be mistaken, but circumstances which I need not mention have led to this impression ; and if the Committee have no objection, I should like to put an advertisement in the daily papers, for tlic ])urpose of discovering the people who placed tliis poor boy here." To this request the Committee i-eplied that I might take whatever steps I pleased, for they were sure that I should put no advertisement in the papers that could have any injurious eifect on the hospital. On tins permission being accorded to me I caused the insertion in all the principal London papers of the following advertisement : " ^1 1/red Jourdain and Anna Harney. Anna Harney who jjlaced Alfred Jourdain in the Hospital for Sick Children is requested to communicate instantly with the matron of the hospital. Anna Harney will not be held responsible for ex])enses incurred for the child's funeral on the IGth ult., but will be presented by the matron with £2 for replying in a satisfactory manner to this advertisement, and £5 more if she gives the matron certain in- formation. Hospital for Sick Children, Mar- chioness Street.'" Two days after the publication of this notice a man rung the hospital bell and requested to see me. On being introduced to me in my pri- vate sitting-room, after the door had been closed upon us, he said, "I come from Anna Harney to know what you want." He was a short, elderh', unshorn, unpleasant man, with nothing save a suspicious and sinister air to distinguish him from the ordiMxy herd of the mechanic class. "I want to see her," I answered. "Won't I do as well?" "No, I must see her, and no one else." "What for?" "I have reason to think that the child Alfred Jourdain was not the son of a shoemaker in Lis- son Court, and I desire to satisfy myself on the subject of his parentage." "Who do you think he was ?" "That question," was my reply, "I must de- cline to answer." "Umph! you're short, ma'am." " I am, to questions that are out of place." "What do you want to know about his birth for?" "That question I must also decline answer- ing. Have you any fiU'ther questions to put?" The man was silent for a minute, during which time he bit a small piece of oat straw he had in his hand. He seemed as if he were employed in working out some calculations. The residt of his meditation was that he said, abruptly, "If you'll give me the two pounds I'll take you to Anna Harney." "If I give you the mone;-, what security will you give me that you'll do the work I re- quire?" "That's a fair question. Tlie man will have to get up early who takes you in." "He will," I answered, quietly accepting the compliment. "If I take you to Anna Harney — into the room where she lives, and where you may see her, and then take you back again here safe and sound — will you give me £2 ?" "Yes, I will," I answered after half-a-min- ute's consideration. "That's £2 for myself; it'll make no differ- ence to wliat you have to give her," he put in, like a dealer driving a hard bargain. " Exactly. Take me to Anna Harney and I'll give her £2 for our interview. Tlicn if you bring me l)ack here safe, and without having under- gone impro])cr trcatmeiit of any kind, I'll con- duct you into this room, give you £2, and then bid you 'good-evening.'" " Why not give me the money at the door of the hospital ?" "Because I sha'n't have it in my pocket. I shall on leaving this place have in m}' j)urse "uly OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 109 the two pounds for Anna Harney. I shall take no more money about with mc." "While you are my comjianion, you mean." "Exactly, that is what I mean," I replied, quietly. "You think I'd rob you?" " I think it better not to give you any tempta- tion to do so." "I'll ti-ust you, ma'am. I always trust them as can take care for theirselves. It's a bargain. When would you like to go?" "How iar is it?" "About a mile and a half." "Then I will meet you in front of the hospital in the course of half an hour, if you'll go outside and wait for me." Having ascertained that this arrangement was acceptable to my visitor I dismissed him for the space of thirty minutes from attendance on me. At the expiration of that time I left the hos- pital on foot, and found my companion imder a gas-lamp at the corner of the street. It was al- ready almost as dark as it would be in the course of the night, and a thin, cold, drizzling rain fell on the slippery pavement. "Sha'n't we ride?" asked the man. "No," I answered, "I prefer walking." " It's wettish for a lady," he rejoined. "I have thick boots and an umbrella," -was my reply. And then I added, "Lead on, I'll follow you." The man obeyed me, and turning across South- ampton Street led me over Russell and Gordon Squares in the direction of Tottenham Court Eoad. My slight knowledge of town soon failed to inform me where I was; but I have no hesi- tation in saying that we penetrated to the west of Tottenham Court Road, by a street near Fitz- roy Square. We then passed tln-ough an intri- cate series of courts, and back streets, and pas- sages, till I could no more have set myself in the right direction for Marchioness Street without the aid of a magnetic needle than I could have commanded the British fleet. Every fifty yards as we progressed the man looked over his shoul- der at me, and every time he did so I thought he looked more ill-favored than ever. I began to be afraid ; but as there was no possibility of drawing back from my undertaking, courage did not desert me. My mind was too ill at ease for me to take good note of the places through which we passed ; but dark as it was, and agitated as I was, I noticed that the streets were poorer, and dirtier, and the foot-passengers were humbler and more toil-worn in appearance, every two hundred yards we went. Once, indeed, we emerged from obscure and filthy haunts, and crossed over a broad and well-lighted street, and a magnificent square full of mansions ; but soon we were again threading our way through noi- some alleys, stumbling over open drains, and run- ning against wretclied, ragged children, squall- ing and quarreling in the gutters. With my present knowledge of town, I should say that the man had led me into one of the very lowest and most disreputable districts of Maryle- bone, when he stopped short before a marine store-keeper's open shop in a narrow lane, and said, " Here we are. We're just at the place. You mayn't be frightened?" " I am not frightened," I answered. " Well, I only thought I'd tell you not to be. for I'm going tu t;i];(' you up a queer-looking yard. Are yuu ready?" " Quite." Without another word the man turned sharp to his riglit, and gropped his way quickly up, what for the next minute seemed to me an in- terminable passage. Two or three hundred yards at least this passage was in length, and liere and there for twenty yards or more it was covered over by the houses on either side. At these places it seemed like a subterranean i)assage. There was a lamp here and there for the con- venience of the police at the entrance of the alley ; but ere we stopped there was no light before us, and the last one behind us was at least fifty yards distant. Three times we encountered people de- scending this passage ; when, so narrow was the way, I had to turn sideways, and push myself close up against the wall, in order to make room for the persons meeting us. "That's all right," said the man, pausing at the end of the passage. " Thei'e's nothing to frighten you to-night. Only sometimes there's a row with the neighbors fighting here ; and when there's a row in Cleaver's Rents, why it's a queer place for a lady." As he spoke he pushed open a door, and led me into a house. There was no light either in the entrance or on the staircase ; and the man did not appear to have any intention of calling for one. Up two flights of a narrow irregular staircase I followed him in the dark, regulating my pace by the sound of his steps, when he opened a door which admitted us to Anna Harney's dwell- ing. The room was sufficiently large for a poor man's habitation ; but in the fetid atmosphere, the dying cinder fire, the broken table, the dirty mattress and blankets on the floor in one corner of the room, the three rickety chairs, and the wick candle burning in a dim flame in a tin socket, it had unmistakable signs of the povei'ty and extreme squalor in which its inhabitant or- dinarily dwelt. "Oh, you've brought the lady?" said the wo- man I wanted to sec, rising from one of the rickety chairs as I entered. "Yes," said the man, " vou needn't fear her." " All right." This interchange of words having taken place, Anna Harney with more civility of manner than I had anticipated receiving from her, said, "This is an awkward neighborhood for you to come to, ma'am. I would have waited on you, only poor people must be cautious sometimes. But now that you see my place, at least you don't want to ask me why I didn't come for the child. Be seated, ma'am." "First, Mrs. Harney," I said, sitting down on one of the chairs, "let me pay you £2 for see- ing me. If you will answer my questions fully and frankly, and to the best of your ability, I will give your friend £5 for you when he has conduct- ed me back to Marchioness Street." "Thank you, ma'am," the woman said, re- spectfully, taking up the two sovereigns which I laid on the table. "I'll be on the staircase if you want me," ob- served the man', leaving the room. As soon as he had left us, I addressed the wo- man, going straight to the business in hand. no OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. "I want to learn 8ome particulars about the child you left at the hospital. In the lirst place, was his name Alfred Jourdain?" "That was the name he went b}', ma'am." " Ay, but don't evade me. Was that his right name?" ■' I never heard him called by any other. I have heard his mother call him by that name, and she told me his father's name was Joui-- dain." "What was the mother's name?'' ''Ann Jourdain. While she lodged with me at least." '• She was your lodger. Are you not then the child's grandmother ?" "No, he was no relation to me whatever." "Where did Ann Jourdain lodge with you?" "In Grafton Street. I had a house there up to half a year since. I have dropped in the world. Poor people sometimes drop very fast. I had several young persons lodging with me." " Ladies ? young women ?" "Yes, ma'am. All of them." " I need not ask you any thing about the char- acter of your lodgers, I sujjpose ?" "You'd better not, ma'am," answered the woman, huskily, a flush crossing her face. "I could not say any thing about them you'd like to hear." "Thank you, I understand you. How long was Ann Jourdain your lodger?" " About a year and three months." ' ' Was the child an inmate of your house all that time ?" "No, he was out somewhere (I don't know where) at nurse. He came to mine about a fort- night before his mothef died." "What! she died!" "Yes, she died just three months before I left Grafton Street." "And you left Grafton Street about six months since ?" "About that time." "Then Ann Jourdain died ninth months since?" "About that time, and she was buried at Highgate by the lodgei-s. They subscribed to bury her." "How long had she lodged with you?" " About a year — rather more than a year. You may say a year and tlu'ce months." "She gained her living in the same way as the other young persons ?" The woman paused, and flushed again, as she answered by repeating my words. "Yes, she gained her living in the same way as the other young jiersons." "Tell me what you know about her." "SJie was quite a stranger to me when she came and took lodgings at my house. She knocked at the door just as any other stranger might, and asked if I had rooms to let. She saw the vacant rooms and took them at once, having the box containing her things brought in, at once and forthwilh, from a cab into the house. I asked where she came from, but she wouldn't tell me. And as she ]iaid a week's rent in advance I didn't ask anv more questions. After she had been with me about nine months she fell ill, and though slie kept? about she was never herself again till she died. When she couldn't any longer afford to have the child out at nurse, she asked me to let him join her in Grafton Street. And I agreed So the child came ; but she was taken worse suddenly, and died soon after he came." ' ' What was she like ? Describe her to me." "She was tall, and thin, and very delicate, not at all like a common girl. She had dark- blue eyes, and the finest lot of hair I ever saw on a girl's head. It was the nearest like polish- ed gold to look at of any hair I ever saw." I put my hand before my face as if I were considering. " Now, Anna Harney, another point," I re- sumed, when I had recovered my self-possession. " When you left Alfred Jourdain at the hospital he wore among other articles of clothing a linen shirt." " He had a linen shirt, with edging on the lap- pets." ' ' Can you tell me any thing about that shirt, where it came from?" "The child had it on when he came to Graf- ton Street. He had a set of fine shirts, and sev- eral other delicate things." " What has become of them ?" The woman paused again and flushed as she had done twice before. " I parted with them," at length she answered. "Sold them?" "Pawned some and sold others." I was silent for a minute. "Ann Jourdain was in my debt when she died many pounds," continued the woman, jus- tifying herself in an angr}'- tone; "so I took what she left behind her. I intended to do well by the child, for he seemed a sharp little man, and promised to be useful. But he fell oft' all of a sudden." " Wiiat other things did Ann Jourdain leave behind her?" " Nothing of any value." " You have nothing left of them, I suppose." " Yes, I have one thing. I should have ]jart- ed with that too, only I couldn't find any body to give a shilling for it. It's a brass locket, with a picture on each side." "Let me see it." The woman rose and went to her bed in the corner of the room, and having rummaged be- hind the mattress returned with a small oblong deal box in her hand. This box she opened with a key, and took from amidst the worthless rubbish it contained the locket of which she had spoken. It was a child's trinket, just such an article as might be purchased for 2d. any day in a toy-shop. A brass rim with a ring attached, two i)ieces of glass, and a little picture beliind each glass, were the conijjonent parts of the or- nament. "I should like to have this," I said, quietly. "What, ma'am, would you have me .sc// it to you, seeing it isn't my own ?" observed the wo- man, sharjily, referring, as I could well see, to tlie expression which crossed my face when she confessed she had sold the cliild's clothing. "I did not mean to hurt your feelings." "Pooh!" she retorted, bitterly, "I haven't any feelings." "If you will let me take away this trinket," I said, " I'll give you £5 for it." "You may take it." OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. in "Did Anil Jourdaiii wear this round liur neck?" " Yes, she did. I took it off her when she was dead. In iier hist iUness she was contin- ually looking at it, holdin.'-i; it before her eyes. And the more she looked at it tiie more she cried. There now you know all about Ann Joiirdain that I can tell you. So no more ques- tions, ma'am.'' She said this with a sudden change of tone, angrily and even tiercel}'. " I wish to say nothing more about Ann Jour- dain," I answered, quietly. "I will now leave j'ou and go home. I will give the man £10 for you, £."> in payment for your information, and £5 for the trinket. You will then, with the two pounds I have already given you, have £12. Your husband (if I may call the man so) will have £2. Now with that sum can't you manage to move out of this wretched place, and fix your- selves in some reputable way of life ? Do try to do so, Anna Harney !" "Don't you dare to come Anna Harneying or Anna Carneying me!" exclaimed the woman, bursting into a fury of rage. "What do you mean by preaching to me in that sanctimonious way—" She was still speaking with vociferous violence, when the door suddenly opened, and the man re-entered. " Hold hard, Anna! Tut, old lass," he said, " don't spoil the game now. Come, cohie, ma'am, be off — make haste, I'll follow!" The tone, which might almost be called one of alarm, in which the man spoke, assured me that I had better obey him jiromptly. So I left the room without another word, he following me, and locking the door on the outside. Scarce- ly had he succeeded in achieving this when the enraged woman was heard within, kicking the door and shaking the lock with all her might, and making the house resound with her cries. "Ah, ma'am," said the man, when we had quitted the house, and hurried down the long sewer of a passage, and stood once more in the narrow lane on which the marine-store shop opened, "you shouldn't have given her any ad- vice! She has her good points, has Anna; but she can't stand advice. It goads her so, and drives her furious. It's a mercy she didn't strike you. You see it's her pride is cut, ma'am ; for advice reminds of what she once was. You wovxldn't think it, but she was the daughter of a clergyman, and I was once a master tradesman in Oxford Street. But we've dropped." Dropped ! Goodness, Heavens, they had dropjied ! What a relief it was to be once more in the streets, however humble and dark and narrow! At least they were full of human figures passing to and fro, and human voices. Humble and wretched though they might be, I felt protection in the foot-passengers who jostled against me. The flaring gas-lamps, too, were cheerful. Even the gin-palaces at the street-corners appeared to have happiness in them. It seemed to me that I had spent an age instead of half an hour in the dismal, oppressive horrors of Cleaver's Rents. The carriages were whirling about the streets ; and though the rain fell down fast on the sloppy pavement, I walked on with a sense of refresh- ment. Having rc-cntercd the hospital in iMarchion- css Street, I dismissed my servant with his jjrom- ised reward, and then, on looking on the clock in the hall of "Grace Temple," I found, to my surprise, that it was still only seven o'clock. Retiring to my bedroom I shut myself in, and recalled all I lunl seen, and done, and heard with- in tlic last two iiours. Tiicu the reaction came upon me. Then the transient gladness caused by my escape from the gloomy court, and my rapid passage home through I lie streets, passed away, and all the dreadful sig- nificance of the discovery I had Just made rolled over. I took the locket from my pocket. How well I remembered that trinket which my dear grandfather had given to Etty on her birthday, when she was a little thing only six years old ! The picture on one side was a portrait of myself, a profile cut out in black paper, and pasted on white. On the other side was her prohle in a similar style of art. Under the one picture, on the white margin, was written "Tibby," and under the other " Etty." She used to wear that worthless m vke-believe ornament as a child, and she had worn it when on her death-bed, " look- ing at it, and crying the more she looked at it." Had it indeed come to this? Was this the end of my long-cherished hope? the termina- tion of my gladdening confidence ? She would never come home now ! Iler home was not of this world. It was elsewhere. She had gone to it nine months before. Again and again that night I heard my dear grandfather's solemn and pathetic injunction, "Whatever happens to you in life, whatever clouds may rise over you, whatever temptations you may have to resist, let nothing separate you from Etty. Cling to her; make her cling to you. Make every allowance for her. Never quarrel with her, whatever she may do. I think of your happiness more than hers when I say this. To quarrel with one's own blood is to cut through one's own heart. I know it." "Dear, dear grandfather," I exclaimed, fall- ing on my knees, "I tried to cling to Etty ; in- deed I did !" Oh what ivould I not have given to have known then that which I afterward learned, that Klty was not dead, and that I had onlij been induced to think her so hij a benevolent artijice practiced upon me b)j unknown friends ! CHAPTER Vm. etty's mournees. • I PUT a black ribbon through Etty's locket, and put the ribbon over my neck ; but I did not know for many a day the full weight of the sor- row that had come to me, together with the ac- quisition of the trinket. I had no need to put on mourning for Etty, for I had always worn black stuff and crape from the night of my fly- ing fronj Laughton. "I will dress myself in black till Etty comes home," I had then said ; and now I altered the words of my resolution to, "I will wear black forever, because Etty has gone home." I went to the jiorter of the north gate of Gray's Inn, and said to him, '-There will never be a lettgr for me now; the friend I have so long hoped would write to me is dead- 112 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. She is with your little one in heaven." Spirit of love, tliiit dwelt in the breast of tliat rude, lowly, uiitaii:;lit man, tell with lit words how he sorrowed when I was in sorrow ! The next time I saw him sitting at his gate he was wearing the same blaek fold on his hat with which years be- fore he had given expression to his regret for " the little 'un 1" I wrote to JNIrs. Gurley, saying, "Etty is no more ; she died several months ago, and I am mourning for her. Write to me, dear Mrs. Gur- ley. I am the matron of the Hospital for Siek Children in Marchioness Street. It was foolish of me not to have given you my right address before. But all is altered now ; her shame and sufferings have ended, and my love is stronger for her than ever." / There still remained another duty for me to perform to' dear Etty, and I did it without de- lay. I did not know in what part of the High- gate burial-ground she had been interred by her fellow-lodgers ; but I ascertained from the keep- er of the cemetery books that no memorial had been erected to her memory. So I selected a spot — a quiet corner on the top of the hill, screened on three sides by laurel, and fir, and copper-beech, and commanding in the front a view of the wide sweep of land under the foot of Highgate Hill, and a view of the mighty city where sin and virtue walk hand in hand — and there I erected a monumental stone bearing this inscription : In Jlemoiy of ETTY TREE, and of All who loved her and are no more, This Stone is erected by TlUUY Teee. I penned this inscription thinking of dear Et- ty's child and her fellow-lodgers, who had sub- scribed to meet the expenses of her funeral. They were in my mind when I wrote the line "All who loved her and are no more." Then it occurred to me that Etty had left a con- siderable sum of money behind her, lying at the Laugliton Bank. So I wrote to Mr. Gurley, re- questing him to send me a check for that amount, which should be payable to me at the hands of the London correspondents of the Laughton Bank. When the check arrived it was for no less a sum than £400 ; and I took it to Lombard Street and obtained four notes on the Bank of England for £100 each ; and these notes, hav- ing inclosed them in a letter, I dropped one night during a solitary ramble through the sleeping hospital into the contribution-box, that stood in the marble-floored hall of " Grace Temple," and had an aperture through the wall of the hospital into Marchioness Street ; and there the notes were found five days afterward, to the great sur- prise and pleasure of the Committee. I felt sat- isfied that Etty, if she could have expressed a feeling on the subject, would have approved of that disposal of her property. I tried to be brave and calm, and persistent in toil ; but I could not succeed. Dr. Merrion urged — indeed he cntreateil — me to leave Lon- don for a few months ; but I could not at first consent to do so. My hoi^e of so many years' silent growth was cut through at the roots, and had suddenly fallen withered and sajilcss ; and with the death of my hope I experienced a loss of jiowcr — i)ower of mind, and power of body, and sjjiritual ]Jower — a loss causing me to thiiik seriously that ere another year the hospital would require a new matron. One day, when I was sitting at this period of my life in a dull, despondent mood, a tap was made at my door, and a lady entered. At first I did not know her, and yet a feeling ran through me that I ought to know her. In another minute we were in each other's arms. "Oh, dear, dear, dear Mrs. Gurley!" I cried, beating her neck with my hands and kissing her, "I never thought 'to see you again. But, dear, dear friend, who are you in mourning for?" "God bless you, dear," she answered, "I couldn't help it. You mayn't be ofi'ended with me, though I am not of blood with j'ou, and though it has set all Laugh- ton talking. But I couldn't hear that poor dear Etty was no more without putting on black for her ; and when I did know your address I couldn't keep happy without coming up to Lon- don to see you. So Gurley, dear man, said, 'Well, then, to make you easy, I'll take you up for a week to see our cousin Thatcher in Ox- ford Street.' And so, dear, we're in Oxford Street. You know it's quite an easy journey down to Laughton now, for we have fifty miles of railroad open." The next day Mr. Gurley came to call on me ; and while he and his wife were in London she spent several hours of each day with me. We went to Highgate, and I showed her the memorial I had just erected to my dear sister; and we talked of her frequently and much, but never of her later life. The sight of the Gurleys, so bright and so pros- perous, and so little altered by time, greatly re- vived me ; and after their departure I w'ent to Clapton and staid a month with Mrs. Monk ; after which recreation I found myself quite strong again and able to resume my hospital duties. CHAPTER IX. AN OLD FRIEND. The months passed on ; and with the aid of my old, familiar, vulgar comforter, "duty," I still found much that was worth living for. When I thought of dying (and that is a subject on which every one ought to reflect — but health- ily, and in no mere selfish spirit), I always term- inated my meditations with I'ecalling Dr. Mer- rion and JNIrs. IMonk, and one or two other kind friends, to part from wliom forever would have ])ained me greatly. For me, therefore, to have been altogetlier unhnjipy would have been wick- edness. Spring, and summer, and autumn came again. It was October, just ten years after my midnight flight from Laughton, and just eleven months since I had ascertained the fact of my dear sis- ter's death. The previous summer had seen me complete my thirty-sixth year; and I bore about me more signs of advancing years — or, if such an exjjression be preferable, of departed youth — ■ than usually marks that age. Tlie tender mercies of our Heavenly Father are innumerable. In place of the hope that OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 113 Etty would return to my arms — the liope wliicli had sustained me in so iminy trials, and had at lengtli proved fallacious — tiiere was f^iven to me a joyful confidence that her evil beiiavior was forgiven by the Father in consideration of the Divine atonement. It is needless, it would be impossible, to show that this conlidence was founded on any logical data — such as learned schoolmen would require. The Divine mercy, which gave me faith in the promises of religion, planted that confidence in me, and cherished it. It had no other source, no otlier su])port. Oli, you cold, fearless critics of tlic traditions that have come down to us — you who ask us to throw aside this doctrine as a fantastic imj)Ositi()n, and that doctrine as a scientific error, and a tliird doctrine as based on indisputable anachronism, mitil, robbed of its sacred clothing and familiar form, the Christian idea, of which you speak so loudly, is impalpable to us, who are only the weaklings of the earth — what could you have given me ? what can you give any jioor woman, struggling with sin and affliction, in exchange fjr such confidence? I don't presume to judge you. I daren't say that you are wrong, for God allows you to do as you do with noble intellect, which is his especial gift. But, I ])ray you, keep your labors unknown to us simple peojile. Write your profound treatises in Greek or Hebrew, so that if by chance they fall in our way we may understand not a word of them. Let ns bo poor weaklings ! Leave us the darkness in which we can see clearly to the end, and give us not tlie light that will rob us of sight ! It was October ; and I went to Ilighgate for a walk in the garden of the dead. On Hearing th_' spot where Etty's memorial stood, I turned and surveyed the valley at my feet, and London in the distance, covered with a blue mist, into which the sun was Hinging a warmth of gold. As, standing on the ground where her body lay at rest, I looked upon the glorious city, in whose dark ways sh ■ luul errcil and fallen, I never f it a sweeter and fuller cimlidence that human life, with all its perplexities, tends to everlasting good. Full of that joyful belief I turned to look at Etty's nvemorial, when I saw a person stationed by its side, and gazing at me with anxious ten- derness. Oh, how well I remembered him, not- withstanding the alterations of nearly twelve years ! That form so grand and royal ! that face so commanding, and yet so childlike ! those large dark eyes, so full of compassion ! those sacred lips, that knew no guile ! I took his outstretched hands, and called him "Julian — dear Julian," for an instant forgetting the wide distance of time since we met. And he saiJ, in tones, soft, solemn, unuttera- bly sweet, "Tibby, love for her who is in heaven has led us to this spot. She has brought us to- gether. Let us be friends again, as we were in our happy childhood. Let us be old friends." We Isft the ground marked by Etty's memo- rial, and walked down the hill together ; and together we walked back into London. He left me in Marchioness Street, at the door of the hospital, my last words to him being, "Yes, Julian, I will be your old friend again." As I crossed over the hall of " Grace Tem- ple" a troop of my little patients met me, and my heart was so full that I was forced to kiss and play with them. " Oh, ma'am," said one of them, a thoughtful little girl she was-, "have you seen any thing? You look so pleased and strange." "My dear," I answered, "I have met in my walk a very old friend, whom I haven't seen for years, and that makes me very glad." And as I said this, the whole troop of little patients raised their weak, thin, clamorous voices into a series of the most affecting cheers I have ever heard. BOOK VI. PART THE SECOND OP A WOMAN'S STORY:— BEING THE NARRATIVE OF OLIVE BLAKE'S REPENTANCE. CHAPTER I. ONLY A BABT. The anticipation of great gladness has been realized. It is the height of the London season, and it is such a season tliat the oldest inhabitant of Mayfair can not remember its like. A new ojjera- house has been opened ; a new company of French players are performing classic dramas in the St. James's Theatre ; three foreign princes are in town ; the new Prussian Embassador is making the world stare with the sjjlendor of his enter- tainments ; the Royal Academy exhibits six un- questionably good pictures ; a newly-discovered tribe has been brought over from Mexico, to- gether with their ornaments, cooking utensils, and household gods ; a European war is ex- pected ; there are rumors of a rising in Spain; a dejiutation has arrived at court from Delhi, H with an offering of diamonds for the British Crown ; the ministry is tottering; and the funds are steadily going up. The carriages pass under my windows with muffled roll, bearing the wealthy and high-born to grand entertainments, where the visitors will all thoroughly enjoy themselves after their vari- ous fashions, and none enjoy themselves more than the high and mighty satirists of the dis- play, the music, the dresses, the conversation, and all the efforts made to jilease. Since jdeas- ure is a pursuit with all, why is it so universally preached against ? and by none preached at so bitterly as by those who ought to speak in its favor ? I hear the rumble of the chariots, and for a short five minutes I amuse myself witli imagin- ing the bright and festive scenes for which their occupants are bound. Then turning my head ujion my pillow I say to fnyself, "But I don't 114 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. / want to be with them, lliis istlie hnjiiiiest i)hicc, and that the best music for me."' Tlie best miissic forme is tlie quick, short, light, easy brcatliing of a little creature, that lies by my side in a nest of its own ; its head covered with a growtli of nature's softest floss-silk, its features delicate as a biscuit-china toy, its wee folded hands frail as a butterfly's wings. Just now I listen intently, for the breathing is so faint as to be scarcely perceptible, even to my ear. But — now — ;just listen to that ! To think of lungs so young having all that power in them ! Why they chop up the air in tiny jjarts, just as a little dog from fairy-land might pant for pure frolic. The little creature is my baby — my first one ; so I may be pardoned talking about it. I am so very proud of it. I have already begun to call it " my son." "Aunt Wilby, " I say to my dear aunt, who sits in the deepening twiliglit by ray side, " how late is it?'' " Half past eight, dear — would you like me to order lights?" "No, no! I enjoy the dusk. If there were a breath of air stirring in the square I would ask you to open the ^olian har])s. Baby would like the music. Isn't he breathing sweetly? He is realli/ an unusually fine boy?" "A very fine boy," says my aunt, emphatic- ally. She has told me so twenty times within the last twenty hours ; she'll have to repeat the as- surance as often within the next twenty. "I never thought its head would be covered with hair," I continued. "It has an unusual head of hair." "I suppose there's no harm in its having so much." "Harm? Dear me, no; it's a great orna- ment." " So I say ; not that it stands in need of the adornment." " It promises to be very well-looking." " It is well-looking already, aunt." " Of course it is, dear." " I really should like to have the lamp brought from the next room, just for an instant, so that I may look at it." The nurse is summoned for my gratification from the next room; and she enters, bearing a lamj), carefully shaded. "Pray be careful, nurse; don't let the light fall on ray child's eyes. What a beauty ! Oh, aunt, do look ! There, nurse, take the lamp away." Nurse obeys ; and for a moment I am afraid that my son has been disturbed. But the fear is groundless. He's as fast asleep as ever. " Arthur will come in soon, on his way down to tlie House, aunt?" " Why, Olive, he was here only three hours since." "Yes; but he'll like to see the boy again be- fore he goes to bed. I wonder how the ministry will get on to-night." My aunt laughs. "Let the poor ministry alone. Mr. Petersham will have his ]»eeragc quite soon enough to gratify your maternal pride." "Indeed, Aunt Wilby, your deafness is bet- ter, " I retort. "Your new physician is a clever mail. You hear things before they are said." "Not before they are thought," rejoins my dear aunt, laughing again. "Oh, dear, don't laugh so, you'll wake him." " Don't be alarmed. My lord sleeps soundly; what title shall we give my little lord, Olive!" "You're very foolish." " What say you, baby, to Baron Byfield, or Baron Petersham of Byfield? No, that won't do. The Baron Byfield is the title. Arthur Petersham, Baron Byfield !" "Hush, there he is!" I say, as my quick ear detects the sound of a carriage stopping before my door, on the thick carpet of straw that in my honor covers one side ot' Grosvenor Square, and thirtv yards of a street leading into it. "Who? Dr. Andover?" _ "No; Arthur." In another minute my husband enters, and comes to my side. He is excited, and hesitates rather more than usual. " I-I c-can't st-stop many minutes, Olive, for I must be in the House. Th-there w-will be a division, and the niinistiy can't stand. I-its ira-inipossible they can stand ; we are sure of a majority of twenty." He kisses me both before and after saying this ; and then he proceeds to give me the particulars of a conversation he has just had with the lead- ers of the opposition. When he has finished these interesting communications, he goes round to the baby's nest, and after looking at it silently for more than a minute says, "God bless you, little Baron Byfield !" "Don't put such ambitious thoughts into his head, Arthur," I say. "G-good-n-night, Olive, "he answers, "good- night. If all goes well our boy will be the second Baron Byfield. Good-night." The door has closed upon him, and I am once again listening to the delicate breathing of my newly-invented baby. The moon rises over the square and throws its rays into my open window, enabling me to see my darling as he lies in his nest, breathing fast and slow by turns, uncon- scious that his future dignity may depend on the proceedings of that night. He is only a baby. But he is the heir of an honored name and vast wealth ! Yet more ; for him generations of prudent, cunning, highly cultivated men have labored, and plotted, and hoped ! The ambitious of dead men centre in him ! CHAPTER 11. MONEY. Such happiness had come upon me, within three months of the fright I experienced from the irruption of " the mad girl I" It was a short time ; but it was long enough for the mad girl to have dropped completely from my thoughts. Her anguish under the apprehension of being separated from her babe was no aft'air of mine. It never for one instant recurred to me, as I lay with my treasure breathing by my side. "T!i3 mad girl" was simplj' one of the "people" — tliat vast, vague, fluctuating assemblage of human in- terest, that I surveyed from my carriage win- dows, read of in the newspajxirs, comforted through the medium of " charitable institu- OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 115 tions," and was benevolent to — iVoni a distance. I was not heartless, but only thouf^htless. I wished to do my duty to my neiy;libors, and sometimes I was very earnest in the wish ; but someliow, in aetion, my charity consisted in giv- ing away money that 1 didn't want, and leaving to others the trouble that would have been dis- tasteful to a lady of fashion. ;\Iy husband voted with his party on the night already mentioned ; but the Cabinet was not broken u\). The premier stood his ground till the prorogation of Parliament gave him security for another five or six months. With the open- ing of the following year, however, a new Ad- ministration was formed, and the privilege of governing the country fell into fresh hands. There was the usual scramble for jilaces. Pa- triots must have their reward — their means of doing good to their country and their relatives. Mr. Arthur Byfield Petersham had heli)ed the victors, and asked for the recognition of his, and his father's, and his grandfather's services. He did not ask for post or ]3ension, power or patron- age. All that he sought was the privilege of sitting among the fathers of the land, the right to style himself " noble," and a promise on the part of his fellow-countrymen to hold one of his descendants in each of the succeeding genera- tions noble also. This was Arthur Byfield Petersham's ambi- tion, and he achieved it. He became Baron Byfield, and my baby was his heir. Although my father had begun life a poor City clerk, he was cadet of a good Irish house ; and my mother was the daughter of a family that for centuries had held a place among " the gentle" of the North country. I was therefore by no means of a descent that could be emphatic- ally styled plebeian. Sprung, however, from the middle rank of life, and reared by a father the simplicity of whose manners was equal to the dignity and politeness of his mind, I had always in my girlhood regarded the aristocracy of the country as separated from mc by a wide inter- val. Partly also from the influence of the litera- ture in which I took greatest pleasure, jjartly from genuine sympathy with the pursuits of men of letters and artists (who only occasionally be- long by birth to the highest ranks of society), and partly without a doubt from a generous pride in my father's career, as well as a i>oetic sentiment that made me feel strongly for the weak, I had in my early days at Fulham pro- fessed to identify myself with "the people." It may well make my readers laugh ; but I used to brag a little about being " only a banker's daughter," and to play the part of "a child of the people." In theory I was a terrible repub- lican, writing sonnets to the oppressed, and aim- ing a hot fire of scathing denunciations at kings and tyrants. Titles — empty titles (I never spoke of titles, when I was fourteen years old, without calling them empty') I held in lively contempt ; and even in the last days of my dear father's life \ I remember being perplexed how he could so strongly approve of the ambition cherished by I his friend and partner. And afterward, the I strong probability that Mr. Arthur Petersham ! would sooner or later acquire a peerage had , seemed to me as the only weighty reason why ! I should not care to be his wife. Of course my republicanism was a very dainty afi'an-, tinted with couleur de rose, and delicately scented, like the curtains of my boudoir. It was mere sweetmeat and sugar-plum politics, but all the same for that I was earnest in it, believing it the strongest meat of social science. And here was Olive Blake, the proj)hetess of liberalism, the advocate of advanced opiniou^, and the scorner of "emi)ty titles," taking her place in the world as a i)ccrcss, and exulting in the "nobility" of " her boy !" We came up to town with the opening of the season, anxious to begin life again in our new characters, with our new dignity ! At certain periods of his life my husband had been a zealous " business man," taking an amount of personal toil in the conduct of the affairs of "Petersham and Blake" that few men of his rank would have consented to undergo. And now that he was exalted to the chamber of our hereditary noblesse, he had no intention of re- linquishing his commercial avocations. Business with him was not only a pursuit, it was poetry. Worshiping money with the ardor of a true Plutocrat, he idealized it as at the same time the emblem, the language, and the essence of power. Had he pressed the premier for a place in the Cabinet he might unquestionably have ob- tained one ; but the labors of office would in his estimation have been by no means compensated by the influence and transient e'clat of an office- holder. The only power that he valued was that which was his by virtue of his financial position. His peerage was a public recognition of that position ; and therefore he prized it, as a distinction and a star of honor ; but far more he held it in esteem, because it gave him rank among capitalists, placing him at the head of the London bankers, and imparting to him in- creased weight in that select fraternity of traffick- ers in money, who may be termed the state- financiers of Europe. His father's view had been, that on achieving elevation to the peerage his son should gradually disassociate himself from commerce, and cover- ing the coflfers won in Lombard Street with heraldic blazonry, should wear with the com- posure of "his order" the honors of a British noble. But Lord Byfield had very different ]>lans for himself. He had become the acknowledged captain of London bankers ; he would not rest till he had made himself in like manner the leader of the state-financiers of Europe. He would also do yet more in the narrow field of English society than he had yet accomplished. Steadily pursuing his father's policy of using his money as an engine for acquiring political in- fluence, he (without ever annexing himself to any Cabinet) would make himself an arbiter be- tween parties, and raise and throw down states- men as he thought right. Higher rank should be given him in the peerage. And from high to low Great Britain should look to him, the money-lord, as one of the chief powers of the commonwealth. He would teach the proudest aristocracy in Europe a lesson that they had never yet rightly learned, because they had never been riglitly taught it — a lesson worthy to be in- culcated — the lesson that far beyond the rivalry of virtue, and valor, and wisdom money is om- nipotent 1 1 This was my husband's purpose. A base doc- 116 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. trine, suvely, was tliat which he wished to enun- ciate, and indelibly imi)ress on the national char- acter; but base as it was, he would have taupilit tiie lesson grandly. Knowing him well as I do now, his meanness and uneleanness — 1 must still in justice own that I can not imagine any man better qualified for efi'ectively enforcing so hate- ful a view of life. Polite, cultivated, acute, and eminently a so- cial being, devoid of i)etty prejudices, and ])os- sesscd even to a dangerous degree of a faculty to discern, appreciate, and sympathize with the se- cret feelings of his fellow-creatures, Lord IJytield was a dark and secretive man, never, with all his easy frankness, showing the world the cards of his hand, or even letting it he known what game heVas playing. His ordinary com])a7ii()ns regarded him as nothing more that a well-bred man of the world — too prudent to wreck or in any way injure the magnificent fortune he had inherited, but in no way j)Ossesscd of the strength of intellect or purpose re(iuisitc for achieving suc- cess against the obstacles of adversity. His jieer- age wa,s rightly regarded l)y the world as a natu- ral consequence of his father's exertions ; but the ^vorld was singularly in error when it judged the holder of that peerage to be nothing more than a ([uiet, indolent, inoffensive, unambitious, com- monjjlacc gentleman. It was with exquisite pleasure that I found myself not wed to a characterless m.in. Until my union with him, and indeed for several months afterward, I had concurred in the world's esti- mate of his capacity and disposition ; and the worst features of my life's prospect were the dis- comforts I anticipated experiencing from his want of aim. It was not till the time drew near for me to be a mother that lie revealed to me the strength and purpose of his mind. Women are loyal to jjower, in whatever form it manifests itself, and their weakness is impressed by it just in proportion as it is discovered where it was least expected. My husband quickly saw that I had learned to respect him, and he proceeded to strengthen his influence over me by all the arts of fascination ; his mastery of which gave him a power over women, which his ordinary and even insignificant ajijicarance, his disfigured face, and his impeded utterance would seem to lun-e ])recludcd him from olitaining. Naturally his view of life became my view of life — his aim my aim. I lived in a higher, clear- er atmos])hcre before ; but my flight liad iieen un- steady, in the pursuit first of one olyeet, and then of another. He caught me in his firm grasp, and bringing me down to his range of ob- servation, turned my eyes to /lis object, and in- spired me with a determination to follow it. Where two persons are brought together, the weaker will succuml) to the stronger. Neither in loftiness uf aspiration, nor purity of intention, nor unselfishness, lies the power that decides which of the two is to prevail over the other. The question is one of steady, persistent resolu- lion, and he who has the most of it will be victor. Perhaps if that had not occurred which it is niy iiUeiition to tell in the ])resent book, I migiit still in course of years have burst asunder the fetter-! of bondage in which hi^ held me; but I am of a dinided o)>inion that such would not have ])wn the case. If I had lived with him for five years, as haj)pily and as intimately as it atone time seemed sure I sliould live with him, I believe that with my soul as well as my body I should have been his willing slave to the end. For the man had a strange and truly fearful power. He made me love him, even while he caused me to feel that I was growing less lovable in my own heart. He gave me conjidence, and that is the jtraise sweetest to a wife. If at first 1 did not like what he revealed to me — still lie had shown it, it was moreover part of him, and so I loved it. Therefore, with all my heart, and soul, and strength, I resolved to be a brilliant and admired woman of the world. To use all my quickness of parts, and learning (for I had some), and ac- complishments, in his service. To study and practice the arts of pleasing, so as to be "a power in his hand," in order that the world might come round me, and I might influence it as he bade me. He was far from the highest order of man. That I well knew. But he was a man — a strong man ; and I would be liis wife — loving and faithful ; the swiftest and surest serv- ant he had ever commanded. Wiien we came to London at the opening of the season it was not to re-enter our house in Grosvenor Square. Lord Byjield had arranged to make his first campaign in the capital under ills new title with suitable splendor. The largest mansion in Piccadilly had therefore been pur- chased by him (as soon as he saw his elevation was near at hand), and all that lavish ex])endi- ture in the course of eight months could do to- ward converting it into one of the most superb residences in town had been accomplished. Our staft" of servants was increased ; the horses were concentrated from our country jilaccs, and we had a stud for royalty to envy ; our equipages were new, and built for the express purjiose of being admired; and as soon as we had taken up our quarters opposite the Green Park we were giving a series of entertainments. " The dandies will sneer at our splendor," said Lord Byfield, "and accuse me of gilding my gold ; but as it is a real rose that I paint, they'll forgive me." And so we set about the great business of our lives— to teach people that Money Is Omnipo- tent ! CHAPTER III. DE.VTIl. CiiiLDKEN and kindred are the forms Satan often assumes to temjit those he would make his victims. To serve his wife and benefit his child a man will frequently do on a sijslem that which he would scorn to do once for the jiurpose of serving hiiiise//. It was thus with me. In de- liberately taking for my.self a low object, 1 justi- fied mys'elf by the consideration that I was about to advance the interests of my husband and child. It was so sweet to think as baby lay upon my breast that I was going to /ic/p him — to do work, and to make sacrifices, the result of which would be his'cxaltation when he sliould have reached manhood. As his little hands patted me and beat me, and his blue eyes looked u]) at me with a smile ere their soft liils closed, or as he press- ed his lips together and throwing back his head ujioii my arms laughed, and crowed, in answer to the endearing nonsense of my foolish tongue, I felt that I had found a work in life — one worthy OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 117 task — to be a motlicr, c:\relcss of c^ery interest, ])i-esent or future, tliat would not contrihiitc to his prosperity. " B;iby," I used to say. looking at the treasure on my hiji, "you won't know for many days how your mother has surrendered her3;?lf to your serviee — how her dress, and wit, and grace, and control of temper, and amiability, an 1 cunning, and wile, are simply your servi- tors. Mamma means to be a loyal wife, obedi- ent and intelligent ; but wifely duty to her is only another name for child's interest." • But this bliss of wickedness lasted only for a few short months. It was like a dream, in its course persuading the dreamer that its incidents cover whole years, and in its conclusion showing him that its manifold intricate mutations of act- ors, and positions, and feelings, wcn-e crowded witliin a few brief minutes. Wiien Jonah lay in languid luxury under the shade of his palm- crist, he rejoiced with great joy, and every mo- ment of the "exceeding gladness" appeared to him a life of conscious comfort. Its refreshing coolness was the source and limit of his sensa- tions, and beyond the sensations of the moment he did not care to look. The tree had been ever thjre, and would be ever there — and so would h,\ His wandering by land and by sea, his past toil and anguish, were unheeded. He forgot how mysteriously the Lord God had prepared the tree, and made it to come over him, that it might be a shadow over his head, and deliver him from his grief. The sorrow and the mercy had both passed from his mind. He never look- ed beyond the branches, or remembered the heat that tortured him ere they were, or dreaded the h.^at to come when they should have perished. The tree was there — and he was dreaming under it. That was enough, while the dream lasted. But when the worm smote the tree that it with- ered, and the vehement east wind rose, and the fierce sun beat on .Jonah, till his fever made him sav, "It is better for me to die than to live!" he then saw that the leafy cano])y, given him so bountifully and taken from him so wisely, far from having roots firmly fixed in the past, and being made for permanence, had only existed a f;w hours. "The tree," said the Lord, "for the which thou hast not labored, neither madest it to grow; which came up in a night, and per- islijd in a night." As Jonah dreamed blissfully under his tree, so centuries afterward the foolish rich man built his noble mansion, and vowed that he would be mer- ry for many years, little thinking, poor fool, that his many years would be shorter than the day and night in which Jonah enjoyed himself. Tliat first brilliant season came to an end, and we left town. My husband was well and in good spirits ; I was proud, and happy, and confident ; my babe every day and every hour manifested S(jm2 fresh beauty or sign of health and intelli- g Mice, and troops of friends never wearied with praising me. Our season had been a triumph. That was in July. Three months later — ^just as Nature's green woods were taking the yellow sere, and the dry red leaves were being blown over the bleak, dry common, or lay in heaps along the lanes — the fresh cool covering of my worldlincss fell, even like Jonah's, and I was left to exclaim, "It is .better for me to die than to live !" \ My little baby is dead. It fell ill shortly after we left London for Bur- stead House, with a malady for which the phy- sicians could assign no cause. Week after week it grew worse. Doctors upon doctors posted down from London, but they could not save it ; for the same Hand which smote Jonah's tree, causing it to wither, smote my baby, so that it should die. It was only a year and three months old when it died. Two days before it seemed to me as thougii I had never been without it; two days afterward I could scarce believe that it had lived more than a few weeks. The little baby which came up in one year and perished iu an- other is to me now as though it had "come up in a night and perished in a night." My dream is over — and tlie dream was not an entire life, but only a dream of a few brief minutes. I am sitting alone in a bedroom of Burstead House — a silent, quiet room ; a room I have not left all day save when from time to time I have passed into an inner chamber where my little baby lies in its coffin, with its fair, shadowy, tiny face enveloped in linen, delicately wrought — where it looks something as it did on the day when it was cliristencd, only ])urer, fairer, more sacred ! It breathed then and was warm, and I loved to touch it ; it is quite still and silent now, and I dare only to look at it, and even that only for a few moments at a time. It is a dull, clouded afternoon. The rain does not fall ; but sombre volumes of vapor move close to the ])n\k, over which the wind, buft'et- ing all things fitfully and wailing harshly, drives the red leaves. I watch them driven — like flights of small birds over the water : I watch them chased in the distance — fine and small as a swarm of insects — whirled over the fences of the deer-park, and over the trim lawn of the ornamental garden, close under the windows. There is no sun to set this afternoon. But the sombre masses of vapor grow blacker and blacker, and the red leaves become specks of ebony, till soon they are indistinguishable— on the gravel of the terraces, and the carpet-grass surround- ing the flower-beds, as well as in the distance over the cold mirror of the lake, and over the deer-park. , My husband is in town, where business has detained him for several days. He has not seen baby since its death ; but he will arrive to-night to .see it, ere I take my last look of it, and cover it with flowers, and say to it, "Good-by, baby — good-by forever ! " It is darker and darker. The wind is still ])ursuing the red leaves, buffeting them to and fro in the open ])laces, or swirling them up ave- nues, or causing them to rise and twist round the oak stems and then shoot np like spirts of water. But the leaves, not less than the wind, are invisible to the game-keeper walking over the park, as well as to me standing at the window of my silent room. I am quite alone. No one may disturb me. After it has grown quite dark I light a taper, and enter the solemn inner chamber where little baby lies in its coffin, all ready for its funeral, save that I and my husband have not taken our last looks, and covered it with flowers. My solitary candle is sufficient to show me its shadowy, dream-like face, its waxen lips, its gold- en hair, its little hands. "Oh, baby!" I say, "your little f;ice was 118 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. oiicf full of smiles, with a meaning of its own for every smile ; and your little lips that had iiscil to say ' mamma,' were wont, ere they could form a word, to close u))on me so firmly. Shall 1 never dress your golden hair again ? Little hands — you onee beat against my bre;ist, with little nails quite scratching tiie skin of it, while your blue eyes, starting with gladness, turned round as they looked at me." Then I leave it, with the taper burning at its head, and I walk to and fro in the darkness of the large outer room for many minutes, thinking of all my wicked worldly ambition for my child, of which that still, silent picture of angelic in- fancy is all that remains to me. When I return to the lighted chamber it is to wring my hands and say, "Oh, God ! — and that is the child we said should be a mighty one of the earth ! Ah, God, pardon me ! Help me ! — I shall go iimcir' I utter those words aloud, and the last of them striking on my own ear as I speak it, leads my thoughts into another channel, and causes me for the first time for more than a year to recall the poor mad girl who came to me in Grosvenor Street, and told me that cruel men were jdotting to separate her from her child. Her bal)y had smiled on her, and laughed at her, and crowed at her. Its lips had drained warm nouiislinient from her breast, its little hands meannliiL' beat- ing it and scratching the skin of it. vShc had felt all this; but I had not ])itied her. How then could I ask God to pity me ? CHAPTER IV. CORRECTION. The recollection of Etty Tree having at length come back to me was not speedily to de- 2)art from my mind. When my husband arrived at Burstead House, and stood with me by the side of our dead child, the poor mad girl seemed to me to rise up before us, and mutely implore me to render her justice. It was the same in church during next day, when we and a few friends and our servants were present at the fu- neral of "my boy." The vision of the beauiti- ful and miserable creature haunted me. At night I lay awake thinking of her; and when toward the morning I dozed off into a semblance of slumber, it was only to start up as she ap- jjcared to me in a dream. I had never troubled myself about her part- ing words. At the time of their utterance they were considered by me merely as an outpouring of insolence as well as deceit. Afterward, on the arrival of my husband, I held them to be the words of insanity ; and, viewed in either light, I had soon forgot them. But now, clear and pathetic as when they left her lips, they pene- trated to my hidden dei)ths of feeling. '.'Oh, poor lady, from the bottom of my heart I jjity you ! Last time I was here I a-sked you to ))ity me. It is now my turn to pity. 1 have been a wicked, vain, heartless girl ; but indeed yon wrong me, and in his own time (jod will prove me innocent of what you lay to my charge." Truly her turn had come to i)ity me. Why was it that, in spite of my undisturbed belief in my husband's honor, ii ))rcsentiment would for minutes together possess me that the concluding prophecy of lier parting address would one day be fulfilled. My husband remained a month with me at Burstead House, when it was arranged that he should leave me for a visit to an adjoining coun- ty, and meet me again in about three weeks' time at my dear old villa at Fulham, where I ho])ed to enjoy several weeks of retirement. "Arthur," I said to him, on the day ])revious to his departure from Burstead House, "can you tell me what has become of that poor girl Etty Tree and her child ?" I said this with a great effort, both because the subject was a painful one, and because I felt a shame in never having before jait the question to my husband. He seemed disturbed at my inquiiy, and hesitated to an unusual degree as he replied, "D-dear m-mc, no, Olive. What has jjut hei- into your mind?" "It is not unnatural that I should think of her. She had a child." "W-well, d-dear?" "I should like to helj) that child, Artlmr; I should be hapjiy if I could do so. She s]joke to me about it a few months before I was blessed with our little one. Perhajjs the jealousy of ma^ ternal affection, even at that date, causing me to w ince at tlie thought of what my child would be if her mad words were true, had an influence upon me that I feel pain to reflect ujjon — urged me, in short, to speak to her with cruelty wlien at my hands at least she rather deserved com- miseration. Any how, the death of my dear child has brought her b^tbe to my mind, and 1 should very much like to take her and it under my ])rotection. Was her babe a boy, Arthur?" " Y-yes ; a-L boy." "You do not disapprove my plan?" "F-far f-from it, dear Olive," he answered. "It is like your own gentle self to entertain such a thought." "You will then let me know where she is?" "Kn-know wh-where she is, my dear girl? I can not tell you. How came vou to think I could?" Now that Lord Byfield so questioned me, I was surprised at finding how slight my grounds were for assuming that Etty Tree was in a con- finement suited to her malady, and that my hus- band was at least cognizant of the retreat iu which she had been placed. "As I am wrong in my supposition, yoa'll think me a very unreasonable person for having entertained it," I answered. "Since the ]iooi girl disturbed me in Grosvenor Square I have scarcely thought of her six times ; but when her story was still nciv to me, I conceived that of course the victim of so painful a hallucination would not be permitted to be at large. 1 kuev that she had no relations to take ])ossession ol her, and therefore my mind had taken an im ])ression that yon, acting for Sir George Watchit, would provide for her comfort, and security, and remedial treatment. Indeed, if yon had asked me at atiy time within the last twelve months where I imagined the ]ioor girl to be who bad caused mc so much annoyance, I should have answered, ' In scnnc private lunatic asylum, where you have jdaced her, with directions for her to be treated with every ])Ossible indulgence.' " "A-and f-far from being an unreasonable I OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 119 answer, Olive," rejoined Lord Byfield, "it would have been one supported by your knowledge of Avhat I did for the girl at Nice, and would also have been countenanced by your sense of pro- priety and litness. But all tlie same for tliat, the answer, 1 regret to say it, would liave been erroneous." "■ Indeed!" " I-imniediately a-after I learned of the poor creature's visits to our house in Grosvenor Square, I caused a search to be made for her in every quarter, for the express pur])ose of placing lier under salutary restraint. The course I should have adopted to her would liave been j)recisely that which your hypothetical answer has sketch- ed." "And did you find her?" "I-I c-could not even get a trace of her. With all the best agents that a liberal expendi- ture of money could procure for my assistance, I have not been able to get a glimpse either of her or her footsteps. I am not, as you are well aware, to be easily turned aside from a purpose which I have thoroughly at heart ; and I am still occupied in a search that most other men would have given up as useless. JIany years must jjass before I will relinquisli my endeavors to serve poor Watchit in this particular." " He is then acquainted with every thing that has transpired?" " O-of c-course, everything. A-and o-only last mail I had to write to him that I was ajipar- ently as far as ever from being able to give him satisfactory information as to his child and tlic mother. I expect to see him in London in the course of the next year. By-the-by, I heard a short time since in the city a good account of the young man whom this unfortunate girl was engaged to marry." "What, Julian Gower?" "E-e.\actly. Tli-those m-mines in Soutli America have, under his management, turned out much better than was antici|)ated. Two of those first worked, which were heavy soui-ces of loss to the Company, had to be relinquished ; but two gold mines, which were subsequently purchased at Mr. Gower's advice, have i)rove(.l most lucrative to the workers. He has been back in England for some time, and is closely connected with men who are very likely to help him to make a large fortune." "Arthur," I said, earnestly, "do not relax your generous efforts to discover this jjoor wo- man. Disordered as her intellect is on one point, she is insane on no other ; and her rare beauty marks her out as a prey for the vicious. We liave a duty to perform to her. Her ruin was the immediate work of your friend. If I had not directed your attention to her, possibly she would at this time be the wife of an honora- ble man. Indeed, in a certain way her down- fall was my work." "D-don't 1-let such a painful thought gain infl uence over you, " Lord Byfield returned, grave- ly ; adding, in his most reassuring manner, " But for the rest, Olive, rely on me. As soon as I can discover the child I shall be most glad to see you extend protection to it." Thus the subject was left. The next day Lord Byfield departed on his visit, and I was left at Burstead House to pon- der on my past life, to search the secrets of my own heart, and pray God of his mercy to make my bereavement a means of good to myself and others ! In my retirement at Biirstead my dear aunt was my only comjianion. Her placid cheerful- ness was the only kind of society I could then endure ; and during the three weeks that I re- mained in Hampshire, before rejoining Lord By- field at Fulham, I derivetl great comfort from her presence. My mind was in a state of morbid excitement — at least, so my ])hysieians assured me, though I concealed from them much of my disquiet, and all its principal causes. My chronic sleepless- ness, which no narcotic could overcome, they at- tributed to nerves overwrougtit by grief for my dead child. My fever, my constant depression, and a lassitude that made me, for the first time in my life, understand the full meaning of wea- riness, were attributed to the same cause ; and without a doubt the doctors' diagnosis was not altogether incorrect. JMental perturbation was the source of my bod- ily suffering. And God alone, who of his infinite mercy af- flicted me, knows what I then suftered. Was it not enough for me to have lost my dar- ling, my only babe — the blood of my blood, the life of my life? It was far from enough. It was only one of the weights (and the least of them) that lay heavy on my soul. A voice within me that I could not silence told me that tJie death of my child was a direct visitation of the Al- mighty, to punisli me for my worldliness — my forgctfidness of Him. The mother who has lost a child can form a faint conception of my agony. Let her imagine the child, taken by the Angel of Death from her loving embrace, to have been killed by her own hand — yes, killed by her own hand! Let her imagine (hat, and she will know something of my horror when I daily stood in Burstead church, and heard a voice say, "Wo- man, your sin has brought death on your own child !" When the voice said this I inwardly asked God for mercy. And my prayer was heard ; but the mercy was shown to me in this wise : " Wo- man !" said the same awful voice, "not seven- teen months since a frail, erring sister implored you to pity her, and you answered her with scorn. You were worse than deaf to her cry. Now ask God to pity you, and learn what it is to cry aloud to Him in your trouble, and to find Him deaf!" That was my punishment by day. In the long, weary nights my punishment was for me to be ever falling into a conscious torpor (not sleep) — to think that my babe was purring and moving in tranquil warmth by my side — to turn to embi'ace it, and then to find it as it was when I looked at it for the last time beneath the flowers. Over and over again was this torture rejieated every night. Each time I fell into the ccmscious torpor I was sure (as I could be certain of any thing) that my child was living and lying close to me; and each time I turned to fondle it I found it shadowy and still, and awful to look upon — even as I had left it in the sacred church. But the nightly scourging of my soul was not yet at an end. When this liorrible, ghastly il- lusion had been repeated again and again, until my mind was nearly crazed, I used to throw my 120 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOKK. licail back upon my jiillow and implore the Killer of the universe to save me tVom madness. Tlien came tlic sharpest blow oF the Avenger's rod. TIten, and not till then, silent and cahn, and miserably beautiful, a delicate girl, with sorrow ill her earnest eyes and cimtrition in her tender fiice, stood before me. She never spoke. It was ■mother voice that sjioke. " See ! she, like yon, is separated from her child !" Thus it was that I was taught to pity an erring sister. CHAPTER V. A A^KLCOME HOME. With reason my dear aunt Wilby was alarmed for me. I found out afterward that the physician in whom, of ihy several medical attendants, she had the greatest contidence, told her that unless something could bo effected to rouse me from tiie fearful condition into which I had fallen, there were grounds for apprehending an evil even worse than my death— the alienation of my reason. On receiving this terribl ; intimation she wrote to my husband that she slioukl induce me to leave Burstead House and proceed to Fiilham without delay, and she trusted that he would meet us there. In accordance with this arrangement we quit- ted Hampshire a few days earlier than we had intended, and journeyed up toward town. It was a wise and lucky step, for events were trans- piring which demanded my ])resence in London. My physician had exjiressed his desire to procure for me a violent revulsion of feeling. His pre- scription was a good one ; and it was about to be carried out by circumstances as little antici- pated by myself as by him. The rod of the Divine displeasure had struck me, and I had kissed it. I had been humbled — ■ eflfectually humbled ; and had my spiritual wel- fare been the only olyoct held in view by the Pow- er who had chastened me, I can believe that he would not have added to me yet another humil- iating affliction. But for the happiness of others it was necessary that the utter vileness — the meanness and uncleanness — of that master whom I had impiously undertaken to serve should be yet more plainly manifested. The facts to which I must draw attention still cause me such pain to reHect U])on, that I may be excused if I hurry over them, and if 1 refer the reader for the particulars of one portion of my punishment to those published archives in which they arc recorded. My journey up to town was marked by one occurrence which had a great effect ui)on me at the time, and gave me a jirevision of fresh ca- lamity. At one of the jiosting-houses on the road I obtained a copy of the Times, and read in it the announeemeut of the death of Sir George Watcliit, K.I}., in British India. He liad died suddenly (said the paper) of Asiatic i-holcra, just as he was ])reparing to return to England. Poor man! I thought I knew well' the motive he had in making such jircitarations fjr a return to his native land. But I was wrong. What was the effect whicli this announce- \ menthadonme? It w.as not regret ; fir I had only seen Sir George Watchit once or twice in the whole course of my life, and all that I knew of him (apart from his brilliant conduct as a sol- dier) made m2 hold him in a sentiment closely resemljliug detestation. And yet when I read the account of his death I regarded it as a pri- vate and individual calamity to myself, rather than as a loss to the public. I had a sense that the death of Etty Tree's seducer had taken a power from me — that a crisis in my life was ap- l)roaching when I should need him, and require certain information that he of all men was ere his death best qualified to give me. I had not existing before my mind, even in the most vague manner, any drama in which, were he alive, he could be useful to me. Yet a presentiment, al- most amounting in force to a logical conviction, toKl me that the days were fast drawing nigh, when I should say, "Would that Sir George Watchit were alive, that I might consult with him !" It was passing strange that I should feel tliis for a person of whom I knew so little that was good — so much that was ill ! On arriving at Fulham I found Lord Byfield ready to receive me. I was so prostrated by the fatigue of traveling that I had to be carried rath- er than led into the villa. My appearance was doubtless harrowing to Lord Byfield, and possi- bly he felt some compunction in having left me in Hampshire in so jicrilous a state of health ; but there was that in his face which I could not attribute to concern for me, although I had not any reason to question the sincerity of the affec- tion and admiration he always expressed for me. Such a ghastly aspect of defeat and anguish I had never before seen in mortal face ; and it im- pressed me all the more because I knew, how- ever deeply he might be stirred, he was just the man to show very little of what he endured. "What is the matter, Arthur?" I inquired, as soon as we were without the presence of a third jierson. "N-nothing, n-nothing, Olive, except that I have been very fagged with business. A-and t-this afternoon I've had a bad chill ; but 1 have sent for my pliysician to see me to-night." " Somethiug particular has ha]iiiencd, Lord Byfield. I see it in your countenance." " W-well s-something has transinred to an- noy m:>, which, following so immediately on the news of poor Watchit's death, has quite upset me. Bit I'll tell you all about it to-morrow. To-night you'll have enough to do to get rest after your fatiguing journey. ISIoreover I can't stay with you ten minutes. My carriage is ready, and I must be driving back to town." "Going back to town ! At this hour?" I said. ' • Y-yes, I-I sh-shall sleep in Piccadilly. Brownson is there waiting for me now. I have especial business. 1 came from town to welcome you, but I must return immediately." I He staid with me a few minutes longer, vain- ly endeavoring to make me feel at my ease, and tlien he took his. de])arturc. I saw him once again, after an interval of two days ; and then I never saw him till (years aft- erward) he stood before me, a craven culprit im^ l)loring me to shelter him from ignominy. I OLIVE BZ^AKE'S GOOD WORK. 121 CHAPTER VI. T n K U E V K L A T I O N. Three hours before Lord ByfieUl welcomed me oil the ciitraiice-ste]ts of Fiilluun Villa lie had been ligiiriiig in a crowded law-court as a witness in the atrocious cause of I'lTce vs. Le- compton. I need not recount the jiarticulars of that abominable exhibition of perfidy and vice. If any woman is ignorant of it, let her ask her father, or brother, or husband to get the printed reports, and the answer tliat will meet her re- quest will justify me for declining to give an ab- stract of the proceedings. I have only to concern myself with Lord By- field's part in those transactions ; and of that part I will speak in the fewest possible words. It is enough to say that, under cross-examina- tion on a ]ioint that came u\) incidentally in that trial, his lordship was compelled to admit facts proving to demonstration tliat wliila I was down in Hampshire nursing my dying child he was in J town carrying on a vile intrigue with a friend's / wife ; and furtiier, that even at the time during '" which our babe lay dead in Burstead House he was so amusing himself. Tlie counsel rightly and boldly (but, oh so crueUy to me !) drew Lord Byfield's attention to the dates of two occurren- ces which he admitted, and asked if his recent private afHiction, with which "society" was fa- miliar through the jiublic papers, had not visited him at a period just between those two dates. In court Lord Byfield declared on his honor that, though his infant son lay dead at the time mentioned, the connsel's inference was as wrong as it was odious, for he was nnaware of the fatal termination of his child's illness at the time of the last occurrence to which the learned coun- sel directed attention. It was not necessary for Lord Byfield to have made any reply to the bar- rister's question ; but, to save his rcpntation from one black stigma, he volunteered this statement. And /, his wife, knew that the statement icas ut- terly false ! I said nothing to my aunt that evening. She was not observant of trifling matters, and the unexpected departure of Lord Byfield from Ful- ham immediately after my return drew from her hardly one expression of astonishment. The intelligence of that day's scene in Westminster Hall was already an affair of goss'p with the servants. Their faccs»told me that they were occupied with an unusual excitement, and I can readily believe that my countenance revealed to them that I had cause for imeasiness beyond my physical debility and sorrow for my child. But my dear aunt Wilby detected nothing in them to arouse suspicion in her mind ; and though she thought me more than usually nervous, she attrib- uted my restlessness and eager irritability of man- ner to the fatigue I had suffered in my journey. I dined at eight o'clock, with the intention of retiring to rest early. • As soon as my almost nntasted dinner was at an end Dr. Chirges was announced, the kind man having, at my request, come from town to see how I had borne my journey. As a man of society and a jihysician he had undergone a long training to command his countenance, but he failed to conceal from me that he too knew that which he desired to hide from me. "Dr. Clarges," I said, when he had felt my pulse, and. after making a few professional in- ([uirik's, was about to leave me, "what is it that makes you, as well as my servants, look at me so strangely?" " My dei.ir Lady Byfield," he answered, "you are nervous. You should control yourself. You may not let your imagination overpower your judgment. Sometimes it is the duty of a ])hy- sician to act the jiart of a moral teacher. It is my duty to do so now." He said this very kindly as well as gravely, but he did not im])ose u])on me. "Doctor,"! answered, gravely, "I know as well as you can tell me the peril that my over- excited mind subjects me to. I know what that sorrowful and solemn voice of yours means. You fear for my reason, and, doctor, you have good grounds for your terrible apprehensions. I have heard it said that the insane are familiar with the first symptoms of their malady long be- fore their dearest friends discern them. Expe- rience tells me that such is the case. For nights ])ast I have recognized the fearful fact that my reason is tottering ; and, doctor, if something be not speedily done to stay the morbid influences that tyrannize over me, it will be your s.id office to treat me as one who is mentally afflicted." I saw that these words had a powerful effect niKin him. He ])aused in his movement toward the door when I commenced, and as I proceeded he ]iierced mc with a most peculiar scrutiny — a gaze so full of commiseration and sympathy that it did not frigjiten me, although I knew it was taking note of every sign of my countenance that could su])port my awful apprehensions for the stability of my mind. "Lady Byfield," he said, returning to his seat, "I won't leave yon quite yet. We must talk together a little longer." "You know too well, doctor," I continued, " the fidelity of nervous susceptibilities to laugh at me as though I were a child. Beyond the agony I have undergone in Hampshire, in nurs- ing my child, whom you vainly endeavored to save by the prompt ex jrcise of your benevolent art, I. have been weighed down by a conscious- ness of the ill of my past life, and by an over- whelming sense of an urgent calamity, making a midnight gloom of the near future. A vague prevision of inqiending catastrophe has been one source of my unrest. I am sure that that dread- ed calamity has fallen upon mc. Why has Lord Byfield left me suddenly on this night of all the nights of our life ? Why do my servants eye me ■ with pity and curiosity ? Why do you thus scru- tinize me ?" "Lady Byfield," said the doctor, "if I were to tell you that circumstances have transpired which are likely to exercise an injurious influ- ence on Lord Byfield's public position, and that he is greatly disturbed thereat, how would you receive my intelligence?" "As a relief — just as far as the information should be complete. Dear doctor, tell mc all you know. You know my attachment to you for your kind attention years since to my father, and for your loving care to my child. You know that I would not trick you into doing that which would injure one of your patients — even though I be that patient. Tell me all, and I shall sleep soundly. I shall need no opiate but the intelligence." 122 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. Dr. Clarges was a wise, tender, and courageous man. "All that I can tell you. Lady Byfield," he said, "is in the evening jjajiers. One of them I have in my pocket, and 1 will let you have it on certiiin conditions. It is better that yon should know now wliat yon will be sure to learn to-mor- row ; for I am with you to watch the effect it has over you." "What are your conditions?" " First, when I give the ])aper into your hand and leave the room, you take sixty dro])S of your cordial tincture in a glass of cold water, having yourself measured the dro])s. Then you may read the report of a trial which you will have no difficulty in finding in the columns. That done (and here comes my second condition), you are to lock the paper uj) in one of the drawers of that table. Then (here is my third condition) you ring for your maid, and go straight to bed. What say you to these conditions?" "I ]3romise to fulfill them." "And now, Lady Byfield," the doctor said, with increased gravity, rising as he s]iokc, "at- tend to me. Remember u^liat you owe to me. If the contents of that paper should have any very prejudicial effect on your healtli, society will hold me accountable for it. I take a heavj' — I am afraid I should say an immoral — responsibil- ity in showing j'ou, tints unauthorized, this ac- count of proceedings which must greatly disturb yon. But I take the risk on myself, in tlie be- lief that I am acting mercifully to you. Now, then, bear in mind the interests of your father's old friend." "You will not leave the hottse, dear doctor?" I said. ' ' No ; I will sit for an hour or so by the li- brary fire. I'll tell the butler to bring me a glass of that Burgundy I used to drink here years ago, when I was a young man looking for patients, and your kind father gave me his friendship. And when I have had a cup of coft'ee after my wine, in all probability your maid will come and tell me that you wish to speak to me before go- ing to sleep." "Thank you, my very dear friend," I said. "God bless you, dear," he said, omitting my title. I noticed the omission, and was greatly affected by it. "Oh, ray dear friend," I observed, "j^ou do right to speak so to me." These words pointed out to him the singular- ity of his last address — a singularity which, till I spoke, he had not observed. "My tlear," he answered, with a smile, " my white head renders an apology unnecessary." And with that the doctor left me. Ere two hours had elafised I summoned the doctor to my bedroom, and on his entering I rai.sed my head from my pillow to say, "Dear Doctor Clarges, feel my pulse." He did so, and scarcely had my wrist rested in his hand when I saw a smile of satisfaction in his humane face. "That is well !" he said. "You will need no oi)iafe to-night." "No, I sli.all not need it. Your medicine has cured me. My awful dreams will not return." " And, doctor," I continued, after half a min- ute's silence, "you must be my friend and iid- Yiscr again. You arc my trustee. I shall be- gin again to call you guardian. The good white head will think for me. Will it not?" "Heaven protect you, Olive!" replied my old friend. " Sleep in the house to-night, dear doctor," I added. "I am sure I shall go to tranquil rest ; but should I wake up, I shall feel hajipier if I know you are under my roof." And then, when he had pressed my hand warmly, he left me for a second time. I did not disturb Dr. Clarges in the night. A profound slumber came over me, and ere I woke, just as the gray dawn began to creep through the cedars in the garden, I had a vision of the "mad girl," unlike the visicms of previous nights. Patient, gentle, beautiful as ever, but with a new tenderness of look for me, she stood at the foot of my bed saying, "Olive Blake, you will help me, and love mc ;" and as I started in my bed and threw out my arms to embrace her I woke, and found myself alone. CHAPTER VII. PARTED FOREVER. During the two next days, while all London and all the country were busy discussing the new esclandre, I heard nothing of Lord Byfield's movements. On the third day he wrote me a brief letter, soliciting me to give him an inter- view. Dr. Clarges was at Fulham when this note arrived, and I consulted with him ere I sent back to Lord Byfield by his messenger a note to the effect that I did not wish again to see him, that I was resolved never again to live with him as his wife, but that if he wished to give me the pain of bidding me "farewell" in person, I would give him an inten-iew during the afternoon of the next day in the jiresence of my old friend and guardian. Dr. Clarges. I thought this note would preclude him from ap- pearing at Fulham. But I was mistaken. Ere the close of the next afternoon he came. He did not know how completely his degrading influence over me had vanished. iSubducd in manner, pale, and with his dejection rendered more imijressive by the mourning he wore for our child, he approached me res])ectfully, as a stranger m'ight. I looked at him, as many montlis before I had regarded "the mad girl ;" and like her, he stojiped at a distance from me. He was the first to speak. He im])lorcd me to i)Ut a generous construction on the events which so justly incensed me. He even wanted mo to believe that his grief, running into dis- traction — his mad despair at witnessing the mys- terious decay of our child — had been one cause of his vile and unnatural wickedness. He tried to rekindle within my breast the dead embers of that fire of worldly ambition which he had lit. He even ilarcd to "remind me that v.c might rea- sonably h()))e for more children to perpetuate our wealth" and miserable dignity. Every chord of my breast he touched, by pathetic allusiini, or subtle flattery, or base suggestion of personal in- terest, but no tone or note could his skillful handling win from it. | At length he ])auscd, and I said, coldly and < firndy, as if I were passing sentence on him : " You have come here, Lord Byfield, to serve OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 123 your own selfish ends, careless how innch your presence mit;;ht pain me, so long as you won the stakes at a cruel game. But so completely sev- ered am 1 from you, that I do not even feel in- sulted by seeing you in this room. The anguish and the humiliation of this interview arc yours, not mine. My note of yesterday communicated to you my resolution for the future, as far as our unfortunate marriage tie is concerned. You wished to liear me repeat my resolution by word of moutli, thinking that to see you would make me falter. You are mistaken. You have dared to suggest that a future still lies before us, in which we might play togetiier your game of un- hallowed ambition. You even tlared to hint that we might yet have children to hand your dis- graced name to posterity. Listen to my answer. This is your punishment. You shall never have a child to bear your basely won honors. I know not what power the law may give you to demand my return to your roof, nor what penalty I may undergo for refusing to obey such an order. But I am resolved never again to bear your title or your name. From this time you will be a stran- ger to me. Dr. Clarges, my father's dear friend and my guardian, is here to protect me in your presence." Vulgar in his vices and crimes, Lord Byfield was vulgar in nothing else. He was not a man to turn on the woman he had wronged with violence of language. Bowing to Dr. Clarges, he said, "Sir, I rec- ognize the justice and dignity of all that has passed tiie lips of this lady, who has put herself under your protection. I have. Sir, only to as- sure you that I will never by any act tlisturb the lady I have already so deeply wronged, or ven- ture to exert any power with which I am invested for her discomfort.'' Having said this, he quietly, and with a dig- nity of bearing which I could not do otherwise than respect, departed. As the wheels of his carriage rolling down the drive reached my ear, I said, "Now, Dr. Clarges, I am no longer Lady Byfield. Once more I am Olive Blake of Fulham Villa." CHAl'TEIl VHI. A N K W I- U It P O S E. My health of mind and body returned to me rapidly ; for bereaved as I was of my child, I had now a new purpose in life — a good work to accomplish ; and I was soon busy devising measures for eftecting that which the voice of my heart assured me it was in my power to achieve. "And now, Dr. Clarges," I said, when I had told my physician and guardian all the story of my wedded life, "you have heard the narra- tive of Olive Blake's sin and repentamzc. Yoa must now aid her in a work of atonement. I rely on you to assist me." "What would you be doing, Olive?" " I must discover Etty Tree. 'The mad girl' and her child must live under my protection. If \ she be 7nad, the more need has she of my care. If siie be wicked, the more need has she of a Ciiristian woman's sympathy. But, doctor, the more I reflect upon the pasr, the more convinced I am she is neither the one nor the other. The man who has ivronged me %vas capable oj' lu ronging her. She said that he was her husband, and / believe her!''' "My dear young friend," said the doctor, se- riously, " do you see all that that belief im- plies?" "I do. Dr. Clarges," I answered, a shudder running through me as I spoke — "I do see all it implies. And if my dear baby were alive I fear / that I should be so wicked as still to wish to think the worst of this miserable Etty Tree." The doctor was silent. ' ' The work of my life shall be to seek her out through the wide world. If she is steeped in wickedness, my tears shall win her to repentance. If she is sick in mind, I, who so recently almost knew the anguish of alienated reason, will cherish her. If she has been wronged, by God's help I will do her justice." "Olive Blake," said Dr. Clarges, "it is noble worl^ou propose to yourself. I will help you to the best of my power." BOOK VII. SUSPICIOX :— BEING PART THE FOURTH OF MISS TREE'S NOTE-BOOK. TABITHA CHAPTER I. FRIENDSHIP, AND SOMETHING MOKE. Julian and I became friends again. Fully f occupied as manager of an important bank, and as a civil engineer of extensive practice, he still found time to be a frequent caller in Marchioness Street. Truthful, earnest, and simple as ever, the world had changed him only in giving him greater experience, knowledge, and confidence. He was to me the Julian of years long since in the old "corn country." Business was with him a noble pursuit, followed in accordance with high principles ; and of the ample wealth it brought him a large portion was devoted to works of un- seen benevolence. Only one feature of his life made me sad — he had not married. I speak the sim])le truth when I say that this fact filled me at first with lively sorrow ; but ere long I was taught to look on this, as on every other circum- stance which was a consequence of his own will, with thankfulness. We became friends again, and more than friends. Reverting to his life in America, and the effect which the melancholy intelligence of Etty's de- parture from Laughton had had upon him, he told me that which greatly surprised and atfect- ed me. In her last tCTrible communication to him Etty not only told him that she could not I 124 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. be his wife, but also infi)rmcd liiiii of a discov- ery she had made without my knowledge ; at least, s/tc said her discovery w;us cli'ectcd witliout my knowledge or siis]jicion. With a pathetic appeal to him to ])ardon iier faithlessness and cruelty, she said that she should never have made liim a good wife; tiiat siie had never really loved him, further than having her childish imagin- ation taught by me to magnify his line qualities. And then, in mad, imi)etuous terms, she told iiim the secret of my life, which I had been at snch pains to conceal from hei-, and which I would have died rather than have revealed to him. "Oh, Julian!" she concluded that terrible let- ter which I had seen her in the act of penning, "what a curse my beauty lias been to you and to her, as well as myself! If it had not been for that, you would have loved her, and W(juld be ere long a happy husband, and she would be saved from the gloom which only those women experi- ence who love throughout life without return. I know well the j)ast can not be undone. In that is my chief agony." Julian did not tell me this till he had for sev- eral months been in the habit of calling on me in iVIarchioness Street. It was not till he had, with exquisite delicacy of consideration for my feelings, caused me to perceive that he hoped I might, in spite of the jjast, consent one day to be his wife. It was not till I had begged him not to cherisli such a wisli, that as a last resource of argument (brought forward to induce me to change my resolution of remaining single till the end of my life) he told me what had been famil- iar to him for years. "Tibby," he said, "I know you love — that j'ou loved me, long ere I could appreciate your unselfish devotion, even if I had suspected it. Etty herself was my in- formant. Oh, let the words of the sister we have both loved so dearly prevail on you to alter your decision ! Listen to her last words (]jenned after you had heard her voice for the last time) — they sanction our marriage. You can not disregard them. They are to yon her dying request. Obey them — in mercy to me, obey them !• Tins was the story of his love for me. After years of toil had healed the wound inflicted by Etty's misbehavior, and he was able again to look out cheerfully upon the future, he had re- solved never to marry any one but me. He had several times gone down to *'thc corn country" — to Farnham Cobb, and Beachey, and Laugh- ton — to seek intelligence of me ; but unable to gain a clew to my retreat, he had relinquished his search in a confidence that, if Pi-ovidcnce thought it right for him to have sweet domestic joys, the care of a wife, and the endearments of children, he would one day be brought to me. "Oh, Tibby!" he said, pitifidly, "j'ou can not be so cruel and ungenerous as to make the sor- row of years gone-by a reason for subjecting me to still more acute sorrow in the years to come." This appeal overcame me, and I said, "Julian, I love you as I ever did, with all the strength of a heart that yearns for love. You know it. When my heart first became your servant you wx'r: poorer even than myself, and now you are rich and powerful I feel for you no otherwise. Wliether I l)e your wife or not, I shall always love you more than my own life, more than — " I tried to sjieak finihcr, but I could not. My dear old grandfatiicr, and the child Etty, with her wayward mirth, came before my eves, and the garden of the old College, and the gal- lant boy Julian, so strong, and generous, and tender-hearted, so bold of heart and light of tongue! they all came before me, and I could only sob out to the noblest man this mightv En- gland of ours ever gave birth to, "I'll be a" good wife to you, Julian. If God will help me in my l)rosi)eriiy as he has comforted me in my sorrow — I will be a good wife to you." So I consented to be Julian's wife ; but we agreed not to marry till two full years had elapsed from the time when we met, aftei' our long sepa- ration, before Etty's memorial at Ilighgate. And my anticipations of the gladness before me in the coming days were without a cloud to darken my serene cheerfulness. It was no pain to me to think of my dear sister. Shame, anger, humiliation, were gone — I had outlived them ; and that strong confidence in the Divine love, of which I have already spoken, caused me to forget all the terrible features of her death, en- abling me to think of her as one of those who are forgiven and arc hapjiy forever. Marchioness Street no longer seemed to me dingy and full of gloom. I had no longer to count the minutes on the clock, in the ho]:c that some petty daily duty would come swiftly and win me from brooding over my wretchedness. Dr. Merrion smiled his satisfaction with mv iil- tjved looks, and the gentlemen of the Committee and the lady visitors of the hospital spoke among themselves of my changed appearance. The nurses told me, after my marriage, that I used to sing snatches of old songs in those days, not only to amuse the sick children, but as I went about the hospital by myself, up the staircases, and along the wide passages of " The Doctor" and "Grace Temj)le." But 1 think that in this the kind-hearted w'omen must have been amus- ing themselves with an exercise of the imagin- ation. It is so very ridiculous and improbable a thing that the matron of a hospital should sing about the staircases ! But my lightness of heart by no means disin- clined mc to continue the discharge of those duties which had once been my comforters. I rose and worked just as heretofore, out during the two years intervening between my restoration to Julian and my marriage I never read a single novel ; I was so hapijy that I did not need to be taken out of myself. In place of my old moderate indulgence in novel-reading, I allowed myself the recreation of longer evening walks in the neighborhood of Marchioness Street, in Gray's Inn Gardens, and Guildford Street, and Russell Square. After ilark, when the wind was blowing over the dry pavements, I used to trip and race along, thinking to myself of all that was going to hajipen. My ste)) had altered very nuich ; there was a spring in the sole of my foot, snch as I had never in all my life experienced before ; doubtless I had it in my childhood, but the rutted lanes of the corn country were not such sjiringy cxercising-ground as the pavements round dear t)ld Marchioness Street. One bright starlight evening shortly before my marriage I was out for a trot after a hard day's work, when I hail a singular rencontre with a lady I bad met before, which I may as well men- tion here. I had been for a turn in Gray's Inn OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 125 Gardens. But somehow the gardens hud lately become too grave and monotonous for nie ; I preferred the briglit gas-jets over tlie hucksters' stalls in Red Lion Street and the brilliantly il- luminated shojis in Lamb's thoroughfare. So bidding my old friend the porter of the north gate farewell, I left the gardens, and darted about the pavements, as quiek a little body as was to be seen in black habiliments that evening in the law neighborhood. I am sure 1 couldn't recall my exact course, but I know I was passing along Guildford Street, when I had the sensa- tion tliat I was followed by a tall lady, who, like me, wore a veil, and for pedestrian achievements had certainly the advantage over me in respect of length of limb. I was positive that she was tracking me ; she had kept close upon my heels all round Russell Square, and now, as I walked past the gate of the Foundling Hospital, and looked back over my shoulder, the same slight figure was behind me. I turned to the left in quiet Caroline vStrect, and, slackening pace, said to myself, " Well, if she wishes to speak to me she can catch' me hero." I was just entering Mocklcnburgli Square, when, sure enough, the figure came close up to me and addressed me by name. " Good-evening, Miss Tree. I saw you cross- ing Russell Square, and I have followed yon, half resolved to address you, and half fearing to oi!'end you by intruding on the solitude of your evening ramble." "Oh, pray do not apologize," I answered; " wliat do you wish to say to me?" " Do you not remember me?" " No, indeed I do not. What is your name ?" " Nay, I did not say you knew my name." "Well," I rej)lied, laugliiTig slightly, "it is so d.uk here that I really can not recognize your bl.ick veil." Her voice, however, told me that she was a lady, and there was something in it which made me think I ought to know it. " You are going to be married, I hear," con- tinued the lady. "How did j-ou learn that?" I said, starting, for I had kept my approaching marriage a ])ro- fouiul secret, even from the Committee, and I km'w that Julian had exercised the same reserve to his friends. "Never mind how I learned it: you are go- iuj; to be married shortly." I remained silent. "You have resigned your situation at the Hosjiital for Sick Children. To-morrow a new matron will arrive for you to introduce her to the duties of her office before you yourself leave." " Why do you tell me what I know so well, and what you might learn from any one of the hospital Committee?" "To show you that I am acquainted with your movements," was her answer, made with the greatest possible composure. "But these movements of mine, as you call them, arc no mystery to any one acquainted with that institution, which is a public one. Possibly you subscrilte to the charity yourself." " I do. But I know more about your move- ments." " Indeed I" I replied, inquiringly, for my cu- riosity was roused ; and eccentric as this strange lady's address was, her voice satisfied me that she was a lady, and that in conversing with her I was guilty of no imprudence that Julian would disa])])rove. " You are going to live in that beautiful place, 'The Cedars,' on Highgate Hill. It will be a change to you after Marchioness Street. You'll be mistress of a noble residence. Why its last occupant was a peeress!" "You do know something of my 'move- ments,' " I said, with another start, "and mort than I care the public to know." "But I am not one of the public." "Y''ou arc a friend of my future husbaiid'.s ?" I asked. "Come, you arc guilty, by your own admis- sion," she rejoined, with a laugh: and then she added, "Yes, I am your future husband's friend. I wish him well ; but he knows no more of me than you do. Y'ou are a fortunate woman. You will be envied." "Why?" ' ' Why ! is not Julian Gower known to be a rich man ?" "I am prepared for that taunt from the world," I said, with heat. "He is a very rich man. And if the ^vorld likes, it may say he bought mc from the Committee. For his sake I would readily be called mercenary, or stigma- tized by any other odious epithet." " No, Miss Tree, the world won't call you mer- cenary ; it will content itself with saying that your husband is a fool. Yours will be a love match. But you should not be severe on wo- men who make mercenary alliances. Men and women are very differently placed with regard to matrimony. To a man, marriage is only a field for the exercise of his aflxictions ; to a wo- man, it is both a field for the development of af- fection, and the only career open for her ambi- tion. A man may advance himself in life by business, speculation, labor of body, labor of brain. If he fail once, he may begin again, and yet win a prize in life ; but when a ^Noman is once married she has lost all control over her career, as far as worldly prosperity is concerned. It is as much a woman's place to look out for her interests in marriage as it is a man's jjlace to strive for advancement in his jirofcssion. In- deed, to marry is a girl's profession, marriage is her vocation ; and whether she succeed in life or not depends altogether on the one selection she makes of a husband. You. should then be charitable to girls who display a certain amount , of worldly prudence in the one great act of busi- ness, which is to decide their worldly position for them." She said all this with so much quiet earnest- ness that I was impressed by it. It struck me that she was possibly touching on some past per- sonal experiences of which I had rudely remind- ed her. " I would judge no one uncharitably'," I said. " I am sure you icould not .'" she said, kindly. "You deserve to be happy, and I think you will be happy." She seemed to be considering within herself for a few moments, when she added, in a tone that caused mc to remember her words long aft- erward, "You ivill be hapi)y if you have chil- dren ; but a childless wife no husband can real- ly love. May you never learn the truth of my I 126 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. words ! Mr. Gowor is a man of high principle, and under any lircunistances he will show you much consideration and tenderness ; but if you sliould not have children, you'll have reason to regret that you did not remain till old age the matron of tlic Marchioness Street Hosjtital." As she said this she changed the direction in which she was standing, and the street lamp un- der which she stood revealed to me the features of a face I remembered. She had drawn up her dark veil above her mouth, and, looking under the folds, I saw the delicate, composed, tliought- ful countenance of the lady I had spoken with four years before in Hyde Park. "I have seen you, and spoken with you once before," I said. "You have — in Hyde Park," she answered, without any ruffle of her tranquillity. "You know me and my history," I said. "Let me know you too. I feel we ought to know each other." " I knew you," she answered, " and your his- tory, long before the day I took you fainting in my arms, and conveyed you in my carriage from Hyde Park to Marchioness Street. I had then watched you for man}^ a day. Do not resent my care for you. Indeed there is no person of your sex who, more sincerely than I do, wishes for your well-being. But you may not know me yet. Perhaps one day we may be friends, but not yet. Good-night!" I saw tears in her ej'cs as I looked vip into them under the street lamp and said "Good- night ! I thank you for your good wishes. If we may not be friends in this world, let us look forward to meeting in another life." " God bless you, dear!" she answered, softly, "I will pray that we may meet there." As she moved away 1 did not feel it right to follow her. In another minute she had turned into Guild- ford Street and was out of my sight, lier quiet departure causing the streets to appear very still and tranquil. It was as though a lull had come over the night traffic. It was but a stej) to Marchioness Street ; and when I stood upon the steps of Grace Temple, looking up and down the antique way, the grim, deserted mansions had a more solemn aspect than they had worn for many a niglit. " Poor lady!" I said. "And I am so hapi)y !" CHAPTER II. A "VTEDDING WITHOUT OR^VNGE-BLOSSOMS. I DID my Utmost to keep the approach of my marriage a secret; not that I was ashamed of myself for intending to become a wife at so ad- vanced an age as thirty-eight years, but because the circumstances of my liistory made me still unduly sensitive of the curiosity of ipy neigh- bors. So I told no one of the step I was about to take till a few days before the event, wlicn I wrote to Mrs. Gurlcy, informing her of my de- termination ; and to Mrs. Monk, of Claj)ton, ask- ing lier for her prayers for my hai)piness. Those epistles written, I next let Dr. Merrion into my Gonfidence. "I am going to say good-by to Marchioness Street next Wednesday, Dr. Memon," I said. Looking at me with a queering, curious ex- pression in his kind face, the doctor answered, " I hope you won't altogether desert us. You'll come and see us occasionally — eh ?" "There will never a week pass over without my spending several hours here, unless I am ill, " I answered. "Then you are not going far out of town?" AVhercupon I communicated lo iiini tlie great intelligence. " Aha! aha! Miss Tree, this is an unexpect- ed piece of news ! Now then the secret is out ! 'Tis no longer a marvel that you s]u)uld walk al)out the hospital singing!" he answered, with unaffected merriment ; and then, suddenly clieck- ing iiimself, he added, with touching earnestness, " My dear Miss Tree, from the de])ths of my heart I trust that you may be as hap]iy as you deserve, and that God may reward you for your motherly care of tlie sick poor cliildren of this in- stitution by giving j-ou babes of your own 1" "Dear, dear doctor," I said, "speak just as kindly to me, but don't speak so seriously to me, or you will make me cry, and that would trouble me, for I want to ask a favor of you." And so near was I to breaking down as it was, that I had to put my hands over my eyes, and bite my lips quite hard, and count ten before I could go on. "And what is the favor?" inquired the doc- tor. "I am going to be married very quietly, doc- tor," I answered. "Julian will call here at nine o'clock on Wednesday morning, and we shall l)reakfast in my sitting-room ; and after breakfast we shall walk up the street, just as if we were going for an airing and a sho]ipiiig, but we shall at first go no further than the Square church, where we shall be married quite ])rivate- ly. On coming out of church we shall find Ju- lian's carriage waiting at the door for us, and he will take me with him to 'The Cedars' at High- gate, where we are going to live. Now, doctor, can you spare the time to come to the church at ten o'clock, and sign your name in tlie register as a ^^ itness of the eeremon}' ? I have written to Mrs. Monk, of CI ijiton, to ask her to attend also, and be the oth r witness; but otherwise I shall invite no one to the church." " My dear Miss Tree," replied the doctor, " it will give me great pleasure to witness your mar- riage, and you may rely on my ])imctual attend- ance. If the greatest lady in Mayfair sends for me next Wednesday I won't attend to her sum- mons till I have seen you married. But tell me, who is Julian ?" " Mr. Gower," I answered. "What!" cried the doctor, with an exclama- tion of surprise. " Mr. Julian Gower, the civil engineer !" " Wliy, yes ; who else should it Ire ?" "This is the romance of real life!"' cried the doctor, cniijhatically. And then I told Dr. Merrion all abo-ut Julian Gower — how he and I had lived in our childhood like l)rothcr and sister in the hai)])y "corn coun- try;" how I had loved him tlien. wlien he was (juite unaware of my ])assionate devotion to him; liow he had gone away to America, ignorant that my heart beat first for him, and only cared in a less degree for other jicrsons; how after his de- parture for South America we lived separated OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 127 for many long, long years ; how during all the long years of my service in the hospital I had never laid my head on my pillow witlioiit pray- ing lleaveu to protect him, wherever he might be, whatever he might lie doing, and whatever suffering; how we hiially met near the resting- place ofa dear dead tVieiid, and once more joined h:u\d to hand ; how he, grown rich, and power- ful, and honored, was tlie same simple, generous, and merciful man that he had ever been ; and how he had learned to love me, and was going to exalt me to be his wife! And when I had told the doctor all this, I did that which I was sure from the first he would make me do — I be- gan to cry. And I had to liurry from the doctor for fear of annoying himself and myself with " a scene." The night before my marriage was a very hap- py one, but full of solemn thoughts, grave reflec- tions, tender and patlietic recollections. I spent the evening by myself, reading in that book wliich had been my comfortable light when I traveled in dark places, offering thanks to my heavenly Father for all his wonderful mercies vouchsafed to me, and earnestly begging him to still guard my uprising and my downlying with paternal care. When the wards were at rest, and none in the hospital (save myself and two or three very sick children, and the nurses on night duty) were awake, I walked, for the last time at that still point of the four-and-twenty hours, through the spacious halls, and ceiled and painted rooms, and dark passages of "The Doctor" and "Grace Temple." The moon rained down her soft light through the ornamented windows, touching with a delicate pencil the outlines of the Graces and Venuses on the dimmed panes, and flinging dark ^hadows athwart the effulgence of the spacious *aIleriLS. Memories of children who had come to those wards in sickness and left them in health, and of others who had breathed their last prayers on the hospital beds, ere the merciful emissaries of Death took their souls to heaven — faces chas- tened by suffering, flawed by vice, sharpened by sickness — memories of such strange, sad, fear- ful, weird, pathetic faces rose before and around me. But I went to bed very happy, and my sleep had many pleasant dreamsi In the morning I was up early, and dressed my- self — not in mourning, but in a light muslin walk- ing-dress, and a white muslin bonnet, trimmed with a few bright flowers and a spray of green. I would not be married in black — nay I could not. At nine o'clock Julian came ; and after reading together in the Bible, and saying a short prayer on our knees together, we had coffee, and in much excitement recognized to ourselves that the time of our hope was drawing nigh. When the clock struck ten I had my arm in Julian's, and he led me down the broad staircase of "Grace Temple" without anyone seeming to observe us — and across the spacious marble hall of "Grace Temple," also without encountering __ nurses, or servants, or spectators of any kind. When we were at the door my heart fluttered very fast, and I thought I must return to take another look at my darlings in the wards ; but it was too late to do so, for Julian had opened the outer door of "Grace Temple," and in an- other moment we were in Marchioness Street, where the sun was shining brightly, making mill- ions of little diamonds of tlie last remains of the morning's haze. The church to which we were bound was with- in sight of the door of " Grace Tcmi)le." It was the church that I had regularly attended during my ten years' residence in Marchioness Street, and stood in the dingy, deserted si[uare at the end of tlie street — the square which I have al- ready sjioken of as being given up to forlorn third-rate lodging-houses and boarding-liouses, even as Marcliioness Street is given up to chari- table objects. But though Julian and I had not to walk more than a hundred yards to the church that distance was long enough for me — excited as I was — to observe a great alteration in the quietude of the cjuarter. Such an unusual num- ber of people were stirring in Marchioness Street, all walking in the same direction — toward the church. I could not make it out. Then I be- gan to be aware that glances were turned to me, and I discerned signs of emotion and pleasure in the faces that looked at me. And looking for- ward, I saw quite a crowd of people round the church door. " Why, Julian, '' I said, "there must be some- thing going forward at the church. What can it be? There's quite a commotion." "I declare, Tibby," answered Julian, with a voice of great agitation, "I believe, in spite of all our precautions to keep our intention secret, the people have learned our purpose, and are bent on doing us some honor." "Don't be so absurd, Julian," I answered, quite sharply, for really for just half a second I thought he was joking, and I did not exactly like him to jest at so serious a crisis of our lives. We had just time to exchange these words when we arrived at the church door, and found it quite blocked up. Fortunately, Dr. INIerrion met us, and said, "Here, come round to the vestry door, and you'll be admitted there. Mi's. Monk is there waiting for you. They have kept the vestry entrance all clear for you." "But, dear Dr. jNIerrion," I asked, catching hold of the physician's arm, " what is the mat- ter ? What are they doing ? It can't be about us?" "Keep yourself calm, my dear," answered the doctor'. "There's quite a scene in the church." On entering the vestry Mrs. Monk came for- ward and took me into her arms ; and when I had kissed her, another lady — a stranger to me — came and offered me congratulations on my approaching happiness. She was Mrs. Merrion, the doctor's wife. While I was exchanging a few sentences with these ladies, Julian left me for half a minute, and looking through the glass of the inner door of the vestry surveyed the interior of the church, in which there was literally not a vacant jjlace. Every pew and every bench was crowded, and the aisles were thronged with people jiressing against each other. Julian had at all times a very powerftd voice. It could be very soft and gentle ; but its ordi- nary tone was very full and sonorous, and when exerted to its utmost he could overpower the uproar of any multitude. When he had surveyed the interior of the church through the glass door, he turned round and exclaimed with a shout of thunder — " Good Heavens ! the church is full of poor people. Er- I 128 OLTVI': ELAKE'H GOOD WOliK. ery corner is crammed. They ;iro all ]>oor peo- ple, and they're all her friends!" lie addressed these words to Dr. IMerrion, qnite unconseious of the stentorian voice with which he uttered thcni. Never shall 1 forget iJie magnificent exultation of those words, and of that triumphant smile wliich crossed my hus- hand's face as he uttered them. ' ' Hush ! my dear Sir, " said Dr. IMerrion, "command j'oursclf, or you will upset Miss Tree's composure." After the lapse of a minute or two I stood in the church before the ofiiciating clergyman. I was told afterward that the ceremony all went off well, and that I acted my part to jierfection. I was glad to hear that, the more so as I myself heeded nothing of what went forward. I did not distinguish one of the clergyman's words — whether he addressed us, or offered up the sol- emn prayers of the marriage service, it was all the same. I noticed nothing, remembered no- thing. I could not think of Julian, or of my future, or of the solemn purpose which had brought me to the church. The one vision pres- ent to my mind, whether I stood or whether I knelt, was that of the dense, countless multitude of human faces that were turned to me as I passed through the vestry door and entered the church. My head and my heart were so full of that it was impossible for me to think of any thing else. I only recovered my consciousness when I found myself again with Mrs. Monk, and Mrs. Merri- on, and Julian, and the doctor, and the officiating clergyman, and I heard myself addressed on all sides as Mrs. Gower. I looked at my finger and found a wedding-ring upon it. So that was all right. And then I looked at my husband, and he said, "You behaved beautifully, Tibby." AVhen we had all put our signatures in due form in the register, the question was debated how we could best effect our exit from the church. "You mayn't," said Julian, decidedly, ex- pressing an opinion in which I heartily con- curred, "slij) out by the vestry door. You must walk down the church and show yourself to the people. It would be ungracious not to do so." "But where is your carriage, Mr. Gower?" inquired the clergyman. "I question M'hether yoti'U be able to get it through the crowd U]) to the chief entrance, if it is not there already." "Tibby," said my husband, "wait here for an instant, and I'll go into the square myself and sec al)out that." So he left me for an instant, but did not re- turn for several minutes. In the square he found the jicojile bent on taking the horses out of the carriage, and dragging us in tiiumi)h to the hos- pital, whither they not unnaturally supposed we were about to return. "Don't do that, my good friends," cried Ju- lian, his powerful voice now doing him good service ; " the lady won't like it. Indeed she won't. Don't interfere with my horses and serv- ants!" "Arc you the matron's husband?" cried a score of diirerent voices at tlie same time. "Yes, my friend^, I am," answered Julian. " 1 sec you don't like me the worse for that." A deafening cheer was the resjionsc accorded to this address. "Now, mv fri'iuls, listen to m?, I am much affected by this demonstration of your regard fur my wife. That I am. Just hear what she wishes to do. She wishes to leave the vestry and ^^alk down the middle of the church (so as to show herself ti) jicr friends there), and to leave by the great dour. If you'll let my carriage come up to tlie door, she'll be able to see you all as we dri^ u through you." There was more cheering at this addres.s, but still the crowd did not seem to relish the notion of being forl)idden to pay me the compliment they intended. "Order 'em, your honor!" cried an honest workman, who stood near my husband. "Or- der 'em ! They'll like to be ordered by you. They'll regularly enjoij it, your honor! Order 'em." But Julian had no need to act on this sugges- tion ; for the members of the dense crowd, of their own accord, and very good-naturedly, gave way, cheering as a London crowd likes to cheer, and my husband's carriage speedily drew up against the door. It took me nearly an hour to get through the church, for the ^^■o^len pressed u))on me from all sides to wish mc "God-speed!" Then they be- gan to shake hands with me, and of course I was only too glad to respond to such a form of greet- ing. Man}' of them were the mothers and sis ters of children who had been in the hospital ; and as many of them as could get near enough' to me to do so spoke a few words into my ear. But who, to my most extreme surprise on that morning of sur])rises, should stop me in the mid- dle of the aisle but Mrs. Gurley, who had now made a second journey up to town from Laugh- ton to rejoice with me in my joy, even as she had jireviously traveled iq) from the corn country to show her sympathy with my sorrow. " You see, dear," she said, kissing me, "I did not care to trouble you with a note to say what I intended doing, for fear you might forbid me. Ah, dear creature, I shall write such a letter to Gurley about it this very day! And, as I am going to make quite a long stay in Oxford Street this time, I shall be able to come and see you in your own home before I leave London and go back to Laughton." At last I reached the door, where my husband's carriage was waiting for us. "Throw it o])en — throw it open!" cried my dear husband to the servants; "let the people see your mistress." " (jh yes," I said, "let me see them." While the servants were carrying out this di- rection we stood in the vestibule of the church surrounded l)y strangers, but still not yet mani- fest to the crowd outside. "Madam," said a gruff voice to me, "last night as tlie wind was t()p])ling the silver clouds about the moon, and I smoked my pi])e at the gate, I talked it all over to the 'little 'un,' and he's right pleased, as am I. I hojjc, madam, we sha'n't lose you (luite." " No, no, " I said ; " I shall have many a walk yet in Gray's Inn Gardens." Til 3 carriage was ready for us, and my hus- band, giving me his arm, led me over the thresh- old of the church entrance. What a burst of cheers ! what reiterated bursts of cheering shook the windows of the old deserted mansions as I took my seat liy Julian — and wc slowly made our way through the dense masses of our friends ■-I OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 129 down Marchioness Street, and round into Guild- ford Street, hy wliicli route we entered Russell Square, and then turned off toward Higiigate. Brave, honest, affectionate crowd !_ They did not commend me only ! The romance of their rugged natures was stirred by tlie spectacle of "a great rich gentleman" taking away as his wife "their hospital matron" — one inured to humble toil like themselves ! "Julian,"! said, as tlieir concluding hurralis followed ns, "I have done nothing save the faith- fid discharge of duties I was paid to perform. And see how they love us !" "My dear Tibby," he answered, "it is the lesson of the Base. It is the benediction after the sermon." CHAPTER III. THE EMPTY QUIVER. October has come again. It is the second October since my marriage, f Two years are long enough to enable me to /say whether the actual felicity of married life has equaled my anticipations. A shrewd coun- try dame I used to be familiar with in my child- hood always declined to give an opinion of new settlers in her neighborhood until (to use her own language) she "had summered them and •wintered them." My wedded experiences have twice passed through the process of "summer- ing and wintering." What is the result ? Is it well or ill for woman to live alone ? The luxuries and refinements that wealtli can command are mine of course. JNIy gardens and conservatories elicit the admiration of my neigh- bors, and bring distinguished visitors to "The Cedars." I have again returned to music and water-color painting, under the guidance of able artists — such as in my childhood and girlhood I never hoped to number among my personal ac- quaintance. For literature I have in my library wliatever I wish to order. My husband is very popular in society, and he attracts to his house all the principal personages of London ciicles who are distinguished by any gift or achieve- ment that men deem honorable. My tastes lead me to persevere in seclusion, but my husband's guests are pleased to visit hir.i, and aj)i)ear to have a cordial liking for his wife. My mind has also been enlarged by foreign travel, for I have been to Paris and Berlin. Wherever my hus- band goes in Great Britain it is, moreover, my wont to accompany him. Besides all these sources of enjoyment, I have the exquisite pleas- ru'c of being my husband's almoner ; and to dis- tribute the large sum that Julian Gower devotes to benevolent uses is to scatter bountifully among the indigent the meansof obtaining physical comfort. What more shall T add to this enumeration of my blessings? My dear husband's w orldly prosperity and dig- nity increase. He is wealthier and more hon- ored than when he married me. An important constituency in the north of England has made him their representative in the House of Com- mons ; and new as he is to the House, he is al- ready regarded as a man of mark — ready to speak, powerful to convince, and lofty in his aims. To me he is nil I knew he would be. His will is so completely mine, or my will so completely his, that I seem to govern our do- mestic concerns according to my own humor. Really I sometimes feel as if a little opjiosition or manifestation of control on the part of Julian would be for my benefit, and save me from a tendency to imperiousness of manner. Wc are still young lovers, thinking and fearing and hop- ing for each other, as poets rejjresent their young men and maidens. I have no lack of occupation. The Hospital for Sick Children ha8 much of my time and at- tention. My name is on the list of lady visitors now ; and always once, and often three or four times a week, I am to be seen in Marchioness Street. Julian has given me a cottage at High- gate within a quarter of a mile of our garden- gate, which I have converted into an establish- ment for the convalescent children, so that they can breathe the invigorating air of my beloved Highgate Hill before returning to their humble homes. Surely I have nothing to desire ? I often sai/ I desire nothing more, and try to persuade myself that my heart agrees with my lips. I argue that children are an uncertain good — growing to shame and sorrow^ as often as to joy and gladness. When young girls of my neighbors marry, and leave their homes for new interests and engrossing cares, I whisper, " Ah, I am preserved from the anguish of such desertion ! How could I bear to lose my chil- dren, when I had guided them through the dan- gers of early life, and reared them to the charms of womanhood." Last week a lady of my ac- quaintance received intelligence of her son's death, shot in an Indian battle. " Poor woman !" I said, "she knows a sorrow that will never touch me." If the question concerned only my- self, I do not think it would trouble me much. It would be only now and then that my heart would see the hollowness of its own falsehoods. But with Julian by my side, how can I ever pre- tend to believe that which I am continually say- ing to myself? I remember how in the garden of Lymm Hall (when he was only a boy) he declared his longing to bo " a master," so that he might have "wife and children." He has a wife now — but he has no children. How hard to him, that his strong instinctive yearnings for offspring — (strong in all men, strongest in those who are noblest) — should be disappointed ! Of course he conceals his sor- row — at least as far as fortitude and generous love can enable him do so. He is no whit less tender to me than he was. At times he displays such an excess of delicate thought for me, that a discomforting suspicion crosses my mind, and I ask myself, "Does he feel it necessary to be on the alert to hide his uneasiness from my ob- servation ?" As I said before, he is a lover rather than a husband. But he does not deceive me. I see too clearly. By one Avay only could he blind me ; but he does not see it. If he were only to say to me now and then that he hoped ere long to be a father, I should be put into a slight transient ease. He used to say so once ; he never says so now\ "Lo," says the Psalmist, "children and the fruit of the womb are an heritage and gift that Cometh of the Lord. " Like as the arrows in the hand of the giant : even so are the young children. 130 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. "IIa])]iy is tlie man that liath his quiver full of thuiu ; they shall not be ashamed when they speak with their enemies in the fja^te." The time was when I tliought these words ver\' beautiful. They are now very cruel to me — sliarp-pointcd '" like as the arrows in the hand of the giant !" In the stillness and in the crowd they often recur to me. I know so well that he would be hajipier with children! '• Julian, Ju- lian !" I murmur to myself, as he sits in his arm- chair, tvitliout a child on his knee, "is it indeed a reproach to you among your enemies, that our home, so rich in the devices of ai't, wants that music wliich no wealth can buy?" And then I retire to a solitude where I may undisturbed pray to be endowed with the "heritage and gift that Cometh of the Lord." I think I should be less unhappy if I could take hold of Julian's hand, and ask him to for- give me. But I dare not even let him know that I ponder such a grief. I school myself to bear this cross, but it is the heaviest, and rudest, and hardest that has ever been laid upon my shoul- ders. It wears my spirits terribly, and wears them all the more, because I may not own to Julian that I am so worn. For several days past he has been urging me to make a trip to Brighton, to restore the lost color to my pale cheeks ; and he speaks of my evident weariness and dejection as signs of an indisposition conse- quent on the situation of our house. To-morrow he will perhaps account for my ailing health in some other way ; but whatever he says or leaves unsaid, he will endeavor to hide from me the sorrow wliich I know lives within him. CHAPTER IV. MTSTEKIOUS PERSECUTION. I HAD been for months very languid and de- pressed, utterly beaten in my spirits with con- tinually thinking about my childlessness, and the deep mortification it must necessarily be to Julian. Since the October mentioned in my last chapter more than six months had elapsed ; and now in the freshness of early spring I was sitting at the window of our library (which we used as a breakfast-room at " The Cedars"), and looking out upon the smooth green of the lawn, the shrubs displaying their first buds, the gray haze still hanging on the decline of the hill and defying the splendid sun, and the nearest out- skirts of London in the distance. I was medi- tating on that which barred me from ])articipa- tion in the ordinary joy of creation. Every ob- ject in nature was disjjlaying fresh signs of in- nate force — either clothing itself with the rich treasures hoarded during the coldness of winter in tlie secret places of its internal structure, or otherwise engaged on the mysterious task of re- producing life — life that in due course should be inde])cndent of its i)arent source, and in turn be life-producing. Such was nature's occupation ; but I was cut oif from it. I was precluded from parficijniting in the universal and harmonious operations of nature. "With all my gifts of for- tune, I lacked the one endowment that human creatures rightly ])rizc beyond all others. An alien in tlie life, wliere crooked destiny had fixecl me, I could neitlier give c.xijrcssicju to tlie long- ings of my own breast, nor be other than a dark thread in the fair and delicate web of Julian's existence. Julian had to visit the city that morning be- fore going down to a ccmimittee of the House of Commons, and lie broke in u])on my sad medi- tations with the announcement of his intended movements. "Tibby, my favorite horse is lame," he said, and " I do not care to-day to ride any other. Drive me about town in your phaeton this morn- ing. Take me down to the Bank. I sha'n't be there more than half an hour ; and when I have transacted my business in Princes Street, you shall take me on to Westminster. I'll "get back here to dinner in a cab, and then go down again to the House late, for the debitte." " How soon shall we start?" " In half an hour." "Very well, Julian. The plan will suit rac admirably. After I have left you at Westmin- ster I will drive to Marchioness Street." "Ay," rejJied Julian cheerfully, "and if you see Dr. Merrion, ask him why he does not come here more frequently and prescribe for a certain lady who is getting as thin as a wafer and as white as alabaster." " No, no" (rather pettishly), " I sha'n't trouble the doctor with any useless complaints about my health." "What are you looking at there, so sadly?" my husband next inquired, following the course taken by ray eyes across the lawn. "Look at our father of the trees," I said, pointing to a plantation at the corner of the garden, " it is sapless and dead ; the cold winter has killed it. I'll order Crofts to cut it down." "Why cut it down, my dear?" "It is a culprit, and disobeys the laws of na- ture. Moreover, it is mournful and unsighllj'. Let it be removed, Julian." As I said this, Julian took my right hand in his right hand, and looking down at me, covered my trembling self with the light of his eyes. He read my heart — and all its bitterness; exactly, utterly, and with deepest commiseration. I knew he read it, as well as years before I knew that my dear grandfather detected my love for my sister's betrothed, although no words had passed between us on the subject — as well as I knew that Etty had seized and wrinig my s - cret from me, though I used every art of self- delusion to persuade myself that she was igno- rant of it. "Go, darling," said Julian, with grave and exquisite tenderness, "go and get ready for our drive : I will order the carriage. And, Tibby, we will keep our old father of the trees where lie is. I only admired him when he was like all the others round him. But now that he is withered and dead I love him as if he were a living creature." I took my husband into the City and to West- minster; after which I went to ]\Iarchioncss Street, returning home to "The Cedars" by about three o'clock in the afternoon. But my drive had not dissipated my gloom. How should it? I tried to read, but the work in h.and could not command my attention. I tried to make progress with a ]>ninting I had in hand, but the colors would not mix. I sat down at the jiiano, but cverv niimite I struck a Avrong note. At OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 131 five o'clock a message came from my husband saying that he could not return to dinner, and that I must console myself without his company till a late liour at night. "John," I said to the servant, who waited at the door to hear if I had any answer to return to my husband by iiis messenger, "tell cook not to trouble herself about getting any dinner for me. I shall not dine at home, but will take tea at 'The Cottage.' " "Tbe Cottage" was the dwelling which Ju- lian maintained for the reception of the conva- lescents from the Marchioness Street Hospital. To gratify me, he had ornamented it with carved wood pointings to the gables, and with trellis- work, just as "The Cottage" at Laugh ton was ornamented ; and in the same way he had laid out the garden round it in imitation of the min- iature "grounds" that girt the pretty building in which I and my dear sister had years ago es- tablished our school. Our regular number of convalescents in the hospital was twelve, the servants engaged for their comfort being two — a cook, and another respectable woman who acted as nurse and nursery governess to them, teach- ing them to read and sew, taking them out for walks, and superintending their games. "The Cottage" was Julian's gift to me on the first an- niversary of our wedding-day ; so that at the time of which I am now speaking I had had it nearly a year and seven months. I think of all my sources of pleasure it was the one from which I derived most enjoyment, and often I spent an entire day at it when Julian was absent from home. It set me almost right again at the close of that spring day, which was so sad a one. They Avere all very nice children in "The Cottage" just then; and they so pleased me that evening Avhen I took tea with them, that a thought which during the past year I had often taken up, and often laid aside as romantic and impracticable, renewed its power over my imagination. There was a beautiful child of the party — a sturdy, manly, blue-eyed, curly-pated boy, just seven years old. He had no mother living, and his father was a bad, selfish man, not caring enough for him ever to come to the hospital and see him during his sickness. The illness for which the child was admitted to the hospital was merely a common childish malady ; and Dr. Merrion pro- nounced the boy to have a sound and vigorous constitution, as well as all the physical signs of active intelligence. Why should not Julian adopt him, or some such child ? He would not be our own ; we could never care for him alto- gefh-r as our o,wn ; but still we might love him dearly, give him our name, and make him in the coming generations a memorial of our strong mutual affection. This plan of mine may be cause of smiles to such as do not sympathize with sorrows unlike their own. And it does make one smile sadly to see what tricks human love has recourse to in order that it may avoid the blank dreariness of its own disappointments. Comforted and serene in mind, I was return- ing from " Tiie Cottage" to "The Cedars." It was only a few steps from the one dwelling to the other ; so, although it was dark, I took no servant to protect me for that sliort distance, but tui-ned by myself from "The Cottage" garden into Highgatc Lane. I had often and often done so before, and had made the transit from "The Cottage" to my own grounds without being ac- costed by or even meeting any one. On the i)resent occasion, however, I had not advanced twenty paces when I was addressed by my own name, tlie sound of which in the quiet of the lane startled me, and made my heart beat ' fast. "Why," said I, putting my hands upon the palings that ran alongside the foot-path, "how came you here ?" " You remember me, then ?" "Oh yes, I remember you." It was that strange, mysterious lady who had twice before spoken to me, once in Hyde Park, and once in Mecklenburgh Square. "Well," she asked, in the same composed voice of gentle, womanly sympathy, tinctured at times with a tone and accent of mockery and bitterness, " are you as happy now that you are Mrs. Julian Gower of ' The Cedars,' as you were when you were only matron of the Sick Chil- dren's Hospital ? — Are you as happy ?" " I am very happy." " Nay, that is to avoid my question. Are you as happy as you were three years since ?" ' ' Why do you so cross-examine me ? Let me pass on. Indeed you do not show consider- ation for my feelings." "Poor woman !" she said, with touching com- miseration, "you are indeed to be pitied. Raised to wealth and social position, married to a man you love with your whole soul, surrounded with the means of doing that good which every rea- sonable person finds pleasure in effecting, you are still steeped in miser}', and you would now rather have remained what three years since you were — a servant in a charitable institution." "You speak as if you knew me thoroughly." "I do know you thoroughly. When yotir husband is asleep you lie awake, and spend the hours of darkness in silent tears which you dare not show him. In the morning he sees your pale face, and feigns ignorance of its cause. You are well aware that he on\j feigns ignorance. It's an affectation that is forced upon him, but it de- ceives neither him nor you ; and what is more, he knows that it does not impose upon you. Were it not for the sin, I'd rather be an outcast in the street than put my lips to the cup from which you have to drink night and day, day and night"' "Would you," I asked, "goad me to rebel against the will of Providence ? God gives each of his creatures a sorrow. Happiest are they who know how to extract most profit from so stern a discipline !" "It is a stern discipline." " Ay, but it is a merciful one also." " You have found out its mercy?" • " I shall, one day." "I sincerely hojje you will ! Do you remem- ber what I said to you a few nights before your luckless marriage?" "I do," I said, sharply. "I told you," she continued, speaking very slowly, and throwing the venom of bitterness into each of her words, " then, what cx))eriencc teaclies you now. I said, 'You will be happy if you have children. But a childless wife no husband can really love. May you never learn the truth of my \vords ! Mr. Gower is a man of high principle, and under any circumstances 132 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. be will show you much consideration and tender- ness; but if yon should not have children, you'll have reason, io relc." From the matron's account it appeared that Miss Temple, on hearing that the lady-visitors were then present in the hospital, had expressed a wish to see them after the transaction of their ordinarj- business, in order that she might learn from them some particulars relative to the insti- tution. Of course on hearing this we were anx- ious to display every attention to the great bene- factress of our hospital ; and Mrs. Monk imme- diately went to the wards of " Grace Temple" to find the lady, and lead her to us. At the termination of five minutes Mrs. Monk returned with the stranger. Graceful and singularly jire- possessing in style, bat not beautiful. Miss Tem- ple entered, bowing slightly to us. It was a warm day, so she was dressed lightly — in gray and black silks. Her attire, indeed, was half-mourn- ing. "I have to offer you a thousand apologies for disturbing you," she said, with agreeable com- posure and cordiality, " and the more so as Mrs. JMonk has been kind enough to gratify my curi- osity about this admirably managed institution. But as I asked my solicitor, Mr. Castleton, to meet me here, I think I had better wait till he arrives. Dear me, there is a carriage now stop- ping at the door ; and there is a ring at the bell. ^ Surely that must be Mr. Castleton." ' In another half minute the door was opened, and Mr. Castleton, the solicitor, who had more than once brought Miss Temple's checks to the Committee in his own j)erson, was announced. Immediately upon his entrance Miss Grace Temple rose from the seat she had just taken, and bowing to us, placed her hand on her law- yer's proffered arm and retired. "What a sweet-looking woman !" "What a fascinating smile she has!" "In what admirable taste she was dressed!"' These and many other similar exclamations were the criticisms expended on Miss Temple, as the carriage containing her and her solicitor rolled down Marchioness Street. "How singular she should never have been here before!" observed one of the lady-visitors. " How very singular!" was a general chorus elicited by this remark. When there was silence, I said, quietly, " Jliss Temple has been here before. She vis- ited the hospital for something less than a min- ute when I was matron." " Indeed ! Are yon sure, Mrs. Gower ?" " Quite sure," I answered. " Mrs. Monk, you may remember that some seven years ago I faint-, ed away in Hyde Park, and a lady brought me home to the hospital in h.er carriage." "To be sure, I remember it," answered Mrs. Monk. "The lady who befriended mc then is the same lady who just now left this room." The meeting of the lady -visitors broke up, and each one of them doubtless told the story of the morning's adventure iu her family circle; but I was the only one of them who saw the ob- ject Miss Grace Temple had in paying this un- expected visit to the hospital. She had said to 134 OLIVIC BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. iiie in Ilighgate Lane, "Not many days shall ]>:'.ss over your head before you say ' That wo- man's motives of action arc unknown to me, and I lie eoursc of life she has taken is mysterious, but I can not believe that she is altogether wick- ed.' " At least in that she had sjtokcn truly. My persecutor's name was Grace Temple ; and her unobtrusive benevolence, manifested in the support she had given the hospital for more than twelve years, comiielled me to acknowledge to myself that, however vexatious her conduct had been to me in Highgate Lane, she "could not be a wicked woman." But if her appearance iii Marchioness Street (in all her fourth a])parition to me) caused me to modify my o]jinion of her, it greatly increased the mystery with which she was envelojjcd. Dis- ajipointed, unhappy, embittered, site might be ; but clearly she was one who did good deeds, with noiseless perseverance. I yet the more was impressed by a sense of her force and distinctive- ness of character — a sense which had been first created by the quiet dignity of her bearing in Hyde Park. But what could be her object in singling me out for attention ? There was clear- ly a continuous method in her treatment of me and my affairs. She had not given her patron- age to the Children's Hospital till I had been its matron for two years. Was I the attraction which had drawn her aid to the institution ? Or had she for the first time become aware of my existence, by seeing my name on the reports as matron to the charity? But in either case, ^ Iter manifest interest in mo was unaccountable. Why, again, should she be curious about my husband's happiness? If her announcement rel- ative to the child he intended to adojjt should be fulfilled (and momentarily I felt more certain of its fulfillment), how was I to account for her knowledge of his private affairs, or even her in- fluence over his conduct, which the prediction indicated ? Did he know aught of her ? even as she knew much of him ? Julian and I dined together, without com- pany, that day. When the servants had left us over our des- sert, I said, "Julian, I have seen Miss Temple to-day." " Miss Temple ? ]\Iiss Temple ?'' he repeated s.-veral times, apjiarently endeavoring to recall v,!io the lady might be ; and then with a look of sudden enlightenment, he added, "What, not Miss Grace Temple, the benefactress of your hospital ! Surely you do not mean her ?" Clearly he had no private reasons for feeling an interest in her name. I described to him very minutely her personal appearance, her dress, her figure, her face, her manner, her voice ; but without recalling to his mind any person he had ever seen. There could be no affectation in his ignorance of the lady. She had said plainly that his gentleness to me was in part hypocritical ; but I knew that Julian Gower was no man of petty artifices and small reserves. I must wait — wait patiently, till the lapse of a few more weeks brought my birthday. One thing, however, the discovery of that morning effected for my comfort. I was en- abled tdtiiink of my mysterious acquaintance as Miss Grace Temple instead of " my persecutor." It put my mind in some sort of ease with regard to lier. I felt that, notwithstanding her cruel words to me, I could trust her as a woman of good character and bimevolent intentions, how- ever eccentric she might be. And there was comfort in that. It would, I argued, clearly be useless for me to attempt to discover who she was. Most prob- ably her name of Grace Temple was assumed ; but the fact of her benevolence was no assump- tion. I must wait — wait patiently a few more weeks. CHAPTER VI. THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. But though I was easier in my mind ^^•ith re- gard to Miss Grace Temple, my life with my be- loved husband became daily more full of pain. It could not be all mere suspicion on my part. Why his eyes no longer delighted to rest upon i me with their old expression of tenderness ! He would look at me for minutes together — eagerly, inquisitively, severely, but never with pure gen- tleness. At other times his glance avoided mine, as though he feared to betray that which he wished to kee]) a secret. He was moody and absorbed, not hearing the remarks I addressed to him — or if he heard them neglecting to reply till minutes had elapsed, and my mind had gone on to another subject. I could no longer indulge my grief in silent tears during the still hours of night ; for he became sleepless, and to avoid his observation I had to feign slumber for hours to- gether, when I longed for the relief of weeping, unwitnessed. The summer came, the flowers and the green of my garden bursting out with brightness and freshness. The birds played and chattered in the trees, the young ones chirping as the old ones sang out bravely. Our "father of the trees" stood up sere and leafless, avoided by the birds. They had no pity or love for barren branches. "Tibby," said Julian to me one morning, " to-mon-ow is our birthday." I started. "W^liy, child," he returned, in answer to my shiver, "do you dread the day? Remember how we enjoyed it in childhood ! What happy birthdays they were at Farnham Cobb ! I would give the best bin in my cellar for one bottle of the grandfather's 'Madeira!' You don't dread growing old ?" "No, Julian, it is the appointed order for liv- ing tilings ; only some find their old age at three- score years and ten, and some in childhood. We must all wither and jiass allay." "Ay, but it is too early for us to talk of with- ering. Wc shall be only forty-one to-morrow." At this I smiled, and said, "We are quite a 3'oung couple still." " Darling," continued my husband, "business will take me out early to-morrow. But I shall be back early in the afternoon. So do not be 'at home' to callers, for I wish to spend the anniversary of our birthday with you alone, ac- cording to our M'ont." " Of course, dear. I should not like our cus- tom to be changed." That night I never closed my eyes for a single OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 135 wink, iind by six o'clock Julian (having also jiassed a restless night) rose, and left "The Ce- dars" in my open carriage — having borrowed it of rac for the day. I breakfasted at my usual hour, and after breakfast I spent an liour or more in the garden, wuudcriug what the day would bring forth, and then to get diversion from tlie painful reflections that crowded upon me, I walked down the lane to "The Cottage," and busied myself with my colony of convalescents. The bonny blue-eyed little boy was still with them, though he had for several days been restored to perfect health. There was no home in the world where he was needed, and I could not make up my mind to part with him. As I passed through the wicket of " The Cottage" garden I found him busy, dig- ging away on "his plot," and he looked up at me with a smilo which said, " Praise me, ma'am, for my industry." And I praised him as I best could, but my thoughts wandered from him to my husband. What would the day bring forth ? As the clock struck two I re-entered the din- ing-room of "The Cedars," and I had just taken a seat on the sofa to rest myself after my exer- tion, when I heard wheels on the drive. It was my carriage — I knew the sound of it well. It passed the window, but it bore no one besides the servants. "John," I exclaimed, running out into the porch, " where is 3'our master ?" "Master got out of the carriage, ma'am, at the bottom of the hill," answered John. " Mas- ter and the young gentleman thought they'd like the walk up the hill." The youiKj gentlemnn ! Grace Temple had spoken the truth ! Here was my birthday pres- ent! I went out to meet them ; but as I approached the garden gate my heart failed me ; and just as I heard their voices I turned from tlie cai-riage- way into a by-path winding through the shrub- bery, and stood concealed behind a wall of fir and laurel while they passed. I saw them as they passed. The young gentleman was a slight, elegant stripling, with bright flaxen hair worn long, so that it curled upon the collar of his jack- et. Blue eyes, a nose somewhat aquiline, thin merry lips, and an animated countenance ; I re- marked that he had these features as he walked daintily, looking up into my husband's face with a delighted expi-ession. He was, moreover, en- dowed with a singularly musical voice and laugh. I heard them both as he went up the drive. Short as that moment of observation was, I caught the aspect, never to be forgotten, of my husband's face. A radiant glory was uj)on it. Never, not even on our wedding, not even on the day when he had won Etty's promise to be his wife, had I seen such intense happiness cover him. Like one who had been guilty of meanness I slipped out stealthily from my place, and follow- ing my husband and the young gentleman, speed- ily overtook them. " Tibby," said my husband, " let me introduce you to my young friend Arthur Wdliams, who has come to wish you many happy returns of your birthday, and spend his holidays with us. He's at school at Dr. Renter's of Blackheath, and has a vacation of six weeks before him." "I am afraid you will find it very dull, my dear boy," I said, kiiidly, "but I will do my best to make you enjoy yourself. We have a caj)ital boys' cricket-club in Ilighgate, which you can join.'' Raising his gaze from the; ground, the boy flashed his clear honest eyes full upon me, and the color rising in his delicate face, he answered, frankly, and at the same time with a pretty as- sumption of manly courtesy, "Thank you, Mrs. Gower. I will gladly join the cricket-club, for I am very fond of cricket ; but there is no fear of my days passing slowly, if you will allow mo the privilege of waiting on you, and accompany- ing you in your drives about the neighborhood." "Good Heavens, my dear child !" I said, hav- ing first started back when I saw his full face. "You almost alarnr mc, you so closely resem- ble one who was very dear to mc, but is now in heaven." "Thank you, ma'am," the boy said, simply, as tliougli he felt he had just received a compli- ment, "I am glad you like me. I hope I shall remind you of him in other things besides my face." "My friend was a girl," I answered. "You may not be augry, Arthur. " The boy came close up to me, and, taking my hand, pressed it to his lips. "Oh, Mrs. Gow- er," he said, his eyes briglitening, "I never was called Arthur before by a lady !" He had kissed my hand uninvited. So I sa- luted him on the forehead, when, far from being offended, as some school-boys would have been, his face showed that he was well pleased with my attention. "I know who it is you're thinking of, Tibby," said my husband, dryly. Julian and I took Arthur round the garden, displaying him all its treasures — the forcing- houses, the conservatory, the moat, the bowling- green. Then we showed him the stables ; and my husband led out the ^lony set apart for his young visitor's sole use. "You can ride, of course, Arthur?" said I. "I suppose so, Mrs. Gower. At least I soon will," answered Arthur, with a touch of crimson on his cheeks. "Have a ride before dinner," said my hus- band. "Here, Marshman, while Mr. Williams is with us, you must act as his groom. Bring his pony to the door in half an hour, and be yourself ready to accompany him. If he should need a hint about managing his horse you needn't be afraid to tell him, for he is not so accustomed to deal with horse-flesh as you and I are. Marsh- man. And now, Arthur, 1 dare say if you make love to Mrs. Gower she'll find you some lunch before you start on your equestrian venture. Don't ride quite as far as Cornwall, for we dine at six." At the appointed time the horses were at the door, and my guest mounted his steed, while I looked on. "You wouldn't think I had never been on a horse before, would you, Mrs. Gower ? I didn't get up like a tailor, did I now ?" he asked, with a merry laugh. "Marshman," I said, in a low voice, to my husband's groom, "be very careful that young gentleman comes to no harm." Of course this entreaty was not uttered till Ar- thur was out of healing. 136 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD AVORK. "I'll take care, ma'am," answered the steady old groom; "but a young gentleman like that young gentleman may l)e left to take care of himself." As soon as our guest was out of sight my 1ms- band led mc to a shady part of the lawn, and, walking by my side on the grass, began a con- versation with me by going straight to the con- sideration of our young visitor. "Til)l)y," said my husband, "you must he very careful not to ask that boy any questions about liis parentage ; and you had better, as far as possible, avoid displaying any curiosity about his j)ast experiences. His liistory is brieliy this : He is the son of a very dear friend of mine, whom I have long mourned for as dead — a friend to whom I am indebted for much of the happi- ness I have experienced in life. This boy is that friend's only child. But unfortunately there is a cloud hanging over his birth, a cloud that nei- ther you nor he ought to ])enetrate : for shame, and disgrace, and sorrow are behind it. To this day he has never known his mother's name nor seen his father's face. As a little child he was educated (I might almost say nursed) at Brigh- ton in a school for children, presided over by a lady ; but for the last five years he has lieen at Dr. licnter's school at Blackheatli, spending the holidays with the doctor's family. His face shows that, on the whole, he has not had an unhaj)])y existence ; but it was very touching to hear him an hour since tell you that he had nev- er before been called 'Arthur' h}^ a lady. Doubt- less the doctor's daughters arc in the habit of calling him by his surname." "Have you long known that he was at Black- heath ?" I asked. " On the contrary, it was not till three weeks since that I saw him or knew of his abode. A mere accident led Dr. Eenter to speak of the boy (the doctor's business with me was on an alto- gether dift'crent matter), and from inquiry I learn- ed that Arthur was my old friend's son. Tibb3% we have no child of our own. Let us cherish that promising boy. The time is coming when he will need the countenance and support of pow- eif id friends to shield him from the unkindness- cs to which young men of dubious birth are sub- jected. Let us love him." It had come true. But why did the advent of the boy disturb me ? More especially, why did the tender regard manifested by my husband for tlie delicate, girl- ish, gallant stripling trouble mc? It was only that very morning I had recalled my own ro- mantic dream of getting him to adopt the child of some poor workman. And here had Julian, anticijiating all suggestions from me, carried out my own scheme with an important improvement — bringing to my house not a mechanic's hardy brat, but an elegant, gently nurtured boy, in whom i)h}'sical and mental graces were com- bined. Yet I was far from pleased with the oc- currence, much as I was prepossessed in favor of my new com])anion. It was imjfossible to dislike the boy. Had he not been a most lovable lad I sliould have con- ceived a repugnance to him. But he was such a courageous, hearty, merry, leonine youngster, and withal so elegant, and dandified, and toy- like, 1 was compelled to take him to my heart. Whatever might 1)C the merits or the demerits of Dr. Renter's school, the lad had picked up nu- merous accomplishments at it. He sang French as well as English ballads, accompanying him- self on the ])iano-forte ; he wrote comic verses after the manner of the "Rejected Addresses.'' and rattled away in the most delightfully inno- cent, and self-complacent, and joyous, and man- of-the-world style. After he had been with us a few days, I asked him how ic came that the Miss Renters had never called him "Arthur." "Oh, Mrs. Gowcr,'' answered the urchin, laughing, "that would never do. The doctor couldn't have allowed that. If they had called me 'Ar- thur' one week, they'd have called me ' dear Arthur' the next week, and then who knows what would have happened ? So I am always ' Williams Tertius' to them. Very queer, isn't it, Mrs. Gower ? But they are nice,* dear girls, and in holidays they take me with them wherever they go, only they make it a rule to order every one to call me 'Williams Tertius.' It doesn't hurt me of course, but sometimes it makes me feel as if I was a queer sort of natural eccentric- ity — a kind of flower instead of a pure boy. But they're jolly girls, and M\ss Christabel "is the neatest hand at Les Graces that I ever saw in my life." "Julian," I said, looking sharply round at my husband, as the boy ran on in this way, "don't his voice and his pertness put you in mind of some one as well as his face ?" "Good Heavens, Tibby !" exclaimed Julian, almost angrily, "do get that notion out of your head. It's a painful one." "Perhaps, Sir," said Arthur, "you'd like me to speak like Punch, with a squeak, and through my nose, and then I sha'n't put Mrs. Gower so much in mind of some one." The boy was a great diversion to us. He treated me, and I do believe thought me one of the most benignant and important ladies in the world. Doubtless the size and freshness of our house, the garden, the stable full of horses, our carriages, and all the other appointments of "The Cedars" greatly impressed and delighted the inexperienced child, causing him to esteem the mistress of so splendid an establishment more highly than he w^ould have done had he found her living in a dingy cottage. The attentions and the flatteries that he lavished upon me were innumerable ; the extravagant and magnificent terms in which he ]jaid me the most elaborate compliments, rendering his courtly homage pe- culiarly naive, and innocent, and piquant in cft'ect. Every morning I had a flower on my breakfast plate, brought by him from the garden for my especial delectation, and everj' night he left me with an assurance, dressed u]) in dozens of dift'er- cnt dressespf verbiage, that "the minutes flowed so quickly in my society, he never knew the prop- er time, or the desire to withdraw for the refresh- ment of his pillow." He was the most active, and efficiently active boy I ever met. He had alwnxsjust done some- thing. We never heard of his achievements, in their prei)aration or progress, but only at the moment of their triumphant accomplishment, or just afterward. He made himself quite at home at "The Cedars" and with our neighbors at Highgate, being at the close of his six weeks' visit altogether a more important ])erson in the j)ari>li than his host. Every day lie would slip i OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 137 out into the lane, ivncl be absent for three or four liours gathering gossip and news for (Jiir delecta- tion at dinner. One day lie came hack from liis trip into the lane (whenever Ik; left " Tlie Cedars" garden it was "to take a saunter down the lane"), habited in his cricketing suit of white flannel, and swaying his bat to and fro with signs of elation. He had just luon a match at single ■wicket. On another occasion he presented him- self before me at the close of the afternoon with similar exultation, and informed me that he had just won tlie sweepstakes at a hurdle-race. It was rather jolly. "Won the sweepstakes at a hurdle-race! what can you mean, Arthur?" I asked with surprise. On explanation it appear- ed that Arthur Williams, Esquire, of "The Cedars," Highgate, had got uj) a hurdle-race on the green, with seven other mounted lads. They had subscribed five shillings each for the entertainment, of which sum they had paid £1 to a man who fixed up the hurdles for them, and £1 they had set aside as the " winner's purse." And the winner's purse had fallen to iNIr. Arthur Williams, who had organized the whole affair, and rode his pony in his cricket jacket and blue cap. Juiian was immensely tickled at the boy's narrative of this " event of the turf;" but I don't think he was quite so well pleased when he learned that Arthur, to create a more striking effect on the race-course, had cut the beautiful bush-tail of his magnificent pony to make it re- semble "a regular blood racer." "I don't know how to account for it, Tibby," said Julian with good-humored malice, in revenge for the injury done to the pony's tail, " but we always hear of Arthur's contests when he iclns, but never when he loses." "Why, Mr. Gower," responded the boy with an atidacious simplicity that deprived my husband's sarcasm of all its power, "of course I don't tellyou when I lose. That would neverdo. Eor then you'd laugh at me, instead of ivith me." I soon saw that my husband had conceived an a\-dent affection for the boy. He took him the round of the theatres and places of public amuse- ment — to the operas and princijjal houses of dramatic entertainment. They rode in the Park together, Arthur all spick and span in his best dandy habiliments, with pink-tinted gloves, and a gold-headed whip with which my husband pre- sented him. Julian carried him off one evening to tlie soiree of a scientific institution ; but that entertainment Arthur frankly assured me was ".the awfulest bore he had ever been let in for." So to make amends for this "awfulest bore," Julian gave him what the child afterward desig- nated as "great fun," in the shape of a dinner at the Conservative Club, where Mr. Arthur threw himself back in his chair, and was good enough to praise tiie wine, although iu his opinion -it " would have been all the better for a little age." To me, as I have said, his gallantry was un- bounded ; and it really made me quite light- hearted to have him by my side during my drives. To accompany me he always made himself the most exquisite little dandy imaginable, putting on fresh light gloves, and arranging every item of his toilet with extreme care. He was such a sunny, dainty little fellow, that I always selected the brightest and prettiest drives when he was my.companion. Once, however, I took him into the " old law neighborhood," and left him in the carriage in jNIarchioness Street while I went into the hospital. On our way down to tlie institu- tion, I did my best to interest him in its object and operations ; but when I alighted fr(;m the carriage his only expression of sympathy with my labors was to say, " Poor little wretches! I am sure, my dear Mrs. Gower, I hope you won't catch any thing by being so good to them ! It must be very dangerous!" And having said this, the young gentleman lounged l)ack in my pliaeton in a most languishing fashion, and jnit up one of his patent-leather boots on the ojjposite cushion, so that he might admire it at his case. I was quite irritated with his careless manner ; and I punished him by being much longer than was necessary in the hospital. Indeed he had to wait for me nearly two hours at the door of "Grace Temple." On returning to " The Cedars" the first thing I did was to go to Julian and say, "My dear, you told me the other day that you gave Arthur a tip of a £5 note, so that he might return to Blackheath well supplied with cash." " Yes, what of that?" answered Julian. "Can you tell me the number of the note?" " Certainly, here is the number marked down in my pocket-book, 40,5G2." "I thought so!" I exclaimed triumphantly. " While I was in the hospital this morning that note was slipped into the contribution box, and that little monkey did it." "By Jove!" cried Julian. "What a splen- did lad he is I But why do you call him a monkey?" When I told Julian of the boy's superb airs, just before he gave all his pocket-money to the sick children, our gratification and pride in his conduct did not preclude us from indulging in a hearty laugh. CHAPTER VII. A caller's card. I BECAME so attached to Arthur, that toward the close of his visit I almost ceased to trouble myself about the mysteries connected with his appearance at " The Cedars." Both I and Ju- lian were so much the happier for his presence that I not only felt grateful to him, but con- ceived for him a love similar to that which mo- tliers feel for their own offspring. But even while he was with us, and while his company recon- ciled me in some degree to all its circumstances, I was not pleased with the inordinate fondness that Julian exhibited to him, whereas I never praised the boy, or declared my affection for liim, without a flood of satisfaction and delight rising in my husband's face. And when I ob- served that diflerence between us, I began to seek after its cause. How was I to account for it ? What was its explanation ? Did Julian love him more than I did ? If so, what was the cause ? what especial hold had the boy upon his heart ? Then, looking at the subject from another point of view, I would regard it as evidence that Ju" lian was only more anxious than I to have the amusement and kindly pleasure of seeing a child moving about our house. But that view of the matter greatly troubled me, as it seemed to in- volve reproach to me. When Arthur returned to Blackheath, it was 188 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. with n promise that he would spend his next s holidays witli us. After he had pone, the house was strangely altered. In a few days Jidian be- came again silent, and absorbed, and moody. "He was happy," I said to myself, "while Ar- thur was with us ; but now that the boy has taken his doparturc he finds my society flat and weari- some." lie loves him, I thought, better than he does me ; and in five minutes I was fretting with jealousy, and I saw that I should never be hap- py with an adopted child whom my husband loved. I desired such an object on which to expend the force of ?«^ surplus affection ; but I could not endure the thought of letting my hus- band have the same gratification. It is with shame I own I was so selfish, that it never oc- curred to me my husband would have an equally valid reason for not liking me to expend the warmth of my heart on a child not really his own. Let childless couples rely on me. If a childless husband and wife love each other, they must reconcile themselves to their hard lot as they best can. An adopted child would only be a cause of jealousy and pain to each. Nature's decrees can not be overridden by a mere artifi- cial arrangement. So much was this the case with me, that though I wrote to Arthur three days after he returned to Blacklieath, and told Julian 1 had done so, it vexed me at the end of the week to see my husband sitting down at his desk to pay the boy the same attention. I have just spoken of Julian's silence and moodiness. They lasted for ten days, and then they were exchanged for a boisterous hilarity, such as I had never before witnessed in him. He literally frightened me with the extrava- gance he committed, running and leaping on our lawn like a school-boy, laughing at and making a jest of every ordinary subject that engaged his attention. I asked him, with absolute fear and trembling, how he could account for his high spirits ; but he either only put me off with a kiss or began to talk in a rapturous way about Ar- thur. "Tibby," he cried, "you are not forty- one — I am not forty-one. I am younger in heart, limb, life, than I was when I returned from South America. My mid-summer holidays with ?«y boy Arthur have brought youth back to me again. Oh, Trbby, how I love the jn-etty scamp, and thank you for taking him to your affection ! We'll make a man of him. . He shall head his generation — lead it in wealth, intellect, honor, achievement!" Yes ! his love for me had come to that — f/ratl- tude hec.cmse T cared for another ! When he had spent a few days in this mad, spasmodic exultation, and while his spirits were still at the highest pitch of their unnatural ex- citement, he informed me that he had to leave home on special and very important business for ten days or a fortnight. He told me neitlicr where he was going nor with what object. Half an hour after making the announcement he was oiF to catch the train, and I was left by myself to sufi^'er under the miserable jealousy and dis- trust of him, which were corroding all the good qualities of my nature. I could not endure to think tliat he loved tliat jilnything boy better than 1h; loved me. What had been the words of that mysterious woman who ])ersisted in influ- encing iiu! and him — yes, lam, though he pro- fessed to be ignorant of her existence ? "Mrs. Gower," she had said, "you'll welcome that child more with your lips than with your heart. At first you will generously award him your ])ro- tection, but when you see that your husband loves him better than yourself you'll have little charity to him." Every word she had spoken had come true. I had been compelled to modify my harsh ojnnion of her ! The boy had been brought to my house on the very day she had named, and already I was beginning to feel resentment to him for hav- ing stolen from me the affection of my husband ! I had spent the whole morning next after mj husband's departure brooding over these facts, when at a customary calling hour a carriage drove up to the entrance of my house. I v.as at the time walking in a distant part of the garden, and as I did not recognize the equipage, I re- mained where I was till a servant should come and tell me the names of my visitors. As I waited at my station of observance I remem- bered witli regret that I had not ordered the servants to refuse me to callers. In a minute the servant came across the lawn to me, bearing the caller's card. On the card was this inscription — Miss Grace Temple. For a few seconds I felt so indignant at her intrusion that I was on the point of sending the servant back with word that I could not see her. But if no other motives had influenced me, after two or three moments' reflection, curiosity would alone have determined me not to act on my hasty resolution. Whoever she was, however much she had tried to poison my peace of mind, what- ever her i)urpose might be toward me, she held the key to the mysteries which had for days been cruelly torturing me. If I was to obtain the in- formation for wliich I yearned, the acquisition would be made through her. I dared not set myself in antagonism to her. So I told the man to take back an assurance to the lady that I would be with her almost im- mediately. I consumed a moment in regaining my com- posure. Then I walked slowly across the lawn to my house. On my way through the hall I told my servant that, if any other callers came, they were to be told I was so particularly engaged that tlicy could not see me. With Miss Tcnijjle's carriage standing before my door, the man could not well refuse them with a simple assertion that I was not at home. Having taken this precaution against inter- ruption, I entered my drawing-room, and stood fi.ice to face with Miss Grace Temple. CHAPTER VIII. PLEASANT SUGGESTIONS. She was standing by one of the windows sur- veying the garden when I entered. Dressed in the same colors and style, wearing the same lofty composure on her delicate face, advancing to- ward me with the same elegant carriage as 1 had remarked on our previous interviews, and covered with all that best womanly refinement and grace by which ladit s are to be distinguish- ed from won'ien of humbler degree, Miss Temple OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 139 (notwithstanding my rotiyed ;inta<^onism to her) impressed me more favorably than ever. Her persecution and impertinence were not tliose of a vulgar adventurer. I could not do otherwise than treat her with the resj)ect due to one of my own sex and social condition. Even though it was her whim to sport with my feelings, I felt the necessity of patiently enduring the torture. A sense that it was prudent to conciliate her made me throw more than ordinary cordiality into my maimer, as I assured her that it gave mo great pleasure to see her in my house. '•No, Mrs. Gower," she said, quickly, "you do not feel great pleasure in seeing me in this pretty drawing-room. You experience the un- easiness of an irritation which you deem it im- prudent to express, and just a little hope that the cause of my calling on you may not be an evil one. Surely such feelings do not constitute (jreat pleasure.'" "My words," I answered, with as much state- liness as my diminutive iigure and insignificant presence would permit me to assume, " were in- tended to imply that since you had paid me the compliment of a visit, I was anxious to receive you courteously, as though it gave me great pleasure to do so." "For that I sincerely thank you, Mrs. Gower. I trust the day will still come when such a wel- come will be accorded to me by you, not in mere courtesy, but in genuine kindliness of feeling. We ought to be friends. You know well how large a share of my sympathy you have had for years. And now I do most heartily pity you. You are very unhappy." " I am not unhappy." ' ' Are you not ? Well ! have my words proved true ?" "Much that you told me should transpire has taken place." " Good ! Your husband br6ught Arthur Will- iams home to you on your last birthday. You have learned that the calumnious and wicked woman who spoke to you some weeks since in the lane by your garden fence is not so utterly bad as you imagined. And now you are mad with jealousy because your husband loves the boy." To this speech I made no answer. "You would like to find out the secret of Ar- thur's parentage ?" she resumed, after a minute's silence, in which she was evidently considering how she should proceed. " You say to yourself, ' What can that mystery be ? Does it cover any reason which can account for Julian's, infatu- ation with that school-boy dandy ?' " "I should like to know the secret of the child's birth," I admitted. " Of course you would. What has Mr. Gower told you about it?" "That the boy — encountered accidentally — was the son of a dear friend of his early days — that a cloud hung over his origin, beneath wliich lay sorrow and shame. He told me so much, and just nothing more." "Then you have no idea who the boy's mother was?" "None. I shrunk from inquiring, for I pre- sumed the worst." "You did well to do so!" was Miss Temple's comment, made bitterly and mockingly. " It is prudent always to infer the worst. Did it not occur to you that the dear friend of your hus- band's early days miglit be the boy's mother, about whom you sluunk from inquiring, though you presumed the worst?" I started from my seat as she said this, and advancing a step toward the sofa on which she sat looked into the cold gentleness of her face. "You remember, he never told you that the dear friend of his youth was a man." "You are right, Miss Temple," I said, re- covering mv self-control and resuming mv SL-at. "What then?" "Nay — nay — let me ask the questions; you shall answer them. Hei'c is one. lieply to it, Mrs. Gower. Is not that pretty boy the faithful reproduction of your sister Etty, who died yeai-s / since in the slough of ignominy ?" "Woman!" I exclaimed, starting again from my seat, " why do you torture me with these questions ? Tell me what you have to communi- cate at once, and do not cause m^needless suf- fering. Are you so fond of inflicting pain that you can not deny yourself the pleasure of pro- longing my agonies ? You who have been track- ing my steps for years — you who told me the awful story of my sister's guilt — you who brought Arthur into this house — you who can influence my husband, as well as myself, by some secret and fearful source of knowledge — you know w^hat my answers to your questions must be." "Enough; you need not enti'eat me so pas- sionately. You w^ere struck by the likeness of the child to your sister ; you know that your hus- band (although he strives to conceal it from yon) is not less struck by the likeness ; and in your own heart you believe that this remarkable like- ness is the real cause of Mr. Gower's strong and sudden aftection for the boy. And this belief annoys you far more than the mere recognition of the fact that you ai'e superseded in your hus- band's heart. Such was his love for ' Etty' — " " How do you know that we called her ' Etty?' " I exclaimed. "Tut !" she laughed. "Is not the name en- graved on the memorial in the burial-gronnd of this parish ? Let me go on. You say, ' Such was his love for Etty that even the semblance of her features, in a boy he had never before seen, has that powerful effect upon him' — and yon are almost jealous of your dead sister! Now I'll put another thought into your head, and you sliall tell iiie what you think of it. I have heard of men, disappointed in their loves, who drug themselves into temporary forgetfulness of anguish by indulging a base passion for women who are women — however much we may scorn and loathe them. Such men, I have been told, are drawn by an irresistible fascination to those who most closely resemble the objects of their luckless wooing. Let us imagine a case. Suj)- pose that Mr. Gower, soon after your sister Etty cruelly broke her troth to him, fell under the in- fluence of a frail girl — in person and in vivacity of manner the exact counterpart of Etty. Sup- ])ose that such a woman became his mistress, and the mother of a child dishonored by its birth. Suppose that, growing weary of the vile thralldom of such a woman, Mr. Gower, after a few years' exjierience of her vicious nature, separated him- self from her — making provision for the liberal education of the child. Suppose that, after an interval of years, he learned your forlorn cojidi- 140 OLIVE BLAKPrs GOOD WORK. tioii, and in that spii'it of Quixotic generosity by vvhicli nine finc-heartcd men out of every ten mar flieir fortunes, said, 'I'll make that poor little Tibby Tree my wife, and give her a glimpse of happiness after her long exjiericnce of gloom. I have outgrown the age when a man in choosing a wife ranks a pretty face above every other con- sideration. She will give me children to love ; and I have enough confidence in her sweetness of disposition and in her general intelligence to feel sure that she will make me a cheerful fire- side companion,' Suppose him (as he is) mar- ried to you, and disa])i)ointed in the one antici- pation which made him feel it right to indulge his commiseration for the matron of the Sick Children's Hospital. Suppose that, after nearly three years of bitter and fruitless expectancy, he formed the resolution to bring his own dishon- ored child into his home, and see if you could not be induced to love the lad as your own child, before you ^iiscovered him to be his offspring. Suppose that he carried out this scheme ; and that, when you saw his eyes grow eloquent of pride at the dandy airs and dashing manliness of our little 'man-of-tho-world,' school-boy Ar- thur, he loved the child not merely because he resembled Elty, but far, far more, because lie ivas his own son. What say j'ou to this?" "That your suggestions are groundless," I answered, as firmly as I could, while faintness made my brain swim, "and utterly false. My heart tells me they are false !" " What ! is it false that your husband married out of pity rather than love ?" I heard this cruel taunt ; but I did not reply to it. My womanly pride and delicacy were mat- ters of no consideration by the side of the accu- sations ]ireferred against my husband. When I replied it was to reject them, not to ward off from myself the strange and embittered woman's scorn. " You ask me what I think of your sugges- tions—made under I know not what unworthy motive. I tell you that your insinuations are groundless. I answer now, just as I would have answered if I had never married Julian Gower — Mij husband is iimittcrabh/, unalterabljj good.'" "Mrs. Gower," Miss Temple said, after a pause, in an altered voice, the changed tone of which greatly relieved me, " you must remem- ber that I have not put forward my suppositions as any thing but suppositions. Far be it from me to shake your conviction in your husband's goodness — a conviction which I must readily ad- mit I sliarc with you. But I'll tell you what I'll do ; I'll take j'ou with me in my carriage, and put you tacc to face with Arthur Williams's mo- ther — his own mother. Will yon come?" She saw I wavered. "You can not help nursing a painful curiosity with regard to this child — brought to you muler circumstances calculated to arouse your most painful suspicions. If you will trust yourself to me I will convey you to a house in the country on the o])posite side of London, where you shall hear the boy's own mother tell you her story antl his. And in the course of the evening I'll bring you back to 'The Cedars.' " " Am I to listen to more black slanders against my dear liushand ?" I answered, fiercely. " Be calm, be calm, Mrs. Gower," she replied, her composure still unruffled, as it had been wiien i she rained down her sarcasms and contempt upon me. " In spite of your angry feelings to- ward me, i/oii know that you may trust me. My name was a household word with you for years ere you ever rested eye on me. Trust to me — when / (jive you my serious assurance that, while you remain under my charge, neither your cre- dulity nor your suspicion shall be practiced upon by falsehood of any kind. Come with me and speak with Arthur's mother. After you have heard her story you can decide whether it is right for you to receive him into your house." I considered for a minute, trying honestly to balance the considerations forbidding me to ac- cept her offer against the considerations urging me to avail myself of it. It was a trying crisis. If I consented, my conduct might seem to imj)ly distrust of my husband. If I declined the invi- tation, I might lose an opjiortunity of gaining information that would be useful both to him and me. "Miss Temple," I «aid, bringing my inde- cision to an end, " I will accompany you. I will join you in a minute, equipped for a drive in your carriage." CHAPTER IX. A MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS. Miss Temple had not to wait long for me. I was speedily assisted into her carriage, and, taking her place by my side, she ordered her coachman to drive as quickly as possible, since she had not a moment to spare. Excited and preoccupied though I was, I kejit my ear on the alert to catch her directions to her servants ; but instead of inquiring in the customary manner whither the}' should next proceed, the footman shut the door of the chariot without a word, and the coachman drove off at a ra])id speed, clearly in obedience to orders he had already received. "To what quarter or suburb of the town are we going, IMiss Temple ?" I inquired, as the horses bore us down the steepest part of High- gate Hill at a swinging trot. "Oh, some distance; but we sha'n't be long on the road," answered the lady, avoiding the question. "My horses are good ones. We will not talk ; we have each of us enough to think about." That was true. Desirous as I was to ascer- tain the route we were taking, I soon left off watching for way-marks on the road. That we entered London by a road unknown to me, that we s]iearciitly by a nervous handler. The wood-work of the door shook. In another instant it Hew open, and my liusband entered the room. The hidy, with a scream of agitation, sprang up from the sofa, bounded to- ward him, caught botli his hands in hers, and fell upon her knees at his feet, saying, " Oh, Julian — dear, dear, noble, generous, forgiving Julian ! Pardon me, say tliat you pardon me — and that you will love my boy !" I saw Julian raise the lady from her abject po- sition. I saw him lift her in his arms, and seal his ])ardon with a kiss. I heard him say, "Dar- ling, we will never part again. Our boy shall be our chief care. By our love, our sorrows, and our separation, I will hold you a sacred charge — dear to my heart." I heard him give utter- ance to other strong assurances of love — and then I could hear no more." A mist came over my eyes, and I fell back into Miss Temple's arms, saying, "Take me away — 1 feel very ill." . I iieard her clear, quiet voice say, "Be calm, be calm ! Tell me, Mrs. Gower, do you believe in your husband now ? Is your faith unshaken ?" I remember that as she uttered these words she gazed at me with an expression of exultant trinm])h in her face which I could not interpret. " lAIiss Temple — Miss Temijle," I said, beating my hands upon my heart — "Julian is unutter- ably — unalterably good !" I was unaware I said this. Miss Temple told me afterward that just ere I fainted and fell back unconscious I used those words. And now that I reflect on the past, it is an inexpressible source of satisfaction to me to know that even in my agony of suspicion — when I was still un- able to explain the scene I had witnessed — my faith in my dear husband enabled me to cry out, " He is unutterably — unalterably good !" BOOK VIII. PART THE THIRD OF A WOMAN'S STORY:— BEING THE NAR- RATIVE OF OLIVE BLAKE'S ATONEMENT. CHAPTER I. THE COUNCIL OF THREE. I TOOK a trip of a few months to gain a per- fect restoration of my health, and then I reso- lutely set to work to accomplish the business marked out for me in life. The more I thought of my position Mith re- gard to my husband, and the nature of his con- duct toward me, the more convinced I was that Etty Tree had been made the victim of a wicked plot. My sense of my own injury, without (I am thankful to say) embittering me, sharpened my perceptions, and made me look at life in a more business-like and practical manner than I had ever done — the period of my worldly married life being even included in the retrospect. It was the first time in all my existence tliat I had consciously experienced a wrong. My feelings of justice, always acute in a woman, had in tha confined circle of my personal aft'airs never be- fore been shocked. I had therefore witli all my precocity of intelligence, and all my knowledge of the ways and practices of unscrupulous men, taken the world as it came, in trust and without suspicion. Now, however, tliat a terrilile blow had roused me from my blind confidence, I saw my jiast history with unsealed eyes. I knew at length that Lord Byfield was a bad and heartless man. This knowledge was the key by which I set to work to read the rid- dle of his life. It was the light by which I now prejjared to examine bis gravest, and at the same time his apjiarently nniiiijiortant acts. It made me j)rejudge the cause in which I was interested, and inspiring me with confidence in his guilt gave me heart to collect evidence, search for motives, and devise theories by which the prob- lem of his dark courses might be solved — in the same way that a professional advocate tracks crime to its lurking-place. Knowing Lord Byfield to be utterly bad, it was not difficult for me to point to a motive suf- ficient to account for his committing the crime with which he stood charged in the court of my secret consciousness. The very large fortune he acquired by marrying me was a sufficient reason for his marrying me without love. As I told my readers at the outset, ours was a inariage de con- venance ; I out of a sentiment of filial duty offer- ing (in the absence of any grave objections to the step) to render him the services of wifely duty, and lie accepting my wealth as a consider- ation why he should confer upon me social dis- tinction by making me his wife. The terms of my dear father's will had been carefully ar- ranged to i)rotect me from the misery of being united to a husband either unworthy of me or distasteful to me. They had expressly directed that I should not give my final decision whether I would become the bride of Arthur Petersham until the completion of my twentj'-fifth year, when my future husband would have attained the age of forty. If he wished to possess the wealth of Blake as well as Petersham, he was required to wait till he had attained middle life ere he should enter upon marriage. Of course he, a wicked man (as I knew him to be), had ' not passed the period between youth and forty years in purity. More than one poor girl had doubtless rued his corrupting passion. At the best, he had only lived according to the ways of men of fashion, a generation and more since. But by the terms of my father's will, if any dis- tinct act of immorality could be proved against him, I was at liberty on comjdeting my twenty- fifth year to reject him, and at the same time to enter on possession of the £300,000 which was OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 148 to lie his in case of our marriage. It was tliere- fV)r;- incumbent on him, if he would win all the stakes on the table at whicii he was playing, to maintain an unassailable reputation. He could not, therefore, afford to imitate the wicked of his own rank in running a career of open and avowed proHigacy. An eschindre might cost him a third of a million of money. The conse- quences of this necessity would be (and, as I aft- erward discovered, they were) most injurious to his character. Without sufficient moral strength to restrain himself from sinful gratiticalion, he would indulge his vicious propensities with every precaution against discovery. He would contract a habit of sinning secretly. He would not only be a cliild of evil, but his evil would be done darkly, in tortuous and hidden ways. He would by his evil desires and his cupidity be educated to fraud. It was thus I reasoned, and my rea- soning led me to see his capability of the crime with which he was charged, and also to discern his motive for committing it. He had doubtless (I argued to rnVself) been enamored of Etty Tree's surpassing beauty at Laughton, and had determined to possess him- self of it. He had possibly first felt his way to see if he could not accomplish his purpose with- out indulging the poor girl with a form of mar- riage ; but finding that impracticable, he had consented to make her his wife. Giddy at the prospect of being elevated to share his fortune, the simple creature had not only consented to a secret marriage, but had agreed to leave Laugh- ton under circumstances that would lead the in- habitants of the town to the conclusion that she had fled, not with her betrayer, hut with his friend, JIajor Watchit. Whenever I came to this point of my hypothetical arguments I always experi- enced a sense of poignant regret that Sir George Watchit was no longer alive. It was clear that he liad been Lord Byfield's accomplice in an in- famous crime. Etty Tree had herself told me that she left Laughton with him (Mr. Petersham following her up to London), and that she also left the church in which they were married, and traveled to Monaco with him (Mr. Petersham again traveling by a ditterent route, and meet- ing them in the principality). What had been Sir George Watchit's early history ? I knew but little of it. He had been at Eton with Lord Byfield, and since that time they had, up till Sir George's death, been close and most intimate friends. What had been the bond between them ? It was not equality of fortune ; for while Lord Byfield was at the outset of life the heir-appar- ent to prodigious wealth. Sir George Watchit had commenced his career a soldier of fortune ! Then I recalled all the substantial benefits that had flowed to Sir George Watchit through his con- nection with my husband ; his ra]iid promotion 4n India (for he entered the Company's service at an unusually late period of life) ; the ease with which he obtained leave of absence from the East to enjoy himself in Europe ; and, finally, his last advancement to high command, ob- tained for him (as Lord Byfield had himself told me) by the late IMr. Petersham's influence ex- ercised upon his brother Directors. These, then (said I to myself), were some of the accom- plice's rewards. I had only seen Sir George Watchit a few times in all my life, on which occasions I had been j)owerfully imjiresscd by his silent force of character, and his singular, I might even say his comical, taciturnity. He was an energetic and capable soldier (//iia^ he had, ere his death, shown the world) ; and, fi'om the slight recollection I had of him, I was quite able to believe him un- scrupulous enough to have acted (for a sulficient consideration) as Lord Byfiokl's tool in works of secret crime. I knew well that, were he alive, he would be little likely to reveal to me the facts which I wished to discover. Base honor to a base friend, and, above all other considerations, concern for his own reputation, as well as for his security from legal punishment, would seal his lijjs. Still I could not endure the thought that he had perished without making any sign. There was no longer a chance of extracting evi- dence from his fear, his penitence, his cupidity, or his singular ])ersonal appearance. He had gone from the reach of earthly judgment. The first work I proposed to myself was to dis- cover not only Etty Tree, but also her sister. The latter might tell me something by which I could the better pursue my search after the for- mer. «> Lord Byfield had assured me that he was ig- norant of Etty Tree's place of abode ; but this statement (although credited by me at the time it was made) I now of course regarded as false. As it was to his interest to conceal the girl, and to keep the place of her concealment known only to himself, he of course would not have told me her abode, since I of all people was the one in- dividual from whom he was most desirous of keeping her. I knew by his own admission that lie had on one occasion given her to a physician to take charge of her as a person of disordered intellect. He had doubtless again consigned her to medical care as a lunatic. To any person Ics.s intimately acquainted with Lord Byfield than I was the evidence which he could offer of her in- sanity was conclusive. She persisted in calling herself his wife, and had positively entered his residence and alarmed me (the woman he had wedded in the o]ien light of day, and in the pres- ence of the fashionable world) with a statement that he had married her on a particular day in the parish church of a London parish, whereas the carefully kept registers of that church gave her words a complete refutation. What physi- cian would hesitate to give his certificate that a young woman so conducting herself was dement- ed ? Therefore, still reasoning with a defect in my chain of evidence, I was as confident that Lord Byfield had immured her in an asylum, as I was confident that he had married her under circumstances which rendered it highly improb- able that I should ever be able to trace the deed home to him. Where was Etty Tree ? This was the question that I, and Dr. Clargcs, and my solicitor, Mr. Castleton, were bent upon answering. My readers have already made the acquaint- ance of Dr. Charges. Let me now introduce them to Mr. Castleton. He is an eminent mem- ber of his branch of the legal profession, and. like Dr. Clargcs, was an intimate and valued friend of my dear fiither. He it was who super- intended the construction of that last will and testament, which led to my unfortunate mar- riage ; and ever since my dear father's death he 144 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. has given my nflTuirs liis constant attention. A learned ancfiiighly enltivated man, Mr. Castie- ton unites to the caution, aceiirncy, foresislit, and secret vigilance of the beau-ideal of a solicit- or, the graces of an accomjilislicd and most hon- orable gentleman. He is not only my business adviser, but my good friend. Let my readers now imagine ]\Ir. Castleton as of sixty years of age, but with the appearance of not having seen more than forty summers ; let them imagine him of the middle height, with light-brown hair and whiskers, and a singularly benevolent and court- eous countenance, and they will have a suffi- cicnily comjilete and accurate notion of my le- gal coadjutor in tiie work that lay before me. " In the first place," said Mr. Castleton, when, in Dr. Clarges's presence, I had laid my case be- fore him, "we must proceed with the utmost se- crecy ; and, in the second place, we must not be disheartened if we have to labor for years with- out achieving our object." "Why such a need for secrecy?" asked the doctor. " Because," replied the lawyer, " if we do not work quietly, we draw upon ourselves the atten- tion of Lord Byfield. Our assumption (favored, I confess, bij some, but far from supported bi/ all the evidence I could desire) is that Lord Byfield has been guilty of at least one grave offense against the laws of his coTTntry. We assume also that the young woman we wish to discover has been consigned by him to a lunatic asylum, or some other place of security. Now, if our as- sumptions are correct, should Lord Byfield learn that we are endeavoring to obtain access to the young woman, there can be no doubt that he would do his utmost to defeat our purpose, and secure himself from every chance of detec- tion." "But, surely," I said, "Mr. Castleton, it ought to be easy for us to discover if a particular person is confined in any public asylum, or in any private house registered for the reception of the insane. The houses themselves any how are known." "True, and under ordinary circumstances," returned the lawyer, "it would be comparatively easy to discover whether a particular person was confined in any one of them, if there were no necessity for avoiding observation in the prose- cution of search. For instance, we could go from one house to another, and with the assistance of a Commissioner of Lunacy search tliroughout all the lunatic asylums in the land for this missing girl. But to do so would be simjily to say to Lord Byfield, ' My lord, we are bent upon proving that you are guilty of bigamy.' You must remember that we are dealing with a very powerful personage, a man ])ossessed of means to influence those wlimn you might deem placed above the reach of corruption. We must he very cautious. At present we may not let a single person into our counsel besides ourselves." "But still, Castleton," observed the doctor, jiettishly, "it remains for you to ehnlk out soiiie line of action. We can't sit still. It is all well to saj' what we mayn't do. Can't you tell us what we viajj do ?" Mr. Castleton was silent for a couple of min- utes, during which time he tore a sheet of note- pajier in minute i)ieces, and scattered them on the floor of my library — not altogether to my satisfaction, for I have always been known as a ! particularly neat person. " I'll tell you what we must do," said tlie law- yer, after a pause. ""Good — now for it," said the doctor. "We must commence, and steadily carry out by ourselves, a search of the following nature, without the assistance of agents of any kind. Of coiu'se our first object is to ascertain if the young woman be in a mad-house. Now it is easy to get a list of all the asylums in the king- dom. I'll send you such a list, doctor, this very night ; and I'll send you one also. Lady By — (I beg your pardon, I forgot) — I'll send you one also. Miss Blake. Now, into several of the most expensive )>rivate asylums, where a person of Lord Byfield's rank would be most likely to con- fine such a young woman as Miss Tree (for con- siderations of rank, Miss Blake, are regarded even by the patrons of mad-houses), I oan obtain admission. I have frequently to send a patient to one or the other of them. Possibly I have at the present time persons in whom I am ])rofes- sionally interested detained in some of them. Any how, I can get admission to them." "Good," said Dr. Clarges, rubbing his hands M'ith satisfaction; "now I see how I can be of some use in the hunt." " You, doctor," continued Mr. Castleton, "can obtain admission to manj' more. Your profes- sional reputation will not only introduce you to their keepers, but will secure you a courteous re- ception from them. Now you and^ I, doctor, must get into as many of these prisons as we can, and, by the exercise of a little pardonable artifice, obtain an inspection of the lists of in- mates without letting our object ti'anspire." " Yes," said the doctor, more gravely, " it will be a tiresome task." " No doubt about that," responded Mr. Cnstle- ton, quietly. "We shall have to take mnny long journeys into the difterent counties of England, as well as spend many a day in visiting the met- ropolitan asylums, ere we shall be able to say that we have done all that lies in our power in this line of inquiry ; and perhaps, after all, it may turn out that we shall find our labors have been misdirected." "Oh, you good, dear men!"" I exclaimed, " don't fear the labor. Look at the end. What is the toil compared with that?''' "There are more diflioultics in our way," ob- served Mr. Castleton, "than even you can see. Miss Blake." "What are they? tell me the worst." "The young woman may be confined in an asylum — but under a wrong name." '•Good Heavens !" Isaid, " what a suggestion ! How should we discover her then?" "Humph!" replied the lawyer. "Personal insjiection. We shall have to disguise you, and take you about with us ; for you have seen the girl." "I should remember her any where," I an- swered, warmly. " Slie may," continued Mr. Castleton, "he in confiucmont, and under medical care as a luna- tic ; but not in a house registered for the recep- tion of the insane." "I\Iny she?" "Lord Byfield," quietly went on my terrible solicitor, "in such a matter would regard money OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. U5 ns ail affair of no consiik'raiiuii. Ho may \)os- sibly have n physician in liis jiay to whom he gives £2()()() a year for kenpini:; charge of this young person, in liis own private residence." "Oil, Mr. Castletonl"' I cxchiiined, "how should we discover her in such a case ? And it is exactly what Lord Bytield actually did witli that physician at Nice." "Well, well," returned Mr. Castleton, smil- ing, "don't b3 alarmed. We must hope for the best, but be prepared for the worst. And to console you, 1 may say that I hardly think Lord Byfield would adopt such a plan in this country. It would be attended with too much hazard, and rouse sus])icion of him — at least in the mind of one individual." "Castleton,"' said ]^r. Clarges, "come and talk this matter over with nn to-night, and then we'll settle how we must proceed to action. I must now be oft" to see my patients. Good- morning, Olive. God help you, dear !"' iSIr. Castleton also wished me a valedictory pood-morning; but ere he took his departure he a IJed — "and besides entering on this long, tedi- ous search, Miss Blake, I will forthwith institute inquiries after the young person's sister, ^Miss Tabitha Tree." It is worthy of remark that Mr. Castleton en- tertained an angry feeling, a sort of sub-resent- ment, toward the poor girl in whom I had so lively an interest. It was a long time ere he ceased to speak of her habitually as "the young person," or "the young \\oman." But the time came when he altered his opinion of her. CHAPTER II. A GOOD OMEN. For many months (they seemed to me very long months) I had to wait without advancing a single step in the journey bjfore me. Dr. Charges and Mr. Castleton were too much occu- pied with urgent professional affairs to be able to visit me frequently ; but whenever they came to Fulham (where, with Aunt Wilby for a com- panion, I resumed the life of my most quiet days previous to my marriage), they assured me that they were devoting all their leisure moments to I my service. "You were patient, Olive," the doctor said to ' me frequently, "under heavy afflictions. You must now bear patiently the irksomeness of de- lay." I "I will, dear doctor," I answered ; "but every I day I learn how much harder it is tf) licar a com- i parativcly light trial with equanimity than it is to endure a graver evil with fortitude^' At the expiration of five months, however, Mr. Castleton made his appearance at Fulham with such an expression of serene satisfacti(jn in his countenance that my first words to him were, "You bring sunshine with you, Mr. Cas- tleton. Good news is written in your face, but I can not read it ; you must tell me." " Don't raise your hopes ; for if you do, I shall have to begin by throwing cold water upon them," rejilied my solicitor. " Lady clients are most agreeable to a man of business as a change. Their gratitude is quite refreshing to lawyers, who are too much in the habit of regarding their K avocations solely with a view to profit. But they ; are so oversanguine that they are conlinualiy ' subjecting themselves to unnecessary disa])point- I inent, and, as a consc(piencc, subjecting their professional agents to a certain amount of mor- t tification — so don't let your hopeful imagination run away with you."' " 1 will not. But what is the intelligence?" "To begin — I have not yet been able to get a trace of ' the young person.' " "Well?" I put in, as my heart sunk. "But I have discovered her sister." "Indeed — where is she?" "I have already," continued Mr. Castleton, telling his story in his own way, " made several inquiries about her, ami they have resulted in my entertaining a very favorable opinion of her. I should say that Miss Tabitha Tree is a lady de- serving our deepest commiserati^jji ; that she is a truly excellent woman." Mr. Castleton paused. If he had a fault it was a mischievous pleasure in playing with the feelings of others, when he was about to make an important communication. " Since we first discussed this business I have made a visit to Langhton, the town where 'the young person' and her sister kept a school — and to Farnham Cobb, a secluded parish, in which they were brought up by their grandfather, the vicar of the parish. I there made some import- ant discoveries relative to Miss Tabitha Tree. The principal solicitor of Langhton, who is the steward of the important ])ro) erty known as the Langhton Abbey estate, was fortunately not un- known to me. Indeed, I may say that we have for many years been connected in business When I was a youiiffman, more in want of clients than I am at i)re3ent, I carried on an agency "business ; that is to say (for the term needs to be explained to you), I transacted for country solicitors busi- ness to which they could not attend without living in town. Agency business to a London solicitor means business of which he undertakes all the responsibility, and nearly all the labor, and for which he obtains only half the fees legally due for the work done. Mr. Gurley was one of my agency clients. On achieving success in my pro- fession I relinqui'shed agency work, retaining, however, the business of those of my jirovincial clients who had shown me consideration and lib- erality, and who expressed- a decided wish to re- tain my services. Among my old agency clients Mr. Gurley is one. JMy visit to Langhton there- fore took me directly to him. I knew him well (as young men, we were articled jnqiils at the same oflice). However, I did not think it right to let him altogether into my confidence. I told him I was anxious to inform myself of all par- ticulars relative to the history of Miss Tabitha Tree and her sister, more csj)ecially of all par- ticulars relative to the departure of the latter from Laughton. His story, of course, w^as that ' the young woman' had left Laughton under ]iainful and disgraceful circumstances with Ma- jor (afterward Sir George) Watchit. He de- scribed her as singularly beautiful, but jietted and spoiled by overindulgence in childhood, and by the attentions showered ujion her by the Laughton gentility. Till her scandalous flight from Laugh- ton ' Cottage' Mr. Gurley had deemed her a girl naturally amiable, and devoid of wicked pro- pensities, just as he also deemed her devoid of 146 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. the hish piinciplc and rare unselfishness of her elder sister. Lady Caroline Petersham's notiec- of this unso]ihisticated {j;irl (in Mr. Gurley's opin- ion) turned her head, and was a chief cause of her ruin. Of the elder Miss Tree Mr. Gurley spoke in very different terms. ' Many peoi)le called her ])lain,' he said, 'hut she never ap- ])cared jilain either to me or my wife. No coni- jictent observer could call her an ordinary-look- iu}^ woman, for extraordinary goodness was ex- jjressed by every line of her face. But you shall hear what my wife says about her.' I dined that day with Mr. Gurley, and after dinner he told his wife that I was anxious to gain information about Miss Tree, and especially to hear her ojiin- ion of her. ' Then, Sir,' cried the honest lady, flushing up with generous excitement, ' let me tell you, that if there is an angel on earth it is little Tibby Tree. ' On my pressing the kind lady to give me some reasons for her high opinion of this Miss Tree, she answered with tears in her eyes, and much emotion, ' Sir, I know much about Tibby Tree that I could not tell you, even if you were my most intimate friend, instead of being almost a stranger to me. But this I can say : she is the most unselfish woman I have ever known in the whole course of my days ; and I know that from the day she came to Laughton till the day she left it in sorrow {not disgrace, Sir — shame, real shame, has nothing to do with her !) the one chief thought of her heart was to work the happiness of that heartless, vain, little minx of a sister who plunged her in misery !' " " Go on, Mr. Castleton," I said, so interested in the account that I had ceased to be impatient for its termination. Mr. Castleton went on. A poet could not have drawn a more beautiful picture of all he had learned to Tibby Tree's advantage. Pie gave me the minutest i>articulars of his trip into " the corn country." The care and ingenuity with which he had carried on his investigations were absolutely wonderful. From the gossip of the villagers, and the admissions of Mr. Gurley, lie had arrived at the conclusion that Tibby Tree had conceived a pure and lofty love for Julian Gower, who, unconscious of the treasure he had won, centred his affections on the pretty face of her sister. He found out that the Gurleys maintained an epistolary correspondence with this excellent woman ; but they were cither ignorant of her place of abode, or steadily refused to im- part their knowledge of it to him. " I impressed on Gurley," said Mr. Castleton, bringing the first part of his communications to a conclusion, "my anxiety that my name should ' be kept a profound secret to any curious inhab- itants of Laughton, who might wish to know who the stranger was who had been over to Farnham Cobb, gossiping to the villagers about the late vicar's grand-daughters. I told him frankly that it was not in my power to reveal to him at pres- ent my reason for wanting to trace out the two sisters ; and he, as a sound business man, a])pre- __ ciatcd my caution and secrecy. On ]diii 1 can rely ; and I am quite confident that no one in ' the corn country' will sus])ect that the excur- sionist who sought news of Tabitha and Annette Tree in the haunts of their childhood was a London solicitor." "Well, now, do go on," I cried, getting im- patient again. Mr. Castleton paused, refreshed himself with a glass of water, and then recommenced: "I re- turned three months since from ' the corn coun- try' more anxious than ever to discover ' the young person's' sister. I caused a trusty agent of mine to search every directory in the kingdom for her name. I inquired of all the principal haberdashers, milliners, and shirt-makers in Lon- don, if they had ever given work to a person of her name. It would weaiy you if I enumerated all the efforts I made unavailingly to unearth her. Of course I did not advertise for her. Such a step might have attracted Lord Byfield's atten- tion, and made him suspect that the persons anx- ious to discover Tabitha Tree were really search- ing for her sister." " I'ut how did you discover her at last ?" " Bjj pure accident.''' "How?" "By pure accident. A fortnight since a cler- gyman called at my office in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and sent up his card. I was busy, but still did not like to refuse a clergyman, who had assured one of my clerks that he wanted to see me on urgent business. So the caller was admitted. He was a well-dressed, personable man. ' A new client,' thought I. But not a bit of it. He sat down on my own peculiar chair, as if the room belonged to him, and taking a packet of pro- s])ectuses from his pocket, coolly informed me that he wanted me to subscribe to the ' Hospital for Sick Children in Maixhioncss Street.' (That's the way in which the enthusiastic promoters of Charitable Institutions tout for them nowadays.) 'Sir, 'I said, rudely enough, immediately! learned his business, 'what charity I do in this world I do myself, and without the aid of any of the mush- room hosjiitals that infest the streets of London, and absorb the funds of the benevolent, without doing any a])i)reciable good to the poor. I am , a subscriber already to two large hospitals, with medical schools attached to them, and I must decline throwing away £5 on a trumpery infirm- ary, got up ivj all probability to bring an obscure physician or two into public notice. I am very busy. My time is very valuable ; and therefore I must beg you to say "good-by" to me instant- ly.' Most men would have been abashed by this sjjeech. But far from being put out of counte- nance, the reverend gentleman smiled at me, oi)ened my own case of note-pa]ier, and taking from it a sheet of paper said, ' That's right. Sir, I like to be received in this way ; I shall get £10 out of you. Now, as your time is valuable, be quick about it, and write a check on this slip of ]japer at once.' This audacity didn't amuse me. I felt myself getting into a lively rage — quite a rage, Miss Blake. Doubtless the importunate gentleman saw I was not to be trifled with, for he suddenly changed his manner, rose from my chair, and pushing one of the hosjiital prospect- uses into my hand said : ' Well, Sir, I won't dis- turb you ; but you shouldn't speak so harshly to a clergyman w'ho, at the worst, is only a little too zealous in behalf of a public undertaking.' I was so far mollified by this speech that I took the jiroffered jirospectus and glanced my cyo over the first sheet before crumpling it uj) nnd l)utting it in my jiocket. 'Here, Sir,' I cried, calling the clergyman back, ' wait an instant — I ajiologize for my rudeness; but a lawyer in tho middle of term niav be excused for being a little OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 147 fiei'ce with strangers wlio enter his office and consume his time to no jmrpose. Here, ISir, take your checli. Good-morning.' Tlicnian took up my clieck; but, confound his impudence, he coukl nt)t leave the room without saying, trium])hantlyj 'I told you so, Sir. Here's your cheek for £10, written on the very same i)ieoe of paper that I took from your case.' I am not an irritable man, iVIiss Blake ; but really if he had not been a cler- gyman I don't think we should have parted with- out more words. 'Never mind,' I said to my- self, taking out the crumpled ]irospectus from the ])oeket of my coat-tail, ' that paper is more -jrorth having than my check!' " •'Why, what was on it?" I asked. "Look," he answered, taking the same crum- pled prospectus from his pocket once more, and laying it out on the table before me — " look ! do you see the matron's name?" I followed his finger to the point indicated, and there, to my inexpressible surjirise and grat- ification, I saw among the names of the perma- nent officers and servants of the Hospital for Sick Children in Marchioness Street these words in full capital letters : " Matron — Tabitha Tree." "Bravo!" I cried, with genuine exultation. "There! thei'e ! we've unearthed her!" said Mr. Castleton, looking at me with the keen sense of pleasure which a player experiences when he wins a point in a difficult and imjiortant game. "We must put ourselves in communication with her at once," I exclaimed, impetuously. "No," said Mr. Castleton, recovering in a moment all his ordinary composure, " that would be useless, and to do so might only be to show our game to others. Mr. Gurley assured me that Miss Tabitha Tree knew no more than he or I did about the fate of her sister. It would therefore do ms no good, and would only pain her, to show her that her retreat is discovered, and to cross-question her about the points on which we are already sufficiently informed. My trip to Laughton put me in possession of every thing that she can tell us. We must let her keep quiet where she is. She is a card in our hamls, and it is possible that one day she will turn out a trump-card for us. Let us be cautious, and leave what is well already alone in that quarter. Caution ! caution ! — any how, if I am not mistak- en, we know more than Mr. Gurley of I^ntighton." This last reflection evidently gave my solicitor great satisfaction. "But," said I, with a painful doubt, "may there not be two Tabitha Trees ? After all, this may not be our one." "The name is singular," said Mr. Castleton, sententiously. " True ; but that singularity does not amount to proof." "I'll tell you something else. As soon as I had reason to take an interest in this Children's Hospital I looked at the names of its supporters, ill 1 among the names of the lady patfonesses I found the name of Mrs. Monk of Clapton, a good and charitable woman, in whose family Mrs. Cas- tleton's present housekeeper lived some years since. At my request Mrs. Castleton questioned our housekeeper about her former mistress, and the result of her questions was the discovery that Miss Tabitha Tree, the present matron of the Marchioness Street Hospital, entered Mrs. Monk's service as a nursery-governess, at a date that must have been very shortly after your Etty Tree's flight from Laughton. In Mrs. Monk's family the housekeeper and the nursery-govern- ess were on terms of equality, and consequently my wife's housekeeper had good means of ascer- taining all that Miss Tree allowed the world to know about herself. It appears, then, that when she entered Mrs. Monk's family she had only recently arrived in London from the country. She was quite ignorant of the topography, public buildings, and amusements of the town ; but she ■ never manifested any curiosity about them, all her care being apparently directed to the welfare of the children placed under her charge. To my housekeeper's inquiries she admitted that she had passed all her previous life in an out-of-the-way province ; or, as my informant expressed it, 'right in the country.' But she was ^venj close about her past life, loould never talk about the places in trhich she had lived be/ore coming to Mrs. Monk's, and alivai/s kejd herself to herself.'' She was an excellent nurseiy-governess, and much esteemed by Mrs. Monk, but in the opinion of the house- keeper was ' a mystery !' " " All these facts," I said, when Mr. Castleton paused, " go far to accomplish the work of iden- tification, l)Ut still they are not conclusive.'" The doubt having once risen in my mind as to the identity of Tabitha Tree of Laughton and Tabitha Tree of the Marchioness Street Hospi- tal, it was not to he removed Ly any ordinary sort of ch-cumstantial evidence. "Well, then, I will tell you something else," said Mr. Castleton. He always kept the best point of a communi- cation to the last, and I felt sure that it was now about to be revealed. The smile of my lawyer's face told me so. " When I was at Laughton," he continued, ' ' I saw her portrait — a rather well-executed crayon sketch, which a traveling artist had taken of her for Mrs. Gurley's pleasure. I remarked that por- trait, examining it carefully, and laying up all its peculiarities in my memory. Well, yesterday I happened to be passing along Marchioness Street, when it occurred to me that I should like to inspect the interior of the hospital to which I had so recently contributed £10. So I knocked at the door, and on the porter opening it, I stated tluit I was a subscriber to the hospital, and I should wish to look at the wards. From the man's countenance it was clear that my ajijilica- tion was unusual ; but he went to the matron's room, and brought her to me. The moment that I saw her / knew her to be the lady ivhose portrait I had seen at Laughton, in Mrs. Gurley's drawing- room. It only took me a few minutes to inspect the wards, but dui-ing that short time I saw enough of jMiss Tree — in the kindness of her tone to the unhappy little patients, in the delight their countenances evinced when she approached them, and in her graceful simplicity to me, to be sure that the Gurleys had not overrated her good qualities. She manifested a little curiosity about my name, and asked me if I would not make an entry in the visitor's note-book, to the efl'ect that I had inspected the wards, and been gratified by what I saw there. But, of course, I did not com- ply. It was my business to learn who she was —not to let out who I was. Now, Miss Blake, have we unearthed her?" '"We have unearthed her I" I answered em- 148 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. ))haticalh-. "Oh, Mr. Castleton, yon wonder- ful iiiiin ! Ydu seem to know something about C'Vfiy thing and every body. At ])rosent, we can n.it say what good tiiis discovery will do us. But ;iny iiow it is an omen — a bright omen for the f(Uurc !" . •' Exactly so, Miss Blake — it is a bright omen ! "We had just come to that point when we sorely needed a little refreshing encouragement, and uiiw we have it." But though I saw clearly the propriety of not disturbing Tibby Tree in the retreat she had cliosen for herself, I could not rest content witli-, out 'loing something to aid her in her charitable uUvlertaking. Mr. Castleton's inquiries into the system and object of the hospital convinced him that it was a most excellent institution. Its only want was a want of funds ; and that want, after much con- sideration, I determined to sujjply. I was no longer the rich woman I had once been ; but I still had the use of my villa at Fulham, the land round it, and the ijiterest of the £50,000 in the liinuls of my trustees. In all I had a well-a])- piiinted residence, and a little more than £2000 ]i"r auiinm. Trecluded as I was from society by my domestic troubles, I therefore still had ample wealth ; and I resolved to devote a portion of it to protection of the poor sick children of London. Tlie solemn and sacred memory of my own dar- ling babe, lying in its last rest in Burstead church, encouraged me to give such aid to Tibby Tree. I therefore directed Mr. Castleton at once fn take measures to put into the hands of the hos- ])ital committee £1000, on condition they forth- with enlarged the liosjjital and increased their number of bsds. I also promising to give the charity a sufficient annual income to support the new wards and a part of their inmates. The details of this arrangement I left to Mr. Castleton ; and he, persevering in his pl.an of caution, paid my contribution in to the commit- tee under the name of " Grace Temple ;" where- upon they added another huge, dusty old man- sion to the original domicile of the charity, and in compliment to their benefactress named it afier her, "Grace Temple." I more than once recreated myself with walk- ing down the ]iavement of IMarchionoss Street, and with looking at the front of the hospital I had benefited ; but I neither entered its walls, nor set eyes on Tibby Tree, till about two years had elapsed since the dute of my benefaction. CHAPTER III. ■WHAT IT POINTED TO. Aftkr anotlier ten months, when as I sat in my garden at Fulham, with bees and butterflies making music and brisk life around, and with the silent traffic of the river aiding tlie sunlight and the sliaile to detain me in a luxiu'ious day- dream, Dr. Ciarges drove n\> to tlu; door, and nlighting from his phaeton came across the lawn to the corner where I was sitting Mr. Castleton had brought down the first game in om* long search ; and now Dr. Ciarges was to show tliat he also was a good sportsman. ".My dear," the kind old man said, "I came ujj last night from Berkshire." "From Berkshire ?" "Ay, and you must be prepared to-morrow by nine o'clock a.m. to start with me on an ex- cursion down into Berkshire." "What I" I exclaimed, starting up from my cliair — the butterflies, and the odoriferous flow- ers,' and tlic silent silver Thames, and myliapjjy da\--dream all driven out of my head, "you have not discovered Etty Tree ?" " That remains to be proved ; but I have dis- covered at the Belle Vue Lunatic Asylum, just nine miles distant from Reading, a lady named Annette Watchit." "Annette Watchit?" "Ay! And if I am not mistaken we shall find tliat Annette Watchit is Etty Tree." "Dear doctor, don't be slow. Tell me every thing in an instant." "Nay, I can't do that. You made a heart- rending story of how Castleton tortured you when he revealed to you his discovery of Tibby Tree ; now it is my turn to play with your feelings. But I will be as brief as possible. To begin, then : two montiis since there came to my hands a check for £100 drawn by Dr. Hankinson, the proprietor of the Belle Vue Asylum, upon ' Pe- tersham and Blake,' of Lombard Street. I had no personal knowledge whatever of Dr. Hankin- son, but I knew him by repute to be one of the most successful mad-doctors in the kingdom. Ills establishment, called ' Belle Vue,' is a mag- nificent country mansion — one of the best houses, indeed, in all Berkshire — and stands in a fine park, through which a river, well-known to an- glers, takes its course. Ilis rates of charge for the care of patients I also knew to be very high — varying between £300 and £400 per annum. Tiie clieck of which I speak was passed into my hands by a Berkshire tradesman, and roused tlie suspicion of my already sus])icious temper. 'A check,' I said, ' for£100 on PetershamandBlake ! The sum would be exactly the fee for one quarter of a year's care of one of Dr. Hankinson's first- class patients.' Of course, by itself, the circum- stance was not worthy a. moment's thought. Doubtless many of the wealthy persons who had confided insane relatives to I)r. Hankinson's care kept accounts with 'Petersham and Blake,' and it was quite natural that any such ])erson (to relieve himself cif unnecessary thought and trouble about a painful matter) should cm))Ower Dr. Hankinson to draw to the amount of his fees uj)on his London banker Such an arrangement is not only cxplical)]c, but accords with every- day usage. It was credible that Dr. Hankin- son drew quarterly a hundred-pound note from several diti'erent London baidvcrs, who had re- ceived directions to honor his checks to that or even a far greater amount. Still the occurrence was enough to put me on the alert, and to make me determine that I would on the first oi)])ortu- nity ])ay Dr. Hankinson a visit. Without much dilliculty^ found a ]iliysician who could give me a suitable letter of introduction to Dr. Han- kinson ; when, just as T was looking out for two vacant days on which to go down to Berkshire, I fortimatcly was consulted by the family of Lord OMkfield as to a pro]ier asylum for the confine- ment of that uuhapiiy and notorious nobleman, Kiuiwing that Dr. Hankinson in' his spacious es- tablisliiui'ut I'eccived patients of both sexes, I sug' gistcd ' Belle Vue' as a fit place, and oftered, as OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 149 T Iiappencd to be goinj; into Horksliire in the course of a few dayt^, to speiik to Dr. Ilankinsoii on tlie subject. Tiiis oft'cr was, 1 need not, say, accepted, and I went down to 'Belle Vue' with two introductions to Dr. llankiuson's favor — namely, a letter from one of his most intimate friends, and a mission to place in his hands an aristocratic and opulent jiaticnt. 1 think that the latter was the more effectual. "Of course Dr. Ilaukinson was familiar with my jjrofessional position, and was well jdeased to receive as a guest one so well able to assist him in his vocation. After inspecting all the arrangements for the doctor's jxxtients (and tlic arrangements I must say are admirable — really no one would object to be mad if he was secure of being sent to such a delightful place as ' Belle Vuel') I found myself sitting down to an ex- cellent dinner with Dr. ILmkinson's wife and daughters. Dr. Hankinson and I were the only gentlemen of the party ; and when the ladies left us we had a little confidential chat over some Burgundy, that really, Olive, is almost as good as vours. " ' What is the history,' I said, ' of that young nudancholy creature you spoke to, near the fount- ains, half an hour before dinner, just as we left the aviary ? You remember her? slight figure, and delicate face (full of sadness), with a profu- sion of golden hair ?' " 'Ah,' said Dr. Hankinson, filling his glass (I noticed that he drank rather freely), ' that's a painful and very singular case. That beautiful girl was some years since Sir George Watchit's toy — either mistress or wife (there is some doubt whether he married her), and. she is the vic- tim of a most extraordinary hallucination. Sir George Watchit lived with the girl abroad, in Monaco and elsewhere, and when he grew tired of her, left her and her babe and went back to the East. Her madness takes as strange a form as I iiave ever known insanity take. Sir George Watchit's intimate friend was Mr. Petersham, now Lord Byfield, poiiits to tpn'/t." "I am afraid it does." "Dr. Clarges — J hojie it does! Wliy do yon say that you are a/raid it does ?" "My dear girl," said the doctor, "I can not help remembering what yon would be in the eyes of the world if you should succeed in proving that Lord Byfield had done you the most crtul in- jury a man can do a woman." "Never mind that, my dear old friend," I said, feeling, however, warm tears rise in my •eyes; "I slioidd then only be in reality what I now cull myself — Olive BlaLe." CHAPTER IV. BELLK VUK. Aa we traveled down into Berkshire Dr. Clarges and I had time to discuss more fully the nature of Etty Tree's ))osition at Belle Vue, and the ]irobability of our being able to induce Dr. Ilankinson to surrender his jjatient into our cus- tody. My wish was to take her back with us to Fulham ; but Dr. Clarges and Mr. Castleton both foresaw many contingencies which would render it nnadvisable for me to do so. If Dr. Ilankinson should be opposed to our taking pos- session of her, wc clearly could nut compel him to give her up to us without using measures which would j)Ut an end to all possibility of keeping our movements unknown to Lord By- field. Notwithstanding the ex])osure of the tri- al. Lord Byiield was still a personage highly re- spected by the world. The scandal of the scene in Westminster Hall had blown over, and those who bore it in mind only regarded it as one of those " awkward afi'airs" which were too com- mon, a generation since, to cover those concern- ed in them with lasting obloquy. As a finan- cial jjower in the country his ]iosition had great- ly improved duiing the last year and a half; and tliough society severely censured him (fori*' nine days") for his conduct to me, it had learned to be charitable to the peer and the jiowerful cajii- talist. It was true, he and his wife lived ajart from each other by an amicable arrangement, but (said society) it would never do to put every man under a ban who did not find it agreeable to live with a wife united to him by a iiiariwje de coiwenarice. Moreover, Sir Charles Norton, who was responsible for Etty's confinement, was still the intimate friend of Lord Byfield. If, therefore, Dr Ilankinson should inform the Sec- retary of State that an attempt was being made to remove Etty Tree from Belie Vue, there could be no doubt that the intelligence would be promptly conveyed to his lordship. "I do not see how we can get hold of her without letting Dr. Hankinson in some measure into our confidence, and inducing him to be a sort of negative coadjutor in our arrangements," observed Dr, Clarges. "To what motives w ould he be most likely to prove obedient?" "To interested ones," returned the doctor, curtly. "Indeed?" "Ay. Ilankinson has a high reputation; but successful as he has been in his department of my profession, I know that he is to some ex- tent an embarrassed man. His establishment at 'Belle Vue' is necessarily very expensive. For the accommodation of his aristocratic pa- tients ho has to maintain horses, equipages, and servants suiHeicnt for the dignity of a duke. Moreover, he is a man of costly ])leasures. He hunts and visits on terms of equality with the leading county families bf his i)art of Berkshire, and he amuses himself with the turf and high l)lay. I do not mean to say that he is running on the road to unavoidable ruin ; but he is un- questionalily improvident, and has to jump at every chance of getting a new patient. Indeed I know that in some cases he has lowered his terms rather than have an/ portiop of his house unoccupied." "The more reason why he would be un"will- ing to give up a cpiiet jjatient w^ho troubles him but little, and ])ays liim £400 a^year." "Well, so it is a reason, viewed from one point." The doctor said these words with such a pe- culiar accent and significance that I started in my seat, and said, " Surely you don't think of olicring him a bribe f OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. 151 "Well, Miss Olive," answered Dr. Clarges with a smile, "if I do, I sha'n't call it by that name." " Speak more plainly." " I will. Dr. Hankiuson (agreeable and ac- complished man though he is) is a determined, perhaps I might say an unscru])uloiis, man of business. He will do completely and thorough- ly his duty to all patients committed to his care. That is to say, he will cure them if he can. But he will take every possible means to get more of them. Now he is doubtless this very day say- ing to himself, 'It is very convenient to have one of the vacant places in my house filled up by Lord Oakfield ; and I like my new patient all the better because he is sent to me by a success- ful and fashionable physician, with whom I have previously had no dealings, and who, if he likes, can send me one or two more patients every year. I must be carefid wliat I do with Dr. Clarges. I must take care to please him.' " " Of course. I see." "Suppose, then, that I say to Dr. Ilankinson, 'Etty Tree no longer stands in need of your surveil/ance. She never required it from a med- ical ]>oint of view, but simply that she might not annoy a particular lady, who, far from wishing the young woman to be confined in your asylum any longer, wishes to make her a member of her own family. I could easily make you give her into my hands, for I can produce the girl's next of kin, who would engage that the hallucination under which she labors should never be again a cause of annoyance to Lord Byfield. But com- pulsory measures would entail a certain amount of publicity, which I am especially anxious to avoid. Now your engagement with Sir Charles Norton is to keep her in safe custody. You shall continue to do so by me, who will act in the mat- ter as your agent. I will become responsible to you for her security, and I will let you see her as often as you wish. Indeed I will engage to bring her down here to stop for a few days once or twice in the year, so that you may still regard her as being on the roll of your patients. By acceding to this proposition you would (jreatly oblige me!' Suppose, Olive, I said this to Dr. Hankinson, do you, think he would accede to my wishes ?" "Yes; unless you have misread his charac- ter." ' ' And I should not have to talk about bribes ?" added the doctor, with a smile. It was drawing on to the latter part of the aft- ernoon when Dr. Clarges and I drove through the park of Belle Vue. Dr. Hankinson was awaiting our arrival on the terrace, and assisted me from the carriage, with an expression of the pleasure it gave him to receive me as his guest. He was a handsome, well-bred man of the world, but he did not please me. Dr. Clarges had arranged that he and I should dine alone with Dr. Hankinson, and that I should not see more of Mrs. Hankinson and her daugh- ters than the ceremony of a formal introduction should necessitate. I had come to Belle Vue purely as a "business visitor," and the proprie- tor of the asylum was in the habit of displaying hospitality to "business visitors" of both sexes, without introducing them into Mrs. Hankinson's drawing-room That lady and her family lived in a detached part of the house, and had theii- own grounds and conservatories apart from those ke]>t up for the delectation of the patients. After dinner, as soon as the servants had left us, our conversation turned upon ICtty Tree, when Dr. Hankinson, who either really was, or feigned to be, ignorant of my relationship to Lord Byfield, said, "Dr. Clarges has already told me. Miss Blake, that you are aware of the alarm this poor creature's hallucination caused Lady Byfield some three years or more since. But perhaps you are not aware; of another remark- able feature of her insanity. She has a son, whose father was Major (afterward Sir George) Watchit. This child she secreted somewhere before she was captured and given over to me. Where he is no one that we can discover knows besides herself. Again and again, by arguments and artifices, I have endeavored to make her re- veal where he is concealed, but my eftbrts have been ineffectual." "I knew she had a child," I remarked, curtly. " Her motive for concealment is the prepos- terous belief that Lord Byfield wants to obtain possession of the child, in order to remove him as an evidence of his intimacy with her." "Boor thing!" I said, pityingly. ' ' Ay, you may well pity her. Away from her hallucinations, and its attendant delusion with regard to her child, she is the sweetest creature imaginable. She is quiet, tractable, eager to please, and singularly devoid of the petty art- fulness which to their professional attendants is the most troublesome of the ordinary character- istics of the insane. I have long since allowed her itnusual indulgences in the way of liberty. Attended by her nurse (a most intelligent and pleasant young woman) she may go wherever she pleases about the park; but on week days she hardly ever cares to go beyond the precinct of the little garden in which we have our orna- mental water-works. She is very particular to attend the village church, wliich you may see in the corner of the park yonder, twice every Sun- day ; and when she is not observed she is very fond of reading the Bible, and committing whole chapters to memory. Before she came to us her favorite comer of our grounds used to be called 'the fountain garden,' but we have got into the habit of calling it now ' Lady Byfield's garden.' " "Oh then you address her by the title to which she imagines she has a right?" " No, we do not. But my patients often play upon each other's delusions. It is strange how they frequently appreciate the folly of their fel- low-sufferers' hallucinations, and yet retain faith in their own. Consequently, knowing that poor Annette believes herself to have been married to a Mr. Petersham, who has since been created Lord Byfield, they sjieak of her in mockery apiong themselves as 'Lady Byfield.' Usuayy such raillery does no harm, for the afilicted per- son at whom it is pointed takes it as -a genuine recognition of the truth of that which constitutes his delusion. But this is not the case with jioor Annette. vShe knows her insane associates call her ' Lady Byfield' in mockery, and when she hears the title applied to her she bltislies, and, though she says nothing, I can sec that she is in acute pain." "Oh, Dr. Hankinson," I said, rising, deeply woundeil by this revelation, " take me to her in- stantly I" 152 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. "I will pladly Jo so," he answered. " She is most probably, this line summer's evening, in her customary seat in the bower, watching the fountains. Will you accompany me?" Leaving Dr. Clargcs with the assurance that he would soon rejoin him fur another glass of wine, Dr. Hankinson took me through the beau- liful gardens of Belle Vuc. Agreeable as it was to know that a favored few of my mentally af- flicted fellow-creatures had such a home, it was still painful to reflect that the terraces and walks that lay before me were daily trod upon by mad people. "Are you not afraid, doctor, of your patients escaping?" I said, as I surveyed the magnificent gardens, lying wide and open before my vision, with apparently nothing but noble lines of ever- green shrubs separating them from the park. He smiled, and leading me behind one of the luxuriant walls of shrubbery, showed me that the laurels and firs concealed a ha-ha containing a high fence of strong timber that ran quite round the spacious grounds. "Ah, doctor,"! said, unable to respond to his triumphant smile, "there are othtJi* prisons in this fearful world, the barriers of which are Jiid- den by an appearance of that which may con- tribute to ha))i)incss, but does not insure it !" " jMy dear JMiss Blake," answered my compan- ion, "I am not a moralist, but only a mad doc- tor. But sec, here we are in the 'fountain gar- den,' and there is Annette. Now I'll leave you. You can make yourself known to her. The only person in the garden besides herself is her nurse, who will keep at a resjjectful distance from you. You need fear no interruption from my patients ; for every patient has a keeper, who follows him every where." As he spoke he led me suddenly into a seclud- ed nook of the garden, in the midst of which a fountain threw up four ])erpendicular jets of water, which rose to about thirty feet, and then curving gracefully, fell down into a basin of white marble bedded in green turf. At the most distant corner of this nook I saw "the mad girl" sitting with her attendant in the summer-house. Oh. how altered she was ! What cruel work had three years and three months of detention among insane companions, together with silent agony of heart, accomj)lish- ed! Iler delicate face had lost its roundness; and the deep sadness that knows not bitterness of language sat on the brow of her who once was Solomon Easy's merry little romp. My stop ujjon the gravel path fell on her ear while I was still thirty paces from her. Taking her eyes suddenly from the arches of sparkling water, she looked at me, rose as if struck by an electric shock, and advanced to meet me witli long, quick steps. Twice she paused with a glance of terror, as if fearing herself the victim of a delusion ; but the ])auses were only instanta- neous. Then on again she came with the quick, long strides, such as an Indian hunter tracking his prey might make, and in another five seconds she fell into my arms, and embracmg me round the neck, exclaimed, "You've come at last, you've come at last to deliver me, to deliver me ! Merciful God, I thaidc thee!" Yes, the same merciful God who had brought mc to re])entancc of my sin, and had hitherto guarded Tibby in her dark night of trouble, had comforted Etty also with an assurance that "in His own good time He would, by my instrmiicntal- ity, jirove her innocent of that which I had laid to her charge." Drawing her to the nearest garden bench, I placed her like a child by my side, kissing and caressing her, and covering her with endear- ments. I told her all the story of my life since I had seen her, how God had jiunished my j)ride and cruelty to her with the death of my darling babe, and had freed me from the bondage of our betrayer, by showing me the full extent of his hateful wickedness. I told her that I believed her story from the bottom of my heart, perfectly, and without reserve of any kind ; and that by God's assistance I would clear away the clouds of dishonor that hung over her. I told her that I had been seeking her for many long weary months, and now that I had found her, she should be my friend till death parted us. I told her that I was acquainted with the history and noble occujjation of her sister Tibby, who, in her stern tribulation, w as laboring to lessen the sor- row of others. The moon had risen and was watching ns, when Dr. Hankinson found us arm in arm, walking like twin fond sisters in that fair garden of the mad. He said that we must part for the night, but ])i'omised that Etty should go home with me in the morning, for that Dr. Clarges had become responsible for her safety and wise treat- ment. So we were constrained to part for the night. "Good-night, Etty," I said, kissing her again. She took mo a few paces apart, and whisjjcred in my ear, "Good-night, Olive. Pray for me to-night. To-morrow night we will say our prayers together." Having said this she went away meekly with her attendant. Forme, I obe3'ed her request; and afterward, when I laid my head on my pillow, and thought of the silent sorrow of her quiet face, and her patient submissiveness under her just but heavy punishment, I loved her even as I love her now — as'though she were my sister. And as I reposed that night in the home of the insane, I reflected on my awful sleepless nights of agony in Burstead House, when I used to cry aloud, "Oh, God, have mercy on mc, and do not shatter my reason 1" CHAPTER V. ETTTS STOKT. Dk. Clakges (as was intimated in the last chapter) managed his negotiations so success- fidly with Dr. Hankinson, that the latter jjrom- iscul to allow E'ty to return with me to Fulliam on the next day. By the night of that next day I drove with the jwor girl (rescued from the captivity of a lunatiC' asylum) tln-ough the i)lant- ation surrounding the grounds attached to my villa, and in another minute she was beneath my roof. If ever woman sincerely repented the errors of a wayward and vain girlhood Etty Tree ex- perienced such repentance. After she had been with me at Fulhani for ten days, and I had studied her disposition more at leisure, I saw OLIVE D LAKE'S GOOD WORK. 153 tluit one of ihc dulies iiicuuilH'Ut uiioii iiie was to clicer her, and oiicouraKe lior not to take too desi)onilont a view of her y.xst career. I found lier literally s-tceped in .self-aliasenicnt. To the agonizing sh^nie with which she rellected on her heartless desertion of lier engagement to Julian Gower was a terrifying helief that, in so break- ing her troth, she had been guilty of the perju- ry most odious to her JNLiker as well as to man. She told me that, for herself, she had no wisli in life but to consume her days in prayer and jtious humiliation. If slie could l)ut accomplish one thing she would with contentment lead all the rest of her life in laborious obscurity, or forth- with die, imi)loring the Divine mercy to pardon her evil behavior. The one thing she desired to accomplish was /to prove the fact of her marriage with Arthur Fetersham. She did not want to bj recognized bv society as his wife, or to receive a crumb of liis prodigious wealth. But what she did want was to prove that the ceremony had been duly performed, so that when her boy grew to man- hood he might know that his mother (however vain and frivolous and false slie hail been) hail U2ver been guilty of that for whicli there is no pardon on tliis side of the grave. "Dear Olive — dear, dear Olive," she said, "do not think me seltish in this wish, or imagine that for any less important object I would wish to render your position more ])ainful than it is. But a mother's heart beats for her oftspring before all other things. Generous, noble as you are, Olive, if your darling boy were on the floor there before us, singing histily and talking nonsense to his tovs, you would value your position as the iri/'e of a wicked man differently from what you now esteem it at, and eten you might find it beyond your power to aid in restoring to me my lost good fame (I do not say my self-respect — that you can never restore to me)." And my recol- lectioTi of jjast trials told me how truly she spoke in saying this. But what had become of her boy ? It was one of the first questions I asked as she and I were traveling from Berkshire in the direction of town. "I do not know where he is," she answered, bursting into a flood of tears at the mention of her boy, "but we can find him." "How?" "Mr. Arthur Williams, of the Carlton Olub House, knows. You imderstand what they mean by the Carlton Club House?" "But how comes he to know about your boy?" " He was the gentleman who took mo from Lyons to London. He was very, very kind to me, and wanted to have me tell him all the par- ticulars of my sorrow, but I would not. Oh, he was so very kind to me. And just as we were parting in London, he said to me : ' My dear lady, whatever your story may be, I am sure it is only one of wretchedness. Your sorrowful face tells me of your goodness.' ' No, no, Sir,' I said. ' I am not a good woman. I have done what all good people condemn ; but I have not committed any wickedness wherefore the mer- ciful sliould shun me.' Then he asked me, ' Can I, now that we are in London, render you any service? Speak frankly to me.' It was with a great effort that I said, ' Sir, great peril sur- rounds me ; and yet what I do now, I must do secretly. There is a person in this mighty and great city who wants to rol) me of my child, and a terror is coming over me that my boy will be torn from me. It is a wicked man who wants to get possession of hiui.' 'Then,' said JNIr. Williams, ' it would be a relief to you if I jjro- vided for the child's security for a few weeks, till you know what you ought to do for his future comfort.' I said, ' Indeed it would !' And he then took my little child and put him into his carriage, saying, '.My wife will take good care of this little fellow till you communicate with me. Here is my card.' And I took his card, on which was engraved, ' Mr. Arthur Williams, Carlton Club.' And so lie took my child away, and I have never seen or heard of either of them since. After I left you on the day of my second visit to Grosvenor Square I was as one distracted. I walked about the streets, hour after hour, unable even to think what I should do. I can't say what I did in the streets, but i remember that people looked round at me with sarprise. I went to St. Thomas's, Kennington. Of course I re- membered nothing of the neighborhood ; but when I entered the church I knew it was not the church in which I was married, for it in no way whatever resembled the church to ^\■hich Mr. Petersham took me. Oh, dear Father in heaven, v.hat a consternation fell u])on me ! I saw that Mr. Petersham had married me in some other church, and had falsely told me that the name of the church was St. Thomas's, Kenning- ton. But I was determined to find out the right church. So day after day I walked aljout the streets searching for churches, and 'wherever I found a church I sought admittance to it, to see if by its interior 1 could recognize it as the church which I remembered so well. But I knew no- thing of the ways about London, and the cnurcli- es began to seem all so much like each other, and often I entered a church and discovered that I had already inspected it. One day a >.eadle said to me angrily, ' I don't believe, youn^< wo- man, nuich as you look like a lady, that you ought to be walking about London alone. You've been to this church six times within three days, pestering me to let you look inside it. You either are after something wrong, or you ought to be shut up in a mad-honse.' Oh, Olive, this fright- ened me almost into nnulness. He clearly thought me insane, and a fit inmate for such restraint as I had escaped from. But I still went on wan- dering over the streets of London looking out for churches. " Every night I found myself lost in the maze of streets and squares, and then I used to get into a cab and be driven home to the lodging in Soho which I had hired. But at last my money was well-nigh gone that the kind lady gave mc on jiarting with me at Lyons; yet still I con- tinued my perambulations, fiiint, and weaiy, and weeping, and hungry, and ftjarful that in another hour I shoidd go crazed. That was my sad plight when one day, as 1 was walking over a square (in what part of London 1 know not), images of all the faces I had ever seen came be- fore me. JNIydear grandfather, and Tibby, and Major Watchit, and Mr. Petersham, and yon, and Mr. Williams, and my little darling son, sur- rounded me — flitting to and fro before my eyes. Then I remembered the parable of the Prodigal Son, and how in his dire trouble aiul despair he said, ' I will arise and go to my father, and will 154 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. say unto liim. Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.' And I caught myself think- ing of Tibby, and that I would go back to her, liumbled and contrite, and say to her, 'I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy sister.' And as I repeated these words to myself, hands were laid upon me ; and struggling, and crying out for lielp which came not, I was captured, and forced into a carriage, and driven off to a house, where I saw Mr. Petersham and some other gentle- men." "Yes!" I said, quickly; "you saw him?" "Yes," she sobbed, as she continued her har- rowing reminiscences, " he was there, and I called him my husband, and implored him to tell me the church in whicli we were married, as it was not St. Thomas's, Kcnnington. I told him I would no longer trouble him, nor claim position before the world as his wife, but that I wanted to be able to get the proofs of our mar- riage, so tliat my child might not be dishonored when he grew up to manhood. Then two of the gentlemen jnesent, who 1 afterward found out were jjliysicians, asked me where my child was, nnd I would not tell them. Then my husband lifted u]) his hands, and said aloud in my pres- ence, ' Poor, poor Watchit ! it will break his heart if he can not know where his son is.' Tlien I saw the fidl purpose and wickedness of the bad man. I knew I was in his power. Ho I closed my lips and would not answer a single question they put to me. And then — Y''ou know the rest. I was taken down to Berkshire." Thei'e had not before existed in my mind any doubt that Lord Bytield had himse(ftakQn the measures which led to her incarceration at Belle Vue, though the order consigning her to custody was made out by his friend ; but till Ett}^ nuide this revelation to me, my chain of evidence was somewhat defective. Hitherto I had rested my contidence on the revelations /te had led me to make to Sir Charles Norton, on the rjlances be- tween Jitiii and Sir Charles, on the /'act that he had once before consigned her to medical re- straint, and on the motive which I belicvcil Itiin to have for again incarcerating her. But now I had her testimony, which of course I could easi- ly corroborate l)y applying to Dr. Atkins or Dr. Teesdale, that Lord Byfield was jiersonally jires- ent at the medical examination which led to her comniitlal to Belle Vue. And yet Lord Bylield had assured me (at a time when he jirofessed to place every trust and confidence in me) that he did not know where Etty Tree was. To ■what did that falsehood point? It jiointcd to (juih .' "And Etty," I said, "}'ou arc quite sure about the name of the gentleman who has charge of your child? You are confident it is 'Jlr. Williams of the Carlton Club?'" "Quite," she answered, making another rev- elation tliat greatly affected me; "you sec I have made it a rule never to keep any thing about me that could lead to a discovery of that secr6t. So I destroyed his card ; for tliough I was treated with much kindness at 'Belle Vue,' I !iad no drawer, or writing-case, or j)laee of any kind iliat was not liable to be searched by Dr. Ilankinsiin. So 1 destroyed Mr. Williams's card ; but in order that 1 might keep his name and ad- dress fresh in my mind, I every day wrote them out on a jiiece of paper, and then immediately I had so written them out, I used to tear the pa- per up in small pieces so that not a letter could be distinguished. Sometimes I was caught so tearing up my paper with a cautious air, and that sim])le act was set down as a sign of my insanity by Dr. Ilankinson and his servants. Y''ou sec", you sec, Olive, I already talk of that fearful life from which I have just escaped as if it were al- together of the past." After my return with Etty to Fulham, almost my first work was to institute inquiries about Mr. Arthur Williams of the Carlton Club. The task of discovering him was not a difficult one, for his name was on the list of the members of the Club, to the frequenters of which ])lace he was known as a gentleman of ancient family and large estates in W^ales. Luckily he was still in London, not having yet left town for his coun- try seat. Mr. Castleton called upon him at the Carlton Club, and was received by him with ap- propriate politeness and caution. "It is quite true," said Mr. Williams, after being informed by Mr. Castleton of the pui-pose of his call, "that I have under my charge a child — a little boy — confided to me under very jieculiar circumstances ; but when I took charge of the child I promised his mother that I would surrender him to no one but her. I made this promise at a time when I was quite ignorant of her name and history — as indeed I still am. Such being the state of the case, I can not tell you the abode of the child till I am requested by her personally to do so. Perhaps you would not object to tell me the lady's address, so that I may call u]ion her." "He's a handsome, gentlemanly fellow," ob- served Sir. Castleton to me approvingly, ^hen he reported to me the above speech, "and I re- sjject him for his caution." Having had thus far such good reason to be satisfied with what I heard of his position and character, I wrote to Mr. Williams, inviting him to call u]ion me at Fulham Villa, where he would see the lady to whom he had rendered an im- portant service. The result of this missive was, that Mr. Williams saw Etty in mj' house, and told her of the school for little children in Brigh- ton, where her boy was thriving admirably, and having achieved a reputation for being the clev- erest little follow, as well as the most beautiful little fellow, that his governesses had ever taught. "Sir," said T'llty, "I wish I could show my gratitude to you by putting before you all the secrets of my unhap])y life. But at present I must still be unknown to you. I trust, how- ever, the day will come when my son will be able to thank you fitly for your goodness to his mother." As soon ns Mr. Williams had taken his de- ]iarture I kissed her, and said, "Now, my dar- ling, get ready for a journey down to Brighton. We'll be posting to the Sussex clifts this very night." But instead of cordially concumng in this pro))osition she looked u]) at me piteously, and sliaking her head said, "No, no!" " Wliy, Etty, what do you mean?" "Tiuit I will not see him," she said, quietly, " till I can tell him without shame who his father OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOllK. 155 '• Bat dear one," I answered, "it may be years and years ere we discover the proofs of your mar- riage." "Possibly," 'she replied, dropping her head, " we shall never find them. And in that case — I — will — nevei- — see him." "Do not say that, Etty." "Olive," she said, turning up her gentle face, while the tears rolled down it fast, "I will try to win Heaven's mercy for my sins by making myself what our Lord tells us we ought to be. Hel|) me in my resolution to be unselfish like Tibby. Don't let me ever again shape my course by tiie rule of my own feelings. Were I guided by them now I should hasten with you to Brigh- ton, but my little boy is now old enough to ask his mother if he has a father. And soon he will be so old that, when he discovers his mother dares not answer this question ./''//y and tni/i/, he will feel the shame, and the bitterness, and the degradation of dishonored birth. I should give myself pleasure by discharging all the du- ties of a mother to him, but I should cause him ever-increasing anguish. No, Olive, since your bounty is going to provide for his education, let him hi brought up as an orphan, and let Mr. Castleton be his guardian. Let him be called 'Artiiur ^Yilliams' still, until we can show him that he has a right to the name of ' Arthur Pe- tersham.' Don't oppose me in this, Olive. It is not an idle fancy, but a duty. It is part of my just punishment. What I have hitherto en- dured I could not avoid. Ljt me not unworthi- ly shrink from the rest of my punishment, which my conscience tells me I ought to submit to vol- imtarily." And when she had said this, I saw by the fer- vor of her tearful eyes and by her folded hands that she was secretly addressing herself to the Master whom she served. So I was silent. Mothers can only know the awful extent of the self-sacrifice which chastened, penitent, gentle Etty resolved to make. It was a sacrifice of the sweetest joys of human affection — a sacrifice re- newed each day for years and j-ears. And she made it in love for her son, so that he might never know the anguish of looking on a shamed mo:her. Shall she not win Heaven's mercy — quia multuin amacit? So little Arthur was still called Arthur Will- iams, and was educated as an orphan child — first at Brighton, and afterward at Dr. Renter's school on Blacklieath ; Mr. Castleton discharging to- ward him all the ofiices of a cold and reserved guardian. CHAPTER VI. THE USE OF THE TATTING. Although Etty knew of her sister's abode and residence in Marchioness Street, she did not express a desire to visit her ; and I, instead of suggesting such a step, waitad for a spontane- ous manifestation of her wishes. It was not till she had been an inmate of Fulham Villa for some weeks that she gave me any intimation of her fe;;lings on the subject ; and then I learned that considerations akin to those whrch kept her away from her child made her shrink from the thought of asking for Tibby's embrace while a cloud of uncertainty hung over her fame. "Let me wait, Olive," she said, "for a little while, rerhajjs even tliis year nuiy bring a suc- cessful conclusion to your labors." The topic having been once entered uj)on she returned to it i'requently. She told me the his- tory of Tibby's childhood — her close companion- ship with Julian Gower — her strong affection (even to love) for him — Julian's ignorance as to the state of her feelings for him — her deep gloom of disappointment bravely struggled against, and her inability to conceal on one solitary occasion from a sister's eye the secret of her heart. In- deed, she told me nearly every thing concerning the early relations of Julian and her sister which the reader of this volume is familiar with. " Oh, Olive," she said to me, "when 1 took my wick- ed departure from Laughton I sustained myself with a hope that when I became the acknowl- edged wife of Mr. Petersham, Julian, in his gen- erosity — which is beyond that of all other gen- erous men — might so far pardon me as not to consider my baseness as a reason why he should not love Tibby, who had in silence and in sorrow loved him for so long. That hope was one of the fair visions by which Satan tem])ted me from the ]5ath of duty, at moments when the allure- ments of ])romised wealth and grandeur had less infiuence on my foolish mind." "Ettv,"I said, "why should not vour hope still be fulfilled?" "Do not mock me, Olive," she answered, so pitifully that I held back the thought which was wandering from my lips. But that thought returned to me again and again ; and after an interval of montlis I took a fit ojijiortunity to clothe it in words and put it before her. "Etty, I will not mock you, but will speak most gravely to you," I said to her one fine morning in the first spring of her eight years' residence at Fulham. "Let me cherish a ro- mantic dream and communicate it to you ; for there is a charm about my life that makes my romantic dreams come true. I believe that Tib- by may even yet become the wife of Julian Gower. He is rich, honored, and sun-ounded by friends. Yet he does not marry. How is this ? It is more than seven years since he met with a disappointment in your affections — a pe- riod of time long enough for such a man to out- live such a sorrow in. He is not embittered — that I know ; for I have received especial tidings of him, his character, and his proceedings, sev- eral times within the last twelve months Surely such a man as he is must yearn for the delights of home — the afl'ection and adoration of wife and children. You, in your farewell letter to him, told him that our good, heroic, self-sacrificing Tibby had always loved him ardently. Such a comnumication, made to such a man, was seed that must bear fruit. Do you not think that the explanation of his not having ere this married is that he waits, hojnng one day to find out Tibby and foi'ce her to be his wife ? Etty, let me take some means to inform him where Tibby is, and there will be good hope for the fulfillment of your dream and mine." She shuddered as she said, "That could never be, so long as there was any uncertainty sur- rounding my career. If I were dead, what we ho])o might come to pass — that is to say, if they knew that I were dead." 156 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOIIK. She had of her own accord gone to the very point which had embarrassed me in my schcm- ings, but whicii I could not myself have directed her attention to. We were silent for several minutes — she lying Ml a sofa in deep, brown study, and I, that my [)resence might not disturb licr meditations, con- tinuing to embroider a jiicce of muslin. " Olive," she said at last, rising from the sofa and coming close up to me, and looking with her earnest violet cj'es into the secrets of my heart, "I know your thought. It is a right one and a glorious one. Cause Julian and Tibby to be- lieve that I am dead. You can manage it, for you have JNIr. Castleton and Ur. Clarges, and tlieir strange, mysterious agents to carry out your wishes. Let them think that I am dead. They will mourn for me, and bury me tenderly in their sweetest imaginations ; and after the lapse of one or two years they will look out on life a.s though I were not. Do this. Dear, dar- ling Olive, do this!" iShe was earnest in her entreaty at the time ; and so earnest was she after the excitement of the first consideration of tlie scheme, that she again and again, in the course of the next fort- night, reverted to our vaguel3'-coneeived plan, and urged me to act promptly. The next thing I did was to speak to Mr. Castleton, who, after some ten days of consid- eration, told me that I must leave all tlie details of a certain project he had framed to him, and must do exactly what he bade me. He direct- ed nie to take an occasion to accost Tibby Tree, without letting her imagine who I was, and tell her a story of a wicked girl's life in such a man- ner that Tibby should believe she was listening to the narrative of her own sister's shame. He told me the tale that I was to repeat to the hos- pital matron; and when he had given me exact instructions how I was to conduct myself on the occasion of addressing her, he too prepared to take his leave of me, saying, " And now I must devise a plan for your meeting her." "You must remember, Mr. Castleton," I said, "I have never yet even seen her, and am alto- gether ignorant of her personal appearance, save from your description and Etty's." "True," he answered, "you must acquaint yourself with her personal appearance. Go next Sunday evening to i\Iarchioness Street, and walk lip and down the street till you see a little pale Woman sitting in the bow-window of 'Grace Temple.' Miss Tree is in the habit of sitting every Sunday evening in that window. You will not miss her." Acting on Mr. Castlcton's orders, I drove into London on the following Sunday evening, and L'aving my carriage at thc^ corner of Gordon Square to wait till my return, I went to Mar- chioness Street; and tiie very first time I walk- ed ilown the street and looked nj) at the hos- ]iital, I saw, sitting at the o])en bow-window, a lady, wiiom I recogniz d iniuKHliaJely as Tihby Tree, from the verbal descriptions I had had of lier personal aspect. She was very ])aie, and looked in wretchedly ill hcaltii. I passed b.'ftU'C the iiospital more than onrc; and each time I I)as-c;d I scanned her face — so that I was sure I siioidd know it again any wliere. And ere I r.'tiirii .d lo Fulham that night, F drove to Mr. Castlcton's private house, autl told hini that my expedition to Marchioness Street had proved successfLd. A few mornings afterward Jilr. Castleton made his appearance at my breakfast- ftible at Fulliam, and s;ud, "Miss Blake, I have business for you to attend to to-day. Miss Tree will in all jn'ob- ability be found walking in Hyde Bark some- where near Apsley House this very afternoon. You must meet her there." "How do you know she will be there?" I asked. "Mr. Rover, the house-surgeon of the Sick Children's Hosjjital, who is a young friend and a family connection of mine, has induced her to ]jromise that she will \\alk in Hyde Bark for a little change," answered Mr. Castleton, signifi- cantly. "But are you sure that she will be near Aps- ley House?" Mr. Castleton smiled good-naturedly as he an- swered, " She told Mr. Kover that if she M-cnt to the Bark she should go straight to the Duke of AVellington's house and admire it. Now, no more questions, my inquisitive client. The com- l)act between us in tliis matter is, thatil am to order, and you are to obei/.'' And I did obey him implicitly. I went into Hyde Bark; and, after walking about for a couple of hours, I encountered the person I sought ; and I told her that story which Mr. Castleton had put into my lips ; and she thought that Etty was a wicked girl, sinking down lower and lower in the abysses of crime. So moved was she by my words that she fointed in my arms; and I conveyed her home to Marchioness Street in my carriage, and ere she had fully returned to consciousness I left her with the nurses of the hospital and departed — at the same time glad and sorrowful that I had accomplished my task so effectually. About three months after that event Mr. Cas- tleton called on me and said, "Can you get me a piece of lace, or fancy-work of any kind, made by Miss Tabitha Tree? Mrs. Gurley told me that Miss Tree used to be very clever in the pro- duction of tatting-embroidery, and that she made some of a very jjcculiar kind, called 'Cluster- tatting,' and gave it to her sister. Ask I\Iiss Annette if she has any of that lace. If she has any she must give it to me." It so hajipened that Etty had some of the veiy same "Cluster-tatting" about which Mr. Cas- tleton inquired. It was invented as well as worked by her sister, and Ett}' had it on a gar- ment wliich she rarely wore. At my request, therefore, she picked it off the article of dress, and I gave it to Mr. Castleton. "What do you want it for?"' I asked of him. "Miss Blake," he answered, passionately, stuffing the beautiful lace into liis pocket, "I would rather cut off my right hand than tell you at ])resent." Such excitement was so nnnsual with him that it both surprised and frightened me. It was not till after the exi)iration of years th{it I learned wliat a terrible nse Mr. Castleton had made of that tatting. In the following January, after the event just narrated, Mr. Castleton said to me, "Miss Ta- liithaTree not only believes that her sister and her sister's child arc dead, but she has erected a memorial to her in Highgate Cemetery. You OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WOllK. 157 had better not tell your friend Miss Annette tills." "Surely I ^Yill not,'' I said, trembling. "How have 'you succeeded in efl'ectinK this, IMr. Castleton?"' I then inquired. And he again answered nie passionately, " I will not tell you. I would rather cut off my riglit hand than tell you at present." So I asked him no more questions. " Eut," he added, when he had composed himself, "here is an engraving of the memorial erected by Miss Tree, which you may look at." As he spoke he took from his pocket a little hand-bill book containing sketches of monu- ments and mural devices, with the prices of them underneath; and No. 1 of the series of engrav- ings was one of Etty's memorial stone, thus in- scribed : In Memory of E T T Y TREE, and of All who loved her and ui'e no more, This Stone is erected by T I u i; Y T u E E. "This is a prospectus of a mural sculptor," said I, referring to the hand-bill book. "Exactly," said Mr. Castleton; "the mural sculptor who erect*! the memorial had, at my suggestion, prepared a few of these books, and I mean to-night to post one of them to Mr. Gow- cr. The sketch of memorial No. 1 will meet his eye directly he opens the letter." "A capital way to inform him of the fact." "lie will imagine that it comes to him sent by the sculptor as an advertisement in the ordi- nary way of business. I know something of i\Ir. Gower's character ; and if I am not mistaken in him, he will, on seeing the sketch, jiay a visit to llighgate, and, as he lives in that neighborhood, will frequently repeat his visit. Miss Tabitha Tree will also frequently go there ; and possibly, if we let them alone, they may one day encount- er each other in the burial-ground." In due course Mr. Castleton's prediction was verified ; for by the October next to the one suc- ceeding the date when this intelligence was com- municated to me Tibby and Julian met close to the memorial stone, and from that time they re- newed their old intimacy with each other. That Julian Gower was in the habit of call- ing on Tibby in the Marchioness Street Hospi- tal Mr Castleton duly informed me and Etty. All their movements were known to us, for my vigilant lawyer kept close watch on them through his agents ; and when, at\er the expiration of two years from the meeting of the two old friends and playmates in the llighgate burial-ground, Mr. Gower bought "The Cedars," and prepared to leave his bachelor residence at Ilampstead, wc knew that a wedding was approaching. And when Tibby and Julian were at last mar- ried, I and Etty, concealed behind a screen, wore among the rejoicing nudiitudo that thronged the church ; and we knelt down together, and i-e- peated after the clergyman the beautiful collect of the Church Service r "O merciful Lord and Heavenly Father, by whose gracious gift man- kind is increased ; We beseech thee, assist with thy blessing these two persons, that they may be fruitful in })rocrcation of children, and also live together so long in godly love and honesty, that they may see their children christianly and vir- tuously brought up to thy praise and honor, through Jesus Christ our Lord, yl/rtcn." At the close of that day, which we spent in gladni'ss at Fulham Villa, Mr. Castleton com- municated to me, and Dr. Clarges, and Etty the awful use that he had made of the "cluster-tat- ting." CHAPTER VII. FULIIAir, MONACO, AND ELSEWHERE. Frch the date of Etty's liberation from "Belle Vue" till I was able to restore her with an un- tarnished reputation to her sister eight years and a few weeks intervened ; during all which period she resided at Fulham Villa — never going be- yond the boundary of my pleasure-grounds save when she went into the village on missions of charity (which were frequent), or attended Di- vine service in the parish church (where she was a regular worshiper), or when on one or two very rare occasions (such, for instance, asTibby's mar- riage) she had an esjiecial reason for quitting her retreat for a short time. Wc left Bo-kshire with an understanding that Etty should visit " Belle Vue" once a year, and remain for a few nights within the walls of the Asylum, so that Dr. Hankinson might be able with an easy con- science to regard her as still upon the list of his patients. But Dr. Clarges made certain fresh representations to the proprietor of "Belle Vue," which induced him voluntarily to relieve Etty from the vexatious obligation to pay the Asylum periodic visits. She was, therefore, a continual inmate of my house, and a very gen- tle, cjuiet, loving, grateful inmate we all found her. Aunt Wilby (^as her health brote up be- fore the slow advances of old age) found in her an assiduous and devoted nurse. Jly father's faithful old servants became strongly attached to her ; and I (as I have already said) loved her as a sister. I loved her as 1 had never before loved any woman ! We called her by her maiden name — the serv- ants speaking of her as Miss Tree, Dr. Clarges and Aunt Wilby addressing her as Annetie, arid I employing for ordinary use in my close inter- course Avith her the endearing diminutive of "Etty," by which she was known in her girl- hood. Hers was a sad life at Fulham ; and I knew it was so, though she made it one of her first duties to conceal her sadness from me, and to appear both cheerful to her companions and contented in her retirement. Never did ex- clamation of fretful re])ining or impatience es- ca])e her lips. Week after week, when, on sum- ming up the results of the ])revious six days' la- lior, I had to say, "Not one step further made!" .';!ij oidy bowed her head submissively, and gave me soTuo affecting ])roofs of her gratitude or res- ignation. "Never mind — (lod will do it in his own good time I" "Oh, Olive, may the peace thai jiasscth all understanding be your reward!" Siu'h sjiccchcs as these she v.ould utter in a soft, silver voice ; and then she would put her delicate arm over my shoulders and kiss me. Hei" only amusement was to play solemn sa- cred music ui)on the organ, which formed a i)art 158 OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK. of the furniture of my library. She took sucli deep iind manifest pleasure in niusie that I en- deavored to prevail npon her to accom]jany mc to the public performances of " oratorios" during the season. But my jjroposal that she should indulge herself with even this grave diversion caused her so much agitation and pain that I did not ever renew it. "No, no, Olive," she said, " I do not wish to go into the world ; your organ gives my thoughts all the melody they re- quire. In your lovely garden I have all the rec- reation I wish for. I do not wish ever to go be- yond the boundaries of Eulham till it shall jjlease God to take away my shame." And so Etty lived with me for eight long years and some- thing more, leading as quiet, and secluded, and penitential a life as ever any religious lady lived in the calm, still ages that have left us only the tradition of their beauty. But what stejjs was I taking to obtain proofs of Etty's marriage ? My first proceeding (as the reader doubtless sup])Oses) was to do that sys- tematically which Etty, scared, terrified, and almost crazed, attempted to accomplish by lier own unaided weakness years before. I had all the marriage registers of London systematically examined. This was a work that consumed time, labor, and money; but it Avas accom- plished. There was not a single marriage regis- ter in London from which I failed to obtain ac- curate copies of all the records of marriages en- tered in it during the month.in which Etty stated she was married; but the labor was all in vain. The record of a marriage between Arthur Peter- sham and Annette Tree could not be found. How ■was this to be accounted for? My trusty and most reliable agents (procured for me by Mr. Castleton) were ordered to report minutely, in writing, the exact state of the registei^s from which the copies of registrations were made ; and I had not had one intimation that a register had been found showing any signs of mutilation, or obliteration, or alteixition of any kind. The explanation, therefore, could not be that one of the London registers had been tampered with. Again, it could not be that Etty was mistaken as to the month in which she was married, for all her statements coincided with the information obtained by Mr. Castleton in the "corn coun- try." Between her flight from Laughton and her marriage only one entire niglit had clajjsed. Of this she was sure. Mr. Castleton had learned from jNIr. Gurley the exact date of her flight, and it was the same as that given by herself. It was an unreasonable excess of caution, and an extravagant determination to do my work thor- oughly, that made me order my agents to co])y out the entries of all the marriages registered in the entire month of October, IS — . "Mr. Castleton," I said, brought to a stand- still, " what does this mean ?" "It means," he answei-ed, " that any how the young ])erson was not married in London." The tone in which he said this made mc re- spond sharply, "Surely, Mr. Castleton, aftei- all that we have discovered, you don't doubt that Etty was married?" " She 7)1(11/ have been married," the lawyer an- swered, sententiously. "Your first question re- ferred to the state of the London registers, and my answer to that question was, ' the young person was not married in London.' " "Surely she was not married in another city, and led by misrepresentation to believe that it was London." "Such mai/ have been the case," said Mr. Castleton, dryly, after a minute's consideration. " Any how, the suggestion is ingenious. When Sir George Watchit took her from Laughton she had literally never seen a larger town than that l)etty rotten borough. She was put into a car- riage and conveyed away jjost-haste in the hours of darkness. To avoid observation, as soon as the sun rose and it became light the blinds of the carriage were drawn down, so that she could see nothing of the country through wliicli she passed. By her own account it was quite a dark evening, with the lamps all alight, when she en- tered London. A young country girl, so con- veyed to a provincial city, and assured that she was jjassing through the streets of an obscure quarter of London, would of course believe the statement. Then every circumstance of her ex- liericnccs of the night be fore, and on the morn- ing oj' her marriage, favors the hypothesis you have just put forth. The necessity of avoiding ]>ub]icity (I am using her own statement) was ui-gcd upon her by Sir George Watchit as a rea- son why she should retire to rest immediately on arriving at the hotel, and decline the assistance of the chamber-maid of the hotel in making her toilet for the night. The ncftct morning, when she rose and .came into the private sitting-room for breakfast, she was surprised at finding the blinds of the room drawn down ; whereupon Sir George Watchit explained to her that the win- dows looked i;pon a street, that curious eyes were continually fixed upon hotel windows, and that therefore,, to avoid publicity, he had pulled down the blinds. After breakfast she was put into a close carriage, was conveyed to a church hard by, w-as married to her husband by an aged cler- gyman, was taken back to the carriage, and, without being allowed to return to the hotel where she slept, was carried straight oflF to the sea-side, where she was taken on board Mr. Petersham's yacht and conveyed abroad. On her journey trom the church to the sea-coast the same excessive jirccaution was taken (for in- stance, that of keeping the carriage-blinds down) to avoid publicity, or to prevent the yotmg person so aJ)stracted from taking any notes of the road icldch she icas traveling.^' ' • Surely, " I said, enthusiastically, ' ' that is how it viust have been !" "No, no," answered Mr. Castleton, coolly, smiling as he spoke. "Don't be so emphatic. I see no must in the matter, but only a little may. That's all. I say that your hypothesis is very ingenious, but it stands sorely in need of proof. Back it up with evidence, and I will say you are a very clever woman, and ought to be called to the bar." When Mr. Castleton left me I went to Etty and told her my new hy])Othesis, and asked her if she could recall any circumstance that would show it to be untenable. She was silent for several minutes, thinking over all the case I ]iut before her. At last she raised her face frtim her two hands, in which she had laid it to rest, and with that singular expression in her violet eyes which always show- ed when she was greatly moved, she said to me, "Oh, Olive! you have taken a weight