THE OGILVIES 
 
THE OGILVIES 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY THE AUTHOK OF 
 
 'JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN' 
 
 CfcAlK 
 
 Hontion 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 1882 
 
Printed by R. & R. CLARK, Edinburgh. 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 YEARS ago I used to say, that, if I ever wrote a book, it should 
 be dedicated to my mother. 
 
 The possibility, then contemplated almost in jest, has now 
 been fulfilled. The book is written : but all else is changed. 
 I will keep my promise still. 
 
 Let this, my first novel, which would have been a tribute of 
 tenderest affection to the Living, become an offering to the 
 ever-beloved memory of the Dead. 
 
 1849. 
 
 857 
 
THE OGILVIES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 She, like the hazel twig, 
 
 Is straight and slender ; and as brown in hue 
 
 As hazel nuts, and sweeter than their kernels. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 " KATHARINE, Katharine where is Katharine Ogilvie ?" 
 
 This call resounded from the entrance-hall of an old 
 family mansion, in which, between the twilight and moon- 
 light of a December evening, a group of young people were 
 assembled. 
 
 " Where is she ? why, staying to adorn herself, of 
 course," said a " young lady," the type par excellence of that 
 numerous class; being pretty-faced, pretty -spoken, and 
 pretty-mannered. " Was there ever a girl of sixteen who 
 did not spend two hours at the least in dressing for her 
 first evening party ? I know I did." 
 
 " Very likely," muttered a rather fine-looking young man 
 who stood at the door. " You do the same now, Bella. 
 But Katharine is not one of your sort." 
 
 The first speaker tossed her head. " That is a doubtful 
 
 compliment. Pray, Mr. Hugh Ogilvie, is it meant for your 
 
 cousin Katharine, or your cousin Bella ? " And Miss Isabella 
 
 Worsley, shaking her multitudinous ringlets, looked up in 
 
 & B 
 
2 
 
 THE OGILVIES. [CIIAV. 
 
 his face with what she doubtless thought a most bewitching 
 air of espikglerie. 
 
 But the young man was quite unmoved. He was appa- 
 rently a simple soul Mr. Hugh Ogilvie too simple for 
 such fascinations. " I wish some of you children would go 
 and fetch your cousin. Uncle and aunt are quite ready ; 
 and Katharine knows her father will not endure to be kept 
 waiting, even by herself." 
 
 " It is all your fault, cousin Hugh," interposed one of the 
 smaller fry which composed the Christmas family-party 
 assembled at Summerwood Park. " I saw Katharine staying 
 to tie up the flowers you sent her. I told her how scarce 
 they were, and how you rode over the country all this 
 morning in search of them," continued the wicked, long- 
 tongued little imp of a boy, causing Hugh to turn very red 
 and walk angrily away, and consequently winning an 
 approving glance from the elder sister of all the juvenile 
 brood, Isabella Worsley. 
 
 " Eeally, Hugh, what a blessing of a cousin you must be ! " 
 observed the latter, following him to the foot of the stair- 
 case, where he stood restlessly beating his heel upon the 
 stone steps. " One quite envies Katharine in having you 
 so constantly at Summerwood. Why, it is better for her 
 than possessing half-a-dozen brothers, isn't it, now 1 And 
 I dare say you find her worth a dozen of your sister 
 Eleanor." 
 
 Hugh made no audible answer, except beginning a long 
 low whistle sportsman-fashion. 
 
 "I declare, he is calling for Katharine as he does for 
 Juno how ve*ry flattering ! " cried Isabella, laughing. 
 " Eeally, Hugh, this sort of behaviour does not at all match 
 with that elegant evening costume, which, by-the-by, I have 
 not yet sufficiently admired." 
 
 " I wish heartily I were out of it," muttered Hugh. " I 
 had rather a great deal put on my shooting-jacket and go 
 after wild ducks than start for this dull party at Mrs. 
 Lancaster's. Nothing should have persuaded me to it 
 except " 
 
 '' Except Katharine. But here she comes ! " 
 
J,] THE OGILVIES. 3 
 
 At this moment a young girl descended the stairs. Now, 
 whatever the poets may say, there is not a more uncomfort- 
 able and unprepossessing age than " sweet sixteen." The 
 character and manners are then usually alike unformed - 
 the graceful frankness of childhood is lost, and the calm 
 dignity of womanhood has not yet been gained. Katharine 
 Ogilvie was exactly in this transition state, in both mind 
 and person. She had outgrown the roundness of early 
 youth; and her tall thin figure, without being positively 
 awkward, bore a ludicrous resemblance as the short, plump 
 Miss Worsley often remarked to a lettuce run to seed, or 
 a hyacinth that will stretch out its long lanky leaves with 
 an obstinate determination not to flower. This attenuated 
 appearance was increased by the airy evening dress she 
 wore: a half-mourning frock, exhibiting her thin neck 
 and long arms, the slenderness of which caused her other- 
 wise well-formed hands to seem somewhat disproportioned. 
 Her features were regular and pleasing; but her dark 
 almost sallow complexion prevented their attracting the 
 notice which their classical form deserved. The girl had, 
 however, one beauty, which, when she did chance to lift up 
 her long lashes a circumstance by no means frequent 
 was almost startling in its effect. Katharine's eyes were 
 magnificent : of the darkest yet most limpid hazel. Therein 
 lay the chief expression of her face ; and often when the 
 rest of the features were in apparent repose, these strange 
 eyes were suddenly lifted up, revealing such a world of 
 enthusiasm, passion, and tenderness, that her whole form 
 seemed lighted up into beauty. 
 
 " Come here, Katharine, and let us all have a look at 
 you ! " said Isabella, drawing her shrinking cousin under 
 the light of the hall lamp. " Well, you are dressed toler- 
 ably to-night ; your hair is neat and pretty enough. " It 
 was, indeed, very lovely, of a rich purple-black hue, its 
 silken masses being most gracefully folded round her small 
 head. " But, Katharine, child, what makes you so pale 1 
 You ought to be delighted at going to this grand soiree; I 
 only wish I had been invited in your stead." 
 
 " So do I, too. Indeed, Bella, it would have been much 
 
4 THE OGILVIES. [OHAP. 
 
 pleasanter for me to stay at home," said Katharine, in a 
 low, timid voice, whose music was at least equal to the 
 beauty of her eyes. 
 
 " You little simpleton to say so ! But I don't believe a 
 word." 
 
 " You may believe her or not, just as you like, Miss Bella, 
 nobody minds," answered Hugh, rather angrily, as he drew 
 his young cousin's arm through his own. " Come, Katharine, 
 don't be frightened, I'll take care of you ; and we will man- 
 age to get through this formidable literary soiree together." 
 
 She clung to him with a grateful and affectionate look, 
 which would certainly once more have roused Isabella's 
 acrid tongue had not Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie appeared. After 
 them followed a light-footed graceful girl in deep mourning. 
 She carried a warm shawl, which she wrapped closely round 
 Katharine. 
 
 "There's a good, thoughtful little Nelly," said Hugh; 
 while Katharine turned round with a quick impulse and 
 kissed her. But she only said, " Good night, dear Eleanor," 
 for her young heart had fluttered strangely throughout 
 all this evening. However, there was no time to pause 
 over doubts and trepidations, since her father and mother 
 were already in the carriage ; and thither she was herself 
 hurried by Hugh, with an anxious care and tenderness that 
 still further excited Isabella's envious indignation. 
 
 " It is a fine thing to be an only daughter and an heiress," 
 thought she. " But one can easily see how the case will 
 end. Hugh thinks, of course, that he may as well get the 
 estate with the title ; and uncle Ogilvie will be glad enough 
 to keep both in the family, even if Hugh is not quite so 
 rich as Croesus. I wonder how much money old Sir James 
 will leave him, though. Anyhow, it is a good match for a 
 little ugly thing like Katharine. But the husband she gets 
 will make matters even, for Hugh Ogilvie is a common- 
 place, stupid boor. I would not have married him for the 
 world." 
 
 Miss Worsley's anger had probably affected her memory, 
 since she came to pay this visit to her maternal grandfather 
 with the firm determination so to "play her cards" as 
 
I.] THE OGILVIES. 5 
 
 regarded Hugh, that on her departure she might have the 
 certainty of one day revisiting Summerwood as its future 
 mistress. 
 
 Let us thinking of the fearful number of her class who 
 sully and degrade the pure ideal of womanhood look 
 mournfully on this girl. She had grown wise too soon ; 
 wise in the world's evil sense. With her, love had been 
 regarded alternately as a light jest and as a sentimental 
 pretence, at an age when she could not understand its 
 character and ought scarcely to have heard its' name ; and 
 when the time came for the full heart of womanhood to 
 respond to the mystic, universal touch, there was no answer. 
 The one holy feeling had been frittered away into a number 
 of small fancies, until Isabella, now fully emerged from her 
 boarding-school romance, believed what her mother told 
 her, that " a girl should never fall in love till she is asked to 
 marry, and then make the best match she can." And until 
 this desirable event should happen which, at five-and 
 twenty, seemed farther than ever from her earnest longings 
 Miss Worsley amused herself by carrying on passing flirta- 
 tions with every agreeable young man she met. 
 
 But while Isabella's vain and worldly mind was thus 
 judging by its own baser motives the very different nature 
 of Katharine Ogilvie, the latter sat calmly by Hugh's side, 
 enjoying the dreamy motion of the carriage, and not dis- 
 posed to murmur at the silence of its occupants ; which 
 gave her full liberty to indulge in thought. 
 
 " It is very cold," at last observed Mrs. Ogilvie, trying to 
 make the most original observation she could, in order to 
 rouse her husband, who was always exceedingly cross after 
 a doze a circumstance which she naturally wished to pre- 
 sent if possible. A " humph " answered her observation. 
 
 " Don't you think you will get colder still if you go to 
 sleep, Mr. Ogilvie 1 " pursued the lady. 
 
 " Pray suffer me to decide that. It was very foolish of 
 us to go to this party, all the way to London, on such a 
 wintry night." 
 
 " But, my dear, you know Katharine must be brought 
 out some time or other, and Mrs. Lancaster's soire"e was 
 
6 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 such an excellent opportunity for her, since we cannot have 
 a ball at home on account of poor Sir James. Mrs. Lan- 
 caster knows all the scientific and literary world her 
 parties are most brilliant it is a first-rate introduction for 
 any young girl." 
 
 Poor Katharine felt her timidity come over her with 
 added painfulness ; and heartily wished herself on the 
 ottoman at her grandfather's feet, instead of on her way to 
 this terrible ordeal. But Hugh gave her hand an encourag- 
 ing pressure, and she felt comforted. So she listened 
 patiently to her mother's enumeration of all the celebrated 
 people whom she would be sure to meet. After which the 
 good lady, oppressed by her somnolent husband's example, 
 leaned her head back so as not to disarrange her elegant 
 cap, and fell asleep in a few minutes. 
 
 The carriage rolled through the unfrequented roads 
 that mark the environs of the metropolis. Katharine sat 
 watching the light which the carriage-lamps threw as they 
 passed, illumining for a moment the formal, leafless hedges, 
 until every trace of rurality was lost in the purely suburban 
 character of the villa-studded road. The young girl's 
 vision and the most outward fold of her thoughts received 
 all these things ; but her inner mind was all the while 
 revolving widely different matters, and chiefly, this unseen 
 world of society, about which she had formed various 
 romantic ideas, the predominant one being that it was a 
 brilliant dazzling compound of the scenes described in 
 Bulwer's " Godolphin," and Mrs. Gore's novels, passim. 
 
 It is scarcely possible to imagine a girl more utterly 
 ignorant of the realities of life than was Katharine Ogilvie 
 at sixteen. Delicate health had made her childhood solitary, 
 and though fortune had bestowed on her troops of cousin- 
 playfellows, she had known little of any of them excepting 
 Hugh and his sister. She had seen nothing of society, or 
 of the amusements of life, for her rather elderly parents 
 rarely mingled in the world. Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie were a 
 pattern couple for individual excellence and mutual obser- 
 vance of matrimonial proprieties. United in middle life 
 their existence flowed on in a placid stream, deep, silent, 
 
I.] THE OGILVIES. 7 
 
 untroubled ; their affection towards each other and towards 
 their only child being rather passive than active though 
 steady, very undemonstrative. So Katharine, whom nature 
 had cast in a different mould, became, as the confiding 
 and clinging helplessness of childhood departed, more 
 and more shut up within herself looking to no other for 
 amusement, seeking no sharer either in her pleasures or in 
 her cares. A life like this sometimes educes strength and 
 originality of character but more often causes a morbidness 
 of feeling which contents itself throughout existence with 
 dreaming, not acting. Or if, at length, long -restrained 
 emotions do break out, it is with a terrible flood that 
 sweeps away all before it. 
 
 Katharine was by no means sentimental, for the term 
 implies affectation, of which no stain had ever marred her 
 nature. But her whole character was imbued with the 
 wildest, deepest romance ; the romance which comes 
 instinctively to a finely constituted mind left to form its 
 own ideal of what is good and true. Her solitary childhood 
 had created an imaginary world in which she lived and 
 moved side by side with its inhabitants. These were the 
 heroes and heroines of the books which she had read, a 
 most heterogeneous mass of literature, and the beings who 
 peopled her own fanciful dreams. 
 
 One thing only was wanting to crown her romance. 
 Though she had actually counted sixteen years, Katharine 
 had never even fancied herself "in love," except, perhaps, 
 with "Zanoni." A few vague day-dreams had of late 
 floated over her, causing her to yearn for some companion- 
 ship, higher and nobler than any she had yet known, 
 something on which she might expend not merely her 
 warm home-affections, already fully bestowed on her parents 
 and on Hugh, but the love of her soul, the worship of her 
 heart and intellect combined. This longing she had of late 
 tried to satisfy by changing her ideal hero, on whom she had 
 hung every possible and impossible perfection, for a real 
 human being, that young poet whose life was itself a poem, 
 Keats. His likeness, which Katharine had hung up in her 
 room, haunted her perpetually, and many a time she sat 
 
8 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 watching it until she felt for this dead and buried poet a sen- 
 sation very like the love of which she had read, the strange 
 delicious secret which was to her as yet only a name. 
 
 And thus, half a woman and half a child, Katharine 
 Ogilvie was about to pass out of her ideal world, so familiar 
 and so dear, into the real world, of which she knew nothing. 
 No wonder that she was silent and disposed to muse ! 
 
 "Wake up, little cousin; what are you thinking about 1 ?' 1 
 said Hugh, suddenly. 
 
 Katharine started, and her reverie was broken. The 
 painful consciousness that Hugh might smile at her for having 
 been " in the clouds," as he called these fits of abstraction, 
 caused the colour to rise rapidly in her cheek. 
 
 " What made you imagine I was thinking at all 1 " 
 
 " Merely because you have been perfectly silent for the 
 last hour. Your papa and mamma have had time to fall 
 comfortably asleep, and I have grown quite weary and cross 
 through not having the pleasant talk that we promised our- 
 selves this morning. " 
 
 " Dear Hugh ! It was very stupid of me." 
 
 " Not at all, dear Katharine," Hugh answered, echoing 
 the adjective with an emphasis that deepened its meaning 
 considerably. " Not at all if you will now tell me what 
 occupied your thoughts so much." 
 
 But Katharine, sincere as was her affection for her cousin, 
 felt conscious that he would not understand one-half of the 
 fanciful ideas which had passed through her brain during 
 that long interval of silence. So her reply was the usual 
 compromise which people adopt in such cases. 
 
 " I was thinking of several things : amongst others, of 
 Mrs. Lancaster's party." 
 
 Hugh looked rather annoyed. " I thought you did not 
 wish to go, and would much rather have been left at home? " 
 
 " Yes, at the last, and yet all this fortnight I have been 
 longing for the day. Hugh, did you ever feel what it is to 
 wish for anything, and dream of it, and wonder about it, 
 until when the time came you grew positively frightened, 
 and almost wished that something would happen to frustrate 
 your first desire 1 " 
 
I.] THE OGILVIES. 9 
 
 " Was this what you have been feeling, Katharine ? " 
 
 "Perhaps so I hardly know. I enjoyed the anticipation 
 very much until, from thinking of all the wonderful people 
 I should meet, I began to think about myself. It is a 
 bad thing to think too much about oneself, Hugh is it 
 noU" 
 
 Hugh assented abstractedly. It always gave him much 
 more pleasure to hear Katharine talk than to talk himself ; 
 and besides, his conversation was rarely either rapid or 
 brilliant. 
 
 Katharine went on. 
 
 " It was, after all, very vain and foolish in me to fancy 
 that any one I should meet to-night would notice me in the 
 least. And so I have now come to the determination not 
 to think about myself or my imperfections, but to enjoy this 
 evening as much as possible. Tell me, what great people 
 are we likely to see 1 " 
 
 " There is the Countess of A , and Lord William 
 
 B , and Sir Vivian C ," said Hugh, naming a few of 
 
 the minor lights of the aristocracy who lend their feeble 
 radiance to middle-class reunions. 
 
 "I do not call these l great people/" answered Katharine, 
 in a tone of disappointment. "They are not my heroes and 
 heroines. I want to see great writers, great poets, great 
 painters," she continued, with an energy that made Hugh 
 open his eyes to their utmost width. 
 
 " Well, well, you little enthusiast, you will see plenty of 
 that sort of people too." 
 
 " That sort of people" repeated Katharine, in a low tone ; 
 and she shrank into herself, and was silent for five minutes. 
 A feeling of passing vexation even towards Hugh oppressed 
 her ; until a chance movement wafted towards her the per- 
 fume of her flowers the flowers to procure which he had 
 ridden for miles over the country that rainy morning. A 
 trifle sways one's feelings sometimes : and Katharine's at 
 once turned towards Hugh with an almost contrite acknow- 
 ledgment. She sought an opportunity to remove any pain- 
 ful impression that her sudden silence might have given 
 him. 
 
10 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 "Well, here we are almost at our journey's end, and 
 papa and mamma are still asleep. We shall have very little 
 more time for our talk, Hugh ; so make haste and tell me 
 what occupied your thoughts during that long hour of 
 silence ? " 
 
 " Not now, dear Katharine not now !" 
 
 He spoke at once more gently and more hurriedly than 
 Hugh Ogilvie was used to speak. Katharine was about to 
 repeat her question, when the carriage stopped. 
 
II.] THE OGILVIES. 11 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set, 
 And in the lighted hall the guests are met. 
 On frozen hearts the fiery rain of wine 
 Falls, and the dew of music more divine 
 
 Tempers the deep emotions of the time. 
 * * * * 
 
 How many meet who never yet have met, 
 To part too soon, but never to forget ; 
 But life's familiar veil was now withdrawn, 
 As the world leaps before an earthquake's dawn. 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 BEFORE Katharine had time once more to grow terrified at 
 the sudden realisation of her dreams of the world, she 
 found herself in the brilliant drawing-rooms of Mrs. Lan- 
 caster, following in the wake of her stately parents, and 
 clinging with desperate energy to the arm of her cousin 
 Hugh. Her eyes, dazzled and pained by the sudden transi- 
 tion from darkness to light, saw only a moving mass of 
 gay attire which she was utterly unable to individualise. 
 Her ear was bewildered by that scarcely subdued din of 
 many voices which makes literary conversazioni in general a 
 sort of polite Babel. Indeed, the young girl's outward 
 organs of observation were for the time quite dazzled ; and 
 she recovered herself only on hearing her mother say : 
 
 "Mrs. Lancaster, allow me to introduce to you my 
 daughter Katharine." 
 
 Now, ever since Mrs. Ogilvie had discovered an old 
 school-fellow in the celebrated Mrs. Lancaster, Katharine 
 had heard continually of the lady in question. Every one 
 
12 THE OGILVIEa [CHAP. 
 
 talked of her as a ;; clever woman " " a blue " " an extra- 
 ordinary creature " " a woman of mind ; " and somehow 
 the girl had pictured to herself a tall, masculine, loud-voiced 
 dame. Therefore she was agreeably surprised at seeing 
 before her a lady certainly not pretty, nor young, except 
 in her attire but, nevertheless, graceful, from her extreme 
 smallness and delicacy of figure ; there was nothing outr6 
 in her appearance except a peculiar style of head-dress, 
 which set off the shape of her face to much advantage. 
 This face was not remarkable for an intellectual expression, 
 though the features evidently perpetually struggled to 
 attain one. In spite of her semi-tragic glances, compressed 
 lips, and fixed attitudes, Mrs. Lancaster never could succeed 
 in appearing a genius ; but was merely an agreeable-look- 
 ing, stylish little lady. 
 
 In that character Katharine was not in the least afraid 
 of her. She felt the light touch of the jewelled fingers, 
 and listened to the blandest and best-modulated welcome 
 that female lips could utter, until the girl's prevailing senti- 
 ments were those of intense relief, deep admiration, and 
 undying gratitude towards Mrs. Lancaster. 
 
 Immediately afterwards a pale young man, who stood 
 behind the lady, timidly and silently shook hands with 
 Katharine's parents, and then, to her infinite surprise, with 
 herself. 
 
 " Who is that gentleman 1 I don't know him " said 
 Katharine, in a whisper, to Hugh. " Why did not mamma 
 introduce me and why did he not speak 1 " 
 
 " Oh ! it is only Mr. Lancaster, Mrs. Lancaster's husband," 
 answered Hugh, with a scarcely perceptible smile. "He 
 rarely speaks to anybody, and nobody minds him at all." 
 
 " How very odd ! " thought Katharine : whose idea of a 
 husband when the subject did occupy her mind was of 
 some noble being to whom the wife could look up with 
 reverent admiration, who was always to take the lead in 
 society, she following after like a loving shadow, but still 
 only a shadow, of himself. Katharine watched Mrs. Lan- 
 caster as she flitted about here and there, all smiles and 
 conversation, while the silent husband retreated tu u 
 
II.] THE OGILVIES. 13 
 
 corner; and she thought once more how" very strange it 
 was. She expressed this to Hugh, when, after great dif- 
 ficulty, they at last found a seat, and talked together in 
 that deep quietude which is nowhere greater than in a 
 crowded assembly of strangers. 
 
 But Hugh did not seem at all surprised. He had not 
 known the Lancasters long, he said, but he believed they 
 were a very happy couple. Mrs. Lancaster was a very 
 superior woman ; and perhaps that was the reason why she 
 took the lead rather than her husband. 
 
 "My husband shall never be a man inferior to myself; 
 I should not love him at all if I could not worship, rever- 
 ence, look up to him in everything," said Katharine, her 
 eye dilating and her cheek glowing. But when she caught 
 Hugh's look fixed upon her with intense astonishment, she 
 suddenly felt conscious that she had said something wrong, 
 and shrank abashed into her corner. She was not disturbed; 
 for Hugh did not answer a word ; but once or twice she 
 fancied she heard him sigh. 
 
 " Ah, poor Hugh ! " thought Katharine, " he imagines his 
 wild cousin will never amend. And yet, I only spoke what 
 I thought. I must not do that any more. Perhaps my 
 thoughts are foolish or wrong, since no one seems to under- 
 stand them." 
 
 And Katharine, glad as she had felt of Hugh's society 
 and protection in this gay place of desolation for so it 
 seemed to her experienced a feeling very like relief when 
 a lady near them addressed her cousin, and occupied his 
 attention so that she herself could sit still and think. It 
 was an amusement to her to watch the different combina- 
 tions of the kaleidoscope of moving humanity which passed 
 in review before her: looking at the different individuals, 
 speculating on their characters, or weaving little histories 
 for each. Katharine took most interest in her own sex, 
 who at least approached her idea of outward grace ; but 
 the " fine gentlemen " of a modern drawing-room did not 
 at all resemble the heroes with which the romance-loving 
 girl had peopled her world. She scarcely bestowed a 
 second glance upon any of them. 
 
14 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 At last, while her eyes were vacantly fixed on the door, 
 it opened and admitted a gentleman. One who in this 
 instance truly deserved the name. Katharine looked at 
 him : her gaze was attracted a second time a third un 
 til it rested permanently on him. 
 
 He was, in truth, a man of striking appearance. Not 
 from his personal beauty, for there were many handsomer 
 in the room, but from an inexpressible dignity, composure 
 of manner, and grace of movement, to which his tall figure 
 gave every advantage. His countenance was not disfigured 
 by any of the modern atrocities of moustache and imperial, 
 no starched white cravat hid the outline of his chin and 
 upper throat, and his black crisped hair was thrown back, 
 giving a classic beauty to the whole head. Yet its 
 character was neither Greek nor Roman, but purely English ; 
 the lines firm, sharp, and rather marked, denoted one 
 who had seen much, felt much, and is no longer young. 
 But no description of features would adequately convey an 
 idea of the nameless air which at once impressed the con- 
 viction that this man was different to other men. Even 
 slight singularities of dress usually puerile and contemp- 
 tible affectations were by him made so completely sub- 
 servient to the wearer, that the most captious could not 
 accuse him of conceit or eccentricity. 
 
 This was he on whom Katharine's young eyes rested the 
 moment he entered the room. She watched his face with 
 a vague deepening interest, feeling certain that she had seen 
 it before it seemed so familiar, yet so new. His form 
 appeared at once to individualise itself from every other in 
 the room ; her eye followed it with a pleased consciousness 
 that it brought sunshine wherever it moved. Poor Katha- 
 rine ! The world may laugh as it will at " first impres- 
 sions" 
 
 Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all 
 
 but there are in human nature strange and sudden impulses, 
 which, though mysterious in their exercise, and still more 
 so in their causes, are nevertheless realities. 
 
 Katharine watched this man for a long time. Sometimes 
 when he came nearer, she listened and caught a few tones 
 
II.] THE OGILVIES. 15 
 
 of his voice : they were like his face, culm, thoughtful, 
 expressive, and they went to her heart. 
 
 "What are you looking at so earnestly, Katharine ?" 
 
 Katharine had no reason to conceal her thoughts, so 
 she frankly pointed out the object of her contemplation. 
 
 "Look at him, Hugh ! Has he not a pleasant face ?" 
 
 Hugh could not see any such face, or would not. 
 
 " There ! standing by the lady at the harp. I have 
 watched him a long time. I feel sure 1 must have seen 
 him somewhere before." 
 
 " In the clouds, very likely," answered her cousin, with a 
 sharpness rare to his quiet manner. " You could not have 
 seen him anywhere else, for he has but just come from 
 abroad. I have seen him here once before ; but no one 
 excepting my romantic little cousin ever called Lynedon 
 handsome." 
 
 " Lynedon Lynedon. Is that his name ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and that is all I know about him. But, Katharine 
 there, your eyes are wandering after him again. Why, 
 you will be noticed if you look at him so much, even though 
 you do think him handsome." 
 
 "I do not," said Katharine, quietly; "but his face 
 seems as if I knew it. It is pleasant to me to look at him, 
 as it is to look at a picture or a statue. However, I will not 
 do so if it is wrong, or at all events rude. I do not know 
 the world so well as you, dear cousin." 
 
 Hugh's countenance brightened, and he said no more. 
 Meanwhile, Katharine persevered for at least five minutes 
 in looking in the direction exactly opposite to Mr. Lynedon. 
 At last, casting her eyes in the mirror, she saw the reflection 
 of his face as he stood silent at the opposite end of the room. 
 That face in its thoughtful repose revealed to her the vague 
 likeness which had at once made it seem familiar and dear. 
 In character it strongly resembled the head of Keats, which 
 had been her admiration for so many months. As the 
 fancy struck her Katharine's cheek flushed, and a strange 
 thrill shot through her heart. She looked at him again, 
 and still the likeness seemed to increase. It was a pleasure 
 so new ! and with the aid of that friendly mirror surely 
 
16 THE OGILV1ES. [CHAP. 
 
 there could be nothing wrong in thus watching the living 
 semblance of her poet ! So, Katharine gazed and gazed, 
 utterly unconscious that she was drinking in the first draught 
 of that cup which is offered to every human lip : to some, 
 of honey, to others, of gall. 
 
 Lynedon still kept close to the harp, until a lady sat 
 down to play and sing. Her voice was touching and 
 beautiful, and its pathos hushed even the noisy murmur 
 around. A foppish, affected young man at one side of the 
 harp went into ecstasies of rapture. Lynedon stood on the 
 other side : his figure drawn up to its utmost height and 
 his arms folded, intently listening. His head was bent, and 
 half in shadow ; but once Katharine thought she saw the 
 lips tremble with deep feeling. She did not wonder, for the 
 tears were in her own eyes. 
 
 " Divine, enchanting ! Miss Trevor, you sing like an 
 angel," cried the young dandy, taking out his pocket-hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 Lynedon did not say a single word, but he offered his 
 hand to lead the musician to her seat. She seemed a shy, 
 timid creature, neither fashionable nor beautiful. As they 
 passed, Katharine heard him say in answer to some remark 
 of hers 
 
 " Yes, it gave me pleasure. It is a dear old song to me. 
 I had a little sister who used to sing it once. She had a 
 sweet voice, very like yours." 
 
 Katharine longed for an angel's voice, that she might 
 have sung that song. She wondered if his sister lived : 
 but no, from the tone in which he spoke of her she must 
 be dead. He was surely good and affectionate, since he 
 loved his sister. How well she must have loved him ! 
 Katharine had already woven out the whole romance of 
 this stranger's life, and yet she did. not even know his 
 Christian name, and he had not once spoken to or even 
 looked at her. Only some time after, as she was in the act 
 of bidding adieu to Mrs. Lancaster, Katharine's flowers fell, 
 and Mr. Lynedon, who stood beside the hostess, stooped 
 and gave them into the young girl's hand. It was a trifling 
 act of courtesy, but he did it as he did everything else, 
 
II.] THE OGILVIES. 17 
 
 more gracefully than other men. He would have done the 
 same, apparently, to any woman, old or young, ugly or 
 pretty. Katharine felt that he had not even looked in her 
 face. She experienced no surprise or wounded vanity, for 
 she never remembered herself at all. She only thought of 
 him. 
 
 " Well, it has been a pleasant evening," said Mrs. Ogilvie, 
 when they were again in the carriage. " Do you think so, 
 Hugh]" 
 
 Hugh did indeed : for there was still the long quiet 
 ride home, with Katharine close beside him, ready to talk 
 over everything, as she had proposed. 
 
 " And you, Katharine, love ; have you liked your entrance 
 into society]" inquired the mother. 
 
 " Yes," said Katharine gently, but briefly. She did not 
 seem half so much disposed to talk as Hugh expected. 
 
 "I asked Mrs. Lancaster and her husband to spend a 
 day with us ; was I right, Mr. Ogilvie V 1 
 
 " Certainly, my dear, ask whom you please. Mrs. 
 Lancaster is a woman of very good breeding ; and besides, 
 for an intellectual lady and a lover of antiquities there are 
 many curious and remarkable sights near Summerwood 
 Park. Of course, she will come 1" 
 
 " Not just at present, as she has a friend staying there, a 
 Mr. Lynedon. I did not know whether you would like him 
 to be included." 
 
 " By all means, Mrs. Ogilvie. I happened to have a good 
 deal of talk with Mr. Paul Lynedon a clever, sensible 
 young man ; has no conceit about him, like the puppies of 
 our day. He is trying to get into Parliament, admires Sir 
 Robert, and is particularly well read on the currency question. 
 By all means invite Mr. Paul Lynedon." 
 
 Katharine's ears drank in all this. Here was new 
 matter added to her little romance. He was about to enter 
 Parliament a noble career ! Katharine was sure he would 
 rise to be a great statesman a second Canning. And then, 
 his Christian name was Paul. 
 
 Most young girls think much of a Christian name j indeed, 
 more or less so does everybody. We have all a sort of 
 
 c 
 
IS THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 ideal nomenclature ; names that please us by their euphony, 
 or else make us love them for their associations. Some 
 seem suited to peculiar characters, and when we meet the 
 impersonations of them we are fain to apply our fanciful 
 ideal, saying, "Ah! there's a bright-faced, clear-hearted 
 Clara ; " or, " This girl is surely a Mary, sweet, gentle Mary ; " 
 or, " Such an one is the very beau-ideal of a Walter, a Henry, 
 or an Edmund ! " 
 
 Katharine felt a painful twinge, excusable in a romantic 
 damsel of sixteen, when she found that her hero was called 
 Paul. 
 
 " Mr. Paul Lynedon coming to Summerwood," observed 
 Hugh, with the faintest shade of annoyance perceptible in 
 his tone, " then, Katharine, you will have a splendid oppor- 
 tunity of admiring your handsome hero, and of talking to 
 him too." 
 
 " A man like. Mr. Lynedon would never think of talking 
 to such a child as I," answered Katharine, in a low tone. 
 " And, Hugh, I believe I told you before 'that I do not 
 think him handsome. There is nothing strikingly beautiful 
 in his features ; indeed, I do not consider them any better 
 than yours." 
 
 " Thank you," said Hugh, good-humouredly. " Then, 
 what made you notice him so much $ " 
 
 " I can hardly tell, excepting that there seemed in his 
 face something more than beauty something I never saw 
 before in any other. I cannot describe what it was, the 
 sensation it gave me was so peculiar. But pleasant yes, 
 I think I had more pleasure in looking at his face than at 
 any I ever saw in all my life." 
 
 " Katharine ! I shall be quite jealous soon." 
 
 " You need not. Mr. Paul Lynedon is not my cousin, 
 my old playfellow, and friend. And if he were, I think I 
 should be too much afraid of him ever to feel for him the 
 same affection that I bear to you and Eleanor." 
 
 Hugh looked joyfully in his cousin's eyes they were 
 calm and clear. They did not droop, or turn from his. 
 There was not a feeling m Katharine's heart that she 
 wished to hide. 
 
II.] THE OGILVIES. 19 
 
 "AVhat are you and Katharine talking 'nbout 1 " said Mr. 
 Ogilvie, rousing himself from one of his usual taciturn 
 moods. "We cannot hear a word on this side of the 
 carriage, and the lamps are so dim that we can hardly see 
 your faces." 
 
 " Never mind, my dear, 1 ' observed Mrs. Ogilvie ; " young 
 people generally like talking over a party, and Hugh and 
 Katharine seem always to have plenty to say to one another." 
 And a quiet smile passed over the matron's face, showing 
 how skilled she thought herself in the womanly acquirement 
 of reading hearts. And when, an hour after, that worthy 
 lady and affectionate mother lay cogitating over the past 
 evening, she thought with satisfaction that her Katharine had 
 not seemed the least dazzled by her first sight of "the 
 world," and appeared to care for the attentions of no one 
 save that good, kind, cousin Hugh, who would one day 
 make her such an excellent husband. 
 
 While, in the next chamber, Katharine was dreaming 
 one of her wild fantastic dreams, wherein she herself was 
 transformed successively into the heroine of several of her 
 pet romances. And somehow, whenever she looked into 
 the face of the dearly-loved dream-hero, it always changed 
 to the same likeness the deep dark eyes and black wavy 
 hair of Mr. Paul Lynedon, 
 
20 THE OGILYIES. [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands, 
 
 Every moment lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 
 
 Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with 
 
 might, 
 Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of 
 
 sight. TENNYSON. 
 
 THE mistress of Summerwood was a living homily on the 
 blessings of early rising. Every morning she took her 
 place before the old-fashioned silver urn exactly as the 
 clock struck eight. She had done the same for some 
 eighteen years ; during which her fair serene countenance 
 slowly settled into that of a matron of fifty-two. But it 
 still retained its fresh, unwrinkled look, as though the years 
 which had passed over it had been counted by summers 
 only. And certainly, since her marriage, life had been one 
 long summer to Mrs. Ogilvie. 
 
 Her husband would rather have missed the daylight than 
 her pleasant face at his breakfast-board ; and, winter or 
 summer, there could not be a more cheerful sight than the 
 group assembled round the early meal at Summerwood. 
 For Mr. Ogilvie would allow " no nonsense " of late rising ; 
 and even his niece Isabella was forced to give up her fine 
 lady airs and descend at proper time with the young 
 brothers and sisters of whom she was the unwilling guardian. 
 The family circle on the morning after Mrs. Lancaster's 
 party was completed by Hugh, with his bright merry 
 " morning face," and Eleanor, always serene, though over 
 her still hung the shadow of a grief (now some months past), 
 that of a mother's loss. Katharine, usually the blithest of 
 
III.] THE OGILVIES. 21 
 
 \-_ 
 
 the group, seemed on this particular day rather thoughtfully 
 inclined. Isabella attributed the fact to " the effects of 
 dissipation," and laughed at her cousin for being so country- 
 bred as to feel overwhelmed with fatigue by only one party 
 on the same night. 
 
 " If you lived the life that I do, what would become of 
 you, Katharine ] You would be dead in six months. You 
 look half dead now." 
 
 " I really do not feel so." 
 
 " Then why drink your coffee with such a sentimental 
 air ? Did you meet any of our poetical heroes among the 
 great geniuses who, as Hugh says, congregate at Mrs. Lan- 
 caster's 1 Pray, tell us whom you fell in love with last 
 night." 
 
 This was spoken in an under tone, and with a meaning 
 smile that made Katharine's cheek flush against her will. 
 Her simplicity took in solemn earnest all the careless jests 
 of this young lady ; whose first lessons in the art of love 
 had been received at that source of all evil a fashionable 
 boarding-school. 
 
 " I do not understand you, Isabella," was her hurried 
 reply ; while Hugh darted across the table the most frown- 
 ing look his good-tempered face could assume. 
 
 " I think, Bella, you might let Katharine eat her break- 
 fast in peace for once ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Hugh ; don't quite kill me for troub- 
 ling your dearly-beloved cousin with my unwarrantable 
 curiosity. But, as her breakfast is nearly ended, I should 
 like to hear from her a little about last night, if you will 
 kindly allow her to make the exertion." 
 
 Hugh coloured with vexation ; and Katharine, resigning 
 herself to her fate, sighed out, " Well, Bella, of what must 
 I tell?" 
 
 " Oh, in the first place, of the dresses." 
 
 " I am very sorry, but I did not notice one. Indeed, I 
 am afraid I do not care for dress as much as I ought," con- 
 tinued Katharine, in a deprecating tone. Her sensitive 
 and unformed mind was ever painfully alive to ridicule ; 
 and this weakness constantly subjected her to the influence 
 
22 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 of the worldly Isabella. But Eleanor Ogilvy came to her 
 aid. 
 
 "Katharine, I will relieve Bella, and turn catechist. 
 Did you see any of those i celebrities,' as you call them, 
 about whom you have been thinking and wondering so 
 much all the week?" 
 
 " Hugh pointed out several, and it was very interesting 
 to watch them ; but " 
 
 " But they were not quite what you expected : is it not 
 soT 
 
 " Perhaps," said Katharine, doubtfully, as she took advan- 
 tage of a general move from table, and drew near the win- 
 dow, Eleanor following. " I wonder why it is that people 
 whose books we read rarely come up to our expectations 
 at least, not exactly. I have heard this, and last night I 
 found it out for myself. Why is it, Eleanor ?" 
 
 Eleanor smiled. There was something peculiarly sweet 
 and expressive in Eleanor Ogilvie's smile. 
 
 " Nay, you must not expect me to answer a question 
 which involves the solving of such a problem I, who am 
 little older than yourself, and have scarcely seen more of 
 the world. But I imagine the reason to be this : that most 
 men write out in their books their inner selves their 
 deepest and purest feelings and we form our ideal of them 
 from that. When we meet them in the world, we see only 
 the outer self perhaps but a rough and clumsy shell and 
 it often takes some time and a great deal of patience before 
 we can get at the kernel." 
 
 " Bravo, little Nelly ! " cried Hugh, coming behind his 
 sister, and putting his two hands on her shoulders. " Why, 
 this is a speech quite a la Wychnor, the fellow himself 
 might have said it." 
 
 "Who is Mr. Wychnor?" asked Katharine. 
 
 "Did you never hear Eleanor speak of him? Philip 
 Wychnor was her old playfellow : and we met him again 
 this autumn at Mrs. Breynton's, when we were all staying 
 there together." 
 
 "What is he like?" again inquired Katharine. 
 
 " I think I can best answer that," said Eleanor, turning 
 
III.] THE OGILVIES. 23 
 
 round, with the faintest rose-tint on her usually colourless 
 cheek ; " Philip Wychnor is a nephew of Mrs. Breynton's. 
 He has great talents but that is his least gift. He has 
 the faculty of making every one honour and respect him, 
 though he is as yet little more than a boy." 
 
 " A boy why, Nell, he is more than twenty," interrupted 
 Hugh, with one of his merriest laughs. " Only fancy, 
 Katharine, calling an Oxford undergraduate a boy ! " 
 
 Eleanor only smiled, with a composure which had its 
 effect upon the young man, who possessed Katharine's 
 grand qualification to make a perfect character ; " he loved 
 his sister." Moreover, he felt the influence of her more 
 finely-constituted mind and character to a degree of which 
 he was himself hardly conscious. 
 
 "Well, he was a good fellow, this Wychnor, though 
 rather too sentimental and poetical for me. But, there is 
 Aunt Ogilvie calling for Katharine. What a pity that our 
 pleasant talk in the corner must end ! " 
 
 Katharine bounded away, in answer to her mother's 
 summons. One circumstance gave her considerable sur- 
 prise, and yet satisfaction, that at breakfast, and after, 
 amidst all the conversation about Mrs. Lancaster's soirde, no 
 one had ever mentioned Mr. Paul Lynedon. No one even 
 seemed to think of him. Now, in her own reminiscences 
 of the evening, both dreaming and awake, this one image 
 stood pre-eminent amidst all the rest. It was very odd, 
 surely. But she felt the omission a relief. 
 
 " I want you to write a note to Mrs. Lancaster, my love," 
 observed her mother. " Your papa wishes the Lancasters 
 to visit us while Mr. Lynedon stays with them : he has 
 taken such a fancy to the young man. Did you see him, 
 Katharine^" 
 
 "Yes," said Katharine, and could not find another 
 word for her life. 
 
 Her mother did not require one ; since she was busy 
 fidgeting about in the writing-desk for various instruments 
 of epistolary labour, the absence of which showed how little 
 versed the lady was in the art of correspondence. 
 " Shall I fetch my own desk, mamma ?" 
 
24 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 " Ay, do, love ; you have everything you want there, and 
 I am not used to writing, especially to such clever people 
 as Mrs. Lancaster." 
 
 This latter portion of her mother's sentence rested pain- 
 fully on Katharine's mind during her journey to her own 
 room and back. It was indeed a formidable thing to write 
 to Mrs. Lancaster, and about Mr. Paul Lynedon ! Poor 
 Katharine felt positively alarmed ; especially when she 
 remembered that all the care of her governess and masters 
 had never succeeded in making her a caligraphist, and that 
 she now wrote the sorriest hand imaginable. Timidly did 
 she hint this to her mother. 
 
 "Why, my dear child, you never cared for your hand- 
 writing before ; what makes you so particular now ? I sup- 
 pose you are afraid of Mrs. Lancaster. But never mind ; 
 for I once heard her say that clever people always write 
 badly, and certainly her own handwriting is a specimen of 
 this." 
 
 Katharine laughed ; but she did not say a word more of 
 excuse, lest her mother should discover that there was 
 another person's opinion which she had thought of even 
 before Mrs. Lancaster's. 
 
 " He will certainly see the letter she will be sure to 
 ' show it to him," said Katharine to herself, when she was 
 left alone to fulfil her task. And the idea that Mr. Lyne- 
 don's eyes would rest upon her letter or at the least that 
 he would hear it read made the writing and composition 
 seem matters of momentous importance. She changed the 
 sentences, and re-arranged them ; one said too much, 
 another too little. First, the invitation appeared too warm, 
 and then it was worded in a style so coldly polite that 
 Katharine felt sure a man of his dignity would never accept 
 it. She wrote more copies than she cared to count before 
 the final decision was made. Then, when in the last care- 
 fully-indited epistle she came to his name Mr. Paul Lyne- 
 don it was written slowly, almost tremulously. She had 
 said it to herself many times, until it had grown almost a 
 familiar sound, but she had never written it before. It 
 was a simple arrangement of simple letters ; and yet, when 
 
HI.] THE OGILVIES. 25 
 
 * _ 
 
 she had completed the epistle, the one name seemed to her 
 to stand out in bold relief from the rest of the page, distinct 
 and clear, as the face of its owner among all other human 
 faces in that motley crowd. 
 
 Let us travel in spirit, whither Katharine's thoughts often 
 wandered that day, and accompany the letter to its destina- 
 tion. If in real life this clairvoyance . existed, how many 
 of us would wish to employ it ! And with what result ] 
 Perhaps to see lines over which the full heart had poured 
 itself, or stilled its beatings in a vain effort to write care- 
 lessly of what it felt so much glanced over with an idle, 
 passing notice, and thrown aside ! Or, perchance, to mark 
 with almost equal pain, that what we wrote as mere 
 " words, words, words " of custom or of courtesy, became 
 to the receiver a mine of treasure, to be pored over and 
 reconstrued again and again, hopefully or despondingly, 
 with feelings of which we knew not, and knowing would 
 only regard in sorrowful pity that they should be thus cast 
 at our feet in vain. 
 
 " Here is an invitation," said Mrs. Lancaster, throwing 
 down Katharine's precious note among a heap of others. 
 " It concerns you, Lynedon ; will you read it ] " 
 
 " Thank you presently ! " He finished his coffee, and 
 then took up the letter. " It seems a cordial invitation 
 shall you accept it ? " 
 
 "If you are also inclined. Summerwood is a pretty 
 place, I believe, with many antiquities in the neighbour- 
 hood." 
 
 " That will just suit you," said Lynedon, smiling, as he 
 remembered the archaeological hobby which Mrs. Lancaster 
 had lately mounted, and which she was now riding to 
 death. 
 
 " Yes, but you yourself might find some interests even 
 among such quiet folk as the Ogilvies. The old father, Sir 
 James, is in his dotage, and Mr. Ogilvie has considerable 
 influence in the county. He might be of use in this parlia- 
 mentary scheme of yours : especially as he told me, in his 
 own solemn way, how much he liked you." 
 
 " Liked me 1 Oh, yes, I remember him now. A precise, 
 
26 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 middle-aged specimen of the genus ' country gentleman/ 
 with a quiet, mild-looking lady always creeping after him. 
 His wife, probably ? " He looked at the signature. " ' Ka- 
 tharine Ogilvie,' a pretty name, very : it is hers, I sup- 
 pose 1 " 
 
 " No, the note is from their daughter. You saw her too 
 the other night, a little brown-complexioned girl, who 
 dropped her flowers, and you gave them to her." 
 
 " I really do not remember the fact," said Paul Lynedon, 
 shaking back his hair. "Was she pretty? Eeally, my 
 dear Mrs. Lancaster, you fill your house so with beauty 
 that one is perplexed with abundance. But for this visit 
 I am quite at your service, you know, invariably." 
 
 " Then it is agreed upon. Julian my love, put it down 
 in my visiting-book, that we may not forget." Mr. Lan- 
 caster did as he was bidden ; and his wife and Mr. Lyne- 
 don went on with their conversation, during which the 
 latter who had a habit of always playing with something 
 while he was talking twisted Katharine's note into every 
 conceivable shape, finally tearing it into small diamonds, 
 and then again into triangles. 
 
 Poor Katharine ! And yet she might not have thought 
 it an unworthy destiny for her letter. Had it not been 
 torn it pieces by Paul Lynedon's very own fingers 1 
 
 With Mrs. Lancaster's acceptance came one from Mr. 
 Lynedon himself: in a few courteous words, which won 
 the marked approbation of the formal Mr. Ogilvie. 
 
 " A proper, gentleman-like note. Mr. Lynedon is, as I 
 thought, very superior to the young men of the present 
 day." His young daughter's eyes brightened at the words. 
 It was so pleasant to hear her hero praised ! 
 
 "And read what Mrs. Lancaster says of him," observed 
 Mrs. Ogilvie, as she handed the lady's epistle to her hus- 
 band. 
 
 Mr. Ogilvie looked, shook his head, and passed the note 
 on to his daughter. " Eead it, Katharine. I never could 
 make out Mrs. Lancaster's hand." 
 
 Katharine read with a voice wonderfully steady, con- 
 sidering how her little heart fluttered all the time, " ' I 
 
III.] THE OGILVIES. 2? 
 
 __ 
 
 thank you for including my friend, Mr. Lynedon, in your 
 invitation ; it will give me pleasure to introduce to your 
 circle one whom you will, I trust, esteem as I do. He is a 
 man whose talents will one day raise him very high in the 
 woild. He has the minor advantages of a good social 
 position and, I believe, an excellent heart ; but these are 
 little compared to his highest possession a commanding 
 and powerful mind.' " 
 
 " Is Mrs. Lancaster quite right there ? " said Eleanor, 
 lifting up her soft quiet eyes from her work. " She seems 
 to think of Mr. Lynedon's intellect alone, and to regard no 
 other qualities. Now, he may be a clever man " 
 
 "He may be he is!" cried Katharine, energetically. 
 Then, seeing that, as usual, her sudden burst of enthusiasm 
 met with but a freezing reception, she grew hot and cold, 
 and heartily wished she could run away. 
 
 "Keally, Katharine, that is a very positive declaration 
 to be made by a child like you," said her father ; " and, 
 besides, what opportunity can you have .had of judging of 
 Mr. Paul Lynedon's intellect 1 Did he speak to you ]" 
 
 " Oh, no, ! but I heard him talk to others : that was 
 much better than if he had spoken to me. I liked very 
 much to listen to him ; I did not know it was wrong." 
 
 " By no means, my love,'' said Mrs. Ogilvie. " A taste 
 for refined conversation is always becoming in a lady ; and 
 when you grow up, and are aware o'f the position which 
 you hold in the world, I hope you will always have clever 
 men and women in your society. But still, as a child, you 
 should not express quite so decided an opinion at least 
 not in public. Here, with only your papa, myself, and 
 Eleanor, it signifies little.'' 
 
 Katharine did not at all understand why a right opinion 
 was not right to be expressed at all times and in all places : 
 prudence, reserve, and conventionalism being quite un- 
 known in her young life's exquisite Utopia. But she said 
 nothing ; for she always found that arguing on the subject 
 did not avail in the slightest degree. Her father never 
 gave reasons, but merely repeated his opinions in a tone 
 gradually more and more authoritative. The girl's only 
 
28 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 chance of finding out truth lay in pondering over everything 
 she saw and heard in the depths of her own heart, and thus 
 struggling towards a conclusion. But with the wisest of us 
 this internal course of education is often at first groping 
 through dark ways. Our minds, not only in their powers 
 of acquiring knowledge but in their perceptive and reflect- 
 ive faculties, need a guiding hand as well as our bodies. 
 We must be led awhile before we have strength to walk 
 alone. 
 
 Katharine Ogilvie had no one to direct her not one 
 living soul. She was ever looking towards the light, and 
 in vain. Each glimmering taper she mistook for the 
 fulness of day. Perhaps it was this intense yearning for 
 something whereon to rest some one from whom to learn 
 wisdom, excellence, truth who would take her restless, 
 unformed life into his hands, and become at once its law, 
 its guide, its glory, and its delight perhaps it was this 
 which made her cling with such sudden vehemence to that 
 ideal which she thought she saw in Paul Lynedon. It was 
 not that, according to the rule of young misses of her age, 
 she " fell in love." Katharine would have started with in- 
 stinctive delicacy had the expression met her ear or the 
 thought entered her mind. Love had as yet little place in 
 her world except as something that was to come one day, 
 as a vague sentiment, full of poetry, and carrying with it a 
 mysterious charm, fier fanciful interest in Paul Lynedon 
 a man so much older than and superior to herself was 
 something akin to what she experienced towards her pet 
 heroes in romances or her favourite poets : an appreciative 
 worship, drawn forth by all that was in them of noble and 
 beautiful 
 
 A devotion to something afar 
 From the sphere of our sorrow. 
 
 Of " falling in love " with or marrying Paul Lynedon she 
 no more thought than of uniting herself in affectionate 
 earthly ties to an angel who guided some " bright particular 
 star." 
 
 Yet, in spite of all this child-like unconsciousness of the 
 real nature of the life-phase which was opening upon her, it 
 
III.] THE OGILVIES. 29 
 
 was strange how much her vague interest In her hero grew 
 during the few days that intervened between the acceptance 
 of the invitation and its fulfilment. But she kept her 
 thoughts closely locked up in her heart ; which, as we have 
 said, was indeed a reserve neither strange nor new to her. 
 
 When, a few days after, the departure of the Worsley 
 tribe left Katharine alone with her two cousins Hugh and 
 Eleanor, she felt the restraint a little removed. But still, 
 though she loved them both sincerely, neither they nor any 
 human being had ever passed the circle of the young girl's 
 inner world. Hugh could not it was beyond his power ; 
 and Eleanor, detained for years by the sick couch of her 
 lost mother, had scarcely visited Summerwood. Thus not 
 even she had ever won from Katharine's extreme shyness 
 that friendship and confidence which mere ties of kindred 
 can never command. 
 
 Therefore, no hand had yet lifted more than the outer 
 fold of this young heart, trembling, bursting, and thrilling 
 with its full, rich life, and ready at the first sun-gleam to 
 open and pour forth its whole awakened being in a perfume 
 at once the purest and most passionate form of that 
 essence which we call Love. 
 
 On a girl like this, calmer hearts and wiser heads may 
 look with mingled pity and blame. And yet not so for 
 God never made a more innocent creature than Katharine 
 Ogilvie. 
 
30 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 Like to a good old age released from care, 
 
 Journeying in long serenity away, 
 
 In such a bright, late quiet, would that I 
 
 Might wear out life, like thee, 'midst bowers and brooks, 
 
 And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks 
 
 And murmur of kind voices ever nigh. 
 
 BRYANT. 
 
 Children ought to consider themselves in the house of their father as 
 iu a temple where nature has placed them, and of which she has made 
 them the priests and the ministers, that they might continually employ 
 themselves in the worship of those deities who gave them being. 
 
 HIEROCLES. 
 
 MRS. LANCASTER'S expected three days' visit necessitated 
 considerable preparation within the quiet precincts of Sum- 
 merwood ; and Katharine was deputed to stay as much as 
 possible by her grandfather's side, in order to amuse him 
 and keep from him the knowledge of any domestic revolu- 
 tions. This was rather pleasant to the young girl than 
 otherwise ; for she was a great favourite with Sir James, and 
 returned his affection by a watchful love above that of most 
 pet grandchildren. Besides, the office gave her more 
 opportunities of indulging in those fits of dreaminess which 
 now more than ever became her delight. 
 
 Every morning Hugh looked in upon his grandfather's 
 study. It was called so still, though now this scene of 
 youthful labour had been transformed into the quiet, 
 luxurious asylum of feeble old age. Hugh, as he came 
 with his guns or his fishing-rods, had often glanced half- 
 contemptuously at the various oddities which decorated 
 
IV.] THE OGILVIES. 31 
 
 the chamber of the old politician, ponderous tomes, in 
 century-old bindings, dusty files of newspapers, which 
 chronicled the speeches of Pitt, Fox, and Burke, possibly 
 with the announcement that the orator was "left speaking." 
 And so he yet continued to speak in the mind and memory 
 of Sir James Ogilvie ; who by relics so carefully preserved 
 was thus enabled to blend the past and the present. Every 
 morning, when he had listlessly heard the last night's 
 speeches in the Times, listening perhaps more to the echoes 
 of his pet granddaughter's young voice than to the eloquence 
 of Macaulay or of Peel, he would make Katharine turn 
 over the old file of newspapers and read the daily chronicle 
 of fifty years ago. Thus, events which had grown dim even 
 in historical recollection acquired the freshness of yesterday ; 
 and great men, sharing in the resuscitation, spoke, not 
 from their tombs, but from their old haunts in palace and 
 in senate. To the old man the last relic of a departed 
 age this past was a reality; and the stirring, teeming 
 present, a mere shadow, less than a dream. 
 
 Katharine never laughed at these vagaries. They were 
 to her strangely sacred, and her fanciful mind cast a poetry 
 over all. 
 
 " Still busy with those yellow old pamphlets," said Hugh, 
 putting in his head. A very cheerful face it was, glowing 
 with health and good-temper, a fur cap silting jauntily on 
 the thick brown curls. " Katharine ! will you never have 
 done these readings ? at Warren Hastings still, I see." 
 
 Katharine knitted her brows, and laid her finger on her 
 lips, as a sign to stop her cousin's thoughtless speech. She 
 looked much prettier in her high close morning dress than 
 in the ball costume she wore when first described ; it hid 
 her thinness, and left to her girlish figure its natural 
 slender and airy grace. She sat on a footstool, leaning 
 against her grandfather's arm-chair, with pamphlets and 
 papers all scattered around. Sir James, a little, spare, 
 withered old man, whose sole remnant of life seemed to 
 exist in his bright restless eyes, leaned back in abstraction 
 so perfect, that he only noticed Hugh's entrance by the 
 cessation of the reading. 
 
32 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP, 
 
 " Go on, Katharine," he said, in the querulous tone of 
 extreme old age ; " why did you stop in the middle of that 
 fine sentence of Mr. Burke's ? " 
 
 "Hugh has just come in to say good morning, dear 
 grandfather." 
 
 " Hugh what, Sir Hugh Abercrombie ! I am really 
 honoured." 
 
 Hugh could not help laughing ; at which Sir James 
 turned sharply round, and, as he recognised his grandson, 
 his keen, glittering eyes wore an expression of annoyance. 
 
 " You are exceedingly rude, sir ! Go away, and do not 
 interrupt us again.'' 
 
 " Very well, grandfather. I only came to say how d'ye 
 do to you, and to have a word with my little cousin here. 
 Katharine," he continued, lowering his voice, " I met your 
 mamma on the stairs, and she desired me to say that you 
 must try to make Sir James understand about these 
 visitors, the Lancasters you know they come to-morrow, 
 inore'a the pity." And Hugh's face grew clouded, while 
 Katharine's brightened considerably. 
 
 " Mamma told him yesterday I heard her/' 
 
 " Ay, but he did not seem to make it out clearly, and 
 was rather cross. Now, you can persuade grandfather 
 to anything, and^ I don't wonder at it," continued Hugh, 
 looking fondly in her face as she stood in the window, 
 whither he had drawn her aside. 
 
 " Very well, I'll try ; and now run away, and good success 
 to your skating, which I see is to be your amusement to-day." 
 
 " But, Katharine, I shall be so dull alone. Will nobody 
 come and see me skate this fine morning ? " 
 
 " How vain you are, cousin Hugh," laughed Katharine. 
 " But it will soon be grandpapa's lunch-time, and then I 
 shall be at liberty, and will come to the pond. So good- 
 bye for a little." 
 
 " Good-bye, and mind you come, Katharine." And as 
 Hugh departed, his cousin heard him whistling all the way 
 down the staircase, " My love she's but a lassie yet " his 
 favourite tune. 
 
 " How tiresome that boy is," said the old man. Katha- 
 
IY.J THE OGILVIES. 33 
 
 rine did not answer, but again took her place and began to 
 read. Sir James tried to compose himself to listen, but 
 the thread was broken, and would not reunite. Besides, 
 the interruption had made her own thoughts wander, and 
 she read on mechanically, so that her voice took a mono- 
 tonous tone. Her grandfather nodded over the very ex- 
 ordium of Warren Hastings' defence, and at last pro- 
 nounced that it seemed not quite so interesting as it was 
 at first ; so he thought they had read enough for to-day. 
 Katharine felt really glad ; she put by all the books and 
 papers with alacrity, and took her place again at her grand- 
 father's feet. 
 
 Now was the time for introducing the subject committed 
 to her care. There could hardly be a more favourable 
 moment, for she had got fast hold of her grandfather's thin, 
 yellow, withered fingers, and was playing with the mag- 
 nificent rings which still daily adorned them. Nothing 
 contributed so much to the old baronet's good-humour 
 as to have his rings admired, and he began to tell Ka- 
 tharine, for the hundredth time, how one had been a be- 
 quest of Lord Chatham's, and how another, a magnificent 
 diamond, had been placed on his finger by King George 
 the Third, with his own royal and friendly hand. The 
 young girl listened patiently, and with the interest that 
 affection always taught her to assume. Then, taking ad- 
 vantage of a pause, she observed. 
 
 " I think, grandpapa, you, who are so fond of antique 
 rings, will like to see one that Mrs. Lancaster wears. I 
 will ask her to show it you when she comes to-morrow." 
 
 "Who comes to-morrow, child? Who is Mrs. Lancaster?" 
 
 " A very clever, agreeable woman. Don't you remem- 
 ber that mamma invited her to spend a few days here 
 she and her husband. And a friend of theirs Mr. Lyne- 
 don." 
 
 " Lynedon Lynedon. Ah ! I remember him well. Mr. 
 no, he was afterwards made Viscount Lynedon, of Lyne- 
 don. A clever speaker a perfect gentleman. He and I 
 were both presented at the King's first levee. I shall be 
 delighted to see Lord Lynedon." 
 
 D 
 
34 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 " I do not think this is the gentleman you mean, grand- 
 papa," said Katharine, meekly, while the faintest shadow 
 of a smile hovered over her lips. "He is not Viscount, 
 only Mr. Lynedon Paul Lynedon ; but he may be related 
 to your old friend." 
 
 "Ah yes, yes just so," repeated Sir James, his look 
 of disappointment brightening. " Of course he is ! Let me 
 see ; the Lynedons were a large family. There was a second 
 brother, and his name was a Scripture one Philip, or 
 Stephen, or Paul. Yes, yes ! it must be Paul, and this is 
 he. Eight, Katharine." 
 
 Katharine hardly knew what to answer. 
 
 "I shall be delighted honoured to receive Mr. Paul 
 Lynedon at Summerwood," continued the old baronet. " I 
 well remember Lord Lynedon a fine, tall, noble-looking 
 man. I wonder if his brother is like him. Describe Mr. 
 Paul Lynedon, Katharine." 
 
 " I am afraid you are still a little mistaken, dear grand- 
 papa," s^id the girl, caressingly. " This Mr. Lynedon is 
 not an old man, while your friend must be " 
 
 " Eh, eh, Katharine ; what are you saying ? " sharply 
 asked Sir James. " I am not so very old, am 1 1 Let me 
 see ; it is since then only twenty forty fifty years ; ah, 
 fifty years, fifty years," repeated he, counting on his tremb- 
 ling fingers. " Yes, child, you are right, it cannot be the 
 same ; he must have been dead long ago. I was a youth 
 then, and he a man of fifty. Yes ! yes ! all are gone ; there 
 is nobody left but me." And the old man fell back in his 
 chair. 
 
 Katharine leaned her rosy cheek against his withered 
 and wrinkled one, saying gently, " Dear grandpapa, don't 
 talk so. What does it matter being old when you know 
 we all love you. And though this gentleman is not the 
 friend you knew, I am sure you will like him very much. 
 Papa does. And you know he may be one of your Lynedons 
 after all, and able to talk to you about your old friends." 
 
 " Ah, well, little Katharine, you may be right. And it 
 is worth being eighty years of age to find oneself grand' 
 father to a little coaxing, loving, smiling thing like you." 
 
IV.] THE OGILVIES. 35 
 
 The old man laughed, but there were tears in his eyes, 
 and Katharine hastened to beguile them away by all the 
 playful wiles of which she was mistress. . By the time 
 the arrival of lunch set her free, all Sir James's equanimity 
 was restored. He even remembered that he had been rather 
 hasty towards Hugh, and sent a message, intended to be 
 propitiatory, challenging his grandson to an hour's back- 
 gammon in the study after dinner. Moreover, he made 
 many inquiries concerning the way in which Katharine in- 
 tended to pass the rest of the day ; and, learning' that she 
 was going to watch Hugh's skating, he delayed her for full 
 five minutes with a circumstantial account of various 
 remarkable frosts that had happened in the days of his 
 youth arid of what his nurse had told him of the fair that 
 was held on the Thames in the winter of 1 7 13. " But that, 
 my dear, was before my time, you know." 
 
 " And, grandpapa," whispered Katharine, when she had 
 listened patiently to all, "you will think of the visitors 
 coming to-morrow, and be sure to like Mr. Paul Lynedon ?" 
 
 " Mr. Paul Lynedon ! Oh, I remember now," answered 
 the old man, making an effort to collect his wandering ideas. 
 " Yes, yes the Viscount's son. Of course, Katharine, I 
 shall be delighted to see him. You must not forget to tell 
 him so." 
 
 Katharine made no attempt to explain the matter further, 
 satisfied that her grandfather's mind was properly inclined 
 to courtesy and kindly feeling. She went away perfectly 
 content with the duty so well fulfilled, not reflecting that 
 in their conversation she had entirely forgotten all that was 
 to have been said about Mr. and Mrs. Lancaster. 
 
36 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 In thee 
 
 Is nothing sudden, nothing single ; 
 Like two streams of incense free 
 
 From one censer, in one shrine 
 
 Thought and motion mingle. 
 * * * * 
 
 They were modulated so 
 
 To an unheard melody 
 Which lives about thee, and a sweep 
 
 Of richest pauses, evermore 
 Drawn from each other, mellow, deep, 
 
 Who may express thee, Eleanore ? 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 THOUGH Katharine had been busy all the morning, aiding I 
 her mother in the various cares of the mistress of Summer- j 
 wood Park, still, when the time approached for the arrival j 
 of the guests, she did not feel inclined to rest. Hugh had ! 
 taken himself off for the day on a shooting excursion ; 
 Eleanor was occupied in her own room ; and when all was I 
 prepared for the visitors, Katharine had no resource but to 
 wander about the house. She did so, roaming from room i 
 to room with a vague restlessness that would not pass away, j 
 Every five minutes she went to the hall- window and listened 
 for the sound of carriage-wheels ; then she pondered and 
 speculated about the Lancasters, ransacking her memory for j 
 all that she had ever heard about them, and wondering if j 
 Mrs. Lancaster would seem as agreeable as the other night. 
 Wondering, too, if one always liked people as well the second 
 time of meeting as the first. And if Mr. Lynedon 
 
V.] THE OGILVIES. 37 
 
 She stood a long time before that favourite head of Keats, 
 thinking less of it than of Mr. Lynedon. 
 
 The quick-coming twilight of winter drew nigh, and the 
 guests had not arrived. Katharine's pleasurable anticipa- 
 tions faded a little, and she felt vexed at herself for having 
 wasted so much time in thinking about these new acquaint- 
 ances. Conscience-smitten for the little notice she had taken 
 of her cousin during that day, she proceeded to Eleanor's 
 room, and finding it empty, followed her into the garden. 
 
 Eleanor sat quietly in the conservatory, her favourite 
 place of study. A book lay on her lap, but she was hardly 
 reading; her eyes wandered as her thoughts were doing. 
 Eleanor, like her cousin, was still at that period of life when 
 dreaming is so pleasant. 
 
 There can hardly be a better opportunity than the pre- 
 sent to sketch the personal likeness of Eleanor Ogilvie. It 
 shall not be done in rose-colours, adorned with similes 
 taken from flowers, shells, sky, earth, and air, for true 
 beauty is independent of all these. Eleanor had no angel's 
 face, only a woman's ; sweet, fair, and mild as a woman's 
 should be. Her beautiful soul shone through it, and there- 
 fore it became itself beautiful. Not that it was without a 
 certain grace of form, but still that quality was subservient 
 to the higher one, of expression, without which, features as 
 perfect as the sculptor's chisel can create, are more soulless 
 than the marble itself. Eleanor's countenance might have 
 been passed over as merely " rather pretty," except for the 
 inexpressible charm cast over it by each varying emotion 
 of her mind. After all, the truest beauty is not that which 
 suddenly dazzles and fascinates, but that which steals upon 
 us insensibly. Let us each call up to memory the faces 
 that have been most pleasant to us those that we have 
 loved best to look upon, that now rise most vividly before 
 us in solitude, and oftenest haunt our slumbers and we 
 shall usually find them not the most perfect in form, but 
 the sweetest in expression. Yet this generalising is idle. 
 Every human mind has its own ideal of beauty, and almost 
 always this ideal is based upon some individual reality. 
 Therefore we will leave Eleanor Ogilvie's face in that dim 
 
88 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. I 
 
 mystery out of which each can create the imago he loves 
 best. 
 
 Katharine, even, was struck by it. The contrast was 
 great between her own restless movements and her cousin's j 
 perfect repose. " Why, Eleanor, how quiet you are here, I 
 when all the house is full of hurry and expectation ? You | 
 seem almost to have forgotten that the Lancasters are ' 
 coming 1 
 
 " Oh, no ; for you see I am already dressed for dinner." 
 
 " So you are ; and how well you look, with your high 
 black dress and your smooth fair hair. You are quite a 
 picture ! " And removing her cousin's fur wrappings, she 
 regarded her with a sincere admiration, almost childish in 
 its demonstration. "I wonder what he that is, Mrs. 
 Lancaster will think of you ? " 
 
 " You forget, Katharine, that I am not a stranger : she 
 has seen me before. Hugh and I spent one evening with 
 her when we were in town last year." 
 
 " And how' did you like her 1 and is not her house the 
 most charming place in the world ? " cried Katharine. 
 
 " That is rather going into extremes. But she seemed 
 pleasing and gracious to everybody, and I met many agree- 
 able people at her house that night." 
 
 " Mr. Paul Lynedon ] " inquired Katharine, rather hesi- 
 tatingly ; " was he there 1 " 
 
 Eleanor could hardly help smiling. " Is Mr. Paul Lyne- 
 don, then, the only agreeable person in the world ? Well, 
 I am not quite sure, but I believe that he was of the 
 party." 
 
 " Why did you not tell us so the other day ? " 
 
 " I really quite forgot it at the time." 
 
 Amazing, thought Katharine, that she should not be 
 quite certain whether she had met Mr. Lynedon, or, haTin^ 
 met him, could ever forget the fact. In her own mind, 
 Katharine set down her cousin as a girl of very little dis- 
 crimination. But she did not pursue the conversation, for 
 Eleanor, closing her book, prepared to return to the house. 
 
 "Let us take one turn before we go in, Katharine. 
 There will be plenty of time, for now the Lancasters will 
 
V.] THE OGILVIES. 39 
 
 probably not be here until dinner. Tell me what you have 
 been doing all day." 
 
 " Following mamma, and delivering messages to cook 
 and housemaids, until my poor brain is quite bewildered. 
 Indeed I never could take an interest in such things ; I 
 wish mamma would leave me alone, and not try to make a 
 sensible woman of me. I had much rather be with grand- 
 papa, and hear him talk about public matters, and read the 
 speeches in the newspaper. Eleanor, I was never born for 
 this dull quiet life ; I want to do something to be some- 
 thing." 
 
 " To be what, dear Katharine ? " said Eleanor, to whom 
 this confidence was new ; but it burst from the girl's lips 
 under shelter of the twilight, and in consequence of the 
 restlessness of her mind. 
 
 " I hardly know what exactly ; but I think I should like 
 to be in Mrs. Lancaster's position clever, with plenty of 
 society, able to write, speak, and think, just as I liked 
 quite independent of everybody." 
 
 " I do not think there is, or was, any individual in this 
 world, certainly no woman, of whom one could say that 
 she was ' quite independent of everybody.' Nay, even 
 were it possible, I doubt if such a life would be a happy 
 one, and, what is still more, if it would be useful and full 
 of good to others, which is the highest happiness of all." 
 
 " Eleanor," said Katharine, looking fixedly in her face, 
 "you reason where I only feel." 
 
 " Do you think I never feel, dear 1 " answered Eleanor, 
 while her own peculiar moonlight smile cast a grave sweet- 
 ness over her countenance. "But we will talk of these 
 things another time. I am so glad we have begun to talk 
 of them. Those are rarely very close friends who keep 
 *hut-up corners in their hearts. You must let me peep 
 into a few of yours, my little cousin." 
 
 " Suppose you find nothing but cobwebs and dust there ?" 
 said Katharine, laughing. 
 
 " I will sweep them all away with a little broom I keep 
 by me for the purpose," returned Eleanor, in the asme strain. 
 
 " What is it 1 " 
 
4.0 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 " It is made of a flowering plant that grows in every 
 quiet dell throughout the world, and which you may often 
 find when you least look for it. It is gathered in the 
 fresh sunshine of Hope, and tied together with a ground- 
 creeper called Patience, which, though as slender as a 
 thread, binds all together with the strength of an iron 
 chain. I would engage to brighten up the most unsightly 
 heart-chambers with this broom of mine. Now, what is it 
 made of?" 
 
 " I guess, dear Nelly, I guess," cried Katharine, clapping 
 her hands with that sudden child-like ebullition of pleasure 
 which was natural to her, and, both laughing merrily, with 
 a brightness in their eyes, and a glow on their cheeks, the 
 two girls entered the open hall-door. Bonnets in hand, 
 and shawls carelessly dangling, they passed into the draw- 
 ing-room. 
 
 There, talking to Mr. Ogilvie, and having evidently just 
 arrived, stood the Lan casters and Mr. Paul Lynedon ! 
 
VI.] THE OGILVIES. 41 
 
 CHAPTER -VI. 
 
 A woman's love is essentially lonely, and spiritual in its nature, 
 It" is the heathenism of the heart : she has herself created the glory and 
 beauty with which the idol of her altar stands invested. L. E. L. 
 
 THERE was no retreat for Katharine no rescue from the 
 suddenness of this first interview, which, when in perspec- 
 tive, she had viewed in every phase of probability, fancying 
 all she should do and say, and all they might do and say, in 
 a mental rehearsal, which she supposed included every pos- 
 sible chance. But the momentous event had presented itself 
 in a light quite unforeseen, and Katharine's only resource was 
 to shrink behind her cousin as much as possible. Eleanor 
 advanced in her usual composed manner to Mrs. Lancaster. 
 
 " My dear Miss Ogilvie, I am delighted to see you," 
 said the lady, with her customary demonstration of cordi- 
 ality at least the amount of it which was consistent with 
 gracefulness of deportment. " Julian, here is your young 
 favourite. Mr. Lynedon, allow me to present you to " 
 
 " Katharine Ogilvie, I believe," said Paul Lynedon, bow- 
 ing over Eleanor's hand. 
 
 " No, no ; I really beg pardon," cried Mrs. Lancaster, as 
 Katharine's shrinking, blushing countenance met her eye. 
 " This is the real fair one, the right Katharine. I must 
 apologise for my short sight. My dearest Miss Ogilvie," 
 taking Katharine's hand, " allow me to thank you for your 
 charming note, and to present to you my friend Mr. Lyne- 
 don." 
 
 Paul Lynedon was a perfect gentleman. No passing 
 blunder ever altered his composure or courtesy. His bend 
 
42 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 was as graceful over Katharine's timidly-offered hand as it- 
 had been over her cousin's. His compliments, addressed 
 to the shy, awkward girl, were exactly as courteous as those 
 of which Eleanor had been the recipient. Yet in this he 
 was not insincere. The polish of his manners originated 
 in the only quality which makes a true gentleman, and 
 which no formal, Chesterfield-like education can bestow 
 a natural refinement, and an instinctive wish to give pleasure 
 to others. This true urbanity never fails in its results, nor 
 was it unsuccessful now. In a few moments Katharine 
 became sufficiently reassured to lift her eyes from the 
 carpet to Paul Lynedon's face. It was a little different 
 from the one which had haunted her memory during this 
 long ten days, for imagination is rarely quite faithful at 
 first. But still it wore the same inexpressible charm. She 
 dared look at it now, for the eyes were turned away 
 following Eleanor. 
 
 Thither Mrs. Lancaster's also followed. "I am really 
 ashamed to have mistaken you for the moment, my dear 
 young friend," said that lady, the universality of whose 
 friendship was its chief recommendation. 
 
 " It is some time since you saw me," answered Eleanor's 
 quiet voice, " and you must see so many people." 
 
 " True true, my dear. You have been quite well since 
 I met you last, and that charming young man, your brother 
 Peter ? " 
 
 " Hugh," said Eleanor, smiling. " He is quite well, I 
 believe ; he made one of your guests the other day." 
 
 " Of course oh yes ! " And Mrs. Lancaster's lips formed 
 themselves into a fixed smile, while her eyes wandered 
 abstractedly about the room. She had in perfection the 
 faculty which is so useful in general society, that of being 
 able to train the features into the appearance of polite 
 attention, attended by just so much of the mind as will 
 suffice for suitable answers. 
 
 Mr. Paul Lynedon was not quite so much au fait at this ; 
 he had not lived quite so long in the world as his excellent 
 friend Mrs. Lancaster. Therefore, in the conversation 
 which he tried hard to commence with Katharine, he did 
 
VI.] THE OGIL7IES. 43 
 
 not succeed ID advancing one step beyond the weather, and 
 the distance from London to Summerwood. Perhaps 
 Katharine's own shyness had something to do with this, 
 for though it had been her delight to listen when Paul 
 Lynedon talked to others, the tones of his musical voice, 
 addressed to herself, now oppressed her with a painful 
 timidity. It was positively a relief when Eleanor proposed 
 an adjournment. 
 
 When the two cousins re-entered the drawing-room, 
 there was still the same striking contrast between them 
 Eleanor so calm and self-possessed, Katharine trembling 
 with nervous agitation. 
 
 The little party were grouped, as was natural they should 
 be Mrs. Lancaster conversing with Mr. Ogilvie, while a 
 feeling of hostess-like benignity prompted Mrs. Ogilvie to 
 extract from the taciturn Mr. Lancaster small fragments of 
 conversation relative to the weather, their journey, the 
 country in general, and Summerwood in particular. Paul 
 Lynedon sat aloof, carelessly turning over the leaves of a 
 book, occasionally joining in with a passing remark. 
 
 On the entrance of the two girls he rose and displayed 
 the customary courtesies, though in a manner enviably easy 
 and quiet. There is nothing more annoying and uncomfort- 
 able to a lady than to enter a room and see every gentleman 
 jump up armed with a chair, ready to perform acts of 
 officious chivalry, which place the recipient in a position 
 infinitely more unpleasant than if she were entirely neglected. 
 
 Paul Lynedon began with a commonplace, and, reader, 
 almost all things in life, pleasant friendships, deep, earnest, 
 life-long loves, begin with the same. He made the remark 
 that the view from the hall windows was that is, would 
 be in daylight, and in summer time a very beautiful one ; 
 and then he could not help smiling as he thought what a 
 stupid and involved observation he had made. 
 
 That very circumstance broke the ice. 
 
 "You seem to have a wonderful perception of the 
 beautiful, Mr. Lynedon," said Eleanor. " You see it ' with 
 your mind's eye/ which pierces through the darkness of a 
 winter night, closed shutters, curtains and all." And the 
 
44 THE OGILYIES. [CHAP. 
 
 good-tempered smile which accompanied her words, fairly 
 removing their sting, caused Paul Lyriedon to laugh merrily. 
 
 " You have saved me, Miss Eleanor given me some- 
 thing to talk about, and preserved me from committing 
 myself any more, by unfolding to me a few points in the 
 character of the lady with whom I have the pleasure of 
 conversing." 
 
 " What ! can you find out my character from that one 
 speech 1 " said Eleanor, rather amused. 
 
 " A little of it." 
 
 " Tell me how 1 " 
 
 " Why, in the first place, you have Shakspeare on your 
 tongue, and consequently in your heart. One rarely quotes 
 where one does not love the author ; therefore you love 
 Shakspeare, and, as a necessary result, all true poetry. 
 Then my remark commonplace, forced, and to a certain 
 degree insincere, as I acknowledge it was made you 
 smile; therefore you have a quick perception of what is 
 inclined to falseness and affectation, while your condemna- 
 tion of it is good-tempered and lenient. Have I explained 
 myself, even though I prove my own accuser ? " 
 
 " Perfectly, though you are rather too harsh upon your- 
 self," answered Eleanor. "What do you say to this 
 sketch of me, Katharine ? " 
 
 "If Mr. Lynedon means that you are always true in 
 yourself, and always kind towards others, he is quite right," 
 said Katharine. 
 
 Paul Lynedon directed towards the warm-hearted 
 speaker a look of more curiosity than he had yet thought 
 fit to bestow upon the " little school-girl." 
 
 " Thank you, Miss Ogilvie ; that is, I thank you for 
 proving my observations correct. A harmless vanity ; yet 
 I fancy they needed no proof but the mere presence of your 
 fair cousin." And, as he bowed, his eyes rested on Eleanor's 
 face admiringly. 
 
 No added colour came to that clear cheek; the smile 
 was tranquil and self-possessed, and Paul Lynedon looked 
 almost vexed. The little group were again sinking into 
 small-talk, when a servant came to the door with "Sir 
 
VT.] THE OGILVIES. 45 
 
 James Ogilvie's compliments, and he was impatient for the 
 honour of receiving Mr. Paul Lynedon." 
 
 "My father is very old, and has a few peculiarities ; will 
 it be agreeable to you to humour him with a visit now 1 " 
 said Mr. Ogilvie. 
 
 " I have told Mr. Lynedon all about Sir James, observed 
 Mrs. Lancaster. " Pray go, you will be so much amused 
 with his oddities," she continued in a low tone. It was 
 meant for an aside, but it jarred painfully on Katharine's 
 ear, which was ever open to all that was said by, or 
 addressed to, Paul Lynedon. 
 
 But the young man's only answer was directed to Mr. 
 Ogilvie. 
 
 " Pray do not talk about my ' humouring ' Sir James ; it 
 is to me always not only a duty but a pleasure to show 
 respect to old age." 
 
 Katharine's heart beat with delight, and her bright sinile 
 had in it something of pride as it rested on the speaker. 
 
 " Katharine, show Mr. Lynedon the way to your grand- 
 father's study ; you understand him better than any one." 
 said Mrs. Ogilvie. 
 
 " May I be permitted 1 " And Paul Lynedon led the 
 young girl out of the room with a stately courtesy that 
 made Katharine almost fancy she was escorted by Sir 
 Charles Grandison. 
 
 Through the long hall, where the light of modern gas 
 contrasted strangely enough with the quaint panelled walls 
 and ancient mouldings, Katharine and her cavalier passed. 
 She could hardly believe that she was really with him, that 
 her hand rested on his arm, that his actual voice was in 
 her ear, talking with gentle consideration of all things 
 which he thought likely to set the timid girl at her ease. 
 
 And there was something so irresistibly winning in Paul's 
 manners, that before they reached Sir James's door Katha- 
 rine found herself talking frankly of her grandfather, his 
 love for her, his waning intellect, and explaining the mis- 
 apprehension which had led to his anxiety to see Mr. 
 Lynedon. 
 
 " I hardly know whether it would not be as well to let 
 
46 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 him continue in the fancy," said Katharine. " It certainly 
 gives him pleasure ; but then, even to please him, I do not 
 like to deceive dear grandpapa." 
 
 " It would not be deceit, for I may really belong to the 
 same family," answered Lynedon as they entered. 
 
 The old baronet raised himself on his gold-headed cane 
 and courteously greeted his visitor. 
 
 " It is to me an honour and pleasure to welcome my old 
 friend's son. Am I not right in addressing the heir of Vis- 
 count Lynedon ? " 
 
 "My name is Lynedon, and I have no doubt that my 
 father was well acquainted with the name of Sir James 
 Ogilvie," said Paul, evasively. 
 
 Somehow Katharine did not like the subterfuge ; and yet 
 it sprang from kindly feeling. She said this to herself 
 until she became quite satisfied ; the more so, as Lynedon 
 replaced the old man in his chair with an air of respectful 
 courtesy, and then, taking a seat beside him, entered into 
 conversation. A most entertaining conversation too in 
 which he showed himself perfectly acquainted with the 
 history of the long-past era, wherein alone Sir James seemed 
 to exist. Moreover, he appeared to throw his whole mind 
 into the subject with a cordial earnestness that at first 
 excited Katharine's surprise, and then her warm admiration. 
 
 "How kind, how considerate, how clever he is/' she 
 thought to herself, as she stood apart, watching each ex- 
 pression of his face, and listening to the music of his voice. 
 Through every avenue by which brilliant and noble qualities 
 first attract and then enchain a heart alive to all that is 
 good and beautiful, was Paul Lynedon unconsciously taking 
 possession of Katharine's. 
 
 While unwittingly stealing this young girl's liking, Lyne- 
 don no less won that of Sir James. Delightedly the old 
 man passed from conversation about public matters to 
 inquiries concerning his friend the Viscount and the whole 
 Lynedon family, all of which Paul answered with a clear- 
 ness and readiness that charmed his companion. Katharine, 
 having now completely got over the fact that Paul had 
 assumed an untrue character to please her grandfather, felt 
 
VL] THE OGILVIES. 47 
 
 quite glad that, though there was a slight mistake about 
 his being the Viscount's son, Lynedon was so well ac- 
 quainted with all the history of his family, and could thus 
 delight Sir James so much. 
 
 The dinner-bell rang when he was in the midst of an 
 account of the marriage of Lord Lynedon's eldest daughter. 
 
 " I am sorry that I must now relinquish the honour of 
 your society, my dear young friend, for may I not bestow 
 that name on your father's son ? " said the Baronet, taking 
 Lynedon's hand with a curious mixture of formality and 
 affection. 
 
 " I shall always be proud of the title," answered Paul, 
 earnestly. 
 
 "And besides, on second thoughts, I believe that more 
 than one intermarriage has taken place between the Lyne- 
 dons and the Ogilvies. Katharine, before you go, bring me 
 that l Peerage ; ' I feel almost sure that there must be some 
 connection between Mr. Lynedon and ourselves. Suppose 
 he were to turn out a cousin eh 1 " 
 
 " I should be only too happy to claim any relationship to 
 Miss Ogilvie." It was a common phrase of courtesy ; he 
 would have said the same to any one, especially a woman ; 
 and yet the blood rushed to Katharine's cheek, and her 
 heart beat wildly. She hastily walked to the bookcase, but 
 if " Debrett's Peerage " had been written as plain as with 
 letters of phosphorus, her eyes could not have discovered it. 
 
 But Lynedon's practice of the lien-stances was never at 
 fault, and the book was soon in Sir James's hand. 
 
 "Adieu, my dear young friend. Katharine, bring him 
 again very soon," said the Baronet. 
 
 " He must be a very old man, your grandfather," observed 
 Paul Lynedon, carelessly, as they threaded once more the 
 long passages. 
 
 " Very old. How kind of you to talk to him so much ! " 
 Katharine answered, in a soft, grateful accent. 
 
 " Oh, not at all not at all, my dear Miss Ogilvie. But, 
 here is the drawing-room a very desert, with Miss Eleanor 
 for its solitary rose. Let me have the happiness of escorts 
 ing both the fair cousins to the dining-room.' 1 
 
48 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP, 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 As on the finger of a throned queen 
 
 The basest jewel would be well esteemed : 
 
 So are those errors that in thee are seen 
 
 To truths translated, and for true things deemed. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 MRS. LANCASTER, hemmed in on one side by the sedate and 
 somewhat ponderous courtesies of Mr. Ogilvie, and on the 
 other by the long interval of dinner-table space which sepa- 
 rated her from the inanities of her husband, looked often 
 towards the other side, where Paul Lynedon sat between 
 the two fair cousins trying to enliven as much as possible 
 the terrible solemnity of this always formal meal. 
 
 It is not in human nature to talk well during soup. This 
 is the case even with the most serious and earnest of con- 
 versationalists those who, disliking the current nothings of 
 society, plunge at once into some sensible topic, so as to 
 fathom, if possible, the minds of their associates. These 
 excellent coral-divers of society find their occupation gone 
 at the commencement of a dinner-party ; a few refreshing 
 dips over head, just to try the waters, are all they can 
 venture, until the necessary duties of eating and drinking 
 are performed 
 
 Therefore, since we aim not at chronicling every word 
 and action with exact fidelity, even as Van Eyck painted 
 the hairs of a lapdog's tail and the nails in a floor, we do 
 not think it necessary to enumerate all the graceful trifles 
 that Paul Lynedon said, interesting his fair neighbours first, 
 and by degrees the elders of the companv. He threw over 
 
 
VII.] THE OGILVIES, 49 
 
 the commonest tilings a light filigree-work of imagination, 
 which, while unsubstantial and evanescent, made everything 
 seem beautiful for the time. And is not such an art of 
 passing glamour a most beneficial attainment in this weary, 
 dusty, matter-of-fact world of ours ? 
 
 When the serious business of dinner had resolved itself 
 into the graceful dolce far niente of dessert, Mrs. Ogilvie 
 observed : 
 
 "I hope, Mr. Lynedon, that my poor father did not 
 weary you very much V 1 
 
 " Not at all ; we got on admirably together, did we not, 
 Miss Ogilvie f And Paul turned to Katharine, who gave 
 a delighted assent. 
 
 "Grandpapa was delighted with Mr. Lynedon," she 
 observed. " I never saw him more pleased. And Mr. 
 Lynedon knew all about the branch of his own family of 
 which grandpapa talked, so that he could answer every 
 question. Where could you get so much information, Mr. 
 Lynedon ? and how well you seemed to remember every- 
 thing!" 
 
 "Perhaps I did not quite remember everything, Miss 
 Ogilvie," he answered, smiling. " My history of the Lynedon 
 pedigree was, like hasty novels, only ' founded on facts.' It 
 seemed to please your grandfather, and I was delighted to 
 secure his good opinion, even though it entailed upon me 
 some exercise of imagination. But but," he stopped and 
 hesitated, for he met the eyes of Eleanor Ogilvie fixed on 
 him with an expression before which his own fell. 
 
 He grew confused, and tried to laugh the matter off. " I 
 fear your cousin here thinks there was something very 
 wicked in my little extempore romance. Yet I did all for 
 the best. Let me plead before my fair accuser." 
 
 " I am no accuser," said Eleanor, gently. 
 
 " Surely Eleanor would not say one word against what 
 was clone with such kindly motives, and succeeded so well 
 in giving grandpapa pleasure ]" cried Katharine. "It was 
 very kind of Mr. Lynedon ; and very right too." 
 
 Paul looked surprised, perhaps a little gratified. He 
 thanked his " young defender," as he called her, and changed 
 
50 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 the conversation ; which, by his consummate skill, he caused 
 to flow in an easy and pleasant current until the ladies 
 retired. 
 
 "What do you think of Mr. Lynedon now, Eleanor ?" 
 cried Katharine, as, leaving Mrs. Lancaster and her hostess 
 deeply engaged in a purely feminine discussion on dress, 
 the two cousins crept away to Mrs. Ogilvie's dressing-room, 
 and there indulged in a talk. 
 
 " Under what particular phase am I to criticise this hero j 
 of yours, Katharine ? Do you wish me to call 'him hand- 
 some ? " 
 
 " No ; for that would not be true. But is he not very 
 clever so perfect a gentleman so refined 1" 
 
 " Too refined." 
 
 " How can that be possible 7 Really, Eleanor, what taste 
 you have ! " said Katharine, turning away. 
 
 " To speak candidly, though there were many things in 
 Mr. Lynedon that pleased me very much, there was one 
 that I did not like ; why did he make grandpapa believe 
 what was not true 1" 
 
 " Because he wished to give pleasure, and therefore it j 
 was not wrong ; I am sure it was not." 
 
 "Now, Katharine, I think it was. Plainly, what he 
 called a little romance, was a tissue of untruths." 
 
 " You are very unjust, Eleanor." 
 
 " I hope not, but you ask me for my opinion, and how 
 can I help giving it ? It seemed to me that Mr. Lynedon 
 thought more of being generally agreeable than of doing 
 what was right." 
 
 "There you are at your moralisings again; where did 
 you learn them all V 9 
 
 Eleanor would have been puzzled to answer ; but, never- 
 theFess, her perception of this man's character was a true 
 one. He had a keener desire to appear than to be ; public 
 ambition and love of social approbation were united in him, 
 and together seemed likely to become so strong as to render 
 invisible in his own eyes the " indirect crook'd ways " by 
 which he attained his end. Yet even this fault had its 
 origin in that natural longing after the praise and love of 
 
VII.] THE OGILVIES. 51 
 
 human kind, which is the germ of the noblest qualities of 
 our nature. It is a creed, harmless indeed, and inclining 
 us to patience and long-suffering, that evil itself is but an 
 ill-regulated good, and has no separate existence. There is 
 not a poison-weed cumbering the ground that may not 
 once have been a flower. And it rests still with the Great 
 Fashioner, who, being all good, could not create positive 
 evil, to stay the rampant growth, and to resolve each cor- 
 rupted particle into its own pure elements. 
 
 We have wandered strangely from our scene, persons, 
 and conversation ; yet such wanderings are not uncommon 
 in real life. Every one must now and then lift up the 
 curtain of his inner being ; and it is always good so to do. 
 Perhaps Eleanor's " moralisings," as her cousin called them, 
 had in some degree this effect, for it is certain that both 
 she and Katharine looked silently into the fire for some 
 minutes before they attempted to move. 
 
 At last Katharine rose, and smoothed her long black 
 hair before the mirror. She looked at the reflection therein 
 more earnestly than she was wont, for Katharine was one 
 who cared little for her own personal appearance probably 
 because, having all her life been told how plain she was, 
 she now fully believed it, and reconciled herself to her fate. 
 But this night a faint sigh revealed a few rebellious feelings 
 struggling in her young bosom. 
 
 "Eleanor," she said, "it must be very pleasant to be 
 beautiful." 
 
 " Why 1 in order to be admired ]" 
 
 "Not exactly so; but that we might give pleasure to 
 others. Is not every one glad to look on what is fair] 
 and if we could ourselves be as pleasant as pictures or 
 statues in the eyes of others, at least of those we love " 
 
 " A sweet, loving definition of a desire which I suppose 
 all have, more or less," said Eleanor. " What made you 
 think of it just now V 
 
 "Because I was looking at myself, and thinking how 
 different it would be if I saw a beautiful reflection in the 
 glass instead of that ugly face and lanky figure." 
 
 " My dear Katharine ! " answered her cousin, putting her 
 
52 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 arms round the girl's neck, " do not speak so of yourself ; 
 remember, you are quite young ; I should not wonder il 
 you turned out a beauty yet tall thin girls like you very 
 often do." 
 
 " Do you think so 1 do you really think so ? Oh, how 
 glad I am ! " And then a sudden shame dyed her face and 
 neck crimson. "I am afraid you will think me very vain 
 and foolish ; but but " 
 
 " I think you a wayward, fanciful, darling girl, and the 
 more you let me peep into your heart, no matter what I 
 see there, the more you will please your cousin Nelly. And 
 now let us go down stairs." 
 
 Mrs. Ogilvie sat in one arm-chair, and Mrs. Lancaster 
 in another, two planets in opposition. They certainly 
 belonged to different hemispheres, and no power on earth 
 could make them blend their light. Poor Mrs. Ogilvie had 
 had a most painful hunt after ideas, and now, wearied and 
 worn, she fairly gave in, unable to pursue the chase, and 
 determining to let the conversation take its chance. Mrs. 
 Lancaster was one of those inflexible talkers who will choose 
 their subject, and " say their say," without regarding the 
 capabilities of their hearers. If the latter understood and 
 followed, well ; if not, she let them " toil after her in vain " 
 until she had done, and then passed on, rejoicing in the 
 superiority of her own intellect. Yet, at times, she posi- 
 tively plumed herself upon her skill in adapting her con- 
 versation to all varieties of listeners. Under this idea she 
 would in these days have entered a village blacksmith's and 
 talked about Elihu Burritt, or discussed with some poor 
 stocking-weaver Lee's invention of the loom, illustrated by 
 fragmentary allusions to Elmore's late picture on this 
 subject; a speech on the union of art and manufactures 
 forming an appropriate winding up to the whole. 
 
 Thus Mrs. Lancaster had glided from the examination of 
 her hostess's dress to a dissertation on the costume of the 
 middle ages, varied by references to Froissart and the 
 illuminated manuscripts of monkish times. Mrs. Ogilvie, 
 carried out of her depth, struggled for a little, and had 
 failed in her last despairing effort, just when her daughter 
 
VII.] THE OGILVIES. 53 
 
 and niece came to the rescue. Eleanor saw at once the 
 state of the case, by the sudden, half-imploring glance which 
 her aunt turned to the opening door, and the unchanging 
 smile of patient politeness which sat on her lips. Taking 
 her place by Mrs. Ogilvie, she relieved guard, ingeniously 
 sustaining the whole burden of Mrs. Lancaster's conversa- 
 tion until coffee appeared, and with it the wanderer, Hugh. 
 
 In most after-dinner female coteries the advent of one 
 of the nobler sex produces a satisfactory change, and Hugh's 
 coming formed no exception to the rule. His cheerful face 
 always brought sunshine with it. Mrs. Ogilvie gathered 
 courage, Mrs. Lancaster thawed, and the two girls were fully 
 disposed to enjoyment. Only Katharine, while she tried 
 to interest herself in Hugh's account of his day's sport could 
 not help wondering now and then what it was that de- 
 tained Paul Lynedon. 
 
 Lynedon was deep in a conversation with Mr. Ogilvie 
 concerning electioneering. There was a borough near, where 
 the Summerwood interest still lingered, despite the Reform 
 Act; and Paul's inward dreams of ambition invested Mr. 
 Ogilvie's conversation with a wondrous charm. He did not 
 act for, as we have before stated, Paul Lynedon was not 
 habitually insincere but the golden shadow of the time to 
 come, when his host's friendship might be of service, made 
 him regard many a prosy commonplace with a feeling of 
 real interest, and also exert his own powers to their utmost 
 in order to produce a satisfactory impression. 
 
 When the clear singing of a young girl penetrated to the 
 dining-room, Paul first remembered he had asked Eleanor 
 the usual question, "Did she love music?" and the sudden 
 brightening of her face had answered the question better 
 than her tongue. He felt sure that the voice was hers, and 
 the future election, with all its ingenious devices, began to 
 fade from his mind. When he reached the drawing-room 
 door it was quite obliterated. 
 
 Paul Lynedon never saw one cheek that glowed with 
 sudden pleasure at his entrance ; he walked straight to the 
 piano, and said to Eleanor, " I knew I was right. It was 
 you who sang, was it not?" 
 
54 THE OGILVIES. [CIIA.P. 
 
 " Yes ; I love music, as I think I told you." 
 
 " Will you sing again for me 1" 
 
 "You are quite unconscionable," said Mrs. Lancaster, 
 \vhile the faintest shade of acrimony mingled with her dulcet 
 tone. " I am sure she must be tired." 
 
 The hint failed ; and Mrs. Lancaster was doomed to a 
 little longer silence while Eleanor sang again, and yet again. 
 Paul Lynedon was enchanted ; for her voice was the true 
 heart-music, and it touched the purest and inmost springs 
 of his nature. He was no longer the mere polished gentle- 
 man of society ; he stood as Katharine had first beheld him 
 so silent, so deeply moved, that he forgot to pay a single 
 compliment, and even to say " Thank you." 
 
 He knew not that Eleanor had sung thus well only because 
 she had forgotten his presence, his very existence ; because 
 every song, by rousing some hidden link of memory and 
 touching some secret feeling, carried her farther and farther 
 away into the dim past and blotted out all the present. He 
 guessed not that while she poured out her whole heart, no 
 thought of him or of his approval influenced the song, 
 that though he stood beside her, the face she saw was not 
 his : and when at last his voice thanked her, it jarred on 
 her ear like a painful waking from a pleasant dream. 
 
 And then her uncle and Mr. Lancaster came, with their 
 vapid acknowledgments. But neither they nor the gentle 
 Mrs. Ogilvie, who in the good-nature of others saw the re- 
 flection of her own, and praised her niece accordingly, nor 
 the worldly fashionable dame who, living all for outside 
 show, secretly acknowledged that though done for effect it 
 was almost as good as reality, nor poor simple Katharine, 
 who marvelled at no inspiration the guerdon of which was 
 Paul Lynedon's praise, not one of these had fathomed the 
 truth, or knew why it was that Eleanor Ogilvie had sung 
 so well. 
 
 The change wrought in Paul Lynedon made him seem 
 more attractive even in Eleanor's eyes. His mariner grew 
 earnest, and lost that outside gloss of almost annoying de- 
 ference which characterised it when he had talked with the 
 two girls at dinner. He spoke like a man put forth his 
 
VII.] THE OG1LYIES. 55 
 
 own opinion honestly, even when it differed from theirs. 
 They talked he and Eleanor and Katharine about books 
 and music, and all pleasant things which are a continual 
 feast to the young and happy. Recognising Hugh, Lynedon 
 drew him, almost against his will, into the charmed circle ; 
 conquering his reluctance to talk, and making him feel 
 interested upon subjects that otherwise he cared little about. 
 It was rather an exertion, but Paul was in a happy mood. 
 So all conflicting elements were reconciled ; Lynedon arid 
 Eleanor leading the way and supporting the chief conversa- 
 tion. Hugh was happy, for he had Katharine next to him. 
 She sat almost silent, veiling her dark dreamy eyes with 
 their long lashes ; and at times, when Paul Lynedon spoke 
 earnestly, raising them to his face with a look which once 
 positively startled him with its intenseness. Katharine 
 was conscious of but one influence new, strange, delicious 
 which breathed in his words, which brightened everything 
 whereon he looked. He seemed to her some glorious and 
 divine creature 
 
 Whose overpowering presence made her feel 
 It would not be idolatry to kneel. 
 
 And Paul Lynedon, what did he think of her? Let 
 his own words tell. 
 
 " You seem delighted with the Ogilvies ?" whispered Mrs. 
 Lanccister, as, somewhat piqued by a dull evening passed 
 with the elders, she was about to retire. 
 
 " Oh, certainly delighted ! " echoed Paul ; " they are a 
 charming family. 
 
 " Especially the young vocalist?" 
 
 Lynedon answered warmly, but laconically, "I quite 
 agree with you." 
 
 "And the dark-eyed Katharine?" 
 
 " A gentle, thoughtful creature ; evidently full of feeling^ 
 and so much attached to her cousin. That fact alone shows 
 what she must be. I like nay, I almost love Katharine 
 Ogilvie." 
 
 And it so chanced, that, in passing by, Katharine heard 
 the words ! 
 
56 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 He had said them idly, and forgotten them as soon as 
 they were uttered : but they gave a colouring to her whole 
 life. 
 
 ye who have passed through the cloudy time when 
 youth is struggling with the strange and mysterious stirrings 
 of that power which, either near or remote, environs our 
 whole life with its influence, ye who can now look back 
 calmly on that terrible mingling of stormy darkness and 
 glorious light, and know on what shadowy nothings love 
 will build airy palaces wherein a god might dwell, regard 
 with tenderness that enthusiastic dream ! Perchance there 
 is one of you who has dreamed like Katharine Ogilvie. 
 
VIII.] THE OGILVIES. 57 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Say never, ye loved mice. 
 God is too near above the grave below, 
 
 And all our moments go 
 Too quickly past our souls, for saying so. 
 The mysteries of life and death avenge 
 
 Affections light of range. 
 There conies no change to justify that change. 
 
 E. B. BUOWNINO. 
 
 The memory of the withered leaf 
 In endless time is scarce more brief 
 Than of the garnered autumn sheaf : 
 
 Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust ! 
 
 The right ear that is filled with dust 
 
 Hears little of the false or just. TENNYSON. 
 
 THERE are in our existence days which are ages. True, 
 at such seasons the hours glide as fast nay, faster in 
 their golden stream : but when we look back it seems as 
 though the narrow tide of a single day had swelled into a 
 life's flood a mighty ocean which upheaves itself between 
 us and the last epoch that we called The Past. 
 
 It was thus with Katharine when she arose next morning. 
 Her foot seemed already within the shining entrance-gate of 
 a new paradise. The old childish world of a few hours since 
 looked far distant, and oh, how pale and dim ! She 
 scarcely turned her face to gaze upon it now. All night her 
 spirit had floated amongst the most delicious fancies, and 
 even on her waking she felt as still in a dream. On descend- 
 ing, she found that her restless happiness had made her the 
 
58 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 earliest riser in the house. She lingered a few minutes 
 in the breakfast-room, looking out on the dappled morning 
 sky, and thinking how beautiful the world was. Then she 
 went into the drawing-room, and began to pour out her 
 heart's emotion to her usual friendly confidante her piano- 
 forte. Katharine loved music intensely ; but the very sense 
 which made her feel so keenly the power of song rendered 
 its science irksome in the extreme. Still, though in society 
 she shrank from any display, she sometimes sat alone for 
 hours ; her light fingers and sweet but feeble voice weaving 
 together all sorts of melodies, most of which were the 
 inspiration of the moment. 
 
 Now, almost unconsciously, she glided into the song which 
 Miss Trevor's rich tones and Lynedon's praise had impressed 
 upon her memory. She sang it with her whole heart, 
 seeing nothing, save perchance one likeness which her fancy 
 conjured up, and which formed the inspiration of the strain. 
 
 " Thank you, Miss Ogilvie," said a voice behind Paul 
 Lynedon's own for he had entered softly ; " why will you 
 compel me to act the spy in order to attain such a pleasure 
 as this 1 " 
 
 Katharine did not answer. Poor child ! she trembled 
 like a little bird in its captor's hands. 
 
 Paul thought what terribly hard work it was to get on 
 at all with young girls who bore the lingering traces of 
 pinafores and bread-and-butter. But good-nature urged him 
 to make another attempt. 
 
 " I was not aware that you sang at all, still less that you 
 knew this pet song of mine, which I asked your cousin for 
 in vain last night. Why did you not tell me so ] " 
 
 " Because I cannot sing," murmured Katharine, " I have 
 scarcely any voice." 
 
 " Nay, I must differ from you there. You have a very 
 sweet one, only it wants power and proper cultivation. 
 But you sing with your soul if not with your lips, and that 
 is what I love to hear." 
 
 And then Lynedon, to relieve her confusion, went on 
 talking in an easy, kind, quiet manner about the quality of 
 her voice and the way to strengthen it. " But what a long 
 
VIII.] THE OGILVIES. 59 
 
 speech I am giving you quite a lecture on music," he 
 added, laughing. 
 
 " I like to listen to you, pray go on," said Katharine, 
 simply. 
 
 (" So, here is some improvement ; we shall get on in time," 
 thought Paul Lynedon.) And then he continued, " What I 
 mean to say is, that, as we ought to let no talent rust, you 
 ought to try to sing as well as you can. It may not be 
 quite so charmingly as your cousin, but you will give 
 pleasure to many, as you did to me this morning." 
 
 " I am glad very glad," said Katharine, with a bright 
 smile, and that earnest look which always puzzled Lynedon. 
 
 " Thank you, and you will sing whenever I ask you, like 
 a dear little friend ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then, thank you once more," answered Paul, feeling 
 towards the " little shy girl " a real liking, which sprang 
 partly from gratified self-love at having succeeded so well 
 in the difficult task of drawing her out. " Then it is agreed, 
 Miss Katharine -Miss Ogilvie, I mean, for so you are by 
 right, I think." 
 
 " Yes, but I am never called so only Katharine, I like 
 it best." 
 
 " Then I will call you Katharine, if you will allow me." 
 
 Another quiet " yes " sealed the contract and thus was 
 woven one more link of the invisible chain. 
 
 The time of the visit flew by the " rest-day," the " prest- 
 day " and still the guests lingered, to the satisfaction of 
 all. It is astonishing how soon an agreeable party at a 
 country-house seems to grow into one family. It was so at 
 Summerwood. Whatever passions were dawning to life 
 beneath, there were no stirrings on the surface to break the 
 peace and harmony of that pleasant circle. 
 
 Paul Lynedon after a few days began to think of Eleanor 
 a great deal more than he liked to confess. Perhaps this 
 was because her character burst upon him with a freshness 
 that quite contradicted his former notions of women. She 
 was the first who, if not treating him with positive in- 
 difference, had at least never sought in any way to win his 
 
60 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 attention. Her perfect independence annoyed him. It 
 was in vain that every time he spoke there dropped from 
 his lips, like the fairy gift of pearls and diamonds, compli- 
 ments graceful and refined the envied wonder of all his 
 fair friends of old. But Eleanor never once stooped to pick 
 them up. His vanity was piqued, and, after trying the ex- 
 periment for a short time on Katharine, he gave up these 
 elegant flatteries, and became his own real self his better 
 self. But this change only gained from Eleanor a surprised, 
 pleased, and friendly response. She treated him with 
 greater warmth, but still with the unreserve and frank 
 kindness which she showed to every one around her. With 
 men of Lynedon's character opposition is often the greatest 
 incentive to love. Before he had been many days in 
 her society, Paul was more 4pris with Eleanor than he had 
 ever been with any woman during his gay and mercurial 
 life. Perhaps, added to the spur of wounded vanity, came 
 the impulse of many purer and higher feelings long dormant 
 within him, which her true nature had awakened once 
 more, and the reverent admiration- with which he felt 
 constrained to regard this gentle, single-hearted girl, Lyne- 
 don's quick temperament mistook for love. 
 
 But though Eleanor's influence over him grew stronger 
 every day, it was still not strong enough to be outwardly 
 discernible. Perhaps Eleanor might have discovered it for 
 a woman generally sees intuitively where she is loved but 
 her heart was too full of one feeling to admit even the 
 suspicion of another. 
 
 There was a second person whose eyes might have been 
 open to the elements for future fate that were brooding 
 among the gay idlers at Summerwood. But Mrs. Lancaster 
 was deep in antiquarian researches, traversing the country 
 with her host as pioneer ; and in this lady, love for science 
 at least for the 6dat that science brings shut out even 
 the feminine impulse of curiosity. 
 
 So the young people walked, rode, drove in the pleasant 
 winter mornings, sat by the evening fire, and talked, or 
 &ang, or told ghost stories, until the week ended, and with 
 it Mrs. Lancaster's peregrinations. She spoke of going 
 
VIIL] THE OGILVIES. 61 
 
 home, and after the usual friendly contest pro and con. the 
 affair was decided. The last evening came the last morn- 
 ing. No more would there be of those social firesides at 
 night, of that merry breakfast-table chat. When Katharine 
 rose to answer her grandfather's summons, she felt this so 
 strongly, that ere she reached the hall her eyes were over- 
 flowing. As she passed on towards her grandfather's room, 
 she heard Lynedon call : 
 
 " Katharine, dear " he often called her " dear " now, 
 when they were alone, especially " tell Sir James I will be 
 with him by the time the reading is finished." 
 
 He had usually come in to aid her in the task and now, 
 the last day, every moment spent in his sight became so 
 precious ! It was a disappointment, that made what was 
 ever a loving duty seem almost a burden. 
 
 Paul thought that during that time he might contrive to 
 be a few moments alone with Eleanor ; not to tell her he 
 loved her he was too cautious for that but to try 
 and gain some word or look on which his own heart might 
 rest for a time when he should feel he w-as no longer in her 
 presence. But there was Hugh, busy making flies, his 
 usual morning occupation, and continually calling out for 
 his sister's light fingers to aid in the dubbing, or to cut the 
 wings. Eleanor, all-patient as she was, seemed quite 
 content, but Lynedon grew restless and uncomfortable. At 
 last, seeing no chance of the brief interview he sought, he 
 went to Sir James's study. 
 
 Katharine was still reading, but there was a vacant look 
 in the old man's eyes which seemed to imply that the 
 listener profited as little as the reader. Every now and 
 then he interrupted her to ask, in a voice feebler than usual, 
 some question that betokened a wandering mind. He did 
 not notice Paul's entrance, and the young man motioned to 
 Katharine not to cease, while he placed himself behind her 
 and looked over what she read. It was an old paper that 
 chronicled the coronation of George III., and Paul could 
 not help listening with a strange, almost painful feeling to 
 the description of festivities shared by courtiers and court 
 beauties whose very memory had passed away. 
 
62 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 "It must have been a gay sight, grandpapa," said 
 Katharine, pausing. 
 
 "Eh, what did you say, my child T' 
 
 Katharine repeated her observation. 
 
 " Read that last sentence again, dear ; I don't think I 
 quite understood it. Indeed, things do not seem to be 
 quite clear here to-day." The old man touched his forehead 
 with a feeble smile, and tried to attend while Katharine 
 read. Then he shook his head mournfully, and said : 
 
 " It is of no use, Katharine, I can't make it out What 
 is it ]" 
 
 " It is an account of the coronation levee, dear grandpapa, 
 and of who were presented ; look, here is your own name, 
 Sir James Ogilvie, among the rest." 
 
 " Ah, yes I remember I went let me see, it must 
 have been last week, for the Gazette appears weekly now. 
 And the King has asked me to go down to Windsor and 
 hunt ; don't forget that, Katharine ; and while I think of 
 it, ring for Peters, to see about Eingdove. His Majesty 
 said there was not a finer hunter anywhere than my Eing- 
 dove. Make haste, love." 
 
 Katharine looked imploringly at Paul Lynedon, who 
 stepped forward. 
 
 " My dear Sir James, you are thinking of things long 
 gone by." 
 
 " Eh what who are you, sir 1 I never saw you before," 
 said the old man, over whom a strange change appeared to 
 have come, for his dim eyes glittered, and he moved rest- 
 lessly in his chair. " Katharine, who is this gentleman ^ I 
 don't know him. What is he going to do with me 2 " 
 and he caught her hand uneasily, 
 
 " Dearest grandpapa, it is only Mr. Lynedon." 
 
 "Lynedon; ah, to be sure, Viscount Lynedon. My 
 dear lord, you have come from the levee ; perhaps the King 
 has invited you too 1 Ah ! is it so ? that's well. How 
 young you look ! You find me not over strong, my dear 
 friend, but I shall soon be better very soon." 
 
 The old man paused a moment in his unusual volubility, 
 and turned to Lynedon and Katharine neither of whom 
 
VJ1I.] THE OGILVIES. 63 
 
 would speak. A vague terror oppressed the latter; she 
 became very pale, and her eyes filled with tears. Sir James 
 looked wistfully at her. 
 
 " Who is that lady I don't remember her ?" he whispered 
 to Lynedon. Katharine's tears overflowed, and she hid her 
 face. 
 
 " It is Katharine your own Katharine," said Paul. 
 
 " My own Katharine" repeated the old man ; " yes, it 
 must be Katharine Katharine Mayhew. But you mistake, 
 my lord, you must not call her my Katharine. Come 
 another day and I'll tell you all about it ; I can't now : " 
 and his voice trembled. " There she is, weeping still. My 
 dear friend, go to her : we must do as the world does, and 
 if her father should come in ! Tell her I did love her 
 I did indeed and I always shall, though they will not let 
 us marry. Katharine, my Katharine, do not weep." 
 
 His voice dropped almost to a whisper, and he leaned 
 back with closed eyes, his fingers fluttering to and fro on 
 the elbows of the chair. Lynodon motioned for Katharine 
 to speak to him. 
 
 " Are you tired, dear grandpapa, or unwell ? Shall I call 
 any one T' 
 
 " No, no, no ! I am quite well, only tired ; so tired ! " 
 
 "Is your father in the house, Katharine ?" asked Paul ; 
 who felt more alarmed than he liked to let her see. 
 
 "No; he is gone out with Mrs. Lancaster I think to 
 the church." 
 
 " Church !" said the old Baronet, opening his eyes at the 
 werd. Are we at the church ] Ah, yes, I remember I pro- 
 mised. And so you are to be married, Katharine Mayhew 
 married after all 1 Well ! well ! This is your bride- 
 groom, and his name " 
 
 " Dear grandpapa, you are thinking of something else," 
 cried Katharine. " Here is no one but Mr. Lynedon and 
 myself." 
 
 "Lynedon, so you are going to marry a Lynedon! 
 Well, I had not thought so once. But here we are, and I 
 must say the words myself. Give me your hands" 
 
 "Do not contradict him, it is best not," whispered PauL 
 
64 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 Sir James joined their hands together. Even at that 
 moment of terror and excitement, a wild thrill shot through 
 Katharine's heart, and her very brow crimsoned at the 
 touch. The old man muttered some indistinct sounds, 
 and stopped. 
 
 "I have forgotten the service! how does it begin? 
 Ah ! I remember," continued he very faintly, " Earth to 
 earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust " 
 
 Katharine started up and shrieked with terror, for her 
 grandfather had sunk back in his chair, white and ghastly. 
 One feeble shudder convulsed the aged limbs, and then 
 all was stillness. 
 
 Paul and Katharine their hands still clasped together 
 stood in the presence of Death. 
 
IX.] THE OGILVIES. 65 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The ordinary use of acquaintance is a sharing of talk, news, drink, 
 mirth, together : but sorrow is the right of a friend, as a thing 
 nearer the heart, and to be delivered with it. BISHOP SELDEN. 
 
 She did but look upon him, and his blood 
 Blushed deeper, even from his inmost heart ; 
 For at each glance of those sweet eyes, a soul 
 Looked forth as from the azure gates of heaven. 
 
 PHILIP BAILEY. 
 
 " WHAT a shocking occurrence, really quite unfortunate, 
 that it should have happened just now ! " said Mrs. Lancaster, 
 as she paced the drawing-room in a state of nervous agita- 
 tion, half affected, half real. This was some two or three 
 hours after the first excitement and terror-stricken grief of 
 the family had subsided into the stillness of a household 
 which had been invaded by Death. 
 
 The lady's remark drew no answer from Paul Lynedon, 
 who was the only person present. He sat leaning his head 
 on his hand in a grave attitude. 
 
 " I wish Julian would make haste with the carriage. I 
 shall be glad to get away. It is so very unpleasant to be 
 where there is a death in the house ; it makes me quite 
 nervous ! If the old gentleman had but lived until night 
 Beally, Mr. Lynedon, I wish you would speak instead of 
 sitting there without uttering a word, and when you see 
 me so agitated, too." 
 
 "I am very sorry," began Paul, in an absent tone. 
 " Death is indeed solemn ! " 
 
 " Of course, of course ; but you know I do not think 
 F 
 
66 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 with these stupid church -going people. No one of strong 
 mind would. There is Mrs. Ogilvie, with her Bible quota- 
 tions and her talk about ' submission ; ' as if it were not a 
 good thing that the old man is gone such a trouble as he 
 was. Of course they are all in their hearts quite thankful 
 for the event." 
 
 At this moment a low moaning from one of the distant 
 apartments reached the drawing-room. Paul Lynedon's 
 countenance changed from the apathy with which he had 
 listened to Mrs. Lancaster, to an expression of deep com- 
 passion. 
 
 " Hark ! that is Katharine. Poor child, poor child ! " 
 
 " She has been in hysterics ever since you carried her to 
 her room. It is almost time the scene were ended, I fancy," 
 answered the lady sarcastically. 
 
 "How can you!" exclaimed Lynedon, with a look of 
 grave reproof; but immediately recollecting himself, his 
 countenance resumed its usual expression, and he relapsed 
 into the silence which had excited Mrs. Lancaster's ani- 
 madversions. 
 
 She, on her part, was becoming thoroughly vexed with 
 her protdge. For several days he had not paid her half the 
 attention which she exacted, or wished to exact ; and now 
 it appeared to her that his mind was entirely occupied by 
 thoughts in which she had evidently no share. The lady's 
 conjectures were right. At this moment her worldliness and 
 cold-heartedness were almost abhorrent to Paul Lynedon. 
 For days there had been a struggle within him between the 
 two influences, the true and the unreal, custom on the one 
 hand, and on the other purity, simplicity, and nature. 
 The latter were especially attractive as they came in the 
 guise of Eleanor Ogilvie. Startled, awed by the day's event, 
 and brought for the first time in his life within the presence 
 of death at least of sudden death Lynedon had put off 
 for a while the fictions which constituted his outer sel 
 To him there was now something painfully repugnant in 
 the affectations with which Mrs. Lancaster broke in upon 
 the current of thoughts deeper and purer than the young 
 man had indulged in for a long season 
 
IX.] THE OGILVIES. 67 
 
 " Thank heaven, there are the carriage-wheels," cried Mrs. 
 Lancaster, who had been impatiently beating time on the 
 window-panes with her gloved fingers. " Now we shall 
 get away without meeting the family." 
 
 " What, shall you not see them before you go ] " asked 
 Paul. 
 
 " Oh, no ; such an intrusion would be indecorous. I will 
 send cards when I get home." 
 
 " Cards ! Why, I thought of all woman's duties and pri- 
 vileges there was none so sacred as that of consolation. 
 Surely I have heard you say so yourself." 
 Mrs. Lancaster shrugged her shoulders. 
 " In other cases certainly but in this however, my dear 
 friend, I cannot argue the point now, for here is Julian with 
 the boxes. Eeally, it is very disagreeable to wait upon 
 ourselves, and all because of this old gentleman's death. 
 However, we shall soon be at home. Of course, you are 
 quite ready Mr. Lynedon. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, but I do not go just yet." 
 " Not go ! And pray what is the reason of this sudden 
 and most disinterested resolution 1 ?'' said Mrs. Lancaster, 
 with a smile of such ironical meaning that Paul Lynedon's 
 cheek grew many shades deeper with annoyance. But, as 
 was customary with him, he showed his Vexation only by 
 answering in a tone more firm and haughty than usual. 
 
 " Mrs. Lancaster, my only reason is one so trifling that 
 it hardly deserves your attention. Merely, that having 
 received much courtesy in this house, I wish to return it 
 by inquiring if in this time of confusion and trouble I can 
 in any way be of use ; and so, with an apology for troubling 
 you with this explanation, allow me to lead you to your 
 carriage.'* 
 
 Verily, the stateliness of the whole Lynedon race for a 
 century back was compressed in Paul when he chose to ex- 
 hibit that peculiar manner. The petite graceful Mrs. Lan- 
 caster shrank into nothing beside the overwhelming courtesy 
 of his demeanour. They were silently descending the 
 staircase, when Eleanor Ogilvie appeared. 
 
 " How very unpleasant ! " and " How fortunate ! " cried 
 
68 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 Mrs. Lancaster, in a breath, the former being of course 
 an aside. But a glance at Eleanor's face, which, though a 
 degree paler than ordinary, was perfectly composed, freed 
 the departing guest from the apprehension of a scene, and 
 she reascended to the drawing-room. 
 
 " My dearest Eleanor, I would fain have saved us all the 
 pain of an adieu. These most afflicting circumstances 
 your feelings my own " and here Mrs. Lancaster took 
 out her pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 But Eleanor neither wept nor made any pretence of doing 
 so. 
 
 " Thank you for your sympathy," she answered ; " and 
 since I see you are going, may I hope that you will excuse 
 an omission which " 
 
 " Excuse ! My dear young friend, I would have remained 
 could I have been any comfort, but I thought the kindest 
 act was to intrude no longer on your sorrow." 
 
 Eleanor offered no word of dissent to this remark, and 
 Mrs. Lancaster felt so completely at a loss that she again 
 had recourse to her pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 " You will bear my adieux and condolence to your aunt 
 and to poor dear Miss Ogilvie, who must be sadly afflicted." 
 
 " Yes," said Eleanor, briefly. She suffered Mrs. Lan- 
 caster's veil to sweep her cheek in a salute, and then held 
 out her hand to Paul Lynedon, who had stood by in perfect 
 silence. 
 
 He took the hand, but said quietly, " I am not bidding 
 you adieu, for I do not return to town until night ; perhaps 
 I may be of some service." 
 
 " You are very kind," was Eleanor's reply, " but we will 
 not encroach on your good offices, there is no need." 
 
 " That is just what I have been telling him, Miss Eleanor; 
 he will only be in the way. You had better come with us, 
 Lynedon," said Mrs. Lancaster. 
 
 Paul never answered her, but looked at Eleanor. The 
 look was so full of earnest feeling, sympathy, and sincere 
 kindliness, that she was touched. " You will let me stay 
 if I can be of use to any one here 1 " he said gently, when 
 Mrs. Lancaster walked forward in ill-concealed impatience, 
 
IX.] THE OGILVIES. 69 
 
 " Thank you, yes ; do as you will," answered Eleanor, 
 while the tears which affected sympathy would never have 
 drawn forth confessed the influence of real feeling. The 
 traces of this emotion were still on her cheek when Paul 
 Lynedon returned to the room. There is probably scarcely 
 any man living who does not feel his heart drawn to the 
 girl he loves, or even is only beginning to love, if he sees 
 her under the influence of any grief deep enough to call 
 forth tears. 
 
 So it was, that when Lynedon came again into Eleanor's 
 presence his manner was so subdued, so tender, so free from 
 all affectation, that she had never felt more inclined to 
 regard him with friendly feelings. That she could either 
 inspire or return a warmer sentiment had not once entered 
 her mind with respect to Paul Lynedon ; therefore her 
 manner was always frank, open, and kindly, and now even 
 gentler than usual. 
 
 " This is kind of you, very kind," she said, giving him 
 her hand. He pressed it warmly, as a friend might, and 
 then let it go ; he could not, dared not suffer the expression 
 of love to intrude at such a time. 
 
 " I feel very much with you indeed I do," said Paul's 
 low musical tones, " and that dear child, poor Katharine- 
 it was a terrible shock for her." 
 
 " Yes, Katharine loved him very dearly, and she was the 
 darling of his heart. He chose her name, and she was his 
 godchild. Poor grandpapa ! I think he loved Katharine 
 better than any one in the world. How strange that no 
 one should have been present when he died except you and 
 herself! Did he say anything, or seem to suffer] Poor 
 Katharine has told us nothing indeed she has been weep- 
 ing incessantly ever since." 
 
 Then Paul Lynedon related the scene in the study and 
 the strange delusion under which Sir James had died. A 
 common sympathy, though one of which neither was aware, 
 made Paul speak and Eleanor listen with deep interest to 
 the touching memory of a long-past love. 
 
 "And he remembered her even then, this Katharine 
 Mayhew how strange ! " 
 
70 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP, 
 
 " It is not strange," said Paul, earnestly ; " no man ever 
 forgets the woman whom he first loved. The storms of a 
 lifetime may intervene, but that such first true love should 
 pass away never, never ! " 
 
 Eleanor's lips trembled, her bosom heaved, and the voice 
 of her soul even more than that of her tongue echoed the 
 " never ! " It was as the one amen to the universal love- 
 orison which every young heart breathes at its first awaken- 
 ing. But how rarely does each life's history work out the 
 fulfilment of the prayer ! Not fate's mysteries only, but 
 the wilfulness, change, and weakness of humanity itself, 
 cast a shadow between it and that blessed " never," which 
 while still believed in is strength and hope. Love is no 
 longer divine to us when we find out, or begin only to 
 suspect, that it is not eternal. 
 
 Lynedon watched Eleanor's evident emotion with a thrill 
 of rapture which he could scarcely conceal. He interpreted 
 till as a lover would fain do. Her lightest word, her most 
 passing look, might then have drawn from him the confession 
 of his feelings, and would surely have done so, despite the 
 solemn time and place, had there been in her an answering 
 love involuntarily betrayed. But when Eleanor lifted up 
 her face, the look which met his was so calm, so uncon- 
 strained in its maidenly frankness, that the most anxious 
 self-deceiving lover could not have discovered in it the 
 secret which he might desire to see. Paul Lynedon shrank 
 back into himself, and the passionate words which had risen 
 almost to his lips died away in the ordinary expressions of 
 feeling called forth by the occasion. Even these were so 
 cold that Eleanor seemed surprised. She looked in his 
 face, which was pale and agitated, and her womanly 
 sympathy at once supplied the imagined cause. 
 
 " How ill you look, Mr. Lynedon ! " said she, while her 
 gentle tone and kind eyes expressed more than her words. 
 " We have been thinking so much of ourselves, and have 
 forgotten how 'much this painful day must have affected 
 you. Sit down, and let me bring you a glass of wine. Nay, 
 I will have no refusal." 
 
 Paul had no power to refuse. When Eleanor brought 
 
IX.] THE OGTLYIES. 7l 
 
 him the wine he took it from her hand, drank it, and then 
 leaned his head against the wall, incapable of uttering one 
 word. Eleanor stood by him with a feeling of deep interest, 
 mingled with compassion. At last he roused himself, and 
 said, with a faint smile, 
 
 " You must pardon me." 
 
 " There is no need it was a trying scene ; no wonder it 
 affected you. I often think that men can less bear to come 
 within the shadow of death than women can. It is our 
 fate. No matter how regardless a man may be during his 
 life of all female ties, it is from mother, wife, sister, or 
 daughter, that he will seek the last offices of kindness. We 
 leave worldly pleasures to you, but you look to us for 
 comfort at the last." 
 
 Eleanor had said all this a long speech it was too for 
 one of her generally undemonstrative character with the 
 kindly intention of "giving Paul time to recover himself. 
 When she ceased she found his eyes fixed upon her face 
 with an intense, earnest gaze. But the gaze was less that 
 of a lover towards his mistress than the almost ador- 
 ing look which a Catholic worshipper might turn to his 
 saint. 
 
 "Have I talked to you until you are wearied 1 ?" said 
 Eleanor, with one of her peculiar smiles. " It is some time 
 since I have said so much on my own account. How much 
 longer would you listen, I wonder?" 
 
 " For ever ! for ever ! " muttered Paul Lynedon. 
 
 " What were you saying 1 " inquired the unconscious 
 Eleanor. 
 
 Paul recollected himself at once. 
 
 "That you are very kind and thoughtful just like a 
 woman, and that I am ashamed to have given you so 
 much trouble." 
 
 " Then you feel quite well, now 1 If so, I will go up to 
 see poor Katharine." 
 
 " Not yet, not yet," Lynedon hastily interposed. "You 
 were to tell me if there is anything I can do in London 
 any business to arrange, or, if not to-day, cannot I ride 
 back here to-morrow and see? You know not what pleasure 
 
72 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP 
 
 it would give me to do anything for you that is, for the 
 family." 
 
 " I am sure of it I know how good you ara But my 
 uncle and Hugh can arrange everything." 
 
 "Nay, your brother is out ten miles off in the forest. 
 Shall I ride over to meet him, and inform him of this sad 
 event ] " 
 
 " Thank you, but we have already sent ; indeed, Mr. 
 Lynedon, there is really no need for the exercise of your 
 kindness. And since, to be frank with you, my uncle and 
 aunt will like best to see no one except Hugh and myself, 
 I will positively send you away." 
 
 " But I may come to-morrow, or the next day, only to 
 inquire after you all, and perhaps see yourself or your 
 brother for a few minutes. It will be a satisfaction to me, 
 and Mrs. Lancaster too will be glad " 
 
 Eleanor's countenance changed a little, a very little : she 
 was so sincere, that even a passing thought ever cast some 
 reflected shadow on her face. Her companion saw it, and 
 hastened to remove the impression. 
 
 " You must not judge of me by that is, I mean to say 
 
 that a man is not accountable for the faults of his friends, or 
 or acquaintances." There was some confusion in his 
 speech, which was not removed by Eleanor's total silence. 
 
 " I wish you to think well of me indeed I do," Lyriedon 
 continued. " I know there is much in me wrong ; but then I 
 have been left to myself since boyhood, for years have not 
 had a home, a mother, or a sister ; and so I have grown 
 more worldly than I ought to be. For this reason, now, in 
 going away, I feel how much I owe for the pleasant and 
 good influence of this week to you, who " 
 
 Paul was again treading on dangerous ground, but once 
 more Eleanor's composure saved him. 
 
 " I am glad we have made you happy. We wished to do 
 so ; and it has been a pleasant week to us all but for its sad 
 ending. And now, Mr. Lynedon, since I am the only one 
 of the household who can take leave of you, let me thank 
 you again on the part of all, and say good-bye." 
 
 " Good-bye," repeated Paul, as he lingeringly opened the 
 
IX.] THE OGILVIES. 73 
 
 door for her, and watched her light figure ascend the wind- 
 ing staircase. When she disappeared, his breast relieved 
 itself with a heavy sigh. He rode home fully impressed 
 with the conviction that the star of his life, now and for 
 ever, was Eleanor Ogilvie. 
 
 There was a degree of irresolution in the character of 
 Lynedon that caused him often to be swayed against his 
 will. With him the past or the future was always subser- 
 vient to the influence of the present. So, when he had 
 ridden to Summerwood three times in the first week after 
 Sir James's death, and thereupon borne a considerable 
 number of Mrs. Lancaster's smiles and innuendos, he began 
 to feel that there was some cause for the neglect of which 
 that lady accused her guest. As the charms of Summerwood 
 grew dim in the attraction of successive intellectual dissipa- 
 tions for it is due to Paul to say that no others could have 
 any influence over his fine mind it so chanced that for the 
 next fortnight he never went near the Ogilvie family. 
 
74 THE OGILVJEB. [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The transition from sorrow to joy is easiest in pure minds ; as the true 
 diamond when moistened by the breath recovers its lustre sooner 
 than the false. JEAN PAUL 
 
 He stood beside me 
 
 The embodied vision of the brightest dream 
 That like a dawn heralds the day of life : 
 The shadow of his presence made my world 
 A paradise. All familiar things he touched, 
 All common words he spake, became to me 
 Like forms and sounds of a diviner world. 
 He was as is the sun in his fierce youth, 
 As terrible and lovely as the tempest. 
 He came and went and left me what I am. 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 KATHARINE OGILVIE sat in the room which had so long 
 been her grandfather's. It was now, by her own desire, 
 virtually resigned to herself. None of his own children had 
 loved, and been loved by, Sir James Ogilvie, like this young 
 girl, who had sprung up in the third generation a late- 
 given flower to cast sweetness over his old age. So, 
 Katharine seemed to have a right beyond all others to his 
 room and to everything that had belonged to him. When 
 she recovered from the grief and agitation which for some 
 days had amounted to real illness, she took possession of 
 the study without any opposition, except that her mother's 
 anxious tenderness feared lest the scene of waning life and 
 awfully sudden death might have a. painful effect on a mind 
 so young. 
 
 But Katharine seemed to have arisen from this trance of 
 
X.] THE OGILVIES. 75 
 
 pain and suffering with a new character. During that week 
 of illness she had merged from the child into the woman. 
 A change had passed over her the life-change, wherein the 
 heart awakes, as out of sleep, to feel with a terrible vivid- 
 ness the reality of those pulses which had faintly stirred in 
 its dreams. 
 
 Katharine knew that the power of which she had read 
 and mused had come upon her own soul. She felt in herself 
 the truth of what she had seen shadowed forth in romance 
 and song ; she knew that she loved. 
 
 It is with a sensation almost amounting to fear that a 
 young maiden first discovers the real presence of the life- 
 influence in her heart when she feels that her existence no 
 longer centres in itself alone, but has another added to it, 
 which becomes, and will become more and more, dear as its 
 very soul. Katharine, who in her unconscious simplicity 
 had given herself up so entirely to the pleasant reverie of 
 which Paul Lynedon was the presiding spirit, almost 
 shuddered when the light broke in upon her and told her 
 that dream was her life. With her, love was not that 
 girlish fancy which is born of idleness, nourished by vanity, 
 and dies in a few months of sheer inanition, to revive 
 again in some new phase, and, so transferred from object to 
 object, live out its scores of petty lives, until it fairly wears 
 itself out, or settles, at the call of duty or of interest, 
 within the calm boundaries of matrimonial necessity. 
 Words cannot too much ridicule or condemn this desecra- 
 tion. But a pure-hearted woman's sincere, true, and life- 
 long love, awakened by what either is or she deems to be 
 noble and perfect in her ideal, and as such made the 
 secret religion of her heart, whereon no eye may look, yet 
 which is the hidden spring influencing all her thoughts and 
 actions, this love is a thing most sacred, too solemn to be 
 lightly spoken of, too exalted to need idle pity, too holy to 
 awaken any feeling save reverence. 
 
 And such a love was Katharine's for Paul Lynedon. 
 
 She sat in her grandfather's chair, her brow resting 
 against the same cushion where in death had fallen the 
 aged head now hidden away in eternal repose. Katharine 
 
76 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 turned away from the light and closed her eyes. Her hands 
 lay crossed on her knee, their extreme and almost sickly 
 whiteness contrasting with her black dress. She was no 
 longer an invalid ; but a dreaminess and languor still hung 
 over her, giving their own expression to her face and 
 attitude. It was a pleasure to sit still and think one so 
 great that she often suffered her parents and Hugh to sup- 
 pose her asleep, rather than be disturbed by conversation. 
 
 The room was so quiet, that she might have been alone ; 
 but Hugh, who ever since her recovery had followed her 
 like a shadow, sat at the window making his eternal flies 
 at least that was his excuse for remaining with her in the 
 study, but he looked oftener at Katharine than at his 
 work. So silent and quiet was he, that she had entirely 
 forgotten his presence, until, waking from her reverie with 
 a half-suppressed sigh, she saw him creep softly to her 
 chair. 
 
 " I thought you were asleep, Katharine ; are you awake 
 now ? " he said, affectionately. 
 
 Katharine's answer was a smile. She felt very grateful 
 to Hugh, who had been her chief companion for some days, 
 and had striven in every way to amuse her. He had given 
 up the finest hunt of the season to stay at home with her ; 
 and, after in vain trying to interest her in the adventures 
 of every fox killed during the winter, had finally offered to 
 read aloud to her out of any book she liked, provided it 
 was not poetry. But the time was gone by when the 
 lingering childishness of Katharine's nature would sympathise 
 with those purely physical delights of exercise and out-door 
 amusement which constituted Hugh's world. She tried to 
 hide this from him, and attempted to enter into everything 
 as usual; but it would not do. The day lagged very 
 heavily ; and though Hugh was too good-natured to allude 
 to the hunt, it recurred sorrowfully to his mind as he saw 
 from the study windows a few moving specks of scarlet 
 sweeping along the distant country. At last, when a horse's 
 feet were heard up the avenue, he could rest quiet no 
 longer. 
 
 " It is surely one of the men from the hunt; I will just 
 
X.] THE OGILVIES. 77 
 
 go and speak to him, and ask him to have some lunch, 
 You will not mind being left alone for a few minutes, dear 
 Katharine 1 " 
 
 " Oh, no ? not at all ! You are only too kind to me, 
 cousin Hugh ; pray go and enjoy yourself." 
 
 The door closed on him, and Katharine leaned back in 
 quiet dreamy solitude. She thought of her grandfather 
 how soon every memory of him had passed away from 
 the household ; how even the long life of eighty years, with 
 all its ties and all its events, had become like a shadow 
 had crumbled into nothing at the touch of death ; so that 
 in the world not even a month's void was left by the human 
 soul now departed. And then Katharine's mind reverted to 
 the closing scene of his life ; the old man's vague wander- 
 ing words, which she felt referred to some memory of his 
 youth that he had strangely connected with her, not know- 
 ing that the universal chord thus touched in the shadowy 
 past had found its echo in the present. The same impulse 
 swayed the spirit then passing away, and that just entering 
 upon its world-struggles. Amidst the solemn mournfulness 
 of this death-vision came the remembered face of Paul 
 Lynedon ; the gentle sympathy of his look, the touch of 
 his hand, the strange symbolising of their united fate for 
 so it might prove who could tell ] And Katharine gave 
 herself up to the wild love-reverie of early youth. 
 
 In the midst of it the door opened, and Lynedon himself 
 stood by her side. 
 
 Katharine had never seen him since the moment when, 
 half insensible, she had felt herself borne in his arms from 
 the chamber of death. Now, he came so suddenly into her 
 presence that at the sight of him her heart seemed to 
 suspend its beatings. Not a word came from her colourless 
 lips, and the hand that Paul took between his own felt like 
 marble. 
 
 " Dear Katharine, I fear I have startled you," he said, 
 anxiously ; " but I so longed to see you. I never thought 
 of all the past this room, too how foolish it was of me !" 
 
 Katharine drooped her head and burst into tears. 
 
 Paul's kindly feelings were roused. He waited until 
 
78 . THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 Katharine's emotion had somewhat exhausted itself; and 
 then laid her head back on the cushion, smoothing her soft 
 black hair with his hand as gently and soothingly as an 
 elder brother or father might have done. 
 
 " Poor Katharine, dear Katharine ! you have suffered 
 much ; but we will not think of it any more now. Let us 
 talk about something else, and I will sit by you until you 
 have quite recovered yourself. Do not grieve so much for 
 him you have lost think of those you have still. Katha- 
 rine, dearest think of all who love you." 
 
 A happy smile broke through Katharine's tears, and a, 
 faint colour flitted over her cheek. The words were very 
 tender made still more so by the inexpressible sweetness 
 of the tone. What music there was at times in Paul 
 Lynedon's voice ! No wonder it should echo in that poor 
 self-deceiving heart like a celestial melody. 
 
 The first tender impulse over, Mr. Lynedon seemed to 
 think he had consoled her sufficiently, and resumed the 
 ordinary tones of common life. 
 
 " I have not yet inquired after your father and mother ; 
 they are well, I hope 1 May I not see them to-day ] " 
 
 " Yes, certainly," said Katharine. 
 
 " And your cousin Miss Eleanor ] " Paul's head here 
 turned towards the fire, and his fingers busied themselves in 
 playing with a loose tassel on the arm-chair. 
 
 " Eleanor is very well. I had a letter from her to-day." 
 
 " A letter ! " 
 
 " Yes ; she was sent for a week since by her old friend, 
 Mrs. Breynton. She told me to say how sorry she was not 
 to bid you adieu ; indeed, we half expected you every day 
 last week. 
 
 A slight exclamation of vexed surprise rose to Paul's lips, 
 but he suppressed it, and only tore the tassel into small 
 bits. No indication of what was in his mind conveyed 
 itself to Katharine's ; she sat with her sweet, downcast eyes, 
 and trembling lips, drinking in nothing but deep happiness. 
 
 For him, he concealed his disappointment, only saying, 
 in a soft, earnest way, 
 
 " How very, very sorry I am ! Nothing but the hardest 
 
X.] THE OGILVIES. 79 
 
 necessity could have made me stay away from Summenvood 
 a whole fortnight. You believe that, Katharine 1 " 
 
 Katharine did not know whether to say yes or no. She 
 was in a rapturous dream, whose light flooded and dazzled 
 all her thoughts and senses. 
 
 " But you will forgive me, and ask your cousin to do the 
 same when you write ] Will that be soon ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; we write very often, Eleanor and I." 
 " How pleasant ! " said Paul Lynedon ; while his 
 thoughts flew far away, and the few words with which he 
 tried to keep up the conversation only sufficed to make it 
 more confused and broken. Katharine never noticed how 
 absent his manner grew. She was absorbed in the happiness 
 of sitting near hirn, hearing him speak, and stealing glances 
 now and then at his face. And, perhaps, had she considered 
 the matter at all, his silence would have only seemed another 
 token of the secret which she fancied she read in the deep 
 tenderness of his words and manner. 
 
 To him the time passed rather wearily ; it was a duty 
 of kindness and consideration, at first pleasant, then some- 
 what dull, possibly it was a relief when fulfilled. To her, 
 the bliss of a year nay, of a lifetime was comprised in 
 that one half-hour. At the moment it seemed a dizzy 
 trance of confused joy, formless and vague but in after- 
 hours it grew distinct j each word, each look, each gesture 
 being written on her heart and brain in letters of golden 
 light ; until at last they turned to fire. 
 
 Hugh came in, looking not particularly pleased. Though 
 he had a strong suspicion that his sister Eleanor was Paul 
 Lynedon's chief attraction at Summerwood, he never felt 
 altogether free from a vague jealousy on Katharine's account. 
 But the warmth with which his supposed rival met him 
 quite reassured the simple-hearted, good-natured Hugh ; and 
 while the two interchanged greetings, Katharine crept away 
 to her own room. 
 
 There, when quite alone, the full tide of joy was free to 
 flow. With an emotion of almost child-like rapture she 
 clasped her hands above her head. 
 
 " It may come It may come yet ! " she murmured ; and 
 
80 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP> 
 
 then she repeated his words the words which now ever 
 haunted her like a perpetual music / almost love Katharine 
 Ogilvie! "It may be true it must be. Else he never 
 would talk to me thus look at me thus. For I how could 
 I hear such words, meet such looks, from any other man 
 but he ! It must be true. He called me * dearest/ He 
 does love me. How happy am I ! " 
 
 And as she stood with her clasped hands pressed on her 
 bosom; her head thrown back, the lips parted, the eyes 
 beaming, and her whole form dilated with joy, Katharine 
 caught a sight of her image in the opposite mirror. She 
 was startled to see herself so -fair. There is no beautifier 
 like happiness, especially the happiness of love. It often 
 seems to invest with a halo of radiance the most ordinary 
 face and form. No wonder that under its influence Katha- 
 rine hardly knew her own likeness. 
 
 But, in a moment, a delicious consciousness of beauty 
 stole over her. It was not vanity, but a passionate gladness, 
 that thereby she might be more worthy of him. She drew 
 nearer ; she gazed almost lovingly on the bright young face 
 reflected there, not as if it were her own, but as something 
 fair and precious in his sight which accordingly became 
 the same to hers. She looked into the depths of the dark 
 clear eyes : ah ! one day it might be his delight to do the 
 same ! She marked the graceful curves of the round white 
 hand the same hand which had rested in his : perhaps the 
 time might come when it would rest there for ever. 
 "Blessed hand! oh, dear dear little hand of mine!" 
 And she kissed it, more than once- till she began blushing 
 at her own folly. 
 
 Simple, child-like Katharine a child in all but love 
 if thou couldst have died in that dream ! 
 
 The sudden delirium of joy passed away, and left a still 
 gladness which lighted up her eyes and trembled in her lips, 
 making her whole countenance beautiful. As she went 
 down to dinner, she passed the open door of the study, and 
 entered it for a moment. How changed it seemed ! the 
 memorial altar of Death had become the sanctuary of Love. 
 A little, Katharine's heart smote her ; and a few tears fell, 
 
X.] THE OG1LVIES. 81 
 
 awakened by one sudden thought of him who was gone. 
 But how could the dear yet now faint memory of the dead 
 contend with the fresh, glad fount of youth and first love 
 that sprang up in her heart, filling it with sunshine and 
 singing evermore until the light and the music shut out 
 all sorrowful sights and sounds, or changed them into joy 1 
 It could not be : it never is so in this world. And Nature, 
 who makes the greenest grass and the brightest flowers to 
 grow over graves, thus teaches us that in this ever-renewed 
 current of life there is deep wisdom and infinite love. 
 
 Paul Lynedon stayed all day. It was a day of quiet 
 pleasure to every one. Mr. or, as Paul found some 
 difficulty in calling him, Sir Eobert Ogilvie was glad to 
 have a talk about politics, and his lady was delighted that 
 a visitor had at last arrived to break the formal gloom of a 
 household over which death had passed, but scarcely sorrow. 
 Hugh had an engagement elsewhere. This fact, while Sir 
 Eobert took his after-dinner nap, cost Lady Ogilvie a long 
 apology, which her guest thought infinitely more wearisome 
 than the circumstance for which it was meant to atone. 
 
 " Though casting no reproach on your nephew's agreer 
 able society," said the polite Lynedon, " I assure you, my 
 dear Lady Ogilvie, that I shall be quite content, and indeed 
 gratified, to have your daughter all to myself for a whole 
 evening. Is it not so, Katharine It " and he took the young 
 girl's hand with the affectionate familiarity which he had 
 established between them. How bright, how joyful, were 
 the answering blush and smile ! 
 
 Paul Lynedon saw both. He was flattered at having so 
 completely conquered the shyness of this young creature, 
 who, in the intervals of his sudden passion for Eleanor, had 
 at once interested, amused, and puzzled him. He could not 
 but perceive the admiring reverence of himself which her 
 whole manner unconsciously showed ; and a proud man likes 
 to be worshipped and looked up to, especially by the other 
 sex. To be sure, Katharine was still a mere child ; but 
 there was something even in the devotion of a young girl 
 that gratified his self-esteem and love of approbation both 
 very strong in Paul Lynedon. 
 
 G 
 
82 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 So, his manner towards Katharine took a deeper and 
 tenderer meaning more so than even he intended it should. 
 Though the other fair image which he fancied so dear still 
 lingered in his heart, and he was haunted all that evening 
 with shadowy visions of Eleanor, still he talked to Katharine 
 as men will idly talk, never dreaming that every low tone, 
 every tender look, thoughtlessly lavished on an interesting 
 girl, went deep to the most passionate recesses of a woman's 
 heart. 
 
 After tea, Paul's eyes wandered to the little recess where 
 harp and piano stood. Perhaps his lover-like fancy con- 
 jured up there the sweet calm face and bending figure of 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " You feel dull without music. Is not that what you are 
 thinking of 1 " inquired Katharine, timidly. 
 
 A tacit prevarication, by which more tender consciences 
 than Paul's often deem it no wrong to compromise truth, 
 enabled him to answer, " Yes, I was wishing to ask you to 
 sing, but did not like so soon after" and he stopped. 
 
 Katharine looked grave, and her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " Perhaps I ought not. Yet he always loved to see me 
 happy, and he liked you so much ! Mr. Lynedon, I will try 
 to sing if it will give you any pleasure. May I not, 
 mamma ] " 
 
 But Lady Ogilvie had gone comfortably to sleep in the 
 inner drawing-room. 
 
 Katharine sang : it was wonderful how much she had 
 improved. P#ul listened, praised, and made her try over 
 all his favourites which Eleanor had sung to him. Katha- 
 rine saw his earnest, almost abstracted look ; she knew not 
 that he was touched less by the present than by recollections 
 of the happy past and vague plans for the future a future 
 now all centred in Eleanor Ogilvie. 
 
 Under the influence of these thoughts and projects, Paul 
 felt happy. He took leave of the family, of Katharine 
 especially, with a cheerful, tender light in his eyes those 
 beautiful soft grey eyes, which at times were more eloquent 
 than even his tongue. 
 
 " I am going a short journey, but I shall not be away 
 
X,] THE OGILVIES. 83 
 
 long. A fortnight, at furthest, will see me again at Sum- 
 merwood." 
 
 " We shall be happy to see you, Mr. Lynedon," said Sir 
 Robert, cordially ; " you see we make you quite one of the 
 family." 
 
 " It is my greatest happiness," answered Paul, with a 
 delighted look, and a tone of deeper earnestness than 
 Katharine had ever heard him use. It made her little 
 heart flutter wildly. Quicker still it throbbed when Lyne- 
 don entreated Sir Robert not to stir from the fireside. 
 "Your good-bye and good-speed shall be the last, dear 
 Katharine, if you will come with me to the door." 
 
 She did so, trembling all over. When they stood together 
 in the hall, he took both her hands in his, and held them 
 there for a long time, looking down tenderly upon her 
 agitated face. 
 
 " You will think of me when I am away 1 " he whispered. 
 
 " Yes " was all she could answer. 
 
 " And you will remember me you will love me until I 
 come again ? " 
 
 This time no answer none. But he saw that her slight 
 frame quivered like a reed, and that the large limpid eyes 
 which she raised to his, for one instant only, were swimming 
 in tears. As he gazed, a thrill of pleased vanity, not 
 unmingled with a deeper, tenderer feeling, came over Paul 
 Lynedon. With a sudden impulse he was always governed 
 by impulses he stooped down and kissed the tearful eyes, 
 the trembling lips, which had silently betrayed so much. 
 
 " God bless you, Katharine dearest Katharine ! " were 
 his last words. Their echoes rang through her life for 
 years. 
 
 Lynedon, as he rode home, felt rather annoyed that he 
 had committed himself in this way. But he could not help 
 it she looked so pretty. And then, she was a mere 
 child after all, and would be his little cousin soon, he hoped. 
 With this thought, he dismissed the subject, and the image 
 of Katharine glided into that of Eleanor Ogilvie. 
 
 But she the young creature whom he left behind 
 stood there, absorbed in a trance of delirious rapture. She 
 
84 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 saw nothing felt nothing but the vanished face and the 
 touch that lingered on her lips and eyelids. It seemed as 
 if with that kiss a new soul his soul had passed into her 
 own, giving it a second life. She awoke, as if in another 
 world, feeling her whole being changed and sublimated. 
 With her, everything in existence now tended towards one 
 thought, one desire, one passionate and yet solemn prayer 
 that she might one day be worthy to lay down her life, her 
 love, her very soul, at the feet of Paul Lynedom 
 
XI.] THE OGILVIES. 85 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
 Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. 
 News from the humming city comes to it 
 In sound of funeral or marriage bells, 
 And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear 
 The windy clanging of the minster clock. 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 THERE is, in one of the counties between Devon and 
 Northumberland, a certain cathedral city, the name of 
 which I do not intend to reveal. It is, or was until very 
 lately, one of the few remaining strongholds of High- 
 Churchism and Conservatism, political and moral. In olden 
 days it almost sacrificed its existence as a city for the cause 
 of King Charles the Martyr ; and ever since has kept true 
 to its principles, or at least to that modification of them 
 which the exigencies of modern times required. And the 
 " loyal and ancient " town which dignifies itself by the 
 name of city, though a twenty minutes' walk would bring 
 you from one extremity to the other is fully alive to the 
 consciousness of its own deservings. It is a very colony of 
 Levites ; who, devoted to the temple -service, shut out from 
 their precincts any unholy thing. But this unholiness is 
 an epithet of their own affixing, not Heaven's. It means 
 not merely what is irreligious, but what is ungenteel, 
 unaristocratic, un-Conservative. 
 
 Yet there is much that is good about the place and its 
 inhabitants. The latter may well be proud of their ancient 
 and beautiful city beautiful not so much in itself as for 
 its situation.. It lies in the midst of a fertile and gracefully 
 
86 THE OGILVIES. . [CHAP. 
 
 undulated region, and consists of a cluster of artistically 
 irregular and deliciously old-fashioned streets, of which the 
 nucleus is the cathedral. This rises aloft with its three 
 airy spires, so light, so delicately traced, that they have 
 been christened the Ladies of the Yale. You may see them 
 for miles and miles looking almost like a fairy building 
 against the sky. The city has an air of repose, an old-world 
 look, which becomes it well. No railway has yet disturbed 
 the sacred peace of its antiquity, and here and there you 
 may see grass growing in its quiet streets, over which you 
 would no more think of thundering in a modern equipage 
 than of driving a coach-and-four across the graves of your 
 ancestors. 
 
 The whole atmosphere of the place is that of sleepiness 
 and antique propriety. The people do everything, as 
 Boniface says, " soberly." They have grave dinner-parties, 
 once or twice in the year ; a public ball, as solemn as a 
 funeral ; a concert now and then, very select and proper ; 
 and so society moves on, in a circle of polite regularities. 
 The resident bishop is the sun of the system ; around which 
 deans, sub-deans, choral vicars, and clerical functionaries of 
 all sorts, revolve in successive orbits with their separate 
 satellites. One character, one tone of feeling, pervades 
 
 everybody. L is a city of serene old age. Nobody 
 
 seems young there not even the little singing-boys. 
 
 But the sanctum sanctorum, the penetralia of the city, is a 
 small region surrounding the cathedral, entitled the Close. 
 Here abide relics of ancient sanctity, widows of departed 
 deans, maiden descendants of officials who probably chanted 
 anthems on the accession of George III., or on the downfall 
 of the last Pretender. Here, too, is the residence of many 
 cathedral functionaries who pass their lives within the pre- 
 cincts of the sanctuary. These dwellings have imbibed the 
 clerical and dignified solemnity due to their neighbourhood. 
 It seems always Sunday in the Close ; and the child who 
 should venture to bowl a hoop along its still pavement, or 
 play at marbles on its door-steps, would be more daring 
 than ever was infant within the verge of the city of L . 
 
 In this spot was Mrs. Breynton's residence. But it 
 
XI.] THE OGILVIES. 8? 
 
 looked down with superior dignity upon its neighbours in 
 the Close, inasmuch as it was a detached mansion, inclosed 
 by high walls, gardens, and massive gates. It had once 
 been the bishop's palace, and was a beautiful relic of the 
 stately magnificence of old. Large and lofty rooms, oak- 
 panelled and supported by pillars, noble staircases, 
 recesses where proscribed traitors might have hid, gloomy 
 bed-chambers with spectral furniture, meet for the visitation 
 of legions of ghosts, dark passages, where you might 
 shiver at the echo of your own footsteps ; such were the 
 internal appearances of the house. Everything was solemn, 
 still, age-stricken. 
 
 But, without, one seemed to pass at once from the frigidity 
 of age, to the light, gladness, and freshness of youth. The 
 lovely garden was redolent of sweet odours, alive with 
 birds, studded with velvety grass plots of the brightest green 
 interwound by shady alleys, with here and there trees which 
 hid their aged boughs in a mantle of leaves and flowers, so 
 that one never thought how they and the grey pile which 
 they neighboured had come into existence together. It 
 was like the contrast between a human mind which the 
 world teaches and builds on its own fading model, and the 
 soul of God's making and nourishing which lives in His 
 sunshine and His dews, fresh and pure, never grows old, 
 and bears flowers to the last. 
 
 There, in that still garden, you might sit for hours, and 
 hear no world-sounds to break its quiet except the chimes 
 of the cathedral-clock drowsily ringing out the hours. Now 
 and then, at service-time, there would come a faint murmur 
 of chanting, uniting the visible form of holy service with 
 Nature's eternal praises and prayers, and so blending the 
 spiritual and the tangible, the symbol and the expression, 
 in a pleasant harmony. Dear, beautiful garden ! No dream 
 of fiction, but a little Eden of memory let us rest awhile 
 in thy lovely shades before we people them with the 
 denizens of this our self-created world. Oh, pleasant 
 garden ! let us go back in spirit to the past, and lie down 
 on the green sloping bank under the magnificent old tree 
 with its cloud of white blossoms (no poet-sung hawthorn, 
 
88 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 but only a double-cherry) let us stroll along the terrace- 
 walk, and lean against the thick low wall, looking down 
 upon what was once the cathedral moat, but is now a slop- 
 ing dell all trailed over with blackberries let us watch the 
 sunlit spires of the old cathedral in a quiet dreaminess that 
 almost shuts out thought ! And, while resting under the 
 shadow of this dream, its memorial pictures shall be made 
 lifelike to us by the accompaniment of solemn music such 
 as this : 
 
 earth so full of dreary noises, 
 
 men with wailing in your voices ; 
 delved gold the wailer's heap ; 
 
 strife tears that o'er it fall, 
 
 God makes a silence through you all I 
 And giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
XII.] THE OGILVIES. 89 
 
 OHAPTEK XIL 
 
 Of what quality was your love, then ? 
 
 Like a fair house built upon another man's ground, so that I have 
 lost my edifice by mistaking the place where I erected it. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 How ill doth he deserve a lover's name 
 Whose pale weak flame 
 
 Cannot retain 
 
 His heart in spite of absence or disdain ; 
 But does at once, like paper set on fire, 
 Burn, and expire. CAREW. 
 
 IT was scarcely possible to imagine a greater contrast than 
 that between Mrs. Breynton and Eleanor Ogilvie. It was 
 not the contrast of youth and age, or beauty and ugliness : 
 for the lady of the palace was certainly not very old, and 
 might once have been decidedly handsome. But there was 
 a line-and-plummet regularity, an angular preciseness, in 
 Mrs. Breynton's mind and person, that was altogether 
 opposed to Hogarth's curve of " beauty and grace." She 
 was like a correct mathematical figure altogether made up 
 of right lines. A bishop's niece, a canon's daughter, and a 
 dean's widow, she had lived all her life under the shadow 
 of the cathedral walls. It was her world she could 
 imagine no greater ; and in it she had passed a life serene, 
 sedate, unbroken, save by two shocks the death of the 
 clean and an event yet more terrible, her only brother's 
 relinquishment of the Church for the Army. The first she 
 recovered in time ; the second she atoned for by bringing 
 up that favourite brother's orphan son to restore the credit 
 of the family through the induction of surplice and band. 
 
90 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 The elder lady and her companion sat together in the 
 breakfast-room. It was the only apartment in the house 
 that was small enough to be comfortable, and this shadow 
 of domestic coziness was taken away by one half of it being 
 transformed by a glass partition-wall into a conservatory. 
 But this conservatory was unlike most others, inasmuch as 
 it had dead brick walls and high windows through which 
 little light could penetrate, so that it looked as if the room 
 had been made into a vegetable menagerie. 
 
 Mrs. Breynton always made a rule of sitting still after 
 breakfast for half-an-hour ; during which time she read her 
 letters, decided upon the day's avocations, and knitted one 
 square of an eternal counterpane that seemed likely to enter 
 on its duties for the first time as the shroud of its cente- 
 narian fabricator. 
 
 "Eleanor, my dear!" said the measured tones of the 
 Dean's widow. 
 
 Eleanor had entered the menagerie with the charitable 
 intention of opening the window to give air to its occupants. 
 
 " My dear Eleanor ! " repeated in a tone higher, made 
 her turn round and answer the call. " I merely wished 
 to remind you that we never open the conservatory win- 
 dow until Easter, and it is now only the week before 
 Lent." 
 
 Eleanor closed the window ; looking compassionately at 
 the poor orange-trees, which could drink in air and light 
 only by rule and measure. She came into the breakfast- 
 room, and sat watching the sunshine that struggled in. It 
 rested on an old picture the only one in the room a 
 portrait of a rosy, golden-haired boy. The original was the 
 Canon Francis Wychnor, whose monument stood in the 
 cathedral nave. Could he have ever been a child 1 
 
 Mrs. Breynton knitted another row in silence, and then 
 observed : 
 
 " Eleanor, my reference to this season of Lent has made 
 me remember how near it is to the Ember weeks. I wonder 
 I did not hear from Philip to-day." 
 
 Sudden blushes rarely came to Eleanor's cheek ; her 
 feelings were too well governed and calm. But now she 
 
XII.] THE OGILVIES. 91 
 
 felt glad that she sat in the shade, for Mrs. Breynton's 
 thoughts had taken the same direction as her own. 
 
 " Perhaps he will write to-morrow," was the very ordinary 
 reply that she found herself able to make. 
 
 " I hope so : but he has rarely suffered Tuesday morning 
 to pass by ; and it would have been pleasant to me to know 
 that he is quite prepared for taking orders." 
 
 " This year so soon ! " 
 
 " Certainly, my dear. He was three-and-twenty last 
 month just in time. I have already spoken to the Bishop 
 about the curacy of Wearmouth ; and old Mr. Yernon, the 
 rector of that place, is not likely in course of nature to live 
 more than two or three years. I consider that there are 
 few young men with better prospects than my nephew; 
 and I think I may ffatter myself on having been to a certain 
 degree instrumental in his well-being/' 
 
 " Indeed he owes you much ! But I am sure, from what 
 I know of Mr. Wychnor, that your kindness will be requited 
 with interest." 
 
 A pleased though very frigid smile bent the thin lips of 
 the Dean's widow. " I am quite satisfied that Philip will 
 do credit to his family. I have no fault to find with him, 
 except perhaps that he is not regular enough in his studies, 
 and has a fancy for always carrying with him a volume or 
 two of idle poetry not quite the thing for a young clergy- 
 man to read. But he will get over that ; and if he conducts 
 himself well in his curacy, and marries to please me, as I 
 have little doubt he will" (here Mrs. Breynton glanced 
 approvingly at Eleanor's gracefully-dropped head), "why, 
 then, Philip will have no cause to regret that he is my 
 nephew. But it is already ten o'clock, and I have to speak 
 to the gardener about transplanting some geraniums. 
 Eleanor, will you be kind enough to ring for Davis ?" 
 
 Long after the old lady had attired herself, and been 
 seen slowly traversing the garden walks, Eleanor sat musing 
 on her latter words " If Philip marries to please me." It 
 was almost the first time she had ever heard the word 
 marriage on Mrs. Breynton's lips. The palace had always 
 seemed a quiet, innocent paradise, wherein there was no 
 
92 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP, 
 
 mention of the one feeling which in society is often diluted 
 into a meaningless and contemptible jest, or else made the 
 cause of all strife, evil, and sorrow. Eleanor and Philip 
 shut up together like two young birds in this peaceful Eden, 
 had glided into love, without any one's taking apparent 
 notice of the fact, and almost without knowing it themselves, 
 The flower had sprung up in their hearts, and grown lead 
 by leaf, bud by bud, neither could tell how. No doubts 
 and jealousies from the world outside had ever come betweer 
 them. Their perfect love was perfect trust the deep faith 
 between two beings who feel that they are formed for one 
 another, and are united to the heart's core. They neve] 
 talked about their love. Philip made no declarations 
 Eleanor asked no vows ; and when they parted for the 
 short visit at Summerwood, there was no formal farewell 
 Only, as they stood at the hall-door Philip pressed her 
 hand, and said : 
 
 " Take care of yourself, Eleanor my Eleanor ! remembej 
 you are mine dearest to me of all the world." 
 
 Eleanor believed it, and felt from that moment that sh< 
 was betrothed to him in heart and soul. She rested in th< 
 knowledge ; full of trust in him, in his true, earnest, nobl< 
 nature. She had not thought much of the future until Mrs 
 Breynton's words awakened a restlessness and an anxioui 
 looking forward. Eleanor knew Philip's heart better thai 
 any one, and she foreboded that all these projects for hii 
 future advantage were little likely to be seconded by him. 
 She sat pondering for nearly an hour, when she was sum 
 moned into the drawing-room by the arrival of a visitor. 
 
 It was the last person in the world whom she expected. 
 
 " Mr. Lynedon ! this is, indeed, a surprise," criec 
 Eleanor. 
 
 There was a slight confusion in his manner ; which was 
 very soon reflected in hers, for just at that moment Mrs 
 Breynton entered. The extreme frigidity of her receptior 
 was enough to produce an uncomfortable feeling in anj 
 maiden of nineteen who has to introduce a strange gentle 
 man arrived, apparently, without any object but that oi 
 seeing herself. 
 
XJi.] THE OGILVIES. 93 
 
 "Mrs. Breynton, this is Mr. Lynedon, a friend of my 
 uncle Ogilvie's, who was staying at Summerwood. I believe 
 I spoke of him." 
 
 "I have not the slightest recollection of the fact, my 
 dear ; but any friend of yours or of Sir Eobert Ogilvie's is 
 
 welcome to my house, Pray be seated, Mr.- . Excuse 
 
 me, Eleanor, but I did not catch the gentleman's name." 
 
 " Lynedon," answered Paul, somewhat disconcerted by 
 die cold penetrating gaze of Mrs. Breynton. However, he 
 made an effort and recovered his self-command. "I bear 
 credentials from Summerwood which I hope will atone for 
 this intrusion, a few books which Miss Ogilvie was sending 
 to her cousin. Happening to propose a journey which 
 would lead me through your city, I volunteered to deliver 
 them. Perhaps this offer was hardly disinterested, as I 
 was glad of any excuse to stay and see your beautiful 
 cathedral." 
 
 Mrs. Breynton began to thaw. To praise " our cathedral," 
 and manifest interest therein, was a certain road to her 
 favour. From the few words which she answered, Paul 
 Lynedon was sharp-sighted enough to discover this, and he 
 followed up his game with great patience and ingenuity. 
 While Eleanor examined the books he had brought, he 
 talked the Dean's lady into the best of humours. She 
 took him to the window which looked on the cathedral-yard, 
 explained its architecture from top to bottom, and 
 finally, delighted with the interest that he evinced and with 
 his evident antiquarian lore Paul was the cleverest of 
 tacticians in displaying every whit of his knowledge she 
 invited her unexpected guest to stay to luncheon. 
 
 "Then, Eleanor, my dear, we can afterwards show the 
 cathedral to Mr. Lynedon, since he seems to admire it so 
 much. I mention this, Mr. Lynedon, because under my 
 escort you will be able to see the Ladye Chapel, the vaults, 
 and other interesting parts, where visitors are not admitted 
 in general ; but I, as connected with the cathedral " 
 
 " Of course, my dear madam ; how fortunate that I have 
 the pleasure of an introduction from one so important as 
 yourself," said Paul Lynedon, trying not to sraile at the 
 
94 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP, 
 
 clerical pride of this relative of so many departed dignitaries. 
 His tendency for delicately polite satire became almost irre- 
 pressible, until in the midst of his pretended deference he 
 caught Eleanor's eyes fixed on him. The reproach thus 
 given he felt, and stopped immediately. 
 
 Excited by her presence, Paul's longing to unfold his love 
 and receive its requital grew stronger than ever. He tried 
 every expedient that courtesy could either sanction or con- 
 ceal in order to get the old lady out of the room. But Mrs. 
 Breynton had been brought up in the old-world school of 
 proprieties, and had no idea of leaving a young lady and 
 gentleman alone together for five minutes unless they were 
 plighted lovers. So, during two interminable hours, Paul 
 had not an opportunity of exchanging one word with Eleanor 
 except on the most trivial subjects, and even then Mrs. 
 Breynton's quick black eyes followed him with a hawk- 
 like pertinacity that was anj^thing but pleasant. 
 
 Paul grew quite nervous. " It will come to a letter after 
 all, and I hate the idea of a proposal in ink. Confound 
 that stupid old woman ! " thought he, while the impetuosity 
 of his character foamed and boiled under the check he was 
 forced to put upon it. 
 
 At last Mrs. Breynton proposed to visit the cathedral. 
 
 " Pray, do not let me encroach upon you too much," said 
 Paul, " the verger will show me, : or if Miss Ogilvie would 
 favour me so far." 
 
 His eyes turned towards Eleanor, so did Mrs. Breynton's; 
 but there was not the shadow of a love-mystery suggested 
 in that calm, mild face. 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Lynedon, I should be very glad to act as 
 your guide, only Mrs. Breynton knows so much more than 
 I do about these curious old monuments. However, we 
 will both go with you." 
 
 " Certainly, Eleanor," acquiesced Mrs. Breynton, with an 
 air of complete reassurance ; while Paul forced his hand so 
 precipitately into his glove that he tore it completely in two. 
 But, as if the favouring stars looked with pity on the vexed 
 lover, it so chanced that the Bishop's lad}' drove up to the 
 gates just as the three were setting out. Mrs. Breynton 
 
XII. J THE OGILVIES. 95 
 
 was forced to return, and Paul at last found himself alone 
 
 with Eleanor. 
 
 Who ever wooed 
 
 As in his boyish hope he would have done ? 
 
 asks the poet, and poets are in nine cases out of ten the 
 only truth-speakers. Paul Lynedon suddenly discovered 
 that he had not a word to say. Eleanor quiet, composed, 
 unconscious Eleanor had all the talk to herself. She 
 exerted her memory to the utmost in order to explain every- 
 thing. Paul listened assentingly walked beside her 
 looked where she directed but whether she were showing 
 him Newgate or Westminster Abbey, it would have been 
 quite impossible for him to tell. When they came out, a 
 sudden fear urged him to make the most of the time. 
 
 " Do not let us go in yet. I should like to see the view 
 from the terrace you spoke of," he said hurriedly. 
 
 They walked to the garden terrace. 
 
 " I really am much obliged to you for being Katharine's 
 messenger ; it was so kind and thoughtful of her to make 
 me this present, and to choose such nice books, too," 
 observed Eleanor. 
 
 Paul felt that he must " do or die." He stood still in 
 his walk, took her hand, and said in a deep, low whisper : 
 
 " Miss Ogilvie, you are mistaken ; Katharine never sent 
 those books, it was but my excuse for seeing you. I can- 
 not live any longer without saying ' Eleanor, I love you ! ' 
 Why do you start why do you turn away 1 Eleanor, you 
 must hear me you must answer me." 
 
 She could not : indeed, he hardly allowed her time but 
 went on rapidly, 
 
 " You were so kind, so gentle, when we were at Summer- 
 wood I thought you might love me, or would let me teach 
 you to do so in time. Eleanor, is it so 1 tell me : or, have 
 I deceived myself?" 
 
 Her reply was the one word " Yes ! " 
 
 Paul Lynedon did not answer. He leaned against the 
 wall, and covered his face. Eleanor, startled and pained, 
 was also silent. They stood thus for some minutes. At 
 last she said, with some agitation, 
 
06 THE OGILVIES. [C1IAP. 
 
 "Indeed, indeed I had no idea of this. Mr. Lynedon, 
 you do not think I deceived you V 9 
 
 " No, no it was my own madness," muttered Paul ; " the 
 fool I was, to think that I had read a woman's heart! 
 Well ! it will be a lesson to me. Miss Ogilvie, I trust 
 you will pardon me," he said, in a tone that savoured more 
 of wounded pride than of heart-broken love. 
 
 " Pardon you ! I owe you pardon, if by any means I 
 have made you unhappy. But I do not think I shall at 
 least not for long. Forgive me. I like and esteem you 
 very much. I do indeed." 
 
 That soft voice touched Paul's heart, even amidst the 
 angry bitterness that was rising there. 
 
 " For heaven's sake, Miss Ogilvie, tell me why you reject 
 me ! Is it simply because I have been so hasty that I have 
 not given you time to love me ? or, do you love another ?" 
 
 A deep crimson rose to Eleanor's very brow. Paul saw 
 the blush, and understood it. His pride took arms against 
 his lingering love, and drove it from the field. 
 
 " You need not speak I am answered. Believe me, I 
 wish to intrude on no man's privileges. Let me hope that 
 you will forget this unfortunate betrayal of feelings which 
 you do not return; and accept my best wishes for your 
 happiness. Look ! I see Mrs. Breynton at the window ; 
 shall we retrace, our steps ? I wish to heaven it could be 
 done in more ways than one," added the rejected lover in a 
 bitter " aside," which Eleanor's agitation prevented her from 
 hearing. If she had, it might have saved her gentle heart 
 from many a painful thrill of womanly pity ; and shown 
 her how rootless and how easily extinguished is the love 
 that springs up suddenly in the breast of a proud and 
 impetuous man, and with the thwarting of its own selfish 
 impulse as quickly dies away. No man who loves worthily, 
 however hopelessly, will mingle bitterness and anger with 
 his sorrow, or say to the sunbeams under whose brightness 
 he has walked for a time " I would ye had never shone ! " 
 
 Eleanor and Lynedon re-entered the house in silence. 
 Mrs. Breynton looked at them with a politely-qualified 
 curiosity; but the answer to her penetrating inquiry ap- 
 
XII.] THE OGILVIES. 97 
 
 peared sufficiently satisfactory, for she took no notice of the 
 discovery. And the reverend and reverenced shadow of 
 the Bishopess still rested on the good lady, who felt herself 
 bound to reflect upon all around the high dignity and 
 honour of this visit, shutting out every minor considera- 
 tion. 
 
 " I shall be always happy to see you, Mr. Lynedon," she 
 said, replying to her guest's hurried adieu with a stately 
 politeness ; " I regret that my nephew, Mr. Wychnor, is not 
 here, but we expect him shortly." 
 
 Paul glanced at Eleanor. In the drooped head in the 
 bright rosy dye which suffused the very throat he read 
 the secret of his rejection. He turned hastily away, and 
 his hurried strides resounded heavily down the pavement 
 of the Close. There was a little child playing in his path 
 he drove the frightened boy aside with a fiery glance and 
 a command that sounded almost like an execration. 
 
 " Well ! he is the strangest young man I ever knew, this 
 Mr. Paul Lynedon," was Mrs. Breynton's comment as she 
 watched him from the window of the palace. "Keally, 
 Eleanor " 
 
 But Eleanor had left the room, to relieve her troubled 
 heart with a gush of pent-up tears. This sudden knowledge 
 of another's love had unveiled to her more completely the 
 depths of her own, and shown her how her whole soul was 
 bound up in Philip Wychnor. And no matter in how 
 happy and hopeful a light this consciousness may come, 
 there is always something solemn almost fearful to a 
 woman who thus stands, as it were, on the brink of a life- 
 destiny ; feeling that in the future nothing can be perfectly 
 sure or clear but the faithful love in her own heart. Yet 
 that love is her fairest omen her safest anchor her 
 chiefest strength, except in Heaven ! 
 
 And while Eleanor lingered alone, in thoughtful musings 
 that were almost prayers, and while Paul Lynedon dashed 
 forward on his way in angry sorrow, determined to travel 
 abroad, and so crush out of his heart every memory of his 
 slighted love, Mrs. Breynton, good, easy soul, sat dozing 
 over her netting, and thinking how very condescending was 
 
 II 
 
98 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 the new Bishop's lady, when the first invitation to dinner 
 would arrive, and whether she should wear the black vel- 
 vet or the Irish poplin. 
 
 youth! with thy fiery heart which, after all, is 
 nearest to Heaven in the nobleness that thrills through its 
 wildest beatings canst thou ever freeze into such a dead, 
 dull calm as this ? 
 
XIII.] THE OGILVIES. 90 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 I ask no vengeance from the powers above : 
 All I implore is, never more to love : 
 Let me this fondness from my bosom tear, 
 Let me forget that e'er I thought her fair. 
 
 LYTTELTON. 
 
 Passions are likened best to floods and streames, 
 The shallow murmur, but the deepe are dumb ; 
 
 So, when affections yield discourse, it seems 
 The bottom is but shallow whence they come. 
 
 RALEIGH. 
 
 LYNEDON strode through the quiet grass-grown streets of 
 
 L , his feet winged by the impetuous anger of a thwarted 
 
 will. Despite the impulse of this sudden passion, it had 
 cost him considerable effort before the gay and courted man 
 of the world could resolve to give up his liberty, and 
 immolate himself on the matrimonial shrine for any woman 
 soever. And now the heroic resolution was wholly vain 
 the momentous sacrifice was rejected as an unvalued offer- 
 ing. The first absolute proposal of marriage with which 
 Paul Lynedon had ever honoured the sex had been refused ! 
 And by whom ? By a simple country girl, who had, he 
 now thought, neither beauty nor fascinations of manner, 
 nor fortune. 
 
 He remembered that last circumstance now ; though, to 
 do Paul justice, he had not considered it before for he 
 was not a mercenary man. Even while it stung his pride, 
 it brought a faint consolation to his sense of worldly wis- 
 dom. It had certainly saved him from perpetrating a most 
 improvident marriage. He " laid the flattering unction to 
 
100 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 his soul," but it proved only a temporary balm , the sting 
 still remained wounded pride selfish, angry sorrow, like 
 that of a child over a lost toy and perhaps a deeper, 
 purer feeling, which regretted the vanished spell of that 
 gentle woman's nature, under which every better impulse 
 of his own had been re-awakened. That which he had felt 
 was not the real love, the one sole love of life ; but no man 
 could have entered even within the shadow of Eleanor 
 Ogilvie's influence without some true, deep chords being 
 sounded in his heart, and from their silence came the pain, 
 the only sincere and virtuous pain, which Paul Lynedon ex- 
 perienced. To lull it, he walked for miles across the coun- 
 try, striving by physical exercise to deaden the excitement 
 of his mind. 
 
 It was a lovely region through which he passed all 
 woodland or pasture-grounds but the young man saw 
 nothing. Nature, pure, unalloyed nature, was rarely his 
 delight : his perceptions, though refined, were not simple 
 enough to relish such pleasures. Now, he only felt that 
 the roads were insufferably muddy and the fields hatefully 
 quiet. He did not marvel at the taste of a woman brought 
 up in such scenes ; he only cursed his own folly for ever 
 having seen any charm in rural innocence. He would 
 eschew such sentimentality in future ; he would go back to 
 the gay, care-drowning world plunge in London life or, 
 what seemed far better, travel abroad once more. 
 
 Under this impulse he sprang on a coach that was then 
 passing ; caring little whither it bore him, so that it was 
 far away from L . 
 
 Lynedon entrenched himself in proud reserve beside the 
 coachman ; and scarcely answered, even in monosyllables, 
 when this individual a character in his way civilly 
 pointed out many a lovely pastoral view, amongst which, 
 from every point, the " Ladies of the Vale " could be seen 
 airily towering in the clear sky. With melancholy emphasis 
 did the foreboding hero of the whip point out the line 
 where the threatened railway was to traverse this beautiful 
 champaign, and bring at last the evil spirit of reform and 
 progress into the time-honoured sanctity of the cathedral 
 
XIII.] THE OGILVIES. 101 
 
 town. But Lynedon hated the very name of the place. 
 All that he noticed in his neighbour's conversation was the 
 
 atrocious S shire accent ; and he came to the conclusion 
 
 that the English peasantry were the rudest in the world. 
 
 At last, Paul's mind began to settle into a few straight- 
 forward resolves with regard to his future proceedings. 
 The coach was bearing him towards London ; but could 
 he go there, within reach of the sneers of the already sus- 
 pecting Mrs. Lancaster] No, he would pretend urgent 
 affairs, and rush abroad : and to do this, he must first go 
 home. 
 
 Home ! It was a rare word in Paul Lynedon' s vocabu- 
 lary. Very few of his friends knew of its existence at all ; 
 and he never sought to enlighten their ignorance, for, in 
 fact, he was considerably ashamed of the place. 
 
 The penultimate descendant of the time-honoured Lyne- 
 don race had sought to redeem his fortunes by trade. Paul's 
 father had been a cotton-manufacturer. The moderate 
 fortune which now enabled the son to take his stand in 
 that sphere to which his birth entitled him, had sprung 
 from the red-brick mill, with its black windows, its ever- 
 dinning wheels. This grim phantom had been the horror 
 of Paul Lynedon's youth : it haunted him even yet. Per- 
 haps, had his better self gained free play, he would not have 
 so wholly sought to stifle the remembrance of the spot 
 where, years before, the aristocratic father, equally proud 
 but yet noble in his pride, had put his hand to the work, 
 and never once looked back until he had replaced ancestral 
 wealth by the wealth of industry. Paul's conscience, and 
 his appreciative reverence for virtue, acknowledged all this, 
 but he had not strength of mind to brave the world and 
 say so. 
 
 Therefore, while he would not part with the simple 
 dwelling where his grey-haired father and his fair young 
 mother had both died, and where his sister and himself had 
 spent their orphaned childhood still, Lynedon rarely 
 alluded to his " home," and scarcely ever visited it. The 
 distant sound of the horrible cotton-mill, now long since 
 passed into other hands, almost drove him wild yet. No 
 
102 THE OGTLVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 head with brains could endure the din. On his rare visits, 
 he usually made a circuit of half-a-mile to avoid it. He 
 did so now, notwithstanding the weariness caused by his 
 long night journey. At last, in the sunshine of early 
 morning, he stood by his own door. 
 
 It had originally been a straight-staring, plain-fronted 
 house, of the eternal red brick peculiar to the manufactur- 
 ing districts. But the builder's want of taste was concealed 
 by the late owner's possession of that graceful quality. 
 Over the staring front were trained ivy, clematis, and vine, 
 converting it into a very bower of greenery ; and amidst 
 the formal garden had been planted quick-growing lime- 
 trees, that now formed " pleached alleys " wherein even 
 poets or lovers the true honey-bees of all life's pleasure- 
 flowers might delight to walk. 
 
 As Paul Lynedon passed hastily through these, he thought 
 for a moment how, when the trees were growing, he and his 
 little sister had used to play at hide-and-seek among them. 
 He wished that the bright, curly-tressed head had been 
 peeping out from among the branches, and smiling a 
 womanly, sisterly welcome from the barred and lonely 
 doorway. The first time for many months, he remem- 
 bered a little green mound beside the stately bury ing-place 
 of the Lynedons far away. Paul sighed, and thought 
 that he might have been a better and a happier man if 
 poor little Alice had lived to be a woman. 
 
 He roused his old housekeeper ; but when she came, at 
 the first look of her sour, grumbling face, he hastily dis- 
 missed her. In the long - deserted house was neither 
 chamber nor bed prepared ; so he stretched himself on a 
 sofa, and tried to forget past, present, and future in a most 
 welcome slumber. 
 
 This deep sleep lasted for several hours. Lynedon awoke 
 with the afternoon sun staring right into his face, together 
 with a couple of human optics belonging to a young man 
 who sat near him and maintained an equally pertinacious 
 gaze. This individual held, likewise, his evidently medical 
 fingers on the sleeper's wrist, while from his other hand 
 dangled the orthodox M.D.'s watch. It fell to the ground 
 

 THE OGILV1ES. 103 
 
 when Paul started up with an energy very unlike a 
 patient's. 
 
 " My good friend my dear Lynedon well, I thought 
 there could be nothing much the matter with you." 
 
 " Who imagined there was 1 " 
 
 " Why, that good old soul your housekeeper, who said 
 you slept so heavily at first, and then began to talk so 
 wildly, she was sure you were mad, or had taken poison, 
 and so fetched me." 
 
 " Pshaw ! well, I am very glad to see you, Doctor," said 
 Paul, rousing himself, and trying to shake off the rush of 
 painful and mortifying thoughts that came with his 
 awaking. He could not do this altogether ; and it was 
 with considerable effort that he forced his features into a 
 polite smile while he listened to the talk of his old college 
 chum, who, on giving up the sermon for the recipe, had 
 been considerably indebted to Lynedon's kindness for a start 
 in life. 
 
 " I am sure I hope you are coining to settle among us, 
 or at least to stay a long time," said Dr. Saville. 
 
 Paul's face darkened. " No ; I shall be off in a day or 
 two for the Continent. I don't care when I come back. I 
 hate England." 
 
 " Really Jiow very odd ! what can be the reason 1 " was 
 the simple remark of the most commonplace of country 
 doctors. 
 
 " Never mind, my good fellow," said Paul rather sharply. 
 " Don't talk about myself; I am sick of the subject. Speak 
 about any other affairs your own for instance ; doubtless 
 far more interesting to both parties." 
 
 " Thank you, Lynedon, you are very kind : " and the 
 chattering, weak-minded, but good-natured physician held 
 forth for a long time on the inane topics current in the 
 neighbourhood. At last he glided on to his own peculiar 
 affairs ; and, after a while, gathered courage to convey to 
 his old friend and patron the important information that he 
 was about to marry. 
 
 " If you do you are a confounded fool," cried Lynedon, 
 with an energy that made the little doctor tremble on his 
 
104 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 chair. " I beg your pardon, Saville," he added, trying to 
 laugh off the matter ; " you don't know what women are 
 not so well as friend Maro. Eemember, 
 
 Yarium et mutabile semper 
 Fcemina. 
 
 The old fellow was not far wrong, eh 1 They are all alike.' 1 
 " Except iny Lizzie ! oh, no ! I'm quite sure of Lizzie ;" 
 and he began to dilate contentedly on a future rendered 
 certain by its humble hopes and limited desires. Paul was 
 touched ; it formed such a contrast to his selfish sorrow and 
 mortified pride. He listened with a feeling very like envy 
 to the bridegroom-expectant's account of his already fur- 
 nished house, his neat garden Lizzie liked flowers his 
 little gig wherein he could go his professional rounds and 
 drive Lizzie to see her mother on a Sunday. In the midst 
 of this quiet, monotonous stream of talk, the worthy 
 Doctor was startled by Paul's suddenly springing up with 
 the cry 
 
 " Upon my soul, Charles Saville, you are a happy man, 
 and I am a most miserable one ! I wish to Heaven that I 
 were dead ! " 
 
 Lovers, and especially rejected lovers, are generally slow 
 to communicate to any male friend the story of their suffer- 
 ings. They will do so sometimes nay, often to a friend 
 of the opposite sex. A woman makes the best confidante, 
 after all ; and perhaps in such cases womanly sympathy is 
 the surest cure for a heart- wound. It is hard to account 
 for the impulse that made Lynedon betray his feelings to 
 his old 'friend, except from the fact that the sympathy of 
 the worthy simple-minded Doctor was most like that of a 
 woman. Perhaps, too, the contrast in their prospects in- 
 vited sympathy, and Lynedon, having been the Doctor's 
 patron, was disposed to like him, and to be more than 
 usually communicative. But however it chanced, most 
 certainly Dr. Saville contrived to glean a great deal of infor- 
 mation ; and by putting together names, incidents, and 
 exclamations, to form a tolerable guess at a great deal more. 
 In fact, if he did not arrive at the whole truth, he came 
 
XIII.] THE OGILVIES. 105 
 
 very near it, and his prolific imagination easily supplied 
 the rest. But he took care by a respectful reserve to 
 avoid startling the sensitiveness of his patron ; and the 
 promise of secrecy with which he bade Lynedon adieu he 
 long and faithfully kept except with regard to his "Lizzie." 
 
 Paul, left to himself, saw night close upon him in the 
 lonely house. He felt more and more its desolation and 
 his own. It was not so much the lost love, as the need 
 of loving, which came upon him with such intense pain. 
 He thought of the poor village doctor, poor in mind as in 
 person, who yet could look forward to a bright hearth 
 made happy by a mother's blessing and a wife's clinging 
 arms. While- he the admired of many a circle accus- 
 tomed to the honeyed flatteries of many a fair lip which 
 he knew to be false as his own he, Paul Lynedon, stood 
 alone, with not a single creature in the whole wide world 
 to love him. 
 
 " Not one not one ! " As he despondently repeated the 
 words, Lynedon's eye fell upon a slip of paper which he 
 had carelessly tossed out of his pocket-book. It was 
 merely a few verses copied by his request written out 
 in a girlish hand, evidently trained into the most anxious 
 neatness. It bore the date " Summer wood," and the sig- 
 nature " Katharine Ogilvie." 
 
 As Paul unfolded the paper, his face brightened, and 
 softened into tenderness. There came before him a vision 
 of the dark eyes lifted, for one moment only, in sorrowing, 
 yearning love of the fair lips which had trembled beneath 
 his own. 
 
 " Dear little girl sweet little Katharine ! I think she 
 does care for me God bless her ! " He felt almost inclined 
 to kiss the paper, but stopped ; reflecting with a half smile 
 that she was such a child ! But even a child's love was 
 precious to him then. 
 
 " I should almost like to see her again before I leave 
 England," thought Paul. " But no it would not do ! 
 What excuse could I make for my sudden flight ? However, 
 I will write." 
 
 He did write, as the impluse of the moment dictated. 
 
106 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 It was a letter which spoke, as his idle words had before 
 done, everything except the positive declaration of love. 
 Its deep tenderness its half ambiguous expressions its 
 broken and altered sentences were such as to thrill with 
 happiness any young impassioned heart, that, once deceived 
 into a fixed belief, judges everything by its utter simplicity, 
 and sees in all forms and shows of love the reflection of its 
 own. Poor Katharine ! These outpourings of a momen- 
 tary feeling, forgotten by the writer ere they met the 
 reader's eye, what would they be to her ! 
 
 Paul Lynedon knew not thought not cared not. A 
 few weeks after he was mingling in the gayest salons of 
 Paris; the pleasure and pain of the last three months 
 having alike passed from his memory as though they had 
 never been. 
 
XIV.] THE OGTLVIES. 107 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 I have a more than friend 
 
 Across the mountains dim ; 
 No other voice to me is sweet 
 
 Unless it nameth him ! 
 We broke no gold a pledge 
 
 Of stronger faith to be, 
 But I wear his last look in 
 
 Which said, "I love but thee !"' 
 
 I was betrothed that day : 
 I wore a troth-kiss on my lips I could not give away. 
 
 E. B. BROWNINGS 
 
 THERE is hardly a man in the world who does not feel 
 his pulse beat quicker when, even after a short absence, he 
 finds himself nearing home. A commonplace this often 
 said, often written \ but there are commonplaces, delicious, 
 ever fresh truths, which seem the daisies on the world's 
 highway : it is hard not to stop and gather them sometimes. 
 So, beginning with this trite saying, we may go on to remark 
 that Philip Wychnor's heart experienced a slight additional 
 
 thrill when, riding through the grass-grown streets of L , 
 
 he saw the evening sun emblazoning the palace-windows, 
 and felt that he was really " coming home." 
 
 It is a rule with novelists and a sterling one, in general 
 that you should never unveil your characters by elaborate 
 descriptions of mind and person, but suffer them to develop 
 themselves in the progress of the story ; shining down upon 
 them until they unfold beneath the sun-burst of your 
 artistic skill, instead of pulling them open leaf by leaf with 
 your fingers, and thus presenting to the reader your well- 
 dissected bouquet of human-heart flowers. But in the 
 
108 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 present case we will waive the aforesaid excellent rule, 
 for no reader could ever find out the inner character of 
 Philip Wychnor from its outward manifestations in the 
 routine of daily life. Not that he was deficient in exterior 
 qualities to win regard. Most people liked him or at 
 least that half of his character which was most apparent 
 and said, as Hugh Ogilvie once did, that he was " a good 
 fellow enough." There was but one in the world who 
 thoroughly understood him, who had looked into the depth 
 of his soul. What need is there to say who was that one 
 precious, loving, and beloved on whom he rested, and 
 from whom he drew comfort, strength, and peace ? 
 
 Philip Wychnor would never have made a hero, either in 
 body or in mind : at least not one of your grand world- 
 heroes who will overthrow an army or perform some act of 
 self-devotion with which the heart of history throbs for a 
 century after. But there is many a lauded martyr whose 
 funeral pile is only a huge altar to self-glory, which the 
 man's own dying hands have reared. The true heroes are 
 those whose names the world never hears, and never will 
 hear the blessed household martyrs who offer unto God 
 the sacrifice, not of death's one pang, but of life's long 
 patient endurance the holy ones, who, through 
 
 Love's divine self-abnegation, 
 
 attain the white robes and the ever-blooming palms of those 
 who have " passed through much tribulation." 
 
 Philip Wychnor might have been one of these. 
 
 But, wearying of our " was nots " and " might have 
 beens," you may ask, dear reader, what he was. A poet 1 
 No y he had scarcely ever strung together six consecutive 
 rhymes. But his whole life was a poem : so pure, so rich 
 in all those dear charities and holy influences which create 
 the poetry of this world. Some of earth's truest poets are 
 outwardly dumb ; but their singing is like the music of 
 the stars ; the angels hear it up in heaven. How glorious 
 such unheard melody must be! Was he handsome? It 
 might be ; for genius rarely exists without casting over the 
 outward frame a certain spiritual loveliness, and oftentimes 
 
XIV.] THE OGILVIES. 109 
 
 soul and body grow linked together in an exquisite 
 perfection, so that neither materialist nor~spiritualist would 
 think of dissevering the one from the other. But the 
 beauty of Philip Wychnor's face was too refined almost 
 too feminine to attract general notice. Features regularly 
 chiselled and delicately small, shadowed by hair of a pale 
 clear brown, in which somewhat rare tint no one could 
 detect either the admired gold or the widely condemned red 
 a stature very reed-like, both as to height and slenderness 
 and that personal sign which in a man so often accom- 
 panies exquisite refinement of mind, a beautiful hand com- 
 prise the external semblance of him whom we have hitherto 
 seen only through the reflection of Eleanor Ogilvie's love. 
 
 Let him now stand alone in his real likeness, ungilded 
 by even this love-sunshine ; a son of Adam, not perfect but 
 still nearer ay, ten thousand times to that grand image 
 of true manhood than the many poor clay deities, the work 
 of the tailor and the fencing-master, which draw silly 
 maidens' eyes in drawing-room or street. Stand forth, 
 Philip Wychnor ! Eaise thy face, sublime in its gentleness 
 with the pure lips through which the foul impieties of 
 boasting youth never yet passed with the eyes that have 
 not scorned at times to let their lashes droop over a tear 
 of sympathy or of sorrow. Lift up thy hand, which never 
 used its strength against a fellow-creature, and was not 
 the less heroic for that. Stand forth, Philip Wychnor, 
 and show the world the likeness of a man ! 
 
 He passed the iron gateway, sprang up the palace-steps 
 with a speed worthy of an agile youth and a lover ; in a 
 minute the pleasant fire-lit room where Mrs. Breynton and 
 Eleanor held their after-dinner chatj was brightened by a 
 presence welcome to "both. How doubly so to one ! A 
 good and kind, if not an affectionate aunt, w^as Mrs. 
 Breynton ; and perhaps now as much warmth as her nature 
 owned was expressed in the solemn salutation which Philip's 
 forehead received. And then came the dear, close, linger- 
 ing hand-pressure of meeting and welcome so silent, yet 
 so full of all faithful assurance between two who to their 
 inmost hearts knew, loved, and trusted one another. 
 
110 THE OGILVIES. . [CHAP. 
 
 After even a few months of separation, it always takes a 
 space of desultory talk before the dearest friends settle 
 down into the quiet satisfaction of. meeting. So the con- 
 versation around that dear fireside at the palace was rather 
 restless and wandering, both as to the topics discussed and 
 as to the way in which they were sustained. Philip found 
 himself listening to, or at least hearing with his outward 
 ears, the full, true, and particular account of the new 
 Bishop's first sermon, and his lady's first call. It showed 
 either surprising forgetfulness or true womanly tact in Mrs. 
 Breynton, that in her lengthened recital of that day's events 
 she made no allusion to Mr. Paul Lynedon. 
 
 "By-the-by, my dear Philip, as you did not write, I 
 scarcely expected you home quite so soon." 
 
 " I myself hardly looked for such a pleasure until yester- 
 day, when I found I could leave. And you know, Aunt 
 Breynton, that I never lose any time in coming to see you," 
 answered the young man, affectionately. 
 
 A pleased, though rather a sedate smile marked tho ac- 
 knowledgments of Aunt Breynton ; and then her mind 
 turned suddenly to the melancholy fact that no household 
 preparation was made for the visitor. 
 
 "This, you see, my dear nephew, is the result of not 
 doing things regularly. Had you written the day before, 
 we should have had your room ready ; but now I fear you 
 will have to sleep without curtains. And I dare say you 
 have not dined, and the cook is gone to bed most likely." 
 
 Philip protested against the accusation of hunger, though 
 he was quite unable to recollect whether he had dined or 
 not. Thereupon, he was obliged to listen to a few argu- 
 ments concerning the necessity of taking care of his health 
 and the evil of long fasting. At last Mrs. Breynton's 
 domestic anxiety could no longer restrain itself, and she 
 rose to quit the room. As she passed the door, she 
 unfortunately spied on a chair the hat and gloves which her 
 nephew had thrown down -on his entry. She could not 
 resist the opportunity. 
 
 "Philip!" 
 
 Philip started from an earnest gaze at the drooping profile 
 
XIV.] THE OGILVIES. HI 
 
 which was reflected against the fire-light, and opened the 
 door for the old lady. The act of politeness disarmed her ; 
 she liked the grave courtesies of old, and the long lecture 
 resolved itself into 
 
 " Thank you, Philip. Now oblige me by ringing for the 
 footman to take away these." She pointed to the offending 
 intruders on the neatness of her drawing-room ; and sailed 
 majestically away, the very genius of tidiness. 
 
 Dear Eleanor and Philip ! young, simple-hearted lovers ! 
 such as the wide world's heart has ever yearned over in song 
 or story ay, and ever will how did they look at, how 
 speak to each other 1 They did neither. They stood by 
 the fire for she had risen too stood quite silent, until 
 Philip took first one hand, then both, in his. 
 
 " Eleanor, are you glad to see me 1 " 
 
 " Glad, Philip ! " was the low reply only an echo, after 
 all ; but the clear, pure eyes were raised to his with a 
 fulness of love that gave all the answer his own sought. 
 He lifted her hands he drew them, not unwilling to be 
 thus guided, around his neck, and folded to his bosom his 
 betrothed. It was the silent marriage-vow between two 
 hearts, each of which felt for the first time the other's pure 
 beatings ; a vow not less sacred than the after one, with 
 joined hands before the altar ; a solemn troth -plight, which, 
 once given and received in sincerity and true love, no 
 earthly power ought ever to disannul. 
 
 And surely the angels who sang the marriage-hymn of 
 the first lovers in Eden cast down on these their holy eyes 
 ay, and felt that holiness unstained by the look. For 
 can there be in this world aught more sacred than two 
 beings who stand together, man and woman heart-be- 
 trothed, ready to go forth hand in hand, in glad yet solemn 
 union, on the same journey, towards the one eternal home ? 
 
 God, look down upon them ! O God, bless them, and 
 fill them with love, first towards Thee and then towards 
 one another ! Make them strong to bear gladly and nobly 
 the dear burden which all must take who, in loving, receive 
 unto themselves another soul with its errors and its weak- 
 nesses, Such in their silent hearts ay, even amid the 
 
112 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 joy of their betrothal was the prayer that Eleanor and 
 
 Philip prayed. 
 
 * * # # * 
 
 When Mrs. Breynton returned, she found the hat and 
 gloves lying precisely where she had left them ; and through 
 the half-opened inner door she caught a glimpse of Eleanor's 
 black dress gliding up the staircase, while Philip stood 
 with his face to the fire, trying with all his might to com- 
 mit the enormity of whistling in a drawing-room. How all 
 these conflicting elements were finally reconciled is not on 
 record ; but the fact is certain that, in honour probably of 
 her nephew's return, the good old lady sat up talking with 
 him until past eleven o'clock, and, for the first time in her 
 life, quite forgot to call the servants to family devotions. 
 Moreover, as she passed Eleanor's room, she entered, kissed 
 her on both cheeks, and went away without a word save a 
 fervent " God bless you ! " Perhaps the one heartfelt 
 blessing rose nearer to heaven than leaden-winged formal 
 prayers would ever have climbed, 
 
XV. J THE OGILVIES. . 113 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 Has it never occurred to us when surrounded by sorrows, that they 
 may be sent to us only for our instruction, as we darken the cages of 
 birds when we wish to teach them to sing ? JEAN PAUL. 
 
 Ah ! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, 
 
 Or the death they bear, 
 The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove, 
 
 With the wings of care. 
 In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, 
 
 Shall mine cling to thee, 
 Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, 
 
 It may bring to thee. SHELLEY. 
 
 " AND now, my dear children, let us talk of your prospects 
 in the world," said Mrs. Breynton, gravely, when, after a 
 long day, happy indeed, but somewhat restlessly spent by 
 all three, they sat once more in the pleasant fire-light, as 
 they had done the evening before. The only difference 
 was that Philip now ventured to sit on the same side of 
 the fire as Eleanor : and in the shadowy flicker of the blaze 
 it would have been impossible to tell precisely what had 
 become of her hand. Still, the right, true, and worthy 
 owner of that little hand probably knew, and no one else 
 bad any business to inquire. 
 
 Mrs. Breynton found it necessary to repeat her observa- 
 tion, slightly varied : " I wish, my dear nephew, and niece 
 that will be, to talk seriously about your plans for the 
 future. When do you propose to marry ? and what do you 
 propose to marry upon ?" 
 
 These point-blank questions rather startled Philip and 
 his affianced. Few lovers, especially young lovers, amidst 
 the first burst of deep happiness, stay to think at all of 
 
 I 
 
114 THE OGILVIES. ' [CHAP. 
 
 those commonplace things, house-furnishing, house-keeping, 
 yearly income, and such like. A little Eleanor had mused, 
 perhaps more than most young girls, on the future time, 
 when the enthusiastic devotion of the lover merged in 
 the still affection of the husband it would be her part less 
 to be ministered unto than to minister, surrounding him 
 with all comfort and love in the dear, quiet, blessed home 
 their home. But Philip the dreamer, still unacquainted 
 with the realities of life, had never thought of these things 
 at all. They came upon him almost bewilderingly ; and all 
 the answer he could make to his aunt's question was the 
 very unsatisfactory one 
 
 " I really do not know ! " 
 
 Mrs. Breynton looked from one to the other in dignified 
 reproof. " This, I must say, is the evil of young people's 
 arranging their matrimonial affairs for themselves. Nobody 
 ever did so in my day. Your excellent uncle, the Dean, 
 furnished his house down to the very stair-carpets before 
 he- even asked me to marry him. And you, Philip, I dare 
 say, have not even thought in what county of England you 
 intend to settle 1 " 
 
 Philip acknowledged he had not. Oh, blessed Present, 
 that with its golden light can so dim and dazzle the eyes 
 as to make them scarcely desire to look farther, even into 
 a happy future ! 
 
 Mrs. Breynton tried to lecture gravely upon improvident 
 and hasty marriages ; it was her way. And yet she had 
 lain awake since seven o'clock that morning, calculating 
 how much income the curacy of Wearmouth would bring 
 in yearly, and what it would take to furnish that pretty 
 cottage next to the rectory ; nay, she had even settled the 
 colour of the drawing-room curtains, and was doubtful only 
 whether the carpet should be Axminster or Brussels. But 
 she loved to dictate and reprove, and then sweep gracefully 
 round laden with advice and assistance. 
 
 Thus, after a due delay, she unfolded all her kindly pur- 
 poses ; dilating with an earnestness and clerical apprecia- 
 tion worthy of the Dean's lady on the promised curacy, 
 and the living in prospedu with its great advantages, viz. 
 
XV.] THE OGILVIE3. 115 
 
 the easy duty, large Easter offerings, plenty of glebe-land, 
 and a nobleman's seat close by, the owner of which was 
 devoted to the Church, and always gave practical marks of 
 his respect by dinners and game. 
 
 " I think, Philip," continued she, " that nothing could be 
 more fortunate. I have the Bishop's word for your suc- 
 ceeding to the curacy immediately on your taking orders ; 
 and though I mean no disrespect to good Mr. Vernon 
 if he should die in a year or two, as in course of nature he 
 must, you will meanwhile have an opportunity of showing 
 his Grace what an agreeable neighbour he might secure by 
 presenting you with the living." 
 
 Had the worthy dame been able to read her nephew's 
 face, as well as those gentle eyes which were now lifted to 
 it with anxious tenderness, she would have seen in the 
 grave, almost sad expression which came over it, how little 
 the young earnest nature sympathised with the worldly- 
 minded one. Philip's honest foot would never have en- 
 tered the tainted Paradise she drew. Respect restrained 
 his tongue, as it had done many a time before ; but Eleanor 
 read in his silence what his thoughts were. Honour be to 
 the unselfish and truly womanly impulse which prompted 
 her to press fondly and encouragingly the hand wherein 
 her own lay as if to say, " Stand fast, my beloved ; do 
 that which is right ; I am with you through all." It was 
 the first taking upon herself of that blessed burden of love 
 which through life's journey they were to bear for one 
 another. Philip leaned in spirit upon the helpmate God 
 had given him. He grew strong, and was comforted. 
 
 "Dear aunt," he said, gently, "you are very good to 
 think of all these things, but I feel by np means sure that 
 I shall ever take orders." 
 
 " Not take orders ! when you have all your life been 
 studying for the Church ? " cried Mrs. Breynton, lifting up 
 her eyes with the most intense astonishment. " Philip 
 Wychnor ! what can you mean ? " 
 
 "I mean," said Philip, slowly and firmly, though in a 
 tone low and humble as a child's, " that for the last year I 
 have thought much and deeply of the life apparently before 
 
116 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 me. I have seen how the sanctity of the Church is pro- 
 faned by those servants who, at its very threshold, take 
 either an utterly false vow or one only half understood and 
 wholly disregarded. I dare not lay upon my soul this 
 sin." 
 
 Mrs. Breynton's temperament was too frigid to be often 
 disturbed by violent passion ; but it was easy to see from 
 the restless movements of her fingers and the sudden 
 twitching of her thin, compressed lips, how keenly she was 
 agitated by her nephew's words. 
 
 " Then, sir," she said, after a pause, " you are about to 
 inform me that you have followed the example of other 
 wild, misguided young men, and dissented from the Estab- 
 lishment ; in short, that you no longer believe in our Holy 
 Church." 
 
 " I do believe in it," cried Philip, earnestly. " I believe 
 it to be the purest on earth ; but no human form of wor- 
 ship can be wholly pure. I have never quitted, and never 
 shall quit, the Church in which I was born but I will not 
 bind myself to believe or say I believe all her dogmas ; 
 and I dare not in the sight of God declare that I feel 
 called by His Spirit to be a minister at the altar when I 
 do not sincerely think I am." 
 
 " And may I ask what right you have to think anything 
 at all about the matter 1 This is merely a form of ordina- 
 tion, which men much wiser and more pious than yourself 
 excuse me, Philip have appointed, and which every 
 clergyman passes through without any scruple. The 
 words mean only that the candidate is a good man, and 
 will not disgrace the cloth he wears. Your uncle explained 
 it all to me once. r-Philip," continued Mrs. Breynton, losing 
 the cold scorn of her manner in the real earnestness of her 
 feelings, " you would not, surely, give up your prospects in 
 life for such a trifle as this ? " 
 
 " A trifle ! " echoed Philip, sadly, as he saw how vain it 
 would be to explain his motives further, and felt keenly the 
 bitterness his determination would give to his aunt's mind. 
 She, fancying that in his silence she had gained an advan- 
 tage, pursued it with all the skill of which she was capable. 
 
XV] THE OGILVIES. 117 
 
 " My dear nephew, do you know what you are doing 1 
 Have you forgotten that your whole education has been 
 bent towards this end; that your own small fortune 
 perhaps a little more, to which I will not allude has gone 
 in college expenses for the same purpose ; that if you follow 
 your present wild scheme, you must begin life anew, with 
 nothing in this world to trust to V 
 
 " Except an honest heart and a clear conscience." 
 
 How tender and holy was the light in those sweet eyes 
 that looked up in his how warm the pressure of the other 
 hand, not the clasped one, which of its own accord twined 
 round his arm in fond encouragement ! He needed the 
 strength thus imparted, for his own was sorely shaken by 
 Mrs. Breynton's next words uttered in a tone where anger 
 and disappointment triumphed over all assumed composure. 
 
 " Listen to me, Philip Wychnor. You are about to act 
 like a madman, and I feel it my duty to restrain you if I 
 can. I do not ask you to remember how I have brought 
 you up with this purpose in view, treating you less like my 
 brother's child than my own ; nor do I speak of my dis- 
 appointment for I know your great heroes for conscience' 
 sake think little of these things," she added, with a sarcastic 
 meaning that cut Philip to the heart. He sprang up to 
 speak. 
 
 " Nay sit down again ; I am not accustomed to scenes," 
 said the old lady, coldly. " I knew a young man once 
 he was not unlike you, Philip," and Mrs. Breynton re- 
 garded her nephew with a smile half bitter, half mournful 
 "he, too, for a whim a boyish whim gave up the 
 Church, and his father turned him out into the wide world 
 to starve. His mother broke her heart ; and the girl he 
 was about to marry gtill, like yon she grieved until her 
 friends persuaded her to wed another lover ; but they 
 could not give back her withered youth her poor broken 
 heart. Will you hearken, Philip, now 1 for the man was 
 your father, and that gentle creature whom he basely 
 forsook was the dearest friend I ever had ay, and the 
 mother of your Eleanor ! " 
 
 Struck with surprise, and deeply moved, the two young 
 
118 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 lovers impulsively started from each other's side but only 
 for a moment. Closer they drew together, in that painful 
 time of agitation unrestrained by outward form ; and Philip 
 murmured, as he wound his arm round her, 
 
 " Mine mine still for all the past. She will trust me : 
 my Eleanor my own !" 
 
 Mrs. Breynton went on. " Now, Philip Wychnor, you 
 may follow your father's steps if you like ; but I solemnly 
 declare that if you persist in this, and disgrace the family 
 as he did, I will give up my purpose of making you my 
 heir ; and, that you may not bring poverty on that dear 
 child whom I have loved all her life for her mother's sake, 
 with my consent you shall never marry Eleanor Ogilvie." 
 
 Too angry to trust herself with another word, Mrs. Breyn- 
 ton swept out of the room. 
 
 Philip had started up to detain her, but she was gone. 
 He paced the room in violent agitation, never looking 
 towards Eleanor ; then he threw himself beside a table in 
 the farthest and darkest corner, and laid his head upon his 
 folded arms as if quite oblivious even of her presence. 
 
 For this a proud woman would have treated her lover 
 with silent indignation, a selfish one would have let loose 
 her wounded vanity in a burst of reproaches ; but Eleanor 
 was neither selfish nor proud. A single pang shot through 
 her heart as she sat alone and unnoticed by the fire ; two 
 or three tears fell ; and then the true woman's nature 
 triumphed. She had not bestowed her love for the poor 
 requital of outward attentions such as wooers pay ; she 
 had not meted it out, share for share, as if love were a thing 
 to be weighed and measured. She had given it freely, 
 knitting her soul unto his, until she felt and lived, suffered 
 and rejoiced, not in herself or for herself, but in him and 
 for him. 
 
 Eleanor rose and glided noiselessly across the room until 
 she stood beside her lover. In truth, he hardly felt that 
 she was near him. A few faint beatings were there in the 
 young maiden heart at the new and solemn office that be- 
 came hers ; one passing flush, and then all earthly feelings 
 were stilled by the mute prayer which spoke in the lifted 
 
XV.] THE OGILVIES. 119 
 
 eyes. She stooped down, laid her arms round Philip's neck, 
 and kissed him on the forehead. 
 
 He started almost shivered beneath the touch of her 
 lips. 
 
 " my God ! how shall I bear this ? Don't speak to 
 me, Eleanor ; don't touch me, or I shall have no strength 
 at all. Go away ! " 
 
 But the next moment the harsh accents melted into tears 
 such a burning flood as rarely bursts even from man's 
 pent-up suffering. Eleanor, terrified, almost heartbroken, 
 was yet the stronger now. A woman who loves always is. 
 She knelt beside him : it was on her bosom that his tears 
 fell, and he did not turn away. How could he 1 A child 
 does not cling to its mother with more utter helplessness 
 than did Philip to his betrothed in that hour of suffering. 
 
 And she, as she bent over him, her heart lifted itself 
 up in silent breathings of the prayer that she might grow 
 strong, to strengthen him, and trustful, to comfort him. 
 
 " God ! " was that inward prayer, " if it must be, take 
 all the sunshine out of my life and give it to his ! Oh ! 
 would that I could die for thee, my heart's dearest my 
 pride my husband ! " 
 
 And as she breathed over him the name, as yet unclaimed, 
 it seemed an omen that this cloud would pass away, and 
 the time surely come when her lips should have a right to 
 echo the heart's voice. 
 
 " You see how weak I am, Eleanor," Philip said, with a 
 mournful attempt at a smile, " I, who yesterday told you 
 how I would brave the world ; and now I cling helplessly 
 to you. But it must not be she was right I should only 
 bring trouble on you. I must stand alone. Eleanor, take 
 your arm away, it weighs me down like lead. Oh ! would 
 that we were only friends that yesterday had never been ! " 
 
 He spoke in the bitterness of his soul, without thinking 
 of her. Eleanor cast one glance upon him, and knew this. 
 Blessings on that unselfish nature which, knowing at once, 
 forgave ! 
 
 " Eleanor," he said, after a pause, speaking quickly and 
 abruptly, " have you thought what will be the end of this 1 
 
120 TT1E OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 Do you know that I cannot marry you at least, not for 
 many, many years ; that I have nothing to live upon, 
 because I was too proud to be entirely dependent on Aunt 
 Breynton, and, as she truly says, I spent my little all at 
 college, intending to enter the Church] Even after my 
 mind was changed, I went dreaming on, never thinking of 
 the future, fool that I was ! And yet most people would 
 say I am a greater fool now " he added, with a bitter 
 smile " ay, and something of a villain to boot. Eleanor, 
 after all, I think I will take the curacy. I shall not be 
 a greater hypocrite than many of those in gown and band ; 
 and I shall keep my vow to you, if I break it to Heaven." 
 
 " Never ! Do you think I would let you sell your con- 
 science for me 1 Do you think I would ever be your wife 
 then 1 No for I should not love, I should despise you ! 
 Nay, I did not mean that, Philip " and her voice softened 
 almost into weeping " only it would break my heart if 
 you did this wickedness. You must not shall not nay, 
 you will not. My own Philip, tell me that you will not." 
 
 And kneeling before him, Eleanor made her lover solemnly 
 utter the promise which would for years doom them both 
 to the heart-sickness of hope deferred. Then she sat down 
 beside him, and took his hand. 
 
 " Now, let us consider what is best to be done. Do not 
 think of yesterday at all, if it pains you. Forget that we 
 were betrothed talk to me as to a friend only a dear 
 friend who regards your honour and happiness above 
 everything in this world. Shall it be so, Philip]" 
 
 " God bless my Eleanor my strength my comfort ! " 
 was his answer. The words were more precious to her than 
 the wildest outburst of lover-like adoration could ever have 
 been. 
 
 They talked together long and seriously like old 
 friends. And this was no pretence, for none are true lovers 
 who have not also for one another the still thoughtful affec- 
 tion of friends. Her calmness gave him strength, her 
 clear, penetrating mind aided his ; and, the first shock over, 
 Philip seemed to pass at once from the dreaminess of aim- 
 less boyhood to the self-reliance and courage of a man 
 
XV.] THE OGILVIES. 121 
 
 And still beside him, in all his plans, hopes, and fears, was 
 the faithful woman-heart, as brave, as self-denying, never 
 looking back, but going forward with him into the dim 
 future, and half-dispersing its mists with the light of love. 
 
 "And you will forgive me, my dearest," said Philip, 
 when they had decided how and where he was to begin the 
 hard battle with the world "you will forgive me for 
 bringing this trouble upon you ; and in spite of these erring 
 words of mine, you will " 
 
 He hesitated, but Eleanor went on for him. 
 
 " I will wait for years if it must be until Philip makes 
 for me a home happier and dearer for the long waiting. 
 And who knows how rich it may be, too 1 a great deal 
 richer than that tiny cottage at Wearmouth." She tried 
 to speak gaily, though the smile which her lips assumed 
 could not reach her eyes, and soon melted into seriousness 
 as she continued : " Besides, dear Philip, there is one 
 thought which lies deep almost painfully in my heart, 
 though your generous lips have never breathed it. I cannot 
 forget that half your cares would have been lightened had 
 the girl whom you chose possessed ever so little fortune, 
 instead of being left dependent on a brother's kindness. 
 How I have wished to be rich for your sake." 
 
 " Foolish girl ! why, you are my riches, my comfort, my 
 joy ! " cried Philip, drawing closely into his very heart his 
 affianced wife. She clung there closer in sorrow than she 
 had ever done in joy. " If this day's trial had never been, 
 and we could be again as we were last night would you 
 wish it, Eleanor 1" 
 
 " No ! " she answered. " No ! for even then I knew not 
 fully, as I do now, how true, how worthy, how noble was 
 my Philip." 
 
 At this precise moment Mrs. Breynton's voice was heard 
 without. With her entered an old sub-dean who lived in 
 the Close, and who had come in nearly every evening for 
 some six years, during which he and Mrs. Breynton had 
 played an infinity of games at backgammon. Mr. Sedley 
 did not know what a relief his presence was this evening, 
 by casting the veil of outward formality over the con- 
 
122 THE OGILV1ES. [CHAP. 
 
 flicting emotions of the trio at the palace. So, the worthy 
 old clergyman talked with Philip about Oxford, paid his 
 laboured, old-fashioned, but, withal, affectionate compliments 
 to his particular favourite, Miss Ogilvie, and then engaged 
 Mrs. Breynton in their beloved game. During its progress 
 Eleanor gladly retired for the night. 
 
 At the foot of the staircase she met Philip, who had fol- 
 lowed unperceived. He looked very pale, and his voice 
 trembled, though he tried to speak as usual. 
 
 " Eleanor, say good night to me ; not formally, as just 
 now, but as we did that happy yesterday." 
 
 She took both his hands, and looked up lovingly in his 
 face. 
 
 " Good night, then, dear Philip ! " 
 
 He folded her in his arms and kissed her many times. 
 She spoke to him hopeful words ; and they were uttered in 
 sincerity, for her own spirit was so full of love and faith, 
 both in God and man, that she had little doubt of the 
 future. 
 
 " To-morrow, Philip ! all will seem brighter to us to- 
 morrow," was her adieu. 
 
 He watched her glide up the staircase, turning once 
 round to cast on him that quiet, love-beaming smile peculiar 
 to herself. Then he leaned against the wall with a heavy 
 sigh. 
 
 " The bitterness is past ! " murmured Philip. " Now, 1 
 can go forth alone ! '' 
 
XVL] TILE OG1LVIES, 123 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Look not mournfully into the past, it returns no more. Wisely 
 improve the present ; and go forth into the shadowy future without 
 fear and with a manly heart. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ELEANOR arose next morning composed almost cheerful. 
 True, there had been, on her first waking, a feeling of op- 
 pression as though some vague sorrow had chanced, under 
 the shadow of which she still lay ; and a few tears had 
 stolen through the yet closed eyes, chasing away sleep and 
 making the faint daylight a welcome visitant. But when 
 she had arisen and looked out on the bright spring morn- 
 ing, all this waking pain changed into a quiet hopefulness. 
 One creeps so soon out of the gloom into the light at 
 least, when one is young ! The early swallows were flying 
 merrily in and out of the eaves ; the morning sun glistened 
 cheerfully on the three spires of the cathedral, though its 
 walls still lay in heavy shadow. But the girl's eyes looked 
 upward only, and therefore it was the sunshine she saw, 
 not the shade. 
 
 She thought of Philip's dear, precious love now all her 
 own and of his noble nature ; both of which had been 
 tried and come out with a brightness that made her forget 
 the refining fire. Her soul was so unworldly, so filled with 
 trusting affe'ction, that she had no fear. She was ready to 
 let her lover go forth into the world, believing entirely in 
 him, and confiding so much in the world itself, that she 
 felt sure its storms would subside and its evils be removed 
 before him. Simple girl ! And yet perhaps there was 
 more in her theory than many imagine. It is the faithful, 
 
THE OCJL VIES. [CHIP. I] 
 
 the holy-hearted ones, who walk calmly and safely on the I 
 troubled waters of the world. 
 
 Eleanor was still musing, more thoughtfully than sadly, I 
 and considering whether or not she should descend to tell I 
 Philip the fruit of her hopeful meditations, when Davis 
 brought a letter. 
 
 " Mr. Wychnor told me to give you this, ma'am, as soon 
 as I heard you stirring." 
 
 Eleanor changed colour, and her fingers trembled over ; 
 the seal. 
 
 " I hope, Miss Ogilvie, that nothing is amiss with Master ] 
 Philip. He looked so ill this morning ! and I could not 
 persuade him to have any breakfast before he went away." 
 " Went away ! " 
 
 " Yes, indeed, Miss ; he set off before it was quite light, 
 by the early London coach." 
 
 Eleanor's fingers tightened over the unopened letter, and 
 her very lips grew white ; yet she had self-control enough 
 to speak calmly. 
 
 " Indeed, Davis, you need not be uneasy. Mr. Wychnor 
 has probably taken his journey a day or two sooner than lie 
 intended, that is all." 
 
 " I'd stake my life it's not all," muttered the good woman, 
 as she curtseyed herself out. " I only hope there is nothing 
 wrong between him and Miss Eleanor bless their dear 
 hearts ! They was born for one another sure-ly ! " 
 
 Eleanor threw herself on the bed with a passionate burst 
 of weeping, that for many minutes would not be restrained. 
 "0 Philip, Philip, why did you go?" she said; and it 
 was long before her grief found any solace, save in the 
 utterance of this despairing cry. She was but a girl with 
 all the weakness of a deep first love but she had also its 
 strength. So, after a time her sobs grew calmer ; and 
 while with still-dimmed eyes she read Philip's letter, its 
 peaceful influence passed into her spirit. Even then it was 
 so blessed to read this, first letter, and to see there written 
 down the love which she had before heard his lips declare. 
 The words " My own Eleanor," smiling at her from the top 
 of the page, almost took away the pain of that sad hour. 
 
XVI.] THE OGILVIES. 125 
 
 And as she read on, tracing in every earnest line the brave, 
 true heart of him who wrote, she became-^comforted more 
 and more. 
 
 " Eleanor ! " ran this dear record (Reader, do not be 
 alarmed lest we should transcribe an ordinary love-letter, 
 - for, though full of affection, Philip had in him something 
 of reserve and far too much of good sense ever to indulge 
 in the fantastic rhapsodies which have passed into a pro- 
 verb) "Eleanor, you must not think this departure of 
 mine hasty or ill-advised ; unkind you will not for you 
 love me, and know that I love you better than anything 
 on earth, therefore there can be no thought of unkindness 
 between us. I have gone away because, knowing my aunt 
 as well as I do, I see no prospect, had I remained, of aught 
 but added bitterness and pain for us all. And though I 
 cannot dare not suffer myself unworthily to enter upon 
 that course which she has laid out for me, God forbid that 
 I should in word or deed return evil for many kindnesses 
 which she has shown me all my life through. Eleanor! 
 when I sit here in the quiet night-time, and think of those 
 boyish days, I almost doubt whether I am really right in 
 thwarting her desire so much. But yet I could not you, 
 with your pure right-mindedness, you yourself said I ought 
 not to do this thing. And have I not also given up you ? 
 Surely it must be a holy and a worthy sacrifice ! 
 
 " Dearest ! if in this I have done my aunt wrong and I 
 feel my heart melt towards her, in spite of all the harsh 
 words, ay, and the bitter taunts which she gave me this 
 night when you were not by if I have done her wrong 
 you will atone it. She reproached me with casting you off 
 you, my heart's treasure ! She said that her hearth and 
 home should at least be open to you. Let it be so ! Stay 
 with her, Eleanor ; give her the dutiful care that I ought 
 to have shown : it will comfort me to know this. You 
 see how I trust you, as if you were a part of myself, feel- 
 ing that her harsh condemnations of me will never alter 
 your love. And if her mind should change if she should 
 learn to see with our eyes many things whereon she differs 
 from us now, and should find out why it was I acted thus, 
 
126 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 how will the influence of my own gentle girl prove a bless- 
 ing to us all ! In this I think not of worldly fortune. I 
 will fight my own way, and be indebted to no one on 
 earth, save for the help of affection. 
 
 " And now, beloved, I set out for the path on which we 
 decided. Thank Heaven that I can write ive! that I 
 carry with me your precious love that we are one in heart 
 and mind and look forward to one future, which I will 
 work out. Send me away with a blessing ! Yet you have 
 done so already. Eleanor, that one smile of yours you 
 did not know it was the last, but I did will rest in my 
 heart and be its strength until I see you again. Forgive 
 me that I could not trust myself to say ' Good-bye.' Yet 
 it is hardly a farewell between those whose hearts and 
 thoughts are ever united ! God grant it may be even so 
 until our lives' end and after! 11 
 
 More did Philip write concerning his worldly plans and 
 the arrangement of their future correspondence. All that 
 he said was calm; breathing perhaps more of steadfast 
 patience than of hope but still without a shade of fear 
 either for himself or for her. When Eleanor laid down 
 the letter of her lover there was not a tear in her eye not 
 a sigh on her lip. 
 
 " God be with thee, my beloved ! " she said fervently ; 
 put the letter in her bosom, and went down-stairs. 
 
 In the hall she met the old waiting-woman, Davis, 
 coming out of the breakfast-room, with tears in her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Ogilvie ! " cried the poor soul, "I can't tell 
 what has come over my mistress. Sixteen years have I 
 been in this house and never saw her look so before. She 
 did not speak a word all the while I was dressing her, 
 until Master Philip's little dog whined at the door, and 
 then she grew very angry, and ordered me to go and tell 
 James to shoot it or hang it, for she did not want to be 
 troubled with it any more. I could hardly believe my 
 ears, Miss Eleanor I couldn't, indeed so good as she 
 used to be to poor little Flo. And when I only stood 
 staring, instead of going off, she stamped her foot and 
 
XVI.] THE OGILVIES. 127 
 
 ordered me out of the room. To think' that my lady 
 should have served me so ! " 
 
 " She did not mean it, good Davis ; she is very fond of 
 you," said Eleanor, soothingly. There was room enough 
 in her heart for every one's sorrows great and small. 
 
 " I hope so, Miss ; indeed, I should not care so much, 
 except that I fear something has gone wrong between her 
 and Master Philip. I happened to let fall a word about 
 his being gone ; but she seemed to know it herself before- 
 hand. She turned round so sharply, and desired me never 
 to mention his name, but to go and lock up his room just 
 as it was, for he would not want it again. Ay, dear ! how 
 sorry I shall be not to see the young master here any 
 more ! " 
 
 Eleanor felt her own eyes growing dim, and a choking 
 in her throat prevented any reply. The good woman went 
 on in her voluble grief. 
 
 " Well, well ! servants have no business with their 
 masters' or mistresses' affairs ; but I do feel sorry about 
 poor Master Philip. And there is another thing that 
 troubles me ; he left me this letter for my mistress, and for 
 the life of me I daren't give it to her myself. If it were 
 not making too free, Miss Ogilvie, I wish you would." 
 
 Eleanor stretched out her hand for the letter. " Where 
 is Mrs. Breynton 1 " she asked. 
 
 " At the breakfast-table, Miss sitting bolt upright, like 
 I don't know what ! Bless us all but she's off already. 
 Poor young lady ! something is the matter with her too ; 
 for I saw the tears in her pretty eyes. Well, I don't think 
 she's quarrelled with Master Philip, or she would not have 
 looked at his letter so tenderly just as I used to do at 
 poor Samuel's. Ah, lack-a-day ! it's a troublesome world ! " 
 
 And the starched old maid went away up-stairs, rubbing 
 with a corner of her apron each of her dull grey eyes. 
 They might have been young and bright once who 
 knows 1 
 
 Mrs. Breynton sat, a very statue of rigidity, in her usual 
 place at the head of the table ; her' face as smooth and un- 
 wrinkled as her dress. She said, " Good morning, Eleanor, 
 
128 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 my dear," in the usual tone neither warmer nor colder 
 than the salutation had been for years ; and the hand with 
 which she poured out the coffee was as steady as ever. 
 Eleanor almost began to think that the painful events of 
 the night and morning were only a dream, so perfectly 
 astounded was she by the manner of the old lady. 
 
 She had come with a swelling heart to throw herself at 
 the knees of Philip's aunt, and beg her to forgive him 
 or at least to receive from herself all the loving care 
 that was in the heart of the nephew whom she had dis- 
 carded. But at the sight of that frigid, composed face 
 so indifferent, so unmarked by any sign of suffering, regret, 
 or even anger Eleanor felt all her own warm impulses 
 completely frozen. She could as easily have poured out 
 her feelings before the grim old figures sitting in their 
 niches on the cathedral wall. Philip's letter was still 
 in her hand, almost unconsciously she thrust it out of 
 sight : and the voice which replied to the morning saluta- 
 tion, though tremulous, was almost as cold as Mrs. Breynton's 
 own. Eleanor took her place at the breakfast-table, just 
 as though she had never passed through these sudden phases 
 of love, joy, sorrow events which would govern a life- 
 time. 
 
 Mechanically her eyes wandered over the familiar objects 
 about the room : the boy's portrait that hung on the wall 
 the orange-trees and the flowers in the conservatory, now 
 brightened by a week's more sunshine. It was one week 
 only since the morning when Philip and Philip's fortunes 
 had been talked of, sending such a pleasant thrill to her 
 heart : how much one little week, nay, one day, had 
 brought forth ! 
 
 Mrs. Breynton began, apparently without an effort, her 
 usual morning conversation. This never rambled far 
 beyond what might literally be considered table-talk ; the 
 dryness of toast, and the over or under boiling of eggs, 
 seemed always subjects sufficiently engrossing at that early 
 hour of the day. Thus she succeeded in passing away the 
 half-hour which to Eleanor seemed insupportable. The 
 latter many times was on the point of giving way to her 
 

 XVI.] THE OGILVIES. 129 
 
 pent-up feelings, when a word or tone sent them all back 
 again to the depth of her heart. How wmild she ever find 
 courage to deliver Philip's letter ] 
 
 The breakfast equipage was already removed, and still 
 nothing had been uttered between them except those 
 ordinary commonplaces which froze Eleanor's very heart. 
 
 " If you please, ma'am," said the retreating James, " the 
 gardener told me to ask if you would have the auriculas 
 planted out, as the weather is so warm now, and he has 
 always done this about Easter." 
 
 There was the faintest possible trembling of Mrs. Breyn- 
 ton's mouth, and she dropped a few stitches in her 
 knitting. Then, walking to the window to take them up, 
 she answered, rather angrily : 
 
 " Tell Morris I shall judge myself about the matter, and 
 will speak to him to-morrow." 
 
 Eleanor watched all with intense anxiety. She marked 
 how the reference to Easter had startled Mrs. Breynton 
 from her indifference showing how much of it was as- 
 sumed. Tremulously she advanced to the window. 
 
 " Shall I make the knitting right for you]" she asked. 
 
 " Thank you, my dear ; I really cannot see so well as I 
 used to do." 
 
 Eleanor gave back the work, and with it Philip's letter. 
 
 "What is this]" said Mrs. Breynton, sharply. 
 
 " Oh, dear friend ! read it. pray read it ; and then you 
 will forgive him forgive me. Indeed, you do not know 
 how unhappy we are!" 
 
 Mrs. Breynton walked across the room to the fire. It 
 had gone out in the sunshine. She laid the letter on the 
 table, and rang the bell. Eleanor rose up as the man 
 entered. 
 
 "James," said his mistress, "bring me a lighted taper." 
 
 When it came, she deliberately unsealed the letter, tore it 
 into long strips, and burned each of them separately. Eleanor 
 stood and dared not utter a word. There was such iron 
 sternness such implacable, calm determination in that 
 rigid face, that she was terrified into silence. She saw the 
 words which Philip's dear hand had traced consumed to 
 
 K 
 
130 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 ashes, and offered no opposition. Then, Mrs. Breynton 
 advanced, and touched the girl's forehead with her cold, 
 aged lips. 
 
 " Eleanor Ogilvie, you shall be my daughter if you will. 
 In you I have nothing to forgive, much to pity. I take 
 you as my child, my only one. But as respects this " 
 she pointed to the little heap of burnt paper " or its 
 writer, the subject must never more be revived between 
 us." 
 
 She walked out of the room with her own firm stately 
 steps ; her silks rustling on the staircase, as she ascended 
 slowly but not more slowly than usual to her chamber : 
 and then Eleanor heard the door shut. Upon what 
 struggles it closed or, if there were any conflict at all 
 no one knew. That day, and for a day or two after, there 
 was a greyer shade on the cheek already pallid with age ; 
 and once or twice "in reading the evening prayers the cold, 
 steady voice changed for a moment. But in a week the 
 Dean's widow was the same as she had ever been, and all 
 went on at the palace as though Philip's name had never 
 been heard. 
 
XV1I.J THE OGILVIES. 131 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Authorship is, according to the spirit in which it is pursued, an 
 infamy, a pastime, a day-labour, a handicraft, an art, a science, a 
 virtue. SCHLEGEL. 
 
 Take away the self-conceited, and there will be elbow-room in the 
 world. WHICHCOTE. 
 
 MR. PIERCE PENNYTHORNE was what the world respect 
 fully terms a " very clever man." The world understands 
 " cleverness " thoroughly, and venerates it accordingly, 
 though it often scoffs at genius. Perhaps on the same 
 principle the Cockney who gazes in admiration on the 
 stone-built fabric of St. Paul's turns away contemptuously 
 from some grand lonely mountain of nature's making, and 
 thinks it is not so very fine after all. He cannot measure its 
 inches ; he does not understand it. He had rather by half 
 look up from his city dwelling at the gilt cross and ball. 
 
 Now Mr. Pennythorne was exactly the man to attract 
 and keep this sort of admiration. In whatever sphere he 
 moved and he had moved in many and various ones 
 during his sixty years of life he was always sure to get 
 the pre-eminence. His acute, decisive character impressed 
 ordinary people with reverence, and his tact and quickness 
 of judgment had enabled him to compel from the small 
 modicum of talent which he possessed the reputation of 
 being a literary star of considerable magnitude. 
 
 For, after passing through various phases of life, Mr. 
 Pennythorne had finally subsided into literature. He took 
 to writing as another man would take to bricklaying con- 
 sidering that 
 
 The worth of anything 
 Is just as much as it will bring. 
 
132 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 And as literature brought him in some hundreds a year, 
 and maintained respectably the house in Blank-square, 
 Kensington, together with Mrs. Pennythorne and two 
 young Penny thornes, he regarded it as a useful instrument 
 of labour, and valued it accordingly. His was a most con- 
 venient pen, too, a pen of all-work. It would write for 
 anybody, on any subject, in any style, always excepting 
 that of imaginative literature, in which road it had never 
 been known to travel. But this, as its owner doubtless 
 believed, was only because it did not choose, as such 
 writing was all trash, and never paid. 
 
 Such was Mr. Pennythorne abroad ; at home he carried 
 out the same character, slightly varied. He was, so to 
 speak, the most excellent of tyrants ; his sway was 
 absolute, but he used it well. No one could say that he 
 was not as good a husband and father as ever lived ; that 
 is, as far as outward treatment went. Throughout some 
 thirty years of matrimony, he and his quiet, good-natured, 
 meek-spirited wife had never had a quarrel j and he had 
 brought up his children to be creditable members of society. 
 His system was that of blind obedience. Nevertheless, both 
 wife and children were affectionately inclined towards him, 
 for some people are happiest in being thus ruled; it takes 
 away so much moral responsibility. Sympathy in feeling 
 or in intellect was unknown in the Pennythorne family ; 
 they did not believe there was such a thing, and so they 
 lived a comfortable humdrum life, conscious of no higher 
 existence. Doubtless they were quite happy and so are 
 oysters ! Still, the most world-tossed, world-riven spirit 
 that ever passed through its fire-ordeal of love, genius, and 
 suffering, would hardly wish to change with these human 
 molluscs. 
 
 Mr. Pennythorne, after dinner, in his little study, with 
 the blazing fire shining on its well-peopled book-shelves and 
 convenient old-fashioned desk, was the very picture of a 
 man of letters comfortably off in the world. He had en- 
 sconced in the only arm-chair which the room possessed his 
 small wiry frame : for Mr. Pennythorne shared with Alex- 
 ander, Napoleon, and other great minds, the glory of a 
 
XVIJL] THE OGILV1ES. 133 
 
 diminutive person. As he sat reading the newspaper, with 
 his back to the lamp, the light cast into strong relief his 
 sharp, well-marked features. It was not an intellectual 
 head, still less a benevolent one ; but there were wonder- 
 ful cleverness and shrewdness in its every line. The firm, 
 closed mouth could sometimes relax into a very good 
 natured smile ; and a great deal of dry satirical humour lay 
 perdu among the wrinkles politely termed crow's feet 
 that surrounded the small bright grey eyes. 
 
 The postman's sharp knock made the little man start ; 
 for with all his mental self-possession he had much physical 
 nervousness. At the same time his quick movement 
 revealed the presence of Mrs. Penny thorne, who sat in the 
 shadow, with a half -knitted stocking on her lap. Her 
 husband always liked her to be near {iim after his daily 
 occupation was over. Not that he wanted conversation, 
 for to that Mr. Pennythorne thought no woman equal, and 
 perhaps the secret of his regard for his wife was her 
 abstinence from all intellectual rivalship. Good Mrs. 
 Pennythorne, indeed, had never been burdened with that 
 ambition. But the sight of her quiet, gentle, and still 
 pretty face, was composing to him ; and she let him talk as 
 much or as little as he liked, said " Yes," or " No," or 
 " Certainly, my dear," and when he had done, went to 
 sleep. They were exactly suited for each other, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Pennythorne. 
 
 She received the letter at the door it annoyed him to see 
 any one but herself in his study and while he read it she 
 took the opportunity of being thoroughly awakened, to 
 go through the serious operation which stocking-knitters 
 denominate " turning down the heel." Once or twice she 
 lifted up her eyes at a few exclamations from her husband 
 " Bless me ! " " How very odd ! " etc. But she had been too 
 well trained to inquire of him about anything which he did 
 not in due form communicate. So she waited until he de- 
 livered himself thus : 
 
 " Gillie, my dear," Mrs. Pennythorne's Christian name 
 was Cecilia ; which by a humorous ingenuity he had con- 
 verted into this odd diminutive, a somewhat doubtful 
 
134 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 compliment, " Gillie, my dear, this is a very curious 
 circumstance." 
 
 " Is it indeed," said Mrs. Pennythorne ; not interroga- 
 tively, but assentingly. Her husband always expected to 
 be understood at once, without any explanation, so she 
 never dreamed of inquiring to what circumstance he 
 alluded. 
 
 " You remember my old college friend, Edwin Wychnor 
 Captain Wychnor he was then who dined with us at 
 Sittingbourne, ten let me see fifteen years a,goT' 
 
 " yes ! " Mrs. Pennythorne made a point of remem- 
 bering everything, as nothing vexed her spouse so much as 
 the confession of ignorance on any point to which his own 
 retentive memory chose to turn. 
 
 " There was another Oxford man with us that day, you 
 know Bourne Dr. Bourne now who dropped into the 
 living that Wychnor gave up like a foolish fellow as he 
 was ! Well, this letter comes from him, not from Wychnor, 
 or it would be a dead letter." ( Penny thorne's conversation 
 was usually studded with execrable jokes, made comical by 
 the solemnity with which they were put forward.) "It is 
 from Bourne, introducing to me the defunct captain's only 
 son, who has gone and played the same madcap trick as his 
 father. He wants me to get the lad that very easy thing 
 now-a-days, ' employment in London.' " 
 
 " Well, my dear, surely nobody can do that so well as 
 you," meekly observed his wife. 
 
 " Pooh ! you are only a woman ; you don't know any- 
 thing at all about it. Pretty fellows to deal with are 
 these college youths, with heads more full of pride than of 
 brains ; can't do this because they haven't been brought 
 up to it and won't do the other because it isn't gentle- 
 manly. I suppose this young Peter, or Paul, or Jeremiah 
 he has got that sort of a name will turn out just such 
 another upon my hands. But that is always the way; 
 everybody brings stray sheep to me : very black sheep 
 they are, too, sometimes." 
 
 Mrs. Pennythorne laughed, thinking from her hus- 
 band's look that he had said something funny : she always 
 
XV11.] THE OGILVIES. 135 
 
 did so, like a dutiful wife, whether she understood it or 
 not. "And I am sure, Pierce, you have helped a great 
 many young men on in the world. There was young 
 Philips, and O'Mahony the Irishman, and Edward Jones." 
 
 " And a nice ungrateful set they all turned out ! " said 
 Mr. Pennythorne, though a self-complacent smile rather 
 contradicted his words. There was nothing in the world 
 that he liked so well as patronising. Not that he con- 
 fined himself to the show of benevolence, for he was a 
 good-natured man, and had done many kindly acts in his 
 time, but they had all been done with due importance. 
 His prottgts and he had always a long train of them 
 were required implicitly to trust to him, to follow his 
 bidding, and to receive his advice. He never asked for 
 gratitude, but yet he always contrived to rail at the world 
 because he did not receive it. Still, with all his peculiarities, 
 Mr. Pennythorne did a great deal of good in his way, and 
 rather liked the doing of it too, though he said he didn't. 
 
 " Gillie," he observed, just as the summons came to tea, 
 " I suppose this young Wyehnor must dine here next Sunday. 
 Take care that Fred is not out of the way, and that that 
 foolish fellow Leigh is not keeping his bed, as he is so often. 
 What's the good of sons if you don't make use of them ? 
 And an old fellow like ma can't be bothered to entertain a 
 young Oxford scamp for a whole afternoon." 
 
 The same sharp postman's knock oh, what a volume of 
 life-experiences might that sound suggest could we follow it 
 from door to door ! brought to Philip Wychnor, in his dull 
 second-floor lodging the following letter : 
 
 " MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND, 
 
 " I had a great regard for your late father, and shall have 
 the same for you if you deserve it, of which I have little 
 doubt. I will also do my best to help you on in the 
 world. To begin our acquaintance, perhaps you will dine 
 at my house next Sunday at six. 
 
 " Faithfully yours, 
 
 " PIERCE PENNYTHORNE; " 
 
 It was an odd, abrupt letter, but Philip had already heard 
 
13G THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 that the writer was not without his eccentricities. He was 
 growing so desolate and cheerless in his London home, that 
 the least ray of kindness came upon him like a flood of light. 
 He drank his cup of weak cold tea with almost the zest of 
 those remembered days when Eleanor's dear sunny face had 
 shone from behind the urn in the happy palace drawing- 
 room. Then he went out, and walked up and down the 
 gloomy squares in the neighbourhood of which his lodgings 
 lay. And surely the dreariest place in all London is the 
 region between Brunswick-square and Tottenham-court-road ! 
 There solemn wealth sets up its abode, and struggling 
 respectability tries to creep under its shadow, in many a 
 dull, melancholy street; while squalid poverty grovels in 
 between, with its miserable courts and alleys, that make the 
 sick and weary heart to doubt even the existence of good. 
 
 Philip sauntered along ; but, viewed in the light of this 
 new hope of his, the squares did not seem so desolate as 
 they had done the evening before. Through the misty night 
 the lamps glimmered faintly ; after a while the moon rose 
 and the moon looks pleasant to young eyes, especially the 
 eyes of lovers, even in the desert of Russell-square. More- 
 over, as Philip walked along the inner side, there was a 
 freshness almost like perfume in the budding trees, over 
 which an April shower had just passed. It came upon his 
 senses like the breathing of hope. He stopped under the 
 nearest lamp, took out Mr. Pennythorne's letter and read it 
 over again. 
 
 " Well, it does seem kind and may be the beginning of 
 good. Who knows but I have put my first step on Fortune's 
 ladder to-night V 9 
 
 Ah, Philip ! that ladder is of all others the hardest to 
 climb ! But you have a steady foot and a strong heart 
 all the stronger for having that precious love-amulet in its 
 inmost folds. In spite of all the grey-headed reasoners, 
 there never was a young man yet who did not work his way 
 in the world the better for having some one to work for 
 besides himsel 
 
XVIII.] THE OGILVIES. 137 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Wives seem created to be butts. Many a man now, like Pan, plays 
 upon that which was formerly the object of his fond pursuit. 
 
 EDWARD WEST. 
 Man alone 
 
 The recreant spirit of the universe, 
 Contemns the operations of the light ; 
 Loves surface-knowledge, calls the crimes of crowds 
 Virtue adores the useful vices. * * 
 
 Therefore 
 I will commit my brain to none of them. 
 
 PHILIP BAILEY. 
 
 "VERY glad to see you; exceedingly t glad to see you, my 
 young friend," was the greeting that marked Philip's first 
 entrance into the drawing-room at Blank-square we prefer 
 that rather doubtful way of designating the Pennythorne 
 abode. " Punctuality is $ virtue, especially on a wet Sunday ; 
 I like to see young people keep time well, and then as they 
 grow older time always keeps them eh, sir ] " 
 
 Philip smiled ; he was really amused by the oddities of the 
 little man. He could do no more than smile silently, for it 
 was impossible to get in a word. 
 
 " Cecilia, my dear," and Mr. Pennythorne, with a sort of 
 hop-skip-and-jump movement his usual method of progress 
 in the house arrived at the sofa where his lady sat in all 
 the unruffled serenities of a Sunday silk, a Sunday cap, and 
 a Sunday face. She had a ponderous-looking volume beside 
 her, of Sermons, or Fox's Martyrs ; for though the Penny- 
 thornes so far conformed to the world as to have company 
 on a Sunday, they were a " religious family," and if the 
 cook was beguiled out of her sole day of rest by having to 
 prepare a first-rate dinner, it was atoned for by the mistress's 
 always reading good books up in the drawing-room. 
 
138 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 "Mr. Philip Wychnor, let me introduce you to Mrs. 
 Pennythcrne, my wife, sir ; an ugly old woman, isn't she 1 
 but then she's so clever, there is not a cleverer woman in 
 all London than Mrs. Penny thorne." 
 
 Philip looked at the pretty but simple face of the lady, and 
 then at her husband, who spoke with such gravity that it was 
 almost impossible to distinguish jest from earnest. Fairly 
 puzzled between them, the young man uttered some ordinary 
 politeness, and accepted the offered seat beside his hostess. 
 
 " There, you can begin your acquaintance with that excel- 
 lent woman," said Mr. Pennythorne ; " but take care of 
 her, you don't know how sharp her tongue is real arrows, 
 sir, regular darts of wit : mind they don't hit you ! " 
 
 Philip thought it rather unseemly that a man should 
 make game of his wife in public, and began to feel somewhat 
 uncomfortable. But Mrs. Pennythorne herself seemed quite 
 unmoved smiling on in placid contentment. She had got 
 used to this sort of banter, or else, which was most likely, 
 she did not feel it at all. Some people are very feather-beds 
 of stolidity, impenetrable to the sharpest tongue- weapons 
 that sarcasm ever forged. Philip soon grew quite reassured 
 on the subject. He tried to engage Mrs. Pennythorne in 
 conversation ; but did not succeed in getting beyond the 
 wetness of the day and the unpleasantness of the Kensington 
 omnibuses. She was as shy and nervous as a girl of six- 
 teen ; constantly looking to her husband, as if she had hardly 
 a thought of her own. Still there was a degree of quiet 
 womanliness about her. She had a low voice, and her brown 
 eyes were of the same colour as Eleanor's. Philip felt rather 
 a liking to Mrs. Pennythorne. 
 
 "Where can the boys be]" said the old gentleman, be- 
 coming fidgetty, and rushing to the foot of the stairs. 
 44 Fred! Leigh!" 
 
 The next minute the "boys" appeared. Mr. Frederick 
 Pennythorne was about twenty-five ; a specimen of that 
 stereotyped class of young men with which London birth 
 and London breeding indulge the world. Slight, dapper, 
 active : not ill-looking, and carefully dressed ; always ready 
 for polkas, smalk-talk, and cigars ; too respectable for a gent 
 
XVIII.] THE OGILVIES. 139 
 
 (odious word !), too ordinary and vulgar-minded for a gentle- 
 man, and far oh ! far too mean in heart and soul for the 
 noble title of a man ! 
 
 This individual scanned Philip all over, and nodded his 
 head with a careless " How-d'ye-do?" Then, catching his 
 father's eye, Mr. Frederick composed his features into an 
 aspect of grave deference. 
 
 " My son, this my eldest son. Excellent fellow to show 
 you all the wickedness of London, Mr. Wychnor. I don't 
 suppose there's a greater scamp anywhere than Fred Penny- 
 thorne." 
 
 The old gentleman did not know how nearly he hit the 
 truth but somehow or other the person alluded to winced 
 slightly under the unintentional application. 
 
 " Eeally, father ! But you'll find out his ways soon, 
 
 Mr. Wychnor," said Fred, apologetically. 
 
 "Where's Leigh?" continued that indefatigable parent; 
 who seemed to have as much difficulty in hunting up his 
 family as a mechanist has in winding up his automata and 
 setting them fairly going. 
 
 A tall thin youth of about seventeen crept languidly from 
 behind the folding-doors. Philip looked rather earnestly at 
 the sallow, long-drawn-out face, and meaningless, half-closed 
 eyes. Perhaps in the look there was somewhat of interest 
 and compassion, for the boy involuntarily put out his hand 
 and just touched Philip's with his cold moist fingers. The 
 heavy eyes lifted themselves up for a moment. They were 
 brown, like his mother's, but far deeper and softer ; and 
 as they met Philip's, one passing gleam of expression lighted 
 them up. It drew the young man's heart towards the sickly, 
 awkward-looking Leigh. 
 
 " I hope we shall be very good friends in time," said 
 Philip Wychnor, shaking the boy's hand warmly. 
 
 " That is more than any one else ever was with our cross- 
 grained Leigh ! Long, lazy Leigh, as I call him, the 
 greatest dunce in the universe, except for a little Greek, 
 Latin, and Hebrew which I contrive to knock into him," 
 interposed the father, who seemed to take delight in sketch- 
 ing, en passant, these complimentary family portraits. 
 
140 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 Philip turned round uneasily to Leigh, but the youth sat 
 in his old corner quite impassive. The dull melancholy of 
 his face was as unimpressible as his mother's vacant and 
 perpetual smile. 
 
 " Well, they are the oddest family I ever knew," thought 
 Philip Wyclmor. " Perhaps your son is not strong enough 
 for much study 1 " he said aloud. 
 
 " Quite a mistake, my good sir," answered Mr. Penny- 
 thorne, sharply. " All my family enjoy excellent health. I 
 can't bear to have sick people about me. That fellow there 
 looks yellow because he lies in bed sadly too much ; and 
 besides it is his temperament, his natural complexion. Pray 
 do not put such notions into the lad's head, Mr. Wychnor." 
 
 The guest felt that he had unconsciously trodden on 
 dangerous ground; and it was really a relief when the 
 apparition of a very tall maid servant at the door gave the 
 signal for dinner. 
 
 Mr. Pennythorne was the best person in the world for 
 the head of a table his own especially ; for he had an 
 unfailing flow of talk and abundance of small witticisms. 
 To use a simile on the originality of which we have some 
 doubt, but which, not knowing the right owner, we shall 
 appropriate, he kept the ball of conversation constantly in 
 motion. However, to attain this desirable end he rarely 
 let it go out of his own hands. Perhaps this was as well, 
 for the rest of his family seemed incapable of a throw. So 
 he very wisely never gave them the opportunity. 
 
 Once or twice Fred Pennythorne hazarded a remark or, 
 as he would have expressed it, " put out a feeler," thereby 
 to discover the habits, manners, and character of the " fellow 
 from the country ; " but he was soon extinguished by a few 
 paternal sneers. Mrs. Pennythorne also, venturing to reply 
 in more than monosyllables to some observation of Philip's, 
 was regarded with such mock-deferential attention by her 
 lord and master that she relapsed into alarmed and invio- 
 lable silence. As for Leigh, he never tried to speak at all 
 When, soon after the introduction of wine and walnuts, 
 Mrs. Pennythorne disappeared, he quickly followed his 
 mother, and was seen no more. 
 
XVHI ] THE OGILVIES. 141 
 
 Then Mr. Penny thorn e edified Philip for the space of 
 half-an-hour on many and various subjects, chiefly political. 
 Fortunately, Wychnor was no great talker, and of a quiet, 
 yielding temper, so that the dictatorial tone of his host did 
 not annoy him in the least. Perhaps he only listened with 
 his outward ears> while his thoughts, like riches and 
 Philip's thoughts were riches to him made to themselves 
 wings and flew far away. 
 
 " Fred ! you stupid fellow," called out Mr. Pennythorne, 
 at last. 
 
 "Yes, sir," answered the individual addressed, waking 
 from a doze by the fire. 
 
 " Your conversation is so remarkably amusing and in- 
 structive that it is quite too overpowering for such addle- 
 pates as this gentleman and myself. We will therefore 
 indulge ourselves in a tete-a-tete dull enough for our limited 
 capabilities. You may go and tell your mother to make 
 the tea : I dare say cook will lend you the toasting-fork, 
 that you may make yourself useful in the kitchen at least." 
 
 The young dandy muttered a grumbling remonstrance, 
 but finished his wine, and walked off. It was really curious, 
 the complete ascendency which this eccentric father of a 
 family had gained and preserved over all its members. 
 
 " Excellent boy that," said Mr. Pennythorne when the 
 door closed : and Philip noticed how entirely his sarcastic 
 manner was changed ; " Fred is a rising young man, sir ; no 
 profession like that of a lawyer for making a fortune at 
 least in these railway times. That lad will ride in his 
 carriage yet." 
 
 "Indeed, I hope so," Philip observed, seeing that an 
 observation was expected. 
 
 " Certainly. The Pennythornes, sir, always make their 
 way in the world. Now there's Leigh quiet boy very 
 quiet, but thinks the more for that. His knowledge of 
 classics is wonderful. I shall make him a first-rate man 
 for Oxford. By-the-by, you, who have just left Alma Mater, 
 might give him a help now and then when I am too busy 
 myself." 
 
 " I shall be most happy." 
 
142 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 " Of course of course. Thank you, Mr. Wychnor. And 
 now, tell me in what way I can be of service to you 1 " 
 
 The little man leaned over the table, and confronted 
 Philip with his peering grey eyes. All his jesting manner 
 was gone \ and there was a straightforward, business-like 
 earnestness, which his guest liked much better and felt 
 infinitely more disposed to trust. Philip briefly stated that, 
 having suddenly relinquished the Church, he was without 
 resources, and wished to earn a livelihood in any respectable 
 way for which his education might fit him. 
 
 " Now, my young friend, what do you call a ' respectable 
 way I 1 " said Mr. Penny thorne. 
 
 Philip was rather confused but answered, " Any honest 
 way, of which a gentleman's son need not feel ashamed. 
 Surely the world is wide enough for one more to get his 
 bread if not by his hands, at least by his brains of which 
 I hope I have a share." 
 
 " No doubt no doubt/' returned Mr. Pennythorne, " but 
 let us see how you are to ue them. Authorship is not a 
 bad profession. Suppose you take to that ? " 
 
 Philip looked somewhat astonished. "My dear sir, I 
 never wrote anything in my life. I have no genius !" 
 
 " Genius my excellent young friend, between ourselves, 
 has nothing to do with the matter. It is a commodity 
 rather unpleasant than otherwise. A man's genius generally 
 ends in making a fool of him or a beggar, which comes to 
 the same thing. The best authors, and those who have 
 made most money, have had no genius at all. With plenty 
 of diligence and a good connection, a clever author may get 
 a very good living; while the poor devils called men of 
 genius a term for unusual flightiness and conceit lie 
 down and starve." 
 
 Philip listened to this speech, first in surprise, then in 
 pain. He had spoken truly at least as he then believed 
 when he said he had no genius ; but genius itself he wor- 
 shipped with all the enthusiasm of youth. So utterly 
 confounded was he by this argument of Mr. Penny thorne's, 
 that he did not reply by a single word \ and the old gentle- 
 man continued : 
 
XVIII.] THE OGILVIES. 143 
 
 " You see, Mr. Philip Wychnor, that I have spoken 
 plainly to you, as I would not to every one ; but I like 
 your face, and moreover you are your father's son. If you 
 chose to try your hand at authorship, I will endeavour to 
 procure you work. It shall be easy at first, and you can 
 get on by degrees." 
 
 But Philip shook his head. " No, Mr. Pennythorne ; I 
 feel too certain of my own incapacity ; and literature has 
 always seemed to me so high and holy a calling.' 1 
 
 At this moment the young man met the upturned face of 
 his host the cold, cautious eyes watching him with a look 
 something between wonder and curiosity, and the sarcastic 
 mouth bent into the most contemptuous of polite sneers. 
 Now, it was one of Philip's weaknesses that his sensitive 
 and reserved disposition was ever painfully alive to ridicule. 
 As before said, he was by no means one of your model 
 heroes, who are ever ready to " stand fire," either physically 
 or morally. And so it happened that this look of Mr. 
 Penny thorne's just sufficed to drive back all his warm 
 impulses. He forgot what he was about to say, stopped, 
 and his delicate cheek changed colour like a girl's. 
 
 " Pray go on," said the host. 
 
 "I have nothing more to say, sir," he replied, " except that 
 I feel obliged for your kindness ; but. not thinking myself 
 competent to do credit to authorship, I had rather not 
 attempt it." Thereby he lost an excellent chance of " testi- 
 fying to the truth," and will doubtless sink very much in 
 the estimation of all who would have virtue and genius 
 continually appear in the character of public lecturers. But 
 Philip Wychnor was so reserved and humble-minded, that as 
 yet he was unaware of half the treasures of his intellect. 
 
 Yet though he could not fathom the depths of his own 
 mind, he could see a good way into Mr. Pennythorne's ; 
 and the sight was both painful and discouraging. The 
 conversation went on, and Philip listened with the deference 
 that his companion's age and character demanded ; but 
 there was a disagreeable sense of uncongeniality, almost 
 amounting to distrust, in the young man's mind. 
 
 Mr. Pennythorne did not notice this in the least ; for his 
 
144 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 perception, though acute, was by no means delicate. He 
 talked fast and freely, not to say ostentatiously, of his 
 influence in other quarters discussed the various duties 
 and advantages of employment as banker's clerk, merchant's 
 clerk, railway clerk, and Philip's capacity for the same, 
 until his young auditor grew half bewildered and wholly 
 disconsolate. At last, it was agreed that as Wychnor had a 
 little money for the present, he should stay in lodgings, and 
 enter on the weary life of " waiting for a situation." This 
 interregnum would not last long, Mr. Penny thorne was cer- 
 tain : and indeed, from his conversation, he seemed able to 
 scatter appointments abroad as thick as leaves in autumn. 
 
 "Now, my young friend," Mr. Pennythorne had such a 
 host of young friends on his list, " excuse my making you 
 one of the family, and sending you up-stairs while I take a 
 nap. Old people must be humoured you know. You will 
 find the boys in the drawing-room." 
 
 Philip was not sorry to receive this somewhat uncere- 
 monious congd. As he stood alone on the stairs he tried to 
 collect his thoughts, and to struggle with a vague feeling of 
 discomfort. . 
 
 " This is very foolish of me ! " he said to himself ; " I shall 
 not get every one in the world to think and feel exactly as 
 I do : how could I expect it 1 Mr. Pennythorne seems a 
 very good sort of man kind too, in his own way : he will 
 most likely do something for me ; and then, once getting a 
 start in life, I have my fortune in my own hands that is, 
 with Heaven's blessing." And the one reverent aspiration 
 of that young pious spirit calmed its jarring doubts into 
 patient hope. 
 
 " Still"," thought Philip, when, after a prosy evening and 
 a walk of three miles, he laid his tired head on his rather 
 hard pillow just as St. Pan eras' clock was striking twelve 
 " still, I am rather glad that Mr. Pennythorne did not ask 
 my reasons for giving up the Church : he would not have 
 understood them any more than Aunt Breynton. I don't 
 think anybody does quite understand me, except Eleanor." 
 
 And with that dear name on his lips and in his heart, 
 Philip Wychnor fell asleep. 
 
XIX.] THE OGILVIES. H5 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 What is there that I should turn to, lighting upon days like these? 
 Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys. 
 Every gate is thronged with suitors ; all the markets overflow. 
 I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do ? 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 Keep the spirit pure 
 
 From worldly taint by the repellent strength 
 Of virtue * * * 
 
 Walk 
 
 Boldly and wisely in the light thou hast : 
 There is a Hand above will help thee on. 
 
 PHILIP BAILEY. 
 
 IT is impossible to imagine a life more utterly dull and 
 dreary than that of a young man living alone in London, 
 with few friends, with no pursuit to occupy his time, and 
 with no money to allure him into agreeable or vicious ways 
 of killing it. Philip Wychnor thought that each week, each 
 day, grew longer and longer. He had read through and 
 through all the books he had brought with him, and was 
 unable to buy or borrow more. Then he tried to " rub up " 
 his old studies at Oxford ; but working without an aim is 
 a thankless occupation. His whole course of life had been 
 disturbed, and he could not settle down again. 
 
 He grew tired of his dingy little parlour, where the sun 
 just peeped in at early morning after which, as though 
 disgusted with the place, it departed for the day with the 
 breakfast-things. So he took to strolling about London, and 
 philosophising on human nature in its citizen aspect. This 
 soon made him more heart-weary still. He then sought 
 after all the places of amusement that were open free. 
 Fortunately among this class London now numbers some of 
 
 L 
 
146 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 its highest and most intellectual feasts. Philip spent many 
 an hour at the British Museum, amid the quiet gloom of 
 the Elgin-room until he knew by sight all the student 
 votaries of Art who seek to re-create a Theseus or an Ilyssus 
 on their drawing-boards. Many a long morning too, did he 
 loiter in the National Gallery ; a place that looks always 
 fresh and pleasant and sunshiny for is there not perpetual 
 sunshine with Guido, and Titian, and Claude ? Often and 
 often Philip entered with his spirit so broken and despond- 
 ing, that the May brightness and cheerfulness of the streets 
 seemed only to insult his lonely poverty. He knew nothing 
 of Art save through the spell by which its glory and beauty 
 must ever influence minds like his own. But the spirit of 
 Guido spoke peace to him through the mournful-eyed 
 Magdelene, or the Child Jesus with its face of pale purity 
 gazed on by reverent John ; while, grand and solemn, 
 loomed out of the darkness the figure of Piombo's Lazarus, 
 and in Da Vinci's Ecce Homo the suffering God-man 
 looked in sublime compassion on the Virgin's mother-woe. 
 Pictures such as these Philip loved best ; for in this season 
 of anxiety their sorrowful and holy beauty touched and 
 s,oothed his spirit. 
 
 And turning for a moment from our story to the indi- 
 vidual memories which its progress brings, let us linger in 
 the place whither we have led Philip Wychnor ; a place so 
 full of old associations that even while thinking of it we lay 
 down our pen and sigh. Good, careless reader mayhap 
 you never knew what it was to lead a life in which sorrow 
 formed the only change from monotony, a life so solitary 
 that dream-companions alone peopled it, nor how, looking 
 back on that dull desert of time, one remembers lovingly 
 the pleasant spots that brightened it here and there how 
 in traversing the old haunts our feet linger, even while we 
 contrast gladly and thankfully the present with the past. 
 Else you would not wonder that we stay for a moment with 
 our Philip Wychnor ; walking in fancy from room to room ; 
 gazing at every well-known picture, whose beautiful and be- 
 nign influence was so blessed to us of old ; and seeing also, 
 living faces that were once beside us there some, most 
 
XIX.] THE OGILVIES. 147 
 
 clear of all on earth others on whom we shall never more 
 look until we behold them in heaven. 
 
 The theme grows too solemn. Readers whom at times 
 every author takes strangely enough into his heart's depths, 
 as he takes not even those who sit at his board and drink 
 of his cup if you can understand this digression you will 
 forgive it if not, pass it by ! 
 
 Philip Wychnor had no acquaintance in London except 
 the Penny thornes. He went to Blank-square sometimes 
 by invitation, and now and then without. But he had a 
 great belief in that verse of the Proverbs " Refrain thy 
 foot from thy neighbour's house, lest he be weary of thee 
 and so hate thee : " therefore his visits always kept within 
 due limits. Still it was undeniable that he took pleasure 
 in being received with friendliness into this always hospi- 
 table house for hospitality was one of Mr. Pennythorne's 
 virtues. True, the family circle was somewhat dull if its 
 head chanced to be absent ; but then, in Philip's present 
 state of isolation, any family fireside was a welcome change 
 from the solitary dreariness of his own. So he grew to 
 take pleasure in Mrs. Pennythorne's meaningless but good- 
 tempered smile, and Mr. Pennythorne's unfailing talk the 
 very ostentatiousness of which was amusing. With the 
 younger members of the household Philip's acquaintance 
 advanced little ; for Frederick was rarely at home in the 
 evening, and Leigh maintained the same dull almost sullen 
 silence. Now and then, when Philip chanced to talk a 
 little more earnestly than usual, he detected the large brown 
 eyes watching him with curious intentness ; but if he re- 
 turned the look, they fell at once, and Leigh's countenance 
 relapsed into its customary stolidity. Still, when Philip's 
 thoughts wanted occupation, they sometimes turned to 
 speculate on this rather singular boy. 
 
 Alas for Philip he had only too much time for think- 
 ing ! and as month after month rolled on, and he had still 
 no occupation, his thoughts became mournful indeed. Each 
 week Eleanor sent him one of her long cheering letters no 
 young-lady epistles nor romantic love-breathings but a 
 sensible woman's letters ; thoughtful, sincere, and full of 
 
THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 that truest affection which expresses itself less in words than 
 in deeds. She knew not that but for these letters, her 
 lover's mind would have sunk from its healthy tone and 
 manly strength into the morbid apathy of delayed hope or 
 the misanthropy and bitterness of despair. 
 
 It was not the sting of actual poverty that Philip felt so 
 keenly. True, it requires a degree of moral courage to 
 brave the summer sunshine of London streets in a thread- 
 bare coat and it is rather a trial of patience to sit down 
 to a fragment of homely ill-cooked dinner ; but these are 
 after all only externalities, and very endurable. When the 
 mind has its own food of present content, and a certainty, 
 if ever so little, for the future, a well-earned dish of pota- 
 toes is by no means such a miserable repast ; and a man 
 with a pure conscience, and hope in his bosom, can button 
 over it his shabby garment, and walk the street with a brow 
 as clear ay, and as lofty as any of his brethren in the 
 purple and fine linen of the world. 
 
 Therefore, as Philip Wychnor had always held his body 
 much less precious than his soul, we shall not pity him for' 
 any of these endurances. He would have scorned it. But 
 deepest pity indeed he needed, during that weary summer, 
 when the agony of uncertainty, the tortures of " sitting still 
 and doing nothing," gnawed into his very soul. Poor 
 fellow! many a time he envied the stonebreaker in the 
 street, who at least had the comfort of working all day and 
 was certain of his future. At last he went to Mr. Penny- 
 thorne, and spoke openly, earnestly, almost despairingly. 
 
 "My good fellow !" exclaimed, with some surprise, that 
 excellent individual he had seen the young man come to 
 his house now and then, to dinner or tea, with a composed 
 countenance and decent dress, so felt his conscience quite at 
 ease respecting his protkge " I had no idea that you were 
 in such a plight as this : you never complained." 
 
 " Is it likely I should, sir V 9 said Philip, proudly. " Nor 
 do I now ; I am very thankful for all the efforts which I 
 believe you have made on my behalf, but I begin to think 
 there is no occupation to be had, at least, none that I can 
 do. The misfortune lies in my being brought up that very 
 
 
XIX.] THE OGILVIES. 149 
 
 useless thing a gentleman." And Philip laughed bitterly. 
 " However, I can remedy this ; I will leave London, change 
 my name, and get work as a farmer's labourer. A 
 mechanic's place is above me, unfortunately, as I had not 
 even the blessing of learning a trade. But work I must 
 have, or I shall go mad." 
 
 "I begin to think you are so already," muttered Mr. 
 Pennythorne, as with some touch of compassion he regarded 
 the young man's wild eyes and haggard face. A faint 
 whisper of conscience, too, hinted that he himself had not 
 used Philip quite well : not but that he had tried to serve 
 him writing to two or three friends, and speaking to two 
 or three more, about " a young man who wanted employ- 
 ment." But Mr. Pennythorne had erred where most 
 ostentatious patronising men err : and woeful is the misery 
 which they bring on their dependants by the same ! pro- 
 mising far too much, and boasting of imaginary influence, 
 to gratify a petty love of power. 
 
 There never yet was human heart so naturally cold, or 
 so frozen over by outward formalities, that you could not 
 find in one corner or other some fountain of goodness bub- 
 bling up. No matter how soon it disappears it has been, 
 and therefore may be again. Now, just such a spring as 
 this began to irrigate that very dry and dusty portion of 
 Mr. Pennythorne's anatomy which lay under his left waist- 
 coat pocket ; and, by a curious sympathy between external 
 and internal things, he remembered that there was in this 
 said pocket a five-pound note. His fingers even advanced 
 nearer to it they touched it but just at this moment a 
 loud, fashionable knock came to the hall-door, and the tiny 
 fountain in Mr. Pennythorne's heart sank suddenly down. 
 Still, it had watered a little the arid soil around. 
 
 "Come and dine with me to-morrow, my dear boy," he 
 said, cordially ; " and cheer up. I'll think of something 
 for you by that time." 
 
 " To-moiTOw to-morrow to-morrow," sighed Philip, 
 mechanically repeating that word of mournful beguiling. 
 As he descended, he passed in the hall a stylish little lady, 
 who had just stepped from her carriage, and was busy 
 
150 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 impressing on the servant " Mrs. Lancaster's wish for only 
 five minutes' speech of Mr. Pennythorne." Philip stood 
 aside to let the visitor pass by$ and then departed. He 
 crept wearily along the sunny side of the square, all glare, 
 and dust, and burning heat ; and there came idly jingling 
 through his brain, in that season of care so dull, heavy, and 
 numbing as to shut out all consecutive thought, the fragment 
 of olden rhyme 
 
 Why, let the stricken deer go weep^ 
 
 The hart ungalled play ; 
 For some must watch, whilst some must sleep ; 
 
 Thus runs the world away. 
 
 It so chanced that Mr. Pennythorne, working hard all 
 that day at a review of a book which he had had no time 
 to read, and in the evening busily engaged dispensing his 
 Ions mots and amusing sneers in Mrs. Lancaster's gay draw- 
 ing-room, never thought again of Philip Wychnor until his 
 wife asked him the next morning what he would have for 
 dinner. Mr. Pennythorne's sway, be it known, extended 
 even to the comestibles of his household. 
 
 " Dear me that reminds me that I asked young Wychnor 
 to dine here, and I promised to think of something for him. 
 Eeally, how tiresome are these fellows in want of employ- 
 ment ! " And the old gentleman cogitated for at least five 
 minutes with his chin on his hand. At last, a brilliant 
 thought struck him. 
 
 " Gillie, my dear." 
 
 " Yes, Pierce." 
 
 " How much did that young Johnson the fellow that 
 came yesterday, you know, to ask if I wanted a tutor for 
 Leigh how much did he charge by the lesson ?" 
 
 " Half-a-guinea for two hours ; only he wanted his lunch 
 as well, and you said that would " 
 
 " Tut tut ! how women's tongues do run ! Mrs. 
 Pennythorne, will you be so obliging as to go down stairs ? 
 and when I need your advice and conversation I will ring 
 the bell." And Mr. Pennythorne politely opened the door 
 for his wife, shut her out, and returned to his easy-chair. 
 
XIX.] THE OGILVIES. 151 
 
 "That will just do a capital plan!" said he, rubbing 
 his hands with an air of benevolent satisfaction. " How 
 thankful the poor fellow will be ! Of course, one could not 
 give him so much as a professed tutor. Let me see say 
 four hours at half-a-guinea, and that twice a week : a very 
 good thing for him very good indeed. He ought to be 
 quite satisfied, and very thankful. It will save me time 
 and trouble, too, for that young Leigh is getting con- 
 foundedly stupid ; so I shall kill two birds with one stone. 
 Eeally, what a deal of good one can do in the world if one 
 tries ! " 
 
 With a pleasing conviction of his own generosity, Mr. 
 Pennythorne leaned back in his chair, and summoned his 
 wife, to give orders for a turbot and lamb with a dish of 
 game to follow. 
 
 "Young Wyclmor is coming here to-day," he added, 
 benevolently. " I dare say he does not get such a dinner 
 every day." 
 
 He certainly did not but Mr. Pennythorne did very 
 often. Therefore he was obliged, alas ! to pay his son's 
 tutor only two shillings and sevenpence halfpenny for each 
 hour's instruction in Latin, Greek, and Mathematics. 
 
152 THE OGILVIE3. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Should the Body sue the Mind before a court of judicature for 
 the damages, it would be found that the Mind would prove to have 
 been a ruinous tenant to its landlord. PLUTARCH. 
 
 Can I love thee, my beloved can I love thce ? 
 
 And is this like love, to stand 
 
 With no help in my hand, 
 
 When strong as death I fain would watch above thee ? 
 May God love thee, my beloved, may God love thee ! 
 
 E. B. BROWNING. 
 
 THE five-pound note found its way into Philip's pocket 
 after all. To be sure, it came diluted into guinea-drops, at 
 not very regular intervals, but still it did come, and Mr. 
 Pennythorne had done a benevolent action. He felt sure 
 of this himself, and so did Mrs. Pennythorne. Moreover, 
 the latter often added to the benevolence by giving Philip 
 a glass of wine and a sandwich when he came in, hot and 
 exhausted, after his three-mile walk. These were not 
 " nominated in the bond," and Philip took them gratefully. 
 The trifling kindness was better than the gold. 
 
 He had at first little pleasure in teaching Leigh Penny- 
 thorne. He gave his instruction carefully, patiently, kindly ; 
 but it never seemed to penetrate beyond the outward layer 
 of the boy's dull, overworked brain. The soil had been 
 ploughed and sown over and over again, until there was no 
 vestige of fertility left in it. Philip tried to interest his 
 young pupil to make a friend of him but the heart seemed 
 as dead as the brain. Now and then there would come a 
 gleam of speculation into the heavy eyes j but it was only 
 a passing light, and the youth's face sank again into its 
 vacant dreariness. 
 
XX.] THE OGILVIES. 153 
 
 "Leigh has got plenty of brains only they require a 
 great deal of hammering to knock out the laziness," said 
 the father. 
 
 "Leigh has grown the sulkiest fellow that ever lived, 
 over those stupid books. By Jove ! I'm glad nobody ever 
 put it into father's head that I was clever," laughed Mr. 
 Frederick. 
 
 " Poor Leigh ! I wonder why he will make himself ill 
 with sitting over the fire and never going out," Mrs. 
 Pennythorne would sometimes lament ; but she never dared 
 to say more hardly to think. 
 
 So the boy grew paler and duller every day, but still he 
 must work work for the time was going by, and Mr. 
 Pennythorne was determined to have a man of learning in 
 the family. His credit was at stake, for he had vaunted 
 everywhere his son's classic acquirements, and the boast 
 should be made good in spite of "that lazy Leigh." Morning 
 and night the father attacked him. " Study study ! " was 
 for ever -dinned into his ears; so, at last, the boy rarely 
 stirred out of his own little den. There he sat, with his 
 books heaped up around him : they helped to build the 
 altar-pile on which the deluded father was offering up his 
 victim. 
 
 Philip Wychnor saw very little of all this, or his truthful 
 tongue could not have kept silence. He was sorry for the 
 boy, and tried to make the few hours during which he 
 himself guided his studies as little like labour as possible ; 
 and if ever Leigh's countenance brightened into interest or 
 intelligence it was during the time that he was alone with 
 his gentle teacher. That teacher was, himself, fast yielding 
 to the effects of the desolate and anxious summer through 
 which he had passed. It had prostrated all his bodily 
 energies, and his mind sank with them. He felt as though 
 he were gradually drawing nearer and nearer into the 
 shadow of some terrible illness which he could not avert. 
 Every day he rose up with the thought, " Well, I wonder 
 what will become of me before night ! " -and every night, 
 when he lay down on his bed, it was under a vague impres- 
 sion that he might not rise from it again. 
 
154 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 At last, one morning when he left the Pennythornes, he 
 felt so ill that he ventured to expend sixpence in a ride 
 home almost his last eoin, poor fellow ! for it wanted some 
 days of the month's end, and Mr. Pennythorne was never 
 beforehand in his disbursements. As he sat in the corner 
 of the omnibus with his hat drawn over his aching eyes, he 
 felt conscious of nothing save the dull rolling of the vehicle 
 which carried him somewhere he hardly knew where. 
 There was a crying child near him, and a lady with a 
 sharp-toned voice who drew her silk robes from the babe's 
 greasy fingers, and glared angrily at its shabbily-clad mother, 
 muttering not inaudibly, " What very disagreeable people 
 one meets in omnibuses ! " About King William-street 
 there was a stoppage in the street, and a consequent 
 pushing of passengers' heads out of the window, with a 
 general murmur about a woman having been run over. 
 All these things Philip's eye and ear perceived as through 
 a dense confused mist : he sat in his corner and never 
 stirred. 
 
 " What unfeelingness! " muttered the lady-passenger with 
 the silk dress, who seemed to find her own self such very 
 dull company that she spent her whole time in watching 
 and commenting on other people. 
 
 " Totten'-co't-road," bawled out the conductor; and Philip 
 was just conscious of making a movement to alight, and 
 being assisted out by a little old man who sat by the door. 
 
 " Money, sir ! " the omnibus man shouted indignantly, as 
 Philip turned away. He took out a shilling and hastily 
 went on. 
 
 " Gen'lemen drunk never wants no change," said the con- 
 ductor, with a broad grin that made all the passengers 
 laugh except the odd-looking old man. As he stood on the 
 step, in the act of descending, he threw back on the conduc- 
 tor the most frowning glance of which his mild, good-natured 
 eyes were capable. 
 
 Philip walked on a little way into a quiet street, and 
 there leaned against a railing, utterly unable to stand. A 
 touch at his elbow startled him : it was the queer old man 
 in the omnibus. 
 
XX.] THE OGILVIES. 155 
 
 "Afraid you're ill, sir," said the most deprecating and 
 yet kindly voice in the world. 
 
 " No yes perhaps so the day is so hot," murmured 
 Philip, and then he fainted in the street. 
 
 Luckily, he had upon him a card. Oppressed with the 
 presentiment of sudden illness, he always took this precau- 
 tion. The little old man called a cab and took him home. 
 That night Philip Wychnor lay smitten with fever on his 
 poor pallet-bed in the close back attic of street. 
 
 At the same hour Eleanor was passing up and down 
 under the lime-tree shadow of the palace-garden thinking 
 of her betrothed. She pictured him in busy London, at 
 work bravely, steadily, hopefully. Perchance she almost 
 envied his lot of active* employment, while she herself had 
 to bear many home trials to walk in the old paths and see 
 Philip's face there no more to have one constant thought 
 of Philip in her heart, and yet fear to utter his name. 
 Faithful Eleanor, could she have seen him now ! 
 
 Oh, why is love so powerless so vain ? infinite in will, 
 yet how bounded in power ! We would fain spread world- 
 extended wings of shelter and comfort over our beloved ; 
 and yet in our helplessness we may let them sink, suffer, 
 die, alone ! Strange and sad it is, that we, who would brave 
 alike life's toil and death's agony ay, lay down body and 
 soul at the feet of our dearest ones cannot bring ease to 
 the lightest pain which their humanity may endure. 
 
 Yet, there is a wondrous might in loving, a might al- 
 most divine. May it not be, that there are Those around 
 us whose whole spiritual being, transfused with love, de- 
 lights to aid where our human affection fails, unable to 
 fulfil its longings who stand in our stead, and give to our 
 vain blessings, our almost weeping prayers, our solitary 
 outpouring of fondest words, a strength so omnipotent that 
 our beloved may feel in their souls the mysterious influence 
 ' and draw thence comfort and joy ? 
 
 And if so, when, as poor sick Philip watched the creeping 
 sunshine along the dusky wall the blessed, thoughtful 
 sunshine which in London always visits most the poverty- 
 stricken attic, or when, during his long restless nights, 
 
156 THE OGILVIES. [CDAP 
 
 the pure moonlight came in like a flood, and in his half- 
 delirious mood he thought it was the waving of an angel's 
 wing, who knows but that the faithful love which rose up 
 to heaven in an unceasing prayer for him, may have fallen 
 down again on his spirit in a holy dew of blessing and of 
 peace ? 
 
 Rejoice, thou who lovest ! if thine be that pure love 
 which dares stand in the sight of God with its shining face 
 unveiled so holy that thou tremblest not to breathe it in 
 thy prayers so free from earth's taint that it can look 
 on the divider, Death, without fear or sorrow, feeling that 
 then its highest life begins ! Be strong and faint not be 
 faithful and doubt not whatever clouds and thick darkness 
 of human fate may stand between thee and thy heart's 
 desire. How knowest thou but that the sunburst of thy 
 strong love may pierce through all, and rest on thy beloved 
 a glory and a blessing, though whence it cometh, or 
 how, may never be revealed ? 
 
TIIE OGILVIES. 157 
 
 CHAPTEE XXL 
 
 He had grown dusty with groping all his life in the graves of dead 
 languages. CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Much more is said of knowledge than 'tis worth ; 
 A man may gain all knowledge here, and yet 
 Be after death as much i' the dark as I. 
 
 PHILIP BAILEY. 
 
 PHILIP was ill many days how many he never counted, 
 and there was no tender nurse to count them for him. He 
 struggled through his illness like numberless others to whom 
 sickness and poverty come together. One wonders how 
 such poor desolate sufferers survive. And yet Death often 
 passes the penury-stricken, misery -haunted chamber, to 
 stand at the foot of the well-tended couch around which 
 gathers an army of doctors and nurses. Amidst all, in 
 spite of all, sounds in the rich man's ear the low awful 
 whisper, " Thou must come away." 
 
 Life is to the young an ever-renewed fountain of hope ; 
 and Philip Wychnor, when he arose from his sickness, was 
 by no means so disconsolate as might have been expected. 
 Under the hardest circumstapces there is always a vague 
 happiness in the first dawn of returning health. As the 
 poor invalid managed to walk to the window, and sat 
 watching as much of a glorious autumn sunset as that for- 
 tunate elevation permitted, there was a patient content on 
 his pale face which made the cross-grained old landlady say 
 quite tenderly when she brought him his tea and toast, 
 " Dear heart alive ! how nice and well you are a-looking 
 to-day, sir ! " 
 
 In truth there were a sweetness and a beauty in Philip's 
 face that would have softened any heart wherein lingered 
 
158 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 one drop of kindly womanhood : and, thank Heaven ! there 
 are few utterly without. 
 
 The young man finished his poor repast almost with an 
 appetite ; and then leaned back in the twilight, too weak for 
 consecutive thought, but still giving way to a quiet, pleasant 
 dreaminess. He was conscious only of a vague craving to 
 have the dear soft eyes that he knew, looking peace upon 
 him to rest like a weary child with his head on her 
 shoulder, his hand in hers, without speaking or moving. 
 And as he lay still, with closed eyes, the strong fantasy 
 seemed to grow into a reality. 
 
 As Philip reclined in this dreamy state, the door opened 
 softly, and through it appeared, to his great astonishment, 
 the long thin face of Leigh Pennythorne. The boy looked 
 round the room, and started back wl).en he saw Philip, who 
 turned and held out his hand. 
 
 "How good of you to come and see me!" he said, feebly. 
 Leigh sprang forward, wrung the poor wan hand two or 
 three times, and tried to speak, but in vain. At last he 
 took out his old cotton pocket-handkerchief and began to 
 cry like a child. 
 
 Philip, quite amazed at this display of feeling, could only 
 lay his hand on the boy's shoulder, and then leaned back 
 too exhausted for speech. Leigh began to be alarmed. 
 
 "I hope I shan't do you any harm; I don't mean to," 
 he said, between his sobs. " I am downright ashamed of 
 myself, that I am a great boy like me but I did not ex- 
 pect you were out of bed ; and I was so glad to see you 
 better, Mr. Wychnor." 
 
 " Thank you thank you, Leigh," was the faint answer. 
 
 " There now, don't talk ; I shan't. I've got all my books 
 here : " and he hauled after }iim a great blue bag. "Just 
 go to sleep again, and call me when you want anything, 
 will you 2 " said the boy, insensibly relapsing into his 
 languid drawl. He seated himself on the other side the 
 window, and leaned his gaunt elbows on the sill, with the 
 eternal book between them. But how far this was a kindly 
 pretence, the quick glances which the brown eyes were ever 
 stealing at Philip easily revealed. 
 
XXI.] THE OGILVIES. 159 
 
 " Leigh ! " said the invalid, after a pause. 
 
 " Yes, sir,' 7 answered the old schoolboy voice so differ- 
 ent from the impassioned tone of a few minutes before. 
 
 " Don't call me sir you cannot think how glad I am to 
 see you, my dear boy ! " And Philip clasped the cold spider- 
 like hand affectionately, for his heart was touched. 
 
 " Glad are you, Mr. Wychnor ? Well, you're the first 
 who ever was glad to see me or who told me so." There 
 was a tone half bitter, half despondent, piercing through 
 the boy's apathy, but Philip took no notice of it. 
 
 "How did you know I was ill?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh, I could easily see that the last day you came. I 
 watched you down our square, and into the omnibus I hope 
 you'll not be offended at that, Mr. Wychnor?" and the 
 sallow cheek of the shy boy reddened visibly, Philip pressed 
 his hand, and Leigh brightened up more and more. 
 
 " I said to myself that you must be ill, as you never rode 
 home before ; so the next day, when the governor dined out, 
 I came over here to see." 
 
 " How kind ! you who never care to stir from home." 
 
 " Oh, it was a change I rather liked it ; and as for being 
 tired, that don't signify I always am tired ;" and Leigh 
 smiled languidly. " I have been here very often since then ; 
 only you were light-headed, and did not know me." 
 
 "But they told me I had a fever. Oh, Leigh, if you 
 should take it !" said Philip, hurriedly. 
 
 "Don't mind that; I heard the doctor say it wasn't 
 catching, and if it were, I should not be afraid. It would 
 be rather pleasant to have a fever, and then I should not 
 work. But there's no danger; so don't make yourself 
 uncomfortable." 
 
 "But your father?" 
 
 "Oh, he knows nothing about it; I managed all so 
 cleverly. Guess how ! I wrote a letter in your name, saying 
 you had fallen down and sprained your foot, so that you 
 would be glad if father would let me take the lessons here, 
 and you'd give an extra one each week. I knew that would 
 catch the old governor!" and an expression in which the 
 glee of childhood and the sarcasm of manhood were conjoined 
 
160 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 passed over the boy's fac^. " The writing looked just like 
 yours, and I put it in the post-office at Southampton-row. 
 He never found out the cheat. How should he ? So I 
 used to come over regularly with my books and then I 
 took care of you." 
 
 Philip was struck dumb by the strange mixture of 
 affection and duplicity, generosity and utter neglect of truth 
 or duty, which the boy's conduct exhibited. But the good 
 was. Leigh's own nature the evil, the result of his education. 
 Philip, weak and ill as he was, had no power to argue the 
 right and wrong of the case. He only felt the influence of 
 this sudden upspringing of affection towards himself ; it came 
 to him like waters in a dry land he could not thrust it 
 from him, though much that was evil mingled in the foun- 
 tain's source. 
 
 Leigh went on talking as fast as though he had a twelve- 
 month's arrears of silence to make up at once. " I told the 
 landlady I was your cousin she and I got very good friends 
 I used to pay her every week." 
 
 "Pay her?" echoed Philip, as a thought of his empty 
 purse flashed across his mind. 
 
 " Oh, yes of course, father sent the money for the 
 lessons just as usual it did very nicely or I really don't 
 know how I could have got you what you wanted during your 
 illness. But I shall talk too much for you. Hadn't you 
 better lie down again ?" The advice did not come too soon, 
 for Philip, bewildered and exhausted, had sunk back in his 
 chair. 
 
 In a moment the dull, stupid Leigh Pennythorne became 
 changed into the most active and skilful of nurses gentle 
 and thoughtful as a woman. His apathetic manner, his 
 lazy drawl, seemed to vanish at once. He tended Philip, 
 and even wept over him with a remorseful affection that 
 was touching to witness. 
 
 ye hard parents, who look upon your offspring as your 
 mere property, to be brought up for your pleasure or pride^ 
 never remembering that each child will live, through 
 eternity, an independent, self-existing being, that the 
 Bestower of these young spirits gives them not, but lends 
 
XXI.] THE OGILVIES. 161 
 
 " Take this child and nurse it for Me" think what a fear- 
 ful thing it is to have upon your heads the destruction of 
 a human soul ! 
 
 Philip, left to himself, thought much and anxiously of the 
 best course to pursue ; and by the best Philip Wychnor 
 always meant the right he never turned aside to expe- 
 diencies. Once, his upright, truthful mind prompted him 
 to write the whole story to Mr. Penny thorn e ; but then he 
 soon saw how terrible would be the result to Leigh. He 
 would not give up the poor boy whose fragile life seemed 
 to owe its sole brightness to his own affection. So, as the 
 young teacher himself gathered strength, he set about the 
 cure of this poor diseased mind ; trying to bend it straight, 
 as he would a tree which wrong culture had warped aside, 
 not with a sudden wrench, but by a gradual influence ; so 
 that, ere long, he made Leigh see and acknowledge his 
 errors. And all this he did so gently, that while the boy's 
 spirit opened to the light, he loved more than evea* the hand 
 which brought it, even though the brightness off truth 
 revealed in his heart much evil that oppressed him with 
 shame. 
 
 " And now," said Philip, one day, as Leigh sat beside him 
 listening to his gentle arguments, " what are we to do to 
 amend all this?" 
 
 " I don't know. Do you decide," answered Leigh 
 humbly. 
 
 " Go and tell your father, what is indeed the truth, that 
 I have been too ill to give you your lessons ; but that you 
 had not courage to say this, and continued coming here 
 still. Surely he cannot be angry, since this was from kind- 
 ness to me." 
 
 Leigh shook his* head. " I'll do it, however, if you say 
 so. You must be right, Mr. Wychnor, and I don't care 
 what happens to myself." 
 
 " And tell your father, too, from me," continued Philip, 
 " that I will make up all the missed lessons as soon as ever 
 I recover. I could not rest with this load on my mind." 
 There was a look of surprise and tenderness in the large 
 wistful eyes which now seemed ever reading Philip's face. 
 
 II 
 
162 THE OGILVIES. [CLIAP, 
 
 " You must be a very good man, Mr. Wychnor. You do 
 and say the sort of things that I used to read of long ago 
 when I had books I liked I don't mean these ! " and he 
 kicked the blue bag disdainfully. " I fancied I should meet 
 in real life the same sort of goodness, but I never did ; and 
 so, at last, I thought it was only found in poetry and novels. 
 I don't now, though." 
 
 Philip made no answer to this simple child-like confession, 
 but it went to his heart. He vowed within himself that 
 while the boy lived he would not part from him, but would 
 strive through all difficulties to guide this frail struggling 
 spirit to the light. 
 
 Mr. Pennythorne was rather indignant at having been 
 deceived, but his parental dignity grew mollified by the 
 humble behaviour of his son. 
 
 " Leigh is not half so sulky as he used to be, and he gets 
 on very well with young Wychnor," he observed to Mrs. 
 Pennythorne. " It is not worth while breaking up the 
 lessons, when the lad came himself and told of his own 
 error. However, he must apologise properly, for I cannot 
 have my authority set at nought." 
 
 The mother deferentially suggested that it did poor Leigh 
 so much good to go out every day ; and so the end of the 
 matter was, that Mr. Pennythorne graciously acceded to the 
 lessons being given at Philip's home, the extra one being 
 still continued. 
 
 "And about the money already received?" said Philip, 
 anxiously, when his young pupil brought the message. 
 "Will your father wait until I can return it?" Leigh 
 blushed crimson, and turned to the window 
 
 " Oh, he is quite satisfied on that account ; you are not 
 to think about it any more." 
 
 " How kind ! " And in Philip's first uneasiness and 
 quick-springing gratitude he never noticed Leigh's confusion. 
 The boy had sold his watch his pet plaything and com- 
 panion to pay his father the money. 
 
XXII ] THE OGILVIES. 163 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Marriage is a desperate thing. The frogs in ^Esop were extremely 
 wise : they had a great mind to some water, but they would not leap 
 into a well because they could not get out again. SELDEN. 
 
 A coxcomb is ugly all over with the affectation of a fine gentleman. 
 
 STEELE. 
 
 IN the bay-window of a somewhat tawdry London drawing- 
 room stood a lady alone. She was looking towards the 
 street more through idleness than curiosity, for she kept 
 restlessly beating time with her riding-whip on her gloved 
 hand. You could not see her face, except the outline of 
 the cheek and graceful little ear, but these wore all the 
 beautiful roundness of early youth ; and her tall figure, 
 which the dark riding-habit so well displayed, had an almost 
 statue-like perfection in its curves. 
 
 By degrees the impatient little hand grew still, the fair 
 head drooped, and with her brow leaning against the window- 
 pane the girl stood for some minutes in thought. The fact 
 itself showed how young she was. After twenty one's 
 ponderings usually grow too deep and earnest to be ex- 
 pended in light and sudden reveries. A voice outside and 
 an opened door broke in upon these musings, and caused 
 the young girl to turn round. It was Katharine Ogilvie. 
 
 " Dear me, Katharine, how you are altered ! " exclaimed 
 the lady who entered the room, also an old acquaintance 
 of ours, whom we have left so long to pursue the sole aim 
 of her life, matrimony, that we feel almost ashamed to re- 
 introduce her as still Miss Isabella Worsley. 
 
 " I never saw such a change ! " continued she, in genuine 
 astonishment, which really was not at all surprising. 
 Eleanor had proved right in her conjecture ; one could 
 
164 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 hardly see anywhere a more graceful and beautiful young 
 creature than Katharine Ogilvie at nineteen. " Why, what 
 has made such a difference in you 1 " continued Isabella, 
 " eyeing her over " from head to foot. 
 
 Katharine smiled, and a faint colour rose into her cheek : 
 a lovely cheek it was too no longer sallow, but of a clear 
 pale brown, under which the rich blood wandered, at times 
 suffusing it with a peach-like glow. " You know it is nearly 
 three years since you saw me, Isabella;" and as she spoke a 
 deeper and more womanly thrill might have been traced in 
 her silvery voice. 
 
 " Three years ! nay, I am sure it is not nearly so much," 
 said Isabella, with some little acerbity. She began to find 
 it rather irksome to count years. 
 
 " Indeed it is, all but two months. It will be three years 
 next February I mean January ; " and Katharine's colour 
 grew a shade deeper as she continued more quickly, " Yes, 
 it was in January that you came, Isabella, you, and Lizzie, 
 and George, and we had besides, Eleanor and Hugh. 
 What a merry time it was ! " 
 
 " You seem to remember it exceedingly well," said Isa- 
 bella pointedly, and not altogether without ill-nature. 
 
 " Certainly I do ; " and the beautiful head was lifted a 
 little, with an air of dignity not unmixed with pride. It 
 showed Isabella at once that where she had left the child 
 she had found the woman. She turned the conversation 
 immediately. 
 
 " We have been looking for you all the morning, Katha- 
 rine. It is so horridly dull to be up in town when everybody 
 else is out of it ; living in lodgings too, with nobody but 
 mamma. I wish this disagreeable law business were over. 
 But come, my dear girl, take off your hat and let us talk. 
 How long have you to stay with me this morning T 
 
 " My father will come for me in an hour or two, if he 
 can get away from the House. Otherwise he will be sure 
 to send Hugh." 
 
 " Hugh ! Keally I shall be quite delighted to see cousin 
 Hugh 1 Is he altered V 1 and the sharp eyes fixed themselves 
 observantly on Katharine's face. 
 
XXII.] THE OGILVIES. 165 
 
 " Oh no ! Hugh is just the same as ever," answered the 
 young girl with a merry laugh, as she stood braiding back 
 the thick black hair which had fallen in taking off her hat. 
 The attitude was so unconstrained so perfectly graceful 
 that Isabella's envious heart acknowledged perforce the ex- 
 ceeding beauty of her cousin. 
 
 "And Hugh stays at Summerwood as much as he used 
 to do 1 " she pursued, keeping up the same scrutiny. 
 
 " Oh yes ! I don't know what papa would do without 
 him, now he is himself in Parliament. Hugh manages 
 everything at the Park ; takes care of the farming and the 
 shooting of mamma, of Brown Bess, and of myself." 
 
 " So I suppose." 
 
 " Besides, he can hardly feel settled anywhere else, now 
 that Eleanor lives with Mrs. Breynton." 
 
 " Ah ! tell me all about that. How odd it was of 
 Eleanor to go and live entirely with a stupid old woman ! 
 But perhaps she had plenty of money to leave]" 
 
 Katharine's proud lip curled. " Eleanor is not a legacy- 
 hunter, I imagine/' she answered coldly. 
 
 " I really did not intend to vex you, my dear," said Miss 
 Worsley. " Of course, Hugh's sister is all perfection to 
 you." 
 
 " What did you say, Isabella ]" asked the quiet and rather 
 haughty voice. 
 
 " Oh, nothing, nothing. You see, Eleanor and I never 
 took to one another much though we are cousins, and so we 
 never correspond : therefore, all I know of her proceedings 
 is from hearsay. Pray enlighten me, Katharine ; I do love 
 a nice little bit of mystery." 
 
 " There is really no mystery about the matter," answered 
 Katharine, smiling. " I have not seen my cousin much, of 
 late, and her letters are rather short than otherwise, and 
 contain very little about herself. I know no more than, 
 every one else does that, being an orphan and sisterless, 
 she likes to live with an old lady who was her mother's 
 friend and is very fond of herself. There is nothing very 
 mysterious in this is there 1 " 
 
 " Oh no ! only I was rather curious about the matter, 
 
166 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 for Eleanor's sake, of course," said the young lady. W 
 call her so par excellence as Isabella was essentially one of 
 those carefully manufactured articles which the boarding- 
 school creates and " society "^finishes. There is a German 
 fairy fable of the Elle women, who are all fair in front, but 
 if you walk round them hollow as a piece of stamped 
 leather. Perhaps this is a myth of young-lady-hood. 
 
 Our young lady, then, finding it impossible to pump from 
 Katharine anything that administered to her vanity or her 
 love of gossip, began to feel the conversation growing rather 
 tiresome : so she took out a piece of fancy-work, and having 
 tried to engage her visitor's admiration of it, set her to wind 
 some Berlin wool : doubtless thinking within herself how 
 stupid it was to talk to girls, and wishing for the arrival of 
 any two-legged animal in coat and hat to relieve the tedium 
 of this morning call. And as if at that auspicious moment 
 Fortunatus's wishing-cap had adorned her head, instead of 
 the pretty little nondescript fabric of wool which she wore, 
 partly for warmth, partly because any sort of matronly coif 
 sets off a passe face advantageously lo ! there was a terrific 
 thundering at the hall-door, and the servant appeared with 
 a card. 
 
 " Mr. Frederick Pennythorne," read Isabella. " Show him 
 up immediately." And with an air of satisfaction she glanced 
 at the mirror, and went through one or two small ceremonies 
 of dress-arranging with which fair damsels of her stamp 
 always honour the approach of an individual in broadcloth. 
 
 "A matter of business, I conclude 1" observed Katharine, 
 " as you said you had no friends in town now. Shall I be 
 in the way?" 
 
 " Oh no ; not in the least. The fact is, that Mr. Penny- 
 thorne is the solicitor in our suit quite a rising young man ; 
 not disagreeable either. He calls often rather oftener 
 than is quite necessary for the law business" (here Isa- 
 bella cast her eyes down with an affected smile, and tittered 
 exceedingly) " so, Katharine, it is perhaps as well for you 
 to be here, as mamma is so very particular. But I suppose 
 you have not got to these things yet, my dear ; and, in- 
 deed " 
 
XXII.] THE OGILVIES. 167 
 
 Open sesame! videlicet the drawing-room door and 
 enter Mr. Frederick Pennythorne ! Then came due greet- 
 ing and introduction, and the small rattle of conversation 
 began. It was just such as might have been expected from 
 the two principal interlocutors, for Katharine took little part 
 in it. With instinctive, but in this case quite superfluous 
 delicacy, she soon retired to the window ; and if once or 
 twice her eyes wandered towards Isabella and the new 
 visitor, her gaze was induced by a far deeper feeling than 
 idle curiosity. To her, all lovers and all love were sacred ; 
 and she felt for the first time a sympathy with her cousin. 
 The young unsuspicious heart saw in all others but the 
 likeness of its own : the true could not even divine the 
 false. 
 
 Yet a little, a very little, did Katharine marvel, when the 
 light laugh and unconcerned chatter of her cousin struck 
 her ear. Love seemed to her such a deep, earnest thing, 
 and there was Isabella all carelessness and merriment, even 
 in the presence of her lover. Lover ! As Katharine 
 glanced at the easy self-complacent rattler of small compli- 
 ments, a feeling came over her very like self-scorn for having 
 so misapplied the word. And turning away from the mean 
 prettiness of the well-arranged smirking visage, with its 
 small lappets of whisker meeting under the chin, and its 
 unmistakable air of " Don't you see what a good-looking 
 fellow I am V there rose up before her the shadowy like- 
 ness of another and very different face. Then Katharine, 
 smiling to herself a proud joyous smile, did not even think 
 again of Mr. Frederick Pennythorne. That gentleman, on 
 his part, was inclined to return the somewhat negative 
 compliment. People like himself feel an extreme aversion 
 to being looked down upon, either corporeally or mentally. 
 Katharine Ogilvie unfortunately did both ; and the manner 
 in which she received bis first compliment effectually pre- 
 vented his hazarding a second. He found his small mind 
 quite out of its depths, and floundered back as quickly as 
 possible to the protecting shallows of Miss Worsley's easy 
 talk. When Katharine was startled out of her pleasant 
 silence by the announcement of the visitor's departure, all 
 
168 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 that passed between them was a valedictory bow, which 
 Miss Ogilvie tried to make as courteous as possible to the 
 supposed lover of her cousin. 
 
 "Dear me ! how tiresome these men are ! What trouble 
 I have with them, to be sure ! " exclaimed Miss Worsley, 
 throwing herself languidly into an arm-chair, while a grati- 
 fied simper rather contradicted her assertions. Katharine 
 looked a good deal surprised. " Why, Bella, I thought you 
 were delighted to see this gentleman ; that he was a parti- 
 cular friend of yours in short, a " 
 
 "Beau, you mean," interrupted Isabella, with a laugh, 
 "or admirer, or sweetheart, as the maid-servants say." 
 
 " And Shakspeare, who makes the word so pretty, as 
 indeed it is sweet heart" said Katharine ; who scarcely 
 knew whether or not to echo her cousin's laugh, and in truth 
 could hardly tell what to make of her. At last she inquired 
 earnestly : 
 
 "My dear Bella, do you and this young man really 
 love one another ? " Isabella laughed more heartily than 
 ever. 
 
 " Well, that & good ! ' Love one another ! ' it sounds 
 just like a text out of the Bible. You little simplicity ! 
 nobody ever talks in that way now-a-days, except in novels. 
 Where did you learn your pretty lesson, my dear, and who 
 taught you 1 " Again the proud cheek's sudden crimson 
 warned Miss Worsley that the childish days wherein she 
 used to make sport of her young cousin were over. She 
 changed her tactics immediately, seriously adding, "Well, 
 well, I know what you mean, Katharine ; the mere form of 
 words does not much signify. Whether I like Fred Penny- 
 thorne or not, 'tis quite clear he likes me, as indeed he 
 managed to tell me about ten minutes ago." 
 
 " And you will marry him that is, if you do not, and 
 never did, love any one else ? " 
 
 " My dear girl, how unsophisticated you are ! What 
 difference could that last fact make in my becoming Mrs. 
 Pennythorne *? Why, I have had affairs of this sort, off 
 and on, ever since I was sixteen. It is very hard ; but if 
 men wtil fall in love, what can one do 1 However, you will 
 
XXII.] THE OGILVIES. 169 
 
 be finding out these things for yourself one day, if what I 
 hear people say about you be true." 
 
 " What do people say about me ? " And there was a 
 trembling at the girl's heart, as the thought passed through 
 it, that but no, it was impossible ! She smiled calmly. 
 "Pray tell me this interesting rumour, Isabella." 
 
 " Only that when Miss Katharine Ogilvie marries she will 
 not need to change her surname, and that our excellent 
 cousin Hugh bids fair to inherit title, estates, heiress, and all. 
 So thinks the world." 
 
 Katharine drew herself up. " I do not see that the 
 world has any business to think about the matter; but 
 whether it does or not, can be of little consequence to me, 
 or to Hugh either. We are too good friends to mind an 
 idle report." 
 
 "Yes, yes; it is all quite proper for you to -talk so now, 
 my dear, but we shall see. I guessed how it would end 
 long ago ; and so, I dare say, did some older heads than 
 either yours or mine. Of course, your father and mother 
 both know what a good match it would be for you." 
 
 " A good match ! " repeated Katharine, while her beauti- 
 ful lip curled, and her whole mien expressed ineffable scorn. 
 " Is that all that people marry for ]" 
 
 Isabella, at this moment, jumped up from her seat by the 
 
 window. Talk of the 1 beg your pardon and that of Mr. 
 
 Hugh Ogilvie, for there he is riding down the street. And 
 oh ! doesn't he look up at the window, Miss Katharine ! 
 Well, he is a fine-looking fellow, so I congratulate you, my 
 dear." If the flashes of indignant womanly pride that shot 
 from Katharine's eyes had been lightning-gleams, they would 
 have consumed Isabella to ashes. 
 
170 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIII. 
 
 Oh ! I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, 
 "With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. 
 
 TENNYSOX. 
 
 "Well ! nature makes some wise provisions ! We might be envious 
 of others' happiness if in nine cases out of ten we did not despise it. 
 
 L. E. L. 
 
 KATHARINE rode home with her father and Hugh, more 
 silent and thoughful than was her wont. Two or three 
 times her horse started at some restless, almost angry motions 
 of its young rider ; and when Hugh came anxiously to her 
 assistance she rejected his aid a little sharply. 
 
 " How wonderfully independent you are this morning, 
 Katharine ! " 
 
 "Of course I am, and always will be," was the quick 
 answer." 
 
 Hugh looked surprised and somewhat hurt and Katha- 
 rine instantly reproached herself. " How foolish I am how 
 wrong 1 " she thought. " It might have been all nonsense 
 the mere gossip of Isabella. I will not think any more 
 about it." So she called Hugh to her side with some trivial 
 observation in which the gentle tone made all the concession 
 needed. But as she noticed how hastily he spurred his 
 horse forward at her summons, and how his whole counte- 
 nance beamed with delight, Katharine again became troubled. 
 
 In these frequent rides the two young people were in the 
 habit of lingering behind Sir Eobert, to look at the country 
 around and talk. But this time Katharine kept her horse 
 close beside her father's the whole way ; and when they 
 reached Summerwood she leaped off without waiting for 
 Hugh's customary assistance. 
 
XXIIL] THE OGILVIES. 171 
 
 "Still independent, Katharine," said the young man, 
 too little sensitive, or else feeling too sure of his prize, to 
 notice the change in his cousin's manner. She laughed 
 but the laugh was forced ; and springing up the hall-steps, 
 with an excuse about being late for dinner, she went at 
 once to her own room her young heart oppressed with a 
 new care. 
 
 The possibility of Hugh's wishing to make her his wife 
 tad never crossed Katharine's mind before. She had no 
 girlish vanity; and the one great love which absorbed 
 every thought, aim, and desire of her heart, shut out from 
 it entirely all lesser fancies, or even the suspicion of their 
 existence in others. Besides, all her life, she had looked 
 upon Hugh as a brother, and treated him as such. His 
 quiet nature was satisfied with this frank and affectionate 
 intercourse ; and, believing that in their secluded life she 
 had no chance of forming any other attachment, he waited 
 until his uncle gave him leave to say " Katharine, will you 
 marry me 1 " fully persuaded she would at once answer, 
 " Thank you, Hugh, I will." As he really loved her very 
 dearly, he would then most probably tell her so : and so 
 they would settle down into placid matrimonial felicity, 
 such as was in fashion at Summerwood. And was the 
 passionate dream of almost idolatrous love to subside into 
 this ? "Was Katharine, with her intense yearning after all 
 that is great and glorious with a soul so high that it 
 sought a yet loftier for its worship thus to sink from her 
 ideal of marriage 1 There, husband and wife stood hand-in- 
 hand in their fair and beloved home genius, worth, and 
 world- wide goodness shedding dignity and happiness around 
 them. Could she barter this glorious future for a life with 
 one who had no higher interests than the kennel, the stable, 
 and the chase ? 
 
 Katharine almost maddened at the thought. But imme- 
 diately she reproached herself for the intense scorn which 
 she felt embittering her against Hugh poor easy Hugh ! 
 How could he help it if he were not endowed with brains ? 
 Katharine began to ponder on the possibility of his loving 
 her ; and her memory, roving over past years, found many 
 
172 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 a little circumstance that confirmed this vague suspicion. 
 She grew very sad. The love that filled her own heart 
 taught her compassion towards Hugh. She thought of her 
 parents, and of the motives which Isabella had imputed to 
 them. The detested words " a good match," rang in her 
 ears, goading her proud nature to resistance. 
 
 " They shall never buy and sell me ! me to whom he gave 
 his loving words, his parting kiss. Paul, Paul ! no man 
 living save you shall ever have this hand. I will keep it for 
 you unto my life's end ! " And again she kissed with wild 
 passion her own delicate hand the hand which had once 
 been made for ever sacred by the clasp of Paul Lynedon's. 
 
 Then, she went to the little desk where she kept all her 
 treasures. There, with many a girlish memento token- 
 flowers, idly given but so fondly kept lay the only letter 
 she had ever received from him the one he had written 
 after his rejection by Eleanor. At first, how rapturous had 
 been the joy it brought to her ! And with succeeding 
 weeks and months came a happiness calmer indeed, but not 
 less deep. In all her longing regrets for him, in all her 
 light home-troubles, how it comforted her to fly to her little 
 treasure-house, lay her cheek upon the paper, and feel that 
 its very touch changed all tears to smiles ! How blessed it 
 it was to read over and over again her name written in his 
 own hand, linked too with tenderest words, "My dear 
 Katharine, my true Katharine ! " 
 
 And she was true fatally true to the love which she 
 deemed she read in this letter. The thoughtless outburst 
 of wounded feeling, idly penned and soon forgotten, became 
 to her deceived heart a treasure which gave it its hope 
 its strength its life. She never doubted him for one 
 moment not even when his absence grew from months 
 into years, and no tidings either of him or from him ever 
 reached her loneliness. Some strange necessity detained 
 him ; but that he would come back to claim the love which 
 he had won, she felt as sure as that the sun was in the 
 heavens. Once only the terrible, withering thought struck 
 her, that he was dead ! But no for in death he would 
 have remembered her. She did not conjure up that horror 
 
XX1I1.J THE OGILV1ES. 173 
 
 again she could not have done so, and lived ! So she waited 
 calmly, all her care being to make herself worthy of him, 
 and of that blessed time when he should claim her. She 
 strove to lift herself nearer to him, in intellect, heart, and 
 soul ; she cherished her beauty, and rejoiced as she saw 
 herself grow fairer day by day ; she practised every graceful 
 accomplishment that might make her more winning in his 
 sight ; and when at last the world's praises were lavished at 
 the feet of Sir Eobert Ogilvie's heiress, Katharine gloried 
 in her resistless charms, her talents, and her beauty, since 
 they were all for him ! 
 
 There was in her but one thing wanting the deep holy 
 faith which sees in love itself but the reflection of that 
 pure ideal after which all should strive, and which in the 
 heart's wildest devotion never suffers the Human to shut 
 out the Divine. 
 
 Katharine took the letter and read it for the thousandth 
 time. Its tender words seemed breathed in her ear by 
 Paul's own voice, giving her comfort and strength. Then 
 she placed before her the likeness, which, no longer hung 
 up in her chamber, was now hidden carefully from sight. 
 She gazed upon it fondly yearningly; but she thought 
 not of the young poet's face she only felt as though she 
 were looking into Paul Lynedon's eyes. 
 
 " They shall never tear me from you, my own, own love 
 my noble Paul ! " she cried ; " I will stand firm against 
 father mother the whole world. I will die rather than 
 wed any man living, save you ! " 
 
 But she felt rather ashamed of these heroic resolutions 
 against unjust parents, etc. etc., when she found no change 
 in the behaviour of any of the party. Her good-natured 
 father, her kind mother, and her quiet, easy-tempered Hugh, 
 seemed by no means characters fitted to enact a stern 
 tragedy of blighted love and innocence oppressed. In the 
 course of a week, Katharine's suspicions died away, and she 
 smiled at the easy credence she had given to an idle rumour. 
 But, nevertheless, the thoughts which it awakened were not 
 without their influence, but rooted deeper and deeper in 
 her heart its intense and engrossing love. 
 
174 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 One day Lady Ogilvie entered her daughter's little study 
 it was still the old beloved room with an air of myste- 
 rious importance, and a letter in her hand. 
 
 " My dear Katharine, I have some news for you; Here 
 is a letter from your aunt Worsley : but read it yourself, it 
 will save me the trouble of talking." And Lady Ogilvie 
 now grown a little older, a little stouter, and a good deal 
 less active sat down in the arm-chair the very arm-chair 
 in which Sir James had died and began to stroke a great 
 black cat, of which Katharine took affectionate care, because 
 in its kitten-days it had been a plaything of her grand- 
 father's second childhood. Once or twice Lady Ogilvie 
 glanced towards her daughter's face, and wondered that 
 Katharine manifested scarcely any surprise, but returned 
 the letter, merely observing, 
 
 " Well, mamma, I am sure you are very glad, and so 
 am I." 
 
 " Really, my dear, how quietly you take it ! A wedding 
 in the family does not come every day. I feel quite excited 
 about it myself." 
 
 " But, mamma, it is not exactly news to me. I met Mr. 
 Penny thorne ths day I was at aunt Worsley 's." 
 
 " And you never said a word about it ! " 
 
 " It would not have been right, as Isabella begged me 
 not." 
 
 " Young people should never keep anything from their 
 parents," was the mild reproof of Lady Ogilvie. 
 
 " Indeed, dear mamma, to tell the truth, I have scarcely 
 thought of the matter a second time, as I did not take much 
 interest in the gentleman. But I am glad Isabella is to 
 be married,- since I think she wished it very much." And 
 the slight satirical tendency which lay dormant in Katha- 
 rine peeped out in a rather comically repressed smile. 
 
 " It is very natural that young persons should wish to 
 be settled," answered the impassive Lady Ogilvie, " espe- 
 cially when they are, like your cousin, the eldest of a large 
 family. The only thing requisite is a suitable match." 
 Katharine started a little, and her brow contracted for a 
 moment at the disagreeable reminiscences which her mother's 
 
XXTII.] THE OGILVIES. 175 
 
 last words recalled. But Lady Ogilvie went on quite un- 
 consciously. 
 
 " In Isabella's case everything seems satisfactory. With 
 your father, Mrs. Worsley is, of course, more explicit 
 than with me ; and her letter to him states that the gentle- 
 man has a good income and excellent prospects. The 
 family are respectable, too. Indeed, from what Sir Eobert 
 tells me, I should consider Isabella most fortunate, as 
 she has little or no fortune, and may not have a better 
 offer." 
 
 During this speech, delivered rather prosily and oracu- 
 larly, Katharine had listened in perfect silence. Once or 
 twice she bit her beautiful under lip until its curves grew 
 of a deeper rose, and tapped her little foot restlessly upon 
 the cushion, so as materially to disturb the peace of mind 
 of the great black cat who usually claimed it. When Lady 
 Ogilvie ceased, expecting a reply, the only one she gained 
 was " Well, mamma 1 " 
 
 " Well, my dear, you seem to take very little interest 
 about the matter." 
 
 " Not a great deal, I confess." 
 
 " What an odd girl you are, Katharine ! I imagined all 
 young ladies of your age must be interested in love and 
 matrimony." 
 
 " I don't think the two are united in this case, and there- 
 fore I care less about it." 
 
 " But, my dear child, you should care. You are coming 
 to an age when it is necessary to have right ideas on 
 these points. Most probably, some time or other, you 
 yourself " 
 
 " Mamma, you do not want to send Katharine away from 
 you 1 " said the girl, rising suddenly, and putting her arms 
 round her mother's neck, so that her face was hid from 
 Lady Ogilvie's observation. 
 
 " By no means, love ; but " 
 
 " Then we will not talk about it." 
 
 " Not if you do not like it, my darling," said the mother, 
 fondly ; and at the moment a sudden and natural impulse 
 of maternal jealousy made her feel that it would be hard 
 
176 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP, 
 
 to give up her only child to any husband whomsoever. 
 She drew Katharine to the stool at her feet. 
 
 " Sit down here, love, and let us go on talking about 
 Isabella. You know she wishes to have you for brides- 
 maid shall you like it 1 " 
 
 " Yes, certainly, if you are willing." 
 
 " Oh, to be sure ; and moreover, as the marriage is to be 
 so soon, before Mrs. Worsley leaves London, your papa 
 intends proposing that it shall take place at Summerwood. 
 It will cause a good deal of trouble, but then Isabella is 
 his only sister's child, and has no father living. Sir Robert 
 thinks this plan would be more creditable to the family 
 than having her married from lodgings ; and I quite agree 
 with him, especially as it will please your aunt so much." 
 
 " What a good, kind, thoughtful mamma you are ! " 
 murmured Katharine, with a sudden twinge of conscience 
 as she remembered all the conflicting feelings of the last 
 ten minutes. 
 
 "And now, my dear, as there is no time to be lost, I 
 have ordered the carriage, that we may go at once to your 
 aunt's and arrange about the dresses and other matters. 
 She will make a pretty bridesmaid, will my little Katharine ! 
 I shall quite like to see her," added the mother, affection- 
 ately passing her hand down the smooth braided hair. 
 Katharine laughed as merrily as a child. 
 
 " And when she comes to be a bride herself," continued 
 Lady Ogilvie, in tones, the formality of which had sunk to 
 an almost perceptible tremulousness, "she will make a 
 good choice, and marry so as to please her papa and me 1 " 
 
 " I will never marry without consulting your will and 
 my father's," said Katharine, softly, but firmly, " and you 
 must leave me equally free in mine." 
 
 " Of course we shall, my child ! But there is time 
 enough to think about that. Now let us go together and 
 congratulate Isabella." 
 
XXIV.] THE OGILVIES. 177 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Tis a morn for a bridal the merry bride bell 
 Rings clear through the greenwood that skirts the chapclie. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 The rite-book is closed, and the rite being done, 
 They who knelt down together arise up as one ; 
 Fair riseth the bride oh, a fair bride is she ! 
 But for all (think the maidens), * * * 
 No saint at her praying. E. B. BROWNING. 
 
 " How beautiful ycm look in your bridal dress, Katharine ! " 
 cried Hugh, as he met her upon the staircase on the wed- 
 ding-morning. He could not forbear taking hold of both 
 her hands and gazing admiringly in her bright young face. 
 " I declare you only want the orange-blossoms to look 
 like a bride yourself and a great deal prettier than Miss 
 Bella, too, as I always said you were." 
 
 " Thank you, Hugh," returned his cousin, with a laugh 
 and a low curtsey. " Only it is as well that the bride does 
 not hear you ; for you know," she added, giving way to a 
 light-hearted girlish jest, " you know that once upon a time 
 you thought her very handsome, and people said that Isa- 
 bella need not go out oFthe family in search of a husband." 
 
 " Pooh ! nonsense ! I hope you never thought so. Indeed, 
 Katharine, I should be very much vexed if you did," said 
 Hugh earnestly. Katharine's colour rose, and she drew her 
 hand away. 
 
 " Eeally, I never thought about the matter at all. I was 
 too young to consider such things." 
 
 Hugh looked disappointed and confused. At last he 
 stammered out hastily, "I wish you would come into the 
 garden with me, and let me gather your bouquet and Isa- 
 
 N 
 
178 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 bella's from the greenhouse. And and I've two such 
 pretty little puppies in the stable to show you," he added, 
 evidently ransacking his brain for various excellent excuses. 
 " Do come, Katharine ! " 
 
 " Not now," answered Katharine, striving to get away, 
 for the apprehension which Isabella had first suggested had 
 never been entirely eradicated, but sprang up again pain- 
 fully at the least cause. And though the foolish vanity 
 which construes every little attention into declared admira- 
 tion was as far from Katharine's nature as darkness from 
 light, yet it sometimes struck her that Hugh was growing 
 less of a cousin and more of a lover every day. 
 
 "You are not kind to me, Katharine," said the young 
 man, almost sulkily. " I don't care a bit for either the 
 flowers or the puppies, or anything else, except on your 
 account ; and that you must know pretty well by this time." 
 
 "I do not understand you, cousin Hugh." 
 
 " There, now, don't be angry with me," said Hugh, 
 humbled in a moment. " Katharine, I'd give the best 
 hunter in the stables and that's saying a great deal, con- 
 sidering it's Brown Bess I'd give the mare herself, or 
 anything else in the world, if you only cared for me half 
 as much as I do for you." Katharine was touched. She 
 had known him many years, and had never seen him so 
 agitated before. 
 
 " Indeed, I do like you very much as my cousin my 
 kind, good-natured cousin Hugh !" 
 
 "And is that all?" 
 
 "Yes," said Katharine, seriously and earnestly. "And 
 now good-bye, dear Hugh, for there is Isabella calling." 
 She broke away, and Hugh saw the glimmer of her white 
 dress passing not to the bride's chamber but to her own. 
 
 "She turned pale she trembled," he said to himself, 
 " and I'm sure she called me ' dear Hugh ! ' Girls often 
 don't mean half they say, so I'll count her yes as nothing. 
 Heigho ! I wish it were iny wedding-day instead of Bella's. 
 How tiresome it is of my nncle to tie my tongue in this 
 way ! I'll ask him again this very day when he means to let 
 me marry Katharine." So the young man descended the 
 
XXIV.] THE OGILVIES. 179 
 
 stairs, and went out at the hall-door, tapping his boots 
 with his riding whip, and whistling his usual comment on 
 the fact of his " love " being " but a lassie yet " in very 
 doleful style. 
 
 Katharine, who, pale and agitated, stood at her window 
 trying to compose herself, both saw and heard him. Then 
 she pressed her hand on her swelling heart, and the deep 
 sadness which Hugh's words had caused changed to pride. 
 
 " He thinks to have me against my will, does he ? And 
 here have I been so foolish as to weep because I must give 
 him pain ! I will not care for that. What signifies it 
 whether he loves me or not ? But my father will ask me 
 the reason that I refuse Hugh ; and I dare not tell I 
 could not. Paul ! why do you not come and take all 
 this sorrow from me?" And her pride melted, her grief 
 was charmed away at the whisper of that beloved name. 
 
 The wedding took place, as outwardly gay and inwardly 
 gloomy as most weddings are. There weue the parents of 
 the " happy couple " all pride and satisfaction Mr. Penny- 
 thorne sending forth his Ions mots in a perfect shower of 
 scintillations, so that his conversation became quite a pyro- 
 technic display. Mrs. Pennythorne kept close to her 
 husband, and was rather uncomfortable at seeing so many 
 strange faces. Yet her maternal gaze continually wandered 
 from those to the bridegroom's and a tear or two would 
 rise silently to the soft brown eyes. Once, when they were 
 setting out for the church, Lady Ogilvie noticed this. 
 
 " I dare say you feel sorry to part with your son," she 
 whispered kindly : "I understand he has always lived at 
 home. But you have another child, Isabella says, who was 
 prevented coming to-day." 
 
 " Yes, thank you, ma'am Lady Ogilvie, I mean," stam- 
 mered the timid Mrs. Pennythorne, with a glance towards 
 her husband, who was at the other end of the room. 
 
 " I believe he is much younger than Mr. Frederick V 9 
 pursued the considerate hostess. "I am really sorry we 
 did not see him to-day." 
 
 " Leigh cannot go out this winter-time, he is not very 
 strong," answered the guest. And then a sort of mater- 
 
180 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 nal freemasonry being established between them Mrs. 
 Pennythorne went on more courageously. " I was thinking 
 about Leigh just then ; I shall have only him to think 
 about when his brother is married." 
 
 " Until Leigh is not that his name ? grows up, and is 
 married himself," said the other matron, with a smile. 
 
 " Ah, yes ! " returned Mrs. Pennythorne eagerly ; " he will 
 be a man soon tall and strong ; they say these delicate 
 boys always make the stoutest men." 
 
 " You will go to his wedding next, I prophesy." 
 
 " Shall I ? oh yes, of course I shall ! but not just yet, 
 for I don't think I could no, it would break my heart to 
 part with Leigh ! He must bring his wife home, ay, that 
 shall be it," added she suddenly, as if to explain even to 
 herself that the words, "I could not part with Leigh," 
 related solely to his marrying. The poor mother ! 
 
 Isabella was quite in her glory. She had attained the 
 great aim of her life the being married it did not much 
 signify to whom. So that she reached the honour of 
 matronhood she was almost indifferent as to who conferred 
 it she cared little what surname was on her cards if the 
 Mrs. were the prefix. Perhaps once or twice, when Hugh 
 Ogilvie and Frederick Pennythorne stood talking together, 
 she remembered the time when she had fancied herself 
 very much in love with the former. She laughed at the 
 notion now. If Hugh were the taller and handsomer, her 
 Frederick had such lively London manners and dressed so 
 much better. Isabella was quite satisfied ; only she took 
 care to show her cousin how much he had lost by exhibiting 
 great pride and fondness towards her bridegroom, and de- 
 porting herself towards Hugh with a reserved and matronly 
 dignity. 
 
 Katharine alone, for the first time in her life present 
 at a wedding, was grave and silent. She trembled as she 
 walked up the aisle ; she listened to the solemn words of 
 the service with a beating heart. " To have and to hold from 
 this day forward, for letter for worse, for richer for poorer, in 
 sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and obey, until death us 
 do part" And this vow of almost fearful import, compre- 
 
XXIV.] THE OGILVIES. 181 
 
 bending so much, and in its wide compass involving life, 
 soul, and worldly estate, either as a joyful offering or as a 
 dread immolation, this awful vow was taken lightly by 
 two young creatures, who carelessly rattled it over during 
 the short pause of jests and compliments, amidst lace and 
 satin flutterings, thinking more of the fall of a robe or the 
 fold of a cravat than of the oath, or of each other ! 
 
 Katharine divined not this, for her fancy idealised all 
 The marriage scene touched her pure young heart in its 
 deepest chords. She saw not the smirking bridegroom - 
 the affected bride ; her thoughts, travelling into the future, 
 peopled with other forms the dim grey shadows of the old 
 church where she had worshipped every Sunday from a 
 child. She beheld at her side the face of her dreams ; she 
 heard the deep low voice uttering the troth-plight, " /, 
 Paul, take thee, Katharine ;" and bowing her face upon the 
 altar-rails, she suffered her tears to flow freely. 
 
 " Yes ! " she murmured to herself, " I would not fear to 
 kneel in the sight of Heaven and take that vow towards 
 him and I will take it here one day to him, and none 
 but him ! " 
 
 Why was it that in this very moment the bright dream 
 of the future was crossed by a strange shadow from the 
 past] Even while she yet thought thus, there flashed 
 across the young bridesmaid's memory that olden scene in 
 the library. And, above the benediction of the priest, the 
 amen of the congregation even above the beloved voice 
 which her fancy had conjured up there rang in Katha- 
 rine's ears the words of her dying grandfather : " Earth to 
 earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!" 
 
 The ceremony was over, and Isabella had the satisfaction 
 of hearing herself greeted as Mrs. Frederick Pennythorne. 
 A thought did once cross her mind that according to the 
 received etiquette it was necessary for a bride to indulge in 
 a slight faint, or a gush of hysterical tears, on reaching the 
 vestry. But the former would spoil her bonnet, and the 
 latter her eyes ; so she resolved to do neither, but resort 
 to the outward calmness of suppressed emotion. 
 
 " How well she bears it, poor dear child ! " observed 
 
182 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 Mrs. Worsley. This lady being one of those nobodies who 
 wherever they go always contrive to make themselves in- 
 visible, we have not hitherto drawn her into the light; 
 nor, to tell the truth, have we any intention of doing so. 
 After the space of ten minutes, Isabella quietly emerged 
 from her fit of repressed feeling, and burst into full 
 splendour as " the beautiful and accomplished bride." In 
 which character she may whirl away with her chosen to 
 the Lakes, or in any direction she pleases ; for we care too 
 little about the happy couple to chronicle their honeymoon. 
 
 The Pennythornes were borne homewards in Sir Robert's 
 carriage ; a circumstance which made Mr. Pennythorne 
 exult in the good training which had caused his eldest son 
 to marry into so high a family. 
 
 " My Frederick is an excellent boy ; he knows how to 
 choose a wife, God bless him ! " said the old gentleman, 
 with somewhat of maudlin sentimentality, for which the 
 excellent cellar at Summerwood was alone to blame. 
 " Gillie, my dear ! now you see how right I was, five years 
 ago, in putting an end to that foolish affair with Mason's 
 daughter. No, no ! a girl who worked as a daily gover- 
 ness was not a fit match for my son." 
 
 " Poor Bessie ! Fred was not so wild then," murmured 
 Mrs. Pennythorne. " Well, I hope his new wife will make 
 him comfortable." 
 
 " Comfortable ! " echoed the husband, her last word fall- 
 ing on his dulled ear : " of course she will. I said to him 
 soon after Mrs. Lancaster recommended the Worsleys to 
 put their Chancery suit into his hands, 'Fred, my lad, 
 that's the very wife for you. Good family style fashion 
 and money coming/ Fred took my advice, and you see 
 the result. Mrs. P., I only hope that stupid Leigh will 
 turn out as well on my hands." 
 
 Mrs. Pennythorne sighed : " I wonder how Leigh has 
 been all day ! I hardly liked leaving him ; but young 
 Wychnor promised to stay with him until we came home 
 from the Ogilvies'." 
 
 " Don't mention that fellow in the same breath with the 
 Ogilvies," sharply said the husband. 
 
XXIV. 1 THE OGILVIES. 183 
 
 " Indeed, Pierce I will not, if you don't like it," replied 
 Mrs. Pennythorne, humbly ; " but the young man has been 
 so attentive to poor Leigh, and has really seemed quite in- 
 terested in this marriage." 
 
 " Mrs. Pennythorne, I am sleepy ; will you be so obliging 
 as to hold your tongue 1 " said the old gentleman, with a 
 slow and somnolent emphasis : and immediately as this 
 sentence ended, his doze began. 
 
 The mother leaned her head back on the carriage-cushions, 
 having previously taken the feminine precaution of laying 
 the wedding bonnet on her lap. She did not go to sleep ; 
 but her thoughts wandered dreamily, first after her eldest- 
 born, and then flying back some thirty years they travelled 
 over her own wedding-trip. Finally, they settled in the 
 little back parlour in Blank Square, and by the sofa where- 
 on Leigh was accustomed to rest, hour after hour, with 
 Philip Wychnor by his side. 
 
 " Poor boy ! well, I can do better without Fred than 
 without him. He will get well in the summer, and grow 
 up a man ; but he will not think of marrying for many 
 years. No, no ; we must keep Leigh with us we will 
 keep him always." 
 
 Oh ! if with this wild " / will " of our despairing human 
 love, we could stand between the Destroyer and the 
 Doomed I 
 
TJIE oaiLViEe. [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 We think of Genius, how glorious it is to let the spirit go forth 
 winning a throne in men's hearts ; sending our thoughts, like ships of 
 Tyre, laden with rich merchandise, over the ocean of human opinion, 
 and bringing back a still richer cargo of praise and good-will. 
 
 L. E. L. 
 
 THERE could hardly be a greater contrast than that be- 
 tween the gay bridal-party at Summerwood and the little 
 dark parlour in Blank-square where Philip Wyclmor sat 
 with his young friend. They had indeed grown to be 
 friends, the man and the boy for one counts time more 
 by the heart than by the head. According to that reckon- 
 ing poor Leigh was far older than his years, while Philip 
 in the freshness and simplicity of his character had a boy's 
 heart still, and would probably keep it for ever. 
 
 Nevertheless, he did not look by any means so much of 
 a boy as in those days when Eleanor first introduced him 
 to the reader's notice by this appellation nor, indeed, as 
 when we last saw him just emerging from his weary, 
 wasting sickness. As he sat reading aloud to Leigh, the 
 lamp-light showed how the delicate outlines of his face had 
 sharpened into the features of manhood ; the brow had 
 grown broader a ad fuller, the lips firmer, and there were a 
 new strength and a new character about the whole head. 
 
 Philip had been tossed about on the world's stormy cur- 
 rents until at last he had learned to breast them. His 
 powers of mind, the thews and sinews of the inner man, 
 had matured accordingly ; and the more he used them the 
 stronger they grew. The dreamer had become the worker. 
 
 We may say with Malvolio, that "some are born to 
 greatness, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness 
 
XXV.] THE OGILVIES. 185 
 
 thrust upon them." Philip Wychnor was of the latter 
 class. His intellect seemed to work itself out by the force 
 of necessity, and not by inspiration. He was perfectly 
 sincere when he told Mr. Pennythorne that he had no 
 genius ; but the linnet reared in a hedge-sparrow's nest 
 never knows that it can sing until it tries. 
 
 So it happened that the same individual who had once 
 declined attempting authorship on the ground of his entire 
 unworthiness, was now fairly embarked in literature, with a 
 moderate chance of success. All this had come gradually. 
 In his deep straits of poverty, Philip had tried to while 
 away the hours that hung so heavily, and perhaps to gain 
 a little money, by turning to account his knowledge of 
 foreign languages. He mounted the ladder of fame by its 
 lowest step ; becoming a translator of small articles for 
 newspapers and magazines a sort of literary hodman, 
 carrying the mortar with which more skilful workmen 
 might build. But while searching into and reproducing 
 other people's thoughts, he unconsciously began to think for 
 himself. It was in a very small way at first, for his genius 
 was not yet fledged, and its feathers took a long time in 
 growing. He thought, and with the thought came almost 
 unconsciously the power of expression. He wrote at first 
 not by impulse or inspiration, but merely for daily bread. 
 Yet though in his humility he never hoped to rise higher 
 than a common labourer in the highways of literature, he 
 always strove to do his small task-work well and worthily, 
 and suffered neither carelessness nor hope of gain, to allure 
 his pen into what was false or vicious. All he wrote, he 
 wrote earnestly ;. gradually more and more so, as the high 
 cause in which he had engaged unfolded itself to his 
 perception. But he made no outward display ; never put 
 forth his name from its anonymous shelter; and told no 
 person of his pursuits, except Leigh, and one more, who 
 had the dear right of a betrothed to know all concerning 
 him. He had never seen her again, but they had kept up 
 a regular correspondence ; and still the joy, the strength, 
 the very pulse of the young man's heart, was the remem- 
 brance of Eleanor Ogilvie. 
 
186 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 We have taken this passing glance at the outward and 
 inward changes in Philip Wychnor while he sat reading his 
 last story, sketch, or essay. This he did more for the sake 
 of amusing Leigh than from an author's vanity ; since, as 
 before explained, Philip's work was still very mechanical 
 the raw material woven with care and difficulty into a coarse 
 web that gave him little pleasure and in which he took no 
 pride. Yet, as he went on, it was some satisfaction to see 
 the evident interest that brightened Leigh's pale face, over 
 which illness seemed to have cast a strange, even an 
 intellectual beauty. Every now and then the boy clapped his 
 poor thin wasted hands, applauding with child-like eagerness. 
 When Philip paused, he discussed the article in all its 
 bearings with an acuteness and judgment that much 
 enhanced the value of his laudations, and brought a smile to 
 the young author's cheek. 
 
 " Why, Leigh, you are quite a critic ! " 
 
 " If I am, I know who made me so," answered the boy, 
 affectionately. " I know who took the dulness out of my 
 head, and put there what is still little enough all the 
 sense it has." 
 
 " It has a great deal. I am bound to say so, my boy, 
 since it is exercised for my own benefit ; though, of course, 
 I ought not to believo a word of your praise," said Philip, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Don't say so," Leigh replied, earnestly. " Indeed, you 
 will be a celebrated author some of these days I know you 
 will. And when you are become a great man, remember 
 this prophecy of mine." 
 
 The serious tone and look at once banished the light 
 manner which Philip had assumed, partly to divert the sick 
 boy. " I hardly think so I wish I could ! " he said, almost 
 sadly. " No ; it takes far more talent than I have to make 
 a just and deserved fame. I don't look for that at all." 
 
 Leigh answered with an ingenious evasion. " Do you re- 
 member when I was first taken ill so ill as to be obliged 
 to give up study ; and you brought one day some of your 
 German books, and read to me ' Undine ' and ' Sin tram '1 
 Ah ! what a delicious time that was, after all the dry, musty 
 
XXV.] THE OGILVIES. 187 
 
 Cicero and Xenophon !" And Leigh rubbed his feeble 
 hands together with intense pleasure at the recollection. 
 
 Philip watched him affectionately. " My dear boy, how 
 glad I am that I thought of the books ! " 
 
 " So am I, because otherwise you might never have done 
 what you then did through kindness to me I mean that 
 translation from Riickert, which I longed to have, so that I 
 might read it over and over again. How good you were to 
 me, dear Mr. Wychnor ! " 
 
 " But my goodness was requited to myself," said Philip, 
 laughing ; u for you remember the three golden guineas I 
 
 had from the ' Magazine,' to which you persuaded me 
 
 to send the tale ?" 
 
 " That's just what I mean. Now, if in one little year you 
 have gone on from making a translation just for good- 
 nature, to writing beautiful stories such as this for it is most 
 beautiful ! " cried Leigh, energetically " why should you 
 
 not rise to be a well-known author, like my no, I don't 
 
 mean that," and the boy's face grew troubled " but like 
 one of those great writers who do the world so much good ; 
 who can make the best and wisest of people better and 
 wiser still, and yet can bring comfort to a poor sick boy 
 like me. Would not this be something great to try for?" 
 And Leigh's tones warmed into eloquence, and his large soft 
 eyes were positively floating in their own light. 
 
 Before Philip could answer, they were interrupted by the 
 arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Pennythorne. The mother's quick 
 footstep was scarcely heard before she entered. It had 
 often touched Philip of late to see what a new and intense 
 expression came into the once unmeaning face and voice of 
 Mrs. Pennythorne whenever she looked at or spoke to her 
 son Leigh. This day the young man noticed it more than 
 ever. Even the presence of her redoubtable lord, which 
 usually restrained every display of feeling, failed to pre- 
 vent her from leaning over her boy and kissing him 
 fervently. 
 
 " How has my dear Leigh been all day ? " she asked. 
 
 " Oh, so well, so content, mother ! " said Leigh, cheer- 
 fully. " Ask Mr. Wychnor, there." 
 
188 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 "Mr. Wychnor is very kind." And a look of deep 
 gratitude said more than the words. 
 
 "Everything went off well? Fred is really married, 
 then ? " inquired Leigh. 
 
 "Yes, my dear. To-morrow you shall hear about it, 
 and about Summer wood ; it is such a pretty place ! " 
 
 "Is it?" said the boy, languidly. "I think I heard 
 Miss Worsley say so the day she called, but I did not take 
 much interest in what she said ; she tired me. You can't 
 think, Mr. Wychnor, how fast she talks ! " 
 
 "I know she does that is, I think you said so," an- 
 swered Philip, correcting himself, and rising to depart. 
 
 " Don't go yet ; stay and hear a little about the wedding. 
 We were talking so much of it this morning, you know." 
 Philip sat down again, not unwillingly. He had a vague 
 pleasure in hearing the sound of the familiar names, 
 assured that no one knew how familiar they were to him. 
 
 "Now go on, mother; tell us about the Ogilvies." 
 
 " I did not see much of Sir Robert ; your father talked 
 to him ; and besides, he was so stately. But Lady Ogilvie 
 was very kind. And there was Mr. Hugh, a fine handsome 
 young man so polite to Fred ! and that sweet, beautiful 
 creature, Miss Ogilvie." 
 
 " Here Philip dropped his gloves, and, stooping hastily, 
 made several unavailing attempts to recover them." 
 
 " I don't think I ever saw a prettier bridesmaid than 
 Miss Ogilvie Katharine, I believe they called her. Shall I 
 hold the light for you, Mr. Wychnor?" said simple Mrs. 
 Pennythorne, compassionating the glove-hunter. 
 
 Philip hurriedly apologised for the interruption. " But 
 pray go on," he said ; " we poor bachelors like to hear of 
 these merry doings. Mrs. Frederick Pennythorne seems 
 rich in handsome relatives : how many more attended her 
 to the altar ? " 
 
 "There were none but Miss Ogilvie; she is an only 
 child. Her father and mother seem so proud of her ! and 
 well they may. Perhaps, Leigh, she may come and stay 
 with your new sister, and then you will see her." 
 
 " Shall I ? 1 don't much care," said the sick boy, wearily. 
 
XXV.] THE OGIIAIES. 189 
 
 " I don't mind seeing any one except you, mother, and Mr. 
 Wychnor. Are you really going then ? " and Leigh, taking 
 his friend's hand, so as to draw him close, whispered in his 
 ear : " Now, remember what we were talking about before 
 they came in ; it may do you good some time or other to 
 think over what I said, though I am so young, perhaps 
 stupid enough too, as they always told me : " and a smile 
 of patient humility flitted over the boy's pale lips. " But 
 never mind, there is the old fable of the Mouse and the 
 Lion, you know; we'll act it over again, maybe." 
 
 "God bless you, my dear boy !" murmured Philip, as he 
 took his leave. He had felt passing disappointment at not 
 hearing that Eleanor was at Summerwood, as he had 
 framed that reason to account to himself for the fact of an 
 unusual silence in her correspondence. This slight vexa- 
 tion returned again as he walked homeward, but it soon 
 passed away. A man's strong heart is seldom entirely 
 engrossed by a love-dream, be it ever so close and dear. 
 And Eleanor herself would have been the last to blame 
 her betrothed, if these tender thoughts of her became 
 absorbed in the life-purpose which was awakening in him, 
 since therewith also she was connected, as its origin 
 and aim. 
 
 Even while he smiled at Leigh Penny thorne's quaint 
 fable, Wychnor acknowledged its truth. As he walked 
 along, the boy's words came again and again into his 
 mind; and he began to think yet more earnestly on his 
 literary pursuits what he had done, and what he pur- 
 posed to do. 
 
 " How can a man touch pitch and not be defiled ? " says 
 the wise man of Israel ; and Philip was not likely to have 
 been thrown so much in the circle of Mr. Pennythorne's 
 influence without being slightly affected thereby. His 
 young heart, filled to enthusiasm with love of literature, 
 and also with a complete hero-worship of literary men, had 
 been checked in its most sensitive point. He found how 
 different was the ideal of the book-reader to the reality of 
 the book-writer. He had painted an imaginary picture of 
 a great author, inspired by a noble purpose, and working 
 
390 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 
 
 always with his whole heart for the truth or at least for 
 what he esteemed the truth and for nothing else. Now 
 this image crumbled into dust ; and from its ashes arose 
 the semblance of a modern " litterateur" writing, not from 
 his earnest heart, but from his clever head, doling out at so 
 much per column the fruit of his brains, no matter whether 
 it be tinselled inanity or vile poison, so that it will sell ; 
 or else ready to cringe, steal, lie, by word or by pen, be- 
 coming " all things to all men," if by such means he can 
 get his base metal puffed off as gold. 
 
 Philip Wychnor saw this detestable likeness in Mr. 
 Pennythorne, and it was variously reduplicated in all 
 the petty dabblers in literature who surrounded him. A 
 triton of similar magnitude is always accompanied by a 
 host of minnows especially if, as in this case, the larger 
 fish rather glories in his train. And so, our young vision- 
 ary began to look on books and book-creators with dimi- 
 nished reverence ; and in the fair picture of literary fame, 
 he saw only the unsightly framework by which its theatrical 
 and deceitful splendour was supported. He had been 
 lehind the scenes. 
 
 Poor Philip Wychnor ! He was too young, too inexpe- 
 rienced, to know that of all imitations there must be some- 
 where or other a vital reality that if the true were not, 
 its simulation would never have existed. 
 
XXVL] THE OGILVIES. 191 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 What is a man, 
 
 If his chief good, and market of his time, 
 Be but to sleep and feed ? A beast, no more. 
 Sure He that made us with such large discourse, 
 Looking before and after, gave us not 
 That capability and godlike reason 
 To rust in us, unused. 
 
 I do not know- 
 Why yet I live to say, This thing's to do, 
 Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and mean 
 To do it. SHAKSPEAKE. 
 
 GOOD Dame Fortune makes it her pleasure to walk about 
 the world in varied guise ; suddenly showing her bonnie 
 face sometimes in the oddest way and under the oddest 
 semblance imaginable so that it is a considerable length 
 of time before we begin to find out that it is really her own 
 fair self. She came to Philip Wychnor that very night as 
 he was returning home, meeting him under the shroud of a 
 London fog. And such a fog ! one that people who are 
 fond of elegant symbolisation would emphatically describe 
 as being " like breathing ropes," or at least one that might 
 be considered as a suspiration of small twine. It was a 
 literal version of the phrase " jaundiced atmosphere," for 
 the whole circumambient seemed to have grown suddenly 
 yellow and bilious. Therein all London groped blindfold : 
 New-road omnibuses finding themselves plunged against the 
 inner railings of Woburn-place and cabmen, while they 
 treaded the mazes of Trafalgar-square, inquiring in tones 
 of distracted uncertainty how far they were from Piccadilly. 
 It was a time when each man's great struggle appeared to 
 be the discovery of his own whereabouts ; when the whole 
 
192 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 world seemed bent on an involuntary fraternisation every- 
 body running into his neighbour's arms. 
 
 This was exactly what Philip Wychnor did, somewhere 
 about Eussell-square. Dame Fortune, hid in the fog, laughed 
 as she knocked right into his involuntary embrace a chance 
 passer-by. 
 
 A gentle voice, obviously that of an elderly man, ex- 
 pressed the usual apology; and added thereto the not 
 uncommon inquiry " Pray, sir, can you tell me where- 
 abouts I am ?" 
 
 " I fancy, near the British Museum," answered Philip. 
 
 " That's where I've been this hour and a half," said the 
 voice, with a comic hopelessness that made Philip smile. 
 " I live only a few streets off, and I can't find my way 
 home." 
 
 " My case is not unlike yours," laughed Philip ; " and 
 most probably there are plenty more in the same predica- 
 ment, especially strangers. Suppose, my good sir, we were 
 to unite our fortunes or misfortunes and try to make 
 
 out the way together. Mine is street. Which is 
 
 yours?" 
 
 " The same ; and I'm very much obliged to you, young 
 gentleman, for so I perceive you are, by your voice. May 
 I take your arm ? for I am old, and very tired." 
 
 "Gladly," replied Philip. There was something in the 
 simplicity of the maniier that pleased him. He liked the 
 voice, and almost fancied he had heard it before. Perhaps 
 the old man thought the same, since when they came to 
 the nearest lamp the two wayfarers each stopped to look in 
 the other's face. The recognition was mutual. 
 
 " Bless my life ! " cried the elder one, " you are the very 
 young man I found a year ago, near this spot, in a faint ! " 
 
 " And most good-naturedly took home ; for which kind- 
 ness I have often longed to thank you. Let me do so now," 
 answered Philip, grasping his companion's hand with a 
 hearty shake. 
 
 " Really, my friend, your fingers are as young and strong 
 as your arms," said the queer little old man of the omnibus. 
 * Mine are rather too frozen and weak to bear squeezing. 
 
XXVI.] THE OGILVIES. 193 
 
 this raw day ; and besides they are not used to such a 
 cordial gripe," he added, blowing the^fcnds of the said 
 fingers, which peeped up bluely from a pair of old cotfcon 
 gloves : yet he looked much gratified all the while. 
 
 " You don't know how pleased I am to meet you ! " re- 
 iterated Philip. " I often kept a look-out in the streets and 
 squares for every " 
 
 " Every odd little old fellow, you mean ? Well, for my 
 part, I never passed down your street without looking out 
 for you. Once I saw your head at the window, so I knew 
 you were better." 
 
 " Why did you never come in ? But you shall now." 
 And Philip, trusting to gratitude and physiognomy, and 
 following an impulse which showed how unsuspicious and 
 provincial he was, took home his queer-looking acquaintance, 
 inviting him to spend the evening without even asking him 
 his name. The old gentleman, after a few shy excuses and 
 some hesitation, settled himself in the easy-chair, and began 
 to make himself quite comfortable and at home. 
 
 " Will you have some tea and eggs as I always have 
 when it is thus late?" said Wychnor, colouring slightly; 
 for he had peered into his bachelor larder only to discover 
 its emptiness and hospitality is a virtue that poverty 
 sometimes causes to grow rusty. " But perhaps you have 
 not dined V 
 
 " I never practise what the world in general considers 
 dining it's inconvenient," said the guest. " Meat is very 
 dear, and not wholesome. I gave it up a long time ago, 
 and am much the better, too. Pythagoras, my good sir 
 depend upon it, Pythagoras was the wisest fellow that ever 
 lived. I keep to his doctrines." 
 
 Crossing his legs, he gazed complacently at the kettle 
 which Philip put on the fire, thereby eclipsing its cheerful 
 blaze. These housekeeping avocations, which the young 
 man afterwards continued even to egg-boiling and toast- 
 making, may a little dim the romance that surrounds or 
 at least ought to surround him, as a novel-hero ; but as we 
 began by avowing Philip Wychnor's utter dissimilarity 
 from the received ideal of that fascinating personage, we 
 
THE OGILVIES. fdlAK 
 
 shall not apologise for this little circumstance. And that 
 the inner life of man goes on just the same, ennobling and 
 idealising the commonest outward manifestation, is proved 
 by the fact that while the young host continued his lowly 
 domestic occupations, and the guest sat drying the wet soles 
 of his clumsy boots, they talked O ye gods ! how they 
 did talk ! 
 
 The stranger was an original, and that Philip soon 
 found. In five minutes they had plunged into the depths 
 of a conversation which sprang from the remark concerning 
 Pythagoras. The little old man quoted with the most 
 perfect simplicity recondite Greek authors and middle-age 
 philosophers, referring to them without the slightest 
 pedantry or affectation of learning. Such things seemed to 
 him part of his daily life, familiar as the air he breathed. 
 He wandered from Pythagoras to Plato, then to the Rosi- 
 crucian mystics, and onwards to Jacob Bcehme, finally 
 landing in these modern times with Hegel, Kant, and 
 Coleridge. He seemed to know everything, and to be able 
 to talk about everything, except ordinary topics. While 
 lingering among these latter he was shy, uneasy, and could 
 not find a word to say; but the moment he found an 
 opportunity of plunging into his native element, he 
 rushed to it like a duck to the water, and was himself 
 again. 
 
 Immediately his whole outer man changed. Throwing 
 himself back in the chair one foot crossed on the knee of 
 the other leg, the tips of his long thin fingers oracularly 
 joined together this curious individual was set a-going 
 like a well-wound-up watch. His bright eye flashed, his 
 whole countenance grew inspired, and his tongue, now fully 
 let loose, was ready to pour forth eloquent discourse. 
 However, with him conversation resembled rather a solo 
 than a duet it was less talking than lecturing. Now and 
 then he waited a second, if his companion seemed eager to 
 make an observation, and then he went off again in his 
 harangue. At last, fairly tired out, he began sipping his 
 tea with infinite satisfaction meanwhile employing himself 
 in a close inspection of his host's countenance and person, 
 
XXVI.] THE OQILVIES. 195 
 
 He broke silence at last by the abrupt question, " My young 
 friend, what are you f ' 
 
 Philip started at this unceremonious interrogatory ; but 
 there was something so kindly in the clear eyes, that he 
 only smiled, and answered, " My name is " 
 
 " I don't mean that," interrupted the old man " I don't 
 want to know your name ; everybody has one, I suppose 
 I asked what you are 1 " 
 
 " My profession $ " 
 
 " No not your profession, but you, your real self, your 
 soul your ego. Have you found out that]" Philip began 
 to think his visitor was rather more than eccentric slightly 
 touched in the head ; but the old gentleman went on. 
 
 " I have a theory of my own about physiognomy, or more 
 properly speaking, the influence of spirit over matter. I 
 never knew a great man yet and I have known a good 
 many (ay, though I am an odd-looking fellow to look at) 
 I never yet knew a man of intellect whose mind was not shown 
 in his face ; hot to the common observer perhaps, but to 
 those who look deeper. Moreover, I believe firmly in sym- 
 pathies and antipathies. Why should not the soul have its 
 instincts, and its atmosphere of attraction and repulsion, as 
 well as the body $ We respect the outer machine sadly 
 too much, and don't notice half enough the workings of the 
 free agent within." 
 
 "Well, my dear sir?" said Philip, interrogatively, as his 
 companion paused to take breath. 
 
 " Well, my friend ; I daresay you think all this means 
 nothing. But it does a great deal. It explains why I 
 liked you why I followed you out of the omnibus and 
 also why I am here. You have a good face ; I read your 
 soul in it like a book ; and it is a great, deep, true soul 
 thirsting after the pure, the lofty, and the divine. It may 
 hot be developed yet ; I hardly think it can be ; but it is 
 there. Now I want to ask if you feel this in yourself if 
 you know what is this inner life of l the spirit 1 ?' " 
 
 Philip caught somewhat of the meaning which these 
 singular words unfolded, and the earnestness of his guest 
 was communicated to himself. " I know thus far," he said 
 
196 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 " that I have been a student and dreamer all my life ; 
 that I have tried to fill my head with knowledge and my 
 heart with poetry ; that I have gone through the world 
 feeling that there were in me many things which no person 
 could understand except one." 
 
 " Who was he ? " 
 
 Philip changed colour ; but even had he wished other- 
 wise, he could not but speak the truth beneath that piercing 
 gaze. " It was no man a woman." 
 
 "Ah!" said the old man, catching the meaning. 
 " Well, such things are ! Go on." 
 
 " I have had some trouble in my life : latterly, very much. 
 It has made me think more deeply ; and I am now trying 
 to work out those thoughts with my pen." 
 
 "I imagine so. You are an author]" 
 
 " I cannot call myself by that name," said Philip, humbly ; 
 " I write, as many others do, for bread. But still I begin 
 to see how great an author's calling might be made, and I 
 long, however vainly, to realise that ideal." 
 
 " That's right, my boy ! " cried the old man, energetically ; 
 " I knew you had the true soul in you. But how far had 
 it manifested itself? in short, what have you written]" 
 Philip enumerated his various productions. 
 
 " I have seen some of them ; very fair for a beginning, 
 but too much written to order world-fashion all out- 
 side. My young friend, you will begin to think soon. Why 
 don't you put your name to what you do ] " 
 
 " Because though the confession is humiliating I have 
 written, as I before said, simply from necessity. It would 
 have given me no pleasure to see my poor name in print. 
 I worked for money, not reputation. I am no genius !" 
 
 The guest lifted himself up in his chair, and fixed his 
 keen eyes on Philip. " Arid do you think every man of 
 genius does write for reputation ] Do you imagine that 
 we " his unconscious egotism was too earnest even to pro- 
 voke a smile " that we care whether Tom Smith or Dick 
 Jones praises or abuses us that is, our work, which is our 
 true self, much more than the curious framework on two 
 legs that walks about in broadcloth ] No ! a real author 
 
XXVI.] THE OGILVIES. 197 
 
 sends forth his brain-children as God^jdid Adam, created 
 out of the fulness that is in his soul, and meant for a great 
 purpose. If these, his offspring, walk upright through the 
 world, and fulfil their being's end angels may shout and 
 devils grin he cares as little for one as for the other." 
 Philip quiet Philip who had lived all his life in the pre- 
 cise decorums of L , or in the rigid proprieties of the 
 
 most orthodox college at Oxford, was a little startled at 
 this style of language. 
 
 "I daresay you think me profane," continued his strange 
 guest, " but it is not so ; I am one of those who have had 
 power given them to lift up a little of the veil from the 
 Infinite and the Divine, and, feeling this power in their 
 souls, are emboldened to speak fearlessly of things at which 
 common minds stupidly marvel. I say with that great new 
 poet, Philip Baily 
 
 That to the full of worship 
 
 All things are worshipful. 
 
 Call things by their right names ! Hell, call thou hell ; 
 
 Archangel, call archangel ; and God God ! 
 
 but I do so with the humble and reverent awe of one who, 
 knowing more of these mysteries, is the more penetrated 
 with adoration." And the old man's voice sank meekly as 
 a little child's, while his uplifted eyes spoke the deepest 
 devotion. 
 
 Philip was moved. There was something in the intense 
 earnestness of this man which touched a new chord in his 
 heart. He saw, amidst all the quaint vagaries of the 
 enthusiast, a something which in the world he had himself 
 so vainly longed to find a striving after knowledge for its 
 own sake, a power to separate the real from the unreal, the 
 true from the false. And the young man's whole soul 
 sprang to meet and welcome what he had begun to deem 
 almost an idle chimera. 
 
 " My dear sir," cried he, seizing the hand of his guest, 
 will you let me ask you the same question you asked me 
 What are you ? " 
 
 " Outwardly, just what you see a little old man poor 
 
198 T1IE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 enough and shabby enough; because, while other folk 
 spend their lives in trying how to feed and clothe their 
 bodies, he has spent his in doing the same for his soul. 
 And a very creditable soul it is," said the old gentleman, 
 laughing, and tapping with his forefinger a brow full, high, 
 and broad enough to delight any follower of Spurzheim 
 with its magnificent developments. " There's a good deal 
 of floating capital here, in the way of learning, only it does 
 not bring in much interest." 
 
 Philip smiled. " So your life has been devoted to study! 
 Of what kind]" 
 
 " Oh, I have contrived during sixty years to put into this 
 pericranium some dozen languages, a good deal of mathe- 
 matics and metaphysics, a little of nearly all the onomies and 
 ologies, with fragments of literature and poetry, to lighten the 
 load and make it fit tight together. As for my profession, it 
 is none at all, if you ask the world's opinion ; but I think I 
 may rank, however humbly, with some honest fellows of 
 old, who in their lifetime were regarded about as little as I 
 am. In fact, my good friend, I may call myself a philo- 
 sopher." 
 
 " And a poet," cried Philip ; " I read it in your eyes." 
 
 The old man shook his head. " God makes many poets, 
 but He only gives utterance to a few. He never gave it 
 to me ! Nevertheless, I can distinguish this power in others; 
 I can feel it sometimes rising and bubbling up in my own 
 soul ; but there is a seal on my lips, and I shall remain a 
 dumb poet to my life's end." So saying, Philip's guest 
 rose, and began to button up his well-worn coat, as a pre- 
 parative to his departure. 
 
 "We shall meet again soon," said the young man, 
 cordially. 
 
 " Oh yes ; you will always find me at the British 
 Museum, in the reading-room! I go there every day. 
 'Tis a nice warm place for study ; especially when one finds 
 that dinner and fire are too great luxuries on the same day. 
 I have done so now and then," said the old gentleman, 
 with a patient smile, that made Philip's warm shake of the 
 Land grow into an almost affectionate clasp. They seemed 
 
XXVI.] THE OGILVIES. 199 
 
 to feel quite like old friends, and yet tq^this minute they 
 did not know each other's name. The . elder one was 
 absolutely going away without this necessary piece of in- 
 formation, when Philip, disclosing his own patronymic, 
 requested to know his visitor's. 
 
 " My name, eh 1 Drysdale David Drysdale. A good 
 one, isn't it ] My great-grandfather made it tolerably well 
 known among the Scottish Covenanters. The Christian 
 name is not bad, either. You know the Hebrew meaning, 
 ' beloved.' Not that it has been exactly suitable for me 
 I don't suppose any one in the world ever loved me much " 
 and a slight bitterness was perceptible in the quaint 
 humour of the tone. But it changed into softness as he 
 added, " Except except my poor old mother. Young man," 
 he continued, " when you have lived as long as I have, you 
 may perhaps find out that there are in this world two sorts 
 of love only which last until death, and after your 
 mother's love, and your God's." He took off his hat 
 reverently, though they stood at the street-door, exposed 
 to the bleak wind ; then put it on again, and disappeared. 
 
200 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP, 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIL 
 
 Oh, propliesy no more, but be the poet ! 
 
 This longing was but granted unto thee 
 That, when all beauty thou couldst feel, and know it, 
 
 That beauty in its highest thou couldst be. J. R. LOWELL. 
 
 I am a youthful traveller in the way, 
 And this slight boon would consecrate to thee 
 Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free. 
 
 KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 PHILIP was in the habit of laying up in his memory a 
 kindly store of his little daily adventures, in order to amuse 
 Leigh Pennythorne. Also, as the boj r grew more and 
 more of a companion and friend, he shared many of Philip's 
 most inward thoughts always excepting the one, which 
 lay in the core of the young man's heart. Therefore Leigh 
 was soon informed of the singular acquaintance that Wych- 
 nor made in the last chapter. 
 
 " David Drysdale ! " said Leigh. " Why, my father, nay 
 everybody knows old Drysdale. I have seen him here 
 sometimes, and watched those curious eyes of his they 
 seem to look one through." 
 
 " Does he come often 1 " 
 
 " No, my father can't endure him says he is such a 
 bear. Then Drysdale has a great deal of dry humour ; and 
 when two flints meet there is a blaze directly, you know." 
 
 "But still there is no quarrel between him and Mr. 
 Pennythorne ? " 
 
 " Oh no ; my father would never quarrel with such a 
 man as Drysdale. He has wonderful influence, in a quiet 
 way, among literary people. He knows everybody, and 
 everybody knows him. I have heard that his learning is 
 prodigious ! " 
 
XXVII.] THE OGILVIES. 201 
 
 " I found that out very soon/' said PluJip, smiling. 
 
 " Ay, and so did I," Leigh continued. " In those old 
 times of work work work you know," and the boy 
 seemed absolutely to shudder at the remembrance, " my 
 father once sent me down stairs to show off my Greek to 
 Drysdale. How the old fellow frightened me with those 
 eyes of his ! I forgot every word. And then he told my 
 father that I was not quite such .a fool as I looked ; but 
 that I should soon be, if I went on with the classics. Per- 
 haps he was right," said Leigh, sighing. " However, my 
 father never asked him here again, but made me work 
 harder than ever." Philip saw that the boy's thoughts 
 were wandering in a direction not good for him ; so he 
 took no notice, but pursued the questions about the old 
 philosopher. " How happens it, though, that Drysdale is 
 so poor 1 " 
 
 " I have heard my father say it is because of his genius 
 and his learning, which are never of any use to their pos- 
 sessors. But I do not exactly think that ; do you 1 " 
 
 " No ; however, your father has many peculiar opinions 
 of his own," answered Philip, always careful in their various 
 conversations to remember that Leigh was Mr. Penny- 
 thorne's son. " It seems to me that this man's tastes, 
 while rendering him somewhat unfit for the ordinary world, 
 also make him independent of it. If he had just enough 
 to keep him alive, and plenty of opportunity for study, I 
 fancy Drysdale would be quite happy." 
 
 " Very likely ; but it is an odd taste," said Leigh. " I 
 can understand genius not learning." 
 
 " Our queer old friend has both, I think." And Philip 
 repeated the substance of the last evening's conversation, 
 which had clung closely to his memory. Leigh listened 
 eagerly, partly because he comprehended some little of it. 
 but more because he saw how deeply his friend was inte- 
 rested. 
 
 " Mr. Wychnor," he said at last, " if you understand and 
 feel all this, you must have an equal intellect yourself. 
 Otherwise you would not care for it in the least." 
 
 The simple argument struck home. It brought to the 
 
202 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 young author's mind the first consciousness of its own 
 powers, without which no genius can come to perfection. 
 It was not the whisper of vanity the answering thrill to 
 idle praise but the glad sense of an inward strength to 
 carry out the purpose which filled the soul. It was the 
 power which made the new-born Hercules stretch forth 
 among the serpents his babe's arm, and feel that in its 
 nerves lay the might of the son of Jove. The thought 
 was so solemn, yet so wildly delicious, that it brought a 
 mist to Philip's eyes. " God bless you, Leigh ! " he mur- 
 mured. " You have done me good many a time ; and if 
 this should be true, and I ever do become what you say 
 why, I will remember your words, or you must remind me 
 of them." 
 
 Leigh turned round, and looked for a moment -fixedly 
 and sadly in his companion's face. "You do not mean 
 
 what you say ; you know that I But we will talk no 
 
 more now," he said, hurriedly, as he caught sight of his 
 mother entering the room. However, when he had 
 minutely and affectionately discussed with her the im- 
 portant topic of what he could eat for dinner, the boy lay 
 for a long time silent and pensive. It might be that upon 
 him too had come a new and sudden thought more 
 solemn than even that which had cast a musing shadow 
 over Philip Wychnor. Both thoughts passed on into the 
 undefined future; but one was of life, the other of 
 death ! 
 
 Mrs. Pennythorne, supposing her boy was asleep, went 
 on talking to his friend in her own quiet, prosy way, to 
 which Philip had now grown quite accustomed. His fond- 
 ness and care for Leigh had touched the mother's heart, 
 and long since worn away her shyness. On his part the 
 young man was an excellent listener to the monotonous, 
 but not unmusical flow of mild repetitions which made up 
 Mrs. Pennythbrne's conversation. On this occasion it 
 chiefly turned upon Frederick's wedding, his new house 
 and furniture, which she accurately catalogued, beginning 
 with the drawing-room carpets, and ending with the kit- 
 chen fire-irons. Philip tried to attend, but at last his 
 

 XXVII.] THE OGILVIES. 203 
 
 thoughts went roaming; and his answers subsided into 
 gentle monosyllables of assent, which, fortunately, were all 
 that the lady required. 
 
 Of Leigh his mother did not speak at all, except to say 
 that the pony-carriage, which Mrs. Frederick had thought 
 indispensable, wcruld be useful to take the boy country- 
 drives when the spring came supposing he needed them 
 by that time, which was not likely, as he had been so 
 much better of late. And then, as she glanced at the face 
 which lay back on the sofa-pillow, with the blue-veined, 
 shut eyelids, and the dark lashes resting on the- colourless 
 cheek, in a repose that seemed almost deeper than sleep, 
 the mother shivered, looked another way, and began to 
 talk hastily of something else. A few minutes after, the 
 peculiar rap with which Mr. Pennythorne signalled his 
 arrival was heard at the hall-door. Those three heavy 
 strokes had always the effect of an electric shock on the 
 whole household, producing a commotion from cellar to 
 attic. Mrs. Pennythorne jumped up with alacrity, only 
 observing, timidly, that she hoped the knock would not 
 awaken Leigh. 
 
 " I am not asleep, mother," said the boy, rousing himself, 
 as she quitted the room in answer to the "marital sum- 
 mons. "Mr. Wychnor, come here a minute," he added, 
 hurriedly, the flush rising into his white cheek at the very 
 sound of his father's step. " Don't tell him you know 
 Drysdale it might vex him. He is rather peculiar, you 
 know." 
 
 "How thoughtful you are grown, my dear kind boy! 
 And was that what you lay pondering upon when we 
 fancied you asleep 1 " 
 
 " Not quite all," Leigh replied, suddenly looking grave, 
 "but but we'll talk of that another time. You must 
 go to the Museum Reading-room ; it would be such a nice 
 place for you to work in, far better than your own close 
 little room. You don't yet feel what it is to be shut up 
 all day, until you grow sick, bewildered, ill. No, no, you 
 must not get ill," cried the boy, earnestly ; " you must live 
 live to be a great man. And remember always what' 
 
204 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 we talked about to-day," he continued, dropping his voice 
 to a whisper as his father entered the room. 
 
 Mr. Pennythorne whisked about in his usual 'style, skip- 
 ping hither and thither, and shaking his coat-tails whenever 
 he rested, after a fashion which gave him very much the 
 appearance of a water- wagtail. He was evidently in high 
 feather, too asked Leigh how he felt himself, and only 
 called him " stupid " twice within the first ten minutes. 
 Then he turned to Philip. 
 
 " Well, and how does the world treat you, young Nor- 
 wycli ? " (Mr. Pennythorne had an amusing system of 
 cognominising those about him by some ingenious trans- 
 position of their various patronymics ; and this was the 
 anagram into which Philip Wychnor's surname had long 
 ago been decomposed.) " Where do you put your carriage 
 and pair, my young friend? I have not seen it yet." 
 
 Philip smiled ; but he was too well accustomed to the 
 bitter " pleasantries " of his would-be patron to take offence, 
 and he always bore it patiently for Leigh's sake. 
 
 "Ay, that's all the good of being a gentleman with a 
 large independence in the head, at least ; " and Mr. Penny- 
 thorne laughed at what he considered his wit. "Now, 
 here's my Fred clever fellow! knows how to make his 
 way in the world ! just come from his house in Harley 
 Street splendid affair! furnished like a duke's as, in- 
 deed, Mrs. Lancaster observed. By-the-by, Gillie, my dear ! " 
 
 "Yes, Pierce," was the meek answer from behind the 
 door. 
 
 " I met Mrs. Lancaster in the Park charming woman 
 that ! moves in the highest circles of literature. Of course 
 you are acquainted with her, St. Philippus of Norwich 1 " 
 
 " No," answered the young man, shortly ; " except once 
 in your hall, I never heard the name." In truth he never 
 had, notwithstanding Eleanor's acquaintance with the lady. 
 But Mrs. Lancaster was the last person likely to have place 
 in the memory, or the letters, of Philip's betrothed. 
 
 " Then you have a pleasure to come for, of course, the 
 fair Lancastrian will strain every nerve for an introduction 
 to such a desirable young man, that you may embellish her 
 
XXVII.] THE OGILVIES. 205 
 
 literary soirees with your well-earned fame." Mr. Penny- 
 thorne drew the bow at a venture ; and, as he saw Philip's 
 cheek redden, congratulated himself on the keen shafts of 
 his irony, quite unconscious how near sarcasm touched 
 upon the truth. " And this reminds me, Gillie, my dear, 
 that, hearing what a beautiful and talented woman I have 
 the honour to call my wife, Mrs. Lancaster has invited you 
 to grace with your presence the next soirfo." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Penny thorne drew back aghast. " You know, 
 Pierce, I never go out," she feebly remonstrated ; " I had 
 rather stay with Leigh." 
 
 " My dear, the whole party would languish at your ab- 
 sence, and I cannot allow it. Besides, you will have to 
 matronise your fair daughter-in-law, for Mrs. Lancaster is 
 well acquainted with the Ogilvies, knows every branch of 
 the family, and will ask them to meet us. The matter is 
 decided Friday the 17th sees us all at Rosemary Lodge." 
 So saying, he hopped up-stairs, but not before Philip's 
 quick ears had caught the whole of the last sentence. In- 
 deed, of late he had been ever on the watch for some 
 chance information which might have reference to Eleanor, 
 whose long and unwonted silence had made him feel some- 
 what anxious. And even as he walked home that night, 
 his memory retained with a curious tenacity the date and 
 the place of this reunion of the Ogilvie family. He recurred 
 to the circumstance again and again, in spite of the more 
 serious thoughts which now occupied him ; and almost 
 wished that there had been some truth in the sneering 
 remarks of Mr. Pennythorne as to his own future invita- 
 tion to Rosemary Lodge. 
 
 There is an old Norse fable about the Nornir, or Fates, 
 who sit weaving the invisible threads of human destiny, 
 stretching them from heaven to earth, winding them in 
 and out about man's feet, intercepting and intervolving 
 him wherever he moves. One of these gossamers, stirred 
 by the breath of Philip's idle wish, thereupon fell in his 
 pathway and entangled him. But the web, at first light 
 as air, grew afterwards into a heavy coil, woven of the 
 darkest fibres with which humanity is bound. 
 
206 THE OGILVIES, [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 You may rise early, go to bed late, study hard, read much, and 
 devour the marrow of the best authors ; and when you have done all, 
 be as meagre in regard of true and useful knowledge as Pharaoh's lean 
 kine after they had eaten the fat ones. BISHOP SANDERSON. 
 
 I DO not think any poet or novelist has ever immortalised 
 that curious place well known to all dabblers in literature 
 or science, the Reading-room at the British Museum. Yet 
 there is hardly any spot more suggestive. You pass out 
 of the clear daylight into large, gloomy, ghostly rooms, the 
 walls occupied by the mummied literature of some cen- 
 turies, arranged in glass cases. You see at various tables 
 scores of mute readers, who sometimes lift up a glance as 
 you pass, and then, like Dante's ghosts in purgatory, re- 
 lapse into their penance. Indeed, the whole scene, with 
 the spectral attendants flitting to and fro, and the dim 
 vista extending beyond the man who takes the checks (alas 
 for poetic diction !), might easily be imagined some Hades 
 of literature, where all erring pen-guiders and brain-workers 
 were doomed to expiate their evil deeds by an eternity of 
 reading. Not only the lover of poetic idealisation, but the 
 moralising student of human nature, would find much food 
 for thought in the same reading-room. Consider what 
 hundreds of literary labourers have toiled within these 
 walls ! Probably nearly all the clever brains in the three 
 kingdoms have worked here at some time or other for 
 nobody ever comes to the reading-room for amusement. 
 If a student had moral courage enough to ask for the last 
 new novel, surely the ghosts of sombre ponderous folios 
 would rise up and frown him into annihilation. The book 
 of signatures, where every new comer is greeted by the 
 
XXVIII.] THE OGILVIES. 207 
 
 politest of attendants, handing him the inost detestable of 
 pens, is in itself a rich collection of autographs, com- 
 prising almost every celebrated name which has risen year 
 by year, and many oh, how many ! that the world has 
 never chronicled at all. 
 
 The Eeading-room is fertile in this latter class meek 
 followers of science, who toil after her and for her, day by 
 day, and to whom she only gives her livery of rags. You 
 may distinguish at a glance one of these habitvAs of the 
 place, shabb3 r , at times almost squalid in appearance, 
 plunged up to the ears in volumes as rusty and- ancient as 
 himself. At times he is seen timidly propitiating some at- 
 tendant with small fragments 'of whispering conversation, 
 listened to condescendingly, like the purring of a cat which 
 has become a harmless household appendage. Possibly the 
 poor old student has come daily year after year, growing 
 ever older and shabbier, until at last the attendants miss 
 him for a week/ One of them perhaps sees in the papers 
 a death, or some mournful coroner's inquest ; and recollect- 
 ing the name, identifies it as that of the old bookworm. 
 Then there is a few minutes' talk by the ticket-keepers' 
 den at the end of the rooms one or two of the regular 
 frequenters are told of the fact, and utter a careless " Poor 
 old fellow, he seemed wearing out of late ! " the books 
 put by for his daily use are silently replaced, and one more 
 atom of disappointed humanity is blotted from the living 
 world. 
 
 This illustrative exordium may be considered as herald- 
 ing the advent of a new Museumite in the person of Philip 
 Wychnor. Speculations something like the foregoing oc- 
 cupied him during the time that he was awaiting the asked- 
 for book, and trying to discover among the thick-set 
 plantation of heads brown, black, fair, red, and grey 
 young, old, ugly, handsome, patrician, and plebeian the 
 identical cranium of his new acquaintance, David Drysdale. 
 First, he thought of promenading the long alleys and 
 peering over every table, but this sort of running the 
 gauntlet was too much for his nerves. So, inquiring of 
 the head attendant the tutelary Lar of the place, who 
 
208 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 knew everybody and helped everybody a sort of literary 
 lion's-provider, with good-nature as unfailing and universal 
 as his information Philip soon learned the whereabouts 
 of old Drysdale. There he was, with his bald head peer- 
 ing from a semicircle of most formidable books ; looking 
 by the daylight a little older and a little more rusty in 
 attire. He greeted his young friend with a pleased look, 
 and began to talk in the customary Museum under tone. 
 It was a drowsy murmur, such as a poet would liken to 
 the distant humming of the Hybla bees ; and perhaps the 
 simile is not inapt with regard to this curious literary 
 hive. 
 
 " Glad to see you here, my young friend very glad 
 shows you're in earnest," said Drysdale. " Ever been here 
 before 1 " 
 
 Philip answered in the negative. 
 
 " Isn't it a fine place a grand place ? Fancy miles of 
 books, stratum upon stratum ; what a glorious literary 
 formation ! Excuse me," he added, smiling, "but I've been 
 reading geology all the morning, and then I always catch 
 myself ' talking shop, 1 as some would elegantly express it. 
 You don't study the science, I believe 1" 
 
 "No," said Philip; "the earth's beautiful outside is 
 enough for me ; I never wished to dive beneath it." 
 
 " Mistaken there, my good sir," answered the other, in a 
 tone of gentle reproof; "you should try to learn a little of 
 everything. I always do. When I hear of any science or 
 study, I feel quite uncomfortable until I have mastered it, 
 or at least know enough of it to form a judgment on the 
 remainder. You would be astonished at the heterogeneous 
 mass I ha\e collected here," he pointed to his forehead, 
 " and I am still working on. Indeed, I should lament 
 something like Alexander the Great when he reached the 
 world's end, if I thought there were no more sciences for me 
 to conquer. But that is not likely," said the philosopher, 
 with an air of great consolation, as he eyed affectionately 
 the pile of books that surrounded him. Philip hoped he 
 was not interrupting any work. 
 
 " Bless you, no ! I can settle to it again directly." 
 
XXVIII.] THE OGILVIES. 209 
 
 " This would seem a capital place for the study, not only 
 of books, but of human nature,' ; observed-Philip. " I never 
 saw such a collection of odd people." 
 
 Drysdale laughed. " Yes ! I believe we are an odd set 
 we don't care at all for our outward man. There lies the 
 difference between your man of science, the regular old 
 bookworm, and your man of genius a poet, for instance. 
 The latter sort has the best of it, for with him the soul has 
 greater influence over the body. I never knew a genius yet 
 mind you ! I use the word in its largest sense who 
 did not bear with him, either in face, or person, or in a 
 certain inexplicable grace of manner, the patent of nobility 
 which heaven has bestowed upon him ; while the hard- 
 working grubbers in science and acquired learning often 
 find the mud sticking to them ! Their pursuits are too 
 much of this world to let them soar like those light- winged 
 fellows. One class is the quicksilver of earth the other, 
 its plain useful iron. You couldn't do well withqut either, 
 I fancy eh ?" The old philosopher rubbed his hands, and 
 pausing in his oration, sat balancing himself on the edge of 
 one of these comfortable chairs with which a benign 
 government indulges Museum-frequenters. Philip, much 
 amused, tried to draw the conversation into its original 
 channel. 
 
 " You have a few fair students also ; I see a sprinkling of 
 bonnets here and there." 
 
 Drysdale shrugged his shoulders. "Ah, yes! Much 
 good may it do them ! Some of them seem to work hard 
 enough, poor little souls ! but they had far better be at 
 home making puddings. I don't like learned women in 
 general ; not that I mean women of real intellect, regular 
 workers in literature ; but small philosophers in petticoats, 
 just dipping their pretty feet into the cold water of the 
 sciences, and talking as if they had taken the whole bath. 
 Here's one of them ! " added the old gentleman, with visible 
 discomfiture, as a diminutive dame in all the grace of 
 fashionable costume floated up the centre aisle, we were 
 about to write, and may still do so, considering what a 
 great temple of literature we are now describing. 
 
 P 
 
210 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 " Ah, Drysdale 1 you are just the very person I want," 
 lisped the new comer ; and Philip at once recognised both 
 face and voice as belonging to the lady he had once glanced 
 at in Mr. Penny thorne's hall. He began to notice with 
 some curiosity the well-known Mrs. Lancaster. Eather 
 surprised was he to find so stylish a dame on terms of 
 condescending familiarity with old David Drysdale. He 
 did not know that lion-hunters often prefer for their 
 menageries the most rugged and eccentric animals of that 
 royal breed. Besides, the shabbiness and singularities of 
 the queer-looking philosopher were tolerated everywhere, 
 even among the elegant clique who honoured literature by 
 their patronage. 
 
 Philip Wychnor was too courteous to gratify his curiosity 
 by much open observation, still he could not but be amused 
 by the visit of this fair devotee to literature. The excellent 
 presiding Lar before mentioned, who was especially the 
 good genius of feminine bookworms, found himself per- 
 petually engaged in foraging out for her ponderous volumes 
 which she carelessly turned over, to the imminent peril of 
 her lemon-coloured gloves, and then as carelessly threw 
 aside. One or two quiet, elderly readers, at the other side 
 of the table, had their studies grievously interrupted by the 
 quick, sharp voice; and, no doubt, devoutly wished all 
 female literati, and this one especially, in some distant 
 paradise of fools not particularly specified. At last Mrs. 
 Lancaster began to look about her, and talk in an under 
 tone to David Drysdale. Wychnor thought it was some 
 Literary secret, and with quite needless delicacy made for 
 himself an errand to the catalogue-stand. 
 
 Now Mrs. Lancaster, besides her widely -professed ad- 
 miration for literature, had a slight mania for Art. At 
 least, so she said ; and was for ever hunting up models of 
 living physical perfection wherewith to fill her drawing- 
 rooms. She had been watching for some time Philip's 
 exquisitely-marked profile, as he stooped over his book, and 
 now inquired: "By-the-by, Drysdale" (Mrs. Lancaster 
 affected, in common with many literary ladies, the dis- 
 agreeable and mannish custom of addressing her male 
 
XXVIII.] THE OGILVIES. 211 
 
 acquaintance without the Mr.)- " by-the-by, Drysdale, who 
 is that clever-looking, handsome youth 1 He who was 
 talking to you when I came in ?" 
 
 With all his unworldliness, old David had a great deal of 
 shrewdness, especially with regard to other people. He 
 knew how almost impossible it is for a literary man to 
 work his way without entering into the general society of 
 the fraternity, and making personal interests, which materi- 
 ally aid his fortune, though it is his own fault if he suffer 
 them to compromise his independence. Therefore Drysdale 
 saw at once what an advantage it would be to Wychnor to gain 
 admission into Mrs. Lancaster's clever circle. Immediately 
 he set to work to clear the way, by judicious commendations. 
 
 " Eeally, is he so very talented 1 I knew I was right. My 
 instinct never fails!" exclaimed the gratified lady. And 
 she began to debate upon, and criticise Philip's face and 
 head, in order to prove her full acquaintance with physi- 
 ognomy and phrenology. Old Drysdale shrugged his 
 shoulders and listened. He never wasted words on persons 
 of Mrs. Lancaster's stamp " preferring," as he often said, 
 "to let himself be pelted with swine's chaff, rather than 
 cast his own pearls before them." 
 
 However, as soon as Philip returned to the table he per- 
 formed the introduction for which the Mistress of Eosemary 
 Lodge was so anxious. Wychnor was agreeably surprised 
 to find himself graciously invited to accompany her " ex- 
 cellent friend Drysdale " to join the constellation of literary 
 stars that were to illuminate the Lodge with their presence 
 on the identical 17th. 
 
 "By-the-by, Drysdale," continued the lady, "you who 
 have such a fancy for youthful geniuses will meet one that 
 night a Miss Katharine Ogilvie." Here Philip's heart 
 beat quicker, it always did so at the name of Ogilvie. 
 Mrs. Lancaster went on. " She is wonderfully clever, and 
 so lovely ! quite a Corinne at nineteen. I never was more 
 surprised than when I met her last week ; for three years 
 ago I was staying at her father's, Sir Eobert Ogilvie of 
 Summerwood Park, and she seemed the most ordinary 
 little girl imaginable." 
 
212 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 " Humph ! dare say she is the same now. Mrs. Lan- 
 caster's swans are always geese," muttered Drysdale, in an 
 aside. 
 
 Philip's heart beat quicker than ever, for he remembered 
 Eleanor's Christmas visit long ago. 
 
 Mrs. Lancaster, as she prepared to depart, turned from 
 the imperturbable old philosopher to her new acquaintance. 
 " I am sure a man of genius like yourself, Mr. Wychnor, 
 will be delighted with my young improvisatrice, as I call her ; 
 indeed, she is quite an ideal of romance. Only be sure you 
 do not fall in love with her, for people say she is engaged 
 to a cousin of hers, who is always at Summerwood. A 
 propos, Drysdale, in this said Christmas visit our friend 
 Lynedon accompanied me. You know him indeed, you 
 know everybody. He has not written to me this long 
 while. What has become of him ?" 
 
 " Can't say, and don't care," replied the old man, rather 
 gruffly, for his patience was getting exhausted. 
 
 " You never chanced to meet Paul Lynedon, Mr. Wych- 
 nor'?" Philip made a negative motion of "the head, and 
 the voluble lady continued. "You would have exactly 
 suited each other he was such a charming creature so 
 full of talent. But I must not stay chattering here. 
 Adieu ! au revoir." And Mrs. Lancaster vanished gracefully 
 from the reading-room. 
 
 David Drysdale shook himself with an air of great 
 relief, somewhat after the fashion of an old house-dog 
 round whose nose a troublesome fly has been buzzing. 
 Then he settled down among his books in a silence which 
 Philip did not feel inclined to interrupt. 
 
 Mrs. Lancaster's idle talk had stirred a few conflicting 
 thoughts in the young man's bosom. With a natural 
 curiosity, he looked forward to seeing this young cousin of 
 Eleanor's, who, as report said, was likely to become her sister 
 too. Forgetting how false rumour sometimes is, and how 
 
 complete was the seclusion of L , he felt surprised 
 
 almost vexed that his affianced had not alluded to the 
 fact. He wondered also that she had never made mention 
 at any time of this fascinating Paul Lynedon, whom she 
 
XXVIII.] THE OGILVIES. 213 
 
 must, nevertheless, have intimately known at Summer- 
 wood. 
 
 It might have been an error in judgment, and yet it was 
 from a noble and truly feminine delicacy, that Eleanor 
 never told her betrothed of the love she had refused. She 
 had none of that contemptible vanity which would fain 
 carry about as a trophy a string of trampled and broken 
 hearts, ready to flourish them before the eyes of the accepted 
 lover, should the warning be required. Even amidst her 
 own happiness she had sighed over the wound she gave, 
 and kept the knowledge of that rejected love sacred from 
 all, as every generous, delicate-minded woman will. But her 
 silence now aroused more than one doubt in the mind of 
 Philip Wychnor. This was wrong ; he knew it, too ; yet, 
 being restless and uneasy, framed excuses for this idle 
 jealousy over every action of his beloved Eleanor. But 
 Philip Wychnor was a man, after all, and no man living 
 ever can trust as a woman does. 
 
214 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIX. 
 
 My mind misgives 
 
 Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars. 
 Will bitterly begin its fearful date 
 From this night's revels. SHAKSPEAUE, 
 
 Each word swam in on my brain 
 With a dim, dilating pain, 
 Till it burst. * * * 
 I fell flooded with a Dark 
 
 In the silence of a swoon. 
 When I rose, still cold and stark. 
 There was night ! E. B. BROWNING. 
 
 NOTHING could be better arranged than Mrs. Lancaster's 
 soirdes. She collected and grouped her guests as artistically 
 as a fashionable bouquetiere disposes her flowers. They 
 were not all literary people far from it : the hostess was 
 too well acquainted with the idiosyncrasies and peculiarities 
 of the fraternity to risk any such heterogeneous commixture. 
 She adroitly sprinkled here and there a few of those fair 
 scentless blossoms evening-party demoiselles who might 
 be considered as hired only for the night, like the flowers 
 on the staircase, to adorn the mansion. And then, amidst 
 the gay cluster of ordinary humanities, might be distin- 
 guished some homely-looking plant, whose pungent aroma 
 nevertheless diffused itself throughout the whole parterre 
 the poet of nature's making, who brought into refined saloons 
 all the freshness, and a great deal of the mud, from the 
 clods among which he was born. There, too, was the 
 dandy author, who, when deigning to handle the pen, con- 
 sidered literature much the obliged party, the keen sar- 
 castic wit, the porcupine of society, whom everybody hated, 
 yet treated with respect for fear of his quills and the timid 
 
XXIX.] THE OGILVIES. 215 
 
 aspirant, who sat in a corner and watched the scene with 
 reverent and somewhat fearful eyes. All these were in- 
 geniously amalgamated, so as to form the very perfection 
 of reunions. Nobody felt obliged to "talk blue;" and 
 while the heavy conversationalists had full play in snug 
 corners, there were interludes of dancing and music to lighten 
 the hearts and heels of the rest. 
 
 Philip Wychnor watched this moving panorama with 
 considerable interest. At Oxford, the compulsion of honest 
 poverty and his own inclinations had caused him to lead 
 the life of a very hermit : in fact, to few young men of his 
 age could that great raree-show, Society, appear so new. 
 David Drysdale, who kept close beside him, took quite a 
 pleasure in witnessing the almost child-like amusement of 
 his young acquaintance, and in pointing out -to him the 
 various concomitants which made up the soirfo. 
 
 " There stand the Merry-go-rounds," said he, pointing 
 to a curiously-mingled group, in which the most prominent 
 were a very big man and a very little one. "They all 
 belong to the Merry-go-round paper you may know that 
 by their talk, a whole artillery of fun and jest. But they 
 have a character for wit to keep up, and must do it, well or 
 ill, like the king's fools of old." 
 
 "Amateur assumers of the cap and bells, I presume 1" 
 observed Philip, smiling. 
 
 " Just so, but not all of them. Look at that man to 
 whom everybody listens whenever he opens his lips. He 
 buzzes about like a wasp, and wherever he settles for a 
 minute, it is ten chances to one that he does not leave a 
 sting behind. But he is a clever fellow, nevertheless 
 brimming over with wit ; his tongue and his pen are like 
 lancets \ and if they do bleed Dame Society pretty freely, 
 it is most frequently to keep down the lady's own plethora, 
 and remove all bad humours." 
 
 " Who is that gay butterfly of a young man, who seems 
 to set himself in opposition to your wasp ] He keeps up 
 an incessant rattle of small witticisms, chiefly directed to 
 the ladies, with whom he appears quite a pet." 
 
 " Did you ever know true coin that had not its counter- 
 
216 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 feit ? lie is a small mimic of the other a mushroom-wit, 
 sprung up in a night out of the very refuse-bed of literature. 
 He belongs to the Young England school of authorship 
 impudent jesters who turn the most earnest things of life 
 into farce who would parody Milton, and write a Comic 
 History of the Bible. 
 
 I'd put in every honest hand a whip 
 
 To lash the rascals naked through the world. " 
 
 cried worthy old David, with an energy that, while it made 
 Philip smile, touched him deeply. That one grain of true 
 earnestness seemed to purify the whole heartless, worldly 
 mass around him. The young man grew stronger in heart 
 and purpose every hour of his association with Drysdale. 
 
 " There are two of another set. You will find all this 
 literary world divided into sets," observed the old philoso- 
 pher, glancing towards a couple who were talking together 
 a little aloof from the rest. 
 
 " You mean that patriarchal old man, with a grand mass- 
 ive head, and the younger one, with hair parted in the 
 centre, and a face that reminds one of Raphael's angels 1 I 
 have been watching them some time they talk so earnestly, 
 and are such a picturesque couple to look at ; only I don't 
 like that outri affected style of dress." 
 
 " Yet there is a great deal of good in them, for all that. 
 They belong to the Progress movement people sincere and 
 earnest in their way, only they are ever trying to move the 
 world with their own small Archimedean lever. Now, 
 though I hold that every man ought quietly to put his 
 shoulder to the wheel and give society a shove onward, as 
 far as he caii in his petty lifetime, yet I don't like much 
 talking about it. With these Progress people it is often 
 * great cry and little wool.' They are always bemoaning, 
 with Hamlet, that 
 
 The time is out of joint, 
 
 but rarely attempt to 'set it right.'" 
 
 " I agree with you," said Philip ; " I believe less in uni- 
 versal than individual movements. If every man began 
 the woik of reformation in himself first, and afterwards in 
 
XXIX.] THE OGILVIES. 21 7 
 
 his own circle, there would be no need- for public revolu- 
 tions at all, To use your own favourite system of symbo- 
 lisation, Mr. Drysdale," continued the young man, with a 
 good-humoured smile, " I think that quietly undermining a 
 rock is far better than blowing it up with gunpowder, 
 because in the latter case you never know how far the 
 work of destruction may extend, and you run a chance of 
 being knocked on the head by the fragments." Drysdale 
 patted his young friend on the arm, with an air of gratified 
 approval. " That's right quite right ! Learn to think 
 for yourself, and don't be afraid of speaking what you think, 
 my dear boy excuse me for calling you so, but you are a 
 boy to me." 
 
 Philip was about to express his sincere pleasure in this 
 new friendship of theirs, when Mrs. Lancaster glided through 
 the still increasing crowd. 
 
 " Drysdale, where are you ? Here in a corner ! Fie, fie ! 
 when every one wants to talk to you." 
 
 " I wish I could return the compliment, ma'am," answered 
 the old man, abruptly enough, for any cynical propensities 
 he had were always drawn out by the flippant tongue of 
 Mrs. Lancaster. 
 
 " Now, really, that's too bad ! What a nice, good, dis- 
 agreeable, comical creature you are ! Here is your old 
 acquaintance, Mr. Penny thorne, asking for you." And as 
 she spoke the individual alluded to made his appearance, 
 shook hands with Drysdale, and then turning round caught 
 sight of Philip Wychnor. A slight elevation of the eye- 
 brows marked Mr. Pennythorne's extreme astonishment at 
 the recognition, but he was too much a man of the world 
 to seem discomposed by anything. He hopped up to Philip 
 with a cordial greeting. 
 
 "My dear young friend delighted to meet you so un- 
 expectedly, and in such charming society too. And so you 
 know that excellent old Drysdale : how surprising : how 
 pleasant ! " And he bustled away to another part of the 
 room, wondering within himself what the (Mr. Penny- 
 thorne's expletives were always confined to mere thoughts) 
 brought the young rascal there 
 
218 THE OGILVTES. [CHAP. 
 
 " You must come with me, Drysdale," pursued Mrs. Lan- 
 caster, laying her tiny white-gloved hand on the rough 
 coat-sleeve of the shaggy-looking old fellow, who looked in 
 that gay assemblage something like the dog Diogenes 
 amidst the train of canine Alexanders in Landseer's picture; 
 " I want to introduce you to my young Corinne my impro- 
 visatrice." But Drysdale still hung back. He had an un- 
 pleasant recollection of innumerable dainty MSS. and scores 
 of young-ladyish poems with which he had been deluged in 
 consequence of doing the civil to Mrs. Lancaster's literary 
 prvttgfa 
 
 " It is I who particularly wish to be introduced to Mr. 
 Drysdale," said a sweet young voice behind ; and the old 
 man could not resist either the voice or the bewitching 
 smile that adorned the lips through which it passed. 
 
 Philip turned gently round, and looked at Katharine 
 Ogilvie. She was indeed dazzlingly beautiful the more 
 so perhaps from the extreme simplicity of her white dress, 
 which contrasted strongly with the be-laced and be-furbe- 
 lowed throng around. Her small, Greek-shaped head had 
 no ornament but the magnificent purple-black hair, which 
 was gathered up in a knot behind, giving to her classic 
 features a character more classic still. But there was no 
 impassive marble beauty about the face. It was all woman 
 the lips now dimpling with smiles, now trembling with 
 ill-concealed emotion, as some sudden thought passed 
 through her mind. How different from the shy girl who, 
 years before, had moved timidly amidst the same scene, in 
 the same place ! 
 
 Katharine felt it so ; and her heart was full ruiming 
 over with the delicious memories that every moment re- 
 newed, and dilating with a joyful pride as she compared 
 the present with the past. She felt she was beautiful 
 she saw how every eye followed her admiringly : she knew 
 that even over that gay and gifted circle the spell of her 
 talents and her fascinations was cast. She gloried in the 
 knowledge. 
 
 " He would not be ashamed of me now," she murmured 
 to herself with a proud happy smile. " No ; when lie 
 
XXIX.] THE OGILVIES. 219 
 
 comes again he will find Katharine not ^unworthy, even of 
 him." And the thought kindled a new lustre in her eyes, 
 and lent an unwonted softness to every tone of her melo- 
 dious voice. How happy she was ! how she seemed to 
 cast everywhere around her an atmosphere of gentle glad- 
 ness ! She inclined particularly towards old David Drys- 
 dale ; and he, on his part, thawed into positive enthusiasm 
 beneath the sunshine of her influence. 
 
 " I wished much to see you, Mr. Drysdale," she said at 
 last, though somewhat timidly, when the conversation with 
 him had grown into quite a friendly chat. "I have 
 heard of you before, from from an old acquaintance of 
 yours ; " and the quick colour rose slightly in her cheek. 
 
 "My dear young lady, I am really honoured delighted!" 
 answered the old man, charmed almost into compliment. 
 " Who could it be ? " Katharine's lips trembled while they 
 framed the name of Paul Lynedon. 
 
 " Lynedon Ah ! I remember him fine fellow to look 
 at, with a great deal in him. But ours was a very slight 
 acquaintance. I have heard nothing of him since he went 
 abroad. Ever been abroad, Miss Ogilvie 1 " added Drysdale, 
 unconsciously turning the conversation ; at which Katharine 
 felt a vague disappointment, for it was pleasant even to 
 hear a stranger utter the name that was the music of her 
 heart. 
 
 " No ! " she replied. " I know scarcely anything of the 
 world except from books. " 
 
 " And perhaps the knowledge thus gained is the best, 
 after all ; at least so says my young friend Philip Wychnor 
 here," said Drysdale, good-naturedly turning to where his 
 new favourite sat aloof. Philip was trying to alleviate his 
 rather dull position with looking over various books. 
 
 " Philip Wychnor ! " echoed Katharine, suddenly re- 
 collecting the name. It caught the owner's ear, and the 
 eyes of the two young people met. " This must be 
 Eleanor's friend ; Hugh told me he was in London " she 
 thought to herself ; and an instinct of something better 
 than curiosity made her ask for an introduction. 
 
 *'I believe you are not quite unknown to me, Mr. 
 
220 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 Wychnor," said Katharine, as Philip answering Drysdale's 
 summons came up to them. "Are you not a friend of 
 my two cousins, Hugh and Eleanor Ogilvie ] " Philip 
 answered in the affirmative. 
 
 Katharine thought his hesitation sprang from the 
 shyness of one unused to society ; women have so much 
 more self-possession than men. She tried to reassure him 
 by continuing to talk. " I am quite delighted to meet you. 
 I remember perfectly how warmly my cousins spoke of you 
 --Eleanor especially. You have known her many years 1 " 
 
 "Many years. And her brother how is he?" con- 
 tinued Wychnor, not daring to trust his voice with a more 
 direct question. 
 
 "Hugh is quite well, I believe I hope. He left 
 Summerwood some days since," said Katharine, while a 
 shadow of annoyance passed over her face, and the clear 
 brow was contracted for a moment. 
 
 " To L , to join his sister, I conclude ?" 
 
 " Oh no ! Eleanor is gone abroad you know.' 1 
 
 " Gone abroad ! " 
 
 " Yes, to Florence, with Mrs. Breynton, her friend, and 
 your aunt is she not 1 I thought, of course, you were 
 aware of the fact." Philip felt sick at heart ; muttering 
 some unconnected words, he turned to look for Drysdale, 
 for he had no power to sustain the conversation. However, 
 the old man was gone. At another time Katharine's 
 curiosity and sympathy would have been excited ; but now 
 her attention was drawn away from him by a chance word 
 one that, whenever uttered in her hearing, pierced 
 through any buzz of conversation, compelling her to listen 
 the name of Paul Lynedon. 
 
 Katharine and Philip chanced to sit together on one of 
 those round ottomans which seem made for double tete-h-tetes ; 
 and behind them were a lady and gentleman chatting 
 merrily. 
 
 " Mr. Lynedon ! " repeated the latter. " So, my dear 
 Miss Trevor, you really know my excellent friend Paul 
 Lynedon." 
 
 " I should rather say I knew him since it is several 
 
XXIX.] THE OGILVIES. 221 
 
 years since we met. He went on the Continent, I believe ? 
 A sudden departure, was it not, Dr. Saville ] " 
 
 " Hem ! my dear madam. Therein hangs a little 
 mystery that I would not mention to any one but to you, 
 who were his very particular friend. In fact, poor Lyne- 
 don was in loye." 
 
 " You don't say so ! " 
 
 " Oh yes ; he told me all about it at the time : long 
 attachment lady engaged to another gentleman. But 
 heigh-ho people's minds change so. / think Lynedon will 
 get her after all and so does Lizzie."., 
 
 "'All's well that ends well.' When is he likely to be 
 married 1 " 
 
 " Lynedon ! Why though you must never breathe a 
 word of this I have every reason to believe it will be very 
 soon. In fact, the happy event may have come off already. 
 For, he tells me, he has lately met her at Florence, where 
 she lives with an old lady. He sees her every day. Sly 
 fellow he says nothing of the wedding ; but he writes full of 
 happiness. I think I have the letter in my pocket now, if I 
 did not send it home this morning to Lizzie. No ! here it is." 
 
 Every word of this mixture of truth and falsehood fell 
 on the stunned ear of Katharine Ogilvie. Yet she sat 
 immovable, her fingers still turning over the book on her 
 lap, her lips still fixed in the courteous smile of attention. 
 Once only her eyes wandered, with uncertain incredulousness, 
 over the letter which Dr. Saville held. It was the known 
 handwriting his hand ! Passionate in all her impulses, she 
 drank in, undoubting, the fatal truth. Her heart died 
 within her, and was turned to stone. 
 
 The next moment Dr. Saville moved to make way for 
 Mrs. Lancaster, who fluttered up all empressement, and 
 entreated her "sweet Katharine" to sing. Katharine 
 arose, and crossed the room with a steady footstep. Philip 
 Wychnor sat down in her place. 
 
 " What a lovely girl that is, and with what intense 
 feeling she sings ! " observed a gentleman to Miss Trevor, 
 as Katharine's voice came from the inner room, clear, full, 
 and pure, without one tremulous tone. 
 
222 THE OGILV1E6. [CHAP 
 
 " Yes ; she is a sweet creature a Miss Katharine 
 Ogilvie." 
 
 " Ogilvie how singular ! Has she any sisters V inquired 
 Dr. Saville. 
 
 " No, I believe not. Why do you ask 1" 
 
 " Because the name of Paul Lynedon's old love the 
 young lady he is going to marry was Ogilvie Eleanor 
 Ogilvie." There was a movement of the fashionable crowd, 
 as one of the guests hastily wound his way through, and 
 passed out at the door. When David Drysdale came to 
 inquire for his young friend, Philip Wychnor was already 
 gone. Still the gay throng fluttered, laughed, and chattered, 
 for an hour or two more, and then dispersed. 
 
 " My dear Katharine, how silent you are ! " remarked 
 Lady Ogilvie, as the carriage drove homewards. 
 
 " I am tired so tired. Let me alone ! " was the answer, 
 in a cold, sharp tone, that excited the mild reproach : 
 
 " Eeally, my dear, I hope you will not get spoiled by the 
 admiration you receive." There was no reply, and the 
 two parents dozed off to sleep. 
 
 Katharine reached her own room, and locked the door. 
 Then she flung her arms above her head with a wild cry 
 of agony half-sob, half-moan and fell heavily on the 
 floor. 
 
XXX] THE OG1LVIES. 223 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 There I maddened. . . . Life swept through me into fever, 
 
 And my soul sprang up astonished sprang, full-staturedjn an hour ; 
 Know you what it is when anguish with apocalyptic Never 
 To a Pythian height dilates you and dispair sublimes to power ? 
 
 E. B. BROWNING. 
 
 Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears such bitter fruit ? 
 T will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be at its root. 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 O YE cold clear winter stars, look down pityingly on that 
 solitary chamber where was poured out the anguish of first 
 passionate love ! Erring it might be hopeless, visionary, 
 even unmaidenly but it was pure, nursed in solitude, and 
 hidden from all human eyes. With strength such as woman 
 only knows, Katharine for hours had sung, talked, and sat 
 in smothered silence ; but when she was alone the terrible 
 cry of her despair burst forth. It was indeed despair not 
 pining, girlish sorrow utter despair. She neither fainted 
 nor wept ; but crouched on the floor, swaying to and fro, 
 her small hands tightly clenched, her whole frame convulsed 
 with a choking agony. 
 
 "0 God! God! let me die!" rose up the almost 
 impious cry of the stricken heart that in happiness had 
 rarely known either thanksgiving or prayer, while moan 
 after moan broke the night-stillness. She breathed no word 
 not even his name. All that she felt then was a longing 
 for silence darkness death. But this stupor did not last. 
 Her burning, tearless eyes, wandering round the room, fell 
 first on the flowers she wore his favourites then on a 
 book he had given her alas ! her whole daily life was full 
 of mementos of him. At once the flood of anguish burst 
 forth unrestrained. 
 
224 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 " Oh, Paul, Paul, must I think of you no more 1 is the 
 old time gone for ever? A life without you, a future 
 wherein the past must be forgotten where even to think 
 of it will be a sin a sin. Oh, God, that I could die ! " 
 And then, like a lightning-flash, came the thought, that even 
 that old time over which she mourned had been only a self- 
 beguiling dream. He had never loved her, not even then ; 
 but he had made her believe so. That moment a new 
 storm of passion arose in her heart. 
 
 " He deceived me ; he deceived me even then ! I in my 
 madness have given him all life, hope, youth ; and he has 
 given me nothing! Paul! Paul Lynedon ! " (and rising 
 up she stood erect pride, indignation, scorn, on every 
 feature) " how dared you ! How dared you to call me your 
 Katharine 1 your 'own Katharine' when all the while 
 you loved another woman ? And now, maybe, you are 
 laughing with her over the poor foolish girl who trembled 
 and blushed in your sight, who had given you her whole 
 heart's love, and would have died for yours ! Died ? 
 Shall I die? shall I?" She went to and fro with quick 
 wild steps, her cheeks burning like hot coals. No tears 
 no, poor wretch to allay her misery came not one blessed 
 tear! Suddenly she stopped before the mirror, and sur- 
 veyed herself from head to foot, regarding intently the 
 beauty in which she had so gloried for his sake. 
 
 61 Shall he say that I pined for him in unrequited love I, 
 Katharine Ogilvie, who might have been admired, loved 
 ay, worshipped?" And her memory pictured the face of 
 Hugh, as when he had last bade her good-bye, pale, sad, 
 with tears in the kind eyes that had watched over her for 
 so many years. His love, if rude, was deep and sincere, and 
 hardly merited a rejection so cold and scornful as she had 
 lately given. Then in her heart dawned a purpose, sprung 
 from the passion which for the time had almost changed to 
 hate, and now warped every feeling of her impulsive nature. 
 It was a purpose from which every woman who loves with 
 a holy and pure love, however hopeless, would turn shud- 
 dering aside, feeling how great was the sin. 
 
 " You shall never triumph over me you, Paul, and that 
 
XXX.] THE OGILVIES. 225 
 
 wife of yonrs ! you shall never laugh together at the girl 
 who broke her heart for you. No ; I will live live to 
 make the world know, and you know, what I am ! Yes, 
 you shall hear of me my beauty, and my talents !" And 
 a strange bitter laugh of self-derision broke from those 
 white lips, over which a few hours before had dimpled the 
 sweet, happy girlish smile. But that never came again 
 no, never more ! 
 
 You, Man ! who with your honey words and .your 
 tender looks steal away a young girl's heart for thoughtless 
 or selfish vanity, do you know what it is you do 1 Do 
 you know what it is to turn the precious fountain of woman's 
 first love into a very Marah, whose bitterness may per- 
 vade her whole life's current crushing her, if humble, 
 beneath the torture of self-contempt, or, if proud, making 
 her cold, heartless, revengeful quick to wound others as 
 she has herself been wounded ! And if she 'marry, what 
 is her fate] She has lost that instinctive worship of 
 what is noble in man, which causes a woman gladly to 
 follow out the righteous altar-vow, and in " honouring " and 
 " obeying " her husband, to create the sunshine of her home. 
 And this is caused by your deed ! Is not such deed a sin? 
 Ay, second to that deadly one which ruins life and fame, 
 body and soul ! Yet man does both towards woman, and 
 goes smiling back into the world, which smiles at him 
 again ! 
 
 It may be said, and perhaps truly, that with most young 
 girls, love is a mere fancy ; that the pain, if any, is soon for- 
 gotten, and so the infliction of it becomes no crime. But 
 how few hearts are ever read, even by those nearest and 
 dearest ! There may be in the inmost core of many a 
 worm of which the world never knows. And every now 
 and then, undistinguished outwardly from the vapid fickle 
 tribe, may be found some nature like Katharine Ogilrie's, 
 of such an one, a blow like this makes either a noble martyr- 
 heroine, or a woman over whom the very demons gloat ; 
 for they see in her their own likeness she is a fallen angel 
 too. 
 
 The distant clanging of Sunrmerwood church-clock re- 
 
226 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 sounded above the moaning of the bleak November wind 
 one, two, three, four, Katharine heard the strokes, and 
 paused. Twelve hours before, she had counted them and 
 longed for the passing of the brief winter twilight, that the 
 pleasant night might come. It would perhaps bring not 
 the sight of Paul Lynedon, that she knew was impossible 
 but at least some tidings of him. Now oh, terrible change ! 
 It was from a world of sunshine, to the same world encom- 
 passed by a thick darkness -not that of holy, star-spangled 
 night, but the darkness of a heavy mist, which pierced into the 
 very soul. Yet she must walk through it, and alone ! The 
 dull blank future lifted itself up before her with terrible dis- 
 tinctness. Year after year to live and endure, and she scarce 
 twenty yet ! Katharine shuddered ; one wild thought of 
 death blessed, peaceful death, self-summoned entered her 
 soul ; but that soul was still too pure to let the evil spirit 
 linger there. Flinging herself on her knees, she buried her 
 head in the little white bed, where night after night she 
 had lain 4own ; reserving always, when the day's cares or 
 pleasures were thought over, a few minutes to muse in the 
 still darkness upon her secret maiden love ; and then had 
 gone calmly to sleep, breathing, with a tender blessing, the 
 one beloved name. Now, that name must never be uttered 
 more ! 
 
 " God ! " she moaned, forgetting her usual form of 
 nightly prayer alas for Katharine ! in forms only had she 
 learned to pray " God ! have mercy have mercy on 
 me ! " Let us speak no more of this night's agony. It 
 was such as no human being has ever witnessed, or ever 
 will, for the heart's most terrible struggles must be borne 
 alone. But a few have felt it God help those few ! He 
 only who gave to mortal nature the power of thus loving, 
 can guide, and sway, and comfort in a like hour. But 
 Katharine Ogilvie knew not this ; therefore, ere the wild 
 prayer which despair had wrung forth passed from her lips, 
 its influence had vanished from her heart. Into that poor 
 torn heart entered misery unknown before ; and its cham- 
 bers, no longer swept and garnished, became the habitation 
 of legions of evil thoughts -to be exorcised thence no more. 
 
XXX.] THE OGILVIES. 227 
 
 The world's daily round goes on, heedless of life, death, 
 love the three elements which compose its chief sorrows 
 and its best joys. Katharine lay down and slept yes, 
 slept \ for terrible suffering often brings such torpor. In 
 the morning she arose and dressed calmly, without a tear 
 or moan. Only once as she stood arranging her long, 
 beautiful hair, in which she always took great pride, for 
 his hand had rested on it the remembrance struck into 
 her heart like a dagger. She could have torn the mag- 
 nificent tresses from her head, she could have cursed the 
 beauty that had failed to win Paul Lynedon ! Hencefor- 
 ward, if she regarded at all the self-adornment which in 
 due measure is charming in a woman, it would be, not 
 from that loving desire to be fair in one beloved sight, but 
 from a desperate, vainglorious pride. She would drive 
 men mad with her beauty, dazzle them blind, set her foot 
 on their necks and laugh them to scorn ! 
 
 Katharine passed down the staircase. The study-door 
 was open, and her grandfather's great cat came purring 
 about her feet, inviting her in. But to cross the threshold 
 of the well-known room ! Everything in it cried out with 
 a fiend-like mocking voice, "Fool fool self-deceiving 
 fool ! The past, the precious past is nothing, was 
 nothing. Blot it out for ever ! " She shivered, locked 
 the door, and fled down the hall. On the table lay some 
 greenhouse flowers the old gardener's daily offering. 
 Above them her bird sang to her its morning welcome ; 
 the gladder because the clear winter sunshine reached it 
 even in its cage. Mechanically Katharine placed the 
 flowers in water ; gave the bird his groundsel ; stooped 
 down to stroke her ever-attendant purring favourite : but 
 the great change had come. Girlhood's simple pleasures 
 were no more for her; she had reached the entrance of 
 that enchanted valley which is either paradise or hell 
 crossed it, and shut the gate behind her for ever. 
 
 " Don't stay here longer than you like, my dear," said 
 Lady Ogilvie, as, long after breakfast was over, and Sir 
 Robert had ridden off to London, Katharine, contrary to 
 her custom, lingered in the room, sitting motionless by the 
 
228 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 fire, with her hands those dear active little hands, gener- 
 ally always employed folded listlessly on her lap. She 
 turned round, bent her head assentingly, and then gazed 
 once more on the fire. 
 
 " Still here, Katharine ! " again mildly wondered Lady 
 Ogilvie, pausing, an hour after, in some housekeeping 
 arrangements. " Pray, my love, do not let me keep you 
 from your studies. I am not at all dull alone, you know ; 
 do run away if you like." 
 
 " I can't, mamma, I am tired," said Katharine, wearily. 
 "Let me stay with you." 
 
 "By all means, dear child. Eeally you do not look 
 well ; come and lay your head on my lap, as you know 
 you always like to do." 
 
 She drew her daughter to her feet, and began smoothing 
 her hair with motherly tenderness, talking all the while in 
 her mild, quiet way. She was very much surprised when 
 Katharine, burying her face in her knees, began to weep 
 violently ; murmuring amidst her sobs, 
 
 " mother, mother ! you love me ; yes, I know you 
 do ! Tell me so again. Let me feel there is some one in 
 the wide world who cares for me." 
 
 " My darling Katharine you are quite ill. This comes 
 of late hours. Indeed, my child, you must cease going to 
 parties. Tell me how you feel exactly." And she com- 
 menced various maternal questionings and advice, which, if 
 tender, were rather prosy and out of place, as they entirely 
 related to the physical welfare of her child. Such a thing 
 as a tortured and diseased mind never entered into simple 
 Lady Ogilvie's calculations. 
 
 Katharine understood this, and drew back into herself 
 at once. Her good and tender mother was very dear to 
 her, so far as natural and instinctive affection went ; but 
 in all else there was a wide gulf between them now 
 wider than ever. Unfortunate Katharine! there was in 
 the whole world no tie close enough to satisfy her soul, 
 no hand strong enough to snatch her from the abyss into 
 which she was already about to plunge. 
 
 " You shall go and lie down again, my dear," said the 
 
XXX.] THE OGILVIES. 229 
 
 mother. Bui Katharine refused. She dared not be alone, 
 and she longed for an opportunity to say that for which 
 she had nerved herself. So, suffering her mother to place 
 her comfortably on the sofa, she rested in apparent quiet 
 for half-an-hour. Lady Ogilvie went in and out softly, 
 and then settled herself to an occupation which was always 
 heavy and irksome to her writing a letter. Looking up 
 with a sigh, after five minutes spent over the first three 
 lines, she saw her daughter's eyes fixed intently upon her. 
 
 " Dear me, Katharine, I thought you were asleep," she 
 said, trying to conceal the note. 
 
 " No, I cannot sleep. Who are you writing to, mamma?" 
 
 " Only to Hugh poor Hugh ! I promised him I would. 
 But you need not be angry at that, my child." 
 
 Katharine saw the opportunity had come : she seized it 
 with a bold, desperate effort. " Mother, put away the 
 letter and come here ; I want to speak to you about 
 Hugh." Her voice and face were both quite calm ; the 
 mother did not see that under the folds of the shawl with 
 which she had covered her child, the damp hands were so 
 tightly clenched that the mark of the nails remained on 
 the rosy palm. 
 
 " Do not let us talk about Hugh, my darling ; it was 
 very sad, and your father and I were troubled and dis- 
 appointed at the time, because we wanted to see our Ka- 
 tharine happy, and we liked Hugh so much. But if you 
 could not love him, why, you know, my child, we shall 
 never tease you any more on the subject. Pray be con- 
 tent." Katharine rose up and looked her mother in the 
 face. Years after, when gentle Lady Ogilvie lay on a 
 death -bed, she described that look, and said it ever haunted 
 her, with the rigid colourless lips, the dark stony eyes, 
 " neither smiling nor sorry." 
 
 "Mother," said the girl, "do not wonder at me do not 
 question me but I have changed my mind. I will marry 
 Hugh, when he or you choose. Write and tell him so." 
 She put her hand to her heart for a moment, as if the 
 effort of speaking had brought a pain there as indeed it 
 had, a sharp bodily pain ; but she hardly felt it then. She 
 
230 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 sat up, and bore her mother's startled, searching glance 
 without shrinking. 
 
 " Do you really mean what you say, Katharine ? Will 
 you make poor Hugh make us all, so happy 1 Will you 
 indeed marry him ] " 
 
 " I will." Lady Ogilvie, much agitated did what nine 
 out of ten gentle-hearted and rather weak-minded women 
 would do on such an occasion she caught her daughter to 
 her bosom, and wept aloud. Katharine repulsed not the 
 caresses, but she herself did not shed a tear. A faint mis- 
 giving crossed the mother's mind. 
 
 " My darling Katharine, you are happy yourself, are you 
 not 1 You are not doing this merely to please your father 
 and me 1 Much as we wished this marriage, we never will 
 consent to the sacrifice of our child." 
 
 " I am not sacrificing myself, mother." 
 
 " Then you really do love Hugh not in a sentimental, 
 girlish way but enough to make you happy with him as 
 your husband 1 " 
 
 " My husband Hugh my husband ! " muttered Katha- 
 rine with quivering lips, but she set them firmly together. 
 The next moment her old manner returned. " Mother, I 
 marry Hugh because I choose ; and when I say a thing I 
 mean it ay, and do it, too. You know that. Is this 
 reason sufficient? I can give half-a-dozen more if you 
 wish." 
 
 " No, my dear love, no. Pray be quiet. I am only too 
 happy so happy I don't know what to do with myself." 
 And she moved restlessly about, her eyes continually 
 running over, even while her mouth wore its most con- 
 tented smile. 
 
 " Now, mamma, come here," said Katharine once more, 
 drawing the letter from its hiding-place. "Finish this. 
 Tell Hugh that I have thought over the matter again, and 
 have changed my mind. I will marry him whenever he 
 chooses. Only it must be soon, very soon." 
 
 " How strange you are, my love ! You do not seem to 
 feel at all like other young girls." 
 
 " Of course not I never did. Now write as I say " 
 
XXX.] THE OGILVIES. 231 
 
 " I will, I will, dear ! Only why musfc the marriage be 
 so soon 1" 
 
 "Because I might change my mind," said Katharine, 
 bitterly. " I have done so once before. My nature must 
 be very fickle ; I want to guard against it, that is all. 
 Now write, dear mother, write." 
 
 The letter was written and despatched. Then Katharine's 
 strange manner passed away, and she seemed calm. So^ 
 the prisoner who writhes in agony on his way to the scaffold, 
 on reaching it mounts with a firm and steady step ; he 
 shrank from the doom afar off; it comes, and he can meet 
 it without fear. 
 
 Lady Ogilvie kept near her child the whole day. In 
 Katharine's demeanour she saw only the natural agitation 
 of a young girl in such a position. She was most thankful 
 that her dear child had made up her mind to marry Hugh, 
 such an excellent young man as he was, -and so suitable in 
 every respect. This marriage would unite the title and 
 estate, keep both in the family beside, and prevent Katha- 
 rine's leaving Summerwood. No doubt they would be 
 very happy ; for if Katharine was not positively in love 
 with her cousin, she liked him well enough, and it was 
 always best to have most love on the husband's side. So 
 reasoned Lady Ogilvie, sometimes communicating her 
 thoughts aloud. But Katharine received them coldly, and 
 at last begged her to change the subject. The mother, 
 ascribing this to natural shyness and sensitiveness, obeyed, 
 as, indeed, she generally did and only too glad was she 
 to have her daughter by her side the whole day. 
 
 " You have quite deserted your own little room, though 
 I know you like it far better than this large dull drawing- 
 room. Come, dear child, let us both go, and you shall 
 sing for me in the study." 
 
 " Not there, not there ! " answered Katharine, shuddering, 
 " I will not go into that room. I hate it." 
 
 "Why so]" gravely said the mother, surprised, and 
 rather uneasy at these sudden whims. Katharine recovered 
 herself in a moment. 
 
 " Did I not tell you how fickle I was ? There is a proof 
 
232 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 of it." And she forced a laugh but, oh, how changed 
 from the low, musical laugh of old ! " Now, don't tease 
 me, there's a dear mother. I have a right to be fanciful, 
 have I not 1 Let me try to sing my whims away." She 
 began to extemporise, as she often did, composing music to 
 stray poetry. First came an air, not merely cheerful, but 
 breathing the desperation of reckless mirth. It floated 
 into a passionate lament. When she ceased, her face was 
 as white as marble, and as rigid. She had poured out her 
 whole soul with her song ; and, absorbed in a deep reverie, 
 she had called up the past before her. She had filled the 
 half-darkened, desolate room with light, and music, and 
 gay laughter. Beside the dear old piano she had seen 
 standing a figure, every attitude, gesture, word, and look of 
 which she knew by heart. A moment, and she must shut 
 it out for ever from fancy and memory. This song was 
 the dirge of her youth and its love. She closed the instru- 
 ment, and in that room or in that house Katharine vowed 
 never to sing more. She never did ! 
 
 Worthy Sir Robert Ogilvie was mightily astonished, 
 when he came home next day, to find his nephew hourly 
 expected as a future son-in-law. He kissed his daughter 
 a ceremony performed solemnly at Christmas and Easter, 
 or when he went on a journey told her he was much 
 gratified by her obedience, and felt sure she would be ex- 
 ceedingly happy in her marriage. 
 
 " Only," observed the sedate baronet to his wife, when 
 they were alone together, " it would have saved much 
 trouble and annoyance if Katharine had known her own 
 mind at first. But I suppose no women especially young 
 womenever do." 
 
XXXI.] THE OGILVIES. 233 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Deep as love, 
 
 Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, 
 death in life the days that are no more ! 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 IT was the eve of the wedding-day ; the day which was to 
 unite, in newspaper parlance, " Katharine, only child and 
 heiress of Sir Robert Ogilvie, of Summerwood Park, to 
 Hugh Ogilvie, Esq., only son of tho late Captain Francis 
 Ogilvie, of His Majesty's Service." Never was there a 
 better match and so said every gossiping party in the 
 village, from the circle round the blacksmith's warm, wel- 
 come forge, to that round the doctor's equally welcome 
 tea-table. Everybody had guessed how it would end, and 
 only wondered it had not come off before. All the world 
 and his wife were making ready for the next day ; for the 
 wedding was to be at the village church, with all necessary 
 accompaniments of green boughs, young girls dressed in 
 white, charity children, etc. etc. 
 
 Love would ever fain seal its vows unobserved, in glad 
 and solemn privacy ; but no such impediment came between 
 Sir Robert and his desire for a little aristocratic ostentation. 
 " It was proper," he said ; " for the Ogilvies were always 
 married and buried in public, with due ceremony." Ka- 
 tharine assented ; and if there came a deeper and bitterer 
 meaning to the set smile which her lips now habitually 
 wore, her father never noticed it. She let them all do with 
 her just what they pleased ; so the joint conductors of the 
 affair, Lady Ogilvie, Mrs. Fred Pennythorne, and Sir 
 Robert, arranged everything between them. 
 
 On the wedding-eve the two former sat with the young 
 
THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 bride in her dressing-room. It was strewed with attire of 
 every kind laces, silks, and satins, tossed about in beautiful 
 confusion. The female ministrants at this shrine had been 
 trying on the wedding-dress, and it hung gracefully over 
 the back of a chair, with the wreath and veil. Lady 
 Ogilvie was just wiping, for the thousandth time, her ever- 
 tearful eyes, and saying she did not know what she should 
 do without Katharine, even for a month. 
 
 " I dare say you will have to learn, aunt," said Mrs. 
 Frederick, who had been quite in her element of late, 
 administering consolation, lectures, and advice, with all the 
 dignity of a newly-married lady. "For my. part, I wonder 
 that Katharine likes the thought of coming back to Summer- 
 wood. I never would have married Frederick at all if I 
 could not have a house of my own." 
 
 " I believe you," said a cold satirical voice, as Katharine 
 looked up for a moment, and then continued her work, 
 making white favours for some old servants, who had 
 begged for this token from the bride's own hands. 
 
 " Eeally, my dear, how sharply you take one up ! you 
 quite forget I am married," said Mrs. Pennythorne, tossing 
 her head. " But I suppose we must humour you. How- 
 ever, things will be different when you are settled again at 
 Summerwood." 
 
 " When I am," was the pointed reply. 
 
 " When you are ! " echoed Mrs. Frederick. " Why, I 
 thought the matter was quite settled. Your father wishes 
 it and your future husband. Ah, when you are married, 
 Hugh will make you do whatever he likes ! " 
 
 " Hugh will do whatever I like," said Katharine, haughtily, 
 and she knew she spoke the truth; the humble, loving 
 slave of one man was fast becoming the tyrant of another. 
 It is always so. " Ask him the question yourself, Isabella," 
 she added, as the bridegroom put his beaming face in at 
 the door. 
 
 Hugh Ogilvie was a fine specimen of mere physical 
 beauty the beau ideal of a young country squire : most 
 girls would have thought him a very Apollo, at a race- 
 course or a county ball. And though somewhat rough, he 
 
XXXI.] THE GIL VIES. 235 
 
 was not coarse, else how could Katharina have liked him 1 
 as she certainly did while they were only cousins. And 
 since his affection for her had grown into the happiness of 
 assured love, his manner had gained a softness that was 
 almost refinement. If with others he laughed loudly, and 
 talked with some vulgarity, he never came into her presence, 
 or within the sphere of her influence, but his tone at once > 
 became gentle and suppressed. He loved her very dearly, 
 and she knew it ; but the knowledge only brought alter- 
 nately scornful triumph and torturing regret. 
 
 " Cousin Hugh ! cousin Hugh ! here's a pretty attempt 
 at rebellion in your bonnie bride ! " said Isabella, flippantly. 
 " It vows and declares that it will not obey its husband, 
 and does not intend to live at Summerwood." 
 
 "What is that about not living at Summerwood'?" said 
 Lady Ogilvie, turning round uneasily, with her pocket- 
 handkerchief at her eyes ; " Katharine does not surely mean 
 to say that ! To lose her so would break my heart." 
 
 " It must not do that, mother ; I hope it will not," 
 answered Katharine, steadily, " but I may as well say at 
 first as at last, that I cannot live here any longer ; I am 
 quite wearied of this dull place, and Hugh must take me 
 away ; as he promised he would, when I engaged to be his 
 wife. Is it not so, Hugh 1" 
 
 " Yes, yes but I thought that is, I hoped " stam- 
 mered the bridegroom, with a disappointed look. 
 
 "You thought I should not expect you to keep your 
 promise ? Well, then, I see no necessity to keep my own." 
 
 "My darling Katharine, don't say so !" cried the lover 
 in new anxiety, as he flew to her side and took her hand. 
 She drew it away, not in coquettish anger, but with a proud 
 coldness, which she had already learned to assume. 
 Already already the tender womanliness was vanishing 
 from her nature, and she who had once suffered the tortures 
 of love was beginning to inflict them. 
 
 " Here's a pretty lover's quarrel ; and the very day before 
 the wedding too I" cried Isabella; "aunt, aunt, you and I 
 had better leave them to make it up alone." And Mrs. 
 Fred Penny thorne led through the open door the still 
 
236 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP 
 
 weeping and passive Lady Ogilvie, who now more than 
 ever was ready to be persuaded by anybody. To tell the 
 truth, Isabella, who had not lost a jot of her envious 
 temper, rather hoped that the slight disagreement might 
 end in a regular fracas, and so break off the marriage. 
 
 Katharine was left alone with her bridegroom. She saw 
 that the time was come for using her power, and she did 
 use it. No statue could be more haughtily impassive than 
 she, though not a trace of that contemptible quality 
 feminine sullenness deformed her beautiful face. She 
 ruled her lover with a rod of iron : in a minute he was 
 before her, humbled and penitent. 
 
 "Katharine dear Katharine don't be angry. I will 
 do anything you like ; only we should be so happy living 
 here." 
 
 "I will not stay at Summerwood. I hate it. Hugh, 
 you promised to take me away : remember that promise 
 now, if you love me, as you say you do." And Katharine, 
 restless from the thought of the battle she had to win, and 
 a little touched by Hugh's gentleness, spoke less freezingly 
 than before. 
 
 "If I love you? You know I do," answered Hugh, 
 fondly winding his arm round her neck. She thrust it 
 back a moment, and then, smiling bitterly, she let it stay. 
 He had a right to caress her now. " Katharine," continued 
 he, " don't you remember the time when we were children 
 at least, you were and I used to carry you in my arms 
 through the fields 1 Don't you remember the old times 
 how we went gathering blackberries how I led your pony 
 and taught you to ride ; do you think I did not love you 
 even then ? And though when we grew up we began to 
 like different pursuits, and you were a great deal cleverer 
 than I, didn't 1 love you as much as ever more, 
 perhaps ?" 
 
 " You did- you did. Good, kind cousin Hugh ! " mur- 
 mured Katharine, with a pang of self-reproach. She thought 
 of her old happy childish days, before the coming of that 
 wild, delicious, terrible love. 
 
 " Well, then, Katharine, let us stay at Summerwood. It 
 
XXXJ.] THE OGILVIES. 237 
 
 will please your father and mother, andone too though I 
 don't say much on that score, and I care little about myself 
 in comparison with you ; but it would be rather hard to 
 give up the shooting and farming, to shut oneself up in a 
 close nasty London square. I really don't think I can 
 consent to it." Katharine rose from her seat all her 
 passing softness gone. She was resolved to rule, and this 
 was the first struggle. The victory must be gained. 
 
 " Hugh Ogilvie," she said, with a cold firmness, " I never 
 deceived you from the first. I told you even when you 
 came back to to be my husband" she said the word 
 without trembling or blushing " that I did not love you 
 as you loved me. But I liked you had liked you from a 
 child. I respected, esteemed you ; I was willing to marry 
 you, if you chose. Is not that true ? " 
 
 " It is it is," murmured the bridegroom, shrinking 
 beneath her proud eye. 
 
 " But I made the condition that you should take me to 
 live elsewhere to see the world ; that I should not be 
 cooped up here it tortures me it kills me ! I want to 
 be free and I will ! Otherwise no power on earth shall 
 persuade or force me to marry you not even though to- 
 morrow was to have been our wedding-day." 
 
 " Was to have been ! Oh, Katharine, how cruel you are ! 
 Say, shall be, for indeed it shall. We will live wherever 
 you like only don't give me up, Katharine. I know how 
 little you care for me, I feel it ; but you may come to care 
 more in time, if you will only let me love you, and try to 
 make you happy. Indeed indeed I would." And the 
 young man, perfectly subdued, knelt before her as she 
 stood, clasping her knees, with tears running down his 
 cheeks. One flash of evil triumph lighted up Katharine's 
 face, and then, for the second time, a pang of remorse 
 pierced her soul. The wickedness, the falsehood of the 
 coming marriage-vow the cruel trampling upon a heart 
 which, whatever its shortcomings, was filled with love for 
 her rushed upon her mind. For a moment she thought 
 of telling him all ; there was a whisper within, urging her 
 to implore his forgiveness, and rather brave the humiliation 
 
238 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 of hopeless, unrequited love, than the sin of entering a 
 married home with a lie upon her soul. But while she 
 hesitated, outside the door rang the light mocking laugh of 
 Isabella ; and the world its idle jests, its hateful pity 
 rose to her remembrance. Her proud spirit writhed. One 
 struggle the whisper grew fainter, and the good angel 
 fled. 
 
 " Katharine, say you forgive me," pleaded Hugh ; " you 
 shall have your own way in this and everything else, if 
 you will only try to love me, and be my sweet, dear, 
 precious wife ! " 
 
 " I will," answered Katharine. If, as the Word saith, 
 " there is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth," 
 surely there must have been sorrow then over one fallen 
 soul ! 
 
 The same night, long after the whole house was hushed, 
 a light might have been seen burning in one of the upper 
 windows at Summerwood. It came from Katharine's 
 chamber. There, for the last time, she kept vigil in the 
 little room which had been her shut-up Eden in childhood, 
 girlhood, womanhood. The very walls looked at her with 
 the old faces into which her childish imagination had trans- 
 formed their shadowy bunches of flowers, when she used to 
 lie in bed awake, but dreaming many a fanciful day- 
 dream, before her mother's morning summons and morning 
 kiss always her mother's broke upon this paradise of 
 reverie. Then there was the bookcase, with its treasure- 
 laden shelves arranged so as to form a perfect life- 
 chronicle. The upper one was filled with old worn 
 child's-books, two or three of Mrs. Hofland's beautiful tales, 
 such as the ' Clergyman's Widow,' the l Young Crusoe, ' and 
 the ' Barbadoes Girl ' books which every child must love ; 
 beside them came a volume of Mrs. Hemans', and the 
 delicious 4 Story without an End,' showing the gradual 
 dawning of fancy and poetry in the young mind. And so 
 the silent history went on. The lower shelf was all filled 
 with works, the strong heart-beatings of heavenly-voiced 
 poets and glorious prose writers Shelley, Tennyson, Miss 
 Barrett, Carlyle, Bulwer, Emerson. And in this era of the 
 
XXXI.] THE OGILYIES. 239 
 
 chronicle, each volume, each page, was ,&live with memo- 
 ries of that strong love which had been the very essence of 
 Katharine's life; out- of which every development of her 
 intellect and every phase of her character had sprung. 
 
 She sat by the fire, rocking to and fro, on the little 
 rocking-chair, which had been one of her fancies, and the - 
 soothing motion of which had many a time composed and 
 quieted her in her light passing troubles. Beside her, on 
 the table, lay the old worn-out desk she had used when a 
 child, and in which, afterwards, she kept her " treasures," 
 She opened it, and looked them all over. 
 
 They were many, and curious, but all relating in some 
 way or other to the great secret of her life. There were 
 numberless fragments of stray poetry, or rather rhyme; 
 some her own some which she had copied fragments 
 made ever after sacred by some comment or praise of Paul 
 Lynedon's. As she read these over, one by one, her breast 
 heaved with convulsive sobs. She choked them down and 
 went on with her task. Other relics were there the 
 usual girlish mementoes a heap of withered flowers 
 which day after day he had given her and she had kept 
 them all. Likewise some verses of a song, written in a bold, 
 manly hand Lynedon had done it to beguile the time, 
 while she was copying music, and had scribbled all along 
 the sides of the page her name and his own. 
 
 Apart from these, in a secret drawer, lay Paul's letter 
 his first and only letter. Katharine tore open its folds, and 
 read it slowly all through. But when she reached the end, 
 she dashed it to the floor. 
 
 " ' His Katharine ! his own. Katharine ! ' And it was 
 all false false? Oh, poor fool that I was poor vain, 
 
 credulous fool But it shall be so no more ; I will 
 
 crush him from my heart thus thus ! " 
 
 Her foot was already on the letter ; but she drew back, 
 snatched it once again, and pressed it wildly to her lips and 
 her heart. 
 
 There was one more relic ; that sketch which bore such 
 
 * a curious resemblance to Paul Lynedon the head of Keats. 
 
 Katharine took the long-hoarded treasure from its hiding- 
 
240 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 place, and gazed fixedly on it for a long time. Then the 
 fountain of her tears was unlocked, and sobs of agony shook 
 her whole frame. 
 
 "Oh, Paul! heart of my heart! why did you not 
 love me 1 Is there any one in the world who would have 
 worshipped you as I ] I who would have given my life 
 to make you happy who would now count it the dearest 
 blessing only to lean one moment on your breast, to hear 
 you say, ' My Katharine ! ' and then lie down at your feet 
 and die. Die 1- Shall I die for one who has thus cruelly 
 deceived me? Nay, but I beguiled myself; I only was 
 vain mad blind ! What was I, to think to win him ? 
 Paul Paul Lynedon no wonder that you loved me not ! 
 I was not worthy oh, no I was not worthy. I am fit 
 for nothing but to die ! " 
 
 In this fearful vigil of despair, fierce anger, and lingering 
 love, the night wore on. It seemed an eternity to the 
 miserable girl. At last, utterly exhausted, Katharine sank 
 into a deadly calm. She sat motionless, her arms folded 
 on the little desk, and her cheek leaning against the mourn- 
 ful relics of a life's dream. Suddenly she heard the twitter 
 of a bird, and saw her lamp grow pale in the daybreak. 
 Then she arose, gathered up her treasures, laid them 
 solemnly, one by one, on the embers of the dying fire, and 
 watched until all were consumed. 
 
 The next day nay, the same day, for it was already 
 dawn Katharine Ogilvie was married. 
 
XXXII.] THE OGILVIES. 241 
 
 CIIAPTEE XXXIL 
 
 Seldom hath my tongue pronounced that nama 
 * * * * 
 
 But the dear love, so deeply wounded then, 
 
 I in my heart with silent faith sincere 
 
 Devoutly cherish till we meet again. SOTJTHEY. 
 
 WE are about to break through all dramatic unity of place, 
 and to convey our readers abroad. Suppose, then, the scene 
 transferred to the Continent Italy Florence. But the 
 reader need not shudder at the name, and expect long- 
 winded descriptions of scenery chapters taken at random 
 from Murray's Handbook ; since, for various excellent rea- 
 sons, we shall eschew all landscape-painting. 
 
 There is, we understand for truth forbids us to speak 
 without this qualification in Florence a pleasant square, 
 which forms a general lounge for idlers, rich and poor, 
 native and foreign, inasmuch as it contains a market, a 
 curious antique building called, not inappropriately, the 
 Palazzo Vecchio and the town post-office. This latter 
 place is of course the perpetual resort of foreigners who are 
 anxious to snatch their precious home-remembrances from 
 the well-known carelessness of Italian officials. Thus, 
 almost all the British residents, or passing visitors to 
 Florence, may be seen at different times strolHng round 
 this square. 
 
 Among them, one day in winter, were two ladies walking 
 slowly, the elder leaning on her companion's arm. Beneath 
 the close black bonnet and veil of the taller one appeared 
 the sharp, regular features of Mrs. Breynton. She looked a 
 little older perhaps, and a little more wrinkled ; but still 
 she was tho same Mrs. Breynton, the widow of the Dean, 
 
 li 
 
242 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 with her tall, straight figure, and her canonically-flowing 
 black robes. The young girl on whom she leaned was, it is 
 needless to say, Eleanor Ogilvie. 
 
 Dear Eleanor the much-tried but yet happy, because 
 loved and loving one ! let us look once more on that slight 
 drooping figure, like a willow at a brook-side that pale 
 clear brow those sweet calm eyes ! But adjectives and 
 metaphors fail ; she is of those whom one does not even 
 wish to describe only to look upon, murmuring softly, " I 
 love you I love you ! " evermore. And where there is 
 love there must be beauty, perhaps the more irresistible 
 because we cannot tell exactly in what feature or gesture 
 it lies. 
 
 Time passes lightly over all equable natures; it had 
 done so over Eleanor Ogilvie. Her mind and character 
 were nearly matured when we first saw her, and a few 
 years made little difference. Perhaps the fair cheek was 
 somewhat less round, and the eyes more deep and thought- 
 ful, especially now, when a care heavier than ordinary 
 weighed on her gentle spirit. But it caused no jarring 
 there ; no outward sign of impatient trouble. To a heart 
 so pure, even sorrow comes as a veiled angel. 
 
 " How cold it is, Eleanor ! " said Mrs. Breynton, as the 
 occasional east wind, which makes a Lombard winter almost 
 like a northern one, swept round the tower of the Palazzo 
 Vecchio ; " I do not see that I am any the better for com- 
 ing to Italy ; it was much warmer at L ." And as 
 
 she spoke, one might perceive that her voice had changed 
 from the slow preciseness of old, to a sharp querulous tone, 
 which seemed to ask, as if through long habit, for the sooth- 
 ing answer that never failed. 
 
 " It is indeed very cold ; but this bleak wind only comes 
 
 now and then. We may be sure that Doctor B was 
 
 quite right when he ordered you to the South ; and I think 
 your cough is better already." 
 
 "Is it ? " said the invalid, and to disprove the fact she 
 coughed violently. " No, no I shall die of asthma, I know ; 
 like my father, and my great-uncle, Sir Philip Wychnor." 
 Here there was a slight movement in the arm on which the 
 
XXXIL] THE OGILVIES. 243 
 
 old lady rested ; it caused her brow to <larken, and the thin 
 lips, through which had unconsciously issued this rarely 
 uttered name, were angrily compressed. She did not look 
 at her companion, but walked on in silence for some 
 minutes. Nor did Eleanor speak, but her head drooped a 
 little lower ; and the moistened eyelash and trembling lip 
 could have told through how much forbearance and meek- 
 ness, daily exercised, had Philip's betrothed kept her pro- 
 mise to him. She was indeed as a daughter unto the stern 
 woman who had once shown kindness towards her lover. 
 It was a strange bond between the two, and formed of 
 many conflicting elements. On one side, the very wrath 
 of Mrs. Breynton towards her nephew made her heart cling 
 with a sort of compassion to the young girl whom she 
 deemed he had slighted ; while, on the other hand, Eleanor 
 forgot at times even the present wrong done to her lover, 
 remembering that Mrs. Breynton was Philip's near kins- 
 woman, and had once been, as far as her cold nature 
 allowed, in the stead of a mother to him. There was still 
 a lingering warmth in the ashes of that olden affection. 
 Eleanor saw it many a time, even in the sudden anger 
 aroused by some chance memento of Philip's childhood ; 
 and, day by day, her whole thought, her whole aim, was to 
 revive this former love. Thus silently, slowly, she pursued 
 the blessed work of the peacemaker. 
 
 She advanced towards the post-office, where, as usual, 
 was a cluster of people anxiously struggling for letters. It 
 would have been an amusing scene for a psychologist or a 
 student of human nature ; but the English ladies had too 
 much interest on their own account to notice those around. 
 They were trying to make their way through the crowd, 
 which, trifling as it was, inconvenienced the precise Mrs. 
 Breynton exceedingly. 
 
 " Let us stay in the rear of this gentleman, who is pro- 
 bably waiting for the English letters," whispered Eleanor, 
 glancing at a tall, cloak enveloped personage who stood in 
 front. Softly as she spoke he seemed to catch the tone, for 
 he turned round suddenly, and Eleanor recognised the face 
 of Paul Lynedon. 4 
 
244 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 She had seen him more than once before at least she 
 fancied it was he in their walks about Florence. But he 
 had never indicated the slightest wish for a recognition. 
 Now, it was difficult to avoid it. Their eyes met, her 
 colour rose, and there was a slight contraction of his brow ; 
 but the next moment he bowed with an easy grace and a 
 polite smile that at once banished from Eleanor's mind all 
 regretful thought of the lover she had rejected. She held 
 out her hand with a frank kindness ; he took it with the 
 same. There was no agitation, no pain, visible in his 
 countenance, for there was none in his heart. A little 
 annoyance or mortification he might perhaps feel, on being 
 unpleasantly reminded of the time when he had "made 
 such a fool of himself;" but he was too polite and too proud 
 to betray the same in word or manner. 
 
 Paul Lynedon quite overwhelmed Mrs. Breynton with 
 his expressions of gratification at meeting with two " fair 
 countrywomen." He was as agreeable as of old ; but his 
 manners wore less of the graceful charm which springs from 
 a kindly heart, and more of that outward empressement 
 which sometimes assimilates to affectation. It was evident 
 that he had become a complete man of the world. He 
 easily procured their letters. There were several for Mrs. 
 Breynton, and two for Eleanor. Hugh's large careless 
 handwriting marked one of the latter. She opened it, and 
 started in joyful surprise at the intelligence it contained 
 the announcement of the intended marriage of her brother 
 and cousin. In sisterly exultation, she proclaimed the 
 news aloud. 
 
 "How glad I am! how I always wished for this! 
 Dear Hugh ! dear Katharine ! You remember Katharine, 
 Mr. Lynedon T' were her hurried exclamations. 
 
 Mr. Lynedon "remembered her quite well, as every one 
 must a sweet girl ! He was indeed happy to hear she 
 was married." This was not exactly true, as, in running 
 over the lists of fair young creatures who had looked 
 favourably on himself, Paul had unconsciously fallen into 
 the habit of including Katharine Ogilvie. She was a mere 
 child then to be sure, but she might grow up pretty ; and 
 
XXXII.] THE OGILVIES. 245 
 
 if so, supposing they ever met again, the renewal of his 
 slight flirtation with her would be rather amusing than 
 otherwise. At hearing of her marriage, he felt an uncom- 
 fortable sensation as he often did at the wedding of any 
 young girl who had appeared to like himself. It seemed to 
 imply, that Paul Lynedon was not the only attractive man 
 in the world. Even when Eleanor, chancing to draw off 
 her glove, had unconsciously exhibited the unwedded left 
 hand, he had glanced at it with a pleasurable vanity. Though 
 he was not in love with her now, and really wondered how 
 he ever could have been, still he felt a degree of self-satis- 
 faction that no other man had gained the prize which he 
 now blushed for ever having sought. How gradually the 
 rust of vain and selfish worldliness had crept over Paul 
 Lynedon's soul ! 
 
 " They must be married by this time," observed Eleanor, 
 referring to the letter. " Hugh says, I think, that it was 
 to be very soon, ah ! yes, the 27th." 
 
 " Then to-morrow is the wedding-day," said Lynedon. 
 " Allow me thus early to offer you my warm congratula- 
 tions, with every good wish to the happy couple." Elea- 
 nor thanked him, her heart in her eyes. Then he made 
 his adieu x, and disappeared among a group of Florentine 
 ladies. There was a ball that night in Florence, at which 
 none were more brilliant or admired than the young Eng- 
 lishman. He smiled as he listened to his name, brokenly 
 and coquettishly murmured by many a fair Italian dama. 
 He did not hear from afar the wild moan of one stricken 
 heart, that in lonely despair sobbed forth the same. 
 Life ! how blindly we grope among thy mysteries ! 
 
 Mrs. Breynton expressed the proper degree of pleasure in 
 a few formal congratulations ; but her knowledge of Hugh 
 was small, and her interest in him still less, for the range 
 of the good lady's sympathies had never been very wide. 
 Besides, she was somewhat shocked at the impropriety of 
 reading letters in the street, and had carefully gathered up 
 her own budget for a quiet home perusal. However, on 
 reaching their abode, she condescended so far as to ask to see 
 Hugh's letter. Eleanor gave it before she had herself quite 
 
246 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 read through the long and rambling effusion of a lover's 
 delight. 
 
 Over it the aged eyes seemed slowly to journey with- 
 out a single change of expression. Eleanor watched the 
 immovable face, and marvelled. A love-history of any 
 kind is regarded so differently at three-and-twenty and 
 three-and-sixty. But when Mrs. Breynton in her slow 
 perusal reached the postscript, her countenance changed, 
 grew pale, and then darkened. She hastily refolded the 
 paper, laid it on the table, and snatching up her own 
 packet of letters quitted the room. 
 
 Eleanor again took Hugh's epistle, and read : " Cousin 
 Bella was married lately to a Mr. Frederick Pennythorne. 
 By-the-by, through this wedding, our old friend, or rather 
 yours, Philip Wychnor, has turned up again, The Penny- 
 thornes know him, and Katharine met him at a grand 
 literary party. He asked after you, but he did not speak 
 about Mrs. Breynton. Is there any breeze between him 
 and the old aunt] He is growing a celebrated author, 
 having turned out quite a genius, as Katharine says : and 
 she must know, being so clever herself," etc. etc. And the 
 lover returned, of course, to the praises of his beloved. 
 
 Eleanor paused, oppressed with many mingled feelings. 
 It was now a long season since she had heard from Philip, 
 though she herself had written regularly. At first his sud- 
 den silence pained her ; and, casting aside all girlish caprice 
 and anger, she had sent more than one letter asking the 
 reason, but no answer came. She then felt, not doubt of his 
 faithfulness, but terror for his health ; until this fear was 
 lightened by her continually tracing his name in various 
 literary channels, and on one occasion receiving, addressed 
 to her in his own handwriting, Philip's first published book. 
 She marvelled that even her loving and delighted acknow- 
 ledgment of this still brought no reply. And yet she 
 trusted him still. She would have doubted the whole world 
 rather than Philip Wychnor's truth. 
 
 Truthful and candid as she was, Eleanor had never sought 
 to make her correspondence with her betrothed a clandestine 
 one. Between herself and Mrs. Breynton there was a perfect 
 
XXXII.] THE OGILVIES. 247 
 
 silence on the subject, without attempt either at explanation 
 or concealment. Month after month the post-bag of the 
 palace had been trusted with these precious love-messages 
 from one true heart to the other ; therefore now no doubt 
 of foul play ever crossed the mind of the young betrothed : 
 she would have scorned to harbour such an unworthy sus- 
 picion of Philip's aunt. Still, Eleanor had need of all her 
 courage and faithful love to bear this, suspense. Even now, 
 when she rejoiced at these good news of him, her gentle 
 heart was sorely pained that Philip himself should not have 
 been the first to convey it. 
 
 She dried a few gathering tears, and determined to write 
 to him and trust him still, until the near termination of 
 this Italian journey should enable her to visit Summerwood, 
 when some blessed chance would bring her face to face with 
 her betrothed. Then she mechanically opened the second 
 letter, which had been neglected for Hugh's. 
 
 It informed her that Sub-Dean Sedley, the unwearied 
 
 backgammon-player of the Close, at L had died and left 
 
 her, Eleanor Ogilvie, sole legatee of all his little fortune ! 
 
248 TilE OGILVIES. [C11AP. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 Cym. disloyal thing, 
 
 That should repair my youth ; thou heapest 
 A year's age on me. 
 
 Imo. I beseech you, 
 
 Harm not yourself with your vexation : I 
 Am senseless of your wrath ; a touch more rare 
 Subdues all pangs, all fears. 
 
 Cym. Past grace ? obedience ? 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 MRS. BREYNTON had the character of being a strong-minded 
 woman ; but no one would have thought so to see her 
 when, after leaving Eleanor, she proceeded to her own 
 apartment and walked restlessly up and down, her whole 
 countenance betraying the inward chafing of her spirit. 
 She glanced carelessly at -the letters she still held, and threw 
 them down again. She was just beginning to grow calm, 
 when another packet was brought her with " Mr. Lynedon's 
 compliments, and he felt glad to have been able to rescue 
 the enclosed from further delay at the post." 
 
 Mrs. Breynton returned a polite message, put on her 
 spectacles, and prepared herself to read the second edition 
 of correspondence. The first of the batch was evidently 
 interesting as it might well be for it looked the fac- 
 simile of that lawyer's epistle which had communicated to 
 Eleanor such important tidings. Mrs. Breynton was rising 
 to summon her young friend, when the second letter caught 
 her eye. It was addressed to Miss Ogilvie, yet she snatched 
 it up, and eagerly examined the handwriting. It resembled 
 that of many a schoolboy letter which at Midsummer and 
 Christmas had come to the palace, which she had deciphered 
 
XXXIII.] TIIE OGILVIES. 249 
 
 not without pleasure from the flourishing " Dear Aunt/' 
 to the small, cramped ending, " Your dutiful and affectionate 
 nephew." It was still more like the careless college scrawl 
 which had weekly informed her of Oxford doings in a frank 
 easy style, whose informality sometimes gained a grave re- 
 proof. As she held the letter to the light, her fingers 
 trembled even though her brow was angrily knitted. Then 
 she turned to the seal a rather remarkable one. It was 
 her own gift she remembered it well with the Wyclmor 
 crest and a cross underneath. What trouble she had taken 
 to have it engraved in time for his birthday. How dared 
 he think of this, and use it now ! 
 
 Mrs. Breynton had never been a mother. No child had 
 ever clung to her bosom and nestled near her heart, to charm 
 away all the coldness and harshness there. Marrying 
 without love, she had passed through life, and never felt a 
 single strong affection. Perhaps the warmest feeling of her 
 nature had been that which in her girlhood united her to her 
 only brother. After this tie was broken, her disposition 
 grew cold and impassive, until the little Philip came a 
 softened image of the past, a vague interest for the future. 
 Every lingering womanly feeling in her frost-bound heart 
 gathered itself around the child of her dead brother ; and 
 with these new affections came a determination, springing 
 from her iron will and inflexible prejudices, to make the son 
 atone for the still unforgiven dereliction of the father, in 
 quitting that service of the sanctuary which had become 
 part of the family inheritance. 
 
 A female bigot is the most inveterate of all. The Sn Jth- 
 field burnt-offerings of Mary Tudor were tenfold more nu- 
 merous than those of the kingly wife-murderer who called 
 her daughter. Had Mrs. Breynton lived in those days, she 
 would have rejoiced in a heretic-pyre. Therefore, when she 
 tried to constrain her nephew to enter the Church, it was 
 with the full conviction that she was doing her best for his 
 soul as well as for his temporal interests. She loved him 
 as much as a woman like her could love ; she desired his 
 welfare ; but then all good must come to him through one 
 way the way she had planned. To this road she had 
 
250 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 alternately lured and goaded him. In his destiny she pro- 
 posed to include two atonements, one on the shrine of the 
 Church, the other, by his union with Eleanor, to the 
 memory of the girl's forsaken mother. 
 
 When the conscientious scruples of the young man 
 thwarted this great scheme of her life, Mrs. Breynton was 
 at first paralysed. That Philip should venture to oppose 
 herself that he should dare to doubt those ecclesiastical 
 mysteries, without the pale of which she conceived all to 
 be crime and darkness, was a greater shock than even the 
 shortcomings of his father. She felt overwhelmed with 
 horror and indignation ; an indignation so violent, that 
 both then and for a long time afterwards it caused her, like 
 most bigots, to confound the sinner with the sin, until she 
 positively hated the nephew who had once been to her a 
 source of interest and pride. But, this first tempest of 
 wrath over, she began to incline towards the lost one ; and 
 with a strange mingling of affection, obstinate will, and that 
 stern prejudice which seemed to her darkened eyes the true 
 spirit of religion, Mi's. Breynton determined, if she could 
 not win, to force her nephew into the path for which she 
 had destined him. 
 
 Long she pondered upon the best method of accomplish- 
 ing her will ; and, embittered as she was against Philip, it 
 was some time before she could reconcile her pride and her 
 conscience to do that which, by driving him to despair, 
 would at last bring home the repentant prodigal. But 
 when, in her blindness, she had fully satisfied herself that 
 " the end sanctified the means," she commenced the plan 
 which suggested itself as best. No more letters were 
 received either by Philip or Eleanor. All were intercepted 
 and consigned to the flames, in Mrs. Breynton's room. She 
 did not open or read a single one ; for, while persuading her- 
 self that she was fulfilling a stern duty, the Dean's widow 
 would have scorned to gratify idle curiosity or malice. 
 She could, self-deceived, commit a great crime, but she could 
 not stoop to a small meanness. Unmoved, she saw Eleanor's 
 cheek grow pale with anxiety, and fancied that all this time 
 she was working out the girl's future happiness ; that the 
 
XXXIII.] THE OGILVIE8. 251 
 
 recreant lover would be brought to his senses, would immedi- 
 ately seek his betrothed. Once more under her roof and 
 Mrs. Breynton ]onged with a sickly longing to have him 
 there once she doubted not her influence over him. She 
 could not lose him again. 
 
 It would be a curious study for those who rightly and 
 justly believe in the perfectibility of humanity, to trace how 
 often at the root of the darkest woe-creating crime lurks 
 some motive, which, though warped to evil, has its origin in 
 good. So it was with this w^oman. She stood looking at 
 the letter, and thinking over the news which had "come to 
 her knowledge concerning Philip. It had irritated and 
 alarmed her to hear of her nephew's success. She feared 
 lest her own hold over him should grow weaker as he pros- 
 pered in the world. Indignant beyond endurance, she 
 crushed the letter in her hand, and the seal broke ! But 
 for this chance she might have withstood the desire which 
 prompted her, by plunging still deeper into deceit, to 
 arrive at a clear knowledge of Philip's motives and inten- 
 tions, so as thereby to guide her own. For a moment she 
 paused irresolute, and then the evil wish conquered Mrs. 
 Breynton opened the letter. It seemed to have been 
 written at various times, the first date being many weeks 
 back. 
 
 " Eleanor ! " it began and the handwriting, which often 
 betrays what words succeed in concealing, was tremulous 
 and illegible " you said one day that soft spring morning, 
 do you remember ? when we stood together in the window, 
 looking on the palace-lawn your hand on my shoulder, and 
 my arm encircling you, as it had a right to do then, you 
 said that we must have no secrets from one another ; that 
 we must never suffer the faintest shadow to rise up between 
 us. There has been none until now ! Eleanor, dearest, 
 still dearest shall I tell you what troubles me 1 A doubt 
 idle, perhaps wrong', and yet it weighs me down. I heard 
 last night, by chance, a few words that I would only have 
 smiled at, but for your long silence, and your departure 
 from England. You have gone, as I understand, and with- 
 out informing me. Was this quite right, my Eleanor 1 Still 
 
252 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 there may have been a reason. My aunt but I will not 
 speak of her. Let me come at once to this idle rumour. 
 They say though I do not believe it that three years ago, 
 which must have been at the very time, the blessed spring- 
 time, when I first told you how precious was your love, 
 another did the same. In short, that you were wooed 
 willingly wooed by a Mr. Paul Lynedon, whom you met at 
 Summerwood. Why did you never speak of this acquaint- 
 ance for, of course, he was nothing more ? You could not 
 no, my Eleanor, my all-pure, all-true Eleanor ! you could 
 not have deceived me, when you confessed that I such as I 
 am, inferior in outward qualities to many, and doubtless to 
 this Paul Lynedon, if report be true that I was dearer to 
 you than all the world. How I hesitate over this foolish 
 tale ! let me end it at once. Well, then, they say this same 
 Lynedon is now with you at Florence ; that fact is certainly 
 true. As for the rest, my kind and faithful one ! forgive 
 me ; but I am anxious, troubled. Write, if only one line. 
 Not that I doubt you do not think it ; but still However, 
 I must wait, for I have to find out your address by some 
 means before I can send this." 
 
 The letter continued, dated later, "You do not know 
 what I suffer from your silence, Eleanor. I have seen 
 Hugh, your brother mine that is to be. His careless 
 greeting pained me. It was perhaps best to keep our en- 
 gagement so secret, and yet it is humiliating. Hugh chanced 
 to speak of your visit at Summerwood long ago ; of Paul 
 Lynedon too, with that name he jestingly coupled yours. 
 He said but few words : for his mind was too full of his 
 approaching marriage, of course you are aware of it, 
 Eleanor 1 But these few words cut mo to the heart. And 
 I must wait still, for Hugh has lost your address. No ! I 
 cannot wait it is torture. I must go to L . * * 
 
 " L , March 20th. 
 
 " You see I am here on the very spot, so sacred but 
 I dare not think of that now. Eleanor, I have learnt 
 believe me, it was by mere chance, not by prying rudely 
 into your affairs ] have learnt that this story wais not all 
 
XXXIIJ.] THE OGILVIES. 253 
 
 false, that Paul Lynedon was here witji you. And yet 
 you never told me ! What must I think 1 There is a cloud 
 before me. I see two images Eleanor, the Eleanor of old 
 true, faithful, loving, in whom I trusted, and would 
 fain trust still ; and the other Eleanor, secretly wooed of 
 Lynedon, the heiress of Dean Sedley you see I know that 
 too. You need not have concealed your good fortune from 
 me, but this is nothing compared to the other pang. I try 
 to write calmly ; yet if you knew But I will rest until to- 
 morrow. . . . 
 
 " I think the madness the torture is over now. All day 
 almost all night I have been walking along our old 
 walks ; by the river, and beneath the cathedral-shadow ; in 
 your very footsteps, Eleanor, as it seemed. I can write to 
 you now and say what I have to say calmly, tenderly, as 
 becomes one to whom you were ever gentle and kind. 
 Eleanor, if you love this man, and he loves you he could 
 not but do that ! then let no promise once given to me 
 stand between you two. Mr. Lynedon is, as I hear, not 
 unworthy of you high-minded, clever, rich, and withal 
 calculated to win any woman's heart. If he has won yours 
 I have no right to murmur. Perhaps I ought rather to 
 rejoice that you will be saved from sharing the struggles 
 and poverty which must be my lot for many years ; it may 
 be whilst I live. Be happy ; I can endure all ; and peace 
 will come to me in time. Eleanor, my Eleanor ! let me 
 write the words once more, only once God bless you ! He 
 only knows how dearly I have loved, how dearly I do love 
 you ! But this love can only pain you now, so I will not 
 utter it. 
 
 " One word yet. If all this tale be false though I dare 
 not trust myself to think so then, Eleanor, have pity ; for- 
 get all I have said in my misery ; forgive me love me 
 take me to your heart again, and write speedily, that I may 
 once more take to mine its life, its joy, its lost treasure ! 
 But if not, I will count your silence as a mute farewell. A 
 farewell ! and between us, who " 
 
 Here two or three lines were carefully obliterated, and 
 
254 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 the letter ended abruptly with one last blessing, the mourn- 
 ful tenderness of which would have brought tears to any 
 eyes but those cold hard ones that read it. 
 
 Mrs. Breynton now discovered, like many another short- 
 sighted plotter, that her scheme had worked its own ruin. 
 With Philip's final parting from Eleanor she herself would 
 lose her remaining influence over his future destiny. And 
 such a separation must be the inevitable consequence of the 
 silence which could be the only answer to her nephew's 
 letter, unless she made a full confession of her own duplicity. 
 And even then, what would result ? A joyful reconciliation, 
 and Philip's speedy union, not with the portionless Eleanor, 
 but with Dean Sedley's heiress, thus for ever excluding that 
 ecclesiastical life which now more than ever Mrs. Breynton 
 wished to force upon her nephew. She was taken in her 
 own toils. She writhed beneath them ; and while helplessly 
 she turned over in her mind some means of escape, a knock 
 came to the door. The dull red mounted to her pale 
 withered cheek as Mrs. Breynton, with an instinctive im- 
 pulse, tottered across the room, and hid Philip's letter in 
 her escritoire. 
 
 "May I come in, dear friend?" murmured a tremulous 
 voice outside. And Eleanor entered, almost weeping, yet 
 with a strange happiness shining in her face and mien. 
 She had the lawyer's letter in her hand, and, without speak- 
 ing, she gave it to Mrs. Breynton. The latter read it 
 mechanically, glad of any excuse to escape those beaming 
 innocent eyes. Then she rose up and touched Eleanor's 
 brow with her frigid lips. 
 
 " I wish you joy, my dear. You are a good girl, and de- 
 serving of all happiness. Mr. Sedley was right to leave his 
 fortune where it would be worthily used. I hope that it 
 may prove a blessing to you." 
 
 " It will ! it will ! Oh, how glad, how thankful I am ! " 
 cried Eleanor, as her thoughts flew far over land and sea to 
 where her heart was. Thither she herself would soon 
 journey, to drive away with one word, one smile, the light 
 cloud which had come between her and Philip ; and then 
 pour out all her new store at his feet, joyful that she could 
 
XXXIII.] THE OGILVIES. 255 
 
 bring to him at once both, riches and Jiappiness, worldly 
 fortune and faithful love. 
 
 Mrs. Breynton regarded her with a cold, suspicious 
 glance. 
 
 " I do not often seek to know your concerns," she said, 
 sharply. " Indeed, I have carefully abstained from interfer- 
 ing with them in any way ever since you have resided with 
 me. Miss Ogilvie." 
 
 " Do not call me thus. Say Eleanor" was the beseeching 
 answer. 
 
 " Well, then, Eleanor, may I be excused for asking why a 
 not very worldly-minded girl like you should be so extra- 
 ordinarily happy at receiving this legacy? What do you 
 intend to do with it?" Eleanor was accustomed to the 
 sudden changes of temper which the invalid often ex- 
 hibited ; but now there was a deeper meaning in Mrs. 
 Breynton 's searching, irritated look. It brought a quick 
 blush to the girl's cheek ; and though she did not reply, 
 she felt that her silence was penetrated and resented. 
 
 " Are you going to leave me, now that you are become 
 an independent lady?" was the bitter question which 
 deepened the flush still more. 
 
 "I always was independent Hugh took care of that 
 and if not, I would have made myself so," said Eleanor, 
 rather proudly. " But you know I stayed with you by 
 your own wish and my own too," she added, in her 
 gentlest tone, " to love you, and be a daughter to you. 
 How could you think I should forget all this, Mrs. Breyn- 
 ton?" 
 
 "Well, we will not talk about that," muttered the old 
 lady, with a slight change of feature. " You will stay, then ? 
 Other people may not be more forgetful of kindness shown 
 to their old age than was Dean Sedley. You will not leave 
 me, Eleanor?" 
 
 Eleanor threw herself on her knees beside Mrs. Breynton' s 
 chair. " We will not leave you," she whispered. " Oh, 
 dear friend ! now this good fortune has come, let me be 
 your very own your child your niece, and forgive us 
 both. Indeed we have suffered very much I and 
 
256 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 Philip!" The long forbidden name burst from her lips 
 accompanied by a flood of tears. Mrs. Breynton started 
 and stood upright. 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me that you will marry that un- 
 grateful fool ! that beggar ! who has insulted his aunt, and 
 disgraced his family 1 Is this the way you show your love 
 for me ] Eleanor Ogilvie, you may become my niece if you 
 will, but it shall be an empty name, for you shall never see 
 my face again. So choose between me and him whose name 
 you have dared to utter. If I hear it spoken in my presence 
 again, it shall be echoed by my lips too, but after it shall 
 come a curse!" And the aged woman, overpowered by 
 this storm of anger, sank back in her chair. Eleanor, 
 trembling in every limb, sprang up to assist her, but she 
 pushed her aside. 
 
 " Call Davis, I want no one else. Go away." Eleanor 
 dared not disobey, for she was terrified at this burst of 
 passion, the first she had ever seen in Mrs. Breynton. She 
 summoned the maid, and was gliding out of the room, when 
 the old lady called her back, and said in a low hoarse 
 whisper : " Kemember, Eleanor, before either of us sleep 
 this night, I will know your intention one way or the other. 
 I must have your promise, your solemn promise, to last 
 your life long, or if not " 
 
 Her voice ceased, but her eyes expressed the rest. That 
 look of anger, doubt, threatening, and yet entreaty, haunted 
 Eleanor for many hours. How sore a strait for one so 
 young! Her heart was almost rent in twait<. It was the 
 old contest, old as the world itself the strife between duty 
 and love. 
 
 Most writers on this subject are, we think, somewhat in 
 the wrong. They never consider that love is duty a most 
 solemn and holy duty ! He who, loving and being beloved, 
 takes upon himself this second life, this glad burden of 
 another's happiness, has no right to sacrifice it for any other 
 human tie. It is the fashion to extol the self-devotion of 
 the girl who, for parental caprice, or to work out the happi- 
 ness of some love-lorn sister, gives up the chosen of her 
 heart, whose heart's chosen she knows herself to be. And 
 
KXXIII.] THE OGILVIES. 257 
 
 the man who, rather than make a loving- woman a little 
 poorer in worldly wealth but oh, how rich in affection ! 
 proudly conceals his love in his own breast, and will not 
 utter it, he is deemed a self-denying hero ! Is this right ? 
 
 You writers of moral fiction, who exalt to the skies 
 sacrifices such as these, what would you say if for any 
 cause under heaven a wife gave up a husband, or a husband 
 a wife, each dooming the other to suffering worse than 
 death 1 And is the tie between two hearts knitted together 
 by mutual love less strong, less sacred, before the altar-vow 
 than after it 1 Is not the breaking of such bond a sin, even 
 though no consecrated ordinance has rendered the actual 
 perjury visible guilt ? 
 
 When will you, who with the world- wide truths of the 
 ideal show forth what is noblest in humanity, boldly put 
 forward this law of a morality, higher and more wholesome 
 than all your tales of sacrifices on filial and paternal shrines, 
 that no power on earth should stand between two beings 
 who worthily, holily, and faithfully love one another 1 
 
 By this law let us judge Eleanor Ogilvie, 
 
258 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 \ 
 Countess. Now I see 
 
 The mystery of your loneliness, and find 
 
 Your salt tears' head 
 
 Helena. My dearest madam, 
 
 Let not your hate encounter with my love, 
 
 For loving where you do. SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 IT was almost night before Eleanor was summoned to the 
 chamber of Mrs. Breynton. The latter had already retired 
 to rest ; and Davis, on quitting the room, whispered that 
 her mistress had seemed anything but well for several hours. 
 In truth, the thin, white, aged face that lay on the pillow 
 was very different from the stern, haughty countenance of 
 ojcl Jf Mrs. Breynton had any idea of working out her 
 purpose by touching Eleanor's feelings, she certainly went 
 the right way to do so. The poor girl, strong as she had 
 been a few minutes before, felt weak, almost guilty now. 
 She sat down beside the bed, silent and trembling. 
 
 Mrs. Breynton did not speak ; but the imperious eyes 
 which anger had lighted up with all the fires of youth, 
 implacably asked the dreaded question. Eleanor trembled 
 still more. " Dear Mrs. Breynton, do not let us talk now ; 
 it is so late, and you are wearied. Let me wait until 
 fo.-morrow." 
 
 " But / will not wait. I never break my word. I told 
 you I must have an answer, and I will. Eleanor Ogilvie, 
 before I sleep you must promise that you will not throw 
 away yourself and your fortune by marrying that vile, dis- 
 honoured, ungrateful nephew of mine." 
 
 Eleanor's spirit was roused. Is there any loving woman's 
 
THE OGILVIES. 259 
 
 that would not be 1 " You are mistaken, Mrs. Breynton ; 
 such appellations are not meet for Philip Wychnor." 
 
 " All ! you dare utter his name after what I said ! Have 
 you forgotten ] " 
 
 "I have forgotten all that was wrong all that you 
 yourself would soon wish to forget. Why do you feel so 
 bitterly towards him 1 You whom he loved so dearly, you 
 who loved him too, once ; and thought him so good, and so 
 noble-minded as he is still." 
 
 " It is a lie ! and you defend him to my face ! " 
 
 " Because he has no one else to defend him. And who 
 but I should have a right to do so ? I, who love him, and 
 have loved him since I was a girl 1 I, who have known 
 every thought of his heart who am his plighted wife in 
 the sight of Heaven ? Oh, Mrs. Breynton, how can you 
 ask me to give him up ? " The speech, begun firmly, ended 
 with tearful entreaty. Even the storm of invective that 
 had risen to Mrs. Breynton's lips died away unuttered. It 
 might be, that for the moment she saw in the pale drooping 
 face and clasped hands the likeness of Eleanor's dead mother, 
 with all her struggles and sufferings. The harsh voice 
 became a little softer when she said, "You are blinded, 
 Eleanor, or you would see that it is for your own good I ask 
 this. You do not give up him he gives up you. Nay, do 
 not speak I say he does. Where is the honour of a man 
 who keeps a young girl waiting for him year after year 1 
 A worthy lover he is, who talks of his sentimental affection, 
 and forsooth says he is too poor to marry, while by his own 
 folly he chooses to remain so ! This is how he would treat 
 you until you grow old ; and then he would marry some 
 one younger and richer. It is like men ; they are all the 
 same ! " The old lady paused a moment to look at the 
 young creature before her. Eleanor had risen and stood 
 by the bedside, not weeping but composed. 
 
 "Mrs. Breynton," she said in a low, quiet tone, "you 
 have been ever kind to me, and I am grateful. Besides, 
 you are dear to me for your own sake, and for his, whose 
 name I will not speak if it offends you. But I can go no 
 further. It pains me very much to hear you talk in this 
 
260 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 way. I owe you all respect, but I also owe some to him 
 whose wife I have promised to be." 
 
 " And you will, in spite of all, you will be his wife 1 " 
 
 " Yes ! " 
 
 The word was scarcely above a breath, but it said enough. 
 Love had given to the timid, gentle-hearted girl a strength 
 that was able to stand firm against the world. To that 
 " Yes ! " there came no answer. It controlled even the 
 outburst of Mrs. Breynton's wrath. She lay silent, unable 
 to remove her eyes from this young girl, so meek and yet 
 so resolute so patient, yet so brave. But though restrained 
 by this irresistible influence, the storm raged within until 
 it shook every fibre of the aged frame. It seemed as 
 though in her life's decline Mrs. Breynton was destined to 
 feel the vehement passions which in her dull youth and 
 frigid middle age had never been awakened. 
 
 Eleanor, startled by her silence, yet drawing from it a 
 faint ray of hope, gathered courage. Kneeling down by the 
 bedside, she would have taken one of Mrs. Breynton's hands, 
 but they were too tightly clenched together. 
 
 " Dear friend my mother's friend ! " she cried, " do not 
 try me so bitterly. If you knew what it costs me to say 
 this one word and yet I cannot but say it. How can I 
 give up my own Philip 1 " And in the sorrow and struggle 
 of the moment she spoke to Mrs. Breynton as in her maiden 
 timidity she had never spoken to any human being. " Has 
 he not been my playfellow, my friend, these many years 1 
 Did not you yourself first teach me to love him, by telling me 
 how good he was, and by bringing us constantly together, 
 boy and girl as we were ? " 
 
 " I did, I did. I wished to atone to poor Isabel's child 
 for the wrong done to her mother. Fool that I was, to 
 trust the son of such a father ! " 
 
 Not hearing, or not noticing the words, Eleanor went on 
 with her earnest pleading, 
 
 " How could we help loving one another ; or, loving, how 
 could we by your will break at once through these dear ties, 
 and never love each other again ? Mrs. Breynton, I owe 
 you much, but I owe Philip more. He chose me ; he gave 
 
XXXIV.] THE OGILVIES. 261 
 
 me his true, noble heart ; and I will keep it faithfully and 
 truly. He loves me, he trusts me ; and I will never forsake 
 him while I live." 
 
 Mrs. Breynton saw her last chance of regaining power 
 fading from her, and yet she dared not speak. Goaded on 
 almost to madness, she gazed on that young face, now grown 
 serene with the shining of the perfect faith and perfect love 
 which " casteth out fear." It did not shrink even from 
 those gleaming eyes, wherein the wild fires of stormiest 
 youth contended with the dimness of age. 
 
 "Eleanor Ogilvie," she said, hoarsely, "what do you 
 intend to do with this fortune ? " 
 
 " To wait until I again meet him who has a right to all 
 my love all my riches ; and then, if he so wishes, to make 
 both his own." 
 
 At these words, Mrs. Breynton, driven to desperation 
 alike by wrath and fear of discovery, snatched blindly at 
 any means of keeping asunder, for a time at least, those two 
 to whom a few words of heart-confidence would reveal all 
 her own machinations. 
 
 "You are mad deceived," cried she, vehemently. "How 
 do you know that he remembers you stilH What does 
 your brother's letter say 1 that he is gay, prosperous." 
 
 " There is nothing in that to pain me. Philip, happy, 
 loves me as well as Philip, sorrowful," she murmured, saying 
 the last words in a musing tone. 
 
 " Then why does he not show his love ? Why does he 
 not come and claim you to share his fortune ? But I tell 
 you, Eleanor Ogilvie, you are blinded by this folly. I 
 know " and for the first time her lips shrank not from a 
 deliberate lie " I know more than you do of his selfishness 
 and unworthiness. He only waits an excuse to cast you off. 
 He has said so." 
 
 Eleanor shrank back a little, and a slight pain smote her 
 heart. " Will you tell me " 
 
 " No, no, I will not tell you anything," hastily said the 
 conscience-stricken woman. " They who informed me spoke 
 truth, as I firmly believe." 
 
 " But / do not I ought not." And once more the 
 
262 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 beautiful light of confiding love returned to the face of the 
 young betrothed. " Who knows Philip Wychnor so well 
 as 1 1 Therefore it is I who should trust him most. And 
 I do trust him ! " 
 
 " Then you will leave your mother's friend, who would 
 have been a mother to you leave her without a child to 
 comfort her old age." 
 
 " What shall I do? what ought I to do ? " cried Eleanor, 
 her gentle heart wrung to the very core by this conflict. 
 
 "Go away go away. I never wish to see your face 
 again ! " And the voice rose sharper and sharper. Mrs. 
 Breynton lifted herself up in bed, with flashing eyes and 
 outstretched hands, which she shook with a threatening 
 gesture, as though the malediction which Philip had scarce 
 escaped were about to fall on his affianced. 
 
 Eleanor, mute with horror, instinctively moved towards 
 the door ; but on reaching it, she stood irresolute. It was 
 one of those crises which sometimes occur in life, when ri^ht 
 
 o 
 
 and wrong seem confounded, when we feel ourselves driven 
 blindly along without power to say, "This is the true way 
 I will walk therein, God helping me." Poor Eleanor ! in 
 either course she took, all seemed darkness, suffering, and, 
 still more, sin. Strong as she was in her faithful devotion 
 to Philip, when she thought of Philip's aunt, she felt almost 
 as if she had done wrong. From an impulse more than a 
 settled intent, she laid her hand again on the door, paused 
 a moment, and then re-entered the chamber. 
 
 Mrs. Breynton was leaning forward with her face on her 
 hands; the storm of passion had spent itself, and tears 
 were dropping fast between her poor thin fingers. Eleanor's 
 heart sprang towards the desolate woman with resistless 
 tenderness. She put her arms round her ; she laid the aged 
 head on her young bosom, just as she had used to rest her 
 own mother's during many a long night of suffering, as 
 she had done on that last night until the moment when 
 suffering merged into the peace of death. The action 
 awoke all these memories like a tide. The orphan felt 
 drawn with a fulness of love to her who had been the friend 
 
XXXIV.] THE OGILVIES. 263 
 
 of the dead ; and the motherless and the childless clung 
 together in a close embrace. 
 
 "You will not send me away from you, Mrs. Breynton ?" 
 
 " Never ! " was the answer. " And you will stay with 
 
 me, Eleanor, my child ; that is, until No, I cannot 
 
 talk about it yet but in time in time" 
 
 Mrs. Breynton said no more ; and this was the only 
 explanation to which they came. Yet Eleanor felt satisfied 
 that a change had passed over the mind of Philip's aunt, - 
 slight, indeed, but greater than she had ever dared to hope. 
 From that night the icy barrier seemed broken down between 
 them. Though Mrs. Breynton never spoke of her nephew, 
 still she bore at times the chance mention of his name ; and 
 often, even after it had been uttered, she would regard 
 Eleanor with a vague tenderness, and seem on the point of 
 saying something which yet never rose to her lips. This 
 filled the young girl with happy hope ; so that she bore 
 patiently the long silence between herself and Philip, wait- 
 ing until her return home should solve all doubt, and show 
 him that even this temporary alienation was a sacrifice for 
 his sake, in order that the work of the peacemaker might 
 be finished with joy. 
 
 Eleanor never guessed from how much of remorse sprang 
 the new gentleness which the Dean's widow continually 
 showed towards her. After a little longer sojourn abroad, 
 Mrs. Breynton began restlessly to long after home, instancing 
 
 the necessity for Eleanor's being at L to look after her 
 
 own little fortune. The young girl prepared gladly for the 
 journey, and tried to see in the reason urged only an excuse 
 framed by this still haughty spirit, willing and yet half- 
 ashamed to make the concession that would give so much 
 happiness. And with such diverse feelings did Mrs. 
 Breynton and her young companion again set foot in L . 
 
264 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 1 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Most men 
 
 Are cradled into poesy by wrong : 
 They learn in suffering what they teach in song. SHELLEY. 
 
 Life is real life is earnest, 
 
 And the grave is not its goal ; 
 "Dust thou art to dust returnest," 
 
 Was not spoken of the soul. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " So your young bridesmaid has really followed your ex- 
 ample, and is gone on her honeymoon trip," said Mrs. 
 Pennythorne, as she nervously prepared herself for the 
 martyrdom of a drawing-room Ute-a-tete with her stylish 
 daughter-in-law. This was after the usual Sunday dinner 
 the hebdomadal sacrifice on the family shrine which its 
 new member always considered a " horrid bore." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, and has come back again, too," answered 
 Mrs. Frederick, throwing herself on a sofa by the window, 
 while the elder Mrs. Pennythorne sat bolt upright by her 
 side on one of the frail comfortless fabrics which her 
 husband's omnipotent taste had provided for the drawing- 
 room chairs. " They made a short wedding tour, did Hugh 
 and Katharine Mr. and Mrs. Cfgilvie, I mean; but one 
 can't get over old habits, and my cousins and I were such 
 friends, especially Hugh/' simpered the young bride. 
 
 "Were you, indeed! oh, of course, being relations," 
 absently replied Mrs. Pennythorne. She made the quietest 
 and most submissive mother-in-law in the world to Isabella; 
 indeed, to tell the truth, she was considerably afraid of her 
 son's gay fashionable wife. " They seemed both very nice 
 young people ; I hope they will be happy," added she, in a 
 vain attempt to converse. 
 
XXXV.] THE OGILVIES. 265 
 
 " Happy ? Oh, I suppose so ! She is-not the best of 
 tempers, to be sure ; and I don't think Hugh would have 
 married her if he had not been dragged into it, so to speak. 
 He used to pay me a great deal of attention once." Mrs. 
 Pennythorne opened her eyes a little wider than usual. She 
 thought this style of conversation rather odd in her son's 
 wife, but it was perhaps the way of fashionable young ladies. 
 She merely said " Indeed ! " and looked out of the window, 
 watching the people of the square going to evening service, 
 and listening to the heavy monotonous tone of the solitary 
 bell. 
 
 " How disagreeable it must be to live near a church ! " 
 said Isabella. " I hate that ding-dong, it is so annoying ; 
 especially when it tolls for a funeral." 
 
 Mrs. Pennythorne shivered perceptibly. 
 
 " Oh, we have not many funerals here ; it is a very 
 healthy neighbourhood." There was a silence, during which 
 the dull sound of some one coughing feebly was heard in 
 the next room. 
 
 " Can you amuse yourself with a book for a minute or 
 two, while I go and speak to Leigh ? I always do so after 
 dinner," said the mother, meekly apologising, 
 
 " Oh yes ! And, by-the-by, that reminds me I have not 
 yet asked after Leigh. He is much as usual, I suppose ? " 
 
 "A little better, we think. He likes those drives in 
 your pony-chaise so much, and they are sure to do him 
 good." 
 
 " Well, he can have the carriage any morning. I never 
 stir out till after luncheon. Only he must not go too far, 
 so as to tire out the horses before I want them." 
 
 " There is no fear of that. Leigh cannot take long rides. 
 He does not get strong very fast. The doctor says we 
 must not expect it at present. But it is such fine May 
 weather now, and he is really improving," said Mrs. Penny- 
 thorne, moving from the room. 
 
 Isabella looked after her, and tossed her head. " None 
 are so blind as those who won't see," said she to herself. 
 Then glancing down at her splendid, gay-tinted satin, "How 
 provoking it will be to put it aside for horrible, unbecoming 
 
266 THE OG1LVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 black ; and one can't take to one's wedding-dresses twelve 
 months after marriage. What a nuisance it is that boy 
 dying ! " And during the ten minutes of solitude Mrs. 
 Frederick occupied herself in considering whether, con- 
 sidering all things, it would not be advisable to give her 
 first evening party at once, without postponing it for the 
 usual prior round of bridal entertainments. 
 
 " One may as well make the most of time, for one never 
 knows what may happen," said the young wife, whose 
 whole life of vain heartlessness was a contradiction to the 
 moral she drew. Mrs. Pennythorne returned to her seat 
 by the window ; and the elder and younger matron tried 
 to keep up a desultory talk, broken by two or three ill- 
 concealed yawns from the latter. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, but one always gets so stupid at 
 this time of the evening ; at least I do. I quite hate the 
 twilight." 
 
 " We might shut it out and have candles, only I promised 
 Leigh that I would watch for Mr. Wychnor round the square 
 he never misses coming on a Sunday evening, you know, 
 and the boy is so glad to see him. Perhaps you would not 
 mind waiting a little without lights, just to humour poor 
 Leigh 1 " observed the mother-in-law, humbly. 
 
 " dear no ! don't inconvenience yourself on my ac- 
 count," languidly answered Mrs. Frederick ; and after in- 
 wardly resolving to make one last attempt to keep " that 
 nice young Wychnor " by her side in the drawing-room, 
 instead of suffering him to spend nearly the whole evening, 
 as usual, in Leigh's room, Isabella began to dilate on her 
 favourite subject, "my cousins, the Ogilvies" their great 
 wealth and connections the beautiful villa that Hugh and 
 Katharine had taken in the Eegent's Park, and the elegant 
 and costly style in which it was furnished. Contented 
 with monosyllabic answers, Mrs. Frederick had thus gone 
 on for a quarter of an hour, when her mother-in-law in- 
 terrupted her with the information that she must go and 
 tell Leigh that Mr. Wychnor was turning the corner of the 
 square. Thereupon Isabella smoothed her dress, pulled her 
 ringlets out properly, and awaited Mr. Wychnor's entrance. 
 
XXXV.] THE OGILVIK8. 267 
 
 The preparation was vain, for he went at'~once to Leigh's 
 room. 
 
 " It is better to go to the house of mourning than to the 
 house of feasting." And better, far better, to stand face to 
 face with the struggling, the sorrowful, nay, even the dying, 
 than to dwell entirely amidst a world of outside show. 
 More precious is it to trace the earnest throbs of the most 
 wounded heart, than to live among those human machines 
 to whom existence is one daily round of dulness and frivo- 
 lity. Looking on these, Youth, with its bursting tide of soul 
 and sense, shrinks back aghast " God ! " rises the prayer 
 " Let me not be as these ! Bather let my pulses swell like 
 a torrent, pour themselves out and cease let he, art and 
 brain work their work, even to the perishing of both be 
 my life short like a weaver's shuttle, but let it be a life, full, 
 strong, rich perchance a day only, but one of those days 
 of heaven, which are as a thousand years ! " 
 
 When Philip Wychnor came into Leigh's room the boy 
 had fallen asleep as he often did in the twilight. He 
 roused himself, however, to give his friend a welcome ; but 
 his mother and Philip persuaded him to rest again until 
 tea. Just then the sharp call of " Gillie, my dear," resound- 
 ed through the house, and Mrs. Pennythorne vanished. 
 Philip Wychnor sat in the growing darkness, holding the 
 feeble hand in his, and listening to the breathing of the 
 sleeper. It is a solemn thing, this vigil beside those over 
 whom, day after day, the shadow of death is creeping, whom 
 we seem to be ourselves leading walking step by step 
 with them to the very entrance of the dark valley. Strange 
 it is to think that there we must leave them needing our 
 guidance and support no more : that in one day, one hour, 
 the poor frail ones, who have for months clung helplessjy to 
 us almost for very existence, will be bodiless spirits, strong, 
 glorious, mighty ! looking down, it may be, with divine 
 pity on our weak humanity. Then, perchance, with a 
 power the limits of which are yet unrevealed those to 
 whom we ministered may become themselves glad minis- 
 trants to us. As the young man, in all the strength of his 
 youth, sat beside that scarcely-breathing form, where clay 
 
268 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 and spirit seemed linked together by a thread so fine that 
 each moment might dissever them for eternity he felt a 
 strange awe come over him. 
 
 There are many phases which the human soul must go 
 through before it can attain even that approximation to the 
 divine which is possible on earth. We cling to prop after 
 prop ; we follow longingly whichever of earth's beautiful 
 and blessed things seems most to realise that perfect ideal 
 which we call happiness. Of these joys, the dearest, the 
 truest, the most satisfying, is that which lifts us out of our- 
 selves, and unites us in heart and soul ay, and intellect, 
 too, for the spirit must find its mate to make the union 
 perfect with some other human being. This blessed bond 
 we call Love. But the chances of fortune come between us 
 and our desire ; the light passes, and we go on our way in 
 darkness. There are times when we must stand alone, and 
 see earth's deepest and most real joys float by like shadows. 
 Alas ! we can but stretch out our arms towards that Infinite, 
 which alone is able to fill the longings of an immortal spirit. 
 Then, with our wounded souls lying naked and open before 
 the Beholder of all, we look yearningly toward the eternal 
 and divine life, complete, unchangeable, and cry with solemn, 
 thankful voice, " God, thy fulness is sufficient for me ; 
 O God, thy love is an all-boundless store." 
 
 Through this portion of his inward life had Philip passed. 
 But while learning the deepest mystery of all, he also gained 
 other knowledge, other power. It seemed as though his 
 intellect had sprung up, strong and mighty, from the ashes 
 of the fire which had consumed his heart. Perhaps the 
 same would be the secret history of almost every poet-soul, 
 whose words go forth like lightning ; man heeding not the 
 stormy cloud and tempest from whence it leaps forth. 
 Philip's ideal had been the woman he loved ; when that 
 became a dream, as he now deemed it was, all human love 
 seemed to pass out of the world with her. The heart's life 
 shut out the soul's life began. 
 
 Within his spirit there dawned a new energy ; an irre- 
 sistible power, to work, to will, to do. The individual sense 
 was merged in the universal ; he felt the deep fountain of 
 
XXXV.] THE OGILVIES. 269 
 
 his genius springing up within him. After a season of 
 wrestling with that strong agony of crushed love, which, 
 thank God ! no human being can know more than once, 
 he arose, ready to fight the glorious battle, to begin the 
 blessed toil of those whom Heaven sends as lights unto 
 the world. 
 
 He had been called an author ; now he became one. 
 He joined that little band of true brothers to whom author- 
 ship is a sacred thing ; a lay priesthood, which, wearing the 
 garb of ordinary fraternity, carries beneath it evermore an 
 inward consecration. Philip wrote not with the haughty 
 assumption of an apostle among men : sometimes in his 
 writings the deepest truth, the purest lore, lay coiled, serpent- 
 like, beneath garlands of flowers. But he never forgot his 
 mission, though the word, often so falsely assumed, had not 
 once passed his lips. God's truest messenger is sometimes 
 not the Pharisee who harangues in the temple, but the 
 Publican who passes unnoticed by the way-side. 
 
 Yet Philip Wychnor had his share of honour and repute. 
 Every day his fame was growing \ but there was one differ- 
 ence between his present life and his past. The work itself 
 brought pleasure, at least that sense of duty fulfilled which 
 is likest pleasure ; the mere fame brought none. He had 
 no care whether it came or not. For two ends only is re- 
 nown precious : for ambition's sake and for love's. Philip 
 had neither ; life to him seemed now made not for happi- 
 ness but for worthy toil. He stood in the world's vineyard, 
 not as a joyful gatherer of fruit, but as a labourer, patient 
 and active, yet looking towards the day's close as towards 
 its chiefest joy. 
 
 Was then this brave heart, worthily struggling with and 
 surmounting fate, utterly without memories of the sweet 
 past ! Was it grown so indifferent that oblivion brought no 
 pain 1 Let many a fearfuh lour of suffering in the dead of 
 night, at intervals in the day's toil, or in seasons of good 
 fortune wherein there was no sharer, and of fame become 
 all joyless now let these tell that the young man nov? 
 mourned over his buried dream. Perchance this sorrow 
 oppressed him even when on this night he sat in the dark- 
 
270 THE OGTLVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 ness beside the sick boy. Leigh's deep sleep left Philip's 
 thoughts that liberty of range which is bliss to the happy 
 to the suffering, or those who have suffered, torture indeed. 
 The young man sighed heavily many times. 
 
 " Are you unhappy, Philip ? " whispered a faint voice, and 
 the damp fingers he held twined feebly round his own. 
 
 " My dear Leigh ! I thought you were asleep." 
 
 " No, not for some minutes ; but I fancied you were, 
 until those deep sighs came. We never sigh when we are 
 asleep, you know." 
 
 " Very seldom : there is no sorrow in sleep," murmured 
 Philip, as if his words had a deeper sense than their appa- 
 rent one. He had somehow caught a little of this habit of 
 twofold speech from his constant associate and friend, David 
 Drysdale. 
 
 " What are you saying about sorrow ] " asked Leigh. 
 " What have you been thinking of 1 . Not that old grief of 
 which you never speak ; and which, when I found out that 
 it was in your heart, you said I could not understand 1 I 
 can understand many things better now ; perhaps I might 
 this. And you often say I do you good at times." 
 
 " Always, always, my boy ! Only let us talk of something 
 else now. Be content, Leigh ; indeed I am so too, as con- 
 tent as one can be in this sorrowful world." 
 
 "Is it so sorrowful, this world of yours V 
 
 "Why do you say 'yours,' Leigh]" 
 
 "Because because you know why, Philip;" and the 
 voice became feebler, more solemn. There was no answer ; 
 Philip could not breathe the lie of hope to the spirit which 
 seemed already spreading its pure wings. Both were silent 
 for awhile, but the mute hand-clasp between them appeared 
 to say, "I go!" "Yea, thou goest, blessed one!" Leigh 
 was the first who spoke. " I am not afraid, scarcely sorry 
 and yet, perhaps Philip ! if you knew how often in the 
 old times I wished, earnestly wished, that it might be thus 
 with me that I might get away from that dull life of 
 torment. And now when the wish comes true, I sometimes 
 have thought that I should like to stay a little longer, that 
 I might do something to atone for these eighteen wasted 
 
XXXV.] THE OGILVIES. 271 
 
 years. You would not think me thus old^hildish as I am 1 
 yet, at times I feel so weary, so worn it might have been 
 a life of eighty years which I lay down. Then again, even 
 when my body is weakest, my soul feels so clear and strong, 
 that I shrink from this coming quiet this deep rest." 
 
 " Not all rest," answered Philip, softly. " God never 
 meant it so ; He, the Creator, the Sustainer, knows no idle 
 repose. Neither shall we, His servants. We shall work 
 His will how, we cannot tell, but we shall do it, and rejoice 
 in the doing. Think, Leigh, how glorious to pass from 
 weakness to strength from suffering to action ; perhaps to 
 be Heaven's messengers throughout the wide universe ; 
 feeling nearer Him, because, in one measure, we share His 
 divinest attribute that of dispensing good." 
 
 In the darkness, Philip could not see the face of the almost 
 dying boy ; but he felt the hand which he still held drawn 
 nearer to its fellow, and both clasped as in prayer, his own 
 still between them. It seemed that even then Leigh could 
 not relinquish the hand which had brought light into his 
 darkness, and guided him on until he stood at the death- 
 portal, looking thereon calmly and without fear. 
 
 " This is so happy to hear ! " Leigh said, after a pause. 
 " Philip, your words are like an angel's they always were 
 so to me ; and some time not now, but you know when 
 will you tell my mother all this 1 and say how it was that 
 I never spoke thus to her, because she could not bear it. 
 But you will remember it all, and it will sound as if I said 
 it not in my poor, weak, childish words, but with the voice 
 which I shall have then." Philip promised. A little while 
 longer they talked mostly in this strain, and then the mother 
 came in, with a light. 
 
 " How well Leigh looks to-night ! " she said. And truly 
 there was a strange spiritual beauty over the boy's face. 
 " He seems so quiet and happy ! You always do him good, 
 Mr. Wychnor." 
 
 And then through the open drawing-room door came Mrs. 
 Frederick's titter, and her husband's loud chatter, while 
 above all sounded Mr. Pennythorne's decisive tone. 
 
 " Gillie, my dear, don't forget to tell that excellent young 
 
272 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 man that we cannot do without him any longer ; send your 
 ever-grumbling boy to bed, and ask Mr. Wychnor to come 
 into the drawing-room." 
 
 " Yes, do go, Philip," whispered Leigh, " it will please my 
 father he thinks so much of you now." He did indeed ; 
 for Mr. Pennythorne was a very Ghebir in his way he 
 always turned worshippingly towards the rising sun. 
 
 Philip assented as he would have done to any wish 
 of poor Leigh's. After an affectionate good night, and a 
 promise to come next day, he passed from the sick boy's 
 room, the solemn ante-chamber of death, into the world 
 the hollow, frivolous world, of Mr. Pennythorne. 
 
XXXVI.] THE OGILVIES. 273 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it. ... 
 For love is strong as death : jealousy as cruel as the grave. 
 
 SOLOMON. 
 
 LET us follow Wychnor where his presence was so ener- 
 getically demanded. In the drawing-room of Blank-square 
 no one could be more abundantly welcomed than he. Mr. 
 Pennythorne now delighted to honour his "very clever 
 young friend," and told to everybody the story of Philip's 
 first coming to London with the introduction to himself. 
 He would probably repeat the same, with additions, for the 
 benefit and instruction of every young man whom he chose 
 to patronise for the next year. 
 
 "Happy to see you, my dear Norwych "Wychnor, I 
 mean," said Mr. Pennythorne, correcting himself; since the 
 amusing sobriquet which he had conferred on the poor tutor 
 was hardly respectful enough to the rising author. " Here 
 we are all striving to get through the evening : Fred is more 
 sleepy than ever, and my fair daughter-in-law evidently 
 thinking she has entered into the dullest family party of the 
 three kingdoms." 
 
 " Oh dear no, Mr. Pennythorne," disclaimed Isabella, who 
 got on extremely well with her husband's father. She was 
 treated by him with great consideration, through the defer- 
 ential mockery of which she was not acute enough to pene- 
 trate. She really liked him the best of the family, and 
 pronounced him to be " a most amusing old fellow." " I 
 assure you, Mr. Wychnor, we have been laughing amazingly. 
 Mr. Pennythorne is so droll," said she, striving by this 
 address to bring the young man in closer approximation to 
 
 T 
 
274 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 her chair. But Philip only made some ordinary reply, and 
 sat down at the other end of the table, considering what 
 excuse he could frame to make his stay to-night in this 
 interesting family circle as brief as possible. 
 
 Mr. Pennythorne led the conversation, as he always did 
 shooting his small popguns of wit to the infinite amuse- 
 ment of Mrs. Frederick, who was nevertheless considerably 
 annoyed that all the attentions paid her came from her 
 elderly papa-in-law, and none from his young guest. Philip 
 sat more silent and quiet than usual, until Mrs. Pennythorne 
 came, and then he rose up to secure her an arm-chair. 
 
 " He never did that 'for me in his life, the bear," thought 
 Isabella. It was, perhaps, rather a fault in Philip's manners 
 that his courtesies and his feelings always went together in 
 their expression. 
 
 "How does Leigh seem now?" asked he, addressing the 
 mother, who was so accustomed to the young man's kindly 
 attentions that she took them with less nervousness and 
 shyness from him than any one else, and requited the respect 
 he showed her, to which, poor woman ! she was little used, 
 with a most grateful regard. 
 
 " Leigh is really better to-night ; you have quite bright- 
 ened him up, Mr. Wychnor, for he was so dull all day." 
 
 " Pray choose some more interesting subject, Gillie, my 
 dear," sharply interposed Mr. Pennythorne. " Leigh thinks 
 far too much of himself already ; and you coax him into 
 imagining himself ill, because it looks interesting. That is 
 always the way with women and mothers, but it will not do 
 in my family. Of course, nothing of consequence is the 
 matter with Leigh." The father spoke quickly, almost 
 angrily ; but there was an uneasy restlessness in his manner, 
 which Philip had often discerned of late, when the boy was 
 mentioned ; and the piteous look of Mrs. Pennythorne 
 checked the answer that was rising indignantly to the young 
 man's lips. There was a constrained silence. Then Mrs. 
 Frederick, quitting her husband, who was dropping fast to 
 sleep again his usual habit of proving that Sunday was 
 indeed a day of rest made another effort to draw Philip 
 into conversation. 
 
XXXVI.] THE OGILVIES. 275 
 
 " I was quite anxious to meet you to-iyght, Mr. Wychnor, 
 as I have a message to you from a friend of yours, my 
 cousin" Philip turned a little "my cousin, Hugh Ogilvie." 
 The remark only brought an assenting bow, and a hope, 
 very laconically expressed, that Mr. Ogilvie was quite well. 
 
 "Certainly; how could he be otherwise with a young 
 bride to take care of him ? " tittered Isabella : " and by-the- 
 by, the message comes conjointly from her, which must be 
 very flattering, as all the men think my cousin Katharine 
 the most bewitching creature in the world. But perhaps 
 you have met her?" 
 
 " I have," answered Philip. He remembered but too well 
 how and where was that meeting. 
 
 " Oh ! of course you did that night, at Mrs. Lancaster's. 
 A delightful party, was it not 1 though no one then thought 
 how soon my nice little bridesmaid would become a bride. 
 Well, Mr. Wychnor, she and her husband were inquiring 
 after you the other day, and desired me to say, how happy 
 they will be to see you at the Regent's Park. They have 
 the sweetest villa in the world, and are, or ought to be, as 
 happy as two doves in a cage." Philip bowed again, and 
 muttered some acknowledgment of the " kind invitation." 
 
 "There never was such a stupid young man," thought 
 Isabella; adding aloud, "^Hugh told me also to say, that 
 shortly they expected a visit from his sister, Eleanor. He 
 says you know her ]" Another silent assent but no deeper 
 pallor could show the icy coldness that crept through every 
 fibre of Philip's frame. Sudden delicious tremblings, quick 
 changes of colour, are the tokens of love's hopeful dawn, 
 love's sorrowful after-life knows none of these. Philip sat 
 still he would have " died and made no sign." 
 
 "The fellow is positively rude he might be made of 
 stone," muttered the young wife, as she turned indignantly 
 away, and relieved her feelings by pulling the hair of her 
 sleeping husband, with a pretty gamesomeness that made 
 her father-in-law laugh. 
 
 " Does the light annoy you, Mr. Wychnor ? This cam- 
 phine is always too dull or too bright," said Mrs. Penny- 
 thorne. " Shall I move the lamp, if it pains your eyes ? " 
 
276 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 " Oh no, not at all that is, it does a little," Philip an- 
 swered, hastily removing the hand with which he had been 
 shading his face. " My eyes are weak. I think I sit up too 
 late and work too much." 
 
 " You do not look quite well, indeed ; " and Mrs. Penny- 
 thorne regarded him with an almost motherly gaze. " You 
 should invariably go to bed at eleven, as I always told poor 
 Leigh." Here, she checked a sigh, and glanced fearfully to 
 her husband. He was performing a few practical jokes on 
 his drowsy eldest-born, to the extreme delight of that son's 
 wife, who treated her spouse with about as much respect, 
 and not half as much attention, as she showed to her pet 
 spaniel. 
 
 " I will come and see Leigh soon. And perhaps I had 
 better follow your kind advice, Mrs. Pennythorne ; so I will 
 bid you good night at once," said Philip, rising. Here, 
 however, Mr. Pennythorne put in his veto. " What! running 
 away so soon ? Nonsense, my dear young friend. Sit down 
 again. Gillie, ring for the supper at once." Certainly, with 
 all his shortcomings, Pierce Penny thorne never failed in 
 hospitality. But Philip resisted successfully, and made his 
 adieux. He had gained the hall, when Mr. Pennythorne 
 summoned him back. 
 
 " There was something I wanted to say to you, only the 
 lively and amusing conversation of my gifted daughter-in-law 
 here quite put it out of my head. Pray, Mr. Wychnor, 
 among the numberless invitations which must throng upon 
 a gentleman of your standing, are you disengaged on Thurs- 
 day 1 " Philip said he was. 
 
 " Then will you dine here 1 In fact, I want you to meet 
 a particular friend of mine, a very talented young man 
 immense fortune estates here, there, everywhere ; " and 
 Mr. Pennythorne nodded his head to the four points of the 
 compass. At which Frederick winked slily his usual 
 custom to signify that his revered parent was drawing the 
 longbow. 
 
 " I should be most happy, but " 
 
 " I will take no buts, my dear Wychnor. I want you 
 particularly, as my friend is thinking of entering the House, 
 
XXXVI.] THE OGILVIES. 27? 
 
 w_ 
 and wishes to stand for a borough near that worthy old city 
 
 of cats and canons, L . You, of course, having lived 
 
 there, as you once mentioned, know all about the place, and 
 can give him the information he requires. Pray do us the 
 favour." 
 
 " I shall be glad to serve any friend of yours, Mr. Penny- 
 thorne," said Philip, longing to escape. 
 
 " Then we may expect you. Indeed, you will be of im- 
 mense service to my friend, if you can tell him the state of 
 
 politics and parties in shire. He wishes -to settle in 
 
 England, but he knows not a jot about English affairs, and 
 is only just come to town from a long residence on the 
 Continent. You'll like him very much there is not a 
 more perfect gentleman anywhere than Mr. Paul Lynedon." 
 
 " Paul Lynedon ; " echoed Philip. 
 
 " Yes ; do you know the name ? " 
 
 " I have heard it. But I am keeping you standing in the 
 hall. Good evening, Mr. Penny thorne." 
 
 " Good evening. Kemember Thursday, at six." The 
 young man muttered some answer about being " very happy," 
 that white lie of society ! But Philip hardly knew what he 
 said or did. When he had fairly quitted the house and its 
 atmosphere of torture for the cool night air, he leaned 
 against the railings, trembling all over. 
 
 Paul Lynedon in London ! Eleanor coming shortly ! It 
 was all as plain as light. If not married, they were cer- 
 tainly about to be. This truth came as the only possible 
 answer to his letter to another wild, imploring letter he 
 had written since. The only reply to both was silence. 
 Then his manhood took up arms and he wrote no more. 
 He believed, or tried to believe, that he had lost her. But, 
 now meeting the tangible fact, it caused him to writhe 
 beneath an almost insupportable agony an agony which 
 he had supposed was deadened and seared within him. To 
 meet these happy ones, face to face ! To be called upon to 
 serve the man who had won his heart's treasure the love 
 of Eleanor Ogilvie ! 
 
 He could not do it ! He would leave London he would 
 hide himself out of their sijht ; and in some lonely place ho 
 
278 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 would pray Heaven to comfort him, and to cast out from 
 his riven heart the very ashes of this bitter love. He 
 thought he had trodden it down with his firm will, his 
 patience, his proud sense of duty ; and yet here it was, 
 bursting up afresh in torturing and burning flames ! He 
 wrestled with it he sped on with rapid strides through the 
 loneliest streets he bared his head, that the fresh May 
 breeze might pierce with loving coolness into his brain and 
 yet he was half-maddened still ! 
 
 It is a fearful thing this gathering up of the love of 
 boyhood, youth, and manhood, into one absorbing passion, 
 which is life or death. Men in general rarely know it ; the 
 sentiment comes to them in successive and various forms 
 a dream of romance and poetry, an intoxication of sense, a 
 calm, tender esteem ; but when all these failings are merged 
 into one felt through life for one object only then, what 
 woman's devotion, faithful and tender though it be, is like 
 the love of man ? 
 
 Philip reached his home utterly exhausted in body and 
 mind. His brain seemed flooded with a dull heavy pain, 
 and yet he must lie down and try to make it calm, ready 
 for a long day of labour on the morrow. He must forget 
 the real in the ideal he must write on ! No matter what 
 were his own heart-tortures he must sit down and calmly 
 analyse the throbbings of the wild pulse of humanity as 
 displayed in the world of imagination. Perhaps both lives, 
 that of brain and heart, would unconsciously mingle into 
 one, and men would marvel at the strange truth to nature 
 not knowing that every ideal line had been written with 
 real throes of agony, and that each word had gleamed before 
 his eyes as though his soul had inscribed it with a light- 
 ning-pen. Poor PhiKp ! Heaven only knows through 
 what martyr-fires souls like thine ascend to immortal fame ! 
 
XXXVII.] THE OGILVIES. 279 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVH. 
 
 Go not away ! Oh, leave me not alone ! 
 
 I yet would see the light within thine eyes ; 
 I yet would hear thy voice's heavenly tone ; 
 
 Oh, leave me not, whom most on earth I prize ! 
 Go not away ! yet ah ! dark shades I see 
 
 Creep o'er thy brow thou goest ; but give thy hand ! 
 Must it be so ? Then go ! I follow thee 
 
 Unto the Silent Land. FREDRIKA BREMER. 
 
 So, life is loss, and death felicitie ! SPENSER. 
 
 IN the morning Philip Wychnor was labouring as usual at 
 his daily work ; for it was work real work though he 
 loved it well. He applied himself to it day after day, not 
 waiting for inspiration, as few writers can afford to do, but 
 sedulously training his mind to its duties, until he roamed 
 among the beautiful regions of imagination like a man who 
 wanders in his own pleasant garden, having first taken the 
 proper measure of walking to its gate and bringing the key. 
 Philip on this day began his work with a desperate 
 energy. He could not stay musing, he dared not ; he fled 
 from the spectre that memory conjured up. Thought 
 battled against thought. He worked his brain almost to 
 suffering, that he might deaden the pain which gnawed at 
 his heart. Nor was this the first time he had need to be 
 thankful for that blessed dream-life, that second existence, 
 which brings oblivion for the sorrows of the real world. A 
 space since, and we pitied the poor toiler in literature, 
 obliged to rack his tortured brain in despite of inward 
 troubles. We look at him now, and see how he grows calm 
 and brave-hearted, as, by the power of a strong will, he 
 passes from his own small world of personal suffering into 
 
280 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 the grand world wherein the author sits godlike, forming as 
 it were out of nothing new heavens and a new earth. Shall 
 we pity this true man, who stands nearer to the Heavenly 
 Maker than other men, because he also can create 1 Eather 
 let us behold him with reverence almost with envy for he 
 drinks of the truest, holiest Lethe, where self is swallowed 
 up in the universal. If at times the shadow of his own 
 bitter thought is thrown across the wave, it appears there 
 in an image so spiritualised that he can look on it without 
 pain. In the deep calm of those pure waters, it only seems 
 like a light cloud between him and heaven. 
 
 When Philip had written for a few hours, there came a 
 message from the Penny thornes or, rather, from Mrs. 
 Pennythorne saying that Leigh felt so much better, and 
 longed for a drive with his dear friend, Mr. Wychnor. The 
 mother could not go with Leigh herself, and could trust him 
 to no one but Philip, whom she entreated to come to the 
 square at once. This was repugnant enough to the young 
 man. He would fain fly from every place where he might 
 hear the sound of Paul Lynedon's name. And yet, poor 
 Leigh ! At the thought of him all these earth-feelings grew 
 dim; they melted away into nothing before the awful 
 shadow of Death. Philip laid aside his work, and was soon 
 by the side of the sick boy. 
 
 " How good of you to come ! But you are always good," 
 said Leigh. 
 
 " Indeed he is ! I cannot tell what we should do without 
 Mr. Wychnor," thankfully cried Mrs. Pennythorne. Philip 
 pressed the hands of both, but did not speak. They little 
 thought what deep emotion struggled in his heart that 
 poor torn heart which, still madly loving, found itself alone 
 and unloved. Yet their few words fell upon it like balm ; 
 it was sweet to feel that even now he was of use, and 
 precious to some one in the wide, desolate world. 
 
 " Leigh may take a little longer drive to-day, for Mrs. 
 Frederick does not want the carriage. I wish I were going 
 with you both," sighed the mother ; " but Mr. Pennythorne 
 does not like being left alone when he is writing." 
 
 " Gillie ! Gillie ! are you going to stay in Leigh's room 
 
XXXVII.] THE OGILVIES. 281 
 
 all day 1" resounded from the study door. <3?oor Mrs. Penny- 
 thorne cast a hopeless glance at Philip, hastily kissed her 
 boy, and disappeared in a moment. Leigh looked after her 
 wistfully. " I wish my father would let her stay with me 
 a little more. She would like it now, and afterwards! 
 But she is a good, dear mother ! and she knows I think so. 
 Be sure you tell her that I did, Philip." Wychnor pressed 
 the boy's hand : it was a strange and touching thing, this 
 calm mingling of death with life in Leigh's thoughts and 
 words. He was silent a minute, and then went on in a 
 cheerful tone, " You must let me remain out a good while 
 to-day, I feel so strong ; and perhaps I might stay a little 
 later, to watch the sunset. I never can see it from my 
 room, you know ; which seems rather hard, now the evenings 
 are so beautiful and spring-like." 
 
 Philip soothed him as an elder brother might have done, 
 and promised all, provided he felt strong enough. Then he 
 took Leigh in his arms like a child, and carried him down 
 stairs to the gay carriage. What different occupants were 
 the fluttering, fashionable young wife, and the poor sick 
 boy, who lay half-buried in cloaks and cushions ! Yet 
 Leigh lifted up his head with a cheerful look when Mrs. 
 Pennythorne appeared at a window to give her parting nod 
 as they drove away. Philip saw the bright loving smile 
 that passed between mother and son he thought of it after- 
 wards many a time. 
 
 "Now, where shall we go?" was the first question pro- 
 posed, as they drove along the interminable Kensington 
 High-street. 
 
 Leigh pleaded for some quiet road : he wanted to go far 
 out into the country, to that beautiful lane which runs along 
 by the river-side at Chiswick. He had been there once at 
 the beginning of his illness, and had often talked of the place 
 since. It haunted him, he said, with its overhanging trees, 
 and the river-view breaking in between them its tiny wave- 
 lets all sparkling in the sun. He knew it would look just 
 the same this calm, bright May afternoon. So accordingly 
 they went thither. It was one of those spring days when 
 the earth seems to rest from her joyful labour of budding 
 and blossoming, and to be dreaming of suminer. The birds 
 
282 THE OG1LVIES. [CHAP, 
 
 in the trees the swans in the water the white clouds in 
 the sky were alike still ; and upon all things had fallen 
 the spell of a blessed silence a silence full of happiness, 
 hope, and love. " Happiness, hope, love," what words, 
 what idle words they would sound, unto the two who were 
 passing slowly under the shadow of the trees ! Oh, Earth, 
 beautiful, cruel mother, how canst thou smile with a face 
 so fair when sorrow or death is on thy children ! But the 
 Earth answers softly, " I smile with a calm and changeless 
 smile, to tell my frail children that if in me, made but for 
 their use, is such ever-renewed life and joy, shall it not be 
 so with them ? And even while they gaze upon me, I pour 
 into their hearts my deep peace ! " It was so with Philip 
 and Leigh. They sat silent, hand in hand, and looked on 
 this beautiful scene : from both, the bitterness passed away 
 the bitterness of life, and that of death. Which was the 
 greater ? 
 
 On the bridge at Kew, Leigh spoke. He begged that the 
 carriage might rest a moment to let him look at the sunset, 
 which was very lovely. He half lifted himself up, and the 
 large brown eyes seemed drinking in all the beauty that was 
 in land, river, and sky they rested longest there. Then 
 they turned to meet Philip's : that mute gaze between the 
 two was full of solemn meaning. 
 
 "Are you content?" whispered Philip. 
 
 " Yes, quite ; now let us go home." Leigh's eyes closed, 
 and his voice grew faint. 
 
 " You seem tired," said the other, anxiously. 
 
 "Yes, a little. Take me home soon, will you, Philip?" 
 His head drooped on the young man's shoulder heavily 
 so heavily, that Philip signed to the coachman to drive on 
 at his utmost speed. Then he put his arm round the boy, 
 who lay with closed eyes, his white cheek looking grey and 
 sunken in the purple evening light. Once Philip spoke/ 
 almost trembling lest no answer should come. 
 
 "Are you quite easy, dear Leigh?" The eyes opened 
 and the lips parted with a faint smile. " Yes, thank you, 
 only weary ; I can hardly keep awake, but I must till I have 
 seen my mother." And still the dying head sank heavier 
 

 XXXVII.] TfTE OGILVIES, 283 
 
 on Philip's shoulder, and the hands which he drew in his 
 to warm them were already growing damp and rigid. He 
 sat with this solemn burden in his arms, and the carriage 
 drove homewards until they entered the square. The mother 
 stood at the door ! 
 
 "Take her away, for God's sake only one minute," 
 whispered Philip to the servant ; but she had sprung already 
 to the carriage. 
 
 " Leigh ! how is my darling Leigh T' Her voice seemed 
 to pierce even through the shadows of another world and 
 reach the dying boy : he opened his eyes and smiled tenderly 
 upon her. 
 
 " Leigh is tired, almost asleep," said Philip, hastily. 
 " Take the cushion, Mrs. Pennythorne, and I will carry him 
 in." She obeyed without a word, but her face grew deadly 
 white, and her hands trembled. When the boy was placed, 
 as he seemed to wish, in his mother's arm-chair, she came 
 and knelt before him, looking into his face. There was a 
 shadow there. She saw it, and felt that the time was come 
 when not even the mother could stand between her child 
 and Death. Philip thought she would have shrieked, or 
 fainted, but she did neither. She only gazed into the dim 
 eyes with a wildly beseeching gaze. 
 
 "Mother you will let me go?" murmured Leigh. She 
 drew a long sigh, as if repressing an agony so terrible that 
 the struggle was like that of a soul parting ; and then said, 
 " Yes, my darling ! " 
 
 He smiled what a heaven is there in the happy smile 
 of the dying ! and suffered her fond ministering hands, 
 unwilling even yet to give up their long tendance, to un- 
 fasten the cloak and put the wine to his lips. Then she sat 
 down beside him, laid his head on her bosom, and awaited 
 mighty strength of a mother's love !- awaited, tear- 
 less and calm, the passing away of the life which she had 
 given. 
 
 " He is quite content quite happy he told me so," 
 Philip whispered in her ear. She turned round one moment 
 with a startled air : " Yes, yes, I know. Hush !" And she 
 bent down again over her child, whose faint lips seemed 
 
284 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 trying to frame, scarcely louder than a sigh, the last word, 
 
 Then there fell over the room a solemn silence, long and 
 Jeep in the midst of which the spirit passed. They only 
 knew that it was so, when, as the moon rose, the pale 
 spiritual light fell on the face of the dead boy, still pillowed 
 on the mother's breast. She turned and looked upon it 
 without a cry or a moan, so beautiful, so heavenly was it ! 
 At that moment, had they put to her the question of old, 
 " Is it well with the child V she would have answered like 
 the Shunamite, " It is well ! " 
 
 " God help her ! " murmured Philip Wychnor, as she at 
 last suffered him to take the beloved form from her arms, 
 and carry it, for the last time, to "Leigh's room." Ere the 
 young man left the chamber once the scene of suffering 
 and pain, now of holy peace and death-slumber he looked 
 long and earnestly at the white still image before him. 
 Then he turned away ; and thought no more of the dead 
 likeness of what poor Leigh had been, but of the now free, 
 glorious, rejoicing soul. 
 
 As he passed down stairs, a quick loud knock sounded at 
 the door it was his father's, who knew not that he came 
 to a house of death. 
 
 " Gillie, my dear ! Eh, what's this ? Where's Mrs. Penny- 
 thorne T' he said, in his sharpest tones, as he missed the 
 customary meeting at the door. Philip advanced, and drew 
 the old man into the parlour. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Wychnor ! quite a surprise to see you, but de- 
 lighted," he began, in his usual manner. " Gillie ! Where 
 can she be ? Gillie, my dear ! " Then, startled by Philip's 
 silence, he stopped. 
 
 " Mrs. Pennythorne is up stairs," the young man said, in a 
 low and hesitating tone. 
 
 " Eh ? oh, of course she is with Leigh." 
 
 " No ; Leigh does not need her now. Mr. Pennythorne, 
 your son is dead ! " But the next moment he repented for 
 thus abruptly communicating the tidings. 
 
 The old man caught at him with an incredulous gesture. 
 You you fancy things they always did " - 
 
XXXVIL] THE OGILVIES. 285 
 
 Philip looked at him without answering^ 
 
 " O my God ! " He fell into a chair, speechless. 
 
 For many minutes did the old man sit there immovable. 
 His grief was so terrible, in its pent-up, stony strength, that 
 Philip da.red not breathe a word of consolation. At last 
 Mr. Pennythorne raised his head, though without looking 
 up, and murmured the name of his wife. 
 
 " Shall I call her 1 " 
 
 Yes." 
 
 She came in that instant. She had been waiting at the 
 door, not daring to approach him even then. But now she 
 drew near to her husband woman-like, wife-like. She laid 
 his head on her shoulder, and for the first time in his life he 
 clang to her feeling that she, in all her weakness, was yet 
 stronger than he. 
 
 " Come with me, Pierce," she whispered, and led him 
 away ; he following her as unresisting as a child. 
 
 What passed between the desolate parents none of the 
 household knew. They remained shut up together in their 
 own room for hours nay, for days all the time that the 
 dead lay in the little chamber above. They saw no one 
 at least he did not though Mrs. Pennythorne passed in and 
 out now and then, to give any needful orders. She did all 
 with a new-born firmness and energy marvellous to witness. 
 Philip Wyclmor, who once or twice saw her for a few mo- 
 ments when she descended to the silent, darkened parlour 
 below, unconsciously spoke to her with a strange reverence 
 and tenderness, as to one of those women who are God's 
 angels upon earth. 
 
 In a few days the burial-train passed from the door, its 
 stately array vain mockery ! moving down the square in 
 the bright sunshine ; and the house of the Pennythornes was 
 childless evermore. 
 
286 TIIE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVIII. 
 
 The tongue was intended for a divine organ, but the devil often 
 plays upon it. JEREMY TAYLOR. 
 
 How much have cost us the evils that have never happened ! 
 
 JEFFERSON. 
 
 . . . Quiet thyself until time try the truth, and it may be thy fear 
 will prove greater than thy misfortune. SOUTHWELL. 
 
 " ARE you at home this evening, Wychnor ? " said a 
 friendly voice, when Philip sat leaning on his desk in a 
 thoughtful mood. He looked up and saw at the door the 
 face of old David Drysdale. 
 
 " Certainly to you always, my good friend." 
 
 " But I mean, is there any need for that amusing fiction 
 at which society smilingly connives 1 Is your mind really 
 * at home/ as well as your body ? Are you quite dis- 
 engaged ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have done my work for to-day. Pray come in, 
 Mr. Drysdale, and be very welcome." 
 
 " Have you more welcomes than one to give away ? " 
 pursued Drysdale, still holding the door-handle ; " because I 
 am not alone." 
 
 "Any friend of yours I shall be happy to see," began 
 Philip, in the usual conventional form. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " interrupted the old man ; " I thought I had 
 cured you of that fashion of polite speaking. Besides, friends 
 are about as plentiful as blackberries in London I may 
 say that with great truth, you know. This gentleman is 
 only an acquaintance of mine, who wishes to become one of 
 yours." 
 
 " And a little more than that, I hope, in time," continued a 
 
XXXVIII.] THE OGILVIES. 287 
 
 voice behind. It was so sweetly modulated so perfectly 
 the tone and accent of that rare personage, a gentleman 
 that Philip looked eagerly to the speaker, who added, " Shall 
 I introduce myself, Mr. Wychnor, as my friend here seems 
 rather to disown me?" And that beautiful, irresistible 
 smile broke over his face, making one forget that it was not 
 strictly handsome. " My name is Lynedon Paul Lynedon." 
 
 Philip had guessed it before, yet he could not suppress a 
 start. Once again there came that torturing pain ; the 
 blood seemed ice-bound in his heart, and then flowed back 
 again in fire. He must be calm. He was so. The next 
 moment he forced himself to utter acknowledgment and 
 welcome to the man whom Eleanor loved. 
 He could not wonder that she did so, now. He looked 
 on the finely-moulded form, where to natural grace was 
 added all that ease of movement and courtly elegance which 
 polished society bestows ; the intellectual head, whose sharp, 
 clear-cut, though somewhat worn and sallow features were 
 softened by a mouth and chin most exquisite in shape and 
 expression. And then the voice, that index of the heart, 
 how musical it was ! Philip's eye and ear took in all this ; 
 and even while a sense of self-abasement made his heart die 
 within him, he felt glad thankful. She had not cast 
 away her love upon one mean and unworthy : her choice 
 was not such as to lower her in his eyes he could bear 
 anything but that ! 
 
 " I have been wishing for this pleasure some time, Mr. 
 Wychnor," said Paul, with that mixture of frankness and 
 courtesy which formed the great charm of his manner; 
 " you seem anything but unknown to me not merely from 
 your writings, which I will not be so rude as to discourse 
 upon here " 
 
 " Eight, Mr. Lynedon," put in David Drysdale ; " it is 
 very annoying when a stranger follows up his introduction 
 by taking your soul to pieces and setting it up before your 
 eyes, until in most instances you despise it yourself, after it 
 has been handled by the dirty paws of a fool. Glad to see 
 you have more sense and tact than that, sir." 
 
 " Thank you ! " answered Lynedon, with a pleasant smile 
 
288 THE OGILVIES. [CIUP. 
 
 and bow, as he turned round again to Philip. "After this, 
 I suppose I must say no more about the knowledge I have 
 gained of you from your writings which is, nevertheless, 
 the true way of becoming acquainted with a man. In the 
 world we have so many various outward selves." 
 
 " Humph ! we oughtn't to have, though ! " muttered 
 Drysdale, still taking the answer out of Philip's mouth. 
 He did not know how thankful the young man was for the 
 interposition. 
 
 " Perhaps so," continued Lynedon, politely, and still 
 turning to his silent host. " But in numberless ways, too, 
 I have heard so much of you from Mr. Pennythorne, and 
 in several other quarters." Philip changed colour, and 
 began to talk hastily about the Pennythornes. 
 
 " I believe I was invited to meet you at Blank-square, 
 Mr. Lynedon, only for the trouble that intervened." 
 
 "Ah, yes! some death in the family. Have they 
 recovered from the melancholy event 1 ?" said Paul. But 
 though his face was composed to a decent gravity, the tone 
 was not quite sincere. 
 
 " I knew they would kill that lad the youngest, was it 
 not 1 He was a clever fellow. I dare say you miss him, 
 Wychnor?" observed old David. 
 
 "I do, indeed." 
 
 " What a good-for-nothing wretch and idiot the father has 
 been ! I wish I had told him so," cried Drysdale, indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 " Hush ! you would forgive him if you saw him now," 
 Philip gently interposed ; and then he spoke more about 
 Leigh, to which Drysdale listened, while Paul Lynedon sat 
 twirling his cane, trying to assume the same interest. He 
 did not do it so well as usual, though; for Wychnor 
 detected his abstraction, and apologised. 
 
 " You knew nothing, I believe, of this poor lost friend 
 of mine ; so the conversation cannot be very interesting to 
 you." 
 
 "Indeed you mistake," answered the other. Lynedon 
 would not have been considered unfeeling on any account. 
 Besides, he had taken much pains to collect evidence con- 
 
XXXVIII.] THE OGILVIES. 289 
 
 cerning the character of the young authory-who was likely 
 to be useful to him in many ways, and whose supposed 
 connection with that little episode of his life concerning 
 Eleanor Ogilvie had entirely slipped from his easy memory. 
 Determined to please, -he was now exerting in every way his 
 own favourite talent of being " all things to all men." 
 Paul often thought this was the wisest thing his saintly 
 namesake ever said, and congratulated himself rather 
 irreverently on the presumed resemblance between them. 
 He failed here, however ; since Wychnor came to the point 
 in his own candid way by saying at once, 
 
 " I conclude the reason assigned by Mr. Pennythorne 
 for our meeting at his house will further explain this 
 obliging visit of yours, Mr. Lynedon ; and as the matter is 
 no secret, I believe, let me tell you with what pleasure I 
 would have aided your views had I been able. 
 
 " Aided his views ! So he had some views ? He never 
 told me anything about them!" said Drysdale, with a 
 degree of simplicity that made Lynedon internally wish him 
 at that " central fire," the investigation of >which formed the 
 old philosopher's present hobby. "I thought you came 
 here only to see the young author, of whom you said you 
 had heard so much?" 
 
 " Certainly that was my chief inducement. You only do 
 me justice, my worthy friend." And Paul smiled still 
 courteously as ever but immediately tried to free himself 
 from a rather awkward predicament by turning the conversa- 
 tion to his plans with regard to shire. 
 
 " You resided there, I believe 1 A beautiful county ! 
 There is none in England where I should so much wish to 
 make my home." 
 
 Philip bent his head, and his fingers played convulsively 
 with the papers on his desk. 
 
 " So," said Drysdale, " in plain English, you want to 
 
 stand for the borough of L . Pennythome said so. 
 
 And you need Wychnor's knowledge of the town. Haven't 
 you any friends there yourself 1 " 
 
 "No yes." And Paul looked rather confused, being 
 struck with the sudden possibility that Mr. Wyclmor might 
 
 u 
 
290 THE OGILV1ES. [CHAP. 
 
 have been informed of certain old follies, the very thought 
 of which brought a dye of shame to his cheek. Philip saw 
 it ; it seemed to his eyes the consciousness of happy love, 
 and his very soul writhed within him. 
 
 These strangely diverse feelings inclined both the young 
 men to the same course. Each instinctively glided from 
 the subject, and sought refuge in safe generalities. The 
 conversation became of a broken, indifferent, skirmishing 
 description, natural to two men, each of whom is bent upon 
 concealing his own thoughts and discovering those of his 
 companion. In this Paul Lynedon succeeded best ; he was 
 a far greater adept than Philip Wychnor. He talked well 
 at times brilliantly but still even to the most earnest 
 subjects he seemed to render only lip-service, and always 
 appeared to consider more the effect of his words than the 
 words themselves. He and David Drysdale almost en- 
 grossed the conversation ; but once or twice, in some of his 
 finest sentences, Paul stopped, and wondered why the eyes 
 of Philip Wychnor were so earnestly fixed upon him. He 
 did not like their scrutiny at all. 
 
 After a space, Mr. Lynedon, growing rather wearied, 
 remembered that all this while his cab was waiting in the 
 street, and that he had an important engagement " at the 
 Regent's Park " which was the first place he happened to 
 think of. As the chance word passed his careless lips those 
 of Philip Wychnor quivered and grew pale. Regent's 
 Park ! It was to all his doubts confirmation strong. 
 
 Paul Lynedon's adieu was full of the most friendly cour- 
 tesy. He thanked his new acquaintance warmly for all his 
 kindness "the kindness which he intended to show," as 
 Drysdale commented rather pointedly and said, how glad 
 and proud he should be to number among his friends Mr. 
 Philip Wychnor. Perhaps he felt the greater part of what 
 he expressed ; for no one ever looked at the young author 
 without a feeling of interest and regard. 
 
 " You will be sure to come and see me soon," said Paul, 
 holding out his hand. For the moment Philip drew back 
 his own ; but the act was unseen in the half-darkened room. 
 With a violent effort he repressed his feelings, and suffered, 
 
XXXVIII.] THE OGILVIES. 291 
 
 rather than returned, the grasp of Lynedon. When the 
 door closed on his visitor, Philip sighed as though a 
 mountain had been lifted from his breast. He almost forgot 
 the presence of Drysdale. 
 
 At length the latter roused himself from a brown study 
 of some minutes' duration with 
 
 " It's of no use. I can't make out that young man at all. 
 Can you?" 
 
 " I ] Who V asked Philip, startled out of his own silent 
 thoughts. 
 
 " Paul Lynedon, of course. I should like to anatomise 
 him that is, his soul. What an interesting psychological 
 study it would make ! " 
 
 "Would it?" said Philip, absently. 
 
 " Yes, certainly ! I have been trying the experiment my- 
 self for some days. Having nearly come to the end of the 
 abstract sciences, I intend to begin the grand science of man, 
 and my first subject shall be Paul Lynedon. What do you 
 think of him ]" 
 
 Philip said firmly, " He seems a clever man, and is doubt- 
 less as good as he looks. " 
 
 " There's the thing ! As he looks as he seems ! I have 
 never yet been able to say, as he is. He puzzles me, just 
 like the old fable of the chameleon. View him at different 
 times, and he appears of different colours ; and yet you can't 
 say he changes his skin 'tis the same animal after all 
 The change is but the effect of the lights through which he 
 passes. To-night he seemed quite different from the 
 individual whom I had the honour of meeting yesterday at 
 Mrs. Lancaster's. Yet I don't believe Paul Lynedon is 
 either a liar or a hypocrite; it could not be so, with his 
 head." And David, who was a phrenologist as well as a 
 physiogomist, indulged his young friend with a long dis- 
 course, which we shall skip over. 
 
 "The question lies here," continued Drysdale, energeti- 
 cally, " Is he a true man, or is he not 1 I can't say which 
 at present ; only I think this, that if not true he might 
 have been made so. Some people go swinging unsteadily 
 through life with a sort of pendulum character, and yet 
 
292 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 they are composed of tolerably sound metal after all, if you 
 can but get hold of them. Nobody, I think, has ever taken 
 this firm grasp of Paul Lynedon ; I mean, no one has ever 
 had influence enough over him to cause him to be what he 
 now only tries to seem. Don't you think so ! 
 
 Philip had listened with an eagerness so intense that it 
 became positive suffering. He did not believe all Drysdale 
 said he would not believe it. The Paul Lynedon of the 
 world was nothing to him : the Paul Lynedon whom Eleanor 
 had chosen wJwm Eleanor would marry he compelled 
 himself to think these very words was the most vital 
 interest he had in life. To doubt of this man's worthiness 
 gave him an acute pang. He would satisfy himself: steel- 
 ing his heart to all lower feelings, he would not shrink from 
 Lynedon, but seek to know him thoroughly. 
 
 " You do not answer. Do you agree with me f asked 
 Drysdale, when, having talked himself fairly out of breath, 
 he leaned back, intently contemplating the quaint flickering 
 shadows which the street-lamp produced on the wall of the 
 yet unlighted room. 
 
 " All you say is quite true, I doubt not," answered Philip ; 
 " still I cannot speak positively upon any evidence but my 
 own judgment and knowledge of the man." 
 
 " Bravo, Wychnor ! Caution very large, and conscien- 
 tiousness likewise. I always said so," cried the old man, 
 gently tapping his own head with his forefinger in the two 
 spots indicated by phrenologists as the seats of those qualities. 
 " But the evidence you allude to is just what I want you to 
 get, and that I may as well say so at once, being no hand 
 at hiding anything that was the chief reason why I brought 
 Lynedon to you, even more than his own wish of knowing 
 you. Perhaps you might do him some good if you tried." 
 
 " I wish I could, God knows ! " cried Philip, earnestly 
 so earnestly, that Drysdale first looked surprised, and then 
 rose with a sudden impulse to pat his young favourite's 
 shoulder in a manner expressive of the most genuine 
 approval, saying affectionately, 
 
 " Well, I knew you were a kind-hearted, generous fellow 
 as ever breathed. Perhaps I never should have thought it 
 
XXXVIII.] THE OGILVIES. 293 
 
 worth my while to study man at all if you had not attracted 
 me to the science. Now, about Paul Lynedon are you 
 listening to me?" 
 
 " Yes, my good friend, with all my heart." 
 " Well, do you see that lamp shining through your muslin 
 curtain, what fantastic shadows it casts ? I can trace a 
 different shape on the wall every time I come here. But if 
 there were no lamp, mind, there wouldn't be any shadow at 
 all. Now the lamp may stand for Paul Lynedon's soul, the 
 curtain, always assuming different folds, for his outward 
 character, modified by temperament, circumstance, or educa- 
 tion. And what I want you to do is just this" 
 
 Suiting the action to the word, he gently and slowly drew 
 the curtain aside, and the broad, full light illumined the 
 whole wall. 
 
 "I will do so, with heaven's blessing !" cried Wychnor. 
 u For her sake ! for her sake ! " he murmured in his heart, 
 whhh knew not how needless was the vow. 
 
294 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 He was justly accounted a skilful poisoner who destroyed his victims 
 by bouquets of lovely and fragrant flowers. The art has not been lost j 
 nay, it is practised every day by the world ! BISHOP LATIMEK. 
 
 Take heed we are passionate ! Our milk of love 
 
 Doth turn to wormwood, and that's bitter drinking ! 
 
 If that ye cast us to the winds the winds 
 
 Will give us their unruly, restless nature ; 
 
 We whirl, and whirl, and where we settle, Fazio, 
 
 But He who ruleth the mad winds can know. MILMAN". 
 
 IT will perhaps throw some light on the peculiarities of 
 Lynedon's character, when we relate that he did actually 
 drive to the Regent's Park to fulfil his long-standing and 
 important engagement with the trees. Whether this was 
 done as a conscience-salve, or as a safeguard against any 
 chance that might betray to Wychnor the insincerity of his 
 excuse, is needless to explain. Probably the act was com- 
 pounded of both motives. 
 
 He was not quite satisfied with his visit. From it he had 
 expected much, having some time previously listened with 
 too credulous ears to Mr. Pennythorne's grandiloquent 
 description of the immense connection " his excellent friend 
 
 Wychnor " possessed among the county families in shire. 
 
 Added thereto, Paul had a faint recollection of seeing the 
 name Wychnor on some monument or other during his walk 
 
 through L Cathedral with Eleanor Ogilvie. He felt 
 
 vexed that his own foolish sensitiveness about that ridiculous 
 affair should have made him change the subject without trying 
 to discover from Philip his chances as M.P. for the city of 
 
 L . For he had quite determined to plunge into public 
 
 life, as the only resource against the ennui that was creeping 
 over him. And, being now some years past thirty, he had 
 
XXXIX.] THE OGILVIES. 295 
 
 come to the conclusion that life was one long sham, and that 
 there was no such thing as love in it at all ; or friendship 
 either. 
 
 Nevertheless, there seemed something in Wychnor that 
 he liked ; something which touched a chord in his better 
 self. There never was a false character yet, that did not 
 feel some of its cumbrous disguises drop from it on coming 
 into contact with a true one. That night he was more 
 like the Paul Lynedon of Summerwood the Paul Lynedon 
 whom Eleanor liked, whom Katharine so madly worshipped 
 than he had been for years. 
 
 He had no evening engagement, so he turned into the 
 Opera. Music was still his passion still, as it had ever 
 been, the spell which unlocked all his purer and higher 
 feelings. Perhaps this was the reason that in his present 
 frame of mind he felt attracted within its influence, and half- 
 congratulated himself that, being unlikely to meet any one he 
 knew, he could sit and enjoy "Anna Bolena" to the fullest 
 extent. It was rather a disagreeable surprise when, as he 
 passed the entrance-hall, he heard himself addressed by name. 
 Turning round, he saw a face which, although it had altered 
 considerably from the fresh charm of youth to the coarseness of 
 mere physical beauty, he recognised at once as Hugh Ogilvie's. 
 " Quite glad to shake hands with you once more, Mr. 
 Lynedon really delighted." 
 
 " The pleasure is mutual," answered Paul, cordially. " Mr. 
 Ogilvie, how well you are looking ! " 
 
 " Of course. How could 1 help it 1 But won't you come 
 and speak to Katharine?" 
 
 " Is she here Miss Ogilvie Mrs. Ogilvie, I mean"," 
 cried Lynedon, recollecting himself, and looking rather awk- 
 ward. 
 
 "Ha, ha! Don't apologise. So you heard of our 
 marriage? Well, let me introduce you over again to my wife' 1 
 and Hugh looked towards a lady who was behind, leaning 
 on the arm, not of her husband, but of some other gentleman 
 " my wife, Mrs. Ogilvie ! " At the sound of her name she 
 turned slowly round, and Paul Lynedon and Katharine 
 stood face to face. 
 
296 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 He was startled almost confused at least as much so 
 as was possible for such a finished gentleman to be. Could 
 that magnificent creature really be the little Katharine with 
 whom he had flirted, years ago 1 " Good heavens ! " thought 
 he, " how beautiful she is ! " 
 
 Well might he think so, even though the features were 
 white and still as marble, and the dark eyes seemed cold, 
 proud, passionless. Passionless ! as if such orbs could ever 
 be thus, except in seeming as if such lips, whose delicate 
 curves were made to tremble with every breath of emotion, 
 could be thus firmly compressed into apparent calmness, ex- 
 cept by the strong will which is born with every strong pas- 
 sion. Katharine was beautiful, dazzlingly beautiful ; and 
 Lynedon not only saw it with his eyes but felt it in his 
 heart. He looked at her as he had never yet looked at any 
 woman with a sensation less of admiration than of worship. 
 He could have knelt down before her, as in his days of 
 youthful enthusiasm before some pictured ideal in Greek 
 sculpture or Italian art. When she gave him her hand, the 
 touch of the ungloved fingers thrilled him perhaps because 
 they were cold and statue-like, even as the face. He quite 
 forgot his graceful courtesies, and bowed without a single 
 compliment. Only he looked at her with one look the look 
 of old implying admiration reverence tenderness. She 
 met it. Angel of mercy ! how much a woman can bear, 
 and live ! 
 
 There was the faintest quivering about her mouth, and 
 then it was firmly set, and the proud head was lifted higher, 
 haughtier than ever, as Katharine Ogilvie said, " My husband 
 and I have much pleasure in this unexpected meeting, Mr. 
 Lynedon." 
 
 Her husband ! Paul had quite forgotten the fact for the 
 moment. That glorious woman the wife of such a fellow 
 as Hugh ! He did not like to think of it. If Katharine 
 meant by this distant, proud salutation to show him the 
 change that had come between them, assuredly she should 
 have her wish fulfilled. He turned away coloured slightly, 
 and biting his lip with vexation. He struggled a little, 
 though, and said in his old manner the Sir Charles 
 
XXXIX.] THE OGILVIES. 297 
 
 Grandison manner, as Katharine had called it at Summer- 
 wood " Allow me to congratulate two old friends on having 
 thus added to their own happiness. That such is the case, 
 no one who looks at them can doubt." 
 
 " You really think so ! Well, I am sure we do seem very 
 happy ; don't we, Katharine 1 And so we are, though it is 
 long past the honeymoon." And Hugh, with an air half 
 shy, half pleased, edged nearer*to his wife, so as to cast into 
 shadow the individual who formed her escort a mere 
 " walking gentleman," whom it is needless to describe, 
 except by mentioning his name Mr. Whyte Browne. He 
 politely fell back, and Katharine took her husband's offered 
 arm. But she leaned on it with an air of indifference, just 
 as she would have done on a chair, a table, or any other 
 article of furniture belonging to her. Nevertheless Hugh 
 looked exceedingly gratified and proud. 
 
 " What do you think of my wife 1 She is rather altered 
 from the little girl you knew at Summerwood, eh ?" he said, 
 in an audible whisper to Paul, who answered aloud, 
 
 " Indeed, pleasant as was my past recollection of of Miss 
 Ogilvie it is almost obliterated by the sight of Mrs. Ogilvie. 
 I should hardly have recognised her." Katharine bowed. 
 There was a momentary curl of the lip and contraction of 
 the brow, and then the face recovered its usual expres- 
 sion. Hugh patted her hand, but in a few moments after 
 she disengaged it on some trifling excuse, and stood 
 alone. 
 
 Just then the orchestra within began the overture, and 
 Hugh made a restless movement. 
 
 " We shall be late, and you know, Katharine, you always 
 scold me then that is, I don't mean scolding, but only a 
 little gentle reproach, which we married men understand 
 well. It's rather nice than otherwise, though, Lynedon if 
 you only knew." 
 
 Paul crushed his heel on the floor and made no answer. 
 
 " We will pass on, Hugh, if you wish," said Mrs. Ogilvie. 
 " Have you a stall, Mr. Lynedon 1 Otherwise we shall be 
 happy to find room for you in our box." She gave the in- 
 vitation with the dignified indifference of one who was 
 
298 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 accustomed to take upon herself that duty, casting only a 
 passing glance at her acquiescent husband, who echoed : 
 
 " Oh yes ! we shall be very happy, as Katharine says. 
 Pray come, Lynedon." 
 
 Lynedon assented with evident pleasure. Then first, over 
 the proud impassive beauty of Mrs. Ogilvie's face, there came 
 a flashing smile that kindled it up like a lightning glare. 
 In this smile were triumph, scorn, and revenge, with a 
 delirious joy pervading all. It lasted a moment, and faded ; 
 but not before Lynedon had seen it, and had felt for the 
 second time that strange sensation of being cowed and 
 humbled before the very feet of this woman. 
 
 " Perhaps you will take care of Mrs. Ogilvie, while I get 
 a book of the opera," said the husband; and once more 
 Paul touched the hand which had before sent such a thrill 
 through his frame. Lying on his arm it looked the same 
 childish hand which he had many a time toyed with and 
 admired. He thought of this now, and longed to do the 
 same again ; but on it sparkled the warning symbol the 
 wedding ring. It was too late ! 
 
 Paul Lynedon was a man of quick impulses. Of his 
 numerous small affaires de cceur, two-thirds had been what 
 he would probably have called " love at first sight," as if 
 such passing enchainments of sense or fancy were not 
 desecrations of that holy word. Had he seen Mrs. Ogilvie 
 as a stranger at opera or ball, he would probably have 
 conceived for her this idle passion of the moment. No 
 wonder, then, that meeting her now in the zenith of beauty, 
 and remembering the old times when his vanity had amused 
 itself -with her girlish admiration of him, the past and 
 present mingled together and created a strange and new 
 interest in Lynedon's breast. Before an hour had passed, 
 during which he sat beside her in the opera-box, listening 
 with her to the rich music, which contributed not a little to 
 the bewildering charm of the moment, Paul began to drink 
 in her every look and tone, and feel the deepest chords of 
 his being respond to her fascinations. 
 
 For she was fascinating she wished to be so ! In a 
 short space the frigid dignity of her demeanour melted away, 
 
XXXIX.] THE OGILVIES. 299 
 
 and she became the beautiful, winning, "dazzling creature 
 who for some months had been the very cynosure of the 
 circle wherein Mrs. Lancaster and her set convolved. She 
 talked, now with brilliancy, now with softness. Of all her 
 conversation Lynedon had the complete monopoly, for Mr. 
 Whyte Browne had mysteriously vanished, and Hugh 
 Ogilvie was always half asleep between the acts of an opera 
 he said the noise and light made him drowsy. He was 
 too much accustomed to see his wife receive constant 
 attentions and engross all conversation, to mind it in the 
 least. Besides, poor Hugh's simple, unexacting, contented 
 love was never crossed by the shadow of jealousy. He 
 composed himself to sleep in the corner, with an apology 
 about the long ride he had taken that morning, and left his 
 wife and Paul to amuse each other. 
 
 There is no spell more overwhelming, than for two people 
 to whom music is a feeling, a passion, to sit together listening 
 as with one soul to the same delicious strain : the rapt atten- 
 tion the heart-thrilling pause and then 'the melting 
 silence that comes afterwards, when eyes meet as if saying 
 mutely, " We both feel therefore we are one." 
 
 This strong sympathy existed between Katharine and 
 Paul. When the act ended, he turned to her, and saw, not 
 the "bewitching lady of fashion, whose very art and coquetry 
 seemed charming, but the deep-souled woman, in whose 
 heaving bosom and tremulous lip a world of passionate 
 feeling was revealed. It struck the one true chord in Paul 
 Lynedon's mercurial nature, and his tone changed from 
 sparkling wit and fulsome compliment to earnestness and 
 respect. 
 
 " You love music as much as ever, I see. You have not 
 changed in that, though in everything else.' 1 
 
 " Have I changed ? ah, I suppose so we all do ! " said 
 Katharine ; and a smile first of scorn, then of well-assumed 
 sweetness wreathed itself round her mouth. But the hand 
 which hung unseen among the folds of her dress was 
 clenched so convulsively, that the rose it held fell crushed to 
 pieces on the floor. 
 
 " Even so," pursued Lynedon, with a curious mixture of 
 
300 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 affectation and real feeling ; but allow me to quote, or 
 rather misquote, the words of our dear old Shakspeare, and 
 say, 
 
 Nothing in you that doth fade 
 But doth suffer a sea change 
 Into something rich and strange." 
 
 Katharine raised her graceful head. " You would imply 
 the need there was for a change, and you are right, Mr. 
 Lynedon ; no one can be more conscious than myself of the 
 deficiencies of my girlhood." There was a bitterness even 
 in the half-jesting speech ; and Paul felt the edge of his 
 elegant compliment blunted. He was engaging in an attack 
 wherein such light weapons would not do. Slightly con- 
 fused, he quitted the subject, and spoke of the opera. 
 
 " I never heard Grisi sing better than to night. She is 
 a grand creature, but still she is not my ideal of Anno 
 Boleyn. She makes a stormy tragedy-queen of the meek, 
 broken-spirited woman, which is our notion of Anne's 
 character as gathered from history." 
 
 " History is a trusty chronicler and unfolder of that easy, 
 well-explained subject the workings of a woman's heart," 
 answered Katharine, with an irony which sat on her so 
 gracefully and delicately, that Paul was attracted more and 
 more. 
 
 " Your meaning is just, Mrs. Ogilvie. Perhaps Grisi's 
 reading is the true one. Still, I wonder how far we may 
 unite romance with history, especially as concerning Percy, 
 Anne's first love before she married King Henry. That 
 fact argues against the poet's creed of female constancy, 
 as much as this passionate Semiramis-like heroine is 
 opposed to the received doctrine of the results caused by a 
 broken heart meek patience and resignation, and all that 
 sort of thing." Paul's mocking speech was silenced by the 
 flash which he saw gleam in Katharine's eyes. 
 
 " That is the way you men speak of women ! " she cried. 
 " You sting them into misery you goad them on to evil 
 and then you retort on them with a jeer. I beg your pardon, 
 Mr. Lynedon," she added, with a sudden alteration of voice 
 
XXXIX.] THE OGILVIES. 301 
 
 and countenance, and a laugh so light and 'musical that Paul 
 started at the marvellous change. " It is too bad of me to 
 amuse you with these commonplace revilings of your noble 
 sex a subject on which, of course, no fair lady is expected 
 to speak sincerely." 
 
 Paul acknowledged the implied amende with a look of ex- 
 treme gratification. " I am sure, judging by the laws of 
 attraction, Mrs. Ogilvie's acquaintance among my sex can 
 only comprise the very best of mankind." 
 
 " I receive the compliment, only returning you the half 
 of it, which seems ingeniously meant for yourself," said 
 Katharine, gaily. " And you must acknowledge that my 
 late speech was an excellent imitation off the stage of that 
 magnificent Diva who is now entering it. So silence ! " 
 She laid her fair jewelled finger on her mouth, round which 
 the most dimpling girlish smiles now danced. Could these 
 lips be the same, the very same, which had looked so white 
 an hour before 1 Those lips the very lips which, the last 
 time he saw her Paul Lynedon had kissed He could not 
 look at them or at her. He felt dizzy burning cold. 
 
 Hugh roused himself at the sound of the orchestra, and 
 came forward sleepily, stretching his long limbs. 
 
 " Do you find this opera amusing, Katharine 1 because I 
 can't say I do." 
 
 "Possibly not," said the wife. But when she saw 
 Lynedon's eyes rest contemptuously on Hugh, and then on 
 herself with a sort of insinuating pity, her pride rose. " You 
 will acknowledge, Mr. Lynedon, that my husband is very 
 kind in accompanying I mean, taking me to the opera 
 whenever I like ; the more so as, not understanding music, 
 he does not derive from it the same pleasure as myself." 
 
 " You're a good girl, Katharine," said Hugh, thankfully. 
 " And Mr. Lynedon won't think it rude, my going to sleep. 
 He would have done the same if he had ridden to Summer- 
 wood and back, on that hard-mouthed brute, Brown Bess." 
 
 Paul's satirical smile became one of polite attention under 
 the gleam of Mrs. Ogilvie's compelling eyes. 
 
 " Still fond of horses and hunting, Mr. Ogilvie 1" 
 
 Hugh gave expression to a melancholy grimace. " I 
 
302 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 can't hunt now we live in town and Katharine does not 
 like it. I suppose she is right she always is. Hunting 
 is dangerous, and a married man ought to take care of 
 himself, you know. It's all her love for me." 
 
 " Come, you gentlemen can talk presently. At all events, 
 Hugh, pray be silent while Mario sings Vim tu" 
 
 " Thanks for the reproof, Mrs. Ogilvie." And Lynedon 
 bent forward attent. Throughout the song he stood leaning 
 against the side of the box in exactly his old attitude, how 
 well she knew it ! Behind him, Hugh lounged on a chair in a , 
 rather awkward fashion his elbows on his knees, his chin on 
 his two hands, with shut eyes and half-opened mouth. The 
 two both what the world would consider fine-looking men 
 were types of distinct kinds of beauty : the intellectual 
 and the animal. Katharine looked from one to the other, 
 and shuddered. Heaven forgive the wife for that fearful 
 thrill of mingled love and hatred which came over her! 
 She could have shrieked aloud with despair almost with 
 terror for she felt the demon entering her soul ! 
 
 Yet when the opera ended, and Paul, on bidding adieu, 
 acquiesced eagerly in Hugh's invitation to dine with them 
 the next week, Katharine felt a glow of horrible happiness. 
 Had a river of fire rolled between her and Paul Lynedon, 
 she would have plunged into it to gain once more the sight 
 of his face the sound of his voice ! 
 
XL.] THE OGILVIES. 303 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 The affections, like the conscience, are rather to be led than drawn ; 
 ,and 'tis to be feared that they who marry where they do not love, will 
 love where they do not marry. FULLER. 
 
 MR. and Mrs. Hugh Ogilvie of Westbank Villa, Regent's 
 Park, were very different from the blithe Katharine and 
 cousin Hugh of Summerwood. The latter, deprived of that 
 physical out-of-door life which comprised his whole existence, 
 was growing dull, stout, lazy. The heavy looking man who 
 lounged wearily over his late breakfast, the greater part of 
 which became the perquisite of his sole companions in the 
 meal, two pet dogs was a melancholy contrast to the lithe, 
 active youth who used to come bounding in from his 
 morning ride or walk to the breakfast-table at Summer- 
 wood. 
 
 " Down, Tiger, down ! You must creep out of the way 
 when your mistress comes ; she don't like you as she used 
 to do. Heigho ! twelve o'clock ! Katharine gets later than 
 ever. She always was down by eleven at least," sighed 
 Hugh to himself. " This comes of living in town. Things 
 were not thus at Summerwood." He rang for his wife's 
 maid, and sent up a deprecating message, that if Mrs. 
 Ogilvie could manage it without hurrying herself, he would 
 very much like to see her before he took his morning ride. 
 And then in despair he patted his dogs again, thinking with 
 doleful regret of " the life that late he led." 
 
 Katharine heard the humble request with an impatient 
 gesture, and turned her fevered cheek again on the pillow. 
 It was indeed a long, long time since Hugh had been blest 
 with that brightest morning sunshine for a young husband 
 his wife's cheerful smile at his breakfast-board. She, who 
 
304 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 once used to rise with the lark, now indulged daily in that 
 dreamy stupor, half-sleeping, half-waking, by which, in our 
 troubled and restless moods, we seek to shorten the time 
 and deaden consciousness. It is only the happy and light- 
 hearted that dare to face the morning hours. Katharine 
 Ogilvie shrank from them, and never rose until near mid-day. 
 
 Hugh had mounted Brown Bess in despair, and cantered 
 her thrice round the Park before his wife appeared. On 
 his return, he found Katharine still in the breakfast-room. 
 Though during the ride he had in his vexation resolved to 
 give her a right due conjugal lecture, she looked so beautiful 
 in her white morning dress that he quite forgot it, and 
 kissed her heartily instead. 
 
 She received his welcome coldly enough. " There, that 
 will do. Why will you bring those two horrid dogs, Hugh ? 
 You know they annoy me. Take them away." 
 
 "That I will. Here, Tiger! Leo!" He turned them 
 out and shut the door. " 1 never let them in here except 
 when you are not down to breakfast, Katharine. But that 
 is often enough," he added, disconsolately. 
 
 " I cannot help it, with our late hours and visiting." 
 
 " Why should we visit so much, then *? I'm sure I don't 
 want it. Suppose we were to turn over a new leaf, my 
 darling Katharine?" 
 
 " Do not trouble me, Hugh ; I told you when I married 
 that I must see a little of the world. You want nothing 
 but dogs and horses ; I want many other things books, 
 amusements, society and I cannot be happy without them. 
 Don't judge me by yourself, because my pleasures are very 
 different from yours." 
 
 "Ah, yes, I know they are," answered Hugh, with a 
 sigh. " Well, you were always far cleverer than I ; it shall 
 be as you like ; only if you would let me see a littie more 
 of you " 
 
 " Yes, yes. Only do not interrupt me now that I have 
 this new book to read \ you may sit down and look at the 
 second volume. Not that it would interest you, except that 
 the author is your old acquaintance, Mr. Wychnor." Hugh 
 seated himself in obedient silence, and turned over the 
 
XI,] THE OQILVIES. 305 
 
 leaves of the book. His gentle forbearance made no im- 
 pression on his wife. A woman like Katharine had ten 
 times 'rather be trodden under foot by a man who is her 
 superior, than worshipped as an idol by an inferior. How 
 fearful is the danger into which such an one plunges, when 
 she takes for the guide of her destiny the husband who 
 ought to be reverenced next to Heaven one who must 
 perforce be to her not a ruler but a slave ! 
 
 In the desperation which prompted her sudden marriage, 
 Katharine had never thought of this. She considered not 
 the daily burden of a loveless, unequal yoke the petty 
 jars the continual dragging down a strong mind to the 
 weary level of an inferior one. Heaven made woman from 
 man, not man from woman. A great-hearted and good man 
 can lift his wife nearer to his own standard ; but by no 
 power on earth can a superior woman elevate her husband's 
 weaker mind. She must sink down to him ; all the love 
 in the world will not make him her equal. And if love be 
 not there, woe, woe unto her, for it is a fearful precipice on 
 which she stands ! 
 
 Mrs. Ogilvie's pride had carried her successfully through 
 the first months of her married life. Young, beautiful, and 
 universally admired as she was, no one had cast upon her 
 the shadow of blame. Her self-respect, if not her love, had 
 covered Hugh's inferiority as with a shield, which made 
 others show him the deference that the wife felt not, but 
 had the grace to simulate. For herself, she received the 
 incense which universally greeted her with such proud in- 
 difference, that many men, whom one smile would have 
 brought unworthily to her feet, were content to be driven 
 in chains, like wild tigers harnessed to the car of some 
 Amazonian queen. She let them see ay, and the world 
 see too that she would not step from her height for one 
 moment, so as to become their prey. Thus it was with the 
 young wife, until her path was again crossed by the shadow 
 of that terrible love which had made her life's destiny 
 until she was once more brought within the influence of 
 Paul Lynedcn. 
 
 Against this influence she now struggled. She felt that 
 X 
 
305 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 already a change had come over her, breaking the dull 
 round of her aimless existence, to escape the inanity of 
 which she had plunged into the excitement of perpetual 
 society. It was as if a gleam of lurid brightness had darted 
 across her sky : the world itself did not look as it had done 
 one little day before. She sought not to analyse her own sen- 
 sations : she only knew that where there had been darkness 
 there now was light ; and if the flash were a blinding flame, 
 she would have lifted her eager eyes to it just the same. 
 Her heart was yet pure enough to be fearless ; her sense 
 of a wife's duty was sufficiently strong, she deemed, to stand 
 in the place of a wife's love. And even with regard to 
 Paul Lynedon there had come a change. She worshipped 
 no longer with blind adoration the all-perfect ideal of her 
 girlhood, but with her love's reviving fires mingled a darken- 
 ing cloud of vengeance. She desired to make him feel what 
 she had herself felt to drive him mad for her sake, and 
 then fling back upon him the dread " too late.' 1 
 
 While, with the book before her eyes, she leaned in her 
 cushioned chair reading, not the beautiful outpourings of 
 Philip Wychnor's genius, but the fearful writing on her own 
 heart Katharine heard the name which had once been to 
 her a glad, all-pervading music. The silent tete-h-tete of the 
 husband and wife was broken by Paul Lynedon. 
 
 He had last night ingeniously conveyed Mrs. Ogilvie's 
 opera-glass to his own pocket, and now came to express, 
 with his usual indifference to truth, the extreme regret which 
 this fact would have caused him, except indeed for the 
 pleasure of returning the fair owner her property. 
 
 Lynedon would have received a welcome, though, without 
 this excuse. Hugh was always glad to see any stray visitor 
 who brightened up his wife's gloomy brow. It is only a 
 happy home that needs no guests within its walls. Paul 
 found Mrs. Ogilvie as beautiful by daylight as under the 
 glare of opera radiance. He had never seen any one who 
 came so near his ideal of womanhood. He admired, too, 
 the very atmosphere in which she moved, her house being 
 filled with indications of its mistress's taste in music, art, 
 and literature. His refined perception at once detected 
 
XL.] THE OGILVIES. 307 
 
 these mute revealings of a woman's mind and character. 
 Struck more and more, he exerted his whole powers of 
 pleasing, and the unfailing charm extended even to Hugh. 
 The trio talked pleasantly for some time on general and 
 individual subjects, and Lynedon heard hoV Sir Robert 
 and Lady Ogilvie still resided at Summerwood, though the 
 latter was in rather infirm health. 
 
 " I cannot be much with mamma now, it is impossible," 
 observed Katharine ; " but I have petitioned my sister-in- 
 law to visit her. You remember Eleanor 1 ?" 
 
 " Of course he does. Why, Lynedon, I used to think you 
 were smitten there.' 7 
 
 Paul replied, with great self-possession and indifference, 
 " I feel for Miss Eleanor Ogilvie the same respect which I 
 have for any lady who honours me with her acquaintance.' 1 
 
 As he spoke, she caught the searching glance of Katharine, 
 but it glided from his face in a moment. Hugh persisted 
 in his idle jest. "Well, well, I suppose I was mistaken. 
 And so you have got no further than acquaintance with 
 any of the pretty girls you have met ] Never expect me to 
 take in that, Lynedon ! Why, we heard you were going to 
 be married to a lady abroad only nobody knew her name. 
 Who said so? Mrs. Lancaster, was it not, Katharine 1 ?" 
 
 " I am sorry Mrs. Lancaster should have ascribed to me 
 more happiness than I am likely to attain. I have never 
 yet seen the woman whom I could marry." It was a saving 
 " could " he laid it to his conscience as an atonement for 
 the falsehood. "Mrs. Ogilvie, allow me ! " he added, stooping 
 for a book which, in hastily reaching it, she had let fall. 
 He stayed to gather up some dried flowers which were 
 scattered from the open leaves, and so did not see 
 Katharine's face. When he presented the book, she took 
 it with a steady hand and a graceful smiling acknow- 
 ledgment. 
 
 " It is a favourite volume of mine, though I have only 
 lately placed it among the list of the books I love," she 
 said. " The author is an acquaintance of ours, a Mr. 
 Wychnor." 
 
 "Philip Wychnor an excellent fellow! I know him, 
 
308 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 and like him much. How glad I am to know any friend 
 of yours!" 
 
 "Indeed we can't exactly call him a friend. We can 
 never get him out here," said Hugh. " Katharine, let us try 
 him once more, and invite him for Thursday. Perhaps Mr. 
 Lynedon might persuade him. I wish Eleanor were here, 
 she would ! They two always got on together excellently." 
 
 " Tell Mr. Wychnor," said Katharine, " that though it is 
 impossible for Eleanor to be with us on Thursday, I still 
 hope he will come. He must meet her here some day the 
 following week. But stay : I will not trouble you with so 
 long a message. Shall I write if, as you are going to see 
 him you would kindly deliver my note ?" 
 
 " To be of use to Mrs. Ogilvie in anything would give me 
 only too much happiness," was his reply, spoken for once 
 with entire undisguised truth. When, a few minutes after, 
 Lynedon passed out of the house, he drew the delicate 
 missive from his pocket and looked on the handwriting and 
 seal with a lingering loving gaze. He felt that he could 
 have traversed all London to fulfil the slightest wish of 
 Katharine Ogilvie. 
 
 The whole way to Philip Wychnor's abode, her voice 
 rang in his ear her face flitted before him. He contrived, 
 however, to banish the haunting vision a little ; so as to 
 enter into conversation, and efface the evident confusion 
 which his unexpected entrance caused. Paul attributed 
 this to the sudden disturbance he had occasioned in 
 Wychnor's literary pursuits, and thanked his stars that 
 he was not an author. To shorten his visit he quickly 
 delivered the letter. 
 
 " You will go, of course 1 They are a charming family 
 the Ogilvies/ I feel quite proud to call them all friends, 
 as I am sure you must, since you, I believe, share the same 
 privilege 1 ?" 
 
 After this remark, Paul looked up for an answer, and 
 received Philip's half-suppressed " Yes ! " 
 
 "Mrs. Ogilvie is so anxious to know more of you, and 
 you cannot refuse her. Indeed, Mr. Wychnor, you see how 
 desirous we all are for your friendship." 
 
XL.] THE OGILYIES. 309 
 
 " We all are !" Philip shrank visibly the careless word 
 seemed to him to imply so much. But there was a cordial 
 frankness in Lynedon's manner that he could not resist. 
 He remembered, too, the conversation with David Drysdale, 
 and his own promise concerning Paul. * 
 
 " I shall not see her" he reasoned within himself ; " no, 
 I could not bear that. But I will not draw back from this 
 man : I will prove him I will read his heart, and be satis- 
 fied whether he is worthy of her or not. Mr. Lynedon," he 
 said aloud, " it has of late been rarely my custom to visit, 
 I have neither time nor inclination ; but since Mr. and 
 Mrs. Ogilvie desire it, I will come on Thursday." 
 
 " That is right ! it will give every one so much pleasure ! " 
 And again Philip's shrinking fingers were compressed in the 
 warm grasp of his supposed rival. They talked for a few 
 minutes longer on other subjects, and then Paul quitted 
 him. 
 
 Philip Wychnor sank back on his chair with a heavy 
 sigh. "It is my doom I cannot escape. Heaven grant 
 me strength to bear it all !" 
 
310 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 How often ah, how often ! between the desire of the heart and 
 its fulfilment lies only the briefest space of time or distance, and yet 
 the desire remains for ever unfulfilled ! It is so near that we can touch 
 it with the hand, and yet so far that the eye cannot behold it. LONG- 
 FELLOW. 
 
 Oh ! for a horse with wings ! SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 " FOUR years four years ! " 
 
 Eleanor murmured these words to herself, in that half- 
 melancholy dreaminess which invariably comes over one of 
 thoughtful nature, when standing, no matter how hopefully, 
 on the brink of what seems a crisis in life's history. The 
 present time appeared a crisis in hers. She was going to 
 London going where she was sure to meet Philip. Soon 
 the long-affianced lovers would look on each others' face. 
 After such a season of absence, and a brief period of silence, 
 almost estrangement, how would they meet 1 Eleanor had 
 no doubt, no dread, in her faithful heart ; but still she was 
 thoughtful, and when all the preparations for the morrow's 
 journey were completed, she sat down by the window of her 
 little chamber, and watched the twilight shadows deepen on 
 the grey cathedral, saying to herself, over and over again, 
 " Four years four years ! " 
 
 It was, indeed, thus long since she had seen Philip. Four 
 years ! It seems a short time to maturer age, but to youth 
 it is an eternity. Nineteen and twenty-three 1 What a 
 gulf often lies between the two periods of existence. The 
 child's heart many a young girl is at nineteen still a child 
 is taken away, and in its stead has come the woman's, 
 which must beat on, on, loved or loveless, enjoying or 
 enduring life, until life's end ! It is a solemn thing to have 
 
XL1.J THE OGILVIES. 311 
 
 travelled so far on the universal road, that we begin to look 
 not only forward but backward to say, even jestingly, 
 " When I was a child." And to some it chances 4hat, in 
 every space thus journeyed over, uprises a spectre, which 
 confronts them with its ghastly face whenever they turn to 
 review the past ; nay, even if they set their faces bravely 
 and patiently to the future, they hear continually behind 
 them its haunting footsteps, mocking each' onward tread 
 of theirs, and knelling into their hearts the eternal "no 
 more." 
 
 On Eleanor's peaceful life this bitterness had not passed. 
 To her, the " four years " on which she now dreamily mused 
 had brought little outward change. They had flowed on 
 in a quiet, unbroken routine of duties, patiently fulfilled, 
 yet somewhat monotonous. It often seemed hardly a 
 month since she and Philip had sat together that sweet 
 spring morning, beneath the beautiful double cherry-tree 
 on which she now looked. Yet, since then, three times she 
 had watched its budding, leafing, flowering had watched 
 it alone ! And the clematis which that same morning, in 
 the playfulness of happy, newly-betrothed lovers, they 
 together planted in memory of the day, had now climbed 
 even to her window, and flung therein a cloud of perfume. 
 It came over her senses wooingly, like the memory of those 
 dear olden times, and of Philip's precious love. She leaned 
 her head against the casement, and drank in the fragrance, 
 until her eyes filled with happy tears. 
 
 " I shall see him, I shall see him ! soon, ah, soon ! she 
 whispered ; while her fancy conjured up his likeness, as she 
 used to watch him, lying on the grass dreamily in summer 
 noons, with the light falling on his fair hair and his delicate, 
 almost boyish cheek. Picturing him thus, Eleanor half 
 smiled to herself, remembering that Philip was no boy now 
 that four years must have given him quite the port and 
 appearance of a man. He would be, ay, almost eight-and- 
 twenty now, and he had wrestled with the world, and 
 gained therein fame and success. Ah, he would not look 
 like the Philip whose boyish grace had been her ideal of 
 beauty for so long. He must be changed in that at least. 
 
312 THE OG1LVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 She was almost sorry, yet proud to think how great he had 
 become. And she 
 
 Eleanor did not often think of herself, especially her 
 outward self; but she did now. Yet it was still with 
 reference to him 1 Was she worthy of him 1 In her heart 
 her faithful, loving heart she knew she was. But in 
 external things 1 When she thought of Philip living in 
 London, gay, courted, moving among the talented and 
 beautiful and herself, a simple country girl, who had spent 
 this long time in complete retirement and patient attendance 
 on querulous age, Eleanor was struck by a passing feeling 
 of anxiety. She was no heroine, but a very woman. She 
 rose up and looked at herself in the mirror. It reflected a 
 face, not beautiful, but full of a sweetness more winning even 
 than beauty. Perhaps the cheek was less peach-like and 
 had a straighter curve, and on the mouth, instead of girl- 
 hood's dimples, sat a meek calm smile. The eyes ah, 
 here Time had given, rather than taken away! he had left 
 still the true heart shining from them, and had added thereto 
 the deep, thoughtful soul of matured womanhood. 
 
 Something of this their owner herself saw, for she smiled 
 once more, murmuring, " He used to love my eyes I think 
 he will love them still ! And he will find only too soon 
 how dearly they love him," she added, as her heart, nigh 
 oppressed with the weight of its joy and tenderness, relieved 
 itself with what sounded almost like a sigh. 
 
 " I will not sit thinking any more, but try and find 
 something to do," said Eleanor, as she roused herself from 
 her dreamy mood, and began to arrange with feminine 
 care her " properties " already packed up for the gay visit 
 which was to break her monotonous life. But even in this 
 occupation the one thought followed her. She was always 
 neat and tasteful in her dress, as a woman should be ; but 
 now she felt conscious of having selected her wardrobe with 
 more than usual care. The colours Philip had liked the 
 style of attire that once pleased his fancy ever 'a poet's 
 fancy, graceful and ideal all were remembered. It was a 
 trifling perhaps an idle thought but it was natural and 
 womanly \ showing too how Love binds up into itself all 
 
XLI.] T1IE OGILVIES. 313 
 
 life's aims and purposes, great and small ; how it can dare 
 the world's battle, and sit smiling at the hearth is at once 
 a crowned monarch, a mighty hero, and a little playful child. 
 
 When Eleanor's hands had resolutely busied themselves 
 for some minutes, they again drooped listlessly on her lap, 
 as she sat down on the floor, and once more became absorbed 
 in pleasant musings. She was roused by a summons from 
 Davis. Mrs. Breynton "wished to know whether Miss 
 Ogilvie intended to give her any of her company this even- 
 ing ; which she might well do, seeing it was the last." 
 
 " You must excuse the message, Miss Eleanor," said the 
 old servant ; " but I don't wonder at my lady's being cross ; 
 she will miss you so much ; indeed, we all shall. But I am 
 glad you are going \ 'tis hard for a young creature to be 
 kept moping here. I hope you'll have a pleasant visit, 
 Miss Ogilvie, though the house will be dull without your 
 pretty face God bless it ! " 
 
 Eleanor thanked her, almost tearfully, for her heart was 
 very full. 
 
 " And you'll come back as blithe and merry as " the old 
 woman 'paused for a simile " as my canary there, which 
 poor Master Phi Oh ! Miss Ogilvie, perhaps in that great 
 world of London you may hear something of somebody I 
 daren't speak about, though goodness knows I've never for- 
 gotten him never ! " And the unfailing apron was lifted 
 to poor Davis's eyes. 
 
 Eleanor could not speak ; but, as she passed hastily out 
 of the room, she pressed warmly the hard brown hand of 
 the faithful, affectionate creature, who remembered Philip 
 still. 
 
 Mrs. Breynton sat in her arm-chair, knitting vehemently 
 at the eternal quilt, which was now promoted to be nearly 
 the sole occupation of its aged projector, whose dimmed eyes 
 and trembling fingers grew daily less active. To-night they 
 seemed incompetent even to the simple work to which they 
 applied themselves with such indignant energy, for the per- 
 petually unroved square seemed a very Penelope's web. At 
 length, when the old lady had knitted away her wrath and 
 her cotton, she looked up, and saw Eleanor sitting near her. 
 
314 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 " Oh, I thought you intended to stay up-stairs all the even- 
 ing. Pray, how long is it since you troubled yourself to 
 come down ? " 
 
 " I have been here some minutes," was the gentle answer. 
 
 " Why did you not speak, then 1 " 
 
 " I did once, but you were too busy to hear me, I think. 
 Now shall I take your work away and ring for tea 1 " Mrs. 
 Breynton assented, muttered something about the chill 
 autumn evening, and turned her chair opposite the fire, so 
 that her face was completely hid. Eleanor went about the 
 light household duty now wholly hers with an agitated 
 heart, for there came upon her the thought, natural to the 
 eve of a journey and such a journey How would be the 
 return? When she again sat at Mrs. Breynton's board, 
 would it be in 'peace and hope, or She drove away the 
 fear : she could not would not think of it. She would 
 still believe in Philip, and in Philip's aunt. 
 
 " Shall I move your chair hither, or bring your tea to the 
 work-table ?" she said, trying to steady her voice to its usual 
 tone of affectionate attention. 
 
 " Bring it here. I may as well get used to taking tea 
 alone," muttered Mrs. Breynton. But when Eleanor came 
 beside to her, to show for the last time the simple act of care- 
 ful tendance to which she had been so long accustomed, the 
 harsh voice softened. 
 
 " Ah ! I shall have no one to make tea for me to-morrow 
 night ! Indeed, I can't tell what I shall do without you, 
 Eleanor." 
 
 And instead of taking the offered cup, she gazed wistfully 
 in the sweet young face that was now becoming troubled 
 and tearful. 
 
 " Dear friend dear Mrs. Breynton, shall I stay 1 " 
 
 " No, no ; I have no right to keep you ; of course your 
 brother wants you, and you yourself must be delighted to 
 leave this dull place." 
 
 " Nay ; was it not by your own consent your own de- 
 sire?" 
 
 " J desired nothing. What made you think so?" cried 
 Mrs. Breynton, angrily. There was, indeed, a strange and 
 
XLI.] THE OGILVIES. 315 
 
 painful conflict in her mind. Fearful lest all hope of winning v 
 back her erring yet cherished nephew should be lost, and 
 pierced deeper and deeper with a feeling almost akin to re- 
 morse, she had determined to risk all chance of discovery, 
 and let the lovers meet. Yet when the time came she 
 trembled. Besides, she did not like to part even for a 
 season with the gentle creature who had become almost 
 necessary to her comfort; age can ill bear any change or 
 any separation. But for all that, Eleanor must go ; it was 
 the only chance of bringing back him for whom Mrs. 
 Breynton's pride and love alike yearned continually. Her 
 feelings changed hourly momently with an impetuosity 
 that even her yet energetic mind could not wholly conceal. 
 
 " Eleanor," she continued, " do not mistake me ; you go 
 by your own choice, and your friend's wish ; I have no 
 right to interfere with either. But you will come back 1 " 
 
 " I .will indeed ! And, oh ! Mrs. Breynton, if " 
 
 Eleanor sank down beside her. There was no mistaking 
 the plea of that earnest face the one plea which her whole 
 life of duty and tenderness silently urged. But Mrs. Breyn- 
 ton turned hastily and coldly away. 
 
 " Eise, and go to your place, my dear : we will talk no 
 more now." And for an hour afterwards, by a violent con- 
 trol which showed how strong still was her lingering pride, 
 the Dean's widow maintained her usual indifference, talked 
 of common things, and made no allusion to the journey or 
 the parting. At last she took out her watch, and desired 
 Eleanor, as usual, to call the servants in to prayers. 
 
 The girl obeyed, placed the cushion and the open book, 
 as she had done every night for so long, and knelt down, 
 with her eyes overflowing. 
 
 Mrs. Breynton read the accustomed form in her accus- 
 tomed tone. The servants gone, she and Eleanor stood 
 alone. 
 
 "My dear, is everything prepared for your journey to- 
 morrow 1 " 
 
 Eleanor assented mutely ; she could not speak. 
 
 " You will take as escort either Davis or James, which 
 you choose ; either can return next day." 
 
316 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP, 
 
 " Oh no, you are too kind," said Eleanor, who knew what 
 it cost the precise old lady to part, for ever so short a time, 
 with either of these her long-trusted domestics ; " indeed, I 
 can travel very well alone." 
 
 "But I do not choose my child, my adopted daughter" 
 she laid a faint emphasis on the word " to do any such 
 thing. The matter is decided." 
 
 Pride struggled with tenderness in her manner, and still 
 she stood irresolute. The old butler entered with lighted 
 candles. 
 
 " James," said his mistress, " you will accompany Miss 
 Ogilvie to her journey's end, with all care and attention, as 
 though she were my own child." And then, finding the last 
 minute had indeed come, Mrs. Breynton took her candle. 
 
 " My dear Eleanor, as you depart so early, we had better 
 say good-bye to-night." She held out her hand, but Eleanor 
 fell on her neck, weeping bitterly. Mrs. Breynton began to 
 tremble. 
 
 " Hush, my dear ! you must not try me so ; I am old, I 
 cannot bear agitation." She sank on a chair, struggled a 
 moment, and then stretched out her hands. " Eleanor 
 poor Isabel's Eleanor forgive me. Come ! " And for the 
 second time in her life, the childless widow folded to her 
 bosom the young creature from whom, in her old age, she 
 had learned, and was learning more and more, the blessed 
 lesson, to love. In a few minutes the emotion passed, and 
 she rose up. 
 
 " Now, my child, I must go. Give me your arm to my 
 room door, for I am weak and exhausted." 
 f " And you will not let me see you in the morning 1 " 
 
 " No, my dear, no ! better thus ! You will come back 
 at the two months' end. You promise 1 " And her search- 
 ing eyes brought the quick colour into Eleanor's cheek. 
 
 " I promise ! " She might have said more, but Mrs. 
 Breynton moved hastily on to her chamber. At the door 
 she turned round, kissed the girl's cheek, and bade God 
 bless her. 
 
 Then from Eleanor's full heart burst the cry "Bless 
 Lira even him also! dearest friend, let me take with 
 
XLI.] THE OGILVIES. 317 
 
 me a blessing for Philip ! " At the name-Mrs. Breynton's 
 countenance became stone once more. All her wrath, 
 all her sternness, all her pride, were gathered up in one 
 word 
 
 " No ! " She closed the door, and Eleanor saw her not, 
 again. But for hours she heard the feeble, aged footstep 
 pacing the next chamber and even in her heaviness the 
 girl was not without hope. 
 
 Eleanor awoke at dawn, startled from her restless sleep 
 by one of those fantastic dreams that will sometimes come 
 on the eve of any great joy, in which we rehearse the long- 
 expected bliss, and find that, by the intervention of some 
 strange " cloud of dole " it has been changed to pain. 
 Philip's betrothed dreamed of that meeting, the hope of 
 which, waking, had filled her whole soul with happiness 
 almost too great to bear. She saw him, but his face was 
 cold changed. He turned away without even a clasp of 
 the hand. Then the dream became wild and unconnected 
 though it was always Philip only Philip. She was 
 again with him, and the ground seemed suddenly cloven, 
 while a tempestuous river rushed howling between them ; 
 it grew into a mighty sea, above which she saw him stand- 
 ing on a pinnacle of rock, his averted face lifted to the 
 sky, his deaf ear heeding not the despairing cry which she 
 sent up from the midst of the engulphing waters. 
 
 With that cry she awoke, to find with oh ! what thank- 
 ful joy ! that these were but dreams. Suddenly, like a 
 burst of sunshine, the joyful truth broke upon her, that 
 this day, this very day, she would journey towards Philip 
 a brief space, perchance a few hours, and they would meet ! 
 Once more burst from her inmost heart the rapturous 
 murmur "I shall see him! I shall see him!" And 
 Eleanor turned her face on the pillow, weeping tears of 
 happiness. 
 
 Oh, the thrill of a remembered joy that comes with 
 waking how wild, how deep it is ! Only second to that 
 keenest pang, the first waking consciousness of misery. 
 
 Soon Eleanor rose, saying to herself the old adage she 
 
318 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP, 
 
 had an innocent superstition lurking in the depths of her 
 simple heart " Morning tears bring evening smiles ; " and 
 she thought, if the tears were so sweet, what must be the bliss 
 of her smiles ! So she made ready for her departure with a 
 cheerful spirit, over which neither the painful dream, nor the 
 still more painful remembrance of Mrs. Breynton's last words, 
 could throw more than a passing cloud. 
 
 As though to confirm this joy, Davis knocked at her 
 chamber-door with an affectionate farewell message from 
 Mrs. Breynton, and a letter. It was from Sir Robert Ogilvie, 
 begging his niece to hasten her journey, so as to accompany 
 him that night to a party at his daughter's house. "It was 
 Katharine's especial wish," he said ; and Katharine's wish 
 had long become law with father, mother, and husband too. 
 " Eleanor could easily reach Summerwood by the afternoon," 
 her uncle continued, " thanks to the railway the only 
 useful innovation that the hateful march-of-intellect Eadicals 
 had ever made." 
 
 Eleanor read Katharine's enclosed letter of warm invita- 
 tion. It bore the following postscript : " I especially wish 
 you to come, because you will be like to meet one who will 
 doubtless be as much pleased to meet you your old ac- 
 quaintance, Mr. Wychnor." 
 
 What a world of joy lay hi that idly-scribbled line! 
 
 "To-night, to night! cried Eleanor, as, bewildered 
 almost stunned by the certainty of the coming bliss, she 
 sank on the bed and hid her face. Thence, gliding to her 
 knees, her first impulse was one, the sacredness of which 
 received no taint from its total simplicity a thanksgiving 
 lifted to Him who gave Eve unto Adam, and Sarah unto 
 Abraham, for thus bringing her face to face with one whom 
 as sacredly as if the marriage words had already been 
 spoken Eleanor regarded as her husband. 
 
 Once again, ere the last moment of departure came, 
 Eleanor entered her little chamber, shut the door, and 
 prayed that she might return thither in safety and in joy ; 
 and then, all bitterness reconciled, pass from this home of 
 patient duty into another far dearer, and thus faithfully 
 
XLI.] THE OGILVIES. 319 
 
 fulfil woman's highest, holiest destiny, that. of a loving and 
 devoted wife. And as she arose, the sun burst through the 
 grey morning clouds, and the cathedral chimes rang ont 
 joyfully, yet with a sweet solemnity. Their sound followed 
 her like a parting blessing. 
 
 And so, borne cheerily on the " horse with wings," which 
 to her was as welcome and as full of poetry as that dream- 
 creation of Imogen's desire, Eleanor want to Summerwood 
 
320 THE OGILVIES, [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 I saw it 
 
 'Twas no foul vision with unblinded eyes 
 I saw it ! his fond hands were wreathed in hers. 
 
 ... He gazed upon her face, 
 Even with those fatal eyes no woman looks at. 
 
 .* . . Mayst thou 
 
 Ne'er know the racking anguish of this hour 
 The desolation of this heart 1 MILMAN. 
 
 THE circle assembled in Hugh Ogilvie's drawing-room was 
 the very perfection of a social dinner-party. Everybody 
 knew everybody, or nearly so. There was Mrs. Lancaster 
 flitting about as usual in her gossamer drapery, and her 
 shadow of a husband still hovering beside her the reflec- 
 tion of her glory. There was David Drysdale pursuing his 
 iicw science the study of humanity in general ; with 
 especial reference to Paul Lynedon, whose movements he 
 watched with Argus eyes. The object of bis scrutiny, 
 however, was unconscious of the fact. Paul moved hither 
 and thither, casting in all directions his graceful and 
 brilliant talk ; but for the first time in his life found him- 
 self quite indifferent as to the sensation he created among 
 the general company. They seemed to him like a moving 
 phantasmagoria of shadows ; among them he saw but one 
 form, heard but one voice and these were Katharine 
 Ogilvie's. 
 
 She knew this too : though he did not keep constantly 
 at her side, she felt his eyes upon her wherever she moved. 
 She was conscious that not one word from her lips, not one 
 silken stirring of her robe, escaped the notice of Paul 
 Lynedon. The thought made her eyes glitter with triumph. 
 
XM1.] THE OGILVIES. 321 
 
 She felt that she had only to stretch forth" her arm, to lay 
 her delicate hand on the lion's mane, and, Ariadne-like, 
 she would ride victoriously on the beautiful Terror which 
 had once trampled on her peace. Exultingly she displayed 
 the power which had gained her universal homage the 
 lofty and careless defiance that only subdued the more. 
 
 Yet, could any eyes have pierced through that outward 
 illusion, they might perchance have seen behind the queen- 
 like, radiant woman, the shadow of an angel the angel of 
 Katharine's lost youth mourning for her future. And 
 ever and anon, piercing through the clouds that were fast 
 darkening over the wife's soul, came a low whisper, warn- 
 ing her that even an erring marriage-vow becomes sacred 
 for ever ; and that to break it, though only in thought, 
 is a sin which oceans of penitent tears can scarcely wash 
 away. 
 
 To none of her guests was Mrs. Ogilvie more gracefully 
 courteous than to the silent, reserved Philip Wychnor. 
 During the half-hour that elapsed before dinner, her magic 
 influence melted away many of those frosty coverings in 
 which he unconsciously enveloped himself in society. A 
 man instinctively lays his soul open before a woman, much 
 more than before one of his own sex ; and had Katharine 
 been less absorbed in the struggles of her own heart, she 
 might have read much of Wychnor's even without his 
 knowledge. 
 
 At length there mingled in her winning speech the name 
 so loved, yet so dreaded by her hearer. 
 
 " I hope, after all, that you will meet your old friend 
 Eleanor to-night. My father told me she was expected at 
 Summerwood to-day, so I entreated him to bring her 
 hither." 
 
 Philip made no answer: despite his iron will, he felt 
 stifling gasping for air. 
 
 " You are not well sit down/' observed the young 
 hostess, kindly ; " I ought not to have kept you standing 
 talking so long." 
 
 He sank on a chair, muttering something about " having 
 been overworked of late." 
 
322 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 "I feared so; indeed, you must take care of yourself, 
 Mr. Wyclmor ; I will not say for the world's sake, but for 
 that of your many friends. Amongst which I hope to be 
 numbered one day ; and when Eleanor comes " 
 
 He turned away, and his eyes encountered Lynedon's. 
 The latter was apparently listening eagerly to each word 
 that fell from Mrs. Ogilvie's lips. Philip fancied the spell 
 lay in the sound of the beloved name, when it was only in 
 the voice that uttered it. But he had not time to collect 
 his thoughts, when the drawing-room door opened and 
 Hugh burst in, with somewhat of the old cheerfulness 
 brightening his heavy features. 
 
 " Katharine, make haste ; they're both come, your father 
 and our dear Nelly. I'm so glad ! " 
 
 " And so am I," answered Katharine, for once echoing 
 her husband ; and, making her own graceful excuses to her 
 guests, she glided from the room. 
 
 As she did so, Philip looked up with a wild, bewildered air, 
 and again caught the eager gaze of Paul Lynedon fixed on the 
 closing door. He started from his seat, conscious only of a 
 vague desire to fly anywhere, on any pretext, so as to escape 
 the torture of the scene. But Drysdale intercepted him. 
 
 "Eh, my young friend, what's this? Where are you 
 going!" 
 
 " I I cannot tell " 
 
 " Nothing the matter ? not ill V 9 And, following the old 
 man's affectionate, anxious look, came the curious and sur- 
 prised glance of Lynedon. Beneath it Philip's agony sank 
 into a deadly calm. 
 
 Once again he said in his heart, " It is my doom. I can- 
 not fly ; I must endure." He had just strength to creep to 
 a corner of the room, apart from all. There he sat down 
 and waited in patient, dull despair for the approach of her 
 whom he still loved dearer than his life. 
 
 There were voices without the door. Lynedon sprang to 
 open it. It was in answer to his greeting that Philip's 
 half-maddened ear distinguished the first tone of that 
 beloved voice, unheard for years except in dreams. Soft it 
 was, and sweet as ever, and tremulous with gladness. 
 
XLIL] THE OGILVIES. 323 
 
 Gladness ' when she knew that he, once~ioved, and then 
 so cruelly forsaken, was in her presence, and heard all ! 
 
 " Come, let her hand go, Lynedon," said Hugh's voice. 
 " Here are other friends, Nelly." 
 
 She advanced, pale but smiling no set smile of forced 
 Courtesy, but one which betokened a happy heart ; her own, 
 her very own smile, shining in eyes and lips, and making 
 her whole face beautiful. 
 
 Philip saw it, and then a cold mist seemed to enwrap 
 him through which he beheld men and women, and mov- 
 ing lights, indistinct and vague. Yet still he sat, leaning 
 forward, as though attentive to the last dull saying of his 
 dull neighbour, Mr. Lancaster. 
 
 And Eleanor ! Oh ! if he had known that in all the 
 room she saw only one face his ! that she passed Lynedon 
 and the rest, hardly conscious of their greetings that 
 through them all, her whole soul flew to him him only 
 in a transport of rejoicing that they had met at last ! 
 
 Yet, when she stood before him when she held out her 
 hand, she could not speak one word. She dared not even 
 lift her eyes, lest she should betray the joy, which was 
 almost too great to conceal. It blanched her smiling lips, 
 made her frame tremble, and her voice grow measured and 
 cold. 
 
 And thus they met, in the midst of strangers, with one 
 passing clasp of the hand, one formal greeting ; and then 
 either turned away, to hide from the world and from each 
 other at once the agony and the gladness. 
 
 For in Eleanor's heart the gladness lingered still. A 
 momentary pang she had felt, that they should meet thus 
 coldly, even in outward show but still she doubted him 
 not. Philip must be right must be true. A few minutes 
 more, and he would surely find some opportunity to steal 
 to her side to give her one word one smile, which might 
 show that they were still to one another as they had been 
 for years nay, all their lives ! So she glided from the 
 group around Katharine, to calm her beating heart, and 
 gather strength even to bear her joy. 
 
 She sat down, choosing a place where she could see him 
 
324 THE OGILVIES. [C1IAP. 
 
 who was to her all in the room all in the world! She 
 watched him continually, talking or in repose. He was 
 greatly altered ; much older ; the face harsher in its lines ; 
 but he was her Philip still. Gradually, amidst all the 
 change, the former likeness grew, and these four years of 
 bitter separation seemed melted into nothing. She saw 
 again the playmate of her childhood the lover of her youth 
 her chosen husband. She waited tremblingly for him to 
 come to her, to say only in one look that he remembered 
 the sweet past. 
 
 But he never came ! She saw him move, talking to one 
 guest and then another. At last they all left him, and he 
 stood alone. He would surely seek her now 1 No, he did 
 not even turn his eyes, but sank wearily into a chair ; and 
 above the murmur of heedless voices there came to Eleanor 
 his heavy sigh. 
 
 She started : one moment more, and she would have 
 cast aside all maidenly pride, and crept nearer to him, only 
 to look in his face, and say " Philip !" But Mrs. Lancaster 
 approached him, and she heard him answering some idle 
 compliments with the calmness learnt in the heartless 
 world, she thought knowing not that love's agony gives 
 to its martyrs a strength, almost superhuman, first to endure 
 and, then enduring, to conceal. 
 
 She saw him speak and smile ay, smile and an icy 
 fear crept over her. It seemed the shadow of that terrible 
 " no more," which sometimes yawns between the present 
 and past. Let us pray rather that our throbbing hearts 
 may grow cold in the tomb/ than that we should live to 
 feel them freezing slowly in our bosoms, and be taught 
 by their altered beatings to say calmly, " The time has 
 been!" 
 
 It so chanced that Paul Lynedon led Eleanor down to 
 dinner. He did it merely because she happened to stand 
 near Mrs. Ogilvie. The latter had turned from him and 
 taken the arm of David Drysdale, with whom she was 
 already on the friendliest of terms. Katharine was always 
 so especially charming in her manner to old people. 
 
 These formed the group at the head of the table ; Philip 
 
XLII.] THE OGILVIES. 325 
 
 sat far apart, having placed himself where he could not see 
 the face of either Paul or Eleanor. But their tones came 
 to him amid the dazzling, bewildering mist of light and 
 sound ; every word, especially the rare utterances of 
 Eleanor's low voice, piercing distinct and clear through all. 
 
 Philip's neighbour was Mrs. Lancaster, who, now feeling 
 herself sinking from that meridian altitude which, as the 
 central sun of a petty literary sphere, she had long main- 
 tained, caught at every chance of ingratiating herself with 
 any rising author. She mounted her high horse of senti- 
 ment and feeling, and cantered it gently on through a long 
 criticism of Wychnor's last work. Then, finding the chase 
 was vain, for that he only answered in polite monosyllables, 
 she tried another and less lofty style of conversation 
 remarks and tittle-tattle, concerning her friends absent and 
 present. She was especially led to this by the mortification 
 of seeing her former proUgd, Paul Lynedon, so entirely 
 escaped from under her wing. 
 
 " How quiet Lynedon has grown ! " she said sharply. " I 
 never saw such a change. Why, he used to be quite a lion 
 in society. How silent he sits between Mrs. Ogilvie and 
 her sister ! By-the-by, perhaps that may account for his 
 dulness to-night." 
 
 " Do you think so 1 " answered Philip, absently. 
 
 "Ah, the affair was before your time, Mr. Wychnor," 
 said the lady, mysteriously ; " but some years ago, at 
 Summerwood, I really imagined it would have been a match 
 between Miss Eleanor Ogilvie and Paul Lynedon there. 
 How he admired her singing, and herself too ! Not that / 
 ever could see much in either ; but love is blind, you know." 
 
 "Mrs. Lancaster, allow me to take wine with you," 
 interrupted Paul, who from the other end of the table had 
 accidentally caught the sound of his own name united with 
 Eleanor's, and was in mortal fear lest Mrs. Lancaster's 
 tenacious memory should be recalling her former badinage 
 on the subject. 
 
 Philip sat silent. His cup of agony seemed overflowing. 
 But ere his lips approached the brim, an angel came by and 
 touched it, changing the gall into a healing draught. On 
 
326 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 the young man's agonised ear came the mention of one name 
 the name of the dead. What matter though it was 
 uttered by the frivolous tongue of Mrs. Lancaster, to whom 
 Leigh Pennythorne and his sufferings were merely a vehicle 
 for sentimental pity ! Even while she pronounced the 
 name, surely some heavenly ministrant caught up the sound 
 and caused it to fall like balm on Philip Wyclmor's heart. 
 The casual words carried his thoughts away from all life's 
 tortures to the holy peace of death. They brought back to 
 him the dark still room, where, holding the boy's damp 
 hand, he had talked with him, solemnly, joyfully, of the 
 glorious after-world. Then came floating across his memory 
 the calm river sunset the last look at the moon-illumined 
 peaceful face, on whose dead lips yet lingered the smile of 
 the parted soul. Even now, amidst this torturing scene, 
 the remembrance lifted Philip's heart from its earthly pains 
 towards the blessed eternity where all these should be 
 counted but as a drop in the balance. 
 
 If the thorns of life pierce keenest into the poet's soul, 
 Heaven and Heaven's angels are nearer to him than to the 
 worldly man. Philip Wychnor grew calmer, and his 
 thoughts rose upward, where, far above both grief and ioy, 
 amidst the glories of the Ideal and the blessedness of the 
 Divine, a great and pure mind sits serene. Thither, when 
 they have endured awhile, does the All-compassionate, even 
 in life, lift the souls of these His children, and give them to 
 stand, Moses-like, on the lonely height of this calm Pisgah. 
 Far below lies the wilderness through which their weary 
 feet have journeyed. But God turns their faces from the 
 past, and they behold no more the desert, but the Canaan. 
 
 There was a fluttering of silken dresses as the hostess and 
 her fair companions glided away. Philip did not look up ; 
 or he might have caught fixed on his face a gaze so full of 
 mournful, anxious tenderness, that it would have pierced 
 through the thickest clouds of jealous doubt and suspicion. 
 He felt that Eleanor passed him by, though his eyes were 
 lifted no higher than the skirt of her robe. But on her left 
 hand, which lay like a snowflake among the black folds, he 
 saw a ring, his own gift his only one, for love like theirs 
 
XLIL] THE OGILVIES. 327 
 
 needed no outward token. She had promised on her 
 betrothal-eve that it should never be taken off, save for the 
 holier symbol of marriage. How could she how dared 
 she wear it now ! One gleam of light shot almost blind- 
 ingly through Philip's darkness, as he beheld ; the deep 
 calm fled from his heart, and it was again racked with 
 suspense. He sat motionless ; the loud talk and laughter 
 of Hugh Ogilvie, and the vapid murmurings of Mr. Lan- 
 caster, floating over him confusedly. 
 
 Paul Lynedon had already disappeared from the dining- 
 room. He could not drive from his mind the vague fear 
 lest his foolish affair with Eleanor Ogilvie should be bruited 
 about in some way or another. He longed to stop Mrs. 
 Lancaster's ever -active tongue. And judging feminine 
 nature by the blurred and blotted side on which he had 
 viewed it for the last few years, he felt considerable doubt 
 even of Eleanor herself. If she had betrayed, or should 
 now betray, especially to Katharine Ogilvie, the secret of 
 his folly ! He would not have such a thing happen for the 
 world ! Wherefore, he stayed not to consider ; for Paul's 
 impetuous feelings were rarely subjected to much self-exami- 
 nation. Acting on their impulse now, he bent his pride to 
 that stronger passion which was insensibly stealing over 
 him ; and first assuring himself that his fellow-adventurer 
 in the drawing-room, David Drysdale, was safely engrossing 
 the conversation of their beautiful hostess, Lynedon care- 
 lessly strolled towards an inner apartment divided from the 
 rest by a glass-door, through which he saw Eleanor, sitting 
 thoughtful and alone. 
 
 "Now is my time," said Paul to himself, "but I must 
 accomplish the matter with finesse and diplomacy. What 
 a fool I was, ever to have brought myself into such a scrape ! " 
 
 He walked with as much indifference as he could assume 
 through the half-open door, which silently closed after him. 
 He was rather glad of this, for then there would be no eaves- 
 droppers. Eleanor looked up, and found herself alone with 
 the lover she had once rejected. But there was no fear of 
 his again imposing on her the same painful necessity ; for 
 a more careless, good-humoured smile never sat on the face 
 
328 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 of the most indifferent acquaintance, than that which Paul 
 Lynedon's now wore. 
 
 " Do I intrude on your meditations, Miss Ogilvie 1 If 
 so, send me away at once, which will be treating me with 
 the candour of an old friend. But I had rather claim the 
 privilege in a different way, and be allowed to stay and 
 have a little pleasant chat with you." 
 
 Eleanor would fain have been left to solitude : but 
 through life she had thought of others first of herself last. 
 It gave her true pleasure, that by meeting Lynedon's frank- 
 ness with equal cordiality she could atone to the friend for 
 the pain once given to the lover. So she answered kindly, 
 "Indeed I shall be quite glad to renew our old sociable 
 talks." 
 
 "Then we are friends real, open-hearted, sincere friends," 
 answered Paul, returning her smile with one of equal candour. 
 " And," he added, in a lower tone, " to make our friendship 
 sure, I trust Miss Ogilvie has already forgotten that I ever 
 had the presumption to aspire to more 1" 
 
 Eleanor replied, with mingled sweetness and dignity, 
 
 "I remember only what was pleasurable in our ac- 
 quaintance. Be assured that the pain, which I am truly 
 glad to see has passed from your memory, rests no longer 
 on mine. We will not speak or think of it again, Mr. 
 Lynedon." 
 
 But Paul still hesitated. " Except that I may venture 
 to express one hope indeed I should rather say a conviction. 
 I feel sure that, with one so generous and delicate-minded, 
 this this circumstance has remained, and will ever remain, 
 unrevealed T' 
 
 " Can you doubt it T' And a" look as nearly approaching 
 pride as Eleanor's gentle countenance could assume, marked 
 her wounded feeling. " I thought that you would have 
 judged more worthily of me of any woman." 
 
 " Of you, indeed, I ought. I am ashamed of myself, 
 Miss Ogilvie," cried Lynedon, giving way to a really sincere 
 impulse of compunction, and gazing in her face with some- 
 thing of his old reverence. " I do believe you, as ever, the 
 kindest, noblest, creature half woman, half saint; and, 
 
XLII.] THE OGILVIES. 329 
 
 except that I am unworthy of the boon, it would be a bless- 
 ing to me through life to call you friend." 
 
 " Indeed you shall call me so, and I will strive to make 
 the title justly mine," said Eleanor, with a bright, warm- 
 hearted smile, as she stretched out her hand to him. 
 
 He took it, and pressed it to his lips. Neither saw that 
 on this instant a shadow darkened the transparent door, 
 and a face, passing by chance, looked in. It was the face 
 of Philip Wychnor! 
 
330 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIIL 
 
 Better trust all, and be deceived ; 
 
 And weep that trust and that deceiving ; 
 Than doubt one heart, which if believed 
 
 Had blessed one's life with true believing. 
 Oh ! in this mocking world, too fast 
 
 The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth ; 
 Better be cheated to the last 
 
 Than lose the blessed hope of truth ! 
 
 FRANCES ANNE BUTLEB. 
 
 " WELL, I never in all my life knew a fellow so altered 
 as that Philip Wychnor ! " cried Hugh, as he entered his 
 wife's dressing-room. His sister had fled there to gain a 
 few minutes' quiet and strength, after her somewhat painful 
 interview with Lynedon, and before the still greater trial 
 of the formal evening that was to come. As she lay on the 
 couch, wearied in heart and frame, there was ever in her 
 thought the name which her brother now uttered carelessly 
 almost angrily. It made her start with added suffering. 
 Hugh continued : 
 
 " I suppose he thinks it so fine to have grown an author 
 and a man of genius, that he may do anything he likes, 
 and play off all sorts of airs on his old friends." 
 
 " Nay, Hugh, what has he done ?" said Eleanor, her heart 
 sinking colder and colder. 
 
 " Only that, after all the trouble we had to get him here 
 to-night, he has gone off just now without having even the 
 civility to say good-bye." 
 
 " Gone 1 is he gone V and she started up ; but recollected 
 herself in time to add, " You forget, he may be ill." 
 
 "I1H nonsense!" cried Hugh, as he stood lazily lolling 
 
XLIII.] THE OGILVIES. 331 
 
 against the window. " Look, there he oes, tearing across 
 the Park as if he were having a walking-match, or racing 
 with Brown Bess herself. There's a likely fellow to be ill : 
 Phew, it's only a vagary for effect, I've learnt these games 
 since I married. But I must go down to this confounded 
 soirde" And he lounged off moodily. 
 
 The moment he was gone, Eleanor sprang to the window. 
 It was, indeed, Philip she saw him clearly : his slender 
 figure and floating fair hair looking shadowy, almost ghost- 
 like, in the evening light. He walked rapidly ; nay, flew ! 
 It might have been a fiend that was pursuing him, instead 
 of the weeping eyes, the outstretched arms, the agonised 
 murmur" Philip, ! my Philip !" 
 
 He saw not, he heard not, but sped onward disappeared ! 
 Then Eleanor sank down, nigh broken-hearted. Was this 
 the blessed meeting, the day so longed for, begun in joy to 
 end in such cruel misery 1 
 
 No, not all misery ; for when the first bitterness passed, 
 and she began to think calmly, there dawned the hope that 
 Philip loved her still. His very avoidance of her, that 
 heavy sigh, most of all his sudden departure, as though he 
 had fled unable to endure her presence all these showed 
 that his heart had not grown utterly cold. He had loved 
 her once she believed that. She would have believed it 
 though the whole world had borne testimony against it, 
 and against him. It was impossible but that some portion 
 of this deep true love must linger still. Some unaccount- 
 able change had come over him some great sorrow or 
 imagined wrong had warped his mind. 
 
 Was this the reason that now for weeks, months, he had 
 never answered her letters ? Did he wish to consider their 
 engagement broken ? But no ; for his last letter was full 
 of love full of the near hope of making her his. own. 
 Whatever had been the cause of estrangement, if the love 
 were still there, in his heart as in her own, she would win 
 him back yet ! 
 
 " Yes," she cried, " I will have patience. I will put 
 from me all pride all resentment. If there has been 
 wrong, I will be the first to Bay ' Forgive me 1' He is still 
 
332 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 the same good and true I see it in his face, 1 feel it in 
 iny soul. How could it be otherwise 1" 
 
 Hugh's half-mocking, half angry words concerning him 
 troubled her for a moment. She heaved a low shuddering 
 sigh, and then the suffering passed. 
 
 " Even if so, I will not despair. Oh, my Philip, if it be 
 that you are changed, that this evil world has cast its shadow 
 over your pure heart, still I will not leave you. You were 
 mine you are mine, in suffering even in sin ! I will stand 
 by you, and pray God night and day for you, and never, 
 never give you up, until you are my true, noble Philip once 
 more." 
 
 She stood, her clasped hands raised, her face shining 
 with a faith all-perfect faith in Heaven, and faith in him. 
 men ! to whom woman's love is a light jest, a haughty 
 scorn, how know you but that you drive from your pathway 
 and from your side a guardian presence, which, in blessing 
 and in prayer, might have been for you as omnipotent as 
 an angel 1 
 
 Mrs. Ogilvie entered, while her sister still stood, pale and 
 thoughtful. Katharine was very restless her cheek burned 
 and her eye glittered. The contrast was never so strong 
 between the two. 
 
 "Why, what is this, my dear child]" At another time 
 Eleanor would have smiled at the half-patronising title; but 
 as the tall, magnificent-looking woman of the world bent 
 over her, she felt that it was scarcely strange. She was in- 
 deed a child to her " little cousin " now. Alas ! she knew 
 not that Katharine would have given worlds to have taken 
 the fresh, simple child's heart into her racked bosom once 
 more ! 
 
 " How quiet you are, Eleanor ! How dull this room seems, 
 when we were all below so merry so merry !" And she 
 laughed that mocking laugh an echo true as the words. 
 
 " Are you merry 1 I am glad of it," was Eleanor's simple 
 reply. " But you must forgive my staying here, I am so 
 weary." 
 
 " Weary 1 I thought you happy, good, country damsels 
 were never weary as we are." 
 
XLIII.] THE OGILVIES. 333 
 
 "We! Nay, Katharine, are not yoiv yourself country- 
 bred, good and happy ! " 
 
 Again there came the musical laugh light, but oh ! how 
 bitter! "For the first adjective, I suppose I must acknow- 
 ledge the crime, or misfortune ; for the second, you can ask 
 Hugh ; for the third well, you may ask him too of course 
 he knows ! But I must go. Will you come with me 1 
 No 1 Then good-bye, fair coz." 
 
 "Sister /" was the gentle word that met Katharine, as 
 she was departing with the fluttering gaiety she had so well 
 learned to assume. And Eleanor came softly behind, and 
 put her arm round the neck of her brother's wife. 
 
 " Ah yes, I forgot of course, we are sisters now. Are 
 you glad of it, Eleanor?" 
 
 " Yes, most happy ! And you ?" 
 
 Katharine looked at her earnestly, and then shrank 
 away. " Let me go ! I mean that your arm your bracelet 
 hurts me," she added hurriedly. 
 
 Eleanor removed it. Katharine paused a moment, and 
 then stooped forward and kissed her cheek, saying affection- 
 ately, 
 
 " You are a dear good girl, as of old. You will bear 
 with me, Nelly ? I am tired perhaps not well. This gay 
 life is too much for me." 
 
 "Then why" 
 
 " Ah, be quiet, dear," said Mrs. Ogilvie, tapping Eleanor's 
 shoulder with her perfumed fan. " You shaU lecture me 
 to-night, when I have sent away these horrid people that is 
 my guests," she continued, remembering who was of the 
 number. And as she went away, Katharine could almost 
 have cut out her own tongue, that had carelessly ranked 
 Paul Lynedon in the tribe thus designated. Though made 
 a slave, he was an idol still. 
 
 For an hour longer Eleanor sat alone by the window, 
 sometimes trying to calm her spirit with looking up at the 
 deep peace of the moonlight sky, and then watching the 
 carriages that rolled to the door, bearing away guest after 
 guest. The last who left departed on foot. Eleanor dis- 
 tinguished his tall figure passing hastily through the little 
 
334 THE OGILVTKS. [CIUP. 
 
 shrubbery, and fancied it was like Mr. Lynedon's. But she 
 thought little on the subject, for immediately afterwards 
 her sister entered. 
 
 Katharine stood at the door, the silver lamp she held 
 casting a rich subdued light on her face and person. She 
 wore a pale amber robe, and a gold net confined her hair. 
 Save this, she had no ornament of any kind. She took a 
 pride in showing that her daring beauty scorned all such 
 adjuncts. Well she might, for a more magnificent creature 
 never rode triumphant over human hearts. 
 
 Even Eleanor lifting up her meek, -sorrowful gaze 
 acknowledged this. 
 
 " Katharine, how beautiful you have grown ! You see 
 my prophecy was right. Do you remember it, that night 
 at Summerwood, when the Lancasters first came and Mr. 
 Lynedon?" 
 
 The silver lamp fell to the floor. 
 
 There was a minute's silence, and then Katharine re- 
 kindled the light, saying gaily, 
 
 " See, my dear, this comes of standing to be looked at 
 and flattered. But I will have your praise still : now look 
 at me once more ! " 
 
 "Still beautiful most beautiful! perhaps the more so 
 because of your paleness. Yellow suits well with your black 
 hair." 
 
 "Does it?" 
 
 " And how simple your dress is! no jewels? no flowers?" 
 
 " I never wear either. I hate your bits of shining stone, 
 precious only because the world chooses to make them rare ; 
 and as for flowers, I trod down my life's flowers long ago." 
 
 The indistinct speech was lost upon Eleanor's wandering 
 mind. She made no answer, and the two sisters-in-law sat 
 for some minutes without exchanging a word. At last 
 Eleanor said : 
 
 " Will not Hugh or Sir Kobert come in and speak to us 
 before we all go to rest ? " 
 
 " Sir Robert ? Oh, he retired an hour ago ; he keeps 
 Summerwood time. As for Hugh, I doubt if either wife or 
 sister could draw him from his beloved cigars and punch 
 
XLIII.] THE OGILVIES. 335 
 
 Don't flatter yourself with any such thing-}- 1 fear you must 
 be content with my society." 
 
 " Indeed I am," said Eleanor, affectionately laying her 
 hand on Katharine's arm. 
 
 She shrank restlessly beneath the touch ; but the moment 
 after she leaned her head on her sister's shoulder ; and 
 though she was quite silent, neither moved nor sobbed, 
 Eleanor felt on her neck the drop of one heavy, burning 
 tear. 
 
 " My own sister ! my dear Katharine ! are you ill un- 
 happy r 
 
 " No, no ; quite well quite happy. Did I not say so 1 
 I think few mistresses of such a gay revel as ours could re- 
 tire from it with so fresh and blithe a face as mine was 
 when you saw it at the door. Still, I own to being rather 
 tired now." 
 
 " Will you go to rest 1 " 
 
 " No, not just yet. Come Eleanor, shall we sit and talk 
 for half-an-hour as we used to do ? Only first I will shut 
 out the moonlight, it looks so pale, and cold, and melan- 
 choly. Why, Nelly, when you stood in it I could almost 
 have thought you a ghost the ghost of that old time ! 
 What nonsense I am saying ! " 
 
 She rose up quickly, drew the curtains, and the chamber 
 remained lit only by a taper at the farther end. 
 
 "I cannot endure this darkness, I will call for lights. 
 But no, it is better as it is. Did you ever know such a 
 fitful restless creature?" continued she, throwing herself on 
 the ground at Eleanor's feet. " But I am quiet now for 
 a little ; so begin. What are you thinking about ?" 
 
 " Of how strangely things change in life. Who would 
 have thought that the little Katharine I used to play with, 
 and lecture, and wonder at for I did wonder at you some- 
 times would have grown into this Katharine ]" 
 
 "Ay, who would have thought it?" 
 
 "And still more, that she should be Hugh's wife my 
 sister ; and I never guessed that you loved one another ! 
 Indeed, I thought " 
 
 " What did you think 1 tell me," said Katharine, suddenly 
 
336 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 " That you would certainly have chosen not dear, quiet, 
 gentle Hugh, but some hero of romance!" 
 
 " Ha, ha ! you were mistaken then." 
 
 " Yes, truly ! Yet she was. a little dreamer, was the dear 
 Katharine of Summerwood ! How well I remember the 
 night we sat together, as we do now, talking of many things 
 of Mr. Lynedon especially. Katharine, we are both 
 changed since then ! " said Eleanor sadly, as her memory 
 flew back, and her own sorrows once more sank heavy on 
 that gentle heart, so ready to forget itself in and for others. 
 
 Katharine lay quite silent, and without moving only 
 once she shivered convulsively. 
 
 " How cold you are your hands, your neck ! Let me 
 wrap you in this shawl," Eleanor said. " And, indeed, I 
 will not keep you talking any longer. Be good, dear, and 
 go to rest ! " 
 
 " Kest ! God ! that I could rest for ever ! " was tho 
 smothered moan that broke from Katharine's lips. 
 
 " What were you saying, love ] " 
 
 " Only that I will do anything you like, Eleanor. But 1 
 am forgetting all my duties. Come, I will see you to your 
 room." 
 
 She rose up, and the two sisters passed thither affec- 
 tionately too, with linked arms. 
 
 " Now, dearest Katharine, you will promise me to go to 
 bed and sleep 1 " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; only let me breathe first." She threw open 
 the window, and drank in, almost with a gasp, the cool 
 night-air of summer. Eleanor came beside her and so they 
 stood, the peaceful heaven shining on both, with its moon- 
 light and its stars. Then Katharine drew her sister's face 
 between her two hands, and said : 
 
 " There, now you look as when I saw you at the window 
 to-night pale, pure, like a warning spirit, or an angel. I 
 think you are both ! And I Eleanor, remember, in all 
 times, under all chance or change, that I did love you I 
 shall love you always." 
 
 The smile, that unearthly, almost awful smile, passed 
 from her face, showing what was left when the fitful gleam 
 
XLIII.] THE OGILVIES. 337 
 
 had vanished a countenance of utter despair ! But it was 
 turned from Eleanor she never saw it. Had she done so, 
 perhaps But no, it was too late ! 
 
 " I believe you love me, dearest, as I you," she answered, 
 tenderly ; " we are sisters now and for ever. Good night ! " 
 
 They kissed each other once more, and then Katharine 
 turned away but on the threshold her foot stayed. 
 
 "Eleanor!" 
 
 Eleanor sprang towards her. 
 
 " You say your prayers every night, as children do as 
 we did together once, when I was a little child 1 Well, say 
 for me to-night, as then, l God bless ' no, no ' God take 
 care of Katharine ! ' ' 
 
 Ere she glided away, she lifted her eyes upwards for a 
 moment, and then, leaning back, closed them firmly. Eleanor 
 never again saw on her face that quiet, solemn look nevei 
 until 
 
338 THE OG1LYIES. [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 We women have four seasons, like the year. 
 Our spring is in our lightsome, girlish days, 
 "When the heart laughs within us for sheer joy. 
 Summer is when we love and are beloved. 
 Autumn, when some young thing with tiny hands 
 Is wantoning about us, day and night ; 
 And winter is when those we love have perished. 
 Some miss one season some another ; this 
 Shall have them early, and that late ; and yet 
 The year wears round with all as best it may. 
 
 PHILIP BAILEY. 
 
 HUGH and his sister breakfasted alone together. Sir Eobert 
 had gone through that necessary ceremony an hour before, 
 and retired to his legislative duties. Poor man ! he spent 
 as much time in trying to bind up the wounds of the 
 nation, as though the sole doctor and nurse of that continu- 
 ally ailing patient had been Sir Robert Ogilvie, Bart., M.P., 
 of Summerwood Park. 
 
 " You needn't look for Katharine," said the husband, half 
 sulkily, half sadly; "she never appears till after eleven. 
 Nobody ever does in London, I suppose at least nobody 
 fashionable. Sit down, Eleanor, and let me for once be 
 saved the trouble of pouring out my own coffee " 
 
 So the brother and sister began their tete-a-tete. It was 
 rather an uninteresting one ; for Hugh, after another word 
 or two, buried himself in the mysteries of BeWs Life, from 
 which he was not exhumed until the groom sent word that 
 Brown Bess was waiting. 
 
 " Good-bye, Nell. You'll stay till to-morrow, of course 1 
 Uncle won't go back to Summerwood before then. " And 
 
XLIV.] THE OGILVIES. 339 
 
 he was off, as he himself would characteristically have ex- 
 pressed it, " like a shot." 
 
 Ties of blood do not necessarily constitute ties of affection. 
 The world ay, even the best and truest part of it is a little 
 mistaken on this point. The parental or fraternal bond is 
 at first a mere instinct, or, viewed in its highest light, a link 
 of duty ; but when, added to this, comes the tender friend- 
 ship, the deep devotion, which springs from sympathy and 
 esteem, then the love is made perfect, and the kindred of 
 blood becomes a yet stronger kindred of heart. But unless 
 circumstances, or the nature and character of the parties 
 themselves, allow opportunity for this union, parent and 
 child, brother and sister, are as much strangers as though 
 no bond of relationship existed between them. 
 
 Thus it was with Eleanor and Hugh. They regarded one 
 another warmly ; would have gladly fulfilled any duty of 
 affection or self-sacrifice at least, she would ; but they had 
 lived apart nearly all their lives : Hugh nurtured as his 
 uncle's heir Eleanor, the companion of her widowed mother, 
 on whose comparatively lowly condition the rest of the 
 Ogilvie family somewhat looked down. In character and 
 disposition there was" scarcely a single meeting link of 
 sympathy between them ; and though they had always 
 loved one another with a kind of instinctive affection, yet 
 it had never grown into that devotion which makes the tie 
 between brother and sister the sweetest and dearest of all 
 earthly bonds, second only to the one whicl; Heaven alone 
 makes perfect, heart-united marriage. 
 
 Eleanor sat awhile, thinking with a vague doubt that this 
 was not the sort of marriage between her brother and her 
 cousin. But she was too little acquainted with the inner 
 character of either for her doubts to amount to fear. They 
 quickly vanished when Hugh's wife came in, so smiling, so 
 full of playful grace, that Eleanor could hardly believe it was 
 the same Katharine whose parting look the previous night 
 had painfully haunted her, even amidst her own still more 
 sorrowful remembrances. 
 
 " What ! your brother gone, Nelly 1 Why, then, I shall 
 have you all to myself this morning. So come, bring your 
 
340 THE OGILVIES. [CIIAF. 
 
 work since you are so countrified as to have work and 
 let us indulge in a chat before any one comes." 
 
 " Have you many visitors, then ? " 
 
 "Oh, the Lancasters might call, after last night, you 
 know ; or Mr. Lynedon " (she said the name with a resolute 
 carelessness) ; " or even though it is scarce likely your old 
 friend and my new one, Mr. Philip Wychnor." 
 
 There was no answer. Katharine amused herself with 
 walking to the window, and teasing an ugly pet parrot. 
 Poor exchange for the merry little lark that, happy in its 
 love-tended captivity, sang to the girl Katharine at Summer- 
 wood ! Eleanor, glad of anything to break the silence, 
 inquired after the old favourite. 
 
 " Dead ! " was the short, sharp answer. 
 
 "But, Eleanor," she added, in a jesting manner, " you 
 always talk of the past generally a tiresome subject. Let 
 us turn to something more interesting. For instance, I want 
 to hear all you know about Philip Wychnor. No wonder 
 you like him : I do already. How long have you known one 
 another 1 " 
 
 " Nearly all our lives." 
 
 This truth Eleanor could not, would not, speak aught 
 but the truth was murmured with a drooping and crimson- 
 ing cheek. She revealed nothing, but she was unable to 
 feign : she never tried. 
 
 " Eleanor ! " said Katharine, catching her hands, and 
 looking earnestly in her face " Sister ! tell me " 
 
 She was interrupted by the entrance of a servant announc- 
 ing Mr. Lynedon. 
 
 " Let me creep away ; I am too weary to talk," whispered 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " No, stay ! " The gesture was imperative, almost fierce ; 
 but in a moment it was softened, and Mrs. Ogilvie received 
 her guest as Mrs. Ogilvie ever did. In her easy, dignified 
 mien lingered not a trace of Katharine. 
 
 They talked for awhile the passing nothings incident on 
 morning visits, and then Mrs. Ogilvie noticed her sister's 
 pale face 
 
 " How weary she is, poor Nelly ! " and the touch of syrn- 
 
XLIV.] THE OGILVIES. 341 
 
 V.. 
 
 pathy which prompted the words was sincere and self-forget- 
 ful " Go, love, and rest there in my favourite chair, and " 
 with a sudden smile " stay, take this book, also a favour- 
 ite : you will like it, I know." 
 
 It was a new volume, and bore Philip Wychnor's name 
 on the title-page. There, sitting in the recess, Eleanor read 
 her lover's soul. It was his soul ; for a great and true 
 author, in all he writes, will still reflect the truth that is 
 within him not as the world sees, but as Heaven sees. 
 Man, passing by on the broad wayside, behoids only the 
 battered leaves of the unsightly, perhaps broken flower ; 
 but God's sun, shining into its heart, finds beauty, and 
 draws thence perfume, so that earth is made to rejoice in 
 what is poured out unto heaven alone. 
 
 It is a merciful thing, that when fate seals up the full 
 bursting tide of human hopes and human yearnings in a 
 great man's soul, the current, frozen for a time, at length 
 flows back again to enrich and glorify, not his poor earthly 
 being, but that which will endure for ever his true self 
 his genius. And so this his work, whatever it be, stands to 
 him in the place of all that in life is lost, or never realised ; 
 becomes to him love hope joy home wife child 
 everything. 
 
 Something of this Philip Wyclmor had already felt. His 
 work was his soul, poured out, not for the petty present 
 circle of individual praise, that Mr. This might flatter, and 
 Mrs. That might weep over his page, but for the great wide 
 world, wherein the true author longs to dwell the hearts 
 of kindred sympathy, throbbing everywhere and in all time. 
 He wrote that he might, in the only way he could, make 
 his life an offering to Heaven, and to the memory of that 
 love which was to him next heaven. He wrote, too, 
 that, going down to the grave lonely and childless, as he 
 deemed it would be, he might thus leave behind him a por- 
 tion of his soul tliat soul which through life had kept 
 pure its faith in God and her. 
 
 And so, looking on his writings, the woman he loved read 
 his heart. She discerned, too as none but she could his 
 long patience, his struggles, his enduring love. All was dim, 
 
342 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 even to her, still groping blindly in a mesh of circumstances. 
 But thus far she read the unchanged purity of his noble 
 nature his truth, his faithfulness, and his love love for 
 her, and her alone ! She knew it, she felt it, now. 
 
 A deep peace ( fell upon her spirit. She read over and 
 over again many a line to the world, nothing to her, 
 sweet as Philip's own dear voice, hopeful as the love which 
 answered his. Alas that he knew it not ! She closed the 
 book, and leaned back with a peaceful, solemn joy. As she 
 did so, there came to her heart a strong faith a blessed fore- 
 warning such as Heaven sometimes sends amidst all-con- 
 flicting destinies, that one day Philip would be her husband, 
 and she his wife never to be sundered more ! Never until 
 the simple girl and boy, who once looked out together 
 dreamily into life's future, should stand, still together, on its 
 verge, looking back on the earthly journey traversed hand- 
 in-hand ; and forward, unto the opening gates of heaven. 
 
 Absorbed in these thoughts, she had almost forgotten 
 the presence of Katharine and Lynedon, until the former 
 stood behind her chair. 
 
 " What, Nelly in a reverie ? I thought dreaming in- 
 variably ended with one's teens. Is it not so, Mr. Lyne- 
 don ] " And she turned to Paul, who was standing a little 
 aloof, turning over books and newspapers in an absent, 
 half-vexed manner. But he was beside Katharine in a 
 moment, nevertheless. 
 
 " You were speaking to me ? " 
 
 "Yes; but my question was hardly worth summoning 
 you from those interesting newspapers, in which a future 
 statesman must take such delight. I really should apolo- 
 gise for having entertained you for the last quarter of an hour 
 with that operatic discussion concerning my poor ill-used 
 favourite, Giuseppe Verdi. Do I linger properly on those 
 musical Italian syllables 1 Answer, you Signer fresh from 
 the sweet South." 
 
 " Everything you do 
 Still betters what is done," 
 
 was Lynedon's reply ; too earnest to be mere compliment. 
 
XLIV.] THE OGILVIES. 343 
 
 But Mrs. Ogilvie mocked alike at both or seemed to 
 mock, for her eye glittered even as she spoke. " Come, 
 Eleanor, answer ! Here is Mr. Lynedon quoting, of course 
 for your benefit ; since, if I remember right, your acquaint- 
 ance began over that very excellent but yet somewhat over- 
 lauded individual, Mr. William Shakspeare." 
 
 " You remember ! " said Paul, eagerly, and in a low tone ; 
 " do you indeed remember all that time ]" 
 
 Katharine's lips were set together, and her liead turned 
 aside. But immediately she looked upon him coldly care- 
 lessly too carelessly to be even proud. " * All ' is a compre- 
 hensive word; I really cannot engage to lay so heavy a tax 
 on my memory, which was never very good was it, Eleanor?" 
 
 Eleanor smiled. And then, making an effort, she began 
 to talk to Mr. Lynedon about the old times and Summer- 
 wood, until the arrival of another visitor. 
 
 Mrs, Frederick Pennythorne glided into the room in all 
 the grace of mourning attire, the most interesting and least 
 woebegone possible. Never did crape bonnet sit more 
 tastefully and airily, and certainly never did it shade a 
 blither smile. The cousins met, as cousins do who have 
 proved all their life the falsity of the saying, that " bluid is 
 thicker than water." 
 
 " Well, Miss Ogilvie (I suppose the * Eleanor ' time is past 
 now "), said Mrs. Frederick, in a dignified parenthesis, " here 
 we are, you see, all married I beg your pardon except 
 yourself. What a pity that you should be left the last bird 
 on the bush ! " 
 
 "If you attach such discredit to the circumstance, I think 
 I may venture to say for Eleanor that it must be entirely 
 her own fault," said Katharine, in the peculiar tone with 
 which she always suppressed her cousin's ill-natured speeches. 
 The chance words brought the colour to Eleanor's cheek, 
 and made Paul Lynedon fidget on his chair. For the 
 twentieth time he said to himself, " What a fool I was ! " 
 
 " Oh, no doubt no doubt she has had some offers. I 
 dare say she finds it pleasant and convenient to be an old 
 maid ; she certainly looks very well, and tolerably happy, 
 considering. And now, Miss Eleanor, since I have paid 
 
344 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 you this pretty compliment, have you never a one for me 1 
 Do I look much older, eh 1 " 
 
 " People do not usually grow aged in four or five years," 
 said Eleanor, hardly able to repress a smile. 
 
 " Oh dear no ! Aged ! how could you use the odious 
 word 1 But still, I thought I might seem altered, especially 
 in this disagreeable mourning." 
 
 " I was afraid, when first you entered" began Elea- 
 nor, looking rather grave. 
 
 " Nay, you need not pull a long face on the matter. It's 
 only for my brother-in-law Leigh Penny thorne." 
 
 " Leigh] Is poor Leigh dead?" cried Eleanor. And, 
 with the quick sympathy of love which extends to all near 
 or dear to the beloved, she felt a regret, as though she had 
 known the boy. 
 
 " Oh, he died two months since a great blessing too. 
 He suffered so much, poor fellow," added Mrs. Frederick, 
 catching from the surprised faces of her two cousins a hint 
 as to the finishing of her sentence. 
 
 " I was not aware, Eleanor, that you knew this poor boy, 
 in whom I too have been interested," said Katharine. 
 
 " I have heard of him a good deal." 
 
 Mrs. Ogilvie glanced at her sister's blushing countenance, 
 and said no more. 
 
 " Interested ! " continued Isabella, catching up the word ; 
 " I can't imagine, and never could, what there was interest- 
 ing in Leigh ; and yet everybody made a fuss over him, 
 especially that Mr. Wychnor. You know him, Katharine 1 
 a quiet, stupid sort of young man." 
 
 " You forget, Isabella, this gentleman happens to be my 
 friend, and also that of Mr. Lynedon," was Mrs. Ogilvie's 
 reply. Her cousin, who had not noticed Mr. Lynedon, bent 
 with mortified apology to the " very distingud-lookiug " per- 
 sonage who stood in the shadow of the window ; and, in an 
 eager effort to follow up the introduction by conversation, 
 Mrs. Frederick's vapid ideas were soon turned from their 
 original course. 
 
 She succeeded in getting through, as hundreds of her 
 character do, another of the hours which make up a whole 
 
XLIV.] THE OGILVtES. 345 
 
 w_ 
 
 precious existence. But it is perhaps consolatory to think, 
 that those by whom a life is thus wasted, are at all events 
 squandering a capital which is of no use to any one not 
 even to the owner. There are people in this world who 
 almost make one question the possibility of their attaining 
 another. Their souls go like the beasts downwards ; so that 
 even if their small spark of immortality can survive the 
 quenching of the body, one doubts if it would ever feel either 
 the torture of Purgatory or the bliss of Paradise. 
 
 But she seemed determined to out-stay Mr. Lynedon ; so 
 contented herself with impressing on her hearers the melan- 
 choly warning of her departure once every five minutes. 
 
 "And besides, my dear Mrs. Ogilvie" Isabella sometimes 
 bestowed the Mrs., which she was most punctilious in exact- 
 ing " I wanted you to help me through a dull visit on my 
 mother-in-law : but of course you can't come ; only if, as 
 Fred the ill-natured creature ! has taken the carriage to 
 Hampton ' ' 
 
 "I will order mine for you," said Katharine, with the 
 faintest possible smile; " I am engaged myself ; but, Elea- 
 nor, a drive would do you good. Will you take my place, 
 and enquire for poor Mrs. Pennythorne 1 " It was a sudden 
 and kindly thought, which found its grateful echo in the 
 thrill of Eleanor's heart. 
 
 Alas, that through life those two had not known each 
 other better, that they might have loved and sustained each 
 other more ! 
 
 Paul still lingered, trespassing on the utmost limits of 
 etiquette, to gain another half-hour another minute, of the 
 presence which was already growing more and more attrac- 
 tive nay, beloved ! As Katharine bade adieu to her cousin 
 and Eleanor, she turned to him : "Mr. Lynedon, may I as a 
 friend, appropriate your idle morning, and ask you to become 
 knight-errant to these fair ladies ?" 
 
 He bowed, wavering between disappointment and plea- 
 sure. The latter triumphed : that winning manner the 
 gentle name of " friend " would have sent him to the very 
 end of the earth for her sake, or at her bidding. 
 
346 THE OG1LVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 Know what love is that it draws 
 Into itself all passion, hope, and thought ; 
 The heart of life, to which all currents flow 
 Through every vein of being which if chilled 
 The streams are ice for ever ! 
 
 WESTLAND MARSTCOT. 
 
 MRS. FREDERICK PENNYTHORNE, in high good humour and 
 good spirits, played off every feminine air of which she was 
 mistress, for the especial benefit of Mr. Lynedon. She was 
 one of those women to whom nothing ever comes amiss 
 that comes in a coat and hat. The passive recipient of 
 these attentions received them at first coldly, and afterwards 
 with some amusement; for, despite his dawning passion, 
 Lynedon could not already deny his nature. He was but a 
 man a man of the world and she a pretty woman ; so he 
 looked smiling and pleased ready to snatch an hour's idle 
 amusement, which would be utterly forgotten the next. 
 
 Love ! mocked at and trifled with when thou wouldst 
 come as an angel of blessing, how often dost thou visit at 
 Jast an avenging angel of doom ! 
 
 Leaning back silent and quiet, Eleanor felt oppressed by 
 an almost trembling eagerness. To tread where Philip's 
 weary feet had so often trod ; to enter the house of which his 
 letters had frequently spoken ; to see the gentle and now 
 desolate woman whom he had liked, and who had been kind 
 to him in those sorrowful days, these were indeed sweet 
 though stolen pleasures unto his betrothed. For she was 
 his betrothed still her heart told her so: a passing 
 estrangement could never break the faithful bond of years. 
 
 Love makes the most ordinary things appear sacred. 
 
XLV.] THE OGILVIES. 347 
 
 Simple Eleanor ! to her the dull road and the glaring formal 
 square were interesting, even beautiful. She looked up at 
 the house itself with loving, wistful eyes, as though the 
 shadow of Philip's presence were still reflected there. She 
 crossed the threshold where he had passed so many a time 
 the very track of his footsteps seemed hallowed in her 
 sight. 
 
 Lynedon remained in the carriage. He never liked visits 
 of condolence, or interviews at all approaching to the 
 doleful ; so he made a show of consideration for " poor Mrs. 
 Pennythorne's feelings," and enacted the sympathising and 
 anxious friend by means of a couple of cards. 
 
 There is a deep solemnity on entering a house over which 
 the shadow of a great woe still lingers, where pale Patience 
 sits smiling by the darkened hearth, giving all due welcome 
 to the stranger, yet not so but that the welcomed one can 
 feel this to be a mere passing interest. No tear may dim 
 the eye, the lips may not once utter the name now only a 
 name but the visitant knows that the thoughts are far 
 away, far as heaven is from earth ; and he pictures almost 
 with awe what must be the depth of the grief that is not 
 seen. 
 
 Eleanor and her cousin passed into the drawing-room. 
 It had a heavy, damp atmosphere, like that of a room long 
 closed up. 
 
 " How disagreeable ! They never sit in this room now, 
 because of that likeness over the mantelpiece. Why couldn't 
 they have it removed, instead of shutting up the only toler- 
 able room in the house?" said Isabella, as she drew up the 
 Venetian blind, and partly illumined the gloomy apart- 
 ment. 
 
 " Is that poor Leigh V 1 asked Eleanor. It was a portrait 
 a commonplace, bright-coloured daub, but still a portrait 
 of a little child sitting on the ground, his arms full of 
 flowers. " Was it like him V 
 
 " Not a bit ; but 'tis all that is left of the boy." 
 
 All left I the sole memento of that brief young life ! 
 Eleanor gazed upon it with interest even with tears. She 
 was standing looking at it still when the mother entered. 
 
348 TEE OGILY1ES. [CHAP. 
 
 Eleanor turned and met the meek brown eyes once 
 fondly chronicled to her as being like her own ; but all me- 
 mory of herself or of Philip passed away when she beheld 
 Mrs. Pennythorne; What was earthly love, even in its 
 most sacred form, to that hallowed grief, patient but pei 
 petual, which to the mourner became as a staff to lean on 
 through the narrow valley whose sole ending must be the 
 tomb '{ 
 
 Even Isabella's careless tone sank subdued before that 
 soundless footfall that quiet voice ! She introduced her 
 cousin with an awkward half-apology. 
 
 " I hope you will not mind her being a stranger, but" 
 here a bright thought struck Isabella " she knows your 
 great favourite, Mr. Wychnor." 
 
 A smile- or at least its shadow all that those patient 
 lips would ever wear on earth showed how the mother's 
 gratitude had become affection. Mrs. Pennythorne took 
 Eleanor's hand affectionately. 
 
 " I don't know if I have ever heard of you ; but indeed I 
 am very glad to see you, for Mr. Wychnor's sake." % 
 
 It was the dearest welcome in the world to Eleanor 
 Ogilvie ! 
 
 " Have you seen him to-day ?" pursued Mrs. Pennythorne, 
 simply ; " but indeed you could not, for he has been with 
 me all the morning. I made him stay, because he seemed 
 worn and ill." 
 
 " 111 ! " echoed Eleanor anxiously. But her word and look 
 passed unnoticed, for Isabella was watching Lynedon from 
 the window; and Mrs. Pennythorne answered unconsciously, 
 
 " Yes ; he has not looked well of late ; I have been quite 
 uneasy about him. I left him lying on the sofa in the 
 parlour. Shall we go down there now 1 he will be so dull 
 alone." 
 
 She led the way ; Isabella reluctantly quitting her post 
 of observation. 
 
 " Always Mr. Wychnor ! What a bore that young man 
 is !" she observed to her cousin. But Eleanor heard nothing 
 thought of nothing save that Philip was near Philip 
 ill sad ! 
 
XLV.] THE OGILVIES. 349 
 
 So ill, so sad, that he scarce moved at the opening door j 
 but lay with eyes closed heavily, as though the light itself 
 were pain and lips pressed together, lest their trembling 
 should betray, even in solitude, what the firm will had 
 resolved to conquer, forbidding even the relief of sorrow. 
 
 For one brief instant she beheld him thus ; she, his 
 betrothed, who would have given her life for his sake. Her 
 heart yearned over him, almost as a mother's over a child. 
 She could have knelt beside him and taken the weary 
 drooping head to her bosom, comforting and cherishing as a 
 woman only can : but 
 
 He saw her ! there came a momentary spasm over his face, 
 and then, starting up, he met her with a cold eye, as he had 
 done tlte night before. 
 
 It caused her heart that heart overflowing with tender- 
 ness and love to freeze within her. She shrank back, and 
 had hardly strength to give him the listless hand of outward 
 courtesy. He took it as courtesy ; nothing more. And 
 thus they met, the second time, as strangers, worse than 
 strangers they who had been each other's very life for so 
 many years ! He began to talk not with her, save the 
 few words that formality exacted but with Mrs. Penny- 
 thorne. A few frigid nothings passed constrainedly, and 
 then Isabella cried out, 
 
 " Goodness, Eleanor, how pale you are ! " 
 
 Eleanor was conscious of Philip's sudden glance full of 
 anxiety, wild tenderness, anything but coldness. He half 
 sprang to her side, and then paused. Mrs. Penny thorn e 
 observed that the room was close, and perhaps Mr. Wychnor 
 would open the window. 
 
 He did so, and saw Paul Lynedon ! 
 
 Once more his eye became cold meaningless stern. It 
 sought Eleanor's no more. He sat down beside Mrs. Fre- 
 derick, answering vaguely her light chatter. Five minutes 
 after, he made some idle excuse, and left the house. 
 
 " What a pity, when he had promised to stay until dinner- 
 time ! " said Mrs. Pennythorne. 
 
 He had gone, then, to escape her f Eleanor saw it knew 
 it, Colder and colder her heart grew, until it felt like stone. 
 
350 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 She neither trembled nor wept ; she only wished tli.it she 
 could lie down and die. Thus, silent as she came but oil ! 
 with what a different silence she departed from the 
 house. 
 
 To those who suffer, there is no life more bitter, more 
 full of continual outward mockery, than that of an author 
 immersed in the literary life of London. In a duller sphere 
 a man may hide his misery in his chamber may fly with it 
 to some blessed country solitude even wrap it round him 
 like a mantle of pride or stupidity, and pass unnoticed in the 
 common crowd. But here it is impossible. He must fill 
 his place in his circle perhaps a brilliant one ; and if so he 
 must shine too, as much as ever. He must keep in the 
 society which is so necessary to his worldly prospects he 
 must be seen in those haunts which are to others amusement, 
 to him business in theatre, exhibition, or social meeting ; 
 so at last he learns to do as others do to act. It is merely 
 creating a new self as he does a new character ; and perhaps 
 in time this fictitious self becomes so habitual that never, 
 save in those works which the world calls fiction, but which 
 are indeed his only true life, does the real man shine out. 
 
 Philip Wychnor had not gone so far as this on the track 
 of simulation ; day and night he prayed that it never might 
 be so with him. The world had not cast upon him her 
 many-coloured fool's vesture ; but she had taught him so to 
 wear his own robe that no eye could penetrate the workings 
 of the heart within. He had his outward life to lead, and 
 he led it without deceit, but without betrayal of aught 
 that was within. 
 
 So it chanced that the self-same night, when Eleanor, 
 yielding to Katharine's restless eagerness for anything that 
 might smooth time's passing and deaden thought, went 
 with her to some place of amusement a " Shakspeare read- 
 ing" the first face she saw was Philip Wychnor's. She 
 saw it not pale, worn, dejected as a few hours since, but 
 wearing the look of courteous, almost pleased attention, as 
 he listened, nay talked, among a group whose very names 
 brought thoughts of wit, and talent, and gaiety. She looked 
 at him she, with her anguished, half-broken heart he the 
 
XLV .] THE OGILYIES. 351 
 
 centre of that brilliant circle; and then the change burst 
 upon her. The Philip Wychnor of the world was not hers. 
 What was she to him now ? She turned away her head, 
 and strove to endure patiently, without sorrow. That he 
 should be great and honoured rich in fame ought not 
 that to be happiness ? If he loved not her, she might 
 still worship him. So she pressed her anguish down in the 
 lowest depths of her faithful heart, and tried to make it 
 rejoice in his glory ; content to be even trodden down under 
 his footsteps, so that those footsteps led him unto the lofty 
 path whither he desired to go. She watched him from afar 
 his kindling eye, his beautiful countenance, on which sat 
 genius and truth : and it seemed to her nothing that her own 
 poor unknown life, with its hopes and joys, should be 
 sacrificed, to give unto the world and unto fame such an 
 one as he. 
 
 He passed from the circle where he stood, and moving 
 listlessly, without looking around him, came and sat down 
 beside Katharine. At her greeting he started : again as 
 if that perpetual doom must ever haunt them the once 
 betrothed lovers met. 
 
 The play was Romeo and Juliet. They had read it when 
 almost children, sitting in the palace-garden ; they had acted 
 it once the balcony-scene leaning over the terrace-wall. 
 She wondered, Did he think of this? But she dared not 
 look at him ; she dared not trust herself to speak. So she 
 remained silent, and he too. Katharine sat between them 
 sometimes listening to the play, sometimes turning a 
 restless, eager gaze around. 
 
 If any human eye could have looked into those three 
 hearts, he would have seen there as mournful depths as ever 
 the world's great Poet sounded. Ay, and it would be so to 
 the end of time ! Cold age may preach them down, world 
 liness may make a mock at them, but still the two great 
 truths of life are Romance and Love. 
 
 The play ended. " He will not come," said Katharine, 
 laughing ; " I mean not Hugh, but Mr. Lynedon, whom he 
 said he would ask to meet us here. What shall we do, 
 Eleanor 1 How shall we punish the false knight ? " she 
 
352 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 continued, showing forth mockingly the real anger which she 
 felt. It was a good disguise. 
 
 Eleanor answered in a few gentle words. Philip only 
 understood that they were a pleading and for Lynedon ! 
 
 " Will you take the place of our faithless cavalier, and 
 succour us, Mr. Wychnor?" was Katharine's winning 
 request. He could not but accede. He felt impelled by a 
 blind destiny which drove him on against his will. At last 
 he ceased even to strive against it. 
 
 He accompanied the two ladies home. Then, when Mrs 
 Ogilvie, in her own irresistible way, besought him not to 
 leave the rescued damsels in solitude, but to spend a quiet 
 hour with herself and Eleanor, he complied passively 
 mechanically and entered. 
 
 There were flowers on the table. "The very flowers, 
 Eleanor, that I or rather you admired in the gardens 
 to-day ! " cried Katharine. " Well, that atones for the 
 falsehood of this evening. Mr. Lynedon is a preux chevalier 
 after all. A bouquet for each ! How kind ! is it not f 
 
 " Yes, very ! " answered Eleanor. 
 
 " Yes, very ! " mimicked Katharine, striving to hide her 
 excitement under a flippant tongue. " Upon my word, 
 were I Mr. Lynedon, I should be in a state of high indigna- 
 tion ! And a note, too to me, of course. Come, will you 
 answer it 1 No 1 Then I must. Talk to Mr. Wychnor 
 the while." 
 
 She went away, humming a gay tune, tearing the envelope 
 to pieces : the note itself she crushed in her hand for the 
 moment, to be afterwards But no eye followed her to 
 that inner chamber. Alas ! every human being has some 
 inner chamber, of heart or home ! 
 
 They were together at last, Philip and Eleanor, quite 
 alone. He felt the fact with a shuddering fear a vague 
 desire to fly ; she, with a faint hope, a longing to implore 
 him to tell her what was this terrible cloud that hung be- 
 tween them : yet neither had the power to move. She 
 stood her fingers beginning, half unconsciously, to arrange 
 the flowers in a vase : he, sitting at the farther end of the 
 room, whither he had retired at the first mention of Lyne- 
 
XLV.] THE OGILVIES. 353 
 
 don's name, neither moved, nor looked, nor spoke. Gradu- 
 ally his hands dropped from the book he Rad taken, his face 
 grew so white, so fixed, so rigid, that it might have been 
 that of one dead. 
 
 At the sight Eleanor forgot all coldness, bitterness, pride 
 even that reserve which some call womanly, which makes 
 a girl shrink from being the first to say to her lover, " For- 
 give ! " She remembered only that they had loved one an- 
 other that both suffered. For he did suffer ; she saw it 
 now ay, with a strange gladness, because the suffering 
 showed the lingering love. The hand of one or other must 
 rend the cloud between them, or it might darken over both 
 their lives eternally. Should that hand be hers 1 
 
 She thought a moment and then prayed ! She was one 
 of those little children who fear not to look up every hour 
 to the face of their Father in heaven. Then she crept 
 noiselessly beside her lover. 
 
 " Philip ! "- 
 
 He heard the tremulous, pleading voice ; saw the out- 
 stretched hands! Forgetting all, he would have clasped 
 them, have sprung forward to her, but that he saw in her 
 bosom, placed by her unconsciously in the agitation of the 
 moment, the flowers Lynedon's flowers ! Then came 
 rushing back upon the young man's soul its love and its 
 despair despair that must be hidden even from her. 
 What right had he to breathe one tender word, even to 
 utter one cry of misery, in the ear of his lost beloved, when 
 she was another man's chosen bride ? The struggle, were 
 it unto death, must be concealed, not only for his own sake, 
 but for hers. 
 
 He did conceal it. He took her hand only one and 
 then let it go, not rudely, but softly, though the chilling 
 action wounded her ten times more. 
 
 " You are very kind. Thank you ! I hope you will be 
 happy, indeed I do." 
 
 " Happy ! Oh, never, never in this world ! " And she 
 would have sunk, but that he rose and gave her his chair. 
 The action, which seemed as one of mere courtesy to any 
 e very-day friend, went to her heart like a dagger. 
 
 2 A 
 
354 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 u It is all changed with us, Philip ; I feel it is." And she 
 burst into tears. 
 
 He felt the madness rising within him, and turned to 
 fly. But he could not go and leave her thus. He came 
 near once more, and said, in a low, hurried tone, 
 
 " I have been unkind ; I have made you weep. You 
 were always gentle ; I think you are so still. But I will 
 not pain you any more, Eleanor let me call you so tnis 
 once, for the sake of all the past." 
 
 " The past ! " she murmured. 
 
 " You know it is the past eternally the past. Why do 
 you seek to bring it back again 1 Forget it, blot it out, 
 trample on it, as I do." And his voice rose with the wild 
 passion that swelled within him ; but it sank at once when 
 he met her upraised eyes, wherein the tears were frozen into 
 a glassy terror. 
 
 " Forgive me ! " he cried. " Let me say farewell now. 
 You will be happy ; and I I shall not suffer much not 
 much. Do not think of me, except in forgiveness " 
 
 " Oh, Philip, Philip, it is you who should forgive me ! " 
 And she extended her loving arms ; but he thrust them 
 back with a half-frenzied gesture. 
 
 " Eleanor, I thought you one of God's angels ; but a 
 demon could not tempt and torture me thus. Think what 
 we once were to one another, and then of the gulf between 
 us a wide, fiery gulf. Do you not see it, Eleanor? I 
 cannot pass I dare not. Dare you 1 " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 The word was scarcely framed on her lips when Philip 
 stopped it with a cry. 
 
 " You shall not ! I will save you from yourself. I want 
 no gentleness, no pity ; only let me go. Loose my hand !" 
 
 But she held it still. 
 
 His tones sank to entreaty. " Eleanor, be merciful ! let 
 me depart ; I can be nothing to you now. I would have 
 been everything ; but it is too late. You hold me still ? 
 How can you how dare you when there is one who 
 stands between us ! Ah, you drop my hand now ! I 
 knew it!" 
 
XLV.] THE OGILVIES. 355 
 
 He stood one moment looking in her face. Then he 
 cried, passionately, 
 
 "Eleanor mine once, now mine no more! though 
 misery, torture, sin itself, are between us, still, for the last 
 time, come ! " 
 
 He opened his arms, and strained her to his heart, so 
 tightly that she almost shrieked. Then he broke away, 
 and fled precipitately from the house. 
 
356 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 Go "be sure of my love by that treason forgiven ; 
 Of my prayers by the blessings they bring thee from heaven ; 
 Of my grief ; judge the length of the sword by the sheath's, 
 By the silence of life more pathetic than death's. 
 
 E. B. BROWNING. 
 
 ELEANOR OGILVIE'S love was like her nature calm, silent, 
 deep. It had threaded the whole course of her life, not as 
 a bursting torrent, but a quiet, ever-flowing stream " that 
 knew no fall." When the change came, all the freshness 
 and beauty passed from her world, leaving it arid and dry. 
 She made no outward show of sorrow ; for she deemed it 
 alike due to Philip and herself, that whatever had come be- 
 tween their love to end it thus, it should now be buried out of 
 sight. If indeed his long silence had but too truly foretold 
 his change towards her, and, as his broken words faintly 
 seemed to reveal, some other love had driven her from his 
 heart or, at least, some new bond had made the very 
 memory of that olden pledge a sin was the deserted be- 
 trothed to lay bare her sufferings, to be a mark for the 
 pointed finger of scornful curiosity, and the glance of 
 intrusive pity? And still more, was she to suffer idle 
 tongues to bring reproach against him ? Her heart folded 
 itself over this terrible grief as close as nay, closer than 
 over its precious love ; even as the cankered leaf gathers its 
 fibres nearer together, to hide the cause which eats its life 
 away. She moved about the house at Summerwood 
 living her outward daily life of gentle tendance on the 
 desolate and complaining Lady Ogilvie ; ever the same 
 ministering angel, as it seemed her fortune always to be, 
 towards one sufferer or another. And so it is with some. 
 
XLVL] THE OGILVIES. 357 
 
 \vlio have themselves already drained to the dregs the cup 
 of affliction. But He who sees fit to lift unto their lips the 
 vinegar and the gall, also places in their hands the honey 
 and balm which they may pour out to others. 
 
 At times, when in the night-time her pent-up sorrow ex- 
 pended itself in bitterest tears, or when in the twilight she 
 sat by Lady Ogilvie, whose complaints were then hushed 
 in the heavy slumber of weakness and old age, Eleanor's 
 brain wearied itself with conjectures as to what this terrible 
 mystery could be ; this " gulf" of which Philip had spoken, 
 which neither he nor she must dare to cross. Ever and anon 
 there flashed upon her memory his wild tones and gestures 
 his half-maddened looks. They effaced the thoughts 
 which had once brought comfort to her. Could it be with 
 him as with other men of whom she had heard that his 
 face and his writings alike gave the lie to his heart 1 ? 
 without, all fair ; within, all foulness and sin ] Could it be 
 that her own pure Philip was no more ; and in his stead 
 was an erring, world-stained man, to whom her sight had 
 brought back remorsefully the innocent days of old ? 
 
 " Oh, no ! not that. Let me believe anything but that ! >f 
 moaned Eleanor, as one evening, when she sat all alone by 
 Lady Ogilvie's couch, these thoughts came, wringing her 
 very soul. " Oh, my Philip ! I could bear that you should 
 love me no more that another should stand in my place, 
 and be to you all I was, and all I hoped to be but let me 
 not think you unworthy. It would kill me ; I feel it 
 would ! " And she leant her head against the cushion of the 
 sofa, and gave way to a burst of agonising sobs. They half 
 aroused Lady Ogilvie, who moved, and said dreamily, 
 
 " Katharine, my child ! What ! are you crying *? You 
 
 shall not be married unless Ah ! Eleanor, it is you ! I 
 
 might have remembered that it was not Katharine she 
 never comes to sit by her mother now." 
 
 The sad voice went to Eleanor's heart, even amidst her 
 own sorrow. Struggling, she repressed all utterance of the 
 grief which her aunt had not yet seen, and leaned over her 
 tenderly. 
 
 "Katharine will come soon, I know. I am sure she 
 
358 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 would be here to-morrow if she thought you wished her. 
 Shall we send]" 
 
 " No, no ; I have no right now. She has her husband, 
 and her friends, and her gaieties. She hates Summerwood, 
 too ; she told me she did. And I was so anxious for her 
 marriage with Hugh, that she might still live here, and no 
 one might come to part my child from me. I did not think 
 she would have gone away of her own accord." 
 
 Eleanor, as she stood by Lady Ogilvie's couch, thought of 
 her own mother, now safe in heaven, from whom, while life 
 lasted, neither fate nor an erring will had ever taken away 
 the clasp of a daughter's loving arms. And while, strong 
 through the dividing shadow of death of intervening years 
 of other bonds and other griefs shone the memory of 
 this first, holiest love, she lifted her heart with thankful joy 
 that her work had been fulfilled. From the eternal shore, 
 the mother now perchance stretched forth, to the struggling 
 and suffering one, her spirit-arms, murmuring, " My child 
 my true and duteous child I wait for thee ! Be patient, 
 and endure !" 
 
 Lady Ogilvie felt her hand taken silently. What word 
 of consolation could have broken in upon the deserted 
 parent's tears 1 But the touch seemed to yield comfort. 
 " You are a kind, dear girl, Eleanor ; I am very glad to have 
 you here. I think you do me good. Thank you ! " 
 
 Eleanor kissed her aunt's cheek, and was then about to 
 sit down by the couch on a little ottoman, when Lady 
 Ogilvie prevented her. 
 
 " Not there not there. Katharine always liked to sit 
 beside me thus. She does not care for it now ; but no one 
 shall have Katharine's place no, no!" And the poor 
 mother again began to weep. 
 
 Eleanor took her seat at the foot of the sofa in compas- 
 sionate silence. 
 
 " Dear aunt," she whispered at length, " your Katharine 
 loves you as much as ever. You must not think her lost to 
 you- because she is married." 
 
 " Ah ! that is what people say. I once said the same my- 
 self to a mother at her child's wedding. Let me see who 
 
XLV1.J THE OGILVIES. 359 
 
 was it ! " and her wandering thoughts seemed eagerly to 
 catch at the subject. " Yes, I remember now, it was on 
 Bella's wedding-day, and I was talking to her husband's 
 mother. Poor Mrs. Pennythorne ! She made me feel for 
 her, for she, too, had one child a son, I think. She said 
 he must bring his wife home, because she could not bear to 
 part with him. I wonder if she ever did ! " 
 " Yes !" said Eleanor softly. 
 
 " Then her son is as unkind as my Katharine. He forgets 
 his mother. Poor thing ! poor thing ! She is left all alone, 
 like me!" 
 
 " Not so ; far lonelier," said Eleanor's low voice. " Her 
 son is dead." 
 
 " Dead ! dead ! " cried Lady Ogilvie ; " and I have still 
 my Katharine well and happy. God forgive me ! I will 
 never murmur any more." And she lay back in silence for 
 many minutes. Then she said, 
 
 " Eleanor, I should like to hear more about that poor 
 mother. Where did you learn these news of her V 1 
 
 " I saw her when I was in London, three weeks since," 
 answered Eleanor, in a tremulous voice, remembering what 
 years of sorrow she had lived in those three weeks. 
 
 " Poor Mrs. Pennythorne ! I wish I could talk to her. 
 Do you think she would come and see me 1 It might do 
 her good." 
 
 Eleanor gladly seconded the plan ; and surely she might 
 be forgiven if there flashed across her mind the thought 
 that through this channel might come tidings of Philip 
 Wychnor. 
 
 A few days more, and she had succeeded in accomplishing 
 her aunt's desire. Mrs. Pennythorne, wondering and shrink- 
 ing, crept silently into the room, scarcely believing that the 
 sickly woman who at her entrance half arose from the couch 
 could be the tall and stately Lady Ogilvie. Still more sur- 
 prised was she when Katharine's mother, glancing at her 
 black garments, and then for an instant regarding her pale 
 meek face, grief-worn but calm, laid her head on Mrs. Penny- 
 thorne' s shoulder and burst into tears. 
 
 Then to the mother of the Dead, came that new strergth 
 
360 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 and dignity born of her sorrow ; and she who had given her 
 one lamb from her bosom to be sheltered in the eternal fold, 
 spoke comforting words unto her whose grief was for the 
 living gone astray. They talked not long of Katharine, 
 but passed on to the subject that was now rarely absent 
 from Mrs. Pennythorne's lips, and never from" her heart, 
 though it dwelt on both with a holy calmness, and without 
 pain. She spoke of Leigh of all that was good and 
 beautiful in himself, of all that was hopeful in his death. 
 And amidst the simple and touching story of his illness 
 and his going away she spoke of the last parting by no 
 harsher word she continually uttered, and ever with deep 
 tenderness aud thankful blessings, one name the name of 
 Philip Wychnor. 
 
 Half-hidden in the window, Eleanor listened to the tale 
 which the grateful mother told. She heard of Philip's 
 struggles, of his noble patience, of those qualities which had 
 awakened in poor Leigh such strong attachment and after- 
 wards of the almost womanly tenderness which had smoothed 
 the sick boy's pillow, filling him with joy and peace even to 
 the last. And then Mrs. Pennythorne spoke of the gentle 
 kindness which had since led Philip, prosperous and courted 
 as he was, to visit her daily in her loneliness with comfort 
 and cheer. 
 
 " My dear boy always said that Mr. Wychnor talked like 
 an angel," continued Mrs. Pennythorne. " And so he does. 
 Night and day I pray Heaven to reward him for the blessings 
 he has brought to me and mine. And though he is sadly 
 changed of late, and I can see there is more in his heart than 
 even / know of, yet his words are like an angel's still. May 
 God comfort him, and bless him evermore ! " 
 
 " Amen ! " was the faint echo, no louder than a breath. 
 And shrouded from sight, Eleanor, with streaming uplifted 
 eyes and clasped hands, poured forth her passionate thanks- 
 giving for the worthiness of him she loved. " He is not 
 mine he never may be ; but he is yet all I believed good, 
 pure, noble. My Philip, my true Philip, God bless thee ! 
 we shall yet stand side by side in His heaven, and look upon 
 each other's face without a tear. 
 
XLVI.] THE OGILVIES. 361 
 
 She was still in the recess when Mrs*. Pennythorne en- 
 tered it, her usual timid steps seeming more reluctant than 
 ordinary. 
 
 " Your aunt would like to sleep a little, Miss Ogilvie, so 
 she has sent me to you." 
 
 Eleanor roused herself, and spoke warmly and gratefully 
 to the little quiet woman who loved Philip so well. 
 
 "Indeed, if it has done Lady Ogilvie any good, I am 
 sure I am quite glad I came," answered Mrs. Pennythorne. 
 " Though it was a struggle, as you say, for I hardly ever go 
 out now j " and a faint sigh passed the lips of Leigh's mother. 
 " But my husband persuaded me, and Mr. Wychnor too." 
 
 Here she hesitated, and glanced doubtfully at Eleanor ; 
 as though she had something more to say, but waited for a 
 little encouragement. It came not, however; and Mrs. 
 Pennythorne, conquering her shyness, went on : " Mr. 
 Wychnor was very kind : he brought me here almost to 
 the park gates. When he said good-bye, he told me he was 
 going abroad for a long time." Eleanor started. "You 
 will forgive my talking about him thus, for I imagine Mr. 
 Wychnor is a friend of your family, Miss Ogilvie. Indeed," 
 and making a sudden effort Mrs. Pennythorne fulfilled her 
 mission, " he asked me to give you this letter when I found 
 you alone. And now I will go and sit by your aunt until 
 she awakes," hastily added she. 
 
 She had said all she knew, and she had guessed but little 
 more, being a woman of small penetration, and less curio- 
 sity. But no woman, worthy the name, could have seen 
 the violent agitation which Eleanor vainly strove to repress, 
 without gliding away, so that, whatever unknown sorrow 
 there was, it might have free leave to flow. 
 
 Philip's letter ran thus : 
 
 " I pray you to forgive all I said and did that night ; I 
 was almost mad ! It is not for me to occasion you any suffer- 
 ing, but you tried me so bitterly wherefore, I cannot tell. 
 Knowing what we once were to one another, and the bar 
 there is between us now, I pray, and you yourself must 
 say amen to my prayer, that on this side heaven we may 
 never meet again j 
 
 " I waited until these lines could re;ich you safely. I have 
 
362 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 written no name, lest any contrary chance might occasion 
 you pain. You see I think of you even now. Farewell ! 
 farewell ! " 
 
 And this was the end the end of all ! No more love 
 no more hope not even the comfort of sorrow. His words 
 seemed to imply that regret itself was sin. The unknown 
 bar between them was eternal. He said so, and it must be 
 true. Then, and not till then, came upon Eleanor the ter- 
 rible darkness through which Philip had once passed the 
 darkness of a world where love has been, is not, and will 
 be no more for ever ! The man, with his strong, great soul, 
 nearer perchance to Heaven, and so interpenetrated with 
 the Divine that the earthly held but a secondary place 
 therein the man struggled and conquered. The weaker, 
 tenderer woman, whose very religion was Eve-like, "for 
 God in him" sank beneath that mighty woe. 
 
 A little while longer Eleanor strove against her misery. 
 At morning she rose, and at evening she lay down, mechani- 
 cally following the round of daily occupation. At last one 
 night she entered her chamber tried to collect her wander- 
 ing thoughts, so that in some measure she might " set her 
 house in order " and then laid her weary head on the pillow, 
 with a consciousness that she would lift it up no more. 
 
 All through the night it seemed as though a leaden hand 
 pressed heavily on her brow ; she did not writhe beneath 
 it, for it felt cold, calm, like the touch of Death upon the 
 throbbing veins, saying, " Peace be still !" In the darkness 
 she saw, even with closed eyes, the shining of olden faces 
 images from those early days when the one face had never 
 yet crossed her dreams. Clearer than all its sorrowful 
 patience of earth transmuted into a heavenly calmness she 
 beheld her mother's loving smile; nay, breaking through 
 the silence, her bewildered fancy almost distinguished the 
 voice, faint as when her ear drank its last accents ere they 
 were stilled for eternity, " My child my dear child ! " 
 
 " Mother, mother, my work is done. Let me come to 
 thee ! " was Eleanor's low yearning cry. 
 
 And with that last memory of the solemn past shutting 
 out all the anguish of the present, she passed into the wide 
 horror-peopled world of delirium. 
 
XLVIL] THE OGILVIES. 363 
 
 CHAPTEK XLVIL 
 
 For a fearful time 
 
 We can keep down these floodgates of the heart ; 
 Hut we must draw them some time, or 'twill burst, 
 Like sand this brave embankment of the breast, 
 And drain itself to dry death. When pride thaws, 
 Look for floods. PHILIP BAILEY. 
 
 WE will pass from this scene of sorrow and darkness into 
 another that seems all sunshine. Yet if, looking on these 
 two phases of life, we are fain to muse doubtfully on the 
 strange contrasts of human fate, let us remember that the 
 clouds furling away oft leave behind them coolness and dew, 
 while the sunbeams may grow into a dazzling glare, blinding 
 and scorching wherever they rest. 
 
 Day after day, week after week, Katharine Ogilvie basked 
 in the new glory which had burst upon her world. Paul 
 Lynedon's influence was upon her and around her wherever 
 she moved. It was the olden dream, the dream of girlhood, 
 renewed with tenfold power. All her artificial self fell from 
 her like a garment, and she stood before this man this 
 world-jaded, almost heartless man a creature formed out 
 of the long-past ideal of his youth ; beautiful, and most true, 
 whether for good or evil. There was no falseness in her ; 
 and that which had gathered over Paul Lynedon crumbled 
 into dust and ashes before the sun-gleam of her eyes. His 
 wavering nature was subdued by the energy of her own. 
 Sisera-like, " at her feet he bowed, he fell ;" struck down by 
 the fierce might of a love whose very crime and hopelessness 
 bound him with closer chains. He could not struggle against 
 them he did not try. He would now have given half of 
 his wasted, hollow, thoughtless existence, to purchase ono 
 
364 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 day, one hour, of this full, strong, real life that now thrilled 
 his being, even though it coursed through every vein like 
 molten fire. He would have laid himself down, body and 
 soul, for her feet to trample on, rather than free himself 
 from the spell wherewith she bound him, or pass from her 
 presence and be haunted by her terrible power no more. 
 
 And this passion was so strong within him that it found 
 no utterance. He sank dumb before her in her sight he 
 was humble as a little child. His lips, which to many 
 another woman had framed the language of idle compliment, 
 or of still softer and more beguiling tenderness, could not 
 breathe one word that might startle the proud ear of 
 Katharine Ogilvie. But though this mad, erring love was 
 never uttered, she knew it well. The knowledge dawned 
 upon her by slow degrees : and- she felt that too late oh, 
 fearfully too late ! the dream of her youth had been ful- 
 filled, and that she was loved even as she had loved. 
 
 What a future lay before the hapless wife whose rash and 
 frenzied tongue, in taking the false vow, had given the lie 
 to her heart ! A whole life of feigning ; year after year to 
 wear the mask of affection, or at least of duty ; to display 
 the mocking semblance of a happy home ; worse than all, 
 to smile answeringly upon the unsuspecting face that was 
 must be for ever at her side, haunting like an accusing spirit 
 the wife who loved another man dearer than her husband. 
 This must be her doom, even if, still guiltless, she trod her 
 heart into ashes, and walked on with a serene eye and dumb 
 smiling lip. But if otherwise 
 
 Katharine never dreamed of that. Blinded, she rushed to 
 the very brink of the abyss ; but there was a strong purity 
 in her heart still. She did not once see the yawning gulf 
 before her, for her eyes were turned beyond it turned to- 
 wards the pure dream-like love, the guiding-star of her life, 
 which by its unrequited loneliness had become so spiritual- 
 ised, that the taint of earthly passion had scarcely touched 
 it, even now. 
 
 It sometimes chances that the realities of wedded life, 
 and the calm peace of household ties, have power to conquer 
 or stifle the remembrance of the deepest former love. But 
 
XLVII.] THE OGILVIES. 365 
 
 Katharine was so young, that, although ^a wife, she had a 
 girl's heart still ; and that heart her husband never sought 
 to win from its romance to the still affection of home. 
 Perhaps he felt the trial was beyond his power ; and so, 
 content with the guarding circlet on her finger, he desired 
 not from her the only thing which can make the marriage- 
 bond inviolate a wedded heart. Sometimes, for days 
 and weeks together, he would go away, leaving her to such 
 solitude that it almost seemed a dream her having been a 
 wife at all. 
 
 Another tie was there wanting another safeguard in 
 this perilous, loveless home. No child had come with its 
 little twining arms to draw together the two divided hearts, 
 and concentrate in one parental bond the wandering love of 
 both. Often when she paced her lonely home, which her 
 husband now found far less attractive than Summerwood, 
 Katharine shuddered at the delicious poison which drop by 
 drop was falling into her life's cup, converting even the faint 
 affection she yet felt for Hugh into a feeling almost like 
 hatred. And then the wife, terrified at the change that 
 was stealing over her, dashed more and more into that wild 
 whirl which people call " society." 
 
 Day after day, rarely with any arranged plan, but by 
 some chance coincidence springing from the combined will 
 of both, she and Paul Lynedon met. Every morning when 
 she rose, Katharine felt that she was sure by some hap or 
 other to see him ere night. Now, for the first time in her 
 life, she knew what it is to be loved ; to feel encompassed 
 continually, in absence or presence, with the thoughts of 
 another ; to live with every day, every hour, threaded by 
 those electric links of sympathy which, through all interven- 
 ing distance, seem to convey to one heart the consciousness 
 of another's love. Around and about her path wove these 
 airy fetters, encircling her in a web through which she 
 could not pass. She felt it binding her closer and closer ; 
 but it seemed drawn by the hand of destiny. A little while 
 her conscience wrestled, then she became still and struggled 
 no more. 
 
 Against these two erring ones the world's tongue had 
 
366 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 not yet been lifted. With others, as well as with Katharine 
 herself, Paul Lynedon set a watch upon his lips and actions. 
 He who had worn carelessly and openly the chains of many 
 a light fancy, now buried his strong real love the only 
 real love of his life in the very depths of his heart. 
 Besides, his passion had sprung up, budded, and blossomed, 
 in a space so short that the world had no time to note its 
 growth, and probably would not have believed ID its exist- 
 ence. But , 
 
 Love counts time by heart-throbs, and not years. 
 
 Mrs. Lancaster gossiping, light-tongued Mrs. Lancaster 
 visited her " dear, talented, charming friend, Mrs. "Hugh 
 Ogilvie," as frequently as ever, without seeing the haunting 
 shadow that, near or distant, followed Katharine wherever 
 she moved. Indeed, the lady often made Paul writhe be- 
 neath her hints and innuendoes respecting his various flames, 
 past and present, which she had discovered or at least 
 thought she had. 
 
 One morning she amused herself thus during the whole 
 of a long visit at which she had met Lynedon at Mrs. 
 Ogilvie' s. Paul bore the jests restlessly at first, then in- 
 differently ; for in the calm proud eye and slightly-curled 
 lip of the sole face he ever watched, he saw that no credence 
 was given to the idle tale. Katharine knew now and the 
 knowledge came mingled with remorse and despair that 
 she herself was the only woman who had ever had power 
 to sway Paul Lynedon's soul. 
 
 The last historiette which Mrs. Lancaster fixed upon for 
 the delectation of her former favourite, was the suspected 
 love episode with Eleanor Ogilvie. She continued the jest 
 even further than she believed in it herself, as she observed, 
 with malicious pleasure, that Paul seemed more than usually 
 sensitive on this point. 
 
 " I always thought, Mr. Lynedon, that there was some 
 deep mystery in your sudden escapade to the Continent ; and 
 a friend of yours at last enlightened me a little on the sub- 
 ject. Confess, now, as we are quite alone for Mrs. Ogilvie's 
 sisterly ears need not listen unless she chooses confess 
 
XLVIL] THE OGILVIES. 367 
 
 that your memory cherished long a certain visit at Summer- 
 wood, and that the meeting in London is not entirely 
 accidental, any more than was the rencontre at Florence.' 7 
 
 Paul Lynedon might have laughed off the accusation, but 
 that Katharine's eyes were upon him. He answered, 
 earnestly, 
 
 " Indeed, Mrs. Lancaster, I am not accountable for any 
 imputed motives. My pleasure in Miss Ogilvie's society is 
 not lessened by the fact that I have always owed it to 
 chance alone. Most truly do I bear, and shall bear all my 
 life" (his tone grew lower and more earnest still), "the 
 memory of that week at Summerwood." 
 
 The dark eyes turned away, though not until he had seen 
 the gleam of rapture which kindled them into dazzling light. 
 
 "But the rumour from Italy, which made us hope to 
 see a Mrs. Lynedon ere long how can you explain that ? " 
 pursued Mrs. Lancaster, who, in resigning, perforce, the 
 character of a " woman of genius," had assumed that of the 
 most annoying and pertinacious gossip who ever sinned 
 against good sense and good breeding. 
 
 "I think you are mistaken," said Mrs. Ogilvie, with 
 some dignity. " My sister " (since her marriage, Katharine 
 had ever most punctiliously used this title, thus gratifying 
 at once her own real affection for Eleanor, and showing in 
 the world's sight that outward respect which she always 
 paid to her husband) my sister never met him when 
 abroad. Is it not so, Mr. Lynedon ]" 
 
 With that look meeting his, Paul for his life's worth 
 could not have uttered a falsehood. 
 
 " I had, indeed, the pleasure of seeing Miss Ogilvie and 
 Mrs. Breynton at Florence, but " 
 
 His further hurried explanation was stopped by the 
 entrance of a messenger from Summerwood, bringing tidings 
 of Eleanor's severe illness. Mrs. Lancaster, who always 
 spread her wings and fled away before the least cloud of 
 adversity, made a hasty disappearance. Katharine, startled, 
 and touched with self-reproach for the neglect which for 
 weeks past had made her forget all olden ties in one 
 absorbing dream, was left alone alone, save for the one 
 ever-haunting friend who now approached her. 
 
368 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 She started up almost angrily ; for the images of Hugh 
 and Hugh's dying sister were then present to the conscience- 
 stricken wife. " You here, Mr. Lynedon ! I thought you 
 had departed with Mrs. Lancaster ! " 
 
 " How could I go and leave you thus ?" said Paul, 
 softly. " Eemember, it is not the first time that I have 
 been with you in your sorrow." 
 
 Katharine looked up, to meet the same face which years 
 before had bent over the trembling, weeping child ; the 
 same look, the same tone, yet fraught with a tenderness 
 deeper a thousandfold. She saw it, and a strange terror 
 came over her : she closed her eyes ; she dared not look 
 again. Pressing back all the memories that were throng- 
 ing madly to her heart, she arose, saying, 
 
 " That is long ago very long ago, Mr. Lynedon ! I must 
 now think not of the past but the present. My husband," 
 and she desperately tried to strengthen herself with the 
 word " my husband is from home ; I will go to Summer- 
 wood at once myself." 
 
 " It is a long distance. If I were permitted to accompany 
 at least, to follow you in a few hours," he added, correct- 
 ing himself, "it would give me real happiness. Indeed, 
 my own anxiety " 
 
 Katharine turned round suddenly with a doubtful, pene- 
 trating glance. Lynedon perceived it. 
 
 c< You do not you will not believe that idle tale ? You 
 cannot think that I that I ever did or ever shall love any 
 
 woman living, save" He paused abruptly then 
 
 eagerly caught her hand. 
 
 The burning crimson rushed to Katharine's very brow. 
 A moment, and she drew her hand away ; not hurriedly, 
 but with a cold haughty gesture. She remembered still that 
 she was Hugh's wife. 
 
 " Mr. Lynedon, you misinterpret my thoughts ; this con- 
 fidence was quite unnecessary, and I believe unasked. Let 
 us change the subject." 
 
 He shrank abashed and humbled before her. Katharine 
 ruled him with an irresistible sway, chaining even the tor- 
 rent of passion that was ready to burst forth. And she 
 
XLVII.] THE OGILVIES. 3G9 
 
 loving as she did had strength thus to seal down his love, 
 that he should not utter it. 
 
 Soon afterwards Paul Lynedon quitted her presence. 
 She parted from him with a few words of gentle but distant 
 kindness, which instantly lighted up his whole countenance 
 with joy. But when he was gone, she sank back exhausted 
 and lay for a long time almost senseless. Again and again 
 there darted through her side that sharp arrowy pain 
 which she had first felt after the night when a few chance 
 words, false words as she now believed, had swept away all 
 hope and love for ever from her life. Of late this pain 
 had been more frequent and intense ; and now, as she lay 
 alone, pressing her hand upon her heart, every pulse of 
 which she seemed to feel and hear, a thought came solemn, 
 startling ! the thought that even now upon her, so full of 
 life, of youth, and youth's wildest passions, might be creep- 
 ing a dark shadow from the unseen world. 
 
 For an instant she trembled ; and then the thought came 
 again, bearing with it a flood of joy. Lifting a veil between 
 her and the dreaded future, Katharine saw a shadowy 
 hand ; she would have fallen down and blessed it, even 
 though it were the hand of death. 
 
 " It must be so," she said softly to herself ; " I shall die, 
 I shall die ! " and her tone rose into a desperate joy. " This 
 long fearful life will not be. I shall pass away and escape. 
 rest ! peace ! come soon soon ! Let me sleep an 
 eternal sleep ! Let me feel no more suffer no more ! " 
 
 Poor struggling one stretching thine arms from life's 
 desolate shore to the wide, dark ocean beyond is there no 
 mercy in earth or heaven for thee ? Thy lips now drain the 
 cup thine own hands lifted ; yet, if the suffering righteous 
 needeth compassion, surely the stricken sinner needeth more. 
 
 Ye who, untempted, walk secure, with Levite step and 
 averted face, noting carefully how by his own vain folly or 
 wickedness your weaker brother "fell among thieves," 
 should ye not rather come with the merciful touch, the 
 cleansing water, and the oil and wine, that the erring one 
 may be saved, and the heavenward road receive one 
 strengthened hopeful traveller more ] 
 
 2 B 
 
370 THE OGILVllfiS. [OITA]>. 
 
 CHAPTEE XLVIII. 
 
 " Ah, why," said Ellen, sighing to herself, 
 
 " Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge 
 
 Why do not these prevail, for human life 
 
 To keep two hearts together, that began 
 
 Their spring-time with one love, and that have need 
 
 Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet 
 
 To grant, or be received ! " WORDSWORTH. 
 
 KATHARINE OGILVIE reached Summerwood when it was 
 almost night. Over all the house there seemed a stillness 
 and hush, as in a dwelling where there is one life, a precious 
 life, hanging on a thread. Stealthy, noiseless footsteps 
 doors opened and closed without a sound loud voices 
 softened into anxious whispers all showed how much 
 Eleanor was beloved. Sir Robert, his parliamentary papers 
 and eternal blue-books lying unopened, sat talking with the 
 physician, and often glancing sorrowfully at the neglected 
 tea-equipage, behind which he missed the gentle moonlight 
 smile of his niece, even more than the long-absent one of 
 his ever-ailing wife. Lady Ogilvie, unable to quit her 
 couch, lay with her door opened, listening to every sound. 
 Between her and the sick-chamber there moved continually, 
 with light steps and mourning garments, a figure so 
 unobtrusive that Katharine did not for some time notice it. 
 
 It was Mrs. Pennythorne. 
 
 She had come in by chance the day after poor Eleanor 
 had laid down her weary head perhaps for ever. Then 
 towards the sick girl the heart of the childless mother 
 yearned. She became her nurse ; never quitting her ex- 
 cept to speak a few words of comfort to the terrified and 
 grief-stricken Lady Ogilvie. In truth, Mrs. Pennythorne, 
 
XLVIII.] THE OGILVIES. 371 
 
 meek and quiet as she was, had become the guiding spirit 
 in this house of sickness. But she crept into her place so 
 gradually, and sustained it so imperceptibly, that no one 
 ever thought of the fact ; and even Lady Ogilvie did not 
 speak of her until she appeared, suddenly and silently, to 
 lead Katharine to her sister's room. 
 
 Mrs. Pennythorne had at first shrunk both in timidity and 
 dislike from the stylish Mrs. Ogilvie, the neglectful daughter 
 of whom she had heard. But this feeling passed away when 
 she saw how subdued Katharine's manner was, and with 
 what trembling steps she moved to Eleanor's chamber. 
 
 " And you have tended her night and day you almost a 
 stranger ! " said Katharine. " How good you are ! while I " 
 
 She stopped ; for the remorse which had smitten her 
 
 heart at the sight of her long-forsaken mother, was renewed 
 when she beheld the sick, almost dying girl, who, from the 
 triple ties of marriage, kindred, and affection, might well 
 have claimed from her a sister's care. 
 
 Eleanor was sitting up. in bed ; her arms extended, and 
 her eyes those once beautiful, calm eyes glittering and 
 burning with fever. She began to talk in quick, sharp, 
 ringing accents. 
 
 " Ah ! you have been to fetch her ; I thought you would. 
 I could not die without seeing Mrs. Breynton. Tell her 
 she need not fear meeting him he will not come. Philip 
 will not come never more never more ! " 
 
 " She often talks in this way," whispered Mrs. Penny- 
 thorne ; " and so I am glad that no one is with her except 
 myself. I do not know anything, but I feel sure that she 
 and poor Mr. Wychnor " 
 
 Low as the tone was, the words reached Eleanor's ear. 
 She turned quickly round. 
 
 " What ! do you speak about him, Mrs. Breynton 1 for 
 I know you are Mrs. Breynton, though you look different 
 younger, and so beautiful ! Ah ! perhaps you have died, and 
 so become a spirit like my mother ! But did you not pray 
 her to forgive you for breaking her poor child's heart ? We 
 will not talk about it. Still, it was cruel of you to part my 
 Philip from me." 
 
372 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 " Philip again ! " said Katharine, softly. <; Ah ! I see it 
 all now I guessed it long. Is it even so with her too ! 
 Eleanor, dearest ! " And she spoke very tenderly. 
 
 " Who calls me dearest ? He used, once, but he will never 
 call me so again ! She kept me from him until his love has 
 changed. I shall never be Philip's wife now. It is all 
 your work, Mrs. Breynton ! " 
 
 "I am not Mrs. Breynton. I am Katharine your 
 sister." 
 
 " Are you 1 No, no ! Katharine is Hugh's wife loving 
 and happy." Katharine dropped her head shudderingly. 
 "She would not come here we have only sorrow here. 
 But you must not let her know no living soul must know 
 what Philip said that night that there was a gulf, a bar 
 between us. Let me whisper it, lest the world might hear, 
 and call him cruel. But he is not cruel : he is all-good. 
 Listen ! and she placed her lip to Katharine's ear " Per- 
 haps some one loved him better than he thought I did, and 
 he is married married ! " 
 
 " Oh no indeed, Miss Ogilvie ! " broke in Mrs. Penny- 
 thorne, with tears in her eyes ; " Mr. Wychnor will never 
 marry. He told me so one day the very day I brought 
 you his letter." 
 
 " Letter his letter ! Ah ! I remember every word 
 every word ;" and with an accent of thrilling sorrow she 
 repeated, line by line, Philip's last farewell. " And then 
 I forget all afterwards it is darkness darkness ! " she 
 moaned, while her head drooped on her bosom, and her 
 eyes closed. 
 
 Mrs. Pennythorne laid her down on the pillow, parted 
 the dishevelled hair, and bathed her brow with water. 
 " What a gentle, skilful nurse you are ! " said Katharine, 
 who, a stranger to scenes like this, was trembling with alarm 
 and agitation. 
 
 " I am used to it," was the meek, sad reply, as she bent 
 over her charge. 
 
 There was a few minutes' silence, and then Eleanor 
 opened her eyes, and regarded wistfully her tender nurse. 
 
 " I do not know you, but you are very kind to me. Per- 
 
XLVIIL] THE OGILVIES. 373 
 
 haps my mother has sent you. I hear her calling me every 
 hour, but I cannot go Tell her I cannot ! I must not die 
 
 until until What was it that I had to do ?" Her eyes 
 
 wandered restlessly, and she put her hand to her brow, 
 "My head is wild! I cannot remember anything! Help 
 me ! do help me ! " And her piteous gaze was lifted mourn- 
 fully to Mrs. Pennythorne. " Tell me what it is that I 
 have to do before I die." 
 
 " Eepeat his name ; she will hear that," whispered Ka- 
 tharine, regarding her sister with a deep sympathy unfelt 
 before. 
 
 " Shall we send for any one for Philip ] " gently asked 
 Mrs. Pennythorne. 
 
 " Philip ! Why do you speak about Philip 1 I dared 
 not even utter his name : Mrs. Breynton would not let me. 
 Ah, that is it ! " and a delirious light shone in her face. I 
 must see Mrs. Breynton ; I must tell her to forgive my 
 Philip ! She has had her will, for we shall never marry 
 never see one another any more. 
 
 She ceased a moment, and then rose wildly from her 
 couch. 
 
 " You are cruel ; you will not fetch Mrs. Breynton : and 
 until I know she will forgive him, I cannot die. I am 
 weary so weary ! and you will not let me go to my mother ! 
 Do you know " and she caught hold of Mrs. Penny thorne's 
 dress I see her standing waiting for me there ! there ! 
 
 Katharine started, for there seemed a strange reality in 
 the fantasy which directed Eleanor's fixed eyes and lifted 
 finger. 
 
 " The room is filled with them ! " continued the delirious 
 girl. " They come around me by night and by day some 
 dead faces, some living ; but they are all sad like yours. 
 Philip's is there too sometimes smiling so tenderly, as he 
 used to do in the dear old palace-garden. See ! he is look- 
 ing on me now ! Ah, Philip, you did love me once you do 
 love me I read it in your eyes ; but you dare not speak. 
 Then I must ! You see, dear Philip, I am calm " and her 
 voice sank almost to its natural tones " as calm as I was 
 that day you called me your strength, your comfort. Tell 
 
374: THE OCILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 me, then, what is this bar between us when I am rich, 
 when I love you, only you, my Philip, my own Philip ! " 
 She paused, but after a few moments' silence, broke once 
 more into disconnected ravings. 
 
 Katharine waited until the shrill tones ceased, and her 
 sister fell into the heavy slumber which foretold the near 
 approach of the crisis. Then she drew Mrs. Pennythorne 
 aside. 
 
 "Tell me you know better than I is there any 
 hope!" 
 
 There was hope, for youth can struggle through so much ; 
 with this sleep the fever might be conquered. 
 
 " And then she will wake wake to what 1 Death might 
 be better for her than life ! it is so sometimes," muttered 
 Katharine to herself. 
 
 Mrs. Pennythorne spoke comfortingly she looked on the 
 pale excited face of the young wife, and forgave all her 
 imagined errors. Katharine sat in deep thought without 
 making any answer perhaps she did not even hear. At 
 last she said, suddenly and decisively, 
 
 "Mrs. Pennythorne, youand I well understand oneanother. 
 Those words which poor Eleanor has uttered you will keep 
 sacred 1 " 
 
 " Certainly. Oh, Mrs. Ogilvie, I wish indeed that Miss 
 Eleanor and my dear Philip Wychnor " 
 
 " He is your friend, I believe," interrupted Katharine. 
 " Tell me all you know about him." 
 
 And once more Mrs. Pennythorne gratefully dwelt on the 
 history of Philip's goodness. Then, glad to relieve her 
 simple heart from a secret that weighed heavily upon it, she 
 related all she knew about the letter, which had made her 
 the unconscious messenger of so much evil. 
 
 " I did not notice then, but I remember now, how 
 earnestly he spoke, and how unhappy he seemed. I am sure 
 there was something painful in that letter. I have no right 
 to say a word on this subject, but I do feel towards Philip 
 Wychnor as though he were my own son. If I could only 
 see him happy, arid Miss Ogilvie too, so good and gentle as 
 she is. The moment I saw her I felt sure of his loving her 
 
XLVIII.] THE OGILVIES. 375 
 
 He could not help it. It is a sorrow ful-world," continued 
 she, after waiting awhile for the answer, which Mrs. Ogilvie, 
 absorbed in thought, withheld ; " yet if one could but make 
 these two young creatures happy" 
 
 "It shall be I will do it!" cried Katharine. "And 
 oh ! " she said softly to herself, as Mrs. Pennythorne glided 
 away at the physician's summons, " if I, even I, can but 
 leave behind me a little peace, a little happiness, surely it 
 will prove some atonement. If I have sinned, though only 
 in thought, against my husband, I may bring joy to the 
 sister he loves : and then I shall pass away from all, and 
 my misery will encumber the earth no more." 
 
 With Katharine, to will was to act. She sat down and 
 wrote to Mrs. Breynton, entreating, or rather commanding 
 for her earnestness seemed almost like a command that she 
 would come at once to Summerwood. Then she wrote, with 
 a swift though trembling hand, a few lines to Paul Lyne- 
 don ! After she had finished, she stood irresolute but 
 only for a moment. She sealed the letter, and laid it with 
 the other. 
 
 " Yes, it shall go I can trust him him only. He will 
 do my will, whatever it be ;" and a bitter though triumphant 
 smile curved her lips. " And he will be silent too, no fear ! 
 This my act might seem strange to the world perhaps to 
 him ; but what matter when the end comes 1 and it is 
 perhaps near very near. I pray it may be so ! " Her 
 voice sank to an inaudible whisper ; for even then, as if in 
 answer to that awful prayer, she felt the sharp death-warn- 
 ing dart through her side. 
 
 Next morning, Paul Lynedon came. Katharine knew he 
 would ; and had risen long before the rest of the wearied 
 and anxious household. She was walking in the avenue 
 when his panting horse approached ; he leaped from it with 
 a look of the wildest ecstasy. 
 
 " You sent for me : how good, how kind ! What thanks 
 can I give you, dear Mrs. Ogilvie dear Katharine?" 
 
 He uttered softly, almost in a whisper, the long unspoken 
 name. She started and drew back in proud reproof: " You 
 forget, Mr. Lynedon. " 
 
376 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 " Pardon me : I had indeed forgotten all all but that 
 happy time when I was here last. Would to Heaven it 
 could come again, and you were once more that dear 
 child who " 
 
 "A child you thought me a child!" cried Katharine, 
 with that impulse which in the early days of this second meet- 
 ing had made her very love half vengeance ; and even now 
 caused her as it were to set herself against herself, the 
 slighted girl against the worshipped woman. 
 
 " I thought shall I tell you what I thought you what 
 I think you 1 " said Lynedon, eagerly. 
 
 " No ! " The word reined him in his mad impulse, and 
 he stood mute. 
 
 " Mr. Lynedon " the calm, cold tone struck him like an 
 arrow " shall we change our conversation 1 Let me ex- 
 plain the reason which made me trespass on your kindness." 
 He bowed, and walked by her side up the avenue. 
 
 Katharine went on : " There is something very near my 
 heart in which I can trust no friend " she laid the faintest 
 emphasis on the word " no friend but you. Will you 
 asking no questions, seeking no explanations do it for me ]" 
 
 " Will 1 1 you know I will ! " 
 
 " I want you to seek for a friend of yours, or an acquaint- 
 ance at least Philip Wychnor. He is gone a journey : 
 whither I know not, and have no means of knowing, save 
 through you. Find him ; bring him hither, on what excuse 
 you will : or perhaps the truth is always best I will 
 write to him, and you shall bear the letter." 
 
 " This is all mystery ; I cannot fathom it," said Paul, un- 
 easily ; his jealous mind at once forming the most torturing 
 conclusions. " Only tell me " 
 
 " I will tell you nothing : only do this, I entreat you ; do 
 it for me." And Katharine's eagerness made her tone so 
 tremulous, so bewitching, that Paul Lynedon could have 
 fallen at her feet. 
 
 " I promise," said he. " Heaven knows I would plunge 
 a knife into my very heart if you bade me," he added, speak- 
 ing low and hurriedly. 
 
 As low, but almost fearful in its firmness, was Katharine's 
 
XLVIIL] THE OGILVIES. 377 
 
 reply : " I might, but I would thrust it into my own heart 
 next." 
 
 He looked at her astonished, but her face was turned 
 away. The next moment she had sprung forward to meet 
 her father, who crossed their path on his early morning 
 walk. 
 
 " You have ridden over to inquire for my poor niece, 
 Mr. Lynedon ] " said Sir Robert. " How exceedingly kind 
 of you ! You must stay and breakfast with us. Persuade 
 him, Katharine" 
 
 But Katharine had already glided away. 
 
378 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 Art thon already weary of the way ? 
 
 Thou, who hast yet but half the way gone o're 
 Get up and lift thy burden ! 
 
 Say thou not sadly, " Never " and " No more ; " 
 But from thy lips banish those falsest words : 
 
 While life remains, that which was thine before 
 
 Again may be thine ; in Time's storehouse lie 
 
 Days, hours, and moments that have unknown hoards 
 
 Of joy, as well as sorrow : passing by, 
 
 Smiles come with tears. FRANCES ANNE BUTLEB. 
 
 THERE is scarce a town in England more suggestive of 
 speculation upon what our good friend David Drysdale 
 would have entitled " the noble science of man," than that 
 turnpike-gate on the European highway Dover. Not that 
 one need pause to enumerate from Pinnock or Goldsmith 
 how many kings " landed at Dover," or " set sail from 
 Dover." The present is quite fruitful enough to set aside 
 the past. Think of the multitudes of small historiettes 
 worked out here ; how that among the throng that from 
 year to year pass by, are all ranks and characters fugitive 
 royalty ; errant nobility ; the regiment departing, its mourn- 
 ful fragments returned ; or, to descend to individuals 
 debtor flying creditor ; married lovers speeding to happiness 
 and honeymoon ; wretched and erring ones, speeding faster 
 still into what must be in the end a miserable doom ; happy 
 men seeking pleasure ; sickhearted, hopeless men, rushing 
 anywhere for oblivion. And here we pause, for with such 
 an one we have to do. 
 
 Philip Wychnor had reached Dover on his way to the 
 
XLIX.] THE OGILVIES. 379 
 
 Continent. He would have simply passed through it, 
 longing for the moment when he should set his last footstep 
 at least the last for many years on English shores. 
 But fate, the fate which one less pious-hearted would have 
 angrily cursed, detained him for many days. He spent 
 them restlessly enough, patient as he was ; in his daily toil 
 of literary necessity alas for the poor author ! and in 
 evening wanderings about the country. Beauty he found 
 for a poet's mind finds beauty everywhere but yet he 
 could not realise it. He felt upon him the commencement 
 of that doom, to roam the wide world, " finding no rest for 
 the sole of his foot." 
 
 The reviving from a great woe is sometimes worse than 
 the woe itself. The world looks so blank, so dreary ; we 
 see it once more ; our dull eyes even acknowledge its glory, 
 but it is like looking on a beautiful corse from whence the 
 life is gone. Earth smiles, Heaven smiles just as hereto- 
 fore ; but the smile resembles that on a face once loved, 
 which meets us vacantly, the heart beneath it shining out 
 no longer. We do not weep ; perhaps we scarcely suffer : 
 we are quite calm, gentle, patient ; all goes on with us as 
 before ; we walk through the beaten path of our daily 
 existence, but the light is gone from the world ; the present 
 seems inane and dim ; and, merciful God ! we have no 
 future and no past ! Not here ! but we know we have 
 hereafter. And then we see enfolding us an arm of com- 
 fort and strength, and hear the voice I AM ! 
 
 Can I suffice for heaven and not for earth?, 1 
 
 So Philip felt when he sat alone in the twilight on the 
 cliff hallowed by tradition as " Shakspeare's." The hour 
 was so late that all sea-side idlers had long departed, and 
 the place seemed as lonely and dreary as in the olden time 
 of Shakspeare, Lear, and Poesy. The sea sang hollowly, 
 far below, and when the last sunset tinge had faded behind 
 the Downs, they assumed a robe of mist, spectral and 
 mysterious. Gradually it folded itself round the cliff, 
 completely hiding the sea beneath ; so that the melancholy 
 voice arose from waters that were heard, not seen. 
 
380 THE OGILV1ES. [CHAP. 
 
 Driven by that irresistible impulse which seizes most 
 men on such a spot of danger so much so, that the 
 ancients believed a tempting demon stood on the brink of 
 each abyss Philip crept to the utmost verge of the cliff. 
 Unwittingly, and fitfully, there danced through his brain 
 the poet's tale which had made the spot renowned he 
 thought of blind Gloster, hunted by fate into that last 
 plunge which would determine all. He pictured what the 
 old man's feelings might have been what must be the 
 thoughts of any man sick of life looking curiously, 
 desiringly, into the awful mystery beyond so near, that 
 one simple movement would make it a reality. 
 
 Suddenly he remembered how in that man he had 
 pictured himself. 
 
 The conviction horrible, yet full of a daring pride, a 
 delicious alluring awe burst upon him, that he held his 
 soul as it were by a thread : that he was master of his own 
 destiny ; one step, and he might pass from the world's 
 tortures, to where] 
 
 " My life is in my hand," he muttered in the words of 
 one sorely tried of old " My life is in my hand, yet I do 
 not forget thy law /" 
 
 Shuddering, he- drew back from the abyss in horror. 
 But he felt that to his latest day that minute's sensation 
 would teach him compassion for suicides. And while he 
 shrank fearfully from the prime only thought of in possibility, 
 the revulsion softened him from dull dreariness into a 
 sorrow, that, but for his strong manhood, would have 
 melted in tears. He was glad thankful for any sense 
 even the sense of suffering. He looked up at the stars 
 which were beginning to shine through the gloomy night, 
 and prayed Heaven to keep him free from sin, that he 
 might endure with a patient heart through life unto its 
 ending. 
 
 Then he went homeward, greatly composed. He sought 
 to feel as though he belonged to the world. Passing 
 through the town, he tried to look around him, and feel an 
 interest in the various talking and laughing groups, the 
 street music, the cheerful shops; but it was vain. He 
 
XLIX.] THE OGILVIES. 381 
 
 seemed as different from the rest of mankind as the gloomy 
 cliffs from the gay-lighted street which they overhung. 
 
 When he reached the inn, he learned there was a gentle- 
 man awaiting him. Entering, he saw Paul Lynedon. 
 
 Had the visitant been a ghost from the dead, a demon 
 returned to the upper world, he could not have raised more 
 fearful passions in Philip Wychnor's breast. Anguish, 
 terror, even a thrill of fierce hatred, overwhelmed him 
 He sprang towards Lynedon, scarcely conscious of what he 
 did, and then sank into a chair, speechless. 
 
 " I have startled you, I see. I ought to apologise," said 
 Lynedon, gently and courteously, though somewhat annoyed 
 at this rather strange reception. But Paul was a man who 
 would have shown dignified civility to his executioner on 
 the scaffold. 
 
 Philip Wychnor answered him not a word. 
 
 "Perhaps this visit is ill-timed an intrusion. But in 
 excuse I need only mention your friends and mine the 
 Ogilvies." 
 
 Philip started up in an agony. " Sir Mr. Lynedon 
 tell me what you have to say without mentioning names. 
 I have been terribly tried and I pretend not to super- 
 human strength. I wish to leave England, forget all friends, 
 break all ties, for a season. Why must I be tortured any 
 more?" 
 
 Lynedon opened his eyes with extreme but still most 
 polite astonishment. 
 
 " Pardon me, and forget all I have been weak enough to 
 say," Philip continued, trying to calm himself with remem- 
 bering to whom he spoke. " I shall forget it myself soon. 
 Will you sit V 9 
 
 He pointed to a chair, but remained standing himself, 
 leaning against the wall. 
 
 "This is a strange welcome from an acquaintance I 
 would fain have said a friend ; but I pass it by, Mr. 
 Wychnor, both for your own sake and hers whose messenger 
 I am." And he presented Mrs. Ogilvie's letter. 
 
 Under all circumstances Paul Lynedon had the gentle- 
 ness of a true gentleman. He saw at once that something 
 
382 THE OGILVIES. [HAJ>. 
 
 was terribly wrong with the young man. He pitied him. 
 Conquering at once his natural curiosity, and the vague 
 jealousy which was dawning in him, he walked to the open 
 window and contemplated the stars ; so that, of whatever 
 news he had been the unlucky bearer, his companion might 
 learn them unobserved. But he expected not to hear the 
 cr y almost like a woman's agony which broke from 
 Philip Wychnor. It brought him at once to the youug 
 man's side. 
 
 " What is the matter 1 Can I " 
 
 Philip caught his arm wildly. "You know tell me the 
 truth, on your soul you know what this letter contains]" 
 
 " On my soul, I do not ! " 
 
 "What ! not that she is ill dying 1" 
 
 "Dying!" cried Lynedon, vehemently, his thoughts 
 recurring to the only woman who ever occupied them now. 
 But he recollected himself at once ; " No, you mistake, it is 
 only Miss Ogilvie who is ill." 
 
 Philip looked into his face with an eager, half-incredulous 
 stare. "Only?" You say so calmly! You come here 
 when " 
 
 Paul began to guess dimly at the truth at least some 
 part of it. He answered, kindly, " I regret Miss Ogilvie's 
 illness much ; she is a gentle creature, and I am happy to 
 call her my friend, but " 
 
 The careless tone struck Philip with conviction at once ; 
 " I see it all now all ! Oh, what have I done 1 May God 
 forgive me ! " 
 
 He laid his head on the table, and burst into a passion 
 of tears. 
 
 Paul was touched. Once upon a time he might have 
 mocked at such weakness j but now his own heart taught 
 him differently. He said, with kindness and delicacy, " You 
 and I, and all her friends, must rejoice that the crisis is past : 
 I heard so to-day from Summerwood. She will recover, 
 please God!" 
 
 There was no answer, and Lynedon thought the best 
 thing he could do was to walk to the window again. He 
 remained there until he felt a hand on his. It was Philip 
 
XLIX.] THE OGILVIES. 383 
 
 Wyclmor's. His face was white as death, but it wore a 
 calmness almost like joy. 
 
 "You will pardon all this, Lynedon f 
 
 "My dear fellow!" and Paul returned the cordial grasp 
 " don't speak of it. I'm sure I am very sorry that is, 
 glad but being quite in the dark, and having a great re- 
 spect for both parties, might I " 
 
 " Do not ask me anything do not think anything. One 
 day you may know all." 
 
 " Well, as you like ; all I know now is, that Mrs. Ogilvie 
 wished to see you ; that I sought you by her desire." 
 
 " God bless you and her ! " cried Philip. 
 
 The blood rushed to Lynedon's brow. He felt like a 
 demon in the presence of a saint. 
 
 " You will be kind and leave me now," pursued Philip. 
 "I feel towards you deeply, thankfully. We shall meet 
 again as sincere friends ?" 
 
 " I hope so," said Paul warmly. 
 
 Wychnor followed him to the door. As they said adieu, 
 he looked repentantly, almost affectionately, into the face 
 which had once seemed to him like that of a haunting fiend. 
 
 " Forgive me once more. You know not what I have 
 endured. May you never know the like ! May you be 
 happy very happy ! You deserve it, I am sure." 
 
 Lynedon sprang from the door : the blessing knelled on 
 his ear like a judgment-doom. He fled from its sound, but 
 its echo followed him ; he dulled it with wine, but it rose 
 up again. At last he clutched it as one clutches in despair 
 some ever-pursuing horror. He said to himself, that not 
 for earth, heaven, or hell, would he give up Katharine 
 Ogilvie J 
 
384 THE OGILVIEB. [CRAP. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 Thou hast named a name 
 
 Which to my conscience gives such secret pangs. 
 Yea, there is nothing that I would not do 
 In reparation of the wrong I've done him. 
 
 JOANNA BAILLEB. 
 
 Remorse, if proud and gloomy 
 It is a poison-tree, that, pierced to the utmost, 
 Weeps only tears of poison. COLERIDGE. 
 
 MRS. BREYNTON was sitting in her breakfast-room or rather 
 moving restlessly about, impatient of her solitude when 
 she heard the tidings of Eleanor's danger. The shock fell 
 upon her with overwhelming suddenness. Eleanor's absence 
 had revealed how the gentle girl had twined herself round 
 this aged heart, bringing to it life and youth and warmth 
 unknown before. The first few days of her loneliness, Mrs. 
 Breynton had chafed and fumed. Nay, but for her pride, 
 she would have summoned Eleanor back. As it was, she 
 had time to discover how strong was this second affection 
 almost rivalling the one pre-eminent feeling, her love for 
 her nephew. She now began to desire more anxiously than 
 ever the working out of her long-projected scheme, which, 
 in making Eleanor Philip's wife, should bind both attach- 
 ments in one. 
 
 And then came the letter of Katharine Ogilvie, with 
 tidings which threatened ruin alike to her worldly schemes, 
 her planning ambition, her long-suppressed affections, which 
 in old age had risen up so strong. Mrs. Breynton was be- 
 wildered grief, fear, remorse, wrung her heart by turns. 
 Again and again she read the letter : it seemed to grow 
 
L.] THE OGILVIES. 335 
 
 more and more confused. She was conscious of but one 
 impulse that she must that instant go to Summerwood. 
 
 She summoned the waiting-woman who had grown old 
 in her service, and bade her prepare for the sudden journey. 
 When Davis broke out in loud remonstrances, she was 
 silenced by a look not commanding, as of old, but piteously 
 weak and imploring. 
 
 " Do not hinder me, good Davis. She will die before I 
 reach her. My dear Eleanor ! poor Isabel's child ! May 
 God forgive me if I did her wrong ! " Davis, though 
 scarcely understanding her broken words, grew terrified at 
 the change which had come over the Dean's widow. 
 
 " Let me go too, dear mistress," sobbed the faithful crea- 
 ture. " Let me go, that I may be with you in your trouble, 
 and see poor dear Miss Eleanor once more." 
 
 Mrs. Breynton passively assented ; and the two aged 
 women, mistress and maid, travelled all night, scarcely ex- 
 changing a word until they reached Summerwood. 
 
 Katharine met Mrs. Breynton at the door. She had often 
 heard* Hugh jestingly describe the stately, stern-featured, 
 black-robed widow of the Dean ; but she saw only a bent, 
 haggard woman, who, clinging to her servant's arm, seemed 
 to tremble with apprehension ere she crossed the threshold. 
 Katharine stepped forward quickly. 
 
 " Will you lean on me, Mrs. Breynton 1 I am Katharine 
 Ogilvie." ' 
 
 Mrs. Breynton seized her arm. " Is she " And the 
 
 eager eyes alone continued the mute question. 
 
 " She lives still. She may live." 
 
 " Thank God ! " Never, during her lifetime, had Mrs. 
 Breynton breathed so deep, so solemn a thanksgiving. She 
 staggered to a seat ; and for the first time for many years 
 the old servant saw her mistress weep. 
 
 It was some hours before Mrs. Breynton was suffered to 
 enter Eleanor's chamber. Then Katharine led her in for a 
 few moments only, to look on the sick girl as she slept. 
 
 The crisis had passed, and Eleanor lay calm, though 
 scarcely breathing. In her pale, wasted face round which 
 the close cap was tied there was a likeness to one, which 
 
 2 o 
 
386 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 Mrs. Breynton had last seen when she stood beside tlio 
 orphan daughter, to take a farewell look of the dead. The 
 resemblance struck her now with a vain repentance. She 
 fell at the foot of the bed. 
 
 "Isabel Isabel Morton!" she cried, "your life was 
 darkened by me and mine. Heaven forgive us for the 
 wrong, which ended not with the mother, but passed on to 
 the child ! Eleanor ! my sweet, meek Eleanor ! live only 
 live and I will confess all atone for all ! " 
 
 She seemed not to notice the presence of another, but 
 Katharine's ear caught every word. In a few minutes she 
 had led Mrs. Breynton from the chamber of the yet sleeping 
 girl. Then she spoke : in the low, firm tone by which 
 Katharine, when she willed, could rule all minds weaker 
 than her own : 
 
 " Mrs. Breynton, I am almost a stranger to you ; but I 
 have a right to speak, for Eleanor is my sister, and you hold 
 her happiness in your hands. How, or why, this is, I know 
 not, and seek not to know ; but thus much I have learned 
 that she and your nephew, Philip Wychnor, have loved 
 one another for many years, and that you prevented their 
 marriage." 
 
 The shadow of her former freezing dignity came to the 
 Dean's widow, but only for a moment. Conscience-stricken, 
 she quailed before the clear eyes that seemed to read her 
 heart. "It is all true all true !" she muttered. 
 
 Katharine went on. " What I wish to say is this : that 
 Philip Wychnor has been deceived in some way that he 
 has cast Eleanor off, believing her faithless and that his 
 unkindness has almost broken her heart. He has gone 
 away abroad, I believe." 
 
 "He must not, shall not go," almost screamed Mrs. 
 Breynton : " it is not too late, even now ! " 
 
 " No ! for whoever has stood between them, I will bring 
 them together. Take care, Mrs. Breynton I am very 
 strong stronger than you. You have been most cruel to 
 these two. But with your will or against it, they shall be 
 happy now." 
 
 And Katharine stood before the cowering, remorseful 
 
L.] THE OGILVIES. 387 
 
 woman, like an avenging angel. She met with no opposi- 
 tion ; not even when she spoke of Philip Wychnor's coming, 
 which she daily expected. Mrs. Breynton knew the time 
 was near when she must confess. Her shame was heavy 
 upon her, but her suffering outweighed it all. She entreated 
 to see Eleanor alone ; but this was forbidden. Katharine 
 seemed to govern the whole household, including the fright- 
 ened Hugh, who had come hastily to Summerwood, and 
 lamented by turns the illness of his sister and the loss of a 
 whole fortnight's grouse-shooting. 
 
 In a few days Eleanor became convalescent. At length 
 Katharine led Mrs. Breynton to the sick chamber. She only 
 stayed to see Eleanor stretch out her arms with a faint cry 
 of joy, while the aged woman sank on her knees beside her ; 
 then she closed the door and went away. 
 
 It was almost an hour before she was summoned to her 
 sister's room. Eleanor lay, pale indeed, but with such glad- 
 ness in her eyes, such a spiritual light suffusing her whole 
 face, that Katharine marvelled at her beauty. Mrs. Breynton 
 sat beside her, looking very humble ; but her hand was fast 
 clasped in Eleanor's ; and from time to time the girl turned 
 upon her a look full of pity, forgiveness, and cheer. 
 
 Katharine advanced. "You need not speak, dearest; I 
 see your face. All is peace and hope with you now ! " Her 
 voice failed a little, and one tear dimmed her eyes. 
 
 " It will be, soon soon, please God." 
 
 ".Will you tell me, Eleanor " 
 
 " Ay, tell her," said Mrs. Breynton. " It is but just." 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! there is nothing to tell," and the wan 
 fingers closed tighter over Mrs. Breynton's. " Katharine, I 
 think you guessed all that we have loved one another for 
 many, many years. I have only a few words more to say. 
 Come closer, dear, for I am very tired and weak." 
 
 Katharine bent over her. Eleanor went on quicker, 
 though speaking very faintly : 
 
 " Philip was mistaken. He heard a rumour concerning 
 something that happened years ago, about one who liked me 
 once, or at least imagined he did so. Thus far the tale was 
 true. He wished to marry me. But it was in vain ; I never 
 
388 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 loved any one save Philip. Katharine, I must see Philip, to 
 tell him so. If I die, the knowledge will comfort him, and 
 give him peace. If I live " 
 
 " You will live you must live, my darling ! " sobbed 
 Mrs. Breynton. 
 
 " Yes, dear friend, I may live, please God ! to be your 
 child still," was the gentle answer. " But Katharine, bring 
 Philip to me ! He loves me ; he did love me through all, 
 and I have no pride in my heart only love. Let him come, 
 that I may take away his sorrow." 
 
 " Be content, Eleanor, we will send," said Katharine, 
 soothingly ; " nay, to tell the truth, he is already sent for by 
 my own desire. He will come soon." 
 
 " Ah ! that makes me happy so happy ! Thank you, 
 dear, kind sister," faintly answered the sick girl, closing her 
 eyes. A moment after, she said, dreamily, " Whom did you 
 send 1 Was it Hugh ? " 
 
 " No, a friend of his, and yours too." Katharine hesitated. 
 " In truth, it was Mr. Lynedon." 
 
 Eleanor started up wildly. " Oh no, you could not, you 
 did not send Mr. Lynedon. My Philip, my poor Philip ! it 
 will drive him mad ! And I am not there to tell him the 
 truth that I did not listen, not one moment ; that no power 
 on earth should ever have made me Paul Lynedon's wife." 
 
 " Paul Lynedon's wife ! " Even Eleanor's face was not 
 more death-like than Katharine's when she echoed the 
 words. " Eleanor, answer me : was it Paul Lynedon who 
 Basked you to marry him ? " 
 
 " Yes yes. I never told any one not even Philip : I 
 would not now, but I am so weak, and my heart is breaking. 
 Katharine, think for me ; write to Philip tell him you 
 know I never cared for Mr. Lynedon. You do know, for it 
 all passed at that fatal visit to Summerwood." 
 
 " That was the time, then ! " said Katharine ; and the 
 words came hissingly through her closed lips. " I am glad 
 you told me this ; it comes not too late. It will save you 
 perhaps not you alone. Rest, sister, rest ! I will do all 
 you wish." 
 
 She unclasped the arm which had folded round her in 
 
L.] THIS OGILVIES. 389 
 
 frantic energy, and laid Eleanor down, exhausted and 
 weeping. Then she glided from the chamber. In the apart- 
 ment beyond, Mrs. Pennythorne sat alone ; from the open 
 dining-room door came the voices of Sir Eobert and Hugh. 
 She could gain no solitude within the house, so fled wildly 
 from it. 
 
 Out, into the dreary, moonless autumn night, the darkness 
 and the rain, Katharine passed. She walked rapidly, the 
 bleak wind lifting her hair, and piercing to her unshel- 
 tered bosom. At the end of the avenue, where Lynedon 
 had that morning lately come bounding to her side she 
 stopped. 
 
 " He told me a lie a lie ! " she cried. " He deceived me 
 even in those old days : he has deceived me now. He is 
 false all false ! And I have wrecked my peace on earth 
 almost my hope of heaven for love of him ! 
 
 " Paul ! Paul Lynedon ! you love me now I know 
 it ! Heart and soul, you are mine ! But it had been better 
 for you to have torn out that false tongue of yours before 
 it uttered that lie, that last lie of all before you told me you 
 had never wished to marry Eleanor Ogilvie." 
 
 Ere long her stormy anger passed into weeping. "I 
 wished to die ! " she moaned, " for then I should escape sin, 
 and suffer no more sorrow. I would have died calmly 
 believing in him still ; though how dearly I loved him, I 
 dared not let him know. Never never ! I would never 
 have let him know. Wretched we might have been but 
 we would never have been wicked. I would still have 
 honoured him trusted him believed him noble and true. 
 But he is false all false false to the heart's core. He 
 always was so. And I loved him I love him. miser- 
 able me ! " 
 
 A little longer this wail of a wrecked heart was wasted 
 on the silent night ; and then Katharine saw lights moving 
 in the house. She returned hastily thither, lest her absence 
 should have caused surprise. Crossing the hall, she met Sir 
 Robert and Hugh. 
 
 " Really, Katharine, these late rambles in the grounds are 
 very injurious to health. And you have no bonnet ! My 
 
390 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 dear Hugh, you should take better care of your wife," 
 observed the baronet, as he ascended the stairs. 
 
 " Take care of Katharine ! Nay, I can't do that. She's 
 a young filly that will neither be led nor driven. I have 
 found that out at last," said Hugh, carelessly. 
 
 Katharine was passing him by, but at his words she turned 
 and looked him in the face. Her whole bearing expressed 
 the most intense and withering scorn. A strange contrast 
 was there between the husband and wife ; he grown awk- 
 ward and heavy, and becoming each day coarser in person 
 as in mind she, with her ardent soul flashing in her eyes 
 and dilating her stature, while her slender, beautiful form, 
 gradually wasting away, made her seem hardly like a creature 
 of this world. 
 
 " What was that you said ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing nothing ! " And Hugh shrank away, 
 cowed, before her fixed gaze. " Don't be vexed, Katharine ; 
 I only meant that you were not quite as you used to be ; 
 but I suppose all girls change when they marry." 
 
 " Those were not your words. Speak the truth." 
 
 " What's the use, if you know it already 1 " said Hugh, 
 sulkily. " But don't keep me here, pray ; I'm going 
 out." 
 
 She stood in his path still. 
 
 " Stay, Hugh : you said I would neither be led nor driven, 
 and you are right ; I will not." 
 
 " I'm sure I don't want to try. Many a husband might 
 complain of the little attention you pay me, but I always 
 take it quietly. Still, what with your visiting, and your 
 literary parties, and your fine gentlemen friends " 
 
 " Hugh, take care ! " Katharine broke in wildly. " Do 
 not try me too much. Speak kindly to me let me do as 
 I will : it cannot be for long not long." 
 
 " Eh ! what 1 " and, struck by her tone, he came nearer, 
 and gazed in her excited countenance with some show of 
 interest. " Poor little Katharine ! you don't look well you 
 hardly seem to know what you're saying. This anxiety 
 about Nelly has been too much for you. There, be quiet ! " 
 His words were not without affection, though it was ex- 
 
L.] THE OG1LVIES. 391 
 
 pressed in his own careless fashion. He -stooped down and 
 patted his wife's head tenderly. 
 
 The tone and action smote Katharine's heart with a 
 remorseful memory of olden days when she had known 
 no stronger love than that won by the unfailing devotion 
 of cousin Hugh. The thought drew her nearer to her 
 husband. 
 
 " Forgive me, Hugh. I might have made you happier, 
 perhaps. We were not suited for one another. We should 
 not have married." 
 
 " Do you think so ? Well, well, it is too late now. We 
 must make the best of one another," said Hugh, in a tone 
 half angry, half sorrowful, as he turned away. 
 
 Katharine caught his hand. " Hugh good, kind 
 cousin Hugh ! why did you not let me call you cousin all 
 your life through ] I could have loved you then." 
 
 " And you don't now ? You have said so once or twice 
 before. Well, I can't help that ; I must learn not to mind 
 it." And he sighed heavily. 
 
 Again the wife felt a repentant pang. " Husband, have 
 pity ; my heart is breaking ! Every day we seem to live 
 only to make each other miserable." 
 
 "Luckily, we shall get rid of one another soon for a 
 time, at least. Now Eleanor is better, I don't see why I 
 should not go back to the grouse-shooting. Ill start to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Moved by an unaccountable impulse, which she afterwards 
 remembered with comfort, Katharine asked nay, implored 
 him to stay at Summerwood ; but he refused somewhat 
 angrily. 
 
 " I never want you to give up your pleasures, Katharine, 
 and I do not see why you should interfere with mine. We 
 don't care for one another don't let us pretend that we do. 
 Let us each go our own way." 
 
 " Be it so," answered the wife, solemnly. It seemed as 
 if the last links of affection and duty were then torn from 
 her and she were cast helplessly upon the wide world of 
 desolation, misery, or sin. 
 
 She began to ascend the stairs, and Hugh went to the 
 
392 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP 
 
 hall-door, seeking for his hat and whip. Then he turned 
 round and hesitated. 
 
 " You're not gone, Katharine, are you 1" 
 
 " No, I am here." 
 
 " Because we may as well say good-bye now, for I shan't 
 be home until midnight ; and I shall start at daylight to- 
 morrow. So give me your hand, Katharine. Forgive and 
 forget. Perhaps we shall get on better together when I 
 come back again. We'll part friends now, at all events." 
 
 She went up to him, and, for the first time in her life, 
 kissed him of her own accord. In times to come, the 
 remembered action proved a balm for many a conscience- 
 sting. 
 
 Then they parted. 
 
LI.] THE OGILVIES. 393 
 
 CHAPTEE LL 
 
 My breast is pressed to thine, Alice, 
 
 My arm is round tliee twined ; 
 Thy breath dwells on my lip, Alice, 
 
 Like clover-scented wind. 
 Love glistens in thy sunny ee, 
 
 And blushes on thy brow, 
 Earth's heaven is here to thee and me, 
 
 For we are happy now. 
 
 My hand is on thy heart, Alice, 
 
 Sae place thy hand in mine ; 
 Now welcome weal or woe, Alice, 
 
 Our love we canna tine. 
 Ae kiss ! let others gather gowd 
 
 Frae ilka land or sea ; 
 My treasure is the richest yet, 
 
 For, Alice, I hae thee ! ROBERT NICOL. 
 
 IN a few days Eleanor began to feel the delicious dreamy 
 calm of waking from sickness to convalescence from anguish 
 to hope. Though still Philip came not, she felt sure that 
 he would come, speeded by the love which she doubted not 
 lay deep in his heart still. If ever there was a living 
 embodiment of faith woman's faith it was Eleanor 
 Ogilvie. She had been all her life full of trust in every 
 human creature. It is the wavering, the doubtful, who dream 
 of change ; it is the inconstant only who dread inconstancy. 
 She lay for hours together on her couch beside the draw- 
 ing-room window, with her meek hands folded, and her eyes, 
 now calm as of old, though a little more thoughtful, watch- 
 ing the little clouds floating over the sky. Then, with the 
 almost child-like interest that very trifles give to one who 
 is recovering from severe illness, she would look at the many 
 
394 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 gifts of flowers or fruit which she was daily receiving, every 
 one of which showed how dearly Eleanor was loved. She 
 seemed to have passed out of that terrible darkness into a 
 world that was full of love. In this deep peace she rested as 
 a child lies dreaming in the sunshine not pondering whence 
 it came, or how long it would last, simply rejoicing in it. 
 She, opening her full heart to all, felt love continually around 
 her G-od's love and man's ; she rejoiced therein, and her 
 every thought was a mute thanksgiving. Blessed, thrice 
 blessed, are they whose souls thus turn heavenward, not in 
 sorrow alone but also in gladness. And surely the sacrifice 
 of a happy spirit must be acceptable unto Him, who only 
 suffers us to walk in sackcloth and ashes for a time, that, so 
 chastened, He may lift us to His presence with exceeding 
 
 joy. 
 
 It was the still hush of an autumn afternoon when Philip 
 reached Summerwood. He came into Eleanor's presence 
 alone. She had fallen asleep : there was a quiet smile 
 playing round her lips, as though she were dreaming happily. 
 It was so indeed, for the dream had borne her to the 
 pleasant palace garden. She sat underneath the old cherry- 
 tree, listening to the rustling of its leaves and scented 
 blossoms. She heard Philip's voice ; she felt the clasp of 
 Philip's hand ; and then O blessed waking ! she found 
 the dream was true ! He knelt beside her couch, gazing 
 upon her, almost weeping over her. 
 
 " Philip my Philip you are come I knew you would 
 come at last ! " 
 
 Again, as on the night of their parting, she extended her 
 loving arms. He did not dash them from him now he 
 clasped them wildly round his neck, though he could not 
 speak one word. The next moment she was nestling in his 
 breast. 
 
 It was a long time before either broke that blessed silence. 
 At last Eleanor looked up in his face, and said, 
 
 " You are not angry with me now, Philip ? You know 
 all?" 
 
 " I know nothing but that I am here, beside you, holding 
 you fast fast ! Eleanor, neither life nor death shall take 
 
II.] THE OGILYIES. 395 
 
 you away from me ! Say that it shall be so that nothing 
 on earth shall ever part us more." 
 
 And softly answering, came to Philip's ear the words, 
 which to sorrow are a knell to love a deep anthem of 
 perpetual joy " Never more never more ! " 
 
 After a while they began to talk more calmly. "You 
 have asked me nothing, Philip," said Eleanor. "I feel 
 how kind, how tender this is when you have been so tried ; 
 but now I must tell you all." 
 
 " Tell me nothing, my dearest, save that you love me/' 
 
 " You thought I did not love you, Philip 1 " and her eyes 
 were lifted to his a whole life's faith expressed in their 
 gaze. "You will not think so any more?" 
 
 He made no answer how could he ? blessed ones ! 
 thus binding up the hopes of a lifetime in this perfect 
 union of 
 
 One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love. 
 
 " Now, Philip, you must listen to me for a little only a 
 little. We must not have between us even the shadow of 
 a cloud." And she began her tale slowly and cautiously, 
 trying not to mention Mrs. Breynton's name. 
 
 Philip changed countenance at first. " Then there was 
 some truth in the tale ? Why did you not tell me about 
 Mr. Lynedon?" 
 
 She laid her hand upon his : " Stay one moment before 
 you judge me. In those happy days at the palace for, 
 with all our trials, they were happy days there was in 
 my heart no thought of any save one save him who then 
 asked for it ; ay, and had it too, almost before he asked." 
 And a conscious blush and dimpling smile brought back to 
 her face its long-vanished playfulness. 
 
 "Eleanor," interrupted her lover fondly, "you look as 
 you did long ago, when we were girl SLJ/JL boy together at 
 the palace. You will be my own sunpy-faced little Nelly 
 again soon." 
 
 "Shall I?" and her low, glad-hearted laugh echoed his 
 own. How child-like are happy lovers ! 
 
 " Besides," Eleanor went on, gravely, " I did not speak 
 
396 TIIE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 about Paul Lynedon, because I thought it scarcely right. 
 All love is sacred ; hopeless love most sacred of all. It 
 seems to me that a woman should not betray, even to him 
 who has her whole heart, another who has cast his before 
 her in vain. You do not think me wrong]" 
 
 "No, no : you are good and true, and compassionate to 
 all, my dearest." 
 
 " Afterwards I was most glad to find that Mr. Lynedon 
 had lost all painful feelings about me. We met by chance 
 at Florence, and again in London, when we talked together 
 frankly and cordially, and he asked me always to be his 
 friend. This happened on that night at my brother's that 
 sad night when " 
 
 " How mad, how blind, how wicked was I !" cried Philip. 
 Then he told her all, passionately imploring her forgiveness 
 for every doubt, and still more for every harsh and unkind 
 word. 
 
 But she laid her hand on his lips : " Nay, you loved 
 you love me ; there is no need of forgiveness between us. 
 Therefore," she added, softly, " in our perfect joy, we have 
 more need to pardon those who were unkind to us. 
 Philip, my own Philip, you will listen to me a little longer?" 
 
 He sat down by her side, and there, resting her head on 
 his shoulder, and holding both his hands as though she 
 would not let him go until her influence had subdued any 
 wrath he might feel Eleanor told her betrothed the story 
 of his aunt's wickedness. But she did not call it by that 
 harsh name ; she spoke with most merciful tenderness of 
 the wrong done to both ; and spoke not of it at all until 
 she had reminded him of all his childish days, of every 
 olden kindness which could soften his heart towards Mrs. 
 Breynton. 
 
 Philip Wychnor was of a gentle spirit, but he was also 
 a man. He had become one even since Eleanor Lad parted 
 from him. The hard struggle with the world had made 
 every passion in his nature ten times stronger. He was 
 stung to the quick by the discovery alike of the persona? 
 wrong, and the deceit at which his truthful spirit revolted. 
 Smarting up, he paced the room in vehement anger. 
 
LI.] THE OGILVIES. 397 
 
 " And it was for this that I asked you to stay with her, 
 and fulfil the duties I owed ! But I owe her none now ; 
 all is blotted out between us. Eleanor ! you shall leave her ; 
 we will neither of us look upon her face more. Oh ! if 
 she had succeeded if I had known the truth too late ! I 
 should have hated have cursed her 1 " 
 
 Eleanor gazed upon her lover. She saw in the clenched 
 hands and knotted brow a new development of his character. 
 For the moment she sank back, pained and terrified. She 
 learned for the first time that a woman must be to the man 
 she loves, not merely his joy his consolation but the 
 softener of his nature, the patient soother of those stormy 
 passions that will rise at times in the best and noblest of 
 mankind. She must take him as he is ; bearing meekly with 
 aught that she sees wrong, striving hopefully to win him to 
 the right, and loving him dearly through all. Eleanor felt 
 this ; and casting aside the womanly supremacy of wooing 
 days, she entered on a wife's duty ere she bore a wife's 
 name. 
 
 She rose up and tried to walk across the room to him, 
 but her feeble strength failed. " Philip ! " she said, faintly, 
 "I am very weak still, I cannot reach you. Will you 
 come and sit by me again ?" 
 
 He did so, still uttering many words of suppressed anger. 
 But he suffered her to take his hand with a soft, firm clasp. 
 She would not let it go again, but pressed it close to her 
 heart, as though the peace and forgiveness there would thus 
 pass into her lover's. Yet she did not attempt to speak for 
 a long time. At last she whispered, 
 
 " Philip, when that future comes which we have hoped 
 for all our lives, and to which we now look forward as a 
 near reality, think how happy we shall be so happy that 
 we ought to pray that all the world may be happy too ! 
 And when we grow old together still loving one another 
 until time's changes come so lightly that we fear them not 
 then we shall feel, much more than we do now, what a 
 terrible thing must be an old age lonely and without love. 
 We could not, even though wronged, inflict this bitter 
 desolation on her." 
 
398 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 " Eleanor, why do you speak thus ? what do you wish me 
 to do 1 But I cannot do it it is impossible. I will not 1 
 ought not ! " he continued, without waiting for her answer. 
 
 She did not contradict him, but only said softly, " Do 
 you think we could be quite happy, even in in our own 
 dear home " She hesitated, faintly blushing ; but re- 
 pented not the words when she saw how on hearing them 
 his countenance relaxed, and his firm-set lips trembled with 
 emotion. "Could we be quite happy, even there," she 
 repeated, " when we must for ever forget those old days at 
 the palace, and think that there was one name, once loved 
 by both, which we could not utter more 1 We, too, who 
 have neither father nor mother to claim the duty which we 
 once hoped to pay to her? Let us pay it still, Philip," 
 she continued, finding that no bitter answer came, and that 
 the hand she held pressed hers convulsively. " Let us place 
 no bar between us and the past let us have no shadow of 
 regret to dim our happiness. Philip, dearest, best! in 
 whom I trust and have trusted all my life forgive her !" 
 
 " I would I would if this wrong were only against 
 myself. But you my darling ! you who tended her like 
 a daughter ; she had no pity on you." 
 
 "She knew not what she was doing; I feel sure she 
 loved me all the while. And now, Philip ! if you could 
 see her repentance her tears ! At the thought of your 
 coming she wept like a child. And she is so changed so 
 feeble, so old ! Philip, look look there ! " 
 
 She pointed to the lawn beneath the window. There, 
 creeping slowly along in the autumn sunshine, was a stoop- 
 ing aged woman, who, even with the aid of the servant on 
 whose arm she leaned, appeared to move wearily and pain- 
 fully. 
 
 Philip started up. " Is that Aunt Breynton poor Aunt 
 Breynton ?" 
 
 " It is indeed ! see how feebly she walks, even with 
 Davis's arm. Poor, faithful Davis is herself growing old, 
 but her mistress has no one else. And Philip dear Philip, 
 your arm is so strong ! Think how we two are entering 
 life a life full of love, hope, and joy while she " 
 
LI.] THE OGILVIES. 399 
 
 "Hush! hush, darling say no more." He pressed a 
 kiss on her forehead, and was gone from the room. The 
 next minute she saw him walking quickly down the lawn. 
 Eleanor could look no more ; she sank down on the pillow, 
 and wept tears more holy, more joyful, than even those so 
 lately shed in reconciled love on Philip's bosom. 
 
 Her work was done. It was chronicled by no human 
 tongue noted by no human eye. Only when, a few weeks 
 after, she sat with Philip and Philip's aunt, listening to the 
 reading of the Holy Book, which sounded holier still in the 
 Sabbath silence of the old Cathedral, Eleanor heard the 
 words, 
 
 " Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall inherit the 
 kingdom of heaven " 
 
 With her, the blessedness had begun even on earth. 
 
 Yet a little we would fain linger with these twain on 
 that day of happiness and peace ; we would fain see them 
 as they talked in the quiet autumn evening, watching the 
 sunset. Eleanor still rested on her couch, while Philip sat 
 by her side, her fingers wandering in his hair. She 
 counted, laughingly, one two three white threads among 
 the fair silken curls ; at which he seemed to murmur greatly, 
 seeing he was not thirty yet. But they had no fear of 
 growing old now. 
 
 They talked of all which had chanced to Philip during 
 these years of varied fortune. He told her of the phases 
 through which his mind had passed, of the new life that 
 had dawned within him, and of the earnest aim with which 
 he now followed an author's calling. Eleanor saw that to 
 him there had come a change or rather, less a change than 
 a growth. He had risen to the full strength of a man 
 and a man of genius ; he was conscious of it too, and the 
 high and noble ambition born of such consciousness was in 
 him almost as strong as love itself. His betrothed felt this, 
 but the knowledge gave her no pain. Her woman's heart, 
 to which love was all, could at first scarcely comprehend 
 the mystery; but ere long it would all grow plain, she 
 knew. The most tender and high-hearted woman, on whom 
 falls the blessed but trying destiny to be the wife of one 
 
400 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 endowed with Heaven's great gift of genius, must ever feel 
 that there are depths in his soul into which she cannot 
 look depths which are open only to the eye of God. 
 Shame be to her if her mean, jealous love should desire to 
 engross all ; or, standing between him and the Infinite to 
 which he aspires, should wish to darken with one earthly 
 shadow the image of the Divine ! 
 
 Thus they together held glad yet thoughtful converse, as 
 was meet for those who would soon enter on life's journey 
 hand-in-hand. They talked but little of their worldly 
 future, since it was all plain before them now ; and both 
 had far higher thoughts than counting of gold and silver 
 store, and planning a luxurious home. Once only Philip 
 called her " his fair heiress, his rich Eleanor," and asked 
 smilingly whether the world would not contemn her for 
 marrying a poor author. 
 
 But she only smiled in return. The love between them 
 was so perfect, that which gave or which received mattered 
 not. The act was merely a name. 
 
 Then the twilight grew dimmer, the room darkened, and 
 through the window whence they had gazed on the sunset 
 they looked up at a sky all thick with stars. The words of 
 the betrothed pair became fewer and more solemn, though 
 tender still. From the earthly path which they would tread 
 together, their thoughts turned to the unseen world beyond. 
 Most blessed they, whose love feared no parting even 
 there ! 
 
 They spoke ay, amidst their deep happiness they 
 spoke of this ; and then there came upon their lips a few 
 beloved names, whose sound had passed from earth to 
 heaven. The mother, could she have bent down from the 
 eternal home, might have heard that, even amidst this bless- 
 edness, her child remembered her ; and the young spirit, so 
 early taken, might have rejoiced to know that the thought 
 of poor Leigh lingered in his friend's fond memory still. 
 
 Thus, folded closely heart to heart, Philip and Eleanor 
 looked up to the starry sky, and thanked Heaven for the 
 love that would bless and brighten earth, until it attained 
 its full fruition in eternity. 
 
LIL] THE OGILVIES. 401 
 
 CHAPTEE LH 
 
 Thus it was always with me when with thee, 
 
 And I forget my purpose and my wrongs 
 
 In looking and in loving. 
 
 To say that thou didst love me ? Curse the air 
 
 That bore the sound to me ! 
 
 There is no blasphemy in love, but doubt : 
 
 No sin, but to deceive. 
 
 Now I forgive thy having loved another, 
 
 And I forgive but never mind it now ; 
 
 I have forgiven so much, there's nothing left 
 
 To make more words about. Answer me not, 
 
 Let me say what I have to say. Then go ! 
 
 PHILIP BAILEY. 
 
 PAUL LYNEDON had been whirled through life like a stray 
 autumn leaf, the sport of every breeze of impulse or circum- 
 stance. An instinctive nobleness had kept him free from 
 any great sin, and his strong desire for the world's good 
 opinion served frequently to deter him from smaller errors. 
 But he never did a thing solely because it was right. Interest 
 and inclination were with him motives far more powerful 
 than any abstract love of virtue. 
 
 Thus he suffered himself to be drifted idly on by any 
 chance current, and had probably during his whole life 
 known no fixed principle or real emotion, until every im- 
 pulse of his being concentrated itself in passion for Katharine 
 Ogilvie. Perhaps the very hopelessness of this love made 
 it ten times stronger, for there was still in Lynedon's charac- 
 ter that strange contradiction which caused everything to 
 appear more precious in the degree that it seemed unattain- 
 able. 
 
 Of the end he never thought, any more than did Katharine. 
 2 D 
 
402 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 He was not an evil-hearted man ; and if he had been such, 
 this love had so purified his nature, that, against her at least, 
 he could not sin. He could only cast his soul before her, 
 worshipping, but not daring by a single glance to ask foir 
 responsive love. 
 
 Until now ! On that early morning, when he walked by 
 her side along the avenue at Summerwood, Paul Lynedon 
 had been startled by the few words which the strong pent-up 
 tide of emotion had forced from Katharine's lips. Could it 
 be that the girlish admiration over which he had once smiled 
 complacently though he now clung to its memory with an 
 intense and lingering fondness could it be that this was 
 indeed the dawn of a far deeper feeling ? Had she then 
 loved and, blissful thought, that made his heart leap 
 with desperate joy ! did she now love him ? 
 
 Paul saw Katharine no more that day, but there reached 
 him the letter to Philip Wychnor, accompanied by a single, 
 word, " Remember ! " He flew on his mission with speed. 
 That mission fulfilled, he longed for its reward a look, a 
 word, a smile ; and though without any settled purpose, 
 save the impulse which drew him continually to her side, 
 Paul Lynedon found himself on the road to Summerwood. 
 
 There was only one whose feet had outstripped even his 
 own Philip Wychnor. But the bright sunbeam of holy 
 love travelled faster than the mad whirlwind of passion. 
 
 Lynedon came when night was closing in. He had 
 dashed his horse along through the still evening air ; he 
 had left behind him, without one glance, the gorgeous sun- 
 set on which the happy plighted lovers had gazed so linger- 
 ingly. But Paul saw nothing in earth or heaven save the 
 shadowy image that flitted before him, beckoning him on 
 with the likeness of Katharine's eyes and Katharine's smile. 
 Not as these usually met him, freezing him with cold 
 haughtiness, or torturing him with wayward anger but 
 softened, tearful, and tremulous with love. The strong 
 fantasy almost overwhelmed him. 
 
 He stood within the hall at Summerwood. It was the 
 game spot the dim old hall, half illumined by the lamp. 
 Beneath this flickering light he had once gazed down upon 
 
LII.J THE OGILVIES. 403 
 
 the girlisli face whose sorrowful sweetness won from him 
 that parting kiss. It was nothing to him then, but keenly, 
 maddeningly, he remembered it now. 
 
 " Sir Bobert," the servant said, " was engaged with parlia- 
 mentary business in the drawing-room ; Miss Ogilvie was 
 in the drawing-room, but she saw no visitors as yet ; and 
 Mrs. Ogilvie " 
 
 "Ask if Mrs Ogilvie will see me for a few moments. 
 And meanwhile I will go in here." 
 
 He laid his hand half by chance, half through a way- 
 ward impulse that sprang from these thronging memories 
 of the past on the door of the room where Sir James had 
 died. 
 
 There, in the same arm-chair where Paul had found her 
 of old, sat Katharine ; but her attitude was not as then that 
 of gentle musing grief it expressed the utter abandonment 
 of despair. She leaned over the arm of the chair, her head 
 bowed, and her clasped hands stretched out rigidly. So 
 deep was the trance that she heard not Paul Lynedon's step 
 until he stood beside her. 
 
 "Katharine!" 
 
 " Mr. Lynedon ! you dare to intrude " She sprang 
 
 up and confronted him with her gleaming eyes. But the 
 flash passed in a moment. "Pardon me, but I think you 
 forget yourself" and the cold severe tone fell upon his 
 vehemence like ice upon fire : " our friendship, or rather our 
 acquaintance, scarcely warrants " 
 
 " Acquaintance, Mrs. Ogilvie ! You talk of acquaintance, 
 when " 
 
 But again, for the hundredth time, her look froze him into 
 stone. He stopped, hesitated, and was silent. 
 
 "This is a late visit. To what may I attribute the 
 pleasure V 1 
 
 For a moment Paul drew himself up with his old haughti- 
 ness. " If I intrude, perhaps I " But he could not go 
 
 on thus, for he was in her presence he felt the spell that 
 lay in every movement of her hand, every rustle of her 
 garmeuts. All his love rushed back upon him like a flood. 
 "What what have I done to offend you 1 ?" he cried. 
 
404 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP 
 
 "Have I not been journeying day and night to fulfil your 
 command ? I had not thought our meeting would be thus. 
 If I have done wrong, tell me and then, then in mercy 
 forgive me." 
 
 " For this long, and somewhat unwarrantable speech, cer- 
 tainly !" answered Katharine. "I am not aware of aught 
 else of your doing, which is to me of sufficient importance 
 even to need forgiveness. And now allow me to thank 
 you for your kind offices in this matter, and to hope that 
 you also will grant me pardon for having so far encroached 
 on your courtesy." 
 
 " Courtesy ! you call it courtesy ! Well, let it be so ; 
 you will never, never know ! " said Lynedon, hoarsely. He 
 sank on a chair at a little distance, and bent his face from 
 her sight. 
 
 Katharine looked upon him this careless, proud man 
 as he crouched and trembled before her. " I have 
 triumphed I triumph now ! " she said in her heart ; and 
 its throbs of glad vengeance rose higher and higher, until 
 they sank, stilled by the stronger power of love. But she 
 dreaded the calm and the silence more than the storm. 
 
 "Mr. Lynedon," she said, speaking less coldly, but 
 brokenly and hurriedly, "I will not detain you here; I 
 am not well ; I have suffered so much." 
 
 "You are ill? you suffer?" and he sprang to her side. 
 She moved away from him ; not pointedly, but firmly. 
 
 " It is nothing ; merely caused by anxiety on my sister's 
 account. You do not ask about her." 
 
 " Pardon me, I think of nothing except except " 
 
 "She is recovering," interrupted Mrs. Ogilvie, turning 
 away from his gazo of wild fondness; "and lest there 
 should seem anything strange in this mission which you 
 have kindly accomplished, I think it due both to Eleanor 
 and myself that I should acquaint you with its reason. It 
 may give you surprise, perhaps unwelcome surprise " and 
 the tone grew cold and scornful once more " to learn that 
 Mr. Wychnor and my sister have been affianced lovers for 
 years." 
 
 " Indeed ! I half thought that is, I guessed. Of course 
 
LIL] THE OGILVIES. 405 
 
 I am most delighted," was Lynedon's somewhat confused 
 answer. 
 
 Katharine's piercing eyes were upon him. " You need 
 not use idle compliments ; you need not let your tongue 
 belie you again," she said, vainly striving against the storm 
 of anger that was once more brooding. " It shows small 
 respect for Eleanor, when her sometime lover condescends 
 to a needless falsehood in order to conceal this love." 
 
 Lynedon staggered, as though every word uttered by that 
 low clear voice had been an arrow in his breast. " Love ! you 
 think, then, that I loved Eleanor Ogilvie ! Listen " 
 
 " Nay, it requires no excuse." 
 
 " And I give none : but I speak to you you, Katharine. 
 If you could slay me with that look, I would, I will call you 
 so. Listen, Katharine still Katharine I I came here, first, 
 a dreamer, with the years of a man and the folly of a boy : 
 your cousin's sweetness pleased me ; her indifference spurred 
 me on to an idle fancy. Men have many such which they 
 call love, as I did, until the true love comes ! I know now, 
 to my misery to my despair -I know what it is to love ! " 
 
 He paused a moment. Katharine's eyes turned fearfully 
 to the closed door, as though in flight alone would she save 
 herself from the gathering doom. But her strength failed ; 
 she sank helplessly on the chair. 
 
 Lynedon stood over her, his impetuous words pouring on 
 her ear like a torrent which she could neither resist nor 
 control. 
 
 " You must, you shall hear me yet. I tell you that I 
 know now what love is. Love ! love ! the word rings ever 
 in my brain, my senses, my soul ! Who taught it me ? 
 When I had passed my youth when my heart had grown 
 cold with its dull pulses of five-and-thirty years who was 
 it that put life therein fearful, torturing, and yet most 
 glorious life 1 If heaven and hell stood between us, I must 
 cry out, as I do now, Take this life which you brought; it 
 is yours, all yours, for I love you I love you, Katharine 
 Ogilvie ! " 
 
 He sank at her feet, and kissed passionately, not her 
 hands, though they lay passive and cold on her knee, but her 
 
406 THE OGILVLKS. [CHAP. 
 
 very dress. The impetuous speech once ended, he dared 
 not even lift his eyes ; he trembled lest her first word should 
 crush him in the dust. But that word did not come ; she 
 neither moved nor spoke. 
 
 " Katharine," he went on and his tone sank from ve- 
 hemence to the deepest murmur of tenderness " Katharine, 
 forgive me. I am so wretched ; I have no hope in heaven 
 or earth but you. Think what a fearful thing it is for me 
 
 to love you thus ! you who But I dare not. speak of 
 
 that. Nay, you need not draw your hand away ; I shall not 
 take it. I ask nothing, hope for nothing ; only do not spurn 
 me do not drive me from you ! " 
 
 She moved, and looked down upon him for an instant ; 
 but in her eyes there was less of love than of terror. He 
 met them still, and drew from them courage. 
 
 " I say not, Love me as I love. You do not you cannot. 
 Only be merciful and gentle to me for the sake of those old 
 times. Have you forgotten them, Katharine 1 how here, 
 in this very room, in this very chair, you sat, and I comforted 
 you 1 You were scarcely more than a child, though you 
 were dear to me even then why, I knew not. Katharine ! 
 my Katharine ! do you remember 1 " 
 
 " Eemember 1 " She started up, silent and trembling no 
 more. "Yes, I do remember. And now that the time has 
 come, you shall know all. Listen, Paul ! " 
 
 " You call me Paul ! kindest and dearest, you call 
 me Paul ! " murmured Lynedon. 
 
 " Again, Paul ! though after this night the name shall 
 never pass my lips. You speak truly ! I was a child a 
 happy child until you came. You came, with your winning 
 words, your subduing tenderness ; you made me believe it 
 all me, a simple girl, gifted, to my misery, with a woman's 
 heart ! See, I speak without a blush or a sigh these are 
 past now. Paul Lynedon, I loved you then I have loved 
 you all my life through I love you now, dearly, dearly ! 
 But I tell you this for the first time and the last, for you 
 shall never look on my face more." 
 
 " Katharine, have mercy ! " 
 
 " You had none ! Oh, why did you deceive me 1 Why 
 
LII.] THE OGILVIES. 407 
 
 did your lips speak falsely ay, more than speak ? " And 
 Katharine shuddered. " Why did your hand write what 
 your heart felt not 1 And I, who loved, who trusted you so, 
 
 until I heard But I cannot think of it now it drove 
 
 me mad ! Now, when we might have been so happy, it is 
 too late ! too late ! " 
 
 Her voice sank into a low broken weeping. There was 
 a silence a terrible silence and then Katharine felt her 
 hand drawn in his. She snatched it away with a cry. 
 
 " Ah you cannot you dare not take my hand. See ! 
 see ! " She pointed to the wedding-ring ! 
 
 Lynedon sprang madly to his feet. " Katharine, there is 
 no pity in heaven or earth for us I say us, because you love 
 me. I know it now ; I see it in your anger as in your tears 
 those blessed tears ! Katharine, I .cannot weep, but 
 I could pour out my heart's blood for you ! " 
 
 Again he paused, and then went on speaking in a low, 
 rapid whisper. " Tell me for I know nothing nothing, 
 except that I am almost mad ! tell me what we must do. 
 Shall I end all this 1 Katharine, my lost Katharine ! shall 
 I die ? " 
 
 " No, no, no ! " And she unconsciously seized his hands, 
 " Hush ! be calm ; let me think a moment." 
 
 She began to talk soothingly ; leaning over him the 
 while, and trying to speak in quiet and gentle tones. 
 
 Then Paul Lynedon forgot all honour, duty, even love ; 
 for the love that would destroy is unworthy of the name. 
 
 " Dearest," he murmured, " the world shuts us out, or 
 will, do soon. It may be that Heaven is more merciful 
 than man. Let us try ! Let us go far away together to 
 some land beyond the seas to some happier Eden where 
 our love is no longer sin ! " 
 
 Katharine looked at him for an instant with a frenzied, in- 
 credulous gaze. Then she unclasped his hand, which had once 
 more taken hers ; flung it from her, and sprang upright; 
 
 " Paul Lynedon, I know you now ! You have darkened 
 my peace you have poisoned my youth you have made 
 me a scorn, a loathing to myself but you shall not destroy 
 my soul. Go go from my sight for ever ! " 
 
408 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 He flung himself on the ground, kissing her dress, her 
 feet; but there was no relenting. She stood, with lifted 
 hand, pointing to the door moveless, silent, stern. 
 
 " I will obey you I will go," he cried at last. " I will 
 never cross your path again. Only forgive me ! One word 
 one look to say farewell ! " 
 
 But there she stood, immovable in her stony silence. Be- 
 neath it his own passionate heart grew still and cold. He 
 rose up, pressed his lips once more to her garment's hem, 
 and then crept humbled from her sight. The door closed, 
 and Katharine was alone. 
 
 That night there came a messenger to Summerwood with 
 tidings awful indeed ! Death had struck the young heir in 
 the midst of his careless sports. Death ! sudden death ! 
 occasioned unwittingly by his own hand. Poor Hugh 
 kind-hearted good-natured Hugh, was brought home to Sum- 
 merwood, dead! 
 
 Katharine Ogilvie was a widow, 
 
LI1I.] THE OGILVIES, 409 
 
 CHAP TEE LIII. 
 
 'Twere sweet to think of sweeter still 
 
 To hope for that this blessed end soothes up 
 
 The curse of the beginning ; but I know 
 
 It comes too late. ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 IT was all over, and the unloving wife was free ! 
 
 Free ! when she was haunted perpetually by an avenging 
 voice, bringing back to her memory the false marriage-vow 
 so rashly taken, so nearly broken the duties unfulfilled 
 the affection unvalued, and requited with scorn. It was a 
 fearful picture of a wasted life wasted by the one withering 
 shadow the fatal love. 
 
 By night and day the young widow watched beside her 
 husband's coffined remains. Father, mother, friends, went 
 away weeping, and saying to one another, " See how dearly 
 she loved him!" But Katharine shuddered to "hear them, 
 knowing it was less grief she felt than a bitter, gnawing re- 
 morse, which cried ever aloud, " It is too late too late ! " 
 
 She thought of her childish days of Hugh's old tender- 
 ness, so constant and yet so humble of his patience and 
 forbearance during their brief married life. Throughout 
 that married life she had met her husband's unsuspicious 
 gaze, knowing that she carried in her heart a secret that 
 would destroy his peace for ever. And when the end came, 
 she had suffered Paul Lynedon to kneel at her feet, giving 
 and receiving the confession of unholy love. She had felt, 
 with that love, the glow of hatred towards the one who 
 stood between her and happiness. Nay, there had darted 
 across her mind the thought scarcely formed into a wish, 
 that some strange fate would set her free. And even then 
 the thought was accomplished. She had withstood the 
 
410 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 tempter, she had kept her marriage-vow, and yet she felt 
 almost like Hugh's murderess. At times her bewildered 
 mind strove to palliate the wrong by the self-same plea. 
 She remembered that Lynedon's passionate words had been 
 poured into the ears of a widow not a wife ; and that she 
 herself, in repulsing them, had kept faithful even to the 
 dead. 
 
 " And I will still be faithful ! " she cried. " my hus- 
 band ! if I have sinned against you, accept the atonement ! 
 Never, never shall my hand clasp his- never shall Hugh's 
 widow become Paul Lynedon's bride ! Husband ! if I 
 sacrificed your peace, I will offer up myself with my life's 
 hope as an atonement on your grave ! " 
 
 Strong was the remorse that prompted the words deep 
 was the shame that uttered them ; but stronger and deeper 
 than either remorse or shame was the undying love which 
 had created, and yet ruined, the life-destiny of Katharine 
 Ogilvie. 
 
 Hugh rested in the little church at Summerwood, beneath 
 a gorgeous monument. Sir Robert had deplored less the 
 death of an affectionate son-in-law than the extinction of a 
 baronetcy two hundred years old. This antiquity, chronicled 
 in golden letters beneath the weeping marble cherubim for 
 the benefit of ages to come, was at least some slight consola- 
 tion to the bereaved father-in-law. 
 
 Eleanor wept many an affectionate tear over the brother 
 who was so different from herself, and with whom, through 
 life, she had held little intercourse. And then she went 
 away from Summerwood to fulfil once more the self-assumed 
 duties of a daughter, until they should merge in those of a 
 wife. 
 
 All the long winter Katharine spent in solitude. " Atone- 
 ment atonement!' 1 was the cry of her anguished spirit, 
 and she strove to work out that penance by shutting from 
 her heart every thought save the memory of her husband 
 every pleasure save that which grew out of duties fulfilled. 
 The mother mourned no longer over her careless daughter ; 
 Katharine tended her with a contrite tenderness that was 
 almost painful to behold. She clung with a vehement 
 
MIL] THE OGILVIES. 411 
 
 intensity to this pure love, the only one on which her 
 memory dared rest in the past the only one to which she 
 looked for comfort in the future. 
 
 So she lived, binding down every impulse in her nature 
 with an iron will, born of remorse. She imitated the 
 martyrs of old, who thought to win pardon by inflicting on 
 themselves a living death. But they only tortured the 
 body ; Katharine did penance with the soul. The conflict 
 was vain, for it sprang from remorse, not penitence. Her 
 sorrow could not wash away the suffering or the sin, for the 
 drops that fell were not tears, but fire. 
 
 Since the time when she dismissed him from her presence, 
 Katharine had never heard of Paul Lynedon. It was her 
 prayer the prayer of her lips, at least that she might 
 never see him more. And when the gloom of whiter passed, 
 and the spring came out upon the earth, creating vague 
 yearnings after hope and love, Katharine still sought to 
 deaden them with this prayer. But its very utterance only 
 made it the more false. Evermore, piercing through re- 
 morse, indignation, and shame, rose up the face which she 
 had last seen bowed before her in such agonising pleading, 
 less for love than for pardon. And one day she saw that 
 face not in fancy, but in reality. 
 
 She was on her knees beside her father, in the church at 
 Summerwood. The Sabbath sunshine slanted at once on 
 the stately monument of her husband, and on her own 
 drooped head, hidden by the thick widow's veil. She 
 lifted it, and beheld Paul Lynedon. 
 
 He sat in a dark corner of the church, intently watching 
 her. As Katharine rose, their eyes met, and a numbing 
 coldness crept through her veins. Still, she had power to 
 answer the gaze with another, fixed, freezing, proud ; and 
 then she turned away, nor lifted her eyes again, save to the 
 marble tablet which chronicled the brief life of poor Hugh. 
 She looked no more towards Lynedon, but she felt his eyes 
 upon her and his influence around her. It seemod to 
 encompass her with a dim confused mist, through which 
 she heard the clergyman's voice and the organ's sound 
 indistinctly as in a dream. In vain she tried to break the 
 
412 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 spell, driving her thoughts back to the past to the death- 
 chamber to the tomb beneath her very feet, where tho 
 young man was laid in the strength of his youth, hidden in 
 darkness from the sunshine and the fresh breeze, and all 
 those pleasures of nature which he had loved so well. She 
 gathered up every possible image of pain, and pressed it 
 with a stony weight upon her heart, but it could not press 
 out thence the one image which all her life had reigned 
 paramount there. When she passed out of the church, 
 clinging to her father's arm, Katharine's eyes, impelled by 
 an uncontrollable power, looked back for an instant. 
 
 Lynedon watched her. She could not still the rapture 
 of her heart no, not though the spot she stood upon was 
 her husband's grave. 
 
 From that day she knew that wherever she went his 
 presence encompassed her. If she walked, she saw a figure 
 gliding beneath the trees ; if she rode, there echoed far in 
 the distance the tramp of a horse's feet. At night, when 
 all were gone to rest, she heard beneath her window a 
 footstep that paced there for hours in the silence and dark- 
 ness. And Katharine, who so long ago had distinguished 
 above all others that firm, slow, manly tread, knew that this 
 watcher by night as by day was no one but Paul Lynedon. 
 
 Thus weeks passed. She never saw his face except at 
 church, and then he always kept aloof. And though once 
 or twice she unwittingly looked that way, it was with the 
 coldness and sternness that became the wife, the widow of 
 Hugh Ogilvie. 
 
 But this could not last. One morning it was so early 
 that the April clews yet glistened in the sunshine Katha- 
 rine took her solitary walk to a glade in the park, which 
 had been her favourite haunt in her girlhood. She had 
 brought him there long ago, and they had spent an hour's 
 happy talk together, sitting on a fallen tree, half-covered 
 with ivy, while she sang. He had carved thereon her 
 initials, and his own. They were there still : Katharine 
 moved aside the ivy which had grown over them and 
 leaned down, gazing, till her eyes were blinded with torrents 
 of tears. 
 
LIIL] THE OGILVIES. 413 
 
 And then, emerging from the shadow of the trees, she 
 saw Lynedon stand before her. 
 
 Her first impulse was to fly, but she had no strength ; 
 and when she looked at him again, the intention was 
 changed into another feeling. He was so altered, so haggard 
 and stooping, that he might have borne the burden of more 
 than forty years. The eye had grown wild and restless, the 
 brow was marked with many a line, and the dark beautiful 
 hair was threaded with grey. He stood there, and only 
 uttered one word 
 
 " Katharine ! " 
 
 Hearing it, she rose, and her eyes flashed through the 
 tears which filled them. " Why do you come here ? why 
 do you haunt my presence 1 How dare you cross my path 
 still ] " 
 
 But he only answered to the wrath with an accent - 
 tender, humble, despairing " Katharine ! " 
 
 Once more she looked upon him, and her tone softened. 
 " You must not come here you must leave me. Will you 
 go ? Then I must." 
 
 " Katharine, one word ! " 
 
 " Do not speak do not follow me. You cannot you 
 dare not. Ay, that is well ! " He moved aside ; and she 
 passed on a few steps, and then turned. He had fallen on 
 the ivy-covered tree, his head lying on the spot where he 
 had carved her name. 
 
 Katharine could struggle no more. " Paul ! Paul ! " and 
 she stretched out her hands. 
 
 He sprang forward and seized them : but the next 
 moment she had snatched them away with a cry. 
 
 " I dare not, I dare not. Do not speak to me only go 
 from my sight." 
 
 " I will go, if you desire. Only say that you forgive me. 
 Katharine, if I have sinned, I have suffered too ! " 
 
 " We have both sinned, and we must both suffer ; it is 
 right. We must never look on each other's face again." 
 
 " Have you no mercy now, when you are free when it 
 is no crime in the sight of earth or heaven for us to lovo 
 one another ? Katharine," he continued, catching her arm 
 
414 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 and holding it in his firm grasp, " I remember what you 
 said to me that night ay, every word how you have 
 loved me all your life. Yes, and you love me still ! I saw 
 your tears fall but now, and I knew it was at the remem- 
 brance of me. See, you tremble, you shrink : Katharine, 
 you shall not part from me." And he spoke in a low des- 
 perate tone. " I tell you, whether it is right or wrong, you 
 shall be my wife." 
 
 She felt his power upon her, gathering over her like a 
 cloud of destiny, through which she could not pierce. She 
 remained so mute, so frozen, that Lynedon was terrified. 
 
 " Katharine, speak to me ; say that I have not angered 
 you. Look on me, and see what I have endured. For 
 these weeks past I have tracked your walks, only to catch 
 a glimpse of your dress, or see the print of your footsteps ; 
 then at night I have prowled like a thief under your window, 
 watching while you slept. But I dared not enter your 
 presence ; I would never have done so, save that I saw you 
 weeping. Is not this love] is not this penitence ?" 
 
 She looked at him, only once ; but he gathered courage, 
 and went on. " Why should we not be happy ? If we erred, 
 you will pardon me, and Heaven will forgive us both. Katha- 
 rine, you shall bring back to me my youth, you shall make 
 me what you will ; we will live over again the happy past." 
 
 " Not the past," cried Katharine ; " we have no past we 
 dare not have." 
 
 " But we have a future, that is, if you will listen to me, 
 and not forsake me. If otherwise, Katharine, shall I tell 
 you what you will do ? " And, as Paul stood over her, his 
 wild eyes sought hers, terrifying her more even than his 
 words. " You will drive me from you a vagabond on the face 
 of the earth : there is no evil which I shall not commit, or 
 else I shall die die miserably, perhaps by my own hand." 
 
 " No, no, Paul my Paul ! You shall not grow wicked ; 
 you shall not die ; I will save you if I peril my hope of 
 heaven for your sake ! " was the bitter cry that burst from 
 Katharine's heart and lips, as she clasped both his hands 
 and held them long, weeping over them passionately. 
 
 Lynedon made her sit down on the fallen tree, while he 
 
LIU.] THE OGILVIES. 415 
 
 threw back the veil from her face, and removed from her 
 fair head, so youthful still, the tokens of widowhood. As 
 he did so, he cast them down with a violent gesture and 
 trampled them under foot. Then he took her hand and 
 began to draw from it the wedding-ring ; but Katharine 
 started from him. 
 
 " Paul, I am very guilty, but it is for your sake ; you 
 should not torture me thus. Listen. When my husband 
 hush ! I will call him so still, for he was good to me 
 when my husband died, I vowed to atone unto the dead 
 for my sin towards the living. I said in my heart, solemnly 
 and truly, then, that I would never be your wife. Now I 
 break that vow the second I have broken for you. Paul, 
 it is a fearful thing to have this upon my soul. You must 
 be very kind and tender to me you must let me wait a 
 year two years until all this horror has passed, and 
 then " 
 
 " You will be mine my own wife 1 " cried Lynedon, joy- 
 fully. He knelt beside her on the grass, and would have 
 folded her in his arms, but Katharine drew back. 
 
 " Not yet, not yet," she muttered. " It seems as though 
 he stood between us he, my husband he will not let me 
 come to you. This happiness will be too late ! I know it 
 will." 
 
 And while she spoke she drew her breath with a deep 
 sigh, and put her hand suddenly to her heart. 
 
 " What ails you, Katharine, my darling 1 " 
 
 "Nothing, the pain will pass soon I am used to it. 
 Let me rest my head here," she answered, faintly. He stood 
 by her side, and she leaned against him in silence for a few 
 minutes. Then she looked up with a sad, grave smile. "I 
 am well now, thank you ! You see I make you my comfort 
 and support already." 
 
 " Dearest, how happy am I ! May it be ever so ! " was 
 the low, loving answer. Her face was hid from him, or he 
 would have seen that there passed over it a spasm of agony 
 awakened by his words. 
 
 Then it was that Katharine felt the curse of u granted 
 prayer. The death so madly longed for was now a horrible 
 
416 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 doom ! To die, in the midst of youth and hope ! to leave 
 him to go into the still, dark grave, without the blessing 
 of his love it was fearful ! 
 
 "Paul, Paul, save me!" she almost shrieked. " Hold me 
 in your arms fast fast ! Do not let me die ! " 
 
 He thought her words were mere ravings, and asked no 
 questions, but soothed her tenderly. After a while she 
 spoke again, not wildly, but solemnly. 
 
 " Paul, a little while since I told you that it must be a 
 year or more before you made me yours. But I shall not 
 live till then." 
 
 He looked anxiously on her face and form. There was 
 no outward sign of wasted health, so he smiled calmly. 
 
 " These fears are nothing, my Katharine ; you shall live 
 many happy years. I will end all such forebodings when 
 you give me the right to do so when you let me call you 
 wife." 
 
 " You may call me so when you will," answered Katha- 
 rine, in a low tone. " A month, a week ay, who knows 
 how soon the end may come ! But I will defy fate ! Paul 
 my Paul my only love ! " and she threw herself upon 
 his breast, clinging to him wildly "I will not be torn from 
 you I will live until that blessed day ! " 
 
 Lynedon, only too joyful on any terms to win his bride, 
 overwhelmed her with the outburst of his happiness. He 
 counted all her fears as an idle dream ; and ere they left 
 the dell, he had fixed the first May-morning for their 
 marriage-day. 
 
 " It will indeed be May-time with us then," he said, as 
 with an almost boyish fondness he leaned over her and 
 fastened her bonnet. " And this dear head shall have that 
 hateful veil no more, but a bridal garland." 
 
 "And afterwards afterwards!" murmured Katharine. 
 But she drove back the chilling horror she looked in the 
 glad face of her bridegroom she leaned on his arm as they 
 walked slowly on, with sunshine and flowers, and birds 
 singing everywhere around them. 
 
 Could it be that over all this bliss frowned the heavy 
 shadow of Death? 
 
LIV.] TilE OGILVIES. 417 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 Scarce I heed 
 These pangs. Yet thee to leave is death is death, indeed ! 
 
 Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run, 
 
 A sweetness in the cup of death to be, 
 
 Lord of ray bosom's love, to die beholding thee ! 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 KATHARINE informed neither father nor mother of her 
 approaching marriage. Sir Robert would have talked of 
 " the honour of the family," which forbade even the most 
 desirable second union until the days of mourning were 
 ended. And Lady Ogilvie, who now rested tranquilly in 
 the knowledge that she would never be parted from her 
 daughter, would have bitterly murmured at the faintest 
 hint of separation. Katharine knew all this, and prepared 
 for a secret union unhallowed by a parent's blessing. 
 
 Only once, by her earnest desire, Lynedon, almost 
 against his will, came openly to Summerwood. He spent a 
 few hours with Sir Robert, striving to act the part of a 
 chance guest, and then Katharine brought him to her 
 mother's apartment. He sat down by Lady Ogilvie's side, 
 and talked to her in a tone so gentle and tender that 
 Katharine blessed him with her whole soul. She longed to 
 throw herself at her mother's feet, beseeching her to take 
 to her heart as a son, this dearest one in whom was centred 
 her child's every hope. But just then Lady Ogilvie chanced 
 to speak, and her first words made Katharine's impulse 
 change. 
 
 " Yes, as you say, Mr. Lynedon, I am much better than I 
 used to be. It is all Katharine's doing ; the very sight of 
 
 2 E 
 
418 THE OGILVJKS. 
 
 her seems to make me young again. I feel quite different 
 since she has come back to live at Summerwood. She 
 must never leave me again." 
 
 Lynedon made no reply. He had long since abandoned 
 all false and feigning speech. Such could not be uttered 
 beneath Katharine's eye, or within the influence of Katha- 
 rine's soul. 
 
 Ere he departed, Paul took Lady Ogilvie's hand with 
 affectionate reverence, and said softly, " I shall not see you 
 again for a little while. Will you not bid me farewell, and 
 good speed on my journey] for it is a sweet and solemn 
 one to me. And the next time I come to Summerwood it 
 will not be alone." 
 
 " What, Mr. Lynedon ! you are going to be married at 
 last 1 I do not like weddings not much but I hope 
 yours will be a happy one. And who is your bride 1 " 
 
 " You will know soon." And Paul drooped his head 
 he could not bear to look in Lady Ogilvie's face. " Only, 
 dear friend, our wedding will miss one happiness. I have 
 no mother to bless my bride. Let me take her a kind 
 wish and a blessing from you." 
 
 " Indeed you must. I am sure we shall like her very 
 much, whoever she be shall we not, Katharine 1 Good- 
 bye, Mr. Lynedon ; and God bless you and your wife, and 
 give you a long and happy life together." 
 
 Paul Lynedon kissed the hand that she extended to him, 
 and was gone. 
 
 That night Katharine stood beside her sleeping mother, 
 to take, in one long, lingering, tearful look, the farewell 
 which she could not utter. Yet it would be but a short 
 parting ; for she had made her lover promise that once 
 united beyond the chances of earthly severance, they should 
 both hasten to entreat forgiveness and blessing. 
 
 The blessing seemed on Lady Ogilvie's prophetic lips 
 even now. Her fancy returned in dreams to the tidings of 
 which she had often spoken during the day ; and as Katha- 
 rine leaned over her, she heard her mother repeat once 
 again, mingled with a benediction, the name of Lynedon. 
 It sounded like a late hallowing of the love which had 
 
L1V.] THE OGILVIES. 419 
 
 sprung up in such uncontrolled vehemence, and como to 
 maturity in a passion that trembled on the very verge of 
 crime. 
 
 Katharine sank on her knees beside the bed. " Oh that 
 it may indeed be so ; that Heaven may forgive us both, and 
 suffer us to atone the past ! And, mother, surely, re-echoing 
 your words, I dare now cry, * God bless my Paul my own 
 Paul ! ' " 
 
 Lady Ogilvie moved in her sleep, disturbed by the last 
 pressure of her daughter's lips ; and then, stealing one 
 lingering farewell gaze, Katharine glided from the room. 
 Ere long, accompanied by an old faithful servant who had 
 been her nurse, she quitted her father's house. 
 
 The place chosen for the marriage was a village some 
 miles distant, where the nurse's daughter lived. Beneath 
 the roof of this little cottage, which in its rose-embowered 
 beauty had been the very paradise of her childhood, Katha- 
 rine spent the eve of her second bridal. It was strangely 
 quiet like the first for the intensity of suffering and of 
 joy are very near akin. But Lynedon's bride felt no excess 
 of joy ; a solemn shadow hung over her which she could not 
 dispel. Through it, she heard the chimes from the near 
 church-tower ring out the passing of the brief May-eve ; and 
 then she lay down and slept ay, slept ! 
 
 She was awakened at dawn by the rooks, who from their 
 lofty nests made merry music over the old churchyard. 
 Katharine rose up, and the first sight that met her eyes was 
 the white gravestones that glimmered in the yet faint light. 
 Strange and solemn vision for a bride on her marriage- 
 morn ! Katharine turned away, and looked up at the sky. 
 It was all grey and dark, for the shadow of the village 
 church the church where she was to plight her vows 
 came between her and the sunrise. 
 
 She buried her head again in the pillow, and tried to 
 realise the truth, that this day this very day Paul Lyne- 
 don would be her husband, loving her as she had once so 
 vainly loved him ; that she would never part from him 
 again, but be his own wife, for ever through life until 
 death. Until death ! She thought the words, she did not 
 
420 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 say them, but they filled her with a cold dull fear. To 
 drive it away, she arose. She would have put on her 
 wedding-dress almost as a spell, that the bridal garment 
 might bring with it happy bridal thoughts but it was not 
 in her room. So Katharine dressed herself once more in 
 her widow's attire, and waited until the rest of the house- 
 hold were stirring. 
 
 Meanwhile there recurred to her mind a loving duty, that 
 befitted the time. She sat down and wrote to her mother 
 a long, tender letter, not proud, but contrite, pleading for 
 pardon and a kindly welcome, less for herself than for her 
 husband Katharine paused an instant. " Yes ! " she said, 
 " he will be my husband ; no earthly power can come 
 between us now." Her pen traced the word firmly; the 
 mere writing of it sent happiness to her heart. As she 
 went on, the pleading grew into a confession, and she 
 unburdened from her soul the weight of years. Humbly, 
 repentantly, she told of that overwhelming love which had 
 come upon her like a fate, and had haunted her through 
 life until it became its own avenger. She omitted no link 
 in this terrible history save that which might disgrace him 
 whose honour was soon to be one with hers. 
 
 Katharine finished the letter, all but the signature. A 
 few hours more, and she would write as her own that long- 
 beloved name. The thought came upon her with a flood" of 
 bewildering joy. She leaned her forehead on the paper in 
 one long, still pause ; and then sprang up, pressing her 
 clasped hands in turns to her heaving breast and throbbing 
 temples, in a delirium of rapture that was almost pain. 
 
 "It is true it is all true! " she cried "joy has come 
 at last. In an hour one little hour I shall be his wife ; 
 and he will be my husband mine only mine for ever. 
 
 As she stood, her once drooping form was sublimated 
 into almost superhuman beauty the beauty which had 
 dawned with the dawning love. It was the same face, 
 radiant with the same shining which had kindled into 
 passionate hope the young girl who once gazed into the 
 nriiTor at Summerwood. But ten times more glorious was 
 the loveliness born of the hope fulfilled. 
 
LIV.] THE OGILVIES. 421 
 
 The hope fulfilled ! Could it be so, when, excited by this 
 frenzied joy, there darted through her heart that warning 
 pang ? She sank on the bed almost senseless. Above the 
 morning sounds without the bees humming among the 
 roses, the swallows twittering in the eaves Katharine 
 heard and felt beating with fierce, loud, suffocating throbs, 
 the death-pulse, which warned her that her hours were 
 numbered. 
 
 To die, so young still, so full of life and love to sink 
 from Lynedon's very arms into the grave to pass from this 
 spring sunshine into darkness, silence, nothingness. It was 
 a horrible .doom ! And it might come at any moment 
 soon soon perhaps even before the bridal ! 
 
 " It shall not come ! " shrieked the voice of Katharine's 
 despair though her palsied lips scarcely gave vent to the 
 sound. " I will live to be his wife, if only for one week, 
 one day, one hour! Love has conquered life it shall 
 conquer death ! I will not die ! " 
 
 She held her breath ; she strove to press down the pulsa- 
 tions that stirred her very garments ; she moved her cold 
 feeble limbs and stood upright. 
 
 " I must be calm, very calm. What is this poor weak 
 body to my strong soul 1 I will fight with death I will 
 drive it from me. Love is alone my life : while that lasts 
 I cannot die ! " 
 
 But still the loud beating choked her very breath, as she 
 moaned, " Paul, Paul, come ! Save me, clasp me ; give me 
 lifelife!" 
 
 A nd while she yet called upon his name, Katharine heard 
 from below the voice of her bridegroom. He came bounding 
 over the little gate, and entered the rose-porch, wearing a 
 bridegroom's most radiant mien. She saw him ; she heard 
 him asking for her ; a perceptible anxiety trembled through 
 his cheerful tone. Could she cast over his happiness the 
 cold horror which froze her own ? Could she tell him that 
 his bride was doomed ? No ; she would smile upon him, 
 she would bring him joy, even to the last. 
 
 "Tell him I am coming," she said, in a calm, cheerful- 
 voice to the nurse who repeated Lynedon's anxious summons. 
 
422 THE OGILVIFS. [CHAP, 
 
 And then Katharine bathed her temples, smoothed her hair, 
 and went to meet her bridegroom. 
 
 After the first somewhat agitated greeting was over, Lyne- 
 don regarded her uneasily. " What is this, Katharine T' arid 
 he touched her mourning dress, which she had forgotten to 
 remove. 
 
 She made no answer, but mechanically followed the old 
 nurse, who led her hastily away to take off the ill-omened 
 garment. When she reappeared, Paul looked at her ad- 
 miringly, smoothed the folds of her white gown, and passed 
 his hand lovingly over the shining braids of her beautiful 
 hair no longer hidden under the widow's cap. 
 
 " Now you look like a bride, though your dress is so 
 simple. But we will have store of ornaments yet. Not a 
 lady in England shall outshine my Katharine. And when 
 we have a rich, beautiful, happy home, perhaps some time 
 her wish may come true, and she may be the wife of a great 
 statesman yet. But, darling, you shiver ! How cold these 
 spring mornings are still ! " 
 
 He drew her from the window and made her sit down. 
 They went through the form of breakfast, in order to please 
 the anxious mistress of the little cottage parlour. Lynedon 
 still talked of his plans tJmr plans, seeking few replies. 
 Only, once, he thought his bride appeared grave, and asked 
 her if she were quite content quite happy 1 
 
 " Yes ! " she said, and turned towards him, her lips smiling. 
 He kissed their rich rosy curves ; he never looked at her 
 eyes. 
 
 When the hour approached they were summoned by the 
 old nurse, the only wedding guest. 
 
 "Ours is a strange informal marriage," said Lynedon, 
 with a disappointed air. " But we will make amends for it. 
 When we take our beautiful house, we will have a merry 
 coming home." 
 
 Katharine sank on a chair. " Hush, Paul, do not talk to 
 me not now." 
 
 He might have murmured a little, but the tone of her 
 Voice filled him with an inexplicable awe. He was rather 
 agitated too as the time approached. So he drew her arm 
 
LIV -J THE OGILVIES. 423 
 
 through his, and they walked in silence through the haw- 
 fchorn-scented lane that led to the church. 
 
 At the little wicket-gate which formed the entrance to 
 the village sanctuary, Katharine paused. The churchyard 
 was a fair sight. The sunshine sparkled dazzling on the 
 white stones, which had looked so ghostlike in the dawn ; 
 and every green nameless hillock had its flower-epitaph 
 written in daisy-stars. Many a cheerful sound pervaded 
 the spot ; for it was bounded on one side by several cottages, 
 whose inmates had made this quiet resting-place of the 
 dead a garden for the living. A narrow pathway only 
 divided the flower-beds from the graves, and among them 
 both the cottage children played all day long. There was 
 no yew nor cypress to cast gloom on the place ; but leading 
 to the church-door was an avenue of limes, in whose fra- 
 grant branches the bees kept up a pleasant murmur. And 
 the merry rookery close by was never silent from dawn 
 till eve. It was a place that made Death beautiful, as it 
 should be. 
 
 Katharine looked and a little of the freezing horror 
 passed from her. " It would not be so terrible to sleep here," 
 she whispered, half to herself, " with sunshine and flowers, 
 and children's voices above. Paul, when I die " and she 
 uttered the words with less terror, though solemnly " when 
 I die, do not let them take me to that gloomy vault at 
 Summerwood ; and put no stone over me only grass. I 
 think I could rest then." 
 
 Lynedon turned towards her with a smile. " Katharine, 
 dearest, how idly you are talking ! You would not leave 
 me, would you 1" 
 
 " No, no ! " cried Katharine with vehemence ; and, as she 
 clung to her bridegroom's arm, and looked up into his eyes, 
 the olden madness came over her, and she could have 
 bartered life, hope, peace nay, Heaven itself, for Paul 
 Lynedon's love. She stood in the sunshine she felt the 
 breeze his presence surrounded her his tenderness filled 
 her whole soul with bliss. The terrible phantom at her 
 side grew dim. She forgot all things on earth, save that 
 she WPS Paul Lynedon's bride. 
 
 At that instant they passed out of the sunshine into the 
 
424 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 heavy gloom that pervaded the church. It felt like enter- 
 ing a tomb. 
 
 A few minutes' space, and the scene which the young 
 dreamer had once conjured up, became reality. Katharine 
 knelt at the altar to give and receive the vow which made 
 her Lynedon's bride. Through the silence of the desolate 
 church was heard the low mumbling of the priest a feeble 
 old man. He joined the hands of the bridegroom and the 
 bride, and then there darted through Katharine's memory 
 another scene. As she felt the touch of Paul Lynedon's 
 hand, she almost expected to hear a long-silenced voice, 
 uttering not the marriage benediction, but the awful service 
 for the dead. 
 
 They rose up man and wife. The old nurse came forward 
 with her tearful congratulations ; and the clergyman, as he 
 clutched his withered fingers over the golden fee, muttered 
 something about " long life and happiness." There was no 
 other blessing on the bride. 
 
 But she needed none. The whole wide world was no- 
 thing to her now. She only held the hand which pressed 
 her own with a tender though somewhat agitated clasp, and 
 said to herself, " I am his he is mine for ever." They 
 walked hi silence from the church, down the lane, through 
 the rose-porch, and into the cottage parlour. Then Katharine 
 felt herself drawn closely, passionately, into his very heart ; 
 and she heard the words, once so wildly prayed for, " My 
 Katharine my, wife /" 
 
 In that embrace in that one long, never-ending kiss 
 she could willingly have passed from life into eternity. 
 
 After a while they both began to talk calmly. Paul made 
 her sit by the open window, while he leaned over her, pull- 
 ing the roses from outside the casement, and throwing them 
 leaf by leaf, into her lap. While he did so, she took courage 
 to tell him of the letter to her mother. He murmured a 
 little at the full confession, but when he read it he only 
 blessed her the more for her tenderness towards himself. 
 
 " May I grow worthy of such love, my Katharine ! " he 
 said, for the moment deeply touched. " But we must not 
 be sad, dearest. Come, sign your name your new name. 
 Are you content to bear it?" continued he, with a smile. 
 
LTV.] THE OGILVIES. 425 
 
 Her answer was another, radiant with intense love and 
 perfect joy. Paul looked over her while she laid the paper 
 on the rose-strewed window-sill, and wrote the words 
 " Katharine Lynedon" 
 
 She said them over to herself once or twice with a loving 
 intonation, and then turned her face on her bridegroom's 
 arm, weeping. 
 
 " Do not chide me, Paul : I am so happy so happy ! 
 Now I begin to hope that the past may be forgiven us 
 that we may have a future yet." 
 
 "We may! We will" was Lynedon's answer. While 
 he spoke, through the hush of that glad May-noon came a 
 sound dull, solemn ! Another, and yet another ! It was 
 the funeral bell tolling from the near church tower. 
 
 Katharine lifted up her face, white and ghastly. " Paul, 
 do you hear that ?" and her voice was shrill with terror 
 " It is our marriage-peal we have no other, we ought not 
 to have. I knew it was too late ! " 
 
 " Nay, my own love," answered Paul, becoming alarmed 
 at her look. He drew her nearer to him, but she seemed 
 neither to hear his voice nor to feel his clasp. 
 
 The bell sounded again. " Hark ! hark ! " Katharine 
 cried. "Paul, do you remember the room where we knelt, 
 you and I ; and he joined our hands, and said the words, 
 'Earth to earth ashes to ashes?' It will come true: I 
 know it will, and it is right it should." 
 
 Lynedon took his bride in his arms, and endeavoured to 
 calm her. He half succeeded, for she looked up in his face 
 with a faint smile. " Thank you ! I know you love me, my 
 own Paul, my" 
 
 Suddenly her voice ceased. With a convulsive movement 
 she put her hand to her heart, and her head sank on her 
 husband's breast. 
 
 That instant the awful summons came. Without a word, 
 or sigh, or moan, the spirit passed ! 
 
 Katharine was dead. But she died on Paul Lynedon's 
 breast, knowing herself his wife, beloved even as she had 
 loved. Let us not pity her. Oftentimes, living is harder 
 than dying. 
 
426 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 She was his own both, Love's. 
 
 . . . Bliss unspeakable 
 Became at once their being and its food ; 
 The world they did inhabit was themselves, 
 And they were Love's, and all their world was good. 
 ye whose hearts in happy love repose, 
 Your thankful blessings at its footstool lay, 
 Since faith and peace can issue from its woes. 
 
 WESTLAND MARSTON. 
 
 IT was the early twilight of a winter's day, clear and cold^ 
 though not frosty. The fire burned merrily in a cheerful 
 room the drawing-room of one of those pretty homes, half 
 cottage, half villa, which stud the environs of the metropolis. 
 But no hateful London sights and sounds reached this dwell- 
 ing, for it stood on a fresh, breezy hill-side ; and the wind 
 that now came whistling round had swept over an open 
 champaign, and had shaken the blossom from acres of yellow 
 furze. This region wore no resemblance to the weary desert 
 of London ; and though from one spot on the hill-top you 
 could see the vast cloud-hung metropolis lying far beneath, 
 it looked less like reality than a shadowy city seen in 
 dreams. Turning your steps another way, you might sit 
 down under a fir-grove, and gaze over a wide expanse of 
 field, wood, and water, stretching for miles towards the 
 west ; and in the summer, at evening time, with the sunset 
 light fluttering on the boles of the fir-trees, and the wind 
 harping musically in their topmost branches, you might 
 fancy yourself in a very fairyland. 
 
 Within the house, which lay close beside, was fairy-land 
 too a paradise of home. It was not made so by costly 
 furniture, but its appendages bespoke what is better than 
 
LV.] THE OGILVIES. 427 
 
 wealth taste and refinement. These extended their in- 
 fluence even to trifles. The crimson curtains, looped up 
 with graceful ornaments ; the mirror, set in its fanciful 
 carved flowers ; the mantelpiece, with its delicate freight of 
 Greek vases and one or two statuettes, showed how a beau- 
 tiful mind can assemble all beautiful things around it. The 
 walls were hung, not with pictures, for such worthily 
 painted are within the reach of few, but with prints from 
 masters ancient and modern. One could see at once that 
 in this new home for it was a new home these treasures 
 of Art would be loved as household comforts, reverenced as 
 household gods. Books too, there were not exhibited in 
 glass cases under lock and key, but strewed here and there 
 as if meant to be read; and the open piano showed its 
 ivory smile, like the cheerful welcoming face of a dear 
 friend : it seemed to know instinctively that it would be 
 courted as such in this happy home. 
 
 There was no sign of other inhabitant, until the door 
 opened, and a light creeping step crossed the yet untrodden 
 carpet. The shadow in the mirror was that of a woman 
 in mourning, but whose meek, placid face showed that the 
 garb was now worn less for sorrow than for tender memory. 
 
 She stirred the fire, drew the curtains, lighted the lamp, 
 and looked about the room, performing many a little need- 
 less office which spoke of loving expectation. Then she 
 sat down, but rose up every five minutes to peer through 
 the curtains out into the night. She started at hearing a 
 ring at the bell ; but composed herself, saying, half aloud, 
 that " It could not be they, for there were no carriage 
 wheels." Still she was a little tremulous and agitated 
 when the door opened, and the pretty-looking white- 
 ribboned maid announced Mr. David Drysdale. 
 
 " Too soon, I see ; but I thought I might venture to take 
 a peep at the little nest before the birds came in it, especially 
 as you're here. Very glad to see you, Mrs. Penny thorne." 
 
 She gave him her hand and asked him to sit down, 
 rather hesitatingly. She was always very much afraid of 
 David Drysdale. But she need not, for the sharpness in 
 his manner had long since been softened to her. 
 
428 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP, 
 
 " Thank you, I will stay a few minutes, just to look round, 
 and hear about the young couple. When do they come 
 home!" 
 
 " To-night," was the answer. " They have had a month's 
 travelling, and Mrs. Wychnor wants to keep this New- 
 Year's Eve at home" 
 
 " Rome ! It sounds a sweet word to them now, I dare 
 say. I can understand it better since I've studied the 
 science of human nature," said Drysdale, musing. " I did 
 not like Philip's marrying at first : a great mind should do 
 without love and all that I did. But maybe he was 
 right. Perhaps the lark would not soar with so strong a 
 wing, or sing so loud and high, if it had not a snug little 
 nest on the ground." 
 
 " Yes," replied Mrs. Pennythorne seeing that he looked 
 at her, though she did not Quite understand what he was 
 talking about. 
 
 Drysdale gave a grunt and stopped. After a minute's 
 silence he uttered the rather suspicious remark, "I hope 
 Master Philip's wife is a woman with brains f ' 
 
 " She is very clever, I believe, and she loves him so 
 dearly ! There is not a sweeter creature living than Miss 
 Eleanor Mrs. Wychnor that is now. Do you know," and 
 Mrs. Pennythorne seemed becoming positively eloquent, 
 " she would not even consent to be married until she had 
 nursed poor Lady Ogilvie through her long illness, never 
 quitting her until she died." 
 
 " Ah," said David, looking very grave, " that was an awful 
 story ! I always said there was something not right about 
 Lynedon. He wasn't a tnie soul ;" and the energetic hand 
 came down upon the table with a sound that quite startled 
 Mrs. Pennythorne. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, ma'am," Drysdale went on, "but 
 when I think of that poor Mrs. Ogilvie, it makes me hate 
 him. Mrs. Lancaster would have told fine lies about them 
 if Philip Wychnor had not stopped her mouth. But I 
 never believed anything against that beautiful, earnest- 
 hearted creature." 
 
 " Nor I for her poor mother died speaking quite happily 
 
LV.] THE OGILVIES. 429 
 
 of the dear Katharine whom she was going to meet. And 
 I do believe, Mr. Drysdale, that she knew the whole story, 
 though no one else did. I fancied, and Miss Eleanor did 
 too, that it was told in the letter which Mrs. Ogilvie wrote 
 just before that strange wedding. We found it under the 
 mother's pillow, and it was put into her coffin by her own 
 desire." 
 
 " Poor things ! Well, it's better to give up the humanities 
 altogether. One can make very tolerable children of one's 
 books quiet babies, too ; always turn out well, and don't 
 die before oneself. Perhaps, some of these days, our young 
 friend here may envy such a ragged, childless old philosopher 
 us I/" 
 
 But just then, as Drysdale looked on the cheerful smiling 
 room, and thought of his own gloomy attic, the faintest 
 shadow of a doubt crossed his mind. Mrs. Pennythorne 
 sat gazing on the fire, the expression of her soft brown eyes 
 deepened by a memory which his words had awakened 
 a memory not sad now, but calm and holy. If the newly- 
 married pair could have beheld her, and then regarded the 
 quaint, restless-eyed, lonely old man, they would have 
 clasped each other's hands, and entered on life without fear, 
 knowing that " it was not good for man to be alone." 
 
 David Drysdale stayed a little while longer, and then 
 departed. Mrs. Pennythorne's thoughtful mood might have 
 ended in sadness, but that she found it necessary to bestir 
 herself in erasing the marks of two muddy, clumsy boots 
 from the pretty carpet. She had scarcely succeeded when 
 the long-desired arrival was heard. 
 
 Who shall describe the blessed coming-home the greet- 
 ing, all smiles and tears and broken words; the happy, 
 admiring glances around ; the fireside corner, made ready for 
 the bride ; the busy handmaid, rich in curtseys and curi- 
 osity ; until the door closed upon the little group ? 
 
 " Now, my Eleanor," said the young husband, " welcome 
 home ! " 
 
 " Welcome home ! " echoed Mrs. Pennythorne, ready to 
 weep. But very soon Philip took her hand, and Eleanor 
 fell on her neck and kissed her almost like a daughter. 
 
430 THE OGILVIES. [CHAP. 
 
 Then they both thanked her tenderly, and said how pleasant 
 it was to have her kind face awaiting them on their arrival. 
 
 " You will stay with us and keep this New- Year's Eve, 
 dear friend 1" said Philip. Jt certainly cost him something 
 to give the invitation, but he did it warmly and sincerely, 
 feeling it was due. 
 
 However, Mrs. Penny thorne did not accept it. She never 
 left her husband in an evening now, she said ; and she had 
 not far to go only to her son's, where they were staying 
 with Fred. " He rather likes to have us there, now Isabella 
 is so much away ; we like it too, because of the baby. It 
 is a great comfort to have a grandchild ; and he is such a 
 beauty ! " said Mrs. Pennythorne. " I sometimes think he 
 has my Leigh's eyes, but I would not let them call him 
 Leigh. And though she spoke contentedly, and even 
 smiled, it was easy to see that the mother's thoughts were 
 with her 'lost darling still. 
 
 Then she went away, and the husband and wife stood for 
 the first time by their own hearth not quite calmly, per- 
 haps, for Philip's voice trembled, and Eleanor's long lashes 
 were cast down, glittering with a joyful tear. But the hus- 
 band kissed it away, and then stretched himself out in the 
 arm-chair, book in hand, to "act the lazy/' as he said, 
 while she made tea. He did not read much, apparently, 
 for he held the volume upside down ; and when his wife 
 stood beside him with the tea, he drew her bright face down 
 to his with a fondness that threw both cup and saucer into 
 imminent peril. 
 
 Then they wandered together about the room and the 
 house, admiring everything, and talking of a thousand 
 happy plans. Eleanor sat down to the piano and began to 
 sing, but her tones faltered more than once ; and Philip 
 tried to read aloud, but it would not do both their 
 hearts were full of a happiness too tremulous and deep. 
 At last Eleanor made her husband lean back in his arm- 
 chair, while she came and sat at his feet, laying her head 
 on his knee. Thus they rested, listening to the wailing of 
 the stormy wind outside, which made more blessed the 
 peace and stillness of their own dear home. 
 
LV.] THE OGILVIES. 431 
 
 They talked noi wholly of joy, but of gone-by sorrow 
 even of death. They spoke with a solemn tenderness of 
 Hugh of Katharine and then of him who, if still living, 
 was to them like as one numbered with the dead. Paul 
 Lynedon had passed away, and was seen no more. He 
 went abroad. Whether he wore out existence in anguished 
 solitude, or sought oblivion in reckless pleasure perhaps 
 crime no one then knew, and no one ever did know. Even 
 his name had left no record save on a daisy-covered grave, 
 which bore the inscription, " Katharine Lynedon." 
 
 " And, dearest ! " said Philip, " when I stood beside it 
 last, in that peaceful, smiling churchyard where you and 
 I will go to see it one day I thought of the almost frenzied 
 man who drove me from him,, venting his sorrow in curses. 
 Perchance the poor heart beneath my feet might have lived 
 to know a bitterer sorrow still. And I said to myself, ' So 
 best! so best!'" 
 
 Eleanor kissed the hand on which her cheek rested, and 
 both fell into a thoughtful silence. Then they spoke no 
 more of the past. Hour by hour the old year waned, and 
 the young husband and wife still sat talking, in happy yet 
 grave confidence, of their coming future of Philip's future, 
 for hers was absorbed in his. 
 
 " It shall be a life good, and great, and full of honour,' 1 
 said the wife, fondly ; " I know it will ! " 
 
 " If I can make it so, Heaven helping me," answered 
 Philip. " But, Eleanor, darling, it is a hard life too. We, 
 who work at once with heart, soul, and brain, have many a 
 temptation to struggle with, and many a sorrow to bear ; 
 and they who love us must bear much likewise for us, and 
 with us ; sometimes, even, from us." 
 
 " I fear not," whispered Eleanor ; " I, too, will enter on 
 my life, saying, in my husband's words, ' Heaven helping 
 me.' And Heaven will help us both ; and we will walk to- 
 gether hand in hand, each doing our appointed work until 
 our lives' end." 
 
 "Be it even so, my true wife, the helpmeet God has 
 given me !" was the low answer. 
 
 " And, my own husband, when, after all our sorrows we 
 
432 THE OGILVTE8. [CHAP. LV. 
 
 rest here heart to heart, looking back on the past as on a 
 troubled dream, wherein we remember only the love that 
 shone through all, let us think of those who still go in dark- 
 ness, loving, struggling, suffering. Let us pray that they 
 may have strength to endure, waiting until the light come. 
 Philip, God grant that all who love purely, truly, faith- 
 fully, may find at last, like us, a blessed home ! " 
 
 " Amen ! " said Philip Wychnor. 
 
 And with that prayer the first hour of the New Year 
 struck 
 
 THE END. 
 
 
 Printed by R. R. CLAKK, 
 
73009