M.
 
 A ROUND TABLE 
 
 OF THE REPRESENTATIVE 
 
 IRISH AND ENGLISH CATHOLIC NOVELISTS.
 
 
 i/'**-*. 

 
 A ROUND TABLE 
 
 {. ' 
 
 OF THE REPRESENTATIVE 
 
 IRISH AND ENGLISH CATHOLIC 
 NOVELISTS, 
 
 At which is Served a Feast of Excellent Stories 
 
 LOUISA EMILY DOBREE, FRANCES M. MAITLAND, 
 
 M. E. FRANCIS, SOPHIE MAUDE, 
 
 THEO. GIFT, CLARA MULHOLLAND, 
 BARONESS PAULINE VON HUGEL, ROSA MULHOLLAND, 
 
 LADY AMABEL KERR, MRS. BARTLE TEELING, 
 
 R. B. SHERIDAN KNOWLES, KATH. TYNAN HINKSON. 
 
 IVitb Tortraitfi, 'Biographical Sketches, and 'Bibliography. 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 New York, Cincinnati, Chicago : 
 BENZIGER BROTHERS, 
 
 Printers to the Holy Apostolic See. 
 
 ? 
 
 / O To ?
 
 Copyright, 1897, by Benziger Brothers.
 
 Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Dress Ring Louisa Emily Dobr/e 9 
 
 In St. Patrick's Ward, Jlf. E. Francis 29 
 
 A Soldier's Wife IWieo. Gift 51 
 
 Fair Dorothy Wilmot, . Baroness Pauline von Iliigel 49 
 
 Just What Was Wanted Lady Amabel Kerr 105 
 
 yacinth's Regrets, . . , , R. B. Sheridan Knowles 129 
 
 Miss Packe, '.'■[. Erdnces M. Maitland 167 
 
 A Paste Buckle, Sophie Maude 201 
 
 Mave's Repentance, Clara Mulholland 225 
 
 Granny Grogan Rosa Mulholland Gilbert 249 
 
 Her Last Stake Mrs. Bartle Teeling 275 
 
 The Wardrobe Katharine Tynan Hinkson 323 
 
 5
 
 LOUISA EMILY DOBREE. 
 
 Louisa Emily Dobree, a native of Tours, France, is of 
 Irish descent on her mother's side, while her father's family, 
 which is a Guernsey one. was originally French, as the 
 name shows. 
 
 Miss Dobree's first story was published when she was 
 nineteen. This was followed by fugitive articles and short 
 stories in magazines as well as books for young people, 
 among which are the following : •• Loved into Shape." 
 '• Dreams and Deeds." " Terry," • One Talent Only," •■ A
 
 Knotless .Thread," " Underneath the Surface." "A Lowly 
 Life with a Lofty Aim," and •• Turned to Gold." These 
 were published at intervals of sometimes great length. 
 
 In 1887 Miss Dobree was received into the Catholic 
 Church, and her books since then have been : •• A Manual 
 of Home Nursing," "Stories on the Sacraments," •• A 
 Seven-Fold Treasure," 'Per Parcel Post," " A Tug-of- 
 War," " Stories on the Beatitudes," •• Beautiful Sewing," 
 " Plain Work," etc. She is on the staff and an occasional 
 contributor to twenty magazines, the subjects on which she 
 writes including home nursing, domestic and personal hy- 
 giene, etiquette, character sketches, embroidery, plain work, 
 natural history, etc. 
 
 Miss Dobree has lived a great deal in the Channel Islands, 
 France, and Ireland, besides having paid visits, long and 
 short, to Italy, Switzerland, Austria, Belgium, Germany, 
 etc. The scenes of her stories are constantly laid on the 
 continent of Europe. She lives now, as she has done for 
 the past nine years, at Chiswick, near London.
 
 BY LOUISA EMILY DOBRIEE. 
 
 In cockney parlance they had been keeping 
 company and walking together for quite a year, so 
 that when they by mutual agreement were to be 
 formally engaged the bestowal of a ring was a se- 
 quence also decided upon. This ring is called a 
 " dress ring," and as a rule it contains stones or 
 their imitation of some kind or other, differing in 
 this from the plain gold circle to which it is one 
 day to be a companion, provided of course that the 
 course of the engagement runs smoothly and ter- 
 minates in marriage. " They " were two young 
 people named severally Joe Smith and Victoria 
 Harris. He was a tall, burly youth with better de- 
 veloped muscles and air of health than is usually 
 seen in a London artisan, while she, a slight, small 
 narrow-chested girl, had anaemia writ large on the 
 dead white face, pallid lips, and shadowed eyes.Jihe 
 latter capable of various expressions gleaming un- 
 der her " idiot's frill " of black hair, above which 
 on this particular summer afternoon was set a 
 huge hat adorned with a blue feather which had 
 swallowed up a large part of her week's earnings. 
 
 9
 
 lO A DRESS RING. 
 
 They were on a bench in a London park; and the 
 fact that his arm was not round her waist, or her 
 head on his shoulder, due to Joe's inherent shyness 
 and Victoria's native modesty, somewhat marked 
 them off from the many other lovers who here and 
 there were in confused heaps and stolid, unblushing 
 faces on which those who ran might read careless 
 indifference to the decorum of life. They were 
 genuinely in love with each other, and as far as 
 character went they were as unlike as in relative 
 appearance. The little wisp of a girl, whose pert 
 tongue and peppery temper often made her lover 
 stare in astonishment, admired Joe's quiet, silent 
 ways, and felt that he was a great and safe support 
 to her. She could tell him all her troubles about 
 her drunken father who had cast her, his only 
 motherless child, off when she was fifteen and told 
 her to look out for herself, and be sure of a kind, 
 patient listener and one who would try to suggest 
 some way of helping the man and who would not 
 be too hard on him. This won Victoria's heart 
 and gave Joe in time a large place in it, for the girl 
 loved her ver}^ worthless parent with strange, un- 
 reasoning tenacity, and had her lover attempted to 
 condemn him she would have turned like an angry 
 cat upon him. And Joe liked Victoria's quickness, 
 thought her smart speech very fetching, and her 
 little bursts of temper glanced over him when he 
 was not astonished at them. 
 
 " I do believe it's going to rine," said Victoria
 
 LOUISA EMILY DOBR&E. II 
 
 presently, as the sky suddenly clouded over, and 
 there was that stillness in the air broken by the 
 twittering of birds which presages a summer 
 shower, " and I haven't got no umbereller," and 
 she thought with dismay of her hat and its fine 
 curly feather. 
 
 " I don't expect it will be much, and vv^e might 
 get under that there tree, it's got a sight more 
 leaves than this one 'as," said Joe, thinking that he 
 also was umbrella-less and that his hat had been 
 freshly ironed the day before. 
 
 " All right, let's get there then — come, look 
 sharp," said Victoria, who was prompt in most 
 things ; and the two ran across to the other bench, 
 which was well sheltered by a widely spreading tree 
 from the heavy shower which came down then and 
 there with no indecision. 
 
 Both had the same subject in their minds, and 
 yet neither liked alluding to it. They each were 
 thinking of that dress ring that lay in Joe's waist- 
 coat pocket, the bestowal of which both knew was 
 to take place that afternoon, and the occasion of 
 the engagement of which it was a sign was at the 
 back of the hat-ironing and purchase of the 
 feather. 
 
 They were silent for a few minutes as the rain 
 beat the leaves and a few drops penetrated the 
 outer branches and fell on the sunburnt grass. 
 
 Joe coughed. He wished Victoria would refer 
 to the subject, and she, perfectly aware of the fact
 
 12 A DRESS RING. 
 
 and enjoying his silent shyness, was determined 
 not to lead up to it in any way. 
 
 " Mrs. Parsons has been that cross this week, 
 she've never stopped jawin' of us for one thing or 
 another. My mate catched it Friday 'cause she 
 scorched some of the finery — lor', wasn't the fat in 
 the fire! " said Victoria, secretly unbuttoning her 
 left-hand glove, which, of stiff kid, had cost one 
 and sixpence three farthings, and were desperately 
 uncomfortable. 
 
 " Were there ? Oh— Vickey— I say." 
 " Yes ? " said Vickey, looking, with blank inno- 
 cence of what he wanted to say, into his honest 
 but rather stupid blue eyes. 
 
 " I've got the ring, Vickey, and Father 
 Wrighton blessed it all right," said Joe, coloring 
 and speaking in a low tone of voice. 
 
 " Oh, have yer ? " said Vickey. "Let's see it, 
 then — do be quick, Joe," she added, for, now she 
 was certain he had the ring, curiosity vanquished 
 coquetry. 
 
 Joe fumbled with his big fingers in his waistcoat 
 pocket, and then withdrew the little card box 
 which he then handed to Vickey, There lying in 
 the pink cotton was a ring with three blue stones 
 in it. Vickey's quick tongue for a moment was si- 
 lent, for she was altogether surprised, the ring 
 being so very much better than that which her 
 fancy painted Joe was likely to give her, and he, 
 rising to the occasion, took it out of its soft nest.
 
 LOUISA EMILY DOB REE. 13 
 
 placed it on her finger and, park or no park, gave 
 Vickey a sounding kiss as he did so. 
 
 " Glad you like it," said Joe, answering her un- 
 spoken approbation. " I picked it out from a lot 
 — chose blue special, as you're partial to the color." 
 
 " Yus, it's my fav'rite color," said Vickey, who 
 liked blue, not only for its own sake, but because 
 it was Our Lady's color, and she was looking for- 
 ward to being a Child of Mary some day. She had 
 worn the aspirant's green ribbon for more than a 
 year, and what it and the little medal had done for 
 her in keeping her from dangerous paths, in check- 
 ing that fiery temper of hers, in fortifying her 
 against the hundred or more temptations that 
 crowd round the rough life of a laundry girl, she 
 and her guardian angels best knew. 
 
 " It's a beauty," said Vickey ; " must ha' cost a 
 lot." 
 
 Joe looked rather sheepish. 
 
 " Oh, well, I ain't stony broke yet along of it, 
 nor I haven't 'ad to go and see my uncle. Now, 
 Vickey, you'll kipe it on noight and dye until I 
 puts on the plain gold 'un, eh ? " 
 
 " Well, you are a Sawney ! Just to think o' me a- 
 washin' and a-scrubbin' with that lovely ring on ! 
 Where'd the blue jools be, I'd like to know, if I 
 did ? I reckon they'd be lost in the soap-suds in 
 no time if so be as the ring didn't take itself off 
 altogether and go down the wyste-water poipes. 
 I'll put it on a Sundays and when I gets out."
 
 14 A DI?ESS RING. 
 
 " Well, you must do as you loike," said Joe. 
 
 " That's about my ticket generally," said Vickey 
 coolly, and Joe knew that was true as far as trifles 
 went. 
 
 " I picked you out a nice one, now didn't I ? " 
 
 " Yes. I'm deloighted with it." 
 
 " Now there's something else as I've got 
 to " 
 
 " Give me ! " exclaimed Vickey, wondering if 
 Joe had added to his gift by the purchase of a 
 brooch or bangle. 
 
 " Well, not to give you, unless telling you news 
 is giving." 
 
 " Do come out with it, then, quick." 
 
 " It's like this, Vickey. I my 'ave a roise about 
 Christmas toime. The guv'nor was 'intin' at it 
 and chafifin' me a bit about 'avin' a young lydy and 
 thinkin' o' settlin' down. We'd rub along pretty 
 fair on the pye I'd 'ave then." 
 
 Vickey was silent. She was stirred to the depths 
 by his words. Marriage had been, of course, in her 
 mind now and then, but that it might be so near 
 and Joe her very own " for better for worse, for 
 richer for poorer " — nothing but death to part 
 them! All the " eternal-womanly " shone in Vick- 
 ey's face and was the key to the slightly quivering 
 lips, the soft gentle tone in which she answered at 
 length, " Where 'ud we live ? " 
 
 It sounded a commonplace, matter-of-fact ques- 
 tion, but Vickey had known no home since the day
 
 LOUISA EMILY D0BR£E. 1$ 
 
 that her father had sold the furniture over her head 
 and turned her Hterally out of doors, and one trem- 
 bles to think what might have become of her had 
 not Mrs. Parsons, the owner of the laundry where 
 she worked by the day, taken her in and made her 
 live there. In her rough way she had been kind to 
 her, but a home of her own — Vickey knew that 
 would be a very different thing. 
 
 " There's a nice little flat in the models," said 
 Joe, alluding to some model lodging-houses re- 
 cently built. " You know the ones I mean by the 
 stytion." 
 
 Vickey nodded. 
 
 " It would be dreadfully nice, Joe." 
 " You'd marry me, then, supposin' I gits the 
 roise ? " inquired Joe, who sometimes felt as if he 
 was not quite sure of Vickey. 
 " Yus." 
 
 They lingered a while in the park, and the rain 
 was followed by sunshine and a lovely sky. Then 
 they sauntered on towards Ansmith, the suburb in 
 which Vickey lived, and reached the church while 
 the bell still clanged. 
 
 Joe sang in the choir, and to Vickey his un- 
 trained and somewhat gruff bass was like a voice 
 from heaven, so beautiful did it sound to her. Per- 
 haps to the angelic choir, who knew it was the sing- 
 ing of a rough artisan who amid the temptations 
 of the world was trying as he best knew how to
 
 1 6 A DJiESS RING. 
 
 live the clean straight life of a good Catholic, the 
 harsh tones had music in them ! 
 
 On Monday there was not much to be done in 
 the laundry. As a rule, Vickey went in the van to 
 collect the clothes, but that day another girl went; 
 she simply helped a little in odd ways and did 
 not set to work until three o'clock, when the girls 
 and women who did not live there came. 
 
 Vickey and the girl who was her special mate 
 were having tea together in the sorting-room, the 
 rest of the workers being in the ironing-room. 
 
 Vickey, needless to say, was burning to show her 
 new possession to Tilda, and the latter, when she 
 heard that Vickey had it, was naturally very curi- 
 ous to see it. 
 
 " Ain't it lovely ? " said Vickey, slipping it out, 
 then holding out her hand to show it off. 
 
 Tilda looked at it critically. 
 
 " It don't look as good as the one Bill give me." 
 
 " It's a very good one," said Vickey, withdraw- 
 ing her hand hurriedly. " Anyway I'm pleased 
 with it." 
 
 " Tyke it off and let me see it better," said Tilda, 
 and Vickey drew it off. 
 
 " What are yer lookin' at ? " asked Vickey, 
 for Tilda was not looking at the lovely stones, but 
 was peering inside the ring. 
 
 " No, I thought it worn't," said Tilda, in a satis- 
 fied tone of voice. " It's not a bit more than noine 
 carat gold."
 
 LOUISA EMILY DOB REE. 1 7 
 
 " What's carrots got to do with it ? " asked 
 Vickey, rather mystified. 
 
 " It's something as says how good the gold is," 
 said Tilda. " Bill's father's in the joollery tride, 
 and he knows all about it. The one he give me 
 was eighteen carat gold, just double as good as 
 this here. Well, I'm sorry for yer, Vickey, for if 
 your chap don't care for you enough to give yer a 
 good ring, I say he oughter be ashamed of hisself. 
 It's downright mean, I call it. Can't you see the 
 noine ? " 
 
 Vickey silently took the ring, held it up to the 
 light and saw the figure clearly enough. To her 
 eyes, gleaming now with annoyance she was trying 
 to hide, the ring had lost all its beauty, and she felt 
 humiliated and made to appear very small in Til- 
 da's eyes. However, she said nothing, and did not 
 even defend Joe from the imputation of not caring 
 for her, and as the work-bell rung at that minute 
 to announce the expiration of the tea-hour, all fur- 
 ther discussion was stopped. 
 
 After work was over Vickey ran round to a little 
 jeweller's close by, had the ring tested, and found 
 that her last hope — which was that Tilda might be 
 mistaken as to the relative value of the nine or 
 eighteen — was wrong. The ring had been a very 
 cheap one indeed, and worth a few shillings at the 
 outside. 
 
 Tilda attempted a renewal of the subject in vain. 
 Vickey would not speak of it, and through the
 
 1 8 A DRESS RING. 
 
 week she fumed and fretted inwardly to such a de- 
 gree that she made herself thoroughly miserable. 
 With her imagination excited by anger, she saw 
 significance in many things Joe had said and done, 
 all tending, she nov/ firmly believed, to prove that 
 he did not care enough for her to think her worth 
 a good ring, these bitter reflections completely ef- 
 facing all other things which showed that she had 
 no reason to doubt his affection. 
 
 It was a wretched week. Vickey made mistakes 
 in the sorting, scorched a baby's frock, and finally 
 broke the marble slab on which the shirt-fronts 
 were ironed and brought up to the regulation pitch 
 of shininess. These things had not a tranquilliz- 
 ing efifect on Vickey's temper, and on her evening 
 out she got a line from Joe to say he could not 
 come and see her as usual. That was the last 
 straw. 
 
 At last the long week came to an end, and as it 
 poured with rain on Sunday afternoon, there was 
 no thought of going out, and Joe came prepared 
 for a pleasant time indoors. 
 
 The two could have the parlor to themselves, 
 as Mrs. Parsons, who was tired, was lying down in 
 her room and was likely to be there until tea-time. 
 
 It was a small prim room with a coo table, in 
 the centre of which were wax flowers under a glass 
 case which reposed on a crochet mat. There was 
 a large oil painting of the late Mr. Parsons on the 
 wall, flanked by a double row of family photo-
 
 LOUISA EMILY DOBR^E. I9 
 
 graphs, and on the chimney were shells and me- 
 morial cards of various kinds. 
 
 " Bloomin', I 'ope, Vickey," said Joe, as he en- 
 tered the room where Vickey was seated in a stiff 
 horsehair-covered chair. 
 
 Vickey did not answer, and Joe did not venture 
 on more than a handshake, which on Vickey's side 
 was limp. 
 
 " This 'ere's for you," said Vickey, coming to the 
 point at once and handing Joe the box. 
 
 *' Why, Vickey — whatever's up ? " 
 
 ** Whatever's up, indeed! Like your cheek 
 givin' me a ring what ain't worth 'avin' and hardly 
 gold at all ! If I ain't worth a good ring I won't 
 have one at all." 
 
 Joe colored. 
 
 " 'Ow do ye know it ain't good ? Who said 
 so : 
 
 " I says so. And I went and 'ad it seen at a 
 jooller's. Yes, it's gold, he says, says he, but the 
 poorest kind almost as there is." 
 
 " So you doubted of me, and cared only for the 
 vallyer of the ring," said Joe, who, seldom stirred, 
 could be angry once in a way. " Yer a nice one, I 
 must sye." 
 
 " Can't return the compliment," said Vickey 
 coolly. " I don't know 'ow ye dared give me such 
 a bit o' rubbish." 
 
 " 'Tain't rubbish," said Joe shortly. " It mayn't 
 be what you may call a fust-clarse ring, but it was
 
 20 A DRESS RING. 
 
 as good as I could get ye, and if you 'ad cared fur 
 me you wouldn't have thought about it," and Joe 
 shut the cardboard cover down on the poor little 
 ring. 
 
 Vickey bit her lips. 
 
 " There's explinyshuns as I could give you just 
 to show you " began Joe. 
 
 " I don't want non' o' yer explinyshuns — very 
 likely I didn't care," and Vickey shot a withering 
 glance in Joe's direction. At it Joe felt as if he 
 grew suddenly cold, and he repented of his mo- 
 mentary anger, now that there was no mistake 
 about Vickey's serious displeasure. 
 
 " No." exclaimed Vickey, " no, I don't want ter 
 'ear anything you may have to sye. You've treated 
 me shimeful. I know now why you didn't want 
 me to take it off night nor dye, and " 
 
 " Do let me speak," said Joe, who now was all 
 too anxious to talk. 
 
 " I ain't a fool. When we've been keepin' com- 
 pany all this while for you to give me that ring, 
 'ardly gold at all, but faked up with some stufif they 
 calls carrots, is a downright insult, when you've 
 drawed money out of the savings bank — a fi'-pun 
 note, too ! " 
 
 Joe stared from sheer astonishment. 
 
 " Yes, my mate was at the post-office the other 
 dye and just behind you when you got the money 
 out. So it wasn't as you 'adn't it." 
 
 " If you'd "
 
 LOUISA EMILY DOBR&E. 21 
 
 " No, I shan't. You don't come no tiles over 
 me," said Vickey, working herself up more and 
 more, until she was in such a fury that Joe saw any 
 attempt at getting a hearing was futile. Although 
 he thought and acted slowly, he made up his mind 
 that he would come again when she had cooled 
 down and tell her — well, what might turn the ta- 
 bles very considerably. 
 
 " You go off this minute. Get another young 
 lydy when you like," said Vickey. " I don't never 
 wish to see you agine ! " So saying, she drew her- 
 self up and tried to look all injured innocence as 
 she ran out of the room. And throwing herself 
 on her bed, she sobbed her heart and her temper 
 out. 
 
 If the preceding week had been unsatisfactory, 
 this one promised to be worse, and after the little 
 sleep gained after sleepless hours, Vickey woke to 
 the reality of her misery. All the morning she 
 could think of nothing else but what had happened, 
 and she went about with a very white face. Her 
 companions, seeing that she was unhappy and find- 
 ing that she would not reveal the cause, left her 
 alone. 
 
 She wondered if Joe would really take her at her 
 word, or if he would come as usual on Thursday, 
 which was early-closing day for him, and it seemed 
 to her as if that day was years instead of but a few 
 days distant. Although she was still extremely
 
 22 A DKESS RING. 
 
 angry with Joe, the tempest had so far passed that 
 she was able to hear the whispers of conscience 
 and common sense. Both said the same to her, 
 namely, that she had been wrong to make such a 
 fuss, still more foolish to quarrel absolutely about 
 it, and unfair to Joe not to listen to his explana- 
 tions. Then, too, she remembered with unpleas- 
 ant distinctness how very good he had always been 
 to her, how patient with her peppery temper, how 
 forbearing with her sharp words. They had had a 
 tifif or two ere now, but this was the most serious 
 of all, and by dinner-time Vickey in her secret soul 
 began to hope that Joe was not such a fool as to 
 think she really meant to throw him up. 
 
 In the late afternoon Mrs. Parsons wanted some 
 soap-jelly, and sent Vickey for it. As the girl 
 walked along, her thoughts were still so busy that 
 she did not notice much where she was going, and 
 as she turned a corner ran right against a man, 
 
 " 'Olio, Vickey ! " 
 
 " Well, I never— father ! " 
 
 " Yes, it's me," said Mr. Harris. " I was goin' 
 round to yer plice to give you a call." 
 
 " Well, I never ! " exclaimed Vickey, looking 
 her father up and down and wondering if the de- 
 cently clad man could be he. " You are a toff ! " 
 
 Harris drew himself up. He had had a shave 
 quite recently, his hair was well brushed, his clothes 
 clean and orderly, and altogether he looked very 
 different indeed from the sodden-faced, blear-eyed
 
 LOUISA EMILY DOBREE. 23 
 
 individual she had last seen three months back 
 who had come whining to her for money to spend 
 at the Three Feathers. 
 
 " Yes," said Harris, pleased at the effect his ap- 
 pearance was making on Vickey, " I've gone up a 
 step or two, 'aven't I ? " 
 
 Vickey's face was irradiated with a smile. She 
 loved her father dearly in spite of all, and this 
 transformation filled her heart with joy. 
 
 " It's all along o' your chap," said Harris, turn- 
 ing and walking with Vickey. " Wot d' yer think 
 he done ? Well, he's bin a-coming after me ever 
 since I last seen yer, a-persuadin' o' me to turn 
 over a new leaf, as the sayin' is. He's a persever- 
 in' chap, I must say, is Joe, an' lawst week he hears 
 of a situytion for me and he gets me these 'ere 
 clothes and fitted me out in this style." 
 
 " And why didn't I know on this ? " asked 
 Vickey quickly. 
 
 " Well, it was his secret, so to speak. Says he, 
 'Don't let on to Vickey till you've made a real good 
 start and mean to stick to it. She won't believe of 
 it unless you do.' He's one of the right sort, is 
 Joe, and he an' me is very chummy now, and I 
 think, my girl, as you've done very well for yerself 
 in gittin' 'im. We'd got it all arranged, as I was 
 to call and surprise yer." 
 
 " Well, you've done that," was all Vickey found 
 to say, and after a little more talk they parted at 
 the laundry door.
 
 24 A DEESS KING. 
 
 Vickey hardly knew how to think collectedly, 
 and as the tea-bell rang she ran up to her room, 
 her brain full of bewildering thoughts, her heart 
 rejoicing over her father, and aching with remorse 
 about Joe all the same. 
 
 " Hextry speshul ! Piper ! Evenin' piper ! 
 
 Terrible accident on the London line. List 
 
 of killed and injured." 
 
 The shrill voices of the paper boys fell on her 
 ears, and in a minute more she had secured a pa- 
 per. It had rushed suddenly to her recollection 
 that it was on Joe's line of work the accident had 
 occurred. With trembling hands she turned over 
 the pages, and among the injured was " J. Smith." 
 
 Vickey never knew how she accomplished that 
 journey, really a short one, but apparently inter- 
 minable to her. She had all the quickness of the 
 born cockney, the familiarity with ways and means 
 of getting about, due to having had to look out for 
 herself from early years and being continually em- 
 ployed as messenger for Mrs. Parsons. 
 
 At last she reached the hospital where the in- 
 jured had been taken, and the busy porter told her 
 she certainly might go up to Alexandra ward and 
 ask to see No. 15. 
 
 So Vickey went up the wide stone staircases and 
 along the lofty corridor, conscious of the strong 
 odor of carbolic acid, the students clattering down 
 with note-books, the white-capped nurses. There 
 was no difficulty about being admitted, and Vickey
 
 LOUISA EMILY DOB REE. 
 
 25 
 
 walked down the ward with its speckless sand-cov- 
 ered boards, its rows of blue-quihed beds, its white 
 stoves on which were pahiis and flowers. The 
 long windows showed the tops of many roofs, 
 countless chimney-pots, a few spires, and above all 
 the burning, fiery glow of the sunset, the opal 
 lights, the unearthly colors, 
 
 Vickey drew back and clutched the nurse's arm 
 as the latter stopped before a screen, which told its 
 own tale. 
 
 " Is he so bad as that ? " she whispered, and the 
 nurse looked at her compassionately. 
 
 Before she could speak Vickey's quick ear 
 caught the words spoken in low reverent tones by 
 the priest behind the screen: 
 
 "Requiem ceternam dona ci Domine!"
 
 M. E, FRANCIS. 
 
 Mrs. Frances Blundell (M. E. Francis) is the second 
 daughter of the late Michael James Sweetman, of Lam- 
 berton Park, Queen's County, Ireland. Her mother was 
 the only daughter and heiress of Michael Powell, of Fitzwil- 
 iiam Square, Dublin, and Richview, County Dublin. Miss 
 Sweetman was born at Killiney Park, County Dublin, brought 
 up at Lamberton Park, and married, in 1879, Francis Nicho- 
 las Blundell, who died in 1884. 
 
 After her marriage she lived entirely at Crosby, Lan- 
 cashire, the scene of the " North Country Village," which is, 
 perhaps, her best known book.
 
 One of her sisters is Mrs. Egerton Castle, wife of tlie 
 well-known litte'rateur . Another is Miss Elinor Sweetman, 
 whose " Palms," and fugitive pieces, have been singled out 
 by the press for favorable notice. 
 
 Miss Sweetman's first printed tale was written when 
 she was fourteen, and secured the distinction of being pub- 
 lished through the Interest of the Rev. Matthew Russell, S.J., 
 editor of The Irish Monthly, in which journal a more 
 mature effort appeared in November, 1879. Her first 
 long story, " Molly's Fortunes," appeared in The Irish 
 Monthly, and has since been followed by many others, 
 chiefly sketches of Irish village life. " Whither? " her first 
 three-volume novel, was published in 1892, followed after 
 an interval of six months by " In a North Country Village." 
 In the spring of 1894 the " Story of Dan " appeared. This 
 is a romance of Irish peasant life, and both scenes and 
 characters were well known to the author in her childhood. 
 
 That same year " A Daughter of the Soil " had the honor 
 of being selected as the first serial which was to appear in 
 the weekly edition of The Times, and was afterwards pub- 
 lished in book form. Since then she has published " Frieze 
 and Fustian," a collection of sketches of peasant life in 
 Ireland and Lancashire, and various short stories, most of 
 which are shortly to be re-issued in volume form, under the 
 title of •• Among the Untrodden Ways."
 
 IFn St. Patrick's Mart)* 
 
 BY M. E. FRANCIS. 
 
 It was intensely, suffocatingly hot, though the 
 windows on either side of the long room were wide 
 open; the patients lay languidly watching the flies 
 on the ceiling, the sunshine streaming over the 
 ochre-tinted wall, the flickering light of the little 
 lamp which burned night and day beneath the large 
 colored statue of St. Patrick in the centre of the 
 ward. It was too hot even to talk. Granny 
 M'Gee — who, though not exactly ill, was old and 
 delicate enough to be permitted to remain per- 
 manently in the Union Infirmary instead of being 
 relegated to the workhouse proper — dozed in her 
 wicker-chair with her empty pipe between her 
 wrinkled fingers. Once, as she loved to relate, 
 she had burnt her lovely fringe with that same pipe 
 — " bad luck to it ! " but she invariably hastened 
 to add that her heart 'ud be broke out an' out if it 
 wasn't for the taste o' baccy. Her neighbor op- 
 posite was equally fond of snufif, and was usually 
 to be heard lamenting how she had rared a fine 
 fam'ly o' boys an' girls and how notwithstanding 
 
 29
 
 30 IN ST. FA THICK'S WAFD, 
 
 she had ne'er a wan to buy her a ha'porth in her 
 ould age. Now, however, for a wonder she was 
 silent, and even the woman nearest the door found 
 it too hot to brandish her distorted wrists accord- 
 ing to her custom when she wished to excite com- 
 passion or to plead for alms. There would be no 
 visitors this morning; not the most compassionate 
 of " the ladies," who came to read and otherwise 
 cheer the poor sufiferers of St. Patrick's ward, 
 would venture there on such a day. 
 
 The buzzing of the flies aforesaid, the occasional 
 moans of the more feeble patients, the hurried 
 breathing of a poor girl in the last stage of con- 
 sumption were the only sounds to be heard, except 
 for the quiet footsteps and gentle voice of Sister 
 Louise. There was something refreshing in the 
 very sight of this tall slight figure, in its blue-gray 
 habit and dazzling white " cornette " from beneath 
 which the dark eyes looked forth with sweet and 
 almost childish directness. Sister Louise was not 
 indeed much more than a child in years, and there 
 were still certain inflections in her voice, an elastic- 
 ity in her movements, a something about her very 
 hands, with their little pink palms and dimpled 
 knuckles, that betrayed the fact. But those baby- 
 ish hands had done good service since Sister Louise 
 had left the novitiate in the Rue du Bac two years 
 before; that young voice had a marvellous power of 
 its own, and could exhort and reprove as well as 
 soothe and console; and when the blue-robed fig-
 
 M. E. FRANCIS. 31 
 
 ure was seen flitting up and down the ward smiles 
 appeared on wan and sorrowful faces, and queru- 
 lous murmurs were hushed. Even to-day the pa- 
 tients nodded to her languidly as she passed, 
 observing with transitory cheerfulness that they 
 were kilt with the hate, or that it was terrible 
 weather entirely. One crone roused herself suf- 
 ficiently to remark that it was a fine thing for the 
 counthry, glory be to God ! which patriotic senti- 
 ment won a smile from Sister Louise, but failed 
 to awaken much enthusiasm in any one else. 
 
 The Sister of Charity paused before a bed in 
 which a little, very thin old woman was coiled 
 up with eyes half closed. Mrs. Brady was the 
 latest arrival at St. Patrick's ward, having indeed 
 only " come in " on the preceding day; and Sister 
 Louise thought she would very likely need a little 
 cheering. 
 
 " How are you to-day, Mrs. Brady ? " she asked, 
 bending over her. 
 
 " Why then indeed, ma'am — is it ma'am or 
 mother I ought to call ye ? " 
 
 " ' Sister ' — we are all Sisters here, though some 
 of the people call Sister Superior ' Reverend 
 Mother.' " 
 
 " Ah, that indeed ? " said Mrs. Brady, raising 
 herself a little in the bed, and speaking with great 
 dignity. " Ye see yous are not the sort o' nuns 
 I'm used to, so you'll excuse me if I don't alto- 
 gether spake the way I ought. Our nuns down in
 
 32 IN ST. PATRICK'S WAPD. 
 
 the Queen's County has black veils, ye know, 
 ma'am — Sisther, I mane — an' not that kind of a 
 white bonnet that you have on your head." 
 
 " Well, do you know our patients here get quite 
 fond of our white wings, as they call them," re- 
 turned Sister Louise, smiling. " But you haven't 
 told me how you are, yet. Better I hope, and 
 pretty comfortable." 
 
 A tear suddenly rolled down Mrs. Brady's cheek, 
 but she preserved her lofty manner. 
 
 " Ah, yes, thank ye, Sisther, as comfortable as I 
 could expect in a place like this. Of course I niver 
 thought it's here I'd be, but it's on'y for a short 
 time, thanks be to God ! My little boy'll be comin' 
 home from America soon to take me out of it." 
 
 " Why, that's good news ! " cried the Sister 
 cheerfully. " We must make you quite well and 
 strong — that is, as strong as we can" — with a com- 
 passionate glance, " by the time he comes. When 
 do you expect him ? " 
 
 " Any day now, ma'am — Sisther, I mane — aye, 
 indeed, I may say any day an' every day, an' I'm 
 afeard his heart'll be broke findin' me in this place. 
 But no matther ! " 
 
 Here she shook her head darkly, as though she 
 could say much on that subject, but refrained out 
 of consideration for Sister Louise. 
 
 " Well, we must do all we can for you mean- 
 while," said the latter gently. " Have you made 
 acquaintance with your neighbors yet ? Poor j\Irs.
 
 M. E. FRANCIS. 33 
 
 M'Evoy here is worse off than yon, for she can't 
 Hft her head jnst now. Tell Mrs. Brady how it 
 was you hurt your back, Mrs. M'Evoy." 
 
 " Bedad, Sisther, ye know yerself it was into the 
 canal I feh wid a can o' milk," said the old woman 
 addressed, squinting fearfully in her efforts to 
 catch a glimpse of the new patient. " The Bishop 
 says the last time he come round, ' I s'pose,' he 
 says, ' ye were goin' to put wather in the milk.' 
 * No,' says I, ' there was wather enough in it be- 
 fore.' " 
 
 Here Mrs. M'Evoy leered gleefully up at the 
 Sister, and one or two feeble chuckles were heard 
 from the neighboring beds ; but Mrs. Brady as- 
 sumed an attitude which can only be described as 
 one implying a mental drawing away of skirts, and 
 preserved an impenetrable gravity. Evidently she 
 had never associated with " the like " of Mrs. 
 M'Evoy in the circles in which she had hitherto 
 moved. 
 
 " And there's Kate Mahony on the other side," 
 pursued Sister Louise, without appearing to notice 
 Mrs. Brady's demeanor. " She has been lying 
 here for seventeen years, haven't you, Kate ? " 
 
 " Aye, Sisther," said Kate, a thin-faced, sweet- 
 looking woman of about forty, looking up brightly. 
 
 " Poor Kate ! " said the Sister, in a caressing 
 tone. " You must get Kate to tell you her story 
 some time, Mrs. Brady. She has seen better days 
 like you."
 
 34 IN ST. PATRICK'S WARD. 
 
 " Oh, that indeed ? " said Mrs. Brady, distantly 
 but poHtely, and with a dawning interest, " I s'pose 
 you are from the country then, Hke meself." 
 
 " Ah, no, ma'am," returned Kate. " I may say 
 I was never three miles away from town. I went 
 into service when I was on'y a slip of a little girl, 
 an' lived with the wan lady till the rheumatic fever 
 took me, an' made me what I am now. You're 
 not from this town, I s'pose, ma'am." 
 
 " Indeed, I'd be long sorry to come from such 
 a dirty place — beggin' your pardon for sayin' it. 
 No, indeed, I am from the Queen's County, near 
 Mar'boro'. We had the loveliest little farm there 
 ye could see, me an' me poor husband, the Lord 
 ha' mercy on his soul ! Aye, indeed, it's little we 
 ever thought — but no matther ! Glory be to 
 goodness ! my little boy'll be comin' back from 
 America soon to take me out o' this." 
 
 " Sure it's well for ye," said Kate, " that has a 
 fine son o' your own to work for ye. Look at me 
 without a crature in the wide world belongin' to 
 me ! An' how long is your son in America, 
 ma'am ? " 
 
 " Goin' on two year, now," said Mrs. Brady, 
 with a sigh. 
 
 " He'll be apt to be writin' to ye often, I s'pose, 
 ma'am." 
 
 " Why then, indeed, not so often. The poor fel- 
 low he was niver much of a hand at the pen.
 
 M. E. FRANCIS. 35 
 
 He's movin' about, ye see, gettin' work here an' 
 there." 
 
 Sister Louise had moved on, seeing that the 
 pair were hkely to make friends ; and before ten 
 minutes had elapsed each was in possession of the 
 other's history. Kate's, indeed, was simple 
 enough ; her seventeen years in the infirmary being 
 preceded by a quiet life in a very uninteresting 
 neighborhood; but she " came of decent people," 
 being connected with " the rale ould O'Rorkes," 
 and her father had been " in business " — two cir- 
 cumstances which impressed Mrs, Brady very 
 much, and caused her to unbend towards " Miss 
 Mahony," as she now respectfully called her new 
 acquaintance. The latter was loud in expressions 
 of admiration and sympathy as Mrs. Brady de- 
 scribed the splendors of the past; the servant-man 
 and her servant-maid who, according to her, once 
 formed portion of her establishment ; the four 
 beautiful milch-cows which her husband kept, be- 
 sides sheep, and a horse and car, and " bastes " in- 
 numerable; the three little b'yes they buried, and 
 then Barney — Barney, the jewel, who was now in 
 America. 
 
 " The finest little fella ye'd see between this an' 
 County Cork ! Over six fut, he is, an* wid a pair 
 o' shoulders on him that ye'd think 'ud hardly get 
 in through that door beyant." 
 
 " Lonneys ! " said Kate admiringly.
 
 36 m ST. PATRICK'S WARD. 
 
 " Aye, indeed, an' ye ought to see the beautiful 
 black curly head of him, an' eyes like sloes, an' 
 cheeks — why I declare " — half raising herself and 
 speaking with great animation, " he's the very 
 moral o' St. Patrick over there ! God forgive me 
 for sayin' such a thing, but raly if I w-as to drop 
 down dead this minute I couldn't but think it ! 
 Now, I assure ye, j\Iiss Alahony, he's the very 
 image of that blessed statye, 'pon me word ! " 
 
 IMiss Alahony looked appreciatively at the repre- 
 sentation of the patron of Ireland, wdiich was re- 
 markable no less for vigor of outline and coloring 
 than for conveying an impression of exceeding 
 cheerfulness, as both the saint himself and the 
 serpent which was wriggling from beneath his feet 
 were smiling in the most affable manner conceiv- 
 able. 
 
 " Mustn't he be the fine boy ! " she ejaculated, 
 after a pause. " I'd love to see him — but I'll niver 
 get a chanst o' that, I s'pose. \\\\\ he be comin' 
 here to see ye, ma'am ? " 
 
 " He'll be comin' to take me out of it," returned 
 the mother. " He doesn't raly know I'm in it at 
 all. I'll tell ye now the way it is. AMien the poor 
 father died — the light o' heaven to him — an' bad 
 times come, and we had to give up our own beau- 
 tiful little place, Barney brought me to town an' 
 put me with Mrs. Byrne, a very nice respectal^le 
 woman that was married to a second cousin o' my 
 poor husband's, an' I was to stop w'ith her till he
 
 M. E. FRANCIS. 37 
 
 came back from America with his fortune made. 
 Well," pursued Mrs. Brady, drawing in her breath 
 with a sucking sound, which denoted that she had 
 come to an interesting part of her narrative, " well, 
 he kep' sendin' me money, ye know, a pound or 
 maybe thirty shillin' at a time — whenever he could, 
 the poor boy, an' I was able to work the sewin'- 
 machine a little, an' so we made out between us 
 till I took this terrible bad turn. Well, of course 
 troubles niver comes single, an' the last letther I 
 got from my poor little fella had only fifteen shillin' 
 in it, an' he towld me he had the bad luck alto- 
 gether, but says he, ' My dear mother, ye must on'y 
 howld out the best way ye can. There's no work 
 to be got in this place at all (New York I think 
 it was). But I am goin' out West,' says he, ' to a 
 place where I'm towld there's fortunes made in no 
 time, so I'll be over wid ye soon,' he says, ' wid a 
 power o' money an' I'm sure Mary Byrne '11 be a 
 good friend to ye till then. The worse of it is,' 
 he says, ' it's a terrible wild outlandish place, and I 
 can't be promisin' ye many letthers, for God knows 
 if there'll be a post-office in it at all,' says he, ' but 
 I'll be thinkin' of ye often, an' ye must keep up 
 your heart,' he says. Well," sucking up her breath 
 again, " poor Mrs. Byrne done all she could for me, 
 but of course when it got to be weeks an' months 
 that I was on my back not able to do a hand's turn 
 for meself, an' no money comin' an' no sign o' 
 Barney, what could she do, poor cratur ? One day
 
 38 IN ST. PATRICK'S WARD. 
 
 Dr. Isaacs says to her, ' Mrs. Byrne,' says he, * why 
 don't ye send poor Mrs. Brady to the Infirmary ? ' 
 ' What Infirmary, sir ? ' says she. * The Union In- 
 firmary,' says he, ' it's the on'y place she's fit for 
 except the Incurables in Dublin,' says he, ' an' I'm 
 afraid there's no chance for her there. 'Oh,docther, 
 don't mention it ! ' says poor Mrs. Byrne — she was 
 telling me about it aftherwards. ' Is it the Union ? 
 I wouldn't name it,' she says, ' to a decent respect- 
 able woman like Mrs. Brady. She's a cousin by 
 marriage o' me own,' she says, ' I wouldn't name it 
 to her, I assure ye.' ' Just as you please,' says 
 Docther Isaacs. ' It 'ud be the truest kindness 
 you could do her all the same, for she'd get betther 
 care and nourishment than you could give her.' 
 Well, poor Mrs. Byrne kep' turnin' it over in her 
 mind, but she raly couldn't bring herself to men- 
 tion it nor wouldn't, on'y she was druv to it at the 
 end, the crature, with me bein' ill so long, an' the 
 rent comin' so heavy on her an' all. So we settled 
 it between the two of us wan day, an' she passed 
 me her word to bring me Barney's letther — if e'er 
 a wan comes — the very minute she gets it, an' if 
 he comes himself she says she won't let on where 
 I am, all at wanst, but she'll tell him gradual. 
 Sometimes I do be very unaisy in me mind, Miss 
 Mahony, I assure ye, wondherin' what he'll say 
 when he hears. I'm afeared he'll be ready to kill 
 me for bringin' such a disgrace on him." 
 
 " Sure, what could ye do ? " said Kate, a little
 
 M. E. FRANCIS. 39 
 
 tartly, for naturally enough, as " an inmate " of 
 many years' standing, she did not quite like her 
 new friend's insistence on this point. " Troth, it's 
 aisy talkin', but it's not so aisy to starve. An' 
 afther all, there's many a one that's worse off nor 
 us here, I can tell ye, especially since the Sisthers 
 come, God bless them, with their holy ways. 
 
 How'd ye like to be beyant at the Union, 
 
 where the nurses gobbles up all the nourishment 
 that's ordhered for the poor misfortunate cratures 
 that's in it, an' leaves thim sthretched from mornin' 
 till night without doin' a hand's turn for them. 
 Aye, an' 'ud go near to kill them if they dar'd let 
 on to the Docther. Sure, don't I know well how 
 it was before the Sisthers was here — we have dif- 
 ferent times now, I can tell ye. Why, that very 
 statye o' St. Pathrick that ye were talkin' of a while 
 ago, wasn't it them brought it ? An' there's St. 
 Joseph over in the ward fornenst this, an' St, 
 Elizabeth an' the Holy IMother above. See that 
 now. Isn't it a comfort to be lookin' at them holy 
 things, and to see the blessed Sisthers come walkin' 
 in in the mornin' wid a heavenly smile for every 
 one, an' their holy eyes lookin' into every hole an' 
 corner an' spyin' out what's wrong ? " 
 
 " Aye, indeed," assented Mrs. Brady, a little 
 faintly, though, for however grateful she might be, 
 and comfortable in the main, there was a bitter- 
 ness in the thought of her " come down " that 
 nothing could alleviate.
 
 40 IN ST. PATRICK'S WARD. 
 
 She and her neighbor were excellent friends all 
 the same, and she soon shared Kate's enthusiasm 
 for " the Sisthers," finding comfort moreover in the 
 discovery that Sister Louise understood and sym- 
 pathized with her feelings, and was willing to re- 
 ceive endless confidences on the subject of the 
 " little boy," and to discuss the probability of his 
 speedy advent with almost as much eagerness as 
 herself. 
 
 But all too soon it became evident that unless 
 Barney made great haste another than he would 
 take Mrs. Brady " out of " the workhouse. Grim 
 death was approaching wnth rapid strides, and one 
 day the priest found her so weak that he told her he 
 would come on the morrow to hear her confession 
 and to give her the last Sacraments. 
 
 Not one word did the old woman utter in reply. 
 She lay there with her eyes closed and her poor old 
 face puckered up, unheeding all Kate Mahony's 
 attempts at consolation. These, though well 
 meant, w^ere slightly inconsistent, as she now as- 
 sured her friend that indeed it was well for her, and 
 asked who wouldn't be glad to be out o' that; and 
 in the next moment informed her that maybe when 
 she was anointed she might find herself cured an' 
 out, as many a wan had before her, an' wasn't it 
 well known that them that the priest laid his holy 
 hands on, as likely as not took a good turn im- 
 maydiate.
 
 M. E. FRANCIS. 4 1 
 
 Later on Sister Louise bent over Mrs. Brady 
 with gentle reassuring words. 
 
 " God knows best, you know," she said, at the 
 end of her httle homily, " you will say, ' His will be 
 done,' won't you ? " 
 
 " Sure, Sisther, how can I ? " whispered Mrs. 
 Brady, opening her troubled eyes, her face almost 
 awful to look on in its gray pallor. " How can I 
 say, ' His will be done,' if I'm to die in the work- 
 house ? An' me poor little boy comin' as fast as 
 he can across the say to take me out of it, an' me 
 breakin' my heart prayin' that I might live to see 
 the day ! An' when he comes back he'll find the 
 parish has me buried. Ah, Sisther, how am I to re- 
 sign meself at all ? In the name o' God how am 
 I to resign meself ? " 
 
 The tears began to trickle down her face, and 
 Sister Louise cried a little too for sympathy, and 
 stroked Mrs. Brady's hand, and coaxed and cajoled 
 and soothed and preached to the very best of her 
 ability; and at the end left her patient quiet but ap- 
 parently unconvinced. 
 
 It was with some trepidation that she ap- 
 proached her on the morrow. Mrs. Brady's at- 
 titude was so unusual that she felt anxious and 
 alarmed. As a rule the Irish poor die calmly and 
 peacefully, happy in their faith and resignation ; 
 but this poor w^oman stood on the brink of eternity 
 with a heart full of bitterness, and a rebellious will.
 
 42 IN ST. PATRICK'S WARD. 
 
 Mrs. Brady's first words, however, reassured 
 her, 
 
 " Sisther, I'm wilHii' now to say, ' His will be 
 done.' " 
 
 " Thank God for that," cried Sister Louise 
 fervently. 
 
 "Aye. Well, wait till I tell ye. In the night, when 
 I was lying awake, I took to lookin' at St. Pathrick 
 beyant,wid the little lamp flickerin' an' flickerin' an' 
 shinin' on his face, an' I thought o' Barney, an' that 
 I'd niver see him agin, an' I burst out cryin'. ' Oh, 
 St. Pathrick ! ' says I, ' how'll I ever be able to 
 make up my mind to it at all ? ' An' St. Pathrick 
 looked back at me rale wicked. An' ' oh,' says I, 
 again, ' God forgive me, but sure how can I help 
 it ? ' An' there was St. Pathrick still wid the cross 
 look on him p'intin' to the shamrock in his hand, as 
 much as to say ' there is but the wan God in three 
 divine Persons, an' Him ye must obey.' So then I 
 took to baitin' me breast an' sayin', 'the will o' God 
 be done ! ' an' if ye'll believe me, Sisther, the next 
 time I took heart to look at St. Pathrick there he 
 was smilin' for all the world the moral o' poor 
 Barney. So, says I. ' afther that ! ' Well, Sisther, 
 the will o' God be done ! He knows best, Sisther 
 alanna, doesn't He ? But," with a weak sob, 
 " my poor little boy's heart 'ill be broke out an' out 
 when he finds I'm afther dyin' in the workhouse ! " 
 
 " We must pray for him," said the Sister softly; 
 " you must pray for him and ofTer up the sacrifice
 
 M. E. FRANCIS. 43 
 
 that God asks of you, for him. Try not to fret so 
 much. Barney would not Hke you to fret. He 
 would grieve terribly if he saw you like this." 
 
 " Heth, he would," said Mrs. Brady, sobbing 
 again. 
 
 " Of course he would. But if he heard you were 
 brave and cheerful over it all, it would not be half 
 so bad for him." 
 
 Mrs. Brady lay very quiet after this, and seemed 
 to reflect. 
 
 When the priest came presently to administer 
 the Sacraments of the dying to her, she roused her- 
 self and received them with much devotion ; and 
 presently beckoned Sister Louise to approach. 
 
 " Sisther, when Barney comes axin' for me, will 
 ye give him me bades an' the little medal that's 
 round me neck, an' tell him I left him me blessin' — 
 will ye, dear ? " 
 
 " Indeed I will." 
 
 " God bless ye. An' tell him," speaking with 
 animation and in rather louder tones. " Tell him 
 I didn't fret at all, an' died quite contint an' happy 
 an' — an' thankful to be in this blessed place where I 
 got every comfort. Will ye tell him that, Sisther 
 alanna ? " 
 
 The Sister bowed her head: this time she could 
 not speak. 
 
 It was nearly two months afterwards that Sister 
 Louise was summoned to the parlor to see " Mr.
 
 44 I^ 'S'2". PATRICK'S WARD. 
 
 Brady " who had recently arrived h-om America, 
 and to whom his cousin, Mrs. Byrne, had broken 
 the news of his mother's death. 
 
 Sister Louise smiled and sighed as she looked at 
 this big, strapping, prosperous-looking young fel- 
 low, and remembered his mother's description of 
 him. The black eyes and curly hair and rosy 
 cheeks were all there, certainly, but otherwise the 
 likeness to " St. Patrick '" was not so very marked. 
 
 " Mr. Brady wants to hear all about his poor 
 mother. Sister," said the Sister Superior. " This 
 is Sister Louise, Mr. Brady, who attended your 
 poor mother to the last." 
 
 Mr. Brady, who seemed a taciturn youth, rolled 
 his black eyes towards the newcomer and waited 
 for her to proceed. 
 
 Very simply did Sister Louise tell her little story, 
 dwelling on such of his mother's sayings, during 
 her last illness, as she thought might interest and 
 comfort him. 
 
 " There are her beads, and the little medal, 
 which she always wore. She left them to you with 
 her blessing." 
 
 Barney thrust out one large brown hand and took 
 the little packet, swallowing down what appeared 
 to be a very large lump in his throat. 
 
 " She told me," pursued the Sister in rather 
 tremulous tones, " to tell you that she did not fret 
 at all at the last, and died content and happy. She
 
 M. E. FRANCIS. 45 
 
 did, indeed, and she told me to say that she was 
 
 thankful to be here " 
 
 But Barney interrupted her with a sudden in- 
 credulous gesture, and a big sob. " Ah, whisht, 
 Sisther ! " he said.
 
 THEO. GIFT. 
 
 Dorothy Boulger (Theo. Gift) is the second daughter 
 of the late Thomas Havers, Esq., of Thelton Hall, Norfolk, 
 and is descended from a long race of Catholic ancestors. In 
 1854 Theo. Gift's father became manager of the Falkland 
 Islands, in which remote and desolate colony she and her 
 brothers and sisters passed seven years of their childhood. 
 
 In 1861 the family left the Falkland Islands for Monte 
 Video, the capital of Uruguay, where they remained until the 
 death of Mr. Havers, in 1870, which brought his children 
 back to England. It was then that his second daughter 
 began her literary life in earnest. "Theo. Gift's" first
 
 published stories appeared in The Galaxy, New York, and 
 she became almost immediately a regular contributor to that 
 magazine. Very soon, however, after her arrival in England 
 she managed to obtain a name and a footing for herself in the 
 English magazines, Her first three-volume novel, " True to 
 Her Trust," was published anonymously, but was quickly fol- 
 lowed by " Pretty Miss Bellew," which ran, first of all, as a 
 serial in CasselTs Magazine, and was the book which made 
 her name. It was followed by " More than a Woman's 
 Love." a serial story, which appeared in The Lamp under the 
 editorship of the Rev. William Lockhart, and " Maid 
 Ellice." These were succeeded by " Visited on the Chil- 
 dren," " A Matter of Fact Girl," " Lil Lorimer," •' A Gar- 
 den of Girls," " Victims," and " Dishonored," among three- 
 volume novels, and " An Innocent Maiden," and " Not for 
 the Night Time," one volume each, and " The Little Colo- 
 nists " and"Cape Town Dickey," books for children; be- 
 sides an enormous number of short stories, sketches, essays 
 and poems. 
 
 In 1879 "Theo. Gift " married Professor Boulger, the 
 well-known botanist and geologist, and author of many scien- 
 tific works. Her marriage was followed shortly afterwards 
 by a very severe illness, which laid the seeds of her almost 
 continuous ill-health, and compelled her to cease writing 
 altogether for a time and to take entire rest from all literary 
 labors. Since then, indeed, she has only published three 
 books — "An Island Princess." "Wrecked at the Outset," 
 and " Fairy Tales from the Far East," besides contributing 
 occasional short stories to various magazines and journals 
 of the day.
 
 H SolMcr's Mite, 
 
 BY THEO. GIFT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IRISH MARY. 
 
 A SCORCHING summer's day in India. Not a 
 day like those we get in the " merry month of 
 May " in England, but a day when the thermome- 
 ter is 95 degrees in the shade; when the sun beats 
 down with a hot, white flame out of a Avhite-hot 
 sky; when the atmosphere is like the breath of an 
 oven, scorching up the leaves on the trees and the 
 very blood in your veins. Not a breath of wind, 
 not a blade of grass, not a green leaf, only the 
 dusky palm-trees standing up like shafts of heated 
 iron against the glaring sky; only the glaring white 
 of the road winding away into the far interior, the 
 more glaring whiteness of the dome of an isolated 
 mosque set in a tuft of trees, and the low, red brick 
 walls of the " station " glowing like fire in the sun- 
 beams ! 
 
 It was in the early days of the Mutiny, those aw- 
 ful days of reckoning which wrote their judgment 
 
 49
 
 50 A SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 in letters of blood on a nation too proud to be 
 prudent, and too wealthy to be wise. Already the 
 revolt had begun. The Sepoy regiments at Meerut 
 had risen simultaneously on a quiet Sunday after- 
 noon and butchered officers, women, and children 
 in one indiscriminate slaughter. At Barrackpore 
 and Umballa, and a score of other places in the 
 presidency, native detachments, and, in some cases, 
 whole regiments, had mutinied, here and there 
 massacring their white comrades and officers, and 
 marching off in triumph, here and there overcome 
 by the superior force of the English. Delhi itself, 
 the mighty capital of the East, was invested. A 
 few days more, and it was to fall with a stupendous 
 crash, a stream of blood and ruin which was to 
 overwhelm the army of India with an agony of 
 horror beyond all vengeance. 
 
 And yet the Indian Government looked on 
 calmly, unbelieving that these numerous outrages 
 and risings were anything but isolated acts of in- 
 subordination; and while in one town English offi- 
 cers were being blown from the guns, and English 
 women crucified in horrible imitation of their 
 Lord against the city walls, their countrymen and 
 countrywomen in another, not many leagues dis- 
 tant, were leading the usual pleasant, languid In- 
 dian life, ignorant of what was happening, or 
 utterly incredulous that the like fate might at any 
 hour descend upon themselves. 
 
 Even at little Futterhabad, a small government
 
 THEO. GIFT. 51 
 
 depot occupied by two companies of the Sixth, and 
 a battahon of native foot, under Captains Donald- 
 son and Clare, they were all unconscious of any 
 danger awaiting themselves till, two days before, 
 a messenger from the officer in command at the 
 neighboring town of Susi informed Captain Don- 
 aldson that some of the Sepoys there had raised 
 cries of disaffection and refused to obey orders, 
 that the English garrison was as yet strong enough 
 to keep them under, but that a large body of 
 mutineers were reported as marching on the place, 
 and the officers of the Sixth were implored to start 
 Vv'ith all speed, and so intercept these latter, as, were 
 they once to coalesce with the disaffected within 
 the walls, the lives of the English one and all would 
 in all probability be the sacrifice. No time was 
 lost in complying with the appeal contained in this 
 dispatch ; and the senior captain (Donaldson) 
 thought himself showing extraordinary prudence 
 in deciding not to take the native battalion with 
 them. 
 
 " Not but that I believe our fellows to be as true 
 as steel, but it'll be acting on the safe side not to 
 excite them by leading them against their old com- 
 rades," he said, and Captain Clare agreeing, the 
 regiment marched out of Futterhabad an hour 
 before sundown, leaving behind it, besides the 
 soldiers' wives and children and the civilians, an 
 English sergeant and ten men to overawe (?) the 
 native troops; as also the young wife of Captain
 
 52 A SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 Clare, who had become a mother only a fortnight 
 back. 
 
 She was not within the cantonment. The over- 
 powering heat of the town had affected her so un- 
 favorably in her state of health that her husband 
 had removed her to a deserted mosque about a 
 quarter of a mile distant from the depot, which, 
 standing in a garden thickly overgrown with palm 
 and tulip trees, made a pleasant sort of improvised 
 bungalow for the invalid. 
 
 The change had agreed with her wonderfully ; 
 and when Captain Clare suggested that she should 
 be moved back to the cantonment during his ab- 
 sence, she refused, declaring she would remain 
 where she was. 
 
 " You expect to be back in thirty-six hours," 
 she said. " What good is there in my making my- 
 self uncomfortable for so short a time ? " 
 
 And Captain Clare left her, believing that there 
 was no reason for his doing otherwise. 
 
 The fierce day had faded into evening at last, the 
 evening of the day after his departure, and Mrs. 
 Clare lay on her couch, her ayah squatted on the 
 floor beside her, with the infant in her arms, and 
 the punkah waving with monotonous regularity 
 over her head. The croaking of the frogs could be 
 heard distinctly from the pool in the deserted gar- 
 den below, mingling with the sharp "cheep, cheep" 
 of the lizards, and an occasional murmur from the 
 cantonment; but it was not to those sounds that
 
 THEO. GIFT. 53 
 
 Mrs. Clare was listening as she leaned forward on 
 her elbow and looked out through the narrow, 
 arched window, from which, for more air, the 
 matted curtain had been drawn aside. 
 
 " What can it be ? " she said at last. " Don't 
 you hear it, Zeena ? " 
 
 " Hear what, mem-sahib ? " and the ayah ceased 
 her rocking and crooning over the babe to look 
 up. 
 
 " Just now there was such a strange noise from 
 the cantonment. Can it be the Sixth returning ? " 
 
 " The mem-sahib is feverish. Zeena hear nos- 
 sing at all; and de Sahib Clare and de Sixth not 
 go to come back till to-morrow." 
 
 " But we were to have heard from them to-day 
 and there has been no message. Can anything 
 have happened, or — there, Zeena, you must hear 
 thatr 
 
 " That " was audible enough indeed, a cry from 
 the cantonment, something between a shriek and a 
 shout, and followed by a confused hum of many 
 voices. 
 
 "Soldier got 'bhang' — drunk — mad," said Zeena 
 lazily. " Sergeant put him in black-hole." 
 
 " It is news of some sort from the regiment. 
 Ah, how cruel of them not to send to me ! Zeena, 
 give me the baby and run up to the cantonment 
 and see what it is. Make haste ! " And as the 
 lady clapped her hands impatiently, Zeena rose, 
 and only waiting to lay the infant by its mother.
 
 54 A SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 sped swiftly through the low, arched doorway and 
 disappeared into the night. 
 
 Left alone IMrs. Clare's anxiety increased. The 
 strange rolling sound was now plainly distinguish- 
 able for the measured tramp of soldiers; and that 
 some great excitement was going on at the canton- 
 ment was more and more evident. Once a shrill 
 cry rose faintly into the air. Then came the sharp 
 clang of a bell as suddenly suppressed, and yet no 
 thought of danger there or to herself crossed her 
 mind. Her fears were entirely with the Sixth and 
 the husband who had marched away at their head. 
 Could it be that they were coming back defeated, 
 and — without him ? Had no one courage to 
 break the news to her ? Twice she called aloud 
 to the other servants, but there was no answer. 
 Even the punkah has ceased to wave for the last 
 few minutes. 
 
 A step roused her. A quick, noisy step coming 
 nearer every moment. Was it her husband ? No, 
 that was no military tread; but a woman's, and one 
 flying up the garden-walk with frantic, almost 
 clumsy haste; another moment and the heavy cur- 
 tain draping the doorway was torn aside, and a 
 figure panting with excitement stood in the en- 
 trance. 
 
 A young woman with a sunburnt, freckled face 
 hung round with tangled, reddish elf-locks, her bare 
 arms hugging something like a dingy bundle of 
 rags to her bosom, herself clad in rags of divers hues
 
 THEO. GIFT. 55 
 
 badly covered by an old plaid cloak, — such was the 
 intruder who thrust herself into Mrs. Clare's pres- 
 ence: a girl, nicknamed " Irish Mary," wife to a 
 soldier in the Sixth, but not " on the strength." 
 
 She seemed beside herself now, for after that one 
 pause for breath she darted to the couch where the 
 pretty patrician lady lay in her white draperies, and 
 exclaimed in tones hoarse with excitement: " Tvlrs, 
 Clare, dear, is it lyin' here ye are, as if nothin' were 
 doin' ! Get up and fly for the love of heaven." 
 
 " Fly ! Where ? From what ? " cried Mrs. 
 Clare, her indignation at the intrusion lost in as- 
 tonishment as the other, having deposited her 
 bundle on the bed, almost lifted her on to her feet. 
 
 " From murther an' slaughterin', an' worse a 
 million times to the like o' you an' me ! " Mary- 
 cried, her rough hands busy in thrusting Mrs. 
 Clare's little bare feet into a pair of shoes, and 
 flinging a dark cloak which happened to come 
 handy over her muslin wrapper. " Shure an' aren't 
 the Sepoy divils afther enterin' the depot, an' our 
 soldiers drugged aforehant, an' no shot fired to 
 stay them ! Och ! bad cess to the thraitorous 
 scoundhrels that let 'em in ! Hark to thim, dear ! 
 There's a cry ! Och ! hurry, hurry, as ye're a 
 livin' woman. There'll not be wan alive an hour 
 hence ; nor we ail her if we're not gone from 
 here." 
 
 There was a desperate earnestness in the girl's 
 eyes, but Mrs. Clare tried to resist.
 
 5^ A SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 " The Sepoys here ! " she stammered. " Do 
 you mean our battahon has risen ? " 
 
 '' An' have let in a couple of hundhred more at 
 laste. Shure, an' wasn't I afther hearin' the thread 
 of them as they cum up the road ! Misthress, dear, 
 for God's sake don't stan' there. There was wan 
 of ours as wasn't drugged, Sergeant McCann he 
 was, an' the thing I stumbled over at the gate was 
 the dead body of him hacked thro' an' thro'. 
 Shure an' I niver stayed till I got here; for I knew 
 'twas in yer bed ye were, an' none to purtect ye." 
 
 " Thank you," said Mrs. Clare faintly, and very 
 pale, " but go yourself; Captain Clare will be back 
 in a few hours now if he be alive, and if not, I — I 
 would rather die here." 
 
 " Die is it ? " cried Mary contemptuously, " an' 
 d' ye think it's I would be afther fearin' death if 
 that was all ? Or d' ye think it's betther for the 
 captain to fin' you a slave to the black haythens, an' 
 yer child's brains dashed out on the stones, as they 
 did wid the childher at Meerut ? Missis dear, Vm 
 flyin' for Jim's sake an' me boy's here, an' I'm not 
 goin' widout you; for the captain's been good an' 
 kind to Jim, an' thrated meself like the dacent 
 wedded wife as I am (even if I'm not on the 
 sthringth). Come, ma'am, hurry ! Ye'll walk 
 betther by yersel' than if ye were tied to a gun an' 
 dhriven. Here, take hould of that shawl while I 
 rowl the childher together. I'll carry them, an' 
 you kape close to me. This way — so ! "
 
 THEO. GIFT. 57 
 
 And Mrs. Clare made no more resistance, but 
 followed with the meekness of a child in her foot- 
 steps. 
 
 What a sight met her as they crept from out of 
 that vaulted temple into the night air ! The east- 
 ern sky was red as blood from the blazing roof of 
 her own house in the officers' quarters; and in that 
 scarlet light she could see the hillside and the walls 
 of the cantonment dotted over with black figures, 
 while the whole air seemed alive and quivering with 
 a turmoil of shrieks, cries, and yells of agony or 
 triumph. 
 
 One look was sufficient ; and then Gertrude 
 Clare cowered closer to the side of the Irish girl, 
 and clung to her, murmuring : *' We shall never 
 escape ! What hope is there ? " 
 
 " P'oller me, or it'll be thrue for ye," Mary mut- 
 tered in curt response, as she dived into a dense 
 thicket of prickly-pear and jungle-grass, trampling 
 a path in front with her strong feet, and leaving 
 many a fragment of her ragged garments on the 
 thorny boughs, yet never suffering a touch to dis- 
 turb the sturdy, brown-skinned eight-months' 
 baby, or the tiny infant of scarce twice as many 
 days, which she carried so tenderly in her right 
 arm. 
 
 By and by Mrs. Clare stopped. They had not 
 gone a couple of hundred yards, but she, poor girl, 
 was faint and exhausted by the rough walking. 
 Yet " Mary," she said, " they will be on the return
 
 58 A SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 march, and see the blaze. It will bring them up all 
 the quicker, and if he finds me gone — oh ! God, I 
 know my husband — he will fling away his life in 
 the effort to tear me from among his enemies, and 
 I — I shall not be there." 
 
 " Wid God's blessin' ye won't indade ! " said 
 Mary solemnly, " an' niver throuble yersel'. 
 They're not returnin' as yet, at all, at all. I heerd 
 them black naygurs talkin' ov't as I crouched 
 down in the scrub yonder; an' the half of them had 
 parted off to meet the Sixth an' delay thim outside 
 Susi till the lave o' thim had got all they wanted 
 here." 
 
 " Where are we going then, Mary ? If they are 
 bent on destroying Captain Clare and the Sixth, 
 where is the use of our saving ourselves ? " 
 
 " Desthroy the Sixth, is it ? A pack o' dhurty 
 rebels ! " cried Mary scornfully. '' Shure, an' 
 they've more thrust in the masther an' his men 
 than yersel'. It's not hopin' to stay thim more 
 than an hour or two they are, but " — and Mary's 
 brown face paled and Gertrude Clare shuddered, as 
 she added — " Misthress dear, I heerd wan say, 
 ' Work yer wull for to-night, but take none wid ye 
 whin ye go, not a livin' soul, man nor woman,' an' 
 I blessed Our Lord that I'd larnt enough o' their 
 lingo to understan'. Ask the great God to kape 
 ye out ov their ban's, and come on now. We've 
 no time to lose." 
 
 She hurried on as she spoke, and Gertrude fol-
 
 THEO. GIFT. 59 
 
 lowed feebly, trembling in every limb, but striving 
 with uncomplaining resolution to keep in her com- 
 panion's footsteps. Did not the shrieks of those 
 then weltering in their blood within the walls of 
 Futterhabad cry to them to haste for life or death; 
 for more than life, from worse than death, away ! 
 at all speed, away ! 
 
 On and on, tearing their feet and hands, stoop- 
 ing their heads low, praying inwardly the whole 
 time, they struggled for half an hour, the Irish girl 
 walking with the firm, elastic tread of one well used 
 to the march, the English one staggering after with 
 a step momentarily slacker and more uncertain, 
 until they found themselves on the edge of a large 
 field of Indian corn, — and then, as Mary stooped 
 lower with her burden, that her head might not 
 show above the tall green stalks, Mrs. Clare 
 gasped out: 
 
 " Go on. Save yourself. I — can do no more," 
 and fainted away at her humble friend's feet. At 
 the same moment the latter's baby set up a piteous 
 wail. 
 
 Half beside herself, Mary crouched down, hush- 
 ing her baby to her breast with one hand, while 
 with the other she loosened the fainting woman's 
 dress and turned her face upwards that the night 
 air might refresh her. She could do no more. 
 There was not a drop of water near to moisten the 
 lips already black and parched, but when her child 
 had fallen asleep again, she laid both babes down
 
 6o A SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 by Mrs. Clare and crept on hands and knees to a 
 little eminence where she could have a view of their 
 surroundings. 
 
 Poor Gertrude ! She was roused from her merci- 
 ful stupor by something sharp and stinging, and, 
 opening her eyes, saw Mary leaning over her with 
 a branch of some thorny plant in her hand ; but 
 not even the seemingly cruel method of her revival 
 recalled her so much as the look of horror on the 
 girl's freckled face. 
 
 " Poller me — so ! " the latter whispered, and 
 crawling behind her, Gertrude came to a point 
 where, peeping through the sheltering stack of the 
 Indian corn, they could see the valley beneath. 
 They were not more than half a mile, as the bee 
 flies, from the mosque. It lay just below them, and 
 Gertrude, following the direction of Mary's finger, 
 felt her blood grow chill within her veins as she 
 saw five armed figures steal through the garden 
 to the door from which the two women had so 
 recently escaped. 
 
 The next moment they came rushing out into 
 the garden again, beating about in search of their 
 victim. Mary's hand closed on her companion. 
 
 " If they find our thrack an' come sthraight 
 afther us they'll be ten minutes gettin' here," she 
 said huskily. " Missis dear, I only ax ye to run ten 
 minutes more. If we can but get through this field 
 an' down towards the river I know where we can 
 hide, an' they'll not be follerin' fur fear o' bein'
 
 THEO. GIFT, 6 1 
 
 cut off by our men. Only kape up yer heart fur 
 the love o' God, an' thry." 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 FOR LIFE OR DEATH. 
 
 It was a terrible position; and the young wife 
 and mother understood it to the full. A dull, red 
 spot burned in each white cheek, and her beautiful 
 eyes looked glazed and distended; yet she spoke 
 firmly: 
 
 " I will do my best, but if I drop leave me; it will 
 not be your fault, and I shall not suffer long." 
 
 Mary said nothing, but squeezed the slim, white 
 hand in her brown and horny one, and then, only 
 waiting to lift the mercifully sleeping children, they 
 resumed their flight. 
 
 Not for long. Before they had reached the fur- 
 ther extremity of the maize-field Mrs. Clare had 
 thrice stumbled. The stooping position now nec- 
 essary was even more fatiguing than their up-hill 
 climb through the scrub, and Mary stopped of her 
 own accord, warned by the long-drawn, gasping 
 breath that her companion's strength had well- 
 nigh come to an end. A new idea seized her, and 
 taking off her cloak she succeeded in strapping the 
 infants on to her back; then making Mrs. Clare 
 take her arm, led her on, cheering the sinking girl 
 every now and then with an encouraging whisper.
 
 62 A SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 And the perspiration poured off either brow like 
 scalding rain; and the pitiless white moon looked 
 down with a searching eye on the two poor hunted 
 women ; now and then a distant cry came from 
 behind, warning them that their pursuers had 
 found traces of their passage. It was down-hill 
 now ; but every step was a stumble, every breath 
 a prayer ; and they had gained such a little dis- 
 tance ! 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Clare reeled, and the hold on 
 Mary's arm gave way. The red spots on her 
 cheeks had died out and a mortal pallor was there 
 instead. 
 
 " Mary," she said, every breath coming with a 
 moan, " leave me now — I command it. You've 
 done your best — God bless you — go, take your 
 child, and give me mine. It could not live long 
 without me; and I can go no further ; not one 
 step." 
 
 And looking in her face Mary Kirwan saw it was 
 true. For a moment she stood still and mute, 
 then a scarlet color rushed into her cheeks, and she 
 fell on her knees. 
 
 " O Lord Christ ! I see a way, but it's hard, 
 hard. Help me to do it; for there's no other at 
 all." 
 
 It was a moment's prayer, and no sooner uttered 
 than she rose, undid the children from her back, 
 handed Mrs. Clare her own, and tenderly wrapping
 
 THEO. GIFT. 63 
 
 up the other in her cloak darted away with it 
 among the corn-stalks without a word. 
 
 When she came back her arms were empty, and 
 her face was white as death. 
 
 " Mary ! " cried the English mother, " where is 
 it ? What have you done with it — your child ? " 
 
 " I've put it down," said Mary, her lips quivering 
 as she raised the other. " Maybe they'll not be 
 afther seein' him (for it's in a little hole he is among 
 the corn) widout he cries; and he'll not do that, 
 the darlin', when I've nursed him but the now, an' 
 wrapped him up warm to slape." 
 
 " But Mary — my God ! What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Mane ! shure, that I can't carry you and the 
 childher too," said Mary simply; " an' it's thrue, ye 
 cant walk no further. Och ! don't be talkin', but 
 hould yer own tight while I lift ye. Shure it's not 
 the feather-weight ye are. Don't be talkin', I say," 
 checking with an almost fierce authority the re- 
 sistance which Mrs. Clare would fain have offered 
 as she was lifted from the ground. " But iv ye 
 never yet axed the Mother o' God to pray for you 
 an' yours, ax her now, as you're a mother yersel', 
 for me." 
 
 And on she strode as she spoke, walking far more 
 swiftly now under her burden than when she had 
 to accommodate her steps to the fragile creature 
 behind her ; though now and then a sob broke 
 from her bosom, rending the heart of the prostrate 
 girl she carried.
 
 64 A SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 Yet it was not the weight which distressed her. 
 This dehcate, slender-Hmbed young thing, with her 
 baby in her arms, weighed less in reahty than the 
 keg of spirits or water with which Mary had often 
 marched behind the Sixth, or the creel of turf 
 under which she used to tramp her native hills. It 
 was the mother's heart in her, fighting and break- 
 ing for that sturdy, brown-skinned infant whom 
 every step put farther and farther from her, and still 
 she hurried on more swiftly for the agony in her 
 mind, sometimes running, sometimes stumbling, 
 sometimes nearly falling; never daring to pause, or 
 lift her head once for a single breath. And still 
 the cries of the massacre, broken every now and 
 then by a shot fired after some stray fugitive fol- 
 lowed them; and still the red flames of the burning 
 cantonment filled the sky with a wild, red glow, 
 still their pursuers kept upon their track. 
 
 A race for life or death, for honor or slavery, bur- 
 dened with the increased weight of a fainting wo- 
 man, fiying along under the black shadow of the 
 prickly-pear hedges, crouching among the jungle- 
 grass in the open space till the moon, passing be- 
 hind a cloud, enabled the Irish girl to pursue her 
 perilous journey ; scrambling through fields of 
 cotton, losing her way more than once in a " tope," 
 or grove, of feathery tamarinds, and tulip-trees, 
 matted and woven together with creepers, whose 
 dazzling hues by day would have made rich the 
 conservatory of an emperor, still on, on with one
 
 THEO. GIFT. 65 
 
 prayer in her heart that the waning night might 
 be delayed yet a Httle longer till she had reached 
 a shelter she knew of, namely, an ancient tomb half 
 hidden among jungle and creepers in a thicket near 
 the river. 
 
 And she did. As the eastern sky flushed into a 
 delicate rose-color, tinting earth and cloud with an 
 ineffable, opaline glory, her sore and wearied feet 
 stumbled heavily into the thicket of which she had 
 been in search. As the mighty globe of day rose 
 above the horizon, flooding all India in one second 
 with its dazzling light, the Irish girl passed under 
 the ruined arch of the tomb, and dropped upon the 
 dank earth within with a cry of thankfulness half in- 
 audible from fatigue. 
 
 They zucre safe. 
 
 And Mrs. Clare, rising to her knees, took the 
 brown hands to which she owed her life in her little 
 fingers, covering them with tears and kisses as 
 again and again she poured thanks and blessings 
 on her preserver. Mary checked her. 
 
 " Whisht ! Not a word above yer breath ! 
 Shure, an' I'm hearin' somethin' passin' the 
 now." 
 
 Men's voices were indeed audible, laughing and 
 talking loudly along the road, but whether they 
 were deserters, or only coolies on their way to 
 labor, the women could not tell, as they cowered in 
 the inmost recesses of their sanctuary, not even 
 venturing for the next half-hour to creep out to
 
 ^^ A SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 drink at a little muddy pool among the reeds, 
 which grew thickly all round them, though their 
 lips and throats were so parched and swollen by 
 this time, that they had hardly been able even to 
 whisper a word to one another. 
 
 Mrs. Clare, with great discretion, drank spar- 
 ingly; and would fain have coaxed Mary to do the 
 same; but the latter plunged her hot face deep into 
 the water, swallowing it in gulps, and only reply- 
 ing when she had slaked her thirst to the full, 
 
 " Lave me alone. It's got to last me till I get 
 back." 
 
 " Back ! where ? " Mrs. Clare asked, but was 
 abashed by the reply. 
 
 " Shure, an' is it lave me child fur good I'd be 
 doin' ? " 
 
 Gertrude burst into tears. Her long fainting-fit 
 had confused her, and she now reproached herself 
 bitterly. 
 
 " Ah, how could I let you ! And you whom 
 I've often looked down on ! Why didn't you leave 
 me instead ? " 
 
 " You're a woman yersel'," said Mary gently. 
 " An' could you be afther lavin' a feller-woman now 
 to the marcy o' thim black divils ? As to the boy, 
 acushla " — her plain features working unrestrain- 
 edly with the sorrow she tried not to express in 
 words — " wasn't it betther to lave him awhile, an' 
 he slapin' like an angel in me ould cloak, that's for 
 all the world the color o' the groun' ? Shure, I
 
 THEO. GIFT. 67 
 
 tuk him to the font meself afore iver we left Cal- 
 cutta, as is more than iver ye've been afther doin' 
 for yours I'll be boun', the purty, wee craythur ! so 
 I'd the clane right to say to our blessed Lord, ' It's 
 You he belongs to now, so take care ov him till I'm 
 comin' back, for it's meself is takin' care of a poor 
 unbelavin' sowl for You,' I said." 
 
 " But, Mary," cried Mrs. Clare, weeping more 
 freely for the girl's simplicity and confidence, 
 " don't go noii}. It will be only throwing away 
 your own life, and if they have discovered him — 
 oh ! please God they have not ! — it will be too late 
 to save him. Don't, Mary ! The Sixth will be 
 here in a few hours hence, and then we will go 
 back together and search for him, and he shall 
 never want for anything again if I can help it, or 
 you either. Only stay ! " 
 
 But Mary shook her rough head doggedly. 
 
 " I could thrust Him above to help me when I 
 was thryin' to help Him," she said, " but ef 'twas 
 carin' for meself I was — an' shure anyhow is it I 
 could sit here, an' me purty, bright-eyed boy, Jim's 
 one bairn, tugging at me heart-sthrings the 
 while ? " 
 
 And yet it was with a stern, beautiful patience 
 that she delayed another ten minutes to feed Mrs. 
 Clare's tiny infant which had wakened crying with 
 a hunger which its poor young mother had no 
 power to relieve. Then, her work of charity com- 
 pleted, the private's wife gave the babe back to its
 
 68 A SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 mother, and sallied forth on the return search for 
 her child. 
 
 Left alone the hours passed wearily with the 
 officer's wife. She was worn out with fatigue and 
 agitation. She was faint with hunger, and, do 
 what she would, her child wailed and fretted as if in 
 pain, keeping her in constant alarm lest the noise 
 should lead to their discovery. 
 
 The sun rose higher and higher, till the low en- 
 trance to the ruin glowed like the yellow mouth of 
 a furnace. The child, tired with crying, fell asleep 
 again; and she herself was resting in a sort of half- 
 slumber of exhaustion, when a noise from without 
 startled her to a sitting position, her heart sick with 
 terror. There was a clatter of horses' feet, and the 
 regular tramp of many men coming up the road. 
 
 Was it the Sixth ? Or was it the party of the 
 mutineers which had separated from their fellows ? 
 
 If it were the former, they might pass on, never 
 suspecting her presence, and leave her to perish of 
 hunger and weakness. If the latter, and she were 
 to show herself, God only could foresee her fate in 
 its full horror. And the tramp, tramp came nearer 
 and nearer. She could catch, now and then, the 
 gleam of arms among the trees which hid the ruin. 
 
 The suspense became intolerable. Laying her 
 child gently in a dark corner, she crawled to the 
 entrance and looked out. A body of troops were 
 passing. She could see the scarlet uniforms of the 
 Sixth, and the Scotch caps and gray jackets of
 
 THEO. GIFT. 69 
 
 Captain Donaldson's men as, at quick march and 
 in double file, they passed along, and yet when she 
 tried to call to them her tongue clove to her mouth, 
 a mist rose before her eyes, and with a faint cry she 
 sank face foremost on the ground. 
 
 When she recovered she was in her husband's 
 arms, and his grateful tears were on her face. Lit- 
 tle indeed did that young officer, who, on the re- 
 turn march, had heard of the attack on Futterhabad 
 and the wholesale massacre of every man, woman, 
 and child of white blood, expect to see his wife alive 
 and safe. The Sixth had met and defeated the 
 party of which they were in search with more ease 
 than they had expected, and were in consequence 
 returning rather earlier, when they met en route 
 the body of mutineers despatched for that purpose, 
 who, by first harassing and then leading them in 
 pursuit, had without the loss of more than two or 
 three men contrived to delay them two good hours 
 on their way. 
 
 •if- ■if. ■if- ^ Hf. 
 
 And Mary ? 
 
 Neither you, nor I, nor any one save those Eng- 
 lish women who passed through the agonies of that 
 Indian " reign of terror " can tell what this girl en- 
 dured in her return search for her child. 
 
 It was then in the last week of May, and the 
 heat at eight o'clock was so intense that it 
 seemed to frizzle the brains in her uncovered 
 head. She had lost a shoe, and her feet were
 
 70 A SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 cut and swollen. Her head felt swollen too, 
 and her eyes were dim and distended; as the sun 
 grew hotter and hotter a species of delirium seemed 
 to seize her. She saw before her a crowd of Se- 
 poys with inflamed eyes and dark ferocious faces, 
 and in the midst of them her baby held on high by 
 one of the miscreants in the act to dash its brains 
 out upon the ground. She shrieked aloud in her 
 agony, darted wildly forward, stumbled, fell bead- 
 long to the ground, staggered to her feet again ; 
 and lo ! the Sepoys were gone, and instead her 
 child was wailing, wailing somewhere in front of 
 her. Yes, she saw it now distinctly, wrapped in 
 the cloak as she had left it among the corn-stalks, 
 and near it, crouching for a spring, a huge Bengal 
 tiger. Again she screamed and sprang forward, 
 throwing out her arms wildly to scare the animal, 
 and again the horrible vision vanished — onlv to be 
 renewed a thousand times in a thousand different 
 forms. 
 
 And then, all at once, the weight rolled off her 
 brain, and the red mist from before her eyes. She 
 was on her knees in the maize-field, and in front of 
 her was the verv^ hole where she had laid her infant, 
 with the rusty plaid cloak crumpled on the edge of 
 it. 
 
 But the child ? 
 
 For the moment an awful despair seized her, and 
 a cry broke from her lips so shrill and unearthly 
 that it scared away a couple of vultures who were
 
 THEO. GIFT. 71 
 
 hovering low over something a yard or two distant. 
 A Httle cooing, gurghng note of pleasure answered, 
 and turning she saw a round rosy face among the 
 corn-stalks and a pair of fat hands, and naked, 
 dimpled feet trying, by stretching and crawling, to 
 get at the mother who had left it. 
 
 When Captain Clare, accompanied by four of his 
 men, entered the same field to search for his wife's 
 preserver, they found Mary quietly seated on the 
 ground nursing her baby, and the ringing cheer 
 which greeted the sight might have shown her how 
 her heroism was appreciated by those brave, 
 rugged hearts. She hardly heeded it ; but just 
 stood up, dropping her courtesy to the ofhcer, and 
 then looked round at the others. 
 
 " An' where's my Jim at all ? " 
 
 There was no answer. The men did not seem to 
 hear, and Captain Clare began urging her, in an 
 agitated way, to hasten with him to the carriage at 
 the foot of the hill where Mrs. Clare was waiting 
 for her. Mary courtesied again. 
 
 " Thank ye, sur. 'Tis very good ye are to me : 
 but I'm not wantin' to lave me husband, though it'?: 
 not * on the stringth ' I am. Shure, I'll go dow^-' 
 to him the now, since he's no mind to come up to 
 me. Maybe, though, he's not got lave to fall out 
 o' the ranks for that." 
 
 The last words were said piteously, her eager 
 blue eyes lifted to the officer's kindly face. Very 
 gently he took her arm.
 
 72 A SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 " Come to the carriage first, Mary, anyway. 
 Mrs. Clare wants to — to speak to you. My good 
 girl, my brave girl, you're not going to give way 
 now ? " 
 
 " Is it kilt he is ? " she asked hoarsely; and then 
 before any reply could be given save the mute an- 
 swer of the eyes, the child fell from her arms, she 
 reeled suddenly, and dropped a senseless, crumpled 
 heap at the commander's feet.
 
 BARONESS PAULINE VON HUGEL. 
 
 Pauline Marie von Hugel was born at Florence, where 
 her father was Austrian envoy to the Duke of Tuscany 
 When still in her teens, having lost her father, she went to 
 reside in England with her mother, by birth a Scotchwoman. 
 She first began to write for TJie Catholic Fireside, in which 
 appeared short lives of St. Cecilia, St. Benedict, St. Fran- 
 cis, and St. Ignatius, as well as several tales. She has 
 written the •■ Price of the Pearl," published by the Catholic 
 Truth Society, a sketch of Lady Clare Feilding for The 
 Catholic Magazific, and " Carmen's Secret," which, after 
 coming out in IVte Catholic .}fai:^azine, is to be republished 
 in book-form by the Catholic Truth Society.
 
 jfair H)orotb^ Milmot 
 
 BY BARONESS PAULINE VON HUGEL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Joan, Joan, what think you ? Her Grace and 
 my Lord Cardinal are dead ! " 
 
 The speaker was my dear lady, the beantiful Mis- 
 tress Dorothy Wilmot, and the event of which she 
 did apprise me was the death of the Queen of Eng- 
 land and her kinsman, Cardinal Pole. 
 
 " God rest their souls ! " I cried, suffering the 
 work I held to drop into my lap; " 'tis evil days we 
 have to look for now ! " 
 
 " Nay, Joan," said my mistress, " give not place 
 to doleful dumps — methinks thou art not unlike a 
 raven in thy black gown and with thy black eyes — 
 those black eyes of thine are wont to tinge what 
 they see with somewhat of their own hue. What 
 cause is there for fear? Will not the Lady Eliza- 
 beth be Queen now ? Stay, thou wert not by when 
 my father told of what took place but two weeks 
 ago ! 'Tis the King of Spain, it seems, hath fa- 
 vored her succession — is he not as good a Papist as 
 
 75
 
 ^6 FAIR DOROTHY WILMOT. 
 
 thyself ? And, to make the matter more secure, 
 Her Grace sent for the Lady Ehzabeth, and before 
 she would name her heir to the throne, required a 
 solemn promise of fidelity to the Catholic faith; and 
 then my Lady Elizabeth did confirm the sincerity 
 of her belief in the strongest words, and prayed 
 God that ' the earth might open and swallow her 
 up if she were not a true Roman Catholic' What 
 sayest thou now, Joan ? " 
 
 " That words are cheap. Mistress Dorothy, and 
 that perchance to the Lady Elizabeth England's 
 crown seemeth worth a lie — nay, be not angry — all 
 may be mighty well, but do men gather grapes of 
 thorns, or figs of thistles ? When they do, then 
 shall a daughter of King Henry and Anne Boleyn 
 be what we would have her be." 
 
 " And when a Queen shall be to thy entire liking, 
 then, my good Joan, shall we be living in Utopia, 
 the land of which that wise man, Thomas More, 
 did write. Was not Queen Mary too Catholic for 
 thy liking ? " 
 
 " Nay, not too Catholic," I made answer; " that 
 could not be; but persecution misliketh me sore; did 
 not the Lord of the harvest say that the wheat and 
 cockle should be suffered to grow together until 
 the end, when He, not Queen or Parliament, would 
 see to the burning of the cockle ? 'Tis not, believe 
 me, the best Catholics that have advised the excel- 
 lent Queen to these strong measures; 'tis rather 
 some who would have Her Grace think them good
 
 BAKOA^ESS PAULINE VON HUG EL. 77 
 
 Catholics by sho\Ying this unhallowed zeal, and 
 who, I misdoubt me sore, will be among the first 
 to shuffle off their ill-fitting Popery when their new 
 sovereign shall bid them do so." 
 
 My lady's blue eyes began to flash, and I dared 
 say no more. Somewhat haughtily she bade me get 
 together her best w^earing apparel, as full soon she 
 and her father would be travelling up to London 
 to see the new queen pass through the town in 
 state. " But thou canst tarry here an thou dost 
 list," she added coldly; " I can dispense thee from 
 thy service." 
 
 And so my lady left me to my thoughts. Why 
 was Mistress Dorothy thus discomposed ? The 
 reason was not far to seek, but ere I tell it, let me 
 say a few words touching other matters, and, first 
 of all, concerning Joan, her waiting-maid. My 
 mother had come over from Spain to the service of 
 Queen Katharine, had married in England, and 
 early left a widow, had sent me across the seas to 
 be brought up in a nunnery, while she took service 
 once more, this time W'ith my Lady Wilmot. That 
 lady soon learned to love the trusty waiting-woman 
 right w^ell, and it was through her good offices that 
 the little wench in the foreign convent, who had 
 displayed quick parts and a thirst for knowledge, 
 was trained up somewhat beyond her station. But 
 calamity was to befall poor Joan — she married 
 young, and she too, like her mother, was early 
 left a portionless widow, and then Joan's first
 
 78 FAIR DOROTHY WILMOT. 
 
 thought was to return to England and take ser- 
 vice with my Lady \\'ihnot, and if possible fill the 
 vacancy left by the sudden death of her valued 
 waiting-woman. I shall never forget my coming 
 unto Chesney Court, and my Lady Wilmot's kind- 
 ness. She was a most sweet lady, good and beau- 
 tiful, — though not so beautiful as Mistress Doro- 
 thy. The dear lady looked at me long and search- 
 ingly, and then she did embrace me. " God bless 
 thee, Joan," said she earnestly, " thou art come to 
 be to Dorothy what thy mother was to me, the 
 faithfullest of serving-women — but be thou yet 
 more than this. If I mistake not, thou canst read 
 men and women as well as books — be Dorothy's 
 friend when I am gone." 
 
 I marvelled at these words, but at that moment 
 entered my lord, and with him Mistress Dorothy. 
 
 How shall I describe my mistress as I first saw 
 her in the fair sunset of that summer evening ! 
 The maid was scarce sixteen years of age, tall and 
 most exceeding comely — her golden hair framed 
 a face fairer and sweeter than any I have ever seen. 
 Some little pride and wilfulness were, perchance, 
 written in the curves of the delicate lips; the blue 
 eyes looked resolute and true as well as loving, 
 but, above all, on the fair countenance there was 
 that look of candid innocence which, methinks, the 
 Lord must have seen writ on the brow of the young 
 man whom straightway, as He looked upon, He 
 loved. My heart as well as mine eyes had seemed
 
 BARONESS PAULINE VON HUGEL. 79 
 
 to travel forth to greet the comely maiden; I went 
 up to ]\Iistress Dorothy — my gift from God, given 
 by Him to fill the aching empty place in my heart. 
 *' I am your serving-woman and friend, madam, all 
 the days of my life," I said, bowing low before her. 
 She smiled, and the whole fair face seemed lit up 
 as though by brightest sunshine. 
 
 " Dear Joan," she said, stooping down to kiss 
 me, " nay, what a little body thou art to be so old 
 and wise ! Thou shalt teach me much of thy for- 
 eign lore, for I too have a mind to^ be learned." 
 
 At this my lord burst out a-laughing. " What 
 quoth he, " art thou not fair enough, Doll, to find 
 a husband whether thy head be full or empty ? " 
 
 Whereat Mistress Dorothy frowned, and tapped 
 her foot impatiently. " 'Tis for my own use, sir, 
 not a husband's," she made answer, " that I would 
 fain furnish my head." Whereat my lord laughed 
 the more, but my lady chid her daughter gently 
 for being too forward with her answers. 
 
 Soon after Joan's coming my lady's health, as 
 she doubtless had foreseen, began rapidly to de- 
 cline, and she grew so feeble ere the winter had 
 come 'twas a wonder slie had spirit enough left to 
 crave my lord to carry herself and all of us to Lon- 
 don to witness the most memorable and touching 
 sight I ever did behold. The Cardinal bearing the 
 Pope's pardon to this realm had been escorted in 
 triumph from Dover. At Gravesend he entered 
 the royal barge to which he did affix his silver rood
 
 8o FAIR DOROTHY WILMOT. 
 
 — ah, me ! 'twas goodly that the sign of our salva- 
 tion should be publicly honored in this land again. 
 And now, on the feast of St. Andrew, the Cardinal 
 did solemnly absolve the nation from its apostasy. 
 We knelt as we heard the great " Amen '' ring out 
 into the still air, and round about were strong men, 
 as well as women, weeping and striking their 
 breasts as they cried out, " This day are we born 
 again ! " 
 
 We received the Cardinal's blessing after the 
 Mass as he made his way past his kneeling fellow- 
 countrymen, from whom he had been an exile be- 
 cause of his fidelity to Rome. Then did we hurry 
 to Paul's Cross to hear Chancellor Gardiner preach 
 to the multitude, bewailing sore that he had not 
 withstood His Majesty as he ought touching the 
 supremacy, and calling on those who in times so 
 perilous had flinched or faltered, to seek Christ's 
 pardon with himself. But the crowning grace, it 
 seemed to me, was when the Most Holy Sacrament 
 was carried through the streets of the great city 
 that like Jerusalem had been so faithless to its 
 Lord — the banners gleamed, the censers waved, 
 and from a hundred hundred hearts and lips burst 
 forth the cry, " Lauda Sion salvatorem ! What 
 think you must those generous souls have felt who 
 through evil report, as well as now in good report, 
 who in prisons and stripes beyond measure had 
 ever remained faithful and true ? 
 
 That evening my lady retired to rest somewhat
 
 BARONESS PAULINE VON HUG EL. 8 1 
 
 early, wearied with the fatigues of the day. When 
 I had fulfilled my little duties about her person she 
 did take hold of my hand. " Joan," said she, a 
 happy light shining in her eyes, " I can sing my 
 * nunc dimittis ' now — England is Catholic and my 
 lord is reconciled unto the Church. My dear 
 daughter I leave unto thy care ; promise me, a 
 dying" woman, never to leave her, to help her 
 through the many perils of the world." 
 
 " I will serve her," I made answer, " all the days 
 of my life, but, alack! a poor waiting-woman scarce 
 a dozen years her senior, can hope for little influ- 
 ence over one of her quality and high spirit." 
 
 My lady sighed. " Ah, child," she said, " I am 
 leaving this world of lying shadows for the land of 
 truth and substance — thinkest thou my poor Doro- 
 thy's quality or fair face will avail her there ? Me- 
 thinks she may need a friend more than the poor- 
 est, most ill-conditioned wench in all this great 
 city. To thee do I this day most solemnly com- 
 mit her." 
 
 " I will do my best, my very best," I answered 
 through my tears, " that beyond Jordan Mistress 
 Dorothy and you may meet, never to part again," 
 
 Ere Christmastide had come and gone the poor 
 of Chesney Court had lost a constant friend, my 
 lord the best and gentlest of wives, and my dear 
 mistress, young, beautiful, and headstrong, was left 
 without a mother, to face the dangers of the great 
 world.
 
 82 FAIR DOROTHY WILMOT. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Four years passed by and Mistress Dorothy was 
 a child no longer. Her father was proud beyond 
 measure of his daughter's comeliness and parts; 
 moreover it was to her alone that he could look 
 to advancing the fame of his house, for other chil- 
 dren had he none. Yet more than one goodly al- 
 liance did Mistress Dorothy reject, till the day 
 came — ah, me, how well I mind it now ! — when, 
 casting her arms about my neck, she did cry, 
 " What think you, Joan ; I have parted with my 
 heart at last ! " 
 
 " To whom, dear soul ? " quoth I. " Unto some 
 one worthy of thy favor, I do trust, and of the right 
 sort touching religion ? " 
 
 " Yea," said she, with that smile like to sunshine, 
 " 'tis my Lord Erdleigh — is he not a good enough 
 Papist to please even thee, mine own dear Joan ? " 
 
 Her words sent a cold chill to my heart. Lord 
 Erdleigh was a gentleman nigh twenty years her 
 senior — handsome, rich, and in very good favor at 
 the court, but, alack! I wholly mistrusted him. In 
 the days of King Henry he had taken the oath of 
 supremacy, and in return had been rewarded with 
 a goodly share of Church property ; his zeal had 
 gone further in his late Majesty's reign — he was a 
 stanch upholder of the new doctrines and had 
 been, so it was rumored, the familiar friend of Cran-
 
 BAKOiVESS PA ULINE VON HUGEL. 83 
 
 mer. He was a zealous Papist now, none could 
 deny that ; more than once at assemblies had he 
 dropped his beads from his doublet, and on his 
 friends making somewhat merry thereat, had re- 
 plied gravely, *' I always carry the like about with 
 me to insure the protection of Heaven," More- 
 over, he was one of those who most advised the 
 Queen sternly to persecute heretics, and affected 
 to be sore scandalized with some of the English 
 hierarchy, and Cardinal Pole in especial, for say- 
 ing: " Bishops should look on those who erred as 
 sick children, and not for that to slay them," and 
 that " Bishops ought not to seek the death, but 
 rather to instruct the ignorance of their misguided 
 brethren." 
 
 " Oh, my dear, dear lady ! " was all I could say, 
 in deep distress. 
 
 " Nay, what ails thee ? " she cried impatiently. 
 " Hath not my lord found favor with Her Majesty 
 — be not that a pledge of loyalty to Rome ? " 
 
 " A better would have been," I answered boldly, 
 " had he been reconciled to the Church of Christ, 
 without waiting first to be assured that he should 
 retain his ill-gotten goods. Would there were 
 more like Her Majesty, who hath given up many 
 thousands of yearly revenue, saying with noble 
 spirit to those who would have withheld her there- 
 from, ' I value the peace of my conscience more 
 than ten such crowns as that of England.' " 
 
 Woe's me ! In my zeal how had I lacked dis-
 
 84 FAIR DOROTHY WILMOT. 
 
 cretion ! Mistress Dorothy was a great lover of 
 my lord, her father — he had never gone so far as 
 my Lord Erdleigh, either against Pope or lieretics, 
 but he had waited for reconcilement with the 
 Church till the Cardinal had brought assurances 
 from Rome that holders of monastic property 
 should be left in undisturbed possession. I could 
 plainly see by Mistress Dorothy's visage that I had 
 displeased her sore. 
 
 " 'Tis easy work for those who have nothing to 
 win or lose to talk mightily magnanimous," she 
 said haughtily, " but I counsel thee, Joan, an thou 
 wouldst tarry with me, to mind and mend thy man- 
 ners, since my husband will not be one to brook 
 churlishness or froward speeches." 
 
 " Bid me not to leave thee ! " I cried passion- 
 ately; " Vv^ho will ever love thee as I do ? Ah, mis- 
 tress mine, is not thy heart great enough to pardon 
 a few slips in courtesy in view of a life's devotion ? 
 Art thou like the rest of the world ? must I fawn 
 and flatter, and say peace, peace, when I know 
 there is no peace ? may I never for one moment 
 forget thy quality and my nothingness, and re- 
 member only that we are both Christian women 
 who have the same God to serve, who belong to 
 the same great Church, who are hoping for the 
 same glorious heaven ? " 
 
 Mistress Dorothy's eyes had grown very gentle 
 ere I had ceased speaking. 
 
 " Fear nothing, dear heart," said she; "no one in
 
 BARONESS PAULINE VON HUGEL. 85 
 
 all Christendom shall part us two — I promise it 
 thee in my dead mother's name. But why mis- 
 doubt me so ? Dost thou think I would marry my 
 lord did I not believe him to be a true Catholic ? 
 Why am I bound to believe evil of one who hath 
 proved himself so zealous ? Methinks I am a bet- 
 ter Christian than thou art, for I be less severe in 
 my judgments. Hadst thou been one of the chosen 
 twelve, sure it is thou wouldst have warned the 
 Lord against trusting Blessed Peter any more, and 
 declined him as thy head after his denial. Hath 
 my lord done worse than Blessed Peter ? " 
 
 I caught hold of her hand as I said : " My 
 child, my mistress, my dear one, wilt thou give this 
 hand of thine to a man of blood ? 'Tis true the 
 best may fall, but when they rise again they are 
 merciful, they persecute no man, be he the worst 
 of heretics — think of those awful burnings." 
 
 Mistress Dorothy shuddered as she cried : 
 " Enough, enough ! we women are altogether too 
 tender ; we understand not such matters. If I 
 were Queen, 'tis certain no felon should be put to 
 death, and then what would become of the safety 
 of the realm ? Is it not worse to kill the soul 
 than the body. If 'tis lawful to put to death one 
 who taketh the life of the body, is it less lawful to 
 put to death one who goeth about destroying 
 souls ? Nay, I will not argue more, my mind is 
 made up; I imll marry my lord." 
 
 " When ? " I asked in deep dejection.
 
 86 FAIR DOROTHY WILMOT. 
 
 " Nay, there be no haste in the matter," said 
 she, smiHng. " Her Grace's health is fast giving 
 way; 'tis hardly meet for a courtier to be thinking 
 of marriage just now." 
 
 I breathed more freely — Mistress Dorothy 
 might still be saved ! And now methinks I have 
 brought you back to the beginning of my story. 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 My dear lady's anger was but short-lived. She 
 came to me that very same evening and said : 
 " Thou art a troublesome woman, Joan, but for all 
 that I love thee — thou shalt doff thy black gown 
 and travel to London, and cry, ' Long live Queen 
 Bess ! ' with the bravest of us." 
 
 " Nay," I said, laughing, " 'tis not likely Her 
 Majesty's eyes will pitch upon so small a body in 
 so great a throng, but I am happy to be going with 
 thee." 
 
 " Go to ! thou foolish woman," the maid inter- 
 rupted gayly, " who could settle my gear but thou? 
 Thou shouldst know thine own worth better, 
 then wouldst thou be but little moved at my 
 naughty threats." 
 
 'Twas a goodly show, that court procession, 
 'twere useless to deny it. I was seated in a little 
 coign of vantage at a casement behind Mis- 
 tress Dorothy, where we could conveniently view 
 the whole of that great pageant. But a mist over-
 
 BAKONESS PAULINE VON HUGEL. 87 
 
 spread my eyes as a remembrance of the last pageant 
 I had seen in the self-same city arose as a vision 
 before me. I saw once more the censers wave 
 and the banners gleam, the kneehng multitudes, 
 and then the good Cardinal, loyal and true, bear- 
 Him aloft, our Life, to bless us as He went by, yea, 
 to bless us, and be blessed — " Pange lingua," 
 " Lauda Sion salvatorem " — I heard the strains 
 again, " Long live Queen Bess ! " " Three cheers 
 for Her Highness ! " " God bless your Majesty ! " 
 These cries brought me back to the present with 
 a start. I looked down and, lo, I did behold our 
 new Queen ! There was a slight block in the 
 crowd, and I had leisure to note well Her Majesty's 
 face — alack ! it misliked me sore. Her bearing was 
 full queenly, and upon her countenance 'twas easy 
 to read a strong will, a clear judgment, a ready wit, 
 wisdom to conceive a plan, and power to carry it 
 out. But I saw still more clearly writ upon that sa- 
 gacious visage, meanness, cruelty, treachery. My 
 gaze seemed spellbound upon the cold blue eyes 
 and the thin, compressed lips with their evil smile. 
 As I thus looked my fill, the Queen glanced upward, 
 and she for a moment seemed spellbound in her 
 turn. 'Twas little wonder,! thought, as I turned me 
 round. The sun was shining full upon my comely 
 mistress; methought I had never seen her so daz- 
 zling in beauty before. Flushed and radiant, she 
 was leaning forward crying out, " God. bless the 
 Oueen ! " For an instant a frown darkened that
 
 88 FAIR DOROTHY WILMOT. 
 
 smiling royal face, as her majesty turned to one of 
 her escort — methought to inquire the name of the 
 beautiful maiden. The gentleman looked upward 
 — 'twas no other than my Lord Erdleigh — I could 
 see pleasure and pride writ in his glance as he did 
 greet his fair betrothed, but only a look of humble 
 deference was left as. bowing low before Her 
 Majesty, he made answer to her question. 
 
 The next moment the pageant had passed on, 
 and my dear mistress, clapping her little hands, 
 cried out: " What say you, Joan, does she not look 
 every inch a Queen ? But she be not over well- 
 favored — 'twould be grievous methinks to have 
 such red hair. Of the twain 'twould please me bet- 
 ter to have thy black locks though they be some- 
 what sad-looking. Didst note how nigh unto the 
 Queen rode my Lord Erdleigh ? He be good 
 friends with Sir William Cecil, who doth stand so 
 well with Her Highness." 
 
 " Yea," I remarked with some disdain, " 'tis 
 bruited that, seeing her late Majesty misdoubted 
 her of his piety. Sir William Cecil said 'twas well 
 to withdraw allegiance from the setting to the ris- 
 ing sun." 
 
 My Lord Erdleigh waited upon Mistress Doro- 
 thy and her father that evening. Methought my 
 dear lady wore a somewiiat troubled look after the 
 interview, but it dispelled as, showing me a mighty 
 fair bejewelled ring and necklet, the gifts of my 
 lord, she said, right earnestly : " Joan, h^ doth
 
 BAKONESS PAULINE VON HUG EL. 89 
 
 in good truth honor and cherish me; I be assured 
 of that. It seemeth Her Highness is known to be 
 a scant favorer of the marriage of courtiers, and 
 doth reckon a fair face as somewhat of a crime. 
 She did ask after my name this day, and when my 
 lord had told it, she said sharply, ' Rumor hath it, 
 my lord, that you be about to wed that waxen 
 Doll, or Dorothy, or whatever be her name.' But 
 my lord saith that by good contrivance all will be 
 well, and that for no queen in Christendom would 
 he give me up." 
 
 " And touching matters of faith what saith my 
 lord ? " quoth I. 
 
 The troubled look came back to the sweet, can- 
 did face. " Ah, dear heart," she said, " 'tis sad ! 
 The new Queen is bent upon requiring the oath of 
 supremacy, but my Lord saith she will stop there — 
 she will go no further than His IMajesty, her father, 
 who thou knowest full well continued Catholic 
 unto the end." 
 
 " Not so," I said firmly. " As well would ye seek 
 to have a ship without a helm, a house without a 
 roof, or a man without a head, as a Catholic with- 
 out the Pope." 
 
 " Joan," said my mistress sadly, "I was not made 
 for such deep matters — I leave them to older and 
 wiser heads than mine. I love the holy faith, but 
 leave me the Church's blessed sacraments, Christ's 
 dear ]\Iother, the ]\Iass. and all the goodly things 
 we prize, what mattereth it to Dorothy Wilmot
 
 90 FAIR DOROTHY WILMOT. 
 
 whether the Pope in Rome, or the Queen in Lon- 
 don, be called head ? If there be sin in the matter, 
 the sin will lie at the door of Her Highness, not 
 at the door of such of her loyal subjects as do but 
 obey the Scriptures, that bid us be submissive to 
 our rulers. Nay, Joan, trouble me not with thy 
 disputations, which serve but to give me the head- 
 ache. I must e'en let my lord think and decide 
 for me." And thus ended a memorable and, to 
 me, most sad day. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Many months passed by at Chesney Court much 
 after the wonted manner, save for the not infre- 
 quent comings of my Lord Erdleigh, who said if 
 he but steered his bark aright, full confident was he 
 of obtaining the royal sanction for his union. Thus 
 hoped I ever against hope, that what I so greatly 
 feared might be averted. Methought, though my 
 lord loved my mistress, he yet loved power and ad- 
 vancement more. The two loves seemed hard to 
 reconcilement, and I felt assured which of the 
 twain would be banished from his heart, if need 
 compelled a choice. Mayhap I misjudged him 
 herein, not reckoning sufficiently upon the magic 
 spell m}^ dear mistress did ever cast over all who 
 came nigh unto her person. Certain it is that my 
 lord was loyal to her, and in the end obtained a 
 somewhat ungracious consent from the Queen,
 
 BAKO.VESS PAULINE VON HUGEL. 9 1 
 
 through the good offices of his friend Sir WilHam 
 Cecil. 
 
 Lord Erdleigh's country seat was situate but 
 some ten miles from Chesney Court, for which 
 thing Mistress Dorothy's father was right glad, 
 for, said he, " I shall gain me a son, and shall lose 
 no daughter." 
 
 " God help the father of such a son," thought I, 
 as I looked at the cold, well-favored visage of Lord 
 Erdleigh. 
 
 Mistress Dorothy, who knew by many a little to- 
 ken that no love was lost between her betrothed 
 and me, would chide me often and say, " Go to, 
 thou foolish Joan ! Dost thou think 'tis some 
 cuckoo come to dislodge thee from thy nest within 
 my heart ? — but my heart be big enough for the 
 two of ye." 
 
 " Sweet soul," I cried one day, " indeed it is not 
 thus with me. I would be dislodged and banished 
 from thy heart this moment could I but further 
 thereby thy best interests, thy soul's eternal inter- 
 ests." 
 
 " Joan, Joan, be not afraid," she made answer, 
 a passing shadow resting upon that sunny face. " I 
 will be faithful to my Church as well as to my 
 lord — fear not, 'twill all be well." 
 
 And now within a month this dreaded union was 
 to take place. What should I do ? What could I 
 do ? Methinks mine angel guardian must have 
 whispered a thought of hope to me in my deep de-
 
 92 FAIR DOROTHY WILMOt. 
 
 jection. " Knowest thou not, faint heart, that St. 
 Bernard saith, none ever implored the help of the 
 virgin Mother of God in vain. ' No one,' saith 
 he, not * no saint,' ' no faithful soul,' but just plainly 
 ' no one,' that is no one at all. Before the feast of 
 her Visitation this ill-omened match shall be broken 
 off — how I knolu not, but our own St. Anselm 
 saith, ' Crede tamen quod juvamen per earn re- 
 cipias.' " 
 
 The time was drawing very near, my dear lady's 
 wedding apparel was all ready, but still I hoped 
 and prayed on, " No one, no one, O blessed 
 Mother," I would v/hisper to myself, when I grew 
 of small comfort. 
 
 At length one morning Mistress Dorothy called 
 me to her — she held a letter in her hand. 
 
 " Joan," she said, smiling, " we will ride over 
 this day to Erdleigh Castle with my father. My 
 lord saith it will honor him greatly if I will choose 
 the special chambers that please me best, that he 
 may have them hung with the finest tapestries and 
 adorned for my use. I warrant we find a conven- 
 ient chamber for thee, too, dear Joan." 
 
 The letter she held was open and unfolded. My 
 sight is quick and I noticed an underlined adden- 
 dum on the back of the large paper. " Pardon 
 me," quoth I, " but hast thou noted the postscript 
 to this letter ? " 
 
 " Nay," said she, hastily turning it over. She 
 looked a little discomposed as she said : " He
 
 BAKONESS PAULINE VON HUG EL. 93 
 
 doth add that if this message arrive earher than he 
 doth reckon for, he would beg of me not to visit 
 Erdleigh till next week, as his servitors have his ar- 
 mory and other chambers to set in order, which had 
 best be done ere we visit the place — 'tis no matter 
 though, my father hath ordered out the horses. 
 We will go this day, Joan." 
 
 ''Had we not best wait ?" I said faintly; any- 
 thing, everything that seemed to bring the mar- 
 riage less near was wondrous welcome to me. But 
 my mistress little brooked delays once her mind 
 was made up. 
 
 " Go on ! " she cried. '' Thinkest thou my lord 
 hath a Bluebeard's closet that he would hide from 
 view ? If it matters not to me to find the place in 
 disarray, it will matter nothing to him either — 
 w^e will e'en go, the more so as the day is full 
 pleasant." 
 
 My heart grew very heavy as we rode along. 
 Mistress Dorothy was in high spirits, and my lord 
 her father was bantering her most of the way. It 
 was easy to see how much he liked the match, for 
 all the talk turned on the good prospects of the 
 two houses. " And what of our trusty Joan ? " 
 said my lord, in his kind, frank way; "what pre- 
 ferment shall she have ? Methinks she looketh 
 somewhat gloomstruck for such joyful times." 
 
 Mistress Dorothy glanced at me somewhat un- 
 easily; the dear soul was open as the day, and knew 
 of no concealments even in petty matters. " Joan
 
 94 FAIR DOROTHY WILMOT. 
 
 hath a finer conscience than we be gifted with," 
 she answered Hghtly; " it misHketh her that my 
 lord hath taken the oath of supremacy to Her 
 Highness." 
 
 My lord's visage waxed somewhat red. " Well, 
 well," said he, " 'tis not a matter for young heads 
 and womanfolk to meddle with." 
 
 " Pardon me," I said, his constant kindness em- 
 boldening me to speak, "'tis over-bold, but I would 
 fain know what course the Lord Wilmot meaneth 
 to take — can he doubt which it is that the sainted 
 lady who is now in heaven is praying that he may 
 choose ? " 
 
 I saw the tears rise to the eyes of the best of mas- 
 ters. 
 
 " Thou art altogether too bold for thy sex and 
 station, Joan," he made answer, " but if thou must 
 needs know, we in the country lag behind the fre- 
 quenters of the great city. I know not yet how 
 I shall act — time enough, time enough — what saith 
 the Scripture, * sufficit diei malitia sua.' Canst 
 thou gainsay the wisdom of that ? " But Mistress 
 Dorothy, laughing somewhat uneasily, bid him re- 
 member zvho it was that could betimes quote the 
 Holy Scriptures. 
 
 As we were not looked for, my lord bid us dis- 
 mount at the castle gates, and telling the servants 
 to take the horses to the village hostelry, we made 
 our way to the great house. The doors were stand- 
 ing open — indeed, the whole building was in great
 
 BAKONESS PA ULIXE VON HUGEL. 9$ 
 
 confusion, waiting men and maids were running 
 hither and thither, setting to rights the mansion 
 that had not been much used by its owner of late 
 years. My Lord Wilmot, hke the true EngHsh 
 gentleman that he was, straightway betook himself 
 to the kennels and stables. My dear mistress 
 darted hither and thither with many an exclama- 
 tion of, " What think you, Joan ? I had scarce 
 credited it was sO' big a place ! This be a fine 
 chamber in good sooth — methinks this is the best 
 of the withdrawing rooms." Suddenly I remem- 
 bered Lord Erdleigh having once long ago praised 
 his chapel, and the massing stuff and other rare 
 things therein contained, and notably an ancient 
 image of Our Lady, said to be miraculous, that 
 the monks used to honor in the days gone by. Me- 
 t bought the holy spot would suit my heavy 
 heart far better than these grand chambers. Un- 
 heeded by any one, I made my quest first at one 
 end of the building, then at the other. At length 
 going up a flight of steps, I did come upon what I 
 guessed must be the entrance to the chapel. It 
 was a vestibule in which stood a stoup for holy wa- 
 ter. Over the doorway were painted the words 
 " Domus Dei, porta coeli." I entered the chapel, 
 but to my surprise found it completely empty. 
 
 As I was turning to go away after noting the 
 beauty of the groined roof and oak panelling, a 
 great noise in the court beneath drew me to the 
 casement. I looked without, and what I saw
 
 g6 FAIR DOROTHY WILMOT. 
 
 doth haunt me still, and will, unto my dying day. 
 Some of the servitors had apparelled themselves in 
 the sacred vestments; one was swinging a censer, 
 yet another was holding aloft a rood of rough work- 
 manship to the derision of the rest. Meanwhile 
 some half-drunken fellows, singing a song fit to 
 make the angels weep, were lighting a bonfire 
 into which they did cast first one holy thing and 
 then another. They had brought forth the old 
 time-honored image of the blessed Mother, and 
 were about to cast it into the flames. 
 
 For a moment I stood rooted to the spot with 
 dismay, then as I ran down into the courtyard be- 
 neath I cried aloud : " Blasphemers, cowards, 
 traitors all of ye, how will ye answer to your mas- 
 ter for this ? " 
 
 " Heyday ! what have we here ? " cried one. 
 " Dost wish, mistress, for some of this massing stuff 
 to make thyself a Sunday's kirtle with ? 'Tis not 
 so fine neither, for my lord hath long ago carried 
 away the best to make hangings for the chamber 
 of my lady that is to be. Thou shouldst have seen 
 the chalice, or cress — which be we to call it now ? — • 
 'twas covered with fair jewels — they have servefl 
 for a necklet and ring for my lady, it seemeth. 'Tis 
 a shame to have left us naught but this rubbish." 
 llieir evil pranks were about to begin again, when 
 suddenly there fell a silence upon the unhallowed 
 crowd, as one man cried out : " Here cometh my 
 lord," and Lord Erdleigh, in travelling-dress,
 
 BARONESS PAULINE VON HUG EL. 97 
 
 betokening that he had but jnst arrived, walked 
 into the midst of them. 
 
 " What be all this tomfoolery ? " he said coldly, 
 " and whom have we here ? " he added, frowning, 
 as his glance fell upon me. " Mistress Joan, ye 
 would be better employed at Chesney Court, at- 
 tending to the coifs and gowns of the fairest lady 
 in England, than at Erdleigh Castle mixing in the 
 revels of some drunken clowns." 
 
 " My lord," I cried, " this is not the time for me 
 to explain, but, oh, see what these men have done ! 
 They are mocking the rood, they have impiously 
 donned the sacred vestments, they be about to 
 burn that image of the blessed Mother." 
 
 " What shall I do to them ? " he said in mocking 
 tones. " Perchance thou knowest not that the 
 fires of Smithfield have gone out, but shall I cast 
 these idle fellows into yon flames ? " 
 
 " We have only obeyed my lord's orders," one 
 man said sullenly. 
 
 " How now, sirrah ? " quoth my lord angrily, 
 " did I ever say to make all this hubbub, and to get 
 in half the village for an orgy ? " 
 
 " Your lordship said not so, but ordered all the 
 remaining Popish stuff to be carted away out of 
 the chapel, which was to be turned into the ar- 
 mory. If my lord had tarried away until the mor- 
 row, when he was expected, he would have found 
 the work complete — no sign of the chapel left — 
 though in good sooth there be not much trace left
 
 98 FAIR DOROTHY WILMOT, 
 
 now, saving some Latin lines and a vat for that 
 water which the devil abhorreth," the man added 
 with a laugh. 
 
 " Bid the men take off these trumpery rags and 
 cast them into the fire to be burnt with this old 
 scarecrow of a wonder-working image," said my 
 lord, kicking the statue contemptuously towards 
 the flames. " I would have them cease their tom- 
 foolery and get on with their work." 
 
 "Hold!" cried a clear ringing voice, in tones like 
 those, methinks, with which the wondrous Maid of 
 Orleans must have led her men to victory or death. 
 My lord and I looked up at the same moment. 
 At the chapel window, looking down upon the 
 hideous scene, stood Mistress Dorothy; her face 
 was white and there was a look of horror in the 
 wide-opened eyes, but none of fear — that was a 
 look no one hath ever seen on Dorothy Wilmot's 
 face. " My lord, you will order that image of the 
 holy Mother of God to be rescued from the flames 
 instantly, or, by Heaven ! I will come down and 
 rescue it myself." 
 
 Lord Erdleigh looked at her for a moment lost 
 in astonishment. " How came you hither ? " he 
 then cried. " Any commands of yours shall be at 
 once obeyed." The half-charred image was 
 brought to my lord, who asked if there were any 
 further orders for his men. " Yea," she cried, still 
 in that ringing voice, and with the look of horror 
 still in the great blue eyes, " bring it to me hither —
 
 BARONESS PAULINE VON HUG EL. 99 
 
 and the rood and the massing stuff and the 
 censer." 
 
 " Hath she gone mad ? " I heard a man mutter 
 as he carried up the things; " 'tis nothing but 
 charred rubbish. What can she want with it ? " 
 
 Lord Erdleigh and I followed him to the chapel. 
 The crowd of revellers had dispersed, and the wait- 
 ing-man withdrew after bringing up his burden. 
 " And now, my lord," quoth Mistress Dorothy, 
 walking up to him, " will you gift me with these 
 things ? " He bowed low and waited for her to 
 proceed. " 'Tis the first gift I have ever asked, 
 and the last I shall ever accept from thee," she 
 continued. Her hands w^ere clasped, and I noted 
 that within them she held the fair bejewelled ring 
 and necklet. " I cannot give back these to yoUy' 
 she cried, " for they were not yours to give me, 
 you robbed them from the Holy of holies — to 
 God must they be restored. Know that sooner 
 would I starve, sooner would I be burnt, than have 
 any more dealings with such an one as you." 
 
 " Ah, you will repent of this — you will indeed 
 repent of it," said my lord, moved from his usual 
 formal bearing by an emotion that was not anger, 
 
 " Never," she answered firmly, " never shall I 
 repent me of throwing in my lot, at last, with what 
 is great and true and holy — with the Church of 
 Christ; I thank Him, oh ! I thank Him that it is 
 not yet too late." 
 
 " Fair, wilful child," he said, looking at her with
 
 100 FAIR DOROTHY WILMOT. 
 
 compassion and tenderness, " mayhap the days 
 were when I, too, might have thought like you ; 
 but it is all a dream; cast not away preferment, 
 love, honor, wealth, happiness, for a dream, a 
 shadow." 
 
 " Thy words do not even tempt me," she made 
 answer; " the esteem in which I held thee is dead 
 and gone. Never again could I touch thy sacri- 
 legious hand even in common friendship; go, my 
 lord, go and worship ' the rising sun ' — when the 
 first smart is over thou wilt bless — not Heaven, 
 such a man as thou has naught to do with Heaven 
 — but the stars — thy destiny — that thou hast no 
 Popish wife to bring a cloud between thee and the 
 rising sun." At this moment I espied my lord 
 her father hurrying across the court, 'twas evident 
 he had been apprised* somewhat of what had taken 
 place. In another moment he was apprised of the 
 rest. " And now what say you to the wilfullest as 
 well as the fairest lady in all England ? " quoth 
 my Lord Erdleigh. 
 
 My master's visage had waxed very red and he 
 looked sore discomfited. " Nay," he said, grow- 
 ing more resolute as he proceeded, " perchance — 
 perchance — Doll hath acted right. Methought — - 
 God help me — to be wiser than the Eternal Wis- 
 dom that said, ' Ye cannot serve two masters.' 
 The good Cardinal reconciled me to the Master I 
 had forsaken — no, sith the royal supremacy doth
 
 BARONESS PAULINE VON HUGEL. lOI 
 
 bring so much of evil in its train — I — I am on the 
 side of the Pope." 
 
 " Ye know not, ye know not," Lord Erdleigh 
 said earnestly, " to what ye be pledging yourselves; 
 I do happen to be apprised thereof — 'twill mean 
 fines, imprisonment, the rack, the dungeon — death 
 itself methinks." 
 
 " The color came back to Mistress Dorothy's 
 face, she lifted her head with noble courage — 
 never had I seen her look fairer than as she made 
 answer : " My lord, we have but one parting 
 word to say — we do intend to serve Him who said, 
 * Fear not them that kill the body, but fear Him 
 who can destroy both soul and body in hell.' It is 
 He who hath promised that as the day is, so shall 
 our strength be." 
 
 -1* -r T* -K ^ 
 
 In a convent chapel beyond the seas there is used 
 a fair chalice set with jewels. An image of the 
 blessed Mother, charred and blackened as though 
 by fire, is honored there, and the abbess, a woman 
 of mature years, prayeth before it night and morn. 
 An aged sister with more love than skill hath in- 
 scribed these words on a scroll beneath it : " No 
 one hath ever had recourse to thy protection with- 
 out obtaining relief." The name of the sister, it is 
 said, used to be Joan, and the abbess was known 
 in that world whose " fashion passeth away" as 
 " Fair Dorothy Wilmot.''
 
 LADY AMABEL KERR. 
 
 Lady Amabel Kerr, daughter of the sixth Earl Cowper, 
 was born in 1846. She was received into the Catholic 
 Church in 1872, and the following year was married to 
 Admiral Lord Waiter Kerr. She is the author of a number 
 of books, among them : " Unravelled Convictions," being 
 the reasons for her conversion ; " Before Our Lord Came," 
 an Old Testament history for little children; "A Mixed 
 Marriage," a novel ; " Life of Joan of Arc," and " Life of 
 Blessed Sebastian Valfre." She is at present the editor of 
 The Catholic AFai^azitic, the organ of the Catholic Truth 
 Society, and is on the committee of the Society.
 
 5ust MF3at was Mantel. 
 
 BY LADY AMABEL KERR. 
 
 The devastating effects of the Protestant 
 Reformation on the reHgious hfe of the EngHsh 
 people remind us of those of the great geological 
 upheavals of prehistoric times. Fragments of 
 truth, some large, some infinitesimally small, and 
 bearing a greater or lesser resemblance to the great 
 rock of Catholic dogma from which they have been 
 severed, are to be found scattered about through 
 the length and breadth of the land. Among such 
 fragments we venture to think that the largest are 
 to be found, not, as some might say, in the high 
 Anglicanism of the day, in spite of its careful imita- 
 tion of the Church's doctrines and ceremonies, but 
 in those rural districts where faith and the love of 
 God have been kept alive by dissenting revivals. 
 Though the idea and name of the sacraments have 
 been lost as well as their reality, a personal and 
 realizing love of our blessed Lord has survived as 
 the one great fact in these simple people's lives — a 
 love which, besides the higher graces which it en- 
 tails, gives a nobility, and almost a romance, to ex- 
 istences which without it would be to the last 
 
 105
 
 I06 JUST WHAT WAS WANTED. 
 
 degree prosaic and flat. It is the story of one such 
 as these, whose fidelity to the gHmmerings of light 
 vouchsafed to her was rewarded in God's own way, 
 that we have to tell in these pages, 
 
 Martha Gray, a plain, middle-aged woman, poor 
 and imperfectly educated, dwelt by herself in a 
 little straw-thatched cottage on the outskirts of 
 
 Appleton, a village in the County of . She 
 
 had refrained from marriage, and had devoted her- 
 self with patient, unconscious heroism to the care 
 of her old parents, bedridden and feeble in mind. 
 It was now some years since they had both passed 
 to another life, and Martha dwelt alone in the home 
 of which for more than twenty years she had been 
 the bread-winner. 
 
 There was nothing in Martha's surroundings to 
 raise her from what was strictly commonplace. 
 The country round, though rural, was bereft of 
 natural beauty, and her neighbors were far from 
 elevated. There was no great poverty in Apple- 
 ton, but the rate of weekly wage was low, the labor 
 to be performed was monotonous and deadening, 
 the homes slatternly and unattractive, and the 
 public-houses almost absurdly numerous. There 
 reigned throughout the place an atmosphere of 
 moral torpor accompanied by what must be called 
 a brutish moral depravity, startling to those who 
 think that innocence must prevail where the grass 
 grows green and where the sun's rays are unim- 
 peded.
 
 LADY AMABEL KERR. 10/ 
 
 Yet, in the midst of such surroundings, plain 
 Martha Gray Hved in a beautiful mystical world of 
 her own, illumined by a ray of that divine love 
 which raised St. Teresa and St. Gertrude from 
 earth to heaven, and had made its way through the 
 mists of heresy into this poor English peasant's 
 soul. Her interior life was one of keenest joy, 
 spent moment by moment in the presence of Our 
 Lord, and in a realizing conformity of her will to 
 His. 
 
 True to her Protestant creed Martha was her 
 own spiritual guide, and her own judgment was her 
 sole rule of faith. Her parents had been Metho- 
 dists, but she said she did not altogether " hold 
 with them;" nor did she attach herself to any par- 
 ticular body. Sometimes she attended the VVes- 
 leyan chapel, but, though she repudiated the idea 
 of being a " churchwoman," she generally found 
 her way to the parish church. There was some- 
 thing in the dignity and rhythm of the grand old 
 prayers which appealed to her soul. She loved 
 the hymns, and the music of the organ even as 
 evoked by the village schoolmistress. Her nature 
 liked the reserve, monotonous though it might be, 
 of the Church of England service better than the 
 emotionalism of the meeting-house. It is true that 
 her own spiritual life was based entirely on the 
 emotions, but she preferred to keep these for the 
 privacy of her own fireside, where, while she sat 
 and worked at the straw plait by which she earned
 
 I08 JUST WHAT WAS WANTED. 
 
 her living, she would repeat passages of Scripture 
 and verses from her favorite hymns, till the emo- 
 tions kindled by the words gave a look almost of 
 inspiration to her plain countenance. 
 
 It was strange that the only thing for which 
 Martha's gentle heart cherished hatred was the 
 Church of God, the spouse of Christ. " Do I not 
 hate them that hate Thee ! " she would murmur 
 fervently as she mused on the evil deeds of this 
 supposed enemy of Christ. Needless to say that 
 it was a figment of her brain, or rather the inven- 
 tions of those less innocent than herself, on which 
 she expended her jealous hatred; and she proved 
 its unreality by her distinct predilection for Catho- 
 lic books of devotion when, it stands to reason, she 
 did not know they were Catholic. In her small 
 library no volume, next to her Bible, was so well 
 thumbed as the " Imitation of Christ," shorn, as 
 was the fashion some years ago, of its fourth book. 
 The parson, an old-fashioned Evangelical, had 
 been shocked by the sight of the volume on her 
 table, and told her it was a Romish abomination. 
 " Oh, no, sir," she replied with grave dignity, " I 
 think you are mistook. It is all about the love of 
 Christ and not a word about the Virgin Mary. 
 Maybe, sir, you have not read it." — " Not I ! " he 
 replied; "but I know all about It, and take warn- 
 ing, my good woman, * there's death In the pot ! ' " 
 
 Martha habitually resented any attempt either to 
 interfere with her or offer her advice. She had no
 
 LADY AMABEL A'EKR. IO9 
 
 hesitation in considering her own opinion as her 
 surest guide, and was, moreover, strongly pos- 
 sessed of the logically Protestant qualities of self- 
 respect and proper pride, which among those out- 
 side are made to do the work of higher motives. 
 Humility, with her sister Obedience, are virtues of 
 which the Church still has the monopoly. But, on 
 the other hand, Martha could give advice. She 
 knew that she was held in high esteem by many 
 of her neighbors, who considered her the best 
 Christian in the place. She knew the position she 
 held, and, without positive spiritual pride, accepted 
 it, and, when others turned to her for advice, gave 
 it, and thanked the Lord for having spoken to her. 
 It was, therefore, with no surprise that she re- 
 ceived one November day a message that Florence 
 Scott wished to see her at once. It is true that her 
 countenance assumed a severe expression. She had 
 led a blameless, perhaps untempted, life herself, and 
 her horror of such sin as this girl's made her a little 
 stern towards the sinner. Poor Florrie ! hers was a 
 sad story. Alas ! it was no new thing in Appleton 
 that girls should fall from the path of virtue, yet her 
 fall created a sensation. Her parents were so well- 
 to-do, and they and she had always held their heads 
 so high, that something better was expected of her. 
 Scott, the father, besides being the owner of about 
 ten high-rented cottages, was a leading member of 
 the Baptist community, and a preacher. As for 
 the mother, she kept a maid-servant, and the lace
 
 no JUST WHAT WAS WANTED. 
 
 mittens on her delicate hands proved that they 
 were never soiled with manual work. Florence 
 had been educated at a genteel boarding-school at 
 L ; and when her so-called education was fin- 
 ished she had been placed in a millinery establish- 
 ment in the same town. That was three years 
 before this November afternoon, and she had held 
 but slight communication with her family since. 
 Then, a few weeks before, she had come home — 
 and what a home-coming ! The news of her 
 shame and fall had been as a thunderbolt to her 
 parents, and close on the news came the girl her- 
 self. She knocked at the door late one evening, 
 and fell senseless across the threshold, and they 
 could see she was dying. Even the sense of the 
 disgrace she had brought on them could not make 
 the Scotts turn her away, and now she lay awaiting 
 death under their roof. 
 
 When Martha, accompanied by Mrs. Scott, en- 
 tered Florrie's room, she could plainly see that the 
 poor girl's days were numbered. " Martha," she 
 said in a feverish whisper as soon as they were 
 alone, " you're a good woman, I know, and care for 
 people's souls more than anything else. For God's 
 
 sake, Martha, go to B and fetch a priest to 
 
 me." 
 
 " A priest, child, a Popish priest ! " said Martha 
 in astonishment. " But, Florrie girl, you're not a 
 Papist ? " 
 
 " I am, Martha, I am," the dying girl gasped.
 
 LADY AMABEL KERR. Ill 
 
 " It was two years ago — but there, I have no 
 strength to tell you how I became a Catholic. It 
 was before all this sin and sorrow came on me, and 
 I've never been nigh the church since. And now 
 I'm dying ; and before it is too late fetch me a 
 priest." 
 
 But Martha set her lips tight. " I don't know 
 how I could abet it," she replied. " Put your trust 
 in the Lord Jesus, poor sinner. He is your salva- 
 tion. Don't put your trust in Popish priests and 
 mummeries." And, so saying, she knelt down by 
 the bed and began to pray aloud. 
 
 " Oh, don't, Martha ! What shall I do, what 
 ever shall I do ? " moaned poor Florence. " I 
 thought you would have done it for me; and now 
 God help me ! " With a gasp the poor girl fell 
 back, the blood streaming from her mouth. 
 
 As Martha raised her in her arms a feeling, 
 strange to her, of diffidence in her own judgment 
 came over her. She felt overpowered by the con- 
 sciousness that she could make a mistake, and she 
 felt herself trembling as she supported the sick girl. 
 Who was she, an inner voice seemed to say, to set 
 herself up and stand between a soul and its God ? 
 With sudden impulse she whispered to Florrie, 
 " I'll do it for you," and, summoning Mrs. Scott to 
 her daughter, she left the house like one in a 
 dream. 
 
 The distance to B , at which town the only 
 
 Catholic church within reach stood, was five miles,
 
 112 JUST WHAT WAS WANTED. 
 
 and travelling was weary work, for the November 
 day was drawing to its close and a drizzling rain was 
 falling; and the thick clay soil of the lanes clung to 
 Martha's boots, squeaking under her tread. But 
 she heeded neither distance nor weather, and 
 tramped along borne up by hidden excitement. 
 
 She knew the way, for B was a market town, 
 
 and the chapel was in the main street, so she went 
 without loss of time to the door of the presbytery, 
 and pulled the bell with beating heart. 
 
 " Is the Roman Catholic priest within ? " she 
 asked the stout and beaming housekeeper who an- 
 swered her summons. 
 
 " What, Father Maple ? " she replied. " Yes, 
 he is in, and just finished his bit of dinner. You 
 have a message for him ? Please walk in and take 
 a seat." 
 
 For the first time in her life Martha found herself 
 standing face to face with that monster of iniquity 
 — a Popish priest; but so mythical was the object 
 of her detestation that she forgot to feel the fear 
 and abhorrence which the occasion called for. She 
 delivered her message simply, and, as briefly as she 
 could, acquainted the priest with poor Florence's 
 story, and then prepared to take her departure. 
 
 " Pray sit down, and let Mrs. Malony make you 
 a cup of tea after your long walk," said Father 
 Maple; but Martha refused his hospitality. 
 
 " No, sir, I thank you," she replied, with an in- 
 ward feeling of repulsion to breaking bread under
 
 LADY AMABEL A'ERR. 113 
 
 such a roof. " And to tell you the honest truth I 
 had better get to Scott's before you, and be there 
 when you arrive. They will be in a grand taking, 
 and it's best I should be there. I've brought this 
 on them, sir, and it's naught but right that I should 
 be there to help. Once you get to the village you 
 can't mistake the house, next to the inn at the 
 cross-roads, standing in a bit of garden of its own. 
 Good-evening, sir, and pray excuse me for 
 troubling you on such a night." So saying she 
 went off bravely, her holy angel and a quietly 
 breathed prayer from the good priest accompany- 
 ing her on the way. 
 
 Vague rumors of Florence's conversion had 
 reached her parents' ears a twelvemonth before, but 
 they refused to pay attention to them ; and the 
 girl's sad subsequent story and actual condition 
 had driven the gossip from their mind. This after- 
 noon, however, during Martha's absence Florence 
 succeeded in breaking the truth to her mother ; 
 but, for prudence' sake, she said nothing about her 
 friend's errand. Nor did that good woman feel 
 bound to frustrate the object of her journey by con- 
 fiding it to Mrs. Scott, who, she knew well, would 
 never consent to admit a priest into her house, even 
 were her dying child to drag herself out of bed and 
 implore her on her knees. Martha felt doubtful 
 whether Father Maple would succeed in efifecting 
 an entrance; nor would he have done so had not 
 the hand of Providence smoothed the way.
 
 / 
 114 JUST WHAT WAS WANTED. 
 
 By the time the priest arrived at Appleton the 
 rain was coming down in sheets. He was clad in a 
 long mackintosh, and a white muffler covered half 
 his face, so that, though he had no intention to dis- 
 guise himself, Mrs. Scott failed to recognize the 
 nature of her visitor ; and when he said that he 
 had come to see her daughter, she quietly led him 
 up-stairs, thinking he was the parish doctor's as- 
 sistant. It was only when Florence tried to raise 
 herself in bed and cried out: " Thank God, Father, 
 you have come ! " that the truth dawned upon 
 her. 
 
 Then a scene took place in that chamber of death 
 which would baffle description. The infuriated 
 woman lost all control over her rage, and forgot all 
 motherly feeling for the girl; and first calling 
 shrilly to her husband, the preacher, to come to 
 her assistance, she poured forth torrents of the 
 foulest abuse on both the priest and her dying 
 child. Never had she upbraided the latter for her 
 sin as she upbraided her now; and it was apparent 
 that she considered Florrie's conversion a far 
 greater disgrace than her fall. 
 
 " O mother ! " gasped poor Florence, as soon 
 as there was a lull in the storm ; " leave me. I 
 want to go to confession and make my peace with 
 God." 
 
 " Confession ! " screeched the virago. " Not 
 while Fm here will I let you do such devil's 
 work." And Florrie, worn out, turned, sobbing
 
 LADY AMABEL KERR. II5 
 
 silently, to Martha who stood by her side, ill at 
 ease. 
 
 Meanwhile Preacher Scott, having washed him- 
 self at the sink and put on his best coat, appeared 
 on the scene, and, at his wife's bidding, ordered 
 Father Maple to leave the house, unless he wished 
 him to fetch the village policeman. When the 
 priest explained civilly and temperately exactly 
 what Florrie wanted, both father and mother — he 
 resolutely and she furiously — declared that they 
 would stand by their daughter's bedside till she 
 died rather than leave her alone to go to confession 
 and sell herself to the devil. They evidently meant 
 what they said ; and Father Maple, seeing 
 Florence's faint and exhausted condition, felt that 
 no time was to be lost. So, leaning over her bed, 
 he tried as best he could in the midst of the hubbub 
 to explain that she must make an act of contrition 
 and that he would give her conditional absolution. 
 But the poor sinful girl, rousing her energies, cried 
 out that she must and would make her confession, 
 and, turning round, clung piteously to Martha 
 Gray. 
 
 Again that crushing sense of her own fallibility 
 came over Martha. As before, a sudden impulse 
 seized her, and she turned on the foolish, chatter- 
 ing couple with a look of majesty and indignation. 
 " Shame on you both," she said, " disturbing the 
 poor thing's last moments like this, when she wants 
 to prepare her soul to meet her God. It's not for
 
 Il6 JUST WHAT WAS WANTED. 
 
 you and me to say how she is to prepare. It's an 
 awful moment for a soul, and each of us has got to 
 do as God bids us." Then, suiting her actions to 
 her words, she placed her hands first on the sleek 
 preacher and then on his genteel wife, and, with 
 muscular vigor, pushed them outside the door, 
 against which she placed her back. 
 
 " There, sir," she said, breathing hard with the 
 exertion and excitement, " there, let the poor girl 
 do as she wishes. I'll not stand in her way." 
 
 " But we want you to leave us as well," said 
 Father Maple, who could scarcely repress a smile 
 at the situation. But Martha hesitated, and her 
 countenance darkened. 
 
 " Well, well," she said after a pause. " I'll let 
 be. Maybe all the things that people say are not 
 true. I'll trust the poor dying thing to you, sir ; 
 and I'll see you're not disturbed." And taking up 
 her post outside she stood like a watchful sentinel 
 at the head of the stairs, though neither Mr. nor 
 Mrs. Scott attempted any further interference. 
 
 At last Father Maple opened the door and called 
 Martha in. " See to her, Mrs. Gray, will you ? " 
 said he. " And try to keep her last hours free from 
 disturbance. I have done for her all that I can, 
 but will come again if she should want me; but I 
 do not, myself, think she will be here many hours. 
 Will you send me a line to-morrow to tell me how 
 she is ? " 
 
 " I'll be sure to let you know how she does, sir,"
 
 LADY AMABEL KERR. Il7 
 
 replied Martha, a sense of so-called self-respect for- 
 bidding her to tell Father Maple that, though long 
 practice made reading easy to her, the construction 
 of a letter was beyond her. " But," she added, 
 " I fear me I have done a wrong thing by the poor 
 girl this day." 
 
 " No, Mrs. Gray," replied the priest gravely, 
 " you have done a good work by her — a work 
 pleasing to God. As you know, our blessed Lord 
 wall not let the gift of even a cup of cold water pass 
 unrewarded, so be sure you will get your reward. 
 Good-night." So saying he went down-stairs, and, 
 silently raising his hat to the sullen couple in the 
 kitchen, passed out swiftly into the rain and dark- 
 ness. 
 
 Martha slept but little that night. Her heart 
 beat and her pulses throbbed Avith unwonted emo- 
 tions. The face of her God was hidden from her 
 as by a cloud; and as she tossed to and fro on her 
 pillow, with prayer on her lips, she wondered 
 whether she had sinned against Him by human 
 compassion, and He had turned from her in anger. 
 But through her prayers for pardon the priest's 
 parting words rang in her ears, and again and 
 again she seemed to hear the sentence of the Divine 
 Judge: " Inasmuch as you have done it unto one 
 of the least of these My brethren you have done it 
 unto Me." 
 
 As soon as she had cooked and eaten her frugal 
 breakfast Martha hastened to Florrie's bedside.
 
 I 
 
 Il8 /(/Sr WHAT WAS WANTED. 
 
 The parents were silent and sullen in their recep- 
 tion, though they did not try to stop her from go- 
 ing to the girl. But when she was half way up 
 the stairs Mrs. Scott hissed out after her the word 
 " Papist ! " Poor Martha, to think that she should 
 have lived to be called a Papist ! If she had, un- 
 consciously to herself, cherished a desire to ques- 
 tion Florence, a glance showed her that the time 
 for conversation was passed, and the girl lay, half- 
 conscious and speechless, awaiting the last dread 
 moment. But the Ibok of absorbed rest and peace 
 on her countenance could not fail to strike her visi- 
 tor. A small crucifix lay near her helpless hand. 
 It was the first that Martha had ever seen, and she 
 tried to turn her eyes from it with abhorrence as an 
 object of foolish idolatry; but, in spite of herself, 
 tears of tenderness welled up in her eyes as she 
 looked at the efifigy of her dying Lord. Florrie 
 saw the struggle and smiled faintly. " Oh, I am so 
 happy ! " she murmured. " How good you have 
 been to me, Martha ! Peace at last — all — all for- 
 given." 
 
 For some hours Martha sat by Florrie's bed, 
 listening to her wanderings, till, with a last ray of 
 coherence, the dying girl cried out, " Sweet Jesus, 
 mercy! " and yielded up her spirit to Him. Martha 
 was alone with her, praying on her knees, when she 
 died. The parents, though mindful that their 
 daughter should lack no necessary care, expressed 
 their moral indignation at her conduct of the pre-
 
 LADY AMABEL KERR. I IQ 
 
 vious day by a studious avoidance of any sign of af- 
 fection. So Martha closed her eyes, and, seeing 
 the crucifix between her fingers, put it in her 
 pocket with a nameless sense of reverence. It 
 might be an object of idolatry, but none the less it 
 represented Christ; and she could not leave it to be 
 profaned, as she knew it would be, by the bigotry 
 of the Scotts. Surely, the cups of cold water were 
 multiplying in her hand. 
 
 " I said I'd tell him," muttered Martha to herself, 
 as she sat over her early and solitary tea; " so I 
 must." She sighed with weariness as she thought 
 
 of the long, muddy tramp to B . Her bad 
 
 night and the emotions of the last twenty-four 
 hours had worn her out; yet she would not flinch 
 from what she considered a duty. But weary in 
 very truth she was when she reached Father 
 Maple's house ; and she could have cried with 
 vexation when, having knocked two or three times 
 without response, she was convinced the house was 
 untenanted. 
 
 " They're in yon," called out a little boy from 
 the other side of the street, pointing as he spoke 
 down a passage by the side of the presbytery. She 
 walked down this with no thought beyond finding 
 some one to whom to deliver her message; but al- 
 most before she knew where she was she found her- 
 self inside the Catholic chapel, the altar of which, 
 though she knew it not, was prepared for Benedic-
 
 I20 JUST WHAT WAS WANTED. 
 
 tion. Some dozen people were already in the 
 church, and several pairs of children's eyes gazed 
 curiously at her. This confused her, and thinking 
 that her exit might cause disturbance in a " place 
 of worship," Martha made her way to the further 
 end of one of the benches and sat down. Had a 
 service been going on her conscience might have 
 forbidden the action, but as it was she had no 
 scruple. By the time the candles were lighted, 
 and the priest and acolytes had filed in, many wor- 
 shippers had crowded in, and Martha found herself 
 absolutely hemmed into her seat. In a moment 
 ever blessed to her she decided that the evil of stay- 
 ing where she was was less than that of forcing her 
 way out. 
 
 Our blessed Lord has many ways of speaking to 
 the souls of those who are willing to listen to Him; 
 and, among the thousands who have accepted His 
 invitation into the one fold, no two are led in pre- 
 cisely the same way. Some are converted through 
 their reason, others through their emotions ; some 
 are convinced by Scripture, others by the facts of 
 history. To some few Our Lady has appeared in 
 vision, while to others — thrice-blessed they — Our 
 Lord deigns to speak silently from the tabernacle in 
 tones which, though voiceless, will take no refusal. 
 Such was His blessed way with plain Martha Gray, 
 who had been so faithful to Him according to the 
 light given to her. 
 
 Who could attempt to describe what took place
 
 LA D Y A MA BEL KERR. 1 2 1 
 
 in her soul ? The secrets of God cannot be put 
 into words ; and she herself, when questioned 
 later, could scarcely tell what happened to her. 
 She never knew how or at what moment she fell 
 on her knees and covered her face with her hands. 
 She dared not stir, so strong was her realization of 
 the presence of our blessed Lord; and she felt that 
 had she raised her eyes she would have seen that 
 which no man or woman could look on. She had 
 no thought about the Blessed Sacrament; indeed 
 she knew nothing about that mystery of mysteries 
 beyond a vague and shuddering horror of what she 
 had been taught to call the wafer-god of the Ro- 
 manists. 
 
 Benediction was over, but Martha had scarcely 
 found out that any service was going on. Before 
 her shrouded eyes the ceremonies had passed un- 
 noticed; and the hearty, discordant singing of the 
 congregation had made no impression on ears 
 which were listening to the voice of God. The 
 subsequent silence was equally unperceived, and 
 she knelt on in the church, alone with Him who 
 had spoken to her heart. 
 
 About a quarter of an hour later Father Maple 
 came in to lock up the chapel. Seeing a woman 
 absorbed in prayer he was loath to disturb her; but 
 he had a distant parishioner to visit that evening, 
 and could not stand on ceremony, so, having 
 fidgeted about and jangled his keys noisily without 
 producing the desired effect, he touched her gently
 
 122 JUST WHAT WAS WANTED. 
 
 on the shoulder, thinking that she might have 
 fallen asleep. " You, Mrs. Gray ? " he exclaimed, 
 as he recognized the startled face which met his 
 gaze. " What brings you here ? " 
 
 " I came to tell you as how Florrie was dead," 
 she replied, passing her hand over her brow as 
 though she were dazed, while she remained on her 
 knees. " But oh, sir," she continued, " the Lord 
 Jesus has been very nigh me." 
 
 " What ? " said the priest softly, " and has the 
 cup of cold water been rewarded already ? " 
 
 " The Lord is in this place, and I knew it not," 
 Martha went on, readily expressing herself in the 
 words of Scripture. " Tell me, sir, is He here ? " 
 
 "Yes, He is here," replied Father Maple, with an 
 awe-struck feeling of gratitude, which all who live 
 by faith must have when something approaching 
 to sight is vouchsafed to them. 
 
 " The Lord is, I know, not far from every one of 
 us," she continued, still speaking like one in a 
 dream ; " but is He nigher to us here in this 
 place ? " The priest silently bowed his head, and 
 Martha went on : "I think what you say is the 
 truth, sir. I know the Lord is always nigh. Day 
 after day as I sat at my work I have known He was 
 at hand, and night after night I have communed 
 with Him on my bed; but never has He been nigh 
 me as He has been in this place. Why, sir, I was 
 afeared to raise my eyes lest I should meet His look. 
 It was as if He was speaking to me, though, mind
 
 LADY AMABEL KERR, 123 
 
 you, never a word did I hear. But oh, sir ! I 
 couldn't have met His look " — and here her voice 
 shook and her lips quivered — " it was if He was 
 displeased with me; as if He knew of something as 
 I hadn't done for Him, and ought to have done." 
 
 The priest had seated himself on the bench in 
 front of Martha, so that he could listen to her as she 
 knelt; but he made no reply to her words, reserv- 
 ing what he had to say till the Holy Ghost had 
 finished speaking to her; and after a pause she con- 
 tinued: " Sir, something has happened to me since 
 I have been here. I feel like as if I had been struck 
 to the ground as Paul was. I feel such a sinner. 
 and I never knew it before. I know we must all 
 be washed in the blood of the Lamb, but I thought 
 the Lord had chosen and saved me. But as He 
 stood by me just now, as I know He did, I felt like 
 an unclean thing, and I know not where to find a 
 Pool of Siloam in which I may wash and be clean. 
 I know nothing. I thought I had been taught of 
 God, but I know nothing, nothing. Sir " — she 
 added, looking up in the priest's face with a quiver- 
 ing lip, which gave her the expression of a little 
 child — " Sir, what shall I do ? " 
 
 She had been speaking fluently and excitedly, 
 but the sound of her own helpless question — the 
 same that millions and millions of perplexed souls 
 have uttered since it was first put to St. Peter by 
 the conscience-stricken Jews — struck her ears, and 
 she burst into silent weeping, with a sense of ac-
 
 / 
 
 124 JUST WHAT WAS WANTED. 
 
 cepted humiliation which opened for her the 
 golden gates of humility. 
 
 " Mrs. Gray," said the priest, seeing that the mo- 
 ment had come for him to speak, " you scarcely 
 know yet how good God has been to you to-day ; 
 for you have no idea what God's gifts to men are." 
 
 " I'm very unlearn'd, sir," she said, in a voice 
 broken by her tears. " Can I learn ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed, if you are willing. But would 
 you consent to own that you have been in the 
 wrong all your life ? " 
 
 " I feel just shook, sir," was her reply. " I feel 
 as if I was no better than a child; but I know the 
 Lord Jesus requires somewhat of me." 
 
 " You say, Mrs. Gray," the priest continued, 
 after lifting up his heart to God, " that when our 
 blessed Lord was, as you felt, standing by you, He 
 seemed to reproach you ? " 
 
 " Ay, sir, it was just like that, and I've got to 
 find out and do as He wants me." 
 
 " Perhaps," resumed Father Maple, " He meant 
 to show you His sorrow that you should be con- 
 tented to live without all those good things He 
 died to give you." 
 
 Martha gripped the priest's arm almost painfully. 
 " What are they, sir, that I may have them ? I 
 know nothing about them." 
 
 " Ah, Mrs. Gray," he said with a smile, " it would 
 take a long, long time to tell you about all the 
 wonderful things our blessed Lord left for His
 
 LADY AMABEL KERR. 125 
 
 children when He went to heaven. It would take 
 days and days to tell you about His holy Catholic 
 Church which He left to teach us when He Himself 
 was no longer here to speak to us. He charged 
 her to take care of us all through our earthly pil- 
 grimage, to forgive us our sins in His name, and 
 feed our souls in a way I cannot tell you now." 
 
 " It makes the Lord very nigh," said Martha 
 thoughtfully. " It seems as if we could stretch out 
 our hands back all these long years, and touch 
 Him." 
 
 " He is nigher than you can ever guess. Will 
 you come back another day and hear more ? " 
 
 " Ay, sir, sure I will," she replied with simple 
 alacrity. " It seems just what was wanting." She 
 now rose to her feet, and Father Maple could see 
 that her eyes were full of happy tears. " I must 
 not detain you longer to-night, for I've took up a 
 lot of your time," she went on, with the habitual 
 diffidence of those who have spent their lives in 
 ministering to others and have never been min- 
 istered unto. " But be sure I'll come back and 
 hear more about those gifts Our Lord Jesus left for 
 us, if so be it will not be troubling you over much. 
 Good-evening, sir, and thank you kindly." 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to give the sequel to the 
 events of that evening. Suffice it to say that, eager 
 to learn, and hungering for God's gifts, simple 
 Martha Gray thought nothing of tramping day
 
 126 JUST WHAT WAS WANTED. 
 
 after day to B , regardless of the rains and fogs 
 
 of autumn or the frosts and snows of winter, and 
 received the word of God into " a good and very 
 good heart." As she learned more about the 
 eternal mysteries, she could scarcely believe that 
 such joy was meant for her. And when, at last, 
 having been washed in the Pool of Siloam, she was 
 admitted to the divine banquet, she said amid her 
 gentle, happy tears, " It seems quite natural like." 
 Her words, singularly inappropriate as they were 
 for describing that which is so essentially and aw- 
 fully supernatural, expressed to the best of her 
 ability the readiness of her faithful, Christian soul 
 to apprehend the highest mysteries of God, and the 
 instinctive way in which it made its home in the 
 Sacred Heart of Jesus. It was, indeed, as she had 
 said, just what was wanted.
 
 
 R. B. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 
 
 R. B. Sheridan Knowles is the eldest and only sur- 
 viving son of the late Richard Brinsley Knowles, a barris- 
 ter, the author of " The Maiden Aunt," and a well-known 
 London journalist. He is the grandson of James Sheridan 
 Knowles, author of "• Virginius," "The Hunchback," "The 
 Love Chase," etc., and great-grandson of James Knowles. 
 the lexicographer, whose mother, Hester Knowles, /lee 
 Sheridan, was the daughter of Dr. Thomas Sheridan of 
 Quilca, the friend of Swift, and grandfather of Richard Brins- 
 ley Sheridan, the author of " The School for Scandal." 
 
 R. B. Sheridan Knowles received his education at the 
 college of the Rosminian Fathers, at Ratcliffe, in Leicester- 
 shire, and on the completion of his college course entered
 
 the Civil Service. His contributions to literature consist 
 mainly of essays, sketches, and reviews, which have appeared 
 in various journals and periodicals. His most recent, as 
 also his most important work, is thfe novel " Glencoonoge," 
 a story of Irish life, which having run serially for a year in 
 The Mofit/i, was republished in three volumes by the famous 
 Edinburgh house of Wm. Blackwood & Sons, and in one 
 volume in. America. 
 
 " Hyacinth's Regrets" has been written by Mr. Knowles 
 specially for this collection.
 
 BY R. B. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 
 I. 
 
 If the heroine of this story was a very self-willed 
 woman it may fairly be urged in her excuse that 
 everything had combined to make her so. Proba- 
 bly she had more than her natural share of self-will 
 by inheritance, for her parents — sober, industrious 
 people — were both teetotallers, and you may have 
 observed that that cult has a strengthening, not to 
 say stubbornizing, effect upon the wills of those 
 who practise it. Then, too. Hyacinth was an only 
 child, and by consequence much prized and cher- 
 ished by her parents, who kept her aloof from the 
 companionship of other children of her own age; 
 thus guarding the girl from the dangers of such 
 companionship, and also from its educating and 
 correcting influences. If this was the policy of 
 John Smith and Emma his wife in regard to their 
 child in those days, when their position was only 
 lifted above that in which life was a struggle for ex- 
 istence by the practice of rigid economy, it is not 
 to be supposed that their fastidiousness in regard 
 
 129
 
 130 HYACINTH'S REGRETS. 
 
 to the manner of little Hyacinth's bringing-up 
 should grow less as the bread-winner advanced 
 from the position of first-counterman to being a 
 shopkeeper on his own account, and then a mer- 
 chant with a steadily growing connection. "Thank 
 goodness," said they in effect, " fortune has favored 
 us soon enough to make it unnecessary to send the 
 girl to a boarding-school or convent, where the 
 time is, as often as not, wasted, and girls are turned 
 out with the merest smattering of education." Hy- 
 acinth had a governess all to herself, and the best 
 masters; but none of them were able to master her. 
 Her wishes, indeed, eventually decided everything 
 — what she would learn, how much, and how long. 
 Sometimes, no doubt, she was in the right, as when 
 she struck against the singing and music lessons. 
 The girl had no music in her, and it was sheer im- 
 posture on the part of Signor Pagano to declare 
 that after another five-and-twenty, thirty, forty les- 
 sons (at a guinea each) the voice would begin to 
 form, and both she and her friends would be aston- 
 ished. The dismissal of the music-master made 
 other professors very careful not to force or thwart 
 the wishes of an only child. 
 
 I think that Hyacinth was the most graceful 
 dancer I ever saw. In fact, the grace of her bear- 
 ing and the appropriateness of her manner to every 
 different occasion showed how thoroughly well 
 drilled she had been in the matter of deportment. 
 To see her coming down the nave with her people
 
 R. B. SHERIDAN KNOWI.ES. 13I 
 
 as the congregation filed out of church after High 
 Mass on Sundays was a pleasure — so fresh she 
 looked, so sweetly demure; her glances — rare and 
 under perfect control — all bespoke a well-dis- 
 ciplined character. " She will make a good 
 match," that was what every one said. 
 
 Well, young Aubrey Lushington's position was 
 not bad socially. He was of the family of the Earls 
 of Lushington, and to be allied to nobility is some- 
 thing, even though you may be only the younger 
 son of a younger son, without a profession or visible 
 means of subsistence. Hyacinth felt that these lat- 
 ter conditions were the drawbacks destined in her 
 case to prevent the course of true love from running 
 smooth. How often had she not heard her father 
 pooh-pooh the exaggerated estimate in which she 
 and her mother were disposed to hold birth and so- 
 cial position ! If there had only been himself to 
 please he would have left society and Its fancies 
 severely alone. But to his wife and daughter these 
 things were as the breath of life, to the former by 
 contrast with the poverty and dulness of her early 
 circumstances, to the latter as the bud of promise 
 which would presently expand into a brilliant fu- 
 ture. 
 
 If evening parties were delightful at first for their 
 own sake, wdiat an added relish did they not pos- 
 sess when, having met Aubrey Lushington two or 
 three times, Hyacinth began to feel that he was 
 quite the nicest of all her partners, dancing so much
 
 132 HYACINTH'S REGRETS. 
 
 better than any one else, and so much more interest- 
 ing in his conversation between the dances. He 
 had seen so much of Hfe though he was so young. 
 How clever he was ! And you could perceive 
 from the ease of his manner, and the polished read- 
 iness of his remarks, above all, from his marked 
 deference to her, that he was of noble blood. Hy- 
 acinth and Aubrey became quite friendly, quite 
 confidential; they knew of each other's engagements 
 for weeks ahead; and by degrees the prospect of 
 coming entertainments lost their attractiveness to 
 Hyacinth if Aubrey was not going too. On these 
 days Hyacinth would infallibly mope. But if it 
 was an evening when Aubrey was to be of the 
 party, what anxiety beforehand about the choice of 
 the dress ! what thought in the combination of 
 colors, in the selection of flowers ! and at night 
 what cosy chats in the subdued light upon the 
 stairs ! what heavenly waltzings ! what joyous sup- 
 pers ! 
 
 " My dear," said Mrs. Riddles to Mrs. Smith one 
 day, *' are you encouraging the growing intimacy 
 between Hyacinth and young Mr. Lushington ? " 
 
 Mrs. Smith had noticed something, but did not 
 think there was anything serious in it — a little flir- 
 tation, nothing more. She did not wish, unless 
 there was absolute need, to cross her daughter on 
 the subject, she being a dear child, so sensitive and 
 highly strung, that the very greatest care was nec- 
 essary in finding the smallest fault with her.
 
 i?. B. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 133 
 
 Mrs. Riddles looked at ]\Irs. Smith incredu- 
 lously. Then with a sudden burst — 
 
 '' Everybody is talking of it. People say they 
 are engaged — not that I thought it at all likely." 
 
 *'I should think not, indeed," answered Mrs. 
 Smith indignantly. " Why, the young man has 
 no profession, and very little means," 
 
 " Has he any ? I should be very much surprised 
 if he is not heavily in debt. How can it be other- 
 wise if he has no means and no profession ? And 
 leading a fast life, too ! " 
 
 Mrs. Smith was horrified. 
 
 " Yes," continued the other, laughing. " Well, 
 what else can you expect ? — it runs in the family. 
 
 His father was " and she proceeded to relate to 
 
 Mrs. Smith some of the Lushington family history 
 in a whisper. 
 
 Mrs. Smith returned home in a state of con- 
 sternation, revolving within herself how she might 
 best restrain her daughter from walking into the 
 unsuspected gulf which lay yawning before 
 her. 
 
 If was an ofT night. Hyacinth and her mother 
 were alone together in the drawing-room. Mrs. 
 Smith uneasily eyed her daughter, who sat looking 
 into the fire, somewhat discontented because they 
 were not going anywhere. 
 
 " Hyacinth, do you care for young Mr. Lushing- 
 ton ? " 
 
 The girl was taken by surprise, and after a mo-
 
 134 HYACINTH'S REGRETS. 
 
 merit's reflection answered with somewhat bated 
 breath : 
 
 " I hke him as a partner, he dances beautifully." 
 
 The mother was silent for a few moments and 
 then said: 
 
 " Hyacinth " and then stopped. 
 
 " Well, mother ? " said the breathless girl. 
 
 " He would not make a good partner for life. 
 You are dancing too much with him. People are 
 beginning to talk." 
 
 " I wish people would attend to their own affairs. 
 What right have they to talk about what does not 
 concern them ? " 
 
 " People will talk if you give them the chance, 
 or even without a chance." 
 
 " What do they say of him, mother ? " 
 
 " They say that he leads an idle life — and — and 
 a wild life. Do not seek to inquire too closely ; 
 there is more evil in the world than it is necessary 
 for you to know of yet." 
 
 " Ah, mother, believe me he is not blind to his 
 own faults. He has bewailed them to me. He 
 says he has no one to care for him, and that he will 
 never be what he ought to be until he is married to 
 some good girl. I am sure," added Hyacinth, with 
 suddenly assumed indifference, " I wish he could 
 find such a one. I don't know what nobler mission 
 a girl can have than to reform a man." 
 
 " Indeed," said the mother, suppressing any 
 manifestation of her alarm, now thoroughly
 
 7?. B. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 135 
 
 aroused, " reformation is much needed in that 
 quarter." 
 
 That night Mrs. Smith opened her mind to her 
 husband. He blamed her for having been so bhnd 
 to what had been going forward, and yet he was 
 more good-humored over the matter than she had 
 expected. 
 
 '' It is strange," said he, " that I should hear 
 about this on the very day when what I have been 
 desiring for many months past should suddenly 
 have happened. This afternoon, as I was about to 
 leave the warehouse, who should come in but 
 young Fergusson. From his nervousness I half- 
 guessed what he was after. I was right, too. He 
 has proposed for Hyacinth." 
 
 " Thank goodness ! This will help us out of the 
 difficulty, I hope." 
 
 " I could not desire a better husband for the 
 girl. In fact, I had set my heart upon it — and so, 
 it seems, had he. He had just been offered — what 
 do you think ? " 
 
 " I cannot guess," said Mrs. Smith, overjoyed. 
 
 " A junior partnership in his firm, and the first 
 thing he does is to come like a man and ask to be 
 allowed to share his good fortune with our girl. A 
 sterling fellow ! I always liked him. I picked 
 him out from all the men I knew and said, * Thofs 
 the man I should like to ask me for my Cythie.' 
 And she captivated him, the little wench — though 
 she didn't know it. And I don't know that she
 
 136 HYACINTirS REGRETS. 
 
 deserves him, if she can think of throwing herself 
 away on a creature hke young Lushington. What 
 are you going to do about him ? He must never 
 be asked here again, of course." 
 
 " Oh, no ! Nor will we go again anywhere this 
 season where she will be likely to meet him. But 
 say nothing of all this to Hyacinth. I do think she 
 is more perverse than most girls, and there is no 
 telling what she will do if she is openly thwarted." 
 
 11. 
 
 They were very astute, these people, but they 
 underrated the intelligence of the young thing 
 whose future they were designing to shape. Noth- 
 ing, indeed, was said : but wdien at dinner next 
 evening Mr. Smith was full of the sudden good-for- 
 tune which had befallen Mr. Fergusson and en- 
 larged upon it with much gusto, and said that Mr. 
 Fergusson was coming to dinner the following 
 evening and they would hear more; and when two 
 days later, being due that evening at Lady Lyster's, 
 where Aubrey was to have been, Mrs. Smith told 
 Hyacinth that Mr. Fergusson had very kindly in- 
 vited them to dine at the Criterion, and to go with 
 him to the opera afterwards; and they would go 
 there in preference to the Lysters', as dear papa 
 w^ould never go to dances, and he enjoyed dinners 
 above all things, and she was afraid they had been 
 leaving him too much alone lately; and then Mr.
 
 jR. B. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 137 
 
 Fergusson was very attentive and continually the 
 only gentleman of the party, and upon occasion 
 after occasion some glib reason or another was 
 given why the engagement to the house where 
 Aubrey was to be was suspended in favor of one at 
 which Mr. Fergusson was to be either the guest or 
 the host (whether as host or as guest he was equally 
 attentive — and equally detestable, Hyacinth 
 thought), Hyacinth, though nothing was said, un- 
 derstood, and said — nothing. She disguised her 
 thoughts under the placid expression of face she 
 knew how to assume, but the thought in her mind 
 was, " I'll let them see whether or not I'm going 
 to be treated as a child." 
 
 It gave Mrs. Smith great pleasure to observe her 
 tranquil and submissive behavior, and also to no- 
 tice that the girl showed signs of becoming devout. 
 It had never been Hyacinth's habit to attend after- 
 noon service, until it happened just at this time 
 that her mother, seeing her one day quite distressed 
 with ennui, and hearing the church-bell ringing, 
 said, " Do, my child, cultivate a spirit of self-de- 
 nial and go to Rosary " — a suggestion which to 
 her surprise the girl eagerly caught at. And what 
 was more. Hyacinth kept the practice up. It was 
 quite usual for Hyacinth after that to say, yawning 
 wearily, " Ach ! I want a walk. I think I'll just 
 stroll round to church." Until Mr. Fergusson 
 had begun to come so much, and with intentions 
 hardly to be mistaken, the girl had never betrayed
 
 138 HYACINTH'S REGRETS. 
 
 SO much seriousness. Mrs. Smith was delighted 
 She thought it a good sign, an evidence, in fact, 
 that Hyacinth was seeking the illumination of 
 Heaven in deciding the momentous question of 
 her marriage. 
 
 Mrs. Smith's haphazard suggestion had indeed 
 been a Hght to Hyacinth's mind in her perplexity 
 to checkmate the combination which was keeping 
 her from meeting Aul^rey Lushington. The ser- 
 vice-hour was now usually spent by her in company 
 with Aubrey in a first-class carriage of a circle train 
 on the underground railway. There they ex- 
 changed indignant sympathy; there they vowed 
 that nothing should ever part them; there they ma- 
 tured their plans. 
 
 Elated with her success and Aubrey's devoted- 
 ness, Hyacinth became more and more good-tem- 
 pered, and the better tempered she was, the more 
 pleased were her father and mother with her. But 
 their approval was pulled up very short a little later 
 when, in the calmest but most conclusive manner 
 possible, she declined Mr. Fergusson's proposal. 
 Her conduct was altogether unaccountable, until 
 it came out that her afifections were already en- 
 gaged, and to Aubrey Lushington. It was in a 
 quiet conversation with her mother, who, after 
 some deft probing, had extracted the truth. Mrs. 
 Smith told her daughter the worst things she had 
 heard about Aubrey; Mr. Smith said he would 
 horsewhip the young man if he dared to come
 
 J^. B. SHERIDAN KXOIVLES. 1 39 
 
 near the house; both were agreed that they would 
 rather see her dead than married to such a man. 
 This last was the reply to her argument that all 
 men worthy of the name were a little wild at first 
 before they settled down, and everybody said such 
 always made the best husbands. Stubborn-willed 
 as Hyacinth was, she began to have misgivings 
 that she was acting rashly; that in this matter her 
 parents would be as stubborn as herself, and that 
 she would never gain their consent. Had it not 
 been for Aubrey's encouragement she had perhaps 
 given way. But he gauged the situation pretty 
 accurately, perceiving that Mr. Smith was not the 
 kind of man who would forever refuse to forgive 
 his only child, however erring; and that the moth- 
 er's influence would confirm his natural tendency 
 to relent. He did not say so to Hyacinth. To 
 her the purport of his remarks ran thus : *' My 
 father will help us, Cythie, if yours won't; he has 
 influence; he will get me an appointment. I ask 
 for nothing but yourself, dearest; I am content 
 with poverty if I have you, for in you is all my hap- 
 piness, my one chance of salvation." 
 
 " Noble fellow," thought Hyacinth, as she 
 thought and rethought over these words, " shall I 
 refuse to save him ? Can I hesitate longer to 
 grasp his drowning hand held out to me for suc- 
 cor ? " 
 
 Some little time passed and then it was dis- 
 covered that Hyacinth was meeting Aubrey
 
 140 HYACINTH'S REGRETS. 
 
 Lushington clandestinely. To her parents' re- 
 proaches she uttered not a word. She was 
 desired to withdraw to her room and think the 
 matter over. And in her absence her father 
 and mother considered what was to be done. They 
 would adjure her at least not to act precipitately: 
 and in the mean time she must be taken abroad out 
 of reach of this danger — and at once, before she 
 could communicate again with Aubrey. Time 
 might thus be gained, and the infatuation have a 
 chance of wearing off. This conclusion arrived at, 
 ]\Trs. Smith followed her daughter up-stairs. Hy- 
 acinth was not in her room. An instinctive alarm 
 seized the mother. She went hurriedly from room 
 to room and from floor to floor, calling, but re- 
 ceiving no answer. In descending the stairs Mrs. 
 Smith saw that the hall-door was slightly ajar, she 
 stood beside it petrified, but perfectly collected. 
 After looking up and down the street she went up- 
 stairs to her husband. 
 
 " I am afraid Hyacinth has left the house," she 
 said quietly. 
 
 The father started up. " Impossible ! " 
 
 " I have hunted high and low; and just now 
 found the hall-door half open." 
 
 The two stood looking at each other, both pale, 
 and neither daring to utter the thought that was in 
 both their minds. 
 
 " Perhaps she has gone to church," said Mrs.
 
 F. B. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. I4I 
 
 Smith, clutching" at an inspiration that had just oc- 
 curred to her. 
 
 " We will take a hansom," said Mr. Smith. " Di 
 you know where — where he lives ? " 
 
 " No; but Lady Lyster perhaps can tell us." 
 
 They drove fo the church. The windows were 
 dark, the doors closed, there was no service that 
 night. 
 
 Then to Lady Lyster's. She was gone out. 
 
 Another friend, however, had the name of Au- 
 brey's club in her address-book. Thither they 
 drove. He had been there that afternoon, but 
 was not there now. His private address ? The 
 secretary had left for the day. It could not be fur- 
 nished. 
 
 What were they to do ? Perhaps she had re- 
 turned home. But when they got there — no, she 
 had not come back. 
 
 Those two people sat up the whole night waiting 
 — silent for the most part. They could not see their 
 way to immediate further action. Suggestions 
 arose to their minds only to be seen to be futile as 
 soon as uttered. What a night ! In it they experi- 
 enced, as it were, the crumbling- into utter ruin of 
 all the results of their self-abnegation, and the suc- 
 cess of their lives. A horrible certainty was in their 
 minds: they were disgraced forever and ever; never 
 again would they be able to hold up their heads; 
 life would be no more worth living, nor further 
 strivings of any avail.
 
 142 HYACINTH'S REGRETS. 
 
 The longest night wears away. The morning 
 came, and, late in the long morning, the knowledge 
 of the truth. The postman was the messenger of 
 fate. They heard his rat-tat coming down the 
 street; the wretched father and mother waited in 
 the hall with the letter-box unlocked. A packet fell 
 on the floor, preceding the double knock. They 
 hurried into the dining-room and shut the door. 
 There were two documents in the envelope, a let- 
 ter and — oh, welcome sight ! — a marriage certifi- 
 cate. 
 
 III. 
 
 Aubrey and Hyacinth had been married for a 
 fortnight. The astonishing news, if received a few 
 hours before, would have been accounted disas- 
 trous; now it was actually as welcome as a reprieve 
 to a condemned man. Compared with the possi- 
 bility which had been in their minds the whole of 
 that long night, it seemed as if everything was 
 gained in receiving this assurance that the girl's 
 honor was saved. Yet presently the first glow of 
 this feeling began to fade, and as the facts came 
 out, much of their anger against their child re- 
 turned, mixed with and checked by gloomy fore- 
 bodings for her future. Aubrey and Hyacinth had 
 been married at the registry office. Hyacinth 
 begged her parents' forgiveness. She was terri- 
 fied, she said, by an indefinite fear of what was 
 going to happen. Knowing what she did, their
 
 K. B. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. I43 
 
 cold anger at discovering that she had been meet- 
 ing Aubrey had made her too h'ightened to tell 
 them face to face that she was already married to 
 him; and in her scare she could think of no course 
 but to fly to her husband. 
 
 Though somewhat revived, both father and 
 mother were quite downcast. Married at the reg- 
 istry office ! without the blessing of the Church ! 
 the sacraments unapproached, the aid of God un- 
 asked ! 
 
 Well ! at least the worst was escaped. The girl 
 was not ruined, nor were they hopelessly disgraced 
 in their old age. Other things might be retrieved. 
 They would summon up what heart they could, 
 and set to work to make the best of things. 
 
 There were not wanting elements of hope in the 
 situation. Aubrey had a very taking manner with 
 him when he chose, and Mr. Smith's spirits began 
 to be raised after a time by the readiness v^ith which 
 his son-in-law fell in with his proposals. The mer- 
 chant decided to take Aubrey into his office and 
 give him a chance of learning the business. He 
 would allow the pair only a moderate income; for 
 the young man must be stimulated in his exertions 
 by the thought that advancement into easier cir- 
 cumstances lay in his own hands. For the present 
 he must work with nose to the grindstone; society 
 and its pastimes must be eschewed for the most 
 part. Mr. Smith had further designs at the back 
 of his head which he thought it best not as yet to
 
 144 HYACINTH'S REGRETS. 
 
 divulge, until he should see what aptitude for busi- 
 ness and what perseverance the young man might 
 display; but his hope was that Aubrey would show 
 steadiness and capacity enough to justify his being 
 taken later on into partnership, and become in time 
 the inheritor of the business — a reasonable arrange- 
 ment enough, seeing that the merchant had no son 
 of his own. 
 
 Though Mr. Smith said nothing of his projects, 
 the expediency and probability of such a result 
 suggested itself at once to both the young people. 
 Aubrey, indeed, thought it so obvious and inevita- 
 ble that he rather pooh-poohed the anxiety of Hy- 
 acinth, who was very desirous that Aubrey should 
 justify her choice of him. In truth. Hyacinth's anx- 
 iety was warranted, as Aubrey had everything to 
 learn; and it presently became terribly tedious to 
 this man, who had always been an idler, to live 
 without the gayety of the life to which he was ac- 
 customed, and spend monotonous evenings in sup- 
 plying the defects of training which stood in the 
 way of his properly devoting wearisome days to 
 the vulgarity of a mercantile life. As time went 
 on he grew more and more restive under his fet- 
 ters, and often wished that he had either never seen 
 Hyacinth, or that she had had her money before he 
 married her. 
 
 At the end of a year he was no longer the person 
 of the first importance in that small household, but 
 another bearing his name. To Hyacinth nursing
 
 JC. B. SHERIDAN KNOVVLES. 1 45 
 
 her child, Hfe presented itself in a new and more 
 responsible aspect, and thinking now of her son, 
 and hardly any longer of herself, she would sit ru- 
 minating and forecasting in his behoof. One day, 
 if Aubrey did as well as he ought to, this child 
 would inherit her father's business, and she began 
 to take a keener and more pressing interest regard- 
 ing the chances of Aubrey's proving fit to pre- 
 serve and to transmit the business to their son. 
 
 So it was doubly galling to find from what her 
 mother said, and from her father's lessened friend- 
 liness with Aubrey whenever they now went home, 
 that things were not going well at the office. But 
 when she broached the subject — of utmost impor- 
 tance in her mind — Aubrey would turn crusty. He 
 had had enough of badgering and faultfinding dur- 
 ing the day, and, after a few times, when he found 
 Hyacinth drifting towards her favorite topic he 
 would put his foot down. 
 
 His refusal to discuss and be interested in a topic 
 which had become almost more interesting to Hya- 
 cinth than any other led to repeated disagreements 
 which left the one dogged and the other sullen, 
 and made evenings at home anything but pleasant. 
 
 Hyacinth would go to her father's. 
 
 Aubrey would put on his hat and go for a walk. 
 
 It was often late before Aubrey got home. Hy- 
 acinth had gone to bed. What did she care ? 
 
 Before long it happened sometimes that Aubrey 
 did not come home all night.
 
 146 HYACINTH'S REGRETS. 
 
 Hyacinth would now sit up and wait for Aubrey, 
 enduring much. If she lay down, her tortured 
 mind would not let her sleep. Self-reproach was 
 busy at her ear. 
 
 " You married this man with your eyes open," 
 it said. " You were warned that he was a spend- 
 thrift, leading- a bad Hfe, without occupation or 
 means, coming, too, from a bad stock. If things 
 have gone wrong with him you may thank your- 
 self, partly for a mistaken choice obstinately per- 
 sisted in, partly for the want of good-tempered 
 management, by which you have driven him back 
 to his former courses." 
 
 Hyacinth lived all that time of her courtship 
 over again. Everything that had been sweet was 
 turned to gall in the retrospect. " Heavens," 
 she would exclaim, " did any woman ever before 
 make such shipwreck of her happiness ! " One 
 thing was certain, they must part. Better the 
 lonely home, better solitude with her child, than 
 live with her husband any longer. Even consid- 
 eration for the child did not come in here to keep 
 the parents together. Aubrey did not care for the 
 boy. Hyacinth felt that contact with the father 
 would be contamination to the child. Separation 
 was imperative. Aubrey had furnished abundant 
 cause. There was no lack of money to carry 
 through the necessary legalities; and in this matter, 
 too, Hyacinth had her own way.
 
 E. B. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 147 
 
 IV. 
 
 It is some years later. Mrs. Smith is dead, and 
 Hyacinth keeps house for her father, who has aged 
 more than might have been expected in an interval 
 not very long. The failure of Aubrey Lushington 
 to rise to the opportunities which his marriage 
 brought him, and the decline of Mr. Smith's own 
 health, have made the latter anxious for some time 
 past to enter into arrangements which shall relieve 
 him on advantageous terms of the sole responsi- 
 bihty of his business. His desire has just been 
 obtained, thanks to the co-operation of that very 
 Mr. Fergusson whose ambition it had been for- 
 merly to become his son-in-law. " A strange thing 
 it is," ruminated Mr. Smith, " that my designs, 
 blown to fragments by the perversity of my un- 
 fortunate girl, should after all these years be partly 
 realized. It would be stranger still, it would be 
 inconceivably happy, if after so long a delay they 
 should be carried out as fully as I had once in- 
 tended. I should die happy. Poor Emma ! My 
 delight would have only one drawback — that she 
 did not live to ree the realization of our dreams ! " 
 
 Thenceforth the firms of John Smith & Co. and 
 Davids, Beale & Fergusson (in the latter Mr. Fer- 
 gusson was now the sole surviving principal) were 
 known under the style and title of Smith & Fergus- 
 son; and it was In connection with this renewed
 
 148 HYACINTH'S REGRETS. 
 
 community of interests that Mr. Fergusson becam.e 
 once more an occasional visitor at the home of his 
 own old friend. 
 
 It was not very long before Hyacinth, regarding 
 the visitor with eyes now disillusioned, began to 
 perceive what a chance of happiness she had wil- 
 fully thrown away. That apparent coldness, hard- 
 ness, and stolidity which had seemed so unattrac- 
 tive when contrasted with the lightness, brightness, 
 and abandon of Aubrey's manner now seemed to 
 be only so much trustworthiness — the one thing, 
 as she now thought, to be desired above all others. 
 It would have been no unhappy fate, she felt, to 
 have been allied to a character stronger than her 
 own — strong and prudent as this man's. It is 
 good, thought she, for a child when he has such a 
 father. 
 
 For her boy, whom she loved far more than any- 
 thing else in the world, caused her no little anx- 
 iety. At times he was as good as gold, and then 
 she could not fondle him enough. At others 
 he made her very unhappy, and she was at her wits' 
 ends to know what to do with him. She would 
 coax him into good behavior; she would promise 
 him things, and bribe him to be good — feeling all 
 the time that this was not the right way nor for 
 the boy's benefit. And often in her perplexity how 
 to treat the boy she would think that the solution 
 of her difficulties would have been easy if she had 
 married Mr. Fergusson instead of the other.
 
 /•. B. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 1 49 
 
 And then how true ]\Ir. Fergusson had been to 
 his first love ! It gave her real pleasure to remem- 
 ber that in all the seven years that had passed he 
 had never married. People often said he would 
 die an old bachelor, and involuntarily the words 
 would escape as they looked at her. " What a 
 pity, my dear, what a pity ! " Meaning that it was 
 clear she was the only woman he had ever cared 
 for, and that she had thrown herself away. Ah ! 
 no one knew the pity of it better than she did; and 
 yet there was some comfort, too, in the fact that 
 Mr. Fergusson had never married. 
 
 She never met her husband now, and in the most 
 imaginative of her thoughts the possibility of their 
 ever coming together again did not present itself. 
 Sometimes she heard of him, but the disdain in 
 her demeanor when his name was mentioned was 
 not an encouragement to any one to speak about 
 him. But one day some one said, " You have 
 heard, of course, how ill your husband has been. 
 No ? They say he is a perfect wreck," Hyacinth 
 was interested at once, and eagerly heard all that 
 day that there was to be told. Not that she 
 adopted the suggestion that she should go to see 
 him. How could she — and would he be willing 
 either — now that he had contracted other ties ? 
 But the news of his illness did not depress her, and 
 she thought more often and with more gratitude 
 how faithful Fergusson had been to his first love. 
 
 This constant thought enlightened her about
 
 150 HYACINTH'S REGRETS. 
 
 many things. It explained why it was that Mr. 
 Fergiisson was so respectful and so careful in his 
 demeanor. Loving her as he still did, he would 
 not for the world suggest by his manner that it 
 was possible for her, a married woman, to return 
 his love. " How like him ! " she would think, not 
 unpleased, " How noble ! how like him ! " 
 
 Mr. Fergusson grew to be so much in Hyacinth's 
 thoughts that it was as it were by a sort of inevita- 
 ble attraction that one day when she had opened 
 the paper her eye fell straight and at once upon his 
 name in a column of miscellaneous news. She be- 
 gan eagerly to read, and suddenly her heart 
 stopped still. She turned pale and laid the paper 
 down, hardly able to breathe. Was it the deaths 
 column her eye had fallen upon ? Was it the an- 
 nouncement of the death of her husband ? 
 
 When she had recovered she took the paper up 
 again and read the announcement through — of the 
 forthcoming marriage of James Fergusson, Esq., 
 of the firm of Smith & Fergusson, in the City of 
 London, to Lady Gwendoline Acres, the youngest 
 daughter of the Earl of Acres. 
 
 Irrevocably lost ! So sharp a pang shot through 
 her and was succeeded by such a heaviness of spirit 
 that she awoke startled and humiliated, to perceive 
 to how great an extent the thought had been in 
 her mind that the mistake she had made years ago 
 might one day be repaired, and how much it had 
 been the source of her increased cheerfulness lately.
 
 E. B. SHERIDAN KNOVVLES. 15I 
 
 Stealing a glance at her father, she observed that 
 his head was resting on his hand which was shading 
 his eyes, and his attitude suggested some dejec- 
 tion. 
 
 " Is anything the matter, father ? " 
 Mr. Smith suddenly came to himself and said : 
 " Nothing — nothing," then taking up a letter 
 which was beside him he tossed it over, saying, 
 " There's a bit of unexpected news." 
 
 It was a short note from Mr. Fergusson announc- 
 ing his engagement. Mr. Smith watched his 
 daughter while she read. 
 
 " So your old flame has been consoled at last. 
 Those people didn't let the grass grow under their 
 feet before they announced it in the papers. Hav- 
 ing caught their fish I suppose they don't intend 
 to let him slip — and they're wise. Ah ! my girl, 
 you might have had him once. You let a prize slip 
 there. But," he added with the resignation of a 
 man growing old and tired of fighting with fate, 
 *' there's no use in talking. What's done can't be 
 undone." 
 
 He got up and went away, and the matter was 
 not referred to again by either. It was more toler- 
 able so. Hyacinth's feelings on the subject were 
 too keen to be able to endure the most distant ref- 
 erence to it. She avoided meeting anybody who 
 would be likely to speak of it, and became for a 
 time something of a recluse; which perhaps les- 
 sened her humiliation, but not the poignancy of her
 
 152 HYACINTH'S REGRETS. 
 
 grief, which could find only the relief afforded 
 by secret, hopeless sighs and tears. 
 
 V. 
 
 About a year after Mr. Fergusson's marriage 
 Mrs. Lushington became a widow. The circum- 
 stance affected her but little; her freedom now 
 availed her nothing. Her father's death, however, 
 when it happened a few years later, made a great 
 difference, cutting her quite adrift from early as- 
 sociations and the anchorage of her life. It nipped 
 her very near, too, in the disappointment and sense 
 of slight she felt at finding that she was only to 
 have a life interest in his property, which was se- 
 cured to her son under the trusteeship of Mr. Fer- 
 gusson. Should young Aubrey die she was to 
 have absolute control over everything. But this 
 proviso by no means reconciled her to the implied 
 reproach contained in the terms of her father's will; 
 and that irrevocable testament must always remain 
 to perpetuate the slight feeling of estrangement it 
 had created. Besides, the condition of her son's 
 death was one which deprived the prospect of ac- 
 quiring the full disposal of her inheritance of all 
 attraction. If any doubt on this point had existed 
 in any one's mind it would have been laid to rest 
 when about his twelfth year young Aubrey fell a 
 victim to mortal illness. 
 
 The boy had always been delicate, and the doc-
 
 R. B. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 153 
 
 tors looked serious, Mrs. Liishington was beside 
 herself. For the first time in her life she was 
 moved to the depths of her soul, and being so 
 moved she sought for aid there where people turn 
 when there seems no earthly hope left. She visited 
 churches, she had Masses said, she made vows, she 
 put abundant alms in the poor-box — that the boy's 
 life might be spared. One day there was a consul- 
 tation, and the doctors told her that she must pre- 
 pare for the worst. When they were gone, she 
 threw herself upon her knees and adjured God that 
 He would spare her her son. He was the only 
 thing she had. Life without him would be worse 
 than death. " Anything, O God ! anything but 
 that ! " Everything else she would endure gladly, 
 suffer any loss or privation, give up all else, if only 
 her child was left to her. 
 
 The doctors could not make it out. The disease 
 did not take the turn they had thought inevitable; 
 and slowly they began to take a less gloomy view. 
 Even their modified forebodings were belied; for 
 the boy recovered and did not bear the traces they 
 had prophesied. What joy was not the mother's 
 as young Aubrey progressed with slow but al- 
 most uninterruptedly continuous advance towards 
 recovery ! What were now her former regrets, 
 her previous mistakes ! Cobwebs, which this 
 threatened sorrow and this anxious joy had swept 
 out of remembrance. Never should those things 
 she had pined for take possession of her again. This
 
 154 HYACINTH'S REGREtS. 
 
 great sorrow had carried her far ahead, leaving the 
 old days and the old life far behind and grown 
 small in the distance. The future now ! For her 
 the future, her boy's future; in him were all her 
 hopes; for him alone would she live. Hardly 
 would she let him out of her sight. How dreary 
 was one half-day without him ! Besides, his escape 
 had been too narrow for her to trust him out of 
 reach of her careful watching. Aubrey had the 
 best masters, the most careful professional training 
 at home. What though he did not take kindly to 
 studies, what if her ambitious hopes were being 
 continually clouded by his want of application. 
 Had she not promised that she would bear any- 
 thing else if only she were not deprived of him ? 
 
 It happened more than once that Mrs. Lushing- 
 ton as she looked at her son felt something like a 
 stab at seeing how like he was, just that moment, 
 to his father. But the next instant as he changed 
 his position the likeness had vanished, and she had 
 shaken herself free of the omen which had scared 
 her. 
 
 The recollection of the danger in the past which 
 she had escaped, the uncertainty and occasional 
 suggestions of evil that might l)e in store for her in 
 the future, made her at this time fairly contented 
 with things as they were. But she never fully re- 
 alized how happy these days had been until later on 
 when she looked back on them. In the interval 
 her boy, who had been all her own, her constant
 
 R. B. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 155 
 
 companion, whose studies she had shared, studying 
 harder than he that she might make his task easier, 
 who had ahvays gone with her to church, who had 
 been content to take no amusement but what she 
 could share in, has grown up, has developed a taste 
 for freedom, a disposition to live his own life, to 
 choose his own friends, and go his own way. 
 
 Mrs. Lushington now passes many hours alone, 
 brooding over her loss of influence over the young- 
 man, wondering where he is, what he is doing and 
 in whose company; when he will come home; and 
 whether he will ever again be to her as he was be- 
 fore. He does not talk freely and openly about 
 himself and his doings. The friends he brings to 
 the house she does not like, and tells him so. He 
 does not bring them again, and is less often at 
 home. As time passes she comes to be aware by 
 degrees and by various means that Aubrey drinks, 
 that he gambles, that he is leading a fast life. 
 
 Often in her long solitary vigils, angry and dis- 
 appointed, her mind would go back to the time 
 when, as a boy, his life was in danger; and she 
 would remember her own anguish and how she had 
 taken Heaven by storm, as it were, demanding and 
 receiving her son's life. Would she have been 
 quite so clamorous, she wondered, if she could have 
 foreseen that it was only for this, after all, that she 
 was asking ? 
 
 A friend to whom she confided her grief said : 
 " My dear Mrs. Lushington, you take the matter
 
 156 HYACINTH'S REGRETS. 
 
 too seriously. It is of course very sad, and I do 
 so sympathize with you. But Aubrey is no excep- 
 tion. Look at most of our young men who are 
 good for anything, how wild they are at first. Look 
 at most of our old men who have attained to any 
 sort of eminence, have they not generally in their 
 time sown wild oats ? We must not make too 
 much of these things. If others have come 
 out without much permanent damage from such a 
 life as Aubrey is leading, why should not he, in 
 course of time ? Depend upon it, you will see him 
 a steady, sober, family man yet." 
 
 Mrs. Lushington extracted what comfort she 
 could out of these reflections; but they did not afford 
 her much. Aubrey could never again be the inno- 
 cent boy she had worshipped and caressed. What- 
 ever might hereafter come, she never could forget 
 that he had preferred all and sundry to her, that he 
 had been completely indifferent to her happiness, 
 while he went away and enjoyed himself in all sorts 
 of disreputable ways. Nor was his company when 
 he bestowed it much of a pleasure now. He pes- 
 tered her for money, and at length she found her- 
 self becoming straitened. Besides, by supplying 
 him with the sinews of war was she not helping him 
 to continue in his evil courses ? She would not do 
 it; and there followed pleadings and refusals, argu- 
 ments and counter-arguments between mother and 
 son. One day he left the house in a rage vowing 
 he would never return. Hyacinth pulled herself
 
 J^. B. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 1 57 
 
 together, hardened herself, declared that she was 
 not going to give in to threats; did not shed a sin- 
 gle tear, said she would no longer sit down and 
 fret and pine away her life. There and then she 
 ordered the carriage, dressed with unusual care, 
 and drove out and made some calls. At the root 
 of this strength was the knowledge that, not having 
 the means to keep long away from her, Aubrey 
 must sooner or later — probably sooner — return 
 home. But when days passed, when weeks passed 
 and he did not return, all her strength oozed away, 
 and she could bear to remain in ignorance of his 
 proceedings no longer. She employed a detective, 
 and a pretty tale the detective brought her. He 
 was enjoying himself at Margate with a ballet-girl 
 from the Empire. He was very flush of money. 
 How does he come by it ? Why, the young gen- 
 tleman has plenty of money, has he not ? No ? 
 The detective was puzzled. He dismissed Mrs. 
 Lushington's suggestion that the ballet-girl sup- 
 plied the money with an easy " Not likely;" and 
 later on returned more fully informed. Aubrey 
 had realized his expectations. " And I should 
 think, ma'am, at a great sacrifice, if it's true, as you 
 say, that his expectations are dependent on the 
 length of your Hfe." 
 
 " It would have been better," this was the con- 
 stant and bitter thought arising out of all Mrs. 
 Lushington's cogitations — " it would have been 
 better if he had died that time."
 
 158 HYACINTH'S REG RET sl 
 
 VI. 
 
 It goes without saying that young Aubrey had 
 reahzed his expectations at a heavy loss. The 
 idiot would agree to any proposal without under- 
 standing it, and sign any paper without reading it, 
 it only the signature were to be followed by an ad- 
 vance of money. His financial agents reckoned 
 him " good business," and having secured the re- 
 version of his property at his mother's death, at ri- 
 diculous terms, they proceeded to try and obtain 
 an immediate return for a further outlay by work- 
 ing upon the mother's affection for her son and her 
 probable dread of his exposure to public shame. 
 
 When Mrs. Lushington understood the situation, 
 how thankful she became, and how grateful to her 
 father, till now somewhat estranged in death by 
 reason of that will, for not making her absolutely 
 his heir, for having placed his property under the 
 trusteeship of a strong and honest man. Had the 
 matter rested with her could she have refused to 
 save her son from ignominy ? Could she have 
 withstood the machinations of those blood- 
 suckers ? She knew she must have given way; 
 she would have given up everything, and beg- 
 gared herself. But now she had not the 
 power. Nor had her trustee. Mr. Fergus- 
 son's advice was that there was only one way — a 
 painful one — to free young Aubrey and his prop- 
 erty from the money-lenders' clutches; and that
 
 R. B. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 159 
 
 was that, having been so mercilessly fleeced, he 
 should take the oft'ensive. No judge or jury would 
 confirm the arrangements to which he had been 
 practically a defrauded party. Mr. Fergusson's 
 forecasts were fully justified by the result. But 
 through what a sea — of anxiety on the part of the 
 mother, of shame on the part of both mother and 
 son — was it not through which they had to pass ! 
 The trial over, indeed, the revulsion of feeling in 
 joy at success made Mrs. Lushington forget nearly 
 all her trouble. Aubrey's inheritance was saved ! 
 It would be possible within a few years to free him 
 entirely from liabilities. Mrs. Lushington was quite 
 hopeful; and if anything could have put spirit into 
 Aubrey it would have been his mother's astonish- 
 ing display of light-heartedness. But the verdict 
 did not rouse Aubrey from the depth of depres- 
 sion into which he had fallen during the protracted 
 trial. Many things had come out of which he had 
 thought but little previously; but which now, seen 
 as it were from the point of view of other people's 
 eyes, overwhelmed him with shame. To have 
 caused so unsavory a sensation in society ! To be 
 the talk and reprobation of high and low, in pri- 
 vate conversation and in the public press — all this 
 overwhelmed him. He had no happiness by day, 
 nor sleep by night. His mind, probably never 
 Avell balanced, gave way under the strain of con- 
 stant silent brooding and sleeplessness. One night 
 in a fit of uncontrollable longing to put an end to
 
 l60 HYACINTH'S REGRETS. 
 
 his trouble the unfortunate lad sprang out of bed, 
 tore open a drawer, snatched up a loaded revolver 
 he kept there, and, putting the barrel in his mouth, 
 blew out his brains. 
 
 VII. 
 
 This white-haired lady in black, slowly and pain- 
 fully making her way along the silent street — is it 
 possible it can be Mrs. Lushington ? It is none 
 other. Her head is bent. She has no eyes for the 
 chance passer-by; she is possessed by her thoughts, 
 and these forever harp on the same string. Where 
 is her boy ? She knows he is dead, it is not that 
 so much which troubles her, as it is the torturing 
 question, " Where is he now ? " 
 
 This thought had flashed across her mind im- 
 mediately upon the catastrophe. But the shock had 
 then been too sudden and horrible, the rush of suc- 
 ceeding events too rapid, to let its slow, iterating, 
 maddening effect be at first fully felt. Just as a 
 drowning man grasps at a straw, so at that time 
 Mrs. Lushington's whole eagerness had been to 
 prove that Aubrey had all along been out of his 
 mind. The verdict of suicide while temporarily 
 insane seemed to her at first a verdict as it were of 
 salvation for her son's soul. It was not she alone 
 that thought it, she argued; twelve men unbiassed 
 by interest or affection, having weighed all the evi- 
 dence, had come to the same conclusion; and for a 
 time that thought mitigated somewhat the cruel-
 
 J^. B. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. l6l 
 
 lest part of her suffering. But when all was over, 
 when Aubrey had been laid in the ground, and now 
 eventless days followed one the other, all full for her 
 of the same, monotonous, wearing thought, the 
 scant comfort she had grasped at failed her utterly, 
 and she sank prostrate in mind and body. She 
 thought the hand of death was upon her, and death 
 would have been welcome. But it was not to be. 
 
 Behold her, then, wasted to a shadow, suddenly 
 aged, grown bent, white-haired, and strange, as 
 she makes her way from the cottage in which she 
 has taken a couple of rooms to be near the ceme- 
 tery where Aubrey is buried; for to haunt his grave, 
 to sit and pray there for long hours and lay her face 
 upon the earth and call down to him, is her only 
 solace. 
 
 As in fever the patient turns wearily from side to 
 side in search of rest, trying again this posture and 
 again the other, though before the change brought 
 no relief, so does this poor lady seek consolation 
 and advice from this quarter and from that, pour- 
 ing out again and again the story of her misery and 
 ask for guidance. Over and over again she has 
 been admonished not to abandon herself to de- 
 spair; to hope for her son in the mercy of God; and 
 in her boy's name, and for him, to resign herself 
 completely to the Divine Will. She tries to — it is 
 all she can do. But it brings her but little comfort, 
 and there are times when it affords her none. 
 
 One day she was returning in this despairing
 
 1 62 HYACINTH'S REGRETS. 
 
 frame of mind from the cemetery when, just as she 
 was passing a church, a number of boys who had 
 been chasing each other gathered panting about 
 the open doorway, where they stood for a moment 
 on the steps to recover breath and let their noisy 
 laughter die down before going in. One of these 
 boys at once attracted her attention, because of 
 something about him which reminded her strongly 
 of Aubrey. While she stool gazing, the youths 
 with one accord crowded into the church and clat- 
 tered up to the top benches of the nave; and Mrs. 
 Lushington, eager for further sight of the lad, pres- 
 ently liitted like a shadow up one of the aisles 
 to a seat in which she, unobserved, watched the 
 group, and soon discovered that one in whom she 
 was interested. It was an afternoon class for cate- 
 chism for boys about to make their First Com- 
 munion. It seemed as if in putting the questions 
 the priest was going over ground in v^rhich instruc- 
 tion had already been given, to see if they had re- 
 tained the substance of the previous lecture; for his 
 questions, at least at first, were put without any ob- 
 vious sequence or apparent connection with the 
 main subject in hand. Mrs. Lushington was not 
 listening to the questions at all, but sitting with her 
 eyes fixed on the boy so like her son, and the mere 
 looking at whom filled her with a bitter-sweet sat- 
 isfaction. Suddenly the boy stood up. He had 
 been addressed, but had not caught the question. 
 The priest repeated it.
 
 i7. B. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 163 
 
 " May we ever feel sure concerning any person 
 now departed out of this life, that he or she is in 
 hell ? " 
 
 " No, Father," answered the boy. 
 
 " Not if all the circumstances of his life and death 
 point to his having died in mortal sin ? " 
 
 " No, Father," answered the boy stoutly. 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " Because we do not know as much as God 
 knows, and therefore we do not know what God's 
 judgment is." 
 
 '* Quite right. Now, what for instance do we 
 not know ? " 
 
 " We do not know," answered the boy that was 
 like Aubrey, " how far the person may have been 
 accountable for his actions." 
 
 "Exactly," said the priest; "therefore we can 
 never be certain of any particular person that he 
 or she is damned. And suppose," he went on, 
 " that we have some one belonging to us who has 
 died without a priest, without the sacraments, and 
 apparently under circumstances which would at the 
 first glance lead us to suppose that person to be 
 lost, should we give up all hope of his salvation ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " What should we do ? " 
 
 " Pray and have prayers said for him." 
 
 " Anything else ? " 
 
 " Do good works for him." 
 
 " Why ? "
 
 164 HYACINTH'S REGRETS. 
 
 " Because by these means we may help him," an- 
 swered the lad, and then, his questioning finished, 
 sat down. 
 
 It seemed to Mrs. Lushington during this dia- 
 logue as if hers was the questioning mind, and that 
 it was Aubrey's voice that was answering her. The 
 voice and all it had said echoed in her ears long 
 after the boys had left the church and had scattered 
 in all directions. Its spell was upon her still when 
 she reached homeland in the wakeful silence of 
 the night it seemed to call out to her and say, 
 " Mother, help me ! " 
 
 It was the constant cry of that voice which first 
 roused Mrs. Lushington and led her little by little 
 back to life and into new activities, in which her 
 wealth makes her a potent influence. Her mental 
 horizon has become enlarged, and in seeing occa- 
 sionally evidences of the good she is doing she 
 experiences momentary thrills of exquisite happi- 
 ness in feeling that she may be benefiting her son. 
 A calm and sense of peace within herself are often 
 hers to an extent which she hardly awhile ago 
 would have believed possible. But sometimes the 
 keenness of her great sorrow, with all its anguish 
 and despair, regains for a time its mastery; and un- 
 der the torture of its grip she cries out: " Oh, if 
 only my poor boy had died that time, in his youth 
 and innocence ! "
 
 FRANCES M. MAITLAND. 
 
 Frances Mary Maitland is one of a large family, and 
 was brought up in a Scotch manse. While her father was 
 proud of the old Presbyterian stock of which he came, her 
 mother's people were Episcopalians and on one side 
 Jacobite. 
 
 The happiest hours of Miss Maitland's existence were 
 spent with the grandmother whose great-grandfather had 
 laid down his life on Tower-Hill for the " Old Pretender," 
 and whose uncle, with his own lips, had told her, many a 
 time, of his visit to Prince Charlie at Rome. 
 
 Miss Maitland and her sister had English governesses to
 
 improve their brogue. The first was dismissed because of 
 her generosity in h's. the next, who had been brought up 
 as a public singer and had lost her voice, knew little and 
 taught less, and was at her happiest, her feet on the fender 
 and a novel in her hand. The children did not like her on 
 principle, for were they not brought up on Sir Walter's" Tales 
 of a Grandfather," and was she not a Southern — one of the 
 hereditary foes of their nation ? 
 
 Their mother was delicate, and when her daughters grew 
 up it was their grandmother who tooK the girls about, and 
 enjoyed the fun just as heartily as they did. 
 
 Then came the death of Miss Maitland's father, and a 
 wandering life began — a small house in Kensington for part 
 of the year, winters in France and Switzerland, and sum- 
 mers with the grandmother in the old Scotch town that had 
 sheltered Mary Stuart 
 
 With the wanderings and wider view of the world came a 
 glimpse of the world-embracing Faith — Christ's Church — a 
 good deal of reading, many questionings, an interview with 
 an Oratorian Father, and, finally, reception into the Church, 
 
 This was followed by attempts at writing, a sketch of 
 " Devorquilla of Galloway," and her " Abbey of Dulce Cor." 
 and a kindly letter from the saintly Father Dignam, S.J., 
 then editor of Tlie English Alcsse/iger. Then came en- 
 couragement from Father Matthew Russell ; and a longer 
 story in T/ie Month, then in Father Clarke's hands ; after- 
 wards stories for Mr. Wilfrid Meynell in Merry Eng- 
 land, in Tlie Catholic Magazine^ The Fireside, and one 
 tale for the American Messem^-er.
 
 BY FRANCES M. MAITLAND. 
 
 People were not astonished when Cecy Bath- 
 urst's engagement to Lord Lowdham was an- 
 nounced. That the Bathurst girls made good mar- 
 riages had come to be recognized ; not that they 
 were prettier, nor wittier, nor, if it came to that, 
 better dowered than other girls, but " it was a way 
 they had," to quote Mrs. Price, the rector's wife. 
 
 Had not old Mrs. Fawkes, of the Court, said, 
 with decision, the moment she heard her nephew 
 was on his way home from his Rocky Mountain 
 expedition, " He will just be in time for Cecy ! " 
 
 Had not Colonel Falkiner, who had no respect 
 for persons, poked his brother-in-law, the Rector, 
 in the ribs, and whispered, " Another job for his 
 Reverence, eh. Price ? " the very first time he saw 
 the couple canter together up the street. 
 
 Had not poor Mrs. Bathurst herself said, with 
 despairing presentiment, to her confidant. Miss 
 Packe, "Oh, I hope Lowdham won't take a fancy to 
 Cecy ! " A confidence responded to by a shake of 
 the head that plainly said, " Tliat, dear Mrs. Bath- 
 urst, no one can undertake to tell ! " 
 
 167
 
 1 68 MISS PACKE, 
 
 Mrs. Bathurst's worst enemies could not have 
 accused her of being a match-making mother; her 
 daughters' engagements invariably took her by 
 surprise, and cost her many tears. 
 
 A young-looking woman still, gentle, patient 
 Mrs. Bathurst lay on her invalid couch in the little 
 morning-room all day. Her malady might, in the 
 beginning, have been the vague disease hinted at 
 by a strong-minded neighbor now and then — 
 nerves, imagination, habit perhaps; but to the in- 
 valid herself the sufferings were very real, and 
 Miss Packe, when catechized, had the mysterious 
 " Ah, poor dear ! " that impressed the listener more 
 than a longer tale. 
 
 Little Dr. Bramwell, indeed, had been reported 
 to have said that, if it had not been for Miss Packe 
 encouraging her in her nonsense, Mrs. Bathurst 
 would have been up and walking long ago ; but 
 even he had given up trying to rouse her, though 
 he paid her a duty visit now and then. 
 
 Miss Packe, the " Dear Packie " of two genera- 
 tions of Bathursts, kept house, poured out tea, read 
 history with Cecy, copied Mr. Bathurst's letters to 
 The Field, nursed and spoiled Mrs. Bathurst, and 
 was " worked to death among them all," according 
 to Mrs. Price. Not that Packie thought herself 
 ill-used; she confessed herself, to her friends, the 
 happiest of women. 
 
 When there was not company, Mr. Bathurst 
 took her to dinner " as if she had been the Queen;"
 
 FRANCES M. MAITLAND. 169 
 
 and if the house was full and she elected, as she 
 often did, to sup in her school-room at dinner-time, 
 Griffiths, the old butler, was sure to appear with a 
 glass of port '' with the master's compliments," 
 and never failed to add the maccaroon he knew she 
 loved, with an apologetic, " I thought you might 
 like a biscuit. Miss." 
 
 Mrs. Bathurst had always a good-night kiss 
 ready, a grateful pressure of the hand, and often a 
 " What should we do without you, Packie, dear ? " 
 that brought tears to the little woman's eyes. 
 
 Yes, Packie was happy, there was no doubt of 
 that. She had been a pretty girl in her youth, and 
 was a dainty-looking woman now, with bright 
 brown eyes and rosy cheeks and snow-white hair, 
 and had " kept her figure wonderfully," as the say- 
 ing is. She had the " look " of the Bathursts that 
 made Mrs. Price hint that she might be a poor rela- 
 tion after all; but it was the likeness that grows 
 with long and loving intercourse, an accent, a man- 
 nerism, an expression sometimes. 
 
 A loyal, loving, faithful little woman, it was little 
 wonder the Bathursts loved Miss Packe. 
 
 Time had stood still at Bathurst-Coombe, Lord 
 Lowdham thought, when, the day after his arrival 
 home, he followed Griffiths into the morning- 
 room. 
 
 Mrs. Bathurst, the pale pink (conversation al- 
 ways brought) on her cheeks, was listening to 
 Father Every, the chaplain, and the Rector, who
 
 I/O MISS PACKE. 
 
 were having an argument. Dante of course ! 
 Lowdham recognized the mellow Roman binding 
 of the volume in the chaplain's hand at a glance. 
 
 Miss Packe in black silk gown, little silver caddy 
 in hand, was anxiously watching her tea-kettle as 
 of old ; the Squire, in leggings, was leaning back 
 in his big chair with Fix, the fox-terrier, on his 
 knee, while Mary — they had not told him Mary 
 Leake was at home — was perched on an arm of the 
 chair, in a cool gray spring frock. How fresh and 
 bright Mary always looked ! Why, if Leake 
 hadn't spoken so soon, who knew what might have 
 happened ! Lord Lowdham gave a little sigh. 
 He had taken it all in at a glance as Griffiths an- 
 nounced him. 
 
 " Lord Lowdham." The Squire jumped up, 
 Miss Packe put her caddy down; there were greet- 
 ings, exclamations; he had had his hand nearly 
 wrung off by the men, had been patted and re- 
 joiced over by Mrs. Bathurst, and been shyly wel- 
 comed by Miss Packe, before he saw that the slim 
 figure standing by her father's chair was not Lady 
 Leake after all. 
 
 " What, you don't remember Cecy ? " the Squire 
 said, with a chuckle. 
 
 Time had not stood still after all; five years ago 
 he had brought Cecy Bathurst — a doll ! 
 
 " She is like Mary," Mrs. Bathurst said in her 
 gentle way, while Cecy stood blushing under the 
 general scrutiny.
 
 FRAA'CES M. MAITLAND. I7I 
 
 Yes, Cecy was like her eldest sister, Lord Lowd- 
 ham told himself, as he sipped his cup of tea — like 
 Mary, but with a difference; taller, he thought, the 
 teeth better too — and the hair ! Was it because 
 the Bathursts had naturally curly hair that it 
 looked so soft and bright, and not dry and frizzled 
 up like the hair of half the other girls he knew ? 
 Yes, Cecy's hair was just like Mary's — Kitty Tolle- 
 mache's was darker, Louie Heron's too. But 
 there ! there were no girls like the Bathursts any- 
 where — sweet and frank and natural, and not too 
 learned. Miss Packe had to be thanked for that ! 
 And always well-dressed, and never (hateful word) 
 smart I 
 
 " Of course it was love at first sight," as Mrs. 
 Price said when, not a month after the first meet- 
 ing, the engagement was announced. But Mrs. 
 Price liked Cecy Bathurst, her " bark was waur 
 than her bite," and she rejoiced in the girl's happi- 
 ness in her heart. 
 
 " What was the good of having daughters, 
 if they ran away and left you as soon as they 
 were grown up ? " Mrs. Bathurst asked despair- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Most mothers would consider you lucky," Mrs. 
 Price responded dryly. 
 
 " I suppose some one will be running away with 
 Packie next ! " with a sigh. 
 
 " Ah, there we may trust Providence will be 
 kind," said the Rector's wife.
 
 172 MISS PACKE. ^ 
 
 " There was no hurry," the Squire protested, 
 when Lowdham urged Cecy to name the day. 
 
 And why should they wait ? Lord Lowdham 
 expostulated, not unmindful of the grouse. Let 
 them be married, take the run to the continent 
 Cecy wished, and have a week or two at home be- 
 fore going north. 
 
 "'Happy's the wooing that's not long a-doing,'" 
 quoted Mrs. Price. " The genus ' Bathurst girl ' 
 once extinct, some other of the Exshire young 
 ladies may have their chance ! " 
 
 " The Bathursts and Lowdhams were old Catho- 
 lics," Mrs. Price was careful to explain to all new- 
 comers. " She had no patience," she would add, 
 " with perverts like the Tollemaches, and Sir John 
 Leake. ' Reverts ' ? Did Punch really call them 
 re-verts ? Then Puncli was a fool ! " 
 
 Lowdham got his own way, and June saw Cecy 
 Bathurst, with Dolly Price as bridesmaid, a wife; 
 and Mr. and Mrs. Bathurst and Miss Packe settled 
 down again, as best they might in the big house left 
 daughterless. 
 
 " Cecy kept us young," the Squire complained, 
 rubbing his rheumatic leg. 
 
 Fix haunted Cecy's room, and growled when the 
 housemaids tried to displace him from her bed. 
 
 Mrs. Bathurst consoled herself with the pages of 
 descriptive happiness sent nearly every day from 
 the Tyrol. 
 
 She was always cold nowadays, she told Miss
 
 FRANCES M. MA IT LAND. 173 
 
 Packe one day, making her feel her hands. Cold 
 in July ! and in that sunny room with a fire. 
 Packie was not satisfied. 
 
 " Circulation, nothing but circulation," the doc- 
 tor, who happened to be busy, said, not disguising 
 his temper. 
 
 " Ah, poor dear ! " Miss Packe began. 
 
 " Yes, that's just it, ' poor dear,' " the little man 
 interrupted impatiently, " ' Poor dear ! ' indeed ! 
 It's just what I have told you, all your fault. Miss 
 Packe, encouraging her " — he paused for a civil 
 word — " in these indolent ways. It's too late now, 
 perhaps, but she ought to have been turned off that 
 sofa twenty years ago. You had the matter in 
 your own hands." And the little man rubbed his 
 hands to show he washed them of the whole 
 affair. 
 
 " Oh, poor dear ! " Miss Packe repeated, wiping 
 her eyes, " indeed you don't understand." 
 
 " I understand well enough." And with a grunt 
 the busy little man was gone. 
 
 " It was losing Miss Cecy made the mistress so 
 Mwiney,' " the servants agreed; "And most un- 
 natural if it hadn't and her the apple of her eye," 
 Flint the maid added, resenting what she was 
 pleased to call Miss Packe's " fuss." 
 
 Pretty Kitty Tollemache, who, summoned by 
 Miss Packe, drove over the grays that were the 
 envy of the country-side, to see her mother, agreed 
 with Flint, and suggested that Lady Leake's little
 
 174 ^ISS PACKE. 
 
 son and heir should be sent for to cheer up his 
 grandmother. Packie mustn't be nervous, she 
 added, as she kissed the httle woman good-by; but 
 Packie only shook her head. 
 
 It was quite a consolation to Miss Packe when 
 the Lowdhams turned up a week sooner than was 
 expected, and she was able to pour out all her 
 anxieties and fears; but the next day found JNIrs. 
 Bathurst so much better it almost seemed as if Flint 
 had been right after all. " I told you, Miss," that 
 worthy said triumphantly, " it was only a-missing 
 Miss Cecy — her ladyship, as I should say, begging 
 her pardon." 
 
 The next day was the same. Mrs. Bathurst en- 
 joyed her luncheon, enjoyed Lowdham's account 
 of their wanderings and even adventures in the 
 Tyrol, admired the presents brought from Paris, 
 was wheeled, Cecy dancing by her side, as far as 
 the east lodge, enjoyed her chat with Mr. and Mrs. 
 Price who came to dinner, and told Flint while she 
 was being put to bed, she didn't know how it was 
 but she felt quite young somehow. 
 
 Packie never forgot that July evening when, 
 Flint gone, she slipped in as usual to say good- 
 night. 
 
 '■ How happy Cecy was, and Lowdham, how 
 good ! " the mother said, rejoicing; then " Kiss 
 me, Packie, I am tired." 
 
 " Not cold ? " 
 
 " No, not cold. Well, a little perhaps, but
 
 FRANCES M. MAITLAND. I75 
 
 nothing to worry about." But Packie, unsatisfied, 
 wrapped her up. 
 
 She had said a second good-night and reached 
 the door when Mrs. Bathurst spoke again. " You 
 wouldn't leave Dick, would you, Packie ? " 
 
 "Dick" was Mr. Bathurst; and while Packie, 
 startled, paused for an answer, Mrs. Bathurst 
 spoke again. " Good-night, Packie, I am going to 
 sleep." 
 
 Packie was a good sleeper herself, owing, per- 
 haps, to what may be called her perennial youth. 
 Mr. Bathurst had a joke, called up on occasion, 
 that made the little lady blush, that it took the fire- 
 engine to wake Packie up. A story so far true, 
 that when fire broke out in the schoolroom one 
 early morning, the garden lads in their over zeal, 
 had played the hose into the first open window 
 they found, and soused poor Packie in her bed. 
 But it scarcely needed Flint's trembling touch to 
 rouse her on the sad July day that followed Cecy's 
 coming home. Mrs. Bathurst had had a paralytic 
 stroke. 
 
 Doctors and nurses came, in succession, from 
 town. Daughters, hastily summoned, arrived. 
 
 Cecy, like a little ghost, haunted her mother's 
 room, insisting she knew her, that she had moved 
 her eyes, her hand. 
 
 The Squire refused to leave his wife's side. 
 Father Every and the doctor, keeping vigil in the 
 library, came up-stairs from time to time, joining
 
 176 MISS PACKE. 
 
 their entreaties to Packie's that the Squire should 
 take some rest; but the old man, older than his 
 dying wife by twenty years, only shook his head; 
 and in the early morning, her helpless hand tight 
 locked in his, Mrs. Bathurst died. 
 
 That " Packie " was to look after Mr. Bathurst 
 settled itself into the natural thing. Lady Leake, 
 indeed, tutored by her husband that, as eldest 
 daughter, she should, before leaving, make some 
 arrangements for her father's comfort, began a lit- 
 tle speech one day, only to break down in the first 
 sentence and to throw her arms round Packie's 
 neck with a sob and a "Oh, Packie dear ! you 
 know better than any of us what he likes," and 
 " Indeed, I will do my best," Packie said, sobbing 
 too. 
 
 The Squire took his sorrow simply and manfully, 
 only begging that nothing should be meddled with 
 or changed. So Mrs. Bathurst's great white couch 
 and invalid table covered with books were left in 
 their corner of the sunny morning-room, and the 
 gardener brought, as of old, her favorite pots of 
 flowers, and when the 20th of August came and 
 Lord Lowdham, who had manfully resisted the 
 grouse, could not resist the black game, Cecy and 
 he went north, and the Squire and Miss Packe 
 settled down to their new life. Packie doing the 
 housekeeping, arranging the flowers, writing her 
 orders as of old. 
 
 Sometimes the old man forgot his loss, and burst
 
 FRANCES M. MAITLAND. 177 
 
 into the morning-room where Packie, her work 
 done, sat with her knitting, with a " CaroHne, 
 what do you think, a bearded tit was seen on the 
 Denne Marsh yesterday ! " or, '' Carohne, what do 
 you think, the beam-birds on the south wah are 
 bringing out their second brood." And when the 
 silence and empty sofa reminded him his wife was 
 gone he would give a " Tut, tut," or " Dear, dear," 
 and walk away; and Miss Packe would not see him 
 again for an hour or two. 
 
 He liked to refer to his wife: " as Caroline, poor 
 dear, would have said," or, " Caroline, poor dear, 
 would have liked this or that," or he would remind 
 Miss Packe of the days of their early married life, 
 when " Caroline, poor dear, had been the prettiest 
 girl in Exshire." 
 
 " Yes, Mary and Cecy were both like their 
 mother. Kitty too, but they couldn't hold a 
 candle to her." Miss Packe would bear him out. 
 
 The months went on ; December came, 
 " What ? Not have the poor girls at Christmas ! 
 Tut, tut, that would never do. What would poor 
 dear Caroline say to such a thing ? Tut, tut ! tut, 
 tut ! What was she thinking about ? No, no, 
 they must all come, all come. Yes, babies and all; 
 yes, babies and all. Miss Packe must mind that — 
 just as usual." 
 
 Perhaps the Squire found his first real consola- 
 tion in Lady Leake's little three-year-old boy, who, 
 if backward in speech, hugged the pointers and
 
 178 MISS PACKE. 
 
 rushed to horses' heels in a way that enchanted his 
 grandfather — if it drove liis attendants distracted ! 
 
 " A regular Bathurst, every inch of him," the 
 Squire proclaimed with pride, when, lost one morn- 
 ing, he was found cuddled up in Brough's (the 
 great mastiff) kennel in the yard. " If poor Caro- 
 line only could have seen him ! " 
 
 Some of Packie's smiles, too, came back with 
 the young folk. They had their Christmas pres- 
 ents for her, a miniature of Mrs. Bathurst — a joint 
 gift — books, texts, what not ! Even Freddy Tolle- 
 mache had his present, given before dinner in the 
 drawing-room, a brooch to fasten Packie's shawl, 
 a silver pack of hounds in cry. 
 
 "Said to Kit the-moment I spotted it, 'That's 
 my present, Kit.' A pack of hounds ! Good, isn't 
 it ? Ha, ha ! " 
 
 And while Packie, with all her gratitude, looked 
 at it askance. Kit said severely, " No one but your- 
 self would see any point in such a foolish joke, 
 Freddy ! " 
 
 " It has its point, though ! Come, Miss Kitty, 
 confess," Freddy cried, seizing his wife's white 
 arm. 
 
 " You are hurting me, Freddy, be quiet " — and 
 Kitty pointed over the little red mark. " You 
 ought to behave properly, it isn't " — and poor 
 Kitty gave a sob — " it isn't like other years." 
 
 " If you mean I don't miss your poor mother, 
 you're wrong," Freddy said with decision, " but she
 
 FRANCES M. MAITLAND. 1/9 
 
 wouldn't grudge us a little joke, would she, Miss 
 Packe ? " 
 
 After all, Christmas went off " better than could 
 have been expected," as Mrs. Price said, and in- 
 deed that lady did her best to help things along. 
 
 It was Freddy Tollemache, however, who spe- 
 cially took in hand the cheering up of the Squire, 
 inventing, Kitty sadly feared, tales of shovellers 
 that had been shot, and wild geese that had been 
 seen on the Denne Lake. He even managed to 
 secure a snipe with some peculiarity in its plumage 
 that kept the Squire happy and excited for many a 
 day. 
 
 " Packie had the patience of the saints," Freddy 
 confided to his wife, when he saw the little woman 
 putting the scraps of paper, quarter sheets, out of 
 backs of envelopes, a sheet out of an old account- 
 book perhaps, into order before copying out the 
 Squire's communication to The Field, and putting 
 away the volume after volume he had pulled down 
 in verifying his facts, if facts, with Freddy's snipe's 
 tale in question, they might be called ! 
 
 After the Christmas gathering, life went on more 
 cheerfully at Bathurst-Coombe. Little Dick Leake 
 was left, with his nurses, for a time. Then spring 
 came, and the home-farm, recently taken into his 
 own hands, and talks with the bailiff, kept the 
 Squire busy, and left little time to fret. 
 
 If poor Packie had her troubles with the house- 
 hold, she did not complain.
 
 l80 MISS PACKE. 
 
 It had been all very well for the governess to 
 have mistressed over them — as deputy, one might 
 say — while the mistress was alive; but that, now 
 she was dead and gone. Miss Packe was to have it 
 all her own way, was " more than flesh and blood 
 could stand, and enough to make Mrs. Bathurst 
 turn in her grave," according to Flint, whom the 
 Squire had refused to send away. " She had been 
 a good maid to poor Caroline, and women always 
 seemed to find sewing to do about a house ! " 
 
 It was Freddy Tollemache who, coming in wet 
 by the side-door one day he had ridden over to see 
 his father-in-law, heard Flint " slanging " Miss 
 Packe in the linen-room and went straight to the 
 Squire ; and, Flint pensioned off, and Griffiths 
 solemnly bound over to report any further inso- 
 lence, Packie was at peace. 
 
 It was on the anniversary of her mother's death 
 that Cecy Lowdham's little daughter came. Mr. 
 Bathurst walked over daily to inspect the little pink 
 morsel of humanity that, lying in the portly nurse's 
 arms, puckered up its face and doubled its fists, and 
 did all a well-dispositioned baby should. 
 
 " No look of its poor grandmother," the Squire 
 would say disconsolately, touching its cheek 
 gingerly with a gentle finger-tip. 
 
 " And it was early days yet to say who her little 
 ladyship would be like," Mrs. Naylor would cheer- 
 fully reply, with a dip in acknowledgment of the 
 sovereign that so often found Its way to her palm.
 
 FRANCES M. MA I TLA ND. l8l 
 
 In Packie's opinion the baby had Mrs. Bathurst's 
 eyes. 
 
 " I beheve them when I see them," Freddy, who 
 had made his way to the nursery, said. " Miss 
 Packe, do you beheve you were ever such a mon- 
 ster as that ? A lobster's a joke to it ! " 
 
 A monster indeed ! Packie nearly cried. How- 
 ever, even Freddy was interested in hearing that it 
 was a monster in another sense, had turned the 
 scale at twelve pounds, according to Dr. Bram- 
 well. 
 
 " Why, Kit's poor little beggar only weighed 
 three and a half," Freddy cried; for Kitty had lost 
 her only child. 
 
 Dr. Bramwell on his way home from Lowdham 
 used to stop at Bathurst-Coombe to give Packie 
 the last news of Cecy. 
 
 " Nothing wrong with Miss Packe ? " the Squire 
 asked anxiously one day, waylaying the little man 
 in the hall. 
 
 " There is nothing wrong with Miss Packe," the 
 doctor was happy to say. 
 
 " That was all right," the Squire, relieved, 
 said. 
 
 Miss Packe in his opinion, the doctor rather 
 stiffly went on, was an exceptionally healthy wom- 
 an for her years — ex-ception-ally healthy, he re- 
 peated, rubbing his hands. Might he add that 
 he had a great respect, he might say the greatest 
 re-spect, for Miss Packe.
 
 1 82 MISS PACKE. 
 
 " Yes, yes, certainly." What on earth was the 
 fellow driving at ? the Squire asked himself. 
 
 If the Squire were not busy, Dr. Bramwell would 
 be glad of a few words. 
 
 No, the Squire was not busy ; he was at the 
 doctor's service ; but he thought ruefully of the 
 bailiff setting out without him to the new cottages. 
 
 " The day was warm, what would the doctor 
 have ? A B. and S. ? " 
 
 The day was certainly warm, to judge from Dr. 
 Bramwell's appearance, as he sat mopping his fore- 
 head with a red silk handkerchief, in one of the big 
 library chairs. 
 
 The brandy and soda, administered by Griffiths, 
 perhaps gave him courage, for, thrusting the hand- 
 kerchief into his pocket, and clearing his throat, he 
 spoke. 
 
 " As I said, Mr. Bathurst, I have a great respect, 
 a ve-ry great re-spect, for Miss Packe." 
 
 What on earth was the fellow after ? the Squire 
 asked himself again. Audibly — " He hoped they 
 all had that." 
 
 " In fact," — the doctor took another gulp from 
 his glass and drew out the handkerchief again — 
 " in fact, I have thought of it for some time. In 
 fact — I have asked Miss Packe to be my wife." 
 
 The murder was out ! " The ! " A bad 
 
 word very nearly came from Mr. Bathurst's mouth; 
 he walked to the window, walked back again, then 
 back to the window, then turned. " She has ac-
 
 FJ^AiVCES i\L MAITLAND. 1 83 
 
 cepted you ? " Looking at little, red-faced, podgy 
 Dr. Bramwell, Mr. Bathurst thought it un- 
 likely ! 
 
 " Well, that he could hardly say — Miss Packe 
 had been — the Squire would understand — taken 
 a lit-tle, yes, a lit-tle by surprise. Ladies always 
 were, he believed, on these occasions. He ! he ! " 
 
 The little snob ! The Squire felt inclined to kick 
 him. " Surely, you know whether she said yes or 
 no ? " he demanded irately. 
 
 " Of course, of course." The little man was 
 mopping his brow again. " That was just it. Miss 
 Packe had been taken, as he had said, a lit-tle by 
 surprise. It had struck him that Mr. Bathurst, 
 perhaps, would say a word for him ? He had a 
 fair practice, had his savings, he could make her 
 comfortable, he hoped." 
 
 " She is not young." The Squire spoke 
 abruptly, he was provoked, angry — Bramwell want 
 to marry Miss Packe I Advise Packie, who was as 
 good as any of them — why, if her father hadn't got 
 into that mess, Packie would never have been 
 teaching at Bathurst-Coombe — advise her to 
 marry little Bramwell, whose father had been the 
 county vet ! An honest little chap, no doubt, — 
 but Miss Packe ! The Squire fumed. 
 
 " He himself was fifty; age, if he might say so, 
 had nothing to do with the affection. Yes, af-fec- 
 tion, if he might use the word, he had for Miss 
 Packe." The little man spoke with some dignity.
 
 1 84 MISS PACKE. ' 
 
 He saw Mr. Bathitrst was ruffled ; naturally (he 
 said to himself) he would not care to lose Miss 
 Packe, who suited him to the ground, but it would 
 be easy for the Squire, with his means, to find an- 
 other housekeeper, or he might take the Herons to 
 live with him, as many people thought he should 
 have done when Mrs. Bathurst died; the Herons 
 were hard up, as everybody knew. 
 
 " Look here, Bramwell " — the Squire, who had 
 been walking up and down again, paused — " I 
 never interfere in these matters. If a woman likes 
 a man, she finds it easy enough to tell him so ! If 
 she doesn't — well, I'm not the man to persuade her 
 to marry him against her will ! " 
 
 " Ye-e-s," the little doctor spoke disappointedly; 
 then more cheerfully, taking up his hat, " you'll at 
 least wish me good-luck ? " 
 
 " Good-luck ? Of course I'll wish you good- 
 luck," the Squire said testily, as he shook the de- 
 parting visitor's hand. 
 
 Mr. Bathurst looked curiously at Miss Packe 
 when they met at the luncheon-table. Her eyes 
 and nose were red, her face flushed, her manner a 
 little agitated. A first ofTer at fifty-six might 
 naturally agitate, one may allow. 
 
 There was no doubt Miss Packe had been taken 
 by surprise, she had been touched by Dr. Bram- 
 well's devotion to Cecy, by his kindness in bringing 
 her the daily bulletins — but that he should ask her 
 to be his wife ! After the little man's departure
 
 FRANCES M. MA IT LAND. 1 85 
 
 she had been as near hysterics as she had ever been 
 in her Hfe. 
 
 All the doctor had gathered, incoherently 
 enough at the time, was, that it was impossible, 
 quite impossible; and, when he had begged her 
 to consider, she had sobbed " Yes, yes," only 
 anxious to get him off. 
 
 The luncheon was a silent one, the Squire taking 
 furtive glances at Packie now and then, regarding 
 her in a new light, as a marriageal^le lady. Well, 
 Bramwell was no fool; she was a fresh, sensible, 
 comfortable-looking little woman, any man might 
 be proud to call his wife. 
 
 Poor Packie, crumbling her bread, and vainly 
 trying to swallow her roast mutton, was painfully 
 aware of her flushed cheeks and swollen eyes. 
 
 " A glass of wine. Miss Packe," the Squire said 
 presently, in, what he could not prevent from 
 being, commiserating tones — " Griffiths, the wine 
 to Miss Packe. Tut, tut, it will do you good ; 
 Griffiths, fill up the glass. There, that's right, 
 drink it up." 
 
 " Was she going to Lowdham that afternoon ? " 
 he asked presently, when Grififiths, who also had 
 been eying Miss Packe solemnly, had left the room. 
 
 " Not unless Mr. Bathurst had a message ; she 
 had a letter — letter to write," Packie answered 
 v\ath some confusion, ready to cry again. 
 
 He was going himself, the Squire said ; then — 
 ** Look here, Miss Packe, as long as I am alive, and
 
 1 86 MISS PACKE. 
 
 you are happy with us, your home's here. You 
 understand." 
 
 And Miss Packe understood that the Squire 
 knew all about Dr. Bramwell's offer, and grew 
 scarlet. 
 
 Dr. Bramwell certainly did not speak of his own 
 discomfiture, nor did Miss Packe, honorable little 
 woman, tell tales; but in a few days every one, in- 
 cluding Mrs. Price, knew that the little man had 
 proposed and been refused. 
 
 If the Squire did tell Freddy Tollemache, it was 
 in confidence, and if Freddy, through Mary Leake, 
 who, as eldest matron of the Bathurst girls, was in 
 charge at Lowdham, did send Cecy a pencil sketch 
 of the Doctor on his knees offering Miss Packe a 
 large heart, Cecy had hidden it under her pillow at 
 once that the nurses might not see it and talk. 
 
 " The pair of them had more sense in their heads 
 than she would have credited them with," Mrs. 
 Price summed up. " Miss Packe would have made 
 a most excellent wife, and Dr. Bramwell a — well, a 
 detestable husband ! " 
 
 " j\Iy dear ! my dear ! " charitable old Mr. Price 
 said. 
 
 " By Jove, Kit, I believe Packie's got another 
 sweetheart," Freddy Tollemache announced one 
 day when he had come back from Bathurst- 
 Coombe, about the end of November. 
 
 Litigation is not agreeable, but Mr. Bathurst's 
 quick temper got him into many a scrape, and
 
 FRANCES M, MAITLAND, 1 8/ 
 
 " before he knew what he was about," as he told 
 Freddy, he had found himself deep in a complicated 
 lawsuit with the outgoing tenant of the Home 
 Farm. 
 
 " Compromise," Freddy advised. " It'll cost 
 you a lot more than a few dirty bags of hme." 
 
 " It isn't the lime, it's the principle," the Squire 
 said. 
 
 " Oh, hang the principle ! " Freddy said. " Do 
 the cheap thing these hard times." But the Squire 
 would not be advised, and Mr. Omerod, senior 
 member of the firm of Omerod, Green & Omerod, 
 the Squire's London solicitors, was in constant 
 requisition at Bathurst-Coombe. 
 
 " Fancy having an expensive fellow like that 
 down, when old Wickham would have done just as 
 well," Freddy said. " A nice bill your father will 
 have ! Omerod don't come for nothing, I can tell 
 you that." 
 
 Freddy, an idle man, living with |\is father and 
 mother, rode over to Bathurst-Coombe " to look 
 the Squire up " nearly every day and brought Kitty 
 back the news. 
 
 " You should see the eyes old Omerod makes at 
 Miss Packe," he reported pretty regularly to his 
 wife at this time. 
 
 " Don't talk nonsense, Freddy." 
 
 " Well, you'll see, Mrs. Kit ! Look here, what 
 will you bet ? " 
 
 Even the Squire began to wonder — important
 
 loo MISS PACKE. I 
 
 as, in his opinion, the case " Jones versus Bathurst" 
 was — at the frequency of Mr, Omerod's Saturday 
 to Monday visits. 
 
 Mr. Omerod, to be sure, was careful to explain 
 on most of these occasions that he had only run 
 down to have a friendly little talk over matters ; 
 and, to do him justice, none of the long confabs 
 held in the smoking-room ever swelled Omerod, 
 Green & Omerod's account. 
 
 Mr. Omerod, who had not long lost the old 
 mother who had kept his house, was a bald-headed, 
 professional-looking little man, nearly as stout, if 
 not as red in the face, as Miss Packe's suitor, Dr, 
 Bramwell. Mr. Omerod was, however, a gentle- 
 man, belonged to one of the Squire's own clubs, 
 liked his dinner and his glass of wine, and did not 
 hesitate to condemn either if bad. 
 
 Packie and Mr. Omerod were old acquaintances, 
 of course. 
 
 " Miss Packe was well ? " Mr. Omerod had 
 hoped as usual, the first time he had run down 
 about " the Jones affair," as the Squire drove him 
 up from the station. 
 
 " Yes, Miss Packe was well," the Squire said, 
 giving the mare a flick; then confidentially, with a 
 glance at the groom behind, " Bramwell wanted to 
 carry her off." 
 
 " Indeed," the lawyer looked his surprise, and 
 both men laughed, but Mr. Omerod regarded Miss 
 Packe with more interest than usual when they
 
 FRANCES M. MAITLAND. 1 89 
 
 met before dinner that night, and, as it happened, 
 Packie was looking her best, in new silk gown — 
 Lady Leake's last gift — and soft lace fichu. 
 
 Mr. Omerod didn't want a giddy, dressy girl, 
 fond of theatres and balls perhaps, to be at the head 
 of his house; still less did he want a "frump," a 
 plain, middle-aged person, in dowdy frock, like the 
 Miss Baker his married sister Mrs. Green was 
 pleased to recommend as an excellent future Mrs. 
 Omerod. He wanted a good-looking, intelligent 
 woman, not fond of gayety, but accustomed to 
 society, whom he might be proud to introduce to 
 his friends. How did it happen he had never 
 thought of Miss Packe before ? Quite a distin- 
 guished-looking person, the lawyer thought, ob- 
 serving her critically; healthy, good-natured, an 
 excellent housekeeper — the Bathurst-Coombe din- 
 ners proved that — of his own faith (and that was 
 imperative), of good family too. Why, Sir 
 Howard Packe, the V.C. man, was Miss Packe's 
 cousin, and he had married Lord Easthampton's 
 daughter not so very long ago. Mr. Omerod al- 
 most thought it would do. 
 
 More than once at dinner, Mr. Omerod looked 
 at the lady approvingly. Few women would have 
 detected, now, that little over-soupcon of mace, 
 and that new savory, picked up from Lady Lowd- 
 ham's French cook, showed she was observant and 
 knew " what was what." 
 
 In the drawing-room, after dinner, while Miss
 
 190 MISS PACKE. [ 
 
 Packe gave him his cup of coffee, Mr. Omerod ex- 
 amined her critically again. Yes, Miss Packe 
 would look well at the head of the table in Glouces- 
 ter Place. // would do. 
 
 By bedtime, Mr. Omerod had complimented 
 Packie on her whist — the Squire, who knew the 
 lawyer liked a good rubber, looking his surprise — 
 and even managed to give her fingers a gentle 
 squeeze as he bade her an emphatic " Good- 
 night." 
 
 On his next visit, Mr. Omerod brought Packie 
 a wonderful hamper of bonbons, bristling with 
 pink satin bows; he had had a run to Paris on busi- 
 ness, he explained, and knew, with a tender smile, 
 " ladies liked such things." 
 
 Then came the present of a book all the world 
 was talking about, and (the lawyer thought) might 
 possibly not yet have reached Bathurst-Coombe. 
 
 Miss Packe accepted these gifts in all simplicity, 
 and spoke of Mr. Omerod as a " thoughtful man." 
 
 " You'll lose Packie this time, and no mistake," 
 Freddy said to his father-in-law, when coming in 
 one afternoon they found the lawyer assisting Miss 
 Packe in concocting a menu for a dinner-party 
 next day. 
 
 " Riz de veau a la monarque. 
 
 Cailles a la Bellevue. 
 
 Releves. 
 
 Chapons braises. Sauce verte." 
 
 Mr. Omerod, pencil in hand, was reading with 
 unction, aloud.
 
 FEAA'CES M. MAITLAND. I9I 
 
 " By Jove ! " Freddy said, " I pity Miss Packe 
 when she's Mrs. O., and I pity old O.'s cook." 
 
 " Tut, tut,'' the Squire said, but he was genuinely 
 put out. Could there be any foundation for what 
 Freddy suspected ? Omerod, certainly, had been 
 very attentive to jMiss Packe, now it was put into 
 his head. But Miss Packe, at her age, never would 
 be such a fool ! And there had been Dr. Bram- 
 well ! " Tut, tut, tut, tut." The Squire went up- 
 stairs in quite a temper to dress. 
 
 " I suppose you will have the wedding here ? " 
 Mrs. Price said next evening to the Squire behind 
 her fan, indicating Mr. Omerod and Miss Packe 
 with a Httle nod. 
 
 " Wedding ! what wedding ? " the Squire's 
 voice might have been heard all over the room. 
 " There's no one going to be married here, so far 
 as I know. You don't expect me to marry, I sup- 
 pose ? and Miss Packe ain't likely to change her 
 state " — with a furious glance at Mr. Omerod, 
 who, spruce, always gay, a white camellia in his 
 button-hole, was bending over Miss Packe's tea- 
 tray. 
 
 Freddy reported to his Kit that, impassioned as 
 the old fellow might seem, there was no romance 
 about his conversation, and mimicked his " and, 
 my dear Miss Packe, I may without hesitation say, 
 it was the best ' tortue claire ' I ever tasted in my 
 life." 
 
 Miss Packe was rather oppressed by the lawyer's
 
 192 MISS PACKE. I 
 
 attentions. " He is much too fond of his dinner, 
 my dear," she confided to Cecy Lowdham, which 
 was a severe speech for gentle Miss Packe. 
 
 " Jones versus Bathurst " dragged along. Mr. 
 Omerod went and came. Freddy, reporting prog- 
 ress to his Kitty (not just then allowed to drive), 
 was confident of his bet. 
 
 At last a fatal morning came when Mr. Omerod, 
 after a prolonged interview with Miss Packe in the 
 morning-room, announced that he had business 
 that must take him by the next train up to town ; 
 and when next instructions were wanted in the 
 " Jones versus Bathurst " case, young Mr. Green 
 came down to interv^iew the Squire, and mentioned, 
 incidentally, that just then the senior partner was 
 much engaged. 
 
 A little flush used to come to Packie's cheek 
 when Freddy Tollemache asked her if anything 
 had been heard lately of Omerod, adding gravely 
 that he had heard on good authority he was sufifer- 
 ing from heart-complaint. 
 
 It became quite a little joke among the sisters to 
 speak of Packie as a " dangerous little woman." 
 "My dear, my dear," Packie would expostulate, 
 blushing up to the roots of her hair. 
 
 The Squire recovered his serenity when he found 
 he was not to lose Miss Packe. " Poor Caroline 
 was right; she always said she was a sensible wo- 
 man," he said to Freddy, who only hemmed. 
 
 But the Squire's peace of mind was not to be of
 
 FRANCES M. MAITLAND. 193 
 
 long duration. One morning a letter was handed 
 to Miss Packe that caused that lady some agita- 
 tion. 
 
 " Nothing wrong ? " the Squire hoped, looking 
 up from his newly opened Times. 
 
 " No, nothing wrong. Would Mr. Bathurst 
 read for himself ? " Miss Packe, half-laughing, 
 half-crying, handed him the letter with trembling 
 hand. 
 
 Mr. Bathurst looked rather grimly at the "Louis- 
 vale, Queensland," and the " Dearest Catharine " 
 that besran the letter, and turned with his more 
 severe expression tO' the signature, " Your affec- 
 tionate brother, John Packe." " Brother ! " the 
 Squire almost said his grace in his gratitude. 
 Sweethearts had been getting so common with 
 Packie, he had not known what to expect ! John 
 Packe; he remembered, the brother that had not 
 been heard of for years. Well, for Packie's sake 
 he was glad he had written at last. He was not so 
 glad as he read on. John Packe regretted — on the 
 thinnest of paper, and in the faintest of inks — 
 that he had kept his sister so long in ignorance of 
 his whereabouts. People got careless at these 
 up-country stations somehow, and time flew faster 
 than one realized, and Cathy must forgive him, as 
 the writer knew she would. Times had been bad, 
 too, as Packie must have seen, if she read the news- 
 papers, which the writer supposed she did. In 
 John's opinion matters were going from bad to
 
 194 MISS PACKE. I 
 
 worse, and, having his opportunity, he had sold his 
 station, and was coming home, if not a rich man, a 
 zvanti one, even for the old country, and Packie 
 could say good-by to her teaching and look for- 
 ward to a comfortable home. 
 
 " O Jack, Jack ! " Packie — to the Squire's dis- 
 may — was crying. Was she glad to leave them, 
 then ? 
 
 " He had taken his passage in the Morning Star 
 and would be home nearly as soon as the letter." 
 The Squire had nearly missed this postscript. 
 
 The Morning Star — the Squire had seen the name 
 that very day — he turned to his Times; yes, here it 
 was: she had made one of the quickest passages 
 known, had nearly broken the record in fact. 
 
 " O Jackie, Jackie ! " Miss Packe was sobbing 
 still. Griffiths had discreetly left the room. 
 
 " We must expect to lose you, I suppose ? " the 
 Squire spoke gruffly. 
 
 " Oh, indeed, indeed ! " Packie sobbed, she 
 could say no more. 
 
 Had the whole world combined against him ? 
 the Squire asked himself. Bramwell, Omerod, and 
 now this ne'er-do-well brother — who nevertheless 
 had made his pile — from the end of the world ! 
 The Squire would not, to do him justice, have 
 grudged Packie any happiness, but Bathurst- 
 Coombe without her after all these years ! Quite 
 vividly the Squire saw his solitary meals, his library 
 table littered with the scraps which only Packie had
 
 FRANCES M. MAITLAND. I9S 
 
 patience to put straight and copy (he did not him- 
 self pretend to be able to read the hieroglyphics 
 put down in haste). Then Caroline had been so 
 fond of Miss Packe ! Poor Caroline ! And Miss 
 Packe had been so devoted to her. 
 
 There seemed to the Squire only one way to get 
 out of the difficulty. The resolution was made in 
 haste, as the Squire's resolutions always were. He 
 walked round the table and laid a not ungentle 
 hand on Miss Packe's shoulder, "" Look here, Miss 
 Packe, be my wife." 
 
 Was the sky falling ! Miss Packe got up. Stay 
 as Mr. Bathurst's wife ! Take Mrs. Bathurst's 
 place ! What could the Squire think of her to 
 suggest such a thing ? With one reproachful 
 glance, Miss Packe fled the room. 
 
 " But what is it all about, father ? " Mary Leake, 
 who was staying at Lowdham and had been driven 
 over by Cecy that afternoon, asked. 
 
 She had found her father sitting disconsolately in 
 the library; she had left Packie in tears, with Cecy, 
 up-stairs. 
 
 The Squire, fidgeting in his chair, made no re- 
 sponse. 
 
 " She may be sorry to leave us (dear Packie, not 
 half so sorry to leave us as we shall be to lose her), 
 but I cannot see why her brother's home-coming 
 should upset her so." 
 
 " Nor I, my dear," the Squire said, seeing she 
 was waiting for an answer. And then — he was an
 
 196 MISS PACKE. I 
 
 honest man, and Mary and he were bosom friends 
 — " The truth is " — the Squire cleared his throat — 
 " tut, tut ! tut, tut." He paused again, looked 
 hard at his daughter, and went desperately on — " I 
 asked her to be my wife ! " 
 
 " Father ! " Mary Leake sat for a m.oment dis- 
 mayed, then the ludicrous side of the affair struck 
 her, and she began to laugh. " Father, poor 
 father ! " she said when she could speak, patting 
 him on the knee. " And Packie, poor Packie ! " 
 She began to laugh again. 
 
 The Squire sat shame-faced. " Well, my dear, 
 it no doubt strikes you as absurd, but I didn't 
 know what I should do without her, you see." 
 
 " Yes, I see." Mary began to laugh again; then, 
 more gravely, " Look here, father dear, leave it all 
 to me, you don't want to marry Packie, and Packie 
 doesn't want to marry yon ; it's all that wretched 
 brother, and I'll tell you what we must do — marry 
 him ! Men that come from the colonies all marry, 
 I think. Have him down, and we'll see what we 
 can do." 
 
 " Mary," the Squire said, quite relieved by this 
 unburdening of himself, " you remind me of your 
 poor mother. Poor Caroline ! " 
 
 It really was providential, as Mrs. Price observed 
 (for what could the Squire have done without Miss 
 Packe ?) that John Packe should have found his 
 fate, as so many men have done before him on 
 board ship on his passage home, not that that was
 
 FRANCES M. MAITLAND. 1 97 
 
 to make any difference, he assured his sister ; his 
 Ellen was looking forward to her making her home 
 with them. 
 
 " I told you so, father," Mary Leake said tri- 
 umphantly, when she heard the news. She and 
 her husband and babies had come over from Lowd- 
 ham that there might be no " awkwardness " for 
 Packic. 
 
 Whatever happened, Freddy was not to be told, 
 Cecy and Mary had agreed; and IMary had added 
 in a guilty whisper, " Cecy, I often think Freddy is 
 a little — well, coarse, you know ! " 
 
 Poor Mary had some difficulty in making it up 
 between Packie and her father — " that he should 
 have thought I would do such a thing," the poor 
 lady always repeated among her tears — but at last 
 peace was made. She took Father Every into her 
 confidence, and the priest, not without a twinkle in 
 his eye, gravely assured Packie it was her duty 
 (with emphasis) to stay at Bathurst-Coombe; and 
 after a solemn shaking of hands and a " Tut, tut ! 
 Miss Packe, you shouldn't have been so hard on an 
 old man " from the Squire, the pair settled happily 
 down, " till death should them part " — according 
 to Freddy. (How did Freddy always know every- 
 thing ?) 
 
 " Packie, you dangerous little woman ! " Mary 
 Leake often said. 
 
 " My dear, it was never my fault," Packie would 
 humbly protest.
 
 .^ . il 
 
 MRS. WILLIAM MAUDE. 
 
 Mrs. William Maude (nee Sophie Dora Spicer) was 
 brought up in one of the lovehest of English deer-parks, her 
 parents going to Hve there when she was ten years old, and 
 there she wrote her first stories in nursery and schoolroom 
 days, but these never appeared in print. 
 
 Her first publication was a little story written in aid of the 
 Sick Children's Hospital in Great Ormond Street. It was 
 brought out by the S. P. C. K., and called " Cyril's Hobby- 
 Horse." The proceeds went to the Children's Hospital. 
 
 A'DOut the same time (when twelve years old) she ven- 
 tured to send a story to A/a/^ Judy s Magazine , which was
 
 declined, but " Aunt Judy's " letter was religiously treasured ; 
 a kind, sympathetic lette;. beautifully worded as only Mrs. 
 Gatty knew how to write. 
 
 " Two little Hearts '" was her next publication. 
 
 Mrs. Maude was never sent to school, but shared her 
 younger sisters' masters in their Belgrave Square school- 
 room during successive London seasons, while the elders 
 went to balls and parties. 
 
 After a few years she was received into the Catholic 
 Church, and lived some time abroad. She gave up writing 
 for a while, but soon began again, and through Monsignor 
 Nugent, then editor of The Fireside, her stories appeared 
 from time to time in both the Catholic Times and Catholic 
 Fireside. The Catholic Truth Society has reprinted one 
 of these, " The Runaway Marriage," and is now bringing 
 out a little volume of her short stories. 
 
 In 1890 she became Mrs. William Maude. Her husbano 
 belongs to the old Yorkshire family of Maude ; he is a bar- 
 rister, and she thinks he should be called •• the children's 
 friend," his interest In the spiritual welfare of Catholic 
 workhouse infants being so well known. 
 
 Mrs. Maude's book, "The Child Countess," appeared in 
 1893, and she has another almost ready which will, per- 
 haps, lead to greater thought and realization of that spirit 
 world so close to us and to which we are all hastening, the 
 purgatory where each suffering soul awaits its deliverance 
 from pain. Its present title is " A Prisoner of Purgatory," 
 but it is not certain whether it will be published under that 
 name.
 
 B paste Bucftle. 
 
 BY SOPHIE MAUDE. 
 I. 
 
 "Be merry," he said, " sweetheart, to-day, 
 While the merry birds do sing ! 
 Next month will be the month of May, 
 
 And the trees are blossoming ; 
 And well I wot, by God His grace 
 We have looked this hour," he said, " on the face 
 Of one that shall be King !" 
 
 — May Probyn. 
 
 Some time during the last century when men 
 went bravely apparelled as their fathers did before 
 them, vying with fair women in silks and laces, the 
 shoe-buckle belonged to a young prince. You 
 smile, while you ask. Is it a fairy story ? No, 
 though his court was something of a fairy's crea- 
 tion, lasting a night and a day. The lines of life are 
 so interwoven and twisted together that, strangely 
 enough, the prince's paste buckle has to do with a 
 long-forgotten love-tale in which he played no 
 part, and there it lies hidden away among the 
 brown rose-leaves and dead lavender stalks of a 
 century. 
 
 201
 
 202 A PASTE BUCKLE. 
 
 Just SO long ago as our great -^r^a^grandmoth- 
 ers' days, a boy went singing up and down near a 
 beautiful fountain, where pigeons were sunning 
 their purple breasts by the rushing water. His 
 sweet voice mingled with the roar and splash of 
 great cascades in the pathetic strains of Palestri- 
 na's music. He was learning part of the Mass 
 called after Pope Marcellus, and stood still now and 
 again to repeat a bar or two, beating the air with 
 uplifted hand to mark the time. The pigeons were 
 the only audience in this street rehearsal. It was 
 just midday. A few women came drowsily along. 
 Men were sleeping on the street-corners, there was 
 a clanging of bells overhead. They seemed ever 
 so slightly to stir the warm, scented air. The boy 
 finished his song and turned away down the street, 
 his long, scanty cassock throwing a sharp black 
 shadow behind him. In the villa gardens over the 
 wall the oranges and lemons hung themselves out 
 like gold and silver balls. A new song, yet ever 
 old, the birds sang to their mates, and the trees 
 were just budding into blossom. The boy, too, 
 went a-wooing. His love was a nut-brown maid, 
 beautiful to look upon, with sparkling eyes and 
 raven hair, and they wandered hand-in-hand 
 through golden orange groves to the tune of the 
 old, old song the birds kept singing. Overhead 
 the tree-trunks were hidden by a growth of creep- 
 ing glory, white and purple blossoms against the 
 blue ethereal sky of Italy.
 
 SOPHIE MAUDE. 203 
 
 It was pleasant to look upon those two: to see 
 the boy's fearless love, and the girl's soft glances 
 W'here the warm red blushes came through her rich 
 brown skin. 
 
 " I think the winter should never come," she 
 murmured, slipping down among the grasses; " it 
 would be sweet to have spring always, only 
 spring ! " She gave a little shiver, and just then a 
 shadow came across the sun. Some one was ap- 
 proaching stealthily over the mossy turf, and a 
 voice spoke before she was well aware of a strange 
 presence there. 
 
 " Bella mia, permit me." A kiss upon her cheek, 
 and a hand laid caressingly on her hair — a white 
 hand flashing with rings. All the brightness van- 
 ished with the sound of her scream. The boy 
 sprang to his feet while her frightened cry rang 
 up among the trees. The face was hidden from 
 her against the glaring sunlight, and the boy with 
 all the strength of a young lion rushed upon the 
 unknown, who, not prepared for this sudden 
 charge, reeled backward into the arms of a young 
 man following closely upon his heels. 
 
 " Per Bacco ! 'tis an infant Hercules. Excuse 
 me, signor, but to sip honey from so fair a flower 
 is the pleasure, nay, the positive duty of every cav- 
 alier ! " 
 
 But his companion dragged him back, expostu- 
 lating. " Nay, let him be, Vitalio, you have 
 worked the very mischief here; the lady is fright-
 
 204 A PASTE BUCKLE. ( 
 
 ened — make apology for so ill a part ! " The 
 voice and its refined accents sounded pleasant 
 enough, but the boy panted with rage, scowling 
 angrily into eyes that met his own with the light 
 of a good-humored smile. 
 
 "You appear amused, signor, but I am not. This 
 lady is my affianced wife and you have offered her 
 an insult ! " The girl had risen to her feet and was 
 clinging with a pretty gesture of confidence to her 
 lover's side; he put his arm around her and felt 
 proud in that moment to be her strong protector. 
 
 The slight boyish figure and shy dignity with 
 which he stood brought another smile into the 
 stranger's face — not a happy smile, neither was 
 the face a pleasant one. His companion spoke in 
 low musical speech: 
 
 " Who are you? Let me have your name, young 
 sir," he said. The tone was one of authority, and it 
 surprised and disconcerted the boy. He had much 
 ado to set aside his blustering anger, while his 
 sweetheart pulled his sleeve and whispered : 
 
 " Don't be angry, amor mio ! Answer him 
 nicely, he's a great gentleman and looks kind." 
 
 " I am Felice Morelli, one of the singers at Sant* 
 Andrea delle Fratte," began the boy thus 
 prompted. 
 
 " His voice is lovely," the girl broke in 
 eagerly. 
 
 " I live at Palazzo Poli, and I — that is, we — are 
 betrothed and to be married some day."
 
 SOPHIE MAUDE. 205 
 
 " Bella voce ? " questioned the younger of the 
 two men in his musical voice that in itself attracted 
 the lad even if it had not been accompanied by a 
 face of more than ordinary beauty. " I have it ! I 
 will make you one of our own musicians. Come 
 to-morrow about noon to Palazzo Muta-Savorelli; 
 you understand me, caro mio ? And meantime 
 consider yourself as engaged in our service. Will 
 that make up for the stupid impertinence to your 
 pretty promcssa sposa ? " A careless nod and wave 
 of a jewelled hand, and then the two gentlemen 
 had passed out of sight. The boy and girl were 
 left standing alone. 
 
 '* What eyes ! What a face ! Maria santis- 
 sinia, he is some one very great and grand ! " ex- 
 claimed the nut-brown maid. 
 
 " Did you hear him ? Palazzo Savorelli ! My 
 fortune is made." Then out of the very joy of 
 their hearts those two took hands and began gam- 
 bolling over the grass under the glorious blossom- 
 ing creepers that swung above their heads in tri- 
 umphal arches and scattered petals of bright gold 
 under their dancing feet. It was only when they 
 stopped to rest that the boy could find breath to 
 say: " It is the Principe Carlo Edoardo, and he is a 
 king's son ! " 
 
 Here was wonderful news indeed, and the two 
 bade each other good-by, Tita to return to her Aunt 
 Beppa Elisabetta, Felice to run home to his mother 
 at the Cardinal's Palace where they lodged. Fe-
 
 / 
 
 206 A PASTE BUCKLE. ' 
 
 lice was no prince though he Hved under the same 
 roof with a Cardinal of the Holy Roman Church, 
 and though his mother Concetta wore real pearls 
 in her great gold earrings fit for a princess ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Not far from Sant' Andrea delle Fratte a great 
 portico stands back, and into its yawning depths, 
 out of the sunshine, plunged Felice. Up wide 
 stairs, across a dim cloister of white statues and ca- 
 mellia-trees to a cool loggia at the top of the palace. 
 There a queer shuttered window in a little room 
 was hung with pale, tender-hued vine-leaves, fram- 
 ing as in a picture the grandest dome in the world. 
 It was a picture that greeted his waking eyes, and 
 it was the last they fell upon at night across the 
 city's twinkling lamps. It was like music to his 
 soul, and the boy loved it, the music of light and 
 beauty. To-day his mother was waiting for him, 
 and hastened to lay aside her spinning as his dark 
 head appeared above the last step of the long stairs. 
 
 " There is news to-day, glorious news! " he cried, 
 and over a bowl of savory mess Felice told the 
 story of the prince, carefully omitting the cour- 
 tier's rude insult to his fiancee. " You will be glad 
 now, madrc inia ! You will let us soon be wedded ? 
 My fortune is made, I shall have a big salary and 
 ever so many fine clothes." 
 
 " I looked to a better wife for my son than that 
 little girl from Spoleto ! " said Concetta.
 
 / 
 
 SOPHIE MAUDE. 207 
 
 And Felice answered as he had often answered 
 before : " She is a rose among flowers ; she is 
 more beautiful than any other girl of them all when 
 they come to draw water at the fountain. My 
 Tita carries her head like a swan, and her white 
 teeth, when she smiles, twinkle like stars ! And 
 did you ever see hair like hers ? Black as night, 
 with a bright tinge from the sun; and such arms, 
 such a neck, and little fairy feet that trip so daintily 
 over the stones. Ah, madre mia, you are hard to 
 please indeed ! " 
 
 " But have I not always said so ? Do these 
 make qualities for a wife ? Have you asked if she 
 can spin the cjuicker for all her beauty ? or sew, or 
 cook the best among them all ? Do you know 
 whether she is sweet or sour ? or what dota she may 
 bring her husband ? " 
 
 " Sweet she is as any summer flower; and as to 
 her portion, when I am singer up at the Palace 
 yonder I shall earn enough and to spare for us both." 
 
 " You are too young, I tell you, to think of mar- 
 riage; and as to Tita, a month ago she wasn't in 
 Rome. I pray you what do you know of her ? " 
 
 Concetta raised her hands and cast up her eyes 
 to heaven, while her son repeated musingly: " A 
 month ago — yes, just that time I have known her. 
 She came from Spoleto to lodge with her Aunt 
 Beppa Elisabetta, just a month ago ! " 
 
 " Pazienza, bright eyes and white teeth don't go 
 to make steady housewives "
 
 / 
 
 208 A PASTE BUCKLE. ' 
 
 But Felice was out in the loggia by this time, 
 putting an end to the conversation. Would his 
 mother never consent to their union ? In Italy 
 marriage is not thought of without a parent's 
 blessing. Felice was nineteen and Tita three 
 years younger. The boy and girl were be- 
 trothed, btit Concetta refused to give her con- 
 sent further than this. He would fain have 
 presented his bride with the ancient heirloom his 
 mother wore upon her fat middle finger — a ring 
 with a strange foreign inscription, with a miniature 
 painting, and a beautiful pearl for constancy. It 
 had been Concetta's own betrothal-ring, and was 
 given her by that great northern lady, Felice's for- 
 eign grandmother. But Concetta stoutly refused 
 it except to a daughter-in-law of her own choosing. 
 " I will never give it you, or my blessing either. 
 You espouse her over the dead body of your bro- 
 ken-hearted mother ! " she would exclaim tragi- 
 cally. " There's Marietta, a good steady girl, and 
 Gemma, my own godchild, and Assunta of the 
 Trastevere, and Maria of the Drogheria (where 
 your poor father always went for his apothecary 
 
 stuff), and Lucia " But here the list of eligible 
 
 partners would break off and the poor woman al- 
 ways burst into a violent fit of crying which her son 
 vainly endeavored to assuage. 
 
 He had kept all his savings for the purchase of a 
 betrothal-ring of cunning workmanship — two 
 hearts transfixed by cupid's dart upon a blue en-
 
 SOPHIE MAUDE. 209 
 
 amelled ground — and now there was a prospect of 
 riches in the future, it would be hard indeed if his 
 mother did not give her consent. The prince had 
 come to set all things straight like the fairy prince 
 in a story-book ! This was his thought as he 
 stayed to draw water from the loggia. With what 
 a noise and splash the bucket slipped into the well, 
 and the boy's strong young arms pulhng at the 
 rope, up it came, scattering great sparkling drops 
 as the sun caught and kissed the overflowing rim 
 into a thousand diamond flashes. To Felice's 
 happy eyes even the battered old bucket looked 
 glorified then. And Felice's mother, like many 
 another, was obliged to keep her forebodings to 
 herself, since the young must learn by hard ex- 
 perience what they won't take second-hand from 
 the old. And out in the mellow sunset, when the 
 bells rang Ave Maria, the boy went on repeating 
 his oft-told tale of love to the beautiful girl at the 
 fountain-side. 
 
 A week more and Felice had become one of the 
 king's musicians, his threadbare cassock was ex- 
 changed for the black velvet and silk stockings of 
 the gentlemen choristers, and his hair curled unon 
 a fine white ruff. " You only want a gold cha n " 
 said his mother, " to look the gentleman born 
 indeed you are ! " And she nodded her head mys- 
 teriously towards the old oak chest where she ke- '. 
 the ring of British workmanship, the heirloom 
 from his English grandmother.
 
 2lO A PASTE BUCKLE. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh, green is forsaken 
 
 And yellow's forsworn, 
 
 But blue is the prettiest color that's worn! 
 
 — Old Ballad. 
 
 TiTA had played at love, had broken hearts be- 
 fore she was fifteen ! When she left Tivoli to 
 make her home with her aunt in Rome, it was with 
 strict injunctions from her madrc to Beppa that 
 she would look carefully after Tita, and get her 
 speedily married. Tita's aunt thought her duty 
 done when she chose the son of her old friend 
 Concetta Morelli — the son who inherited all his 
 father's musical talent, and must some day rise 
 above the common grade of peasant. But the girl 
 had promised herself " a gentleman husband." 
 The fatal day came when a pair of bold black eyes 
 fascinated her, and when Felice came to her in his 
 sorrow, " I am sent to England by the Prince's 
 own desire ! " a strange triumphant gleam shot 
 from Tita's cat-like eyes. " My love," he said, 
 
 " we must part ! England is far away " a sob 
 
 rose in his voice. 
 
 " To England ? You are sent to England ? " 
 Again the wild gleam in her eyes, but it died out 
 immediately. 
 
 "Amor mio, I am sent to carry despatches from 
 the English King to his own people. I have a
 
 SOPHIE MAUDE. 211 
 
 buckle from the Prince's shoe — a pledge from His 
 Highness to the great lord to whom I am sent. 
 Yes, a poor musician is the best disguise for the 
 safety of the papers; no warrior among them all 
 can go so safely as your poor Felice ! " 
 
 " But such a long journey ! " she said feverishly, 
 while her eyes glittered. 
 
 " Yes, and the expense is undertaken by our old 
 enemy the wicked Marchese. But yes, is it not 
 wonderful ? I shall earn the King's favor, but 
 I would sooner not have been beholden to the man 
 who insulted you, carina ! Do not turn away your 
 head, my dove, my dear one; the parting will be 
 over so'me day, — and then " 
 
 His voice had a triumphal ring in it of the joy to 
 come. Her shallow girl's heart felt at that instant 
 the sharp stabs of remorse. " It is Our Lady's 
 month, a happy omen. Will you wear a knot of 
 blue ribbon for me, against my return ? " asked the 
 young lover with the ribbon in his hand. " In- 
 deed I know you will be true to me." How could 
 he doubt her, whose own nature was all truth and 
 loyalty ? 
 
 The girl answered grudgingly that blue became 
 her ill, but she would " see about it." With that 
 half promise Felice started on his journey. 
 
 Our Lady's month. Mass heard in the church 
 he loved so well, and then Rome was behind him, 
 and his heart beat quick. Is it not a marvellous 
 thing, the first setting forth on a journey, when one
 
 ■ / 
 
 / 
 212 A PASTE BUCKLE. 
 
 is only nineteen and the long untried years still 
 lie before one in the future's golden womb, mys- 
 terious and unknown ? 
 
 The boy's first resting-place was hardly passed 
 when a messenger overtook him. Felice recog- 
 nized the livery of the Marchese's servants ; and 
 while he wondered, the messenger had thrust a 
 packet into his hand, and immediately galloped off. 
 All Tita's treachery was known to him when he 
 broke the seal. She was to be married that morn- 
 ing to the evil man who had bewitched her, and 
 she had chosen the time when Felice, bound by 
 royal command, was powerless to go and save 
 her ! The boy flung himself on the ground in 
 those first moments of agony. His fierce southern 
 nature prompted him to call death to his aid in his 
 despair, but something, he knew not what, re- 
 strained him in his mad desire. Was it the protec- 
 tion of the Sacred Heart, the presence of One un- 
 seen to whom Mary's children are specially dear ? 
 
 There was one drop of comfort even now — a 
 broken-hearted but very loving letter came to him 
 from his mother. It was written by the public 
 letter-writer on the piazza, and, wrapped in the 
 thick parchment-sheet, lay the ring he had so often 
 longed for, his grandmother's miniature set in Eng- 
 lish gold. 
 
 Felice felt he cared nothing for it now, but he 
 tied it up carefully in its paper wrappings and 
 placed it with the prince's paste buckle under his
 
 SOPHIE MAUDE. 21 ^ 
 
 jacket, before he went on his journey. But the 
 song he had set out with in the morning was 
 hushed. His eyes were full of tears. The glory 
 of the night was spread above him now, but he saw 
 nothing of its beauty. The long vine-tendrils took 
 hands across fields of blue flax and odoriferous 
 clover. They seemed to dance airy dances above 
 the flower-cups in the pale moonlight, the southern 
 stars shone like globes of golden splendor, and the 
 fireflies glittered, but he only saw them through 
 a vale of tears. Yet in the years to come when 
 Felice's youth was past, the man thanked God for 
 the boy's crucible of pain ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 j^The little god of love. 
 
 — Nursery Rhyme. 
 
 The first day of October had come. Eldred 
 Manor House with its shady lawns and high beech 
 hedges, four centuries old, under the green Berk- 
 shire downs, looked cool and inviting in the hot af- 
 ternoon. The harvest was late this year, but now 
 the corn was all carried. All the village of Eldred 
 had turned out to assist in the carrying. The 
 Squire rode up the lane on his big cob and the 
 neighbors had come to the harvest feast. It was all a 
 familiar scene to English eyes. After the supper 
 was over and the Squire's good cider had made
 
 214 A PASTE BUCKLE. [ 
 
 even the least jovial merry, the fiddler was called 
 for, and the tables were removed for a dance on the 
 sward, but there was a cry of consternation when 
 the news went round that the musician had cut 
 his hand and could not play. One or two of those 
 present offered to supply his place, but they were 
 received with dubious shakes of the head from 
 those who knew the musical prowess of these vol- 
 unteers. A disappointed silence succeeded the 
 hum of voices at first eagerly raised, but the 
 Squire, unwilling to be balked of his favorite pas- 
 time, led out the prettiest of his tenants from the 
 crowd and, humming a snatch, kept time with his 
 nail-studded boots to the girl's tripping feet upon 
 the grass. Just at this moment, while a few rough 
 voices, much out of time and tune, followed the 
 gentleman's lead, the damsels timidly elbowing 
 their chosen swains, the portly butler advanced 
 and announced " a foreign gentleman who had 
 brought his fiddle all the way from Italy, and would 
 his worship be pleased to hear the lad play ? " 
 
 " Mind the forks and spoons ! " cautioned his 
 worship in an audible aside. " Yes, Robbins, 
 bring him in; we want music badly — music we 
 
 must have at any price, since Dan the fiddler " 
 
 His further speech was cut short by the entrance of 
 a pale young man, dark-eyed and dark-haired, in 
 velvet coat and small-clothes frayed and worn, 
 and powdered with white dust from the road, — a 
 slender youth, — who bowed low to the company,
 
 SOPHIE MAUDE. 21 5 
 
 and with hands that evidently trembled with ex- 
 haustion commenced to draw out a small violin 
 from a shabby leathern case. Felice ? Yes, it 
 was Felice ! White-lipped, haggard, tired out 
 with his weary march through unfamiliar scenes 
 and hard, rough ways — he had travelled most of 
 the way on foot. He looked round on the strange 
 English faces. Most of them met his weary gaze 
 with a stolid bucolic stare. He had not broken his 
 fast for twenty-four long hours, but Eldred was the 
 village marked on his rough pocket-map, the near- 
 est to Rackenford, whither he was bound with 
 those precious letters, the despatches from King 
 James HI. If these good people would reward his 
 fiddling with a few silver coins, he could pay his 
 way to the castle, where his long journey would 
 end at last. If only the mist before his eyes would 
 clear, if only his hands would not shake so that he 
 could hold his bow at the proper angle and play 
 the dance-music required. 
 
 " Father " — would he ever forget the dear ac- 
 cents of that sweet voice ? The tones of it must 
 needs make music in the spheres — " Father, see, 
 the young musician is faint, he must not play till 
 he has broken his fast." 
 
 Through the mist that has somehow gathered in 
 his poor tired eyes, Felice sees a tender girlish 
 form, a fair face wreathed in golden hair, the eyes 
 as blue as speedwells — ethereal china-blue that is 
 so seldom seen, except perhaps in little children's
 
 2l6 A PASTE BUCKLE. { 
 
 eyes — what wonder if the young ItaHan take this 
 fair EngHsh maiden for an angel, his guardian an- 
 gel, come to succor him in his last hour ? 
 
 A wall of great darkness is shutting him in, there 
 is a sound like many waters in his ears, and, with 
 no word of warning, he suddenly falls in a death- 
 like faint upon the grass. 
 
 " Bless my soul ! " ejaculates the Squire, " don't 
 be frightened, Pen; don't be alarmed, dear heart; 
 the heat has overcome him, but he is not dying, — 
 no, nor near it. Bring some wine, Robbins, stand 
 back, good people, so — he'll revive if you'll give 
 him time." 
 
 But Felice does not revive though the simple 
 people do all they know, and after awhile they lift 
 up his prostrate form and carry him, still sleeping 
 that sleep of death, across the grass and into the 
 house. The long swoon lasts till the sunset is 
 flooding the old dark walls with blood-tints and 
 splashing all the white bed where he lies in a crim- 
 son lake. The boy starts up in horror, his eyes 
 wide opened. He cries faintly, " Is it blood ? 
 Have they killed me ? Are the letters safe ? He 
 falls back shuddering, but a soft hand is laid on his 
 rm. and gentle tones murmur words of rest and 
 comfort. His fluttering eyelids close, and he falls 
 asleep to dream of the angel with blue eyes and 
 golden hair. When he wakes again the angel is 
 by his side. She brings wine and food and raises 
 him in her arms to drink, while a faint blush
 
 SOPHIE MAUDE. 21/ 
 
 overspreads her fair face beneath his eyes fixed so 
 earnestly upon her. 
 
 " I think I have been dreaming," he says; "pray, 
 madam, tell me who you are and where I am." 
 English is easy now to Felice. 
 
 " This is Eldred Manor House, and my father has 
 ridden for help, but the physician is difficult to find 
 and may be long a-coming. I am glad you can 
 eat; it is better than medicine, sir." 
 
 " But what is your father's name, and who are 
 you ? " the lad asks with simple directness. 
 
 " My father is Squire Mornington, and I am his 
 daughter Penelope. I have no mother; she died, 
 sir, a long time back. Oh ! we were very sorry to 
 see you fall ill. Ah, but you are better ! " 
 
 " Have I been ill ? Yes, I remember now." He 
 draws his hand, so slender and white, across his 
 eyes. How fine the ruffles are at his wrists ! 
 Surely, she thinks, in spite of such worn attire, the 
 young musician must be a gentleman ! While she 
 wonders about him, his thoughts are of her, and 
 their eyes meeting — was it then ? — a flash of sym- 
 pathy like a chain of gold draws their hearts to- 
 gether. The girl's two hands are clasped upon her 
 knee as she sits demurely at the window, a' fairy 
 thing with her wreath of yellow hair and eyes 
 like blue forget-me-nots. She hastily averts them 
 when they meet his own, and this is how Felice 
 came to know Penelope — Penelope Mornington !
 
 2l8 A PASTE BUCKLE. I 
 
 V. 
 
 " Loyal je serai durant ma vie ! " 
 
 — Song. 
 
 The days that followed were the sunniest, and 
 that particular October month was the brightest, 
 that had ever dawned on this old wicked world of 
 ours since it first began. Penelope could not have 
 told you, she could not have analyzed her feelings, 
 but she knew that she was happy — yes, happy as 
 the day was long ! True, the despatches had to be 
 taken to their destination, and her new friend bade 
 her farewell for at least three days, but what did 
 that signify ? Did not her father, at heart an ar- 
 dent Jacobite, mount Felice on his own best horse, 
 and allow Penelope to be of the party to Racken- 
 ford Castle ? 
 
 Felice was received as a distinguished guest, the 
 prince's ambassador, the honored messenger from 
 " the king over the water." 
 
 The boy wore his laurels modestly. When op- 
 portunity served he told of his poverty and of the 
 prince's kindness, and how he hoped some day to 
 gain distinction in music. 
 
 The great man to whom he delivered his des- 
 patches, and with them his precious pledge, the 
 Prince of Wales' buckle — the shoe-buckle that 
 shone like diamonds, but that was only paste, 
 for the diamonds had been pawned long agO'^ 
 admired Felice's voice and offered a high
 
 SOPHIE MAUDE. 219 
 
 price if the lad would accept the post of tenor 
 among the singers at Rackenford Castle. His 
 Majesty King James could ill afford to pay his mu- 
 sicians even the small salary allowed them ; gold was 
 more plentiful in an English castle than a Roman 
 palace. But the boy, true to his allegiance, refused 
 the tempting bribe. The county people, following 
 the example of the great lord who patronized the 
 stranger, engaged Felice to sing and play at their 
 syllabub parties and fashionable entertainments. 
 He gave music-lessons to the squires' wives and 
 daughters. Haughty young madams fresh from 
 town invited the handsome Italian to their coun- 
 try-houses. 
 
 The castle was Felice's home until he should 
 earn sufficient to pay his journey back to Rome, 
 but his happiest days were spent at the old house 
 amid the Berkshire downs. During his hours of 
 work or recreation his thoughts were with Penel- 
 ope in the music-room at Eldred Manor. There 
 was always one face he could not forget, one voice 
 that — school his heart, control it as he would — 
 set his pulses beating and made his eyes grow 
 bright. When the young companions who came 
 to share Mistress Mornington's lessons had re- 
 turned home, the boy master and his pupil would 
 sit and talk in the deep embrasure of the window 
 or by the chimney-corner. When the Squire came 
 in early from the hunting-field and saw them thus, 
 he was glad to find his lonely child so well amused.
 
 220 A PASTE BUCKLE. 
 
 " Pen is a baby yet, in pinafores but yesterday," 
 he told himself; " there is no danger ! " and with 
 that dismissed the subject. 
 
 Penelope could not hear too often, could not 
 ask enough about the royal princes exiled for the 
 faith. She saw the paste buckle when Felice 
 handed it to the personage to whom it was sent, 
 and had knelt in simple reverence to kiss the royal 
 crown above the brilliant setting of the stones. 
 
 One day in the twilight he showed her his moth- 
 er's ring. He had only regarded it carelessly in 
 his dejection at Tita's treachery. Now he was 
 startled to meet Penelope's blue eyes looking at 
 him out of the miniature. " It might be your por- 
 trait, dear madam ! " he exclaimed, " it is so like — 
 so like ! " 
 
 " And here is our name," cried the girl, and she 
 read in the fading light, "P. Mornington." "How 
 marvellous ! " They could talk of nothing else. 
 But when Penelope, in the innocence of her heart, 
 desirous that her father should share her pleasure 
 in this " new-found cousin," showed Felice's ring, 
 the Squire spoke coldly of " poor relations " and 
 muttered something about " a mesalliance in the 
 past." Happily the young man did not hear, for 
 the hot southern blood in his veins would not have 
 borne the insult. 
 
 The time had come for his departure, and alas ! 
 they two were lovers. Felice's heart was in Pe- 
 nelope's keeping. Penelope's heart beat only for
 
 SOPHIE AIAUDE. 221 
 
 him. The golden hours had shpped away so 
 quickly, Felice's birthdays had come and gone. 
 He was twenty-one. She was just eighteen. Ah, 
 love at eighteen ! Penelope could not hide it, she 
 would not have hidden it if she could. On the 
 morning that her lover said farewell, she flung her- 
 self weeping into her father's arms and asked to 
 cross seas with Felice as his wedded wife. Felice 
 on his knees before the Squire with southern ve- 
 hemence declared his willingness to wait, as Ra- 
 chel's lover waited — to work seven years if need 
 be for the lady of his heart. The sequel might 
 have been expected, but it was none the less heart- 
 breaking, when the Squire drove him from the 
 room and from the house, swearing great oaths 
 at the foreigner's impertinence, vowing to horse- 
 whip the presumptuous stranger round the market- 
 place. 
 
 And amid the storm of bitter reproaches, Penel- 
 ope's lover was forced to ride away sobbing — yes, 
 his manhood was not ashamed by those tears — 
 weeping because he must see his love no more. 
 
 Many months after, Felice knelt before the 
 shrine of the apostles in great St. Peter's, as he 
 had knelt with Penelope in the rustic chapel at El- 
 dred — the old church that had never been dese- 
 crated by Protestant worship. The Mornlngtons 
 were Catholics like their ancestors before them, 
 and he could picture the girl he loved pouring out 
 her heart in prayer for him. Felice's mother was
 
 222 A PASTE BUCKLE. 
 
 dead. It was not long after this that the Squire 
 of Eldred, outlawed and a beggar, his estates con- 
 fiscated in the cause of King James III., fled for his 
 life, and the lovers met once more. It was in 
 Rome at the royal palace where the King lived. 
 Felice had been appointed " Chapel Master ;" the 
 King had knighted him in honor of his successful 
 mission to England. 
 
 Penelope Mornington and her true knight were 
 happily married, and though the most disastrous 
 page of modern history was unfolded before them, 
 their own lot was a peaceful one. The Squire 
 found comfort in waiting on his king in exile, and 
 in lavishing all his affection on " Pen " and the hus- 
 band he had once so cruelly insulted. Penelope's 
 little daughter came as a messenger of peace to the 
 exiled family. 
 
 After all, was not the prince like the good fairy 
 in a story-book ? His shoe-buckle brought great 
 happiness into two young lives.
 
 
 
 CLARA MULHOLLAND, 
 
 Miss Clara Mulholland is a daughter of the late Jo- 
 seph Stevenson Mulholland, M.D., of Belfast, and younger 
 sister of Miss Rosa Mulholland (Lady Gilbert). Miss Mul- 
 holland was born in Belfast, but left that town at a very early 
 age. She was educated in Loughborough, Leicestershire, 
 England, at a convent of the Sisters of Providence of the 
 Institute of Charity, and afterwards at a convent of the 
 Dames de Marie, Coloma, Belgium. Her first story, for
 
 young children, was published by Messrs. Marcus, Ward & 
 Co., of Belfast, and by John Murphy, of Baltimore. Then 
 followed " Naughty Miss Bunny," " The Strange Adventures 
 of Little Snowdrop," and " Little Merry Face and His Crown 
 of Content." Of late, Miss Mulholland has written stories 
 for various London magazines and papers, and for Messrs. 
 Tillotson & Sons, of Bolton, and the National Press Agency, 
 London. Her other books are : -'A Striking Contrast," 
 " Kathleen Mavourneen," " The Miser of King's Court," 
 " Percy's Revenge " and ' Linda's Misfortunes."
 
 /IDave's IRepentance, 
 
 BY CLARA MULHOLLAND. 
 
 She had always been the belle of the village. At 
 patterns and fairs, at wakes and dances, Mave was 
 the admiration of all. She was tall and strong for 
 her eighteen years, with a neat, well-shaped head 
 crowned with a coronet of nut-brown hair; a skin 
 like the inside of a shell, so dainty its coloring; and 
 eyes of the deepest blue, that looked black in the 
 shadow of the long dark lashes. 
 
 Mave McMahon was the child of a poor fisher- 
 man in Innisboffin, a small island off the west 
 coast of Ireland; and in these days of her golden 
 youth worked in the fields, carried baskets of sea- 
 wrack upon her head, or tended her father's sheep 
 as they browsed upon the hill-side. Mave knew 
 little of the great mainland that lay beyond the sea. 
 Her whole world was in the island where she had 
 been born, and she wished for nothing more. To 
 live and die there was the beginning and end of her 
 ambition. For there was her home; there dwelt 
 her father and mother, brothers and sisters. And 
 
 there, with his widowed mother, in a little cabin, 
 
 225
 
 226 MAVE'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 about a mile up the hill, lived her aftianced hus- 
 band, Dermot Kilfoyle. 
 
 Dermot was a big, burly fellow of twenty-five, 
 whose handsome face, browned and burnt by the 
 sun and sea air, told of a warm heart and a quick 
 and somewhat jealous temper. For years he had 
 loved pretty Mave with an adoring love, and when 
 at last she consented to become his wife, his happi- 
 ness was great. 
 
 " Och! begorrah thin, sure it's Dermot that's the 
 fool to be choosin' the likes of her, wid her airs and 
 graces," said the old woman, with a wise shake of 
 her head, as she talked over the match with her 
 cronies. " She'll be afther leadin' him a dance and 
 no mistake." 
 
 " Thrue for you," cried another. " But sure, 
 woman alive, the lads do mostly be taken wid a 
 purty face an' a pair of bright eyes." 
 
 " Bedad ! an' that same's the pity, for there's 
 many's a dacint girl wid a plain face maybe, but 
 wid a heart of gold an' thinkin' of nothin' but doin' 
 her work an' sayin' her prayers that would " 
 
 " Aisy, aisy — it's not many you'll find for him 
 like that. An' sure if you did — a hunderd or so — 
 he'd still fix his eyes on Mave, so you may as well 
 give over." 
 
 " Bad manners to it, sure an' I must ; but it's 
 sorry I am to see a fine man like Dermot slootherin' 
 round a girl like Mave, till he doesn't know what 
 he's at."
 
 CLARA MULHOLLAND. 22^ 
 
 " Och ! well sure he's the dacint lad ; an' sure 
 there must be some good in the girl, since he thinks 
 such a hape of her." 
 
 But none of these murmurs reached Dermot's 
 ears; and if they had, they would have troubled 
 him little. He was too happy in his new-found 
 bhss. 
 
 So for some time all went merrily. Mave was 
 sweet and gentle in voice and manner — glad to 
 receive her lover, and sorry to see him go. She 
 was steady and regular at her work, and not one in 
 the island had a word to say against her. 
 
 " Sure there isn't wan like her for miles round, 
 the crathur," Dermot told himself continually. 
 " She's the jewel of a girl entirely, an' she'll make 
 me the happiest man ever stepped, plase the Lord." 
 
 But before many months had elapsed, Dermot's 
 peace of mind was disturbed, his soul racked and 
 torn, with wild, unconquerable jealousy. This sud- 
 den change in the young man's feelings was 
 brought about in the following manner. 
 
 One evening at a dance, when Mave in her neat 
 red petticoat, and blue cotton jacket, a soft white 
 neckerchief folded across her snowy bosom, her 
 pretty feet in their stout little brogues scarcely 
 touching the floor as she tripped gracefully up the 
 middle and down again in time to the music, a 
 stranger appeared suddenly in the doorway and 
 stood looking in, an expression of interest and 
 amusement in his handsome eyes.
 
 228 MAFE'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 The mistress of the cabin, one Mrs. McGurk, 
 stepped forward, and in a hospitable manner in- 
 vited him to enter. 
 
 " My name is Fane — Cecil Fane," he said, fol- 
 lowing her into the kitchen. " And I'm staying 
 with Dr. Sinclair." 
 
 " Sure thin you're welcome as the flowers in 
 May," she said. " The doctor's a rale frind to us 
 all." 
 
 Then leading him into the " room," she offered 
 him some refreshment. But both tea and whiskey 
 he politely refused. 
 
 " ril try my hand, or rather my feet, at a jig 
 presently," he said, as he looked back towards the 
 scene of merriment. " There's a lovely girl out 
 there I'd like to ask to teach me how to dance it. 
 Will you kindly present me to her ? " 
 
 " It's Mave McMahon you mane ? " she said. 
 " Och ! she'll show you the steps finely." 
 
 " I'm sure she will," he answered, smiling. And 
 the next moment he was bowing low before Mave, 
 who, hot and breathless after the last dance, was 
 standing beside Dermot, her hand resting on his 
 arm. 
 
 The girl accepted the handsome stranger's in- 
 vitation to dance with shy reluctance, and blushed 
 deeply as he led her away. For she felt nervous 
 and awkward, knowing full well that every eye in 
 the place was fixed upon her and her partner. 
 
 But Fane soon put her at her ease, and in a short
 
 CLARA MULHOLLAND. 229 
 
 time she was laughing merrily at his energetic at- 
 tempts to master the jig. 
 
 Alave's bright, rustic beauty, her sHm, graceful 
 figure, and unusual coloring delighted young Fane, 
 and he took no pains to conceal his admiration. 
 
 " I'm an artist," he told her, " and am always in 
 search of a pretty face. May I paint you ? Just a 
 little sketch ? " 
 
 " Sure paint me if you plase," Mave answered 
 with an upward glance of the beautiful eyes. " But 
 you'll have to do me widout seein' me, for sure all 
 day I'm out mindin' the cattle at Torr's Head, 
 beyant." 
 
 " Capital ! " he cried. " A background of sea 
 and sky is just what I want." 
 
 " 'Deed thin you'll niver find me," she an- 
 swered, in a tone that seemed like a challenge. 
 " An' there's many another '11 do just as well." 
 
 " Not one. And I'll find you never fear," he 
 said, as, pressing her hand warmly, he bade her 
 good-night. " I'm not easily daunted, as you'll 
 see by and by." 
 
 And find her he did, and without as much trouble 
 as he had expected. So easily indeed, that he 
 fancied the bashful maiden had purposely placed 
 herself in an unusually prominent position. How- 
 ever, he did not mention his suspicions, but, rejoic- 
 ing openly at his good luck in finding her so soon, 
 set up his easel and canvas, and began to work. 
 
 A fortnight passed. And as Cecil Fane went
 
 / 
 
 230 MAVE'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 every day to the hill-side and sat there, painting for 
 several hours, the picture grew apace. 
 
 One morning, just as it was well-nigh finished, 
 the young man did not appear, and Mave wondered 
 greatly. 
 
 " Sure, I'm hopin' he an' Dermot didn't meet," 
 she thought with sudden terror, as the evening 
 came on. " Dermot was that quare-tempered last 
 night that — Patsey," to the boy sent by her father 
 to relieve her, and now seen sauntering slowly 
 across the field, " will you step out a bit, you 
 gosthoon, an' come on — for sure I'm in a mortial 
 hurry." 
 
 And as he ran shouting after a straying cow, 
 she started ofif at a brisk pace down the hill. 
 
 About a quarter of a mile away, she came sud- 
 denly face to face with Cecil Fane. 
 
 " Whither so fast, sweet Mave ? " he cried. " I 
 was just going to look for you." 
 
 "Oh! sir — sure " she grew rosy red, "I " 
 
 " You're not in a hurry ? Good. Well, then, 
 since you've got rid of your cows, and I've turned 
 my back on my paints, we'll go for a walk." And 
 he led the way towards the sea. 
 
 Mave followed him without a word. Her heart 
 beat quickly, and her conscience was ill at ease. 
 She felt she was doing wrong, knew she was 
 wanted at home for many reasons, and trembled at 
 the thought of what Dermot might do or say 
 when he heard of her conduct.
 
 CLARA MULHOLLAND. 23 1 
 
 " But there can't be much harm in goin', an' sure 
 it won't be for long," she thought. " An' Der- 
 mot's not me master yet," 
 
 " This is reahy dehghtful," said Fane, Httle sus- 
 pecting what a battle was going on in the girl's 
 mind. " It's quite a new sensation to walk about 
 with you, and I must say the sea air agrees with 
 you. It has given you a wondrous color. How I 
 wish I could paint it. But it is, alas ! beyond 
 me." 
 
 Mave answered nothing, and went along shyly, 
 with downcast eyes, wishing she had courage to 
 go, yet too much fascinated by his pleasant ways 
 and the sweet softness of his voice and language to 
 do so. He told her endless stories of the gay world 
 from whence he came and to which he would re- 
 turn, and assured her that among the many fair 
 ladies he knew there, not one was as beautiful as 
 she, Mave looked at him from under her long 
 lashes, and the color deepened in her cheek. She 
 did not quite believe him ; but being a woman, 
 young and very foolish, she was pleased, 
 
 " And yet," he said, smiling, as he saw how 
 eagerly she listened to his compliments, " except as 
 an artist, I care little about beauty — so called. The 
 woman I love and hope to make my wife, sweet 
 Lena Grey, is not handsome, but lovely and lov- 
 able, because of the holiness and purity that look 
 out of her eyes." 
 
 " I'm glad you've told me," cried Mave im-
 
 / 
 
 232 MAVE'S KEPENTANcA. 
 
 pulsively. " God bless you an' her, an' give you all 
 joy an' happiness." 
 
 " Thank you; and I hope you and she may meet 
 some day." 
 
 " 'Deed an' that same's not Hkely." 
 
 " Who knows ? And I tell you what, Mave, I'll 
 bring her here on our wedding trip." 
 
 " Do," cried Mave gayly, " an' sure we'll have a 
 dance for her an' you. Now, that's a bargain." 
 
 " Done," he answered, laughing; and raising her 
 hand, he pressed it to his lips. " Lena will be 
 proud and pleased to know you, I feel sure." 
 
 At this moment Derniot Kilfoyle came up the 
 path from the beach, carrying a basket of fish upon 
 his back. He was very wet and tired. He had 
 spent a long day on a tossing, angry sea, and was 
 thinking longingly of Mave and the happy walk 
 they would take together in the moonlight. 
 
 " There'll be a storm — a bad storm before niorn- 
 in'," he said, looking towards the west, where the 
 sun was slowly sinking, like a great ball of fire, into 
 the sea. " God help thim that's out late the night. 
 Mercy on us, who's thim two ? " he cried, as his 
 eyes fell upon the girl and her companion. " Why 
 if it isn't Mave an' that gomeral of an artist from 
 England." 
 
 Then his handsome face flushed hotly, as Fane 
 raised her hand and softly kissed it. 
 
 " How dare he ? " he muttered. " An' sure
 
 CLARA MULHOLLAND. 233 
 
 Mave must have taken lave of her sinses." And, 
 scowHng angrily, he strode forward. 
 
 As Mave saw him approach, she blushed, grew 
 pale, then blushed again. 
 
 Fane noticed the quick change of color, and 
 glanced from her to Dermot, then back at her, and 
 laughed. 
 
 " Kilfoyle's a good-looking fellow, but a trifle 
 rude," he said. " Look how he scowls at us. One 
 would think he was angry to see us together. 
 He's a rough specimen, I must say." 
 
 Mave trembled a little. It annoyed her to hear 
 him speak so. And yet was he not right ? Der- 
 mot did look rude, and very uncouth, in his coarse 
 clothes, his basket upon his back, his brows knit 
 together in a frown. 
 
 " Mave, come home," he said, going close to her 
 side. " You must not stay here talkin' wid this 
 stranger." 
 
 She tossed her head and started away with a 
 look of scorn and annoyance. 
 
 " I'll go home whin I plase. Dermot Kilfoyle," 
 she said haughtily. " Go your ways and don't 
 mind me." 
 
 Dermot grew white to the lips. He glared an- 
 grily at Cecil Fane, then, shrugging his shoulders, 
 laughed a bitter, contemptuous laugh. 
 
 " Bedad I'll go. It's not me that would come 
 meddlin' where I'm not wanted. But you'll be
 
 234 MAVE'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 afther suppin' sorra wid the spoon of grief, Mave 
 McMahon," he said between his teeth, " or my 
 name's not Kilfoyle." 
 
 Then turning away, he tramped on up the hill. 
 
 As he disappeared, Mave's mood suddenly 
 changed, and she burst into tears. 
 
 " Oh, don't, don't mind him ! " cried Fane, sur- 
 prised and alarmed. " He's an insolent fool, 
 and " 
 
 " Arrah, thin, in the name of Heaven say nothin' 
 agin him," she sobbed, " for sure I've promised to 
 be his wife." And she ran past him, down among 
 the rocks, and soon vanished out of sight. 
 
 " Poor child ! So that's the way the wind 
 blows. Well, I'm sorry — very sorry for you, 
 and bitterly regret having roused the fellow's 
 jealousy. If the picture were but finished, I would 
 go. And he would soon forgive and forget. But, 
 by Jove ! at all risks I must have another sitting. 
 Perhaps I might find her on the beach and ask her 
 about to-morrow." And humming softly to him- 
 self he went quickly after her. 
 
 But Mave was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 " Gone home, I suppose," he thought. "Well, 
 let's hope that she and her future lord and master 
 l-ipve met and made it up. By Jove ! I hadn't an 
 ulea of such a thing or I'd have been more careful. 
 I'll give it to Sinclair for not telling me. See if I 
 don't." And seating himself upon a big stone, he 
 began to fill his pipe.
 
 CLARA MULHOLLAND. 235 
 
 Presently he saw Mave walking towards him 
 along the beach, Dermot Kilfoyle by her side. He 
 had got rid of his creel of fish, and had changed his 
 clothes, but his temper had not softened appar- 
 ently, for he was talking and gesticulating in an 
 angry, excited way. 
 
 Mave's face was flushed and proudly sullen. 
 Her bosom rose and fell quickly, and she seemed to 
 suffer intense emotion. But she held her head 
 high, and kept it turned resolutely away from her 
 lover. 
 
 " Come," cried Kilfoyle, as they paused in front 
 of Fane without noticing him, " promise niver 
 to speak to that man agin, and I'll forgive you." 
 
 " 'Deed thin I'll promise no such thing. I'll 
 spake to any wan I plase — an' Mr. Fane's a gintle- 
 man, who " 
 
 " A gintleman, aye," Dermot laughed bitterly, 
 " who mocks an' makes game of you " 
 
 The girl turned upon him with flashing eyes. 
 
 " How dare you spake so ! He only says kind 
 an' pleasant things an' " 
 
 He caught her arm in a grasp like a vice. 
 
 " An' you — you listen to him — smile on him — 
 you " 
 
 " I'll listen to him, an' to any wan I plase," she 
 cried, wrenching herself free. " I'm not your wife 
 to " 
 
 " No; nor niver will be. I've done wid you, 
 Mave McMahon. So you may talk an' walk wid
 
 / 
 
 236 MAVE'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 him till Doomsday." And he strode away from 
 her side, his brain whirling, his heart filled with 
 bitterness and anger. 
 
 Mave stood where he had left her, staring out at 
 the great foaming waves. Her blue eyes had an 
 angry light in them, while her rosy lips were 
 pressed tightly together with a look of hard, un- 
 compromising determination. 
 
 "He'll come back," she muttered, " an' be sorry 
 for his words. But sure he'll have to be mighty 
 humble entirely, or I'll niver give in." Then, turn- 
 ing suddenly, she saw Cecil Fane seated upon a 
 rock close by. 
 
 " Mave," he said, going forward to- meet her, 
 " I'm sorry that my friendship should have caused 
 you such trouble. But the picture will soon be 
 finished, and then I'll leave this forever. One 
 more sitting will " 
 
 " I can't give it, sir." Mave had grown very 
 white. " I daren't vex him more. I'm sorry, for 
 sure " 
 
 " Not give it ? But think," he caught her hand, 
 " what it means to me." 
 
 " It manes more to me sure. But " 
 
 " You'll come ? On the hill-side again to-mor- 
 row. Good " 
 
 At this moment a boy came running along the 
 beach carrying a telegram. 
 
 " Mr. Fane, sir, this came by the packet just 
 now."
 
 CLARA MULHOLLAND. 237 
 
 " For me ? " Fane tore open the envelope, and 
 as he read the message his face blanched, and, in 
 a voice full of emotion, he cried aloud: 
 
 " Lena ill — in danger. My God ! Then I must 
 leave this to-night. When does the packet sail ? " 
 he asked, turning to the messenger. 
 
 " Sure, it won't go till mornin'." 
 
 " Then I must go in a boat." 
 
 " Begorrah, thin, you'll get no boat to take you 
 across the night. It's too stormy ; an' sure any 
 man can see that it's gettin' worse it is." 
 
 " I must leave the island as soon as possible. 
 Who'd be most likely to take me across ? " 
 
 " I will." Dermot Kilfoyle stepped up to him, 
 with a white, set face. " I've a boat that 'd sail in 
 any say, an' the wind '11 be wid us," he cried. " So 
 come on, an' lose no time. Not that I wouldn't 
 brave any storm to get shut of you." 
 
 A cry of anguish escaped from Mave. 
 
 " No, Dermot." She clasped her hands round 
 his arm. " Look at the say. There's a storm 
 comin'." 
 
 But he fiung her from him. " It's frettin' you 
 are to see him go," he sneered. " You'll be lone- 
 some the morra " 
 
 " No, no, Dermot, but vou " 
 
 " Don't consarn yourself about me. There's 
 not many wantin' me — an' I might as well go to 
 the bottom as not. Come on, Misther Fane ; the 
 sooner we go — the sooner we'll get it over." And
 
 / 
 
 238 MAVE'S /REPENTANCE. 
 
 casting a glance of withering scorn and defiance at 
 the trembHng girl, he took Fane's arm and dragged 
 him away. 
 
 " My God ! an' I," she shuddered, " have done 
 this. Driven him — to danger — maybe to death. 
 For there's nothin' will gainsay him now, nothin' 
 '11 turn him back — an' the storm is comin' up — the 
 say just frightenin'." 
 
 She pushed back the hair from her brow, and a 
 low, deep moan escaped her lips. Then, scarcely 
 knowing where she went, she began to grope her 
 way among the rocks. But she made but little 
 progress, as every moment she turned and looked 
 out wildly over the ocean. 
 
 The evening had now closed in ; the rain that 
 had been threatening all day came down in tor- 
 rents, and a thick mist soon enveloped both sea and 
 land. Blindly Mave staggered along, her heart 
 full of anguish, her soul torn with remorse. The 
 wind howled and shrieked as though in mockery of 
 her grief, and huge waves dashed violently against 
 the rocks, drenching her with their spray, 
 
 " Merciful God, have pity," she moaned, " save 
 thim. Holy Mary, Star of the Say, pray for thim. 
 I'm sorry an' repint bitterly of my pride an' 
 wickedness that druv poor Dermot out the night. 
 Ochone ! " she gave a cry of terror as through the 
 drifting rain and heavy mist she saw a light, now 
 rising upon the crest of the wave, now engulfed 
 and hidden from sight. That light she knew was
 
 CLARA MULHOLLAND. 2ig 
 
 ill a boat, and in that boat were the two men, Der- 
 mot Kilfoyle and Cecil Fane. 
 
 " The Lord save an' dehver thim," she gasped. 
 " Sure they're lost. No boat could live in such a 
 say, an' I — God forgive me — I druv thim out to 
 death to-night. O Dermot, Dermot, if I was 
 only by your side ! " Then, white and haggard, she 
 struggled up over the rocks, and staggered away 
 along the dark, wet road to her father's cabin. 
 
 All through the long hours of the night ]\Iave 
 lay tossing from side to side, in open-eyed misery. 
 
 " Maybe the mornin' will bring hope," she mur- 
 mured, as the storm abated. " An' sure good 
 news may come wid the dawn." And at last, 
 weary and exhausted, she fell into a troubled sleep. 
 
 But the next day passed, and when evening came 
 on, no word from Dermot or Fane had reached 
 their friends on the island. 
 
 ' " They're gone fur sure," said one old fisherman, 
 in husky tones. " We'll niver see thim more." 
 
 And when the news was spread abroad, that the 
 outgoing packet, that morning, had seen a boat 
 bottom upwards, floating out to sea, all agreed that 
 he was right. There could no longer be any doubt 
 as to what their end had been. 
 
 To describe Mave's sorrow, her heart-broken 
 remorse, and bitter self-reproach would be impos- 
 sible. No one guessed one-half of what she suf- 
 fered. She did not fall ill, or give way to violent 
 grief, but went about in a half-dazed condition,
 
 240 MAVE'S /REPENTANCE. 
 
 dry-eyed and silent, the soft bloom in her cheeks 
 slowly fading, the lines round her sweet mouth 
 gradually hardening. 
 
 One rainy day, chance took her past the little 
 cabin where Dermot Kilfoyle had lived with his 
 mother. Through the open door she saw the old 
 woman sitting alone, her hands clasped together 
 as though in prayer. 
 
 With a sudden stab at her heart she paused and 
 looked in. Then remembering that she had caused 
 this sorrow, she ran up to her, and threw her arms 
 round her neck. 
 
 " It's desolit you look, Mrs. Kilfoyle," she cried, 
 bursting into tears, " rale desolit." 
 
 " Aye, my dear, for sure Dermot's gone from 
 me. But it's God's will, alanna. An' we must all 
 bow to that. I loved my boy — maybe too well. 
 An' the Lord took him. It's hard, sore hard. But 
 God knows best. An' we must pray for his sowl, 
 Mave. You don't forget that ? " 
 
 " No. But can you forgive me ? Sure 'twas I, 
 druv him from you, in my pride an' vanity I " 
 
 " Whisht, alanna, — an' don't be frettin' too much 
 about that. There was, I've no manner of doubt, 
 faults on both sides. Dermot had always a mis- 
 fortunit temper, poor lad." Tears rolled down her 
 wrinkled cheeks. " But sure, if he's dhrownded 
 the Lord will forgive you because of your great 
 sorrow; 'twas for sinners He died, Mave. An' He'll 
 have mercy on Dermot, for he was a good son."
 
 CLARA MULHOLLAND. 24 1 
 
 " God love you," whispered Mave. " You've 
 put hope into my heart. But till the day of my 
 death I'll niver forgive myself. Only for me he'd 
 niver have gone to say that night." 
 
 " Who knows ? " sighed the mother. " He was 
 always darin' an' thought greatly of his boat. She 
 was the fine sailer. An' thin when Misther Fane — 
 Och, 'tw^as the black day brought him among us." 
 
 " He was no ways to blame," cried Mave, blush- 
 ing. " An' sure there'll be many frettin' sore for 
 him." 
 
 " Musha, thin, thrue for you. He'd a mother, 
 too, may be ? " 
 
 " Yes. An' some one who loved him dear. He 
 was thinkin' of marryin' soon, an' now " 
 
 " God comfort thim an' us," said the old woman 
 solemnly. " At such a time He is our only refuge. 
 His holy will be done." 
 
 " Amen," sobbed Mave. " But sure it's desolit 
 we all are entirely." 
 
 And then they sat, with clasped hands, silently 
 weeping. 
 
 From that hour Mave spent every spare moment 
 of the day and night with the lonely woman. Her 
 holy submission to the Divine Will, her gentle and 
 tender way of speaking, touched the girl and 
 soothed her breaking heart. Constant inter- 
 course with her, showing as it did how terrible 
 the loss of her son had been to her, deepened, 
 if possible, Mave's feeling of remorse, and
 
 242 MAVE'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 blaming herself for having caused her so much 
 sorrow, she did all she could to console and com- 
 fort her. Such sweet sympathy and devotion were 
 very dear to ]\Irs. Kilfoyle, and before long they 
 became like mother and daughter. 
 
 It was a wild autumn that year, and a wilder 
 winter. Terrible storms raged continually, and 
 owing to the almost impassable state of the sea 
 there was but little coming and going between the 
 island and the mainland. 
 
 " It's not much we know of what's passin' in the 
 world," remarked Mave one day, as she and Mrs. 
 Kilfoyle sat knitting by the fire. " What wid the 
 desperate wind an' Docther Sinclair bein' away, it's 
 lost we are for news." 
 
 " Musha, thin, an' what news would you be 
 wantin', honey ? " 
 
 " Sure I'd like to know how that poor girl 
 Misther Fane loved is gettin' on. Lena Grey he 
 called her. The telegram said she was ill. I 
 wondher did she die." 
 
 " When the docther comes back, an' sure that 
 same won't be long, he'll be able to tell you, may 
 be. He was the only one knew anything of 
 Misther Fane an' his people." 
 
 A tall, broad-shouldered man stood in the door- 
 way, and they rose to their feet, in a flutter of sur- 
 prise and pleasure, as they recognized Dr. Sinclair. 
 " Well, Mrs. Kilfoyle, I hope I see you well," he 
 cried in a cheery voice. " And Mave McMahon,
 
 CLARA MULHOLLAND. 243 
 
 too — but looking white and thin. We must bring 
 the roses back to your cheeks, my girl." And he 
 laid his hand caressingly upon her shoulder. 
 
 Mave grew crimson, and tears rushed to her 
 eyes. 
 
 " You're nervous," he said, looking at her with 
 kindly interest, " and run down. We must take 
 
 care of you and strengthen you before " He 
 
 paused abruptly, and seating himself in front of 
 Mrs. Kilfoyle, crossed one leg slowly over the 
 other, saying: " You've never asked me about my 
 visit to England, or any of the things I've seen or 
 heard." 
 
 *' Och, no, Docther dear, but sure you must have 
 seen hapes of wonderful things." 
 
 " Yes," taking a pinch of snuff. " And the last 
 and most wonderful thing — was a wedding." 
 
 " A wedding ! " the old woman laughed. 
 " Arrah, sure they're common enough — over there 
 especially." 
 
 " Yes, so they are. But this one was peculiar 
 — peculiar in this way. The bride and the bride- 
 groom were both on the point of death — or at 
 least, in danger of death some four months ago. 
 The bride through a fall from her horse; the bride- 
 groom through the upsetting of a boat on a tem- 
 pestuous sea, not very far from the island of Innis- 
 bofBn. He was found clinging to the boat, and 
 rescued by a passing vessel bound for America. 
 He was safely landed at the first port; but there he
 
 244 MAVE'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 fell ill. For some time his life hung in the balance, 
 and he'd probably have died unknown and among 
 strangers, had it not been for a good, devoted fel- 
 low, an Irishman, who tended and nursed him with 
 infinite devotion. But thanks to him, his youth, 
 and a good constitution, he recovered, after some 
 time reached home, and was last week married to 
 sweet Lena Grey." 
 
 " Docther " — Mave started forward with quiver- 
 ing lips and heaving bosom — " sure it must be 
 about Misther Fane you're telhn' us. If he was 
 saved — what — became of Dermot ? " 
 
 " My dear child, they were together. Both 
 clung to the boat ; both were saved ; Dermot it 
 was who nursed and took care of poor Fane. 
 Dermot is alive and well." 
 
 " My God ! " The old woman threw her arms 
 above her head. " Blessed be Thy holy name for- 
 ever," she cried in a loud voice; then fell back sob- 
 bing upon her seat. 
 
 For an instant a look of intense joy lit up Mave's 
 beautiful face, but it passed quickly away, and she 
 grew suddenly pale as death. 
 
 " Dermot saved — Dermot alive and well," she 
 moaned in a voice of anguish. " Oh ! can it be — 
 can it be true ? I have grieved — his mother has 
 shed bitter tears thinkin' him dead, an' he has left 
 us widout a word. Och ! it was cruel — downright 
 cruel of him." 
 
 " 'Deed an' he might have been afther sendin' us
 
 CLARA MULHOLLAND. 245 
 
 a bit of a letter, just to let us know he wasn't lyin' 
 dhrownded dead," cried the old woman. " But 
 
 sure there's many mishaps wid the post an' " 
 
 " That's just it," said Dr. Sinclair. " Dermot 
 assured me he had written many letters, telling 
 you that he was alive, and asking Mave's forgive- 
 ness — saying he knew the truth about Mr. Fane, 
 who was now his best friend, and that he loved her 
 more than ever, and only waited till she sent him 
 a line to allow him to come home." 
 
 " Sure no letter iver came to us," said Mave, 
 with quivering lips. 
 
 " Well, Dermot is not much of a scholar, and 
 dear knows what sort of addresses he put on those 
 letters of his. But you see, after all, it was not his 
 fault that you did not know that he was living and 
 well. So don't be too hard, Mave. The poor fel- 
 low has suffered terribly. For, not getting any an- 
 swer from you, he thought you had ceased to care 
 for him, and was very miserable." 
 
 " How could he think so ? " cried Mave, now 
 rosy red. " Sure he knows nothin' on airth could 
 iver change me." 
 
 " That's right," cried the doctor, beaming with 
 delight, as he got up, and walking over to the door 
 opened it wide. " And if I were you," standing 
 upon the step, " I'd tell that without delay to Der- 
 mot Kilfoyle himself." 
 
 "Oh ! " she said with a smile and sigh, " sure if I 
 got the chanst I wouldn't be long doin' that same."
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 246 MAVE'S REPENTANCE. 
 
 " And if he came to you — just walked in — you'd 
 welcome and be pleased to see him ? " 
 
 " Oh ! " the beautiful eyes filHng up with tears, 
 " I'd welcome him from the bottom of me heart. 
 Let him only come, docther, an' thry." 
 
 " Do you mane that, Mave, asthore ? " asked a 
 voice that sent the blood coursing quickly through 
 her veins, and made her heart beat joyfully. " Oh ! 
 me jewel of a girl, put your hand in mine, an' say 
 you love an' forgive me." 
 
 " 'Deed thin I do, Dermot," she cried, raising a 
 radiantly happy face to his, as she clasped his 
 hand and drew him into the cabin. " I both love 
 you an' forgive you. An' sure there's some one 
 else in here longin' to do the same." 
 
 And the next moment Dermot was sobbing like 
 a child upon his mother's breast.
 
 ROSA MULHOLLAND. 
 
 Rosa Mulholland was born in Belfast, Ireland, and is 
 the second daughter of the late Joseph Stevenson Mulhol- 
 land, M.D., of Belfast, and Maria, his wife. Mr. William 
 Mulholland, Queen's Counsel, London, Bencher of Lin- 
 coln's Inn, is her brother, and her elder sister is Lady Rus- 
 sell of Killowen, wife of the Lord Chief Justice of England. 
 Miss Clara Mulholland, author of many charming stories, is 
 her younger sister. In 1891 Rosa Mulholland married 
 Mr., now Sir, John T. Gilbert, author of the well-known 
 " History of Dublin" and other standard works relating to 
 Ireland, based on researches among unpublished MSS. 
 
 The principal works of Rosa Mulholland (Lady Gilbert) 
 are as follows :
 
 •'The Wild Birds of Killeevy," " Marcella Grace," " A 
 Fair Emigrant," '• Dunmora," " Hester's History," " The 
 Wicked Woods," "The Squire's Granddaughters," "The 
 Late Miss Hollingford," " Banshee Castle," " Giannetta," 
 " Hetty Gray," " Four Little Mischiefs," " Five Little 
 Farmers," "Puck and Blossom," "The Little Flower- 
 Seekers," " The Walking Trees and Other Tales," " Eider- 
 gowan and Other Stories," " The Haunted Organist of 
 Hurly Burly and Other Stories," " Marigold and Other 
 Stories," " Our Own Story and Other Tales," " Vagrant 
 Verses," " Holy Childhood," " The Story of Jesus Simply 
 Told for the Young," "The First Christmas of Our Dear 
 Little Ones," and " Spiritual Counsels for the Young,"
 
 Granny 6roaan. 
 
 BY ROSA MULHOLLAND GILBERT. 
 
 Ballybatter is a small town a few miles from 
 Dublin city, countryward, to the sea. It has one 
 street with good shops, and it has slums, in which 
 dwell, chiefly, laborers and their families, a few old 
 pensioners, a good many widows and spinsters, 
 who make a great " debate " for life by means of 
 some ill-rewarded industry, and a certain number of 
 idlers who prefer to loaf, and make out existence 
 nobody knows how. Nearly all the women of Bal- 
 lybatter take in " a bit of washing." Granny Gro- 
 gan's house was at the very end of Sweeny's Court, 
 and placed so that from the one kitchen of which 
 the " house " consisted a view was obtained of the 
 entire row of dwellings and the stony pavement in 
 front of them. The granny, who was seventy-five 
 years old and bedridden, could see from her bed all 
 that went on in the Court during the day. The 
 pump, which is its central object, was within the 
 range of her vision. Nobody could take a can 
 of water from it without her knowledge, and when 
 Judy Flynn, the most dissipated member of her 
 sex in the whole of Ballybatter, was " afther havin' 
 dhrink taken " and come to sober herself by pump- 
 
 249
 
 250 GRANNY GROGAN. 
 
 ing a shower-bath on her own head, Granny Gro- 
 gan was the first, and sometimes the only, person 
 to be scandahzed at her proceedings. She watched 
 the small children at their play of making dirt- 
 pies in the gutter, and measured time by the re- 
 turn of " laboring boys " to their dinner and the 
 ringing of the Angelus bell from the chapel only 
 a hundred perches away, with its back door open 
 to the slums, and its front entrance facing the high- 
 road where the quality " do be dhrivin' " through 
 Ballybatter on their way to the sea. 
 
 The granny was a small woman, shrivelled into 
 half her original size by the rheumatism, which had 
 twisted her poor hands till they looked like the 
 gathered-up claws of a dead bird. She could 
 neither sit up properly nor lie down, and crouched 
 in her bed with her head leaning forward and her 
 chin almost touching her breast. She had lived 
 in this earthen-floored, damp kitchen for many 
 years, and had done her laundry work in it so well 
 that she was known as the best washerwoman in 
 Ballybatter. She had been married to her second 
 husband and taken him to burial from under this 
 roof. Her two sons had walked out of the place to 
 enlist, and she had shed her tears in it over the let- 
 ter that informed her of their death. Here she still 
 remained, now that she was alone and helpless, her 
 rent paid by a former patron, and her needs sup- 
 plied from day to day by the occasional doles of the 
 charitable, and the self-denying kindness of the
 
 EOSA MULHOLLAND GILBERT. 2$ I 
 
 neighbors in the Court. " Run in an' light the 
 granny's fire," a harassed mother of ten would say 
 to her little girl in the morning, and another would 
 pour off the first cup of tea from the cracked tea- 
 pot on the hob, and cari-y it to her, saying, " The 
 heart of her would be dyin' within her, the cra- 
 ture, afther the night she does have, an' her neither 
 lyin', nor sittin', nor even standin' up itself ! " Ru- 
 mors that Granny Grogan would be whizzed off to 
 the House (poorhouse) were sometimes afloat, but 
 they were always hushed up, and she held her place 
 from year to year, while it was admitted that " the 
 Court would be quare and lonesome if so be the 
 like of her was ever to be took out of it." 
 
 However, one summer when the times were par- 
 ticularly hard, and two or three other old people 
 had disappeared into the Union Hospital, a feeling 
 grew among the more discontented of the slums 
 population that there was no reason why Granny 
 Grogan should be supported among the neighbors 
 when their children wanted bread. The old crea- 
 ture herself heard the whisper and trembled; but 
 still the weeks passed on and nothing was done. 
 The death of the patron who had paid her rent in- 
 tensified matters, and the landlord's grumbling, 
 growing louder as the defaulting eighteenpences 
 became more and more conspicuous in his monthly 
 accounts, seemed to herald the dreaded winding- 
 up of Mrs. Grogan's career in Sweeny's Court. 
 
 " I'm feared it'll have to be the end of it," said
 
 252 GRANNY GROGAN. ' 
 
 Mrs. Mooney, as she hung her bit of washing on 
 the long Hne across the Court. She was talking to 
 Mrs. Nolan, who was scraping her stirabout pot 
 on the stones, stopping to hit a couple of hens on 
 their heads with her iron spoon as they dashed at 
 the scrapings, intended for them, with their too- 
 eager bills. 
 
 " God help her ! " said Mrs. Nolan, " it's a pity 
 the Lord wouldn't take her, and her so ready to go. 
 Sure heaven 'd be a grand change for her afther 
 Sweeny's Court." 
 
 " Cock her up with heaven all in a hurry ! " said 
 Mrs, Mooney. " Isn't purgatory itself a crowned 
 king to the Union ? " 
 
 " Take the mug, Katie," said Mrs. Nolan to the 
 little curly-haired child standing by her, " and run 
 an' see if the new American milk-woman will give 
 a sup of milk out of her can for the poor ould wom- 
 an that lives among the neighbors. I hear she's 
 a plentiful kind of a woman, an' I see her cart- 
 wheel standin' there at the foot o' the lane." 
 
 The little girl was beside the milk-cart by the 
 time its owner had got down from her perch. 
 
 " Will you give a sup o' milk for Granny 
 Grogan, ma'am ? " begged the little one with up- 
 lifted blue eyes and outstretched mug. 
 
 " Where's your money ? " demanded the milk- 
 woman curtly. 
 
 " Granny Grogan has no money," Hsped Katie, 
 undaunted.
 
 KOSA MULHOLLAND GILBERT. 253 
 
 " Och, sure it's the granny that lives among the 
 neighbors," said a bystander. " Everybody gives 
 her a bite and a sup." 
 
 " That'll soon all be over with her when she's 
 took to the Union." 
 
 " Then I'm sorry if it's comin' to that with her." 
 
 The words flew about the American woman's 
 ears, while Katie stood before her all the time star- 
 ing and persistent. When she had finished her 
 business in the retail milk-shop which she had 
 come to supply, she turned to the child. 
 
 " Now, where is your Granny Grogan ? " she 
 said abruptly. 
 
 *' This way, ma'am," cried Katie, and the stran- 
 ger trudged down the court after her with her 
 clanking milk-cans. 
 
 Mary Mallon was a buxom woman with eyes of 
 a warm brown, and with a strong mouth. She 
 looked like a person who would begin big things 
 on impulse and carry them through with determi- 
 nation. A large white apron almost covered her, 
 and her plaid shawl and black bonnet were put on 
 with care. As she passed down the court Granny's 
 neighbors came to their doors and said: "That's 
 the woman that came home from America with 
 money, and has bought ' Bawneen ' and set up 
 cows. It's good to go to America a young one, 
 and come back rich afore you're altogether too 
 ould for anything." 
 
 Mrs. Mallon had walked to the top of the Court,
 
 254 GRANNY GROG AN. 
 
 and stood in the doorway of Granny Grogan's kit- 
 chen, looking in. She saw the httle aged cripple 
 crouched in her bed, with her shoulder against the 
 damp wall. The bed, which was set up on a kind 
 of box with legs, was clean, and a number of more 
 or less ragged and smoked religious prints dis- 
 puted place with the spots of damp on the white- 
 wash, or rather graywash, making an aureole of 
 saints in red and yellow round the old woman's 
 head. Mrs. Grogan's cap was clean, so was the 
 white shawl pinned around her shoulders. There 
 was a little spot of pink in her poor old cheeks, and 
 the twinkling eyes that turned towards the door 
 were as blue and as bright as a baby's. Mrs. Mal- 
 lon stood still and looked at her steadily for a few 
 moments, and then advanced into the house and 
 deposited her cans with a clank on the earthen floor. 
 
 " Haven't ye anything bigger than this ? " said 
 the milk-woman to the little girl who was pushing 
 the mug into her hands. 
 
 " God bless ye, woman ! " said Mrs. Nolan, who, 
 with Mrs. Mooney, had left her own business to 
 follow the stranger. " Katie, run in for the jug, 
 an' be quick with ye ! " 
 
 Mrs. Mallon turned and faced the two observant 
 matrons. 
 
 "She's so like my own gran'mother," she said, 
 and turned again for another long, mild stare at 
 Granny Grogan. 
 
 " That's a good while back," said Mrs. Mooney,
 
 ROSA MULHOLLAND GILBERT. 255 
 
 with eyes that guessed the probable age of the 
 American. 
 
 " She died when I was ten years old, an' that's 
 not yesterday, neither," said Mrs. Mallon. " Forty 
 years ago it is, come Pathrick's mornin'." 
 
 " You've the best of a good mimbery," said Mrs. 
 Nolan admiringly. 
 
 Mrs. Mallon took the jug from the returning 
 Katie and filled it to overflowing. 
 
 *' There's more where that came from," she said 
 gently, depositing it on the rickety table by the old 
 woman's side. 
 
 " May God's blessin' be about you ! " said 
 Granny Grogan. " It's Him that has always got 
 somethin' unexpected to dhrop into the open 
 hand ! " 
 
 " It's my gran'mother's voice she has, too," said 
 Mary Mallon, taking up her cans. 
 
 " Sure one ould woman's a good deal like an- 
 other," said Mrs. Nolan. " But when ye have such 
 a heart for your own people, ma'am, I suppose ye 
 must be glad to be back in ould Ireland." 
 
 " I have no people," said Mary Mallon. " I've 
 been down through the counthry lookin' for them 
 where I left them. They're all dead an' forgotten 
 in their own place, long ago." 
 
 She turned and trudged to her cart, put her cans 
 on board, mounted to her seat beside her son who 
 was in charge of it, and drove of¥ out of the town 
 of Ballybatter,
 
 256 GRANNY GROGAN. 
 
 Bawneen was distant about a mile and a half 
 along a by-road which took to the hills, and Mrs. 
 Mallon was at home when she reached a small white 
 gate leading to a good cottage with a rose half cov- 
 ering the whitewash. Behind were a few fields 
 where half a dozen cows were at grass. Young 
 Mallon went round to the back premises with the 
 pony and cart and cans, and his mother walked 
 into the kitchen of her cottage. The interior was 
 neat and bright. Her daughter, a girl of eighteen, 
 welcomed her with smiles. 
 
 " You look tired, mother." 
 
 " I'm dead bet, Janie. The breath's been took 
 out of me. I seen the ghost of my gran'mother in 
 a lane of Ballybatter." 
 
 Janie laughed. " That's some comfort for you, 
 surely, mother, after the search you have been mak- 
 ing for your own people." 
 
 " It was herself — face an' voice, an' all, an' the 
 very blink of her eyelids up at me." 
 
 " I never heard you talk much about your gran'- 
 mother," said Janie. " It was always your mother 
 you were thinkin' about." 
 
 " I didn't know I remembered my gran'mother 
 at all till I saw their Granny Grogan," said Mrs. 
 Mallon, " and then she flashed up in my mind, the 
 same as if you put a match to a candle. My mother 
 was altogether difTerent. She was tall, an' straight, 
 an' han'some. an' her eyes were brown an' her hair 
 was black. This little crature's eyes are as blue
 
 ROSA MULHOLLAND GILBERT. 257 
 
 as yours, an' she never could have been big. I see 
 my gran'mother now, as plain as can be, in a little 
 bed like that again' the wall in the corner, an' the 
 voice of her chattin' out to us childher." 
 " Will you have a cup of tea, mother ? " 
 " I couldn't swallow anythin' just at present. I 
 tell ye, the blankets on that old crature's bed are 
 terrible, an' I felt the pains in my own fingers 
 lookin' at her poor rheumatized hands. I'll want 
 to go down to Donnelly's shop to-morrow to get 
 some warm things an' take them to her." 
 
 Janie went to bed that night perplexed at her 
 mother's persistence in dwelling on the recollec- 
 tion of her grandmother; and long after her son 
 and daughter were asleep, and the little house was 
 silent, Mrs. Mallon sat at the fire staring into the 
 coals, and going back as far as memory would carry 
 her into the events of her own earlier life. At ftf- 
 teen she had been hurried out of her home in an 
 extraordinary and unexpected manner. The little 
 home had stood among the Connemara hills. 
 There, in the heart of the fire, the woman of fifty 
 years could see, as vividly as though she were still 
 living in a far-distant moment of time, the moun- 
 tain and moorland scene before the cabin door. 
 The chain of hills, dark with evening purple, or 
 glittering in dew and sunshine, filled the back- 
 ground capped with flying clouds. The dazzling 
 green of the bit of wet pasture was at her feet, the 
 mellow coloring and sad shadows of the bogland
 
 258 GRANNY GROG AN. 
 
 lay between, and here and there among the mists a 
 mile away the gable of a neighbor's house gleamed. 
 A goat browsed on a bit of green bank, the wind 
 shook the tassels of the alder-bush, stunted by 
 many storms, that sheltered the cabin thatch. On 
 a little causeway of rough stones before the door a 
 few hens were feeding on a potato just broken and 
 thrown to them by a little girl who was standing 
 on the threshold. " Ova Maury ! Man — ry I 
 Ora Maury ! " cried a voice from a distance, and 
 the child turned and saw her mother, saw her as 
 Mrs. Mallon had described her to her daughter 
 Janie. The mother passed out into the field, and 
 little Mary passed in to attend to her grandmother. 
 This dream with its pictured figures and echo 
 of voices seemed a life more real to the woman 
 than any she had known in her later years. The 
 vision remained where memory stores up its first 
 prints, impressions sharply bitten in, not to be ob- 
 literated by images overlaid upon them. While 
 she stared in the fire the coals fell in, the picture 
 shifted and changed, a burning sun hung over the 
 landscape, and the girl Mary, now grown older, 
 watched a funeral wending along the moun- 
 tain road, and wept at the cries of the mourners 
 coming to her on the wind. It was the time of 
 the Big Hunger, and she saw her father gasping for 
 death, and her mother wringing her hands by his 
 side. The little children sobbed, and there was no 
 bread and no meal; the potatoes were rotted in the
 
 HOSA MULIIOLLAND GILBERT. 259 
 
 ground. Neighbors came as beggars to the door, 
 and could not find relief. White faces were every- 
 where, and dead men and women were lying un- 
 buried by the roadside. 
 
 Mrs. Mallon watched attentively as she saw the 
 girl come out of the house before dawn, and, after 
 a long look back at the cabin, set off running down 
 the road towards the nearest town. It was a long 
 way off, that town, the girl did not know how long, 
 but she had heard that bread could be had there, 
 and her intention was to beg for bread and return 
 with it to the hungry. 
 
 She remembered the lifts on carts, the long 
 weary miles of walking, and her uneasiness when 
 the night came down. But her purpose remained 
 undaunted — to reach the town and to procure 
 bread. Arrived in the streets, she was swept away 
 with a crowd pressing towards a vessel which lay in 
 the harbor ready to set sail for America. There on 
 board that ship, said some one, they are giving out 
 bread, and if you go on board you will get it. She 
 went on board. She was weary and bewildered; 
 they gave her some food and a place to rest. But 
 when she thought of returning on shore the vessel 
 had sailed and was a good way out at sea. 
 
 Of her struggles and sufferings after she was 
 landed in America Mary Mallon could not bear to 
 think. She escaped some great dangers, she made 
 her way among decent people who procured her 
 respectable employment. She got a letter written
 
 26o GRANNY GROG AN. 
 
 home, but it produced no answer. With great de- 
 termination she appHed herself to learn to read and 
 write, and letter after letter was sent home by her 
 to the mountains. At last, one bitter morning, 
 there came a reply. All her people, without ex- 
 ception, had died of the famine. She was an or- 
 phan and alone in the world. 
 
 Flitting over her years of desolate striving, Mrs. 
 Mallon reviewed her happy married life. Her hus- 
 band was good to her, and when he died, left her 
 money enough to enable her to remain prosperous 
 with industry. She remembered how after the 
 children were grown up a craving awoke in her, 
 urging her to return to the old land and settle 
 there, maybe to come on the track of some of her 
 father's or mother's people, or even to discover 
 their graves. A year ago she had arrived in Ire- 
 land, just thirty-five years since she had sailed from 
 there out of the Big Hunger. Before making up 
 her mind to settle anywhere she had undertaken 
 a pilgrimage to her native mountains. She and 
 her son and daughter had stopped a week in the 
 neighborhood of the spot on which memory as- 
 sured her that her father's cabin stood. Only a 
 heap of gray stones was on the site. That, she 
 was told, Avas one of the houses throw^n down in the 
 famine year. Sure the people all died that had 
 lived in them, and the only way they had to bury 
 them was to tumble the walls on them ! 
 
 It was so long ago, so long ago, and yet, as Mary
 
 ROSA MULHOLLAND GILBERT. 26 1 
 
 Mallon sat staring into the fire, tears dropped 
 down her face to think of how she had run out of 
 her mother's sight " unknownt " to get bread, and 
 had never come back. " What did she think o' 
 me, at all, at all ? " whispered Mary to herself. 
 '' Or did the death come on her so suddent that she 
 hadn't time to miss me ? " 
 
 Then Mrs. Mallon went down on her knees and 
 prayed aloud in the silent house for her dead 
 mother, father, grandmother, brothers, and sisters, 
 and so eased her heart before she lay down to 
 sleep. 
 
 When she wakened in the morning her first 
 thought was for Granny Grogan, She sent her 
 son to take round the milk, and soon after walked 
 into Donnelly's shop, where she purchased the best 
 pair of blankets in the place, besides some com- 
 fortable woollen garments. With her arms full of 
 these she proceeded down the Court and entered 
 into Granny Grogan's kitchen. Before any one 
 could follow she had seized the little old cripple in 
 her strong embrace, dressed her in the new warm 
 clothing, and wrapped her up in the blankets. The 
 matrons of Sweeny's Court were, at the moment, 
 occupied in their own houses or visiting round 
 the corner hearing the particular morning news of 
 Daly's Lane. Mrs. Mallon had the granny's kit- 
 chen all to herself for an hour. She made a pot of 
 good tea, and boiled an ^%%., and cut a plateful of 
 fresh bread and dainty butter.
 
 262 GRANNY GROG AN, 
 
 " I had a gran'mother once of my own," she 
 said, as she served the meal, " and I'm goin' to call 
 you Granny." 
 
 " You may call me what you plaze, my dear, but 
 you're too ould to be my gran'daughter," the old 
 woman said with her twinkling upward smile, from 
 a bent face that could not be uplifted. 
 
 " I was young and small when my granny was 
 the same as you," said Mrs. Mallon. " She was 
 my mother's mother, an' as like you as two peas 
 in a pod. Have you got no gran'childher of your 
 own, Granny Grogan ? " 
 
 " Sorra chick nor child. All of the childher died 
 on me. None of them lived to be married, neither, 
 so how could I have gran'childher, dear ? " 
 
 " How long have you been livin' in this Court, 
 Granny Grogan ? " 
 
 " Ever since I came here with my second hus- 
 band, dear. He wasn't as good a man as the first 
 — God be merciful to them both; but we can't have 
 everything." 
 
 " Were you ever in the country where the moun- 
 tains and fields do be ? " 
 
 " Was I, is it ? Oh, then, heavenly Father, 
 didn't I live an' die there ? Sure my heart is 
 buried in it, an' it's only a dead woman I am ever 
 since I left it." 
 
 " What part of the country did ye live in ? " 
 
 " Did ye ever hear tell o' the Twelve Pins of 
 Connemara ? "
 
 ROSA MULHOLLAND GILBERT. 
 
 26s 
 
 " Wasn't I down there thravellin' about a month 
 or two ago ? " 
 
 " For God's sake ! An' will ye tell me if the 
 hills is where they used to be all them long, long 
 years ago, acushla ? Sure the Irish comes on me 
 tongue again when I think o' them. Och ! it's me 
 that was oncet the happy woman carryin' home 
 the turf from the bog an' sweepin' out me house 
 with a broom made o' the beautiful heather. An' 
 the potatoes growin' in at the dure, an' the larks 
 singin' up in the clouds just fit to deave ye." 
 " Woman alive ! Why did ye ever lave it ? " 
 " Och ! dear, I didn't lave it with a light heart, 
 I can assure ye, an' that not till me husband an' me 
 childher died of the Black Hunger on me, and me- 
 self left for dead, an' nearly buried along with 
 them. I don't know how I crawled away from it 
 all an' made me way up here, an' pulled meself to- 
 gether again. But sure it wasn't me at all that 
 was in it, afther, only a poor cracked crature that 
 had to put in a year in an asylum afore me head 
 came right again." 
 
 Mary Mallon left the fireside and came and sat 
 down by the bed. 
 
 " It's no wonder I took to ye," she said, " for 
 meself remembers the Black Hunger well." 
 " You're hardly ould enough, dear." 
 " I was young at the time, of course." 
 " I niver heard of any of your name where I 
 came from," said Mrs. Grogan.
 
 264 GRANNY GROGAN. I 
 
 " An' I disremember your name in the place 
 where I was." 
 
 " Did your gran'mother that you do be talkin' 
 about die in the Hunger, alanna ? " 
 
 " Sure the grass was growin' on her years afore 
 that. It was me mother that died in it — me 
 mother and me father, an' me sisters an' me broth- 
 ers. Only meself got away to America out of it." 
 
 " You're not like me," said Granny Grogan, " ye 
 thruv well out of it. It came at the young end 
 o' your life. But ye have the heart that desarves 
 to prosper. Look at all this that ye've been doin' 
 for me ! " 
 
 After that the tie between the Irish-American 
 and Granny Grogan became closer every day. Two 
 or three times a week Mrs. Mallon was in the 
 granny's kitchen, taking her milk, or eggs, or tea, 
 or some other comfort to make her life of pain less 
 irksome. At last there came a day when she ar- 
 rived and found an unusual commotion in the 
 Court. The crowd that had gathered at its open- 
 ing fell back and made way when the large figure 
 and strong, intelligent face of Mary Mallon were 
 seen approaching. 
 
 " What's all this about ? " asked Mrs. Mallon. 
 
 " Och, sure, it's what they're come to take 
 Granny Grogan to the poorhouse, God help her ! 
 The lan'lord wants her house." 
 
 " Haven't I paid her rent for her this month past, 
 faithful ? " said Mrs. Mallon indignantly.
 
 ROSA MULHOLLAND GILBERT. 265 
 
 " You did, jewel. But, ye see, there's a dale of 
 errors due," said Mrs. Nolan, who had forced her- 
 self to the front. 
 
 " An' they say the landlord's goin' to pull down 
 the house an' make it habitationable," said another 
 neighbor. 
 
 " Isn't there any place else to be had ? " asked 
 Mary Mallon. 
 
 " Plenty," said some one, " only nobody will let 
 a place to a desticute ould crature like the likes o' 
 her." 
 
 Mrs. Mallon's face showed all its strongest 
 lines, and she shut her mouth, and pushed her way 
 up to the top of the Court. Sure enougli, prepara- 
 tions were being made for conveying Granny Gro- 
 gan to the Union. 
 
 One or two officials were in the little kitchen 
 and a vehicle stood at the door. Mrs. Mallon 
 went in, and the little weak eyes of the old creature 
 in the bed glinted up at her with a watery smile in 
 them. 
 
 " You see it's the will o' God, acushla ! " she 
 said, with a piteous attempt at cheerfulness. " Ye 
 did what ye could for me. All of yez was good to 
 me. But His Majesty himself has sent for me. 
 Why but I would go ? " 
 
 Mrs. Mallon turned to the officials. 
 
 " Clear out of this," she said in a loud, ringing 
 voice. 
 
 " Sorr)' not to oblige ye, ma'am," said the fore-
 
 266 GRANNY GROG AN. 
 
 most man, who was about to lift the old woman, 
 blankets and all, out of her bed into the convey- 
 ance outside. 
 
 " Clear out o' this, I tell yez," said Mary Mallon, 
 and she suddenly seized the man, who was but a 
 small specimen of his sex, in her strong arms, 
 whirled him outside the door, and placed him 
 standing on the pavement. 
 
 " An assault ! " shrieked the official. " Ye'll pay 
 for this, ma'am ! " 
 
 " Be off out o' the place, or it's salted ye'll be in 
 airnest," shouted Mrs. Mallon. " But don't be 
 afeard but what ye'll get yer dirty kitchen ! Sure 
 it's rotted to death the crature is in it these years 
 past. Here, Katie, run for a cab for me, an' get 
 the best one, an' the comfortablest one ye can clap 
 yer eyes on ! " 
 
 By this time the crowd was round the door, and 
 every one was pushing to get a sight of what was 
 going on within Granny's kitchen. Mrs. Mooney 
 came struggling out from the interior, "dunching" 
 with her elbows till she placed herself where she 
 wanted to be. 
 
 " Yez may as well be ofif," she said to the offi- 
 cials. " She gives ye lave to summons her to- 
 morrow. Yez can bring her before the Queen if 
 ye like. An' may I niver see the light of heaven 
 if I don't think she's goin' to take Granny Grogan 
 home with her this minnit to her own place ! " 
 A chorus of exclamations greeted this speech,
 
 J^OSA MULHOLLAND GILBERT. 26/ 
 
 and even the insulted official left off fuming, and 
 stared with open mouth at Mrs. Mooney. 
 
 " Ye'd betther drive off in your kyerridge, the 
 pair of yez ! " continued Mrs. Mooney sarcasti- 
 cally. " There's a betther convaynience busy 
 waitin' to step up to the dure." 
 
 Curiosity to see what was about to happen over- 
 powered all other feelings in the official mind, and 
 they made way for the cab which now came up the 
 Court, with little Katie's smutty face grinning in 
 delight through the window. A very few minutes 
 saw Mrs. Mallon's intention fulfilled. She carried 
 out the granny, and placed her in the cab as if she 
 had been a baby, and drove off with her amid the 
 cheers of the bystanders. No sooner had the crowd 
 realized what had happened than numbers set off 
 to run after the cab, and to assure themselves that 
 the thriving American dairy-woman had taken 
 bodily possession of Granny Grogan. Even the 
 outraged officials followed meekly, and forgot their 
 wrongs in sympathy with the general enthusiasm. 
 When, finally, they saw the granny hoisted out of 
 the cab, and disappearing through the cottage 
 doorway, they set up such a cheer as brought Mary 
 Mallon out to her little wicket to say a w^ord of 
 good-by for the granny to the neighbors. 
 
 " She'll niver forget your kindness. She's thank- 
 ful to the whole of ye," said Mary Mallon, the 
 strong face lighting up with a broad smile. " An' 
 yez needn't be frettin' any more about the crature,
 
 268 GRANNY GROG AN. 
 
 for it's meself that is goin' to take the best o' good 
 care of her." 
 
 Meanwhile Granny Grogan had been deposited 
 on Mrs. Mallon's bed in her own room, a pleasant 
 little spot with a cheap yellow paper on the wall, 
 giving it a sunny aspect, with a comfortable piece 
 of carpet on the floor, and neat white curtains on 
 the window, the sill of which was gay with wall- 
 flowers. The bed was one of luxury to the poor 
 old creature, who kept murmuring alternately inco- 
 herent prayers and ejaculations of amazement. 
 
 When Mrs. Mallon turned into the house again 
 she directed her daughter Janie to make a cup of 
 tea and carry it to Granny Grogan. Being some- 
 what in need of refreshment herself, she was about 
 raising a tea-cup to her lips when she heard some- 
 thing that stayed her hand and caused her to throw 
 up her face with a look of wonder and excitement. 
 
 The sound that had startled her was of a voice, 
 high-pitched, clear, sweet, crying as if to some one 
 at a distance. 
 
 " Ova Maury — Mau-ry ! Ora Maury ! " 
 
 Janie came out of the inner room smiling, but 
 stood still in surprise as her eyes fell on her mother. 
 
 " What is it ? " she said. " Mother, what's the 
 matter with you ? " 
 
 " I heard my mother's voice callin' me," said 
 Mary Mallon, staring at her. 
 
 " Why, it was only Granny Grogan, poor old 
 creature. The moment she set eyes on me she
 
 ROSA MULHOLLAND GILBERT. 269 
 
 Opened her mouth and set up that extraordinary 
 screeching." 
 
 Mrs. ]\Iallon sat down at the table and leaned her 
 head on her hand. " I wonder what is on me at 
 all, at all ? " she said helplessly. 
 
 " That old woman has bewitched you," said 
 Janie. 
 
 Mrs. Mallon got up and went slowly across the 
 kitchen into the inner room. There she found 
 Granny Grogan shaking and trembling in the bed, 
 with tears dropping down from her poor old eyes 
 all over the quilt. 
 
 " What on airth is aildin' you, granny dear ? " 
 said Mrs. Mallon. 
 
 " O holy Mother o' God ! O Vargin Mother, 
 isn't it the ghost o' my young girsha that 
 is afther walkin' in to me ! Ora, what sort of 
 a place is this at all, at all ? Is it heaven ye 
 brought us to, whin my Maury is in it — the daugh- 
 ter that wint out from me one mornin' an' niver 
 came back ? " 
 
 " Didn't ye tell me that yer childher all were 
 dead since the year o' the Hunger ? " said Mary 
 Mallon, beginning to shake and tremble also. 
 
 " An' what but death would ha' kept my girsha 
 from comin' back to me ? Sick with the hunger 
 .she was like the rest of us, an' she died on the 
 mountain or in the bogs without a Christian to 
 spake to her. Sure her grave is in my heart, but 
 sorra 'nother grave do I know of that iver you were
 
 270 GRANNY GROG AN. 
 
 laid in, my gra gal machree, Mary O'Shaugh- 
 nessy ! " 
 
 Mrs. Mallon uttered a sharp cry. " How could 
 your daughter be Mary O'Shaughnessy, Granny 
 Grogan ? " 
 
 " How ? Because she was Denis O'Shaugh- 
 nessy's child, an' him her father, an' why else ? 
 Denis O'Shaughnessy, the husband o' my youth, 
 alanna, asthore machree ! Sure I niver was Gro- 
 gan until sorra had batthered and twishted me into 
 somebody that wasn't the like o' me at all, at all ! " 
 
 Mary Mallon stood for a few moments with her 
 face hidden in her hands, and her intelligent brains 
 at work thinking something out. Presently she 
 sat down beside the agitated old woman and put a 
 strong arm round the crippled shoulders. 
 
 " Mother ! " she said — " Mother ! I am really 
 your daughter, Mary O'Shaughnessy." 
 
 " Yon, Mrs. Mallon ? Oh, no, dear. You're 
 good enough to be a daughter to me, but my 
 daughter was a young girsha. And the eyes of her 
 were blue, an' the hair of her was brown an' light 
 an' curly. Oh, vo ! didn't I see the ghost of her a 
 minute ago, smilin' at me, an' smilin' at me with 
 the very heart's blood of the smile that she did al- 
 ways have for me ? " 
 
 " Mother, that girl is my daughter. She's maybe 
 like what I was when I quit out an' left you. Sure 
 I mind it all as well as if it were yesterday. Ye were 
 standin' over my father, an' him lyin' on the floor.
 
 J?OSA MULHOLLAND GILBERT. 27 1 
 
 You said 'twas only bread would cure him, an' 
 somebody told me there was bread givin' out in 
 the town. An' when I got to the town they told 
 me there was bread on the ship. An' when I got 
 to the ship they sailed out to sea with me. An' 
 people wrote out to me that the whole o' you 
 were dead. An' I lived my life in America till last 
 year, when the longin' riz up in me to come back 
 to the old country. An' then I sthravaigned into 
 Sweeny's Court with my milk-cans, an' I saw you 
 lookin' the image of my gran'mother. It's the 
 years that has done it on the whole of us, ye see. 
 They turned you into a likeness of your own 
 mother — that's my granny — and they brought up 
 my Janie to be the moral of her mother — that's 
 myself — as I was when yourself last lost sight o' 
 me, mother avourneen ! " 
 
 It was long before Granny Grogan was able to 
 understand the state of afifairs, but when at last she 
 was made to realize that her own daughter and 
 grandchildren were around her the joy and excite- 
 ment of it all nearly cost her her life. After some 
 time, however, she grew accustomed to the happi- 
 ness that had come to her, and for the rest of her 
 days was an object of devotion to her family, and 
 of extraordinary interest to the kindly neighbors of 
 old who had been so good to her in Sweeny's 
 Court.
 
 MRS. BARTLE TEELING. 
 
 Mrs. Bartle Teelinc {ne'e Theodora Louisa Lane Clarke) 
 was born in Guernsey, but passed her childhood in Wood- 
 eaton, Oxford, where her father was Rector. On his death 
 his widow returned with their only child to Guernsey, and 
 became there a centre of literary and scientific interest and 
 mental activity as student and writer of natural history, etc., 
 and author of several scientific manuals. 
 
 Mrs. Lane Clarke was a strong Protestant, but her daugh- 
 ter, the subject of this sketch, after years of anxious thought
 
 and deep but solitary research, for she had not a single 
 Catholic acquaintance, was received into the Church. 
 
 Shortly after her conversion, while she was still under 
 twenty-one, she made her first essay in literature, al the 
 request of Father Lockhart, in The Lamp^ of which he was 
 editor. 
 
 Her marriage, which was solemnized by Father Lockhart, 
 was the first marriage which took place in the historic 
 church of St. Etheldreda since " the Reformation." 
 
 Since the death of her mother, whom she had the happi- 
 ness of bringing into the Church, Mrs. Teeling has published 
 some fifty articles and biographical sketches in The Month, 
 Temple Bar, The Catholic World, The Gentleman's Mag- 
 azine, and other publications. 
 
 Although she has seven young children and all the cares 
 of a household, scarcely a month passes that she has not an 
 article in at least one of the many magazines to which she 
 contributes
 
 Iber Xast Stafte, 
 
 BY MRS. BARTLE TEELING. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was only the month of May ; yet the season 
 was already almost August-like in its sultry heat, 
 and shops were beginning to put up their shutters 
 with the customary notice, " Ouverture le ire 
 Octobre," and hotel omnibuses to convey huge 
 mountains of trunks and portmanteaux to, instead 
 of from, the unpretending little railway station 
 which, like all its fellows, has welcomed so many il- 
 lustrious strangers to the Riviera. 
 
 Just as the day was at its hottest, and the " but- 
 terflies of fashion," as some one calls them, had 
 presumably folded their wings to rest until sun- 
 down — for few, if any, were to be seen flitting in 
 and out of the gorgeous hotels which seem to 
 constitute modern Mentone — two slender, black- 
 robed figures advanced somewhat timidly up the 
 footpath leading to one of the largest of these, 
 and, after a brief parley with the porter, were 
 
 275
 
 276 HBR LAST STAKE. 
 
 ushered into a large and luxuriously furnished 
 salon. 
 
 To them there entered, after a few minutes' de- 
 lay, a quiet-looking, middle-aged lady with gray 
 hair and placid expression, who cast an inquiring 
 glance upon her visitors as she advanced with a 
 little bow towards them. 
 
 " You speak English ? " she inquired hesitat- 
 ingly, as the two nuns rose to receive her. 
 
 " We arc English," was the unexpected reply 
 from the elder of the two, given in rich, round 
 tones; " that is to say, we are Irish." 
 
 " Irish ? Oh ! " and the lady's face brightened 
 as she held out both hands to the visitors. " Irish 
 nuns ? What an unexpected, welcome sight ! " 
 she went on, drawing a chair close to them. 
 " Where did you come from, and how came you 
 here ? " 
 
 " Indeed, it doesn't seem the place for us, does 
 it ? " laughed the nun. " I never felt more out of 
 my element. But the fact is, we are on a begging 
 tour." 
 
 " What Order do you belong to ? " asked Mrs. 
 Mortimer, glancing at their black habits and white 
 coifs as if seeking some indication which might 
 guide her. " Nazareth Nuns, Little Sisters of the 
 Poor, Sceurs de Nevers — you seem to look a little 
 like each, and yet to be unlike all." 
 
 " Well, we are a new nursing order, founded not 
 many years ago — our foundress still lives — with
 
 MRS. BARTLE TEELING. 2/7 
 
 houses in England and in Italy; and we have been 
 sent out from the latter country to collect subscrip- 
 tions all along this line." 
 
 " Principally from the English visitors, I sup- 
 pose ? " 
 
 " Well, yes ; for we are not very strong in 
 French, either of us." And the good-tempered 
 Irishwoman smiled across to her companion in 
 placid contentment with her own linguistic short- 
 comings. So they chatted on for awhile of their 
 houses, their Order, and their work; and then they 
 rose to go, as Mrs. Mortimer pulled out her purse. 
 
 " Here is my little offering, sisters," she said, as 
 she laid a small gold piece in Sister Raphael's hand. 
 " I wish it were more, for I feel quite interested in 
 your work; but you know even a quiet, lone body 
 like myself has many calls on the purse." 
 
 '' Do you stay here long ? " asked Sister Raphael 
 of her, just, as it seemed, for the sake of conversa- 
 tion as she ushered them across the big, palm- 
 decked hall. 
 
 " I have been here all the winter for my health, 
 but I am leaving to-morrow. By the bye, how did 
 you come to hear of me ? " she asked, stopping 
 short in the middle of the hall with an amused 
 glance back at them. 
 
 " Oh ! we manage to hunt up all the English 
 names everywhere — you are the only English per- 
 son now in this hotel, are you not ? " 
 
 " Yes. There are still a good many people here,
 
 / 
 
 278 HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 but none of them English — except — ah, yes " 
 
 She stopped short as she caught sight of two men 
 advancing towards them, who were whispering 
 gravely and earnestly together. 
 
 " Bon jour, Monsieur Grosjean," she called out 
 pleasantly to one of the two — a big, heavy-looking 
 Frenchman, who was knitting his brows and biting 
 his lips in evident perplexity as his companion 
 talked. " How does Monsieur le Mcdccin find his 
 patient to-day ? " 
 
 Monsieur Grosjean, who in fact was no less than 
 the proprietor of the hotel, advanced towards the 
 little group, slowly shaking his head. 
 
 " Ah, madame, it is a terrible business — a dread- 
 ful thing indeed, for me." 
 
 " What, is she worse ? " said Mrs. Mortimer 
 quickly. 
 
 " Monsieur le Medecin will tell you," he replied, 
 with a theatrical gesture towards his companion. 
 
 " What is the matter with the lady at number 
 27 ? " asked IMrs. Mortimer of the vivacious-look- 
 ing little doctor, who was drawing on his gloves. 
 
 With a glance at the hotel proprietor, which was 
 answered by an af^rmative nod, the doctor pro- 
 nounced " Typhus fever, madame, of the most 
 virulent type " 
 
 " But, O madame, I implore you, let it" not be 
 known among my penswnnmrcs f " breathed the 
 proprietor ; " it would ruin — simply ruin my 
 hotel."
 
 MJ^S. BARTLE TEE LING. 279 
 
 *' And the worst of it is, that there is not a nurse 
 to be had; I can't have my patient left to die alone," 
 muttered the doctor discontentedly. 
 
 " Your own compatriot, madame," murmured 
 M. Grosjean, turning his big black eyes plaintively 
 upon Mrs. Mortimer, as though he sought to 
 transfer the burden of responsibility from his own 
 shoulders to hers. 
 
 All this time the two nuns had stood patiently 
 apart under the palm-boughs, wondering whether 
 they might slip quietly out and so take their de- 
 parture, or whether Mrs. Mortimer had any more 
 last words to say. 
 
 " Well, monsieur, if she \s my compatriot I can 
 hardly be expected to nurse her myself, can I ? 
 Oh ! stay, though." she went on, as her eyes fell 
 upon the waiting pair; " look here, these nuns are 
 English nursing sisters: suppose you set one of 
 them to nurse the sick lady ? " 
 
 " Nurses, are they ? " exclaimed the little doc- 
 tor; and he darted quickly to their side and broke 
 into voluble explanations and entreaties. The 
 sisters turned to Mrs. Mortimer in utter bewilder- 
 ment. 
 
 " My dear sisters, yes — indeed it is most urgent. 
 You have just been telling me that your work is 
 to nurse the sick in their own homes, rich and poor 
 alike; to go wherever you are summoned, irrespec- 
 tive of creed or position, and without fixed fee. 
 Here is a case which calls for charity as loudly as
 
 28o HER LAST STAK'E. 
 
 any. A poor lady, staying at this hotel all the 
 winter, has been taken ill with typhus fever, and 
 now lies unconscious up-stairs. No nurse can be 
 found to undertake the case; and I fancy the pro- 
 prietor does not care to make himself responsible 
 for the payment and maintenance of one of the ex- 
 pensive style of English nurses who are the only 
 ones to be found hereabouts. But no doubt the 
 lady's friends will come forward later, when they 
 can be communicated with." 
 
 The sisters hesitated, and then began to consult 
 together in low tones, the youngest nun apparently 
 objecting, and the elder urging her arguments. 
 Presently the latter. Sister Raphael, turned to Mrs. 
 Mortimer, the proprietor and doctor both standing 
 expectantly aside. 
 
 " I think," said Sister Raphael, " that it seems 
 as if we ought to do something for the poor lady. 
 But, you see, we cannot definitely undertake the 
 case without orders. I propose that Sister Gabri- 
 elle here should remain with the patient for a few 
 days, while I continue my journey homewards, as 
 I have business to transact en route, and meanwhile 
 we can write to our Mother for further orders." 
 
 " Any help, even for a day or two, will be most 
 welcome, I am sure," said Mrs. Mortimer; and she 
 repeated the proposal to the two men, who im- 
 mediately turned to Sister Raphael with profuse 
 expressions of gratitude. 
 
 " We had better go to the patient at once," then
 
 MRS. BARTLE TEE LING. 28 1 
 
 said Sister Raphael; and the httle doctor turned to 
 accompany them up-stairs and install his new- 
 found nurse. 
 
 " O sister, my heart fails me — indeed it does ! " 
 whispered Sister Gabrielle, as they follov/ed him up 
 the wide marble staircase. " It's not the nursing 
 I am afraid of, but being alone in this great big 
 place, and not a soul to speak to in my own lan- 
 guage." 
 
 " Now, Gabrielle dear, you mustn't speak like 
 that. Sure, Our Lady will take care of you." 
 
 " Yes, I know," somewhat plaintively assented 
 the younger. " But I haven't got any of my nurs- 
 ing things, you know — aprons, sleeves, and so on. 
 If — if — I stay, will you write for some for me ? " 
 
 " I'll settle all that, never fear ! " said cheery 
 Sister Raphael. "I wish I could stay myself,but you 
 know I am bound to go back with all the money 
 and business letters and accounts to Mother." 
 
 So they mounted beyond the " premiere Stage," 
 and higher still beyond the " dcnxiemc" and finally 
 passed along the corridor and paused at a door 
 before which hung a white sheet duly soaked in 
 disinfectants. 
 
 " I have put that up already, you see," remarked 
 the doctor, touching it. " Dangerous thing to do, 
 though — might arouse suspicion — told the cham- 
 bermaid it was to keep out draughts." 
 
 He lifted it for them to pass, and they went on 
 into the sick-room.
 
 282 HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 A close, sickening odor — the peculiar effluvia of 
 typhus — was the first thing of which they became 
 conscious on entering the apartment. Then they 
 found themselves standing beside the bed whereon 
 lay, tossing and muttering in fevered delirium, a 
 woman of some forty years old, whose thin hands 
 wandered feebly to and fro over the coverlet, while 
 her dark hair, streaked with gray, streamed in 
 tangled masses over a soiled and tumbled pillow. 
 A table beside the bed was crowded with medicine 
 bottles, half-empty cups and glasses, and other 
 paraphernalia of a neglected sick-room ; clothes 
 and soiled linen lay upon every chair, and a travel- 
 ling trunk, dragged into the middle of the room, 
 stood half-open. 
 
 " If you will just glance round and see what you 
 are likely to want, I will order it as I go down," re- 
 marked the doctor. " And I will look in again 
 this evening — in fact, I think for the future I shall 
 pay my visits only after dark, as the proprietor ob- 
 jects to a doctor being seen too often about the 
 place." 
 
 The nuns, after a hasty glance round, mentioned 
 some probable wants: a spirit-lamp, cups, and so 
 on, and then the doctor and Sister Raphael turned 
 to go. 
 
 " Good-by, dear sister," whispered the latter ; 
 " keep up your heart, and send us news of you 
 soon." 
 
 And then Sister Gabrielle found herself alone.
 
 MRS. BARTLE TEE LING. 283 
 
 She began by opening the window for a moment, 
 to let in some of the pure fresh air wliich seemed so 
 sadly needed in that fetid sick-chamber; and then, 
 after one brief, refreshing glance at the glories of 
 sea and sky, mountain and olive-yards, which were 
 spread out before her as she closed the casement, 
 she proceeded to set in order the neglected apart- 
 ment. The tumbled bedclothes were smoothed, 
 the pillow straightened, with deft and gentle touch; 
 soiled clothes and empty plates and glasses cleared 
 away, and a look of cleanliness and order dififused 
 over everything. By and by a knock came to the 
 door, and a tray was handed in to her with some 
 dinner for herself and a basin of very watery-look- 
 ing beef-tea for the invalid, with an inquiry as to 
 whether anything further was required for the 
 night. " I am not allowed to go in," whispered 
 the coquettish-looking chambermaid, " but you can 
 ring if you require anything." 
 
 Meanwhile the sick woman lay quietly on her 
 narrow bed, tossing her hot hands a little from side 
 to side as though in search of some cool spot 
 whereon to rest them, and muttering faintly unin- 
 telligible sentences in French and English from 
 time to time. " There will be no change yet," pro- 
 nounced the doctor at his evening visit, " so make 
 yourself a bed on the sofa and get some rest; you 
 may need it later on." And so night fell upon the 
 silent room.
 
 284 HER X.AST STAKE. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The days passed on and still the change, for life 
 or death, delayed its coming. Patient Sister 
 Gabrielle still watched beside her unconscious 
 charge, sometimes slipping outside the heavy cur- 
 tain of that carbolized sheet which shut them off — 
 she and this stranger together — from the world 
 without, to breathe for a few moments the purer air 
 of the corridor and its open window looking to- 
 wards the mountains, until the pert chambermaid 
 who waited on them whispered to her that " M. le 
 Proprictaire requested that la scciir would not show 
 herself outside the room, lest other visitors should 
 suspect illness there." So that even that faint re- 
 laxation was taken from her. One morning he 
 sent word to her to come to his bureau; and she 
 went, wondering and somewhat anxious, for she 
 knew that he received his daily report from the 
 doctor, and asked herself wherein she could supple- 
 ment it. 
 
 " Bon jour, ma sa^ur ; how goes your patient ? 
 The same ? No worse, no better ? Ah ! it is try- 
 ing, this." He spoke in halting yet not altogether 
 bad English, knowing that the nun's command of 
 French was but slight. " Look here, I have some 
 word to say to you. Have you found, among the 
 lady's possessions, any such things as letters, 
 papers, hein ? "
 
 MJiS. BARTLE TEE LING. 285 
 
 " I have not looked, monsieur," replied Sister 
 Gabrielle, with some indignation. 
 
 " But it would be well that you should do so," 
 he returned. " Look here: we must find out her 
 friends — we must know more." 
 
 " Do you know nothing of them, then ? " ques- 
 tioned the sister, opening her mild blue eyes a little 
 wider as this new and startling fact presented it- 
 self. 
 
 '' Well, it is this. Of course when she first be- 
 came ill — before you came — I examined her things, 
 and took away all money, and jewelry, and any 
 letters I could find. That I was bound to do, 
 naturally, in my own interest," he added, seeing 
 that the nun looked somewhat startled at his an- 
 nouncement; " I was obliged to see that there was 
 some money forthcoming for the expenses." 
 
 " Oh, yes, certainly ! " stammered poor Sister 
 Gabrielle, as he paused and looked for approbation. 
 
 " Well, now, the money which I found has come 
 to an end. I looked for my address, to which to 
 write, among her papers, and found one only. I 
 wrote, and here is the reply." He handed an open 
 letter to the nun. It ran as follows: 
 
 " Mrs. Hillyard begs to acknowledge the receipt of Monsieur 
 Grosjean's communication with respect to Miss Falconer. She 
 encloses a post-office order for ten pounds towards the ex- 
 penses which M. Grosjean may have incurred and at the same 
 time wishes to state that no further application will be enter- 
 tained. Any letters from Miss Falconer, or from others on 
 her behalf, will remain unanswered."
 
 / 
 286 HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 " Voila ! " commented the proprietor, as Sister 
 Gabrielle folded and handed him back the letter. 
 " No further hope in that quarter, you see." 
 
 " And is that the only address you have been 
 able to find ? " 
 
 " Absolutely the only one. Now, you see, this 
 money will carry us on for a few days — my own ex- 
 penses, I mean, nothing more; and for you, ma 
 sacur, there is nothing; I wish to point it out to 
 you." 
 
 "That does not matter; we are never paid. I 
 mean we make no fixed charge ; all whom we 
 nurse, rich or poor, are expected to make some of- 
 fering to the convent, according to their means, 
 and the offerings of the rich pay for the expenses of 
 attending on the poor." 
 
 Still, as Sister Gabrielle so bravely explained this, 
 there was fading from her mind a hopeful little vis- 
 ion which she had been entertaining all this time, of 
 her own triumphant return to the convent home 
 bearing a substantial " offering " from, the inmate 
 of one of the biggest and grandest hotels in the 
 Riviera. 
 
 " Well, we must await the course of events," 
 sighed M. Grosjean in a dissatisfied fashion. " If 
 the lady dies, which would be the simplest solu- 
 tion of the difficulty, I shall bury her with this " — 
 waving the ten-pound note in his hand — " ct tout 
 sera dif. If she lives — helas I there will be a long 
 convalescence."
 
 MRS. BARTLE TEELING. 287 
 
 " Does not the consul sometimes help in these 
 cases ? " suggested the nun. 
 
 " If she were well, he could have her conveyed 
 back to England — as a pauper; I do not know of 
 anything else that he can do. However, I will see. 
 Meanwhile please see if you can find any letters or 
 papers among her things which may give us some 
 clue to her friends. Bon jour, uia SiViir." 
 
 Sister Gabrielle went back to the little north 
 room an troisicmc with a sad heart; and as she ap- 
 proached the bed to administer some nourishment 
 at the appointed hour a thrill of pity and compas- 
 sion came to her as she passed her hand under the 
 hot, restless head, and held a spoon to the parched 
 lips. 
 
 " Poor thing ! poor thing ! " she whispered to 
 herself. " Homeless and friendless — I wonder 
 why ? " 
 
 As if the w^ords had touched some chord in the 
 sufiferer's mind, she began to murmur some words, 
 more connectedly than any the nun had heard 
 hitherto. " Why ? Why ? Who knows why ? 
 Was it my system ? It is a good one, yes ! Yet 
 listen: Rouge pcrd — perd encore — ton jours le rouge 
 qui perd — and those others, they win, and they do 
 not need it as I do. . . . Which do yon say is the 
 lucky man ? . . . I will ask — him — to give me a 
 
 number — a number " and her voice trailed 
 
 away again into silence. 
 
 "I suppose she has been to that dreadful
 
 288 HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 Casino," innocently thought the nun. " Will she 
 die, I wonder ? Perhaps I ought to say something 
 to her about it, if a gleam of consciousness comes. 
 It is useless to send for a priest, as, no doubt, she is 
 a Protestant. Is she, though ? Well, if she were 
 a Catholic there would surely be something to 
 show it — some medal, scapular — something." 
 
 So, seeing that her patient had lapsed into quie- 
 tude, she set to work to empty the big trunk which, 
 with innate delicacy, she had hitherto refrained 
 from touching, though M. le Proprictaire's rough 
 hands had already tossed and tumbled about its 
 contents. Now, knowing that for its owner's sake 
 it was incumbent on her to seek information, she 
 carefully examined every corner. Dress pockets, 
 the little work-case, an empty card-case, two or 
 three French novels of the usual yellow-covered 
 kind, some torn sheets of paper dotted over with 
 figures, the meaning of which Sister Gabrielle did 
 not fathom, and vaguely supposed them to be 
 " accounts," old concert programmes — was there 
 nothing of the past among all these tumbled heaps 
 of fine linen and lace, gloves and wraps, mostly 
 old and worn, but still dainty in texture; no scrap 
 of identity to be found anywhere ? 
 
 As she pondered and puzzled over this strange 
 absence of any clue to the sick's woman's identity, 
 which she began to think must be intentional, the 
 feeble voice began again its monotonous, broken 
 words.
 
 MES. BARTLE TEE LING. 289 
 
 " It is only life that can fear dying. Possible loss 
 means possible gain — gain ? I never gain — it is 
 all loss, loss, loss ! " 
 
 " Could I not reach that bewildered brain ? " 
 thought Sister Gabrielle, rising from her kneeling 
 position beside the trunk and going over to the 
 bed. She took in her hands the crucifix which 
 hung at her side and pressed it to the parched lips 
 of the sufferer, whispering in low tones the word 
 " Jesus." To her surprise the touch of the crucifix 
 seemed to come to those babbling lips as a familiar 
 thing, or perchance an awakening memory ; the 
 fevered hand clasped it round, and the murmuring 
 voice began anew : " Sacred Heart — Heart of 
 Jesus — mercy ! " 
 
 *' She is a Catholic ! " said Sister Gabrielle to 
 herself, speaking aloud in her astonishment. " No 
 one but a Catholic would say that. And yet no 
 scapular, no medal, no slightest token of religion 
 anywhere. Poor soul ! I fear she has forgotten 
 God." 
 
 Presently she gave food again, and noticed after- 
 wards that the patient seemed falling into a stupor. 
 
 " Yes," said the doctor, who came in shortly 
 afterwards; " it is the crisis. If she awake from 
 this stupor she will be saved." 
 
 " Otherwise she will pass away in it ? " 
 
 " Probably." And he nodded farewell with a 
 cheery air, as if to say that their watching would 
 shortly be over.
 
 290 HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 Sister Gabrielle sat down beside the bed with 
 an anxious heart; doubly so now that she guessed, 
 or fancied, that a soul was there before her which, 
 with all its sins upon it, was standing very near to 
 the threshold of eternity. She took up her rosary 
 and half mechanically began to say it, watching the 
 while with eager eyes lest any change should come. 
 But hours passed on, and the long night; and it 
 was not until the morning sun was pouring its full 
 flood of radiance through the unshaded pane 
 that the sick woman opened her large, languid eyes 
 wearily, but with full, tired consciousness, upon her 
 watcher, and whispered faintly, " Who are you ? " 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 So the crisis had passed and she was saved ! 
 
 Many a better life, to all human seeming, cher- 
 ished and watched with passionate devotion, might 
 have failed to struggle through the hour of trial; 
 but this woman, whom apparently no one wanted, 
 with no place in life as it seemed, no means even of 
 subsistence, had retained her hold on life and was 
 now slowly but surely coming back to strength, 
 and — to what ? Was it, as Sister Gabrielle 
 thought to herself, as she watched her patient, lying 
 propped up by pillows, with sad and troubled eyes 
 turned towards the window, hardly speaking save 
 to utter a brief word of thanks from time to time
 
 MKS. BARTLE TEE LING. 29 1 
 
 for services rendered; was it for the " one more 
 grace " so often given that she had been thus 
 brought back from the very gates of death ? 
 
 One often wonders, watching beside a sick-bed 
 or mourning some irreparable loss, why, where 
 '' one is taken and the other left," an Infinite 
 Wisdom seems to choose those whom human love 
 and human needs most cling to, rather than those 
 who, like the sad-faced patient, seem of little use. 
 Perhaps, like the subject of that unconsciously 
 bitter remark which haunts one in its very simplic- 
 ity of truth, they have " outlived their usefulness; " 
 as was said of some old woman, a mother who had 
 toiled all her life out for children and home, and 
 now was no longer wanted there — " because, 
 ma'am," said one for whom she had spent herself 
 in youth, " she is of no more use — she has outlived 
 her usefulness ! " 
 
 " You will soon be able to get up now," said 
 Sister Gabrielle encouragingly, as she took from 
 the patient's hands an empty cup and lowered her 
 pillow. 
 
 " Yes ? " was the listless answer. 
 
 " Do you not care to recover ? " 
 
 " Why should I ? " And the dark eyes were 
 turned on hers with an unutterable look of hope- 
 lessness In their depths. 
 
 The sister laid one hand upon the thin, trembling 
 one before her, as she said, half-shyly, lialf-gravely, 
 but very earnestly: " Do you not remember that
 
 292 HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 God has been very, very good to you in letting you 
 live ? " 
 
 " Would He not have been better to me in let- 
 ting me die ? " returned the other bitterly. 
 
 " Were you so ready to die then ? " questioned 
 the nun, half-fearing her own temerity, yet longing 
 to speak the words that had been trembling on her 
 lips for days. " You are a Catholic — I know you 
 are " 
 
 " How did you guess it ? " broke in the other 
 sharply. 
 
 " You told me yourself, without intending it, in 
 your delirium." 
 
 " Ah ! that's true — that wretched fever; tell me, 
 did I say anything more — anything about my past, 
 about myself ? " 
 
 Sister Gabrielle shook her head. 
 
 " Nothing that I could understand. But what 
 has been troubling me was — was — the thought that 
 you might die unprepared." 
 
 " Has it ? You poor, good little nun ! " And 
 the dark eyes softened for a moment as they turned 
 an amused, half-sarcastic glance upon her. " You 
 have been thinking of my poor soul, have you ? 
 Don't — it is not worth it ! " 
 
 " Oh ! do not say that; do not speak so. What 
 would have become of you if you had died ? " 
 
 The sick woman turned upon her pillow to look 
 full into Sister Gabrielle's face. 
 
 " You remind me of a little pious story I once
 
 MRS. BARTLE TEE LING. 2g$ 
 
 heard — I wonder whether you know it ? Listen. 
 Give me that glass of water at your side. A girl 
 who was — well, not a very good girl — was dying, 
 and the friends round her bed spoke to her — well — 
 as you want to talk to me. One of them asked her 
 * where she thought she zvas going ? ' She dipped her 
 finger in some water, like this " — she touched the 
 water with her own — " and held it up before them 
 all, one sparkling drop hanging on its tip. * I am 
 going,' she said, ' where I shall call in vain for one 
 drop of water to cool my burning tongue.' And as 
 she spoke the words she fell back and died ! " 
 
 Sister Gabrielle could not repress a shudder at 
 the picture thus set before her; but she quickly 
 turned the subject by fetching from a table near a 
 cup of beef-tea which had been warmed over her 
 little spirit-lamp, and which was gratefully, even 
 eagerly, consumed by the patient. 
 
 That evening she was again summoned to M. 
 Grosjean's bureau. 
 
 " So it seems that your patient is recovering ? " 
 was his greeting to her. 
 
 " She has passed the crisis, yes, monsieur." 
 
 " Does she talk ? Does she tell you anything 
 about herself ? You should encourage her to do 
 so. And look here, ma sccitr, I must ask you to 
 speak to her about money matters now — my pay- 
 ment ; it is time that she should write to hed* 
 friends, if she has any, for I need not tell you that 
 ten pounds has very nearly come to an end, even
 
 / 
 
 I 
 
 294 HE/? LAST STAKE. 
 
 in hotel expenses; and how the doctor will be paid, 
 I know not." 
 
 Poor Sister Gabrielle ! She felt that she had 
 never in all her life, even through the hardships of 
 her two years' novitiate, had so painful a task to 
 perform as on the following morning, when she 
 essayed to convey the message of M. Grosjean to 
 her patient. Yet she had but few words to say. 
 " I understand," was her listener's calm comment, 
 as she strove to convey, as delicately as possible, 
 the proprietor's demand. " He wants to be paid — 
 naturally. And I — I have nothing to pay him 
 with. He has already taken all that was here, you 
 say ? " 
 
 "Everything of value except your watch; that 
 is here," answered Sister Gabrielle, lifting it from 
 the mantel-piece as she spoke. 
 
 " Ah, that is well ! Give it to me here, please. 
 I ma}^ need it yet." And she hid it carefully be- 
 neath her pillow, and lay back, evidently thinking 
 painfully, for some time. 
 
 " Will you get me some paper, and a pen and 
 ink, please ? " she said at length with a visible 
 effort. They were brought to her, and slowly, 
 writing evidently with as much mental as bodily 
 pain, she traced a few lines on two separate sheets 
 of paper, and placed each in an envelope, which she 
 addressed. 
 
 " Will you ask the proprietor to stamp these and 
 send them ? " she asked.
 
 Mas. BARTLE TEE LING. 29^ 
 
 " I will g-o down with them myself," said the 
 nun, glad to show that her mission had been so far 
 successful. And she ran lightly down the three 
 long flights of stairs to the tiny bureau where M. 
 Grosjean sat all day long, like a merry spider in the 
 centre of his web. 
 
 " What do you think now ? " he exclaimed as he 
 saw her ; " that unfortunate patient of yours is 
 destined to bring me nothing but misfortune. Her 
 opposite neighbor has caught the fever ! " 
 
 *' Dear me, that is dreadful ! " agreed the nun. 
 
 " I think the doctor wishes to ask you to under- 
 take the case," went on ]\I. Grosjean; "you see it 
 is very difficult to find a nurse now ; there is so 
 much illness about that they are all engaged." 
 
 " My present patient is hardly well enough to be 
 left yet," objected Sister Gabrielle. 
 
 " She will have to be left, however," retorted the 
 proprietor, " for I do not intend to support a nurse 
 for her any longer. It is hard enough for me to 
 have to keep her — which, of course, I shall only do 
 until she is well enough to leave." 
 
 Sister Gabrielle felt somewhat bewildered and 
 shocked at this new turn that things were taking. 
 She had not realized before that her very presence 
 there was, in the eyes of the proprietor, an extra 
 and uncalled-for expense, added to the burden 
 which poor Miss Falconer was already felt to be. 
 As she was extremely anxious to remain near her 
 lonely patient, she began to review the circum-
 
 296 HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 Stances in her mind, and to wonder whether she 
 might venture to undertake a second case which, 
 being so near her former patient, would enable her 
 to give an occasional helping hand or word of com- 
 fort to the silent, lonely wo-man, about w^iom there 
 hung an air of mystery and sorrow. 
 
 " Who is the new sufferer ? " asked she, after a 
 pause. 
 
 " A young gentleman who, with his bride, is here 
 on their wedding tour," was the reply. " The lady 
 is not strong enough to nurse him alone, and the 
 present epidemic of influenza has taken away all 
 the nurses. I should be very glad if you would 
 stay, since you are already familiar with the situa- 
 tion, and do not fear infection." 
 
 So the end of it was that Sister Gabrielle found 
 herself transferred to the opposite room — a large, 
 sunny south one, under strict injunctions not to 
 divulge the nature of the illness which she had 
 lately tended, as well as to take every precaution to 
 isolate and disinfect the sick-room. Her patient, 
 a tall, fair young man, of some five-and-twenty 
 years, seemed much less seriously afifected than was 
 the case with Miss Falconer, and had the advantage 
 of every appliance and comfort that money — and 
 the drugs from a fashionable English pharmacy — 
 could bestow. The room was shut in by carbolized 
 sheets; one leading to the corridor, and one to the 
 bedroom adjoining where his young wife remained,
 
 JWKS. BARTLE TEE LING. 297 
 
 Sister Gabrielle whispering bulletins from time to 
 time of his progress. 
 
 Every morning about nine o'clock — before en- 
 tering upon his usual round of visits — the doctor, 
 one of the fashionable English physicians of the 
 place, would make his appearance by the bedside, 
 and, cautiously pulling up his sleeve, touch with 
 two timid fingers the sick man's pulse. 
 
 " Fever slackening ? Ah, yes ! That is right ! 
 Tongue, please ? " and tiptoeing as far as possible 
 from the reach of infected breath, he would cast a 
 hasty glance at that member. 
 
 " Now, nurse, the carbolic ! " And a vigorous 
 application of carbolic soap to his hands would fol- 
 low before with nervous haste he nodded farewell 
 to his patient, and retired outside to continue his 
 directions in the corridor. " Open the window, 
 please, there ! Ah ! everything is going on well, 
 I think, nurse ? " 
 
 " Quite well, yes." 
 
 "We can do no better than continue present 
 treatment — er — trust to nature to — er — restore 
 vitality. (I beg your pardon, nurse, but will you 
 keep on the other side of the current of air, letting it 
 pass from me to you, do you see ? ") 
 
 " You are rather nervous about infection, I 
 think ? " remarked Sister Gabrielle one day, tired 
 of his endless fidgety precautions. 
 
 " Well, you see " — he was a pompous little man
 
 298 HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 and talked in a consequential tone very irritating 
 to the bystander — " I must consider my other pa- 
 tients. I have important cases on hand — most im- 
 portant. I am at present attending the Duchess of 
 Oxford's little boy with measles, and it is a re- 
 sponsible position — most responsible ! " 
 
 " But your passing through the fresh air carries 
 off any harmful possibilities, surely ? " urged she. 
 
 " Ah ! infection is a subtle thing," he rejoined, 
 dolefully shaking his head. " One may catch dis- 
 ease anywhere — cabs, railway carriages, narrow 
 streets — all these are so many traps for the unwarv. 
 I assure you, nurse, when my wife and I go to 
 England from here we carefully abstain as far as 
 possible from touching the sides of the railway car- 
 riage, and never, never lean back in it ! There is 
 nothing more you would wish to ask with reference 
 to the patient, is there? " 
 
 This was a delicate hint, repeated each morning, 
 intended to convey the fact that the good man w^as 
 ready for his fee, which, to avoid any misunder- 
 standing, he preferred to pocket at the close of 
 each visit; and accordingly Sister Gabrielle would 
 disappear for a moment into the adjoining room, 
 and come out with the regulation twenty-franc 
 piece in her hand. 
 
 " Good morning ! " And Sister Gabrielle would 
 retire behind her protecting sheet, and nurse her 
 patient by the light of her own judgment for the 
 next twenty-four hours.
 
 MRS. BARTLF TEE LING. 299 
 
 Sometimes, when he was asleep and she knew 
 that she could leave him safely, she would go 
 quietly out, and steal into the dull little back room 
 where Marion Falconer sat day after day in a 
 broken arm-chair, essaying her strength by pacing 
 slowly and painfully from chair to bed and bed to 
 window, gazing out wdth large and melancholy 
 eyes upon the changeful hues of the mountain be- 
 yond and the cleft valley, whence a snow-swollen 
 rivulet trickled downwards to the sea ; the only 
 breaks in the monotony of these long, dreary hours 
 being the infrequent trays of comfortless meals, 
 thrust into the doorway by a hasty hand, and a few 
 moments' chat with her former nurse. The doctor 
 had ceased his visits, having pronounced her out of 
 danger, and, perchance, perceiving small chance of 
 obtaining his fee. Every day when Sister Gabrielle 
 entered she would turn her wistful looks towards 
 the doorway, with " Are the letters come, do you 
 know ? No letter for me, sister ? " 
 
 And Sister Gabrielle would shake her head, with 
 some hopeful word which indeed she hardly felt. 
 But the silent, almost awful reserve which encased 
 the sick woman was a barrier which few, and cer- 
 tainly not that timid little nun, could break 
 through. She would hover round her wistfully, 
 and glance at her with shy, appealing looks as she 
 talked in broken sentences of unimportant matters, 
 longing all the time to speak to her of what in very 
 truth she was zvaiting to say — but waiting in vain.
 
 30O HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 " Is there any English confessor here, I won- 
 der ? " she suggested one day as an opening for 
 conversation. " Or perhaps you go to confession 
 in French ? " 
 
 " Or perhaps not at all ? " suggested her ques- 
 tioner, with a faintly ironical smile. 
 
 •' Would you not like to see a priest, after — hav- 
 ing been in such danger of death ? " 
 
 " I ? Oh, no, not at all. Besides, I thought 
 the danger was past ? " 
 
 " The more reason you have for gratitude," re- 
 turned Sister Gabrielle quickly, glad even of this 
 slight opening for speaking out her heart. 
 
 " This is a great deal to be grateful for, is it 
 not ? " spoke Marion Falconer, with a quick little 
 sweep of her hand round the bare room. 
 
 " Life is a great thing to be grateful for," she 
 answered, " and the future lies in your own power." 
 
 " The future ? " For once ]\Iiss Falconer's indif- 
 ferent reserve seemed broken through, as she rose 
 and paced with weak, uncertain steps about the 
 room. " What is my future, do you think ? Oh, 
 you poor little innocent, ignorant soul ! do you 
 know what my life is — what my future is ? Look 
 at me ! Have I a friend in the world ? Is there 
 one single hand that I can grasp or cling to for 
 help, in all the universe ? Have I an acquaintance 
 even who would not, if they heard of my death to- 
 night, say, ' What a mercy that she is gone ' ? 
 Look ! I am waiting — waiting in a sick despair — •
 
 3IJiS. BARTLE TEE LING. 301 
 
 to answers to my last appeals for help; and they 
 will not come — I know that ! And by-and-by, 
 when I am a little stronger, or the landlord is a lit- 
 tle more tired of waiting for the money that never 
 comes, I shall be politely told to go, and leave my 
 worldly goods behind me — such as they are," she 
 added with a dreary little laugh ; " and then — 
 when I walk away from this door — what do you 
 propose that I should do then ? " 
 
 Sister Gabrielle was silent. 
 
 " What is left to me but to do what the fever 
 failed to do ? I am thinking over it, every day as I 
 sit here, trying to decide how it is to be. Will it be 
 poison ? That is very painful — and besides, I shall 
 have no hole of shelter to crawl into to die; one 
 can't die out in the open street. Will it be the sea? 
 I don't like the sea; it is shallow and difficult to 
 reach, and one is ignominiously rescued. I am not 
 a man, and I have not the stereotyped revolver of 
 Monte Carlo usage; so " 
 
 " Oh, please ! " gasped Sister Gabrielle, " don't 
 talk like that. I know you don't mean it, but " 
 
 " Not mean it ? " returned the other with a grim 
 little smile, which somehow carried conviction with 
 it. " Well, I hope the proprietor will ' not mean 
 it ' when he turns me out into the streets, in a day 
 or two. Perhaps you will kindly make that remark 
 to him ? " 
 
 Sister Gabrielle stood dumbly looking at her for 
 a moment, feeling as if no words were adequate to
 
 302 HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 touch that profound despair. Suddenly her hand, 
 moving mechanically downwards, encountered the 
 rosary at her side, and with an impulsive movement 
 she unfastened and laid it upon Miss Falconer's 
 Jap; then, putting both arms round her neck, she 
 kissed the unresponsive cheek; and turning, hur- 
 ried from the room. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 In very truth Sister Gabrielle did not in the 
 least guess at her former patient's past or even 
 present life. The ravings of fever, the pencil notes 
 and jottings lying here and there, every indication 
 which would have enlightened a more '' worldly " 
 person, passed by her unnoticed and uncompre- 
 hended. All that she did take in, however, of the 
 poor wanderer's pitiful and solitary state made her 
 yearn, with the tenderness of a true womanly soul, 
 over that forlorn one to whom by some mysteri- 
 ous overruling of Divine Mercy she had been 
 brought to minister. In after years she used to 
 say that she had never realized until then the terri- 
 ble inequality of rich and poor against which so 
 many thousands have impotently and wrongly 
 rebelled. In one room sunshine, and comfort, and 
 love — all combining to make human suffering light 
 — in the other poverty, want, despair; within a 
 stone's throw, each to each. And in both rooms
 
 MJiS. BARTLE TEELING. 303 
 
 the same great, underlying need which, if supphed, 
 would have enriched and ennobled both — the same 
 lack of faith and God. 
 
 The mission of those who have devoted their 
 lives to the service of the sick and dying is, with- 
 out doubt, primarily the healing of the body; but 
 there is surely with them also an underlying apos- 
 tolate of ministration to souls. Among the poor 
 this work is ostensible, almost easy, we would say. 
 With patients of the upper class it is hardly less 
 needful, and requires far more tact, delicacy, and 
 courage for its exercise. If all were known, there 
 have been not a few conversions from heresy as 
 well as those from indifference and sin, wrought 
 by the ministrations of a '* nursing sister;" and even 
 those who seem to reap but Httle benefit from the 
 spiritual side of their ministration, are loud in 
 praise of its temporal advantages. 
 
 The second patient whom Sister Gabrielle had 
 been called to tend was a big. light-hearted, mus- 
 cular young Englishman who, when his time of 
 convalescence began, seemed to live in a perpetual 
 state of half-amused annoyance at the untoward 
 illness which, for the first time in his cheery, irre- 
 sponsible life, had come upon him. " Queer, isn't 
 it ? to feel so weak," he would ejaculate, lifting a 
 feeble hand and arm into the air and pinching its 
 softened muscles amazedly. " How much longer 
 is this sort of thing going to last ? " 
 
 " Oh ! you will soon be sitting up by the fire if
 
 304 HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 you go on as you are doing," the sister would as- 
 sure him. 
 
 " Yes, and then begin to crawl out-of-doors, 
 wrapped up in shawls, like all the rest of the poor 
 creatures Minnie and I used to laugh at ! " he con- 
 tinued. " The idea of my being laid by the heels 
 in this wretched place, where three-quarters of the 
 people are consumptives, and the fourth Monte 
 Carloites ! " 
 
 " What, do you mean gamblers ? " ejaculated 
 Sister Gabrielle with awe. " Are there any of those 
 here ? Not in this hotel, surely ? " 
 
 " Well — I should think you might tell that better 
 than most ! " 
 
 " I ? " 
 
 " Considering that you have been nursing one of 
 them — have you not ? " 
 
 " You don't mean " and then all at once a 
 
 light broke upon her bewildered brain, and she un- 
 derstood the meaning of her perplexities. 
 
 "That lady opposite, whom you nursed; she is 
 one of the regular old stagers — frequenters of * the 
 tables,' you know." 
 
 " I did not know it. How did you ? " 
 
 " They told me down-stairs — the landlord, I 
 think. I declare I should like to make her ac- 
 quaintance, and get her to teach me the ins and 
 outs of these wonderful ' systems ' they talk so 
 much about. Don't seem to have done much for
 
 3IKS. BARTLE TEE LING. $05 
 
 her, though, do they ? I heard she was just about 
 cleaned out ! " 
 
 ** I'm afraid she is," answered Sister Gabrielle 
 gravely. And her thoughts went off again to the 
 problem which was exercising them night and day; 
 how to help that soul which lay at her door, as it 
 were, in sore need of rescue. 
 
 " Can you spare me for half an hour, do you 
 think, to go into the town ? " she asked of her pa- 
 tient. 
 
 " Oh, dear, yes ! by all means, nurse. And you 
 might get me some papers at the same time." 
 
 So she hurried off; for a thought had come to 
 her of the way to continue her apostolate of souls. 
 Her destination was a well-stocked "' libmiric." or 
 book-shop, which she had noticed once before, as 
 announcing itself to speak English and provide the 
 newest English books. 
 
 " Do you sell rosaries ? " she asked them; but 
 they only stared in perplexity, and showed her a 
 variety of objects, from penholders to artificial 
 flowers. 
 
 " Rosaries — ' chaplets,' " she insisted, and could 
 not show them her own, because she had left it on 
 Marion Falconer's lap. 
 
 " Madame deniande iin chaplet," explained the 
 shop-boy, retiring to giggle with his confrere at 
 the back of the counter. 
 
 " No, we do not sell ' des ohjcts rdigieux' " ex- 
 plained the master, coming forward.
 
 306 HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 " Where can I find some ? " 
 
 " Ma foi ! je ne sais pas. Perhaps up in the old 
 town — not here." 
 
 No, not there. Not where tJic English church, 
 with its parsonage and garden; EngHsh-speaking 
 shops which ' closed on Sundays,' and held no- 
 tices of every variety of Protestant service; where 
 the English influence and English religion were 
 paramount, and Catholicism a thing of the people, 
 a superstition of the aborigines, to be sneered at 
 like Hinduism in India, and its attributes kept well 
 out of sight. 
 
 So she left the fashionable quarter — the Mentone 
 as it is known to the world of to-day — and toiled 
 up a steep litle dingy street to the vicinity of the 
 parish church, where, after some difficulty, in an 
 odd little shop, which sold wools and gloves and a 
 few fly-blown old religious pictures, she succeeded 
 in finding the object of her search. 
 
 " I am later out than I expected to be," she ex- 
 plained as she made her reappearance, rather 
 breathless and tired, in her patient's room. " I 
 could not find what I wanted except in the old 
 town. And now, when I have made you comfort- 
 able, may I leave you again for a few minutes ? " 
 
 And soon she was knocking at the door of Miss 
 Falconer's room. 
 
 By this time, it should be said, Marion Falconer 
 had sufficiently recovered strength to be able to 
 put on her walking things each morning, and creep
 
 MRS. BARTLE TEE LING. 307 
 
 slowly down-Stairs and out into the bright, warm 
 sunshine. Sister Gabriclle had managed to dis- 
 infect her room, and she was only deterred from 
 taking her place with the rest of the world down' 
 stairs by the dread of receiving her sentence of dis- 
 missal from the landlord. So that on this still, 
 w^arm and sunny afternoon Sister Gabrielle was not 
 surprised to find her standing before the tall gilt 
 mirror over the mantel-piece arranging her bonnet 
 and veil to go out. 
 
 " I have come to redeem my rosary — by bring- 
 ing you another," said the nun, smiling brightly as 
 she entered; "you will not mind my giving you 
 one, will you ? For as I have not seen one among 
 your possessions I fancy you must have lost yours." 
 
 " I have indeed lost it — many years since," re- 
 plied Miss Falconer, with a wan little smile, as she 
 turned from the glass and took the sister's two out- 
 stretched hands in hers with a sort of grave tender- 
 ness with which she now always received her. 
 " You are very good to think of it — and of me, as 
 you do." 
 
 " It is a poor, commonplace little one," said the 
 former speaker; " only for your use until you have 
 a better one." And she placed a small red rosary 
 in the other's palm. 
 
 " Red ! Rouge gagne ! " exclaimed Miss Falconer, 
 almost gayly, as she took it. " Is it an omen — • 
 may I take it so, I wonder ? " Then, seeing the 
 shocked look on Sister Gabrielle's face : " Oh !
 
 308 HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 I horrify you, I know, dear sister. I cannot help 
 it; all my thoughts turn one way ! Will it please 
 you better if I tell you that I actually used your 
 rosary last night ? " 
 
 " Yes indeed, I am glad. But do not let me 
 keep you now; you are going out." 
 
 A shade fell over the transient brightness of 
 Marion Falconer's face as these words recalled her 
 to herself. " Yes, I am going out," she said, " and 
 you will not like to hear where ! " 
 
 " Tell me." 
 
 " In the first place, the sentence has been pro- 
 nounced; the landlord informed me this morning 
 that I must leave to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh ! " gasped Sister Gabrielle, " what will you 
 do?" 
 
 " I am going to try one last chance — one last 
 throw for fortune." 
 
 '* What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Listen. I pawned my watch this morning, and 
 got this for it," showing some gold-pieces in her 
 worn, shabby purse. " With this I am going, for 
 the last time, to Monte Carlo." 
 
 " Oh, don't ! " broke in her listener. 
 
 " I shall stake it all — in a way that will double, 
 treble itself, if it wins; and if I win I promise you I 
 will play no more; yes, I know that is what you 
 are asking me. I shall have enough then to sup- 
 port myself for a few days while gaining more 
 strength to seek employment."
 
 MKS. BARTLE TEE LING. 3^9 
 
 " And if you lose ? " 
 
 " Then — don't ask ! " she answered abruptly. 
 
 " But — but why not live for those few days on 
 v/hat you have there ? " 
 
 " Because I must, must, must have one throw 
 more ! I cannot help it, the madness of it is upon 
 me; you cannot understand the irresistibleness of 
 the temptation." 
 
 " I am afraid you are resisting grace," said Sis- 
 ter Gabrielle sadly. 
 
 " Don't say that, but wish me good luck ! 
 There ! Good-by — and — and — pray for me ! " She 
 bent down and kissed the cheek of her new-found 
 friend, and taking up the long-handled sunshade, 
 with which she supported her still somewhat un- 
 certain footsteps, she quitted the room. Sister 
 Gabrielle took up her own large rosary, which lay 
 upon the table near, and knelt down to say a por- 
 tion of it " for that soul which is in danger of los- 
 ing grace," as she whispered, before she left, with 
 slow and saddened steps, that dull and cheerless 
 room. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 It was somewhat early on the following morning 
 — perhaps about eight o'clock or so — that Sister 
 Gabrielle, coming for a moment out into the 
 corridor into which all the rooms opened, found 
 herself face to face with, almost knocking against, in
 
 310 HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 fact, a little group of men who were entering the 
 room in front of her, No. 27. " Why, that is Miss 
 Falconer's room," she thought; ''surely that un- 
 feeling landlord has not turned her out already ! " 
 
 In another moment the identical individual him- 
 self appeared, his usually smiling appearance hav- 
 ing given place to one of grave concern; and, with- 
 out noticing the looker-on, he passed her and went 
 after the others into the room. A vague feeling of 
 uneasy surprise drew Sister Gabrielle to linger just 
 Vvathin the doorway of the room she had quitted 
 and now re-entered, with some faint idea of catch- 
 ing and interpellating the landlord at his exit. 
 Presently they came out, talking low, and still not 
 observing her; and she heard M. Grosjean address 
 the foremost gentleman, a quiet-looking, elderly 
 Englishman, as " Monsieur le Consul." Presently, 
 much to her surprise, she saw them close and lock 
 the door, and a young man, who acted as the con- 
 sul's aide or secretary, proceeded to affix seals to it 
 in a very business-like manner, while his superior 
 slowly paced up and down the corridor conversing 
 in a low voice with the landlord. When the official 
 seals were duly affixed they departed, and silence 
 again reigned throughout the place. 
 
 Sister Gabrielle went back into the room and 
 rang the bell once, twice, for the icmmc dc chainhrc; 
 then came outside to avoid speaking in the in- 
 valid's room. 
 
 " Did you ring for hot water ? Here it is, ma
 
 MRS. BARTLE TEELING. 3II 
 
 smir ! " said the lively chambermaid, whose ser- 
 vices had considerably improved in attentivencss 
 since Sister Gabrielle had begun to require them on 
 behalf of a rich Englishman instead of a lonely 
 and impecunious " demoiselle." 
 
 " What does that mean ? " whispered the nun, 
 pointing to the sealed-up door. 
 
 " Ah, yes ! It is dreadful, is it not ? " 
 
 " I do not know; what is it ? What has hap- 
 pened ? " almost gasped her listener. 
 
 " Quoi, voiis lie saves pas ? She is dead, that 
 lady who was there." 
 
 " Dead ? " 
 
 The girl nodded. " Some accident, I do not 
 know what it was rightly. Some say, indeed, that 
 she destroyed herself. Anyhow she was to have 
 left to-day, and now — vo'ila I Are you ready for 
 the coffee yet ? " 
 
 " Yes — no — I mean yes, bring it," said Sister 
 Gabrielle confusedly, her eyes still fixed upon the 
 two great splotches of red wax, stamped with the 
 English arms, which seemed to grow larger and 
 larger before her eyes. And then she had to con- 
 trol herself and go in and attend upon her invalid, 
 who was very vivacious, and talked of going for a 
 drive, and getting disinfected, and casting aside 
 this horrid old fever. And then, for the first time, 
 she found herself hailing with positive pleasure the 
 doctor's well-known tap at the door, listened pa- 
 tiently to the scraps of chat and questions of news
 
 312 HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 with which the patient pHed him, as the only repre- 
 sentative of the outside world whom he could at 
 present reach, and followed him as sedately, to all 
 outward appearance, from the room as on any 
 other ocasion. 
 
 Ah ! " he exclaimed, as on closing the door be- 
 hind him he caught sight of the red seals opposite, 
 " that is the room, is it ? Sad business, eh ? " 
 
 " Tell me what it is, please; I do not quite under- 
 stand what has happened. Have you heard it 
 all ? " 
 
 " Just met the consul as I was coming up here, 
 and he told me. Some lady, one of those regular 
 Monte Carlo people who come to stay here and go 
 up every day to * the tables.' " 
 
 " To — to gamble, you mean ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, roulette and rouge et noir, and so forth, 
 you know. The sort of people who go in for it as a 
 profession, a means of livelihood, you know." 
 
 " Yes— well ? " 
 
 " Well, this person it appears used to go up there 
 every day (only she had been ill lately and had not 
 gone), and yesterday evening, as she was returning 
 home, on arriving at the station and alighting from 
 the train she — well they don't know whether acci- 
 dentally or on purpose, but at all events she got en- 
 tangled as the train was moving on — and killed." 
 
 An exclamation of horror broke, involuntarily, 
 from the lips of the nun. The doctor suddenly 
 turned and faced her.
 
 MKS. BARTLE TEELING. 3 13 
 
 " Why — why — wasn't that the very woman you 
 were nursing before you took my patient — the first 
 case, from whom he was supposed to have caught 
 the fever ? " 
 
 She nodded, unable for a moment to speak. 
 
 " Then, bless my soul ! you'll be wanted at the 
 inquest most likely. They are trying in vain to 
 find out anything about her — who she was — her 
 relatives, friends, anything. I must remind the 
 consul ! " 
 
 " Oh, pray, pray, don't ! " breathed the nun, to 
 whom the word " inquest " meant unutteraljle hor- 
 rors, 
 
 " But you must, you know ! " he persisted. " I 
 suppose you know all about her ? " 
 
 " Indeed I know nothing, nothing. Ask the 
 landlord if I am not fully as ignorant as himself." 
 
 " Oh ! well, excuse me, but that's not pos- 
 sible. You who were with her, night and day, for 
 weeks — at all events, I shall tell the consul ! " 
 And, full of importance, he hurried away down the 
 stairs, and she heard his footsteps die away in the 
 distance. 
 
 An hour or two passed, and she went about her 
 work as usual, with a sickening horror at her heart 
 and a dreary longing to hear more of the tragedy 
 which lay, as it were, at their door. Then a tap 
 and a whispered summons came, and she found 
 herself standing before M. Grosjean beside the still 
 sealed door.
 
 314 HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 " You know what has happened ? " he said to 
 her very gravely. " Can you tell us anything 
 about — her; anything which may be of use at the 
 inquest ? " 
 
 She shook her head. " You know that I never 
 heard anything of her past or of her friends; you 
 asked me that before." 
 
 " When did you see her last ? " 
 
 " Yesterday." 
 
 " Morning or afternoon ? " 
 
 " Afternoon. I went in to see her, and found 
 her dressed to go out. She went while I was 
 there." 
 
 " So you were almost the last person to speak to 
 her, hereabouts at least. Well, how did she 
 seem ? " 
 
 " Much as usual. Perhaps rather brighter than 
 usual." 
 
 " Did she tell you that I had given her notice to 
 leave ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What did she say about it ? " 
 
 " She said that she was going to ' try her luck * 
 once more," 
 
 " And did she say what she would do if she 
 lost ? " 
 
 " No." Thankful Indeed was Sister Gabrielle to 
 be able to speak that " no." She knew what was 
 the underlying thought in the questioner's mind, 
 the scarcely defined dread in her own; and there
 
 MRS. BARTLE TEE LING. 315 
 
 rose up in her mind a wild desire to combat that 
 suspicion. 
 
 '' Well, you can tell me nothing more ? " ques- 
 tioned M. Grosjean. " It is very perplexing. One 
 does not know what to do. The consul has tele- 
 graphed to the lady who wrote once before — you 
 remem1)er ? The only address we have." 
 
 " You — they will not want to question me — 
 elsewhere, will they ? " 
 
 " Oh, I suppose not, unless the consul wishes to 
 see you." 
 
 " Do tell me, please " — she hesitated as to how 
 to word her inquiry — " how do they think it hap- 
 pened ? " 
 
 " They say that either she missed her footing 
 
 and fell under the carriage, or " he shrugged 
 
 his shoulders with a significant gesture. 
 
 '' She fell down, I am sure of it ! " responded the 
 nun eagerly; "you know she was still very, very 
 weak from her illness; I have often seen her stum- 
 ble in going up-stairs. 
 
 " Ha ! yes, that is true. I must tell them that ! 
 You see, it is very disagreeable for me; people say- 
 ing that she was in despair — that — that I was hard 
 upon her, in fact. I do not think so; do you ? I 
 really could not keep her forever." 
 
 " No," said his hearer mechanically; and within 
 herself she was thinking, " one cannot expect a 
 hotel-keeper to be merciful ; but what an awful,
 
 3l6 HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 awful thing it would be to drive a fellow-creature 
 to despair ! " 
 
 " Monsieur Grosjean," she called softly after him 
 as he was turning away, " one thing I should like 
 ^o ask you." 
 
 " A voire service, ma soour ? " 
 
 " Where is—she ? " 
 
 " The body, you mean ? In a room near the 
 station. It will be buried to-morrow." 
 
 " I should like to see her once more. Would it 
 be possible ? " 
 
 " Why — yes, I suppose so. I will write a line 
 which you can present to the people of the house, 
 and they will admit you. Come to my bureau 
 down-stairs when you want it." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 She went in to her patient, who was tranquilly 
 unconscious of the tragedy, and told him she was 
 going out. Then, exchanging her indoor for an 
 outdoor veil, she set forth duly furnished with an 
 order for admittance from the landlord. It was 
 a lovely morning, the sunlight sparkling on a 
 thousand ripples over the sea, the clear blue head- 
 lands standing out distinct and fair along the coast, 
 Bordighera and San Remo and all the Italian coast 
 on the one hand, and on the other the white gleam 
 of fair, foul, Circe-like Monte Carlo, like some vile, 
 beauteous traitress, laughing beneath the warmth 
 of the sun. 
 
 " What a beautiful world God has made, and
 
 MKS. BARTLE TEE LING. 31/ 
 
 how man has destroyed it ! " she thought to herself, 
 as we all have thought when we gaze on the loveli- 
 ness of earth and sea and sky which men call " the 
 Riviera." Even Sister Gabrielle — though she was 
 a somewhat prosaic httle soul — felt uplifted for a 
 moment into a feeling of that delight in living, that 
 contentment in the mere sense of existence, which 
 so seldom visits the inhaliitants of any duller clime, 
 and which one pictures to one's self as the true key- 
 note of human joy in the old Greek times. And 
 this all-pervading beauty and entrancement of na- 
 ture in early summer helped to bring a sharp, pain- 
 ful shock to her mind as she crossed the threshold 
 of the darkened house indicated in her paper of di- 
 rections, and knew herself in the presence of death. 
 
 " You know the povcra donna ? " questioned the 
 gaunt, black-haired woman who guarded the death- 
 chamber, and reached down with one hand a key 
 from the wall above her, while the other arm sup- 
 ported a little swarthy " bambino " swaddled in 
 rags. 
 
 " Yes, I knew her," answered the nun, gather- 
 ing, though imperfectly, the sense of the patois 
 speech. 
 
 The woman turned the key and signed to her 
 to enter the room beyond, where, on a humble bed, 
 lay a shrouded form. Yes, it was Marion Fal- 
 coner. The sad, dark eyes which she had watched 
 so often turning in hopeless longing towards the 
 light were closed now, in everlasting rest. The
 
 3l8 HER LAST STAKE. 
 
 poor, thin hands were folded peacefully upon her 
 breast, and as Sister Gabrielle laid her own warm 
 one upon them she started, for there beneath her 
 touch, twined tightly among the stiff fingers,^ was 
 the little red rosary she had given. 
 
 " Yes," nodded the woman, noticing her start of 
 surprise, " it is a chaplet. It was found clasped in 
 her hands when she died, and I placed it there. 
 One would have thought she had been a Catholic, 
 would not one ? Only it is not so, of course, for 
 she was an Inglese, and they are not Cristiani." 
 
 " She was a Catholic," answered the nun, in her 
 broken Italian. " You must tell them so." And 
 then she knelt and prayed, with a strange, dream- 
 like sense of sorrow and loss for the soul whose 
 earthly tenement she had so long tended, until the 
 woman grew impatient at her stay, and she knew 
 she must return to her own work. " You will no 
 more come back to that dull room, to sadness and 
 pain, and weary waiting and anxious fears," she 
 whispered, leaning over the quiet dead form. " Do 
 you know now how I prayed for you ? I will still 
 pray, all my life, for your soul; and — God is very 
 merciful. Good-by, dear; good-by ! " And she 
 kissed the white, cold lips, and went back into the 
 southern sunshine. 
 
 And this was all — all that Sister Gabrielle ever 
 knew; for one's prayers are not always visibly an- 
 swered in this world. And so it was that the
 
 MRS. BARTLE 'FEELING. 319 
 
 tender-hearted little nun had never the consolation 
 of learning (until, perchance, it was told her by 
 angel voices in the hereafter) how the trembling 
 footsteps had, even as she hoped, turned backwards 
 like those of the Prodigal, to " arise and go to the 
 Father," with a last plaintive appeal to Mary on her 
 lips and in her heart as she clasped the little rosary, 
 when the Divine Mercy, more merciful than its 
 creatures, answered that appeal by a brief and all 
 but painless death.
 
 KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON. 
 
 Miss Katharine Tynan was born in Dublin, and edu- 
 cated at the Donninican Convent of St. Catharine of Siena, 
 in Drogheda. She began to write verse when very young, 
 and her first poem appeared in The Graphic. In 1885 was 
 published her first book, " Louise de la Valliere and Other 
 Poems." It was a success and quickly ran into several 
 editions. This book was followed by " Shamrocks," in 1887, 
 and '• Ballads and Lyrics " in 1892. Her first prose work 
 was " The Life of Mother M. Xaveria Fallon," which also 
 appeared in 1892. Since then she has published " A Clus- 
 ter of Nuts," being sketches of Irish life ; " Cuckoo Songs,"
 
 " The Way of a Maid," " The Land of Mist and Mountain." 
 " Miracle Plays." " An Isle in the Water," and " Oh, What 
 a Plague is Love ! " 
 
 A critic says of her: " All her poems are marked by 
 delicacy and musical deftness ; but in her stories she has 
 shown a breadth of treatment, humor, and deep knowledge 
 of human nature that are not evident in her poetical com- 
 positions to anything like the same extent." That her 
 genius is remarkably versatile is shown by a comparison of 
 "An Isle in the Water" and "Oh, What a Plague is 
 Love I " The one is a collection of short stories depicting 
 the loves passions, and hatreds of the rude mountain and 
 sea folk, and for its vigor has been likened to the plays of 
 Ibsen and the novels of Toorgenef ; the other deals with the 
 frivolities and artificialities of fashionable life, and is equally 
 as good in its way as the first. 
 
 Miss Tynan was married in 1893 to Mr. H. A. Hinkson, 
 who is also engaged in literary work, and since her marriage 
 she has made her home in the neighborhood of London. 
 She is a constant contributor of stories, articles, and reviews 
 to the literary magazines of England, and an occasional 
 writer for The Pilot and The Ave Maria in the United 
 States,
 
 XTbe Mar^robe♦ 
 
 BY KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON. 
 
 " Well, then, John Marnane," said one of the 
 neighbors, " an' what brings the Uke o' you here at 
 all ? Thinkin' o' furnishin', John, hey ? " 
 
 John grinned all over his sunburnt face, uncouth 
 in its stubby beard. Hay dust was powdered 
 over his old coat and on his thick hair, hiding the 
 places where it was fast turning gray. He was a 
 grotesque figure, yet under his shaggy brows the 
 blue eyes were mild and innocent, and as he 
 drawled an answer his voice was gentle. At the 
 sound of it his old pony, in a little chaise long in- 
 nocent of the mop and bucket, lifted its head and 
 whinnied. 
 
 " I came where I saw the crowd," John ex- 
 plained. " I thought there must be divarsion goin' 
 on." 
 
 " Well, John," said the other, facetiously, 
 " aren't you a great fellow all out for divarsion ? 
 Look here, boys," to a crowd of his friends, " here's 
 John Marnane on the lookout for a wife. He's 
 here to buy the furniture. Stand by me, John, an* 
 I'll advise you." 
 
 323
 
 324 THE WARDROBE. 
 
 The others gathered round to join in the joke, 
 and for a few minutes the auctioneer paused with 
 upHfted hammer, and smiled sympathetically. He, 
 too, had known John Marnane from childhood, 
 and enjoyed the friendly badgering he was taking 
 so well. But business cannot long wait on pleas- 
 ure. The languid bidding was for an old ward- 
 robe, cumbrous and ugly, and as big as the side of 
 a house. 
 
 " A pound for this beautiful article, a pound, go- 
 ing at a pound, a guinea, one pound half-a-crown, 
 one pound five. Mr. Marnane, allow me to call 
 your attention to this commodious article. It's 
 dirt-cheap at the money. You couldn't make a 
 handsomer present to the mistress to hang her 
 dresses in. What did you say, Mr. Marnane ? 
 Twenty-seven shillings ? " 
 
 He leaned over frolicsomely. The men at John's 
 elbow grinned and encouraged him. 
 
 " Come on now, John. Be a man an' spake up. 
 There isn't such a chance once in a lifetime." 
 
 " Sure you could get herself an' her gew-gaws 
 and the girl's frocks an' the boys' shuits 'idin it. 
 'Tis as big as a Noah's Ark." 
 
 " The girls is watchin' you, John. Show them 
 the spunk you've in you." 
 
 John, bashfully grinning, wriggled in the hands 
 of his friendly tormentors. As he looked from side 
 to side for a loophole of escape he caught sight of a 
 pretty face dimpling all over with enjoyment of the
 
 KATHARINE TYNAN H INK SON. ^2$ 
 
 joke. It was a rosy face, with little teeth between 
 wide scarlet lips, and roguish eyes under upward- 
 curling black lashes. Something went through 
 John Marnane like an electric shock. For a sec- 
 ond it seemed to himself as if he must have trembled 
 in his captors' hands, then he was quiet again and 
 looking carefully in the opposite direction. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Marnane, you've a bidder against 
 you. Twenty-seven shillings ! any advance on 
 twenty-seven shillings ? Did you speak, Miss ? " 
 to the pretty girl. " Are you hesitating, Mr. Mar- 
 nane, an' the eyes of a purty girl leppin' out of her 
 to be the mistress of the wardrobe ? " 
 
 " Twenty-eight ! " said John Marnane. 
 
 A roar of delight burst from the crowd. 
 
 " Twenty-eight shillings I Thank you, Mr. 
 Marnane. Any bidding over twenty-eight ? 
 Twenty-eight shillings for a wardrobe as big as the 
 Great Aisteni I Twenty-eight shillings ! Going, 
 going, gone ! The wardrobe to Mr. Marnane, 
 Johnny." 
 
 The auctioneer's clerk made his entry broadly 
 grinning. Every one was grinning except John 
 himself, who had grown deadly serious. One ar- 
 ticle after another of Father Sheeran's heavy, old- 
 fashioned furniture was put up. John kept bid- 
 ding with steady determination. 
 
 The savor went out of the joke by degrees. They 
 had thought they were egging on the man to ac- 
 quire things he had no use for. Now, it would
 
 326 THE WARDROBE. 
 
 seem that he had come with the dehberate mten- 
 tion of purchasing. Curiosity took the place of 
 laughter on the faces of the crowd: only a few irate 
 matrons who had come bargain-hunting protested 
 they needn't have come there at all, at all, if they 
 had had word that Mr. Marnane wanted every- 
 thing. 
 
 As John pushed his way out of the crowd after 
 the auction was over, Larry Brophy, the man who 
 had just accosted him, took him by the arm. 
 
 " Well, aren't you a sly fellow, John," he said 
 seriously, " to do your coortin' on the quiet, unbe- 
 knownst to us all ? She's not a girl from these 
 parts, anyhow ? " 
 
 John looked at him with the gambling excite- 
 ment of the auction still in his eyes. He looked 
 quite different somehow from the John Marnane 
 whom it had seemed natural to ridicule earlier in 
 the day. He had the air of a man with responsi- 
 bilities. The slouch had disappeared from his gait, 
 and he looked taller. 
 
 " No," he said, " you don't know her." 
 
 " Come up to my place and have a glass of grog, 
 and tell us all about her. Were you courtin' her 
 in the mother's lifetime ? You must have been, 
 you sly dog, for sure the poor ould woman's only 
 six weeks, come Tuesday, in her grave." 
 
 John drew himself gently from the detaining 
 hand. " I can't talk about it yet, Larry," he said 
 with dignity, " and I can't come up to-night,
 
 KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON. 327 
 
 thank you kindly, all the same. I've things to see 
 to at my own place." 
 
 " Well, then, if you won't, you won't," said the 
 other, a little offended. " Though how you can 
 employ yourself of an evening in that ould place o' 
 yours, wid not a sowd to spake to but ould Marga- 
 ret Connors fairly bothers me." 
 
 John Marnane went on without a word. If the 
 two men had been together a minute longer Bro- 
 phy might have been enlightened. As John was 
 mounting his shabby old car, a little ass-cart drove 
 out before him into the road. The driver was the 
 pretty girl with the pink cheeks. In the back of 
 the cart she had a few common household utensils 
 she had picked up cheaply. She wore a poor, lit- 
 tle cotton frock of a pink color, out of which she 
 looked like a moss rosebud. She sat on a plank 
 crossing the cart, and jogged the ass along with a 
 loose rein. At the sight of her something fierce 
 and hungry leaped into John Marnane's quiet eyes. 
 It was there for a second before it was replaced by 
 the sleepy affectionateness, which was his normal 
 expression like that of a well-treated dog. He 
 waited a minute or two to let the girl go on. Then 
 he followed, making his pony walk, while, with an 
 elaborate pretence, he lighted his old clay pipe. 
 
 The girl took the road up the mountain. John 
 followed, driving very slowly, and keeping her in 
 sight. He was so engrossed in watching her that 
 *t never occurred to him what people might think
 
 328 THE WARDROBE. 
 
 if they met him on a road leading directly away 
 from his home. 
 
 It was hawthorn time, and the dewy evening 
 was full of fragrance. The wild roses were open- 
 ing, and a few early meadows were cut. Still the 
 corncrake was sawing monotonously, and the 
 cuckoo was calling close at hand. A little crescent 
 of a new moon in the sky had a faint silver star 
 within its horns. 
 
 The girl pulled up at a little thatched cabin by 
 the side of a boreen twisting up the mountain. As 
 she stopped John pulled up his pony. He knew 
 now where the girl lived, and was satisfied. He 
 jogged homewards in the dewy twilight full of a 
 sweet disturbance such as he had never known in 
 all his fifty years. An unexpected fount of ro- 
 mance, a spring of boyishness in John Marnane's 
 elderly heart had been tapped to-day. 
 
 He drove up to his house-front, suddenly aware 
 of its deficiencies. It was a square, ugly house, 
 such as they build in Ireland. Thre'e windows 
 above, two below, with a hall-door in the middle 
 displayed their uninviting symme(ry. The sloping 
 roof was of blue slate; the hall-door had once been 
 painted green, but the paint had come ofif in flakes, 
 and the knocker was broken. The uncurtained 
 windows were like black patches in the white- 
 washed walls. A broken barrow lay by the hall- 
 door, half hidden among dock and dandelion. 
 The gravel path was covered with coarse grass and
 
 KATHARIXE TYNAN HINKSON. $29 
 
 rubbish of old iron and broken crockery. In what 
 once had been a flower-bed there was a heap of dry 
 dust : it was the dust-bath of the hens. John Mar- 
 nane shook his grizzhng head deprecatingly. 
 
 " It did me and the old woman, God rest her, 
 well enough, but it won't do for her at all, at all." 
 
 He put up his pony leisurely, and went in. On 
 the kitchen table a coarse cloth was flung, with a 
 blue crockery mug, a black-handled knife and 
 fork, some salt in an egg-cup, and a jug of butter- 
 milk. 
 
 He glanced at these homely preparations for his 
 supper, and around the smoke-browned kitchen in 
 the bare rafters of which the hens were roosting. 
 A handful of smouldering turf ashes was on the 
 hearth, and from the hook in the black chimney 
 there swung a pot of floury potatoes. There 
 were tins on the wall and crockery on the tall 
 dresser, but all were one color with the smoke. 
 Old Peg sat on her heels by the turf embers cook- 
 ing a rasher of coarse bacon, and a blear-eyed old 
 dog wagged his tail feebly as John Marnane 
 came in. 
 
 " You're late home," the old woman said queru- 
 lously. " I hope you're not goin' to take to gad 
 now herself is gone." 
 
 John Marnane looked at her as if he had not 
 heard her. He went through the kitchen into a 
 mean and dirty hall skirting a narrow staircase. 
 He opened the door at the right-hand side and
 
 / 
 
 330 THE WARDROBE. 
 
 looked in. A musty smell came from the place, 
 an odor of dampness mixed with the all-pervading 
 turf-smoke. The tattered blinds were down, and 
 he could not make out in the dark the round table, 
 the green rep chairs and couch, the gilt looking- 
 glass, and the colored religious pictures which were 
 the adornments of the late Mrs. Marnane's best 
 parlor. Still those glories were there hiding in the 
 darkness. John Marnane smiled to himself. The 
 best parlor was not to say a comfortable room, but 
 with her in it things would l^e different. She was 
 sure to be pleased with the furniture, and the Brus- 
 sels carpet with roses, and the hearth-rug, and the 
 shavings interspersed with silver and gold tinsel 
 in the grate. 
 
 He opened the other door with less satisfaction. 
 There wTre sacks of potatoes all round the wall, 
 and the only articles of furniture were his mother's 
 shiny old arm-chair and the tall, ungainly office 
 desk, with its high stool, at which since his mother 
 died he had laboriously pored over his accounts. 
 He looked around the dusky room. He could 
 have thought that he saw the old mother sitting 
 there, erect in her rusty black, with the nodding 
 purple ribbons and red flowers in her cap. He 
 quailed at the thought. He had been dutifully 
 fond of his mother, and had grieved for her with 
 the forlornness of one from whom after half a cen- 
 tury a fetter has been removed. But, good son as 
 he was, he had never entered that room while she
 
 KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON. 331 
 
 sat there without feeHng Hke a truant schoolboy. 
 Why, up to the last day she lived it had been a 
 fiction between them that he had never learned to 
 smoke. 
 
 He struck a match and Ht the tallow candle that 
 was stuck in a bottle on the desk. 
 
 " She was a great old woman," he said to him- 
 self, " an' did better by me thin I'd ever ha' done 
 by myself. Still it might ha' been better if she'd 
 given me more of a voice in things. I wouldn't be 
 so terrible helpless an' good for nothin' now." 
 
 He went up-stairs, the candle guttering down 
 the bottle on to his hands all the time. A gro- 
 tesque shadow of himself went after him up the 
 gaunt walls, where the gray plaster had grown 
 grimy. On the landing he stepped into a hole in 
 the floor. He shook his head gently. 
 
 " 'Twould be a nasty place for a little, soft foot," 
 he muttered. " I'll have in Flynn to see to it." 
 
 He went into one of the bedrooms. The tester 
 bedstead, with its torn hangings, stood in the midst 
 of what with its two windows might have been a 
 pleasantly light and airy room. The bed was cov- 
 ered with a tattered patchwork quilt. The bare 
 floor had the grime of ages upon it, and cobwebs 
 hung from window to window. The unpapered 
 walls were covered with stains, and in many places 
 there was the smoke where a candle had been al- 
 lowed to lean too near, or had toppled over in its 
 primitive candlestick. A couple of cane-bottotned
 
 332 THE WARDROBE. 
 
 chairs had lost their seats. A painted deal dress- 
 ing-table was covered with candle-grease and other 
 dirt, and the glass upon it was green in color and 
 cracked from end to end. John Marnane shook 
 his head more violently than before. 
 
 He put down the candle on the chimney-piece, 
 and his eyes half-closed, a trick he had acquired in 
 his many moments of lonely reflection. He was 
 remembering a bedroom he had once seen when he 
 had visited a cousin. It had pink roses on a trel- 
 lis for its wall-paper, and white lace curtains tied 
 with pink bows, and a dressing-table draped with 
 shiny pink calico and lace. He wondered whether 
 he could imitate that delightful room. In a vision 
 he saw this uninviting bed-chamber so trans- 
 figured. 
 
 As he turned away he caught sight of a dis- 
 torted reflection of himself in the cracked looking- 
 glass. For a second a horrible misgiving smote 
 him. Then he deliberately turned the thing round. 
 If he had been another kind of man he would prob- 
 ably have kicked it to pieces, for it had given him 
 a horrible fright, and he had felt a quiver of that 
 mingled rage and fear which is one of the most 
 driving of passions. But as the glass turned away 
 its cracked face he recovered himself with an awk- 
 ward smile. 
 
 " It would make a show of a saint, so it would," 
 he muttered. '* I was the quare-lookin' gom with 
 them cracks runnin' up an' down my cheeks, for
 
 KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON. 333 
 
 all th«!. world like onld swoord-ciits. For a minute 
 it staggered me, till it came back upon me that it 
 was th' ould cracks in the glass." 
 
 He shook off his fright as one might brush away 
 a troublesome insect, and went down to the kit- 
 chen, where he sat cheerfully to his supper. 
 
 " Peg," he said, in the course of conversation, 
 " did you ever hear my mother say rightly what 
 age I was ? " 
 
 *' You'll be fifty come Michaelma?. You were 
 born a week after my own Bat, Lord rest him." 
 
 " Would you say, Peggy," with an air of em- 
 barrassment, " that fifty was what you'd call gettin' 
 on for a man ? " 
 
 " Geitin' on ! You'll be gettin' on whin you're 
 seventy. What's puttin' such notions into jour 
 mind ? " 
 
 " My mother trated me as a child, Peggy, an', 
 upon my word, I often feel very young. She used 
 to say that a man was a boy as long as he wasn't 
 marrid." 
 
 " The world knows that. People's marryin' 
 younger now — the men Is, I mane. Why, I re- 
 member whin a man didn't get lookln' about him 
 till he was gettin' on for sixty." 
 
 " I should be young o' my age, too. I never 
 went drinkin', or card-playin', or to a wrastlin'- 
 match, or a cock-fight. The mother wouldn't 
 have it, as you know. Peg." 
 
 " She was right. They're dirty occupations."
 
 334 THE WARDROBE. 
 
 " You don't think any one 'ud call me old, 
 Peg ? " he asked anxiously. 
 
 " What's come to the man ? If it's match-mak- 
 ing you're after, you're the match o' the youngest 
 girl in the barony." 
 
 John Marnane drew a relieved sigh. 
 
 " You don't think the young girls falls in love 
 wid their aiquils in age ? " 
 
 " Falls in love ! God forgive you, John Mar- 
 nane, what would your poor mother say if she 
 heard you ? What nonsense is in your head ? 
 Girls don't fall in love, at laste if they're what they 
 ought to be. They takes the boy their match is 
 made with, an' thankful. I never knew but one 
 case of what they called ' fallin' in love.* It ended 
 bad." 
 
 John Marnane turned away with a sigh from 
 this iron code of manners. He had a sense of his 
 own weakness in desiring that strange foreign 
 commodity known as love, and he was not minded 
 to discover it to Peggy's sharp eyes. He lit his 
 candle and went to bed. 
 
 Years of inaction had, perhaps, left him with 
 a surplus of energy. Anyhow, he put his old house 
 into the hands of the painter and paper-hanger in the 
 little country town with amazing rapidity. His in- 
 vestments at the auction were stored in an out- 
 house till the rooms should be ready for them. He 
 displayed a quite unexpected frivolity in the choice 
 of paint and paper. The flowers and the colors
 
 KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON. 335 
 
 were of the gayest. From the mart, as the country 
 town called its big shop, he carried home surrep- 
 titiously bundles of flowery chintz and lace cur- 
 tains and such fripperies. 
 
 It must not be supposed that these things did 
 not make a nine days' wonder. The doing-up of 
 John's house took time. He chafed in silence 
 over the slowness of the men, but outwardly he 
 was an image of patient contentment. People 
 stopped him in the road to ply him with questions 
 and chaff. He baffled them clumsily but effectu- 
 ally. They approached old Peg whenever they 
 got an opportunity, but she knew as little as they. 
 The work went on. At last the best bedroom was 
 finished, and John, who had carried himself stol- 
 idly before the workmen, was at liberty to moon 
 in and out of the room and admire its beauties be- 
 held of no man. 
 
 He had made no attempt to see the girl who 
 had so captivated his fancy. When he had the 
 place ready for her he would ask her. It never oc- 
 curred to him that she might refuse. He was a 
 " strong " farmer, far wealthier than people 
 thought him, and she was a poor cottager's daugh- 
 ter. He glowed with delight at the thought of 
 the benefits he would bestow upon her. 
 
 At last the workmen were finished. John Mar- 
 nane was leaning over his gate the same evening 
 thinking upon how he should approach the girl. 
 Why he didn't even know her name, and yet his
 
 33^ THE WARDROBE. 
 
 house stood ready for her. He could not much 
 longer restrain the ardor which burned within him. 
 To-morrow he would climb the mountain over 
 there and find her. 
 
 As he stood smoking his pipe, to all appear- 
 ance placidly, Larry Brophy came down the road. 
 The two men nodded. 
 
 " When is the haulin' home to be ? " asked the 
 newcomer. The curiosity and the jokes were 
 rather stale, and he spoke in a bored voice. 
 
 " Very soon, now, Larry," announced John 
 Marnane, and the other man couldn't tell whether 
 he jested or not. 
 
 " The house is finished, I hear. I met Fogarty's 
 men going home wid the ladders on a cart." 
 
 " It is." 
 
 " It'll look well when the sticks is in." 
 
 " Well enough," said the owner, with secret 
 pride. 
 
 " Got the wardrobe in yet, John ? " 
 
 " Not yet." 
 
 " 'Twill be a terrible job to get it in, and up your 
 stairs. You got it chape, but I don't know that 
 it'll be a bargain after all. You'd better have let it 
 fall to Susie Kavanagh, though where she'd put it 
 bangs me." 
 
 John's eyes lit up. 
 
 " I don't know Susie Kavanagh," he said slowly. 
 
 " Kavanagh's daughter that lives in the glen 
 above there. They call her the Cluster of Nuts.
 
 KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON. 337 
 
 Where wor your eyes, man, not to see the purty 
 face of her ? " 
 
 " I half disremember," said John, hypocritically. 
 *' Was she a stout woman wid a Paisley shawl ? " 
 
 Larry snorted contemptuously. 
 
 " You an' your stout woman ! She was a little 
 brown girl wid a frock the color of her cheeks, an' 
 roguish eyes. You ould omadaun, not to have no- 
 ticed the purtiest girl in the country ! " 
 
 John laughed delightedly. 
 
 " Is it an ould bachelor like me ? " he said, ex- 
 pecting a shower of raillery. 
 
 " Just as well," went on Larry soberly, " for she 
 was called the third time last Sunday. Young 
 Fenlon's her match. There won't be as handsome 
 a pair to dance at the weddin'." 
 
 The other man stared at him with eyes that 
 leaped out of his face. A cold sweat gathered 
 upon his forehead, and a mist before his eyes. 
 
 " Well, I must be goin'," said Larry, who had 
 noticed nothing. " Good-evenin' kindly. You'll 
 be sure to ask me to the weddin', John ? " 
 
 " Oh, aye," said John mechanically. 
 
 He went up-stairs to the best bedroom, and sat 
 down on the bedstead, which had been freshly var- 
 nished. He looked round the room stupidly, and 
 the blood seemed to come into his eyes. Then an 
 ache of pity for himself smote him dully. He had 
 hoped for a thing for the first and only time in his 
 life, and he had been disappointed. He knew that
 
 338 THE WARDROBE. 
 
 there would be no spring in him to make him 
 begin anew. His eyes filled with tears, and he 
 began to cry. Again and again, like a great lout- 
 ish boy, he wiped away the tears with the dirty 
 sleeve of his coat, till he looked more than ever a 
 pitiable object. 
 
 It was long before the fountain of his tears was 
 dried. Then at last he lifted his head, and gazed 
 with inflamed eyes at a patch of moonlight on the 
 floor. He spoke out his latest thought in words. 
 
 " I'm thinkin'," he said, " that I might as well 
 break up the ould wardrobe wid a hammer." 
 
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