i^^Miiii 
 
 m 
 
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THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 ALUMNUS 
 BOOK FUND 
 
^ 
 
ATHEESTONE PKIORY. 
 
 L. K jC^OMTN, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'eLLICE, A TALI 
 
 Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest thou likewise thy brethren. 
 Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp on his forehead ? 
 Readest thou not in his face thine origin ? Is he not sailing 
 Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he not guided 
 
 By the same stars that guide thee? 
 
 Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over his failings : 
 This is the fruit of love, and it is by its fruits that we know it. 
 
 E S T E S AND L A U R I A T, 
 
 143 WASHINGTON STREET, 
 BOSTON. 
 
ALUMNUS 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 OflAP. 
 
 I. LISA, .... 
 II. THE LIKENESS IN MART'S ROOM, 
 III. LE BALAFR^ . 
 TV. WHAT LISA THINKS OF HER COUSIN, 
 
 V. MISUNDERSTANDINGS, . 
 VI. A WILFUL SPRITE^ 
 VII. ON THE SOFA, . , , 
 
 VIII. INDIAN TALES, . , , 
 
 IX. ISABEL'S RETURN, 
 X. PENITENCE, 
 XL A TALK, AND WHAT CAME OF IT, 
 XII. THE HAZELDEAN WQODS, 
 
 XIII. * SHE WAS A WOMAN NOW,' 
 
 XIV. AN UNEXPECTED CATASTROPHE, 
 XT. * SOME DAYS MUST BE DARK AND DREARY,' 
 
 XVI. BAFFLED, 
 
 r ' 6.19 
 
 PAGE 
 1 
 
 12 
 19 
 25 
 29 
 38 
 46 
 61 
 63 
 71 
 74 
 82 
 92 
 98 
 107 
 113 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 XVII. UNDER THE LIME-TREES, 
 
 XVIII. HAPPY DAYS, 
 
 XIX. THE FIRST LINK IN A LONG CHAIN, . 
 
 XX. A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST, 
 
 XXI. AUTUMN LEAVES, . . . 
 
 XXIL THE LAST EVENING IN THE OLD HOUSE, 
 
 XXIIL WEDDING BELLS, 
 
 XXIV. ' THIS SWEET WEE WIFE O' MINE/ . 
 
 XXV. THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA, . 
 
 XXVI. ANOTHER LINK IN THE CHAIN, 
 
 XXVIL THE POOL AMONG THE HILLS, 
 
 XXVIII. THE FIRST SHADOW, 
 
 XXIX. ISABEL'S SUSPICIONS, 
 
 XXX. * SEE, WHAT A READY TONGUE SUSPICION HATH,' 
 
 XXXL THE MEETING IN THE SHRUBBERY, . . 
 
 XXXIL THE SHADOWS DEEPEN, 
 
 XXXIIL UP AMONG THE HILLS AGAIN, 
 
 XXXIV. DISCLOSURES, 
 
 XXXV. A HASTY SUMMONS, . 
 
 XXXVL A NEW-COMER, 
 
 XXXVII. PAST AND FUTURE, , 
 
 XXXVIII. * HERSELF A WITNESS OP KINDLY THOUGHT,' 
 
 XXXIX. * LET THE DEAD PAST BURY ITS DEAD,' 
 
 XL. A VOICE FROM THE QUIET LAND, 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Vll 
 
 CHAP. PAGK 
 
 XLI. BEYOND RECAL, . , . . , 276 
 
 XLII. AT REST, ...... 286 
 
 XLIII. A LONG PARTING, ..... 296 
 
 XLIV. * LONG YEARS HAVE COME, LONG YEARS HAVE GONE,' 308 
 XLV. ST JUDE'S RECTORY, . . . . .317 
 
 XLVI. DISAPPOINTED HOPES, . . • , £»27 
 
 XLVIL MAKING ACQUAINTANCE, . . . • 333 
 
 XL VIII. ^ WILL YE THINK OF HER WHO DIED V , , 340 
 
 XLIX. * FROM OUT THE CLOUDS THE MOTHER LOOKS/ . 348 
 
 L. ' THE BURDEN HAS FALLEN FROM ME,' . . 359 
 
 CONCLUSION — * BEHIND THE CLOUDS IS THE SUN STILL SHINING/ 368 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 Microsoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/atherstoneprioryOOcomyrich 
 
ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 LISA. 
 
 ' What time did Mary say they would be here, Helen ? ' asked 
 Dr Tennent, walking, one cold afternoon in February, into the 
 drawing-room at Atherstone Priory, and standing there while 
 he buttoned up his great-coat in preparation for meeting the 
 keen north wind which was whistling drearily without the house. 
 * What time did she say they would get here 1 Seven o'clock, 
 was it 1 ' 
 
 * No, six, I believe — unless they have changed their minds 
 again since she wrote, which is not improbable. I do wish,' 
 continued Mrs Tennent, laying down her work for a moment 
 to stir the fire, * I do wish when people fix a time for coming 
 to a place, tliey would keep to it. There is nothing I dislike 
 more than such perpetual changes, and Mary knows it. I think 
 she might have shown a little more thought.' 
 
 * My dear, I don't see how she could help it,' returned the 
 doctor, ^ I don't think it was her fault. And, I can't tell what 
 difference it makes whether they come to-day or to-morrow. It 
 is not as if Percy were a stranger, and obliged to stand upon 
 ceremony with us. The great thing is to get him here as quickly 
 as possible ; and if he is able to travel sooner than we expected, 
 so much the better. London lodgings are wretched places, and 
 there 's no doubt he will be glad enough to find himself at 
 home again.' 
 
 There was no answer to this. Percy was not Mrs Tennent's 
 son, and therefore it was not to be expected she could enter 
 so entirely into his father's feelings of satisfaction at his return 
 after a long absence^ as to exclude all other considerations. She 
 
 A 
 
^ ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 had decided opinions also upon certain subjects ; and these 
 opinions were not to be trifled with, as everybody knew. She 
 went on with her work now in a grave determined way, which 
 said as plainly as anything could say, that she was not pleased, 
 and Dr Tennent fidgeted about the room as if he would have 
 liked to say something else, but was not sure how it would be 
 taken. 
 
 * Are you going out again ? ' his wife asked at last. 
 
 * Yes, but only to Mrs Gunning's. I promised to meet 
 Symonds there at five o'clock. It must be nearly that now.' 
 But although he made this announcement, the doctor seemed 
 in no hurry to go. 
 
 'I heard from John to-day,' he said abruptly, after a long 
 silence. 
 
 * Did you ? I am surprised at that. It is so long since he 
 wrote, that I thought he had dropped the acquaintance. But 
 I suppose he is on his road home, and thinks it time to find 
 out old friends.' 
 
 * I don't know ; he says nothing about coming back. He 
 is at Wiesbaden now.' 
 
 * At Wiesbaden ! And what is he doing there ? He had 
 much better return to England. He ought to be looking after 
 his affairs, instead of running after pleasure abroad.' 
 
 * Perhaps so,' was the answer, in rather an absent tone. ' I 
 don't know, though, Helen, that his roving disposition has 
 not been of some use this time. Certainty of any kind is better 
 than suspense; and our doubts about Emily Kennedy are set 
 at rest now for ever.' 
 
 Mrs Tennent started. 'Emily Kennedy! What do you 
 mean ? He has not heard of her 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, he has — yes, he has.' And the doctor folded his arms 
 and gazed abstractedly into the fire ; * and perhaps it was the 
 best thing that could have been heard of her,' he went on at 
 length. * She is dead, Helen ; she died six months ago at 
 Wiesbaden. There can be no doubt of it, for although she went 
 under another name, the chaplain's account of her, and the 
 things they found, prove it most certainly. There is John's 
 letter. You will see how he first got the clue, and I am glad 
 he followed it up. It is a relief to know it is all over.' 
 
 * Yes, indeed it is,' was Mrs Tennent's answer, in a low bitter 
 tone, as she glanced over the contents of the note her husband 
 handed to her. * And the sooner she is forgotten the better. 
 
LISA. 3 
 
 Better still it would be if we could forget she had ever lived ; but 
 that is impossible.' 
 
 * Poor Emily ! ' sighed the doctor ; ^ poor Emily ! Who 
 would have thought it ? So gay and happy as she used to be ! 
 She was the beauty of the place then — the prettiest girl in 
 all the country round. Lisa takes after her in that — she has 
 all her mother's good looks ; but we must hope she will have 
 a happier life of it, poor child.' 
 
 A laugh outside the window roused him — a clear, ringing, 
 joyous laugh it was : but it seemed to strike him painfully just 
 then. He looked up quickly. 
 
 * What do you intend to do about her ? ' he asked, his eye 
 following the figure of a young girl who was running across the 
 lawn. * About Lisa^ I mean. Will you tell her ? ' 
 
 *Tell her! What are you thinking of, Dr Tennent? She 
 never asks after her. I have never even heard her mention her 
 name. Most probably she supposes her to have been dead for 
 years ; and what good would it do to enlighten her now ? She 
 can't profess to care much for a person whom she can hardly re- 
 member ; and we should never dream of putting her into mourn- 
 ing or ourselves either. Most certainly I shall not tell her.' 
 
 * Very well,' said the doctor, who generally deferred to his 
 wife's opinion ; * very well, do as you like about it ; it is sure 
 to be right, whatever you settle; and of course it can make 
 no difference to her. She has a home here, poor child. And 
 we are not sorry to have her — eh, Helen 1 She is a good little 
 girl, is Lisa, and very affectionate.' 
 
 Mrs Tennent coughed. * Lisa may be what you say ; I don't 
 know. But it seems to me that if she were as fond of us 
 as you fancy, she would show it more in her actions. She 
 gives me a great deal more trouble than all my own 
 children put together. She is careless and forgetful, and very 
 wilful ; and she takes no pains to improve. I thought I could 
 have depended on her, while Mary was away, to go on work- 
 ing at her own studies, and keep Susan and Constance to 
 theirs ; but she has done nothing of the kind. There has been 
 no order at all in the schoolroom ; and considering that she 
 is nearly sixteen, it is too bad to think I cannot trust her. 
 I mean to speak to her this evening, and tell her how dis- 
 pleased I am. She is too old to go on in the childish, 
 thoughtless way she does, caring for nothing but play. It is 
 my belief that, if she could race up and down the garden all 
 
4 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 day with the dog, or shoot sparrows with Arthur, and play 
 at cricket and foot-ball with him and the boys, she would be 
 quite content. And she is incorrigible. It is thoroughly dis- 
 heartening to have anything to do with her.' 
 
 * She does well enough when Mary is here/ said Dr Tennent, 
 in a tone of excuse. * You can't find fault with her then, my 
 dear.' 
 
 * I beg your pardon, I don't think so. But even if she did, 
 I don't see what good that would do. She can't have Mary 
 to look after her all her life, and what is to become of her 
 in two or three years' time, when she has to go out as a 
 governess 1 Who will trust her with their children, I should 
 like to know, when she can't be trusted to look after herself ? 
 It is ridiculous to talk as you do, Dr Tennent. But I shall 
 speak to her this evening ; and very seriously too.' 
 
 ^ Well, well, do as you think best ; only don't be too hard 
 upon her, Helen,' said the doctor. * She is only a child, after 
 all ; and we must remember she has no father — and no mother 
 now,' he added, with some emphasis. ^We must not let her 
 think us unkind.' 
 
 * No one wishes to be unkind,' said Mrs Tennent, drily. 
 * But it strikes me you would be if you had your own way. 
 It would be great unkindness to let her go on as she is doing 
 now ; though I quite believe you would if you could, and all 
 because you are afraid of being thought unkind.' 
 
 Dr Tennent smiled a little. * Perhaps I should ; but I have 
 not the chance, you see. However, I daresay, you will not have 
 so much cause for complaint now. Arthur goes to-morrow, 
 and they will none of them be so wild when he is away. By 
 the by, I think we shall soon have to give up asking him to 
 spend his vacations here. The girls are growing up. Elinor 
 must be more than eighteen by this time, and she has looked 
 a woman for the last three years ; and Lisa is nearly sixteen, 
 you say. We must mind what we are about, Helen, or we shall 
 have him falling in love with one of them. I think in the 
 summer he had better pay Ralph a visit at Gainsford, instead 
 of coming here. I don't believe he has been there half-a- 
 dozen times since his father died, and he ought to see more 
 of his brother. It would be a good plan, wouldn't it ? 
 
 * Perhaps so.' Mrs Tennent liked plans to originate with 
 herself. * But it will be time enough to talk of that when 
 the summer comes. I have no fear of love-making between 
 
LISA. 5 
 
 him and the girls. When young people grow up together, 
 they very seldom dream of such a thing; they know each 
 other too well ; and he has been here so much, that they look 
 upon him as a brother.' 
 
 She spoke decidedly; but the doctor, contrary to his usual 
 custom, did not appear to be quite convinced. 
 
 ' I don't know ; one does hear of such things sometimes, 
 and it would be awkward if it should happen. He has 
 very little but his profession to look to, so it would be years 
 before they could marry, even if ' 
 
 ' Even if they want to do so, which they never will. Arthur 
 knows well enough what his prospects are, and that he cannot 
 keep a wife. He will have something to do to keep himself 
 first — curates without private means can't afford to marry — and 
 by the time he gets a living, Elinor will be settled, and Lisa out 
 of his way. I know what young people are, Dr Tennent, and 
 how little danger there is of such a thing happening as you 
 suppose. If I saw it beginning, I should put a stop to it at 
 once.' 
 
 ' Very well,' said the doctor, * I only hope you will find it 
 out in time. I should not like them to be made unhappy for 
 want of a little caution on our part. And now I ^m off. Past 
 five o'clock, I declare, and I ought to be in Hammond Place.' 
 And catching up his hat he disappeared, nearly running over 
 his daughter Elinor, who was just coming into the room as he 
 ran out of it. 
 
 Dr Tennent was one of the leading medical men in the large 
 and populous manufacturing town of Atherstone, and had an 
 extensive practice, not only in the town itself, but for many 
 miles round, among the county families. His father and grand- 
 father had both occupied the same position, and had been 
 universally respected by all who knew them; and he himself 
 inherited no small share of their popularity. He was a leading 
 man in the place in many ways. There were few schemes of 
 usefulness or benevolence carried out in the town, of which he 
 was not either the originator, or a promoter and active sup- 
 porter. How he accomplished so much without wearing himself 
 out, was a wonder to every one who knew him. But he had a 
 never-failing amount of energy, and was one of those hardy, 
 wiry men, who appear capable of getting through any quan- 
 tity of business without breaking down; and nobody had 
 ever heard him complain of being overworked. He was up 
 
6 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 early and late, in and out at all hours, and hardly knew what it 
 was to have a 'few quiet minutes at home, so incessant were the 
 demands made upon him both by rich and poor ; and of these 
 two classes, the latter had by no means the fewest of his 
 thoughts. The rich could always find a doctor, he said, but 
 those who were not so well off were not so sure of having 
 attention paid them ; and the poor, having once found that they 
 had a friend in him, were not slow in taking advantage of the 
 discovery. 
 
 It was well for him that he had a wife who was able to take 
 the management of his family off his hands, and who went her 
 own way to work without asking for either advice or appro- 
 bation. A far larger household than she had to manage 
 would have been no burden to Mrs Tennent, although her 
 present establishment was by no means small. She had seven 
 children of her own, and the doctor, who had been twice 
 married, had also a son and daughter by his first wife. It was 
 true that the son, who was in the army, could hardly be said to 
 make one of the family ; but his place was filled by a nephew 
 of Mrs Tennent's, who, first as a schoolboy, and now as a young 
 man at college, had long been in the habit of making her house 
 his home. An orphan niece of the doctor's also lived with them, 
 and completed the number of the recognised members of the 
 household, but not at all that of the stray friends and relations, 
 who found their way there at all times, for the doctor was very 
 hospitable, and liked nothing better than to see plenty of faces 
 and hear cheerful voices about him. 
 
 His house was a large one, and, like his practice, had been 
 handed down to him from his grandfather ; but what had, in the 
 first Dr Tennent's time, been a pleasant suburban residence, with 
 green meadows, sunny banks, and wooded land round it, was 
 now situated in the centre of a crowded district, and all that 
 remained of its once rural aspect was a large, well-planted garden 
 at the back — the especial delight of the younger members of the 
 family. The house itself, called the Priory, from the fact of its 
 standing upon the site of what had formerly been a monastic 
 building, was a rambling and rather old-fashioned place, full of 
 small, low-pitched rooms up-stairs, and large, but equally low and 
 inconvenient rooms, below. Mrs Tennent declared that many of 
 them were not habitable, and that do what she would in the 
 way of furnishing and ornamenting, nothing ever made them even 
 decently comfortable. But nobody else seemed to think so j on 
 
LISA. 7 
 
 the contrary, they were always well filled, and every one contrived 
 to make themselves very happy there. 
 
 If laughter and merriment, indeed, are to be taken as signs of 
 happiness, there was plenty of it to be found at the Priory ; nor 
 was that cold February day any exception to the rule, as was 
 testified by the ringing voices and gay shouts of a party on the 
 lawn, who all that afternoon had been eager with a game at 
 snow-balling, and who even now, when the evening was closing 
 in, seemed in no hurry to forego their amusement. The outward 
 aspect of things was not enlivening ; but fortunately for them, 
 their spirits were not affected by trifles ; and although the neigh- 
 bouring red- brick houses, with their roofs covered with black- 
 ened snow, looked drearily desolate, and the old tower of the 
 Priory church close by rose dark against the leaden sky ; and 
 though the leafless boughs of the lime-trees in the garden were 
 frosted with ice, and the air was gloomy with another coming 
 storm, they seemed to find no drawback in these circumstances, 
 and only played on all the more merrily, as the shades of twi- 
 light warned them they would soon have to give up their game. 
 They had raised a parapet of snow between some trees and the 
 garden wall, and behind this Arthur Darrell (who, in spite of his 
 being at college, was by no means above finding amusement with 
 boys and girls), had entrenched himself with his two little cousins, 
 Susan and Constance. They were engaged in a vigorous defence 
 of their fortress against a no less vigorous attempt to dislodge 
 them from it made by Fred and Charley — boys of fourteen and 
 twelve — aided by Lisa Kennedy, the latter by no means the least 
 energetic of the party. 
 
 "With her dress tucked up, her hat falling off, and her hair in 
 wild disorder, she danced about, the gayest of them all, little 
 dreaming of the news that had come that day, or of the sad fate 
 of the mother whose life had so long been shrouded in mystery. 
 There was no shadow on her face; no trace of sadness in the 
 clear tones of her voice, and her laugh was merriment itself; 
 careless unthinking merriment, as if no such things as doubt or 
 sorrow had ever crossed her path. With the childish earnestness 
 that always characterised her pursuit of any pleasure, she was 
 absorbed in her game, and had not a thought beyond the amuse- 
 ment of the moment. Darting backwards and forwards, gather- 
 ing up the snow in handfuls, and aiming it with unerring 
 precision at the besieged party, she proved herself quite as 
 formidable an antagonist as either of her boy-cousins, being as 
 
8 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 reckless as tliey were of the balls which Arthur most ungallantly 
 flung back at her with no sparing hand, greeting each with fresh 
 peals of mirth, and only pausing from time to time to brush tbe 
 snow from her dress, or collect new supplies for another attack. 
 Taking advantage of a diversion on the part of her fellow-assail- 
 ants, which took off Arthur's attention, she made a rush on the 
 unprotected side of the parapet, and seizing the flag that was 
 fixed there (a stick with a red handkerchief tied to it), she waved 
 it above her head with a gay shout of triumph, and jumped down 
 into the enclosure. The other besiegers followed her example, 
 and a loud hurrah from everybody proclaimed that the fortress 
 was taken. That ' hurrah ' brought their amusement to an end, 
 for it roused Mrs Tennent from the reverie in which — a most 
 unusual thing for her — she had been indulging over the fire 
 after her husband left her. 
 
 * Call them in, Elinor !' she said, looking up ; ' I had no idea 
 they were out of doors.' 
 
 Elinor, a pale, delicate, but rather pretty girl, with blue eyes, 
 and a profusion of dark hair, who was sitting at the window with 
 her head resting on her hand, rose from her seat with evident 
 reluctance, and walked slowly from the room. She shivered as 
 she went into the hall, and taking up a shawl, threw it round 
 her before she gathered courage to open the garden door and 
 summon the party into the house ; although, when she had done 
 so, she did not retreat at once, but stood, waiting, it seemed, for 
 them to make their appearance. Some little delay took place 
 before the mandate was obeyed ; but at length they came troop- 
 ing in, all in various stages of indignation at being interrupted 
 in the midst of their delightful occupation. Fred and Charley 
 even went so far as to vote that their sister ought to be rolled in 
 a snow drift for being the bearer of such unwelcome tidings, while 
 Arthur came behind, dragging on the unwilling Susan and Con- 
 stance, who were hanging to his coat tails, and uttering lament- 
 able remonstrances. Lisa was the only one who was silent ; but 
 that was because she was endeavouring to unfasten a very intri- 
 cate-looking knot in the strings of her hat. 
 
 ' Well ! ' she remarked at last, ' I suppose I shall have to wear 
 this thing for the rest of my life, for I can't untie it, and I 
 mayn't cut the strings. What can I do, Arthur? Will it look 
 very odd if I go about in this way all my days'?' 
 
 An appeal at which Arthur turned round, and contemplated 
 her for a moment or two with much gravity. 
 
LISA. 9 
 
 ' A-hem !' he said, 'we won't say anything about the singular- 
 ity of yonr appearance. Still, if it 's a case of necessity, I think 
 you may make yourself comfortable by the reflection that the 
 appendage, though novel, is not unbecoming. Only — excuse me 
 — ^you might look a little more easy and natural. At present 
 you have the appearance of being in — what shall I call it — in 
 decidedly embarrassed circumstances. 
 
 * And so I am, for I am nearly choked. O Arthur ! it was 
 one of your snow-balls that knocked it off, and it would only be 
 charitable of you to help me, instead of standing there laughing 
 at me.' 
 
 * Admiring you, you mean. But why didn't you pull it on 
 again when I knocked it off, and then you would never have 
 been in this dreadful difficulty. Let me see, though, what I can 
 do; I lay any wager I'll have it off in half a second.' And before 
 Lisa could stop him, he had the hat in his hand, much to her 
 astonishment, although she exclaimed in consternation, when she 
 saw a deplorable slit in it, in consequence of the ribbon having 
 been violently torn from the straw, 
 
 ' And a lot of my hair he has taken too ! What a wretch you 
 are, Arthur ; and look what a hole you have made here ! I 
 don't know what Aunt Helen will say when she sees it. I shall 
 get such a scolding.' 
 
 * Nonsense, ask Lane to patch it up ; she'll soon make it right. 
 And it 's not worse than it was before. I've seen the top of it 
 flapping about for the last three weeks. Bat it is only in keep- 
 ing with the rest of your dress ; you are about one of the most 
 perfect specimens of the tag-rag-and-bobtail tribe I ever saw.' 
 
 He glanced as he spoke, and Lisa followed the direction of his 
 eye. She certainly did not present a very reputable figure, as far 
 as her toilette was concerned, for her boots and stockings were 
 wet through, her petticoat was adorned with numerous formid- 
 able-looking rents, and her dress was torn from the gathers, and 
 trailed on the ground behind her. Her hair, too, had fallen down, 
 and hung over her neck and shoulders, in a wet, tangled mass of 
 brown and gold. But in spite of the disadvantages under which 
 she appeared, nothing could detract from the rare loveliness of 
 her face and form, and Arthur's glance was one quite as much of 
 admiration as of pretended disdain at the state of her dress. 
 From her earliest childhood, Lisa had always been noted for 
 her extreme beauty — a beauty which would have attracted atten- 
 tion at any time, from its perfectness of feature and delicacy of 
 
10 ATHERSTONE PEIORY. 
 
 outline and colouring, but which a brilliant smile and the win- 
 ning expression of her large hazel eyes rendered irresistible. But 
 she had not yet learned to look for the admiration with which 
 none could help regarding her ; and perhaps the utter absence 
 of self-consciousness was by no means one of her least charms. 
 She did not notice the look on her cousin's face, being quite en- 
 gaged with examining the state of her attire. As she was well 
 accustomed, however, to constant fault-finding on the subject, 
 she did not seem much alarmed at the prospect of the scolding 
 in store for her ; and after having stuck a pin in the gathers of 
 her dress, and contemplated her tattered petticoat for a few 
 moments, she looked up with a laugh. 
 
 * Never mind, it can't be helped. You are not much better 
 yourself, Arthur. Look at that mud on your coat — and look at 
 your boots ! Oh, he is a figure ! isn't he, Nelly ? ' 
 
 * Yes, I think he is ; there is not much to choose between you 
 all,' was the answer. * You look very like scarecrows, every one 
 of you — but perhaps you are the worst, Lisa. And now I advise 
 you to go and make yourselves respectable before anybody sees 
 you.' 
 
 ' You are not complimentary,' retorted Arthur. ^ And why 
 didn't you come, Nelly, and make scarecrow number seven, in- 
 stead of staying indoors in that grand and dignified manner, as 
 if you were too good for us poor mortals 1 I thought you liked a 
 game as well as any one.' 
 
 ^ So I do, some games — but not all. Snowballing I can't bear. 
 It makes one so wet.' 
 
 ^ You didn't mind it last winter,' persisted Arthur ; * you used 
 to join in it then. But I see what it is,' he added, with an odd 
 look. ' It is the coming out that has done it. Now that you 
 are a young lady, you can't condescend to such trifling amuse- 
 ments. Ah, well — that 's the way of the world ! Lisa, you see 
 what you will come to. When you arrive at Nelly's age there 
 will be an end of all fun for you. What will become of me, 
 then, I wonder 1 I shall desert the Priory until I have 
 arrived at years of discretion, and can be a proper companion 
 for all the young ladies I shall find here.' 
 
 Elinor coloured a little at this speech, and looked rather stiff, 
 but Lisa laughed. 
 
 * Well, there's plenty of time for you to stay, Arthur ; 
 you needn't go yet. I shan't be a grown-up young lady for 
 two years to come ; and not then if I can help it. Nelly ! 
 
LISA. 11 
 
 we've bad the most glorious fun this afternoon ! That was 
 the Kedan we were attacking — we were English and Eussians. 
 Arthur was Eussian, but of course Fred and I wouldn't be 
 anything but English ; and Charley joined us, so we had to 
 storm the fort. We got in at last, though we got some good 
 hard blows before we did. Arthur hits so hard ; it was no joke 
 getting a knock with one of his balls. They were almost as bad 
 as the real Eussian bullets.' 
 
 ' Not exactly/ remarked Arthur ; * Percy will have a different 
 tale to tell you about Eussian bullets, Miss Lisa.' 
 
 * Yes, indeed,' said Elinor, with a shudder. * Don't talk, 
 Lisa, as if fighting were nothing. You might know better than 
 that, for I am sure we have heard enough about it lately. It is 
 dreadful.' 
 
 Arthur laughed, and Lisa opened her eyes. ' Is it ? I like 
 to hear about it ; and if I were a man I would be a soldier. I 
 wish I were one, and I'd go off directly, and come in for all the 
 fighting. You forget the glory, Elinor.' 
 
 ^ Ah, yes, the glory ! that 's it,' exclaimed Arthur. ^ That 's all 
 she thinks of — 
 
 The combat deepens. On ye brave, 
 Who rush to glory or the grave. 
 
 Wasn't that what I heard you saying this morning, Lisa, in the 
 green walk ? And she looked so excited that I thought she meant 
 to rush off herself *^ to glory or the grave." And there was old 
 Bar tramping up and down by her side in a state of perfect be- 
 wilderment at her rhapsodies. He did not know what to make 
 of the scene.' 
 
 * Arthur, you are horrid ! ' Lisa exclaimed, in intense indig- 
 nation, and growing very red. She jumped up intending to 
 stuff a handkerchief into his mouth, but he backed out of her 
 way. * I didn't know you were there, or I shouldn't have said 
 it ; and it's a shame of you to make fun of me. I '11 never speak 
 to you again, if you don't mind.' 
 
 * Not till next time,' said Arthur coolly, and looking at her 
 flashing eyes in much admiration. * I declare it's a pity she 's 
 not a soldier, as she wishes — isn't it, Nelly ? How I used to 
 like to see her last year poring over the papers, and growing so 
 excited about everything that went on out there. But lately it 
 has been very tame work, and if peace is declared, as everybody 
 says, what will you do 1 Happily, Percy will be at home, and 
 
12 ATHERSTONE PBIORY. 
 
 you can make a demi-god of him, if you like. That you are 
 prepared to worship him, I can see in your face whenever his 
 name is mentioned.' 
 
 Lisa stamped the snow from her boots energetically. ' I am 
 not prepared to do anything of the sort. I'll leave that for 
 Isabel. I like to hear of all the brave things our soldiers do — 
 but I don't care for Percy one bit, and I don't want to see him — 
 he's not the sort of man that ' 
 
 * That you can make a hero of. You want an Adonis for that, 
 and he is not one ; I understand.' 
 
 ' You don't, Arthur ; I said nothing about an Adonis — you 
 don't know what I mean at all ; and I don't want to hear any 
 more,* she added, stopping her ears as he was beginning again, * I 
 can't stay now — it's tea-time.' 
 
 She marched off, Arthur following her to her great disgust, 
 and chanting in a solemn voice, 
 
 Few, few shall part, where many meet ! 
 The snow shall be their winding-sheet ; 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall mark a soldier's cemetery. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 THE LIKENESS IN MARY'S ROOM. 
 
 It was about an hour afterwards, that Mrs Tennent, on her 
 way down-stairs, heard a chorus of voices, proceeding from a 
 room which was used as a study, and usually went b)^ the name 
 of ^ Mary's room,' because it was there that Mary, the eldest 
 daughter of the family, officiated as governess when she was at 
 home. She was away now, having been in London for nearly 
 a month nursing her brother, who had been invalided home 
 from the Crimea. But they were expected that evening, and 
 apparently it would be no bad thing for some of the party to 
 have Mary's quiet rule exercised among them again. Mrs 
 Tennent thought so, certainly, as she opened the door of the 
 room, and not being observed stood a silent spectator of the 
 confusion that prevailed. 
 
 Presiding over the tea-tray, sat Lisa, with her hair still hang^ 
 ing down her back, and on either side of her, with their mouths 
 full of bread and butter, lounged Susan and Constance, while 
 
LISA. 13 
 
 Arthur, who had turned in for reasons best known to himself, 
 was assisting little George, the year-and-a-half-old baby, to make a 
 circuit round the table among the cups and plates — a performance 
 received with vehement applause by Fred and Charley, but 
 which had already been attended by some disasters in the shape 
 of two cups of tea upset, and a plate and saucer broken. The 
 immediate cause of the uproar was George's having set his 
 foot in the middle of the butter, and the feat had elicited such 
 shouts of laughter from everybody, that he seemed very anxious 
 to repeat the exploit. Mrs Tennent's entrance was in time to 
 prevent this ; and her face of displeasure, as she walked up to 
 the table, speedily put an end to the commotion. 
 
 'Let Lane take him away,' she said, coldly; 'if he is the 
 cause of such a disturbance, he must not stay here. Eing the 
 bell, Constance.' 
 
 Constance jumped up from her chair in haste, and Susan sat 
 bolt upright suddenly, and laid down an enormous piece of 
 bread and butter which had been about to follow its pre- 
 decessors, while George puckered up his rosy lips, and burst 
 into a howl. Arthur looked a little foolish. 
 
 * I don't think he has done much damage,' he said, with a 
 glance at the fragments of broken china. * But I '11 take 
 him to Lane myself. Don't cry, my man; you shall walk 
 on the floor as much as you like, that will be better than the 
 butter. Keep me another cup of tea, Lisa, I shall be back in a 
 minute.' 
 
 There was something in his tone, in spite of its would-be 
 penitence, that provoked a titter, and although Mrs Tennent 
 took no notice of it, his promise of returning probably influenced 
 her, for instead of leaving the room, she drew a chair to the 
 table and sat down, most efiectually checking by her presence any 
 more approaches to merriment. The four younger ones did not 
 speak a word, and Arthur, when he came back, drank off his 
 tea in all haste, and vanished again, much to the dismay of Lisa, 
 who was in secret dread of what might be coming when he went. 
 Nor were her apprehensions without foundation ; for when tea 
 was over, and she was making an attempt to escape unobserved, 
 she was stopped peremptorily, and desired to come back. The 
 others were sent away, and then began a lecture such as Mrs 
 Tennent alone knew how to administer, and which, accustomed 
 as Lisa was to such things, was formidable even to her. She 
 stood silent and downcast, while her aunt went through the 
 
14 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 catalogue of all her misdoings during the last month, and sighed 
 inwardly as she listened to the long list of offences, most of 
 which had been forgotten as soon as committed ; while as a 
 wind-up, Mrs Tennent recurred to the scene she had just 
 witnessed, which proved, she said, how little her niece was to be 
 trusted. Instead of taking her cousin Mary's place while she 
 was absent, as had been expected of her, she had made no 
 attempt to keep order among the others, but had encouraged 
 unruliness by her own example. But that was not the way to 
 fit herself for the post which, as she well knew, she would one 
 day have to fill. How would she be able to undertake the care 
 of others, if she did not first learn to conduct herself properly. 
 She must remember that she was growing up now, that the 
 home in which she was living was not her own, and that in 
 two or three years she would have to begin life as a governess. 
 She ought to make the most of the advantages she was having, 
 and learn to fit herself for her future duties. And Mrs Tennent 
 went on to speak of the gratitude which, if no consideration for 
 her own interests could do so, ought to influence her, while she 
 hinted, in no very ambiguous terms, that she much feared no 
 such feeling had any existence in her, or she surely would have 
 more thought for those who were showing her kindness, and 
 would study to please them. 
 
 Lisa listened to it all in silence, without attempting a reply 
 of any kind ; but the crimson colour that dyed her cheeks grew 
 deeper and deeper as her aunt alluded to her dependent position, 
 and the motives that ought to actuate her ; and when Mrs Tennent, 
 having delivered her lecture, left the room, she stood there stil]. 
 It was not till the door closed, that she roused herself, and 
 looking round with a quick, hurried glance, as if to make 
 sure she was alone, threw herself down by the side of a low 
 chair in front of the fire, and there hiding her face, sobbed 
 bitterly. Whether her tears were those of grief or anger, would 
 have been hard to say ; perhaps there was a mixture of both in 
 them ; for her clenched hand, and the fierce, hard way in which 
 she drew her breath, seemed to speak quite as much of passion 
 as of sorrow. 
 
 But Lisa's stormy fits, violent as they were, seldom lasted 
 long ; and when she had lain there for some minutes, and cried 
 until she had exhausted herself, her sobs died away, and she sat 
 up again, brushing away her tears, and looking as if she were 
 ashamed of the passion to which she had given way. She had 
 
THE LIKENESS IN MARY'S ROOM. 15 
 
 hardly begun to collect her thoughts when a step in the passage 
 near caught her ear, and she started from the floor, dreading 
 nothing so much as to be surprised in any exhibition of feel- 
 ing. 
 
 The person who entered the room was very different to Mrs 
 Tennent. She was taller and darker and younger — but not 
 very young, for all that, for she could not have been far off 
 thirty j and the grave and thoughtful look upon her face, when 
 it was in repose, made her appear even older. It was a very 
 pleasant face, however, even though it could lay claim to no 
 beauty, and was considered by some people to be remarkably 
 plain. But that was by people who did not know her well ; 
 by those who did, nothing was ever noticed but the unvarying 
 expression of sweetness that marked her features. By her 
 brothers and sisters Mary was perfectly idolised ; so entirely 
 had she w^on their love that it was a fact seldom remembered by 
 the younger branches of the family that she was not their own 
 sister. More especially was she loved by poor Lisa, to whom she 
 had taken a mother's place ever since the day when, worse than 
 orphan, she had first been brought there ; and who clung to her 
 with an affection that was all the deeper because there were so 
 few on whom she could bestow it. She sprang forward now, 
 with a face that was radiant with pleasure, and from which 
 every trace of sorrow was gone in a moment. 
 
 ^ Mary, dear Mary ! Oh, how glad I am ! When did you 
 come? and what was I doing that I didn't hear you?' She 
 threw her arms round her cousin, and bestowed on her such an 
 embrace that it was quite a wonder Mary did not come out of it 
 half demolished. * What an age it is since you went away ! It 
 seems like four months instead of not four weeks. I am so 
 glad — so very glad you are come back ! ' 
 
 * So am I glad to be back,' said Mary, with a smile; *it is 
 very pleasant to be at home again. But what are you doing 
 here alone, Lisa dear 1 Is anything the matter 1 ' she asked, 
 looking at the long wet hair, and the eyelashes still fringed with 
 tears. 
 
 But Lisa only smiled. ' Something was the matter, but never 
 mind ; it will be all right now you are here again. Aunt Helen 
 has been scolding me, and that made me cry, but I don't mind 
 it now.' And then, seeing her cousin looking at her anxiously, 
 she added sorrowfully, * The truth is, Mary, that I have been 
 very bad. I have forgotten everything, and done all the worst 
 
16 ATHEKSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 things you can imagine. I don't know how they happened ; 
 for when you went, I made up my mind to be extra well- 
 behaved, and go on better than when you are here. And I 
 did at first — I really think I did — but somehow things got 
 wrong afterwards. I didn't mean to forget, but I did ; and I 
 have been all wrong.' 
 
 * Yes, I see,' said Mary, thoughtfully ; ' it was a pity, Lisa.' 
 
 * It was,' said Lisa, very earnestly, * it was a great pity ; for I 
 am sure, if anybody ever meant to be steady, I did. And yet 
 I have vexed everybody, and done no good at all. Madame 
 Ilicard is very angry with me, and says she shall tell you how 
 careless I have been; and so does Mrs Dalton. That was 
 because I forgot to practise a new piece she had given me. 
 Aunt Helen is very angry too — you will hear all sorts of things 
 about me from her. And Mary, she says I am ungrateful — but 
 I am not that — oh, I am not that — indeed I am not ! ' And 
 Lisa burst into tears again. ' You don't think it of me, do you ? 
 You don't think me so bad as that ? ' 
 
 ' No, indeed I don't. My dearest little Lisa, don't cry in 
 that way. No one who knew you would believe such a thing ; 
 I think you must have misunderstood mamma. She never 
 meant to say that, I am sure.' 
 
 * Yes, she did — she said it two or three times over. But 
 if you don't believe it, Mary, I won't mind. You never would 
 think it, though, I know — you are sure I could never be un- 
 grateful to you, if I were to anybody else. It would be impos- 
 sible for me to leave off loving you, when you have been so kind 
 to me, and made me happy ever since I came here. I should 
 be a wretch if I didn't love you from the bottom of my heart, a 
 great deal more than anybody else in the whole world. I 
 would do anything for you. At least,' she stopped, ' I always 
 thought I would, but — it 's that makes me so sorry now, because 
 you see I haven't remembered half the things you wanted 
 me to do.' 
 
 * Never mind,' said Mary, cheerfully ; * you will have another 
 opportunity, and you will take more care, I am sure. And now, 
 if you are not very sorry I am come back, perhaps you won't 
 mind helping me dress for dinner, or I shall be late ; it must be 
 nearly half-past six.' 
 
 ' Twenty minutes past,' said Lisa, glancing at the timepiece. 
 * Oh, that 's plenty of time ; I can dress you in ten minutes 
 comfortably. If you will sit down here in front of the fire and 
 
• THE LIKENESS IN MARy's ROOM. 17 
 
 warm yourself, I '11 run and fetch your things. I looked out your 
 evening dress before tea, so it is all ready. And I '11 do your 
 hair — I can always make that look nice, you know — though 
 Aunt Helen does say I never do my own fit to be seen.' And 
 Lisa, having her thoughts diverted from herself, began to take a 
 cheerful view of life again, and danced off in search of her 
 cousin's things almost in her usual spirits. 
 
 * And so Percy is really here 1 ' she said, when she had returned, 
 and was standing carefully arranging Mary's hair in the way she 
 knew she liked best; *he is really here, and he is better, 
 isn't her 
 
 There was a sigh from Mary. ^ Yes, I suppose so. They 
 wouldn't have let him travel if he had not been ; but — I don't 
 know. I was too sanguine at first, I believe, and so I have 
 been disappointed. I didn't think, when I went away, that it 
 would be so bad. He has suffered so very much, poor fellow 1' 
 
 Her sigh was very audible this time, and Lisa's face fell. 
 * But he will get well here,' she said ; * he will get well much 
 faster than in London. He is sure to be better soon, and it is a 
 great deal pleasanter both for him and you to be at home 
 again.' 
 
 ^Yes, so it is; and he was very anxious to come. I only 
 hope he has not come too soon — before he was fit for the 
 journey, I mean. I had no idea till yesterday morning that 
 the surgeons would let him travel at present, but of course 
 directly they said it would make no difference, we were only 
 too glad to get away. He wished so much to come that it was 
 difficult to persuade him to be at all prudent.' 
 
 Lisa was silent. She knew nothing of illness, and conse- 
 quently was hardly able to enter into Mary's fears with regard 
 to her brother. But the anxiety unconsciously betrayed in her 
 cousin s tone infected her, and for a few moments she remained 
 very thoughtful. 
 
 * He will have plenty of time to get well,' she said at length, 
 as she was putting in the last hair-pin ; * he will be here quite 
 till the summer, won't he ? How very nice it will be for you, 
 Mary, having him at home so long ! ' The latter part of this 
 speech was decidedly magnanimous, for, as she had before 
 asserted, Lisa had by no means any particular fancy for her 
 cousin Percy, and as far as she w^as concerned, would not have 
 been at all sorry if he had still been doing duty in the trenches 
 before Sebastopol. She was a little disappointed to find that 
 
 B 
 
18 ATHEKSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 her magnanimity was thrown away, and that her words did not 
 produce all the effect that was intended. Her cousin smiled, 
 indeed, but it was more at the eager tone than anything else, 
 and she sat with her eyes fixed rather sadly upon the fire, 
 forgetting apparently that there was any need for haste, till Lisa 
 pointed to the hands of the clock, which were just upon the 
 half-hour. She got up then, and began slowly to put on her 
 dress. 
 
 * Yes, it will be very pleasant,' she said, after a pause ; ' very 
 pleasant, indeed, when I once see him getting up his strength, 
 and looking more as he used to do ; but he is quite worn out now 
 with pain and looks so old and haggard, that it makes my heart 
 ache to see him. And sometimes I wonder, Lisa, whether they 
 have told us right — whether he ever will be strong and well 
 
 again, or ' She stopped suddenly, and Lisa looked at her, 
 
 hardly comprehending what she meant. She had no time, how- 
 ever, for remarks or questionings, for the dinner-bell rang at 
 that moment, and Mary, recovering herself by a strong effort, 
 finished the rest of her toilet in haste and left the room. 
 
 * Thank you, dear, for helping me,' she said as she went 
 away ; * and the sooner you can finish drying your hair and 
 come down, the better. We shall not be long at dinner to-day.' 
 
 The door closed upon her, and Lisa, left once more to herself, 
 sat down upon a low stool in front of the fire, and took up a 
 book, as if she were going to read ; but as she held the volume 
 upside down, most probably she was not much the wiser for its 
 contents. Her thoughts were running instead upon her cousin 
 Percy, and while thinking of him, her eye turned to a certain 
 picture, belonging to Mary, and which hung over the piano on 
 the opposite side of the room. It was the likeness of a young 
 oflGlcer in the dress of the engineers, and it was from that alone 
 that Lisa had been able to form any idea of the cousin whose 
 acquaintance she was about to make. He had been absent from 
 England when she first came to live at the Priory, and the only 
 time that he had ever been at h5me since, she had happened to 
 be staying with friends in London ; and as he had been ordered 
 abroad suddenly, soon after the breaking out of the Crimean 
 war, they had never met. She knew nothing of him but what 
 she had heard from Mary and her other cousins, and the sort of 
 acquaintance she had made with him from contemplating that 
 likeness every morning for several years, while going through 
 her major and minor scales, and other exercises which she knew 
 
LE BALAFRE. 19 
 
 SO thoroughly that she had no need to give her thoughts to them. 
 Beyond the fact, however, of having looked at it as she would 
 have looked at anything else hanging there during a wearisome 
 occupation, she had never regarded it with much interest unti) 
 she found she was likely to know the original. Then she had 
 studied it with great curiosity, not only during her practising 
 hours, but at other times also j and the opinion she had arrived 
 at was by no means favourable for her cousin. She did not like 
 him. He was plain — very plain — to begin with, and she never 
 liked such very plain people — they were always disagreeable. 
 That deep-set eye and contracted brow were not prepossessing, 
 and there was something hard and determined about his mouth, 
 and in those thin compressed lips, which gave her the idea that 
 his temper was not to be trusted. If there had not been a 
 certain likeness to Mary in his face, she would have disliked him 
 extremely ; as it was, she did not exactly do that, but she was 
 sure that she did not care to know him. She wished he would 
 have stayed away a little longer — that he had not been obliged to 
 come home at all while she was there ; and in her dislike to going 
 into the drawing-room, where she knew she must meet him, she 
 sat lingering over the comfortable fire up-stairs until a peremptory 
 message from her aunt summoned her to go down, with the 
 pleasant reflection, as she did so, that she was certain to receive 
 a reprimand for not having made her appearance sooner. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 LE ALAFR^. 
 
 It was a popular tradition at the Priory that Lisa did not 
 know how to walk, and whether this were true or not, certain 
 it is it was an art which she practised very little. She ran, 
 danced, jumped, and skipped ; but a sober walk was a thing 
 in which she seldom indulged, and only in cases of absolute 
 necessity, when she had no choice in the matter. Upon receiving 
 her aunt's message, she twisted up her hair in a great hurry, 
 and went flying off down-stairs in her usual fashion, running 
 from the top to the bottom at full speed, and clearing the four 
 or five lower steps at a jump — a not very safe proceeding, for 
 the hall and stairs were highly polished, and a slip on her 
 part might have entailed a broken limb or a sprained ankle. 
 
20 ATHERSTONE PaiORY. 
 
 But she had always been accustomed to come down in this 
 way, and did it as a matter of course ; and she was much 
 surprised now, as she was stooping to look for a thimble which 
 she had dropped in her haste, to hear some one close beside 
 her say, — 
 
 * Eather dangerous work that, Susan. I hope it is not your 
 ■usual way of coming down-stairs/ 
 
 * Susan ! I 'm not Susan ! ' she exclaimed, raising her head 
 in some astonishment, and wondering for the moment who 
 could have made such a mistake. A single glance showed 
 her that it was a stranger — her cousin Percy, of course, as 
 she remembered directly afterwards — and recalling her late 
 meditations with regard to him, and the dislike with which she 
 had looked forward to making his acquaintance, she got up in 
 no little confusion. He was standing at the dining-room door, 
 which was close to the foot of the staircase, and as their eyes 
 met, he seemed almost as much surprised as herself. 
 
 * I beg your pardon,' he said, after a moment's pause, during 
 which she was quite uncertain whether to stay or run away ; 
 * I beg your pardon : I thought it was Susan coming down. 
 You have not hurt yourself, I hope.' 
 
 Perhaps he was not accustomed to seeing young ladies of 
 sixteen flying about in such an ofF-hand fashion, and although 
 Lisa was quite unconscious of having compromised the dignity 
 of her age, she felt that this was not exactly the way in 
 which she would have liked to be introduced to this very 
 formidable cousin, and her colour rose a little. 
 
 ' No, thank you, I am not hurt,' she said hastily ; * I was 
 only looking for something I dropped. It was my thimble — 
 but I have found it now.' 
 
 She produced it as if in demonstration of the fact, and 
 was turning away w^hen he stopped her. 
 
 * As there is no one else to do it, I think we must introduce 
 ourselves. We are cousins, are we not ] You are ' 
 
 He paused, as if he still had his doubts whether the very 
 young-looking girl before him, with so much of the child 
 about her, could possibly be the cousin whom he had perhaps 
 pictured to himself. But he was not left long in uncertainty, 
 for she looked up in some surprise at his hesitation. 
 
 'Yes, you are quite right. I am Lisa — Lisa Kennedy. 
 And you are my cousin Percy,' she was about to have added, 
 but the name sounded too familiar, and she corrected herself. 
 
LE BALAFRE. 21 
 
 * And you are Captain Tennent, of course. I knew you directly 
 I saw you, and I thought you knew me/ It was said so simply 
 that it w^ould have provoked a smile from most people, but 
 there was not the shadow of one upon his face. 
 
 * I "svas not sure,' he said, gravely ; * but as we know each 
 other now, I suppose we may shake hands ? ' 
 
 * I suppose we may,' Lisa said, rather shyly, taking the hand 
 he held out. He was so different to any one else at the Priory, 
 and was so much taller and older looking than she had ever 
 imagined, that she was wofully afraid of him ; and as they 
 walked across the hall together towards the drawing-room, 
 she felt such a tiny, insignificant creature by his side, that 
 her trepidation increased tenfold. She would have liked to 
 make a rush, and gain the door of the room without him, 
 but it would have seemed unkind, for she noticed that he 
 walked with difficulty, and was obliged to use a stick ; and to 
 run away and leave him under the circumstances was impossible. 
 The transit across the hall, however, appeared a perfect journey 
 to her, and she was infinitely relieved when the drawing-room 
 was reached, and he held the door open for her to pass. 
 
 * Thank you,' and without venturing to look at him, she slipped 
 into the room, feeling very happy to be sheltered amongst num- 
 bers, and thinking even a scolding from her aunt preferable to 
 being alone with such a very tall, grave-looking person. But Mrs 
 Tennent happened to be writing a note, for which a servant was 
 waiting, and contented herself with, * You are very late to-night, 
 Lisa. What has kept you so long]' as her niece passed her ; and 
 Lisa, glad to escape so easily, murmured an excuse of some sort 
 and then stole away ; and finding an empty chair by Arthur's side 
 at a distant table, sat down there with her work. She would 
 have liked to join Mary, who was sitting near the fire on the other 
 side of the room, but Percy had taken possession of a sofa in the 
 same neighbourhood, and she thought she would rather be away 
 from him. She felt more at her ease w^here she was, and was 
 not sotry to find herself in a position where she could make her 
 observations without fear of notice on his part. She had scarcely 
 seen him in the hall ; the glance she had taken at him there had 
 not told her much, and she was anxious to see whether he at all 
 resembled the picture she had been studying so long. A very 
 short inspection was sufficient to assure her of the truth of the 
 general likeness, for the features were undoubtedly the same ; but 
 years of service, and much illness and hardship, had not tended 
 
22 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 to soften or improve a face which, even with youth and freshness 
 to recommend it, had never prepossessed her in its favom^ ; and 
 if she had thought the Percy Tennent with whom she was familiar 
 most decidedly plain-looking, the original by no means disabused 
 her of that idea. Sunburnt, and worn, and thin, without even 
 the advantage of a pleasing smile or expression to redeem his 
 features from their natural harshness, there was little in him to 
 attract — much to repel; and when, after long observation, she 
 finally settled down into her first conviction that he was not only 
 plainer than anybody she had ever seen, but as harsh and as 
 unpleasing as he looked, she was but sharing a very general 
 opinion. There were some who thought differently, but not 
 people who met him casually ; and Lisa, like many others, went 
 by first impressions, and made up her mind accordingly that she 
 could never like him. He lay back in a corner of the sofa on 
 which he had established himself, and took no part in what was 
 going on around him ; and although he had a paper in his hand, 
 it seemed to serve him more as an excuse for not speaking than 
 anything else, for he did not appear to read much of it. Pain 
 and weariness were written in every line of his face ; but though 
 Lisa was sorry for him, and more sorry still for Mary, of whose 
 anxieties she could now understand something, she did not feel 
 inclined to reverse her unfavourable opinion, and as she sat 
 watching him very earnestly, her countenance betrayed in no 
 small degree what was passing in her mind. A low, smothered 
 laugh from Arthur interrupted her meditations and made her 
 look round. 
 
 * Well, Lisa, what 's the result, of your investigations ? You Ve 
 studied him long enough, and must know him by heart. Is he 
 handsome — the Adonis you want for your hero V 
 
 * Handsome ! He 's ugly — positively ugly ! ' Lisa exclaimed. 
 * Who would think he was Mary's brother ? You never told me 
 he was so very bad looking, Arthur, that I was going to see any- 
 body so really and truly ugly.' 
 
 * Of course not. How could I tell you would think him so ? 
 People have different tastes, and for anything I knew, you might 
 have admired him very much.' 
 
 ' I am sure you never thought anything of the sort!' exclaimed 
 Lisa, indignantly. * He really is ugly — there can be no doubt 
 about it. The only thing that can be said for him is, that he 
 looks like a gentleman ; but that can't prevent his being very, 
 veri/ plain. He has black hair^ too, and black eyebrows, which I 
 
LE BALAFRE. 23 
 
 particularly detest. And what is that scar on his forehead ? Is 
 that a Crimean decoration 1 ' 
 
 * Crimean ? no ; it was there the last time he was here. I 
 don't know how he got it. It 's an honourable one, I Ve no 
 doubt.' 
 
 ' Very likely ; but it don't improve him. I shall call him Le 
 Balafr^ — it will be a good name for him. Is that the reason why 
 he wears his hair so low — to try and hide it 1 Well, he does 
 contrive to make himself frightful. And I think he must be 
 blind, by the way he shuts his eyes when he looks at things. 
 Altogether, I don't like him, Arthur — I don't like his looks at 
 all.' 
 
 ^ Don't you ? That 's a pity, because I am afraid he can't 
 alter them. And allow me to remark. Miss Lisa, that you 
 ought not to be so unreasonable as to dislike people for what 
 they can't help. I thought you had more sense than to go by 
 looks only.' 
 
 * That 's right,' said Lisa, with a laugh ; ^ I always like to have 
 one of your moral reflections, Arthur. I begin to fancy, then, 
 what sort of sermons you will preach some day, and I am very 
 anxious to hear them.' 
 
 * Are you 1 Well, it 's a pleasure I 've no doubt you '11 have. 
 And I'll tell you what, when I'm hard up for a subject, I'll 
 take our present one to discourse upon. It would make a first- 
 rate sermon with proper handling. Never judge by appearances. 
 I declare I '11 make a note of it, and when it 's preached you shall 
 be one of the congregation, and remember that it 's meant for 
 your edification.' 
 
 * Very well,' said Lisa, looking delighted. * But it must be 
 preached in this church, or I 'm afraid I shall run a chance of 
 not hearing it.' And then changing her tone : * But you don't 
 understand what I mean about people being ugly, and my not 
 liking them for it. You say they can't help it, but I am sure 
 they can ; for it isn't bad features only that make a person 
 plain. It is expression ; and every one can give themselves a 
 pleasant expression if they like : if they don't, it must be because 
 they 've nothing pleasant in them.' 
 
 *I see, most sapient philosopher. But then if good looks 
 depend upon expression, they depend of course upon the mood 
 in which each individual finds himself. So a man who goes to 
 bed very amiable and handsome, may get up in the morning 
 out of temper or out of spirits, and very ugly — or vice versd. 
 
24 ATHERSTONE PEIORY. 
 
 And then don't you see what you come to 1 For if such trans- 
 formations take place in other men, why not in Le Balafre? 
 There 's no reason why he should not turn out as handsome as 
 anybody, for he 's not by any means the Caliban you take him 
 for. Barring a little pride and a little hot blood, no one can find 
 much fault with him.' 
 
 ^ Proud and hot tempered!' exclaimed Lisa, triumphantly; *I 
 knew it. Those very thin lips are always a sign of bad temper. 
 And his way of carrying himself shows he is proud. Any one 
 can see that.' 
 
 ^Military drill!' said Arthur, with a laugh. ^You are pre- 
 judiced, if you can't let a man walk as he likes without setting 
 him down as proud. But you'll change your mind some day. 
 What do you bet, that when I come home in June, I don't find 
 you and Le Balafre fast friends, and you swearing that there 
 ** never was nobody " like him in the whole wide world 1 Come, 
 let's have a wager. AVhat shall it be? Half-a-dozen pair of 
 white gloves, or ' » 
 
 ' Or nothing. I wouldn't take it. How fond you are of your 
 bets, Arthur. It is not at all proper for a clergyman that is to 
 be; and this is such a ridiculous one. I won't take advantage 
 of you -J I '11 be generous, and spare your pocket, for I 'ni 
 sure you've no money to throw away on white gloves, or any- 
 thing else.' 
 
 ' Never mind, that 's my look-out, not yours. You take the 
 bet, and I '11 risk the gloves. Moreover, so sure and certain do 
 I feel of not having to pay them, that if you like I '11 make it a 
 dozen instead of half. What do you say to that V 
 
 ' Lisa,' said Mrs Tennent, from the other end of the room, * I 
 don't think that work of yours is getting on very fast. Pray 
 don't sit there looking at your needle and never putting in a 
 stitch. No doubt your conversation is interesting, but if you 
 can't work as well as talk, you had better change your seat.' 
 
 Lisa's head went down at this speech, and her needle began 
 to fly in and out with astonishing rapidity ; while Arthur 
 shrugged his shoulders privately, and Susan, who had been an 
 attentive, though unnoticed, listener to what was passing, re- 
 marked in an audible voice, — 
 
 ' They w^ere talking about betting. Arthur wants Lisa to have 
 a wager about Percy, because she says '- 
 
 'Susan, hold your tongue,' exclaimed Arthur, in such a 
 peremptory tone that Susan looked scared. ' What does it 
 
WHAT LISA THINKS OF HER COUSIN. 25 
 
 matter to you what we were talking about ? you were not asked 
 to listen. Little pitchers have no business with long ears, 
 and if they've the misfortune to have them, they've no right 
 to have long tongues too. Be off with you. I want to read.' 
 And throwing himself back in his chair, and stretching out his 
 legs at full length, he took up a book, while Susan walked away, 
 looking injured, and Lisa went off into a merry, though subdued, 
 laugh over her work. Happening, however, to raise her eyes 
 again, she encountered the fixed gaze of her cousin Percy, who had 
 evidently been watching her for some time. He dropped his 
 glass and took up his paper as their eyes met, but not before 
 Lisa was aw^are of the scrutiny to which she had been subjected. 
 Resenting it, in her fashion, she pushed her chair out of sight, 
 and relapsed into total silence. For the remainder of the even- 
 ing no one again heard the sound of her voice. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WHAT LISA THINKS OF HEE COUSIN. 
 
 * Good-bye, Scaramouch,' said Arthur, as he was standing in 
 the hall on the following day, waiting for his uncle, who was 
 going to drive him to the station, ' good-bye, Scaramouch ; and 
 so you won't take my wager after all. Do you know, though, 
 what I 've serious thoughts of doing ? and that is of asking Le 
 Balafr^ to take you in hand. Perhaps he may be able to effect 
 a reformation in one or two particulars, and I 'm sure we should 
 all feel grateful to him for so doing.' 
 
 Lisa, a deplorable figure as usual from ink, a torn dress, and 
 untidy hair, stopped short in the middle of a dance which she 
 was performing round the table with Georgie, and looking at 
 him for a moment, broke into a little scornful laugh. 
 
 * I should like to see him interfering with me ! Don't you 
 put him up to that, Arthur, or I '11 never speak to you again, or 
 to him either. There 's no need I should quarrel with him, 
 though I don't like him. Let us alone, if you please, and don't 
 make me angry for nothing.' 
 
 * Very well, my fair cousin,' said Arthur, looking at her raised 
 colour and sparkling eyes with a smile. ^ I leave you to your 
 own devices then, hoping that some day you will see the error of 
 your ways and mend them. And your dress, too,' he added, 
 
26 ATHEKSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 pointing to it ; ^ there won't be much of it left soon if you don^t 
 mind. Good-bye.' 
 
 ^ Good-bye !' exclaimed Lisa, springing forward, her mom en* 
 tary anger having vanished. ' O Arthur, I 'm so sorry you are 
 going ! We 've had such fun this Christmas, and it will be so 
 stupid when you are away ! Can't you come at Easter and not 
 wait till June 1 Do say you will, and then I shall have some- 
 thing to look forward to.' 
 
 Arthur gave a whistle. * I don't see how I can. It 's such a 
 long journey for such a short time. No, I don't think I shall 
 leave Cambridge at all. I mean to read hard, and get myself 
 thoroughly stupified ; and when summer comes, I shall run down 
 here to be knocked into life again. We '11 have more fun then, 
 and Nelly will join us I 've no doubt, as she '11 be safe from the 
 snowballing.' 
 
 Elinor, to whom this was addressed, paused as she was pass- 
 ing through the hall. 
 
 * Perhaps so — I don't know. I have not much time for that 
 kind of thing, and I don't care for it either. Oh dear, how 
 cold it is ! How long is that door going to be open, Fred 1 
 Can't you shut it till they are ready V 
 
 * It 's no use,' shouted Fred, ' here 's papa I' And Dr Tennent, 
 who had just been dismissing a patient, making his appearance 
 from his consulting-room, a general shaking of hands and good- 
 byes followed ; and off went Arthur. 
 
 ^ Till June! What an immense time!' sighed Lisa to her- 
 self as she went up-stairs, feeling very dull ; and having depo- 
 sited little George in the nursery, she walked off to Mary's room 
 to get some consolation. It was a place where she was sure to 
 find it in all her troubles, and kneeling down by the fire, she 
 poured out her lamentations to Mary, who had been writing 
 when she came in, but put away her letters when she found her 
 cousin wanted her attention, and listened very sympathisingly 
 to all she had to tell of the pleasures of the last few weeks. 
 They had a long talk together, which had the effect of restoring 
 Lisa to her accustomed spirits, though she could not help wind- 
 ing up with another sigh at Arthur's departure, and the remark 
 that 'it was a pity, a very great pity, that he was obliged to go.' 
 
 * So it is,' said Mary, good-naturedly; *he is very pleasant, 
 and I like him very much. But after all, Lisa, one can't spend 
 one's whole life in amusement. And he will have to work hard 
 by and by, so that it 's only right he should be getting ready for 
 
WHAT LISA THINKS OF HER COUSIN. 27 
 
 it now; and he couldn't do that if he stayed here. Besides, I 
 think you won't be sorry yourself to begin again regularly : you 
 would tire in time of nothing but fun and pleasure.' 
 
 ' I don't know that/ said Lisa, rather doubtfully ; ' I never 
 have tired of it yet, and I don't fancy I ever should. I suppose, 
 though, Mary,' she added, with a smile, * I suppose that means 
 you would like to see me set to work 1 You think I have been 
 idle quite long enough V 
 
 Mary smiled too. ' Something of the sort certainly. From a 
 good many signs in the room, I should say there was a great deal 
 to be done. Your German books look as if they had not been 
 opened since I went away ; and I came across a French exercise 
 in that drawer just now hardly begun. To-morrow is Madame 
 Eicard's day, you know, and I 'm afraid you are not ready for 
 her.' 
 
 'No, that I'm sure I'm not. The old crosspatch 1 Don't 
 scold, Mary dear ; she really is cross, and the last time she was 
 here she was particularly so. She gave me such quantities to 
 write that I was in despair, so I just shut the books up and 
 have never looked at them since. But I will now. I '11 begin 
 at once and work very hard, and that will make the days go 
 faster. I can always work when you are here, because you keep 
 me up to it.' And Lisa, whose industrious moods generally came 
 by fits and starts, jumped up from her kneeling posture and was 
 making a rush to the drawer in question when Mary stopped her. 
 
 ' I think, dear, before you begin it would be quite as well to 
 go and look at yourself in the glass. You surely can have no 
 idea what a figure you are. I never remember seeing you so un- 
 tidy, and if it is the holidays which have brought you to such a 
 state, I must say I think it 's no bad thing they are over.' 
 
 She spoke so gravely that Lisa looked rather ashamed. * Am 
 I so untidy ? ' she said. * I didn't know it. Arthur said some- 
 thing, too ; but then he is always teasing me about my dress. 
 Am I really very badf 
 
 * Yes, very bad — very untidy, indeed. And really, dear Lisa, 
 that is one thing in which you have not improved at all lately. 
 Even Percy noticed this morning how untidy you were, and 
 asked me if you always went about in that way. He dislikes ex- 
 ceedingly to see people careless and slovenly in their dress; and 
 I was rather sorry that you, my eldest pupil, should have taken 
 so little trouble to look neat.' 
 
 Lisa coloured, and for some minutes stood twisting a piece 
 
28 ATHEBSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 of thread in her fingers without making any answer. But 
 she hooked up presently. 
 
 * Very well, Mary, I '11 go if you like, and try what I can 
 do ; but (in a very doleful voice) ^ I really don t see that it 
 is of much use, for I cannot keep myself tidy, do what I 
 will My things are very unfortunate ; they are like nobody 
 else's. They ivill tear and they will come to pieces ; and all 
 my hooks and eyes and buttons come off, and all my hair- 
 pins tumble out ; and I lose everything and never find any- 
 thing again, so how I am to be neat I can't tell ; I suppose 
 it 's my fault — everybody says so, but I don't know how to 
 be different. And you say now I am worse than ever, and 
 that is very disheartening, because I had been — well, no, I 
 can't say that exactly, for I don't think I've thought much 
 about it lately. But I '11 begin again now. I '11 try to please 
 you.' And as if impelled by fresh energy, she gave two or 
 three hops towards the door, but paused before she reached it. 
 
 ' Mary, there 's one thing I should like to say if you don't 
 mind.' 
 
 ^ Well, dear ? ' And Mary looked up from the writing she 
 was beginning again. 
 
 'I hope yoii won't care very much — I mean I hope you 
 won't be disappointed or vexed if — if I don't particularly 
 like Percy. As he is your brother, I ought to like him, but ' 
 
 * But you don't. I am not so unreasonable, Lisa, as to 
 expect you to like him before you know him. You have had 
 no time yet to make his acquaintance.' 
 
 ^ Yes, but when I do know him, I mean,' persisted Lisa. 
 * Will you be very much vexed then if I don't like him ? ' 
 
 ' Not in the least,' said Mary, with a smile ; ' you are 
 quite at liberty to like him or not without any fear of vexing 
 me. I suppose, though, as you say that, you think there is no 
 chance of your doing so.' 
 
 ' Kot mucb,' said Lisa, balancing herself on one foot, as 
 she often did, when she was meditating. * He 's not like you, 
 Mary/ she added after a pause. 
 
 ^ No, not at all. At least not in most things. I believe 
 he is in a few.' 
 
 * In face I meant,' said Lisa ; * he 's not half so good- 
 looking as you arc. In fact, Mary, I hope you don't mind 
 my saying it, but I don't think him good-looking at all.' 
 
 Mary laughed. * No more do I, Lisa. Though he is my 
 
MISUNDERSTANDINGS. 29 
 
 own brother and I love him very dearly, I have never thought 
 him good-looking; but I know him so well and love him so 
 much, that I only think of what he is himself, and if he 
 were twice as plain as he is, he would do well enough for 
 me. It would make no difference in my love for him.' 
 
 Lisa made no answer to this, her private opinion being 
 that no one could possibly be plainer than Percy was already 
 — ^as for being twice as plain, that was out of the question ; 
 but she did not say so, and after balancing herself very 
 dexterously on her one foot for a few moments longer, she 
 went away, remarking as she left the room : 
 
 * Well, I 'm glad, Mary, you won't feel hurt if I don't like 
 him. I was afraid you w^ould, and I should be so sorry to 
 vex you. I am very sorry, too, that you were ashamed of 
 me this morning. I'll go and make myself tidy, and see if 
 I can't keep so, to please you.* 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MISUNDERSTANDINGS. 
 
 * Mary ! such fun ! We 've been to Copelands this afternoon. 
 Mr Pye has a new hunter, such a beauty ! And one of the cows 
 has a calf, and three of the hens are sitting, and there will be 
 
 some chickens in a day or two ; and the old drake ' 
 
 Lisa stopped short in the midst of her list of attractions to 
 be found at Copelands, for she discovered that her cousin was 
 not alone as she had expected. Percy was wdth her, and Mrs 
 Tennent also ; and it was the latter's look of displeasure which 
 brought the above speech to an abrupt conclusion. Lisa indeed 
 had certain vague notions that she was not exactly in a pre- 
 sentable state, and when she found who was there, would have 
 been glad to make her escape again ; but as this was impossible, 
 she thought it best to appear unconcerned, and stood where she 
 was, playing with an immense bunch of primroses she had in 
 her hand. Anything more exquisitely lovely than she looked 
 at that moment it would have been difficult to imagine. The 
 high March wind had raised her colour and blow^n her light- 
 brown wavy hair about her face, and her dark eyes were spark- 
 
30 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 ling half with pleasure, half with mischief, as she raised a furtive 
 glance to her aunt to discover what was coming. 
 
 * I wish, Lisa, you would learn to come into a room more like 
 a lady, instead of rushing in in that wild way. Pray shut the 
 door directly, and then tell me what you have been doing to make 
 yourself such a figure. Have you been in the pond, child, to 
 get so dreadfully wet?' She looked angrily at the half -dried 
 mud and green duck-weed clinging to her niece's skirts and 
 boots, and Lisa appeared somewhat dismayed as she took in the 
 whole extent of the damage done to her dress. She walked to 
 the door, however, and closed it, and then came back, pulling 
 on her hat, which the wind had blown off, and pushing back 
 her hair. 
 
 'I'm very sorry, Aunt Helen, but I couldn't help it,' she 
 began. 
 
 ' Of course not ; you never can help anything,' rejoined Mrs 
 Tennent. * But if you can't, I should like to know who can. 
 What were you doing, I should like to know? Nothing that 
 was proper for a young lady, I am sure.' 
 
 Lisa glanced at Percy, who would have left the room, but 
 that they were standing too near the door to allow him easy 
 egress, so he could only look unconscious, and keep his eyes on 
 the page before him. 
 
 * It was the wind,' she said. * My hat was blown off, and I had 
 to run across some fields after it. A man tried to catch it for me, 
 but he let it go again, and he couldn't run so fast as I did ; so 
 when it was blown into a ditch I got there first ; and I jumped 
 down into a lot of water — I didn't know there was any there ; 
 it all looked green and dry. It was great fun ! ' she added, with 
 a sparkle in her eyes, forgetting for the moment the awe inspired 
 by her aunt's presence. 
 
 * Indeed ! I am sorry to hear it. I should not have thought 
 carelessness could be fun at any time : and you must have been 
 extremely careless to let your hat go in that way. And nobody 
 but yourself would have dreamed of jumping into a ditch, 
 without looking to see if there were water in it or not. I am 
 very much displeased with you, Lisa ; but of course that is 
 nothing to you. You will be sorry though, a few years hence, 
 that you have not tried to please me more. If you have any 
 right feeling, that is ; but really I doubt if you have, or you 
 would not give me the annoyance you do.' 
 
 And Mrs Tennent, in a state of high displeasure, walked from 
 
MISUNDERSTANDINGS. 31 
 
 the room, leaving Lisa almost blinded with the tears which the 
 latter words had called forth. 
 
 ' Is that true, Mary f she said, raising her head, and speaking 
 with a sob. * Is that true ? Have I no right feeling at all 1 
 And she came to the back of her cousin's chair, and Sung her 
 arms round her neck ; * I didn't know I had done anything so 
 very bad. You are not angry with me as well as Aunt Helen 
 are jouV she said in an imploring tone; and then, as some 
 movement from Percy recalled her to a sense of his presence, 
 she loosed her hold of her cousin quickly, and stood up again, 
 with deepening colour and embarrassed look. ' I brought these 
 flowers for you, Mary,' she said, holding out the primroses. * I 
 got them for you in the woods ; I thought you would like 
 them.' And, laying them down upon the table, she rushed away 
 without looking round again. 
 
 There were no traces of tears in Lisa's bright eyes the next 
 time Percy saw her. Childlike, she had thrown off all thought 
 of trouble, and she sang and danced with Georgie in the back 
 drawing-room that evening, as she always did, and looked as if 
 she had never known a care in her life. She was paler than 
 usual, certainly ; but there was good reason for that, for sundry 
 sneezing and shivering fits betokened very plainly a coming cold ; 
 and nobody would have wondered at this, had it been generally 
 known, that she had sat on the brick floor of Mrs Pye's wash- 
 house for nearly an hour that afternoon in her wet clothes, 
 helping to put peppercorns down the throats of several ducklings 
 that had been just hatched. Of course she had never thought 
 of the probable effects of sitting so long in a damp dress and 
 soaked boots ; and as Mrs Tennent was not in the habit of 
 coddling her children, or making much of small ailments, very 
 little notice was taken of her present symptoms. She was sent 
 to bed rather earlier than usual, and told to ask Lane to give 
 her something warm ; but meeting her favourite, the white cat, 
 as she was going up-stairs, she stayed to have a game with it, 
 and when she reached the nursery forgot to give her message, 
 sitting down with the nurse instead, to a supper of bread and 
 cheese, and going to her own room much later than usual. 
 
 She came down the next day with very heavy eyes, and 
 evidently far from well ; but as she talked and laughed, and 
 rushed about the house with undiminished spirits, no one paid 
 much attention to her looks. Percy perhaps was the only person 
 who perceived anything amiss, though he did not say much till 
 
32 ATHERSTONE PRIORY, 
 
 the afternoon, when, to his great astonishment, she made her 
 appearance in the drawing-room, ready equipped for a walk, and 
 cpme to ask her aunt's permission for them all to go to tea at 
 Copelands. 
 
 Copelands was a small farm about two miles from Atherstone. 
 It belonged to Dr Tennent, and was let by him to a respectable 
 man and his wife, with whom the younger members of the Priory 
 were on a most friendly footing. Mr and Mrs Pye had no 
 children of their own, and were very fond of young people. 
 They liked nothing better than to have visits from the doctor's 
 family, to whom the farm offered numberless attractions. The 
 pleasures of playing in the barn and out-houses, visiting the 
 stables, milking the cows, and chasing unlucky fowls and pigs, 
 were irresistible, nor did Lisa consider herself by any means too 
 old for such amusements. Going to tea with Mrs Pye when 
 they sat in the sanded kitchen in very high-backed, hard, 
 uncomfortable chairs, at a white deal table, and ate off pewter 
 plates, but always with the best of cheer before them (for the 
 good lady was very proud of her home-made bread, her cakes, 
 cream and butter), was to Lisa a pleasure which she would not 
 have missed for a good deal. She had not a thought now for 
 colds or coughs, or anything else, and although there was an 
 east wind blowing, and the sky was clouding over as if some 
 heavy showers might be expected, she did not seem to think 
 these any reasons for staying at home. Her only fear appeared 
 to be lest her aunt should remember her carelessness of the day 
 before, but Mrs Tennent was deep in a new book, and gave the 
 desired permission without raising her eyes. In high glee Lisa 
 was turning away, when Percy stopped her. 
 
 * You surely are not going out such a day as this, and with 
 that bad cold upon you, Lisa. You have no idea how damp 
 and raw it is.' 
 
 Lisa looked excessively annoyed. * Aunt Helen says I may 
 go. It won't hurt me. Please don't keep me,' she exclaimed, 
 in an agony of impatience, and trying to pass him as he stood 
 with his hand upon the door. But it was too late. Mrs 
 Tennent's attention had been caught. 
 
 * I forgot your cold, Lisa ; Percy is right, it won't do for you 
 to go, Susan and Constance may if they like, but you will be 
 much better at home.' 
 
 * O Aunt Helen, it won't hurt me ; my cold is nothing. Do 
 let me go,' she exclaimed, entreatingly. 
 
HISUNDERSTANDINGS. 33 
 
 * Certainly not,' said Mrs Tennent, taking up her book again. 
 * Go and take oif your bonnet at once, and don't let me , hear 
 another word about it.' 
 
 Lisa retired. When her aunt spoke in that way, she knew 
 well enough it was useless to say more, and she left the room in 
 a grievous state of disappointment. In the hall she came again 
 upon Percy, and then her anger blazed forth. 
 
 ' Thank you, Captain Tennent, for stopping my pleasure,' she 
 said, scornfully, as she passed him. * I am much obliged to you 
 for your interference.' 
 
 He turned round. ' But Lisa ' — 
 
 Lisa, however, had no intention of listening to anything he 
 had to say. With the angry colour in her cheek, and a flash in 
 her eye, she stamped her foot at him, and went off like an 
 arrow from a bow. He heard her fleet step up the stairs and 
 along the passage, and then a distant door was flung to with 
 great violence, and a dead silence followed. She had taken 
 refuge in her own room, and there, in a very stormy mood, she 
 paced up and down, until her wrathful feelings began to work 
 themselves off, and then she walked to the window and looked 
 out. A shower had come on, and the rain was dripping heavily 
 from the eaves of the house and among the leafless lime-trees 
 close by. She stood there and watched until it passed off, and 
 a gleam of sunlight came out again upon the green lawn, and 
 sparkled on the glistening rain-drops that hung from the boughs 
 above her window ; and then she pictured to herself the sloping 
 meadows at Copelands, and the sunny dingles, Avhere the trees 
 were budding fast, and where big clusters of primroses lay 
 hidden nmong the moss and in the hollows of the old stumps ; 
 and she longed to be wandering there, and thought it very hard 
 that her cousin should have chosen to come between her and 
 so much pleasure. ' It was provoking of him, very provok- 
 ing,' she said to herself; ^she wished he had stayed in the 
 Crimea and never come home to interfere with her ; ' and, 
 with her angry feelings towards him not much diminished, 
 she left her room and went off in search of some amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 The cold which Lisa had taken proved a severe one, and 
 hung about her for a long time. For two or three days she was 
 confined to her own room, and even when she was well enough 
 to come down-stairs again, she w^as kept a prisoner to the house 
 by her uncle's advice. A most refractory patient she proved 
 
 C 
 
34 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 herself, always running about the cold passages, or slipping 
 into the garden when unobserved ; and how she scrambled 
 into health again was a perfect marvel. But she did, and 
 when, one fine morning in April, she went out legitimately 
 for the first time, she was almost wild with delight, racing up 
 and down the green walk under the lime-trees with her 
 skipping-rope, while old Bar, the great shaggy house-dog, 
 lounged after her in a state of lazy satisfaction. She danced, 
 and ran, and skipped, until she appeared to have tired herself 
 out, and then she sat down upon one of the lower steps of a 
 ladder standing against the garden wall, and began to sing. 
 Her voice was low, but true and sweet, and as she sat looking 
 up into the April sky of clouds and blue above her head, 
 she was not aware of the pleasure her performance was giving 
 to some one else besides herself and Bar. In the middle of 
 ' Auld Eobin Gray,' she became aware that she was not alone. 
 With his back against a tree close by, stood her cousin Percy, 
 and her face flushed as she caught sight of him. She sat upright 
 at once, with a look half shy, half defiant. 
 ^ I am not disturbing you, am I ? ' he asked. 
 
 * Not in the least ; you have as good a right to be here, I 
 suppose, as I have.' 
 
 *If I am not disturbing you, why should you let me stop 
 your singing 1 You were giving me great pleasure, Lisa.' 
 
 * Was 1 1 ' Her eye danced, though she looked very grave. 
 
 * You are tired, I suppose ] ' 
 
 * No, not at all — only I don't care to go on now.' The air 
 and tone were too unmistakably childish for him to take the 
 rebuff in the spirit in which it was intended. She could almost 
 have fancied, indeed, that he smiled. 
 
 ^ Do you never care to amuse your friends 1 ' he said, quietly. 
 
 * Mt/ friejids — yes. But they never ask me to sing ; I have 
 never learnt, so nobody wants to hear me.' 
 
 ^ Never learned ! Then I am sure you ought to take lessons. 
 It would be a great pity not to cultivate your voice.' 
 
 Lisa pouted a little. She hated anything like application, 
 and had done battle with every master and mistress in turn 
 before a fresh accomplishment had been forced upon her. What 
 business of Percy's was it whether she learned singing or not? 
 Did he want to shut her up in the house all day, and not let 
 her enjoy herself at all in the sunshine and among the trees? 
 The mere thought of such a thing made her pout again, and 
 
MISUNDERSTANDINGS. 35 
 
 she sat and eyed Ler cousin with suspicious looks, and said to 
 herself that she should be very glad if he were in the trenches 
 before Sebastopol again. There was no chance of his return 
 there, however, as she knew well enough. Particulars of the 
 treaty that had been signed at Paris had come that very morn- 
 ing ; she had heard nothing else talked of at the breakfast tablc^ 
 and all Atherstone was ringing with the news of peace. He 
 would not go away now, she was afraid, and she was very sorry. 
 Her next words betrayed what was passing in her mind, for, 
 instead of replying to his remark about her singing, she said 
 abruptly : 
 
 ^ I don't think I 'm very glad the war is over. I don't like 
 people to meddle with me, and — I suppose you won't go back 
 to the Crimea at all now 1 ' 
 
 ' I believe not.' He came forward as he spoke, and laid his 
 hand upon the ladder, which, during her previous meditations, 
 she had gradually been mounting backwards. 
 
 * What 's that for ? Why are you holding it ? ' she asked in 
 great surprise. ' It 's quite steady.' 
 
 ' Not very — I think, too, you don't know what you are doing. 
 Are you not afraid of going so high ? ' 
 
 * Afraid 1 ' She read his face. * Why don't you say what 
 you mean — that you think I am too old to be climbing ladders 
 — that it isn't lady-like to do such things 1 But I don't care. 
 I like doing them, and I am not at all afraid,' and she gave such 
 a spring upon the ladder, that he felt glad he was there to 
 prevent its coming down. * I am only a child yet, and I don't 
 want to be anything else. I like to run about, and to climb 
 and jump, and do twenty things which are not proper for young 
 ladies. And I can't bear sitting in-doors all day learning 
 lessons, which never do any good, but only make my head ache. 
 That's what you want me to do, I know; you are as bad as 
 Aunt Helen. I won't, though. I shall do just as I like about 
 everything, and never ask your leave for anything.' 
 
 With which assertion she turned round suddenly, and the 
 next moment, to his utter astonishment, she was standing on the 
 top of the high wall which separated the Priory garden from the 
 adjoining churchyard. It was not a safe place, even for a 
 firm foot and a clear head like hers, for, in addition to its great 
 height and narrow dimensions, the stones in some places had 
 given way with the late frosts ; but the movement was so unex- 
 pected, that Percy had no time to prevent it ; he could only 
 
36 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 stand and expostulate. She evidently enjoyed liis dismay, and 
 laughed when he talked of danger, and the risk of a false step ; 
 and when he begged her to come down she laughed still more. 
 
 * As if I could fall I Why, I 've been up here hundreds of 
 times. There's a nice little seat at the other end among the 
 trees, and I come and sit up there in summer. Fall, indeed ! 
 I wonder how I could ! ' and she executed a graceful little ' pas 
 de seul ! ' on the very edge of the wall, finishing off with a 
 swimming curtsey to him ; and then ran to coax down the 
 white cat, whose head was seen peering over the roof of the 
 coach-house. She came back a moment or two afterwards with 
 her favourite in her arms, and fresh persuasion on her cousin's 
 part ensued to induce her to come down. 
 
 * No, thank you. I don't like being with you — you tease me. 
 It's much pleasanter up here. It isn't proper, I know. It's 
 very mproper, and I see by your face hoAv very unladylike you 
 think me ; but I don't care. If you don't like to see me standing 
 here you needn't look at me — ^you can go away.' 
 
 She walked, or rather danced off, and finding it useless to 
 argue with her, he left her to herself, and walked away. But 
 before going in-doors he went to the stable, to ask to have the 
 ladder taken back when she came down, and kept for the future 
 under the gardener's care. 
 
 ' Not that it 's the least manner of use though, sir, for me to 
 lock it up,' said old Eichard. *If Miss Lisa wants it, she's 
 sure to get hold of it. She gets everything she wants, and if 
 she can't get it any other way, she'll watch till my back is 
 turned^ and then steal my keys. She 's up to anything, is Miss 
 Lisa, and I can 't scold her, she comes over one so like.' 
 
 It is to be feared that Miss Lisa often came over him after- 
 wards, for the ladder was frequently to be seen in its wrong 
 place ; far more frequently than Percy was aware of. He, 
 indeed, in his unsuspicion, most probably supposed it forgotten 
 when safely housed in the stable, as he knew very little of the 
 self-willed waywardness of the spirit with which he had to deal. 
 Not that Lisa took any pains to conceal her real character from 
 him. She seemed to take infinite delight in showing him how 
 wilful and capricious she could be. She would hardly speak to 
 him civilly sometimes, and at others was carelessly provoking and 
 cool ; and as if to see how far she could go without stirring up 
 the hot temper for which she had been told he was famous, she 
 ventured upon a systematic course of small annoyances — hiding 
 
MISUNDERSTANDINGS. 37 
 
 his papers and books, abstracting his penknives, pocket com- 
 passes, mathematical instruments, or anything else on which she 
 could lay her hands, hacking and cutting his pens, and breaking 
 his pencil points — doing as much mischief, in short, as her 
 ingenuity could devise, and then sitting by with the utmost 
 gravity, while he repaired damages and instituted fruitless hunts 
 for lost treasures. 
 
 Perhaj^s he did not guess who the culprit w^as, or perhaps 
 politeness would not allow him to be angry with a lady; for as 
 a lady, in spite of her indignant disclaimers to such a title, he 
 persisted in treating Lisa ; and although she said to herself that 
 she was sure he looked very black at the outrages perpetrated, 
 she never had the satisfaction of feeling quite certain that she 
 had really roused the fiery spirit of which she had heard so 
 much. 
 
 There was one way, however, in which she found that she 
 could annoy him most seriously. He had very high ideas of 
 what a woman ought to be, and nothing shocked him more 
 than any approach to ' fast ' or unfeminine conduct in a girl ; 
 and Lisa, w^ho had read his looks rightly on the day she mounted 
 the garden wall, saw his disapprobation afterwards of many 
 things that she did. She was very angry, and to revenge herself, 
 and for the pleasure of vexing him, she took care always to 
 make the most of all her exploits ; talked of swinging on five- 
 barred gates at the farm, of mounting hay-ricks, and jumping 
 hurdles with Fred and Charley ; while she Avould never even let 
 him guess bow much she liked some other things of a less ques- 
 tionable character, because she had heard him mention them as 
 ]Droper tastes for a woman. 
 
 One of these was drawing, for in spite of its quiet nature, it 
 so happened that this was a thing for which she had a particular 
 fancy ; but so resolved was she that he should not guess her 
 predilection for anything of the sort, that though longing to 
 look at the many sketches he had made when abroad, she would 
 never ask him to let her see them. Mary, who w^as one day 
 turning over his Crimean drawings, and questioning him about 
 them, perceived her hovering near, and made room for her to 
 come and look too. 
 
 ' You will like to see them, Lisa. Here are views of so many 
 of the places we have heard of lately.' 
 
 But no. Although there was nothing Lisa would have liked 
 better — for she had been listening with the deepest interest to all 
 
38 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 that Percy was saying, yet she chose to appear indifferent. She 
 drew back hastily, and put her hands behind her, as if something 
 were about to be forced on her that she did not like. 
 
 * No, thank you. I don't care for them. They are very good, 
 I daresay, but I don't want to see them. I 've something else to 
 do.' And she marched away, half sorry that her pride would 
 not let her have such a pleasure, and yet half proud, too, of this 
 self-same pride, which was unfortunately fated to bring her into 
 collision with her cousin in a way which might have been 
 attended with most disastrous consequences. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A WILFUL SPRITE. 
 
 One afternoon, some little time after, Percy happened to go over 
 to Copelands on business for his father, and stayed when he had 
 finished it to walk round the farm with Mr Pye. He was not 
 aware that any of the party from the Priory were there, and was 
 rather surprised in a distant meadow to come upon Lane with 
 the two younger girls and Georgie, all harmlessly engaged in 
 gathering cowslips. Not Lisa, however ; she was not with them, 
 nor did he see her anywhere near. 
 
 ^ Oh, Lisa is riding/ remarked Constance, in answer to his 
 inquiries. ' Here she is coming across the field.' And in fact 
 at that moment up cantered Lisa, mounted without saddle on 
 Mr Pye's fine hunter. There was no such thing in the house 
 as a lady's saddle, but that was nothing to her — she could ride 
 as well, or better, without one ; and fearless and high-spirited by 
 nature, she delighted in a gallop on a horse as spirited as herself, 
 and laughed at the idea of danger. 
 
 Mr Pye shook his head as she came up. 
 
 * Ah, Miss Lisa, at it again ! And you know it 's not right. 
 I Ve told you over and over again that horse is too much for you. 
 You '11 have an accident some day, and then you '11 be sorry you 've 
 not taken my advice and kept off his back.' 
 
 * So you say every time I ride him,' said Lisa, gaily. * The 
 first day I got on you told me I should break my neck, but here 
 I am in spite of all your prophecies. No, thank you,' backing 
 a little as he tried to persuade her to dismount, ' I haven't had 
 my ride. I don't mean to get down.' And with a glance at 
 
A WILFUL SPRITE. S9 
 
 Percy, who seemed on the pomt of saying something, she gave 
 the rein to her horse and cantered off again. 
 
 Mr Pye looked a little put out. * That 's the way with her, 
 sir,' he said, turning to Percy. * She 's wilful-like, and will do 
 as she pleases. Say what I will, I can't keep her off that horse, 
 and it 's not safe for her to be riding of him as she does. Her 
 hand is not strong enough ; and he has a bad trick of shying at 
 times. I'm thinking of getting rid of him if I could find any one 
 to give me my price — but that 's a chance. I don't like to see 
 Miss Lisa on him, but I can't stop her. Perhaps, sir, if you spoke 
 to her she 'd mind you, for if she 's not stopped we shall have 
 an accident sure enough.' 
 
 Percy's brow knitted. ^ I will speak to her,' he said, as, with 
 his glass up to his eye, he followed Lisa's movements at the other 
 end of the meadow. * She shall not do it again.' 
 
 He walked back to the house with the farmer, and waited until 
 Lisa, who in the meantime kept carefully out of reach, had finished 
 her ride, and chose to come back. She rode into the yard at a 
 very leisurely pace, and looked at Mr Pye with a bright smile 
 while she stroked and patted the horse's neck, and then she slipped 
 down without taking any notice of her cousin who was coming up 
 to offer his assistance. He examined the horse for a few moments 
 in silence, and afterwards followed her as she was going into the 
 house. He looked very grave, and probably she had her sus- 
 picions as to v/hat was coming, for she kept as far away from 
 him as possible while they walked up the garden, and appeared 
 to be quite taken up with admiring the jonquils and anemones 
 with which the borders were crowded. 
 
 * I am afraid you will have to give up your rides, Lisa,' he 
 said at last. * That horse is not meant for a lady, and it is not safe 
 for you to be riding him. I hope you will not attempt it again.' 
 
 Lisa shrugged her shoulders a little pettishly. 
 
 * Thank you, I am not at all afraid. And I am quite able to 
 take care of myself, Captain Tennent, without troubling you to 
 look after me — much obliged to you all the same/ she added, 
 ironically. 
 
 Percy bit his lip. * If you are not afraid, Lisa, others must 
 be for you ; and for their sakes I must beg you to give up an 
 amusement which is not safe. My father would not approve of 
 these rides, I am sure, if he knew of them; nor would Mrs 
 Tennent.' 
 
 Lisa laughed rather disdainfully. * I am sorry you should be 
 
40 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 disappointed, but I don't feel at all inclined to give them up. 
 If they don't meet with your approval, it is a pity, but I can't 
 help it. You must not expect me to consult your wishes in 
 everything/ 
 
 * Not my wishes, but what is safe and proper. Your own good 
 sense, Lisa, must tell you that you ought to give them up when 
 you know they are not safe.' 
 
 ' My own good sense tells me that you are extremely fond of 
 interfering with me, Captain Tennent ; and really I don't know 
 who gave you the right to do it, or what concern it is of yours 
 whether I chose to ride or not. Even if I like to break my 
 neck, it will be no business of yours. When I want your advice 
 I will ask for it ; but until I do, perhaps you will be kind enough 
 not to interfere.' 
 
 Percy looked grave. * I have no wish to interfere with you iu 
 general,' he said, ' and I am sorry to be obliged to do so now. 
 If you consider, though it is no business of mine, you can ask my 
 father what he thinks about it ; he has certainly a right to keep 
 you out of danger, even if I have none.' 
 
 There was no answer to this. Lisa only raised her head a 
 little, and walked on ; and w^hen they left the farm, she chose to 
 loiter behind with Lane and Georgie, and let Susan and Con- 
 stance get on as quickly as they liked with their brother. At 
 the hall door, how^ever, she found him again waiting for her. 
 
 * You were not serious in what you said just now, Lisa 1 You 
 will give them up ? ' he said, as she was passing him. 
 
 ' Give what up 1 ' she asked, carelessly, and beginning to untie 
 her bonnet-strings with a most provoking air of indifference. 
 * Oh, my rides, do you mean ? How you do go on about them, 
 to be sure ! I thought we had done once, and now you are 
 beginning again. Of course I don't intend to give them up ; I 
 told you so before.' 
 
 ' And I am to speak to my father, then ? ' 
 
 * If you please. I don't care in the least what you do. Pray 
 interfere as much as you like, if it w^ill give you any pleasure.' 
 
 A queen could not have looked more dignified than did that 
 little wilful beauty; and so pretty w^as she in her wilfulness, that, 
 in spite of his annoyance, Percy's eye lingered on her admiringly. 
 But he said no more, and with a proud step, and a curious smile 
 on her face, she glided past him and disappeared up the staircase. 
 
 Lisa was surprised and anything but pleased to be told by her 
 uncle at breakfast the next morning, that she must have nothing 
 
A WILFUL SPRITE. 41 
 
 more to do with Mr Pye's horse ; her rides must cease from that 
 day forth. He spoke decidedly, and Mrs Tennent repeated the 
 command, adding a good deal more, to which Lisa paid no 
 attention. She was too angry to listen ; and although she said 
 nothing, the look of defiance which she cast across the table at 
 Percy spoke volumes. ' Did he think he was going to order 
 her about, that he had only to give his commands and they were 
 to be obeyed. But he was mistaken, and so he would find before 
 long ! ' She dashed away the moment breakfast was over, and 
 flew to Mary's room, where, happening to see some of Percy's 
 drawings which had unfortunately been left there, lihe rushed on 
 them in her childish rage, and, tearing them all into fragments, 
 tossed them out of the window. She cooled down a little as she 
 watched the last of them caught away by the wind and carried 
 over the garden wall ; for she began to wonder whether she had 
 not gone a little too far, and whether they were any that he cared 
 about particularly. Whatever they had been, however, there was 
 an end of them now ; and drawing a chair to the table, she began 
 to scribble an exercise for Madame as the commencement of her 
 morning studies. 
 
 Two days after that, Percy was once more at Copelands, and, 
 not finding Mr Pye near the house, set off across some meadows 
 in search of him. He was standing under some trees on the 
 banks of a stream, looking round with his glass to see if the 
 farmer were near, when the sound of horse's hoofs coming rapidly 
 up on the turf on the opposite side made him turn. It was not 
 without a misgiving that he did so, and his first glance told him 
 that his suspicions were correct. It was no other than Lisa who 
 was there, and who, without seeing him, cantered up and down 
 for some minutes on the higb bank on the other side of the brook. 
 Percy's brow clouded as he watched her ; and when, still unaware 
 of his presence, she suddenly put her horse to a gallop, and 
 cleared the stream close to the place where he stood, he walked 
 forward with an air of cool and resolute determination, and laid 
 his hand on her bridle. His unlooked-for appearance took her 
 by surprise, and her colour rose for a moment. She speedily 
 recovered herself, however. 
 
 * Good morning. Captain Tennent,' she said with a smile, * I 
 didn't expect to see you here. Did you come to prevent my 
 ride? Because if so, I am sorry to say you are too late. I 
 have been out for more than an hour, and have enjoyed myself 
 exceedingly.' 
 
42 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 * You are mistaken, Lisa ; my coming had nothing to do with 
 you. After what my father said the other day, I did not think 
 my interference would have been necessary again. I thought 
 his wishes would have been quite enough, without ' 
 
 * His wishes ; yours, you mean,' retorted Lisa, scornfully, ' I 
 should have had my rides in peace \ I should have heard nothing 
 from him, if you had not interfered. And very kind it was of 
 you, I must say. Let me go, if you please,' with a little im- 
 patient flourish of her whip. ^You needn't stand with your 
 hand there, for I mean to have my ride out. ' 
 
 * Lisa, this is trifling — mere childishness. You must get 
 down.' Her eyes began to flash. 
 
 ' Must I How dare you say " must " to me % Do you think 
 I am going to obey you f 
 
 ' Not me — but my father. He wishes it, Lisa ; he has for- 
 bidden these rides, and you ought to give them up.' 
 
 Her colour rose. * Ought I Yes, because you wish it. Don't 
 talk of my uncle's wishes; he had none till you interfered. 
 You must find some one else, Captain Tennent, to listen to 
 your "musts" and your "oughts," for I won't. And now let 
 me go.' She jerked at her bridle as she spoke, but his hand 
 was firm upon it, and the only effect of the movement was 
 to make her horse start and attempt to rear. 
 
 * It won't do, Lisa — you must get down.' 
 
 * You can't keep me if I don't wish to stay,' she exclaimed, 
 growing still more excited. * Let me go directly.' And caring 
 little what she did to free herself, she raised her whip, and with 
 all her force struck him so sharply across his ungloved hand 
 that he was taken by surprise and let the bridle fall. It was 
 only for a moment, and the next he attempted to catch it again, 
 but he missed, and Lisa's ringing laugh was one of triumph at 
 his failure. 
 
 'Ah, Captain Tennent, "it won't do,'" she said, repeating his 
 words mockingly, * you will have to go back alone, and I hope 
 you 11 enjoy the walk. Good-bye.' And she rode off. 
 
 But alas for poor Lisa 1 Her triumph was of short duration. 
 Her laugh was still sounding in his ear, and her eyes were still 
 dancing with glee at his discomfiture, when the report of a gun 
 in a neighbouring wood startled her horse and made him shy 
 suddenly. Hiding carelessly as she was, it was a movement for 
 which she was totally unprepared, and losing her balance she 
 was flung to the ground, and lay there stunned and motionless. 
 
A WILFUL SPIiiTE. 43 
 
 It was not for many minutes j Percy, who had seen the acci- 
 dent, had hardly time to reach the spot where she was lying, 
 before her senses began to return, and although confused at first, 
 she raised herself a little, and sat up. The sight of her cousin 
 seemed to recal her to herself, for the colour came back to 
 her face, and she turned away with an expression of evident 
 annoyance. 
 
 ' I am not hurt,' she said, coldly. * You needn't look so 
 frightened. There is nothing the matter with me.' But the 
 bewildered way in which she raised her hand to her head as 
 she spoke, rather contradicted her assertion. 
 
 ' I don't think you know yet whether you are hurt or not,^ 
 Percy answered, gravely, but with a kindness that would have 
 touched her, had she not been too much confused to notice it. 
 ' At any rate, you must not lie here : you must let me carry you 
 back to the house, and then we shall find out what you have 
 done. I hope, as you say, it is nothing.'' 
 
 ' Thank you, I hope so too,' said Lisa, not too much subdued 
 even then to be ironical. ' As for being carried, though, I am 
 much obliged to you, but I prefer walking. I can do that quite 
 as well as, if not better, than yourself. ' And she smiled a little, 
 for her cousin's habit of using a stick when he first came home 
 had been a constant source of amusement to her, and even now 
 he walked stiffly. He made no answer, and would have helped 
 her to rise, but she pushed away his offered hand, and appeared 
 quite offended at the idea of his supposing that she wanted 
 any assistance. When she raised herself, however, with some 
 difficulty, and tried to set her foot to the ground, the involun- 
 tary shudder and exclamation of pain that escaped her told 
 where she was hurt j and if Percy had not caught her, she 
 would have fallen again. He saw she was nearly fainting ; and 
 lifting her in his arms as he would have lifted a little child, he 
 carried her back to the farm. She was not much more than a 
 child, indeed, and very light ; and he had carried her into the 
 house, and laid her on the large old-fashioned sofa in Mrs Pye's 
 kitchen, before she knew what was being done with her; and 
 then he took off her hat and fetched her some water, which 
 brought the colour back to her face and did her good ; though 
 the pain from her foot was growing worse, and she felt dizzy 
 and bewildered. And then Mrs Pye herself came bustling in, 
 all alarm at the accident, and suggesting remedies of every sort ; 
 the worst of which, in Lisa's opinion, she insisted upon ad- 
 
44 ATHEKSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 ministering at once, namely, a large bottle of smelling salts — 
 tlie very best thing, as she declared, for faintness. Lisa writhed 
 at first under the infliction, and ended by pushing the bottle 
 away in desperation ; and then she implored to have her boot 
 taken off — a work of difficulty, for her foot was swelling very 
 fast, and she could hardly bear to have it touclied. Mrs Pye 
 was so afraid of giving pain that, in her very anxiety to avoid 
 doing so, she gave far more than was necessary ; but Percy came 
 to the rescue, and in spite of Lisa's remonstrances, slit her boot 
 open down the front with his pen-knife, and drew it off without 
 more ado. The relief to her foot from the removal of the pres- 
 sure was very great, but with the momentary cessation from pain 
 came thoughts of what she would have to bear from her aunt's 
 anger, when the accident was known at home. She threw herself 
 back with an impatient gesture, and drew her foot away when her 
 cousin would have liked to ascertain more particularly the extent 
 of the injury, that something might be done to lessen the pain. 
 
 * Oh, no, leave me alone ; don't touch me,* she exclaimed, 
 pettishly. * You hurt me and can do no good. You have done 
 all you can and now you may go, and be quite happy that 
 everything has happened as you said it would. It Avould have 
 been a great pity if all your wise prophecies hadn't come to pass. 
 And of course you are glad they have, if only to show how wise 
 you are and how foolish I am. Ah, well, you may be as glad as 
 you like ; I shan't care,' she added, with fierce impatience, jerk- 
 ing herself backwards among the pillows which Mrs Pye had 
 heaped up behind her. 
 
 * You are mistaken, Lisa ; I am very sorry for you,' was all he 
 said ; and angry as she was, she was softened by the tone in 
 which those few words were spoken. He turned away, and 
 writing a few lines in pencil on a slip of paper, asked to have 
 them taken to the Priory, and then made inquiries for Lane, 
 who was somewhere about the farm. Mrs Pye went out in search 
 of her, and, left alone with her cousin, Lisa felt no inclination to 
 break the pause which followed. She was beginning to see that 
 she had behaved very badly ; and, between pain and self-reproach, 
 she found it a hard matter to keep back her tears. She wished 
 Percy would have found fault with her, that he would have said 
 — no matter what, so that she could have had a pretext for 
 being angry. Her spirit: would have kept her up then ; but to 
 meet with pity when she deserved blame, and kindness instead 
 of upbraiding, was what she had not expected, and she began to 
 
A WILFUL SPRITE. 45 
 
 feel very miserable, and very penitent. She lay back with lier 
 eyes closed, and there was a long silence, until she happened to 
 look up and found Percy standing at the foot of the sofa, watch- 
 ing her so earnestly that he seemed to have forgotten where he 
 was. He started as his eye met hers, and, as she turned her 
 head away with a very weary sigh, he came up to her side and 
 asked if there were nothing he could do for her. 
 
 * 'No, nothing, thank you ; but I should like — oh, I should 
 like to go home. Uncle Henry would do something for this 
 
 pain, I think, and ' Her voice faltered, and she had to bite 
 
 her lip and clench her hands tightly to keep back the cry which 
 was almost wrung from her. ' When do you think I may go ? ' 
 she said, after a pause. ' I don't think I can bear this much 
 longer.' 
 
 Percy took a turn across the room before he answered : * My 
 father will be here in a short time, I expect — if he were at home, 
 that is, when they got my note. If not, they will send the car- 
 riage for you. They are sure to be here in a few minutes.' 
 
 Lisa's look was a very grateful one. ' Thank j'ou, I don't 
 mind it so much now. I didn't know before what you had done.' 
 And she closed her eyes again and lay very patiently till Lane 
 made her appearance, out of breath, and in an excited state at 
 the account she had received from Mrs Pye of the accident. 
 Lisa was her favourite, her peculiar pet among all her charges at 
 the Priory ; not even Georgie, whom she petted and spoiled to 
 an unlimited extent, as old nurses only know how to do, not 
 even he was half so much to her as was Lisa — Lisa who tor- 
 mented her, and tyrannised over her, and gave her no end of 
 trouble, and who was all the dearer to her, perhaps, on that very 
 account. She came in now in a sad state, too much frightened 
 even to give the scolding with which, in spite of her fondness, 
 she would have greeted her darling at any other time; nor did 
 Lisa's pale face and evident suffering tend to reassure her, but as 
 nothing could be done, she could only stand by and commise- 
 rate, until at last, to the relief of everybody, the carriage arrived. 
 It was a disappointment that Dr Tennent did not come with it, 
 but he was not at home, so the only thing was to get Lisa back 
 as fast as possible. Percy accordingly carried her out, and having 
 placed her in the carriage, and put Lane and Georgie in after 
 her, he sent them off, promising to bring home the two little 
 girls himself. 
 
46 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ON THE SOFA. 
 
 Lisa's hurt proved to be tlie fracture of some of the small bones 
 of the foot, besides several very bad contusions — rather a serious 
 accident, her uncle seemed to think, though the wonder was, be 
 said, that it was not much worse. She must make up her mind 
 to be a prisoner for some time, or she might lame herself for life. 
 Lisa had borne the pain of having the bones set, and the suffer- 
 ing that had gone before, without a tear, and almost without a 
 word ; but when she heard that it would be very long before 
 she could run or walk again, she felt she was really punished, 
 and cried very bitterly. But she kept her tears to herself, and 
 did not let any one see them ; and when Percy went up into 
 Mary's room that evening, to ask how she was, she had resumed 
 her old defiant manner, and gave very short answers to his 
 inquiries. 
 
 ' Her foot did not pain her nearly so much now — it was 
 much better ; but her head ached, and she was tired,' and she 
 evidently meant this as a hint that his presence was not desired. 
 He said no more, and left the room almost immediately, and she 
 did not see him again until the following afternoon, when he 
 happened to come in while Mary was sitting -with her. She was 
 vexed at the interruption, and still more so when, instead of 
 going again, as he ought to have done, he chose to stay and look 
 for something that he wanted. After poking about for some 
 minutes in his blind way, he turned to Mary and asked if she 
 had done anything with some drawings that they had been look- 
 ing at a few days before. 
 
 ' I must have left them here, for I can't find them in my port- 
 folio,' he said. * Have you seen them anywhere V 
 
 Mary shook her head. * Which do you mean ? Not Captain 
 Carleton'sr 
 
 * Yes ; those two of his and one of my own. I don't care for 
 mine, it 's of no consequence, but I wouldn't have his lost for 
 anything. I don't think I have another.' 
 
 * Oh, they are not lost/ said Mary, getting up ; * I shall soon 
 find them. My eyes are better than yours, you know.' And she 
 began a search in various places, while Lisa watched her move- 
 ments in blank consternation. Until that moment she had 
 
ON THE SOFA. 47 
 
 quite forgotten what she had done in her fit of passion a few 
 mornings before. Like everything else, it had passed out of her 
 head directly her anger was over, and she had never given it 
 another thought, until her cousin's present inquiry recalled it to 
 her mind. She could not now let the search go on, so she broke 
 out in desperation : * It 's no use looking for them, Mary, you 
 won't find them. They are gone. I tore them up the other 
 day.' Her face grew crimson, and she did not dare look at 
 Percy as she made this announcement. 
 
 * Tore them up ! My dear Lisa, you surely didn't do such a 
 thing ? ' exclaimed Mary, in accents of dismay ; while Mrs Ten- 
 nent — who had just come into the room — asked what they were 
 talking about. 
 
 ^ Some drawings of Percy's,' said Mary. ^ But, Lisa, you must 
 be mistaken. You never could have torn them up — you must 
 have seen what they were.' 
 
 * I know I did. But I was angry ; I did it on purpose.' 
 
 * Did it on purpose ! O Lisa ! ' And Mary's tone had as 
 much of reproach in it as perhaps it ever could have. But Percy 
 was silent, though if Lisa had seen his face, she would have been 
 even more sorry than she was. He turned away and walked to 
 the window. 
 
 If he were silent, however, not so Mrs Tennent, when she 
 understood what had happened. She overwhelmed her niece 
 with reproaches which had the effect of reducing her into a care- 
 for-nothing, impenetrable mood, when she might have been talked 
 at the whole day without having the least impression made upon 
 her, and when all her better feelings were fast vanishing under 
 the influence of harsh words. At this juncture Percy turned 
 back from the window. 
 
 ^ Will you oblige me, Mrs Tennent, by saying no more about 
 it 1 It can't be helped, and Lisa had no idea, I am sure, of what 
 she was doing. She could not tell that they were of any parti- 
 cular value to me.' 
 
 Lisa looked up at this speech. 'I did know what I was 
 doing,' she said, very decidedly ; * I didn't know you cared about 
 them in particular, but I knew what I was doing well enough. 
 I did it to vex you because you had made me angry.' 
 
 Mrs Tennent stood aghast at this announcement. 
 
 ^ Really, Lisa, I should like to know what is to be done with 
 you,' she said, when she had in some measure recovered from her 
 astonishment. * It seems to me that you are totally devoid of 
 
48 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 principle. It is bad enough to act with wilful disobedience, but 
 
 when it comes to malice too, it is carrying things too far ' 
 
 She was stopped by Perc}'. 
 
 ' If you would be kind enough to say nothing more about it, 
 you would oblige me very much. The loss is mine, and the best 
 way will be to forget it as soon as I can.' 
 
 He left the room, and Mrs Tennent went away also without 
 further remark, though her looks said volumes. But Lisa did 
 not see them ; she was doing her best to appear totally uncon- 
 cerned and indifferent. She could hold out no longer, however, 
 when, after a time, she raised her eyes and found Mary watching 
 her pityingly and almost sadly. 
 
 * O Mary ! you will hate me,' she exclaimed then ; * I am as 
 bad as bad can be, and I shall never be any better. You may as 
 w^ell give me up and have nothing more to do with me. I Ve 
 been dreadfully wicked, and what 's the use of being sorry now, 
 it won't undo it all, though I 'm sure I wish it could. You don't 
 believe me, perhaps — but it 's true for all that.' 
 
 * Yes, I know it is,' said Mary, who understood how it had 
 happened — ' I know it is, and I am very sorry for you.' And at 
 these words all Lisa's sorrow broke forth in a torrent of tears and 
 self-reproaches. She would not have cared so much, she said, if 
 it were only her wilfulness about her rides that she had to be 
 sorry for, because she was punished for that in being obliged to 
 lie there so long. ' It is very hard, Mary, to have to do that — 
 look at the sunshine on the lawn now, and on the lime trees in 
 the green walk ; and look at Bar there sitting on the gravel path, 
 snapping at the flies as they come about him : I should like to 
 be having a race with him instead of lying here. I have been 
 thinking of it all the morning ; but I thought, too, that the only 
 way I could show I was sorry for having been so bad, was by being 
 patient and not feeling cross for what serves me right. It would 
 make up a little for having done what I ought not ; but I can't 
 make up for having been so angry and tearing up those things. 
 I am afraid Percy cares for them very much. Somebody had 
 given them to him, I suppose 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, a friend of his who died in India two or three years 
 ago.' 
 
 ' Died ! Is he dead ? ' and Lisa looked shocked. ' Was he a 
 very particular friend though, or only ' 
 
 * A common one,' suggested Mary ; * no, I don't think Percy 
 lias any friends of that kind, or if he has, he don't call them 
 
ON THE SOFA. 49 
 
 friends, they are only acquaintances. But this one was ciiffeiGni;, 
 they were like brothers, I believe. Not always,' she added, as it 
 recalling something to mind, * but latterly. Percy was terribly 
 cut up when he died.' 
 
 Lisa was silent for a long time. ^ He will never forgive me/ 
 she said at last. 
 
 Mary smiled. * You had better ask him ; he is not unforgiv- 
 ing in general.' 
 
 ^ No, but such a thing as this. I wish, Mary, you could tel'i 
 him how sorry I am, and that I really didn't know he had any 
 particular reason for caring about those drawings. I wouldn't 
 have torn them up if I had known it ; — even though I was so 
 angry with him. I am very sorry ; I am indeed. Won't you 
 tell him so T 
 
 ^ Yes, if you like, I will.' And Mary most probably told her 
 brother not only that, but a good deal more which Lisa never 
 guessed. The next time she saw him, he said, rather stiffly — 
 
 * I hope you won't think any more about those drawings, 
 Lisa. I should be sorry for you to go on vexing yourself for a 
 thing that can't be helped, and I am quite sure you had not the 
 least idea they were of any consequence to me.' 
 
 She looked up with a blush. If he had spoken less gravely, 
 she would have burst out with all the regret she felt, but his 
 cold and formal tone checked her usual eagerness, and she only 
 said, * I am very sorry ; and more sorry still since Mary told me 
 about them, and why you cared for them. I wish I had never 
 been so angry.' 
 
 It was all she could get out, though vexed with herself for 
 saying so little and appearing so indifferent. * But it 's not my 
 fault,' she thought ; * if he didn't look so grave I could tell him 
 a great deal more. I would let him see how very sorry I really 
 am, but I can't while he looks like that. I wonder whether lie 
 expects me to say anything else.' 
 
 Whether he did or not, did not appear. He began to talk 
 on some other subject, but she could not feel certain that she 
 was forgiven, and for some days she was very shy and constrained 
 in his presence, and hardly spoke to him, though she saw hinz 
 often enough — too often, indeed, in her opinion, for when Mary 
 was disengaged, he was very fond of coming to her room, and 
 bringing there his books or mathematical instruments, or what- 
 ever else he might be busy with. At first, Lisa thought this a 
 great bore, and wished him miles away, but she began by degrees 
 
 D 
 
50 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 to look forward to these visits as something to relieve the tedium 
 of many weary hours, when, tired with lying in one position, 
 and being always occupied with the same round of emplojanents, 
 she was glad of almost any change to give her something fresh 
 to think about. 
 
 Her studies went on as usual with Mary, and that part of the 
 day w^hicli was taken up with them was got through very well. 
 But her leisure hours often hung heavily on her hands, for she 
 had an unfortunate distaste for needlework ; and although she 
 liked reading well enough, she got tired even of that at times. 
 Percy's visits began, therefore, to be welcome rather than other- 
 wise, even if it were for nothing else than the pleasure of 
 watching him, sometimes from real interest in what he was 
 doing, sometimes to have a little private fun at his expense, 
 ' because he was so very blind and so plain.' 
 
 But as she began to know him better, and to lose the prejudice 
 which she had entertained against him, she could not help 
 acknowledging to herself, that he was by no means so disagree- 
 able as she had imagined him to be. She discovered, indeed, 
 that he could be quite the contrary when he pleased, and he 
 certainly was very kind, and took a great deal of trouble td 
 amuse and give her pleasure w^hen he saw she was tired and 
 dull, and pining for fresh air and her old liberty. He brought 
 her wild flowers from the woods, all her favourites in profusion, 
 which she loved far better than any garden ones, and he told 
 her all that was going on at the farm, in which she took great 
 interest, and supplied her with many new books and engravings 
 which he thought she would like to see ; and happening one day 
 to see a drawing of hers that had been left about, he asked if 
 she would not like to have some lessons in the art, and offered 
 to teach her. If one thing could have delighted her more than 
 any other it was this offer. She told eagerly how very fond she 
 was of drawing, and how much she had always wished to learn. 
 She did not know, though, how it was to be managed while she 
 was obliged to lie there ; but he set to work forthwith and 
 manufactured a board which could be fastened on the sofa, and 
 raised or lowered as she pleased ; and furnished with this and 
 proper materials, she took her first lesson in a state of absorbed 
 delight, which made her for the time oblivious of everything 
 else. She never seemed to grow tired, indeed, of this favourite 
 occupation, and made such progress in it as to astonish every- 
 body, while it served to pass away many hours which she would 
 
INDIAN TALES. 51 
 
 ot5?ftrw?j}e have spent in gazing out of the window, vainly wish- 
 iyg that she were able to run and walk again. 
 
 ' It certainly is very kind of Percy to take so much trouble 
 aobut me/ she thought. ' I wonder why he does it, for I am 
 EU^e I don't deserve it. I had no business to tear up those 
 sketches. I wonder whether he remembers anything about 
 them ; he can't have forgotten, surely, and yet he has never 
 said a word to me since, and he is as kind as if I had never 
 done or said a rude thing to him in my life. Sometimes I 
 almost think I begin to like him a little ; but — Ah, well, he is 
 dreadfully plain, certainly ; and, after all, I am not obliged to 
 like him. I may think him kind without caring about him, 
 and I do think that. I never mean to be rude to him again.' 
 
 CHAPTEK VIII. 
 
 INDIAN TALES. 
 
 * Would you like to go for a drive this afternoon, Lisa ? ' said 
 Percy, as, one very bright day early in May, he came into Mary's 
 room. ' We can have the carriage for an hour or two, and, if 
 you like, I will drive you over to Copelands.' 
 
 ^ Drive me to Copelands ? ' And her face flushed with plea- 
 sure. * How delightful ! Do you really mean it ? ' 
 
 * Yes. I have been trying to get the carriage for some days, 
 bT?.t my father has been so busy he could not spare it. It won't 
 be wanted, though, this afternoon, and he is glad for you to have 
 the drive. Mary is coming with us ; and if you like you can try 
 ycur hand at sketching ; this will be a good opportunity to begin.' 
 
 Lisa was very happy. The prospect of once more being out 
 of doors after three weeks' confinement to the house was charm- 
 ing I and when she found herself in the carriage on her way to 
 Copelands, she was brimming over with ecstasy. Everything 
 was delightful — the banks had never looked so green before, 
 nor the hedgerows so fresh and beautiful — the pink and white 
 blossoms on the apple and cherry trees were lovely j and so were 
 tlie early leaves of the chestnuts and silver birches ,• and the 
 glowing sunlight on distant hill and near meadow was brighter 
 than she had ever known it. Her exclamations of happiness 
 seemed to amuse Percy not a little^ for he kept turning to look 
 
53 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 at her, and there was something like a smile on his face as he 
 watched the radiant expression of hers. 
 
 *It is a great pity you can't see it too/ she said at lasb, 
 noticing that he was very silent, and that he seemed to be more 
 occupied with contemplating his whip -handle than admiring the 
 view which just then lay before them. ' You must miss a great 
 deal by being so short-sighted.' 
 
 He smiled a little and looked up. * I suppose I do. If there 
 is anything particular, though, to see, I will put on my glasses. 
 I don't use them more than I can help, because they try my 
 eyes, but I can see well enough when I have them on. Is there 
 anything now that I ought to look at 1 ' 
 
 * Oh, no ; nothing but what you can see every day. But how 
 disagreeable never to be able to see things without making such 
 a preparation for looking at them ! It must be very tiresome.' 
 
 ' Is it ? I don't know that I ever think about it ; one gets 
 used to everything in time. I don't often remember, now, that 
 I could see as far as you or anybody else once.' 
 
 * Could you ? ' And she looked at him in some astonishment. 
 
 * Yes, till I got this sabre cut,' drawing his hand across his 
 forehead. ' That detracted from my appearance in more ways 
 than one ; didn't it, Polly V he added, more lightly than Lisa 
 had ever heard him speak. 
 
 ^ No, I don't think so ; people who don't know you may fancy 
 so, perhaps; but I don't,' Mary answered, quickly, but with 
 so much earnestness in her tone that Lisa was struck. She 
 would have liked to ask when and how he got it, but a glance 
 at his face prevented her. He seemed to be occupied with some 
 painful thoughts, and for some minutes she made no further 
 remark. But when he turned off from the high road into a 
 narrow lane, she asked where they were going. 
 
 * Only to some cottages down here. There is one which 
 will be a good subject for your first sketch.' 
 
 And a very happy half-hour Lisa spent near that picturesque 
 cottage at the corner of the lane, with its overhanging thatched 
 roof, its lattice windows and curious old porch ; and very proud 
 she was of her sketch when it was finished, until she happened 
 to see one that Percy himself had done in about a quarter of 
 the time, while standing beside the carriage and directing 
 her attempts ; and then she was so much disgusted with her 
 own that she would have torn it up on the spot, if he had 
 not rescued it. 
 
INDIAN TALES. 53 
 
 * No, Lisa j that would be very absurd. You must remember 
 I have had years of practice, and you are only just beginning. 
 It would be ridiculous to tear it up because you are not 
 quite satisfied.' 
 
 * N(3t satisfied at all, you mean,' remarked Lisa. * It is 
 simply hideous.' But she did as she was told ; rather a wonder- 
 ful thing for her, considering that the person who spoke was 
 not Mary ; and, the sketch-book and pencils being put away, 
 they proceeded to Copelands to pay their visit there. 
 
 A very short visit, for it was getting late, and almost time 
 to return ; but while Mrs Pye came out to the carriage to 
 speak to Lisa, Percy walked off somewhere, and was presently 
 seen returning, bringing a handsome Skye terrier with him. 
 
 * Oh, what a beauty ! Mrs Pye, where did you get him ? ' 
 Lisa exclaimed. ^ What a dear shaggy little creature ! Oh, 
 do let me look at him. I 'm so fond of dogs. When did you 
 buy him ^ ' 
 
 ' Bless you, my dear, he 's none of mine,' returned Mrs Pye. 
 ' I don't care for dogs, and don't want any in the house. No ; 
 the farmer got him yesterday for Captain Tennent — bought 
 him of a lady at Burnside. The Captain said he 'd come 
 to-day and fetch him, so you 're going to take him back with 
 you, I suppose ? ' 
 
 * I hope so, I 'm sure,' said Lisa, growing excited. ' Oh, 
 put him in here, please,' as Percy came up to the carriage. 
 
 * Mrs Pye says he is yours ; and may I hold his chain 1 You 
 can't do that and drive too. I '11 take great care of him. Mary, 
 did you ever see such a dear, intelligent-looking creature 1 
 And his eyes ' Speech was lost in admiration. 
 
 ' Are beautiful — when you see them !' said Mary, with a laugh. 
 
 * But that 's just as it ought to be,' Lisa exclaimed. 
 
 * Evidently you don't understand this kind of dog. Look at 
 them now when I push back his hair. How bright and knowing 
 they are ! Do you see his mouth, too ? Quite Hack j look 
 at the roof. Oh, he is a beauty ! ' 
 
 * I am glad you like him,' Percy said, as they drove off. 
 ^ He will be a companion for you while you are shut up ; 
 and I don't think you will have any trouble in making friends 
 with him. He seems very sociably inclined.' 
 
 ' Yes, I think so. He is fond of me already. But do you 
 really mean I may have him up-stairs with me while I can't 
 walk about 1 ' 
 
64 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 ' You may have him as often as you like, and for as long 
 as you like. To say the truth, Lisa, that was why I got him, 
 I thought he would be an amusement to you. You can keep 
 him till you are tired of him, and when you want to get 
 rid of him, you must give him back to me.^ 
 
 * And suppose I never want to get rid of him 1 ^ Lisa said, 
 looking at him for a moment with a curious expression, half of 
 wistfulness, half of fun, and then laying her head on the dog's 
 rough neck, ' Suppose I never want to get rid of him 1 ' 
 
 'Then you had better keep him altogether; he will not 
 object to having you for his mistress, I dare say. And if 
 you think you won't care to part with him, you may as well 
 consider him yours at once.' 
 
 Lisa raised her' head again. *Mine? Really'? But — oh, no, 
 you can't be in earnest ; you would never give him away 'I ' 
 And she looked at him very doubtfully. 
 
 ^ Why not ? I did not get him for myself, and if you don't 
 like to have him, I must find some one else to take him. 
 But you have so few pleasures just now that I hoped he would 
 help to amuse you a little,' 
 
 : Lisa's astonishment was very great. * And you got him 
 for me 1 Really on purpose for me ] ' And then, as she read 
 the answer in his smile, * How very kind of you ! How very, 
 very kind I But — I can hardly believe it — I have never had 
 a live pet of my own in my life except my poor goldfinch years 
 ago. And a dog ! I have always wished for one so much. 
 How good of you to think of such a thing ! ' she exclaimed, 
 in childish delight; adding, however, a moment afterwards, 
 with a change of tone and a deepening colour, * I don't know, 
 though, whether I ought to have him. You forget it 's my own 
 fault that I can't run about. If I had done as I was told, 
 I needn't have been shut up.' 
 
 ' No, I know that ; it was not very wise of you, Lisa.* 
 
 ' Not very wise, and not very right, either,' she said, ear- 
 nestly. ' I have been very sorry for it since : sorry for that, and 
 for a good many other things too.' And once more she laid her 
 head down among the dog's shaggy hair. * I wonder what his 
 name is^' she said, after a pause, resuming her usual manner. 
 * I hope it 's a pretty one.' 
 
 But on this subject Percy could not enlighten her, for he had 
 forgotten to ask. He believed, however, some one had told him 
 it was Prince, and as the dog, when appealed to by Lisa, wagged 
 
INDIAN TALES. 55 
 
 hif> tall, and looked knowing, the name, whether originally his or 
 not, was set down to him at once. * And a very good name it is 
 for him too,' she remarked. * I shall take such care of him, and 
 I am so glad to have him ! I only hope Aunt Helen will let me 
 keep him ; she has always taken everything away from me be- 
 fore. Whenever I got angry, she — ah, well, I won't talk about 
 it now, for you don't like to hear me say such things, I know, 
 Mary.' And Lisa smothered her rising resentment in hugs and 
 caresses of her new treasure. 
 
 She was on her sofa that evening, with the dog beside her, 
 thinking of all the pleasures she had had that day, when a per- 
 son who had called about some needlework was shown into the 
 room where she was lying. Mrs Daly was an old acquaintance, 
 and Lisa had many questions to ask her about herself and her 
 family, and grew very much interested in hearing various parti- 
 culars concerning them. She was struck, however, after a time, 
 by a change in the woman's manner, and, on looking up to dis- 
 cover the cause of a short answer she had received, she saw that 
 Mrs Daly's eyes were fixed upon the likeness of Percy which 
 hung over the piano. It had arrested her attention so completely, 
 that for some moments she evidently forgot everything else. 
 Her earnest gaze suq^rised Lisa not a little, and she wondered 
 what had brought that strange look to her face, and the tears to 
 her eyes ; for that there were tears she saw plainly, though they 
 were brushed away when Mrs Daly became aware that she was 
 observed. 
 
 * You know that, then V Lisa said, after a pause. * You have 
 seen my cousin, I suppose?' 
 
 * Yes.' The woman's face brightened. ' It 's very like him,' 
 she added, turning to the picture again. * Like what he used to 
 be, I mean.' 
 
 * Why, did you know him, then V Lisa asked. * It 's a long 
 time since that was taken.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but I knew him in India, Miss Lisa. He looks much 
 older now. But that 's what he was then ; what he was when 
 he saved my child — my little Ted. God bless him for it !' There 
 were tears in her eyes again. ' May I look at it. Miss Lisa, a 
 little nearer, if you please?' And she walked across the room, 
 and stood gazing at it with the most intense interest. It's so 
 like him — ^just as he used to look !' she murmured to herself. 
 
 *When was it?' Lisa asked, her curiosity excited. * When 
 did he save your child ? Ted, you said 1 — that nice big boy of 
 
56 ATHERSTONE PRTORY. 
 
 yours. How was it ? Tell me,' in her slightly imperious way. 
 ' I like to hear those kind of things. You can look at that and 
 tell me, too, you know.' 
 
 Mrs Daly smiled a little, but she was nothing loath to tell her 
 tale, though she wondered Miss Lisa had not heard it before ; 
 MiteS Mary knew it, and she thought every one else did — with 
 which preface she began a story of her past days. She had been 
 the wife of a sergeant, and had follov/ed him to India, where she 
 had gone through great hardships. The incident to which she 
 alluded had occurred in the second Sikh war, when, in the hnrry 
 and confusion consequent upon the evacuation of some fort, her 
 child, then not much more than a year old, had been overlooked 
 and left behind. She was ill at the time, and unable to see 
 to her baby, which had been given in charge to another persou, 
 and her horror upon arriving at the place of safety, to which 
 she, with the other women and the children, had been con- 
 veyed, and finding that her child had been forgotten, was too 
 great to be described. The English army was in retreat, and 
 she knew that the fort which had just been evacuated was to 
 be blown up to prevent its falling into the enemy's hands. A 
 party of engineers had stayed behind for that purpose, and that 
 her child would perish in the explosion she never doubted. She 
 could not tell calmly, even now, of the fears and agonies of those 
 long hours ; how, unable to rest where they had laid her, she 
 wandered up and down, not asking for her baby, for she never 
 hoped to see it again, but scanning every face to find one that 
 had come from the place where it had been left, that she might 
 hear something, even if it were only to know that all was over. 
 She told, too, how all day long she had listened to the firing 
 in the distance, until, when evening closed, it ceased at length ; 
 and parties came trooping in, and amongst them some engi- 
 neers. 
 
 ' I watched them come in, and I saw them standing round a 
 watch-fire. Miss Lisa ; and for a long time I stood and looked at 
 them, stupid-like, for I seemed as if I could neither speak nor 
 move. But after a bit, I saw there was one of them, an oflScer, 
 who had something in his arms; he was covered with blood 
 and black with powder, and his face looked ghastly in the fire- 
 light; but I heard them say it was him that had had the blowing- 
 up of the fort ; and I can't tell why it was, but something like 
 hope seemed to come back to me, and I went up to him. Ah, 
 Miss Lisa, I don't know how it all happened now ; I don't know 
 
INDIAN TALES. 57 
 
 how I got my baby ; but it was him he had — my little Ted — 
 not hurt, not a scratch about him, and fast asleep in his arms, as 
 if he had been in mine. I just went down on my knees to thank 
 Jiim, but I couldn't. I looked at him, but I couldn't say one 
 word, and he didn't wait to hear me — he gave him back to me, 
 and then he was off before I could speak. But they told me all 
 afterwards ; how when the train was laid, and he — Lieutenant 
 Tennent, that's what he was then — when he had lighted the 
 match with his own hand, and had stayed behind after he sent 
 the others off, to make sure it was burning, he heard a child cry, 
 and at the rislc of his own life ran back and found my Ted, and 
 brought him off. He was only just in time — he was thrown 
 down by the explosion and stunned for some minutes, but he 
 had got my child, and he kept him fast — and he carried him 
 through all that hard fighting that day, and gave him back to 
 me at night, when I thought I had lost him for ever. I shall 
 never forget it, Miss Lisa. I would go through fire and water 
 for him, I would ; and my husband would have done the same.' 
 Mrs Daly's voice was very husky as she spoke. 
 
 ^ It was very brave of him,' said Lisa, her eye kindling and 
 her colour deepening while she listened. 
 
 ^ Brave — yes — there wasn't a braver in all the army than he 
 was; and he was good, too. Miss Lisa, and kind. Everybody 
 Baid the same of him ; he was always the one to do a kindness, 
 or help anybody who wanted it. He was kind to me — the best 
 friend I ever had. He took a great fancy to Ted after that day — 
 he was always fond of children, you know, miss — and he never 
 met me afterwards without coming to ask after him. I used to 
 see him often ; and when my husband died out there, and I was 
 in such distress, wasn't he kind to me 1 He paid my passage 
 home ; and as I'd hardly a friend in England, and none to go to, 
 he told me to come down here, and wrote to Miss Mary about me. 
 I 'm getting on well now, and my boys are growing up nicely ; 
 they'll be big fellows soon, and they're a comfort to me — Ted 
 in particular ; and I don't forget that if it hadn't been for the 
 Captain, I shouldn't have had him now.' 
 
 Here Mary's entrance put a stop to Mrs Daljr's communica- 
 tions ; and Lisa, though she would have liked to ask a hundred 
 other questions, was obliged to restrain her curiosity. No sooner, 
 however, did she find herself alone with her cousin than she 
 began, eagerly : — 
 
 * Mary, I should like very much to ask you something.' 
 
58 ATHERSTONE PRIORY* 
 
 There was a smile from Mary at the abrupt way in which 
 this was said. 
 
 ' It 's about Percy/ she went on. ' I 've been hearing of him 
 from Mrs Daly just now — about Ted, you know. Mary, it was 
 very brave of him, wasn't it 1 And I do like to hear of brave 
 things.' Her eyes were sparkling again. *I always did ; and I 
 had never heard of this before.' 
 
 * Hadn't you 1 Well, you have had a full account of it now, I 
 am quite sure,' was the answer. 
 
 ^ Not a bit more than I liked. I should like to have heard a 
 great deal more, indeed, only you came in and prevented me. 
 But, Mary, what I was wanting to ask you was about that 
 terrible cut he has on his forehead. Do you mind telling me 
 how he got it 1 In fighting, was it ?' 
 
 * Yes, dear ; in the same war, but later, at the siege of Mooltan.' 
 
 * Well 1 ' Lisa was looking at her impatiently, finding she 
 did not go on. * Why don't you tell me, Mary ? You don't 
 mind my knowing about it, do you 1 1 fancied, do you know, 
 from what you said this afternoon, that ' 
 
 * That he has reason to be proud of it, and so he has. He 
 was defending a brother-officer who had been badly wounded, 
 from a party of Sikhs, when he was cut down himself. For- 
 tunately some of his own soldiers came up at the time, or they 
 would both have been killed. Percy was supposed to be dead 
 when they carried him off, and for weeks afterwards no one 
 thought he would recover.' 
 
 Lisa was silent. She fancied from her cousin's manner that 
 she had not heard all yet ; and she was right, for after a pause 
 Mary said, with some hesitation — 
 
 'It was Captain Carleton whom he saved, and' 
 
 ' Captain Carleton, that friend of his that you told me about 
 the other day ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, dear ; but they were not friends then — quite the con- 
 trary. Captain Carleton had done him a great wrong, and for 
 months before that day at Mooltan they had never spoken to 
 each other except when absolutely obliged. There were faults 
 on both sides, I believe ; at least Percy has said since, things 
 need not have gone so far [if he had not been too proud to 
 explain circumstances in which he was misjudged. But the 
 chief fault lay with Captain Carleton — he owned it himself 
 afterwards. He was angry, and listened to misrepresentations ; 
 and he did Percy great injury in more ways than one. He was 
 
INDIAN TALES. 59 
 
 his senior by three or four years, and captain of his company ; 
 so that it was in his power to annoy him exceedingly at times, 
 and he did. We never knew at the time how much Percy 
 suffered through him, and I don't suppose we ever should have 
 known it if it had not been for Captain Carleton himself. He 
 got well long before Percy did, and he was very grateful. He 
 did everything he could for him while he was ill, and used to 
 write to us constantly, and in one of his letters he told us all 
 that had happened. Such a noble letter it was, and he spoke 
 of Percy — well, never mind what he said, but I know that I 
 was proud of my brother. I had a right to be, for it was not 
 every one, no, nor one in a thousand, who would have done what 
 he did.' Mary's eyes were glistening as she spoke. 
 
 * And that was what made them friends ? ' said Lisa thought- 
 fully, after a long pause. 
 
 ^ Yes, they were fast friends after that ; and when he died 
 two or three years ago, Percy felt his death as much as if he had 
 been his brother. It was a fever of some sort that he had, and 
 hardly any one would go near him because it was supposed to be 
 infectious ; but Percy nursed him day and night through it all, 
 and was with him when he died. He was dreadfully cut up, 
 and I don't think he has got over it even now, for he never 
 seems to like to hear his name mentioned. But that is just like 
 him, though nobody believes it of him in general. He is cold 
 and reserved in manner, and very few people know how warm- 
 hearted he really is.' And Mary, who, like many another sister, 
 could grow eloquent in talking of her brother, went on to tell 
 of many instances of his unselfishness, and care for those whose 
 weakness or danger had claimed his assistance. 
 
 Lisa listened to it all, but she said very little in answer. She 
 was unusually silent, not only then, but all that evening ; and 
 when Mary was called away, she lay in the dusk, looking up 
 into the lime-trees above her window, too much engrossed with 
 her own thoughts to care to turn to any other occupation. What 
 these thoughts were she would have found it hard to tell, and 
 she made no attempt to analyse them. There was only one 
 thing of which she was conscious, and that was a feeling of 
 self-reproach for the injustice she had done her cousin. She was 
 ashamed to think how often she had ridiculed him for his plain 
 looks and short-sightedness ; how often, too, she had laughed 
 at him for the very thing for which she ought most to have 
 honoured him. For that scar which she considered such a dis- 
 
60 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 figurement, and which had provoked her thoughtless wit into 
 bestowing on him a nickname, had been gained in saving the 
 life of one who had wronged him, and was, in truth, the noblest 
 decoration he could have worn. ^ I wish I had never been so 
 foolish, so wicked,' she said to herself. * If 1 had only known all 
 this before, I never would have laughed at him. I wonder 
 whether he ever heard me ! Oh, I hope not ! But I don't 
 think he did : he wouldn't have been so kind to me surely if : 
 he had. I like him now, though he is so plain. I am not sure, 
 indeed, that he is so very plain. He didn't look so this after- 
 noon. When he smiled he was rather like Mary, and if he were ; 
 not so grave, I fancy he would be good-looking. I don't know 
 why he shouldn't be, for he hasn't such bad features ; I 've 
 seen people with much worse. It 's only because he has such 
 black hair and is so dark, and looks so old, and has — and 
 
 is Oh dear, how siUy I am ! What does it matter what 
 
 his looks are, if I like him, which I do most certainly 1 And very 
 odd it is, for I never meant to do so.' 
 
 Her cogitations were brought to an end by the entrance of a : 
 servant with lights ; but when she went to bed that night, her 
 thoughts returned to her cousin Percy, and in her dreams she 
 saw him on the battle-field, with a little child in his arms, fight- '[ 
 ing his way through drawn swords and the flash of musketry ; 
 and then, trembling with fear, she seemed to stand by his side, 
 while he kept at bay the fierce-looking soldiers who were crowd- 
 ing round them, and who pressed hard on some prostrate figure, 
 whose half-hidden face was strangely like Arthur's. With which 
 medley of thoughts her sleep became a sound one and dreams 
 terminated. 
 
 It was with different feelings, however, from those with which ■ 
 she had hitherto regarded him that she met her cousin the next j 
 day; so different were they, that she almost expected to see 
 some change in him, and was disappointed to find him looking ' 
 as he always did, with nothing about him of the hero into which* 
 her imagination had exalted him. No ; he was only her plain 
 and silent cousin Percy; just as plain and silent as she had al- 
 ways known him, and evidently far enough from suspecting the 
 deep interest, almost reverence, with which she now looked upon 
 him. But in spite of the momentary disappointment she expe- 
 rienced at this, she could never again in thought or word depre- : 
 ciate him as she had once done. Grave and reserved he might ' 
 be still, and with no good looks to please those who cared only \ 
 
Isabel's keturn. 61 
 
 for personal advantages ; but never could she think slightingly of 
 him who had perilled his life for one who had wronged him, and 
 who had braved danger and death itself to carry a little child 
 back to its mother. In her eyes from that day he was a hero — 
 and a hero all the more from his unconsciousness of having done 
 anything to arouse her feelings of interest and admiration. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 Isabel's retubn. 
 
 * Isabel comes back this day fortnight,' remarked Elinor one 
 afternoon a week or two later. * I am very glad, for I shall get 
 off some of these disagreeable calls when she is at home, I dis- 
 like them so much, and it 's so hot to-day ! ' 
 
 ' So it is.' And Lisa raised her head from the drawing over 
 which she was bending, and pushed back her hair from her face. 
 
 * Is Isabel really coming back so soon 1 ' she asked, after a pause. 
 
 ^ Yes ; why not 1 I am sure she has been away long enough. 
 She is quite well now, she says, and Janet is tired of Italy ; so 
 they mean to leave the Parkers to finish their tour alone, and get 
 back as soon as they can. Mr Thorpe — Cunninghame Thorpe, 
 you know — goes to fetch them.' 
 
 ' Mr Thorpe ! I don't know anything about him/ was Lisa's 
 answer, in rather an absent tone. 
 
 * Don't know anything about him ! Oh, no, I forgot. Well, 
 you will see him the week after next, for he is coming down 
 with Janet and Isabel, and I daresay he will stay here before he 
 goes on to his uncle at the Moat.' 
 
 ' His uncle 1 ' 
 
 * Yes, his uncle. My dear Lisa, how can you be so stupid ! 
 You can't pretend not to know that old Sir Richard Thorpe is 
 Janet's uncle ; and of course he must be her brother's too. What 
 are you thinking of to be so silly 1 ' 
 
 ' I don't know. I am sure I had forgotten that Janet had 
 anything to do with the Moat.' 
 
 ' Very likely ; I don't believe you ever remember things, Lisa, 
 like other people. But you ought to have known that, because 
 Janet went there several times when she was here last, and she 
 was always talking of her grumpy old uncle. Oh dear, here 's a 
 button off my glove ! I wonder where Mary is, to sew it on 
 
62 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 again. Old Sir Richard is very ricli, and Cunninghame Thorpe 
 will have that place when he dies, and the baronetcy too. His 
 father was Sir Richard's younger brother, you know.' 
 
 ' No, I didn't know it/ Cunninghame Thorpe was nothing 
 to Lisa. 
 
 ' He is not at all like Janet,' Elinor went on, with a long yawn. 
 ' He is very handsome — has the most splendid blue eyes you 
 ever saw, and such a moustache ! He will be an acquisition 
 here, I expect, for he can make himself very agreeable, though 
 
 Isabel does say she can't bear him, and Arthur Oh, that 
 
 reminds me that Arthur is not coming. He 's going to Gainsf ord 
 instead.' 
 
 ' Going to Gainsford ! How tiresome ! That 's Ralph's doing, 
 of course. How provoking of him ! ' 
 
 * Very. But he won't stay long ; only till Ralph can get away 
 himself ; and then they both come here. Ah, there 's mamma 
 calling me. And here 's Percy coming to look after your draw- 
 ing. I wish I were you, Lisa, to stay at home and lie on the 
 sofa.' And Elinor sauntered oflP, wondering how the button was 
 to get on her glove before she went out. 
 
 ' I am not so fond of lying here,' Lisa remarked as the door 
 closed. ^And, O Captain Tennent, do come and look at this 
 thing, and tell me where it 's wrong. It is horrid, and I can't 
 get it right.' 
 
 She threw down her pencil a little pettishly, but her face 
 brightened again as he sat down beside her and began to make 
 the necessary corrections. ' I was hot and cross,' she said then 
 apologetically ; ' but it 's not so bad after all, I see. I want to 
 draw well/ she added, after a pause ; * I think if I can do that, 
 and play well too, I shall get more money.' 
 
 * Get more money ? ' 
 
 * Yes ; when I have to teach, I mean. I am to be a governess 
 some day, you know.' 
 
 ^ No, I did not know it.' 
 
 ' Yes. This isn't my home j I have none of my own, and I 
 can't live here always.' 
 
 ' Why not ? What is there to prevent it 1 ' he said hastily. 
 
 * I don't know ; but — what have I said ? Have I vexed 
 you r 
 
 * Vexed me ? ' and he smiled. ' No ; what could make you 
 fancy such a thing ? But what reason did you give for not being 
 able to stay here 1 You have no home of your own, and have 
 
Isabel's return. 68 
 
 a right to look to us, as your nearest relations, to give you 
 one.' 
 
 * I don't know. Aunt Helen don't think so at any rate.' She 
 hesitated. * I can't help myself now ; but I would rather not 
 stay by-and-by.^ 
 
 ^ You would not ? And why not, may I ask 1 ' And then, as 
 he caught sight of her crimson face, * My dear Lisa, you can't 
 suppose that anybody here grudges you house-room.' 
 
 'My dear Lisa.' The tears were in her eyes at the words, 
 and the tone in which they were said, but she made an attempt 
 to laugh. * No, I suppose not ; I 'm not very big, and I don't 
 take up much room anywhere. But, oh, you must have seen it, 
 Aunt Helen don't care for me — she never has — she has always 
 said I must go ; and I would rather. I don't wish to stay where 
 I know I am not wanted.' 
 
 Percy was silent for some minutes, and when he spoke again 
 his voice was changed. ' And you don't mind the idea of a 
 governess's life V he said then. 
 
 ' Mind it ? No ; why should I ? I think I shall like it. I 
 shall like working and earning my own money, and being ' 
 
 * Independent.' 
 
 ' Yes, and being independent. It isn't wrong to like that, is 
 it ? The only thing is that I don't know exactly what governesses 
 do, and I am afraid I should make such lots of mistakes. But 
 I suppose I should learn in time, and I should only begin with 
 quite little children at first. It would be great fun, I think, 
 and I am so fond of children ; I have some dear little things 
 at the Sunday-school, you know; they don't do much but 
 tumble off the forms, and then I pick them up again ; but 
 still I teach them a little, so I suppose I could teach others 
 too.' 
 
 'And so you will not mind leaving the Priory?' Percy 
 said after some moments' silence; 'you will be glad to get 
 away*?' 
 
 ' Glad 1 What, to leave Mary and uncle Henry, who have 
 been so kind to me ! If you knew what I feel when I think of 
 leaving them, you wouldn't say I was glad.' There was some- 
 thing of reproach in her tone. ' It will make me miserable ; but 
 what can I do ? I would rather work than stay here, even to 
 be with Mary ; but I wish — oh, I wish I had a home of my own ; 
 a home where I had a right to be. Sometimes at night I fancy 
 that I have ; I dream that I am back there again, and I can see 
 
64 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 it all quite plain, though it's years ago since I was there. I 
 don't know what I do exactly, but I am very happy ; and then 
 I wake and it ^s all gone. I don't like to think of it, and some- 
 times I feel very lonely and miserable ; only then I try to think 
 of the bright side — of the little children, and of earning my own 
 money. How much do you think I shall get ? But you don't 
 know anything about governesses, do youf 
 
 Percy did know quite enough about them to make him hope 
 most fervently that it might never be his cousin's lot to learn 
 anything of their life from personal experience ; but he did not 
 say so, and only answered, rather shortly, * that he had not seen 
 much of them.' He was in one of what Lisa called ^ his dread- 
 fully grave moods,' about which she had lately ^begun to rally 
 him. He changed the subject. 
 
 * You are going out this evening,' he said. ' I have asked 
 for the carriage, and we are going to Delse Common, you 
 know.' 
 
 * Yes, for one of my last drives. How pleasant they have 
 been ! I shall be sorry to give them up, though I like walking 
 so much better. And to-morrow I am to begin to use my foot 
 again. I am going to borrow your stick and hop about the 
 garden, and in a week or two I daresay I shall be able 
 to walk as well as anybody. But you will let me go on 
 with my reading and drawing, won't you? I shouldn't like 
 to lose all my pleasures at once.' 
 
 Isabel came, and with her arrived Janet Darrell, the wife of 
 Arthur's elder brother, and Mr Cunninghame Thorpe. Lisa, who 
 was taking a French lesson at the time, and who heard the 
 murmur of voices below, had her attention wofully distracted 
 by these sounds, and fell into dire disgrace with Madame Eicard 
 in consequence. When Isabel, having dressed for dinner, came 
 into the room, Madame was discovered in a highly excited 
 state, and her pupil, with a saucily defiant air, was coolly draw- 
 ing a caricature of her wrathful instructress. Happily for 
 both parties, the entrance of Isabel caused a diversion. In 
 former days she had been one of the favourite pupils of 
 Madame, who was so delighted to see her again that she forgot 
 her anger, and Lisa sat by in great contentment, inwardly 
 thanking her cousin for the pleasant interruption she had 
 made. 
 
 Isabel was Mrs Tennent's eldest daughter, and five or six 
 years older than her sister Elinor, whom she resembled strongly 
 
Isabel's retttrK". 65 
 
 in face and figure, although she was far more womanly and self- 
 possessed in manner. Like her, too, she was ordinarily very 
 quiet; but it was not with her as with Elinor, the quiet of 
 indolence, but of thought and reflection. No one could look at 
 Isabel, at her intellectual face and expressive eye, without seeing 
 that she was talented in no ordinary degree ; and she was not 
 only clever naturally, but had read much, and studied for the 
 love of study ; her knowledge of languages, music, and 
 painting was wonderful. As the eldest, and for some time the 
 only child of the second family, she had been a great pet with 
 her half-brother and sister, w^ho were proud of her cleverness ; 
 with Percy more especially was she a favourite; and as she 
 grew older, he had had no greater pleasure than that of 
 encouraging her talents in every possible way. Although he 
 had left home while she was still a child, his influence had not 
 gone with him ; he had never forgotten the sister of whom he 
 had been so proud ; nor had she on her side forgotten the 
 brother whose interest in all she did and cared for had made 
 her occupations and pleasures doubly pleasant. They had cor- 
 responded constantly, and when after long years of absence he 
 had returned to England, shortly before the breaking out of the 
 Russian war, his visit had been to her a time of absorbing, 
 though of undemonstrative delight. Undemonstrative, indeed, 
 she always was, and not less so now than ever. 
 
 Lisa saw her afterwards in the green walk with Percy, deep 
 in conversation, but pacing by his side soberly and quietly ; 
 and when she met her later in the drawing-room, she was seated 
 by her mother, discussing home news in a very matter-of-fact 
 way. Lisa's attention, however, was diverted from her then, 
 for there were others in the room who possessed greater interest 
 for her at that moment. Janet Darrell was there, and at a 
 window near stood her brother Cunninghame Thorpe talking 
 to Elinor, who, in the description she had once given of him, 
 had by no means overrated his personal attractions. 
 
 He was very handsome ; handsomer, Lisa thought, than any 
 one she had ever seen ; and the marked contrast between him 
 and her cousin Percy was very striking. The latter, perhaps, 
 had never appeared so plain to her as he did at that moment ; 
 she had forgotten, indeed, how very plain he was ; and it was 
 disagreeable to be reminded of it now. His dark, thoughtful 
 face looked almost gloomy beside that of his gay, animated 
 companion, who was evidently on the best of terms with himself 
 
66 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 and perfectly aware of his own fascinations. But Lisa was too 
 simple to detect, in such a brief survey, the symptoms of self- 
 consciousness which betrayed themselves in his * get-up' and 
 attitude ; and her hasty glance at him was one of great admiration 
 — admiration which he seemed to return with interest, when, as 
 she was crossing the room to speak to her sister, he for the first 
 time caught sight of her. 
 
 ^ By Jove, what a pretty girl ! Who is she, and where on 
 earth did she spring from?' was his eager exclamation; and 
 the tone in which it was uttered made Percy look as if he 
 would have had no objection to knock him down. He vouch- 
 safed no reply to the question. It was answered, however, by 
 Janet. 
 
 * Little Lisa Kennedy, I declare ! Why, Lisa, who would 
 have thought it ! ' holding out her hand as she spoke. ' How 
 you have grown ! I should hardly have known you again, only 
 your face is not much altered. When do you mean to look less 
 like a child, I wonder 1 You are growing up now, and ought to 
 be more womanly.' 
 
 ' Lisa has no wish to do that,' remarked Isabel. * Unless she 
 is very much altered, you could not, in her opinion, pay her a 
 greater compliment than to tell her she has nothing of the 
 woman about her.' 
 
 Lisa was silent ; but something in the tone annoyed her, and 
 the colour mounted to her face. 
 
 She was glad that Mr Thorpe, coming up, asked to be intro- 
 duced to her ; and as he remained by her side for some time, she 
 forgot her annoyance, and found him so agreeable, that she was 
 sorry when her aunt broke off the conversation by sending her 
 away on some errand. She confided to Mary afterwards the 
 favourable impression he had made upon her. 
 
 ' He 's so very pleasant,' she said, * and so amusing ! And he 
 was telling me such a very entertaining story, when Aunt Helen 
 sent me away ! It was very provoking of her, for I wanted to 
 hear the end of it. I like hearing him talk, he has so much to 
 say. And how handsome he is, isn't he ? ' 
 
 * Very,' said Mary, smiling a little. * Very handsome, indeed. 
 And yet, Lisa, I am not sure that I quite like his face. I have 
 seen others that I like better.' 
 
 * Have you ? ' Lisa said, rather absently. She was thinking 
 of the difference between Mr Thorpe and her cousin Percy, and 
 the thought appeared to change the current of her ideas, for,- 
 
ISABEL'S RETURN. 67 
 
 after a pause, she said, ^ Percy is very fond of Isabel, Mary. He 
 seems to care for her almost more than he does for you. It is 
 very strange.' 
 
 * Is it ? No, I don't think so. She is so clever, and can enter 
 into so many things that I know nothing about. And he helped 
 stj much to make her what she is, that it is only natural he 
 should be proud of her.' 
 
 * But, Mary, you are his own sister, and she is not. It don't 
 seem right that he should care for her more than he does for 
 you. I don't like it.' 
 
 She spoke in her hasty way, and Mary laughed. 
 
 * I think you are mistaken. He cares for me as much as he 
 does for Isabel, only it is in a different way. Surely, Lisa dear, 
 you are not going to try and make me jealous]' she added. 
 * That would be very absurd. And I had just been thinking 
 how pleasant it is for him to have her at home. They are so 
 happy when they are together; they have so many things in 
 common, and can talk of all sorts of things that I don't under- 
 stand. I am not clever, you know ; I never w^as.' 
 
 Lisa was silent for a minute, and then she jumped up. 
 
 * I don't know whether you are clever or not,' she said, 
 throwing her arms round her neck, and bestowing on her a most 
 impetuous embrace. * But I 'm quite sure of one thing, and 
 that is, that if all people that are not clever are like you, I like 
 them a great deal better than those who are — that's all.' 
 
 And away she went. 
 
 * Where are you going, Percy 1 ' she said, as she happened to 
 meet him on the stairs one morning a few days afterwards — 
 days during which she had seen but little of him, his time 
 having been claimed almost incessantly by Isabel. * Where are 
 you going ? And what are those things you have in your hand ? 
 Drawings f 
 
 'No, illuminations.' And he spread them out on the wide 
 seat of the window on the landing where they had met. ' They 
 are some of Isabel's — of her own designing, and very good too. 
 I was wishing you to see them.' And he showed a succession of 
 beautifully-illuminated wreaths and crosses, leaves, flowers, and 
 berries, while Lisa looked on in a state of bewildered admira- 
 tion. 
 
 * Do you really mean to say she did all those herself ? How 
 exquisite they are ! I don't think I ever saw any, even for sale, 
 so beautiful. It must be very difficult, isn't it V 
 
68 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 ' Not the mechanical part ; but of course for designing thefd 
 must be both taste and talent. And Isabel has both. These 
 are not her best, though, by any means. She has some which 
 are much more elaborate ; you must come and see them. I 
 don't believe you have seen any of her last paintings either.' 
 
 * I have scarcely seen any of her paintings,' Lisa said, a little 
 dolefully, * except those that are in the drawing-room. She 
 never lets me go into her room. I 'm very sorry, for I We often 
 wanted to look at her things.' 
 
 ' Then you must come now,' Percy said, smiling : * I am going 
 there myself, and you must come with me. She will like it.' 
 
 * I don't think she will,' Lisa said, hanging back, doubtfully ; 
 but he drew her on, and at the top of the stairs, hardly waiting 
 for the ceremony of knocking, he opened the door of his sister s 
 room. 
 
 It was a curious place that room of Isabel's, and had been 
 fitted up as a sort of studio by Mrs Tennent, who was very proud 
 of her daughter's talents. An easel stood near the window, and 
 the walls were hung with drawings and paintings in all stages of 
 progression ; while other things lying about showed that her taste 
 lay in many different directions. Cabinets filled with curiosities 
 of natural history and geological specimens which she had col- 
 lected and arranged, antique ornaments and statuettes, casts in 
 plaster of paris, and models for sculpture, a harp and a guitar, 
 were some of the most conspicuous objects ; and the tables and 
 chairs, and even the floor, were piled with books and manuscripts 
 which she bad pulled down from their shelves as she wanted 
 them for reference. Lisa stood at the entrance and looked with 
 astonishment at the curious aspect of this 'private den,' into 
 which she had never yet found admittance. Nor was she to find 
 it now. 
 
 * Here, Isabel, I 'm bringing you a visitor,' Percy said. * Lisa 
 tells me she has never been here before, and she has a great 
 desire to see your paintings. May we come in V 
 
 Isabel was standing at her easel with her eyes fixed on a copy 
 of an * Ecce Homo,' by Guercino, which lay before her, and as 
 she did not turn when her brother spoke, she was not aware that 
 Lisa herself was already at the door. 
 
 * Nonsense, Percy, don't bring that child here,' she exclaimed 
 hastily. * She knows nothing about these things. Pray don't 
 let her come and interfere with us.' 
 
 Percy's face changed : there was a shade upon it for a 
 
ISABEL S EETURN. 69 
 
 moment, but it disappeared, and he turned to Lisa with a 
 smile. 
 
 * Never mind ; she is so deep in her studies tbat she does not 
 know what she is saying. You must not wait for an invitation, 
 you see ; you must come in without one. She '11 soon find how 
 nearly your tastes and hers are alike.' 
 
 But Lisa drew back, her face crimson, her eyes flashing. 
 *]Sro, thank you, I never go where I'm not wanted.' 
 She pulled her hand from his, and turning, flew down-stairs ; 
 he could not stop her ; she was out of sight in a moment. She 
 rushed off to the far end of the garden, and there, crouching 
 down between some raspberry bushes, she lay hidden in a very 
 disconsolate fit ; and although she saw her cousin walking about 
 in search of her, and knew he was wanting her to come out, she 
 was too angry and miserable to show herself, and for a long time 
 had a hard fight to keep back the tears Avhich would rise to her 
 eyes. 
 
 * I knew how it would be,' she said to herself ; ' she ivoiit 
 like me ; she thinks me good for nothing, and won't believe I 
 want to be better. And she will make him think so too, and 
 then he won't care for me any more. I don't believe he does 
 now, indeed ; I don't think he cares for me half as much as he 
 did two or three days ago.' But although she said this to her- 
 self, Lisa could not help smiling a little, for in her heart of 
 hearts she did not believe her own assertion. *Well, I won't 
 care anything about him then. He and Isabel may do as they 
 like, and I won't trouble myself about them. They shan't 
 think I'm making myself miserable.' 
 
 And with this determination she dried her eyes ; and growing 
 tired of doing nothing, and of having only the raspberry bushes 
 for companions, left her hiding-place, and betook herself to some 
 employment. She did not see Percy again until the afternoon, 
 when, as she was sitting on the floor by the window in Mary's 
 room reading, he opened the door. 
 
 * Lisa, I want to speak to you for a minute.' 
 
 * Can't come/ she said, without looking up from her book. 
 
 * Not for one minute ? 1 won't keep you, and I 'm going out 
 directly. I shall not be back again this evening.' 
 
 * You must wait till to-morrow, then. I 'm busy now.' 
 
 * Why, my dear Lisa, you are not doing anything in parti- 
 cular,' said Mary ; * you can spare a minute or two, surely ! ' 
 
 ' No, Mary dear, I can't, it's quite impossible!' jumping up as 
 
70 ATHERSTONE PEIORY. 
 
 she Spoke, and walking off to the piano ; ' I have my music to 
 practise before tea. I know what Percy's minutes are when he 
 begins to talk.' She closed the argument by dashing into a 
 very noisy polka, and Percy was obliged to leave the room. 
 
 But he did not find the opportunity he wanted for speaking 
 to her even on the following day. She kept out of his reach, 
 and would have nothing to do with him, stopping her ears 
 when he began to say anything, and dancing off to shut herself 
 up in her own room when she found no other way of silencing 
 him. Nor would she go on with any of the occupations which 
 lately had given her so much pleasure. Singing, which she had 
 begun to practise diligently under Mary's superintendence on 
 purpose to please him, was now neglected : it made her throat 
 ache, she said. The books, too, which he had lent her to read, 
 were thrown aside, and her drawings were thrust into a corner 
 with a quantity of waste paper and other rubbish. 
 
 * Where is that last one you were doing, Lisa ? ' he asked one 
 day. ' You must have finished it by this time. Will you let 
 me look at it ? ' 
 
 ^ JSTo ; it 's not done,' she said carelessly ; ' and I don't intend 
 to finish it. I 'm tired of drawing now ; it 's stupid work. I 
 mean to give it up. Now that I can run about again^ I like 
 that better than sitting still. We are all going over to Cope- 
 lands this afternoon to make hay, and Mr Thorpe is coming 
 with us. That will be much greater fun.* 
 
 Percy was silent, but she saw that she had vexed him, and 
 went away with a smile upon her face. It was so amusing to 
 think that she — such a little thing as she was — could vex a 
 great tall man like him ; and so silly, too, of him to be vexed at 
 anything she could do, that she felt quite proud. Never had 
 she been so capricious, perverse and tormenting as she was 
 during the few days that followed j and Percy, who had begun 
 to be aware how much his happiness was bound up in her, felt 
 the change bitterly. She had no idea how seriously he was 
 annoyed by her wilfulness and caprice, or she would have con- 
 sidered twice, perhaps, before giving so much pain to one whom 
 she really liked. It was mere thoughtlessness on her part ; she 
 liked the amusement of the thing ; she liked to see him look 
 grave and vexed, and to think she had the power of making him 
 so. And it was a gratification which she had very often at that 
 time. 
 
PENITENCE. 71 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 PJCXITENCE. 
 
 But Lisa's wayward fit, after lasting a few days, was brought to 
 an end by a little incident that took place one evening in Mr 
 Pye's meadows. She had been spending the afternoon there, 
 and had been amusing herself in the erection of an enormous 
 hay-cock, when she suddenly discovered that she had lost a 
 very pretty little silk handkerchief which Mary had given her. 
 It had been only loosely tied round her neck, and of course 
 had slipped off when she was too busy to notice her loss. 
 
 ' Oh, my handkerchief ! Where is it gone ? Do help me to 
 find it, Mr Thorpe,' to that gentleman, who happened to come 
 up just then with Percy. * I wouldn't lose it for anything.' 
 
 Mr Thorpe obeyed with all alacrity, beginning by demolishing 
 the hay-cock, in which it was most lilcely to be secreted, and 
 Percy assisted in the search, while she stood by lamenting, or 
 rather pretending to do so, for after a minute or two she seemed 
 to forget that she cared about it, and was quite taken up with 
 watching her cousin, whose blind way of carrying on the hunt 
 amused her exceedingly. She had often laughed at him for * that 
 odd habit he had of screwing up his eyes, as if he thought he could 
 see better when they were shut,' though she had never gone so far 
 as to let him overhear her remarks. But she was now in one of 
 her most reckless moods, which made her not only forget common 
 politeness, but a good deal more ; and after observing him for 
 some minutes with great amusement, she next twisted up a hay- 
 stalk in the shape of an eye-glass, and walked about after him, 
 picking up little things which she frowned over and subjected 
 to a minute inspection, greatly to the amusement of Mr TJaorpe. 
 For some time Percy was not aware of what she was doing, but 
 his suspicions were awakened at last in consequence of one or 
 two smothered bursts of laughter from Susan and Constance, and, 
 happening once to turn rather suddenly, he caught Lisa with the 
 pretended glass to her eye, in the act of exchanging a glance of 
 ill-suppressed merriment with Mr Thorpe. It was not what he 
 had expected. That he was not improved by his near-sighted- 
 ness he knew well enough, and if she alone had chosen to 
 laugh at him on that account, he would have thought nothing of 
 it; but that she should amuse herself at his expense with a 
 
72 ATHERSTOKE PRIORY. 
 
 comparative stranger was what he had not looked for, and Lisa 
 no sooner met his eye than she saw she had gone too far ; she 
 saw she had wounded him deeply, and all her wilful recklessness 
 vanished in a moment. She was miserable ; she would have 
 given anything to tell him she was sorry — that she had been 
 thoughtless and rude, but would never be so again. But Mr 
 Thorpe was standing there, and she could not speak. She 
 turned away, hot, blinding tears in her eyes, only caring that no 
 one should notice her, or know how wretched she was. 1 
 
 The handkerchief was found. After a long search, Percy 
 discovered it in some hay at a little distance, and brought it to 
 her when she was beginning to fear she had quite lost it. She 
 took it in silence ; she could not thank him, and, tying it round 
 her neck again, walked back to the farm feeling more miserable 
 than ever. Mr Thorpe chose to keep her company, and she saw 
 no more of her cousin till late that evening, when, as she was 
 passing through the hall, on her way up-stairs, she heard the 
 house-door open, and looking round saw him just coming in. 
 She had thought that she must wait till morning to make her 
 confession — to ask him to forgive her; but now here was the 
 opportunity she was longing for, she could speak to him at once 
 if she liked ; and after a moment's hesitation, looking very shy 
 and very miserable, she walked up to him. 
 
 * Percy,' — he was stooping down, but started as she spoke, 
 and looked up, — Tercy, I was very rude to you this evening; but 
 won't you forgive me 1 You don't know how sorry I am.' Her 
 lip quivered, and her eyes were full of tears as she spoke. 
 
 Percy's face brightened strangely. He must have been very 
 different from what he was if he could have resisted such an 
 appeal. He forgot his annoyance completely, and only thought 
 her the prettiest and most lovable little creature he had ever 
 seen. 
 
 'Never mind, Lisa,' he said with a smile ; 4t was foolish of 
 me to care about it. I might have known better than to take 
 such a thing amiss from you. And I believe I am awkward at 
 limes; you had a legitimate excuse for your amusement.' 
 
 ' I hadn't ; it was all my naughtiness. O Percy ! I am sorry. 
 Won't you say you forgive me 1 I shall never be happy if you 
 don't.' 
 
 * Won't you 1 Then, pray, be happy directly. I don't think 
 my forgiveness necessary ; but if you ask for it, you may be sure 
 you have it.' 
 
PENITENCE. 73 
 
 'Forain For everything? For it isn't only to-night I've 
 been so bad ; it 's all this week. I We tormented you, and done 
 everything I could to vex you, because I was angry with Isabel. 
 Oh dear, I wish I were not so wicked ! When I once get angry, 
 I don^t know what I do. And I Ve been dreadfully provok- 
 ing to you, and done all sorts of things that I knew you 
 didn't like. I 'm very sorry now. I think, Percy, please, that 
 if you'll forgive me, I'll never do it again. I'll try and be 
 much better.' 
 
 ' My dear Lisa, don't look so penitent,' he said, with an attempt 
 at a laugh ; ^ you are not in the confessional, nor have I seen any- 
 thing of the *' wickedness " you talk of. I am sorry Isabel vexed 
 you so much the other day, but I know it was unintentionally 
 she did it. If she had known you were there, she w^ould not have 
 said what she did ; she wanted me to tell you she was sorry, and 
 that she should be very glad if you would go whenever you like.' 
 
 * Why didn't she tell me so herself, then?' thought Lisa, though 
 she did not say so. She only answered, * Never mind about her, 
 it 's only you I care for ; and if you forgive me, and will forget 
 how bad I've been the last few days, I don't want anything 
 else. AVill you shake hands with me, please, and let us be quite 
 friends?' 
 
 Percy smiled as he held out his hand, and they parted on most 
 amicable terms. 
 
 * I 've brought you my drawing to look at,' Lisa said the next 
 day. ' It's done now, — I worked at it a whole hour this morning ; 
 and I don't think it 's very badly done either. What do you 
 say ? And,' — looking at him with a mixture half of fun, half of 
 shyness, — ^ my throat is well again ; Mary and I are going to have 
 some singing by and by. I think you may as well come and 
 listen to us, and then I can give you some tea afterwards. You 
 will find it pleasanter up-stairs with us than sitting here by 
 yourself.' 
 
 Her naughtiness and caprice were gone for the time ; and, 
 being only anxious to make amends for her late waywardness, 
 she took the greatest pains to please him, and became as docile 
 as the most obedient child. And he, only too delighted at this 
 new change for the better, forgot the annoyances of the past 
 week — forgot that she could be anything but what she then was, 
 and thought her more charming than ever. How often, indeed, 
 he was dreaming of her when he ought to have been thinking of 
 other things would have been hard to say, but if Isabel's com- 
 
74 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. ; 
 
 plaints at that time of his frequent distractions were to be be- ! 
 lieved, they must have been something alarming. They certainly \ 
 gave her great cause for dissatisfaction, although she was puzzled \ 
 to account for them. 
 
 CHAPTER XL • I 
 
 A TALK, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 
 
 One afternoon Lisa was busy with a French lesson in her own i 
 room. She liked to take her books there, for she could learnt 
 better when alone, and, moreover, she was fond of her little i 
 closet. The great charm of the place must have consisted in its : 
 being her own, for there was nothing else to make it attractive, i 
 It was very small^ and poorly furnished. The floor, with the j 
 exception of one narrow strip of carpet, was bare ; the walls were i 
 unpapered, and the bed was without hangings. A little chest of i 
 drawers, a little wash-hand stand, and one little chair made up ^ 
 the furniture, and not much taste had been consulted in the ; 
 choice of these articles. Anything would do for Lisa, said Mrs ] 
 Tennent, on the principle, most probably, that beggars must not i 
 be choosers; and if Lisa thought she would have liked some things \ 
 different, she did not say so, and consoled herself with the reflec- 1 
 tion that the place was her own, and she could do what she liked j 
 there. And if the room did look rather bare sometimes, in the i 
 early morning, when the tapping of the lime-tree boughs upon | 
 her window roused her from her slumbers before it was time to \ 
 get up, she did not mind it, for she could hear the first notes of 
 the birds in the garden, and see the sunlight playing on the green \ 
 leaves as the breezes stirred them ; and these sights and sounds ] 
 brought thoughts of other happy things, and carried her from her i 
 dingy room in the midst of a crowded town, to country meadows ] 
 and country vfoods far away, over which the free winds were ^ 
 blowing, and where wild-flowers were springing and green boughs i 
 waving, whose beauty would never be soiled by the dust and ] 
 smoke that so soon darkened the Priory trees. Now, although -i 
 it was only the end of June, the freshness of these had passed ^^ 
 away, and they had settled down into the sombre aspect which^' 
 
75 
 
 they always wore in the long, hot months. Beautiful, however, 
 
 Lisa thought them, for they were old friends — she had watched 
 
 them bud, and come to leaf, and fade, for many and many a year 
 
 — and familiar things have always a beauty of their own. She 
 
 liked to sit and look up into their deep recesses — to hear the 
 
 loud humming of the bees among their flowers, and to catch 
 
 glimpses of blue sky between their leaves ; and she liked to look 
 
 beyond them, and see the jackdaws wheeling round the tower of 
 
 the old Priory Church, whose grey massive walls, mantling ivy, 
 
 and hourly chimes had been objects of the deepest interest ever 
 
 since the day when, as a little child, she had first seen and heard 
 
 them. On a summers day like the present — when the glory 
 
 that was haunting the country penetrated even the dusky town ; 
 
 when the sunshine was lying in a golden flood upon the lawn, 
 
 and soft airs crept by, hardly raising the leaves as they passed ; 
 
 \ when there was a perfect chorus of insect life among the trees, 
 
 i and the stir and tumult in the busy streets sounded far off and 
 
 I indistinct — on such a day as this she could have sat for hours in 
 
 I the dreamy luxury of doing nothing. Perhaps it was the con- 
 
 [ sciousness that she had been indulging too long in this luxury 
 
 i that made her now keep her eyes fixed so resolutely on her book, 
 
 while she conned the long piece of Kacine's * Mithridate ' which 
 
 Madame Picard had given her to learn. She was going over 
 
 her lesson very diligently, when a little stone alighting on the page 
 
 before her made her look up. Percy was standing in the green 
 
 walk below. 
 
 ^ Come down, Lisa ; I want you,' he said. * What are you 
 doing there 1 ' 
 
 ^ Learning a French lesson for Madame,' — and she held up her 
 book. 
 
 * Never mind the French ! Put it away now, I want you.' 
 ^ Why, Percy,' and she looked very much astonished, ^that 
 isn't like you ! You always tell me to finish my work before I 
 begin to amuse myself. Besides, Mary told me to be sure and 
 
 1 learn this before I did anything else. I must do it, I think' 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 ' Yes, of course ; you are right. Well, come when you are 
 ready, then ; you won't be long, I suppose 1 ' 
 
 ' Not very ; I'll make haste. But what do you w^ant me for? 
 Anything particular 1 ' 
 
 ' I '11 tell you when you come. You '11 find me at the bottom 
 of the walk.' A.nd he turned away. 
 
76 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 * I wonder what it isV Lisa thought. ' Something pleasant, 
 I am sure; for I saw him smiling.' And stopping her arts 
 once more, she pored over her book until the lesson was learnt, 
 and had beqn said from beginning to end without a mistake ; 
 then dashing the volume on the floor (that was an accident, for 
 she meant to throw it on the bed), away she went. Her foot 
 was strong now, and she took her accustomed jump at the bottom 
 of the stairs, and then flew through the garden door into the 
 green walk, where, true to his promise, she found Percy waiting. 
 She danced up to him. 
 
 ' Here I am ! I 've done at last ; and very glad I am. And 
 now I hope you have some pleasant news to tell me. You 
 look as if you had, and I am sure I want something to refresh 
 me after that horrid Eacine. How I wish that man had never 
 been born ! He 's the plague of my life. But what do you 
 want me for 1 Have you anything to. tell me 1 ' 
 
 * Yes, I have. Didn't you say this morning that you would 
 like to go with us to Hazeldean next Thursday ] ' 
 
 Lisa looked at him doubtfully — * Yes, I did. I should like 
 it beyond everything. But what do you mean ? I know I 
 can t go.' 
 
 *Do you? I am not so sure of that. Unless you wish 
 to stay at home, I don't think there will be anything to 
 prevent you. Mrs Tennent has no objection to your going.' 
 
 'No objection? Aunt Helen? She wall let me go?' Lisa 
 exclaimed, not very coherent in her surprise and joy. * But 
 no ; you can't be in earnest ! It must be a mistake ! ' and 
 her face, which had brightened up with eagerness, sobered 
 down again. 
 
 * No ; I shouldn't tell you such a thing, Lisa, if you were 
 likely to be disappointed. It is not a mistake. I asked Mrs 
 Tennent myself, and she told me she would let you. You 
 will hear it frcm her by and by.' 
 
 Lisa's face flushed with mingled astonishment and delight. 
 * You asked her ? Then it 's your doing, Percy ? You did it 
 because you knew I should like it ! ' 
 
 He smiled. * That was my reason, Lisa. I wasn't wrong, 
 was I ? It will give you pleasure to go ? ' 
 
 ' Pleasure ! Oh, so much ! ' — and she looked up at him 
 with a very radiant face. * I am so glad, so pleased — so — oh ! '\ 
 I don't know what — only I shall like it so very much, ^nd it 
 was very kind of you to get me the pleasure. I wonder, 
 
A TALK, AND WHAT CAME OF IT* 77 
 
 though, what made you think of it— why, indeed, you so 
 often think of what will please meV 
 
 'Do 1 *? ' he said, * I am glad to hear it. Do you think it 
 so very strange, though, that any one should wish to pleas6 
 you ? ' 
 
 * I don't know. I don^b fancy many people do. Mary does, 
 but she couldn't have done such a thing as this if she had 
 wished it ever so much. Aunt Helen would not have let 
 me go if she had asked. But, oh dear ! I can hardly believe 
 it. Fancy seeing the castle and the beautiful woods there, 
 and dining out of doors, and dancing in the evening ! How 
 delightful it will be ! Percy, I am so much obliged to you 
 for asking for me. But you are always doing things for me ; 
 is there nothing I can do for you*? — nothing that will give 
 you a little pleasure 1 ' 
 
 * And you think it is not pleasure enough, then, to see you 
 pleased, Lisa 1 ' 
 
 * Oh no, I don't. I know you like to please me, or you 
 wouldn't take so much trouble to do it. But ' 
 
 * But you think so much of a little, that you feel quite 
 oppressed by the amount of gratitude that is burdening you. 
 Well, you shall pay me if you like, Lisa ; you shall give 
 me a great pleasure.' 
 
 * Yes. What is it T with great eagerness. 
 
 * Will you keep two dances for me on Thursday ? ' 
 
 Lisa looked very much amused. * To be sure I will ; aa 
 many as you like. But I didn't know you cared for danc- 
 ing.' 
 
 ' Didn't you ? It depends on my partner. I don't care to 
 dance with everybody; but when I know and like a person, 
 it is very different. Don't forget you are engaged for the first 
 two.' 
 
 * No, I won't ; but, as far as that goes, I could dance with 
 you the whole evening, for nobody else is likely to ask me.' 
 
 * Are they not 1 ' he said. * You will not have more difficulty 
 in getting partners, I suppose, than any one else.' 
 
 Lisa shook her head. * I shall be so much younger than 
 any one else,' she said, * and I don't know the people. There 
 is Mr Watts, to be sure ; perhaps he may ask me : and — Mr 
 Thorpe — oh ! I had forgotten him.' 
 
 ^ It would be much pleasanter ; I should enjoy it a good 
 deal more if they were not here,' she said, after a pause. 
 
78 ' ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 ^Tliey! Who are they ?^ 
 
 ' Mr Thorpe, and — and Isabel. Percy, I am very sorry, 
 but I am sure she will never like me. It's something in 
 myself, I know, but I can't help it. She makes me angry. 
 I was very angry last night,' alluding to something that had 
 passed the day before. * You saw it, I suppose 1 ' 
 
 * I saw you did not like what she said. But I think you 
 misunderstood her, Lisa. She did not intend to vex you.' 
 
 Lisa put up her shoulder a little pettishly; but after a 
 moment she said humbly, *I was wrong, I know; I thought 
 so afterwards. And,' — with a sigh — ' I suppose what she said 
 was true. I ought to take a great deal more pains about many 
 things than I do. You think so too, don't you 1 ' 
 
 * I do, Lisa,* he said frankly ; ' I think it a great pity you 
 don't pay more attention to some of the little things which 
 make up a large part of a woman's duties. It is a woman's 
 business, is it not, to make home as pleasant as possible ; and 
 how can she do that if she does not make herself attractive, 
 by cultivating every gift she has ] Let it be beauty, or talents, 
 or pleasing manners, she may be quite sure it has been given 
 her for some good purpose, and that she is bound to make 
 the most of it. If she does not do so, if she takes no trouble 
 to give pleasure to those about her by studying the little 
 things — the little elegancies that make all the difference in 
 home life — she is not doing her duty. She is wasting the 
 good things that have been given her.' 
 
 Lisa was silent for a few minutes ; she was looking rather 
 surprised. * You think, then, that women ought to make a 
 great deal of themselves, and of everything they have ? That 
 would make them very vain, wouldn't it ] ' 
 
 * Why should it, if it is done from a right motive ? The 
 thing is, that so many women are not content with making 
 themselves as pretty and agreeable as they can in their own 
 homes; they go out to look for admiration from strangers. 
 They will spend a fortune in dressing to go into society, but 
 anything is good enough for home, where there is only a 
 brother or a husband to see them. That comes from vanity, 
 if you like, Lisa ; but a woman who takes trouble to make 
 herself look nice for those she loves, will not be vain, you 
 may be quite sure.' 
 
 * No, I shouldn't think she would. But then a great many 
 women can't do as they like ; perhaps they haven't the money 
 
A TALK, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 79 
 
 to make themselves look as nice as they would if they were 
 richer.' 
 
 ^ Very likely not ; there are a great many of course in that 
 case ; but I was talking of those who have the means. If people 
 are able to spend so much when they go out, let them spare a 
 little for home too ; and if they have not enough for both, let 
 home come first, I say. But, after all, it is not so much what 
 they spend, as how they spend it ; and taste and care will make a 
 woman look well dressed on very little. And I never like to see 
 any one without that care, for I think she can be doing little 
 towards making her home pleasant.' 
 
 Lisa was silent again ; she stood leaning against a tree, pulling 
 to pieces some flowers which she had gathered as they walked. 
 There was a deep blush on her face ; and when she looked up at 
 last, it was with some embarrassment. 
 
 * I am very sorry, Percy. I never thought about these things 
 before. Of course, I knew I was careless, and that I ought to 
 be neat and take pains about a great many things that I didn't ; 
 but still it never came into my head it would make so much 
 difference, or that I was not doing my duty at home. And 
 you say you don't like any one who does not do that. I 'm very 
 sorry.' 
 
 ' My dear Lisa, I didn't mean that for you ; you must not 
 think so. I said " a woman," and although,' — with a smile, — * I 
 suppose you can lay claim to the title in one way, yet you are 
 young enough to make yourself what you like ; and, from what 
 I know of you, I am quite sure that what you will like will be 
 to make yourself everything a woman ought to be. No one 
 would think of judging you at present as they would a grown-up 
 person. A year or two, you will find, will make a great differ- 
 ence to you in many ways.' 
 
 ' Yes,' a little doubtfully. ^ I needn't wait a year or two, 
 though, to make a difference in one way ; ' and she glanced at 
 her dress. ' I shall not be much older to-morrow than to-day, 
 but you shall not see me so untidy again. I can't help it if my 
 things are not so pretty as I should like, because I don't choose 
 them myself; but still I can put them on properly, and I can 
 make my collars look nice. I can plait my hair, too, as I do 
 Mary's sometimes; and you said once when I had done it, 
 how well it looked, and you wished I would do mine the same 
 way.' 
 
 * Yes, I remember. You have such beautiful hair, Lisa.' He 
 
80 ATnERSTOHE PRIORr. 
 
 said it gravely, as if he were stating a fact, not paying a com- 
 pliment ; nor did slie take it as one, though she looked very 
 much pleased. 
 
 * I am so glad you like it ! ' she said simply. 
 
 * Yes, I like it better than any I have ever seen ; that shade 
 of golden brown is so very uncommon. I recollect noticing 
 it the first night I came home. You were sitting talking to 
 Arthur, I remember, for a long time, and the light from the 
 lamp was on your head. You looked very bright that even- 
 ing, Lisa; you made a very pretty picture,' he added, with a 
 smile. 
 
 Lisa half smiled too, but her colour rose. The thought of 
 that evening, and of all the foolish things she had then said, was 
 not very pleasant, and she would have been very glad to forget 
 it entirely. 
 
 She went away now full of plans for carrying out her new 
 resolutions ; and any one who on the following morning had seen 
 the earnestness with which she set to work to make the most of 
 her simple dress, would have smiled at the alteration which a 
 few hours had elBfected in her ideas. Not a hair now was out of 
 its place, and every plait was carefully arranged (she was so glad 
 Percy liked her hair, she wondered whether he liked anything 
 else about her too), and then clean collar and cuffs were put on, 
 and a waist-band hunted up from an indescribable wilderness of 
 rubbish in one of her drawers ; and when her toilet was com- 
 pleted she surveyed herself with much satisfaction in the cracked 
 looking-glass. She really did look very nice, there was no mistake 
 about it ; the only thing she seemed to want was a ribbon for 
 her neck ; but sundry calculations of the money allowed her for 
 boots, gloves, &c., soon proved that this was out of the question ; 
 she had only just enough to carry her through the quarter, with 
 one shilling left over, which she meant to spend on a little tea 
 for an old woman she knew. The new ribbon must be given up 
 therefore. After all, it did not matter very much, she would get 
 a few flowers instead ; so she went to the garden, and gathering 
 a moss-rose bud and one or two green leaves, fastened them in 
 the top of her dress in the place of a brooch. At the foot of the 
 stairs, on her return, she came upon Percy. 
 
 ' Good morning, sir,' she said, making him a curtsey, * How 
 do I look to-day ? Tell me what you think of me. Do I want 
 anything else ? ' 
 
 He put up his glass, and surveyed her from head to foot. 
 
A TALKj AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 81 
 
 'I never saw anything look better, Lisa/ lie said, gravely ; 
 *you are perfect.' 
 
 Her laugh was a merry one. * Perfect ! In a cotton dress ! 
 ' Percy ! I 'm afraid your taste is not perfect. I might have 
 something twenty times prettier, 
 
 ' Might you? Ah, yes, perhaps so. But I was not thinking 
 of your dress.' 
 
 ' ]^ot thinking of my dress ! And when I asked you par- 
 ticularly to look at it ! ' — and she made a pretence of pouting 
 a little. * What were you thinking of, then ? The best way 
 will be to leave you to yourself, and then you can think as 
 much as you please. I beg your pardon for interrupting you at 
 all. Good-bye.' 
 
 'Lisa has gone into the other extreme now,' was Isabel's 
 remark when the change in her cousin's dress was first com- 
 mented on. ' From untidiness she has gone into coquettishness. 
 I hope that is not your doing, Percy ; 1 notice she pays more 
 attention to you than she does to anybody else.' 
 
 * Does she 1 ' — and the change in her brother's face did not 
 escape Isabel's quick eye. * What is the matter with her dress 1 
 I thought I never saw her look better than she did at break- 
 fast.' 
 
 ' No ; and she knew it. I felt quite sorry I had ever said a 
 word to her about being careless ; I would rather she had re- 
 mained so all her life than see her turn out vain and giddy. 
 We want no more of that kind of thing in our family ; we know 
 the consequences of it only too well.' 
 
 Percy's brow clouded. * I don't think you know what you 
 are talking about, Isabel. One might as well associate such 
 thoughts with the child just born as with Lisa. She is as 
 innocent as girl can be, and without a spark of vanity in 
 her.' 
 
 * Perhaps so — at present,' Isabel answered, pointedly; *but 
 she is like her mother — too like, both in face and manner ; I 
 should be sorry to trust the happiness of any one I cared for to 
 her keeping.' 
 
82 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE HAZELDEAN WOODS. 
 
 Thursday, the day of the pic-nic, came, and a glorious day it 
 was ; fine enough to satisfy even Lisa, who at a very early hour 
 that morning was in the garden, to investigate the appearance of 
 the sky. But she could see no cause to fear any change in the 
 lovely weather which had lately set in ; and although there was 
 a good deal of mist about, and the sky wore rather a grey and 
 sombre look, she knew these were tokens of heat, not of rain, 
 and that they would pass away as the day advanced. And 
 so they did ; and between nine and ten o'clock the sun had come 
 out in such splendour, that the only apprehension felt by any one 
 was lest it should be too hot for enjoyment. But Lisa had no 
 such forebodings. Once satisfied that there was no fear of rain, 
 she was convinced that everything would be delightful; and 
 when the carriages came to the door, her spirits were at a pitch 
 far beyond the reach of all petty discomforts. Not even the dust 
 and heat of the long drive, nor a back seat opposite her aunt in 
 a barouche, instead of going with Percy, as she had hoped, in 
 their own little carriage, could at all affect her ; and she contrived 
 to amuse herself so well with her own observations on everything 
 they passed, that her face was the brightest and most joyous- 
 looking of all the party that met in what had once been the 
 court-yard of Hazeldean Castle. 
 
 A very large party they were. She did not know a quarter of 
 them, and would have felt utterly bewildered by the number of 
 strange faces, had not Percy taken her under his protection. 
 Suggestions for an exploring expedition, and for mounting to the 
 top of one of the towers, were soon set on foot, and the proposal 
 finding great favour among the younger members of the party, 
 nearly all of them prepared to carry it out. Large as the num- 
 bers were, however, who began the scramble to the top of the old 
 castle, there were not many who really accomplished it. Only a 
 venturesome few gained the summit, and of these Lisa was one ; 
 being the first, indeed, to set her foot on the highest point to be 
 reached ; and as she did so, she burst into exclamations of wonder 
 and delight at the prospect that lay before her. 
 
 It was said that five counties were to be seen from the turrets 
 
THE HAZELDEAN WOODS. 83 
 
 of Hazeldean Castle ; and certainly, in the extensive view tliat 
 stretched away in the dim distance, it was not difficult to believe 
 that this was the case ; but it was the landscape nearer at hand 
 that most attracted the attention, so beautiful did it look in the 
 light of that glorious summer's day. Hill and valley, green woods 
 heavy with their July foliage, sparkling streams that wound their 
 way like silver threads through far-oif meadows, sunny corn-fields, 
 and sloping pasture-lands, all lay basking in the soft, misty haze 
 of noonday; while the blue sky above them, dark in the intensity 
 of its unfathomable depths, was unstreaked by a single cloud. 
 When her first burst of surprise and delight was over, Lisa could 
 only stand and look with feelings that took away the power of 
 speaking ; and Percy, who was by her side, saw the tears gather- 
 ing in her eyes, though she smiled and blushed a little when she 
 found he had noticed them. 
 
 * I can't help it,' she said, in a low voice ; * beautiful things 
 always make me cry ;' she gave a long sigh, * I never could have 
 fancied anything balf as lovely as this.' 
 
 He smiled, but made no answer ; and they stood together in 
 silence, while a very animated discussion was going on between 
 the others, who had not much attention to bestow on the nearer 
 view. They were intent upon looking out for certain spires and 
 other landmarks by which the different counties might be dis- 
 tinguished ; and there was a good deal of grumbling at the 
 ' misty light of the day,' and ^ that provoking haze,' which pre- 
 vented their seeing objects that ought to have been visible. 
 
 ' Very stupid this,' said Cunninghame Thorpe, coming up to 
 Lisa and speaking in an injured tone. 'I had no idea we 
 shouldn't see more, or I should never have come up at all. By 
 Jove, what a pull ! And for nothing, too ! One might just as 
 well have stayed at the bottom for what there is to look at.' He 
 seated himself on the parapet as he spoke, and looked down rather 
 dolefully, as if taking in all the toils and pains of descent, while 
 Lisa regarded him with some amusement, not unmixed with 
 scorn. 
 
 ' I wonder,' she said, ' you didn't send some one first to ascertain 
 whether the view were worth looking at before you ventured so 
 far ; it would have saved you so much fatigue. For my part, I 
 wouldn't have missed coming for anything ; it is far more beauti- 
 ful than I could ever have imagined.' And her eye went back 
 to that summer scene as if she could never tire of gazing at it. 
 
84 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 Cunninghame looked at her for a moment or two, as if not quite 
 sure whether she were in earnest. 
 
 ^ You have never been abroad, have you ^ ' he asked. ' No ? 
 ah, I thought not ; you wouldn't think much of this kind of 
 scenery if you had.' 
 
 * Then I am very glad I never have ! ' 
 
 ^ But why 1 ' asked Mary, who was standing by, * why shouldn't 
 we care for this if we had been abroad 1 I should think that 
 seeing foreign scenery, however grand it may be, would only 
 make one appreciate all the more quiet home beauty like this. 
 I don't know why we are to despise it because it bears no re- 
 semblance to a Swiss or Italian view.' 
 
 ' Oh, no, certainly not ; it 's all very well in its way ; 
 but,' with a half- suppressed yawn, ^ when one becomes accus- 
 tomed to the grand and sublime, one is apt to find this 
 kind of scenery rather tame. I don't fancy you would meet 
 with many people to care for it who had been among the Alps 
 or Pyrenees.' 
 
 * Do you think so ? ' said Mary. ' I should have thought it 
 was just the contrary. Beauty is beauty wherever it is ; and 
 when the eye and the taste have been cultivated as they 
 ought to be by travelling, one would think they would be 
 all the quicker to find it out even in common scenes, where it 
 might be passed over by those who have never been trained to 
 look for it.' 
 
 ^ Perhaps so. I daresay you are right,' said Cunninghame de- 
 ferentially. ' But I am afraid the experience of peoj)le in general 
 would go against your argument. However, I suppose we are 
 going down now, are we not 1 unless any one has a fancy for be- 
 ing baked alive up here. Allow me to go first and help you 
 down those steps, they are not safe by any means. I think if 
 one is obliged to mount these kind of places, they ought to be 
 kept in repair. I should like to know how many accidents 
 happen here in a year.' 
 
 No accident took place now, in spite of Mr Thorpe's evident 
 anticipations of some such event, and the descent was accom- 
 plished in perfect safety by everybody. Dinner vras the next 
 thing to be thought of, and was, to judge from appearances, far 
 more appreciated by the company in general than their scram- 
 bling expedition had been ; while Lisa, much as she had enjoyed 
 that, thought that nothing could be more delightful than dining 
 
THE HAZELDEAN WOODB. 85 
 
 under the sliade of the trees, with the long grass waving round 
 them, and the little brook that rushed at their feet dancing in 
 the sunshine. It was everything she had expected ; the single 
 drawback being that she saw nothing of Percy ; Mr Thorpe hav- 
 ing taken Elinor and herself under his care, and her cousin being 
 engaged with some one else. But when dinner was over, and 
 parties were forming for walking or amusing themselves, he 
 came up to her. 
 
 ^ You will like to see something of the woods, Lisa, won't you] 
 Will you go to the dripping welH' 
 
 ' Yes, oh, yes ; I should like it exceedingly,' she said, spring- 
 ing up joyfully. It was one of the principal places to be visited 
 at Hazeldean, and she had often heard of it. She would like to 
 have started at once, but it appeared that Isabel and some others 
 wished to go also, and as Percy knew more about the road than 
 any one else, they were obliged to wait while several young ladies 
 were deciding whether they w^ould accompany them or not. 
 Most of them, however, settled that the distance was too great, 
 and the party was reduced at length to themselves, Janet, Isabel, 
 Elinor, and two friends of the latter of the name of Eraser, 
 merry, good-natured girls, who had sat near Lisa at dinner, and 
 had half amused, half puzzled her by the nonsense they talked, 
 and the bantering conversation they had carried on with Mr 
 Thorpe whenever they could get his attention. A great deal of 
 what they had said had been utterly unintelligible to her, but 
 she had been entertained even when she could not understand 
 the drift of their speeches ; and as they talked to her also, and 
 seemed disposed to be sociable, she was not inclined to dislike 
 them. Cunninghame and another gentleman made up the party, 
 and after some delay they all set out ; Percy and herself, how- 
 ever, getting on so much faster than the others, that they were 
 soon far in advance of them ; and when they came to a turn in 
 the road, she made a pause, 
 
 * We had better wait for them, hadn't we?' she said. ^Look 
 how far they are behind ; they will lose their way altogether if 
 we get out of sight.' 
 
 *They can't go wrong when they are once here,' Percy re- 
 marked, clearing the brook himself, and helping her to cross 
 the slippery stones which were laid down in the middle of it. 
 * When they are in the path on this side we can get on as fast as 
 we like ; and as I know you don't mind a little rough walking, 
 
86 ATHEKSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 I '11 take you by a short cut, which will be much pleasanter than 
 the straight road. Shall we try it ?' 
 
 *Yes, if you like; I don't mind scrambling. It's not so 
 fatiguing to me as it is to Mr Thorpe. " By Jove, what a pull, 
 and all for nothing ! '' ' she said, imitating his tones. * Poor 
 fellow ! I pity him for finding things such a trouble ; he must 
 lose a great deal of pleasure. But I think, if we are going 
 to have much scrambling, I had better fasten up my dress; 
 you wouldn't like to see me dancing in shreds and tatters this 
 evening.' 
 
 * No ; indeed ! I thought you told me the other day you had 
 nothing pretty to wear, but that is pretty enough for anything. 
 I never saw anybody look better than you do now, Lisa.' 
 
 She smiled. ' I am glad you think so ; for I took a great 
 deal of trouble this morning to make myself look nice. I knew 
 you would like it.' 
 
 She fastened up her dress, and they sauntered slowly on until 
 they saw the others fairly started in the right path, when 
 they left the road and struck off into the deep recesses of 
 the wood. Following the windings of the brook, sometimes on 
 the high ground above its banks, and sometimes on the very 
 brink of its waters, they wandered on under the tall trees, and 
 through shady glades, where the grass grew high, and the fern 
 and the foxglove flourished in abundance ; and where Lisa went 
 wild with the luxuriant loveliness of all around. She ran about, 
 uttering exclamations of delight and wonder as each turn re- 
 vealed some fresh beauty, and every step showed some flower or 
 plant she had never met with before. The only drawback to 
 her pleasure was that Mary was not there to share it with 
 her. 
 
 ' What a pity she is not with us ! How I wish she had 
 come ! ' she exclaimed, when, tired at last, she stopped to re- 
 cover her breath. ' But we can take back some of these flowers 
 for her ; she will be so pleased with them. And — Percy, do 
 get me some of that beautiful blue flower growing there in the 
 water. What can it be ? The true forget-me-not, I do believe. 
 How lovely it is!' 
 
 The true forget-me-not it turned out to be ; and Percy, who 
 had been making a selection of the prettiest flowers he could 
 find, proceeded to mix some of it with them, and then arranging 
 them all with the greatest care, he made them up into a bouquet 
 
THE HAZELDEAN WOODS. 87 
 
 which, for taste and beauty, if not for richness of colour and 
 perfume, might have rivalled any garden blossoms. 
 
 ' There it is, Lisa,' he said, as he put the finishing touch to it. 
 * You like wild flowers, I know. Will it be good enough for this 
 evening]' 
 
 * Good enough ! It is beautiful. How well you have arranged 
 them. But, Percy, I must not be the only lady with one this 
 evening ; can't we make another for Mary 1 I have plenty of 
 flowers here, and if you will get me some of that pretty green 
 you have put with mine, we shall have one all ready for her.' 
 
 Percy did as he was asked ; and when Lisa, with great glee, 
 had made up another bouquet for her cousin, they resumed their 
 walk, and, after some more scrambling, came out upon some rising 
 ground not far from the spot they had come to see. They de- 
 cided to wait there for the rest of the party, and as there were 
 no signs of their approach, and a fallen tree offered a convenient 
 seat, they sat down, not sorry to rest after their long walk. It 
 was one of the most beautiful places they could have chosen for 
 the purpose, on the summit of a knoll above the stream whose 
 banks they had followed, and whose waters bubbled and danced 
 below in alternate light and shade. Behind them rose high 
 rocks whose recesses were tapestried with lichens and pale green 
 feathery ferns, and over their heads the ash-tree and the beech 
 mingled their branches, and shut out the scorching rays of the 
 afternoon sun. Here and there, however, there came down a 
 bright beam or two on the long grass and the tangled brush- 
 wood; and through the heavy foliage an occasional glimpse 
 might be caught of the azure sky above. Some few insects 
 hovered where the sunlight fell, and now and then a bee mur- 
 mured past ; but the woods were very still, for the birds were 
 sheltering from the heat, and even the topmost leaves of the trees 
 drooped idly, for there was no wind to stir them. The breezes 
 had strayed away that day, and silence and rest seemed to have 
 settled on everything. Lisa herself sat silent and still, looking 
 at the scene around her, and listening to a description which 
 Percy gave her of the forests of Jamaica where he had once been. 
 She could see it all in imagination — the grand old trees with 
 trunks like massive columns ; the light that came down, soft and 
 green, through their leafy arches ; the festoons of trailing creepers 
 drooping from their boughs ; and the solemn gloom that brooded 
 over all. In fancy she walked among them, and felt the warm. 
 
88 ATHERSTONE PRIOllY. 
 
 damp air steaming up from the moist ground beneath her feet j 
 and saw the tall ferns waving round her in thousands and 
 myriads. And in fancy, after long wanderings through the 
 forest, she emerged from its shadows, and trod more open 
 ground, brilliant with flowers of gorgeous colours, and alive with 
 butterflies and insects more gorgeous still ; while, all about her, 
 among the purple blossoms, and the bright green leaves, black 
 and golden humming-birds were flitting in countless numbers. 
 Or she went higher still, and heard in lonely wilds the ^ Miserere ' 
 chanted in sweet unearthly tones by the solitaire, and watched 
 the yellow light glitter on untrod mountain peaks, and on the 
 distant sea. She sat wrapt in a sort of trance as those far-off 
 scenes rose, one by one, before her in all the splendour of their 
 tropical beauty — beauty of which she might have read a hundred 
 times, and never have realised it as she did, while listening to 
 the glowing words with which Percy clothed his descriptions. 
 And w^hen he paused at length, she started, to find herself so 
 far away from the mountains and forests where, in fancy, she 
 had been wandering ; sitting instead in an English wood, with 
 English wild flowers and English trees around her, and in place 
 of the purple ocean, a little babbling brook at her feet, with 
 green banks above it, and low shrubs dipping into its waters. 
 Percy, who had been watching her while he- was speaking, smiled 
 at the expression of her face. 
 
 * What are you thinking of, Lisa ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Thinking of 1 Of what you were telling me — of those 
 places, and how beautiful they must be. I was half wishing I 
 could see them all.' 
 
 ' Only half wishing ! You do not want to leave England, then ? 
 But would it be very hard for you to do so if you were obliged — 
 would you mind it very much ] ' 
 
 Lisa looked up in some surprise, but it was more at the tone 
 in which this was said than at the words themselves. 
 
 * I don't know. But why — why do you ask ? I shall never 
 have to go, shall I ? unless — yes, I had forgotten that — perhaps 
 when I am a governess I may be obliged. Oh, I shouldn't like 
 it at all ; I should be so far away from the Priory : I hope I 
 never shall.' 
 
 ' I did not mean that, Lisa. You might go with some one 
 you cared for — some one who cared for you — would that make a 
 difference ? Would jrou dislike going then ]' 
 
THE HAZELDEAN WOODS. 89 
 
 Lisa looked at him. ' No. I don't tliink so ; I should not 
 mind where I went with any one I cared for. But that is the 
 worst of being a governess : you can't be with the people you 
 care for ; I never knew till lately how hard that must be, 
 because I never felt before how much the Priory is like a home 
 to me. That has been your doing, Percy ; it is you who have 
 made it so ; it has been a different place since you came, and it 
 will be very different to me again when you go.' There was 
 something of sadness in her tone. 
 
 ' Well, I am not going yet, Lisa,' he answered lightly. * I 
 stay till October now, you know.' 
 
 ' Yes, I am very glad. And I hope when you go, it will not 
 be where there is any fighting. I used to like to hear of battles 
 and glory, but I don't now, and I wish there was nothing of 
 the sort. I can't bear it.^ 
 
 * What, not the glory, Lisa ? You, who are so excited when 
 you read of heroic deeds, and who look as if you were ready 
 to march to battle yourself when you hear stirring music ; 
 you to say that you don't care for glory ! That must be a 
 mistake.' 
 
 * No, it isn't. I like glory very much, and I like to hear of 
 brave things that have been done when I know the danger is 
 over ; but I don't like to hear of them when some one I care for 
 is in the midst of it all ; and that would always be the case now, 
 you know, if you ever went where there was fighting. I 
 shouldn't think of honour or glory then ; I should only be 
 thinking of you.' 
 
 Percy was silent. He rose suddenly and stood for a moment 
 as if irresolute ; and then, as she got up too, believing that he 
 had seen the others coming, he turned to her in ill-disguised 
 agitation. 
 
 * It 's no use, Lisa ; I can't let it go on. I must tell you, and 
 if He paused, for she was looking at him with such astonish- 
 ment, with such utter unconsciousness of what might be coming, 
 that his resolution failed him. He, Percy Tennent, who had 
 faced death in a hundred forms on the battle-field, who had 
 marched up to the cannon's mouth, and not known what fear 
 was, felt his courage going w^hen about to say a few words to 
 his little cousin — a child almost in years, but to him a woman, 
 and, in all the world, the first and the dearest. He trembled ta 
 think of the happiness or misery that must be staked on the 
 
90 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 answer to those few words. He hesitated whether to risk so 
 much when it was plain, from her very freedom from embarrass- 
 ment, she had no suspicion of his feelings towards her. He felt 
 he would have given anything at that moment to see her blush, 
 or show any sign of confusion. But she did not : her eye met 
 his with the same confiding gaze with which she always looked 
 at him ; and the expression uppermost in her face was that of 
 simple surprise. 
 
 ' What is it V she said, finding that he was still silent ; ^ what 
 must you tell me?' and her tone became a little uneasy. 
 
 ^ Nothing to frighten you,' he said. ^ No, Lisa ; I only hesi- 
 tated because I don't know that I have any right to ask what I 
 
 wish : I am not at all sure how you' He paused again, for 
 
 voices were heard close at hand. ^Ah, well, it's too late 
 now;' and whether he felt most vexed or relieved at the inter- 
 ruption, he could hardly have told. *I ought to have spoken 
 sooner.' 
 
 Lisa looked at him. ^ It is something bad, Percy ; I am 
 sure it is. I can see it in your face. It is something you 
 don't like.' 
 
 He half smiled. * It will depend upon you, Lisa, whether it 
 it is good or bad for me,' he said, beginning to walk on. 
 
 * On me!' she exclaimed, in the utmost astonishment; but 
 she had no time to ask any more questions, for the others were 
 ascending the slope ; and no sooner were they within speaking 
 distance than inquiries began as to how long the two had been 
 there, which way they had come, and what they had been doing 
 — inquiries which Lisa had to answer, for Percy scarcely seemed 
 to hear what was passing. 
 
 * And so you came by a short cut?' said Kate Eraser, turning 
 to Lisa with a little laugh ; * I suppose you had a pleasant 
 walkf 
 
 * Yes, very pleasant ; delightful it was. We came by the 
 brook ; and you have no idea how pretty it is down there, close 
 to the water.' 
 
 * Is it ? I wonder, then, that you did not ask us to go with 
 you, instead of going off alone with Captain Tennent ; it would 
 have been much kinder, wouldn't it, Martha?' looking with 
 a smile at her sister. 
 
 ' Nonsense, Kate ; how could you expect it ? When people 
 are in pleasant company they don't remember those kind of 
 
THE HAZELDEAN WOODS. 91 
 
 things. And Captain Tennent can be very agreeable when he 
 likes — he is not always so grave as he is just now/ with a glance 
 at Percy. 
 
 There was no answer to this from Lisa : she did not under- 
 stand what amused them so much ; but she saw that the joke, 
 whatever it was, was at her expense, and she felt rather inclined 
 to be vexed. 
 
 Kate laughed again as she watched her, and then seeing 
 that she was really distressed, turned her attention to her 
 flowers. 
 
 ^ But how did you manage to get so many 1 We hardly saw 
 any as we came along, and I am so fond of flowers ! I wish 
 you would give me a few of yours.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, as many as you like,' Lisa began, eagerly, but 
 stopping suddenly as she was about to undo them. * At least — 
 I forgot. I'm very sorry — but — I didn't get them myself, 
 and' 
 
 * And you would rather not give them away. Of course not.' 
 Kate's eyes were brimming over with amusement. * I beg your 
 pardon for asking for them. Captain Tennent got them, I 
 suppose ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, and he took so much trouble to arrange them that I 
 don't like to — I mean — you should have them directly if I had 
 got them myself, but' ■ 
 
 ' My dear, I quite understand. You needn't trouble yourself 
 to make excuses ; I really don't care about them. I am sorry I 
 asked for them at all.' 
 
 And with another glance at her sister, and at Isabel, who was 
 standing by, she walked off, leaving Lisa looking at her flowers 
 in no very comfortable frame of mind, though why she felt so 
 much annoyed she hardly knew. She had not much time, 
 however, to indulge in unpleasant reflections, for there was 
 a general move again. The dripping-well wad oiily a Jew 
 minutes' walk from the place, and every one was anxious to 
 get to it. 
 
92 ATHERSTOKE PRIORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 * SHE WAS A WOMAN NOW.' 
 
 The party were starting when Janet Darrell came U|j to Lisa 
 and put her arm in hers. 
 
 * Will you walk with me, Lisa ? I want to speak to you par- 
 ticularly.' 
 
 Lisa was surprised, but she had no objection to make, and 
 they set out together, Janet saying nothing until the others were 
 out of hearing. Then she turned round with a smile. 
 
 ' You won't be offended with me, will you, if you shouldn't 
 happen to like what I am going to say ? ' 
 
 ^ Offended ! ' Lisa's tone was a little uneasy. She began to 
 wonder what was coming. 
 
 * You must not think me meddling,' Janet went on. ^ If you 
 were not half so much of a child as you are, I should not thint". 
 of saying a word to you. It 's because I am sure you don't know 
 what you are doing that I wish to put you on your guard. Yo^ 
 don't want to get talked about, I am certain.' 
 
 Lisa looked bewildered. ^ I don't know what you mean. Who 
 is to talk of me 1 What have I done 1 ' 
 
 Janet smiled a little. * Nothing very bad. I told you I was 
 only wishing to give you a warning.' And then, changing her 
 tone, ' Why didn't you keep with us as we were coming here, 
 instead of walking off alone with Captain Tennent ? ' 
 
 * Why 1 I don't know. We got on before you, and he asked 
 me to go the short way with him. Was there any harm in it 1 ' 
 
 * No harm exactly, but I think it would have been better if 
 you had stayed with us ; ' and then, seeing that Lisa still looked 
 perplexed, ' Pray, what relation is he to you, my dear ? ' 
 
 * What relation 1 Why, Mrs Darrell, you know, he 's my 
 cousin. What makes you ask 1 ' 
 
 ^ Only because you treat him as if he were something much 
 nearer.' 
 
 'Do IV said Lisa, slowly, as if considering. * But, yes, I 
 suppose I do. I have no brother of my own, but he is just as 
 good as one to me.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so ; but if you choose to consider him in that light, 
 other people don't forget he is only a cousin ; and, excuse me—' 
 but I think a little more reserve with him would be better.' 
 
^ SHE WAS A WOMAN NOW.' 93 
 
 'A little more reserve? But wliy? He wouldn't like it. 
 What has he done 1 ' 
 
 * My dear Lisa, don't be so innocent. If I didn't know you, 
 I should say you were pretending to misunderstand me. You 
 are not such a child as not to see that you can't be so free and 
 easy with him without attracting attention. In short, if you 
 must have it out plainly, there is such a thing as cousins falling 
 in love.' 
 
 Lisa was silent, but it was not because she misunderstood 
 now. Her face and neck were crimson in a moment. 
 
 * You must not be angry with me,' Janet went on ; ' I only 
 intended to give you a hint, that you may take care what you 
 are doing. Unless, indeed, he has ever said anything to' 
 
 ^ He has never said a word to me about such a thing ; never, 
 never, never ! ' Lisa exclaimed, in the utmost distress. * He 
 never has.' 
 
 * My dear, you needn't be so vehement. I was only going to 
 say that if you and he understand each other, that would make 
 a difference. But if, as you say, you are nothing more than 
 cousins, I think it would be quite as well to treat him as one. 
 You heard what the Erasers said just now; and they are not the 
 only people to-day who have' 
 
 * You needn't go on, Mrs Darrell,' Lisa said, in a choked 
 voice. * You needn't tell me any more. I know what you 
 mean ; I hadn't thought of it before.' She tried to speak quietly, 
 but her words came out with difficulty, and the burning colour 
 in her face grew deeper and deeper. 
 
 Janet saw her confusion, but took no notice, and not another 
 word was spoken by either until they reached the dripping-well, 
 when Lisa disengaged herself from her and joined her cousin 
 Elinor. Her heightened colour and disturbed appearance would 
 most certainly have attracted attention, had not all been too busy, 
 talking and admiring, to look at her. But wild and beautiful as 
 the scenery was, and much as she had always longed to see it, it 
 was completely lost upon her. Eocks, woods, and water all lay 
 before her in romantic loveliness ; but if any one had asked her 
 what she saw, she could not have told them, for wherever she went 
 she found Percy at her side. She was afraid to look at, almost 
 even to speak to him; and not thinking that such a sudden change 
 was likely to make herself remarked, she grew stiff and con- 
 strained, and gave such short answers to everything he said that 
 he looked at her in astonishment. She was glad when Mr Thorpe 
 
94 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 came up to point something out to her, and thinking anything 
 better than these miserable attempts to appear unconcerned with 
 her cousin, she gave her new companion so much encouragement 
 that he seemed little inclined to leave her again. He walked 
 back to the castle with her and Elinor, where a surprise was 
 awaiting them. Two gentlemen were there — strangers at first 
 Lisa thought them, until, upon hearing their voices behind them, 
 they turned, and then she discovered that one of them was 
 Arthur Darrell. With an exclamation of joy she sprang forward 
 to meet him. 
 
 * Scaramouch, I declare !' was his greeting, with an exaggerated 
 expression of her surprise. * But,' surveying her from head to 
 foot, ' Scaramouch no longer. Well, I never should have believed 
 it ! Lisa Kennedy in a whole dress, and looking like the rest of 
 the world ! What a transformation !' 
 
 ' Nonsense, Arthur ; how can you be so ridiculous. But how 
 did you get here, and when did you come 1 ' 
 
 ^ If you wish to know why we came you must ask the supreme 
 power there,^ looking at his brother. ' I can give no reason. All 
 I can tell you is, I was fast asleep on three chairs in the dining- 
 room at Gainsford last night, when he woke me up, and said, 
 ^' I'm going to Atherstone to-morrow, Arthur.^' *' All right," I 
 said, and went to sleep again, and here we are.' 
 
 * And they told you at the Priory, I suppose, where we 
 were 1 ' 
 
 * Yes, they said you were having a jollification here ; so we 
 thought w^e would come out and see the fun. We took the train 
 to Stoke, and came through the woods. But where are the 
 
 others'? Janet and Isabel, and' with an odd look — * Le 
 
 Balafr^ 1 By the way, Lisa, how do you get on with him 1 Do 
 you still confine yourself to ^' Yes " and " No " when he speaks 
 to you 1 * 
 
 Lisa tried to laugh, but she did not succeed very well ; and it 
 was happy for her that the arrival of Janet took off Arthur's 
 attention from her very visible embarrassment. While every one 
 else talked and laughed, she sat silent and downcast, only intent 
 upon keeping out of the way of Percy. It was not difficult to 
 do, for he was too short-sighted to distinguish her unless she 
 were quite close to him, and among so many people it was hardly 
 likely he would make her out if she chose to avoid him. She 
 did not meet him until after tea, when they were all assembling 
 in the courtyard for dancing, and then she suddenly remembered 
 
* SHE WAS A WOMAN NOW.' 95 
 
 that she had promised the first two dances to him. The recol- 
 lection came just in time, for Mr Thorpe was asking her, and 
 after him came up Arthur and three or four others. She was 
 engaged seven or eight deep before she knew what she was about; 
 but the music was beginning, and people were all taking their 
 places before Percy made his appearance to claim her promise. 
 She rose hurriedly then without a word, and they joined a set 
 that was forming for the opening quadrille. 
 
 ' You are tired, Lisa,' he remarked. * That walk this afternoon 
 was too much for you.' 
 
 * Was it? No, I don't think so. I don't feel at all tired.' 
 Poor Lisa ! If she had been a little older she would not have 
 
 been so foolish ', she would have known better what to do ; but 
 she was shy and frightened, and really did not know how to 
 appear at ease ; and matters were not improved by her observing 
 looks of amused intelligence passing between the Erasers, who 
 happened to be in the same set as herself. The first two figures 
 of the dance were gone through in silence, and Percy's next 
 attempt at sociability was not more successful than the first. 
 
 * Where are your flowers, Lisa ? ' he said. ^ Have you thrown 
 them away 1 ' 
 
 * No, I put them in water somewhere. But I don't want 
 them. I don't care about them now.' 
 
 Not very gracious ; but, after all, what did it matter ? A few 
 flowers given by a cousin were not of any consequence. There 
 was another long pause, which Percy broke once more by say- 
 ing— 
 
 ^ I wonder what has come to us this evening, that we are both 
 so silent. Any one to see us would say that we had never met 
 before, and didn't know what to talk about. What is the reason 
 we are so stiff and formal ? We are not going to be strangers, 
 are we, Lisa 1 ' 
 
 The tears rushed to Lisa's eyes, and she was obliged to turn 
 away her head that he might not see them ; she could not answer, 
 and felt thankful that the whirl of the concluding galope covered 
 her embarrassment, and saved the necessity of any reply. But 
 when the dance was over, and she would have returned to her 
 seat, Percy detained her. 
 
 ^ Lisa, you have not answered me yet. What is it makes you 
 so strange to-night ? I have not displeased you in any way, have 
 
 ir 
 
 Displeased her ! How little fear there was of his ever doing 
 
96 ATHEHSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 that slie well knew ; but only afraid of betraying her real feel- 
 ings, she took refuge in her old defiant manner. 
 
 ^ I am not displeased. I don't know why you should fancy 
 such a thing ; but I am not obliged to talk, I suppose, if I don't 
 like/ 
 
 ' Certainly not,' and he drew himself up, and for a moment 
 looked exceedingly proud. ' Certainly not ; and I am the last 
 person to force you to do so against your wish.' But pride gave 
 way, and his tone changed to one of entreaty. * For Heaven's 
 sake, Lisa, don't be so cold to me — don't let us quarrel for 
 nothing. I have done something — said something that has 
 vexed you. Won't you tell me what it is 1' 
 
 He had caught her hand, and she trembled from head to foot. 
 
 * I am not vexed,' she said, struggling to free herself. ^ You 
 have done nothing, but — Percy,' changing her tone, * let me 
 go, I don't like it ; ' and in an agony of fear lest they should be 
 observed, ^ Let me go. Captain Tennent ; you have no right to 
 make me give reasons for what I do : let me go.' 
 
 There was no need for her to repeat her words ; he let her 
 hand fall. 
 
 ' '' Captain Tennent ! " O Lisa ! ' 
 
 But she did not wait to answer ; she did not follow the 
 impulse which would have led her to turn back for one more 
 word. The only thing, she felt, was to leave him and try to 
 forget what had passed ; and if excitement could have helped 
 her to do this, she would have succeeded to her heart's content. 
 She did not sit down the whole evening, and smiled, and talked, 
 and looked as if she had no thought but for the pleasure of the 
 moment. Percy did not ask her to dance again, but he was 
 standing by her once in the pause of a waltz, and her eye hap- 
 pened to meet his. It fell directly ; but Cunninghame Thorpe, 
 who was dancing with her, said something, and she smiled, and 
 looked up again, and with a careless glance at the place where her 
 cousin was standing, she was gone once more. 
 
 The long day came to an end. Delightful it had been said by 
 nearly everybody. There were only two who thought differently, 
 and they were silent ; but though Lisa, for one, said nothing 
 about the pleasure she had had, she was among the last of the 
 dancers in the courtyard, and when the carriages came round 
 she had to be looked for. Mrs Tennent was not pleased at 
 the delay. 
 
 ' And where is your shawl, child 1 ' she said, when Lisa at 
 
' SHK WAS A WOMAN NOW.' 97 
 
 length made her appearance witli Mr Thorpe. * You can't be 
 driving home at this time of night with only that thin mantle on. 
 Percy, find her shawl for her ; I suppose it was left in the other 
 carriage.'' 
 
 Lisa started. She had not seen her cousin was so near her ; 
 but without looking at her he went off in search of the missing 
 article. Nor did he speak when he returned with it ; he put it 
 on, and then placing her in the carriage, raised his hat to the 
 party there, and was turning away when Kate Fraser came run- 
 ning up. 
 
 * Here, Miss Kennedy, you are leaving your flowers behind 
 you. I found them in a corner of the courtyard, and I know 
 you prize them particularly.' She smiled as she threw them 
 into liisa's lap. * It would have been a pity not to take them ; 
 they are so pretty, and not at all withered.' 
 
 Lisa's face flashed. * Not withered, but they are very wet 
 and nasty. I 'm sorry you had the trouble of bringing them ; 
 they are not worth anything.' She tossed them back, and turned 
 away with an air of indifference. They fell on the ground at 
 Percy's feet, and the carriage wheels passed over them and 
 crushed them in the dust. Fit type of his own crushed and fad- 
 ing hopes. 
 
 And all the way home Lisa, silent and unnoticed, was crying 
 bitterly. The long drive seemed as if it would never end, and as 
 trees and hedges passed by in slow succession, she could hardly 
 believe the road was the same by which they had come that 
 morning. But the welcome lights of Atherstone were seen at 
 last, and after that, home was soon reached ; and then, when 
 every one went to the drawing-room, she slipped away to her own 
 little closet. 
 
 And there she could think. In her solitude she could go over 
 the whole of the past day ; and when Mary, who slept in the 
 room adjoining hers, had been to say ' good night,' then Lisa, no 
 longer afraid of being heard, sat up in her little bed and cried as 
 if her heart would break. For she knew it all now ; Janet's 
 words had opened her eyes. She knew now all that Percy was 
 to her — all that he had been for so long, while she was still 
 ignorant of the state of her feelings towards him. She trembled, 
 indeed, to think what those feelings were — how very dearly she 
 loved him. What did it matter that he was plain, and silent, and 
 grave ? He was not so to her ; he was everything that was 
 
 G 
 
98 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 perfect in her estimation ; and she loved him better, far better, 
 than any one else in the whole world. Her affection for Mary, 
 warm as it was, sank into insignificance when compared with the 
 intensity of that which she felt for him — little as she had known 
 or suspected it until within the last few hours ; and now she had 
 slighted and quarrelled with him, because she was afraid of her 
 real feelings being discovered. For she saw what it was that had 
 made Janet's remarks so unwelcome; if there had been no truth 
 in them, they would have made but little impression on her. 
 
 But now she had found out what he was to her, and never 
 again could she lose the consciousness of it ; never again could 
 she meet him as she had done. How could she walk and talk 
 with him, and tell him all ^e thought as in the time when she 
 had never feared his knowing what was passing in her mind ? 
 Now she felt as if she could never meet his eye without betray- 
 ing her secret ; she fancied that every one about her must read 
 it, that all would see the difference that a few hours had made 
 in her. Yes, for that one short day had changed her completely ; 
 she had left the house that morning a light-hearted, unthinking 
 child, and she had come back to it in the evening a woman — 
 with all a woman's doubts and fears crowding upon her. Her 
 days of utter thoughtlessness were gone for ever ; and in that 
 little room, on that still summer's night, with the moonbeams 
 shining on the bare floor and whitewashed walls around her, 
 Lisa bade farewell to her vanished childhood. And many and 
 very bitter were the tears she shed over its memory. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED CATASTROPHE. 
 
 Lisa's first conscious thought on waking the next morning was, 
 that it was Percy's birthday. She had been looking forward to 
 it for weeks, and all her leisure lately had been devoted to a 
 drawing, which she had meant to give him on that day. It was 
 not much of a present, certainly ; but it was the only one she 
 could give, for everything else cost money, and she had none ; 
 
AN UNEXPECTED CATASTROPHE. 99 
 
 SO, after much anxious deliberation, slie had fixed upon a sketch 
 of the Priory as a thing he was sure to like, and which was, in 
 every way, within the compass of her powers. She had taken 
 it from the far end of the garden, unknown to any one ; and had 
 finished it off with great care in her own room. She had hardly 
 known at the time why it was such a happiness to do it, as being 
 specially meant for him ; but she knew only too well now how 
 it had been, and as she took the little sketch from the drawer, 
 where it had been lying for some days wrapped in paper, she 
 looked at it for a long time very sadly, then she tore it up — not 
 in anger, but slowly and quietly ; and when she had finished — 
 when it was torn into the very smallest atoms and thrown into 
 the grate — then there came a long sob, as if she had wrenched 
 away from her something that was very dear. And then she 
 dressed herself and went down-stairs. 
 
 No one else took any notice of the day except Mary. Lisa saw 
 her, just before breakfast, run out to meet Percy as he came across 
 the lawn, and she knew very well what she had gone for. The 
 day before she herself would have run out too ; but now she sat 
 still, and when he came into the room, she was so busy talking 
 to xirthur that she appeared to be quite unaware of his entrance. 
 An engagement with a friend took him away before breakfast 
 was over, and she afterwards retired to her ordinary occupations, 
 with a weary thought of the long day before her. It was a day, 
 however, which was not destined to end quite so monotonously 
 as it had begun. 
 
 * We '11 have a dance this evening,' Arthur remarked, as they 
 came into the drawing-room after dinner. ' Nelly, go and hunt 
 them all up and tell them what we are going to do, while I get 
 the place into proper trim. Where is Mary? She'll play for 
 us.' 
 
 ^ Mary is engaged ; she is writing some notes for me,' Mrs 
 Tennent said. 'You had better find Lisa; she is the proper 
 person ; it is just the thing for her to do.' 
 
 *Eh, but I want Lisa for a partner; I can't spare her to 
 be exercising her talents on the piano,' exclaimed Arthur. *She 
 Wouldn't like it herself, either. She 'd rather dance any day, I 
 know.' 
 
 *I daresay she would, but it's no consequence what she would 
 i-ather do. Some one must play, and it is only right she should 
 make herself useful. Susan, go and call your cousin.' 
 
100 ATHERSTONE PRIOllY. 
 
 Susan disappeared, and Arthur walked away, not looking par- 
 ticularly pleased. 
 
 ' Are you engaged, Nelly ? I Lope not, or I shall have to ask 
 one of the Dacres. Do have compassion on me.' 
 
 * So I would,' said Nelly, with a smile. * But I have pro- 
 mised to dance with Mr Thorpe ; I can't think where he is ; I 
 wish he would come.' 
 
 But Mr Thorpe did not make his ai)pearance, and they were 
 all taking their places. 
 
 *But who plays r everybody was exclaiming. *Is no one 
 going to the piano 1 I thought it Avas to be Lisa Kennedy, but 
 she isn't here.' 
 
 * Where is your cousin, Susan ? Didn't you tell her she was 
 wanted ] ' said Mrs Tennent, sharply. 
 
 * I can't find her ; she is not in the garden, and she 's not up- 
 stairs ; and Mary hasn't seen her,' said Susan, breathless with 
 the run she had had. 
 
 * Nonsense, child ; she must be somewhere. You have not 
 called her ; go again, and make haste. 
 
 * Oh, never mind ; let Nelly take her place,' exclaimed Arthur. 
 * She '11 come fast enough when she hears the music. It don't 
 matter who plays, so that we don't lose all our time waiting,' 
 
 ' I think it does iiiatter,' said Mrs Tennent, drily. * It is my 
 wish that Lisa should play. Go directly, Susan ; you heard what 
 I said, didn't you ? ' And Susan went off a second time, while 
 Arthur walked to one of the windows and gave a long whistle. 
 
 *Here, Lisa, turn up from somewhere, can't you? All the 
 world's waiting for you.* 
 
 There was a minute's silence, and then footsteps w^ere heard 
 on the gravel-walk, and a moment after Lisa came up to the 
 window, out of breath and with a heightened colour. 
 
 * Hallo, Scaramouch ! what have you been doing ? stealing 
 fruit, or otherwise misbehaving yourself? You have a won- 
 drous guilty appearance.' 
 
 * Come in, child,' said Mrs Tennent, angrily. ' Why do you 
 always contrive to be out of the way when you are wanted ? 
 Susan has been looking everywhere for you. What were you 
 doing]' 
 
 * I was in the green-walk,' Lisa murmured, in a voice that 
 was scarcely audible. * I didn't hear any one call me.' 
 
 Mrs Tennent gave her a scrutinising glance. ' Well, come in 
 
AN UNEXPECTED CATASTROPHE. 101 
 
 now; what are you standing there for, as if you were afraid of 
 showing yourself 1 Get your music and begin ; you have kept 
 them quite long enough/ 
 
 Lisa made no answer. She w^ent to the piano, and seemed 
 very busy turning over her music-books. But she was a long 
 time about it, and some of them grew impatient. 
 
 * Now then, Lisa, make haste,' they exclaimed. ' Can't you 
 begin ] we are all ready.' 
 
 ^Not all,' said Arthur; * where 's Thorpe? there's Nelly 
 sitting, the model of patience, waiting for him. Where in the 
 world is he gone 1 ' 
 
 Nobody knew, but some one suggested he was very likely 
 smoking. 
 
 *Then he's in the garden, of course — taken refuge in the 
 green- walk too, most probably. Did you meet with him, Lisa, 
 in the course of your peregrinations 1 ' 
 
 Lisa was stooping over some music, and made no reply ; 
 and at that moment the door opened, and Mr Thorpe himself 
 walked in. He had been in the library reading, he said, and 
 would have come before if he had known they -svere going to 
 begin so soon ; and he made many apologies to Elinor for his 
 seeming neglect — apologies which were not ©ver when the music 
 struck up and they began to dance. 
 
 Lisa's performance that evening was not brilliant; she was very 
 nervous, and her hand was so unsteady that she had some diffi- 
 culty in turning over the leaves at the right time. But, happily, 
 everybody was too much engrossed Avith their amusement to think 
 of the music, and except to ask her to play faster or slower, very 
 little w^as said to her. She went on for more than an hour ; and 
 then Mary, coming in, offered to take her place. Arthur seized 
 her at once; but when she was asked afterwards by some one else, 
 she said she was tired and wanted to rest. She stole away, and 
 going into the back drawing-room, sat down by the open window, 
 and resting her head upon her hand, remained for some time list- 
 lessly watching the dancers. Two or three parties sauntered in 
 once or twice, finding it cooler than in the other more crowded 
 room ; but they came and went without noticing her, and she 
 might have sat for long undisturbed in her retreat in the 
 bay-window, had not some one entered at last Avith the ex- 
 press purpose of seeking her. It Avas Mr Thorpe ; and although 
 she drew herself as far back as possible, he caught a glimpse 
 
102 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 of lier dress, and immediately came up to the window. She 
 rose hastily. 
 
 ' You are not going 1 ' he said, rather reproachfully at this 
 sudden movement. ^ Surely you will let me' 
 
 * No, I can't ; please don't,' she exclaimed hurriedly ; ^ I really 
 wish to go. Don't keep me.' She attempted to pass him, but 
 he had placed himself before her. 
 
 ^ But, Miss Kennedy, you can t refuse to hear me — you mis- 
 understood me before; you did not know what I meant, or 
 thought I was not serious, but' 
 
 * No, Mr Thorpe ; I understood you perfectly, and I hoped 
 you understood me too. I hoped you wouldn't speak to me 
 again about such things, for indeed I don't like it. I told you 
 I couldn't listen to you. Won't you let me go"?' in a voice of 
 entreaty. 
 
 There was no reply for a moment, for Cunninghame w^as 
 perplexed. That he with his handsome face and figure — his 
 baronetcy and some thousands a year in prospective, and who had 
 been run after by young ladies without number — that he should 
 be refused, was a thing incredible ; least of all by Lisa Kennedy, 
 who had not a penny in the world, and not even a home of her 
 own. Not that he cared for this ; he was his own master, and 
 could marry as he pleased ; and although he would have liked it 
 better had her circumstances been somewhat different, yet he 
 was fairly, and for him deeply, in love with the beautiful girl 
 before him ; and in the passion of the moment all minor con- 
 siderations were thrust into the background. She was poor, 
 certainly, very poor ; and still little else than a child ; singularly 
 simple and unsophisticated in manner, and very young in all her 
 thoughts and ways ; but these were faults she would soon lose 
 in intercourse with the world, and her grace and beauty would 
 adorn any rank in which she was placed. And he could give her 
 a position of which she had but little idea ; he could offer her 
 wealth and everything else that was worth having. He had 
 done so, indeed, and she had refused them; though he could 
 not believe that she was really serious in rejecting him. She 
 was only shy, or wanted to make the most of her power; and 
 yet what to say more he did not know. He had been most 
 vehement in his declarations of love, and she had turned from 
 him. She had persisted in refusing to listen to him ; and had 
 seemed so anxious for him to leave her, that he might almost 
 
AN UNEXPECTED CATASTROPHE. 103 
 
 have imagined she wished him to take her at her word, had not 
 the supposition been utterly improbable. And even now she 
 would not hear him. But he must bring her to know her own 
 mind before she left him j and while she was looking all impa- 
 tience and entreaty to be allowed to go, he still kept his ground. 
 
 * Only for two minutes ; you will not refuse me such a short 
 time as that 1 I can't, I won't believe you are so indifferent to 
 me as you wish to appear. Forgive my saying it, but your 
 manner to me has been such as to give me encouragement, and 
 I cannot think you have been trifling with me, that you have 
 only raised hopes which you meant to disappoint ' — 
 
 But that was all Lisa heard. He said a great deal more, but 
 she did not hear it. Her thoughts were all engrossed with trying 
 to recall what she had said and done to give him reason to sup- 
 pose she cared for him. She certainly had talked to him a great 
 deal, and she wished she had not done so. It was true he had 
 sought her out, but perhaps if she had liked she might have 
 avoided him more ; she might have said less, and have let him 
 see that she did not wish for his company. But she had been 
 too innocent to suspect the construction that might be put upon 
 her words and actions, and was horrified now to think how he 
 had misinterpreted her conduct. Was it really true that she had 
 been trifling with him, that she had actually given him reason to 
 suppose she cared for him 1 It was such a dreadful thing to 
 have done ; she felt quite wretched at the bare idea j and the 
 mute look of distress and perplexity with which she stood re- 
 garding him, brought Cunninghame to a stand-still in his 
 speech. He paused, and she started — she felt she must say 
 something. 
 
 * Will you listen to me, Mr Thorpe, please ] ' she said, trying 
 to collect herself and to speak distinctly. * If I ever said or did 
 anything to make you believe that — that — I cared for you, I 
 was very wrong. I am not a woman, you know, and I wasn't 
 thinking of such things, and it never came into my head that 
 you might misunderstand me. I sum very sorry,' she repeated, 
 in the tone of a child making a confession. ' Won't you forgive 
 me, and mayn't I go now V 
 
 She looked up at him beseechingly, but her eye fell beneath 
 the glance she met, and she coloured deeply. 
 
 ^ Lisa, you are positively the most bewitching little creature I 
 ever met with. But what makes you so shy and hard to get at ? 
 
104 ATHERSTONE PBIORY. 
 
 Will nothing persuade you to give in, and tell me that you love 
 meV 
 
 * No, nothing ; for I don't — I don't care for you at all, Mr 
 Thorpe, and I never shall.' She spoke in a low voice, but very 
 decidedly. 
 
 He laughed. * You are very frank ; but if, as you say, you 
 don't care for me now, at least, Lisa, you may ' 
 
 * Not Lisa, if you please,' she said, roused to anger at his per- 
 tinacity, and at what she considered the liberty he was taking. 
 * Not Lisa, if you please ; I have never given you leave to call 
 me so. I don't like what you are saying to me, and if you had 
 any proper feeling, you wouldn't go on — you wouldn't keep me 
 here when you know it 's disagreeable to me. I can't say any- 
 thing plainer than I have said, or I would.' And then, seeing 
 that he had inadvertently shifted his position a little, she slipped 
 down suddenly, and before he could stop her she had pushed 
 aside a small table that was in her way, and made her escape into 
 the middle of the room. 
 
 In her haste to effect her retreat, however, poor Lisa ran into 
 a danger she had not foreseen, for in brushing past the centre 
 table, she happened to throw down a candle which stood there. 
 It fell upon the floor without being extinguished, and her dress, 
 which was a very thin light muslin, swept across it, and caught 
 fire in a moment. She made an attempt at first to put out the 
 flames by pressing her dress tight down upon them, but this 
 only made them spread j and becoming alarmed, she started up 
 wildly. 
 
 ^ O Mary, Mary, save me ! Where are you, Mary ] ' and 
 with a shriek of frantic terror, she rushed from the room ; the air 
 from the open window playing round her^ and fanning the fire 
 high up her skirt. 
 
 Her appearance among the dancers caused the greatest con- 
 sternation, and a cry from all the ladies brought the music to a 
 sudden stop, and created general confusion. Those nearest her 
 fled in alarm, and by their efforts to escape, increased the uni- 
 versal panic, and even the gentlemen seemed to have lost their 
 presence of mind, and looked as if paralysed by the unexpected 
 sight. The poor child thought herself deserted, and confused 
 with terror, and feeling the scorching breath of the flames rising 
 to her face and neck, she turned in despair — though wKat she 
 meant to do, it would have been hard to say. But a door open- 
 
AN UNEXPECTED CATASTROPHE. 105 
 
 ing beside her, appeared to suggest some hope of escape, and too 
 much terrified to think, she was on the point of rushing through 
 it, when her progress was stopped by the person who was enter- 
 ing. A strong arm was thrown round her, which held her back, 
 and then the heavy folds of the curtain which hung from the 
 archway were flung over her, and she found herself forced down 
 ui^n an ottoman that was close by. 
 
 * Sit still, Lisa; you are safe if you stay where you are ;' and 
 almost frenzied with terror as she was, the mere sound of that 
 voice reassured her. She did as she was told, and Percy kept his 
 firm hold of her with one hand, while with the other he drew 
 the curtain closer and closer round her burning dress. Some of 
 the other gentlemen had hastened up by this time, and with their 
 assistance he succeeded in extinguishing the flames. Then he 
 released her ; and pale as death, and trembling from head to foot, 
 she sat up — a deplorable figure, but, with the exception of being 
 a little scorched, quite unhurt. The whole thing had been only 
 the affair of a minute ; but quickly as it was all over, so swift 
 had been the progress of the flames, that her escape seemed little 
 else than a miracle. One moment's more hesitation on the part 
 of any one would have made it too late to save her, if not from 
 a dreadful death, at least from sufferings of which none could 
 think without a shudder. She was too much confused and 
 terrified to be able to think or speak, and could only cling con- 
 vulsively to Mary, and sob most bitterly ; while Percy stood by, 
 presenting very nearly as deplorable a spectacle as she did, his 
 hair and clothes singed, and having in one respect fared even 
 worse than herself, for his right hand and wrist had been burnt 
 before he succeeded in getting the flames under. 
 
 ISTo one, however, knew anything of this. The first panic was 
 over, but there was so much talking, so much crowding round 
 the spot, and so many exclamations from all the ladies as they 
 looked at the crouching, trembling little figure before them, and 
 everybody had so many questions to ask as to how the accident 
 had happened, that nothing else was thought of. But Lisa only 
 cried when asked how she had contrived to set herself on fire ; 
 and when her aunt scolded her for carelessness, she cried still 
 more, but could give no explanations. 
 
 *I couldn't help it. Mary, please take me away, I am 
 so frightened ; ' and then, happily for her, Dr Tennent 
 came in, and his entrance put an end to the confusion thai 
 
106 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 prevailed in the room. He did not stop to ask many questions, 
 even putting an end, without much ceremony, to his wife's 
 remarks. 
 
 * My dear, it is not the time to be scolding her, whatever she 
 has done. Don't you see the poor child is frightened out of her 
 senses 1 And calling for a shawl, he wrapped Lisa in it, and 
 carried her off without more ado, Mary following him. He 
 took her to her own room, and there she came to herself, and 
 her hysterical sobbing ceased. But she shuddered so much 
 whenever any allusion was made to what had passed, that Mary 
 thought it best to avoid the subject altogether. She helped her 
 to undress, and sat by her side for a long time, until she fell 
 asleep. But it was a restless, troubled sleep ; she kept starting 
 and sobbing, and several times she sat up with a cry of terror, 
 shivering with her fears of fancied danger. Once, too, she cried 
 bitterly. 
 
 ^ It 's not my fault, Percy ; don't leave me, don't leave me,' 
 she said in imploring accents. * You don't know how miserable 
 I am.' And then she started up suddenly. *I was talking, 
 wasn't I, Mary 1 Did you hear what I said ? ' 
 
 * Something about Percy, I believe. But let me shake up 
 your pillow for you, dear, and then you will be more comfort- 
 able. I should like to see you in really a sound sleep.' 
 
 Lisa gave a long sigh. ' Yes, I wish I could sleep ; I am so 
 tired,' And then, as she lay back once more, * Mary, he didn't 
 get hurt while he was saving me, did he ? I never said one word 
 to Lim.' She burst into tears. 
 
 * My dear Lisa, he didn't expect it. What could you have 
 said at such a time ? You will see him to-morrow, and then 
 you can say as much as you like.' 
 
 Lisa turned her head away with another very long-drawn 
 sigh. * And he was not hurt 1 ' she said. 
 
 Mary hesitated. * Only a little ; his hand was rather burnt ; 
 nothing, though, to make yourself uneasy about,' she added, 
 speaking lightly. ' Indeed, dear Lisa, you must not cry in that 
 way. Percy, of all people, isn't one to think much of a thing 
 like that. What are soldiers fit for if they can't bear a little 
 pain ] ' 
 
 But Lisa's tears came from a mixture of feelings, and of some 
 of them Mary guessed nothing. Tired out at last, however, she 
 sank into a sleep so sound and quiet that her cousin felt she 
 
^ SOME DAYS MUST BE DARK AND DREARy/ 107 
 
 might safely leave her. Drawing the curtains close, that the 
 daylight which was beginning to dawn might not disturb her, 
 Mary stole quietly away, and shutting the door behind her, 
 retreated to her own room. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 * SOME DAYS M17ST BE DARK AND DREARY.' 
 
 It was very late the next day when Lisa awoke. The luncheon- 
 bell rang some minutes before she was dressed, and it was some 
 little time before she could summon courage to go down to the 
 dining-room. As she had expected, all eyes were turned upon 
 her as she entered, and looking very guilty, she stopped before 
 she got half way across the room. But Dr Tennent, at the 
 bottom of the table, paused in his carving, and held out his 
 hand. 
 
 * Well, my little girl, and so you are come at last I But what 
 are you standing there for, looking as if you were frightened 
 still ] ' and then, as she sprang into his arms, he gave her a long 
 kiss. * Don't you know how glad we are to have you safe, not 
 hurt in the least, eh ? Indeed, my child, it is a great mercy ; 
 we can't be too thankful you have had such an escape.' 
 
 He kissed her again, and Lisa gave him a great hug. She did 
 not mind anything after that, and could face even her aunt's 
 grave looks with courage ; but when, upon making her way 
 round to her own seat, she passed the window where Percy was 
 standing with some letters in his hand, she stopped again. He 
 looked constrained, and although he held out his hand, and said 
 something about hoping she was quite well, and had got over 
 her fright, his tone was stiff, and his manner altogether different 
 from what it would have been a few days back. The change 
 struck her most painfully ; she gave some commonplace answer, 
 and with a quivering lip walked on to her seat. How ungrate- 
 ful he must think her, was the one thought filling her mind ; of 
 
108 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 course, ho could know nothing of her real feelings, he could not 
 see she was longing to speak, and could not find words to do so. 
 But she would — she would not let this go on any longer — the 
 moment she could she would see him alone and thank him as 
 she wished. 
 
 She longed for dinner to be over to find the opportunity she 
 wanted ; and the fear lest he might, as he often did, leave the 
 room before they had finished, kept her in a state of suspense 
 which completely took away her appetite. She wished people 
 would eat a little faster and not talk, and, above all, that they 
 would not say so much about what had happened the night 
 before. 
 
 But Mrs Tennent, for one, had no intention of leaving the 
 subject alone. She was exceedingly annoyed at the damage 
 that had been done in the drawing-room, and desired to know 
 how it had all happened, as she supposed Lisa must be able by 
 this time to give some account of it. Some one else might have 
 been able to do that, but he was silent, of course ; and Lisa's 
 hesitation and extreme embarrassment in relating her story did 
 not tend to remove her aunt's displeasure. 
 
 ' I must say that it is just such an explanation as I should 
 have expected from you, Lisa. Pray, what were you doing there 
 at all] Why were you not with the others ]' " 
 
 ' I was resting ; at least, I had been ; I was coming away,' 
 Lisa murmured in confusion, which was remarked by every one 
 at the table. 
 
 Mrs Tennent looked at her. ' It is very strange, there is some- 
 thing I don't understand. How you managed to be so careless 
 passes my comprehension ! You have no consideration at all for 
 other people's feelings ; the Dacres Avere frightened out of their 
 senses last night ; and so was everybody else.' 
 
 * Herself included,' said Dr Tennent, kindly. * She was the 
 one to be frightened, if anybody was ; you had better let her 
 forget it now if she can.' 
 
 * Nonsense, Dr Tennent,' said his wife, angrily. * Don't make 
 her more careless than she is j she is quite bad enough. AVhen 
 people bring misfortunes on themselves they can't expect much 
 sympathy ; it is those who suffer by their carelessness wlio are 
 to be pitied. Poor Mrs Dacre was terribly alarmed, so was 
 Rose. They were both in hysterics; and several others weio 
 almost as bad. We had quite a scene.' 
 
SOME DAYB MUST BE DARK AND DREARY.' 109 
 
 * Yes, indeed, I can vouch for the truth of that,' remarked 
 Arthur, with a melancholy shake of his head. 
 
 * It was very careless of yon, Lisa,' continued Mrs Tennent, 
 ignoring the interruption. * I hope you know those handsome 
 curtains are quite spoiled 1 ' 
 
 ' That was Percy's doing, my dear,' said the doctor, drily, at 
 which there was a general laugh ; while Arthur remarked again 
 that Percy had not waited, as he ought to have done, to calcu- 
 late the cost of the curtains. * He should have stayed to find an 
 old shawl or blanket that had seen good wear, and was not 
 wanted. By-the-by, I am afraid, Lisa, we can t congratulate 
 you upon your conduct on the occasion. Don't you know that 
 to go tearing about as you were doing was the worst thing pos- 
 sible? Why didn't you sit still till somebody came to help 
 youf 
 
 * Nonsense, Arthur ! ' said Isabel. ' She ought to have thrown 
 herself on the ground ; that is the right thing to do. Running 
 about increases the draught, and makes the flames draw faster. 
 You might have thought of that, Lisa.' 
 
 * I was so frightened,' Lisa said, in a low voice, ^ I didn't 
 think of anything.' 
 
 ' Ah, well, the case is a proven one,' said Arthur, in a decided 
 tone. * Both you and Percy were wanting in presence of mind. 
 And now the best thing to do will be to get up another exhibi- 
 tion this evening, and Isabel and I will be the performers. What 
 do you say, Isabel ? Shall we give the world an opportunity of 
 seeing how such things ought to be managed?' 
 
 But here Arthur was called to order by Mrs Tennent, who 
 said she would not allow any joking upon the subject. At which 
 rebuke Arthur made a feint of looking very penitent, and then 
 asked for another slice of mutton. 
 
 * I '11 tell you what, though, Lisa,' he began a.gain, while he 
 was disposing of it — ^ I '11 tell you what, and that is, that you 
 ought to be eternally grateful to Le Balafr^ ; if you did what 
 you ought, you 'd tell him so in public. It is my firm opinion 
 you haven't even given him a civil " thank you." ' 
 
 Lisa was silent, but her head was bent, and he could not see 
 her averted face. 
 
 * I don't understand it,' he went on. * I never was more 
 astonished in my life than to find that you and he know no more 
 of each other than you did when I went away. But you must 
 
110 ATHEKSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 give in now ; even if you can't come to thinking him good-look- 
 ing, you must end by liking him. Gratitude alone, if nothing 
 else, will bring you to that/ 
 
 There was no reply still from Lisa ; but unfortunately for her 
 this speech was overheard by Susan, who was quite ready to make 
 her comments on it. * I don't think gratitude will make Lisa 
 like Percy,' she remarked, sapiently. * She always said she didn't 
 like him, and knew she never should. She told me once he was 
 so ugly she couldn't bear to look at him/ And although this 
 communication was not intended for everybody, it was sufficiently 
 audible to be heard by any one who had not their attention other- 
 wise engaged. 
 
 * O Susan !' was all that poor Lisa could exclaim, the crimson 
 colour, rushing to her face, and the tears to her eyes. 
 
 * Why, Lisa, you said so ; you know you did.' 
 
 ' Susan,' said her mother gravely, * if Lisa chooses to make rude 
 speeches, there is no need for you to repeat them. Don't let me 
 hear anything more of that sort.' And Susan, abashed, returned 
 to her dinner. 
 
 But Lisa could not raise her head again. From one glance 
 she had taken she saw that what had passed had been overheard 
 by Percy, and between shame and wretchedness she felt over- 
 whelmed. That one of her thoughtless, foolish speeches, made so 
 long ago, should have been repeated just when he had done so 
 much for her, was dreadful. Nor was it true. But of course he 
 could not tell that. Perhaps he fancied they were her thoughts 
 still ; and in bitter self-reproach Lisa upbraided herself for that 
 and every other idle thing she had ever said of him. She 
 scarcely heard a word of what was going on, and the first thing 
 that roused her was something her uncle was saying. He was 
 looking at his watch. 
 
 * Well, Percy, if we want to catcb the 2.10 train, we had 
 better be starting.' And he got up. 
 
 ' Where are they going, Arthur?' she said then. 
 
 ' Going ? To London, of course. At least Percy is. I don't 
 know for what ; business of some sort, I believe. He '11 be away 
 two or three weeks, I think.' 
 
 Two or three weeks I The words fell like lead on Lisa's heart. 
 To be all that time without seeing him, without speaking to him, 
 or hearing him speak ! And to let him leave without saying 
 one word, without thanks of any kind ! 
 
^SOME DAYS MUST BE BARK AND DREARY.' Ill 
 
 She sat for a moment or two, silent and very miserable ; but 
 little George came trotting into the room, and caught hold of her 
 dress, and that diverted her attention. She took him up in her 
 arms, and as he began to rock himself backwards and forwards 
 with great energy, and call out * gee, gee,' she discovered he had 
 caught a glimpse of the horse and carriage at the hall door, and 
 would like to have a nearer view of them. So she carried him 
 out into the hall that he might look at them through the window, 
 and while she was standing there Percy came out of the dining- 
 room. Whether he had seen her was not certain, but he came 
 up to the window where she was, and Georgie in great delight 
 stretched out his arms to go to him. He, at least, was too young 
 to mind plain looks in those who would play with and amuse 
 him ; and his tall grave brother had long since won his heart as 
 only one who was naturally fond of children could do. 
 
 * No, my little man. I can't take you to-day. I haven't time ; 
 we must wait till I come back.' He stooped to kiss the child. 
 * Good-bye, Lisa,' and he held out his hand to her. 
 
 There was no resentment in look or voice — no trace even of 
 annoyance — at what had in truth cut him to the heart. For, 
 plain as he knew himself to be, it was one thing to recognise this 
 as a fact, to which he could, as a sensible man, be perfectly in- 
 different, and quite another to find that it came between him 
 and the being whom he idolised. For if ever man loved woman, 
 he loved Lisa Kennedy — with all the passionate energy with 
 which natures that are supposed to be cold so often love ; and 
 it was a bitter, wringing disappointment to find that the hope 
 which he had cherished of pleasing her was over now — quite 
 over and gone. He was not the one to win her; some one 
 else must do so — some one handsomer, gayer, more like 
 her own bright self — Cunninghame Thorpe, perhaps. And 
 he did not blame her that she preferred another to himself ; but 
 still it was very hard to give her up ; and far down in the bot- 
 tom of his heart there was an aching, writhing sense of disap- 
 pointed hopes, and many wounded and bitter feelings. There 
 was little sign, however, to tell of what was passing in his mind ; 
 only his voice was not quite steady as he said good-bye. But 
 Lisa was too much agitated to notice this ; when she tried to 
 speak she could not ; and yet the opportunity she had wished for 
 was going, and she had not used it. 
 
 * Good-bye ' was all she could say in answer ; and he turned 
 
112 ATHERSTONB PRIORY. 
 
 away. And then, with the sense that he was really going, hev 
 faltering resolution returned. 
 
 * Percy ! ' Her voice was very low, but he looked round, and 
 seeing her eyes fixed upon him came back to the window. 
 
 ' You called me, Lisji, didn't you 1 Do you want anything] ' 
 But at that moment Mr Thorpe made his appearance in the hall, 
 and the time for explanation was gone. 
 
 * No, thank you, nothing.' And she hid her fcice on Georgie^s 
 curly head that her tears might not be seen. Dr Tennent came 
 out, and the next minute they were gone. The carriage turned 
 the corner of the street and they were out of sight. Carrying 
 her charge back to the dining-room, Lisa set him down among 
 the others, and slipping through the library to avoid Mr Thorpe, 
 who she knew was lying in wait for her where she had left him, 
 ran up the back stairs and flew to her own room, where, throw- 
 ing herself on her bed, she gave way to a passionate burst of 
 grief. 
 
 It was all over, and he was gone, gone without a word from 
 her ; and it seemed as if w^ith him all the sunshine of her life had 
 gone too. It mattered little that in three weeks' time he would 
 be back — she lived only in the present, and everything was a 
 blank now. And by-and-by it would be worse, for he would be 
 going, not for a few weeks only, but for very long ; perhaps with 
 years between each visit. She might be away, and never, never 
 meet him ; and the dull aching sense of wretchedness in poor 
 Lisa's heart grew deeper at the thought — too deep at last for 
 tears. 
 
 And he knew nothing of it all. He was journeying to London 
 on that hot summer's day, little dreaming that while he sat mus- 
 ing sadly over his shattered hopes, she was shedding bitter tears 
 in her silent room, and that in her inmost heart the long yearn- 
 ing cry always going up was, ^ Percy ! Percy ! if you would 
 only come back ; and if I could only make things as they were 
 a little time ago. I was so happy then 1 ' 
 
baffled; 113 
 
 CHAPTER XVl. 
 
 BAFFLED. 
 
 The first change that took place after Percy left was Mr Thorpe^s 
 departure. He had made himself so generally agreeable that his 
 going was a source of regret to nearly every one. Not to Lisa, 
 however. She was quite tired of trying to avoid him, and of in- 
 venting pretexts for being engaged with something else whenever 
 he made his appearance ; and it was an intense relief to her to 
 think he was really going. 
 
 She had hard work, however, the last day, to keep out of his 
 way, so determined was he to make the opportunity he was seek- 
 ing, and oblige her to listen to him once more ; but bent as he 
 was upon this, she was equally bent upon not hearing him. He 
 did not get a glimpse of her all the morning ; but after luncheon 
 she was sent into the garden by her aunt to gather some flowers 
 for the dinner-table that evening. It was an opportunity too 
 good to be lost ; and when Mrs Tennent and Elinor, whom he 
 had promised to attend on some shopping expedition, went up- 
 stairs to put on their bonnets, he walked out after Lisa, who was 
 very busy among the flower-beds. 
 
 She pretended at first not to see him, and went flitting about here 
 and there in all directions, contriving to lead him a dance all round 
 the garden before he could come up with her ; and when he did 
 overtake her, she discovered suddenly that the roses were pricking 
 her fingers, and remembered she had left her gloves in the house. 
 He wanted to be allowed to cut the flowers for her, and when 
 she declined this, offered to fetch the gloves if she would tell 
 him where they were to be found ; an offer which was perfectly 
 useless, for when did Lisa ever know where anything of hers was 
 to be found 1 She had not an idea now ; and as she said so, 
 began to walk away. 
 
 * Can't you give me two minutes. Miss Kennedy? I have 
 been wishing all day to speak to you. You are in no hurry, 
 are you V 
 
 * Yes, I am. The sun is very hot, and I want to finish. I 
 can't stay.' And off she went, leaving her basket and flowers 
 
 H 
 
114 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 upon the ground. But although he mounted guard diligently 
 over these for more than a quarter of an hour, she did not 
 return ; and Mrs Tennent and Elinor being ready then for their 
 ■walk, he was obliged to leave the place, having the satisfaction 
 of seeing Lisa and Prince come out by one door as he went in 
 at another. 
 
 When he went into the drawing-room after dinner that evening, 
 he found her sitting at one of the windows on a low stool, playing 
 at draughts with Constance, but so much taken up with her 
 game that she did not notice his entrance. Nor could he get 
 near her, there being several ladies present, to whom he was 
 obliged to give his attention, and Lisa, not being * introduced,' 
 kept in the background. He considered it an especial bore to 
 have to devote himself to the Miss Frasers, and do duty at the 
 piano half the evening, while all he could see of Lisa was an 
 occasional glimpse when some one happened to move, or perhaps 
 the fluttering of her dress as she passed across the room. 
 
 A very simple white dress it was, of the commonest description, 
 but she somehow attracted every one's attention ; and her aunt 
 remarked in grave silence the beautiful plaits at the back of her 
 head, and the scarlet geranium which with two or three green 
 leaves she had placed in her waist-band. Later in the evening, 
 when she was going to the piano to take part in some duet, 
 Cunninghame, who had been admiring her every time he could 
 catch sight of her, and had arrived at the conclusion that a white 
 dress with just that little bit of colour about it was the very 
 prettiest thing any lady could wear, overheard a peremptory 
 command to her from Mrs Tennent to ^ throw away those 
 flowers.' 
 
 ' Take them out directly, Lisa, and don't ornament yourself 
 again like that. I dislike exceedingly to see you thinking so 
 much of your dress. Throw them away, and don't be so silly 
 again, if you please.' 
 
 There was a flash in Lisa's eyes at this speech ; but she took 
 the flower and the leaves from her belt, and tossing them on 
 the floor, walked on to the piano. She did not see that Cun- 
 ninghame picked them up as they fell, and when he stood by 
 their side while she and Elinor were playing their duet, she kept 
 her eyes fixed upon her music, and resolutely declined giving him 
 any of her attention. When they had finished, and she rose to 
 go, he stopped her to ask for some favourite piece of his. 
 
BAFFLED. 115 
 
 * No, I am tired/ she said, and away she walked. He could 
 not get near her again till she was leaving the room for the 
 night, when he happened to be standing near the door, and 
 stepped forward to open it for her. She turned to him then 
 very gravely. 
 
 'Good-bye, Mr Thorpe. I hope you will have a pleasant 
 journey to-morrow.' 
 
 It was provoking that some one .should call him just then, for 
 he had planted himself there on purpose, intending to follow her, 
 and now this interruption detained him. It was only for a 
 moment, but it was quite enough to give her the start of him, 
 and when he got into the hall it was empty. He could only see 
 a glimpse of something white vanishing at the top of the stairs, 
 and hear a door close in the distance. The sound elicited some 
 exclamation more expressive than polite from him, and for a few 
 minutes he stood still, as if not quite realising the fact that he 
 had been so completely baffled, and by such a child, too ! 
 
 The next day he left Atherstone with Ralph and Janet, who 
 were also returning to Gainsford j and when Lisa knew he 
 was gone, she celebrated the event by an impromptu little 
 dance, got up for her own edification and that of Prince, who 
 sat on his hind legs and watched her with his bright eyes 
 twinkling inquiringly through his shaggy hair. He was evidently 
 puzzled to account for her delight, and quite as much so to know 
 why, in the midst of her dance, she stopped short suddenly and, 
 sitting down on the floor, covered him with kisses. His rough 
 coat was very wet afterwards, and when some one came into the 
 room, she got up in a great hurry and ran away. 
 
 A few days after Mr Thorpe left, it was arranged that Lisa, 
 with Lane and the younger children, should be sent to Copelands 
 for a few days. The weather that summer was unusually close 
 and hot, even for August, and there was not much fresh air to 
 be had at the Priory. Mrs Pye would take them in, as she had 
 often done on similar occasions ; and they would all of them be 
 the better for a little run in the country, especially Lisa, who 
 was not so well as usual, and was looking pale and listless. 
 And Dr Tennent, when he settled this, patted his niece on the 
 head, and told her ' she would like that — she was very fond of 
 Mrs Pye, he knew — and a visit to Copelands would be a treat 
 to her.' And Lisa did not say ' No.' When he was so kind it 
 would have seemed ungrateful to tell him she did not want to 
 
116 ATHERSTONE PEIORY. 
 
 go. And yet that was tlie truth, for in two days Percy was to 
 be at home agaili. Mary had heard that very mornmg that he 
 meant to come back on Thursday, and this was Tuesday; and 
 although she was not sure whether she most wished or dreaded 
 to see him, she was quite certain she did not wish to be away at 
 Copelands just when he was coming back. 
 
 But she could not say so ; and that evening she and Mary 
 walked over to see Mrs Pye, and settle all things for their going. 
 There was a lurking hope in her mind all the way out, that for 
 some reason or other the arrangement might not be practicable ; 
 but this hope was disappointed. Mrs Pye was delighted at the 
 idea of having them, and promised to take the greatest care of 
 Miss Lisa, whose pale face excited her deepest commiseration. 
 Not that Lisa was pale when these remarks were made, for they 
 brought the colour into her cheeks, and she disliked them so 
 much that she ran away into the farmyard to escape such un- 
 welcome pity, and did not emerge from it until Mary was ready 
 to return. 
 
 * Which day are we to go*?' was her first question then when 
 they had left the house. 
 
 *0n Thursday, dear. Mrs Pye would have had you to-morrow; 
 but I knew Lane would be busy, so I settled the day after. 
 You are to go the first thing after breakfast.' 
 
 Thursday ! the very day he was to come. 
 
 She said nothing, but it seemed as if Mary must have guessed 
 what was passing in her mind, for she added — 
 
 * You will be sorry to miss Percy when he comes back. But 
 you will see him soon, I daresay ; he is sure to get over to Cope- 
 lands when he hears you are there.' 
 
 Lisa's reply to this was not very intelligible, and all the way 
 home she hardly said a word, but paced wearily by her cousin's 
 side along the dusty road, as if she had no spirit for talking. 
 And yet it was a very pleasant evening, just such a one as she 
 enjoyed in general. The sun had gone down some time before 
 in a sea of purple and gold, and in the western sky there were 
 still traces of the glow he had left behind, but the twilight was 
 coming on and the dew was beginning to fall. The air w\as fresh 
 and moist, and laden with the scent of honeysuckles and travel- 
 ler's joy, and the hedges were ringing with the wild, cheery chirp 
 of countless grasshoppers. It was just what she would have liked 
 any other evening, but she did not care for it now ; and she lagged 
 
BAFFLED. 117 
 
 on with sucli evident signs of fatigue, that Mary, though longing 
 to hasten her steps, restrained them out of pity to her. It was 
 getting quite dark w^hen they reached the Priory ; so dark, that 
 when they went in, Lisa, who w^as first, ran against some one in 
 the hall. She looked up in surprise, and could just make out a 
 very tall dark figure in the dim light. Dim as it was, it Avas 
 enough to enable her to recognise the form. 
 
 ' Why, Percy ! ' she exclaimed ; and in the strange flutter of 
 surprise and joy that came over her, her voice hardly sounded 
 natural. Perhaps he thought he had startled her. 
 
 *Is that you, Lisa? I didn't see you coming. I hope I 
 didn't frighten you.' 
 
 ^ Oh, no, not at all ; ' and then, as Mary hastened up with 
 exclamations of astonishment and pleasure, she passed on into 
 tlie drawing-room without saying any more. She had meant to 
 meet him naturally ; ever since he went, she had been settling 
 what she should say and do when she saw him again ; and she 
 had intended to be as like her old self as possible. But some- 
 how this beginning was not successful — she w^ould not at any 
 other time have walked away without waiting to ask what had 
 brought him back sooner than he expected ; and when it was 
 too late she was vexed with herself for having done so. She 
 stood by the table round which all the others w^ere gathered 
 talking, angry with herself for being so stupid, and yet unable 
 to summon up courage to speak even a few words to him. 
 Arthur, by whose side she was standing, presently turned to 
 her with a smile — 
 
 ' Will you like to be introduced to a new acquaintance, Lisa ? 
 Some one you have never seen before. Let me have the pleasure 
 of introducing himi Major Tennent, you were inquiring for 
 Miss Kennedy just now, and when you heard she was exploring 
 the roads between here and Copelands under the protection only 
 of a female relative, you seemed to have serious fears for her 
 safety. I am happy to tell you they were without foundation, 
 for she has escaped the highwaymen and gipsies supposed to 
 infest this part of the country, and is ready now to make your 
 acquaintance. Allow me, therefore — — ' A grand flourish fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 Lisa looked bcAvildered. 
 
 ^ Major Tennent !' 
 
 ^ Yes, Major Tennent. Major Tennent, Koyal Engineers. My 
 
118 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 dear Lisa, I hope you don't generally look so " daft '' when you 
 are introduced to people. Is there anything so extraordinary in 
 his having got his majority V 
 
 Lisa coloured. *I didn't know he had/ she said, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 * Of course not; he didn't know it himself till yesterday. But 
 now that you do know it, where are your congratulations 1 Don't 
 you think he deserves his honours? It looks like it, as you 
 can't tell him you are glad he has got them.' 
 
 ' I am glad, though — very glad,' Lisa murmured; and although 
 the words were not addressed to Percy, he heard them. 
 
 ^ Thank you, Lisa '/ and his manner was so like old times, 
 that for a moment she forgot everything but the pleasure of 
 hearing his voice again, and looked up with a smile. And then 
 she shrank away vexed with herself, that she could not meet his 
 eye without colouring. How silly it was of her to be so stupid 
 and conscious I Was she never to be able to meet him like any 
 one else 1 never to hear him speak without her cheek flushing, 
 and her heart throbbing ? And she had meant to be natural, to 
 show no change at all in her manner to him. 
 
 * A good beginning this, certainly,' thought poor Lisa, as she 
 felt her burning face, and found how unsteady her hand was 
 when she tried to work that evening. * It 's fortunate for me I'm 
 going to Copelands, and no one will see me there ; but oh, how 
 I wish that Janet had never said that ! How I wish I were 
 a child still, and had never had such thoughts ! I was happy 
 before they came, and now I'm not ! I'm miserable !' 
 
UNDER THE LIME-TREES. 119 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 UNDER THE LIME-TREES. 
 
 * And you won't come out then, Mary V 
 
 * No, dear, I don't think I can. I will come to you if I have 
 time before tea ; you will be in the green- walk, I suppose?' 
 
 * Yes, I am going to take my work there ; ' and Lisa closed the 
 door of her cousin's room and went down-stairs. 
 
 There had been a thunderstorm the night before, which had 
 cleared the air, and the day was bright and breezy. White fleecy 
 clouds were drifting over the blue sky, borne across by the 
 summer wind ; and sunlight and shade played by turns on tree 
 and shrub and lawn. Very beautiful it all looked, but Lisa 
 must have had her thoughts engaged, for she hardly glanced 
 around, as with head bent down, and slow and thoughtful foot- 
 steps, she made her way into the green-walk. 
 
 She had sauntered almost to the end without once raising her 
 eyes, and might have returned in the same way had not a short 
 bark from her dog made her look up ; and then, to her no little 
 embarrassment, she discovered that she had come upon her 
 cousin Percy, who was stretched upon one of the long garden 
 benches in the walk. He was as unaware of her presence as she 
 had been of his, and as he had his back to her, and his hat 
 drawn over his eyes, she might have escaped unobserved, had 
 not Prince attracted his attention by jumping upon him. He 
 raised his hat, and seeing Lisa standing there with a deep blush 
 upon her face, uncertain whether to go or stay, he got up, looking 
 for the moment almost as much embarrassed as she did. She was 
 the first to recover herself, and to break the awkward silence. 
 
 * What a shame of us to disturb you !' she said ; ^ but I didn't 
 know you were here. I am very sorry.' 
 
 * You didn't disturb me. Don't let me drive you away, Lisa ; 
 I am not going to stay ;' and he took up a book that was lying 
 on the bench. 'You were coming to sit here, were you not V 
 
 And thinking she would rather be alone, he began to w^alk 
 away. 
 
 'Are you obliged to goV she said, timidly. 
 
120 ' XTHEKSTONE PPJORY. 
 
 ^Not if you wish me to stay, Lisa/ and lie turned back 
 eagerly. ' Is there anything I can do for you ] ' 
 
 ^jSTo, it's not that/ She hesitated, and after two or three 
 attempts to speaJc, burst into tears. * Percy, I don't know what 
 you must have thought of me all this time. You know wdiat 
 you did for me, and I have never yet said a word of thanks to 
 you. You must have thought me so ungrateful.' Her voice 
 w^as unsteady, and she could not go on. 
 
 * Ungrateful ! No, never, Lisa ! Who could tliink such a 
 thing of you V he said, with a long Avistful glance at her tearful 
 and half-averted face. * I wanted no thanks. It was happiness 
 enough for me to know you were safe — that I had saved you. 
 I did not want anything else.' It was said hurriedly, but the 
 low, earnest voice made Lisa tremble. 
 
 'I have been very silly, silly in a great many things lately,' 
 she said, colouring a good deal, and with the tears still in hf^.- 
 eyes ; * but I do thank you, Percy, and much, much more than 
 I can tell you : I shall never forget it as long as I live. I wish 
 you could know all I feel about it.' 
 
 He smiled. ^What else could I have done, Lisa? you did 
 not expect me to stand by and see you burnt to death without 
 trying to help you ? No man in the world would have done 
 such a thing.' 
 
 ^ Perhaps not. I don't know. Nobody did help me,* said 
 Lisa, with a shudder at the recollection of those terrible 
 moments. ' They might have done so afterwards, but then 
 it would have been too late. You were the only person, 
 Percy, who did what you could directly. You may say what 
 you like, but I shall think of it as long as I live, and I shall 
 always feel I can never thank you half enough. And you 
 don't know how sorry I am about that.' She looked at his 
 hand as she spoke. 
 
 He looked at it too, and smiled again. 
 
 ^ It 's not worth being sorry for, Lisa ; I can use it again 
 nearly as well as ever, you see.' And then, as if he thought 
 that enough had been said upon the subject, be added, rather 
 abruptly, ' And that w^as all you wanted me for 1 ' 
 
 * Yes. I couldn't go away and let you go on thinking 
 me ungrateful ; and we are going to Cop elands to-morrow^, 
 you know.' 
 
 * Yes, so Mary told me ; she sa^^s you have not been we\\ 
 
UNDER THE LIME-TREES. 121 
 
 lately. I liope the change will do you good, Lisa ; I am 
 sure you want it/ There was not much in the words, but 
 a great deal in the tone. Lisa sat down on the bench, 
 and took out her work to hide her agitation, remarking at 
 the same time that she didn't think there was much the 
 matter with her, only the hot weather had made her head 
 ache. Percy, who seemed to be making up his mind to say 
 something, stood by her for a few moments in silence. 
 
 ' I am afraid we shall not see much more of each other, 
 he began at last with evident effort. *You go to Copelands 
 to-morrow, and I shall only be here a day or two longer*? myself. 
 I am leaving on Saturday.' 
 
 * Leaving ! ' The w^ork fell from her hands, and she looked 
 up with a white face. 
 
 ' Yes, I am going to Scotland ; and I shall be away two 
 or three months, most likely as long as my leave lasts. I 
 don't think I shall return here.' 
 
 There was a long silence ; Lisa's head was bent over her 
 work again, and she made no reply. Perhaps he had hoped 
 to hear her express some regret that he was going. A short 
 time ago she would have done so, but now she was silent ; 
 the open, w^arm-hearted Lisa whom he had known so short 
 a time back was changed, and her apparent indifference cut 
 him to the heart. After a pause of some minutes he went on — 
 
 ' The last few months have been very happy, so happy 
 that I am afraid I was beginning to care too much for my 
 home ; and that does not do for a soldier ; he has no business 
 to care for one place more than another, so it is quite as well 
 I should be going.' 
 
 No answer still from Lisa. Her head was bent lower and 
 lower, but she made no attempt to speak. 
 
 * I shall always think of you,' he added ; * and wherever you 
 are, or whatever you are doing, I hope I shall always hear 
 you are happy. And, Lisa, can we not say good-bye as friends] 
 Something has come between us lately ; but whatever it has 
 been, can we not forget it now, and make the most of this last 
 day 1 It may be very long before we have another together.' 
 
 Poor Lisa ! With those last words her hard-fought struggle 
 came to an end, and she burst into a flood of such bitter 
 weeping that Percy was startled, though he was far from 
 conjecturing the true cause of her distress. To all his entreaties 
 
122 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 to tell him what was distressing her she only answered, *It 
 was not his fault ; she was foolish, that was all.' 
 
 * That is all ! but, Lisa, I must surely have said something. 
 You would not be in such distress if nothing were the matter. 
 What is it ? Won't you tell me 1 ' And then, as she was 
 still silent, a new light broke in upon him. He sat for some 
 moments doubtful and irresolute, but at last he said — 
 
 ' Lisa, can it really be anything to you whether I go or 
 stay ? Is it that is making you unhappy 1 ' 
 
 He was trembling between hope and fear ; but even then she 
 could give no answer. Although her face was turned away, 
 he could see she was crying again most bitterly. 
 
 * If I thought you wished me to stay, Lisa, I would not go,' he 
 said, even then scarcely daring to hope. 
 
 * You wouldn't go 1 ' And she raised her head and for a moment 
 looked at him with a child's face of eagerness and joy, but the 
 next she turned away again with deepening colour. 
 
 * No j not if you wished me to stay. Lisa, I will tell you the 
 truth. It was only on your account I was going — because 
 I love you so much that I could not stay where I thought there 
 was no chance of winning your love in return ; but if I thought 
 
 there was ' He looked at her, but she neither moved nor 
 
 spoke. ^ Lisa, I have loved you ever since I first saw you ; and 
 1 have loved you almost without hope, for I felt what a difference 
 there was between us, in age and character and everything else, 
 and thought it was madness to ask you to think of me as any- 
 thing but a cousin and a friend. Whether I have any right to 
 ask it now I don't know. Lisa, dear Lisa, will you tell me 1 
 Will you say whether I may stay, and hope that some day you 
 may be able to love me as much as I love you ? ' 
 
 Lisa was looking another way, her face all hot and burning ; 
 she seemed struggling to speak, though it was long before words 
 came. At last she turned and looked up at him through her 
 tears. 
 
 *I can't help it; you are not like anybody else. O Percy, 
 don't go away and leave me ! ' And child-like in her love and con- 
 fidence, she hid her face on his arm as if sure of finding there 
 the shelter and protection she wanted. 
 
 An hour later they were still sitting in the same place, but 
 Lisa's tears were gone then. Her face was flushed indeed, but 
 it was with happiness. In that short time a change seemed to 
 
UNDER THE LIME-TREES. 123 
 
 her to have come over everything, and the whole world looked 
 radiant. The sunshine, which when she had come that way had 
 seemed so dim, now danced and flickered through the leaves and 
 fell at her feet in a shower of beauty ; and the voice of the sum- 
 mer wind, which not long ago had sounded full of sadness, came 
 laden with a music of its own, and spoke of one lasting dream 
 of happiness. She had found some one who was to be every- 
 thing to her — some one who would care for her and love her all 
 through her life, and shield her from all trouble and sorrow. 
 
 Poor Lisa, it was a bright dream, and it would have been 
 hard, then, to persuade her that it might not last ; that human 
 affection, strong and tried as it might be, could not be all in all 
 to her, that its very intensity and devotion might be the channels 
 through which grief and trial were to visit her. She was too 
 young to have any such misgivings ; and she was very happy 
 sitting there by Percy's side, listening to all he had to tell her of 
 his deep, passionate love, and the bright future he would make 
 for her. She had much, too, to tell him in return ; and though it 
 only came out in bits and snatches, as if she hardly liked to think 
 of what had made her so miserable, yet she managed by degrees 
 to tell him everything — how and when she had first discovered 
 he was not the brother she had always taken him for ; how she 
 had dreaded his knowing what her feelings were ; and how, in 
 trying to hide them, she had contrived to make both herself and 
 him very unhappy. She could not bear to think of it, those last 
 four weeks had been so wretched. But, as he said, why should 
 they make themselves miserable about the past when their mistake 
 had come to an end, and they had found out what they were to 
 each other 1 His own happiness, however, he hardly seemed able 
 to realise. That Lisa, bright, joyous, and beautiful, so unlike 
 himself in every way, should have given her affections to him, 
 appeared incredible. 
 
 * Are you sure, dearest, you know what you are doing 1 I am 
 afraid you have not thought enough about it, and of the great 
 difference there is between us in everything. You forget how old 
 and grave I am ; and then, too,' smiling a little, ' I am not good- 
 looking ; are you sure you can put up with me as I am ? You 
 must have forgotten that ' 
 
 * Percy, that isn't generous of you ! ' Lisa exclaimed, growing 
 crimson in a moment. ^ It was so very, very long ago I said that. 
 ft was in my foolish days, before I knew or cared about you. 
 
124 ATHERSTONE PKIORY. ■ 
 
 I had forgotten it till Susan reminded me of it that day at din- \ 
 ner ; and then I was miserable. You would never talk in that ' 
 way if you knew how unhappy it makes me.' '■ 
 
 ' Well, I will not, dearest ; though I don't know why it should \ 
 make you unhappy. But, Lisa, what I fear is that you should \ 
 some day find you have made a mistake in thinking you can \ 
 care for me. You are so young, so pretty, and so winning, that \ 
 I feel as if you were not made for me ; only my love for you is i 
 as true and deep as any you could find ; you might go all the j 
 world over and not meet one who would love you as I do ; and if \ 
 that would make up for other things ' \ 
 
 ^ Percy,' and Lisa sat up and looked at him with a bright j 
 colour, but with clear steady eyes, ^ will you listen to me for one < 
 minute ? I want to tell you something, and you are to believe \ 
 it. I wouldn't have you different if I could. I like your being j 
 older and graver than I am, because I like to look up to you. \ 
 And as for your not being handsome, that is as people think ; / : 
 think you are. Won't you believe me 1 It is all true, indeed. ■ 
 Promise me you will never talk in that way any more.' \ 
 
 She laid her hand in his, her earnest, Avistful look saying even \ 
 more than her words, and Percy's last doubts went then. Lisa j 
 saw he believed and trusted her, and she was very happy. She \ 
 seemed to have forgotten everything in the joy of that hour, and j 
 was quite unconscious of the lapse of time, till the sound of foot- < 
 steps coming up to a gate close by brought her back to outward i 
 realities. The step was her uncle's ; but although she knew this \ 
 well enough, she started as she heard the turning of the key in 
 the door. i 
 
 * It 's only my father ; you are not going to run away ? ' Percy \ 
 exclaimed, as she made a frightened movement. ^ 
 
 * Yes, I am ; I can't see him. O Percy, don't hold me so : 
 tight ; ' and she was on the point of making her escape when the \ 
 door opened, and she found herself stopped by Dr Tennent, who \ 
 caught her as she was passing him. ] 
 
 * Well, my little girl, what are you doing ? ' he began, * and ! 
 
 where are you running so fast? You look as if And ^ 
 
 then seeing Percy, he stopped short, with a long look first at him, \ 
 and again at Lisa, whose tell-tale face of blushes and confusion j 
 must have prepared him for what was coming. i 
 
 * Why, Percy, what is the meaning of this ? ' and although I 
 there Avas nothing in his tone to indicate displeasure, Lisa felt | 
 
UNDER THE LIME-TREES. 125 
 
 til at she could not wait to hear the explanation that must be 
 given. 
 
 * Please let me go, uncle Henry, won't you 1 ^ she said, in such 
 imploring accents that they were not to be resisted. 
 
 He looked at her once more with an odd smile, and then re- 
 leased her. 
 
 ' I understand. Get along with you. And now, Percy, let 
 me hear what you have to say.' 
 
 And as he turned to his son, Lisa made her escape in good 
 earnest, and rushed back to the house. 
 
 It was not long afterwards when Mary, who was still sitting 
 in her room, heard the door open very softly, and soine one 
 come stealing in. Noiseless as the step was that crossed the 
 floor, she recognised it at once ; there was no other like it in 
 the house — no other so light and fairy-like. 
 
 ' I am glad you are come, Lisa,' she said, without looking up ; 
 *I was not able to get out, for this has taken longer than I 
 thought it would. It must be past tea-time — will you ring the 
 Ibell, dear ] ' 
 
 Lisa hesitated for a moment, and then, instead of doing as 
 she was asked, came up behind her cousin's chair, and stood 
 there without speaking. A little surprised, Mary turned. 
 
 * Why, Lisa dear,' catching a glimpse of her face, ' how hot 
 you are ! Where have you been ] ' 
 
 * Only in the garden — in the green-walk.* 
 
 * In the garden ! But what have you been doing there 1 Is 
 anything the matter ? ' 
 
 ^ No, oh no ! It 's only that — that ' and coming round, 
 
 and kneeling down by her cousin's side, she hid her face in her 
 lap. * Mary, dear, I was with Percy, and — and he told me 
 something. Can you guess what it w^as 1 ' 
 
 For a moment Mary was silent ; then she bent down, stroking 
 Lisa's hair caressingly. 
 
 * What was it, my darling 1 I can guess what he said to you, 
 but I don't know what you told him.' 
 
 Lisa raised her head and looked up for a minute very shyly. 
 * Not know ! Mary ! when he is better than anybody else in 
 all the world — when there is no one like him ! ' 
 
 She hid her face again, but Mary's warm, delighted embrace 
 was sympathy itself. 
 
 * Dear Lisa, I am so glad — so happy ! ' 
 
126 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 * So am 1/ Lisa murmured. * I am afraid I am too happy. 
 It hardly seems right I should be so, when I have been so silly 
 all this time, and so cross.' 
 
 Mary smiled a little. 
 
 ' That was it, was it, Lisa ? That is what has been making 
 you look so pale lately. I thought there was something the 
 matter besides the hot weather.' 
 
 * Did you 1 ' Lisa said, in some confusion. ^ I didn't know I 
 showed it. I meant to keep it to myself. I was so afraid he 
 should find out that — that — I couldn't tell, you know, that he 
 would ever think of me.' 
 
 ' Couldn't you 1 ' Well, it is all over now, dear, at any rate, 
 and you need not trouble yourself about it again. You will be 
 very happy, my darling — I am sure Percy will make you so ; 
 and I am so glad to know it ! And, Lisa, you know what I 
 think of him. You don't want me to tell you what you have 
 heard so often.' 
 
 ' No, I know it all. I know it 's true. And, Mary dear, I 
 must make him happy too. I wonder whether I shall — I'm 
 half afraid. I 'm such a little thing, and I don't know much. 
 Sup])ose he should be disappointed in me after all ! ' 
 
 ^Not much fear of that, dearest — he is not taking you on 
 trust. You have known each other so long now. Besides, Lisa, 
 you are very young — you may go on improving.' 
 
 * Yes, so I may — I '11 try, Mary,' was the answer, in a very 
 thoughtful tone ; and with her head still resting on her cousin's 
 knee, Lisa fell into a long reverie. 
 
 * And so. Miss Lisa,' began her uncle, when some time after- 
 wards he sent for her into the library — ' and so Percy has been 
 persuading you that he is the best person in the world to have 
 the care of you — that you will be much happier with him than 
 you are here. Is it true 1 ' He put his arm round her as she 
 stood by the side of his chair, and drew her very close to him. 
 * You must tell me what you think about it, my child. Is it 
 really what you wish ? ' 
 
 Lisa nestled still closer to him, and stole a curiously wistful, 
 timid glance at Percy, who was standing near. 
 
 ' I shall not like leaving you, uncle Henry ; ' and her voice 
 faltered a little. * You have always been so kind to me — but 
 
 — he asked me, and I couldn't say what wasn't true, and ' ■ 
 
 She hid her face. 
 
HAPPY DAYS. 127 
 
 Dr Tennent smiled. * Which means, I suppose, that you 
 think as he does, and are quite ready to trust yourself to him. 
 So there is nothing left for me to do but to tell him he may 
 have you. Mind, Percy, you take good care of her ; for if you 
 don't I shall never forgive you.' 
 
 What Percy's answer was no one knew. It Avas not coherent 
 by any means; but Lisa's confiding smile told that she could 
 trust him ; and her face all that evening was one of very quiet, 
 but perfect happiness. She had not even a misgiving as to how 
 her engagement would be taken by the aunt of whom she stood 
 so much in dread. She rested satisfied with the feeling that it 
 was sanctioned and approved by those whom she most loved and 
 cared for. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 HAPPY DAYS. 
 
 Mrs Tennent's air of displeasure the following morning w^as 
 sufiicient to make it apparent that something was wrong. But 
 Lisa was too happy to be influenced by external circumstances ; 
 and although aware of her aunt's annoyance, it had no power to 
 cast a shadow over the brightness of her spirit. She was very 
 silent ; but it was no fear that kept her so — only a strange 
 mixture of shy but very happy feelings. But quietly as she sat 
 in her usual corner, hardly joining at all in what went on, there 
 was no mistaking the radiant expression of her face ; and it 
 shortly elicited the remark from Arthur, that ^ the mere prospect 
 of Copelands pleasures and Mrs Pye's good cheer seemed to be 
 exhilarating ; for Lisa was getting quite " perky " already — ■ 
 unless, indeed, she had been shamming illness to get a holi- 
 day.' 
 
 Lisa laughed, but it was in some confusion, which was not 
 diminished a minute afterwards, when something being said 
 about Percy's leaving on the Saturday, he answered that he was 
 not going to Scotland at all. 
 
128 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 * ]^6t going to Scotland ! ' exclaimed half-a-dozen voices at 
 once, wliilo Mrs Tennent looked sterner than ever, and the 
 doctor buried himself behind the Times. Lisa's crimson face 
 escaped notice in the excitement produced by what appeared 
 such an extraordinary announcement. 
 
 * Not going to Scotland ! * repeated Arthur. * What 's the 
 meaning of that *? I thought it was a settled thing. You don't 
 mean to say you give up the grouse ! It 's a moral impossi- 
 bility ! ' 
 
 * iVnd what will the Wilsons say 1 * remarked Isabel. * They 
 won't like it — it is so odd to make an engagement and break it 
 without any cause.' 
 
 ' I only made it to suit myself,' he answered, * and now I 've 
 changed my mind. I don't care to go.' 
 
 * But that is such a foolish reason — they will be offended, you 
 may be sure.' 
 
 * Not the least fear of it. I wrote to Wilson last night.' 
 
 * But the grouse ! ' interposed Arthur. * What a chance, and 
 to let it go begging ! By George, if I could be off to the moors 
 with a gun on my shoulder, you wouldn't see me back in a 
 hurry. I don't understand what attraction you have found in 
 
 Atherstone to keep you here — unless indeed' and struck 
 
 apparently by some bright thought, Arthur looked at his cousin 
 with a peculiar smile. ^ It 's not a settled thing yet, is it ? 
 Well, she 's not a bad-looking girl — I rather admire your taste, 
 do you know. Is it fixed, or will congratulations be prema- 
 ture ? ' 
 
 * Bather ; considering that I don't know whom you are talking 
 about. Susan, what time are you going to Copelands ? I shall 
 walk over there with you.' And as Percy rose from the table, 
 the rest of the party began to break up too, and dispersed to 
 their several occupations. 
 
 The w^alk to Copelands had to be accomplished before the heat 
 of the day came on, so no time was to be lost in setting off; and 
 Lisa, who was ready long before the others, willingly acceded to 
 Percy's proposal of going on by themselves. They walked silently 
 enough through the long street in which the Priory stood ; but 
 wlien they got beyond the town, he turned to her with a smile, 
 and drew her arm within his. The walk seemed a very short 
 one ; but it was only to be the first of many others while she 
 was at Copelands, for he should come over every day, he said — 
 
HAPPY DAYS. 129 
 
 and before he left be gave her a very pretty pearl ring which he 
 told her he wanted her to wear. 
 
 She had never had such a thing before, and she coloured be- 
 tween surprise and delight. ' What a little beauty ! But ' 
 
 and she looked at it doubtfully. * Did you get it on purpose for 
 me, Percy r 
 
 * Yes, dearest, I did. Why, don't you w^ish to have it V 
 
 * Oh, yes, it 's not that — but — I have never worn anything oi 
 the sort, you know. I am not sure whether Aunt Helen will 
 like it. She won't even let me have a brooch to fasten my hand- 
 kerchief, and I don't know what she will say to a ring ! ' 
 
 He smiled. * My dear Lisa, she can't treat you as a child any 
 longer. She won't say anything when she hears I have given it 
 to you. And I wish you particularly to wear it. Won't you do 
 so to please meV 
 
 * Of course I will, if you wish it,' she said, slipping it on her 
 finger. ^ And I won't lose it. That is a grand promise for me 
 to make, Percy, because I always lose everything. But this will 
 be different, because you have given it me. I shall take great 
 care of it.' 
 
 And if that day were to be taken as a sample of what others 
 were to be, Lisa stood in no danger of losing her ring through 
 f orgetfulness ; for long after Percy had left her, she stood turn- 
 ing it round and round upon her finger, lost in thought. It must 
 have been very pleasant thought, for there was a smile upon her 
 face all the time; and whenever she looked at it afterwards, 
 which was very often, the smile came back. She did not take 
 it off even when she went to bed that night ; and once when she 
 half woke up, wondering where she was, she felt to see that it 
 was really there, and assure herself that her happiness was not a 
 dream. 
 
 They were pleasant days that followed. The early rising, the 
 visits to the farmyard and dairy, where she helped to milk the 
 cows, skim the cream, and churn the butter, the races in the 
 meadows with Susan and Constance, and the coming back to 
 breakfast so hungry that Mrs Pye's talDle, laden as it was, seemed 
 hardly furnished with enough to satisfy their appetites; the 
 hundred other employments in orchard, farm, and garden, were 
 more charming now than they had ever been ; for through all 
 was the thought of the one great happiness which was so new to 
 her. That thought was with her all day long, brightening the 
 
 I 
 
130 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 hours when Percy was away from her, and making those she 
 spent with him the most joyous she had ever known. 
 
 He was very often there — every morning, in short — coming 
 over immediately after breakfast to find Lisa on the look-out for 
 him, walking up and down the lane by which he must come, 
 and always meeting him with the most winning smile, and 
 inaking no attempt to conceal the pleasure which it gave her to 
 be with him. And then came long talks and long rides together; 
 for, remembering her delight in this latter exercise, one of his 
 first thoughts had been to find means for gratifying it ; and as 
 Mr Pye had exchanged his hunter for a quieter horse, of which 
 he was most willing to let Miss Lisa have the use, Percy had not 
 much difficulty in carrying out his wishes. A horse for himself 
 was always procurable at Atherstone, and a lady's saddle having 
 also been obtained, and a skirt furnished by Lane to do duty as 
 a habit, Lisa took her first legitimate ride ; and although she 
 found a saddle, as she said, the most inconvenient thing imagin- 
 able, and declared she would much rather ride without one, she 
 grew accustomed to it in a day or two j and from having had so 
 much stolen practice, soon became an accomplished horse-woman. 
 Their rides grew longer and longer, extending into parts of 
 the country where she had never been before, over lonely heaths, 
 through deep woods and overhanging lanes, and up among the 
 hills, on which she had often looked as the boundary of Ather- 
 stone view. She was never tired — only becoming brighter and 
 more animated with every new scene ; and as she cantered by 
 Percy's side with eyes sparkling and colour raised, it was no 
 wonder his eye so often lingered on her with admiration ; and 
 although his w^ords were few, and his manner singularly quiet 
 and undemonstrative, no one would have been surprised to hear 
 that his love for her was something bordering on idolatry. 
 
 ' I think these rides are so very pleasant !' she exclaimed one 
 day, * and certainly this is the most delightful time in all my 
 life. O Percy, what a view ! Put up your glass and look at 
 it. Do you see the sunlight on that glimpse of the river below, 
 and those deep shadows on the rocks opposite 1 How lovely it 
 is, and how beautiful the heather looks ! ' 
 
 They had paused under a clump of trees upon the brow of a 
 hill, and were looking down upon one of the lonely picturesque 
 valleys not uncommon in those parts. It was long before Lisa 
 could take her eyes from the scene before her, and she seemed 
 
HAPPY DAYS. 131 
 
 fio absorbed in its beauty, that she grew quite grave and thought- 
 ful, as if oppressed by the loveliness that lay around. But when 
 they moved on, she began again in her usual tone. 
 
 * Yes, I like these rides so much ; they are one of the greatest 
 pleasures I could have. I am so glad to see these new and beau- 
 tiful places ; and then, too, I am so fond of a horse. Percy,' 
 turning to him with a laugh, ' do you remember my last ride in 
 the spring ? How badly I behaved then ! Do you recollect how 
 rude I was to you 1 I hit you with my whip. I have often 
 thought of it since. I hope I didn't hurt you.' 
 
 He smiled a little. ' Your hand is not very heavy, Lisa. If 
 you had been no more hurt than I was, it would have been a 
 good thing for both of us.' 
 
 ' For me, you mean ; but it was only what I deserved,' she 
 said, very decidedly. ' What a disagreeable girl you must have 
 thought me ! I can't imagine how it was you didn't hate me, 
 and give me up as good for nothing.' 
 
 * Instead of liking you all the better for it. I am afraid, Lisa, 
 your wilfulness and your — your what shall I call it' 
 
 *Bad, spiteful temper?' suggested Lisa, patting her horse's 
 neck. 
 
 * Nothing of the sort ; your — well, your dislike of me, for I 
 suppose it came from that — I am afraid that was the very thing 
 which attracted me. I don't think I should have cared for you 
 half so much if you had not been what you were.' 
 
 Lisa opened her eyes. ^ You liked me for being naughty, you 
 mean — for being self-willed, disobedient, and unamiable? O 
 Percy !' 
 
 * It was not right, perhaps, but I am afraid it is the truth. 
 I don't know that I always approved of what you did ; but I 
 liked it, as coming from you. And it is the case still. You 
 may do what you please, Lisa. You can do nothing I should 
 not like.' 
 
 * Nothing !' and Lisa smiled a little. * But, Percy, that is very 
 wrong of you. If I don't do right, you ought to tell me of it, 
 and help me to be better. I have so many faults, that if I 
 haven't some one to remind me of them, I shall never get rid of 
 them. And if you say you would like anything I do, you will 
 never help me at all, I am afraid. Only I don't quite believe 
 that.' She rode on in silence for a short distance, and then said 
 suddenly, with a sparkle of suppressed merriment in her eyes, 
 
132 ATHERGTONE t^RTORY. 
 
 * If I were to tell you by-and-b}^ I didn t care for you, I suppose 
 you would like that too.' 
 
 * Lisa ! ' His voice was so terribly hoarse and unnatural that 
 she was quite startled ; and when she turned to look at him, 
 there was a cloud upon his face such as she had never seen before. 
 In something like fear she shrank away. The movement recalled 
 him to himself, and he tried to force a smile. 
 
 * I did not frighten you, did I, Lisa 1 I did not intend to do 
 that. Don't look so miserable, dearest. I meant nothing. But 
 never say such a thing as that again, if you don't wish to make 
 me wretched. I can't bear to think there is a chance of. your 
 changing towards me.' 
 
 Lisa drew a long breath of relief, for he was speaking like 
 himself. 
 
 ^ Why, Percy, you don't think I meant it ! I was only in jest. 
 You can't suppose I said it in earnest.' 
 
 ' No, dearest, no. But ' He hesitated, and then repeated, 
 
 * Don't say it again, Lisa, even if it is only in jest. You don't know 
 what it would be if you trifled with me. I could not bear it.' 
 
 There was one thing, then, she could do which he would not 
 like ; and if he had not spoken as he did, she might have said 
 something light with reference to his former speech. But she 
 did not do so ; she only said in a low voice — 
 
 * I won't do anything you don't wish, Percy. You can't really 
 think I should ever trifle with you. It 's so impossible, that I 
 am sure you are jesting now.' 
 
 He smiled, but made no other answer, and the subject was 
 dropped, though there was just the slightest shade of constraint 
 between them for the remainder of the way home. Slight as it 
 was, it was sufficient to make Lisa uneasy; and when, on reaching 
 the farm, they left her horse at the stable and she walked back 
 with him to the gate, she looked so grave that he asked her what 
 was the matter. Was she very much tired 'I 
 
 * No, not at all.' But a minute after a little hand came steal- 
 ing into his. ' Percy, I didn't vex you, did I, when I said that 
 silly thing ] You are not angry with nie ? ' 
 
 ' Angry with you ! ' and his face brightened in a moment. 
 
 * ^[y darling, what could make you think so 1 "No, I will tell 
 you what it was. For one moment, I thought you were in 
 
 earnest — that such a thing might be, and well, never mind, 
 
 it is not true. You are mine — you have promised me.' 
 
HAPPY DAYS. 133 
 
 * Yes, and I like to think I have. If I had known you would 
 take it in that way, I would never, never have said it.' 
 
 ' I know that, dearest. I am sorry I frightened you so much. 
 Have you forgiven me, Lisa, or are you still afraid of me ? ' 
 ' Afraid of you ! O Percy ! ' 
 
 * Yes, afraid of me. You were before, Lisa. I did not like 
 to see you look like that.' 
 
 ' Because you didn't speak like yourself ; you Avere so strange. 
 But you are not now ; you are just what you always are.' 
 
 He put his arm round her and gave her a long kiss, and then 
 he went away without another word. And so the little cloud 
 vanished. 
 
 It was the only one during the whole of that happy visit. 
 Those long morning rides were, perhaps, Lisa's chief delight : 
 but there were other things almost as pleasant ; and of these not 
 the least were her rambles in the evening, when Percy was sure 
 to come again, often with Mary, who liked to see what they were 
 all doing. There was a great deal to talk of when she came, and 
 long rambles about the farm and its neighbourhood with her and 
 Percy ; and when Mary was kept at home, he came alone, a fact 
 which did not long escape the notice of Mrs Pye. * Of course,' 
 she said, ' it was very right that Miss Lisa, who was not well, 
 should have those long rides ; and a great deal of good they did 
 her, for she always came back from them with very bright eyes 
 and colour ; and it was quite proper, too, that Captain Tennent, 
 who was her cousin, and so much older than herself, should go 
 with her at such times ; but when it came to his coming again in 
 the evening, and staying so long too, why, then, she began to 
 have her suspicions ; and really, if Miss Lisa had not been such 
 a little bit of a thing, she could have fancied there w^as something 
 in it. As far as that went, how^ever, one did hear now and then 
 of young girls marrying men ever so much older than themselves.' 
 Miss Lisa's sudden blush, too, when he happened once to come 
 unexpectedly, and her evident disappointment another time when 
 it rained, and something was said by one of the younger children 
 about nobody getting over from the Priory that evening, these 
 and a number of other little things were not lost upon Mrs Pye. 
 But as the farmer only laughed, and Lane was evidently injured 
 when anything of the sort Avas said, she kept her thoughts to 
 herself. 
 
134 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE FIRST LINK IN A LONG CHAIN. 
 
 Lisa came back from that visit to Copelands looking very 
 different from what she had done two weeks before; and Dr 
 Tennent, to whom she rushed for a kiss directly she entered the 
 drawing-room, declared he should advise Mrs Pye to set up a 
 regular boarding-house. If she could turn out many such roses 
 as those Lisa had brought back with her, he had no doubt she 
 would soon make her fortune. 
 
 * Yes, providing the invalids, when they go there, have no 
 more the matter with them than this one,' remarked Mrs Tennent, 
 drily. * Stand out of the light, child. Don't you see I am 
 working ? ' 
 
 ' Providing, too, they have Percy to look after them,' put in 
 Arthur. * I wonder how often he has been out there lately. 
 Pretty nearly every day, I suspect, Miss Lisa? Did he think 
 your morals wanted improving; or what was it gave you so 
 much of his company 1 ' 
 
 It was a random speech, and he was surprised at the effect it 
 produced on more than one person in the room. Mrs Tennent 
 coughed, the doctor fidgeted, and Lisa herself grew very crimson, 
 and saying something about taking off her hat, vanished in a 
 great hurry. Arthur glanced at them all in succession in no 
 little astonishment. 
 
 ' What 's the matter 1 ' he said at last. * Everybody looks 
 very queer. Is there anything in the wind V 
 
 There was no answer. Dr Tennent looked at his wife, and 
 then at his son. 
 
 *Well, yes; I believe there is. And I don't know that it 
 need be a secret any longer; eh, my dear? eh, Percy? You don't 
 wish it not to be known, do you 1 ' 
 
 ^ Certainly not, sir — the sooner it is known the better, in my 
 opinion. I always understood that directly this Copelands visit 
 was over, it was to be made public. Mrs Tennent told me it 
 should, and I su2)pose she sees no reason to retract her promise.* 
 
THE FIRST LINK IN A LONG CHAIN. 135 
 
 Mrs Teniient jerked her needle out sharply, snapping her 
 thread as she did so. 
 
 ^You know what I think about it, Percy. It has not my 
 sanction ; I consider it an exceedingly foolish business ! ' 
 
 Perhaps Percy thought he was old enough to judge for him- 
 self whether he were acting foolishly or not, for a smile passed 
 over his face, and then he said quietly, but with a good deal of 
 proud happiness in his tone, * Lisa and I are engaged.' 
 
 If a thunderbolt had fallen at Arthur's feet, he could hardly 
 have looked more petrified ; and as for Isabel and Elinor, they 
 were even more taken by surprise than he was. For some 
 minutes not a word was said by one of them, and if Percy 
 had expected congratulations, he must have been woefully dis- 
 appointed by that blank silence. By degrees, however, Arthur 
 seemed to come to himself. 
 
 'Well,' he said, slowly, *I don't understand it, and that's the 
 truth. Lisa, that little chit ! And to you ! I beg your pardon, 
 but really it 's so very odd. Of course it 's true, as you say it ; 
 only I had an idea — but I suppose I was mistaken.' 
 
 ' I suppose you were,' Percy answered, rather stiffly. 
 
 * Now, old fellow, don't be offended ; ' and Arthur jumped up 
 from his chair. * You don't think I 'm not glad ? I wish you 
 joy with all my heart,' wringing his cousin's hand as he spoke. 
 * But such a thing requires time to digest. Lisa is such a mite 
 to begin with — why, she has only just been put into long frocks — 
 woman's dresses, I mean ; and she 's not out of the nursery yet. 
 She plays with Conny's dolls, and makes herself very happy over 
 a cart and horse with George ; and really the idea of her coming 
 out in such a new line is startling.' 
 
 ' You are quite right, Arthur,' Mrs Tennent said. * The 
 whole thing is very foolish. I am glad you see it in that 
 light.' 
 
 ' In what light ? It 's odd, certainly, but it 's very jolly. 
 You don't mean, ma'am, you don't like it 1 that you don't think 
 little Scaramouch has shown her sense in making such a choice 1 
 Excuse my saying it, Percy, but — you are not exactly the sort 
 of fellow I should have thought she would take a fancy to. You 
 understand, don't you *? ' 
 
 * Quite/ and Percy smiled a little, not in the least offended at 
 this speech. He was as well aware as any one of his deficiencies; 
 and there might be some pride in the thought that, in spite of 
 
136 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 them all, lie liad been able to win the heart of his beautiful little 
 cousin. Most probably, too, he was prepared for the surprise 
 which was sure to be expressed by every one when Lisa's choice 
 came to be known ; but there was a disappointment in store for 
 him which he had not expected. Next to Mary, he always 
 looked to Isabel for sympathy in everything, and he never 
 doubted now that she would be the first to wish him joy. It 
 was to her he turned when speaking of his engagement, hoping 
 for a word or look to tell him how much she entered into his 
 feelings. 
 
 But he waited in vain. When her first astonishment was 
 over, she took up her work again, and neither spoke nor raised 
 her eyes ; and although Arthur, in spite of very ominous coughs 
 from headquarters, persisted in saying over and over again how 
 very glad he was, and declaring Percy was the luckiest fellow in 
 existence, not a word came from Isabel. Her brother watched 
 her for a few minutes, and then crossing the room, sat down 
 by her side. 
 
 ^ And so you are not going to give me a word, Isabel ? ' he 
 said, half lightly, half reproachfully. * You won't even tell me 
 you are glad that Lisa and I are so happy 1 And yet I want to 
 hear something from you more than any one.* 
 
 She did look up then, but it was not with the smile he had 
 hoped to see. 
 
 ' I don't know exactly what you want to hear, Percy ; but I 
 am afraid if I were to say what I think, you w^ould not like it. 
 I don't wish to vex you, but ' 
 
 * But what ? ' and he looked hurt. ' You think, I suppose, I 
 am too old for her — that she might have done better.' 
 
 ' She ! no, indeed ! I think you might have done better. O 
 Percy, she is not the wife for you — indeed she is not.' And 
 Isabel's hand was laid imploringly on his arm. *You cannot 
 know her, or you would not think of her ; you will never be 
 happy.' 
 
 * Nonsense, Isabel,' half angrily. ^ Surely I must be the best 
 judge of the sort of wife I want ; you can't expect me to marry 
 to please you, or even to consult your taste in my choice. I did 
 hope, though,' and he came back to his usual tone, but with 
 even more than his usual affection in it, ' I did hope you would 
 care for any one I chose ; that even if she were a stranger, you 
 would love her for my sake. But Lisa ! Lisa, whom you have 
 
THE FIRST LINK IN A LONG CHAIN. Vu7 
 
 known so long, who must be like a sister to you already ! What 
 on earth makes you think I shall not be happy with her ] ' 
 
 * Everything/ Isabel exclaimed. * She is not in the least 
 suited for you ; and so you would feel if you knew her as I do. 
 But/ changing her voice as she saw his impatient look, ' what 
 is the use of saying anything about it 1 As you said just now, 
 you are not marrying to please me. There is no good, therefore, 
 in talking of what will only vex us both.' 
 
 Percy bit his lip. * And that is all you have to say to me, 
 then 1 These are all the good wishes you have to give us 1 They 
 are not what I should have expected,' he added, rather bitterly. 
 
 * I was not speaking of wishes,' Isabel said, hastily. * You know 
 well enough that nobody can wish more for you than I do ; no 
 one can care more to see you happy, and Lisa too ' 
 
 * Well, and that is all I want,' he interrupted. * Why did you 
 look so grave, as if it was nothing to you whether we were 
 happy or not ] ' 
 
 * Because ' She hesitated. * Hoping is not expecting, 
 
 Percy, and — I can't say I am glad for what I am afraid won't 
 bring you happiness.' 
 
 He looked annoyed. 
 
 * What makes you think it will not ? What has poor Lisa 
 done to make you think so hardly of her? She is the brightest, 
 sweetest-tempered, and most loving little creature in the world. 
 Why should you speak of her in that depreciating way V 
 
 * I do not mean it to be depreciating. I like Lisa very much, 
 and believe there is a great deal that is good in her ; but I have 
 known her much longer than you have, and I know she has 
 many faults.' 
 
 Percy's head went up in the way in which he often showed 
 displeasure. 
 
 *She has, has she? I am glad to hear it. I have a par- 
 ticular objection to people who are considered perfect. But pray, 
 what are these dreadful faults which make you think so badly of 
 poor Lisa ? She has too much spirit for you, I suppose ? * 
 
 Isabel looked grave. *I should like her spirit shown in a 
 different way,' she said ; ' I don't think it speaks well for the 
 disposition of any one to be always in opposition to those who 
 have the direction of them. But that was not what I was 
 thinking of. You know what I once said of her — you know 
 how very like '< 
 
138 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 * Take care, Isabel,' and liis face grew dark. * Take care what 
 you are saying, if you please. Eemember what Lisa is to me 
 now. She is my promised wife.' 
 
 * I know that — O Percy, how could you think of her 1 Yes, 
 you must be angry with me if you like. I mu.st say what I 
 think. She is like her mother ; she is light and frivolous; it is 
 that makes me afraid for her, and afraid for you.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' and whether he looked most annoyed or most amused 
 was difficult to say. * And so that is the grand crime, is it? 
 She is a child — and a very gay and simple one, who picks up plea- 
 sures where no one else would look for them ; and because she has 
 not learned to see life yet in a matter-of-fact view, she is set 
 down as frivolous ; and by you of all people ! Isabel, I thought 
 you had more penetration, and,' he added pointedly, for he was 
 really piqued, ' more kindness than to judge her so harshly.' 
 
 IsabePs face flushed. ' I am sorry you think me unkind. If 
 I am, though, it is because I think so much of you, Percy ; 
 because I should have liked — well, never mind now — there is no 
 reason we should quarrel because we don't think alike.' 
 
 All very different from what he had hoped to hear from his 
 favourite sister; and chilled, hurt, and disappointed, Percy 
 walked away. Nor was Isabel herself much more comfortable. 
 She felt she had said and done the wrong thing; that 
 whatever Lisa's faults were, it was not the time to have dis- 
 cussed them ; that it would have been better to look less to 
 what w^as wanting in her cousin than to the many winning and 
 attractive qualities which had won her brother's love. She felt 
 half inclined to follow him and say something to efface the 
 impression her words had left, but she did not follow the im- 
 pulse. A new, unpleasant feeling had taken possession of her, 
 and she would have found it extremely disagreeable to confess 
 that there was something akin to jealousy in it. 
 
 But so it was. It is no easy matter to give up a place where 
 we have been first ; and Isabel had so long been in the habit of 
 regarding her brother as belonging almost exclusively to herself, 
 that it was hard to realise the fact that she must henceforth be 
 content to stand only second in his affections. And that Lisa, 
 so much younger, so far iitferior to herself, should be the person 
 to whom she was to yield what all her life she had most prized, 
 made the trial harder. But she little knew what she was doing 
 when allowing her feelings of jealousy to interfere with the sym- 
 
THE FIRST LINK IN A LONG CHAIN. 139 
 
 pathy for wMch lier brother looked, and lead lier to depreciate 
 lier rival. Percy was not one to hear, with indifference, those 
 whom he loved spoken of slightingly. She had raised a barrier 
 between them such as once she never had dreamed of ; and though 
 it was slight at first, and she thought but little of what a few 
 words might so easily break down, those words were not spoken ; 
 and opportunities once lost, who can tell when they may return 1 
 
 Lisa came back to the drawing-room unaware of the revela- 
 tion that had taken place during her absence, and her confusion 
 on finding her engagement no longer a secret, was so great that 
 she was not likely to notice the silence of one or two among 
 the many voices surrounding her. All she thought of was to 
 escape observation ; and looking very shy, and very crimson, she 
 ensconced herself behind one of the farthest tables, and did her 
 best to keep out of sight. But Arthur was not disposed to let 
 her off so easily. 
 
 ' I say, Lisa,' he said, sitting down opposite to her, ' what a 
 lucky thing for you you didn't take my wager at Christmas ! 
 When did you begin to change your mind ; or was it only fib- 
 bing, and you really admired him all along] Ton my word, 
 I 'm ashamed of you ! I'd no idea you were such a hypocrite !' 
 
 * Arthur, how you tease ! ' Lisa exclaimed, in great distress. 
 
 * And so you have set up for a woman,' he said. ' And pray 
 w^hat do you mean to do when you are married 1 You will have 
 to give up running and jumping, and all such amusements. 
 You will have to sit indoors all day, receiving visitors and play- 
 ing propriety. You won't like it, I can tell you ; if you take 
 my advice, you '11 think twice before you plunge into the matri- 
 monial state. And do you mean to live in barracks'? Imagine 
 the horrors of being shut up in two or three rooms ; you, who 
 have run wild all your life ! And you will be a close prisoner, 
 you may be quite sure ; for Le Balaf re ' — he shrugged his 
 shoulders expressively — 'is awfully particular, and won't even 
 let you look out of window without his permission.' 
 
 * Won't he ? Then I shan't do it/ Lisa said, very simply ; and 
 Arthur laughed. 
 
 * Taming down already, are you 1 I thought you were going 
 to say, '' Then I shall do it." Well, 1 shall like to see how you 
 get on. I expect some fun ; and if somebody is to be trusted,' 
 looking at Mrs Tennent, ' I shall have it. Have you heard her 
 mind yet upon the subject ? ' 
 
140 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 Lisa said *No/ and looked so friglitened at the prospect of 
 what she was to hear from her aunt, that Arthur took compassion 
 on her blushes and confusion, and after a little more teasing left 
 her to herself. All the rest of the evening she sat beside Mar}^ 
 very quiet and very silent ; happily unconscious that it was not 
 by her aunt alone that Percy's choice was disapproved. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST. 
 
 The following day happened to bring a large party of relations 
 into Atherstone. Lisa, who had no particular fancy to meet 
 them sooner than necessary, kept out of the way all the morning, 
 and when her work with Mary was ended, spent the half-hour 
 before luncheon with Percy in the green walk. She was return- 
 ing to the house with him at one o'clock, when seeing the library 
 window open, she turned in with some flowers she had been 
 gathering. She imagined the room was empty, but as she was 
 stopping for a moment while Percy stooped to disentangle her 
 dress from the straggling branch of a rose-tree, she heard voices 
 within, and her own name mentioned. It was Isabel speaking. 
 
 * I wouldn't mind,' she was saying, * if Lisa were likely to 
 make him happy ; but there is no depth, no earnestness of char- 
 acter about her. She is a pretty child, and no more ; very 
 taking in manner when she pleases, but as light and frivolous as 
 possible, and with no tastes to make her a companion to him. 
 And then her mother ! You know all about that, Eose. And 
 Lisa is just like her.' 
 
 * Yes, so mamma says. I don't remember Mrs Kennedy 
 myself, but she says Lisa always reminds her of her ; that she 
 has all her beauty, and is just like her in her ways. But you 
 surely don't think Lisa would do anything so bad as that ! 
 Fancy going off and leaving her husband and child — somebody 
 told me Mr Kennedy broke his heart about it. But I never 
 heard what became of her. It was a miserable affair altogether.' 
 
A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST. 141 
 
 What more miglit have been said would be hard to tell, but 
 the dress was disentangled by this time, and Lisa stood within 
 the window, to the no little consternation of the speakers. Her 
 face was very white, but upon each cheek there burned a bright 
 red spot. For a moment she looked at them without a word, 
 while they gazed at her in silent dismay. Eose was the first to 
 recover herself, and making an attempt to appear unconcerned, 
 she held out her hand. 
 
 * How do you do, Lisa 1 I was w^ondering where you were. 
 Ah, I see ; of course,' with a smile, as she caught sight of Percy 
 behind her. And then becoming alarmed at the fixed unnatural 
 look of the large eyes that gazed upon her, * But how strange 
 you look ! is anything the matter 1 ' 
 
 * Yes/ in a choked voice. * Eose, what was that you were 
 saying just now about — about my mother]' She shivered from 
 head to foot as she spoke. * Tell me ; I want to know what it 
 was.' 
 
 Eose gazed at her in a frightened way. * Bless me, child, 
 don't look like that. It wasn't meant for you to hear ; and/ 
 gaining a little courage and trying once more to turn it off, 
 *you shouldn't have been listening. You know the proverb, 
 *' Listeners '" 
 
 * I wasn't listening. I couldn't help hearing. Eose, tell it 
 me again ; no one ever said so before.' 
 
 Eose glanced at Isabel in dismay. ' Do you mean she never 
 knew it ? Lisa, I told you it wasn't meant for you to hear. 
 What is the use of asking questions which I can't answer 1 ' 
 
 * Because you know it 's not true,' Lisa exclaimed passionately. 
 
 * How dare you say such things of her ? You may say what you 
 like of me — that I am light, frivolous, anything you please. I 
 am not good, I know, and you may tell me so; but you shall say 
 nothing against he?' — never, no, never. I won't hear it, I won't 
 believe it ; it is not true,' she repeated, still more passionately. 
 
 * Percy, you heard what she said; you will tell her it's false — 
 that it never, never could be true.' 
 
 But the sad, silent look with which Percy met her beseeching 
 one, told her that it was true ; and flinging down her flowers, 
 she stood for a moment covering her face with her hands, and 
 then rushed from the room. 
 
 * And that was why you would never tell me about her ; why 
 you always put me off when I asked you where she was 1 O 
 
142 ATHERSTONE PBIORY. 
 
 Mary, it 's very, very hard ; ' and poor Lisa sobbed bitterly as slie 
 knelt by her cousin's side. ^ I never thought such a thing as 
 that. I have wondered all these years where she was, but some- 
 how I always hoped she would come back — that I should see 
 her again j but now ' a fresh burst of tears choked her utter- 
 ance. 
 
 ' Dearest Lisa, I wish you had never heard it ! ' And Mary 
 stroked her head caressingly ; her own tears falling fast. 
 
 ' And now I can never hope to see her again. I couldn't — it 
 would be too dreadful. Mary, I hope it isn't wrong, but I 
 would rather have heard she was dead — yes, far rather. But 
 not to know where she is, or anything about her, except that — 
 that she is — Mary, do you know 1 Have you ever heard any 
 more than Eose said just now 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, dear, I have,' in a low voice. 
 
 * You have ^ ' and she looked up with a wild, startled glance, 
 but something in her cousin's face seemed to tell her what she 
 was to hear, and she laid her head down again with a shudder. 
 ' Mary, is she dead 1 ' 
 
 * Yes — dear Lisa, my child, you must not cry like that,' as the 
 bitter sobs came again. * You have nothing to be sorry for now 
 for her. It was far better and happier for her to die as she did. 
 I can show you a letter we had about her ; you won't feel so un- 
 happy then, Lisa.' 
 
 < A letter 1 ' 
 
 * Yes ; a letter papa had last winter from Mr Hirst, when he 
 was in Germany. He was at Wie^^baden, and he knew the 
 chaplain there, who had seen her very often. You will feel 
 there is no need to be unhappy about her any longer.' 
 
 Lisa gave a long, long sigh. * When was it, Mary 1 When 
 did she die ? ' she said at last in a broken voice. 
 
 * Last year, dear ; somewhere about this time, I think.' 
 
 ^ Last year — last August ! That was — let me see ; yes, that 
 was when we were all staying at Copelands, and Arthur was with 
 us. We were very happy then. I didn't think, Mary — I 
 couldn't tell,' and her lip quivered, * I couldn't tell that she was 
 dying — lonely and miserable,' 
 
 ' Not miserable, dearest,' said Mary, trying to still the burst of 
 anguish tbat had followed these words. * She was not miserable. 
 You won't think so when you have seen that letter.' 
 
 * And afterwards in the winter when you heard of it, and all 
 
A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST. 143 
 
 this time too — I have been very happy — I knew nothing about 
 it. Oh, why wasn't I told ? Why did you all let me go on car- 
 ing nothing for her; never thinking that I shouldn't see her 
 again ? Oh, it was cruel — cruel 1 ' 
 
 ' Hush ! Lisa dear ; don't cry in that way — it was not cruel. 
 You knew nothing of her history, then, you know; it was always 
 thought better you should not. And why should you have been 
 told what it would only have distressed you to hear, when we 
 could give you no explanations with it? Indeed, dear, it was 
 done for the best ; and you must remember I should ;not have 
 told you even now if you had not unfortunately learned what 
 you were never meant to know. I thought then it would make 
 you happier to hear that, as far as she is concerned, there is no 
 more cause for grief.' 
 
 * Yes, yes — oh, yes — I am glad for that, Mary — I am, indeed. 
 I am glad you have told me ; glad I can know it is not so bad 
 
 as I thought at first. But ' and she sobbed convulsively — 
 
 ' I don't like to think of this past year, and my having been so 
 happy, when — when she was gone for ever. Somehow I always 
 hoped I should see her again. I was only a little child, you 
 know, when I saw her last ; but I remember how she used to kiss 
 and play with me. I remember, too, the last time I ever saw 
 her. It was one night, and I had been asleep , and I woke and 
 saw her standing by me : she was going to a ball, I think, for 
 she was dressed in white, and she had roses in her hair ; but she 
 was crying, oh, so sadly ! and she must have been kissing me, 
 for my face was quite wet with her tears. And then she 
 went away, and I never saw her again. They told me the 
 next day she was gone — that she would never come back. 
 But I always hoped she would ; and now — now I can hope no 
 more ! ' 
 
 There was a long silence, broken only by her passionate 
 weeping. 
 
 ^ I wonder if she ever thought of me,' she said at last ; 
 * whether she ever spoke of me. Do you think she did, Mary? 
 Or do you think she had quite forgotten me?' 
 
 * Forgotten you ? oh, no ! She must have thought of you 
 very often. You shall see Mr Hirst's letter, dear, that will tell 
 you everything,' 
 
 And there was another silence, till the opening of the door 
 roused Lisa from her crouching posture by her cousin's side, and 
 
144 ATSERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 made her look round hastily. It was Percy, and at sight of him 
 sh'3 started up. For a moment she looked as if she longed to 
 throw herself into his arms, for the comfort he could give her ; 
 but the next, a new and painful thought seemed to strike her, 
 for the colour rushed to her face, and she drew back. 
 
 * No, Percy/ she said sorrowfully, * you must leave me now. 
 You must give me up. You heard what they said — what they 
 said of me and of her. You can't love me any longer.' But in 
 spite of the half resistance she made, he put his arm round her, 
 and drew her to a sofa near. 
 
 ^ Why, Lisa, am I not to love you now ? Because you are un- 
 happy 1 I should have thought that was a reason for loving you 
 more, not for giving you up.' 
 
 'Yes, it is. You heard what they said. I am not worth 
 anything ; you can only be ashamed of me, and you must let me 
 take back my promise. I didn't know this when I made it, 
 or' 
 
 *But I did. Lisa, dearest, don't talk in that way. What 
 difference can such a thing make to me 1 I have known it all 
 along ; and if I had not — if I had only heard it to-day for the 
 first time, it could not change my feelings towards you. Nothing 
 that any one else can do, even though she be your own mother, 
 can ever make me think anything of you but what is pure and 
 good.' 
 
 * Ah, but other people may. You heard what Isabel said of 
 me. If she thinks so, other people may. Perhaps, too, they 
 may say worse things.' She was crying so bitterly that she could 
 not go on. 
 
 Percy's brow had darkened visibly at the mention of Isabel's 
 name, and the arm that was round Lisa tightened its hold, and 
 drew her still closer to him. * And if they do, my darling, all 
 the more reason you should have some one to protect you; 
 though I should like to know who will dare to say a word against 
 my wife. Listen to me, my own dear little Lisa, and don't cry 
 for such thoughts as those. You are mine, and nothing can 
 ever separate us. If you are unhappy, who has so good a right 
 to comfort you as I ? You must not tell me to give you up ; I 
 could not do it.' 
 
 And though Lisa's tears still fell fast, they had lost all their 
 bitterness ; though nothing Percy could do or say could ever 
 remove the impression made by that revelation of her mother's 
 
A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST. 145 
 
 history, or divest lier of the feeling of shame which anjr thought 
 of it brought back. She read the letter her uncle gave her with 
 many tears; but she said nothing at the time, and never spoke of 
 it again, though none the less did she dwell upon it in secret; 
 and very dark for the time was the shadow that glimpse of the 
 past cast upon her path. 
 
 At the end of that week, when she and Percy were sitting 
 alone in the garden one evening, he spoke to her of his wish 
 that their marriage should not be delayed very long ; his leave 
 would be up in November, and it would make him very happy 
 if, when he went, he could take her with him. Did she think 
 she could consent to such a thing ? It was a great deal to 
 ask, for he was afraid she had not thought much about it, 
 and the time was rather short. She should wait a little to 
 consider of it, and tell him by-and-by whether she could make 
 up her mind to leave the Priory, and try life in a new home 
 with him. 
 
 And as he said this, Percy looked at her anxiously, trying to 
 get a glimpse of her face. But it was getting dark, and her 
 head was turned away. He could make out nothing ; and she 
 was silent so long that he began to fear she did not like what 
 he had said. 
 
 It was not that, however, that kept her silent ; it was simple 
 surprise. Although aware he would be going before long, it 
 had never occurred to her that he would ask her to go with him. 
 She had supposed they would be married in a few years, when she 
 was more of a woman — her ideas upon the subject had not been 
 very definite ; indeed, she had thought very little about it. She 
 had been content to live on in the present ; and as long as he 
 was with her, had not even cared to conjecture what she should 
 do when he was gone. But this proposition of his ! it was so 
 unexpected that she did not know what to make of it; and when 
 after some minutes still no reply came, Percy was confirmed in 
 his opinion of having displeased her. 
 
 ^ Won't you speak to me, Lisa, dearest 1 You don't like what 
 I said ? You think it is asking too much ? ' 
 
 * No,' she said ; * it 's not that — but — Percy, I never thought 
 about it before. I am not old enough to — to ' 
 
 ' Well, dearest, you shall do as you like,' he said, finding she 
 did not go on, though his tone betrayed his disappointment. 
 *It is unreasonable of me, I daresay, to wish it; but I 
 
 K 
 
146 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 sometimes how much older I am than yourself, and how different j 
 things look to you from what they do to me. You shall do as ; 
 you please. I won't urge anything upon you, though I would j 
 have done my best, Lisa, to make you happy ; you should have ; 
 had no cause to regret anything you gave up for me.' ] 
 
 * That wasn't what I meant, Percy. I would give up any- '' 
 
 thing for you in a moment ; you know I would. But ' She | 
 
 hesitated again, and then came out what was always her objec- \ 
 tion to any proposition : * Aunt Helen wouldn't like it — she i 
 would never think of such a thing for one minute — and even if ! 
 she did, I don't see how it could be, because I know nothing i 
 about anything. I have never done anything for myself before, j 
 and I am so little ! It would never do — don't you see V stopping j 
 rather abruptly. ' 
 
 * Yes, I see, dearest. Is that all?' ! 
 
 * I should make a mess of everything ; ' and Lisa pulled some j 
 flowers to pieces, and spoke very energetically. * Besides,' coming -\ 
 back to her last starting-point, * Aunt Helen would say "no."' \ 
 
 * I think not. If those are all your objections, Lisa, I don't ] 
 see why we should not settle it. My father would like it to be ; 
 soon, I know. And, Lisa, I am very tired of my lonely life. I ] 
 used to find it dull before ; and now it will be worse than ever ; 
 if I have to go and leave you behind me. If you only knew how j 
 I hate the thought of my solitary rooms. Don't you think you \ 
 could make up your mind to come and cheer them for me? j 
 You don't know how happy it would make me if you would say • 
 you won't let me go alone.' 
 
 * No more I will, Percy. I will do anything you like,' she ] 
 said, in a low voice. j 
 
 ^ Thank you, my darling,' and the tone said even more than ! 
 
 the words. * When shall it be, then, Lisa ? ' he went on after a i 
 
 long pause. ^ Shall we say the beginning of October? We : 
 
 shall like to go somewhere before I am obliged to join again, \ 
 
 and that will give us time.' I 
 
 'Yes, so it will,' and she went on thoughtfully pulling her ' 
 
 flower to pieces ; but after considering them for some little time ■ 
 
 she added, * Percy, I only want to please you — about the time, I i 
 
 mean ; but there is one thing I should like.' ; 
 
 ' What is it, dearest?' he asked, eagerly. \ 
 
 ' Will you let us be married very quietly ? People make a ; 
 
 fuss sometimes at weddings. I have seen them now and then | 
 
AUTUMN LEAVES. 147 
 
 at the cliurch here, and I shouldn't like to be married in that 
 way. I shouldn't have liked it at any time ; and now,' her voice 
 faltered, ' I couldn't bear it now. Let it be very quiet, please.' 
 
 A request to which Percy was only too happy to accede. It 
 was settled, therefore, that everything should be as quiet as 
 possible; and after some consultation with the heads of the 
 family, the wedding-day was finally fixed for the 16th of 
 October. 
 
 *Very short notice,' remarked Arthur, when this announce- 
 ment was made. * But that is all the better. It will be a relief 
 to my mind when it 's over ; for at present Percy is simply 
 unbearable. If any unfortunate individual of the nobler sex 
 speaks to Lisa, or even presumes to look at her, he is ready 
 to knock us down. Well, he '11 have enough of her soon ; for 
 better, for worse, eh 1 And in the meantime we must feel 
 thankful that the present state of things is only to last seven 
 weeks. I think, though, you might have done the thing hand- 
 somely when you were about it. Fancy cutting us out of all 
 our fun on the occasion ! Not even allowing us a dance ! I 
 call it " real shabby " of you, Scaramouch ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 AUTUMN LEAVES. 
 
 * And now, child, I have told you what I think about it ; and I 
 hope you see how foolish you are,' was the wind-up of a long 
 lecture from Mrs Tennent to Lisa, on the morning after every- 
 thing had been settled. * I don't mean to say any more, because 
 both your uncle and Percy are deterrhined to have their own 
 way, and have made all their arrangements without any con- 
 sideration for my wishes. But I think you are very wrong, and 
 that you have been much to blame all along. What business 
 had a girl of your age to be thinking of such things ? You 
 ought to be ashamed of yourself.' 
 
148 . ATHERSTOKE PHIORY. 
 
 'Why, Aunt Helen T Lisa asked, nothing daunted, though 
 her cheeks were scarlet — ^ why am I to be ashamed of myself? 
 It would have been very strange, I think, if I hadn't cared for 
 Percy, for he has been very kind and good to me. I can't help 
 loving him, and loving him very dearly too ; and' 
 
 * Lisa ! I am shocked •! The idea of talking like that ! * 
 
 * I can't help it. Aunt Helen. It is the truth. I do love him 
 very dearly indeed, and I don't see what harm there is in saying 
 it. I shall tell him so in church soon before everybody, and 
 why should I mind your knowing it ? If I didn't love him, 
 you know, I shouldn't marry him.' 
 
 Mrs Tennent looked at her with displeased gravity. ' I think 
 the sooner the subject is dropped, Lisa, the better. I hope you 
 will soon learn to see your position in a more serious light ; and 
 I am sure it is time you did, for you have not very long to 
 ♦^^hink about it. That reminds me, by-the-by, of something 
 else I wished to say to you — and that is about your outfit. 
 Your uncle told me he wished it to be the same in every respect 
 as one of your cousins' would be ; but I don't myself consider 
 that at all necessary. Your position is not the same; and you 
 know that in a few years there would have been even a greater 
 difference between you. I shall get you all I think proper, but 
 it will not be what they would have ; nor do I wish you to 
 fancy it is.' 
 
 Lisa was silent. She was accustomed to hear of her inferiority 
 to her cousins, but the reminder was none the more pleasant 
 on that account. She said nothing, however ; and after a pause, 
 Mrs Tennent rose, and unlocking her dressing-case, took some- 
 thing from it. 
 
 ' I suppose you may as well have that now,' she said, holding 
 it out without looking at her niece. * It was sent from Germany 
 in the spring. I believe your father gave it.' 
 
 It was a gold locket set with turquoises, and Lisa took it with 
 a trembling hand. She did not know that when everything else 
 had been sold for bread, that one treasure had been kept, the 
 last relic of better and happier days. And w^ell for her she did 
 not. It was pain enough to look at it as it was. 
 
 * I shall never wear it,' she said, in a low voice ; her colour 
 gromng deeper and deeper, and the large tears coming down 
 fast. 
 
 'Very well, do what you like with it; it is nothing to me. 
 
AUTUMN LEAVES. 149 
 
 And now go, child. You understand about your outfit — that I 
 shall get what I think proper, and expect you to be satisfied ; 
 for, as you know, you have no claim upon your uncle. It is a 
 great thing for you to have had a home here so long ; and you 
 must not look to have things as if you were one of your cousins. 
 You have no right to anything. Do you hear]' For Lisa's 
 head was bent, and her eyes were fixed upon the locket with a 
 long sad gaze, as if her thoughts were far away. She started 
 now. 
 
 * Yes, I heard.' And so she had, the words at least, though 
 she did not quite realise their meaning. She was only conscious, 
 as she left the room, of a sense of extreme loneliness ; of being 
 very much in the way, and not wanted where she was. Well, 
 that feeling w^ould be gone soon. Percy would not think her a 
 burden, though she did come to him penniless, with nothing but 
 herself and her love to give him. And in that thought there 
 was comfort ; not only then, but in much that came to try her 
 during the last few weeks of her life at the Priory. 
 
 Some allowance, however, was to be made for Mrs Tennent's 
 displeasure at this time ; for among her objections to her 
 niece*s marriage was, that it was to cause a change in her 
 household, for which she was by no means prepared ; and 
 which threatened her with most serious inconvenience. This 
 was nothing else than the intended departure of Lane. 
 
 * Eh, Miss Lisa ! what have you done % * was the old nurse's 
 exclamation of dismay when her darling first hung about her 
 neck, and told her * she was not going to live at the Priory much 
 longer — that she was to marry her cousin and go away with 
 him.' 
 
 * Eh, dear, but you don't know what you 're doing ! Going 
 to marry him, do you say ] Why, my darling, he 's not good 
 enough for you. He 's too old, and not handsome enough, 
 and' 
 
 *I don't like handsome men,' Lisa interrupted. * And he's 
 not a bit too old. I like him all the better for being older than 
 I am. He is quite good enough for me any day ; and a great 
 deal too good. And she smothered her old nurse with kisses, 
 till she almost took away her breath. 
 
 ^ Miss Lisa, what a child you are ! look what a mess 
 you 're making of my cap ! I declare it 's not fit to be seen ; 
 it never is when you come near me,' And Lane, who prided 
 
150 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 herself upon her stiffly-starched borders, had to get up and 
 readjust her head-gear at the glass before she could proceed 
 with her sentiments. ^ I always thought, Miss Lisa, you would 
 do a deal better for yourself. I know some one else who 'd 
 be glad enough to have you; and he is handsome and rich, 
 and all you could want. You 'd have done better to have 
 chosen him. Ay, dear, you know who I mean ; I see that 
 by your colour. It ^s a pity you didn't wait for him.' 
 
 ' I don't like him,' Lisa said, scornfully. * Fancy comparing 
 them ! O Lane, how much you know about it ! ' 
 
 Lane gave a little sigh. She had been indulging in visions 
 of greatness for her dear Miss Lisa, and it was mortifying 
 to discover there was no truth in them ; that, after all, Mrs 
 Pye's conclusions were likely to turn out more correct than 
 her own. 
 
 * Well, dear, you know best, but I thought you 'd have done 
 better — that I did. I should like to have seen you " my 
 lady," and living at that fine place down there. Mr Thorpe 
 will have it some day, they say ; and plenty of money too. 
 I should have liked that for you.' 
 
 * Would you 1 I shouldn't have liked it for myself. I don't 
 want Mr Thorpe's place, or his money, or himself either. And 
 fancy me " my lady " ! ' I don't know what " my ladies "do 
 or say ; and I should want to run about and enjoy myself. 
 I could never have done that at the Moat — it is such a dismal 
 old place. You don't know how much happier I am now ! ' 
 
 * Well, dear, I 'm glad to hear it ; ' but in spite of this assur- 
 ance there was another sigh. ' And I hope the captain — 
 major isa't he now 1 — I hope he '11 never do anything to make 
 you change your mind. I know nothing against him, to be 
 sure, except that he 's neither young nor handsome. But he 's 
 a soldier, and soldiers are never good for much. They are 
 a sad lot. Miss Lisa ! and it grieves me just terrible to think 
 of your having to go and live among them ; you 'U be wishing 
 yourself back again, I 'm thinking, before the year is out. How- 
 ever, dear, if you go, I go too ; you must take me with you.' 
 
 ' You, Lane 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, dear. You won't leave me behind, will you ? I couldn't 
 stay when you were gone, you know.' 
 
 * But, Lane, you won't like it. You were just saying I should 
 be wishing myself back again, and what will you do 1 You 
 
AUTUMN LEAVES. 151 
 
 can't bear moving about j and perhaps we shall have to do 
 that very often.' 
 
 * Ay, I know that ; it 's tramp, tramp about the country, 
 and never settling anywhere — here to-day and there to-morrow, 
 and off to foreign parts without time to turn yourself round. 
 But that's just what I was thinking. Miss Lisa; for what 
 you '11 do by yourself in such confusion is more than I can 
 tell. You'll want somebody to look after you a bit, it seems 
 to me/ 
 
 Lisa smiled. She thought there was some one to do that, 
 but Lane evidently did not consider a husband's protection 
 sufficient under the circumstances. 
 
 ' And so, dear, I go with you. You '11 speak to the captain, 
 won't you, and settle it for me ? and — oh, my cap, Miss Lisa ! ' 
 as Lisa made a rush to embrace her. 
 
 * You dear old Lane ! I shall like you to come so much ! 
 
 But ' she stopped suddenlj^, ' what will Aunt Helen say ? 
 
 You were forgetting her ; she won't like you leaving.' 
 
 ' I can't help that, Miss Lisa ; we are not slaves in this 
 country, and she can't keep me if I have a mind to go. Not 
 but that it will grieve me sorely to leave Master Georgia and 
 all of them. But you come first ; you always did, for I took 
 you when you were born, and I was with your mother before 
 you ; so don't say another word about it, but just tell the 
 captain I 'm coming, and leave the rest to me.' 
 
 And so the last days of summer died out, and September 
 also passed away. The mornings and evenings grew very fresh, 
 and autumnal mists himg on the hill-sides. Chill breezes 
 swept across the uplands, and woods were changing to brown 
 and golden ; and in the Priory garden the lawn and gravel walks 
 were strewn with the lime-trees' falling leaves. And Lisa 
 walked among them as she had done in days gone by; but 
 her step by Percy's side was slower, and there was something 
 of sadness in the glance of her large lustrous eyes as they 
 watched the fading beauty of all around. She knew that long 
 before the last leaf from those trees came down, she would 
 be far away ; and that when their boughs were once more 
 clothed with green, her life at Atherstone would have become 
 a dream. 
 
152 ATHEKBTONE PRIORY. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXII. 
 
 THE LAST EVENING IN THE OLD HOUSE. 
 
 The day before the wedding came, last visits had been paid — 
 last good-byes said ; and for the last time Lisa was sitting where 
 she had so often sat in the old days that were gone now — on the 
 hearthrug before the fire in the schoolroom by Mary's side. It 
 was getting dusk, and a mist was gathering without j and the 
 low voice of the wind among the boughs above the casement 
 window had something sad in its tones; telling, it seemed, of 
 long partings — of meetings that might never come — and of all 
 the thousand changes and chances that life must bring. 
 
 For a long time she had sat in silence, watching the flicker of 
 the firelight ; but a deep sigh from her at last, made Mary look 
 at her. 
 
 ' What is it, dear 1 You are tired, I am afraid ; you have 
 been walking so much to-day.' 
 
 ' No, I 'm not. I was thinking, that was all — thinking what 
 hard things good-byes are. I don't like to think how long it 
 may be before I see everybody again. And then, Mary, there's 
 the hardest good-bye of all to come to-morrow ! ' And she 
 seized her cousin's hand and squeezed it very tight. ' Mary, 
 you have been so very kind to me. I can't bear to think of 
 leaving you.' 
 
 There were hot tears falling on the hand she held, and Mary's 
 only answer was a long kiss ; it was some minutes before she 
 could trust herself to speak. When she did, however, though it 
 was an effort, her tones were almost as cheerful as usual. 
 
 ' I don't like it either, Lisa dear ; only I know you are going 
 to be very happy, and I suppose we ought not to cry about that.' 
 She laughed a little as she spoke, for a large tear came down at 
 that moment. * That was a mistake ; I didn't mean it. It 
 would be selfish of me to wish to keep you here when I know 
 you are going to be happier somewhere else. Besides, I sup- 
 pose you mean to ask me to pay you a visit sometimes 1 ' 
 
 ' Ah, Mary ;' and Lisa brightened considerably, ' When will 
 
THE LAST EVENING IN THE OLD HOUSE. 153 
 
 you come ? Will you let it be very soon ? How I wish you 
 could live with us always ! ' 
 
 * Thank you, dear. I am afraid that could hardly be managed. 
 I have too much at present to do here. But I shall like to come 
 and see you, and I hope it won't be long before I do. We will 
 have a very happy time together then, Lisa.' 
 
 * Yes, so we will. I '11 make everything so pleasant for you, 
 Mar3^ And I shall be so glad for you to see what I am doing. 
 I mean to try hard to be just what I ought, and to make Percy 
 very happy. And don't you think I can 1 ' 
 
 * Yes, dear, to be sure you can ; anybody can do what is right 
 if they are only in earnest.' 
 
 And Lisa knew from her cousin's tone what she meant. For 
 a moment she was silent, and then she said, in a low voice, ' I 
 shall try ; and I think, Mary, it will be in the right way.' She 
 sat looking at the fire again for some minutes lost in thought ; 
 but turned round again at last with a smile. * Mary, how I 
 wish you would marry, and come and live near us ! How 
 pleasant it would be ! I don't want you always to stay as you 
 are now.* 
 
 'Why not r 
 
 * Oh, I don't know; but you were meant to marry. Yoti 
 would make such a good wife. And I don't like you to' 
 
 * To be an old maid,' said Mary, smiling. * But why should 
 you dislike it, Lisa 1 Old maids are not so disagreeable in these 
 days. A great deal of good is done by some of them ; and I 
 may be one of the pleasant sort, and make myself of so much 
 use in the world, that perhaps people may forget I have the 
 misfortune not to be married. And I suppose you won't love 
 me any the less if I keep single *? ' 
 
 ' Mary, what an idea ! But you would be sure to do good 
 anyhow, whether you were single or not ; and — I should like 
 you, besides being of use to other people, to be happy yourself.' 
 
 ' And you think I am not happy ? Do I look so miserable 1 ' 
 
 Lisa laughed. ' Well, not exactly ; that was an odd thing 
 for me to say, certainly ; for I don't think I ever saw anybody 
 happier than you are, Mary. I wonder sometimes why you are. 
 You don't have everything as you like — ^you have a great deal to 
 plague you ; but I never see you look miserable as some people 
 do. You seem as happy as the day is long.' 
 
 ' And so I am. So much for your theory about marrying 
 
154 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 you see. No, Lisa dear, I will tell you what I think about it. 
 Marriage may be a very happy thing ; and sometimes it is sent 
 as a great blessing. But when things stand in the way of it, 
 and we know it can't be, then we must find other interests to 
 take its place, or else it seems as if we were repining at our lot, 
 and could not be satisfied with anything but what we should 
 choose for ourselves. And that would be so ungrateful ; for why 
 should we forget all the good things that are given us, and think 
 only of the one we can't have 1 ' 
 
 * And you think, then, you are not meant to marry 1 ' Lisa 
 said, quickly. 
 
 *I don't think it at all likely I shall' And Lisa did not see 
 her cousin's face as she spoke. 
 
 * But, Mary,' after a minute's pause, ' what makes you think 
 so ? You don't mind my asking, do you 1 You are just the 
 person I should have thought would marry. Why should you 
 think you won't ? ' 
 
 And then, as there was no answer at once, she looked up. 
 
 ' O Mary, what have I said 1 Have I vexed you ? How 
 
 silly of me to ask such questions ! But I didn't know ' in 
 
 great distress. 
 
 * No, dear, of course you did not,' said Mary, trying to smile. 
 * Never mind, Lisa, you have not vexed me. It was only for a 
 minute. I was thinking of something ; thinking how different 
 things might have been if — if ' 
 
 * Don't, Mary, don't tell me anything,' Lisa exclaimed, be- 
 seechingly. * I am so sorry. I never meant to give you pain.' 
 
 * No more you did. And it is so long ago now that I don't 
 know why I should mind talking of it. Ten — twelve — yes, 
 nearly thirteen years ago,' and she thought a little. ^ Thirteen 
 years ago. I was not much older then than you, Lisa. I fancied 
 then I was going some day to be happy in — in the way you want 
 me to be,' she said, stroking her cousin's hair fondly. * We were 
 engaged ; we had been boy and girl together. He was three 
 years older than I was ; and so good and clever. I was very 
 proud of him. But he was very poor, and we knew we should 
 have to wait a long time. We had been engaged two years, and 
 then he had an appointment ofi'ered him in Lidia ; it was much 
 better than he was ever likely to get in England, and we thought 
 he ought to take it. And in ten years he hoped to have enough 
 to marry on, and then he was to couie back for me.' 
 
THE LAST EVENING IN THE OLD HOUSE. 155 
 
 * Ten years ! And you were never to see him all that time 1 
 O Mary ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, dear ; it seemed a long, dreary time to wait. But I 
 did not know then I should have to wait much longer before I 
 saw him again. I had one letter from him after he left — they 
 were olF St Helena then — and I never had another.' 
 
 Lisa looked up quickly. ^ What do you mean, Mary 1 * Did 
 he — was he ' 
 
 * The vessel never reached India ; they were never heard of 
 afterwards.' 
 
 ^ Mary ! ' and Lisa covered her face with her hands, and 
 for a long time there was a silence. 
 
 * But are you sure — quite sure ? ' she said, at last. ' Did you 
 never hear anything at all ? ' 
 
 * Not a word. I hoped on for months and months — long 
 after every one else had given him up ; but I knew at last how 
 it was. I felt he was really gone.' There was a sigh as she 
 spoke, but no tears ; only Lisa's were falling fast. 
 
 ' Mary, how miserable you must have been ! I wonder you 
 didn't die ! ' she said in a low voice, and with a shudder. ' If 
 Percy were taken from me like that I should die. I know I 
 should.' 
 
 ^ No, Lisa dear, you would not ; people don't die so easily ; 
 nor were we meant to give ourselves up to grief in that way. I 
 was miserable at first — very miserable, and wicked too. I had all 
 sorts of hard, bad thoughts. But I saw things difi'erently after a 
 time, and found there was a great deal for me to do, and a great 
 deal left to make me happy, if I chose to be so. It was then, 
 Lisa, that you came to us ; and when I had the care of you, that 
 terrible blank filled up by degrees. It was you who helped most 
 to make me happy again.' 
 
 * By being naughty and troublesome, and teasing you all day 
 long,' Lisa exclaimed, with something between a laugh and a sob. 
 ' Mary, what a torment I have been to you I And you so 
 patient, so good to me all the time ! What a bad, good-for- 
 nothing creature I have been ! ' 
 
 * You need not call yourself such hard names, Lisa. Your 
 love has been worth having. And I don't think you will care 
 for me any the less now because you are going away ? ' 
 
 ^ Care for you any the less ! I shall love you ten hundred times 
 more now than I ever did. I shall always be thinking of you ; 
 
156 ATHERSTONE PRIOllY. 
 
 and shall never forget all you have done for me.' She looked as if 
 she would have liked to say a good deal more, but her words did 
 not come so readily as usual. After a pause, however, she added, 
 wistfully, ' And it is true, Mary ] After all that, you are really 
 happy ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed I am ; much happier than I can tell you. With 
 a home where I can be useful, and so many people to care for 
 me, it would be ungrateful to be miserable because my life is 
 not what I should have chosen for myself. And then there is 
 always one hope I have — it is not as if I thought I should never 
 see him again. Yes, Lisa dear,' she added after a minute's pause, 
 * there is a better kind of happiness than that which comes from 
 having things just as we like.' 
 
 It was a truth which Lisa, with that face before her, could 
 fully realise ; nor could all the sermons in the world have preached 
 such a lesson to her as did the thought of the patient, cheerful, 
 and self denying life of which for years she had been a witness, 
 but which until now she had only half understood. 
 
 She did not say much — her heart was too full for that ; but 
 as she sat in the dusk of that still October evening, going over 
 the past — the careless, unthinking past — and dwelling on the 
 future that lay before her, her thoughts were turned into some- 
 thing more than mere wishes that the days which were coming 
 might be better than those that were gone. There was an earnest 
 prayer for higher aims, and more strength of purpose, than she 
 had ever yet possessed ; and the very few words which were all 
 Mary then said to her in the way of advice or direction, went far 
 to strengthen the impressions and resolves of that hour. They 
 went all the farther, perhaps, because they were so few ; and 
 more still because they were borne out by her cousin's own prac- 
 tice. Lisa never forgot them. 
 
 That night, when she was alone in her little room for the last 
 time, she lingered long at her window, unable to realise to herself 
 that her life at the Priory had drawn to its close ; and that at 
 that hour on the morrow she would be far away from the place 
 that for so many years had been her home. Siie looked round 
 on the bare walls, the uncarpeted floor, and shabby furniture, 
 and felt it would cost her a pang to leave even these ; and then 
 she turned again to the window, and looked out into the garden, 
 where, through the mist, the moonlight was shining on the lawn, 
 and on the half-leafless lime-trees that shaded the green- walk, where 
 
WEDDING-BELLS. 157 
 
 as a child she had danced and played, where lately she had so often 
 sat and talked with Percy, and where he had first told her of his 
 love. There, too, among the trees close by, was the old church, 
 where on the morrow she was to plight her troth to him ; and 
 its chimes were ringing out now as they had rung for years, and 
 as they would go on ringing still when she was not there to hear 
 them. Familiar sights and sounds they all were ; and parting 
 from familiar things must always bring a pang, even when they 
 are to be left for greater happiness. Perhaps she might never 
 see them again — never come back there ; and if she did, she could 
 never be again what she had been — her childish days would be 
 far away in the vanished past. It was with a long-drawn sigh 
 that she turned from her window and prepared for rest ; and 
 when she knelt to pray that night her prayers w^ere longer than 
 usual, and very earnest ; and her young face looked grave in its 
 intensity of thought, when at length she fell asleep to dream, not 
 of the coming morrow, but of times gone by ; and to fancy herself 
 again a little child sitting by Mary's side, and learning from her 
 all the best and holiest lessons that had helped to influence and 
 soften her wild impetuous nature. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 WEDDING-BELLS. 
 
 It was a quiet wedding-party that met in the Priory drawing- 
 room on the following morning, none but a few near relations 
 having been asked to be present at the ceremony. 
 
 But although their own numbers were small, poor Lisa's wishes 
 for privacy were not attained ; for, in spite of the precautions 
 that had been taken to keep the day a secret, it had become very 
 generally known ; and the church was early filled with a crowd, 
 not only of friends and acquaintance, but of strangers from all 
 parts of the town. 
 
158 ATHERSTONB PRIORY. 
 
 Percy, too, being a Crimean hero, was the subject of no small 
 curiosity, though, as he came in at the chancel door with Arthur, 
 and for a few minutes stood alone near the altar while waiting fur 
 the rest of the bridal party, there were not a few who marvelled 
 at Lisa's choice, and wondered what there could be in that plain, 
 dark, sombre-looking man to have won the heart of one so young 
 and lovely ; the prettiest bride that had been seen in the old 
 church for many a long day, though she was unconscious of the 
 gaze of admiration that followed her as she passed up the aisle. 
 Her thoughts were given to the only person of whose presence 
 there she knew anything ; and when meeting him and kneeling 
 by his side, everything else was forgotten. 
 
 It was a bright autumnal morning ; and the fresh wind stirred 
 among the trees that bordered the churchyard wall, bringing 
 down in showers their brown and yellow leaves, and then wandered 
 on among the tombstones, to make its way in at the chancel 
 door, and play among the folds of Lisa's long white veil and dress ; 
 while through a stained window the sun's rays fell with a chas- 
 tened glow on her bent head and golden hair, and lighted up with 
 a glory that was hardly of earth, the pale, pure beauty of her 
 youthful face. There was not a trace of colour in it, but there 
 were no other signs of agitation about her; and although her 
 voice, when she spoke the solemn words that bound her for life, 
 was very low, it was clear and unfaltering ; and none who heard 
 those earnest tones could doubt that they came from her very 
 heart. Few, too, who saw the look with which, as they rose 
 from their knees, she raised her eyes to Percy's, ever forgot it. 
 
 The business of signing names was soon over ; and then the 
 little party passed through the church once more, and out at the 
 western door; Lisa, however, hardly so unconscious now, as 
 she had been before, of the gaze of so many ; and when, on 
 leaving the porch, a little girl stepped forward to offer her a 
 bouquet, a deep blush mounted to her pale face as she looked 
 up and became aware of the number of curious eyes fixed upon 
 her. A smile, very shy, but very sweet, was the only thanks 
 she could give for the flowers ; and Percy felt her hand trem- 
 bling on his arm as he led her on after that moment's pause. 
 Out into the bright sunshine they went ; the bells in the old 
 tower ringing merrily, and fresh airs blowing round them; 
 while in the trees above their heads the robins sang, and ever 
 floating downward came the autumn leaves, clustering about 
 
WEDDING-BELLS. 159 
 
 their path. They were crushed beneath Percy's firm tread, and 
 Lisa's dress swept them as she passed ; and Mary, whose eyes, 
 dimmed with tears, had never been taken from * her child,' saw 
 her smile once as she stopped for a moment to brush away some 
 that had caught in her veil. 
 
 Poor Mary ! She had hard work that morning to keep back 
 her tears ; but she did her part bravely, and no one guessed the 
 pang she felt each time she looked at the fair childish face she 
 loved so well, and which she knew she should miss so sadly in 
 the long days to come. It seemed as if she could hardly look 
 at it enough, so often did her eye turn to the little figure at her 
 brother's side, and so lingering was her glance when it rested 
 there. But it would not do to show what she was feeling, and 
 least of all to let Lisa suspect it. It would not do to let her 
 know what that parting must be ; and for her sake Mary's face 
 wore a cheerful smile, and she would not let her spirits flag. 
 
 But the time for good-byes came. When breakfast was over, 
 Lisa went to her room to change her dress, and Mary went with 
 her. She had intended to make a great deal of that half -hour ; 
 but now it was really come, she could not speak a word ; while 
 Lisa, who seemed equally afraid to trust the sound of her own 
 voice, hurried through her preparations as if unwilling to give 
 herself time to think ; and when she was ready, left the room 
 without even pausing for one last look round. 
 
 They went down-stairs together, and in the hall found all the 
 party assembled; Dr Tennent, in a fidget as usual on such 
 occasions, thinking they would miss the train. 
 
 * Good-bye, my child,' he said, folding Lisa in his arms as she 
 came up to him. ^ You have no time to lose. Percy, take 
 good care of her and make her happy.' And with a long kiss 
 he let her go to hurry her through the rest of her leave-takings. 
 
 * Good-bye, Lisa ; I hope you will remember what has been 
 said to you and do your duty ; ' was Mrs Tennent's farewell j and 
 Lisa looked up at her with her large beseeching eyes. 
 
 * Aunt Helen, I have vexed you very often ; given you a great 
 deal of trouble, I am afraid. Won't you forgive me before 
 
 Igor 
 
 Mrs Tennent smiled coldly. ^ Forgive you ! Oh yes, child, 
 I am not angry with you ; though you have never taken much 
 pains to please me. But it is not the way of the world to be 
 grateful for kindness, so I am not disappointed at your being no 
 
160 ATPIERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 better tlian the rest of tliem. And I am glad you see your 
 faults now, though it would have been better if you had done so 
 a little sooner, and shown yovLT sorrow by actions rather than 
 words. But I am not angry with you. Good-bye.' 
 
 And then came a long round of good-byes from every one, 
 and a very quiet one from Isabel, with a still quieter, * I hope 
 you will be happy, Lisa,' in a tone of considerable magnanimity, 
 which had a more freezing effect than was perhaps intended. 
 But when Lisa came to Mary, she held her tight in a close 
 clinging embrace that was convulsive in its grasp, though not a 
 w^ord was uttered by her, and even tears were kept back. 
 
 ' God bless you, my darling,' Mary whispered ; it was all she 
 could say, and there was a tighter pressure still, but not a sound 
 from Lisa. 
 
 'Now then, my child! you can't stay there,' exclaimed her 
 uncle, in his kind voice, but looking more in a fidget than ever. 
 * Let her go, Mary ; they '11 lose the train if they don't mind.' 
 And Lisa loosened her hold then ; but as she turned away, she 
 came upon Bar sitting on the door-mat — Bar, the old house- 
 dog, with whom she had played and run races ever since she 
 had been a little child ; and at sight of him came the climax to 
 her pent-up feelings. She flung herself on the floor beside him, 
 and throwing her arms around his neck burst into a passionate 
 flood of tears. 
 
 * Hallo, Mrs Percy Tennent ! ' exclaimed Arthur, who had 
 been walking about all this time with an old white shoe in his 
 hand. * Hallo, Mrs Percy ! I think you forget you are married. 
 Eemember your dignity, if you please ; the floor is not the proper 
 plnce for you now.' A speech which caused a diversion by 
 raising a laugh ; and Lisa, a little ashamed of herself for having 
 given way when she had meant to go off so bravely, got up 
 hastily and brushed away her tears. She would not even look 
 round again, but without a word, let her uncle lead her to the 
 carriage. Percy followed her, and the next minute they were 
 off ; Arthur carrying out his intention of being the first to wish 
 them good luck in orthodox fashion, by taking the initiative in 
 the shower of old shoes that followed them. There was a great 
 deal of laughing and talking ; and in the midst of it came a loud 
 cry from little George, who having now seemingly realised the 
 fact that his dear Lisa was gone, set up a howl of mingled sorrow 
 and defiance which startled everybody. 
 
WEDDING-BELLS. 161 
 
 And in tlie prevailing confusion Mary made her escape, and 
 stole away up-stairs. To Lisa's deserted room first, where she 
 picked up a stray glove, a handkerchief, and one or two things 
 that had been left there ; and after putting them carefully away 
 and standing for some minutes looking round on everything with 
 a dreary aching sense of desolation at her heart, she went to her 
 own room and sat down where, the day before, she had sat with 
 her cousin beside her. The red light of the autumn sun streamed 
 in through the open window, and she watched its play upon the 
 floor, and the dance of the shadows from the lime-tree leaves, 
 and felt that for her the best sunshine of the house was gone — 
 that the light and brightness of her life had passed away. And 
 her thoughts went back then to another time, long, long ago, 
 when far more sad and desolate than now, she had sat there, and 
 a little child had come to comfort her ; a little child of winning 
 beauty, with golden hair^ and wild, dark, shy eyes; whose loving 
 ways and warm affection had roused her from her grief, and 
 given her new hopes, new interests. For years that child had 
 been her first thought, her chief care ; and in her love she had 
 found her greatest earthly happiness. And to-day she had given 
 her up. To-day she had seen her, a child still and lovely as ever, 
 stand at the altar as a bride, and had heard her bid farewell to 
 the home where she had lived for so many years. And in fancy, 
 Mary saw before her still that sweet girlish face in all its beauty, 
 and felt round her yet the loving arms that had been so unwilling 
 to let her go. Very long it might be before she felt their 
 clinging embrace again j and long, very long, it must be before 
 the blank which that day had made in her life could be filled 
 up ; though even in her sorrow she forgot to be selfish. 
 
 * Dear little Lisa !' she said to herself with a sigh; 'my little 
 Lisa, my own child ! It is hard to let you go. But you will l^e 
 happy — I hope — yes, I am sure you will. I would not have to- 
 day undone if I could.' 
 
162 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 ^ THIS SWEET WEE WIFE O' MINE.' 
 
 The long winter months were over, and spring, with its sun- 
 shine and its showers, its opening leaves, its early flowers and 
 lengthening days, had come round once more. It was one bright 
 afternoon late in April that Arthur Darrell stood upon the plat- 
 form at the Gainsford station, watching a London train which 
 was slowly coming in more than twenty minutes after its time. 
 
 * Ah, Janet, there you are ! ' he exclaimed, as he caught sight 
 of a well-known face at one of the carriage windows. * Well, 
 better late than never. I began to think you wouldn't come at 
 all. What has made you so behind-hand? ' And he made des- 
 perate attempts to open the door of the carriage in which his 
 sister-in-law was seated. Finding his efforts useless, he was 
 about to call to a porter when an unexpected apparition behind 
 Janet made him pause. 
 
 ' Why, Nelly,' he exclaimed, ' where did you spring from 1 and 
 Isabel, too, I declare ! Well, there 's no end to wonders in this 
 world ; nor,' with a low bow to his cousins, * to the rewards that 
 virtue meets with.' 
 
 ' And now perhaps you will make yourself of some use,' said 
 Janet a little testily. * You can leave your flourishing till we get 
 home. Oh dear, how hot it is, and I am so tired ! ' 
 
 * You brought the carriage, of course ? ' 
 
 * I did, ma'am. You don't think I was going to walk a mile 
 and a half such a day as this when I could have a carriage for 
 nothing 'I Besides, how was I to get you home without it T Did 
 you expect me to carry aU these 1 ' looking at the various articles 
 
 iled upon the seat. 
 
 ^ You can see thej are carried across the platform, I suppose 1 ' 
 remarked Janet. * And do be quick, please. There are not so many 
 after all ; for I make a point of never taking much luggage with 
 me when I travel. It 's so tiresome to look after.' 
 
 ' So it is, ma'am ; I quite agree with you,' said Arthur gravely. 
 ' I was just wondering how you had contrived to manage with so 
 
^ THIS SWEET WEE WIFE o' MINE.' 163 
 
 little. Here it comes, big carpet-bag, little ditto, travelling-bags, 
 one, two, three, four, five. And what are these ? Oh, bonnet- 
 boxes of course ; they are too precious for the luggage-van. And 
 here are three dressing-cases, and a bundle of cloaks, shawls, 
 railroad-wrappers, &c. And that ^s all, I do believe, except 
 books, newspapers, parasols and umbrellas. I wonder whether 
 two trucks will take everything to the carriage 1 ' in deep con- 
 sideration of the pile before him. 
 
 * Nonsense, Arthur ; pray see about them quickly j you have no 
 idea how tired I am.' And Janet walked off with a little bag 
 and her own parasol in her hand, Isabel following her; but 
 Elinor lingered behind to help in the identification of divers 
 trunks and portmanteaux which were to be sent after them. The 
 business was a lengthy one apparently, from the time they were 
 absent, but they made their appearance at last ; and cloaks, 
 bags, &c., having been tumbled into the carriage, they set 
 off in the highest spirits ; even Elinor, being roused into anima- 
 tion, and looking about her with eager curiosity as they drove 
 through the streets of Gainsford, where she had never been be- 
 fore. 
 
 h * We are in a very convenient situation,' Janet said ; ' for we 
 are near enough to the town to see plenty of people ; and yet 
 we have the advantage of country air and country walks, besides 
 not being far from the sea.' 
 
 * A little of everything, and in consequence neither fish, flesh, 
 nor fowl,' remarked Arthur. * And now, Isabel, let me hear what 
 happy chance has brought you into this part of the world. I 
 know nothing yet to account for your extraordinary appearance.' 
 
 * Nothing very extraordinary about it,' said Isabel. * It was 
 always settled, you know, that I was to come some time this 
 summer ; and at first it was arranged that Mary and I should 
 come together in August. But mamma said it would be more 
 convenient for only one of us to be away at a time ; so Janet pro- 
 posed I should pay my visit now and go back when Mary comes. 
 And then we thought it would be no bad thing for Elinor to 
 have a change too. She has not been well lately.' 
 
 ^ Hasn't she 1 I should never have guessed it. I meant to 
 pay her a compliment on her blooming looks, only I haven't had 
 time yet.' 
 
 Elinor certainly did look * blooming ; ' but perhaps it was from 
 fatigue and the heat of the day — for the weather had suddenly 
 
164 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 set in very warm, and was almost oppressive. The afternoon 
 sun, too, was shining full down upon them ; and of course it was 
 her anxiety to shade her face from that, which made her inter- 
 pose her parasol so hastily between herself and Arthur as he was 
 turning to look at her. 
 
 'Thank you, Nelly — but you needn't put my eyes out,' he 
 observed in an injured tone. * Well, I congratulate you on your 
 spirit — I had no idea any of you could have devised and accom- 
 plished such an achievement as getting away at half-a-day's notice ; 
 you left yesterday of course 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, it was settled yesterday morning,' said Janet ; ' and we 
 were off in the afternoon. Ah, here we are at home ; and very 
 glad I am ! I don't know when I have been so tired I ' 
 
 They were turning in at some white gates as she spoke ; and a 
 very pretty drive along the edge of a well-kept lawn, and under 
 some fine chestnut-trees, took them up to the entrance of a villa- 
 like residence, standing on sloping ground and covered with 
 creepers of all sorts, which gave it a cool and shady look, and 
 made Elinor declare it one of the prettiest places she had ever 
 seen. She was so delighted with it, that instead of going indoors 
 when they alighted, she went round with Arthur to have a look 
 at the other side ; while Janet disappeared in all haste to give 
 orders for the accommodation of her visitors ; and Isabel took 
 refuge in the drawing-room until her own room should be ready 
 for her. They did not all meet again until nearly dinner-time ; 
 and then Elinor appeared in a state of perfect rapture at the beauty 
 of every thing, and the lovely views that were to be seen on all sides. 
 
 * I had no idea it was half so pretty,' she exclaimed. By-the- 
 by, where does Lisa live, Janet 1 Is it far from here 1 ' 
 
 * Yes — no — well, it 's about ten minutes' walk. I don't know 
 whether you call that far or not.' 
 
 * Not very far certainly,' said Elinor, a little puzzled at her 
 cousin's tone. 
 
 * Not far 1 Oh ! well, she does then. I suppose we shall see 
 more of her now you are here ; or else she is not in the habit of 
 favouring us with many visits.' 
 
 * Ahem,' said Arthur ; * that 's rather good, Jenny ; consider- 
 ing they have only been here since — when was it they came 1 ' 
 
 ' Before Christmas,' said Janet tartly. 
 
 * Before Christmas, was it ? Well, anyhow, considering that 
 two months of that time you have been away, and that for another 
 
165 
 
 three or four weeks Percy was ill, it 's early to begin to complain 
 of want of sociability.' 
 
 * Is it ? I don't think so. Besides, it 's easy, from a person's 
 manner, to see whether they care for your acquaintance or not. 
 But if Lisa don't want to be friends with me, it 's her lookout, 
 not mine. I am sure I was kind enough when she first came, 
 and did everything I could to be friendly and sociable ; but she 
 never seemed to care to be much with me. Nobody would guess 
 we were such near connections, to see how little we know of 
 each other.' 
 
 There was a very quiet, under sort of laugh from Arthur at 
 this ; but Isabel looked vexed. 
 
 * I am sure that is not what Percy wishes,' she said hastily. 
 
 * You may be certain, J anet, it is not his desire that you and Lisa 
 should not be friends.' 
 
 ' I daresay not,' said Janet with a smile. * But the fact is, 
 I don't suppose his wishes have anything to do with it. Lisa 
 does just what she pleases. I never saw anybody make them- 
 selves so foolish as he does about her. To hear him talk, you 
 would suppose there was nobody like her in the world.' 
 
 A smothered laugh again from Arthur. 
 
 'What are you laughing for, Arthur*?' Janet asked sharply. 
 
 * It is true — any one can see he worships her. I call it ridiculous 
 the fuss he makes about her. He is as proud as possible 
 because she gets very much admired. She is considered a 
 great beauty, and made quite a sensation here in the winter. 
 It is my belief her head is turned with all the nonsense she 
 hears. She seems to me to think of nothing but dress, and 
 extravagance of all sorts.' 
 
 *Poor little Scaramouch!' remarked Arthur, * she used to get 
 scolded by everybody because she didn't trouble herself enough 
 about her dress; and now you are finding fault with her for 
 thinking too much of it. What is she to do between you all, I 
 wonder? She always looks "uncommon" pretty; but I don't 
 know that she can help that. And if Percy likes to see her well 
 dressed, perhaps there is no harm in her consulting his taste 
 rather than yours.' 
 
 'Perhaps not,' said Janet, 'particularly when it happens to 
 agree with her own.' 
 
 ' Well, I must say I consider Scaramouch wonderfully im- 
 proved. Whether it 's her dress or not, I don't know ; but she *s 
 
166 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 about the prettiest girl I have seen anywhere. And she has 
 come out astonishingly, too, lately. I was never more surprised 
 in my life than when I dined at their house, the first time after 
 I came down here, and saw that child sitting at the head of the 
 table, and really looking as if she knew what she was about. 
 She was a wee bit nervous, certainly, for it was a large party ; 
 and she confessed to me privately she didn't like it at all, and 
 was dreadfully frightened ; but she didn't show it. I had no 
 idea she would ever be so much of a woman in her ways, and 
 I give her great credit for it ; all the more, too, because I believe 
 she would far rather amuse herself with a doll or a skipping-rope 
 than play propriety in a drawing-room. It was only yesterday, 
 indeed, that I caught her sitting on the floor nursing two kit- 
 tens ; and she looked so happy over them, that I was quite sure 
 she must be in the habit of indulging in such amusements on 
 the sly. And when I taxed her with it, she did not deny it — she 
 seemed to consider it a very proper and rational employment.' 
 
 * I can quite believe it,' said Janet ; ' she is so absurdly child 
 ish. You saw her yesterday, though, you say ; did you tell her 
 I was coming home 1 ' 
 
 * I did ; and she seemed highly delighted, and declared her 
 intention of walking up this evening to see you.' 
 
 * This evening !' 
 
 * Yes, — I won't swear her motives for coming are purely dis- 
 interested. There was something about a parcel from Mary tliat 
 she was expecting; she was so eager about it, that I presume 
 she is pretty sure to turn up.' 
 
 * Very likely,' said Janet carelessly. * Here is Ralph, however, 
 turning up now, which is far more satisfactory, for we can have 
 our dinner. Who is that with him, too ] Oh, Cunninghame ; 
 when did he come, I wonder?' 
 
 As she spoke, Mr Thorpe's handsome face and figure appeared 
 in the doorway. He was a little astonished at sight of the 
 unexpected visitors, but recovered himself sufficiently to be ex- 
 tremely polite; while Ralph, who followed him, took their 
 coming as a matter of course, expressing no surprise whatever 
 on the subject. Whether, indeed, he were aware of their pre- 
 sence after he had shaken hands with them was doubtful, for he 
 said little, even to his wife, and during dinner was absorbed in 
 his own meditations, leaving the conversational part of the enter- 
 tainment to be supplied by his brother. 
 
^THIS SWEET WEE WIFE O' MINE.' 167 
 
 Arthur was in the highest spirits ; delighted at the unwonted 
 sociability of the present meeting after the solemn tete-d-t^te din- 
 ners to which he had been accustomed ; for his brother's house 
 was his home now, and had been since the termination of his 
 college career early in the spring. He had a private tutorship 
 in the neighbourhood of Gainsford while waiting for ordination, 
 and several hours of each day were fully occupied with his duties; 
 but his evenings were spent at Lassell Lodge, and the addition 
 of two of his cousins to the family party was by no means un- 
 welcome. It was almost as good, he declared, as being at the 
 Priory, and so Lisa would think ; she was always talking of the 
 old place. 
 
 ' And here she is ! ' was his exclamation, when, as they were 
 sitting in the drawing-room after dinner, a ring at the hall-bell 
 told of visitors. ' 1 11 lay anything it 's little Scaramouch. Now 
 for a scene.' And as a servant, opening the door, announced 
 ^ Major and Mrs Percy Tennent,' he rose from his seat and drew 
 himself up in an ecstasy of suppressed expectation and amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 ' Scaramouch ' was decidedly not the appellation for the very 
 graceful girl who entered the room, and whose extreme beauty 
 and quiet elegance of dress could not fail to attract the attention 
 of even the most casual observer. Badiantly happy she looked, 
 too, though with something still of her old shyness about her ; 
 and her eye, as it went round, had the same half-startled, wild- 
 fawn-like glance, which all who had known little Lisa Kennedy 
 remembered well. Unchanged also she was in many other re- 
 spects ; for upon seeing Elinor, the momentary childish look of 
 surprise, and then the bright smile flashing like sun-light across 
 her face, were Lisa all over ; and so was the warm-hearted em- 
 brace that followed. 
 
 ^ Nelly, dear Nelly ! How delightful ! How very glad I am ! 
 You came with Janet, did you? we never expected you !' And 
 whether she were most inclined to laugh or cry seemed doubtful, 
 while she poured out a torrent of expressions of extravagant 
 happiness ; until Arthur, who was looking on as if it were a pan- 
 tomimic performance got up for his benefit, interposed, and 
 begged her to reserve the rest of her ecstasies, as there was some 
 one else there whom she had not yet seen. 
 
 * Not Mary, surely ! ' 
 
 And if it had been Mary, there was no saying what mighX not 
 
168 ATHERSTONE PIIIORY. 
 
 have happened ; but as her eye met Isabel's, her face fell con- 
 siderably. It was only for a moment ; and although afterwards 
 she seemed pleased to see her cousin, the latter had noticed the 
 change, and set her down as insincere in her expressions of glad- 
 ness. She was vexed also to notice how often, while talking to 
 her, and asking questions about home, Percy's eye was wander- 
 ing off to Lisa ; and how, unable from his short-sightedness to 
 see her well, he kept putting up his glass to observe her move- 
 ments, and watch her face while she was speaking. It was plain, 
 even during the short half-hour they were at Lassell Lodge that 
 evening, that Janet's account had not been exaggerated — that he 
 was wrapped up in his little wife, and worshipped her with an 
 almost adoring love. Every look and word betrayed it ; and if 
 Isabel had not been too much annoyed to be amused, she might 
 have smiled to see how completely he was absorbed in Lisa. 
 
 They did not stay very long, for they had only called on their 
 way home ; and Lisa said she was tired and wanted to get back. 
 She had her parcel, too, for which she had come, and a letter 
 with it ; and her eagerness to open both was visible from the 
 way in which she kept eyeing them. 
 
 * Though why Mary thought it necessary to write when you 
 were sure to hear everything from Isabel and Nelly, is more than. 
 I can tell,' said Arthur. * You have had one letter from her 
 already this week ; what in the world do you want another for 
 so sooni I should have thought this day month would have 
 done.' 
 
 ' This day month ! ' Lisa looked horrifiedi * Why, I have 
 a letter twice every week regularly. She tells me everything, and 
 then I know all that is going on there. And I write back and 
 tell her all I do. It is very pleasant.' 
 
 * Is it ] I should have thought you were perfect plagues to 
 each other. So much for my weak intellect, which is not able 
 to appreciate such an amount of epistolary composition. Well, 
 I will come down to-morrow and hear the news; though of course 
 it 's all stale. I '11 call as I come back from the Crawf ords' in 
 the afternoon.' 
 
 * Yes, do,' said Lisa ; ' and stay and dine with us. Isabel and 
 Nelly are going to spend the day with me, and Janet says she 
 will come in the evening, so if you come too, we shall be quite a 
 family gathering.' 
 
THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA. 169 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA. 
 
 The cottage in whicli Percy and Lisa were located (for he had 
 shrunk from exposing her to the discomforts of barrack-life), 
 stood close to the sea on high ground overlooking the beach, 
 which was reached from their garden by steps cut in the rock. 
 The house itself had nothing remarkable about it, being just 
 such an one as might be met with any day in the neighbour- 
 hood of large towns, and having a dozen others all of the same 
 size and build in every direction round ; but Lisa had come to 
 be attached to it, and would have been sorry to leave it. For 
 it was her home now, and a home where she was very happy — 
 a home round which all sorts of bright and pleasant associations 
 had gathered. She was fond and proud of it, too, as being her 
 own — a place where she could do as she liked, and carry out all 
 her little plans and fancies ; and many were the small changes and 
 improvements she had devised, until what was originally a house 
 plainly furnished for letting, had become a really pretty place ; 
 the rooms filled with flowers, and birds, and books, and draw- 
 ings, and the garden as gay as taste and care could make it. 
 
 That garden was her especial deligLt, for it was sheltered and 
 private, with a magnificent view of the sea beyond, and close below 
 a long reach of golden sand with a line of white breakers on it 
 which she was never tired of watching, and the sound of whose 
 waters ever rising and falling in measured cadence made per- 
 petual music for her solitary hours. Never, too, was there such 
 a garden as that for flowers. The borders were crowded with 
 them, and the warm and sunny stone walk before the house had 
 stands of greenhouse plants upon it filling up the spaces between 
 the windows ; while every nook and corner round had its rockery 
 or old stump covered with trailing creepers. Flowers were Lisa's 
 mania ; her house as well as her garden was full of them, and 
 every room was laden with their scent; vases standing on all 
 the tables, and large pots in every window. She had, indeed, 
 made a perfect bower of the place ; and in this bower she was 
 flitting about on the morning after Janet's return; very busy 
 
170 ATHERSTONB PRIOEY. 
 
 apparently^ thougli what she was doing would have been hard 
 to tell. Trifling away her time, her aunt would have said, and 
 perhaps she would have been right; but there was no one to 
 find fault with her. So she went on amusing herself very much 
 to her satisfaction — walking in and out of the window, feeding 
 her birds and talking to them, arranging and re-arranging her 
 flowers, and pausing every now and then to cast a wistful glance 
 at Percy, who was still seated at the breakfast-table with the 
 morning paper before him. He had been poring over its con- 
 tents for some time, and perhaps she thought he had read it 
 long enough; for when she had fidgeted about for nearly a 
 quarter of an hour, looked at the clock very often, and stood 
 for a few minutes as if making up her mind upon some unde- 
 cided point, she stole across the room, and coming up to the 
 back of his chair, roused him suddenly from his studies by throw- 
 ing her arms round his neck, and half smothering him in her 
 eager embrace. 
 
 *My dear Lisa, what is it^' he asked, as soon as he could 
 speak. * You always treat me in that barbarous fashion w^hen 
 you want to get anything out of me. What is it now]' 
 
 ^I want you to put away that horrid paper. I'm sure you 
 must know it by heart. Won't you leave the rest till this 
 evening r 
 
 He smiled as he tossed it on a chair near. * There it goes, 
 little woman. Is that all you want, or is there anything more 1 
 1 suppose so, as you are hiding yourself there. Why don't you 
 come round where I can see you ] ' drawing her from the back of 
 his chair. 
 
 Lisa planted herself on his knee, and looked a little shy, as 
 she did sometimes when preferring her requests; a kind of 
 deference, perhaps, paid to his superior age and gravity ; for 
 she was perfectly aware that her wish was law, and that any- 
 thing she liked to ask, whether reasonable or unreasonable, would 
 be sure to be granted if it were within the range of possibility. 
 
 ' What is it, dearest 1 ' he asked again. * You want some- 
 thing, I am sure ? ' 
 
 * Yes, I do,* very busy twisting her fingers in the braid of his 
 coat. ^I want something very much; and I am wondering 
 whether you will do it for me.' 
 
 * Of course I will, dear, if I can. Is it anything to be done 
 now ? ' 
 
THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA. 171 
 
 'Well, not just this minute, exactly; but I should like to 
 know about it. It 's something for next week ; and I have been 
 thinking of it ever since you told me last night you would have 
 to go to Hoole. Can't you guess what it is ?' 
 
 * Not at all ; unless, indeed — perhaps you want to go and 
 stay with Janet while I am away/ 
 
 Lisa made a face of considerable disgust. * Percy, how can 
 you say such things ! and when you know I don't like her V 
 
 ' No, but now Isabel and Nelly are there, it will be different. 
 You would like being with them ; and indeed, dear Lisa, I 
 think it would be the best thing you could do. I don't at all 
 like the idea of leaving you here alone.' 
 
 ^ No, that 's the very thing, Percy,' and she hid her face on 
 his shoulder ; ' I don't want you to leave me. Why won't you 
 take me with you 1 it would make me so happy ! I should be 
 miserable here without you ; and I don't want to go to Lassell 
 Lodge. Let me go with you, please,' in a very coaxing tone. 
 
 Percy's face fell at this request. 'My dear Lisa, I wish I 
 could. I would take you most willingly, if it were possible ; 
 but the fact is, it is simply out of the question. There is not a 
 lodging near fit for you to go into. I asked about it yesterday ; 
 and every one told me it would never do to take a lady there.' 
 
 Lisa looked extremely disappointed ; but it was only for a 
 moment. Her face brightened again. 
 
 * I dare say some people are a great deal more particular than 
 I am,' she said. * I shouldn't care at all what sort of place I 
 was in if I were with you, Percy ; and I don't take up much 
 room — you might put me anywhere almost. I wouldn't mind 
 how uncomfortable I was. I should like any place if you 
 would only let me go. Don't you think you will ? Don't you 
 think, at any rate, you are going to say you will think about 
 it ] ' looking at him with one of her most winning smiles. 
 
 He smiled a little too — stroking her bright hair fondly in the 
 meantime. He did not see what good was to be done by 
 thinking about it ; but he could not say 'no' to her, and there 
 was no harm in promising to do what he could. 
 
 ' Well, dear,' he said after some consideration, ' I '11 tell you 
 what I '11 do — I will go over this afternoon and have a look at 
 the place ; and if there 's any sort of a lodging to be had, I will 
 take it for you. Only you must promise me not to be very 
 much disappointed if I don't succeed.' 
 
172 ATHERSTONE PKIORY. 
 
 * To be sure I will ; and think it very good of you to have 
 tried. I won't say I shan't feel disappointed, because I want to 
 go with you ; but I won't say anything about it. What time 
 will you be back this evening, I wonder % ' 
 
 * I don't know — not till late. I shall go directly I get away 
 from the barracks, and you had better not expect me until jow. 
 see me. You will have to make my excuses to Janet and the 
 others, and tell them how it is. I can't put it off, as we go on 
 Saturday.' 
 
 A reminder which made Lisa look very blank. 
 
 * Percy ! you must be sure and find some place for me. 
 Fancy being away from you for a fortnight ! What should I 
 do % And you don't want to leave me either, do you *? Don't 
 you like having me with you 1 You tell me sometimes that I 
 make a very nice little wife, and that you wouldn't part with 
 me for anj^thing. Isn't it true % ' 
 
 ' Yes, dearest, indeed it is. Ah, Lisa, if you knew half what 
 you are to me ! What should I do without you, my little 
 summer-bird % ' 
 
 * Summer-bird ' was one of his pet names for her ; and Lisa 
 smiled. 
 
 * You are not going to do without me ; when you want to do 
 so, you mustn't make me so happy as I am now. Do you 
 know, Percy, I wonder sometimes if there is anybody in the 
 world so happy as we are. I don't believe there is. I am 
 almost sorry Isabel and Nelly are here, and that we shan't be 
 alone so much as we have been — our evenings especially have 
 been so pleasant. We must make the most of our time while 
 we are at Hoole.' 
 
 Percy looked at her anxiously. ' My dear Lisa, you are not 
 going to build upon my being able to find any lodgings there ] 
 You have promised me you won't be disappointed if I don't. 
 You will remember that % ' 
 
 * No, of course not,' she said gaily ; * only I am sure you will, 
 because you know how much I care about it.' But here the 
 striking of the clock warned Percy that he ought to be off. 
 With many injunctions to her to take care of herself, he went 
 away ; wondering in his own mind how she would take the dis- 
 appointment which he felt certain was in store for her, and 
 dreading nothing so much as to see a cloud upon the bright 
 face which, ever since they had been married, it had been his 
 
THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA. 173 
 
 daily boast to himself liad never once been crossed by even a 
 passing shade of sadness. 
 
 Isabel and Elinor came down, as they had promised, to spend 
 the day at the cottage, walking in between ten and eleven, and 
 Janet with them ; although the latter did not mean to stay — 
 she would return in the evening, she said, with Arthur. Lisa 
 told her of Percy's projected expedition, which seemed to 
 entertain her greatly. 
 
 * He won't get any lodgings there,' she said. * It is the most 
 out-of-the-way place in the world. You are not obliged to go 
 and bury yourself there, are you 1 ' 
 
 * I am not obliged, but he is. They are going out surveying 
 for some forts that are to be built there. He will often have to 
 be away this summer, I am afraid ; and he won't be back now for 
 quite a fortnight. It is such an immense time to be alone, you 
 know.' 
 
 ' So it is,' said Janet, with a laugh. *And so you thought of 
 going after him, did you ? But you won't be able ; it is quite 
 out of the question. It is the most miserable, out-of-the-way 
 place imaginable. I have been there once or twice — driven 
 through it, for it is rather pretty in that direction. It is close 
 to the sea — quite a village, and a very lonely one too. As for 
 getting lodgings there, you might as well look for them in the 
 desert. It 's nearly seven miles from any station, to begin 
 with. How does Percy mean to get there ? ' 
 
 ' 1 don't know — he didn't say. I suppose he 11 go by train 
 as far as he can, and walk the rest of the way.' And Lisa, who 
 did not want to hear of any more difficulties in the way of the 
 attainment of her wishes, dropped the subject; much to the 
 displeasure of Isabel, who thought she treated very lightly any 
 trouble Percy might h'ave, so long as she could get her own way 
 in what was apparently a mere fancy. She made no remark, 
 however, and when Janet went away the topic was not renewed, 
 Atherstone news being discussed instead; and then Lisa had 
 the happiness of showing her new home to some one from the 
 Priory. And if the place had been a palace, she could not have 
 been prouder of it than she was ; and the glee with which she 
 went about displaying her treasures, and showing her many 
 contrivances for making the cottage one of the pleasantest 
 dwellings that could well be imagined, was pretty to see. She 
 was proud of everything — of her garden with its beautiful 
 
174 ATHERSTONE PBTORY. 
 
 sea-view — of tlie house itself with its sheltering shrubs and 
 overhanging creepers — of her little drawing-room with its 
 tasteful arrangements, its ornaments and engravings, its flowers 
 and books, its handsome piano — this last Percy's present to her 
 when they had first returned from their wedding tour ; — she 
 was proud of all both within and without ; and perhaps not the 
 least proud of her own room, which, with its pale blue and 
 white hangings, its pretty carpet and low couches, its cheval- 
 glass and its dressing-table covered with all the appliances 
 needful for a lady's toilette, formed no small contrast to her 
 bare closet in the old house at Atherstone. 
 
 * Lane arranges all that for me,' she said, half apologetically, 
 in answer to some remark of Isabel's as to much being by no 
 means necessary. ' Lane arranges all that. She likes me to 
 have things in that way, for she was used to it when — she lived 
 with my mother,' she was about to have added ; but something 
 made her stop short, and for a moment there was a shade upon 
 her face. But Elinor took up a set of coral ornaments that lay on 
 the table and began admiring them, and she brightened up again. 
 
 * Yes, are they not pretty ? Percy gave them me when we 
 were in Paris. I like them better than anything I have ; though 
 he has given me a great many other things too ; ' opening her 
 dressing-case as she spoke, and displaying with childish delight 
 her various possessions — possessions so numerous, and some of 
 them of so much value, that Isabel grew very grave as she 
 looked. What had her brother been about to be so lavish in his 
 expenditure on his idol ? Surely he might have known that such 
 things were far from suitable for his wife's age or station ; and 
 if any one but Lisa had been concerned, he would have been the 
 first to see the folly of such extravagance. She stood in silent 
 vexation, while her cousin displayed, and Elinor admired. 
 
 * I am almost afraid now to say I like a thing,' Lisa said, * for 
 he is sure to get it for me if he can. He is so very kind. I 
 don't mean only in giving me things,' she added with a smile, 
 * but in every way. You don't know how very good he is ! We 
 are so happy.' 
 
 ' And you" never find it dull *? ' Elinor asked. 
 
 ' No — yes,' she hesitated. * A little, sometimes ; the mornings 
 are very long. I'm all alone then, you know; and though I 
 work and practise, the time never goes very fast. But the 
 afternoon makes up for everything. We go out then ; sometimes 
 
THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA. 175 
 
 for a walk or a long drive into the country, and sometimes on 
 the beach and sit among the rocks, and he reads to me. I like 
 that — it 's so pleasant to sit within sound of the waves, and listen 
 to things one cares for. And in the evening I play to him, or 
 else he reads to me again while I work. When we first came 
 here we used to go out a great deal, but we don't now nearly so 
 much ; and I must say I like our home evenings the best. I 
 like having Percy all to myself.' 
 
 Poor Lisa ! the words came out innocently enough, but they 
 were no sooner uttered than she saw she had made a mis- 
 take. Elinor, indeed, only laughed ; but Isabel turned to the 
 window and stood looking out with an air which told unmis- 
 takably what her thoughts were; and Lisa's momentary silence 
 showed she had understood the movement. She closed her 
 dressing-case hastily, and suggested a visit to Lane — a proposi- 
 tion to which Elinor at once acceded. Isabel, however, declined 
 it. She was tired, she said ; and instead of accompanying them 
 she returned to the drawing-room, where she established herself 
 with a book, and for the rest of the morning saw but little of 
 her sister and cousin. She heard their voices about the garden, 
 but although Lisa came in several times with an entreaty to her 
 to join them, or an offer to come and sit with her, both were as 
 often declined. She preferred being alone, she said ; and alone 
 she sat until some callers disturbed her solitude, and brought 
 her cousin in from the garden to see them. But even then she 
 did not exert herself to be agreeable ; she was only intent upon 
 watching Lisa, whose prettily shy manner and heightened colour, 
 though in keeping with her extreme youth, were not what she 
 would have wished to see in her brother's wife. They were 
 too childish — not self-possessed enough ; and yet even when 
 criticising her cousin's want of womanliness, she blamed her 
 still more for the approach to lightness and coquetry, which 
 now, as often before, she thought she detected in her manner. 
 But, prejudiced as she was, it was no wonder she did not under- 
 stand Lisa ; that she misconstrued into a lower motive her 
 anxiety to please. 
 
 Lisa breathed a long sigh, which sounded very like one of 
 relief, when her visitors were gone ; and then she turned to her 
 cousin. 
 
 ' You are not well, Isabel, are you ? Does your head ache ? ' 
 she asked. 
 
176 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 A rebuke to her for her unsociability Isabel considered the 
 question, and she answered rather shortly, ^ Not at all, thank 
 you.' 
 
 * You are tired, then ? * 
 
 'Not very— a little,' and she took up again the book she had 
 been reading. 
 
 Lisa looked at her for a moment, and then she went away, 
 but it was only to ask Lane to let them have some tea ; and she 
 came back so eager to wait upon her cousin, and so anxious for 
 her to have everything just as she liked, that it was quite a pity 
 Isabel should have appeared so little pleased. Later on in the 
 afternoon, when her sister and cousin again went out for a walk 
 on the beach, she once more declined to accompany them. This 
 time, however, when left alone, she did not read. She sat, lost 
 in thought, watching the deep swell of the sea, and the light 
 upon the hills beyond the bay, the light from her own face 
 fading away while she looked, and in its stead a darkness 
 gathering — a reflection, perhaps, of the dark thoughts that filled 
 her soul. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVL 
 
 ANOTHER LINK IN THE CHAIN. 
 
 It was nearly ten o'clock that evening before Percy returned, 
 and one glance at his face told Lisa he brought^ no good news. 
 His search had been in vain ; and, completely tired out, he had 
 been obliged to return without being any nearer the attainment 
 of his object than when he set out. 
 
 Weary as he was, however, he had no thought for anything 
 but her disappointment ; and when he saw the eager look with 
 which she had come to meet him change at the first glance at 
 his countenance, he felt a pang almost as bitter as if he were to 
 
ANOTHER LINK IN THE CHAIN. 177 
 
 blame for his failure. She did not say a word, but tlie colour 
 mounted to her face, and tears, the first he had seen since the 
 day they left the Priory, rushed to her eyes. Her disappointment 
 was grievous ; nor was Janet's exclamation, * I told you so, Lisa ; 
 I knew it was ridiculous trying,' at all calculated to lessen it. 
 
 ' I am very sorry dearest,' he said. * I did all I could, but it 
 was useless ; and really the place is such a hole that I should 
 hardly like to have had you there even if I had found a lodging. 
 But there are none to be had of any description. I did my best; 
 I am sorry it has been of no use.' 
 
 * Never mind, Percy,' she said in a low voice, ^ I won't care 
 about it. Thank you for going, it was very kind of you; and 
 if you couldn't find anything it can't be helped. I won't think 
 of it again.' 
 
 ^ Thank you, dear.' He brightened up at the tone in which 
 this was said ; and sitting down on a sofa near, relapsed into 
 silence. He was too tired apparently for conversation — so 
 tired, indeed, that while Lisa was giving directions for a more 
 substantial meal than they generally had at that hour, he fell 
 fast asleep, with his head resting on his hand, looking, as Arthur 
 remarked, ^ for all the world as if he had been walking himself 
 to death.' 
 
 * Yes, I think it was a pity, Lisa, you asked him to go,' said 
 Isabel. * You must have known how unlikely it was he would 
 find lodgings in such a place as that. And if he had, there was 
 the expense. You ought to have considered that, besides all the 
 trouble you were giving him.' 
 
 Lisa was silent ; she seemed to be engrossed with seeing how 
 much tea she had put in the tea-pot. 
 
 * My dear Isabel, don't talk about what you don't understand,' 
 said Arthur, sagely. ' Don't you know that if she asked for 
 Cinderella's slipper, or the great Mogul's crown, he wouldn't 
 think it too much trouble to set off in search of them. And as 
 for expense— oh no, we never mention that. What husband 
 would think of making objections on that score V 
 
 ' That is only nonsense, Arthur,' said Isabel, gravely. * Lisa 
 knows Percy's income is not large. And if he is inclined to 
 indulge her, the more reason she should think twice before she 
 asks for what she wants. You needn't make her more extravagant 
 by those foolish speeches.' 
 
 Arthur shrugged his shoulders. ^If she's going to turn 
 
 M 
 
178 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 extravagant, I don't think it will be my doing ; ' with a signifi- 
 cant glance at the sofa. ' Percy hasn't been waiting for me to 
 put her up to it. He never says '' no ^' to you, Lisa, does 
 he ? He is too wise for that. His maxim is, " Give a woman 
 everything she asks for, and you will have peace in your house." 
 It shall be mine too when I marry ; my wife shall never have a 
 wish ungratified.' 
 
 'Your means will have to be unlimited then,' said Isabel, 
 drily. * And all I can hope is, I may never have the pleasure 
 of knowing her.' 
 
 * Indeed !^ with an odd look. * And why not] She will be a 
 very charming person, I can tell you.' 
 
 ' I doubt it. I think she will be exceedingly disagreeable. 
 People who have their own way always are.' 
 
 ' Hallo, Scaramouch, that 's a hit at you. What a pity Le 
 Balafre should let you make yourself such a nuisance !' 
 
 Lisa smiled at the recollections conjured up by that old name. 
 
 'How silly I was in those days !' she said, looking at Percy 
 with very loving eyes. 
 
 ' In what days ] ' asked Arthur. 
 
 ' In what days ! Why, when I knew nothing of him, and 
 used to say those foolish things of him. I was very silly then.' 
 
 ' You were ? and now you are wiser, of course. You 
 have altered your opinion. Plain men with black hair w^ere 
 your special detestation, I remember ; and that Indian decoration 
 which won him ' 
 
 Lisa coloured. ' You needn't remind me of all that, Arthur,' 
 she said hastily. ' I was foolish then, but I know better now,' she 
 added in a voice trembling with earnestness ; * and if I am proud 
 of all these medals he wears, I am prouder still of that. It is 
 the best and noblest of all, and I would not have him without it 
 for worlds. My dear Le Balaf r^ ! ' she exclaimed with great 
 emphasis, and stooping down over the sofa where Percy was 
 sitting, she pushed back his hair to kiss his forehead in her 
 eager way — an action which woke him up, while Arthur's hearty 
 laugh, and ' Well done, Lisa 1 ' made him ask what was the 
 matter. 
 
 ' Only Lisa rhapsodising,' was the answer, while Isabel ex- 
 claimed impatiently, * How silly of you, Lisa ! What did you do 
 that for ? You might let him be quiet, when you see how tired 
 he is.' 
 
ANOTHER LINK IN THE CHAIN. 179 
 
 Lisa looked penitent. * I 'm very sorry — I didn't mean to 
 wake him. Bnt he couldn't have slept much longer, for tea is 
 just ready, and I 'm sure he wants that ; and then he can sleep 
 as long as he likes, and I won't disturb him again.' 
 
 *I had no business to be asleep at all,' Percy remarked; *you 
 were quite right to wake me up. I 'm sure I beg everybody's 
 pardon for being so rude;' he looked at Janet, who. however, 
 only laughed ; while Isabel, who still appeared vexed, repeated 
 that * Lisa might have known better, it was just like her — she 
 was so thoughtless.' 
 
 * Thoughtless, is she ? ' said Percy, turning to his little wife, 
 whose bright eyes were dimmed at this accusation. * That is a 
 mistake, Isabel. I don't know that I ever met with any one 
 who has so much thought ; it is an old head on young shoulders 
 sometimes, isn't it, Lisa 1 ' he added smiling. 
 
 ' That was only when you were ill,' said Lisa sorrowfully. 
 ^ You used to tell me then how thoughtful I was ; but I am not 
 always. Isabel is right, I am afraid ; I am ver^/ careless.' 
 
 ' Are you, dearest 1 1 don't think so. Isabel was not here 
 when I was ill ; and all I hope for her is, that when she wants a 
 nurse, she will get one as good as you.' 
 
 Lisa looked very bright again. * Yes, you liked having me to 
 take care of you, didn't you ? And I liked doing it too. I was 
 so glad you were not alone without anybody to look after you ; 
 you would have been so dull.' 
 
 ^ So I should ; instead of being just the contrary. For that 
 was the best of you, Lisa — you were always smiling and cheerful, 
 and yet you must often have been tired enough, little woman.' 
 
 ^Was 11 No; I don't think so. I was too happy taking 
 care of you to be tired. I was afraid at first you would miss 
 Mary, and want her with you ; but you didn't, and I was very 
 glad. I am the proper person to do everything for you now, 
 you know.' 
 
 And she seemed so happy with this thought, that she forgot 
 the momentary vexation caused by her cousin's remarks. For 
 the short remainder of the time Isabel was at the cottage that 
 evening, she was very grave and silent ; and she was the first to 
 propose the return of their party to Lassell Lodge, hurrying 
 Janet by representing how tired Percy loeked — she was sure he 
 would be glad to be alone. Her last look back, as they went 
 down the road, brought no pleasant thoughts to her disturbed 
 
180 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 mind ; for it showed her her brother's tall figure standing out 
 against the light that streamed through the open door, while 
 Lisa was beside him, with both her hands clasped on his arm, and 
 her face raised to his, with such a winning smile, as might well 
 excuse the admiration wdth which he stood regarding her. 
 Isabel's sigh as she looked w^as a very long one, and during the 
 walk home she had not a word to say. 
 
 She was sitting alone in the drawing-room at Lassell Lodge 
 on the following afternoon, when Percy walked in. Lisa was not 
 with him ; he had only just returned from the barracks, he said ; 
 but having met Janet and Nelly, and been told by them that he 
 would find her in, he had come up to see her about something 
 he wished to propose. He wanted her to stay at the cottage 
 with Lisa while he was away. Janet, he was sure would have 
 no objection, as her visit to Gainsford was to be a long one, and 
 she would have plenty of time to give to Lassell Lodge after- 
 Avards. 
 
 * And I am very anxious Lisa should have some one with her,' 
 he said. * She will find it lonely, poor child, all by herself ; and 
 although she would of course see you every day, that is not the 
 same thing as having you in the house with her. I should 
 like you very much, Isabel, to go down for a fortnight. It 
 would be pleasant for both of you, I am sure. You have no 
 objection, I suppose?' looking at her with a smile. 
 
 But Isabel looked grave, and did not raise her eyes from the 
 drawing before her. 
 
 ^ I thought I heard Janet proposing last night she should come 
 to us while you are away,' she said. ' It seems to me that would 
 be a much better plan than my going there.' 
 
 * Yes. so it might, if she wished it ; but she does not. She 
 would rather stay at the cottage.' 
 
 Isabel did look up now with some surprise expressed in her 
 face. 
 
 * You don't give in to all Lisa's whims and fancies, Percy, do 
 you ? V/hy should she object to come here ? ' 
 
 There was something in her tone which seemed to strike her 
 brother disagreeably. 
 
 * You are mistaken, Isabel. Lisa is not given to whims and 
 fancies — no one less so. But they are very gay here, as you 
 know — a great deal too gay for her just now. She wants to be 
 quiet, and I wish it for her myself.' 
 
ANOTHER LINK IN THE CHAIN. 181 
 
 ^ Oh ! if you wish it, that is a different thing/ and Isabel took 
 up her pencil again. ' Did she propose my going ? ' 
 
 ' No, she said nothing about it. She is so taken up, poor 
 child, with the thought of my going, that she has had no time yet 
 to think of what she is to do all alone. I did not even tell her I 
 meant to ask you to keep her company. I thought I would see 
 you first and settle it j and it would be a pleasant surprise 
 for her.' 
 
 Isabel was silent — engrossed apparently with a rubbing-out 
 process. 
 
 * It is better for her to have a companion on every account,* 
 Percy went on, after a moment^s pause. She is too young and 
 pretty to be left alone, and of course she cannot shut herself up. 
 You are the very person to be with her, Isabel ; and I felt quite 
 glad, when I knew I had to go, to think you were here.' 
 
 * Your best plan will be to find out first from Lisa whether 
 she will like to have me,' was the answer, in rather a constrained 
 voice. * It is quite possible it may be anything but the pleasure 
 to her that you seem to think.' 
 
 Percy set down the ornament he was handling, and looked 
 at her. 
 
 * What do you mean ? I don't understand you.' 
 
 * I only mean what I say — that Lisa may not be glad to have 
 me with her. I am afraid I have not the happy knack of pleasing 
 her. Perhaps I speak a little too plainly ; and as she is accus- 
 tomed to have her own w^ay, she does not like that. I would 
 rather not make the arrangement till you have asked her.' 
 
 Percy w^as silent for a few moments ; and when he spoke again 
 it was in a voice as constrained as her own. 
 
 ' There is no need to ask Lisa about it. You don't wish it 
 yourself, I suppose 1 ' 
 
 Isabel played with her pencil, and for a minute seemed doubt- 
 ful what her answer should be. 
 
 * Well, as you ask me, Percy, I must say I don'*, wish it,' she 
 replied at last, with some hesitation. * I am quite sure it will be 
 no pleasure to either of us. You know, when I see things I 
 don't like, I can't help speaking out ; and Lisa often takes 
 offence, and considers me unkind when I mean nothing of the 
 sort. And then, too, we are not much of companions — we never 
 w^ere. Our tastes don't assimilate in the least ; she is so much of 
 a child; that I find it difficult to know how to adapt myself to her.' 
 
182 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 Percy's brow was overclouded. ' Certainly, if my wife is so 
 little of a companion as you make out, the less you see of her 
 the better. I would not for worlds have her with any one who 
 thought slightingly of her. Good-bye.' 
 
 He caught up his cap, and would have been off in a moment 
 had she not stopped him. She rose from her chair with an im- 
 ploring look. 
 
 * Percy, don't quarrel with me about Lisa,' she exclaimed 
 beseechingly. * Why is she always to make misunderstandings 
 between us 1 We were happy together before she came to sepa- 
 rate us, and why should we disagree now because we don't think 
 alike about her 1 Why should you quarrel with me for not being 
 able to think her perfection, as you do ? ' 
 
 * I don't wish you to think her anything of the sort, Isabel ; 
 but I must say I did wish you to think kindly of her, and to 
 love her. I hoped you would — that for my sake, if not for her 
 own, you would have felt' for her as a sister. I never thought 
 you would liave kept up that foolish prejudice you had at the 
 time of our marriage.' 
 
 Isabel coloured. ^ We think differently, Percy. I did not 
 consider it a foolish prejudice, nor do I now. For Lisa is not 
 altered ; she is just the same as she was then — ^just as little of a 
 woman, and just as light and trifling. My opinion of her is not 
 changed, and of course my objections are the same.' 
 
 * I thought your objections then were, that she was not suited 
 to me, and would not make me happy ; and when you see she 
 does, I think it is time for you to change your opinion and own 
 yourself mistaken. And as for her being a child, she can't help 
 that. It is not her fault that she is only seventeen instead of five- 
 and-twenty ; and when you expect your tastes and amusements 
 to be the same, you forget the eight years' difference between you. 
 Instead of complaining of her want of congeniality, why not try 
 whether you could not make her take an interest in the things 
 you care for ] Or if you don't want to take that trouble, surely 
 it would not have been a great hardship to suit yourself for one 
 fortnight to her tastes, and make the poor child happy in her 
 own way. She is not one to think little of kindness, and I can- 
 not imagine you would have found her so difficult to get on with 
 as you seem to fancy.* 
 
 ' If you wish it ' Isabel began, with something of an 
 
 effort. 
 
ANOTHER LINK IN THE CHAIN. 183 
 
 ' I don't. I don't wish you to do anything that is disagree- 
 able to you ; and as you say it would be no pleasure to Lisa, 
 most certainly I would rather you should not make the arrange- 
 ment. Nelly will not have the same objections, I daresay.' 
 
 And as Elinor at that moment happened to come in with Janet 
 and Arthur, Isabel drew back, and while the proposition was 
 being made to her sister, sat down again to her drawing, but with 
 a flush upon her face which betokened no little disturbance of 
 mind. The others were too busy talking to notice her ; the only 
 remark made upon her refusal being one from Janet to the effect 
 that she was glad she had declined, for she could not spare her 
 then — she had had an invitation from some friends that very 
 morning to spend a week or two with them, and she wanted 
 Isabel to go wdth hjer ; she had only hesitated about accepting it 
 because she could not take both her and Elinor ; but if the latter 
 went to the cottage, it would all be settled at once ; and Nelly, 
 who upon being first appealed to had coloured and hesitated, now 
 raised her eyes, and having looked round the room, and appa- 
 rently discovered in one of the corners something to bring her to 
 a decision, said she thought it would be very nice — she should 
 like to stay with Lisa exceedingly. And so it w^as decided. 
 
 * And an awful shame it is ! ' said Arthur, with an air of pro- 
 found melancholy. ^ Here have you three hardly been in the 
 house two days, when you are all talking of going off again ; and 
 Ralph and I are to be condemned to our former state of morose 
 taciturnity. Really this house ought to be called the ^^ deserted 
 home." What will Ralph say, Janet, to your making a bachelor 
 of him again so soon 1 I expect he 11 be feeling injured.' 
 
 ^ Not at all. I believe he likes my being away quite as well 
 as if I were here. He gets on just as well without me. Be- 
 sides, I am not going yet ; only I want Isabel to go with me 
 when I do go, so she must not tie herself to Lisa.' 
 
 ^ Ah, well, what must be, must. I shall come down to the cot- 
 tage sometimes, Nelly, to see how you and Lisa are getting on ; 
 and the rest of the time, I shall sit among the ivy on the garden- 
 wall and play mournful airs on the flute. You will find me, 
 when you return, reduced to a shadow, and ' 
 
 * And a confirmed rheumatic subject, I should think, for that 
 ivy is very damp,' said Janet, cutting him short ; and then turn- 
 ing to Percy, * Well, Nelly shall come to you on Saturday. 
 What time do you go i' 
 
184 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 And arrangements being finally made, Percy went away, 
 nothing more passing between him and Isabel. She hardly 
 looked up as he left the room ; and her good-bye was in a very 
 indifferent voice. But whether she were quite so unconcerned as 
 she wished to appear was doubtful ; for, after he was gone, saying 
 something about having a bad headache, she disappeared, and 
 was seen no more for the rest of the afternoon. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE POOL AMONG THE HILLS. 
 
 * Percy, it 's a glorious afternoon ! You haven't forgotten your 
 promise, have you ? ' 
 
 'What, to take you for a drive? No, indeed I have not, and 
 the carriage is to be here at three ; it is nearly that now.* 
 
 Lisa possessed herself of his hand, to give it a very tight 
 squeeze. ' Thank you, Percy : you are so kind. You don't 
 know how I have been thinking of it all morning ; and it will 
 be so lovely in the country to-day ! Here — take this great heavy 
 thing ! ' and she unfastened his sword, which she had buckled 
 round her waist, and which had been trailing on the ground as 
 she walked. ^ I '11 go and get ready now.' And aw^ay she went, 
 with her light step and joyous face, singing gaily. 
 
 'It's just the day for the country!' she said to herself as 
 she stood at her window tying on her bonnet. * How the sun 
 sparkles on the sea, and how hot it looks ! If we can get as 
 far as the woods, it will be delightfully cool and green there ! 
 Dear me, how happy I am ! I wish everybody else was the same ! 
 If only Percy were not going to-morrow ! But I won't think of 
 that — I '11 be happy w^hile I can. I wonder where my gloves 
 are ! ' And being still at an age which possesses the faculty of 
 
THE POOL AMONG THE HILLS. 185 
 
 looking forward very little beyond the present moment, she be- 
 came absorbed in a search for the missing articles; tumbling 
 over all the things in her drawers as she did so, in a way that 
 showed that Lisa Tennent was not much altered from the Lisa 
 Kennedy of old. * Lane will be very cross when she finds what 
 a mess I 've made here ; but I can't help it. — Oh, here they are ! 
 And there ^s the carriage ! ' And hearing the sound of carriage- 
 wheels coming up to the house, she flung everything back, and 
 catching up her gloves, went off again, leaving no little confusion 
 behind her. But who could stay to be orderly on such a bright 
 Mayday? Not Lisa, certainly. As she went down- stairs sing- 
 ing again, she had not a thought for anything beyond the plea- 
 sure of the next two or three hours ; and past and future lectures 
 from Lane on untidy habits were forgotten, together with plenty 
 of good resolutions of her own on the same subject. 
 
 What a pleasant drive that was ! She had had many pleasant 
 ones in the neighbourhood of Gainsford, but none to equal this. 
 How green the early leaves looked, and how beautiful the corn- 
 fields and meadows were ! and when on their road home again, 
 after a long drive over hill and down, they came to a wood of 
 beech and silver birch trees which reminded her of some place 
 near Copelands, she was in an ecstasy ; while the wild flowers 
 which covered the high banks threw her into raptures. She 
 could not sit still any longer, but insisted on getting out, that 
 she might fill her hands with the anemones, bluebells and other 
 beauties of the woods ; and the carriage-seat was soon filled with 
 her treasures. 
 
 ^ This is Arthur's road every day,' Percy remarked as they 
 walked on together. * The Warren is not half a mile off; it lies 
 just down there.' 
 
 * Does it 1 Perhaps we shall see him then : isn't this about 
 the time he leaves? O Percy, how pretty! Do look at the 
 shadows there ! ' 
 
 They stood upon the edge of a broad pool of water, which, 
 half in sunshine, half in shade, stretched far away into the re- 
 cesses of the wood. The breezes played upon its surface, and 
 the clear light from above looked down into the dreamy dark- 
 ness of its centre depths ; only under its steep banks, overgrown 
 with long rank grass and tangled brushwood, stillness and 
 shadow lay ; and the old trees that drooped over it with their 
 gnarled and twisted boughs, made those shadows the more pro- 
 
186 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 found. Lisa was struck by the silence and solitude of the spot 
 almost as much as by its loveliness. 
 
 ^ How beautiful it is ! ' she exclaimed. ' And how wild ! Who 
 would believe it was so close to the road ! — though I suppose 
 many people don't come this way ? Or does it lead to any other 
 place besides the Warren 1 ' 
 
 ^No, only there, and out into the highroad again. This is 
 part of the Crawford property : they have a great deal in the 
 neighbourhood.' 
 
 'Have they*? Well, it's a lovely place, but very dreary,' 
 looking at the dark water before her. * Not now — I don't mean 
 by daylight — it is only wild and beautiful now ; but by night — 
 I shouldn't like to come here then. I could fancy all sorts of 
 dreadful things done here in the darkness ! ' 
 
 Percy smiled. *What have you to do with darkness, sum- 
 mer-bird?' he said lightly. * You were made for light and sun- 
 shine, not for the night. Here — sit down on this stone and rest 
 yourself,' fetching a shawl from the carriage as he spoke. ^ You 
 will find it a very pleasant seat ; unless, indeed, you are afraid 
 of that black-looking water,' seeing her eyes still fixed upon it. 
 
 She smiled then. * Not with you here,' she said as she sat 
 down. * We will wait for Arthur, shall we? We have plenty of 
 time to spare, and it will be quite a pleasant surprise to him to 
 find us here. We can all go back together.' 
 
 And for some time while they sat there talking she watched, 
 as far as she could see among the trees, the road by which 
 her cousin must come. Arthur, however, did not make his 
 appearance. A horseman passed them, but it was not he ; and 
 having gone to meet him in the full expectation of seeing her 
 cousin, she returned a good deal disappointed to her husband^s 
 side. 
 
 ' Who was it?' Percy asked, noticing her heightened colour as 
 she came back. 
 
 * Only Mr Thorpe.' She sat down again, and produced her 
 sketch-book and pencil. ' I made sure it was Arthur.' 
 
 * Did you speak to him ? ' 
 
 * No, we only bowed. Isn't that a lovely peep there — where 
 the water turns, and the woods seem to grow over it ! I want 
 to try and take it before that light goes, it is so pretty.' And 
 she set to work forthwith, though Percy told her she was too 
 near, and he did not think she would make anything of it. 
 
THE POOL AMONG THE HILLS. 187 
 
 * Never mind — 1 11 try. I always like to see what I can do, 
 when you tell me I can't manage a thing.' And for some time 
 she appeared intent upon her drawing ; while he watched her, 
 thinking what a pretty picture she herself would make, as she 
 sat there, with the afternoon sunlight playing round her and the 
 green boughs waving over her head. She raised her head at last. 
 
 ' Do you remember this day last year 1 ' she said, holding her 
 drawing some little distance from her, and contemplating her 
 performance with a critical eye. 
 
 ^ This day last year ] — no. What happened then 1 anything 
 particular ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, something very particular, to me at least — not to you ; 
 but still I thought you might have recollected one thing we did. 
 It was the first time I went out after I hurt my foot. Don't 
 you remember now? You took me out in the carriage with 
 Mary, and gave me my first lesson in sketching.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes, we went to Copelands. I remember how pleased 
 you were to get over there again, Lisa.' 
 
 * How pleased to get out anywhere again. And that was the 
 day you gave me Prince — dear little Prince/ looking at her dog, 
 who was sniffing daintily at a mouse-hole near. ^ I thought it 
 very kind of you — particularly kind ; because I had always been 
 so exceedingly rude to you. And in the evening Mrs Daly came 
 in. You don't know, perhaps, that it was then, Percy, I really 
 began to like you — not a little only, but very much. I had be- 
 gun, before that, to think you not quite so disagreeable as I did 
 at first j but still I didn't care much about you one way or the 
 other. But that day — oh, I remember it so well ! I was so 
 sorry then I had ever been so silly — so wicked as to dislike you 
 because' 
 
 * Because I was so unfortunately plain — such a disagreeable- 
 looking fellow.' 
 
 ' Percy ! Well, it don't matter what I thought of you then — 
 you don't mind it, do you, now you know I think so differently ? 
 But, oh dear, how strange it all seems to me ! If anybody had 
 told me then what would happen in a few months, I should never 
 have believed them ! I began to like you very much from that 
 day ; but it was only as a cousin ; I never dreamed of your ever 
 being anything else. If any one had said then, that one day you 
 were to be my own dear husband, who was to be so good to me, 
 and spoil me, and make me so happy — eh^ Percy ! ' looking at 
 
188 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 him in her shy way, and with a very pretty colour — * why, I 
 should have said it was all rubbish ! 1 couldn't have believed it, 
 could I r 
 
 ^ JSTot any more than I could have believed it, Lisa. Even 
 now, do you know, I have a fancy at times that it must be a 
 mistake. I can't imagine how you could make up your mind 
 to care for me,' looking again as he spoke at the very lovely 
 girlish face at his side. 
 
 ^ Percy, what a speech from a husband to his wife ! But I see 
 you are smiling, and I know why you say it. You only want to 
 hear me tell you how very much I do care for you ; and I am 
 not going to tell you anything of the sort : I have said it so 
 many, many times, that I never mean to say it again/ Lisa's 
 eyes, however, were very eloquent ; there was no need of words 
 to tell what her thoughts were. ' People never say those kind 
 of things, you know, when they have been married a long time, 
 as we have : I feel quite an old married woman now.' 
 
 * You do, do you ? ' 
 
 * Yes, really. And now what do you think of that ? It will 
 turn out better than you thought, won't it? I shall have to 
 finish it at home, though, for I 'm sure it is time we were going 
 now ; look, how long the shadows are getting ! and we have to 
 dine at Lassell Lodge this evening ! ' getting up as she spoke. 
 ' I wonder what makes Arthur so late to-day : we shall miss him, 
 after all.' 
 
 ^ Yes, but it can't be helped. Come, dear, we have no time 
 to lose ; ' and Prince having been summoned from his investiga- 
 tion of all the mouse-holes in the neighbouring bank, they took 
 their seat in the carriage and set off home ; Lisa leaning back, 
 and enjoying to the utmost the rapid drive and the fresh wind 
 that blew about them. They were within two miles of Gains- 
 ford, when her attention was attracted by something at a short 
 distance before them. 
 
 * Why, there he is ! ' she exclaimed, ^ and — how very odd ! ' 
 ' What is odd 1 ' Percy asked. ' Who is it r 
 
 * Why, Arthur. And who is that with him ? — he is walking, 
 leading his horse. And there 's a lady ; it looks like — yes,' as 
 they got nearer, ^ it is — it 's Nelly, I declare ! What can she be 
 doing so far from home 1 ' 
 
 They drove on, and in a minute or two overtook the pair, who 
 turned round upon hearing a carriage stopping beside themj 
 
THE POOL AMONG THE HILLS. 189 
 
 Arthur smiling, Elinor looked disturbed and fluttered ; and her 
 start, when her name was called, made Lisa laugh. 
 
 * Ah, you may well ask what we are doing ! ^ Arthur said, in 
 answer to their inquiries. * But the fact is, I've been playing 
 the part of champion to this young lady — rescuing her from a 
 mad bull, alias a very quiet cow, that was looking at her over a 
 hedge. She was in such a state of alarm at the creature's hostile 
 proceedings, that if I had not appeared when I did, we should 
 have had a coroner's inquest to-morrow, and a verdict '^ Died of 
 fright '^ returned.' 
 
 There was a laugh at Elinor's expense; in which, however, she 
 did not join. 
 
 * But where were you going, Nelly ? ' Lisa asked. * It is such 
 a long way from the Lodge.' 
 
 * She came out for a Avalk,' said Arthur, ' and lost her way, of 
 course. She 's no topographist, and never has an idea whether 
 she ought to steer east, west, north, or south. And then she 
 has a horror of anything in the shape of a dog or cow ; and if 
 she only sees the tip of a tail, or hears a bark half a mile off, 
 she 's off like a shot to be out of the way. It 's no wonder she 
 finds herself astnxy sometimes — eh, Nelly ] ' he said carelessly. 
 
 Elinor coloured a little, but made no answer ; and Lisa turned 
 to Arthur, to ask how it was they had not seen him before, 
 telling him of their having waited for him in the wood near the 
 Warren. 
 
 * I didn't come that way this afternoon ; I came by the lower 
 road, and a lucky thing for Nelly I did, or I don't know how 
 she could have got out of her dilemma. And now she 's tired to 
 death : you had better give her a lift as far as the Lodge gate. 
 I tried to persuade her to mount Chestnut, but she was horrified 
 at the proposal.' 
 
 So room was made for Elinor in the carriage, and in due time 
 she was set down at Lassell Lodge, and left to make her way up 
 to the house with Arthur, while the other two returned to the 
 cottage before coming up again for the evening. 
 
 * What a delightful afternoon we have had ! ' Lisa exclaimed, 
 as they stopped at their own door : * I Ve been so happy, so very 
 happy!' 
 
190 ATHERSTONE PRIORY, 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIIL 
 
 THE FIRST SHADOW. 
 
 Percy was away longer than he expected — the fortnight being 
 nearly three weeks — and the ^ merry month of May ' was almost 
 out when he came back. It was a warm and really summer's 
 afternoon when he once more walked in at his own gate, pleasing 
 himself with the idea of taking Lisa by surprise ; for it was an 
 hour or two earlier than he had told her he should get in. 
 
 The house was quiet — very quiet — as he let himself in with 
 his latch-key, and for a moment the silence struck him as some- 
 thing almost ominous. But he smiled at himself immediately 
 afterwards for his own fancifulness. He had never come home 
 before unmet, and it was Lisa's missing step and voice which 
 made the place seem so deserted. But she was not far off, of 
 course; and he walked on into the drawing-room, where he 
 made sure of finding her. 
 
 But she was not there. The room was empty ; though from 
 the appearance of the books and vv^ork lying about, it w^as 
 evident it had been recently used. Very homelike it looked, 
 but it was very still ; and the closed green blinds, keeping out 
 the glare of the afternoon sun, seemed to deepen almost into 
 gloom the shaded quietness of the place. The very birds were 
 half asleep in their cages, and hardly gave him a chirp as he 
 passed ; and even the flowers looked pale and drooping ; though 
 without all was life and sunshine. He could catch glimpses of 
 light on the blue waters, and hear the sound of the waves upon 
 the shore, and the breeze among the acacia and laburnum trees 
 in the garden; and once he paused, thinking he heard Lisa's 
 voice too j but when he listened, there was nothing but the 
 wdnd and the humming of the bees in the creepers above the 
 window. 
 
 * Perhaps she is out,' was his disappointed reflection, 'or is 
 she in the garden?' And as he stood for a moment at the 
 window, he heard the sound of voices, and thought he saw the 
 flutter of a dress under a tree upon the lawn. 
 
THE FIRST SHADOW. 191 
 
 He was not mistaken : it was Lisa herself who was sitting 
 there — but not Elinor with her, as he expected. It was a man's 
 voice that met his ear as he walked towards the spot, and he 
 recognised it as that of his cousin Arthur, even before he made 
 out his figure by Lisa's side. Very deep in conversation they 
 both were; he bending forward, making holes in the ground 
 with his stick as he talked, and she looking down too, and 
 answering in low earnest tones ; and although her words were 
 inaudible, her voice gave Percy the idea that she was in distress. 
 So intent were they both on what they were saying, that his 
 step upon the grass was unheard. 
 
 * Lisa ! ' and as he spoke she started and looked round. Was 
 it only fancy that made him think that start less that of 
 delighted surprise than of alarm — that she was more frightened 
 than pleased at his sudden appearance ? 
 
 ^Why, Lisa, my darling, have you nothing to say to me? 
 Are you not going to let me look at you, my little summer-bird 1 
 I did not frighten you, did 1 1 ' 
 
 ' Not frighten me, exactly. But you startled me. I wasn't 
 expecting you,' she murmured. 
 
 * No, indeed,' said Arthur, who had risen hastily with her ; * of 
 course we were not. You told her you wouldn't be home till 
 seven. I wonder you have the conscience to come stalking down 
 upon her in that style.' 
 
 ' I am sorry I startled her so much,' Percy said, a little gravely. 
 * I thought you would be pleased to see me, dearest, whether you 
 expected me or not. You are not sorry, are you 1 ' 
 
 * Sorry ! O Percy ! ' But whether it were that his tone implied 
 reproach, or from some other cause, she suddenly burst into 
 tears — a proceeding which caused him no little consternation — 
 while Arthur gave a long whistle, and thinking he was better 
 out of the way, walked off towards the house. 
 
 The sound of his retreating steps seemed to recal Lisa to 
 herself^ but she had no reason to give for her distress, unless it 
 might be that she thought she was very tired. She had walked 
 a good deal that morning, and it had been rather hot, and — she 
 was very glad he had come home ; with which wind-up she broke 
 off rather abruptly. 
 
 * But what was Nelly about to let you do such foolish things V 
 he asked. * I thought she was here to take care of you. Where 
 issheT 
 
192 ATHERSTONE PRTORY. 
 
 Lisa's face fluslied a little. * I think she is in her own room 
 lying down ; she said at luncheon that she had a bad headache.' 
 
 ' Oh, you both did too much, then ? Where did you go to 
 tire yourselves so much ? ' 
 
 * We were only on the sands. Shall we go in ? it 's very hot 
 here.' 
 
 They walked back to the house ; and when they reached the 
 drawing-room, she threw herself on the sofa, and Percy heard a 
 very long sigh as she did so. It was evident she had over- 
 fatigued herself; and vexed that she had done so, he insisted on 
 her remaining where she was, and would not even hear of her 
 getting up for dinner. 
 
 * She has tired herself out/ he remarked that evening to Janet, 
 who was noticing that she looked very pale. ' She walked too 
 much this morning, she tells me. You should not have gone so 
 far with her, Nelly,' he added, turning to his sister. * I trusted 
 to you to look after her while I was away.' 
 
 ' Elinor looks as tired herself,' said Janet. * How could you 
 be so silly, Nelly '? Where did you go to knock yourselves up ? ' 
 
 Elinor raised her eyes from the work over which she was 
 bending, and looked as if she had not heard what was said to 
 her. 
 
 * I am not tired,' she said, when Janet repeated her question. 
 
 * I haven't been out at all to-day, and I didn't know Lisa had.' 
 
 Percy looked surprised. ^ I thought I understood, Lisa, that 
 you had both been out together,' he said. ^ Surely you told me 
 so. You would never have been walking alone ? ' in a strangely 
 cold, hurt voice. 
 
 * Walking in her sleep, perhaps,' suggested Arthur, who was 
 watching her varying colour with some uneasiness. * Not that 
 it would matter much that I can see, if she did go for a stroll ; 
 it would only be on the sands, and they are quiet enough in the 
 morning. Don't be such a tyrant, Percy, as to grudge her a 
 quiet walk if she likes to take one.' 
 
 Percy drew himself up, looking formidably tall, and very 
 proud, as he did sometimes when he thought himself unwarrant- 
 ably interfered with. 
 
 * I have no wish to act the part of a tyrant,' he said, coldly, 
 
 * though I have my wishes upon some subjects, and Lisa knowg 
 what they are. I am sorry she should have thought proper to 
 disregard them.' 
 
THE FIRST SHADOW. 193 
 
 Arthur gave a shrug, muttering something about no harm 
 being meant ; but Lisa was silent, though her colour came and 
 went, and she looked very nervous. 
 
 ' You surely didn't think of going out alone, when you know 
 Percy does not like it ? ' remarked Isabel, in a low tone. ' Why, 
 Lisa ! what could make you do such a thing ? Where did you 
 
 gor 
 
 Lisa looked uneasy. 
 
 * I was on the sands ; I walked there for some time.' 
 
 * Alone ! O Lisa ! ' 
 
 There was a volume of reproach in the tone ; but no answer 
 was made. Only Lisa's lip quivered, and she glanced nervously 
 at Percy. Happily for her, there came a diversion ; for Arthur, 
 who was fidgeting about the room, contrived, in his passage 
 between two tables, to throw down a stand, on which was a bowl 
 of gold and silver fish. The crash of the shattered glass, and the 
 deluge of water on the floor, startled everybody. 
 
 ' O Arthur ! ' and Lisa started from the sofa ; while Elinor, 
 who had received half the contents of the bowl over her dress, 
 jumped up too, wdth a shriek. 
 
 ^ Very sorry ! ' said Arthur, but not looking at all so. On 
 the contrary, he appeared very much relieved at the catastrophe, 
 and went about picking up the fish by their tails, with a 
 smile on his face^ which not all his efforts to be grave and 
 penitent could repress. Lisa would have helped him, but Percy 
 stopped her peremptorily. 
 
 ' Lie still, Lisa,' he said gravely, putting her back on the 
 sofa. * There is no need for you to trouble yourself about it.' 
 
 He rang the bell, and Lisa lay still as she was told, while 
 the servant who was summoned cleared away the broken glass 
 and wiped up the water ; and the fish having been provided 
 with temporary accommodation, and Elinor having retired to 
 change her dress, things w^ere restored to order, and every- 
 body began to talk again. Only Percy was absent, and imper- 
 turbably grave ; and Lisa seemed to see no one but him : while 
 Isabel was highly indignant at what had passed ; nor was her 
 displeasure lessened by Arthur's ill-timed interference. She 
 even began to imagine there was some understanding between 
 him and Lisa. The supposition was confirmed a little later, 
 when, under the shelter of some loud conversation, she heard 
 him remark to her in a low voice — 
 
 N 
 
194 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 *A lucky downfall that for us, Scaramouch. But what a 
 little goose you are! What makes you look so frightened?' 
 And then followed something which made Lisa shake her head. 
 
 ' I can't, Arthur ; indeed I can't. And you promised ' she 
 
 was beginning in a tone of remonstrance, when, meeting Isabel's 
 eye, she coloured deeply, and became suddenly silent. Arthur, 
 too, observed he was watched, and retreating to the piano, 
 occupied himself there until Janet thought proper to move, 
 which she did shortly afterwards. 
 
 Percy sat up very late that night writing; and when he 
 went up-stairs, it was between one and two o'clock. Suppos- 
 ing Lisa to be asleep, he was passing through her room with 
 some caution, on his way to his own dressing-room, when to 
 his surprise he heard his name called. He was startled, think- 
 ing something was the matter. 
 
 * What is it, Lisa ? Are you not well 1 ' and he was at her 
 side directly ; all coldness of manner vanishing at once in his 
 anxiety. 
 
 ^ Yes, I am quite well.' She gave a long sigh as she spoke. 
 * I want to say something to you, Percy. Put that candle 
 away, please.' 
 
 He did as he was asked, setting it down upon a table near, 
 but something of his stiffness had returned when he came back. 
 
 'You don't mean to say you have been waiting for me all 
 this time ? ' he said, in rather a constrained voice. 
 
 * Yes ; and it has seemed so long. L thought you were never 
 coming. But I couldn't go to sleep while you were angry 
 with me.' She looked at him with her wistful beseeching! eyes, 
 and he could not resist their pleading. His arm was round 
 her in a moment. 
 
 'Lisa, my darling, why did you do it, when I asked you 
 notr 
 
 It was said very much as if he were speaking to some wilful 
 child; and her close, clinging embrace was after the same 
 fashion. But she did not attempt any reply. 
 
 *You are not angry with me, are you?' she said; and she 
 shivered as if the fear of his displeasure chilled her. 
 
 ' No, dearest, no ; ' the idea of feeling anger or anything 
 else that was harsh towards one so lovely and loving, seeming 
 to him then impossible. ' No, dearest, I am not angry ; I was 
 a little vexed, and you can't wonder at it, Lisa. There are 
 
THE FIRST SHADOW. 195 
 
 not many things I keep you from. I thought you would not 
 have minded pleasing me in this.' 
 
 There was a choking sob from Lisa, but she kept it back, 
 only clinging still closer to him. 
 
 * And you won't be angry with me again ? You are not 
 now ? ' in a broken voice. * Percy ! don't look at me again 
 as you did this evening,' she said imploringly. 
 
 He kissed her tenderly, beginning to look upon himself as 
 having been nothing less than tyrannical and unjust. 
 
 ' Poor child, how cold you are 1 ' he said. * But you must 
 forget it, Lisa. Don't think of it any more. I don't like to 
 see you looking so pale and tired — you will make yourself ill. 
 Lie down, my darling, and forget it.' 
 
 He laid her down himself, trying to soothe her with all sorts 
 of endearing words. And if, as he sat holding her hand in 
 his till she fell asleep, the thought crossed his mind that her 
 conduct had not been exactly what he should have expected, 
 he would not dwell upon it. She was wilful sometimes, he 
 knew ; it was in her nature. And then his thoughts went back 
 to the Priory — to the hundred and one ways in which, when 
 he had first known her, she had tormented him by her caprice 
 and waywardness. How pretty she had looked in those wilful 
 moods, which, indeed, had won his heart. Yes, he should not 
 like to have her different, even though she might sometimes 
 choose to carry out her own wishes in opposition to his. She 
 would not do it without being sorry for it afterwards ; and 
 if she were pretty in her waywardness, she was even more 
 so in her penitence, he thought, looking at the pale sweet 
 face before him and the long eyelashes fringed with tears. 
 And he kissed the little hand that had been lying in his, 
 and went away to forget there had been anything between 
 theiii, or that he had had cause to imagine he was not satisfied 
 with her. 
 
196 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 ISABEL'S SUSPICIONS. 
 
 * Well, Lisa, how are you this morning ? * asked Janet, with a 
 smile, as she came into the drawing-room at the cottage on the 
 following day. 
 
 Lisa was alone, sitting on a low stool near the open window. 
 The sunlight, which was playing on tree and shrub without, 
 found its way through overshadowing boughs into the pleasant 
 room where she sat among her birds and flowers ; and light 
 breezes came wandering by, bringing with them the murmur of 
 the far-off waves, and many scents and sounds of summer. 
 But she was looking pale and harassed ; and the expression of 
 her face struck at once both Janet and Isabel. 
 
 *Is anything the matter]' the former asked again. *You 
 look very woe-begone.' 
 
 Lisa coloured a little. ' Do 1 1 I didn't know it. I was only 
 thinking. Nelly is very poorly this morning.' 
 
 * Is she 1 What is the matter with her ? ' 
 
 *Not much, I daresay,' remarked Isabel, drily. *A headache, 
 or something else equally alarming. NeDy is always glad of an 
 excuse for lying in bed.' 
 
 *It isn't only a headache,' Lisa said; *I'm afraid she is 
 really ill.' 
 
 'Poor Lisa,' said Janet. 'She is quite anxious.' And a 
 laughing conversation followed, on the subject of some of 
 Elinor's fancies — a conversation in which Lisa took no part. 
 She sat looking anxious and preoccupied. 
 
 'How very odd you are this morning, Lisa !' Janet said again. 
 ' What is come to you ? It can't be only Nelly. Oh, I know, 
 somebody has been scolding you about that unlucky walk of 
 yours. I hope he was not very angry.' 
 
 Lisa looked uncomfortable. 'Percy never scolds me,' she 
 said, quickly. 
 
 'Never!' said Janet, with a smile. 'Are you sure he didn't 
 last night ? He looked black enough to administer any amount 
 
Isabel's suspicions. 197 
 
 of lecturing. If Ralph ever looked like tliat at me, and for 
 such a silly thing too' 
 
 ' Janet ! Mrs Darrell !' Lisa fired up in a moment. 
 
 *What is the matter V asked Janet, in astonishment. 
 
 * Only that you are not to speak of Percy in that way, if you 
 please.' 
 
 'Oh !' Janet was evidently offended. 
 
 'I beg your pardon,' Lisa said, more quietly. ^Only — you 
 know I must not — I can't hear it — and ' 
 
 * Just as you please,' returned Janet, coolly. * I didn't 
 mean anything so dreadful; you needn't look so hot and 
 angry.' 
 
 There was no answer. Lisa looked more inclined to cry than 
 anything else just then ; and for a minute or two there was an 
 awkward silence. Then Isabel rising said she would go and see 
 her sister. She went accordingly, and found Elinor in bed, as 
 Lisa had told her, complaining of giddiness and a great deal of 
 pain in her head. She was evidently far from well ; but Isabel 
 did not think much of her indisposition, looking upon it as 
 merely a slight feverish attack, of which, as usual, she was 
 inclined to make the most. 
 
 She was going down -stairs, on her way to the drawing-room 
 again, when, her boot-lace happening to break, she stopped for 
 a minute to fasten it, and while doing so, heard voices in the 
 hall below. It was Arthur who was speaking, and although she 
 could not hear what he said, she was struck by a change in his 
 voice, which had something in it so earnest, so unlike his usual 
 light carelessness, that for a moment she wondered whom he 
 could be addressing. What could he want, and who was with 
 him? The latter doubt was soon solved, for Lisa spoke iu 
 answer. 
 
 * Well, Arthur, I will promise then,' she said with a sigh, 'I 
 won't ask it again — I will wait till' 
 
 The rest was lost ; for she moved as she spoke, but there were 
 thanks from Arthur in return, and once more Isabel was struck 
 by that change in his tone — that difference from his ordinary 
 easy, offhand way with his old playfellow. 
 
 Lost in thought she remained standing on the stairs until the 
 closing of the house door roused her from her reverie. Then 
 she finished fastening up her boot-lace and went down into the 
 hall. At the foot of the stairs she came upon Lisa, who was 
 
198 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 leaning against the banisters, with her head resting on her 
 hands. She started when she heard her cousin's voice. 
 
 '0 Isabel!' she said, in some confusion; *I didn't hear 
 you coming. Janet is not gone yet — she is waiting for you.' 
 
 She did not pause to have any questions asked, but turned 
 quickly and went back to the drawing-room, where Janet, who 
 did not seem to have been aware of her absence, was sitting 
 absorbed in a book of engravings. Some more conversation 
 followed, during which Isabel was unusually thoughtful and 
 silent, and then she and Janet said good-bye and went away. 
 
 They were all sitting at the breakfast-table the following 
 morning, when a note was brought in and given to Isabel. 
 
 ^ From Lisa,' she remarked as she opened it. * What a sad 
 scrawl it is ! But she always does write in such a hurry.' 
 
 There was some excuse this time for the ^ sad scrawl/ for it 
 had been penned in evident distress. Elinor was very ill ; she 
 had been taken so much worse in the night that they had been 
 obliged to send for a medical man. Nothing was mentioned, 
 however, of the nature of her illness ; and Isabel, when she had 
 read the note, turned it over, and looked at it again in evident 
 vexation. 
 
 *Just like Lisa, to give no particulars!' she exclaimed. *I 
 wonder what it is. Nothing very bad, I daresay, but it is very 
 provoking. 
 
 ^ Very,' returned Janet. * What do you mean to do V 
 
 * Go down at once,' Isabel answered, getting up as she spoke. 
 ' That will be the best thing.' 
 
 ' And stay when you are there,' Janet remarked. ' That is 
 what Percy will want you to do, you may be sure. Of course 
 he won't wish his wife to have all the nursing, so you must 
 make up your mind to stay and be useful to her.' 
 
 Isabel looked annoyed. * If I stay, it will be to make myself 
 useful to Elinor,' she said gravely. *But I shall see whether it 
 is really necessary. I daresay it will not be.' She was passing 
 Arthur on her way out of the room, when he stopped her. 
 
 ' Let me look at that note,' he said^ holding out his hand 
 for it. 
 
 * You have heard it all, there is nothing more in it.' She 
 gave it him, however ; and while she was still standing talking 
 to Janet, he read it over several times, and then sat for some 
 minutes in deep thought. 
 
Isabel's suspicions. 19& 
 
 * You will be late, won't you 1 ' she said at last, as slie 
 turned round and found him still sitting there. ' Look at the 
 time/ 
 
 He started then. ^Ah, yes, to be sure— I had forgotten.' 
 He got up. ' Well, don't quarrel with Lisa if you make up 
 your mind to stay there ; but if you take my advice, you will 
 leave her to herself. She will get on twice as well without 
 you.' 
 
 The first person Isabel met when she entered her brother's 
 house a little later was Dr Mapleston, the medical man who was 
 attending her sister. He looked pleased to see her. 
 
 * Ah, Miss Tennent, that 's right ! ' he exclaimed. * I am glad 
 you are here ; I hope you are come to stay. I have just been 
 telling Mrs Tennent she ought to have some one with her, and 
 you are the best person.' 
 
 ^ Not the best,' Isabel answered, * for I am not much of 
 a nurse ; but still if I ought to stay — if you think it neces- 
 sary' 
 
 ' Necessary — of course it is. And as for nursing, anybody 
 can do that if they only give their mind to it and obey orders. 
 You are strong and can bear fatigue. You must take some of 
 it off Mrs Tennent. Don't let her knock herself up. I shall 
 look in again by-and-by.' 
 
 He ran off in a great hurry, and Isabel went up-stairs. 
 
 She found her sister very ill ; and as she stood by her side, 
 and saw her face flushed with pain and fever, and felt her hot 
 dry hand and rapid pulse, there was a pang of self-reproach in 
 her heart for having thought so slightingly of her indisposition. 
 For some minutes she stood watching her in silence, then she 
 turned to Lisa. 
 
 ^ What does Dr Mapleston say of her 1 What does he think it 
 is ? ' she asked in a low voice. 
 
 ' I don't know ; he didn't tell me ' Lisa was beginning, 
 
 when Elinor herself interposed, having caught the words. 
 
 ^ It is my head. This pain is. dreadful, and that sea makes 
 its worse. I wish it would stop/ she exclaimed impatiently. 
 * It drives me wild — it is so sad ! ' 
 
 Anything but sad, Isabel thought, was the rush of the little 
 waves on the shore, and anything but sad was their sparkle as 
 they came dancing in on the yellow sands ; but Elinor listened, 
 and then muttered again — 
 
200 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 * So sad ! Will tliey never stop ? What is it tliey say 1 
 Wrong, wrong ; do you hear it, Lisa 1 They said it that day, 
 and I hear them now. Listen ; quite plain it is/ 
 
 Her voice sank, and she threw her head back among the 
 pillows and moaned wearily ; while Lisa, who until then had 
 stood motionless, came forward and smoothed down the bed- 
 clothes. Her face was very pale, but she spoke quietly. 
 
 * I don't think she know^s what she is saying ; she has been 
 talking in that way all night. Lane says w^e must not listen to 
 her j it is no use paying attention to what people say when they 
 are ill.^ 
 
 Dr Mapleston's opinion, when he was questioned that after- 
 noon, was not favourable. Elinor had long been in delicate 
 health, and from the state of nervous excitement in which he 
 had first found her, he thought there had been some strain lately 
 upon the mind which had induced the attack of brain fever 
 from which she was suffering. The remedies he ordered were 
 severe; and although he did not say much, it was plain that he 
 considered her state critical, and Isabel was startled out of her 
 usual calm and dignified composure by this intimation of her 
 sister's danger. She would gladly have done what she could 
 to make up for her first neglect, but Elinor did not care to have 
 her with her. Her dislike to having her in her room was so 
 apparent that Isabel found it would not do to force herself upon 
 her, and that she should be obliged to leave to Lisa much of 
 that attendance which under other circumstances would have 
 fallen to her share. Still, however, she could do something ; 
 there w^ere times when Lisa must have rest, and some one besides 
 Lane must be there to take her place. That she must remain 
 at the cottage, therefore, was very clear ; and Percy, to whom, as 
 soon as he returned home, she intimated her intention of so doing, 
 assented at once without remark. She was annoyed, indeed, 
 to see how indifferent he appeared as to whether she went or 
 stayed, his thoughts being taken up with Lisa; and in his 
 anxiety that she should not do too much, he seemed to forget 
 every one else. And very absurd it was, Isabel said to herself, 
 to be so engrossed with her. It was not necessary ; and even if 
 it had been, it was quite apparent that, however much Lisa 
 might like such attention in general, she did not appreciate it 
 now — that she would far rather have been left to herself. Some 
 change had taken place in her lately, and although this alteration 
 
201 
 
 was attributed by others to anxiety for her cousin, Isabel had 
 her doubts whether other causes might not at least have some 
 share in it ; and these doubts having entered her mind, made 
 her quick to notice things which at another time w^ould have 
 escaped her observation. 
 
 One evening some days later, she was sitting alone in the dusk 
 in her sister's room. It had been a long, sad day for every one, 
 for Elinor's fever had run very high, and during many hours 
 she had been delirious and excited; but she was quieter just 
 then, lying in a sort of stupor, and except her hard irregular 
 breathing, there was not a sound to be heard in the room — 
 scarcely in the house. Percy was away on some night duty at 
 the barracks, Lisa had gone to her own room to rest, and for 
 very long Isabel had sat alone and undisturbed. Wrapped in 
 her own thoughts, she had quite forgotten how late it was getting, 
 till the sound of a step on the gravel walk below roused her from 
 her reverie and made her look up. She found then how dark 
 it was, too dark for her at first to make out anything ; but as 
 she raised herself and strained her eyes to look, she saw through 
 the dim duskiness the outline of a man's figure on the stone 
 walk before the drawing-room window. He was stooping down, 
 and a moment afterwards she heard the sound of something 
 thrown against a pane of glass. There was a little silence ; but 
 presently a window was opened, and Lisa*s voice met her ear. 
 
 ^ Is it you, Arthur 1 ' 
 
 * Yes ; can you come down to me ]' 
 
 There was some reply which Isabel did not hear ; it was low 
 and hesitating. 
 
 ' Never mind that,' was the answer ; * Lisa, for pity's sake, 
 come. I must speak to you.' 
 
 The window closed again, and a moment afterwards Isabel 
 heard her cousin s door open and the rustle of her dress as she 
 passed down-stairs. She looked again, and saw her come out 
 at the garden door below ; she had a shawl thrown round her, 
 and Isabel saw Arthur draw it over her head as he joined her, 
 and then they paced the stone w^alk backwards and forwards for 
 long till she was tired of looking at them. 
 
 She sat for nearly an hour longer, lost in thought, and then 
 Lane came to tell her tea was ready, and to take her place while 
 she was away. She went down, and in the drawing-room found 
 Lisa seated at the tea-table. Arthur was not there, but Percy 
 
202 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 was standing beside her, cutting the leaves of some new perio- 
 dical. 
 
 ' How wet your dress is, Lisa ! ' he said, as he happened to 
 drop the paper-knife he was using, and stooped to pick it up. 
 * What have you been doing ? ' 
 
 Lisa looked down — there was a wet border all round the bot- 
 tom of her dress ; and as Percy laid his hand upon it, he turned 
 to her inquiringly. 
 
 ^ You have not been out this evening, have you % ' 
 ' A little. I suppose it got wet then ; but it won't hurt me.' 
 She drew it away, and turned again to the table ; but he still 
 looked at her ; she was cold and pale. 
 
 * Where did you go 1 On the sands ] ' 
 
 ' No ; only in the garden. It was very pleasant there.* 
 ' Was it 1 You don't look as if you had found it so. I am 
 afraid you have taken cold. You seem half frozen.' 
 ^ Do I ? But I am quite warm.' 
 
 * Warm ! My dear Lisa ! ' The hand which he had taken was 
 anything but warm, but she drew it away impatiently. 
 
 * Percy, how you tease ! ' she said, attempting a laugh. 
 ' Please sit down, and don't trouble yourself about me. I am 
 perfectly well.' 
 
 He sat doAvn. Something in her tone, and still more in her 
 manner, seemed to chill him, and he said no more ; while his 
 sister, who had listened in surprised displeasure to what was pass- 
 ing, sat silent also. Why did not Lisa mention Arthur's name 1 
 why did she seem so preoccupied and dispirited? And with 
 increasing suspicion Isabel sat pondering on her cousin's strange 
 silence. 
 
 Very little was said by any one till tea was over ; and then 
 Lisa rose, and saying something about Elinor, left the room. 
 Percy looked after, her as she went away. 
 
 ' Poor little Lisa ! ' he said. * She is sadly out of spirits just 
 now. J am afraid she is doing too much — making herself un- 
 happy about Nelly.' 
 
 * Is she % ' Isabel answered. ' No ; I don't think so. Of 
 course she is anxious about Nelly — every one must be ; but it 
 cannot be that only that makes her so out of spirits. She was 
 the same before ; something was wrong with her the day you 
 came home.' 
 
 ' Something wrong ! ' He looked up quickly. 
 
Isabel's suspicions. 203 
 
 ' Yes ; something wrong. She was not like herself then. You 
 must have seen it, surely.' 
 
 Percy was silent : he had seen it, and he remembered it now. 
 His sister saw the shade which her words brought upon his 
 face. But he made no reply : he sat turning over the leaves 
 of his book in silence, and she said no more j but she watched 
 the long inquiring look which he turned upon his little wife 
 the next time she came into the room, and she knew that the 
 doubts then roused within him were not likely soon to slumber 
 again. 
 
 ^Lisa, dearest,* he said, when later that evening they were 
 alone together, * what is the matter with you 1 Something is 
 making you unhappy ; what is it ? ' 
 
 He spoke gently, as he always did to her; but perhaps he 
 startled her, for she seemed disturbed and confused, and at first 
 made no answer — she only fixed her eyes upon him with a be- 
 wildered look. 
 
 ' What is the matter with me ? ' she said at last. ' I don't 
 know what you mean; what have I done 1 ' 
 
 * Nothing, dearest ; I did not say you had done anything. I 
 was only afraid something was vexing you. You are not like 
 yourself, Lisa — you have not been ever since I came back. 
 Won't you tell me what it is ? ' 
 
 But she was silent ; there was only a movement as if she 
 would have liked to free herself from his hold, but. he had his 
 arm round her. 
 
 * Why. Lisa,' he said, a little reproachfully, * you don't want to 
 get away — you are not afraid of me, surely 1 ' 
 
 * JSTo. But — I don't like you to be angry with me.' 
 
 * But, dearest, I am not angry. . What should make you fancy 
 so ? I only wanted to know what was vexing you. I thought 
 you would be glad to teil me — I did not know you wished to 
 keep anything from me.' * 
 
 ' I don't,' she said, and there was something very sad in the 
 tones of her voice. * I wish — ohj I wish ' 
 
 * You wish what It ' he asked tenderly. * What is it '? ' 
 
 But she had drawn back again, and though her lip quivered, 
 she said nothing. For a few moments he stood looking at her in 
 disappointed silence, watching her varying colour and the signs 
 of agitation in her face. But he saw she had no intention of 
 giving him her confidence. 
 
204 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 * May 1 goV she said at length, in a weary tone. ' I am very 
 tired/ And he roused himself then. 
 
 ^ Yes, dearest. I hoped But never mind ; if you would 
 
 rather not, I won't ask again. Good-night ; and don't stay in 
 Nelly's room, as you are so tired.' 
 
 He let her go, and she went away without another word. He 
 had hoped even then that she would say something, but he was 
 mistaken. She went away slowly, hesitatingly, but without 
 looking back. He watched her as she crossed the room — his Lisa, 
 his little Lisa who was so dear to him ; only she seemed another 
 then ; and when the door had closed upon her, when that little 
 white figure was really gone, he turned away with a sigh, for a sha- 
 dow seemed to have fallen on the room. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXX. 
 
 ' SEE, WHAT A READY TONGUE SUSPICION HATH.* 
 
 After some days' anxious nursing, Elinor s illness took a turn 
 for the better ; and at the end of another week, Isabel, released 
 from her attendance on her sister, returned to Lassell Lodge. 
 
 * I am so glad to have you back again ; it has been excessively 
 dull without you ! ' was Janet's exclamation when, on the morn- 
 ing after her return, they were once more sitting together 
 at the breakfast-table. * We shall have Nelly back, too, 
 soon; and that will be pleasanter still. Poor girl, she looks 
 dreadfully ill ! The change will do her good, when she can ba 
 removed.' 
 
 * Yes, so it will ; she is not strong enough for it yet, but I 
 daresay she will be next week. She is very low and out of 
 spirits, and I am afraid staying there won't help to make her 
 anything else,' added Isabel, thoughtfully. 
 
 ^ Lisa is very kind to her.' remarked Janet, not understanding 
 the drift of this speech. * If she were her own sister she could 
 
^ SEBj WIUT A KEADY TONGUE SUSPICION HATPI.' 205 
 
 not do more for her. She makes a better nurse than you do, 
 Isabel, I must say/ 
 
 * I daresay she does. Humouring goes a great way in nursing, 
 and that is a thing I have no patience for. I don't think Lisa 
 has in general ; but in this case of course it is necessary.' 
 
 *Ah, yes, poor Nelly was fractious^ no doubt. Whtn she 
 didn^t know what she was saying or doing, she was not likely to 
 be reasonable. It was the best way not to contradict her.' 
 
 * I didn't mean when she was light-headed,' Isabel said. * It 
 was only natural then; but now it is absurd. Of course, though, 
 Lisa finds it for her interest to do so.' 
 
 A speech which her companion, comprehending as little as the 
 former one, did not remark upon, and for some minutes there 
 was a silence. It was broken by Janet, who looked up with a 
 smile. 
 
 * A penny for your thoughts, Isabel. What are you so grave 
 about ? Are you wishing yourself back at the cottage — thinking 
 you have left Nelly too soon, or what is it ] ' 
 
 * Not at all ; Nelly does better without me. I am only in the 
 way,' she added with some bitterness. * They don't want me — 
 not even Percy. He thinks — and yet how can I help it when I 
 see what she is 1 ' she paused suddenly. 
 
 * When you see what who is ? ' Janet asked. ' What is the 
 matter with you, Isabel ? You are not like yourself. Is any- 
 thing wrong ? ' 
 
 Isabel hesitated for a moment, but there was something 
 imusually sympathising in her companion's manner, and after a 
 little silence she said, hastily — 
 
 * I will tell you what it is, Janet,' she said — ^ what is making 
 me so wretched. It is Percy. No, not himself,' as her com- 
 panion looked at her with surprise, 'but thinking of him — 
 fearing for him. For do you know what she is doing- — how 
 she is deceiving him, and that she will make his whole life 
 miserable V 
 
 * Who will 1 Lisa ! Goodness, Isabel, what do you mean 1 
 What has she done V 
 
 Isabel was silent for a moment ; and when she spoke again, 
 the vehemence of her tones had somewhat softened, though they 
 were still bitter. 
 
 ' Ah, you are surprised ! ' she said. * I forgot — you don't 
 know everything — you don't know all I do. But you must 
 
206 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 have seen sometliing — surely you must/ She paused again, 
 but once more urged on by sympathy and Janet's now excited 
 cariosity, she spoke more plainly. 
 
 She told how her suspicions that something was not right 
 with Lisa had been first roused by what she had noticed on the 
 night of Percyfs return from Hoole, and afterwards by what she 
 had overheard the following day on the cottage stairs ; and then 
 proceeded to relate more fully many little things she had 
 observed with respect to Lisa's conduct, both as regarded 
 Arthur and her husband. She was excited, and her story lost 
 nothing in the telling. Janet — who, in spite of the information 
 coming from one who was so particular in her statements, 
 listened for some time in incredulity — opened her eyes at last in 
 astonishment, and began by degrees to admit that things looked 
 very strange, though she seemed shocked at the idea sug- 
 gested. 
 
 * You can't really believe it, Isabel ! It is impossible. Arthur; 
 who would have thought it 1 You must be mistaken.' 
 
 * So I thought once, but I don't now. He never thinks of 
 anything but amusing himself ; and she — she is light, and has 
 drawn him on ; that is how it is. You know how he admires 
 her. He has never made any secret of it.' 
 
 * No, I know that,' Janet said. * But he always talks such 
 nonsense that I never pay attention to what he says. Who 
 could have believed, though, Lisa would be so light ! And how 
 she used to lire up, and make a show of being virtuously indig- 
 nant, if any one said anything against Percy ! What hypocrisy ! 
 Well, thank Heaven, I never set up to be a pattern wife, or 
 pretended to be better than my neighbours. Ealph and I make 
 no fuss about caring for each other ; but we get on very well 
 together, and he has never had cause yet to think he can't trust 
 me ; and never will have. But really — Lisa — what a thing it is ! 
 Who would have expected it from her ? ' 
 
 And then a discussion followed in which all Lisa's faults and 
 shortcomings — her defects of temper, her vanity, frivolity, and 
 flightiness — every failing, whether real or fancied, was brought 
 forward ; and it must be confessed that, when summed up, they 
 presented a formidable array against her. Poor Lisa was not 
 perfect ; and her cousin and Janet, indignant as they were, were 
 not likely to make the most of the better side of her character. 
 They did not spare her 3 and the conversation was only brought 
 
^SEE, WHAT A HEADY TONGUE SUSPICION HATH.' 207 
 
 to a close by Janet's remembering that they were engaged to 
 spend the day with some friends. 
 
 The Lawrences were a large family, and old friends of the 
 Darrells ; and there was one of them who, if Janet were to be 
 believed, was never sorry to meet Isabel at his father's house. 
 He happened to be at home on this particular day, and perhaps 
 it was this circumstance which prevented her dwelling as much 
 as she might otherwise have done on the thoughts which had 
 been so painfully occupying her. Between sketching, walking, 
 and conversation, the hours slipped away ; and in the midst of 
 a cheerful family party in the evening, she forgot another home 
 over which a gloom was fast gathering. 
 
 She rose to a remembrance of her troubles, however, on the 
 following morning; and even had she been inclined to forget 
 them, Janet's first words when she met her would have recalled 
 them to her mind. Arthur was not at breakfast, having gone to 
 the Warren before they came down. 
 
 ' Isabel,' she began, directly they were seated, ' 1 must tell 
 you something I heard yesterday. It is about Lisa — about that 
 walk of hers on the sands the day Percy came home. Do you 
 know that she was not alone then, as she let us think — that 
 Arthur was with her 1 They say, too, that he was at the cottage 
 every day while Percy was away.' Janet lowered her voice, 
 and looked round as she spoke, as if afraid of being over- 
 heard. 
 
 * They say ! who say ? You don't mean you told any one what 
 we were talking of yesterday?' 
 
 ^ Only mamma — oh, it 's quite safe with her ! ' returned Janet, 
 a little disconcerted as she observed the look of annoyance that 
 showed itself in Isabel's face. * She came in to call while you 
 were all out ; and we happened to say something about Lisa, so I 
 just told her what you had noticed. She won't repeat it, you 
 may be quite sure.' 
 
 Isabel, however, was by no means sure of this, and her 
 countenance betrayed the vexalion she felt at Janet's indis- 
 cretion. 
 
 ' And Mrs Lawrence was with you ? Who told you that about 
 Lisa?' she asked after a pause. 
 
 ' Well, to say the truth,' Janet began with some hesitation ; ■ 
 * it was Cunninghame who told us.' 
 
 VYour brother ! Mr Thorpe 1 O Janet !' 
 
208 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 * Nonsense, Isabel, don't be cross ! I didn't know, when I 
 was talking to mamma^ that he was in the room. Really 
 I 'm very sorry ; you needn't look as if you were so angry with 
 nie/ 
 
 * And he heard it all, of course?' Isabel went on, with 
 difficulty restraining her vexation. * What was it he said 
 about Lisa?' 
 
 ' Only that he had seen her and Arthur on the sands that 
 day; they were walking there for ever so long; and that he had met 
 them together, too, some other time. And he said that he and 
 the Dicksons had seen him going into the cottage every day that 
 fortnight Percy was out. You see he had noticed all this himself,' 
 added Janet, more intent now upon exculpating herself than 
 giving her news, * so that it don't much matter his knowing a 
 little more from us. I can't see why you care so very mucli 
 about his having heard it. He is not at all likely to talk of it ; 
 no more is mamma. And Mrs Lawrence is too good-natured to 
 say a word against any one.' 
 
 * Perhaps so ; but I had much rather she hadn't the oppor- 
 tunity. I can't imagine, Janet, how you came to think of speak- 
 ing of it. Only fancy if it should get to be the talk of the place. 
 I don't know what Percy would do. He would never forgive 
 us ! ' 
 
 She looked so uneasy, that Janet could not help feeling so 
 too ; though she did not care to show it. 
 
 * Oh, it 's sure to be all right,' she said. I 'm sorry I men- 
 tioned it to anybody, as you didn't wish it ; but nobody will 
 talk of it again. We shall see Mrs Lawrence this evening, and 
 I '11 tell her you don't wish anything said about it ; and if 
 you like, I '11 go down to mamma this morning, and tell her the 
 same. That will make it all right.' 
 
 That evening Isabel and Janet were at a large party, and the 
 former, seated near the piano, was ostensibly listening to the 
 singing going on there, but in reality engrossed with her own 
 thoughts, when she heard some ladies mention Lisa's name. 
 
 *Yes, Mrs Percy Tennent; haven't you heard it? Why, 
 everybody is full of it ; I 've heard it in a dozen places to-day, 
 if I've heard it in one. And I know it must be true, for 
 it was Mrs Jarvis who told me, and she heard it from Mrs 
 Thorpe ; so there can be no mistake about it.' 
 
 * And Major Tennent knows nothing of it ? ' 
 
'see, what a ready tongue suspicion hath.' 209 
 
 *Kot a word ; but then lie lias been from home lately. That 
 was how it happened — young Darrell was at the house every 
 day while he was away ; and they were going out together, and 
 nobody knows what. They are cousins, and I am told they 
 used to see a great deal of each other before she was married. 
 There might have been an attachment then for anything one 
 knows. Mr Thorpe seemed to intimate as much one day. She 
 was a great flirt, he said ; and I can quite credit it, for she is 
 very pretty. It is a pity her husband has not looked after her 
 better ; and a pity too he should not know what they are doing. 
 He must hear it soon though, one would think ; for Mrs Burns 
 says they are talking of it at the barracks, and if it has got there, 
 somebody is sure to be kind enough to teli him.' 
 
 * Of course ; those kind of things always get talked about. I 
 am very sorry for him, very sorry indeed ; but I am glad I have 
 never called upon her. I have always been intending to do so, 
 but we live at such a distance I find it difficult to make time ; 
 and though Ada has teased me to go, I have been obliged to put 
 it off. Ada raves about her — her beauty, and so on, and has 
 been wild to see more of her. She has met her sometimes at the 
 Deanes*, and has taken a great fancy to her ; they are nearly of 
 an age. I am thankful, however, that the acquaintance has not 
 gone any further. Of course I should never think of allowing 
 my daughter to have anything to do with her.' 
 
 The last speaker was a Mrs Thetford, an acquaintance of the 
 Darrells, and Miss Ada, the daughter in question, was sitting 
 near. 
 
 *Not have anything to do with whom, mammal' she ex- 
 claimed. ' Not with Mrs Percy Tennent 1 Oli, you don't mean 
 it ! I like her so much, she is so very pretty and so good ! I 
 like her a great deal better than anybody about here, and I don't 
 believe what they say against her. I'm quite sure she would 
 not do anything wrong.' 
 
 * My dear, you know nothing about it,' was the answer. I 
 am the proper person to choose your acquaintance; and you 
 must remember, if you please, that for the future I wish you 
 to have nothing more to do with her.' 
 
 * O mamma ! ' 
 
 * Don't be foolish, Ada ! Do you think I wish you to make 
 friends with anybody, whatever their character may be^' 
 
 * But she will think it so unkind of me 1 And I don't believe 
 
 O 
 
210 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 a word of this; it's a mistake from beginning to end. Some 
 horrid person who knows nothing in the world about her has 
 said it, and now everybody thinks it 's true; and I am sure it is 
 not. It is all some dreadful slander.' 
 
 * Well, my dear, I can't help what you choose to think of it. 
 All I know is, that I can never let you make acquaintance with 
 anybody who is talked of as Mrs Percy Tennent is. And you 
 may be sure that however the report has originated, there is some 
 truth in it; there always is in such cases.' 
 
 * Poor Isabel ! She had listened so far, but here she could 
 listen no more. Had things really gone so far? Was it true 
 that what a day or two before had been mere vague suspicion 
 confined to herself alone, was now the talk of the placed that 
 Lisa's name was bandied about, and become the subject of un- 
 sparing remark and censure ? She was horrified when she thought 
 of it ; and most bitterly did she repent having breathed a word 
 of her suspicions to any one. That mention of the barracks told 
 her at once to whose agency part of the report might be traced. 
 Mr Thorpe's acquaintance among the ofl&cers was very numerous, 
 and she was aware that a great part of his time was spent with 
 them. She had no doubt, therefore, that anything in circulation 
 there, was owing to him ; and her indignation against him was 
 extreme. But she was too much vexed with herself, too well 
 aware that the chief blame of the scandal must attach to her, to 
 feel as angry with others as she thought at first she had a right 
 to be. What to do now — how to avert as much as possible the 
 consequences of her indiscretion, — was her chief thought. To 
 speak to her brother seemed the only way. He was the proper 
 person to act in such an affair ; and he would at once put an end 
 to Arthur's visits before things went farther, or people had time 
 to talk any more. She resolved to see him as soon as possible, 
 and confide to him her misgivings. And with this determina- 
 tion she tried to forget her uneasiness, though with but little 
 success; and her displeasure with her cousin, whose want of 
 prudence had been the means of placing her in such an unpleas- 
 ant position, was not slight. 
 
 * For it is all your fault, Janet,' she said, later that evening 
 when they were alone again. ^ If you had not mentioned it in 
 that foolish way, not a creature would have known it but our- 
 selves. I must say it seems very strange you should have 
 thought of talking of what was told you in confidence. You 
 
^ SEE, WHAT A READY TONGUE SUSPICION HATIl/ 211 
 
 miglit have been sure I should not wish such a thing to get 
 talked about.' 
 
 Janet looked very angry. ^ Well, it can't be helped now/ she 
 said sharply. * What is the use of saying so much about it ? 
 And after all, if we had not spoken, somebody else would before 
 long. The Dicksons, you see, had noticed things already as well 
 as you. Cunninghame said so yesterday.' 
 
 * Mr Thorpe seems anxious to make the worst of it in every 
 way,' was the rejoinder, in a bitter tone. * It won't be his fault 
 if everybody in the town does not hear of it. I would rather,' 
 she added passionately — ^ I would rather anybody in the whole 
 world had heard it than him. I can't bear to think of what 
 Percy will say and do if he comes to hear that this gossip is owing 
 to me. He will be so very angry ; he will never, never forgive 
 me.' 
 
 * Perhaps he will never know it,' returned Janet. ' We may 
 find some way of stopping it before it gets to him.' 
 
 ' Some of it must get to him,' Isabel said decidedly. ' I shall 
 tell him of it, that he may put a stop to Arthur's going there. It 
 is the only way,' she added, seeing Janet was about to remon- 
 strate. * I have thought it over, and have made up my mind to 
 speak to him. I shall ask him to come up here to-morrow, and 
 then I shall be sure of seeing him alone.' 
 
 She sat down at the writing-table, and wrote off a short note, 
 while Janet stood watching her uneasily. 
 
 * He won't like it,' she remarked after a pause ; ^ I am sure 
 you have not an idea what you are doing. Much better leave 
 things alone, and let them take their chance. What is the good 
 of getting mixed up in such a disagreeable business 1 ' 
 
 * What ! and let him be miserable all his life, because I shall 
 hear a few angry words'? No — I am not such a coward as that.' 
 She finished her note, sealed and directed it. * Will you let it 
 be sent to the cottage the first thing in the morning ? ' 
 
 * Yes, certainly, if you really wish it ; ' and then looking at 
 her watch, Janet yawned, and said, that as it was long past twelve, 
 she thought the best thing they could do would be to go to bed. 
 
213 ATHEESTONE PRIORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE MEETING IN THE SHRUBBERY. 
 
 Janet had truly said that Isabel did not know what she was 
 doing, when she took upon herself to awaken in Percy's mind 
 the distrust which filled her own. Much as she dreaded the 
 interview for which she had prepared herself, she had by no 
 means realised what it was to cost both herself and him. It 
 was not until on the following day she actually met her brother, 
 that the difficulty of what she was about to do presented 
 itself to her. They strolled for some time in the shrubbery 
 where they met, talking of Elinor and other things, without her 
 saying a word of what she had summoned him to hear. On 
 reaching a gate, however, which led out of the grounds, he made 
 a pause. 
 
 ' I can't go back,' he said, * I have no time ; Lisa will be 
 waiting for me. You wished to see me about something ; what 
 was it ? ' 
 
 Isabel was silent for a moment; the colour rushed to her face, 
 and her heart began to beat nervously. 
 
 * It was about Lisa,' she said, with some hesitation. * Did you 
 ever say anything to her about having been out alone that day 
 you came back from Hoole ? ' she said at length, thinking this a 
 good commencement. 
 
 Percy looked surprised. * Yes, oh yes, we made it all right,' 
 was his hasty answer. 
 
 * Oh ! ' Isabel was silent for a moment ; * she told you how it 
 was then 1 ' 
 
 * How it was ! No, it was a fancy of hers, I suppose. She 
 was very sorry ; I could not be angry with her, poor child.' 
 
 Isabel's look was one of pitying astonishment. * You really 
 passed it over without explanation ? ' 
 
 He appeared annoyed. * Nonsense, Isabel ! What should I 
 want explanations for ? Do you think I can't trust Lisa ] ' 
 
 * I think you trust her so fully, Percy, that it is a great pity 
 she is not more open with you,' was the very grave answer. * I 
 
THE MEETING IN THE SHRUBBERY. 213 
 
 think she miglit have told you that she was not alone then, as you 
 thought — that Arthur was with her. Mr Thorpe met them 
 together/ 
 
 * Thorpe ! Arthur with her ! But why on earth didn't she 
 say so thenf 
 
 * I don't know — you must ask her that. You had better ask 
 her, too, why Arthur was at the cottage every day while you were 
 away. Perhaps she can give some good reason for it ; but at 
 present it certainly seems strange.' 
 
 She spoke quietly, but her tone was not to be mistaken, and 
 her brother's dark cheek flushed. 
 
 * Isabel, what do you mean to insinuate ? ' he exclaimed, in a 
 voice hoarse with suppressed j^assion ; and he turned and con- 
 fronted her with a look that would have made most people quail. 
 But she stood her ground. 
 
 * I knew you would be angry with me/ she said sadly. ' But 
 I could not bear you to be deceived.' 
 
 * Deceived ! Who told you I was deceived ? Take care what 
 you are saying — you may go too far,' he exclaimed, walking 
 up and down in front of her, his face growing darker still, and 
 the veins in his forehead swelling almost to bursting, in the 
 storm of anger which he kept only half controlled. And she 
 stood leaning against the shrubbery gate, her arms folded, look- 
 ing at him not in fear, but with eyes of pity. 
 
 * What can have put such thoughts into your head?' he said 
 at last, pausing in his walk, and speaking with forced calmness ; 
 * you must know there is no truth in them. Lisa is good and 
 pure — pure as an angel. Why should I not trust her ? Why 
 should you try to make me doubt her ? It is cruel — cruel both 
 to her and to me. Isabel, I never thought you would have plea- 
 sure in making me wretched.' 
 
 Isabel's lip quivered, but it was only for a moment. 
 
 ' JSTor can you think it now, Percy ; you know it is not so ; 
 that it is in the hope of saving ypu from wretchedness that I am 
 speaking at all. And as for the thoughts of which you accuse 
 me, they must be your own ; for I have said nothing of mine.' 
 
 * You always thought hardly of her,' he interrupted in great 
 bitterness. * You were always hard upon my little Lisa ; she 
 was never good enough for you, and now you are trying to 
 set me against her ; but you can't do it. I '11 trust her through 
 anything — through anything and everything.' 
 
214 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 ' You mistake me altogether/ Isabel said, endeavouring to 
 speak calmly ; * don't let us begin old discussions again, and rake 
 up old grievances. I have no wish to go back to the past, 
 nor is it of much consequence whether what I thought of Lisa 
 were right or wrong. All I want is to prevent your being any 
 
 longer — I mean ' she hesitated — * however much you may 
 
 trust her, you needn't allow Arthur's folly and thoughtless- 
 ness to ' 
 
 Percy set his teeth together, and it was the look on his face 
 at this fresh mention of his cousin's name that made Isabel pause 
 so suddenly. For the first time she felt something like fear. 
 
 ' Where is h.eV he asked in a stifled voice ; ' is he come in 
 
 yetr 
 
 ' No,' and she was quite relieved to be able to say so. * He 
 will not be at home at all to-day — not for several days, I think. 
 His friend Harry Conyers has had an accident, and telegraphed 
 for him to go to him ; he went off all in a hurry.' 
 
 Percy took another turn, the hard look upon his face growing 
 still harder. 
 
 * Where is Conyers now ? ' he asked at length, stopping again 
 in front of her. 
 
 * I don't know — he is in town somewhere — in lodgings, isn't 
 he 1 Arthur gave no address; it would not have been like him 
 if he had.' 
 
 She did not say so, but the feeling uppermost in her mind was 
 one of intense thankfulness for this oversight of her cousin's. 
 The dread lest he and her brother should meet before the anger 
 of the one had had time to cool, would otherwise have been 
 overpowering. Percy's next words, however, were not very 
 reassuring. 
 
 ' It 's not of much consequence,' he muttered between his 
 teeth. * I can wait. And yet, Lisa ! No, I can't, I won't be- 
 lieve it ! It is vile scandal, all of it. Who has dared to talk of 
 her in that way ? Some of your friends, I suppose,' with a fierce 
 angry glance at her, ' the Thorpes of course. Thorpe met them 
 together, you say — not much harm in that either,' ironically, 
 ^ but it makes a good story, and you can believe it,' with increas- 
 ing sarcasm. * He had better take care, though, what he says of 
 her — of my wife,' he added fiercely. 
 
 Isabel looked rather pale. She could not tell him Lisa was 
 the talk of the place, and that it was thanks to her, his sister, 
 
THE MEETING m THE SHRUBBERY. 215 
 
 that she was so. For a moment she was silent, trying to calm 
 herself, and then she said — 
 
 ^ You don't think I should listen to any stories Mr Thorpe 
 liked to tell, if there were nothing else to confirm them ; nor do 
 I mean to say there is any real harm in anything Lisa has done. 
 But she is young and thoughtless, and' 
 
 ^ And light and frivolous,' put in Percy in the same tone of 
 irony. ' Yes, I remember — I know all you mean to say.' 
 
 ' I think,' Isabel went on, still making an effort to preserve 
 her self-control — ^ I think you ought to put a stop to Arthur's 
 going so much to your house. She is not open with you, Percy ; 
 say what you will about being able to trust her, there are things 
 she keeps from you. Why should she have made any secret of 
 
 Arthur's having been with her that day ? why should she 
 
 Ah, yes, you are angry with me,' seeing the dark look he flashed 
 upon her ; ' I knew you would be — but I made up my mind to 
 bear it. For it is only because I am speaking the truth that 
 you care so much about it. Surely, though, it is better to put 
 you on your guard now before it is too late. And that you may 
 know I don't go only by what others say, I can tell you what I 
 know myself.' 
 
 And in a few hasty words, often interrupted by her brother's 
 impatient exclamations, she told many things she had seen and 
 heard which she believed justified the idea she had formed of 
 Lisa's duplicity. She made no comment — she only stated bare 
 facts ; but these were enough for her purpose : it needed no re- 
 marks of hers, in his present state of mind, to make him believe 
 her suspicions were correct ; and the fierce, indignant impatience 
 with which at first he listened to her, changed by degrees into 
 the silence of despairing conviction. Alarmed at his look of utter 
 overpowering misery, ^he stopped short suddenly. 
 
 * O Lisa ! ' was his exclamation, wrung from him in bitterness. 
 Her silence, her embarrassment — he understood all now; and 
 not only that, but he had a solution of all that had lately seemed 
 strange to him in her conduct. . The change in her which he had 
 remarked, her confusion on the day of his return when he had 
 found Arthur with her in the cottage garden, and many other 
 things remembered only too well, were explained, and seemed to 
 prove beyond a doubt the truth of Isabel's assertion. 
 
 Anger until now, and the disbelief which he had tried to 
 pherish, had kept him up ; but when disbelief was gone, anger 
 
216 ATHERSTONE PRIORY, 
 
 too went — it was swallowed up in other and more bitter feelings ; 
 and as he stood there, almost riveted, as it seemed, to the spot, 
 his sister was startled by the expression of his face and the 
 anguish written in it. She moved forward a few steps and laid 
 her hand upon his arm. 
 
 ^ Don't look like that, Percy,' she said beseechingly. * Lisa has 
 been thought less but that is all — she meant no harm probably — 
 no more did Arthur. They have only been foolish,' she added, 
 repeating Janet's arguments in the hope of giving comfort ; 
 ' but it is at an end now, and you will see nothing of the sort 
 happens again. You must not make yourself miserable ; there 
 is no real harm done, you know.' 
 
 No harm done ! Not when his trust was gone — not when the 
 love of which he had been so proud was no longer his — when 
 he had only a divided heart, and his wife had thoughts and 
 secrets in which he might have no share. And she had been 
 his idol ; his first thought each morning, his last at night, had 
 been for her — the labour of his life, ever since he had called her 
 his, had been to make her happy. And he had believed she 
 
 was so ; but now ! No harm done ! Ah, Isabel little knew 
 
 what she was saying when she gave such comfort as that ! But 
 the words roused him. He would not be pitied, no one 
 should guess anything of the intense bitterness of his feelings. 
 Shaking off her hand, he walked away, turning back, however, 
 before he had gone many steps, to say in a constrained husky 
 voice — 
 
 * I shall see Arthur when he comes home. I shall not allow 
 my wife to be talked about through his folly, and so you may 
 tell him. He shall answer to me for it.* 
 
 And without waiting for a reply, he strode away once more, 
 and was out of sight before she knew he was going. And then 
 her self-control seemed to desert her, and for many minutes she 
 remained leaning against the wicket-gate with her face hidden, 
 striving to get the better of the many painful feelings that 
 oppressed her. What the struggle was, however, that was pass- 
 ing in her mind — whether she regretted the step she had taken, 
 and would, had it been possible, have recalled it, none could 
 tell. She raised her head at last, slowly and almost timidly, as 
 if she half expected to see some one she dreaded to meet, linger- 
 ing near. But she w^as alone ; there was no one there. Only 
 some bird with its bright eye looked out upon her from a neigh- 
 
THE SHADOWS DEEPEN. 217 
 
 bouring shrub, and there was a gentle rustling in the trees around, 
 but all besides was silence and solitude. And without turning 
 again, with a downcast eye and a faltering step, she left the 
 place where she had seen the wreck of her brother's happiness, 
 and went slowly and thoughtfully back to the house. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIT. 
 
 THE SHADOWS DEEPEN. 
 
 Where Percy went that afternoon no one ever knew ; he did 
 not even know himself. The long waning hours of that summer's 
 day passed unheeded by him ; and where he wandered, or what 
 he did, he never afterwards remembered. He only knew he was 
 alone — alone with that stunning grief that had come upon him. 
 His sister was not there to watch him with those pitying eyes. 
 There was nothing to disturb the memory of all his idol had 
 been to him. He could think of her undisturbed; of his beau- 
 tiful, his loved ; so prized and so cherished, but so changed now. 
 He walked in the presence of summer that day, the green woods 
 of summer waved above him, summer birds sang in the trees, 
 and summer sunlight sparkled on the distant waters ; but for 
 anything he knew it might have been the dreariest, blackest 
 night of winter. The brightness was gone from everything, as 
 it was gone from his own life. 
 
 But wretched as he was, the first overwhelming tumult of his 
 feelings passed away by degrees. Those hours of loneliness 
 calmed him down, and gave him leisure for thought. Though 
 his trust in Lisa was gone, his love for her was not — love deep, 
 tender, and enduring as ever ; and with that love remained his 
 care and thought for her. She was in no situation to bear 
 reproaches, nor should she hear them ; no word from him should 
 
218 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 tell her of the pain she had caused him, nor should anything he 
 could do be wanting for her happiness and comfort. No harm 
 should come to her through him ; she should still be watched 
 over and guarded as the greatest treasure of his life ; only — but 
 he put away that thought as far too bitter to dwell on ; and if 
 when, after long wanderings, he returned to his home that 
 evening, there were signs of the storm he had gone through in 
 his compressed lip and hard stern face, his coldness was that of 
 manner only ; and in his heart there was nothing but the 
 warmest, most passionate love for the little wife whose heedless 
 trifling was the cause of his misery. 
 
 She met him as he came into the room where she was dressing 
 for dinner with a smile, which had, however, something anxious 
 in it. 
 
 ' How late you are to-day, Percy ! I have been expecting 
 you since two o'clock. You told me you would be at home 
 then.' 
 
 * Did IV He looked at his watch ; it was past seven. 
 
 ' Yes ; had you forgotten ? What has kept you so long 1 ' 
 
 He said something, but it was not intelligible ; and he was 
 turning away when a sudden thought struck him. He came 
 back to the table at which she was standing, watching him in 
 some uneasiness. 
 
 ' I was at Lassell Lodge this afternoon, Lisa. Isabel tells me 
 Arthur is gone to town.' 
 
 He tried to speak naturally, but his tone was constrained, 
 and whether she noticed it or not, her countenance changed 
 visibly and her colour deepened ; but although she must have 
 been surprised at his intelligence, for he noticed that she slightly 
 started, she made no remark. She seemed occupied with a 
 bracelet she was endeavouring to clasp, but which in her nervous- 
 ness slipped from her hand and fell upon the floor. He picked 
 it up and fastened it on for her, and then said in a voice which 
 agitation made even colder than before — 
 
 * You saw a good deal of him, I suppose, while I was away V 
 It was a question which she had not expected, and she started 
 
 again, and looked up at him for a moment ; but her eye fell 
 beneath his. 
 
 * I don't know j no, not much. He was here two or three 
 times, I think.' 
 
 It was enough. Until then he had had some lingering hope 
 
THE SHADOWS DEEPEN. 219 
 
 that there might be some mistake ; that, if she liked, she might 
 have given some explanation to satisfy him : he had even put 
 the question in the trust that by meeting her half way he might 
 lead her to be open; but that hope was gone now. JSTot only 
 was she meeting him with reserve, but with positive untruth ; 
 and if she could condescend to that, where indeed was his trust 
 to be ? He let her hand fall, and walking away to his dressing- 
 room, closed the door without another word. 
 
 He came down to dinner silent and grave ; and Lisa, too, was 
 silent. She made an effort later to recover herself; and when 
 she returned from a visit to Elinor's room, and found him sitting 
 at the open window in the twilight, she opened the piano and 
 proposed some music. 
 
 ' Nelly is so much better to-night/ she said, * that we 
 needn't be afraid of disturbing her. I can sing as long as 
 you like.' 
 
 There was no answer from him ; but she sat down, and running 
 her fingers over the keys, began one of his favourite songs. He 
 had always before come to stand over her while she was singing, 
 but now he did not move. She listened in vain for his step, 
 and when she had finished she looked round. He was still 
 sitting in the same attitude, and with the same look upon his 
 face ; while his eye watched absently the waving of the acacia- 
 trees on the little garden lawn. She turned back and began 
 another — some verses from an old song which Isabel had once 
 set to music, and which he had often heard Mary and herself 
 sing together at home. 
 
 ' Ah me ! art thou unknowing 
 
 Of the happy days that were ? 
 The glede was then all-glowing, 
 And life was then all-fair. 
 
 Then thou didst walk with me, love, 
 With me thy thoughts didst share , 
 
 Ne'er thought I these would be, love, 
 The happy days that were. 
 
 For now we walk apart, love, 
 
 Mistrust is all we share ; 
 And locked is either's heart, love, 
 
 Oh, happy days that were ! ' 
 
 But even that did not bring him to her side, and her voice 
 
220 ATHERSTONE PRIOIVY. 
 
 sounded a little husky at last. She did not attempt a third, 
 but played two or three light airs ; and then getting up, closed 
 the piano, and presently stole up to the window where he sat. 
 His face looked stern and dark in the fading light, and if she 
 could have guessed anything of the wild maddening thoughts 
 that were filling his heart at that moment, she would have shrunk 
 from him in dismay and dread ; for all the deep ungoverned 
 feelings of his passionate nature had been stirred within him 
 while she sang. The sound of her voice in that old well- 
 remembered song had awakened the memories of those bygone 
 times, of those * happy days that were,' and he felt goaded to 
 desperation by the recollection of them ; for she was not the 
 same she had been, she was no longer his Lisa, to whom he had 
 once been all in all. Eather, far rather, he said to himself, 
 would he have laid her in her grave than have known her so 
 changed ; and almost the wish that she were there, that he had 
 looked his last at her, and buried away out of sight the being he 
 loved only too well, was in his heart. 
 
 Poor Lisa ! She guessed nothing of that mad wild wish. She 
 knew nothing of those dark thoughts within him ; and delicate 
 fragile child as she was, whom a touch it seemed might have 
 crushed, she did not slnink from him. She stood for a few 
 minutes beside him, and then when she found he still took no 
 notice of her, she sat down on the arm of his chair, and 
 by-and-by laid her head upon his shoulder. At any other time 
 he would have responded by drawing her closer to him ; but now 
 ie did not move. 
 
 ^ Percy,' she began at last in her loving tones, ' you are tired, 
 are you not V 
 
 * No ; not particularly.' He spoke with an effort. 
 
 * Where have you been all day ? ' she asked again. * It was 
 so dull without you. I was wondering all the afternoon where 
 you were, and wanting you back.' 
 
 AVanting him ! No ; a few hours ago he might have believed 
 that, but not now. He sat up suddenly, and the movement 
 made her raise herself also, She looked at him in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 * What are you going to do? Where are you going?' she 
 said, as he rose from his chair. 
 
 * I don't know — out, I believe. Anywhere away from here,' 
 he muttered. 
 
THE SHADOWS DEEPEN. 221 
 
 * Out ! and you have been in sucli a little time ! Oh, but/ 
 she added, brightening again, ' may I come with you 1 ' 
 
 * You /' It was from her he was longing to get away. * No ; 
 of course not. It is far too late for you to be out.' 
 
 * Is it ] ' It 's not dark yet. I haven't been out at all to-day, 
 Percy. I was with Nelly this morning, and all the afternoon I 
 was waiting for you.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! But there was no need to have done that ; there 
 was Lane to go with you if you wished — if indeed ' (oh, what 
 evil demon within him prompted the speech !) — ' if indeed you 
 thought it necessary to consult my wishes in such a trifle ; if 
 not, a walk alone would have answered the purpose equally 
 well.' 
 
 Lisa's face crimsoned : even in the dusky twilight he could see 
 the change in her countenance. 
 
 *I thought — I hoped — O Percy, won't you forgive me? I 
 thought you had.' She burst into tears. 
 
 * What, for that walk alone ? Of course I have, there was 
 nothing in it. Nothing certainly to cause any tears,' he added 
 impatiently, irritated at the sight of her distress. * Pray 
 don't let us have a scene, Lisa; there is nothing I dislike so 
 much.' 
 
 Lisa dried her eyes quickly, and made an attempt to check her 
 almost hysterical sobbing. 
 
 * I am very sorry. I didn't mean to be foolish and vex you, 
 
 only I am so — so ' She was obliged to stop once more, or she 
 
 would have broken down again. It was so long since she had 
 heard angry words of any kind, that she did not know what to 
 make of them now; and coming as they did from him, they 
 seemed more than she could bear. She stood, keeping back her 
 tears, but looking the picture of misery. And he had no sooner 
 uttered those hasty words than he bitterly repented them. 
 Where were his resolutions of that afternoon 1 his resolutions that 
 she should hear no reproaches from him, and that, wretched as 
 he himself might be, it should never be his fault if she were not 
 happy ? He had forgotten them all, broken them before a few 
 hours were over, and yet all the time he loved her more than he 
 had ever done. But that was the very reason ; it was the thought 
 that he was so little to her, while she was all the world to him, 
 which was making him so ungenerously harsh with her. He 
 turned to her now with a heavy sigh. 
 
222 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 ' Lisa, I was wrong. I had no right to be angry with you ; 
 
 and I should not have been, but ' he hesitated. She looked 
 
 so beautiful as his words brought the sudden light back to her 
 face, and as she raised her eyes full of glad surprise to his face, 
 that he could not meet her gaze. ^ The truth is, I have heard 
 
 something to-day which has well, never mind. No need I 
 
 should have been unjust to you on that account. You must for- 
 get what I said, Lisa. I did not mean it.' 
 
 * You didn't mean it I O Percy, thank you ! And if you 
 only would really forgive me, you don't know how happy it would 
 
 make me. I couldn't help being sorry just now, because ' 
 
 her voice faltered. * Did you say something had vexed 
 you to-day 1 What is it ? You will tell me, won't you 1 ' She 
 looked at him beseechingly. Ah, who would have dreamed she 
 could act a part so well ? Lisa, who once had been so true, so frank 
 and guileless? That was the thought that crossed his mind, 
 when for one moment, softened and disarmed, he had been about 
 to yield to the influence of her beauty and loving ways. 
 
 * I can tell you nothing ; let me go,' he exclaimed hastily, as 
 she was trying to detain him ; and then checking himself once 
 more, he said in a tone half of irony, half of sadness, * Leave me 
 to myself, Lisa ; it is nothing that will trouble you. Better you 
 should ask no questions.' 
 
 He disengaged himself from her detaining hand, and left the 
 room. She heard him cross the hall and the house door close 
 after him, and the heavy sound seemed to send a shiver through 
 her. When its last echo died away, she sat down where she had 
 been standing, and covered her face with her hands. She did 
 not cry now ; he had said he did not like tears, so at any cost 
 they must be kept back ; but she sat in the gathering darkness, 
 and felt so wretched and lonely that it would have been well for 
 her if she could have given way to the grief she was trying to re- 
 strain. 
 
 The shadows had indeed fallen on a home that had once beea 
 one of the happiest in the land. 
 
UP AMONG THE HILLS AGAIN. 223 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 UP AMONG THE HILLS AGAIN. 
 
 ' And you promise me, then ? O Arthur, do tell me you will/ 
 
 * Upon my honour I will. What makes you look at me in that 
 way, Lisa 1 ' 
 
 * I don't know ' her voice faltered a little. ^ I have been 
 
 so unhappy lately ; and — I am half afraid. But you really will 
 nowV 
 
 * Haven't I given you my word ] Don't be such an unbeliever. 
 And now I must be off, so good-bye till to-morrow.' 
 
 Lisa smiled, but it was a little uneasily. * Are you going 
 home now 1 ' she asked, as he held out his hand. 
 
 ' No, indeed ; I wish I were. I had a note from the Warren 
 this morning, and must go over there first. Good-bye.' And 
 away he went. She heard the sound of his horse's hoofs in the 
 road for a few moments, and then silence followed ; while in the 
 house itself there was a long unbroken stillness, for Percy was 
 away, having gone out only a few minutes before Arthur had made 
 his appearance, and there were no signs at present of his return. 
 
 It was a quiet summer's evening, the only sounds around being 
 the ripple of the waves upon the beach, and the distant voices of 
 children at their play. What were Lisa's thoughts as, long after 
 Arthur had left her, she sat at the open window with her head 
 resting on her hand, and her eyes fixed dreamily on the far-off 
 horizon ? Her face in the evening sunlight looked sad and pale ; 
 and Prince, who was crouching in the folds of her dress, and kept 
 thrusting his nose between her fingers for the caresses he was 
 accustomed to receive, whined pitifully once or twice when he 
 found they did not come. 
 
 The sun went down behind the hills on the other side of the bay, 
 the golden glow that he had left upon the waters faded away, and 
 the shadows of night stole over the grey sea and the darkening 
 sky, but she never moved. It was not until Lane came in with 
 the lamp that she appeared to remember how late it was, and 
 that she was still alone. She started then. 
 
224 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 * But I was only resting/ she said in answer to her nurse's 
 inquiries. * I don't want anything. And you may leave that 
 window open, Lane, at present, please. It 's very hot to-night, 
 and Major Tennent comes in that way sometimes.' 
 
 Lane gave a grunt expressive of some little dissatisfaction as 
 she closed the shutters of the other window. * Is he going to be 
 out long, Miss Lisa ? ' She had never yet arrived at calling her 
 young mistress by any other name than the old familiar one by 
 which she had always known her. * You must find it very dull, 
 dear, all alone by yourself, It 's a good bit more than two hours 
 since he went, isn't it 1 ' 
 
 Lisa stopped a sigh that was coming. * I don't know. He will 
 be back soon, I daresay ; I 'm not dull,' she said, trying to speak 
 naturally. But Lane was not so easily deceived, she had caught 
 a glimpse of the sad face as she was crossing the room, and 
 drew her own conclusions from it. She said no more, however, 
 and after lingering two or three minutes longer, arranging chairs 
 and books, disappeared, saying something as she went about 
 coming back soon if Major Tennent did not return. 
 
 She had been gone some time, and Lisa was really beginning 
 to feel lonely, and to wonder what could be the cause of her 
 husband's long delay, when she heard the garden gate open, and 
 steps upon the gravel walk leading up from the beach. She rose 
 quickly then, and going to the table, took up some work that 
 was lying there. Her head was bent over it, and her fingers 
 were very busy, when Percy entered through the open window; 
 but, though she did not raise her eyes, and appeared intent 
 on what she was doing, she did not make much progress with 
 it. It was a baby's frock, and there were not many stitches 
 required to finish it ; ten minutes' work would have completed 
 all there was to do, but her hand was unsteady, and perhaps 
 there was something in Percy's quick impatient step up and 
 down the room which discomposed her. He had not said a 
 word when he came in, and it was as well for her she did not 
 look up; that heavy ominous-sounding tread indeed warned her 
 that something was wrong, and kept her eyes down. The silence 
 between them was becoming oppressive, and how long it might 
 have continued would be hard to say, had he not in his walk 
 across the room come upon something lying on the floor and 
 stooped to pick it up. It was a man's glove, and thinking 
 it was his own, he was about to fling it on a table near, when a 
 
UP AMONG O^HR HILLS AGAIN. 225 
 
 tliouglit struck liim, and he turned to the light with it. The 
 sudden cessation in his walk, and his pause so near her, made 
 Lisa look up, but she shrank awaj?- as she caught sight of his 
 face . For some minutes he looked at the glove without speak- 
 ing; then he held it out to her. 
 
 * Whose is that, Lisa?' he said in a strange stern tone that 
 made her tremble from head to foot; and which seemed, too, 
 to take from her all power of speech, for though her lips moved, 
 no sound came from them. 
 
 *He is come home then, is heV he went on in the same low 
 and terribly unnatural voice. 'And he has been here? What 
 did he come for?' 
 
 She looked at him with frightened eyes and quivering lip; 
 but still no answer came. 
 
 * Do you hear me, Lisa?' he exclaimed passionately, and for- 
 getting all prudence in the excitement of the moment. He was 
 wound up to such a pitch, indeed, that he scarcely knew what 
 he was doing; and the signs of agitation in her, which would 
 have softened him at any other time, now served only to exas- 
 perate him. 
 
 * Do you hear me ? ' he repeated hoarsely. * He has been here, 
 has he not?' 
 
 She gasped for breath. * Arthur, do you mean ? ' she said 
 faintly. * Yes. But he is gone now — to the Warren. He came 
 just after you went out,' she added. 
 
 Percy's brow was dark as a thundercloud. *He did? And 
 you can stand there and tell me so ! Lisa, do you know what 
 you are doing?' And he seized her arm and grasped it so 
 roughly that she uttered a cry of pain. * What did he come 
 for? Will you answer me that ?' 
 
 But Lisa's head was drooping, for she w^as sick and giddy 
 with the pain of that iron grasp, and she made no reply. 
 
 *Ah, it's enough,' he said, in bitter scorn. *I see hov/ 
 it is; and better certainly you should be silent than try to 
 deceive me with excuses that can have no truth in them. And 
 now, Lisa, listen to me. Never again do you see him — never 
 again does he come to this house. Yes, you may look, but you 
 cannot pretend to misunderstand. If he ever crosses this thres- 
 hold, or tries to meet you, he will rue it most dearly. You have 
 said your last words to him ; and once for all, I forbid you to see 
 or speak to him again. Do you hear?' 
 
 P 
 
226 ATHEKSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 * Yes, I hear you.' Her face was very pale and her lips white. 
 *0 Percy, don't hurt me!' she exclaimed, bursting into tears. 
 * Don't hurt me; don't be angry with me. I have done nothing 
 wrong — indeed — indeed I haven't.' 
 
 * You have done nothing wTong !' he repeated with great bitter- 
 ness. * Ah, well, as far as deeds are concerned, I believe you, 
 Lisa — if you call it '^ nothing wrong" to stop short of them, I 
 believe you. But do you call it no wrong to have trifled with 
 me, to have deceived me as you have done? Is it no wrong to 
 have forgotten your promises, and been false to me in your 
 heart — to me who loved as I believe no other man ever loved 
 before — who had no thought but for you, no wish but to make 
 you happy. For I worshipped you, Lisa! I thought you good 
 and true; and you could deceive me! Ah, you may well hide 
 your face ! I wish I had never seen it — never seen the beauty 
 of which I have been so proud. And yet I love you still. Yes, 
 that is my misery — that, when your love for me is gone, I should 
 still love you as well as in the days, the happiest days of all my 
 life, when I fancied you had no thought for any but me ! Ah, 
 well, that dream is over now, and would it had never come ! 
 Would I had never known you, Lisa ! I should be happier now; 
 happier than I shall ever be again ! ' 
 
 He flung her from him, and with a look of agony written on 
 every feature, rushed from the room. He heard a cry, a low 
 wailing cry of misery as he w^ent, but it did not stop him ; and 
 although it was still ringing in his ears, as in his blind fury he 
 dashed down the road leading away from his home, it had no 
 power to turn him. To get away from her, to meet him who 
 was the cause of his wretchedness, was his one thought; and 
 bent on this, he hurried on, maddened and desperate. Down 
 the quiet shady lane he went, where she had often walked with 
 him, and out on the moonlit road where the hedges grew low, 
 and the clumps of trees were few and far between — where the 
 wind from the ocean blew fresh and cool, and the murmur of 
 the waves upon the rocky shore fell soothingly on the ear. But 
 not on his ; its music had no power to still the wild tumult of 
 his spirit. He hurried on, and did not know when its last 
 sounds had died away, and he was alone with the silence of the 
 night. The hills which rose above him to the right looked wild 
 and solitary in the moonlight, and among them lay the road to 
 the Warren. And Arthur was there; she had said so. The 
 
UP AMONG THE HILLS AGADT. 227 
 
 thought was enough, and he turned that way with long strides, 
 that soon took him up those steep hillsides, and into the lonely 
 road he sought. Very lonely it was — very desolate ; and not a 
 living creature crossed his path as he wandered on ; more slowly 
 now, for what need for haste when he and his cousin must surely 
 meet at last. And then — but what was to come then, he did 
 not ask himself. Only the stern and deep-set lines upon his face, 
 and his fiercely-clenched hand, told of the feelings that possessed 
 him. 
 
 And so he wandered on until he came at last to those 
 same woods where, not many weeks before, he and Lisa had 
 come together. There was a change there since that time ; 
 for the trees, which then had just been bursting into leaf, were 
 now full with all their summer foliage; the pink flush of 
 the elm had turned to green, and the maple and the beech 
 stood out thickly dark against the evening sky ; but the place 
 itself was the same. There were the high banks where she 
 had found her wild-flowers, and there, as he came to a turning 
 in the road, was the broad sheet of water beside which they 
 had sat on that May afternoon. It lay as it had lain then, 
 without a ripple on its surface ; only there was no sparkling 
 sunlight on it now. The trees that flung the long shadows 
 of their boughs across its waters looked like the guardian 
 genii of the place, and all around it darkness and silence 
 brooded — silence so still and deep that it seemed as if some 
 mystery enshrouded it. The voice of the night wind in the 
 far-ojff woods did not reach the spot, and the stars, which looked 
 down with their grave and solemn eyes from their watches 
 on high, could not pierce the shades that hung over it, or 
 light up its dreamy depths. Very quiet and lonely it was ; 
 and pausing beside the stone where Lisa had once found a 
 seat, he stood with his eyes fixed on the dark water before 
 him, lost in most bitter thoughts. For as he stood there 
 with folded arms in the gloom and shadow, in fancy that 
 sunny day came back once more,- and Lisa was with him there. 
 Again he saw the waving of the green boughs above her head, 
 and the light that danced among the early leaves ; he saw 
 it playing round her — on her hair of brown and gold, and 
 on her upturned face ; and again he met the gaze of her shy 
 dark eyes, and listened to the sweet girlish tones of her voice^ 
 and the low music of her lauofh. But then the vision was 
 
228 ATHERSTONE PPwIORY. 
 
 gone again ; and he started to find himself alone, at night, 
 by that lonely pool among the woods and hills, and to remember 
 what had brought him there — to remember, too, that the voice 
 to which in fancy he had been listening was a thing now of 
 other days, that its tones could never sound again to him as 
 they had sounded then, that the face on which he had looked 
 with such pride was altered ; its brightness dimmed, its beauty 
 all gone for him. Instead of that vision of sunny loveliness 
 which his fancy had conjured up, he saw her as she was in 
 reality, as he had left her not long before — a pale, frightened, 
 and shrinking thing. Ah, how unlike his little Lisa, the pride 
 once of his life, the flower of his home ! 
 
 How long he stood there he did not know. But there was 
 a sound at last which roused him, and as he raised his head 
 to listen he became aware of a change around him. The 
 moon was still shining at intervals, but it was from between 
 dark masses of clouds which were fast gathering in the sky ; 
 and there was no stillness now among the trees and on the 
 hillsides ; the low, far-off murmur of the evening wind had 
 changed to another and a drearier tone, and a whistling and 
 a wailing was in the woods. There were signs of a coming 
 storm ; but though he noted these, it was not to think of them. 
 He had no thought then for anything but that other sound 
 which his ear had caught, and which he heard still, above the 
 rush and the moaning in the tree-tops — that sound of horse's 
 lioofs on the distant road. With a strange fixed look upon 
 his face, he stood watching for the first glimpse of the rider 
 with an impatience that was almost beyond control. 
 
 He came at last ; the dark forms of man and horse were 
 discernible among the trees, and some seconds afterwards they 
 emerged on the more open road that bordered the pool. And 
 there they paused ; and in the bright light of the moon which 
 shone out from behind a cloud, the rider stooped down to 
 examine something that was amiss with his horse. He raised 
 his head after a moment^s inspection, and then the light fell 
 full on his face, and Percy saw he was not mistaken. It was 
 Arthur who was before him. 
 
 And then came a rush of thoughts from which in calmer 
 moments he would have shrunk in horror. There was the 
 cousin who had wronged him — the cousin whom he had always 
 looked upon as a brother, who had been free to come and 
 
UP AMONG THE HILLS AGAIN. 229 
 
 go as lie liked in liis house, who had always found a welcome 
 there. There he sat with a smile upon his handsome face, 
 and burning feelings of hatred were in Percy's heart as he 
 looked at him, while wild thoughts of revenge crossed his mind. 
 That lonely road — that deep pool — Avhat tales would they ever 
 tell of dark deeds done there ? He pressed his hands upon his 
 burning brow, as if to shut out that deadly thought ; but once 
 again it came. Once more he looked at his unconscious cousin, 
 and then at those dark silent waters at his feet. No voice from 
 their depths would ever tell of the grave that had been found 
 there — the green boughs that waved above them, the winds that 
 moaned and whistled round would not betray the secret; the 
 very sky was veiled in clouds, and the stars that had watched 
 him with their thousand eyes were hidden from his sight. He 
 and his cousiii were alone ; revenge was in his power. It was a 
 moment of madness ; and not darker and more stormy was the 
 sky above him than was the rush of wild, uncontrolled thoughts 
 prompting him to that deed of terrible vengeance. With one 
 hurried glance round, he half started from the shade in which he 
 had been standing and made a step forward. Oh, surely at that 
 moment it must have been his good angel who in the rush of the 
 wild wind passed by him and stayed his uplifted hand with a 
 v/hisper of words well-nigh forgotten — of words learnt long years 
 ago as a little child at his mother's knee — the words of the Chris- 
 tian's daily prayer, ' Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us 
 from evil ' ! Into what temptation was he not then entering 1 
 to what thoughts of deadly evil had he not given way, and where 
 were they not leading him 1 He, Percy Tennent, a murderer ! 
 Had it come to that ] That he, who, even in the din and excite- 
 ment of battle, had stayed to save the life of one who had cruelly 
 wronged him, should now raise his hand in cold blood against 
 another, who had been as a brother to him ! Should he add the 
 misery of crime to all his present wretchedness, and go through 
 life haunted by a recollection of that night, and a fell deed of 
 vengeance done then«2 Would fhat vengeance, too, undo the 
 past, or bring him back the happiness he had lost 1 Would it 
 bring him back Lisa's smiles, Lisa's love 1 Would it make his 
 home again what it had been 1 or would it not rather darken it 
 with an ever-deepening shadow 1 
 
 He paused. ' Lead me not into temptation ' was perhaps his 
 prayer, for his hand fell; and in that moment of hesitation, 
 
230 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 Arthur, unconscious of the danger in which he had stood, passed 
 on, and Percy was once more left alone with the silence and soli- 
 tude of the night. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXiy. 
 
 DISCLOSURES. 
 
 Therhj was a dance that evening at Lassell Lodge, where a gay 
 party was assembled. The rooms were sparkling with lights, 
 and bright with flowers and ladies' dresses, and strains of music 
 rang out and filled the air with their enlivening sounds. On 
 every side smiling faces and joyous looks spoke of the pleasure 
 which all had come to seek, and which, with one exception, all 
 seemed to have found. That exception was Elinor Tennent. 
 She had returned to her cousin's, but was very far from having 
 recovered her strength since her illness ; and as she sat at one 
 of the bay-windows, which had been set wide open to admit 
 as much air as possible, she looked very pale and listless. 
 Janet, who was crossing the room, stopped for a moment beside 
 her. 
 
 ' Tired out, Nelly ? What are you doing here alone ] I 
 thought I saw Cunninghame with you just now 1 * 
 
 * Yes, he has gone to get me an ice. How hot it is to-night ! * 
 ^ Yery. I think we shall have a storm. But you need not 
 
 look so frightened. It has not begun yet. If it comes, too, we 
 shall not hear it through the music' She laughed as Elinor 
 glanced nervously at the dark sky. 
 
 * I wonder where Arthur is ! ' she added after a pause, perhaps 
 with the charitable intention of diverting her companion's 
 thoughts. * He can't be coming this evening. And I quite ex- 
 pected him. I thought he wouldn't have missed a dance for a 
 good deal.' 
 
. DISCLOSUKES. 231 
 
 * Yes, but the last train does not come in till nearly twelve ; 
 he has hardly had time to get here yet. I daresay we shall see 
 him in a few minutes/ 
 
 * Perhaps so. Ah, there is Mrs Lawrence ! I must go and 
 speak to her/ And Janet moved away again. 
 
 She had not been gone two minutes, and Elinor was still 
 absorbed in watching a black mass of threatening-looking clouds 
 which had caught her attention at the first mention of a storm, 
 when the opening of a door beside her made her look round. It 
 was not the regular entrance, and she wondered who could be 
 making their way in that direction. Her astonishment was still 
 greater when, upon moving her chair a little to give free ingress 
 to the new-comer, she discovered it was her own brother. 
 
 *Why, Percy, what brings you here?' she exclaimed in sur- 
 prise; but as he turned at the sound of her voice, she was 
 startled at the expression of his face. ' Is anything the matter ]* 
 she asked in alarm. 
 
 ' Where is Janet V he said, without noticing the question. 
 *Is she heref 
 
 She looked round the room. ^ She was with me just now. 
 But — Percy, what is the matter? How strange you look!' 
 
 * Never mind how I look,' was the peremptory answer. ^ Find 
 Janet for me, and tell her I want her at once.' And without 
 giving her time for another question, he turned away and closed 
 the door. 
 
 Alarmed by his manner, Elinor went in search of her cousin, 
 whom she discovered in the music-room with Mrs Lawrence. 
 
 ^ Percy here! Why didn't he come in?' Janet said, when she 
 heard his message. *What is the matter, Nelly! Is anything 
 WTong?' 
 
 * I don't know,' Elinor said. ' Go directly, Janet, won't you ] 
 He 's waiting for you.' 
 
 There was no need to hasten her cousin's movements, for 
 Janet was gone before she had done speaking, and Elinor, left 
 behind, tried to give her attention to Mrs Lawrence, and answer 
 her questions; but her nervousness increased every moment, and 
 when after a time they were joined by some one else, she seized 
 the opportunity of making her escape. Going into the entrance- 
 hall, she found great confusion there; servants were running about 
 in all directions, and through a half-open door she heard Janet's 
 voice raised to an excited key. What had happened? Some- 
 
232 ATHEIiSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 thing, she was sure — something dreadful, as the recollection of 
 lier brother's face came back to her mind; and with a shudder 
 she w^as about to turn away, when some new thought struck her 
 and she went on. Before she reached the opposite door she 
 -vvas stopped by one of the servants. 
 
 *I think, miss, you had better not go in there,' he began; 
 * Mr Arthur has ' 
 
 At that moment, however, the door was suddenly opened 
 wider by Isabel, who was coming out, and a sight met Elinor's 
 eyes which her worst fears had not conjured up. 
 
 On a sofa lay Arthur; his face deadly pale, his fair hair wet 
 and dabbled with blood, and his left arm hanging helplessly by 
 his side. He looked as if life were gone; and she believed it 
 was. But in her blanched and terror-stricken countenance there 
 were other feelings depicted besides those of natural dread at 
 what she saw\ There was sudden anguish written there, and 
 overpowering grief ; and her sister, who had been passing her in 
 haste, stopped short, alarmed at her look. At first she stood 
 motionless, almost as if paralysed, her eyes fixed on the uncon- 
 scious form before her ; but the power of thought and action 
 came back, and then, with a shriek that rang through the house, 
 she rushed into the midst of the startled group who had gathered 
 round the sofa. 
 
 * Arthur, Arthur, O Arthur!' she exclaimed wildly. * Oh, 
 who has done this ? Who has taken him from me ? Yes, from 
 me — for he was mine. Oh, what am I saying ? I didn't mean 
 to tell. Don't be angry with me, Arthur ; I didn't know what 
 I said. Ah, he can't hear me, he is dead !' And in an agony 
 of grief she flung herself on her knees beside him, and burst 
 into a passionate flood of tears. 
 
 To describe the consternation, the bewilderment, which her 
 unexpected appearance and wild incoherent words caused among 
 the bystanders would be impossible. For some moments they 
 looked at each other in blank dismay, and Elinor's sobs were 
 the only sounds that broke the silence of the room. But Percy, 
 whose face, hard and stern before, had grown still sterner at her 
 words, spoke at last. 
 
 * Take her away,' he said to Janet ; ^ she does not know what 
 she is saying. And keep those people out, they must not come 
 here.' For the dancers, alarmed at that appalling shriek, were 
 making their way into the hall, dismay in every face. Their 
 
DISCLOSURES. 233 
 
 voices recalled Elinor to herself, and there was no need then of 
 entreaties from Janet that she would not stay. Frightened and 
 ashamed of what she had done, she rose hastily, and as others 
 about her made way for the surgeon, who appeared at that 
 moment, she escaped in the general confusion. Taking refuge 
 in an empty room, she crouched down in an armchair, and 
 covering her face with her hands, gave full vent to her 
 misery. 
 
 The confused sound of voices in the adjoining room died away 
 by degrees, and one after another she heard the carriages come 
 lip to the door and then drive off, until every one had left, and 
 total silence reigned in the house. In it, but not out of it ; for 
 the storm which Janet had predicted came on, and a heavy fall 
 of rain and the loud crashing of thunder soon drove from poor 
 Elinor all other thoughts and fears. Though she buried her head 
 far down in the depths of the cushioned chair, and stopped her 
 ears in a frenzy of alarm, she could not shut out the prolonged 
 rolls that seemed to shake the house ; while the vivid flashes of 
 lightning, penetrating through the coverings she had thrown over 
 her, made her quail each moment. At last, however, the storm 
 began to subside ; but then came fresh images of fear. That 
 unconscious helpless form she had seen, the pale face and stained 
 hair, came back to her recollection. What she had said and 
 done too in the first excitement of her grief — the secret she had 
 betrayed — all returned to lier remembrance ; and apprehensions 
 for the future, mingling with present fears, caused many bursts 
 of tears as she sat alone in her wretchedness. How long she 
 remained there she did not know, for the minutes seemed like 
 hours ; and although longing to have her suspense ended, she 
 dreaded too much the confirmation of her worst fears to venture 
 out for intelligence, even after the storm was passing away. 
 
 But the door opened at length, and Isabel came in, followed 
 by Percy ; and then all thoughts for herself were forgotten in 
 one absorbing fear for another, and she started up, her imploring 
 look speaking volumes, though she could not say a word. 
 
 * Arthur is not dead,' Percy said coldly, in answer to her 
 beseeching glance. * He is not dead, nor as far as we know ia 
 he in any danger. He was thrown from his horse, and has 
 broken his arm, and cut his head a good deal, but he is conscious 
 again now. You need not be alarmed about him.' 
 
 The tones were frigid in the extreme, but Elinor hardly heeded 
 
234 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 tliem. She burst into tears once more ; tears of relief this time, 
 but they did not seem to call forth much sympathy on his part. 
 He stood by cold and unmoved, waiting until she should recover 
 herself. Isabel, too, said nothing, and from her countenance it 
 was difficult to judge what her feelings were ; but the silence of 
 both appeared to strike Elinor at last, and checking her tears, 
 she said something about going, and began to move towards the 
 door. But she was stopped by her brother. 
 
 *Not just yet. Stay a few minutes, if you please; I wish to 
 speak to you.' 
 
 Elinor sat down ; she was trembling so much that she could 
 not have stood. Her colour came and went, but she did not 
 speak, nor did she notice that Percy was almost as much agitated 
 as herself. 
 
 'I wished to speak to you,' he said with forced calmness, 
 * because I am afraid there has been a great mistake somewhere. 
 You hardly knew before what you were saying ; but, Elinor, I 
 must know what you meant ; whether what you said then was 
 true. Is there anything between you and Arthur^' 
 
 Elinor was silent ; her eye went round the room uneasily, as 
 if she would gladly have found some means of escape ; but he 
 had placed himself before her, and it was plain he did not mean 
 to leave her without an answer. 
 
 * Percy, you are not kind,' she exclaimed at last in great 
 agitation. * It is not fair of you to take advantage of what I 
 said at such a time, and try to force my secrets from me.' 
 
 * Elinor, you are trifling,' he said sternly. * Your secret, as 
 you call it, is no secret now to any one who heard you. You 
 have some understanding with him. What is it ] Or has he 
 been deceiving you as well as others 1' 
 
 'Deceiving me!' and she looked up. * Arthur deceive me! 
 No, never ! You don't know him, or you would not think such 
 
 a thing. He loves me too well for that. He — I mean ' 
 
 She stopped short in confusion. 
 
 * If he has not deceived you, he has others ; and misled them, 
 too,' he said in a low bitter tone ; and then rousing suddenly into 
 anger, ' But what has he said to you] Let me hear all' 
 
 Elinor burst into tears again, alarmed at his tone. 'We 
 meant no harm,' she sobbed. ' We — we ' 
 
 ' You what ] What have you been doing ] Are you engaged 
 to him V still more fiercely. 
 
DISCLOSURES. 235 
 
 She sobbed, but made no answer. 
 
 * Elinor, I must know. Why will you trifle in this way ? Do 
 you mean that it is an engagement between you 1 ' 
 
 She nodded. ^ But, O Percy ! ' going ojff into another flood 
 of tears, * don't be angry with him ; don't let them be angry with 
 him at home. He meant no harm ; it was only for a time ' 
 
 * No harm ! ' in a tone of great bitterness. 
 
 * No, indeed. Was it wrong ? It was only for a little time, 
 because he has nothing yet; and because — because mamma might 
 not have liked it. She ' 
 
 * A good reason for doing it,' was Percy's remark in intense 
 scorn. * Who would have dreamed of a sister of mine acting in 
 such a way ! ' He turned from her as he spoke. 
 
 Another burst of tears from Elinor. ' She would have been 
 so angry ; Isabel, you know she would. Won't you say anything 
 for me ? ' 
 
 ^ I hate deceit,' was all the answer her sister vouchsafed. She 
 had stood like a statue during the hearing of Elinor's confession, 
 but in that moment the whole extent of the dreadful mistake she 
 had made, and of the cruel injustice she had done her cousin, 
 flashed upon her ; a new light was thrown upon everything by 
 those few words wrung from Elinor. Her feelings then were not 
 to be envied. 
 
 * I hate deceit,' she repeated ; and Nelly turned from her in 
 despair. 
 
 * You won't believe me,' she said. * But it is true. It was 
 only for a little time we meant to keep it secret. He was going 
 to have told. I was afraid j but he meant to do it. Indeed he 
 did.' 
 
 * He would have told ! But why did he not tell then 1 ' was 
 Percy's bitterly indignant answer. ^ What does it matter what 
 he meant to do ? You little guess, Elinor, what you and he 
 have done between you ! ' His voice shook. ^ Do you know,' 
 he went on passionately, ' what all Gainsford is saying of him 
 and Lisa 1 Yes, of Lisa ; what I have heard of them — heard 
 from her first -/ and there was a look at Isabel which brought the 
 colour to her face and the tears to her eyes, ^ and heard from 
 others to-day ; this evening only. And I believed it too ; fool, 
 madman that I was ! ' He turned away again. 
 
 Elinor looked at him, and for a moment her sobs ceased. 
 * Of him and Lisa ! What has Lisa to do with him 1 ' 
 
236 ATHERSTONE PKIORY. 
 
 Tliere was no reply from Percy, but Isabel, whose colour had 
 faded again, and who had resumed her usual collected manner, 
 said coldly — 
 
 ' There has been a great mistake ; we have all been deceived. 
 Arthur was at the cottage so often while Percy was away that his 
 visits were noticed. You know, of course, what he went for ; so 
 do we now\ But ^ve did not then. You meant to deceive us, 
 and you have done so ; but you have brought most unjust sus- 
 picions upon Lisa.' 
 
 * Ah, you confess that now, Isabel, do you?' Percy said more 
 bitterly than ever. * You own^ then, that she has not been so 
 wrong as you thought her, and as you tried to make me think 
 her. As I did, indeed. Yes, thanks to you, I have doubted and 
 made her miserable. Well, it is a pleasure to you no doubt. 
 You have done what you have tried to do ever since you first 
 knew I loved her ; and you have the satisfaction of knowing you 
 have made us both wretched.' 
 
 * Percy, O Percy ! ' Her voice was choked ; but he took no 
 more heed of her ; he turned to Elinor. 
 
 'And how long has this been going on between you and 
 Arthur 1 When did it begin ? ' 
 
 Elinor was crying again, but his tone showed that he would 
 not be put off without an answ^er. 
 
 * It was last August,' she said at length between her sobs. * I 
 promised him then. But — oh, don't be angry with him,' in 
 imploring accents. 
 
 * Angry with him ! Much he would care for my anger ! ' was 
 the reply. * No, I leave that to my father. I have other things 
 to think of now, and what you and he have chosen to do is nothing 
 to me, except in as far as Lisa is concerned ; for her sake I mean 
 to hear everything. She knew of your engagement, I suppose]' 
 
 ' Not at first,' in the midst of more sobs. 
 
 * Not at first ! Not last year, you mean. But she knew of 
 it while you were at the cottage 1 ' 
 
 * No, she didn't — not till — till the day you came home. She 
 found it out then.' 
 
 * Only then ! And when he was there every day ! What did 
 she think he went for 1 ' 
 
 Elinor grew very red. ^ I don't think she knew he came at 
 all,' she said at last in confusion. * She often used to go and 
 see the child that she is so fond of, and — and' >■ 
 
DISCLOSURES. 237 
 
 ' He watched her out of the house, I suppose. Go on/ said 
 Pepcy, in undisguised contempt. 
 
 * I don't know what else there is to tell,' said Elinor, crying 
 again. * She found it out, that is all.' 
 
 * And said nothing ? ' 
 
 Elinor hesitated. * She wanted us to tell, and — and Arthur 
 said he would. He meant to have done so ; only I was ill, and 
 she promised then to wait ; she said she would wait till I got 
 well.' 
 
 * And you let her sacrifice herself to you, then ? To save 
 yourselves a little longer from blame, you could allow her to be 
 exposed to most unjust suspicions. My poor little Lisa ! ' in a 
 tone of intense anguish. 
 
 * We didn't know it/ Elinor exclaimed. ^ How could we 
 tell any one was suspecting her 1 We should have told long ago 
 if we had thought that ; or if it would have been of any use. 
 But what was the good of speaking when we knew that 
 mamma ' 
 
 Percy turned upon her in scorn. * What was the good ? Yoic 
 to say such a thing as that, Elinor 1 If you would know, though, 
 the good that fair and open dealing would have done in this 
 case, I can soon tell you. You would have saved Lisa from the 
 worst suspicions that can come on any woman. You would have 
 saved her from the pain and misery of being doubted by one 
 who ought to have trusted her most ; and you would have saved 
 me from a world of self-reproach ! My little Lisa, my poor child, 
 how^ I have wronged you ! ' he murmured to himself, as a recol- 
 lection of that evening's scene — of his angry words and cruel 
 injustice, came back with overpowering vividness ; and once 
 more that cry, which he had heard when he left her, rang in his 
 ears. He had not heeded it then, but now all sorts of forebod- 
 ings were filling his mind. 
 
 * I am going home,' he said. * Isabel, you were ready enough 
 to suspect what was wrong ; and the least you can do now is to 
 see things made right again. It was with your friends, I believe, 
 that these false reports originated, and I shall look to you to 
 contradict them. My wife shall not be spoken of again as she 
 has been.' 
 
 He did not wait for an answer, and without even another look 
 at Elinor, who sat with her face covered, ho left the room. 
 
238 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 CHAPTEH XXXV. 
 
 A HASTY SUMMONS. 
 
 * From tlie station, miss/ said a servant at tiie Priory the next 
 morning, laying a letter before Mary on the breakfast-table. It 
 was a telegraphic message of one line only ; an entreaty from 
 Percy that she would come at once. Lisa was ill — dying they 
 thought. 
 
 Mary started up ; her eye falling on another letter which had 
 come by the regular morning's post only a few minutes before — 
 a long letter in Lisa's handwriting ; one of her half-weekly bud- 
 gets, full of news, and bright and cheerful as usual ; although, 
 and Mary remembered it now with a pang, some of her latter 
 ones had not been so bright as formerly ; she had fancied their 
 tone was not so light-hearted as it had been. Could there have 
 been anything kept back from her ? Or what had happened to 
 bring about the catastrophe that caused that hasty summons 1 
 
 * What has Lisa been doing V was Mrs Tennent's comment as 
 she read the message. * Something imprudent, you may be quite 
 sure. And what was Percy about, too, not to look after her 1 
 he might have known better, if she did not. You are going, 
 Mary, I suppose 1 ' 
 
 * Yes, oh yes,' and Mary started. I wish ' she looked at 
 
 her father. 
 
 ' You wish I could go too,' he said, reading her look aright. 
 
 * And I was thinking the same myself. I am not busy just now; 
 
 I could spare a day or two ' He thought for a minute or 
 
 two ; Mary watching him anxiously. 
 
 She had not long to wait for his decision. He would have 
 sacrificed much for the little niece of whom he was so fond ; but 
 as it happened, there really was little at that time to keep him at 
 home. The few patients about whom he was anxious could be 
 given over to a friend ; and other arrangements being made, in 
 less than an hour after the message had been received, he and Mary 
 were seated in the first up-train to London. It was a long jour- 
 ney in the heat and dust of that summer's day ; but long and 
 
A HASTY SUMMONS. 239 
 
 wearing as it was, its discomforts were thought nothing of in 
 comparison with a delay which took place in town. Their train 
 from the north was behind its time, and in spite of a furious 
 drive across London they reached the other terminus one minute 
 too late ; the Gainsford train had just left the station as they 
 drove up to it. When was the next 1 Not for two hours ; and 
 Mary looked after the fast receding line of carriages, and for the 
 first time burst into tears. As long as they had been moving ; 
 as long as she had felt she was on her way to Lisa, she had 
 seemed to have no time for thought ; but now, what might not 
 that long delay do 1 She sat down in the waiting-room, hope- 
 less and dejected ; while her father fumed and chafed, and 
 spent their two hours of waiting in abusing the railway authori- 
 ties. 
 
 They were ofif again at length, however; and some hours more 
 brought them to Gainsford, where they took a carriage and drove 
 at once to the cottage. The day was closing in then, and twi- 
 light was fast merging into night ; the heat had passed away, 
 and the evening breeze was once more freshening the air. There 
 was no one to meet them, and the place was so quiet and looked 
 so desolate, that it struck a cold chill upon both of them, as they 
 made their way up to the front door and rang the bell. 
 
 They had to ring twice before it was answered; but after 
 waiting some time a light appeared in the hall, and the door was 
 opened by a servant, who looked out eagerly. It was Lane, and 
 when she caught sight of Mary, who was the first to enter, she 
 uttered an exclamation, ' Miss Mary !' and burst into tears. 
 
 Mary's heart failed her, and she gasped for breath. ^ We are 
 not too late, are we 1 Oh, don't tell me that.' 
 
 She looked very white, and Lane, alarmed, pushed a chair to- 
 wards her, and made her sit down, while she took off her bonnet 
 in the old peremptory manner that Mary knew so well. 
 
 * We are not too late V she repeated, when she could speak 
 again ; and Lane shook her head, the tears still running down 
 her face. 
 
 * But she won't get over it, Miss Mary. I heard them say 
 they had no hope of saving her. The Major is just out of his 
 mind like, and no wonder, for it 's his doing.' She spoke with 
 a vehemence that startled both her auditors. * There are two 
 doctors with her, and they Ve sent for another now. We didn't 
 know you were coming, sir.' And Lane, whose faith in her old 
 
240 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 master was very strong, looked as if she had something like ho^^e 
 again. ' I '11 tell the Major you 're here, sir, shall 1 1 ' 
 
 * Yes — no; never mind, I'll go iip-stairs at once,' was the 
 hasty answer ; and Dr Tennent strode np the stairs, and Mary 
 was left alone in the hall. 
 
 She did not stay there, however ; she opened the door of an 
 adjoining room, and finding it empty, took off her bonnet and 
 shawl, and sat down on the sofa to wait till some one should 
 come. Sick at heart, she sat looking with sad and tearful eyes 
 upon all the things around her. She knew them all — every 
 article of furniture, every little ornament ; the books, the flowers, 
 the cages of foreign birds, the drawings on the walls — the whole 
 aspect of the place was familiar to her, so often had Lisa de- 
 scribed it in her letters, that she might feel at home, she said, 
 when she came to stay there on that happy visit for which so 
 much had been planned, and to which they had both looked for- 
 ward so long. She was there now ; but how different every- 
 thing was from what they had ever imagined it would be ! 
 
 The room was in confusion, as it had been left the night be- 
 fore. The piano stood open, and some music had fallen from it, 
 and lay scattered on the floor ; papers on the writing-table were 
 in disorder, the flowers in the vases were drooping, and dust was 
 on the books and ornaments upon the table. There stood Lisa's 
 open work-box, too, with her thimble and cotton beside it, her 
 scissors on the ground ; while on the sofa where Mary sat was 
 the little frock she had meant to finish, but which had never 
 received its last stitches. There were tears in Mary's eyes as 
 she took it up to look at it ; and a bitter pang was in her heart 
 at the thought that it might never be wanted now — that the 
 fingers, too, which had been so busy with it, might soon have 
 done with work for ever. 
 
 With a heavy sigh she laid it down again, and as she did so, 
 the opening of a door behind her made her turn. It was her 
 brother who entered, but so changed did he look, so worn and 
 aged by suspense and bitter self-reproach, that had it not been 
 for his tall figure, she might in the dim light almost have failed 
 to recognise him. He did not speak, but she started up and 
 sprang to meet him, and he caught her in his arms and held her 
 tight ; though for a long time not a word was said by either. 
 He was the first to break the silence. 
 
 * Thank you for coming, Mary,' he said ; ^ I knew you would.* 
 
A HASTY SUMMONS. 241 
 
 His voice sounded strangely unnatural, and tears dimmed her 
 eyes again at the sound of it; but she remembered she was there 
 to comfort, not to give way to her own grief, and with a strong 
 effort recovered herself. 
 
 *I am so glad you sent for me,' she said, trying to speak 
 cheerfully. ^ I can be with you as long as you want me.' She 
 paused for a moment. ' Dear Percy, she will get over it — you 
 must not give up hope.' 
 
 There was no answer. He put her from him, and for several 
 ninutes walked up and down the room in silence, but the work- 
 ings of his face told fearful tales of the anguish within. He 
 stopped at length and said abruptly — 
 
 * You don't know that it was my doing, Mary 1 Yes,' as she 
 looked at him, * mine — mine, who loved her more than words 
 can tell ; who would have died to save her from harm. I have 
 done it all. You did not know that, or you would not tell me 
 to hope. You would say I deserve the worst that can come 
 upon me.' 
 
 He turned away again, but Mary followed him, and put her 
 arm in his. 
 
 * If it has been your doing, Percy, it has not been your fault, 
 I am sure. No one who knows you would believe that for one 
 moment.' 
 
 * Would they not]' he exclaimed in great bitterness. 'No, 
 perhaps not. I should not have believed it myself yesterday ; 
 but it is true for all that. It is my fault from beginning to end, 
 my miserable anger and jealousy have done it all. Lisa, my 
 darling, I deserve to lose you ; and I shall.' 
 
 He sat down and covered his face with his hands : and for 
 some minutes Mary could only stand by him in silent grief, her 
 tears falling fast; but there were none from him. 
 
 ' It was not only last night,' he went on after a time. ' It has 
 been the work of days. Has she never said anything to you 
 about it, Mary % Has she never told you how harsh I have been 
 to her lately, poor child % But no, of course she has not ; she 
 would never say a word against me. It is torture to me now to 
 think of it ; but I did not understand then.' 
 
 * It was some mistake, I suppose,' Mary said gently. * How 
 was it, Percy % I am sure you must be blaming yourself too 
 much.' 
 
 * What, for my cruelty to her ! Blame myself too much for 
 
 Q 
 
242 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 that ! Impossible ! You don't know all — all I said, and did. 
 But I was deceived — wretchedly deceived/ He started, as some 
 sound from above reached them; and for some minutes he 
 paused, and listened with a look of such misery as went to 
 Mary's heart to see ; and then he rose and paced the room again, 
 as if in that way he would have worked off his suspense and 
 agitation. 
 
 *Yes, I was deceived; it was Arthur's doing. I thought — 
 Mary, you had no idea, had you, that he and Elinor were 
 engaged ?' 
 
 ' Engaged 1 Arthur ! Nelly I What can you mean ? Im- 
 possible !' 
 
 * Is it ? Impossible or not, it is true ; and it was that misled 
 me, and others too. They kept their secret so well that no one 
 had any suspicion of what they were about. And I heard he 
 had been here so often while I was away those three weeks, 
 that I mistook his motives. Ah, Mary, you may well look at 
 me ! You think I might have known better, that I might have 
 trusted her. But I did not, and this is the end of it.' 
 
 Mary was silent ^ too much shocked at first to make any reply. 
 
 * Are you sure it is true 1 ' she said at last ; * about Arthur and 
 Nelly, I mean? It seems impossible. I can't believe it of 
 them.' 
 
 * Nor any one else ; but it is true. Elinor told me herself. 
 Arthur had an accident last night — was thrown from his horse, 
 and in her fright she let out more than she meant. I made her 
 tell me all afterwards ; how they had been engaged since^ last 
 August, and how Arthur — ah, well, never mind how it was ; you 
 will hear it from others, and it maddens me to think of it. It 
 is enough that it came out too late. I had been with Lisa not 
 long before, had reproached her with things she had never done, 
 never even dreamed of, poor child ! And I had left her without 
 giving her time for one word of explanation. It is agony now 
 to me to think of it, for I might have stayed ; I might have 
 listened to what she had to say. But I left her ; and now — 
 Mary, it is more than I can bear ! I would not care for the 
 child; that might go — but Lisa, my little Lisa, I can't 
 lose her !' 
 
 His face was hidden again, but his tone betrayed intensity of 
 anguish ; and Mary paused, unnerved by the sight of grief, such 
 as she had never witnessed before. She could only stand and 
 
A NEW-COMER. 243 
 
 watch him in silent sadness ; while he, absorbed in the bitterness 
 of his own feelings, seemed to have forgotten her presence — to 
 have forgotten everything indeed — until there came some sound 
 again from above, to rouse him once more from his stupor ; and 
 then he resumed his pacing to and fro, as if in that ceaseless 
 motion only he could find relief from the torture that was racking 
 him. The sadness of that long time of waiting, who could 
 describe ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 A NEW-COMEE. 
 
 Morning was breaking in the east; its first rays of crimson were 
 streaking the sky and beginning to find their reflection on the 
 grey sea ; and the lamps, which at the cottage all night long 
 had burned bright and clear, were growing dim in the advancing 
 light of day. 
 
 In a room adjoining Lisa's a little party was gathered, and the 
 faint glow of the summer's morning fell strangely on faces 
 shadowed with grief and anxiety. Percy was there, worn and 
 haggard, with contracted brow and absent gaze, as if he hardly 
 knew what was passing. Dr Tennent, too, and a clergyman 
 were with him, and by their side was Mary, pale and weary- 
 looking, her head bent down over a little, a very little something 
 that she held in her arms — poor Lisa's seven-months' baby. 
 There were a few prayers read, some water was sprinkled, and 
 then she took back the wailing unconscious child whom she 
 loved already for its mother's sake, and tried to trace in its tiny 
 features some resemblance to that young mother herself, while 
 she sighed to think how much the happiness which it would 
 have brought at any other time was saddened and over- 
 clouded now. 
 
244 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 For there was but small chance of saving it, the doctors 
 said ; and that Lisa lingered seemed matter of surprise to them. 
 They did not say much, but Mary felt, and knew also that her 
 brother felt, they had little or no hope ; and any she herself 
 might have cherished went too when she stood in the darkened 
 room by her cousin's side, and saw the shadowy outline of the 
 face she loved so well, and which she had last seen in all its 
 beauty, when, a few months before, they had parted from each 
 other at the Priory. Yery beautiful it was still ; but its beauty 
 was more like that of chiselled marble than of a living form; and 
 as she gazed at the colourless cheek, the closed eyes, and the 
 white lips half parted, as if they had opened and there had been 
 no strength to close them, she could have fancied she was watching 
 beside the dead ; while the contrast between that still and silent 
 helplessness and the merry laughing girl whom she had always 
 known, brought such a rush of overpowering feelings that the 
 fear of betraying her presence by a burst of sorrow made her 
 turn away and take refuge in her own room, where her grief 
 could neither be seen nor heard. She need not have been afraid, 
 however, of disturbing her cousin ; for Lisa was too far away in 
 the world of unconsciousness to know that she was there. She 
 was conscious of nothing — not even of her child ; and Perc}^ 
 who lingered long by her side, was unrecognised. For many 
 hours she lay between life and death ; so weak that every breath 
 she drew seemed as if it must be her last, and so still that the 
 anxious watchers beside her often feared to listen lest they should 
 find she was really gone. The suspense of that long weary day 
 was dreadful, and appeared almost endless. But as evening came 
 on, she struggled back once more to life; consciousness returned, 
 and to the surprise of every one she began to rally. Her first 
 words then, though she was unable to raise her voice above a 
 whisper, were for her baby ; and when Mary brought it, and laid 
 it beside her, her fiice lighted up, and a strange smile of almost 
 unearthly beauty for a moment played over it. Mary bent down 
 and kissed her tenderly. 
 
 *You are better, dearest; thank God for it,' she said, her 
 voice faltering with the joy of rekindled hope. 
 
 Lisa looked at her — a long wistful look, as if she would have 
 liked to speak, but the strength to do so Avas wanting ; and even 
 the smile with which she tried to welcome her died away. It 
 was checked, for her eye fell upon Percy, who during her long 
 
A NEW-COMER. 245 
 
 unconsciousness Lad never left her side, and who had risen now, 
 and was waiting, longing for her first word — her first glance. 
 But he had not expected the change which the sight of him 
 brought. She was agitated at once beyond all control, and 
 trembled so violently that Dr Tennent was alarmed, not without 
 reason, and told him peremptorily to leave the room. 
 
 * Not one word ? Won't you let me say one word to her — only 
 one ] ' Percy entreated, almost heart-broken at this command ; 
 but his father was inexorable. 
 
 * Not one, unless you wish to kill her. Don't you see how 
 terrified she is 1 ' 
 
 Yes, it was only too true, she was afraid of him ; the little wife 
 whom he had sworn to love and cherish was terrified at his pre- 
 sence ; and, to save her life, he must leave her without a word of 
 any kind, without asking for the forgiveness for which he yearned. 
 His punishment was full indeed he felt ; and with a look of utter 
 misery on his face, he went away to spend the next long hours 
 alone, with a burden of self-reproach and suspense upon him that 
 was well-nigh intolerable. He never thought of rest, and although 
 it was the third night he had been up, and he knew well enough, 
 only too bitterly, that he could be of no use, he could not rest, 
 but passed his time as he had done before in weary pacings to 
 and fro — the long monotony of the hours being only broken by 
 occasional visits from Mary, who stole down- stairs at times to 
 say a few words and try to cheer him. It was not till day was 
 once more dav>^ning, and his father himself came down to tell of 
 the improvement which each hour w^as bringing, that anything 
 like hope seemed to dawn in his mind. When it did come, when 
 he heard that although there was still danger, yet with care there 
 was a possibility of her recovery, then the wrought-up feelings 
 of those days of suspense and despair gave way, and, completely 
 unmanned, he burst into tears. Burying his face in his hands, 
 he cried like a child, while Dr Tennent stood by, looking as if 
 he found it hard not to follow his example. He had come down 
 intending to speak his mind very plainly on what had happened, 
 and meaning to blame his son most severely for having, by his 
 anger and harshness, endangered his wife's life ; but he forgot to 
 do so now, and after taking several turns to work off his 
 agitation, came up to the back of his chair, and laid his hand 
 upon his shoulder. 
 
 ' Come, come, Pqrcy, you must not give way like that,' he said 
 
246 ATHBRSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 kindly. ' She will do now, I have no doubt ; you must not dis- 
 tress yourself so much. You have kept up so far, and you must 
 keep up a little longer. She will be spared to you, I hope ; 
 and,' he added gravely, * you must take more care of her for 
 the future.* 
 
 The touch and words recalled Percy to himself ; and ashamed 
 of the weakness he had been betraying, even though it were only 
 to his own father, he made a strong effort to regain self-control, 
 and rose from his seat, muttering something which sounded like 
 an apology. 
 
 ' You don't know what it has been to me. I had made up 
 my mind so long for the worst, I had so little hope at any time 
 that ' And once more he broke down. 
 
 ' Yes, I understand. But the worst is over now, I trust. I 
 have great hope for her. She will want the greatest care though, 
 and must be kept perfectly quiet. You must make no attempt 
 to see her for the present, or I will not answer for the conse- 
 quences. You saw how agitated she was at the sight of you, and 
 you must keep out of her way for some days at least. It is your 
 own fault, you must remember that,' added the doctor, suddenly 
 recollecting the lecture he meant to have given, and beginning 
 to look very severe. 
 
 ' Yes, I know it,' humbly and sadly, and with a long sigh. 
 * You can't blame me more than I blame myself ; God knows I 
 have been bitterly punished for it. You cannot guess what I 
 have gone through the last three days.' And then after a few 
 moments' silence, he said wistfully, * May I not see her sometimes, 
 if she does not see me? I won't attempt to speak till you give 
 me leave ; but surely I may look at her now and then.' 
 
 Dr Tennent, however, would make no promise ; he would have 
 no risks run, he said ; and he added so much about the danger of 
 excitement, that Percy did not try to urge his request. He was 
 worn out too, and now that relief from suspense was come, and 
 the strain which had kept him up was over, he felt how exhausted 
 he was. Flinging himself down just as he was upon the drawing- 
 room sofa, in less than half a minute weariness and grief were 
 forgotten in the soundest of slumbers. 
 
 Dr Tennent's anger, when he first heard full particulars of 
 the deception Arthur and Elinor had practised, was very great. 
 When he came to learn everything — the length of time they 
 had kept their secret, the advantage they had taken of Percy's 
 
A NEW-COMER. 247 
 
 absence and Lisa's ignorance, and the unjust suspicions their 
 underhand dealing had brought upon their cousin — he was indig- 
 nant beyond measure. No one ever remembered having seen 
 him so angry as he was then. Arthur should never enter the 
 Priory again, he said ; he would have no one there whom he 
 could not trust ; and as for the engagement itself, if they had 
 ever chosen to consider it one, it was at an end. He would never 
 give his consent to his daughter's marrying a man who could lead 
 her to deceive her parents ; he should take her back with him to 
 Atherstone, and she might consider she had done with Arthur 
 for ever. 
 
 And although the doctor, if he had stood alone, would most 
 probably have softened down and forgotten his displeasure after 
 a time, yet every one knew this would not be the case with Mrs 
 Tennent. When, that same afternoon, her father went up to 
 Lassell Lodge to see Elinor, and she heard she was to return 
 home with him, she received the decision as a deathblow to all 
 the hopes she had entertained of the past being forgiven, and her 
 engagement being sanctioned by her parents. She was in a state 
 of prostrate despair, and in floods of tears; and perhaps she 
 could hardly have chosen any more effectual way of mollifying Dr 
 Tennent. If she had made excuses, or attempted to justify her- 
 self, his anger might have held out; but when she stood in 
 silence, looking so helpless and forlorn, and crying so very bit- 
 terly, there was nothing for him to do but to say his say as quickly 
 as possible, and then, in fear of what his wife's displeasure might 
 be if he allowed himself to be worked upon through his softer 
 feelings, beat a retreat with more precipitation than was con- 
 sistent with his dignity as father of a family. 
 
 Poor Elinor's position at that time was anything but enviable. 
 The full weight of everybody's displeasure fell upon her; for 
 Arthur, although not in actual danger, had so much fever about 
 him, that it was necessary to keep clear of all exciting subjects ; 
 and he was, in consequence, in total ignorance of all that had 
 taken place during the last few days. Cut off from all inter- 
 course with him, she felt the separation bitterly, for the whole 
 love of her clinging, twining nature, had been given to him ; 
 while Janet's reproaches and Isabel's silent coldness added keen 
 poignancy to her fears and sorrow. 
 
 A few days later she left Gainsford. Dr Tennent found Lisa 
 was going on well enough for him to leave her, and he was 
 
248 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 wanted at Atherstone again. He went away, therefore, taking 
 Elinor with him ; and a long sad look, that was raised to Arthur's 
 window as they drove off, was her last good-bye for many years 
 to Lassell Lodge and the companion of her childhood. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 PAST AND FUTURE. 
 
 It was some days after his father went before Percy was allowed 
 to see Lisa. Her state was long sufficiently precarious to cause 
 extreme anxiety to those about her, and make it absolutely 
 necessary to avoid everything that could agitate her. That her 
 husband's presence would be likely to do so no one could fail 
 to observe, for she never heard his voice or step, however distant, 
 without trembling ; and even the mention of his name made her 
 change colour, and brought such a frightened beseeching look 
 into her eyes that any subject which had reference to him was 
 obliged to be hastily dropped. That Percy had given her only 
 too good reason to fear him was the impression produced on 
 every one, and great was the indignation felt against him in 
 consequence ; and when she was considered strong enough to 
 bear a visit from him, the doctor thought it needful to give him 
 many severe cautions as to the necessity of keeping clear of 
 disagreeable topics. The words were listened to, but they were 
 scarcely heard, and certainly not resented. All that Percy took 
 in was, that those next ten minutes were to be very precious to 
 him j and before Dr Mapleston had half finished what he meant 
 to say, he strode away up-stairs three steps at a time, and was 
 in his wife's room. 
 
 Poor Lisa was lying back upon her pillows with her baby on 
 her arm ; her young face very wan and white, and a troubled 
 
PAST AND FUTURE. 249 
 
 expression on it which was most painful to see. She raised her 
 eyes when he entered and looked at him longingly, wistfully, 
 but she did not speak ; and that sad gaze cut him to the heart. 
 It told a tale of such wrong on his part, such silent suffering on 
 hers. For a moment he stood irresolute, and then the little he 
 had heard of Dr Mapleston's cautions was forgotten. He crossed 
 the room and knelt down by her side. 
 
 ' Lisa, my darling, I have been very harsh — very unjust to 
 you. Can you ever forgive me 1 ' 
 
 Lisa's pale face flushed suddenly. For some moments she 
 looked confused and startled, and it was with an effort that she 
 said at last — 
 
 * Forgive you, Percy 1 I don't know what you mean. It 
 was you who had to forgive, I thought ; you were angry with 
 me, you know.* 
 
 * Yes, I know it ; ' and a shadow crossed his face. ' 1 know 
 it, Lisa, and that is why I want you to forgive me j for I was 
 wrong. I was harsh and cruel to you, my dearest and best. I 
 listened to what others told me — never mind what it was now — 
 but I wronged you. Lisa, will you forgive me *? * 
 
 It was said imploringly, but once more he had to wait for an 
 answer. But as his meaning appeared to break upon her, and 
 the fear of his displeasure, which had evidently been hanging 
 over her, began to pass away, the troubled look passed from her 
 face also ; and when he took one of her hands in his, and, look- 
 ing at her beseechingly, asked again for the forgiveness for which 
 he was yearning, the smile that broke upon her face was like 
 sudden sunlight. 
 
 * Forgive you ! Ah, Percy, how can you talk like that 1 ' 
 ' Won t you, my darling 1 ' 
 
 * No,' she said, in her own old way ; ^ because there is nothing 
 — nothing for me to forgive. O Percy, how can you say such things ! 
 It isn't right, and I don't like to hear them. It sounds as if 
 you had been wrong.' 
 
 ' And so I have ; very wrong, Lisa ; and I am not ashamed to 
 own it. I have done you more wrong than I can ever repair. 
 It is no matter that I was deceived — misled by others. Nothing 
 could excuse my cruel violence to you that night. Ah, Lisa, I 
 was bitterly punished for it when I thought I was losing you ; 
 you don't know — you never can know — half the misery of that 
 time. Thank God, you are spared to me a little longer. You 
 
250 ATHERSTONB PRIORY. 
 
 must get well, my darling ; and you shall see how happy I will 
 make you/ 
 
 Lisa smiled. 'You can't make me happier than I am; it would 
 be impossible. Dear Percy, you were always so very kind to 
 me. But are you sure there is nothing now ? Are you really not 
 angry with me any longer 1 ' 
 
 ^ No, my darling, no. I never ought to have been angry with 
 you at ail. Do not think of it now, dearest ; leave it all,' he 
 added hastily, seeing the confused painful look return to her 
 face. 
 
 'Yes;' but she seemed as if trying to remember something. 
 ' Do you know everything 1 ' she asked wistfully. * I should 
 like to tell you all, only ' 
 
 * T know it, you needn't tell me/ he said, alarmed lest she 
 should be exciting herself too much. ' I have heard everything. 
 Elinor told me.' 
 
 ' Did she ? Poor Nelly, I *m so sorry for her ! And, Percy, 
 you don't think, then, I was wrong 1 I didn't understand that 
 night why you were angry with me; but — ah, those terrible 
 words ! ' and she shuddered. ' You didn't mean all you said 
 then, surely 1 ' 
 
 She was beginning to tremble again. 
 
 * Won't you forget them, Lisa ? ' he said sorrowfully. ' They 
 were cruel and unjust, but they were not true. Won't you be- 
 lieve how gladly I would recal them if I could? Don't turn 
 away from me, dearest, as if you were afraid of me. Won't you 
 look at me, and tell me you will forget I ever said them 1 ' 
 
 Lisa did look at him, and with a smile. ' I '11 never think of 
 them again, if you don't wish it — never ! Why should 1 1 
 They were not true, you say.' 
 
 ' And you forgive me too ? ' 
 
 She smiled again. ' Ah, Percy, we don't think alike about 
 that. You had a right to be angry, you know, if you thought me 
 wrong. I can't say I will forgive, when there really is nothing 
 to forgive.' 
 
 ' But there is — a great, great deal. Lisa, dear, make me 
 happy by saying that one word, won't you?' 
 
 But that was more than she could be persuaded to do. Her 
 only answer was to throw her arm round his neck and draw him 
 towards her ; though, if ever kiss told of perfect love and for* 
 giveness^ hers did then. 
 
PAST AND FUTURE. 251 
 
 ' And now one for baby/ she said, looking feverish and ex- 
 hausted, but very happy. ' You have hardly seen her yet, and 
 she is such a darling ! Yes, that is right ; put up your glass, 
 and then you will know her again. She is worth looking at, 
 though she is so tiny. She is very pretty ! ' in great admira- 
 tion. 
 
 But when she looked up to see what he was thinking of his 
 little daughter, she found his eyes had come back to herself. 
 
 ' Why, Percy, you haven't half looked at her ! ' in a disap- 
 pointed tone. 
 
 ^ Haven't I. But then I have seen her before, you know.* 
 And he took another survey of his child. * She will never come 
 up to you, Lisa,' was the result of that second inspection ; and 
 Lisa looked as dissatisfied as before. 
 
 * I think her very pretty, Percy, and I 'm sorry you don't. Per- 
 haps you will by-and-by when you have seen more of her. Look 
 what a pretty nose and mouth she has, and what long eyelashes! 
 And her eyes ! You can't see them now, because she is so fond 
 of keeping them shut ; but I am sure you will think them beau- 
 tiful when you do, they are so large and dark. Oh, she is really 
 pretty, very pretty indeed ; not at all like the babies one sees 
 every day. And I am so very happy to have her ! ' 
 
 There was some excitement in her tones, notwithstanding their 
 extreme weakness ; and the flush upon her face told Percy he 
 had stayed quite long enough, even without the doctor's warning 
 knock, which was heard at that moment. With one more long 
 kiss, he hurried away ; afraid lest the meeting which had brought 
 so much happiness to him should have overtasked her small 
 amount of returning strength, and that the doctor's next report 
 would tell of a falling back from the improvement which had so 
 long been anxiously watched. 
 
 But his fears were groundless. Tired out she certainly was 
 for the time ; but the f everishness of fatigue passed away with- 
 out any ill consequences, and each day brought fresh signs of 
 improvement and new hopes to those about her ; hopes which 
 were strengthened by her own return to the bright looks and 
 joyous tones of former days. 
 
 * You seem very happy, Lisa dear,' Mary said one evening 
 when she was sitting alone with her, and they had been silent 
 for some time. ^ What are you thinking of 1 Something plea- 
 sant, I am sure, by your face.' 
 
252 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 Lisa smiled. ^ Yes, I was — all sorts of pleasant things. I was 
 thinking of Percy for one, and how good he is to me. And then 
 I was thinking of this dear little baby. I can hardly believe, 
 Mary, that she is my own, my very own ; to do what I like with, 
 and to take care of and love as long as she lives. And no one 
 can take her from me, can they 1 ' she added, as a vision of for- 
 feited dolls and other lost treasures, the pang of parting with 
 which was still vividly remembered, returned to her mind. * But, 
 of course, they can't, because she is really mine. Mine and 
 Percy's, and no one else has any right to her. And, of course, 
 too, it 's silly of me to think that anybody would take her away, 
 for no one cares for her half so much as I do. But still I feel 
 afraid sometimes — she is such a darling. I think of her so much, 
 Mary ; and when I fall asleep I dream about her. And then 
 when I wake it is such happiness to find it isn't only a dream ; 
 that she is really here, the most darling, the dearest little thing 
 that ever was.' And Lisa kissed her baby passionately. 
 
 Mary looked at her, and for a moment or two there was an 
 expression of deep sadness on her face. The little thing that 
 lay there was so delicate and fragile, and seemed so unlikely 
 to need a mother's care long, that she could not help fearing 
 poor Lisa's happiness in her child would be but short-lived; 
 and it gave her a pang to see how much she was wrapped 
 up in it. 
 
 * I always wanted something to pet,' Lisa said, when she had 
 nearly smothered her baby with her kisses ; a proceeding which 
 roused that young lady from her slumbers, and caused a good 
 deal of hushing before she could be persuaded to resume them. 
 ' I always wanted something to pet, and I never used to have 
 anything for very long. I was always doing something wrong, 
 and then Aunt Helen took them all away. She took everything 
 away I ever had except Prince. Ah ! how glad I was when 
 Percy gave him to me. But a baby, Mary ! a real little baby of 
 my own. Oh ! she is far, far better than anything else ! How 
 glad I shall be when I am well again, and able to do everything 
 for her. I shall never find it lonely now when Percy is away. I 
 did before, especially on field-days, when he was gone for so very 
 long ; but now I never shall. I shall wash and dress her, and 
 take her out walking, and do everything for her myself. I only 
 hope Percy won't be jealous,' she added with a smile, * and fancy 
 I think too much of her. Not that there is any fear of that j for 
 
PAST A^D FUTURE. 253 
 
 he must always come first. Mary ' — after some mimites' silence 
 — *you are taking good care of liim while I am up here, are you 
 not 1 He seems so out of spirits sometimes that I am afraid he 
 is not well. He quite frightened me the other day, he looked so 
 i\V 
 
 * I don't think he is ill/ Mary said. * But I don't wonder at his 
 looking so worn as he does, after all the anxiety he has gone 
 through. It was terrible to see him when you were in such 
 danger, Lisa; he reproached himself so much with being the 
 cause of it.' 
 
 * Poor Percy, he couldn't help it,' Lisa exclaimed sorrowfully. 
 
 * It was all that unfortunate mistake. But now he need never 
 think of it again ; it is all over, and we shall be as happy as we 
 used to be. Poor Arthur and Nelly too ! I am so sorry for 
 them.' 
 
 She lay for a few minutes lost in thought, and then added, 
 
 * Do you remember our talk in the old schoolroom at home, Mary, 
 the day before I was married'? I want to show you now what a 
 good housekeeper I am, and how well I can manage things. Lane 
 helps me, to be sure, a great deal ; but still I think I am getting 
 on by degrees. I hope so ; for I do try, really.' She lowered 
 lier voice a little. ' You remember what you said to me that 
 same day about trying in the right way 1 I don't think I have 
 forgotten it ; it has helped me very often,' and she looked at her 
 cousin with tears in her eyes. ^ I wonder what I should have 
 done without you, Marj^ You have always helped me in so 
 many, many ways. Do you know, when I see you sitting by 
 my side, and looking so exactly as you used, I could fancy all 
 those old times had come back, and we were at the Priory to- 
 gether again.' 
 
 Mary smiled too. She could almost have fancied the same 
 herself ; so unaltered was the fair girlish face before her ; and so 
 unchanged was the little Lisa of former days, that it was diffi- 
 cult to realise the fact of her being a wife and mother. She 
 could have imagined the last few months a dream, and her cousin 
 still the child, who at one time had been her all-absorbing care. 
 For some minutes she sat and looked at her in silence till Lisa 
 laid her hand on hers, and asked her what she was sighing for. 
 
 * Was I sighing 1 I did not know it. But I was thinking of 
 you, Lisa; washing, I believe, that you were my child again. 
 How happy we were in those old days ! ' 
 
254 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 * Very ! ' and Lisa looked at her cousin gratefully. * How kind 
 you were to me, Mary ! ' 
 
 ^ You would not have had me unkind, would you ? ' said 
 Mary, with a laugh. * But, my dear Lisa,' she exclaimed sud- 
 denly, * what have you done to your arm ? When did you hurt 
 yourself in that way?' She pointed to her wrist^ which had 
 evidently been much hurt ; and which, although the heavy bruises 
 that had discoloured it were fading away, still looked dark and 
 swollen. 
 
 Lisa coloured deeply, and hastily drew down her sleeve. 
 
 ' It was an accident,' she said. * It 's nothing. I don't feel it 
 now.' 
 
 ' But how did you do it, and why have you never said any- 
 thing about it 1 It must have pained you very much.' 
 
 * Did it 1 I don't remember. There have been other things 
 so much worse that I 've forgotten. It will be well in a few 
 days.' 
 
 It was plain that enough had been said about it in her opin- 
 ion ; and Mary, perceiving that for some reason she did not want 
 to have any notice taken of it, began to talk of something else. 
 She might have forgotten the circumstance altogether had not 
 Percy himself, the next day, happened, in some unguarded move- 
 ment of Lisa's, to see and remark on the same bruises. She tried 
 to divert his thoughts from herself to the baby, but her anxiety 
 to avoid the subject attracted his attention, and for a few minutes 
 he sat without speaking, his eyes fixed on the place where her 
 hand had been lying. Then some recollection seemed to come 
 back suddenly, for his face changed, and a look of such sadness 
 — such deep pain — came over it, that Lisa, who was watching 
 him uneasily, saw in a moment he remembered everything. Put- 
 ting out her hand again, she caught hold of one^of his in her im- 
 petuous way, and covered it with kisses. 
 
 ' Dear Percy, don't look like that. It 's not worth being sorry 
 about — indeed it isn't. You would never have seen it if I were 
 not so stupid, and always show any little hurts so easily. Mary, 
 please tell him it 's nothing — don't let him make himself un- 
 happy. I can't bear to see it.' The tears were in her eyes as 
 she spoke. 
 
 Mary was puzzled, and looked at her brother doubtfully. 
 
 * Yes, it is all true,' he said sadly. * It was my doing. I had 
 forgotten the whole of my cruelty that evening ; but I remember 
 
PAST AND FUTURE. 2S5 
 
 it now. O Lisa, my darling, I have treated you shamefully. 
 And the worst of it is, I cannot undo it. As long as I live, 
 there must be the remembrance that I behaved most cruelly to 
 
 you' 
 
 But Lisa covered up his mouth, and would not let him go on. 
 
 * You didn't, Percy ; I won't hear you say such things. You 
 were not unkind to me — you were not cruel. You couldn't help 
 that mistake — and you don't think I love you one bit less for it, 
 do you ? If I were free now, and could have my choice again, I 
 would come back to you, and think there was no one like you. 
 1^1 you could have thought me wrong, and cared so little as not to 
 make yourself unhappy, I should have felt you didn't love me. 
 But as it is, I know you do love me, and very much too ; eh, 
 Percy 1 ' she said, looking at him with one of her shy smiles. 
 
 * And I like to know it ; it makes me very happy. So don't you 
 see there is nothing to be sorry for — nothing at all.' 
 
 But even Lisa's reasoning, convincing as she considered it, 
 could not persuade Percy there was nothing to regret in the past. 
 T\\e look of sadness did not leave his face ; and his eye still rested 
 wi\h the same expression of pain on her hand, as it grasped his 
 own. 
 
 * Well, if you won't think there is nothing to be sorry for, you 
 can say, at least, we shall never talk of it again. 
 
 He kissed her, but made no other answer ; and then, getting 
 up abruptly, left the room. 
 
 Lisa looked after him very sorrowfully as he went away. 
 
 ' Poor Percy ! ' she said. * How I wish he would never think 
 of that again. I can't bear to see him looking so grave and sad, 
 as he always does now, just as if he could never be happy any 
 more. Even baby isn't half the pleasure to him I thought she would 
 be. I heard him give such a long sigh this morning when he had 
 her in his arms; it quite made my heart ache. I wish we could 
 persuade him, Mary, to forget everything, and be like himself 
 again.' 
 
 * And so he will in time,' Mary said ; * when he once sees you 
 well again, he won't think of the past. It is his anxiety about 
 you which prevents his forgetting it at present.' 
 
 * Ah, well, he won't have long to wait then,' said Lisa brightly. 
 
 * If I get on as fast as I have done the last three days, I shall 
 soon be down-stairs again, and then — he won't be miserable any 
 more, for I sha'n't let him,' 
 
256 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 'HERSELF A WITNESS OF KINDLY THOUGHT.' 
 
 A WEEK or two later, Percy, who liad been away at Hoole again 
 for some days, came back to find Lisa dressed for the first 
 time, and sitting on a sofa in her room; looking so much 
 brighter — so much more like her old self, that the sight of hor 
 brought an unexpected thrill of pleasure to his heart. A very 
 pretty picture she made, as she sat there in her white wrappe2', 
 with its bows of pink ribbon, and a softened, shaded light fall- 
 ing on her golden hair and pale delicate features. Very happj', 
 too, she looked, as she bent over the baby on her knee; fondling 
 and talking to it in her eager way. And as her eye fell on her 
 husband's tall figure in the doorway a bright smile and colour 
 lighted up her countenance. 
 
 ^ Why, Lisa, you look almost yourself again,' was his greet- 
 ing, in a tone of such happiness that both smile and coloar 
 grew brighter. * I didn't expect to see so much improvement as 
 this, though Mary did send me such good reports. You must 
 take care, dearest, and not run any risk by doing too much.' 
 He crossed the room as he spoke. 
 
 ' No fear of my doing too much,' Lisa said, when both she 
 and the child had been kissed at least a dozen times. * Mary 
 is so dreadfully prudent — she is always lecturing me about keep- 
 ing quiet.* 
 
 ' And she is quite right ; I am very much obliged to her,' 
 Percy said. * She knows how much I prize my treasures, and 
 how thankful I have been to have her to look after them while 
 I was away.' 
 
 Lisa smiled. ' Ah ! she is very good to me. I think every- 
 body is very good. Do you know, such a number of people 
 have been to ask after me. And Lane says so many persons 
 stop her when she is out to look at baby, and ask how I am. It 
 is very kind of them, isn't it % ' 
 
 *Very.' There was something bitter in his tone. *It is 
 
' HERSELF A WITNESS OF KINDLY THOUGHT-' 257 
 
 the least they can do/ he added, stooping down again over h\H 
 child. 
 
 Lisa looked as if she did not understand him. * I think it 's 
 very kind of them,' she said. ^ For we have not been here very 
 long, Percy, and there are not many people that we really know 
 well. Oh, and Mrs Thetford has been — did you know that? 
 She has called several times. I am so glad; because the last 
 time I met Ada I thought she was rather strange, and I was 
 afraid I had offended her. But they were here yesterday, and 
 Lane said she was quite disappointed she couldn't see me. She 
 was delighted with baby, though — she thinks her so pretty. 
 But every one must think that,' said Lisa with great pride. 
 ' Percy,' she added, in a lower tone, * I think God has been very 
 good to me to give me this dear little baby — and very good, too, 
 to keep me all this time, and make me so happy. I never 
 thought, once, I should be so happy. I thought I was dying. 
 I shall be very glad when I can go to church, and say those 
 prayers ; you know which I mean. I can say little prayers at 
 home of course, but it will be much better when I can thank Him 
 there ; and you and Mary will go too. You will thank Him 
 with me, won't you'?' 
 
 Percy kissed her. * You don't think I have waited for you to 
 go to church, Lisa, to do that,' he said ; and then there was a 
 little silence, she looking at her child, and he looking out over 
 the sea, recalling the bitterness of feeling with which, some time 
 before, he had often watched the rise and fall of those same 
 waters — the sparkling of the same sunlight which now seemed 
 so joyous and brilliant. 
 
 Lisa broke the silence, rousing him from his reverie by want- 
 ing to hear what he had been doing while he was away. After 
 which she had a great deal to tell him in return; and her tones 
 were so joyous, her eye was so bright, that his heart grew light 
 as he watched her — lighter than it had been for many a long 
 day. She saw his face clearing. 
 
 * Ah! this is better than the last time you came back from 
 Hoole,' she said. *What a miserable day that was! Audit 
 was my fault — because I was so stupid. Percy,' she added, * I 
 have never told you anything about that — do you mind my 
 telling you now?' And then, seeing his face change, ^Not if 
 you don't like. I know you don't want to think of it again if 
 you can help ; only I should like to tell you about that walk. It 
 
 R 
 
258 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 made me so unhappy wlien you fancied I could do anything you 
 didn't wish ; and I have never told you yet that I wasn't really 
 alone — that Arthur was with me.' It was said with some hesita- 
 tion ; and she watched his face anxiously as she spoke. 
 
 * I know it,' was all he said. 
 < You know it r 
 
 ^ Yes. I heard it afterwards, Lisa,' speaking with an effort. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' Poor innocent Lisa ! until that moment she had not 
 half understood his allusions on that terrible night of Arthur's 
 last visit to the cottage; but now something seemed for the first 
 time to enlighten her, and her face and neck were dyed crimson 
 in a moment: For some minutes she was silent, sitting with 
 her head bent down over her baby; striving in vain, it appeared, 
 to regain her composure. When she spoke at last, it was with- 
 out looking up. 
 
 * Percy, please let me tell you how it was. I must now really, 
 because I know I have been very wrong. Wrong, I mean, in 
 not being open with you. I want you to hear how it was; and 
 then we'll never talk of it again. May I tell you, please?' 
 
 * Tell me anything you like, dearest.' And she did not see 
 the look which told how much he shrank from a revival of those 
 painful recollections. * Tell me anything you like, dearest, if it 
 will make you happier.' 
 
 ' I think it will : at any rate, I would rather feel you under- 
 stood exactly how it was. You know,' going on rather hurriedly, 
 * I had found out about Arthur and Nelly. I found it out the 
 very day you came home — quite by accident. I 'm sure I wish 
 I hadn't; I've often wished so. I went to see little Fanny 
 that afternoon, and when I came back I found Nelly and Arthur 
 together on the garden-steps. I didn't think anything of it till 
 just as I came up; and then I heard him say something — I for- 
 get now what it was; but he called her something — his *'own 
 dearest," I believe;' and in spite of her embarrassment, Lisa 
 smiled a little. * And I saw he had his arm round her. Of 
 course, I couldn't help guessing then how it was; and I was 
 very glad, and told them so. I thought Arthur looked very odd 
 when I said it; and by-and-by it came out — that I had found 
 out something I ought not. I was very angry then, Percy. 
 Fancy Nelly having been engaged all those months, and no one 
 knowing anything of it — not even uncle Henry, who is so kind. 
 I can't tell how she could ever think of it, or how Arthur could 
 
' HEKSELF A WITNESS OF KINDLY THOUGHT.* 259 
 
 ask her; it was so wrong. But when I told them they ought to 
 tell, they said it was impossible, for Aunt Helen would never 
 hear of such an engagement, and therefore it was useless to say 
 anything about it j it would only make her angry for nothing. And 
 then I told them, if they didn't tell, I must; for that if I knew a 
 secret like that, and let him be coming here to meet Elinor, it 
 would be helping to deceive you, and that was a thing I would 
 never do. Nelly cried then; she said I was unkind, for she 
 knew if it came out she should be sent back to Atherstone and 
 never see Arthur again. She left us at last, and ran indoors ; 
 and then Arthur and I walked on the beach for ever so long 
 talking about it,' 
 
 Lisa gave a sigh as she raised her head, and looked up at her 
 husband for the first time. 
 
 * That was our walk, Percy — the walk when you thought I 
 was alone. He wouldn't promise me anything then, but he did 
 afterwards. He came again that afternoon_, and told me he had 
 been thinking of it, and that they wouldn't keep it a secret any 
 longer; he would write to Uncle Henry. You came home, Percy, 
 while we were talking; and I was so tired and so vexed that I 
 couldn't help crying. I wasn't sure Arthur would really tell, 
 and I did so hate knowing a secret like that ! And then you 
 asked me about that walk — you didn't see both Arthur and 
 Nelly look at me to stop me when I was going to tell you how 
 it was. Nelly looked so imploring, that I couldn't go on — I 
 stopped; and afterwards I didn't know how to explain. I saw 
 you didn't like it, and that made me sorry.' 
 
 ' My poor little Lisa !' 
 
 * Yes, I know I was silly. I was very unhappy at having 
 vexed you ; but then I thought it was only for a short time, just 
 till Arthur had written to Uncle Henry, so I tried not to mind 
 it. But the next day Elinor was ill. Ah, Percy, you do not 
 know how miserable I was then ! You saw it, didn't you 1 
 You asked me sometimes what was the matter with me. I 
 couldn't tell you why I was so unhappy about her; but,' and 
 Lisa's voice dropped, ' I thought if she died, it would be my 
 doing ; and it was such a dreadful thought ! ' 
 
 ' Poor child ! ' Percy said, drawing her closer to him. 
 
 * You don't wonder I was miserable. Percy, if I could only 
 have come to you for a little bit of comfort now and then, and 
 have told you how it all was, I should have been so glad ! But 
 
260 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 I promised Nelly no one should know a word about it till she 
 was well again ; so I was obliged to keep it to myself. When 
 she got better, and Arthur came home, the first thing he did 
 was to come here to see you. He would have told you every- 
 thing then ; but you were away, you know.' 
 
 She stopped, for she saw how Percy shrank from recollections 
 of that night. 
 
 * I am so sorry,' she added after a pause, * that I displeased 
 you so much. You must scold me for it now, please. I am 
 quite well enough to bear anything you like to say ; and you 
 must tell me how wrong I was, and I '11 try and be better for the 
 future.' 
 
 * Tell you how wrong / was, you mean,' said Percy, looking 
 at the pale face and tearful eyes which she raised to his, as if 
 really expecting the scolding she asked for. ' No, Lisa,' with a 
 heavy sigh, * the best thing we can both do now is to forget it 
 if we can. You have told me all you wanted; and it only 
 proves to me, what I felt before, how harsh and unjust I was to 
 you. Never mind it now,' he added, as she was beginning an 
 eager, indignant disclaimer. * You know some of the excuse, 
 such as it was, that I had ; and you know how bitterly I have 
 repented it since. And now let us leave it — let us forget, if we 
 can, that it ever happened.' 
 
 There was a touch of peremptoriness in his tone, and for a 
 few moments Lisa was silent ; but she looked up after a time. 
 
 * Percy, I want to ask you something. You won't be angry 
 with me, will you 1 ' 
 
 * Angry with you, dearest ! ' He was walking up and down 
 the room with his child in his arms, but paused at her sofa. 
 * What makes you think such a thing 1 You are not so afraid of 
 me, are you, that you should mind asking me anything ? ' There 
 was a little sadness in his tone, and she knew what he was think- 
 ing of. 
 
 ' Oh no, no — not that; only ' She hesitated. ' I don't want 
 
 to vex you; and I'm afraid you will not like this' She 
 
 looked at him again, and he smiled. 
 
 * Never mind whether I like it or not, little woman ; let me 
 hear it, at any rate,' sitting down by her side. ' What is it ? ' 
 
 * It is about Arthur and Nelly,' she went on with some hesi- 
 tation. * You are not angry with them, are you 1 Ah, it 's 
 no use asking you, for I see you are — I am so sorry ! ' Her face 
 
^HERSELF A WITNESS OF KINDLY THOUGHT.' 261 
 
 fell; and Percy, who now less than ever could bear to see 
 the slightest shade upon it, moved uneasily, but made no 
 answer. 
 
 * I was afraid you were,' she said sadly, * and it makes me so 
 sorry ! I know you have a great deal to forgive — far more than 
 
 any one else ; but still I hoped ' Her voice was faltering. 
 
 * Only think how unhappy they are.' 
 
 * Very probably,' he answered. ^ People are generally sorry 
 when they bring trouble on themselves. I wouldn't give much 
 for that kind of sorrow, Lisa.' 
 
 ' But it isn't only that with them. You must remember they 
 had made up their minds to tell all before it came out as it did ; 
 if Arthur had not had that accident, you would have heard every- 
 thing. Percy, they were wrong — but every one is wrong at 
 times ; and if they meant to do right ' 
 
 * I have nothing to do with that/ was the answer. * What 
 they meant to do is no affair of mine. It was never done ; and 
 whether it ever would have been, whether they really intended 
 what they said, no one can tell now. I can only go by what 
 they did, and, unfortunately, actions are truer interpreters of 
 men's intentions than any words can be.' 
 
 * But, Percy, do you think it right to doubt a person's good 
 intentions always because they have failed once 1 Wouldn't it 
 be better to trust them, and try to think that, though they 
 have been wrong, they may still wish to begin right again ? You 
 said yesterday that very likely we may have to go out to the 
 Cape this autumn. Will you go away without speaking one kind 
 word to them, or letting them think you have forgiven them 1 
 It would be so very hard if you did.' 
 
 Percy was silent ; he sat looking at his child without raising 
 his head. 
 
 * I know they were wrong,' Lisa said ; * but who isn't wrong 
 sometimes ? And then, think what it is for them to have to give 
 each other up, and to know that perhaps they may never meet 
 again. O Percy, if I had been in Nelly's place, and afraid of 
 losing you, I might have done as she did. I can't tell. I was 
 never tried.' 
 
 ' Never, Lisa, never ; you are wronging yourself. You never 
 would have acted as they did. And you must remember that 
 whatever they have to bear, they have brought on themselves. 
 They cannot be surprised if they get more blame than pity.' 
 
262 ATHERSTONE PRIORY, 
 
 He spoke sternly, and Lisa made no answer. But when, after 
 a long pause, Percy looked up, he saw that her eyes were full of 
 tears. He was seized with compunction at once. 
 
 * Why, Lisa, my darling, I have not made you cry 1 Don't 
 do that, dearest,' in great distress. ^ You are not going to make 
 yourself unhappy about those two, are you ? Are you thinking 
 me very hard and unjust because I can't think of them as I 
 used to do?' 
 
 ^ISTot exactly unjust,' Lisa said, struggling to speak clearly. 
 ' But still I — I wish you could think differently. And I couldn't 
 help thinking too, that if they 're to be judged so hardly for this 
 one wrong thing, what will become of me, who am always doing 
 wrong. There will be no chance for me, I am afraid.' 
 
 ' No chance for you, my poor child i Why, what have you 
 ever done V was Percy's answer, murmured more to himself, 
 however, than spoken aloud; and then he fell into a deep 
 reverie. * But what do you want me to do, Lisa V he asked at 
 length. 
 
 Lisa looked up, but it was very shyly, though her eyes 
 brightened. * I don't know exactly ; only — I thought that — that 
 
 perhaps ' Her shyness was increasing. * Don't you think 
 
 you might go and see Arthur? He would like it so much, I am 
 sure ; for, poor fellow, he is very lonely. Mary went up to the 
 Lodge the other day, and found him all alone ; and — and she 
 made me so sorry for him. I am sure he feels it all very much ; 
 and she says, Percy, that he thinks more of you than of any one, 
 
 because — you know why ' and her colour deepened. ' I am 
 
 afraid he thinks you can never forgive him.' 
 
 Percy was silent ; but he looked at Lisa's pleading face, and 
 then at the sleeping child upon his knee, and for a long time he 
 sat lost in thought. For some minutes she watched him anxiously ; 
 but he turned round at last, and smiled then as he met her 
 gaze. 
 
 ' And you want me to go and see him, do you ? But, Lisa, I 
 can't ; he is gone.' 
 
 * Gone I ' and her face fell again. * Ah, yes, Mary told me he 
 was going. Colonel Crawford has another tutor now for his 
 boys. But where has he gone V 
 
 ' I don't know. But it is not for long, dearest,' seeing her 
 disappointed look. *He will be back in a week or two, I 
 believe.' 
 
^ LET THE DEAD PAST BURY ITS DEAD.' 263 
 
 ' And you will see him then ? Dear Percy, thank you/ as he 
 smiled. ' How good you are ! ' 
 
 ' Not very good, Lisa ; it is only what you say I ought Jo do/ 
 he answered lightly. 
 
 ' But it makes me very happy,' she said, with a look which 
 made his face brighten, and then the subject was dropped. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 'LET THE DEAD PAST BUEY ITS DEAD.' 
 
 It was one sunny afternoon in August, that Lisa was lying on a 
 sofa on the garden lawn, under the shade of an acacia-tree — the 
 same tree beneath which she and Arthur had sat together on 
 just such another sunny day, in quite the early summer — on that 
 day which had been to her the beginning of so many troubles. 
 
 It was a warm bright afternoon now, as it had been then, with 
 sunshine on sea and land, with the deepest of deep blue skies 
 seen through the pale green leaves, and all around a murmur of 
 pleasant sounds — of the falling tide, of the chirp and hum of 
 bird and insect, of the chime of distant bells from some village 
 church across the bay. It was just such an afternoon when to 
 lie there doing nothing would have seemed the perfection of 
 enjoyment. But Lisa did not appear to have found it so. She 
 had been alone a long time, both Percy and Mary being out ; 
 and even her baby was away. Lane having taken her to the 
 beach ; and as she lay there in undisturbed solitude, she looked 
 tired and very sad. There was a book in her hand, but she was 
 not reading it — her head was resting back upon her pillows ] but 
 although her eyes were closed, there was no expression of repose 
 upon her face. On the contrary, it wore a painful look, which 
 showed that whatever her thoughts might be, they had not 
 brought the happiness that might have belonged to such a 
 
264 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 summer's day. The sound of steps upon the gravel walk, after 
 more than an hour had gone by, made her look up hastily, and 
 the sad expression was gone from her face in a moment. In its 
 place there came a smile. 
 
 * Percy, I am so glad you are come ! ' but she stopped 
 short, for it was not her husband who was coming towards her. 
 She looked again. Could it be 1 Yes ; though the sunlight was 
 in her eyes, she saw in a moment who it was : paler and thinner 
 than before ; but there was no mistaking him — it Avas Arthur ; 
 and the deep crimson colour mounted to Lisa's face as she 
 recognised him. For a minute he seemed almost as much 
 embarrassed as herself. 
 
 * I beg your pardon, Lisa ; I didn't know you were alone,* he 
 began with some shyness — a most unusual thing with him. * I 
 thought Percy was always at home at this time.' 
 
 * Never mind,' Lisa said, trying to shake off her own embar- 
 rassment. * He will be here directly.' 
 
 * He asked me to come,' Arthur said. * I only got back this 
 morning ; and Ff ound a note at the Lodge from him, so I thought 
 I would call. Didn't he tell you he had WTitten?' 
 
 ' No,' and Lisa looked infinitely relieved. * But I am very 
 glad to see you, Arthur, though I didn't expect you. Where 
 have you been all this time V 
 
 ' Staying with some friends at Ryde. It was a chance I came 
 back here at all. I thought you had all thrown me overboard, 
 and I intended to keep out of your way. But I heard from Colonel 
 Crawford yesterday, asking me to come over and see his brother 
 about an engagement they wanted me to make; and then at 
 Lassell Lodge I found Percy's note. I — well, never mind, I 
 didn't know he 'd have written as he did ; and so,' he added, 
 with a smile, ' here I am.' 
 
 Lisa smiled too. ^I am so glad !' but, warmly as she spoke, 
 both felt there was some constraint between them. 
 
 'You are not quite well yet, are you, Arthur? You don't 
 look so,' she remarked, after a long pause. 
 
 * Don't 1 1 But a fellow can't get such a knock on the head 
 and not feel it for some time. Not that it w^as that unlucky 
 tumble, though, that did it all. I should have got over it much 
 sooner if it hadn't been for ' 
 
 ' Thinking of Nelly, I suppose,' said Lisa, with some hesita- 
 tion, as he paused. * Poor Nelly !' 
 
' LET THE DEAD PAST BUKY ITS DEAD.' 265 
 
 There was a sigh from him. ' Yes, there was the thought of 
 her, and all I had brought upon her ; and then they told me of 
 you, Lisa.' 
 
 * I am very, very sorry,' Lisa exclaimed. ' You don*t know, 
 Arthur, how sorry I have been for you all along.' 
 
 * Sorry ! have youl' and he looked up with rather a melan- 
 choly smile. * I should have thought you would have been 
 angry, not sorry. You have suffered enough through me. I 
 don't think I deserved much pity from anybody, and I wasn't 
 surprised I didn't get it from most of them. They had a right to 
 be angry, I know ; and my uncle, perhaps, more than any of 
 them. He was bitter enough, certainly, and didn't spare me in 
 any way ; or rather my aunt didn't : for it was her doing, of 
 course. Well, I deserved it all, I suppose ; but I can't say I 
 felt it any tlie less for that. For, selfish and inconsiderate as I 
 was in my treatment of Nelly, I did love her, Lisa. I love her 
 still — all the more because I have lost her for ever.' 
 
 * I don't believe it is for ever,' Lisa exclaimed. ' I won't 
 believe it. She loves you, Arthur ; you know she does, as well 
 as you love her. And by-and-by — in a few years, when you 
 have a home to give her. Uncle Henry won't refuse his consent. 
 You will be married some day ; see if you are not.' 
 
 Arthur shook his head. ' You didn't see his letter, or you 
 would know how impossible it is. My aunt made him write it, 
 I know ', but it comes to the same thing. No,' — and there was 
 a dreary sigh, — * I know I have no chance ; and it is better to 
 face the thought and have done with it, rather than be always 
 clinging to hopes that must come to nothing.' 
 
 ^ And you mean to forget her, then,' Lisa said, half reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 ' I said nothing about forgetting — I can't do that,' was the 
 answer ; and there was a long silence, which was not broken 
 until voices were heard approaching, and Mary and Percy turned 
 the corner of the house. Then Arthur started up, but he did 
 not go to meet them j and as he saw Percy's glass raised to 
 ascertain who the visitor was, and heard Mary's exclamation of 
 astonishment, he stood for a moment, looldng so very awkward 
 that, although her own embarrassment was almost as great, 
 Lisa could not help pitying him. His awkwardness dimi- 
 nished rapidly, however, when Mary ran forward to meet him * 
 and it vanished altogether before Percy's hearty shake of the 
 
266 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 hand, and his 'Ah, Arthur, how are you? I'm glad to see 
 you/ 
 
 The words did not say much, and the tone as little ; but that 
 warm shake of the hand was more expressive, and Arthur was 
 restored to ease at once. 
 
 * He thought he should have found you at home,* Lisa said. 
 
 * But you are late to-day, are you not 1 ' 
 
 * Yes, rather ; I was kept ; but it 's all right, dearest. I asked 
 him to come :' and there was a grave smile on his face as she 
 raised her eyes to his with a whispered, * I was so glad to see 
 him again, Percy.' j 
 
 That smile was gone, however, when, after a few common- ] 
 
 places had been exchanged, he and Arthur, as if by mutual con- \ 
 
 sent, found themselves moving off towards one of the side-paths, : 
 
 where perhaps they felt they could speak more freely of what \ 
 
 both would be glad to get off their minds. j 
 
 ' I never had one thought towards her which you might not ] 
 
 have known,' were Arthur's first words then, and they brought a ■ 
 
 shadow over Percy's face. It was with something of sadness in ] 
 
 his tone that he said, almost humbly — j 
 
 * I know it, Arthur. I might have trusted both you and her j 
 more. Will you forgive me*?' \ 
 
 It was all that ever passed between them on the subject ; for ; 
 Arthur, who had come half expecting reproaches, was deeply 
 
 touched by the tone in which those few words were spoken, and { 
 
 could only grasp his cousin's hand in silence. They talked long i 
 
 afterwards, as they paced backwards and forwards on one of the ] 
 
 gravel walks, but it was not of that ; it was done with and i 
 
 dismissed for ever. Their conversation had the effect of raising ; 
 
 Arthur's spirits ; and when they returned to Lisa's sofa, he was ; 
 
 far more like himself than when he had first come in. They got \ 
 
 back as Lane made her appearance with the child in her arms, ' 
 and Lisa called to her. 
 
 ' Arthur has never seen baby yet,' she said. ' He will like to \ 
 
 see her, I am sure.' And Percy himself strode off to fetch the : 
 
 child. ; 
 
 * There 's your piccaninny,' he said, laying it in Lisa's laj). = 
 
 * And now, Arthur, do your duty, and admire her properly. If ' 
 you like large babies, you won't think much of her, for I believe ■ 
 she is about one of the smallest specimens of the genus that ever ; 
 was seen. But Lisa says that is ail the better : she considers ; 
 
' LET THE DEAD PAST BUEY ITS DEAD.' 267 
 
 large babies common and plebeian, and thinks this one greatly- 
 improved by being such a dot.' 
 
 The ' dot ' had a tiny hand clutched very tight round one of 
 his fingers as he knelt by the side of the sofa j and the action, 
 while it held him prisoner, gave him an excuse for admiring her 
 to his heart's content, even if Arthur could not be persuaded into 
 doing the same. 
 
 ^ But he really must — he can't help it,' Lisa cried. ' She is 
 such a beauty. Look at her, Arthur ; come round here, you 
 can't see her there,' she exclaimed eagerly ; and Arthur came 
 round accordingly, being secretly puzzled to discover in what 
 the difference consisted between this particular specimen of 
 babyhood and those that might be met with anywhere ; but he 
 was wise enough not to say so, and after some contemplation of the 
 little article, during which Lisa expatiated largely on its various 
 beauties, he remarked — 
 
 *Well, it's a pretty little thing, certainly. I shouldn't 
 wonder,' making a dash at a compliment, * if it were to grow up 
 very good-looking — something like you.' 
 
 Lisa pouted. * How stupid you are, Arthur ! That is such 
 half-and-half praise. And why do you call her "it"? as if you 
 were not sure whether she were a boy or a girl.' 
 
 Arthur laughed a little. * To tell the truth, I was not quite 
 sure,' he said ; * for I didn't hear whether you talked of him or 
 her. But it 's a ** she," is it? And what is its name V 
 
 ' Lisa Mary. Not very pretty is it ? Mary Isabel would have 
 been much prettier. But it was Percy's doing. We shan't call 
 her Lisa, though ; for I don't want her to be like me — a naughty 
 good-for-nothing thing. She must grow up something much 
 better,' 
 
 ' Not a Scaramouch, I suppose ?' said Arthur, with one of his 
 old looks ; and as Lisa laughed, he added, ^ Well, it seems 
 queer certainly to see you setting up for a mother. Are you sure 
 it's not a mistake?' 
 
 * Ah, you think I am not old enough to take care of her,' Lisa 
 said, a little sorrowfully. * Everybody seems to think so. But I 
 shall. I love her so much that I am sure I shall learn to be a 
 good mother. And you know I shall not always be so young as 
 I am now. Perhaps some day I may turn out quite good and 
 wise like Mary; who knows ?' she said with a smile. 
 
 Arthur was silent. He was struck at that moment by the 
 
268 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. \ 
 
 \ 
 extreme delicacy of Lisa's appearance ; and while she was speak- i 
 ing, he had been thinking more of that than listening to what j 
 she said. i 
 
 As she sat bending over her baby, he looked at her wasted and | 
 almost transparent hand, and at her thin face, where the fitful I 
 colour came with the exertion of speaking, and then, fading away i 
 when she was silent, left it as white as the dress she wore ; and I 
 a most painful feeling came over him. The fragile delicate look | 
 of both mother and child brought a sudden misgiving to his : 
 mind ; and he glanced involuntarily at Percy, expecting to see \ 
 the same fear reflected in his face. But Percy was too accus- | 
 tomed to Lisa's appearance to notice anything amiss ; and Arthur, \ 
 relieved by his unconcern, dismissed as groundless the almost \ 
 nameless dread which for a moment had taken possession of him. 1 
 It returned, however, in spite of himself many times during the • 
 evening ; and not understanding how soon those about an in- i 
 valid become accustomed to symptoms which strike a stranger so i 
 forcibly, he wondered how Percy, wrapped up in her as he was, ; 
 could fail to notice the languor and exhaustion which stole over . 
 her from time to time, and which all her high spirits could not \ 
 conceal. So apparent was it that he could not help remarking i 
 on it, and saying that she did not seem to be getting up her j 
 strength very fast. Lisa's look at him, however, as he made the ; 
 observation, though he did not understand it, was such an im- J 
 ploring one that he stopped suddenly. \ 
 
 ^1 am a great deal stronger than I was some time ago,' she ■ 
 said hastily. * But this happens to be one of my bad days. | 
 Baby was very cross all morning, and that tired me out. She is \ 
 not always so, though, and some days I am much better ; I shall 
 be quite strong again soon.' 
 
 * Yes, she only wants change of air now,' Percy said. * Dr i 
 Mapleston won't let her travel yet ; but directly he says she may ; 
 go, I shall take her down to Atherstone. A month there will set I 
 her up again — won't it, Lisa 1 ' i 
 
 She smiled. ' Yes, I am sure it will. Why, only thinking of j 
 it almost makes me well. It will be such a pleasure to see the ' 
 dear old Priory and everybody again !' j 
 
 Arthur's prospects were then discussed, and much was said of ] 
 the engagement he had made to go abroad as travelling tutor for ' 
 some months, of his intention of returning to England for a few ; 
 days in October to go up for his voluntary, and his hopes of i 
 
^ LET THE DEAD PAST BURY ITS DEAD/ 269 
 
 being ordained in tlie spring — of all of which he talked unre- 
 servedly, though not so lightly as he would have done a short 
 time back. Lisa was struck by the difference in his tone, and 
 she liked him all the better for the change. 
 
 * When shall we see you again?' she asked, as he rose at 
 length to take leave. 
 
 * I don't know. I must be off to Eyde to-morrow for a day 
 or two, and I don't suppose I shall be able to get down here 
 again before we leave England. But I shall try and run down 
 when I come back in October. 
 
 ^ I hope you will come,' she said with a smile. ^ And, Arthur, 
 I am very glad you have been here to-day ; I should have been 
 so sorry if you had gone away and thought we had all given 
 you up ! You won't mind w^aiting for Nelly now. I feel sure 
 you will see her again some day, and you will both be very 
 happy.' 
 
 He made no answer, but he took the hand she held out to 
 him ; and, as if moved by some sudden impulse, raised it to his 
 lips. 
 
 * Good-bye, Lisa — God bless you !' was all he said, and turn- 
 ing away hastily, the next moment he was gone. 
 
 He left Gainsford on the following morning ; and a few days 
 later he went abroad. But in other lands, and amidst foreign 
 scenes, that look and smile of hers long haunted him ; and in 
 after-years, when other memories were fading, they were with 
 him still. 
 
270 ATHERSTONE PRIORY, \ 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 A VOICE FROM THE QUIET LAND. \ 
 
 i 
 
 It was strange that the fears which had startled Arthur had never \ 
 suggested themselves to Percy. It never seemed to strike him i 
 how slow Lisa's fancied recovery was. Casual acquaintance who ] 
 came to the house saw the change which each day made in her \ 
 appearance ; but while they pitied the husband who could so \ 
 blind himself to what was passing before his eyes, there was not J 
 one to tell him that the hopes on which he was building must ] 
 sooner or later fade away. | 
 
 Even Mary was as much deceived as he was, and accustomed ] 
 to the weakness which she had so long witnessed, did not think i 
 so much of it as she would have done had she seen it for the first ■ 
 time ; while Lisa's own high spirits contributed in no small de- \ 
 gree to keep up the deception. i 
 
 Mary was the first of those around her, however, to wake up to i 
 the realities of the case ; and although for some time she was , 
 slow in taking in the full extent of her cousin's danger, the know- ■ 
 ledge of it came upon her by degrees, and only too surely. For i 
 a short time, indeed, she still doubted and hoped on, trusting j 
 that she might yet be mistaken ; but as she watched Lisa's daily . 
 increasing languor, and mentally contrasted her small amount of 
 strength now with what it had been even a week or two before, • 
 she could at last no longer doubt, and the truth of all her worst ; 
 convictions gradually forced itself upon her mind. j 
 
 It was a terrible blow to her ; and when she heard from Dr j 
 Mapleston, whom she questioned on the subject, that her fears ] 
 were only too well founded, she was completely overcome. The ^ 
 thought of losing her little Lisa was too much for her, and her \ 
 grief at first was beyond control ; many bitter tears being shed - 
 in solitude before she could learn to face her sorrow, and gather '• 
 strength for the trial that was slowly but surely coming. Very ] 
 hard, too, it was to keep her grief to herself ; and harder still to ; 
 wear a cheerful face, and hear hopes spoken of which she knew ^ 
 now could never be realised. Happily, however, this part of her ■ 
 
A VOICE FROM THE QUIET LAND. 271 
 
 trial would not last long, for Lisa, she knew, ought to be pre- 
 pared for what was coming ; and much as she shrank from the 
 task of telling her what her danger was, she felt she ought not 
 to let her go on deceiving herself. 
 
 But both that day and the next her cousin was better, and, as 
 usual on such occasions, was in almost wildly extravagant spirits; 
 and she played so merrily with her baby, and talked so gaily to 
 Percy, that Mary found it impossible to cast a shadow upon 
 their happiness. She almost felt, indeed, as if she were mis- 
 taken ; so impossible did it seem that anything so bright and 
 full of life as her cousin looked was, in truth, fast passing 
 away. 
 
 But the following morning was sultry in the extreme ; and 
 Lisa lay upon the sofa in her own room, working, indeed, and 
 making every effort to appear as well as she had been the two 
 last days ; but with such a look of languor about her, that it 
 was evident she was only overtasking her strength : and as Mary 
 sat by her side, and saw the hectic flush upon her face, and felt 
 her burning hand, her fears came back again, and she began once 
 more to realise how little hope there was of their proving ground- 
 less. 
 
 ' Why don't you leave off, and rest a little, dear Lisa 1 ' she 
 said at last ; ' and then you will be fresh for Percy in the after- 
 noon. He won't like to see you looking as you do now when he 
 comes home.' 
 
 * Looking as I do now, Mary ? What do you mean 1 ' she said, 
 a little petulantly. ^ I look very well, I am sure ; for I asked 
 Lane to give me the glass just as you came in, and I had quite a 
 nice colour. I can't imagine why you should fancy there is any- 
 thing the matter with me.' 
 
 * Only because you look so tired, dear,' Mary said, with a fal- 
 tering voice. * I don't think you can be very strong' 
 
 * It 's so hot ! ' Lisa interrupted. * It is that makes me feel so 
 tired. Do you know, Mary, I think it is hotter than it has ever 
 been,' and she gasped for breath. ' There is no air anywhere. 
 How would it be if we opened that other window as well as 
 thisr 
 
 Mary did as she was asked ; but the change did not appear to 
 make much difference in the temperature of the room, and Lisa 
 looked more and more exhausted. 
 
 * I don't think I shall get stronger till the weather is cooler 
 
272 ATHERSTOKE PRIORY. 
 
 again/ slie said. * I am very sorry, because Percy is so anxious 
 for us to get to Atherstone. He thinks I should get well directly 
 there ; and I think so too. Bat Dr Mcapleston is so tiresome — , 
 he is always saying, '* Wait a little longer." ' 
 
 ' And he is right, dear Lisa,' Mary said. * You couldn't bear 
 the journey.' 
 
 ' Not as I am just now, perhaps ; but I am not always like 
 this. I was better yesterday. I shall be better again this even- 
 ing, when it is not so hot. No one can tell what my strength is 
 on a day like this. The heat tries everybody.' ' 
 
 Mary was silent for a moment. * And do you really think, ] 
 Lisa dear, that you are stronger than you were a short time \ 
 since — than you were perhaps a fortnight ago ? ' The words \ 
 came out before she thought what she was saying. ; 
 
 Lisa looked at her. * What do you mean, Mary 1 ' she asked j 
 uneasily. * A fortnight ago ! I really don't remember — that is j 
 so far back. I am not so strong, perhaps, this morning as I was ] 
 yesterday ; but that is nothing. I shall be better again this ; 
 evening.' ] 
 
 ' You are always better in the evening,' Mary said, with a | 
 sigh. ' ^ ... ' 
 
 * Well, and that is a good thing, isn't it ? ' Lisa answered ; j 
 but although she spoke lightly, her eyes were fixed uneasily on | 
 her cousin. ' You don't think it a bad sign for me to be better ; 
 then, do you 1 ' she asked, anxiously. ■ 
 
 * I don't know,' and Mary kissed her. * But — it seems very ■ 
 little use for you to be better then, if you are worse again every i 
 morning.' 
 
 * Not every morning — only sometimes. And it is no wonder 1 
 to-day; do you think it is?' And as no answer came, Lisa j 
 looked up again. There were tears in Mary's eyes, which she • 
 was trying in vain to hide. * I don't understand you, Mary ; \ 
 you are very strange. And you don't look like yourself. Do j 
 you mean you are afraid' | 
 
 She stopped ; a strange look came over her face ; and after a \ 
 few moments' silence there was a piteous cry, and she started i 
 up. 
 
 * Mary, Mary, you know it ! Is it true ? Tell me it isn't. \ 
 Tell me I may stay a little longer — that I needn't leave you all. ! 
 For I can't go yet ! indeed I can't. Ah, God forgive me ! I | 
 don't know what I am saying. For I must — I know I must.' j 
 
A VOICE FROM THE QUIET LAND. 273 
 
 She sank back again on her pillow, and burst into passionate 
 tears. 
 
 Mary knelt by her side, and soothed her tenderly. * Dear 
 Lisa,' she said in her gentle voice — and its quiet tones insensibly 
 stilled that paroxysm of grief — * Dear Lisa, don't cry like that. 
 You must not — it Avill only make you worse. And you must 
 remember, my darling, tbat my knowing it will make no differ- 
 ence — it will not bring it any nearer. But it will let us talk 
 together of it, and help you to bear it better. Dear Lisa, won't 
 you be calmer *? ' she whispered, as the sobs still continued, though 
 less wildly than before. * Won't you be calm, and not make your- 
 self ill, for Percy's sake ? You don't want to make him unhappy, 
 I am sure.' 
 
 * Make him unhappy ! ' and she raised her head. * Ah, Mary, 
 that is why I have kept it to myself. For I have known it so 
 long — so very long. I felt I was getting weaker. I knew long 
 ago I should never get wxll ; but I tried — I tried to make him 
 think I should. I tried to make myself out better than I was, 
 that he might not guess the truth. I knew it would make him 
 so unhappy if he did, and I couldn't bear to see him so. And 
 yet I vfanted to tell him ; for I longed — oh, you can never guess 
 how I have longed — to talk to some one about it.' She sobbed 
 convulsively. 
 
 * My dearest Lisa, how I wish I had known it ! But I 
 guessed nothing of it until lately; and I never thought you 
 had any fears yourself. You always seemed so hopeful and 
 cheerful.' 
 
 * No, I wasn't — I was frightened and miserable.' And she 
 shuddered. * Sometimes I felt as if I must tell Percy — as if I 
 couldn't keep it to myself any longer. And then, when I had 
 made up my mind to begin, he would look at me as he often 
 does, and smile as if he were so glad to see me better — and then, 
 Mary, I coulchiH tell him. I was obliged to smile too, that he 
 mightn't know what I really felt. You can't tell how I dread to 
 see him unhappy ; and yet I know he must be some day — very 
 soon indeed now ; for I shan't be here long — I know it quite 
 well.' And Lisa covered her face with her hands, and cried 
 again most bitterly ; while Mary's own tears fell fast. 
 
 ^ If he would only see it ! ' Lisa said at last. * For I feel as if 
 I could never tell him — and yet I must. It will make it so 
 much worse for him if he is not told it soon. And I should not 
 
 S 
 
274 ATHBKSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 like any one else to tell him — not even you, Mary ; for I think he 
 won't find it so hard to bear if he hears it from me.' 
 
 ' You had better not try/ Mary said, through her tears. 
 
 * Leave it to me, Lisa dear. It is time, as you say, he knew it. 
 But you must not try to do it yourself; you are not equal to it.' 
 
 ' Yes, I am, and I would rather tell him. He will feel it less, 
 I know, coming from me ; and I want to save him as much as I 
 can. O Mary, you don't know what he has been to me ; and 
 when I think of leaving him and my darling little baby, I feel as 
 if my heart would break. And though I ask to be helped to 
 bear it patiently, somehow I can't. It seems as if I thought of 
 them more and loved them all the better because I shall be with 
 them such a little time. I wish I could feel differently, Mary — 
 I wish I could feel it is best for me to go.' 
 
 Mary kissed her tenderly. ' And so you will, dearest. When 
 the time comes, you will feel it is right, and you will be able 
 to give them up ; though it is so hard now. It must have 
 been harder still when you were keeping all this to yourself. My 
 poor Lisa, I wonder how you did it.' 
 
 * I don't know now how I did,' Lisa said, with a sigh. 
 
 * And it seems so very long since I first knew it. I have been 
 very miserable, Mary dear. I wonder Percy never found it out ; 
 but he guesses nothing even yet. I must tell him, though. I 
 don't think it will be quite so hard, now I have talked to you.' 
 
 * I wish you would let me do it/ Mary said again. ' It would 
 save you a great deal of pain, dear Lisa.' 
 
 * Yes, so it would, perhaps, but what I want is to save him. 
 A little pain more or less can't matter much now for me — it will 
 all be over soon. But it does matter for him ; he will have to 
 bear it so long. You will stay with him, Mary, won't you, and 
 try to comfort him? for I know he'll be very lonely when his 
 little Lisa is gone. And you will take care of baby, too. She 
 won't want a mother while you live, I know that. It was the 
 first thing I thought of when I knew I must go. I hope she 
 will be a much better child to you than I used to be. Ah, how 
 I wish those days could come back again ! Do you think they 
 are quite gone — gone for ever ? Is my life really over 1 1 can't 
 believe it ! ' and her look grew wild again. * Mary, I must live. 
 I can't die yet. Can nothing save me ? ' She clung to her cousin 
 convulsively. 
 
 Poor Mary's agitation was extreme, almost as great as that of 
 
A VOICE FROM THE QUIET LAND. 275 
 
 tlie frightened child who held her so beseechingly ; but she strug- 
 gled against her feelings, and after a time her gentle soothing 
 seemed to restore Lisa to some degree of calmness. Her convul- 
 sive grasp relaxed, and her passionate sobs became less violent. 
 
 ^ I know it 's wrong, but I can't help it. 1 would give all I 
 have for one year more — only one ! I have been so very happy 
 the last few months ; and it 's so hard to go now, just when baby 
 is come. I wonder sometimes what makes me so miserable ; 
 often I wake in the night and think something has happened ; 
 and I look for baby, and I look for Percy, and they are both 
 there — they are safe and well ; it 's only myself. I remember 
 then how it is — that I am dying — that in a very little time I shall 
 not be here any longer. Mary, you don't know what it is to . 
 feel it.' 
 
 And shuddering and trembling, she clung once more to her 
 cousin ; till, worn out at last, she sank into a kind of stupor, from 
 which, now that there was no motive for exertion, she did not 
 rouse herself all the morning. But the strain came back when 
 Percy returned ; and Mary was startled then at the change in her 
 manner — the more so because she began to comprehend how 
 much the fever produced by such unnatural excitement musi all 
 along have been consuming her little strength. That Percy 
 should know the real state of the case, and understand how neces- 
 sary perfect quietness was that Lisa's life might be prolonged at 
 all, was now her one wish. But Lisa herself seemed, as she had 
 60 often done before, to lose the courage to undeceive him. In- 
 stead, her cousin was startled by hearing her prefer a most unex- 
 pected request. 
 
 ^ I wish we could go up on the hill somewhere, Percy,' she ex- 
 claimed, when something was being said about the heat. * I am 
 sure if I could get the breezes up there, I should be much 
 stronger. Couldn't we find some lodgings on the East Hill 1 I 
 should like it very much.' 
 
 * Would you, dear ? ' he said, catching eagerly at anything 
 to give her pleasure. * Then I 'm sure we '11 go. I '11 walk up 
 now — it 's not too late ; and then you can go as soon as you 
 please.' 
 
 And acting on the idea at once, he set off on his search. 
 
 * Ah, Mary, you think me very foolish,' Lisa said, when he 
 was gone. * You think it can do no good. But it can — it mu^t ; 
 it 's only fresh air I want. I saw the elm-trees at the back of 
 
276 ATHERSTONE PKIORY. 
 
 the house when Percy was carrying me down this evening, and 
 they looked so cool and breezy ! The wind was tossing their 
 top boughs about, and then it seemed to go playing off among 
 those hills ; and I felt directly that if I could go up there, I 
 should be better. It is worth trying, at any rate ; and if I could 
 feel strong for a few days only, I think I should be happy. Mary 
 dear, I must go/ 
 
 CHAPTER XLT. 
 
 BEYOND RECAL. 
 
 It was on that same evening that Janet and Isabel returned from 
 a visit they had been paying to some friends for a few days, and 
 the first thing they heard from Mrs Thorpe was an account of 
 Lisa's illness and danger. 
 
 * I have not seen her myself,' she said ; * but I hear from every 
 one how dreadfully she is altered lately, and I know Dr Mapleston 
 says she cannot live long. But the worst of it is, nobody about her 
 seems to have any idea how ill she is. I don't believe she is 
 aware of it herself, and I am sure Major Tennent is not. It is 
 strange how he can bliHd himself in that way, and a pity there 
 is no one to undeceive him ; for she is dying — there is no doubt 
 of it.' 
 
 * Lisa dying ! ' The words fell on Isabel's ear with a cold 
 dull shock. Dying — the cousin whom she had slighted, despised, 
 and so deeply injured by her false suspicil>ns — was she dying 
 before she had been able to repair the wrong she had done, or to 
 efface, as she had hoped, by care and affection, the memory 
 of many a former unkindness and injustice ? And her brother ! 
 Was the happiness she had grudged him to be so short- 
 lived ? — was his home henceforth to be desolate ? Surely 
 
BEYOND REGAL. 277 
 
 it could not be — tlie thought was too dreadful. There was 
 some mistake, and so she would find. Mary must know ; 
 and Mary had written to her during her absence, and had 
 not hinted at such fears as those of which Mrs Thorpe spoke. 
 She could not be deceived too ; and so thinking, Isabel tried to 
 put away the miserable misgivings that came crowding over her. 
 But she could not lose them; all night long, during hours of 
 wakefulness, Lisa's face was before her. She saw it shadowed 
 by a mournfulness which was exaggerated by the silence and soli- 
 tude around; and if for a few minutes she lost the recollection of 
 it in sleep, it was only to dream of her cousin as she had been in 
 days gone by, full of life and loveliness ; and then to awake again 
 to remember that she was dying. 
 
 She went down to breakfast the next morning pale and un- 
 rested ; and Janet was not long in remarking her looks. 
 
 'You are thinking of poor Lisa, I suppose,' she said; 'but I 
 can't help hoping there is some mistake. We will go down to 
 the cottage after luncheon, and see her.* 
 
 ' After luncheon ! I am going now,' Isabel said. ' I shall go 
 directly breakfast is over.' 
 
 Janet looked surprised, but she said nothing; and half an hour 
 after, Isabel had put on her bonnet, and was on her road to the 
 cottage. 
 
 It was another sultry day — even the trees in the lane could 
 not keep off the heat, and the sea lay so still that the break of 
 its waves on the beach was scarcely heard to bring a sound of 
 freshness to the ear. Among its sheltering trees and shrubs the 
 cottage stood, cheerful and pretty-looking as ever — its green 
 creepers twining over it — the sunlight basking round it — its gay 
 garden beautiful with summer flowers. No outward signs there 
 of the change that had come upon it — nothing to tell of the 
 young life that was ebbing away within its walls. On the gravel 
 walk before the house Prince was. lying half asleep, and under 
 the shade of the large acacia on the lawn Mary was at work with 
 the baby on her knee. Everything was quiet and home-like, but 
 upon Isabel's heart there was a weight like lead, and when she 
 joined her sister, she could not speak; she knelt by her side 
 in silence, gazing long and sadly at the sleeping child. 
 
 ' I have brought her here to be out of Lisa's way,' Mary said. 
 ' Lane is busy packing, for we are going up to the East Hill for a 
 few days. Percy has taken a lodging there/ she added. * Li?ia 
 
278 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 wished to go — she thought the change would do her good ; but 
 — she is very ill now.' 
 
 *And you never told me, Mary,' Isabel faltered. 'I knew 
 nothing of it ; oh, why didn't you tell me ?' in a tone of 
 reproach. 
 
 ^ I couldn^t^ dear ; I hardly knew it myself. And Percy does 
 not know it even yet — he still thinks she is getting better. I 
 don't know how he will bear it,' she added with a sigh. * I 
 dare not think of what it will be to hira — he is so wrapped up 
 in her !' 
 
 Wrapped up in her ! Yes ; Isabel knew that — she could 
 guess something of the dreariness and desolation that must be 
 his lot when his wife was gone; and she shrank from the thought 
 that the untold bitterness of such sorrow must in some measure 
 be laid at her door. 
 
 ' Can I see Lisa V she said at last, getting up. She was very 
 pale, but Mary was too busy with the child, that was moving 
 uneasily in its sleep, to notice her. 
 
 * Yes ; she is in her own room resting. But don't stay long 
 with her, dear Isabel ; she is not strong enough to talk much, 
 and she is very tired ; she had hardly any sleep last night.' 
 
 *I won't stay many minutes,' Isabel said, in a low, husky 
 voice ; and she walked away with slow and hesitating steps, very 
 unlike her usual decided tread and lofty bearing. 
 
 Slowly she went up-stairs, and as slowly she approached her 
 cousin's room — the door of which stood open ; but when she 
 reached its threshold, she paused — uncertainty of what her recep- 
 tion might be keeping her back. Lisa was not resting, as Mary 
 supposed ; she was sitting on her sofa near the window — her 
 head upon her arms, which were folded on a table that was 
 drawn up beside her, and her attitude told most painfully of 
 utter abandonment to grief. As Isabel paused, she heard a low 
 sob break from her, and saw her shiver from head to foot in the 
 agony of suppressed anguish. Nor was it hard to guess the 
 cause of that sorrow ; for before her stood her empty dressing- 
 case, and around her lay all her treasures, which she had evidently 
 just taken from it. All the things she most prized were there — 
 a strange medley, but which none who knew Lisa would have 
 been surprised to see collected together. There were letters, 
 and these she had been sorting and tying together ; there were 
 relics of childish days — a broken silver bodkin-case, some coloured 
 
BEYOND REGAL. 279 
 
 beads, and a little ivory box, yellow with, age j and there was a 
 sprig, too, of faded heather, gathered in one of her long rides 
 with Percy, when she had been staying at Copelands the year 
 before ; and some sketches she had made with him at the same 
 time. Her mother's locket, also, and all her own ornaments 
 were there — some of them wedding presents, but the greater 
 number her husband's gifts. She had spread them all before her, 
 and from the care with which they were arranged it was evident 
 she had had a purpose in so doing. But strength or courage had 
 failed her before her task was completed. She had broken down 
 when looking at the coral ornaments Percy had given her when 
 they were abroad, and which Isabel well remembered her having 
 shown with so much glee to herself and Elinor, on their first visit 
 to the cottage. Her fingers were fast clasped round one of the 
 bracelets, and although her face was scarcely seen, her agony of 
 grief was so plainly visible that Isabel shrank from witnessing 
 it, and would have turned to leave her to herself again, but the 
 power to move seemed gone. She felt as if rooted to the spot, 
 and stood with her eyes riveted on that slight drooping figure — 
 on those thin fingers, and the wasted outline of that half-hidden 
 face, so changed now from all its old girlish beauty. 
 
 But Lisa raised her head at length — her passion of grief was 
 over — her fingers relaxed their convulsive grasp, and she sat up. 
 And then, with a rush of overpowering feelings, Isabel fully 
 realised the truth of all that her worst forebodings could have 
 predicted for her cousin. The unnaturally transparent complexion 
 and brilliant eye — the hollow cheek with the bright hectic flush 
 on it, and the parched and burning lips, told a tale too plain to 
 be mistaken. A glass of water stood on the table beside her, and 
 she took and drank it eagerly, and then turned as if to look for 
 more. As she did so, her eye fell upon Isabel, and she started ; 
 but more from surprise, apparently, at finding she was not alone, 
 as she had thought, than from any other cause. She seemed to 
 have forgotten how long it was since they had met — how little 
 cause she had to hope for any pleasure in seeing her cousin. 
 She held out her glass wistfully. 
 
 ' Will you get me some more V she said. * There is none here; 
 and I am so thirsty.' 
 
 She sank back, and eagerly, hurriedly, Isabel came forward 
 and took the glass from her hand. To be able to do anything 
 for the dying girl whom then she would have gone hundreds of 
 
280 ATHERSTONE PKIORY. 
 
 miles to serve, was more, she thought, than she deserved, and 
 quickly she went away upon her errand, and then returned to 
 sit doAvn by her cousin's side while she once more drank off with 
 feverish avidity the refreshing draught. 
 
 * Thank you — I am so thirsty,' she repeated, 'so tired this 
 morning. I couldn't sleep last night, and we are going away this 
 afternoon. I was trying — Ah, I had forgotten ;' and she glanced 
 at the things upon the table, and then at her cousin, and her look 
 grew uneasy. * You don't know — you have been away. Besides,' 
 in a lower tone, and the w^ords added another pang to Isabel's 
 self-reproaches, * it is nothing to you.' 
 
 * Nothing to me, Lisa 1' 
 
 * No, nothing to j^ou. Why should it be ? You never cared 
 for me, and it will be nothing to you when I am gone — gone 
 for ever,' and she shuddered. And then altering her tone, 
 ' I am very ill, Isabel,' she added ; * very ill indeed. But I 
 have asked Percy to take me up on the hill for a little time, 
 and surely, when I am once there, I shall get better. Don't 
 you think so ? I want to live — oh, so much, so very much !' 
 Her eyes were turned beseechingly, imploringly to Isabel's 
 face ; but only for a moment. A tide of recollections seemed to 
 come back with that look, and she turned away and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 * Yes, I had forgotten indeed,' she murmured. * I must not 
 talk to you. You can't feel for me, for I have only stood in your 
 way. I took him from you. But you will have him back soon 
 now. I shall not keep him much longer, and then you can 
 forget me — forget I ever lived. And I — oh ! my happiness is 
 soon over, Isabel — you need not have grudged it me for so short 
 a time. I am only seventeen, but I am dying — yes, dying,' she 
 said piteously. *I would give worlds, if I had them, to live a 
 little longer. I don't want to die just yet. I have been very 
 happy j and the grave is dark and cold. I am afraid to be there 
 alone. I like the warmth and the sunlight, and the w^orld is 
 very beautiful to me; I don't want to leave it. But I know I 
 must. Yes,' she added passionately, * I know my life will soon 
 be over — that in a very little while there wdll come a day when 
 the sun will be as bright and the birds wdll sing as they are 
 singing now, and the sea will come washing up here* against 
 the garden wall as it always does, and everything wdll be the 
 same; but I shall not see and hear it all. And you will 
 
BEYOND RECAL. 281 
 
 all live and love and be happy, and no one will ever think of 
 me. None will remember me — remember that I, too, was happy 
 once!' 
 
 She stopped, for Isabel, who had been in vain struggling to 
 speak and to stem that torrent of despairing grief, now suddenly 
 burst into tears — the first tears Lisa ever remembered to have 
 seen her shed. 
 
 ' You are not crying for me, Isabel, are you 1 Oh, no ; for I 
 am nothing to you — I never was. All those years I lived at the 
 Priory you never cared for me; and when I was lonely and sad 
 because I had no home of my own, you wouldn't let me be your 
 sister. I hoped when you knew Percy cared for me and thought 
 me good enough to be his wife, you would love me too. But 
 you did not — you thought I had no right to take him from you. 
 And now I must leave him. But — O Percy, is it really true ? — • 
 must I really go 1 Mayn't I stay a little longer 1 ' Here grief 
 and excitement overcame her, and her strength failing suddenly, 
 her head drooped upon the cushion on which she was resting, 
 and she fainted away. 
 
 She came to herself to find Lane standing over her with cold 
 water and hartshorn, and Isabel kneeling by her side holding 
 one of her hands in hers. Too weak and confused to remem- 
 ber what had happened, she closed her eyes again with a w^eary 
 sigh; but when consciousness returned more fully, her first 
 movement was to draw away her hand and turn from her cousin 
 with a look in w^hich shrinking and reproach were mingled. 
 
 ^ Leave me, please,' she said faintly. * I am so ill; I can't 
 talk now.' 
 
 ' Won't you let me stay 1 * Isabel said pleadingly. * I won't 
 talk if you don't "wish it; but let me stay and sit with you.' 
 
 *No;' there was a shiver — almost a shudder as she spoke. 
 * 01), do leave me. I want to be alone.' 
 
 Isabel rose. How could she wonder her cousin shrank from 
 her 1 It was only, she thought, part of her punishment for 
 former neglect and unkindness. But it was hard to leave her 
 then — to go without having been able to express one word of 
 sorrow, or ask for forgiveness of that past which she would have 
 given so much to recal. Slowly and sadly she w^ent away, and 
 there was a sigh of relief from Lisa as the door closed upon 
 her. 
 
 *■ Don't let her come again, Mary,' she said afterwards. 
 
283 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 * You don't know how it makes me feel to see her. For she 
 never cared for me. And she is strong and well; f.he cannot 
 guess what it is to be as I am — to know that a little time ago I 
 was like her — so well, so happy; and now to wake up every 
 morning with the thought that I have only a few days more left 
 to live. My happy home, and Percy, and my baby — I must 
 leave them all 1 ' And she hung over the child upon her knee 
 in an agony of grief which no efforts of Mary's could calm. 
 
 They took her up to the hill, and there at first she seemed to 
 be better; but it was only for a day or two, and before a week 
 was over she was pining to be back in her own home. She 
 missed the hundred little things in which she had always taken 
 so much delight — the garden, the shade of the acacia-trees, and 
 the sound of the waves upon the shore ; and after all, she thought 
 there was very little more air upon the high ground than lower 
 down. 
 
 ' I don't care, too, for these hills,' she said. * They are not 
 like ours at Atherstone, Percy. You remember them, don't 
 you 1 You remember where we used to ride last year, in those 
 happy, happy days 1 Do you recollect the purple heather on the 
 moors, and the old grey rocks, and the little streams running 
 through the valleys ] How bright the sunlight was then ! how 
 it used to quiver and gleam so hot all over the country ! and how 
 pleasant and green the woods looked ! We have nothing of that 
 sort here. It is very beautiful, I know — the cliffs are very 
 grand, and the sea is lovely; but I like it better from our own 
 house, and we have more shade there. I am tired of this place. 
 Take me home, please.' 
 
 So they took her home — to the home she was never more to 
 leave ; and then with her return came an end to all the restless 
 longings and strivings for life — to that intense desire to ' live a 
 little longer' which had preyed upon her so unceasingly.. She 
 had been like a bird in a snare struggling wildly against its 
 fate; but better and calmer thoughts came now. Despair was 
 gone, and she grew patient and quiet. Her own will was given 
 up to a Higher; and as she learned to yield it more fully, hope 
 and comfort dawned upon her. 
 
 * I am come back here to die, Mary,' she said. * I know it 
 quite well, but I can think of it now. I can bear to go. It 'a 
 not so hard as it used to be to think of leaving you all; and 
 when the time comes, perhaps it won't be hard at all. And you 
 
BEYOND REGAL. 283 
 
 will talk to me, won't you, Mary dear 1 Talk to me, please, as 
 you did when I was a little child — when you used to tell me 
 what was right, and wanted me to do it. I am not frightened 
 then ; and when I lie awake at night, or am alone in the day, I 
 think of what you have said, and I don't feel afraid as I used. 
 And I '11 tell Percy now. I couldn't before, while I was always 
 hoping and longing to live. But now I will — I '11 tell him every- 
 thing. And, Mary dear, I should like to see Isabel again. I 
 don't think I was kind to her when she was here; and I am 
 sorry for it. I wish I could see her and say good-bye to her. 
 Do you think she will come 1 ' 
 
 * I am sure she will, dear. She came up every day while we 
 were on the East Hill to ask after you; and she was here 
 again this morning, and wished very much to see you, only 
 she didn't like to ask, as you said you didn't wish it. But 
 you may not have another opportunity, for she is going home 
 to-morrow ' 
 
 ' Going home ! Back to Atherstone 1 ' Lisa's face flushed. 
 * Mary ! ' and there was a long-drawn sigh and a look of 
 unutterable sadness on her face. ^ What wouldn't I give if I 
 were going with her 1 I used to think so much about it when 
 Percy first talked of taking me there. I thought it would be 
 such pleasure to go back and see every one again — such pleasure 
 to take baby with me and show her to them all. And now to 
 think I shall never go ! ' She sat for some minutes silent ; her 
 varying colour and the tears which filled her eyes, though she 
 would not let them fall, telling of the struggle within — one of 
 her last struggles to yield submission cheerfully to that Higher 
 Will than her own. A hard-fonght battle it was, like many 
 another she had then to fight; but it was won at length, and she 
 looked up quietly. 
 
 ' Yes ; it 's all best for me as it is. I know that, and I '11 try 
 and feel it. And, Mary dear, will you write a little note to 
 Isabel and ask her to come some time to-day and say good-bye 
 to meV 
 
 Mary's note went ; and that afternoon Isabel came down to 
 the cottage. She found Lisa alone in the drawing-room, on the 
 sofa as usual. As the door opened, she turned round with a 
 smile. Perhaps she was expecting Percy, for when she saw only 
 her cousin, her face changed a little, and the colour came into 
 her pale cheeks. 
 
284 ATHERSTONE PRIOPvY. 
 
 * Isabel !' She looked very shy, and Isabel herself, for almost 
 the first time in her life, felt the same. But Lisa held out her 
 hand, and she came forward. 
 
 ^ Mary said you wished to see me,* she murmured in a tone of 
 apology, as if she thought she had no right to be there. * She 
 asked me to come.' 
 
 ' Yes;' and Lisa looked shyer than before; but she made an 
 effort to shake off her constraint. 'It's very kind of you to 
 come, Isabel,' she added gratefully. * After what I said the 
 other day I was afraid perhaps you wouldn't. And I wanted to 
 see you to — to say good-bye ;' her voice faltered a little. * I sha'n't 
 see you again ; and I didn't know you were going home so soon.' 
 
 There was a silence, for Isabel was struggling for self-control; 
 and Lisa, not understanding the expression of her face, hesitated 
 for a moment. 
 
 ' I am afraid I said some things to you the other morning 
 that were not very kind,' she went on, after a pause. * That was 
 another reason why I wanted to see you — to tell you I am very 
 sorry, and to ask you to forget them all. Do you think you can, 
 Isabel, as I shall never see you again ? I know I have done a 
 great many things you didn't like ; but if you could forgive me, 
 it would make me very happy.' 
 
 '0 Lisa!' Isabel's attempts at self-control were gone now, 
 and she threw herself on her knees beside her cousin. * It is I 
 who have to be forgiven. I have been unkind and unjust to 
 you — not only now, but ever since I first knew you.' And in a 
 passion of grief, with many bitter tears, she poured forth a con- 
 fession of all her long-cherished jealous feelings ; and forgetful 
 of pride and reserve, told of her remorse and late-awakened re- 
 pentance in terms of the most bitter sorrow and self-upbraiding. 
 * Lisa,' she said, ' I never tried to care for you, or to see the best 
 of you. I was always looking out for your faults, and wish- 
 ing to find you in the wrong ; and it was tliat made me so miser- 
 ably suspicious and unjust this last time. I never even hoped. 
 it might be a mistake, because I didn't wish it to be one. If I 
 had, I should have done things in a different way ; and then, 
 most probably, the truth would have come out much sooner than 
 it did ; or rather you would never have been suspected at all. 
 For it was my doing,' she added vehemently — * it was all my 
 doing. It was through me others suspected you — through me 
 that Percy doubted you. Yes,' as she noticed Lisa's sudden 
 
BEYOND REGAL. 285 
 
 start and flush ; * lie would have known nothing of it if it hadn't 
 been for me. Did he never tell you that?' 
 
 ' No, never/ Lisa's head was down, and her face averted 
 now. 
 
 ' I thought you knew it ; ' and the colour in IsabePs face 
 faded away, and she grew very pale. * Well, you know it now/ 
 she added with an effort. * And you can't forgive me — I see 
 that — nor have I any right to expect you should. But at least 
 I can tell you I am sorry for it — tliat I would give all I have to 
 be able to undo it. I thought, I hoped once I could have shown 
 you ' she burst into tears. 
 
 And Lisa was touched at once. There had been a hard 
 struggle within her when she heard that all the misery she 
 had endured from being doubted by her husband had been owing 
 to her cousin ; and for a moment she had been sorely tempted to 
 turn away with the words of forgiveness unspoken. But better 
 feelings prevailed. In that land to which she was fast hasten- 
 ing there would be no remembrance of wrong done — no hard, 
 bitter thoughts of others ; and could she give way to them now^ 
 She raised her head ; and as her cousin still knelt by her side, 
 she stooped forward and threw her arms round her neck. 
 
 * Dear Isabel, never mind it now — never mind the past. It 's all 
 gone, and w^e will never think of it again. Don't cry so — don't be 
 so sorry, please. It is better for me as it is. I shall be very happy ; 
 and you must forget all I ever did to make you think so badly 
 of me, and only remember that at the last we loved each other 
 very much. Will you kiss me, and let me feel we have forgiven 
 each other everything/' 
 
 An hour afterwards and Isabel had left that room for ever ; 
 she had passed for the last time the threshold of the home of 
 which her miserable jealousy had blighted the happiness. A few 
 months before, she had first entered those doors, and had met 
 her cousin there, gay, bright, and beautiful, with all the hopes 
 and pleasures of life about her. Now those hopes and pleasures 
 were over, and the once happy girl whom she had envied and 
 wronged was passing away in her spring-tide to the silence and 
 rest of the grave. She paused for long at the little garden gate 
 before she could make up her mind to take her last look at a 
 place round which so many painful associations had gathered ; 
 and then she went her way dow^n the shady lane, thinking with 
 bitter sorrow of all she had missed and lost since that bright 
 
286 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 April day when she had first trodden that path. When, years 
 afterwards, she next passed the cottage, it looked as pleasant and 
 sunny as ever among its shrubs and flowers ; but strangers then 
 were living there. Lisa's name was forgotten ; and Percy, in a 
 foreign land, had long been left to mourn in loneliness his 
 ' broken household chain ' — his severed ties. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 AT BEST. 
 
 Happily for Lisa she was spared the pain of speaking to Percy 
 while he was yet unprepared for what was coming. The oppres- 
 sively hot weather that had now set in told very fast upon her 
 failing strength ; and it was impossible for him any longer to 
 shut his eyes to the fact that she was every day becoming weaker, 
 and more unequal to exertion of any kind. She was still carried 
 down-stairs, but it was only to lie exhausted on the sofa, unable 
 to occupy herself in any way ; and a succession of long fainting 
 fits, which she had one day, and from which it was found diffi- 
 cult to recover her, seemed fully to undeceive him. In spite of 
 all his endeavours to conceal his alarm, Lisa was conscious that 
 he then in some measure realised the true extent of her danger. 
 But perhaps he still hoped to deceive her by speaking cheerfully. 
 * I don't believe Mapleston understands your case,' he said 
 that same evening, when she was better again, and he was sitting 
 by her side. * I shall write to my father by this night's post, and 
 ask if he can't spare a day or two again to get down and see 
 you. Or if he can't come, I '11 have some London advice. It is 
 only the change you want ; and we will see if we can't take you 
 to Atherstone at once. You would like that, dearest, wouldn't 
 you ? ' he added, trying to smile. 
 
AT REST. 287 
 
 But there was no answer — only Lisa's eyes filled witli tears ; 
 and then Mary saw by her wistful look that she would like to be 
 alone with him, and gathering up her work, she stole away. 
 When the door closed upon her, Lisa turned to him as he sat 
 watching her uneasily. 
 
 ' Dear Percy, will you come a little nearer — yes, quite near, 
 please ', for I want to tell you something. I want to tell you 
 what I have known a long, long time ; and what I almost think 
 you know too, only you don't wish to believe it. Ah, yes ; I see 
 you do,' as his face changed. ^ You know I shall never get well — 
 that I shall never go to Atherstone again, or any other place. You 
 know well enough that your little Lisa won't be with you ver}^ 
 long ; and, Percy, I should like to talk to you about it, please. 
 Will you let me, and not let us try to think any more what isn't 
 true ] ' 
 
 There was no reply. His face was turned away, and when 
 Lisa, after a long silence, ventured to pull down the hand which 
 shaded it, she was shocked and startled by its expression. 
 
 * O Percy ! don't look like that — please don't. I can't bear to see 
 you. Won't you look at me as you always do ? Won't you try 
 and not mind it so very much, that we may not be unhappy the 
 little time we shall be together ? It won't be long now that I 
 shall be with you. Won't you make me happy while I am? 
 There are things I have been waiting to say to you. Won't you 
 let me talk to you, and tell you all I want ? ' 
 
 There was no answer again — only a long and passionate 
 embrace, as if he would have held her fast, and defied any 
 power in heaven or earth to separate them; but the thought 
 how utterly unable he was to protect her from that unseen silent 
 foe, who was so surely though slowly stealing between them, 
 seemed to come upon him. His hold loosened, and she felt his 
 hot scalding tears fall upon her hand. 
 
 * It is my doing,' he murmured. ' If it had not been for me, 
 you would have been well and happy now. O Lisa ! what 
 have I done 1 ' 
 
 Lisa looked at him sadly, and with something half of re- 
 proach in her large eyes. * I thought — I hoped you had forgotten 
 all that, Percy. It was not your fault ; I have never thought so. 
 I wish you would promise me, when I am gone never to blame 
 yourself for anything that happened then. Won't you promise 
 me so ? It will make me so happy if you will.' 
 
288 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 * I can't, Lisa/ he said in a stifled voice. ' I can't make such 
 a promise as that, for I couldn't keep it. No, my darling ^ — 
 seeing her disappointed look — *I can't promise that, even for 
 you ; but I will remember you never blamed me for it, and that 
 you forgave me all my harshness and unlcindness. Won't that 
 satisfy you, dearest ? ' 
 
 She smiled a little. * It isn't quite true, Percy, because I 
 never felt I had anything to forgive. But you shall think it if 
 you like — if it will make you happier. And now we have settled 
 that, may we forget it quite ] Let us think only of pleasant 
 things, and let us be as happy as we can while we are together. 
 It is much harder to bear when I see you miserable, I feel 
 then as if I couldn't go; though I know so well I must. Won't 
 you help to make it easier for me, and not let our last days 
 together be sad ones 1 ' 
 
 Poor Percy ! The words fell on his ear as if they had been 
 her death-knell. He had known before that he was losing her — 
 lie felt it now; and the anguish of that moment, when he first 
 realised that his idolised young wife was dying, was bitter 
 beyond all that words could tell. The thought of so soon seeing 
 the last of one whom he worshipped with such adoring love — of 
 shutting away for ever in the darkness and silence of the grave 
 the grace and beauty of wlach he was so proud — of having no 
 more of the fond deep affection, and many loving words and 
 ways which had been the charm of his life, — all came upon him; 
 and with it such a dreary aching sense of desolation, as imagina- 
 tion pictured the long years of loneliness before him, that for a 
 moment, overcome by the strong agony of his grief, he sobbed 
 aloud. But Lisa's look of piteous distress stopped him. 
 
 * Don't, Percy, don't ! ' she exclaimed, in such imploring ac- 
 cents that he was calm at once. ' You don't know how hard it 
 makes it,' she murmured, as he drew her closer to him. ' I 
 want so much to feel that it 's right and best I should go. Won't 
 you help me '? ' 
 
 Her voice of piteous entreaty was not to be resisted. He 
 could not speak, but he caught the hand she was raising to wipe 
 away his tears, and covered it with kisses. Perhaps she under- 
 stood the silent compact which that action seemed to seal, for 
 her look of distress passed away; and as he still held it in his, she 
 smiled again a little. 
 . * Thank you, I knew you would. We will talk together, and 
 
AT REST. 289 
 
 we'll learn to bear it patiently and give each other up. And we 
 won't be unhappy for the very little time I shall have here now; 
 will we ? ' 
 
 Percy's long-drawn, heart-wrung sigh was hardly an answer, 
 and it told a bitter tale of anguish and self-reproach; but the 
 power of perfect unselfish love is strong, and she never again 
 saw or heard from him any expressions of the grief she had so 
 much dreaded to witness. For her sake he controlled his sor- 
 row, and, whatever he endured in secret, in her presence was 
 always calm and even cheerful; till Mary, who better than any 
 one knew the full strength of his fiery impulsive nature, mar- 
 velled at the amount of self-restraint which he exercised. Hard 
 as he found it to preserve this self-control, it must have been a 
 comfort to him afterwards to know that, by doing so, he had 
 spared Lisa much pain, and made the short remainder of her 
 stay as happy as he could. Those last few days (and they were 
 very few) were, as she had hoped, not altogether sad — there was 
 much to soften their bitterness. The worst, indeed, to her 
 seemed over when there was no longer need for concealment 
 from him. When she could talk to him — when she could tell 
 liim what she thought and wished and hoped — the last remains of 
 her restlessness and all wild yearnings for life passed away for 
 ever. She was not like the same Lisa then, who before, with all 
 her loving ways, had had so much of impatience, caprice, and 
 petulance about her. She was very patient now, very gentle, 
 and very grateful for every little thing that was done for her ; 
 her chief thought seeming to be to save those about her as much 
 trouble as possible. Her merry, child-like laugh was gone now, 
 never to be heard again ; but her smile was still there, and if 
 not so bright as it had once been, there was even more sweetness 
 in it; and never more so than when she welcomed Percy's return 
 home each day. How he prized those smiles, it would be hard 
 to say — all the more because he knew there would soon be 
 nothing but the memory of them left, and felt how dreary his 
 home would be without them in the days to come. 
 
 For the London physician who, much against her wish, was 
 summoned to see her, only confirmed Dr Mapleston's opinion ; 
 and although he thought change of air might perhaps for a short 
 time be beneficial, seemed to doubt the possibility of her being 
 able to undertake the journey to Atherstone ; nor did he give 
 hopes of any permanent good being effected, even if she should 
 
 T 
 
290 ATHERSTONE PKIORY. 
 
 get so far. Some nearer place would be better, he said, if she 
 really wished to leave home : but the wish to go now was not 
 hers — it was Percy's ; and he only clung to the idea because, 
 with the thought of change, something like hope appeared to 
 linger. But Lisa begged so hard to stay where she was that 
 the plan was given up. 
 
 ' I am so much happier here,' she said. ' And I know that 
 going can't do me any real good. I might be better for a day 
 or two, perhaps, but it wouldn't last. I should like to have 
 gone to Atherstone if I could ; for I have been longing — oh ! 
 so much, to see it again and everybody there. But perhaps it 's 
 better I shouldn't ; for I think if I were to see all the old places 
 where I was a child a little time ago, and used to play and be 
 happy, it would make me wish to live. And I don't want to 
 wish that again,' with a long sigh. * I have been happier lately, 
 to think of going. Let me die in our own home, Percy, where 
 you have made me so happy. I should like to be here till the 
 last.' 
 
 *You don't want me just at present, dear Lisa, do you?' 
 Mary asked, coming into the room one evening a few days later. 
 ' You seem so much better to-night, that I thought I would go 
 to church as I didn't get there this morning. Not if you don't 
 wish it,' she added, seeing Lisa's eyes fixed upon her earnestly ; 
 * I can stay if you want me.' 
 
 * No, oh no. Percy will be with me, you know ; and Lane is 
 here to take baby when I am tired. Give me a kiss, though, 
 Mary, before you go.' she said, still looking at her cousin in the 
 same earnest way. 
 
 Mary smiled a little ; but she stooped down and did as she 
 was asked ; and then with some last injunctions left the room. 
 
 It was Sunday: the bells far and near had been ringing for 
 evening service ; and even when they ceased the air was not 
 still, for the break of the waters on the beach and the fresh 
 wind sweeping through the garden trees kept up a pleasant stir 
 and life around. All day long that cool breeze had been blowing, 
 and under its influence Lisa had seemed stronger and better than 
 for some weeks past ; so much so, that when Dr Mapleston had 
 paid his accustomed visit that morning, he had expressed his 
 surprise at the improvement, and told her smilingly as he went 
 away that she would soon be ready for her journey to Atherstone. 
 
AT REST. 291 
 
 Could it be that something of hope still lingered in Percy's 
 breast ? Whatever the reason was, he certainly seemed lighter- 
 hearted than for many a long day past. It was with almost a 
 look of pleasure that he sat and watched her as she lay playing 
 with her child ; smiling and talking to it, and appearing quite 
 delighted when she could win back a smile and a low murmuring 
 sound in return. There was no sadness about her then : she 
 seemed to have forgotten how very short-lived her pleasure 
 must be ; how soon she must be parted from the little creature 
 over whom she was bending in such happiness. But when the 
 child, tired out with play, dropped asleep upon her knee, with a 
 smile still upon its face and its fingers fast wound in one of the 
 long tresses of her hair which had fallen down, there was a 
 silence, until Percy was startled by hearing a low sob. He rose 
 hastily. 
 
 * What is it, dearest?' he said, coming to her side. ' You are 
 tired, are you not? Let me ring for Lane to take her away.' 
 
 Lisa shook her head. ^IsTo, it's not that,' and she tried to 
 check her tears ; but they only seemed to fall the faster for the 
 effort she made to restrain them. 
 
 'What is it, then? Won't you tell me, dearest?' he said 
 anxiously. ^ You are not feeling worse, are you?' and he knelt 
 by her side, his voice faltering as he spoke. Her smile, however, 
 re-assured him ; though it was through her tears that she looked 
 at him. 
 
 ' No. I am a great deal better to-day ; better than I have 
 been for ever so long. I was only thinking.' And once more 
 tears choked her utterance. ' You must let me cry a little,' she 
 said, as soon as she could speak again. * Don't stop me ; it does 
 me good, for — I was thinking of baby.' There was another long 
 pause. *0 Percy, she will never know me!' she exclaimed at 
 last. ' She will never know how much I loved her. It makes 
 me so sorry to think of it ; and to think, too, that I shall know 
 nothing of her — that I shall never have the pleasure of seeing 
 her learn to walk and talk and run about, as I had hoped. It 
 is very hard to give her up, and all the happiness I thought I 
 should have with her. I fancied lately I had learned to do it, 
 and that when the time came I should be able to go without 
 feeling very sorry 3 but just now ' 
 
 She stopped, for the large tears had gathered in her eyes again; 
 and one of them rolled slowly down and fell on the face of 
 
292 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 the unconscious child. She wiped it away, and her gaze was 
 fastened long and earnestly upon the little sleeper ; but Percy 
 neither moved nor spoke. For many minutes her head was bent 
 in silence, but the painful look of doubt and sorrow which had 
 come over her face passed away, and in its place there came back 
 the calmer, happier look, which lately had seemed to belong 
 to it. 
 
 ' Yes, I was wrong ; I had forgotten,^ and she raised her head 
 and checked a sigh which was coming. * Mary told me all about 
 it one day ; and I know she was right. She said God had been 
 very good to send baby to me to make me so happy, even for a 
 little time ; and I know He has, and I must not feel it hard that 
 He should call me now to go away and leave her. And I am 
 sure when I see her again by-and-by, and when I see you too, 
 Percy, I sha'n't be sorry we were not together just for a few 
 years. We shall none of us be sorry then, shall we ? We shall 
 forget this time altogether.' Her eye grew very bright. 
 
 He kissed her, but he did not speak. Ah ! hope that for a 
 time they might yet not be parted, had not wholly died within 
 him ; and it brought a bitter pang to hear her speak as if that 
 separation might be near. 
 
 * I am glad I shall leave her with you, Percy,' she went on 
 after a time. * You will want some one to comfort you ; and she 
 will be a great pet — you will be very fond of her. I wonder 
 whether she will grow up at all like me, and ever remind you of 
 me. Yon will talk to her about me sometimes, won't you? 
 Tell her how I loved her, and how grieved I was when I had to 
 leave her — grieved at least at first,' she added, correcting herself. 
 ' But not now — no, not now,' in a low voice. * I know now that 
 it is all right as it is.' And once more she bent down again and 
 kissed her child many times. 
 
 *My little darling!' she murmured. *You will think of me 
 sometimes, won't you? and you will know how much I loved 
 you. And, Percy, you won't forget me either, will you ? But I 
 know you won't \ you will often think of me : and they must not 
 be sorrowful thoughts. I may not be so far away after all — 
 perhaps I may be very near. You can think I am; and wherever 
 you go you can fancy I am with you. And when you sit alone 
 in the long winter evenings, as we used to sit last year, and the 
 room is very quiet, you must not fancy you are quite alone. 
 You must not feel sad then, Percy. Never feel sad, please, when 
 
AT REST. 293 
 
 you think of me. You must only remember how happy you 
 made me while I was with you.' 
 ' Happy ! My poor Lisa ! ' 
 
 * Yes, happy — very happy ! I have often wished, Percy, to 
 thank you for being so kind to me. You have no idea how 
 dijfferent my life has been since I knew you. I was haj^py 
 before — happy in a way, because Mary was so kind to me ; but 
 when you came everything changed. It made all the difference 
 in the world to me knowing you. And when we were married, 
 how happy you made me when everything was strange and new! 
 and how very happy you have made me ever since !' She laid her 
 head on his shoulder as he still knelt by her side. * I feel as if 
 I hadn't loved you half enough, and could never thank you as I 
 ought. I only wish I could have lived a little longer to do a 
 great deal more for you. I have thought of a great many things 
 lately that I might have done to make your home happier. But 
 you must think, please, that I tried to do my best, and that I 
 wasn't very old, and should have done better by-and-by. For I 
 did try to please you, Percy — indeed I did.' 
 
 * I know it, my darling — I always knew it. And you did it 
 too. No one could have made a home happier than you always 
 made mine, my little summer-bird.' 
 
 He stopped, overcome suddenly by the host of recollections 
 brought back by that old pet word. 
 
 * Ah, yes, your summer-bird !' and Lisa's smile for a moment 
 was very sad. * Ah, Percy ! you should have chosen some one 
 else — some one who would have stayed with you in dark days as 
 well as bright. The summer-birds go when autumn comes ; and 
 I am going too. I wish I could have stayed a little longer ; only 
 a very little, till the leaves begin to change. I want to see them 
 falling again, as I saw them last autumn — as they did the day we 
 were married. Do you remember how they came down upon us as 
 we walked from church ; and how w^arm and bright the sun was, 
 and how the birds sang 1 It seems a very little time ago : I 
 never thought then I shouldn't see the leaves fall again ; and 
 every morning lately I have looked at the trees opposite to 
 see if they were fading. I want so much to see one yellow leaf 
 before I die. But there is not one ; and now I am afraid there 
 never will be for me.' 
 
 'Lisa, my darling, don't say that. You are better now — ^you 
 will stay with me a long, long time yet.' And again he drew 
 
294 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 her closer to him — the hard stern lines of his mouth giving way, 
 and quivering with suppressed anguish. But she did not see the 
 alteration in his face. Her eyes were fixed on the waving 
 boughs of the acacias, where the sun's last rays were playing ; 
 and she looked at them long and earnestly. There was no trace 
 of change among their leaves. 
 
 ^ How beautiful they are with that red light upon them !* she 
 said, in a low thoughtful tone. 'And how beautiful the sea 
 looks beyond, with that line of gold and crimson across it ! Do 
 you know, when I see everything so lovely, when I look at those 
 beautiful waters and the sunset above them, I wonder what that 
 other world must be like where everything is to be so much better 
 — so much more lovely. This seems almost perfect — as if one could 
 hardly wish for more beauty anywhere. And yet there will be, 
 of course ; because we are told so. I wish you would read me 
 those last two chapters in the Bible, Percy, where it speaks of 
 our other home. I should like to hear them while I lie here and 
 look at the sunset.' 
 
 Percy did as he was asked. He took up Lisa's little Bible 
 that lay beside her, and though his voice faltered once or twice 
 as he read of the golden city, with its blessed inhabitants, from 
 whom death and sorrow and pain have passed away, yet he went 
 on to the end, and Lisa made no remark when he had finished. 
 She only raised herself a little ; and then he asked if she wanted 
 anything. 
 
 ' No, nothing more, thank you. I like to think of that ;' and 
 there was a long silence. She lay with her eyes closed, and 
 after some time her low regular breathing seemed to tell that she 
 was asleep. It must have been a sound sleep too ; for when her 
 baby stirred once or twice, she did not notice it ; and generally 
 the slightest movement on its part was sufficient to rouse her 
 from her slumbers. 
 
 * Poor child, how tired she is !' thought Percy; but he remem- 
 bered the many w^eary days and restless nights she had had for 
 so long, and felt only too glad she should have the sleep she so 
 much needed. He knelt on, and watched the sun go down, and 
 the last faint streaks of crimson light fade, and the western sky 
 grow dark. And then the stars came out above, and glimmered 
 brightly on the far-spreading waste of waters. And one there 
 was brighter and clearer than all the rest, which shone with a 
 calm and steady ray ; and as he looked at it, and contrasted its 
 
AT REST. 295 
 
 unwavering light with the restless motion of the troubled waves 
 below, he could have fancied it an emblem of that bright and 
 changeless world on whose portals it seemed to stand, and of 
 whose glories he had just been reading. 
 
 He watched it for very long, until it too went down like the 
 sun behind the high cliffs on the beach ; and it was only when 
 its light was gone that he recollected where he was, and began to 
 feel something of the constraint of his position. But his arm 
 was round Lisa, and her head was still resting on his shoulder ; 
 and he would not disturb her, though he wondered she slept so 
 long. Once only she had moved a little ; and he had fancied 
 then he heard something like a sigh, as if she had been waking ; 
 but she had not spoken, and there had been no other sound since. 
 She was very quiet now; and the child was sleeping too, as 
 peacefully as its mother, so he did not stir. He knelt on undis- 
 turbed in the dark and silent room, till Mary^s step was heard in 
 the hall, and her voice close to the door. Even then he would 
 not move; and as she came in with a light in her hand, he 
 motioned to her to tread softly, and not to speak. She set down 
 the candle she was carrying, and with a cautious step came across 
 the room ; stopping for a moment at the foot of the sofa, while 
 unfastening her bonnet strings, and then pausing to look a little 
 longer at the two sleepers there, the child who was slumbering so 
 quietly, and Lisa, who lay with her arm fast clasped round it, 
 and her face half hidden on her husband's shoulder. Something 
 in that face, however, shaded as it was, arrested Mary's attention 
 and the perfect stillness of that sleeping form filled her all at once, 
 she knew not why, with a strange fear. She would have spoken^ 
 but could not ; and for some moments she stood, afraid to move, 
 lest that great dread which was beginning to find shape should re- 
 solve itself into certainty. Unable, however, at last to bear the op 
 pressive silence, she crept round to her cousin's side, and bending 
 over her, laid her hand upon hers as it rested on her child. And 
 then she knew all. The cold touch, the drooping head, and that 
 lifeless stillness told everything. Lisa was gone — gone to her 
 rest in sleep — gone without suffering of any kind. Death, which 
 she once had feared so much, had come to her gently and kindly ; 
 she had mercifully been spared the parting to which she had so 
 long looked forward with dread. With her child upon her arm, 
 and by the side of him whom she loved best, she had passed 
 away ; and there was no trace now of pain or sorrow on her fair 
 
296 ATHERSTONE PIIIORY. 
 
 3'oung face — only a strange, unearthly beauty — a light as it 
 seemed from the other world. 
 
 ^ Percy/ it was long before Mary found voice to speak. ^ Dear 
 Percy, you must lay her down— you can^t disturb her now.' And 
 then, as she herself stooped to take up the sleeping child from its 
 dead mother's arms, all the floodgates of her sorrow gave way, 
 and she burst into tears. 
 
 With a startled look Percy raised his head and gazed at her, 
 as if utterly unable to comprehend her meaning. But as he ap- 
 peared to realise the sense of her words, his face changed, and 
 like her, he bent down to look and listen. For many minutes 
 there was silence in the room — silence so still and deep that 
 Mary could hear the beating of her own heart ; and then there 
 came a cry — a low terrible cry of bitter agony which seemed 
 wrung from a broken heart. 
 
 * Lisa, my Lisa, iriy little Lisa, come back to me ! ' 
 
 But he spoke in vain. The voice for which he listened was 
 hushed — the shadow of death was on his home. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIIL 
 
 A LONG PARTING. 
 
 Morning came — another glorious summer morning, all light and 
 beauty. The sunshine sparkled on the sea, and the little waves 
 came dancing in and broke merrily upon the sandy shore. 
 Among the trees about the cottage the breezes were playing joy- 
 ously ; and many thousands awoke that day to new hopes and 
 gladness. There was no change in the world because one young 
 life was over. In all that busy town there were few to give a 
 thought to the darkened room where a still and shrouded form 
 was lying — few to think of the sorrow and desolation that had 
 
A LONG PARTING. 297 
 
 come on tlie home from which one so cherished was gone. Lisa 
 herself had once shrunk from the thought of being so little missed 
 in the world of life about her — of resting so unconscious of the glory 
 and beauty of all outer things. But what were they to her now 1 
 The warmth and brightness of the summer and the snows and 
 storms of winter would be alike unheeded ; and even the wail- 
 ing of her child had no power to disturb her sleep. Calmly she 
 lay there now ; and as Mary stood by her side and contrasted 
 that still deep repose with the restlessness of the days just past, 
 and saw the happy look upon the face which lately had so often 
 been clouded by grief and pain, she felt that the change for her 
 was indeed a blessed one. 
 
 But it ^vas hardly in those first days that Mary felt her loss 
 the most. It was for others she had lived all her life ; and it 
 was of others she had now to think. For Percy was stunned by 
 the blow which had come upon him ; and in the endeavour to 
 spare him as much as possible she had but little time to think of 
 her own grief. And w^ell it was for him that he had her to turn 
 to — that he was not alone in his sorrow. It was something to 
 him to know there was one to share it with him — something 
 to know that the treasure which had been idolised by him had 
 been prized by another too ; that the same thoughts of her were 
 in the minds of both, though her name was never mentioned. 
 For he could not bring himself to talk of her. Not even to his 
 sister could he speak of * his little Lisa,' * his summer-bird,* as he 
 had so fondly called her. From the time when he had laid her 
 down, when there had been no answer to his passionate entreaty 
 to her to listen to him — from that time her name became to him 
 a thing of the past, sealed and sacred. He never mentioned it 
 himself, and could not hear it from others ; and once when Mary, 
 hoping to rouse him from the silent grief which seemed to be 
 crushing him, spoke of her cousin — spoke of her by name, as 
 Lisa — the look upon his face, and the sudden contraction of his 
 brow, told her it was more than he could bear ; even without his 
 hurried exclamation, ' Not now, Mary — not yet. I must hear it 
 from others by-and-by, but not from you ! Let me forget now if 
 I can.' 
 
 Forget 1 Yes, if silence had been f orgetf ulness, he might have 
 forgotten. For silently, and with no outward signs of grief, 
 he stood each day by Lisa's cofiin. In silence he looked at the 
 much-loved and lifeless form that lay there ready for its last 
 
298 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 unbroken rest — the young face which once had been so bright 
 and joyous, now so still and quiet — the golden hair, his pride 
 and admiration, now braided away, and the long eyelashes closed 
 for ever over those dark loving eyes. In silence he took his 
 last look at her on the day that the coffin-lid was fastened down 
 to shut her from his sight ; and in silence he followed her to the 
 churchyard beside the sea where she was to lie — a crowded 
 burial-ground where the rich and poor of many generations slept 
 together, and where one more grave in a quiet corner would 
 pass unnoticed. Who would know that under that low mound 
 was buried away so much of grace and loveliness, so much of the 
 joy and happiness of a life that had been bound up in her who 
 was sleeping there 1 and who that ever chanced in days to come 
 to pause by that lowly grave, would turn from it to think of the 
 husband sitting by his lonely hearth, dreaming of the bright- 
 haired, beautiful girl who once had sat with him there, and 
 rousing himself with a start to find that he was alone with his 
 memories of the past 1 
 
 He went back now to his home, through a summer shower that 
 was falling — stealing softly and silently down, as it might have 
 been in calm and chastened weeping for the early dead. And 
 well would it have been for him if he too could have wept ; and 
 then have lifted his eyes to the distant hills beyond the bay, on 
 which, even through the rain, the sun*s bright rays were once 
 more kindling, speaking of hope and light beyond the clouds. 
 But neither tears nor hopes were his — only a dreary blank, a 
 sense of utter and forlorn nothingness. 
 
 And so he went back to his home — back to Lisa^s room; 
 and locking the door behind him, sat down upon the sofa and 
 looked around him — looked at the far-spreading sea, now danc- 
 ing again in sunshine — at the yellow sands, and the garden trees 
 where the raindrops were glistening; and then his eye came back 
 to that desolate room, so strange, and yet so familiar. For all 
 about him were her things. Her books, her work, her writing- 
 case, the last dress she had worn, the little ornaments — his orna- 
 ments — which she had had on when she died ; amongst others 
 the pearl ring, his betrothal gift to her scarcely a year before. 
 He took it up now. What a child she had been when he had 
 put it on her finger; and back came at once, in a flood, all the 
 recollections of that day — that sunny day at Copelands. The 
 white gate by which they had stood, the wych-elm by the road- 
 
A LONG PAKTING. 299 
 
 side, the green lane down which he had walked, and looked hack 
 to see her watching him as he went — he saw them all. And what 
 memories of all that time were stirred up then ! Of his coming 
 up that lane every morning to find her waiting for him, of her 
 face of delight when she caught sight of him; of their long walks 
 and rides, their talks together ; of her frank, child-like happiness, 
 so curiously mixed with her half-shy, but graceful, loving ways. 
 How proud then had been his love and admiration for her ! How 
 proud had he been too in later days, when for a little time he had 
 called that graceful fairy-child his wife! That time was over 
 now, those few months of happiness were past, and she was gone. 
 Gone ! No, he could not realise it — when all around him spoke 
 of her, he could not believe she was really gone — and for ever. 
 It was only for a little while — for a few hours. She had gone 
 out somewhere, but she would come back — and he thought he 
 heard her gay voice singing in the garden, as she had often sung 
 among her flowers, and then her light footstep on the stairs. 
 She was coming that way — coming to look for him ! Ah, why 
 did she pause at the door 1 why did she come no farther 1 And 
 why at that moment was there a child's cry — her child's — to 
 break the stillness of the house, and bring him back from the 
 world of fancy to the sad realities of life 1 
 
 He rose then, and going to a table near, opened her writing- 
 case and took from it a paper which she had told him he would 
 find there. It was the same that Isabel had one day seen lying 
 beside her. He took it up and read it through — all her wishes 
 with regard to the many little things she called her own. He 
 read them through from beginning to end, and never flinched. 
 There was no change in his face, except once; and that was when 
 he came to Isabel's name amongst those of others, to whom some 
 of her most prized treasures had been left. There was a look 
 then — -a look of the most bitter, most intense anguish ; and a 
 sudden movement of his hand, as if he would have dashed out 
 that name. But the look went again, and his hand fell, and he 
 read on to the end as unmoved as before. 
 
 And then he laid the paper down, and stood for a few minutes 
 with his arms folded as if in thought. But not for very long, 
 he roused himself again, and took out all her letters — letters that 
 she had received mostly from Atherstone, and the greater num- 
 ber from Mary ; but there were a few of his own, too ; written 
 when he had been at Hoole. She had asked that they might all 
 
300 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 be burnt ; and he threw them all together on the hearth, and 
 setthig light to tbem, watched until they were consumed. And 
 then he took her empty writing-case, and put it away in a drawer 
 with her work-box and favourite books ; and collecting every 
 little thing that had been left about, he put them all away, until 
 the room looked very bare and desolate. He stood in the middle 
 of it then, gazing round with a face well-nigh heart-broken in 
 its expression ; and then taking up her dressing-case and the 
 paper he had been reading, he went away, locking the door and 
 carrying off the key. He took the dressing-case to Mary, who 
 was sitting sad and lonely in the drawing-room with the baby, 
 and laying down the paper beside her, said in a steady though 
 not very natural voice : 
 
 * Will you see that all that is done — the first part I mean 1 
 The rest I shall see to myself.' 
 
 Mary took the paper. She could not look so unmoved as he 
 had done on poor Lisa's last expressed wishes, and her tears fell 
 very fast while reading them ; but he did not notice her. He 
 took up his child from her knee, and walking away to one of the 
 windows, stood there with it asleep in his arms for the rest of 
 the afternoon, neither moving nor speaking. And all the evening 
 afterwards he sat silent and motionless ; not thinking, only feeling 
 — feeling that dreary blank, that utter hopelessness of despair. 
 
 And so time went by — time which the year before at that 
 same season had gone so fast. Days began and ended, and 
 passed into weeks ; but each as it went seemed to bring little 
 change to Percy. He set out every morning to his duties, and 
 came back every afternoon at his usual time ; but his employ- 
 ments had become nothing but an irksome round, which, though 
 they gave him occupation, never brought forgetfulness. His first 
 look always on entering the room after any absence, was towards 
 the place where Lisa, whenever she was down-stairs, had been 
 either sitting or lying ; and the sight of his face, and the heavy 
 sigh with which when he missed her there he would turn away, 
 gave Mary many a heart-ache. His evenings were spent in 
 silence, mostly with a book in his hand, which however he very 
 seldom appeared to read ; while Mary sat near him with her own 
 book or work; and although she made many attempts to 
 rouse him into cheerfulness, his weary * Leave me alone, Mary ; 
 let me be quiet with you,' was far from encouraging 3 and she 
 found it better in general to desist. 
 
A LONG PARTING. 301 
 
 * Dear Percy, how I wish I could help you/ she said, coming 
 to his side one evening, when he had been standing for long in 
 the twilight without speaking. * Is there nothing I can do 
 for you 1 ' 
 
 ' No, nothing, thank you. You can't bring her back, and that 
 is all I want.' 
 
 And Mary turned away in silence ; that hopeless tone told her 
 how useless it was for the present to try and reach his sorrow. 
 To time alone could she look to soften his grief — to time and to 
 one other comforter still left him — his little child. For in her 
 he seemed to find his only pleasure ; and when she was with 
 him, when walking about with her in his arms, as he often did 
 by the hour togetlier, his face would lose much of its sadness ; 
 and as she grew day by day in beauty and intelligence, Mary 
 noticed with intense pleasure how much she drew him from his 
 melancholy musings, re-awakened his interest in passing things, 
 and gave him new subject for thought and hope. She was still 
 a delicate, tiny creature, but very quick and lively ; with her 
 mother's large dark eyes, and much of her mother's look and 
 loveliness about her when she smiled. To w^atch for that smile — 
 to try to win it from her — was Percy's chief delight ; and it was 
 one which became no rare thing. For she grew to know him, 
 and soon learned to show a decided preference for him. His 
 dress at first had much to do with this. His scarlet waistcoat 
 and the gold band of his cap caught and pleased her eye, from 
 their contrast to the sombre hue in which every one else about 
 her appeared ; and she never saw them without evident tokens 
 of delight, and signifying in restless baby ways her wish to go to 
 him. And nothing gave him more pleasure than did the first 
 signs of that preference. From that hour something of his loneli- 
 ness and sadness seemed to vanish ; and when he found that she 
 turned to him — that she preferred his arm to that of every one 
 else — and cried when he was obliged to leave her, he felt, though 
 he hardly acknowledged it to himself, that the interests and 
 pleasures of life were not quite gone ; and that his child, if she 
 were spared to him, might yet make up for much that he had lost. 
 
 But when first beginning to understand all that Lisa's child 
 might be to him, he was suddenly called on to part from her. 
 For he was ordered to the Cape. He could not take his child 
 with him, as once he had determined on doing ; for both his 
 father and Dr Mapleston agreed in pronouncing a more bracing 
 
302 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 climate necessary for her. There was nothing for it therefore 
 but to leave her in his sister's charge, and send her, as her mother 
 had been sent, to Atherstone for a home. 
 
 It was not without a most bitter pang that this resolve was 
 taken, and he made up his mind to part with the child, whose 
 baby smiles and likeness to her young mother had so won his 
 heart. He hardly let her leave his arms that evening ; and when 
 he went to look at her, as he always did, after she had been car- 
 ried to his sister's room for the night, he stood there watching 
 her for so long that Mary was afraid something was wrong, and 
 asked what was the matter with her. 
 
 ^ Nothing,' was the answer : but he did not move, and after 
 a long silence, he added, * You must take good care of her, 
 Mary ; and if I don't come back, mind you make her happy, 
 poor child ! ' 
 
 Mary stooped down to kiss the sleeping baby, and her voice 
 faltered a little as she said, * I think you can trust me, Percy. 
 If I didn't love her already for her own sake, I should for her 
 mother's. I promised her to take care of her.' 
 
 A few days of bustle and preparation followed — days during 
 which Mary was too thankful she had no time to think;, and that 
 at night she was too tired to lie awake and muse over the present 
 and the past. She could not afford to give way then ; thought 
 might come afterwards, but in the meanwhile she worked away 
 incessantly. For the cottage was to be given up, and she and 
 Lane were to return to Atherstone when her brother left. There 
 was much, therefore, to be done ; and in packing and superintend- 
 ing the removal of things that were to be sent before them to 
 the Priory, she found unceasing occupation ; which, in spite of 
 the weariness it brought both to mind and body, she could not 
 regret. 
 
 On the last evening of all^ when everything was done, she 
 found herself at liberty to go once more to that quiet grave in 
 the churchyard by the sea. The evening was closing in, and she 
 was very tired ; but the distance was not great, and putting on 
 her cloak and bonnet, she made her way by the sands to her 
 cousin's resting-place. It was raw and cold ; a grey mist was 
 creeping over the sea, whose white waves curled and broke at 
 her feet with a sullen murmur, and the wind swept by her 
 with a harsh dreary sound that saddened her weary spirit 
 as she struggled on against its buffeting. The churchyard 
 
A LONG PARTING, 303 
 
 was quieter, but it looked dark and gloomy. And she started 
 when, in the quiet corner where Lisa was laid, something moved 
 near her, and she saw a dark form standing by that low grave. 
 But it was only for a moment j for in the dim light she recog- 
 nised her brother, and she drew close to him and stood in silence 
 by his side. No one else was there — in that solitary place they 
 seemed alone ; and yet was it really so ? In spirit might she not 
 still be near them, watching with them in their loneliness and 
 sadness ? Mary believed it ; and while the sky looked dark above, 
 and only the wail of the wind, mingling with the deep hoarse 
 sound of the ground-swell upon the beach, met her ear, in fancy 
 the low rush of that wind seemed to her like angel- wings, and 
 her thoughts went travelling on beyond the clouds and storms 
 that hung around, to that brighter world — the home of that 
 might-be angel- watcher. Bhe could not weep then — tears for one 
 so blessed would have seemed wrong ; and that other world at 
 that moment was too near for her to feel, as she often did, so 
 very desolate. She did not think then of Lisa as she lay shrouded 
 in darkness and silence under that grassy mound; but she thought 
 of her in all her beauty, a bright and glorious being, in whose 
 eyes lay no shadow of grief, and round whose young brow a halo 
 of perfect happiness had gathered. 
 
 But she grew cold at last ; the mist had changed to a drizzling 
 rain, and the damp, penetrating her dress and cloak, roused her 
 to a recollection of time and place. She laid her hand on her 
 brother's arm. 
 
 * It is getting late, Percy. Shall we go ] * 
 
 He looked up then. * Go ! yes, you had better, it 's cold here 
 for you.' 
 
 * And for you too. You will come with me, won't you ? ' 
 
 He shivered, but made no answer, and for some moments still 
 stood where he was. Then he stooped down over the grave, and 
 gathered something from it ; only a little of the grass that grew 
 there, as she saw afterwards. There were no flowers ; she had 
 planted some round it in the summer, but they had drooped as 
 autumn came on, and now they were faded and gone. He took 
 that little bit of grass instead ; and then he turned away, and 
 they walked back in silence, through the misty rain, to their 
 desolate home. 
 
 A long sad evening that last one was, in the half-furnished 
 room which once had looked so gay and pretty. The pictures 
 
304 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 were gone from tlie ^Yalls, tlie books from their cases, the orna« 
 ments from the mantlepiece and tables ; they had all been sent 
 to Atherstone. Lisa*s piano had been sold; her flowers were 
 gone, and so were her birds, with the exception of a solitary- 
 canary which Mary meant to take with her; that and Prince 
 having been the two pets of which her cousin had thought most. 
 The dog lay now on the hearth-rug before the fire, his bright 
 eyes peering through his shaggy hair ; but he seemed restless, 
 and at times whined uneasily, as if he would have asked what 
 change had come there, and where the young mistress w^as, whose 
 step and voice were missing. And Mary stitched away at her 
 work, and Percy sat in silence with his eyes fixed upon the fire. 
 And without, the storm was howling, and the sea broke in long 
 sullen roars upon the beach, while shrill blasts of wind whistled 
 past the house, and went shrieking and moaning off among the 
 distant hills. 
 
 A wet and stormy day succeeded that stormy night. The rain 
 was dripping heavily from the half-leafless acacia trees and trailing 
 creepers, when Mary took her last look out upon the garden, with 
 its damp sodden grass, and fading, dying flow^ers. There was but 
 little vestige left of its former beauty — the hands that once had 
 tended it were still and at rest for ever, and everything they had 
 cared for seemed passing to rest also — to the long sleep of winter. 
 A longer sleep must be Lisa's, a far deeper repose than that of 
 the flowers she had watched and cherished ; but her spring would 
 come too, and like them she would rise again to life and beauty. 
 And happy for her, Mary thought, that in the meantime she 
 was safe and at rest — at rest from sorrow, and safe from the 
 trials and partings which must come to those who were still be- 
 low. More than ever was this thought in her mind, as she pic- 
 tured that long parting which lay before herself, and watched 
 her brother's face when looking his last round the home in which 
 the greater part of his short wedded life had been spent. She 
 wished he would have given way then, that he had been alone, 
 with nothing to oblige him to retain that composure which a re- 
 served and haughty nature only enabled him to keep up. Any- 
 thing, she felt, would have been better than that forced unnatural 
 manner, that stony grief. Last orders were given, and last pre- 
 parations made in a dry business-like way, which told nothing of 
 his innermost feelings ; and when the carriage came that was to 
 take them to the station, no one but Mary noticed the look with 
 
A LONG PARTING. 305 
 
 wliicli he turned for the Last time to that low-roofed cottage 
 home where he had known both his greatest earthly happines-^ 
 and bis greatest trial. 
 
 A cold wet journey took them to Southampton, where they 
 w^ere joined by Dr Tennent, who had found time to meet them 
 there, for the double purpose of seeing his son again, and taking 
 his daughter and grandchild down to Atherstone. A short time 
 spent together then, and a few hours more in the morning, and 
 Mary had seen her last of Percy. So hurried was he when the 
 time for leaving came, that a hasty farewell was all he was able 
 to take of his child as she lay in her nurse's arms. She had been 
 fretting all the morning, but just then she was lying very quiet, 
 and as he came up she turned to him with one of her sweet baby 
 smiles. No time then for the toss and the game for which she 
 always looked — no time even to take her for a moment ; and that 
 smile of hers recalling the loved and lost nearly upset in that part- 
 ing moment the strong man's resolution. His lip quivered as he 
 bent down for a long last kiss. 
 
 * God bless you, my little darling, and keep you, if I never 
 see you again,' he murmured. And then he turned away, and, 
 without even another look at the child he w^as leaving for so 
 long, hurried from the room. 
 
 His father and Mary went with him to the Castle Car]), which 
 lay at some little distance down the river ; but their parting 
 might almost as well have taken place on shore, for little was 
 said by any of them, and the few minutes during which they 
 stood together on the wet and slippery deck, in the pouring 
 rain, amidst all the confusion of last arrivals, and final leave- 
 takings of friends, only made Mary feel more bitterly the pain 
 of that parting. She had time, however, for a hurried visit to 
 his berth to see what were his chances of comfort during the 
 voyage; and time also to hang up there a basket of flowers 
 which she had filled with wet earth and moss, in hopes that by 
 this means their gay blossoms might almost last out to the Cape. 
 And then the bell was ringing, the anchor was heaving, and the 
 last boat was leaving for the shore. A few minutes more, and 
 that long farewell had been taken; and she and her father in 
 rain and sleet were making their way back over the stormy 
 water, while the Castle Cary was slowly dropping down the 
 river. As long as it was still in sight — as long as she could 
 still distinguish the forms upon its crow^ded deck, Mary stood 
 
 U 
 
306 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 up watcliing her brother leaning over the vessel's side ; but it 
 passed away at last in the shrouding mist — her own tears and 
 the driving sleet hid it from her sight ; and then she sat down 
 by her father, and gave way unchecked to the grief she had so 
 long kept back. 
 
 Drenched with rain and spray, they got back to their hotel ; 
 but not to stay. Dr Tennent was anxious to get home again as 
 soon as possible; and they started for town that same afternoon. 
 Rain, rain still as they Avent — all the country was veiled in mist, 
 and the autumn day closed in again in storm. The Castle Gary 
 went down the Channel that night in a furious gale ; and Mary 
 in their London lodging lay awake and listened to the howling 
 of the wind and the heavy fall of the rain in the streets, and 
 envied the unconscious child who slept upon her arm, knowing 
 nothing of the mother she had lost or of the father who had left 
 her that day. 
 
 They travelled down to Atherstone on the following morning ; 
 and on that bleak autumnal day, Mary once more re-entered the 
 house which a few months before she had left on an early 
 summer s morning, in obedience to that hasty summons of her 
 brother's. Her welcome back was almost a silent one, except 
 from the children, who danced about her, and were never tired 
 of admiring poor Lisa's baby, pronouncing it the most beautiful 
 little thing they had ever seen. But neither Isabel nor Elinor 
 could look at the motherless child without the most painful 
 feelings ; and Mrs Tennent was graver even than was her wont 
 as she watched Mary bending over her young charge. Was she 
 thinking of another child whose worse than motherless life she 
 had so often embittered by her harshness ; and when she met 
 the gaze of those large wondering baby eyes, did they awaken 
 recollections of the -warm-hearted, though impetuous girl, whose 
 young days in that same home she had made so far from happy ? 
 But if so, she was not the one to confess it ; and her only 
 remark was that the child looked very delicate — she did not 
 think Mary would be able to do much for it. 
 
 * Yes, I am afraid she has a hard task before her,' Dr Tennent 
 said, looking fondly, though with some sadness, at his little 
 grand-daughter. * We must do what we can for her, poor child, 
 but I am afraid Percy will not see her again. It is as well for 
 him, perhaps, that he was obliged to part with her so soon, before 
 he came to care for her too much.' 
 
A LONG PARTING. 307 
 
 Mary was silent; but she stooped to kiss her charge, and 
 as she did so there was a silent vow in her heart, that if 
 love and care of hers could save her brother's child, that care 
 should not be wanting- — and the vow was renewed when in the 
 twilight of that same day she sat by the fireside in her own 
 room, and thought of the cousin from whom one short year 
 before she had parted for what she had believed would be to her 
 a long life of happiness. For that day was the sixteenth of 
 October, and as she sat in the red glowing firelight, while the 
 rain was dripping without, and gusts of wind were sweeping 
 round the house and through the fading lime-trees, in thought 
 she went back to that same day tw^elve months before, when the 
 world had looked bright — when the birds had sung, and the sun 
 had shone — when the bells from the old Priory church had rung 
 out a merry wedding peal, and she had said * good-bye ' to her 
 brother and his beautiful young bride ; and then had sat where 
 she was sitting now, to dream over their future. How little had 
 she then guessed that the child she loved so well, and from 
 whom it had cost her such a pang to part, would never more 
 come back to her home — that when that day came round again, 
 she would be at rest in her quiet grave, and he with whom she 
 had gone so gladly, would be on his way alone, and half broken- 
 hearted, to a distant land ! And she looked at the little child 
 they had left, and wondered whether she would be spared to 
 gladden her father's heart, if he ever returned from that far-off 
 shore ; and whether she would be to herself, in days to come, 
 what her mother had been before her. 
 
308 ATHERSTONE PRIORT. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIY. 
 
 ^LONG YEARS HAVE COME, LONG YEARS HAVE GONE.' 
 
 More than five years passed away, and once again it was a 
 spring day at Atherstone. The lime-trees at the Priory were 
 fast coming into leaf, and the shade upon the green walk 
 beneath them was deepening daily; while the borders that 
 skirted the garden lawn were filled with the first flowers of the 
 season, and the lawn itself looked fresh and green after the rain 
 and snows of winter. The sky above was blue, and the old 
 house, and all about it, wore its sunniest, gayest aspect. The 
 years that had passed had brought little change to it. The long 
 low rooms, with their dark heavy furniture, were the same as in 
 other times — the brightly-polished hall and staircase still gave 
 back the reflection of the sun's rays w^hich fell through the 
 latticed windows. The vine and the rose-tree still hung over 
 and darkened the casements, and not one nook or corner of the 
 numberless little up-stair rooms w^as altered in any way. Were 
 those who lived there unchanged too"? 
 
 On that bright afternoon Isabel was sitting alone in her studio 
 as she had been used to sit in the days that were gone. The 
 sunlight, that made its way in through the budding vine-leaves, 
 fell upon her easel, which still stood in its old position, and all 
 around her were her drawings and paintings, her books and 
 sculpture, her music and her engravings, as they had been 
 gathered in former times. The room looked so much the same 
 now as it had done then — that it might have been but the other 
 day since Lisa had sought admittance there — since she had 
 looked with a wondering, reverential gaze at the treasures of art 
 collected in it, and turned away in anger and disappointment 
 because its beauties and curiosities were not meant for her to 
 see. 
 
 But Isabel was not the same — time, which had brought so 
 little change to the things around her, had changed her. Her 
 face had lost the freshness of youth; and though intellectual 
 as ever, was marked with lines of thought and care, almost of 
 
^LONG YEARS HAVE COME, LONG YEARS HAVE GONE.' 309 
 
 sadness, as if life liad not brought all it had once seemed to 
 promise. Her youth was going — she was looking back upon 
 it, and what had it given her? Not happiness — for the 
 pursuits in which she had spent it, refined and ennobling as 
 they might be, had been worked for for themselves alone, not 
 as an end to better things. As she went back in retrospect over 
 the years that were gone, she saw they had been wasted, because 
 they had been spent on herself alone. It was for herself she had 
 lived ; and now she knew it had all been in vain. She felt that 
 the recollection of kindly words and deeds to others — of a youth 
 given to making those around her happy, would have been 
 worth more than the talents — the knowledge of which she had 
 long been so proud. All her gifts, all her talents, she would 
 have given now to have had the remembrance of a life of care 
 and love for others, of a charity which had thought no evil, had 
 believed the best of all, and cherished no unkind or envious feel- 
 ings. There would then have been no self-reproach to mingle 
 with her memories of by-gone days — no bitter regret for words 
 and deeds now past recal — no vain yearnings for affection trifled 
 with and lost. Poor Isabel ! it was a dreary waste of years 
 on which she was looking back ; and it was not strange that 
 though the world around her was so bright on that spring day 
 her brow was clouded, and her face wore such a sad weary 
 expression. She did not notice the beauty of outward things — 
 she did not see the dancing of the sunlight, the young leaves 
 waking into life, the world of insect being rejoicing in the 
 warmth ; she sat absorbed in her own painful thoughts — so 
 absorbed in them that she was not aware she was no longer alone 
 — that some one had stolen noiselessly into the room. A little 
 child stood there — a tiny child with delicate features and the 
 faint pink of some blush-rose upon her cheek — with large dark 
 eyes and long curls of soft brown-golden hair. There was no 
 mistaking those eyes and hair — they would have told whose child 
 she was, even had the resemblance to her mother been less 
 . striking. Isabel's face brightened as she saw her. 
 
 * Come back already, little May ? ' she said with a smile ; and 
 as the child ran forward eagerly and laid her head in her lap, 
 she kissed her fondly. ' Why, you didn't stay very long to-day. 
 What was Lane doing to bring you back so soon 1 ' 
 
 * I don't know; she said she was going to be busy. But, oh, 
 Aunt Isabel,' u.id May lifted a joyous face, * I am to have a 
 
310 ATHERSTONE PEIORY. 
 
 chicken ! Mrs Pye is going to give me one — a real chicken ! I *m 
 to go every day and see it. She gave me a cake too/ and May 
 fumbled in a small pocket, and produced a cake in rather a dila- 
 pidated condition. ' Do you like plumcake^ Aunt Isabel ? It 's 
 very nice.' 
 
 ' Thank you, my darling; but I won't take it all/ Isabel said, 
 breaking off a small piece. Not for worlds would she have dis- 
 tressed her little niece by telling her the proffered dainty was by 
 no means in so inviting a condition as it might have been. 
 * You must have some of it too,' she added. ' But suppose you 
 leave it for tea. That will be better than eating it now/ 
 
 To which proposition May acceded ; the more readily because, 
 as she confessed, she was not hungry, having already had more 
 ginger-bread at Mrs Pye's than she wanted. So the cake was 
 put back into the small pocket, being this time wrapped in a 
 piece of paper, of which she possessed herself for the purpose. 
 The paper was a drawing of her aunt's, but no objection was 
 made. She did what she liked in that room ; and when she 
 turned to amuse herself with Isabel's paint-brushes and palettes, 
 and then, still talking very fast of what she had been doing at 
 Copelands, proceeded to stick her fingers into the clay figure 
 which her aunt had only just finished modelling, not a word of 
 remonstrance was offered. But though well aware she had no 
 cause to fear rebuke for anything she chose to do there. May dis- 
 covered after a time that her dear Aunt Isabel looked graver than 
 was her wont when they were alone together, and did not listen 
 with her accustomed interest to what was said. 
 
 * Does your head ache, Aunt Isabel ? ' she asked at last in 
 childish sympathy ; stopping short in an endeavour to stick the 
 head again upon the figure she had been mutilating. 
 
 Isabel looked up. * No, dear, not at all. What makes you 
 think so r 
 
 ' You look so sorry,' was the rejoinder. * I thought,' pursued 
 May after a pause, ' I thought you would have been glad now 
 papa is coming home.' 
 
 Isabel was silent ; but she winced visibly at the words. 
 
 * Don't you want him back 1 ' May went on. * Won't you be 
 glad to see him again*? I thought you would.' 
 
 * Yes, dear, so I shall j ' Isabel spoke with an effort. ' May, 
 my darling,' she added hastily, ' open the door for Prince ; he 
 wants to come in.' 
 
^LONG YEARS HAVE COME, LONG YEARS HAVE GONE.' 311 
 
 May whisked off in a great Imrry ; and Prince being admitted, 
 a romp ensued for some minutes between dog and child, which 
 occasioned no little confusion among Isabel's various scattered 
 possessions. The game, though, did not serve to do more than 
 divert the child's thoughts for the time, and she presently began 
 again — 
 
 * I wonder what papa is like, and whether he '11 be kind to 
 me. Do you think he will ; or will he be angry because I don't 
 know anything? Aunt Nelly called me a little dunce this 
 morning.' 
 
 And, truth to say, Aunt Nelly had not been far wrong in that 
 assertion ; for a greater ignoramus at nearly six years old than 
 Miss Lisa Mary Tennent it would have been hard to find. Let- 
 ters were still a mystery to her, and a mystery not likely to be 
 soon solved with her consent ; and in every other branch of 
 learning she was equally deficient — a fact to be accounted for by 
 her delicate health, which had long been a source of uneasiness 
 to those who had the charge of her. But unwearied, watchful 
 care, and plenty of fresh air and exercise, had brought her through 
 the common ailments of childhood ; and thc^ugh still fragile-look- 
 ing, she was no longer the subject of anxiety she had once been. 
 
 ' Do you love papa, Aunt Isabel ? ' sbe went on after a pause. 
 * You never talk to me about him as Aunt Mary does. You don't 
 care for him, do you ] ' 
 
 Isabel was silent for a moment, and then she said in a low 
 voice, ' Yes, dear, indeed I do. I care for him more than I can 
 tell you.' She spoke quietly, but something in her tone made May 
 look up ; and she gazed at her wonderingly on seeing her eyes 
 full of tears. 
 
 ' What have I said, Aunt Isabel 1 Why have I made you cry 1 * 
 she exclaimed, throwing her arms round her with childish impetu- 
 osity. ' Oh, I 'm sorry ! ' 
 
 * My darling, there 's nothing to be sorry for.' But somehow 
 that childish sympathy upset Isabel completely. She could not 
 check her tears ; and May grew impetuous. 
 
 * Then it 's papa ! ' she exclaimed indignantly. * I won't like 
 him if he makes you cry. I '11 never love him — never, never ' 
 
 * Hush, May, dearest, hush ! You mustn't talk like that, 
 my darling. There is no one I want to see more than your papa 
 — I 'm tired of waiting for him. May — tired of waiting all these 
 long years. And now* she paused. 
 
312 ATHERSTONE PEIOEY. 
 
 ^ And now you are glad ! ' May said, doubtfully — ^ glad that 
 he '11 be here in six weeks ! ' 
 
 ^ Very glad.' There was a long-drawn sigh. 
 
 ' Then, Aunt Isabel, why did you cry 1 Why do you look so 
 Borry 1 ' 
 
 Isabel hesitated. ' I can't tell you, dearest ; never mind,' she 
 said at last. ^ I was thinking of a great many things — things 
 that happened long ago — but never mind them now,' she added, 
 forcing a smile. ^ We are only going to talk of pleasant things 
 now. We must think how glad he will be to come back, and see 
 his little May — it will make him very happy, dear, to have some 
 one to love and care for him, when he has been so lonely all this 
 time.' And with an effort, which she had hitherto thought it 
 impossible to make, she overcame the painful reserve that had 
 always hung over her when her brother's name was m-eTitioned, 
 and for the first time spoke of him voluntarily to his child — tell- 
 ing her of his kindness, his cleverness, and his bravery ; till May 
 began to think she knew him quite well, and was ready once 
 more, as she always was when Mary talked to her in a similar 
 way, to look upon his coming as a very pleasant thing. 
 
 A knock at the door, and a request that * Miss Isabel would 
 go down, for there were visitors in the drawing-room,' was an 
 unwelcome interruption to both of them ; and more particularly 
 to Isabel. It was with a sigh that she rose from her chair, and 
 advising May to go and look for George in the garden, slowly 
 obeyed her mother's summons. There were several callers in the 
 room ; but two well-known figures caught her eye as she entered, 
 one seated on a sofa beside her mother, the other standing apart 
 at one of the windows. They were Sir Cunninghame Thorpe and 
 his bride, once Ada Thetford — he, handsome as ever, and quite as 
 much alive to the fact ; she, pretty and elegantly dressed, but 
 hardly looking as happy as a young wife of three months might 
 be supposed to do. There were people, indeed, who said Sir 
 Cunninghame was already tiring of his bride, and that poor Lady 
 Thorpe found her new home at the Moat very far from the para- 
 dise she had, perhaps, supposed it before coming there. But this 
 was envy, of course — no one could really suppose Ada's lot was 
 anything but happy ! 
 
 She rose eagerly now. Was it because Isabel knew something 
 of her mother, and could talk with her of her old home, that 
 she welcomed her so warmly ? So the latter thought, fqr she 
 
^LONG YEARS HAVE COME, LONG YEARS HAVE GONE.' 313 
 
 began at once about Gainsford friends and Gainsford news ; 
 appearing so interested in them that she never once reverted to 
 her present life. Isabel asked once about some improvements 
 that had lately been made at the Moat, and whether she liked the 
 place now. 
 
 * Oh, it 's all very well,' she answered in a listless tone. ' I 
 don't know what it was like before, but Cunninghame says he 
 has done so much, that I suppose it must be improved in some 
 way. It always seems to me very dreary. I like a nice light 
 modern house ; those old ones are so gloomy.' 
 
 Isabel smiled a little. * People never tell us so of ours,' she re- 
 marked with a glance round the low old-fashioned room in which 
 they were sitting. 
 
 ' Ko, indeed, but I forgot yours was so old, it looks so com- 
 fortable ; and then you are a large party, that makes all the 
 difference ; ' with a sigh. ^ We were a large party, too, at home, 
 and our house wasn't very modern, but we were never dull. 
 You remember Fairfield, don't you ? ' speaking eagerly, ^ it was 
 so pleasant there, and there were such nice gardens. Papa was 
 building a new conservatory when I came away, and I wanted 
 to have one like it here ; but Cunninghame says it can't be 
 managed. I 'm so sorry j I should like to have had something 
 here like home.' 
 
 ^ You don 't think of the Moat, then, as your home 1 ' Isabel 
 said; and Ada coloured and glanced at her husband. 
 
 * Oh, yes ; but I don 't think we either of us like it very much. 
 Cunninghame says it 's dull, and sometimes he talks of letting it 
 and going to live somewhere else. If he would only go back to 
 Gainsford, but I 'm afraid there 's no chance of that. He talks 
 of London for part of the year ; and I hate London. It would 
 be dreadful to be shut up there always in the season.' 
 
 Isabel was silent ; she thought it as well to let the subject 
 drop, and after a pause returned to some Gainsford topic which 
 diverted Ada's thoughts, until a piece of news mentioned by Eose 
 Dacre caught every one's attention. 
 
 * O Mrs Tennent ! ' she exclaimed, ' what do you think we 
 heard as we w^ere coming here to-day *? I suppose it's true, 
 because Mr Williams told us ; but it seems so odd, I can hardly 
 believe it.' 
 
 ' Mr Williams ! ' said Mrs Tennent in rather a freezing tone, 
 
 * Yes, Williams of the brewery, you know him surely ? We 
 
314 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 were calling there to-day to give some order, and he told papa 
 that the new rector is coming to St. Jude's next week — that 's ! 
 news, isn't it ? And who do you think he is 1 Now, do guess ; ; 
 it 's so very strange/ i 
 
 Mrs Tennent shook her head. * I don 't know in the least, i 
 All I can hope is that he is some hard-working man. The \ 
 parish has been shockingly neglected ; and they are all a sad \ 
 heathenish set there. They ought to have some one who will ] 
 give himself up to his work, and not leave everything to his curate, \ 
 some young fellow just ordained, as old Mr Elwes used to do.' 
 
 Kose laughed ; a smothered laugh of amusement. * Perhaps i 
 he won't keep a curate at all. I should say not ; for he is quite ! 
 young enough to do the work himself.' * What do you say to ' 
 Arthur Darrell ! Yes, it 's quite true,' as Mrs Tennent turned j 
 to her sharply ; * Mr Williams is one of the churchwardens, and : 
 of course he must know. He is coming next Tuesday.' 
 
 * Ahem ! ' Mrs Tennent coughed and was silent ; and there was 
 a dead pause in the room. ! 
 
 Poor Rose ! She was famous for introducing inconvenient J 
 subjects, and the air of triumphant satisfaction with which she j 
 had looked round after imparting this piece of information, was i 
 considerably damped on perceiving the effect it produced upon , 
 some of the party; Mrs Tennent s look of haughty displeasure \ 
 being too marked to escape the notice of any ; while Elinor's ^ 
 confusion at the mention of Arthur's name, raised the pity of ] 
 everybody. Isabel was the first to recover herself, and by lead- \ 
 ing the conversation back to old Mr Elwes, contrived to intro- * 
 duce some topic which could be discussed with safety. But j 
 when every one was talking again, Ada turned to her. ] 
 
 * I know something of your cousin. I have seen a good deal \ 
 of him, when I have been staying with my uncle at Peele ; and ] 
 I like him very much. I should think he is just the man for i 
 St. Jude's, he goes to work so heartily ; and he is an immense >. 
 favourite with everybody.' j 
 
 ' Is he 1 We know nothing of him now ; we have not seen \ 
 him for years.' 
 
 ^ ^No, I know. But surely' Ada spoke with some hesita- ! 
 
 tion, * it is so long ago, and he is so altered ' she stopped. j 
 
 * It was not a thing mamma was likely to forgive,' Isabel said, i 
 * I wonder he likes to come here,' she added in a low tone, as if ; 
 speaking to herself rather than her companion, i 
 
^LONG YEARS HAVE COMEj LONG YEARS HAVE GONE.' 315 
 
 * People don^t care to throw away a living ; especially when 
 they are not likely to have many offered to them,' Ada answered, 
 trying to smile. * Besides, don't you think — perhaps he may 
 hope ' 
 
 ' If he has such hopes, he will be very much disappointed,' re- 
 turned Isabel gravely. * He knows well enough, mamma would 
 never overlook anything of that sort ; and if he cared for Elinor, 
 he ought to have more consideration for her feelings than to run 
 the chance of being thrown in her way, as he must if he comes 
 here. But he never used to think of any one but himself and his 
 own pleasure ; and apparently he goes a good deal on the same 
 principle now.' 
 
 Ah, Isabel ! where were her thoughts of an hour before, her 
 longings for the charity which thinks no evil. 
 
 Ada said no more, and an impatient summons to ' Lady 
 Thorpe ' from Sir Cunninghame, who was wishing to go, made 
 her take her leave rather hurriedly. Elinor's eye followed them 
 as they left the room ; and when the door closed upon them, 
 she turned to her sister with a smile. 
 
 *'*Lady Thorpe!" And not married three months! Poor 
 Ada!' 
 
 */'Poor Ada!'" said Mrs Tennent sharply, overhearing the 
 remark. 'I see nothing "pooi*" about her. What are you 
 pitying her for ? It is some other people in my opinion who 
 ought to be pitied ! Those who don't know what is best for 
 them, and who never exert themselves for their own interest. 
 But Lady Thorpe ! Nonsense ! I wish you had shown half her 
 wisdom, Elinor; you would have been much better off than you 
 are now, or ever will be !' 
 
 * Have you heard this about Arthur?' she asked her husband 
 that evening, in her shortest, driest tones. * Do you know that 
 he is coming back to Atherstone V 
 
 'Yes, I have heard it,' the doctor answered. 'And a good 
 thing for him it is! It is King's doing, it seems; he knows 
 Lord Dyneworth, and, directly he heard old Elwes was dead, 
 wrote off to him, without saying a word to Arthur, and got his 
 promise at once. It speaks well for Arthur, that^ my dear. He 
 will be a great loss at Peele, they say.' 
 
 ' A great pity he didn't stay there, then, for he is not wanted 
 here. I think, Dr Tennent, after all that has passed, it would 
 have been as well if he had kept out of our way. I don't under- 
 
316 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 stand his coming to the place, "when he knows we shall not ] 
 receive him.' ; 
 
 'But, my dear, what could he do ?' was the good-humoured l 
 answer. * A man can't throw away a provision for life, even if \ 
 he is under your displeasure ' j 
 
 * And yours ; you were as angry as I was, doctor. I hope you J 
 don't mean you are going to change now, simply because his ; 
 circumstances have changed. It will be very wrong of you, if \ 
 you do.' \ 
 
 The doctor coughed a little. ' My dear, my objection to him ] 
 before was, that I thought him unsteady in his principles, as he | 
 showed himself by leading Elinor into such an engagement, j 
 And as he had no profession then, and was not likely to have a , 
 home to give her for years, I would not let her consider herself \ 
 bound by any promise to him. If he had chosen to come forward \ 
 openly and honourably, it would have been very different ; I j 
 might have let her wait for him ; as it was, he was not worth it. • 
 If he is changed though, now,' for the better, as well as his i 
 
 prospects, I don't see — eh, Helen?' stopping short rather \ 
 
 doubtfully. i 
 
 ' Don't see what ? I don't see that his having a house and ! 
 four or five hundred a year alters the past, or makes him have i 
 behaved one whit better, if yot mean that.' 1 
 
 * Certainly not. I only meant that the past might be past. | 
 And I can't help thinking Nelly would be very glad to see him i 
 again. She has behaved very well all these years, Helen; and 1 
 if she still thinks of him, and he is of the same mind too, it \ 
 seems hard to keep them apart any longer.' 
 
 * Elinor is a goose,' was the angry rejoinder, as a recollection of \ 
 her daughter's blushing face, when Arthur had been spoken of ; 
 that afternoon, rose to Mrs Tennent's mind. * If she had done ; 
 as she ought, she would have forgotten him long ago. Why \ 
 didn't she marry Mr Powis last year, as any sensible girl would ; 
 have done ? And now, I suppose, she thinks she is sure to meet ; 
 Arthur again ! She knows you well enough, and how easily you ; 
 can be persuaded into anything. But I am not going to have it, j 
 doctor. If you ask him to come here ' j 
 
 ' My dear, I don't mean to ask him,' said the doctor meekly, s 
 
 ' Of course I shall do nothing you don't wish ; only ' \ 
 
 * Only you want everybody to do as they like ; and if he got \ 
 hold of you to-morrow, he could talk you into anything he pleased. I 
 
ST jude's rectory. 317 
 
 1 know you, Dr Tennent. You liaven't a spark of firmness or 
 moral courage about you/ 
 
 The doctor laughed. Fortunately, he never took anything 
 amiss that his wife chose to say. 
 
 * You have enough for both of us, my dear/ was all his answer 
 now, with a very long yawn. 
 
 * I know it, and I mean to prove it, too. Arthur does not 
 enter this house again — that is my determination. He will try 
 to meet Elinor, no doubt — of course he will — that is what he is 
 coming here for. And they will marry after all, I daresay ; 
 but it will not be with my consent. They may make a runaway 
 match of it if they like ; and a nice creditable thing that will 
 be for him ! A pretty clergyman he must make ! And going 
 to work a reformation ! He had better reform himself first ; 
 practise before he preaches, I say. However, you hear what my 
 wishes are, Dr Tennent. I never want to speak to him again^ 
 and it is my express desire that none of my family do so. Do 
 you hear, doctor 1 ' raising her voice. 
 
 * Quite well, my dear, thank you. I am not at all deaf.' 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 ST jude's rectory. 
 
 Some weeks had passed since that afternoon, and it was now a 
 glowing day in May. The green blinds in the dining-room at 
 St Jude's Eectory were drawn down to keep out the noonday sun, 
 and the air around felt close and sultry. Every one was com- 
 plaining more or less of the heat, which had come so unex- 
 pectedly ; every one but Arthur Darrell, who on that particular 
 day was sitting in a high-backed chair in the little room in his 
 new home, which served him as dining, drawing-room, and 
 
318 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 library all in one, and who was so busy writing that lie bad not 
 a thought to give to weather cold or hot, fine or rainy. He was 
 hard at work on his next Sunday morning's sermon, and so 
 that he got that finished, other things were of little consequence 
 to him. The last page, and almost the last sentence was reached, *i 
 when the striking of the clock, and immediately afterwards a ^ 
 knock at the door, roused him from his labours. I 
 
 *Come in,' he said, looking up. '0 Mrs Clarke, is it you^' \ 
 as an old woman appeared with a dinner-tray. * You 11 have to \ 
 wait, I think. Or — yes, just push those books away from that ] 
 end of the table, and set the things down there.* ] 
 
 He went on writing very fast; while Mrs Clarke toddled \ 
 about, making a good deal of noise with her thick boots, and ' 
 grunting out apologies when she two or three times knocked | 
 down some of the books in moving them. There might have : 
 been a large party going to dine there, from the time she took ■ 
 for her operations ; but the cloth was laid at last, and a knife \ 
 and fork, &c., having been spread upon it, she toddled off again | 
 in search of the dinner itself. She had not been gone two ] 
 minutes when her steps were heard returning, and there was ; 
 another knock. i 
 
 ^ Please, sir, Milly Brown 's sent for some meat you promised 
 her.' ; 
 
 * All right ; I told her to send at half- past one, and we should | 
 have something she would like. What have you got for i 
 herr j 
 
 * Please, sir, there ain't nothing. I 've just eat up all the cold ; 
 meat : and there 's only the chops for you.' \ 
 
 ' Chops ! oh, the very thing. Let her have one.' \ 
 
 * Please, sir, there ain't only two,' opening her eyes, and coming \ 
 a little further into the room. | 
 
 * Very well ; give her the biggest, then, if it 's a nice one ; she [ 
 won't eat more than that.' • 
 
 'But' Mrs Clarke was evidently disturbed in mind, i 
 
 * What am I to do, sir ? One won't be enough for you. Am I ^ 
 to go for more 1 * 
 
 * No ; I can't wait — I 'm going out. You can bring me some ] 
 bread and cheese ; that will do as well.' j 
 
 He was beginning to walk up and down the room, whistling j 
 thoughtfully to himself as he did so ; but Mrs Clarke was still ] 
 uneasy. She closed the door, and then said in a whisper — \ 
 
ST jude's rectory. 319 
 
 ^ Awful bad woman, sir, that Milly Brown.' 
 as she?' 
 
 * Ay, that she is. I thought maybe you had heard nothing 
 about her. And her family is all Methodies. So is she, for the 
 matter of that ; if she 's any religion at all.' 
 
 ' Oh ! And don't Methodies eat meat, then?* 
 
 Mrs Clarke stared. * Law, sir, I suppose so, if they can get it.* 
 
 ' Then perhaps you wouldn't object to let her have that 
 
 mutton-chop ; and if she 's a quarter as hungry as I am, she '11 
 
 be glad of it. I 'm just famishing.' 
 
 * Yes, sir, that 's because you didn't eat your breakfast this 
 morning. You let old Giles take you away before you 'd half 
 finished it. And you can't do nothing, sir, if you don't have 
 your meals regular ; excuse my saying it.' 
 
 * It is a fact I 'm quite aware of, Mrs Clarke. May I have 
 my dinner now V 
 
 ' To be sure, sir ; it 's all ready long ago. And Milly Brown 's 
 to have that chop, is she 1 ' 
 
 * If you please ; and anything else you can send with it — any- 
 thing that Methodies will eat, I mean.' 
 
 ^ Well, sir, as far as that goes, they '11 eat most things, I believe,' 
 said Mrs Clarke solemnly. * They 're not like the Catholics that 
 I 've heard say won't eat anything their priests don't let them. 
 But the Methodies, oh, they '11 eat anything ; they ain't noways 
 particular.' 
 
 She left the room ; and Arthur resumed his whistling and his 
 walk while awaiting the arrival of his dinner. He did not linger 
 long over it when it came, and a quarter of an hour after first 
 sitting down, he was once more in motion, hurrying off to his 
 girls' school, a room hired for the purpose in a small back street 
 some distance from the rectory. There was no schoolhouse as 
 yet, though one was in contemplation ; and boys and girls were 
 consequently distributed in different localities ; their numbers, 
 however, jointly not amounting to more than seventy or eighty. 
 This was already an improvement, though, on a few weeks back, 
 when thirty had been the outside of the attendance there, and 
 that by no means a regular one. There were a great many little 
 heads raised now from their books and work when Arthur came 
 in, and a great many smiling looks followed him as he walked 
 among them, speaking first to one and then to another, taking 
 up their books to see what they were learning, and asking droll 
 
320 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 questions to find out how much they knew about the lesson. 
 Nearly an hour's reading and explanations with the first class 
 followed, and then he was off again for several visits amongst 
 the very poorest of his parishioners — people who lived in the 
 lowest of the many low courts and alleys v/ith which the district 
 abounded ; where foul smells and a close reeking atmosphere 
 greeted him at every step, and where the pure breath of heaven 
 seemed never to have penetrated. 
 
 * They '11 be having some horrible fever here one of these days,' 
 he said to himself, taking a jump across a gutter which appeared 
 to have received the outpourings of all the houses in the 
 neighbourhood, and then pausing for a moment before a door 
 from which some particularly overpowering odour proceeded. 
 ^ Surely something might be done for the drainage here ; it 's 
 enough to breed a pestilence ; and in such weather as this, 
 too!' 
 
 He stood for a moment or two in thought, looking down the 
 close, filthy alley, on which the hot rays of the afternoon sun 
 were streaming ; and then went on up the creaking staircase 
 leading to different rooms, each occupied by its respective family 
 or families, in various stages of want and misery. He was at 
 home in one and all of them, and contrived, somehow, to win a 
 welcome from most of their occupants, although there were a few 
 who at first looked rather coldly on the 'new parson,' and 
 seemed disposed to regard his visits as an interference. But 
 Arthur did not interfere. To make friends first, before attempt- 
 ing anything else, was his plan of proceeding ; and he listened 
 to and sympathised with their troubles, but found no fault, and 
 did very little, at present, even in the way of suggesting or 
 advising. Many of them were old, and he was young ; and many 
 more were deplorably ignorant, and had prejudices against which 
 it would have been useless, on a first acquaintance, to combat. 
 He did not attempt it, but set to work to make friends with all ; 
 and most of them responded to his amicable advances : many of 
 those who had been at first inclined to resist them, giving way, 
 after a time, before his genial manner and easy off-hand way. 
 ' He was a nice gentleman, and hadn't a bit of pride about him,' 
 was the opinion pronounced by several, in discussing him after- 
 wards ; and there were some houses which felt all the brighter 
 for his visit that afternoon. The effect upon himself, however, 
 of what he had seen and heard, was not cheering ; and as he 
 
ST jude's beotory. 321 
 
 left, his step was slower than it had been., and he looked weary 
 and jaded. 
 
 An hour later he was coming out of a cottage where he had 
 been paying a visit, and the garden of which opened into a lane 
 on the Copelands road, when he heard a child's voice in distress. 
 He looked round, and not many paces from him saw a little girl, 
 with a large doll in her arms, standing on the defensive against 
 a huge dog, which, although she did not seem to understand its 
 intentions, was bent on having a game of play with her. She 
 evidently suspected it of murderous designs on her treasure, and 
 her fear and perplexity were very great. 
 
 * Get away, you great big thing,' she was saying in a tone 
 which was meant to be threatening, but which, from inward per- 
 turbation, sounded so mild that the 'big thing' no doubt thought 
 he was asked to come a little nearer; and wagged his tail 
 formidably in response to the invitation. ' Get away, you big 
 creature, you have no business here. Go away, 1 say, this 
 minute ! ' And she gave a stamp with her foot ; at which the 
 dog, considering this part of a game in which he was to take his 
 share, gave a spring and a bound forwards, frightening the child 
 almost out of her senses, and drawing a scream from her, though 
 she still stood her ground heroically ; not daring indeed to turn 
 her back, for fear of being pursued by her enemy. Her relief at 
 the appearance of any one who was likely to stand her ally in 
 the encounter was extreme ; and she flew to Arthur's side, 
 
 * Take him away ! Please take him away. He frightens me 
 and Lady Flora,' with another little shriek as the dog made an 
 advance. She caught Arthur's hand, and clung to it convulsively; 
 nor did she let it go until with his stick he had driven the big 
 dog off, and she had seen it turn tail and slink into one of the 
 gardens near. Then she seemed to remember that the gentle- 
 man whose protection she had implored was a stranger to her ; 
 and she drew away her hand, and looked demurely shy. 
 
 *You needn't be afraid of him now,' Arthur said kindly. 
 * But I '11 take you past these cottages, and then you '11 be sure 
 of not meeting him again. Which way were you going ? ' 
 
 She pointed to a farmhouse at the turning of the lane. ' I 
 only came up here to get some flowers,' she said. * I had got a 
 great many, when that big dog came and frightened me and 
 Lady Flora,' kissing her doll. ' But I'll go back now.' 
 
 She raised her eyes as she spoke, and for the first time he 
 
 X 
 
322 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 caught sight of her face, which before had been so shaded by 
 her hat that he had seen nothing but the long curls which fell 
 over her shoulders. But now, as she looked up, he started. 
 Those large eyes, that hair, those features, brought back a vision 
 of girlish loveliness that belonged to years gone by — a vision of 
 the cousin whose early death had been in part caused by his own 
 wrong-doing. He could not be mistaken, surely — that must be 
 her child before him; and he was strangely moved at the 
 thought. 
 
 * What is your name, my little girl ? ' he said, stooping down, 
 that he might the better see that face, and look into the dark 
 wondering eyes. 
 
 ^ May,' was the answer with some shyness, and she hugged her 
 doll again. 
 
 * May 1 May what V he asked. 
 
 *Not May anything — it isn't May at all really; it^s Lisa 
 Mary Tennent ; only they call me May.' 
 
 He made no answer ; but he looked at her so long and ear- 
 nestly that she grew a little uneasy. 
 
 ' May I go now V she said. ' Aunt Nelly is down there ; she '11 
 be waiting for me. May I go f 
 
 * Yes, certainly. Good-bye, little lady ; ' but she looked at 
 him again — evidently she was not satisfied. 
 
 * Won't you come with me 1 You said you would ;' speaking 
 very shyly, and the colour coming into her face as she glanced 
 towards the place where her enemy had disappeared. 
 
 * What, past those cottages ? To be sure I will. I had for- 
 gotten.' He held out his hand, which she took in a very confid- 
 ing manner ; present fears overcoming her natural shyness with 
 strangers, and they walked on together ; Arthur, however, kept 
 strangely silent by the grasp of that little hand, and May too 
 busy making apprehensive observations on the hedges as they 
 passed, to notice his silence or say anything herself. They had 
 cleared the last of the houses, when a figure appeared at the 
 turning coming out from the farm, and she exclaimed joyfully — 
 
 * There 's Aunt Nelly ! She 's looking for me !' 
 
 Arthur raised his head. Yes, there was Elinor standing by 
 the farmhouse gate ; and as the evening sunlight fell upon her 
 face, he could almost fancy that even at that distance he could 
 distinguish her features. Did she see and know him too 1 He 
 stopped short. 
 
ST jude's rectory. 323 
 
 * I can't go any further, my little girl ; but I'll wait here till 
 you get safe to your aunt. You won't be afraid to go alone now, 
 will you 1 * 
 
 ' No. But — won't you come with me V 
 
 ' I 'm going the other way,' he said, pointing over the field. 
 ' Good-bye.' 
 
 May raised her eyes to his, and as she met the smile with 
 which he was looking at her, she held out the flowers she had 
 gathered. 
 
 ^ Will you take them V she said. She meant them by way of 
 thanks, but she had no sooner given them than she was seized 
 with a fit of shyness, and without waiting for a word in return, 
 ran away as fast as her little feet would carry her. He saw her 
 reach Elinor's side, and look back towards the place where he 
 was standing, as if giving some explanation of what she had been 
 doing ; and then, afraid of being recognised, he retraced his steps 
 quickly, and crossing a stile at some little distance, made his 
 way back to Atherstone. 
 
 * Why, May dear, where have you heenV Elinor said, as her 
 little niece joined her. * I have been looking for you everywhere. 
 Who was that with you V 
 
 * I don't know ; he came out of one of those houses, and took 
 care of me past a great big dog up there. I went to get some 
 flowers, and the dog came after me, and wanted to eat up Lady 
 Flora. I wouldn't let him,' continued May, valiantly ; ^ but I 
 was very frightened ; and then that gentleman came and drove 
 him away. He had such a nice face, and such nice kind eyes — 
 just like yours. Aunt Nelly ; and do you know, he was something 
 like you too.' 
 
 * Like me ! Nonsense, May dear ! ' 
 
 ' He was. He was really like you a little. He asked me 
 what my name was too, and I told him. I liked his face very 
 much, only he looked so hard at me ; and he looked very sorry 
 too — I don't know why.' 
 
 Elinor was silent. She shaded her face from the rays of the 
 setting sun, and watched the retreating figure going up the lane 
 — watched it not only there, but across one of the distant mea- 
 dows until it was lost from sight behind some trees ; and even 
 then she did not move. She stood still and silent, until May, 
 who had been dancing backwards and forwards before her, recalled 
 her to herself, by a sudden exclamation, and a pause in her steps. 
 
324 ATHERSTONB PRIORY. 
 
 ' Aunt Nelly ! Aunt Nelly, look at the sky ! how pretty it 
 is!' 
 
 And then she saw the sun had gone down, and remembered it 
 was getting very late, and they had a long walk before them. 
 So they turned to go ; and all the way home May talked of the 
 gentleman with the kind eyes, and wondered whether she should 
 ever see him again. She was never tired of describing him, and 
 telling what he had said to her ; until Lane, who, with every 
 one else at home, came in for an account of her adventure, ex- 
 claimed somewhat indiscreetly — 
 
 * Why, bless the child, it must have been Mr Arthur himself ! 
 No doubt of it, indeed — it 's just like him !' 
 
 May opened a pair of large wondering eyes. * Who is Mr 
 Arthur?' she asked, looking veiy much puzzled. 
 
 ' Hold your tongue, May, and don't be troublesome!' remarked 
 Mrs Tennent, with an angry glance at the nurse. * Take her 
 away, Lane. It 's time she was in bed, instead of talking non- 
 sense here.' 
 
 May took some little hops across the room, and finished by 
 jumping two or three times over a low ottoman that stood in her 
 way. * I wasn't talking nonsense,' she said in a very audible 
 tone. ^ Aunt Nelly,' stopping short in front of Elinor, * who is 
 Mr Arthur ? Do you know him V with a mischievous glance at 
 Mrs Tennent as she spoke. 
 
 Elinor's face flushed crimson, and Mrs Tennent's anger rose. 
 ' May, if I hear you ask that again, or talk any more about this 
 walk of yours, I shall whip you. Go to bed this minute.' 
 
 At which speech May looked very much astonished ; but being 
 perfectly aware that her grandmother's threats were never uttered 
 in anything but sober earnest, departed without another word ; 
 though not apparently in a very subdued frame of mind, for she 
 dropped a funny little curtsey at the door, and her eyes were 
 dancing with suppressed merriment as she vanished. She rushed 
 up-stairs at the top of her speed, pausing at the top till her old 
 nurse came up too. 
 
 'Lane dear,' she said in a whisper then, ^ who is Mr Arthur] 
 Won't yow tell me?' 
 
 * Hush, dear,' said Lane, made wise by Mrs Tennent's warn- 
 ing look. * Hush ; never mind.' 
 
 * But I want to know. Why won't you tell me V 
 
 * I can't, dear. Now never you mind,' returned Lane with 
 
ST jude's rectory. 325 
 
 some dignity. * Come to bed like a good child, and don't ask 
 any more questions.' 
 
 * But why not V persisted May. * It 's unkind of you, Lane. 
 I'll ask papa when he comes home — he '11 tell me j' in a tone of 
 triumph. 
 
 * Ay, dear, perhaps he will,' said Lane, capturing her as she 
 seemed inclined to take a swing on the banisters. * Don't you 
 go climbing there, Miss May ; you '11 be tumbling over, if you 
 don't mind.' 
 
 *I know he will,' May said, suffering herself to be led off 
 a prisoner to the nursery. ' I wonder whether papa is like 
 him. I hope he is. I like Mr Arthur's face so much ;' dwell- 
 ing with much mischievous satisfaction upon the forbidden 
 words. 
 
 * Ah, Miss May, you are a naughty child,' said Lane, trying 
 to appear angry, but finishing off with a kiss. ' But you mustn't 
 talk in that way ; you heard what your grandmamma said.' 
 
 * Yes, I know. But why did she, Lane 1 Has he done any- 
 thing wrong 1 Oh, but he can't have ; he looks too good.' 
 
 * Miss May, how you do go on,' exclaimed Lane, despairingly. 
 * Can't you leave off talking, and sit still while I get these boots 
 unfastened ? You won't be in bed to-night.' 
 
 ' Lane, how tiresome you are ! You never tell me anything !' 
 And May gave a jerk and pulled away her feet, coiling them up 
 under her on the chair, and not being persuaded to put them out 
 again without a great deal of coaxing. * Well, will you tell me 
 if papa is like him V she said, when Lane had at length possessed 
 herself of the two wriggling little feet. * You may tell me that. 
 Is her 
 
 * Not a bit. Why, dear, you 've seen your papa's picture often 
 enough. You know what he 's like, surely 1 ' 
 
 May's face fell. ^ Aunt Mary says that was his picture a long, 
 long time ago ; and I thought he wasn't the same now. I don't 
 like that picture very much. I like Mr — you know who — a great 
 deal better. He 's much beautifuller.' 
 
 Lane smiled a little. * Well, never mind now, my darling. 
 Wait till your papa comes, and then you '11 see whether you like 
 him or not. You mustn't always go by looks, you know,' she 
 added sententiously. * And now come to bed, there 's a good 
 child. It 's past eight, and you ought to have been asleep long 
 ago.' 
 
326 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 So May was carried off and consigned to her small bed ; her 
 last words as she was tucked up for the night being, ' that she won- 
 dered where Mr Arthur was, and hoped she should see him 
 again very soon/ 
 
 And Arthur sat in his room that evening, and for the first 
 time felt how lonely it was. His class being gone, and Mrs 
 Clarke having brought in his tea, he was left in undisturbed 
 solitude ; and he looked round the silent room and thought how 
 cheerless and unhomelike it was. Never had the table with its 
 black teapot and solitary cap and saucer looked so bare as it did 
 that evening. Not even May's flowers, which stood in a glass at 
 his side, could brighten the place. He set a chair at last oppo- 
 site his own, and tried to imagine it filled by the person he 
 would most have liked to see there ; but it was hard work to 
 keep up the illusion, and he went back in thought to the glimpse 
 he had had of Elinor that evening. And then he found himself 
 fancying what they were all doing at that moment at the Priory; 
 and wondering what changes had come over the old place since 
 the days when he had been one of them. 
 
 But these were thoughts which were not to be encouraged : 
 so he started up, and getting out his desk, plunged into a calcu- 
 lation of what the costs of his new schoolrooms were likely to 
 be ; and in making rough estimates of building and teachers* 
 expenses, and forming plans for parish work, he contrived to 
 banish for the time all recollections of the Priory, and the hopes 
 that had once been centred in it. 
 
DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 327 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 
 
 While Arthur sat in his silent room that evening, a different 
 scene was going on at the Priory. 
 
 They were a small party there now. With Mary and Con- 
 stance away, Fred in London walking the hospitals, and Charley 
 at Rugby, their numbers were greatly diminished; and Dr 
 Tennent, as he sat in his easy-chair after tea that night, 
 and looked about him, could not help sighing as he missed 
 the many bright faces which had once met there. Some it 
 was useless to regret. There was one — the brightest and gayest 
 of all — who had long passed away, not only from her own home, 
 but from all earthly care and love. And there was another on 
 whom the doors of that home were closed, and who, though living 
 so near, must be a stranger to those who had once so warmly 
 welcomed him. But there were others who, although absent for 
 a time, might yet come back ; and the doctor, who liked nothing 
 better than to have numbers round him and hear cheerful voices 
 in his rooms, found himself longing for those absent ones, and 
 feeling quite down-hearted because he had been hearing that 
 Mary, who was at the sea-side with Constance on account of 
 the latter's ill-health, had written to say she thought they had 
 better remain at Firsby some weeks longer. And where was 
 Percy, too ? Isabel, who on this day, as on so many preceding 
 ones, had felt sure each post must bring something from him, 
 had again been doomed to disappointment. Her grave face, as 
 she sat a little apart from the others silently occupied with a 
 book, did not tend to make her father feel more cheerful. But 
 who ever knew Dr Tennent give way to melancholy 1 
 
 * Now, then, how quiet everybody is to-night,' he said, throw- 
 ing away his newspaper. ' I don't come home to sit moping in 
 this way. Susan, can't you give us some music T 
 
 * Yes, papa, in three minutes ; but I 'm so busy just now.' She 
 was arranging a wreath to be worn at a dance the following 
 
328 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 evening. * Don't you think that will do, Nelly 1 It looks ten 
 times better than it did.' 
 
 * It 's lovely y' said Elinor, with a laugh. ' I think I shall be 
 wishing my dancing-days were back again that I might have the 
 pleasure of wearing such things. As they are not, however, I 
 can play till you are ready. What will you have to-night, papa V 
 
 She walked to the piano and was looking out her music, when 
 there was a ring at the door-bell. 
 
 ' Ah ! somebody sending for me, of course,' said the doctor. 
 * It's always the way when I think I 'm going to be comfortable 
 for an hour. When will people learn to be taken ill at convenient 
 times 1 Now, then, Sarah,' as the door opened, ' who is it 1 Mrs 
 Briggs, I '11 be bound. Tiresome woman ! ' 
 
 Mrs Briggs was an especial favourite among the doctor's 
 numerous protegees, and Elinor laughed as she turned to the 
 door. But it was not the servant who was coming in. Instead 
 there was a tall, dark figure standing there ; and as she caught 
 sight of it, the music fell from her hand. It was flung away, 
 indeed, and she started forward. 
 
 'Percy!' 
 
 Yes, it was Percy who stood there. Percy — aged and care- 
 worn, indeed, and bronzed with travel and exposure to the burning 
 suns of Africa ; but it was Percy still — come back once more after 
 long wanderings to the home of his boyhood, to the home which 
 he had last left on his wedding-day, more than six years and a 
 half ago. And, with that hurried exclamation, Elinor sprang to 
 meet him. All that had once for a time caused a coldness 
 between them had long since been forgiven and forgotten, and 
 there was nothing to mar her happiness in seeing him again. 
 With a cry of joy she threw herself into his arms; and her 
 sudden movement made every one in the room start up. 
 
 * Why, Percy ! how extraordinary !' Mrs Tennent never liked 
 surprises, and whether she were quite pleased now, was uncertain ; 
 but about anybody else there could be no doubt. Isabel alone 
 stood aloof. She had started up with the others, but there she 
 had paused, doubting what her reception might be ; and with 
 face crimson with agitation and eyes filled with tears, she stood 
 waiting until that first burst of greetings was over ; chilled by 
 the recollection of their last miserable parting, and the thought 
 that, during all the long years which had since passed, no word 
 of explanation, of excuse on her part, had been offered ; not one 
 
DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 329 
 
 kindly message had ever passed between them. Her feeling had 
 always been that she had sinned too deeply to be forgiven, and 
 there had been no advance on his side to encourage her to seek 
 the pardon for which she was yearning. Coldly he had parted 
 from her six years before, and coldly she knew he had thought 
 of her ever since. His love for her was gone, and only hers for 
 him remained — hers, deep, absorbing as it had ever been. What 
 she would liave given then to be in her sisters' place, none could 
 tell. Neither of them cared for him as she did ; but they could 
 meet him in undisguised delight, while she must stand apart. 
 Those first moments of his return, great as was the happiness 
 they brought, had, perhaps, as much of bitterness mingled with 
 them as any she had ever spent. 
 
 But that noisy burst of greetings was over, and then came the 
 moment she had most dreaded ; for Susan, observing she had not 
 moved, exclaimed — 
 
 * Why, Isabel, you haven't said a word all this time ! How 
 odd of you ! What are you doing there V 
 
 She was obliged to come forward then, and with heightened 
 colour advanced to meet her brother. He kissed her — he could 
 not w^ell do otherwise ; but the kiss was cold and chilling, and 
 he did not speak. Perhaps he expected some words of welcome 
 from her ; but if so, he was mistaken; for none came. The colour 
 faded from her face, and she drew back, cold and impassible as 
 himself. But there was no one to notice her — her sisters talked 
 too much to observe her extreme quietness ; and Percy, when he 
 had explained how, after an unusually long passage in consequence 
 of contrary winds, they had only landed that morning ; and how, 
 leaving his luggage to be passed at the Custom-house, he had 
 come on at once, knowing he could reach home before any letter 
 could get there — when he had told all this, he relapsed into 
 silence ; and as his eye went round the old familiar room, Isabel 
 remembered for the first time the pain that return home must 
 be to him. How could there indeed be anything but painful 
 associations connected with the place where he had wooed and 
 won his bride, and which he had never visited since he left it 
 with her 1 There could be little there that did not remind him 
 of her ; and she saw his look now rest on each well-known ob- 
 ject, and linger longest on the spot where Lisa had often sat, 
 and which she had been used to call her * favourite corner.' 
 She had sat there on the evening when her engagement had 
 
330 ATHEKSTONE PRIOKY. 
 
 first been made known, as Isabel well remembered; and she 
 wondered whether her brother remembered it too — whether he 
 remembered all that had passed that evening. He turned away 
 abruptly. 
 
 ' Where is May V he asked. * Not in bed, is she V 
 
 * I hope so/ said Elinor, smiling. ' You don't think we keep 
 her up so late as this. But I '11 go and fetch her. It won't 
 hurt her once in a way to lose her sleep.' 
 
 * Nonsense, Elinor,' said Mrs Tennent. * If Percy wants to 
 see her, let him go and look at her as she is. Pray don't be 
 waking her up; we sha'n't have her asleep again to-night if 
 you do.' 
 
 Percy was a little disappointed. He wanted something more 
 than to see his child ; he was longing to speak to her, to have 
 her in his arms. But perhaps the wish was unreasonable ; at 
 any rate, after waiting so long, he might wait a few hours longer; 
 and smothering his disappointment, he acquiesced in Mrs Ten- 
 nent's decision. 
 
 ' Yes, never mind ; don't wake her,* he said. * I *11 go up-stairs. 
 Which room is she in?' 
 
 And followed by Elinor — for Isabel did not move — he strode 
 away up-stairs, and in a few moments was standing at May's 
 bedside. 
 
 She lay in a sleep so profound that there was no fear of dis- 
 turbing her ; her dear Lady Flora clasped in her arms, and her 
 face half buried in the bundle of rags of which that aristocratic 
 doll chiefly consisted. Elinor smiled as she partly disengaged 
 the precious treasure from her embrace, and pushed back some 
 of the prettily disordered hair, that her brother might see the 
 sweet little face resting on its pillow, and looking so lovely in 
 the calm slumbers of childhood. Little did May guess who was 
 standing over her, watching her as he had often watched her in 
 her unconscious babyhood, and tracing once more in her young 
 features the likeness to her lost mother. He did not speak at 
 first, but there was a long, long kiss ; and then he knelt by her 
 side and gazed at her as if he could never gaze enough. For 
 now there was something for him to love again, and with no 
 wide seas rolling between them. No more waking morning 
 after morning with the thought that his child was far away; 
 the wishes, the prayers of years had been granted, and once 
 again they were together, never more to be separated. She 
 
DISAPPOINTED HOPES, 331 
 
 Koxild make up to him for all he had lost ; she would love him 
 as he loved her ; and she would henceforth be the treasure — the 
 delight of his life. 
 
 * My little May ! My precious child ! ' he murmured. ' Thank 
 God you have been kept for me !' 
 
 And there was another kiss — so long, so passionate, that sound 
 as May's slumber was, for a moment it seemed to disturb it. But 
 it was only for a moment ; and rendered more cautious then, he 
 knelt on in silence, looking at her with a long, earnest gaze, 
 which told of the fullest, most intense affection — affection so 
 full that it seemed hard to keep it to himself — he was longing 
 to have it returned, to hear the sound of her voice, and feel her 
 arms round him. 
 
 ' She will be a great comfort to me, Elinor,' he said. * You 
 don't know how I have wanted her all these years. And now 
 really to have seen her again ! It seems more than I can believe. 
 She will be the great happiness of my life.' 
 
 ' Yes, I am sure she will. But the worst of it is that we shall 
 have to give her up,' Elinor said, with rather an unsteady voice. 
 * There is no one here who likes to think of that. She is every- 
 body's pet, and I don't know who will miss her most ; unless, in- 
 deed, it is Isabel. It will almost break her heart, I believe, when 
 she goes.' 
 
 Isabel!' 
 
 'Yes, Isabel. We all spoil May, I am afraid,' trying to smile. 
 ' But Isabel is worse than any of us. And May is so fond of 
 her.' 
 
 Percy made no answer, but once more he stooped over his 
 little girl to take another long lingering look at her ; and then 
 they went away. They returned to the drawing-room, where 
 during the rest of the evening, which was not long, he was al- 
 most as silent as Isabel herself. He made his long journey that 
 day an excuse for getting away early to his own room ; somewhat 
 to the disappointment of Elinor and Susan, who had so much to 
 talk about that they would have had no objection to sitting up 
 half the night. But when he was gone there was no inducement 
 for any one to remain any longer, and, one by one, * good-nights ' 
 were exchanged, and everybody disappeared up-stairs — Mrs Ten- 
 nent lingering, as usual, to the last to see that everything was 
 safe and in its proper place. 
 
 ' He is dreadfully out of spirits,' the doctor remarked as he was 
 
332 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 lighting his candle. * I hope it only is as he says, that he is tired 
 with his journey ; but I don't know. It must be a great trial to 
 him coming back here ; and I 'm afraid he has never got over 
 that poor child's death yet/ 
 
 < What ! Not Lisa's 1 Impossible ! ' Mrs Tennent looked so 
 disdainful at the bare suggestion that her husband thought he 
 had made a very foolish speech. * Why, it 's six years since, 
 isn't it? The idea of any man in his senses making himself 
 miserable all that time. What could put such an idea into your 
 head, doctor T 
 
 * I don't know ; and I hope it isn't so. It is a long time, as 
 you say ; but still — he certainly was very much attached to her. 
 I don't think you know what she was to him. And he 's not one 
 to forget soon — he never was.' 
 
 * He 's very different from all the rest of the men, then,' re- 
 turned Mrs Tennent. ' You forget fast enough as a general 
 thing. Not that I mean to blame you for it,' she added; re- 
 membering, perhaps, that she was a second wife. * People were 
 not meant to make themselves unhappy for ever ; but there 's a 
 proper medium in everything. As for Percy not having got over 
 that, I don't believe it. He '11 be marrying again soon ; and quite 
 right too. He ought to do so for May's sake ; she will want 
 some one to look after her when he takes her away from here.' 
 
 * Well, my dear, as far as that goes, I suppose Mary will do 
 that. We must make up our minds now to lose her whenever 
 May goes. She has quite settled, you know, to live with him.' 
 
 * Till he marries,' said Mrs Tennent with emphasis. ' She may 
 go for the present, but she will be back again before many months 
 are over ; you see if she isn't. And now, when do you mean to 
 finish lighting that candle? I am going to put the lamp out.' 
 
 And Mrs Tennent plunged the drawing-room into obscurity, 
 and then proceeded to make her nightly tour of inspection round 
 the house, while the doctor slowly walked away up- stairs. 
 
MAKING ACQUAINTANCE. ^ 333 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 MAKING ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 Percy left his room early the next morning. Childish steps 
 passing his door, and a childish voice and a merry laugh under 
 his window, had been the first sounds that greeted him on wak- 
 ing ; and he had lost no time in dressing and hurrying out, that 
 he might find his little girl and make acquaintance with her at 
 once. The breakfast-room was empty when he went in, but 
 Elinor was outside the open window tying up a rose-tree, and he 
 joined her ; his first question being for May. 
 
 ' She was here a short time ago,' was the answer, * but I don't 
 know where she is gone now. I wanted her to come with me and 
 knock at your door, but she was frightened and ran away. I 
 suppose she went back to the nurser}^' 
 
 But no : Prince's bark was heard just then not very far off; 
 and, turning, Elinor caught sight of the flutter of a little frock 
 among the trees in the green walk. May was there then — amus- 
 ing herself in some, it was to be hoped, not forbidden way ; and 
 with a few misgivings as to what the nature of her employment 
 might be, Elinor walked down with her brother to the place 
 where she had seen the child, calling to her at the same time. 
 But May, either having doubts whether mud-pie making had left 
 her in a presentable state, or else being seized with a fit of shy- 
 ness, did not respond to the summons, vanishing suddenly instead 
 behind some tall shrubs. Unfortunately for her, however, her 
 aunt knew her haunts, and intercepted her retreat, just as she 
 was whisking off to the house. Before she knew what was hap- 
 pening to her, she found herself caught up by her father, fast 
 clasped in his arms, and covered with kisses. 
 
 Poor Percy ! how his face lighted up at that moment, and how 
 happy he looked now that he once more had his child — his Lisa's 
 child in his arms. For years he had been thinking of that time, 
 and picturing to himself what it would be. In long hours of loneli- 
 ness and sadness, the thought of her had been with him to cheer 
 his solitude and his sorrow. And now that time was come. It 
 had seemed but half a meeting the night before, but it was all he 
 had ever hoped for now. Lisa's little child was in his arms, and he 
 
334 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 had seen her eyes, soft and bright like her mother's, raised to his 
 face with the wistful look he knew so well and had missed so long. 
 But great happiness seldom comes without alloy ; and so Percy 
 found it now. He had thought so much of his child, and all 
 home letters had been so entirely filled with her, that long as it 
 was since he had left her, she was no stranger to him ; and he 
 had forgotten that he might, or rather must, be one to her. It 
 was with a feeling of the keenest disappointment that he saw her 
 turn from him, and hide her face j which at first no persuasions 
 could induce her to raise again. 
 
 * Why, May, my little child, won't you look at me ? ' he said. 
 ' Don't you know who I am, my Queen Mab — my little queen 
 of the fairies 1 ' 
 
 But although she raised her head for a moment at the sound 
 of his voice, and on hearing the names which he had often given 
 her in his letters, she dropped it again when she caught sight of 
 his face. That plain dark man who looked so worn and sad was 
 not at all the father she had pictured to herself, and it was very 
 clear she was afraid of him. ISTo entreaties could induce her to 
 speak to or even look at him again ; and Elinor, who saw the 
 large tears in her eyes, persuaded her brother, much against his 
 will, to set her down. 
 
 ' She is always shy,' she said in a low voice. ' You must not 
 mind it ; she will know you better by and by. Leave her to me 
 a little now.' 
 
 And May, released, gladly took refuge with her aunt, to whose 
 hand she clung in evident relief ; keeping close beside her, and 
 putting as great a distance as possible between herself and the 
 tall grave-looking man, on whom — now that she was away from 
 him — she turned her eyes at times, with a gaze half of fear, half 
 of curiosity ; though she showed no inclination to increase their 
 friendly relations. ' He could not win a word or a smile from 
 her ; and when they returned to the house to breakfast, and she 
 discovered that the high chair in which she always sat had been 
 placed next the seat which he was about to occupy, she pulled it 
 hastily away, pushing it instead into a vacant space between her 
 grandfather and Isabel. 
 
 Dr Tennent laughed as he noticed the movement. 
 
 * Why, pet, this isn't your proper place,' he said. ^ What are 
 you doing here 1 Don't you want to sit next papa ? ' patting 
 her head as he spoke. 
 
MAKING ACQUAINTANCE. 335 
 
 Pet grew crimson, and looked very shy. ^ No, thank you.' 
 
 * No, thank you ! Why, what 's that for, my little girl ? ' 
 
 ' I 'd rather not,' and she took a draught of milk from her tiny 
 cup, looking over the top of it at Mrs Tennent, who shook her 
 head at her. 
 
 * Now May, I hope you don't mean to be shy and silly. I 
 shall be very angry if you are. I don't know what you will do 
 with her,' turning to Percy. ' Mary has spoilt her, I believe ; and 
 I am sure every one else has. You will find her very troublesome.' 
 
 But Percy, though truth to say he was hurt and disappointed 
 at his child's coldness and evident aversion to him, only smiled. 
 
 ' Never mind,' he said. * We shall get on well together by 
 and by, I have no doubt. She does not know me yet ; but we 
 shall be good friends soon.' 
 
 And at the sound of the kind voice. May looked at him for a 
 moment as if the process of making friends might not be such a 
 long one after all ; but unfortunately while speaking he put up 
 his glass to see her better, and the sight of that seemed at once to 
 renew all her apprehensions. She shrank away and hid her face 
 on Isabel's shoulder. 
 
 Mrs Tennent was very angry. * I tell you what it is, May — 
 you are a naughty child ; and if you don't sit up at once and eat 
 your breakfast properly, I shall lock you in my closet for the rest of 
 the morning. I am not going to let you behave in that rude way.' 
 
 ' Sit up, my precious,' whispered Isabel. * You mustn't be 
 silly ; you are not afraid, are you 1 ' 
 
 ^ Yes, I am. I '11 go into the closet, please, I won't mind it,' 
 said poor May, who had a horror in general of that place of pun- 
 ishment, but seemed to consider it now far preferable to remain- 
 ing in the room with her strange, grave-looking father. Some 
 little whispering, however, which took place between her and her 
 aunt, had the effect of restoring her equanimity, and she sat 
 up then and went on with her breakfast, only casting furtive 
 glances from time to time across the table ; while Percy, dis- 
 liking to hear her found fault with on his account, and thinking 
 she was more likely to come round if left to herself, said no 
 more, and took care that no notice should be taken of her 
 by the others. But it was with a sigh that, when breakfast was 
 over, he saw her slip down from her chair, and evidently fear- 
 ing to be detained by him, make her escape from the room. He 
 saw her several times in the course of the morning running 
 
336 ATHERSTOXE PKIOKY. 
 
 about the garden, and heard her merry laughter and her little 
 voice carolling as gaily as that of some bird ; but it was useless 
 to seek her out — -he would but have stopped that laughter and 
 merriment. He could only sit and watch her unperceived, feel- 
 ing how different this return was from all he had ever looked for, 
 and contrasting sadly these first hours at home with his last 
 spent there years ago. 
 
 * It is a pity she is so shy with you/ said Elinor ; ' she has 
 always talked so much of you, that I hoped she would be soci- 
 able at once. But you won't have very long to wait, I daresay.* 
 
 The waiting, however, w^as longer than she expected. May 
 had no fancy for him, and did not care to shov/ a preference 
 where none existed. 
 
 ' I don't like him a bit,' she said to Lane ; * I wish he 
 wasn't my papa — oh, I do wdsh it ! and I wish he had never 
 come home. He isn't like anybody here, and he 's so old 
 and so ugly ; I don't love him at all ! I wish he would go 
 away to-morrow — go quite away, and never come back any 
 more.' And catching sight of him in the distance, just as she 
 had delivered herself of these sentiments, she flew away and hid 
 herself in some out-of-the-way corner, till she was quite sure 
 that all danger of meeting him was over. 
 
 And this went on for some time : all attempts to come to a 
 better understanding with her being a failure, in spite of the 
 repeated scoldings she received from Mrs Tennent, till Percy, 
 not liking to hear his little girl so often found fault with, begged 
 rather peremptorily she might be left to herself. He had no 
 wish to force her to anything against her inclination, and had 
 no doubt she would come round by and by. 
 
 And he was right. A few mornings later he asked her if she 
 would not go for a walk with him — a request which she declined 
 in the most steadfast manner. He said no more, but something 
 in his face as he turned away — something of sadness, per- 
 haps, at being so slighted by his child — seemed to strike her, and 
 while walking up and down the room afterwards with her old 
 rag doll. Lady Flora, in her arms, she paused several times near 
 the open window to watch him on a garden bench close by, 
 where he had seated himself on her refusal. Her thoughts wxre 
 evidently engrossed with him, though he did not notice her ; 
 and so absorbed was she in the observations she was making, 
 that her plaything fell to the ground unheeded, and, stealing up 
 
MAKING ACQUAINTANCE. 337 
 
 to the window, she was looking at liim with intent, earnest eyes, 
 when Mrs Tennent came into the room. Her entrance was 
 unfortunate, for, passing the doll that lay on the floor, its 
 appearance there caused her no little displeasure. She had often 
 lectured poor May on her untidiness, and threatened to make 
 away with any rubbish she might leave about ; and angry now 
 at the sight of the offending favourite, she picked it up, and, 
 ringing the bell, ordered the servant who came in to put it at the 
 back of the kitchen Are. It was nothing better, it was true, than 
 a bundle of rags, but it was May's treasure — the doll she loved 
 best out of half-a-dozen more she had, and her despair upon hear- 
 ing the order for this summary disposal of her property was great 
 in the extreme. In an agony she flew to the rescue, but it was 
 too late. Mrs Tennent kept her off" ; and although the servant 
 hesitated at first, appearing very reluctant to obey the command, 
 a look from her mistress told her it was not to be trifled with. 
 She departed, and as May saw the door close upon her she gave 
 way to a storm of passion beyond all control. She was like a 
 little fury, stamping the ground, and being utterly beside her- 
 self with rage. * Thtupid old thing ' (she always lisped when in 
 a hurry or excited), ' wicked,' * unkind,' ' cruel,' were the mildest 
 of the childish invectives with which she loaded her grand- 
 mother, greatly to the dismay of Isabel, who was sitting by. 
 
 * Hush, May, dear ; don't talk in that way ! You don*t know 
 what you are saying,' she remonstrated ; but she might as well 
 have spoken to the wind. May's fury was not to be so easily 
 quenched ; and Mrs Tennent's anger was roused by her audacity. 
 
 ' May, you very naughty child, have you the least idea whom 
 you are talking to 1 ' she exclaimed. * A little girl like you to 
 speak in that way 1 You shall be well whipped for your im- 
 pertinence.' 
 
 A sentence which brought May to herself ; her passion sub- 
 siding suddenly. For a moment she looked at her grandmother, 
 quailed by her air of displeasure ; and then she fled — to the door 
 first, but not being able to open that fast enough with her small 
 hands, she turned, and struck by a fresh thought, took refuge 
 by the side of her father, whom her burst of anger had brought 
 to the window. 
 
 ' Papa,' in a voice of frantic entreaty — ^ please, papa, keep me 
 — don't let her take me ! ' And she clung to him imploringly as 
 Mrs Tennent advanced across the room. 
 
 Y 
 
338 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 Percy stooped down and raised her in his arms. 
 
 * Excuse me, madam : I don't know what the child has done, 
 but whatever it is, she is not to be punished for it ; I shall not 
 allow it.' 
 
 Mrs Tennent stood aghast. * What, not after such impertin- 
 ence ! Do you mean a child like her is to say what she likes, 
 and you are going to encourage her in it ? I never saw any one 
 in such a passion in my life, or heard such rudeness. If you let 
 her think she is to act in such a way without being punished for 
 it, you are extremely wrong.' 
 
 But Percy only drew his little girl close to him. Right or 
 wrong, she had thrown herself on his protection : and with her 
 arms round his neck, as they were now, he was not going to give 
 her up. 
 
 ' I can't help it,' he said. * If she has been rude, she will be 
 sorry for it by and by, I am sure. But I can't let her be 
 punished.' 
 
 Mrs Tennent was very angry. * If that is the plan you mean 
 to pursue with her, the sooner you take her from here the better. 
 I shall not submit to be insulted in my own house.' 
 
 She left the room in high displeasure ; May's first feeling on 
 her departure being one of exultation ; but when she came to 
 reflect afterwards upon the loss of her treasure, and still more 
 when Elinor, who came into the room, was told of what had 
 passed, her face changed. Both her aunts looked so very grave 
 that her conscience began to work, and she burst into tears. 
 
 * Don't cry, my little girl,' Percy said. * No one is going to 
 be angry with you. I won't have her scolded, Elinor j she had 
 a great deal to provoke her, poor child ! ' 
 
 * I don't want to scold,' Elinor answered. * I am only thinking 
 what is to be done. Mamma is very angry, and not without 
 reason, I think. I am afraid May really was rude,' looking at 
 her sister as she spoke. 
 
 ^ I am afraid she was,' Isabel was beginning rather unwillingly ; 
 but she was cut short by Percy's remarking rather bitterly, ' She 
 is sure to have been in the wrong if you ask Isabel about it ; ' 
 the tone in which he spoke bringing the colour to her face, and 
 she was silent, while May's tears redoubled. 
 
 * I was naughty. Aunt Isabel is right,' she exclaimed. * But 
 oh, my poor Lady Flora is all burnt ! I 'm so sorry 1 ' 
 
 And there came another childish burst of grief, which Percy 
 
MAKING ACQUAINTANCE. 339 
 
 in vain endeavoured to calm, though whether it were caused by 
 the recollection of her own passion, or by her loss, was not 
 easy to discover. Penitence, however, seemed really to be at the 
 bottom of it ; for when Elinor had taken her in hand a little, 
 and under her auspices the tears at length ceased to flow, she 
 was heard suggesting that perhaps she had better go and tell her 
 grandmamma she was sorry she had been so rude — she really was 
 sorry now ; a proposition of which her aunts at once approved, 
 and to which Percy offered no objection ; though, as he said, he 
 considered she had had so much provocation that he did not 
 wonder she had been angry. 
 
 * But I won't have her punished,' he added peremptorily. 
 * The idea of such a thing ! ' growing quite angry as he spoke. 
 
 So May, escorted by Elinor, went off to make her peace with 
 Mrs Tennent; not an easy matter, for that lady was most 
 seriously displeased ; and it was only the knowledge of her utter 
 powerlessness to act any further in the affair which induced her 
 at length to listen to May's childish expressions of penitence, 
 while she wound up a long lecture which she bestowed on the 
 culprit with the assurance that it was the first and last time she 
 would pass over such a thing, and that if it were ever repeated, 
 she would most assuredly punish her severely. 
 
 * Papa won't let you,' was the triumphant rejoinder, which, 
 however, was immediately checked by her aunt, while Mrs Ten- 
 nent prudently forbore to notice the remark — and May, released 
 from her presence, returned to the drawing-room, to scramble 
 upon her father's knee and cram his mouth with barley-sugar; 
 while she whispered in his ear, that she would love him now — 
 she would love him very much, and never be afraid of him any 
 more ; a compact which she sealed with the first kiss she had 
 ever given him. 
 
340 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XLYIIL 
 
 *WILL YE THINK OF HER WHO DIED T 
 
 And from that dtay Percy's life began to change. The void left 
 within him by Lisa's death, and which the lapse of long years 
 had failed to fill up, disappeared by slow degrees. With the 
 new interests awakened in him by his child, he ceased to feel his 
 loneliness ; and his sadness was chased away by her mirth. It 
 would have been a shame, he said to himself, to let even the 
 shadow of grief intrude upon her joyousness ; and in the wish to 
 meet her in her lightheartedness he forgot his own heavy sorrow. 
 And when she found he could sympathise with all her childish 
 feelings, and enter into all her amusements ; that he would give 
 up anything at any time, no matter what he was doing or where 
 he was going, to please her — she was not slow in taking advantage 
 of the discovery, and seldom left him long alone ; while she soon 
 learned to wonder how it was she had ever been afraid of him. 
 
 ' He was so kind,' she was heard declaring. * He was better a 
 great deal than any papa she had ever dreamed of; she hoped 
 he would never go away again ; she should be so sorry, so unhappy 
 if he did,' with a good deal more in the same style; for her 
 heart was completely won, and, like her mother, her affectiou 
 when once awakened knew no bounds. And if her great delight 
 now was to be with her father, it was no less a one to him to 
 have her wdth him. He made her his constant companion at all 
 times, and both at home and abroad she Avas always to be seen 
 at his side ; she sat beside him when he read or wrote, carried 
 on all her amusements as near him as possible, and insisted upon 
 accompanying him in all his walks and rambles. 
 
 With him, too, she renewed her acquaintance with 'Mr 
 Arthur,' whom, in the new interests which had lately been 
 engrossing her, she had almost forgotten. Percy had no sooner 
 heard from his father that his cousin was located in Atherstone, 
 than he lost no time in seeking him out ; and one day when he 
 was setting off for a walk with May, he told her he w^as going to 
 take her to pay a visit to some one who wished very much to see 
 her. Her curiosity was excited in no small degree by this infor- 
 
'' WILL YE THINJ^ OF HER WHO DIED ? ' 341 
 
 mation, and her delight when introduced again to the * gentleman 
 with the kind eyes' was quite as great; though she puzzled her- 
 self extremely to know why it was he never spoke to her without, 
 as she expressed it, looking so sorry. However, he was very 
 kind to her; quite as kind as she was sure from his eyes he 
 would be, and she made herself very happy in his house when- 
 ever she went there. With Mrs Clarke, also, she became fast 
 friends ; visiting her in the kitchen, and under her guidance 
 exploring the house from top to bottom, though she was puzzled 
 to know why Mr Arthur only lived in two rooms, and what he 
 was going to do Avith the others. Would he never put chairs 
 and tables in them, and would nobody ever live there? To 
 which questions Mrs Clarke only smiled a little grimly, though 
 she once went so far as to admit that somebody might perhaps 
 live there by and by ; she supposed he was waiting for the young 
 lady who would come some day. 
 
 * A young lady ! ' May's eyes were opened, and her ears on the 
 alert immediately. * Who was she ? Where did she live, and 
 what was her name ] ' 
 
 But of that Mrs Clarke did not profess to know much. Her 
 name was Miss Eight, of course; but where she lived was another 
 thing. Some people said she lived in Atherstone, and others 
 that she didn't ; for her own part she knew nothing about it. 
 
 Miss Right ! May was more puzzled than before ; and by 
 way of enlightening herself, applied to Arthur on the subject, 
 and asked him to tell her who the young lady was who was one 
 day to come and live in the rest of the house. His look of 
 astonishment at first, and then his hearty laugh, astounded poor 
 May ; though he was grave enough afterwards. 
 
 * I don't know any Miss Right yet,' he said. ' You are 
 the only young lady who ever comes here, so I think you must 
 be the one Mrs Clarke means. What do you say 1 Will you 
 come and live with me, and make my tea V 
 
 Yes. May thought she should like it very much ; and there 
 was a pretty room, at the top of the house, which looked over 
 the little strip of garden, that she thought would do for her very 
 nicely ; but then, she began to demur. She should like it cer- 
 tainly ; she should like that little room ; and she liked pouring 
 out tea when the tea-pot wasn't too heavy, and she didn't think 
 his was : but still — her name wasn't Right, to begin with, and 
 . — oh, how could she have forgotten it ? She couldn't leave her 
 
342 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 dear papa ; what would he do without her, and she loved him so 
 very, very much that she couldn't go away and leave him. No, 
 Arthur must make his own tea, and the little room at the top of 
 the house must remain empty, for May couldn't come ; and she 
 rushed into her father s arms as she spoke, and smothered him 
 with her kisses. 
 
 But May's visits to St Jude's Rectory came to an end after a 
 time. A fever was ravaging some parts of the town, and it was 
 especially prevalent in the poor and crowded districts of which 
 Arthur's parish chiefly consisted; so that Dr Tennent advised 
 his family's keeping entirely away from that quarter. May's 
 pleasant hours, therefore, with Mr Arthur were over for a time, 
 and it would be hard to say which of them most regretted the 
 separation — the child who had always found so much happiness 
 in his house, or he himself when he missed her bright face, and 
 felt he was once more cut off from all intercourse with his old 
 home. 
 
 * Will you come with me, Queen Mab V Percy said one evening, 
 two or three weeks later. ' I am going on the Copelands road 
 a little way ; will you come too 1 ' 
 
 May jumped down from the garden-seat on which she had 
 been sitting, listening to the story which her Aunt Isabel was 
 telling her for about the five hundredth time, of * The Ugly 
 Duckling;' but a walk with her father was a superior attraction, 
 and she picked up her hat, which was lying on the ground beside 
 her, and slipped her hand into his in great delight. 
 
 * Won't Aunt Isabel come too V she said eagerly : ^ she never 
 comes with us ; don't you think she will now 1 ' 
 
 There was no answer ; Percy's brow clouded : but May pulled 
 his hand. 
 
 * Won't she come?' she repeated wistfully. 
 
 * Ask her, if you like, my child,' was the reply ; but the tone 
 was freezingly cold, and Isabel's head, which was bent over some 
 work, went down still lower. May seemed puzzled, and for a 
 moment stood looking alternately at her and at her father. Then 
 she ran back to her side. 
 
 * Will you come. Aunt Isabel ] Please do,' very coaxingly. 
 
 * No, dear, not to-day.' The words were hardly audible. 
 
 * Won't you? You are not busy. Do; please do come.' 
 Isabel kissed her. ' Not to-day, my darling,' she said again, 
 
 and May saw that her eyes were full of tears. Once more she 
 
^ WILL YE THINK OF HER WHO DIED ? ' 343 
 
 looked puzzled; and after gazing at her intently for a few 
 moments, laid her head on her lap. 
 
 * Then I will stay with you/ she said decidedly. ' I won't go 
 either.' 
 
 But at these words Isabel roused herself. * No, indeed, dear ; 
 that would never do : you can go without me. Kun, my darling, 
 and don't keep papa waiting ; he won't like it.' For Percy had 
 turned away, and was already at the other end of the green walk. 
 
 May looked after him. Child as she was, she saw that 
 something was wrong, and seemed doubtful on which side her 
 sympathies were to lie. But when her aunt, kissing her once 
 more, told her again to go, that she had something to do, and 
 did not mind being alone, she went ; though evidently with some 
 reluctance, and she looked back several times before she finally 
 left the walk and joined her father. 
 
 It was a warm, bright evening, and they went into one of the 
 meadows on the Copelands road and sat down on a bank ; or 
 rather Percy sat down, for May preferred something more active, 
 and after trying in vain to coax old Prince into running a race 
 with her, wandered round the field in search of flowers, with 
 which she kept filling her hands, returning to lay them in bunches 
 by her father's side. And he sat and watched her as she ran 
 about in the evening sunlight, and his thoughts went back, as 
 they so often did, to years gone by ; to a summer-time, which 
 seemed now so far away, to his cottage-home, with its w^hite 
 walls and trailing creepers, on the shores of the blue sea, to days 
 of great happiness spent there, and days of great misery ; and 
 memory returned to one day in particular — one bright summer's 
 day, just such another as the present, when the little child now 
 his pride and happiness had first seen the light. Years had gone 
 by since then — since he had watched the fading away of his 
 greatest earthly treasure, and had been left to the silence and 
 sadness of a lonely hearth. But although time had changed and 
 softened his grief, it had not brought forgetfulness ; and summer 
 days could never come round without bringing a return of the 
 many painful feelings with which they had once been associated. 
 
 May noticed after a time that he was graver than usual, and 
 that, contrary to his wont when she was with him, he did not 
 shake off his abstraction ; and leaving her flowers, she stole behind 
 him and twined her arms round his neck in her loving way. Ha 
 understood the action, and it brought the smile she wanted to 
 
344 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 see, though he did not speak. For some minutes the}^ were both 
 silent. His eye was fixed on the western sky, Avhere the sun 
 had just gone down, and he was thinking of another evening — 
 Lisa's last on earth — when they had watched together the sunset 
 behind the Gainsford hills. May, too, was gazing intently at 
 that western glow, but there was no sadness in her thoughts ; 
 they were those of admiration only — admiration mixed with 
 something like awe ; for when her childish voice at length broke 
 the silence, its usually eager tones were subdued. 
 
 * How pretty ! ' she said, half in a whisper, and pointing to the 
 sky as she spoke. * Papa,' after a long pause, * do you think 
 that is the way into heaven ? Is that the golden floor where the 
 angels walk?' 
 
 The childish question came strangely at that moment, and 
 Percy could not answer at first. But after a few moments, he 
 said quietly — 
 
 * No, dearest, that is not heaven ; it 's only the sunlight. 
 Heaven is more beautiful than that.^ 
 
 * More beautiful !' May paused, and looked for a long time 
 at the glowing sky. * I should like to go there,' she added 
 gravely, after a silence of some minutes ; and Percy started, and 
 involuntarily drew her closer to him. In the evening light she 
 looked so pure, so ethereal, that he could have fancied her one 
 of the angels of which she had just spoken, and a sudden mis- 
 giving seized him. 
 
 * Why do you want to go, my darling ? I couldn't spare you. 
 You are my little comfort, you know.' 
 
 * Am 1 1 ' May smiled, and her arms were twined more closely 
 round him. * I like to be that, papa ! Are you sure I am V 
 
 * Quite sure, dearest. You don't want to leave me, do you ? ' 
 
 * No,' emphatically. * And I '11 stay with you ; I won't want 
 to go.' And she kissed him in her eager way ; though after a 
 time her eye again went back to the evening sk}^, and she stood 
 still looking at it with a long, wistful gaze. 
 
 * What is it, my child 1 what are you thinking off Percy asked 
 at last, hardly liking to see that look, and wishing to bring her 
 back to her usual self. The answer was unexpected. 
 
 * I was thinking of mamma. She is there, isn't sheV 
 Percy's face grew pale. It was the first time he had ever 
 
 heard her mention her mother, and for a moment it was more 
 than he could bear ; he seemed to shrink into himself as if in 
 
^ WILL YK THINK OP HER WHO DIED ? * 345 
 
 pain. But her own child ! surely she had a right to speak of 
 her ! Had not Lisa herself asked that they would talk of her 
 sometimes — that she might not be forgotten? And the cold, 
 proud look of forced calmness with which he always heard from 
 others the most distant allusion to his lost wife, and which even 
 then had crossed his countenance, passed away again. 
 
 * Yes, dearest, she is there. You know about her then, May 1 ' 
 he said, after a long silence. * You think of her sometimes?' 
 
 * Yes, very often. Aunt Mary tells me about her. Papa, I 
 wish she was here now. I wish she could come back to 
 us!' 
 
 Percy was silent; a long weary sigh was his only answer. 
 For that wish was but an echo of the wild though never-uttered 
 yearning of his own heart ; but it sounded strange to him to hear 
 it from another, even though that other were Lisa's child. He 
 was silent so long that May was afraid she had said something 
 wrong, and he was roused presently by a renewal of her clinging 
 caresses. He looked up then. 
 
 * Ah, my little May, I was forgetting you,' he said, rather sadly ; 
 and after a pause he added, with manifest effort, * You wish she 
 were here again ? So do I, dearest ; you little know, my child, 
 what you have lost in her.' He drew a small case from his 
 pocket as he spoke — a case which might have held a miniature 
 likeness, but there was nothing of the sort within it. When with 
 some hesitation he opened it, there were only a few withered 
 blades of grass there, and a little bit of silver paper containing 
 one long tress of golden hair. He had never had a likeness of 
 Lisa ; no photograph would have pleased him, and the only 
 opportunity that had once offered for having a good oil-painting 
 taken had been lost through some dislike of hers to sitting so 
 long. He had nothing but the memory of her left ; and deeply 
 he regretted that it was so — that no picture could ever tell his 
 child of the mother she had lost. But that long tress of hair was 
 cherished as a sacred thing. 
 
 * See, May,' he said. * That is her hair, it is very like yours.' 
 Yes, so it was. When he put them together, mother's and 
 
 child's, he could hardly have told them apart ; both were of the 
 same shade of pale brown, both had the same tinge of sunlight — 
 the sunlight that comes from western skies — upon them. For a 
 long time May looked at that lock, and then she said softly — 
 
 * It 's just like the hair in Aunt Isabel's picture, isn't it V 
 
346 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 ' In your Aunt Isabel's picture ! What do you mean, dearest V 
 he said absently. 
 
 * In that picture she has of mamma. Her hair is just like 
 that/ May said, gazing intently at the golden tress before her. 
 
 ' Your Aunt Isabel ! No, dearest, you are mistaken. She 
 has no likeness of your mother,' with a sigh. *No one has.' 
 
 May raised her head, and looked at him for a moment. 
 ^ Yes,' she has : I 've seen it. I saw it one day, and she told me 
 it was mamma. She did, indeed ; I really saw it,' with great 
 earnestness. 
 
 * Saw it 1 where, my darling 1 ' 
 
 ' In her room. I saw it there one day, and I asked her w^ho 
 it was, and she told me. Oh yes, I know she has it,' May per- 
 sisted. * I saw her put it in a drawer and lock it up. I 'm sure 
 it 's quite safe there.' 
 
 Percy was silent. The child seemed so positive of the truth 
 of her assertion that he could hardly doubt it. But yet how 
 had Isabel become possessed of the likeness ; and why should 
 she care to keep it ? Lisa had been nothing to her ; she had 
 only slighted and wronged her when living, and why should she 
 wish to retain any recollection of her ? 
 
 *I think,' May began again, pursuing her own train of 
 thought, * I think Aunt Isabel must have painted it herself ; she 
 paints so beautifully, papa ! Do you know her room is full of 
 pictures 1 You 've never seen them, have you ? ' 
 
 * Not lately. I saw them a long time ago.' 
 
 * Oh, but she has a great many now. I wish you would come 
 and see them some day ; will you ? And I '11 ask her to show 
 you that one, shall 1 1 ' very eagerly, but lowering her voice to a 
 whisper. 
 
 * No, dearest, no,' was the hasty answer ; though he added 
 kindly, * I think it is some mistake of yours, my little girl.' 
 And then, as if wishing to change the subject, he said gravely, 
 * I hope you don't often go to your aunt's room ; she does not 
 like to be interrupted ; I am afraid you must be in the way.' 
 
 A suggestion at which May looked at first rather bewildered ; 
 though her doubts, whatever they might be, seemed to arise not 
 so much from the words themselves as from the tone in which 
 they were spoken. For a minute she gazed at him in evident 
 surprise. 
 
 ' I don't think I 'm in the way/ she said, after some thought. 
 
' WILL YE THINK OF HER WHO DIED ? ' 347 
 
 * No, I 'm sure I 'm not, Aunt Isabel likes me to go. She is 
 always very kind to me, you know.' 
 
 * Is she 1 ' There was a world of doubt and bitter irony in his 
 voice j and although May did not comprehend him, she felt that 
 from some cause he was displeased, and she was silent ; her 
 face growing so distressed in its expression of mute perplexity 
 that Percy felt some reproach as he looked at her. He drew her 
 fondly towards him. 
 
 * We have sat here long enough, my little May blossom,' he 
 said with a smile. * Suppose we go ; it is getting late for you,' 
 and he pointed to the sky from which the last traces of the sun's 
 glow were fast fading away. 
 
 May jumped up, but she did not say anything, and as they 
 went home together along the dusty road, she was far more 
 silent than usual. She w^as silent also when she met her aunt 
 again, watching her with curious wistful looks which Isabel was 
 puzzled to account for, though they were explained later. That 
 night when she was in her own room preparing for rest, she was 
 startled by hearing a little voice proceeding from May's bed. 
 She went round to see what was the matter. 
 
 * I want to ask you something,' was the answer to her in- 
 quiries. ' Aunt Isabel,' as her aunt knelt by her side, * Aunt 
 Isabel, papa is your brother, isn't he ? ' 
 
 The question was rather startling, for Isabel perceived the 
 drift of it. * No, dear, not my own brother,' she said with some 
 hesitation. *But May, you ought to be asleep now.' 
 
 * Yes ; but won't you tell me first 1 He isn't your own 
 brother? Why not?' 
 
 Isabel explained. 
 
 May pondered a little, as if some idea had struck her. * Then 
 brothers and sisters that are not " own " don't love each other 1 ' 
 she said. 
 
 ' Not always, dear.' The answer was very low. 
 
 'But you love him, Aunt Isabel, don't you? You told me 
 you did.' 
 
 ' Yes, dear, so I do ; very, very much.' 
 
 ' And doesn't he love you ! ' 
 
 There was no answer. Isabel's face was hidden. For a long 
 time she knelt there in silence, and then she was roused by a 
 little head laid on her shoulder. 
 
 ' / love you, Aunt Isabel ! I shall always love you — always ! * 
 
348 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 'from out the clouds the mother looks.' 
 
 * May, my darling, you seem very tired,' Percy remarked on the 
 following evening, as he stood watching his little girl, who was 
 hanging listlessly over the back of a garden-chair, looking pale 
 and heavy-eyed. * Don't yon feel well, my child ? ' 
 
 * Yes/ But she did not move ; she still stood resting her 
 head upon the chair, and swinging one foot backwards and for- 
 wards, as if she found greater amusement in such an occupation, 
 than in the games of which in general she was so fond. 
 
 * I daresay she is tired,' Elinor said, looking up from the book 
 she was reading. * She has been running about all afternoon. 
 Don't you think you had better go to bed, May dear ?' 
 
 But at this proposition May woke into life. She wasn't 
 tired ; she didn't want to go to bed.' And she vanished with 
 Prince, her voice being heard presently in ringing laughter at the 
 other end of the garden. But she came back after a time with 
 a flushed face and weary look. 
 
 * I'll go to bed now, Aunt JSTelly,' she said quietly, 'I'm very 
 tired. Will you take me, please ] ' 
 
 A request with which Elinor would readily have complied, but 
 Percy forestalled her. He lifted May in his arms, and carried 
 her off to the nursery, though he told her smilingly as they went 
 up stairs, that he thought she was getting too old now to be 
 carried in that way. She did not resent the assertion as she 
 usually did with a whole string of noisy negatives ; she seemed 
 too tired for talking, and the huggings and kissings with which 
 she always parted from him were dispensed with this evening. 
 Making her over to her nurse's care, Percy returned to the gar- 
 den to pace up and down the green walk, as he often did at that, 
 hour, and the night being very warm, he remained there till long 
 after it was dark. It was nearly ten o'clock when he returned 
 to the house, and on going into the drawing-room he found only 
 Isabel and Elinor there ; the former reading, the latter seated at 
 the tea-table. 
 
 * Papa is out,' Elinor said in answer to his inquiries for the 
 
^ FROM OUT THE CLOUDS THE MOTHER LOOKS.' 349 
 
 others. * He hasn't been home since dinner, and mamma and 
 Susan are gone to the Merediths'; there's a dance there this 
 evening, you know. It ^s a pity you missed seeing Susan before 
 she went,' she added with a smile. * She looked so pretty.' 
 
 Percy smiled too. * She won't make herself unhappy at having 
 missed my admiration, I daresay,' drawing a chair to the table 
 as he spoke, and taking the cup of tea his sister handed to him. 
 ^ George Meredith is at home now, isn't heV 
 
 * To be sure he is. This dance is given in his honour. Mamma 
 didn't mean to go at first ; but he made such a fuss, and Susan 
 was so disappointed, that she gave in afterwards. George is a 
 very nice fellow,' added Elinor musingly. 
 
 * You wouldn't mind him for a brother-in-law/ Percy said, 
 quietly. 
 
 * Not at all. And as I feel sure we shall have him some day, 
 it is as well I shouldn't mind it. But I shall like it very 
 much, and so will mamma ; it will please her exceedingly. Ah ! 
 there is papa.' 
 
 She made haste to replenish the teapot and place a chair for 
 her father, who came in looking tired, and, a most unusual thing 
 for him, out of spirits. He was silent and thoughtful, and Eli- 
 nor remarked it as she gave him his tea. 
 
 ^ Is anything the matter, papal' she asked, as she set down 
 his cup by his side. 
 
 He smiled then. 'With me? No, Nelly.' But he looked 
 grave again as he added a moment after, * Those little Bakers 
 are both dead.' 
 
 'Both!' 
 
 * Yes, both ; one this morning, and the other an hour ago. 
 You have not been in any of those back streets lately, I sup- 
 pose?' 
 
 He was speaking to his daughter, but his eye had turned to 
 Percy, and Elinor knew of whom he was thinking. 
 
 * Oh, no,' she said, hastily. ' We have always walked the 
 other way since you told us they had the fever so much there. 
 No one has ever been in that direction.' 
 
 ' That 's right. I have been speaking to Mr Elvers to-day 
 , about breaking up the schools for the present. Such numbers 
 come from that neighbourhood, and the parents are so foolish,' 
 said the doctor, waxing wrathful. * They think nothing of send- 
 ing children from houses where they know they have the fever. 
 
350 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 Actually, there were three of the Lofts at the school yesterday, 
 while the youngest was in bed with it ; and to-day they have all 
 got it. I gave Mrs Loft a regular blowing-up this afternoon; 
 not that that would do much good considering the mischief was 
 done/ 
 
 ^ Mrs Loft ! You don't mean to say they have it there !* It 
 was Isabel who spoke now, and who looked very pale. 
 
 ' Yes, Mrs Loft. What about her 1 You have not been there, 
 surely 1 ' 
 
 * No, oh no ! Only' her voice trembled. ^ We met little 
 
 Emma yesterday. May and I, close to this door, and we stopped 
 to speak to her. I quite forgot at the time they lived in Ham- 
 mond Place j and May wanted to see something she had, so 
 we' 
 
 But here Isabel stopped short. She had with difficulty got 
 as far as that, and something in her brother's face then made 
 her break down altogether. Dr Tennent glanced at him uneasily; 
 but his daughter's distress was too evident to allow him to blame 
 her. 
 
 * It was a pity,' he said. * But we 11 hope there is no harm 
 done. It was in the open air, and you were not long with the 
 child, I suppose?' 
 
 She hesitated. ^ Not very long, but some little time ; five 
 minutes, perhaps.' 
 
 Dr Tennent was silent ; but Percy pushed back his chair and 
 rose abruptly. 
 
 ^ My poor little May ! Mary would have taken more care of 
 her;' he said bitterly; and he took several turns across the 
 room, while Isabel was struggling with her tears. 
 
 * You are unjust there, Percy,' remarked his father gravely ; 
 ' no one can be more careful of May than Isabel. The child 
 herself would be the first to tell you so if you were to ask her.' 
 
 Percy made no reply. He continued his walk for some minutes 
 in silence and then left the room ; and when Dr Tennent fol- 
 lowed him shortly afterwards, he found as he expected that he 
 had gone to his sister's room, and was standing beside May's 
 little bed. She was sleeping very quietly, but her father pointed 
 uneasily to a bright spot on her cheek. It was only the side, 
 however, on which she had been lying ; and Dr Tennent smiled 
 a little as he felt her hand. 
 
 * Not much the matter with her at present,' he said ; * but we 
 
^FKOM OUT THE CLOUDS THE MOTHER LOOKS.' 351 
 
 shall see how she is to-morrow. If you are at all afraid for her, 
 we can send her off to Copelands/ 
 
 * Yes ; that was what I had been thinking. She shall go cer- 
 tainly. I will take her over myself the first thing in the morn- 
 ing, and she shall stay there for the present. I can't afford to 
 run any risks with her. My little May, my own precious child!' 
 
 Alone in her room that night, poor Isabel knelt by May's side, 
 and prayed with many bitter tears that the life of her brother's 
 child might not have been endangered through her carelessness ; 
 that she might be spared the misery of knowing she had brought 
 another heavy trial on him, and made his lonely life yet more 
 lonely. Her prayer was not answered in the way she hoped ; 
 and for long she thought it had not been heard at all. 
 
 She slept little that night, being kept awake by the heat and 
 her own uneasiness. She fancied, too, that the child seemed 
 restless ; and once or twice she heard her moaning and mutter- 
 ing in her sleep. It was not until daylight was almost dawning 
 that anything like sound slumber came to her. But it did not 
 last long ; she had not been sleeping half an hour when she was 
 roused by a scream. May was sitting up in bed, trembling with 
 fright. 
 
 * Take it away, Aunt Isabel; take it way!' she exclaimed, 
 and she clung to her imploringly. 
 
 ' What is it, dearest ? Tiiere "is nothing here. What are you 
 afraid of 1 ' 
 
 * A cat — a black cat I Take it away !' May muttered. 
 
 * A cat ! No, my pet ; there isn't. And if there were, you 
 are not afraid of cats^' And Isabel tried to laugh. * But you 
 were only dreaming.' 
 
 ' Was I ? ' May shivered, but her hands were burning, and 
 even in the faint light of the early dawn, Isabel could see that 
 her face was unnaturally flushed. She was frightened herself 
 then. Rising hastily, she hurried on her clothes, and went to 
 call her father. He was not long in answering her summons, 
 but the first glance she took at his countenance as he stood by 
 the side of the child brought her no comfort ; it told her at once 
 her fears were only two well founded. Yes, May was ill ; and 
 it was her doing. Her prayer of the night before was not to be 
 answered — her sin of long ago prevented that, she thought. 
 She looked so wretched that her father's pity was aroused. 
 
 ^ You must not make yourself unhappy, Isabel,' he said 
 
352 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 kindly. ' She might have had it just the same if you had never 
 met that child.' 
 
 Isabel was silent, but it was not because the words brought 
 much consolation — they were scarcely heeded, indeed j for the 
 conviction that May's illness was the result of her own careless- 
 ness was too strong for any attempts at comfort to reach her. 
 She was thinking of her brother — thinking how she could bear 
 his reproaches, and the sight of his misery. 
 
 * We shall have to send the others off,' Dr Tennent said. * We 
 
 must get them out of the way of infection at once. But you 
 
 Will you be afraid to stay, do you think '? ' 
 
 * Afraid ! I am not much of a nurse, you know j but ' 
 
 her voice trembled. * I will do my best — indeed I will.' 
 
 ' I am sure of that, my dear; and you will have Lane to help 
 you. And now I must see about sending the others off. They 
 must go to Copelands for the present.' 
 
 A great deal of stir and bustle there was at the Priory that 
 morning, but not much of it reached Isabel's room. May awoke 
 to headache and fever, and every moan and restless movement 
 of hers went to her aunt's heart as she sat by her side, calm 
 outwardly, but striving in vain to still the tumult of feelings 
 within — feelings which increased tenfold in their bitterness 
 when her brother came to stand beside his child. It was true 
 he said nothing — she had not to bear the reproaches she had 
 feared ; but she would almost sooner have had them than have 
 seen the look with which he bent over his little May as she lay 
 with her eyes closed, her lips parched, and her cheek bright with 
 the flush of fever. 
 
 * My poor little girl ! ' he said tenderly, and at the sound of 
 his voice she stopped her uneasy moaning and looked up. 
 
 * Dear papa ! ' she exclaimed in her usual tone ; but a moment 
 after the fretful little voice began again. 
 
 * Aunt Isabel, my head aches ! I 'm so tired and so thirsty 
 — mayn't I have something to drink?' 
 
 A strange sad day that was. When Mrs Tennent, with the 
 rest of the party, had gone off to Copelands, silence settled down 
 upon the house, and except in that one room, the place appeared 
 deserted. The sultry heat was oppressive, but it was hardly 
 more so within than without. The very air seemed in a blaze, 
 the lawn and the lime-trees lay smoking in the sunlight, 
 and the slight breeze that crept into the room, bringing with 
 
^FEOM OUT THE CLOUDS THE MOTHEK LOOKS.' 353 
 
 it the many busy sounds from the town around, felt hot and 
 stifling. 
 
 As evening came on, however, May grew less restless : she 
 seemed to sleep at intervals, and there was hope that the fever 
 might yield to the remedies that had been tried. She had been 
 lying very quietly for some time in a half- dozing state, when a 
 slight movement of Percy's roused her, and she looked up startled ; 
 but presently fixed her eyes upon him with a smile. 
 
 * Papa, I had such an odd dream just then. At least not a 
 dream exactly ; for I wasn't asleep, because I saw you and Aunt 
 Isabel sitting there. I was lying looking at you, when I saw 
 some one else, too ; some one just like that picture in the draw^er 
 
 •in your room. Aunt Isabel. She was so pretty, and she had such 
 beautiful long hair ; you showed it me the other day, you know, 
 papa. I knew directly it was mamma, and I wasn't a bit afraid. 
 She held out her hand, and she said, '• Will you come with me, 
 little May*^" And she smiled, and I thought I should like to 
 go; but when I was putting out my hand for her to take, I 
 thought of you, papa. I thought you would be so sorry if I 
 went — that you wouldn't know what to do without me ; and I 
 told her so. But she held out her hand still, and I think she 
 was going to say something else, only just then you moved ; and 
 when I looked for her again she was gone. There were only you 
 and Aunt Isabel here alone. I was so surprised, because I w^as 
 sure she was there. You didn't see her too, did you, papa 1 ' 
 
 * 'No, dearest.' His voice faltered a little. * You were asleep, 
 my child.* 
 
 ' Not asleep,' May said, decidedly. * It was a thought ; but 
 it was a strange one, wasn't it V 
 
 * Very ; but people have strange fancies, my darling, when they 
 are ill.' His tone was unnatural in its forced quietness. 
 
 May was silent for some little time ; she lay looking with very 
 wistful eyes, first at him and then at her aunt. 
 
 ^ I wonder if people go on loving in heaven ? ' she remarked, 
 after a pause. * But it can't be the same thing if they do. It 
 wouldn't be the same to you, papa, if I loved you there, as 
 it is now you have me here. And it w^ouldn't be the same to 
 Aunt Isabel either. And,' looking at him earnestly, 'do you 
 know I made her a promise the other day. I told her I would 
 always love her. If I go away, I can't keep my promise — at 
 least she will never know -whether I do or not. I should be 
 
 Z 
 
354 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 sorry for that, because I want her to have somebody to love 
 her/ 
 
 She looked at him again, but he was silent. 
 
 'People always like to have somebody to love them, don't 
 they? You do, papa?' 
 
 * I do, my little May. I like to have you, my child.' And he 
 bent down over her, and kissed her burning forehead. 
 
 * And I suppose she does, too. She has always been so kind 
 to me, and loved me so much, that I hope if I go away, and 
 can't love her any more, she will have some one else to love her 
 instead. And I think she will,' said May ; and this time she 
 turned her eyes with a smile upon her aunt. 
 
 There was a long silence. IsabeFs agitation was too great for 
 her to speak ; and Percy was struggling, almost in vain, to 
 maintain his usual proud coldness. May lay very quiet again, 
 appearing to be once more half sleeping. But her quietness did 
 not last long. She started up after a time, from the half doze, 
 half stupor, in which she had been lying, and there was some- 
 thing so wild in her look, as her eye wandered round the room, 
 that Percy saw at once her illness had taken a new turn. To 
 his grief he found she did not know him.' 
 
 * Aunt Isabel ! ' she exclaimed, piteously. * Aunt Isabel ! 
 Where is she 1 Won't she come to me ? ' And in vain he spoke 
 to her, calling her by every endearing name. She turned from 
 him. * Not you ; not you,' she said wildly. * It 's Aunt Isabel 
 I want : tell her to come to me.' And her tones grew so pathetic 
 in their entreaty that, reluctant as Percy was to yield his place 
 to another, he was fain to do so when he found no words of his 
 could recal her wandering mind, or quiet her restlessness. But 
 w^hen Isabel sat down by her side, and holding her hand in hers, 
 spoke to her in the low gentle tones she had known from infancy, 
 she was calmed at once. Calmed for the time ; but the fever 
 increased rapidly ; and all that night, and for many days after- 
 wards, the poor child lay in delirium, either moaning and 
 muttering low to herself in her more quiet moments, or talking 
 wildly and incoherently at others, when the fever was at its 
 height. 
 
 But there came a day at last which Dr Tennent said must 
 bring a crisis. Percy came into his sister's room that afternoon, 
 and found her seated near the open window with May upon her 
 lap. The child had been so restless in her bed — her little limbs, 
 
*FROM OUT THE CLOUDS THE MOTHER LOOKS.' 355 
 
 wasted with illness, were so weary with lying there, that Isabel 
 had taken her up, and she was now sitting wrapped in a shawl 
 on her aunt's knee, with her head upon her shoulder ; her burning 
 cheek, labouring breath, and uneasy moaning, telling a sad tale 
 of fever and suffering. She turned her head when her father 
 came up, and looked at him for a moment, but it was with a 
 vacant gaze ; she did not know him, and began once more the 
 low wailing cry which was all she seemed now to have strength 
 for, but which was more wearing to those about her than her 
 former incoherent ramblings and delirious ravings had been. 
 Poor Isabel had heard it incessantly for so many days, that 
 she looked as if she were worn out with the sound ; but her 
 voice, when she spoke, was as gentle as ever ; and her face, as 
 she bent over the suffering child, though sad and pale, was 
 very loving. Percy's eye lingered on her that afternoon almost 
 as often as on his child ; and there was a strange look now and 
 then on his face, as he listened to her speaking in low soothing 
 tones to May, and saw the child nestle closer to her in her con- 
 fiding, way, as if she were in her mother's arms. 
 
 It grew dark sooner than usual that evening ; for there was a 
 heavy bank of clouds in the west, and all the sky looked stormy. 
 And after the sun had gone down, the wind began to be heard ; 
 coming at first with a low creeping sound, stirring the tops of 
 the lime-trees, brushing the vine-leaves that grew over the win- 
 dows, and stealing cool and fresh into that fevered room. P)ut 
 it grew stronger by degrees, and soon all the boughs of the 
 garden-trees were creaking and groaning as it passed, and its 
 shrill blast roused little May to recommence the moaning which 
 for a time she had ceased. 
 
 But that weary sound was not to go on now for very long. 
 Isabel was soon aware that it was once more ceasing ; and that 
 with it too were ceasing the child's restless movements. There 
 was a silence so still and deep that she was afraid to move — 
 afraid to look lest she should see she knew not what — but some- 
 thing that would tell her May was passing away. Had the end 
 indeed come so soon ? Was Lisa really there to fetch her 
 child? 
 
 But while she was sitting motionless with that great fear 
 weighing her down, her father entered the room, and came up to 
 the back of her chair. He bent over the child and looked at her 
 for some moments. 
 
856 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 * Can't you lay her down l ' lie said in a low voice. ' She is 
 asleep now, and may sleep for hours.' 
 
 * Asleep !' Isabel's long-drawn sigh was one of the most in- 
 tense thankfulness. 
 
 ' Yes, the fever has turned,' Dr Tennent said ; * but she must 
 have this sleep out. And I want you to have some rest too. 
 You need it sadly ; can't you lay her down without disturbing 
 her?' 
 
 But that was impossible ; for when Isabel tried to raise the 
 little head from her shoulder, May moved uneasily, and half 
 roused herself. 
 
 * She had better stay where she is,' she said. ^ Never mind 
 me. I can rest afterwards.' 
 
 And once more she drew the little sleeper to her, and resumed 
 her former position. She was very weary, and her limbs felt 
 cramped and stiff; but it could hardly have been with the weight 
 of her burden, for May, never very heavy, was light enough noAV. 
 She w^as little more than skin and bone, and her tiny feet and 
 ankles peeping from beneath her nightdress looked hardly more 
 than those of a baby. Her face too was shrunken, and appeared 
 even smaller than it really was, from having lost all the long 
 curls that had always hung about it. But it was a very sweet 
 face still ; and as Isabel looked at it, it was such relief to see it 
 at rest again — to see the heavy eyes closed in quiet sleep, instead 
 of meeting only their wandering glances, that she could not 
 think of her own fatigue. She could only sit, conscious of no- 
 thing exactly ; and how that long night passed she never knew. 
 She knew there was a storm — that the rain came down in torrents 
 in the lulls of the wind, and she saw the flash of the lightning 
 and heard the heavy roll of the thunder, but it sounded far off 
 and indistinct, and she felt as if what she saw and heard were 
 no realities. In the same way too she knew that her brother, 
 who could not bear to leave his child, was in the room all the 
 night watching with her; and she knew also that Lane came in 
 at times — that she closed the window once because the air wa.s 
 growing damp, and that another time she brought a second shawl 
 to throw over May and herself. That must have been near 
 morning surely, for the night had been so very long ; but yet 
 there were no signs of daylight. The lamp on the table burned 
 bright and clear, and through the door, which had been left 
 
^FROM OUT THK CLOUDS THE MOTHER LOOKS.' «357 
 
 Open, she could see that the passage beyond was still dark. Very 
 dark it looked — dark and shadowy; and somehow, in the dreamy 
 state in which she then was, she began to fill it with shadowy 
 forms. Not of imaginary beings, but of those who had once 
 really gone up and down it. She saw them all, not as they were 
 now — some changed, some gone, and those who remained bur- 
 dened with the cares of life ; but she saw them as they had been, 
 a joyous light-hearted band ; she heard their footsteps passing to 
 and fro ; she listened to their voices and to the echo of their 
 laugh and song. That dark passage was peopled with the ghosts 
 of her earlier years, and very blissful was the dream in which she 
 sat ; for she thought the days she so bitterly regretted were not 
 yet gone — that the time she would so gladly have recalled had 
 not yet faded into the irrevocable past. Kind words, kind looks, 
 kind thoughts were still in her power; there was work for others 
 to be done, and there were the hours still before her to do it in. 
 And more than all, those whom she loved and mourned, those 
 whom she had wronged and slighted and harshly judged, were 
 there — she was listening to their words, and she saw them pass- 
 ing by her, young and blithe and beautiful, with no shadow of 
 death or change upon their brow. 
 
 But that dream could not last ; she was recalled from those 
 visions of the past. 
 
 * Drink it. Miss Isabel,' she heard Lane saying ; and she came 
 back from the world of fancies to find the old nurse by her side 
 with a cup of hot coffee in her hand. * Drink it. Miss Isabel, 
 there 's a dear ! You want it, for you look dreadfully ill.' 
 
 * Yes, drink it, Isabel. I am sure you want it,' said another 
 voice ; and how strange that voice sounded ! She had not heard 
 it for years ! Was it really her brother who was speaking 1 Was 
 she back in those old times of which she had been thinking 1 
 No ; for May was on her arm, and the night-light burned on the 
 table before her. She remembered w^here she was, but felt con- 
 fused still ; and not only confused, but, as Lane had said, she 
 looked ill — so ill that eating and drinking w^ere things impossible; 
 and she turned from the cup which was held to her as if it were 
 a poisoned draught. 
 
 * I can't drink it,' she said. * Let me alone till afterwards. I 
 shall do better as I am.' 
 
 So they let her alone — and that was the last she seemed to 
 know of that night. Slowly as its hours crept by, they did go 
 
358 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 at length ; darkness changed to greyness, and then the grey 
 light of early morning gave place to the full glory of the day. 
 
 The chimes of the old Priory Church were ringing out the 
 hour of eight when May awoke — the flush of fever gone from 
 her face, the light of reason returned to her eye. She knew her 
 father as he knelt by her side, though when she tried to raise 
 her hand to lift it to his, it fell again from weakness, and her 
 head drooped once more on the shoulder upon which it had been 
 resting. But Lane stood ready with the jelly which had been 
 provided, and some spoonfuls of that revived her ; and then she 
 looked up again, this time to greet him with a smile. 
 
 * You know me, my child, my little May, don't jonV he said, 
 feeling as if his happiness were too great to last. 
 
 * Yes,' her large eyes expressing some surprise — perhaps she 
 wondered to see him kneeling there, and to find herself in her 
 aunt's arms instead of in her own bed. But she was too weak 
 to give utterance to her astonishment in words^ and Lane, who 
 had watched the effects of those few spoonfuls of nourishment 
 with much satisfaction, had hardly time to administer three or 
 four more before she was asleep again — sleeping so soundly that 
 there seemed but little fear of disturbing her. 
 
 ' And that is what you must do. Miss Isabel,' Lane said, taking 
 the child from her arms. * She will do now ; I will look after 
 her, and you must just go and lie down. And if you take my 
 advice, you '11 go to Miss Mary's room, where you can be quiet 
 and have your rest out. You want it, if anybody ever did, for 
 you look like a ghost.' 
 
 Bat Isabel's strength was gone now; the call for exertion was 
 over, and with it went all that had kept her up. Weary and ill 
 as she was, there had just been consciousness enough left to 
 realise that May was safe, consciousness enough to send up her 
 whole soul in thanksgiving that so much more had been granted 
 than she had dared to hope ; and now at last she gave way. The 
 floor seemed to totter beneath her feet, strange figures danced 
 round her for a moment, and then darkness came over her. 
 Sense and power failed her at once, and she fell back in the chair 
 in which she had been sitting, and fainted away. 
 
'THE BURDEN HAS FALLEN FROM Me/ 359 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 * THE BURDEN HAS FALLEN FROM ME.' 
 
 It was many a long day after that before Isabel awoke again to 
 consciousness. Dreary hours of weakness and delirium followed 
 that fortnight's watching, and the suspense of that last terrible 
 night. The strain upon mind and body had been too great for 
 her easily to shake off its effects, and when she succumbed to 
 the fever which had well-nigh carried off little May, she seemed 
 to have no strength to struggle with it. She lay for long in 
 a state of such extreme danger that but the faintest hopes were 
 entertained of her recovery, and even when the worst symptoms 
 at length passed away, her state of utter prostration was such 
 that for many days there appeared no chance of her rallying from 
 the weakness left by illness and anxiety. It was some weeks, 
 indeed, after her first seizure before any real signs of amend- 
 ment began to show themselves, or she seemed to be aware of 
 what was passing about her. When she did once more awake 
 to full consciousness, it was to find herself, on a summer's after- 
 noon, lying in a quiet shaded room, with Mary sitting by her 
 side. She looked at her sister in surprise. 
 
 * You here, Mary ! ' 
 
 ' Yes.' Mary's smile was the same as ever, just as bright, just 
 as pleasant ; there was little change in her indeed in any way ; 
 six years did not seem to have added a line to her face or cast a 
 shadow upon the cheerfulness of her spirit. 
 
 * Didn't you know I was here then ? ' she said. ^ You have 
 often talked to me ; I thought perhaps you knew me.' 
 
 * No,' Isabel lay back again. ' At least I don't seem to re- 
 member anything about it. I fancied every one was here at 
 times,' with a long sigh. * How long have you been here, Mary, 
 and where is May 1 Is she well yet — what is she doing 1 ' 
 
 ' She is much better,' Mary said. * Percy has taken her to 
 Firsby for change and sea-air.' 
 
 * Better, really better ! ' Isabel murmured. * Mary, are you 
 sure 1 ' And she caught her sister's hand. 
 
 * Quite sure, dear. I wouldn't tell you anything that was not 
 
ii 
 
 360 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. I 
 
 true. He says she is looking almost herself again. He writes \ 
 
 very happily about her/ i 
 
 * Does he '? Ah ! I shall see her again, then, my dear little ' 
 May ! And perhaps,' her tone was lowered as if she were speak- ■ 
 ing to herself, ' perhaps he may forgive me — perhaps he may I 
 not blame me so much now.' And tears which she was too weak \ 
 to restrain rolled slowly down her thin wasted cheek. • 
 
 * He won't blame you for anything, dear Isabel,' Mary said i 
 tenderly. * We all know what you have done for May, and 
 Percy won't be the one to think least of it, you may be quite , 
 sure. But you are talking too much now, and you are not to \ 
 speak another word till you have had something to eat. Papa ] 
 won't be at all pleased if he finds you have been over-exerting | 
 yourself.' \ 
 
 Isabel's recovery was very slow. She had not the buoyancy 
 
 of spirits which enables some so soon to throw off illness, and i 
 
 she was long in regaining even a slight degree of the strength ; 
 
 which had been so severely tasked. But she did at length re- : 
 
 cover sufficiently for her father to pronounce her strong enough ] 
 
 to bear the journey to Firs by ; and, as all fear of infection was \ 
 then over, no time was lost in setting out. The morning after 
 permission had been given them to go, she and Mary started for ^;h 
 
 their destination. | 
 
 There was no one at home when they arrived ; the mistress of 
 
 the house was the only person there to receive thefti : Colonel j 
 
 Tennent was out riding with his little girl, she said ; and even i 
 
 Lane was away — she had gone into the town to do some shop- ' 
 
 ping. Everything that was necessary, however, was soon done j 
 
 for them, and after a sort of luncheon-dinner, Isabel's sofa was ; 
 
 drawn up to a window that overlooked the sea, and she w^as left ; 
 to her own meditations, while Mary w^ent away to see to some 
 
 unpacking. ; 
 
 It was not long she had to lie there alone. From the cushions i 
 among which she was resting, she had been watching the sunny \ 
 unrulfied line of waters before her, and the long procession of ] 
 people walking and driving on the road in front of the house, 1 
 when the clatter of horses' hoofs coming up at a canter and stop- 
 ping at the door made her raise herself and look out eagerly, i 
 Yes, there they were ; there was her brother, and there by his i 
 side was May, her little May, no longer pale and wasted with ill- 1 
 ness, but beautiful and blooming with health and exercise ; her ! 
 
^THE BUKDEK HAH FALLEN FKOM ME,' 361 
 
 hair, short still, it was true, but regaining something of its for- 
 mer wave, and now blown about her face — the colour in her 
 cheek, and her eyes bright and dancing. Not that Isabel saw 
 all this in her first glance, for May was talking fast and eagerly 
 to her father, and her head w^is turned another way while she 
 pointed out over the sea. But the landlady came out to meet 
 them, and tell, as it seemed, of the arrival in their absence, and 
 then they both looked up — Percy too near-sighted to make out 
 his sister at the window ; but May's eyes were much quicker. 
 
 * Yes, there she is — she 's really there ! ' Isabel heard her ex- 
 claim. * O papa, take me down — quick — this minute, please.' 
 And hardly waiting for him to come round, she slipped to the 
 ground. 
 
 Such a tiny dot she looked as she stood there ; and in her 
 haste to fly into the house she set her foot on her habit, and 
 would have fallen had not her father caught her. He saved her 
 just in time, and picking her up, carried her to the top of the 
 stairs, and putting her down there, opened the drawing-room 
 door. With a cry of joy May rushed forward, and flinging her- 
 self on the sofa, well-nigh smothered her aunt in her eager 
 embrace. 
 v:^ ' You dear Aunt Isabel ! I 'm so glad — so happy ! Only 
 
 ^ ""you're so thin, and look so Oh, but I'm so glad ~ 
 
 And it will be so nice now you are here ! I'm very happy,' 
 and then she half smothered her again with her Idsses. 
 
 * Yes, that 's right, my little May,' Percy said. * You can 
 never love her too much, or thank her half enough for what she 
 has done for you. No more can I — but you will know what we 
 feel, Isabel, won't you ? You won't think us ungrateful 1 ' 
 
 Isabel looked up, but she could see nothing distinctly — there 
 was a mist before her eyes. But she felt May's clinging caresses, 
 and the child's soft cheek lying on hers ; and that seemed to 
 bring the conviction that it was in no dream she had heard those 
 words. 
 
 '0 Percy! have you— can you have forgiven me?' she ex- 
 claimed, and she burst into tears. 
 
 Percy's answer was to stoop down, and his kiss for the first 
 time for many years was once more that of a brother. 
 
 * Can you forgive me?' he said. ' I believe I have judged you 
 very harshly, Isabel, lately ; but I didn't know till May was ill 
 that ' 
 
362 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 ^ That I was changed — that I think very differently now from 
 what I once did. But it was my own fault, Percy. I ought to 
 have told you so long ago. I ought to have told you years ago 
 
 how bitterly I repented my unkindness to — to She forgave 
 
 me, but I was afraid to ask you, for I thought you never could.' 
 She looked at him through her tears. 
 
 ^What! not after what you have done for her child? No, 
 Isabel, whatever I may once have thought of you, I should be 
 most ungrateful now if I could forget all you have done for my 
 little May — for her child, as well as mine. If you once wronged 
 one who was very dear to me, and whom, God knows, I was per- 
 haps too much wrapped up in, you have saved another almost as 
 dear. Isabel, will you let us forget the past, and be to each 
 other again what we used to be 1 ' 
 
 * Percy ! ' she exclaimed. * It is you who have to forget as 
 well as forgive ; but if you could only believe how I have grieved 
 for all the unkind and jealous thoughts I once had ! I have never 
 been happy since ; but if you can really forgive me ' 
 
 ' If/ Isabel, you cannot doubt it.' He stooped down once 
 more, and this time there was no hesitation — no misgiving in his 
 sister's warm passionate embrace. All the long pent-up affection 
 of years found vent then, and in it was buried by both all recol- 
 lection of former wrongs and misunderstandings. 
 
 And so over Lisa's little child * those twain, long severed, were 
 reconciled.' 
 
 They were long pleasant days that followed — days of returning 
 health to Isabel, days of returning happiness in her brother's re- 
 gained affection. Days of returning happiness also to Percy — 
 happiness greater than he had known for years ; for the healing 
 of that long-standing breach between himself and his sister had 
 brought him peace, and his little girl was once more making the 
 sunshine of his life. And May, no longer puzzled and pained by 
 coldness between those she loved best, was in a state of perpetual 
 joyousness, her young voice and merry laughter making music all 
 day long. 
 
 ' A piece of news ! ' said Mary, producing a letter one morning 
 at the breakfast-table. * And very pleasant news, too ! Can 
 anybody guess what it is ? ' 
 
 * A wedding in prospective, I suppose,' remarked Isabel. ' You 
 always look particularly delighted when you fancy two people are 
 going to be happy for life. Who is it, though % Hose Dacre ? ' 
 
^THE BURDEN HAS FALLEN FROM MB.' 363 
 
 * Eose Dacre ! No ; what made you think of her ? Somebody 
 much nearer.* 
 
 * Somebody much nearer ! What ! Not Susan ! ' and as her 
 sister nodded — ' Susan and George Meredith ! Well, I had no 
 idea it would come to anything so soon ! ' 
 
 ' So soon 1 Why, had you any idea of it at all ? I am sure I 
 hadn't. If anybody had asked me to guess, I don't believe I 
 should ever have thought of them ; certainly not of George.' 
 
 There was a laugh and an exclamation at this from both her 
 brother and sister. 
 
 * They can't be married yet, though,' Mary added. ' They 
 will have to wait another year, for he has not finished at college. 
 But that is not of much consequence, for he is almost as young 
 as she is. He isn't one-and-twenty, is he 1 And he looks such 
 a boy. Nelly says papa and mamma are both very much pleased ; 
 mamma particularly. There 's the letter, Isabel ; you 11 like to 
 see it.' 
 
 Isabel took the letter, and while she was reading it Mary 
 turned to her brother. 
 
 * Poor Nelly ! She writes in such good spirits about Susan, 
 and seems so happy for her ! It is a great pity she is not going 
 to be as happy herself. Eeally she and Arthur ought to marry 
 now ! After waiting for him all these years, and bearing every- 
 thing so well as she has done, it ought to be a match at last.' 
 
 * So it ought,' Percy said decidedly. ' And so it will too. Mrs 
 Tennent must give in sooner or later, for there is no reason to 
 keep them apart any longer. Arthur is in a position to marry, 
 and she must know by this time how honourably he has behaved 
 ever since he has been in Atherstone. He has been kept out of 
 the Priory quite long enough in my father s opinion.' 
 
 One evening, not many days after that, Elinor was sitting alone 
 in the library at the Priory, busily occupied in the fading light 
 with some household work. The family were hardly settled 
 again in the old house, which had undergone a thorough cleans- 
 ing and purifying process since the fever ; and many small do- 
 mestic arrangements and alterations, which Mrs Tennent had seen 
 fit to make after their return, had not been completed. A pile 
 of curtains on which she was sewing new fringe was engaging 
 Elinor's attention, and in the dusk she was still stitching away, 
 hoping to finish her work while there was suflS.cient light to see 
 where her needle went, when a knock at the door disturbed her. 
 
364 ATIIEKSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 ^ Come in/ she said ; and the door was opened, but she did not 
 raise her head ; for had she taken her eyes from her work she 
 would not have been able to see it again, and there w^is not a 
 quarter of a yard more to do. But, after a moment's pause, she 
 was surprised there was no further movement, and that no one 
 spoke. 
 
 ' Who is it ?' she asked. ^ I '11 come in one minute, but I 'm 
 just finishing this. Is it you, Susan ? ' 
 
 'No, Elinor.' 
 
 The voice was strangely familiar to her, and yet sadly strange ; 
 and she started up and looked round. Dusk as it was, there was 
 no mistaking that figure in the doorway. And back flashed upon 
 her mind the scene in the dining-room at Lassell Lodge, and a dis- 
 mayed group gathered round a pale senseless form there. She 
 seemed to see them all again — to see her brother's dark stern face 
 and her sister's indignant looks, and to hear once more her own 
 wild incoherent confession. She could not speak now : she could 
 only stand and look ; for although her lips moved several times, 
 no sound came. 
 
 * You have forgotten me then, Nelly ? You did not wdsh to 
 see me again.' 
 
 * Forgotten you ! ' she found voice then. * Arthur ! ' But 
 as he came across the room she drew back. He understood the 
 movement. 
 
 ' I am not here without being asked,' he said a little proudly. 
 * I might have met you a hundred times before this, Nelly, if I 
 had liked ; btft I w^ould not. I knew it was your wish as well 
 as mine that we should not meet again till we could do so fairly 
 and openly ; and I made up my mind when I first came to Atlier- 
 stone that I would never try to see you. It is with Mrs Ten- 
 nent's knowledge I am here now. I have just been with her, and 
 she told me you were here — she sent me to you.' 
 
 ' She sent you ? Mamma 1 ' Elinor's bewilderment was almost 
 too great for w^ords. 
 
 ' Yes ; at least she told me I should find you here. I suppose 
 she meant me to come,' and Arthur smiled a little. * I met my 
 uncle in the street not half an hour ago, and he asked me to 
 walk back with him ; he said she wanted to see me. For a 
 second, Nelly, I w^is going to be proud. You wouldn't believe 
 it, would you ? But she had set her face against me for so long, 
 that for one moment I thought I would say " no," and keep away 
 
^ THE BURDEN HAS FALLEN FROM ME.' 365 
 
 altogether ; but then I remembered you, Nelly ; and I remem- 
 bered other things too. And so well, I had no right to 
 
 be proud, you see; so here I am.' And the shrug of the 
 shoulders with which the words were accompanied was so like 
 tha Arthur of old days that, while Elinor smiled, the tears stood 
 in her eyes. 
 
 * But I don't understand,' she said. * What did she say to you]' 
 ' Lots,' he answered, purposely mistaking her meaning. * Not 
 
 80 much as I expected. But she had her say, and I made my 
 apologies. I could do that with a good grace, Nelly, for I'd 
 have done it long ago if she would have let me. I told her I 
 knew I had behaved very badly, and had regretted it for years. 
 She did not say much after that; she was very gracious, all 
 things considered. Certainly, I have no right to complain of 
 my reception, for it was far better than I ever looked for,' he 
 added, as he stood watching his cousin's face in the waning light. 
 
 Elinor was silent for some moments. ^ It must have been 
 Percy's doing,' she said at last. ^ Yes, I know it now.' 
 
 She stood and gazed at Arthur, as if it were no reality she 
 saw there — only some vision that would vanish if she spoke or 
 moved. But his voice recalled her to herself. 
 
 ' You look even now as if you scarcely knew me,' he said — 
 * as if you had forgotten me, and thought I was a stranger. But, 
 . Elinor, you must guess what I have come for.' 
 
 She gazed at him still, and the colour rushed into her face ; 
 but she did not speak. 
 
 ^ You gave me your promise years ago, Nelly. You said when 
 I had a home you would share it with me. I had no right then 
 to ask such a thing of you ; but it is difierent now. I have leave 
 to ask you, and I have a home to give you. Will you keep your 
 promise 1 ' 
 
 Elinor was silent for a moment ; but it was only because she 
 found no voice to speak — great happiness seemed at first to choke 
 her utterance ; but, as he looked at her anxiously, she held out 
 her hand. 
 
 * I have not changed, Arthur ; you are just the same to me 
 that you ever were, and my promise is the same. If I could not 
 have kept it to you, I should never have made it to any one else.' 
 
 * Ah^ Nelly, I knew I could trust you!' he exclaimed, as he 
 caught the hand she held out to him ; and surely neither he nor 
 Elinor could have known afterwards what they were doing, for 
 
366 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. 
 
 they never discovered that for more than an hour they were 
 sitting together upon the heap of curtains which had been thrown 
 on the sofa when he entered, and which were reduced to anything 
 but a presentable state in consequence of this little oversight. 
 
 'And really/ said Mrs Tennent, when she came to inspect 
 them a little later, ' I think you might have taken the trouble 
 to do your work more tidily, Elinor. You will never make a good 
 housewife if you don't think it worth while to be as neat and 
 orderly with old work as with new. And as it is my opinion 
 that you will have more of the first than the last in hand, you 
 had better learn to practise carefulness in time. You will never 
 have money to throw away, you may be sure of that.' 
 
 * For she has made up her mind to have Arthur,' she said 
 afterwards to her husband. * I knew how it would be directly 
 they got together again. It is very foolish of her, but I can't 
 help it. She must have her own way, I suppose. So much 
 better though as she might have done if she liked ! ' 
 
 ' I don't know that,' returned the doctor. ' I have a very high 
 opinion of Arthur now, and shall give her to him with a great 
 deal of pleasure. She might have been a little richer, perhaps, 
 if she had married any one else, but I doubt if she would have 
 been happier. I am very well satisfied, Helen — very well satis- 
 fied indeed.' 
 
 ' Of course you are, Dr Tennent ; you are satisfied with 
 everything. If your daughters went off to Gretna Green, or 
 settled down in a hovel, you would be quite satisfied, so that 
 they were with somebody they had taken a fancy to. But that 
 is not my way ; and I am thankful that Susan has shown herself 
 a little wiser. As for Elinor, she must do as she likes. I believe 
 she would never have married at all if she couldn't have had 
 Arthur ; so perhaps things are best as they are. But it is very 
 well now to fancy she is going to be happy when there is only 
 herself and him to think of, but it will be different when there 
 come to be a dozen children to be fed and clothed, and appear- 
 ances to be kept up too. And she will have an immense family, 
 of course : the poorer people are, the more children they have — 
 it is an invariable rule.' 
 
 * Well, I believe it often is the case. It is a merciful arrange- 
 ment,' said the doctor. * When blessings don't come in one shape, 
 they do in another ; and children are a great blessing.' 
 
 ' And a great anxiety,' said Mrs Tennent sharply. 
 
' THE BURDEN HAS FALLEN FROM ME.' 367 
 
 * Yes, sometimes j but then one expects anxiety in this world, 
 and it is well to have some happiness with it. And children 
 somehow do bring a great deal of happiness, though they bring 
 trouble too.' 
 
 The doctor was in that frame of mind that it was useless to 
 argue with him j his wife therefore left him to entertain his own 
 delusions, and settled herself to meditate upon her daughter 
 Susan's prospects, which in one way were decidedly more pro- 
 mising than Elinor's, and bid fair to realise all she had once 
 hoped for each of her children. 
 
 But Elinor was very happy ; she never once thought of envying 
 her younger sister the more brilliant future that was in store for 
 her. It was too great happiness to be with Arthur again, to 
 know that her engagement was an open and honourable one, 
 sanctioned by her parents, and approved by all whom she most 
 cared for j and in looking forward to future years to be spent 
 with him to whom her affections had so long been given, she 
 felt as if there were little else to wish for. Both she and Arthur 
 thought their present happiness more than they deserved ; 
 and perhaps neither felt this more than one day when he was 
 speaking of his last parting with Lisa, which had made such an 
 impression upon him. 
 
 * She told me she was sure I should see you again, and that 
 some time we should be happy together. Poor little Lisa ! ' he 
 added ; ' how shamefully we treated her ! It is a good thing 
 we don't get all our deserts in this world, or I should know I 
 hadn't much chance of being happy with you for very long. I 
 should feel I had no right to expect the happiness for myself 
 which I helped to destroy for others. And we have so much 
 more than we could ever have hoped for.' 
 
 * Yes, indeed, wa have. All I want now is to see you more 
 like yourself again, Arthur ; not looking so old and tired, as if 
 you were working yourself to death. I don't believe you eat or 
 drink or do anything regularly. Mrs Clarke's complaints are all 
 true, I 'm sure.' 
 
 Arthur laughed. ^ Ah, I '11 behave better when you come to 
 the Bectory, Nelly. I shan't be able to rush in and out at all 
 hours when I know you are waiting for me. I shall be obliged 
 to sit down and eat my meals like a Christian, as the old woman 
 says. And I '11 make a holiday for myself then, Nelly. I can't 
 afford a long one ; but we '11 have two or three weeks somewhere, 
 
368 ATHERSTONK PRIORY. 
 
 And you won't keep me waiting for ages now 1 I can't stand a 
 solitary life much longer ; and that old house is " terrible lone- 
 some.'* You will come to it soon, won't you V 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 * BEHIND THE CLOUDS IS THE SUN STILL SHINING.' 
 
 Arthur and Elinor were married that autumn. There was no 
 wish on any one's part to delay the wedding, for all felt they had 
 waited long enough ; and every one could sympathise with 
 Arthur's desire to have his wife in his home before the months of 
 winter set in. So when St Jude's Eectory, to May's great de- 
 light, was furnished and ready to receive the bride, one foggy 
 day, early in November, another w^edding party from the Priory 
 met together in the old church ; and at the altar, where seven 
 years before Percy and Lisa had knelt side by side, Arthur and 
 Elinor now knelt in their turn, and plighted their mutual vows. 
 And Percy stood a little apart listening, with bent head and 
 folded arms, to the words of the service he had heard read so long 
 ago, but which seemed to bring that time so near again, that he 
 could have fancied himself still in his cousin's place, and the 
 little white-robed figure who had then been made his own, kneel- 
 ing with him too. It was with a weary, heart-wrung sigh that 
 when the service was over, and he raised his eyes, he missed the 
 look which he well remembered having met on that day ; and 
 there was a most bitter pang to recollect how lonely he now was, 
 how very far away was that time of which he had been think- 
 ing. And yet — no, was he in truth so very lonely 1 His glance 
 fell upon a child's form — the youngest and the loveliest of all 
 the party there, and he saw a pair of dark bright eyes lifted 
 lovingly to his face, and his heart reproached him then for hav- 
 ing even for one moment forgotten the great blessing still 
 spared to him. . And that bitter cry was stifled, and the repin- 
 ing thoughts were checked, and in their stead there was a hope, 
 a prayer that the happiness of the two just made one might 
 be more lasting than that of his own brief wedded life. 
 
CONCLUSIOK. 369 
 
 The sun came out as tliey were leaving the church, shining 
 through the haze ; and, in spite of the fog which Imng about, 
 the day was mild and far from being ungenial. The wedding 
 breakfast, too, was perhaps as cheerful an affair as such things 
 generally are. Their numbers were large to begin with ; and if 
 some voices among them w^ere silent, they were hardly missed 
 in the general hum that went on around. And if Elinor looked 
 nervous, and Mary and Isabel were grave, there was nothing for 
 any one to remark in what was so common at such times. Brides 
 often do look nervous, and sisters will feel partings ; and 
 although some few did wonder to see that Arthur also was 
 grave — far graver than many had supposed he ever could be, 
 they did not guess the thoughts that kept him so ; they did not 
 know that it was the recollection of another day long since 
 vanished, and the tones of a little motherless child which met 
 his ear at times, that made him so silent. Far more silent than 
 Percy, who, though grave and quiet as usual, had nothing of 
 sadness in his face. It had been his great wish that his cousin's 
 marriage should take place while he was still at home to be present 
 at it ; and it was at his request that, when he found there was a 
 chance of his almost immediately obtaining a staff appointment, 
 the day which had been originally fixed was altered to an earlier 
 one. There were none certainly whose wishes for Arthur's and 
 Elinor's happiness were truer and deeper ; none whose farewell, 
 when the hour for parting came, was warmer. 
 
 * You will have a fine journey, after all, old fellow,' he said, 
 with a smile, as he and his cousin shook hands at the hall-door. 
 *And you will let us hear from you soon, won't you? I am 
 afraid you won't find us here when you come back; but it 
 won't be long before you see us again. I shall be bringing May 
 down in the spring to pay you a visit, and see how you are 
 getting on.' 
 
 * And what sort of a clergyman's wife I make ; ' said Elinor, 
 trying to smile through her tears. * Mind you keep your pro- 
 mise, Percy, for I shall look for you then. I don't think our 
 home will seem quite right till we have had you to stay with us.' 
 
 * You will think differently in a month's time,' he answered, 
 lightly ; and then, changing his tone, he added, gravely, * Your 
 home will be a very happy one, Nelly ; a happy one for many a 
 year to come, I hope and trust. And I can't wish more for 
 
 2a 
 
370 ATHERSTONE PRIORY. ! 
 
 you/ lie said firmly, ^ than that you may both be as happy aS' 
 Lisa and I were.' «: 
 
 * O Percy ! ' Elinor's tears were coming fast now. ' And whei^ 
 your home is so lonely — when we helped to make it so ! ' i 
 
 ' Never mind^ Nelly ; it is best for me as it is. I thought too^ 
 much of her. And I am not lonely ; I have my little May left/i 
 looking at his child, who was clinging to his hand. * She is toii 
 be everything to me. No, not everything,' correcting himself jj 
 * I am afraid I was beginning to think too much of her too, ai 
 one time : but I have learned better now, though she must? 
 always be very dear to me. But she won't come first.' Hii 
 voice faltered for a moment, and then he looked up again with a( 
 smile. ^ Well, good-bye, and God bless you both/ '; 
 
 And so they went ; but long after they were gone Percy stoo(| 
 at the window gazing down the street where the rays of tha^ 
 November sun were falling with a shaded misty light ; and May^ 
 knelt upon a chair by his side, and looked out too ; soberly andj 
 silently at first, for the parting with her aunt had made her feet 
 rather downcast, but her voice was heard again after a time, audi 
 its merry tone diverted her father from his thoughtful mood. I 
 
 ^ I think being married is very nice,' she remarked in he^ 
 most joyous voice. ' It 's great fun ; though Aunt Nelly did 
 cry. But I 've got a new uncle now, you know. Mr Arthur ig^ 
 my uncle ; did you know that, papa ? Mrs Clarke said he wouli 
 be when he married Aunt Nelly ; and she said, too — oh, such ani 
 odd thing ! — she said Aunt Nelly was Miss Right. I don't believei 
 that. I think it 's only her make-up. But anyhow, Mr Arthurj 
 is my uncle now, and I 'm very glad, for I like him very much,^ 
 and he says we are to go and see him very often ; and I 'm toi 
 have that little room at the top of the house for my own whenever^ 
 we go there. I went to see it yesterday with Aunt Mary. li 
 wonder whether Aunt Susan will give me a pretty little roomj 
 when she 's married ; and Aunt Isabel, too. For Aunt Isabel is: 
 going to be married, papa,' and May lowered her voice confideri^j 
 tially, * Lane says so. I heard her tell Mrs Clarke one day that! 
 she was going to marry Mr Lawrence when he got something.] 
 I don't know what exactly. I don't think I shall like Aunt Isabel; 
 being married, because she'll go away too, then ; and every- 
 body seems to be going now. You are going too, papa ? ' 
 
 * Yes, my darling ; but you are to come with me, we are going; 
 together. I shall not part with you again, my little May.' j 
 
CONCLUSION, 371 
 
 ' No ; and I 'm so glad. I do like being with you, papa ; 
 and I always mean to stay with you. And Aunt Mary is com- 
 ing with us. Oh, we shall be so happy, so very happy ! ' 
 
 She was right. In his new home, with his child and sister 
 wdth him, Percy is neither lonely nor unhappy. Far otherwise, 
 invdeed, for May's young warm affection and loving ways have 
 filled the void once left in his heart. It is true that he still 
 often thinks of other days, and often in fancy hears a step and a 
 voice that have long been silent ; and memory at such times will 
 bring back the churchyard by the sounding sea, where far from her 
 old home and kindred, his little Lisa — his ten months' bride — is 
 sleeping her last sleep. The thunder of the surge upon the 
 beach in the long winter nights, and its murmurs there in the 
 golden days of summer, can never more disturb her slumbers. 
 Calmly she lies at rest — at rest, but not forgotten ; for she is 
 often spoken of. Percy has learned to hear her name now with- 
 out the pang it once brought him ; and he often talks of her to 
 her child. And in his room there hangs a likeness of her. Not 
 of Lisa as he had last known her, pale and drooping ; but Lisa 
 as she had been in the first days of their wedded happiness, joy- 
 ous and blooming, and radiant with beauty. It is from that 
 likeness, painted from memory by Isabel, that May has learned 
 to know the young mother she lost so early. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 .^^if,2^G 
 
 
 Vi.c? 
 
 
 REG'D L..D 
 
 
 SEP 4 1962 
 
 
 - 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 LD 21A-50m-3,'62 
 (C7097sl0)476B 
 
 General Library 
 
 University of California 
 
 Berkeley 
 
TD lODhD