TWO MARRIAGES.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN," "CHRISTIAN'S MISTAKE,"
"A NOBLE LIFE," "A LIFE FOR A LIFE,"
"FAIRY BOOK," &c.
"Hearken, son:
I'll tell thee of two fathers."
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
I867.




BY Miss MULOCK.
[MRs. CRAIK.]
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FRIEND, READER, AND CRITIC,
WITH OUR LOVE.








JOHN BOWERBANK'S WIFE.








JOHN BOWERBANK'S WIFE.
CHAPTER I.
" WELL, I anm glad it has come off at last, for never
was'there a wedding so talked abouti" said Mrs. Smiles.
" It -hasn't come 6ff yet," replied Mrs. lKnowle, shaking
her head mysteriously.   And, for my part, even though
we sit here, in the very church, with the clerk arranging
the cushions, and poor John Bowerbank-he looks nervous, doesn't he? even though he's an elderly man and
a widower-walking up and down the aisle before our
very eyes-I say, Mrs. Smiles, I shall never believe, till
I see the ring on her finger, that they are really married.
How strange it seems! Poor Emily Kendal-John Bowerbank's wife!"
"Why do you say'poor Emily Kendal,''poor John
Bowerbank,' when it is such a suitable match-except in
years perhaps; but a man's age is of no consequence.
And then Miss Kendal looks so much older than she
really is, and is such a grave, sedate sort of persongrown old-maidish already. I'm sure, when I looked at
her at their farewell dinner-party last week in Queen
Anne Street-I could hardly believe it was'only two




8                 Two Marriages.
years since the ball there, when she came of age. Such
a splendid affair! Do. you remember it?"
"Indeed I do!" said abruptly the other lady, who had
not been paying much attention to Mrs. Smiles's conversation. Her broad, honest, regular-featured Lancashire
face-she had been one of the fair " Lancashire witches"
till she developed into -coarseness of color and size-was
fixed earnestly upon'the church door, where John Bowerbank had just entered, and where his wife to be was
expected every.moment to'enter. But Mrs. Knowle cardfully hid herself-the good woman! who was usually not
at all given to surreptitious proceedings-behind the curtains of thepew, which was in that gloomy old church, so
noted forfashionable weddings-St. George's, Hanover
Square. By the number.and style of the guests, this was
evidently a fashionable wedding too; and Mrs. Smilesa bright, dapper, shallow little Londoner-evidently longing to see more of the fine dresses, proposed that they
should change their places, and get a little nearer to the
altar.
"'No, I don't want her to see me; She mightn't like
it,"said Mrs. Knowle.
" Why not?-when your husband is a partner in John
Bowerbank's: firm, -and they have always been such
friends? I'm sure I fully expected you would have been
asked to the wedding."
"So I was, but I declined to go. I couldn't somehow.
I was certain it would be'very bad for her, poor thing!"
added'Mrs. Knowle to herself.
But her: little mystery, whatever it was, escaped.Mrs.
Smiles's penetration, for just' then that lady's whole atten



Two Marriages.                9
tion was engrossed by the primary object of this sight,
gazed at by all assembled in church with the fervid eagerness of women over weddings —the bride.
John Bowerbank's wife-or to be made such in fifteen
minutes —was a little lady, fragile and white, whom you
could hardly distinguish clearly under her mass of snowy
silk, her clouds of lace, and her tremulous wreath of
orange-blossoms.
"She is. shaking a good deal, poor lamb!" said Mrs.
Knowle, half in soliloquy. "And how tightly she holds
her father's arm I"
"Mr. Kendal has been a good father, people say;
though he won't stand thwarting, he always will have his
own way. Perhaps she's sorry to leave him, being the
only child."
"Hum!" again soliloquized Mrs. Knowle.  "Hush!
the service is beginning."
It was soon begun-soon ended-the solemn words
which made Emily Kendal John Bowerbank's wife. She
rose up from her knees and he rose up too-that grave,
gray-haired, commonplace, and yet not ill-looking bridegroom-thirty years at least her senior. No longer nervous now, he gave her his arm, and led her away to the
vestry, through the open door of which the two ladies
observed him stop, formally and in a business-like wayhe was a thorough man of business-to lift her veil, and
give her the first conjugal kiss.
" Well! it's all over; but I never thought I should see
this day," said Mrs. Knowle, her broad, honest breast relieving itself of much pent-up feeling with a great sigh.
"Poor dear girl I poor little Emily I"
A2




10               Two Marriages.
" Why will you call her' poor?'" persisted Mrs. Smiles.
"I'm sure I should be delighted to see any one of my
girls make so good a marriage; and to such a thoroughly
respectable husband-'John Bowerbank & Co., Merchants, Liverpool.' Why, their name is as good as the
bank; as you ought to know, who have been in the firm
so many years. And as for the gentleman himself, though
I never saw him before to-day, he seems really quite the
gentleman; and I, for one, would far rather give a daughter to an elderly man-even a widower, of good means
and unimpeachable character, than to any harem-scarem
young fellow, who would soon make ducks and drakes
of her money-and Miss Kendal has a great deal of
m6ney, I understand?"
"Yes-more's the pity.: Fifty thousand pounds."
" Was it so much?" said Mrs. Smiles, in great awe.
"Yes-for she said to me one day she wished she could
change it into fifty thousand pence."
" She must have been out of her senses."';' Perhaps she was, poor dear, for the time. But now
she has apparently got into them again, and made a pru-.dent marriage —an admirably prudent marriage. But,
oh my dear, when I married Edward Knowle, and he
was a clerk and I was a milliner, and we had but two
hundred a year between us, we were happy people —happier than these! For we: loved one another, and we married for love. And there was not a single'cause or impediment' in the sight of God or man why we should not
marry. Which-God forgive her-is more than I can
say of John Bowerbank's wife."
Mrs. Smiles looked so shocked, so frightened, that too



Two Marriages.               11
candid Mrs. Knowle could almost have cut her tongue
out for the foolish speech she had made. She knew that
Mrs. Smiles was a terrible gossip; but she also knew that
a certain dim sense of duty and pride, which exists in
many great talkers, made her, however unscrupulous over
a secret which she had ferreted out or guessed at, if honestly trusted, by no means untrustworthy. - With a sudden decision-for the position was critical enough-the
good Liverpool lady turned to her London friend-who
was not a bad woman in her way-and said earnestly,
"I'm sorry I ever let a word drop, Mrs. Smiles, for it
was'a very painful business-though it is all over now.
I'll tell it you, and depend upon your never telling it
again, though it was nothing discreditable, my dear, I do
assure you. Indeed, as regards character, not a word
could ever be breathed against Emily Kendal, or her
father either. They bear a perfectly unblemished name.
And perhaps what happened was nothing more than happens to almost every girl in her teens-they fall in love
and out of love a dozen times before they marry-but I
never thought Emily was that sort of girl either."
"And was she in love? or engaged? Do tell me.
Who was it?  Any body I know?" said Mrs. Smiles,
eagerly.
Mrs. Knowle wished herself at the -bottom of the sea
before she had let her feelinigs carry her away into making
such a cruel-mistake, such a fatal admission; but still the
only safe way to remedy it was to tell the whole truth, and
then trust to her friend's sense of honor. After all,:it
was not a very terrible truth. As she had well said, the
thing happens dozens of times to dozens of girls.




12                Two Marriages.
"I'll tell you the whole story, Mrs. Smiles, if you will
promise not to speak of it. Not that'it' was any thing
bad; poor dears! they were so young, it was such a natural thing for them to fall in love; but it caused us-my
husband and me-a great deal of trouble at the time, for
it happened in our house."
"This love affair?"
"Yes, a real love affair —not a bit like poor John Bowerbank's sober courtship, but an old-fashioned love affair;
heart-Wvarm —so warm that Edward said it put him in
mind of our own young days. And the people were-"
" I can guess, for I was with you two days of the'time
of Emily Kendal's visit, and I think I can see as far into
a millstone as most people. It was young Stenhouse?"
Mrs. Knowle nodded, with a sad look in her kindly
eyes. "Just so! Poor fellow, I have scarcely spoken
his name-even to my husband-ever since he sailed to
India, a year and half ago. We were so sorry to lose
him. He was a clerk in our firm, you know-entered
the office as a boy of fifteen-and that was how he came
so much. to our house while she was visiting us. And he
was a fine young fellow, quite the gentleman; and she
was a lass in her teens, and a bonny lass she was too,
then-so of course they fell in love with one anotherand, mercy me! how could I help it!'He behaved very
honorably, poor fellow! came and told me at once, as
soon as ever he had proposed to her-that is, if he ever
did formally propose. I rather think not, but that they.found each other's feelings by the merest accident. For
I remember he said to me, in such a burst of passion as I
never saw yetin mortal man,' I've been an ass, and some




Two Marriages.              13
folk might call me a knave —for she has fifty thousand
pounds, and I haven't a halfpenny!' Poor lad!-poor
lad!"
"And what did you do?"
"What could I do - shut the stable-door when the
steed was stolen? Why, my dear woman, I told youthe poor things loved one another."
An argument which did not seem to weigh very much
with Mrs. Smiles. She drew herself up with dignity.
" A most unfortunate and ill-advised attachment. I, as
a mother of a family of daughters, must certainly say-"
"What would you say?"
"That I would consider it my duty to prevent it."
"How could I prevent it?" exclaimed Mrs. Knowle,
pathetically, as if the troubles her warm heart had undergone at that time were bitter even in remembrance.
" Here were two nice young people - one nineteen, the
other five-and-twenty, meeting every day —liking one
another's company, finding out continually how well they
suited and how dearly they enjoyed being together. In
truth, the very sight of them walking under the lilactrees, or sitting outside the drawing-room window with a
heap of books between them, talking, and reading, and
laughing to themselves in their innocent, childish way,
used to do my heart good. Many a time I'thought, if
God had been, pleased to give Edward and me.such a
daughter, or if our little Edward, that's lying waiting for
his mother, in Hale church-yard-well, that's nonsense!",
said the good woman, with a sudden pause and choking
of the voice: " all I mean is, that inf our childless house
those-young people were very pleasant company; and I




14               Two iarri'ages.
used often to think if either of them was my own, oh,
wouldn't I do a deal to make them both happy! But it
wasn't to be — it wasn't to be. And now she has gone
and married John Bowerbank."
"Not," continued the lady, after a pause, "not that I
have a word to say against John Bowerbank. He is Mr.
Kendal's friend, and my husband's friend; the three are
all. about the same age, too. He is a very good man;
but he isn't John Stenhouse. And oh me! when-I call
to mind how fond John Stenhouse was of Emily Kendal,
and how fond poor Emily was of him-of all the misery
they- went through together-of the nights I sat by her
bedside till she sobbed herself to sleep - and of the days
when young Stenhouse went to and fro between our
house and the counting-house, with his face as white as
death, and his lips fiercely set, and a look of stony de-.spair in his eyes. Oh! my dear, I think I must have
been dreaming when I saw the wedding this morning.
How could she.do it?"
"Did she do it-what did she do?"
"Well, not much, after all, I suppose," said Mrs. KInowle,
with a sigh. "Edward and I vexed ourselves very much
about it at the time; and yet such things occur every
day, and people think nothing about them. We did
though. We couldn't see any reason on earth why Mr.
Kendal should have blamed us so severely for'allowing',such a thing to happen.. Allowing? As if we possibly
could have prevented it! As if, believing firmly that a
real good marriage with a good man is the best thing
that can befall any young woman, it would ever have
occurred to us to try and prevent it! But Mr. Kendal




Two Marriages.               15
thought differently. When John Stonehouse wrote to
him for his consent, and my Edward inclosed it in the
very civilest, friendliest letter, detailing all Mr. Stenhouse's circumstances and our high respect for him, and
his being a fit husband for any girl, except in not having
money, which, as Miss Kendal had plenty, didn't signify
-well, I say, when the old man came down upon us like
a thunderbolt, and dismissed John from the house, and
insisted on carrying Emily away, only she took to her
bed with a nervous fever and couldn't be moved, I own
I was surprised. My dear, the poet says' Fathers have
flinty hearts;" but it's my belief they have no hearts at
all. How that old fellow could have looked aJ that poor
little girl of his-his daughter, wasted to a skeleton-lying on her bed with her pretty eyes (that were the -image
of her mother's when Mr. Kendal married her) fixed on
the ceiling with such a hopeless look, and her pretty
mouth, that never gave her father a sharp word back,
but only whispered to me sometimes,'Please don't let
him be unkind to John'- how he could do it, and call
himself a Christian, and: go to church every Sunday, I
don't understand! You must recollect," continued Mrs.
Knowle, "that John Stenhouse was not a bad fellow,
neither lowborn nor ill-educated-that not a living soul
had ever breathed a syllable against his character. -There
was no earthly reason for refusing him except that he
was. a clerk in a merchant's office and She was a barrister's-daughter; he had nothing, -and she had fifty thousand pounds. That wa. the bottom of it, I know - the
cursed, cursed money, as my husband said. Mr. Kendal
wanted her to make what he called a suitable marriage



16                Two Marriages.
that is, where every thing was right and proper-money
equal, position equal-all done according to rule —gentleman coming a courting for a month or two-lady
smilingly receiving pblite attentions-then gentleman
going first to ask papa's consent, and, that given, making
a formal offer, and being accepted and married immediately in grand style, with six bridesmaids, and twenty
carriages with white horses, just as we had to-day. Oh,
how could she do it? But perhaps she couldn't help it.
I saw from the first she was a weak, gentle creature.
Why, she used to go into hysterics and fainting-fits, when
I would have faced that old tyrant with a heart.as hard
as his own, Bless my life! I would have fought through
a regiment of soldiers for the sake of my Edward; but
she- the frail, trembling lamb — poor thing - poor
thing!"
And the large, loud Lancashire woman, with the womanly heart, dropped a tear or two, which she smothered
in her laced pocket-handkerchief, and turned out of the
quiet street in Mayfair, where the two ladies were talking and walking, into one that led toward Queen Anne
Street.
"-For," said she, "I must get a peep at her when she
goes away. I was very fond of poor Emily Kendal."
"But tell me the rest of her story," pleaded Mrs.
Smiles. "Indeed I will never repeat it. And whom
should I repeat it to? for I scarcely know any body in
her circle, and she is now removing quite out of it. I
suppose she will settle permanenrtly in Liverpool?"
"Yes; John Bowerbank has one of the handsomest
houses in all Birkenhead. IHis long widowhood alone




Two Marriages.                17
hindered his taking his place-at the very top of our Liverpool society., Now'he will do it-for he is a social
man and likes show-quite a different person from poor
John Stenhouse, who would have spent evening after
evening by his own fireside with his books or his pianoplaying-he was the finest musician ever I knew, and
built a chamber organ with his very own hands. I have
it still, for he left it to'me when he went abroad."
"Why did he go abroad?"
"' Ill tell you-at least so, far as I'know, for he was
very communicative up.to a certain point, and then he
ceased, and held his tongue entirely, and I couldn't' pump'
him, you know. Besides, if I came within a mile of the
subject, the look of his face frightened me. He was terribly in love with'Emily Kendal."' It's a bad thing to be terribly in love, and not at
all conducive to the comfort of society," observed Mrs.
Smiles, sententiously; but Mrs. Knowle was too full of
her own'remembrances to reply.
"' Oh, what a day that was, when, after John Stenhouse's lette:, down came Mr. Kendal to Liverpool after
his daughter. Oh, the daily storms we lived in-morning, noon, and night —the interviews in our dining-room,
and in the poor little thing's bedroom, for she took to her
bed the very first day. How we argued, and reasoned,
and comforted, and advised-I, and my good man-for
we felt to those two young people just as if they were our
own children; and we wondered, with an amazement that
childless people often feel when they see how other'people throw away their blessings, what could have possessed
the old- father to see his only child almost dying before




18                Two Marriages.
him, and go on killing her-for her own good, he said; but,
as every body else said, just for his own pride and vexation at thwarted authority. Money, too-money was at
the root of it all. If John Stenhouse had been in the position of John Bowerbank, Mr. Kendal would have gone
down on his knees and worshiped him-I know he would.
As it was, he just kickied him out of doors."
" That was rather ungentlemanly."
" I don't mean literally.; Mr. Kendal is never that. Besides, he had his own credit to keep up; he had always
borne the character of being the best of fathers-as perhaps he had been till this happened. We are all of us
very perfect creatures so long as we are not tried. Gracious me! when I looked to-day at that stately, handsome
old gentleman, who, when he was asked,' Who giveth
this woman to be married to this man,' looked so smiling
and benignant, and remember what I have seen him look
like! It's a queer world-a very queer world, my dear."
Mrs. Smiles agreed; she generally agreed in every
thing with every body at the time.
"Well, the poor young fellow was dismissed. Of
course there was no help for it; the girl being under age,
the father had the law in his own hands. Nothing short
of an elopement, which no honorable man like John Stenhouse would ever have dreamed of, could have saved
poor Emily. And then her money-' her detestable
money,' as her lover called it more than once. Every
bit of honest pride in him was galled and stung to the
quick.' Her father thinks-all the world will think that
I wanted her for her money,' he used to say; and some-times this feeling was so strong in him that I fancied he




Two Marriages.              19
was half inclined to draw back and give her up. But I
told him not to be such a coward, for it was cowardice;
fear of the wicked tongues and not of the good ones.
Nobody who saw sweet Emily Kendal and honest John
Stenhouse would have doubted that they were marrying
for love-real love. But, my dear, I'm growing terribly
long-winded, and it's nearly two o'clock: and they were.to leave at half past the bridegroom and the bride. Oh
dear me! aid once we planned her traveling dress that
she was to go away in with poor dear John 1"'
Here Mrs. Knowle became unintelligible, and Mrs.
Smiles fidgeted a little; for, despite her interest in the
love-tale, she was beginning to want her lunch.
"Well, the rest of the story lies in a nutshell, for I
have never got to the bottom of the matter yet, and I
never shall now. John and Emily parted in the old father's presence-he insisted upon that-and my presence
too, for Emily begged I would stay. And at the lastoh! how she clung round the young man's neck, and
promised him faithfully that she would marry him, and no
one but him. And he promised her as solemnly-and
John Stenhouse is a man who never breaks his wordthat if he were alive on the day she came of age, he
would claim her. again, and marry her' in spite of man
or devil.' He said that-those very words, for he seemed
half maddened by the cruelty shown to her-the tender,
delicategirl, made to be loved and taken care of. And
then he kissed her-oh, how he kissed her! It makes
me cry to think of it even now."
"Poor fellow! But, for all that, it would have been a
very imprudent marriage," said Mrs. Smiles, coldly.




20                Two Marrita-ges.
"Imprudent or not, it:never came about, you see,
though what happened I have never found out. Most
certainly John Stenhouse formed no other attachment.
He worked hard in the office, and out of office hours'led
a most solitary life. He did not even ask about Emily
Kendal; though sometimes when, intentionally, I used to
mention her, he listened as if he was drinking in every
word. And I took care that during the two years he
should hear about her all I heard myself. This was not
a great deal, for her father kept her separated from me
as much as he could, which was human nature, I suppose. But I had news of her sometimes, and always'told
them to John.  Thee only thing I did not tell him was a
rumor'which reached me-so ridiculous it seemed then,
that my husband and I only laughed at it —of her intended marriage to John Bowerbank."
"I remember it was I who tol.d you, and how indignant.you looked. But you see.I'was right, after all,"
said Mrs. Smiles, not without'a little air of self-satisfaction.
"Well, no matter now. John never named Emily's
name, nor do I know if he ever heard the report or not;
but certainly:just about that time he went up to London.
Whether it was to'claim Emily, whether he asked her
again and she, refused -him, or whether he heard the report.about her and John Bowerbank, and never did come
forward and ask her, goodness only knows! All I know
is, that within two.months of Emily's coming of age,
without my ever seeing him-for I was laid down with
that bad fever, you know, and Edward was too miserable
about me to care much for any body outside-John Sten



Two Mfarriages.             21
house had quitted Liverpool and sailed for India. And
there he is now, for aught I know. He does not forget
us, poor fellow; he writes to us at Christmas always, and
this year he sent an Indian shawl to reach me on my
birthday. But he never names Emily, and he never
gave the slightest explanation about any thing."
"Perhaps," suggested Mrs. Smiles, " there was nothing
to explain. The young lady had changed her mind, that
was all. And no wonder. A marriage with the head
of the firm instead of one of the junior clerks is so very
much more suitable. But look! is not that the carriage
driving up? Mr. Bowerbank's, I presume. Oh dear! if
I could but see one of my daughters driving away in her
own carriage!"
Mrs. Knowle did not answer. She stood half hidden
behind the groups of idle gazers which always gather to
stare at a bride. There was a mingled expression in her
frank, rosy face-half pity, half tenderness, yet flitting
ever and anon across it a shadow of something else —a
something not unlike contempt. Coarse-looking, uncultured woman as she was, she possessed that which makes
at once woman's utmost softness and utmost strength-a
"loving heart and a clear conviction-though she was not
clever enough to put it into thoughts, still less into words
-of the divineness of Love. Love, which, when mutual,
gives and exacts nothing less than the entire soul of man
and woman, and enforces as an absolute duty the truth
of which marriage is but the outward sign, seal, and ratification-" What God hath joined together let not man
put asunder."
" I wonder what made her marry him!" murmured the




2,               Two Marriages.
good matron of thirty years' standing. "My patience!
if I had given up Edward Knowle, what would he have
thought of me  What will John Stenhouse think of
her?"."Nothing at all, probably. He may be married by
this time himself."
" I don't believe it-I'll never believe it. Men may be
bad enough, but they're not so bad as women. They'll
not often sell themselves, soul and body, out of mere
cowardice, or break a solemn plighted promise from sheer
fear."
"' But her father-she was bound to obey her father."
"No she wasn't," replied Mrs. Knowle, sternly and
strongly. "My dear, you're not bound to obey any man
living, not even your own husband, who is a mighty deal
closer to you than your father, when he tells you to do a
wrong thing. If Edward Knowle said to me,'Emma,
I'm hungry, I want you to chop yourself up into mincemeat for me'- well, perhaps I might do it, if he really
wanted it, and it harmed no one but myself. But if he
said,' Emma, I'm hungry, and I want you to go and steal
that leg of mutton,'I should say,-'No, sir. God's law is
a higher law than obedience to you. Steal your legs of
mutton for yourself.' But stop-they've opened the hall
door —she's coming."
She came-the little pale bride. Not even the excitement of the bridal gayeties, the breakfast, the Champagne,
and the -speeches, could make her any thing but pale.
She leant on the arm of her father, who was an extremely handsome, gentlemanly, well-dressed, and low-voiced
personage. He put her into the carriage with the utmost




Two ifarraicges.              23
paternal care, with a kiss -and a benediction, both of which
she received passively.'She seemed altogether a passive,
frail, gentle creature, such a one as a brave, strong man
would take and shelter in his arms, and love all the dearer for her very helplessness. And John Bowerbank,
though elderly, almost old, did not look like a weak man,
or an untender man. Far stronger, far tenderer-the two
qualities usually go together-than the bride's handsome
and elegant father.
"Poor thing I" muttered Mrs. Knowle to herself.'Well, in one sense, it's an escape. He's an honest man,
John Bowerbank. Perhaps she may be happy —at least,
less unhappy than she looks now. God bless her 1"
And with that cordial blessing, unheard, and a few
kindly tears, unseen by her. for whom they were shed,
for in truth the bride did not seem much to hear and see
any thling, the carriage drove away. Thus terminated
the principal scene, and thus vanished the principal actors in that grand show wedding, which had been quite
satisfactory and successful in all its elements, with the
exception of one trifling omission, not unfrequently occurring in similar ceremonies-Love.




24                Two Marriages.
CHAPTER II.
BEFORE telling the simple sad story —it does not pretend toube any thing but a sad story-of John Bowerbanl's wife, I should like to say a word for John Bowerbank.
The most obvious description of him, and almost universal criticism upon him, was the common phrase, "He
was a thorough man of business;" a character which, out
of business circles, it is a little the fashion to decry, or, at
least, to mention with a condescending apology. Hard,to say why, since any acute reasoner may perceive that
it takes some of the very finest qualities of real manhood
to make a "thorough man of business."'  A man exact,
persevering, shrewd, enterprising, with a strong perception of his own rights, and an equally fair judgment, and
honest admission of the rights of his neighbor: who from
conscience, common sense, and prudence takes care ever
to do to others as he would be done by; who has firmness enough to strike the clear balance between justice
and generosity; who is honest before he is benevolent,
and righteous before he is compassionate; who will defraud no man, nor, if he can. help it, suffer any man to
defraud him; who is careful in order to be liberal, and
accurate that he may compel accuracy in those about
him; who, though annoyed by the waste or misappro



Two Marriages.               25
priation of a pound, would not grudge thousands, spent
in a lawful, wise, and creditable way-a man of whom
his enemies may say sarcastically that he is a "near" man,
a "'sharp" man, a man who "can push his way in the
world;" yet half the world's work-and good work toois done by him, and the like of him-done far more successfully, far more nobly, than by your great geniuses,
who aim at every thing and effect little or nothing-your
grand incompletenesses, who only sadden one by the
hopelessness of their failures. Better than to te a poet,
whose ignoble life lags haltingly behind his noble poetry;
a statesman, who tries to mend the world, and forgets that
the first thing to be mended is himself; or a philanthropist, who loves all mankind, but neglects his own family
-better far than all these, in the long run, is the thorough
man of business, the secret of whose career is the one
simple maxim," Any thing worth doing at all is worth
doing well."
Whatever else people might say of John Bowerbankand they had said much, both bad and good, during his
life of nearly sixty years-they always said of him thisthat he had never shuffled out of an undertaking nor
broken a promise; never begged, borrowed, nor stolencheating is stealing-one shilling from any man; and
though his aims might not be lofty, and his daily life far
removed from the heroic, still he was a good, honest man,
and (as I repeat, with exceeding respect for the epithet)
a thorough man of business.
Bust there was nothing the least interesting about him.
His figure was short and stumpy, and his gray hair bristled funnily round his smooth bald head. He could not,
B




26                Two Marriages.
by any force of imagination, be turned into a romantic
personage. That his life had had its romance was not
improbable; few lives are without. It might have been
-who knows?-connected with a certain grave (which
Mrs. Knowle once found, when visiting her own little
grave in Hale church-yard, and ever after looked kindlier
on the man for the sake of it) which bore the inscription
"Jane, wife of Mr. John Bowerbank" (he was not Esquire then), "who died in childbirth, was here interred
with her infant son" nearly forty years ago.
But so completely forgotten had been this episode in
his life, that most people thought John Bowerbank an
old bachelor; and when he grew in years and honors, so
much so that it was' rumored he had declined being made
Sir John Bowerbank solely because knighthood was a
small thing, and baronetcy, to a: man without heirs, a
blank sort of dignity, nobody suspected he would marry;
nor, when he did marry, was he suspected of marrying
in any but a business-like way-to secure a pleasant mistress for his splendid house, a cheerful companion for his
-declining years. And, let the truth be owned, he did
marry only for this. He was not one bit in love. The
solitary passion of his life had blazed up and burnt itself
out, or rather been extinguished by the hand of fate, and
it was too late to light up any other.
He did not marry Emily Kendal-for love, nor-which,
perhaps, was the secret of her finally consenting to marry
him-had he made any foolish pretense of doing so. He
respected her character, he liked her well, in a tender,
fatherly sort of way; but " Jane, wife of Mr. John Bowerbank," now sleeping in her peaceful grave,:need not




Two Mcarriages.              27
have had the slightest jealousy, over-nay, would hardly
have recognized the middle-aged gentleman who was
the "happy bridegroom" that sunshiny morning in St.
George's, Hanover Square.
Perhaps this was.a good thing for Emily. In her husband's unexacting and undemonstrative regard, more paternal than lover-like,.she found the rest which was the
only thing for which she craved; and in his steady, sedate, persistent character, which aimed at nothing higher
than it accomplished, and sought from her no more than
she was able to give, she found a little of the comfort
which she once thought.was hopeless.to her in this world.
She, who had begun life with a girl's dreams of perfection, and proved them all false; who, in her weaknessweaker than most women's-had leaned on one stay after
another, and found them all pierce her like broken reeds,
experienced. in her calm, cold marriage with this kind,
good, practical man, a certain. peace, which, after all the
tempests of her youth, was not without its soothing charm.
Also, to one of her weak, hesitating nature, the mere
sense of her fate being irrevocably settled-of leaning on
somebody, and having somebody on whom she was
bound to lean-of passing out of the flowery fields and
dark precipices of her troubled life into the smooth, hard,
iron tramway of duty, conveyed a feeling of relief.
For the first three months of her marriage every body
said how well. Mrs. John Bowerbank was looking —better than any body ever expected to see Emily Kendal
look in this.vorld, for most people had set her down as
the doomed inheritor of her mother's disease -consumption, decline, atrophy-whatever name be given to the




28                Two Marritcges.
outward tokens of an inward grief, which kills the spring
of youth, and makes life a weariness and the. grave the
only rest.
It can not be said that marriage caused any great change
in John Bowerbank-he was too old for that. But he
lost some of his crotchety, old-bachelor ways; moved
with a certain air of content and pride about his handsome house, and was carefully mindful of his delicate and
sweet-looking young wife, whom he took to state dinnerparties, and introduced among the blooming, florid, and
a little too conspicuously dressed Liverpool ladies, where
she looked not unlike a lily of the valley in the midst of
a bed of tulips and ranunculuses.
So they lived their life, these two. Not a domestic
life by any means; Mr. Bowerbank had never been used
to that, nor Mrs. Bowerbank neither. She had dreamed
of it once-of the honor and happiness of being a poor
man's wife; of mending his shirts and stockings; of
looking after his dinners and making the best of every
thing; counting no economies-mean that were to lighten
the toil of the bread-winner; no labors hard that were to
add to his comfort, toward whom love made even the
humblest service the most natural thing in the world.
But this was not Emily's lot. She was a rich woman,
married to a rich man; nothing was expected of her but
elegant idleness. Once this might have been to her weariness intolerable; but she had long been passive and
languid, glad to do nothing, and to be just whatever she
fancied, since nobody ever insisted upon her being any
thing-a life that some would have called happy,'and,
especially in its outside aspect, have envied exceedingly.




Two ilarriages.              29
"She's an old man's darling," said one of the young
Liverpool ladies, commenting on Mrs. Bowerbank to her
neighbor and occasional, though not very intimate visitor,
Mrs. Knowle. "It's better anyhow than being' a young
man's slave.'"
" I'm not sure of that," half-grimly, half-comically replied the other. " I hope, my dear, you'll be pretty much
of a slave to your husband (as I am this day to Edward
KInowle), or you'd best not marry at all."
But such love-servitude was not Emily's lot. She
never trotted after John Bowerbank with his big boots
of a morning, or brushed his coat, or found himr his
gloves; she never ran to open the door of evenings, or
settled his cushions for his after-dinner sleep. They had
servants to do all that, so why should she?  In truth, it
never occurred to her to do it.
She dressed herself carefully and sat at the head of
her husband's table; she drove in his carriage about the
country - solitary, peaceful, meditative drives; or she
paid a few courtesy calls after the entertainments to
which -arrayed in the most perfect of costumes —he
seemed pleased to take her. He never was cross with
her; never asked her if she was happy; tried doubtless
in his own way to make her so, for he was a kindly-natured man; but he was not observant, nor sensitive, nor
over-sympathetic. Besides, hewas old, and all his youth,
if he ever had any, had been buried long ago in Hale
church-yard.
Mrs. Knowle told-not at the time, but afterwardhow, one Christmas day, which was one of the rare holidays at the Exchange-and Mr. Bowerbank was a man




30               Two Marriages.
who never took a holiday illegally —she saw him crossing the long frosted grass of this said church-yard, alone,
though he had not been married many months, to stand
by that grave, of which the mossy headstone still remained, but the mound had long grown level with the
turf. If his eyes could have peered below, he would
have found nothing of wife or child but a little handful
of bones. Another wife now sat at his, splendid, not
humble hearth; possibly another child mightYes, this was what they said of him, the ill-natured
portion of his friends: how, since the offer of the baronetcy', a certain dawning pride of race, the truly English
wish to found a family, had come into the head of grave
John Bowerbank; that accordingly he had, in his grave
and practical way, conceived the idea, however late in
life, of marrying, and had accordingly looked round on
all his eligible young lady acquaintances, until, in his
practical eye, he found one who, for her. own sweet sedateness, he thought would be a suitable mate for an elderly man; and accordingly, without much inquiry as to
her feelings, and having, indeed, arranged the whole matter, in the most business-like fashion, with his old acquaintance her father, he married Emily Kendal.
But when, after a year-the baronetcy being again offered and accepted-there appeared no heir to these honors, undoubtedly Sir John was very much disappointed.
Of course, he did not show it; he was too good a man
for that; but the placid mien became colder and colder;
and though they were not unhappy-it takes a certain
amount of hope even to create disappointment-still day
by day the husband and wife went more their own ways;




Two Marriages.               31
saw less and less of one another, as is quite easy in the
daily life of wealthy people, who have, or think they
have, so many duties. owed to their position and to society. And though.Emily still smiled-her soft, languid,
wistful smile-and nobody ever said an unkind word to
her, and she, dear soul! had never said an unkind word
to any body in her life, still her cheek grew paler and
paler, her eyes larger and larger, with a sort of far-away
look, as if gazing forward into a not distant heaven for
something on earth never found —something lost or incomplete -something without which, though a man
should give; the whole substance of his house for, it
would be utterly in vain.
Marriage must be heaven or hell. Not at first, perhaps, for time softens and mends all things; but after
time has had its fair license, and failed; and then comes
the dead blank, the hopeless endurance, even if sharper
pangs do not intervene; the feeling that the last chance
in life has been taken, the last die thrown-and lost.
Probably John Bowerbank did not feel thus-his feelings were never remarkably keen; and he had his business, his days occupied on'Change, and his evenings devoted, several times a week, to the long, splendid, intensely dull, and -entirely respectable Liverpool dinnerparties. But his wife, left all day at home, with no duties to fill up the idle, ainrless, weary hours, with no children of her own, and too listless and inactive to adopt
the substitute of other childless matrons - Mrs. Knowle,
for instance —and take every body else's children who
needed it under her motherly wing -to such as poor
Emily, a marriage like hers most resembles being slowly




32                Two Marriages.
frozen alive in the lake of gilded torment, which forms
the horror of one of the circles of Dante's Hell.
But nobody- noticed it, nobody knew it. Her father,
engaged in the same dining-out existence in London that
her husband, in a lesser and more harmless degree, enjoyed in Liverpool, never visited her -seldom wrote to
her. When he did, his letters breathed the most enviable self-satisfaction that he had done the very best for
her; that she was perfectly happy; and it was he, her
affectionate father, who had secured, after his own pattern-which, of course, was infallible-her conjugal felicity. And all the world-his world especially-went on
as usual, and the people who had most discussed the
marriage, pro and con, till the heat of wordy war stretched over a wide area between its two points of Liverpool
and London; even these subsided, as all people so soon
subside after every marriage, into leaving the two concerned to bear their own cross or enjoy their own content. For, after all, it is their own business, and nobody's
else-which it was from the very first, if their affectionate friends could only have believed so.




Two Mffarriages.             33
CHAPTER III.
THE two partners and their wives sat at what was intentionally made a small family dinner of four only, for
the discussion of some accidental business of importance
which concerned the firm of John Bowerbank and Co.
This, however, was deferred until the ladies should retire,
though the two Liverpool merchants-could not quite forbear, even through game and sweets, to let their conversation flow into its accustomed channel-ships and shipping,'cargoes and consignments, cotton "looking up," and
indigo " pretty firm;" that mysterious phraseology which
sounds so odd outside the commercial circle.
Such and such fragments of their lords' talk fell upon
the two ladies' ears. Mrs. Knowle pricked up hers, for
she was a shrewd body, and from' her very marriage-day
had flung herself heart and soul into her Edward's business, until now she was almost capable of going on'Change herself. But Lady Bowerbank listened idly, or
listened not at all, with an equally weary and abstracted
air. She went through with more than fine-lady indifference.the needful duties of her post as hostess.- And
continually, in the pauses of conversation, and often during the very midst of it, her eyes wandered from the table where she sat to the expanse of rippling, sunshiny
sea or river, for it was bounded by long low walls and
B2




34                Two Marriages.
hillocks of sand - away, away to the dim, sunset-colored
west.
They were dining, not in their magnificent dining-room
at Birkenhead, but in one of those sea-side houses which
line the Waterloo shore, whither for a change-the utmost change his stay-at-home nature ever dreamed ofSir John had come for -the summer, chiefly on account
of somebody or other of his acquaintance having dwelt a
little strongly on the extremely pale cheeks of Lady
Bowerbank; for he was a kind husband; he never
grudged her any pleasure or any good that was plainly
suggested to him, though he was not acute at divining
her need of it.
Lady Bowerbank had made no objection to the plan;
all places were much alike to her; yet sbhe rather liked
this place, where the salt breeze was not too strong. It
amused her to wander about, and watch the rabbits playing among the sand-hills, or to pick up baskets full of the
exquisite tiny shells, for which this shore is famous.- Not
thatshe was conchologically inclined, or knew any thing
in the world about them, save that they were very pretty.
Also, that long ago, in the days' which seemed to belong
to another life -than this, somebody had once brought her
a handful of them, which she had kept in her work-box
— indeed, kept still for that matter, It was no harm; she
had a way of keeping things, even trifles, so long, that
from mere force of habit she kept them on still, often for
years and years.
The great peculiarity of her character was, that, though
weak to resist, she was exceedingly persistent to retain.
Such anomalies are not rare, but they are the most diffi



Two Marriales.              -35
cult to deal with, and the saddest in all one's experience
of life.
She made no effort to entertain Mrs. Knowle-indeed,
that good lady always entertained herself-but sat idly
looking out of the open window, watching the silent ships
creep up and down along the Mersey, or the long mysterious trail made by the smoke of some yet unseen steamer, the faint " puff-puff" of whose engines was heard for
miles off across the quiet river-far away, even round the
curve of the Hoylake shore.
So sat she-gentle Emily Bowerbank —in her lilac pale
silk, her rich jewellery, and beautiful lace hanging over
her thin white hands: a pretty sight, even though she
was so pale; and a great contrast to large, rosy Mrs.
Knowle, resplendent in claret-colored satin, and with a
brooch on her bosom almost as big as her own heart.
Neither conversed, but paid the customary tribute of silence to their respective lords, till both were startled by
a sentence, which indeed made Mrs. Knowle color up as
if she had been a young girl in her teens, and then sit
mute with her eyes fixed on her plate.
" By-the-by, Knowle," said Sir John, leaning back, and
folding his hands with the contented aspect of a man
who, always temperate, yet keenly enjoys the after-dinner hour of wine and dessert, "I have always forgotten
to ask you, what has become of that young man Stenhouse, who left us-was it two or four years ago?-very
much against my wish, you remember. You got him, I
think, into a house at Bombay?"
"Yes, Sir John," replied Mr. Knowle, a little abruptly.
"Pass the wine, Emma, my dear."




36                Two Marriages.
" Is he there still?.and how is he getting on?"
" Well enough, I believe. He' sometimes writes to us,
though not often. Sir John, this claret is really capital."
"So I think. But," added he, with the persistency of
an unsensitive man, who will not be driven from his
point, " to return to Stenhouse. I wish, when you write,
you would tell him Mr. Jones is leaving us. In plain
truth, there is not a man I would like as senior clerk so
much as Stenhouse-John, wasn't his name? John Stenhouse?"
" Yes. Capital fellow, he was," muttered Mr. Knowle.
"Accurate as clock-work, and conscientious and-persistent as-"
"I'll trouble you for the nut-crackers, Edward," said
his helpmate, with a warning frown.
"Indeed," continued Sir John, with a way he had of
sticking to his point through all interruptions, "I fully
agree with you, Knowle. And what I was about to say
was this, that if you still keep up acquaintance with the
young man, could you not suggest to him to return home
and re-enter our house? we would make it worth his
while."
" I don't fancy he'd come, Sir John. He-he dislikes
England. But I'll think the matter over, and speak to
you about it to-morrow."
"Very well."  And Sir John helped himself to another glass of claret, and began talking of something else.
Then, and not till then, the ladies rose; the guest looking hot and red, the hostess pale as death. Emily stood
aside to let Mrs. Knowle pass through the door, which
was politely held open by Sir John, with a whispered




Two Marriages.               37' Send us in coffee soon, my dear;" but when that good
lady reached the drawing-room, she found herself alone,
and for half an hour after there was no sign of Lady
Bowerbank.
Mrs. Knowle grew exceedingly uncomfortable, not to
say alarmed.- Never since the marriage had she and
Emily renewed their former intimacy, or been on other
than the formal terms of visiting acquaintances and partners' wives. Emily did not seem to wish it, though she
was scrupulously kind and' even affectionate. But then
she neither encouraged nor cultivated any body. Life
was to her an altogether.passive thing. And Mrs. Knowle
had had the good sense, and good feeling, never to encroach on this reserve; never, since circumstances were
so changed, to make the slightest allusion to their former
intimacy, nor to intrude upon the present their painful
relations of the past. Thus, little by little, seeing that
the silence she desired was unbroken, Lady Bowerbank
had gone back from her first shrinking, nervous coldness
into comparative cordiality. Still, it was never.warm
enough to warrant Mrs. Knowle in doing what now was
her natural impulse, to seek Emily all over the house,
bid her open her heart, and then soothe and comfort her
if she could. So she sat, very anxiously, -alone in the
drawing-room, not liking even to make inquiry of a servant until the mistress reappeared.
A sad sight Emily was.'If pale before, she was now
ghastly; her eyes red, with black circles round them, as
if she had been crying. And as she sat down, and took
her coffee from the butler, trying to make some slight observation to her visitor, her hands shook so much that.she could hardly hold the cup.




38                Two Marriages.
When the servants were gone there ensued a dead
pause, at last broken only by Mrs. Knowle's perplexed
remark about its being a very fine evening for walking.
"Would you like to walk on the shore.? say if you
would," cried Emily, eagerly. "I'm -not strong enough
myself, but my maid would accompany you; and the
gentlemen will not be out of the dining-room for hours."
" I don't want to go out and leave you alone, my dear,"
said Mrs. Knowle, her very heart melting within her as
she looked at the trembling hands, the pallid face, where
two bright spots of carmine had now risen, one on either
cheek, making the large eyes larger and more'far-away'
than ever. She remembered, with a sudden spasm of
memory, that pretty, round, merry, girlish face of Emily
Kendal,:when it first came into her house, and made a
brightness. in the dark rooms, and flitted like a sunbeam
along the garden walks, especially on the Saturday and
Sunday when John Stenhouse left his hard countinghouse life and his dreary lodgings, and came to bask in
Paradise there.
"My dear, I'll not leave you alone," said Mrs. Knowle.
" It isn't good for you."
That soft motherly tone, the spell of womanly tenderness, which no woman,. married or single, happy or unhappy, is ever proof against, or ever ought to be, unloosed the iron chain which bound the heart of poor
Lady Bowerbank.  She fell sobbing on Mrs. Knowle's
shoulder.
"I must speak to you-only let me.speak to you —I
shall die if I -do not speak to somebody."
That was true. Judge her not harshly, you brave




Two Marriages.               39
strong women, who can bear so much. Of course, her
duty was silence-total silence,. to shut her secret up in
her heart, and never breathe to living soul what she had
not dared to breathe to her own husband. But this duty,
like a few more duties in her short, sad life, Emily had
not strength to fulfill. She saw them all, clearly defined
enough; perhaps, if she had had any body beside her to
help her to do them, they might, weak as her nature was,
somehow or other have been done. But her only strength,
her love, had been taken from her, and now her life was
a mere fragment-a melancholy incompleteness, in which
all aims and aspirations remained only such, and never
developed into active perfection. Whether the. course
was right or wrong, dignified or undignified, it was quite
true what she said, that she must give her confidence to
some one —must speak out, or she would die.
"Well, speak then, my poor child. Be assured I will
never tell any body-I never did, you know." (For just
at.the moment: she.had forgotten Mrs. Smiles, her only
breach of confidence.)
"Yes, you were very good to me once, and I-I
haven't forgotten it," sobbed Emily. "It was a terrible,
terrible time; I wonder I. lived through it. But I think
it has shortened my life. I shall never be an old woman
-I feel that."
":Nonsense, my dear. What would Sir John say to
such talk, I wonder?"
Emily neither smiled nor sighed. "Sir John and I
are very good friends-he is exceedingly kind to me.
Do not suppose I have a shadow of complaint to make
against my husband."




40                Two Marriages.
It was noticeable that she always called him'" my husband-Mr. Bowerbank," and afterward " Sir John."  As
plain "John," the fond familiar Christian name of other
times, she never by any possible chance spoke either of
him or to him.
" My dear, if you had any complaint to make, I'm not
the woman to listen to it. Wives shouldn't grumble
against their husbands.'For better for worse' runs
the Chutch service. If Edward had his little tantrums
-which all men have, bless'em!-why, I'd bear them
as long as I could, or a bit longer; if he grew bad, I'd
try to mend him; if he couldn't be mended, but turned
out such a villain that I actually despised him-why, I'd
run away from him! Ay, though he was my husband,
I'm afraid I. should run away from him. -But I'd do it
quietly, my dear, quietly. And I'd never abuse him to
other folk. I'd just hold my tongue."
"And I will hold mine-have I not done it hitherto?" gasped rather than spoke poor Emily. " I have a
peaceful home-far peacefuller than Queen Anne Street
ever was;" and she shuddered involuntarily.  "I ought
to be thankful for it, and I hope I am. He knows nothing-Sir John, I mean-and he never need know-he
would not care. I owe him much kindness-I shall never wrong him —that's quite impossible. But"-here her
feeble fingers clutched with the tightnens of despair on
Mrs. Knowle's wrist, and she looked up at her imploringly-'" you must do one thing for me. * Promise me you
will."
"'I never make promises without telling Edward
Knowle."




Two Marriages.               41
"You may tell him-for it is he who must do it. He
can manage it, and he will; say, I entreat, he will."
"What is it, my love?" And, though she spoke soothingly, more than one anxious doubt crossed Mrs. Knowle's
mind: "Pray speak out."
"You heard what my husband said. Now your husband must manage, by an excuse he likes-even a lie if
necessary —it will be a lawful lie-but he must manage
it-that some one-you know who-does not come back
to Liverpool."
"II understand. You are quite right."
"l He must not come, I tell you," and Emily's voice
grew shrill with something almost approaching fear.
"For I -am a very weak woman; I know that I have
proved myself so more than once. I am safe, and I want
to remain safe. I don't love him, not now, not after he
has forsaken me; but oh! for God's sake keep him far
away from me. * Put the sea between us-hundreds, thousands of miles. Let me be quite sure that I-shall never
again see his face, or hear the sound of his voice, or his
footsteps-you remember I used to know his step along
the garden walk quite well. I must not see him-never, nevermore!"
" No, my dear; if I can help it you never shall," said
Mrs. Knowle, very firmly, as she held the shrinking, sobbing creature in her arms, crying herself a little, and feeling very angry at somebody or something, she was not
quite certain wha.' But she' was certain of one thing,
that there had been some great mystery, some heavy
wrong-doing somewhere; and though she was not exactly an inquisitive woman, she did like to get to the bot



42                Two Marriages.
tom of things, and still more did she dislike taking the
responsibility of acting in the dark.
"Will you tell me one thing, Lady Bowerbank?" asked
she, when they both had grown a little calmer; "II don't
ask out of idle curiosity, but just that I and my husband,
who were, and are still, his warm friends, may be placed
in a right position toward him. My dear, just say, in two
words, why you did not marry John Stenhouse."
"Because he never asked me-that is, not the second
time, as he promised. He promised, you know, solemnly
-faithfully, that the day I came of age he would claim
me, and we should be married."
"With or without your father's consent?"
"Yes. He said it would be right, and he would do it.
If he were alive, he told me, on my birthday, he should
write or come to me. But he never wrote, and never
came."
"What a strange thing!" said Mrs. KnRwle, much perplexed. "And yet I know —I am almost sure-"
She stopped, for in caressing the poor hand she had felt
Lady Bowerbank's wedding-ring-the fatal ring. With
a sense of dread, lest one word might lay the foundation
of harm that now could never be undone, no more than
the marriage could be broken, she stopped, hesitated, and
finally kept her own counsel.
" Oh, what a day it was —my birthday," pursued Emily, pouring out her long-pent-up grief. "We were giving a ball; I did not wish it, but papa insisted; however,
I cared little about it, I was so happy. For when I
woke in the morning I knew -I should see him before
night-I thought he would come rather than write, since




Two  ifarriages.             43
he had not seen me for two whole years. I waited in,
hour after hour, all that day; and I danced myself sick
at night, lest papa might notice I was unhappy. And
then I lived on, hoping and hoping all next day, and all
the day after-every day for a week. And for many
weeks, post after post I watched, and day after day I
never crossed the door-sill for an hour without coming in
expecting to find his letter or his card. But he never
wrote —he never came. And thdn I heard he had gone
to India, and —and that was all."
Emily dropped her head, and the passing light and
energy which had come into her features while speaking
vanished out of them; she sank back into the pale, passive, quiet woman, John Bowerbank's wife.
" Do you blame him?" asked Mrs. Knowle, softly, with
her head turned away. (" For," she owned afterward to
her husband, " I was frightened out of my life lest the
poor girl should discover any thing in my mnanner that
might set her asking questions.")
"No, I don't blame him. He had been so wronged,
so insulted, no wonder his pride took up arms and he let
me go: I was but a poor creature to fight for. Or perhaps he had found somebody else he liked better. Your
Liverpool girls are so pretty, you know, and he always
admired pretty people," added Emily, with a feeble smile.
"I never was pretty myself; and perhaps he might be
afraid of people saying he married a plain girl for her
money."
" No," cried Mrs. Knowle, indignantly, " I'll never believe that. He wasn't such a coward."
"W7Vell, well, whatever it was, does not matter now.




44               Two Marriages.
He did not want me-did not care for me-and other
people did, and my father was urging me perpetually to
marry. I could not help myself-indeed I could not,"
added she, clasping her hands together in a hopeless resignation. "I was worn out-literally worn out and torn
to pieces-and so I married Mr. Bowerbank."
There was a long silence, through which the large drawing-room clock kept ticking and ticking, with a remorseless diligence, unvarying and unwearying as Time itself;
and through the open window, from across the now darkening river, came dim voices of sailors in ships slowly
dropping down the Mersey, outward bound.
At length Mrs. Knowle roused herself and said,
"My dear, I am very glad you have trusted me tonight; you shall never repent it. I quite agree with you
that Mr. Stenhouse must not be asked to come back to
Liverpool; Edward will manage it so as to satisfy Sir
John. And after to-night, you and I will never name
him again."
"No, no. That is," and she hesitated —Emily's piteous hesitation.
But her friend had none. "IDecidedly not, Lady Bowerbank. When a woman is once married, she has no
right even to think of any man but her own husband.
You know, Sir John is a very good, kind gentleman, and
very fond of you. And you have many a blessingand, for all you can tell, it may please God to send you
one day a better blessing still."
Emily shook her head.
"I know what you mean, but I don't hope that. I
don't even wish it. I could not do my duty to a child.




Two fMarriages.              45
Better live on as I am living-just pleasing Sir John a
little if I can-doing no harm to any body, and by-andby my whole story will be over, and I myself, as some
Scotch song says,
"'I myself in the auld kirk-yard,
With the green grass growing over me.'
It's curious," she added, "but sometimes in this mass of
bricks and mortar, and these wastes of sea and sand, I
feel an actual pleasure in the words'green grass growing
over me.'"
"You are talking nonsense, my dear," said Mrs.
Knowle, sharply, though her tears were running down in
showers; " you'll live to be an old woman-as old, and
as stout, and as comfortable as me."
"Do you think so? Well, I hope I may be half as
good and as kind," answered, with a grateful look, poor
Lady Bowerbank.
And then the lamps came in, and with them Sir John
Bowerbank and Mr. Knowle, both in exceedingly cheerful spirits, having apparently settled quite to their satisfaction the knotty business point to arrange which they
had dined together. Their respective wives bestirred
themselves, as wives should, to welcome the advent of
lords and masters, and after a lively half-hour the little
quartette broke up.
But when Mrs. Knowle, as her custom was, immediately poured out to Mr. Knowle every thing that had passed
in his absence, "Edward," who was a man of few words,
looked exceedingly grave.
"There has been foul play somewhere; I'm sure of
that, wife."




46                Two Marriages.
" Why-what do you know?"
"John Stenhouse did ask her to marry him; he went
up to London on purpose, and was refused. He didn't
tell me much, but he let fall as much as that, or something like it."
"And you never told me?" said Mrs. Knowle, a little
aggrieved.
"You were very ill, my dear; and when you got bet
ter he was gone to India. And somehow I wasn't thinking so much of him as of you. Remember, you were
nigh slipping away from me then, old woman."
She gave him a kiss -the placid, tender kiss of forty
years' accumulated content, and complained no more.
"Men don't think so much of these things as we do.
Poor Emily! well for her she's got a good man for her
husband. But, for all that, as you say, my love, I'm certain there has been foul play somewhere."




Two Marriages.                47
CHAPTER IV.
De mortuis nil nisi bonum.
I would gladly put this as the motto to- the present
chapter, and adopt the moral of it, which is a noble and
Christian moral, and can not be too tenderly and sedulously acted upon —in the main. But truth forbids silence sometimes —that truth,
" The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is often interred with their bones;"
which is as true now as when Shakspeare wrote it. No
one, taking a wide and comprehensive view of life, can
fail to see what fatal harm is sometimes caused, passively,
by the passive dead; how often the living will injure
themselves-and more than themselves-for the sake of
what they call " respect to the memory of the departed;"
some one who, maybe, was once as foolish, obstinate,
selfish, cruel as any of us, and in death has perpetuated
the ill-doings of his.life. From this feeling, corrupted
from a virtue into a mere superstition, many a wrong,
too late discovered, which ought, years and years before,
to have been dragged to the open day, and crushed and
trampled under the avenging heel.of righteous wrath and
noble scorn, is hushed up, suffered to be passed over unrequited, because- alas I the wrong-doers are now far
away in the silent land, where, at least, they can injure
no more.




48                Two Marriages.
Nothing but good of the dead! If good can not be
spoken, then keep silence.
Yes, ordinarily. God forbid that when He lays His
eternal seal upon the quivering mouth of sinner as well
as saint, ours likewise should not respect His awful mandate and be-dumb. But there are cases in which silence
regarding the dead involves wrong to the living, and
that which might have been a solemn warning to many
others left behind falls short of its natural lesson- the
lesson I would fain have some worldly people lay to
heart from this story —the true story, alas! of John Bowerbank's wife. Though it happened long ago, and though
place, people, and extraneous circumstances have been, I
trust, effectually disguised, still the story itself is no invention, but a fact told to me; and I tell it, after all the
actors therein are safely dead and gone, as a lesson to
those whom it may concern; especially those who are
supposed to need none, and yet fate often reads to them
quietly the sharpest lesson of all-the parents of grownup children.
Lady: Bowerbank was sitting quite alone, and dressed
in deep mourning, in the dining-room of the house at
Queen Anne Street. She had been summoned to London, for the first time since her marriage, by a very sad
event-the sudden death of her father. He was not an
old man exactly, and had been hitherto remarkably hale
and active, living his life - the life of a barrister about
town-with apparent enjoyment; making, and spending
as fast as he made, a very good-income, absorbed chiefly
in selfish pleasures, but pleasures of a perfectly reputable
and unobjectionable kind. However, in the midst of




Two Marriages.               49.
these Death found and called'him. Some hidden heartdisease suddenly developed itself, and he was struck
down while making a speech in court. His daughter
and son-in-law were telegraphed for, but even before the
message reached them he was no more. They carried
him back from Westminster Hall to his own door -a
corpse.
Of course, deep was the sympathy with his family;
and though since her marriage he had so withdrawn himself from her that the slender filial relation which ever
existed, or was likely to exist, between a loving girl and
a man so essentially selfish, that except by force of the
claim of Nature he had no right whatever to be considered a father, had become all but nominal; still, overpowered by the suddenness of the stroke, his daughter
mourned for him-mourned, remembering not so much
later years as-those early childish days when almost every
man takes a certain pleasure in paternity, especially being father to a pretty little girl. She recalled how he
used to set her on the table' after dinner and make her
dance to him, or take her walks in the Park with her
best clothes on- her muslin frocks, and blue ribbons, and
her golden hair flying about, so that, infant as she was,
she was fully aware every body noticed her, and asked
"Whose charming little girl that was?" Halcyon days
these, during which many an imperfect nature and hard
heart ride safely over the smooth waters of life, to be
shipwrecked afterward. It is not till the storm comes
that we find out the real building and timber of the vessel.
After these days came others, in which, to the best of
Emily's recollection, her father had taken very little noC




50                Two Marriages.
tice of her; for nobody noticed her now very much. She
had ceased to be pretty; her beauty was only the round
rosiness of infancy, and it slipped- away, and there had
not yet come that beaming spiritual loveliness which had
so charmed the unartistic eye, but clear head and sound
heart of John Stenhouse. So she had been, during her
teens, a good deal neglected; and, in fact, her young life
had only wakened up on that fatal Liverpool visit, the
consequences of which turned the careless father into a
remorseless judge-a cruel enemy.
But she forgave him that;, she was ready to forgive
him any thing, as she sat in his easy-chair, before his private desk, the papers of which Sir John, summoned back
home immediately after the funeral, had left her to examine alone; she was haunted by sad thoughts of her
father-her own poor father-who had so enjoyed the
good things of this life-his cosy dining-room-his afterdinner repose —sleeping now, this fist'night, underground —the eternal sleep of death. She would have
liked to think of him otherwise and otherwhere, but somehow she could not; he had'been a man so essentially
worldly that even after his death one's fancy unconsciously associated him with this world. She knew she ought
to dwell upon him as safe and happy in heaven, and yet
her thoughts would fly back and back, like gloomy birds
of evil omen, and settle in that cheerless, misty cemetery
at Kensal Green —where, Sir John Bowerbank had said,
some handsome memorial must immediately be erected
to distinguish it from the throng of graves; and he left
his wife behind in London for a day, in order that she
might leisurely examine her father's papers, and find out




Two Marriages.               51
whether the deceased-(it was melancholy to hear the
clever barrister, the social diner-out, already spoken of
as merely "the deceased")-had any particular wish regarding his own monument; for Emily's husband was
very kindly, very considerate, and in this last sad conjuncture she had been more drawn to him than for many
months before.
She had bidden him good-by an hour ago, he starting
by the night-mail for Liverpool, and had settled herself.alone in the large, desolate dining-room, making a sort of
encampment by the fire, that she might feel less dreary,
Then she began looking over-drawer by drawer, and
paper after paper-the large desk which had been the
awe of her childhood and the perplexity of her youth.
She could hardly believe that it was really herself then
peering into with-unhallowed eyes, and turning over with
unforbidden hands, those secrets of which we all have
some, and which we think are safe from every body, till
death comes and teaches differently.
What Mr. Kendal could have been thinking of when
he left all these matters-many of which he certainly
would not have liked even his daughter: to be acquainted
With-to such a chance as now befell them, is impossible
to say. Probably the truth, unseen and disbelieved,
though it stares at us in church-yard and street, and
whispers to us in every book or newspaper, that "in the
midst of life we are in death," had been wholly unrecognized by this man of the world, or else he might have
had a superstitious dread of setting his house'in order,
and contemplating, in any way, his own dissolution. Certain it was he left no will, and his most private papers




52                Two' Mrariages.
were found in the utmost confusion, every thing being
exactly as he had quitted his home on the morning of
his death, to return thither alive no more.
With a solemn tenderness befitting such an office, his
daughter turned over scrap after scrap'opened and looked
at letter after letter, just reading as much as seemed necessary, and then burning it, or laying it aside to be burnt.
A good many papers she destroyed at once; she did not
like even her husband to see them - these relics' of a
purely selfish life-not absolutely a wicked life, but one
self-absorbed and self-enjoying —nothing but self-worship
from the beginning to the end.
Lady Bowerbank was growing weary; the hall clock
and just struck eleven, resounding through the gloomy
old house with a thrill that almost made her start off her
chair-she was very feeble and nervous still, though her
health had been of late months a little improving. Sick
at heart, forlorn and lonely, she put aside heap after heap
of letters in unfamiliar handwritings, to be examined byand-by, when she suddenly came upon one that wasnot unfamiliar.
No wonder at its being there - her father and Mr. Stenhouse had had a sharp. correspondence; probably this
was one of the letters. None, of them had ever been
shown to her; she had only found out accidentally that
such had been sent and received. Eagerly she took up
this one, then hesitated-Emily's perpetual hesitation-as
to whether it would be a breach of confidence or of duty
to read it; when, looking at the envelope, she saw it was
not addressed, as the rest of Mr. Stenhouse's letters had
been, to Mr. Knowle's house in Liverpool, but to Queen




Two Marriages.               53
Anne Street, London. And the post-mark bore a date
long subsequent to that. unhappy time; a date which, as
Emily Bowerbank gazed on, cold shivers of fear ran
through her, for it was a week after her twenty-first birthday.
"He did write, then. I must readit! I must and will!"
she said to herself; and for once that firm "I will"-the
want of which had been the great lack of her life - as it
is one of the greatest and most fatal deficiencies in any
human life or character-came to her aid, and she carried
out her purpose. Was it for good or for ill?  Alas!
the teller of this simple tale-and maybe many a reader
-can not possibly decide; except that, as a general rule,
to have met open-eyed the most blinding truth is better,
ay, and easier in the end,-.tham to live under the blighting shadow of a permanent lie.
The letter addressed to Mr.-:Kendal by.John Stenhouse
ran thus:
" SIR, —Though we. did not part amicably two years
ago, I beg now to appeal. to you as to a gentleman and a
man of honor, and the father! of.the lady whom I then,
and ever since, steadily determined to make. my wife.
"At your desire, I abstained from all communication
with her until she became of age, which was a week ago.
On that day, and' again for six days. following, I called at
your house, to see her and you, and  to beg permission to
renew our engagement- or. rather to complete it; for it
has, as regards myself, never been broken; but I was not
admitted. I can not learn any thing about her. I have
written to her; I have watched.- as far as a gentleman




54                Two Marriages.
could presume to watch a lady -in the hope of seeing
her, and all in vain. I now take the straightforward
course of writing direct to you, sir. You may not like
me, but you can know nothing against me. Also, you
are a father. I entreat.you for her sake - she did love
me once - noat to' stand in the way of our happiness.
That she is true to me. I have not the slightest doubt.
Tell me where she is, and when I may see her.
"Yours faithfully,    JOHN STENHOUSE."
Inclosed with this was a small note, scarcely more than
a scrap, apparently written in haste, and blotted as it
was folded:
"SIR. —I accept your explicit and complete explanation, and wish your daughter every happiness that circumstances may afford her. Neither she nor you will
ever be again intruded upon by your obedient servant,
" JOHN STENHOUSE."
Emily Bowerbank read, and sat petrified. The whole
world seemed fading away from her in. a sort of dark
gray mist. The roaring of waters was in her ears, and a
dull knocking pain at her heart. Then all ceased, and
she passed into temporary unconsciousness.
When she came to herself she was lying forward with
her head on the desk, the letter still grasped in her hand.
She remembered at once what had happened, but she did
not faint again, not even though she was one of those
feeble women whom a very slight thing causes to fall
into fainting-fits.




Two Marriages.               55
A slight thing-as probably the father who had done
it believed it to be,. or argued himself into believingand yet it.was the destruction of two lives!
Emily gathered up her feeble thoughts and shattered
senses together, and tried to understand the fact thus
suddenly revealed to her.
So, John Stenhouse had returned at the appointed
time, and once again asked her to marry: him. He had
loved her, steadily, faithfully, through these two blank
years. He had come up to London prepared to meet the
sharp ordeal that was inevitably before him-the wounding of his pride-the lacerating of his feelings-all the
humbling irritations that, under the best of circumstances,
must be borne by a poor proud man who marries a rich
man's daughter. Yet he had come, willing and eager to
marry her, setting aside every thing except his love for
her —a love steady as a rock, true as steel.
For an instant, as soon as this became clear to Emily's
half-bewildered brain, there flashed upon her a sudden
light —the first and most natural impulse of actual joy.
She clasped her hands together; and if ever the poor
pale face looked like an angel's,:it looked so then.
" He was true! He did not forsake me! Oh, thank
God!"
And then'she remembered all that followed, and how
it had all ended in her being what she was now —John
Bowerbank's wife.
The dead man had told a lie —or perhaps not a direct
lie, but a misstatement-putting forward what he believed
and hoped as what really existed. He had evidently informed John Stenhouse that his daughter no longer con



56                Two'. Marriages.
sidered herself engaged to him, and was on the point of
marriage with John Bowerbank. Such fabrications are
often given as facts by even good people, who hope them
until they really believe them. The falsehoods of the
wicked can be met-the misstatements of the respectable
and worthy can not.
"_And a lie that is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies."
So Emily's lover must have believed it, as was scarcely unnatural. But-the father?
When one man has a grudge against another, it may
be a small thing to deny him his house and suppress his
letters; and such may be, by some people, counted by no
means an unwarrantable proceeding on the part of any
father who wishes to prevent his daughter's making an
imprudent marriage. A little uncandid, perhaps; a little
like treating her as a child; but then many young women are little better than children; and parents have, or
are supposed to have, all the wisdom, the justice, the prudence on their side, and may take the law into their own
hands, and use any means which they think advisable
for the ultimate good of their offspring. How can they
-the children-just entering on life, and with little or
no experience of its countless pitfalls, know what is best
for their own happiness? Blind obedience is safest and
best.
So would argue many excellent people-so doubtless
would have argued the dead lawyer, could he have come
back from his newly-filled grave, or from the place wherever it was, that his soul had fled to, and stood before his
daughter in the dead of night, as she sat with that fatal
letter still clutched in her hands; staring at vacancy.




Two Marriages.               57;She was usually a good deal given to weeping-too
much so, indeed-she was such a thorough woman in all
her weaknesses, poor little Emily! But now she did not
weep at all; neither did she rave, nor think any unholy,
wicked thoughts, nor curse her father's memory. He
was dead, and she must not allow herself to dwell upon
what he had done against her, or judge whether his act
were right or wrong. She only felt that it had killed
her.
Yes, he had killed her, this respectable and respected
father-had killed his own daughter-his natural flesh
and blood-as completely as if he had slain her with his
hand. It might be worth counting-as perhaps the good
God may send His angels to count some time, when the
secrets of all lives shall be revealed-how many fathers,
perhaps some mothers —but women being less selfish
than men, these are rarer-with the very best intentions,
have done the same.
He had killed her-killed the spring of youth and life
within her, not merely by lawful open opposition-though
that would:have been cruel enough —but by a mean, underhand, cowardly blow, a side-thrust which there was
no parrying. By him, worldly man as he was, probably
the thing was not realized in its full enormity. How
could be, or such as he, understand the loss of love-the
one blessing which makes life sacred and beautiful? Or
perhaps he thought, like other worldly people, that worldly blessings are all in all, and that he was actually doing
his daughter a kindness in keeping her in the sphere she
was born to; saving her from sacrificing herself to a man
of no wealth and no position, decidedly her inferior in
C2




58                Two Marriages.
the marriage barter, who, while she gave him every thing,
had nothing on earth to offer her except love, which was
a commodity of no weight at'all with Mr. Kendal.
Be that as it may, he had killed her. Of course, there
is this to be said, why had she the weakness to let herself be killed?  Why did she take her lover's loss so
passively, and so unresistingly allow herself to be married to another?.. Why, in short, suffer herself to be
made a mere victim to circumstances when she should
have risen above them, as a. strong, brave human. being,
whether woman or man, ought to do; fight her own
battle,' and assert her right to live out her own life in
her own way, whether she married John Stenhouse or
not?
Alas, the question is answered by hundreds of victims
-men and women, but especially women-to whose weak
helplessness might has become right, and cowardice appeared like dutiful submission. Pass on, pale* ghosts,
sad shadows of lives that might have been made so happy and so fair: God will -remember you, poor suffering
ones! But how as to those who have caused you to
suffer?.Ithink, if there ought to be a Gehenna upon earthfor mortal justice must not presume to create Gehennas
afterward-it should be opened for the punishment of
tyrants-domestic tyrants.
Emily Bowerbank sat till daydawn withouit attempting so much as to stir. Bewildering, delirious thoughts
swept through her poor brain-she who was not much
given to think, but only to feel. Whether she fully realized her own position-all she was and all she had lost;




Two Marriages.               59
whether, in those long still hours, she went over and
over again, in maddened fancy, the contrast between
her calm, cold, respectable marriage' with honest John
Bowerbank-(thank heaven, she felt he was notto blame;
he never could have known any thing)-and marriage
with every pulse of her heart happy and at rest; every
aspiration of her soul satisfied; her nature developed, and
her mind strengthened; fitted for weal or woe, labor or
ease, peace or perplexity, as she would have been had she
become the wife of John StenhQuse-all this was never
revealed.
She said nothing and did nothing; what was there to
do or say? She blamed no one, not even herself; it was
too late now. Every thing was too late. She felt in a
vague, childish sort of way, like one of the "foolish virgins," whom she had always been so sorry for as a child;
her lamp, too, had gone out, and could never be relighted.
The door of life was shut, not to be opened more.
Till day dawned-the dreary, drizzly London day, she
sat over her father's desk, not, attempting, however, to
search farther, or to arrange any thing more. Then, with
a sudden fear of the servants coming in and finding her
there, she hurriedly swept all the letters into a drawer,
all but the letter, which she took away with her-it concerned nobody but herself-and crept noiselessly away
to bed.
Next day, according to her husband's desire, Lady
Bowerbank started for Liverpool. It was well she did,
for immediately on her reaching home she had a somewhat severe illness, a kind of low gastric fever, which
was rather prevalent at the time. No one wondered at




60                Two Marriages.
it, and every body sympathized with her. "Dear Lady
Bowerbank!" they said, in talking her over, "she was
such a delicate, tender creature; and what a great shock
it must have been for her, the death'of her poor dear
father!"




lTwo Marriages.              61
CHAPTER V.
PEOPLE do break their hearts sometimes. Not very
often, for a large proportion have really no hearts to
break; and a few who have them have also that stern power of endurance, which, if they only have strength to live
through the first shock, will enable them still to live on
— live nobly, heroically, until they come to experience
the mysterious internal force of reparation which Heaven
has mercifully imparted to every sound body and healthily constituted mind; which turns evil into good, and
transmutes dull misery into that active battling with
sorrow which in time produces a deeper peace than even
happiness.
But here and there are others, like poor Emily Bowerbank, gifted withi strong-persistency of loving,:and almost
no other strength-no other persistence in any thing;
sweet, gentle, sensitive. souls;' climbing plants, who, if
they find a prop to cling to, bloom bounteously all their
days; but, finding no prop, or being rudely torn from it,
slip silently to thei earth, where they soon wither away,
and have no use: nor beauty in their lives ever after.
This may not be:noticeable outside; the result may be
attributed to many accidental external causes-worldly
misfortune, constitutional feebleness, and so on, but the
real cause is-their hearts are broken. Why it should
be so-why, above all, Providence should allow it



62                Two Marriages.
should permit the gentle weak ones to succumb to the
bad strong ones, and the virtuous to be sacrificed to the
vicious-the unselfish and much-enduring to those who
have neither tenderness nor generosity —is a mystery that
never will be unraveled.. We can only leave it with Him,.
who, dying, prayed to His Father, as Emily Bowerbank
tried to pray to the Father in heaven, whenever she
thought of her own father, "Forgive them, they know
not what they do.."
Nevertheless her heart was broken, and she knew it.
She recovered from her fever, and by degrees resumed
almost her former place in her husband's household,
though not in general society; she was quite incapable
of that, and, besides, during her tedious' convalescence,
Sir John had got into a habit of going to his dinnerparties alone. She was, to all- appearance, quite well;
still she never again took a firm hold on life, never was
heard to talk of the future, or to make any plans beyond
the month, or the week, and then gradually —so' gradually that no one perceived it-not even beyond the day.
She was not in a'consumption, for the. doctors found
no disease in the lungs; it was more' what, the_ country
people call "a waste".-th'at is, a gradual sinking of all
the powers of the body,' and sometimes even of the mind;
until mental griefs cease to wound, and. of bodily suffering, except weariness and feebleness, there is: absolutely
none. Not a painful death to die,' especially when surrounded by all the luxuries that wealth or kindly care
could bestow-every thing, in'short,'except the one thing
-the- one amulet of life, which had been taken away
from her.




Two Marriages.               63
People do not recognize half clearly enough the truth
that God would not have created such a thing as mutual
love, ending in marriage, had He- not meant it to be the
one thing needful-not absolutely to the salvation of a
human soul, though it is that, or the contrary, oftener
than we suspect, but to, its perfect development, and,
above all, to its happiness. Those who interfere with:
what is called "a love affair" are doing what they never can undo; destroying what is impossible to rebuild;
taking away from. two human beings'that which no substitute, be it family affection, wealth, worldly honor, or
success, can avail to restore. All are valueless when love
is not there.
The sod lay green- over Mr. Kendal's bones; his life
was over; but he had blighted two other lives-lives
which might have blossomed into beauty, and carried
their perfectness down into' coming generations, when his
poor selfish existence was forgotten in the dust. He had
done it, and it never could be undone.
What had become of John Stenhouse? was a question
that Mrs. Knowle often asked herself. Only to herself,
however. Constantly as she visited Lady Bowerbank,
and more especially since the: sad illness which followed
the sudden death of Mr. Kendal, his name had, since that
first night, never once been breathed between them. It
was impossible it could be, between any two honorable
women.: Nevertheless, the elder matron thought of him
a deal more than she would have liked to own, and made
many inquiries about him through her husband, but they
all resulted in nothing beyond the fact that he was'living
and working' somewhere in India. Mr. Knowle had con



64                Two Miarriages.
trived to prevent all offers being made to him of returning,to England.
Still, occasionally he was heard of, to Mrs. Knowles
great satisfaction, though seeing that Emily made no inquiries, her information was carefully kept to herself.
But she took a romantic interest, most unworthy of such
a very practical and sensible old matron, in the young
man and his fortunes; for she never ceased to believe,
and asserted repeatedly to her husband, that so true a
lover and so honest a man as John Stenhouse could never
have forsaken a woman in this mean way; and, though
the. real truth of the. matter might never be discovered,
she was as certain as she was of her existence that there
had been something wrong somewhere.
"And it may come right yet, who knows?  I hope
I'm not wicked —and it's ill waiting barefoot for dead
men's shoes, but Sir John, is over sixty, and he will have
had a very fair enjoyment of life if he lives to eighty; and
poor Emily will not be much over forty-three even then.
Folks: do sometimes'take the wrong person-become
widows and. widowers-and then meet their old loves
and get married, and end their days happily -together
after all."
Mr. Knowle. shook his gray head.
"It won't be the case here, wife, so you need, not think
it."
HIe gave no more explanation, for he was not -a talkative man, but his wife  noticed that he often rode round
two miles out of his way to business in order to inquire
how Lady Bowerbank was that morning. And Mrs.
Knowle, from paying a formal visit once in three months,




Two Marriages.               65
got slowly into the habit of driving to Summer Lodge at
least twice a week, and spending the morning with Emily. And by degrees she returned to the old tender fashion, and called her not " Lady Bowerbank," but " Emily."
One morning the two ladies were sitting together, one
working —for Mrs. Knowle's fingers were never empty
of work-and the other reading- or attempting to read,
the newspaper. Newspapers were terribly- interesting
now in all houses, fr -it was just about the time of the
Indian revolt, and, as this generation will long remember,
far and near, there was scarcely a family who had not to
mourn their dead. Lady Bowerbank, without giving any
reasons for it-and indeed none were required, for the
sympathy was too universal-had: taken a deep interest
in the tidings brought mail after mail, and, horrible as
they often were, they were not forbidden her, for they
seemed to rouse her out of herself to feel for afflictions
compared to which her own were nothing. She also began to exert herself and her small: strength in a way that
surprised both her husband and the doctors: gathering
and making contributions in aid of the sufferers, and trying, in a feeble way, to organize schemes for their relief,
and find out cases of exceeding need, which, by means of
the large Indian connections of the house of Bowerbank
and Co., was not difficult to accomplish.
" I should like to do a little good before I go," she said
one day, when Mrs. Knowle was urging her not to overexert herself. "I have done so little good in my life,
you know."
And so they let her do it; and she spent money, and
time, and thought upon these melancholy charities, her




66                 Two Marriages.
husband grudging. nothing; he never did. He was a
very good man. Many a letter he. wrote, investigating
difficult cases, and many a time he drove out to lunch in
the middle of the day-he that used never to take even a
half-holiday from.business —in order to tell his wife some
piece of news, or ask how. she was, or bring her some little delicacy from market or hothouse, if she chanced to
be especially fanciful or feeble that day; for sheb was very
fanciful, as sickly people often are;- but she strove against
it in a pathetic way;: and Mrs. Knowle noticed how invariably she tried to look grateful and pleased at Sir John's
little attentions, and to smile steadily a's long as he remained in'the room.'" I have really got a piece of news for. you to-day, my
dear," said he, sitting down beside her, " though it is not
for you so much hs- for Mrs. Knowle-at least half for
one and half for the other. You shall share the pleasure
between you.  Guess."
The two ladies tried, in all politeness, but failed signally, both of them.
"Well,'then,- first, Lady Bowerbank, it concerns you.
That - widow  with- three children- Mrs. Hamilton, you:
know, whose husband. was shot at Bareilly, and who
wrote you such a pretty letter of thanks-she is coming
home by next mail."
"With all her children, I hope! Poor thing!"
"You need not say'poor thing,' for it is not only with
her children-.she:brings a husband too."
"Then he was not shot, after all?"
"Yes he was," said Sir John.  "But you women'are
curious creatures. This is her second husband. She




Two Marriages.               67
has married the gentleman who saved her' life and that
of her three children, and brought her hundreds of miles
across country and through: indescribable perils. -As she
has not a halfpenny, and he is pretty well off, perhaps,
poor woman! she might have done Worse. You will
think so, Mrs. Knowle, for you know the person —our
old clerk, John Stenhouse."
"John Stenhouse! Married!"' exclaimed.Mrs. Knowle;
as with an agitation she could hardly conceal, she glanced
toward the sofa where Lady Bowerbank lay. But this
tidings, which had powerfully affected the good lady, herself, seemed to have passed quite harmlessly over Emily.
She scarcely turned or showed any sign of emotion beyond a feeble fluttering of the fingers, which were soon,
stilled and folded upon.one'another.over her heart-an
involuntary attitude of hers, something like Chantrey's
figure of Resignation.
"Why on earth should not the young man be married?" said Sir John, smiling. "My dear lady, you look
as vexed as if you had wanted to have him for your second! I must certainly tell Knowle of this. What do
you say, Lady Bowerbank?"
Lady Bowerbank said quietly, "I think people should
always marry whoever they choose, and that nobody
should blame or criticise them for it. Nobody but themselves' can know the whole circumstances."
"Quite right. You are a sensible'woman, Emily," said
the old man, looking tenderly at his young wife, who yet
seemed so much nearer the other world than he. " Well,
I must go back now, for I am full of business. You'll
wait here to dinner, Mrs. Knowle?"




68                Two fMarriages.
Mrs. Knowle muttered some excuse concerning "Edward."  She looked exceedingly nervous and uncomfortable still.
"Well, do as you like. Only stay as long as you can
— stay and -grumble at your friend Stenhouse and his
marriage. By.the-by, I think I shall write to meet them
at Southampton; it would only be civil, and I liked
Stenhouse. What shall I give him-your good wishes?"' If you please."
"And mine,' said; Emily, half raising herself from the
sofa.  "I knew him once-we met at Mrs. Knowle's.
He will remember me —Emily Kendal."
"'Very well, my dear."
After Sir John was gone, Mrs. Knowle took her friend's
hand in hers and held it, but she did not attempt to
speak; she literally did not know what to say. Lady
Bowerbank's manner, so gentle, so composed, had completely puzzled, nay, frightened her. She could not believe it natural. But it was natural; there was no affectation of strength about it, no high heroic self-suppression. Emily lay, pale indeed, but not paler than usual,
her eyes open, and fixed with a soft, steady gaze on the
white spring clouds that sailed in mountainous masses
across the dark blue sky;. great heights and depths. of
heaven, into which the soul, when it is loosely held to
earth, seems to pierce with an intense and yet calm desire, that soothes all pain, and: makes every thing level
and at rest.
"I am glad of this-very glad," she said, after a long
pause, and without any  explanation.  " He ought to be
married, and he will be sure to make a good, kind hus



Two' Marriages.              69
band to whomever he chooses for his wife; and no doubt
he has chosen wisely and well."
"I hope he has," said Mrs. Knowle, rather tartly. She
was but human, and she did not like the destruction of
her little romance.
"I am sure of it. The man who could love one woman so faithfully as he once loved me-"
Mrs. Knowle turned round eagerly.
Emily colored, even through the paleness of mortal
disease. "Yes, it was-so. He was never untrue to mne.
I can't tell you any particulars, and I never found it
out myself till a little while ago. 7 But he did come back,
to the very day, and claimed me. Only-I was never
told."
"And whose doing was that?"
" My father's."
Mrs. Knowle almost started from her chair. "What
an atrocious- "
"Hush! it is too late now. And, besides,:it might
have come to the same thing in the end. Feel here!"
and she took Mrs, Knowle's hand and put it to her heart,
which was beating violently. and'irregularly.  "He idoes
not know it-my good husband I mean. Was he not
good to me this morning? Nobody knows it, I think.
But I know it," and she smiled. "I am quite certainsafely certain-that I am dying."
"Don't say that. You must not - you ought not."
And Mrs. Knowle tried a little to reason-her out of'that
conviction, which seemed to be the source of all her
strength, and the soothing of all her sorrows.
"No  no. This world has been a little too hard




70                Two Marriages.
for me," Emily said; "but in the other I may begin
again, and be strong. Do you -think he has forgiven
me?"
"Who, my-poor child?"
"John Stenhouse. You see, I might have obeyed my
father, and not married him; but then I ought not to
have married at all. Nobody ought, loving another person all the time. But I was so weak-and-  Never
mind. It does not matter much now."
"John has married, you see," said Mrs. Knowle, partly
with a lurking sense of indignation at him, and partly
from a vague feeling that even now it was her duty to
impress that fact salutarily upon Sir John Bowerbank's
wife. Both the wrath and the caution passed harmlessly
over the gentle spirit, that was already loosing its cables
from earthly shores, and feeling soft, pure airs blowing
toward it from the land unseen.
"Yes, he has married; I can quite understand how it
came about: just the sort of marriage he would be sure
to make-of pity, and tenderness, and duty. And it may
turn out a very happy one. He will love her very much
when -when I am quite gone away. I hope she is a
good woman."
"I hope so," said Mrs. Knowle, rather huskily.
"Would you mind trying to find out? I don't' mean
that I am ever likely to have any acquaintance with
them, but I should like to know about him and her.
And something about her three children too. He will
have to work hard to maintain so large a family."
"Very hard."
It was strange how the two women seemed to have




Two Marriages.               71
changed places. Emily talked, Mrs. Knowle was all but
silent.
"You are sure you don't mind making these inquiries? Or I would ask my husband. Yes, perhaps, after
all, it will be better to ask my husband. He might befriend them very much, and I am sure he would like to
do it."
"In the way he once wanted — by getting John Stenhouse into the firm again? Do you mean that? and do
you wish it, Emily?"
" No, not wish it exactly. But"-and she opened her
eyes wide, clear, and pure- pure alike with the innocence of sorrow and the peace of coming death, and fixed
them steadily on Mrs. Kno'wle's face -" I should not be
afraid of his coming to Liverpool — not now."
Mrs. Knowle fairly laid her head on the sofa pillow
and sobbed.'Then she rose up, saying in a cheerful
voice,
"Well, my dear, I have staid talking quite long enough
for one day, so good-by. I'll keep a look-out after the
Stenhouses. Meantime lie down and get a sleep if you
can, and take care to be quite bright by the time Sir
John comes in to dinner."
"Oh yes, I always try to do that. I like to please
him. He is very good to me," said Emily Bowerbank.




72                 Two M-iarriages.
CHAPTER VI.
LADY BOWERBANK was, as she said, dying; that is,
the seeds of death were firmly sown in her constitution,
but they were very slow of developing themselves. Perhaps the exceeding: peace in which, externally, her daily
life was-passed, partly caused this; but chiefly it was because, if she had seen an end to happiness, so she had to
all its bitterest elements, its turmoil, trial, restlessness,
and pain. She was not strong enough to suffer, and now
she had ceased to suffer any more. She even seemed for
a while to rally, and to take- an interest iii things about.
her-the tender; farewell interest of one soon departing.
She was especially sedulous in all duties to her husband
-at least those which she was able to perform. But she
had long sunk into a thorough invalid wife, most kindly
watched and tended,. though; more by his orders than by
his personal care, while he went his own ways, and fell
back gradually into much of.his old. "bachelors' life, as
it had, been spent. in the long interregnum between his
first marriage and his union with poor Emily Kendal.
"Sir John is quite comfortable: he will not miss me
very much," Mrs. Knowle once heard her say, more meditatively than complainingly. But that lady, who had
so keen a sense of wifely duty, even without love, never
took any notice of the remark.




Two iMarriages.              73
And when, according to promise, she had learnt all attainable facts about the Stenhouses —how that they lived
in London, on Mr. Stenhouse's not too large salary in a
merchant's office, and he was reported to be a most kind
husband-to the widow, and a careful father to the three
fatherless children- after this, the prudent matron said
as little as possible to Lady Bowerbank on the subject
of her old lover.
Only once, when, after as long an interval as it was
possible for civility to admit of, Mr. Stenhouse answered
the congratulations he had received on his marriage in a
letter to Mrs. Knowle, containing the brief message"his own and his wife's compliments, and thanks to Sir
John and Lady Bowerbank" -Emily's eyes filled with
tears.
" He might have been a little kinder," she said. "But
he does not know, and he can not forgive. He never
will forgive me-till I die."
And meantime the two, once lovers, lived on, and did
their duty to the husband and the wife unto whom Fate
had united them. Whether bitter thoughts ever camewhether in the dead of night either woke up and remembered the past, their young, bright, innocent mutual love,
and the cruelty that snatched it from them and turned it
into a curse; whether their hearts ever burned within
them against man, or, alas! against Providence, because
in this short, short mortal life they were not made happy
— they whose happiness would have injured no one, and
who needed nothing in the world to make them happy
except a little love —these were mysteries which must remain forever undisclosed.
D




74                Twbo iMarriages.
But month by month there was disclosed the plain sad
fact that Sir John Bowerbank's second marriage was not
likely to be of much longer duration than his first one,
which most people had altogether forgotten; and much
was the sympathy excited both for him and for the sweet,
fragile creature who was fading away, peacefully and
contentedly, it was evident, but still fading, no one quite
knew how or why. All the Liverpool doctors, and more
than one London physician, were brought to his wife by
Sir John, in undemonstrative but evident anxiety;* but
they could not cure her-they could not even find out
what was the matter with her. Hereditary weakness,
want of stamina, deficiency of vital force-they called her
disease, or no disease, by all these fine names; but no
human being guessed the root of it except Mrs. Knowle.
She, honest woman, as she sat knitting beside her
" Edward," who was getting an old man now-stout, and
a little infirm with rheumatism, and sometimes a little
cross too with the weight of business, but still at heart
the same hearty, kindly "goodman" as ever —would often say with a sigh, " Ah, poor Emily! if those two had
only been left to fight the battle out together as we did,
my dear, how much better it would have been!"
At which Mr. Knowle, who never sentimentalized in
his life, just assented, smiled at his "old: woman," and
perhaps a little weary of the subject,-generally went to
sleep.
How the Stenhouses struggled on, for it must have
been a- struggle at best, with their small income and the
three children, Mrs. Knowle could not easily learn; John
Stenhouse seemed determined to drop entirely out of the




Two Marriages.              75
range of his old Liverpool friends. To any letters-and
Mrs. Knowle wrote him several-he always returned polite, but long-delayed and unsatisfactory answers, telling
her nothing that she wished to know, and inquiring of
nothing which, she hardly knew why, she would have
liked him to inquire about.
"And there is that poor thing dying, and he does not
even know it!" lamented she sometimes. To which her
husband only answered with the common-sense question,
"And what would be the good of it if he did know?"
Nor on her side was Emily aware —and Mrs. Knowle
took care to keep it from her, lest it might disturb her
peaceful dying —that his struggle was the equally hard
struggle of living: grinding poverty; a delicate, nervous, broken-spirited wife; three hungry children to be
fed, from duty, without the natural fatherly love to
sweeten it; and, above all, the daily blank in the life of
a strong, faithful, single-hearted man, who, having once
taken it into his head, or heart, to love one woman, never
can learn to unlove her to the end of his days. Such
men there are, but they are very, very rare, and John
Stenhouse happened to be one of them.
So he locked his secret up in his breast, and, whether
or not his marriage was a happy one, went on working
steadily and patiently for his wife and for the children,
not his own, whom Providence had sent to him. He
slipped away from all his old associates, till even Mr. and
Mrs. Knowle were half inclined to do as he apparently
wished, and let him go.
But the one person who, with an almost fateful pertinacity, held to him, was Sir John Bowerbank. Whether




76                Two Marriages.
he, too, was the sort of person who, once taking a liking,
great or small, never relinquishes it, or whether some
other secret inner sympathy attracted him to young Stenhouse, as being not unlike what he himself had been as
a young man, certain it was that the head of the firm
never lost sight of his former clerk; and when, on Mr.
Knowle's suggesting the advisability of a junior partner,
the question arose who should be adopted into such a
valuable and responsible situation, the first person Sir
John proposed to whom the offer should be made was
Mr. Stenhouse.
Edward Knowle was greatly amazed-nay, perplexed.
He rubbed up his hair with a troubled aspect.
"Stop a bit; I think —I think I should like to speak
to my wife about this."
Sir John looked undisguised surprise. "As you please.
But it never would occur to me to consult my wife on
business matters."
"Indeed!" said the other, catching eagerly at the opportunity, "I wish you would. I really think you had
better-in this matter."
"Why?"
"You see," awkwardly explained Mr. Knowle,'"a
partner, which also implies a partner's wife, is a serious
thing to the women-kind, bringing about much intimacy,
and all that. I fancy-of course it's only a fancy of mine
-that the ladies would both like to be consulted about
it. Shall my wife go and speak to Lady Bowerbank?"
" If she chooses; but it is really great nonsense bringing domestic affairs into a mere question of business. It
will cause delay, while every post is a matter of conse



Two Marriages.               77
quence., I can not see the use of it at all. In fact, with
your consent-" and his- manner implied with.or without
it, for Sir John Bowerbank was a very obstinate man in
his way, as was well known to his partner-" with your
consent, I shall write and make the offer to the young.
man to-night."
He did so, and it was declined —declined immediately
and point-blank, without any reasons being assigned for
the refusal.
Sir John was considerably annoyed. To the answer,
which had come, not by letter, but by telegram, so eager
apparently was the young man to renounce the proffered
kindness, he wrote again, suggesting easier terms —terms
so favorable that no man in his senses seemed likely to
refuse them, and yet by return of post refused they were.
" The man must be mad," said Sir John to his partner.
"Perhaps,'" was the brief reply.
"Why, he has three children and a delicate wife, and
scarcely enough salary to keep them in bread and cheese;
for you know, at Lady Bowerbank's desire, I found out
all about them. She was interested in the wife, and
might write and advise her to persuade her husband out
of his folly. I must speak to Lady Bowerbank."
Meantime Ifady Bowerbank had been spoken to. In
fear and'trembling the matter had been broken to her by
good Mrs. Knowle; but there was no need for uneasiness; Emily evinced not the slightest sign of agitation.
She merely said that she thought such a partnership
would be the best thing possible, both for the firm and
for Mr. Stenhouse, and that she hoped it would come
about speedily. And then she lay looking into the sun



78                Two Marriages.
set over the sea, with a strange, soft expression in her
eyes.
"You are sure —quite sure, my dear Emily, that you
have no objection?"
"No; why should I?" And she added again still
more earnestly, " Oh no —not now."
"And by that," commented Mrs. Knowle, as she repeated the conversation to her husband, "I am certain
Emily feels that she is dying."
They talked the whole matter over for a while, conjugally and confidentially, in their own room, for they
had been asked to dine and sleep-that night at Summer
Lodge, as indeed they very often were now, and then
went back to the drawing-room.
There, white indeed as a dying face, but eager with all
the strength of life, lay poor Emily, her husband sitting
beside her sofa in his quiet, attentive, elderly way, and
trying, as well as he could, to make little bits of talk,
concerning the news of the day in Liverpool, to amuse
her during the hour and a half that he and his guests
dined, and she rested alone, for she had now ceased entirely to join the circle at meals.' Come here, Mrs. Knowle, and say if you do not agree
with me —you women understand one another so well.
I have been telling my wife about that young man's exceeding folly-your friend Stenhouse, I mean-in refusing to enter our firm. It must be a mere crotchet-some
offense taken, or the like, for which we can't afford to
lose such a useful partner, or to let. a fine young fellow
cut his own throat in that way. I want Lady Bowerbank to write to his wife, and reason with her. She has




Two Marriages.               79
a right; for Lady Bowerbank has done all sorts of kind
things to Mrs. Stenhouse."
"Kindness implies no right," said Emily, hastily and
tremulously. "I don't know her. I can not write to
her. What could I say?"
"Just a little common sense-that such a chance as
this does not happen to a man twice in a lifetime i that
Stenhouse should take advantage of it. He is very poor.
I hear he can but just put bread into the mouths of those
three children. If he were to join us he would make his
fortune."
" Make his fortune," repeated Emily, wistfully. " Ah!
if that had been-once.'But it is too late now."
"Too late, my dear! Nonsense. The young man can
not be over thirty yet."
" Thirty-one and a half."
Sir John Bowerbank looked exceedingly surprised for
the moment. "I forgot-you said you knew him."' Yes, I did know him, as Mrs. Knowle is aware. I
met him at her house. I was once going to be married
to him. He was very fond of me."
Quite quietly, without the slightest sign of emotion,
Emily said, these words, as if it had been a fact communicated concerning a third person; so utterly divided
from the world and the passions of it seemed that frail
creature, who already stood close on the portals of the
world to-come.
" Shall I go away?" whispered Mrs. Knowle, and yet
she dreaded to do it, for there was something so unearthly in Emily's expression just then.
"Oh no, do not leave me. You can tell my husband




80                Two Marriages.
any thing he wishes to know. Dear husband! you are
not angry with me? You know I was a poor weak thing
always, and now all will soon be over. It is far the best
-far the best:"
"I do not understand," said, with a distressed air, Sir
John Bowerbank.
No, he did not; it was not in him to understand. And
when, in few words, for her breath was short and her
strength small, she told him all the story-not that she
had married him without loving him, for this he knew
from the first; but that she had loved another, from
whom she had been so cruelly separated; that from that
day her poor young life had withered up at its very roots;
still, still the worthy man seemed as if he could not understand. He was sixty years old, and the tale belonged
to youth and love; to a time which, if he had ever known,
had now entirely passed away even from his remembrance.
He just looked perplexed, and a little sorry, and patted,
with a soothing gesture,-:the wasted hands that were held
out to him entreatingly.
"Do miot excite yourself-pray do not, my dear! It is
so very bad for you. Just tell me what you wish, and
I will try to do it."
"And you are not angry?"
"About this young man? No, no. Of course, it was
a great pity, but the thing happens every day. Don't
fret about it, Emily. You are very comfortable as you
are-at least I hope so."
"Yes," said Emily; and her tears ceased, and her quivering features settled into composure. No, he could not
understand-this good, kindly-meaning, elderly man, no




:Two Mafrriages.            81
more than the tens of thousands of respectable men and
women of this world ever do understand —the full meaning of Love. Love, happy or unhappy, mutual or unreturned, perfect or unfulfilled, bdt still real; true, heartwarm love, which is a gift direct from Love divine, and
which ever to know, or to have known, is a blessing which
fills a whole lifetime.
"You perceive now, Sir John," said Lady Bowerbank,
laying over his her shrunken hand, where the weddingring hung as loosely as the great hoop of diamonds that
guarded it, " you perceive why Mr. Stenhouse is so insensible to all your kindness. He thinks himself wronged,
and he was wronged-cruelly. He was made to believe
one thing and I another, and so we were parted. Please
tell my husband how it was, Mrs. Knowle, " I have no
strength for speaking much."
"Don't speak at all, for where is the good of it?" said
Sir John, who evidently disliked the discussion of the
matter. "Things can't be mended now, my dear! HIe
has got a wife and you a husband. So, even if I were
to die, it would be of no use. You could not marry
him."
" I was not thinking of marrying, but of dying. Husband, I am certain I am dying; and it is hard to die without his having forgiven me, for he was a good man, and
he was terribly wronged. Often —often I thought of asking you, but I had not courage. Now I have. Will
you do one thing for me?'
"What, my dear?",' Let me see John Stenhouse again-for one half hour
-just one ten minutes-before I die!"
D 2




82                Two Marriages.
"Don't talk of dying; you will live many years yet,
I trust," said Sir John, earnestly.
Emily shook her head.
" Ah! yo'a know' better than that. And I would not
ask such a kindness unless I were dying. It is not
wrong; surely you do not think so?" added she, imploringly. "I only want to tell hin the truth; that it was
not I who deceived him; I want to save him-he is a
good man, you know-from having his whole life embittered and his future injured by thinking of me as a
wicked, faithless woman, who first jilted him, and then let
her rich husband insult him by showing him kindness.
The truth would set all right-just three words of honest,
simple truth. Husband, may I see himr? Mrs. Knowle,
speak for me, please."
"I really think your wife is right, Sir John," said
plain-speaking Mrs. Knowle.
"Very well. Settle it among yourselves, you womenkind!" answered Sir John, as he rose up. "Only take
care that Lady Bowerbank does not overexert herself."
-"Thank you," breathed rather than spoke the poor
girl;, in her excessive fragileness, she seemed wasting
back[ into thin girlhood again. "And you will forgive
me, because I can not either harm you or grieve you
much; I shall be dead so very soon - quietly dead, you
know, as your first wife is, whom you never talked to
me about. I wish you had, now and theih. Were you
very fond of her? And I dare say she was very fond
of you?"
The old man suddenly sat down again, covering his
eyes with his hand.




Two fcarriages.              83
"Don't mention her, please. Poor little Jane - my
Janie. She loved me."
And as he sat beside the wife of his prosperous later
days, who, whether living or dying, only coldly esteemed
him, and was grateful to him, perhaps the old man's
thoughts went back, with a sudden leap of memory, to
the wife of his youth and his poverty, so fond, so simple,
so tender, and so true. When he took his hand away
there were traces of tears on the withered cheeks, and he
rose hastily to depart.
" Well, my dear, we need speak no more on this matter. You can see Mr. Stenhouse whenever you like, and
if you can persuade him to enter our firm, so much the
better.. Impress upon him that capital is of no moment;
a young, active, business-like man is the one thing needed, both by Mr. Klnowle and myself. Isn't it so, Mrs.
Knowle? You'll write the letter, perhaps?  And you
will take good care of my wife here, and not let her
mope, eh?"
"I will, Sir John."
"Good afternoon, then."
And he went away, leaving the women alone.




84                lwO Harriages.
CHAEPTER VII.
WHAT John Stenhouse said to his wife when he got
Mrs. Knowle's letter-a very. brief, simple letter, dictated
by Lady Bowerbank at her bedside, and merely stating
that she wished to see her old friend again, as she did
not think she was long for this world- what he said or
what he felt, this history can not tell. He was not a man
likely to have confided much of his own previous history to his wife, nor, when Mrs. Knowle afterward saw the
lady, did that acute matron think her a person likely to
have evinced much interest concerning her husband's
early fortunes or lost love -a nice, pretty - faced, gentle
creature, languid, and a little uninteresting, besides being
a little lazy, as Indian ladies are apt to be. Doubtless
the marriage had grown, as so many marriages do grow,
out of mere circumstances, and after it the husband had
gone back very much to his own old life -the life of action, or business, or, at best, of general kindly benevolence
-a life in which his wife took little part, or, indeed, was
capable of taking it.
When John Stenhouse visited Liverpool - for, after
showing the letter to Mrs. Stenhouse, in whom it did not
excite the least curiosity, he started North at once, every
one of his old acquaintance, especially the Knowles, noticed a visible change in him —a certain hardness, reticence, and self-containediess, deeper than even the reserve




Two Marriages.               85
of his bachelor days - as if the man had withdrawn into
himself, went his own ways, and carried out his own life
with a grave and sad independence. He spoke of his
home and of his wife with a careful tenderness, but his
eye did not moisten nor his face kindle when naming
either, and there was nothing of that total change from
frosty coldness to sunshiny warmth which is often seen
in the looks and manner of a man who marries ever so
late in life, if he marries with all his heart in the union.
In this man's heart, good and true as it was, and would
always remain, faithful till death, for honors and conscience sake, to the woman he had taken to himself, still,
as any one who knew the difference could plainly see,
and as Edward and Emma Knowle saw at a glance, the
sacred marriage torch, ever burning yet ever unconsumed, had never really been lighted-never would be.
But Stenhouse had been always a silent and undemonstrative man; and his experience abroad had made him
more so, and more sedulous than even in his youth over
the keeping up of all outward observances. Even when
le sat listening to Mrs. Knowle's account of Lady Bowerbank's failing health and the hopelessness of her recovery, and again to that other story, which it had been arranged she should. tell him, and not Emily, of the circumstances of her marriage to Sir John, and the letter
found in Mr. Kendal's desk afterward, he exhibited outwardly nothing more than a sad gravity; in fact, he hardly spoke six consecutive words.
"So like a man!" cried Mrs. Knowle, half bitterly,
when she was retailing the conversation to her husband.
"I think it was like a man," said honest Edward




86                Two MaJrriages.
Knowle; and his wife, woman as she was, quick, impulsive, and hard to believe in what she did not clearly see,
recognized dimly what her husband meant. She respected, and in years to come learned daily to respect more,
the manly endurance which, beholding the absolute and
inevitable, accepts it, and, whatever the man suffers,
makes no sign.
"Thank you," Mr. Stenhouse had said, holding out his
hand to Mrs. Knowle, "thank you for all your kindness;
to me myself-and-. to her! Is she able to see me? If
so, had we not better go at once?"
Mrs. Knowle ordered the carriage, and they drove across
country —the miles upon miles of flat country.which
mark the Liverpool shore - a long level of roads, fields,
and hedges-hedges, fields, and roads —sometimes green,
perhaps, and not ugly, but tame and uninteresting as a
loveless life -- as the life which had been meted out to
these two human creatures, who, left to their own holy
instincts, would have met and mingled together, and
flowed on harmoniously as one perfect existence. Now?
Mr. Stenhouse and Mrs. Knowle conversed very little
during their drive, and then not concerning any thing of
the past.  Only once, with unnecessary caution, Mrs.
Knowle screwed up her courage to its utmost pitch and
said,
"Perhaps it would be better if you did not speak to
Emily about her father."  John Stenhouse's face turned
purple-red, and his eyes flamed.
"No, I will remember he is dead-dead." And within
a minute or two he said-the bitterest thing he ever was
known to say —' Mrs. Knowle, my father died a month




Two Marriages.               87
before I was born, and my mother seven years afterward.
Perhaps it's true what a cynical friend of mine used to
declare,' that when he chose a wife, he would take care
she was a miserable orphan."'
But they were reaching the door, where scarcely any
visitors now entered except good Mrs, Knowle.  Soon
they passed through the splendid empty house, where
the mistress had been missing so long that her absence
was scarcely noticed. The large, handsome drawingroom was just as bright, even though the sofa in the
corner where Emily used to lie was vacated, and had
been for some days. She now occupied a small room
much quieter and farther removed, which had been hastily fitted up fpr her comfort. In a few days more she
would vanish even from that into her own chamber and
bed, never to be carried thence till carried away in that
narrow couch of eternal rest where we all shall be laid
some day. And that day was not very far off now to
the weary soul and worn-out body of Emily Bowerbank.
As she said many a time, life had been too hard for her;
she was glad to go to sleep.
When the strong, hearty, healthy man, still young in
years, and with all his- life before him, passed out of the
bright, cheerful drawing-room, full of all human sights
and sounds —rich furniture, the scent of exotics, and the
shrill note of cage-birds singing —to that small inner
chamber where the light was subdued, and there was a
faint, oppressive perfume to make up for the lack of fresh
air; while a sedate old woman, the nurse of Emily's childish days, sat sewing at the window, but turning every
minute at the slightest cough or movement of the almost




88                tPwo iarriyages.'motionless figure on the sofa, John Stenhouse drew back
involuntarily. He had not realized till now all that he
had lost-all that he was losing. Though he had been
told it over and over again, he never really recognized
that the woman he once loved so passionately- the pretty bright girl, with her rosy, cheeks, her laughing eyes,
and her heart full of the fondest, most innocent love, was
dying.
He was married now-another woman owned his duty,
and possessed a great deal of the tenderness that no honorable man can fail to give to a creature so utterly dependent.on him as a wife is —but Emily Kendal had been
his first love. All the memories of it, and of her, rushed
upon him with an agony, irrepresslble.,s He  grasped Mrs.
Knoiwle'by: tle-:aim; issl6  as"going into the sick-room.
"'Wait a minute-stay!-say I'll come presently."
And he rushed away, right down the staircase, and
through the first open door —for it was high summer, and
the air was full of sunshine and of roses-into the garden.
It was half an hour before he returned, which gave
time for them to meet, as alone was possible these two
could meet-as old friends-calm, tender, self-possessedfriends over whom hung the sacred shadow of the eternal
parting-at least the parting which we call eternal in this
world-though it often makes closer and nearer, for the
rest of life; those who otherwise would have been forever
divided.
Perhaps Emily feIt this:; for,: as she raised herself a
little from her sofa, aad held out her hand to Mr. Stenhouse, there was not a trace of agitation or confusion in
her manner.




Two Marriages.                89
"II am very glad to see you. It was so kind of you
t.o come. Did you leave your wvife quite well? and all
the children?"
Commonplace, simple words they were-the. simplest,
most natural, that could p.ossibly be chosen-and:'-yetthey
were the best and safest. They took off the edged;oftihat
sharp agony which was thrilling through every fibre of
the strong man's heart.. They brought him bac.k to the
commonplace daily world, to his. daily duties, arnd- his ordinary ways. The wholesome, saving present came between him and the delirious past. And though it was
Emily's old smile, her very tone of voice, and a trick of
manner she had —how well he recalled it, of half extending her hand, drawing it back, and then putting it forward again, with the uncertainty that' was the weak point
in her character-still he had no -desire to snatch her to
his arms, and hold her there, in her old familiar place,
like any mortal woman. HIe felt inclined rather to stand
apart and gaze at her, as she lay, consecrated from earthly emotion in her almost superhuman" p eace:or.i.else -to
fall on his knees and worship her, as Dante- orsiped
his Beatrice when he met -her in the fields of Paradise. And he found himself powerless to say any other
words than one or two, as brief and inexpressi{ve as her
own.
"My wife and the children are well. It was very good
of you to send for me, after I had been so rude, so ungrateful almost, to your husband."
Emily bent her head, acquiescing; and then, as if with
a great effort,
"I had something to say to you-something I thought




90               Two Marriages.
you would listen to, from me, now. I entreat you to accept this partnership. It will be a good thing for you,
-and an equally good thing for Sir John and Mr. Knowle.
You would like Sir John very much if you knew him
well. He knew nothing about you and me till lately.
And he has been such a good, good husband to me."
"Thank God for that! If-if he had been any thing
else than good to you-"
And then, shocked by the sound of his own harsh
voice jarring on the stillness of the room, and still more
so by perceiving the sudden tremor that came over Lady
Bowerbank, he stopped, recognizing the sanctity of sickness —of near advancing death.
"Yes," he added, almost in a whisper, "I feel very
grateful to Sir John Bowerbank; I am not ashamed of
his knowing-indeed, I have been asking Mrs. Knowle
to tell him-how very poor we are, and are likely to remain; and that if he really still wishes me to accept his
offer, I will do my utmost to prove deserving of it."
" Will you? oh, will you?" clasping her hands in her
old, pretty childish way at any thing she was very
glad of.
John Stenhouse turned away.
"It is not easy, for I will do it because you wish itfor your sake."
"No; do it for your own,"' said Emily; solemnly, with
all the old childish manner gone. "Do it, that you may
take a wise man's advantage of this chance of getting on
in the world, and living fully the life that is before you.
Think, a life of twenty, thirty years, with work to do,
and money to use, and influence to make the most of, for




Two Marriages.              91
the good of yourself and all that belong to you. That is
what I want. I want you to lead your own noble, active,
useful life —just as I once planned it-though it was not
to be beside me, and though I shall not even see it; for
I am going away, John-you know that?"
He could not deny it; he did not even attempt to do
so; he just moved his lips, but they would not form a
sound.'Yes, going away- in a few days, or a few weeks
more, to where I know I shall be quite happy-happier than I ever could be here. I only wished before I
went to let you know the truth. She," glancing to Mrs.
Knowle, "she has told you all?"
"Yes," he muttered, but attempted not, nor did Emily
offer, any farther explanation. One a husband; the other
a wife, with the shadow of the dead father between them
-it was impossible. The past was over and done. But
the present was peace —all peace.
" Anid now good-by, and God bless you," said Emily,
faintly.' "Give my love to your wife. Does she know
any thing about me?"
"'No; I never told her."
" Ah! well, let that be as you choose. And one thing
-I know I have forgotten one thing that I had to say
to you-Mrs. Knowle, what is it? Oh, my head! - Please,
Mrs. Knowle, will you help me?" with the querulous tone
and wandering eye which told at once how fast her sand
of life was running. " Yes, I remember now; it was to
give you this," taking a valuable diamond brooch from
under her pillow, "and to ask you, if ever you have a
little daughter of your own, to give it to her from me.




92                Two Marriages.
And perhaps, if your wife did not object, you wouldn't
mind calling her Emily?"
Nobody answered or stirred, not even Mrs. Knowle,
who stood at the window in nurse's vacated place; nor
John Stenhouse, who sat opposite the sofa where Lady
Bowerbank lay-sat, with his hands clasped tightly on
his knees, looking at her, as if he wished to carry away
the last picture of her, vivid as life and youth, permanent'
as love and death.
At length he moved, and, taking the brooch from her
hand, kissed both, and so bade her farewell.
"If you come soon to settle in Liverpool, perhaps I
may see you once more," said she, gently, and with a
sort of compassion in her voice, for she saw that he was
absolutely dumb with sorrow. But both knew that this
was only a fiction to hide the last good-by; and when
the door closed between them, both felt that they never
would see one another again.
They never did, though Lady Bowerbank lived for several weeks longer, and even after the time when the Stenhouses came to settle in Liverpool. She heard all about
them from Mrs. Knowle, who, in her customary active
way, was exceedingly helpful to the rather helpless Indian lady; and she seemed to take a faint, flickering interest-the last interest of her fading life-in the house
they fixed on, the manner they furnished it, and their
general household ways. Nay, she sent many little gifts
to them-harmless, domestic gifts, such as not even the
proudest man could reject, and which, without making
any external show of giving, greatly added to the comfort of Mr. Stenhouse's home. But she never asked to




Two Marriages.               93
see him again. She seemed to feel that the last meeting
had been a peaceful closing of every thing that. bound
her to life, and every thing that made death painful; apparently she did not wish to revive either, but lay perfectly at rest, waiting patiently for the supreme call.
It came at last, quite suddenly, as often happens in
consumption, when both the watchers and the patient are
lulled into a hope that it is still far distant. She had no
one with her, and no time to say farewell to any body;
only the nurse, running to her and bending over her, fancied there came through the choking of the expiring
breath the words "John —dear John."
Consequently the woman fetched Sir John, and told
him, and Mrs. Knowle, and every body, that Lady Bow:
erbank's last words had been her husband's name. Nobody contradicted the fact.
It may be thought a proof of the hardness of John
Stenhouse's heart to state that except the one day- of
Lady Bowerbank's funeral, when, out of respect to her
memory, the office of Bowerbank and Co. was closed, and
the clerks had liberty to enjoy themselves as they pleased
-and she would have been glad of it, dear, kindly heart!
-except on this occasion the junior partner of the firm
was never an hour absent from his desk. He came early
-he went late-he filled the place of both his senior
partners-Mr. Knowle, who was laid up with an attack
of rheumatism, and Sir John; from whom, of course, little
could be expected just now.' In every way he did his
duty like a man; and not one of those excellent gentlemen on'Change, with whom he daily transacted business,




94                Two Miarriages.
giving promise that the new blood which had come into
the firm* would make the house of Bowerbank and Co.
higher than ever among Liverpool merchants-not one
of them ever suspected that within the week a light had
gone out of this young man's life which nothing in the
world could ever relume.
Nevertheless, John Stenhouse's life has neither been
useless nor sad. Moderately prosperous, and widely honored by all who know him, externally he may be considered a'happy and successful man. And his home, if a
little dull sometimes, is always quiet and comfortable.
In course of time it was brightened by a little daughter
-his very own little daughter-and he called her Emily.
In compliment-and very right too, every body said-to
the head of the firm and his.deceased wife, poor Lady
Bowerbank.
Emily's instinct-true woman's instinct-was correct.
Sir John and Mr. Stenhouse became fast friends.. Such
strange likings ofteh occur, under circumstances which in
meaner natures produce only jealousy and aversion. But
these three-the two men left living, and the sweet woman happily dead-were all good peopleynone of whom
had intentionally wronged the other, but had all been
sinned against by the one selfish, hard heart, which was
now a mere handful of dust. Still, by the merciful ordinance of Providence, evil itself is limited in its power
against good, especially when after it comes the solemn,
healing hand of inevitable fate, which the foolish and bad
resist, but by which the wise and good are -calmed and
soothed.
When Emily was.dead, the two honest. men who had




Two Marriages.               95
loved and mourned her-one with the wild angry passion
of loss, the other with a half-remorseful tenderness —were
unconsciously drawn to one another in a way neither
could have explained or desired to explain, but both felt
it was so. They sought one another's company shyly
and doubtfully at first; afterward with. a yearning sort of
curiosity; finally out of warm regard. The great difference of age between them, which might have been that
of father and son, and the fact that the one had never had
a father nor the other a son, also combined to prevent all
feeling of rivalry, and to form a bond of mutual attraction
and mutual usefulness. And she who was gone, though
her name was never once named between them till Mr.
Stenhouse asked Sir John's permission to give it to. his
baby daughter, constituted a tie stronger than any thing
external.
Mr. Knowle was a little surprised, and so was Mrs.
Knowle, to see the great cordiality and even intimacy
which in the course of a year sprang up between the
senior and junior partners. But the Knowles were both
such kindly people that, though they did not understand
it-indeed, would have expected things to be altogether
different, they were exceedingly glad it was so —exceedingly tender, too, in a half sad sort of way, over'the baby
Emily, whom good Mrs. Knowle took to with a warmth
surpassing even her universal and ardent affection for all
babies.
And so the three households of the firm of John Bowerbank and Co. still subsist-two rich and childless, one
much poorer, but not without many blessings. There
is, at all events, wherewithal to put food into the little




96                Two Marriages.
mouths, and clothes on the little bodies, and instruction
into the little minds; and John Stenhouse is a good father, who, in a literal sense, "makes no step-bairns," but
is equally just and tender with his own and his wife's
daughters. As a parent of young children he has been
almost faultless; what he may be when the little maidens
grow up and take to marrying, Heaven knows! But
the sharp experience of his own life may be all the better
for theirs.
People do say that one of them is not likely to be poor
all her life, but will be chosen by Sir John Bowerbank
as his heiress, at least so far as regards the late Lady
Bowerbank's fortune; his own, Sir John openly declares,
he means to divide among charitable institutions. Poor
little Emily! now running about under the shady alleys
of Birkenhead Park in her cotton frock, and with occasional holes in her shoes, she knows not what may be her
destiny! Nor does herfather-good man —who watches
her and guards her, and is both father and mother to her,
for Mrs. Stenhouse, though sweet as ever, has sunk into
confirmed laziness and elegant invalidism. Her girls are
good children, but the apple of the father's eye is his own
little daughter; and no doubt even now he thinks with
a certain vague dread of the young man who may be
coming some day to snatch her from him.
Still, under all circumstances, even the alarming catastrophe of Emily's marriage, I think John Stenhouse will
prove himself a just, an unselfish, and a loving father.
And if-human nature being weak at best —he is ever
tempted to be otherwise, he will think, as he'does think,
in many a wakeful midnight, with his wife fast asleep be



Two Marriages.              97
side him, of that quiet grave, within sound of the waves
on Waterloo shore, where lies buried the love of his
youth —the one woman who would have made him really
happy and been happy herself-who, instead of dying
thus, might have lived to be the light of his home and
the mother of his children-poor Emily Kendal.
E








PARSON GARLAND'S DAUGHTER.








PARSON GARLAND'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER I.
THE Reverend William Garland was, in the primitive
sense of the word (vide Chaucer and others), and as it is
still used in remote English parishes, of which his own
formed one of the remotest and smallest, emphatically a
" parson."  Whether legally he could be termed rector,
vicar, perpetual curate, or incumbent, I do not know; in
his own place he was rarely called any thing but "the
parson," just as the only other educated person within
the boundary of the parish was called "the squire."
They divided the land between them-and the people's
hearts, though in both cases the division was notably unequal. But with this said squire —Richard Crux, of
Cruxham Hall-the present story has little to do, more
than to mention his name, and the fact of his residence
within the parish (at the shooting season, for two months
in every twelve), in order to show what a lonely parish
it must have been, and what a shut-up, solitary existence
this was for any man of education and refinement to lead.
Yet the Reverend William Garland had led it for more
than twenty years, and now, though over seventy, he still




102               Two Marriages.
continued to discharge, single-handed, without even a
week's absence, the duties of pastor to that small and
simple flock.
A very simple flock they were, in truth, many of them
never having been in their lives farther than the nearest
market-town, ten miles off. They subsisted chiefly by
farm labor and fishing; for, being only half a mile from
the coast-the southern coast of England —they now and
then roused themselves sufficiently to secure a little of
the deep-sea riches that lay close at hand, and drive a
mild and innocent piscatory trade, chiefly in lobsters.
But, on the whole, -the aspect of the place and its few
inhabitants was as if they and it had grown up out of the
earth somehow, and remained there, stationary as cabba-.ges, with no need to toil for their existence, and no power or will to change it-at least this was the impression
it would probably have made upon a stranger, who, in
crossing the miles upon miles of waving downs, ending
in those sheer precipices of chalk rock which form the
often-sung "white cliffs of Albion," came upon the tiny
village of Immeridge.
It was almost'a compliment to call it a village, for it
consisted of a mere handful -of cottages, one being elevated into the dignity of the' post-office and general shop,
a single house, and the parsonage. The church, as old
as the'Norman Conquest, was very small, and its churchyard contained so few graves that every one of them was
a separate chronicle; and by going over them, you might
guess, fairly enough, at the village history for centuries.
All its family records of joy and sorrow, birth,-marriage,
and death, lay covered over in peace by the green turf
here.




Two 4ifarriages.            103
Here, too, lay the secret of what struck every accidental worshiper in the church, and every stray visitant to
the village and parsonage, as such a remarkable thing —
that a man like the Reverend William Garland should
ever have been found at Immeridge, or, being so located,
could possibly have remained there, as he had done, for
twenty long years.
Just between the parsonage garden-gate and the chaneel-window was a head-stone, notable only for its plainness and for the brevity of the inscription upon it. There
was only a name, " Mary Garland," and three dates of
the three epochs which record all lives —" born," "married," " died." Between the first and second was an interval of forty years; between the second and third one
year only. Underneath-the letters being so equally old
and moss-covered that the oddity did not at first strike a
passer-by-was a second inscription, "Also of the Reverend William Garland, her husband, who died -, aged
years "' blanks being left for the figures, to be filled
up —when? by some hand unknown.
In that grave, which the present generation at Immeridge almost forgot existed, and which only an occasional
old man or woman gave a sigh to, in watching the parson's gown sweep past it, Sunday after Sunday, on his
way from his own gate to the vestry door-in that little
grave lay the mystery, such as it was, of Mr. Garland's
life from manhood to old age.
He had fallen in love with her-the " her" who to other people was now a poor handful of dust, but which to
him was still a living and real woman and wife-fallen
in love, not very early, for he was a shy man and a hard




104               Two Marriages.
student, but soon after he got his fellowship. They were
quite alone in the world-orphans, with no near kin, he
being the last of all old county family, having gone up
to Cambridge as a sizar, and thence worked his way to
considerable honor; and she, of no family at all, having
worked her way also, and earned her bread hardly as
a resident governess. It was an attachment which, as
neither had any thing to marry upon except love, might
fairly be characterized as "imprudent;" but there was
no one to tell them so, and the mere love made them
happy. So, as they were both young enough to wait,
and as some one of "the livings in the gift of college was
certain to fall to Mr. Garland's lot in time, they did wait,
silently and patiently, for fifteen years.
No doubt it was a sad alternative. Of a truth, this
sitting watching for dead men's shoes is one of the hardest trials to human endurance and human goodness; but
somehow they bore it, these two, and were not actually
unhappy-that is, they were less unhappy than if they
had parted, on the prudential motives which, had they
not luckily been two lonely creatures, would have been
worried into them by affectionate friends and relatives.
As it was, they were at least allowed to blight their lives
in their own way.
At length the living of Immeridge fell, in customary
rotation, to the eldest fellow, and though it was a very
poor one, and the next one due was considerably richer,
still William Garland decided not to let it pass him by.
He, and Mary Keith too, were willing to risk any poverty that was not actual want sooner than longer separation. So they married; and as blessings, like sorrows,




Two Marriages.              105
rarely come. alone, a few days after her wedding, she was
left a' legacy which doubled their income, and made the
brave facing of narrow means a needless courage, to be
smiled over, contentedly and half proudly, in the years
to come-the bright, easy, sunshiny years which never
came.
For within thirteen months Mrs. Garland was taken
out of her husband's arms, and laid to sleep until the
resurrection morning, under that green grass, between the
church chancel and the parsonage gate. She died-more
than peacefully-thankfully, telling him she had been
" so very happy;" and she left him a bit of herself-not
the little daughter he had loriged for, but a baby son,
who for days was scarcely taken notice of, and whom
nobody expected to live. The boy did live nevertheless; and the first interest his father showed in him, or
in any earthly thing, was in christening him, as near to
his mother's name as possible, Marius Keith Garland;
and from that hour William  Garland roused himself,
almost by miracle, from the stunning stroke of his sor-.row; and grave college fellow as he had been only a few
months before-and even his brief married life was only
beginning to shake him out of his long-habitual oldbachelor ways-he made himself at once both father and
mother to the puny infant-his only child.
For at fifty, a man who has had the blessing —ay, even
if a fatal blessing, of loving one woman all his life-who
has married, and lived happy with her only for a year,
is a little' less likely than most men to marry again. - Mr.
Garland never did so.'Whether, through a certain want
of energy, which perhaps had been the weak point in his
E2




106               Two Marriages.
character, and influenced his fortunes in sadder ways
than he himself suspected, or whether the wound, which
scarcely showed outside, had in truth withered up the
springs of life and manly ambition forever, certain it was
that he never tried to better himself by leaving the little
village which had witnessed his crowning joy and utmost
anguish, which was his son's birthplace and his wife's
grave. He settled down in this out-of-the-world nook,
discharged faithfully and fully all his duties there, but
sought no others. He refused all attractions from without-though these were not wanting to a man of his cultivated tastes, for he was a first-rate mathematician, and,
for the two often go together, a scientific musician likewise. He never revisited his old college haunts,; and
after a few years seemed to have not a thought or interest beyond the boundary of his parish and its duties,
such as they were.
Not that he was in any way soured; a man of his
sweet nature could not be, especially by a sorrow which
had come direct from Providence, and had no wrong or
bitterness in it. But it had fallen upon him too late in
life for him to recover from it; and though his heart was
not crushed or broken, for with a woman's gentleness he
also seemed to possess a woman's miraculous strength in
affliction, still his masculine ambition was killed within
him. He could not rise and go back into thee world, and
make himself a new path in it; he preferred-to take his
child to his bosom, and hide himself in the quiet home
which for one little year she had made so happy; narrowing his wishes down to his duties, and hers, which he
had also to fulfill, and so spending, as it were, in the




Two Marriages.              107
shadow of her perpetual invisible presence, the remainder of his uneventful days.
A life which some may think small, limited, unworthy
of a man, and a man of education and intellect. Possibly: I neither defend it nor apologize for it; I merely
record it as it was, and had been for twenty years; for
now young Keith. Garland (since his school-days he had
dropped the "Marius" as being odd and heathenish, and
because the boys turned it into " Polly") was actually
grown up from the forlorn, puling baby into a fine young
man, whom his father, justly considering the difference
of half a century between parent and child, was too wise
to educate entirely himself, but had sent first to a public
school and then to college-the same quiet old college at
Cambridge where Mr. Garland had spent so large a portion of his life.
Of cours6 that cost a. good deal —quite one half of his
income; but he did not grudge it. He never grudged
any thing to his boy, nor restricted him in aught but
what was wrong. And though Marius did wrong things
sometimes, the parson's only son was not a bad boy-not
more selfish than only children are prone to be; very
unlike his father, and still more unlike his mother, having neither the delicate refinement of mind and body of
the former, nor the noble moral nature, generous, frank,
and brave, which had made Mary Keith beloved till her
dying day by a man far cleverer and handsomer than
herself; still, young Garland was a fine fellow, full of
animal life and activity, with a sufficient quantum  of
brains and affections to serve as ballast for both-a good
ship, well built and sound, capable of many a voyage, if




108               Two Afarriages.
only it should please Heaven to put a steady captain on
board, and a quick-eyed steersman at the helm.
But why farther describe the lad? He was like most
lads of his age —neither better nor worse than his neighbors-fairly well liked both in the little world of Immeridge and the larger one of his college. And to his father-well, to the solitary parson, this one untried vessel
was his argosy of price, on which all his life's stores,
youth's memories, manhood's pride, and old age's hope,
were solemnly embarked, as men sometimes (and women,
alas! only too often) do embark their whole treasures in
a single ship, and sit and watch it from the shore, sailing,
sailing far away-whither, God knows! —the only certainty, often the only reliance, in such an awful watch
being the firm faith that He does know.
Mr. Garland had just sent his son back to college after
the first long vacation spent at home, partly in readingor what Keith called such, and partly in wandering up
and down country in the lovely September days, with
his gun on his shoulder, though it was seldom that he
brought home a bird. Indeed, the youth had, his father
thought, an unlimited faculty for doing nothing;' and
after many weeks of that valuable employment, it was a
certain satisfaction, in spite of the pang of parting in the
fatherly heart, which circumstances had made likewise
almost motherly in its tenderness and its anxiety, to feel
that the lad was safe back at his work again; for Keith
always worked hard, and conscientiously too, so far as
the conscience of twenty years goes, when he was really
within the walls of his college.
In the still October sunshine, which streamed in one




two Iarriages.               109
unbroken flood over the smooth downs, and dazzled
whitely where they broke abruptly into high chalk cliffs,
walked the parson, gazing idly on these long familiar
green slopes, and on the glittering sea with its specks of
ships, each seeming stationary, yet in reality gliding,
gliding away, every minute farther and farther, like human lives, into the under world. Mr. Garland had bidden his son good-by only an hour or two before, and his
mind absently followed the lad from these known places
to others equally well known, which belonged to his earlier world, lingering dreamily over those same old college walls which had been his own home for so many
years. He had nev'er revisited them, never wished to
revisit them; but his fancy hung over the thought of
them —those gray cloisters and courts, those green leafy
avenues, with the fondness.that most University men
have for their Alma Mater, the-place mixed up with
all their youthful hopes, and dreams, and friendships, to
which. they cling tenderly to the last day of their lives.
Mr. Garland liked to picture his boy there, with all his
future before him-a future full of high hopes, college
honors, worldly successes, and, by-and-by, domestic joys;
for the good man was eager, as' we all are, to plan for our
successors a brighter destiny than our own, fraught with
all our blessings and none of our woes; profiting by our
experience and omitting our mistakes; carrying out victoriously all that we desired, yet failed to do; and enjoying fully every bliss that to us Heaven's inscrutable wisdom denied. There must have been a curious simplicity,
as well as youthfulness of feeling, still latent in the old
man of seventy, for, as he walked along, he amused him



110               Two Jliarriages.
self with planning his son's future almost as a woman
would have done; for his secluded life had kept in him
that freshness and unworldliness which women generally
retain much longer than men, and which often makes a
woman who was elderly in her teens, in old age as young
in heart as a maiden of twenty. It was almost childlike;
nay, he smiled at it himself-the way the good clergyman speculated about his boy, as he slowly meandered
on, his soft white hair floating over his coat collar, and
his hands clasped behind him over his lengthy, and, it
must be owned, rather shabby coat-tails.
Marius-the father alone still called him Marius —was
to take holy orders-that is, if he tad no strong objections thereto; but he should never be forced into any
thing. He might win his degree and as much of college
honors as he could, but he was not to struggle for a fellowship; there was no need, since he would inherit his
mother's little fortune; and a fellowship h.indered marriage, which the twenty-years solitary widower still believed to be the purest aim and highest blessing of arty
man's existence.
" Yes, Marius must marry," said he to himself, with a
half sigh. "And his lot shall not be like mine. He
shall marry early-as soon as ever he is in full orders,
and can get a good curacy-perhaps even a living: I can
still bring some influence to bear."
And with a pleased look he called to mind a very
friendly letter from his bishop lately received, and another from a mathematical dean in a neighboring diocese,
urging the publication of a book on some abstruse topic
whereon Mr. Garland had wasted gallons. of" midnight




Two Marriages.              111
oil," and quires of valuable paper, during the last two
solitary winters at Immeridge Parsonage.
"Perhaps I could make it into a book after all, and so
get my name known a little, which might be useful to
my son."
Not to himself; that phase of ambition never crossed
the parson's imagination. Nor had he ever been able to
make use of any body for himself. But his son? Many
a scheme of most childlike Machiavelianism did he concoct, as he climbed slowly up, and as slowly descended,
these eminences of green turf, round which the cliff-swallows and an occasional sea-gull were merrily circling.
These schemes were solely for his boy's benefit-acquaintances to make, influential people to be cultivated,
and so on, and so on, even to the last and most vital
question of all-where in the wide world was Keith to
find for himself a wife?
At Cambridge, certainly not; for, at the date of this
history, wider even than now was the gulf between Dons
and undergraduates, rendering the entrance of the latter
into any thing like family life very difficult, nearly impossible. And at Immeridge Keith's lot was worse. Not
a household in the parish contained any youthful women-kind above the rank of laborers' daughters, except
Cruxham Hall, by-the-by; but the Misses Crux were
quite elderly, and, save at church, the young man had
never beheld them, otherwise the father might have built
a charming little romance, since, knowing he came of as
good blood as the Cruxes, it never occurred to him that
a marriage between.the hall and the parsonage would be
in the least a mnesalliance. If, indeed, he had a weak point,




112               Two Marriages.
this true, honest Christian man, it was that, having been,
as the phrase is, "a gentleman born," and having lived
all his life among gentlemen, he was a little sensitive on
the point of gentlemanhood-that is, he liked his intimate associates to be of good birth, good breeding, and
possessed of those nameless refinements which to be perfect must be known by the absence of any demonstration
thereof, even as the test of pure water is its being as colorless and tasteless as it is clear.
"Yes," meditated the good man, "Miss Crux is not
bad-pretty, and quite a gentlewoman; she would have
done had she been ten years younger. But now, where
in the wide world is Marius to look out for a wife?"
And then he laughed at his own folly in so seriously
arguing the matter, when the boy was only a boy, not
one-and-twenty yet.
"The idea of marrying can never have entered his
head. What an old idiot I am to let it enter into mine!"
But, in spite of himself, he could not quite dismiss the
Alnaschar-like vision, born perhaps out of the unwonted
gravity and tenderness, more manly than boylike, with
which Keith had bidden him good-by that morning; the
vision of his only son bringing to the parsonage a wife,
who of course would be the parson's daughter.
"'My daughter! yes, she would be that.  Only to
think! I should actually have a daughter."
And with a sudden gleam of remembrance there
flashed back upon the old man's fancy that old dream,
dreamed before Keith was born or thought of-that vision of beauty which to most men takes a shape feminine
-the father's delight —the little daughter.




Tlwo Marriages.             113
What if, by-and-by, this dream should be realized?
Not exactly as he had first desired it- -the little girl all
his own, growing up from babyhood to womanhood as
his ideal daughter, but as his daughter-in-law-next best
-who might be a very. perfect woman too —pretty, of
course, though he did not absolutely exact it; her mother, that is, her mother-in-law, had not been pretty, yet was
not Mary Garland the essence of all grace and all ladyhood? Of course Keith's wife would be a lady, well educated, possibly clever-Mr. Garland disliked stupid women.
But still he would give up the brilliancy if she had good
common sense and household wisdom-the true, delicate,
feminine wisdom which alone makes harmony in a household, and welds together its jarring qualities into a smooth
surface of family peace. A sweet temper, above all, she
must have-this paragon of daughters-in-law; a nature
calm and even, placid and bright, like that which for thirteen little months had spread such a sunshine through
the parsonage rooms, that to this day the sunshine had
never quite gone out of them. The woman that was to
come-the parson's " daughter," would bring it half back
again, and shine upon the evening of his days like the
dim but lovely reflection of days departed.
The tears came into Mr. Garland's eyes as he thought
of all Keith's wife would be to him, and all he would try
to be-to her, till he loved her already as if she had been
a real existence-as she was, of course, somewhere in
the world.. IHe wondered where, and what she was like,
and what happy chance would bring her and his boy together?
"'Truly I am a very foolish, fond old man,'" said he




114               Two Jifarriages.
to himself, quoting "Lear," and then, after his dreamy,
meditative fashion, wandering away from the subject in
hand to speculate on the play in general, and especially
on the character of Lear, whom he always thought had
been considerably overpitied and overrated.
"I should like to write a criticism on him-the weak,
ambitious, vain, exacting old fellow; what better daughters could he expect to have? -He who could so exile
Cordelia and curse Regan scarcely deserved a better fate.
I fancy our children are very much to: us as we are to
them. I hope never to feel the'serpent's tooth;' but oh,
I hope still more that I shall never play old Lear to my
boy Marius. She was a sensible woman, that poor Cordelia"' Sure I shall never marry like my sisters,
To love my father all.'
And when Keith marries, I must make up my mind to
some sacrifices; I can not expect him to'love his father
all!' Heigh- ho!  Can that be actually Valley Farm
gate?"
He found he had walked six or seven miles across
country to the nearest farm-house out of his.own parish,
where twice or thrice a year he was in the habit of calling. It belonged to a worthy old couple, Mr. and Mrs.
Love, who had inhabited it for half a century, and made
it into the pretty place that it certainly was. Keith had
always been fond of going there, and was a sort of spoiled
pet to the childless pair, and his father was grateful to
any body who. was kind to: Keith. So, as the sun was
now sloping westward, he thought he would just climb
the one little hill above-somehow this year Mr. Garland




Two il/farriages.           115
had felt the hills higher, and the, valleys deeper than they
used to be —and invite himself to tea and a rest in Mrs.
Love's parlor. He always liked a chat with the old lady,
and Marius had not mentioned having seen her lately;
possibly -because the college man had not found that simple old couple so interesting as formerly, and had been
less often to the farm, which neglect the father determined to make up with a little extra civility.
" Is Mrs. Love at home?" he asked of a girl who stood
feeding poultry by the stable-door-a servant evidently,
though for a minute the parson had doubted it, being
struck by the grace of her attitude and the prettiness of
her face. But her arms were red and dirty, and so was
her gown; and the moment she opened her mouth it was
quite clear she was only a farm-servant.
"The missus bean't at home, please, sir," answered she,
dropping a courtesy, and blushing red as a peony; " but
the measter be about somewheres; would'ee like to see'un, Mr. Garland?"
"You know me, it seems, my girl," said the parson,
stopping to give a second look into the face which really
would have been pretty had it only been clean. "Do
you belong to Immeridge?"
"No, sir; I do come from C," naming a town
several miles off.
"And you live as servant here?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, you have a kind, good mistress, I know that,
and you look like a good girl, who would be dutiful
and attentive to old folk. I hope you will long remain
here, and be a comfort to them. Tell your master I am




116                Two Marriages.
taking a rest in the parlor; he must not hurry himself."
So the good parson sauntered in at the always open
door, a little pleased, in spite of its dirt, by the pretty
face; he so seldom saw a new face at all, and this one
attracted him for the moment, just like a new roadside
flower. He soon forgot it, however, for, being weary, he
had scarcely sat down in Mr. Love's easy arm-chair before he fell sound asleep.
When he awoke it was to see the servant-girl standing
beside him, examining him curiously. Her master had
not come in, for which absence she made some confused
explanation in an accent so broad —so much broader than
even Mr. Garland was used to, that he gave up the attempt to understand it, especially as he was very hungry,
and there lay ready prepared beside him a capital tea,
which was evidently meant for his benefit.
"You are a sensible lass, and a kindly," said he, as he
fell to with earnest appetite, noticing also that she had
" cleaned herself up" to wait upon him, and was really
very comely.
But his glance was only momentary; though, as he
ate his meal, he spoke to her from time to time with that
gentle but slightly reserved manner which, people said
sometimes, was the only fault the parson had in his parish; he was a little too dignified and distant with his inferiors. Not that he meant any unkindness, but simply
that he did not quite understand them.
Having finished his tea, he left all courteous messages
for the master and mistress, and thanked the girl for her
civilities.




Two Marriages.              117
"And what is your name?" asked he, absently, as he
drew on his gloves.
"Charlotte."
"Good-by, then, Charlotte, and thqnk you. My compliments to your master and mistress, and say I shall call
again some day before long."
He put a shilling into her hand and went his way.




118               Two fMarriages.
CHAPTER II.
MR. GARLAND was sitting in his study, where, to save
fires, and trouble to his one old servant-almost as old
as himself- he very often sat all day-these long, quiet
winter days, which, he usually spent quite alone, or, rather, with one invisible companionship, perhaps nearer t0
him in winter than in the summer season, for she —his
wife Mary —had died in early spring, and his last memories of her were connected with the winter afternoons
and evenings, when she used to lie on that sofa, pale but
peaceful, with the fire-glow shining on her light hair; for,
even though useless, she liked to stay beside him, and he
fancied he could write his sermons better when she was
there. So she often lay for hours almost silent-Mrs.
Garland was never a great talker-watching him as he
wrote, and thinking. He often wondered in after years
what she could have been thinking about, and whether
she had any dim prevision of his lonely years to come,
which made her look so strangely sweet and grave.
It was all over now, long, long ago, but the memory of
it anc of her was vivid yet. Even to this day, on a Saturday afternoon, the parson would lift up his eyes from
his sermon, half expecting to see her lying there, looking
at him with those eyes of love which had warmed his
inmost heart his whole life through-a love which death
only would quench in closing them forever.




Two iarriages.               119
Mr. Garland sighed, but it was a sigh of remembrance
rather than of sorrow. Time had long since taken the
sting out of his grief; besides, he was not quite forlorn —
no man ever can be who has once been thoroughly happy. He pushed his sermon aside for a time, and took up
and reread his son Keith's Christmas letter, on this, the
first Christmas that they had ever been apart.
Keith had written to say he was working very hardso hard that he thought it advisable to remain at college
during the brief vacation. And in this letter he made,
for the first time, a hesitating request for a little more
money. Altogether, though affectionate enough, even
pathetically so, in its regrets for his unavoidable absence,
it was not so satisfactory an epistle as Keith was wont to
write,- and had written weekly from school and college
ever since his first separation from home. Still, he was
workinlg hard, as he always had worked, both at school
and college. A certain light-mindedness of youth had
sometimes worried his elderly father a little, but the parson's heart had never yet had cause to ache on account
of his boy.
"I think," he said to himself, as he once more drew toward him the manuscript sheets of his sermon-a Christmas sermon on the prodigal son-only half finished, and,
alas! never to be finished —"I think, after all, his mother
would have been rather proud of him."
And as Mr. Garland sat leaning his head on his hand
-both the hand and the profile, though brown with exposure to weather, being almost woman-like in their delicacy of outline-his mild eye wandered to the empty
sofa, so little used all these years that it was still covered




120               Two Marriages.
with the washed-out, faded chintz which Mrs. Garland
had made new for it when they were first married. His
fancy slipped back to those early days, and all the blank
days which followed- not mournfully, for the life between, also of God's appointing, had been safely lived
through, and the reunion could not be so very far off
now.
" Still I should like first to leave my boy happy - as
happy as I was myself. Poor lad! what a dull Christmas he must be having, except for work; it is good to
feel that he works so hard. But I should not like him
to settle into a dull, dry, college life-a mere bookworm,
and not a man at all. No, no. Just a few years of good
steady work — as a young fellow ought to work —and
then a living-a home —and a wife. My dear lad!"
The parson settled himself once more to his writing;
but he had scarcely done so and was pausing a moment,
pen in hand, with the end of the incomplete sentence
running in his head, when there came a knock to his
study door.
"Come in," said Mr. Garland, a little surprised; for it
was a rule that only matters of vital moment were allowed to disturb him on Saturdays. "Any body ill in
the village, Jane?"
" No, sir, not that I know of," replied -not his servant, but a visitor very rarely seen at Immeridge -Mrs.
Love, of Valley Farm. The old lady stood hesitating in
the doorway, her cloak powdered and her boots clogged
with snow.
"Sorry to disturb you, sir; hope you'll excuse it," said
she, dropping a nervous courtesy.




Two Marriages.              121
"Certainly, my good friend," said the parson, placing
her comfortably by the study fireside with that chivalric
gentleness of demeanor which he- always showed to all
women. " But how could you think of coming all the
way from Valley Farm in this inclement weather?"'I never thought about the weather," returned Mrs.
Love, and the fixed smile which she had persistently kept
up slowly faded; "I had a- a sort of a message to you,
sir, and I thought - my good man thought - I had best
come over and deliver it myself."
" How very kind of you," answered the parson, cordially; " and how - we'll tell Jane to get you some tea at
once."
The old woman stopped him. with his hand on the
bell.
" Oh no! - please, sir - oh don't; I couldn't swallow
any tea-I-I-"
She burst into tears.
Mr. Garland sat down beside her and took her hand,
as he was wont to do with any of his parishioners in affliction. Some people said of him that in ordinary life
he held too much aloof from them; that, with his excessively refined tastes, feelings, and- sympathies, the gulf
between hiniself and the humble, rough, illiterate folk
around him was such that though he had dwelt so long
among them, nothing but a great sorrow could altogether
bridge it over. But when sorrow did really come to any
one of them, no man could be more tender, more gentle,
more truly sympathetic than the parson.' I am sure there is something on your mind, my friend.
You shall tell me what it is presently."
F




122               Two Miarriages.
"I don't know.how to say it, sir. It's about-aboutoh, I wish you knew without my telling!-Your son-"
The father turned pale.
" Nothing wrong.with my son? I heard from him a
week ago. Has he written to you lately?"
"No; I dare say he didn't like to write. In truth, Mr.
Garland, your son hasn't been behaving quite well to my
~good man and me."
For that was the form in which she and Mr. Love had
decided she should open the subject, and so break it
gradually-the cruel secret which as yet she only knew,
but which she dreaded every hour some chance waft of
gossip might bring to Keith's father's ears.
Mr. Garland's color returned — nay; he turned:hotly
red.
" My son not behaving well to you! There must be
some mistake, Mrs. Love; he is not in the habit-  But
if you will tell me what his offense is, perhaps I can explain it."
Mrs. Love shook her head.
"It isn't that, sir; we would have borne a deal without taking any offense, we were so fond of him. Oh me!
I'm as grieved as if it had been a son of myown who had
gone astray."
"Gone: astray!" repeated Mr. Garland, sharply; "stop!
you forget it is my son you are referring to."
" It's. him, sure enough; though, if all the world had
told me, I wouldn't have believed it of him- any more
than you would, sir. But the girl herself confessed, and
whatever she is now, she wasn't a bad girl once; and she
never -told me a lie, never deceived me in the smallest




Two Marriages.              123
way before. And she has been my servant for a year,
and I've known her ever since she was a baby-poor little thing!"
" Mrs. Love," said the parson, recovering himself a little from his bewilderment, and speaking with distant dignity, "may I ask you to explain yourself a little clearer?
What can I or my son possibly have to do with your
difficulties as regards your domestic servants?"
"No, sir," drying her tears, and speaking rather warmly; "but when a young gentleman condescends to keep
company with a domestic servant - when he makes believe to visit the master and mistress, and under pretense of that, meets the girl at all hours and in all sorts
of places; and after he's gone, the other servants joke
her; and at last.- never mind how, sir — it's all found
out. And she doesn't deny it, but brazens it to my face,
and says he's her sweetheart, and that she knows he
will marry her at once - and - oh, sir — oh, Mr. Garland!"
For the old than had sat down, sick and faint, like a
woman.
"Never mind me, Mrs. Love; go on with your story.
Who is the girl?"
"Lotty  that is, Charlotte Dean - Thomas Dean the
plowman's daughter."
"And-the young man? You do not mean —you
can not possibly mean to imply that the young man is
my son?"
"Ah! but he is, though; not a doubt about it," said
Mrs. Love, shaking her head. "And I thought, sir-my
good man and me both thought-that it would be better




124               Two Marriages.
to come and tell you at once, before you heard it otherways."
"It? What is it? But I beg your pardon. I guess
the whole story. Oh, my unfortunate boy!"
Mr. Garland put his hand to his face-his honest face,
which burnt crimson, though he was, an old man. To
many men —alas! many fathers-the news of such an
error —such a crime, would have been nothing, causing
only a smile or a jeer, or perhaps a flash of passing irritation at the extreme folly of the thing; but it was quite
different-it always had been quite different with William Garland, Mary Keith's lover and husband. The
groan that burst from him went to Mrs. Love's heart.
" And I thought to myself," she owned afterward, " perhaps those folk are best off who never have any children."
She was terribly sorry for him, yet knew not in what
form to administer consolation to a gentleman so far
above herself in education and manners, and who, she
could not help seeing, took the fact which she had communicated-one of a class of facts only too common here,
as alas! in many other rural districts-so much more to
heart than even she had expected he would.
"Don't give way, sir," she said at last -'don't, or I
shall wish that I had never told you."
" It was right to tell me. Let me hear the whole story
-at least, what you suppose it to be."
Mr. Garland sat upright, clasped his hands upon his
knee, and prepared to listen, as he had listened many a
time to many a similar story of misery and sin, but it had
never come home to him till now. Still he sat, with his




Two Marriages.              125
grave, fixed eyes, and sad, shut mouth, and tried to force
himself to listen to it, calmly, fairly, and justly, as if it
had been any other story of his parish, or about any other ordinary sinner-not his own son.
Mrs. Love repeated, with many emendations and extensions, the tale she had previously told. She said the
-love affair shall it be called? but the word belongs to
a different sort of courtship, and a higher form of lovehad been carried on so clandestinely, that, though it must
have lasted three months at least, she had not a suspicion
of it. The discovery had happened through the merest
chance, and after it the girl had disappeared.' Disappeared?" repeated Mr. Garland, eagerly.
"Yes, sir, that's my trouble-that's my fear —which I
came to tell you before all the neighborhood gets talking
of it. She slipped away in the middle of the night, taking nothing with her but the clothes she stood in, saying
not a word to any body, leaving no scrap of writing —for
that matter, I don't believe she can write beyond signing
her name. What she has gone and done nobody knows
-whether she has made away with herself, or run off to
her sweetheart at Cambridge-"
Mr. Garland trembled, he hardly knew at which of
these two alternatives, for one would be an escape out of
the other.
"God forgive me!" he cried, starting up, and thrusting the idea from him —the horrible idea that would
come-how by her death the girl would be got rid of.
His first horror at his son's misdoing having passed over,
he was painfully conscious of a desire to hush up and
hide the sin at any cost. To save Keith-only Keith —




126               Two Marriages.
was the not unnatural parental instinct; all parents may
comprehend and pardon it.
But by-and-by the good man woke up to something
beyond the mere instinct of parenthood - that impulse
for the preservation of offspring which comes next to
self-preservation-in mothers, God bless them! often first.
He became conscious of that large duty - abstract, impersonal, involving simple right and wrong —which, if
even the fondest parents lose sight of, their tenderness
degenerates into mere selfishness, and their devotion to
their own children becomes an actual moral offense in
the sight of Him who holds the supreme balance of justice as the Great Father of all men.
"This girl, whom you say my son has led away,
though I will not and can not believe it, Mrs. Love, except on stronger evidence than seems to have convinced
you-what sort of girl is she?"
" You have seen her yourself, Mr. Garland. She told
me she got your tea for you the last time you were at
Valley Farm -a rosy, black-haired lass, pretty enough,
but slatternly, which was not wonderful, considering the
folk she came from. Her father drank himself to death,
and then her step-mother turned her out of doors. I
took her for charity, and lest, being so pretty, she should
come to any harm. Oh dear me! if I'd only kept my
eyes open! But who would have thought it of Master
Keith?"
"We'll not think it," said the clergyman, in a low
tone, but hard and unnatural.  "I refuse to think the
worst of my own son, as I would of any other man's, until I am certain of it. Just describe the young woman
to me till I recollect her."




Two Marriages.              127
He did so, in time —-the dirty-aproned, red-handed,
rough-haired farm-servant, whose handsome face he had
remarked; who had waited upon him with such especial
civility-why, he knew now-and to whom, in departing, he had given-and she had taken with the ordinary servant-girl's humble "Thank you, sir" - a shilling.
And this —this was his son's ideal woman-the object
of the boy's first love! Lawful, or unlawful, remained
to be proved-still his first love.
To a man who had never had but one love in all his
life, and she Mary Keith - Mary Garland — no wonder
such a discovery came with an almost stunning sense of
repulsion.
"Did she say" - the parson's lips faltered over the
question, and he did not own even to himself why he
asked it, or what he desired its answer to be -"Did she
say, positively, that she knew my son would marry her?"
"She certainly did. But you know they always say
that, these poor creatures, and perhaps they really think
it, or the men tell them so. Men are a wicked lot, Mr.
Garland-wickeder, at first, than we women. But then,
when we once get bad, we go down, down, lower and
lower, till we stop at nothing but the bottomless pit. Oh
me! if that should be the end of poor Lotty 1"
"You did like her, then?" said Mr. Garland, turning
round sharply. "Speak out just as you would to any
body else-not me."
"Yes; I liked her in a sort of way. She was very ignorant, but she was not so rough as some o' them; and
she had an affectionate heart. She was an honest girl,




128               Two Marriages.
spite of her bad bringing up, when I took her. I'm sure
of that. And such a child-only sixteen. He shouldn't
have brought her to shame!"
"Shame 1!" said Mr. Garland, almost fiercely; "don't
say that. Say nothing you can not prove. Remember
you are speaking of my son —my only son-his mother's
son. Mrs. Love," with a look of agony that, momentary
as it was, whenever the good woman afterward recalled
it, brought tears into her eyes-" Mrs. Love, you remember his mother?"
"Yes, sir, I do, and that's what makes me and my
good man so sorry."
"There is no need to be sorry till you are quite sure
of this. Some explanation may be found. I will go at
once to my son. He said he should spend the whole of
the Christmas hard at work at Cambridge."
And he remembered cKeith's last letter-all his letters
for weeks and months back, which, if this story were true,
must have been one long concealment. Not deception
exactly —the father was too just to accuse him of thatbut concealment. He that for twenty years had been
open as daylight, frank as childhood, to the tender parent, who, by his unlimited trust and unlimited love, had
never given him cause to be any thing different!
The blow fell hard. Many parents only get what they
earn. By harshness, want of confidence, and total want
of sympathy, they themselves, with their own blind hands,
open the gulf which divides them from their children.
But in this case there had been nothing of the kind.
Never a cloud had come between father and son until
this cloud-the heaviest, short of death, which could pos



Two fMarriages.             129
sibly have arisen. And how wa's it to be removed-?
For, whether the case was one of mere disgraceful folly
or of actual sin, of the thing itself there could be little
doubt. His boy —his honest, gentlemanly, honorable boy
-had made love to a common farm-servant; a girl who
could necessarily have only the lowest allurements of
womanhood - the personal beauty that pleases, and the
ignorance that amuses. She might have suited the taste
of some foolish, coarse fellow, in whom all the elements
of manhood and gentlemanhood were wanting; but
Keith —
Mr. Garland knew well  none better - that a man's
whole character and destiny is often decided by-the sort
of woman with whom he first falls in love. This poor
boy!-if he had " fallen in love" with Charlotte Dean, it
must have been with the meanest half of his nature, in
the most degrading form of the passion. Nay, it could
not properly be called love at all, but that other ugly
word which the Bible uses, though we have grown too
refined to do so - not, God forgive us! to practice it, to
extenuate it, to slur it over or gloss it under with every
sort of mild poetical periphrasis, or else to philosophize
upon it as a kind of sad necessity, when, instead, we
ought to face it as what it is; call it by its right name;
pull it down from its high places; tear the sham, sentimental covering off it, and then trample it under foot as
that vile thing, of which, however the heathen world may
have regarded it, Christ's Revelation speaks undoubtedly
and unshrinkingly thus:
"But the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which
F2




130               Two Miarriages.
burneth with fire and brimstone, which is the second
death."
And whatever the farther allegory may imply, one
thing is certain, that the first death comes to such sinners even in this world.' My poor, poor boy! And he only twenty yet! My
miserable boy!"
It may throw some light upon this man's character —
the man whom Mary Garland had loved so long, and
been so happy with, and to whom, in dying, she had
trusted her child, with the one prayer that he might
grow up-like his father - it lets light, I say, upon the
character of Mr. Garland, that the first outcry of his parental grief was that of David for Absalom, "My son, my
son!"  Only that-only for his son. He did not think
of himself at all; there was no sense of personal wrong,
no dread of personal disgrace at the scandal which such
a story must inevitably bring on the clergyman whose.
only child was guilty of such misdoing, and at the weakening thereby of.his influence in the parish. A proud,
or vain, or.self-conscious man would at once have thought
of these things; but, though Mr. Garland did afterward
think' of them -it would not have been human nature
that he should not-he thought'of them only secondarily.
His strongest grief was altogether on his son's account;
first, for the sin; next, for the misery.
"I must start for Cambridge at once, Mrs. Love.
Whatever has happened-whether the girl has gone to
him, or whether that other dreadful thing you feared has
happened, which God forbid! my boy will be all the better and safer for having his father beside him."




Two Miarriages.              131
"He will, sir, indeed!" said Mrs. Love, earnestly. " Poor
dear lad! he has got something like a father. And now,
Mr. Garland, I must go home, or my good man will be
thinking I'm lost in the snow."'
" My kind old friend, how I have been forgetting you!"
Mrs. Love told afterward, with a tender garrulity, how
Mr. Garland had insisted on her having tea in the study
before she left; how he poured it out for her himself, and
waited upon her with an ancient courtesy, not overlooking her smallest needs; "though I could see all the time,"
she added, "that the dear gentleman hardly knew what
he was doing."  At last she departed, and the parson
was left alone, face to face with his heavy care.
Nothing so heavy had befallen him since his wife's
death. Then, it seemed as if Fate, weary of persecuting
him, had spenit her last shaft and let him rest. Not a
single anxiety, not even a week's sickness to himself or
his boy, had since darkened the parsonage doors till now.
But this grief. It was so strange and sudden, so utterly
unforeseen, that, at first, when he had closed the gate
upon Mrs. Love and returned to his study, which looked
exactly as it looked an hour before, he could hardly persuade himself that all was not a nightmare dream.
He sat for a little with his head upon his hands, trying
to realize it, and gradually all came clear. HIe perceived
that, whether or not true in its worst and blackest form
— in a measure the tale must be true-at least sufficiently so to lay upon Keith's future life, and upon all after
relations between father and son, a cloud, a doubt - the
first deception on one side, the first distrust on the other;
like the fatal




132                Two Marriages.
" Little rift within the lute,
That by-and-by will make the music mute."
" It is the beginning of sorrows," said the old man to
himself; and he clasped his hands, half in submission,
half in despair, and looked into the embers of the forgotten fire with a hard, dry-eyed anguish, pitiful to see.
The young suffer and have still hope, for themselves and
for others; but the old, who have nothing to look forward to, and in whom the sharp experience of life had
deadened the excitement of the struggle with pain, as
well as the expectation of its happy ending, the grief of
the old has always a sort of passiveness, sadder than any
sorrows of earlier years.
"What should I do?" sighed the parson to himself;
"for- something must be done, and I have nobody to help
me. No one could have helped me —except one."
But she slept where this affliction and every other could
touch her not, and her husband was thankful for it.
"I wish I slept beside you, my poor Mary!"
For the first time for many years the widower uttered
her name, spoke it out quite loud, until he himself started
at the sound. But, uttering it, he felt as if his solitude
were made no longer empty - as if in the dreary blank
of the room she came and put her airy arms about-his
neck, in-the long familiar way, sharing his burden as she
had so often shared it, and in some mysterious fashion
giving him the comfort that love only can give-a wife's
love-in life, and, for all we know, afterward.
Mr. Garland roused himself, drew his chair to the study
table, put by his sermon, and began to make his plans
for the impending journey. Thi' was rather a serious




Two Marriages.              133
matter, for he never traveled, and knew nothing about
railways, the nearest of which did not approach Immeridge by ten or a dozen miles —Keith, who was a practical
young fellow, always settled his comings and goings without troubling his father. In Mr. Garland's utter ignorance, it was necessary to take counsel of Jane before
forming any plans whatever. And now there came upon
him the nervous apprehension as to how much Jane
knew - how much any body knew - whether, when he
ascended the pulpit to-morrow, every body would not
know it?
A shiver of fear ran through him-actual fear; that
moral cowardice which men have so much more than
women, especially men of the parson's excessively delicate and refined nature. That dread of public opinion —
that shrinking from public reproach, to escape which
some will bear any amount of inward torture, attacked
him in his weakest, tenderest point. His bravery gave
way; he thought, if he could only start at once - that
very Saturday night or Sunday morning-and so escape
all?
Escape what? The sin? Supposing it existed. Alas!
sin no man can ever escape from. The shame?. That
too, if inevitable, would have to be endured. Ay, in its
sharpest form; for while, rightly and justly, no son is
held responsible for, nor in any honest judgment, can be
dishonored by, the wickedness of his parents, there is also
a certain measure of justice in the world's opinion that a
parent is not quite blameless for -the misdeeds of his son.
Exceptions there are, solemn and sad; but in most instances the comment of society at large is not made alto



134               Two Marriages.
gether unfairly, as in the case of Eli (bitterly did this
poor father-father and priest also-recur to the words),
" His sons made themselves vile, and he restrained them
not."
No, there was no escape. The thing must be met and
faced. Whether it turned out great or small  a mere
annoyance or a life-long disgrace, there was no use in
running away from it. Besides, if he left home, he:vould
have had to shut up the church. Was the house of God
to be closed because the minister was a coward, and dared
not meet his people? She would not have advised such
an act, she who had always before her eyes the fear of
God, and that only-never the fear of man.
"No, I will not do it!" said the parson to himself.
"Besides, for my boy's sake, I ought to keep an honest
front till I have proved there is.cause to be ashamed."
So he bestirred himself, rang for Jane, and told her, to
her exceeding surprise, that she must pack up his -portmanteau, and find some conveyance to take him across
country, for that he was going to see Master Keith on
Monday morning.
"Bless'ee, sir, I'm so glad! And when shall you be
back again?"
When indeed —or how!
He hoped, he said-with a sad hypocrisy of cheeriness
-to return by next Sunday, unless his son particularly
wished to detain him longer.
"You'may be sure o' that, sir. Master Keith often
said there wasn't any thing would make him so happy
as a visit from his father."
"Did he say that?" with an eager clutch at the merest




TZvo i~arriages.            135
straws. of comfort out of that great treasure of love which
seemed drifting: hopelessly away from him. And he
thought reproachfully-the self-reproach to which tender
hearts like his are so prone  that perhaps he too had
erred; that if he had not Ahut himself up so closely in
his study, thereby leaving Keith too much alone -if he
had tried more to win his boy's confidence and sympathy-had been to him, not less of a father, but more of a
friend, this might not have happened.
"I will try and act differently now," he said, vainly
repeating, and forming many a resolution for the future, when only the present cloud should have passed
by.
It felt lighter next morning, which was a bright, clear
frosty'Sunday, and Mr. Garland had been all his life painfully sensitive to atmospheric influence. And when, as
he entered the church, all things appeared the same as
usual-no one pointed the finger or looked hard at him
either in his coming or going-he began to hope that the
story had not reached Immeridge; that perhaps, as Mrs.
Love was not a gossiping woman, and had acted so wisely and kindly hitherto, all might be hushed up, and in
time quite forgotten.
He put it'as far from his mind as he could, and tried
to serve his Maker and to instruct his people throughout
that strange Sunday; but when night closed the whole
matter came back upon him with relentless pain. In his
complete uncertainty, he kept picturing to himself, over
and. over again,'the two bitter alternatives - of the girl,
Charlotte Dean, visiting Keith Garland to his disgraceperhaps shaming him openly before his college; or else




136               Two Marriages.
-as Mrs. Love suggested —the victim might have punished the seducer in a still more terrible way_- a way
which Keith could never forget all his life long. And
with horrible vividness Mr. Garland's fancy recalled a
scene he once beheld in his youth, of a drowned girl
dragged with boat-hooks from the bottom of a pond. He
seemed to see it all over again, only the ghastly, swollen
face was the face of the girl Dean, with the rosy cheeks
and the curly black hair-pretty enough-but with the
prettiness of mere physical beauty. How could Keith
have ever cared for it.
Still, there the fact was, undeniable; and a worse tragedy might follow-her death, or the scarcely less blighting misery of her living.
"Nevertheless, I will not judge until I know the'whole
truth. Keith will surely tell it to me when I see him tomorrow."
And with a desperate clinging to that to-morrow, which
must at least end his suspense, and bring a solution to
some of his difficulties, Mr. Garland packed up his portmanteau-very helplessly —but he did not like to ask
Jane to do it, as it was Sunday, and he never gave her
any extra work on Sundays.
Besides, he kept out of the old woman's sight as much
as possible, for she would ask questions about Master
Keith, and send him messages, and talk about the great
delight he would have in seeing his father, till the poor
father felt as if driven wild.
When Jane was gone to bed, and the house all empty
and still, the parson went to his little store of money, and
took out thence as much as was required for his journey;




Two Marriages.              137
then, with a second thought, he went back and took it
all; "for," he said to himself, " who knows?"
Also he put away his books and papers, locked his
writing-table-for the first time these many years-and
made other little arrangements concerning his affairs,
which seemed to him advisable considering his years,
and the painful nature of his journey —'" for," he again
repeated, " who knows?"
Finally, he laid his head on his solitary pillow, and
thought, with a kind of sad curiosity, how strange it
would feel the next night to be sleeping, for the first time
for twenty years and more, under his old college -oof, far
away from that little mound over which he could hear
the elm-trees soughing outside, and without remembering
which he seldom closed his eyes at night or opened them
in the morning.
"'MMay God help me to do right, however hard it be!"
was his last prayer before he slept. " O God, my Father
in heaven, teach me to be a good father to my Mary's
son."2




138              Tiwo Marriages.
CHIAPTER III.
IT was about four o'clock on a winter afternoon when
Mr. Garland stood at the gate of his. old college, for the
first time since he had left it twenty years ago, to take
possession of the living of Immeridge, and to be married
to Mary Keith. How well he remembered that October
morning, soft and sweet as May, when his long-delayed
happiness, come at last, had colored his life with all the
hues of spring, though he was nearly fifty years old.
Now, all things outside looked, as they were with himself, at the day's end and the year's. The only bit of
color in the murky winter sky was the rift of sunset behind the pinnacles of his familiar chapel —the most beautiful chapel, he often used to think, that mortal hands
have ever built. Its airy architecture came out against
the fading light as perfectly as ever, and the old man
stood and looked at it for a minute or two with exceeding tenderness. The twenty years between —the happiness and the woe, slipped away for the time being-nay,
he went back far longer, and was again a young man at
college, with the world all before him, or a busy student,
an early made Don, thinking his college the queen of all
colleges, and his University the very centre of the world.
He could have believed he had only quitted it yesterday, the place was so little changed. Its smooth square




Two Marriages.              139
lawn was green as ever; and across the white mist
which was slowly rising up over it-as in so many winter afternoons of old-there shone the same cheerful glimmer from the buttery door, and from the tall windows
where the few men who remained "up" at Christmas
were dining in hall-Keith among them of course.
The parson thought he would wait till hall was over,
and then go unobserved to his son's rooms. A sudden
meeting might vex or confuse the lad, or any chance conmpanion who was with him might notice something unusual in this unexpected parent-visit. Better that father
and son should meet alone, and quietly, when Mr. Garland too might be better able to command himself; for,
now that the moment was come, he felt an involuntary
nervousness creeping over him as to how his son would
comport himself; an uneasiness whether he might find,
not the boy Keith at all, but a strange man-all the hardness and wickedness of exhibiting youthful manhood.
Poor Keith! Gradually, during the long meditative
day, all the father's anger toward him had melted away.
And now, weary with his long journey, feeling within
himself, as if it had fallen upon him with a sad suddenness, the inevitable weakness of age, conscious also of a
certain forlornness in thus coming back, a stranger, to the
familiar places, the parson's heart yearned over his boy,
his only child, the tenderest, nay, the only tender tie he
had left in the world. When, in the darkening twilight,
he watched two or three black figures issuing out; and
moving round the gravel-walk of the quadrangle, eye and
ear became involuntarily intent, in case he might detect
the light footstep and lively laugh that he knew so well.




140               Two Marriages.
Nevertheless he shrank still more under the shadow of
the gateway, whence, himself unobserved, he could watch
each young man that passed.
No, none of them was Keith, who must have gone
straight to his rooms. Not being quite certain where
these were, and growing every moment more weary in
body and in mind, he went balk to the gate-keeper, smiling at himself for his own silly surprise that this was not
the quaint, white-bearded old fellow that used to be called "Moses," who of course was dead and buried years
ago.
"Can you show me Mr. Garland's room?"' Up that staircase, next to the buttery, first door on
left hand," was the answer, given rather carelessly-more
carelessly than Fellows were used to be addressed in the
parson's time. He felt this a little, and then recollected
that he was no longer at home in his own college; that
he revisited it merely as a stranger, who could only be
judged by his exterior, which was probably out of date,
and shabby, even for a country parson. So he said, with
a little dignity of manner,
" Thank you. I know the rooms now quite well; I
was a Fellow here myself for fifteen years."
"Oh, indeed, sir;" the porter's tone changed, and he
respectfully touched his hat.  "But I'm afraid, sir, you'll
not find Mr. Garland. Htis rooms are locked up; though
I think his bed-maker has the key, as he said he might
come back before term."
" Come back! Hias he gone away?"
" Yes, sir; he left two days ago."
The poor father leaned against the gateway to keep




Two Marriages.              141
himself from falling. All strength seemed to have slipped out of him. Then he said, feebly trying to keep up
a coloring of indifference,
"Two days ago, did you say?  That was Saturday."
"Yes, sir, Saturday -a sudden journey; for he told
me the day before he meant to stay up and read all
Christmas.  But young men don't always know their
own minds, and there's sometimes a little more than
meets the eye-eh, sir!" added the jolly porter, with a
twinkle in his own.
But Mr. Garland noticed it not. He asked, first eage;ly,.then with assumed carelessness,
"And where-perha~ps he mentioned where he was
going?"
" Not he. He wanted it kept dark, I fancy, for he told.
me not to send on his letters unless he was not back in a
week or two, and then to forward them to his governor."
"To-what did you say?"
"His father. But, bless my soul," as a sudden idea
dawned in the good fellow's mind, not unfamiliar with
young men's difficulties, "maybe you're his father, sir."
"Yes," said the old man, briefly. And then he asked
permission to sit down for a minute in the porter's room.
"' I have had a long journey here, and my son and I
have-" he paused for a second in search of some fragment of truth which would save him from betraying himself or Keith-" have somehow missed one another."
"So I perceive; very annoying to you, sir. Will you
come nearer to the fire? You're very cold, I see."
The rest and warmth came onlyjust in time. As Mr.
Garland sat down, he felt a sickness like death stealing




142               Two Marriages.
over him, during which his only care was to preserve
some sort of decent appearance externally, so as to save
Keith's credit, and hide every thing as long as it could
possibly be hid.
The civil gate-keeper left him, and then he cowered
over the fire, trying to steady his shaking limbs and rally
his feeble strength, and think of what was to be done
next.
The present conjuncture was one he had never foreseen. That Keith should actually have left college-gone
rway no one knew where-leaving no clew except what
slender information might be got at by inquiries humiliating to the father and likely to bring disgrace upon the
son —it was very hard to bear! A sudden flight it must
have been; and at least Keith's intention of.reading all.Christmas had not been a deception. But why had he
ordered his letters to be forwarded to Immeridge? Either he had nothing to conceal, or he wished to blind his
father's eyes with the daily expectation of his coming,
and so prevent pursuit or inquiry. Or, a third possibility, perhaps he was now reckless of both. Perhaps he
had taken the girl, Charlotte Dean, away with him; and,
as she so confidently asserted he would, had married her.
Married her-a common servant! Old as he was, Mr.
Garland's blood-his honest, honorable, gentle blood —of
which secretly he was not a little proud, seemed to boil
in his veins at the thought. Hot indignation, bitter shame,
outraged affection, filled him by turns against the son who
could so disgrace himself and his lineage. He started to
his feet with the energy of youth, uncertain where to go or
what to do, except that he felt he must go and do some



Two Marriages.               143
thing. But it was in vain. The moment he tried to
stand his head swam round, and he dropped back into
his chair.
There he sat a long time, half stupid, it seemed, hearing through a sort of doze the college porter talking and
" chaffing" with some young fellows outside. Within, he
watched the blazing, crackling, cheerful-looking fire, and
felt himself a poor, forlorn, feeble old man, who had not
strength to do any thing, even if there was any thing to
be done.
There was nothing.  Either by accident or design,
Keith had left behind him not a single clew to his whereabouts. So long as a hope remained that the young man
had not compromised-nay, ruined himself for life, his
credit ought to be saved, and that could.only be dQne by
the most cautious silence.
Never" throughout all his simple, virtuous days, had
Mr. Garland acted the hypocrite before, but now he did it.
He called the porter, entered. into conversation with him
about college matters, and got from —him by various inquiries as much information concerning Keith as could
safely be obtained. This was little enough; the young
man had apparently been living steadily and creditably,
and reading hard all term. No outward vicious signs
had betrayed him to the small college world; so far, his
credit was secure.
The father took care still to maintain it. With a pathetic diplomacy, he managed to convey to the porter the
idea that his disappointment was very trifling, and his
son's absence of no particular moment. He took counsel
of the man as to what inn he should put up at for a night




144                Two Mfarrizages.
or two, just to revisit his old Cambridge haunts and old
friends.'; Why not turn into your son's rooms at once, sir?
It's very often done at vacation-time, and you, of course,
could get permission directly. Shall I see about it? and
we'll have the rooms open and every thing comfortable
for you in an hour or two."
Mr. Garland thought a minute and then consented, for
it was the simplest plan, and he felt so weary, helpless,
and forlorn. If he had only somewhere to lay his head
for the night, he might wake in the morning strengthened, and able. to judge and to act. Just now he was capa —
ble of neither. He had so long lived out of the world
that every thing-even the ordinary noises of the street,
confused and troubled him. He lopged to be at Immeridge again, laying his head down on his own- peaceful
pillow, within only a stone's throw of that still peacefuller
pillow where it would one day lie. The craving that we
all have at times, and stronger as we grow older, to
"Lie down like a timid child,
And,sleep away the life of care
Which we have borne and still must bear,"
came over him heavily. He turned out into the foggy
night, and, while Keith's rooms were-being got ready for
him, walked round and round the familiar paths, past the
chapel, and the high.ivy-covered wall, and along by the
willows at the water-side to the bridge over the Cam.
There he paused, and mechanically stood leaning in the
old spot where he used to lean for hours in his earlymorning or late-at-night "constitutional" nearly half a
century ago.




Two Marriages.              145
Was it actually half a century? Yet there was no
perceptible change. Up and down the river the lights
of the different colleges flickered in their old places, arid
the stars overhead- Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Orion's
Belt, and the silvery duplex wave of the Milky Wayshone just as in those days when he used to dabble in astronomy. The only change was in himself. And yet,
somehow, his life had been so single, so true -such a
faithful life, in short-faithful to God and man —that he
did not feel greatly altered even now, except perhaps that
-as on this winter night-the human lights were growing dimmer, and the heavenly ones larger and clearer, as
he neared his journey's end.
Under this starry stillness the parson's mind became
calmer, and his thoughts less bewildered as to the position in which he was, and the next step it was advisable
to take.
Evidently to attempt to track Keith was useless. A
cleverer, more worldly man would have found the pursuit difficult; to Mr. Garland it seemed impossible. Nothing short of applying to the police, and hunting down his
own son by means of a detective officer, could have availed any thing-perhaps not even that. Keith might be
already married, though that was improbable.
The parson-for a parson and a married man-knew
surprisingly little of the marriage laws; still he was
aware that both surrogates and registrars refuse a license,
and clergymen decline to officiate when, as in this case,
both parties are under age, and- the marriage is without
the consent of parents. Mr. Garland -tried to recall all
the small practical legal facts concerning his own simple,
G




146               Tiwo JMarriages.
happy, holy marriage. to the long-plighted, pure woman
of his choice, and the contrast between it and such a marriage as this he feared smote the father's heart with an inexpressible pang.. It could not be! His son-his own
son —and hers could not so degrade himself. And as for
that other possibility-seduction without marriage-it
was a crime.of which he tried to believe Keith utterly incapable.
Well, he could do nothing; he could only sit still and
wait. Before term began Keith must reappear at college,
unless he was quite reckless as to his own future. If he
were —if he had done any thing bad enough to bring
upon him public disgrace-better his father should be
here to stand by him. Who else should do it?  Even
if the lad hadsinned, he was still only a lad; and whose
duty was it but:his father's to throw over him the shield
of calm parental wisdom, equal-handed justice, and patient.love?
Mr. Garland had been fatherless-or, rather, worse than
fatherless-himself; he had known what it was to stand
alone and unprotected against the world..As he paced
the solitary bridge-which in the days of his youth he
had paced so often - with. lighter, younger feet, but a
heart heavy with its own burden of now forgotten cares,
he recalled some words which then had often seemed
to him worse than meaningless, a cruel mockery, "Like
a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that
fear Him."  But time had taught him its merciful lesson;
he understood them now. As he looked up to the steadfast stars, which: seemed singing in their courses through
the changeless heaven, and remembered how he too had




Two Marriages.               147
been led, as it were, by an invisible hand, through his
long course of seventy years, and how his boy had it all
yet to run, there came into him a feeling of compassion
so intense, so divine, that he seemed to comprehend, in a
sense clearer than he had ever yet preached it, the allperfect Fatherhood of God.
With such thoughts-most thankful for them and for
the peace they'brought-Mr. Garland went back and installed himself in his son's rooms, which, of course, he had
never yet seen, though he had often heard'Keith's description of them. But he found them smaller and poorer than he expected. No extra luxuries, such as young
men- at college can so easily waste their substance in,
brightened the shabby furniture, which' seemed coeval
with the parson's own college days. -No indications of
light or coarse tastes decked the walls; no portraits of
ballet-girls or prize-fighters; not even a University boatrace. All was quite, plain and humble; the lad had evidently been, so far, an honest lad,: true. to himself and to
his father, spending scarcely one unnecessary penny out
of the allowance, which he knew, for his father had told
him, was not too easily spared.
".Poor fellow! poor fellow!" sighed the parson, as he
settled himself in his son's arm-chair, gathered up the
books- and very shabby second-hand books they were
-that he found strewn about just as Keith had left them,
then' made his own tea out of the broken-lidded tea-pot,
pulled off his boots, and put his tired feet into Keith's
well-worn slippers. As he did it, thus taking possession
of the rooms, and enjoying their owner's unconscious hospitality, some faint sense of comfort stole into him —a




148               Two Marriages.
hope that things were not so very dark after all, or, at
darkest, might brighten soon.
He refreshed himself with his favorite meal, and then,
lulled by the warmth and silence of the solitary fire, gradually the weakness of age crept over him. He fell fast
asleep, and dreamt he was a young man once more, working hard for his first examination. And then, somehow
or other, he was married, and sitting in his study at Immeridge, with his wife Mary sitting beside him on the
rocking-chair which she had bought but never used, rocking her infant in her arms. She looked so young, so
sweet! and the baby was such a pretty baby-just what
Keith used to be-and there was such a heavenly light
shining round the two, that, though she did not speak to
him, nor he to her, and though, while dreaming, he had
some dim consciousness that it was only a dream-that she
was not alive at all —still Mr. Garland felt quite happy.
And even when he woke he was happy still.
He spent fourteen days, one creeping after the other
before he was aware, at Cambridge, living in his son's
rooms, waiting for Keith's return. At first he was terribly restless; could not bear to stir across the threshold;
started at every footstep on the stair without; and kept
his "oak sported" continually, lest any body should intrude upon him. Gradually this state of mind ceased.
His nature was essentially of the passive kind; besides,
he was old, and age takes every thing quietly. After the
first shock, he seemed almost to have reconciled himself
to whatever might happen. His present pain he kept entirely to himself, merely writing to Immeridge that he
meant to remain at Cambridge till term, and stating the




Two Marriages.              149
same to the few acquaintances whom he made here-old
Fellows who, hearing of him from the porter, called upon
him, and invited him almost daily to dine in hall. Nobody asked him any unpleasant questions, or any questions at all. Indeed, he felt keenly what people living
long in country solitudes are apt to forget, how soon a
man may slip entirely out of the petty world where he
thought himself such an important item, and how little
the said world will trouble itself abodt him when it has
ceased to get any thing out of him.
So, after a brief fit of moralizing, Mr. Garland fell back,
in a strange ghostly fashioni, into his old college ways,
spending his mornings in University library, and usually
dining in hall at the old familiar table with some Fellow
or other. But he rarely went into Combination-room:
he usually returned' to his solitary fire, and settled himself there, sometimes reading, sometimes sleeping, or sitting half asleep, half awake; scarcely able to distinguish
the present from the past. He made no outward show
of grief, never spoke to any body of his affairs, or of the
suspense he was enduring; he endured all quite passively and unresistingly, as was the habit of his life; but if
Keith had seen his father's face he would have found it
ten years older since Christmas-day.
The last day of vacation came, and then Mr. Garland
could neither eat nor sleep; never stirred outside the
door, but sat counting every beat of the clock, and trembling at every step upon the stair. When he had almost
given up hope, when it was quite late in the evening,
Keith appeared.
Some one must have told the young man that his fa



150               Two Marriages.
ther was there, for he came in without showing any surprise. Agitated he was to the last degree, but he did not
start nor shrink back. Over him, too, had come a cRange;
he was not a boy any more.
He opened the: door and walked steadily into the room.
His father rose and met him as steadily; for at sight of
him the old man's nervousness vanished, and anger, or
rather the righteous paternal displeasure:which yet had
no personal vindictiveness, began to revive. He felt that
the critical moment had come; that between father and
son there could be no more disguise, no delay, no momentary hypocrisy of friendliness; all must come out at
once. Possibly Keith' felt this too, for he approached no
nearer, and made no attempt to take his father's unoffered hand. Still, he was the first to speak-some muttered
words about "this unexpected visit."
" I know it is unexpected and undesired. I found you
absent, and took the liberty of remaining in your rooms
till you came back."
"The liberty-oh, father!"
"Stop," said Mr. Garland, checking his son's advance
toward him.  "You must answer me a few questions
first. Where have you been?"
"To Ely."
"No farther?"
"No. I had not money enough for traveling."
"Then you have been at Ely all this time?"
Keith assented.
"And-answer me the truth, the-honest truth, my son,
for you never told me a lie yet"-and the fatber's tone
was almost entreating —'' were you alone?"




Two Marriages.             151
"I was not."
The parson recoiled, and his next words were hard and
sharp.
" Tell me-don't be a coward, for that is worst of alltell me at once, Are you married?"
The youth hung his head, blushing crimson; but he
said without hesitation, "Yes, father."
The father never spoke, nor even looked at him again.
He passed him by, walking uprightly, steadily, and sternly to the door. Then he took his coat, hat, and stick.
"Father, -where are you going?"
"Do not follow me-you have no right," was the
hoarse answer.
" No right!"
" No."  And Mr. Garland turned and looked his son
full in the face, his own gleaming with passion, the natural passion of an honest man and an outraged parent.
" No, not the smallest right. I have no son now."
So saying, and not trusting himself to say another
word, the old man went out into the cold dark night,
closing the door behind him.




152               Two Marriages.
CHAPTER IV.
AN hour later, having succeeded in calming down the
burst of passion, which had shaken all the little strength
of his helpless seventy years, Mr. Garland determined to
go back to his son's rooms. He would not suffer himself
to be carried away by blind anger; he would at least find
out the true state of things —the whole truth, before he
condemned Keith, before he even attempted to judge
him; for justice, that quality rare enough in all men, and,
alas! often rarest in men that are fathers, even though in
them it is most needed and most divine —strict, impartial
justice had been all his life Parson Garland's idol.
His first indignation having subsided, though he deeply despised his son-ay, despised him; for the delicate,
high-minded gentleman felt his very soul revolt from
such a marriage, and such a wife as Keith had chosenstill the youth was his son, his very flesh and blood.
Nothing could break that tie. And though it had not
existed-though they had been only guardian and ward
— oh, that they had!-at the hands of this just man any
other man's son would have found equal justice.
Nor, angry as he was, did his anger blind Mr. Garland
to the common-sense fact that when a young man makes
a foolish or disgraceful marriage, whoever else he may
injure by it, the person whom he most injures is himself.




Two Marriages.              153
When he thought of this, through the father's storm of
wrath gleamed rifts of the tenderest, the most agonized
compassion.  Only twenty yet, and his fate sealed for
life, as every man's must be who has bound himself to a
woman of whom he knows little, while what he does
know makes the future appear as hopeless as the future
of all hastily-conceived, passion-prompted, unequal marriages always must be, and deserve to be. Unhappy
Keith!
Yet, however madly he had acted as regarded himself,
however deceitfully-no, not deceitfully, but uncandidly, he had behaved toward his father, still he should
have justice. Where in the wide world might he hope
to find it, if not at the hands of his own father?
Mr. Garland turned back from his weary walk up and
down Trinity Avenue and the lonely courts of Clare
Hall-any where that.he thought he was least likely to
meet people, and just before ten o'clock struck came into
his own college. He entered his son's room without
having formed any definite plan of action. He did not
even trust himself to speculate' on what the next hour
might bring, or whether it would not find him- as in his
passion he had said, but was a little sorry for it now,
without a son, without one tie in the wide world to
bind his thoughts from that future world where now
seemed his only rest.
Gaining Keith's door, he opened it, but gently-so
gently that the young man did not hear, or was too ab,
sorbed to notice him. He was sitting over the fire, his
hands propping his head, and his elbows on his knees, in
G 2




154               Two iMarriages.
an attitude of dull despair.. When he turned his face
round, its haggardness struck to the father's heart.
" Well, Keith?"
" Well, sir. Will you take a chair?"
But the lad did not stir'from his own, and his manner
was indifferent, almost sullen, as if he no longer cared
what became of him.
"I have come back to you," said his father, sitting
down opposite to him, though a long way off, "just to
speak a few words, such as no one can speak to-you except your father: to ask you how all this happenedhow you could be so misguided, so insane? Do you not
know, my poor boy"-in spite of his will there was a
piteous tenderness in Mr. Garland's voice-" that by this
act you have ruined your prospects for life?"
" Very likely I have."
" For-am I right? —this girl you have married is the
girl Mrs. Love told me about —her servant, Charlotte
Dean."
"Yes, it is Charlotte Dean, now Charlotte Garland.
You can't mend it or. alter it, sir; she is my wife, Charlotte Garland."
The poor fellow seemed to brazen the truth out in its
hardest form, that he might hide himself. behind it as a
sort of shield-a defense against his own conscience and
against his father.
That miserable father! only he felt his son to be more
miserable even than himself. To one who knew, in all its
depth of sanctity, what a real marriage is, the perfection
of that pure love, happiness before wedlock, and unutterable joy afterward —the thought of all his son had lost




Two Marriages.              155
and thrown away, with a frantic folly that the lad might
yet give half a lifetime to recall, came upon him with
such an agony of pity that, instead of reproaching Keith,
he could have stood and wept over him, even as one
weeps for the dead. But weeping was of no avail; the
deed was done. Keith had distinctly said, though in a
tone oh! how different from a young man's first proud
utterance of the word-" my wife."
"Tell me," said the father;'" don't be afraid, but tell
me just as you would tell any other man-any friend of
your own age, how this came about?  When were you
married?"
"Yesterday."
"Not until yesterday?"
"No; we had to wait for the fourteen days' residence
and the license, which, after all; I was forced to get with
a lie-the first lie I ever told: in my life."
" What was that?"
"I made oath I was over age, or, she being only
sixteen, they would not have granted it. Do you want
to know any more?  I'll tell you any thing or every
thing. Nothing can alter it now!"
The young man lspoke recklessly; but in listening a
gleam of hope: darted' through the parent's mind- involuntarily,- or he would never have'given expression
to it.
"Stop a minute; would not a false oath make the
marriage illegal?"
"Father," cried Keith, fiercely, "don't speak of that.
Don't put such things into my head, or make me a worse
scamp than I am-already.. No, it is not illegal; I took




15:6              Two Marriages.
care of that-unless you go to law and try. to prove it so.
Do if you dare!"
"I have no intention of the kind," said Mr. Garland,
gently-nay, humbly-for his conscience smote him a
little. "You have chosen your own lot, and must abide
by it."
"So I mean to do."
Frantic as the lad was-seemingly driven half mad
with remorse, or dread at what he had done, or grief at
having displeased his father-there was a certain spirit
and courage in him which the father could not but notice and respect.
"Tell me, Keith, what made you bring yourself to
this pass?"
"' I could not help it. She followed me here; it was
the greatest chance, the greatest mercy that nobody saw
her. She begged, entreated-nay, she almost compelled
me to marry her."
Mr. Garland paused —considered; a hot blush, like a
maiden's, mounted into his withered cheek as he regarded his son, his motherless boy, whom he used to carry
about as an innocent baby in his arms.
" There is one thing which Mrs. Love hinted at, but
which I refused to believe. I will not believe it upon
any word but your own. Keith, was there any causejust cause-why this girl should' compel' you to marry
her?"
"Yes." The young man hung his head, and could
not look at his old father.
He drew back —this good father, this righteous, honorable man, who had held all women sacred, first for his




Two Marriages.              15'7
mother's sake, and then for that of the one woman he
adored; above all, for God's sake, whom the pure in
heart alone shall ever see. He turned with an unmistakable repugnance even from his own son, and the son
saw it.
" Don't mistake, father-don't think of her worse than
she really is, because what she is I made her. It was
my fault. God forgive me!"
"In that case," returned the parson, slowly and deliberately, "she, and no other woman in all this world,
ought to be the wife of Keith Garland."
He said no more; never till his dying day did he say
any more, making of his son no farther inquiries, and
putting the matter altogether beyond argument or discussion. He accepted it as it stood, a life-long grief, an
inevitable ill, but one to be faced in its naked truth as a
simple question of right and wrong.
To any one of Mr. Garland's clear judgment, unbiased
by worldly sophistries, the decision could not for a moment hang doubtful. Not even had it rested with him
to allow or forbid the marriage, which, had he met his
son before that fatal yesterday, might have been possible. But now the matter was taken quite out of his
hands; he was saved at least from the terrible position
of being the arbiter of his son's future. Keith was already married; and, even were his wife ten times more
objectionable than she was, there could be no question
as to the duty owed to her, if merley as Keith's wife, and
Mr. Garland's daughter.
His daughter! Oh, the bitterness of that word to the
parson's heart I Oh, the hopes and longings, and remem



158              Two Marriages.
brances that were swept away at once as by a flood!
His son was married; had brought him his long-expected daughter; and that daughter was Charlotte Dean!
Well, the dream was all over; it was not to be. Mr.
Garland felt his old passiveness creeping over him,
stupefying him both to present pain and to the future
that was coming. He only hoped he should not live
very long. With a sort of dull pleasure, he felt how
completely, within the last two weeks, his strength had
slipped away; how he had lost entirely that green old
age which had so many enjoyments, and had looked forward to many more.
He sat silent, could have sat on thus for hours, when
he was roused by his son's bitter cry.
"Oh father! can't you speak to me? can't you help
me?  Tell me what in the wide world I am to do!"
"My poor, poor boy!"
Mr. Garland came forward and touched Keith's clenched
hand, gently patting it after the caressing habit of his
childhood. Then the young man altogether broke down,
and sobbed, first at his old father's knees, and then upon
his neck, like the prodigal son in the parable, which parable the parson henceforward could not read in church
without many quavering and broken tones, and he never
preached upon it afterward.
Far into the night did they sit together, father and
son, regarding steadfastly their mutual misfortune- for
that it was a misfortune, Keith, if he did not actually acknowledge, never denied-and trying to see if there was
any way out of it.
The young man did not notice then, being too much




Two Marriages.              159
self-absorbed, but he remembered afterward, when that
honored white head was hidden from him in the dust,
how that, in all their conversation, his father seemed to
take for granted that it was a mutual misfortune, to be
shared and striven with together; that he never once
hinted at breaking the parental bond, or cutting adrift
the son whom' God had given him —not for his own
pleasure, but as a solemn charge which not the most
foolish or even wicked act, on the son's part, could ever
entirely disannul. "For," as the parson was once heard
to say, long afterward, when some intrusive friend suggested how much better he had been to Keith than Keith
to him, "we did not ask life of our fathers; we gave
life to our children."
So now, from duty as well as love, he assumed the fath&r's most painful office, and, old as he was, tried to enter into that brief frenzy of youth which had ended in
such a disastrous fatality, for such even the bridegroom
evidently now felt it to be. Keith scarcely spoke of his
wife at all; but of the difficulties and dangers of his own
position, and the blighting of his prospects, he talked
freely and very bitterly. Especially he dreaded lest by
any miserable chance the college authorities should find
out his marriage.
"But it must be found out. You could not possibly
intend to keep it concealed?"
"Well, to tell the truth, I had not thought much about
the matter," answered Keith, somewhat confused by his
father's air of grave surprise — nay, displeasure. "She
only entreated me to marry her-she did not expect any
more. And I thought if I could but keep all quiet till




160               Two Marricages.
I had got through my necessary terms -taken my degree, and been ordained-"
"Stop I" cried Mr. Garland, and'is voice shook with
the violent effort he made to control himself; " you have
forgotten one result, the inevitable result of the step you
have taken, or rather of the evil you have done, for the
last act was the only possible redemption of the first.
You knew what was my heart's desire ever since you
were born - that you should enter the church — to succeed in all I failed in-to do all I had not strength to do.
Now this can never be."
Keith looked up, startled.
"No, I say never! No son of mine shall ever offer
to the Holiest a blemished offering. Never will I see
brought to the service of my God a life corrupted at its
very source, and which will take years of repentance
and atonement to make it a fit example to other lives, as
that of a minister of the Gospel ought to be. No, my
son, I forgive you; I will help you to begin anew in
whatever way seems best, but one thing I exact as an inevitable necessity-you can never be a clergyman!"
Keith was terribly overcome.  He had not thought
much about his destined profession; he had accepted it
simply as his destiny, the one most natural and best
pleasing to his father; but, now that the father himself
forbade it, and for such a cause-now that it was shut
out from him with all its pleasant associations and expectations, he felt the disappointment and humiliation
very sore.
"Then, sir," said he, at last, " since I am never to enter the Church, perhaps you would wish me to leave college?"




Two Marriages.              161
" Most certainly; and as soon as you can."
That, too, was a great blow, and one evidently unexpected. Keith writhed under it. He dropped his head
between his hands in a hopeless despair.
"Oh, what will become of me?"
Still, he did not attempt to argue. He knew he was
wholly dependent on his father, for the income which
would be his one day could not come to him till his father died; that, in plain truth, here he was, cast upon his
own resources, burdened with a wife, and-God forgive
the young man, and the sin which turned blessings into
curses!-he was thankful it was now only a wife. But
5[is circumstances were desperate enough, especially if he
had to quit college, which he felt must be, for he knew
by experience that in some things his gentle old father
could be hard as adamant and remorseless as fate.
But Mr. Garland was too just a man to assert his mere
will without giving his reasons for the same, especially
to a grown-up son, Whose relations with a father ought
to be reverent indeed, yet perfectly independent and
free.
"In the first place, Keith"-after this day he never
called him  Marius-" you could not possibly keep your
marriage secret; and if you could, you ought not. To
live for months and years under false colors, acting a
daily lie, and continually under the dread of its discovery, is a position that would ruin any young man.- He
ought not to expose himself to the temptation, and if he
did one would almost despise him for doing so. No, my
son; look things straight in the face-it is best. Do not
be what is almost worse than a knave-a coward."




162               Two Marriages.
"I am not a coward, father," cried Keith, starting up
and pacing vehemently the room — the shabby, but
cheery little room-with all its books strewn about it,
its heterogeneous oddities and delicious untidinesses, yet
such a room as a man remembers all his life with the
tenderness belonging to his hard-working, hopeful, happy college days. " I am not a coward, and I am ready
to meet all the consequences of my folly-'my confounded folly;" and he stamped with his foot like an angry
child, and something like childish tears came into. his
eyes as he looked round the room. "It's bad enough to
leave college, to put aside my future, for I was reading
hard-indeed I was, father-to have all brought to light,
and be set down by the men here as a fool-the merest
fool-for marrying her."
"Better be a fool than a villain," said the father,
sternly.
"You are right," returned the son, humbly.  " I will
not be afraid again. And now, siir," continued he, after
a little, "just tell me what I am to do. I'll put myself
entirely in your hands, myself and her too, poor little
thing!  Poor little thing!" repeated he again, "she is
but sixteen, and she is so fond of me!"
"Where is she staying now?" asked Mr. Garland, not'
harshly, but turning away his face, for he would fain
hide the expression of intense repugnance that he knew
must be visible there.
"At Ely still. She could not be moved. She has
been very ill. She was only just able to be taken to
church yesterday to be married, but then it made her so
happy."




Two Marriages.             163
"And you left her to-day?"
"Yes. She insisted that I should go; she knew it
would injure me if I was missing at the beginning of
term; she doesn't think of herself much-you used to
say women seldom do-my mother never did."
"Silence!" cried Mr. Garland, in the harshest tone his
son had ever. heard from him. "Do not dare even to
name your mother."
Keith was silent.
"I pity you; I will not forsake you," the parson went
on, his hands shaking as he spoke, and his whole face
aflame. "I will help you to redeem yourself, if possible. But never dare for one instant to compare your
marriage to my marriage, your wife to mine. What can
you know-you miserable'boy-of such a love as ours?
How could you, and the hundreds of foolish lads like
you, understand what a man's love is-one pure love for
one pure woman-founded on thorough knowledge and
long-tested fidelity; tried by many temptations, clung to
through years of delay and hopelessness, and then perfected openly, honorably, in sight of God and man, by
the closest union with which mortal life can be blessed.
Keith Garland, you may live many years-live not unworthily or unhappily, but you will never know, never
comprehend a marriage such as mine."
Keith answered nothing.  Imperfect as his nature
was, half-developed, and perhaps inferior, or he never
could have been allured by Charlotte Dean, still, if he
did not understand his father, he was awed by him.
"Well," he said at last,' as I have made my bed, so I
must lie upon it. It is useless to blame me more-I




164               Two Marriages.
blame myself only too much. Do not talk to me, but
show me how to act. If you insist on my quitting college you take the bread out of my mouth, so tell me
how I am to earn it elsewhere-for myself and my wife;
for I can't leave her to starve, and I can't let her go back
into service again, as she proposed yesterday. Now she
is my wife," added he, bitterly, "that would hardly be
creditable."
c" Certainly not."
"If I were alone," Keith went on, "'I could manage
well enough. Any young man'without encumbrances,'
as the phrase runs; with strength in his limbs and a little money in his pocket, can always earn his living and
make his way in the world."
"How? What would you do?"
" One thing, certainly, which I have often longed to
do, only I fancied it would vex you to part with me;
but you'll not care for that now. I would emigrate."
"-Emigrate!" cried Mr. Garland, much startled; and
then he folded his hands, an.d asked calmly, " Where?"
" To Canada or New Zealand. I would borrow two
hundred pounds or so, start off by the next ship, and try
my luck. I'd like it too," added the young fellow, with
his eyes brightening. "Oh, if I had only the world before me once more, with never a clog behind 1"
The word.- the cruel word -came out involuntarily,
and perhaps he was ashamed of having uttered it, for he
blushed deeply, and began to apologize.
"You see, of course, when a fellow is married, he isn't
quite so free as he was before. And then she is so very
fond of me!"




Two Marriages.              165
"There are times," answered the father, gravely, " times
in a man's life when he would be thankful that any
woman was fond of him —when he would give his whole
substance for love and can not get it'- he has thrown it
away. When shall you go back to see her —I mean,
Mrs. Keith Garland?"
Keith started, and then recollected himself, blushing
violently.
"I had forgotten. Of course, that is her name, and
she ought to be called by it."
" Unquestionably."
" Father," and Keith regarded him with a puzzled yet
contrite look, as if recalled to his own unfulfilled duties
by the far bitterer parental duties of which Mr. Garland
never shirked one. "Oh, father, you are very good to
me."
Then, as a sort of escape from the agitating emotions
of the hour, the young man turned his attention to practical things-made up the fire, got out bread and cheese,
and beer, and a solitary bottle of wine, administering to
his father's wants in many little tender ways, as had been
his habit ever since he was a tiny fellow - a precocious,
petted, only child - but still Keith's was one of those
kindly natures which can bear spoiling; if rather featherheaded, he was decidedly warm-hearted, and if lightminded abroad, was very good at home.
Their supper ended, the two seated themselves over
the fire, and calmly discussed what was best to be done,
avoiding alike all recriminations, angers, and despairs.
The son was only too eager to see the sunny half of.life,
and the father knew enough of its storms not to wish to




166               Two Marriages.
imbitter it to himself or his boy by one unnecessary
pang.
The plan of emigrating to Canada, which country,
with a sad shrinking, Mr. Garland substituted for the
more distant New Zealand, was carefully gone into by
him, and he found, from Keith's full acquaintance with
all its chances, difficulties, and advantages, that the lad's
bias thereto had been very strong —strong enough to
make his future more hopeful than had at first appeared.
To none of his son's schemes did the parson make objection, not even to his plan of raising money for himself.
His father's assistance the lad never asked, nor did Mr.
Garland offer it. He thought it best not. It gladdenedhim,'amid all his pain, to see Keith so thoroughly and
honorably independent. Perhaps the frantic plunge he
had made, blindfold, into all the anxieties and responsibilities of manhood, might shake him out of his boyish
thoughtlessness- act upon him with the stimulus of a
cold bath, and brace his energies for the real business of
life.
The father earnestly hoped so. Young as Keith
looked, with his round, rosy, beardless cheeks, and his
curly hair, there was a firmness and earnestness in the
lad's expression which Mr. Garland had not perceived
before, and which comforted him amid all his heavy
care; for he knew, of his own knowledge, how life is
never hopeless, and how the good God' can make all
things, even trials such as this, to work together for good,
if we work also with Him, and in His own righteous
way.
So, before going to rest, all was settled so far as was




Two Marriages.              167
then possible, for there was no time to be lost. The best
way to avoid scandal was to escape it.
Keith mentioned hesitatingly that he knew of a ship
that was to sail in a fortnight; and, short as the time
was, Mr. Garland decided that he had better go.
"We can end all college matters easily enough," added
he, "and all the easier that you will have your father
here at hand."
"I know that," said Keith, contritely and gratefully.
Thlien, after a pause, "But about her?"
" Do you mean your wife?"
"Yes"-and it was pitiful to see the cloud of repugnance and annoyance that came over the young husband's face- "I can not take her with me; you must
see that, father. It would be quite impracticable."
"I never had the'slightest intention of suggesting
it."
"Then what can be done with her?  She has no home
— absolutely not a relative living —thank goodness for
the same! And she is so young, so pretty! You don't
know how pretty she is, father!"
The father half smiled, and then told how he had seen
her at Valley Farm. With a certain feeling not unlike
compassion, he recalled the fresh young face and rather
attractive manner of the creature, now cast aside as a
burden and encumbrance, more than half despised.
"Valley Farm-that is an idea," cried Keith, eagerly.
"Perhaps Mrs. Love would take her back —not as a
servant, but as a boarder-that is, if you did not object
to her being so near you. She would not intrude; she
will be very humble, poor thing! And at least it would




168               Two Maarriages.
give her a decent, respectable home. Do you consent,
father?"
" No!" Mr. Garland replied, not immediately, but after
a long pause, during which Keith waited patiently, with
an aspect of dreary humiliation. "My son's wife can
have but one home-either his or mine. Go to Canada,
as you desire, for two years, and either send for her there,
or earn enough to return and settle in England. In the
mean time I will take your wife back with me to the
parsonage."'
" Oh father! oh my good, good father!"
For the second time the young man fell on his knees
-on his very knees-before the parent, who had given
him something better than mere life- the love and patience which helps one to live it; who had been to him
at once just and merciful; -like the Father in Heaven, as
all parents should try to be to all.their children.
Mr. Garland did not speak, only leaned over his son
and patted his head, while two tears -the rare, pathetic
tears of old age  stole down his cheeks. But Keith
wept like a little child.




Two Marriages.              169
CHAPTER V.
EUSTON SQUARE terminus in the dim dawn of a winter morning-nay, before the dawn; for -the gas-lamps
were still burning here and there along the platform,
where a little knot of people-porters, and passengers,
and passengers' friends- were assisting at the departure of the early train for Liverpool. It happened to be
one of those oftenest chosqn by emigrants, of which the
greatest number necessarily leave either from this station
or Waterloo. You can easily detect these sad, outwardbound folk from ordinary passengers, even were it not for
their heterogeneous heaps of luggage-not common' luggage, but masses of property, which plainly speak of-leaving home " for good." Ah! is it, can it ever be for good?
Huge packages of amorphous character, canvas bags,
heavy sea-chests, and smaller boxes marked "Wanted
on the voyage," show plainly that few of them are ever
likely to return to England. And opposite the line of
second and third class carriages-sometimes first-class,
but seldomer; first-class is more accustomed to keep its
feelings under control-hang groups, mostly of women,
some crying, loudly or quietly, as their natures may be;
some silent, with bleared and swollen-faces, that seem to
have wept all tears dry, and settled into sheer exhaustion. They, and the men too, have a look of having
been up all night-a long night of forced composure or
H




170               Two Mfarriages.
parting anguish, terrible as death. But the men carry it
off far the best, either with a miserable hard stolidity,
that has something savage in it, or else with a false jocularity; it is chiefly the women who break down.
"You see, father, there are other folk bidding good-by
to old England as well as I," said one young passenger
-a second-class passenger he was, although quite a gentleman to look at-" other folk who look as if they had
not slept much last night, as I own I'dldn't."
"Nor I," said Mr, Garland.
The parson was walking slowly up and down, leaning
on his son's arm. All was over and done; Keith had
quitted college, and, through the father's protecting care,
quitted it without any outward exposure. They had
been three days in London making final arrangements.
Now the very last day-the last hour —of parting had
arrived. Even the ticket was taken, and the rugs and
other impedimenta packed into the carriage; nothing
was left to do or say. No need for aught but the few
last words, which in such circumstances never will come,
or come as the merest commonplaces.
"We have found our lodgings very comfortable, as I
hope your hotel has been," observed Keith; " and it
was very kind of you to get them for us. The landlady
said she knew you long ago."
"Not me, but your mother, who once befriended the
woman. She always did contrive to help every bodyyour mother, I mean."
"I know that," said Keith, softly.
"Is-your wife well to-day? Did you leave her tolerably composed?"




Two Marriages.              171
"Yes, she is a good girl —a very good girl. She
would-not trouble me more than she could help. She
sat up all night helping me to pack, and would have
come with me to the train, but I told her you might not
like it."
Mr. Garland was silent.
"But she will be ready at the lodgings any hour you
please to name, or she will meet you at the railway station, whichever you prefer. Shall you start for ImmeIbidge to-day?"
"Possibly; I am not quite certain. Hark! was not
that the bell for departure?"
9"No, the five-minutes' bell."
The old man clung to his son's arm, leaning heavier
and heavier, though he still firmly planted each foot on
the ground, and walked with head erect and tearless
~eyes. Looking at him, Keith felt, for the moment, that
he would have given all his hopes in life, every prospect
of worldly advantage, every indulgence in that frantic,
youthful passion misnamed love, to have staid behind,
and cheered and solaced the few remaining years of his
dear old father.
He was sorry he had said so much about his wife; and
the few words more he had meant to say, begging that
when they did meet-for Mr. Garland had not seen her yet'
— he would be kind to her, and but up with her many
shortcomings, faded entirely out of the young fellow's
mind. It was one of those sad cases in which a man can
not, as the Scripture ordains-and as, under certain, exceptional circumstances, a man is bound to do —" leave
father and mother, and cleave unto his wife." Here




172               Two.Marriages.
there was in truth no wife to cleave to, no vestige- of
the real marriage of heart and soul, which alone constitutes " one flesh;" husband andw.ife, sufficient each to
each.. Poor Keith-if he:ever looked into the future!
But he did not-he dared not.
All he felt was-with a pent-up grief choking him at
the throat, and a bitter remorse gnawing like a wild
beast at his heart -that in a minute or two more he
should have parted from his father- his good father,
who had  done every thing in the world for him, who
had been both father and mother to him ever since he
was born. That, for all he could tell, he might never
again behold those venerable white hairs, that dear familiar face - withered indeed, but pleasant and fresh to
look on as that of a young girl — pleasanter and dearer
far, as now seemed to Keith, than that pretty red and
white face which had so taken his foolish fancy, and for
which he had sacrificed and suffered - ay, and caused
others to suffer-so much.
" Oh father 1" he cried, in exceeding bitterness of soul,
",I wish I were not going away from you! Tell me —at
this last minute-shall I stay?"
And at that final moment the father paused. Paused
to consider, not his own feelings-they could have given
an easy solution of the difficulty-but his son's good.
He ran' over rapidly.all the arguments which, during
many a solitary walk, and many a weary, wakeful night,
he had carefully weighed; all the exigencies of the future -the bitter, perhaps -fatal future,'which Keith had,
brought upon himself. The same reasons which held
good.then, did so now. No momentary outburst of emo



Two Marriages.               173
tion could set-them aside. The plain common sense of
the matter was, that the youth and his girl-wife-so madly, so unsuitably allied -were better parted. That the
safest chance to make a man of the one, and a woman
fit, or at least less unfit, to be his wife, of the other, was
to part them -for a time. Of their separation little
harm could come. Keith was fast bound, and would
keep constant to his wife - if only from conscience and
self-respect; nay, he: was perhaps safer far away from
her, where he' could only remember her prettiness and
her love,. than if perpetually jarred upon and irritated by
those fatal deficiencies which he already felt —and his
father could see that he felt-only too keenly.
No, -Keith must go. It was better for him that he
went.
Of himself, and his own life to come-that short, short
vista, out of which all the brightness now seemed faded
-the parson did not think much. He remembered only
his. own seventy years and his son's twenty, with perhaps half-a century more yet to run. No, not a chance
must be left untried of redeeming the past: and softening
the future. Keith must go.
" My boy," he said, " I am glad you said that; I shall
not forget it. - But I do not {wish you -to stay. When a
man has put his hand to the plow, let him not look back.
Go to Canada, and do your best there, like a brave young
fellow as you are -as I would wish my son to be. Go!
and I will try to.keep alive and hearty till you return."
"Of course you will!" answered Keith-fiercely almost
-and when he spoke the departure-bell was- heard really ringing.




174               Two Marriages.
Father and son turned face to face, and then grasped
hands, in the tight, silent grip'with which men express
-or conceal their feelings.
A minute more, and where the busy train had been
was an empty space -a few porters hurrying away to
other work, or sharply calling "This way out" to the
knot of women left weeping on the platform, and one
old man who stood, not weeping, but leaning heavily on
his stick, and gazing, in a sort of abstraction, upon the
long black serpent, with its white-coiling breath, that
went puffing and snorting away, first slow — then faster
-faster-till it disappeared into the dim distance, carrying with it the delight of his eyes for twenty years.
Yes, Keith was gone-quite gone now. The old man
had lost his only child.
There must have been something in the' parson's aspect which told his sad story, for oner of the: porters,
roughly beginning to order him from the platform   as
they did the poor sobbing women- stopped,- and said
civilly,
"This is your way, sir. Shall I get you a cab?"
"Thank you."
But, on trying to walk, Mr. Garland felt so feeble that
involuntarily he put out his hand for support.
"Sit you down here, sir, and I'll find you a cab in two,
minutes."
It might have been two or ten, he could not say, for
he felt so utterly bewildered and weary, when he. was
roused by a light'touch on his arm, and saw a young
woman standing at the end of the bench — a young
woman- scarcely even a "young person," as the in



Two Marriages.              175
termediate phrase is, and not a "young lady" by any
means.
"If you please, Mr. Garland, I be here, sir."
The strong west-country accent, the humble manner,
like a servant's, and the dress - a mere servant's dress
also-were sufficient, even if she had not called him by
his name, to inform  the parson who she was — his
"daughter," Charlotte Garland.
Exhausted as he was, all the blood seemed to rush to
his heart, rousing him out of his stupor, and bringing
him back at once to the bitter reality of things. He
turned-to examine sharply —he tried hard that it should
not be unjustly-this girl, who had proved such a fatality to him and his.
She was like —and yet unlike- what he had remembered of her. Her face he could not see - she had a
thick veil on; but her ungloved hands, not coarse now
-sickness had wasted and whitened them-were shaking violently. Nevertheless, the voice in which she addressed him was composed, and not unsweet, even to the
parson's most sensitive ear.
He rose and gave her his seat. "I believe-I can not
be mistaken —you are Mrs. Keith Garland?"
"Yes, sir."
" Are you here alone?"
" Quite alone."
She said it half inaudibly, but very quietly, without
any of the torrents of tears, the noisy demonstrative
grief of the- women around, which was what Mr. Garland
had somehow expected. And when she lifted up her
veil he saw, not the pretty, rosy girl who had worked so




176               Two Marriages.
much woe, but a thin, sickly-looking creature, who was
evidently doing her utmost to use a woman's self-control.
There was a fixed repression' in the small and close-sat
mouth; a mute, restrained, unappealing sorrow in the
heavy eyes, which touched him in spite of himself.
She waited for him to speak again, but finding he did
not, she said, still in the same humble tone,
"Beg pardon, sir, for coming up to'ee, but I thought
you might' miss of I, and that would gie'un a deal more
trouble."
As, she spoke Mr. Garland winced terribly. He could
not help it. Hie, so sensitive to small refinements, how
should he endure constant association with this girl, however harmless and even affectionate she might be?
"I thought you were safe at your lodgings," said he,
abruptly.'" What did you come here for?"
A. foolish, nay, a cruel question, as he saw next minute,
but the girl did not resent it; and though her features
twitched and quivered, she did not cry.
" I couldn't help coming, just to see the last of him;
he's my husband, sir. But he didn't see I; I took care
o' that."
"Where were you, then?"
"Just behind that lamp. I saw you and him a-walking together, up and down, such a long time-.oh! such
a long time! And- then you bid him good-by, and he
got into the carriage." She' faltered-broke down a little.
"Poor girl!" said Mr. Garland, taking her hand, which
he had not yet done; and as he did it, he was conscious
of a momentary warmth of. heart toward this forlorn




Two Marriages.              177
creature, scarcely more than a child, thus strangely left
to his charge, and to whom the law, if nothing else, had
given the external title of his " daughter."
Charlotte did not respond in any equal or filial way.
Her limp, pallid hand just touched his and dropped away
again. She was evidently terribly afraid of him.
The civil porter came up with the information that a
cab was waiting.
"We must go now," said Mr. Garland. "Come!"
He paused, considering what to call her-what he ought
to call her-this young woman, who, however he felt
toward her, was his son's wife, and must be treated as
such. Then, with an effort, he said, "Come, Charlotte."
She obeyed'with the humble, deferential air which
was to him so painful, and yet, perhaps, the contrary
would have been worse. He tried to think so-tried to
hope the best. As she sat beside him in the'cab, he
made several attempts at ordinary conversation, showing
her the London streets they passed, and so on; but she
seemed quite stupid, either with grief or shyness, and
only replied in monosyllables; so he took refuge in covertly observing the pretty face. Beyond question it was
very pretty, with almost a Greek profile, only less inane
than those correct outlines usually are —dark eyes, and a'
quantity of rich blue-black hair.'But there was the
servant's bonnet, gown, and shawl, tawdry with violent
contrasts of color; the servant's gloveless.hands;. and,
above all, the unmistakable servant's air-half awkward,
half shy, in the presence of an acknowledged superior.
He could make no more out of her than this until the
two were sitting face to face-he pointed to a chair, or
H 2




178               Two Marriages.
she would have remained standing-in the little lodging-;house parlor. With both of them, the first passion of
parting had subsided; the wrench was over; and let
their hearts bleed inwardly how they might, outwardly
they had to go back to the duties of the common worka-day world.
The first thing that startled them into this was the
landlady's bringing up breakfast; it was scarcely nine
o'clock, and yet it seemed already the middle of the day.
"We'll wait a bit," said Charlotte, hesitating; perhaps.se remembered the day when she gave the parson his.
-tea at Valley Farm. Perhaps he remembered it too;
but these things must not be remembered.
"No, we'll not wait, if you please.. Will you give me
some lreakfast?"
He pointed to her'seat, assuming his own opposite;
and so they sat down together, as father and daughter-inlaw, and took the initiative step in their new life.
Their meal ended-and it gave to both a'certain sense
of ease and comfort, as if the first and worst difficulty'had been got over satisfactorily —the, parson spoke to
her, trying to do it gently and kindly, in the manner he
used toward his parish school-children.
"We must now consider our plans, my dear. You
know, of course, that you are coming back with me to
Immeridge?"
"Yes; he told me so."
"And are you satisfied with the arrangement?"
" Eh, sir?"
"Do speak out," said Mr. Garland, a little sharply.
"I should be sorry to take you home with me if you did




Two lifarriages.            179
not approve of it. I do not wish to treat you as a -child,
or as-as an inferior person."
Charlotte Garland opened her great eyes —childish
eyes they were, almost; there was no badness in them,
and a certain appealing simplicity-a "Don't hurt me!"
sort of look. Evidently she did not half understand
what was being said to her. But she looked up into the
kind face of Keith's father; and understood it better than
his words.
"Yes, sir, I'd like to go with you, and thank you kindly," said she.
"Very well; suppose we go home to-day?"
And then he remembered what a changed home he
was returning to-changed in what it had lost, and far
worse, for he had grown used to Keith's absence, in the
additional burden it had gained-a burden which, to an
old man of his solitary and settled ways, would be obnoxious every hour of the day. And yet it was but
duty-as this Christian man read his duty-therefore it
must be done.
Nevertheless, the more he pondered over it the more
perplexing it grew, not merely in its larger aspect, but
in the minutive of things. He had written to his housekeeper, saying merely "' that Mr. Keith was married, and
was going to Canada, leaving his w.ife at the parsonage till
his return."  This intelligence, in all its naked brevity,
would, he knew, soon speed all round the parish, perhaps
even to Valley Farm, where the truth would be at once
guessed. How it would finally come out at Immeridge,
or whether the whole story was not already public, Mr.
Garland could not tell, and took no means of learning.




180               Two. MIarriages.
He was a thoroughly honest man, -this Parson Garland. His candid soul, clear as daylight itself, had no
fear of coming to the light. Those poor shams-so common that they cease to be thought mean, and are called
by pretty names —such as'" keeping up appearances,"
"wearing a good face before the world," or even that
last and saddest sham of all, euphuistically translated as
"aver son linge sale chez lui:" all these forms of elegant
hypocrisy were to him unknown and impossible. He
never did, consciously, what he was ashamed of doing,
and therefore never dreaded the world's knowing that he
did it. If he himself thought it right to take home to
Inmmeridge Parsonage his son's wife, what business had
the world to meddle with the matter?
He: did not feel it necessary to advertise to all his
neighbors who and what Mrs. Keith Garland had been
-to bruit publicly his own private griefs and his son's
errors. But his silence was not deceit - he never tried
to deceive any body; he was resolved, whatever happened, he never would.  That morbid dread of public.
opinion, which shrinks not so much from the thing itself, whether misfortune, disgrace, or even cfime, as
from society's knowing it, was not the form in which
temptation -came to Mr. Garland. It might have done
once, for he was naturally very sensitive to love and
hatred, praise and blame; but time and his long solitary
life had taught him better wisdom. To him —accustomed to live alone, face to face with the All-seeing Eye
-the stare, whether kindly or malign, of mere fellowcreatures seemed comparatively a: very little thing.
Still he was conscious of many perplexities that would




Two Marriages.              181
arise from bringing Charlotte home as his daughter-inlaw. The first one-a trivial and yet annoying thingdawned upon him as she sat opposite to -him, huddled
up in the arm-chair which he had made her take, for she
looked very pale and. wan, though she made no com-,plaint.
It was years -twenty years since the parson had noticed women's dress; but he had an artistic eye, and remembering what used to please him once iii'the only
woman he ever admired-and yet she was not prettyhe saw at' once'that something was amiss in the undoubtedly pretty Charlotte Garland. He could not exactly tell what it was, except: that the flimsy cotton gown
and gaudy-patterned shawl were very different from the
unity of harmonious color,' the decorous simplicity of
shape, to which he had been accustomed, and by which
an ordinary or even a plain woman can make herself
lovesome, not to say lovely, if she chooses.
Also there was that unmistakable something, or lack
of something, which convinced him that when she came
under the sharp eyes of Jane, the old servant-who had
been servant to his wife- would discover at once that
Mrs. Keith Garland was "' not a lady."
This, alas! was in degree inevitable; still, some external amendment might be made, only he did not like
to hurt Charlotte's feelings by doing it.
"Excuse me," he said, at last, "but have you any
other gown than this? It is scarcely warm enough for
traveling."
"'So he said," she always referred to Keith as "he;"
" and that it wasn't fit for me to wear now; and he left




182               Twoo Marriages.
me some of his money to buy clothes, and told me he
would send me more by-and-by. I wasn't to be a burden upon you, sir."
"Poor fellow!" said the father, softly.
"I was always handy at my fingers, though I had no
book-learning, please, sir," pursued Charlotte, timidly.
"If I might go out and buy some stuff, I could make a
Sunday gown for myself when I get home'-I mean —I
beg your pardon if I've said any thing wrong," added
she, in great confusion.
"No, my dear. Immeridge is your home."
" Thank'ee, sir," with a return to the humble, servantgirl manner so terribly- annoying to Mr. Garland. He
struggled to conquer himself, however, and suggested that
they should take the landlady into council, and before
leaving London should spend Keith's inon'ey,- perhaps a
little more - but he did- not hint this - in supplying a
suitable wardrobe for Keith's wife.
Charlotte caught at the idea, and. whether for love's
sake or vanity's sake -the not wonderful vanity of sixteen-she took, during three whole days, a world of labor and no little enjoyment over her new clothes. She
also accommodated herself to them so well, that when
she was dressed in them, a fellow-traveler who resigned
his place to her in the railway carriage, spoke of her as
"that young lady."
Fortunately she talked little during the journey; indeed, the parson had been relieved to find, during their
three days' association together, that familiarity with him
did not make her grow, more voluble, but rather more
silent; also, that when he talked to her, which he forced




_Two Marriages.              183
himself to do as much as possible, she sometimes seemed
to notice the difference in their speech, and try, blunderingly, but eagerly, to correct her own. Seeing this, he
once or twice corrected her himself in some glaring error of grammar or pronunciation, which reproofshe took
meekly enough, and did not make the mistake again.
Still the ci-devaut Charlotte Dean could by no possibility be exalted into a heroine of romance.: She was just
a common servant-girl, or seemed so, to the parson, who,
in criticising her, had to contend not only with personal pain, but with all the prejudices of his class, and the
sensitiveness of a nature peculi.arly alive to all that was
graceful and delicate, or the contrary. His only hope
was, that in these three days he saw nothing wrong
about Charlotte, nothing actually coarse, or wicked, or
unwomanly; and then she was so very young. She
must have been a mere child — too childish to have
learned any thing very bad - when she came under the
strict guardianship of Mrs. Love, of whom, however, she
seldom spoke, or in any way reverted to her former life.
Nor did Mr. Garland. He covered it over, and left it
with th'e Judge of all.
Nevertheless, as, with this young woman sitting by his
side, he traveled through the fair southern counties,
along the very same route which he had once taken(it seemed sometimes only a day, and sometimes a lifetime ago)-with another, and:oh! what a different woman, whom he was also bringing home to the same home,
it might well be forgiven the old man if, through all his
compassion, he felt a sensation of indescribable, hopeless
pain.




184               Two Miarriages.
But, happily, ere they reached their journey's end,
Charlotte's small strength broke down. IHe had not
looked at her for a good while, and then he saw that she
had quietly leaned her head in the corner of the fly, and
fainted. And when the carriage stopped at the Parsonage gate, and he tried to help her out, she, equally quietly, dropped down on the damp doorsteps, and had to be
carried off at once up stairs, and put to bed by Jane like
a baby.
It was a strange, sad coming home of Keith's wife, but
it was the best thing that could have -happened. And,
after an hour of great.uneasiness, spent in wandering up
and down the house, and lingering outside the long-vacant "guest-chamber," where the sick girl lay, Mr. Garland was" astonished to find how entirely he had forgotten every thing except anxiety and compassion for her.
"Well?" said he,'eagerly, to Jane, as she came out of
the room.
Jane cast down her eyes, determined not to meet her
master's.
"She's better, sir-she's only tired like-she'll be all
right to-morrow."
"I am glad to hear it. She has had a long journey;
and it was -hard parting with her husband, of course."
"Of course," echoed Jane, and made no farther remark or inquiry.
Mr. Garland was going into his study, but, struck by
the tone, and more by the after silence, he turned back.
ie felt how much depended upon Jane, who had had
sole control of the house for twenty years, and who,
though sharp at times, was not a bad woman in her way.




Two Marriages.              185
"You'll be very good to her," said he, half appealingly.
Jane was still silent.
Then Mr. Garland perceived his mistake.  He said,
looking full- at her, and assuming the parson's " high"
tone, which, gentle.as he was, all the parish were a little
afraid of"My daughter-in-law is only sixteen-too young to
take the management of my house. Besides, she has yet
to finish her education. Therefore, Jane, you will keep
your place as housekeeper, and all will go on as usualfor the present. But I trust to you to see that she has
every comfort, and that all proper attention and respect
is invariably paid to Mrs. Keith Garland."
Jane lifted her eyes at last, inquisitively- and sharply,
and fixed them on her master. In them' he saw-and
hardly knew whether he was glad or sorry to see-that
she was fully aware of every thing.
Mr. Garland had expected this —at least he thought he
had, and that he had prepared himself for it, as being a
result inevitable in a country parish, where every body
knows every body's business; for, let Mrs. Love be as
kindly silent as she might,'she could not chain the
tongues either of the farm-servants or the neighbors.
Of course Jane knew-.every body knew-the whole
story by this time. But when he met this cruel fact
blank and plain; when his old-servant looked him in
the-face, not with disrespect certainly, but with a sort of
half-pitying, half-angry amazement, without one word of
sympathy or regret for Keith's departure, or of curiosity
over Keith's young wife, the parson felt it hard.
He said nothing- what was there to say?  He had




186               Two Marriages.
borne much, sorrow, but the first shame of his life was
come upon him now.
"Be the young woman to stop here, sir?"
"My son's wife will certainly stop here," replied Mr.
Garland, with a dignity that silenced Jane. And then
feeling that-cruel as the explanation was-it was his
duty,'both as a man and a clergyman,'to explain himself
sufficiently, even to his own servant, so that neither she
nor any one would mistake him,-'or suppose that he
glossed over wickedness, paltered between right and
wrong, he said, "Jane, you must never again speak in
that tone of Mr. Keith's wife. It was a marriage without my knowledge or consent, but it was the right and
best thing under the circumstances. They are both very
sorry, and God may have forgiven them; I have, Jane,"
he added, almost entreatingly, for he felt how critical the
position was; " don't judge her, only be kind to her."
Jane looked as if she doubted the evidence of eyes and
ears —looked at her master until big tears gathered and.
fell. She wiped them off with her apron, and said, in a
husky voice,' Well, I never seed such a man as you —never! Yes,
I'll do it, sir. I'll be kind to her, but it's only for your
sake, mind that, master. May the good Lord reward
you, Mr. Garland-!"
And Jane went hastily away, more overcome than she
had ever been seen' since the day when she stood with
Keith, a new-born baby, in her -arms, weeping her heart
out beside her dear mistress's.'coffin.
Mr. Garland went slowly up stairs, not into his study,
but his own bedroom.  He was very ~weary, and yet




Two Afarriages.             187
composed. The worst was over; there was nobody else
to be spoken to, or to speak to him, on this subject.
And Keith was gone. He had suffered as much as he
could suffer, and felt strangely at rest.
If any eyes had watched him —but there were none to
watch, at least none visible to mortal ken-they might
have seen the old man shut his door, seat himself in his
arm-chair by the window, and, undrawing the curtain,
gaze out upon the church and church-yard, where, cradled in moonlight, the white grave-stones slept. He sat
a long time, and then went quietly to bed, his last conscious thought being, with a sense of repugnance tinged
with involuntary tenderness, that now, for the first time
for so many years, there slept under the Parsonage roof
another Mrs. Garland.




188               Two Miarriages.
CHAPTER VI.
IN spite of Jane's confident assertion that her patient
would be: all right to-morrow, it was several weeks before the expectant village, or indeed any body except
Jane and her master, saw Mrs. Keith Garland.
Though only a servant, poor Charlotte had a heart in
her bosom; her power of self-control was very great for
one so young; but, after the need for calmness was over,
she "fretted above a bit," as Jane expressed it, -for her
husband. Instead of rising from her bed, and parading
before all Immeridge her honors and glories as Parson
Garland's daughter, the poor thing turned her face to the
wall; did nothing but weep all day long, and fell into a
sort of low fever, or "waste," which, had it been done
out of policy, was the wisest thing she could have done
at that crisis. For old Jane's kindly nature was touched by the mere act of tending her; she forgot all that
Master Keith's wife was or had been, and thought of her
only as a poor sick child, who depended upon her-Jane,
for every thing; so that between these two women, who
otherwise might have become naturally antagonistic, the
one obtruding and the other resenting their painfully
false position, there grew up a true and not unnatural
bond, which contributed very much to the peace of the
Parsonage household.




Two Marriages.               189
The parson, too, in the daily half-hour visit Which he
compelled himself to pay to his daughter-in-law's room,
talking to her about trivial things, or perhaps, as was his
habit in sick-rooms, reading to her a few verses out of
the Bible, became familiarized tocthe pale face that he
found lying on the pillow, or propped upright in the
easy-chair by the fire. Its prettiness pleased his eye;
its silent smile as he entered moved his heart; he felt
glad this poor young creature had not been left a castaway upon the cruel world.
By degrees his duty-visit ceasedc to be a trouble and a
task: he found himself looking forward to it with some
slight interest, wondering what he should talk to her
about that day, and what she would say in return. Not
that she ever said much; -she seemed to have an instinct
that. it was safer to be silent, or perhaps, in the long confidential hours which she and Jane necessarily spent together, she got to know more of her father-in-law than
he suspected, or than she ever would have done had they
been thrown together very much at first; so, either from
prudence or timidity, she rarely did more than smile her
welcome, and pay to the old man the tender flattery of a
mute listener. Still, she supplied him with an interest,
an object of thought and care; he scarcely knew how it
was, but the Parsonage felt less empty; and even *the
small domestic fact of having to send up to the invalid
her portion from his daily meals made them seem a 1,ittle
less selfishly solitary.
For his life outside, it went on just in its ordinary
round. His parishioners were none of them of that rank
who could take upon themselves the liberty of intimacy;




190               Two Marriages.
nobody questioned him even about his son, and not a
soul in the smallest way adverted to his son's wife.
Sometimes he was glad of this, and then again he involuntarily resented it, and it inclined him the more compassionately to the poor pale girl, who lay so quiet.in
the little room up stairs, harming nobody, and of scarcely more importance to any body than if she already lay
" under the mools."
Thus things went on, and seemed as if they might go
on forever, until the quiet of the Parsonage was stirred
by an event- a momentous event always - the first letter from over the sea.
Keith wrote to his father at some length, very explicitly and satisfactorily; but to his wife was only a small
note, inclosed in the other. Mr. Garland sent it up stairs
at once, and followed it himself half an hour after, with
his own letter in his hand; for, amid all his pleasure in
the long loving letter, which had a tone of thoughtfulness and manliness quite new, the old man was touched
with slight compunction that Keith's confidences were
all to his father. The thing. was inevitable, and yet it
was not as things should be. As he walked up stairs to
his daughter-in-law's room,- Mr. Garland could not help
sighing.
Charlotte turned toward him with her customary smile,
but this time it was not quite natural; she had evidently
been in tears.
"Is not this good news?" said the old man, cheerily,
and gave her his letter. Hers was lying open on her
lap; it seemed to consist of only half a dozen lines, written in large copper-plate hand, as you would write to




Two Marriages.              191
a child. The parson felt almost sorry when he looked at
his own long letter. "You see, Charlotte, all the business facts come to me; but would you-care to read them?
Perhaps you do not feel strong enough?"
"Oh yes; but- I.can't. Please, sir, I haven't learnt
to read written hand."
Mr. Garland might have felt, for the hundredth time,
that bitter sense of incongruity in this wife with whom
unfortunate Keith had burdened himself for life, had it
not been for Charlotte's burning blush, which showed
her own painful consciousness.of the same.
"Never mind," he said, kindly, "I will read it to you.
But your own letter."'"I couldn't read it, and I thought you might not
like my asking Jane to. Oh, sir, is he quite well?
Has nothing happened to him?  Is he glad he went?"
added she, eagerly, while her lips quivered, and, despite
all- her efforts to prevent it, the tears came streaming
down.
"My dear," said the parson, deeply touched, "keep
quiet, or we shall have you as ill as ever again. Keep
quiet, and you shall hear every word he says —you have
a right; he is your husband."
"Yes, yes!"  And for a minute- the poor girl's eyes
brightened with love; the rare unbought treasure which
heaven can light up in a beggar's heart or in a queen's,
but which once kindled, nothing earthly will ever quench
- and Mr. Garland saw it.
He silently extended his hand and held hers while he
read aloud Keith's letter. When he had done so, and
talked it over a little, explaining any thing that he




192               Two Matrriages.
thought she was not likely to understand, he asked, hesitatingly, if he should read the other one.
"Mine! Oh yes- if you would be so kind."  She
had sat folding and fingering it, and now she gave it up
with a sad, lingering look. Poor Charlotte!
"You must not mind my seeing it, even if it is a loveletter," said the parson, half apologetically. But there
was no need; all the world might have read every line
of Keith's first letter to his young wife:
"DEAR CHARIOTTE,-YOU will be glad to hear I am
safe landed at Halifax, and shall shortly be on my way
to the back woods of Canada. My father will tell you
where they are, and all about them if you care to hear.
I shall have to work hard, chiefly at farming work, which
you know all about, though I hear farming is rather different there from what it is in Old England. Still I can
learn-and you will learn too, when I can fetch you or
sendTor you. I hope you will be a good girl till.then,
and take care of your health, so as to get thoroughly
strong, for health is very much wanted out here. I hope
to have mine, perhaps better than in England; for other
things it is of course a very great change.
"I write this large, hoping you may contrive to read
it. Perhaps by-and-by you might manage to learn to
write. Be as cheerful as you can, and be always dutiful
and obedient to my dear father.
"Your affectionate husband,
" M. KI. GARLAND."
Nothing more than this- and there scarcely could




Two Marriages.              193
have been less; yet Charlotte seemed satisfied with the
letter, and asked Mr. Garland to read it over again to
her.
"Then I shall learn it by heart," said she, simply;
and the old man felt it hard to meet the touching patience of her eyes. Sinful as she was, she had been sinned against likewise. The wrong, for which no man can
ever fully atone, had been done, and done by his son, to
this poor servant-girl.
He staid with her much beyond his customary half
hour, sometimes talking, sometimes sitting silent, pondering-not the questions of sin and forgiveness; he left
that to heaven alone-but wondering whether, contrary
to all his theories and habits, he was being taught how,
in heaven's sight, nothing is "common or unclean"whether, by rare chance, Nature might not have put
sense and intelligence under that broad, low forehead;
sensitiveness and refinement in the always sweet-tempered, flexile mouth-whether, in shorty though she was
not born one, it might not be possible in time to make
something like " a lady" out of Charlotte Garland.
At last he said, "Charlotte, when you are stronger, you
and I must have a word or two of serious talk. No,
don't look frightened. It is not to scold you; the only
fault I mean to find is that you will not get well fast
enough."
"Would you like me to get well, sir? I have sometiines'thought-well, it has been put into my mind-that
-that-"
"Speak out-always speak out."
"That you would rather-I know it would be better
I




194               TwIo Marriages.
-Oh, sir, you know-you can't help knowing —that it
would be a deal easier for him if I died."
This outburst-and, alas! it was not altogether without foundation —quite overwhelmed Mr. Garland. Its
very truth made it more difficult to answer. Nor had
he expected it, though he had before noticed, with some
surprise, that in this coarse, unlettered girl lurked the
true principle of feminine devotedness-the faculty of
seeing all things as they affected  "him," and not herself
at all.
"My dear," said he, gently, "you must not talk thus.
Every thing that is past is past; we must make the best
of it. Instead of dying, suppose you were to come down
stairs and make tea for me to-night?"
Charlotte looked amazed. " Do you really want me?
Would you really like me to come?"
For once in his life the parson told an untruth-or
half a truth, disguising the rest-and answered briefly,
"Yes, my dear."  But he forgave himself when he saw
how Charlotte's whole countenance brightened hip.
"Then I'll do it at once-this very night, sir. I can.
I felt quite strong enough to come down stairs, only
there was nothing to come down for."
" How so?"
Charlotte hung her head. "Jane said I was not to
help her in the kitchen, and there is no other work I am
fit to do. Besides, I should only have been in your way
-I know that."
Mr. Garland avoided answering the last half of her sentence. "You seem to have a grand notion of work,
Charlotte," said he.




Two Marriages.              195' I was brought up to it-it comes natural to the likes
lo we;" and then recognizing her provincialisms, out of
which she had struggled very much of late, at least
whenever she talked with her father-in-law, the girl suddenly blushed-Charlotte's vivid, scarlet blush.
"By'us' you mean the people you were among before my son married you," said the parson, determined to
shirk nothing, though he spoke both kindly and familiarly. "No doubt as Mrs. Love's servant you worked
hard enough, but there is no reason why an emigrant's
wife, and" —he paused-" a clergyman's daughter, should
not work too, though in rather a different way; and that
is what I wanted to speak to you about. Shall I?"
" Yes, please, sir."
" Would you not like to learn something? Learn to
write, that you may answer Keith's letters; to read
books, that you may be a companion to him when he
comes home. The Bible speaks-I read it to you only
yesterday-of the wife being'a help-meet' for the husband."
"What does that mean?" asked Charlotte, humbly.
The parson thought a minute, and then, trying to put
his thoughts into as simple language as possible, retranslating himself as if it were for a child, he explained to her
his own beliefs about marriage-his faith, and also his
experience; how, though the man was the head of the
woman, the woman ought to be the heart and right hand
of the man-able to help him in his difficulties, to sympathize with him in all his aims, to comfort him in all
his troubles. That outward differences or incongruities
might exist, or might be got over in time; but that this




196               Two Marriages.
inner union must be, else the marriage was a total failure from beginning to end. And whether from the excessively simple way in which he put it-all divinest
truths are the most simple and most clear-or from a
tender earnestness of manner which supplied what his
words failed in, he saw that, somehow or other, Charlotte understood him. When he ended she looked up
wistfully in his face.
"I know it's all true, sir. I knew I wasn't a fit wife
for him-but do you think I might grow to be?"
That doctrine of growth is one of the saving truths of
life. When we reject it-when we judge people harshly by what they were once, or hopelessly in looking forward to what they may be, we often make terrible mistakes. We are far harder upon one another than God
ever is upon us. We forget that in His divine planso far as we can see it-all existence appears to be an
eternal progress, an ever-advancing development-unless, as sometimes happens, the tide runs backward, and
then the only future is infinite retrogression. Looking
at our life —or lives-to come, after what seems to be the
system of this one, we can imagine a just and merciful
Being making possible to His creatures not only eternal
life, but eternal death-never eternal punishment.
But this is too solemn a sermon to come from such a
very simple text as Charlotte Garland.
If any one had seen her three months -well, say six,
for they slipped away so fast that nobody counted them
-from the day when she was brought home to Immeridge, she would scarcely have been recognized. It is
true, she was at the most impressible season of a wom



Two Marriages.              197
an's life, when new habits are formed and old ones effaced with a rapidity incredible to those who have not
seen such things. Besides —-and the more her father-inlaw perceived this, the more patient he grew with hershe was in addition to his own, under the teaching of the
great master, Love.
Without a doubt Charlotte was deeply attached to her
husband. Perhaps something naturally refined in her
had made her fancy a gentleman rather than a plowboy,
and sorrow developed this fancy into the real love, which
nothing can imitate and nothing destroy. Cold as Keith
was, and neglectful — for, after the first letter, he rarely
wrote again, but contented himself with sending messages
to his wife through his father-unquestionably the poor
wife loved him. Love guided the pen in her clumsy
fingers over dozens of blurred copy-books; Love wakened her with the lark, to pore over old spelling-books
and Reading - made - easy's - relics of the last Mrs. Garland's governess-days -for hours before any one in the
Parsonage was stirring. Love - and perhaps affection
also, as for two hours daily she " said her lessons" in the
study like a child-softened her rough provincial tones,
and made her try to speak good English, and to move
about, not in her old floundering way, but with the subdued quiet which she knew the parson liked. And he
knew that she knew he liked it, and why he did so; for
once, when the kitchen-door was left open, he overheard
her saying in a deprecatory, grieved way, "Please, Jane,
I wish you would always tell me when I do these sort
of things. I must be so unlike any thing he has ever
been used to. And, oh! couldn't you tell me something
more about poor Mrs. Garland?"




198               Two Marriages.
Nevertheless, human nature is human nature, and
many a time the old leaven of servanthood would reappear. It was evidently a sore restraint to her to sit still
in the parlor instead of being busy with Jane in the
kitchen. At her lessons, though she learned easily and
fast-as quick brains, left fallow till quite past childhood,
very often do learn, which was a great mercy to the parson-still she was often stupid through sheer awe and
timidity, and her manner, when frightened, assumed that
painful subserviency which annoyed Mr. Garland more
than any thing.
Their life together was not easy; but things were less
dreadful than the good man expected them to be; and
sometimes he thought-when he had time to think about
it at all —that he was scarcely so unhappy as his son's
miserable marriage ought to have made him. It had
pleased God to take away his life's hope; to end all his
dreams for his boy's future; to put endurance for happiness, and a burden for a delight; and yet-and yethe was conscious of many pleasures left. He could still
enjoy the spring sunshine, and watch the cliff swallows
return to their old nests from over unknown seas, and
the primroses people in multitudes the little dell below
Immeridge village, with scarcely less interest than he
had done, season after season, when the seasons' change
formed the only epochs in his monotonous days.
Then, too, during their Sunday walks, begun through
a painful sense of duty to the solitary girl, and also to
lessen the weariness of their sitting looking at one another in the Parsonage parlor throughout the whole blank
Sabbath evening, he gradually took pleasure in showing




Two Marriages.               199
her all these country things, and talking about them, and
in watching their effect in the pretty face, which, though
healthy enough now, never again offended his taste with
the coarse Blowsabella beauty of Valley Farm. That
mysterious impress which the mind makes upon the
body, altering, refining, and sometimes altogether transforming, began to be very perceptible in Charlotte. IHer
features deepened in expression; her slender figure acquired that grace of motion which is as important as
grace of form, and her gentle, even temper lent to her
voice, even though it did speak bad English, a certain
musical tone (timbre, as the French call it, and no other
word is quite equivalent), which made grammatical errors pardonable. Not that she was in any way like
Moore's low-born heroine, of whom he wrote so enthusiastically" Has the pearl less whiteness
Because of its birth?
Hath the violet less brightness
For growing near earth?"
Thomas Dean's child was neither a pearl nor a violet,
but merely a very pretty young woman, whom Naturehad accidentally gifted with qualities, physical and mental, which would have made her noticeable in any rank
of life, and which, being cultivated, bade fair to lift her
out of her own. One occasionally sees such personsladies'-maids, who have more of'" the lady" in them than
their mistresses; and graceful gentlewomen, whom, meeting in society, one hears with astonishment were once
barefooted mill-girls, whom some honest, romantic master
educated and married. And though such cases are but




200                Two Marriages.
remarkable exceptions to a most wise and righteous law,
and the truth yet remains that the most insane act a
young man can commit is an unequal marriage, still
there is another truth behind it-that in this, as in every
phase of human experience, exceptional cases will arise
sometimes upon which we dare not sit in judgment, if
only because they are exceptional.
Nobody sat in judgment upon this case -at least not
openly, probably because there was nobody to do it.
Except Valley Farm, where, with a certain instinctive
hesitation, Mrs. Keith Garland did not attempt to go, nor
did her father-in-law desire it at present, there was not a
house in the parish likely to criticise the parson or the
parson's daughter so loudly as to reach their ears, for
Immeridge village had the true English respect for its
betters. And the Hall-which might have been found
a difficulty, and, indeed, Mr. Garland looked forward with
a vague dread to the squire's return -was shut up this
year since, instead of returning, Mr. Crux died, and the
family property devolved to a cousin —a barrister in
London.
So, after the first hard stares in church, some fingerpointings as she left it, and, when she casually walked
abroad in the village, visible hesitations between a broad
laugh in the face of " Lotty Dean," or a decent courtesy
to Parson Garland's daughter -after all these things,
which Charlotte herself did not seem to perceive, and
the parson shut his eyes to, while Jane, that faithful servant, fulfilled a servant's true duty of holding her tongue
entirely on her master's affairs, gossip ceased to trouble
itself about Mrs. Keith Garland. Time went on, and it




Two Marriages.              201
~was already a year since that dreary day when Mrs.
Love had come into Mr. Garland's study, and, as he
thought, destroyed his peace forever with her terrible
tale. - Only a little year, and all things had smoothed
down, as they do so wonderfully, when we cease to fight
against Providence, but simply do our best, and let Providence fight for us.
12




202               Twvo Marriages.
CHAPTER VI.
IT was early spring —Easter week, indeed —and Mr.
Garland sat writing his Easter sermon with his study
window open, inhaling the odor of bursting sweet-brier
leaves and of double Russian violets: there was a bed of
these just underneath, sprung from a single root which
Mrs. Garland had planted; and in this sheltered nook,
under the mild southern climate, they had flourished so
as to overspread the whole border. The parson could
generally pick one or two every week all winter through:
he put them in a wine-glass on the desk, when, however
faded they looked, Jane never ventured to touch them;
nobody did. Even in spring, when the violets became
plentiful, nobody quite liked to gather them from this
bed; so they bloomed and withered in peace, pouring
their scent in at the study window like a fragrant cloud
of invisible love.
The old man often stopped in his writing to drink it
in, delighting himself in it, as he did in all delightsome
things. Perhaps if heaven had made him very rich, or
very prosperous, or very happy, in this world's happiness, he might have been something of a Sybarite, and
therefore it was better that things were as they were-at
least he often thought so. Still he felt, and thanked God
for it, that even to old age he had kept the keen sense of




Two Mfarriages.              203
enjoyment, especially in Nature's luxuries. Thus spring
was jkst as delicious to him now as the spring-days of his
youth, perhaps affecting him with a' higher and more
chastened delight; for then it had brought visions of
things never to be, and now it stirred up in him  no
earthly longings at all, but a peaceful looking forward to
what the return of spring mysteriously foreshadows"the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting."
He was alone, for, Charlotte's daily lessons being over,
she had gone as usual into the garden, where she was
very fond of working, and where her labors had of late
almost superseded his own. It was good for her, since it
gave her plenty of active, open-air occupation-occupation with her hands; for Charlotte had one great deficiency in the making of a lady, or, at least, a fine ladyshe. hated being idle. And it was very difficult to find
her enough to do. She could not study all day long, and
though she now read fluently enough to enjoy books, still
she liked best story-books, novels, and such like, which
did not abound in the parson's library. Though she did
some house-duties, she was not the house-mistress, Mr.
Garland thinking it wisest, during the two years she
would be with him, not to put her above his faithful
Jane. Nor had he as yet given her any parish work,
neither Sunday-school teaching, she being only a learner
herself, nor district-visiting, where her former equals
might naturally resent her coming among them in a different character. His conscience soon told him that, for
the present, the very difficult position of Keith's wife
was made least difficult by her being kept in a state of
comparative isolation- shut up within the Parsonage




204               Two ]farriages.
domains like Eve within the garden of Eden. Often
when he watched her moving about as now, and saw
what a pretty creature she daily grew, he felt thankful
that he had had the power and the will so to shelter her,
and glad that her secluded life left no chance for any
tempting devil of the world to do harm to Keith's girlwife, so mournfully neglected. Alas! the parson felt it
was so; that more and more was poor Charlotte felt to
be a burden by the young husband whose love had been
the mere selfishness of passionate youth, not true love
at all.
Keith's letters came, very long, dutiful, and loving, to
his father, but sending only a line or two, or a message,
to his wife; and though he had plunged bravely and
heartily into his new life, and was prospering well, never
reverting to his return home or to Charlotte's joining
him in Canada. The parson's heart grew sad and sore,
nay, a little angry.  He did not love his daughter-inlaw:; love with him was a plant of very glow growth;
but he liked her with the tender liking that a good man
can not but feel toward a creature wholly dependent on
him, and who never consciously offends him in word or
deed. There was no romantic affection shown on either
side, but she was a good girl, and he -had the strongest
sense of:pity for her and responsibility toward her. He
did not now feel his work done and wish to die. He
prayed:rather to be kept sound in body and vigorous in
mind for a few years longer, that he might work on, or
live to see the dark future unfold itself.
He said nothing to his son of either his angers or misgivings; he knew that compelled love is more fatal than




Two Marriages.              205
hate; but he wearied himself with plans to keep Charlotte from fretting. She did look sad and grave sometimes when Keith's letters came; and, above all, he tried
to keep her fully employed.
"I wonder," he thought, " how young women in general employ their time-those three Misses Crux, for instance; for the new squire and his family had appeared
at church the Sunday previous, and the parson had called at the Hall, as in duty bound, on the Monday morning.
He compared Charlotte, as she moved about the lilac
bushes in her gray merino gown and straw hat, with
these stylish London damsels, in good looks, and in a
certain simplicity of costume, which, after considerable
struggles, she had attained to; he fancied Keith's wife
had rather the advantage. But he sighed when he
thought of the nameless graces of ladyhood, to his delicate perceptions so indispensable; the quiet dignity of
speech and mien, the repose of perfect self-possession, the
noble simplicity which, however perfect it may appear
to others, always sees for itself an ideal beyond any
thing it now is, or can ever attain to. Alas! all these
things would, he feared, be hopelessly wanting in Mrs.
Keith Garland.
But this Monday morning, while his perplexed mind
was turning over all the ways and means for her improvement, he was summoned to the parlor, where was
the overwhelming apparition of the very ladies he had
been uneasily meditating upon as forming such a contrast to his daughter-in-law.
Their personality did not improve upon nearer view,




206               Two Marriages.
for Mr. Garland was a gentleman of the old school, completely unused to the lively, not to say fast style of modern young ladies. The three Misses Crux, with their
voluminous draperies, their masculine jackets, and tiny
hats, upon which a whole bird with glass eyes sat and
stared at beholders, were no nearer his ideal woman than
Charlotte was. Very incongruous they looked in the
old-fashioned room, its decorations unaltered for twenty
years, where they poked about, admired the old china,
the fading embroidery, the valuable antique engravings,
seeming determined, with their mother, a mild and unimpressive person, to make themselves as much at home
as if they had been Mr. Garland's neighbors all their
lives.
"What a charming house!"
"The very picture of a country parsonage!"
"And you live alone here, Mr. Garland?  A charming old bachelor life. Oh no! I remember now you are
not a bachelor. But what a sweet, quiet life it must
be!"
"It is very quiet," said he, answering all the three
girls at once, for they all spoke at once, and wondering
what he should say to them next; but they soon saved
him that trouble.
"We shall find the IHall quiet too after London, for
papa means to live here all the year round."
"Oh, indeed!" replied the parson, with a slight shiver
of apprehension, he hardly knew of what or why.' And we hope, Mr. Garland, that the Parsonage and
the HEall will prove the best of neighbors, for all other
neighbors are so far off. You must dihe with us



Two Marriages.              207
musn't he, mamma? — at least once a week, if only: out
of charity."
"You are very kind;" for, under the rough demonstrativeness, he could perceive a certain frank kindliness
for which he was not ungrateful.
"Come, then, what day will you give us? Next Sunday?"
" I have never in my life dined out on Sunday. Not
that I condemn others for doing so, but still it is not my
liking nor my habit," said the parson, gently.
" I beg pardon, I forgot; Sunday is so usual a visiting
day with us in London; but perhaps in the country it is
different. What week-day, then?  Fix your own day,
and we will send the carriage for you at seven."
Mlr. Garland's hesitating reply was stopped by an exclamation from the youngest and manliest Miss Crux,
who had placed herself at the window, with her hands in
her jacket pockets, and her mouth looking as if it would
excessively like to whistle.
" Bless me, if there isn't the prettiest girl I ever set
eyes on! Your daughter, Mr. Garland?"
" No, my daughter-in-law."
" Is she married-that young thing actually married?
And where's her husband?"
"My son is in Canada; he will return shortly, and
meantime has left his wife with me. She is, as you say,
very young, only just past seventeen. May I offer you
some cake and wine, Miss-Miss —"
"Beatrice is my name —otherwise Bea — sometimes
degenerating into B," said the young lady, archly, though
the parson's manner would have " shut up," to use her




208               Two Miarriages.
own phraseology, any less forward damsel. "But tell
me more about your daughter; for, though I am ugly
myself, I do like pretty girls. It's lucky you keep her
close here, or every young fellow that saw her would be
falling in love with her. I'm half in love with her myself-I vow I am," added this feminine " young fellow,"
on whom the old man looked with undisguised amazement, as she stood tossing her short, curly hair, and rubbing her hands, evidently enjoying his bewilderment.
"Bea, for shame! You are so ridiculous," observed at
last the silent mother. " My dear' sir, I hope you will
let us have the pleasure of being introduced to Mrs. Garland."
"Mrs. Keith Garland," corrected the parson, slightly
wincing, and then stopped, puzzled what to reply to this
request.
Here was a conjuncture which he had never foreseen
-never even thought about. To receive Charlotte under his own roof-to bear with her-to like her if he
could - at any rate, to put up with her, and to be kind
to her-that he had undertaken-and. accomplished; but
to introduce her into society as his son's wife, either forcing her upon his friends with all her antecedents openly
acknowledged, or bringing her in surreptitiously, with
her previous history concealed- as for Keith's sake, he
felt bound to coficeal it if possible - this was a position
which had never before suggested itself to his simple
mind. A most critical position too, full either way of
great difficulties, and yet he must decide instantly, and
his decision might affect the poor girl's whole future
life.




Two Marriages.              209
He trembled; he felt himself visibly tremble before
all these inquisitive women, who might know —how
much or how little he could not possibly divine; but no!
their manner showed that they knew nothing. Ought
he to tell them?
While he asked himself this question, his difficulty
was summarily solved.
Charlotte, who had been at the other end of the garden, gathering flowers to replenish the beau-pot in the
grate, came in, ignorant of visitors, and suddenly opened
the parlor door. Bareheaded, her hat hanging down behind, her hands full of daffodils and flowering currant
blossoms, yellow and red, her cheeks and lips rosy with
health, her eyes smiling over the one delight of her simple life-her successful horticulture-'' She stood-a sight to make an old man young."
Seeing the room full of ladies, she drew back in the
extremest confusion.
There was no alternative now. " Come in, my dear,"
said the parson, rising. "Mrs. Crux, this is my daughter-in-law-Mrs. Keith Garland."
Involuntary Charlotte began her courtesy, but stopped
and turned it into a'bend, as Jane had tutored her —a
gesture not exactly awkward, but so painfully shy and
uncomfortable that Mr. Garland, out of pure pity, bade
her " take her flowers away, and come back again presently." So, without her having once opened her lips,
the door closed again upon that charming vision.
"Really, Mr. Garland," said the youngest Miss Crux,
" your daughter-in-law is the very prettiest person I ever




210               Two Marriages.
saw-a regular country belle. I say, girls, it's lucky for
us that she's off the course."
"'Eh?" said the puzzled parson.
"Lucky, I mean, that her name's scratched off the
books of the matrimonial race-that she's already Mrs.
Keith Garland."
The parson made no answer; indeed, he was sore perplexed. Like many another man, large of heart and yet
very sensitive, he could meet nobly and grapple bravely
with a grand moral difficulty, but the petty puzzles of
daily and social life were quite too much for him. He
needed a woman to save him from them or. help him
through them-such a woman as the wife he had lost, or
the imaginary daughter who never came. *For this
daughter, well seeing he could do nothing, he attempted
nothing, but waited in trepidation for her reappearance,
determined to let things take their course, and act on the
spur of the moment as best he could. However, Charlotte never reappeared.
The Crux party, after prolonging their visit to the utmost limit that politeness allowed, let fall some suggestions about hoping to see her again; but no effort being
made by the host to gratify their curiosity, they departed, merely leaving "kind compliments to young Mrs.
Garland." However, the same evening, before the parson and his daughter had met or spoken together, there
strode up the Parsonage garden a tall footman in livery,
bearing an elegant missive-nay, two missives from the
Hall, addressed respectively to "Rev. Mr." and "Mrs.
Keith Garland."
Charlotte took them herself to the study. She was in




Two Marriages.               211
the habit of waiting upon him there with letters or messages, and presented both to Mr. Garland.
"Open yours, my dear," said he, and watched her
while she read, which she did slowly and carefully, first
looking surprised and then exceedingly delighted, for it
was an invitation to dinner at Cruxham Hall.
"Is the man waiting? Tell him we will send an answer presently, or to-morrow morning, and then give me
my tea, if you please, Charlotte," for he wanted to fortify
himself and gain time before he decided.
Charlotte went away without speaking —she rarely did
speak first to her father-in-law on any subject-and sat
silent all the while he drank his tea, and read, or pretended to read, his three days old," Times."
Poor man! he was making up his mind, and it was to
him a very troublesome business. He wished, as ever,
to see the right, honestly and plainly, and then do it.
By the sudden gleam of pleasure in Charlotte's eyes, he
perceived-what had not struck him before-that this
lonely life, shut up in a country parsonage with only an
old man for company, and lessons for recreation, debarred
from the amusements of the class she sprang from, and
not joining, nor capable of joining, in those of that' to
which she now belonged, was not the best sort of life for
a young girl of seventeen —active, energetic, lively, pretty; and looking at her, more and -more he perceived
how excessively pretty she was.
Nor, as she presided at the tea-table, did Mr. Garland
notice any thing in her, either as to appearance or behavior, so very different from ordinary young ladies of
her age. In truth, though the old man would never




212               Two Marriages.
have thought of this, it was impossible for any one, with
common instincts or observation, to sit at the board and
share the daily society of such a thorough gentleman as
Parson Garland without acquiring in degree the outward
manners of a lady. He noticed, as he had never done
before, the great change in her; nor was his hesitation
caused by the fear that as a companion she would be any
personal annoyance to him, or would commit solecisms
of good-breeding at the Hall dining-table any more than
in the Parsonage parlor.
Still, the question remained-the vital question. Had
he any right to inflict upon the Cruxes, who were probably acting in the dark, or upon other neighbors who might
not be in the dark, association with one from whom they
were sure to shrink, although they might endure her a
while out of respect to his cloth and to him?  She was
his daughter-in-law; but still she was once a common
servant-girl, and-alas! alas! if that had been all!
"Charlotte," said he, after watching her from behind
his newspaper, trying to criticise her with the equal eye
of a stranger, the result of which criticism was an amazement, mingled with solemn thankfulness, that so little of
her antecedent history was written in her face: a face
— was it looking into his face that it had grown so?
-gentle, modest, simple, and sweet.  "Charlotte, my
dear, what do you think about this invitation to Cruxham?"
"Me, sir?"
"I think we ought to decline it."
"Very well, sir. You know best."
She spoke meekly, but a shadow of disappointment




Two Marriages.              213
crept over the pretty face. It was natural. She was
only seventeen.
"I really do not see how we can go. You have no
proper dress." And then, ashamed of the flimsy excuse, the good man added, "Besides, to speak truth,
Charlotte, as I always do, and I speak it not to hurt you,
because you-have too much good sense not to see the
thing as plain as I do —you have never been used to that
kind of society, and I doubt whether you would enjoy it,
or feel at home in it."
" Perhaps not," with a little sigh, which prevented Mr.
Garland from putting more harshly the other side of the
matter, that the Hall society might not welcome her.
"But what do you wish yourself?  Tell me plainly."
" I hardly know. Yes I.do," continued Charlotte, plucking up courage. "I hope it isn't wrong, but I should
rather like to go. I have sometimes thought how nice it
would be to meet people like the people in the books I
read-real ladies and gentlemen, who are so good, and
so beautiful, and so kind. I dearly like to read about
them. Hlow delicious it must be to live always among
them!"
"Poor little girl," said the parson to himself. Simple
as he was, he was not quite so simple as she.
"But, Charlotte, grand people are not always' real ladies and gentlemen;' and they sometimes do very unkind
things. They might be unkind to you. I am afraid they
would be. Would you feel hurt by that?"
" I don't know. But, if I could still admire them, would
it much matter what they thought of me?"
The parson heard, and marveled at poor Charlotte's in



214                Two Marriages.
stinctive leaping at that truth, the foundation of all heroworship, all human devotedness, ay, even of religious faith
-" I love, I admire, I adore," without reference to self at
all. Equally he felt surprised at wvhat a year had effected in this girl-this mind once blank almost as white paper, simply by keeping it white, removing from it all bad
influences, and letting the unconscious influence of daily
companionship with nature, and books that were pure and
true as nature do the rest.
While, roused out of her ordinary silence, she thus
spoke, there was such longing in Charlotte's eyes, such an
eager stretching out into "fresh fields and pastures new;"
not the girlish craving for excitement, but the aspiration
of a mind that was slowly opening, like the petals of a
rose, to the mysteries of life, about which she was still as
ignorant as a baby. Ay, in spite of all that had been, he
was certain she was ignorant-and innocent too, in a very
great degree. Such things, though rare, are possible.
Another idea occurred to him. What if his Quixotic
education of his son's wife, shutting her out from all
chance of harm, and filling her with ideal views of life,
had lasted long enough, and it would be wiser to let her
come into contact with human beings more real and tangible than the heroes and heroines of her story-books?
And she had been so good ever since she came to Immeridge, so patient under Keith's neglect; so obedient to
Keith's father, it was hard to deprive her of a little pleasure, the first for which she had ever seemed to crave.
"-But, my dear, if we did go, what dress have you?"
"' I could manage that," interrupted she, eagerly.  "In
every book I read, the young girls always go to their first




Two Marriages.              215
party in white muslin, and I could make myself a white
muslin dress in two days. And I have still a whole pound
and more of the money he last sent me-that would buy
it, and ribbons too. Oh, it would be so delicious I"'The parson smiled. His judgment slumbered-he had
not the heart to say her no. So he took that first step
which always costs so much-took it unwillingly, but
without much calculation of consequences, saying to himself that it was " only once in a way," and that no harm
could come.
The same evening, two responsive notes, one written to
dictation, and in Charlotte's very best hand, which now
was at least as good as that of most school-girls, were sent
up to the Hall by Jane's small assistant in the kitchen,
who also posted a written order to the nearest market
town for white muslin and pink ribbon. Then the parson put the matter from his mind. The die was cast.
When, on the appointed day and hour, he handed his
daughter from the Parsonage door into the Hall carriage,
it must be owned he was not ashamed of her. Her fresh
and simple dress was very neatly made; up to the throat
and down to the wrists, for Charlotte did not seem to
know that while women of the lower classes like their
best gowns to' be an extra covering, women of higher
rank do just the contrary. She went, like Tennyson's
Lady Clare, perhaps copied from that original, for Mr.
Garland had often seen her reading the book,
"With a single rose in her hair,"
gathered from the rose-tree which, by greatest care, she
had made to bloom in the parlor as if in a hothouse.




216              Two Marriages.
And though she had no gloves on, having apparently no
idea that they were ever worn indoors, her hands had
grown white and shapely, not unlike a lady's hand, even
though quite unadorned-except by the one plain gold
ring. She fingered it nervously. Poor Charlotte! was
she thinking of her husband?
Mr. Garland did not ask. In truth, he dared not reason about that'or any thing else. He only told her " she
looked very nice," at which she blushed into brighter
beauty, and relapsed into silence. His mind misgave
him, as it had done more than once that day; but it was
too late to draw back.
Besides, why should he? He was doing nothing wrong.
If Charlotte were good enough for the Parsonage, she
certainly was for the Hall. At worst, in taking her
there, he was only going counter to social prejudices;
but he infringed no moral law or sense of right. The
Cruxes probably knew every thing about her by this
time, or, if they did not, would soon learn, and then it
would be at their own option to continue the acquaintance.
Thus he argued with himself, and palliated one of the
few weak things, and the only uncandid thing he had
ever done in his life, determined that, if done at all, it
should be done without shrinking. Yet even while doing it a sharp pain came across him; a sense of the inevitable price that all sin must pay —to be paid, alas!
not only by the sinner, but by those belonging to him.
Oh, if Keith had ever thought of that!
When, mustering his courage, Mr. Garland walked into
the splendid drawing-room with Charlotte on his arm,




-Two- Marriages.            217
he could not help a certain relief at finding only strangers there-the Crux family, and some guests staying at
the 1Hall.
"We asked several of your neighbors - I suppose
every body is one's neighbor here, within ten milesasked them specially to meet you and your daughter,"
said Mrs. Crux, apologetically, " but, unfortunately, they
were all engaged."
" Well, it's their loss," added Miss Beatrice, as she took
hold of Charlotte with both -hands, stared hard and admiringly into her blushing face, then gave her a resonant
kiss, remarking, " I beg your pardon, my dear, but I really couldn't help it."
Mrs. Keith Garland was then introduced to old Mr.
Crux, a stout and bland gentleman; to young Mr. Crux,
a thin, small, fashionable youth, drawling in voice and
lazy in manner; and to various other people, the family
or the visitors. They all talked so much and so fast
that she could easily hold her tongue. She retreated behind her usual shelter of sweet, smiling looks, and almost
total silence, even when she was paid the compliment of
being taken down to dinner by the host himself, probably under some misty notion that she was still a bride.
The Cruxes had brought their easy London manners
to their country dinner-table, in the dazzle of which it
would have been easy for a more awkward person than
Keith's wife to have passed muster, and been only commented upon as " very quiet."  Quiet she was, her voice
being rarely heard save in monosyllables; but her sweet
looks spoke for her, and her excessive modesty and gentleness disarmed criticism, even if criticism had been atK




218               Two Matrriages.
tempted by these gay, metropolitan pleasure-seekers, who
were accustomed to take people as they saw them, without inquiring much into their antecedents. Charlotte
was treated with great civility by both ladies and gentlemen; and it never seemed to occur to either that she
was other than she seemed -an unobtrusive, pretty, silent girl, very shy, and very oddly dressed; but then
that was not surprising, considering that, as she herself
said in answer to Miss Bea's question, she had spent all
her life in these parts. Probably she was the daughter
of some other country parson, who might not have been
nearly as "nice" as the old parson of Immeridge.
Nevertheless, for lack of other'entertainment, the
youngest Miss Crux seemed determined to patronize the
country damsel in the most. alarming manner. She kept
her under her wing all the evening, treating her much
as an admiring young man.treats a charming young
lady; that is, in these modern days, when young men
deport themselves not as humble knights and devoted
swains, but as if:they thought they did the young lady
great honor by falling in love with her. She planned
rides, walks, picnics on the sea-shore, and other amusements, with the bewilderedc Charlotte, finally parting from
her with every demonstration of the most ardent friendship.
Of all this the parson noticed very little. Having
seen his daughter-in-law fairly afloat, treated kindly, and
looking happy, he devoted himself with his usual court-.
esy to spend the evening as pleasantly as might be,
though wishing in his heart that he was safe beside his




Two Marriages.              219
own study fire. He had lost the habit of society, as people do when they grow old in long seclusion.
And as they drove home - still in the Hall carriage,
for undoubtedly these Cruxes were very good-naturedhe was so thoroughly wearied that instead of talking to
his daughter he fell fast asleep. All he did was on bidding her good-night to hope she had enjoyed herself, and
her looks answered the question at once.
" So," thought the old man, still very sleepy, "the
evening is safe over, and no harm has come of it. I have
been civil to my. neighbors, I have pleased poor Charlotte, and there is an end of it all."




220               Two Marriages.
CHAPTER VII.
THE good parson was mistaken in his reckoning.
That dinner of Cruxham Hall turned to be not an end,
but a beginning; which, like the beginning of strife, was
"as the letting out of water."  For henceforward the
Crux family, headed by, Miss Beatrice, who governed
them all, bore down in a torrent upon the peaceful Parsonage, and swept away Charlotte with them in a flood
of friendship.
This state of things came about so imperceptibly that
Mr. Garland had no chance of taking any preventive
measures against it, even had he been so inclined. Before a week was over it was too late. That easy and almost inevitable intimacy, which comes about in the country when people live close enough to be meeting daily,
and can not choose but meet, was fairly established between the Hall and the Parsonage.
Charlotte seemed' to like it-passively, if not actively.
She submitted to be led about by the ardent Miss Beatrice as sweetly and silently as any pet lamb. For now,
as always, her silence was her safeguard. And, to tell
the truth, the fashionable Misses Crux were not gentlewomen enough to tell that she was none. They patronized her-and she was the meekest possible person to
patronize-they fell into a furore about her, and showed




Two Marriages.              221
her off to their guests as " the parson's pretty daughter;"
they laughed at her gaucheries and mispronunciations,.which they set down merely to "country ways." In
short, being used in their wide London experiences to
catch strange creatures, and -amuse themselves with them
while the novelty lasted, they caught Charlotte, and tried
to tame her, and play with her, and make entertainment
out of her, very much as if she had been a squirrel, a
bird, a guinea-pig, or any other temporary pet, which
could serve to while away a dull hour, especially in the
winter.
They were forever sending for, or fetching her to the
Hall; taking her drives, walks, picnics on the shore, and
sketching parties inland, all of which enjoyments they
made her believe would be incomplete without the pretty face of the parson's daughter. Also because, except
herself, they hhd no other companions; the old families
of the neighborhood seeming rather to ignore, or at least
taking time to investigate, the new Cruxes of Cruxham
Hall.
So two or three weeks rolled by; and this vehement
friendship, though carried on under Mr. Garland's very
eyes, was scarcely noticed by him, or noticed only because he saw Charlotte looked especially bright and
happy whenever she fold him-as, if questioned, she invariably did-that she had been with the young people
of the Hall.
"You seem to like those Cruxes?" said he, one afternoon, when he left her, waiting in the garden; with her
bonnet on, for an appointed walk with Miss Beatrice.
"Yes," she answered, in her usual gentle and unde



222               Two Marriages.
monstrative way. Certainly Charlotte was not a passionate person, which was, perhaps, all the better for
Keith, or would be one day. "Yes, I like them; they
are very kind to me."
So the parson thought he would let -matters drift on.
It might have been wrong, or at least foolish, but it was
a weakness belonging to his character not to take decisive steps unless absolutely driven to them.
Besides, this soft spring weather made him feel feeble,
and conscious of his feebleness-gave him a solemn sense
of how his years were narrowing down to months and
weeks, which could not be very many, and might be.very few. As he looked at the green leaves budding,
all his longing was that, by the time they fell, Keith,
taking advantage of the long holiday of a Canadian winter, might come over, as was his duty, to see his wife,
and, finding her so changed, might fall in love over
again with a new Charlotte, in which case their permanent residence in America, which, as his father saw with
pain, Keith now drearily planned as the only future open
to a young man whose wife was no better than a farmservant, might never come about. They might settle in
England-perhaps even near Immeridge-Keith finding
work of some sort to help them, or help to keep them,
till by-and-by he succeeded to his mother's little income,
a safe certainty which could not, in the course of nature,
be very distant now.
But as the old man thought of these things, calmly
planning for and providing against the time when he too
should be numbered among the innumerable multitude
"Who have passed through the body and gone,"




Two Marriages.              223
leaving their place free for a new generation, he felt no regret, rather a deep content, the purest content of all, the divine'unselfishness of parenthood. If he could only see
his child —nay, his children-for those whom marriage
had joined together he did not dare even in thought put
asunder-see them safe and happy together, how cheerfully would he say Nunc dimittis and go home! Thankful, above all, for one thing, that neither Keith nor Charlotte would ever have to remember of their father one
word, one act of harshnessor unkindness.
He strolled leisurely back to the Parsonage and went
into his study, tired, indeed, but so peaceful that he was
half annoyed when Jane came abruptly in to tell him
there was a visitor in the. parlor.
" One of the Cruxes, I suppose?"
" Young Mr. Crux; and he's been a sitting there with
Mrs. Keith for the last half hour."  Jane said this with
an air which implied that she was not entirely pleased at
the circumstance.
Neither was Jane's master. Unworldly and unsuspicious as the parson was, he had a certain amount of common sense. He had reconciled himself to the Crux avalanche, seeing it was of a purely feminine character, the
male members of the family spending most of their time
in London. But he saw at once that it would never do
for a young man like Mr. Charles Crux to be hanging
about the Parsonage, and holding tete-a-tetes with Keith's
wife. Weary as he was, he went immediately into the
parlor.
Nobody was there. The visitor had disappeared, and
he heard his daughter-in-law's steps overhead in her own




224               Two Marriages.
room. There must have been some mistake, he thought;
so he waited till he could ask Charlotte about it.
When she came -down to tea he observed her sharply.
She was pale-a little paler than ordinary, he thoughtbut she was her usual gentle, composed self; and when
he questioned her she answered without the slightest hesitation or confusedness of manner.
"Yes, sir, I had a visitor-Mr. Charles Crux."
"What did he come for?"
"He said, to bring an apolQgy for his sister."
"She did not come, then?"
" No."
"And how long did the young man stay?"
"Half an hour."
It was cruel to suspect her; besides, from the depth of
his'soul, Mr. Garland hated suspicion. Very often, it is
the dormant evil in our own hearts which we are most
ready to attribute to.others. To continue his catechism
would be, he felt, almost an insult, so he passed the matter over, merely saying,
"Another time, my dear, send word by Jane that I am
not at home. Gentlemen's visits should always be paid
to the gentleman of the family."
Charlotte was silent.
Their tea-hour went by peacefully as usual, she sitting
half hidden behind the urn, and Mr. Garland occupied
with his book, when Jane came in with two letters, one
for each of them.
"From the Hall, of course! They make a great fuss
over you, Charlotte," said the parson, smiling. But when
he opened his own note, the smile vanished.




Two Marriages.              225
Mrs. Crux, who was used to write him the most cordial
and long-winded of notes on every conceivable parish
matter, "presented her compliments, and requested the
honor of half an hour's private conversation with the
Reverend William Garland."
The parson dropped the letter on his lap. A tremor
ran through him; Mrs. Crux must have discovered all.
Jane was waiting, with her sharp eyes fixed first on one
and then on the other; but Charlotte sat immovable, with
her letter lying unopened beside her.
"Say to Mrs. Crux-no, stop — I will write my message."
And he wrote slowly, that it might look like his steadiest handwriting, though still it had the pathetic feebleness of his seventy years:
" The Reverend William Garland will not fail to wait
upon Mrs. Crux immediately."
And then he turned his attention to his daughter-inlaw.
She still sat in her place at the tea-table; but her color had quite faded out, and she was trembling perceptibly.
" Have you read your letter, Charlotte?"' No, sir."
"Will you do so, then?"
For he felt it must be penetrated at once-faced at once
-this something which had surely happened; doubtless
that which he ought to have foreseen would sooner or
laterinevitably happen-the discovery of all particulars
concerning his son's unfortunate marriage.
"It is my fault-oh that I had been wiser!" thought
he, with a pang of bitter humiliation-even dread.
K2




226               Two Marriages.
But the next minute he felt himself blush, not for the
shame, but the cowardice. What could the Cruxes ac-'cuse him of? He had done what he thought was right;
in a most sore emergency he had acted as he believed a
parent should act before God and man, in taking under
the shelter of his roof his son's wife, who had led there
for more than a year and a half a life as blameless and
- harmless as that of a child.
He watched her reading her letter. It was not a pleasant letter, evidently, for her cheeks were burning and her
eyes glowed with a flash-an actual flame, which he had
never seen lighted in them before.
" Who writes to you, my dear?"
" Miss Beatrice."
"What does she say? May I read?"
Charlotte passed the letter across without a word.
The parson, accustomed to ladies' letters —precise, elegant, feminine, formal-of half a century ago, was altogether puzzled by this one, with its scrawling masculine
hand and its eccentric phraseology:
" DEAR LITTLE FELLOW, —I can't come to you to-day;
the maternal parent forbids. Not that I mind her, but
she'd tell the governor, and there'd be a row. Indeed,
there has b'een a precious row at home. Some county
people called, and talked a heap of nonsense about you.
But you were really married —weren't you, my dear?
Anyhow-never mind-you're a jolly little soul, and I'm
a fellow that thinks for myself on this and all subjects.
So I told the maternal parent, and said I meant to stick
by you. And Clbarley backed me up, which wasn't mruch




Two Marriages.             227
good, as he's rather a loose fish, is Charley. Don't you
stand any of his nonsense, by-the-by.
-" I can't get out to-day, but I'll meet you to-morrow,
by hook or by crook. Hang it! this grand blow-up is
rather fun than otherwise —nearly as good as having an
elopement for myself. Never you care, there's a dear
little soul, I'll stand by you. Yours ever, B. CRUX."
Mr. Garland read the letter-twice over, indeed, before
he could properly take it in-then laid it on the table
beside him, and pressed his hand over his eyes, trying to
realize the position in which he stood, what he had done,
and what he ought to do. Above all, what he should
say, and how he should say it-to Charlotte.
Pleasant and kindly as their intercourse had grown,
there had never been between the parson and his daughter-in-law the least approach toward intimacy. She was
far too much afraid of him still; and on his side he
shrank with a repugnance, even yet unconquered, from
the occasional coarseness, though more of habit than of
innate nature, which he could not fail to see in her, and
which, in his ultra refinement, he perhaps saw plainer
than most people. Except in the necessary civilities of
domestic life, and the daily lessons, they rarely talked
much, for he did not exactly know what to say; and her
replies, though sensible and to the point, were always as
brief as possible.
But now he felt that the ice must be broken; that,
somehow or other, confidence must be established between them before they met and breasted mutually the
impending storm.




228               Two Marriages.
For, in whatever shape it might come, he never thought
of leaving her to breast it alone —this poor defenseless
girl,'left with the mere name of a husband to protect her
-the mere memory of his love, and that a selfish loveto keep her heart faithful and warm. However Keith
might act, it never once occurred to Keith's father to cast
her off; not even to preserve untarnished his own good
name, though well he knew that it was in peril. He
could easily imagine all that might be said about him
and of his conduct-for there is hardly any conduct
which will not bear two interpretations, and no story that
can not be told in two different, often totally different
ways. Besides, his own conscience told him that in one
point he had been weak to a fault. He had no right,
without telling Mrs. Crux the whole story, to allow his
daughter-in-law to visit at Cruxham Hall.
Still, whatever she'was or had been, she was now his
daughter-in-law, his son's lawful wife, sheltered by the
sanctity and irrevocableness of marriage ties-ay, even
such a marriage as this had been.. As he looked at her,
so young, so helpless, and with an air of innocence difficult to believe in, and yet not impossible, for the facts of
daily life sometimes show it possible for a girl, even with
Charlotte's antecedent history, to have instincts of virtue
strong enough afterward to retrieve herself, and become
an honest wife-as he looked, every chivalrous feeling
in the old man's nature rose up to defend her. He felt
thankful that there was even an old man left to stand between the poor girl and harm.
He opened the conversation at once.
"Thank you, my dear, for permitting me to read your




Two Mafrriages.             229
letter. It is not a pretty letter for a young lady to write.
Do you understand to what Miss Beatrice refers?"
" I think: I do. He told me."
" He? Who?"
"That-that villain /"
The fierce emphasis of her words, accompanied by such
a glare in the soft eyes, such a clench of the hand, told
Mr. Garland all-perhaps more than the truth. He rose
in much agitation.
"Do you mean Mr. Charles Crux? for it can not be
any body else. Has he dared- Tell me what he has
been saying to you."
Still she was silent. The hot blood flooded her face;
she seemed bursting with indignation, grief, and even a
sort of terror; but she did not reply.
"Charlotte, you must tell me. Remember, I am your
father."
Then Charlotte broke down. She hid her face in her
hands, and her whole frame shook with the wildness of
her weeping.
Mr. Garland stood by, attempting to do nothing-in
truth, because he did not know what to do. At last he
laid his hand on her shoulder, and she looked up.
"Let me hear every thing..I ought to hear it, Charlotte."
":I didn't mean to tell you, for it would only vex you,
sir; besides, I knew I could take care of myself. But
he is a villain! You-must never let him inside these
doors again. And I will never go to the Hall-never!
And when you go out you will take me with you-oh,
-please do, sir! for he has met me once or twice, and said




230              Two Marriages.
silly things to me, though he never insulted me till today."
"Did he insult you?" asked the parson between his
teeth.
Charlotte hesitated. She had spoken rapidly and vehemently, but now she hesitated.
"What did he say? Speak out.! Don't be afraid."
"I am not afraid, sir. He told me just what his sister
hints at in this letter —that after thinking I was a young
lady born, they found out I was only a servant-andand other things; that his mother was very angry, and
his sisters would never be allowed to see me again."
"I expected it. Any more?"
"Then he spoke —as I thought nobody would dare to
speak to a married woman. He said my husband didn't
care for me, and would never come back to me-and I
had better go away with. him-him?'
" And what did you answer?"
Charlotte sprang from her seat. If the parson had still
doubts concerning her, he could have none now.
"Answer?  What was I likely to answer but one
thing-that I hated him! Besides,I was married. If I
had not hated him, still I was married."
"And then?" said Mr. Garland- astonished, almost
awed at the passion. she showed.
" He laughed at me, such a horrid laugh, and I sprang
to the door; he tried to hold it, but I pushed him away
-I could have killed him almost-and I ran away up to
my room, locked myself in, and —I don't remember any
thing more, sir."
"My poor girl!"




Two iMarriages.             231
The parson held out his hand-his steadfast, blameless
right hand, which had never failed a friend nor injured
an enemy-held it out to the forlorn creature, who, her
momentary excitement gone, had sunk down shamestricken beside him. And, as soon as she had courage to
lift her eyes, Charlotte saw him looking at her, with the
only look that has power to draw sinners up out of hell
and into heaven —the true father's look, full of infinite
pity, infinite forgiveness.
"Oh, I'll be good, I'll be good!" she cried, in the accent and the very words of a child. " Only take care of
me, please, sir! Nobody ever did take care of me; or
teach me. I didn't even know how wicked I had been
-not then, but I do now. It's no wonder people should
treat me thus; and yet they shouldn't-they shouldn'tfor they were taught better, and I never was!"
"Ay, that's true!" said Mr. Garland' And thinking
of the young man, the cowardly libertine who had stolen
into the Parsonage that day-of the young girl, no older
than Charlotte, who had'written such a flippant, worse
than flippant letter-his heart burned with anger, and the
poor sinner who still knelt weeping at his feet showed
like a saint beside them.
Still he made no attempt to justify her, either to his
own mind or to herself. No pity, however deep, led him
to palliate her sin, or to allow that it might be softened
by extenuating circumstances till it came to be no sin at
all.
It was sin. Its very consequences proved it to be.
Who could doubt this, looking at that pretty creature,
who might have been almost like Wordsworth's Lucy



232                Two Miarriages.
"The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a cottage door"who had already a marriage-ring on her finger, and was
awaiting a settled married home, with all outward circumstances combining to make her happy?  Yet there she
crouched, hiding her face like the unhappiest, guiltiest
woman living.  "Conviction of sin" (to use that phrase
so awfully true, but which canting religionists often twist
into a hypocritical lie) had come upon her-whether gradually or suddenly, who could tell?-and the secret shame,
the hidden pollution, was worse to bear than any outward
contumely.
Nor could he help her-this good man, this minister of
God, who knew what God's Word says. He knew, too,
what the hard world would say, and that it has. reason in
its hardness; for without the strict law of purity to bind
society: together, families and communities would all fall
to pieces, drifting into wild anarchy and hopeless confusion.
" Charlotte," he said, very kindly, bu1t firmly, " try and
calm yourself if you can. It is a very serious position
of affairs. We must look at all things quietly."
"Yes, sir."
She rose and resumed her seat.4 As he, and Jane too,
had long since found out, Mrs. Keith Garland was no
weak girl, to lay all her burdens upon other people. She
could bear them herself,.silently, too, if need be; and in
this instance, perhaps, the very sharpness of her anguish
made: her strong. Her sobbing ceased, and she sat in
patient expectation.
" Here is Mrs. Crux's letter to me," said Mr. Garland.




Two Marriages.              233
" There can be no doubt she had heard what I supposed
she knew already, but which, had I been wiser, I should
have told her myself before I took you with me to the
Hall."
" Did it disgrace you,.taking me? If I had known it,
I would never have wished to go."
"I believe that. It was my fault.'I ought to have
seen things clearer, and met them-as we must endeavor
to meet them now. *Can you, Charlotte?"
She looked at him inquiringly.
" I mean —can you bear me to speak to you plainly,
as a father may speak-about things that hitherto I have
left between you and that Father who knows you much
better than I ever can."
Charlotte bent her head.'Thank you.  Please
speak."  Yet still Mr. Garland hesitated. It seemed so
like trampling on a poor half-fledged or broken-winged
bird.
"I answered Mrs. Crux that I would go and see her
to-night, and so I shall. She has some right to be angry. She was kept in ignorance of facts she ought to
have known before I took you to her house. You must
be aware, my poor Charlotte, that many mothers wduld
not like their daughters to associate with you - that is,
until they knew you as well as I do; then, I hope-I am
sure they would feel differently."
Charlotte looked up with a sudden gleam in her sad
face, but the parson did not see it. He went on, speaking, as it seemed, more to himself than to her.
C Our past, in one sense, is wholly irrevocable. Whether it be sin or only sorrow, we can not blot it out; it




234               Two Marriages.
must remain as it is forever. But we can cover it over,
conquer it, atone for it. And the present, upon which
depends the future, lies wholly in our own hands. My
poor girl, don't despair. If I can forgive you, be sure
God will, and then it matters little whether the world
forgives you or not."
Thus talked he, arguing less with her than with his
own mind the strait in which he found himself-this upright, pure-hearted old man-against whom not a breath
of reproach had bee.n raised till now.
"What does it matter?" he repeated, as he thought of
all that would be said to him and of him -many falsehoods, no doubt, but still grounded on the bitter truth
that could not be denied, which he never should attempt
to deny. "God is my Judge, not man. I will not be
afraid. What harm can my neighbors do me?"
"Harm to you?" said Charlotte, anxiously. "Will
people blame you? What for? Because you were good
to me?"
"I am afraid they will, my dear! But, as I said, it
does not matter. Give me my hat and stick; it is time
I should be going'to the Hall."
" Stop a minute, please; just tell me. What do you
think will happen through their finding out this?"
" Nothing very terrible," replied the parson, with a
faint smile; "only you and I are likely to be left alone
together. Nobody will come to the Parsonage, and nobody will ask us any where. We shall be' sent to Coventry,' in short."
"And why? Because of me?"
The parson was silent.




Two Miarriages.             235
"Tell me, oh, please do!" and Charlotte's voice was
hoarse and trembling; " when -my husband comes home,
shall I be a disgrace alsp to him? Will his friends take.
no notice of him because of me?"
Mr. Garland was sorely troubled. It was such a cruel
truth to tell, and yet it was the truth, and she might
have to learn it some day, perhaps from far unkinder
lips than his own. -Would it not be better to make her
understand it now -the inevitable punishment that all
sin brings -which in, degree they both must bear all
their life long — she.and Keith — but especially she?
Would it not be safer to make her recognize it, and be
brave under it?
"Charlotte, I will not tell you what is untrue. It
would have been far better for my son, and I myself
should have been far happier, if he had married a girl in
his own station —married-with my consent, openly, honorably, as an honest man and gentleman ought to marry.
But we can not alter what is past. I accepted his wife
simply because she was his wife. Since then I have
learned - yes," holding out his hand -- "I have learned
to-to like her; she is a very good and dear girl to me.
And if the world should look down upon Keith on account of his wife, never mind! Let his wife love him
all the more-nobly, faithfully, patiently; let her prove
herself such a good wife to him that the world will be
ashamed of its harsh judgment.-. And whether it is or
not, there is only one Judge she need tremble before, and
He is a Father likewise."
Charlotte leaned forward eagerly, but scarcely seemed
to comprehend his words.




236               Two Marriages.
"Yes, that is all good and all right, but it will never
be. I shall not have strength to do it. I had much better do the other thing that I was thinking-of."
" What other thing?"
"To run away and hide myself-die if I could-because if I died he would be free to marry again. He
would soon forget me-every body would forget meand I should cease to do any'body any harm! Oh! I
wish-I wish I could die!" cried she, breaking, for the
first time, into a cry of actual despair.
"Charlotte!" she started, recalled to herself by the
stern reproof of his tone. " To die, or even wish to die,
before the Father calls us, is unchristian cowardice. And
it is our own fault always if we do our fellow-creatures
harm. It will be your own fault if, from this time, you
are any thing but a blessing both to me and to your
husband. We will talk no more now. I am going up
to the Hall, Sit quiet here till I come back."
She obeyed without resistance, waiting upon him silently, in her usual humble and mindful way, to which
he had grown so accustomed that he scarcely noticed how
much she did for him. But now, while she was mechanically brushing his coat and smoothing out his gloves, it
suddenly came into Mr. Garland's mind-what if she
should carry out her intention and do something desperate-as from former experience, and from the expression of the dull, heavy, stony eyes, and the little resolute
mouth, he knew she was quite capable of doing.
"Charlotte," he said, looking back ere he closed the
door, "mind, I shall want you when I come back. Remember, whether any body else wants you or not, I do."
Charlotte turned away and burst into tears.




Two Jiarriages.             237
CHAPTER VIII.
MR. GARLAND walked slowly from his own gate up to
the Hall, which was not more than half a mile from the
Parsonage. It was a clear starry night-light enough
for him easily to find his way; so he hid his lantern
under a bush and went on without it, to give himself
more freedom for meditation. As he did so, he thought
how often we. purblind mortal creatures set up our petty
lanterns, carry them so carefully and hug them so close
that they.make us believe all the rest of the world, within
a yard of our own feet, lies in blackest darkness, adid obscure for us altogether the broad light of God's heaven,
which, whether in daylight or darkness, seen or unseen,
arches immovably above us all.
The night sky, in its clear darkness, so thickly sown
with stars, comforted the parson more than words can
tell; for it showed him the large Infinite in contradistinction to his little finite woes, and it reminded him of
that other life in the;p'ospect of which he daily walked,
and which made all perplexing things in this life grow
level, simple, and plain.
Before reaching the Hall-for, though it was so short
a distance, he had proceeded slowly and with unusual
feebleness-Mr. Garland made up his mind, that is, his
conscience, as to how he ought to act. For the exact




238               Two Marriages.
words he should say to Mrs. Crux, not knowing what she
would say to him, nor what tone she meant to take toward him, he left them undecided, believing with a childlike simplicity of faith that now, as in the apostles' time,
when a man has the right and the truth in his heart,
there is, under every emergency, a Divine spirit not far
from him, which tells him what to say.
The light from the drawing-rooni windows shone in a
broad stream a long way across the park, but it did not
look so cheerful as usual in the eyes of the old man, who
was entering, for the first time in his life, this house —nay,
any house-where he had the slightest doubt of his welcome-a welcome combined of the reverence due to his
cloth, the respect won by his personal character, and the
warm regard which even strangers soon came to feel for
one so gentle, unobtrusive, large-minded, and sincere.
He hrtd been so long accustomed to this universal respect,
that the possibility: of the contrary affected him with a
new and very painful feeling. He had need to look up
more than once to that quiet heaven which soothed all
mortal troubles, and dwarfed all mortal cares, before he
could nerve his hand to pull the resonant door-bell at
Cruxham: Hall.
"Dinner is over, I conclude?" he said to the footman
on entering. "Is your mistress in the drawing-room?
Can I see her?":
And he was mechanically walking forward when the
man opened the door of the study —a small room.close
at hand, where every body was shown; that is, every
body who came on business, and was not considered fit
to be admitted into the.family circle.




Two Marriages.              239' Mrs. Crux said, sir, that when you came you was to
be asked in here."
"Very well; tell her I am waiting."
It. was a trivial thing, but it vexed Mr. Garland more
than he liked to own. It was the feather which showed
which way the wind blew-a bitter, biting wind it might
prove to be, and he was an old man. Why could he not
have gone down to his grave in peace?
Many fathers bring discredit on their sons-that is, externally, though in righteous judgment no child ought
ever to be contemned for the misdeeds of a parent; but
the reverse scarcely holds. It is a much sadder thing for
a father to suffer for the ill-doings of a son, especially as he
himself is seldom held quite guiltless of the same. For
the second time Mr. Garland asked himself bitterly, as he
knew the world at large would ask (and in many cases
justifiably too), whether he had not himself been somewhat to blame in this dark shadow which had fallen
upon his old age?
He sat down wearily in the great arm-chair whence
for so many years the old Squire Crux had administered
justice, and Mr. Garland, who was also a county magistrate, had sometimes been called upon to assist him in
difficult poaching or affiliation cases-the usual rural offenses, and almost the only ones that ever occurred at
Immeridge. He remembered the very last one, and how
he had judged it-not harshly, thank Go'd! How little
he then thought that in a few months the same kind of
sin might have been laid by- his neighbors at, or at least
near to, his own stainless door.
After keeping him waiting many minutes-this, too,




240               Two Marriages.
was something new, and'he noted it with sensitive pain
-Mrs. Crux appeared.
She was in her dinner-dress, the richness of which
gave her a kind of adventitious dignity, as it often did;
the fat, weak, good-natured woman was one of those who
take great courage from their clothes. As she closed the
door behind her, and stood in the centre of the floor, all
in a rustle of silk, she tried hard to look stately, distant,
and commanding, but signally failed. The parson in his
shabby coat, for he had forgotten to change it, was decidedly the more self-possessed of the two. He rose,
bowed, but did not offer to shake hands, nor did she.
Nevertheless, it was he who had to open the matter.
"You sent for me, madam, that we might have a little
conversation on a subject which you did not name, but
which I can easilr guess, from a letter written by your
daughter to my daughter-in-law."
"Beatrice has written? Oh, dear me, what shall I do
with her," cried the mother, nervously; but Mr. Garland
took no notice of the exclamation.
"It is about my daughter-in-law, is it not, that you
wish to speak to me?"
"It is-it is! Oh, Mr. Garland, how could you do it
-you, a clergyman of the Church of England, and a
gentleman of such credit in the county? I declare, I
was so shocked, so scandalized, I could hardly believe
my ears when Lady Jones told me."
"What did she tell?  Will you repeat the story exactly, and I will tell you if it is true, or how much of it
is true."
But neither accuracy nor directness were special qual



Two Marriages.              241
ities of Mrs. Crux, especially when, as now, she was obviously puzzled and distressed.
"Such a pretty girl — such a sweet, modest-looking
girl. I could not have believed it possible. And you
to have her residing with you, and even to bring her
here to associate with my daughters! Mr. Garland, I
am astonished at you. You ought to be ashamed of
yourself."
"Madam," he answered, with a touching, sad humility, "I am ashamed of myself, but. it is not for the reason
you suppose. It is because I had not the courage to
state to you all the. sad circumstances of my son's marriage, and then leave it to yourself to judge how far the
acquaintance you so wished was either suitable or desirable. Not that I had any doubt'of my daughter-in-law,
or of your daughters taking any harm from association
with her, but that, in her sad position, all acquaintanceships or friendships ought to be begun with open eyes
on both sides. Mrs. Crux, I was to blame. I beg your
pardon."
The lady was disarmed; she could not but be, at such
gentle dignity.  She looked sorry, and answered half
apologetically,
"W Vell, on that principle, Mr. Garland, it's little enough
you know about us, though at least our position in society is unquestionable.  But it is quite different with
Mrs. Keith Garland, who I hear was a common servantgirl, at some farm near here where your son used to visit, and where, like all those sort of persons, she made a
bait of her pretty face, and cunningly entrapped the poor
boy to marry her."
L




242               Two Mfarriages.
"Stop a minute," said Mr. Garland. "She did not entrap him. The error was my son's as much as hers.
He felt bound in honor to marry her."
"Why?  Goodness gracious, Mr. Garland, you don't
mean to tell me-" She stopped aghast.
The old man blushed painfully, agonizingly, all over
his face. He saw at once that in his roused sense of justice he had betrayed more than even Mrs. Crux had
heard-the worst, the saddest thing of all, compared to
which Charlotte's being a servant-girl had seemed to him
a light evil-so light that he had naturally concluded
Mrs. Crux knew the. whole story, and that the violent,
almost insulting measures she had taken were on this
account. For the moment he paused, repenting, but it
was too late now. Besides, had he not come determined
to explain, and to face the whole truth; why should he
dread it now?
" Mrs. Crux, I do not in the least wish to deceive you:
as a mother of daughters you have a right to every explanation, and I came here to give it. I should have
done so long ago, only I thought Immeridge gossip must
already have told you what is so painful for me to tell
to a stranger. Still, I ought not to feel pained, for my
daughter-in-law's daily life speaks for itself as to what
she is now; so simple and humble, so good and true, that
I have almost forgotten she was ever-"
The sentence died on the parson's lips, for the cruel
truth had never been put into words before. Still, he
must utter it.
"She was, I grieve to say, not only a poor illiteiate servant-girl, but-my son seduced her before he married her."




Two Marriages.              243
" What!" cried the lady, starting back in undisguised
horror.  "And you were so misguided, so insane, as to
let him marry her?"
"Madam," said the parson, as he too drew back a step,
"I am not accountable for the marriage, since I was unaware of it till it was over. But the one thing which inclined me to forgive my son was that he did marry her."
Mrs. Crux regarded him with the blankest astonishment. "I never heard of such a thing. That is-of
course, such things happen every day; we mothers of
sons know that they must happen. It's a sad, sad matter, but we can't help it; we can only shut our eyes to
it, and hope the poor lads will learn better by-and-by.
But to view the case in this way-to act as you have
done-I protest, Mr. Garland, it appears to me actual
madness. What would the world say of you?"
"I have never once asked myself that question."
And then, as they stood together-the old man and
the elderly woman-for Mrs. Crux was over sixty, though
she dressed like a girl in her teens-they mutually investigated one another, with as much success as if they
were gazing out of two different worlds. As in truth
they were-the world of shams, and the world of realities.
"I am very tired-will you excuse my sitting down?"
said the parson, gently; she had never yet asked him to
be seated.  "But I shall not detain you long; and after
to-night the Parsonage will intrude upon the Hall no
more. It never would have done so, save for the persistent attentions of your family, which I wish I had prevented earlier, for more reasons than this."
Mr. Garland suddenly paused, for again he had been




244               Two Marriages.
led on to say too much. After mature deliberation, he
had resolved-out of his dislike to any dis-peace, and because no good could come from the revelation-to be silent respecting Mr. Charles Crux and his insolence. But
the poor mother, made sadly wise, was also quickly suspicious; for she said uneasily,
"Please explain; I insist on your explaining any other
reason."
"I would rather not, for it is one of those things which
are best not even named. And it can never occur again;
for, by my daughter-in-law's express wish, I shall keep
my door closed henceforward to every member of your
family."
" Mr. Garland, surely-I saw Charley was a little smitten-but surely he has not been such a fool as to-"
" I do not know what you call a fool," replied Mr. Garland, indignantly, "but I should give your-son a much
harder name."
" Oh, you mistake," said the mother, a little frightened.
"Young men are always taken by a pretty face. Charley likes flirting, especially with married women. He
means no harm-and every body does it."
"Which makes it no.harm, I suppose," said the parson, bitterly. " But I, and happily my daughter-in-law,
think otherwise. Since you have mentioned the subject,
which it appears you were not quite ignorant of, will you
say to Mr. Charles Crux that if he ever dares to cross my
threshold again-though I- am an old man, I have a
strong right hand yet-and-there might be a horsewhip
in it! I beg your pardon, madam," added he, suddenly
stopping, and reining in the passion which shook him,




Two Marriages.              245
old as he was. "In truth, I forbear to speak, because I
am more sorry for you, as being mother to your son, than
I am for myself, as the father of mine."
"Why, vhat difference is there between them?  Or
between' your conduct and mine?"
" AlT the difference between plastering over a foul ulcer: and opening it boldly to the light; ugly, ihdeed, and
a grievous wound, but a wound that, by God's mercy,
may be cleansed and healed. All the' difference between
the sinner who hides and hugs his sin, thinking nothing
of it, if only it can escape punishment, and the sinner
who repents and forsakes his sin, and so becomes clean
again, and fit to enter the kingdom of heaven-always so
near at hand to.all of us. Where, please God, I hope
yet to see my poor boy, and that poor girl Charlotte too
-ay, madam, even in this world."
Mr. Garland spoke as he had never meant to speak;
but the words were forced into him  and from him.
They fell on deaf ears, a heart too narrow to understand
them.
Nevertheless, the lady moved uneasily, and regarded
Mr. Garland with a puzzled air. " You talk in a very
odd way; but I suppose, you being a clergyman, it is all
right-only please do not confound Mr. Keith:Garland
with Mr. Charles Crux. What your son may be I can
not tell, but my son is quite correct in conduct always.
He goes to church with his family- you might have
seen him every Sunday. IHe visits where his sisters visit-and I can assure you we are exceedingly particular
in our society. Beatrice is the only one who takes up
with doubtful people; she laughed at this dreadful busi



246               Two Marriages.
ness —I mean at Mrs. lKeith Garland's having been a
servant. And even if she were told every thing, very
likely she would not care for that either; young people
are getting such very queer notions nowadays. Oh, you
don't know what a mother's anxieties are, Mr. Garland,"
cried the poor woman, appealingly, and glancing at the
door, as if she expected every minute to have their interview burst in upon.'Pray give yourself no anxiety on our account," said
Mr. Garland, rising. "I have said all you wished to
hear, and all that I had to say; now let me assure you
that this visit of mine will be the last communication between the Hall and the Parsonage."
Mrs. Crux looked infinitely relieved. "It is best, a
great deal the best-thank you, Mr. Garland. And yet"
-her good-nature overcoming her, or else being touched
in spite of herself by the picture of the solitary, feeble
old man going out into the dark to meet the obloquy
which Mrs. Crux felt certain must inevitably rest on
every body who was "dropped" by Cruxham Hall-" I
don't wish to do an unkind thing. Perhaps, since nobody knows, you might still come here —coming by
yourself, of course."
" Thank you; but it is quite impossible. You- felt it
necessary to protect and to uphold the dignity of your
daughters —excuse me if I feel the same regarding mine.
All acquaintance must henceforth cease between our two
households."
"But as to Beatrice," said Mrs. Crux, who, like most
weak women, when she saw a thing absolutely done,
usually began to wish it undone —" what am I to say to




Two Marriages.              247
Beatrice?  She has taken such a fancy to young Mrs.
Garland."
"Let her find another:protegee, and she will soon forget my Charlotte."
"Miy Charlotte!", The word slipped out unawareshe was startled at it himself  but he did not retract it.
And all the way home he thought of her tenderly -as
good men do think, even of those that have caused them
woe, when they-.themselves have had the strength not to
requite pang for pang, and evil for evil. It is a true saying, that those against whom our hearts harden most are
not those who have wronged us, but those whom we
have wronged.
Steadily and bravely, though without an atom of love
in his heart, Mr. Garland had done his duty to his daughter-in-law; steadily and bravely he had fought for her
now - the poor girl - simply because she was. a poor,
defenseless girl. Now, when she was wholly thrown
upon his pity and care; when not a door but his own
was likely to be open to:her; when even her husband
neglected her, and shrank.;from coming back to England
because it was coming back to her; the old man, who
Ihad in him that knightly nature which instinctively takes
the weaker side —the good old man felt almost an affection for Charlotte.
When he saw by the glimmer from his study-window
that she was still waiting there, and heard the front door
open almost before he had fastened the clinking latch of
the garden gate, a sensation approaching pleasure came
over him.
"Well, my dear, I have returned safe, you see," said




248               Two Marriages.
he, cheerily. "It is all well over. We shall see no
more of the Cruxes. You and I must be content with
one another's company. I can. Can you?"
Charlotte looked up and smiled - a smile the brightness of which was soon accounted for, as well as the indifference with which she omitted all questions concerning the interview that had just before seemed so momentous to them both.
"Look here, sir," said she, drawing a letter from her
apron pocket. "This came directly after you had gone.
What can it mean? For, do you see, it is not by the ordinary Canadian mail; the postmark is London, and
there is an English stamp upon it."
"Poor little soul, how well she loves him!" thought
Mr. Garland, as Charlotte came hovering about his chair
with a trembling eagerness of manner, and a brightness
of expectation in her look. "You tho, ght, my dear,
that Keith might be in England, but it is not so. He
dates as usual, you see; this is merely sent by private
hand, and posted in London."
"Yes, I understand."  And Charlotte sat down patiently, the light in her eyes quite gone. Patiently too,
without a word of interruption or comment, she listened
while, as was customary, her faher-in-law read aloud her
husband's letter.
It was chiefly to say- what Keith had' hinted by the
last mail, that he should find it impossible to come home
this next winter-when his two years of absence would
expire. Equally impracticable —as he explained with
greater length than perspicuity of argument —was it for
him to send for his wife to Canada. Not that he was too




Two Marriages.              249
poor to have her-indeed, he inclosed a very handsome
sum of money to defray her maintenance and her own
personal wants; but his very prosperity seemed to make
a barrier between them.
" We enjoy some little civilization, even out here," he
wrote; "the few people I have as neighbors are tolerably well educated. And besides, in the lonely life of a
Canadian farm, a man wants not only a wife, but a companion. I think, father, it would not be a twelvemonth
wasted, either for her sake or mine, if for a year at
least you would send Charlotte to some good boardingschool, or hire a governess to live in the village - you
might not like a strange lady living at the Parsonage.
I must say, I should like my wife to get a little education. It would be very valuable out here; and if I ever
should return and settle in England- But we will
leave that an open question for time to decide."
Thus summarily, with a briefness that showed how indifferent he was to it, Keith dismissed the subject, and
went on to otherthings.
The father's heart was very sad —more than sadangry. And yet Keith's conduct was hardly unnatural;
the more so as, with a feeling that it was best to leave
Time's workings to work themselves out without any in-,
terference on his part, Mr. Garland had carefully abstained from writing much. about Charlotte. He wished now
he had done a little differently; he determined by the
next mail to speak his mind out plainly and clearly; but,
-in the mean time, there Keith's will was, given with a
hard determination which seemed to have grown' upon
him of late, and his young wife must obey.
T i9




250               Two Marriages.
She never seemed to have any thought of disobeying.
She sat passively, with her eyes cast down, and a dull,
hopeless shadow creeping over the face, that ten minutes
before had almost startled the old man with its exceeding brightness. She listened to the letter's end, the part
about herself being a very small portion of it; the rest
being filled up with statements of Keith's affairs, which
seemed very flourishing-and long essays on American
politics, into which he seemed to have thrown himself
with the ardor of one who has set aside, conscientiously
perhaps, a young man's temptations to pleasure and
amusement, and plunged desperately into the pursuits
of middle age. In short, he seemed, even at this early
age, to have substituted ambition for love, and exchanged
his heart for his brains. Throughout all the reading of
his son's letter, Mr. Garland saw, and felt when he did
not see, the poor little face of his son's wife, so quiet, so
uncomplaining, that how much she thought he could not
tell —he was half afraid to conjecture. But she spoke
not a single word.
" My dear," he said at last, "should you like to have a
governess?"
" Oh yes. Any thing you please-any thing he pleases."
"Charlotte," the parson spoke almost apologetically,
"your husband does not quite know, but I shall explain
to him -next mail, how well you and I have got on together, in studies and every thing; how greatly you are
improving-as a girl of your age has infinite capacities
for doing. Above all, what a good, dear girl you invariably are to me."
"Am I?"' She looked up with those great dark eyes
of hers, and in them he saw, as he had never seen it re



Two Marriages.              251
vealed before, the real womanly soul; quick to feel, yet
strong to endure; long-suffering tQ almost the last limit
of patience, yet having its pride too-its own righteous,
feminine pride, which on occasion could assert itself-not
aggressively, but with a certain dignified reticence, more
pathetic than the loudest complaints.
Though she was not his ideal of womanhood, and was
wholly unlike the wife he had adored, the daughter he
had imagined-quite a different type of character indeed,
still the parson was forced to acknowledge that it was not
an unbeautiful character. As it developed itself, he did
more than -merely like-he began, in degree, actually to
respect Charlotte.
He attempted neither to question her nor to draw out
her feelings, so closely, so bravely restrained; but, simply
giving her the letter to read over again at her leisure,
asked her to light his candle for him, and he would go to
bed; he felt very weAry to-night.
"So the boy will not be back for another year at least,"
thought he, sighing; "and my years are growing so few."
Though he did not put the thought into words, Charlotte heard the sigh, and saw the expression of the sad
old face.
" It is as I expected, you see," said she, in a low voice.
"He will not come home because of me. Oh sir"-and
humbly, very humbly and tenderly she laid her hand
upon Mr. Garland's —" please forgive me. I am so sorry
-for you."
"Never mind-never mind, my daughter."
And the desolate old man did what he had never in
his life done to any woman-except one; he took her in
his arms and kissed her.




252.       Two AMarriages.
CHAPTER X.
MuCH is said and written upon the mournfulness of
broken friendships —a subject almost too sad to write
about; for such are like the hewing down of a tree-a
sharp axe and a rash hand will destroy in an hour a
whole life's growth, and what no second lifetime can
ever -make grow again. And thinking thus of all shattered things, how easy it is to destroy and how difficult
to retrieve, there is a certain sadness in contemplating
even a broken acquaintanceship.
It was not likely that a sensitive man like Mr. Garland
could see with indifference the Crux- family sitting beneath him in the Hall pew Sunday after Sunday, listening with civil attention to his sermons, but regarding him
as no longer their friend-only their clergyman; and
the service over, sweeping silently out of the narrow
church, where every body knew'every body and noticed
every body, to their carriage, omitting entirely the customary greeting at the church-door or the church-yard
gate. It was painful, too, to meet them in his walks,
which he never took alone now, and for him and Charlotte to have to pass without recognition, or tacitly to
alter their path so as to escape meeting at all. At last
these chance rencontres began to be looked forward to
with such a sense of dread and discomfort that all the




Two Marriages.              253
pleasure of the parson's walks was taken away. He
gradually seceded from the places he best liked-the
shore, the cliff, and the downs, restricting his' rambles
daily, till after a few weeks he rarely stirred beyond the
boundary of his own garden.
His daughter-in-law,' too, seemed to have no wish to
go farther. Since the day on which these two momentous events had happened-the interview with Mrs. Crux,
and Keith's unexpected letter-a great change had come
over poor Charlotte. Not in any tangible shape; she
complained of nothing; she went about her daily avocations as usual, and betrayed neither by word nor act any
thing that was passing in her mind; but the whole expression of her countenance altered. It grew sad, wistful, wan, and pale; there was a dreary hopelessness, at
times even a sort of despair in it; the remorse of the
roused conscience; the agony of the blank, lost future;
the cruel awakening to' a knowledge of happiness that
might have been. At least so Mr. Garland read her
looks-.nor marveled; for he knew that all this must
come; he could hardly have wished it not to come.
Every man's sin will find him' out, and he must pay
its penalty in a certain amount of inevitable suffering,
from which the utmost pity can not, and should not, save
him.. Doubtless the Cruxes were very hard when they
drew their own not spotless robes round them, and would
not so much as look at poor Charlotte; but their stained
garments did not mnake'Charlotte clean. And when, as
they passed her by, the parson saw her face flush up,
then settle into its customary sad patience, however much
he grieved for her, still he dared not speak. He could




25.4              Two Miarriages.
say with his Divine Master, "Go, and sin no more." He
could even believe, from the bottom of his thankful
heart, " Thy sins are forgiven thee;" but he could not
say that the sin was no sin, or that the ultimate result
would be the same as if it had never happened. EIe
could not look at that poor little face-so young still;
she was only nineteen even now —with all its lines sharpened by mental pain; with its sweet smile darkened, and
its sad eyes drooping; no longer able to face the world
with the bright, clear gaze of conscious innocence-he
could not see all this without acknowledging the just,
righteous, inevitable law of God, which can never be
broken with impunity.
And what of the other sinner-still closer to the old
man's heart-who ought to have borne equally with
Charlotte the burden that they.had laid upon themselves?
How Keith felt, or how much he suffered, neither his
wife nor his father had any means of knowing. - The one
letter in which the parson had told about the Cruxes, and
spoken his mind on many painful things; which had
cost him much, for it is hard to write such sad, reproachful letters across the seas, in the long ignorance of how
they may reach, and whether happier letters may ever
follow them-this letter Keith never received. It went
down to the bottom of the Atlantic with a wrecked mailsteamer.
"I must write it over again," said Mr. Garland, when
he found out this. But he delayed and delayed, and
meantime Keith went farther West on a trapping expedition, and for several weeks it was- useless to write, as no




TwoJ Mfarriages.            255
letters would find him. And then came one-the restlessness, bitterness, and hopelessness of which grieved
his father to the heart.
In it he only referred to his wife so far as to take for
granted that his commands had been obeyed; that she
was now at school, or busy with her education under a
governess. But it was not so. At first Mr. Garland had
tried to fulfill his son's wishes; but no lady could be
found willing to bury herself at Immeridge except at a
salary higher than even Keith's liberal remittances made
possible. Besides-and Mnr.Garland, when he showed,her the letters, felt how bitter they must be to Charlotte
-more than one governess made painfully pertinacious
and rather suspicious inquiries as to the "curious circumstance" of an adult pupil being a married lady, living
apart from her husband. It was one of the sharp-inevitables of the position, but not the less hard to bear.
Then Mr. Garland suggested a boarding-school; but
here, for the first time in her life, Charlotte evinced a decided will of her own, and offered steady, though not violent resistance. The reason she gave for this was brief
and simple, but quite unanswerable.
"I am a married woman now; I could not possibly
become a school-girl, or go among school-girls."
It was only too true —true in a deeper sense than she
put forward; and her father-in-law acknowledged this.
The poor thing could never be a girl any more; the door
of girlhood was shut behind her; and for the happy pride,
the contented dignity which comes to any one, be she ever
so young, when she finds herself a married woman, taken
quite out of herself and made to live for another, perhaps




256               Twlo Marriages.
for many others, in the sweet self-abnegation of matronhood-alas! this blessedness had not come,'and, in one
sense, never could come, to poor Charlotte.
Not since the day when she first came to him had Mr.
Garland pitied her so intensely, or mourned over her
with such a hopeless regret as he did now. And yet he
could not do any thing to make'her happier or brighter,
or take out of her heart the sting that he saw was there,
piercing daily deeper and deeper the more as her nature
developed. He knew it must be so. She, like himself,
like every mortal soul, must be taught to accept and endure the inevitable.
So the days passed on-the long, bright, weary summer
days-the heat of which made the parson feel how feeble
and old he was growing; too feeble to struggle against
the hard present, or to fight his way out of it into a better future; a future not for himself —he had long ceased
to think of himself-but for these, his children.
" My working days are done, I think," said he, sadly,
one day when he and Charlotte had been busy together
in the garden. For he now kept her about Dim as much
as he could, from pure compassion, and to prevent her
from falling into those long reveries in which he had
sometimes found her, when the dull expression of her
eyes, and the heavy, listless drop of her once active hands,
made his heart bleed. "Come here, my dear; do help
me. I never had so much trouble in training this creeper. I can not lift up my right arm at all."
He spoke almost in a querulous tone, for he felt ill
and unlike himself. Charlotte came quickly. The only
brightness that ever dawned in her sad face was when
she was doing something for Mr. Garland.




Two Marriages.              257
"Don't work at all —I'll do it," she said.  "Pray, sir,
give me the hammer and nails, and be idle a while. Let
me fetch you your garden-chair."
This was a rough but comfortably-constructed piece of
workmanship, the joint invention of Charlotte and the
Immeridge carpenter, in the days when her simple daily
occupations had been enough to fill her life, before the
bitterness that came with the awakening soul had entered
into it. Some of her old cheerfulness returned as she
brought the chair and settled the old man'tenderly in his
favorite seat.
" There, now, I am sure you will be comfortable. What
is wrong with your arm, sir? May I rub it? Jane lets
me rub her rheumatic shoulder sometimes."
" But this is not pain-it is numbness. I felt it when
I woke this morning."
" Perhaps you had been lying upon it, and your arm
had gone to sleep, as children call it."
" Perhaps. And yet, if so, it ought to have been quite
well by now."
"It will be well presently," was the soothing answer,
as Charlotte, now fairly roused out of herself, knelt down
beside Mr. Garland and began chafing the delicatelyshaped right hand-he had once been conceited about
the beauty of his hand, or his wife had been for him. It
was still delicate, still unwithered; but the fingers seemed
dropping together in a helpless way, and when Charlotte
laid it on the chair-arm, it remained there passive and
motionless.
The old man shook his head. "It is of no use rubbing, my dear. I can not feel your fingers."




258               Two Marriages.
Charlotte redoubled her energies. "Oh, but you must
feel them-you will feel them. My rubbing always does
Jane good, she says. You are sure to be better by-andby."' But suppose," Mr. Garland replied, after a long pause
and in a low tone, which had a certain concealed dread
beneath its quietness, " suppose, Charlotte, that this should
not be rheumatism. There is another complaint which
old people have sometimes."
"What is that?"
"It is in our family too," said Mr. Garland, musing.
I know my grandfather died of paralysis."
Charlotte looked up.
"What is that? At least I half know, but not quite.
Please tell me."
"It is no pain-don't look so frightened, my poor girl
-no pain at all. And it does not kill people —not suddenly. But sometimes it makes them helpless —totally
helpless for years before they die. 0 my God, my God!"
-and the old man lost all his courage and groaned aloud
" save me from that!  Take me-take me at once!
but oh, save me from being a trouble and a burden to
any body."
"A trouble? a burden?  Oh, Mr. Garland!" And
Charlotte seized the poor numb right hand, pressed it to
her bosom like a baby, kissed it, fondled it, sobbed over
it, and expended on it such a passion of emotion, that the
parson's thoughts were turned from his own uneasy apprehensions into watching her, and wondering at the
wealth of love that lay buried in that poor heart.
"Do not, my child, do not cry so bitterly.. I should




Two Marriages.              259
not have said this. I had no idea you cared for me so
much."'I have nobody else to care for —nobody that cares for
my caring-in the wide world."
He could not contradict her-he knew she spoke the
truth. But he said, what was also the truth, and every
day when he saw the depths of sweetness, and patience,
and womanly wisdom that sorrow was drawing out of
her, and expressing visibly in her face, he himself believed it more and more. "No one but me to care for?
It may not be always so, Charlotte. God's mercy is as
infinite as our need. Wait and hope."
Whether it was that this sudden and unwonted emotion stirred up the old man's vital forces into strength
enough to shake off the impending ill, or whether this
had been only a slight forewarning, he certainly grew
better under his daughter's care, and for some days was
even brighter than ordinary. But it was only a temporary wave of the gradually ebbing tide, which left the
sands barer than before.
Very soon there fell upon Mr. Garland's green old age
that most trying phase of life's decline-often only 4
phase, and not necessarily implying life's close, in which
the body begins to fail faster than the still youthful and
active mind, producing an irritable restlessness most painful both to the sufferer and to the standers-by. The
more he needed care, the less he seemed to like being
taken care of. He felt it hard to resign one by one his
independent ways, and sink into, not an elderly, but a
really old man; -becoming, as he said, like Sairt Peter,
who, when he was young, "girded himself," but when




260               Two Marriages.
old was to have " another to gird him, and lead him in
the way he would not." If at this crisis he had been left
only to Jane, and had not -had about him a younger
woman, gentle, sweet-tempered, and gifted naturally with
that infinite patience which is, or ought to be, at. once. the
duty and delight of all youth to show to all old age,
things would have gone rather hard with Parson Garland.
Perhaps he was aware of this, perhaps. not; for the
narrowing powers of fading life dim the perceptions of
even the best of people;- but he was conscious' of feeling great comfort in Charlotte. A change, sudden and
bright, had come'upon her ever since the day that he had
told her of his fear of paralysis. She lost her listless,
solitary ways, and began to devote herself daily and
hourly to him, and him alone. Not that she. troubled
him with unnecessary watching or too patent anxiety,
but she was always at hand when wanted; she never
thwarted him; she bore with all his little crotchets, even
when, as he acknowledged to himself, they were very unreasonable. And sometimes, in the long, sleepless night
that succeeded many a restless day, the old man used to
lie thinking, with a.wondering gratefulness. both to her
and-toward-heaven, of the sweet temper that'was never
ruffled, the young face that tried so hard to be always
pleasant and sunshiny when in his sight, the attentive
hands that were ever.ready to do enough, and never too
much, for the innumerable wants of his selfish, or -he
thought it selfish, old age.
"God is very good to me, more than I deserve," he
ofttimes said in his heart; " and if I wait, surely in His
own time He will be good to these my children."




Two Marriages.              261
But, although the tie between him and his daughterin-law grew closer every day, Mr. Garland, with the
shrinking delicacy which was a part of his nature, never
attempted to lift the veil which Charlotte still persistently drew over the relations between herself and her husband, and her own feelings toward him. The old man
would have been ashamed to pry into what she evidently
desired to conceal. All his life he had borne his own
burdens, troubling no one; he could understand and respect another's doing the same. Charlotte's total reticence and silent endurance touched him deeper than the
most pathetic complaints or most unreserved confidence.
So they lived together, these strangely-assorted companions, who yet in their deepest hearts were so curiously assimilated as to become better company to each other
every day. Contentedly they spent the life of almost total solitude which circumstances had forced upon them,
for the Crux influence had leavened the neighborhood,
which indeed, without much malice aforethought on their
part, it was sure to do; and those few county families
who were in the habit of driving over to Immeridge at
intervals, just to acknowledge the existence of, and pay a
passing respect to, the Reverend William Garland, gradually ceased their visits to the Parsonage.: He had not
wanted them when they came; but he noticed their absence, and was sure that Charlotte noticed it too, for she
often looked at him in a strange, wistful way, as if she
wished to say something to him, and could not.' Heaven
had punished her, as Heaven does sometimes, not directly, but vicariously. In a heart so full of love as hers
(often did the parson recall Keith's almost complaining




262               Two Marriages.
words, "She is so very fond of me"), that others should
suffer through her fault was of all retributions the sharpest, and likely to work out the most lasting result on her
character.
It did so presently in a manner unforeseen. Seeing
Mr. Garland had no one left him but herself, Charlotte
shook off her depression, and learned to be cheerful for
his sake. She tried to make herself every thing that
pleased him, and his being the sole influence that ever
approached her, it was almost omnipotent of its kind.
When two people of opposite dispositions are thus thrown
constantly together, they either end by absolute dislike
and disunion, or they grow into the most touching likeness in unlikeness, which often harmonizes better than
absolute similarity.
Ere many months, the parson's daughter-in-law had become to his failing age almost more than a daughter of
his own; for, as he said sometimes, his own daughter
would certainly have gone away and left him, to marry
some strange youth, while his son's wife was safely bound
to him forever. And he to her was not only as dear as
a natural born father, but was also —what, alas! all fathers in the flesh are not —her ideal of every thing that a
man should be. She became to him a perfect slave, as
women like to be, though in that happiest bondage where
affection is the only forger of the chains. But the title
he himself gave her was his " right hand!"
Ere long this became only too true a name.
One day, as he was writing his sermon, Charlotte sitting sewing at the study window, for he was so constantly needing her help: in little things that he liked to have




Two Marriages.              263
her within call, the pen dropped from IMr. Garland's fin-.
gers. The same numbness which he had once complained of came on again; his right hand fell helplessly by
his side, and he never used it more.
This was not discovered-immediately; as before, the
affection was at first considered temporary, and all remedies:were tried. Simple household remedies only; for
lir. Garland did not feel ill; he suffered no pain; and it
was only on Charlotte's earnest entreaty that he allowed
medical help to be sent for.
But when this was done, and the doctor looked grave,
and said, on being questioned, that it was really " a stroke"
-as the country people call it-and that the natural use
would in all human probability never return to that poor,
nerveless right hand, the blow fell lighter than might
have been expected. Most likely because the parson
himself bore it so well. Now that his secret dread for
months-and he owned now how heavy it had beenhad come upon him, the reality seemed less dreadful than
thefear. He met his misfortune with a wonderful calmness and fortitude.  His irritability ceased; he faced
courageously the local bodily infirmity, thanking God
that it was ofily local, and did not affect either his faculties or-his speech. He made his arrangements for future
helplessness with a touching patience,-reminding Charlotte, who hovered about him in pale silence, -and Jane,
who broke into loud outbursts of lamentation at every
word, how the doctor had said that he might yet live to
be -ninety, and die of some other disease after all.
".And' if not," added he, "if the burden that I myself
feel heaviest is to be the especial burden that God will




264               Two Marriages.
have me bear-(you will often find it so in life, Charlotte) -still, I will take it up and bear it. I have received good from His hands all my days, and He will
help me in- what seems like evil."
"You speak like a saint almost," said Charlotte, softly.
"She was a saint who taught me."
"Some day-if you should ever think I deserve to
hear-will you tell me about her?"
It was said so humbly, with such a world of reverence
and tenderness in the imploring eyes, that the parson was
startled. Never before had he even mentioned to his
daughter-in-law this one woman whom he had so adored;
a woman and wife like herself, yet who always seemed a
being of another creation from poor Charlotte. But now,
in the strange changes that time had made, through the
mysterious influence by which his memory of the wife he
had lost had guided his conduct toward the daughter he
had so unexpectedly and regretfully found, Mr. Garland
recognized, amid all differences, the common womanhood
of these two —Mary and Charlotte Garland. Ay, th0ogh
one had lived and died white as snow, and the other was
smirched with sin; though one was all that was charming in ladyhood, and the other- Well, things had gone
hard with poor Charlotte!- Still, still, there was in both
of them the root and centre of all lovableness in woman
-the strong self-abnegation, the divine humility of Love.
"Charlotte," said the parson-and he tried to see her
with the eyes with which his Mary would have regarded
this girl, her son's wife-eyes searching as a mother's
should be, yet withal unfailingly tender, pitiful, generous,
and just: "Charlotte, would you really like to hear about




Two Marriages.               265
your husband's mother-the noblest woman that ever
breathed?"
"Should I?"  Charlotte's face answered the question.
So, forgetting every thing else, forgetting even that
this was tjhe first sad night when he was made fully conscious of his infirmity, and )f the fact that it would last
during the remainder of his life, Mr. Garland sat down by
his study fire, and began talking with his.daughter-in-law
quietly and c1heerfully, and with an open confidence that
he had never shown her before. And she listened with
all her heart in her eyes, and yet with a touch of sadness,
like one who was hearing of a far-off paradise, of which,
for her, the door was forever closed-about the days of
his youth, studious and solitary; his long but never weary courtship-years; of his one happy twelve-month of
married life, and his dear dead wife, Mary Garland.
M




266              Two ilrarriages.
CHAPTER XI.
BY the next Sunday all Immeridge had learned the
heavy affliction-as many would have said, till his placid
face forbade them to call it so-which had befallen the
parson. There was scarcely one of his flock present who
did not follow him with compassionate eyes as he walked
slowly up the pulpit stairs, his right arm hidden under
the sleeve of his gown, and began to turn over the leaves
of the prayer-book with his left hand. And when, giving
out the hymn, in his nervousness and slight awkwardness
he dropped the book, and it narrowly escaped the clerk's
head, and was solemnly picked up and handed back to
him by the beadle, not even a mischievous child smiled;
the congregation were all far more inclined to weep.
After service was over, many hung about the churchyard, as if they wished to see or speak to the parson.
But Mr. Garland remained in the vestry for a considerable time, no one being admitted but his daughter-in-law.
Then, taking her arm and walking feebly, he was seen to
cross the church-yard the accustomed way, and re-enter
his garden gate.
If any of his neighbors had ever said a word against
him, they were all silent now-silent and sorry. They
gathered in knots round the church door and the lane
leading to it, every body talking with sympathy and respect of" poor Mr. Garland."




Two ilfarriages.            267
Next morning, to the extreme amazement of the little
household, once more the tall footman from the Hall appeared at the Parsonage with a message: kind inquiries
after Mr. Garland's health, and begging his acceptalice
of a basket of hot-house grapes and a brace of partridges.
"What shall we do, Charlotte?" said the parson, who
looked pleased: it was not in human nature that he
should not be somewhat pleased. "It is unneighborly
and unchristian to refuse their peace-offering, and yet I
can not bear to take it. I never wish to have any thing
more to do with the people at the Hall."
"No," replied Charlotte, with the sad gravity which
always came over her when the Cruxes were named-of
her own accord she never named them at all.
"What would you like done, my dear?  You shall
decide."
She thought a minute, and then said, " Send a friendly
message back, but do not accept their present. Say the
grapes would be welcome to old Molly Carr, or to some
other sick person down the village, whom Mrs. Crux
used so often to send things to."
"'Yes, that will do. You have a wise little head,
child," said the parson, affectionately.
He went himself and delivered the message to the
servant,:making it as kindly and courteous as possible;
then he and his daughter-in-law sat together for a good
while in silence, he reading and she working, as was their
habit after breakfast.
"And now, my dear, let us put aside all unpleasant
things, and make ourselves busy- usefully.busy, this




268               Two iarriages.
sunshiny morning. I like the sunshine. Oh, thank God
that he has left me the sight of my eyes!" said the parson, sighing. " But come, we'll have no sadness and no
complaining; for I might be much worse off. Charlotte,
you will have to be really nimy right hand now. How
does your writing progress?. it is long since you showed
me your copy-book. What if I were to begin and dictate to you my next Sunday's sermon?"
"Only try me, and you will see how I will do it," answered Charlotte, brightly.
"'Very well. But first there are all my letters to
write. Look how many lie in the box marked'unanswered.'"
There was an accumulation of four or five, which he
turned over uneasily. " Ah! I neglected them, and now
it is too late."
"Could not I-"
" No, you couldn't, child," with some slight irritability.
"They are business letters; a woman's writing would
look odd, especially — Oh, if I had but my son beside
me! If Keith would only come home." He once more
sighed bitterly, then saw Charlotte's face, and stopped.
" My dear, you must not mind me if I say sharp or
foolish things sometimes. I do not mean it. You will
bear with an old man, I know."
"Oh, Mr. Garland!"
She came to his side and began caressing, in her own
tender way, the powerless hand, which, by an ingenious
arrangement of his coat-sleeve, she had tied up so that its
helplessness might inconvenience him as little as possible. A slight caress, not much; he was not used to af



Two -Mfarriages.            269
fectionate demonstrations;'but -these touched him. He
put his other hand on her: head.'You are very good to: me, Charlotte. I think you
must be fond of me-a little."
She laughed-the loving little laugh which supplies
all words-and then placed herself beside him, with pen
and paper all arranged.
"I am quite ready now, sir. But"-with a slight hesitation-" there is one letter which, perhaps, to make
quite sure, had best be written first. Do you remember
to-morrow is the Canadian mail?"
"Ah! true, true! Poor Keith! He will never again
see his old father's handwriting."
It, was a small thing, but one of those small things
which, causing us fully to realize any loss, cut very deep
sometimes. The parson leaned back in his chair, and the
rare tears of old age stole through his shut eyelids.
"Never mind-never mind!" said he at last, drawing
his fingers across his eyes. It must be so some time
or other. We go on taking care of our children, and
fancying no one can do it but ourselves, till God removes
them from us, or us from them, as if just to show us that
He is sufficient to take care of them. And in this matter
-why, Keith will hardly miss my letters. You can so
easily put down all I want to say, Charlotte, my'dear.
So begin at once.. "What shall I write?"
"Let us see.'My dear Keith.' But that will puzzle
him. Put at the top'Dictated.' No, stop! My dear,
why should not you yourself write to your husband?"
"H Ie has never asked me:"




270               Two illarriages.
That was true, though the omission had grown so familiar that the parson had of late not even remarked it.
Since the first few illiterate scrawls, which, with almost
an exaggerated dread of their effect on a young man educated and scholarly, MIr. Garland had forwarded, Keith
had never asked his wife to write to him, nor-carefully
regular as were his messages to her-had he taken the
slightest notice of her continued silence. In truth, in
this and in all other things, except mere surface matters,
he had sheathed himself up in such an armor of reserve,
that of the real Keith Garland, the man who now was,
they knew absolutely nothing; though they felt-most
certainly his father did-that he was a person very different from the boy who went out to Canada two years
and a half ago.
"Supposing he has not asked you to write; still, why
should you not do it?"
"I can not tell; only I think it would be better not."
And Charlotte's firm-set mouth showed that she did not
wish to say any more. Nor did her father-in-law attempt
to urge her. It was with him both principle and practice that no third hand-not even a parent's-can safely
touch, under almost any circumstances, the bond between
husband and wife.
"' Well," said he, sighing,'" do as you think best, Charlotte. And now let me write my letter —that is, dictate
it. Put at the top that it is dictated, and then he will un-.
derstand."
So they sat together a long two hours; for Mr. Garland was restless and awkward, unaccustomed to any pen
but his own, and nervously anxious over the wording of




Two 2iarriages.             271
the letter. His patient secretary tore up more than one
sheet to please him, and began: again; he seemed so fearful of saying either too much or too little.
"You see, my dear, I wish to be careful. If we alarm
Keith too. much about me, he may come home at once,
and I would not have him do that against his will, or
to the injury of his future prospects. Yet if we left
him quite in ignorance, and any thing did happen to
me-"
Charlotte looked up alarmed. "But the doctor said —"
"c He said what was quite true, that I may live ten
years and never have another attack. But if one did
come-there was no need to tell me this, for I knew itthings might prove very serious."' What would happen? How would the stroke affect
you? Do not be afraid to tell me all you know."
Charlotte spoke with composure, fixing her eyes steadily on the old man's face as she did so, though she had
turned very pale.
"I will tell you, my dear, for you are not a coward,
and it is Tight you should know; it is right I should
have somebody about me who does know. If I were to
have another'stroke,' as people call it, I might lose my
speech,.the use of my limbs, my mind even.:Oh Charlotte," as with a touching appeal he took hold of her
hand, "it is great weakness in me —great want of faith
and trust; but sometimes I feel frightened at the future,
and I wish my dear boy would come home."
"What hinders his coming home.? Is it - is it
me?"
The old man was sorely perplexed. It was one of




272               Two Marriages.
those questions so hard plainly to answer, so impossible
wholly to deny. He met it as alone this good man could
meet any thing-by the plain truth.
"Yes, my child," he said, keeping her hand, and speaking tenderly, for he felt so exceedingly sorry for her, "it
may be, in'some degree, on account of you. This is the
penalty that people must pay who make hasty or ill-assorted marriages, or, indeed, do any thing that is wrong;
they must go through a certain term of probation, and
bear a certain amount of suffering. You have suffered,
my poor Charlotte?"
"' Oh, I have —I have!"
i" And, I doubt not, so has Keith. He may dread coming home, and finding you only what he left you, which
was very different from himself, and equally different
from what you now are. Still, not knowing this, he may
shrink —most men do-after the first impulse of passion
is over, from spending his whole life with a woman who
was not his deliberate choice."
"Yes, I understand."
" Ah  my dear, I did not mean to hurt you. It was
as hard for you as it was for him. We may learn from
our mistakes, and make the best of them, and they may
come right in time; but we must suffer for them. Marriage is an awful thing, and its very irrevocableness-the'till death us do part,' which to some is the dearest comfort, to others becomes the most galling bondage."
The parson had gone on speaking, more in -his moralizing, absent way than with any special reference to her,
but his words struck home.
Charlotte drew her hands softly away from him, and




Two Mirriages.              273
folded them together with a determination desperate in
its very gentleness.' Mr. Garland, will you tell me one thing?  Can married people be parted-legally-except by death?"
"It ought not to be, my dear, but I believe it is done
sometimes. I have: heard of a Court in London where
people can. get separated from one another so as even to
be free to marry again. But we old-fashioned people do
not like such divorces. We will not speak about them,
Charlotte. We were speaking about you and your husband. He may dislike the thought of coming home now;
but tif he once came, I hope, I- feel sure, things would be
quite different. Still, let us neither compel him nor urge
him -it is best not. * Forgive me if, just for my own
selfish sake, I can't help wishing my boy would come
home."
"He will come home. Do not be uneasy; he is sure
to come home."
And then, recurring to the letter, Charlotte kept the
old man's wandering attention fixed upon it till it was
finished. Afterward she said, to her father-in-law's great
but carefully concealed surprise,
"And now, if you could spare me for an hour, I should
like to go and write myself to my husband."
" That is well-that is excellent," cried Mr. Garland,
much delighted. "Do write to him —as long a letter as
ever you can. He will be very glad of it."
" Will he?"
"Only, Charlotte, please, tell him no more about me
than we have said already. You will promise that?
You comprehend my reasons?"
M2




274                Two Marriages.
"Yes," said Charlotte, as she rose, slowly and dreamily, and gathered up the ink and paper.
"But why go away? Why not write here? I would
not interrupt you; and my good little scholar writes so
well now that I have not the slightest intention of looking over or correcting her letters —never again, I assure
you."I
"Oh no!" and Charlotte smiled, not one of her old
childish smiles, but the exceedingly sad one which had
come in their stead. " But, indeed, I had rather be alone.
I am very stupid, you know, sir. You forget, it is not
easy for me to write a letter, and it ought to be a pretty
letter —ought it not? when it is written to my husband?"
"Certainly — certainly. Off,ith you, and do your
very best. Ah! my dear, you'll be such a clever girl by
the time your husband comes home!"
Charlotte smiled again, but this time the smile was not
merely sad-it was broken-hearted.
After she was gone, Mr. Garland sat in anxious meditation-at least, as anxious as his failing age, upon which
all cares now began to fall slightly deadened, allowed
him to feel. Much he regretted that with the weak putting off of a painful thing, which was the peculiarity of
his character, he had so long delayed rewriting that missing epistle about the Cruxes and Charlotte. How could
it be done now? Never, at first he feared; for it was
impossible Keith's wife could write it, and no other hand
could he use to indite so private a letter.
"If I could but do it myself. I have heard of people
who learned to write with their left hand," thought the
parson; and, taking up a pen, he began to try-a pro



Two  larriages.              275
ceeding which needs trying in order to discover how
very difficult it is. Discomfited entirely by pen and ink,
he attempted a lead-pencil, and with much effort, and
many an ache of the feeble old hand and wrist, succeeded, after an hour's hard practice, in legibly signing his
name. Then, quite worn out, he stretched himself in his
arm-chair and wished for Charlotte.
" What a long time she has been. away-far more than
an hour!"  And then he smiled, with an amused wonder, to'think how much he:missed her.
"If I find her so necessary, surely her husband will,
when he has learned all her usefulness, all her goodness.
Oh yes, it will be all right by-and-by, when Keith comes
home."
And so it was with a cheerful countenance that he met
his daughter, showed her'how he had been amusing himself in her absence, and exacted her approbation of his
left-handed performances.
"I am so clever I shall be able to write with my own
hand next mail, I think. But we will not tell KIeith now.
We' will just give him a surprise."
And' the idea of this, and the relief to his mind that it
brought,: pleased'Mr. Garland so'much, that he went on
talking' quite gayly all the time Charlotte was inclosing, addressing, and sealing her letter, which she. made
no:attempt to offer for his perusal. Nor did he desire it.
He never noticed, also, that all the time she scarcely
spoke; I and that, after she had given Jane the letter to
post-Canadian letters were not trusted to any body but
themselves or Jane-she came and knelt beside him, os



276               Two Marriages.
tensibly to warm her hands at the fire. She was shaking
like a person in an ague.
"How very cold you are!.How could you stay up
so long in that chilly room, you foolish girl! you never
think of yourself at all."." Oh no. It isn2t worth while."
Mr.,Garlan[ regarded her uneasily as she crouched on
the rug, her face to the fire-light, which seemed to cheer
her no more than the moon upon a snow-field. But he
thought of his letter, which he would certainly be able
to write by next mail-ay, he would, if he accomplished
it at the rate of a line a day, and became comforted concerning Charlotte.
After the mail had gone, the parson's mind was so relievedlthat his bodily health began to recruit: itself a little. His helpless hand was at least no worse, and he began to get accustomed to the loss of it, and to do without
it, awkwardly and drearily at first, but soon very uncomplainingly.- The trouble it gave him to do. the most ordinary things, and the time they took in doing, occupied
the hours, and prevented his feeling so bitterly the lack
of his daily writing. He dictated to Charlotte whatever
was absolutely necessary, and he set himself to work,
with the diligence of a shool-boy, to learn to write with.
his left hand. In short, Providence was tempering the
wind to him, poor old man! in' many ways, so as to
make him  slip easily and painlessly into that world
where he would awake and be young again; or bewhatsoever God would have him to be, in the unknown
country, where he had but two desires, to find Him and
his wife Mary.




Two Marriages.              277
Still, he had much enjoyment of his present existence.
It happened to be an especially lovely spring, and he and
his daughter-in-law spent hours daily in wandering about
the cliffs and downs, looking at the sunshiny sea which
was settling itself down in peace after its winter storms,
or else penetrating inland, and hunting for wild-flowers
in those woody nooks which make this part of the country, so near the coast, a perfect treasure-house for all who
love nature. And he tried, not vainly, to put into Charlotte that simple but intense delight which he himself
took in.all natural things, thereby giving her an education, both of mind and heart, which is worth much booklearning, especially to a woman.
Their walks were made pleasanter by the lifting off of
the Crux incubus. With the extraordinary infatuation
of the "fashionable" world, this gay metropolitan family
had discovered that living any where out of London in
spring-time was absolutely unendurable. So they migrated back to their old haunts,jleaving the iall, for the
time being, deserted, and the roads about Immeridge safe
and free. They had never again called at the Parsonage,
but they had sent at least twice a week to inquire for Mr.
Garland; and once, in passing him and Charlotte, they
driving in their handsomest barouche down a hilly road
where to stop and speak was conveniently impossible,
Mrs. Crux had bowed, whether to one or both remained
questionable, but it was a most undoubted and condescending bow.
"'-Our friends certainly mean to take us up again, by
slow degrees," said the parson, a little amused.  He had
returned the salutation distantly, but courteously, as a




278                Two Marriages.
parson should, whose duty, more even than most men, is
to live in charity with all; but he did not wish to have
his motives or intentions mistaken. "I have no desire,"'
he continued, " to have any intimacy with the Cruxes.
You will find, Charlotte, throughout life, which is not long
enough for any needless pain, that'marry in haste and
repent at leisure' is as true of friendship as it is of love.
We should be quite sure our friends suit us before we
join hands, otherwise they either cumber us or drop from
us, like ill-fitting clothes, or they cling to us and destroy
us, like the poisoned shirt of Dejanira-did you ever hear
of Dejanira?"
And then he told her. the story-as he did many another story, out of his endless learning-partly to amuse
himself, and partly from the feeling that every sort of
knowledge might one day be valuable to her.
"But to return to the Cruxes," continued he; "I do
not regret their civilities, though more than civility is
neither possible nor desirable. Still, if they are polite,
we will be polite too,.if only on Keith's account. It is.bad for a- man not to be on' good terms with his neighbors."
And then the parson began to talk-as he never could
help talking-more and more every day, of the chances
pro and con of Keith's return, and what would happen
when he did return; whether he would go out again to
Canada, or whether, since he had been so successful, and
shown such remarkable capabilities for success in farming, he would not turn his attention to it in England, and
perhaps settle near Immeridge, to.the infinite comfort of
his father's declining days.




Two Marriages.              279
"And, if he has a real pleasant home-if his wife makes
it as pleasant as she has made mine-why then-"
He turned and saw Charlotte's face-it was deathly
white.
"Please don't!" she gasped. "Oh, please don't, Mr.
Garland."
HIe said no more, for he saw she could not bear it; but
he thought with deep thankfulness how devotedly Keith's
poor little wife must love him still.
And the love might be not unneeded. For several
times, when in his weary want of something to do, he had
amused himself by re-reading, in regular succession, his
son's letters, Mr. Garland was struck by an undefined and
yet clearly perceptible change in them. There seemed a
harshness, a hardness growing over Keith, mingled with
a reckless indifference, a complete avoidance of all reference to the future, which, the more he pondered it over,
the more alarmed his father. But there was nothing to be
done-nothing but to ~write that letter, which he penned
painfully, a few lines every day, telling his son the whole
history of himself and Charlotte; how he had grown
week by week, and month by month, to pity her, to like
her, to esteem her, to love her.
Yes, he did really love her. He had long suspected
this, now he felt sure of it. - Into the lonely, self-contained, but infinitely tender heart, where no woman, save
one, had ever dwelt, crept this new relationship, full of
all the delicacy and chivalry which such a man was sure
to have toward any woman, by whatever tie connected
with him, uniting at once the grave protection of fatherhood with the clinging dependence that his now feeble




280               Two Marriages.
age made natural to him. Ay, in this strange and mysteriously bitter way, the last way he had ever contemplated or expected, the parson had found his " daughter"
-found her simply by doing a father's duty, in the inevitable circumstances under which he had been called upon
to act.
He felt great peace as he sat in his garden-chair with
Charlotte busy near him, or sitting sewing at his side.
She was one of those women who, without any obnoxiously demonstrative industry, are never seen idle. Day
by day he admired her more and more, and was convinced that Keith would do the same, until the true tender love, ay, and reverence, which every husband should
bear to his wife, would surely come. He felt so certain
that all would be right soon, very soon-perhaps even
during his lifetime. He spent hours in planning out and
dreaming over the future; and so absorbed was he in
these fancies and speculations, that he forgot to take much
present notice of Charlotte.
When Jane suggested, as she did once, that Mrs. Keith
Garland was looking excessively thin and worn, he still
scarcely heeded it, or set it down to the hot weather, or to
a natural suspense concerning her husband's return; but,
as she never opened the subject of her own accord, he did
not like to question her; and she, being always so very
unobtrusive and uncommunicative regarding herself and
her feelings, doing all her duties, and especially those
which concerned Mr. Garland, with the most affectionate
and sedulous care, he did not discover, as perhaps indeed
only a woman would, that this poor woman, so young
still, went about like a person stunned-who does every




Tw o Marriages.             281
thing in a sort of dream, waiting with terror for the moment of awakening.
Only once or twice, when unable to resist talking of his
hopes, and longing for some confirmation of them from
another's heart than his own, Mr. Garland asked her seriously what she thought of the probabilities of Keith's return, Charlotte answered decidedly,
" Oh yes, he will come-be quite sure your son will
come home."
And, in the delight of this expectation, the old man
forgot to notice that she said, as she always did now,
"your son," never "my husband."




282               Two Marriages.
CHAPTER XII.
THE following mail brought Keith's never-failing letter, written, of course, in ignorance of the sad tidings now
speeding to him across the seas. Nor would they probably reach him in time to be answered by the return
mail, for he spoke of an intended business journey down
South, which would occupy the few days between the receiving and answering of letters; so he prepared his father for having none at all this time.
" The first timhe he will ever have missed writing," said
the parson, trying to shake off a certain dreary feeling
which Keith's letter left behind —the letter, written with
that unconsciousness of all that was happening at home,
and read, unknowing what might have happened to the
writer since, two things which throw such an indefinite
but unsurmountable sadness over even the cheeriest and
pleasantest "' foreign correspondence."
This was not an especially cheerful letter as to its tone,
though its contents were good news. Keith explained to
his father, who tried to explain to Charlotte-and the old
man and the girl were about equally obtuse in compreJhending it-some business transaction by which he hoped
to realize a considerable sum. "Perhaps I may turn out
a rich man yet," wrote he, with a slight tone of triumph.
"I have certainly done very well so far; in a worldly
point of view, that forced march to Canada was the best




Two Marriages.              283
thing that ever happened to me. Besides, I like the climate; I have no dislike to the country; in truth, nothing
should induce me to leave it. I would not care ever to
see Old England again, if coming over (he did not say
"coming home") were not my only means of getting a.
sight of my dear old father."
Always his father, never his wife. Charlbtte listened
-a little paler, a little, stiller than before, if that were
possible-but she neither questioned nor complained of
any thing. Once only, as she was hanging over her father-in-law's chair, arranging his cushions for his afternoon nap, he talking the while of Keith-for, indeed, the
subject never failed him-she said gently, when he asked
what she thought about the matter,
"Oh yes, your son will come home. Make yourself
quite easy; he is sure to come home-not immediately,
perhaps, but by-and-by."
The old man looked up with a touching eagerness.
"Do you really think so, Charlotte?  Before winter?"
"'Yes, before winter," said Charlotte, as she turned
away.
The following mail brought no letter, for which, however, they were prepared. Nevertheless, the blank seemed to make the parson rather restless for some:hours, till
he consoled himself by reflecting that the journey down
South, while it hindered Keith's receiving his letters,
saved him temporarily from the pain of the news they
brought, and lessened by a few days his suspense till the
next mail came in. And that next mail would bring
him the all-important letter, so long delayed, but which
the father had duly finished, left-handed, accomplishing




284               Two Marriages.
it line by line, with a tender persistency, in spite of all
sorts of remonstrances from Charlotte, who would not see
why he should be so earnest about it.
"Suppose it should never reach him," said she, when,
in compliance with Mr. Garlantd's desire, she inclosed and
forwarded it, declining to write herself this time. " Suppose," and'she watched her father-in-law stealthily but
eagerly, "suppose he should even now be on his way
home?"
"Oh no, that is quite impossible," replied the parson,
sighing. How impossible he did not like to say; for,
judging his son by himself, by most men, he felt that
nothing except the strongest sense of duty could conquer
the repugnance a man would feel to coming home under
KIeith's circumstances-to a wife whom he neither respected nor loved, but only pitied. But that momentous
letter would set every thing right. He had written it
with the utmost tact and tenderness of which he was capable, placing every thing before his son in the plainest
light, and yet doing it delicately, as should be done by
the father of a grown-up son, who has no longer any
right to interfere in that son's affairs farther than to suggest and advise. Yes, this- letter would surely make all
right. So he had sent it off in spite of Charlotte, and
with an amused resistance to her arguments, and his
heart followed it with prayers.
Thus, after the first few hours, he ceased to be disappointed at the absence of Keith's letter, and after waiting
another half day, and hearing accidentally that other
American. letters had come all safe-the housekeper at
Cruxham Hall had also a son in Canada —the parson and




Two Mfarriages.             285
his daughter settled their minds calmly to wait on until
the next mail.
It was a bright summer morning, and Mr. Garland sat
enjoying it in his garden-alone, too, a'thing which rarely happened. But, fancying he saw a certain restlessness
and trouble in Charlotte's look, he had made occupation
for her by sending her away on a long expedition, to visit a sick person at the other end of the parish.
For, since his increasing feebleness, this duty also-so
nitural under most circumstances to a parson's daughter
-visiting the sick, had gradually slipped into Charlotte's
hands. He hardly knew.how it had come about, whether it was his suggestion or her own that she should undertake it, but she had undertaken it, and she fulfilled it
well. Nor had there come any of the difficulties which
he had once anticipated; for the whole parish was so
anxious about him, and so touched with tenderness concerning him, that they would have received gladly and
gratefully any body who came from the parson. The
ice once broken by mutual sympathy, Charlotte —the new
Charlotte, who was so strangely different from Lotty
Dean-slowly made her way into the folks' hearts, especially by the exceeding kindness which she showed toward old people and children. Soon, though she said
nothing about it herself, others said —and it reached the
parson's ears with a strange thrill, half pleasure, half pain
-that Immeridge- parish had never been so well looked
after since the days of the first Mrs. Garland.
Mr. Garland watched his son's wife as she walked
across the garden with her basket in hand, stepping lightly, in her brown Holland morning-dress and jacket, and




286               Two Marriages.
simple straw hat, under which her abundant hair no
longer curled; the parson, with his classic taste, had
made her twist it smoothly up, in Greek grace and matronly decorousness, round the well-shaped head. She.
was a pretty sight; to one who loved physical beauty, a
perpetual daily pleasure; but he hardly knew whether
it made him most sad or most glad to see-and he had
seen it especially this morning-in her face that without
which all faces, and all characters, are imperfect, the
beauty of suffering.
The old man's gaze followed her with great tenderness,
and when she was out of sight-he involuntarily took out
his watch, to re.ckon how many hours she was likely to
be away from him. If any one had told him this two
years and a half ago-if he could have believed that this
brief time would have made so great a change, not only
in his. feelings toward her, but in herself! And yet, at
her impressionable time of life, it was not impossible;
least of all, considering the many strong influences at
work within her and. around her, not the least of which,
though he was the last person to suspect it, was Mr. Garland's own.
Still he acknowledged to himself that, whatever she
had been, she was a sweet, good woman now; that he
dearly loved her, and-had rational grounds for loving
her, all'of which her husband might find out soon.
"And it is a melancholy fact," thought the parson,
smiling to himself; "' but if that boy comes back and falls
in love with his wife over again, and wants to carry her
away with him, as of course -he must, I wonder what in
the wide world I shall do without Charlotte!"




Two Marriages.               287
But he left that, as he had long since learned to leaire
all difficulties that concerned his own lot, and tried t.
leave those that concerned others, in wiser hands than
his own, and occupied himself, as old age will when its
decline is sweet and calm, unselfish and pure, in the trivial pleasures about him-trivial, and yet not so, for they
all came to him like messages from the Giver of every
good thing-the sunshine and soft airs, the scent of the
flowers, the humming of bees and flutterings of white
butterflies, and, above all, the songs of innumerable birds,
so tame that they came hopping and picking up food almost at the parson's feet. He loved them all, he enjoyed
them all, as he felt he should do to the very last. In spite
of sorrow he had had a happy life, and he trusted in God
to give him a happy and a peaceful death; blessed it was
sure to be, since it took him home to Mary.
And so, in this sleepy warmth of sunshine, and lulled
by the buzz of insects and the incessant warble of birds,
the old man's senses became confused, his head dropped
upon his bosom, and he fell into a sound slumber. In
his sleep he had a curious dream, which he did not fully
recall till some hours after his waking; but when he did,
it made upon him the impression of being less a dream
than a vision, so clear and distinct was it —so like reality.
He thought he was sitting exactly where he did sit,
and in his own garden-chair, thinking much the same
thoughts, and conscious of much the same things around
him as really was the case that morning, when, suddenly,
and as naturally and as little to his surprise as if he had
seen her but yesterday, his wife, Mary, crossed the lawn




288               Two Marriages.
toward him. He noticed her very dress, which was white
-one of her favorite spotted muslin gowns, such as were
still laid up in lavender in the old chest of drawers;
and her own garden basket was in her hand, full of flowers. She came and stood right in front of him, gazing at
him steadily with those pure, limpid, candid eyes of hers
-eyes which looked as young as ever, though he had
grown quite old. But he never considered that, nor any
thing else, except the mere delight of seeing her.  He
forgot even Keith, for she looked exactly as she used to
do before Keith was born or thought of-before her days
of weakness and weariness came upon her-until she said,
in a soft, tender voice, "William, where is my son?"
After that the dream fell into confusion. He had a
troubled sense of seeking every where for Keith, and not
being able to filn him; of seeing him by glimpses at different ages and in various well-remembered forms, till at
last there came a great fellow, with heavy footsteps and a
bearded face, whom his father could scarcely recognize;
but Mary did at once, and welcomed smiling. And then
again her husband saw her standing still on the Parsonage lawn, but not alone —surrounded by a little troop of
children, in whose faces he beheld, mysteriously reproduced, both her face and his own. "Oh yes," she said,
as if in answer to his dumb questionings, for he struggled vainly to speak, "yes, all these are mine. I never
saw them, never had them in my arms, but I did not die
childless-and all these are my children!" When Mr.
Garland stretched out his arms to clasp her and them,
the dream melted away, and it was no longer that bright
picture of Mary and the little ones, but his son Keith




Two Marriages.              289
standing gloomy and alone, and looking as sad as he had
done that hazy winter morning at Euston Square terminus, when the father's heart had felt well-nigh broken,
and it seemed as if the hopes of both their lives were forever gone.
"Keith! Keith 1" he cried, trying to burst through the
dumbness of the dream, and speak to his son. With
the effort he woke, and recognized where he was-alone
in the sunshiny garden. He called Jane, who in Charlotte's rare absences never kept far out of reach, but she
was some time in coming to him.
"Jane," said the parson, rubbing his eyes, "I must
have been asleep very long. Is she come back yet-my
daughter, I mean?"
" No, sir; but-but-"
Jane's voice was abrupt and husky, and she kept glancing at the open front door.
"Won't you come in, sir? I've got a piece of good
news for you. You'll take it quietly, though, I knows
you will, for it's a bit of very good news."  Nevertheless, Jane sobbed a little.
The parson turned round slowly, calmly, with the preternatural instinct of what has happened, or is about to
happen, which sick people sometimes show.
"Jane," he said, looking her full in the face, "I know
what it is. My son is come home!"
Keith and his father sat together under the veranda.
The first half hour of their meeting had passed safely
over, and they had settled down side by side, talking of
N




290               Two Marriages.
ordinary things with a quietness and self-restraint which
both purposely maintained as much as' possible. But
there was no fear. People seldom die of joy —as seldom,
thank God! of sorrow.
Already Mr. Garland was listening, cheerfully and naturally, as though his son had been at home a long time,
to Keith's account — given briefly and succinctly-of
how, on receiving his letters, he found he had still two
days' time to catch the return mail and come home; how
some accidental delays had prevented his starting for
Immeridge till the night before; how he had left his luggage at the nearest station, and walked ten miles across the
country to the Parsonage gate, where, looking in, he saw
his father asleep, and would not disturb him till he waked
of his own accord.
He did not tell, nor did Jane, till long after, how Keith
had appeared before her in her kitchen, looking "like a
ghost from the grave," and "took on terrible bad;" till,
finding things less dreadful than he had at first supposed,
he suffered himself to be comforted, and soothed, and fed
by the good old woman, who three-and-twenty years ago
had dressed him in his first clothes, and loved him ever
since, with a patience that he had often tried, but never
came to the -end of; for Keith, faulty as he was, had the
art of making people fond of him. Perhaps because of
another simple art-he also could love most deeply and
faithfully, as was plain to be seen in every feature of
the brown, rough face, whenever he looked at his old
father.
Yes, they were very happy, no doubt of that. Was it
a punishment-poor girl! it was her last-that in the




Two Ma2rriages.             291
first moments of their reunion both father and son entirely forgot Charlotte? It was not till the church clock
struck twelve, and she was to be home to dinner at one,
that the parson, with a sting of compunction, remembered his son's wife, after whom his son had never once
inquired.
"My boy," said he, " some one besides myself will be
very glad you are come home."
"You mean my wife," replied Keith, with a sudden
hardening both of countenance and manner.
"You do not ask after her, so I conclude Jane has already told you all about her."
"Jane said she was well."
"And nothing more?"
" Nothing more. Was there any thing to be told?"
The question was put with a sudden suspiciousness,
but alas! not with the quick anxiety of love. And on
receiving his father's negative, Keith relapsed into his
former gravity of behavior, intimating a determination to
bear his lot like a man, however hard it might be, but at
the same time resolved to say, and to be said to, as little
about it as possible.
This, and several other slight but significant indications of character which had cropped out even in the
first half hour, convinced Mr. Garland of the great change
that circumstances had brought about even in so young
a man. He felt, too, what parents are often fatally slow
to see, that without any lessening, perhaps even with
deepening affection, there had, in the natural course of
things, grown up between them, father and son as they
were, the reserve inevitable between man and man, how



292                Two Marriages.
ever closely allied; so much so, that, in his own shrinking delicacy, the parson found it difficult to open the subject nearest to his heart.
" Keith," said he, at last, " I do not want to meddle in
your affairs; you are of an age to judge and act for yourself now. Still, your father can never cease thinking
about you. And before she comes in, which she will
presently, for she is always very punctual, may I speak
to you a few words about your wife?"
" Certainly, father."
Yet the few words would not come. It was, after all,
the son-the less sensitive and most demonstrative nature;
of the two-who first broke the painful silence.
" Father," said Keith, turning his head away, and taking up the old man's stick to make little holes in the
gravel-walk while he spoke, "I had best make a clean
breast of it to you, and at once. I know now that my
marriage was a terrible mistake-a mistake, the consequence of-no, t]e just punishment of —  Oh, father, father! heavily I sinned, and heavily have I been punished!"
While speaking he turned white, even through his tanned cheeks. Whatever the punishment was to which he
referred, or whatever special form his remorse had taken,
unquestionably both had been sharp and sore.
The parson did not attempt inquiries or consolations,
still less reproofs. He only laid his hand on his son's
shoulder, saying, " My poor boy!"
"Yes," Keith repeated, "I have been punished. Not
in outward things; I have had plenty of external prosperity. I have often thought of two lines of poetry I used
to say at school, about




Two Marriages.               293
"' Satan now is wiser than of yore,
And tempts by making rich, not making poor.'
That was the way he tried it with me —eh, father? And
he very nearly had me-but not quite."
"You have been successful, then, as regards money.
You ought to be thankful for that," said the father,
gravely.
"Oh, of course, very thankful. Never was there such
a run of good fortune. It got to be quite a proverb,' As
lucky as Garland!' 7Vhy, I have made enough to start
afresh in England-to set up a pleasant little home of my
own, to which I might bring some sweet, charming English girl —English lady," with a sarcastic accent on the
word —" a fit companion for rae, a fit daughter for yousuch a woman, in short, as my mother was. Oh, father!"
and Keith dropped his head with something very like a
groan, " it is a fatal thing for a man if, when he chooses a
wife, he can not, or dare not, measure her by what he remembers of his mother."
The parson was silent. He knew his son spoke the
truth, none the less true because Heaven had mercifully
made things lighter to him than he deserved. And
though henceforward his burden would be lifted off, still
what it had been the father could imagine, though even
he might never thoroughly know. Still, as he looked on
his boy's face, he saw written on it many a line that was
not there before, and was certain that these years —the
most critical years of a young man's life, had not passed
without leaving their mark -that bitter, searing brand
upon him —possibly forever.
Neither then nor afterward did Keith make to his fa



294               Two Marriages.
ther any special revelations of the manner in which he
had been " punished," whether by conscience-stings alone,
and that vague, dark dread of the future which he was
sure to feel, or by meeting, as many an honest-meaning
and yet most miserable man has met, and been man
enough to fly from, conscious that her very goodness and
sweetness is to him as poisonous as the hot breath from
the open pit of hell, some ideal woman who is, alas! not
the woman he has married. Such things do happen, and
if this or any thing like it had happened to Keith Garland, even though the temptation was conquered and the
struggle past,. his torment must have been sharp enough
to teach him lessons such as his old father had not
learnt-nor ever needed to learn —in all his seventy
years.
Still, something of this Mr. Garland dimly divined, and
regarded his son with the sort of awe which parents feel
when they see that their dealings are not the only dealings with their children; that for each successive generation, and each individual of it, Providence has a separate
education of its own. There was a kind of respect, as
well as tenderness, in the old man's voice as he took his
boy's hand, saying gently,
"Yes, Keith, you speak truly; I can not deny it. It
would have been far happier for us all if your wife had
been more like your mother."
There was a long, long silence-a silence due in one
man to the memory of what was lost, in the other to the
thought of what might have been.- It was scarcely unnatural; in one sense it was even right; for it is not our
merit, but God's mercy, which creates peace out of pain,




Two -Marriages.              295
and oftentimes changes resignation into actual happiness,
till we count among our best blessings the things which
once were our sharpest woes.
" My son," said the parson at length, " we will now set
the past forever behind us, and look forward to your future. Therein I see many reasons not to grieve, but to
rejoice."
"Rejoice! over a man who comes home to a wife that
writes him such a letter as this?" and Keith took out of
his pocket-book the small note which Mr. Garland had
seen Charlotte inclose with his own dictated letter, two
mails back.
" What does she say? I did not read it."
" Of course not. She had doubtless her own reasons
for keeping it back from you. Now, father, do not look
alarmed. I shall not act rashly; I am not going to take
her at her word'; indeed, I could not do it if I wished.
No, I'll not be hard to her. I took my burden on myself, and I'll bear it like a man; but, just read the letter."
And he again applied' himself, in angry- agitation, to
destroying the garden-walk, while his -father read, slowly
and with difficulty, for it was ill written, and startled him
painfully at first, the poor little scrap which Charlotte
had penned to her husband.
"Dear husband" (and then " husband" was crossed out
and "Dear sir" put instead)-" If I may make bold to say
it, you ought to come home to your father. HIe is breaking his heart for you, and nothing will ever comfort him
but the sight of you. Please come at once.
"I take this opportunity of saying what I ought to




296               Two Marriages.
have said a good while ago, that ours having been such
an unsuitable and unfortunate marriage, I will not be a
trouble and a burden to you any more, but as soon as
you come to the Parsonage I will leave it. Also sinceas your father tells me-there is a place in London where
people unhappily married can get rid of one another, so
as to be free to marry again; if you wish to get rid. of me,
so as to be able to marry somebody else more suitable for,
you, d6 it; I shall not object. I would never have let
you marry me had I seen things as I do now, or had I
ever known your father. I remain your obedient wife,
" CHARLOTTE GARLAND."
"Poor little soul!" said Mr. Garland, tenderly, as he
finished the letter.
" Then you did not know any thing about this?"
"Certainly not. She hid it all from me-the only
thing she ever has hid, I think, since she came to live
with me. How she must have suffered before she could
have written such a letter-poor, patient, loving little
soul!"
"Loving-?"
" Yes. Don't you see-but how could you?-that this
is just the sort of thing she would do? She loves you so
well that she will not even let you see her love, lest it
should seem to be an additional claim on you."
"But she wants to get free from me."
The parson smiled. "She wants to set you free, which
is quite a different thing. She thinks of nobody but you
-or perhaps of me a little, sometimes. She is the most
unselfish woman I ever knew —except one. And to




Two Marriages.              297
thifik that she had hidden this secret in her heart all
these weeks, and kept telling me you were sure to come
home, when she expected to lose you as soon as ever
you came-lose you that I might gain you! My poor
little daughter!"
Keith looked amazed.'Yes, she is my daughter; she has become such to.ne, and such she will always remain. Keith," added the
old man, solemnly, " however you may act toward your
Wife, I know how I shall act toward my daughter."
"What do you mean, father?"
"I mean that though I took her into my house out of
pure duty, she has grown to be the greatest blessing in it,
and she shall never leave it unless she leaves it for yours.
Will you hear how things came about?"
Then Mr. Garland began and told his son, from beginning to end, what he had written in the letters which
Keith never received-the history of himself and Charlotte. Just the bare history; not dwelling, as indeed he
was not likely to dwell, for in his great humility he scarcely saw it himself, on the one fact, the root of all, that it
had been this simple doing of a parent's duty under sharpest pain which brought about the whole.
Still, whether he saw it or not, his son saw it clear and
plain, and recognized, with an emotion that almost overwhelmed him then, but which afterward taught him a
lesson which he in his turn acted out to his children, that
not only had his sin been covered and healed, but the
best: gift of his existence had been brought to him by his
father's hand.
The. parson's story was hardly concluded, and the siN2




298               Two Marriages.
lence with which his son listened to it throughout had hot
been broken by a single word, when they heard from behind the syringa bushes the click of the garden gate.
YKeith sprang up, violently agitated. So was Mr. Garland; for it seemed as if the happiness or misery, for life,
of these his children, trembled in the balance, and hung
on the chance of the next few minutes. He could not
speak a word —he only prayed.
"Father, is that my wife?"
" Yes."
Both father and son held their breaths while unconscious Charlotte walked up the garden-path to the elmtree under which the parson usually sat, and missing him
there, came slowly on toward the house. Her step was
weary — she had walked a good many miles, and her
downcast face was very pale and sad; still, in spite of
this, nothing fairer, nothing sweeter, nothing more truly
womanly could a young man's eyes find to rest on than
Charlotte Garland.
Either the creepers of the veranda hid the two figures
more completely than they were aware, or else Charlotte
was so absorbed in thought as to take little notice of outward things, for she came quite close to them before she
perceived her father and her husband.
When she did, her recognition was instantaneous. But
even then-like herself, poor girl! —she had self-control
enough to make no "scene," to startle nobody and trouble
nobody.  She neither fainted nor screamed, but stood
there, deadly pale, and steadying herself by the pillars
of the veranda-still, she stood quiet, gazing at them, attempting neither to move nor speak.




Two Marriages.              299
" Charlotte," Mr. Garland said, touching her dress to
draw her nearer to him, at which her eyes turned to his
happy face-the old man who had found his son againand she feebly smiled.'L You see, ihy dear, you were
right after all. He has come home."
"Lotty," said Keith, speaking in a low, almost in a
humble tone, as he rose from his seat and came over to
her side, " Lotty, dear,'haven't you a word for your husband?"
She looked up-looked in his face-first, as if she could
hardly believe that it was himself; then with a piteous
inquiry, as though trying to read in his countenance her
sentence of life or death.," Lotty, forgive me; I am your husband."
He opened his arms wide and took her into them, and
she sobbed her heart out upon his breast.
Keith fell in love with his wife all over again, as his
father had foreseen, and in the true, and rational, and
righteous way; not suddenly-which was, indeed, hardly
to be expected-but with the steady, progressive affection which is built up day by day in the heart of a man
who continually finds in the woman to whom he has
bound himself for life something fresh to love, something
more worthy of his loving. For love never, stands still;
itvmust inevitably be- either growing or decaying —especially the love of marriage.
As to Charlotte's love for her husband, it scarcely
needs to be spoken of. It was of that kind which, put
into the heart of almost any woman, is a blessing and a




300               Two Marriages.
safeguard to herself all her lifetime, and, abiding in the
heart of a good woman, constitutes the strength, the hope,
often the very salvation of two lives.
Of her sin-of both their sin-what shall we saywhat dare we say?' except that He may have forgiven it,
as He did to one who "loved much."
Enough of these. And of the old man-the good father-whose days. were nearly: done.?
Mr. Garland lingered on, in a serene old age, for fully
ten years more. He lived to see about him, as he had
seen in his dream, wonderful new faces, wherein he caught
strange glimpses of other faces old and dear; likenesses
such as grandfathers and grandmothers delight to trace,
in which the vanished generation seems revived again.
One of Keith's children —the first —was, as not seldom
happens, both in features and character, so exact a reproduction of her father's mother, that even as a little
baby the parson would hold her on his lap for hours, almost believing he was young again, and that she was his
own " little daughter" who never came. But the grandchild did come, and she grew to be the:very darling of
the parson's heart. Of course she was called Mary.
When at last, after the brief two days' illness —which
was the only suffering sent to take him home-Mr. Garland lay, conscious and content, iii full possession of all
his faculties, and knowing his time was come-lay with
his white head resting on his long solitary pillow, those
about him thought that his last word, like his last smile,
was meant for this little granddaughter.
But Charlotte, matron and mother, who had yet found
leisure from her many duties to be the parson's daughter




Two Marriages.             301
still, and who stood silently behind him, fulfilling to the
end all those tender offices whiclh, during his latter years,
had smoothed down every care, and kept every trouble
away from him-Charlotte knew better.
"Stand aside, Mary," she whispered softly to her little
girl, " he is thinking of dear grandmamma."
That evening the blind was drawn down at Mr. Garland's bedroom window. No one sat there now; no one
looked out in the twilight upon the church and churchyard, keeping watch as it were-as he had kept watch
for more than thirty years.
By the next Sunday there was a new face in the pulpit of Immeridge Church, and a new voice —which,
though it was a stranger's, often faltered with emotionpreached the funeral sermon; eulogizing, as funeral sermons do, that long, yet outwardly uneventful life, the
real beauty of which was known only to God.
After the service the congregation went in little groups
to look at the date newly filled up on the white headstone, and to talk in whispers of "the parson"-and of
his dear wife, whom only one or two people now living
in the parish ever remembered to have seen. But, though
every one loved him and missed him, no one grievedno one could grieve, not even his own children; for the
long separation was ended, and Mary Garland's husband
slept by her side.
THE END.








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COMPLETION OF GROTE'S HISTORY OF GREECE,
A HISTORY OF GREECE,
FROM THE EARLIEST PERIOD TO THE CLOSE OF TIHLE GENERAo
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BY GEORGE GROTE, ESQ.
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great Greeks live again before us, and has enabled us to realize Greek modes of thinking. He has added a great historical work to the language, taking its place with
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merits which it exhibits: scholarship and learning such as we have been accustomed to demand only in Germans; an art of grouping and narration different
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sustained charm and pleasure; a peculiarly keen interest in events of the political
order, and a wide knowledge of the business of politics; and, finally, harmonizing
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University Magazine.
The acute intelligence, the discipline, faculty of intellect, and the excellent erudition every one would look for from Mr. Grote; but they will here also find the
element which harmonizes these, and without which, on such a theme, an orderly
and solid work could not have been written.-Examiner.
A work second to that of Gibbon alone in English historical literature. Mr.
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to find an author combining in the same degree the accurate learning of the scholar with the experience of a practical statesman. The completion of this great
work may well be hailed with some degree of national pride and satisfaction.Literary Gazette, March 8,1856.
The better acquainted any one is with Grecian history, and with the manner in
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of this work. Mr. Grote's familiarity both with the great highways and the obscurest by-paths of Grecian literature and antiquity has seldom been equaled, and
not often approached, in unlearned England; while those Germans who have rivaled it have seldom possessed the quality which eminently characterizes Mr.
Grote, of keeping historical imagination severely under the restraints of evidence.
The great charm of Mr. Grote's history has been throughout the cordial admiration he feels for the people whose acts and fortunes he has to relate. * * We bid
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is a monument of English learning, of English clear-sightedness, and of English
love of freedom and the characters it produces.-Spectator.
Endeavor to become acquaintcd with Mr. Grote, who is engaged on a Greek
History. I expect a great. deal from this production.-NIEBUHR, the Historian,
ts Professor-LIEBER.
The author has now incontestably won for himself the title, not merely of a
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we know, in the erudition and genius with which he has revived the picture of a
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For becoming dignity of style, unforced adaptation of results to principles, careful verification of theory by fact, and impregnation of fact by theory-for extensive
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:Mr. Motley, the American historian of the United Netherlands-we owe him
English homage.-LONmON TIMES.
" As interesting as a romance, and as reliable as a proposition of Euclid."
History of
The United Netherlands.
FROM THE DEATH OF WILLIAM THE SILENT TO THE SYNOD OF DQRT. WITH A
FULL VIEW OF THE ENGLISH-DUTCH STRUGGLE AGAINST SPAIN, AND
OF TIIE ORIGIN AND DESTRUCTION OF THE SPANISI
ARMADA.
B: JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY, LL.D., D.C.L.,
Corresponding Member of the Institute of France, Author of "The Rise of the
Dutch Republic."
With Portraits and Map.
2 vols. 8vo, Muslin, $6 00.
Critical Notices.
His living and.truthful picture of events.-Quarterly Review (London), Jan.,
1861.
Fertile as the present aga has been in historical works of the highest merit,
none of them can be ranked above these volumes in the grand qnalities of interest,
accuracy, and truth.-Edinburgh Quarterly Reviez, Jan., 1861.
This noble work.-Westminster Review (London).
One of the most fascinating as well as important histories of the century.-Cor.
N. Y. Evening Post.
The careful study of these volumes will infallibly afford a feast both rich and
rare.-Baltimore Republican.
Already takes a rank among standard works of history.-London Critic.
Mr. Motley's prose epic.-London Spectator.
Its pages are pregnant with instruction. — London Literary Gazette.
We may profit by almost every page of his, narrative. All the topics which agi.
tate us now are more or less vividly presented in the History of the United Netherlands.-NeTs York Times.
Bears on every page marks of the same vigorous mind, that produced "The Rise
of the Dutch Republic;" but the new work is riper, mellower, and though equally
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that memorable struggle in the 16th century by which the human mind broke the
thraldom of religious intolerance and achieved its independence.-l'he World, N. Y.
The name of Motley now stands in the very front rank of living historians. His
Dutch Republic took the world by surprise; but the favorable verdict then given
is now only the more deliberately confirmed on the publication of the continued
story under the title of the History of the United Netherlands. All the nerve,
and power, and substance of juicy life are there, lending a chalm to every page —
Church Josurnal, N. Y.
Motley, indeed, has produced a prose epic, and his fighting scenes are as real,
spirited, and life-like as the combats in the Iliad.-The Press (Phila.).
His history is as interesting as a romance, and as reliable as a proposition of Euclid. Clio never had a more faithful disciple. We advise every reader whose
means will permit to become the owner of these fascinating volumes, assuring him
that he will never regret'the investment.-Christian -Intelligencer, 1V. Y.
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"They do honor to American Literature, and would do
honor to the Literature of any Country in the World."
THE RISE OF
THE DUTCH REPUBLIC.
X XitoqaBY JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY.
New Edition.  With a Portrait of WILLIAM  OF ORANGE. 3 VolS.
8vo, Muslin, $9 00.
We regard this work as the best contribution to modern history that has yet
been made by an American.-Methodist Quarterly Review.
The "History of the Dutch Republic" is a great gift to us; but the heart and
earnestness that beat through all its pages are greater, for they give us most
timely inspiration to vindicate the true ideas of our country, and to compose an
able history of our own.-Christian Examiner (Boston).
This work bears on its face the evidences of scholarship and research. The
arrangement is clear and effective; the style energetic, lively, and often brilliant.
* * * Mr. Motley's instructive volumes will, we trust, have a circulation commensurate with their interest and value.-Protestant Episcopal Quarterly Review.
To the illustration of this most interesting period Mr. Motley has brought the
matured powers of a vigorous and brilliant mind, and the abundant fruits of patient and judicious study and deep reflection. The result is, one of the most
important contributions to historical literature that have been made in this country.-North American Review.
We would conclude this notice by earnestly recommending our readers to procure for themselves this truly great and admirable work, by the production of
which the auther has conferred no less honor upon his country than he has won
praise and fame for himself, and than which, we can assure them, they can find
nothing more attractive of'interesting within the compass of modern literature.
-Evangelical Review.
It is not often that we have the pleasure of commending to the attention of the
lover of books a work of such extraordinary aud unexceptionable excellence as
this one. —lUniversalist Quarterly Review.
There are an elevation and a classic polish in these volumes, and a felicity of
grouping and of portraiture, which invest the subject with the attractions of a
living and stirring episode in the grand historic drama.-Southern Methodist
Quarterly Review.
The author writes with a genial glow and love of his subject.-Presbyterian
Quarterly Review.
Mr. Motley is a sturdy Republican and a hearty Protestant. His style is lively and picturesque, and his work is an honor and an important accession to our
national literature.-Ghurch Review.
Mr. Motley's work is an important one, the result of profound research, sincere
convictions, sound principles, and manly sentiments; and even those who are
most familiar with the history of the period will find in it a fresh and vivid addition to their previous knowledge. It does honor to American literature, and
would do honor to the literature of any country in the world.-Edinburgh Review.
A serious chasm in English historical literature has been (by this book) very
remarkably filled. * * * A history as complete as industry and genius can make
it now lies before us, of the first twenty years of the revolt of the United Provinces. * ** All the essentials of a great writer Mr. Motley eminently possesses.
His mind is broad, his industry-unwearied. In power of dramatic description
no modern historian, except, perhaps, Mr. Carlyle, surpasses him, and in analysis of character he is elaborate and distinct.-Westminster Review.




2  MOTLEY'S RISE OF THE DUTCH REPUBLIC.
It is a work of real historical value, the result of accurate criticism, written
in a liberal spirit, and from first to last deeply interesting.-Athenceum.
The style is excellent, clear, vivid, eloquent; and the industry with which
original sources have been investigated, and through which new light has been
shed over perplexed incidents and characters, entitles Mr. Motley to a high rank
in the literature of an age peculiarly rich in history.-I-orth British Review.
It abounds in new information, and, as a first work, commands a very cordial
recognition, not merely of the promise it gives, but of the extent and importance
of the labor actually performed on it.-London Examiner.
Mr. Motley's "History" is a work of which any country might be proud.Press (London).
Mr. Motley's History will be a standard book of reference in historical literature.-London Literary Gazette.
Mr. Motley has searched the whole range of historical documents necessary to
the composition of his work.-London Leader.
This is really a great work. It belongs to the class of books in which we
range our Grotes, Milmans, Merivales, and Macaulays, as the glories of English
literature in the department of history. * * * Mr. Motley's gifts as a historical
-r.iter are among the highest and rarest.-Nonconformist (London).
Mr. Motley's volumes will well repay perusal. * * * For his learning, his liberal
tone, and his generous enthusiasm, we heartily commend him, and bid him good
speed for the remainer of his interesting and heroic narrative.-Saturday Review.
The story is a noble one, and is worthily treated. * * * Mr. Motley has had the
patience to unravel, with unfailing perseverance, the thousand intricate plots of
the adversaries of the Prince of Orange; but the details and the literal extracts
which he has derived from original documents, and transferred to his pages,
give a truthful color and a picturesque effect, which are especially charming.-!London Daily News.
M. Lothrop Motley dans son magnifique tableau de la formation de notre R6publique.-G. GROaN VAN PRINSTERIE.
Our accomplished countryman, Mr. J. Lothrop Motley, who, during the last
five years, for the better prosecution of his labors, has established his residence
in the neighborhood of the scenes of his narrative. No one acquainted with the
fine powers of mind possessed by this scholar, and the earnestness with which he
has devoted himself to the task, can doubt that he will do full justice to his important but difficult subject.-W. H. PREscOTT.
The production of such a work as this astonishes, while it gratifies the pride
of the American reader.-N. Y. Observer.
The "Rise of the Dutch Republic" at once, and by acclamation, takes its
place by the " Decline and Fall of the Roman Empir%," as a work which, whether for research, substance, or style, will never be superseded. —V. Y. Albion.
A work upon which all who read the English language may congratulate
themselves.-New Yorker Handels Zeitung.
Mr. Motley's place is now (alluding to this book) with Hallam and Lord Mahon, Alison and Macaulay in the Old Country, and with Washington Irving,
Prescott, and Bancroft in this. —N. Y. Times.
TnE authority, in the English tongue, for the history of the period and people
to which it refers.-N. Y. Courier and Enquirer.
This work at once places the author on the list of American historians which
has been so signally illustrated by the names of Irving, Prescott, Bancroft, and
Hildreth.-Boston Times.
The work is a noble one, and a most desirable acquisition to our historical literature.-Mobile Advertiser.
Such a work is an honor to its author, to his country, and to the age in which
it was written.-Ohio Farmer.
Published by HARPER & BROTHERS,
Franklin Square, New York.
HARPER & BROTHERS will send the above Work by Mail (postage paid (for any
distance in the United States under 3000 miles), on receipt of the Money.