THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 ENDOWED BY THE 
 DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
 SOCIETIES 
 
 PR 5 842 
 .W8 
 U5 
 1890 
 
This book is due at the WALTER R. DAVIS LIBRARY on 
 the last date stamped under "Date Due." If not on hold it 
 may be renewed by bringing it to the library. 
 
 DATE 
 DUE 
 
 RET. 
 
 DATE 
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 MH 3 1994 
 
 m 
 
 We 
 
 1^ 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH, 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
THE 
 
 UNPIOLY "WISH, 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. HENRY WOOD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 " EAST LYNNE," THE CHANNINGS," " JOHNNY LUDLOW," ETC< 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 EICHAED BENTLEY AND SON, 
 Pulxlis}}rts in ©rtitnarjff to f^er f^lajestg tfje ^ueen* 
 1890. . 
 
 nprftfs reserved,') 
 
1 
 
 Digitized by 
 
 the Internet Archive 
 
 
 
 
 in 2013 
 
 
 
 http://archive.org/details/unholywishothersOOwood_0 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TRR 
 
 TTNHOT.Y WISH 
 
 
 1 
 
 TRF 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTHi: 
 T 
 
 X. 
 
 Verner Eaby 
 
 
 49 
 
 Tf 
 XI. 
 
 Dreams op Fame 
 
 
 5o 
 
 TTT 
 111. 
 
 Maria Saxonbury 
 
 
 
 1 V . 
 
 The Blow telling Ho.me 
 
 
 
 V. 
 
 KiVALS AT Saxonbury ... ... 
 
 
 76 
 
 vr. 
 
 The Voyage of the "Rushing Watkr*' ... 
 
 
 . 81 
 
 YIL 
 
 A Lost Boy 
 
 
 95 
 
 YIII. 
 
 The Return op thio "Rushing Water" .. 
 
 
 . 98 
 
 IX. 
 
 Alnwick Cottage 
 
 
 10* 
 
 X. 
 
 Jealous Doubts .. ... 
 
 
 113 
 
 XL 
 
 Lost in a Fog 
 
 
 121 
 
 XIL 
 
 A Premature Disclosure 
 
 
 . 127 
 
 XIIL 
 
 The Gardener's Word against the Gentleman^'s 
 
 134 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Awful Dread ... ... ... 
 
 
 . 139 
 
 XV. 
 
 The Double Inquest 
 
 
 150 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Fever ... 
 
 
 . 155 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Conclusion ... 
 
 
 160 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 PACK 
 
 CHAFTKIi 
 
 L Love ... ... ... ... ... 
 
 IL The Prediction ... ... ... ... 191 
 
 THE BRILLIANT KEEPER 2ii) 
 
 TWO MARRIAGES 237 
 
 THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY 28.5 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY 331 
 
 THE PARSON'S OATH 375 
 
 A MESMERIST OF THE YEARS GONE BY 40i 
 
 A SOLDIER'S CAREER 425 
 
THE UJS^HOLY WISH. 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 I. 
 
 It had been a lovely day for the season — October : and the 
 slanting beams of the evening sun fell on one of our fair 
 English scenes. The pretty village of Ebury, with its long 
 straggling street, lay in a hollow ; its church and graveyard 
 flanking it at one end, a large white villa standing at the 
 other. Beyond and around extended a goodly landscaj^e ; 
 woods and dales, smiling green plains and rippling streams, 
 fields from which the grain had been carried ; farmhouses 
 dotted about, with a goodly mansion here and there ; while 
 almost at hand, a mile off, say, rose the chimneys and walls 
 of Ebury Hall, the residence of Squire Hard wick. 
 
 Leaning over the small iron gate that gave admittance to 
 the lawn and flower-beds in front of the white villa, was a 
 girl in the sweet springtime of early womanhood — Miss 
 Emily Bell. The setting sun shone upon her, lighting up 
 her face and the becoming simplicity of the dress she were, 
 a summer muslin sprigged with pink— for the days of 
 monstrosities in the shape of attire had not come in by many 
 a year. 
 
 About twelve months before, this house, empty then and 
 to be let on lease, had been taken by a stranger from London, 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 1 
 
2 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH, 
 
 a Mr. Bell. Of course Ebury, being one of our aristocratic 
 country places, at once began to question who and wliat Mr. 
 Bell was, or had been. It was soon known that he had been 
 a member of the Stock Exchange, and had made his fortune. 
 
 Ebury idlers flocked to call upon the family at the white 
 villa. They found Mr. Bell a companionable, intelligent man, 
 Mrs. Bell a quiet, delicate woman, and Miss Emily, the eldest 
 of six children, a very charming girl. Mr. Bell went up to 
 London for two days every week, to attend the meetings of a 
 bank of which he had become director, which left Miss 
 Emily more at liberty to follow her own devices, as regarded 
 flirtations with her various admirers. 
 
 Lingering at the gate this evening, her eyes went roving 
 down the short avenue to the high-road that crossed it, as 
 though looking for anything that might pass along. She 
 liad not long to wait. There loomed slowly into view the 
 large, high phaeton of Squire Hardwick, the squire driving, 
 a gentle, pleasing girl beside him, his only daughter, 
 and a groom in the handsome Hardwick livery attending 
 them. The squire had drawn up his horses to a walking 
 pace, the better to talk to a young man whom he had over- 
 taken in the road. This was James Ailsa, a slender, gentle- 
 manly, honest-hearted young doctor of four-and-twenty years, 
 who had come to Ebury some months before temporarily to 
 assist Mr. Winnington. Emily Bell, watching them go by, 
 did not seem to like the sight. 
 
 " What a shame ! " she cried. " She's always talking to 
 him ! " 
 
 Emily," called out a voice at this moment, that of her 
 sister Margaret, from one of the windows, " do you not know 
 we are at tea ? Mamma says you are to come in at once.'' 
 And, when the very last lingering sound of the phaeton 
 wheels had died away, Emily Bell turned from the gate and 
 crossed the lawn to obey. 
 
 She was certainly a wondrously pretty girl — and she 
 knew it — with her brown glossy hair, the damask colour of 
 her cheeks, and her laughing eyes, dark as an April violet. 
 As to her figure it was for ever being compared to all things 
 that were light and beautiful, a sylph and the Venus de' 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 3 
 
 Medici ; but to those who had reaUy seen Medici's goddess, 
 the former comparison appeared by far the more suitable. 
 
 But what a flirt was she ! — and how greedy of admiration ! 
 How many lovers had she drawn into her net only since she 
 had come to Ebury ? First, there was Mr. Grey, a hand- 
 some young fellow who came down for the shooting season ; 
 next followed young Campbell, an out-and-out flirt himself ; 
 then came the sentimental walks with that tall college man, 
 who was reading with the Eeverend Mr. Tuck's curate — 
 much reading he did ! no wonder he got plucked in his 
 Little Go ; and now for some time past it had been James 
 Ailsa. And all these without reckoning Tom Hardwick, 
 who had been her admirer, in an off-hand manner, all along. 
 
 It was a great pity James Ailsa fell so madly in love with 
 her. He was told to beware of her blandishments, and how 
 she would probably serve him ; how many she had already 
 loved, or professed to love ; and then thrown them coolly off. 
 But the warning came too late. Besides, he did not believe 
 it : to him she seemed an angel upon earth, and he could 
 not credit aught against her. In face and manner and 
 speech she was one of those sweetly innocent girls who take 
 men's hearts by storm. There are such girls, as their 
 victims know to their cost. No, he w^ould believe nothing. 
 So the young doctor was left to his fate, and to the seduc- 
 tions of Miss Bell. 
 
 It could have been only for amusement that Emily began 
 the flirtation : he was a quiet, retiring man, attractive in 
 person and manners ; but as to anything serious, his position, 
 with her high notions, would forbid that — a surgeon's 
 assistant, and without prospects. It was understood that he 
 had no money, and was quite friendless ; so many of those 
 who had money, and influential friends also, rather slighted 
 him, Tom Hardwick for one. 
 
 Mr. Tom Hardwick — the name was pronounced Hardick, 
 and some people wrote it so — was the second son of the 
 squire, and had a fortune in his own right. He was the 
 fashion at Ebury ; the village beholding with indescribable 
 admiration his daring feats and scrapes, his lavish expendi- 
 ture of money, his blood horses, his scarlet hunting-coats. 
 
4 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 His time was passed in fox-liunting, steeplecliasing, liorse- 
 racing, clog-figliting, boating, shooting, and so on: and, 
 although Miss Emily Bell chose to favour him, she was not 
 in love with him. But, wanting good birth herself, she 
 looked up to the house of Hard wick, which traced its pedigree 
 back to royalty and was connected with some of the best 
 county families, with undue reverence. Hence chiefly arose 
 her patronage of Mr. Tom ; and never better pleased was she 
 than when strolling through the village with that gentleman 
 talking nonsense at her side, the village rustics bowing and 
 curtseying to him at every step : marks of respect which Mr. 
 Tom would carelessly acknowledge or wholly neglect, 
 according to the leisure his gallant speeches to Emily 
 allowed him. 
 
 The morning following the evening above spoken of, Emily 
 Bell left the breakfast-table and retired to her own chamber, 
 fastening the door after her. She then unlocked a small 
 cabinet, w^hich formed the middle of a low, old-fashioned 
 w^alnut-tree set of drawers, and drew forth a bundle of 
 letters. They were from James Ailsa. Other packets were 
 there, tied up with blue, pink, or yellow ribbon, and were 
 the epistles of former lovers, but those Emily did not 
 disturb. She opened three or four of James Ailsa's, glancing 
 at their contents here and there : and we may do so with 
 her. She was fond of reading over his letters, they spoke 
 of passion so true and deep. Probably she cared for the 
 waiter more than she admitted to herself. 
 
 " Oh, thank, thank you ! to the last hour of my life will 
 I thank you : whatever may be the fate of my love, and 
 w^hether it shall hereafter be accepted or rejected, still will 
 I thank and bless you. Your little note has relieved me 
 from suspense almost intolerable. A thousand fears were 
 in my heart ; a dread, almost as of death, was on my soul, 
 that you might indignantly spurn me, and fling back my 
 letter with scorn. 
 
 " Do you remember, Emily, that morning a few weeks ago, 
 when we were walking together on the Brenton Eoad, and 
 our conversation turned on the subject of love? Do you 
 recollect how confused I became, breaking off in the middle 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 5 
 
 of a sentence, and that after an interval of silence I dropped 
 the topic for another? Can you guess the cause of that 
 embarrassment ? — did you guess it then ? That my passion 
 for you was so great I could not speak on the subject of 
 love to you without the most painful agitation — without 
 betraying more than I then dared." 
 This is an extract from another : — 
 
 " Oh, Emily, dearest Emily, how can I support the 
 rapture which has throbbed within me since last night? 
 You confessed I was not indifferent to you — your head for 
 a few moments was pillowed on my bosom— those kisses 
 which I snatched still seem to linger on my lips. I did 
 not attempt to go to rest ; it would have been useless ; I sat 
 in my room and watched the stars till morning. I lived over 
 and over again our interview. I dared to conjure up visions 
 of the future, our future. 1 pressed my hands to my temples, 
 and asked if this taste of paradise were not a dream. I ask 
 it still. I repeat to myself, 'She loves, she loves me!' 
 Ought not our lives to be one continued breath of thanks- 
 giving to Heaven for having given us the power to taste on 
 earth such all-perfect bliss ? " 
 
 Here follows another : — 
 
 " Why, my love, do you mention forebodings so gloomy ? 
 — Why should we separate ? It is true my j^osition now is 
 not such as would warrant my demanding you of your father ; 
 but, Emily, hnoiv you not loliat such love as mine can dare to 
 plan and effect ? Eely upon it, though we see not the means 
 yet, my fate in life shall not be an obscure one — it shall be 
 such as to justify my asking you to share it." 
 
 Then this :— 
 
 " Emily, Emily, I am tortured nearly to madness. You 
 tell me you do not like Hardwick : then why show him these 
 marks of favour ? Last night, when we left, I was close to 
 you ; my arm was ready ; yet you passed me and took Lis. 
 It cannot be that you did not see me : or if you did not see 
 me, you do not love. I look for you : I see but you ; at a 
 distance, before another's eyes could possibly distinguish 
 your form, my heart tells me it is you. Oh, Emily, if your 
 love were but a tithe of what mine is, you could not so act." 
 
6 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 And tliis extract is from the last letter slie liad received 
 from liim : — 
 
 " Forgive, forgive me, my only love. I did not mean to 
 reproach yon : I will believe, Emily, I am too exacting. I 
 will believe, no one knows hovf willingly, that your heart is 
 wholly mine. But if yon knew how I love, what I suffer 
 for you, you would not wonder that I cannot bear even the 
 semblance of an attachment to another." 
 
 Emily sat contemplating the characters of this last letter, 
 and a smile and a blush stole over her face. Were they the 
 tokens of love, or only of triumphant vanity ? 
 
 Presently she reached her writing materials, and began a 
 note to Ailsa, " My dearest James." Whilst thus occupied, 
 some one tried the door of the room, and, finding it fastened, 
 knocked loudly against it. Emily scuffled all signs of her 
 employment away. 
 
 " What do you want novv^ ? " she pettishly asked, admitting 
 her sister, vexed at being interrupted. 
 
 " What do I want ! " repeated Margaret, resenting the 
 question. " The room is as much mine as it is yours ; I 
 may come into it when I please. Look here, Emily ; Tom 
 Hard wick is downstairs. He has brought an invitation 
 from Mary for us to join them in a picnic to-day ; they have 
 visitors at the Hall, and are at a loss for amusement." 
 
 " That is not Hardwick's voice ! " exclaimed Emily, 
 listening. 
 
 "That is James Ailsa's. Tom Hardwick is in the draw- 
 ing-room with mamma," answered Margaret. " Ailsa has 
 come up to see baby. Mind you don't tell Mm about the 
 picnic, Emily, or we shall have him pushing himself into it." 
 
 " You are more likely to tell him than I am," cried Emily, 
 as she ran downstairs. 
 
 Mr. Ailsa was in the hall. His pale, sweet-tempered 
 countenance lighted up as he advanced to greet Emily. 
 
 " James," she whispered, as he threw his arm round her 
 for a momentary embrace, while they were yet alone, " do 
 you know anything of the party they are planning for 
 to-day ? " 
 
 " What party, my love ? " 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 7 
 
 Some picnic of Mary Hard wick's. WiU you come to it ? " 
 " I have no invitation." 
 
 " Nonsense about an invitation. It is in the open air, you 
 know, and you can join us as if by accident. James, you 
 must come." 
 
 " I win brave all for you, Emily," was liis answer. " Tliey 
 have caUed me an intruder — a thruster forward of myself. 
 No matter ; the comments and ill-natured remarks of the 
 world fall on my heart as the idle wind whilst I have the 
 consciousness of your love to make its sunshine." 
 
 II. 
 
 " I DO believe that is James Ailsa coming along ! " exclaimed 
 Miss Margaret Bell, as the merry party were gathered a-la- 
 gipsy on the outskirts of Beech Wood. " Who can have told 
 him we were here ? " 
 
 " Oh, he ferrets out our plans himself," retorted Tom 
 Hardwick ; " he has the deuce's luck and his own too at that 
 underhand fun. Treat him with the contempt he deserves, 
 all of you, and don't speak to him ; do you hear, Mary ? " 
 
 Mary Hardwick heard, but she possessed too much good 
 feeling and sense to heed her brother's counsels. James 
 Ailsa was a thorough gentleman, except perhaps in pocket, 
 and that he w^as not so regarded by every one was only owing 
 to Mr. Tom Hardwick's incessant ridicule and abuse of him. 
 Tom Hardwick was as inferior to Ailsa as one man can well 
 be to another ; but people are ever ready to take part with 
 the great and powerful, and Mr. Tom Hardwick held sway 
 at Ebury. 
 
 Ailsa came up, and, after greeting the circle, was invited 
 by Miss Hardwick, somewdiat timidly, to sit down and join 
 them. 
 
 "Enjoying a stroll in the vv^oods this fine day, and so 
 popped upon us unawares ? " broke in Tom Hardwick, in a 
 sarcastic tone. 
 
 " I am on my way to pay a visit to Mrs. Hudson," answered 
 Ailsa. And he spoke truth. 
 
8 
 
 THE UNPIOLY WISH. 
 
 " Then you have come a precious deal out of your way/* 
 retorted Hard wick, coarsely. "It is nearer to go by the 
 road." 
 
 " I was going by the road," returned Ailsa, " but crossed 
 the field on seeing you here." 
 
 He looked at Emily, seeking for a glance to recompense 
 him for the painful position to which, for her sake, he had 
 subjected himself, sensitive and unobtrusive as he was by 
 nature ; but he looked in vain. The ban was on him — he 
 was a despised man ; and Emily — proud, vain, and little- 
 minded— followed the example around her, and noticed him 
 not. Miss Hardwick felt deeply for his situation, and she 
 talked to him pleasantly and offered him cake and wine — 
 w^hich he declined. Presently he rose from his seat to 
 pursue his way. Mary Hardwick asked him if he would 
 come to the Hall in the evening ; they should probably be 
 having a little dance. He thanked her, and accepted. 
 
 The others were leaving their places to disperse about 
 the wood. 
 
 " Emily must have told him we should be here," exclaimed 
 Margaret Bell to Tom Hardwick, who was standing with 
 his back against a tree, " for as to his seeing us from the 
 road, it's all stuff." 
 
 "A lie," uttered Mr. Tom, politely. "If he had ten 
 telescopes, and set 'em all up in a line, he could not see over 
 to Beech Wood." 
 
 "Emily pretends to dislike and despise him, but I 
 saw " 
 
 " As to my sister Mary, she's turning daft, I think — 
 encouraging the fellow as she does." 
 
 " I saw him kiss Emily the other day, and slip a letter into 
 her hand," continued Margaret, unheeding the interruption. 
 
 " You had better take care what you say," exclaimed Tom 
 Hardwick, growing very red in the face. 
 
 " It is truth," answered the young lady. " I was peeping 
 at them through the greenhouse window." 
 
 " Does he often write to her ? Does she write to him ? " 
 asked Tom, quite purple with rage. 
 
 " I can't tsU whether she writes to him," said Margaret, 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 9 
 
 " but she is always locking herself in our bedroom, and two 
 or three times I have looked through the keyhole, and seen 
 her scuffling the ink away. Don't yon tell her I said this." 
 
 " Oh, bother ! " answered the gallant gentleman, " I'll 
 have it all out at once, one way or the other. Where is she 
 now?" 
 
 When James Ailsa left, he struck through the wood 
 path, his nearest way then, to Mrs. Hudson's house. But 
 scarcely had he gone many steps when Emily stole after him, 
 and called him, softly, by name. He turned and met her. 
 
 " James," she whispered, " are you going to stay with us ? " 
 
 " Am I going to stay I " he replied, laying a painful stress 
 upon every word. " Emily, if your heart can truly say that 
 it wishes me to do so, I will ; and bear in silence." 
 
 " Dear, dear James," she said, tears rising to her eyes, 
 " w^hy do you speak to me in so cold a tone — why do you 
 look so reproachfully at me ? " 
 
 " Have I not cause ? " he rejoined, painfully excited ; but 
 even then he gave way to his enduring love, and clasped her 
 hands tenderly in his. 
 
 " Why do you permit Hardwick to appear on these most 
 familiar terms with you ? " he remonstrated. " To all but 
 me he must be looked upon as your lover." 
 
 "James," she said earnestly, raising her head from his 
 shoulder, where it had been lying, " indeed you need not be 
 jealous of him. I have no love for Tom Hardwick ; I have 
 scarcely any liking for him. Believe me, dear, dear James." 
 
 He did not answer ; but he pressed his burning forehead 
 upon hers. She felt its throbbing. 
 
 At this moment the voice of Mr. Tom Hardwick was 
 heard. Emily started from her lover ; and, pressing his 
 hand in token of farewell, stole silently away amongst the 
 trees. 
 
 " Who is that in the wood, Emily ? " exclaimed Tom 
 Hard\Vick, as she emerged from it. "I heard voices." 
 
 The wind, perhaps," returned Emily, carelessly. Or — I 
 was humming a tune to myself ; you may have heard that." 
 
 "Don't trouble yourself with any more falsehoods," re- 
 joined Hardwick, dashing into the subject without ceremony ; 
 
10 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 you were talking with that presuming fool, Ailsa. And 
 as I don't mean to stand this nonsense about him any longer, 
 I shall acquaint Mr. Bell with the fact that you and he have 
 been writing love-letters to each other." 
 
 " Oh, for Heaven's sake, say nothing to my father ! " cried 
 Emily, well-nigh startled out of her senses. 
 
 •'I am glad you have the grace not to deny it," inter- 
 rupted Hard wick sullenly. 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes," exclaimed the agitated girl, striving to 
 repair the imlucky admission she had made : " I do deny 
 it." 
 
 " Emily, I will not be trifled with, so you may spare your- 
 self the attempt. You shall either promise to be mine, and 
 keep to it, or I will give you up at once." 
 
 This v/as the nearest approach to an offer Emily had ever 
 received from Mr. Tom Hardwick, and she felt somewhat 
 overpowered with bewildering sensations. On the one hand 
 was James Ailsa, with his steadfast love, which she knew 
 would shield her from every harm in life ; on the other was 
 the tempting prospect of becoming a daughter-in-law of the 
 lofty old squire ; and this last was irresistible to her aspiring 
 heart. 
 
 " It shall be one of us, not both," resumed Hardwick, who 
 was in an ill-humour, and a very resolute one : and little did 
 Emily guess that he had no intention whatever of marrying 
 her or any one else ; for he could not afford it. " And here 
 I swear," continued he, " that if you ever again attempt to 
 speak to that beggar, Ailsa, I will take no further notice of 
 you whatever : if we meet in the streets, I'll pass you ; should 
 you call at my father's house, I will go out of it whilst you 
 are there." 
 
 " Oh, Tom, why do you put yourself into this dreadful 
 passion ? I declare to you that I hate James Ailsa." 
 
 " Then you will deliver up his letters to Mr. Bell." 
 
 " For the love of goodness, don't mention the subject to 
 papa," she implored ; " he is so strict with us. He has 
 written me one or two nonsensical letters, I won't deny it. 
 I will give them up to you, Tom, if you will not tell papa. 
 But you won't read them ? " 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 11 
 
 " Not I. I'll make them into a i^acket, and dasli it into 
 Ailsa's face." 
 
 " Don't talk so wildly, Tom : you know Ailsa is no coward. 
 If you w^ant to get up a quarrel, I will have nothing more 
 to say to you, any more than to him ; and I will keep the 
 letters." 
 
 "Well, well, Emily, I'll promise you to let the beggar 
 alone ; and he shall know nothing about the letters. I shall 
 come for them to-morrow morning, mind." 
 
 " Very well," said Emily, deep in thought. 
 
 " There's my darling girl," he added, stooping to salute 
 her cheek ; " and when I can afford to marry, you shall be 
 my wife." 
 
 Emily made no reply to this exceedingly gracious promise. 
 She was thinking what excuse she could make about the 
 letters, for as to giving them up to him, that she was deter- 
 mined never to do. " Who in the world can have told him 
 that we correspond ? " she soliloquized. " If it should come 
 to be known in Ebury, I think I shall go mad — every one 
 so despises Ailsa. If Tom Hardwick had sent me love- 
 letters now, I should not care who knew it : they might take 
 and publish them in the newspapers if they liked." 
 
 The carpet-dance took place that evening at the Hall ; 
 but James Ailsa did not appear at it. He v\^as some miles 
 away, attending ujion one of Mr. Winnington's patients. 
 With the morning, Mr. Tom Hardwick arrived at the Avhite 
 villa, according to his promise. Emily met him on the 
 lawn. 
 
 " Oh, is it you ? " she exclaimed, as if surprised. 
 " 1 said I should be here early," he answered. " I have 
 come for the letters." 
 
 " The letters ! — oh, I have destroyed them." 
 " You have done ivliat ? " he asked. 
 
 " I feared you might send them to Ailsa, as you threatened," 
 she said, " so I thought it safer to burn them." 
 
 " It is a lie ! " exclaimed Hardwick, angered out of his 
 good manners. " Emily, I am not to be done in this way. 
 Give me the letters, or, by my honour, I will go straight to 
 your father." 
 
12 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 1 liave destroyed them,'* she replied treinhlingly. " I 
 thought it the wisest and safest plan. It is of no use being 
 angry, the thing is done. But for the future, Tom, you may 
 trust me, for may I never stir from here if I don't hate James 
 Ailsa ; and I'll never speak to him again." 
 
 What further romancing might have been indulged in by 
 Emily was cut short by her mother's calling to her ; so she 
 ran in, leaving Mr. Tom Hard wick standing where he was, 
 
 " Will you walk in ? " called out Mrs. Bell to him. 
 
 " No, I thank you," he answered sullenly. 
 
 And, turning away, he had not left the gates many minutes 
 when he encountered Mr. Bell. 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Tom. All well at home, I hope." 
 
 " 1 was coming in search of you, sir," said Hardwick, 
 speaking in a very excited manner, and taking no notice of 
 Mr. Bell's salutation. " An unpleasant matter has come to 
 my knowledge, which I think you ought to be made ac- 
 quainted with. That upstart, penniless fellow, Ailsa, has 
 taken upon himself to make love to your daughter, and, 
 unless a check is administered to him, he may be drawing 
 her into a mess ; a promise to marry him, or some such 
 madness. Girls are such simpletons." 
 
 " My daughter ? — Emily ? " cried the astonished man. 
 
 " Emily, of course. He has been sending her love-letters. 
 She has a whole heap of them, I dare say." 
 
 " Take care what you do say, sir," advised Mr. Bell. 
 
 " Oh, it is quite correct, I assure you, sir. I thought I 
 would give you a hint of what was going on," continued the 
 friendly Tom, " and do as I would be done by. If it were 
 my sister, for instance, I should hold myself under eternal 
 obligations to the man who had enlightened me. There's no 
 harm in love-letters, of course, wlien they come from the 
 
 right man. But Ailsa is just " 
 
 " Thanks, thanks, my dear Mr. Hardwick," exclaimed Mr. 
 Bell, wringing his hand, and tearing indoors at a great rate, 
 too much excited to listen further. 
 
 Emily was in her bedroom, having taken refuge there 
 until Tom Hardwick should be safely gone. When she saw 
 her father enter, instinct told her that something was wrong. 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH, 
 
 13 
 
 SliuttiBg the door, he, in a voice that spoke of suppressed 
 passion, asked for the letters which she had received from 
 James Ailsa. 
 
 The startled girl stood transfixed before him : every vestige 
 of colour forsook her countenance ; the sickness of terror 
 flew to her heart. 
 
 " Do you hear me, disgraceful girl ? " resumed Mr. Bell, 
 who was very strict with his daughters, and had believed 
 them to be models of good behaviour. " Give me the letters 
 without trouble, or I will o-pen your places and search for 
 them myself." 
 
 It was too stern a moment for equivocation. Emily 
 faltered out that they were there, and pointed with her hand 
 to the cabinet in the chest of drawers. It was safely locked. 
 
 " Produce them." 
 
 She stood still as a post. 
 
 " Produce them," repeated her father. 
 
 She shivered and trembled, holding the back of a chair 
 for support ; but she opened the cabinet, and took out the 
 letters. Above them lay the epistle she had begun to Ailsa 
 the previous morning, and had thrust away in her haste 
 when interrupted by her sister. It of course came forth 
 with the others, but Emily, hoping she was not observed, 
 pushed it back. 
 
 " What paper is that ? " cried Mr. Bell. " What are you 
 trying to put back ? " 
 
 She faltered out something about " some poetry." 
 
 " Give it to me with the rest, Emily ; how dare you 
 attempt to trifle with me ? You may have your poetry again 
 when I have looked at it — if it is poetry." 
 
 He took it, with the letters, from her hand, and the first 
 words that caught his gaze were, " My dearest James." Two 
 or three lines of little import followed — the cream of Emily's 
 letters was seldom at the beginning. Mr. Bell tore the 
 paper into the smallest particles, and with a glance of un- 
 utterable rage at Emily, advanced to the window and 
 scattered them to the winds. 
 
 " Are these all ? " he demanded, pointing to the packet of 
 letters which he held in his hand. 
 
14 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 " Yes ; aH," faltered Emily. 
 02)en the cabinet again, that I may see for myself," 
 returned Mr. Bell. " I cannot trust you." 
 
 " Papa," she cried, clasping her hands in terror, lest he 
 should execute his threat, and so find that Mr. James Ailsa 
 had not been her first correspondent in the love-letter line, 
 
 on my word, on my honour, they are all. I never received 
 so much as a sentence or a scrap of j)aper from him besides. 
 The letters themselves will prove that they are all." 
 
 It was impossible to doubt that she spoke the truth, and 
 Mr. Bell stalked out of the room with the letters in his 
 hand. Emily sank into a chair and sobbed aloud. 
 
 Somehow or other, all this gossip went forth to the public, 
 and with innumerable exaggerations. Also the account of 
 Mr. Bell's stormy interview with James Ailsa, when the 
 latter was compelled to give up Emily's letters to him, in 
 the midst of some contemptuous taunts at a paltry, penniless 
 surgeon's assistant presuming to think of Miss Emily Bell. 
 That James Ailsa, sensitive and shrinking, did not repose 
 just then upon a bed of roses may be easily understood. 
 
 The next news Ebury heard was that Ailsa — but there's 
 something to relate first. 
 
 It was one of the most wretched nights that November* 
 ever turned out —cold, rainy, and boisterous. A light shone 
 in the curtained windov/ of Emily Bell's chamber; she 
 herself was there, wretched as the weather, having been 
 ordered, ever since the explosion, to keep within it. This 
 w\as a severe punishment for Emily, whose whole existence 
 lay in the exercise of her flirting talents. She was sitting 
 dull enough, in a low rocking-chair, which she had fetched 
 out of the nursery, swaying herself backwards and forwards, 
 wishing bedtime had come, when Margaret would be up, or 
 that the term of her punishment v/as at an end, when a 
 rattling at the window, as of gravel throAvn at it, made her 
 start from her chair. A few moments, and the summons 
 was repeated, so she softly opened the window. 
 
 " It is James Ailsa," whispered her heart. He drew close 
 under the window, and asked her to come down to him for a 
 few moments. 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 15 
 
 " What a request, James ! " 
 
 " It is the last I shall have to make you/' he said. " I 
 am going away for ever." 
 " You are joking." 
 
 "The last few days have been no joke for me," he 
 answered, " or such as to incline me to joking. I repeat to 
 you, Emily, that I am going ; and it may be that this is our 
 last meeting on earth." 
 
 She left the window, and, stealing down the stairs, ran 
 out at a back-door, and so round the house until she came in 
 sight of James. He drew her underneath some trees, where 
 they were shielded from observation, and partially so from 
 the pouring rain. 
 
 " James," she said, " I am doing very wrong in thus 
 coming down to you, because you know our intimacy is at 
 an end." 
 
 " I do know it," he replied bitterly, " and it is not for the 
 purpose of clandestinely inducing you to renew it, or to act 
 contrary to the wish of your parents, that I am here." 
 
 Emily, arrant flirt that she was, felt rather disappointed, 
 for she had fancied Mr. James's nocturnal visit liad that 
 tendency, and would have experienced much gratification in 
 refusing the boon; or to speak more correctly, in being 
 asked it. 
 
 " Hear me," said Ailsa. " I have loved you, Emily, with 
 no common love : few have loved another in this world as I 
 love you. If you possess the same affection for me, any fate 
 will be more tolerable to you than hopeless separation ; and 
 the very thought of marrying another must be hateful to 
 you. Now listen. I would not fetter you by word or deed ; 
 but if your heart will whisper one hope to me, I shall go 
 forth a different man : life will be as bright to me as all is 
 now dark." 
 
 "^I do not understand you," replied Emily. "We are 
 separated, therefore what hope can I give you ? " 
 
 " The hope that when my efforts have been crowned with 
 success; when I shall have acquired fame, fortune, that 
 even you might be proud to share, I may return and woo 
 you." 
 
16 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 " It is so long to look forward to ! " was lier answer, 
 delivered in a grumbling tone. 
 
 " That is sufficient," returned Ailsa sadly. " It lias con- 
 vinced me of what I feared." And, had the light permitted, 
 Emily might have seen the despair that stole to his 
 countenance ; but she could not have seen it, in all its 
 bitter sickness, as it then and there seated itself upon his 
 heart. " Had you put the question to me," he continued, 
 and required me to wait until our hairs were grey, and our 
 steps feeble, I should have knelt and blessed you. Did you 
 love as I love, this request of mine would have made a 
 heaven of your days ; it would have held forth a hope to 
 cheer the whole of existence." 
 
 "But what would papa say? He " 
 
 "I think you do not quite understand me," interrupted 
 Ailsa, in the same tone of sadness, which indeed characterized 
 his conversation and manner through the entire interview : 
 " I said I would not fetter you — I would not encourage an 
 act rebellious to your parents. But the secret feelings of 
 the heart cannot be controlled or hindered, even at the 
 command of those we are bound to obey, and I knew that if 
 
 your misery were what mine is — in thus speaking to you 
 
 No matter." 
 
 He stopped ; he was greatly agitated. 
 
 " You take things too much to heart, James." 
 
 "I will not do so in future," he exclaimed, almost 
 vehemently. " In the years to come, I will struggle with 
 all my dearest feelings, and uproot them, one by one. I 
 must struggle to uproot your image, Emily, which has 
 entwined itself round my very heartstrings. Heaven knows 
 it will be a bitter task." 
 
 " But if I were to give you this promise " 
 
 " I did not ask for a promise," he interrupted. 
 
 " Well, this hope then : it would be of little use ; it is 
 not like a regular engagement." 
 
 " It is too late — I do not ask it now," he hastily answered, 
 for it would be valueless, unless precious to you as to me. 
 I thought perhaps it might have been so ; against my fears 
 and my better judgaicnt I thought so." 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 17 
 
 "I fancy, James, these dreams of yours, about fame and 
 fortune, are very cliimerical," was her next remark. 
 
 "They may prove so now," he answered, "wanting the 
 spur that would have urged them on to realisation." 
 
 " I am sure I wish I could see you rise to — to — to be 
 Physician to the Queen." 
 
 " I have now only to take my leave of you," he said, 
 leaving her wild, and perhaps not very sincere, thought 
 unanswered. 
 
 " But why do you go away, James, in this hasty manner ? 
 Where do you propose going ? " 
 
 " Anywhere. I have no plans. No matter what part of 
 the globe I am in, so that it be not Ebury. i — I — heard 
 a rumour to-day — I heard the same yesterday," he continued, 
 jerking his sentences out, as if in too much agitation to 
 speak in even periods : " that I am given up for Mr. Tom 
 Hardwick." 
 
 " It is not true," she exclaimed fiercely ; but Ailsa shook 
 his head. 
 
 " Why did Tom Hardwick interfere between us, Emily ? 
 — why should he, of all people, make it his business to seek 
 your father, and tell him that I loved you ? And you, why 
 should you have promised to give up my letters to him ? " 
 
 " Who told you that ? " cried Emily, her face in a glow. 
 
 " I gathered it from his own foolish boasting ; from the 
 unjustifiable remarks he made in the presence of your 
 father, for the few minutes that during our interview he was 
 present. They had might on their side ; while I " 
 
 "No one ever believes half Tom Hardwick says," she 
 stammered. "And I declare to you, James, that I hate the 
 sight of him." 
 
 " You are flattered by his attentions because his family is 
 good and he holds some sway in the neighbourhood," 
 resumed Ailsa ; " but these recommendations are only 
 negative. They will not compensate for qualities that he 
 lacks ; and beware, Emily, lest in looking after the shadow 
 you lose the substance." 
 
 "You need not give me this advice, James; I tell you 
 Tom Hardwick is nothing to me." 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 2 
 
18 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 "Farewell, Emily," lie murmured, wringing lier liands. 
 " You know not the value of the heart you have rejected ; 
 the spirit you have broken. Be assured that few men love 
 as I have loved. I would have guarded you in my bosom ; 
 shielded you from harm; warded you from unhappiness. 
 May the husband you shall choose cherish you as I would 
 have done. Farewell." 
 
 She burst into tears, and laid her head upon his shoulder, 
 as formerly. But the passionate embrace that w^ould once 
 have rewarded her was withheld now — with violence to his 
 own feelings, but still withheld. He knew now that she 
 did not love him ; at least with a love worthy to mate with 
 such as his. 
 
 " Farewell, Emily," he repeated, as he raised her gently, 
 w^hen the paroxysm of her emotion was over; and, with 
 another wring of the hand, he was gone. 
 
 As James Ailsa gained the road from the short avenue he 
 came upon Miss Hardwick. Attended by a servant, she was 
 on her way to spend the evening with some friends. She 
 stopped when she saw him. 
 
 " Is this true, Mr. Ailsa ? " she asked, in her soft, gentle 
 voice — " that you are quitting Ebury ? " 
 Quite true," he answered. 
 
 " But why ? " 
 
 " Ebury has not treated me altogether well on the whole," 
 he answered, after a pause. " I do not care to remain in it." 
 " We shall be sorry." 
 
 " No, no ; not any one will be sorry for me. At least, 
 scarcely any one. Let me say ' good-bye ' to you now, dear 
 Miss Hardwick, and thank you — thank you — for all the 
 considerate kindness that you have ever shown me." 
 
 Tears filled Mary Hardwick's eyes ; it was dark, and he 
 did not see them. And, their hands lingering together in 
 a warm pressure, they parted. 
 
 James Ailsa, scarcely conscious of what he vv^as about, 
 turned into the plantation that flanked one side of Mr. Bell's 
 house, dwelling upon his recent parting with Emily. His 
 misery was great ; far greater than they can form any idea 
 of who have not gone through a similar ordeal. In the full 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 19 
 
 sunsliine of his love, lie had once thanked Heaven for bestow- 
 ing upon us the power to taste of such unutterable bliss ; he 
 might now be grateful for the strength that enables us to 
 support and survive its contrast. 
 
 The events of the last few days had been a severe trial to 
 him, but what were they compared with that night's inter- 
 view, vfhen the conviction that she had never loved him 
 forced itself upon his soul ? He pressed his brow upon the 
 rough bark of the trees ; he walked hither and thither with- 
 out aim ; the weather was uncared for in his agony of mind ; 
 the hours also elapsed unheeded. But at length he was 
 drenched to the skin, and began slov/Iy to make his way 
 home. The church clock was striking twelve as he reached 
 Mr. Winnington's door. 
 
 He had forgotten his latch-key, and knocked gently, but 
 the knock was unanswered ; and in looking u]^ at the house, 
 no light was to be seen : the curtains were drawn closely 
 before the windows, and total silence prevailed. Everything 
 seemed to intimate that the family and servants were in bed ; 
 and he, unwilling to disturb them, and caring little, in his 
 present frame of mind, what became of him, retraced his 
 steps and walked about until morning. Soon after twelve 
 o'clock the rain had ceased, but the wind continued boister- 
 ously high. His frame shivered and shook with cold, but 
 it remained uncared for. 
 
 It was about half-past seven in the morning when he again 
 waited at the door of the surgeon's house, which stood in 
 the middle of the long street, and at the same moment a 
 horse was heard advancing at a brisk trot from round the 
 corner. Mechanically Ailsa turned his eyes towards the 
 sound. 
 
 It was Mr. Tom Hardwick, booted and spurred, and trimly 
 attired. He, was going to the steeplechase, full of con- 
 gratulation that the wretched night had turned out so fine 
 a morning. He sav/ James Ailsa standing there, and looked 
 full at him, but did not condescend to speak. A gesture of 
 contempt, not noticeable perhaps by one uninterested, but 
 strangely conspicuous to Ailsa, escaped him. Drawing his 
 back proudly in and his head up v>dth unsuppressed, 
 
20 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 triumph, lie averted liis eyes from his outwitted rival and 
 rode on. 
 
 James Ailsa was stung almost into madness by the haughty 
 glance and consciously triumphant bearing, and spoke pas- 
 sionate words aloud as he looked after him. 
 
 " I wish to God he may break his back ! " 
 
 Tom Hard wick, followed by his groom, continued his way 
 to the Crown and Thistle, an inn situated about two miles 
 from Ebury, and close to the ground marked out for the 
 steeplechase. Here he found some friends awaiting him, and 
 more were assembling, steeplechasers like himself, those to 
 be engaged in the day's contest having agreed to breakfast 
 there, with a select assemblage of supporters. The horses 
 had been sent on the previous day. 
 
 This steeplechase had been a long-looked-for event, not 
 only by Mr. Tom Hardwick and his sporting friends, but by 
 the neighbourhood in general. Every one had something 
 staked on the great event, from the old squire's cool thousand, 
 to Miss Emily Bell's pair of gloves. But the interest it 
 excited, above that of all other steeplechases, past or to come, 
 was caused by the dangerous nature of the ground to be run 
 over. None, save men deep in their cups, as had been the 
 case in this affair, would have been so wild as to fix upon it. 
 Five horses were to run, their owners to ride. Six men had 
 been at the convivial meeting, whence the scheme had its 
 origin, but one, young James Gaunt, had in the meantime 
 gone to London, and was now lying there dangerously ill. 
 Many a one, after surveying the ground, turned away with 
 a shrug of the shoulders, wondering if the parties were 
 already tired of life. Earl Dunnely, the old lord-lieutenant 
 of the county and father of Viscount Chiselem, came in haste 
 from one of his distant seats, to endeavour to prevail upon 
 his son to renounce the danger. But the young sporting 
 men thought it looked bravely fine to persist in their con- 
 tempt for the danger, and would listen to nobody. 
 
 Viscount Chiselem's Daylight, Honourable Charles East- 
 hope's Tartar, Mr. T. Hardwick's Fire-and-fly, Mr. Prynn's 
 Brown John, Captain Flanagan's Cut-and-come-again. Of 
 these horses, Tartar was the favourite, and most bets were 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 21 
 
 laid on him — excej)t with the ladies. They, according to 
 custom, only saw the merits of the horses through the attrac- 
 tions of their riders, and their little betting was free enough 
 upon the gentlemen favourites, these being, very generally, 
 Lord Chiselem and Mr. Tom Hard wick. Emily Bell's 
 gloves were of course red-hot upon Fire-and-fly. 
 
 III. 
 
 EvEiiY one had gone to the steej^lechase, man, woman, and 
 child ; not a soul was left at home to take care of the village, 
 which might have run away with itself without hindrance. 
 Even Miss Emily Bell, in spite of her disgrace, had been 
 conveyed thither by her parents in the hired carriage. They 
 may have deemed it safer to take her than to leave her. 
 
 One exception there was, James Ailsa ; he was in no mood 
 for steeplechases. His preparations for leaving Ebury were 
 completed ; he was in haste to depart ; but he had promised 
 Mr. Winnington to remain until the latter should return 
 from the scene of the day's sport, to which he was about to 
 drive his sister. 
 
 The gig waited at the door, and the good old surgeon, who 
 was going on for sixty years, lingered in the surgery with 
 Ailsa, expressing again, for the tenth time, his regret that 
 James should leave him. 
 
 " I know you only came to me as a temporary thing when 
 I was ill, James ; I know that. But we have got on so w^ell 
 together that I had begun to hope you would have stayed 
 with me always." 
 
 James Ailsa sighed as he answered : " Thank you for all 
 your kind thoughts, dear Mr. Winnington, but it could not 
 be. I cannot remain at Ebury." 
 
 "Are you ready, Charles?" cried little Miss Winnington, 
 putting her face, encased in its white curls, into the surgery ; 
 " we shall be late." 
 
 " Quite ready, Matty," said the doctor, cheerily ; and they 
 drove off together, 
 
22 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 The morning wore on, wearily enough to James Ailsa ; 
 but at length he saw signs of people in the distance. 
 
 They were coming back at last, not one or two stragglers 
 only, but in groups. Ailsa had been watching for them at 
 the door a long time, and he stood and watched them still. 
 A horseman clattered past, riding as if for his life. It was 
 the butler at the Hall. Following close upon him came 
 another ; and this proved to be young Chewton, the lawyer's 
 son. He saw Ailsa, and pulled up. 
 
 " Have you been there, Ailsa ? I did not see you." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " This is a horrible thing, is it not ? " 
 " Has there been any accident ? " demanded Ailsa. 
 " Oh, have you not heard ? Tom Hard wick's killed." 
 Ailsa, strong man as he was, shook in every limb. Ho 
 drew back and leaned against the door-post for support. 
 " Is he dead ? " he gasped. 
 
 " lie was not dead when I left," replied young Chewton, 
 "but they say he cannot survive the night. His bach is 
 hroJcen" 
 
 Ailsa shuddered, as if something supernatural were creep- 
 ing over him. 
 
 " Why, Ailsa, the news has startled you indeed ! You are 
 as white as a corpse." 
 There was no reply. 
 
 " One would think you were going to faint," continued Mr. 
 Chewton. " Can't you speak ? Are you insensible ? " 
 
 At that moment he was, to all outward things. ' A prayer 
 was ascending from his heart to Heaven for forgiveness for 
 the sinful wish which he had that morning uttered as Hard- 
 wick passed him, and which had been so strangely fulfilled. 
 
 " By the way, Easthope has got his arm smashed— or his 
 leg ; I forget which," resumed Chewton. 
 
 " You forget which ! 
 
 " I really do. Minor accidents are lost sight of before 
 such a calamity as Hard wick's. The poor horses, for instance 
 — nobody has cast a thought towards them. Chiselem was 
 thrown twice, and got stunned; and Flanagan was flung 
 into Briar Pond. I don't know whether he's out yet." 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 23 
 
 " But Tom Hardwick ! " uttered Ailsa, incapable of 
 listening to any other topic ; "I would sacrifice my own life 
 to save his." 
 
 " What a vain wish ! " exclaimed Chewton. " By the way, 
 have you heard that James Gaunt's dead ? " 
 " James Gaunt ! was lie there ? " 
 
 " No, no ; news came this morning to the Manor House. 
 He died in town." 
 
 " Oh, goodness me ! there never was such a steeplechase 
 before!" squeaked little Tuck, Mr. Winnington's new 
 apprentice, as he ran up. " Mamma need not have said I 
 shouldn't go, for fear I should get a liking for steeplechases. 
 I'll never go to another. It was dreadful, Mr. Ailsa. You 
 should have heard Tom Hardwick's groans. If you please, 
 sir, can they set a broken back ? " 
 
 " Not exactly," said young Chewton, answering for Ailsa, 
 as he rode away. 
 
 Master Tuck was right. There never had been such a 
 steeplechase before, at least within recollection. Lord 
 Chiselem was thrown and picked up insensible ; Mr. East- 
 hope's shoulder was dislocated, and Tom Hardwick's back 
 was broken. Two of the horses were killed, one was lamed, 
 and another had disappeared altogether. 
 
24 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 I. 
 
 It was a very considerable time after Mr. Ailsa's departure, 
 which, not having been announced previously to the general 
 public, came upon Ebury as an electric shock, ere the 
 steeplechase faded from its everyday thoughts. Indeed, it 
 left behind it consequences to last as a memorial ; rendering 
 it, to the inhabitants, a sort of national event to date from, 
 such as William of Normandy conquering England, the 
 rebellion of Cromwell, or the murder of Perceval. 
 
 To the astonishment of all, Tom Hardwick did not die. 
 He lay for many, many months in agony, and partially 
 recovered, to remain a helpless cripple. In this suffering 
 state he continued, hoping for no improvement on this side 
 the grave, to whatever period his life might be prolonged. 
 On fine days he was placed in a hand-carriage and drawn 
 about the village — the once brilliant Tom. What a change ! 
 His old friends and associates would call in at his lodgings 
 — for he had left the Hall, as will be seen — or walk by his 
 side as he was drawn about, relating all the scraps of news 
 they could pick up, to cheer his spirits. Emily Bell would 
 often join him, though without hope of flirting — all idea of 
 which for him, poor fellow, was at an end for ever. Neither 
 did Emily herself seem to pursue the amusement so 
 strenuously as before. Whether it was the sudden departure 
 of James Ailsa that affected her spirits, or the accident to 
 Tom, or that other young men were growing shy of her, 
 could not be decided, but from about the time of the steeple- 
 chase very little was seen of Emily's flirtations, 
 i Now it is very probable that what has further to be 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 25 
 
 related of James Ailsa will apj^ear too romantic to be true. 
 The reader may say it will do for fiction ; not for real life. 
 But this tale is one of real life ; as some of the actors in it, 
 living yet, could testify. All its circumstances are simple 
 facts, even to that rash and sinful wish of James Ailsa's, as 
 his rival rode past him on the morning of the steeplechase, 
 and its startling fulfilment. 
 
 Closely following upon Ailsa's departure, Mr. Winnington 
 received a certain application from Sir John Gaunt. Sir 
 John was lord of the manor of Ebury and the adjacent lands. 
 He was owner, by purchase, of no inconsiderable portion of 
 the village, the house occupied by the Bells forming part of 
 it. Sir John Gaunt was a widower, and had recently lost 
 his son James, his only child, a young man in the first bloom 
 of life. He had come of age only the year before, which 
 had been celebrated by rejoicings at their residence, the 
 Manor House — little did any one think then how soon his 
 course would be over. His name was down to ride in the 
 steeplechase, poor fellow, but he did not live to see it run. 
 Sir John had himself long been in ill-health, and the grief 
 caused by his son's death augmented his disorder. His 
 physicians ordered him to seek change of scene in travel ; 
 and the purport of his application to Mr. Winnington, who 
 was an old friend of his, was to inquire if he knew any 
 medical man who would accompany him as travelling com- 
 panion and medical attendant. 
 
 Mr. Winnington at once thought of James Ailsa ; he 
 greatly esteemed and respected him, and he knew that he 
 could most conscientiously recommend him to Sir John 
 Gaunt, as being in every way qualified for the post. The old 
 bachelor surgeon felt indignant at the treatment Ailsa had 
 received in Ebury; perhaps he saw no objection to the 
 WTiting of love-letters ; perhaps he thought the whole blame 
 lay with Miss Bell, who had certainly began the flirtation 
 herself, and had drawn Ailsa on. If he and she must have 
 been separated, argued the doctor one day to a whole con- 
 clave of village gossips, it might have been accomplished 
 kindly and quietly, without all that publicity and holding- 
 forth of Ailsa to general contempt and ridicule. Tom 
 
26 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 Hardwick's doing ? — well, perhaps so ; it was cruel enough, 
 whosesoever's doing it was. Not that he would have had 
 them marry off-hand, confident of living upon air or practice 
 to come — no such thing. But they were both young, and 
 might have imifecl. Ailsawas a clever man in his profession, 
 and had years before him. 
 
 However, Mr. Winnington spoke in Ailsa's favour to Sir 
 John Gaunt, who accepted the recommendation ; and, all 
 preliminaries being arranged, they left England together. 
 
 The steeplechase killed one person, eventually^ if not at 
 the moment. Poor old Squire Hardwick, broken-hearted at 
 the accident to his favourite son, was, in less than six 
 months afterwards, laid in his grave. And then came the 
 change in Tom's fortunes. He had completely run through 
 his own money ; the estates were entailed upon the eldest 
 son, and the portion settled on the younger children was 
 small. The Squire scraped together what he could for his 
 unfortunate son, which was not much, his reign having been 
 too profuse and liberal to leave many resources at his com- 
 mand, and with his dying breath left him to the care of his 
 heir. And that heir, so far as real assistance went, neglected 
 the injunction. 
 
 Mr. Francis Hardwick, now the Squire, took up his 
 residence at the Hall. Since he had come of age he had 
 chiefly lived away from it. Mary remained there as its 
 mistress, for her brother was unmarried. It was still to be 
 seen v/hat sort of a life he would lead, whether a heedless 
 and extravagant one, as his father and Tom had done, or 
 one of a more rational description. Eumour said that he 
 w^as close-handed ; but, if so, quoth the village gossips, he 
 was not a true Hardwick. 
 
 Ebury returned to its usual quietness— doubly quiet now 
 that Mr. Tom Hard wick's freaks could not enliven it — and 
 for some time nothing occurred woithy of note. It did at 
 last, however. Mr. Bell got speculating with his money, 
 and — as a natural sequence — turned it into ducks and drakes. 
 
 Ebury awoke one fine morning to find that Mr. Bell was 
 ruined : nothing remained, it was understood, but the income 
 of Mrs. Bell— a very small one. This sort of misfortune 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 27 
 
 usiiaUy brings household affairs to a climax, and it did so 
 with them. They sold off their furniture and departed for 
 London, where Mr. Bell died. 
 
 For some years afterwards little was heard of them, but 
 at that period Mr. Winnington, having a vacancy for an 
 apprentice, wrote to Mrs. Bell, and offered, with a kindness 
 of heart that did him honour, to take her youngest son 
 without premium — an offer which was most thankfully 
 accepted. ^ In those days a boy intended for a surgeon 
 began his studies as an apprentice. So the lad arrived at 
 Ebury — a tall young shaver of fourteen : with a capacious 
 forehead and lanky black hair. 
 
 Meanwhile, during these years. Sir John Gaunt remained 
 on the Continent, Ailsa always with him. Sir John could 
 not bear the thought of returning to his desolate home. Ho 
 had grown wonderfully attached to his companion, in whom 
 from the first he saw, or fancied he saw, a resemblance to 
 his lost son. The name, James, was also the same. But, 
 apart from this, when he became thoroughly acquainted 
 with Ailsa, it was impossible for him to be otherwise than 
 attached to him. 
 
 Sir John struggled on with his incipient malady ; some- 
 times he would be better, sometimes not ; gradually, however, 
 growing worse upon the whole, and at length he returned to 
 England — to die. But he did not get further than London. 
 Ailsa remained with him to the last — to part with him now 
 would have been to Sir John almost like parting with life. 
 That dread moment v/as not long in coming for him. 
 
 "When Sir John Gaunt's will was opened, it was found he 
 had left most substantial proof of his regard for Ailsa. All 
 his property in the village of Ebury, consisting of houses 
 and land, was bequeathed to the physician, with a consider- 
 able sum in money, and other property of value. 
 
 Now here was a strange thing. That young man, humble 
 assistant to the country surgeon, had been driven from the 
 village in contempt but seven years before, and now he 
 returned to them a rich man, a landed proprietor, superior 
 in position to most of those who had scorned him. In 
 truth, it was passing strange. 
 
28 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 It was as a dream to Ebury, or one of those electric 
 sliocks talked of before, when the house formerly occupied 
 by the Bells was put into repair, preparatory to James 
 Ailsa's taking up his residence there. All the village 
 flocked to see the furniture before its owner's arrival, from 
 the Squire's newly-married lady to good Miss Winnington's 
 cook, who had grown old in her service ; for this romance 
 in real life stirred every one, gentle and simple. Ailsa had 
 chosen it in London, and sent it down : plain and unobtrusive 
 it proved to be, to the intense disappointment of the gaping 
 visitors, but with a quiet elegance pervading the whole. 
 But when James Ailsa first arrived he went direct to the 
 Manor House, where he had business to transact and would 
 remain for a few days ; being one of the executors to the 
 will. The Manor House, with the rest of Sir John's 
 property, was left to a distant relative, the only one he had. 
 Ailsa was little altered, looking scarcely, if any, older ; his 
 pale complexion was somewhat browned by travel, and his 
 manners were unassuming and gentlemanly as usual. Not a 
 whit of assumption or self-consequence had his good fortune 
 brought him. 
 
 In the afternoon of the second day, a cold one in January^ 
 he walked over to his own house, and spent an hour or two 
 in looking round and about, giving directions for this and 
 that to be altered or done. It was growing dusk when he 
 went away. In the road, at the end of the avenue, a young 
 lady was passing with a swift step in the direction of the 
 village. They stopped simultaneously, and their hands 
 met. 
 
 " James ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 And then Miss Hard wick, for she it was, blushed warmly. 
 
 " Mr. Ailsa, I meant," she added ; " I beg your pardon." 
 
 " Oh, don't do that ! " he cried, almost with a touch of 
 pain. ^' If you only knew how grateful these little remem- 
 brances are to me! Why, do you know," he continued, 
 slightly laughing, " I believe I was about to say, ' Is it you, 
 Mary?' boldly enough, you would have thought. Have 
 you been quite well during all these years? You look 
 thin." 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 29 
 
 "AU these years!" she repeated dreamily. "Yes, it is 
 more than seven years since you left." 
 
 " You have kept count of them, then ! " 
 
 Again Mary Hard wick blushed. "My father died soon 
 afterwards," she said. " I have kept count of the lapse of 
 years since that." 
 
 Their hands dropped apart ; hitherto they had been linked 
 together. " It is rather curious," remarked Ailsa, " that we 
 should meet upon precisely the same spot on which we 
 parted. Do you remember ? " 
 
 "Oh yes. But not more strange than that you should 
 come back to Ebury, I never thought you would do so." 
 
 " Neither did I — then. Time changes our circumstances 
 — and ourselves too. After the lapse of a few years we can 
 hardly believe ourselves to be the same people that we were 
 before. Ay, I have come back to the old place in my old 
 days." 
 
 Mary smiled. 
 
 " Indeed I feel old ; very old compared with what I did 
 when I left it. I am thirty-one." 
 
 " And I am twenty-eight," laughed Mary. " That's old, 
 if you like, for a woman. But I must go," she broke off ; 
 " I am on my way to take tea with Miss Winnington." 
 
 " I think I will walk with you, if you will allow me," he 
 said. " I have not yet seen her, or my good old friend, her 
 brother." 
 
 So they turned away together. 
 
 And a few more weeks went on. 
 
 XL 
 
 In the sitting-room of a small residence on the outskirts of 
 London sat Mrs. Bell with her three daughters. She wore 
 widow's weeds still, but the children were in colours. 
 
 It was the dusk of evening ; and Emily was seated on a 
 low stool, holding a letter in her hand, which she looked 
 over by firelight, sometimes laying it on her lap as if in 
 thought, and then again recurring to it. 
 
30 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 "I do think I sliould like to go, mamma," she said at 
 length. " Mary, be (][uiet." 
 
 "Eead the letter to me again, Emily," said Mrs. Bell. 
 I only skimmed the heads of it this morning, I was so 
 busy with the pudding, and I have had no time to look at it 
 since. Mary, my dear, you heard your sister tell you to be 
 quiet. Don't dance about, but sit down and listen." 
 
 Emily stirred the fire into a blaze, and began to read : 
 
 "Deapw Mamma, 
 
 " I really did not think it could have been five 
 months since I wrote, till your letter came to remind me 
 last week, and I am quite ashamed not to have answered 
 your two last, and Miss Winnington is very angry about it 
 too ; but indeed, dear mamma, I have been very busy lately. 
 Mr. Winnington says I get on very well. I bled a person 
 the other day ; it was that barber's man round the corner ; 
 he who used to be always drinking, you know. He fell 
 down in a fit close by our door, and they brought him into 
 the surgery. Mr. Winnington and Mr. Tuck were out, and 
 I tried the lancet and used it famously, and saved the man's 
 life. It's reckoned, I can assure you, a great feather in my 
 cap, down here. I'm going into tooth-drawing next; but 
 that requires muscle and nerve, and Mr. Tuck says I am 
 deficient in both at present. Mr. and Miss Winnington are 
 so kind; what do you think they did, mamma? Because 
 my best clothes were getting shabby, they have had a new 
 suit made for me as a present— such beauties ! But I think 
 the trousers were made out of some of Mr. Winnington's old 
 ones, for he used to wear a pair just like them— -grey stripes. 
 I have a message for you from Miss Winnington — won't it 
 make Emily dance ! She sends her respects or love or some- 
 thing of that sort, and says she wants to ask you a favour. 
 It is that you will send Emily to Ebury to visit her for a 
 month or two. She says the pleasant springtime is close 
 upon us, and she would like her to come immediately. She 
 bogs you to excuse her writing herself, because her eyes are 
 so much dimmer than they were, but you arc to write back 
 to her in a week at furthest, and say y/hich day Emily Vv^ill 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 31 
 
 be witli us. And Mr. Wilmington says I am to tell you 
 Emily shall be well taken care of, and that he will take no 
 excuse. Do let her come, mamma. 
 
 "And now I have some news to tell you. Do you re- 
 member that Mr. Ailsa, when I was a little boy, who was 
 with Mr. Winnington, and went travelling afterwards with 
 Sir John Gaunt ? Well, Sir John Gaunt is dead, and has 
 left a fortune to Mr. Ailsa, money and houses, and heaps of 
 things. He left him a carriage and a pair of horses— they 
 are bays, so tall!— and lots of plate and books. Mr. Tuck 
 says if it were him he should sell the musty old books, and 
 he should buy a second pair of bays to match the others, 
 and drive four-in-hand. He thinks Mr. Ailsa would look 
 first-rate with the ribbons in his hands and four blood horses 
 before him. And our old house is left to him, mamma, and 
 Mr. Ailsa is come back here, and lives at it. It is done up 
 beautifully, and he has made great improvements. I like 
 Mr. Ailsa so much ; he gave me half-a-sovereign on Easter 
 Monday because it was a holiday. He does not forget, you 
 see, that boys like to have something in their pockets on a 
 holiday. 
 
 " I am sure Emily will find me grown. And tell her if 
 she should want to be bled while she's here, I can do it for 
 her, and I know Mr. Tuck will take out her teeth for nothing. 
 Good-bye, dear mamma ; give my love to all at home, par- 
 ticularly to Mary. 
 
 " Your affectionate Son, 
 
 "Edward Bell. 
 
 " P.S. — I forgot to say that poor Tom Hard wick told me 
 to remember him to you whenever I wrote. He is very w^ell, 
 considering, and often goes about in his hand-chair. 
 
 " P.S.— the 2nd.— I fear you will think me a very slovenly 
 writer, with my postscripts, but I must tell you I had a ride 
 on Mr. Ailsa' s saddle-horse yesterday. He knows I am a 
 good rider, so trusted me on him. It is a splendid animal, 
 high spirited and quite thoroughbred, but very gentle, and 
 coal-back. His groom rode behind. I don't mean on the 
 same horse. Fancy me careering past all the houses on 
 horseback, followed by a groom! Mr. Tuck says, when he 
 
32 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 is establisliecl lie sliaU buy just sucli another steed : but lie 
 has not done walking the hospitals yet." 
 
 " What a ridiculous letter Ned does write ! " exclaimed 
 Miss Margaret Bell, vexed that slie was not its subject, 
 " Mary, you'll set yourelf on fire." 
 
 " I do not think it a ridiculous letter at all," answered 
 Mrs. Bell ; " few boys of fifteen could write a better. But 
 about this invitation to Emily ? If we can manage the 
 expense, I should like her to accept it." 
 
 " Would the expense be very much, mamma ? " asked 
 Emily. 
 
 " It is the dress, you see, Emily," answered Mrs. Bell, as 
 she withdrew with the troublesome Mary. " We must think 
 about it." 
 
 " I dare say that ancient simpleton. Miss Winnington, has 
 some romantic notions about bringing you and your old 
 lover, James Ailsa, together," exclaimed Margaret, who 
 generally managed to pick up a fund of notions herself, 
 romantic and shrewd also. 
 
 " Don't talk so ridiculously," retorted Emily. " I wonder 
 how he and poor Tom Hardwick hit it off together now," 
 she mused, wdth a half-smile. 
 
 " You may well say ' poor Tom Hardwick,' " observed 
 Margaret, w^hose ill-temper was more marked than it used 
 to be; "he is poor in every sense of the word. How 
 strangely he and Ailsa seem to have changed positions ! " 
 
 " That accident was a wretched misfortune for him. I 
 wonder, Margaret, if Tom would have ever married ? " 
 
 " Married ? — no ! " returned Miss Margaret. " It is absurd 
 to think of it. How could he, poor as he turned out to be 
 — how could he have thought of a wife ? After the squire 
 died, his income scarcely allowed him to keep the man- 
 servant who waited on him." 
 
 " He must have entered into some means of getting money," 
 said Emily ; " some profession." 
 
 " Not he," answered Margaret. " He would have entered 
 into debt, and so into a prison perhaps ; that's what Mr. Tom 
 Hardwick would have entered into. Nonsense ! It was a 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 B3 
 
 strange delusion with some of you flirting girls to suppose 
 that Tom Hard wick would ever marry." 
 
 Emily sighed. The heart alone knoweth its own bitter- 
 ness. For this man she had given up James Ailsa. 
 
 It was late on a fine spring day when the stage-coach 
 that conveyed the passengers from the railway station to 
 Ebury arrived at the village. Mr. Winnington and Edward 
 Bell stepped up before it had well stopped — for Emily Bell 
 sat there. 
 
 "Edward," cried Mr. Winnington, "you stay and see to 
 the luggage — only two boxes you say, my dear. My sister 
 is all impatience to receive you, Emily ; take my old arm, 
 child." 
 
 The bustling surgeon stepped forwards briskly, and in a 
 few minutes he was thundering at his door, and his sister 
 flying to open it. 
 
 But we will pass over the meeting, and all the gossip of 
 the evening. Emily was never tired of inquiring after old 
 friends, or of listening to the history of the many changes 
 that time had brought to Ebury. They kept telling her 
 about James Ailsa : although to that subject she answered 
 little ; but she did ask about the improvements he had been 
 making in the house and grounds. 
 
 " You will have an opportunity of judging for yourself 
 to-morrow evening, Emily," observed Miss Winnington, " for 
 we are going to take tea there." 
 
 " But am I invited ? " cried Emily, the colour rushing into 
 her face at the recollection of how she and James had last 
 parted. 
 
 "No, no," laughed Miss Winnington, "we did not tcH 
 him you were coming : we mean to give him a surj^rise." 
 
 But was it alone owing to the anticipated " surprise " that 
 Emily felt a tremor stealing over her when they entered 
 Mr. Ailsa's gate the following evening? He saw their 
 approach from the window, and stepped out to meet them. 
 
 " A young friend of ours, whom we have taken the liberty 
 of bringing," cried the surgeon. 
 
 It was nearly twilight, yet James Ailsa recognised her as 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 3 
 
34 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 instantly as if they had been under the sun at noonday. 
 There was no embarrassment visible on his face ; the slightest 
 possible flush rose for a moment, and then left his features 
 pale and placid as before. He held out his hand to her, 
 with his own sweet smile, and welcomed her to his home. 
 
 " I thought you were to bring Edward with you this even- 
 ing," Ailsa remarked, as they sat down to tea, which Miss 
 Winniugton made. 
 
 " No," answered the surgeon, " Ned is at home. He 
 remains to run up for me in ease I should be wanted. Do 
 you know, Ailsa, I am thinking of giving up my profession." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 " The fact is, I am growing too old to do justice to my 
 patients. Some who ought to receive a visit from me twice 
 a day get only one ; for, what with old age and rheumatism, 
 there are times w^hen my legs will not run over so much 
 ground as formerly." 
 
 " Why not take an assistant ?— or partner ? " 
 I v/ould take a partner to-morrow, James, but the diffi- 
 culty lies in finding one to my mind. Had fortune not 
 placed you above it, I should have tried hard to get you. 
 Had you only come back a poor man, Ailsa ! " 
 
 " I will become your partner, if you vrish it," observed 
 Ailsa quietly., 
 
 " I am speaking seriously," returned the surgeon. 
 
 " So am I," smiled Ailsa. " I wish to resume my j)yo- 
 fession, and would rather do so at Ebury than anywhere 
 else. But I never should have set up in opposition, you 
 know." 
 
 " You are rich enough to lead an idle life," observed Mr. 
 Winnington ; " why worry yourself Avith your profession ? 
 It has its own labour and cares, remember, James; more 
 than some others have." 
 
 " Well, I am not so rich as peoide make me out ; and a 
 medical man is never the worse for some private income, 
 es23ecially in a neighbourhood where the poor abound." 
 
 " Then, my lad," cried the old surgeon, rising, and shaking 
 him by the hand, " you are my partner from this hour, and 
 may God bless our union ! Ah me, what ups and downs 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 35 
 
 there are in this world ! Would you believe, Emily, that 
 Mary Hardwick, the only daughter of the proud old House 
 of Hardwick, has had thoughts of becoming a governess.'" 
 
 " A governess ! " exclaimed Emily. " She ! But where- 
 fore?" 
 
 " I will tell you. You know that, since her father's death, 
 Mary has kept house for her brother at the Hall ; and she 
 has been in the habit, year by year, of handing over her own 
 small income to eke out that of her brother Tom. Now the 
 Squire's new wife is a regular skinflint, Emily, and she 
 makes him worse than he would be ; and he told Mary at 
 Christmas last, that now she was released from her trouble 
 with his housekeeping matters, he should not continue to 
 pay her personal bills, and that slie must discontinue that 
 extravagant practice of giving her own money to Tom. 
 This set Miss Hardwick thinking — no very pleasant thoughts 
 you may be sure. To withdraw her income from Tom she 
 was resolved not to do ; and she consulted me poor, humble 
 old apothecary Winning ton— about seeking a situation as 
 governess. The Squire v/ould have been up in arms, no 
 doubt, if he had known it : and Mary cried bitterly — for she 
 has a touch of the family pride, you know." 
 
 " And is she going out ? " inquired Emily. 
 
 " No," replied Mr. Winnington ; " and now comes a bit of 
 romance, Emily. A certain sum has recently been paid into 
 the funds in Tom Hardwick's name, the interest of which 
 will nearly double his own income. It was done in a 
 mysterious manner; no one knows by whom or through 
 whom ; but it is a godsend to Tom, who, poor fellow, has 
 had to pinch himself at times, and will render the rest of 
 his days comfortable. So now, you see, Mary has no scruple 
 in withdrawing from him her own money. ' 
 
 "I wonder Miss Hardwick has never married," mused 
 Emily, 
 
 " Why, my dear," returned Miss Winnington, " I do not 
 think Mary is single for want of offers, and she has plenty 
 of time before her yet. It is well known that she refused 
 Lord Chiselem ; and Earl Dunnely's heart, it is said, was set 
 upon the match." 
 
36 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 " Who can have paid the money to assist Tom ? ^' wondered 
 Emily. 
 
 " That is a problem, perhaps never to be solved," answered 
 the surgeon. " I can assure you Emily, half the village 
 would give their ears to know." 
 
 So they sat talking. When they were about to leave for 
 the night, James accompanied them to the hall-door, and 
 there gave his arm to Emily, meaning to v/alk with them as 
 far as the gates. It was a warm night, calm and still. The 
 moon, nearly at the full, was riding along the heavens, 
 steeping the garden before them in light. They had gone 
 but a few paces, when Miss Winnington turned back to the 
 house, remembering that she had left her cap behind. The 
 surgeon followed her. 
 
 They disappeared within the hall, and Ailsa and his 
 companion turned and waited for them. They had acci- 
 dentally halted on the very spot, underneath the self-same 
 trees where they had last stood together that stormy, tem- 
 pestuous night, when Ailsa stole, almost as a thief, into the 
 grounds, to obtain one word from her ; to say farewell, it 
 might have been for ever. 
 
 How rapidly the years have passed ! " exclaimed Emily, 
 more in accordance with her own thoughts than in remark 
 to him. 
 
 " Since we last met here," he replied quickly. They 
 have indeed." 
 
 Ah, he teas thinking of it then, even as she was. 
 
 " He told me then," was her next thought, " that he should 
 strive to root me out of his heart. Did he so strive ? — and 
 did he succeed ? " 
 
 " Seven years ! " observed Ailsa, " seven long years ! Had 
 we known then that seven years would be the term of — of" 
 (he seemed to hesitate for a word) — " our separation — I 
 mean that would elapse before we met again, we should 
 have thought it interminable ; yet what is it in the retro- 
 spect ? " 
 
 " What, indeed ! " she answered. " It seems as a dream." 
 " And it has left little mark upon us. You, Emily, are 
 scarcely, if at all, changed ; and people tell me I am not." 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 37 
 
 Ailsa stooj^ed and plucked some violets, several of wliicli 
 grew at the foot of the trees close by, and gave them to her. 
 " You are fond of the scent of violets, I remember ; these 
 are very sweet ones. I wonder," he observed, musingly, " if 
 they are the old roots ? " 
 
 " You do not, then, quite forget all our old thoughts and 
 feelings, our likes and dislikes," she said, with apparent 
 calmness, but with a beating heart. 
 
 " Not quite," he quietly replied. 
 
 " How stupid of you both to stand stock-still ! " broke out 
 the surgeon, advancing with Miss Winnington ; " I told you 
 to walk on. And you without your hat, James ! " 
 
 " What a lovely night it is ! " exclaimed Emily to Ailsa. 
 " Everything seems so still, so full of peace." 
 
 " Yes," he replied, " it serves as a contrast to the one when 
 we were last here together. The elements were jarring 
 enough then." 
 
 " Ah, that was a wretched night. You did not take cold, 
 I hope, J ames ? I thought at the time you inevitably w ould 
 do so." 
 
 " Take — what did you say ? " He seemed lost in thought. 
 « Cold." 
 
 " Cold ? Oh no, I think not. If I did, I don't remember 
 it now ; and I am sure I did not heed it then." 
 
 Ailsa wished them good- night when they reached the 
 gate, and turned to retrace his steps indoors. " The night 
 is beautiful indeed^ as she said," he repeated to himself, 
 " and is a contrast to iliat one. They seem a type of my 
 fortunes : then they were as the w^eather — black, stormy, and 
 apparently without hope ; now they are bright as this lovely 
 scene. Oh, the misery, the misery of that night ! And yet, 
 anguish as it was to me, all that dark period of my existence, 
 I would afterwards have given my opening prospects to live 
 it over again — to exchange for it the terrible apathy to all 
 human things which alone it left me. Why, why should Ave 
 be in such haste to love? — why hasten to wear away the 
 fresh green of the tree of life only that we may sear it for 
 ever?" 
 
 She is altered for the better," he resumed, after a while 
 
38 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 for she is more quiet and subdued. I do not think she 
 would flirt so much now," he continued, with a melancholy- 
 smile, " even with Mr. Tom Hardwick, were he the gay gallant 
 he used to be. Fallen circumstances and seven years have 
 worked their traces upon her mind, though they may have 
 spared her countenance. And for me ? — the romance of life 
 passed away with her : I must see what I can make c.f the 
 reality." 
 
 Are Mr. Ailsa and Tom Hardwick friends now ? " in- 
 quired Emily, as they walked home, putting the question 
 with indifference. 
 
 f Very good friends indeed," answered the surgeon. 
 " Excellent friends. Ailsa often calls at his lodgings, and 
 chats with him, to pass away one of his many weary hours. 
 Poor Tom ! they hang heavily upon his hands." 
 
 Fifty times that night did Emily ask herself if Ailsa still 
 loved her. He had met her cordially ; he had voluntarily 
 given her his arm to the outer gates, and had conversed with 
 her, though slightly, upon former days ; he had plucked 
 violets for her, remembering that she was partial to them — • 
 in all this, was there, or vvas there not, a lurking sentiment 
 of love ? " Time alone must prove," sighed Emily. 
 
 But time seemed to prove nothing. Eight or ten weeks 
 elapsed, and things remained just as they were then. She 
 saw Ailsa frequently. His manner to her was always friendly, 
 but he had not again alluded to bygone days. Emily went 
 to the Hall, and was introduced to its new mistress. She 
 did not like her ; few did ; but sweet Mary Hardwick, kind 
 and considerate as ever, served to compensate for the austere 
 character of her sister-in-law. 
 
 She was invited to the Hall, to one of their formal dinner- 
 parties ; when the sideboards groaned with plate, and the 
 servants were so numerous that they trod on each other's 
 heels. Emily could not help thinking how much better it 
 would be, if some of the silver and domestics had been 
 disposed of, and the proceeds applied to enlarge Tom's 
 income : if he did not want it now, he liad wanted it. But 
 near in some matters as the Squire was, it would have 
 broken his heart to diminish the old baronial state which 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 39 
 
 custom and tlieir own ideas, liad rendered indispensable to 
 tlie liead of the House of Hardwick. Ailsa was tliere also 
 that evening: he seemed to be a favoured and frequent 
 visitor. 
 
 HI. 
 
 Invitations went out from James Ailsa for a sort of rustic 
 fete ; a house-warming he called it to Miss Winnington. 
 Young ladies as well as old were invited; many; and 
 people laughingly said he meant to choose a wife at it. 
 Emily Bell's pulses beat as she heard it. 
 
 Would she be his choice ? The doubt was of too weighty 
 a moment to her to be idly guessed at. She loved Ailsa 
 now. Formerly, when her attention had been distracted by 
 others, Emily had loved him in her own fashion, and perhaps 
 almost as much as she was capable of loving any one. But 
 the last few weeks, when she had been led into daily contact 
 with him — listened to his voice, leaned upon his arm — had 
 brought, indeed, a passion to her heart deeper than of old. 
 Yet Ailsa had not noii^ striven to plant it there : not a word 
 or a look had escaped him that might not have been given 
 — say — to old Miss Winnington. 
 
 The day brought weather with it warm and lovely. 
 Dancing on the lawn was one of the amusements. Ailsa 
 had stood up twice only, once with Miss Hardwick, the 
 second time with Emily. Was it for the abstract pleasure 
 of dancing with her that he had singled her out for the 
 honour, Avlien so many w^ere present, who, from their rank 
 and position, might be considered as having a better right 
 to it ; or was he desirous to show to the world that he did 
 not slight one who, it was pretty generally believed, had 
 once held the first place in his heart ? 
 
 The evening was growing dusk, and the sound of the 
 music and dancing was still heard, but Ailsa was not joining 
 in it. He was strolling in a distant part of the grounds — 
 the reader may see him there, with a young lady by his side, 
 and may listen to what he is saying. 
 
40 
 
 THE UNHOLY AVISH. 
 
 " When, Mary, are my clays of probation to end ? They 
 have endured these several weeks, and had I not guessed 
 the reason of their being imposed, I should have borne them 
 less patiently." 
 
 She looked up quickly ; and as she met his eyes fixed 
 upon hers, and saw the half-saucy, half- tender smile upon 
 his countenance, some of the proud Hard wick blood rushed 
 to her face. 
 
 James," she faltered, " what do you mean ? " 
 
 " Before you gave the irrevocable 2)romise to be mine," he 
 said, gliding his arm round her waist, " you were willing to 
 ascertain if any remains of my love for Miss Bell still 
 lingered, or if it would break out again. You need not 
 have doubted me, Mary." 
 
 " Pray forgive me," she said, bursting into tears. 
 
 " My dear love, there is nothing to forgive," he answered. 
 " Had you only given me a hint, I should have spoken thea 
 as I am about to speak now ; as I always intended to speak 
 before we married. Now listen to me, Mary," and he drew 
 her closer to him as they walked. " You suspect that I 
 once loved Emily Bell. I did indeed love her ; none can 
 know how passionately, or picture the bitter anguish that 
 overwhelmed me when I awoke to reality. Life and its 
 events ; the world and its hopes and cares ; the present, past, 
 future — all seemed to me a blank : a long, dark, dreamy 
 blank it ajDpears to me now when I look back upon it. But 
 I struggled hard to overcome this, I struggled hard to forget 
 her, and I succeeded in time; and so effectually, that no 
 trace of love or liking for her is left. I look at her now, 
 and can scarcely believe she is the girl I was once so 
 infatuated with : so our feelings change. I tell you this," 
 he proceeded, "for you have a right now to know every 
 hidden thought and feeling of mine ; but believe me, Mary, 
 you will not find that your husband will cherish you less, 
 because you were not his first love." 
 
 " I do believe you," she whispered. 
 
 " I cannot promise to love you," he resumed, " with the 
 same infatuated passion that I bore for her, neither would it 
 be well, for either of us, Mary ; for, rely upon it, that dream 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 41 
 
 cf Elysium is only meant for the short romance of early 
 youth ; it could not long survive marriage and the realities 
 of later life. And where such love does fall, and end, as 
 end it must, it shatters almost unto death." 
 
 " You left Ebury, I believe, because some one interfered 
 between you ? " asked Miss Hard wick. 
 
 " Y^'es. I knew then that she did not return my love, that 
 she was only playing with me for her own amusement. I 
 had suspected it at times, but I only knew it positively tho 
 very night before I left — the night preceding the steeple- 
 chase. And if she had given me, that night, but one word of 
 Jiope, one word of love, Mary, I should have returned now to 
 claim her ; and lue should never have been to each other but 
 strangers. At that interview the conviction was forced upon 
 me that she was a vain, deceitful, and heartless girl." 
 
 " I always thought — though believe me, James, I say this 
 in no spirit of rivalry — that she was not worthy of you." 
 
 " I think so now, Mary. Or, rather — for you will say 
 that admission savours of egregious vanity — I think she 
 was very unsiiited to me." 
 
 " It was said at the time that it was my brother Tom who 
 interfered between you, and caused the separation." 
 
 " You shall know as much of the matter one day as I do. 
 Unless," he proceeded in a tone of inexpressible tenderness, 
 " unless you will fear to consign your happiness— that of a 
 whole life, Mary — to the keeping of one who has been bold 
 enough to make the hazardous confession that he cannot 
 love you as he once loved another ? " 
 
 But Ailsa knew the question to be unnecessary as he 
 spoke. 
 
 " James," resumed Miss Hard wick, after a pause, " you say 
 we are not to have any secrets from each other, as I trust 
 we never shall have — but I think you have still kept one 
 from me. The unknown benefactor of my brother Tom; 
 who has made the rem^ainder of his days easy ; that friend 
 was — yourself." 
 
 Ailsa remained silent ; but the tell-tale blood rushed to 
 his face. 
 
 " Am I not right ? You will surely trust me," 
 
42 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 "You are riglit, Mary," he replied. "But, I pray you, 
 let not a word of this j)ass your lips." 
 
 " As you will," she said. " I wish I could, in his name, 
 thank you for it as I ought." 
 
 " You can do that by never mentioning the subject." 
 
 "What could have been your motive?" she continued. 
 " It is rare that one confers such benefit on an enemy, and 
 in that light I believe you once regarded Tom, perhaps with 
 cause." 
 
 "J had a motive,^' re^^lied Ailsa, solemnly, "bat I shall 
 never explain it to you in all its details." 
 
 " Some time," was her remark. " There must come a day 
 for full confidence between us." 
 
 " In all else, Mary, but not in this ; even w^hen you shall 
 be my wife. But I will give you the outline at once, and 
 then please let the matter drop between us for ever. I 
 thought ill of your brother; I wished him ill ; and though 
 it is quite impossible my sinful wish could have brought the 
 evil upon him, yet — but — that is all, Mary." 
 
 " But Tom did not know you wished him ill ? " 
 
 " No human being heard it or knew it. It lay between 
 myself and God." 
 
 " How seriously you speak, James ! " she exclaimed, look- 
 ing earnestly at him. 
 
 "My love, let us forget the subject; it is extremely 
 painful to me." He turned as he spoke, and they proceeded 
 in the direction of the lights and the crowd. 
 
 They w^ere beginning to let off the fireworks, when Ailsa 
 ran into the house to see that none of his guests remained 
 indoors, but in the little room opening to the greenhouse 
 he found Miss W^innington. 
 
 " Make haste and come with me," he said ; " I will find 
 you a place." 
 
 " I would not stir out for all the fireworks in the three 
 kingdoms, James, and you into the bargain," rejoined the 
 old lady. "No standing in the night air for me, since I 
 had rheumatic fever. I shall remain where I am. But one 
 word, James, before you go. What is this report that is 
 being whispered ? People say you arc about to marry." 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH- 
 
 43 
 
 " AdcI for once people say right." 
 
 ^' Upon whom has your choice fallen ? Upon Emily ? " 
 " No, no. Cannot you make a better guess ? " 
 Miss Winnington clasped her hands. " Oh, James ! " 
 ''Are you displeased at my choice — do you not ai)prove 
 it?" 
 
 " I liave no right to be displeased at it, and none could 
 disapprove of Mary Hardwick. You see I have guessed. 
 But — I must speak out, James — I thought you were once so 
 fervently attached to Emily Bell." 
 
 " So I was ; passionately attached to her." 
 
 " And I deemed that if any one's love could have with- 
 stood the shocks of time, it was yours." 
 
 "Time did not change my love," he answered, with a 
 shade of agitation in his voice ; " she changed it." 
 
 " Alas ! I have sometimes feared so. And my little 
 dream of romance is over." 
 
 " It is. But my dear, long-tried friend, I have seen and 
 thanked you for it. You thought to serve two hearts by 
 bringing her hither ; to unite those upon whom the ban of 
 separation had been forced. Had that separation alone stood 
 between them, you would have been rewarded ; but I am not 
 the less grateful for the kindness." 
 
 " You have no love left for her, then ? " 
 
 " None ; nor worse than none. There is not a young lady 
 here to-night that I would not choose for my wife in prefer- 
 ence to her. I do not know why this feeling should exist ; 
 I only know that it does, and that I cannot avoid or 
 mitigate it." 
 
 " Do you think she has so completely forgotten you ? " 
 
 Ailsa quite laughed. " The task for her could not have 
 been a difficult one. She never cared for me." 
 
 Ailsa left by one door, and Miss Winnington pushed 
 open the other, which was ajar. But in passing into the 
 greenhouse, she almost stumbled over Emily. 
 
 " Why — Emily ! How came you here ? Did you hear 
 my conversation with James Ailsa ? " 
 
 She burst into tears, and threw herself into the old lady's 
 arms as she spoke. "I heard it all— all; but not inten- 
 
44 
 
 TPIE UNHOLY WISH, 
 
 tionaHy. I came into the greenhouse, and some one, when 
 1 woukl have gone out, had fastened the door upon me ; 
 Ned, perhaps, for mischief. I could not come out this way 
 and betray to you both that I was here." 
 
 " My poor girl ! " breathed Miss Winnington, for she saw 
 how deeply Emily's feelings had been shaken. 
 
 " Oh, that wicked propensity for flirtation ! " exclaimed 
 the excited girl ; " had I never given way to it, and neglected 
 him, whom I really loved, for others, how different it would 
 have been now ! " 
 
 " Ah, my dear, to tell the truth, I always blamed you. 
 Few persons have the opportunity given them of attaching 
 a heart such as Ailsa's. But you were attracted, girl-like, 
 by the gay plumage of Mr. Tom Hardwick, and other such 
 worthless butterflies. Let it be a warning to you, my 
 child." 
 
 " The warning has come too late," sighed Emily, pressing 
 her hands upon her aching brow. " Would I had never 
 returned here, for it has taken away all my hope in life." 
 
 " You must not take things too much to heart," cried Miss 
 Winnington, using, unconsciously, almost the very w^ords 
 that had once been spoken by Emily to Ailsa. 
 
 " There's a bright firework ! " exclaimed Emily, droj)ping 
 her liands from her temples, and changing her tone. "I 
 shall go and see them." 
 
 As she quitted the hall-door, she encountered Ailsa. He 
 expressed his surprise that she was not vdiere every one else 
 Avas, and turned to conduct her. 
 
 " I w^ent into the house to see Miss Winnington," panted 
 Emily ; " her cold is bad, and she will not come out." 
 
 " How did you go in, then ? I have been standing here, 
 and did not see you." 
 
 " I went through the greenhouse, but some one locked it 
 after me, so I could not return that way." 
 
 " I fastened the greenhouse," he said. " Upon seeing the 
 door open, I thought it safer that it should be kept shut, lest 
 some sparks should get in and injure the plants. But that 
 is not very recently. You must have been in some time, 
 Emily." 
 
THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 45 
 
 Their eyes met ; and, for a moment, neither withdrew the 
 gaze. He saw that his conversation with Miss Winnington 
 had been heard, and she felt that he saw it. She released 
 his arm, and murmuring something about the fireworks 
 darted away, like a fawn, across the grass. Had she stood 
 one minute longer, she would have fallen into hysterics, and 
 sobbed upon his breast, as she had done that stormy, never- 
 to-be-forgotten night. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The day came at last on which Emily was to depart from 
 Ebury. Had she followed her own inclinations, she would 
 have left when she first heard of James Ailsa's engagement ; 
 but Miss Winnington would not permit this. It was some- 
 what singular, though quite the result of accident, that her 
 departure was fixed for the same day as the marriage. 
 
 "Farewell, farewell, dear Miss Winnington," she said, 
 tears running down her cheeks, " and thank you for all your 
 kindness." 
 
 " Take care how you get in, Emily," exclaimed the 
 surgeon, as they reached the coach ; " another step. Oh, you 
 need not laugh, Mr. Edward ; young legs make light of such 
 matters, but old ones like mine feel that bruises are easier 
 got than cured. You are sure you have everything, my 
 dear ? Don't forget that you have promised us another visit 
 next summer ; we shall not fail to claim it." 
 
 She shook hands with Mr. Winnington, and bent down to 
 kiss her brother. 
 
 " Be a good boy, Edward," she whispered, " and do all you 
 can to serve Mr. and Miss Winnington, in return for their 
 great kindness to you." 
 
 " I will, Emily, I will indeed," answered the boy ; " you 
 may tell mamma so." 
 
 " All right," cried Mr. Winnington, as he closed the door 
 with a bang. And the coach rolled onwards. 
 
 Emily remained lost in thought till they came near the 
 Hall, when, aware of the festivities which had that morning 
 
46 
 
 THE UNHOLY WISH. 
 
 taken place, slie leaned forward and looked from tlie 
 windovv^. 
 
 They were close upon tlie lodge gates, when the coach 
 took a sudden swerve, to give place to a chariot-and-four 
 ■which was bowling through them, on its way from the Hall, 
 in the old-fashioned style of the day. It contained James 
 Ailsa and his bride. 
 
 Before Emily was prepared for this her glance had en- 
 countered theirs. She bowed to them, quite unconscious at 
 the moment of what she did, and they both returned it. A 
 crimson blush overspread Mary's face, but Ms remained 
 perfectly calm. It needed not this to convince Emily how 
 completely he had forgotten her. 
 
 It was but a momentary meeting. Almost as Emily 
 looked, the carriage had passed, leaving its cloud of dust 
 behind. The stage-coachman, after an admiring eye given 
 to the lost equipage, whipped up his horses to gain the 
 station in time for the half-past two o'clock train ; and 
 Emily Bell, sinking into the darkest corner of the empty 
 coach, sobbed bitterly. 
 
 THE END. 
 
THE FOGCtY night AT OFFOKD„ 
 
THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOIID. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 VERNER EABY. 
 
 It was tlie lieiglit of tlie London season — not now, Imt 
 years ago — and a drawing-room, all sun, and light, and heat, 
 looked out on a fashionable square in an exceedingly fashion- 
 able locality. At the extreme end of the room, away from 
 the sun's rays, a yet young and very lovely lady reclined in 
 an easy chair ; a feverish flush was on her cheeks, but other- 
 wise her features were white as the pillow on which they 
 rested. The house was the residence of Mr.. Verner Eaby : 
 this lady was his wife, and she was dying. 
 
 It was said of spinal complaint — of general debility — of 
 a sort of decline : friends and doctors equally differed as to 
 the exact malady. None hinted that care, disajopointment, 
 crushed feelings, could have anything to do with her sink- 
 ing : yet it is probable they had more, by far, than all the 
 other ailments ascribed to her. Somewhat of remorse may 
 have been added also. 
 
 Once, when very young, she was engaged to be married to 
 a Mr. Mair. She thought she liked him ; she did like him ; 
 but one, higher in the world's favour, came across her path. 
 His dashing appearance dazzled her eyes, as the baron 
 dazzled fair Imogene's, in the old song ; his position dazzled 
 her judgment ; and Maria Eaby would have discarded Arthur 
 Mair for him. Her parents said No ; common justice said 
 
 The Unholy Wish, 4 
 
50 
 
 TIIP] FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 No ; but Mr. Verner exerted his powers of persuasion, and 
 Maria yielded to her own will, and clandestinely left her 
 father's house to become his wife. 
 
 The private union was followed by a grand marriage, 
 solemnized openly ; and the bridegroom took his wife's name 
 with her fortune, and became Yerner Raby. Very, very 
 soon was her illusion dissolved, and she found she had 
 thrown away the substance to grasp the shadow. Mr. Eaby 
 speedily tired of his new toy, and she lapsed into a neglected, 
 almost a deserted wife. He lived a wild life ; dissipating 
 his fortune, dissipating hers, tingeing his character, wasting 
 his talents. Meanwhile, the despised Arthur Mair, through 
 the wholly unexpected death of a relative younger than him- 
 self, had risen to affluence and rank, and was winning his way 
 to the approbation of good men. He had probably forgotten 
 Maria Eaby. It is certain that his marriage had speedily 
 followed upon her own : perhaps he wished to prove to the 
 world that her inexcusable conduct had not told irremediably 
 upon him. Thus, Mrs. Raby had lived for many years, 
 bearing her wrongs in silence, and battling with her 
 remorseful feelings. 
 
 But nature gave way at last, and her health left her : a 
 few months of resigned suffering, and the grave drew very 
 near. She was conscious of it ; more conscious this after- 
 noon than she had yet been. Her first child, a girl, had 
 died at its birth ; several years afterwards a boy was born. 
 She was lying now, sadly thinking of him, when her 
 husband entered. He had come home to dress for an early 
 dinner engagement. 
 
 How warm you look ! " was his remark, his eye carelessly 
 noting the unusual hectic on her cheeks. 
 
 Things are troubling me," she answered, her breathing 
 more laboured than usual. " Alfred, I want to talk to you.** 
 
 " Make haste, then,'^ he replied, impatiently pulling out 
 his watch. " I have not much time to waste." 
 
 To waste ! On his dying wife ! 
 
 " Oh yes, you have if you like, Alfred. And, if not, you 
 must make it. Other engagements may give way to me 
 to dayj for I think it will be my last." 
 
VERNER RABY. 
 
 51 
 
 " Nonsense, Maria ! You are nervous. Shake it off. 
 What have you to say ? " 
 
 " I think it will be," she rej^eatecl. " At any rate, it can 
 be but a question of a fev\^ days now ; a week or two at the 
 most. Alfred, do you believe you could ever break an 
 oath?" 
 
 Break an oath ? " he echoed in surprise. 
 
 " You are careless as to keeping your word ; promises you 
 forget as soon as made ; but an oath im230ses a solemn 
 obligation, and must be binding on the conscience. J want 
 you to take one." 
 
 " That I will not marry again," he responded, in a tone of 
 suppressed mockery. " Calm yourself : it is not my inten- 
 tion to do so." 
 
 " Not so," she sadly uttered ; " that w^ould be an obligation 
 I have no right to lay upon you : my death will leave you 
 free. I want you to undertake to be a good father to the 
 child." 
 
 " And you would impose such obligation by oath ! " cried 
 Mr. Eaby. " It is scarcely necessary. Of course I shall be 
 good to him. What is running in your head, Maria ? — that 
 I shall beat him, or turn him adrift ? The boy shall go to 
 Eton, and thence to college." 
 
 She put out her fevered hands, and clasped his, with the 
 excitable, earnest emotion of a dying spirit. 
 
 " Oh Alfred ! when you are as near death as I am, you 
 will know that there are other and higher interests than even 
 the better interests of this world. If the knowledge never 
 comes to you before, it will too surely come then. It is for 
 those I wish you to train him." 
 
 " My dear," he rejoined, the mocking tone returning to 
 his voice, and this time it was not disguised, " I will engage 
 a curate at a yearly stipend, and he shall cram Raby with 
 religion." 
 
 A cloud of pain passed across her brow ; then she looked 
 pleadingly up^again to urge her wish. 
 
 " There is no earthly interest can be compared with that ; 
 we live here for a moment, in eternity for ever. I want you 
 to undertake that he shall be trained for it." 
 
52 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 " So far as my wiH is good, lie is welcome to grow up an 
 angel," observed Mr. Eaby ; " but as to taking an oatli that 
 lie sliall do so, you must excuse me. We will leave the 
 topic ; it is one that we shall do no good at together. The 
 boy Avill do well enough ; what is there to hinder it ? And 
 do you get out of this desponding fit, Maria, and let me find 
 you better when I come home at night." 
 
 " Stay ! " she implored. " I lie here alone with all my 
 pain and trouble ; and wild thoughts intrude themselves into 
 my mind, somewhat as they come to us in a dream. It luas 
 a wild thought— an improbable one — the speaking to you of 
 an oath ; perhaps it was a wrong one. Will you pass your 
 word to me, Alfred, that Eaby shall be reared to good, not 
 to evil ? And you surely will hold sacred your word to the 
 dying!" 
 
 " I promise you that the best shall be done for the boy in 
 all ways, Maria, so far as I can do it." 
 
 He turned impatiently as he spoke, and left the room. 
 She did not call to him again. And just then her little boy 
 peeped in. He had been christened Kaby. 
 
 " You may come, dear." 
 
 Kaby Yerner, a child of seven, who had inherited his 
 mother's beauty, drew towards her on tiptoe. He was too 
 intelligent for his years, too sensitive, too thoughtful. His 
 large and brilliant brown eyes were raised to hers with a 
 sweet, sad expression of inquiry. Then the long, dark eye- 
 lashes fell over them, and he laid his head on her bosom, 
 and threw up his arms lovingly to clasp her neck. 
 
 " Eaby, I was just thinking of you. I must tell you some- 
 thing." 
 
 As if he had a dread presentiment of what that something 
 was to be, he did not speak, but bent his face where she could 
 not see it, and slightly shivered. 
 
 " Eaby, darling, do you know that I am going to leave 
 you — that I am going to heaven ? " 
 
 The child had known it some time, for he had been alive 
 to the gossiping of the servants, but, true to his shy and 
 Sensitive nature, he had buried the knowledge and the 
 misery within his poor little heart. True to it now, he 
 
VERNEPv RABY. 
 
 53 
 
 would not give vent to his emotion ; but his mother felt 
 that he shivered from head to foot, as his clasp tightened 
 upon her. 
 
 " I read a pretty book, Eaby, once. It told of the creed 
 of some people, far, far away from our own land, who believe 
 that when they die — if they die in God's love — they are 
 permitted to become ministering sjDirits to those whom they 
 leave here ; to hover invisibly round them, and direct their 
 thoughts and steps away from harm. My dearest, how I 
 should like to find this to be really the case ! I would come 
 and watch over you." 
 
 His sobs could no longer be suppressed, though he strove 
 for it still. They broke out in a wail. 
 
 " Eaby, dear, you have heard that this is a world of care. 
 All people find it such ; though some more than others.. 
 When care shall fall upon you hereafter — as it is sure to do 
 — remember God sends it only to fit you for a better land." 
 
 The child looked up, his large eyes swimming. " Mamma, 
 have you had much care ? " 
 
 " A great deal ; more than many have. But, Eaby, that 
 care has taken me home ; it has shown me the way to get 
 there. It will show you. I shall be there waiting for you. 
 Carry alwaj'-s with you, through life, the hope to come there, 
 and you will be sure to come." 
 
 What more she would have said is uncertain. Probably 
 much. The child, in mind, was not like a child of seven ; 
 he was more like one of fourteen, and he understood well. 
 It was Mr. Eaby who interrupted them. 
 
 " Eaby ! crying, sir ! What for ? Has your mamma 
 been talking gloomy stuff to you, or saying that she fears 
 that she is worse ? It is not true, boy, any of it. Dry up 
 that face of yours. Maria, you are not worse : if you were, 
 I should see it. Eun away into the nursery, sir." 
 
 The boy drew away choking, and Mr. Eaby continued. 
 
 " It is not judicious of you Maria, to alarm the boy. I 
 cannot think what has put these ideas into your head. He 
 will be in tears for the rest of the day." 
 
 " He is so sensitive," she whispered. " Alfred, something 
 seems to tell me he will be destined to sorrow. It is an 
 
54 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 impression I have always felt, but never so forcibly as now. 
 Shield him from it whenever you can. Oh that I could take 
 him with me ! " 
 
 *' You are growing fanciful," answered Mr. Kaby. 
 " Destined to sorrow, indeed ! Is there anything else you 
 fancy him destined to ? Whence draw you your deduc- 
 tion ? " 
 
 " I do not know. But a timid, sensitive, refined nature, 
 such as his, with its unusual gift of genius, is generally 
 destined to what the world looks upon as adverse fate. It 
 may be deep sorrow, or it may be an early death." 
 
 " All mothers think their child a genius," interrupted Mr. 
 Eaby, in his slighting tone. 
 
 Well, if he lives, time will prove," she panted. " I fear 
 you will find my w^ords true. When the mind is about to 
 separate from the body, I believe it sees with unusual clear- 
 ness — that it can sometimes read the future, almost with a 
 spirit of prophecy." 
 
 I am not given to metaphysics, Maria," remarked Mr. 
 Eaby, as he again escaped from the room. 
 
 Mrs. Verner Eaby died. Eaby, in due course, went to 
 Eton, and afterwards to college. A shy, proud young man : 
 at least, his reserved manners and his refined appearance and 
 habits gave a stranger the idea that he was proud. He kept 
 one term at Oxford, and had returned to keep a second, 
 when a telegraphic despatch summoned him to London. Mr. 
 Verner Eaby had died a sudden death. 
 
 When Eaby went back to Oxford, it was only to take his 
 name off the college books, for his father had wasted all he 
 possessed, had died in debt, and Eaby must no longer be a 
 gentleman. A rentier, the French woukl say, which is a much 
 more suitable term : ^ve have no word that answers to it. Mr. 
 Eaby, after the death of his wife, had plunged into w^orse 
 expense than before ; he had lived a life of boundless ex- 
 travagance, and his affairs proved to be in a sad state. He 
 had afforded Eaby a home ; he had educated him in accord- 
 ance v/ith his presumed rank ; but he had done no more. 
 He had given him no j)rofession ; he had squandered his 
 
DREAMS OF FAME. 
 
 55 
 
 mother's money, as well as his own ; he had bequeathed him 
 no means to live, or even to complete his education ; he left 
 him to struggle with the world as he best could. And that 
 was how he fulfilled his promise to his dead wife ! 
 
 Yes ; Eaby must struggle noYf with the world — fight with 
 it for a living. How was he able to do it ? His mother 
 had said he possessed genius ; and he undoubtedly did — a 
 genius for painting. He had loved the art all his life, but 
 his father had been against his pursuing it, even as an 
 amateur — had obstinately set his face and inter j)osed his 
 veto against it, Eaby determined to turn to it, with a will 
 now. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DREAMS OF FAME. 
 
 A GENTLEMAN stood ono moming in the studio of a far-famed 
 painter, the great Coram, as the world called him. The 
 visitor was Sir Arthur Saxonbury, one of those warm patrons 
 of art all too few in England. Eich, liberal, and enthusiastic, 
 his name was a welcome sound, not only to the successful, 
 but to the struggling artist. The painter was out ; but, in 
 a second room, seated before an easel, underneath the 
 softened light of the green blind, was a young man, working 
 assiduously. Sir Arthur took little notice of him at first ; 
 he supposed him to be a humble assistant, or colour-mixer 
 of the great man's ; but, upon drawing nearer, he was struck 
 with the exceeding and rare beauty of the face that was 
 raised to look at him. But for the remarkable intellect of 
 the high, broad brow, and the flashing light of the luminous 
 eye, the face, in its sweet and delicate symmetry, in its 
 transparency of complexion, might have been taken for a 
 woman's. Sir Arthur, a passionate admirer of beauty, when- 
 ever he saw it, forgot the pictures of still life around him, 
 and gazed at the living one : gazed until he heard the 
 painter enter. 
 
56 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 " Who is that in the other room ? " inquired Sir Arthur, 
 when greetings were over. 
 
 " Ah, poor fellow, his is a sad history. A very common 
 one, though. When did you return to England, Sir 
 Arthur?" 
 
 " Only last week. Lady Saxonbury is tired of France 
 and Germany, and her health seems to get no better. I 
 must look at your new works. Coram ; I suppose you have 
 many to show me, finished or unfinished." 
 
 " Ay. It must be three years since you were here. Sir 
 Arthur." 
 
 " Nearly." 
 
 They proceeded round the rooms, when Sir Arthur's eye 
 once more fell on the young man. 
 
 "He has genius, that young fellow, has he not?" he 
 whispered. 
 
 t« Very great genius." 
 I could have told it," returned Sir Arthur. " What a 
 countenance it is ! Transformed to canvas, its beauty alone 
 would render the painter immortal. His face seems strangely 
 familiar to me. Where can I have seen it ? " 
 
 Mr. Coram had his eyes bent close to one of his paintings. 
 He saw a speck on it which had no business there. The 
 baronet's remark remained unanswered. 
 
 "I presume he is an aspirant for fame," continued Sir 
 Arthur. " Will he get on ? " 
 
 " No," said Mr. Coram. 
 
 Sir Arthur Saxonbury looked surj)rised. 
 
 " It is the old tale," proceeded the j)ainter. " Poverty, 
 friendlessness, and overwhelming talent." 
 
 "Talent has struggled through mountains before now. 
 Coram," significantly observed the baronet. 
 
 "Yes. But Eaby's enemy lies here,'' touching his own 
 breast. " He is inclined to consumption, and these ultra- 
 refined natures cannot battle against bodily weakness. His 
 sensitiveness is something marvellous. A rude blow to his 
 feelings would do for him." 
 
 Sir Arthur had looked up at the sound of the name. 
 " What did you call him ? Eaby ? " 
 
DREAMS OF FAME. 
 
 57 
 
 " Raby Verner Eaby is liis name. The son of spendthrift 
 Verner and Maria Eaby the heiress." 
 
 Eaby Verner Eaby ! Middle-aged though he was, years 
 though it was ago, now, since his dream of love with Maria 
 Eaby had come to an abrupt ending, Sir Arthur Saxonbury, 
 once Arthur Mair, positively felt his cheeks blush through 
 his grey whiskers. As he glanced eagerly at Eaby's face, 
 memory carried him back to its spring-time ; for those were 
 her very eyes, with their sweet, melancholy expression, and 
 those were her chiselled features. 
 
 "I saw Verner Eaby's death in the papers," said Sir 
 Arthur, rousing himself, " two — three years ago, it seems to 
 me. What is the son doing here ? " 
 
 " Eaby left nothing behind him but debts. The son sold 
 off all, and paid them, leaving himself, I believe, about half 
 sufficient for the bare necessaries of life. So he turned to 
 what he loved best, j)ainting, and has been working hard 
 ever since. He expects to make a good thing of it. I let 
 him come here to copy : for he has no convenience for it at 
 his lodgings. Poor fellow ! better he had been a painter of 
 coach-panels." 
 
 " Why do you say that. Coram ? " 
 
 " A man whose genius goes no higher than coach-painting 
 can bear rubs and crosses. We can't. And Eaby is so 
 sanguine ! Thinks he is going to be a second Claude 
 Lorraine. He is great in landscape." 
 
 At that moment they were interrupted by Eaby. He 
 came across the room in search of something wanted in his 
 work, and Sir Arthur Saxonbury saw that the beauty of 
 the face did not extend to the form. Not more than the 
 middle height, and slender, his long arms and legs looked 
 too long for his body. He stooped in the shoulders, he 
 had a sensitive look of physical weakness, and his gait 
 was uncertain and timid. Coram laid his hand on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 " This is Sir Arthur Saxonbury, of whom you have heard 
 so much," he said. 
 
 Eaby was unacquainted with the episode in his mother's 
 early life, therefore the flush that rose to, and dyed his face. 
 
58 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 was caused only by the greeting of a stranger : with these 
 sensitive natures it is sure to be so, whether they be man or 
 woman. The bright colour only served to render him more 
 like Maria Eaby ; and Sir Arthur, in spite of the sore feeling 
 her treatment had left, felt his heart warm to her son. A 
 wish half crossed his mind that that son was his — his heir ; 
 he had no son, only daughters. Kaby was astonished at the 
 warmth of his greeting. Sir Arthur clasped and held his 
 hand ; he turned with him to inspect the painting he was 
 engaged on. It was a self-created landscape, betraying great 
 imaginative power and genius ; but genius, as yet, only half 
 cultivated. 
 
 "You have your work cut out for you," observed Sir 
 Arthur, who was an excellent judge of art, and its indis- 
 pensable toil. 
 
 " I know it. Sir Arthur. I ought to have begun the study 
 earlier ; but during my father's lifetime the opportunity was 
 not afforded me. It is all I have to depend on now, for 
 with him died my wealth and my prospects." 
 
 " He had great wealth once. How could he have been so 
 reprehensible as to dissipate it all, knowing there was one 
 to come after him ? " involuntarily spoke Sir Arthur. 
 
 " These are thoughts that I avoid," replied Eaby. " He 
 was my father." 
 
 " Do you remember much of your mother ? " 
 
 "I remember her very well indeed. She died when I 
 was seven years old. All the good that is in me I owe to 
 her. I have never forgotten her early lessons or her early 
 love. I seem to see her face as plainly as I saw it then. 
 I see it often in my dreams." 
 
 It was a face such as the world does not see too often," 
 said Sir Arthur, whose thoughts w^re buried in the past. 
 " Your own is like it," he added, rousing himself. 
 
 " Did you know my mother. Sir Arthur ? " 
 
 " Once : when she was Miss Eaby," answered the baronet, 
 in an indifferent tone, as he turned again to the painting. 
 " Where do you live ? " he suddenly asked. 
 
 I give my address here," answered the young man. 
 " Mr. Coram allows me to do so : though indeed it is never 
 
DREAMS OF FAME. 
 
 59 
 
 asked for. I have only a room in an obscure neiglibourlioocl. 
 I cannot afford anything better." 
 
 Sir Arthur Saxonbury smiled. " You are not like most 
 people," he said ; " they generally strive to hide their fallen 
 fortunes : you make no secret of yours." 
 
 Raby shook his head, and a strangely painful flush rose 
 to his face. His poverty was a sore point Mdth him, the 
 sense of disgrace it brought ever eating into his very heart- 
 strings. 
 
 " My fallen fortunes have been a world's talk," he answered. 
 " I could not keej) them secret, if I would." 
 
 "Have you retained your former friends?" asked Sir 
 Arthur. 
 
 "Not one of them. Perhaps it is, in some degree, my 
 own fault, for my entire time is given to painting. Few 
 would care to know or recognise m^e now: Raby Yerner 
 Raby, the son and heir of the ricli and luxurious Yerner 
 Raby, who made some noise in the London world, and Raby 
 the poor art-student, are two people. None have sought me 
 since the change. Not one has addressed me with the kind- 
 ness and sympathy that you have now. Sir Arthur." 
 
 " I shall see you again," remarked Sir Arthur, as he shook 
 him by the hand, and turned away to the great artist and 
 his paintings. 
 
 In the evening, Raby returned to his home— if the garret 
 ho occupied could be called such. Coram had spoken 
 accurately : not half sufficient for what would generally be 
 called the bare necessaries of life remained from the wreck 
 of his father's property. But it was made to suffice for his 
 wants. It would seem that surely his dress must take it all, 
 and none could conjecture how ho contrived to eke it out. 
 He was often cold, often hungry, ah\ays weary; yet his 
 hopeful spirit buoyed him up, and pictured visions of future 
 greatness. He never for one moment doubted that he was 
 destined to become of world-wide fame : those who possess 
 true genius are invariably conscious of it in their inmost 
 heart : and he would repeat over and over again to himself 
 the w^ords he felt must some time be applied to him — " The 
 great painter — the painter Raby." 
 
60 THE FOGaY NlCxIlT AT OFFORD. 
 
 He sat clown that evening to his dinner- supper of breacl- 
 and-eheese. It tasted less dry than usual, for his thoughts 
 were absorbed by the chief event of the day, the meeting 
 with Sir Arthur Saxonbury. He attributed, in his uncon- 
 sciousness, the interest which Sir Arthur had betrayed in 
 him to admiration of his genius : he knew how warm a 
 supporter of rising artists Sir Arthur was, and he deemed 
 the introduction the very happiest circumstance that could 
 have befallen him. Could he only have foreseen what that 
 introduction was to bring forth ! 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 MAUI A SAXONBURY. 
 
 The golden light of the setting sun was falling on a golden 
 room. It is scarcely wrong to call it so, for its prevalent 
 colour was that of gold. Gold-coloured satin curtains and 
 cushioned chairs, gilt cornices, mirrors in gilded frames, 
 gilded consoles whose slabs of the richest lapis-lazuli shone 
 with costly toys, paintings in rich enclosures, and golden 
 ornaments. Altogether the room looked a blaze of gold. 
 The large window opened upon a wide terrace, on which 
 rose an ornamental fountain, its glittering spray dancing in 
 the sunlight: and beyond that terrace was a fair domain, 
 stretched out far and wide; the domain of Sir Arthur 
 Saxonbury. 
 
 Swinging her pretty foot to and fro, and leaning back in 
 one of the gay chairs, was a lovely girl budding into woman- 
 hood, with bright features and a laughing eye ; the younsjcst, 
 the most indulged, and the vainest daughter of Sir Arthur. 
 She was in a white lace evening dress, and wore a pearl 
 necklace and pearl bracelets on her fair neck and arms. 
 They had recently come home after the short London season, 
 which had been half over when they returned from the 
 Continent, and were as yet free from visitors. Lady Saxon- 
 bury was in ill health, and Mrs. Ashton, the eldest married 
 
MARIA SAXONBURY. 
 
 61 
 
 daughter, was staying with them while her husband was 
 abroad. 
 
 In a chair, a little behind Miss Saxonbury, as if conscious 
 of the distance between them — for there luas a distance — sat 
 Eaby Eaby. It has been said the Louse was free from 
 visitors ; but he was scarcely regarded as one. Sir Arthur, 
 in the plenitude of his heart, had invited him to come and 
 stay a couple of months at Saxonbury ; the country air would 
 renovate him ; he could have the run of the picture-gallery, 
 and copy some of its chefs cVoeiwre. And Eaby came. Sir 
 Arthur's early secret was safe with himself, and he could 
 only explain that his interest in Eaby Eaby was simply that 
 which he would take in any rising artist. So the family, 
 even the servants, looked upon him with a patronising eye, 
 as one who had " come to paint." Eaby had accepted Sir 
 Arthur's invitation with a glow of gratification — the far- 
 famed Saxonbury gallery was anticipation enough for him. 
 He forgot to think where the funds could come from to 
 make a suitable appearance as Sir Arthur Saxonbury's 
 guest ; but these the painter Coram delicately furnished. 
 " It is but a loan," said he : " you can repay me with the 
 first proceeds that your pencil shall receive." 
 
 Thus Eaby went to Saxonbury. And there had he been 
 now for half his allotted time, drinking in the wondrous 
 beauties of the place and scenery — and draughts of other 
 wondrous beauties which he would have been as well without. 
 The elegance which surrounded him, and to which he had 
 been latterly a stranger — the charms of the society he was 
 thrown amongst once again, as an equal for the time being 
 — the gratification of the eye and mind, and the pomp and 
 pride of courtly life — all this w^as only too congenial to the 
 exalted taste of Eaby Eaby, and he was in danger of forgetting 
 the stern realities of life to become lost in a false El^^sium. 
 
 He was thrown much with Maria Saxonbury — far more 
 than he need have been. The fault was hers. A great 
 admirer of beauty, like her father, and possessing a high 
 reverence for genius, the exquisite face of Eaby Eaby 
 attracted her admiration as it had never yet been attracted ; 
 whilst his eager aspirations and love for the fine arts were 
 
62 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 perfectly consonant to lier own mind. His companionship 
 soon grew excessively pleasing, and she gave her days up to 
 it vv^ithout restraint, absorbed in the pleasure of the moment. 
 Nothing more : of all people in the \Yorld, Maria Saxonbury 
 w^as the last to think seriously of one beneath her. So, 
 leaving consequences to take care of themselves, or to be 
 remedied by time, she dwelt only on the present. She 
 would flit about him when he was at work in the picture- 
 gallery, she would linger by his side in the gardens, one or 
 other of the little Ashtons generally being their companion : 
 in short, it seemed that the object of Maria's life, just now, 
 was to be with the artist-visitor. Even this night, when 
 her father and sister had gone out to dinner, she had excused 
 herself : she would stay at home with her mother, she said : 
 but Lady Saxonbury was in her chamber, and Maria remained 
 in the drawing-room with Mr. Eaby. It is probable that 
 Lady Saxonbury, if she thought of him at all, believed 
 him to bo painting then. Was it in remembrance of some 
 one else that Sir Arthur had named his youngest child 
 Maria ? " But they sometimes called her by her other name, 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 " Do you admire this purse ? " she suddenly inquired, 
 holding out one of grass-green silk, with gold beads, tassels, 
 and slides— a marvel of prettiness. 
 
 Eaby rose and took it from her, and turned it about in his 
 white and slender hands. Those remarkable hands ! feeble 
 to look at, elegant in structure, always restless ; so strongly 
 characteristic of genius, as well as of delicacy of constitution. 
 
 " It is quite a gem," he said, in answer. 
 
 " You may have it in place of your ugly one," continued 
 Miss Saxonbury : " that frightful portemonnaie of grim 
 leather which I saw you with the other day. I made this 
 for some one else, who does not seem in a hurry to come for 
 it ; so I will give it to you." 
 
 A rush of suspicious emotion flew to his face, and her 
 eyes fell beneath the eloquent gaze of his. 
 
 " How shall I thank you ? " was all he said. It shall 
 be to me an everlasting remembrance." 
 
 " That's in return for tlie pretty sketch you gave me 
 
MARIA SAXONBURY. 
 
 63 
 
 yesterday," she went on. One you took at Kome, and filled 
 in from memory." 
 
 " You mistake. Miss Saxoubury. I said I drew it from 
 description. I Lave never been to Eome. That is a pleasure 
 to come." 
 
 " As it is for me," observed Maria. " I was there once 
 when a little girl, but I remember nothing of it. A cross 
 woman, half governess, half maid, who was hired to talk 
 Italian to us, is all my recollection of the place. Last year 
 and the year before, when we were wasting our time in 
 Paris and at the baths of Germany, doing mamma more 
 harm than good, I urged them to go on to Kome, but no 
 one listened to me. I have an idea that I shall be dis- 
 appointed v\^henever I do go : we always are, v/hen we expect 
 so much." 
 
 " Always, always," murmured Eaby. 
 
 " I long to see some of those features I am familiar with 
 from paintings," added Miss Saxonbury. The remains of 
 the Caesars' palaces — the real grand St. Peter's — the beautiful 
 Alban Hills— and all Kome's other glories. I grow im- 
 patient sometimes, and tell papa there will be nothing left 
 for me to see : that Sallust's garden will be a heap of stinging 
 nettles— I dare say it is nothing else ; and Cecilia Metella's 
 tomb destroyed." 
 
 And thus they conversed till it grew dark, and the 
 servants came in to light the chandeliers. Miss Saxonbury 
 remembered her mother then, and rose to go to her, to see 
 Avhy she had not come down. 
 
 When Maria returned, the room was empty, and she stood 
 in the bow of the window and looked out. It was the custom 
 at Saxonbury House to leave the curtains of this wdndov/ 
 open on a favourable night; for the moonlight landscajDC, 
 outside, was indeed fair to look upon. Mr. Eaby was then 
 walking on the terrace ; his step was iirm and self-possessed, 
 his head raised : it was only in the presence of his fellow- 
 creatures that Eaby Eaby was a shy and awkward man. He 
 saw her, and approached the window. 
 
 " I have been studying the Folly all this time," he said ; 
 "fancying it must look like those ruined Eoman temples 
 
G4 
 
 THE FOGGY XIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 we have been speaking of; as they must look iu the light 
 and shade of the moonlight." 
 
 " Does it ? " she answered, laughingly. " I will go and 
 look, too." 
 
 Miss Saxonbury stej^ped on the terrace, and he gave her 
 his arm. Did she feel the violent beating of his heart, 
 as her bracelet lay against it ? They walked, in the shade 
 cast by the house, to the railings at the end of the terrace, 
 and there came in view of the fanciful building in question, 
 
 Lady Saxonbury's Folly." It rose, high and white, on the 
 opposite hills, amidst a grove of dark trees. 
 
 I do not like the building by day," he observed ; " but, 
 as it looks now, I cannot fancy anything more classically 
 beautiful in the Eternal City, even when it was in its 
 zenith." 
 
 " It does look beautiful," she mused. 
 
 " And the landscape, as it lies around, is equally so : look 
 at its different points showing out. You have not seen 
 many scenes more gratifying to the imaginative eye than 
 this, Mr. Eaby." 
 
 " I shall never see a second Saxonbury," was the impulsive 
 
 answer. " Take it for all in all, I shall never see But 
 
 look at this side," he abruptly broke off, turning in the 
 opposite direction. 
 
 Oh, I don't care to look there. It is all dark. I only 
 like the bright side of things." 
 
 " Has it never struck you that these two aspects, the light 
 and the dark of a moonlight night, are a type of human 
 fortunes ? While some favoured spirits bask in brightness, 
 others must be cast, and remain, in the depths of shade." 
 
 " No. I never thought about it. My life has been all 
 brightness." 
 
 " May it ever remain so ! " he whispered with a deep sigh : 
 but Miss Saxonbury had turned to the pleasant side again. 
 
 " What a fine painting this view would make ! " she ex- 
 claimed. " I wonder papa has never had it done. One of 
 your favourite scenes, Mr. Eaby, all poetry and moonlight, 
 interspersed with a dash of melancholy. Some of you artists 
 are too fond of depicting melancholy scenes." 
 
I\IAiaA SAXONBUIIY. 
 
 " Wo depict scenes as wo find tlieni. You know tlie eye 
 sees witli its own hue. Tliero may be a gangrene over the 
 gladdest sunshine." 
 
 " Artists ought to be always glad : living, as they do, 
 amidst ideal beauties : nay, creating them." 
 
 "Ideal! That was a fitting word, Miss Saxonbury. Wc 
 live in the toil and drudgery of the work ; others, who only 
 see the picture when it is completed, in the ideal. When 
 you stand and admire some favourite painting, do you ever 
 cast a thought to the weary hours of labour which created 
 it?" 
 
 " K"o doubt the pursuit of art has its inconveniences. But 
 you great painters must bear within you your own recom- 
 pense." 
 
 *• In a degree, yes," answered Raby ; the expression you 
 great painters " echoing gratefully on his car. " The con- 
 sciousness of possessing that rare gift, genius, is ample 
 recompense — saving in moments of despondency." 
 
 And yet you talk of melancholy and gangrene, Mr. Eaby, 
 and similar unpleasant topics ! " 
 
 The lives of great men arc frequently marked by un* 
 happiness," observed Eaby. In saying ' great men,' I mean 
 men inwardly great ; men of genius, of imaginative intellect. 
 Look at some of our dead poets — at what is said of them." 
 
 " I think their fault lay in looking at the dark side of 
 things, instead of the bright," laughed Maria. " Like your- 
 self at present. You will keep turning to that gloomy point, 
 where the scenery is all obscure, nothing bright but the 
 great moon itself ; and that shines right in your face." 
 
 " They could not look otherwise than they did," he argued, 
 his own tone sounding melancholy enough. 
 
 " Well, well, I suppose it is the fate of genius," returned 
 Maria. " I was reading lately, in a French work, some 
 account of the life of Leonardo da Vinci. He was not a 
 happy man." 
 
 " Ho was called Da Vinci the Unhappy. How many of 
 his brethren might also have been called so ! " 
 
 " Were I you, I should not make up my mind to be one 
 them ; I should be just the contrary/' said Maria, gaily, 
 
 Ihe Unholy Vtlsh. 5 
 
66 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOilD. 
 
 " Fancy goes a great way in this life. And so," she added, 
 after a pause, " you think some of the queer old temples in 
 Italy must look like that ? " pointing to the Folly. " How 
 I wish I could see them ! " 
 
 " How I wish loe could see them ! " he murmured — " that 
 we could see them together ! " 
 
 Perhaps he wondered whether he had said too much. She 
 did not check him, — only turned, and began to move back 
 towards the drawing-room, her arm within his, 
 
 " We may see them together," she said, at length. " You 
 will, of necessity, visit Italy ; I, of inclination ; and we may 
 meet there. I hope we shall know you in after-life, Mr. 
 Raby; but of that there will be little doubt. Every one 
 will know you, for you will be one of England's famous 
 painters." 
 
 They reached the window, and he took her hand in his, 
 though it was unnecessary, to assist her over the low step ; 
 he kept it longer than he need have done. Not for the first 
 time, by several, had he thus clasped it in the little courtesies 
 of life. Oh, Eaby, Raby ! can you not see that it had been 
 better for your peace of mind had you clasped some poisonous 
 old serpent ! 
 
 Lady Saxonbury was in the room then in her easy-chair, 
 which had its back to the window. Eaby did not enter, but 
 turned away. The tea was on the table, and Miss Saxon- 
 bury began to pour it out. 
 
 " My dear," cried Lady Saxonbury, a kind, simple-hearted 
 woman, " where's that poor painter ? I dare say he would 
 like some tea." 
 
 " He was on the terrace just now," replied Maria. 
 
 " He must feel very dull," resumed Lady Saxonbury. " I 
 fear, child, wc neglect him. Send one of the servants to ask 
 him to come in." 
 
 The " poor painter," lost in anticipations of the time when 
 he should be a rich one, was leaning against the railings, 
 whence he had stood and gazed abroad with Miss Saxonbury, 
 — the purse she had given him lying in his bosom. In the 
 last few weeks his whole existence had changed, for he had 
 learnt to love Maria Saxonbury with a wild, passionate love. 
 
MAillA SAXONBUBY. 
 
 6? 
 
 To be near her was bliss, even to agitation; to bear her 
 speak set bis frame trembling ; to touch her hand sent his 
 heart's blood thrilling through his veins. It is only these 
 imaginative, unearthly natures, too sensitive and refined for 
 the uses of common life, that can tell of this intense, pure, 
 etherealised 23assion, which certainly partakes more of heaven 
 than of earth. He stood there, indulging a vision of hope 
 - — a deceitful, glowing vision. He saw not himself as he 
 was, but as he should be — the glorious painter, to whose 
 genius the whole world would bow. Surely there was no 
 such impassable barrier between that worshipped painter 
 and the daughter of Sir Arthur Saxonbury ! 
 
 Alas for the improbable dream he was suifering himself 
 to nourish ! alas for its fatal ending ! Three or four weeks 
 more of its sweet delusion, and then it was rudely broken. 
 
 Mr. Yorke, a relative of Sir Arthur's, and the heir-pre- 
 sumptive to a portion of his estates, arrived at Saxonbury. 
 He had been named Arthur Mair, after Sir Arthur. Kaby 
 Verner recognised him, for they had been at Christ Church 
 together, but he had not recalled him to his memory since, 
 and had never known him as the relative of Sir Arthur 
 Saxonbury. He was a tall, strong, handsome young fellow. 
 
 But ere Mr. Yorke had been two days at Saxonbury, a 
 rumour, or suspicion (in the agitation of Eaby's feelings he 
 hardly knew which), reached the artist that his visit was to 
 Maria, that she was intended for her cousin's wife. The same 
 evening, calm and lovely as the one when they had looked 
 forth together at the Folly, the truth became clear to Eaby. 
 
 They were seated in the drawing-room, all the family, 
 when Maria stepped on the terrace, and the artist followed 
 her. Presently Arthur Yorke saw them pacing it together, 
 Eaby having given her his arm. Mr, Yorke drew down the 
 corners of his lips, and stalked out. 
 
 " Thank you," he said to Eaby, with freezing politeness, 
 as he authoritatively drew away Maria's arm and placed it 
 within his own, " I will take charge of Miss Saxonbury if 
 she wishes to walk." 
 
 He strode away with her : and Eaby, with a drooping head 
 
68 Tin: F(rv;i;v XK^irr at on'uKu. 
 
 and nlukiiig licart, dcsccudod tlio uiiddlo Btc2)S of tlu^ icrnico. 
 lUi stole along iiiidor cover of its lii^^li wall aiiy\vliei(5 to 
 hide liiiiiself and Ih'h ouiraj^cd feeliiij^s. Tliat action, tlios(5 
 words of Mr. Yoilvo's, liad Ijiit too surely Ixitrayed liis v\*^\\i 
 of interest in ]\[ai*ia. Jle eanie to tin; end of tlui tei*raee, and 
 found tliey liad halted llH^n;, just above liim. \\(\ was to 
 ]i(!ar worse words no\N', and he could not lielj) liinisidf. 
 
 Then y(ju liiid no l)usin(;ss to do it — you had no right to 
 do it/' Maria was saying, in a petuhmt tone. 11(3 was not 
 going to eat lae, if I did walk with him." 
 
 " J'Lxcuse nic, ]\Iaria, 1. am the ])est judge. Jtahy hehl the 
 position of a gentleman once, and might })e a desirable 
 a(;(|uaintance ; hut things have changed with liini." 
 
 "Jtubbish!" retorted Miss Saxonbnry. "J hi is papa'K 
 guest; and he is as good as; you. A gtiuth^man oncr^ a 
 gentlenum alwiiys." 
 
 "I am not saying he is Jiot a gentleman. Jiiit Ik; is no 
 long(;r in the position of one." 
 
 'vile was born ami reared om^ ; Ik; w ill always Ix; onc^ ; 
 (|uite as much as you are," persisted Maria, in her tantalising 
 Hpirit. 
 
 "Well, 1 don't care, tluju, to put my objection on Ihat 
 score. J3ut it is ]K>t agreeable to me to see you wjillving aiKl 
 talking so familiarly Avith liim." 
 
 "Just say you arc jealous at on(;e, Aiiliiu'. 11' you think 
 to contnd me, I can tell you — — " 
 
 Hallo, Arthur I Stcj) here a moment." 
 
 The voice was Sir Arthur Saxonbury's. Maria paused in 
 her S2)eech, and Mr. Yorke unwillingly retired towards th(3 
 drawing room. Jiaby, in the fren/y of the monnsnt, darted 
 up the end ste})S, startling her by his sudden appearance. 
 
 "Miss Saxonbury ! will you answer me? I'orgive uk," 
 he panted, as he laid his hand upon hi^r siini, in his painful 
 eagerness — "forgive nu; that I must ask the (piestion ! J las 
 Arthur Yovkc a rvjitt to tak(5 you from me, as he did but 
 now V " 
 
 " Of course he has not, Mr. liaby. How can he have ? " 
 "I mean- pray forgive me the right of more ihau 
 cuujfcinship V " 
 
THE BLOW TELLING HOME 
 
 CO 
 
 Slie was lialf terrified at Lis parted Lis laboured 
 
 breatbing, bis gbastly face, from wbicb suspense took every 
 vestige of colour : and sbe saw tbat sbe migbt not dare to 
 tamper witb bim ; tbat tbe kinder course, now, was to set 
 bis ambitious dream at rest. 
 
 " Well, tben," sbe wbispered, " tbougb of course be bad 
 not tbe rigbt to interfere, and it was very bad taste in bim 
 to do so, and I will not submit to bis wbims ; yet, yet — tbe 
 time may come wben be will be to me more tban a cousin." 
 
 His band unloosed its clasp of ber arm, and Maria Saxon- 
 bury bastened towards tbe drawing-room. He watcbed ber 
 in ; and tben, wben no buman eye or ear w^as near, bis bead 
 sank upon tbe cold railings, and a low wail of anguisb went 
 fortb on tbe quiet evening air. Too surely, tbougb Maria 
 Saxonbury migbt never know it, bad tbe iron entered into 
 bis soul. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 THE BLOW TELLING HOME. 
 
 In December, business took Sir Artbur Saxonbury to London. 
 He paid a visit to tbe artist Coram, but be did not see Raby. 
 His easel and cbair were tbere, but tbe easel bad no work 
 in its frame, and tlie cbair was empty. 
 
 " Has be abjured tbe art, or found anotber studio ? " in- 
 quired Sir Artbur. 
 
 Tbe great painter sbook bis bead. " He bas not abjured 
 it. A different art — or power — is claiming bim now ; one 
 to wbicb we must all succumb — Deatb." 
 
 " Deatb ! " ecboed Sir Artbur. 
 
 " He bas gone off very rapidly ; in a decline, or sometbing 
 of tbat sort. I saw bim two days ago, and I did not tbink, 
 tben, be would last until now. I wonder I bave not beard 
 of bis deatb." 
 
 " Wbat can be tbe cause of its coming on so suddenly ? 
 He was remarkably well wben at Saxonbury. I saw no 
 symptom of decline or any otber illness about bim tben/' 
 
70 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGTIT AT OFFOED. 
 
 ^'Do you remember my telling yon, Sir Arthur, that a 
 blow to the feelings would kill him ? " 
 
 Sir Arthur considered. " I think I do." 
 
 " He has had it, unless I am mistaken. He received it at 
 Saxonbury." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " inquired the baronet. 
 
 " I do not understand it, — and indeed it is no business of 
 mine, — but when he came up from Saxonbury, he had cer- 
 tainly received his death-blow. A suspicion has crossed me 
 whether your lovely daughter had anything to do with it. 
 Pardon me, Sir Arthur, we are old friends — it is a thought 
 that would be mentioned only to you." 
 
 "I should like to go and see him," said Sir Arthur. 
 ^' Will you go with me ? " 
 
 They went. Eaby was still alive, but it w\as getting 
 towards his last day of life. He lay panting on his humble 
 bed, alone. A hectic flush, even then, lighted up his w^asted 
 cheek at sight of lier father. Sir Arthur, inexpressibly 
 shocked, sat down by him, and took his poor damp hand. 
 
 "What can you have been doing to yourself," he asked, 
 " to get into this state ? " 
 
 " I think it was inherent in me," murmured Eaby. " My 
 mother died in a decline." 
 
 " You have had the best advice, I hope ? " 
 
 Eaby made a movement of dissent. " A medical student, 
 whom I know, comes in sometimes. I could not call in 
 good advice, for I had not the means to pay for it." 
 
 "Oh, my boy ! " uttered Sir Arthur, in a tone of anguish, 
 as he leaned over him, " why did you not let me know this? 
 Half my purse should have been yours, for your mother's 
 sake." 
 
 "All the skill in England would not have availed me," 
 he earnestly said. " Sir Arthur, it is best as it is, for I am 
 going to her. She has been waiting for me all these years. 
 She told me my lot would not be a happy one. But it will 
 soon be over now," he added, his voice growing fainter ; 
 " earthly pain of all kinds has nearly passed away." 
 
 Curious thoughts were perplexing Sir Arthur Saxonbury 
 as he quitted the scene. If a rude blow to his feelings had 
 
THE BT.OW TELLING HOME. 
 
 71 
 
 ir.deed caused Eaby to sink into bodily illness, and tlienco 
 to death, and that blow had been dealt by Maria Saxonbury, 
 how very like it was to retribution for the blow Maria Eaby 
 had dealt out to him ! He was a strong man, and had 
 weathered it, but it had left more permanent traces on his 
 heart than he had suffered the world to know. Sir Arthur 
 lost himself in these thoughts, and then shook them off as a 
 disagreeable and unsatisfactory theme. 
 
 On Christmas-Eve he returned to Saxonbury. After 
 dinner, his two daughters only being at table, he told them of 
 the expected death of the artist Eaby. Mrs. Ashton ex- 
 pressed sorroY/ and surprise. Maria said nothing, but her 
 face drooped, and a burning colour overspread it. Sir Arthur 
 looked sternly at her. Her head only drooped the lower. 
 
 "It has been hinted to me that you tampered with his 
 feelings," he said, in severely reproachful tones. " Let me 
 tell you, Maria, that the vain habit of encouraging admiration 
 whence it cannot legally be received always tends to ill. 
 No right-minded girl would condescend to it." 
 
 " I thought Maria talked a great deal with young Eaby," 
 remarked Mrs. Ashton. " Had he been of our own order, I 
 should have interfered ; but 1 knew she could not be serious. 
 He was only a painter." 
 
 "She killed him." was the significant ansv/er of Sir 
 Arthur. And Maria Saxonbury burst into tears. 
 
 Sir Arthur said no more. He may have thought it was 
 the province of women to inflict such wounds, and of men to 
 bear them. He knew not how far Eaby's own impressionable 
 nature might have been in fault, or whether Maria, in the 
 exercise of coquetry, of vanity, had unwarrantably drawn 
 him on. It booted not to inquire now ; the past could not 
 be undone; neither could Eaby be brought back to life. 
 One thing was indisputable : that, beautiful as Maria Eaby 
 had been in the old days, beautiful was Maria Saxonbury 
 now. It is impossible for some men to be near such beauty 
 and not suffer from it once in their lives. 
 
 Maria, vexed and angry with herself for the outburst of 
 feeling, had dried away her tears as hastily as they came, 
 aud was going on with her dinner with what appetite she 
 
72 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOllD. 
 
 had. Sir Arthur went on with his, glancing at her now and 
 then between his eyelashes. 
 
 " T7]ien did Mr= Eaby die ? " asked Mrs. Ashton. 
 " I do not know yet that ho is dead," replied Sir Arthur. 
 He was alive when I quitted London, a week ago ; but it 
 was certain he could not last long." 
 
 Did you see him, papa ? continued Mrs. Ashton. 
 " I saw him several times." 
 
 "You seemed to be very much interested in that young 
 man, papa." 
 
 " I was so," quietly replied Sir Arthur. " I looked up to 
 him as one of a superior order." 
 
 Superior ! " somewhat slightingly remarked Mrs. Ashton. 
 
 " Yes, Florence, in my opinion. I bow to genius ; I 
 respect misfortune : Raby Raby v/as rich in both. Had he 
 lived, I should have done something for him : as it is, all I 
 could do was to render his death-bed a little more comfortable 
 than it might otherwise have been." 
 
 " Does he suffer much ? " 
 
 "I hoj)e not. The fear was, though, that he might 
 towards the last. I invited Mr. Janson to come down for a 
 day or two when all was over, and bring the account of his 
 last hours." 
 
 Who is Mr. Janson, papa ? " 
 "A friend of Eaby's. A young surgeon, who has been 
 much with him in his illness — very kind and attentive to 
 him. A gay, gentlemanly, pleasant young fellow as ever I 
 came across," somewhat warmly added Sir Arthur. 
 
 " Papa, I think you show a great liking for young men ! " 
 Possibly I do, Louisa. Having no sons of my own may 
 liave induced it. It is not often, though, one meets with so 
 charming a young man as Mr. Janson." 
 " Is he a gentleman ? " 
 By birth do you mean ? I never asked him the question. 
 He is one in mind, and manners, and cultivation ; and that 
 is sufficient for me. You were always too fastidious, 
 Louisa." 
 
 Maria, meanwhih), said not a word. After the rebuke 
 administered by lior father, she could but show some sense 
 
THE r>LOW TELTJNG 1I():\IE 
 
 73 
 
 of it : tlioiigli, indeed, lier tlioiiglits were too busy to admit 
 of her joining lightly in the conversation. Heartily sorry 
 was she to hear of the death of Eaby Eaby ; and certain 
 qualms of conscience were reproaching her. In the midst 
 of all her vanity and her flirting, her laying her charms out 
 for admiration and her lingering interviews with Mr. Eaby, 
 she had not lost her heart to him. In point of fact, that 
 vulnerable portion of the human frame was as yet intact in 
 Maria Saxonbury. But she had liked him much. She liad 
 admired his beauty of face: she had reverenced his great 
 gift, genius ; she had sat most complacently to listen to his 
 softly-breathed words, and their scarcely-disguised theme, 
 love. It had been very reprehensible. Maria had con- 
 veniently ignored that fact at the time ; but she was feeling 
 it deeply now. Putting aside her vanity, her consciousness 
 of beauty, her love of admiration, she was a noble-hearted 
 girl ; and she was wishing just now that she could recall 
 Eaby Eaby to life, almost at the sacrifice of her own. That 
 ehe had wrecked his happiness, she had had some cause to 
 believe ; but to have wrecked his life — Maria turned all 
 over in a hot glow, and wondered whether she might yet 
 dare to ask God to forgive her. 
 
 " Why should some people's nature be so sensitive ? " she 
 somewhat peevishly asked herself. They are not fit to be 
 in the world." 
 
 No, they are not. And many a one has had cause to know 
 that truth besides Maria Saxonbury. 
 
 She sat in her dainty dress of white, the jewels shining 
 on her fair neck and arms — sat in her old favourite attitude, 
 after she went into the drawing-room — leaning back in 
 a fauteuil, her black satin slipper steadily tapping the 
 carpet. Not so much in petulance, possibly, as in sorrow, 
 was that pretty foot moving. Life seemed to her particularly 
 gloomy that evening : as if it were to have no future. 
 
 For one thing, she had been vexed by the non-arrival of 
 Arthur Yorke. He was to have spent Christmas at Saxon- 
 bury, to have been with them that day ; but a letter, telling 
 of the serious illness of his mother, had come instead. Maria 
 liked Arthur Yorke very well — quite sufficiently well to be 
 
74 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 grieved at liis non-aiTival, and to feel it as a disappointment. 
 And yet slio did not love him. Slie did not love Arthur 
 Yorke any more than she had loved Mr. Kaby. It is a 
 capricious passion— one that will not come for the bidding 
 — and, perhaps, the very fact of Maria's having gathered 
 hints that she was destined to be Mr. Yorke's wife, had 
 kept the love away. 
 
 Sir Arthur Saxonbury had never said to Maria, ^-All 
 going well, I wish you to be the wife of Arthur Yorke." 
 Lady Saxonbury had never said it. More than all, Mr. 
 Yorke himself had never said it. And yet, Maria knew 
 that such was her projected destiny. Sir Arthur Saxonbury 
 wished it ; there was not the slightest doubt that Mr. Yorke 
 wished it; but neither of them had spoken directly to 
 Maria. She was very young ; and Sir Arthur, who would 
 not for the world have pushed on such a project against her 
 inclination, had desired Mr. Yorke not to speak at present. 
 " Give her time to get a liking for you first," he said, and 
 the advice was good. But the project had, in some way, 
 oozed out, and Maria knew it as well as they did. In fact, 
 there existed a tacit understanding, that she did, between 
 herself and Mr. Yorke. She was contented to contemplate 
 the prospect, and to believe that some time or other she 
 should be Mrs. Yorke. At present she was pleased to show 
 off her caprices and her coq[uetries to him, as she did to 
 others, secure in her own power. 
 
 Lady Saxonbury, a confirmed invalid, suffering under an 
 inward complaint, reclined in a fauteuil opposite Maria. 
 Mrs. Ashton, who had always some work in hand for one or 
 other of her children, sat at the table between them, doing 
 something to the lace of a little cap, and grumbling at 
 her unconscious nursemaids for having allowed it to get 
 torn. 
 
 " Have you heard the news about Mr. Eaby, mamma ? " 
 she suddenly asked. 
 
 " Your papa told me, Florence," replied Lady Saxonbury. 
 " What a sad thing that consumption is ! But it must have 
 attacked Mr. Eaby suddenly. He was not ill when he was 
 here," 
 
THE BLOW TELLING HOME. 
 
 75 
 
 " Very suddenly," returned Mrs. Asliton, in marked tones, 
 made tart for the benefit of Maria. 
 
 "He never looked strong," resumed Lady Saxonbury. 
 "He bad a remarkably fragile appearance, I used to say 
 so to Maria. What can that be ? " 
 
 The " What can that be ? " referred to the signs of an 
 arrival. Wheels had sounded on the gravel, and the hall 
 bell was now ringing. But no one appeared, and the occur- 
 rence passed from their minds. 
 
 The time went on to tea-time, and the tea waited on the 
 table for Sir Arthur. Never given to taking much wine, 
 Lady Saxonbury openly wondered what could be keeping 
 him in the dining-room. 
 
 " It is possible that, tired with his journey, he may have 
 dropped asleep," she suddenly said. " Go and see, Maria." 
 
 Maria rose listlessly, and proceeded to the dining-room, 
 speaking as she entered it — 
 
 "Papa, you don't come to tea. We have been wonder- 
 ing " 
 
 And there she stopped. Seated by Sir Arthur was a 
 gentleman, a stranger to Maria. He rose as she spoke, and 
 stood facing her, a beaming smile on his countenance. A 
 gentlemanly-looking man, young, with a remarkably winning 
 expression of face, and frank manners. Sir Arthur rose also. 
 
 " My daughter, Mr. Janson ; Miss Saxonbury." 
 
 Maria remembered the name Janson in connection with 
 Eaby Eaby ; and not possessing a perfectly easy conscience 
 on that score altogether, left the room again as quickly as 
 she could. Sir Arthur followed her, bringing his guest to 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 Eaby had died the day following the departure of Sir 
 Arthur Saxonbury from London. He, Sir Arthur, had paid 
 a visit of nearly a week upon the road. Mr. J anson waited 
 to bury his friend, and then availed himself of the invitation 
 to Saxonbury. 
 
 " Did he die hard — in much pain ? " inquired Lady Saxon- 
 bury, when they had been speaking of him some little time. 
 
 " Quite easy in all ways," replied Mr. Janson. " He 
 appeared to think he was going to his rest." 
 
THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOHD. 
 
 CHAPTER V, 
 
 RIVALS AT SAXONBUny. 
 
 A WEEK passed over; a fortniglit passed over; a month 
 passed over ; and stiH Mr. J anson was located at Saxonbury. 
 It may appear curious that the stranger, come down for only 
 a day or two's visit, should remain so long ; but the explana- 
 tion is easy. A medical student, nearly qualified, and clever 
 in his profession. Lady Saxonbury, who felt a liking for him 
 the first moment she saw him, naturally confided to him her 
 ailments. Mr. Janson took quite a new view of her case, 
 and recommended remedies which had never been tried. It 
 may be, that they would not do her any permanent good ; 
 indeed, he acknowledged the doubt himself; but they con- 
 siderably alleviated her daily sufferings, and it rendered her 
 unwilling to part with him. She besought him to remain 
 with almost impassioned fervour ; she pressed Sir Arthur to 
 keep him. Mr. Janson frankly assured Lady Saxonbury 
 that he did not require pressing ; that he would remain as 
 long as she liked, in reason. His course of studies in 
 London was over for the present ; he was about to pass some 
 months in Paris to pursue them there ; and, whether he went 
 a few weeks later or earlier, was of no consequence. 
 
 So he stayed on. Indispensable to Lady Saxonbury, 
 v/inning every day on the esteem of Sir Arthur, rendering 
 himself agreeable to Mrs. Ashton, and — falling in love with 
 Maria, Mr. Janson stayed on. 
 
 It was the old story over again of Eaby Raby. With one 
 exception. There were morning meetings in the picture- 
 gallery ; afternoon roamings in the fair grounds of Saxon- 
 bury ; and evening lingerings in the deep bay windows, the 
 two, arm in arm, gazing out on the Folly, on the lovely 
 scenery by moonlight. Just as it had been in Raby's time. 
 But, what Raby had not done, with all his poetry and 
 passion, had been effected hj the less poetical, fir less 
 
mVALS AT SAXONBTJIIY. 
 
 77 
 
 niipassioned Mr, Jansou— lie liacl gained tlie heart of Maria 
 Saxonbury. 
 
 Does a woman ever love a man of a timid nature ? Poor 
 Raby, v/itli his innate refinement, his sensitive reticence, his 
 consciousness of his i)resent fallen fortunes, contrived to 
 impart to Maria a knowledge of his self-conscious inferiority. 
 Mr. Janson, whoso birth was far inferior to Eaby's, whose 
 position and propects in point of fact were little, if any, 
 better than Eaby's fallen ones, gave her an idea of his being 
 very, very superior. Not purposely : no man thought less 
 about setting forth his own merits, or making himself apjiear 
 what he was not, than Edward Janson. His frank, oj^en 
 words, his thoroughly easy and gentlemanly bearing, his 
 somewhat off-hand manner to the servants, contributed to 
 the impression. Who or what he was, Maria Saxonbury did 
 not ask ; she had never been in the habit of troubling 
 herself with such questions where a comj)anion was attrac- 
 tive : she gave herself up to the full charm of the intercourse, 
 and — before she was aware of it, before she had cast so much 
 as a thought to the danger, she had learnt to love Mr. 
 Janson. 
 
 Not before he had learnt to love her. Every tone of his 
 voice, every glance of his eye, every pressure of his hand, 
 given in common intercourse, told of the secret. Not a 
 word was spoken between them ; not a word perhaps would 
 be spoken; but the heart has a language of its own, un- 
 needful of common syllables, and they had found the way to 
 use it. 
 
 Did either give a thought to the future ? Probably not. 
 The present happiness Avas all sufficient for the present 
 hour. Had Mr. Janson soberly set himself to contemplate 
 that inevitable future, it would have looked unpromising 
 enough. To imagine a union with Miss Saxonbury would 
 have been in the highest degree prej^osterous : and on Miss 
 Saxonbury's part, she would have deemed it a great calamity 
 — nay, a disgrace — to wed one so far beneath her. So the 
 love, though it had come, was but an unsatisfactory boon, 
 take it for all in all. 
 
 And the pleasant int'^^rcouibe v^'a& soon to have an ending, 
 
78 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 Tiicy were in the picture-gallery one wet clay in February, 
 Louisa and Fanny Asliton making a great noise with a ball 
 at the other end of it. Maria sat on one of the crimson 
 benches, and Mr. Janson stood near her. She was toying 
 with the blue ribbons that tied her lace sleeve at the wrist, 
 her eyes and eyelids drooping. 
 
 " Why need you go so soon ? " she asked, in reply to a 
 remark from him that the end of the week would see his 
 departure. 
 
 So soon ! " echoed Mr. Janson. " I came here for a day 
 or two, and I have stayed more than six weeks. I loish I 
 could stay," he added in a lower and more impassioned tone. 
 *' I wish I could stay on for ever." 
 
 " You have been able to do mamma so much good," re- 
 turned Maria, after a pause. 
 
 " Could I have done her permanent good, I should be 
 better satisfied. Miss Saxonbury." 
 
 " Do you think, as others do, that the illness will last for 
 years — that she may never, even, get well ? " 
 
 "I have given my opinion to Sir Arthur," was Mr. 
 J anson's reply, after an almost imperceptible hesitation. He 
 could not say to Maria, " Far from getting well, I fear that 
 a very few weeks will see the ending." 
 
 " It will be a marked change, my hard work in Paris after 
 this delightful time of — of idleness," he resumed. 
 
 Maria played more abstractedly than ever with her blue 
 ribbons. " Do you go to Paris direct, on leaving Saxon- 
 bury?" 
 
 " I shall stay a week on tlie road with my mother." 
 
 Maria lifted her eyes. Your mother ? I don't think I 
 have heard you mention her. Where docs she live ? " 
 
 " On the coast of France. One of the quiet seaport towns 
 in direct steam communication with England. She has lived 
 there since my father died. Being a Eoman Catholic, and 
 her income small, the place suits her." 
 
 The words somewhat surprised Maria. " You arc not a 
 lioman Catholic ? " she said, recalling the fact that he had 
 attended church with them on Sundays. 
 
 "jSTo, I was reared in my father's faith. Had there 
 
felVALS AT SAXONBURY. 79 
 
 been daughters, they would have been brought up in niy 
 mothers." 
 
 " Your father was a soldier, I have heard you say ? " 
 
 " A soldier and a gentleman," somewhat pointedly replied 
 Mr. Janson. " But a poor one, and one of whom promotion 
 seemed shy. He had not so much as gained his majority 
 when he was killed." 
 
 " Why did you not go into the army ? " 
 
 " My mother set her face against it : scared, no doubt, by 
 my father's fate." 
 
 " I think I would have been anything, rather than a 
 doctor," remarked Maria, pulling more vehemently at her 
 ribbons. 
 
 " Would you ? I like it. I chose it. My mother wished 
 me to read for the bar, but I did not fall in with the idea. 
 I have neither talent nor liking that way." 
 
 I would have chosen it," said Maria. " Look at the 
 honours open to a barrister." 
 
 " Some fey/ in our profession attain to honour also," he 
 said ; " to honour and to fame. I may do so : though I do 
 not think I am very ambitious. The chances are," he 
 added, laughing, " that I shall settle down into a jog-trot 
 country surgeon, keeping my one-horse gig, and doctoring 
 the parish." 
 
 " There ; it's untied now ! " 
 
 Miss Saxonbury had pulled the ribbons of her sleeve a 
 little too far : a slight accident, and one scarcely sufficient to 
 account for her tone of vexation. She began to twist the 
 ribbons impatiently round her wrist. 
 
 " Will you accept of my clumsy tying ? " 
 
 She laughed, and held out her arm towards him. He was 
 in the act of tying the bow, his eyes fixed on her face at the 
 sapie time, as he whispered some gallant nonsense connected 
 with the occasion, and Maria was listening v/ith a half-raised 
 face and a self-conscious fiush, when some one moved 
 towards them from the entrance of the gallery. 
 
 It was Mr. Yorke. And he had time to take full view 
 of signs and appearances before they saw him. The bent 
 head of the handsome man, and his whispered Vvords ; the 
 
80 
 
 Till'] Foggy xigiit at OFroRD. 
 
 eiiijjloymeut, briugiiig their liancls into so close a contact ; 
 witli the crimson cheeks and the downcast lashes of Maria. 
 Something very like an ill word burst from his lips. 
 
 They looked round ; and Maria, scarlet now, but not 
 losing self-possession, advanced a few steps to welcome him. 
 He came on, and the gentlemen stood face to face. 
 
 Rivals from that moment ; and they both saw it. Never 
 destined to be open ones, perhaps ; but rivals beyond dis2)uto 
 in their secret hearts. 
 
 " Mr. Janson — Mr. Yorke." 
 
 A gaze from one to the other went out as Miss Saxonbury 
 spoke. Mr. Janson saw a tall, powerful man, whose very 
 height and strength gave him beauty. A fine countenance, 
 too ; though, when angered, he had a habit of showing too 
 much of his white teeth. Mr. Yorke, on his part saw a 
 frank, open, generous-looking young fellow, whose personal 
 attractions, if brought into play, might render him a dangerous 
 rival. 
 
 " How you have surprised me ! " began Maria. " Have 
 you seen papa ? " 
 
 " Not yet," he gravely answered. " White thought Sir 
 Arthur was in the picture-galler}^, and I came on here in 
 search of him. But I do not see him, Maria." 
 
 " I saw Sir Arthur go across the grounds in the rain an 
 hour ago," interposed Mr. Janson, in clear, ringing tones. 
 
 He has not come in, probably." 
 
 A haughty bow in return for the information, and Mr. 
 Yorke i^iirly turned his back upon the speaker. Mr. Janson 
 walked away to the end window, with the good-natured 
 intention of looking out for Sir Arthur. 
 
 " Who is that man, Maria ? " 
 
 "I told you — Mr. Janson," she answered; resentment 
 against his haughty air, his assumption of authority, seating 
 itself within her there and then, and peeping out in her 
 tone. " He is a medical student, and a friend of papa's. 
 He was the death-bed friend of poor Raby Eaby," she added 
 in her spirit of bravado. '-Mr. Janson has been here since 
 ChristmaSj and papa likes him very much. "Wc all like 
 him.'' 
 
I 
 
 THE VOYAGE OF THE ^'RUSHING WATER." 81 
 
 Mr. Yorke's lip curled. A medical student! Taking 
 Maria's hand, he ^^laced it within his arm to lead her away. 
 
 "Let me conduct you to Lady Saxonbur}^, Maria. I sup- 
 pose she is visible." 
 
 What rebellion she might have offered, whether any or 
 none, it is impossible to know, for at that moment Sir 
 Arthur entered. The little girls, too, becoming aware of 
 Mr. Yorke's j^i'esence for the first time, came running from 
 the upper end of the gallery, and Maria seized the oppor- 
 tunity to escape. 
 
 Changes came to Saxonbury ere the week was over. Mr. 
 Janson took a cordial farewell of all, and departed, as he 
 had planned to do. Mr. Yorke also departed ; but not until 
 he had had a serious quarrel with Maria. Without their 
 tacit engagement having been mentioned or alluded to, it 
 was understood between them that it w^as at an end ; that 
 they had parted : and though the name of Mr. Janson was 
 not breathed, each knew that but for his having come to 
 Saxonbury that parting had not taken place. 
 
 CHAPTEE VL 
 
 THE VOYAGE OF THE "RUSHING WATER." 
 
 It is eminently suggestive of our uncertain life here, to mark 
 how time works its changes. Sometimes, in an incredibly 
 short period, changes of the most unexpected and startling 
 nature will take place. Thus it was with the family at 
 Saxonbury. Only three years have elapsed since you last 
 saw them ; and yet the events which that sj)ace of time has 
 brought seem to have been sufficient for the marking of half- 
 a-century. 
 
 Lady Saxonbury died .of her malady. A twelvemonth 
 afterwards Sir Arthur married the widow of Colonel Yorke, 
 an uncle of Mr. Yorke's. Mrs. Yorke was notable for little, 
 excepting a somewhat fractious spirit, and for her overween- 
 ing indulgence of her boy, the son and heir of the late 
 
 The Unholy AVish. 
 
82 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 Colonel Yorke. Six months after his second marriage, Sir 
 Arthur died, and Mr. Yorke succeeded to Saxonbury. The 
 second Lady Saxonbury — often called Mrs. Yorke still by 
 the friends of her old days—removed to London with her 
 establishment and her step-daughter Maria. Since then she 
 had made the metropolis her chief residence, diversified with 
 intervals of travelling. 
 
 We meet them again in France. They had crossed the 
 water in the autumn of the past year to spend some weeks 
 at a French town on the north coast, once belonging to 
 Flanders — the very town which Mr. Janson had spoken 
 of as being the residence of his mother. Some friends of 
 Lady Saxonbury's were staying there, and that induced lier 
 to go. Once there, she became impressed with the idea that 
 a little French schooling would prove of incalculable benefit 
 to her son in regard to acquiring the language, and she 
 placed him at the college as an exierne. After that, Lady 
 Saxonbury resolved to prolong her stay through the winter. 
 But the young gentleman appeared to be more apt at picking 
 up the Flemish jpatois he heard in the streets, than the 
 F'rench drilled into him in school. 
 
 Maria stayed on, nothing loath, for — Mr. Janson was 
 there. They had met once or twice temporarily since that 
 visit of his to Saxonbury, and now they were in the habit of 
 meeting daily — at least they had met daily until within the 
 last few days. But the crisis had come and gone, and they 
 had parted. 
 
 It was Mr. Janson himself who invoked it. Led to believe 
 (and there was every excuse for him that Maria's manner 
 could afford) that she would regard his suit favourably, ho 
 at length spoke out, telling her how deeply he loved her ; 
 how, if she could only reconcile herself to become a surgeon's 
 wife, there was a good practice waiting for him in England. 
 The terms of purchase were arranged, and his mother was 
 ready to supply the funds. It startled Maria beyond every- 
 thing. It brought her to her senses. She, Maria Saxon- 
 bury, sink down into an obscure surgeon's wife, one who 
 had yet his way to make ! Her brow grew red at the 
 thought, and she told him quietly that it could never be. 
 
THE VOYAaE OF THE '^EUSHING WATER/' 83 
 
 " Why liave you led me on, then ? " he inquired, his tone 
 one of strangely acute anguish. 
 
 Why, indeed ! Maria could not answer. She could not 
 tell him that she had loved as passionately as he did, or 
 that the anguish of her own heart was as great as his. 
 
 And so they parted. Nothing more could be said or done. 
 The dream of romance was over, and each must make the 
 best of the future. 
 
 About a week went on after this final interview, and the 
 last day of March came in. The harbour of this fine old 
 fishing town was alive with bustle. On the following day, 
 the first of April, the Iceland fishing-boats were to go out 
 with the morning's tide. A whole fleet of vessels, some 
 large, some small ; some with their complement of ten or 
 twelve men and boys on board, some with only four or five ; 
 all were making ready to depart on their annual voyage to 
 the North fishery, and praying for success. 
 
 Yes, praying. The streets were crowded with promenaders, 
 going to or returning from the beautiful little chapel of the 
 port — a chapel especially consecrated to fishermen. For 
 three days had that small chapel been besieged, so that it 
 was difficult to push a way in or out. It was a small build- 
 ing, little larger than a fair-sized room. Models of ships 
 were suspended in it, and it was tastefully decorated with 
 landscape pictures, with gilding, and flowers, and ornaments, 
 after the manner of the favourite chapels of the Koman 
 Catholics. Some marine views in particular v/ere attrac- 
 tively painted. They lined the walls of the porch, five or 
 six of them, in glittering frames, and represented the vicis- 
 situdes of a sea-life. One portrayed a calm sea, on which 
 glided a large ship with her white sails set, a scene of peace ; 
 another view showed her rocking and tossing in all the 
 perils of a storm, apparently about to succumb to its fury. 
 Here was a small picture, representing a fishing-boat sinking, 
 sinking hopelesly, beyond possibility of succour, its mariners' 
 hands and their beseeching countenances outstretched to 
 heaven. The frame above it contained a view of another 
 fishing-vessel approaching its harbour in safety. The 
 chances and dangers of its past voyage were surmounted, 
 
84 THE FOGGY XIGIIT AT OFFORD. 
 
 {Hid liomo faces ^vcre collected on the beacli to Avelcome it 
 in. 
 
 The chapel was dark — dark even in the daytime. The 
 windows were sombre with their stained glass; and the 
 ornaments, cases of relics, images, and pictures raised against 
 them further obstructed the light. It never was wholly 
 dark, for the high candles on the altar were kept continually 
 burning, and numberless collections of miniature ta2)ers 
 were lighted up by the kneeling women. From sunrise till 
 late at night the chapel was receiving and pouring forth its 
 crowds. The sailor men and boys Avould come in, sink on 
 their knees before one or other of the images, St. Andrew, or 
 St. Peter, or the Virgin, and remain there, still as death, for 
 a couple of minutes, praying to the saint. Then they crossed 
 themselves and passed out, and the short prayer would last 
 most of them until their returii, when they would go into 
 the same chapel and ofter brief thanks. The women re- 
 mained kneeling longer : their prayers were chiefly for a 
 hon voyage and safe return ; the men's, for a good haul of 
 cod, as well. Not half the people who crowded there on the 
 few evenings preceding the boats' dej^arture could get an 
 entrance into the chapel ; therefore many were content to 
 kneel outside, on the enclosed space of waste ground around 
 it, and there pray. They all managed to steal a look through 
 tlic open door at whichever image they patronized, bowed 
 to it, made the sign of the cross, and so departed in 
 peace. 
 
 There glided a lady into the chapel this evening at the 
 dusk hour. She looked of superior class, and was hand- 
 somely but quietly dressed. She drew aside to the remotest 
 obscurity of the chapel entrance, and leaned against the bar 
 that was placed there to guard the paintings, waiting till 
 her turn should come to enter with the stream. She was 
 a middle-aged woman, and must once liave been beautiful, 
 but her features were marked by care. A young Avoman 
 followed her in the neat dress of a French domestic servant, 
 wearing the universal dark cloth cloak, and close snow-white 
 cap. The lady was anxious to pray, and soon passed on ; 
 the maid was more anxious to look about her and to gossi]i, 
 
THE VOYAGE OF THE ^'HUSHING WATER/' 85 
 
 so slic stopped at tlie entrance. Presently an acquaintance 
 came up, another woman- servant, who accosted her. 
 
 " Hey, Theresc, is it you? For whom have you come to 
 pray ? I thought your brother was not going this year." 
 
 " I am attending madame." 
 
 "Madame Janson ! What does she do liere? She has 
 nothing to do witli the cod-fishery." 
 
 " I can tell you that she has, tliough," was the reply of 
 Therese, " and a fine way the house has been in, through it. 
 You know her son ? " 
 
 " Who does not ? A rackety blade." 
 
 " Rackety ! Well, he may be a little. Everybody likes 
 him, though." 
 
 Well, what of him?" 
 
 " He is going out with the cod-boats to Iceland." 
 With the cod-boats ! That young Englishman ! Why, 
 what on earth — it can't be." 
 
 Therese nodded her head several times in succes.sion. 
 
 " Some whim of his. He goes for j)leasure, he says." 
 
 " Stuff, Therese ! Such a thing was never heard of as 
 going out with the cod-boats for pleasure. It's a 23recious 
 hard voyage and a hard life. Besides, the crew don't want 
 a fine gentleman on board." 
 
 " Oh, what do they care ? He has made it all right Avith 
 Messrs. Yandersphinks, the owners." 
 
 " Yandersphinks ! W^hich is he going out in, then ? " 
 
 " The Euslwig Water r 
 
 " Well, he has a taste ! To go out in a dirty cod-boat to 
 that cold barren Iceland, a handsome young fellow like that ! 
 Will he share the sailors' fare ? " 
 
 " Not he : any more than he'll share their labour. There's 
 some tins of preserved meat gone on board for him, and a 
 big hamper of prime Bordeaux wine." 
 
 " And that brings his mother here — to pray for his safe 
 return ! Therese, it's a lucky thing she is not a heretic, 
 though she is one of the English, or she couldn't have come 
 here to pray for it — at least, with any chance of St. Peter 
 listening to her. But, I say ! he is a heretic, isn't he ? " 
 
 Therese nudged her companion for silence. And the 
 
86 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOED. 
 
 woman, looking rouncl, saw close to her a party of " heretics ; 
 two English ladies and a child, who had come, full of British 
 curiosity, to witness the praying in the chapel. 
 
 " You shouldn't call 'em so to their faces," whispered the 
 tolerant Therese. " They are as good as we are, for all I 
 see, and " 
 
 Therese broke off suddenly, and dropped upon her knees. 
 Her mistress was coming out again, after her short prayex. 
 
 " Therese, have you not been in ? " demanded Mrs. Janson, 
 in very good French, her tone betraying reproach and 
 surprise. 
 
 " Couldn't get in, madame," readily answered Therese, 
 without thinking it necessary to add that she had not tried. 
 
 It took some time to get out. Several were pushing out, 
 as well as themselves, but they were obstructed by the 
 numbers pushing in. Immediately following Mrs. Janson 
 were the two English ladies mentioned, the younger one, 
 who was an elegant girl of remarkable beauty, remonstrating 
 at their leaving so soon. 
 
 " Henry is so troublesome," replied her companion. " I 
 could scarcely hold him still, do all I would. He wanted to 
 run inside, amongst the mass kneeling there." 
 
 " I told you it would be so, mamma. You should have 
 left him at home." 
 
 "Oh, of course," observed the elder lady, in a sharp 
 accent. " I know he is an eyesore to you, Elizabeth." 
 
 " Mamma, you know that he is nothing of the sort. But 
 he is the most troublesome boy that ever existed, especially 
 to take anywhere." 
 
 Miss Saxonbury, for it was no other than herself, was 
 right. Never was there so troublesome a child as Henry 
 Yorke. He was a slender boy of ten, fair and delicate, with 
 well-formed features and long wavy hair, the combing out 
 of which every morning by his mother, and the coaxing into 
 curls, kept the house in an uproar for an hour. He was one 
 of those precocious, clever children, who, to use a familiar 
 phrase, are " awake to everything," restless, mischievous, and 
 wilful. Yet the boy had admirable qualities, had they been 
 allowed fair play, but his mother pursued a system of ruinous 
 
TPIE VOYAGE OF THE RUSHING WATER" 8? 
 
 indulgence witli Iiim. He was the pride and delight of her 
 life, and the torment of every one else's. A whim had 
 him lately to call his half-sister (if she might be termed so) 
 by her second name, Elizabeth. He detected that she did 
 not like it, and therefore he did it, for mischief's sake. 
 Lady Saxonbury fell sometimes into the same name. Maria 
 felt convinced that it was done to please Henry and vex 
 herself. 
 
 No sooner were they outside than Henry managed to 
 emancipate himself from his mother's grasj), and she had the 
 satisfaction of seeing him rush back again, twist himself 
 amidst the blockade at the entrance, and disappear. 
 
 " There ! " uttered Lady Saxonbury, " he is gone— just 
 like an eel ! What am I to do to get at him ? Wait here, 
 Maria." 
 
 "Therese," said Mrs. Janson, who had seen and heard 
 this bit of byplay, " go home fast and get supper ready. If 
 Mr. Edward should be at home, tell him I shall soon be in." 
 
 Therese went off, picking her way through the lines of 
 kneelers on the earth, and turning her head and her droop- 
 ing gold earrings from side to side, in search of a gossip to 
 walk with. Miss Saxonbury, who had drawn aside to be out 
 of the way of passers-by, found herself suddenly addressed. 
 
 " You are Maria Elizabeth Saxonbury ? " 
 
 " Yes," she replied, wondering at the stranger's familiarity. 
 
 " I knew you by intuition. I heard Miss Saxonbury was 
 of rare beauty, and I have not often witnessed beauty to 
 match what I now see in you. If it shall prove the blight 
 to others that it has proved to me, better for you that you 
 had been a model of deformity." 
 
 " I do not understand you," haughtily spoke Miss Saxon- 
 bury. " I do not know you." 
 
 " I have given you no opportunity of knowing me. I am 
 Edward Janson's mother. I have lived in this place many 
 years, holding myself aloof from my countrymen, who flock 
 here to make it their few years' residence, or their few weeks' 
 sojourn. I am too poor to compete with some of their 
 ostentatious purses : I am saving for my son : and I am too 
 proud to risk familiarity with doubtful characters— as many 
 
88 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOrvD. 
 
 of them are. Therefore ^^oiir family and I have never met. 
 I wish I could say that you had never met my son. You 
 have played your beauty off upon him, flirted with him, 
 courted him — yes, you have, Miss Saxonbury ! — and drawn 
 him on to love you. When that love had reached a height 
 that it could no longer be suppressed within the bounds of 
 prudence, and he told it to you, you rejected him. It may be, 
 with scorn, because he was poor and you were rich : I knov/ 
 not : from him I have learnt nothing. He has kept his own 
 counsel and your secret ; but I have watched closely, and 
 know the day that brought to him this despair. In blighting 
 his happiness you have blighted mine." 
 
 Maria Saxonbury' s glowing features had turned to pale- 
 ness, and now they were glowing again. The words told 
 home. She appeared to be too confused to answer, and 
 Mrs. Janson continued. 
 
 He came over here to pass a few weeks with me before 
 he should settle in his profession, in his own country. 
 Those weeks have been j)assed with you, rather than with 
 me ; and now he is going out with these wretched cod- 
 fishers, and may never return." 
 
 " Going out with the cod-fishers ! " mechanically inter- 
 rupted Maria. 
 
 "Yes, he is," re2)lied Mrs. Janson. "When he came 
 home two days ago and told me his intention, I thought my 
 heart would have broken ; and in my haste I wished that 
 you had been dead. Dead, young lady — before you had 
 lured my boy on to love you, and then treated him so that 
 he must go this hard voyage to forget you and strive for 
 i^eace. I have pity for misfortune," added Mrs. Janson, 
 " but I have none for wilful fault, for the sinful indulgence 
 of vanity. I do not wish you ill, Maria Saxonbury; I 
 trust I have too much Christian charity deliberately to 
 wish it to any one ; but I cannot helj) feeling that, should 
 your existence become as bitter to you as you have made 
 mine, it will only be a just retribution." 
 
 Without another word, she turned away, leaving Miss 
 Saxonbury rooted to the spot, and miserably self-conscious. 
 All that Mrs. Janson had reproached her with was, in the 
 
THE VOYAGE OF THE PUSHING WATER/' 89 
 
 main, only too just. In tlie old days at Saxonlniry slic Lad 
 first flirted Avith Edward Janson for love of admiration's 
 sake. Now that the love which siij^ervened had been 
 spoken, she meant to bury hers within her own breast, to 
 stifle it, to extinguish it ; and she had turned him adrift to 
 do the same. 
 
 " I was obliged to hold up a five-franc piece to bribe him 
 to come out," said Lady Saxonbury, emerging from the 
 chapel, hot and red, the truant a fast prisoner in her grasj). 
 " And glad enough to get him out on terms so easy : he had 
 got close np to that lighted altar at the other end." 
 
 Miss Saxonbury took hold of the boy's other hand, and 
 away they went ; Harry delighted at his five-franc piece, 
 and kicking up clouds of dust as he walked betA^ een them. 
 
 The morning rose bright and clear. The tide served at 
 eight o'clock ; but long before that hour the j)ort was taken 
 possession of. Half the town was there to witness the 
 departure, thronging the piers and the heights. It was a 
 stirring sight. Vessel after vessel, hoisting its sails, came 
 smoothly down the harbour, each receiving an animated, 
 hearty cheer of hope from hundreds of voices. Wives, 
 mothers, sisters, sweethearts, and little children, leaned over 
 the nearly unprotected sides of the piers, to wish good luck 
 to the several crews, and utter the last farewell in their 
 {similmY patois. 
 
 One vessel in particular came gaily down, a trim-built 
 craft of middling size. A sunburnt boy, in a fishing-cap 
 and red flannel shirt, was in the bows, grinning. 
 
 " Here comes the RusMng Water," cried a spectator, as ho 
 gazed at it. " So, she is taking out young Paul ! " he added, 
 as he caught sight of the boy's face. " The crew of the 
 Fleur de Marie would not take him." 
 
 " Why not ? " inquired those around. 
 
 " Ho has been in three difl'erent vessels, three years 
 running, has that monkey, and they all had enough of him. 
 A worse boy never sailed than that young Paul ; he is made 
 up of ill-nature and mischief. The Bushing Water must have 
 been hard up for hands to take him." 
 
 " The Bushing Water is taking out a hand or two short," 
 
90 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORt). 
 
 cliimecl in an old fisliwifc. " Some gentleman took a wliim 
 to go out in lier, and he wouldn't be crowded, lie said. They 
 took this young shaver on board last night : he can be put 
 anywhere." 
 
 Leaning over the side of the pier with Henry Yorke, and 
 attended by a maid and footman, was Miss Saxonbury. The 
 Bushing Water came gliding past, and her cheeks expressed 
 plainly their consciousness of it. Standing uj)right in the 
 boat, in a jaunty sailor's costume, was Mr. Janson, hand- 
 somer than ever. He looked at her with a face schooled to 
 impassiveness, and gravely raised his hat in token of adieu. 
 She forgot her resolution for a moment : her eyes were 
 strained yearningly on him, and the tears shone in them, as 
 she waved her handkerchief in answer. Another grave bow 
 ere he resumed his glazed hat, and the Paishing Water 
 glided down the harbour. 
 
 A gentleman stood at Miss Saxonbury's side, somewhat 
 behind her. He had seen the signs of her emotion, and his 
 lips parted with a defiant expression. He was a tall, power- 
 fully-built man, nearly thirty, with remarkable white teeth, 
 which he showed too much. Without perceiving him, Miss 
 Saxonbury turned to pursue her way to the top of the 
 crowded pier. It was a work of difficulty, and Henry Yorke 
 exercised his feet and his elbows. 
 
 " Harry, if you behave so rudely, if you push the people 
 unnecessarily, I will send John home with you." 
 
 " That you won't. I would jump over the pier first, and 
 go home ducked, on purpose to get you into a row with 
 mamma. You know you are not to dictate to me." 
 
 "Hush! Be a good boy." 
 
 "I say, Elizabeth, don't you wish you were going out 
 with Mr. Janson?" 
 
 It was a telling question, innocently put. And he who 
 was following close behind, saw that her very neck was in a 
 glow. 
 
 " I do," continued Harry, who had probably spoken with- 
 out any ulterior meaning. " It is so nice to sail over the 
 sea. I'll be a sailor when I grow up." 
 
 " Nice to sail over the sea ! " cried Miss Saxonbury. 
 
THE VOYAGE OF THE BUSHING WATER." 91 
 
 " Don't you remember liow ill you were, only crossing here 
 from London ? " 
 
 " It was the nasty steamer made me iH. I do mean to be 
 a sailor, Maria, and I'll bring you lots of things home from 
 foreign countries. Mamma thinks I only say it to tease her, 
 when I want anything that she won't give me. I'll bring 
 you a monkey from Africa." 
 
 Every inch of ground towards the extremity of the pier 
 was contested for, that being the best gazing-place. The sea 
 was calm and lovely, the light wind, which served to spread 
 the sails, scarcely ruffling it ; more than thirty boats were 
 already out, studding the marine landsca]3e, and the morning 
 sun shone brightly on their canvas, as they skimmed over 
 the water. Miss Saxonbury was struggling on, when a 
 sudden crash and shouting below, and a worse press than 
 ever to the side of the pier, suggested that some untow^ard 
 accident had occurred. It was even so. The Bushing 
 Water, in going out of harbour, had, by some mishap or 
 mismanagement, which none on board could account for, 
 struck against the end of the pier. The boy, Paul, had been 
 left for a single moment near the rudder : could he have 
 mischievously altered the boat's course ? 
 
 " What damage is done ? " inquired Miss Saxonbury of a 
 bystander, a fisherman, when the excitement was abating. 
 
 " Not much — as far as I can see. They will have to put 
 back, though, till the evening's tide, and overhaul her." 
 
 " Good-morning, Miss Saxonbury. You are out early." 
 
 She turned sharply round at the voice, to encounter Mr. 
 Yorke. He was staying in the French town also ; had 
 recently come to it, herself, no doubt, his attraction. 
 Perhaps he was waiting the opportunity to say to her what 
 he had thought to say years ago. But they were more 
 distant in manner to each other than they used to be. 
 
 ''We came to see the boats go out," she said, giving him 
 her hand. 
 
 " I should scarcely have thought a fleet of paltry fishing- 
 boats would be a sufficient attraction to call a young lady 
 from her bed." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Yorke! Look at the numbers of English 
 
92 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 around : nearly every one we kno^v is liere. It is a sight 
 wliicli lias the charm of novelty for many of us." 
 
 " I see your friend young Janson's courage has not failed 
 him at the last," he said mockingly. " We shall be rid of 
 him for a time." 
 
 " For good, probably," she replied, with the utmost 
 ap2)arent indifference. Before he returns, we shall no 
 doubt have left for home." 
 
 I hope so. I wonder at Lady Saxonbury's having 
 brought you here at all. I wonder that she should remain 
 here ! These continental towns are not places for Miss 
 Saxonbury." 
 
 " She remains for Henry's improvement in French," said 
 Maria. 
 
 " And, that he may gain facility in speaking it, she sends 
 him to the college, where he mixes with a dozen other English 
 boys," said Mr. Yorke. " And they abuse each other all 
 day in genuine Queen's English." 
 
 " We are not going to associate with those pigs of French 
 beggars," interposed Master Yorke, shaking back his pretty 
 curls in token of scorn. 
 
 Pigs ! " echoed the gentleman. " You are polite, sir." 
 
 "At any rate, it is what they are always calling us," 
 retorted the lad. " Gros cochons d' Anglais.'' 
 
 In returning down the crowded pier, Maria and Henry 
 got separated from Mr. Yorke, also from the servants, and 
 w^ent on alone. As they were passing through the old 
 fortified gates of the port, three or four lads, all older than 
 himself, came uj) to hold a conference with Harry. It 
 appeared to be productive of some pleasurable excitement, 
 for he turned to his sister with sparkling eyes and an eager 
 face. 
 
 " Maria, may I go out fishing ? " 
 
 " Fishing ! no. It would send mamma into a fever. You 
 know she never allows you to go near the water." 
 
 There's no danger. Miss Saxonbury," spoke up one of 
 the inviters, a boy of fifteen or sixteen. " We are going up 
 the canal in a boat for a mile or two, and then we shall 
 land and fish. He can't come to any harm : we are accus- 
 
THE VOYAGE OF THE '"-TiUSHING WATER." 93 
 
 tonied to the management of a boat, and ^ve sliall take our 
 2)rovisions Avitli ns. We mean to make a day of it." 
 
 "It is impossible that I can allow him to go," replied 
 Maria. "He ean ask his mamma if he likes; but I am 
 sure it will be useless." 
 
 " It's a shame, then ! " exclaimed Henry. " I can never 
 do anything that I want to. Won't I when I get bigger ! " 
 
 He walked sullenly by his sister's side until they reached 
 the streets. As they were passing the college, one or two 
 boys w^ere going in at the scholars' entrance. The old 
 church clock, further off, chimed out nine. 
 
 " I shall go into school now," said Henry. 
 
 "Nonsense," returned Maria. "You have not had your 
 breakfast." 
 
 " I don't want any. I don't want to be marked late. It's 
 your fault for stopj)ing so long upon the pier. So, goocl-byc, 
 Elizabeth." 
 
 " Good-bye," she repeated, scarcely heeding his departure 
 or what she said, for at that moment Edward Janson ap- 
 peared, crossing the street, having landed from the JRushing 
 Water. The sight made her oblivious to anything else. 
 
 At six o'clock, when they assembled for dinner, Henry 
 \Yas missing. Lady Saxonbury supposed he was kept at 
 school, not an infrequent occurrence, and began dinner with 
 a very bad grace. She inquired of J olm what time he went 
 back to school after luncheon: she and Maria having been 
 out in the middle of the day. 
 
 " Master Henry did not come home to luncheon, ma'am." 
 
 Lady Saxonbury was indignant. 
 
 " No breakfast, and to keep him from two meals besides ! " 
 she uttered. " It is enough to throw him into a consump- 
 tion. The master must be a bear. Go at once and bring 
 the child home, John; bring him home by force if they 
 object, and threaten them with the police. I'll summon 
 that master before the Civil Tribunal." 
 
 The footman walked leisurely enough to the college ; but 
 he ran back at full speed, bringing a message. Master 
 Yorke had not been into class that day, and he v/as to bo 
 punished for it on the morrow. 
 
94 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 " Not into class ! " repeated the alarmed motlier. " Eliza- 
 beth, you told me you left liim at the college." 
 
 " I did leave him there. I saw him run to the gates. I 
 — I think — I saw him enter," she added, more hesitatingly, 
 trying to remember whether she did see him or not. 
 
 " You think ! What do you mean by that ? " demanded 
 Lady Saxonbury, who really cared nothing for any one 
 except her son. " You saw him, or you did not." 
 
 " He never can have gone off with those boys ! " suddenly 
 exclaimed Maria, in alarm, remembering the fishing ex- 
 pedition. 
 
 " What boys ? Why don't you speak plainly ? " 
 
 " Jones and Anson, and a few more English lads, were 
 going up the canal in a boat to fish, and they wanted Harry 
 to go with them," explained Maria. " I refused, of course." 
 
 " Then he is sure to be gone ! and if he is drowned you 
 will have been the cause I " screamed Lady Saxonbury, in 
 agitation. " After such a thing as that put into his head, 
 you ought to have brought him home, and kept him here. 
 Y^ou know what he is." 
 
 There was no further peace. Lady Saxonbury not only 
 sent about the town, but went herself ; to the houses of the 
 boys' parents, and to every other place where there was 
 a possibility of hearing of him. The other parents were 
 alarmed now. With some difficulty they discovered which 
 canal the young gentlemen had favoured with their company, 
 and bent their steps to it in a body, Mr. Jones carrying a 
 lantern, for it was dark then. They had not proceeded along 
 its banks many minutes when they encountered a small 
 army of half-a-dozen, looking like drowned rats. It proved 
 to be the young gentlemen themselves, who had all been in 
 the water, through the upsetting of the boat. 
 
 " Where is Henry ? " asked Lady Saxonbury, trembling 
 so that she could scarcely put the question. " Has he been 
 with you ? " 
 
 " Yes, he has been with us." 
 
 " Where is he ? Oh, where is he ? " 
 
 " He was in the boat when it capsized. We can't make 
 out where he is, I'm sure ho scrambled out " 
 
A LOST BOY. 
 
 95 
 
 Maria was very pale. 
 
 " How are you sure ? " she asked, in dread tones. 
 
 "^I am positive 1 saw him," cried Philip Anson, "and I 
 s^Doke to him. I said to him, 'That was a splash and a 
 near touch, wasn't it, Hal ? ' and he answered, ' By Jove, if 
 it wasn't ! ' " 
 
 " No, it was me answered you that, Phil," interposed a 
 little fellow about Henry's age. 
 
 " Well, I'm positive he is out," rejoined Phil Anson, " for 
 I know I saw him, and his hair had all the curl out of it, 
 and was hanging down straight." 
 
 " Did any of the rest of you see him ? " inquired Maria, 
 in painful suspense. 
 
 All the boys began talking together. The result to be 
 gathered was, that they could not be sure whether he was 
 out or not ; it was all a scramble at the time, and nearly 
 dark. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, do not despair ! " implored Maria. But 
 Lady Saxonbury had fainted away, and was lying on the 
 towing-path. 
 
 CHAPTEE VIL 
 
 A LOST BOY. 
 
 It was a terrible misfortune. Apart from Lady Saxonbury's 
 almost insane grief for the child himself, it was a great 
 misfortune in a pecuniary point of view. With her son's 
 death a considerable portion of her income passed from 
 her ; her resources as the widow of Sir Arthur Saxonbury 
 not being large. Just enough was left her to starve upon, 
 she groaned, taking an exaggerated view of things, as she 
 was apt to do. Her grief was, indeed, j)itiable. She per- 
 sisted in attributing all the blame of the boy's death to 
 Maria. She commenced a system of unkind treatment, could 
 not endure the sight of her ; and when she did see her, it 
 was only to break into sobs and harsh reproaches. 
 
96 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOPiD. 
 
 " I sliould not boar it," observed Mr. Yorke, one day to 
 Maria. 
 
 Is it just ? returned Maria, in a passionate tone of appeal. 
 When I saw bim to the door of the coHege, bow could I 
 imagine that be pretended to go in only to blind me — tbat 
 be would disobediently run to tbe canal tbe moment I was 
 out of sigbt ? Is it just of Lady Saxonbury ? " 
 
 " ISTo. Yery unjust. I say, I sbould emancipate myself.'* 
 " I cannot live tbis life. It makes me so wretcbed tbat I 
 sometimes begin to doubt wbetber I am not really guilty. 
 I will go away, ratber tban bear it." 
 
 Let me emancipate you, Maria," said Mr. Yorke. 
 Sbe cast bim a rapid glance. Tbe bour was come tbat 
 slie bad expected ; sometimes doubted wbetber sbe bad not 
 dreaded. 
 
 You cannot be ignorant of my bopes," be resumed, " or 
 wby I stay bere in tbis ];)lace, wbicb I bate. I liave never 
 given you up in my own beart. You must know tbat I love 
 you passionately ; far more passionately tban be did, Maria." 
 
 " Tban wbo did ? " sbe exclaimed, v/itb a rusb of con- 
 scious colour. 
 
 Janson. As if you did not know." 
 
 " Wby do you bring up Janson ? " sbe said. " Wbat is 
 Janson to me ? " 
 
 "Maria, you wiH be my wife? Do not refuse," be 
 impetuously added. "I bave sworn tbat if you are not 
 mine you sball never be another's." 
 
 " Mr. Yorke ! " 
 
 " I cannot live without you. I love you too passionately 
 for my own peace. You must be mine, Maria. It was your 
 father's wish." 
 
 What was she to answer ? She did not know. A conflict 
 was at work within her. She liked Mr. Yorke, but— she 
 loved Edward Janson. Edward Janson, however, she could 
 never hope to marry, and her days were passed in striving 
 to forget bim. With Mr. Yorke she should go back to the 
 dear old home at Saxonbury. 
 
 " Give me until to-morrow, and you shall liavc an answer," 
 she said to bim. This has come upon me suddenly." 
 
A LOST BOY. 
 
 07 
 
 " Very well. Eemember, Maria, that during the suspense 
 I shall neither eat nor sleej) ; I shall have neither peace nor 
 rest. Be my wife, and your days shall be a dream of love." 
 
 " A dream of love ! " she bitterly repeated, as he left her. 
 " For him, perhaj)S ; not for me ! " 
 
 She remained in her room until evening, communing with 
 herself, and then she sought Lady Saxonbury, saying she 
 wished to consult her. 
 
 "I am not worth consulting now," was the querulous 
 answer. " My spirits are gone, my heart is broken." 
 Mr. Yorke Avants me to marry him." 
 
 " Mr. Yorke ! " returned her stepmother, somewhat aroused, 
 " Has he asked you ? " 
 
 " Yes ; to-day." 
 
 " Then you are more lucky than you deserve to be." 
 
 " I do not know whether to accept or reject him." 
 
 " Eeject *him ! " fiercely interposed Lady Saxonbury. 
 "You are out of your senses. With his fine fortune, his 
 position, his amiability " 
 
 " Is he amiable ? " asked Maria. " He puzzles me at 
 times." 
 
 " What puzzles you ? " 
 His words. I don't understand them. And the expres- 
 sion of his countenance." 
 
 " Had you not better set up for a phrenologist — or what- 
 ever they call the charlatans who pretend to read faces ? " 
 sarcastically retorted Lady Saxonbury. 
 
 " Mamma, listen. If I do accept him, it will be because 
 I am unhappy with you." 
 
 "Pray, why should there be an 'if ' in the matter at all? 
 Why should you hesitate, or think of rejecting him ? " 
 
 " Because I do not love him," answered Maria, in a low 
 tone. " I like Mr. Yorke, but it requires more than liking 
 to marry a man ; or ought to require it." 
 
 " Oh, if you are going to run on about romance and senti- 
 ment, I do not understand it," returned Lady Saxonbury. 
 " I never did more than ' like ' my two husbands, yet I was 
 happy with them. My love was wasted on some one else ; 
 when I was almost a child " 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 7 
 
98 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOr.D. 
 
 " Was it ? " cried Maria, eagerly. 
 
 " It was. It was over and done with before I married, 
 and I did not make the less good wife. It is so with ninety- 
 nine women out of every hundred ; and, rely upon it, their 
 wedded lives are all the happier for their early romance 
 being over. Komance and reality do not work well together, 
 Maria. You are inexperienced, child." 
 
 Maria was beginning to think so. 
 
 " I give you my advice, Maria, and I give it for your 
 happiness. Marry Mr. Yorke, and be thankful. Reject 
 him, and pass your after-life in repining, in self-reproach at 
 your own folly." 
 
 Mr. Yorke received the answer he Avished for. They 
 were to be married in England, in autumn, but preparations 
 were at once commenced. It was only to be expected that 
 Lady Saxonbury would now go home immediately. How- 
 ever, she declined to do so. In spite of the somewhat cynical 
 remonstrances of Mr. Yorke, she flatly refused to quit the 
 town. She would go home for the wedding in September, 
 she said, but she would not go before. Perhaps some vague 
 hope of recovering, even yet, the body of the child from the 
 canal, chained her to the place. So Mr. Yorke remained on 
 perforce in the despised town, feeling that he and they were 
 alike out of place in it. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII, 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE "RUSHING WATER." 
 
 August came in, and the fishing-boats began to return from 
 Iceland, laden with their spoil ; by ones, by twos, by threes, 
 by little fleets of them. At length all we];e in, saving two, 
 the Belle Helme and the Bushing Water. These two de- 
 layed much ; and a report got about, no one knew how, for 
 it was certainly without foundation, that the Bushing Water 
 was wrecked. Miss Saxonbury, in spite of herself and lier 
 betrothal, heard the evil fear with a sickening heart, and 
 
THE RETURN OF THE RUSHING WATER." 99 
 
 looked out for tlie vessel in secret more yearningly tlian 
 any one. 
 
 Or than any, excepting one. For, if Maria's anxiety was 
 great, what was it compared with that of poor Mrs. Janson ? 
 And the suspense went on. 
 
 One day, it was on a Friday, Therese had gone to the 
 fish-market to purchase the usual fast-day's dinner, when in 
 the midst of her squally bargaining with the fish-vendor, 
 news flew about the market that one of the two missing 
 boats was signalled — it was thought to be the Bushing 
 Water, Dashing the disputed fish back on the woman's 
 board, away went Therese to her mistress, and without 
 circumlocution announced that the Euslmig Wafer was 
 making the harbour. 
 
 Mrs. Janson went down to the port. The boat was then 
 in, and being moored to the side : La Belle Helene, The 
 poor mother asked the crew news of the Bushing Water; 
 but they had not seen her on their passage home. Yet the 
 Bushing Water had been one of the first boats to leave 
 Iceland. 
 
 Disheartening tidings. As Mrs. Janson went back again, 
 with a heavy step, she encountered Miss Saxonbury. 
 
 " Young lady, go home and pray," she said in her abrupt, 
 stern manner ; " pray that you may not have caused his 
 death, as well as his misery. Eemain upon your knees until 
 Heaven shall be pleased to hear you, as I am going to do. 
 There is little hope now." 
 
 " I heard that the Bushing Water had come in this 
 morning," answered Miss Saxonbury, in faltering tones. 
 
 " So did I hear it. But it proves to be the Helene, And 
 the Bushing Water left Iceland days before her." 
 
 She passed on with her pale, severe face, and Maria 
 Saxonbury continued her way. 
 
 The days went on ; five or six of them. Lady and Miss 
 Saxonbury were sitting in the twilight, the latter expecting 
 Mr. Yorke, whom she was trying, with all her might and 
 main, to like better, as a dutiful bride-elect should do, 
 when one of their French servants came in, and said a 
 gentleman was asking to see her. 
 
100 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD, 
 
 " Me ! To see me ? " returned Maria. 
 
 "A gentleman-sailor, mademoiselle. I think it is Mr. 
 Janson. He says will you allow him a minute's .conver- 
 sation ? " 
 
 "Oh, mamma ! " she uttered, " Mr. Janson ! Then the 
 liusliing Water must be safe in." 
 
 Lady Saxonbury made some indistinct re^^ly. Her 
 thoughts were buried in other things. What, to her, was 
 the safety of the Bushing Water 1 
 
 Maria passed through the ante-room and entered the one 
 to which he had been shown. He was in sailor's attire, his 
 glazed hat carelessly thrown off, looking, or Maria fancied 
 so, handsomer than ever. 
 
 " Then you are in safety ! " she exclaimed, grasping his 
 hand in her agitated thankfulness, perhaps for his mother's 
 sake, but forgetful, at the moment, of Mr. Yorke, of the 
 whole world. " We have been counting you as amongst the 
 lost." 
 
 " Our homeward voyage has been bad, jDerilous, unlucky 
 altogether, excepting that we have ultimately arrived. Miss 
 Saxonbury, I hear that you have been mourning Harry as 
 dead." 
 
 " Yes, yes. Oh yes ! " 
 
 " He is safe. He has been with us." 
 
 She did not give vent to a scream ; she suppressed it. 
 Then she thought that he must be dreaming, or that she 
 was. 
 
 " He got into some trouble, fell into the water, and was 
 afraid to go home," proceeded Mr. Janson. "That mis- 
 chievous imp, Paul, encountered him in his wet plight, per- 
 suaded him into making the voyage, brought him on board, 
 coiled him uj) under some sails and rope, and four-and- 
 twenty hours after we left port. Master Harry came out. I 
 wished the captain to put back, but he laughed at me ; so 
 he had to go with us, and I have taken care of him. Paul 
 says Harry bribed him with a five-franc piece ; three francs 
 for himself, and two to give to a messenger to take word to 
 his mother where he had gone." 
 
 " No messenger came to us," eagerly observed Maria* 
 
THE RETURN OF THE ''^RUSHING WATER.'' 101 
 
 " As I find. When I landed an hour ago, I heard that 
 the boy had been mourned as dead. So I came on at once, 
 after calling in upon my mother. T should not have pre- 
 sumed to ask for you," he pointedly added, "but that I 
 assumed it might be better to acquaint you first with the 
 news, ere it was broken to Lady Saxonbury." 
 
 " Oh ! how shall we ever thank you ? " said Maria, 
 attributing all the good to Mr. Janson, in her confused 
 feelings of joy. " Where is Harry ? " 
 
 " Waiting just inside the cafe at the next door, until I 
 send for him, and being made a lion of.'' 
 
 Maria went into the drawing-room, which was almost 
 dark then, and knelt down beside Lady Saxonbury's chair. 
 
 " Mamma ! mamma ! I have some joyful news for you. 
 You win not faint if I tell it ? " 
 
 " What news will ever be joyful to me again, Maria ? 
 What is the matter with you, that you kneel in that manner ? 
 How you tremble ! " 
 
 " Mamma — suppose I have news to tell you about Harry ? 
 That— he— is— found ? " 
 
 " Is it ? is it ? " excitedly uttered Lady Saxonbury. It ! 
 She was thinking of the dead Harry ; not the living one. 
 
 " Not ' it,' mamma. He. Could you bear for me to tell 
 you that he is in life — safe — well ? " 
 
 " Maria, what do you mean ? " faintly asked Lady Saxon- 
 bury. 
 
 " He is, he is. Dearest Lady Saxonbury, he has been out 
 with Mr. Janson in the Bushing Water, 
 
 She did not continue. For the door had opened, and a 
 happy lad stood peeping in, in a nondescript attire, composed 
 partly of his own things, partly of Paul's. He was browned 
 with the sea air, taller than before, and his fair curls were 
 wild and entangled. With a cry, he flew into his mother's 
 arms. She sobbed upon his neck and kissed his pretty face 
 and his untidy hair, and strained him to her as if she could 
 never let him go again. 
 
 " Lady Saxonbury, will you forgive my saying that I think 
 you will find him a more dutiful boy than he used to be ? " 
 said Mr. Janson, who had followed him in. " He has had 
 
102 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOrvD. 
 
 to rougli it, and lie now knows the value of a lia^^py licme 
 and a mother's love. I have taken npon myself to discipline 
 him ; I have kept him from the sailors, so far as was practi- 
 cable, and read him lessons on his faults ; and I believe you 
 will find him changed for the better." 
 
 " Oh yes, indeed, mamma," sobbed the lad. " I know 
 now how naughty I was, and I will try never to grieve you 
 and Maria again." 
 
 " Mr. Janson," cried the mother, rising and speaking in 
 impassioned tones, " how can I reward you for the joy that 
 you have brought me this night ? If you asked me for my 
 life in repayment, I almost think it should be yours." 
 
 She left the room as she spoke, too much overcome to 
 remain in it. Harry followed her. Miss Saxonbury was 
 lost in thought. 
 
 " Philip Anson has held to it to this day, that Harry was 
 saved," she said in a musing tone. "He persisted in de- 
 claring that he saw Harry after he scrambled out of the 
 water." 
 
 " And now that my task is done, I have only to take my 
 leave," observed Mr. Janson, holding out his hand. " This 
 house was an interdicted place to me before I left ; I con- 
 clude that it is so still." 
 
 Miss Saxonbury put her hand in his, and burst into tears. 
 
 He held it, and looked at her. " Maria, what do those 
 tears mean ? That you hate me, as you did before ? " 
 
 " I never hated you," she answered, forgetting prudence 
 in her tumultuously glad feelings. " It was the contrary. 
 I am very miserable." 
 
 " I went this voyage," he whispered, " striving to forget, 
 if not to hate you. I come from it, loving you more than 
 ever. The child's being on board was against my project ; 
 how, when I constantly saw him, could I forget you ? My 
 dearest, why should we separate ? " he added, straining her 
 hand to his heart. " Let it be between us as it once was. 
 Your mother has said she would give me a reward, even to 
 her own life : let me ask her to give me you." 
 
 " It may not be," she gasped, struggling to release herself 
 from him. "It " 
 
THE llETUrvN OF THE PtUSHIXG ^YATE1^'' 103 
 
 " Not just yet cau I marry," lie interrupted. " I threw 
 u]} the prospect opening to me in the spring ; and the only 
 position I could at present offer would not " 
 
 " Edward, pray hear me," she said in a broken voice, as 
 she drew away from him. " You know not what you ask. 
 I am promised to another." 
 
 " To another ? " 
 
 " And in less than a month I shall be his wife," she con- 
 tinued, much too agitated to weigh her words, " and I 
 love you, and not him. Do you wonder that I am miser- 
 able? There — now that you have the avowal, let us part 
 for ever." 
 
 " Who is this ? Mr. Yorke ? " 
 
 " Mr. Yorke." 
 
 There was a gloomy pause. " 3Iiist you fulfil the con- 
 tract ? Can you not give him up for me ? " 
 
 She shook her head. " I can only be plain with you. I 
 am not fit to be a poor man's wife. No ; I have deliberately 
 entered upon it, and matters have been advanced too far to 
 be broken off now. Forgive me, Edward — forgive me all. 
 We must forget each other." 
 
 " Oh, Maria ! must this indeed be the ending ? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered, the tears raining from her eyes, and 
 her heart aching with pain. " I wish it had been different, 
 but circumstances are against us. Farewell, Edward ; if 
 ever we meet again, it must be as strangers. Not so," she 
 hastily added, as he drew her face to his for a last embrace, 
 " it is not right to liim. Do you not hear me say that in 
 a little while I shall be his wife ? " 
 
 " For the last time," he murmured : and she made but a 
 faint resistance. " He ought not to grudge it to us. Now 
 — farewell for ever." 
 
 Mr. Janson turned to leave the room. He saw not that 
 some one drew away from the door, and stood bolt uj^right, 
 in silence, against the wall of the dark ante-room, while he 
 passed out — some one with a revengeful face, and teeth that 
 glistened almost like a tiger's. Not that Mr. Yorke was of 
 a dishonourable nature, or had dishonourably set himself to 
 listen. He had caught somewhat of the scene as he was 
 
104 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOHD. 
 
 entering from the ante-room, and surprise, doubt, and rage, 
 had chained him there to the end. 
 
 He followed Mr. Janson from the house, and strode about 
 the old streets of the old town till morning ; now standing 
 under its high and ancient tower, as it sent forth its sweet 
 chimes on the night air, now pacing under the portico of the 
 church, now slouching round the railings of the famous 
 statue in the Place, the town's pride ; and now striding off 
 to the port, there to surprise the sentinels. But he buried 
 his wrongs within him — very great wrongs indeed they ap- 
 peared to be to his heated brain — and told them not. 
 
 Little did Miss Saxonbury think on the day of her 
 wedding, when she gave her hand without her heart, that 
 the bridegroom kneeling by her side, knew just as well as 
 she did that she had no heart to give. At the best it was 
 an inauspicious beginning of life. She felt that it was so. 
 She felt, too, that should her future existence bring some- 
 what of retribution, she had only invoked it on herself: as 
 Mrs. Janson had almost predicted that night, outside the 
 little chapel, when she had been praying for the safety of 
 the Bushing Water, 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 ALNWICK COTTAGE. 
 
 A BLAZING day in August. More cspecialy hot it felt at 
 the railway-station of Olford, a quiet country village ; for it 
 -was a small, bare station, with not a tree about it, and but 
 little covering, to keep off the sun's glare. The two o'clock 
 train came puffing uj), stopped, deposited a few passengers 
 and a good deal of luggage, and went screaming and j)uffing 
 on again. 
 
 Nearly all who had alighted belonged to one party. Mr. 
 and Mrs. Yorke, their two young children, and some ser- 
 vants. She was young and beautiful still, but her manner 
 
ALNWICK COTTAGE. 
 
 105 
 
 had grown colder. Little trace remained of the gay light- 
 ness of Maria Saxonbiuy. 
 
 From the love, incidental to Englishmen, of temporary 
 change, of new scenes, Mr. Yorke had quitted Saxonbury, its 
 comforts and its elegances, for a " shooting-box " in another 
 county. All he knew of "Alnwick Cottage," he knew 
 through an advertisement, except what he learnt by two or 
 three letters from a Mr. Maskell, who had the charge of 
 letting it, furnished. Excellent fishing and shooting were 
 promised, and Mr. Yorke had taken it for six months. It 
 stood nearly a mile beyond the village. 
 
 No one was at the station to meet them, and Mr. Yorke, 
 in his haughty spirit, was not pleased at the omission. He 
 deemed that Maskell the agent ought to have been there. 
 
 " It is a disrespect which he should not have shown me," 
 he remarked to his wife, when the bustle of their arrival at 
 the Cottage was over. 
 
 " I wonder he was not there," she answered. " But 
 something may have prevented him, Arthur ; we don't know." 
 
 " I think I shall take a stroll out, and have a look at the 
 locality," resumed Mr. Yorke. "Do you want anything 
 ordered in, Maria ? " 
 
 " .Not that I know of," she answered. " The servants can 
 see about all that." 
 
 Mr. Yorke departed, taking the direction of Offord. 
 When he reached the village, one of the first houses he saw 
 w^as Maskell's, as the door-plate announced : " Mr. Maskell, 
 Lawyer and Conveyancer." He rang, and was admitted. 
 
 " I am so sorry not to have met you at the station," began 
 Mr. Maskell, when he learnt who his visitor was. " I was 
 called suddenly out of Offord this morning to make a gentle- 
 man's will, and have not been home half-an-hour. I have 
 despatched my clerk to Alnwick Cottage with the inventory. 
 Sir, I hope you will like Offord." 
 
 So he was a lawyer, this man, not an agent ! " It seems 
 a very poor place," remarked Mr. Yorke, aloud. 
 
 " The village can't boast of much, but the neighbourhood 
 is superior : a small society, but excellent. Capital shoot- 
 ing, too ! " 
 
106 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOED, 
 
 Have you good medical advice ? " 
 
 He is a very nice young fellow, our doctor. We have 
 but one : the j^lace would liot support more. Not hut that 
 he makes a good thing of it." 
 
 Mr. Yorke's li^DS curled. He had not been thinking of 
 " nice young fellows," but of superior medical skill. 
 
 I asked you about the doctor before I decided to come, 
 and you wrote me w^ord there was an excellent one," said he, 
 in a dissatisfied tone. " It is most essential, with a young 
 family, to be near a clever medical man." 
 
 " Y\f e all think him very clever," replied the lawyer. " He 
 bought the practice three years ago ; our surgeon had died, 
 and I negotiated its sale with this gentleman. He has 
 attended us ever since, and is a great favourite. He was in 
 London for two years before that, qualified assistant to a 
 noted medical practitioner. Plenty of experience he had 
 there : it was a large hospital practice. He was smoking 
 his cigar with me yesterday evening ; he often runs in, does 
 Janson ; and was saying " 
 
 " What is his name ? " interrupted Mr. Yorke, his accent 
 shrill and unnatural. 
 
 " Janson." 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 The lawyer wondered whether Mr. Yorke was attacked 
 with sudden deafness, and why his eyes glared, and his teeth 
 shone out, so like fangs. 
 
 "Janson," he repeated — Edward Janson. Do you know 
 him?" 
 
 Mr. Yorke's mouth closed again, and his manner calmed 
 down. *' It is a curious name," said he. " Is it English ? " 
 " Of Dutch origin, I suppose. Janson is an Englishman." 
 " Does he live in the village ? " 
 
 " A few doors lower down. It is the corner house as you 
 come to Eye Lane ; the garden door at the back opens on 
 the lane. I assure you, sir, you may call in this gentleman 
 with every confidence, should you or your family require 
 medical advice." 
 
 Meanwhile, during this walk of Mr. Yorke's, every one was 
 busy at Alnwick Cottage as is the case when going into a 
 
ALNWICK COTTAGE. 
 
 107 
 
 fi'csli residence. Fiiicli, the acting nurse, a confidential 
 servant, who had been Maria's maid before her marriage, 
 was deputed to go through the house with the hiwyer's clerk 
 and the inventory. The eldest child, a boy of four years, 
 chose, and he had a will of his own, to attend on Finch : 
 Finch submitting to the companionship, her coaxing attempts 
 to get rid of him having failed. But after a while the boy 
 grew tired of the process of looking at chairs and tables and 
 cups and saucers, and left her to go downstairs. They had 
 brought only a limited number of servants to Offord. 
 
 " Go to Charlotte, Leo dear," said Finch. " I shall soon 
 have done. Charlotte," she called out, over the balustrades, 
 " see to Master Leo." 
 
 When Finch and the clerk had finished the inventory, the 
 former proceeded to the small room on the ground-floor, 
 which had been appropriated as the nursery. In the list it 
 was set down as " butler's j)antry." Charlotte, the under- 
 nurse, sat there, with the youngest child asleep on her lap. 
 
 " Where's Master Leo ? " asked Finch, abbreviating, as 
 she usually did, his name, " Leopold." " I sent him here, 
 and ordered you to see after him." 
 
 " Then he didn't come," was Charlotte's answer, " and the 
 little one was just dropping off to sleep. Master Leo 
 wouldn't come here to me, if he could go to his mamma." 
 
 " You'd let him be with his mamma for ever, you would, 
 if it saved yourself a little trouble," cried Finch, who of 
 course domineered over Charlotte, ujDper-nurse fashion. " I 
 hate this moving, I do ! Such a bother ! nothing to be got 
 at, and one's regular meals and hours upset. 1,'m as tired 
 as a poor jaded horse. And you sitting here doing nothing, 
 with that child on your lap ! you might have laid him down 
 and got a cup of tea for us." 
 
 " Am I to lay him on the floor ? " retorted Charlotte. " I 
 don't know which is to be the children's bed." 
 
 Finch flung out of the room in search of Leo : her labours 
 that day, and the discomfort around, made her cross : when 
 at Saxonbury she had not so much to do with the children. 
 He was not to be found indoors, and she went to the garden- 
 Very soon a shriek of fright and horror arose from her. It 
 
108 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOUt). 
 
 drew her mistress out : and the lawyer's clerk who had been 
 departing, heard it, and ran back in its direction. 
 
 Leopold Yorke had met with a ladder, reared against the 
 side of the house, and had climbed up it, in all a boy's 
 adventurous spirit. He had fallen off, poor child, it was 
 impossible to say from what height, and now lay insensible 
 on the gravel, with an ugly gash in his forehead, from which 
 the blood was oozing. 
 
 Finch stopped her groans and lamentations, and stooped 
 to pick him up. But Mrs. Yorke snatched him from her, 
 and crouched down on the earth, with one knee raised, and 
 laid him upon it. She looked with a hopeless, helpless 
 expression at the lawyer's clerk. The words, which came 
 from her white lips, were scarcely audible. 
 
 " A doctor : where does one live ? " 
 
 " ril fetch him, ma'am ; I'll run every step of the way ; I 
 don't mind the heat," cried the sympathizing clerk. 
 
 He did not wait another moment, but sped away. Leopold 
 was conveyed indoors. Before the surgeon got there — ■ 
 who also seemed to have come on the run — the child had 
 recovered consciousness, and Finch had washed the wound, 
 which now seemed disarmed of three parts of its terrors. 
 Mr. Janson, handsome, frank, attractive as he used to be, 
 wanting yet a year or so of thirty, bound it up, ordered the 
 boy to be kept quiet, and said he would send in a little 
 calming medicine. 
 
 " May 1 dare to shake hands with you ? " he asked, with 
 a frank, pleasant smile, but with a somewhat heightened 
 colour, when he and Mrs. Yorke were left alone. 
 
 'She placed her hand within his, quite as frankly, though 
 the glow was far deeper on her face than on his. 
 
 " How strange that we should meet here ! " she exclaimed. 
 " I recognized you the moment you came in." 
 
 " As I did you," he returned. " But I was prepared. It 
 was a matter of speculation in my mind, whether the Mr. 
 and Mrs. Yorke who were coming to Alnwick Cottage could 
 be you and your husband, until Maskell set it at rest by 
 saying it was Mr. Yorke of Saxonbury. I have been settled 
 at Offord these three years." 
 
ALNWICK COTTAGE, 
 
 109 
 
 " May I ask if you are " Mrs. Yorke hesitated, but 
 
 probably thought she must finish her question as she had 
 begun it — " married ? " 
 
 " To my profession I am. In no other way. My thoughts 
 and hopes have been wholly given to it since — since I fully 
 entered upon it." 
 
 " Will the child do well ? she inquired. 
 
 " Oh yes. It is but a slight affair. I was prepared for 
 something worse, by the account of Maskell's clerk. A 
 little blood, especially on the head and face, frightens those 
 not accustomed to it. These accidents will happen where 
 there are children. He is your eldest ? " 
 
 " Yes. I have only two." 
 
 " I will send up the medicine I spoke of, and call again 
 in the morning," said Mr. Janson, rising. " Make my com- 
 pliments to Mr. Yorke." 
 
 Mr. Janson departed, and Mrs. Yorke looked after him. 
 As he turned to close the iron gate, he saw her standing at 
 the window and politely raised his hat, and Mrs. Yorke 
 politely bowed in return. Politely : the word is put ad- 
 visedly : it best expresses the feeling each wished to show 
 to the other. Whatever there may have been of love or 
 romance between them a few years ago, it was over now. 
 Whatever sentimental reminiscence each had hitherto 
 retained of the other, whether any or none, they knew that 
 from that afternoon henceforth, they subsided into their 
 proper and respective positions— Mrs. Yorke as another's 
 wife, and Mr. Janson but as a friend of hers and her 
 husband's ; as honourable, right-minded persons, in similar 
 cases, ought, and would, and do subside. 
 
 Mr. Yorke, after exploring as far as he thought necessary 
 that day, turned back to his new home. His thoughts ran 
 not on the features of the village, or on the lovely scenery 
 around, or on the fishing or the shooting ; they dwelt exclu- 
 sively on the few words of Mr. Maskell which had reference 
 to the surgeon. Mr. Yorke hated that surgeon with a deep 
 and nourished hate ; and he would infinitely have preferred 
 to find he had visited a locality where poison grew rank in 
 the fieldSj like weeds, than one containing Edward Janson* 
 
110 THE foCtCtY night at offord. 
 
 He was drawing pretty near to his own gate when he saw 
 a gentleman emerge from it. A shudder, strange and cold, 
 passed through Mr. Yorke's veins. Was it sent as a warning 
 — the precursor of what was to come ? Surely that was the 
 man of his thoughts? It was! Janson, and no other! 
 What ! had he already found out the way to his home ? to 
 his loife? Mr. Yorke's lips opened in their usual ugly 
 fashion, when displeased. 
 
 i Mr. Janson did not observe him. He walked straight 
 across the road, got over a stile, and was lost behind the 
 hedge. " He may well try to avoid my observation," thought 
 Mr. Yorke, in his prejudice. Had he been told the real 
 facts— that the surgeon did not see him, and being in a 
 hurry, was taking the short way through the fields to his 
 home — he would have refused his belief. 
 
 Matters were not mended when Mr. Yorke turned in at 
 his gate. There stood his wife at the window, her eyes un- 
 mistakably fixed on the path taken by Mr. Janson. She 
 looked flushed and excited, which indeed was the effect of 
 her late fright about the child. But Mr. Yorke set it down 
 to a different cause. 
 
 " I am glad you have come home," she exclaimed, when he 
 entered. " An unfortunate thing has happened." 
 
 "I know," burst forth Mr. Yorke. "No need to tell 
 me." 
 
 Maria supposed he had seen the lawyer's clerk. What 
 else could she suppose ? 
 
 "It will not end badly," she continued, fearing he was 
 angry at its having happened — " Mr. Janson says so. Only 
 think! he is the doctor here. You must have seen him 
 leaving the house ? " 
 
 " Yes, I did see him,'* retorted Mr. Yorke, nearly choking 
 with his efforts to keep down his anger. " What brought 
 him here?" 
 
 " I sent for him. At least, I sent " 
 
 " And how dared you send for him, or admit him to my 
 house? How could you seize the moment my back was 
 turned, to fetch him to your side ? Was the meeting, may 
 I ask, a repetition of the j)arting ? " 
 
ALNWICK COTTAGE. 
 
 lU 
 
 " What can you be talking of ? " uttered Mrs. Yorkc, 
 petrified at the outburst. " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "I mean Janson," hissed Mr. Yorke — "Janson, your 
 former favoured lover. Have I been so distasteful a 
 husband to you, that you must haste indecently to fetch Itim 
 here in the first hour of your arrival ? Who told you that 
 he lived at Offord ? How did you ferret it out ? Or have 
 you known it all along, and concealed the knowledge from 
 me?'' 
 
 Maria sank back in her chair, awed and bewildered. " I 
 do think you are out of your mind," she gasped. 
 I " No ; I leave that to you : you are far more out of your 
 mind than I am. Listen : I have a warning to give you," 
 he added, nearly unconscious what he said in his passion. 
 " Get Janson to visit you clandestinely again, and I will 
 shoot him." 
 
 , Maria rose majestically. " I do not understand the word 
 ' clandestine,' " she haughtily said. " It can never apply to 
 me. When the accident happened to Leopold — and I truly 
 thought he was dead, and so did Finch, and so did the 
 young man who had been going over the inventory— and I 
 begged the young man to run for the nearest surgeon, I no 
 more knew that it was Mr. Janson who would come, than 
 did the senseless child. But it did prove to be Mr. Janson, 
 and he dressed the wound of the child, and he is coming 
 again to him to-morrow morning. He came here profession- 
 ally, to attend your child, sir ; not to see me. Clandestine ! " 
 1 She swept out of the room, her face flashing with indigna- 
 tion, and Mr. Yorke strode upstairs to Leopold's bedroom, 
 and learnt what had happened. It cannot be said that it 
 appeased him in any great degree, for he was blindly pre- 
 judiced, and jealousy and suspicion had turned his mind to 
 gangrene. They had been smouldering there for years : 
 perhaps the consciousness had been upon him throughout, 
 that they would some time burst into a flame. On the 
 whole, his had been a happy wedded life, and his wife had 
 not made him the less good wife because she had once 
 loved Edward Janson. 
 
 On the following morning Mr. Janson came, according to 
 
112 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 his promise. Mr. and Mrs. Yorke were at breakfast. He 
 shook hands with Mrs. Yorke, then turned, with liis honest, 
 open countenance, and held out his hand to Mr. Yorke. 
 Mr. Yorke did not choose to see it, but he did move his 
 own to indicate a chair. 
 
 " Thank you, I am pressed for time," replied Mr. Janson, 
 laying his hand on the back of the chair, but not taking it. 
 ^' This is my hour for visiting Lady Kich, who is a great 
 invalid. She lives a little past you, up the road. How is 
 niy young patient ? " 
 
 He seems much better," answered Mrs. Yorke. " He is 
 asking to get up." 
 
 " A most disgraceful piece of carelessness, to have suffered 
 it to happen," interposed Mr. Yorke. " I have told the head 
 nurse that should she ever be guilty of such again, she quits 
 Mrs. Yorke's service. It might have killed him." 
 
 " Yes, it might," assented Mr. Janson. " Can I go to his 
 room ? " 
 
 Mrs. Yorke rose. " The one on the right, on the second 
 floor," she said. " I will follow you directly. Finch is 
 there." 
 
 Mr. Janson passed from the room and ascended the stairs ; 
 Mrs. Yorke stopped to speak to her husband. 
 
 " I must hear his opinion of the child, and shall go up. 
 Would you like to accompany me ? " she added, not wholly 
 able to conceal the contempt of her tone. 
 
 No." Mr. Yorke felt angry with himself. 
 
 They came down shortly, both Mr. Janson and Mrs. Yorke. 
 " He is so much better that the difficulty Avill be to keep 
 him quiet," said the surgeon, " He must be still for a day 
 or two." 
 
 You are sure there is no danger ? " asked Mr. Yorke, 
 who was now standing at the open window. 
 
 " Oh, none in the world. I will look in again to-morrow. 
 Good-morning, sir ; good-morning, Mrs. Yorke." 
 
 Mr. Yorke had thawed very much : perhaps the matter- 
 of-fact, straightforward manner of Mr. Janson reassured 
 him. " It is a hot day again," said he, as Mr. Janson 
 passed the vrindow. 
 
JEALOUS DOUBTS 
 
 113 
 
 Very. By the way, Mrs. Yorkc/' added the surgeon, 
 halting for a moment, " you must not suffer the boy to stir 
 outside. The sun might affect his head." 
 " Of course not," she answered. 
 
 However, Leoj)old did get outside, he and his white- 
 bandaged forehead, and tore about, boy-like, the sun's rays 
 streaming full on his uncovered head. In some twenty 
 minutes he was discovered ; the bandage off, and he scarlet. 
 Suddenly he began to scream out, " My head aches ! my 
 head aches ! " Finch said it was " temper," at being fetched 
 in, and crossly assured him if his head did ache, which she 
 didn't believe, for he never had a headache, it had come as 
 a punishment for stealing out in disobedience. 
 
 But at night the child was so ill and uneasy that Mr. 
 Yorke himself sent for the surgeon. Leopold's face had not 
 paled, and he still moaned out the same cry, " My head, my 
 head!" 
 
 " He has been out," exclaimed Mr. Janson. " Why was I 
 disobeyed ? This is a sun-stroke." 
 
 The boy's self-will was alone to blame. Mrs. Yorke had 
 coaxed him into lying on the sofa in the drawing-room " for 
 a nice mid-day sleep," and went into the nursery, leaving 
 him, as she believed, safe. Up jumped Master Leopold the 
 instant he found himself at liberty, and dropped down from 
 the low window, which stood so temptingly open. That 
 was how it had happened. His heart was set upon getting 
 into the garden, simply because it was denied to him. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 JEALOUS DOUBTS. 
 
 A FEW days, and Leopold Yorke was so far recovered, that 
 an intermittent fever alone remained. Mr. Yorke, in spite 
 of his jealous prejudices, had been obliged to submit to Mr. 
 Janson's frequent visits, for there was no other doctor within 
 miles, and the safety of his son and heir was paramount* 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 8 
 
114 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOrvD. 
 
 Tlio neiglibourliood liad liastencci to make acquaintauco 
 witli Mr. and Mrs. Yorke, and an early invitation arrived 
 for them to take a quiet dinner at Squire Hipgrave's. It 
 was accepted by both, for Leopold's intermittent fever was 
 subsiding, and they were no longer under alarm for him. 
 
 On the appointed evening, they found a small party of 
 seven at the Squire's, themselves included. The eighth 
 seat had been meant for Mr. Janson, but he had been called 
 out unexpectedly, and was unable to come. The gentlemen's 
 conversation turned chiefly upon outdoor sports ; and after 
 dinner, when coffee was over, they went out, that Mr. Yorke 
 might see a pond on the grounds, where the fish were being 
 preserved, leaving the ladies alone. 
 
 Soon after, Mr. Janson came in. But scarcely had he 
 had time to explain the cause of his absence at dinner when 
 a servant appeared to tell him he was wanted. 
 
 " How tiresome ! " exclaimed Mrs. Hipgrave. 
 
 " A doctor's time is never his own," he remarked good- 
 humouredly. " Is it the surgery boy ? " he inquired of the 
 servant. 
 
 "No, sir. It is a footman from Alnwick Cottage. He 
 says your boy sent him on here." 
 
 This excited the alarm of Mrs. Yorke. " Leopold must 
 be worse ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 As it proved to be. Master Leopold was taken worse, 
 th3 man said, talking nonsense, not knowing a word of it, 
 and hotter than ever. Finch was frightened, and had sent 
 him for Mr. Janson. 
 
 Mrs. Yorke grew frightened also, and said she must go 
 home immediately. They tried to keep her, and to soothe 
 her fears. Mr. Janson said he would make haste to the 
 Cottage, and return to report to her. It was of no use : her 
 mother-fears were painfully aroused. Neither would she 
 wait until Mr. Yorke came in. She loved her children 
 passionately. 
 
 " Then, if you must go, I will be your escort, if you will 
 allow me," said Mr. Janson. 
 
 " Indeed, I shall be much obliged to yoil,'^ she answered; 
 And hurriedly putting on her shawl, she departed with him, 
 
JEALOUS DOUBTS. 
 
 lib 
 
 one of tlie ladies lending lier a black silk hood for lier liead. 
 Slie had anticipated returning in the carriage. It was a 
 beautiful night in September, nearly as light as day, for the 
 harvest moon was high, just the sort of night j^oets are fond 
 of consecrating to lovers ; but Mr. Janson and Mrs. Yorke 
 walked along, fast, and in sedate comj)osure, neither remem- 
 bering — at least, so far as was suffered to appear — that they 
 had ever been more to each other than they were now. 
 
 The three gentlemen were strolling along the banks of 
 the fish-pond, smoking their cigars, and talking. Suddenly 
 one of them espied a couple walking arm-in-arm on the 
 path in the higher ground, some distance off. 
 
 " It looks like Janson," said Squire Hipgrave. " That's 
 just his walk; and that's the way he flourishes his cane, 
 too. Who is the lady, I wonder ? So ho, Master Janson ! 
 a good excuse for not joining us: you are more agreeably 
 employed." 
 
 Mr. Yorke smiled grimly ; his eye, keen as it was, had 
 failed to recognize his wife, for the hood disguised her* 
 They smoked out their cigars, and returned to the house. 
 
 " Have we not got a joke against Janson ! " cried Squire 
 Hipgrave. " I'll rate him for not coming. He's walking 
 about in the moonlight with some damsel on his arm, as 
 snug as may be." 
 
 " Is he, now ? " returned one of the ladies, humouring the 
 joke. " Who can it be ? " 
 
 Oh, some of our village beauties. Maybe Lucy MaskelL 
 Master Janson has an eye for a pretty girl, I know, quiet as 
 he seems. He's making love to her hard enough, I'll be 
 bound." 
 
 " Then you had better look out, Mr. Yorke," said Mrs* 
 Hipgrave, with a laugh. " The lady is your own wife." 
 
 She had spoken innocently, never for a moment dreaming ^ 
 that her words could bear any interpretation but that of a 
 joke to the ear of Mr. Yorke. And happily she did not see 
 the livid look, the strange expression which arose to his face; 
 He had turned it to the window, as if he would look out oil 
 the pleasant moonlight. 
 
 " How comes it to be Mrs. Yorke ? " demanded the SquirOi 
 
V 
 
 ll6 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 And his wife explained: teHing of the summons to Mr. 
 Janson, tlie fever of the child. 
 
 Still Mr. Yorke did not speak. One of the party advanced, 
 and stood at his side. 
 
 " A fine prospect from this window, is it not ? " 
 
 " Very." 
 
 " Will you cut in for whist ? How unfortunate to have 
 our tables broken up ! We cannot make two, now. Janson 
 rarely plays at cards ; but I meant to have pressed him into 
 the service to-night." 
 
 " I am going home," said Mr. Yorke. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said Mrs. Hipgrave. " The child will do 
 very well. Mr. Janson did not seem to anticipate danger. 
 He said nurses were easily alarmed." 
 
 " I expect he did not," dryly remarked Mr. Yorke. 
 " Thank you, not to-night," he added, turning from the 
 cards spread out to him. " Another time." 
 
 " Yorke's in a fever over that child," remarked the Squire, 
 knowingly, as his guest departed. " I can read it in his 
 queer manner. Did you notice how it altered? What a 
 nuisance children must be ! Glad we have none." 
 
 Mr. Yorke was not in a fever over the child ; but Mr. 
 Yorke was in a fever over something else. He was positively 
 believing, in spite of improbabilities, that the story of the 
 illness had been jin excuse got up between his wife and 
 Mr. Janson, to indulge in this night- walk of a mile and 
 a half. And he clenched his hands, and gnashed his 
 teeth, and strode fiercely along in his foaming jealousy. 
 It is a passion which has turned many a sensible man to 
 madness. 
 
 He stole in at his own gate and reconnoitred the house. 
 The drawing-room was in darkness, its window open ; they 
 were not there. A light shone upstairs in Leopold's 
 chamber, and one also in his wife's bedroom. 
 
 He stole usptairs, steathily still, and entered the bedroom, 
 his own, jointly with hers. The housemaid was turning 
 down the bed. 
 
 " Is your mistress come home ? " asked he, speaking, 
 perhaps unconsciously to himself, in a whisper. 
 
JEALOUS DOUBTS. 
 
 117 
 
 "Yes, sir : she came in with Mr. Janson. They arc with 
 Master Leopold." 
 
 Up higher yet, but quietly still, till he reached Leopold's 
 room. His wife stood there at the foot of the bed, her shawl 
 still on, and the hood fallen back from her head, and Mr. 
 Janson was seated on a chair at its side, leaning over Leopold, 
 his watch in one hand, the child's wrist in the other. He 
 lay on his back, his little face a transparent white, as it had 
 been lately, and his cheeks and lips a most lovely crimson. 
 His eyes were wide open, and looked very bright, 
 
 " Papa ! " said he, half raising his hand, when Mr. Yorke 
 entered. 
 
 " I don't know why Finch should have been so frightened," 
 said Mrs. Y^orke to her husband. " He is quite rational 
 now, and seems but little worse than he usually does when 
 the fever is upon him." 
 
 " What do you mean by having thus sent to alarm us ? " 
 demanded Mr. Yorke, in a sharp irritable tone, as Pinch 
 entered the room with a night-light which she had been 
 down to get. " Frightened, indeed ! Did you send ? " 
 
 " I never knew any child change so," returned she, almost 
 as irritably as her master. " He was burning with fever as 
 bad as ever he had been days ago, and delirious again. It 
 alarmed me, sir, and I sent off for Mr. Janson: I didn't 
 send for you and my mistress. No sooner had the man 
 gone than he dropped asleep, and has now woke up calm — 
 almost as much as to insinuate that I am telling stories." 
 
 "This class of fevers will fluctuate," interposed Mr. 
 Janson. " One hour the patient seems at death's door, and 
 the next scarcely ill at all. Something has certainly in- 
 creased it to-night, but he will do well." 
 
 " If ever I saw any human body so changed as the master 
 is, since we came here ! " uttered Finch to Charlotte, that 
 same evening. " Formerly he used to be pleasant enough 
 in the house, unless any great thing crossed him, but now 
 he's as growling and snappish as a bull put up for baiting. 
 I wonder my mistress doesn't give him a bit of her mind ! I 
 wish he'd go off to Scotland, as he did last year." 
 
 Mr. Janson departed, Mrs, Yorke remained in the boy's 
 
118 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD, 
 
 chamber, but quitted it for ber own at tbe usual bour for 
 retiring. Before sbe bad begun to undress, ber busband 
 followed ber to ber room, locked tbe door, and put tbe key 
 in bis pocket. Maria was surprised : tbey never slept with 
 tbeir door locked. 
 
 " Wby bave you done tbat ? " sbe asked. 
 
 '' Because I cboose to do it. You can't sail out of tbe 
 room now, witb your tragedy air, and refuse to bear me. 
 Now, Mrs. Yorke, wbo concocted tins moonligbt walk to- 
 nigbt ? How far did your love-making go in it ? I icill 
 know." 
 
 Mrs. Yorke did glance at the door, for it bad become a 
 custom with ber to leave her husband to himself when tbe 
 dark, jealous look was on him, but she knew that she glanced 
 in vain. She was caged. 
 
 " I will not bear it," she said, bursting into tears. " Wby 
 do you treat me so ? If this is to continue, I will summon 
 Lady Saxonbury here, and have a separation arranged. I 
 have been to you a true and faithful wife ; you know I bave : 
 what mania has come upon you tbat you should level these 
 reproaches at me ? " 
 
 " You have ; I give you credit for it. I never doubted 
 you until we came here and you renewed your intimacy and 
 friendship witb your old lover." 
 
 " He was no lover of mine," she replied, disdaining not to 
 use evasion in such a case. " Were you not both before me 
 in those old days, you and he, and I chose you ? Which was 
 the most favoured ? " 
 
 " Janson," coolly repeated Mr. Yorke. 
 
 " He was not. You speak in the face of facts, Arthur. I 
 married yoii.''' 
 
 " Loving him. But I was rich, and he was poor. Do 
 you remember your last parting witb him, the evening be 
 returned from tbat absurd voyage, wdiere I wished be bad 
 been wrecked ? " 
 
 What parting ? " rejoined Maria ; but ber cheeks burned 
 and her voice faltered. 
 
 " What parting ! Shall I repeat it, though you know 
 every word better than I ? Ay, you do ! When you told 
 
JEALOUS DOUBTS. 119 
 
 him, with tears and wails and sobs, that you were miserable, 
 for you had bound yourself to marry me, and you loved him : 
 when you lay passively in his arms, and welcomed his 
 embrace, with a welcome you had never given to mine ! I 
 speak of that parting. I witnessed it." 
 
 Maria breathed hurriedly. She could not speak. 
 
 " You did not deceive me, Maria, though you thought you 
 did, for I buried my injuries within me. Had I not loved 
 you so passionately, I should have left you to him ; and I 
 knew that you pronounced your marriage vows to me with 
 Janson's kisses not cold upon your lips." 
 
 She raised her head as if to speak, but no words came. 
 
 "It was not a pleasant knowledge for me, your bride- 
 groom ; but I never visited it upon you. You are aware 
 I never did, Maria ; my love for you was too great. I have 
 loved you," he added, his tone changing to softness, " with a 
 love passing that of man. I was forbearing, and never visited 
 it upon you, save by deeper and deeper tenderness : I forced 
 myself to think of it as a piece of girlish folly, and I was 
 beginning to forget it ; I had nearly forgotten it, Maria, when 
 we came here." 
 
 " And so had I forgotten it," she spoke up, abruptly ; 
 " forgotten Janson, and all connected with him. I lived 
 but for my children, for you, for my own natural ties and 
 interests, and I never shall live for anything else. Janson ! 
 what is he to me now ? For shame, Mr. Yorke ! I am an 
 English gentlewoman; your wife, and your children's 
 mother." 
 
 " We have been here a month — more. Not a day, from 
 the first afternoon we came, but he has been here, in your 
 society. Sometimes twice a day." 
 
 " Could I help that ? Circumstances have compelled it. 
 The child cannot be left without medical attendance. You 
 are frequently at home when Mr. Janson comes, and you 
 know that his visits are limited to the child. He rarely 
 accepts the offer of sitting down with us, even for a minute, 
 whether you are here, or whether you are away." 
 
 " And this night ! for you to have walked home with him 
 in the moonlight, resting on his arm : you and he, of all 
 
120 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 peoi^le in the world ! And I foUowing on your steps later 
 picturing what that walk had been to you both, in my 
 jealous torment ! Maria, I was mad this night as I came 
 along, if ever man was ; and Janson may be thankful that 
 I did not meet him, for I might have sprung upon him in 
 my anger." 
 
 " For shame, Arthur ! again I say it," she reiterated, in- 
 dignation rendering her speech firm. " I have never for- 
 gotten by word or look, my own self-respect, since this our 
 meeting with Mr. Janson. Neither has he. I have been to 
 him as your Avife, as my children's mother, secure in my 
 position ; and he has been to me, as to you, the plain family 
 attendant. Do you doubt me still? Will you have me 
 swear to it ? I can. Arthur, Arthur ! I think you are mad. 
 Let us leave this place, if your mania is to continue, and go 
 where we can have other medical advice." 
 
 Was Mr. Yorke mad ? He was certainly unhinged. He 
 fell into a storm of sobs and tears ; and clasping his wife to 
 him, reiterated how passionately he loved her. 
 
 Maria grew alarmed. She had never seen him like this. 
 Resentment for his groundless suspicions would have 
 prompted her to turn scornfully from him : but she did not 
 dare to do so. She openly repeated, in as conciliatory tones 
 as she could bring her angry mind to allow, that she had no 
 unworthy thought connected with Mr. Janson. And she 
 spoke the truth. 
 
 He seemed to believe her. He did believe her. A better 
 sj)irit came over him ; and in the morning, when Mr. Janson 
 paid his visit to the child, Mr. Yorke spoke cordially to 
 him, and offered him his hand, a mark of favour he had 
 never condescended to vouchsafe before. 
 
 But who can put away at will the pangs of jealousy ? 
 There is not an earthly passion that is less under control. 
 As the days went on, it returned in full force to the unhap2:>y 
 Mr. Yorke, throwing its own jaundice over his sight and 
 hearing. The most innocent movement of his wife or Mr. 
 J anson wore to him but one interpretation ; the common 
 courtesy of hand^shaking would excite him almost past 
 repression. He said nothing more to his wife : he watched ; 
 
LOST IN A FOG. 
 
 121 
 
 and tbougli lie saw no tangible thing tliat even jealousy 
 could take hold of, he grew only the more convinced that 
 they were playing a part to deceive and blind him. If you 
 ever felt the absurd passion of jealousy in its extreme force 
 you will understand and recognize Mr. Yorke's self- torments, 
 They really did border on insanity. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 LOST IN A FOG. 
 
 The child grew better ; he was getting well ; and Mr. 
 Janson's visits were now paid only occasionally. At length 
 the day came that he took leave. His task was done, he 
 good-humouredly observed, for Master Leo was upon his 
 legs again. Mrs. Yorke mentioned this to her husband in 
 the evening, as an indifferent topic of conversation ; glad, 
 no doubt, for the sake of peace, to be able to do it, 
 
 " Left for good, has he ? " repeated Mr. Yorke. 
 
 " Yes. I requested him to send in his account." 
 
 This was on a Monday. The next day, Tuesday, Mr. 
 Yorke went out for a whole day's shooting, a thing he had 
 not yet done. True, he had gone out shooting several times 
 since the season came in, but only by fits and starts. Out 
 for an hour or two, and back home again ; out again for 
 another hour, and back again. Maria understood it all, and 
 thoroughly despised him in her indignant heart. But on 
 Tuesday he went out in the morning, and came home at 
 night, just in time for dinner. He w^as in good spirits, 
 talked pleasantly with his wife, and played with Leopold. 
 Wednesday was spent in precisely the same way, and on 
 Thursday he also went out with his gun as soon as breakfast 
 was over. On this day a Miss Hardisty, a relative of Mrs. 
 Yorke's, arrived on a visit ; somewhat unexpectedly, for they 
 had not looked for her for a day or two. A hard-featured 
 maiden she, of some five-and-forty years. 
 
 The afternoon of Thursday turned out wretchedly, It 
 
122 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 did not rain ; but a dense fog, or sort of Scotcli mist, over- 
 hung the atmosj)here. Offord couhl remember nothing like 
 it. Twilight set in, and Mrs. Yorke stirred her fire into 
 a roaring blaze, and wondered where her husband was. Her 
 guest, fatigued with her railway journey, was in her chamber, 
 lying down, and had requested not to be called until tea- 
 time. 
 
 " Oh, here he is," cried Maria, as an indistinct form passed 
 the window. " I wonder how many birds he has bagged ? 
 He will be surprised to hear that Olivia is come." 
 
 " Mr. Janson," said a servant, opening the door. 
 
 Mr. Janson entered. And as he took his seat, inquired 
 after Leopold. 
 
 " He remains quite well," replied Mrs. Yorke. " I thought 
 I understood you, last Monday, that you should not come 
 again to him," she added, feeling uncomfortable lest her 
 husband should return home and find him there— after her 
 having stated that his attendance had ceased. " This is not 
 a professional visit," said Mr. Janson. " I have been to see 
 Lady Eich, and thought I would call in as I passed your 
 house to say, How d'ye do, and hear that Leopold continued 
 all right. What a strange fog it is ! " 
 
 " Thank you," answered Mrs. Yorke, in a rather con- 
 strained manner. For when jealous suspicions, entirely 
 unfounded, are entertained by a husband, they must and do 
 make the manners of the best of women constrained and 
 embarrassed. 
 
 Mr. Janson drew his chair near to Mrs. Yorke's ; not to 
 be nearer lier^ but to enjoy the genial blaze of the fire. 
 Unfortunately he had no idea of Mr. Yorke's fears ; he only 
 tliought him an abrupt, haughty, uncertain man, different 
 from what he used to be. When Maria Saxonbury became 
 Mr. Yorke's wife, Mr. Janson had put her from his mind, as 
 it was right he should do. Mrs. Yorke rose to ring the bell. 
 " You shall see Leopold," she said. 
 
 " Not yet ; let me speak a word to you ; pray sit down 
 again," said Mr. Janson, interrupting her movement. " I 
 want to consult some one, and I have — as you must know — 
 a very high opinion of your discernment and good sense, so 
 
LOST IN A FOG. 
 
 123 
 
 I wish to ask your advice. I shall value it more than that 
 of any one else. You know Miss Maskell ? " 
 
 "Yes. I have seen much of her since we came here," 
 replied Mrs. Yorke. 
 
 " Do you believe she would make a good wife ? " 
 
 " I think her a very amiable, nice girl, quite a lady. Yes, 
 I am sure she would. Who is going to marry her ? " 
 
 " I don't know yet whether any one is," he answered, with 
 a smile. " But — people tell me I must marry, or lose my 
 practice, for my patients say they will have a family man to 
 attend them, not a bachelor. So I have been looking round 
 about me, and begin to think that Lucy Maskell would be 
 suitable." 
 
 Mrs. Yorke laughed. "Oh, Mr. Janson! How coolly 
 you speak ! As coolly as you might if you were only going 
 to take on a new surgery boy. These affairs should always 
 be cased round with romance." 
 
 He shook his head. "Eomance died out for me years 
 ago." For one moment their eyes met ; perhaps unwittingly ; 
 and then both looked determinedly at the fire again. 
 
 " I like Lucy Maskell much," he resumed ; " so far as 
 liking goes. And — I believe " — a smile hovered on his lips 
 
 " that she likes me." 
 
 "Let it take place then, Mr. Janson. And I earnestly 
 hope you will be happy. Believe me, you shall both have 
 my best prayers and wishes for it," was Mrs. Yorke's answer. 
 She was pleased that Mr. Janson was going to be happy at 
 last, for she knew that she had once tried his heart severely. 
 In the earnestness of her content, she put her hand into his 
 as she spoke — put it as a single-hearted, honest woman 
 would. And Mr. Janson clasped it, and leaned over towards 
 her and thanked her kindly. 
 
 What dark, silent shadow was that outside the window 
 with its face pressed against the pane ? A face whose ex- 
 pression, just then, was as the face of a demon, whose eyes 
 glared, and whose teeth glistened. They saw it not ; but as 
 their hands met, and Mr. Janson leaned nearer to his com- 
 panion, a noise, half savage growl, half shriek of defiance, 
 escaped it. They heard that, 
 
124 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 "What is that sound?" exclaimed Mrs. Yorke, turniDg 
 towards tlie window. Nothing was there then. 
 
 " Somebody in the road come to grief in the fog," suggested 
 Mr. Janson. " Or a night-bird, probably. Shall I see 
 Leopold now ? " 
 
 Mrs. Yorke opened the room-door and called to the child, 
 who came running in. Then Mr. Janson left. "I hope I 
 shall get home," said he, jokingly. 
 
 Maria kept Leopold with her ; and the time passed more 
 swiftly than she thought. By-and-by, one of the servants 
 came in to know if he should serve dinner. 
 
 " Why, what time is it ? " inquired his mistress. 
 
 " Ever so much past six, ma'am." 
 
 " I had no idea it was so late." 
 
 "It was striking five when Mr, Janson left," said the 
 man. 
 
 Mrs. Yorke chose to wait ; but when it grew near seven, 
 she ordered dinner to be served. She thought her husband 
 had stopped to dine with some sporting acquaintance, or had 
 lost his way in the fog. Scarcely had she sat down to it 
 when she heard him enter, and go straight upstairs ; his 
 step, as she fancied, unusually quiet. 
 
 " What can he want there without a candle ? " she won- 
 dered. " Perhaps he thinks he can wash his hands in the 
 dark, and would not wait for one." 
 
 "Maria," called out Mr. Yorke, his loud tones echoing 
 through the house. 
 
 She rose and went to the door. " Yes." 
 
 " Bring me up a light, will you ? Bring it yourself." 
 
 " What fad now ? " thought Mrs. Yorke. " I take it up ! " 
 But she lighted a chamber candle, and went upstairs with 
 it, the servants, who were waiting at table, wondering. Her 
 husband was standing inside their bedroom door, which was 
 all but closed ; nothing to be seen of him but his one hand 
 stretched out for the light. 
 
 " Where have you been so late ? Did the fog cause you 
 to miss your way ? " 
 
 He did not reply, only took the light from her. She 
 pushed the door^ wishing to enter, but it resisted her efforts. 
 
LOST IN A FOG. 
 
 125 
 
 Let me come in,'' she said ; " I have some news for you. 
 Olivia Hardisty's come." 
 
 Not a word of reply was vouchsafed to her. Only the 
 door pushed to in her face, and the key of it turned. 
 
 " He is sulky again," thought Maria. " How fortunate he 
 did not happen to come home while Mr. J anson was here ! 
 Make haste," she condescended to call out, as she retreated, 
 " I have begun dinner." 
 
 Mr. Yorke soon came down, dressed. A mark of attenr 
 tion given to Miss Hardisty, Maria su23posed : or, so late as 
 that, he would scarcely have troubled to dress. He did not 
 speak, and did not eat ; but he drank freely. He seemed 
 also to have been drinking previously. A failing he was 
 not given to. 
 
 " I asked you why you were so late," said Maria. 
 
 " You answered yourself," was the reply — That I lost 
 my way. The fog was dense." 
 
 " The fog seems to have taken away your appetite ; and 
 to have made you thirsty." 
 
 " Luncheon did both. The meat was salt. 
 
 " Where did you take luncheon ? " 
 
 " At Squire Hipgrave's." 
 
 " Have you had good sport ? " 
 
 " Middling. Who can shoot in a fog ? " 
 
 " You have brought no birds home ? " 
 I left them at Hipgrave's." 
 
 " Chiefly pheasants, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes. I wish you would not keep up this running fire 
 of questions, Maria. My head aches." 
 
 Mrs. Yorke ceased, and continued her dinner. As the 
 cloth was removed, her guest came in. Also Leopold. Mr. 
 Yorke was compelled to exert himself a little then, but he 
 had partaken too freely of wine, and Mrs. Yorke was vexed, 
 for she believed it must be apparent to Miss Hardisty. 
 
 " How well Leopold looks, considering his long illness ! " 
 remarked Miss Hardisty. 
 
 " He is wonderful," said Mrs. Yorke. " You would not 
 think, to see him now, that he had been so very ill." 
 
 " Papa," cried Leopold, " Mr. Janson says I have got well 
 
126 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOED. 
 
 soon because I was good, and took the pliysic witliout 
 crying." 
 
 " All ! " said Mr. Yorke. " Wlien did lie say tliat ? " 
 " To-niglit, wlien he was here with mamma, and they 
 called me in." 
 
 Mr. Yorke turned his eyes upon his wife, fixedly, steadily. 
 " Was Janson here to-night ? " 
 
 " This afternoon, between four and five. It seemed like 
 night, it was so dark," she answered, equably, but in spite 
 of herself she could not prevent a vivid flush rising to her 
 cheeks. 
 
 You told me he had given over coming." 
 
 "As he had. I remarked to him that I understood him 
 to say so, and he replied that he did not call to-day pro- 
 fessionally, but just dropped in, as he was passing, to 
 inquire how Leopold continued. He told me a little bit of 
 news, too, about himself," added Maria to her husband, affect- 
 ing to speak gaily. " I will repeat it to you by-and-by." 
 
 When the child's bedtime arrived, instead of Finch coming 
 for him, it was Charlotte. 
 
 " Where's Finch ? " demanded Mrs. Yorke. 
 
 " She's gone as far as the village, ma'am. She wanted to 
 buy some ribbon at the shop." 
 
 " Why did she choose such a night as this?" returned Mrs* 
 Yorke. " How stupid she must be ! she will lose her way." 
 
 " She took a lantern, ma'am," answered Charlotte. " She 
 said she did not care for fogs. She won't be long." 
 
 Charlotte went off with Leopold, and Miss Hardisty 
 smiled. " Servants arc sadly wanting in common sense, 
 many of them." 
 
 " I suppose Finch had previously fixed on to-night to go 
 out, and of course she could not bear to disappoint herself, 
 but must go, fog or no fog," added Maria. " It's just like 
 them." 
 
 Mr. Yorke lay back in the easy-chair, and seemed to 
 sleep. His wife apologized to Miss Hardisty, saying that 
 ho had had a hard morning's shooting, and seemed 
 *' done up." 
 
 About nine o'clock Finch came bursting into the room — 
 
A PREMATURE DISCLOSURE 
 
 127 
 
 lier tilings od, just as she Lad entered tlie Louse. Slie was 
 j^anting for breath. 
 
 " Oh, ma'am, I don't knoAV how I've got home, what with 
 the fog, and what with the fright ! There has been such an 
 awful murder ! " 
 
 " Where ? " asked Mrs. Yorhe. 
 
 " Close on the other side the village. Some thieves set 
 upon a farmer's son riding home from market, and shot him, 
 and pulled him off his horse, and beat him about the head 
 till he died, and then rifled his pockets of his watch and 
 money, and then left him in a pool of blood," vehemently 
 reiterated Finch, all in a breath. "He was found about 
 five o'clock, and the village has been up in arms ever since. 
 The people are all out of their houses." 
 
 Mr. Yorke sat bolt uj^riglit in his chair. His eyes glittered 
 U23on Finch. 
 
 " A pretty tale ! " said he to his wife and Miss Hardisty, 
 as Finch flew off to impart the news to the household. 
 " This is how stories get exaggerated. There w^as no horse 
 in the affair, and no robbery, and it was not a farmer's son 
 going home from market." 
 
 " You heard of it, then ? " exclaimed Miss Hardisty. 
 
 " Yes," was Mr. Yorke's reply. 
 
 " And never to have told us ! " remonstrated his wife. 
 " You say it was not a farmer's son. Do you know who 
 it is?" 
 
 " Janson. Murdered in his own garden as he was enter- 
 ing it. J ust inside the gate." 
 
 CHAPTEK XII. 
 
 A PREMATUllE BlSCLOSUllE. 
 
 HoRiion rose to the countenance of Miss Hardisty. It i^ 
 natural it should so rise when a woman hears of so fearful a 
 crime being committed in her vicinity. But what was her 
 look of horror, compared with that overspreading the face of 
 
128 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD 
 
 Mrs. Yorke? A Hving, shrinking liorror, wliicli marked 
 every line of lier features, and turned them to the hue of 
 the grave. 
 
 Strangely tumultuous thoughts were at work within her, 
 flashing through her brain in quick confusion. " Janson ! 
 who had sat by her side that afternoon! He murdered! 
 AVho had done it?" 
 
 • " Who is Janson ? " inquired Miss Hardisty. " Did you 
 know him ? " 
 
 Mrs. Yorke seemed incapable of replying. Her husband 
 S2)oke U23 volubly — 
 
 " Janson was the village surgeon. You heard Leo say he 
 was here to-night. He has been attending Leopold ; but I 
 thought had ceased his visits. A fine young fellow. Un* 
 married." 
 
 " Who can have been so wicked as to murder him ? " 
 wondered Miss Hardisty. 
 " Ah ! Who indeed ! " 
 
 " How did you come to know it ? " interrupted Mrs. 
 Yorke, lifting her white face to her husband. 
 
 " HI news travels fast. As I reached home to-night, some 
 people were passing the gate, apparently in excitement ; I 
 inquired what their trouble was, and they told me. Ifc was 
 the gardener and his wife, up above, returning home from 
 the village." 
 
 " Finch said he was shot," observed Miss Hardisty. 
 He was not shot. Beaten to death." 
 Finch's account may be the correct one, instead of the 
 gardener and his wife's," said Mrs. Yorke, in a low tone. 
 *' She said he was robbed. Shot and robbed." 
 
 " He was not robbed, I tell you, Maria," said Mr. Yorke. 
 Have it so, if you like, however. Shot and robbed ; what 
 matters it ? " 
 
 Mr. Yorke went to sleep in his chair again, or appeared 
 to go to sleep ; and the ladies conversed in an undertone, 
 Maria shivering visibly. 
 
 ^ About half-past ten, they were startled by a sudden and 
 violent knocking, which came to the house-door. Startled, 
 Olivia Hardisty, her mind full of robbers and murderers. 
 
A PREMATURE DISCLOSURE. 
 
 129 
 
 gave vent to a faint scream ; and Mr. Yorke sprang up 
 from his chair with a start, as if he wouhl leave the room, 
 halted in indecision, and then sat down again. A deep 
 silence succeeded, and again the knocking came, louder 
 than before. They heard a servant hurry to answer it, they 
 heard an entrance and the sound of voices, and then the 
 footman threw open their room-door. 
 " Master Henry Yorke." 
 
 A tall, fine lad, between fifteen and sixteen, leaped into 
 the room, seized Mrs. Yorke, and gave her some kisses, and 
 then turned to shake hands with her husband. He had not 
 changed, save in growth : he was random and generous as 
 when we last saw him. 
 
 " If I don't believe that's Olivia Hardisty ! " cried he, 
 holding out his hand to the lady. " What brings you 
 here?" 
 
 " I think I may ask what brings you here ? " returned 
 Miss Hardisty. 
 
 " Ah ! Are you not taken by surprise, Maria ? " said he 
 to Mrs. Yorke. " Didn't I knock ! I thought you should 
 hear it was somebody. Did you think it was the fire- 
 engines ? " 
 
 " Why did you not let us know you were coming ? " 
 
 "How could I let you know? My old tutor had news 
 this morning of his father's death, and went off; so I told 
 mamma I might as well sj)end the few days' holiday looking 
 you up. And away I came, without waiting for her to say 
 yes or no." 
 
 " Where's your portmanteau, Henry ? " 
 
 "Didn't bring any. She'll send some shirts and things 
 after me ; sure to. What a precious slow railway- station 
 you have got here ! Not a carriage or an omnibus waiting, 
 or any conveyance to be had, for love or money. Mind, 
 Maria, if I have not brought enough tin for myself, you 
 must let me have some and write to mamma to pay you 
 back. I didn't stop to ask for any, for fear she'd put in a 
 protest against my journey." 
 
 " How did you find our house ? " asked Mr. Yorke. 
 
 "' Oh, I got into the village, which seemed all in a hubbub. 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 9 
 
130 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 and tipped a boy to show me. He had to bring a torch. 
 This is not such a nice place as Saxonbury," added the lad, 
 casting his eyes round the room. 
 
 "It is very well for a change," said Mr. Yorke. "I 
 wanted some shooting and fishing." 
 
 " There's no accounting for taste," said the boy, shrugging 
 his shoulders. " Maria, you don't look well." 
 
 " I should wonder if any of us could look well to- 
 night," interposed Olivia Hardisty. " Your knocking nearly 
 frightened us to death, too. We had just heard of a dreadful 
 murder." 
 
 " A murder ! Where ? " 
 
 " In the village. He lived quite in the middle of it, did 
 he not, Mr. Yorke?" 
 
 " Then that accounts for the row," said Henry, before 
 Mr. Yorke could reply. " The natives were standing about 
 in groups, trying who could talk the fastest. I thought 
 they were taking observations of the fog. In one place, at 
 the corner of a street or lane, they had mustered so densely 
 I had to administer some shoves to get through. Who has 
 been murdered, Mr. Yorke ? A poacher ? " 
 
 " No. A doctor." 
 
 « That's worse." 
 
 " It is awful," shivered Miss Hardisty. " He had been 
 attending Leo, Henry, and was here only this afternoon." 
 
 " What, the man who is murdered ? " 
 
 "He was; this very afternoon ; and only just before the 
 deed was committed. It was five o'clock^ I think you said, 
 Mrs. Yorke, when Mr. Janson left you." 
 
 "Janson! a doctor!" interrupted the boy, "It was no 
 relation to our Mr. Janson, was it, Maria?" 
 
 " Your Mr. Janson ! What do you mean by your Mr. 
 Janson ? " demanded Miss Hardisty. 
 
 " Oh, Maria knows. A Mr. Janson we used to be intimate 
 with abroad, when I was a youngster. Is it any relation ? " 
 
 " It is the same man," said Mr. Yorke, in a curious tone. 
 
 Henry Yorke sprang up from his chair, and looked from 
 his sister to Mr. Yorke in dismay and incredulity. 
 
 " The same man ! The same Mr. Janson who took such 
 
A PREMATURE DISCLOSURE. 
 
 131 
 
 care of me on tliat long voyage, wlicn I went away in the 
 Bushing Water V 
 
 Mrs. Yorke inclined her head. "Yes, he had settled 
 here," she said, in a low tone. 
 
 Sorrow rendered Henry's ideas confused. " Oh, I wish I 
 had seen him! Why did you not write me word, Maria, 
 that I might have come before he was murdered ? " 
 
 " You stupid boy ! " cried Olivia Hardisty. " Could your 
 sister know he was going to be murdered ? " 
 
 " Well, I do wish I had seen him. I would have run all 
 over the country to meet Janson. He was the nicest fellow 
 going." 
 
 " Was he ? " asked Miss Hardisty, appealing to Mr. Yorke, 
 who did not seem in a hurry to answer her. 
 
 " You had better ask Maria," retorted Henry, speaking 
 with the random thoughtlessness of his age. " She'll tell 
 you he was. Why, it was a near touch, I know, whether 
 she became Mrs. Janson or Mrs. Yorke. Didn't she . flirt 
 away with him, sir, before she promised herself to you ? 
 She thought I was only a youngster and couldn't see ; but I 
 was as wide awake as she was. Don't be cross, Elizabeth." 
 
 " You always were wide awake, Harry," dryly responded 
 Mr. Yorke. 
 
 Olivia Hardisty, somewhat stunned and bewildered with 
 the vista into past things opening to her, unclosed her lips 
 to speak; but she thought better of it, and closed them 
 again. So ! this was the Mr. Janson she had heard of in 
 past times, who had loved, it was said, Maria Saxonbury, 
 and she him ; whom Maria had rejected because he was poor. 
 
 Henry talked on, until they grew tired of answering him. 
 Talked incessantly until his supper came in. 
 
 When they retired for the night. Finch was waiting in 
 Miss Hardisty's room to assist her to undress. The two 
 were old friends, so to speak, for Finch had lived at Saxon- 
 bury many years, maid to the first Lady Saxonbury. 
 * " I'm glad you are come soon, ma'am," began Finch. " I 
 can do nothing but think of that awful murder. And that 
 sleepy Charlotte would go to bed and leave me. She cares 
 for nobody but herself." 
 
132 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 " I am pleased you did stop for me," returned Miss 
 Hardisty, " for I feel nervous to-night. A common murder, 
 tliougli very distressing, does not affect the nerves like one 
 such as this. It must have happened, Finch, immediately 
 after he left here." 
 
 After who left here ? " asked Finch, wondering what 
 Miss Hardisty was talking of. 
 
 " The doctor. Mr. J anson. Oh, I forgot ; you did not 
 hear ; you thought it was the farmer's son who was murdered. 
 But it was not : it was Mr. Janson." 
 
 " Mr. Janson ! " echoed Finch ; " Mr. Janson who was 
 murdered ! Who says so ? " 
 
 " Mr. Yorke. He heard of the murder as he came home 
 to dinner." 
 
 Finch collected her ideas. 
 
 " I wonder where master picked up that news," she said 
 presently. " It's nothing of the sort, ma'am. It was a 
 farmer's son going home from market on horseback, in 
 leather breeches and top-boots. Mr. Janson does not wear 
 breeches and top-boots." 
 
 " Mr. Yorke said decidedly it was Mr. Janson, and that 
 he was murdered in his own garden. He was very positive." 
 
 " He always is positive," retorted Finch. " But it was no 
 more Mr. Janson than it was me. As if the village would 
 have said it was a farmer's son, if it had been Mr. Janson ! 
 Why, ma'am, the man in the shop, where I was, had been to 
 see the body, and he spoke particularly about the breeches 
 and boots. I dare say Mr. Janson was fetched to the dead 
 corpse, and that's how his name got mixed up in it. Mr. 
 Janson, indeed ! that would be a misfortune." 
 
 " So Henry Yorke seemed to think. He was talking of 
 their former acquaintanceship with him abroad. The nicest 
 fellow going, he said." 
 
 " Yes, everybody liked Mr. Janson, except " 
 
 " Except what ? " asked Miss Hardisty, for Finch had 
 stopped. 
 
 " Except master, I was going to say. He used to be 
 jealous of him in those old times ; and I think — at least," 
 added the woman, more hesitatingly, " I have once or twice 
 
A PREMATURE DISCLOSURE. 
 
 133 
 
 tliouglit to wonder lately whether lie is not jealous again. 
 Master's temper, since we have been here, has been quite 
 strange, and I don't know what should make it so, unless 
 it's that." 
 
 " Dear me ! " uttered Miss Hardisty ; " Mrs. Yorke would 
 not give cause " 
 
 " No," indignantly interrupted Finch, " she would not give 
 cause for that, or for any other wrong thing. I don't say 
 that she was right to encourage both Mr. Janson and Mr. 
 Yorke in the old days, as I believe she did, and let each 
 think she might marry him ; but, ma'am, young ladies will 
 act so, just to show their power ; and Miss Maria's head was 
 turned upside down with her beauty. However, all that 
 nonsense was put away when she married, and a better wife 
 nobody has ever had than Mr. Yorke. And if master lias a 
 jealous crotchet in his head, he deserves to have it shook out 
 of him. Mr. Janson has come here to attend Master Leo, 
 but for nothing else." 
 
 " Did they ever meet after Mrs. Yorke's marriage until 
 now, when they met here ? " inquired Olivia Hardisty. 
 
 " No, never. I asked my mistress once — I think she had 
 been married about two years then — if she knew where Mr. 
 Janson was, and she said she had no idea where. I don't 
 much like this place, ma'am," added Finch, musingly. " I 
 shall be glad when we get back home." 
 
 " It seems scarcely worth while my telling you now the 
 news that Mr. Janson imparted to me," observed Maria to 
 her husband, when they were left alone. " Dead ! instead 
 of- It is so very dreadful ! " 
 
 " It is dreadful enough," returned Mr. Yorke. 
 
 " He was going to be married," she continued. " But, of 
 course, it will not do for us to speak of it abroad, after this 
 shocking ending. He thought of marrying Miss Maskell." 
 
 " And giving up you ? " 
 
 The taunt sounded most unseasonable. Maria, subdued 
 by the events of the evening, turned meekly to her husband. 
 
 " Arthur, let this unpleasantness end ; it is time it did," 
 she said, speaking firmly in her honest truth. " We may 
 both have something to forgive each other. I was foolish, 
 
134 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 vain, careless in the old days ; but I solemnly declare in tlie 
 presence of Heaven — in the presence, it may be said, of that 
 poor dead man — that never a thought has strayed from you 
 since you became my husband. You have been bitter and 
 angry with me lately, but it has been without cause; for 
 not a wrong word, not a look that you could not approve, has 
 j)assed between me and Mr. Janson. So help me Heaven ! " 
 
 Mr. Yorke was silent. He had sat down, and seemed to 
 be looking at his wife. 
 
 " When he called here this evening to ask after Leopold, 
 ho told me he thought of marrying Lucy Maskell. I wished 
 the union God-speed from my very heart." 
 
 Still Mr, Yorke did not speak. Maria passed into her 
 dressing-room. She had said her say. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 THE GAEDENEE's WORD AGAINST THE GENTLEMAn's. 
 
 Mr. Yorke and Henry went out for an early walk the follow- 
 ing morning. As Mrs. Yorke and Miss Hardisty were wait- 
 ing breakfast for them, they were surprised by a visit from 
 Squire Hipgrave. 
 
 " What a horrible thing this is ! " he exclaimed to Mrs, 
 Yorke, when the introduction to Miss Hardisty was over. 
 " You have heard about poor Janson ? " 
 
 " Yes," she faintly said. " Is he dead ? " 
 Dead ! The wretches v/ho murdered him took care of 
 that. They left no life in him." 
 
 " Then it is Mr. Janson ! " interposed Miss Hardisty. 
 " Mr. Yorke said so, but one of the servants here insisted 
 that it was a farmer." 
 
 It's both," answered Squire Hipgrave. " A double 
 murder. Never has this quiet neighbourhood been so 
 stained. Young Louth was passing through the village on 
 his Vv\ay home from market ; and, about a mile beyond it, he 
 was shot from his horse and robbed. He had been selling 
 
GAKDENEH'S WORD V. GENTLEMAN'S. 135 
 
 stock, and had a good round sum about him, which, as is 
 supposed, was known. Janson's affair is different." 
 
 " He was going into his house by the back entrance, and 
 was set upon just inside the garden-door, and beaten to 
 death, Mr. Yorke told us," said Miss Hardisty. 
 That is correct. Poor young fellow ! " 
 
 " It must have occurred soon after he left here," said Mrs. 
 Yorke, speaking with an effort. 
 
 " Was he here last evening ? " asked Squire Hipgrave, 
 eagerly. 
 
 In the afternoon," replied Mrs. Yorke. " He called in 
 as he was returning from his visit to Lady Rich, and saw 
 Leopold. It was five o'clock when he left, but quite dark, 
 the fog was so thick." 
 
 " Oh, that was hours before the murder. The precise 
 time of its committal has not been ascertained. He was 
 found about ten o'clock." 
 
 " That must be a mistake," said Miss Hardisty. " Mr. 
 Yorke was home before seven." 
 
 " But he did not know of it then." 
 
 « Yes he did." 
 
 "Impossible," said Squire Hipgrave. " Janson was not 
 found until ten o'clock ; not a soul knew of it before that. 
 He was being hunted for all over the village to go and 
 examine young Louth, but nothing could be seen or heard 
 of him, and it was only by the servant's going out to lock 
 the back-gate, which she always did at ten at night, that he 
 was found. Did you ever see such a fog as it was 1 " 
 
 "But indeed Mr. Yorke did tell us," persisted Miss 
 Hardisty. " Certainly not immediately after he came in — 
 I dare say he was willing to spare us so horrible a recital 
 as long as was possible — but v/hen Pinch returned home 
 afterwards from the village, with the news that a farmer's 
 son was killed, Mr. Yorke said it was not a farmer's son^ 
 but Janson. You see he had heard of the one murder, and 
 the servant of the other." 
 
 " But Yorke could not have heard that Janson was mur- 
 dered before he was murdered," obstinately protested Squire 
 Hipgrave. 
 
13G THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 " And lie could not have dreamt it beforehand," as obsti- 
 nately returned the lady. " The fact must be, that he did 
 know of the murder, though all people might not." 
 
 " But it was not known at all to any one," reiterated the 
 Squire. "Neither is it believed to have occurred at that 
 time." 
 
 " You must perceive that Mr. Yorke must have known of 
 it," coolly continued Miss Hardisty, suppressing the con- 
 tempt she was acquiring for the Squire's understanding. 
 " It was not a mere vague rumour Mr. Yorke had hold of ; 
 he described the facts, which you have just said were correct ; 
 that the unfortunate gentleman was killed in his own garden, 
 close to the gate, and found beaten to death." 
 
 " It is very strange," debated Squire Hipgrave, struck at 
 length with the points placed before him by his antagonist. 
 " I wonder where Yorke heard it ? " 
 
 "From a man and woman who were running by this 
 house as he came in," readily responded Miss Hardisty. 
 " They told him Mr. Janson was murdered. And that was 
 before seven o'clock." 
 
 " Good heavens ! it may have been the perpetrators them- 
 selves ! Indeed, it must have been ; no one else would have 
 known it. We must find those people," continued the Squire, 
 in his most magisterial voice. " I wonder if Yorke would 
 recognize them again ? '" 
 
 " It was the gardener and his wife at the cottage higher 
 up, near to where Lady Eich lives," interposed Mrs. Yorke. 
 
 "Oh — they," said the magistrate, considerably disappointed 
 when he found the presumed murderers subside into a quiet, 
 inoffensive couple, long known. " I'll go up and ascertain 
 where they heard it. I'd give twenty pounds out of my own 
 pocket to pounce upon the guilty men, for Janson was a 
 favourite of mine. Not to speak of the unpleasantness of 
 having such crimes happening in the neighbourhood. 
 
 Away went Squire Hipgrave : but he was back again 
 directly. Mr. Yorke and Henry w^ere then returning from 
 their walk. 
 
 " Good-morning, Yorke. How did you hear the report 
 last night that Janson was murdered ? " 
 
GARDENER'S WORD F. GENTLEMAN'S. 137 
 
 " From the gardener, up there — what's his name ?~ Crane," 
 replied Mr. Yorke. " From Crane and his wife." 
 
 " Well — it's your word against theirs," hesitatingly re- 
 marked Squire Hipgrave, his mind in a puzzle. " They say 
 they never told you anything about J anson ; and, in fact, did 
 not know themselves till this morning that anything had 
 happened to him." 
 
 " If they choose to eat their words, that is no business of 
 mine," said Mr. Yorke. " As I was turning in at this gate 
 last night — it was late, for I lost my way in the fog after 
 I left you, and did not get in till nearly seven — Crane and 
 his wife were running by from the village in great excite- 
 ment. They had a torch with them. I asked what was 
 amiss, and they told me Janson was murdered. No one else 
 could have told me," proceeded Mr. Yorke. " I saw no one 
 else, and spoke to no one else." . 
 
 " Then what do they mean by denying it ? " asked Squire 
 Hipgrave, sharply. " Upon my w^ord, if they were not so 
 well known, I should suspect they knew something about 
 the murder. I wish you would let me confront Crane with 
 you." 
 
 " You are quite welcome to do that," said Mr. Yorke. 
 
 Away went the Squire again, and Mr. Yorke and Henry 
 leaned over the gate, watched, and waited for him. Crane's 
 cottage was wdthin view, and he brought back the man. 
 Maria and Miss Hardisty came out of the breakfast-room. . 
 
 " There seems some mistake about this here business, sir," 
 said Crane, a civil, respectful man, "and Squire Hipgrave 
 have fetched me down along of him, to set it right." j 
 
 " The mistake is on your part, not on mine," haughtily 
 returned Mr. Yorke. " You went by here with your wife 
 last night ; she seemed in a fright, and I inquired what was 
 the matter." j 
 
 " Yes, sir, my wdfe was frighted, fancying she saw^ thieves 
 in the hedges ; she haven't run so fast since her joints got 
 stiff. When you stopped us, sir, and asked, I told you a 
 poor gentleman had just been murdered." 
 
 Mr. Yorke looked at Squire Hipgrave. " You hear," said 
 he. " Repeat what you did say to me," added he to the man. 
 
138 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 " That my wife was friglited, and we was making haste 
 home, for a poor gentleman had been found murdered, down 
 yonder, beaten to death. Them was the words, sir, as near 
 as I can remember." 
 
 " Exactly," said Mr. Yorke. 
 
 " But did you say it was Mr. Janson, Crane ? " resumed 
 Squire Hipgrave^ looking at the man. 
 
 " Law no, sir. I couldn't say it, as I liave just told you, 
 for " 
 
 You did say it was Mr. J anson," interrupted Mr. Yorke. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir. I was just a-going to say to 
 you last night that report went as it was a farmer, but you 
 turned short away in-doors, and didn't wait to hear me ; and 
 I and my wife ran home. This morning, when the milk- 
 woman came, she told us about Mr. Janson, that he was 
 murdered, and my wife sat down on a chair — though we 
 never believed it at first — and burst out a-crying ; for he 
 was more like a friend to us than a doctor, a-coming up at 
 all v/eathers to her rheumatiz, and charging us next to 
 nothing. I'm sure, sir, I speak the truth, when I say it was 
 not till this morning we heard about poor Mr. Janson, and 
 that there had been a double murder." 
 
 " A double murder ! " echoed Mr. Yorke, his face a mixture 
 of astonishment and perplexity. 
 
 " Why, did you not know it ? " said Squire Hipgrave. 
 
 Young Louth was shot from his horse last evening, and 
 rifled of all he had about him. That was what Crane wished 
 to tell you of: Janson was not murdered — at least not found 
 ■ — for hours afterwards.'' 
 
 " And Finch was right, after all, when she said it was a 
 farmer's son," interrupted Olivia Hardisty. " Though you " 
 — looking at Mr. Yorke — " ridiculed it, and said it was 
 Janson." 
 
 " Yorke, where did you hear about Janson ? " demanded 
 Squire Hipgrave. " At the time you appear to have spoken 
 of it, it was not known. In fact, I don't believe it had 
 happened." 
 
 There was a blank, distressing pause —an awful pause. 
 Where did you hear about Janson, I ask ? " continued 
 
AWFUL DREAD. 
 
 139 
 
 Squire Hipgrave, in a voice that sounded strangely uncom- 
 promising and clear. 
 
 , Still the same ominous pause. Mrs. Yorke struggled for 
 composure, but her breath came gaspingly through her ashy 
 lips. Henry stole round to her side, as if by an uncon- 
 trollable impulse, and Olivia Hardisty gazed in open dismay 
 at Mr. Yorke. 
 
 " I heard it from Crane," said Mr. Yorke, at length, rousing 
 himself, and speaking in firm, deliberate tones. " Though 
 it appears to be his purpose to deny it now." 
 
 Crane shook his head and turned to Squire Hipgrave, 
 " The gentleman's making a great mistake, sir," he quietly 
 said. " I never mentioned Mr. Janson's name last night, for 
 he never was in my thoughts ; and if anybody had come and 
 told me to guess v/ho was murdered (besides the farmer), I 
 should least of all have guessed Mr. Janson. I'm a-going 
 back to my garden, ladies and gentlemen, and if you please 
 to want me again, there I shall be." 
 
 The man, with a civil bow, turned away and went towards 
 his home. Squire Hipgrave was the next to depart. A 
 strange mantle of constraint seemed to have fallen upon all. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV, 
 
 AWFUL DREAD. 
 
 Never had the insignificant village of Ofiord been so full of 
 stir, excitement, and dread. Two murders in one night ! it 
 was enough to put fear into the stoutest heart. At first it 
 was universally assumed that the same parties had been 
 guilty of both, but this impression wore away. Young Mr. 
 Louth had evidently been molested for the purpose of 
 robbery. Not so Mr. Janson. His watch and chain, his 
 pocket-book and purse, each containing money, were all 
 found upon his person, undisturbed — carrying out Mr. 
 Yorke's assertion that there had been no robbery. How did 
 lie know it ? began to ask Olivia Hardisty. 
 
140 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 Mr. Janson had a habit of going in at the back-door of 
 his house, through the garden ; it was the quicker mode of 
 entrance, since at the front he had to ring : it was surmised 
 that his assailant must have known of this ; have got into 
 the garden, and waited for him. He was probably struck 
 down and stunned at the moment of entering ; and was then 
 beaten about the head, one or two blows. The medical men 
 were asked with what sort of instrument. " Was it likely 
 to be a gun ? " spoke up somebody, while they were de- 
 liberating — the question probably being dictated by the 
 remembrance of the shot which had destroyed the farmer. 
 They replied that they did think it likely to be a gun ; as 
 likely, or more likely, than any other blunt weapon : but, if 
 so, they added, the gun had probably been broken by the 
 violence of the blows. The blow which had killed him was 
 an unfortunate one, given underneath the left ear. 
 
 The woman-servant's testimony was as follows : —About 
 six o'clock (she thought it must have been), while she was 
 in her kitchen, waiting for her master to come in to tea, she 
 heard a noise in the garden, to which the kitchen looked. 
 This was followed by a groan, by more than one groan she 
 thought, and she got on to the ironing board underneath the 
 window, and looked out above the half-shutter, but she could 
 see nothing but mist. When asked to describe what sort 
 of noise it was that she had heard, she replied it was a 
 " sudden " noise, a " scuffling " noise. And that was the best 
 explanation that could be obtained from her. There were 
 often drunken folks about on a market night, she said, and 
 she had supposed it might be some going by in the lane, 
 quarrelling with one another ; she " didn't think no worse." 
 Everything was quiet after that, so far as she heard, except 
 for people coming to the front-door inquiring for her master. 
 Five or six times they came ; they wanted him to go and see 
 the gentleman who was murdered, young Mr. Louth. At 
 ten o'clock, she went out to lock the back-gate, taking a 
 lantern with her, for the lock was small and awkward ; and 
 then she came upon her master, lying in the path, dead. And 
 when people flocked up, after she had given the alarm, and 
 came to look at him, they said he must have been dead for 
 
AWFUL DREAD. 
 
 141 
 
 some hours. Such was her testimony, given in a plain, 
 straightforward way ; she was a simj^le countrywoman of 
 middle age, Mr. Janson's only maid-servant. By a some- 
 what curious coincidence, the surgery boy had had holiday 
 given him that afternoon, and was away. 
 
 Squire Hipgrave propagated the unsatisfactory dispute 
 between Mr. Yorke and Crane the gardener. The extra- 
 ordinary fact that tlie murder should have been known to 
 either of them at that early hour of the evening struck every 
 one : upon Mr. Maskell, a keen man of the law, it made a 
 strong impression. Who could have known it hours before 
 he was found, save those concerned in the deed ? argued 
 Mr. Maskell. Very true, said the village, but Crane and 
 his wife are above suspicion, and so, of course — is Mr. 
 Yorke. This must be sifted, concluded Mr. Maskell, and I 
 shall take care that all three are summoned before the 
 coroner. 
 
 Ere the day, Friday, was over, the murderers of the farmer 
 were in custody — two men, of whose guilt there was not a 
 shadow of doubt. The spoil taken from Mr. Louth was 
 found upon them, and there were other proofs, which need 
 not be entered into, since that is not the murder with which 
 we are most concerned. These two men had been seen 
 lurking about the village in the afternoon with another 
 suspicious character — a man named King. It was assumed 
 that this third had also been in the mischief, but at j)resent 
 he could not be found. The murder of Mr. Louth and that 
 of Mr. Janson must have taken place about the same time, 
 rendering it next to an impossibility that the same j)arties 
 were guilty of both. The inquest was fixed for Monday, the 
 coroner being unable to hold it sooner ; and poor Mr. Janson 
 lay in his own house, the outside of which presented a scene 
 of bustle, night and day, inasmuch as it was regularly be- 
 sieged by crowds of the curious, who stood there for hours 
 on the stretch, gazing at its closely-curtained windows. 
 Towards evening, on the Saturday, their perseverance was 
 gratifyingly rewarded by witnessing the arrival of Mr. 
 Janson's mother, who had been summoned from a distance. 
 She took up her abode at the sorrowful house, although 
 
142 
 
 THf] FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 several neighbourly offers to receive lier v/ere made, and the 
 delighted crowd of stationary gazers was forthwith doubled. 
 
 Now the reader cannot fail to perceive that suspicion lay 
 fearfully strongly upon Mr. Yorke. His jealousy of his 
 wife and Mr. Janson supplied the motive ; a jealousy for 
 which there was no foundation, saving in his own distorted 
 mind. Certain attendant circumstances, known to Mrs. 
 Yorke, were fraught with suspicion. His staying out that 
 night, saying he lost his way in the fog, his stealing upstairs 
 in the dark when he came home, and completely changing 
 his clothes, would have been comparatively nothing; but 
 there was his prematurely-proclaimed knowledge of the 
 murder. Mrs. Yorke heard of the opinion, expressed by the 
 surgeons, that a gun had probably been used to inflict 
 the blows, and she shivered as she listened. Did her 
 husband bring home his gun ? She could not tell. Neither 
 could she arrive at any satisfactory conclusion as to the 
 clothes he wore, whether they were put away in conceal- 
 ment, or whether they were amongst those hanging openly 
 in the closet ; for Mr. Yorke v/as an extravagant man in the 
 matter of wearing apparel, and possessed several suits for 
 outdoor sports. The terrible suspicion was eating into her 
 brain. And yet it appeared too monstrous a one to have 
 real foundation. 
 
 On the Sunday morning, though Mrs. Yorke rose to 
 breakfast, she excused herself from going to church. She 
 said she was not sufficiently well ; perhaps it was no false 
 , plea, for she looked very ill. Mr. Yorke went, accompanied 
 by Miss Hardisty and Henry Yorke. "When they were 
 gone, Maria entered her bedroom and locked herself in. A 
 desperate determination was on her face, the index to that 
 which had settled on her mind ; her dreadful fears, her un- 
 certainties, were hard to bear, day and night they were as 
 one living agony ; and now that the house was free from 
 interruption she would search and find, or not find, proofs. 
 The gun. That was the point ; had he thrown it away as 
 he came home that night, stained with his crime, or had he 
 brought it home with him and concealed it? A gun ap- 
 peared as usual in the customary place; but — was it the 
 
AWFUL DREAD. 
 
 143 
 
 gun he had taken out with him, or the other, which he 
 might have reached from his gun-case and put there ? The 
 gun-case was fast, and she had no means of ascertaining. 
 
 There was an old-fashioned piece of furniture, half bureau, 
 half chest, in the bedroom, black with age, very long and 
 narrow. Mr. Yorke had laughed when this caught his eye 
 on their taking possession of the house. " Why, it's long 
 enough," said he, in a joking way, " to contain a coffin." 
 He had appropriated it to himself for his private use, and 
 this was the plague-spot of dread to Mrs. Yorke ; if the gun 
 was in the house concealed, ifc was there. 
 
 She had been to the box of tools, and by dint of exertion 
 she contrived to bring the bureau from the wall. Her 
 intention was to break in the back, satisfy herself, and then 
 replace the furniture. Knock, knock ! hammer, hammer ! 
 Two servants were at home ; Charlotte in the nursery, the 
 cook in the kitchen ; the rest were at church. Whether 
 they heard the noise, or, hearing it, what they might think, 
 Mrs. Yorke did not stop to inquire; her resolution was 
 desperate. She persevered, and at length the wood gave 
 way. Not space enough yet, but she soon made it so. 
 
 Alas ! she did not require a second glance. On the very 
 top of all, quite at the back, lay the gun, hroJcen. How 
 many pieces she did not count, she could not have touched 
 them for the whole world ; they were wet, as if they had 
 been soaked in water for the purpose of washing, and they 
 lay on a suit of wet shooting-clothes. Had he got into a pool, 
 as he came home that night, to wash away traces ? Probably. 
 Mrs. Yorke staggered away and sat down, pale and sick. 
 Beyond all doubt, her husband was Edward Janson's 
 murderer. 
 
 Again she dragged up her shaking limbs, and, leaving 
 everything as she found it, saving for the great hole, pushed 
 the bureau back to its place. The first time her husband 
 opened it, he would see the hole, and detect what she had 
 done. She cared not ; henceforth, there was little that she 
 would care for in life. She took up the heavy hammer and 
 the chisel, and was concealing them under her black silk 
 apron, lest she should be met going downstairs on her way 
 
144 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 to the tool-box, when a quick knock came to the chamber 
 door right in front of her. It startled her into a scream, 
 which she could not have prevented had her life depended 
 on it. 
 
 " Please, ma'am, it's only me," said the cook's voice. And 
 what Mrs. Yorke answered was a mystery to herself; but 
 the servant rejoined — 
 
 " It's a stranger, ma'am, asking to see you directly, and 
 won't take no denial." 
 
 With a ghastly face and a frame that shook from head to 
 foot, Mrs. Yorke opened one of her drawei's, and shut up 
 the hammer and chisel. Then she unlocked the door, and 
 the cook stepped inside. 
 
 "It's a strange lady who wants to see you; she 
 
 Why, ma'am, what's the matter ? Are you not well ? " 
 
 " One of my sick headaches," murmured Mrs. Yorke. " A 
 visitor, did you say ? I am not well enough to see any one. 
 Go and say so." 
 
 " A few minutes' conversation only," interrupted a strange 
 voice close at the door ; and there stood the visitor, who 
 must have silently followed the servant upstairs. Her face, 
 stern and pale, bore the remains of severe beauty ; and Mrs. 
 Yorke grew sick, as unto death, with undefined fears ; for 
 she recognized Mr. Janson's mother. 
 
 She utterly lost her self-possession. She did not say, 
 " Walk down to the drawing-room," or, " Walk in here ; " 
 she only looked up with her ghastly face, the picture of 
 terror and misery. Mrs. Janson stepped in, and closed the 
 bedroom door, fixing her searching eyes full upon Mrs. 
 Yorke. 
 
 " I have come to ask you who murdered my son." 
 
 Mrs. Yorke felt as if her brain were turning. There 
 stood his mother, putting that startling question, and there, 
 behind her, were the hidden pieces of — the — gun ; there, in 
 another spot, were the hammer and chisel. Ominous wit- 
 nesses all. 
 
 " Did you kill him ? " proceeded Mrs. Janson. 
 Mrs. Yorke, in her perplexity and confusion, burst into 
 tears. 
 
AWFUL DREAD. 
 
 145 
 
 " I kill iiim ! " she uttered—" I set on, and beat a man to 
 death! It would be physically impossible. Why do you 
 come here with so cruel a thought ? " 
 
 " Ever since I heard the details of the crime yesterday," 
 continued Mrs. Janson, " my thoughts have never quitted it, 
 no, not for an hour, for my eyes last night were sleepless. 
 I have sought in vain for its motives. All tell me that my 
 son had no enemy here, that he was beloved and respected. 
 To-day I heard that you were living here, and I said to 
 myself, ' Tlm^e lies the clue.' You could not kill him your- 
 self, you say ; perhaps not, but you might get it done. Did 
 you do so ? " 
 
 Strange to say, Mrs. Yorke endured such words without 
 indignation. Indignation from her ! — when the wicked 
 instrument of his death was within a few inches of her ! She 
 answered in a tone of humility, of pitiable depression. 
 
 " You may spare yourself such thoughts. I would have 
 given my own life to save his." 
 
 It may be that her words struck Mrs. Janson as being the 
 words of truth, for her voice lost some of its harshness. 
 
 " Years ago you were my son's bane ; you led him on to 
 love you, and then left him for another : what wonder, then, 
 amidst so complete a dearth of motive for others' committing 
 the crime, that my thoughts should turn to you ? " 
 
 " If I did marry another, it was not that I disliked your 
 son," answered Mrs. Yorke, in a low tone; "it was that 
 circumstances were not favourable to my marrying him. 
 Since we met again, on the occasion of my coming here, we 
 have been excellent friends. Madam, I beg you to under- 
 stand me — friends ; the past was forgotten by both of us ; 
 it was never once recalled or alluded to by either ; your son 
 has attended my child and brought him through a dangerous 
 illness. Pray, put away these dreadful ideas," added Mrs. 
 Yorke, v/ith emotion. " Your son was the last person in the 
 world whom I would have injured." 
 
 " What makes you look so ill ? " demanded Mrs. Janson, 
 abruptly. " It appears like mental illness, not bodily." 
 
 " I have no objection to tell you that I have felt ill ever 
 since the news of the horrible crime was brought to our 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 10 
 
146 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOBD. 
 
 Louse— as I should do liad its victim been any otlier friend. 
 And to-day," she added, with a faint colour at her invention, 
 " I have a sick headache, which kept me from church, and 
 causes me to look as I do now. Believe me, I knew no more 
 of the crime than you did, who v/ere far away.'' 
 " Nor your husband ? " 
 
 " My husband ! " echoed Mrs. Yorke, with well-feigned 
 astonishment. "What motive could my husband have in 
 wishing him ill! Quite the contrary; had I not chosen 
 him, when I could have chosen Mr. Janson ? " 
 
 Ah, poor thing ! was it wrong that she should appear thus 
 brave in his defence, guilty though she believed him to be, 
 in her breaking heart ? He was her husband ; he was the 
 father of her children. Mrs. J anson's keen eyes were upon 
 her. Could she bear them, and stand the ordeal ? 
 
 " Mrs. Janson," said she, rising, and assuming a courageous, 
 open tone, you must search elsewhere for the guilty parties 
 ■ — not in our house." 
 
 Mrs. Janson probably thought so. She likewise rose. 
 
 " Years ago, Maria Saxonbury — I beg your pardon, Mrs, 
 Yorke — I told you that should your future existence be one 
 of retribution, you had richly earned it. Should it have 
 been so, or should it ever become so, you may remember my 
 words." ! 
 
 Ay, she did remember them — remembered them with an 
 awful shudder. Her future existence I Mrs. Janson walked 
 to the threshold of the chamber, and turned her gaze full on 
 Maria. 
 
 "Then, you can give me no information? No help — no 
 clue?" 
 
 " Indeed I cannot. You might as vv^ell ask me after the 
 murderers of Mr. Louth," she added, with desperate energy. 
 
 Mrs. Janson turned, and began to descend the stairs. 
 Maria made no effort to show her out or to have her shown 
 out : the courtesies of life were as nothing to her then. She 
 sat dov/n and strove to keep herself from fainting. As she 
 heard her go through the front door some one appeared to 
 enter it, and footsteps came up the stairs. Was it Mrs. 
 Janson returning ? A cold fear was turning Maria's heart 
 
AWFUL DREAD. 
 
 147 
 
 to chillness, and something like a dull sound began to 
 tliump in her brain. Not Mrs. Janson, It was Miss 
 Hardisty who entered. 
 
 " You ! " exclaimed Mrs. Yorke, glancing sideways at the 
 drawer which contained the hammer, and wishing it v/as 
 safe in its place. " Church cannot be over ! " 
 
 " No. I came out before the sermon. Maria, you look 
 like death. Stay ! let me speak to you : I came home to do 
 so. I thought of doing so yesterday, but my courage failed 
 me. What shadow is it that has fallen on the house ? " 
 
 " Shadow ? " she gasped. 
 
 "Ay, shadow. I have knov/n you from a child, and I 
 loved and reverenced Mr. Yorke's mother. I have liked 
 him. For your sake and hers I have resolved to speak. As 
 I went into church — Mr. Yorke was in advance, and I 
 behind with Henry — some people stood in the churchyard. 
 They did not know us, w^e were strangers, and they con- 
 tinued talking over the marvel of Mr. Yorke's knov/ing that 
 the murder was committed before others could know it — for 
 it seems that the neighbourhood trusts Crane, who has been 
 in it all his life, in preference to Mr. Yorke. I spoke a few 
 words to Henry, and we went in. In the commandments, 
 when the clergyman repeated, ' Thou shalt do no murder,' 
 and I remembered next to whom I was standing — Maria, 
 don't scream : suspicion above all things, must not be courted 
 here, even from your servants. Well, I felt as if I could not 
 remain there by his side, and when the clergyman went out 
 to change his surplice, I left, and came back to you. Let 
 me say to you what I have to say." 
 
 Mrs. Yorke only bowed her head. She could not speak. 
 
 "Understand, Maria. I assume no one's guilt or in- 
 nocence ; I ask not w^hat led to that incautious revelation of 
 your husband's, the premature knowledge of the murder and 
 the manner of its committal ; I would rather not know. But 
 that avowal must be remedied." 
 
 " Kemedied ! " wailed the unhappy lady, in a tone of 
 despair. " Oh, my children ! " 
 
 " There is a remedy, Maria." 
 
 "How?'" 
 
148 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOED. 
 
 " I and Henry Yorke must give false testimony," continued 
 Miss Hardisty, in a slow, distinct whisper. " Your husband 
 also ; but to him the speaking falsely will probaby be of no 
 moment. Henry, as he came through the village on his 
 way to us that night, saw the crowd gathered round Mr. 
 Janson's house ; and the murder, as we have heard since, 
 loas then discovered. He must have heard the details ; 
 must have mixed with the crowd and heard them ; and he 
 brought the news to us. Do you understand ? " 
 
 " But he did not hear them," said Mrs. Yorke, less quick 
 of comprehension than she would have been at a more 
 tranquil moment. 
 
 " No ; but he must say he did ; and swear to it if neces- 
 sary. I am also prepared to do so — that is, that I heard 
 him tell the tale when he came in. I am not insensible to 
 the disgrace and danger — let us not allude to the guilfc — of 
 taking a false oath," added Miss Hardisty, her voice growing 
 harsh, and her brow contracting, " but it may save disgrace, 
 the most frightful that can be inflicted on man, from falling 
 on Mr. Yorke, and consequently upon you and your children. 
 We must have been under a mistake, you know : Mr. Yorke 
 must have confounded the words spoken by Crane with the 
 account afterwards brought in by Henry Yorke ; and thus 
 the mistake must be explained away. Do you not under- 
 stand now, Maria ? " 
 
 " Yes — yes," she replied. " Oh, Olivia," she continued, 
 with a shudder, " this is a horrible aflliction ! " 
 
 " Do not speak of it to me," hastily interrupted Miss 
 Hardisty. "I know that you are innocent, and I would 
 rather not know more. I wish I could have saved you from 
 it more effectually than I am now trying to save you from 
 its consequences." 
 
 " But about Henry ? " whispered Mrs. Yorke. 
 Henry will be found all right. The boy's doubts were 
 excited before mine. Did you notice his countenance on 
 Friday when Crane and Squire Hipgrave were here ? He 
 is even more alive to the dread and the danger than I ; and 
 this plan is as much his as mine, for he met me half-way 
 in it. There is no fear of Henry : deep feeling and sound 
 
AWFUL DREAD. 
 
 149 
 
 sense lie under his random manner. Do you suggest this 
 course to your husband, and be assured of us. Fortunately, 
 fortunately^ Mr. Yorke did not speak while Finch was in 
 the room telling of Mr. Louth's murder, and none of the 
 servants know but that Henry Yorke did bring the news of 
 Mr. Janson's." 
 
 In the most intense pain, both of mind and body, — for 
 the headache, only put forth as a plea in the morning,, had 
 come on with violence, — Mrs. Yorke had retired to bed 
 before the family returned home from church. Not to her 
 own bed : to a small curtainless bed in Leopold's room, 
 which had been placed there for a nurse's use temporarily, 
 during the boy's illness. She cared not for the comments of 
 the servant, but went up to it. And yet her excuse to Finch 
 proved that she did care ; for when Finch in surprise, 
 volubly demanded why her mistress had not lain down in 
 her own room, she answered that she was herd more out of 
 the way of hearing the noise of the house. Maria said the 
 same to Mr. Yorke, when he came up and questioned her. 
 
 Miss Hardisty had said, " Suggest this course to your 
 husband." How was she to do it ? If ever woman shrank 
 from a topic, Maria shrank from that. The very breathing 
 of it to her husband seemed as if it would cost her her life. 
 
 All day she lay dwelling upon it. How should she speak ? 
 how let him know that her suspicions were awakened ? In 
 the dusk of the evening Mr. Yorke again came up. 
 
 " Are you no better, Maria ? " 
 
 " I think I am worse," she answered. 
 
 " You would be more comfortable in your own bed." 
 
 "It is quieter here. Do not stay. It must be your 
 dinner-time." 
 
 He bent to kiss her cheek. With a wail of pain, she 
 turned her head away, and buried it in the pillow. Mr. 
 Yorke bent over her, whispering softly — 
 
 " What strange idea have you been getting into your 
 head ? It is a wrong one^ 
 
 Speaking the words with marked emphasis, he quitted 
 the room. Maria, in the course of the evening, called for 
 Miss Hardisty. 
 
150 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 "You must speak to him yourself, Olivia/' slio said. 
 " You must arrange all with Lim. I cannot'' 
 
 " It may be better that I should do so," quietly replied 
 Miss Hardisty. " It is so essential that he should under- 
 stand exactly what I and Henry shall have to say,'' 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE DOUBLE INQUEST. 
 
 Monday morning brought all the bustle of the double 
 inquest. It was held at a public-house in the village. 
 The proceedings in Mr. Louth's case were soon over ; and 
 then came on Mr. Janson's. The woman-servant spoke to 
 the finding of the body ; the doctors to the cause of death — 
 the unfortunate blow behind the ear. Mrs. Yorke, looking 
 white as a sheet, trembling inwardly and outwardly, told of 
 Mr. Janson's visit to her that afternoon ; and Mr. Yorke's 
 butler was called to prove the hour of his departure from 
 the cottage. It was striking five by the hall clock, he said, 
 as he let Mr. Janson out. At the conclusion of Mrs. Yorke's 
 testimony, she was conducted to her carriage, which was in 
 waiting, and driven home. 
 
 Next came Henry Yorke. He had seen the bustle round 
 Mr. Janson's door in passing through the village that night, 
 he said ; had heard that Mr. Janson was murdered, and had 
 told the news when he got to Alnwick Cottage. Miss 
 Hardisty corroborated this testimony. She was present 
 with Mr. and Mrs. Yorke, when Henry Yorke entered and 
 mentioned it. Squire Hipgrave observed to Miss Hardisty, 
 that she had not spoken of this the following morning; 
 she had said it was Mr. Yorke who first spoke about Janson. 
 It was not impossible. Miss Hardisty equably answered : 
 what with the double murder, the horror of the affair, and 
 the mixed-up reports, her mind was in a state of confusion. 
 Mr. Yorke was next called. He confirmed Henry Yorke's 
 assertion as to his bringing the news of Mr. Janson's 
 
THE DOUBLE INQUEST. 
 
 151 
 
 murder, and added that he had supposed it related to the 
 murder spoken of by Crane the gardener. Hence the 
 confusion and mistake. 
 
 " Do you know you have greatly relieved all our minds ? " 
 cried Squire Hipgrave, linking his arm within Mr. Yorke's 
 as they, and several more gentlemen, came forth at the con- 
 clusion of the inquiry. " It was so singular a thing that 
 you, or Crane — whichever it might have been— should 
 know of the murder, in that strange way, without being 
 able to say whence you heard of it. In short, I may say, a 
 suspicious thing." 
 
 " The fact is this," said Mr. Yorke confidentially, " though 
 I did not choose to proclaim it before the coroner, I was 
 half-seas over that night, and had a somewhat confused 
 remembrance of what passed. Your good salt beef at 
 luncheon, Squire, made me drink like a fish ; and, not 
 satisfied with that, I must make my dinner, in the evening, 
 chiefly of drink, for my appetite had gone, but the thirst 
 remained. When I went in, I did not speak of what Crane 
 and his wife had told me, — murder is not a topic to frighten 
 women with, — and after dinner I dropped asleep. Next came 
 in Finch with her tale, which, as the woman truly says, I 
 heard, and did not contradict, and next came in Henry 
 Yorke, with the history of Mr. Janson's murder. What 
 more natural than that I — in the state I was — confounded 
 the one with the other, and assumed that both accounts 
 related to the same — to Janson ? Thus it happened. And 
 had it not been for Miss Hardisty and Henry Yorke, who, 
 when you and Crane left on Friday morning, began to think 
 over matters, and strove to set me right, I should have 
 persisted in my own story for ever." 
 
 " Well, any way, I am glad it is cleared up." 
 
 " That's an intelligent youth, that relation of yours," said 
 Mr. Maskell. " How well he gave his testimony to-day ! " 
 
 " A superior lad," remarked Mr. Yorke. " Is it quite 
 certain that the murderers of Louth and poor Janson were 
 not the same ? " 
 
 " I don't see that it was possible they could be. Of the 
 same gang they may have been ; but the same individuals. 
 
152 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 no. A very disagreeable thing for Mrs. Yorke to liave been 
 obliged to attend the inquest," added Mr. Maskell. " But, 
 you see, she was the last person, so far as we have heard, 
 who saw Janson alive." 
 
 Yes ; no wonder she was nervous. There is some idea 
 afloat of Janson's friends here subscribing together, and 
 offering a reward for the apprehension of the murderers, is 
 there not ? " continued Mr. Yorke. 
 
 We were talking of it," replied Squire Hipgrave. 
 " I should wish to contribute my share," said Mr. Yorke. 
 *' The sooner the murderers are discovered, the more satis- 
 factory it will be for the neighbourhood. Shameful so to 
 upset a peaceful community! It has had such an affect 
 upon my household, especially on Mrs. Yorke, that I do not 
 think we shall remain. I tell them that because two men 
 were killed in one night, it is no reason for supposing they 
 are going to be killed also ; but their fears are aroused, and 
 I can make no impression upon them. However, stop or go, 
 I will be one of the first to join in offering a reward. Mr. 
 
 Maskell, have the goodness to put my name down for 
 
 What sum are the rest going to contribute ? " broke off Mr. 
 Yorke. 
 
 " We were thinking of five pounds each. There will be 
 ten of us, or so, Avhich will bring it up to fifty pounds." 
 
 " Fifty pounds ! " somewhat contemptuously ejaculated 
 Mr. Yorke. " I do not think that sum will do much good." 
 
 " Shall I add your name, sir ? " asked Mr. Maskell. 
 
 " Yes. For a thousand pounds ! " 
 
 The reply was spoken quietly, but those around were 
 startled at the magnitude of the sum. What had Edward 
 J anson been to Mr. Yorke that he should offer it ? 
 
 " I would freely give it to bring the murderer to light," 
 resumed Mr. Yorke, as if he had divined their thoughts. 
 
 Mr. Yorke went home. Mrs. Yorke was alone in the 
 drawing-room as he entered, and she motioned to him to 
 close the door. " Now," said she, " what is to be your 
 course ? " 
 
 " My course ! " repeated Mr. Yorke, with a keen gaze at 
 her pale, resolute face. 
 
THE DOUBLE INQUEST. 
 
 153 
 
 " Spare me from entering into details," glie said. " It is 
 enough for me to say, that I know who was the destroyer of 
 Janson." 
 
 " You do not," rejoined Mr. Yorke. 
 
 " He is known to me, to Olivia Hardisty, and to Henry. 
 The testimony they gave this day at the inquest might prove 
 it to you. I have seen the proofs of the crime." 
 
 " The proofs ! " repeated Mr. Yorke. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, looking down. " The washed-out 
 clothes and the broken gun." 
 
 A very angry expression escaped his lips. "Who has 
 dared to become a spy upon me ? " 
 
 " I have," she replied. " I broke in the back of the bureau. 
 Let it pass: there is no time to waste words. Hence- 
 forward I am not your wife, Mr. Yorke ; no, nor your friend ; 
 but your deadly enemy. But for the name my children 
 bear, I would deliver you up to justice. The same place 
 can no longer hold us both, and you must leave this." 
 
 " Not at your bidding," returned Mr. Yorke. " I have 
 business in London, and shall proceed thither to-day." 
 
 " Go where you will, stay where you will, so that it be 
 not England," she impetuously rejoined. " You may enjoy 
 the half of your property for your life ; the remainder must 
 be secured to me. Without my children, I would not touch 
 a stiver of it ; but they must be properly reared." 
 
 " Upon my word, Maria, you carry things with a high 
 hand." 
 
 " I do," she answered, beginning to tremble. " You have 
 put yourself into my power, and I must make my own terms. 
 If ever you attempt to inhabit the same house with me and 
 your children again, I shall have no resource but to proclaim 
 the truth." 
 
 " You talk coolly of separation ! Some wives would feel 
 a pang at parting with their husbands." 
 
 She burst into tears. Until that dreadful discovery she 
 would have felt one. " I cannot help myself," she wailed. 
 " You have made my future a course of abject terror, shame, 
 misery ; you have entailed infamy on your children." 
 
 " Softly, if you please. I have not done this " 
 
154 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 She lifted lier hand with a passionate gesture, as if she 
 demanded silence. " Saxonbury must be mine," she said, 
 after a pause. " It is well that my father's grandchildren 
 should be reared in it." 
 
 " Quite well. Will you go back to it at once, or wait 
 here until the end of the term that the Cottage was taken 
 for?" 
 
 She doubted his good faith, he spoke so readily. " I will 
 go back to it," she answered. " But I caji make all these 
 arrangements for myself when you have left. You can bid 
 farewell to your children before you start ; a farewell that 
 must last you for ever." 
 
 " About the ' for ever,' we shall see," replied Mr. Yorko, 
 speaking with some irony. " You speak coolly, I say, of 
 Bcparation. Possibly it is what you have been contem- 
 plating?" 
 
 " Until noio the separating from you would have been the 
 greatest grievance that life could have brought," she wailed. 
 " I had grown to love you. Yes, Arthur, let me say it in 
 this our last hour, if our marriage had been productive of 
 nothing else, it had brought out my love for you. No, touch 
 me not," she cried, retreating, as he would have taken her 
 hand. " It is ended, and you have been the one to put a 
 barrier between us. You shall never touch so much as my 
 hand again. Yours is red." 
 
 His wife, whom he had so loved! The signs of deep 
 emotion — emotion which she could not understand — arose 
 to Mr. Yorke's countenance. Was he feeling that he had 
 no resource but to become an exile, out of regard to his own 
 hoped-for safety ? Had the awful fact already stamped 
 itself on his brain, that a murderer is never safe, go where 
 he will? that the wings of pursuit seem flying after him for 
 ever? But for that wretched, premature avowal, suspicion 
 would not have pointed to him ? What madness possessed 
 him to make it ? 
 
 " I have offered a thousand pounds for the discovery of 
 the murderer," said he, in a cold hard tone to Maria. 
 
 She lifted her hands again, as if she would beat these 
 mocking words off. He went up to her. 
 
FEVER. 
 
 155 
 
 " One kiss, Maria, before I go." 
 
 And in spite of her resistance, of her shrinking dread of 
 being embraced by one who had become so great a criminal, 
 Mr. Yorke, in his strength, folded her face to his, and kissed 
 it passionately. 
 
 He left the house at dusk, to become a fugitive, as his 
 wife verily believed, on the fiice of the earth. She fell on a 
 chair after she had watched him away. The excitement 
 which had buoyed her up throughout the day was subsiding 
 now. 
 
 The sharers in the fatal secret — Miss Hardisty and Henry 
 — hastened to her. They also had been watching the 
 departure. 
 
 " He is gone for ever," she murmured to them. " I pray 
 you let this dreadful thing sink into oblivion. Henry, you 
 are but a boy. Are you sure of yourself? " 
 
 " Maria, if I were not sure of myself, I should never have 
 undertaken to save him," whispered the lad. " Eather than 
 betray Yorke, I would say I did the murder myself ; for the 
 sake of you and the children " 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 FEVER. 
 
 Mrs. Yorke's intention had been to leave Alnwiek Cottage 
 forthwith for Saxonbury. The very neighbourhood had be- 
 come hateful to her. If she could have left it the night 
 that witnessed the departure of Mr. Yorke, she would have 
 done so. Preparations, however, had to be made, orders 
 given, notice to people in Offord to send in their accounts, 
 notice to be given to Saxonbury of their arrival. Maria 
 would have left all arrangements undone, have confided to 
 an agent the settling of affairs, but that she feared her hasty 
 removal, following on that of Mr. Yorke's, might excite 
 suspicion. Terrible fears were at work within her. 
 
 And, what with the fears to come, and the horror she had 
 
156 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOED. 
 
 passed tlirougli ; what with tlie awful ending to lier love 
 and lier wedded life, for slie really had grown to love and 
 esteem her husband ; before those preparations were com- 
 pleted, and the day of departure had come, Maria Yorke 
 was stricken with fever. Almost a brain fever. 
 
 It was all Olivia Hardisty's care to keep people from the 
 room. She knew not what words Maria might give vent to 
 in her ravings. Constituting herself chief nurse, she barred 
 the door to all save the doctors and Finch. Finch had to 
 be admitted occasionally; there was no help for it — the^ 
 doctors of course. No longer Mr. Janson. He, poor fellow, 
 would never more attend any; never more, never more! 
 The gentleman who had temporarily taken charge of his 
 patients came to Mrs. Yorke, with a physician from a 
 distance. They could not think what could have brought 
 on brain fever. 
 
 Neither could Finch. Finch, who was given to talking 
 incessantly, faithful servant though she was, did not cease 
 expressing her wonder to Miss Hardisty. And Finch could 
 make nothing of the ravings. 
 
 " She seems to be for ever mixing Mr. Janson and master 
 up together, as if they were having a perpetual quarrel. 
 It's odd that that should run in her mind." 
 
 " It would be very odd if her thoughts did not run on 
 Mr. Janson, considering the circumstances," returned Miss 
 Hardisty, with composure. " Poor Mr. J anson went straight 
 . out from her presence to his murder, as may be said, and 
 ehe had to give evidence that he did. I do wonder whether 
 the thousand pounds reward, offered by Mr. Yorke, will 
 bring anything to light ? " 
 
 " It's to be hoped it will," said Finch. " I'd lay another 
 thousand, if I had it, that it was some of the same gang. 
 Wouldn't you, ma'am ? They are all returned convicts, it 
 is said." 
 
 Miss Hardisty coughed. " Those returned convicts are, 
 many of them, dreadful men, standing at nothing." 
 
 " What seems to me the oddest thing of all," cried Finch, 
 *^is, that master does not come. A fortnight to-morrow 
 since my mistress was taken ill, and he has never been here ! " 
 
FEVER. 
 
 157 
 
 " He does not know of it," said Miss Hardisty, in lier 
 imperturbable manner. " Witb his wife in this insensible 
 state, I deemed it useless to write to him. I shall write 
 when she is a little better." 
 
 " I should write now if I knew where he was," said Finch, 
 independently. " But I don't know. He was not going to 
 Saxonbury when he left here. His things were directed for 
 London." 
 
 Maria survived the disease, and began slowly to improve. 
 Olivia Hardisty, when the danger was over, wrote to Mr. 
 Yorke to tell him of her illness, addressing the letter to his 
 banker's in London. Just a few lines, telling of the bare 
 fact — that she had been in danger, but was going on to 
 recovery. 
 
 Partial recovery came more speedily than they could have 
 hoped. But with the recovery of body, all the distress of 
 mind returned. 
 
 " Take me from here," implored the invalid of Miss 
 Hardisty, the first day she sat up. " I cannot bear it. I 
 seem to see the murder in every corner." 
 
 " You shall go, my dear, as soon as ever you are strong 
 enough to bear the journey," was the soothing answer. 
 
 A few more days, and she was able to move into a sitting- 
 room. Orders were given for their departure on the next 
 day but one. 
 
 " It might be to-morrov/," pleaded Maria, her wan face, 
 beautiful in its attenuation, looking eagerly up from the 
 pillows of her fauteuil. 
 
 " We may not risk a second illness for you, Maria," was 
 the reply of Miss Hardisty. " Thursday will be the very 
 earliest day that you must venture." 
 
 Maria sighed. She was feverishly eager to get av/a}^ 
 from Offord ; to get back to Saxonbury ; but a conviction 
 every now and then arose in her heart that Saxonbury might 
 prove even less tolerable. Her whole life— and she saw it 
 — must be one of ceaseless terror ; there could be no rest 
 anywhere. Lady Saxonbury was herself ill in London, and 
 had not been able to come to her in this illness. Maria 
 
158 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 was glad to he spared her presence: she seemed to turn 
 with a sick feeling of despair from all whom she had ever 
 knov/n. 
 
 Squire Hipgrave's asking for you, ma'am," said Charlotte, 
 putting her head inside the room-door and addressing Miss 
 Hardisty. " He is in the drawing-room." - - 
 
 Miss Hardisty rose, folded her work together, and 
 descended, not acknowledging to herself that she felt glad 
 to escape the monotony of the sick-room. Squire Hipgrave 
 was standing at the window, looking out. 
 
 " Good-morning," said he, turning to shake hands. " Mrs. 
 Yorke's bettor, I find. Will she be well enough to hear the 
 news? We have caught the murderer of Mr. Janson." 
 
 A mist came over Olivia Hardisty's sight. She felt her 
 way to a chair. Did Squire Hipgrave mean the real 
 murderer ? 
 
 ^' I thought I'd come and tell you the first thing," con- 
 tinued the Squire. There's not a doubt that Yorke's 
 thousand pounds has unearthed the fellow." 
 
 Miss Hardisty began to inquire into particulars : but she 
 felt that her voice sounded sharp and shrill. 
 
 It was the man King, who had been seen with the other 
 two in the afternoon. While the two watched for young 
 Louth, King thought he'd do a little business on his own 
 account, and attacked Mr. Janson. He has been in hiding 
 ever since." 
 
 " How is it known ? '^ asked Miss Hardisty, feeling that 
 it was not King, 
 
 " One of the gang, attracted by the reward, has come for- 
 ward to betray him. Quite a lad, the informer is, not more 
 than sixteen. He has disclosed both the man's crime and 
 his hiding-place. They are not proof against money, these 
 rogues — would sell their comrades for it, if the bribe's a 
 high one." 
 
 " Was he seen to murder him ? " inquired Miss Hardisty. 
 " No. I suppose not. I have heard nothing of that." 
 " Then, in point of fact, the guilt rests only on the con- 
 fession of this lad ? " 
 " That's all." 
 
FEVER. 
 
 159 
 
 Miss Harclisty sliook her head, leaving the Squire to infer 
 that she accepted his news, as he rose to depart. She did 
 not say that she knew too much of the guilt of another, to 
 believe him. 
 
 OfFord was up in arms, when the man. King, was brought 
 in for his examination before the magistrate. That proceed- 
 ing took place subsequently to Squire Hipgrave's interviev/ 
 with Miss Hardisty. 
 
 The informer's testimony was to the following effect. 
 That King had come home one night to the hiding-place of 
 the gang, in a desperate fright. He accounted for it by 
 saying that Cooke and Barnell (the two men taken) had 
 planned an attack on young Louth, and that meanwhile he, 
 King, went back to the village and set on to watch for 
 Janson. He had heard that Janson often carried a good bit 
 of money about him, received as fees. King stole into 
 Janson's garden, and there waited, knowing it w^as the 
 entrance he often used. In less than a quarter-of-an-hour 
 Janson came in, and he. King, attacked him. He struck 
 him down ; he believed that he killed him ; and he w^as in 
 the act of rifling his pockets when some one came up to 
 interrupt him. He, King, attacked the fresh comer; but 
 there he had his match. A scuffle ensued, and the stranger's 
 gun was broken in it ; and he. King, finding he was getting 
 the worst of it, got aw^ay and made the best of his road 
 home, arriving there in a fright. He had not intended to 
 kill J anson ; far from it ; only to disable him while ho 
 eased him of his money. Neither had the other two thought 
 to kill Louth, and that gentleman's jiowerful resistance had 
 led to the evil. 
 
 Such w^as the testimony given by the approver, and there 
 could be little doubt that such were the facts. Indeed, 
 before that day came to an end, the facts were proved, by 
 the confession of King. Prostrated by his capture, and 
 especially by the treachery of his comrade, he appeared 
 completely to lose heart and spirit. In a reckless, despair- 
 ing tone, he said to the police that he might as well make a 
 clean breast of it ; and he described the circumstances more 
 minutely than the informer had done. He could not make 
 
160 
 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFOPvD. 
 
 it out, lie said, how it was tliat Janson had died so easily ; 
 but he knew blows under the left ear had turned out 
 awkward, before now. When asked who it was that came 
 to the interruption. King replied that he did not know. It 
 was a tall, strong man, dressed, so far as he could see for the 
 fog, in a sporting suit ; his speech that of a gentleman. 
 
 Olivia Hardisty shook with fear, had shaken ever since 
 the man was captured. That King was the real murderer, 
 she never believed : she had too much cause to attribute the 
 crime to another. But a very confused account of the 
 examination had been carried to Alnwick Cottage. 
 
 "Do not acquaint Mrs. Yorke with this unpleasant stir 
 about the murder," Miss Hardisty said to Finch, " She is 
 not in a state for such excitement." 
 
 Finch, however, judged differently, and Finch was one 
 who liked to exercise her own will. She judged that it 
 would be rather a pleasant divertisement to her mistress, to 
 hear that there was some chance of Mr. Janson's murder 
 being avenged. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII, 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 On Thursday morning, they were up betimes at Alnwick 
 Cottage. Midday was to witness their departure from it. 
 Even Mrs. Yorke was in the sitting-room by ten o'clock. It 
 was a room adjoining her bedchamber. Finch shook up 
 the pillows of her easy-chair, and drew it near the window. 
 The day was bright, for winter ; the landscape lovely. 
 
 " Is everything packed ? " asked Mrs. Yorke. 
 
 "All's ready," replied Finch. "I have nothing to do 
 between now and the time we start." 
 
 Perhaps it was because she had nothing to do that Finch 
 judged it well to improve the time by telling her mistress 
 of the capture of King, and his confession. 
 
 " The man is taken, and has confessed," she said. " He 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 161 
 
 admits having stopped inside Mr. Janson'g garden, and 
 killed liim." 
 
 Maria held lier liandkcrcliief to lier face to hide the terror 
 that settled there. 
 
 '^Who is it that is taken?" she gasped, 
 
 " The man King, ma'am ; one of that dreadful gang. It 
 was thought from the first that he might have done it." 
 
 " Send Miss Hardisty to me," murmured Maria. 
 
 Miss Hardisty came. She had told Mrs. Yorke the talc, 
 so far as she knew it. Suddenly, in the midst of telling it, 
 she gave a startled shriek: for there stood Mr. Yorke, 
 inside the room-door. 
 
 He looked as if he had come off a journey. He had a 
 great-coat on his arm, and was unwinding a warm cravat 
 from his neck. Laying them on a chair, he advanced and 
 stood before his wife, 
 
 " Are you satisfied now, Maria ? " 
 
 What was she to believe? Was he guilty or not 
 guilty ? She looked up, a strangely yearning look on her 
 white face, her thin hands clasped before her. Miss 
 Hardisty, in her impulsive eagerness, laid hold of the arm 
 of Mr. Yorke. 
 
 " Were you not guilty ? " 
 
 " No ! " he burst forth, a haughty flush dyeing his fore- 
 head, "I was the one who interrupted the wretched 
 murderer at his work — as he has now confessed. Leave me 
 a few minutes alone with my wife, will you, Miss Hardisty ? " 
 
 Miss Hardisty, walking quite humbly, from her sudden 
 conviction of his truth and their own mistake, crossed the 
 room and descended the stairs. Mr. Yorke, as before, stood 
 in front of his wife, upright, his arms folded, and looking 
 down at her. 
 
 " Which is true, Arthur ? " she gasped. • 
 
 " Need you ask ? " was his rejoinder, spoken sternly. 
 
 " But why did you not tell me at the time ? " 
 
 "Before I reply to that question, will you answer me 
 one ? If I had told you, if I had gone so far as to sivear to 
 my own innocence, would you have believed me ? " 
 
 No ; she felt that she should not, then. 
 
 The Unholy Wish. H 
 
m THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 " I saw that aU the assertion I could have made on my 
 own part w^ould not dissipate the impression you had taken 
 up," resumed Mr. Yorke. " Therefore I could only leave it 
 to the elucidation of time. I did what I could. I offered a 
 large reward. I placed the matter in the hands of the 
 London detective police. When I left here, and you so 
 pleasantly consigned me to a perpetual exile, my journey 
 was direct to Scotland Yard. But that circumstances did 
 favour your view, Maria, I might have felt inclined to take 
 you at your word, and render our separation perpetual." 
 
 The scales seemed to fall from her eyes. A conviction of 
 his innocence, of his present truth, seated itself within her. 
 She leaned forward in her weakness, and sobbed aloud upon 
 his breast. 
 
 Mr. Yorke wound his arm fondly round her, giving her 
 the explanation that he did not give her formerly. He had 
 gone back to the village that evening, intending to beard 
 Janson in his own house ; to forbid his visits. He watched 
 for Janson coming home, but he watched the front'doov, 
 Janson meanwhile entered at the garden-door, in the side 
 lane, unseen by Mr. Yorke. Standing there quietly, he 
 heard a groan, more than one, and penetrated to the sjoot 
 whence they apparently came, the garden. The assaulter 
 of Mr. Janson turned and attacked him, and in the scuffle 
 the gun was broken. The robber got away, and he, Mr. 
 Yorke, stooped down to examine Janson. He had matches 
 in his pocket, and struck them, and he saw that Janson was 
 indisputably dead. He left him, and made the best of his 
 v/ay home wdth his broken gun ; but he wandered out of the 
 road in the fog, and fell into a pool. 
 
 "Why did you not give the alarm? why did you not 
 speak of it ? " reiterated Mrs. Yorke. 
 
 " I can scarcely tell why," replied Mr. Yorke. " My 
 feeling against Janson that night Avas one of bitter anger. 
 I should not have killed him, as the burglar did ; I should 
 hot have struck him; but I am not sure that it was 
 altogether a feeling of grief that crossed my heart, when I 
 saw him lying there — dead." 
 
 Maria did not speak. Her face was buried. 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 163 
 
 ^' I scrambled out of the pool and came home," continued 
 Mr. Yorke. '^As I reached the gate. Crane and his wife 
 were passing ; they seemed in distress, in alarm, and I 
 inquired the cause. ' A poor gentleman had just been 
 murdered,' they said. I never supposed, and naturally, that 
 they alluded to any murder but Janson's. I supposed that 
 the body had been found and the news had spread. Do you 
 remember," he somewhat abruptly added, " that I called to 
 you for a light, when I cam.e in, and asked you to bring it 
 up yourself?" 
 
 " Quite well." 
 
 "My intention was to tell you of what had happened. 
 Maria, I believe the feeling in my heart was to taunt you — 
 that the man whom I had just before seen with his hand in 
 yours, was dead and out of the way for ever. In the few 
 moments that elapsed between my calling and your appear- 
 ance with the light, the mood changed, and I resolved to say 
 nothing. I bundled my clothes, wet with the pool, into the 
 long press, laid the broken gun upon them, and came down 
 to dinner." 
 
 " Why did you lay them there, out of the way ? " 
 
 " As I said before, I can scarcely tell you. In my ill- 
 feeling against Janson, I believe I resolved not to disclose 
 that I had seen anything of the murder; to be perfectly 
 silent upon the point. For one thing, Maria — and I have 
 felt ashamed of myself ever since — I was the worse for drink 
 that evening. In my sober senses I should probably have 
 acted very differently throughout ; but I was not in my 
 sober senses. I had drunk a good deal at Squire Hipgraves ; 
 he had two or three hard drinkers at his luncheon-table that 
 day, hearty sportsmen, and I drank with the rest. Again, 
 while I was waiting for Janson, near his house, I turned 
 into a public-house and drank more — some brandy-and- 
 water. You must have seen that I had taken too much." 
 
 " Yes," she answered. 
 
 " Afterwards there came that unhappy suspicion, through 
 my having mixed up the one murder with the other. That 
 suspicion did attach to me, I could not fail to see ; and I 
 was really thankful to Olivia Hardisty and to Henry Yorko 
 
m THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. 
 
 for helping me to a way out of it. To liave tardily con- 
 fessed, then, to what I had seen, would never have done ; it 
 might only have brought sus|)icion more tangibly upon me. 
 People would have asked what brought me in Janson's 
 garden." 
 
 " Arthur," she said, raising her white face, " you might 
 have confessed this to us at home." 
 
 " With what chance of receiving credence ? " 
 
 It was the old question. An unsatisfactory one now. 
 
 "I judged it better to bide my time," said Mr. Yorke. 
 We will have Henry to ST)end Christmas with us, and make 
 it a Christmas tale for after dinner. I suppose I may come 
 home to Saxonbury again ? " 
 
 She was crying softly and silently, happy tears now. 
 Mr. Yorke held her closer, and bent to kiss them away. 
 " I think you have saved my life, Arthur," she whispered. 
 
 " You were going to Saxonbury to-day, were you not ? " 
 
 " Yes ; by the mid-day train." 
 But I perceive you are not fit to travel. Shall we stay 
 on here a few days, and see a little more of this strange 
 drama played out ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, if you please," she readily answered. " All the 
 places in the world seem glad ones to me now. I have had 
 brain fever, Arthur." 
 
 " I know you have. I had a bulletin up daily of your 
 progress." 
 
 " From whom ? " she inquired, in surprise. 
 
 "From the doctor. Had he warned me of danger, I 
 should have hastened to you. He thought I was detained 
 in town by law business, and could not leave. Maria," ho 
 more gravely added, " never doubt my care and love again." 
 
 "I have never doubted them," she replied. "I 
 
 Arthur," she broke off, gazing at him earnestly, " it is I who 
 ought to enjoin that. The cloud fell on your mind, not on 
 mine. Has it gone away ? " 
 
 " It has. I believe I was wrong, Maria. At any rate, it 
 can never now return." 
 
 " Thank God ! " she murmured. " Quite gone ! " 
 
 " Quite gone," repeated Mr. Yorke, regarding the remark 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 165 
 
 as a question. " If another thousand pounds would bring 
 Janson back to life, Maria, I would freely giv(^ it." 
 
 "Shall you speak abroad, now, of what you saw of the 
 murder?" 
 
 " No. It would answer no end, for I could not swear to 
 the assailant. I disclosed the whole to one of the head 
 police in London ; but there's no necessity to proclaim it 
 further for the benefit of the public. We will keep it as 
 a secret. A less weighty one than that you have been 
 hugging to your heart, Maria." 
 
 A sudden pushing open of the room-door. Master Leo- 
 pold flew in boisterously, followed by Finch, grumbling. 
 " Papa ! papa ! " shouted the boy in his delight. And Mr. 
 Yorke caught him in his arms. 
 
 Finch stood transfixed with surprise. " Why, sir, when 
 did you come ? " 
 
 " Ten minutes ago," said Mr. Yorke. " I am telling your 
 mistress that she will do well to remain on here a little 
 longer, until she shall be more fit to travel." 
 
 " You can unpack. Finch," said her mistress. 
 
 "Well, that is a bother," cried Finch, who was in the 
 habit, from long service, of saying pretty well what she 
 pleased. " Have you come to stay too, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Yorke. 
 
 But they got home to Saxonbury in time for Christmas 
 Day. And as to Offord, it has not done talking yet of the 
 tragedy enacted on that foggy night, or of the flight the 
 whole village made to the county town to see the three men 
 executed. 
 
 The double murder it is called to this day. 
 
THE 
 
 SURGEON'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
THE 
 
 SURGEON'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 I. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Do you happen to be acquainted with the Faithful City of 
 Worcester? The loyal city which, in its truehearteclness, 
 remained firm to its unhappy king, Charles the Martyr, with 
 his son, when all other of his towns had turned against him, 
 and so earned the right to be called Faithful for ever ? If • 
 a stranger, you cannot do better than pay a day's visit to it : 
 you may go to many a town less worth seeing. Whilst your 
 dinner is preparing at the Star and Garter — at w^hich dinner 
 you must beg the host not to forget the Severn salmon, and 
 the far-famed lampreys, fatal in his day to the First Henry 
 — go on a tour of inspection through the city. Take its 
 cathedral first : and when you have looked at its renovated 
 grandeur ; at its cold handsome monuments erected to the 
 memory of those who have long been colder than they are, 
 and admired its beauteous east window of many colours, 
 step into the cloisters, where the irreverent Cromwell stabled 
 his horses, and there pause awhile over the gravestone bear- 
 ing the solitary inscription " Miserrimus," and speculate 
 upon its unhappy tenant's life and fate. Then, passing 
 through the " Green," and the gate of Edgar Tower, turn 
 to Chamberlain's China Factory — it has passed into other 
 
170 
 
 THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 Iiands now, but tlie name stiH cHngs to it, and will cling, 
 whilst present generations shall exist. The Worcester china 
 is spoken of all over the world, and deserves its reputation : 
 in point of art and refined beauty it yields to none. You 
 may have been all the way to Peldn, and bought up all its 
 curious teacups and saucers ; you may be at home in all the 
 S2)lendours of all the departments of the Sevres Porcelaine ; 
 but you see they cannot surpass, if they can vie with, that 
 produced at Worcester. Turning about again, from the 
 China-works, to stand in front of the Guildhall, you admire 
 its fagade, its statues, and its conspicuous motto, " Floreat 
 Semper Fidelis Civitas." Did you ever hear the anecdote 
 connected with its body-corporate of other days, when George 
 the Third was king ? His Majesty visited the Faithful City, 
 staying in it a few days : and this most loyal corporation 
 exercised their brains devising ways and means of showing 
 their fealty : as, between ourselves, corporations do still : 
 which, it is said, were well and duly appreciated. When the 
 addressing, and the feasting, and all the rest of it were over, 
 and the King was preparing to leave the town, one last and 
 final attention was projected by the body-corporate. A 
 deputation of them waited on their august guest, obtained 
 an audience, and solicited " the honour of escorting his 
 Majesty to the gallows." The King stared, laughed, and 
 thought he would rather be excused. They had omitted to 
 explain that they merely wished to pay his Majesty the 
 respect of attending him out of the town as far as the spot 
 where the gallows for the condemned criminals stood. It 
 was at the top of Eed Hill. The King gave permission to 
 tliat. 
 
 The inhabitants of Worcester are said to deserve the 
 initials P. P. P. affixed to their names, denoting Poor, Proud, 
 and Pretty. Whether, take them as a whole, they are poor, 
 I cannot say ; proud tliey undoubtedly are, for that is the 
 characteristic of all cathedral towns; and you certainly 
 cannot walk through the city without being struck with the 
 remarkably pretty faces of the girls you meet. 
 
 At a long-past period, so long that elderly people can 
 only just remember it, there lived in Worcester a surgeon 
 
LOVE. 
 
 171 
 
 and general practitioner, Mr. George Juniper. He was a 
 little man, with a fair complexion and curly light liair; 
 skilful, kind-hearted, sensible, and much esteemed by his 
 fellow-citizens. He had been in practice many years and 
 his connection was extensive ; but he was no longer young, 
 and began to feel the need of a little rest and less respon- 
 sibility. Mr. Juniper always kept a qualified assistant, who 
 was generally a young man ; though latterly he had not 
 been fortunate in respect to his assistants. One of them 
 sent a patient poison in mistake for Epsom salts, which 
 nearly cost the lady her life ; another grew fonder of the 
 billiard-table than he was of the surgery ; and a third made 
 love too conspicuously to the surgeon's daughters. So that 
 of assistants Mr. Juniper grew weary, and thought he must 
 try some other system of help. 
 
 George Juniper rejoiced in seven daughters. " Seven 
 daughters ! " cries the aghast old bachelor, reading this 
 through his spectacles ; " was he mad ? " Well, sometimes 
 they did nearly enough to drive him so, had he been less 
 good-humoured and indulgent. But he could not lay the 
 claim of paternity to all the seven. It had happened in this 
 way : — 
 
 There resided in Worcester, again many years back even 
 from this, an old gentleman of the name of Battlebridge. 
 He had made a large fortune in business, and had retired 
 to enjoy it, or a portion of it, in a great square handsome 
 house with a large garden, keeping a cook, housemaid, and 
 gardener, the two latter being man and wife. 
 
 Up to one-and-seventy years of age Mr. Battlebridge had 
 not married ; consequently, his dear relatives, even to the 
 twentieth cousin, although they were all well off, were ex- 
 cessively attentive and affectionate towards him, calling upon 
 him and carrying him presents of jam and flannel nightcaps 
 a great deal oftener than he wanted them. But one day it 
 was disclosed to the old gentleman that a graceless nephew 
 of his had avowed, the previous night, in a mixed society, 
 that not one of them cared a rap for the old man ; all they 
 wanted was that he should betake himself off, so that they 
 might inherit his goldo" 
 
172 THE SURGEON^S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 Whilst Mr. Battlebi'iclge was digesting tliis agreeablo 
 news, there burst into his parlour his cook and housekeeper, 
 Molly ; her cheeks crimson, and her voice angry. She had 
 been having another breeze with the gardener and his wife, 
 such breezes being pretty common, and had come to give 
 warning. Now Molly was a superior young v/oman and a 
 good girl, who looked after her master's comforts, and old 
 Battlebridge w^ould as soon have lost his right hand. 
 
 " It's two to one," cried Molly, turning her comely face 
 to her master. " What chance have I against them ? They 
 are always on at me : and Mark is the most overbearing 
 man alive. If you don't like to pay me my Avages, sir, and 
 let me be off this day, I'll leave without them." 
 
 " I'll make it two to two for you, Molly, if you will, and 
 then you can have fair play," resj^onded the old gentleman. 
 
 " How will you do that, master '? " asked Molly, her passion 
 a little abating, and her pretty mouth breaking into a smile. 
 
 " Why, I'll marry you myself," returned old Battlebridge. 
 
 " I am not in a humour to be joked with," retorted Molly? 
 becoming wrathful again. " Do you please to pay me, sir, 
 or not ? " 
 
 " I am not joking," he rej^lied. " I'll get the license 
 to-day and marry you to-morrow." 
 
 And old Battlebridge did so : and from that time Molly 
 sat in the parlour with him, and became as much of a lady 
 as she could, and was Mrs. Battlebridge. Worcester made 
 a great commotion at the news ; the relatives made a greater. 
 " Married, indeed, Avhen he ought to have died ! " they cried ; 
 and they declared that, had they known of it beforehand, 
 they would have shut him up in the madhouse at Droit wich. 
 
 Three little girls were born to old Battlebridge, and then 
 he died, leaving his whole property to his wife and children. 
 The relations threw it into Chancery, like the simpletons 
 they were, for they had not a leg to stand upon. One of 
 them acknowledged that they had done it in a moment of 
 exasperation : and exasperation, mind you, has been more 
 productive to Chancery than any other passion. The money 
 came out of it just halved in value, thanks to the case being 
 minus the said leg : had it possessed but the shadow of one, 
 
LOVE. 
 
 173 
 
 it would never have come out at all. But there was a great 
 deal still left ; quite enough to tempt many a suitor to pay 
 court to the comely Widow Battlehridge. The successful 
 one was Surgeon J uniper ; and the Faithful City wondered. 
 It wondered that he, being a gentleman in mind and 
 manners, should take to himself a vulgar wife : but the 
 surgeon, without so much as a wry face, gulped down the 
 pill for the sake of the gilt that covered it. 
 
 That the new Mrs. Junij)er w^as in a degree vulgar, no 
 one could deny : she was growing plumj) ; she had not 
 abandoned her homely speech and grammar, and had not 
 tried to do so : but she possessed many redeeming qualities. 
 She was gentle-tempered, kind-hearted, benevolent to the 
 poor, an excellent wife, mistress, and mother ; and many a 
 well-born lady in the city was glad to shake hands with her 
 and to pay her the respect she deserved. At the time of 
 Mr. Juniper's marriage with her he was a widower and the 
 father of three little girls; her three little damsels made 
 six ; and one, who was born after the double second marriage 
 of the parties, made the seventh. So that is how Mr. 
 Juniper counted his daughters. 
 
 The little girls grew up in course of time to be young 
 women, well-educated and lady-like, but full of fun amidst 
 themselves. Two of them — the eldest in each family— soon 
 married ; Ann J uniper to a merchant in Liverpool ; Mary 
 Battlebridge to a gentleman-farmer in Worcestershire. 
 
 It was about this time that the following advertisement 
 appeared in the Worceste^^ Journal and also in the Times : 
 such advertisements being less common in those days than 
 they are in these : — - 
 
 To THE Medical Profession. — A gentleman fully 
 qualified as surgeon, etc., possessing money to purchase a 
 share in a practice, may hear of something desirable by 
 aj^plying to Gr. J., Post Office, Worcestei." 
 
 The advertisement was Mr. Juniper's. He received 
 sundry answers to it, and concluded a negotiation. 
 
 Mr. Juniper^s house, large and commodious, stood in one 
 
174 
 
 THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 of the principal streets. Entering from its piHared portico, 
 rooms opened on eacli hand : the dining-room on the right, 
 the parlour on the left ; the drawing-room was above. All 
 these rooms faced the street. Mr. Juniper's professional 
 rooms and surgery were at the back, close to the side- 
 entrance. 
 
 The parlour was appropriated to the young ladies, to 
 their occupations and amusements. You never saw so 
 untidy a place in your life : one with the bump of order 
 would, upon entering it, have run av/ay in dismay. An old 
 piano stood on one side, a key or two missing and a dozen 
 of its wires — it had been the girls' practising piano when 
 they were children; a set of book-shelves rose opposite, 
 piled with books in the greatest confusion ; writing-desks 
 lay about, some on the floor, some tumbling off chairs ; 
 sheets of music, in all stages of tearing and copying ; work- 
 boxes stood open, some without lids, others without bottoms, 
 their contents all entangled together in one appalling mess : 
 pens, pencils, paints, French crayons, palettes, chalks, work, 
 tliimbles, keys, notes, and scrap-books were scattered every- 
 where ; whilst the chairs and the carpet were worn and the 
 table-covers frayed. 
 
 In this room, one evening in spring, were all the girls, 
 gathered round a blazing fire, sitting, kneeling, or standing. 
 The two Miss Junipers were little, fair, slender young 
 women, very near-sighted, with hair remarkably light ; 
 whilst the daughters of the late Mr. Battlebridge were tall, 
 buxom girls, with dark eyes and arched eyebrows ; and the 
 youngest, Georgiana, half-sister to all the others, was the 
 beauty of the family. She was now eighteen, and was 
 thought a great deal of by her sisters in general and by 
 herself in particular, and she had always been indulged. 
 They were bustling, accomplished, good-natured girls, much 
 liked in society : but their mother possessed stricter notions 
 of right and wrong than does many a one who has been 
 better born, and she "kept them under," and saw more 
 strictly after them than the girls liked. So they looked 
 forward with ardent hope to the time when they should be 
 married and become their ovv'n mistresses. Are there many 
 
LOVE. 
 
 175 
 
 girls wlio do not ? — especially when they find tliey have left 
 their teens behind them more years than they would care 
 to tell. 
 
 On this evening, in their own parloux', they were chatter- 
 ing by firelight ; just the nonsense that girls do chatter. 
 Their theme w^as their father's new partner, who was 
 expected on the morrow. 
 
 "Ill tell you what, Julia," observed Miss Elizabeth 
 Juniper, "I have him in my mind's eye, exactly; just his 
 portrait." 
 
 " Let's have it, Bessy," was the response of Miss Battle- 
 bridge. 
 
 "You remember that precious assistant papa had two 
 years ago, with a nose like a monkey's and a waist like an 
 elephant's ? I wouldn't mind betting a new fan he will be 
 just such another man." 
 
 " Green spectacles and all ? " 
 
 " Green spectacles and all : or, perhaps, an eye-glass 
 by way of a change. We will turn him over to Cicely ; 
 she used to admire the elephant; and he admired her, I 
 think." 
 
 " You may call him an elephant and a monkey now," 
 cried Miss Cicely Juniper, nodding her head, " but you were 
 all setting your caps at him then." 
 
 " Just hark at Cicely ! " 
 
 " He v/ill not concern me," interrupted Georgiana, tossing 
 back her pretty auburn curls in the self-sufficiency of hei' 
 youth and beauty, " for I know he will be as old as papa. I 
 shall begin to call him ' uncle ' as soon as he comes." 
 
 " Who's this ? " exclaimed Kate Battlebridge, turning 
 sharply round as the door opened, and a lady, attired in 
 grass-green silk and white lace cap with pink ribbons,, 
 entered. 
 
 " It's only mamma. What are you coming in here for, 
 mamma ? " 
 
 " Why, the truth is, girls, I dozed off in the twilight, and 
 the fire went almost out, so I am come in while they blow 
 it up," replied Mrs. Juniper. She v/as stout now and pretty 
 red, and she tcGuld dress in bright colours ; but her face 
 
176 
 
 THE SURGEON'S DAUGIITEES. 
 
 was comely still, and licr voice kindly as ever. " Move 
 away a bit, Bessy, and let one see the fire." 
 
 Miss Elizabeth, pushing her sisters closer together, made 
 room for Mrs. Juniper, without losing her own place in the 
 circle. 
 
 " We have been wondering what the new doctor will be 
 like, mamma." 
 
 " J ust like your silliness, girls : wondering your time 
 away to waste. If I were you, I'd rather spend it putting 
 this room straight. He'll be here to-morrow night, and 
 then you'll see. I have been thinking what I had better get 
 for his supper." 
 
 " Tea, mamma," interrupted the young ladies. 
 
 " Tea indeed ! " ejaculated Mrs. Juniper, indignantly. " If 
 any of you took a journey of six-and- twenty miles on a 
 stage-coach, you'd be glad of something substantial at the 
 end of it. What do you think of a fine savoury duck, nicely 
 stuffed with sage and onions ? " 
 
 The girls screamed, laughed, and did not approve of the 
 dish at all. Bessy Juniper suggested an improvement. 
 
 " Have the tea nicely laid, mamma, with watercress and 
 small rolls," she said, " and get in a little potted meat " 
 
 " Potted donkey ! " interrupted her mother, sharply. " Do 
 you think your papa is going to take a partner to starve 
 him?" 
 
 " Potted meats are the fashion now," Bessy ventured to 
 remark. 
 
 " For full people ; not for empty ones," retorted the 
 hospitably inclined lady. But before the discussion could 
 be continued the door again opened, and a servant, looking 
 in, said : " Miss Erskine's here, young ladies." 
 
 The five girls started up and hugged their visitor nearly 
 to death. She was a very lovely girl, even for Worcester, 
 with her dark-blue eyes, her exquisite com23lexion, and her 
 raven hair : and though she was young, and slight, and 
 gentle, she had a self-possessed manner and a haughty 
 step. 
 
 " This is kind, Florence," they cried ; " we have been so 
 stupid all the evening ! Take your things off. We were 
 
LOVE. 
 
 177 
 
 going to send for you to-morrow niglit, to sec tlic lion 
 arrive," 
 
 " The wliat ? " asked tlie young lady. 
 
 " Papa's new partner. He is coming by the Clieltcnham 
 coacli. Bessy vows he'll be an elephant. And we arc afraid 
 he's old." 
 
 " And, in the name of fortune, what difference should it 
 make to you girls if he is old '? " demanded Mrs. J uniper, 
 turning round upon them, after shaking hands with Florence. 
 
 " Oh — he may not like our noise ; our music, and that, 
 if he is old," answered Kate, glancing at the rest. 
 
 " The preliminaries are arranged, then ? " remarked Miss 
 Erskine. 
 
 " Yes, they are, my dear," said Mrs. Juniper. " So far as 
 that the gentleman is coming for six months uj)on trial. A 
 trial for both parties, you know. Miss Florence, which is 
 only fair." 
 
 " Of course it is," said Florence. " What is his name ? " 
 
 " His name is the only item in the correspondence that 
 we don't like," said Mrs. Juniper. " It's French. But he 
 tells us he is thorough, genuine English. He is a Mr. de 
 Courcy." 
 
 "Formerly spelt Coursee, I believe," said Julia Battle- 
 bridge. " We are dying to see what he's like," she continued 
 in a low voice to Florence. " And we have such pretty new 
 dresses ; challis, trimmed with green satin ; we mean to put 
 them on to-morrow night." 
 
 " Put on what ? " asked Mrs. Juniper, who caught the 
 last w^ords. 
 
 " Our best behaviour," cried Julia, promptly. 
 
 But Mrs. Juniper's ears had been quick. " Put on your 
 new challis, will you ! Look here, girls : you will not set 
 up any of your nonsensical flirting with this gentleman. 
 Neither your papa nor me would allow it : mind that." 
 
 Oh dear, ?io," cried the girls, promptly, in answer. " Why, 
 we are expecting him to be as old as Adam ! Mamma, don't 
 you think your fire's burnt up ? " 
 
 Here's the Cheltenham coach ; the one he will come by 
 to-morrow evening," exclaimed Cicely, as a resounding horn 
 
 The Unkol^^ Wish. 12 
 
178 
 
 THE SURGEOx\'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 was heard. "He is from London, Florence; but lie took 
 Clieltcnliam on liis road dovvn^ to see some friends." 
 
 " How that guard's a-blowing ! " ejaculated Mrs. Juniper. 
 
 "And the coach has slackened its speed as if it were 
 going to stop." 
 
 " It is stopping/' said Mrs. Juniper. 
 
 " And at our house too ! and a gentleman Oh, 
 
 mamma ! " broke off Cicely, in excitement, " he is come 
 to-night ! " 
 
 " Who is come ? " asked Mrs. Juniper. 
 
 "Why, he^ Mr. de Courcy. It must be! Now he is 
 paying the guard — and now they are getting down his 
 luggage— and now he is knocking at the door. What 
 shall we do in these old merino frocks? Is there time to 
 dress?" 
 
 " Bother to dressing ! " put in the startled Mrs. J uniper. 
 " What's to be done about supper ? Nothing on earth in 
 the house but some cold hashed mutton and a round of beef 
 in pickle. Eing the bell for the cook : or one of you girls 
 
 run and tell her to come to me : she must send out for 
 
 Never trust me," broke off poor Mrs. Juniper, "if your 
 papa's not bringing him in here ! " 
 
 It was quite true. Mr. Juniper, seeing that the dining- 
 room fire looked cold and black, ushered him into the girls' 
 parlour, where he knew there was always a blazing one. 
 He had been so long used to its litter that he thought 
 nothing of it, and it never occurred to him to ask what a 
 stranger might think. The girls, in spite of their dismay, 
 took in the visitor's appearance at a glance. 
 
 A tall, prepossessing man, some years under thirty, 
 gentlemanly in manner, free and pleasant in speech, with a 
 rather sallow complexion, dark eyes, handsome features, and 
 a winning smile. They could not well have seen one less 
 like an elephant, or a monkey in spectacles. He laughed 
 at their apologies about " the wrong room," and the " girls' 
 parlour," and was at home with them at once. 
 
 Louis de Courcy — " Lewis," it had been always called, he 
 told them, according to English pronunciation — was born in 
 England of French parents ; his ancestors had been scared 
 
LOVE. 
 
 179 
 
 from their own land at the time of the great French revolu- 
 tion, and had never returned to it. Louis, the youngest of 
 a large family, had grown up in the habits of an Englishman, 
 and, but for his name, none could have suspected that any 
 other country than this could put in a claim to him. He 
 had been highly educated, was clever in his profession, and 
 had fair prospects as regarded money. When he reached 
 Cheltenham, he had found his friends there in dee^D distress 
 on account of a death in their house, so he had come on to 
 Worcester. 
 
 Before Mr. de Courcy had been a week in the surgeon's 
 house he was a favourite with all its inmates, from Mr. 
 Juniper himself down to Dick, the surgery-boy. Extremely 
 clever, extremely eloquent, or, if we may be permitted to use 
 the expression of Mrs. J uniper, " favoured with the gift of 
 the gab," he took the goodwill of people by storm, and the 
 girls were convinced that a more desirable man as a husband- 
 in-prospective was not to be found. But they could not all 
 marry him : that was clear ; so he was, by tacit consent, 
 turned over to gladden the hopes of Georgiana, the others 
 making themselves as agreeable with him as so many elder 
 sisters. To Georgiana was left all the rights of flirting, and 
 she did not fail to exercise them on her own account ; De 
 Courcy himself proving nothing loth, for he was fully awake 
 to the charms of a pretty girl. 
 
 " It would be delightful for Georgy to be settled near us : 
 and De Courcy would have to live quite close, being papa's 
 partner," the girls remarked one to another. " We might 
 spend half our time there." 
 
 Indeed, to have a married sister thus established they had 
 long regarded as the most fortunate thing that could happen 
 to them — always excepting their own marriage — for at her 
 house they could flirt away at leisure, secure from the dis- 
 cerning eyes of Mrs. Juniper. So the girls set themselves 
 honestly to work to further the flirtation between De Courcy 
 and Georgiana. In all their walks and rambles Georgy was 
 left to his care : in all the evening parties, and they went 
 to many, he was sure to be her especial cavalier : it was to 
 her his arm was given, when it was given at all : it was to 
 
180 
 
 THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 her singing his voice wonkl be heard as second. When ho 
 came into the girls' parlour for ten-minutes' chat, the seat 
 next Georgy was at once vacated to him : more than all, 
 when he would be in the humour to breathe words of tender 
 nonsense, in reality meaning nothing, but to a girl's heart 
 implying much, it was into Georgy 's ear they were whispered. 
 De Courcy was by nature thoughtless, careless of conse- 
 quences : he never reflected that these attentions might 
 appear to other people to bear a serious meaning, or that he 
 might be initiating Georgiana, for the first time in her life, 
 into the art of love — to love Mm. 
 
 We must now turn to the subject and to the abode 
 of Captain Erskine ; who exemplified in his own person 
 the truth of two of the attributes accorded to Worcester gene- 
 rally — poor and proud. Poor he was — very ; and from no 
 man living within the city's walls did exclusive notions of 
 hauteur more fully shine forth than from Florence's father. 
 Captain Erskine. In regard to family, he stood on the very 
 loftiest pinnacle ; his ancestors had been the highest of the 
 high. They were descended originally from royalty, and 
 in later periods had owned lords and chancellors for cousins. 
 He had his ^^^tligree, setting forth all this, framed and 
 glazed, and hanging up in his sitting-roon. That he was 
 of good descent appeared to be fact ; but he boasted of it in 
 so ridiculous a manner as to have acquired the name in the 
 town, derisively applied, of Gentleman Erskine. He held 
 uj) his head and literally looked down upon every one. He 
 was gracious with the dean when he met him, and con- 
 descended to exchange bows with the prebendaries, but he 
 looked straight over the hats of the minor canons ; of other 
 people he took no notice. But fortune, alas, ]iad not been 
 so prodigal to Gentleman Erskine as his rank and his 
 merits deserved ; therefore, he lived a most retired life. 
 Want of means did not allow him to frequent the society of 
 the great ; the little were beneath him. It was with much 
 pinching and screwing that he contrived to make both ends 
 meet, when the expenses of his pretty little cottage, just 
 outside the town, containing his daughter and their one 
 maid-servant, were settled at the end of each year. He had 
 
LOVE. 
 
 181 
 
 sold out of the army before liis wife died, and what his 
 small income really was no one knew. 
 
 Florence, brought up in these exclusive notions, had l)een 
 allowed to cultivate the acquaintance of none. Whether the 
 caj)tain exi^ected a lord would drop from the sky some day 
 and pick her up, he did not say, but he certainly allowed 
 her no opportunity to mix with any of inferior rank, exce2)t 
 the Junipers. Years back, when Mr. Juniper was attending 
 tlie captain professionally, he, the good-natured surgeon, 
 pitying the isolated condition of the little girl, and the lack 
 of means to afford her suitable instruction, proposed that she 
 should come to his house daily, and partake (gratuitously) 
 of the music and drawing lessons of Georgiana. Gentleman 
 Erskine was too much impressed with the advantages of the 
 projDOsal to decline it : though he considered the Juniper 
 family amply repaid by the condescension. Hence had 
 arisen Florence's intimacy at the surgeon's, and it was now 
 so much a thing of habit, that it never occurred to her father 
 to put a stop to it. Still he did not cease to remind 
 Florence from time to time that though very worthy people 
 in their way, those Junipers, they were persons whom she 
 must not, even in thought, exalt to a level with their own 
 sphere of life, ilorence dutifully listened : but she wished 
 with her whole heart that all such exclusiveness were buried 
 at the bottom of the sea. 
 
 Shortly after the arrival of Mr. de Courcy, it hajDpened 
 that a distant relative of Captain Erskine' s, a Mr. Stanton, 
 w^as passing through Worcester, and halted there for a day. 
 He was an old man, some^vhat feeble, and in descending the 
 stairs at the Hop-pole, then the principal inn of the city, ho 
 fell and broke his leg. He received also an internal injury ; 
 and, altogether, there was a doubt whether he w^ould ever 
 leave the town again. When able to be removed from the 
 Hop-pole, apartments were taken for him in Foregate Street, 
 and there he lay still, Captain Erskine dining and spending 
 the evening of every day with him. It w^as said in the town 
 that the captain had expectations from him, and that of 
 course caused him to be attentive. Through these re- 
 peated absences from home of her father, Florence was 
 
182 
 
 THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTEES. 
 
 enabled, imquestioned, to sj^end every evening, if she so 
 willed it, at Mrs. Juniper's. 
 
 Oh, silly girls ! you four elder Miss Junipers ! Yon have 
 but little forethought. You have set your mind upon 
 Georgiana's gaining De Courcy, yet you daily throw into 
 his society one more beautiful and not less attractive than 
 she is ! Florence was for ever being sent for by them : and 
 she went. The evenings were growing long then, and 
 sometimes all the girls in a body would take her home, 
 and sometimes De Courcy himself was her only companion. 
 Florence had never been brought into contact vdtli a man 
 so fascinating. It is true his manners to her Avere not of 
 that free, gallant, openly-attentive nature displayed to 
 Georgiana, but there was a subdued tenderness in them 
 when alone with her infinitely more dangerous. Ah, 
 readers ! it is the old tale : Gentleman Erskine might im- 
 press upon his daughter the superiority of her descent to 
 those around her, might descant upon it from morn to 
 night ; but he could not arrest this new, all-absorbing 
 j)assion that was taking root in her heart. There is one 
 thing makes its way in spite of all things — love* 
 
 It is dangerous to a girl's peace, let me tell you, aye, and 
 to a woman's also, to be alone with an attractive companion 
 of the other sex in the quiet evening hours. Florence would 
 leave the surgeon's pretty early, by half-past eight or so, 
 De Courcy with her to see her safely home. The house was 
 not far off. When there, she would lay her bonnet and scarf 
 on the table of the little drawing-room, and leaning out at 
 the open window play with the jessamine and honeysuckle 
 that grew round its frame ; not that she cared for jessamine 
 or honeysuckle just then. De Courcy, sitting by her, would 
 converse upon no end of subjects — I hardly know what, but 
 if you have ever made one in these stolen interviews, you 
 can tell. He was trying to improve her French accent ; 
 teaching her to sj)^^^^ whole sentences in the language ; 
 making her conjugate its verbs, aimer amongst the rest. 
 Florence would begin her lesson : she was not very perfect 
 in the verbs, especially the reflective verbs ; they puzzled 
 her : 'Me m'aime, tu t'aimes, il s'aime ; nous nous 
 
LOVE. 
 
 183 
 
 and there she would stop. " Nous nous aimons," De Courcy 
 v/ould break in, with his low, silvery voice. It really was a 
 musical voice, but had it been of a crow's harshness, it 
 would still have been silvery to her ear. 
 
 " Nous nous aimons," De Courcy would go on, Florence 
 repeating it after him, her heart beating, and her cheek 
 blushing. He could see the blushes in the soft twilight of 
 the evening, and she would turn her face from him, in its 
 sweet consciousness, leaving nothing visible to his sight 
 save its exquisite profile. They would rarely get to the 
 end of the verb. De Courcy would begin upon some subject 
 more attractive : the bright stars, perhaps, that were be- 
 ginning to shine, or the pleasant look of the landscape as it 
 cast forth its light and shade in the moonlight. The cottage 
 stood upon a gentle eminence, and commanded an extensive 
 view of the lovely county, than which none more beautiful 
 can be seen in England. The long chain of the Malvern 
 Hills bounded the landscape in the distance, and De Courcy 
 was Avont to declare that the clustering white houses beneath 
 the hills of Great Malvern looked like fairy sea shells 
 embedded amidst moss. The remark has been previously 
 recorded elsewhere : but in truth it was often made. Thus 
 they would wander on insensibly to dearer subjects, he 
 reciting sweet verses at intervals, until they were both rapt 
 in a maze of poetry and impassioned feeling. Byron's 
 poems, Moore's strains, both more new to the world then 
 than they are now ; any romance, in short, that he could 
 call to memory. And, during all this time, through the 
 French, and the verbs, and the talking, and the poetry, he 
 was sure to have stolen one of her hands, and to hold it 
 clasped in his. Who would give five shillings now for the 
 chance of Georgy Juniper ? 
 
 One evening, either the young surgeon had remained too 
 long, or Captain Erskine came home before his usual hour, 
 but as they stood there, Florence was startled at the sight 
 of her father coming up the road. She closed the window, 
 rang the bell in hasty trepidation for candles, and just as 
 the maid — who had had sweethearts herself, and was awake 
 to things — scuffled them on to the table, and De Courcy 
 
184 
 
 THE SUrvGEON'S Dx\UGHTERS. 
 
 rose and stood with his hat in his hand, Captain Erskine 
 entered. A ceremonious bow between the two gentlemen, 
 courteous on De Courcy's part, stiff and forced on the 
 caj)tain's, and the former said good-night, and was gone. 
 
 " Why, bless my soul, Florence ! " uttered the astounded 
 aristocrat, looking round to be sure that he was not dream- 
 ing, " it was that French fellow of Juniper's ! " 
 
 She made some answer, quite unconscious what it was. 
 Fortunately the captain was too much ruffled to listen. 
 
 " Pray what brought Mm here ? " 
 
 " I — he " Florence began in her terror and agitation, 
 
 and then she could get no farther : as we all know, con- 
 science does make the very best of us cowards. So she 
 coughed a sharp succession of coughs, as if something had 
 got into her throat, and turned to the window and began 
 pulling about the muslin curtains : anything to gain time 
 and calmness. 
 
 " What's the matter with the curtains ? " he continued, 
 sliarply. " I ask you what on earth brought that partner of 
 Juniper's here ? He was actually sitting down when I first 
 saw him. Sitting down ! my eyes could not have deceived 
 me." 
 
 " He brought this French book of Elizabeth Juniper's," 
 she stammered, indicating a small French story-book ; and, 
 so far, that was true. Bessy had lent it to her and he 
 carried it home in his hand. " And I was at fault in my 
 verbs, papa, and he offered to set me right ! " 
 
 True again. At least, tolerably so. Ah, good sir, good 
 Paterfamilias, groaning over these pages and Florence's 
 degeneracy, do you imagine your own girls tell you the 
 whole truth always ? You were young and in love once : 
 how much did you tell in that golden time ? 
 
 " The devil take the French and their verbs and all 
 connected with them ! " shrieked Captain Erskine. " JTow 
 dare you stoop to put yourself wpon a level with a common 
 fellow of a doctor ? " 
 
 " Dear papa," said Florence, bursting into agitated tears, 
 ^' I thought it no harm to ask him about the Frencli verbs." 
 
 " Tliere's every harm," retorted Gentleman Erskine. Do 
 
LOVE. 
 
 185 
 
 you forget, Florence, whom and wliat we are deseencled 
 from? There's not a family in the county can boast the 
 antiquity of ours ; and here I come home and find a pro- 
 fessional man's assistant sitting in the same room witli you 
 — sitting ! — quite familiar — admitted to an equality ! Some 
 unheard-of French jackanapes, who may never have had a 
 grandfather ! " 
 
 " I am very sorry," murmured Florence. 
 
 " Sorry ! that's not the word for it : you ought to be 
 ashamed. If the individual should come u}) again, let tlie 
 servant take his message from him at the door, and dismiss 
 him civilly — very strange that the Miss Junipers cannot 
 send a maid with their commissions ! " 
 
 Florence sighed, and was wisely silent. 
 
 " You are getting too old now, Florence, to continue your 
 intimacy with these Junipers," proceeded Gentleman Erskine, 
 loftily. " They were certainly kind to you, and all that, 
 and when you were younger it did not so much signify ; but 
 it won't do now. Don't go there again. Or at any rate, only 
 very rarely ; and let the acquaintanceship gradually drop." 
 
 Captain Erskine stopped at that. He supposed he had 
 said all that was necessary, for it never occurred to his 
 exclusive mind to suspect that his daughter could be more 
 tolerant on the subject of " family " than himself. What if 
 he had been in a corner of the room that very evening, and 
 seen all the tacit love-making ? He might have vanished 
 through the floor with the shock, after the manner of the 
 imps in the pantomimes. 
 
 Thus Georgiana Jimiper regarded Louis de Courcy as her 
 own particular knight, but so did Florence Erskine. Each 
 believed that she possessed his heart, his sole allegiance. 
 Each of them loved him in return. Georgiana in only a 
 light degree ; Florence passionately and enduringly. Her 
 intellect was of a higher order than G eorgiana's ; she had 
 more imagination, more dreamy sentiment : and it is pre- 
 cisely in such natures that love takes the deepest hold. 
 
 And what thought Mr. de Courcy? It w^as impossible 
 that he could remain v/holly blind to the present aspect of 
 affairs, and he began to doubt whether he had not got him- 
 
186 
 
 THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 self into wliat tlie Americans call a " fix." That it was liis 
 own fault, entirely the result of his own thoughtlessness, 
 was no consolation at all ; quite the contrary. He could 
 not fail to see that Georgiana liked him, if she did not love, 
 and he awoke to the fact that he was expected by the other 
 girls to make love to her. He had no true love to give her ; 
 all his hopes w^ere concentrated on Florence. The course 
 of true love never yet ran smooth; we learnt that in our 
 copy-books : in this case there seemed to be a likelihood of 
 its running rather rough. Why could not Mr. de Courcy 
 have fallen outright in love with Georgy Juniper, and 
 married her with her parents' consent, as he might have 
 done, and so have found his future path all straight before 
 him ? Why should he have remained wholly insensible 
 (always excepting the flirting) to her attractions, and plunged 
 over head and ears in love with one, whom there was little 
 more chance of his winning and wearing, than there was of 
 his winning the stately daughter of the good old bishop at 
 the palace ? It must have been fate, I think ; or, something 
 in the air. 
 
 It has been asserted that love cannot exist without 
 jealousy. Love is wonderfully sharp-sighted ; and, almost 
 before there was real cause, Florence and Georgiana became 
 jealous of one another. The elder girls were not so soon 
 awake to danger : but a word or two, dropped by Georgy 
 one day, in a pet, opened their eyes. 
 
 They took alarm at once, lest the desirable match they 
 had so pleasantly carved out should drop through ; and 
 Florence was invited there no more. Not an hour did 
 De Courcy henceforth find for himself : walks this evening, 
 projected walks to-morrow evening, tea and parties always : 
 and he could not escape this, unless he had been guilty of 
 absolute discourtesy. Besides, he who had been so thought- 
 lessly ofBcious in seeking the society of Georgiana, could 
 not abruptly forswear it in rudeness now. 
 
 Elizabeth Juniper resolved to put the matter at rest : so 
 the next time she was alone with Mr. de Courcy she men- 
 tioned, apparently quite incidentally, that Florence Erskine 
 was engaged to be married. 
 
LOVE. 
 
 187 
 
 " To be married ! " uttered De Coiircy, the red colour 
 flushing into his sallow cheek. 
 
 " Did you not know it ? " asked Elizabeth. " She is to 
 marry her cousin, Bob Erskine." 
 
 De Courcy reflected. He was nearly sure he had heard 
 Florence speak of a cousin " Bob." 
 
 "You don't know Gentleman Erskine," she went on. 
 " His uncles and aunts, his godfathers and godmothers were 
 princes and princesses^ or something as grand, and he con- 
 siders nobody upon earth good enough to associate with 
 himself and Florence. Only to see him loom through the 
 streets in winter, in that old worn fur-cloak of his with the 
 scarlet lining, you would think all Worcester belonged to 
 him ! The little boys have to turn out into the gutter, for 
 there's not room enough to pass him. Fancy such a man 
 permitting his daughter the hazard of being addressed by 
 any chance provincial ! Not he, you may be sure. So he 
 has secured for her one of the family. Bob Erskine." 
 
 " Is this true, Bessy ? " asked the young man. 
 
 " True as Gospel." 
 
 " It is strange I never heard Florence allude to it." 
 
 " It would be stranger if you had. Young ladies are not 
 in the habit of telling of their matrimonial engagements. I 
 may be engaged for all you have heard me say : so may 
 Kate ; or Georgy either." 
 
 " Very true," murmured De Courcy, with more abstraction 
 than Bessy liked to see him exhibit at her latest allusion. 
 Who is Bob Erskine ? Where does he live ? " 
 
 " Bob's a cousin, I tell you ; the head of the Erskine 
 family. He is in the Guards, or the Eifles, or some one of 
 those crack regiments." 
 
 "Can it be really so, Bessy?" he continued, still 
 harping upon the theme. " How did you come to knov/ 
 it?" 
 
 " From Florence herself. The last time Bob was staying 
 with them, we girls charged her with it being so, and she 
 admitted it. Though perhaps I ought not to have told you 
 —it slipped from me unawares. It must be quite entre nous, 
 mind you, Mr. de Courcy." 
 
188 
 
 THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 " Certainly," nodded the gentleman, nnconscloiisly biting 
 tlie top of Ins silver pencil-case into all sorts of forms. 
 
 " They are not to be married yet," concluded Bessy. 
 " Caj)tain Erskine considers Florence too young ; and Bob 
 — well, Bob's young too." 
 
 De Courcy took it all in — like an amiable sea-gull. 023en 
 and truth-telling himself, it never occurred to him to sus- 
 pect people of being otherwise ; certainly not a young lady 
 like Elizabeth Juniper. But though Bessy had exaggerated 
 a little, she had grounds for wliat she said. They had 
 teased Florence about Bob Erskine when he was there, had 
 accused her of being engaged to him ; and Florence, after 
 the custom of vain girls, had laughed and simpered, but had 
 not positively denied it. 
 
 De Courcy felt miserable, for he had become deeply 
 attached to Florence Erskine, and there grew a soro 
 feeling in his heart towards her, that she should have fooled 
 him nearly on to telling her so. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Juniper were totally ignorant of all this 
 flirting and scheming. Had a suspicion of it entered their 
 minds, they Vv^ould have given the girls a sharp trimming 
 all round. 
 
 After this, the young doctor did not go near Florence, and 
 if he heard of her being at Mrs. Juniper's, he kept out of 
 the way. Thus he fell easily into the schemes of the 
 Juniper girls, and flirted with Georgy as much as ever. 
 
 Pour faire passer le temps," he said to himself, " rien 
 d'autre." He often thought in French. 
 
 One evening, Florence Erskine stood at that open window 
 of her sitting-room ; she had thus stood for many, many 
 evenings, watching for one who did not come. Talk about 
 De Courcy's feelings being sore — what were they to hers? 
 Anger, despair, jealousy, and love by turns held j)ossession 
 of her. Oh that she should have suffered herself thus to 
 become attached to a stranger — to a man despised of her 
 father— to one who had sought her love only to fling it 
 away in neglect ! 
 
 Would he ever come again ? Would those sweet hours, 
 whoso very remembrance seemed to renew life and love, 
 
LOVE. 
 
 189 
 
 ever return ? Where was lie ? What had she done that he 
 should thus desert her? As these thoughts dwelt in her 
 mind, flushing her eheek, chilling her hands, agitating her 
 whole frame, a noise, as of carriage-wheels, was heard, and 
 Florence looked up. The road passed close by the side of 
 the cottage, and the large, handsome four-wheeled chaise of 
 Mr. Juniper came in sight, the surgeon driving, his wife 
 beside him, and Julia and Kate in the back seat. Following, 
 was the surgeon's professional gig, containing De Courcy 
 and Georgiana. 
 
 The party bowed and smiled and nodded at Florence, the 
 good-humoured surgeon calling out something her ear did 
 not catch. He raised his hat as he looked at her ; and, in 
 the space of a minute, all trace of them, save the dust, was 
 gone. 
 
 She shut down the window ; she leaned her throbbing 
 temples upon her hands ; she gave vent to all the fierce 
 jealousy that was raging within her. Never, never, she told 
 herself in her passion, should her thoughts revert to that 
 man again, save with scorn. And yet, the next minute, she 
 caught herself indulging in a fantastic hope that he might 
 come, even that evening, when his drive was over. 
 
 But he did not come ; and the next night passed, and the 
 next, yet he did not come ; and a whole week dragged itself 
 by, and still he did not come. Florence was as one in a 
 fever, tossing about by night and by day, and finding no rest. 
 
 One evening she was passing the surgeon's house when 
 Mr. Juniper met her and took her in. They were just going 
 to tea, and the hearty, kindly girls said she must stop. The 
 whole family were present, and De Courcy looked at her 
 keenly. She refused their invitation, but it was of little 
 use ; one ran away with her bonnet, another with her gloves, 
 and she sat down. 
 
 " What news is stirring, Florence ? " asked the surgeon. 
 
 " None, that T have heard," she replied. " Papa received 
 a letter from my cousin Robert this morning. You remem- 
 ber him ? " 
 
 " Quite well." 
 
 "He has been exchanging into another regiment, and 
 
190 
 
 THE SUEGEOX^S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 embarks immediately for India. Wlien lie comes liome 
 again lie wiH j^robably be an old man, lie says." 
 
 " Has lie a wife yet, dear ? " asked Mrs. Juniper, slyly, for 
 she bad bad her ideas of Florence and her cousin. 
 
 " Bob got a wife ! " laughed Florence. " Oh no. He is 
 not likely to take a wife." 
 
 " My dear, you speak rather confidently." 
 
 " I think I may," replied Florence. " When Bob had to 
 go to Spain last month, papa, in writing, warned him against 
 the attractions of the ladies there, saying he should not like 
 to see him bring home a Spanish wife. Bob answered him 
 that he was the last man in the world to think of any 
 encumbrance of the sort, Spanish or English." 
 
 Do Courcy looked up, a strange, eager expression on his 
 features. But, just at that moment, Miss Bessy was so 
 awkward as to tilt over the cup of tea she was handing to 
 him, and he had to start up and dance, for it scalded his 
 legs. 
 
 A servant was desired to attend Florence home that night, 
 but there stood De Courcy in the hall, hat in hand. " Paj^a 
 wants you, Mr. de Courcy," exclaimed Bessy ; " he called 
 to you as he went into the surgery." So the young man, 
 with an impatient exclamation on his lips, sought his senior 
 partner, and Florence left with the maid. 
 
 But scarcely had she entered her home when he followed 
 her in ; and he stood there before her, his chest heaving, 
 and his words coming from him impetuously. 
 
 " What must you have thought of me, Florence, all this 
 time ? " he began. " You must either have judged me to be 
 mad, or the most dishonourable man breathing." 
 
 She trembled in her surprise and agitation, and felt faint, 
 and could not answer. She certainly had not deemed him 
 mad. 
 
 He took her trembling hands in his, he looked earnestly 
 into her changing face, and went on, eagerly — • 
 
 " Misapprehension has come between us, my love ; whether 
 designedly or not I cannot say. I see it all now. I was led 
 to believe you were engaged to be married to your cousin — 
 this Bob you have been talking of to-night." 
 
THE PREDICTION. 
 
 191 
 
 She uttered an exclamation of astonishment. " Oh no, 
 no ! There never was anything between us ; w^e did not 
 care for each other in that way. Bob is too poor to marry 
 ' — that is, too extravagant." 
 
 " Yet I, in my credulity, believed it. It has been as a 
 dagger in my heart night and day. For I love you, Florence, 
 with a deep and holy love." 
 
 He drew her closer to him — he whispered words of the 
 most endearing tenderness — he pressed her sweet face to 
 his. And then they both thought — and said — that nothing 
 should ever part their hearts again ; that they would live 
 together, and for each other, until their years of life had 
 run into the sear and yellow leaf. 
 
 But how many others have fondly vowed the same, only 
 to find them hereafter words of vanity and vexation of 
 sjpirit f 
 
 II. 
 
 THE PREDICTION. 
 
 Presently we are going to pay a day's visit to Malvern. 
 Not to Malvern as it has been of later years and now is, but 
 as it was nearly a lifetime ago. It was then a lovely little 
 sjDot ; romantic, secluded, and beautiful. Not a shop to be 
 seen in it except the cake-shop by the steep, leading down 
 towards the abbey, and the library. No gay place was it in 
 those bygone days, no rendezvous for travellers in smart 
 clothes, eager for pleasure and society ; the few visitors 
 seeking it were really invalids, requiring pure air and peace. 
 It was half soothing, half painful to sit on these beautiful 
 hills, somewhere about St. Ann's Well, and watch the scanty 
 stock of visitors toiling up one by one. Soothing to recline 
 there, undisturbed, on the green moss soft as velvet, looking 
 round at the immense extent of landscape, so calm and still, 
 where the only noise to break the quiet would be a distant 
 sheep-bell ; painful to gaze at the pale faces of the invalids, 
 
192 
 
 THE SUllGEON'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 sui)portiiig tlienisclves up tlie liill by tlie aid of a stick, and 
 to listen to their troubled breatliing as tliey gained the 
 AVell-room, and held the goblet under the spring. I have 
 sat there many a day as a child finding no occupation but 
 this watching and sympathy : picturing to my curious mind 
 the outward and inward histories of these sick strangers ; 
 wondering Avhence they came, whither they were next going, 
 where they lodged in the village. On some bright day tlie 
 monotonous scene would be varied. A picnic party from 
 Worcester, all gaiety and laughter, and baskets of provisions, 
 would crowd merrily up the hill, and choosing a level, con- 
 venient spot, encani];) themselves and their baskets on it, 
 preferring this free, gipsy mode of enjoying a repast to the 
 confinement of an hotel. Sometimes the day would pass on 
 in almost complete solitude, no parties and no invalids, and 
 then there was nothing to do but sit on the grass and build 
 castles in the air, or to find a fairy-tale book, and be wrapt 
 in a child's Elysium. 
 
 Oh the retrospect of those early days, our life's morning ! 
 when it seems that there is no care or sorrow in the w^orld, 
 or that, if there is, it cannot come near us ; when we dream 
 not that existence, the mysterious future so eagerly longed 
 for, can be otherwise than it looks to us in those day- visions, 
 sunny as the charming landscape around, bright as the blue 
 sky above ! To recall life as it looked then, with its glorious 
 hopes and ex2)ectations, and to dwell on the troubled waters 
 that have come rushing on since, well-nigh overwhelming 
 heart and existence 1 — Let us hasten on. 
 
 Many a merry donkey-party you might then see, toiling 
 up the hills or cantering about the village. We had ours. 
 One of them I especially remember. Twelve or fourteen of 
 us, careless boys and girls together, had the donkeys hired 
 for us, and mounting in the village, just by the Unicorn, 
 cantered off for a ride towards the Link ; the old, sober 
 heads of the company bringing up the rear on foot at a sober 
 pace. The turnpike-gate was o])en, and through it we 
 dashed. But out came the turnpike-man, tearing after us, 
 shouting and screaming. We all reined in and stopped. 
 What was the matter ? Matter indeed ! we had gone 
 
\ 
 
 THE PREDICTION. 
 
 193 
 
 tliroiigli witliout paying. It was certainly true ; and wliat 
 was quite as true, upon searcliing our pockets, tliosc who 
 had any, there was not a single halfpenny to be found in 
 one of them ; what little we had possessed earlier in the day 
 had been spent in " Malvern cakes.'' In vain we represented 
 to the man that " those behind " were coming up with 
 pockets full of money, and tliey were the paymasters. He 
 preferred to be on the safe side, was inexorable ; so he made 
 us all dismount, and took off the white cloths from the 
 donkeys. What cared we ? We remounted without them, 
 and scampered on down the Link, leaving our astonished 
 old relatives to redeem the pledges. Old we thought them 
 then ; we should not think so now. Lodgiugs at Malvern 
 were then within the bounds of a cautious purse, and there 
 was many an unpretending cottage, picturesque v/ithout, 
 clean within, that would let you its best sitting-room, and 
 its bedrooms, for less than a sovereign per week, and give 
 you pleasant looks and civil attendance besides. Go and 
 try them now, these Malvern lodgings. Not that any 
 cottages are left for the experiment : they are transformed 
 into glaring villas and pretentious mansions. 
 
 Few places have changed as Malvern has changed. Many 
 a year ago it became the emporium of fashionable society, 
 who flocked to it to try the " water cure." Patients wrote 
 their experiences to laud the system ; our greatest novelist 
 of that day put forth an account of the marvellous blessings 
 it had wrought on liim, telling the world it had made him 
 young again. But the romance of the place has gone for 
 ever, and the peace of seclusion it cannot know again. 
 
 The day's visit to Malvern was led by Mrs. Juniper, 
 Summer had come in. Mr. de Courcy and Florence Erskine 
 were cherishing their secret love ; while the Juniper girls, 
 perceiving it, made up their minds to accept the inevitable, 
 if it must be, and ceased to fight actively against it. They 
 were good, right-minded girls, after all. 
 
 " I don't know whether I should altogether care to have 
 him for my husband, though he is very nice to flirt with," 
 avowed Georgiana. 
 
 One hot afternoon^ the girls wrote a note inviting Florence 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 13 
 
194 THE SURGEON^S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 to tea ; there was a secret they very much wisshed to impart 
 to her. On the evening previous to this, De Courcy had 
 paid a short visit to Captain Ershine's house. And now, as 
 Florence read the note, his impassioned words were still 
 vibrating in her ears. 
 
 Of course she went : she would have gone to the end of 
 the earth for the prospect of meeting him. And it was Avhcn 
 all were seated at the tea-table that Mrs. Juniper began 
 talking of Malvern. 
 
 " Children/' she said, " guess what I have been think- 
 ing of." 
 
 " How should we know, mamma ? " asked the young ladies. 
 * " Why that we are perlite people, all of us, to have had 
 Mr. de Courcy so long in our house, and never to have 
 taken him to Malvern." 
 
 " "We can take him now," said Bessy. 
 
 " To be sure," heartily assented her mother. And you 
 have a great treat in store, as you've never seen it," she 
 added to De Courcy " How we came to neglect it, I can't 
 make out. Why, the first attention we think of paying to a 
 stranger-friend — any one from London, perhaps, or from far 
 away on t'other side somewhere — is to take him to Malvern." 
 Mrs. Juniper's geographical knoAvledge was rather confused, 
 especially as regarded the map of England and Wales. 
 
 " Let us make up a picnic," exclaimed Georgiana. " And 
 take our provisions, and dine on the hill." 
 
 " With all my heart," said Mrs. Juniper. " You must 
 come with us. Miss Florence." 
 
 She looked up eagerly, and caught De Courcy's ghiuce. 
 Oh, the rapture of a whole day spent on the Malvern Hills 
 with him ! 
 
 " When shall it be ? " cried Julia Battlebridge, " When 
 would it suit papa ? To-morrow, papa ? " 
 
 " If you like, child. Ask your mamma." 
 To-morrow ! " echoed Mrs. Juniper, reprovingly; " hadn't 
 you better start to-night ? You children have about as much 
 brains as thought— and your papa no more either, in some 
 things. Who is to get wp a picnic at an hour's notice? 
 There's the company to be invited, and got together, and 
 
IIIE PREDICTION. 
 
 195 
 
 ilierc's tlie eatables. We shall want cold fowls; aucl tongue, 
 and alimode beef ; and some of you perliaj)S will be calling 
 out for fruit tartlets. How can you have all this, if you 
 don t give time to cook and prepare it ? " 
 
 Mrs. J uniper's remonstrance was unanswerable ; so one of 
 the girls dismally proposed the day after. 
 
 " That's as bad," corrected Mrs, Juniper. " Nobody goes 
 picnicking on a Saturday." 
 
 Finally, Monday was fixed upon. But Florence was 
 w^ondering whether she could gain her father's consent. 
 
 Just at this period, Worcester was indulging surprise at 
 a matter which was not in the common run of events. Some 
 two or three weeks before, a stranger had alighted in the 
 town, had taken a lodging, and had caused it to be circulated 
 in privacy and secrecy that he told fortunes. The surprise 
 arose not from the simple action of his setting up as a 
 fortune-teller, for that was not extraordinary, but in the fact 
 that sundry predictions, spoken by this man to different 
 people, were fulfilled in, to say the least of it, an unaccount- 
 able manner. Several of his visitors declared, with their 
 eyes dilating and their hair standing on end near the organ 
 of marvel, that he had told them things which no one ever 
 knew, or ever could know, save themselves and Heaven, A 
 few credulous x)eople went to him at first ; what they said 
 sent others, and the man's fame gvew. He was called tho 
 Wizard, and was never known in Worcester by any other 
 name. It is no fictitious story that I am relating, though 
 few people can be left now in Worcester who remember it. 
 The better classes went to him in secret and would not have 
 confessed to it for the world ; some of them went in disguise. 
 The man and his curious power had become an engrossing 
 theme in the town ; Mr. Juniper laughingly talked of it, 
 and Mr. Juniper's daughters were wild to test it. 
 
 It was this which the girls wanted to confide to Florence ; 
 that they had made up their minds, after some qualms of 
 conscience, to consult the Wizard. 
 
 Tea over, two of them drew her into their own parlour ; 
 Cicely and Kate ; and they asked her if she would not like 
 to accompany them. 
 
106 
 
 THE SUKaEON^S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 " Are you all going ? " inquired Florence. 
 Not at once ; tlie number niigtt betray us, for wliere^s 
 there such a family of grown-up girls as ours?" rc2)lied 
 Cicely. I and Georgy think of going first, and the other 
 three some later night. Won't you come with us? " 
 
 " Not I," laughed Florence, " I have no faith. AVizards 
 are clever men, I suppose ; this one especially must be ; 
 but " 
 
 It will be such fan," urged Cicely. We arc dying to 
 go. They say the most extraordinary things of him." 
 
 " What if you get found out ? If your papa hears of 
 it?" 
 
 ''How can he hear?" broke in Kate. "We shall take 
 every precaution ; wear our shabbiest cotton frocks and 
 garden shawls. The maids are going to lend us muslin 
 caps to put on under our old cottage bonnets, so that we 
 may pass for servant-girls. Why, if papa — or mamma, and 
 she's sharper — were to meet us in the street they could not 
 recognize us." 
 
 " I know it will be great fun ; and if I thought it would 
 
 not be found out " mused Florence. "When do you 
 
 go, Cicely?" 
 
 " We have fixed on Saturday night ; the common people 
 are then occupied, and there will be less chance of our 
 meeting any one at the AVizard's. Mamma won't miss us ; 
 we shall soon be there and back ; and the others have 
 promised to stay with her all the time. If she asks any- 
 tiiing, they are going to say we are upstairs, brushing each 
 other's hair. Do come, Florence." 
 
 " I don't believe in it," returned the young lady, waver- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Why, they say he will describe one's future husband," 
 exclaimed Cicely, " and so accurately, that if you were not 
 to meet with him for years to come, you could not fail 
 instantly to recognize him." 
 
 A quick, burning colour dyed the face of Florence 
 Erskine. If the wise man could indeed do this, she should 
 know whether she was destined for De Courcy, and her 
 doubts and fears would be set at rest. And yet, the next 
 
THE PllEDICTION. 
 
 107 
 
 moment, slie laiigliecl at tlie absurdity of licr tlioiiglits. 
 Perliaps I will go," she said to Cicely. 
 
 " Come in to tea on Saturday evening, and we will steal 
 away afterwards. You will not have a better opportunity. 
 And remember, Florence, it is no such weighty matter after 
 all, and if it does no good — if we don't hear anything 
 worthy of belief, I mean — it can do no harm." 
 
 " I will go with you ; but, mind, I have no superstition 
 about me," exclaimed Florence, looking suddenly wp, " I 
 never had faith in these things, and never shall have. If 
 I had faith, or any superstition, I should stay away." 
 
 Cicely laughed. " That is what every one says." 
 
 " For when I was a child," proceeded Florence, speaking 
 as if she were in a reverie, " a woman who pretended to the 
 gift of reading the future, as this man now pretends, foretold 
 that if ever I should have my ' fate cast,' I should be at tho 
 end of my life." 
 
 Kate gave a subdued scream. Then, for the love of 
 heaven, stay away from him ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Don't be silly, Kate," said Florence, lightly. " Do you 
 believe that such power, pertaining only to the Most High, 
 can be given to mortal man ? " 
 
 Kate considered. Cicely shook her head. " It may be 
 given for a purpose at times," Cicely said gravely. We 
 cannot know. Either all these ^ Wise Men,' are impostors, 
 or none are ; understand, I am sj)eaking only of these 
 wonderful soothsayers who are heard of perhaps only once 
 in a century. If this strange man, astrologer, or whatever 
 he may call himself, who has set himself down in Worcester, 
 no one knowing ' whence he cometh, or whither he goeth,' 
 like the wind — if it is given to him to discern and foretell 
 the future, it may have been also given to her, who 
 prophesied, you say, of your fate when you were a child. 
 Do not go, Florence." 
 
 " And we are living in enlightened times, and you think 
 it necessary to give me this advice gravely?" exclaimed 
 Florence, her lip curling with scorn. " Oh, Cicely ! " 
 
 "But if you are so mockingly incredulous, why go at 
 all •? " persisted Cicely. " You will not believe anything he 
 may tell you." 
 
198 
 
 THE SUROEON'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 " Surely you do not suppose I go to have my fortune 
 told ? " retorted Miss Erskine. " Nonsense, Cicely ! If I 
 go at all, it will be for tlie fun of tlie thing ; and to hear 
 how far your credulity will allow him to dupe you and 
 Georgiana." 
 
 Cicely looked at her. I don't tliink you are quite so 
 sceptical as you wish to make out, Florence." 
 " Indeed I am." 
 
 On the following day, Friday, Florence proffered the 
 request to her father — that she might be allowed to accom- 
 pany the party to Malvern. It is eight miles from Worcester 
 by road. Captain Erskine chanced to be in a good humour 
 with himself and every one about him, for Mr. Stanton had 
 distinctly intimated to him that he was substantially re- 
 membered in his will, and the captain foresaw an end to his 
 poverty. So he hesitated in his reply; had it not been 
 for his exuberance of spirits he would have denied her at 
 once. 
 
 " Who is going ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Mrs. J uniper and the young ladies," replied Florence, 
 not daring to intimate that any strangers were to be invited. 
 "Mr. Juniper will ride over in the afternoon, if he has 
 time." 
 
 " Juniper's carriage v>dll not hold them all," cried Gentle- 
 man Erskine. " And who's to drive it ? " 
 
 " The groom will drive, I suppose ; and they are going 
 to have a post-carriage from the Crown," answered Florence. 
 
 It is two years since I went to Malvern, papa," 
 
 ^- But going with these Junipers, Florence ! I don't like 
 that." 
 
 "I do not know any one else to go with," she timidly 
 observed. 
 
 " Well, Florence," he reluctantly conceded, " for this once 
 you may join them. But I do insist upon it that afterwards 
 you set yourself resolutely to break up by degrees this 
 intimacy. The girls may be pleasant and sociable, and all 
 that, but they are beneath you. I am going out myself for 
 a few hours on Monday," he concluded, pompously. 
 
 Gentleman Erskine was going fishing. It was an amuse- 
 
THE PREDICTION. 
 
 199 
 
 ment he cleliglited iu. Sometimes lie would be seen, witli 
 his rod and basket, bearing off towards the Wear, at Powiek ; 
 sometimes in the direction of Bransford ; sometimes in a 
 totally opposite direction. And there, arrived at the stream, 
 he would sit with exemplary patience for hours in breathless 
 silence, staring at the float, his lino in the water, a worm at 
 one end and a — what is it ? — at the other, waiting for the 
 fiBh to bite ; his brain filled all the time with the greatness 
 of the grandeur of all the Erskines. 
 
 It was growing towards sunset on Saturday evening when 
 three figures, attired in cotton dresses, faded shawls, and 
 plain straw bonnets Vvdth huge muslin borders underneath 
 them, looking, in short, like decent servant-girls, stole out of 
 Surgeon Juniper's house, and walked quickly along the 
 street, turning their heads from the gaze of the passers-by. 
 The young ladies would fain have waited for twilight, but 
 had not dared to make it so late. Fortune seemed to have 
 favoured them, for an old friend of Mrs, Juniper's had 
 dropped in to spend the evening with her, and she never 
 gave a thought to what the girls might be about; whilst 
 Mr. Juniper and De Courcy were gone to some famous 
 medical lecture that was being given that evening in the 
 town. 
 
 They bent their steps in the direction of Lowcsmoor, in 
 an obscure part of which neighbourhood sojourned the 
 Wizard. 
 
 There's the house," exclaimed Cicely, in a whisper, 
 pointing to one of four low ones in a row, with green 
 shutters and narrow doorways. " I and Julia were walking 
 by it with papa last Sunday, and he laughingly showed it to 
 us ; little thinking we should ever make use of his infor- 
 mation." 
 
 As Cicely spoke, they halted before the door, hesitating 
 and deliberating, half fearful, now it was so near, of going 
 on with the adventure. 
 
 " You knock, Georgy," continued Cicely. 
 
 " Knock yourself," retorted Georgy. You have the use 
 of your hands " 
 
200 
 
 THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTERS, 
 
 " SliaH Ave go back ? " asked Florence, some impulse 
 in'omj^ting her. 
 
 " Why, if we go back," argued Cicely, " they will laugh 
 at us so dreadfully. Unless we say he had such a lot of 
 people with him he could not see us. Are you afraid ? " 
 
 " I afraid," retorted Florence, disdainfully. " But we had 
 better do one thing or the other, for we may attract attention 
 standing here." 
 
 Oh, courage, courage," exclaimed Georgiana, giving a 
 smart rap at the door : " don't let us have to say we took all 
 this trouble about the caps and things for nothing." And, 
 before they had time to draw back, which perhaps they 
 wwld have done after all, a boy opened the door and showed 
 them into the presence of the Wizard. 
 
 He looked as little like a wizard, that is, their ideas of 
 one, as he could well look. A thin old gentleman of sixty 
 dressed in black, with a white cravat, leaning back com- 
 fortably in an arm-chair : they might have taken him for 
 one of the minor canons sitting at his ease after dinner. 
 The room had nothing in it but chairs, tables, a carpet, the 
 usual ordinary furniture : of all apparatus generally sup- 
 posed to belong to the exercise of the black art, the place 
 was void. 
 
 "Is it the wrong house?" whispered Georgiana to her 
 sister. 
 
 " No, it is the right house," said the master, answering 
 Jier thoughts, for her words, they truly believed, he could 
 not have heard. " Which of you shall I speak with first ? 
 Let the others take a seat." 
 
 He motioned towards a row of chairs that stood against 
 the wall at the end of the room. The girls did not take the 
 hint ; all three of them clustered round the table, on which 
 stood a curiously- constructed lamp, not known in those 
 days, but common enough now. It gave a great light, and 
 Georgiana, shrinking from its glare, pushed, almost im- 
 perceptibly, her sister towards the soothsayer. He resumed 
 his seat, and looked at them, one by one. 
 
 " Why did you come to me in disguise ? " he asked : 
 «^ with me it avails not. Take off those clumsy gloves," he 
 
THE PEEDICTION. 
 
 201 
 
 continued to Cicely ; " you have adopted tliem tliat your 
 lady-hands may be hidden from me : but, until I have 
 examined those hands, I cannot answer you a single question, 
 or tell aught that you seek to know." 
 
 She removed the old beaver gloves obediently, almost 
 reverently, as if she were in the presence of a master-sj)irit 
 ■ — perhaps she thought she was so. Before looking at her 
 hands, he took out of a drawer a pack of cards, giving them 
 to her to shuffle and cut, and he then placed them, one by 
 one, their faces upwards, upon the table. They were 
 singular looking : not inlaying cards at all ; each card pre- 
 sented a different and intricate picture, and was inscribed 
 with curious Egyptian names. 
 
 Cicely waited, her hands stretched out to display their 
 palms. Now the Wizard would carefully examine the hands, 
 a miscroscope to his eye ; now, without the microscope, he 
 would study the cards on the table. Presently he laid the 
 glass down, and looked in Cicely's face. The other two 
 stood in silence, amusement displayed on the countenance 
 of Florence Erskine. 
 
 " You need not have troubled yourself to come here," he 
 began abruptly, addressing Cicely, " for I can tell you little 
 more than you already know." 
 
 "What do you mean?" she stammered involuntarily; 
 and he resumed. 
 
 " Your course will be marked with no event of sufficient 
 moment to be set forth here : neither of joy nor sorrow. As 
 a ship sails calmly along a smooth sea, so will you pass 
 peacefully down the stream of your maiden life, until its 
 race shall be run." 
 
 " But who will be my husband ? " inquired the eager 
 Cicely. 
 
 " You will never marry," he returned. 
 " Never marry ! " echoed the girl. 
 
 " No. You had a chance once, and you threw it away. 
 You will not have another." 
 
 Georgiana stared in amazement at the joke of Cicely's 
 having received an offer, and rejected it. But look at Cicely 
 —-at her glowing colour : that alone will tell you his words 
 
202 
 
 THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 are true. Tlie assistant-surgeon, designated by lier sisters 
 as tlie elepliaut, the monkey in spectacles, had made Cicely 
 an offer in secret, and she had refused it. 
 
 And bo thankful that your life is destined to be so 
 uneventful," continued the speaker to her. There are two 
 paths in this world ; one is of peace— and a Yery small one 
 it is, but little frecj[uented ; the other is full of thorns. To 
 few people indeed is it given to tread the former ; but you 
 are one of them." 
 
 The dismayed and angry Cicely felt her face growing hot 
 and cold by turns, as she listened to this most unwelcome 
 prediction ; and she only aw^oke from her astonishment to 
 ]iear the man addressing her sister. Georgiana had removed 
 her gloves at his desire, touched the cards as Cicely did, and 
 waited. Florence had drawn nearer, and she saw% what she 
 had never noticed before, that the inside of Georgiana's 
 hands, even to the ends of the fingers, were completely 
 covered with lines ; small lines, crossed, and recrossed 
 again. The old man sat looking at them with his glass to 
 his eye. 
 
 " Your fate in life will bo widely different from your 
 sister's," he said at length, ''for you will meet with, and 
 endure, more cares than I should choose to tell you of." 
 
 '' And not be married either, perhaps ! " burst forth the 
 indignant Cicely. 
 
 " You will be married in God's own good time," lie con- 
 tinued to Georgiana, taking no heed of Cicely. And 
 though your life will be full of cares, as I now predict, 
 there is no cause for you to be dismayed, for it v/ill not be 
 v/ithout its compensations. Your home will lie in a foreign 
 land, one washed by the troubled waters of the Pacific 
 Ocean. He is there now ; and you will not sec him yet : 
 not for years to come." 
 
 Not there non' ? " exclaimed Georgiana, surprised out of 
 the remark. 
 
 " Maybe your thoughts are running upon one nearer and 
 dearer," he rejoined : " but neither of you " — and he looked 
 alternately at Georgiana and Florence — " will marry Mm ; 
 so let there be no more bitter feeling between you. You 
 
THE PREDICTION. 
 
 203 
 
 have wasted by far too mueli on tliese dreams already ; 
 dreams that for both of you will come to nought. The wife 
 destined for liim is as yet a child, sporting in her mother's 
 home : neither of you will ever be more to him than you 
 are now." 
 
 Georgiana, in her sur^^rise, could not fmd ready vrords of 
 anv/er. Florence v/as indignant. 
 
 "You are mistaking your vocation, sir/' she haughtily 
 exclaimed. " I did not come here to have my fortune 
 told." 
 
 I will not tell it, young lady," lie quietly replied. 
 " Nevertheless, I should like to be allowed to take a closer 
 look at your hands. Their marks strike me as being 
 peculiar." 
 
 Florence's hands were resting on the table ; she had taken 
 off the large, uncomfortable gloves assumed for disguise. 
 Making no objection, she moved them nearer to him in 
 scornful compliance; perhaps in curiosity. The Wizard 
 examined them long and attentively, glancing aside at the 
 cards from time to time in silence. 
 
 " I did not come to you for advice or remark of any 
 kind," repeated Florence, when he looked up. 
 
 " So you have informed me : and I knov/ that all I might 
 say would be worse than despised. Yet, if you would listen 
 to me, I could save vou even now." 
 
 " Save me from what ? " 
 
 " Nay, why question me ? Have you not warned me that 
 you wish to hear nothing ? " 
 
 "I wish to hear this," she answered, her tone of scorn 
 growing deeper. " Tell it me, I beg of you." 
 
 It will make no difference whether I do or not," remarked 
 the man, as if speaking to himself. " From the fate which 
 is threatening you: and which appears" — bending again 
 over her hands — " to be drawing very near now — " 
 
 " Pray what is the fate ? " she interrupted. 
 
 " I cannot say. I do not know." 
 
 Florence laughed a derisive laugh. " Oh, thank you : 
 that is quite sufficient. You would warn me to avoid some 
 fate or other, but you don't know Avhat ! Thank you, sir, 
 
204 THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTErvS. 
 
 once again, for your valuable advice. I have already said 
 I did not come to seek it." Slie made him a half-mocking 
 curtsey, and turned to her companions, saying that as their 
 business was over, it was time to be going. The young 
 ladies turned to leave, and the Wizard rose. 
 
 " To you who did come to seek it, I have no more to add," 
 he said. " Your life," looking at Cicely, " will be one of 
 uneventful calm, bearing for you no great pleasures and no 
 great pains. And yours," turning to Georgiana, will bo 
 one scene of cares and crosses from the day you relinquish 
 your father's name ; and his for which you will exchange it 
 is to you as yet that of a stranger : but do not forget that 
 the life will bring to you its compensations. There is 
 nothing more ; so go back quickly, all of you, whence you 
 came." 
 
 The two sisters laid, each, a heavy piece of silver on the 
 table, as they turned to depart. Florence laid nothing. 
 She was about to follow them, when the old man placed his 
 hand upon her shoulder, his strange, deep-set eyes riveting 
 their gaze on hers. 
 
 You have good seed in your heart," he said earnestly, 
 " and your faults are but those of youth and thoughtlessness. 
 I will not have it on my conscience that I suffered you to 
 pass this threshold without a warning, unavailing though it 
 will be. For the next three or four days, say until Monday 
 — or— perhaps — Tuesday — say until Tuesday shall have 
 glided into the womb of the past, keep strictly the Com- 
 mandments ; break not one either in the spirit or the letter : 
 and then years of happiness may yet be yours." 
 
 " And if I do not ? " asked Florence. 
 
 " I have told you that you will not. In less than the time 
 I have mentioned to you, you will, I fear, have gone whither 
 we are all hastening." 
 
 If danger threatens me," she persisted, " why not tell me 
 its nature, that I may avoid it ? " 
 
 " In asking the question, you are but mocking still," he 
 sadly said, " but I will answer it. That some great danger 
 threatens to overtake you, is certain ; its precise nature I 
 know not : such close knowledge is not given us, Jjut it 
 
THE PREDICTION. 
 
 205 
 
 seems to me tbat it will arise out of some fault of your 
 own, and I tliiuk, self-willed disobedience. Now go : I have 
 fulfilled my duty." 
 
 He resumed his chair as he s^^^^^^j three girls 
 
 turned and were gone. 
 
 Of all canting, story-telling imj)ostors," broke out 
 Cicely, before they were well in the street, being unable 
 longer to control her exas]Deration, " that wicked old animal 
 beats all." 
 
 Cicely truly believed so. For he had said she would 
 never be married : and if all the wise men breathing had 
 sworn to that, she would not have given credence to it. 
 
 " You don't believe in him, then ? " said Georgiana, whose 
 S2}irits seemed rather subdued by the visit. 
 
 " Believe in him ! " retorted Cicely. I would give a 
 thousand pounds, if I had it, to be Mayor of Worcester for 
 one day, just to have him put in the stocks. The wretched 
 old idiot ! " 
 
 Florence Erskine remained silent, her reflections full of 
 uneasiness and perplexity. She had maintained during the 
 visit a mood of contempt and disbelief : to say that she 
 came away in it would be wrong. The extraordinary power 
 with which that man, wizard or no wizard, divined her and 
 Georgiana's most secret feelings, puzzled her : their jealousy 
 of each other, which she had believed could be known to 
 none; the positive assertion that neither of them would 
 marry De Courcy; with the solemn prediction that in a 
 space of time which might be counted by hours, some un- 
 toward fate threatened to overtake her, lie evidently pointed 
 to death ! Mixed with these thoughts came recurring the 
 remembrance of that tale of her childhood— that should she 
 ever have her fortune told, she would be at the end of her 
 life : this man had now said she was at the end of it. 
 
 " I told you," she laughed, but the laugh sounded bitterly 
 hollow in her companions' ears — "I told you what you 
 would meet with, Cicely ; you Avill believe in fortune-tellers 
 now! And he — he — that daring charlatan, presumed to 
 warn me against breaking the Commandments ! " 
 
 Wrapping their shawls round them, and drawing their 
 
200 
 
 TliE SUMEON'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 bjiiucts over their faces, tliey basteued tlirougli the now 
 lighted streets, and gained their home and entered undis- 
 covered. 
 
 Sunday was the next day. In the afternoon^ Ca2)tain 
 Erskine went as usual to visit his relative, and Florence 
 afterwards took her way to Mrs. J uniper's, the girls having 
 invited her. The disagreeable impression left by the 
 Wizard's Avords had faded away ; reason had reasserted its 
 power, and Florence was herself again. The surgeon's 
 family usually attended church on Sunday evenings, but 
 this night two or three of the girls had themselves excused 
 on the score of the heat, and stayed at home to chatter. 
 When Florence made ready to go home, a servant was 
 waiting to see her thither ; but De Courcy, coming in at 
 the moment, told the maid her services were not required, 
 and went with Florence himself. 
 
 They walked away towards her home, in the sultry, over- 
 powering air, their pace so slow as to be scarcely perceptible, 
 she listening to his honeyed words. Ah ! she thought not 
 now of the old Wizard and his predictions ; when with Mm, 
 the fulness of her happiness was all in all. And thus con- 
 versing with each other, they nearcd the cottage. No other 
 dwellings were near to it, no prying eyes could be on view, 
 and De Courcy drew Florence's arm within his, little con- 
 scious, either of them, that the worst eyes of all were 
 looking on. 
 
 At the window of his small drawing-room stood Captain 
 Erskine. He had come home betimes to make certain 
 preparations connected with his fishing-tackle and bait for 
 the morning's excursion. In the midst of which, happening 
 to look towards the road, he saw his daughter sauntering 
 up the hill, comfortably leaning on the arm of 
 
 Of tvhom ? The captain applied his double eye-glass to 
 his eye, wiped it, turned it, and tried it again. Why— good 
 saints protect himself and his outraged ancestors ! — it icas 
 that connection of Juniper's ! They have reached the little 
 gate now, and Florence's hand is held in his as he leads her 
 through it ; and Gentleman Erskine's grizzled hair raises 
 itself on end with horror, and his gaze glares on his insulted 
 
THE PREDICTION. 
 
 207 
 
 })ecligfee5 liaiigiug opposite, aucl lie brings Lis iucliguant 
 lace into close contact with the winclow-pancs. 
 
 Florence saw him ; and, turning sick with apprehension 5 
 wished De Courcy a hasty good-night, and went in. 
 
 Captain Ersldne was by no means a meek man, but never 
 had Florence seen him give way to passion so violent. A 
 half-doubt of the truth flashed across his brain. Florence 
 he knew was beautiful ; while this fellow, he half acknow- 
 ledged to himself, was what women and fools might call 
 attractive. But the doubt was dismissed at once : for 
 Gentleman Erskine's exclusive mind could no more bring 
 itself to suspect Florence ca23able of an attachment for a 
 man in the position of De Courcy, than for the begrimed 
 official who periodically went up his chimneys ; and indeed 
 the ropes on which he himself stood were so exalted, that 
 he could see little difference in the position of the two, the 
 dispenser of medicines and the ramoneitr. Oh, terrible 
 disgrace ! — she had walked with this man (as he supposed) 
 through the open streets ! Worcester had seen her leaning 
 upon the arm of an aj)othecary, that obscure emigre, Avho 
 had never known his grandfather ! How could this stain 
 be wi2)ed out ? 
 
 As a preliminary stej), when his rage had somewhat 
 expended itself. Captain Erskine forbade his daughter, in 
 the most positive terms man could use, to join the party to 
 Malvern on the morrow. She shivered, she cried, she 
 pleaded for a retraction of his prohibition ; all in vain. 
 8he might with as much effect have set on and petitioned 
 Jupiter. 
 
 "What shall I say?" she sobbed. "I told them you 
 consented, and they expect me, What excuse can I offer 
 now?" 
 
 " Excuse to them ! " he cried indignantly ; " the obliga- 
 tion is on the other side. Make none. Or say it is my 
 pleasure, if you choose : but, go you do not." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! " 
 
 " How dare you oppose your will to mine, even in 
 ^ thought ? " he demanded. " Are you out of your mind ? I 
 forbid you to think or to speak again about their scampering 
 
208 
 
 THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 Malvern party. I would rather lock you up, Florencej tliau 
 suffer you to joiu it. Disobey me if you dare." 
 
 When Florence rose the next morning, her head aching 
 and her eyes heavy, she found a brief, stern note left for 
 her by her father, who had departed on his fishing excursion. 
 It reiterated his prohibition of the previous night; once 
 more enjoining her not to disobey him. She wrote a line 
 to Mrs. Juniper, saying she was unable to accompany them, 
 and sent it. In answer to it came Mr. dc Courcy, rc- 
 (|uiring, in Mrs. Juniper's name, to know the why and the 
 wherefore. Florence simply said her father washed her not 
 to go ; but of his positive prohibition and his violence she 
 did not like to tell. De Courcy suj)posed Captain Erskine's 
 objection might be put down to the score of the heat, which 
 was excessive. He treated the prohibition lightly. Per- 
 suasion is wondrously effective w^hen uttered by loved lips, 
 and Florence wavered. She made a compromise with her 
 conscience, and assuring it that no persuasion should induce 
 her to disobey her father by going to Malvern, she yet 
 consented to accompany De Courcy to Mrs. Juniper's, to 
 tell them in person that she could not go. 
 
 It was then ten o'clock, the hour fixed for starting. Tlie 
 party of invited friends were assembling, all eager and 
 joyous, the carriages waited at the door, and Florence was 
 tempted on all sides : her scruples were assailed, her some- 
 what confused accounts of her father's " wishes " laughed at. 
 
 " The heat ! " exclaimed Mrs. Juniper, catching up De 
 Courcy's notion. "Well, it's bad enough to-day, child, 
 goodness knows ; but it won't melt you." 
 
 Mrs. Juniper added some convincing arguments, their 
 matter sensible enough, the girls said go she should and 
 must, De Courcy whispered a passionate entreaty, while the 
 good-natured surgeon declared he would bear all the blame 
 and appease Captain Erskine. And Florence, overjDOwered 
 by their persuasions and her own yearnings, at length 
 yielded, her conscience pricking her, and her better judg- 
 ment fighting a fierce battle. 
 
 It was half-past ten when they started, eighteen or twenty 
 of them, a goodly cavalcade. Two post-carriages from the 
 
THE PREDICTION. 
 
 209 
 
 Crown in Broad Street, and the surgeon's cliaise, De Coiircy 
 driving the latter. 
 
 " You will go with me, Florence," he had said to her, as 
 they all stood on the threshold of the door. But, even as 
 he spoke, Georgiana Juniper mounted, without assistance, 
 into the front seat of her father's carriage ; and Mr. Juniper, 
 coming up, took Florence's hand, and placed her in one of 
 the large ones by the side of his wife. 
 
 The postboys started. Down Broad Street, over the 
 bridge, increasing their S2)eed as they bowled along the 
 open road leading to St. John's, and lessening it as thoy 
 came to the houses. St. John's passed, they drove through 
 the turnpike-gate, and were fairly on the road to Malvern 
 in all the heat. None could remember such heat as hung 
 that day over the Faithful City. 
 
 Mrs. Juniper com23lained piteously. "What's my face 
 like ? " she suddenly asked. " Is it crimson ? " 
 
 "I never saw any crimson so red, mamma," answered 
 Julia, turning round from the box, where she w^as seated 
 with young Mr. Parker, who was reading for the Church, 
 there being a living in his family. He had just come down 
 from Oxford, after being plucked in his Little Go. 
 
 " What a mercy it is that we thought of bringing that 
 bottled perry!" continued Mrs. Juniper. '*'As to the ale 
 and wine, I don't think we ought to touch it till the sun's 
 gone down, unless we'd like to be laid up with brain fever. 
 I never felt such a day as this," 
 
 " Nor any one else in this country, ma'am," observed 
 young Parker. " It is said that strange old Wizard has 
 predicted this day will be a memorable one. I think he is 
 about right for once." 
 
 Julia Battlebridge turned again and glanced at Florence 
 with a meaning look. Florence sat silent and j)ale. She 
 did not absolutely fear the words the strange man had said 
 to her ; she did not positively fear that old prediction of her 
 childhood ; and yet both kept floating in her brain, mingling 
 with the thoughts of her own disobedience, and what would 
 be the anger of her father. That strange injunction of the 
 Wizard's, bidding her not break any of the Commandments, 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 14 
 
210 
 
 THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 Lad come back to lier with vivid veliemence. She had 
 listened in resentment to the unnecessary warning, haughty 
 pride buoying up her own self-sufficiency — she, Florence 
 Erskine, break a Commandment ! Yet, not thirty-six hours 
 had elapsed before she had fallen into the snare and the 
 sin : she had broken the one which says, " Thou shalt 
 honour thy father and thy mother." 
 
 Wick was passed, and then the old and most dangerous 
 bridge at Powick, and, passing the turnpike-gate, the horses 
 bore up the ascent, turning off opposite the Lion. Soon the 
 v/indings of the road brought the towering hills in view, 
 with their various hues, blue, brown, green, and golden ; and 
 De Courcy saw that his pretty white sea-shells were indeed 
 houses. Away cantered the postboys, on to Newland 
 Common, its geese as plentiful as ever, leaving on their left 
 the turning to Madresfield, Lord Beauch amp's seat. The 
 Swan, with its swinging signboard, passed on the right, the 
 horses began their slow pace up the Link, noted for its 
 upsets, and the party reached the village of Great Malvern 
 at last. 
 
 They drove to the Crown, and alighted. The carriages 
 were to be left there. Mrs. Juniper was shown to the 
 pleasantest sitting-room with the lovely view, ordered a 
 plate of sandwiches for those who wished to partakeof any, 
 and said the party would return for tea at six o'clock in the 
 evening. It was a programme often carried out : luncheon 
 on the hills ; tea at the Crown or the Bellevue. 
 
 Meanwhile the hampers of provisions — Mrs. Juniper's 
 fowls and tartlets and a-la-mode beef — were taken from the 
 carriages, now surrounded by a shoal of donkeys, with their 
 drivers — sunburnt women, boys, and girls. 
 
 " Are we to ride or walk up ? " 
 
 " Who asked the question on such a day as this ? '' cried 
 young Mr. Parker, looking dov/n from the balcony. " Mrs. 
 Juniper shall have that one," pointing to a large, strong grey 
 donkey. " And, I say, my good donkey-women, give an eye 
 to your saddles : they have a habit of turning, you know." 
 
 Mr. de Courcy chose to walk: not a very wise determi- 
 nation, as Mrs. Juniper told him, with the thermometer at 
 
THE PREDICTION. 
 
 211 
 
 its present lieiglit. Site did not know tbat tlic licat and tlio 
 climb were to liim as nothing, whilst he could thus keep by 
 the side of Florence Erskine. And so they commenced 
 their ascent of the hill, towards St. Ann's Well, and Mrs. 
 Juniper sincerely wished there was a carriage-way to it, 
 that she might avoid the zigzag path of the jolting donkey. 
 In later years one was made. 
 
 They took Do Courcy to an elevated spot, and then made 
 him turn suddenly to look at the glorious beauty of the 
 scene. The amazing expanse of prospect extending out 
 around; the peaceful plains, lying broad and distinct; the 
 blending together of wood and dale ; the striking contrast 
 of the green fields with the golden hue of the ripening corn ; 
 Bredon Hill there, the Old Hills here, hills everywhere ; 
 the few mansions scattered about with a sparing hand, 
 giving life to the landscaj)e : and Worcester, fair to view, 
 lying not far off. with its fine old cathedral and St. Andrew's 
 tapering spire, 
 
 " Yes, it is very beautiful," sighed De Courcy, drawing a 
 deep breath of reverence as he lifted his hat. " Great indeed 
 are the glories of God's marvellous works ! " 
 
 Mrs. Juniper's voice brought him back to common life, 
 ^- If you'll believe me, them silly apes are going on to the 
 top!" 
 
 Turning from his somewhat prolonged reverie, De Courcy 
 saw that the younger members of the party were continuing 
 their way up the hill : the elder ones had dismissed their 
 donkeys, and were gathered in and about St. Ann's WelL 
 
 " Have you lost your wits, you young people ? " screamed 
 out Mrs. Juniper again. 
 
 " No, mamma," replied Bessy, looking round. " Why ? " 
 
 " If you ride to the top in this heat you'll be half dead." 
 
 "Oh, we don't care for that. We shall be back for 
 dinner." 
 
 Mrs. Juniper sat down inside the room at the WelL 
 Some of the more active ones began to unpack the hampers. 
 One gentleman, an old Worcester lawyer, who was rather 
 puffy, threw himself flat on the grass, wishing he could find 
 a breath of air. In vain : the atmosphere was still as death. 
 
212 THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 "DccidctTly those young ones will be broiled," lie re- 
 marked. 
 
 " Why, here they are, back already ! " exclaimed Mr. 
 Parker's mother, as she caught sight of the white cloths of 
 the donkeys, slowly winding round from the heights above. 
 " We shall see how they feel after their broiling." 
 
 " I have heard tell of women in Ingee," remarked Mrs. 
 Juniper, extending her head outside to get a view of the 
 broiled, " who have voluntarily sat right down in a huge fire 
 to be roasted alive. I'd not say that there can lie much 
 choice between that and going up the hill to-day, as them 
 geese were doing ; especially if it was afoot like Mr. de 
 Courcy." 
 
 " It was impossible to endure it," called out Cicely in 
 explanation. " I believe, if we had gone on, we should have 
 felt ready to drop, as mamma said, and the poor animals too. 
 So that's why we are back again." 
 
 Heavy and listlessly passed the time, in the unbearable 
 heat, till they sat down to dinner, and sincerely did they 
 wish their excursion had been deferred to a more pro2)itious 
 day. But young and healthy people cannot be still long ; 
 and some of them, when dinner was over, began to wander 
 up the hill again. The heat was really terrible, not perhaps 
 quite so burning as it had been in the morning, for the 
 blazing sun had gone in, but the oppressive, sultry sensation 
 had increased. It seemed as if they could scarcely draw 
 breath ; and ominous clouds of copper colour were gathering 
 in the sky. Unheeding the weather, and regardless of 
 fatigue, De Courcy and Florence, side by side, at length 
 reached the top of the hill : their companions had dropped 
 off one by one, and they were alone. There they stood 
 some time, that he might admire the vale of Herefordshire ; 
 a fine prospect also, but not equal to the magnificent one on 
 the other side. And then, turning to the left, they continued 
 their way on the hill's summit, and gained the little round 
 building, scarcely larger or higher than a good-sized watch- 
 box, known as Lady Harcourt's Tower. 
 
 Here they entered and sat down ; and De Courcy, drawing 
 her to his side, whispered once more his words of love, 
 
THE PREDICTION. 
 
 213 
 
 Eloquent words tliey were, more eloquent than they need 
 have been, for where love reigns in a heart, as it did in 
 hers, eloquence is needed not ; and she, lost in the perfect 
 rapture of the moment, put her compunctions of conscience 
 aside. She forgot her disobedience ; she forgot the certain 
 refusal of her father to sanction the future ; she braved the 
 thought of his anger, and promised to be the wife of Louis 
 de Courcy. 
 
 A flash of lightning startled them ; and, as they rushed 
 outside the tower, a long, loud, frightful echo told that the 
 storm had begun. Never, perhaps, had a storm come on 
 with more rapid violence. The clouds had gathered to- 
 gether, black, lurid, angry, the forked lightning playing 
 amongst them ; the thunder reverberated in the hollows of 
 the hills ; and the atmosphere appeared as if tainted with 
 death, it was so still and terrible. 
 
 "We must make the best of our way down, Floi^nce," 
 hastily cried De Courcy. 
 
 But there came, flying to the top of the hill, five or six of 
 their party — the lawyer before mentioned and his daughter, 
 two of the Juniper girls, and a lad of fifteen and his sister. 
 They had been close to the summit when the thunder com- 
 menced its roaring, and were running to take shelter in 
 Lady Harcourt's Tower. 
 
 " I do not like it," interposed De Courcy, as they were 
 about to enter. "We shall be safer going down the hill 
 than there." 
 
 " Kot at all," dissented the lawyer, who was puffing with 
 his recent exertion. " I remember, when a boy, a party of 
 us being overtaken in this very spot by a most violent 
 thunderstorm. We shut ourselves in here — there was a 
 door to the place then — and were quite safe and comfortable ; 
 whilst in the valley below there were two cows and a milk- 
 maid killed." 
 
 Still De Courcy did not like it ; but not one was willing 
 to descend the hill with him and brave the fury of the 
 storm, preferring the shelter of Lady Harcourt's Tower, 
 The situation was appalling enough. Perched on the 
 summit of one of the highest of the Malvern hills, the valley 
 
214 
 
 THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTEBS. 
 
 bcueatli them ajipeared as if it were miles away, and tliey 
 planted in the air, on tliat narrow ledge between tlie earth 
 and the sky, amidst all the roar and battle of the ele- 
 ments. 
 
 The storm increased in violence ; peal succeeded flash, 
 and flash succeeded peal without an instant's cessation ; the 
 heavens were in a blaze of light from one extremity to the 
 other, and a noise, as of a thousand cannons, seemed bursting 
 close overhead. The poor girls were fearfully terrified. 
 De Courcy tried to reassure them, but could not succeed : a 
 scream from one, a shriek from another; tears and sobs; 
 exclamations, that the lightning blinded and the thunder 
 deafened them, were mixed with murmured prayers and 
 dread whispers that they should never get down again alive. 
 Florence was quiet, betraying less terror than the rest. 
 Why was it? Because she was by the side of Mm, her 
 lover ; and so all-absorbing to her w^as the consciousness of 
 her love for him, that other emotions, and even the dread of 
 danger, were partially lost in it : his protection seemed to 
 be all-sufficient for security, as it was for happiness. De 
 Courcy had thrown his arm round her and drawn her to his 
 Bide, where she quietly stood, her face hidden against him, 
 and her heart beating with its sense of bliss. Cicely Juniper 
 he had drawn to him on the other side. 
 
 " There ! " he exclaimed, pointing to a distant part of the 
 heavens. It was a small ball of fire, darting down to the 
 earth. The sight was momentary : before the others could 
 look, it was gone. 
 
 " I must say I wish we w^ere safe down," exclaimed the 
 old lawyer. ''I wonder how Mrs. Juniper and the rest feel 
 at the Well?" 
 
 Before the words had well passed his lips there came a 
 vivid flash, a terrific peal, and a scream from Cicely Juniper, 
 who declared the tower was shaking. It may have been her 
 fancy, or it may have been that the tower did sliake with a 
 shock of electricity, the others felt nothing ; but Florence 
 Erskine had fallen on the ground at De Courcy's side. 
 There was no perceptible change in her countenance, except 
 that it was white and still. 
 
THE PBEDICTION. 
 
 215 
 
 " Slie lias fainted ! " exclaimed the lawyer, Biooping, and 
 pulling at her hand. 
 
 " It is the faintness of Death ! " shuddered De Courcy, 
 bending down his ashy face. I fear, I fear it is death." 
 He raised Florence in his arms as he spoke ; he called her 
 by every endearing name, unmindful now of the ears of 
 those around ; he pressed his white cheeks to her, vainly 
 hoping to feel signs of breath and life. But there was no 
 further life for Florence Erskine in this world, for she had 
 indeed been struck and killed by lightning. And when the 
 w^ailing and terror-stricken party returned that night to 
 Worcester, carrying the dreadful tidings v/ith them to 
 Captain Erskine, the ill-fated young lady, cold and dead, 
 had to be left at Malvern. 
 
 It had, in truth, been a remarkable and fatal day, as the 
 strange man, the V/izard, had foretold. On the following 
 morning, Cicely, in her horror and perplexity, disclosed to 
 Mr. Juniper the particulars of their visit to this man, with 
 his prediction regarding Florence, and the surgeon went to 
 Lowesmoor, at once to seek him out. But ho had dis- 
 appeared ; he was gone, none knew exactly when, certainly 
 not whither ; he had left the city. 
 
 Mr. Juniper plied the landlady of the house with questions. 
 She said that on the Sunday evening he had called her to 
 his presence, paid her what little claims she had against 
 him, with something over, and told her he should probably 
 leave on the morrow. On the Monday morning, while he 
 was at breakfast, she went upstairs to make his bed, and 
 there she saw his little black portmanteau ready packed. 
 But she did not see him leave the house, or know at what 
 hour he really went away. 
 
 Mr. Juniper could discover no more than that. Yet he 
 Vv ould have liked to do so : he would have liked to put a 
 few questions to the man, for he felt intensely puzzled by 
 him. He had his reasons. This Wizard, or whatever he 
 was or might call himself, had betrayed a knowledge of 
 things which it seemed impossible (unless by more than 
 human inspiration) he could have known or learnt in any 
 way. One instance shall be given. 
 
216 
 
 THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 At a sliort distance from Worcester there lived two small 
 respectable farmers, related to one another and occupying 
 adjoining farms. On the Saturday morning, the same day 
 on which, later, the Juniper girls paid their visit to the 
 Wizard, a daughter of each of these farmers walked into 
 Worcester as usual to keep market : their baskets of cream- 
 cheese, poultry, eggs, and butter being conveyed thither by 
 a man on horseback. They wrangled as they walked : 
 
 Phillis D had brought her little sister with her, which 
 
 displeased Esther J . " It's not my fault," pleaded Phillis, 
 
 defending herself warmly. " When I came downstairs from 
 putting my things on, there was Sally all ready in her 
 bonnet and tippet, and mother said she was coming with mc. 
 How could I help bringing her, I'd like to know ? I did 
 try ; I said the walk would be too much for her this hot 
 weather; but mother answered me shortly that the child 
 was looking puny, and it would do her good." 
 
 " All the same, you should have somehow contrived not 
 to bring her just to-day," retorted Esther. 
 
 For these two young women were .intending to get their 
 fortunes told. Having heard the marvellous things said of 
 the Wizard, they wished to benefit by his divinations as 
 well as other people did, and perhaps get promised a husband 
 apiece in some flourishing young farmer. The visit had 
 been planned for the 23revious Saturday, but a matter 
 prevented its being carried out; so they meant to pay it 
 to-day without fail : if it were put off yet for another week, 
 the Wizard might have left Worcester, Of course Sally's 
 presence was a tremendous drawback, but they must make 
 the best of it. 
 
 By dint of selling their excellent wares cheaper than 
 usual, they were at liberty before one o'clock and bent their 
 steps from the market-house down to Lowesmoor ; promising 
 Sally dire punishment for all time to come if she ever 
 breathed a word of what she was about to see and hear, 
 But these warnings, administered in going through Silver 
 Street, produced an effect which they had not calculated 
 upon. The child was seized with intense terror. She had 
 heard of the Wizard, and entertained a most unreasoning 
 
THE PREDICTION. 
 
 217 
 
 fear of hiin, fully believing lie would eat Ler up at siglit, as 
 the wolf ate up Eed Eiding Hood. Sally was a pretty little 
 girl of ten years old, constitutionally timid, and she burst 
 into sobs and cries. The young women shook her and 
 slapped her. Finding that did little good, they presently, 
 after turning out of Silver Street, bought her some ginger- 
 bread nuts and bull's-eyes — which in a degree soothed the 
 tears, if not the fear. 
 
 The Wizard was alone when they entered. While he 
 proceeded to tell the fortunes of the elder girls, the little 
 one was placed on one of the chairs at the end of the room : 
 but she wept aloud, and trembled from head to foot. Once 
 it seemed to distract the Wizard : he paused in what he was 
 saying, and looked around. 
 
 " Who is the child ? What is she crying for ? " 
 
 " She is my sister, sir, and she was afraid to come here," 
 
 answered Phillis D . "Sally, you naughty girl, hush 
 
 your sobs directly. Who do you suppose is going to harm 
 you ? " 
 
 " There is nothing here to harm you, my child," spoke 
 the wise man, gently. " Don't be afraid." 
 
 This address seemed to have quite an opposite effect from 
 the kindly one intended. Sally, after a moment's silence 
 from dumb terror, went on sobbing more than ever. 
 
 At the close of the interview, when the young women 
 were departing Avell satisfied, for they had each been 
 promised fairly good luck in life as well as a husband, the 
 Wizard rose and put his hand upon Sally's shoulder. 
 
 " Cry on, my child, for you have good cause to do so," he 
 said to her with sad impressiveness. " You Avill reach 
 home to find you have lost the best friend you ever had in 
 life." 
 
 They took their journey homewards, the young women 
 by far too much engrossed by their own future to jDay heed 
 to the wise man's parting words to the child, or speculate 
 upon what they could mean. Sally was promised a new 
 doll, if she held her tongue. 
 
 Esther J 's gate was the first reached, and she passed 
 
 through it. Phillis and Sally D went on to their own 
 
218 
 
 THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 house: ^Yhicll tliey found fuU of distress and confusion. 
 Tlieir father was dead. The farmer had dropped down that 
 morning in a fit of apoplexy. Poor little Sally had indeed 
 lost her best friend in life — her father. 
 
 Now the reader must make the best and the worst that he 
 can of this. It is strictly true. 
 
 Mr. Juniper did not know^ what to make of it. He was 
 at the farm when the daughters got in, having been the 
 medical man sent for: and Pliillis, beside herself with 
 excitement and grief, rej)eated to him what the Wizard had 
 said to the child. Mr. Juniper considered it strange. It 
 might, of course, have been only a saying at hazard curiously 
 fulfilled. The only other solution lie could think of v/as — 
 that the Wizard must in some w^ay (there had been time) 
 
 have heard of Farmer D 's death : yet this seemed 
 
 unlikely. Some other unaccountable sayings of the man 
 had previously become known to Mr. Juniper, and ho 
 determined to pay him a visit the following week. But, as 
 already stated, he went too late ; the man was gone. 
 
 Louis de Courcy never flirted with Georgy Juniper again ; 
 from that hour he was a Aviser and a graver man. The 
 death of the ill-fated Florence had its effect upon all, and 
 henceforward the girls were less careless, more staid and 
 sober. Georgiana married in the course of years, and went 
 over the seas wdth her husband ; and poor Cicely's w^edding 
 never came at all. Her sisters, one after another, quitted 
 the parent home ; but she was left. And in latter years 
 Cicely grev\^ to think her own life was the ha23piest, for it 
 was free from care. 
 
 Never again was the Wizard heard of in Worcester. 
 Whence he had derived his information, that spirit of 
 divination which he really ajjpeared to 2)ossess, none could, 
 or did, pretend to speculate — for indeed this record of him 
 has been no fancy sketch. Those who were living at the 
 time, witnesses to the stir he caused, are dead and gone ; 
 and a few of a later generation remain yet in Worcester to 
 retain remembrance of the Chronicle. 
 
 "Floreat Semper Fidelis Civitab." 
 
/ 
 
 THE BKILLIANT KEEPER. 
 
\ 
 
TIE BRILLIANT KEEPEE. 
 
 It was a comfortable room, even for the West End of 
 London. It was not the grand drawing-room of the 
 house ; it was not the great dining-room, where Sir Philip's 
 patients waited their turn to go in to him ; it was only a 
 small, cozy apartment, with a bright fire, easy-chairs, and 
 generally plenty of litter. For a wonder it was tidy now ; 
 nothing was on the centre table except Lady Annesley's 
 desk, at which she sat writing — a plain, pleasant woman of 
 forty, wearing weeds yet. The late Sir Eobert, a popular 
 and successful physician, had risen in the world and earned 
 his baronetcy ; but this had been his second wife. 
 
 On a low sofa, near the fire, sat an old lady — a cheerful, 
 nice old lady, in spite of her blindness and her eighty-four 
 years. She would tell you, could you speak to her, that 
 God had seen fit to take her dear son, Sir Eobert, but she 
 had been spared. Upon her lap was a bag made of white 
 linen, resembling a pillow-case, but not so long ; and she 
 was stuffing it with handfuls of paper torn into minute bits. 
 Since she had become blind she was wont to employ some of 
 her time in tearing up waste-paper, newspapers, and the 
 like, to stuff cushions. Maria Carr, Lady Annesley's niece, 
 was at the far window, making the case for this cushion : 
 two square pieces of white velvet, on each of which was 
 painted an exquisite group of flowers, Maria's doing. The 
 cushion was intended as a present for Mary Annesley, who 
 was on the point of marriage with Dr. Scott. She had gone 
 
222 
 
 THE BBILLTANT KEEPER. 
 
 out now with, the late Sir EoLert Annesley's ward, Georgina 
 Livingston, who lived with them. 
 
 Mrs. Annesley looked up from her cushion and her bits 
 of paper — if the expression may be applied to one who is 
 blind; but when she spoke to people, she was in the habit 
 of turning her face in the direction she thought they might 
 be, just as she had done before the darkness came on. 
 
 What about Charley's going to church ? Is it decided ? " 
 Well, I suppose " 
 
 Lady Annesley stopped. The door had hastily opened, 
 and a gentleman entered — a tall, fine man. But for the 
 sweet smile that frequently parted his lips and lighted up 
 his dark blue eyes, his features might have been thought 
 plain. And yet, ladies were apt to say that Sir Philip 
 Annesley, being unmarried, was too attractive for a medical 
 man. 
 
 "Is that Philip?'^ 
 
 " Myself and no one else, grandmamma." For Sir Philip 
 sometimes, half in sport, addressed her by the old familiar 
 title of his boyhood. " Who will lend me a finger ? " 
 
 " A finger ! " echoed Lady Annesley. " What for ? Ask 
 Maria." 
 
 Maria laid down her velvet, and came forward. Sir 
 Philip opened a little square box, and taking out a ring, 
 passed it on to the third or wedding-finger of her left hand. 
 She stood before him, perfectly quiet in motion and bearing, 
 but blushing to the very roots of her hair. Two thin chains 
 of gold crossed and recrossed each other, enclosing a 
 brilliant between each crossing— twelve brilliants in all, 
 small, but of the first water— a jewel of rare beauty, re- 
 markably light and elegant. 
 
 " Philip, what a lovely ring ! " exclaimed Lady Annesley. 
 
 " Yes ; it took my fancy. Mary will like a keeper, and 
 Scott, in his absent fashion, is sure not to think of one. 
 Lucky, I say, if he remembers the wedding-ring. It is too 
 large ; is it not, Maria ? " 
 
 Much too large for a keeper. Mary would need another 
 ring to keep this one on." 
 
 " I ought to have chosen the smaller one/' said Sir Philip. 
 
THE BRILLIANT KEEPEE. 
 
 " There is another, just like it, but less in size. I'll take 
 this one back and change it." 
 
 " It must have cost a good deal ? " said Lady Anneslcy. 
 
 " Pretty well. Seventy guineas." 
 
 Mrs. Annesley lifted her hands in dismay. " Oh, Philijj ! 
 Seventy guineas for a ring ! It seems next door to a sin. 
 Your father, my dear, would have looked twice at half the 
 money before giving it." 
 
 He crossed the room and put the keejoer into her hand, 
 bending down to her, and sj)eaking gently. "Feel it, 
 grandmother; it really is a beauty. I know the price is 
 considerable ; but we do not give away Mary every day." 
 
 Mrs. Annesley passed her fingers over the ring, after the 
 manner of the blind, and handed it back to him. " Philij), 
 when do you intend to buy a wedding keeper on your own 
 account ? Ever ? " 
 
 That sweet smile of his rose to his lips, and perhaps the 
 least tinge of colour to his face. 
 
 A doctor has no time to think of such things." 
 
 " No time ? " returned the old lady, taking the remark 
 literally. '-I think he has as much time for it as other 
 people. Where there's a will there's a way. Philip, do 
 you know that you are in your thirty-fifth year ? " 
 
 " And do you know also w^hat your patients say ? " put in 
 Lady Annesley. " They say " 
 
 " I can guess what they say : that will do ! " interrupted 
 Sir Philip, ydih. a laugh. "If they don't like an un- 
 married man, they need not come to me. Let them go 
 elsewhere." 
 
 " Not they," said Lady Annesley, significantly. " Philijo, 
 you really ought to marry. Delay it another ten years, and 
 your children wdll be growing up v^^hen you are an old man. 
 I wish you would : it would set my mind at rest." 
 
 " At rest from v/hat ? " asked Sir Philip, in hasty and 
 somewhat sharp tones. 
 
 " Oh, well ; I am not going to explain," answered Lady 
 Annesley. " At rest in more ways than one." 
 
 " Provided, I presume, that I married to please you," 
 cried Sir Philip, who fully understood the by-play» 
 
224 
 
 THE BRILLIANT KEEPER. 
 
 " Of course not to 23lease me, PHilip — I am no one. To 
 please your sisters, and to please tlie world." 
 
 Terrible if I married only to please myself, would it not 
 be, Lady Annesley ? " lie lauglied. 
 
 I He had never called lier, " mother : " at one time had 
 stadiously called her " Lady Annesley." Four-and-twenty 
 years of age when his father married this, his second wife, 
 Philip, in his inmost heart, had rebelled at the union. They 
 had all done so, at first ; but they learnt to like her in time. 
 The girls were married now, excepting Mary, vfho would be 
 the last to leave the old home. 
 
 ' " It is no joking matter, Philip. What a nice rose that 
 is in your button-hole ! " continued Lady Annesley. " Where 
 did you get it ? " 
 
 i " Out of Mrs. Leigh's conservatory," he replied, taking it 
 from his coat— a magnificent white rose, beautiful as a 
 camelia. " She seduced me into it just now, when I vras at 
 her house." 
 
 " Is her daughter better ? " 
 
 " No, poor girl. And I fear " 
 
 Sir Philip did not say what he feared. He was not one 
 to speak, at home, of his patients. In the silence that 
 ensued a servant appeared. 
 Lady Oliver, sir." 
 
 Sir Philip nodded ; stood a moment or two, as if in 
 thought ; then prepared to descend. 
 
 " Will you put this up for me ? he said, giving the 
 brilliant keeper to Lady Annesley as he passed her. " I 
 will change it when I go out again. There, Maria ; a 
 present for you." 
 
 He flung the white rose into Maria's lap. She did not 
 touch it, only let it lie there, her cheeks again growing hot. 
 Lady Annesley knitted her brow. But it cleared as her 
 eyes fell on the ring. 
 
 " I never did see a greater beauty ! " she enthusiastically 
 exclaimed, as she slipped it several times on and olf her 
 finger. " But what a judge Philip must have been to buy it 
 so large as this ! Who is this coming up ? " 
 
 It was Charles Carr, Maria's brother, popularly known in 
 
THE BRILLIANT KEEPER. 
 
 225 
 
 the house as " Charley." A yonng lieutenant, he ; gay, 
 careless, and handsome. Often in scrapes, always in trouble ; 
 deep in debt, in " bills," in many things that he ought not 
 to be ; altogether, a gentleman who was believed to be 
 going to the bad headlong, especially by Lady Annesley. 
 He was her own nephew, her dead brother's son ; and he 
 came to the house, presuming upon the relationship and 
 upon Maria's residence in it, oftener than Lady Annesley 
 liked. A great fear was at her heart that he had grown too 
 fond of Georgina Livingston, or that Georgina had of him — 
 perhaps both. Her penniless nephew, who had not cross or 
 coin to bless himself with, steal Georgina and her nine 
 hundred a-year! The world ivo^ild talk then— would say 
 that she, Lady Annesley, had planned it! And Lady 
 Annesley was remarkably sensitive to the world's censure. 
 
 Charley glittered in, in full regimentals; one of the 
 handsomest young fellows that had ever bowed before Her 
 Majesty at St. James's. And he had no objection that some 
 one else should see him and think so, 
 
 " Where's Georgina ? " asked he. 
 
 " Georgina's out," snappishly replied Lady Annesley. 
 " What are you dressed up for ? " 
 
 " I have just come from the Levee. Did you forget it ? " 
 he returned, mechajiically taking up the little jewel-box 
 and opening it. Charley's fingers had a trick of touching 
 things, and he often received a rap on the knuckles for it, 
 literally and metaphorically, from my lady. "What a 
 splendid ring ! " he uttered, 
 
 " Sir Philip's present to Mary. But it is to be changed ; 
 it is too large." 
 
 Charley put it on his little finger and turned it round 
 admiringly ; as they had all done. " A charming ring ! " 
 he repeated. " It is really beautiful !" 
 
 " Do you not wish it were yours ? " laughed Maria, from 
 her distant window. 
 
 " I wish I had the cost of it," he said. " That would be 
 of more use to me. What was it ? A hundred guineas ? " 
 
 " Not a bad guess," said Lady Annesley, who really liked 
 Charley, and his good looks, and his good nature, au fond. 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 15 
 
226 
 
 THE BRILLIANT KEEPER. 
 
 when she conld forget the fear and trouble touching Miss 
 Georgina. 
 
 They stood together, singing praises of the ring ; now 
 she had it on — now he. Lady Annesley at length took it 
 from him, and held it over the open box, as if taking a 
 farewell of it before she dropped it in. 
 
 " Oh dear ! " cried Mrs. Annesley. 
 
 Lady Annesley hastily put the lid on, left the box on the 
 table by Charley, and ran to her mother-in-law. The old 
 lady had dropped the sack upon the hearth-rug, and some of 
 the ammunition was falling out. 
 
 " Don't trouble yourself, my dear," she said, as Lady 
 Annesley began putting it in.' " Put it on my lap again ; I 
 won't be so clumsy a second time. It is nearly full, you 
 see." 
 
 Lady Annesley did as requested, and returned to the 
 table. Charley, restless Charley, was then standing by 
 Maria, and the two were whispering together. Lady 
 Annesley took a sheet of fair white paper and wrapped up 
 the little box, without again looking in it, lighted a wax 
 match, and sealed it. 
 
 " Well, I must be off," cried Charles. " Shall you be at 
 home this evening ? " 
 
 " I shall," laughed grandmamma, from her place on the 
 sofa. I don't suppose many of the others wdll be out." 
 She had not penetrated to Lady Annesley's fear ; and 
 Charley was a wonderful favourite of hers. 
 
 "Look, Maria," said Lady Annesley, as tliey heard 
 Charley and his sword clattering down the stairs two at a 
 time : " I will put it here. If Philip should come for it, 
 you can tell him where it is." 
 
 She lifted the lid of her desk and put in the little box ; 
 then approached Mrs. Annesley and took her arm to lead 
 her from the room. 
 
 " We shall have no drive to-day, unless we make haste. 
 Maria will finish that." 
 
 " It's quite finished, all but tacking," said the old lady. 
 " It is as full as it ought to be. Maria, my dear, will you 
 come and do it at once ? " 
 
THE BRILLIANT KEEPER. 
 
 227 
 
 Maria carried her velvet to the sofa, and begau to com- 
 plete the cushion, kneeling down for convenience sake. 
 She had put the velvet cover upon it, and was beginning to 
 put round the gold cord and to sew on the tassels, when Sir 
 Philip entered. He rested his arms on the back of the 
 sofa, and looked down at her and her work — a fair girl she, 
 with a sweet and gentle face. 
 
 "I wonder if folk would send me presents if I set up 
 housekeeping on my own score ? " cried he. 
 
 " You had better try them," said Maria. But she spoke 
 the words without thought, and felt, the moment they had 
 left her lips, that she had rather have bitten out her tongue 
 than have uttered them. 
 
 " But the flitting from the house for all of you, what a 
 trouble it would be ! " returned he, in tones of remonstrance. 
 "I don't know that every one of you would have to go, 
 though," he continued, whilst the too-conscious crimson 
 dyed her face, and she played nervously with the gold cord. 
 
 " Certainly not, if Lady Annesley had her way," he 
 resumed. Maria, astonished at the words, glanced at him 
 in amazement. " Don't you see it all, Maria ? " 
 
 " See what ? " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Nay, I shall not tell you. So much the better if you 
 have not seen it. I thought it had been patent to the house. 
 My vanity may bo in error, after all." 
 What do you mean. Sir Philip ? " 
 
 He was gazing hard at her with his deep blue eyes— vain 
 and saucy enough they were, just then. She felt completely 
 at sea. 
 
 " Give me your opinion, Maria. If I did resolve to set 
 up housekeeping for myself, do you think that any one of 
 you could be induced to remain and help me in it ? " 
 
 Her heart beat violently — her eyes fell. The gold cord 
 in her fingers was wreathing itself into knots. Sir Philip 
 came round and laid his hand upon her shoulder as she 
 knelt, making her turn her face to him. 
 
 " Because I may be asking the question some day. Do 
 you know where Lady Annesley put the ring ? " 
 
 She sprang up, opened the desk, and gave the parcel to 
 
228 
 
 THE BRILLIANT KEEPER. 
 
 him, sealed as Lady Annesley had left it. He slipped it 
 into his waistqoat pocket, went down to his brougham, and 
 drove off. 
 
 In less than twenty minutes he was back again, and 
 came flying up the stairs as fast as Charley Carr had flown 
 down them. 
 
 " A pretty simpleton you made of me, Maria — giving me 
 an empty box ! " 
 
 " An empty box ! " she echoed. 
 
 He took the box out of his pocket, and held it open 
 before her. 
 
 " I told the man I had brought back the ring to exchange 
 for the smaller one, opened the box very gingerly, to hand 
 it to him, and behold there was nothing in it." 
 
 " Did you open the box in the brougham ? " she asked. 
 
 " I never touched it after you saw me put it in my pocket 
 until I was in the shop. I unsealed the paper before the 
 shopman's eyes." 
 
 " Then where can it be ? " exclaimed Maria. " Lady 
 Annesley certainly sealed it up, and put it herself in the 
 desk, ready for you. No one went near the desk afterwards 
 — no one came into the room, or was in the room, but 
 myself." 
 
 " Lady Annesley must have sealed up an empty box, 
 that's clear," said Sir Philip. "I have brought the other 
 ring." 
 
 But Lady Annesley, when she entered, protested that she 
 had not sealed up an empty box — the ring was in it. And 
 she related the details to Sir Philip, as they have been 
 given above. The box, she said, was not out of her hand a 
 minute altogether. 
 
 "Are you sure you put it in? — that you did not let it 
 slip aside ? " questioned Sir Philip. 
 
 " Sure ! " repeated Lady Annesley, half inclined to resent 
 the implied carelessness ; " I am quite sure. And, had the 
 ring slipped aside, it would only have gone on to the table. 
 I put it in safely, and shut it in." % 
 
 " Who was in the room, besides yourselves ? " asked Sir 
 Philip. 
 
THE BRILLIANT KEEPER. 
 
 229 
 
 " Only Cliarley Carr. He was standing by me, wishing 
 that the ring were his." 
 
 " No," cried out Mrs. Annesley, innocently ; " wishing its 
 value were his. The more sensible wish of the two." 
 
 A wild, sickening sensation darted to Maria Carr's brain. 
 It was not yet a suspicion; it was a fear lest suspicion 
 should come : nay, a foreboding that it was coming. 
 
 The suspicion did come : came immediately, to all of 
 them. In vain Sir Philip suggested that Charles must have 
 done it in a joke, to give Lady Annesley a fright, for he 
 was as full of tricks as a monkey — he would bring it back 
 with him in the evening. That he had taken the ring from 
 the box there was no doubt whatever ; and Lady Annesley, 
 in her anger, refused to be pacified. 
 
 She attacked Charles the moment he made his appearance. 
 "Where's that keeper?" she sternly demanded, wdthout 
 circumlocution. 
 
 " What keeper ? " returned Charles. 
 
 " The brilliant keeper, that you made off with to-day." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, aunt." 
 
 Lady Annesley flew into a rage. " I left the box close to 
 your hands when I turned to pick up the cushion for Mrs. 
 Annesley. How dared you take the ring out ? " 
 
 " Let's see whether I have it about me," retorted Charley, 
 in a careless, indifferent, provoking manner, as he made a 
 show of feeling in all his pockets. " Oh — I must have left 
 it in my regimentals." 
 
 Lady Annesley nearly boiled over. Words led to words ; 
 Charles grew angry in his turn ; and at length she hinted 
 that he must have stolen the ring. He declared he had not 
 touched the box, or the ring ; that he had turned from the 
 table when Lady Annesley did so, and remained talking to 
 Maria whilst the cushion was being picked up ; and he 
 swore to this with sundry unorthodox w^ords, forgetting that 
 he was not in quarters, but in a lady's drawing-room. 
 
 " If no one takes his part, I will ! " hotly cried Georgina 
 Livingston, after Charles had dashed away from the house, 
 promising that he would never enter it again; and her 
 countenance was distressed, and her cheeks weve scarlet, as 
 
230 
 
 THE BRILLIANT KEEPER. 
 
 she said it. " Steal a ring ! You may just as well accuse 
 me, Lady Annesley, as accuse liim ; I should be the more 
 likely of the two to do it." 
 
 Do, pray, recollect yourself, Georgiua ! " remonstrated 
 my lady. " Is this avowal seemly in a young girl ? " 
 
 " I don't care whether it's seemly or unseemly," re- 
 S23onded Miss Georgina, dashing away some tears. You 
 ought to be ashamed of yourselves, all of you! Because 
 Charley happens not to be made of money, you turn against 
 him, and think he'd take it. I'll let him know that I don't 
 think so." 
 
 Hot words, hotly spoken. A few days, and even Georgina 
 was obliged to judge him less leniently. Sir Philip chose 
 quietly to investigate the suspicion ; and he ascertained 
 that Charles had, the very evening after the loss of the 
 ring, and the following day, paid sundry small debts, for 
 which he had been long dunned. Twenty pounds, at least, 
 of these payments were traced, and then Sir Philip dropped 
 the search. "Why pursue it ? It was all too clear, for 
 Charles had no resources of his own to draw upon. 
 
 But here Maria stepped in to his defence. She protested 
 with earnestness, with tears, that she had furnished him 
 herself with twenty pounds ; that she had given it to him 
 in that moment when they were whispering together. She 
 knew Charles's wants, she said, and had been saving this 
 money up for him. Lady Annesley flatly contradicted 
 Maria. It did not stand to reason, she contended, that 
 Maria, with her limited means, could save up twenty pounds, 
 or even ten. The thing was almost against possibility ; 
 and Maria fell under nearly as great a ban as her brother 
 for attempting to screen him by falsehood. There were 
 moments when, in her own sick heart, Maria did believe 
 him to be guilty. Such things had been heard of in the 
 world — done in the recklessness of necessity. 
 
 A twelvemonth passed away — and a twelvemonth brings 
 changes with it. Georgina Livingston was of age now, 
 and at liberty to choose her own residence. She was alone 
 in the drawing-room one April evening. Mrs. Annesley 
 
THE BRILLIANT KEEPER. 
 
 231 
 
 was much confined to lier chamber, and Lady Annesley had 
 gone up to her. Sir Philip came in. 
 
 " Alone, Georgina ! Why, what is the matter ? — crying ? " 
 
 " Oh, Lady Annesley set me on ! " was the young lady's 
 pettish rejoinder, as she brushed the tears away. " She was 
 angry with me for ' moping,' as she called it ; and I told 
 her I would not stay here to be grumbled at." 
 
 " Why do you mope ? " he asked. 
 
 " Because I choose," was the wilful retort. " I can leave 
 now, if I like, you know, Philip." 
 
 " If you like — yes," assented Sir Philip. " Where should 
 you go?" 
 
 " I don't know, and I don't much care," dreamily re- 
 sponded Georgina. 
 
 " Would you like to remain in the house for good ? " 
 resumed Sir Philip, after a pause. "I was thinking of 
 asking you to do so." 
 
 A faint blush rose to her face, but she showed no other 
 emotion: and his tone, considering the momentous words, 
 was wonderfully calm. Perhaps both had been conscious 
 for some little time that these words would be spoken. Sir 
 Philip bent his head towards her. 
 
 " The world has reproached me with not marrying. Help 
 me, Georgina, to put the reproach away ! There is no one 
 I would ask to be my wife but you." 
 
 " Listen, Philip ! " she exclaimed, pushing back her hair, 
 and turning her face, full of its own eager excitement, 
 towards him — excitement not caused by him. " I will speak 
 out the truth to you ; I could not to every one : but you are 
 good, and true, and noble. Were I to say to you ' Yes,' and 
 let you take me, believing that I loved you, I should simply be 
 acting a lie. I loved some one else ; I am trying to forget 
 him with my whole heart and might — but I did love hime" 
 
 "Who was this?" 
 
 " Charles Carr." 
 
 Sir Philip's blue eyes flashed with a peculiar light, and 
 he looked into the fire — not at Georgina. 
 
 " That love ought to end," he said. " It can bring you 
 no good." 
 
232 
 
 THE BRILLIANT KEEPER. 
 
 " Don't I tell you that it lias ended — tliat I am putting it 
 from me as fast as I can. But tlie remembrance cannot go 
 all at once. I did love liim ; and I believe it was your 
 generosity in bushing up his dreadful disgrace instead of 
 proclaiming it and prosecuting him that first made me like 
 you more than usual." 
 
 " You acknowledge, then, that you do like me ? " smiled 
 Sir Philip. 
 
 " Very — very much." 
 
 " Well enough to take me for better or for worse ? " 
 
 " Yes ; if, after this confession, you would still wish it." 
 
 " I do," he answered, drawing her to him, and taking his 
 first kiss from her lips. Georgina flew to her room, and 
 there burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 Lady Annesley was strangely elated at the news. She 
 had hoped for it in her inmost heart — long and long. 
 
 " You have done well, Philip," she said to her step-son. 
 
 " I shall escape the worrying about not getting married, 
 at any rate," responded Sir Philip. 
 
 " Philip " — lowering her voice confidentially — " do you 
 know, I frightened myself to death, at one time, lest you 
 should marry Maria. I fancied you were growing attached 
 to her ; and peoj)le would have said I had worked for it." 
 
 The red colour flashed into Sir Philip's face " I should 
 have married her, but for that afiair of the diamond keeper." 
 
 Lady Annesley looked blank. "Did you like her so 
 much as that ? " 
 
 "Like her!" he echoed, in emotion, "I loved her. I am 
 not sure but I love her still. Why, Lady Annesley, I all hut 
 asked her to be my wife the very afternoon that wretched 
 boy did the mischief." 
 
 " Pm sure I am very glad he did do it, if it prevented 
 that," retorted my lady. 
 
 " I might have got over that ; his fault ; but I could not 
 get over Maria's. To uphold him in his deceit — to invent a 
 falsehood to screen him — how could I make her my wife 
 after that ? " 
 
 " What is there about Maria to like ? " fretfully inter- 
 rupted Lady Annesley, 
 
THE BRILLIANT KEEPER. 
 
 " She's more likeable than any one in this world, to my 
 
 thinking " 
 
 " Hush, Philip ! " 
 
 The news of the engagement went forth to the house. 
 Maria had still remained in it, making herself useful, as she 
 had done before, especially to Mrs. Annesley, for she had no 
 other home. Better she had quitted it : to see Sir Philip 
 daily was not the way to cure her love for him. 
 
 " I hope you will be happy, Sir Philip ; I wish you every 
 happiness," she stammered, believing it was incumbent on 
 her to say something to him to that effect. But Sir Philip 
 observed that her face turned white with emotion as she 
 spoke. 
 
 " Thank you ; I hope we shall be," he coldly replied ; 
 and, since that unhappy episode, he had never spoken to 
 her but coldly. " Georgina Livingston possesses one great 
 essential towards making herself and others happy — truth." 
 
 The preparations for the wedding went briskly on. Lady 
 Annesley would first move into another residence. No 
 change had been made since Sir Robert's death, but Sir 
 Philip must have his house to himself now. One evening, 
 Sir Philip was spending an hour with Dr. Scott. A navy 
 surgeon was also there — Mr. Blake, once their chum at 
 Bartholomew's: and Georgina was sitting upstairs with 
 Mary Scott and her baby. 
 
 " Is smoking allowed here ? " asked the surgeon — glancing 
 at the elegant sofa on which he sat, where was displayed 
 that beautiful cushion painted by Maria Carr. " I'm good 
 for nothing without my pipe." 
 
 Receiving assent, he lighted it, and then crossed the room 
 to Sir Philip and the doctor, who stood at the window. 
 There was some disturbance in the street, and they all three 
 remained there chatting and looking out. 
 
 Suddenly a burst of light shot up in the twilight of the 
 room, and they wheeled round in consternation. A blaze 
 was ascending from the velvet cushion. They caught up 
 the hearth-rug and succeeded in putting out the fire. 
 Georgina Livingston, hearing the commotion, came in with 
 a white face. 
 
234 
 
 THE BRILLIANT KEEPER. 
 
 In ligliting his pipe, Mr. Blake must have suffered a 
 spark to fall upon the cushion. There it had smouldered, 
 penetrating at length to the stuffing, which then blazed up. 
 You may remember that it consisted of paper. 
 
 " Oh, that lovely cushion ! " lamented Georgina. 
 
 " What's this ? " uttered Dr. Scott, picking up something 
 bright and glistening from the ashes. " If I don't believe 
 it's a ring ! " 
 
 A ring it was. The lost, the beautiful, the brilliant 
 keeper ! The eyes of Sir Philip and Georgina met. 
 
 Maria was, that same evening, sitting alone ; she and her 
 breaking heart. It had felt breaking ever since that cloud 
 fell upon it. She heard Sir Philip come home — and she 
 began gathering her work together. 
 
 " Don't run away, Maria ; I have something to tell you ! " 
 
 She looked at him in wonderment. His voice wore the 
 same loving tone as in days gone by ; a tone long past, for 
 her. 
 
 " Lend me your hand, Maria 1 " And, without waiting 
 for assent, he took it in his, the left hand, and slipped upon 
 the third finger, as he had done once before, the diamond 
 keeper. " Do you recognize it ? " 
 
 "It is Mrs. Scott's," replied Maria. "Why have you 
 brought it here, Sir Philip ? " 
 
 " It is not Mrs. Scott's : it is larger than hers. Do not 
 remove it, Maria. It shall be your own keeper, if you will 
 let me add the v/edding-ring." 
 
 Confused, bewildered, wondering what it meant, wonder- 
 ing at the strangely loving expression that gleamed on her 
 from his dark blue eyes, she burst into tears. Was he 
 saying this to mock her ? 
 
 No : not to mock her. No ! Sir Philip wound his arms 
 round her as he told the tale; he drew her face to his 
 breast, his eyelashes glistening in the intensity of his 
 emotion. " I can never let you go again, my darling ! I 
 do not ask your forgiveness ; I know that you will give it 
 me unasked, for you and I have been alike miserable." 
 
 " Charley innocent ! — been innocent all this time ? " she 
 gasped. 
 
THE BRILLIANT KEEPER. 
 
 235 
 
 " He has, in good truth ! We must try and make it up to 
 him. I " 
 
 Oh, Philip 1 " she interrupted, with streaming eyes ; 
 " you will believe me now ! I did give him the twenty 
 pounds — I did indeed ! I had saved in so many trifles : I 
 had made old gowns look like new ones ; all for him. You 
 should not have doubted me, if the rest did." 
 
 "My whole life shall atone to you, Maria," he softly 
 whispered. " Georgina " 
 
 She broke from him, her cheeks flushing crimson. In the 
 moment's bev/ilderment she had totally forgotten his en- 
 gagement to Georgina. He laughed merrily, his eyes 
 dancing, and drew her to him again. 
 
 " Never fear that I am about to turn Mormon, and marry 
 you both ! Georgina has given me up, Maria. In the 
 excitement caused by the discovery, she spoke her mind 
 out to me ; declared that she did not like me, with all her 
 " trying," half as well as she did Charley Carr ; and that 
 none but Charley should be her husband. Scott has gone 
 to tell Charley the news, and bring him up. If " 
 
 " What on earth is this ? " ejaculated Lady Annesley, as 
 she came in and stood as one petrified. 
 
 " It's this," replied Sir Philip, holding out Maria's hand, 
 on which shone the brilliant keeper. " This mischief- 
 making ring has turned up again. When you held it that 
 day over the open box, and Mrs. Annesley called out, there 
 can be no doubt that you, in the hurry, unconsciously slipped 
 it on to your finger, instead of into the box, and lost it off 
 your finger again immediately amongst the paper stufiing. 
 The cushion has just given up its prey." 
 
 Lady Annesley sank upon the first seat with a very crest- 
 fallen expression. " I never heard of such a thing ! " she 
 stammered. " My finger ! What will be the conseq^uence ? 
 Poor Charley ! " 
 
 " The consequence, I expect, will be that you will have 
 two weddings instead of one," laughed Sir Philip. Georgina 
 has proclaimed lier intentions, and I don't suppose Charley 
 will bear malice. I think I ought to have given the ring to 
 him as a memento, instead of to Maria." 
 
236 
 
 THE BRILLIANT KEEPER. 
 
 " To Maria ! " irascibly returned Lady Annesley, not 
 precisely understanding him, but feeling uncomfortable. 
 " What need is there to give it to her, Sir Philip ? " 
 
 " Great need," he replied, his tone becoming serious. 
 " But it is even with a condition — that I add one of plain 
 gold to it. Ah ! Lady Annesley, we cannot be false to our- 
 selves, try as v/e will. Maria has remained my best and 
 dearest love up to this hour, cajole and deceive my heart as 
 I would. And now, I trust, she will remain so, as long as 
 time shall last ! " 
 
TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 I. 
 
 A DAZZLING gleam of white favours flaslied into the admiring 
 eyes of numerous spectators, as a string of carriages and 
 horses turned prancing away from the church of a noted 
 suburb of the metropolis. The gay and handsome Augusta 
 Marsh had just become Mrs. Courtenay, and the bridal 
 party were now returning home to the wedding breakfast. 
 
 Dr. Marsh, a physician, was popular in his small locality, 
 and his five daughters were attractive girls, firmly expecting 
 to make good marriages, although it w^as understood that 
 they would have no fortune, for the doctor lived up to his 
 income, if not beyond it. The first to carry out the 
 expectation was Augusta, w^ho married Captain Courtenay. 
 
 The Captain v/as only a captain by courtesy. He had 
 sold out of the army and lived upon his property, seven 
 hundred a-year. Quite sufiicient to marry upon, thought 
 Augusta ; but the captain, what with his club, his tailor, 
 his opera, and his other bachelor expenses, had found it 
 little enough for himself. He met Augusta Marsh, fell in 
 love with her, and determined to renounce folly and settle 
 down into a married man. Dr. Marsh had no objection, 
 Augusta had less ; so a home was set up at Kensington, and 
 this was the wedding-day. 
 
 It need not be described : they are all alike : if the 
 reader has passed his, he knows what it is ; if not, he can 
 live in expectation. Captain and Mrs. Courtenay departed 
 
240 
 
 TWO MAERIAGES. 
 
 at two o'clock on their wedding tour, tlie guests followed, 
 and the family were left alone, to themselves and to Aunt 
 Clem. Aunt Clem, a sister of Dr. Marsh's, rejoiced in the 
 baptismal name of Clementina, which had been long since 
 shortened by her nieces into Clem. She was a woman of 
 some judgment, shrowd and penetrating, especially with 
 regard to her nieces' faults ; and whenever Aunt Clem 
 w^rote wwd from the country that she was coming on a visit, 
 they called it a black-letter day. 
 
 " I am so upset ! " uttered Mrs. Marsh, sitting down with 
 a half-groan. 
 
 " That's through eating custard in a morning," said Aunt 
 Clem. 
 
 " Eating nonsense," returned Mrs. Marsh. " Did you see 
 that young man who sat next to — which of the girls was it ? 
 — to you, Annis, I think : did you notice him, Clementina ? " 
 
 " Yes. A nice-looking man." 
 
 " Nice-looking ! Why, he has not a handsome feature in 
 his face ! " 
 
 "A nice countenance, for all that," persisted Aunt Clem. 
 "One you may confide in at the first glance. What of 
 him?" 
 
 " I am horribly afraid he is going to propose for one of 
 the girls. He dropped a few w^ords to me ; and now, instead 
 of leaving the house, he is downstairs, closeted with the 
 doctor. Which of you girls is it that has been persuading 
 him to do this ? " cried Mrs. Marsh, abruptly turning to her 
 daughters. " Annis, why are you looking so red ? " 
 
 Annis Marsh did look red, and very conscious. An 
 attachment, hidden hitherto from all but themselves, existed 
 between her and Geoffry Lance, and they had come to the 
 resolution to make it known. Mrs. Marsh's surmise that 
 he was now speaking to the doctor was correct ; and the 
 doctor came up with the news. 
 
 " What answer did you give him ? " asked Mrs. Marsh. 
 
 " Told him that if he and Annis had made up their minds 
 to try it, I should not say nay," replied the doctor. " And 
 asked him to come in and spend the evening with us." 
 
 Mrs. Marsh looked daggers ; three of the young ladies 
 
TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 241 
 
 looked the same. " Let tliem marry. Dr. Marsh ! let them 
 marry upon nothing ! " 
 
 " Oh, come, it's not so bad as that," said the doctor. " He 
 has three hundred a-year. What did you and I begin life 
 upon, my dear? Annis, ask your mamma if it was not 
 considerably less than that." 
 
 "Nonsense!" crossly responded Mrs. Marsh, as the 
 doctor went out, laughing. " The cases are not at all alike, 
 Annis ; you must see that they are not. Your papa's was a 
 rising profession ; and Lance will stick at his three hundred 
 a-year all his life." 
 
 " What is this Mr. Lance ? " inquired Aunt Clem. " A 
 gentleman ? " 
 
 " Oh, of course a gentleman. He was destined for the 
 Bar, but his father died, and there was a difficulty about 
 money. I believe he did eat his dinners, and was called, 
 but he had nothing left to live upon whilst practice came 
 in, and was glad to accept the secretaryship of a public 
 institution. He gets three hundred a-year, and will never 
 get more, for it is a fixed salary, not a rising one. Don't 
 be led into absurdity, Annis." 
 
 " Mamma," said Annis, going up to her and speaking in 
 low tones, full of emotion, " I will never marry against your 
 approbation, neither would Geoffry take me on such terms. 
 But I hope you will not hold out against us. I have heard 
 you say how much you liKed him." 
 
 "So I do, Annis," answered Mrs. Marsh, somewhat 
 appeased by the words and tone ; " but you never heard me 
 say that I liked his income, or thought him a desirable 
 match for one of my daughters. Three hundred a-year ! 
 It's quite ridiculous, child." 
 
 "We have considered it in all points, dearest mamma, 
 and talked it over a great deal," resumed Annis, timidly, 
 " and we feel sure that we shall do very well upon it, and 
 live comfortably. You know I have had some experience 
 in keeping house on small means at Aunt Euttley's." 
 
 " For goodness' sake, Annis, don't bring up Aunt Euttley," 
 interrupted Sophy Marsh. "The poor curate's stipend is 
 only a hundred a-year, with the parsonage to live in and a 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 16 
 
242 
 
 TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 flock of cliildren to fill it. You are general factotum when 
 you are staying tlicre, I expect. Tlicy must live upon 
 breacl-and-clieese half their time, and pinch and contrive 
 from year's end to year's end." 
 
 "But do you not see that my insight into how they 
 manage their contriving will be of great service to me ? " 
 returned Annis, in patient tones. " Mamma, I know I could 
 manage well on three hundred a-year, and have everything 
 comfortable about me. You should detect no narrowness in 
 my house, come as often as you would." 
 
 " If Lance had a prospect of an increase — of rising to 
 five or six hundred in the course of a few years— I would 
 let you promise to marry him then with all my heart, 
 Annis." 
 
 "But the very fact of his not having it, of his income 
 being a fixed one, has induced us to wdsh to risk it, mamma. 
 If we wait, it will bono better; and— oh, mamma! pray 
 don't say that we must separate ! " 
 
 " Annis, child," interrupted Aunt Clem, " if you spend 
 three hundred the first year, you'll want four the second, 
 and five the third." 
 
 " But we do not intend to spend three the first year," 
 said Annis, quickly. " Our old nurse had a favourite 
 saying, which she always impressed upon us when we saw 
 the sugar cup full and asked for more sugar. I repeated 
 it one day to Geoffry, and made him laugh. ' Spare at 
 the sack's mouth.' It is what v»^e mean to do with our 
 income." 
 
 "No unmarried girl can form an idea how expenses 
 increase after the first few months," continued Aunt Clem. 
 
 " I suppose they do," assented Annis. *• The wear and 
 tear of furniture, which must be replaced, and breakages, 
 and buying new clothes, when the old ones are worn out. 
 All that comes." 
 
 "Ah," said Aunt Clem, "there's something worse comes. 
 Babies." 
 
 " Oh — babies," said Annis, in a dubious tone ; " I have 
 heard they bring love with them." 
 
 " It is to be hoped they do, poor things,^' sharply rejoined 
 
TWO MAREIAGES. 
 
 243 
 
 Aunt Clem, " or I don't know what would become of tliem. 
 But they don't bring money." 
 
 " Well," said Annis, with a glowing cheek, " we have 
 determined to try it, with all its hazards, if only papa and 
 mamma will approve." 
 
 " And suppose your papa and mamma do not approve ? " 
 
 " Then we must wait patiently for better days," sighed 
 Annis. 
 
 " And live upon hope," said Aunt Clem, " which is about 
 as satisfactory as living upon air. Well, Annis, I side with 
 you. You shall have my helping word for it." 
 
 " You are not serious, Clementina ! " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Marsh. 
 
 " Indeed I am. I should not counsel every girl to marry 
 upon three hundred a-year, but Annis and Mr. Lance seem 
 to have well considered what they are about, and are pre- 
 pared to make the best of its difficulties." 
 
 II. 
 
 In a neighbourhood where house-rent was cheaper than at 
 Kensington, but within a walk of it, did Mr. and Mrs. Lance 
 settle down. For the full consent of Mrs. Marsh was won 
 over, the wedding took place, and they were fairly launched 
 in life, for better or for worse, upon their three hundred 
 a-year. Their rent was moderate, and for its size the house 
 was really a handsome-looking house, which a gentleman 
 need not be ashamed to acknowledge as his residence. Annis 
 seemed fully determined to carry out her scheme of economy : 
 though, in doing this, she gave great umbrage, in one or two 
 points, to some of her family. Upon the return of Mrs. 
 Marsh and her daughters from their two-months' annual 
 sojourn at the sea-side, the young ladies hastened to call 
 upon Annis, who had then been married about five months. 
 It should be observed that Annis, being of a quiet, patient, 
 useful disposition, had always been considerably dictated to 
 and snubbed by her sisters ; and now that she was married 
 they forgot to discontinue the habit. 
 
244 
 
 TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 " Sucli bad management, Annis ! " began Sopliy at once. 
 
 Three o'clock in the clay, and your cook answered the door 
 to us. Where was Eebecca ? " 
 
 " Rebecca is gone," replied Mrs. Lance. " I have only 
 Mary." 
 
 " Only Mary ! " uttered Miss Sophy, aghast. " Emily, 
 did you hear that ? What can you mean, Annis ? " 
 
 " Well, it happened in this way," said Annis. " Eebecca 
 did not suit : she w^as careless, insolent to Mary, and caused 
 much trouble. So I gave her warning. It then occurred to 
 me that as my w^edding visits had been all paid to me, and 
 we were not likely to see much ceremonious company, I 
 might as well, for a time, keep only Mary. So I spoke to 
 Geoffry, and he told me to try it if I liked, and Mary said 
 she would rather be alone than have the annoyance of a 
 servant like Eebecca. You cannot think how well it 
 answers. Mary is a most excellent servant, knows her work, 
 and does it thoroughly ; and she is always neat. You know 
 her to be the cook, but you could not have told so from her 
 appearance. She is not fine, it is true, but more respectable- 
 looking than many of the house and parlour-maids." 
 
 " But such a degrading thing to keep only one servant ! " 
 remonstrated Miss Marsh. " Like the common people ! " 
 
 " Ours is only a common income," laughed Annis. " I 
 told papa what I had done one day that he drove here to 
 see me, and he praised me for it." 
 
 " Oh, papa has such old-fashioned notions ; something 
 like your own, Annis. Wait till you hear what mamma 
 says to it. One servant ! it must tell against you with all 
 your friends." 
 
 " No," replied Mrs. Lance, w^armly ; " or if it could, they 
 would be friends not worth retaining. If they came here 
 and found my house full of confusion, of discomfort, my 
 servant untidy, myself unpresentable, they might have 
 reason; but, excepting that they do not see two servants, 
 everything is as orderly and nice as when Eebecca was here. 
 I and my husband are not the less gentlepeople, and I am 
 sure that they rather respect us the more for sacrificing 
 custom to right. If we happen to have any one to dine with 
 
TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 245 
 
 us, or two or three friends for the evening, Mary sends 
 round for her sister, who waits well." 
 
 " But how on earth do you manage with one servant ? 
 Augusta, with her three, complains bitterly that the work is 
 not half done." 
 
 " There is an impression with many experienced people 
 that the greater your number of servants, the less is your 
 work done," smiled Mrs. Lance. "There is really not so 
 much to do in this house, and plenty of time to do it in. 
 We breakfast at eight, which gives Geoffry " 
 
 " Eight ! Do you contrive to get up ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Annis, "and like it much better than our 
 lazy hours at home. By nine, or soon after, Geoffry leaves, 
 which gives him time to walk in comfortably to the office 
 by a quarter to ten." 
 
 " You don't mean to say he walks ? " 
 
 " Yes, and walks home, except in very bad weather. Ho 
 says were it not for this walk, night and morning, he should 
 not have sufficient exercise to keep him in health ; and of 
 course it is so much omnibus money saved. He laughs at 
 those gentlemen who ride into town, and sit stewing in 
 their chambers, or in an office or counting-house all day, 
 especially those who have need to be frugal, as we have, and 
 then ride home again : no exercise, no economy, and in time 
 it will be no health. Well — Geoffry goes at nine. Then 
 Mary takes away the breakfast-things, washes them up, puts 
 her kitchen straight, and goes to her upstairs work, w^hich 
 in our house is not much. By eleven o'clock she has 
 frequently changed her gown and cap, and has no more to 
 do until time to prepare for dinner at five. One day she 
 asked me if I could not give her some socks of her master's 
 to darn, as she did not like sitting with her hands before 
 her." 
 
 " Your house is quite a prodigy," cried Sophy, in tones 
 bordering on sarcasm. " It seems there is never any cleaning 
 going on." 
 
 " I did not say so," retorted Annis. " In a small house — 
 small compared with ours at home — with only three people 
 in it, and the paint, and carpets, and furniture all new. 
 
246 
 
 TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 there is not a groat deal of cleaning required, but what 
 there is, is punctually done. Mary has her days for it, and 
 on those days I help her." 
 
 " With the scrubbing ? " asked Miss Marsh, with an 
 impervious face. 
 
 " No," laughed Annis. " Whilst she does that, I go into 
 the kitchen, wash up the breakfast things, and, should it be 
 required, help to prepare dinner." 
 
 " Prepare for a five o'clock dinner at nine in the morn- 
 ing ? " 
 
 Yes, all that can be done to it. I make the pudding or 
 the tart, should we be going to have one that day ; or, if 
 there is any meat to be hashed, I cut it up : those sort of 
 things. Then I dust the drawing-room — and indeed I 
 generally do that, for its ornaments take so long, and on 
 these busy days I dust my own bedroom ; and, in short, do 
 many little odds and ends of work, so that Mary gets through 
 her cleaning and is dressed almost as soon as on other days." 
 
 " It is a fortunate thing Mr. Lance's choice fell upon you, 
 Annis. We should not like to be degraded to the business 
 of a servant-of-all-work." 
 
 " There is no degradation in it," cried Annis, with spirit. 
 " What degradation can there be ? Were I a nobleman's 
 daughter or a millionaire's, my condescending to know 
 practically anything about it would be out of place ; but in 
 our position — yes, Emily, I speak of ours — mine and yours 
 — it is anything but derogatory to help in these domestic 
 trifles. If it takes me an hour a day — and it does not take 
 me more on an average ; I don't know what it may do in 
 time — what then ? It is an hour well spent ; an hour that 
 I might fritter away, if I did not have it to do. It does not 
 make my hands less fit for my drawing afterwards or my 
 embroidery, and it does not soil my morning dress, for I 
 have made a large brown holland apron to go nearly round 
 me, and I turn up my sleeves ; in short, it does not render 
 me one whit less the lady, when I sit in my drawing-room 
 and receive any friend who may call upon me. Do I look 
 less like one to you ? " 
 
 " Psha, Annis ! You picked up these notions of kitchen 
 
TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 247 
 
 management at poor Aimt Kuttley's, but you ought not to 
 be forming your ideas upon them." 
 
 " And very glad I am that I did pick them up. But if I 
 had not, if I had had as little experience in domestic useful- 
 ness as you, I believe they would have come to me with the 
 necessity." 
 
 " Oh, no doubt," said Sophy, scornfully ; " you were 
 inclined by nature to these low-lived notions, Annis." 
 
 " There are notions abroad," gravely responded Mrs. 
 Lance, " that for people in our pretentious class of society 
 (I cannot helj) calling it so, for we ape the ideas and 
 manners only suited to those far above us), all participation 
 in, all acquaintance even with, domestic duties is a thing to 
 be ashamed of, never to be owned to, but contemptuously 
 denied. They are wrong notions, wicked notions; false 
 and hollow : for they lead to embarrassment, to unpaid 
 debts, to the wronging of our neighbours ; and the sooner 
 the fashion goes out, the more sensible society will prove 
 itself. I don't know which is the worst : a woman who 
 entirely neglects to look after her household, where her 
 station and circumstances demand it, or one who makes 
 herself a domestic drudge. Both extremes are bad, and both 
 should be avoided." 
 
 " Do you mean that as a cut at Augusta ? " asked Miss 
 Marsh — " the neglecting her household ? " 
 
 "No, Emily, I was speaking generally," replied Mrs. 
 Lance ; " though I wish Augusta did look a little more to 
 hers. It would have been well for us, I think, had mamma 
 brought us up in a more domestic manner. There is 
 another fallacy of the present day: bringing up young 
 ladies to play and dance, but utterly incapable as to the 
 ruling of a household." 
 
 " Speak for yourself, if you please, Annis. We would 
 rather be excused kitchen rule." 
 
 " Why, look at Augusta," returned Mrs. Lance ; " would 
 it be well for her, or not, to check and direct her household ? 
 Their expenditure must be very large : too large, I fear, for 
 the Captain's income." 
 
 " At any rate, you seem determined not to err on the 
 
248 
 
 TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 same side. Take care you do not degenerate into the 
 domestic drudge, Annis." 
 
 " I shall never do that — at least, if I know myself," 
 quickly replied Mrs. Lance. " I have too much regard for 
 my husband, am too solicitous to retain his respect and 
 affection : a domestic drudge cannot remain a refined, well- 
 informed woman, an enlightened companion. We keep up 
 our literary tastes, our reading ; and our evenings are 
 delightful. No, I shall escape that, I hope, Emily ; though 
 I am learning to iron." 
 
 "I wonder you don't learn to wash," indignantly re- 
 torted Miss Marsh. 
 
 " I did wash a pair of lace sleeves the other morning," 
 laughed Mrs. Lance, " but they turned out so yellow that 
 Mary had to submit them to some whitening process of her 
 own, and I do not think I shall try again. She washes all 
 my lace things and Geoffry's collars, and she is teaching me 
 to iron them. Ironing was an accomplishment I did not 
 see much of at the parsonage, for I believe everything in 
 the whole weekly wash was mangled, except my uncle's 
 shirts and bands. His surplice always was ; aunt used to 
 say he would know no better. I am trying to be very use- 
 ful, I assure you. I go to market." 
 "Go where?" 
 
 " To market. To the butcher's and the greengrocer's, 
 and to the other tradespeople. Not every day, but on a 
 Saturday always, and perhaps once in the week besides." 
 
 " To save the legs of the boys who come round for 
 orders ? " asked Miss Jemima Marsh, who was a very silent 
 girl, and rarely spoke. 
 
 "No. To save Geoffry's pocket," replied Mrs. Lance. 
 " For the first two or three months we ordered everything 
 that way, but I found it would not do. With meat especially. 
 We had unprofitable joints, without knowing the weight or 
 the price, for in delivering the orders to the boy, the 
 butcher of course sends what he likes, and charges what he 
 likes. Now that I go myself to the butcher's, I choose my 
 meat, and see it weighed, and know the price of everything 
 before I buy it. It is a very great economy." 
 
TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 249 
 
 "I don't think Annis is wrong there," decided Sophy; 
 " for many very good families go to market themselves." 
 
 " And I wish more did," added Mrs. Lance. " I wish you 
 could persuade Augusta into doing so. I spoke to her 
 about it, and she asked me whether I was out of my mind." 
 
 " There is less occasion for Mrs. Courtenay to trouble 
 herself," said Miss Marsh, loftily ; " she did not marry upon 
 three hundred a-year." 
 
 " Well, I am very hapjiy," said Annis brightly, " although 
 we have only three hundred a-year." 
 
 " And one servant," interposed Miss Marsh. 
 
 " And one servant," laughed Annis. " But I assure you 
 we manage better without Eebecca than with her, and as we 
 shall be obliged in a few months' time to take a second 
 servant, I thought we ought to do with one until then." 
 
 III. 
 
 The time w^ent on till Mrs. Courtenay had three children 
 and Mrs. Lance had two, the former to her unspeakable 
 dismay. 
 
 For she could not afford it. No ; Captain and Mrs. 
 Courtenay had afforded themselves too many luxuries to 
 leave room for that of babies. They had committed a 
 terrible mistake in marrying upon their seven hundred 
 a-year, and that not an increasing income. It was not only 
 that they had set up their household and begun housekeep- 
 ing upon a scale that would absorb every shilling of it, but 
 the ex-captain, accustomed to his clubs and their expensive 
 habits, was not a man who could practise economy out of 
 doors, any more than his wife understood it within. The 
 captain could not put on a soiled pair of gloves ; he could 
 not give up his social habits ; he never dreamt of such 
 a thing as not going to the opera several times in the season, 
 and to the theatre ad lihiium, his wife being often with him^ 
 it never occurred to him to give up his daily bottle of ex- 
 pensive wine, and he rarely scrupled to take a cab, when 
 an omnibus, or his own legs, would have served as well. 
 
250 
 
 TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 Tliey began housekeeping upon three servants — two maids, 
 and a tiger, who ate as much as the whole house pat to- 
 gether. The house was larger than that of Mrs. Lance, and 
 they kept more company, but two efficient servants, with 
 proper management, might have done the work well ; only 
 it was necessary, for appearance' sake, so both Captain and 
 Mrs. Courtenay deemed, to take (not being able to afford 
 a footman) a third maid or a tiger : and they took the last- 
 named article. Next came the babies, and with the advent 
 of the first, the tiger was discharged and a third maid taken 
 in his place : and now that there were three children there 
 ^vere four maids. 
 
 Captain and Mrs. Courtenay also liked to go out of town 
 in autumn, and they were fond of gaiety, ^yent to parties 
 and gave them. Their housekeeping w^as on an extensive 
 scale compared with their income : Mrs. Courtenay was no 
 manager ; she knew literally nothing of practical domestic 
 details when she married, and she did not attempt to acquire 
 them. Her servants were improvident and wasteful ; she 
 could not shut her eyes to that ; but her attempts at remedy- 
 ing the evil only amounted to an occasional storm of scold- 
 ing, and to sending off cook after cook. They fell into 
 debt, they went deeper into it with every month and year, and 
 Captain Courtenay, worried out of his seven senses, w^as 
 fain to patch up matters by borrowing money of a gentleman 
 named Ishmael Levi. Of course he fleeced him wholesale. 
 
 Their real troubles of life were looming ominously near, 
 the fruits of their short-sighted union, or their improvident 
 course. Captain Courtenay and his wife, with their seven 
 hundred a-year, had launched into marriage, their friends 
 rejoicing over their assured prospects: Mr. Lance and 
 Annis, and their despised three hundred, had been brow- 
 beaten in society for daring to risk it : but the despised 
 ones were conquerors, and the lauded ones had failed. How 
 was it ? The one party had looked their future full in the 
 face, and deliberately resolved to confine their simple desires 
 within less than their income, arming themselves against 
 temptation ; the other had not so looked at it, but had 
 brought themselves into embarrassment through what they 
 
TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 251 
 
 would have called slieer inability to keep out of it. Tlicy 
 had not calculated : they had begun life too expensively ; 
 had not controlled there self-indulgences ; everything was on 
 too large a scale : and now neither knew how to go back to 
 a smaller. 
 
 They were sitting together one dull winter's day, very 
 dull themselves, and talking over the aspect of affairs in 
 a dull strain. The aspect was worse than either thought : 
 Mrs. Courtenay really did not know its extent, and the 
 captain was blind and careless. The captain had received 
 his quarterly income, and had immediately parted with 
 most of it, for sundry demands were pressing. Hoy/ they 
 were to go on the next quarter, and how the Christmas bills 
 were to be paid, was hidden in the womb of the future. 
 
 " They are so much larger than usual," murmured 
 Captain Courtenay, drawing a china basket towards him, 
 the bills' receptacle, and leisurely proceeding to unfold some 
 of them. 
 
 "Each year brings additional expense," remarked Mrs. 
 Courtenay. " Four servants cost more than three : not to 
 speak of the children ; though they are but little expense 
 yet." 
 
 Captain Courtenay had the contents of one of the bills 
 under his eye at the time his wife spoke. " Little expense, 
 you say, Augusta ! I suppose this is for them, and it's pretty 
 nearly twenty pounds. It's headed ' Clare's Baby-linen 
 Warehouse.' " 
 
 " I meant in the matter of food. Of course they have to 
 be clothed: and I don't know anything more costly than 
 infants' dress. Cambric, and lace, and bassinettes, and all 
 the rest of it." 
 
 " So I should think," quoth the captain ; " here's thirty 
 shillings for six shirts. Do you put babies into shirts ? " 
 
 " What else should we put them into ? " 
 
 " How long are they — a foot ? Five shillings a shirt ! 
 Why, it's nearly as much as I give for mine." 
 
 " Delicate French cambric, trimmed with Valenciennes," 
 explained Mrs. Courtenay. " We can't dress a baby in hop- 
 sacking." 
 
252 
 
 TWO MAKHTAGES. 
 
 "Lace is the largest item in the bill. Here's three 
 pounds eighteen shillings for lace, Augusta." 
 
 " Oh, they are dreadful little things to destroy their cap- 
 borders ! When they get three or four months old, up go 
 their hands and away they pull, and the lace is soon in 
 tatters. This last darling baby has already destroyed two." 
 
 " Throw off their caps and let them pull at their own 
 heads, if they w^ant to pull," cried the captain. "That's 
 how I should cure them, Augusta." 
 
 " Would you ? " retorted Mrs. Courtenay. " A baby with- 
 out a cap is frightful. Except for its long white robes, no 
 one could tell whether it was a monkey or a child." 
 
 " Some of this lace is charged half-a-crown a yard, and 
 some three and sixpence." 
 
 " The three and sixpenny was for the christening. Of 
 course that had to be good." 
 
 " I saw some lace marked up at twopence a yard, yester- 
 day, in Oxford Street, quite as pretty as any the baby wears, 
 for all I can see. That would be good enough to tear, 
 Augusta." 
 
 " My dear, as you don't understand babies' things, the 
 remark may be excused," said Mrs. Courtenay. " Common 
 rubbish of cotton lace is not fit " 
 
 " Hallo ! " shouted the Captain, with an emphasis that 
 startled his wife, as he opened another of the bills, " here's 
 ninety-four pounds for meat this year ! " 
 
 " So I saw," mournfully replied Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 "How can we have eaten meat to that amount? We 
 can't have eaten it." 
 
 " I suppose ice have not eaten it, you and I ; but it has 
 been consumed in the house," was the testy rejoinder of 
 Mrs. Courtenay, whose conscience secretly accused her of 
 something being radically wrong in the housekeeping de- 
 partment, and which she, its head, did not know how to set 
 right. 
 
 " Besides the fish and poultry bills, and lots of game we 
 had sent us, and I sometimes dining at the club ! How is 
 it, Augusta ? " 
 
 I wish I could tell how it is," she answered : " that is. 
 
TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 253 
 
 I wish I could tell how to lessen it. The bills come in 
 weekly, and I look them over, and there's not a single joint 
 that seems to have been had in unnecessarily. They do eat 
 enormously in the kitchen ; but how is it to be prevented ? 
 We cannot lock uj) the food ? " 
 
 " The servants must be outrageously extravagant." 
 
 " I often tell you so, but you don't listen ; and I am at 
 continual warfare with the cook. As to the butter that goes, 
 it must melt, for it never can be used. She makes out that 
 you and I and the children eat four pounds of fresh butter 
 every week. And they are so exacting about their own 
 dinner. They are not satisfied with what remainder of 
 meat may be in the house and making it do — meat that I 
 know would be amply sufficient — but must have something 
 in addition — pork chops, or sausages, or something of the 
 sort. And thus the meat bill runs up." 
 
 Captain Courtenay answered only by a gesture of annoy- 
 ance. Perhaps his v/ife took it as a reflection upon herself. 
 
 " But what am I to do, Eobert ? I cannot go and preside 
 at their dinner, and portion it out ; and I cannot say so-and- 
 so is enough and you shall have no more, when cook declares 
 it is not enough. I tell them they are not to eat meat at 
 supper, but I may as well tell the sun not to shine, for I 
 know they do eat it. I would turn them off to-morrow, 
 every one of them, if I thought I could change for the 
 better ; but I might only get worse, for they would be sure 
 to go and give the place a bad name, out of revenge." 
 
 " Can't you change the cook ? " 
 
 " I have changed her three times in the last year, and 
 each one seems to have less notion of economy than the last. 
 They are fair-spoken before my face, and second all I say, 
 but the extravagance is not diminished." 
 
 Captain Courtenay opened the bills — bill by bill — and 
 laid them in a pile on the table. " Augusta," said he, in 
 a gravely serious tone, " we must retrench, or we shall soon 
 be in a hobble." 
 
 " I am willing," answered his wife ; " but where can we 
 begin ? " 
 
 "Let us consider,'^ resumed the captain, thoughtfully; 
 
254 
 
 TWO MAERIAGES. 
 
 " wliero can it be ? It cannot be in the rent and taxes ; of 
 course tliey must go on just the same ; and the insurance ; 
 and I must pay the interest of the money we owe ; and we 
 must have our meals as usual. We must dismiss one of 
 the servants." 
 
 " That's equally impossible," returned Mrs. Courtenay. 
 " Which would you dismiss ? Three children, two of them 
 in arms, as may be said, require two nurses, and cannot be 
 attended to without. Then there must be two for the house : 
 one could not wait, and cook, and clean, and answer the 
 door — oh, impossible." 
 
 Captain Courtenay leaned his head upon his hand: it 
 did indeed seem as if there was not the slightest loophole 
 in the domestic department which afforded a chance of re- 
 trenchment. 
 
 " Miss Marsh," said the housemaid, ushering in a lady. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay looked round for her sister Emily, but it 
 was Aunt Clem. 
 
 " Well," said she, as the captain, with whom she was a 
 favourite, ensconced her into the warmest seat, " and how 
 are you getting on ? " 
 
 " Middling," laughed the captain. Looking blue over 
 the Christmas bills." 
 
 " Ah," said Aunt Clem, as she took off her bonnet, " they 
 are often written on blue paper. You should settle your 
 bills weekly ; it is the safest and most economical plan : if 
 you let them run on, you pay for it through the nose." 
 
 " I wish these accounts could be paid, even through the 
 nose," cried the captain. " Our expenses are getting the 
 mastery. Aunt Clem, and we cannot see where to retrench. 
 We were talking about it now." 
 
 " Is that heap all bills ? Let me look at them. You 
 need have no secrets from an old woman like me." 
 
 The captain tossed them into her lap, and the first she 
 looked at happened to be the one for the baby-linen. Aunt 
 Clem studied it through her spectacles, and then studied 
 Augusta's face. 
 
 " Never saw anything so extravagant in my life. Who 
 did you think you were buying for ? A little princess ? " 
 
TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 255 
 
 Augusta was too nettled to reply. 
 
 " I don't see that a baby ought to cost as much as a man," 
 put in the captain ; " but Augusta tells me 1 know nothing 
 about it. I could get half a dozen shirts for thirty 
 shillings." 
 
 Of course you could. And these ought to have cost six." 
 Now, aunt ! " resentfully ejaculated Augusta. " How, 
 pray?" 
 
 "Six shillings at the very outside. You should have 
 bought the lawn and made them yourself." 
 
 Babies' shirts at a shilling apiece ! " said Augusta, 
 scornfully. These are richly trimmed with Valenciennes 
 lace and insertion. Aunt Clem." 
 
 i Trim my old bedgown with Valenciennes ! " irreverently 
 snapped Aunt Clem. " It would be just as sensible a trick. 
 Who sees the shirt when the baby has it on ? Nonsense, 
 Augusta ! Valenciennes lace may be very well in its proper 
 place, but not for those who can't pay their Christmas bills." 
 
 Augusta was indignant. The captain only smiled. 
 
 "What's this last?'^ continued Aunt Clem. "Lace?— 
 four pounds, less two shillings, for lace ? Here, take your 
 bill ; I have seen enough of it. No wonder you find your 
 accounts heavy, if they are all on this scale." 
 * " It is not dear," fired Augusta. " Half-a-crown a yard 
 — " the other was for the christening — is cheaj^ for babies' 
 lace." 
 
 I told Augusta I saw some yesterday in a sho^D-window 
 at twopence a yard, and it looked as well," observed the 
 captain. 
 
 "I don't quite say that," said Aunt Clem; "twopenny 
 lace would neither look nor wear well. But there's another 
 sort of lace, of medium quality, used almost exclusively for 
 infants' caps " 
 
 " Trumpery cotton trash ! " interrupted Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 " It is a very pretty lace, rich-looking and durable," went 
 on Aunt Clem, disdaining the interruption, "and if not 
 thread, it looks like it ; but I believe it to be thread. It 
 will last for two children, and it costs about ninepence a 
 yard. Annis has never bought any other." 
 
256 
 
 TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 How can you say so, aunt ? I'm sure her children's 
 caps always look nice." 
 
 " I know they do. You don't believe in this lace, because 
 you have not looked out for it," observed Aunt Clem. " You 
 go to Clare's — stepping out of a cab, I dare say, at the door 
 — and ask to look at some good nursery lace. Of course 
 they show you the real ; they don't attempt to show you 
 anything inferior. But Annis, when she was buying these 
 things, went to Clare's — and I happened to be with her : she 
 did not ask, off-hand, for rich lace, or real lace ; she said, 
 ' Have you a cheaper description of lace that vv^ill wear and 
 answer the purpose ? ' and they showed her what I tell you 
 of. She bought no other, and very well it has worn and 
 looks ; it lasted her first baby, and it is lasting this one. I 
 was so pleased with her method of going to work —not in 
 the ways of caps alone, mind you, but of everything— that 
 I sent her four yards of pillow lace from the country for a 
 best cap for her child. At the time you were married," 
 added Aunt Clem, looking at them both over her spectacles, 
 " I said you would not do half as well as Lance and Annis, 
 though you had more than double their income. You are 
 the wrong sort of folk." 
 
 " At any rate, I cannot be expected to understand lace," 
 said the captain. 
 
 " But you might understand other things, and give them 
 up," returned Aunt Clem. " You might give up your West 
 End society, and your gaieties, and your extravagant mode 
 of dressing " 
 
 " I'm sure I don't dress extravagantly," interrupted the 
 captain. 
 
 " I'm sure you do," said Aunt Clem : " in that way you 
 are worse than Augusta, and she's bad enough. It may not 
 be extravagant in the abstract, but it is extravagant in pro- 
 portion to your income. You might also give up having 
 parties at home, and going out to them, and your wine at 
 your club, and your theatres. Unless a man who has only 
 a limited income can resign these amusements, he has no 
 right to marry. But in saying this, I wish to cast no re- 
 flection on those who cannot : all men are not calculated by 
 
TWO MABHIAGES. 
 
 267 
 
 nature to economize in domestic privacy; only, let such 
 keep single." 
 
 "I suppose you think I was not," laughed Captain 
 Courtenay. 
 
 " I am positive you were not. Nor Augusta either. And 
 you'll have a hard fight and tussle before you can submit 
 to its hardships. They will be sore hardships to you ; to 
 Lance and his wife they are pleasures; yet he is just as 
 much of a gentleman as you are, and was brought up as 
 expensively. But you are of totally different dispositions." 
 
 " What a pity we were not differently paired, since they are 
 the two clever ones, and we the incapables ; I with Lance, 
 and Annis with Eobert ! " exclaimed Augusta, sarcastically. 
 
 " Then there would be four incapables instead of two — 
 or what would amount to the same," unceremoniously ob- 
 served Aunt Clem. "You would have spent poor Lance 
 out of house and home ; and Annis would have led a weary 
 and wretched life of it, for the captain's expenses out of 
 doors would have rendered futile her economy at home. 
 No, you have been rightly paired. You have not half the 
 comfort with your seven hundred a-year that they have 
 upon three." 
 
 " Go on, go on. Aunt Clem," cried Augusta ; " why don't 
 you magnify them into angels? More comfort than we 
 have ! Look at our home, our mode of life, and compare it 
 with theirs; their paltry two servants and their shabby 
 living. I don't suppose they take wine once in a month." 
 
 " And not taking it, do not feel the want of it. But when 
 you say shabby living, you are prejudiced, Augusta. Though 
 their dinners are plain, there is always plenty, and what 
 more can people want ? " 
 
 The captain laughed, for Aunt Clem had talked herself 
 into a heat. " As to wine. Lance might surely manage to 
 allow himself half a pint every day," said he. 
 
 " If Lance were intent on his own gratification, I dare say 
 he would," answered Aunt Clem. 
 
 "He and Annis might be comfortable in housekeeping 
 matters on three hundred a-year." 
 
 " Remarkably so," was Aunt Clem's response. " But the 
 
 The IJnlioly Wisli. 17 
 
258 
 
 TWO MARRTACtES. 
 
 worst of it is, there are other expenses, and plenty of them. 
 Rent, taxes, insurance, clothes, wages, doctors, omnibuses, 
 books, newspapers, and wear and tear of linen and furniture, 
 besides church and charity, for Lance and his wife have 
 nothing of the heathen about them. None of these items 
 come under the head of eatables and drinkables, but all 
 have to be provided for out of the three hundred a-year. 
 What's your butcher's bill annually ? " abruptly asked Aunt 
 Clem. 
 
 " Ninety-four pounds this year," said the captain. 
 
 Aunt Clem groaned. " That comes of having two dinners." 
 
 " How do you mean ? We only take one dinner a day." 
 
 " Two dinners," repeated Aunt Clem ; " one for you and 
 another for the servants. They ought to dine after you." 
 
 " But the servants must dine," said Mrs. Courtenay. " It 
 cannot signify as to cost whether they dine early or late." 
 
 " It signifies everything, and by having two dinners the 
 meat bill gets almost doubled. What are your servants 
 having for dinner to-day ? " 
 
 " To-day — oh, they have a shoulder of mutton." 
 
 " And what shall you have ? 
 
 " We are going to have minced veal and a fowl." 
 
 " Minced veal ! the most unprofitable dish any one can 
 put upon their table. You may take an unlimited quantity 
 of it and still be hungry. But that's not my present argu- 
 ment. If you had only one dinner, the shoulcler-of-mutton 
 would have served you all ; your table first and theirs after- 
 wards, and there'd be one expense. And the servants cannot 
 have their rule over the meat so uncontrolled ; less comes 
 into the house ; less remains cold ; and cold meat does not 
 go so far as hot, and when hashed and minced it is half 
 wasted." 
 
 "Our servants won't dine on cold meat above twice a 
 week, I know that," said Mrs. Courtenay. " But as to their 
 dining after us, they would say they could not wait ; they 
 would leave first." 
 
 "Then they should leave — and with great pleasure, I 
 should say," cried Aunt Clem. " It is of no consequence 
 what time people dine, provided they have their regular 
 
TWO MARRIAGES, 
 
 250 
 
 hour ; their appetite soon accustoms itself to it. You might 
 dine at five instead of six or seven, and they after you. 
 Annis's servants do, and she gets no grumbling." 
 
 " Well," said the captain, carelessly, " wc have rubbed on 
 somehow, with all our mismanagement, and we must con- 
 trive to rub on still. Perhaps we shall give up our summer 
 excursion this year, and that will be an economy. I am 
 going down to the club for an hour. I shall find you here 
 on my return, Aunt Clem : you'll stop and helj) us out with 
 the minced veal." 
 
 "What a barbarous picture you do draw of domestic 
 economy. Aunt Clem ! " exclaimed Augusta, as her husband 
 (pitted the room. "Ninepenny lace, and common home- 
 made lawn shirts for babies, and all the house dining from 
 one joint, and calling minced veal unprofitable ! Your ideas 
 are not suited to us ; to the captain." 
 
 " Child," answered Aunt Clem, " I am only thinking what 
 is suited to your income. With seven hundred a-year you 
 ought to be able to afford liberal housekeeping and ex- 
 penditure ; but it appears you have so many large expenses 
 that the house must, or ought, of necessity, to suffer. Your 
 husband hinted at debt ; and indeed I don't see how he can 
 have kept out of it." 
 
 We are very much in debt; though how much he will 
 not tell me : he says it is enough for him to be worried over 
 it, without my being so." 
 
 " Then why don't you curtail your expenditure, Augusta ? " 
 
 "Curtail where? There is not one of the servants we 
 could possibly do without: and I'm sure I try all I can to 
 impress saving in the kitchen." 
 
 " There has been one fault throughout, Augusta. You 
 began on the wrong scale : it is very easy to increase a scale 
 of expenditure, but remarkably difficult to reduce it. The 
 common mistake in marrying is, that people begin by living 
 up to their income." 
 
 "After all, aunt, if I could curtail in petty domestic 
 trifles, it would be of little service. It is the larger outlays 
 that have hurt us : our going out of town, and our visiting, 
 and my husband's private expenses. He cannot give up 
 
260 
 
 TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 these expenses, unless lie gives up his friends. Fancy 
 Captain Courtenay being obliged to relinquish his club! 
 It's not to be thought of. We must rub on, as he says, 
 somehow or other." 
 
 " He does not seem to be rubbing on to his club now," 
 said Aunt Clem, who was at the window. " He is standing 
 to talk." 
 
 '•And what queer-looking men he has got hold of!" 
 uttered Augusta, following her. Shabby coats and greasy 
 hats. He is coming back, and they with him. What can 
 they want ? " 
 
 Aunt Clem drew in her lips ominously, but she said 
 nothing. Mrs. Courtenay was only surprised, for the men 
 had entered with her husband. She opened the room-door, 
 and saw the captain advancing to her with a white face. 
 
 " My dear Augusta — don't be alarmed, or — or — put out : 
 Aunt Clem can tell you there's no occasion, for these trifles 
 happen every day: but — I — am— arrested." 
 
 " Arrested ! " shrieked Augusta, flying to cling to his 
 arm. " Will they drag you off to prison ? " 
 
 " For to-day I fear they must ; but " 
 
 " Ain't no fear about it, sir," interposed one of the men, 
 " it's certain. As well out with the truth, sir, to the lady ; 
 it answers best with 'em." 
 
 " You'll stop here, and take care of her, Aunt Clem," said 
 the crestfallen captain, as Augusta burst into sobs ; " don't 
 let her grieve. I dare say I shall get it all settled and be 
 at home to-morrow." 
 
 " This comes of such folk as you rushing headlong into 
 marriage ! " tartly exclaimed Aunt Clem. 
 
 IV. 
 
 It liad been a very blue look-out : Captain Courtenay once 
 called it so, when lie was examining his Christmas bills ; 
 but that blue was couleur-de-rose compared with the deep 
 blue of the look-out now. 
 
 Captain and Mrs. Courtenay had married u^wn seven 
 
TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 2G1 
 
 liuudred a-year and no further expectations. A sufficient 
 sum for moderate tastes and moderate desires, but unfor- 
 tunately neitlier the captain nor his wife could stoop to 
 these. A few years of extravagance, within doors and with- 
 out, brought on a climax, and the captain was civilly 
 marshalled to prison in a cab. With some trouble, and at 
 a considerable sacrifice, he succeeded, after a week's in- 
 carceration, in " arranging matters ; " but to do so cost him 
 far more than his improvidence had bargained for : his 
 income was cut down three-sevenths, and would continue so 
 docked for many years to come. 
 
 They left their house at Brompton : to economize there, 
 in the very sight of their intimate friends and neighbours, 
 would be too galling: and settled in a smaller one, with 
 their children, four now, and two servants. Perhaps the 
 most cruel point in the whole affair, to Mrs. Courtenay, was 
 the being reduced to keeping only two, a nurse and maid- 
 of-all-work. If she had despised one thing more than 
 another in her sister's household, who had married for love, 
 upon three hundred a-year, it was that useful but sometimes 
 very troublesome appendage, a servant-of-all-work. The 
 house they moved into was close to that of her sister, Mrs. 
 Lance; and for some time after taking possession of it, 
 Mrs. Courtenay chiefly spent her days in tears, and Captain 
 Courtenay in sitting over the fire, with a pipe and a news- 
 paper. 
 
 The poor captain was really to be pitied. He had the 
 misfortune to be an idle man, a man of no profession or 
 occupation ; and he had been obliged to give up his com- 
 fortable (and expensive) club, his opera, and his kid gloves. 
 All his old habits, confirmed and strong, were rudely broken 
 through, and instead of playing the dandy abroad, he gave 
 way to the sulks at home. 
 
 It was not altogether a desirable home, for Mrs. Courtenay 
 had no idea of management ; the servants, scenting what 
 sort of a mistress they had, showed less, and the young 
 children tore about the house uncontrolled, destroying the 
 peace of every room, and frequently coming to grief and 
 screams. As to saving in the domestic details of house- 
 
262 
 
 TWO MAHRIAGES. 
 
 keeping, Mrs. Coiirtenay liad not tlic faintest conception 
 how to begin, and tlie house remained a perpetual scene of 
 worry and confusion. 
 
 One evening Mr. and Mrs. Lance were sitting together, 
 after dinner, in the comfortable dining-room of their pleasant 
 house. Not that their house was fine or large, but pleasant 
 and comfortable it certainly was ; for there were no storms 
 in it, whether from parents, servants, or children, but there 
 was well-ordered regularity. Their children — they had 
 three — were with them now, but they were not trained to 
 give way to wayward humours. Mr. Lance was a barrister, 
 but briefless, and he had preferred accepting the secretary- 
 ship of a public institution, at three hundred a-year, to 
 starving on expectation, in a wig and gown. Whilst they 
 wei^3 talking, Mrs. Courtenay was shown in, and down she 
 immediately sat upon a chair and burst into tears. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Lance approached her with surprise and commisera- 
 tion ; and little Annie, the eldest child, was so aghast at the 
 sight, that she backed against the wall, in doubt whether 
 she should not set up a cry too. 
 
 " I am tired and worried out of my life, Annis," began 
 Mrs. Courtenay to her sister. " All my efforts to be a good 
 manager turn out wrong. I thought I would try and do the 
 dinner to-day, for that servant of mine is so insolent and 
 extravagant : I said there was enough mutton in the house 
 for dinner, made into a haricot " 
 
 " Do you mean an Irish stew ? " interrupted Mrs. Lance. 
 
 " That's what vulgar people call it, Annis. Susan drew 
 down the corners of her mouth, and said not if site made it ; 
 so the remark nettled me, and I said I would do it myself. 
 And I thought I did do it beautifully," added the unhappy 
 lady, with a choking sob between every other word, " and 
 when it came to be turned out it was all burnt black to the 
 saucepan, and smelt like a dozen blankets on fire." 
 What a pity ! " exclaimed Mrs. Lance. 
 So there was no dinner for any of us, and the captain 
 went out, swearing, with a bang that shook the ceilings, to 
 get some where he could. Do give me a few lessons, Annis, 
 
TWO MAPvRIAGES. 
 
 263 
 
 aud tell mc liow you manage — tliougli 1 used to laugli at 
 your ways. I'm afraid lie'll swear at me iiext^ and I should 
 never survive that." 
 
 Mr. Lance rose from his chair and smiled. " It will all 
 come right, Mrs. Courtenay, if you only have a little perse- 
 verance. Annis was a good manager from the first, but she 
 is better now. And whilst you take your first lesson, I will 
 go in to my friend Desborough : I was telling Annis, when 
 you came, that I owed him a visit." 
 
 " I could not swallow a scrap of anything, if you paid mc, 
 I'm too miserable," sobbed Mrs. Courtenay, interrupting her 
 sister's hospitable intentions. "I will drink a cup of tea 
 when you take yours." 
 
 You shall have it directly, Augusta. The servants must 
 have finished dinner by now, and the children shall go back 
 to the nursery." 
 
 " Tell me exactly how you manage throughout the day, 
 Annis," said Mrs, Courtenay, when they were alone. " I 
 will try, in my own house, to imitate it." 
 
 " I manage much as I used to do in my early married 
 days, only there is more to do," said Mrs. Lauce. Mary 
 gets up at six " 
 
 " And my beauty crawls downstairs at eight," interrupted 
 Mrs. Courtenay, in tones of wrath, " and the more I talk to 
 her, the longer she lies ; and the nurse is worse." 
 
 " That sort of servants would be useless in my house," 
 said Annis. " We breakfast at eight, and I am out of bed 
 before seven." 
 
 " What in the world do you get up so soon for ? You, I 
 mean. It is unnecessary to rise before seven for an eight 
 o'clock breakfast." 
 
 I find it none too early. I like to be neatly dressed ; 
 not to come downstairs * a figure,' as it is called, in badly- 
 arranged hair, or an untidy, ugly dressing-gown. Then I 
 spare a few minutes for my private reading, and a minute 
 for the nursery, for I do not choose Annie to slur over her 
 little prayers to a careless nurse. I hope you always hear 
 your children theirs, Augusta." 
 
 " I hear them now and then at night, if I have time ; 
 
264 
 
 TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 never iu a morniug ; I dou't think tliey say any. What do 
 prayers matter for sucli little children ? " 
 
 The impressions made on young children last for ever, 
 and they tend to good or to evil," remarked Annis, in a low 
 voice. " But let me go on. Annie breakfasts with ns, the 
 other two with nurse in the kitchen : that are too young for 
 that to hurt them," she added in a meaning tone, " After- 
 wards, when Geoffry is gone, I read to Annie for five 
 
 minutes or so- " 
 
 " Read what ? " asked Mrs. Courtenay, in surprise, Fairy 
 tales?" 
 
 " Bible stories," answered Mrs. Lance, gravely. What 
 would become of me, of them, if I did not strive to train my 
 chiklren to God ? How should I answer for it hereafter ? 
 Then begins the business of the day. I occupy myself in 
 the nursery and mind the children whilst nurse helps witli 
 the beds ; and then " 
 
 " Making yourself a nurse the first thing in the morn- 
 ing ! " groaned Mrs. Courtenay. " I'm sure I can never 
 bring myself to that." 
 
 " Every one to their taste," laughed Annis. " I would 
 rather be a nurse in the morning than in the evening. 
 When the beds are made, nurse relieves me, and I go down 
 and help Mary in the kitchen. Sometimes I wash the 
 breakfast-things, and make a pudding ; sometimes I iron the 
 fine things ; in short, I do what there is to do of the work I 
 have apportioned to myself. By eleven or twelve o'clock, 
 as it may happen, it is all done, and I am at liberty for the 
 day ; to sit down in the drawing-room to my sewing, and 
 chat with any friends who may call to see me. Useful 
 sewing now, Augusta," she laughed ; " no longer embroidery, 
 or drawing, or painting, or wax flowers." 
 
 " Have you given up all those pleasant recreations ? " 
 
 " I really fear I have. I find no time for them. I make 
 all my children's things, and part of my own and my 
 husband's. On washing-days I am in the nursery until 
 dinner-time, and we always, that day, have a cold dinner, 
 that both servants may help. You see I manage as I used 
 to, and it i& only repeating what I have told you before." 
 
TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 2G5 
 
 " You do seem to Lave sucli supcr-cxcellont servants ! " 
 exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay, in sarcastic tones. 
 
 " Yes, I Lave very good ones. Servants are mucli cried 
 out against, and no doubt some are good and some are bad, 
 but they should be carefully chosen before admitted to the 
 house, and I think that a good mistress generally meets 
 with good servants. I do not mean that mine are faultless : 
 it would indeed be a miracle : but they know they are well 
 off with me ; for though I am resolute in having their duties 
 thoroughly performed, 1 am a considerate mistress, anxious 
 for their own comfort and welfare." 
 
 "And you never have but one dinner. Aunt Clem went 
 on so to me once, in the other house, about my having two 
 dinners, one for ourselves and another for the servants. 
 She called it waste. 
 
 " It is so," answered Mrs. Lance ; " both of time and 
 provisions. The children have theirs in the middle of the 
 day; they are too young to wait, but that is not much 
 trouble. A rice pudding, perhaps, and a little steak or 
 mutton chops : the baby does not eat meat yet." 
 
 " But my servants grumble my life out when I order only 
 one dinner : it was my saying they must wait to-day, and 
 dine after us, that put Susan out about the meat." 
 
 " I do not wonder at it : with such irregularity, which to 
 them must appear like caprice, how can you exjject cheerful 
 obedience? Let them understand, once for all, that they 
 dine after you, and if they persist in being discontented, the 
 best plan will be to change." 
 
 " Change ! I am always changing : you know I am, Annis. 
 And then the taking out the children — oh, the worry it is ! 
 Of course Jam not going streaming out with them, and 
 Susan can't go and leave the work, so I hire a girl, the 
 greengrocer's daughter, and give her sixpence a time ; but 
 the nurse does not choose to approve of it, and says she is 
 more worry than help." 
 
 " Ah, we are well off in that respect," said Mrs. Lance, 
 with animation. "We have no right to the square, not 
 absolutely living in it, but somehow we are popular in the 
 neighbourhood, and have had a key given to us. It is so 
 
2G(3 
 
 TWO MARRIAGES* 
 
 useful : tlie nurse goes tliorc with all tlircc cLildrcn, and 
 can sit down with tlie baby whilst Annie and the boy run 
 about/' 
 
 " All things seem to turn up well for you/' rejoined Mrs. 
 Courtenay, querulously. "I'm sure they don't for most 
 people. I wish I could get a key of the scpare." 
 
 I think that when people set their faces resolutely to 
 their duty and strive to make the best of it, humbly trusting 
 to he Tieljped in it, that many things do turn up for them 
 quite w^onderfully," answered Mrs. Lance, gently. 
 
 " x\nnis ! the idea of your mixing up religious notions 
 wdth the petty concerns of life ! It is quite methodistical." 
 
 " Eather high church, of the two, I fancy," responded 
 Annis, good-humouredly. " But rely upon it, Augusta, that 
 until people have learnt to remember that God's eye is upon 
 them in all the trifles of daily life, they have not learnt how 
 to live." 
 
 " You harp, too, upon system ' and ' regularity,' I know 
 I shall never learn to practise either." 
 
 "But you must; for the comfort of a family mainly 
 depends upon that. At five, whilst we dine, the children 
 take their tea in the nursery, and when we have finished, 
 they come to us while the servants dine. By seven, the 
 children are in bed." 
 
 " And then you sit stitching away here all the evening ! " 
 said Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 " Very often I do, and Geoffry reads to me : the news- 
 paper, or our periodicals. And nurse does her part to the 
 stitching in the nursery." 
 
 " Such a humdrum, Darby-and-Joan sort of life 1 " 
 
 " We would not change it for yours, Augusta," laughed 
 Annis, " But I do not work always : sometimes I read, or 
 we play at chess, or cribbage, and now and then a friend 
 drops in, or wo drop in to a friend's. Believe me, we are 
 thoroughly happy and contented. I told mamma I knew we 
 could manage w^ell on three hundred a-year, and we have 
 done so, and are fully satisfied. All of you, except papa, 
 have spoken scornfully of my lowering myself to two 
 servants, and one of those a nurse, but I have more regu- 
 
TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 2G7 
 
 larity and comfori in my house than you had with your 
 four. No ono who comes here sees them otherwise than 
 perfectly neat and tidy ; for both of the servants understand 
 that were they to appear otherwise they must look out for 
 fresh situations." 
 
 " Do your servants have meat at luncheon ? " 
 
 " Never. They have it at one meal only — dinner. They 
 take as much as they please then. Believe me, Augusta, we 
 have no stinting in necessaries, though we cannot afford 
 luxuries." 
 
 " You are not too luxurious in dress, that's certain," said 
 Mrs. Courtenay, looking at her sister's ruby merino ; " and 
 yet, it really looks well," she added, " with its pretty fringe 
 trimmings." 
 
 " Quite as vfell, for a home dress, as your rich silk, 
 Augusta. Especially with that great splash of grease down 
 the front." 
 
 " Splash of grease ! " echoed Mrs. Courtenay, hastily cast- 
 ing her eyes on her dress, and beholding a broad running 
 stain. " There ! I must have done that to-day, meddling 
 with that abominable cooking." 
 
 You surely did not do your cooking in that dress ! " 
 exclaimed the younger sister. 
 
 "What else could I do it in?" fretfully retorted Mrs, 
 Courtenay. " I could not be in a shabby wrapper at two or 
 three o'clock in the day, when people might be calling." 
 
 "1 would not be seen in either, at any time, Augusta. 
 But there's the advantage of getting over these domestic 
 tasks early in the day. You should have a large ajoron to 
 put on in the kitchen, as I do." 
 
 " To save that dress ? " sarcastically asked Augusta 
 Courtenay, who was in a thorough ill-temper. 
 
 " No, this is not my morning dress," quietly returned her 
 sister. " That is only alpaca. But it is nicely made, not a 
 ' wrapper ' or a ' loose jacket,' and is neither dirty nor 
 shabby." 
 
 "How do you make soup," pursued Mrs. Courtenay, 
 ignoring the implied reproof. "Susan sends up ours all 
 water, and the captain can't eat it ; although she has four 
 
2G8 
 
 TWO MARRIAGES 
 
 pounds of meat to make it with, wliicli looks boiled to rags, 
 fit only to throw away." 
 
 " Ob, Augusta ! four pounds of meat wasted in soup ! 
 You will never economize at tbat rate. Poor people — as, 
 perhaps, I may venture to call you now, with ourselves — 
 should never attempt expensive soups. For them it is waste 
 of money." 
 
 " I am sure I have beard you talk of having soup often 
 enough," angrily returned Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 " Yes ; soups that cost nothing ; or next to nothing." 
 
 " Like that parsonage soup ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay, 
 bursting into laughter. " Do you remember, Annis ? You 
 came home from one of your visits at Aunt Kuttley's boast- 
 ing of some delicious, cheap soup ; and when mamma in- 
 tpired how this delicious cheap soup was made, you said of 
 young pea-shells. It remained a standing joke against you. 
 Is that how your soups are made ? " 
 
 " No. Winter is not the season for pea-shells. But I 
 suppose what I am going to say to you will appear quite as 
 much of a joke. We rarely make our pea-soup of anything 
 but bones." 
 
 " Bones ! " repeated Mrs. Courtenay, as much astonished 
 as if her sister had said feathers. 
 
 " We never waste a bone. Beef-bones, mutton-bones, all, 
 in short,''are boiled, and boiled long, for about twelve hours ; 
 they stand by the side of the kitchen fire, not monopolizing 
 it ; with an onion or two, a turnip, a carrot, and celery. It 
 is all strained off, and the next morning is in a jelly. The 
 peas are then boiled in it, with some mint, and it is an 
 excellent soup. Then sometimes we have French soup, as 
 we call it. That poor French governess, whom I invited to 
 stay with me when she lost her situation, taught Mary how 
 to make it. She used to make it for herself on Fridays, 
 and say she preferred it to fish. I thought at first she 
 said it out of delicacy, to prevent my going to the expense 
 of fish for her, but I believed afterwards that she really 
 did prefer it. It was a treat to her, for she had never had 
 it in England before." 
 
 " What soup is it " 
 
TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 269 
 
 "The Frencli call it soupe maigre. On fust days they 
 put a piece of butter into a saucepan, on other days a piece 
 of dripping, let it melt, and put into it a quantity of 
 vegetables ready cut in small pieces, carrots, turnips, leeks, 
 and potatoes. They stir all these about over the fire, till 
 they are well saturated with the dripping or butter, but not 
 to brown them, then fill up the saucepan with water, and let 
 it boil for two or three hours, adding pepper and salt to 
 taste. You cannot think what a nice soup it makes." 
 
 " I am willing to take your word for it," returned Mrs. 
 Courtenay, with an ungracious accent. " French soup made 
 of dripping, and pea-soup made of bones ! I wonder what 
 the captain would say, if I placed such before him ? " 
 
 " If placed before him well made, he would say they were 
 excellent," was the rejoinder of Annis. " My husband 
 thinks them so, and it is not necessary to proclaim your 
 mysteries of economy over the dinner-table. Both these 
 soups are very grateful on a cold winter's day. Besides," 
 she laughed, " they save the meat ; my servants like these 
 soups so much now that they often make their dinner of 
 them, and will put away the meat untouched. Augusta," 
 broke off Mrs. Lance, in a changed tone, " if you are to 
 despise every word I say, as I see you do, why come to me 
 for information ? " 
 
 " No, I do not despise your words, Annis ; I am obliged 
 to you for being at the trouble to explain to me; but I 
 cannot help despising the cookery ; the odd, parsimonious 
 way of concocting soups out of nothing. It is so ridiculous." 
 
 " Had I begun life upon the income you did, Augusta, I 
 dare say I should never have learnt these frugal odds and 
 ends of cookery. But I can testify that they are very 
 helpful, both to comfort and to the purse ; and if those who 
 enjoy only my confined income do not understand them, or 
 have them practised in their household, they ought to 
 do so." 
 
 "What ought pies to be made of?" interrupted Mrs. 
 Courtenay, remembering another domestic stumbling-block. 
 
 " Many things. Apples, and rhubarb, and " 
 
 " Nonsense, Annis ! You know I meant the crust." 
 
270 
 
 TWO MAERIAGES. 
 
 ^^No, I did not. I make mine of lard. Sometimes of 
 beef dripping." 
 
 "Beef drip— Well, what next? You must have 
 learnt that at the parsonage." 
 
 " jSTo, indeed, the parsonage was not rich enough to possess 
 dripping. If by good luck it did have any, the children 
 used to scramble for it to spread on their bread. Well 
 clarified, it makes a very fair crust. But I generally use 
 lard." 
 
 "Susan won't use anything but the best fresh butter; 
 such a quantity ; about a pound and a half to every pie." 
 " Make them yourself, Augusta." 
 
 " I can't ; no one can eat them. I tried my hand at three 
 or four, and they were as hard as lead, and could not be cut 
 into : you might throw them from here to York, and they'd 
 never break. But all these things are nothing to the wash- 
 ing ; that's dreadful. I have taken to have most of it done 
 at home, for the expense was ruinous, and the servants 
 would not so much as wash out a duster. Every Monday 
 morning a woman comes " 
 
 "You should have it done on Tuesday," interrupted 
 Annis, " and the clothes should be soaped and put in soak 
 on Monday morning : they come clean with half the labour. 
 And every fortnight would be often enough." 
 
 " They seem not to come clean at all in our house," 
 groaned Mrs. Courtenay. " I tell Susan she must help the 
 woman, but I believe all the help she gives is gossij). 
 Three days every week is that washerwoman with us, and 
 she has two shillings a day, and eats enough to last her 
 until she comes again the next week, and the house is in a 
 steam and a warfare all three days, for they won't keej) the 
 doors shut, and the servants won't iron or fold, saying they 
 have no time, and the things go to the mangling woman in 
 the rough, and she folds them and charges double pay, and 
 they come home as wet as water, and lie about for days, to 
 be aired. Altogether, the clothes don't get put away till 
 the Monday comes round again." 
 
 "I could not live in such a house!" exclaimed Annis. 
 "We wash every other Tuesday, as I tell yon, and by 
 
TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 271 
 
 Tliiirsclay niglit the things are in the drawers, except what 
 may want mending." 
 
 " You must have Aladdin's lamp. How do you manage 
 it?" 
 
 "Management and system; with, of course, industry. 
 Unless you can bring these to bear in your house, Augusta, 
 it will be the same scene of confusion for ever. How un- 
 comfortable it must make your husband." 
 
 " It makes him very cross, if you mean that. It is all 
 confusion ; no comfort and no peace." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay had good cause to say so, and the con- 
 fusion grew more confused as time went on. She made 
 strenuous efforts, to the best of her ability, to remedy i% 
 but succeed she could not. She constantly changed her 
 servants, she made sudden plunges by fits and starts, into 
 the arts of cooking and contriving, but the only results were 
 the spoiling of provisions, tlie waste of money, short 
 commons, and ill-temper on all sides. Her husband took 
 refuge again in his club for society, sheerly driven out of 
 his house, which augmented expenses greatly, 
 
 V. 
 
 Captain Courtenay sat one summer's morning in his stock- 
 ings, the image of patience, looking at a very untidy break- 
 fast cloth, and wishing he could also look at some breakfast ; 
 and two children were flying about the room, their hands 
 full of bread-and-butter, which was being shared between 
 their mouths and the carpet. 
 
 "It's too bad, Augusta," said he, as his wife came in: 
 " twenty minutes past ten, and the breakfast not up. What's 
 she at?" 
 
 " Leisurely eating her own breakfast, and the nurse with 
 her," replied Mrs. Courtenay ; " and the only answer I can 
 get from her is that the kettle don't bile, and she ain't the 
 fire to make it bile sooner than it will." 
 
 "That is always the excuse," sighed poor Captain 
 Courtenay. " No breakfast, because there's no boiling water. 
 
272 
 
 TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 What does she do in a morning? Be still, can't you, 
 Bob." 
 
 " She makes theii' own breakfast first, and then fills the 
 kettle up again to boil for us. It's of no use talking to 
 her : she is getting insolent already, and has been here but 
 ten days. There's not a thing touched yet, and the kitchen 
 is as she left it last night." 
 
 " 1 want my boots." 
 
 " There's not a boot or shoe cleaned. Why don't you put 
 on your slippers ? " 
 
 " Because I can't find them. Bob, where was it you saw 
 my slippers ? " 
 
 In the oven, papa, all burnt up. We wondered what it 
 was smelt so yesterday, and w^hen Harriet looked in the 
 oven, it was the slippers/' 
 
 " Who put them there ? " angrily demanded Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay. 
 
 " I don't know," answered Bob. " Harriet said she didn't. 
 Perhaps it was the bogy " 
 
 " Hallo ! " cried out the captain. " Who, sir ? " 
 " The bogy, papa." 
 
 " Who tells you anything about the bogy ? " 
 
 " 'Liza does. When Emily and Freddy won't go to sleep, 
 'Liza goes and calls the bogy. He made us scream so the 
 other night, when he began to walk along the passage to 
 fetch us." 
 
 " This is infamous ! " muttered Captain Courtenay to his 
 wife. " Nothing can be so bad as frightening children ; 
 they may never entirely get over its efi*ects. Augusta, if any 
 servant in the house dare to frighten my children she shall 
 go out of it, so inquire into this. Why don't you see after 
 things better ? " 
 
 " I am seeing after things from morning till night, I 
 tliink," retorted Mrs. Courtenay, who had not been dow^n- 
 stairs ten minutes. 
 
 " And ' 'Liza '—what a pronunciation ! Where do they 
 pick it up ? " 
 
 ''Oh, from the servants," replied Mrs. Courtenay. apa- 
 thetically. " Eliza herself speaks badly." 
 
TWO MAriBIAGES. 
 
 " I cannot make it out," exclaimed i)oor Captain Courtenay, 
 iu an imi3assionecl but helpless tone ; " no other family 
 seems to have such servants as we get. They do nothing ; 
 they are troublesome in all ways. Look at those two 
 children : the buttons off their shoes, their socks dirty, their 
 pinafores in holes, their hair uncombed ! Bob ; Emily ; 
 have you been washed this morning ? " 
 
 " No," was the children's answer ; " 'Liza doesn't wash us 
 till she takes us out in the day. It doesn't matter, sho 
 says." 
 
 The breakfast came in at last. And in discussing the 
 merits of a capital ham (actually boiled well, by some mis- 
 take) the captain grew pleasant and talkative. 
 
 " We had a snug party at the club last night, and a 
 famous rubber. I cut in three times." 
 
 " Did you win ? " inquired his wife. 
 
 "No," said the captain, lugubriously. "I lost eleven 
 points." 
 
 " Which was eleven shillings out of your pocket, and we 
 can't afford it. You ought not to go there so much." 
 
 " Then you should make the house habitable." 
 
 " I don't make it unhabitable, Eobert : it's these wretches 
 of servants." 
 
 "It's something," said the captain. "By the way," he 
 added, a recollection coming over him, " Ord has returned, 
 and was there. He is coming to dine with us to-day." 
 
 "Oh! How could you ask him, Eobert? Such a fuss 
 and trouble as it will be." 
 
 " He asked himself ; said he wanted to see you and the 
 children. Nothing pleases you, Augusta, I go out too 
 much, you say ; and I am not to have a friend here : what 
 am I to do ? Sit in this room all day and all night, count- 
 ing my fingers, while you storm at the ill-doings in the 
 kitchen ? " 
 
 " If my servants were worth anything I would not mind 
 who came ; but I suspect if we give Harriet two things to 
 cook, she'll spoil one." 
 
 " Ord will take us as he finds us. Will you children be 
 quiet ? He knows it is not with us as it used to be, and ho 
 
 The Uuholy Wish. 18 
 
274 
 
 TWO MABRIAGES. 
 
 is a good fellow. A bit of fisli and a joint : it's all wc need 
 Lave." 
 
 " No fish, no fisli," hastily cried Mrs. Courtenay. " Ee- 
 member tliat piece of salmon on Sunday : slie sent it up in 
 rags, on a bare dish, and all the scales on. I'll get some 
 soup instead." 
 
 " Very well. Friday : it's not a very good day for choice, 
 but I'll go out and cater for you, as I walk to the club. I 
 am going directly after breakfast." 
 
 The result of the captain's catering proved to be a piece 
 of meat for souj), some lamb chops, a couple of fine ducks, 
 green peas, asparagus, and young potatoes. 
 
 " The ducks must be stuffed, Harriet," observed Mrs. 
 Courtenay, " and you must make a nice gravy for them." 
 
 "The gravy falls from 'em in roasting, don't it?" was 
 Harriet's res2)onse. 
 
 "No," wrathfully returned Mrs. Courtenay; "don't you 
 know better than that ? It must be a made gravy, and a 
 very good one." 
 
 " That'll make another saucepan on the fire," cried 
 Harriet ; " I must have the range out as wide as he'll go. 
 It'll be a bother to get them feathers off the wings." 
 
 " What ! " uttered Mrs. Courtenay, the remark causing 
 her to look round hastily at the ducks. And then she 
 saw that the inexperienced captain had not ordered them 
 to be made ready for dressing, but had bought and sent 
 them home just as they were displayed in the poulterer's 
 shop, part of their feathers on, and their heads hanging 
 down. 
 
 " If ever I saw anything so stupid in all my life ! " uttered 
 she, in her vexation. " And we don't know where they were 
 bought, to send them back to be done. You must draw and 
 truss them, Harriet." 
 
 "Never drawled no animal in my life, and don't know how 
 to do it," promptly returned Harriet. 
 
 Neither did Mrs. Courtenay know. And she foresaw the 
 day would have some perplexity. Harriet suggested that 
 Mrs. Brown should come in, and her mistress eagerly caught 
 at it : so the children were left to the mercies of the stairs. 
 
TWO MAKRIAGES. 
 
 275 
 
 like Mrs. Jclkby's Pcepy, whilst Eliza was sent flying 
 round tlie nciglibourlioocl in searcli of Mrs. Brown. Mrs. 
 Brown was tlic weekly wasker woman, and tke two servants 
 were on very good terms with her. 
 
 " Do you know how to i3repare ducks for roasting ? " was 
 the anxious (luestion Mrs. Courtenay put to her, when sho 
 returned with Eliza. 
 
 " Please, mem, I've seen 'em done. I can't say as I've 
 had a deal of experience in such-like. But in the matter of 
 scouring out of saucepans, and putting on of coal, and getting 
 ready of plates and dishes, and scraping of potaters, and 
 shelling of peas, and all them odd jobs, there ain't nobody 
 more quicker nor handier than me." 
 
 "Me and Mrs. Brown will manage well between us, 
 ma'am," said Harriet. "Don't you stop here, please, for 
 you'll only put us out. Now as I have got her to do the 
 rough part, I be bound I'll do the fine." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay v/as but too willing to accede to this advice* 
 She hated the kitchen, and was always as thankful to get 
 out of it as monks tell us poor erring souls are to get out of 
 purgatory. So, with numerous charges and directions, the 
 latter somewhat obscure, owing to her own inexperience, she 
 left them to it, and did not go down again, passing a very 
 agreeable day chatting with some acc[uaintance who called, 
 and devouring a new novel. 
 
 Late in the afternoon she was surprised by a visit from 
 her old maiden aunt, Miss Clementina Marsh, whom she had 
 not seen for twelve months, and who had come to pass a few 
 days with Mrs. Lance. 
 
 " Now you must stay and dine with me. Aunt Clem. I 
 shall be glad of you, for Major Ord is coming, and you will 
 make the fourth at table." 
 
 " I am agreeable," answered Aunt Clem. " Annis has 
 sent me to ask you to her house to tea. Your mamma is 
 there, and the doctor is coming in the evening. I told 
 Annis perhaps I should dine with you, and bring you in 
 afterwards." 
 
 Then come upstairs, and take your things off.'^ 
 
 " Why, what's this ? " uttered Aunt Clem, as she followed 
 
276 
 
 TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 licr niece to lier bedroom. " Half-past four iu tlic day. and 
 your bed not made ! " 
 
 " Oil ! Harriet must have forgotten all about tlie upstairs 
 work, and I'm sure I did. It must go now until after 
 dinner. Slie is a fresh servant, aunt, and sbe knows little 
 iibout cooking, and tlie woman that's helping her seems to 
 know less. It is of no use seeking for good cooks in ser- 
 vants-of-all-work, and they plague one's life out." 
 
 " Your nurse might do the bedrooms on busy days," said 
 Aunt Clem. 
 
 She might ; but she doesn't. She is out now with the 
 children. We have a key of the square, like Annis, and she 
 takes the whole tribe there, and I get a cpiet hour indoors." 
 
 They were to dine at five, early hours suiting Major Ord ; 
 and a few minutes before the hour he and the captain were 
 heard to enter. 
 
 "Where are they going?" cried Augusta, in dismay. 
 " Never upstairs, to wash their hands ! My goodness me ! 
 can Eobert be taking him up to that untidy room ! " 
 
 " I should hope not," cried Aunt Clem : " it set my teeth 
 of order on edge. There's no water, and no clean towels, 
 and the hot-water jug, and razor, and shaving paper, are on 
 the dressing table, as your husband must have left them 
 this morning, and the bed's just as you left it, and the room 
 in a shocking litter altogether." 
 
 " They are gone in there ! Robert's as senseless as an 
 owl." 
 
 " I think it's some one else who's senseless," significantly 
 retorted Aunt Clem. " How could he suppose the room had 
 not been put to rights ? " 
 
 " Hark ! he is going for water to the nursery : Eliza 
 keeps a pitcher there. What will Major Ord think of it 
 all?" 
 
 " Some water," roared out the captain ; " there's none any- 
 where." Mrs. Courtenay riing the bell in a tremor, and 
 Harriet was heard to go up. 
 
 The gentlemen came down. The major was a pleasant 
 man, much older than Captain Courtenay. He had plenty 
 to tell Mrs. Courtenay of his sojourn abroad, and was in the 
 
TWO MARRIAGES, 
 
 277 
 
 midst of it, when a crash startled them from the kitchen. 
 Something had gone. 
 
 " It sounds like a dish," laughed the captain. " I hope 
 our dinner was not in it." 
 
 "Half-past five, and no signs of dinner. Had you not 
 better step down, and see what they are about ? " cried out 
 old-fashioned Aunt Clem to her niece. 
 
 " Oh, dear, no," coldly rej^lied Augusta, too much the fine 
 lady to do so in the sight of the major. " They do not like 
 to be interfered with." 
 
 A little more suspense, and then there came a timid knock 
 to the room door. 
 
 " Come in." 
 
 " Please, gentlefolks, the dinner's a-waiting." 
 
 A cold shiver ran right through Mrs. Courtenay, as the 
 major held out his arm. For it occurred to her that she 
 had said nothing to Harriet about who was to wait, and 
 that voice was Mrs. Brown's. Could Harriet be sending 
 that fright of a woman into the dining-room, and be stopping 
 herself in the kitchen ? 
 
 It was so. Screwing herself right behind the door, in her 
 timidity, was humble Mrs. Brown. A pale, half-starved 
 woman, with thin cheeks, and a black beard. A white apron 
 of Harriet's was tied over the corners of her shawl and her 
 patched gown, and a calico cap on her head, with a wide- 
 spreading calico border that flew up as she moved. On the 
 table, where the soup ought to have been, was a large plated 
 dish-cover, completely covering what might be underneath, 
 and resting on the tablecloth. 
 
 The captain was speechless. He looked at Mrs. Brown, 
 he looked at the cover, and he looked at his wife ; and his 
 wife would have been thankful not to look anywhere, but to 
 sink through the floor or escape up the chimney. But they 
 took their seats, Mrs. Brown drew up, and Aunt Clem 
 volunteered grace, during the captain's maze. 
 
 " Please, sir, am I to take off the kiver ? " 
 
 "What is the meaning of this?" ejaculated the captain, 
 unable to contain himself any longer. 
 
 He probably meant Mrs. Brown. She thought otherwise. 
 
278 
 
 TWO MABRIAGES, 
 
 She lifted tLe " Idver," and disclosed a pie-dish containing 
 soup. 
 
 "Please, gentlefolks, we had a misfortin, and broke the 
 tureen : but it's only in three pieces, and can be riveted." 
 
 " Where's Harriet ? " fiercely demanded Captain Coiirtenay, 
 
 " Please, sir, she's in the kitchen." 
 Go down there, and send her up." 
 
 Mrs. Brown went down : but Mrs. Brown came up again. 
 
 " Please, gentlefolks, Harriet haven't a-cleaned of herself, 
 and she's rather black. Please, as soon as she have dished 
 up her ducks and chops, she says she'll wash her hands and 
 face, and come." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Courtenay's face wanted washing — washing 
 with some cooling lotion, to allay its fever-heat. The 
 captain, helpless and crestfallen, served out the soup. 
 
 " What soup d'ye call this ? " unceremoniously asked 
 Aunt Clem, at the first S2)oonful. 
 
 " Vermicelli soup," replied Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 " Are you sure it is not made of coffee-berries ? " returned 
 Aunt Clem, 
 
 Whether the soup was made of water, or grease, or coffee- 
 ])erries, no one could tell ; but it was like a mixture of all 
 three. 
 
 " If these are not coffee-berries, I never sav/ coffee-berries," 
 persisted Aunt Clem, striking her spoon against sundry 
 hard brown substances in her plate. 
 
 " They are coffee-berries," uttered the j)erplexed captain. 
 
 " Please, gentlefolks, when Harriet was a-going to put in 
 the vermisilli, she laid hold on the wrong paper, and the 
 coffee-berries slipped in afore she found out her mistake," 
 explained Mrs. Brown. ^- There was no time to fish them 
 out again." 
 
 Apart from the coffee-berries, the soup was uneatable, and 
 the spoons were laid down. " Take it away," said the captain. 
 
 So Mrs. Brown carried away the pie-dish, and upon re- 
 turning to remove the respective plates, she asked first, 
 individually, " Please, had they done with it ? " 
 
 "Never mind, Mrs. Courtenay," said Major Ord, good- 
 humouredly; "misfortunes will happen, you knov/, in the 
 
TWO ]\rARrvIA(IEi^, 
 
 270 
 
 best regulated family, I am an old travcllerj and think 
 nothing of them.*' 
 
 Let us hope what's coming will be better," observed the 
 captain. " And we'll try the wine meanwhile, major." 
 
 What was coming was tolerably long in coming, and Mrs. 
 Courtenay grew hotter ; but when it did come, it came in 
 triumph. Harriet (in clean hands and face) bearing one 
 dish, and Mrs. Brown another, and then both returned for 
 the vegetables. The major gently rubbed his hands, and 
 the covers were removed. 
 
 ''Lamb chops, and ducks, major," said Mrs, Courtenay. 
 " We made no stranger of you." 
 
 Which were the chops and which were the ducks ? The 
 dish before Mrs. Courtenay appeared to contain a mass of 
 something as black as j)itch. It was the chops, burnt to 
 a coal. That was unpardonable of Harriet, for she could 
 cook chops well. " I fear I cannot recommend the chops," 
 said the miserable hostess, " but I think I can the " 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay came to a dead standstill. For upon 
 looking towards the ducks she was struck by the extra- 
 ordinary appearance they presented. The captain was also 
 gazing upon them with open mouth, and Aunt Clem vras 
 putting on her spectacles for a better view. 
 
 " What d'ye call them ? " asked Aunt Clem. " They must 
 be some foreign-shaped creatures from abroad." 
 
 " Harriet, are those the ducks ? " uttered Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 They were the ducks, but 
 
 If I don't believe they have been cooked with their 
 heads on ! " interrupted Aunt Clem. " And those things 
 sticking up in the air are the beaks, and those four things 
 are their eyes. My gracious, girl ! " turning sharply round 
 to Harriet, " did you ever see ducks cooked with their heads 
 on before ? " 
 
 The heads had been elevated, in an ingenious way, by 
 means of upright skewers, with, as Aunt Clem expressed it, 
 the beak sticking up. The feet were sticking up also, and 
 spread out like fans. Harriet made her escape from the 
 room. 
 
 '' They won't eat the worse for it," said Major Ord, good- 
 
280 
 
 TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 natiiredly ; and the captain proceeded to carve them in the 
 best manner he could, considering the array of skewers. 
 Stuffing, major ? 
 
 " If you please. It is called a vulgar taste, I believe, but 
 I plead guilty to liking the stuffing." 
 
 " So do I, sir," said Aunt Clem, fixing her spectacles on 
 the major's face, "and I hope I never shall shrink from 
 avowing it, though the world does seem to be turning itself 
 topsy-turvy, aping what it calls refinement. A duck without 
 the sage and onions wouldn't be a duck to me." 
 Nor to me either, ma'am," said the major. 
 
 " What very extraordinary stuffing ! " uttered Aunt Clem, 
 who was tlie first helped. " What's it made of ? " continued 
 she, sniffing and tasting. 
 
 " Made of ! " hesitated the unhappy Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 " Please, gentlefolks, it's chiefly made of suet, with thyme 
 and pa'sley and crumbled bread and pepper and salt," spoke 
 up Mrs. Brown. 
 
 " Fortune be good to us ! " uttered Aunt Clem ; " why,, 
 that's a veal stuffing. Ducks are stuffed with sage and onions." 
 
 " Please, gentlefolks, I tolled Harriet I had seen 'em done 
 with sage and inions, and she asked if I thought I knowed 
 better than her." 
 
 " Will you have any of it, major ? " inquired the captain, 
 very quietly, in his mortification. 
 
 " Well, I don't know. How will it taste ? " 
 
 The vegetables would have been very good had they been 
 done, but the peas were as hard as the coffee-berries, and 
 the grass, as Aunt Clem called it, had never been untied 
 from the bundle in which it was bought. The young 
 potatoes were in a mash. They were trying to make a 
 dinner, when a divertisement occurred : the children, re- 
 turning home from their walk, burst into the room, and, 
 undisciplined and wilful as they were, could only be got 
 rid of by force, the captain being obliged to rise from table 
 and assist in the ejection, whilst their screams frightened 
 the visitor and deafened Aunt Clem. Poor Captain Courtenay 
 almost swore a mental oath that he would run away to 
 Africa with morning light, 
 
TWO MAERIAGES. 
 
 281 
 
 " Oil, Aunt Clem ! did ever anything go so unfortunately ? 
 burst forth Mrs. Courtenay, in a shower of agonizing tears, 
 the moment she escaped from the dining-room. " What is 
 to be done? What will Major Ord think of me, as the 
 mistress of such a household — such housekeeping ? " 
 
 " He will think you are an idiot," was the complimentary 
 reply of Aunt Clem. " And so do I. I am going to Mrs. 
 Lance now : it is late," 
 
 " I'll go with you," feverishly uttered Augusta. " I 
 cannot stay here and face my husband and the major at 
 coffee." 
 
 " Caution the kitchen first, then, that they don't make the 
 coffee of vermicelli," retorted Aunt Clem. 
 
 The peaceful home of her sister Annis, everything so 
 quiet and orderly, was like a haven of rest, after her own, 
 to Mrs. Courtenay. Dr. and Mrs. Marsh were there, but 
 Mr. Lance had not returned from town, to the extreme sur- 
 prise, if not alarm, of his wife, for he was always punctual. 
 He soon came in, and Captain Courtenay with him, Major 
 Ord having pleaded an evening engagement. 
 
 " We cannot go on like this," cried the captain, sup- 
 pressing his temper, as he looked at his sobbing wife, who 
 had been detailing her grievances. " Where lies the fault ? 
 and what is to be done ? " 
 
 " I think the fault lies in Augusta's incapacity for manage- 
 ment," said Dr. Marsh, " and " 
 
 " Oh, papa," she sobbed, " you don't know how I have 
 tried to learn." 
 
 " And in your being unable, both of you, to accommodate 
 yourselves to your reduced income," he added. " Augusta, 
 child, you interrupted me. It is now four hundred a-year : 
 but with all your discomfort you must be exceeding it." 
 
 "Four hundred won't cover our expenses this year," 
 answered the captain, gloomily. 
 
 An ominous pause ensued : all present felt that such 
 prospects were not bright ones. Aunt Clem broke it with 
 a groan. 
 
 " Courtenay," observed the doctor, " your club and your 
 put-door luxuries must be incompatible with your means." 
 
282 
 
 TWO MARPJAGES, 
 
 " I can't live without my club," interrupted the captain, 
 in earnest accents : "I must have some refuge from such a 
 home as mine. And how to spend less in any one point 
 than we do is more than I can tell ; or Augusta either, I 
 believe. Lance — Annis— why don't you teach us your 
 secret ? " 
 
 "Ah, we began at the right end," .laughed Mr. Lance; 
 " we economized at first, and it is now pleasant to us. We 
 have had to practise self-denial patiently, to bear and for- 
 bear : but we have every wished-for comfort, and are happy." 
 
 " And you seem to live well, and you sometimes have a 
 friend to dine with you, Lance," cried the captain. 
 
 " To be sure. We do not keep ourselves to ourselves, 
 like hermits." 
 
 "And he does not get soup made of grease and coffee- 
 berries, and ducks roasted with their heads on, and stuffed 
 vrith suet ; and a she-animal in a beard and a shawl to w\ait 
 upon him ! " grumbled the captain ; which sent Mr. Lance 
 into an explosion of laughter, for he had not heard of the 
 mishaps of the day. 
 
 "It is of no use to mince the matter," cried Aunt Clem 
 to the captain and his wife, in her most uncompromising 
 voice. " You two never ought to have married ; you are 
 not fitted by nature for a limited income, and turn its incon- 
 veniences into pleasures. What's more, you never will: 
 you will go on in this miserable way for ever : and what 
 will be the end of it, I don't know." 
 
 There was another pause : for Aunt Clem's words were 
 true, and could not be gainsaid. 
 
 " I v/ish I had your occupation, Lance, or some other," 
 exclaimed the captain. 
 
 " I wish you had, indeed. An idle man needs to have a 
 pocket full of money." 
 
 " But, Lance," mused the captain, " you must have brought 
 a strong will to bear down your old habits when you married 
 Annis." 
 
 "' Yes : and as strong a conscience," replied Mr. Lance, in 
 low tones. " We both deliberated well upon what we were 
 going to do, and we felt that we could go through with it, 
 
TWO MAERIAGES, 
 
 283 
 
 and succeed. It is difficult for men, brought up in expensive 
 habits, as you and I were, Courtenay, to subdue them elfectu- 
 ally, and become quiet members of society, men of reflection, 
 good husbands and fathers, and remain so, without a struggle. 
 Temptations to relapse beset on all sides ; and fev/ find out 
 the right way, and acquire the inward strength to resist 
 them. But if it is found, and acquired, the struggle soon 
 ceases, and all the rest is easy." 
 
 But you will never find it out, captain," exclaimed Aunt 
 Clem ; " you and Augusta are of the wrong sort. Geoftry 
 and Annis set out in the practice of self-denial : Annis in 
 the shape of dress, visiting, and gaiety, and Geoffry in that 
 of out-door society. Annis, too, had the knack of domestic 
 economy ; Augusta had not ; and there's a great deal in 
 that. Some are born with it, and others seem as if they 
 can never acquire it, try as they will." 
 
 "And what will you do for money, when your children 
 want educating, Augusta?" asked Mrs. Marsh. 
 
 ^' I'm sure I don't know, mamma," was the helpless answer. 
 Wo are putting by for that," said Annis. 
 
 " Putting by, out of three hundred a-year ! " ejaculated 
 Captain Courtenay. 
 
 " A little," she replied. " And the first year or two of 
 our marriage we were enabled to put by really a great deal. 
 But it causes me many an anxious thought, for I know 
 how exjoensive education is." 
 
 " We shall weather it, Annis," said her husband. 
 
 '•Yes," she sighed, " I hope we shall. And I believe vre 
 shall," she added, more cheerfully: I never lose my trust, 
 except in some wrong moment of despondency. Augusta 
 has made me look on the dark side of things to-night." 
 
 " I know we shall," Mr. Lance replied, gazing at her with 
 a meaning smile and a bright eye. " The half-yearly meet- 
 ing of the institution took place to-day, and the governors 
 had me before them, said some civil things to me, and raised 
 my salary. It was what I never exj)ected." 
 
 " Eaised your salary ! " she eagerly uttered. 
 
 " One hundred a-year, and intimated that by-and-by they 
 might do more." 
 
284 
 
 TWO MARRIAGES. 
 
 " Ob, Geoftry ! " The tears rushed into her eyes in spite 
 of herself. It was such a reward— for their patient perse- 
 verance had been attended with rubs and crosses. All fears 
 for the future seemed at an end. 
 
 "Let me congratulate you, Lance," cried the captain, 
 heartily. " You can launch out a little more now." 
 
 " Launch out," returned Mr. Lance, with a glance at his 
 wife, which she well understood. " Is it to be so, Annis ? " 
 
 " I think not," she said, with a happy smile. " We are 
 quite contented as we are, and will put it by for our 
 children." 
 
 " You'll be geese if you don't," sharply cried Aunt Clem. 
 " What could you want to launch out in, I should like to 
 know, beyond what you have ? A coach and four ? " 
 
 " They have learnt the secret," said Dr. Marsh, nodding 
 to the company. "Lance and Annis are happy on their 
 three hundred a-year, for they confine their desires within 
 their income : if you, Courtenay and Augusta, came into 
 five thousand a-year to-morrow, you would be sure to go 
 beyond it. They conform their wants to their circum- 
 stances : you can't ; and, as Aunt Clem says, you never will. 
 And " 
 
 " Never," put in Aunt Clem. 
 
 " And there lies all the difierence," concluded the doctor. 
 
 There it does all lie. And the expediency, or inex- 
 pediency, of frugal marriages can never be satisfactorily 
 settled: for where one couple will go on and flourish, 
 bravely surmounting their difficulties, another will come to 
 repentance, poverty, and embarrassment, and a third live, 
 in private, after the proverbially happy manner of a cat 
 and dog. It does not lie altogether in the previous habits, 
 or in the education, or in the disposition, still less in the 
 previous station of life : it lies far more in the capacity of 
 the husband and the wife, both, being able to adapt them- 
 selves cheerfully, and hopefully, and perseveringly to their 
 circumstances : and few will be able to tell whether or not 
 they can so adapt themselves, until they try it; whether 
 the irrevocable step will turn out for better, or for worse. 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 An incident savouring strongly of romance occurred many 
 years ago in one of the midland counties of England. It is 
 a true story. 
 
 There stood one morning in the post-office of the chief 
 town of Highamshire (as ive will call it) two gentlemen sort- 
 ing letters. The London mail had just come in, bringing 
 its multiplicity of business. They v/ere the postmaster of 
 Higham and his son. The former, most deservedly re- 
 spected by his fellow-citizens, and well-connected, had held 
 the situation for many years ; the latter, a handsome young 
 man, looked forward to holding the situation after him. 
 
 " Ready," cried out Mr. Grame, in a loud tone ; and the 
 side-door opened, and four men entered, and ranged them- 
 selves in front of the counter. They were the tov/n post- 
 men, and each, receiving his separate freight, departed for 
 his allotted quarter of the city. It was striking half-past 
 nine as they left the post-office : an hour considered to be 
 good time in those days. 
 
 Mr. Grame and his son continued their work : that of 
 making-up the bags for the cross-country towns and villages* 
 Upon one letter, as it came under his observation, Mr. 
 Grame's eye rested rather longer than on the rest. 
 
 "Here's Farmer Sterling's letter at last, Walter," ho 
 observed to his son* 
 
288 
 
 THE MAiL-CABT rxOBBEPvY. 
 
 ^* Has it come ? " cried tlic j^oung man, in a lively tone, 
 while lie siiS23endecl for a moment liis own employment, and 
 leaned towards liis father, to look at the address of the 
 letter in question. " ' Mr. Sterling, Hill House Farm, 
 Lay ton, Highamshire.' Ah ! he need not have been so 
 fidgety over it ; I told him it would be all right." 
 
 "He has never been otherwise than fidgety over this 
 yearly letter." 
 
 " Because of the money it contains," rejoined Walter. 
 
 At that moment somebody's knuckles came rapping at the 
 glazed window ; and Mr. Grame, who stood next it, pushed 
 back the wooden slide from an open pane and looked out* 
 But, first of all, he dropped the letter for Farmer Sterling 
 safely into the Layton bag. 
 
 " Is that there letter come yet, sir ? " inquired the voice 
 at the window. 
 
 " Oh, is it you, Stone ! I don't think it is. What was to 
 be the address ? " 
 
 " Miss Parker, Post-office, till called for." 
 
 "Ay. No, it has not arrived. Better luck to-morroWj 
 perhaps." 
 
 " It's my belief it Avon't come at all. The j^oung woman, 
 you know, replied to the advertisement for a housekeeper, 
 which was in the HigJiam Herald last Saturday week. I 
 tell'd her yesterday that perhaps she'd have no answer. Did 
 you hear of Ned Cook's shoj^ being broke into last night, 
 sir?" 
 
 " No," shortly answered the postmaster. " I am busy 
 now, and can't talk." 
 
 And the board slided sharply back again, nearly shutting 
 up the end of Mr. Stone's nose with it. " Good-day, gentle- 
 men," said that discomfited applicant, as he moved away. 
 
 A little more work in the post-office, and then Mr. Grame 
 called out as before, " Weirford and Layton bags ready ! " 
 And a tall, fine young man, with an open countenance, look- 
 ii]g much more like a gentleman than like the driver of a 
 village mail-cart, came in. 
 
 ''^Not a heavy freight this morning, John/' observed Mr. 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 289 
 
 Grame, as he handed over the bags, secured only with string, 
 the careless practice of the Higham post- office in those days, 
 and of other post-offices, also. " Have you had your horse 
 rough-shod ? " 
 
 " All right and ready," responded John Ledbitter, with 
 a pleasant smile. 
 
 "Or I don't know how you would get to Layton ; the 
 roads must be dreadful. Take care that you start back in 
 good time, or you may be too late for the evening mail." 
 
 " I'll take care," answered the young man. " As to the 
 roads, if anybody can drive over them I can, let them be 
 what they will. Any commands" — dropping his voice as 
 he spoke to the son — " for the farm, Mr. Walter ? " 
 
 " Are you going there this morning ? " 
 
 " If I don't change my mind. Can I carry any message, 
 I say?" 
 
 "No," sharply replied Mr. Walter Grame, and John 
 Ledbitter laughed to himself as he went out with the bags. 
 
 Locking them into the box of his cart, an open vehicle, 
 and taking his seat, he drove out of the town towards 
 Layton, as fast as the dangerous roads would allow. It 
 was the month of January, and Jack Frost had come down 
 with all his severity : snow on the fields, icicles on the 
 trees, frozen snow and ice lying in wait to break limbs on 
 the road. But John Ledbitter's horse had been prepared 
 for the state of affairs, and he drove him cautiously. 
 
 " It's too bad of me, but I do like to nettle him," he said to 
 himself, as he laid the reins on the dash-board, and began to 
 beat his arms, to bring a little feeling into them. " ' Are you 
 going thereV cries he so sharply, when I mischievously asked 
 him if he had any commands for the farm. Many a day 
 does not pass over my head but I do go there, Master Walter, 
 and that you'll find out, soon. Now, Saucy Sir ! hold up ! " 
 
 " The idea of Ms making up to her," continued Mr. John 
 Ledbitter, tightening the reins. " She's a mile and a half 
 too good for him. Why is it I never liked the fellow? 
 She has nothing to do with the dislike : he always repelled 
 me ; years before I thought of her. He is a handsome man, 
 an agreeable companion, has plenty of intellect— yes, all 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 19 
 
290 
 
 THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 that. But, there's a turn in his expression that I don't like, 
 something crafty, not geniune ; other people may not see it, 
 but I know it repels me. And look at the fellow's vanity 
 where women are concerned ! He thinks that he has only 
 to ask Selina and have her. Not so fast, Mr. Walter Grame : 
 Selina cares more for my little finger than she does for your 
 whole self — as the old song goes : 
 
 ' Despise her not, said Lord Thomas, 
 
 Despise her not unto me, 
 For I love thy little finger 
 Better than her whole body.* 
 
 Gently, Saucy Sir ! keep your feet, if you please, to-day, of 
 all days in the year." 
 
 Finding his whole attention must be directed to the care 
 of his horse, John Ledbitter put off his reflections to a more 
 convenient season. At length he reached Layton, a small 
 town about seven miles from Higham, having left the other 
 bag at Weirford on his way. He drove straight to the post- 
 office, unlocked his cart, and delivered the Layton bag to the 
 postmaster, Mr. Marsh. 
 
 " A sharp day," remarked the latter. 
 
 " Sharp enough," replied John. " I have had some trouble 
 with the horse, I can tell you." 
 
 "It's a wonder he kept his feet at all. Sir Geoffry 
 Adams's bailiff was coming down yonder hill last night on 
 the bay mare, and down she went, and broke her leg. Had 
 to be shot." 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 " I stepped up, and saw her lying there in the road, Mr. 
 Ledbitter : her groans, poor thing, were just like a human 
 creature's. Sir Geoffry was called out from his dinner, and 
 shot her with his own hand. He was awful with Master 
 Bailiff over it, and told him if he had been humane enough 
 to lead her down the hill, it would not have happened. He 
 was cut up too, and didn't offer a word of excuse to Sir 
 Geoffry. Good- day, if you are off to put up Saucy Sir." 
 
 The mail-cart and Saucy Sir being comfortably deposited 
 at their usual quarters, John Ledbitter took a sharp walk of 
 twenty minutes, which brought him to Hill House Farm. 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 291 
 
 taking off his great coat and leggings before he entered the 
 sitting-room, he appeared in morning attire usually worn in 
 those days by gentlemen. 
 
 " Here's a morning ! " he said, as a fair, quiet-looking girl 
 rose at his entrance, the farmer's only child. Many would 
 have called Miss Sterling's features plain, but in her gentle 
 voice and truthful earnest eyes lay plenty of attraction. 
 
 " What a journey you must have had ! " she exclaimed, 
 giving him her hand. 
 
 Ay, indeed. I thought once it would have come to my 
 carrying Saucy Sir. Where's Selina ? " 
 
 Before Miss Sterling could reply, her father entered. 
 " Ah, Master Ledbitter, is it you ? " he said. " Well, d'ye 
 think you have brought that letter of mine to-day ? " 
 
 " I don't knov/," laughed the young man. " I have brought 
 the bag. I cannot say what letters are in it." 
 
 " Well, I can't account for the delay. If that letter's lost, 
 there's fifty pounds gone. And fifty pounds are not picked 
 up in a day. Master Ledbitter." 
 
 Some few years before this, the sister of Mrs. Sterling, 
 who had married a Mr. Cleeve and settled in London, died, 
 leaving one only daughter. Mr. Cleeve married again, and 
 then the child was consigned to the home and care of Mrs. 
 Sterling, Mr. Cleeve forwarding every Christmas a fifty- 
 pound note, to cover her expenses. It was this note that 
 Farmer Sterling was so anxious to receive ; and each year, 
 from the moment Christmas-Day was turned until the money 
 was actually in hand, he never ceased worrying himself and 
 everybody about him, with conjectures that the note was 
 lost. It had been pointed out to him several times, that to 
 have the money conveyed in a letter was not a very safe 
 mode of transit. But the farmer would answer that it had 
 always come safely hitherto (though with delay), and he 
 had no time, not he, to go driving into Higham to receive it 
 from the bankers there. So that Mr. Sterling continued to 
 expect and receive this important letter and its enclosure 
 every year ; a well-known fact to all Layton, and to half 
 Higham. This was the letter noticed by the postmaster 
 that morning, as he sorted it into the Layton bag. 
 
292 
 
 THE MAIL-CAHT ROBBERY. 
 
 Selina Cleeve, now grown up, and about tlie age of her 
 cousin, was a tall, well educated, handsome, dark-eyed girl, 
 full of fun and laughter ; she played and sang like the 
 nightingales in Lay to a Wood (as people were wont to ex- 
 press it), rode her horse with ease and grace, and took 
 everybody's heart by storm. All the bachelor farmers were 
 quarrelling for her ; and many a fine gentleman from 
 Higham wore out his horse's shoes riding over to Hill 
 House Farm. They might have spared themselves the 
 trouble ; the farmers their quarrelling, and the gentlemen 
 their steeds, for the young lady's heart was given to John 
 Ledbitter; but, woman-like, she kept this to herself, and 
 evinced no objection to the universal admiration. As to 
 Anne Sterling, no fine gentleman noticed her ; her attractive 
 cousin was all in all. The housekeeping and other house- 
 hold management devolved on Anne ; who had been as 
 well-educated as her cousin, except in the matter of some 
 accomplishments. Mrs. Sterling was an invalid, and some- 
 times did not leave her room for days together. 
 
 " Shall you be able to come to-night ? " said Anne Sterling 
 to Mr. Ledbitter, as her father left the parlour. 
 
 "With this weather, Anne?" he returned, half jestingly. 
 
 " But the moon will be up. Do try." 
 
 " You unreasonable girl ! the moon will not dissolve the ice 
 on the roads. What is it you are doing there, so industriously?'^ 
 
 "Cutting papers for the candlesticks," rejoined Anne. 
 " This is the last. And now I must hasten into the kitchen. 
 I have a tliousand-and-one things to do to-day, and the 
 maids' heads seem turned." 
 
 " Can I help you?" 
 
 " No," laughed Anne, " you would be a hindrance, I 
 suspect, instead of a help. Selina will be here directly." 
 
 She entered the parlour as Anne Sterling left it. A 
 stylish girl, in a rich plaid silk dress, her black hair worn 
 in heavy braids round her head. Selina's private allowance 
 from her father was liberal, and she dressed in accordance 
 with it. Upon her entrance, John Ledbitter's manner 
 changed to one of deep tenderness. He closed the door, and 
 drew her fondly to him. 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 293 
 
 "Oil, John!" were her first words, "what unfortunate 
 weather for our party to-night ! You will never be able to 
 come." 
 
 "My darling! Had I to walk every step of the way, 
 here and back, and could remain but time to snatch one 
 word with you, I should not fail to come." 
 
 " But you will have both to come and return in the night ! 
 Others can choose the daylight." 
 
 " The first dance, remember, Selina, after I do get here. 
 Who comes from Higham ? Walter Grame, of course." 
 
 "Of course. And his sisters come, and several others: 
 all the young lawyers and doctors in the town, I think. 
 Walter Grame has engaged me for the first and last dances : 
 you will not be here at either. And as many more as I 
 would accord him between, he said " 
 
 John Ledbitter laughed a meaning laugh, and his eye 
 twinkled mischievously. "' Selina," he whispered, " I fear 
 his case is desperate. What say you ? " 
 
 She understood him. And though she did not say it in 
 words, he read the answer in her bent, happy countenance. 
 
 Delaying his departure as long as was prudent, and still 
 talking with Miss Cleeve, John Ledbitter at length rose to 
 go. In the kitchen, where he went to don his overalls and 
 rough coat, he met Molly, carrying out a tray of mince pies 
 and small tartlets. Molly had lived in the family for twenty 
 years ; and tyrannized in consequence over the other servant, 
 Joan, who had been in it only ten. 
 
 " Don't they look first-rate ! " cried Molly to the young 
 man, who was coolly helping himself. " But they be 
 nothing, Mr. J ohn ; just please step in here." Opening the 
 door of a large room, she proudly disclosed to view the long 
 supper-table, already laid out with its tempting dainties, 
 and decorated with holly and laurels. A magnificent 
 twelfth-day cake stood in the middle, for it was Twelfth- 
 Day. A bright fire of wood and coal blazed away in the grate. 
 
 " Grand ! Glorious ! " exclaimed John. " Why you must 
 have had half the pastrycooks in the parish here to prepare 
 all those sweets and jellies ! " 
 
 " Pastrycooks ! what next ? " cried the ofi'ended Molly. 
 
294 
 
 THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 " Miss Anne and mc did 'em all ourselves. You won't find 
 Miss Anne's match in this county, Mi\ Ledbitter; nor in 
 any other. My mistress has brought her up right well. 
 She don't play the pianer, it's true; and she don't spend 
 hours over her hair, a- setting of it off in outlandish winds 
 about her head ; and she don't dress in silks the first thing 
 in a morning," satirically added Molly, with an allusion to 
 somebody else, which Mr. John perfectly well understood, 
 and laughed at. " But see Miss Anne in illness : who tends 
 a sick body's bed like she ? — hear her pleasant voice a-sootli- 
 ing any poor soul what's in trouble — look how she manages 
 this house, and gives counsel to master about the farm out- 
 doors ! No, Mr. John : you young gentlemen like to please 
 your eye, but give me one who has got qualities inside of 
 'em that will shine out when hair's grey and planers is rusty.'* 
 
 John Ledbitter turned away laughing. He ran against 
 the farmer in the kitchen. 
 
 " Are you coming to their fine doings to-night, Mr. 
 Ledbitter?" 
 
 " If 1 can get here/' 
 
 " Bless the foolish women, I say ; putting things about, 
 like this, for a night's pleasure ! I don't know our house 
 upstairs, Mr. John ; I don't, I assure you. They have made 
 the big best bedroom into the dancing-room, and covered the 
 walls with green leaves and sconces for candles, and chalked 
 the floor. J won't be candle-snuffer." 
 
 " There won't be no snuffing wanted, master," interposed 
 Molly, tartly. " The candles is wax." 
 
 "Wax! I said I'd have no wax candles in the house 
 again," retorted the farmer. "The last time we had one 
 of these affairs, I got my best blue coat covered with its 
 droppings." 
 
 " Never you mind the droppings, master," cried Molly ; 
 " the room will look beautiful." 
 
 " It had need to," rejoined the farmer. " I shall stop in 
 the kitchen and smoke my pipe. Good-day, Mr. John, if 
 you are going." 
 
 Mr. John had to go, though no doubt his will would have 
 inclined him to stay. In half-an-hour's time he was driving 
 
THE MAIL- CART KOBBERY, 
 
 295 
 
 Saucy Sir back to Higham with the Layton and Weirforcl 
 letter-bags for the evening mail, which was made up at 
 Higham in the afternoon. 
 
 A merry scene that evening at the Hill House Farm ! It 
 was the custom in the neighbourhood for the more wealthy 
 farmers to hold annually one of these entertainments, which 
 were distinguished by great profusion of dainties, a hearty 
 welcome, and thorough enjoyment. Dancing was kept up 
 till daylight, then came breakfast, and then the guests dis- 
 persed. At Mr. Sterling s the party had been omitted for 
 the last two years, in consequence of Mrs. Sterling's pre- 
 carious state of health ; now, as she was somewhat better, 
 it was renewed again. Mr. Sterling was highly regarded 
 by all. In spite of his rustic mode of speech, he was a 
 superior man. 
 
 The ball began with a country-dance, always the first 
 dance at these meetings, the Vicar of Lay ten opening it 
 with Miss Sterling. He had just been presented to the 
 living— a very poor one, by the way — and as yet knew but 
 few of his parishioners personally ; he was a young man, 
 and enjoyed the dancing as much as anybody. Next to 
 them stood young Mr. Grame and Selina Cleeve, by far the 
 handsomest couple in the room. Mrs, Sterling sat in an 
 arm-chair by the fire, looking pale and delicate, and by her 
 side sat the new vicar's mother, who had come to Layton to 
 keep house for him. The farmer, as he had threatened, was 
 in the kitchen, smoking his pipe, a knot of elderly friends 
 round him doing the same and discussing the state of the 
 markets ; but as they were all in full dress (blue frock-coats 
 with brass buttons, drab breeches and gaiters, and crimson 
 neckties), their presence in the ball-room might with cer- 
 tainty be looked for by-and-by. 
 
 It was nine o'clock v/hen John Ledbitter entered, in 
 evening dress. Some of the young farmers nudged each 
 other. " He's come to take the shine out of Grame," they 
 whispered. He did take the shine out of him ; for though 
 young Grame could boast of his good looks and fine figure, 
 he was not half so popular as John Ledbitter. John made 
 his way at once to Mrs. Sterling and spoke with her a little 
 
296 
 
 THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 while. He had a pleasant voice, and the accent and address 
 of a cultivated man. Mrs. Cooper, the clergyman's mother, 
 looked after him as he moved away to take his place in the 
 dance. She inquired who he was. 
 
 " It is John Ledbitter," said Anne Sterling. 
 
 " I thought— dear me, what an extraordinary likeness ! " 
 said the Keverend Mr. Cooper, following John with his 
 eyes — " how like that gentleman is to the man who drives 
 the mail-cart ! I was noticing the man this morning as he 
 drove into Layton ; he aj^peared to manage his horse so 
 skilfully." 
 
 " John Ledbitter is the driver of the mail-cart," interposed 
 Walter Grame, drawing himself up, as much as to say that 
 he would not stoop to drive a mail-cart. 
 
 " I must explain it to you," said Mrs. Sterling, noting the 
 perplexed look of the clergyman. " Old Mr. Ledbitter, 
 John's father, was an architect and land-agent in Higham. 
 He had the best business connection in all the county, but 
 his large family kept his profits down, for he reared them 
 expensively and never laid by. So that when he died they 
 had to shift for themselves. John, the third son, had been 
 brought up an agriculturist, and obtained a post as manager 
 to the estate of a gentleman who lived much abroad. How- 
 ever, the owner sold the property, and John lost his situa- 
 tion. This was — how long ago, Anne ? " 
 
 " About four months, mother." 
 
 " Yes ; and he had held it about three years. Well, poor 
 John could not immediately get into anything : one promised 
 him something, and another promised him something, but 
 no place seemed to drop in. One day he had come over to 
 see Sir Geoffrey Adams on business, and was standing by 
 the post-office here, when the driver of the mail-cart fell 
 down in a fit, just as he was about to start, and died. There 
 was nobody to drive the cart back to Higham ; the afternoon 
 was flying on, and the chances were that the Layton and 
 Weirford letters would lose the mail. So John Ledbitter 
 said he would drive it ; and he did so, and got the bags to 
 Higham in time." 
 
 " He drove to and fro the next day, and for several days," 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 297 
 
 interpoKsed Walter Grame, who had appeared anxious ^o 
 speak, " nobody turning up, at the pinch, to whom we chose 
 to entrust the bags. So my father, in a joke, told Ledbitter 
 he had better keep the place ; and, by Jupiter ! if he didn't 
 nail it ! The chaffing's not over in Higham yet. Ledbitter 
 can't walk through the streets but he gets in for it. And 
 serve him right : the fellow can expect nothing but chaff, 
 if he chooses to degrade himself to the level of a mail-cart 
 driver." 
 
 " It is not the pay he does it for, which is trifling, but he 
 argues that idleness is the root of mischief ; and this daily 
 occupation keeps him out of both," said Anne, looking at 
 Walter Grame. " He has only taken it as a temporary thing, 
 until something better falls in." 
 
 " Ledbitter's one in a thousand," rang out the bluff voice 
 of George Blount, a keen-looking young farmer who had 
 just come up from the card-room ; " and there's not one in 
 a thousand that would have have had the moral courage to 
 defy pride and put his shoulder to the wheel as he has done. 
 Is it not more to his credit to take up with this honest 
 employment, and live on the pay while he's waiting for a 
 place to drop from the clouds, than to skulk idly about 
 Higham, and sponge upon his brothers ? You dandy town 
 bucks may turn up your ]ioses at him for it, Master Grame, 
 but he has shown himself a downright sensible man. What 
 do you think, sir ? " added the speaker, abruptly addressing 
 the clergyman. 
 
 " It certainly appears to me that this young Mr. Ledbitter 
 is to be commended," was the reply. " I see no reflection 
 that can be cast upon him for driving the mail-cart while 
 he waits for something more suitable to his sphere of life," 
 And Anne Sterling's cheeks coloured with pleasure as she 
 heard the words. She knew the worth of John Ledbitter : 
 perhaps too well. 
 
 " He'll get on fast," cried young Blount ; " these steady- 
 minded, persevering fellows are safe to rise in the world. 
 In twenty years' time from this, if John Ledbitter has not 
 won himself a home and twenty thousand pounds, it will 
 surprise me." 
 
298 
 
 THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 ^'I am glad to hear this opinion from you; Mr. Blount, 
 for I think you are capable of judging," observed Mrs. 
 Sterling. " People tell me there is an attachment between 
 John Ledbitter and my niece ; so that we — if it is to 
 come to anything — should naturally be interested in his 
 getting on." 
 
 " I hope that is quite a mistaken idea, ma'am ; and I 
 think it is," fired Walter Grame. " You would never suffer 
 Miss Cleeve to throw herself away on him! There are 
 others " 
 
 I Mrs. Sterling made a motion for silence, for the quadrille 
 was over, and the two persons in question were approaching. 
 Selina seated herself by her aunt, and the clergyman entered 
 into conversation with J ohn Ledbitter. Presently the music 
 struck up again. 
 
 " It is my turn now, Selina," whispered Walter Grame. 
 
 She shook her head in an unconcerned manner, as she 
 toyed with a spray of heliotrope. " I am engaged to Mr. 
 Ledbitter." 
 
 " That is too bad," retorted Walter Grame, resentfully. 
 " You danced with him the last dance." 
 
 " And I have promised him this. How unreasonable you 
 are, Mr. Walter ! I have danced with you — let me think — 
 three times already." 
 
 Mr. Ledbitter turned from the vicar, and, without speak- 
 ing, took Selina's hand, and placed it within his arm. But 
 after they moved away, he leaned down to whisper to her. 
 There was evidently perfect confidence between them. 
 
 " I think it is so — that they are attached to each other," 
 remarked Mrs. Cooper, who was watching them. " I hope 
 
 their prospects v/ill Oh, goodness ! my best black silk 
 
 gown ! " 
 
 " It will not hurt ; it is only white wine negus. Anne, 
 get a cloth ; call Molly," reiterated Mrs. Sterling. For 
 Mr. Walter Grame's refreshment glass and it contents had 
 fallen from his hand on the skirt of Mrs. Cooper's dress as 
 it lay on the floor. Anne said nothing, then or afterwards, 
 but her impression was that it was ihroion down, and in 
 passion. The glass lay in fragments. 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 299 
 
 Higham great market was being held ; the first in the 
 new year. This was only a few days after the party. 
 Amongst other farmers who attended the market was Mr. 
 Sterling. About three o'clock in the afternoon, when his 
 business was over, he went into the post-office. The post- 
 master and his son were both there, the latter sitting down 
 and reading the newspaper. It was not a busy hour. 
 
 " Good-day, Mr. Grame," said the farmer. " Good-day, 
 Master Walter. I have come about that letter. I do think 
 it must be lost. It never was so late before, that I can 
 recollect." 
 
 " What letter ? " inquired the postmaster. 
 
 " Why, that letter — with the fifty pounds in it. I don't 
 expect any other. You are sure you have not overlooked it ? " 
 
 " The letter went to Layton days ago," responded Mr. 
 Grame. " Did you not receive it ? " 
 
 Farmer Sterling's eyes opened wide with perplexity. 
 " Went to Layton days ago ! " he repeated. " Where is it, 
 then?" 
 
 " If you have not had it, there must be some mismanage- 
 ment at the Layton office. But such neglect is unusual with 
 Marsh." 
 
 " Good mercy ! I hope it has not been stolen." 
 
 " Which morning was it the letter came, Walter ? " cried 
 Mr. Grame, appealing to his son. " Oh — I remember — the 
 day you and the girls were going over to the Hill House 
 Farm. It was the very morning of your wife's ball, Mr. 
 Sterling." 
 
 " The morning before, or the morning after ? " asked the 
 bewildered farmer. 
 
 " The same morning, the 6th of January. When Walter 
 and the two girls went over in the evening." 
 
 " Now, w^hy didn't you tell me that night that it was 
 come, Mr. Walter ? " expostulated the farmer. 
 
 " I never thought of the letter," replied the young man. 
 " And if I had thought of it, it would only have been to 
 suppose you had received it. You ought to have had it that 
 afternoon. Had you happened to mention the letter, I could 
 have told you it was come," 
 
300 
 
 THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 " Now look at that ! " :'groaned the farmer. " What with 
 the people and the eating and drinking, the letter never 
 came into my head at all. Are you quite sure, Mr. Grame, 
 that it was the very letter ? " 
 
 " I am sure that it was a letter addressed to you, and that 
 it came from London, I made the remark to Walter that 
 your letter was come at last. I have not the slightest doubt 
 it was the letter." 
 
 " And you sent it on to Layton ? " 
 
 " Of course I did." 
 
 " But Miss Cleeve called at our post-office yesterday, and 
 Marsh assured her no letter at all had arrived for me." 
 
 " I put it into the Layton bag myself, and secured the 
 bag myself, as I always do," returned Mr. Grame, " and the 
 bag was never out of my hands till I delivered it to John 
 Ledbitter. My son was present and saw me put it in." 
 
 " I was," said Walter. " When my father exclaimed that 
 Mr. Sterling's letter had come at last, I looked over his 
 shoulder at the address, and I saw him drop it into the bag. 
 They must have overlooked it at the Layton office, sir." 
 
 " Old Marsh is so careful a body," debated the farmer. 
 
 "He is," assented Mr. Grame. "I don't suppose he ever 
 overlooked a letter in his life. Still such a thing may occur. 
 Go to the office as soon as you return, Mr. Sterling, and tell 
 him from me that the letter went on to Laytou." 
 
 " It's a jolly vexatious thing to have all this bother. If 
 that fifty-pound note's gone, it will be my loss. Mr. Cleeve 
 objected to send in that way, but I told him I'd run the risk." 
 
 And perhaps here lay the secret of Farmer Sterling's 
 anxiety about the safe arrival of these letters — because he 
 knew that the forwarding of the money in this way was in 
 defiance of other people's opinion. 
 
 The letter never reached Layton — so old Mr. Marsh, the 
 postmaster there, affirmed, when applied to by the farmer. 
 He remembered perfectly the 6th — why, it was not a week 
 ago — the day he told Ledbitter of the accident to the bay 
 mare. No soul but himself touched the letters ; nobody but 
 himself was present that day when he opened the bag ; and 
 he could swear that the letter for Farmer Sterling was not 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 301 
 
 in it. Mr. Marsli's word was a guarantee in itself: he liad 
 held the situation two score years, and was perfectly trust- 
 worthy. 
 
 So the suspicion fell upon John Ledbitter. Indeed, it 
 may not be too much to say that the guilt was traced home 
 to him. The postmasters of Higham and Layton were known 
 and tried public servants, above all suspicion : the one had 
 put the letter in and secured the bag ; the other, when he 
 opened the bag, found the letter gone ; and none could or 
 did have access to the bag between those times but John 
 Ledbitter. He was dismissed from his situation as driver ; 
 but, strange to say, he was not brought to trial. Mr. Ster- 
 ling declined to prosecute, and no instructions were received 
 on the subject from the Government ; but John Ledbitter's 
 guilt was as surely brought home to him as it could have 
 been by twelve jurymen. Of course he made protest of his 
 innocence — what man, under a similar accusation, does not ? 
 — but his crime was too palpable. Neither the letter nor 
 its enclosure could be traced. Mr. Cleeve furnished the 
 particulars of the lost note ; it was stopped at the London 
 and country banks, handbills describing it were also hung 
 up in the different public-houses : but it was not presented 
 for payment, and was never heard of. " Saucy Sir must have 
 ate it up with his hay " quoth the joking farmers of Layton, 
 one to another : but if they accidentally met the gentleman 
 driver — as they were wont to style John Ledbitter — they 
 regarded him with an aspect very different from a joking one. 
 
 John Ledbitter entered Mr. Sterling's house only once 
 after this, and that was to resign Selina Cleeve ; to release 
 her from the tacit engagement which existed between them. 
 However, he found there was little necessity for doing so : 
 Selina released herself. He arrived at the Hill House for 
 this purpose at an inopportune moment ; for his rival — as 
 he certainly aspired to be — was there before him. 
 
 It was Sunday, and when Mr. Sterling and his family got 
 home from church in the morning they found Walter Grame 
 there, who had ridden over from Higham. He received an 
 invitation to remain and partake of their roast griskin and 
 apple-pie. After dinner, the farmer took his pipe, his wife 
 
302 
 
 THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 lay back in her cushioned arm-chair on the opposite side 
 of the hearth-rug ; and while Anne presided over the wine 
 — cowslip, sherry and port — and the filberts and cakes, 
 Walter Grame watched Selina. The conversation turned 
 upon John Ledbitter and his crime. 
 
 "I do not see how he could accomplish it," exclaimed 
 Mrs. Sterling, " unless he stopped the mail-cart, and undid 
 the bag in the road." 
 
 "Well, what was there to prevent his doing so?" re- 
 sponded her husband. 
 
 " But so deliberate a theft," repeated Mrs. Sterling. " I 
 can understand — at least, I think I can — the being overcome 
 by a moment of temptation ; but a man who could stop his 
 horse in a public road, unlock the box, and untie the letter- 
 bag for the purpose of robbing it, must be one who would 
 stand at scarcely any crime." 
 
 "Why, that's just what I told him," cried the farmer, 
 " when he came to me at Higham, wanting to make a 
 declaration of his innocence. ' What's gone with the letter 
 and the money,' I said, ' if you have not got it, Mr. .Led- 
 bitter ? ' And that shut him up ; for all he could answer 
 was that he wished he knew what had gone with it." 
 
 "Ah," broke in Walter Grame, "Ledbitter was a great 
 favourite, but I did not like him. And Higham never 
 noticed until now the singularity of his having taken to 
 drive a mail-cart. It is the opinion of more than one man 
 that the robbery was planned when he secured the place." 
 
 " What, to take that same identical letter of mine ? " 
 gasped the farmer, laying his pipe on his knee, while a 
 startled look of dismay rose to Anne Sterling's face. 
 
 "Not yours in particular, Mr. Sterling. But probably 
 yours happened to be the first letter that presented itself, as 
 bearing an enclosure worth the risk." 
 
 " The villain ! the double-faced rascal ! " uttered the 
 farmer. " That's putting the matter — and himself too — in 
 a new light." 
 
 At that moment Molly entered the room with some silver 
 forks and spoons, large and small, and shut the door behind 
 her. 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 303 
 
 " It's him," she abruptly said, coming up to the table, with 
 a face of terror. " He says he wants to see Miss Selina." 
 
 " Who does ? " demanded everybody, in a breath. 
 
 " That dreadful young Ledbitter. He come sneaking in 
 at the kitchen door : not the front way, or you'd have seen 
 him from this winder, but right across the fold-yard. I was 
 took all of a heap, and asked if he'd walk into the parlour — 
 for I was afeard of him. ' No,' says he, ' I'll not go in. Is 
 Miss Cleeve there ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, she is, I said, ' and the mistress, and Miss Anne, 
 and the master, and Mr. Walter Grame: and Joan's close 
 at hand, a-skimming the cream.' For I thought he should 
 know I was not alone in the place, if he had come to steal 
 anything. 
 
 " ' Molly,' says he, quite humbly, ' go in and ask Miss 
 Cleeve if she will step out and speak a word with me.' So 
 I grabbed up the dinner silver, which, by ill-luck, was lying 
 on the table, and away I came." 
 
 Miss Cleeve rose. " Selina ! " said Mrs. Sterling, in a 
 reproving tone. : 
 
 " Aunt," was the rejoinder, " I have also a word to say 
 to him." 
 
 " But my dear ! Well, well, just for a minute, if 
 
 you must. But remember, Selina, we cannot again admit 
 Mr. Ledbitter." 
 
 "I'd as soon admit the public hangman," declared the 
 farmer. 
 
 Scarcely had Selina left the room, when Walter Grame 
 darted after her. He drew her into the best parlour, the 
 door of which, adjacent to their sitting-room, stood open. 
 
 " Selina ! you will never accord an interview to this 
 man ? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered. " For the last time." 
 
 " What infatuation ! Do you believe in him still ? " 
 
 " That is impossible," she murmured, looking wretchedly 
 ill, and also wretchedly cross. " But, from the terms we were 
 on, a last interview, a final understanding, is necessary." 
 
 " What terms ? " he asked, biting his lips. " It cannot be 
 that you were engaged to him ? " 
 
304 
 
 THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 " Not really engaged. But, had it not been for this, liad 
 Ledbitter remained what I thought he was, we should soon 
 have been." 
 
 " I am grieved to hear it. It is a lucky escape for you." 
 
 " Oh ! and it is this which makes me so angry," she 
 bitterly exclaimed. " Why did he monopolise my society, 
 seek to make me like him, when he knew himself to be 
 a base, bad man. I, who might have chosen from all the 
 world ! Let me go, Mr. Grame : I shall be more myself, 
 when this last interview is over." 
 
 " You can have nothing to say to him, Selina, that may 
 not be said by a friend," he persisted. " Suffer me to see 
 him for you." 
 
 " Nonsense," she peevishly answered. " You cannot say 
 what I have to say." 
 
 She walked, with a hasty step, along the passage. The 
 two servants ^were whispering in the kitchen ; but Selina 
 could see no sign of Mr. Ledbitter. Molly pointed with 
 her finger towards the door of the best kitchen, and Selina 
 went into it. 
 
 In the middle of the cold, comfortless room, which had no 
 fire in' it, stood John Ledbitter. She walked up, and con- 
 fronted him without speaking, her action and countenance 
 expressing both anger and scorn. 
 
 " I see," began Mr. Ledbitter, as he looked at her. " I 
 need not have come from Higham to do my errand this 
 afternoon. It has been done for me." 
 
 " I feel it cold in this room," said Selina, glancing round, 
 and striving, pretty successfully, to hide the agitation she 
 really felt under a show of indifference. " Be so good as to 
 tell me your business — that I may return to the fire." 
 
 " My business was, partly to see how this false accusation 
 had affected you towards me : I see it too plainly now. Had 
 it been otherwise " 
 
 He stopped : either from emotion, or was at a loss to express 
 himself. She stood as still as a statue, and did not help 
 him on. 
 
 " Then I have only to say farewell," he resumed, " and to 
 thank you for the many happy hours wc have spent together. 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 305 
 
 I came to say something else : but no matter : I see now it 
 would be useless." c 
 
 " And I beg," she said, raising herself proudly up, " that 
 you will forget those hours you speak of, and which I shall 
 never reflect on but with a sense of degradation. I blush — I 
 blush,'" she vehemently repeated, " to think that the world may 
 point to me, as I pass through the streets, and say, ' There 
 goes she who was engaged to the man, John Ledbitter ! ' I 
 pray that I may never see your face again." 
 
 " You never shall — by my seeking. Should I ever hold 
 converse with you again willingly, it will be under different 
 auspices." 
 
 He quitted the room, stalked through the kitchen, and 
 across the fold-yard into the side -lane, his breast heaving 
 with passionate anger ; for she had aroused all the lion 
 within him. Molly and Joan pressed their noses against 
 the kitchen window, and stared after him till he was beyond 
 view ; just as they might have stared had some extraordinary 
 foreign animal been on view there, and with quite as much 
 curiosity. Whilst Selina Cleeve, repelling some softer 
 emotions, which seemed inclined to make themselves felt 
 within her, strove to shake John Ledbitter out of her 
 thoughts, and to say to herself, as she returned to the 
 sitting-room, that she had shaken him out of them for ever. 
 
 The years passed on, nearly two, and the postmaster at 
 Higham became stricken with mortal illness. His disease 
 was a lingering one, lasting over several months, during 
 which time he was confined to his bed, and his son managed 
 the business. One evening just before his death, when 
 "Walter was sitting in the room, the old man suddenly 
 addressed him. 
 
 " Walter," he said, " I shall soon be gone, and after that 
 they will no doubt make you postmaster. Be steady, 
 punctual, diligent in your daily business, as I trust I have 
 been ; be just and merciful in your dealings with your 
 fellow-men, as I have striven to be ; be more urgent than 
 I have ever been in serving your Maker, for there the very 
 best of us fall short. You have been a dutiful son to me ; 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 20 
 
306 
 
 THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 a good son ; and I pray that your children, in your old age, 
 may be such to you." 
 
 Walter moved uneasily in his chair. 
 
 "There is only one thing in business matters which 
 causes me regret for the past," resumed Mr. Grame — " that 
 the particulars connected with John Ledbitter's theft should 
 never have come to light. It is a weight on my conscience, 
 having suffered him to assume a post for which his position 
 unfitted him. If he sought it with the intention of doing 
 wrong, my having refused him the situation would have 
 removed the temptation from his way." 
 
 " You need not worry yourself over such a crotchet as that, 
 father," responded the younger man. " I cannot think why 
 he does not leave the country. The thing would be done 
 with then, and pass from men's minds." 
 
 " He has his punishment," observed Mr. Grame. " Aban- 
 doned by his relations, scorned by his friends, shunned by 
 all good men, and driven to get his living in the fields as 
 a day-labourer ! Many a man would sink under it " 
 
 " He is a great fool to stay in Highamshire." 
 
 " No harsh names, Walter : John Ledbitter did not offend 
 against you. Leave him to the stings of his own con- 
 science." 
 
 Walter muttered some reply, and quitted the room. He 
 never liked to be found fault with, in ever so small a degree. 
 
 During his absence, Mr, Grame dropped asleep and dreamt 
 a very vivid dream. So vivid, that, in the first moments of 
 waking up, he could not be persuaded it was not reality. 
 Its subject must have been suggested by the previous con- 
 versation. He dreamt that J ohn Ledbitter was innocent : 
 he did not see or understand how, but in his sleep he felt 
 the most solemn conviction that the fact was so. 
 
 " Walter, Walter," he gasped forth, after his confused 
 relation of it, upon the return of his son, " when his inno- 
 cence is brought to light, do you try and make it up to him. 
 I would, if I were alive." 
 
 "When his innocence — what do you mean, sir? You 
 must be asleep still. A dream is but a dream." 
 
 "Well — if it comes to light, if it shall bo proved that 
 
THE MAIL-CAKT ROBBERY. 
 
 307 
 
 John Ledbitter is an innocent and injured man, do you 
 endeavour to compensate liim for the injustice that has been 
 heaped on his head. It is a charge I leave you.'' 
 
 " The old man is wandering," whispered Mr. Walter to 
 the nurse, who was then present. 
 
 " Like enough," answered the woman : and it was through 
 her that this dream of the postmaster's got talked of in 
 Higham. " Like enough he is, poor gentleman. " Let me 
 give you your composing draught, sir." 
 
 A goodly company were wending their way to Layton 
 church, for the fairest flower in Layton parish was that day 
 to be taken out of it. A stranger, who happened to be 
 passing through Layton, stepped into the church with the 
 crowd. 
 
 " She is a bonny bride," he observed to old Farmer Blount, 
 who stood in the porch looking in. 
 
 "Ay, she is that. Some of the young men about here 
 have been wild after her ; but Walter Grame has distanced 
 them. He is not bad-looking either, for a man." 
 
 " Extremely handsome, I think. Who is he ? " 
 
 " The postmaster of Higham ; as his father was before him. 
 The old man died a year ago, and left a goodish bit of 
 property behind him ; but it turned out that Master Walter 
 there had anticipated his share ; and how the young fellow 
 had kept his creditors quiet was a matter of wonder. But 
 he has sown his wild oats now, they say ; and unless he had, 
 Miss Cleeve, I take it, would have seen him further before 
 she'd married him. Her father's dead also, and there's 
 fifteen hundred pounds told down with her this day." 
 
 " He is a lucky dog." 
 
 " It is sheer luck with him, for he was not her first fancy. 
 Young Ledbitter was ; and she was mighty fond of him. 
 But he ran his head into trouble — robbed the Layton mail- 
 bag. Of course, no decent young woman could stand that, 
 though he slipped out of a prosecution. Since then he has 
 been thankful to any farmer who would give him a job of 
 work. He is on my grounds now." 
 
 The stranger gave a low whistle, forgetting he was in the 
 
308 
 
 THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 porcli of a cliurcli. " Is it not hazardous, sir, to employ 
 a thief even on your out-door land ? " 
 
 " Well, you see, the Ledbitters were so much respected ; 
 people cannot help feeling for them. A likelier, steadier 
 young fellow than John was, one could not expect to meet. 
 I say it must have been a moment of sudden madness, or 
 some other sort of temptation. But he has got his tread- 
 mill on him : there's not a mad dog in the parish more 
 shunned than he. Hush ! Here they come." 
 
 Mr. Walter Grame and his bride, no longer Selina Cleeve, 
 walked first; next came Anne Sterling with her father. 
 Several friends followed. The two young ladies were 
 dressed alike, in lavender silk, it was the custom then, the 
 bride wearing orange-blossoms in her white bonnet ; Anne, 
 lilies of the valley. They brushed the stranger as they 
 walked through the porch, so that he — to use his own ex- 
 pression — had a good look at them. 
 
 " She's a regular beauty," he remarked to Farmer Blount ; 
 " but for my choice give me the one that follows her, the 
 bridesmaid. The first has a temper of her own, or I never 
 read an eye yet ; the last has goodness written on her face." 
 
 Mr. Blount grunted forth an inaudible reply. None were 
 more aware of Anne Sterling's goodness than the Blounts. 
 George had proposed to her in secret the night of the ball, 
 three years before, and she refused him. 
 
 But another person was also looking on at the bridal party; 
 a man in a smock-frock; looking through a gap in the 
 hedge, from an obscure corner of the churchyard. It was 
 John Ledbitter. Oh, what a position was this unfortunate 
 man's ! Guilt does, indeed, bring its own punishment— as 
 all Layton, and Higham too, had repeated, with reference to 
 him, hundreds of times. Hunted down by his own class in 
 life, condemned to labour hard for common sustenance with 
 the hinds who tilled the ground — for in any more re- 
 sponsible situation, in an office, or where money would have 
 passed through his hands, none would trust him — there 
 he stood, a marked man, watching her, whom he had once 
 so passionately loved, led forth, the bride of another. A 
 bitter word rose in his heart for that hour when he had first 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 309 
 
 ascended tlie mail-cart to drive it to Layton ; and with a 
 wild cry, whicli startled the air, and seemed to be wrung 
 from the very depths of his spirit, he leaped the stile at the 
 rear of the churchyard, and rushed backed to his labour in 
 the fields. 
 
 This statement, of the obloquy thrown upon John Led- 
 bitter (as he is here called) and the manner in which he was 
 shunned, is not exaggerated in the slightest degree. As 
 those who are old enough to remember the circumstances 
 well know. 
 
310 
 
 THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 PAET THE SECOND. 
 
 A FEW years had gone by. 
 
 It was the dinner hour at Hill House Farm, an hour after 
 midday. Mr. Sterling and his daughter sat down to it alone. 
 Latterly the farmer had been ailing in health and could not 
 look much after his out-door pursuits. People thought it 
 singular that the farmer's only child, who was admired 
 wherever she was known, and who would be the inheritor 
 of his substance, no small one, should have gained her six- 
 and-twentieth year without having changed her name ; but 
 she laughingly answered, when joked about it, that she 
 could not afford to leave her father and mother. 
 
 " Shall I carve to-day, father, or will you ? " inquired 
 Anne. 
 
 " You carve, child. Cut for your mother first." 
 
 But Anne chose first of all to help her father. The dish 
 was boiled beef, and she was careful to cut it for him as he 
 best liked it. She then rose to take up her mother's dinner. 
 
 " Why are you leaving the table, Anne ? Where's Molly, 
 that she's not waiting on us ? " 
 
 "Molly has Martha's work to do to-day as well as her 
 own," replied Anne. " I shall be back directly." 
 
 When dinner was over, the farmer drew his arm-chair 
 close to the fire. Anne gave him his pipe and tobacco, set 
 his small jug of ale and glass beside him, and then went up 
 to her mother's chamber. She smoothed the bed and the 
 pillows, changed her mother's cap for a smarter one, in case 
 any neighbours dropped in, put some lavender-water on her 
 handkerchief, and gave her her usual glass of wine. 
 
 " What else can I do, mother ? " 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 311 
 
 " Nothing, my dear. Sit down and be still. You must 
 be tired, helping Molly so much this morning. Unless you 
 will read a psalm. The book is here." 
 
 ! Anne Sterling took the Prayer-book, and read the evening 
 psalms for the day in her clear and pleasant tone. She 
 then sat talking. After a while, her mother seemed inclined 
 to sleep ; so Anne softly left the room, and went down to 
 the kitchen. It was then four o'clock. 
 
 " Well, Molly, how are you getting on ? " 
 
 " Oh, pretty well," crossly responded the old servant, who 
 was not so active since a hurt she had given to her knee ; 
 Martha hadn't need to go gadding for a holiday every day." 
 
 " Is my father gone out ? " 
 
 "I have not seen anything of him since dinner, Miss 
 Anne." 
 
 Anne went into the dining-room. Soon a wild cry echoed 
 in the passages. Molly ran in as quickly as her lame knee 
 V\^ould permit. 
 
 Mr. Sterling was in a fit. His pipe lay broken on the 
 ground; his head had fallen on the elbow of his chair; 
 froth issued from his lips. Molly screamed out that it w^as 
 apoplexy. 
 
 " He will die, Miss Anne, unless something can be done. 
 How in the world can we get the doctor here ? " For the 
 indoor man was absent : and no labourers that they knew of 
 were near the house. 
 
 Anne Sterling, pale as a sheet, gathered her scared senses 
 together. " I will run into Layton for the doctor," she said ; 
 " you would never get there. Hold his head up, Molly, and 
 rub his hands while I am gone." 
 
 She darted off without bonnet or shawl across the fold- 
 yard into the lane, which was the nearest way to the little 
 town of Layton, flying along as if for her life. It was dirty, 
 and the mud splashed up with every step. A stalwart 
 labourer, at work in a smock-frock in an adjacent field, 
 stared at her with astonishment, and then strode to the stile. 
 
 " Oh," she cried, as she darted up to him, her heart leaping 
 at the sight of a human being, one who might perhaps be of 
 service, " if you can run quicker than I, pray go for me into 
 
312 
 
 THE MAIL-CABT RORBERY. 
 
 Layton. My father I — I did not notice that it was 
 
 you," she abruptly broke off; "I beg your pardon." And, 
 swifter if possible than before, she flew on her way down 
 the lane. 
 
 He was scarcely more than thirty years of age, yet lines 
 of care were in his face, and silver was mixed with his 
 luxuriant hair, but his countenance was open and pleasant 
 to look upon. A tall agile man, he leaped the stile at a 
 bound, and overtook Anne. 
 
 " Miss Sterling ! Miss Sterling ! " he impressively said, 
 as he came up with her, " you are in some distress." And, 
 strange to say — strange when contrasted with his dress and 
 his menial occupation — his words and bearing were those of 
 an educated and well-bred man. " Though it is I — myself ; 
 though I am a banned, persecuted outcast, need that neutralize 
 any aid I can render? Surely no curse will follow that. 
 What can I do for you ? " 
 
 She hesitated ; feeling that she could not run as quickly 
 as he could. What though John Ledbitter ivas pointed to 
 among his fellow-men as a criminal who, by luck, not merit, 
 had escaped the galleys, was not her father dying for want of 
 aid ? Yes, she would waive prejudice at this time of need. 
 
 " My father is in a fit," she panted. " If you can get Mr. 
 Jelf to him quicker than I can, we should be very thankful 
 to you. I fear it is apoplexy." 
 
 " Apoplexy ! " he repeated ; " then no time should be lost 
 in the treatment. It must be half-an-hour before Mr. Jelf 
 can be with him, even should he be at home. Mr. Sterling 
 must be bled instantly. Is there any one in the house who 
 can do it ? " 
 
 She shook her head as she ran on. " Not a soul is in the 
 house but Molly. Except my mother— who is bedridden." 
 
 " Then I had better go back to your house— if it may be 
 permitted me to enter it ; " and he spoke the last words with 
 conscious indecision. " I may be able to do something : if 
 you can go on for Mr. Jelf." 
 
 " Be it so," she answered. " Lose no time." 
 
 He sped back swiftly, and entered the house by way of 
 the kitchen. He knew the locality well. There was no 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 313 
 
 one about ; but be beard tbe voice of Molly — be remembered 
 tbat well, also — calling, in a sobbing tone, to know wbo bad 
 come in. 
 
 Sbe started wben she saw wbo i\ was. A look of blank 
 dismay, not unmixed witb resentment, overspread ber 
 countenance. 
 
 "Wbat do you want, Master Ledbitter? Wbat brings 
 you bere ? " 
 
 " I am come to render aid — if any be in my power. By 
 Miss Sterling's desire," be added distinctly. " By tbe time 
 tbe doctor can get bere he would be past aid," he continued, 
 looking at the unfortunate man. "Get me a washhand- 
 basin, and some linen to make a bandage. Have you any 
 hot water ? " 
 
 " Plenty of it," sobbed Molly. 
 
 "We must get bis feet into it then. Bring in all the 
 mustard you have in the house, while I take off bis shoes 
 and stockings. Make haste. We may restore him yet." 
 
 John Ledbitter spoke with an air of authority ; and Molly 
 to her own astonishment obeyed, much as she despised him. 
 Little time lost he. There was no lancet at hand, but be 
 bared the farmer's arm, and used his own sharp penknife. 
 He was an intelligent man, and knew something of surgery ; 
 and wben Anne Sterling returned she found her father had 
 been rescued from immediate danger. Mr. Jelf was not 
 with her : he was on the other side of Layton, visiting a 
 patient, but they bad sent after him. A neighbour or two 
 returned with Anne. 
 
 " He is not in favour with honest folk, that John Led- 
 bitter," remarked Molly, when sbe came in, "but as sure 
 as we are sinful creatures, you may thank him. Miss Anne, 
 that you have yet a living father. The master was at the 
 last gasp." 
 
 He did more, besides restoring him. He was strong and 
 active, and with a little help from the women, he got Mr. 
 Sterling upstairs, undressed him, and placed him in bed. 
 " I will remain and watch him, with your permission," he 
 said, looking at Anne, " until the surgeon comes." 
 
 " If you will kindly do so," she answered. " I am very 
 
314 
 
 THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 grateful to you ; indeed I am," slie added, tlirougli lier tears, 
 as she lield out lier hand to him. "My mother will not 
 know how to thank you, when she hears that to you, under 
 Heaven, he owes his life.'' 
 
 Mr. Ledbitter did not take her offered hand. He extended 
 his own, and turned it round from side to side, as if to 
 exhibit its horny, rough texture, bearing the impress of 
 hard out-door work, whilst a peculiar smile of mockery 
 and bitterness rose to his face. 
 
 " It is not so fitting as it once was to come into contact 
 with a lady's," he observed ; " these last six years have left 
 their traces on it. You would say also, as the world says, 
 that worse marks than those of work are on it — that it bears 
 the impress of its crime, as Cain bore his." 
 
 She looked distressed. What was there that she could 
 answer ? 
 
 "And yet, Anne — pardon me, the familiar name rose 
 inadvertently, not from disrespect : I used to call you so, and 
 you have never since, in my mind, been anything but Anne 
 Sterling — what if I were to assert that the traces of rough 
 usage are the worst guilt of which that hand can righteously 
 be accused; that it is dyed with no deeper crime? What 
 then?" 
 
 " I don't know," she faltered. 
 
 " I do," he answered. " You would throw my assertion 
 to the winds, as others threw it, and leave me to toil and 
 blanch and die in those winds, rather than accord me the 
 sympathy so necessary from man to man, even though it 
 were but the sympathy of pity. A messenger from Heaven 
 might whisper such to a fallen angel." 
 
 The reproach of crime had lain upon John Ledbitter for 
 more than six long years. Suitable employment would be 
 accorded him by none ; nobody would look at him or trust 
 him. His motive for remaining in the locality could not be 
 fathomed. Had he gone elsewhere, abroad for instance, he 
 might have assumed his former standing and got on. But 
 he did not go. 
 
 Mr. Sterling got better. But only for a short time: 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 315 
 
 hardly long enough, as the old gentleman himself said, to 
 make his peace with his Maker. He never left his bed 
 again. Mrs. Sterling, whose disorder apj^eared to abate, 
 and her strength to revive with the necessity of the case, 
 now managed to reach her husband's room, and to sit with 
 him for several hours daily. 
 
 About three weeks subsequent to the farmer's attack, his 
 daughter went to Higham by the morning coach, to see her 
 cousin, Mrs. Grame. As she entered the passage of the 
 house, the office was on her right, and Mr. Grame was there, 
 stamping letters. He had succeeded to the postmastership 
 when his father died. Anne waited a moment, thinking he 
 might see her, and she observed that his eyes were red, and 
 his hands shaking. 
 
 Good-morning, Walter," she said. " Is Selina upstairs ? " 
 
 The postmaster looked up. " What, is it you, Anne ? 
 You have just come, I suppose. How is your father ? " 
 
 " He is better, but gains no strength, and does not get up. 
 This is the first day he has seemed sufficiently comfortable 
 for me to leave him, or I should have been in to see Selina 
 before." 
 
 " And I have been so bothered with one thing or other 
 that I have not had a minute's leisure to ride over. What 
 tale's that, about Ledbitter having saved his life ? " 
 
 "He certainly did save it. My father must have been 
 dead before the surgeon came, had it not been for John 
 Ledbitter. He applied the necessary remedies, and bled 
 him, as handily and effectually as Mr. Jelf could have 
 done." 
 
 "Ah, women are easily frightened," carelessly repeated 
 the postmaster. " We heard that you came across Ledbitter 
 as you were running into Layton for Jelf." 
 
 " It was so." 
 
 "Well, then I must tell you, Anne, that I contradicted 
 that report. For I never could have believed you would 
 permit yourself to hold speech with the man, still less admit 
 him inside the house." 
 
 " Not to save my father ? " returned Anne. " I would use 
 any means, any instrument, when his life was at stake." 
 
316 
 
 THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 " You did not know it would save liis life," persisted Mr. 
 Grame. " I am astonished at your imprudence, Anne." 
 
 " My father was dying for want of assistance," she retorted, 
 warmly. " I am thankful that Providence threw even John 
 Ledbitter in my way to render it." 
 
 " Providence ? " sarcastically ejaculated the postmaster. 
 
 " Providence," quietly repeated Anne. " The longer I 
 live, the more plainly do I see the hand of Providence in all 
 the actions of our lives. Even in those which to us may 
 appear insignificantly trivial." 
 
 "You will avow yourself a fatalist next," rejoined the 
 postmaster. 
 
 " How is the baby ? " inquired Anne, to turn the con- 
 versation. 
 
 " Oh, it's well enough, if one may judge by its crying. 
 I never heard a young one with such lungs. I think Selina 
 must manage it badly. You will find them all upstairs." 
 
 She went up to the sitting-rooms, and then up again to 
 Mrs. Grame's bedchamber, and knocked at the door. But 
 there was so great a noise within of children crying, that 
 she had little chance of being heard, and opened it. Mrs. 
 Grame sat in a rocking-chair, in an invalid wrapper and 
 shawl, her countenance pale and worn, presenting a painful 
 contrast to that of the once blooming and lovely Selina 
 Cleeve. The infant in her arms was crying, as if in pain ; 
 another little fellow, of two years, stood by her knee, roaring 
 with temper. 
 
 Anne went up and kissed her. "What are you doing 
 here, with these crying children, Selina ? " 
 
 " Oh, dear, do try and quiet them, Anne ! " Mrs. Grame 
 helplessly uttered, bursting into tears ; " my very life is 
 harassed out of me. Since the nurse left, I have the 
 trouble of them all day." 
 
 Anne threw her bonnet and shawl on the bed ; and, taking 
 a paper of home-made cakes from her pocket, drew the elder 
 child's eye towards them. The tears were arrested half- 
 way ; the noise ceased. 
 
 "These cakes are for good little boys who don't cry," 
 said Anne, seating the young gentleman on the floor, and 
 
THE MAIL-CART EOBBERY. 
 
 317 
 
 putting some into Ms pinafore. Then she took the infant 
 from its mother, and carried it about the room. When 
 soothed to silence and sleep, she sat down with it on her 
 knee. 
 
 "Selina," she began, "I am not going to tell you now 
 that you are a bad manager, for I have told you that often 
 enough when you were well. But how comes it that you 
 have no nurse ? " 
 
 " Ask Walter," replied Mrs. Grame, a flood of resentment 
 in her tone. 
 
 "Now be calm, and speak quietly of things. I heard 
 your children's maid had left, but you surely purpose taking 
 another." 
 
 " I purpose ! " bitterly retorted Mrs. Grame ; " it is of 
 very little use what I purpose or want. Walter squanders 
 the money away on his own pleasures, and we cannot afford 
 to keep two servants. Now you have the plain truth, Anne." 
 
 " I have thought," resumed Miss Sterling, after an awkward 
 pause, " that you have sometimes appeared not quite at your 
 ease as to money. But this is a case of necessity: your 
 health is at stake. It is Mr. Grame's duty to provide an 
 additional servant." 
 
 "Listen, Anne," resumed Mrs. Grame, speaking with an 
 excitement her cousin in vain endeavoured to arrest. " You 
 thought I married well: that if Walter had been living 
 freely, as a young man, and anticipated his inheritance, he 
 was steady then, had a good home to bring me to, and a 
 liberal salary. You thought this — my uncle and aunt 
 thought it — I thought it. But what were the facts ? Before 
 that child was born" — and she pointed to the little cake- 
 eater — "I found he was over head and ears in debt; and 
 the debts have been augmenting ever since. His quarter's 
 salary, when paid, only serves to stop the most pressing of 
 them, and to supply his private expenses, of which he appears 
 to have an abundance. Such expenses are shameful for a 
 married man." 
 
 " Be calm, Selina." 
 
 " Calm ! how can I be calm ? I wish I had never seen him ! 
 I wish I had been a thousand miles off, before I consented 
 
318 
 
 THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 to marry him! I never did love Him. Don't look re- 
 provingly at me, Anne ; it is the truth, I loved but one, 
 and that was John Ledbitter. When he turned out worth- 
 less, I thought my heart would have broken, though I 
 carried it off with a high hand, for I was bitterly incensed 
 against him. Then came Walter Grame, with his insinuating 
 whispers and his handsome face, and talked me into a liking 
 for him. And then into a marriage " 
 
 " Selina," interrupted Anne, " you should not speak so of 
 your husband, even to me." 
 
 " I shall speak to the world, perhaps, by-and-by : he tries 
 me enough for it. Night after night, night after night, 
 since from a few months after our marriage, does he spend 
 away from me. He comes home towards morning, some- 
 times sober, sometimes staggering from what he has 
 taken. Beast ! " 
 
 Anne could not stem the torrent of passion. Selina had 
 always been excitable. 
 
 " I should not so much care now, for I have grown inured 
 to it ; and my former reproaches — how useless they were ! — 
 have given place to silent scorn and hatred, were it not for 
 the money these habits of his consume. Circumstances have 
 grown very poor with us ; of ready money there seems to be 
 none : it is with difficulty we provide for our daily wants, 
 for tradespeople refuse us credit. How then can I bring 
 another servant into the house, v/hen we can hardly keep the 
 one we have ? " 
 
 " This state of things must be killing her," thought 
 Anne. 
 
 " What it will come to, I don't know," proceeded the 
 invalid, " but a break-up seems inevitable, and then he will 
 lose his situation as postmaster. In any case, I don't think 
 he will keep it long, for if he could stave off pecuniary ruin, 
 his health is so shattered that he is unfit to hold it. I now 
 thank my dear aunt that she was firm in having my fifteen 
 hundred pounds settled on myself. The interest of it is not 
 much, but, when the worst comes, it may buy dry bread to 
 keep me and these poor children from starvation, and pay 
 for a garret to lodge in." 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 319 
 
 " Oh, Selina ! " sighed Anne Sterling, as the tears ran 
 down her cheeks, " how terribly you shock me ! " 
 
 " I have never betrayed this to a human being till now. 
 You may have thought me grown cold, capricious, ill- 
 tempered — no doubt you have, Anne, often, when you have 
 come here. Not long ago, you said how marriage seemed 
 to have altered me. But now you see what I have had to 
 try me, the sort of existence mine has been.'* 
 
 " What can I do for you ? how can I help ? " inquired 
 Anne. "I would take little Walter home with me, and 
 relieve you of him for a time, but my father's state demands 
 perfect quiet in the house. Money, beyond a trifle, I have 
 not, of my own, to offer: perhaps my mother, when she 
 knows, will— — " 
 
 "She must not know," vehemently interrupted Selina. 
 " I forbid you to tell her, Anne — I forbid you to tell any 
 one. As to money, if you were to put a hundred pounds 
 down before me this minute, I would say throw it rather 
 into the fire, for he would be sure to get scent of it, and 
 squander it. No, let the crisis come. The sooner the better. 
 Things may be smoother after it, or at any rate quieter ; as 
 it is, the house is dunned by creditors. Oh, Anne! if it 
 were not for these children I would come back and find 
 peace at the farm, if you would give me shelter. But now 
 — to go from my own selfish troubles — tell me about my 
 uncle. To think that it should be John Ledbitter, of all 
 people, who came in to his help ! Walter went on in a fine 
 way about it, in one of his half-tipsy moods. He has an 
 unconquerable hatred to him, as powerful as it is lasting. I 
 suppose it arises from knowing I was once so much attached 
 to him." 
 
 "Selina," returned Miss Sterling, lowering her voice, 
 " you will say it is a strange fancy of mine ; but, from a few 
 words John Ledbitter spoke to me, the evening of my father's 
 attack, I have been doubting whether he was guilty." 
 
 " What can you mean ? " demanded Selina, with startling 
 fervour. " What grounds have you for saying this ? Did 
 he assert his innocence ? " 
 
 " On the contrary, he seemed rather to let me assume his 
 
320 
 
 THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 guilt. He said, that of course I believed him guilty, as the 
 rest of the world did, but then followed a hint that he could 
 assert his innocence. His manner said more than his words. 
 It was very peculiar, very resentfully independent, betraying 
 the self-reliance of an innocent man smarting under a 
 
 stinging sense of injury. I do believe " 
 
 " Don't go on, Anne," interrupted Mrs. Grame, with a 
 shiver. " If it should ever turn out that John Ledbitter was 
 accused unjustly, that I, of all others, helped to revile and 
 scorn him, my sum of misery would be complete : I think 
 I should go mad or die. I suppose you have seen him but 
 that once." 
 
 " Indeed we have. He called the next day, and Molly let 
 him go up to see my father." 
 
 " In his smock-frock," interposed Mrs. Grame, in a derisive 
 tone. 
 
 "We have never seen him in anything else, except on 
 Sundays, and then, you know, he is dressed well. He comes 
 every day now." 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 " He proffered his services to me and my mother, if he 
 could be of any use about the farm. We were at terrible 
 fault for some one to replace my father, and a few things he 
 undertook were so well executed that they led to more. Now 
 he is regularly working for us." 
 
 "Not as bailiff?" 
 
 " No, not exactly as bailiff ; but he looks after things 
 generally during the bailiff's prolonged absence. He is no 
 better, by the way, Selina : people often fall ill when they 
 can be least spared." 
 
 Mrs. Grame leaned her head upon her hand and mused. 
 " Is John much altered ? " she asked. 
 
 " Oh yes. His hair is going grey, and his countenance 
 has a look of care I never thought to see on one so smiling 
 and sunny as was John Ledbitter's." 
 
 Anne Sterling returned to Layton that evening with sad 
 and sorrowful thoughts ; the more so, that she was forbidden 
 to confide Selina's troubles to her mother. But she had 
 little leisure to brood over them in the weeks ensuing. A 
 
THE MAIL^CART ROBBERY. 
 
 321 
 
 change for tlie worse occurred in her father's state, and it 
 was evident that his thread of life was worn nearly to its 
 end. The farmer held many an anxious consultation with 
 his wife and daughter touching his worldly affairs. It was 
 intended that the farm should be given up after his death, 
 but several months must elapse before that could be effected 
 — and who was to manage the land in the mean time ? One 
 Sunday evening, in particular, Mr. Sterling seemed unusually 
 restless and anxious on this score. His wife in vain be- 
 sought him not to disturb himself — that she and Anne 
 should manage very well, and that perhaps the bailiff's 
 illness might take a turn. 
 
 "I should have died at ease could I have left a trust- 
 worthy manager," he persisted. " If Ledbitter had not the 
 mark upon him, there's no one else I'd so soon have appointed. 
 He is a first-rate farmer." 
 
 " Father," spoke Anne, timidly, " I by no means feel sure 
 that John Ledbitter was guilty. A doubt of it lies in my 
 mind." 
 
 " Now, why do you say that, Anne ? " 
 
 " I judge by his manner and by some words he let fall. 
 
 Of course There he is," broke off Anne, seeing John 
 
 Ledbitter advance, from her seat by the window. " I dare 
 say he is coming to inquire after you." 
 
 " Let him come up," rejoined the farmer. 
 
 Mr. Ledbitter entered. None, looking at him now, could 
 suppose he had the brand of a thief upon him, still less that 
 he was a common day-labourer. For he bore the stamp of 
 a gentleman in his dress and manner — in his manly form 
 and countenance. One of his sisters had died lately, and 
 John went into mourning for her, though she, as the rest of 
 the family, had cast him off. Mr. Sterling invited him to 
 take a chair. 
 
 "John Ledbitter," began the farmer, "since I lay here 
 I have had a great many things in my mind ; that old busi- 
 ness of yours is one of them ; and a remark of Anne's has 
 now brought an impulse over me to ask you, if you can, or 
 will, make things clearer. It's all over now, however it 
 might have been, but I should like to know the truth. I am 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 21 
 
322 
 
 THE MAIL-CART BOBBERY. 
 
 a dying man, John Ledbitter, and it would be a rest to my 
 mind." 
 
 A deep crimson dyed the face of John Ledbitter. Once, 
 twice, he essayed to speak, and no words came, but when he 
 did find speech it was that of a truthful, earnest-minded man. 
 
 " Six years ago — more now — when that happened, I denied 
 my guilt to you, Mr. Sterling. I told you that I was 
 innocent as you were ; but you answered me derisively, 
 making a mockery of what I said, and sneered me into 
 silence. I ivas innocent." 
 
 " "What ! " gasped the farmer, whilst Mrs. Sterling rose 
 into a more upright position on her pillowed chair. 
 
 " I have not often been guilty of telling a lie : never that 
 I can now recall to my recollection," he resumed. " But I 
 could no more dare to assert one to you, hovering, as you 
 are, on the confines of the next world, than I could, were I 
 myself on its confines. Sir, as I said then, I repeat to you 
 now — I never knew what became of the letter or the money ; 
 I never saw or touched either. In the presence of God, I 
 assert this." 
 
 " Then who did take it ? " inquired the amazed farmer. 
 
 " I cannot tell ; though my nights have been sleepless and 
 my hair has grown grey with anxiety over this very question. 
 Old Mr. Grame affirmed the letter was in the bag when he 
 delivered it to me ; Mr. Marsh affirmed it was not in the 
 bag when I delivered it to him. They were both to be 
 trusted ; they were both above suspicion ; but I will affirm 
 that the bag between those points was never opened or 
 touched, or the box of the mail-cart unlocked, except to 
 take out the Weirford bag. It is a curious mystery, but 
 a certainty has always rested upon me that time will 
 unravel it." 
 
 " But why not have proclaimed your innocence then, as 
 you have now ? " inquired Mrs. Sterling. 
 
 "Dear madam, I did proclaim it," he answered, with 
 emotion. " To my relatives, to my friends, to the post- 
 masters, to Mr. Sterling ; as earnestly, as solemnly, as I now 
 assert it this day. Not one listened to me. I met, even 
 from my own family, with nothing but disbelief and con- 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 323 
 
 tumely. Tliey were impressed with the conviction that my 
 innocence was an impossibility. I do not blame them : I 
 should myself so have judged another, accused under the 
 same circumstances : and even she, who was more to me than 
 my own life, joined in the scorn, and shook me off. I took 
 an oath, a rash one, perhaps, that I would never leave the 
 spot until my innocence was established. So I have lived 
 since, shunned by, and shunning my equals ; never ceasing, 
 in secret, my endeavours to trace out the lost note : but as 
 yet without success. I have spoken truth, Mr. Sterling." 
 
 "I do believe you have," murmured the dying man. 
 "May God make up to you the persecutions you have 
 endured, John Ledbitter ! " 
 
 Farmer Sterling died a man of substance, worth a great 
 many thousand pounds, and John Ledbitter discarded his 
 smock-frock when he was appointed manager of the farm by 
 Mrs. Sterling. And thus a few weeks went by. 
 
 The post-office at Higham was closed for the night, and 
 its master sat drinking brandy-and-water in his sitting- 
 room. It was only ten o'clock, and very early for him to be 
 at home ; but he had come in saying he was not well, Mrs. 
 Grame sat by his side in a sullen state of rebellion. He 
 had received his salary two days before, had locked it up 
 in one of his iron safes, and had given her none of it. A 
 desperate resolution was stealing over her — and the reader 
 may justify or condemn her according to his judgment 
 ■ — that as soon as her husband should sleep she would go 
 down to the office, and take some of this money for her 
 pressing necessities. 
 
 " "Where's the sugar ? " inquired Mr. Grame. 
 
 " I have no sugar for you," she resentfully answered, " I 
 told you this morning there was none for the baby." 
 
 The postmaster, in a jocular tone, for he had taken 
 enough to drink already, consigned his v/ife and child to 
 York, drank some brandy neat, and pulled open the side- 
 board cupboard in search of the sugar-basin. There it 
 stood, full of moist sugar. So he paid his wife another 
 worthy compliment. 
 
324 
 
 THE MAIL=CART ROBBERY. 
 
 It is not yours/'' slie exclaimed, or meant for you. My 
 cousin Anne was here to-day, and brought it for the baby." 
 
 He answered by dropping a liberal tea-spoonful of it into 
 his glass. " And what news did Anne Sterling bring ? " he 
 said, in a mocking tone, as he lighted a cigar. "Fresh 
 praises of their new manager, the thief Ledbitter ? " 
 
 "It was not Ledbitter who was the thief; she told me 
 that news," Mrs. Grame replied, in a raised, almost an 
 hysterical voice ; for Anne Sterling's information had had 
 its effect upon her. "John Ledbitter was innocent; the 
 crime was committed by another. I ought to have known 
 that from the first." 
 
 A curious change came over Walter Grame. His face 
 turned to a deadly whiteness, his cigar fell from his lips, his 
 teeth for a moment chattered. " Ledbitter innocent ! " he 
 cried. " Did she say who took it ? How did it come to 
 light?" 
 
 "' What is the matter with you ? " asked his wife. "' Are 
 you so full of hatred to John Ledbitter, that hearing of his 
 innocence should affect you in this manner ? " 
 
 " Woman ! " he retorted, in agitation, " I asked you how 
 it came to light ! " 
 
 " Nothing has come to light ; except that just before my 
 uncle's death Ledbitter convinced him of his innocence. I 
 wish the real criminal was discovered," she impetuously 
 continued : " I, for one, would aid in persecuting him to 
 the death. Whoever he may be, he has been hugging him- 
 self under the ruin of poor John Ledbitter." 
 
 Mr. Grame laughed, a forced laugh, and stooped to pick 
 up his crushed cigar, for he had put his foot on it when it 
 fell burning to the carpet. " That's his sort of innocence, 
 is it," he derisively observed ; " his own assertion ! Honest 
 men want something else, Mrs. Grame." 
 
 But Selina saw that his teeth chattered still, and his 
 hand shook so as scarcely to be able to lift the bottle, 
 draughts from which he kept pouring into his glass. " How 
 very singular ! " she repeated to herself. It was not at all 
 unusual for Walter Grame to be shaky and tottering ; but 
 this emotion, telling of fear, was unusual. 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 325 
 
 The spirit at length told upon Mr. Grame, and he sank 
 down upon the sofa and slept, an unconscious man. Then, 
 her lips pressed together with angry resolution, Mrs. Grame 
 possessed herself of his keys and the key of the private 
 office, which he always kept in his pocket, and stole down- 
 stairs. 
 
 She stood before the iron safe, the smaller safe — his, in 
 his father's time — and tried the keys, several of the bunch, 
 before she came to the right one. The moment it w^as 
 imlocked, the door flew open and struck her on the forehead. 
 A large bump rose instantly : she put up her hand and felt 
 it. At any other time she would have been half-stunned by 
 the shock ; it was not heeded now. 
 
 Two cash-boxes and three small drawers were disclosed 
 to view, and she had to try the keys again ; each drawer 
 opened with a different key. The first drawer was full of 
 papers ; in the second, as she drew it open, she saw no 
 money, only one solitary letter lying at the end of it. An 
 old letter, getting yellow now; still folded, but its seal 
 broken. Its address was, " Mr. Sterling, Hill House Farm, 
 Lay ton, Highamshire." A powerful curiosity excited her : 
 she had recognized the writing of her own father: what 
 should bring a letter of his, addressed to her uncle, in this 
 secret safe of Walter Grame's ? As she opened the letter, 
 something fell from it, and Mrs. Grame sank almost fainting 
 on to a chair. 
 
 It was the long-lost letter and money, which John Led- 
 bitter had been accused of stealing, the bank-note for fifty 
 pounds. Had the letter been mislaid by old Mr. Grame, 
 and overlooked till this day? she asked, in the first be- 
 wildering moment of discovery. Or had Walter acted the 
 traitor's ^Dart, to bring disgrace upon Ledbitter? "The 
 latter, oh ! the latter," she convulsively uttered, when reason 
 asserted its powers ; " and I, who once so truly loved J ohn 
 Ledbitter, discarded him for this man ! " 
 
 She made no further search for the gold — this discovery 
 absorbed every care and thought. Securing the letter and 
 note upon her person, she locked the safe again, sped up- 
 stairs, and shook her husband violently, pouring forth her 
 
326 
 
 THE MAIL-CART ROBBEEY. 
 
 indignant accusation. He struggled up on tlie sofa and 
 stared at lier : she herself was a curious object just then, 
 with that dark mound standing out on her forehead, and 
 her dangerous excitement. Then he began to shake and 
 shiver, for he misunderstood her excited words, and com- 
 prehended that the officers of justice were after him. The 
 fright partially sobered him, but he was half-stupefied still. 
 
 "Nobody can prosecute but you, Selina," he abjectly 
 stammered, in his confused terror. " You will not refuse to 
 hush it up for your husband." 
 
 " Tell me the truth, and you shall not be prosecuted," she 
 vehemently answered, humouring his fears. " Did you do 
 it on purpose to ruin John Ledbitter ? " 
 
 "No, no," he uttered. "I was hard up; I was indeed, 
 Selina. I did not know where to tarn for money, and if 
 my debts had come to the knowledge of the old man he 
 would have disinherited me. So when this fifty pounds 
 came before me, like a temptation, I took it. That's the 
 whole truth." 
 
 " You took it," she repeated, " after it was given to John 
 Ledbitter ? " 
 
 " It never was given to him. As the master dropped it 
 into the bag, some man came to the window with a question, 
 and my father turned to answer him. It was Stone, the 
 barber, I remember. I twitched the letter out then, and 
 the master closed the bag and never knew it. But I did 
 not use it, Selina ; the money's there now ; I could not find 
 an immediate opportunity of changing it away, and then 
 such a hubbub was struck up that I never dared to change 
 it. But I never thought then to harm Ledbitter." 
 
 " And I could make this man my husband ! " she muttered 
 " the father of my unhappy children ! Traitor ! Coward ! 
 How dared you thrust yourself into the society of honest 
 people ? " 
 
 His only answer was to stagger to the table, and drink a 
 deep draught of the spirit still standing on it. It revived 
 his courage. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! my old father had a dream a night or two 
 before he died. He dreamed that Ledbitter was innocent, 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 327 
 
 and charged me to make it up to liim. Me! as if some 
 inkling of the truth had penetrated to his brain. I did not 
 like that dream : it has subdued me since whenever I have 
 thought of it — and now it has come out. But there's one 
 part, Selina, which is glorious to think of still — that it lost 
 you to him, and gained you for me." 
 
 She might have struck him had she remained in the room 
 longer, for her feelings were worked up to a pitch of 
 exasperation bordering upon madness. She went upstairs, 
 bolted herself in the chamber with her children, and threw 
 herself, undressed, on the bed. Her husband did not 
 attempt to follow her. 
 
 The next afternoon she was at Layton, entering the Hill 
 House Farm. At the front gate she encountered John 
 Ledbitter. ''It is you I have come to see," she said. 
 
 Not for years had they met ; and she spoke and looked so 
 strangely that, but for her voice, he would scarcely have 
 recognized her. He followed her in. Anne Sterling, who 
 was in the parlour alone, rose from her seat in surprise, and 
 inquired if all was well at Higham. 
 
 " Examine this, Mr. Ledbitter," was Mrs. Grame's only 
 answer, drawing from her pocket the fatal letter. " Do you 
 recognize it ? " 
 
 Not at first did he understand ; but when a shadowing of 
 what it was burst upon him, he was much agitated. All 
 three were standing round the table. " Am I to understand, 
 Mrs. Grame, that this has been lost — mislaid — all these 
 years ? " he inquired. And it was a natural question, seeing 
 the note intact. 
 
 " Mislaid ! " burst forth Mrs. Grame, giving way to her 
 excitement. " It was stolen, John Ledbitter ; stolen from 
 the bag before it went into your charge. And the thief — 
 thief and coward — trembled at his act when he had done it, 
 and dared not use the money. He has kept it since from 
 the light of day. Look at it, Anne." 
 
 "And this thief was " 
 
 " Walter Grame. To you I will not screen him, though 
 I am his wretched wife. To the world it may be allowed 
 to appear as was your first thought now — if you, Mr. Led- 
 
328 
 
 THE MAIL-CART EOBBERY. 
 
 bitter, will show mercy where none has been shown you. I 
 would not ask it, but for his innocent children. I have not 
 seen him since last night. He is nowhere to be found. 
 Everything is in confusion at home, and the letters this 
 morning had to be sorted by a postman.'' 
 " Where is he ? " inquired Anne. 
 
 " I know not : unless this discovery has so worked upon 
 his fears that he means to abandon his home and his 
 country. I pray that it may be so : I shall be more tranquil 
 without him." 
 
 "You are not going? You will surely stay for some 
 refreshment," reiterated Miss Sterling, as Mrs. Grame 
 turned towards the front door, in the same abrupt manner 
 that she had entered it. 
 
 " I cannot remain, Anne, I must go back to Higham ; 
 and for refreshment, I could not swallow it. A friend of 
 ours drove me over in his gig, and is waiting for me at the 
 gate. You will explain things to my aunt. I have only 
 one more word to say, and that is to you, Mr. Ledbitter. 
 Will you — will you " 
 
 John Ledbitter took her hands in his, looking down 
 compassionately upon her, for her emotion was so great as 
 to impede her utterance, and the corners of her mouth 
 twitched convulsively. 
 
 "Will you forgive mef — it is that I want to say," she 
 panted — " forgive my false heart for judging you as others 
 judged ? In our last interview — here, in this house — you 
 said if we ever met again it should be under different 
 auspices. The auspices are different." 
 
 What he answered, as he led her to the gig, was known 
 to themselves alone. Her tears were flowing fast, and her 
 hand was clasped in his. It may be that in that brief 
 moment a trace of his once passionate tenderness for her was 
 recalled to his heart. Anne Sterling wiis watching them 
 from the window, but she never asked a question about it, 
 then or afterwards. 
 
 It was rare news for Higham. Walter Grame, what with 
 his unfortunate debts and his unfortunate habits, had found 
 
THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 329 
 
 himself unable to make head against the storm, and had 
 started off, poor fellow, and taken ^hi-p for America : and 
 in the search which followed, his wife had come upon the 
 missing letter and money, amongst some old valueless 
 papers. In what unaccountable manner it could have been 
 mislaid, was useless to inquire now, since old Mr. Grame 
 was dead and gone : but that no fraud was committed by 
 any one was proved by the money being found safe. Prob- 
 ably the old gentleman had inadvertently dropped the 
 letter amidst some papers of his own, instead of into the 
 mail-bag, and never discovered his mistake. So reasoned 
 the town, as they pressed into the post-office curiously to 
 handle the letter and note. 
 
 But John Ledbitter ? Higham went very red with shame 
 when it remembered him. How on earth could he be 
 recompensed for all he had endured ? Three parts of the 
 city, rich and poor, flocked over to Layton in one day : some 
 in carriages, some in gigs, some on horseback, some in vans, 
 and the rest on their two good legs. When Mrs. Sterling 
 saw the arrival of these masses from her bedroom window, 
 she screamed out to Molly and Martha, believing the people 
 must see a fire on the farm, and were coming to put it out. 
 John Ledbitter's hands were nearly shaken off ; and many 
 a voice, bold at other times, was not ashamed of its own 
 emotion, as it pleaded for forgiveness and renewed friend- 
 ship. Everybody was for doing something by w^ay of 
 recompense, had they only known what. Some few were 
 for asking the king to knight him ; and J ohn's brothers — 
 who had got on in the world — whispered that the money to 
 set him up, in any farm he chose to fix on in the county, 
 was at his command. John good-humouredly thanked them 
 all ; and when the last visitor was got rid of, he turned to 
 Miss Sterling. 
 
 " They have been speaking of a recompense," he said to 
 her, in a low tone. " There is only one thing that would 
 seem such to me ; and that is not in their power to give. 
 It is in yours, Anne." 
 
 Anne's eyes fell beneath his; a rich, conscious colour 
 rose to her cheeks, and there w^as the same expression on 
 
330 
 
 THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 
 
 her face that John Ledbitter had never seen but once before, 
 many years ago, ere he had declared his love for Selina 
 Cleeve. He had thought then — in his vanity — that it be- 
 trayed a liking for him ; and he thought it — not in his 
 vanity — again now. 
 
 "Anne," he tenderly whispered, drawing her to him, 
 " that dreadful misfortune, which, when it overwhelmed me, 
 seemed far worse than death, was certainly sent for at least 
 one wise purpose. But for that, I should have linked my 
 fate with your cousin's, and neglected you — most worthy, and 
 long since best-loved. Will you forgive my early blindness 
 — which I have lately wondered at — or will you shrink 
 from sharing that name which has had a brand upon it ? " 
 
 Closer and closer he held her to him, and she did not 
 resist. No words escaped her lips ; but she was inwardly 
 resolving, in her new happiness, a glimpse of which had 
 recently hovered on her spirit, that her love and care should 
 make up to him for the past. 
 
 "It is good," said old Molly, nodding her head with 
 satisfaction when she heard the news from her mistress. 
 " We shan't have to give up the farm now, ma'am, for Mr. 
 John can take it upon his own hands." 
 
 Mr. John did so ; and he took his wife with it. 
 
 As to poor Selina Grame, Mrs. Sterling and other relatives 
 made up her income to something comfortable. But when 
 a few months had elapsed, they heard with surprise that she 
 was about to join her husband in America. One and all 
 remonstrated with her. 
 
 " Walter wants me," was her answer. " He writes me 
 word that he has put all bad habits away and is as steady 
 now as heart could wish : and he has a good post in an 
 office in New York. One's husband is one's husband, after 
 all, you know." 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY, 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 I. 
 
 The day had been wet and dreary, fit emblem of its month, 
 November; and as the evening postman splashed through 
 the mud on his rounds in the aristocratic suburb of one of 
 our large bustling towns, which we will call Eockham, 
 people looked from their warm, cosy sitting-rooms, and said 
 they would rather he had his walk than they, in the wintry 
 weather. 
 
 He left letters at many of the houses, but not at all ; and 
 whilst he is knocking at one door, that of a well-kept, hand- 
 some house standing in a garden, let us glance into its front 
 parlour, preceding, by a minute, the letter that will soon be 
 there. 
 
 The family are at dinner there. Two ladies only. One, 
 young still, and handsome, sits at the head of the table, the 
 other, much younger, and equally well-looking, though in 
 a different style, sits opposite to her, facing the window. 
 Surely they cannot be mother and child! It is not only 
 that there appears scarcely sufficient contrast in the age, 
 but they are so totally unlike in face, form, and expression ; 
 the elder all fire and pride, the younger vll grace and sweet- 
 ness. No, they are only step-mother and step-daughter. 
 
 " Make haste into the hall, Nancy," said the young lady 
 to the servant in waiting, "there's the postman coming 
 here." 
 
 Her accent was gay and joyful : she expected, perhaps 
 
334 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 Bome pleasant news, poor girl ; and the maid left the room 
 with alacrity. 
 
 " For me ? " she questioned, as the girl returned with a 
 letter. 
 
 " Not for you, Miss Millicentj" was the servant's answer. 
 " For my mistress." 
 
 She handed the letter to Mrs. Crane, and the latter laid 
 down the fork with which she was eating some ground-rice 
 pudding, and took it up. 
 
 Who is it from, mamma '? " 
 
 " How can I tell, Millicent, before it is opened ? It looks 
 like some business letter, as you may perceive. A large- 
 sized sheet of blue paper and no envelope. It can wait. 
 Will you take some more pudding ? " 
 
 " Philip sometimes writes on those business sheets," cried 
 Miss Crane, eagerly. " Is it his handwriting, mamma ? " 
 
 " Philip ! nothing but Philip ! Your thoughts are for 
 ever running upon him. I ask you about pudding and you 
 reply with Philip ! Were I Mr. Crauford Leite I should 
 reprove you for your folly." 
 
 " No more, thank you," was the rejoinder of the younger 
 lady, while a smile and a bright blush rose to her candid 
 face. "Mamma, you have never appreciated Philip," she 
 ventured to say. But the elder lady had opened her letter 
 and was deep in its contents. 
 
 " Nancy," cried out Mrs. Crane, in a sharp, hasty tone, as 
 she folded the letter together, in what seemed a movement 
 of anger, "take all away. No cheese for me to-day, and 
 Miss Millicent does not care for it. Be quick. King for 
 Harriet to help you." 
 
 When they were alone, no one waited but the parlour- 
 maid, Nancy. At other times Harriet helped her. The 
 latter entered. 
 
 In Mrs. Crane's imj^atient moods she brooked no dilatory 
 serving, and the domestics knew it. So that her wish, in 
 this instance, was executed with all despatch, and she and 
 her stepdaughter were left together, Millicent wondering 
 what the unusual haste could mean. 
 
 "J have never appreciated Philip, you say," began Mrs, 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 335 
 
 Crane, pushing her dessert-plate, on which stood the finger- 
 glass, so vehemently from before her that some of the water 
 was spilled. " Not as you do, I am aware. I have some^ 
 times told you, Millicent, that your exalted opinion of him, 
 your exaggerated affection, would probably receive a check " 
 
 " I care for Philip because he has no one else to care for 
 him, mamma," hesitated Millicent, for there was something 
 triumphant in her stepmother's accent and words, and it 
 terrified her. 
 
 " This letter is from his em^^loyers." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "He has been robbing them, and has now decamped. 
 They warn me to give him up to justice if he should come 
 hiding here." 
 
 In the first shock of this terrible assertion, Millicent 
 Crane gasped for breath, so that the impassioned denial she 
 sought to utter would not come. For her confidence in her 
 brother was strong, and her heart whispered to her that the 
 accusation was not true. 
 
 " There must be some mistake," she said, recovering her 
 agitation. 
 
 " Eead the letter," returned Mrs. Crane, passing it over 
 the table towards her : and she poured out a glass of wine 
 for herself and took some grapes upon her plate. Millicent 
 read, and her confidence and her hope alike died away. 
 
 When Millicent Crane had been ten and her brother eight, 
 they were left motherless. Mr. Crane, after a short lapse of 
 time, married again, a young wife. She did not take kindly 
 to the two children or they to her. They knew that their 
 new mother disliked them in her inmost heart : for who so 
 quick as children in detecting the feelings of those about 
 them? To an open rupture with the children she never 
 came ; she was all suavity before their father ; but her 
 antipathy to them increased in strength, and towards Philip 
 it grew into positive hatred. He was a generous, high- 
 spirited, but tiresome boy, as boys are apt to be. He kept 
 the house in commotion and the drawing-room in a litter, 
 spinning tops on its carpet and breaking its windows with 
 his indiarubber ball, Mrs. Crane was perpetually slipping 
 
336 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 upon marbles, while treacherous hooks and fishing-tacklo 
 were wont to entangle themselves in her skirts. She invoked 
 no end of storms on his head, and the boy would gather his 
 playthings together and decamp with them ; but, the next 
 day, they, or others more troublesome, would be lying about 
 again. What provoked Mrs. Crane Avorse than all was, that 
 she could not put Philip out of temper. When she attacked 
 him with passionate anger, he replied by a laugh and a 
 merry word, sometimes an impertinent one, for Philip was 
 not always deferential towards his stepmother. She had the 
 ear of their father, not they ; and the children were put to 
 school : which was the very best thing for all parties. 
 
 When Millicent was eighteen she was recalled home, 
 Philip also ; summoned by their father's sudden death. 
 Nearly all the money was left to the widow for her life, and 
 to them afterwards — and she but twelve or fourteen years 
 older than they were ! Mrs. Crane's trustees were charged 
 to pay fifty pounds a-year to Millicent, whose home was to 
 be with her stepmother. To Philip also the same sum was 
 to be paid until he succeeded to his share of the property 
 by his stepmother's death ; and to him an additional fifty 
 pounds yearly was bequeathed until he should be twenty-one. 
 
 Only one trustee would act, Mr. Hallett, a merchant in 
 the town. The other trustee refused : it was an unjust will, 
 he said, and he'd have nothing to do with it. 
 
 Philip Crane improved upon the opinion. " It is a wicked 
 will," he cried to his sister, in a burst of indignation. 
 " Papa must have lost his senses before he made such. It 
 is her will, not his." 
 
 " We must make the best of it, Philip," was the gentle, 
 soothing answer. "It is done, and there is no remedy. 
 You shall have my fifty pounds as well as your own. I 
 shall not want it." 
 
 "Don't talk nonsense, Millicent," returned the boy. 
 "You'll want your fifty pounds for clothes and pocket- 
 money : that deceitful old crocodile will not furnish them ? 
 And if she did, do you think I would take the paltry pittance 
 from you ? " 
 
 The worst aspect of the affair was, that no money had 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 337 
 
 been specially left to place Philip forward in the world. 
 He said he would go to sea ; but Millicent cried aud sobbed 
 and entreated that he would not, for she possessed that 
 dread of a sea-life native to many women, and Philip, 
 who loved her dearly, yielded to her. Then he said he 
 would go into the army ; but w^here w^as his commission to 
 come from? Mrs. Crane declined to furnish funds for it, 
 and despatched him back to school for a year. 
 
 At seventeen, Mr. Hallett, whose influence Mrs. Crane 
 had completely gained, obtained for Philip an admission 
 into a London banking-house. His salary for a time would 
 be almost nominal ; but he had his hundred pounds a-year. 
 Quite enough to keep him in every way, pronounced Mrs. 
 Crane. Yes, perhaps so, w^hen a young man has the moral 
 strength to resist expensive temptations, but very little to 
 encounter those wdiich bubble up in the vortex of a London 
 life. From five o'clock in the evening, when he left business, 
 Philip Crane was his own master, ivithout a home, save his 
 solitary lodgings, and without relatives. Friends (as they 
 are so called) he made for himself, but they were friends he 
 had better have been without ; for they w^ere mostly young 
 men of expensive habits and of means superior to his. As 
 the years went on, debt came ; embarrassment came ; despair 
 came ; and, in an evil hour, it w^as on his twenty-second 
 birthday, Philip Crane took what did not belong to him, 
 and detection followed. Hence the letter sent to Mrs. 
 Crane by the firm, in which they gave vent to the fulness 
 of their indignation. 
 
 Millicent sat with her eyes concentrated on the letter; 
 and a slow conviction of its truth came to her. "Oh, 
 Philip ! Philip ! " she wailed forth, " anything but this ! I 
 would have worked to save you from dishonour — I w^ould 
 have died to save you from crime. Mrs. Crane ! mamma ! 
 what he has taken must be instantly replaced." 
 
 "Not by me," was the harsh reply. "You will never 
 find me offering a premium for theft." 
 
 " But, mamma, it is so small a sum ! Only fifty pounds." 
 
 " Had it been but fifty shillings the crime would be the 
 same. Besides, any attempt of that kind would be the com- 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 22 
 
338 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 pounding of a felony. I am surprised at you, Millicent. 
 Philip richly deserves punishment, and I trust he will meet 
 it. If he attempt to come here, I shall assuredly give him 
 up to justice." 
 
 Millicent did not answer, did not remonstrate, but sat 
 with her head bowed in her clasped hands. She wore an 
 evening dress of lilac silk, a little falling lace on its low 
 body and short sleeves, which was the fashion for young 
 ladies of that day, and she looked very young in it. Her 
 face was a sweet and delicate face, her soft-brown eyes w^ere 
 charming. Suddenly a knock at the hall-door was heard. 
 
 " Mamma," she exclaimed, " that is Eichard's knock ! He 
 must be told of this. Oh, how shall I tell him ? Perhaps 
 he will give me up ! " 
 
 I will tell him for you, Millicent." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I will go upstairs. You will soften it to him 
 as much as you can, mamma, won't you?" she added 
 imploringly. 
 
 " Soften it ! " repeated Mrs. Crane. " How is that to bo 
 done ? " And Millicent groaned as she escaped. 
 
 How many phases of thought pass through the mind in 
 an instant of time ! Before the servant entered to say Mr. 
 Richard Leite was in the drawing-room, Mrs. Crane had 
 run over the matter with herself and taken her resolution. 
 She w^ould not tell Richard Leite. He was to be married to 
 Millicent in the spring. She desired the marriage for more 
 than one reason, and she certainly would not give information 
 of any kind which might tend to frustrate it. 
 
 Richard Leite was standing by the fire when she entered 
 the drawing-room. He was a tall, stately man, with a 
 proud, fair face, and quiet, pleasing manners, his age a year 
 or two under thirty. Rockham said how fortunate Millicent 
 Crane was to have been chosen by him. It was a desirable 
 match for her in every way. The Crauford Leites, merchants 
 and shipowners, were of a high standing in the town, second 
 to none, and Richard's character was unblemished. 
 
 He sat with Mrs. Crane the whole evening, and took tea 
 with her. Mrs. Crane told him Millicent was not well, and 
 had, she believed, retired to rest. When he left the house, 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 339 
 
 the girl came shivering into the drawing-room and crept 
 close to the fire, for she was very cold. 
 
 " Mamma, how is it ? What does he say ? " 
 
 " Millicent," said the elder lady turning away her face, 
 which was blushing hotly for her untruth, to tell which was 
 not one of Mrs. Crane's frequent faults, " it will make no 
 difference in Mr. Crauford Leite's intentions." She w^as 
 much addicted to give the two names; nobody else did. 
 " He must feel the degradation Philip has brought, feel it 
 keenly, but he will not visit it on you — upon one condition." 
 
 " What condition is it ? " asked Millicent. 
 
 " That you never speak of your brother to him ; that you 
 never, directly or indirectly, allude to him in his presence ; 
 and should Kichard Leite, in a moment of forgetfulness, 
 mention Philip's name before you, that you will not notice 
 it, but turn the conversation to another subject." 
 
 " And is this restriction to continue after our marriage ? " 
 
 " I know nothing about that. When peoj^le are married, 
 they soon find out what matters they may, or may not, enter 
 upon with each other. It is enough, Millicent, that you 
 observe it for the present. Can you and will you undertake 
 to do it ? " 
 
 Mrs. Crane's voice bore quite a solemn tone ; Millicent's 
 caught it, and she answered in the same spirit : 
 
 " I will, I promise ; it is no difficult restriction. What 
 could I have to say about Philip now f " 
 
 The weeks went on, several ; and, with them, the prepara- 
 tions for Millicent's marriage. For once — rare occurrence ! 
 — it was a union of love; and her happiness would have 
 been unclouded but for the agitating suspense about her 
 brother. Nothing more had been heard of him. His 
 hiding-place had not been traced, but it was the opinion 
 of the banking-firm that he had escaped to America. And 
 there they quietly suffered him to remain, and let the search 
 drop. Millicent's days were anxious and her nights weary : 
 she loved this poor brother with a lively, enduring love ; 
 she pictured him wandering the earth, homeless, friendless, 
 destitute, overwhelmed with remorse and contrition. Before 
 
840 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 Mr. Leite alone slie strove to appear cheerful and happy, 
 not wishing him, after his restriction, to think she dwelt too 
 much on this erring brother. He had never mentioned the 
 subject to her in any way, and she felt thankful for it. 
 
 One day, early in February, she was walking unaccom- 
 panied in the busy part of the town, when a man in the 
 garb of a sailor, wearing a large, shabby pilot jacket, and 
 with a good deal of dark hair about his face, stepped up to 
 her and put a note into her hand without speaking, touched 
 his hat, and disappeared down a side street. Millicent, 
 much surprised, stared after the man^ and opened it. 
 
 "My dear Sister, 
 
 " Come to me this evening at dusk, if you can do 
 so without suspicion at home. I have been on the watch 
 for days, hoping to get sight of you. Be very cautious: 
 the police are no doubt on the look-out for me here, as they 
 have been in London. I am at 24, Port Street ; the house 
 is mean and low, and you must come up the stairs to the top 
 story and enter the door on your right hand. Will you dare 
 this for my sake ? 
 
 P. C." 
 
 Millicent had unconsciously stood still while she read the 
 note, and her face was turning as white as death. So intent 
 was she as not to perceive Eichard Leite, who happened, by 
 ill luck, to be passing. He crossed the street and touched 
 her on the shoulder ; and Millicent, whose head was full of 
 officers of justice looking after Philip, positively screamed 
 in alarm as she crumpled the note up in her hand and thrust 
 it into her bosom. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " cried Mr. Leite, in astonishment. 
 I thought — I — Is it only you ? " stammered Millicent. 
 
 " Only me ! What has hapjoened, Millicent, to drive 
 away your colour ? What is that letter you have just 
 hidden with so much terror ? " 
 
 " The letter's nothing," she gasped, her teeth chattering 
 with fright. 
 
 It must be something," persisted Mr, Leite, gazing at 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 341 
 
 her. I saw a sailor-fellow come up and give it you. Very 
 strange ! " 
 
 " Indeed it is nothing. Nothing that I can tell you of." 
 
 " Do you want to make me jealous, Millicent ? 
 
 " I will tell you all about it some time," she said, endea- 
 vouring to assume a careless, playful tone. " I promised it, 
 Eichard." 
 
 He left her as she spoke, for he was in pursuit of hasty 
 business, but as he walked on he pondered over what he had 
 seen and Millicent's agitation, and repeated to himself that 
 it was " very strange." 
 
 Evening came ; and Millicent attired in a plain dark 
 winter cloak, with a close black bonnet, and making an 
 excuse to Mrs. Crane that she was going to spend an hour 
 with some friends who lived near, started forth to meet her 
 brother. She knew perfectly well the locality of Port 
 Street, but never remembered to have been in it ; for, though 
 not what might be considered a decidedly disreputable 
 street, it was tenanted by the very poor, and partly let out in 
 low lodging-houses. As she turned rapidly into it, she saw 
 by the light of the dim evening that it was a narrow, dirty 
 street; men were standing about it, smoking short pipes, 
 a sprinkling of them sailors, for it led direct to the ships in 
 the basin ; and untidy women shrieking out to their children 
 with loud, angry tongues. Millicent drew her black veil 
 tighter over her face as she peered out for No. 24. 
 
 To turn into the house and up the two flights of stairs 
 was the work of a moment. Peeping out of the door in- 
 dicated, and holding a light in his hand, was the same man 
 who had given her the note. He retreated into the room 
 before Millicent, and held the door open for her. She 
 stood in hesitation. 
 
 " Millicent, don't you know me ? " he whispered, pulling 
 her in and shutting the door behind her. And whilst she 
 was thinking it could not be Philip, she saw that it was. 
 For one single instant he took off the dark curls, like a 
 sailor's, and the false hair on his face ; and his own auburn 
 hair, his fair face, with its open, gay expression, appeared to 
 view. 
 
342 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 " Oh, Philip ! Philip ! " she exclaimed, bursting into tears, 
 " that it should come to this ! " 
 
 Ho told her all. How the temptations of his London life 
 had overwhelmed him, its embarrassments had drowned his 
 reason and his honour, and, in a fatal moment of despair, he 
 had taken a bank-note which he could not replace. Not for 
 an hour since had he known peace ; and, but for the disgrace 
 to Jier of having her only brother at the felon's bar, he 
 should have given himself up to justice. He had been in 
 hiding ever since, in poverty, and was now in scanty 
 clothing, for his clothes, what few he brought with him 
 when he took flight, had gone, article after article, to pro- 
 cure food. He had made up his mind to leave the country 
 for Australia, the land of gold as it was deemed then, if 
 Millicent could help him with the passage-money, the lowest 
 amount that the lowest passenger could be conveyed for, and 
 clothe him with a few necessaries for the voyage. 
 
 " I would not ask it, Millicent," he said, " for I do not 
 deserve help from you ; I would not, on my word of honour, 
 but that that country holds out a hope of getting on ; and 
 for your sake, as well as my own, I would endeavour to 
 redeem the past and atone for it, for I well know the severe 
 trial this has been to you. Large fortunes are being made 
 there ; and it may be that in time — in time, Millicent — you 
 maybe able to acknowledge me for a brother again. Should 
 this luck not be mine, I can at least there work honestly for 
 the bread I eat ; work and rough it — and I have had enough 
 of crime. Here work is denied me, for I dare not show my- 
 self in the face of day." 
 
 Millicent, good, forgiving, and full of love, promised all 
 he wished. She had not the money at command, her 
 marriage preparations had more than absorbed it ; but she 
 knew she could borrow it from one or another. 
 
 " I will come here again to-morrow evening, Philip," she 
 said, " and bring what I can with me, that you may be getting 
 some clothes together. I will get it you all in a few days. 
 Is — is there nowhere else that we could meet instead of 
 here ? " 
 
 "Of course there's not," he answered. ^' It \nll not do 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 343 
 
 for us to be seen meeting in tlie street, lest any officer on 
 the look-out for me slioulcl catcli the scent. Nothing will 
 harm you here, my darling sister. If the house is poor, it 
 is honest." 
 
 " No, no, 'there's nothing to harm me," she pleasantly 
 acquiesced. " I will bo here again to-morrow night, Philip." 
 
 The next evening, circumstances seemed to favour Milli- 
 cent. She was invited to take tea at a friend's house, and 
 nothing would be easier, she thought, than to go out 
 ostensibly to pay the visit, and run first to Ehili|). So she 
 attired herself in the same dark cloak and bonnet, and when 
 ready, went to say adieu to Mrs. Crane. 
 
 " You are going very early ! " exclaimed the latter. " And 
 what a dowdy you have made of yourself, Millicent ! I 
 thought that old coal-scuttle of a bonnet was discarded." 
 
 " It is raining fast, mamma." 
 
 " Is it ? I hoj^e you have got your dress up. Where's 
 Nancy ? " 
 
 They v/ent out together. Miss Crane and Nancy. Soon 
 Millicent dismissed the latter, saying she wished to proceed 
 alone, but that Nancy need not mention this to her mistress. 
 The girl promised: she was pleased to have an hour for 
 herself, and went gossiping off to some of her acquaintance ; 
 and she only thought her young lady was going to steal 
 a walk with Mr. Eichard Leite. 
 
 Millicent walked swiftly, heedless of the dirt and the rain. 
 It was a windy night, and as she was turning the corner of 
 the alley which led from the broad, lighted street to Port 
 Street, her umbrella, a light one, turned inside out. So 
 Millicent had to make a stand there and battle with the 
 cross-grained article. 
 
 On the other side of the wide, open street, picking his 
 v/ay that he might not soil his evening boots, was advanc- 
 ing a gentleman, likewise under cover of an umbrella. He 
 glanced at the figure opposite, struggling and fighting with 
 hers, and a smile at her efforts came to his eyes and his 
 lips : but it v/as speedily superseded by astonishment, for as 
 she threw her face upwards, in the contest with this obstinate 
 umbrella, the rays of a street gas-lamp fell on it, and dis- 
 
344 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 closed to Eicliard Leite, for he it was, his own betrothed 
 wife. 
 
 Millicent and the umbrella disappeared down the alley, 
 and Mr. Leite, after a short mental debate, strode after her. 
 He traced her into Port Street, and he saw her enter the 
 house No. 24. Eichard Leite, his senses all topsy-turvy 
 with wonder and perplexity, took his standing within an 
 entry opposite and watched. 
 
 It was half-an-hour before she came out, and she went 
 quickly up the street in the rain, without putting up her 
 umbrella, fearful perhaps of another collision with the wind. 
 Mr. Leite came from his hiding-place, and kept her in view 
 till she was knocking, heated and out of breath, at the house 
 of their friends, where he had likewise an invitation. He 
 went up, as she stood there waiting for admission, but he 
 said nothing of what he had seen, not a word : he had re- 
 solved to watch her future movements and follow the matter 
 up. But he was pointedly cool to Millicent ; and did not 
 see her home in the evening, leaving her to Nancy. He was 
 a proud, vain man ; and to have any doubt or suspicion cast 
 upon his future wife was to his spirit bitter as wormwood. 
 And yet to doubt Millicent Crane! — open, honourable, right- 
 minded Millicent Crane ! Eichard Leite was sorely perplexed 
 as he lay on his sleepless bed that night. 
 
 Several days elapsed before Millicent got together the 
 necessary money for her brother, borrowing, in secret, a few 
 pounds from one friend and a few pounds from another ; for 
 Mrs. Crane she did not dare to ask or confide in, and nearly 
 every evening she contrived to see him. But never did she 
 enter that low street and its No. 24 but she was watched by 
 Eichard Leite. He had made inquiries. A handsome young 
 sailor, just come off a voyage, was lodging in the house, 
 and the young woman came to see him. Eichard Leite 
 could not fathom it, but his heart waxed wroth against 
 Millicent. 
 
 One evening, when the time of Philip's departure was 
 drawing near, as Millicent was returning through Port 
 Street, from one of these stolen visits, she heard a haughty 
 stride behind her, and the voice of one she well knew. 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 345 
 
 " Millicent ! Miss Crane ! 
 
 She was obliged to turn, shaking all over with apprehen- 
 sion, and debating how she could account for her appearance 
 in such a locality. 
 
 "What have you been doing here?" asked Mr. Leite. 
 « Tell me." 
 
 " I — Richard — it was an errand. It is done now, and I 
 am going home." 
 
 " You can have no legitimate errand in this part of the 
 town," he retorted ; " and your visits here, of late, have been 
 pretty frequent. Will you impart to me the cause of this, 
 Millicent?" 
 
 " Richard," she cried, with tears of agitation, " you have 
 known me for years; you have chosen me for your wife; 
 you cannot suspect me of anything wrong ? " 
 
 " My wife, yes. I did choose you. But do you think a 
 wife, actual or promised, should hold a disgraceful secret 
 and keep it from her husband ? " 
 
 " I trust — Richard — when I am your wife — that we shall 
 have no concealments from each other," she panted forth. 
 " I will not from you." 
 
 " Will you tell me what brings you to this place of an 
 evening, and who it is you come to visit ? " 
 
 " Later, I will tell you — if you will allow me," she 
 answered. " I may not now." 
 
 " What do you call ' later ? ' When we are married ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And not before ? " 
 
 "You would not hear me, Richard," she returned, her 
 mind reverting to his interdiction, " and perhaps not forgive 
 me. 
 
 " You must think my confidence in you will stretch to 
 any limit," he haughtily rejoined. " A man does not usually 
 marry with doubt on his mind. I must know what this 
 mystery is, and without subterfuge." 
 
 " I may not tell you now," she answered in a deprecating 
 tone ; " I do not know what the consequences would be : " 
 meaning, of course, the consequences to Philip. "I will 
 ask permission." 
 
346 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 " Of your sailor friend at No. 2i?" lie returned, his lip 
 curling with ineffable scorn : and she could not suppress a 
 cry of terror. 
 
 " Oh, Eichard, don't ask me ; don't try to fathom this ! 
 On my word of honour, as your future wife, I am doing 
 nothing wrong ; nothing disgraceful ; nothing of which I 
 need be ashamed." 
 
 " If you wish me to believe this, you must tell me what 
 it is, and let me judge what you call ' disgraceful.' " 
 
 "Indeed I cannot to-night. But — perhaps to-morrow 
 night — I will try. 1 will if I can." 
 
 " Very v/ell," he replied ; " I will afford you the oppor- 
 tunity to-morrow night." And he continued to walk by 
 Millicent's side in stern silence till she reached her home. 
 
 " You will come in," she said to him when the door was 
 opened. 
 
 " No. Good-night to you," he answered, and turned and 
 strode away. It seemed as if he had but constrained himself 
 to walk with her for her protection. 
 
 The next night, when Millicent saw her brother, she asked 
 if she might impart the secret to Eichard Leite. 
 
 " You could not betray it to anybody worse, lover of 
 yours though he is," was Philip's rejoinder. "He is one 
 of your cold, upright men, Millicent, who force every con- 
 sideration to give place to honour. He w^ould deem it 
 derogatory to the high mercantile character of their house 
 not to deliver me up to justice if he knev/ I was here : and 
 old Leite is a public man, you know, and puts M.P. to his 
 name. When I am quite gone, I and the good ship which 
 will bear me out of danger, then tell him." 
 
 " That may not be for a week or more." 
 
 " Oh yes, it will. But, Millicent, if you think the delay 
 will cause serious unpleasantness between you and Eichard 
 Leite, tell him at once. I will risk it. And better that a 
 worthless vagabond, as I have proved myself, should be 
 sacrificed, than your peace endangered." 
 
 Millicent's heart sank within her, but she felt that her 
 duty to her unfortunate brother must stand first. She be- 
 lieved that Eichard must suspect the mystery had reference 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 347 
 
 to Philip, thougli he would not hint at such in his high and 
 haughty spirit. 
 
 He sought hor that evening. He had watched her to the 
 ohl haunt, and he watched her out again ; then he strode 
 after her and allowed himself to overtake her in a quiet 
 part of the road, when the busy streets were left behind 
 them. 
 
 " I said I would afford you an o|)portunity of speaking to 
 me to-night," he began, without any previous salutation, and 
 in a cold, severe tone. " I am here to do it.'' 
 
 " And I cannot speak yet, Eichard. You must accord me 
 a little while longer ; a few days." 
 
 " Not a day, not another hour," be burst forth. " If wo 
 part to-night without full confidence between us, we part for 
 the last time." 
 
 " Eichard," she uttered, clasping her hands together and 
 laying them on his arm in her agitation, " do not be so harsh 
 with me ; do not be so cruel ! I assure you, I assert it in 
 the hearing of Heaven, that my going, as I have done to that 
 house in Port Street, is no just cause for your breaking with 
 me. You taught me to love you, Eichard: if you desert 
 me, you remove all I now have to live for." 
 
 " Fine words, flowery sentiments," he rejoined ; " but they 
 possess more sophistry than reason. I do not desert you, 
 or have wished to do so : I ask but for your confidencOj 
 Millicent. If you will not give it me, you drive me from 
 you." 
 
 "I will give it you, Eichard — after a little while. I 
 would give much to be able to give it you now." 
 " What prevents you ? " 
 
 " Have confidence in me," she implored, evading his 
 question ; " accord me yet a few days' delay. Do not see 
 me before then, if you would rather not. But cherish no 
 harshness against me, for I do not deserve it." 
 
 " I am not a simpleton, Millicent," he bitterly said. " You 
 ask to be freed from my company that you may pursue these 
 degrading visits : it is impossible that they can be for any 
 good. And it is equally impossible that you can be called 
 upon to indulge in any line of conduct which may not be 
 
348 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY 
 
 told to your future husband. I think a species of madness 
 must have overtaken you." 
 
 " Sorrow has overtaken me," she murmured, nothing else. 
 " Can you not understand, Richard ? There is a secret in this 
 matter which is not mine." 
 
 " What if I promise to keep it ? Anything entrusted to 
 you may be entrusted to me." 
 
 " May I trust him," she asked herself, " with safety to 
 Philip?" 
 
 " If it — involved criminality ? " she hesitated, looking at 
 him, and speaking timidly. " Criminality in another," she 
 hastily added, " not in me. Would you promise to keep it 
 then ? " 
 
 "I am not in the habit of being made the confidant of 
 crime," he imperiously rejoined. "I did not know that you 
 were." 
 
 And Millicent saw that her momentary hope of telling 
 him then was at an end ; she felt assured that after that hint 
 of " crime " it was not possible he could fail to know the 
 trouble related to Philip. She stood, looking the image of 
 perplexed despair, her cheeks pale, her sad, sweet eyes cast 
 down. Mr. Leite may be forgiven for mistaking the signs 
 for those of deceit and guilt. 
 
 " Then you refuse to tell me, Millicent Crane ? " he 
 resumed. 
 
 " For the present. I have no other resource. Indeed I 
 will tell you later." 
 
 "No," he said, "I shall never give you another oppor- 
 tunity. If we part now, we part for ever." 
 
 " Oh, Eichard, you cannot mean it ! " she wailed, her voice 
 faint with emotion. " Surely you will not cast me off — and 
 we so near the time of being man and wife ! " 
 
 " I will send you your letters back to-morrow," he coldly 
 rejoined ; " and I shall be glad if you will return me mine. 
 Adieu. Your path in life now lies one way and mine 
 another." 
 
 " But it must not be," she said, with a gasping sob, clasp- 
 ing his arm in her anguish. " I am to be your wife, Richard ; 
 you have said it." 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 349 
 
 " Yes," lie answered, remaining quite still, and not seeking 
 to push her hand away. " If you will explain your conduct, 
 and I find you have done nothing unworthy the future wife 
 of an honourable man. Can't you do this, Millicent ? " he 
 added, his tone almost as despairing as hers. 
 
 She pressed both her hands upon her throbbing temples, 
 and again debated the question with herself. Her brother's 
 safety on the one side ; her own happiness and the good 
 opinion of Kichard Leite on the other : should she risk the 
 former for the latter ? Mr. Leite watched her countenance 
 and its signs of despair. 
 
 Slowdy she removed her hands and raised her eyes to his, 
 and essayed twice to speak before she could get out the 
 words. 
 
 "Were appearances against you, Eichard, and you bid 
 me ivait and trust you, I would wait for any length of time ; 
 I would wait and trust you for years, if you so wished it. 
 I only ask for a few days." 
 
 " Then you decline to explain. That is your final 
 answer ? ' ' 
 
 " It is so ; against my will. It is obliged to be." 
 
 " Farewell to you," he rejoined, with stern sadness. 
 " From henceforth, Millicent, we are strangers." 
 
 He strode away rapidly in the direction of his home — the 
 handsome new home he had prepared for Millicent and taken 
 possession of ; and she turned towards hers w^ith a bursting 
 heart. She thought him more harsh than he ought to be — 
 for never a doubt crossed her that he must well know the 
 impediment was Philij). 
 
 Two days after that, Philip left the town for another port, 
 to join an emigrant ship bound for Melbourne. He did not 
 dare embark from Eockham. But, what with one delay and 
 another, ten days elapsed before Millicent received the news 
 that he had actually sailed. She then wrote the following 
 note to Eichard Leite : — 
 
 " The time is now come when I am released from my 
 obligation of secrecyc Give me an opportunity of clearing 
 myself to you, whatever you may then decide as to our 
 
350 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 future. I am ill and imliappy : do not continue to cherisli 
 resentment against me. 
 
 "MiLLioENT Crane." 
 To whicli the following answer came : — 
 
 "Dear Miss Crane, 
 
 " When my son left for New York (for which port 
 he sailed three days since, with the view of transacting 
 business for our firm) he empowered me to open any letters 
 that might come for him. Hence your note has fallen into 
 my hands, and, as it is not n])oii business matters, I take 
 the liberty of returning it to you. I expect Eichard will 
 be home in about three months; but, if you wish, I will 
 give you his address in New York. Will you forgive my 
 saying that I sincerely regretted the rupture wdiich my son 
 informed me took place between you and himself (the nature 
 of which he did not impart to me), for I know no young 
 lady whom I would rather have seen his wife. 
 
 " Believe me, my dear Miss Crane, 
 
 " Your ever sincere friend, 
 
 " Thomas Craijford Leite.'* 
 
 Illness set in. The daily fever, dread, suspense once at 
 rest, the frame had leisure to assert itself, and Millicent 
 became dangerously ill. A slight attack of brain fever 
 subsided into low fever, and she was brought to the brink 
 of the grave. After many weeks, she partially recovered, 
 and was ordered away for change of air and scene. Some 
 relatives of her own mother's, living at the seaside, received 
 her. With them she stayed the summer, and recovered her 
 bodily health. But not her S2)irits : for the non-return and 
 the silence of Eichard Leite affected her much. Autumn 
 came in, and then she proceeded home. 
 
 It was a warm, bright day, the one chosen for her journey. 
 She had to travel alone, her friends seeing her safely to the 
 train in the morning, and into a first-class carriage. " Mind 
 you don't get flirting and run away, Millicent, now you are 
 to be left to yourself for three or four hours," one of them, 
 
MILLICENT^S FOLLY. 
 
 351 
 
 young like herself, laughingly observed; and Millicent 
 laughed a response, in the same joking spirit: a hollow 
 laugh, though, she felt it to be in her own heart. She flirt 
 and run away ! 
 
 When the train arrived at a certain junction on its route, 
 the passengers were informed that they must there alight 
 to wait for a branch train ; so they crowded, grumblingly, 
 into the waiting-rooms. Millicent, however, made her way 
 to a seat she espied beyond the platform, a rude bench, 
 placed underneath a bank ; and here she sat, enjoying the 
 fine fresh air of the autumn day, and occasionally reading. 
 The near approach of a gentleman, an impatient fellow- 
 passenger, who was strolling about, caused her to look up. 
 
 A sudden shock fell over her : she knew not what she did. 
 The book was hastily dropped upon the bench, and she, 
 trembling all over, took a step forward. For it was Richard 
 Leite. 
 
 " Richard ! " she exclaimed, holding out her hand, " is it 
 really you ? " 
 
 He met the hand quietly and calmly; his voice, as he 
 answered, was cold and proud. 
 
 " You have returned from America, then ? " she said. 
 
 " Yes. I landed yesterday, and am on my way now to 
 Rockham. You look ill. Miss Crane." 
 
 "I have been very ill since you left," she murmured, 
 " and have been by the sea all the summer for change of 
 air. I am well now." 
 
 They stood facing each other in silence, as if neither 
 knew what to talk about. Ah, how noble and good he 
 looked, his fair and attractive face slightly bent, his stead- 
 fast grey-blue eyes fixed on hers. He began to say a few 
 formal words of adieu, about to turn away. 
 
 " Oh, but, Richard, you must hear me," she exclaimed, a 
 terror coming over her lest they were to part again for an 
 indefinite period without an explanation. " Let me explain 
 now. I have not yet had the opportunity of justifying 
 myself to you." 
 
 " I would rather not hear any justification," he interrupted, 
 the deep agitated flush which had arisen to his face fading 
 
352 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 awtay. " Let the past be buried in silence. It is of no con- 
 sequence now." 
 
 " But I must tell you," she feverishly rejoined ; " I cannot 
 let you go through life suspecting and blaming me. Were 
 you not aware who it was I went to see in that wretched 
 street ? I thought — knowing what you did know — that you 
 must have suspected him at the time ; and that was the 
 cause of my terror." 
 
 " You are talking riddles to me," said Mr. Leite, after a 
 pause, made, as it seemed, to take in the sense of her words. 
 " But I have no wish, and now no right, to hear your private 
 affairs. It is too late." 
 
 " Oh yes, yes," she pleaded, in great distress. " I am not 
 alluding to — to the relations that existed between ourselves ; 
 I only ask to be justified. That sailor was my brother." 
 
 " Your brother, Millicent ! " he ejaculated, staring at her. 
 
 " Yes," she said, bursting into tears of miserable agitation. 
 " He had disguised himself as you saw — if you did see him 
 — in those wide, rough clothes, and the dark curls and 
 whiskers." 
 
 " Sit down," he said, gently pushing her on the bench 
 again and sitting down beside her, fully aroused now from 
 his displayed cold indifference. " Do you mean your brother 
 Philip ? " 
 
 " I have no other brother, Richard. He had been in con- 
 cealment ever since that dreadful affair in London, reduced 
 to great straits, and had come down to ask my help to ship 
 himself off to Australia. Whilst he was hiding in that 
 room in Port Street, I w^as engaged collecting together 
 sufficient money for some clothes and his passage, lowest 
 class. You will say, perhaps, that I ought not to have 
 visited him : but he had no other friend in the world to 
 whom to cling in his distress, and Mrs. Crane had avowed 
 her intention of giving him up to the law if she got the 
 chance. I believed that my duty — as my love — lay in 
 going to see and comfort him." 
 
 " But, Millicent — though there is much that I do not yet 
 understand — why did you not confide this to me ? " 
 
 " First of all, your own prohibition, and secondly " 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 353 
 
 " What prohibition ? " interrupted Mr. Leite. " What arc 
 you talking of? " 
 
 Thinking his memory extraordinarily oblivious, Millicent 
 related what passed the night they first received the news 
 of Philip's guilt. She repeated the very words used by 
 Mrs. Crane. He listened with growing interest. 
 
 " Mrs. Crane purposely deceived you ! " he returned. 
 " She never mentioned the subject to me. I assure you, 
 Millicent, that, until this moment, I did not know but that 
 your brother was still in his situation in London." 
 
 " Then what must you have thought of me ? — of my stolen 
 visits to that undesirable street and that strange sailor ? " 
 
 "No matter, now, what I thought. You were deej)ly 
 to blame, Millicent ; you ought not to have used deceit 
 to me." 
 
 " Oh, Eichard, if I might have told you ! You do not 
 know how I longed to tell : though I believed throughout 
 that you could not fail to suspect the truth. And Philip 
 feared that you, all probity and honour, might deem it your 
 duty to have him taken up. Would you have done so, 
 Eichard?" 
 
 " No," said Mr. Leite, beginning quietly : " how can you 
 ask it, Millicent ? " he added, in rising passion. " Was he 
 not your brother? I would have helped him away more 
 effectually than you could do. What folly it has been ! " 
 
 " That day, when you came up, as I was reading the note 
 in the street, which he, in his disguise, had just put into my 
 hands, I should have told you all, Eichard, for I was greatly 
 in need of an adviser, but for the prohibition so falsely 
 imposed on me by Mrs. Crane." 
 
 "Mrs. Crane has much to answer for," he returned, a 
 strange expression of bitter regret on his quivering lij)S. 
 " She has parted us for ever." 
 
 " You do not — you will never think well of me again ? " 
 she faltered. 
 
 " Yes, I shall. I shall think of you again, and always, as 
 the best woman who has ever crossed my path in life, and 
 who was, and might still have been, the dearest. It is your 
 own mistaken folly that has parted us, Millicent." 
 
 The Unholy Wisli. 23 
 
354 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 "Miglit still have been the dearest," slie murmured. 
 " Then I am not, Eichard ? " 
 
 " You must not be," lie said, in bitter sadness. " I am a 
 married man." 
 
 Millicent half rose, sat dovm again, and bent lier face on 
 tlie arm of the bench. She felt the colour forsake her parted 
 lips, and her frame began to shake as if she had the ague. 
 
 " I thought you were irrevocably lost to me," proceeded 
 Mr. Leite, " and my feelings towards you were a compound 
 of rage and bitterness ; yet I loved you passionately all the 
 time. In New York, I met a young lady, the daughter of 
 one of our correspondents there, who took my fancy — not 
 my heart, Millicent : that had died out with you — or I told 
 myself it had. Partly in the indulgence of my admiration, 
 partly to gratify the exasperation I felt towards you, I 
 married her, and have brought her home — to the home that 
 was to have been yours. She is with me here to-day." 
 
 Millicent stood up again. She strove for calmness, though 
 she knew that life's sunshine was gone from her for ever. 
 The bell was ringing for the passengers to take their places, 
 and she offered her hand, in farewell, to Eichard Leite. 
 
 " Am I justified in your heart ? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes. Better, though, for that heart, that you had not 
 been, for it has brought back regrets which will never pass 
 away. God bless you, Millicent," he whispered, as he 
 wrung her hand in both his — " God bless you, my dearest, 
 and render your future destiny a happy one — happier than 
 mine will be! Oh, child, how different life might have 
 been for us both but for your folly ! " 
 
 ! He hastened to the platform, and Millicent slowly followed. 
 She saw him bring out a lady, young and very handsome, 
 from the waiting-room, place her in a carriage, and follow 
 her into it. Millicent found her way to another. As the 
 train moved slowly onwards, Millicent saw her book lying 
 on the bench. She had forgotten it, so it was lost. Lost ? 
 what mattered that, or any other loss, to a heart, sick as 
 hers was, with its excess of anguish ? 
 
 " He is right," she told herself. " I ought to have known 
 him better. Nothing has parted us but my own folly." 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 355 
 
 II. 
 
 Smoothly and swiftly the great steamer glided through the 
 waters. A noble vessel she was, yielding the palm to none 
 she met or passed on the broad Atlantic. A handsome, 
 well-built American clipper, bearing a full freight, both of 
 passengers and cargo, from the port of Liverpool to her 
 own shores. The hour was evening, and the vault of heaven 
 — where do we see it, in its full expanse of majest}^, as on 
 the broad, wide seas? — was studded with contsellations. 
 Brighter shone the stars than they seem to do on land. 
 
 In a remote corner of the deck, where few could see or 
 hear her, was one of the passengers. Pleasant sounds, as of 
 music and dancing, came from afar, yet she remained there 
 alone. Her hands clasped the outer railing of the deck and 
 her head rested sideways on them, as she looked out to sea 
 with a dreamy, abstracted gaze. There was something in 
 the gaze and in the attitude which told of deep sorrow. 
 Her years may have numbered thirty, and her countenance 
 w^as gentle and pleasant to look upon, notwithstanding its 
 expression of anxious care. 
 
 " How long ! how long ! " she murmured, lifting her head 
 as if in sudden pain, and pressing her hands together. " Oh, 
 my merciful God, thou knowest how long it is, and the 
 remembrance never leaves me ! " 
 
 The words seemed to be wrung from her by a crush- 
 ing weight of anguish. Yet the sacred appeal was not 
 spoken in lightness, but reverently, as one would utter a 
 prayer. 
 
 She, Millicent Crane, was reviewing her past life. Six 
 years have gone by since we met her. It had been to her 
 not as the calm waters they were now sailing on, but as a 
 sea of trouble, each wave buffeting more ruthlessly than its 
 predecessor. Its many miseries rose before her as in a 
 mirror, one succeeding to another. The troubles of early 
 childhood brought by the cruel step-mother, and the disasters 
 of later life. There came one green spot in Millicent's 
 
356 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 existence, the love of Eicharcl Leite, when the whole world 
 seemed full of golden sunshine. 
 
 The sunshine came to an end. They parted through 
 misapprehension. In a later interview, when, things were 
 cleared, Kichard Leite, married then, had bowed his head 
 over her in remorse, as a few words of anguish escaped his 
 lips — that slie was still his first and only love. " My cup of 
 sorrow is full," Millicent had wailed forth, as she returned 
 that day to her desolate home. 
 
 Her cup of sorrow was not full : and the world's cares, 
 real cares, were then about to fall upon her in earnest. Her 
 sorrows had been those of the heart : the hardly less bitter 
 one of poverty and loss were soon to be added to them. 
 Mrs. Crane had married the trustee of the Crane property, 
 John Hallet ; he used it to speculate with (with, it must be 
 said, her partial connivance), and lost it nearly all. It was 
 now Mr. Hallet's turn to flee from justice, and he left his 
 wife in bitter disgrace and poverty. 
 
 Millicent went out as governess, sharing the fate of many 
 others ; she had not been trained for one, and in that respect 
 was not perhaps very eligible. Tossed about from pillar to 
 post, now in a situation, now without one, now with a con- 
 siderate family, now with those who treated her less well than 
 they did their servants, she had lived on ; doing her best in 
 all ways conscientiously, and sending a five-pound note to her 
 step-mother when she had one to send. She had now entered 
 upon a new situation with an American family, the Patrick- 
 sons, who were going home to New York. Hence her 
 presence on board the steamer that night. 
 
 " I say, Bill," called out a sailor, who in pursuance of his 
 occupation had come close to Millicent, "look yonder at 
 them clouds a-rising. If we don't get a storm to-morrow, 
 I'm a Dutchman." 
 
 Let it come," growled the man addressed. " Calm one 
 day, storm the next. It's the way o' this life." 
 
 " Not for me," murmured Millicent, as the words caught 
 her ear. " Mine has been all storm. What is there left for 
 me in it ? Nothing, nothing, but my hope of a better." 
 
 One great trouble on her mind was her brother Philip. 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 357 
 
 He was still in Australia and had long ago refunded to the 
 London bank^ with interest, the money he had taken from 
 it; and had also sent money for other debts in London, 
 trifling ones. But he did not seem to be getting on much, 
 so far as Millicent was able to judge ; for a long while now 
 she had not heard from him at all. But while the Crane 
 family had gone down in the world, the Crauford Leites 
 had gone up. Old Mr. Leite, who had been in Parliament 
 for some years, one of our noted public men, was knighted 
 about the time of his son's marriage ; later on, he was made 
 a baronet. Of Kichard, Millicent knew nothing, except that 
 he still lived at Kockham as of old, with his wife. 
 
 The steamer arrived in due course at its destination and 
 discharged its passengers on the American shores. Millicent 
 found she did not like New York. Neither did she like 
 her situation. Indeed it was tliat she disliked, not the place 
 itself. The mode of living at a boarding-house, for the 
 Patricksons had taken up their abode at one, appeared to be 
 confused and uncomfortable. Her charges, five in number, 
 two of them boys, were indulged, turbulent children, and 
 Millicent could not often control them. They set her at 
 defiance. 
 
 "You have not sufiicient energy, Miss Crane," Mrs. 
 Patrickson said to her on^ day. 
 
 " Indeed, I think I exert a great deal," answered Millicent ; 
 "at least, as much as I am allowed to. Pardon me for 
 saying that, when you are present, you do not second my 
 efforts to exact obedience. No matter how rebellious the 
 children may be, you do not correct them yourself, or appear 
 to approve of my endeavours to correct them." 
 
 "Oh yes, I approve," said Mrs. Patrickson, languidly, 
 swaying herself in a rocking-chair and sucking candy. 
 
 " Then, would it not be better if you allowed the children 
 to see you do?" asked Millicent, courteously. "If you 
 spoke but a single word to let them understand that I am to 
 be obeyed, it might make a difference." 
 
 " I fear you won't get along in my place at all," observed 
 Mrs. Patrickson, as clearly as she could speak for the candy. 
 " I'm so sorry I brought you out." 
 
358 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 Millicent was silent. 
 
 " I want some one who will manage the children without 
 referring to me," continued Mrs. Patrickson. Such a 
 treasure of a governess applied to me this morning ! I've 
 been wanting to get her for ever so long; only she was 
 always fixed." 
 
 A flush rose in Millicent's face. " Did Mrs. Patrickson 
 wish to imply that she was not satisfied with her — that she 
 wished her to leave ? " 
 
 " Well, it's not downright that," answered the lady, con- 
 scious that she had no real fault to find with Millicent, 
 " but I calculate you'd be better off in a more easy place." 
 
 " I think I should," honestly assented Millicent. 
 
 " I'll look out for you," hastily proposed Mrs. Patrickson, 
 jumping at the admission ; " I know I could fix you, Miss 
 Crane. The families here are glad to get an English 
 governess." 
 
 " Turned out again, like a hunted hare," mentally S23okc 
 Millicent. " And away from my own land ! What is to be 
 the end ? " 
 
 " My dear miss," whispered an elderly lady that evening 
 in the tea-room to Millicent, Mrs. Patrickson having pub- 
 licly said her governess was going to leave, " she's always 
 changing. They stayed here before they went over to 
 Europe, and she had five governesses during the time. 
 Five ! The children ivoii't bo managed, you know, and she 
 puts the blame upon the governess." 
 
 The following morning, when Millicent was vainly trying 
 to make one of the girls play her scales in correct time, 
 Mrs. Patrickson burst into the room. 
 
 " I've got you a place ! I knew I should fix you ! There's 
 a gentleman in the eating-room who's talking business with 
 my husband, and he says his mother wants a governess 
 dreadfully. It's for two little girls, and you'll be the very 
 thing. He reckons she'll give thirty or forty pounds." 
 
 " Do you know the family ? Is it one I ought to enter ? " 
 inquired Millicent, whom this brusque announcement a little 
 confused. 
 
 " One you ought to enter ! How suspicious the British 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 359 
 
 are! My husband has done business with the house for 
 years. It's amongst the best in New York City, I can tell 
 you. Simon Pride and Sons." 
 
 A faint idea came over Millicent that she had somewhere 
 heard of the firm before ; but she did not know how or 
 where. 
 
 " The old man is dead now," continued Mrs. Patrickson, 
 " and the three sons carry it on. Tip-top people in all 
 ways. I saw the mother once, but she don't live here, she 
 lives over at Malta. And that's where she'll want you." 
 
 " Malta ! " ejaculated Millicent. " It v/ill be impossible 
 forme to undertake so long a journey as that." 
 
 " My gracious, Miss Crane ! But you English are dread- 
 ful ignorant ! As if I should send you off all the way to 
 the Mediterranean ! This Malta's an estate about six miles 
 from here. Simon Pride bought it w^hen he was getting 
 rich ; and a pretty place he made of it, spared no dollars. 
 I'm going to write to Mrs, Pride now", right away, and 
 recommend you." 
 
 " Are the children Mrs. Pride's ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Pride's ! Well, you have got notions ! Why, she's 
 sixty years old. They are the children of one of her 
 daughters." 
 
 The conclusion of the matter was, that Millicent, after an 
 interview with one of the sons, was engaged ; and she went 
 to " Malta " to enter upon her new" situation at the appointed 
 time. She was pleased at the appearance of the house, not 
 so much because it was large and handsome, as at the air of 
 comfort which pervaded it. It was more like an English 
 home than any she had seen in America ; but then her 
 experience was limited to the noisy, crowded hotel. 
 
 Mrs. Pride, a pleasant, active old lady, stepped forward 
 to greet her when she was shown into the general sitting- 
 room. " My dear," she said, " I'm glad to see you ; I hope 
 we shall get along well together. My daughter," she con- 
 tinued, indicating with her hand another lady, who bowed 
 to Millicent without rising. 
 
 She was young and handsome : where had Millicent seen 
 her face before ? While she was puzzling her memory, the 
 
360 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 eldest cliild claimed lier attention. A pale, delicate little 
 thing, not five years old, with a heavy eye. 
 
 " This child has fits," whispered old Mrs. Pride. " The 
 medical men in England recommended change of air, and 
 my daughter brought them over here." 
 
 " Then they have been to England ! " said Millicent, a 
 gleam of pleasure lighting her eye, as she thought of her 
 native land. 
 
 " It is their home," said the old lady. " My daughter 
 married an Englishman. He came over to America on 
 business with our firm, and fell in love with her. We — her 
 father was alive then — were not for the match, because we 
 knew he would take her away from us to his own home. 
 And she was too young besides. Otherwise there could be 
 no objection to Mr. Eichard Leite." 
 
 Richard Leite ! A film rose before the eyes of Millicent. 
 She knew she was in the presence of Ms wife and children ; 
 her own once destined husband, her early love. How could 
 she have failed to recognize that lady's face? Its linea- 
 ments, though seen but once, had been engraved on her 
 heart and remembered night and day. But it was changed 
 and worn ; all its girlishness had gone. American beauties 
 age so very quickly. 
 
 " You may have heard his name," went on the chatty old 
 lady. " He is the son of Sir Thomas Crauford Leite. The 
 firm is of great repute in one of your cities — Rockham." 
 
 " Yes, I have heard of it," answered Millicent, bending 
 over the little girls to hide her emotion. 
 
 " You will be careful to eradicate any Americanisms the 
 children may have picked up, Miss Crane," remarked their 
 mother, in a stifi*, cold tone, the first words she had addressed 
 to Millicent. " Their papa has a horror of them. When I 
 first went to England, I was continually popping out some 
 expression or other that offended my husband's fastidious 
 English ears." 
 
 Millicent did not hear; a contest had been going on 
 within her. Ought she to proclaim that she and Richard 
 Leite were not strangers? Would it be perfectly con- 
 sistent with honourable open-mindedness to conceal the 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 3G1 
 
 fact ? Perhaps not : and an abhorrence of all deceit was im - 
 planted in her by instinct. She nerved herself to the task. 
 
 " I believe I know Mr. Leite. That is, 1 knew him years 
 ago. His family and mine were on friendly terms," she 
 faltered. 
 
 " How singular ! " exclaimed Mrs. Leite. " Crane, Crane ? 
 I have no recollection that he ever mentioned the name. 
 But Mr. Leite is a reserved man, even to me, I tell him 
 sometimes that he is a model of cold politeness." 
 
 Cold ! reserved ! Millicent could not help thinking that 
 had site been his wife he would not have been cold and 
 reserved to her. 
 
 " Then you come from Eockham, I presume, Miss 
 Crane?" 
 
 "Originally. We used to live there, and my father's 
 grave is there. It is many years now since I was at the 
 place. — Yes, my dear, I shall be very pleased to see your 
 dolls," she added to the youngest girl, who was claiming 
 her attention. 
 
 The weeks passed on, four of them, and Millicent began 
 to think that she must once more seek another home. Not 
 because she was uncomfortable in this, but because she 
 could not bear, and ought not to encourage, the continued 
 bias her mind received to dwell on Eichard Leite. She 
 knew she had not forgotten him : he was still dear to her, 
 and ever would be. She had striven, during these last few 
 bitter years, to drive him from her thoughts. But Mrs. 
 Leite, who appeared to be a fond wife, fell into the habit of 
 talking to Millicent of her husband. The old pain, the old 
 anguish of disappointment was returning to Millicent, and, 
 school herself as she would, she could not look on Mrs. 
 Leite, his young and happy wife, without a pang of jealous 
 envy. She believed it lay in her line of duty to leave. 
 "When shall I find an asylum that I can stay in?" she 
 murmured ; " when, when ? " 
 
 On the day which completed the first month in the house, 
 she went into Mrs. Leite^s chamber to give notice. The 
 latter, ill with a cold on the lungs, had not quitted it for 
 some days. She always seemed to be delicate. 
 
362 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 "To speak to me, you say?" cried Mrs. Leite. "Oli^ 
 wait a bit : it's notliing particular, I suppose. The English 
 mail is just in, and here are papers and letters. Such a 
 long one from my husband. Here is one for you. Miss 
 Crane, forwarded on last night from Mrs. Patrickson's." 
 
 As Mrs. Leite spoke, she laid down her husband's open 
 letter close by Millicent. The latter's eyes fell on it ; she 
 recognized the Vv^ell-remembered characters, and her heart 
 beat more quickly. What business had it to do so now, 
 and he the husband of another ? 
 
 She took the letter held out to her and broke the outer 
 envelope with little interest, for it was her step-mother's 
 handwriting. But when she came to the letter it enclosed, 
 a suppressed cry of joy escaped her lips. It was from 
 Philip. And she had never heard from him all these later 
 years ! She knew afterwards that he had repeatedly written, 
 though the letters never reached her. She ran into her 
 own room to read it, forgetting her notice-giving and every- 
 thing else. 
 
 Oh, what joy! oh, what mercy! 'Philip was again in 
 England. He had long ago made ample restitution, in a 
 pecuniary point of view, for his infatuated error; but he 
 seemed to have recovered himself in all ways. He had 
 acquired wealth and standing. A lucky hit at the gold 
 fields had given him the one ; his birth and education had 
 helped on the other. He was coming over to America. 
 " My poor Millicent," he wrote, " you have been shamefully 
 buffeted by the world, but I will see if I can make it up to 
 you. You and I will part no more." 
 
 Following close upon his letter, Mr. Crane arrived at 
 New York. Millicent went there to meet him. He Avas 
 much changed, so much older in appearance, and very 
 brown, whilst his manners had acquired a spice of Aus- 
 tralian roughness. No matter; he was still her darling 
 brother whom she had so loved in his youth. 
 
 How many things they had to say to each other ! Philip 
 spoke of his adventures, the hardships he first of all endured, 
 the ups and downs of his life in the service of various 
 Australian settlers, his essay at the gold mines, and his 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 363 
 
 extraordinary success. And Millicent Lad to tell him of 
 her chances and changes in the cold world. In the midst 
 of their conversation, Philip rose. 
 
 " Come along with me, Millicent," he exclaimed : " you 
 have a fresh acquaintance to make. I did not come to 
 America alone." 
 
 " You cannot have brought Mrs. Crane ! " uttered Milli- 
 cent, standing still in dismay, and quite oblivious to having 
 called the lady by her wrong name. 
 
 " Not Mrs. Crane, our step-dame," he laughed ; " I'd as 
 soon have brought a viper. Another Mrs. Crane, Milli- 
 cent." 
 
 Millicent did not understand him, and he opened the door 
 of a bedroom. " Florence," said he, " this is my dear sister. 
 Millicent, do you guess ? Need I go on ? " 
 
 A dim suspicion of the truth dawned into Millicent's 
 mind, for a pretty, ladylike girl, who had been standing 
 outside the window on a sort of balcony which overlooked 
 the garden, cam.e forward, blushing deeply. Yes ; it was 
 Philip's wife. 
 
 " I knew I should surprise you, Millicent," ho went on. 
 " We were only married to come here. I came over with 
 her from Australia, and made her acquaintance on the 
 voyage. She was with her father. Captain Tenb3^ We 
 were not to have been married till just before we embarked 
 to return to Australia, but when I found you were in 
 America, and that I should come here, I thought I might as 
 well bring her with me," 
 
 "You intend to return to Australia, then ?" inquired 
 Millicent of her brother, as they all sat together, talking, 
 that afternoon. 
 
 " To be sure I do. Florence made me promise that before 
 we married. Her family are there. I wanted to come home 
 and see old friends —whether they would turn the cold 
 shoulder upon me ; but they welcomed me with open hand. 
 That one unfortunate act of my life, Millicent, has lain 
 upon me a very nightmare." 
 
 She raised her eyes to his with a look of caution, half 
 glancing at his young wife. 
 
364 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 "Florence knows all," said Philip, understanding the 
 look. "I would not have married her, or any one else, 
 without first telling her what a black sheep I had been." 
 
 " True, true, ' observed Millicent ; " I am forgetting. Of 
 course you would not. Philij), what are the diggings like ? " 
 
 He burst out laughing. " A regular Bartlemy Fair ; an 
 Irish row turned upside doAvn. That's what they are like, 
 Millicent ; but then we pick up gold." 
 
 " And yet you mean to go back to them ? " 
 
 " I did not say that," said Mr. Crane. " A married man 
 has little business at the diggings, for he can't take his wife 
 to them. But there are the finest openings possible in 
 Melbourne. A fellow with the money I have may start in 
 no end of agreeable ways and double it in a year or two." 
 
 " But if you have enough already ? " 
 
 Philip laughed again. " Does a man ever think that, 
 Millicent?" 
 
 " It will be cruel to lose you again," she exclaimed, with 
 almost passionate fervour. " To go through one's years 
 without friends, without sympathy, without hope ! Philip, 
 you do not know the monotony of my lonely life." 
 
 " Lose me," repeated he, " why, I have come to America 
 to fetch you. Of course you arc going back with us to 
 Australia, and our home will be yours. You have as much 
 right to it as I, Millicent : what should I have done without 
 you through life ? " 
 
 " I don't know about going," hesitated Millicent, be- 
 wildered and half lost in the new prospect opening to her. 
 " It is a long voyage, and I do not like the sea." 
 
 " You will like Australia," spoke up the young wife. 
 " It is the fairest spot of all spots on this fair earth." 
 
 Though Millicent did not decide off-hand to go to 
 Australia, the offer of doing so afforded just the excuse she 
 needed for giving notice to quit Mrs. Pride. The old lady 
 seemed very much put out about it, and her daughter was 
 especially so. Her health was no better ; Millicent thought 
 she looked very ill. 
 
 " I declare it is always the same," she cried in a peevish 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 365 
 
 tone. " If I do get anybody about me that's useful, they 
 are sure to leave. I had such a good nurse : she had lived 
 with ine ever since Katie was born. The most valuable 
 servant ! knew how to manage Katie in her attacks ; there 
 was nothing I could not trust to her. Well, just before my 
 boy fell ill and died, she gave me warning — it was to get 
 married — and would leave. I was so provoked with her 
 obstinacy. As if she could ever be so well off as in a good 
 service ! Mr. Leite could not see it in the same light. He 
 said if the girl had an opportunity of getting well settled, 
 she was right to do it. I know I have not been settled 
 since with a nurse. And now you are going ! " 
 
 " I have been here so very short a period," urged Milli- 
 cent, "that I should think my leaving could be of little 
 moment to you." 
 
 " Then you are mistaken, Miss Crane. I have seen in 
 this short time that you are the very person a mother might 
 leave her children with. You are considerate and gentle 
 with them, much more so than I am, and you endeavour, I 
 see, to train them well ; while your manners are thoroughly 
 English and ladylike — a great point with me. I don't know 
 any one to whom I would so soon confide my children as to 
 you, to supply the place of a mother." 
 
 These words of Mrs. Leite's gave a pleasant thrill to 
 Millicent's heart. " Do you still think of returning soon to 
 England ? " she asked. 
 
 " Why, of course I do. Four months is a period quite 
 long enough to be away from one's home and husband." 
 
 " We must not be selfish, Katherine," said the mother, 
 who had soon come round to a kinder spirit. "Our own 
 interests ought not to be put against Miss Crane's new 
 prospects, which look so fair." 
 
 " Oh, dear Mrs. Pride," Millicent exclaimed, " I ought to 
 be happy if I go ! Think what a life mine has been ; 
 nothing but crosses and cares and disappointments, one 
 upon another. Scarcely knowing one month, of late years, 
 where I should be the next ; uncertain whether, in my old 
 age, I should not be without a shelter. And now, to have 
 my dear brother back with me to want to take me to his 
 
366 
 
 MILLTCENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 home, to know that we may spend our lives together ! I 
 feel that God has at length dealt very mercifully with me." 
 
 " As He does by all who look to Him," was the rejoinder 
 of Mrs. Pride. 
 
 Millicent returned to New York the following day. In a 
 w^eek Philip and his wife would embark for England. It 
 was a gay and busy time with them, seeing sights, going to 
 theatres, and purchasing pretty things which took the young 
 wife's fancy. An indulged, spoilt child was she, as Milli- 
 ^ cent saw. She had a sulky fit sometimes, and seemed to 
 turn against Millicent. 
 
 One evening Millicent was at her chamber window. It 
 was over the one occupied by her brother and sister-in-law. 
 As she sat there, thinking, she heard Philip step out on the 
 balcony, strike a match, and light his cigar. Millicent 
 leaned forward to look down. Mrs. Crane had followed 
 him. He threw his arm round her waist, and they stood 
 together against the iron railings, he puffing away. 
 
 "Florence, my darling," he began, when his cigar was 
 thoroughly alight, '° what makes you so cool to my sister ? 
 That unkind remark of yours drove her away from us just 
 now." 
 
 Millicent drew in her head very hastily and sat down 
 again. But she could not avoid hearing. 
 
 Florence burst into tears. "It is very cruel of you, 
 Philip, to have her here to be a spy upon me. I can't bear 
 it. I won't bear it long." 
 
 " A spy ? " 
 
 " Yes, she's nothing else. I know she's not. She is so 
 much older than I am, and so grave, and does everything so 
 rigliU When she is by, I feel that all I say, or do, is wrong. 
 And she'll make you think so." 
 
 " Whew ! " whistled Philip, in astonishment, " you are 
 entirely mistaken, Florence. Millicent is quiet and sub- 
 dued, for she has gone through much sorrow, but you little 
 know her kind and loving heart. A spy ! " 
 
 " I can see how it is," grumbled Mrs. Philip, reproach- 
 fully ; " you love her better than you do me." 
 
 " My dear, don't be childish. I love Millicent very dearly 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 367 
 
 as a sister, but I love you as a wife. How in the world can 
 you have taken this prejudice against her ? " 
 
 Mrs. Philip went on sobbing. " What made you ask her 
 to go home and live with us ? " 
 
 " She has no other home. It is as much my duty — almost 
 • — to provide one for her as for you ; you never would 
 believe the sacrifices she has made for mo. Besides, it will 
 be delightful to have her with us. And you'll think so 
 when you come to know more of her, Florence." 
 
 An unlucky speech, in all its bearings, this of Mr. Philip. 
 His wife jerked her waist and herself away from him. 
 
 " Then I tell you what it is, Philip : if I don't like things 
 when we get back, she and you shall have the house to 
 yourselves, and I'll go home again and live with mamma." 
 
 " All right," said Philip, gaily, hoping to laugh away the 
 temper ; " you are a dear little silly goose." 
 
 Millicent softly closed the window, and, bending her 
 head upon the bed in a paroxysm of distress, sobbed as if 
 her heart would break. Nobody seemed to want her, no- 
 body in the v/ide world ; not even Philip. Some one, v/hom 
 in her emotion she had not heard enter, touched her on the 
 sleeve. Lifting her tear-stained face, she saw to her intense 
 surprise old Mrs. Pride. 
 
 She had come that day to New York, with her daughter, 
 to the same hotel where the Cranes were stopping. Mrs. 
 Leite, somewhat better, and able to rise from her bed, 
 persisted in sailing as she had originally intended, and had 
 come to New York in pursuance of her preparations. 
 " You are quite unfit to undertake the voyage, Katherine," 
 lamented Mrs. Pride, who had the worst possible opinion of 
 her daughter's state ; for, unlike her other children, she had 
 never been healthy ; " you ought not to go." But Katherine 
 Leite liked to take her own way. " Nothing has ever done 
 me so much good, mother, as my sea voyages," she answered ; 
 " I shall be well and strong by the time we reach Liverpool." 
 
 " Now, my dear, what is all this ? " questioned Mrs. Pride, 
 aghast at witnessing Millicent's storm of grief. 
 
 Striving to suppress it, Millicent said a few wot'ds 
 indicative of the truth. "I find they do not really want 
 
* 
 
 868 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 me," slie sobbed. " I liacl not fully made up my mind, for 
 tliougli the prospect was tempting, some instinct has from 
 tbe first been warning me against it. But they don't want 
 me. Nobody wants me." 
 
 " Yes, my dear, somebody does. I want you." 
 For me it seems to be only disappointment upon dis- 
 appointment," sighed Millicent. ^' Sometimes I am tempted 
 to think that God must be angiy with me." 
 
 "No, no. All things work together for good to them 
 w^ho love and trust Him," whispered Mrs. Pride. " I have 
 found that to be the truth throughout my life ; and you will 
 find it so, my child." 
 
 III. 
 
 Philip Crane and his wife sailed for England ; Mrs. Leite 
 had previously gone. Millicent returned with Mrs. Pride 
 to Malta, to be the governess and temporary mother of the 
 little girls, Kate and Agnes. A great change came gradually 
 and imperceptibly over her heart. She fully resigned herself 
 into the hands of Heaven, striving to do her duty in this 
 world without murmuring, without repining, and Peace 
 entered into it. Had death suddenly come to Millicent in 
 the night, it would neither have shocked her nor found her 
 unprepared. Death, however, did come to another. 
 
 One day, not six weeks after Mrs. Leite's departure, the 
 old lady entered the room where Millicent was sitting, an 
 open letter in her hand. 
 
 " I strove to imj^ress resignation on you," she said, the 
 tears coursing down her cheeks : " I have need of it myself, 
 now. My child is no more." 
 
 " Which child ? " exclaimed the startled Millicent. 
 
 " Katherine, my youngest and dearest. I was sure that 
 cold had settled on her lungs, but she ivoiild brave it, and 
 departed. It may be that she felt her illness was to be 
 serious, and yearned to be with her husband. That was 
 natural. But she grew worse on the passage, and died in a 
 week after reaching her home at Rockham." 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 369 
 
 Millicent read tlie letter wliicli Mrs. Pride put into her 
 hands, the old familiar handwriting. Eichard Leite appeared 
 to mourn his wife sincerely. Millicent prayed for resigna- 
 tion for him, and redoubled her care of the little motherless 
 children. 
 
 Several months passed, and Millicent's days were gliding 
 on, calmly and peacefully. The only thing to trouble them 
 was the increasing illness of little Kate. Mrs. Pride did 
 not think they could save her. Millicent heard occasionally 
 from Philip. He informed her that he was succeeding at 
 Melbourne beyond his expectations, and he thought they 
 should soon come home to England to settle, for his wife's 
 family was returning thither. And she wrote that a little 
 stranger had arrived to bless them, whom they had named 
 Millicent," and she hoped that when they met again, 
 instead of fearing her sister Millicent, she should have 
 learnt to love her. Millicent felt very thankful. 
 
 There were to be more changes. The little child, Kate, 
 died. And Mr. Leite wrote that he was coming to New 
 York to take home the other, Agnes. Mrs. Pride regretted 
 it, and especially that she should have no further occa- 
 sion for the services of Millicent, for she had learnt to 
 love her. 
 
 " Do you know what I have been thinking of — what I 
 wish ? " she suddenly exclaimed to her one day. 
 " No," answered Millicent. 
 
 " That Eichard Leite would learn to appreciate your ex- 
 cellences, and make you his wife. He is sure to marry 
 again : all widowers of his age do : and he'll most likely 
 pick up some grand lady, fine and selfish, who will dislike 
 or neglect the child; there'll be plenty fishing for him. 
 No hope that he'll find such a treasure as you are." 
 
 Millicent's heart beat painfully, and she answered some 
 confused words about " impossibilities." 
 
 There was to be some delay yet, however, in Mr. Leite's 
 arrival. He was detained at home by the severe illness of 
 his father ; and another month or two went on. 
 
 When he did at last come it was unexpectedly. Mrs. 
 Pride and Millicent were sitting together one evening, the 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 24 
 
370 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 latter with little Agnes on her knee, when their English 
 servant entered to say that a gentleman had called. 
 
 " You can show him in here, Marcus," said Mrs. Pride — 
 and the visitor came in, the servant announcing him — 
 Sir Kichard Leite." 
 
 He was much altered. His hair was tinged with grey, 
 and scanty on the temples, showing forth his fine, expan- 
 sive forehead, and on his face there was a graver look 
 than formerly. More than seven years had passed since 
 they met. Millicent wondered whether she was equally 
 changed. 
 
 "Oh, Richard, Eichard," cried Mrs. Pride, standing forward 
 with outstretched hands, " I am sure, by that announcement, 
 your good father must be dead ! " 
 
 " Yes," he sadly answered, as he stooped to kiss the good 
 old lady's fresh and pleasant face, " we laid him in the 
 grave but a few days before I left. I did not write to you ; 
 I preferred to bring the news." 
 
 " Poor Sir Thomas ! " she sighed. 
 
 The little child, Agnes, had run to her father ; he caught 
 her up in his arms. Not until then did he advance to 
 Millicent, who had risen to receive him. There was not 
 the slightest colour in her cheeks or lips. 
 
 " Miss Crane, the governess," said Mrs. Pride. " I have 
 mentioned in my letters to you what a treasure she has 
 been to your little girls. Poor Katherine could have spoken 
 to it, but she probably was too ill, when she reached you, to 
 remember these things. Miss Crane has well supplied her 
 place." 
 
 Eichard Leite gazed in the greatest surprise. " Millicent ! " 
 he impulsively exclaimed, " is it you who have been with my 
 children ? That it was a Miss Crane, I knew, but it never 
 occurred to me to think it might be the Miss Crane of my 
 younger days. I thank you gratefully for all your kindness 
 to them." 
 
 " I was in want of a situation — I accepted this with Mrs. 
 Pride — I did not know, until afterwards, that the children 
 were yours," some feeling in her heart prompted her to say, 
 eagerly and hastily. 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 371 
 
 Their hands were locked together, for he had taken hers 
 and did not release it. " I have sometimes wondered what 
 became of you," said he. " I had no idea you had left 
 England." 
 
 " But you might have known, living in her native town," 
 interposed Mrs. Pride, who felt a little puzzled. " Perhaps 
 you never inquired, Eichard." 
 
 " No. To what end ? " he rejoined, in an abstracted kind 
 of manner, more as if speaking to himself. And the colour 
 slowly returned to Millicent's pale face as she resumed her 
 seat. 
 
 And now all became bustle and preparation at Malta. 
 Sir Richard's stay in America was to be a limited one, and 
 much of that was spent in New York. Agnes, with the 
 coloured nurse, Judy, was to accompany him to England. 
 Millicent only waited their departure to look out for 
 another situation. 
 
 "Why can't you come with us in the ship and be my 
 governess still. Miss Crane ? " asked the child, as she stood 
 watching Judy packing up her dolls in a box. 
 
 Millicent shook her head. " I shall never be your gover- 
 ness, again, dear." 
 
 " Grandma thinks papa will send me to school ; he'll not 
 care to be troubled with a little girl who has no mamma to 
 see to her. I shan't like school. J udy says they'll be cross 
 there and beat me." 
 
 " Judy should not say so. She does not know anything 
 about it. I am sure you will always be good, Agnes dear, 
 and then no one will ever be cross to you, at school or at 
 home." 
 
 " Agnes is in a fine way, thinking she shall be sent to 
 school when you get to Rockham," remarked old Mrs. Pride, 
 that evening, with a laugh, to Sir Richard Leite, who was 
 again at Malta. 
 
 "Well, I don't see what else I can do with her. Do 
 you?" 
 
 The old lady, who was knitting a stocking, knitted on for 
 a full minute before she spoke. 
 
 " Society has such odd notions in your country, Richard, 
 
372 
 
 MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 Folks migLt get talking, I reckon, if you took a governess 
 into the house." 
 
 He laughed slightly. "I dare say they would. Might 
 dci^end upon the lady's age, though." 
 
 ''Miss Crane, say?" 
 
 " Oh, she's ever so much too young. No ; I could never 
 take her into my house as governess." 
 
 Mrs. Pride sighed. " You will never get one to be to the 
 child what she has been. Do you never think of marrying 
 again, Eichard ? " she added, looking at him wistfully. 
 
 " I have not thought about it," he answered, in a dreamy 
 tone. 
 
 " Poor Katherine has been dead a year." 
 
 Sir Eichard looked quickly at her. " Why ! " he said, 
 smiling, " do you wish me to marry again ? " 
 
 " My dear, I'll say no more. If I did wish you to — and 
 mention one who would, as I think, be more eligible than all 
 the rest of the world, you would only laugh at me ; so I'll 
 say no more. You'll be snapped up by some grand, useless 
 dame, who'll be too fine to notice your child." 
 
 " Oh no, I shan't," he answered. 
 
 The old lady knitted away as if her needles were hot. 
 " Don't speak so securely. You're an attractive man, you 
 know, and you're a baronet, and you've a sight of money; 
 and those are things the girls run after, Eichard Leite." 
 
 " They'll find it of no use to run after me," said he, 
 significantly. " Shall I tell you a secret, dear Mrs. Pride ? 
 — that there is one lady who in my opinion is more eligible, 
 as you have just put it, to be my wife than all others in the 
 world. I am not sure that she will have me, but — I shall 
 never marry any one else." 
 
 Somewhat later, in passing the open door of a room where 
 the luggage was collected. Sir Eichard saw Millicent sitting 
 on a trunk. She was tired in body, for she had been helping 
 Judy to pack, and weary in spirit. 
 
 " What a quantity of baggage ! " he exclaimed. " Surely 
 Agnes does not need all that ! " 
 
 " Some of it is Judy's," replied Millicent, as she stood up. 
 
 Sir Eichard advanced to her. " How can I repay you," 
 
MILLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 373 
 
 he said in a low tone, " for your goodness to my children — 
 this one and the little one who is gone." 
 
 "I do not require payment : I do not understand," she 
 answered. " I have only done my duty." 
 " "You are looking out for another situation, Mrs. Pride 
 tells me ? " 
 
 " Yes. In New York." 
 
 " You may not get a desirable one ? " 
 
 " Probably not," she answered, the tears starting to her 
 eyes in spite of herself. " I shall not get such another as 
 this. I have been very comfortable with Mrs. Pride." 
 
 " What is there to prevent your remaining with Agnes, 
 though she does come home ? Should you not feel as 
 comfortable in my house as in this ? " 
 
 Millicent shook her head. " It could not be. Sir Eichard," 
 she answered in a low tone, wondering that he should put 
 the question. 
 
 " It is the same house, Millicent. The house that once 
 was to have been yours." 
 
 The colour flew over her face. Was he mocking her ? 
 
 " And so we are to part again, with a farewell shake of 
 the hand — like this," he went on, taking Millicent's hand in 
 his and retaining it. " Is there no help for it ? " 
 
 " None." 
 
 " No help ; no remedy, Millicent ? " 
 
 She could not repeat her answer. She was much agitated. 
 Millicent, my dear, there is a lieljD for it," he tenderly 
 whispered. " Come into my house as governess ? — no, that 
 could never be ; but surely you can come as my wife. Do 
 you think I have forgotten you in all these long years ? " 
 
 Her sobs rose hysterically. 
 
 " You, and you only, have a place in my heart, a right 
 in my home. You Jcnoiv it, Millicent. Come and make 
 my happiness. We have both had our trials, I as well 
 as you. Come home with me ; my second, but my dearest, 
 wife." 
 
 " Oh, Eichard, do you mean it ? " 
 
 " Mean it ! " he repeated, not less agitated than she was. 
 And he folded her to his heart with an impassioned gesture, 
 
374 
 
 MTLLICENT'S FOLLY. 
 
 and took from her lips the kisses he had left on them years 
 before. Sweeter kisses than he had ever given since. 
 
 Were the heavens smiling on Millicent now ? Ay, in one 
 flood of golden sunshine. 
 
 My dear child," said old Mrs. Pride, dropping tears of 
 gladness, when she became enlightened as to w^hat was to 
 happen, and Millicent had made known to her the full story 
 of the past, " what did I once beg you to remember in your 
 sorrow — That all tilings loorh together for good to them loho 
 put their trust in God.'' 
 
 Some change was made in the routine of progress. Sir 
 Richard Leite delayed his departure for a month, and 
 Millicent was married from Mrs. Pride's. In about a week 
 after that event, they sailed for home with the child, an 
 English maid and the coloured nurse in attendance. 
 
 One day, when the sea was calm, Lady Leite sat in an 
 unfrequented part of the deck, watching the sparkle of the 
 •waves which the steamer's progress left behind it— just as 
 she had once sat when going out with the Patricksons. 
 What a contrast it was ! — this time and that. Then, look 
 where she would, the world for her held nothing but sadness, 
 had held it for years ; now she could see only joy every- 
 where, in the heavens and in the earth. 
 
 " WhU is it, Millicent ? " her husband asked, coming up 
 and detecting the tears of emotion filling her eyes. 
 
 " I was only thinking of the past, Richard," she answered. 
 And of the strange turn of Fate which has brought back 
 the happiness I lost years ago : through, I remember you 
 said, my own folly." 
 
 " And so it was, my darling ; your own folly. Nothing 
 else separated us." 
 
THE PARSON'S OATH. 
 
THE PARSON'S OATH. 
 
 I. 
 
 The day was drawing towards its close, and the young 
 charity-children, assembled in the newly repaired school- 
 room of the small village of Littleford, glanced impatiently 
 through the windows at the shadows cast by the declining 
 sun; for none knew better, by those shadows, than they, 
 that five o'clock was near. 
 
 " First class, come up and spell," called out the governess, 
 from behind her table by the window. 
 
 " There ain't no time, miss," replied one of the girls, with 
 the easy familiarity apt to subsist between scholar and 
 teacher in rustic schools. " It's a'most sleek on the stroke 
 o' five." 
 
 The governess, a fair, pleasant-looking young woman, 
 dressed in mourning, and far too ladylike in appearance for 
 the paid mistress of a charity-school, glanced round at the 
 hour-glass, and saw that it wanted full ten minutes to the 
 hour. 
 
 "There is time for a short lesson, children," she said. 
 "Put aside your work, and come up." 
 
 The first class laid their sewing on the bench, and w^ere 
 ranging themselves round the governess's table, when a 
 young lady, in a hat and riding-habit, followed by a groom, 
 galloped past the windows, and reined in. 
 
 " Governess ! " exclaimed a dozen voices, " here's Miss 
 Rickhurst." 
 
378 
 
 THE PARSON'S OATH. 
 
 " Go on with your work, children : what do you mean by 
 pressing to the window ? Did you never see Miss Rickhurst 
 before '? J ane Hewgill, open the door." 
 
 "How d'ye do, Miss Winter?" said the young lady they 
 had called Miss Rickhurst, carelessly nodding to the 
 governess, as she entered. "How are you getting on? 
 What class have you uj) now ? " 
 
 " Spelling," replied Miss Winter. " Jane Hewgill, why 
 don't you shut the door ? " 
 
 "'Cause here's Mr. Lewis and his aunt a-coming up," 
 answered the child. " I'm a-keej^ing it open for them." 
 ' Miss Rickhurst hastily rose from the governess's seat, 
 which she had unceremoniously taken, and went to the door 
 to meet the new-comers. 
 
 Mr. Lewis, the clergyman of the parish was a meek, quiet 
 man of thirty years. It is certain he was not ambitious, for 
 he felt within him an everlasting debt of gratitude to the 
 noble patron who had stepped forward and presented him 
 with this village living and its stipend of £150 per annum. 
 He had never looked for more than a curacy, and half the 
 sum. His father, dead now, had been a curate before him, 
 and he, the son, had gone to Oxford as a servitor, had taken 
 holy orders, and struggled on. And when the Earl of 
 Littleford, w^ho had silently been an eye-witness of the 
 merits and unassuming piety of the poor young curate, pre- 
 sented him, unexpectedly, with the little village church on 
 his estate, John Lewis raised his heart in thankfulness to 
 the earl, who had thus, under God, put want away from him 
 for his span of life. 
 
 Once inducted into the living, the Reverend John Lewis 
 worked indefatigably. Amongst other good works, he re- 
 established the girls' charity-school ; an anciently endowed 
 foundation, which had fallen nearly into abeyance — as many 
 other ancient charities have, in the present day. The 
 mistress of it. Dame Fox, was old ; so Lord Littleford and 
 the clergyman superannuated her, and looked out for 
 another: and whilst they were looking. Miss Winter, the 
 daughter of Farmer Winter, who was just dead, went up to 
 Littleford Hall and asked for the situation. 
 
THE PARSON'S OATH. 
 
 379 
 
 The whole viHage liked Kegina Winter : although she 
 had received an education, and, for five years of her life, 
 enjoyed a home (with her dead mother's London relatives) 
 far above what Littleford thought suitable for a working 
 farmer's daughter. They likewise took numerous liberties 
 with her name. Kegina ! it was one they could not become 
 familiar with, so some called her Gin a, many Ginny, and a 
 few brought out a short " Gin." After her father's death, she 
 found that scarcely any provision was left for her ; and, as 
 she one day sat musing upon what should be her course, the 
 servant Nomy, a buxom woman of forty, who had taken care 
 of the house since its mistress died, now ten years ago, 
 suddenly suggested that she should apply for the new place. 
 
 " What place ? " asked Eegina. 
 
 " The schoolmissis's," replied Nomy. " The earl and the 
 parson are a-wanting to find one, and they do say, in the 
 village, it will be a matter of thirty pound a-year. Surely 
 you'd do. Miss Gina, with the grand edication you've had." 
 
 '•Too much education for a village schoolmistress," 
 thought Eegina. " But it would keep me well, with what 
 little I have besides." 
 
 " Go up to Littleford Hall ; go right up yourself. Miss 
 Gina, with your own two good legs," advised Nomy. 
 " Nothing like applying to the fountain-head one's self, if 
 business is to be done," added the shrewd woman. 
 
 "Apply to Lord Littleford myself! " ejaculated Eegina, 
 
 " Why not ? Ain't he as pleasant-mannered a man as one 
 would wish to come across? One day lately, not three 
 weeks afore poor master died, the earl was a^crossing our 
 land on horseback, and he axed me to open the gate o' the 
 turnip-field : and he kept on a-cutting his jokes with me all 
 the time I was a-doing of it." 
 
 The servant's advice was good ; and it proved so. Miss 
 Winter made her own application to the Earl of Littleford, 
 and she was successful; though the earl demurred at her 
 request at first, for her own sake, telling her she was above 
 the situation, and that the remuneration v/as very small. 
 
 As the clergyman came into the school this afternoon, he 
 shook hands with the Squire's daughter : he then advanced 
 
380 
 
 THE PARSON'S OATH. 
 
 and held out his hand to Miss "Winter. Miss Eickhurst 
 followed him with her eyes, and curled her lip : what business 
 had the vicar, their associate, to be shaking hands with a 
 charity-school governess ? 
 
 " I was going to hear the class, Mr. Lewis," said the 
 young lady, after some minutes had been spent in talking. 
 " Jane Hewgill, tell my groom he may go on with the 
 horses : I shall walk home. Pray, Miss Winter, where did 
 you say they were spelling ? Three syllables ! how very 
 ridiculous ! G-a-t cat, c-o-w cow, that's quite as far as they 
 need go." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " returned Eegina, in a cold tone, for 
 she did not like these repeated interferences of Miss Rick- 
 hurst's. 
 
 "Highly ridiculous," snapped Mrs. Budd. "What can 
 such girls want with spelling ? If it were not for reading 
 the Bible, I should say never teach 'em to read at all ? " 
 
 A very domineering widow was this aunt of the clergy- 
 man's. Upon his appointment to the vicarage, down she 
 came and established herself in it, assuring him the house 
 would never get on without somebody to manage it. Mr. 
 Lewis had a dim perception that he and his house wwld 
 get on better without her ; but he never said so, and she 
 remained. 
 
 Miss Winter went to the mantelpiece, and turned her 
 hour-glass. It was five o'clock, and the children flocked out 
 of school. The vicar, Mrs. Budd, and Miss Eickhurst 
 followed. 
 
 "Mr. Lewis," began the young lady, in a confidential 
 tone, " don't you think your schoolmistress is getting above 
 her business ? " 
 
 " In what way ? " he asked, looking surprised. 
 
 " There is such a tone of superiority about the young 
 woman — I mean implied superiority," added Miss Eickhurst, 
 correcting herself. 
 
 " I have always thought there is much of real superiority 
 about her," replied the Vicar. " But I have never known 
 any one who, in manners and conversation, gave one less the 
 idea of implying it. And she gets the children on astonish- 
 
THE PARSON'S OATH. 
 
 381 
 
 ingly : one might think, by their progress, she had taught 
 them two years, instead of barely one." 
 
 " It is of no use to argue with John about Miss Winter,'* 
 interposed Mrs. Budd. " He thinks her an angel, and 
 nothing less." 
 
 " No, I do not," laughed the Reverend John. " I only 
 think her very superior to young women in general." And 
 Miss Rickhurst once more curled her haughty lip. 
 
 Meanwhile, Miss Winter left the schoolroom, with her 
 assistant ; a sickly-looking girl of fifteen or sixteen, named 
 Mary Brown. Eegina lodged at a farmhouse near, occupy- 
 ing a parlour and bedroom, and was partially waited on by 
 the people of the house. As soon as they got in, Mary 
 Brown, whose weak health caused her to feel a constant 
 thirst, began to set out the tea-cups and make the tea. 
 
 " Mary," observed Miss Winter, when the meal was over, 
 " you had better go up to your brother's for the calico, and 
 to-morrow set about making his shirts : you know he was 
 scolding you yesterday at their not being begun. Start at 
 once, or you will have it dusk. I will wash up the tea- 
 things." 
 
 Mary Brown put on her things, and departed. But not 
 long had she been gone, when the parlour door opened, and 
 a tall, fine young man, about six-and-twenty, walked in. He 
 was dressed in a green velveteen shooting-jacket, leather 
 breeches and gaiters, and a green kerchief was twisted 
 loosely round his neck. Altogether, there w^as a careless, 
 untidy look about him, and it might have puzzled a stranger 
 to tell whether he was a gentleman or a man of a lower order. 
 The face would have been handsome (and, indeed, was) but 
 for the wilful, devil-may-care expression that pervaded it. 
 His complexion was fair, his eyes were blue, and his light 
 hair curled in his neck. This gentleman was Mr. George 
 Brown, universally known in the village by the cognomen of 
 " Brassy." He had acquired the appellation when a boy ; 
 partly because he was gifted with a double share of that 
 endowment familiarly called brass ; " and partly because in 
 his boyhood he displayed a curious propensity for collecting 
 together odd bits of brazen metal. Once, when a young 
 
382 
 
 THE PAESON'S OATH. 
 
 child, he had stolen a small brass kettle, exposed outside a 
 shop for sale, lugged it home, and put it in his bed. His 
 mother, on going to her own bed at night, looked at Georgie ; 
 and there he was, sleeping, with the brass kettle hugged to 
 him. He had been " Brassy Brown " since, and would be to 
 the end of his life. 
 
 Mr. Brassy Brown did not enjoy a first-rate reputation. 
 He had inherited a little land from his father, on which was 
 a small house, where he lived, called " The Rill ; " and, 
 though he certainly could not subsist upon its proceeds alone 
 — he had no other visible means of support — he lived well, 
 and never seemed to lack money. He w^as upon friendly 
 terms with the whole neighbourhood, from Squire Rickhurst 
 down to the worst poacher in it : indeed, so intimate was he 
 with the latter suspicious fraternity, that some people said 
 he must be a poacher himself. Until recently his sister had 
 lived with him in his cottage, no one else ; but when Miss 
 Winter found she wanted some assistance in the school, she 
 thought of Mary, compassionating the girl's lonely life, 
 want of proper society and weak health, and she took Mary 
 to live with her. It may be questioned, however, if Miss 
 Winter would have made the proposal to the girl, had she 
 foreseen that they should be inundated with visits from her 
 brother. 
 
 When he came in, Miss Winter put down the book she 
 was reading, poured out some hot water into a basin, and 
 began to wash up the tea-things. 
 
 " Where's Poll ? " began Mr. Brassy. 
 
 " She is gone to The Rill for the calico," answered Regina. 
 « What a pity that she will have her walk for nothing ! " 
 
 " It will stretch her legs for her," returned Mr. Brown, 
 sitting down in the chair from which Regina had risen, unci 
 extending his own long legs across the hearth. "Now, 
 Regina," he continued, " I want an answer to that question 
 of mine." 
 
 " What question ? " she inquired, a crimson hue flushing 
 her face. 
 
 "Don't pretend ignorance, Gina, for it w^on't go down 
 with me to-night," was Mr. Brassy Brown's rejoinder. 
 
THE PARSON'S OATH. 
 
 383 
 
 " You know what I have been asking you this year past : wo 
 are by ourselves now, and I'll have it out. Will you come 
 up to The Rill and make your home there, and be my wife?" 
 
 " Why do you persist in persecuting me thus ? " exclaimed 
 Regina, in a tone of vexation. " I have told you already that 
 I could not be your wife. You behave like a child." 
 
 " Why don't you cay like a fool ? he rejoined. " 'Twould 
 be as polite as the other. What f^iult have you to find with 
 The Rill — or with me ? Perhaps you think I can't keep you 
 there like a lady ? — but I can. Never you mind how : I can. 
 You shall have a good servant to wait upon you, and every- 
 thing as comfortable and plentiful about you as you had in 
 your father's home. I swear it." 
 
 Regina shook her head. " I would not go to live at The 
 Rill — I could not be your wife, Brassy, if you offered mo 
 a daily shower of gold. And if you continue to pursue this 
 unpleasant subject, I shall send Mary home, and forbid your 
 entrance here." 
 
 " So ho, my fine madam ! it's defiance between us, is it ? " 
 uttered Brassy, rising and grasping Regina's arm in anger. 
 " Then may the devil take the weakest ! I have sworn to 
 marry you, and I'll keep my oath ; I'll keep it by fair 
 means or foul." 
 
 At this moment, after a gentle knock, the door Avas 
 pushed open, disclosing the person of the Vicar. He saw 
 the angry look of Brassy Brown, and his hold upon Regina's 
 arm. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " he exclaimed. " What game are 
 you after now, Mr. Brown? " 
 
 " None of yours, parson," returned Brassy, flinging aside 
 Regina's arm. " She affronted me, and I had as good a mind 
 to treat her to a shaking as ever I had to treat anybody to 
 one in all my life." 
 
 " He will kill me, some of these days, with his shakings," 
 interposed Miss Winter, laughing, and trying to pass the 
 matter off as a joke ; for she was vexed and annoyed that the 
 clergyman should have been a witness to it. " If he does, 
 sir, I shall look to you to give me Christian burial. Will 
 you promise to do so ? " 
 
384 
 
 THE PARSON'S OATH. 
 
 " YcSj" said Mr. Lewis, faUing into lier mood — for he 
 quite understood it. 
 
 " You had better swear to it, parson," added Brassy, with 
 a sneer, for he felt savage at the interruption. " It may be 
 more satisfactory to her." 
 
 " I swear it," returned John Lewis, giving no heed to his 
 words in the moment's heat. But a flush rose to his brow 
 when their purport came to him. He, a minister, to swear 
 at this man's bidding ! 
 
 " Mind you keep your oath, parson ; as 111 keep mine," 
 said Brassy Brown, swinging out of the room. " Do you 
 hear. Miss Winter ? " But neither of them answered him. 
 
 " Kegina," said the Vicar, looking after the man, " he is 
 not a desirable visitor for you." 
 
 " No," she answered, " and I wish he would not come. 
 Not that I think there is any real harm in him, but I dislike 
 his conversation." 
 
 " The plain fact is," resumed the clergyman, speaking 
 with agitation, as a hectic spot appeared on his cheek, " your 
 home here is too unprotected. Eegina, will you suffer me 
 to provide you with another ? " 
 
 Oh, deeper than the flush Brassy Brown's words had called 
 up was the rosy blush that now dyed her face. Neither she 
 nor he for some little time past had been unacquainted with 
 the heart of the other. 
 
 John Lewis took her hand. "Eegina, you cannot be 
 ignorant that I have loved you. Will you take pity upon 
 a lonely man, one who has had but few ties hitherto to care 
 for him, and be his wife ? " 
 
 "But — I — " she stammered, her trembling hand lying 
 passively in his — " it will be said I am not your equal — that 
 my birth does not qualify me for a clergyman's wife." 
 
 " Not my equal I " repeated the astonished Vicar, who was 
 surely one of the most unworldly wise. " You are so far 
 my superior, Eegina, that I have hesitated to ask you. And 
 it was but the thought of your unprotected state here that 
 gave me courage to speak now." 
 
 "I was but the daughter of a small working farmer," 
 she persisted, the tears filling her eyes with the extent 
 
THE PARSON'S OATH. 
 
 385 
 
 ©1 Iier emotion : "I am but the x)aicl teacher of a charity- 
 school." 
 
 " I was but the son of a working curate," he whispered. 
 " We were four children and my father and mother, all to 
 subsist upon seventy pounds per year. I am indebted to 
 charity, which helped to educate me, for being in the 
 position I now am. A working farmer was immeasurably 
 above us^ Kegina. We are both alone in the world : we 
 have no ties or kindred to consult : from this time forth 
 let us be all in all to each other. 
 
 The news travelled forth to the village, throwing up a 
 fine hubbub in its wake: the Eeverend John Lewis was 
 about to marry Eegina Winter. Mrs. Budd was pleased to 
 be satirical over it, Miss Kickhurst was indignant, and 
 Brassy Brown furious. 
 
 " What on earth possessed you to do it, John ? " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Budd to her nephew, when he came into the Vicarage 
 at dinner-time, the day she first heard the tidings. 
 
 " Do what ? " cried the Eeverend John, with a conscious 
 look, and that suspicious hectic rising to his cheek. 
 
 " You have been offering yourself and your name to the 
 charity school-mistress, they say," retorted the aunt, who 
 feared the introduction of a wife might lead her to losing 
 her snug home at the Vicarage. " You must be out of your 
 senses, John ? " 
 
 " We shall be able to find another governess for the 
 school," answered John, evasively. " It is j)ast one, aunt. 
 Is not dinner ready ? " 
 
 " Dinner ! You'll get bread-and- cheese to-day for dinner, 
 if you get anything," retorted Mrs. Budd. " I and Betty 
 have been too much upset this morning to think of cooking. 
 Oh, John, you are a great fool ! you might have had Miss 
 Eickhurst." 
 
 " Miss Eickhurst ! " exclaimed the Vicar, opening his eyes 
 at the assertion. 
 
 "Miss Eickhurst! yes," mimicked the lady, "if you had 
 not been more blind, more simple, than anybody ever was 
 yet." 
 
 '^I don't want Miss Eickhurst," answered the young 
 
 The Unholy Wish, 25 
 
386 
 
 THE PAESON'S OATII. 
 
 clergyman. " Let lier marry in lier own splierc of life : bIic 
 would liavo domineered me out of house and home." 
 
 These events happened in March. The Vicar proposed 
 being married in May, until which time Eegina had to 
 retain her place in the school. One day in April, as she 
 was walking home from its duties, she suddenly came upon 
 Brassy Brown, who v/as looking over the hedge. 
 
 "I have been watching for you, Gina," he said, very 
 quietly. "I want to hear from your own lips, whether 
 it's true that you have promised to marry that cursed 
 parson ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is true," she timidly answered, not seeing how 
 she could deny to him what was public news. 
 
 " How came you to conceal it from me all the time you 
 were fooling mo on ? " 
 
 " I fooling you on ! " uttered Eegina, in surprise. 
 
 "Well — let that pass. Why did you not tell me you 
 loved the black-coat ? " 
 
 " I — could not tell you what I — did not know," stammered 
 Begin a, a blush dyeing her cheeks. 
 
 " Bosh ! don't make excuses to me, I'd stake my Skyc 
 terrier again his holding-forth sermon-book, that there has 
 been love between you two this many a month past. What 
 is it you have got in that paper parcel ? " 
 
 It is only some work," said Eegina. " Good-morning, 
 Brassy. Mary is gone home already. She v/ill wonder 
 where I am." 
 
 " Let her wonder. I say, Eegina, you remember what I 
 told you— that I'd taken an oath. I'll keep it yet, and 
 have you, sooner or later." 
 
 The words might have imparted to Miss Winter a sort of 
 dread, but that Brassy Brovm was smiling as he spoke them 
 — and a pleasant smile was Mr. Brassy's, Avith all his im- 
 perfections. Her spirits rose at seeing that smile, and she 
 arrived at the conviction that he was forgetting his preference 
 for her. It pleased her much. Setting these persecution.^ 
 aside, and a few slips of language he was wont to indulge 
 in, she did not dislike Brassy, and had never ^thought so ill 
 of him as some in the parish were disposed to do. 
 
Me tAilSON'S OATri. 88f 
 
 " Won't you shake hands before you go ? ayked Mr. 
 Brassy. 
 
 She held out her hand over the gap in the hedge. Ho 
 shook it warmly ; and away she went, silently thankful that 
 all animosity between herself and Brassy Brown was over. 
 
 Nomy, Farmer Winter's old servant, had lately married 
 the under-keeper of Squire Rickhurst, a widower with some 
 grov/n-up sons. They lived in a cottage about half-a-mile 
 beyond The Eill, following the high-road. That same after- 
 noon, on coming in from school, Regina told Mary she 
 thought, as it was so fine, she should go and see !N"omy. 
 " Do you feel well enough to accompany me ? " she asked. 
 
 " No," replied the girl, " my breathing is very much 
 oppressed to-day. I feel I could not get so far. Do you 
 mind calling in at The Rill, Regina ? " 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " To get my cotton shawl. This is such a weight, now 
 the spring weather's coming, I can hardly drag to school in 
 it. If the door should bo open, and Brassy not just in the 
 way, you can get it yourself: it's lying on the middle shelf 
 of the press in the keeping-room." 
 
 Regina started on her walk, and had nearly gained The 
 Rill, when who should come swinging down the road in 
 front of her, but Brassy Brown. 
 
 " Hallo, Regina ! where are you off to ? " 
 
 " I am going to see Nomy. The afternoon is so fine, I 
 quite longed for a walk. And I want something for Mary 
 from your house, Brassy. Can you come back and give 
 it me ? " 
 
 "Oh, bother," was Mr. Brassy Brown's rejoinder, "I have 
 not got a minute to lose. Ted Timms is waiting for me 
 down yonder in the gap ; he is a shuffler ; and he'll make it 
 an excuse to slink off if I'm behind time. What is it you 
 want ? " 
 
 " Mary's cotton shawl. Her woollen one is too warm for 
 this weather. Do you know, Brassy, that Mary seems to 
 me to get weaker." 
 
 "It's no fault of mine if she docs. Have the*doctor to 
 her. I'll pay." 
 
388 
 
 THE PARSON'S OATH. 
 
 " Can you bring the sliawl clown to-morrow ? " 
 I don't know that I can. If I get what I want from 
 Ted Timnis, I am going off for a few days. You can caU 
 in for it as you come back from Nomy's. I shaU be at 
 home then." 
 
 Very weU/' rejoined Eegina. 
 
 Mr. Brassy Brown went on his way, and Regina on hers. 
 She found Nomy up to her eyes in work, brewing. She was 
 delighted to see her young lady, and hastened to set out the 
 best china for tea, in the little keeping-room, darting away 
 every five minutes to her wort in the brewhouse. Nomy 
 had heard of Regina's new prospects; and, in talking of 
 them, the time slipped away unheeded, Eegina forgetting 
 the hour, and Nomy her brewing. The former at length 
 started up. 
 
 " I dare not leave the wort, Miss Gina," exclaimed the 
 woman, as she attended Regina to the door. " To think that 
 you should have come this very evening, of all others, when 
 I can't see you back to the village." 
 
 " Oh, I shall soon be there," rejoined Regina, si^eaking 
 valiantly. " The moon is shining ; and I have to call up at 
 The Rill for Mary's shawl ; that will break the way. Good- 
 night, Nomy." 
 
 " The Lord be with ye, dear Miss Gina ! " 
 
 The evening grew late, and Mary Brown sat on, in 
 Regina's lodgings, shivering and trembling. She was a 
 nervous, timid girl, and feared to be alone at night, her 
 imagination always running on some absurd ghost or vision 
 story. Mary thought that the nervous dread she experienced, 
 when left so much alone at The Rill, had been the first cause 
 of her failing health. Where could Regina be ? Mary had 
 expected her home by eight o'clock, and now it was nearly 
 ten. The people of the house, who had been in bed long 
 ago, slept in a remote part of it, and their presence there 
 gave no courage or consolation to the timid girl. Mixed up 
 with her own imaginary terrors, came fears for Regina's 
 safety. What if a stray shot from some poacher should 
 have struck her as she came by the copse ? Suppose any- 
 thing had happened to prevent Nomy walking home with 
 
THE PARSON'S OATH. 389 
 
 lier (and tlie reader has seen that it had), she might be lying 
 in the road wounded. The girl half resolved to go out and 
 look for her : she dared not stay much longer alone where 
 she was : yes, she would, she would go out and meet Eegina. 
 
 Throwing on her bonnet and shawl, Mary tore along the 
 passage as if a spectre were at her heels, and out at the 
 house-door, taking the precaution to lock it after her. Once 
 out, her superstitious fears were over : and robbers, poachers 
 — any tangible cause of dread, brought no fear to the mind 
 of Mary. Eeared in the country, amidst the solitudes of its 
 woods and dales, she thought not there of fear, and could 
 have walked about, in the open air, from night till morning. 
 It was only in the silence of a midnight chamber that her 
 ghost-terrors occurred to her. 
 
 She continued her way beyond the village, but could see 
 no trace of Eegina. She did not meet a soul. The early 
 moon, drawing towards its setting, was often obscured by 
 clouds, but the night was light. At length she came to her 
 brother's house, and sprang forward to open the gate, hoj^ing 
 Brassy was at home. 
 
 What a curious thing! the gate was fastened! Never 
 had Mary known that gate to be locked before. The key of 
 it had hung up, untouched, on a nail in the kitchen, as long 
 as she could remember. Brassy must be out. 
 
 But, as Mary leaned forward on the little gate, for she 
 was tired with her walk, she detected a light glimmering 
 through a chink in the shutter of the keeping-room. And, 
 at the same moment she heard, or thought she heard, a 
 movement in the garden, on the right side of the house. 
 She shook the gate and called out. 
 
 Was it her fancy ? Mary thought she saw a low, dark 
 form creep from the middle of the garden towards the back- 
 door : but the house cast its shade just there. " They are 
 getting ready for a poaching expedition," she mentally con- 
 cluded. " Perhaps Smith, or Timms, or some of them 
 chaps are up here." She shook the gate again. 
 
 " Who the devil's that ? " cried Mr. Brassy Brown, poking 
 his head, enveloped in a cotton nightcap, out at an upper 
 window, that of hi^ bedroom, " It's not you, is it, Timms ? " 
 
390 
 
 THE PAESON'S OATH. 
 
 Brassy, it's me," responded Mary. " Tlie gate's locked." 
 
 " You I " echoed Brassy, in a tone of the most unqualified 
 astonishment. " "What brings you here, knocking people up 
 at this time of night ? " 
 
 " I am looking for Eegina," answered Mary. " She went 
 after school to see Nomy, and she has never come back. I 
 got frightened, stopping there all alone, and frightened for 
 her, so I came out to meet her." 
 
 " Why, what a confounded little stupid you must be," 
 ejaculated Brassy, " to come out upon such a wild-goose 
 chase as this! W^hilo you have been blundering up here, 
 she's no doubt gone home by the other road." 
 
 She never takes that road," rejoined Mary ; " it is such 
 a round, and very lonely. I v/as afraid that some stray 
 shot might have struck her, coming by Poachers' Copse. 
 You remember the horse that was shot dow^n going by 
 there?" 
 
 " There are no poachers out to-night, you simpleton — it's 
 too light. Miss Eegina has v/alked home with her black- 
 coat : gone round the longest way to enjoy his company. 
 I'm up to her. I see, by the moon, it's hardly half after 
 ten: just the hour for sweethearting. What a frightened 
 child you are, Polly ! " 
 
 " Do you really believe she has gone that way with him ? " 
 returned Mary, wonderfully relieved. 
 
 " I am not going to stop prating with you any longer, 
 that's what I believe," retorted Brassy. "Just take yourself 
 off. And never you come waking me out of my first sleep 
 again, or you'll catcli what you won't like." 
 
 " Brassy, there's a candle burning in the keeping-room.'' 
 
 " Who says so ? " 
 
 " I can see through the chink. Did you forget to put it 
 out ? " 
 
 " There was a log on the fire, half burnt, when I came to 
 bed. I suppose it's flickering up again. So much the 
 better : hope it will stop in till I get up in the morning. 
 CWe, be ofi"." 
 
 "You could not come down and give me my cotton 
 shawd ? " asked the girl. " The w^alk tires me so much, I 
 
THE PARSON'S OATH, 391 
 
 don't know wlion I can get here again. It \yas the excite-^ 
 ment that helped mo on so quickly to-night." 
 
 " Cotton shawl be burnt, and you with it ! " roared Mr, 
 Brassy, wrathfully. " Do you think I am coming down out 
 of my bed, for a cotton shawl ? " 
 
 " Eegina said she would call for it," answered the girl, in 
 a deprecating tone. ^* Did she ? " 
 
 " No, she didn't," replied Brassy. " I've not seen the 
 colour of her since I met her this afternoon. She couldn't 
 call here, not she, if she went round with the parson the 
 other way." 
 
 Good-night, Brassy." 
 
 Mr. Brassy Brown vouchsafed no reply, but banged-to his 
 casement. Mary had got some paces from the gate, v/hen 
 she turned back, shook it, and called out. Once more the 
 window was thrown open, with an impatient onathema, and 
 the white cotton nightcap extended itself out, as before. 
 
 " Brassy," she said, lowering her voice, " I forgot to tell 
 you I saw something in the garden. It seemed to be making 
 its way to the back-door." 
 
 " Saw what ? " 
 
 " I don't know. It looked like a great black dog, or else 
 a man on all-fours." 
 
 "Don't you think it was a cat ?" rejoined the gentleman, 
 sarcastically. 
 
 " Ko," said the girl, shaking her head, " it was too big for 
 a cat — if it was anything. I'm not sure about it, Brassy, 
 It might only have been the shadows, or my fancy." 
 
 "It would be a good riddance if you and your fancies 
 were buried with the shadov/s," answered the irascible Brassy. 
 " You want to be shut up in an asylum for lunatics ! Get 
 along home with ye." 
 
 Mary turned finally away, and walked home as fast as her 
 troubled breathing would let her, fully expecting to find 
 Eegina and the Eeverend Mr. Lewis waiting at the door. 
 What excuse could she make for her folly? She never 
 could tell of her superstitious fears to the parson. 
 
 No one, however, was there. And the girl, all her fears 
 renewed, sat down on the door-step. She did not dare to 
 
392 
 
 THE PARSON'S OATH. 
 
 enter, and take solitary possession of tlieir cliamber. A 
 thousand surmises crowded to her mind. Could Nomy be 
 ill, and Eegina have stayed to nurse her ? She had had a 
 desperate illness the previous autumn. But, then, the 
 keeper, or one of his stalwart sons, would certainly have 
 brought her word, when they got home from work. Could 
 Regina have gone home with the parson, and be staying to 
 sup with Mrs. Budd ? That was not likely, and, if she had, 
 she would not stay so late as this. Or could she have sat 
 down, on her homeward walk, to rest (poor Mary had a great 
 idea of people being fatigued), and so dropped asleep ? It 
 will scarcely be believed that the poor girl sat on that door- 
 step till morning. She did : it was a fact well known after- 
 wards to the village. Sometimes dozing, wandering in 
 spirit, always shivering, the long night passed away. 
 
 With the morning light and the awaking village, Mary's 
 courage returned to her. She thought Eegina had stayed 
 somewhere to sleep, and would soon be in, and explain. The 
 first thing she did, upon entering, was to make a fire and 
 put on the tea-kettle. By seven o'clock breakfast was 
 ready, and after drinking one cup of tea, for she wanted it 
 badly, she sat down and waited for Regina. 
 
 Regina never came. Before long, the whole village was 
 aroused with the news of her disappearance, and nearly the 
 whole village did something towards searching for her. 
 Houses, forests, glens, lanes, — for three days every spot was 
 looked into, every exertion made to find her ; but in vain. 
 No person had seen her, as far as could be learnt, after she 
 left the under-keeper's cottage that night. Nomy deposed 
 that she watched her as far as the turning in the road (about 
 forty yards only), walking at a brisk pace : and Mr. Brassy 
 Brown asserted that she never reached his house, or, at any 
 rate, that she never entered it. He was sitting in his keep- 
 ing-room, smoking, a good part of the evening, expecting 
 Timms to drop in, and he neither saw nor heard her pass. 
 Regina had told him in the afternoon that she should call 
 for his sister's shawl, and he looked for it, and laid it out 
 ready, but she did not come. When asked if her non- 
 appearance struck him as singular : " Not a bit of it," he 
 
THE PARSON'S OATH. 393 
 
 answered ; " what was it to him ? If he thought of it at all, 
 it was that she had gone home the longest way, to take a 
 walk with the parson." 
 
 Amongst the universal perplexity, none were so much 
 affected by this mysterious disappearance as Mr. Lewis : for 
 none had regarded Eegina with feelings akin to his. He 
 left not a stone unturned to find her. He turned about in 
 his mind every probability and improbability that could 
 bear upon the case : at rest or in action, in his daily duties 
 and his midnight chamber, he was ever dwelling on it. A 
 vague supicion, he scarcely knew why, rose, like a cloud in 
 his mind — a suspicion of Brassy Brown. But what sus- 
 picion ? The clergyman could not define it to himself. Mr. 
 Lewis had heard of such things as young girls being stolen 
 away and married against their will : and it was known that 
 Brassy Brown had long wanted to marry Eegina. But 
 Brassy could not have ventured upon a feat of that sort, 
 because Mary found him in his own house soon after what 
 must have been the hour of her disappearance, quietly sleep- 
 ing in his own bed. The joking words of Eegina occurred 
 to him : " He will kill me, some of these days, with his 
 shakings. If he does, sir, I shall look to you to give me 
 Christian burial," and he remembered his rash promise, and 
 shuddered. 
 
 The fourth day after Eegina's disappearance, Mr. Lewis 
 went again up to Brassy's. The latter was in his garden, 
 planting cabbages. He came forward when he saw his 
 visitor, invited him into the house, and set a chair. 
 
 "Mr. Brown," began the clergyman, "I have come up 
 once more to talk with you about this mysterious affair. 
 Will you swear to me, before Heaven, that you have no idea 
 what has become of Miss Winter? " 
 
 " Won't do anything of the sort," said Brassy, coolly. " I 
 have had an idea from the first." 
 
 " How ? what idea ? " cried the clergyman, eagerly. 
 
 "I suspect you took her off for a moonlight walk that 
 night yourself, parson ; and that, maybe, you have kept her 
 in hiding, against taking her for some more." 
 
 " This levity ill becomes you, Mr. Brassy Brown." 
 
394 
 
 THE PARSON'S OATH. 
 
 Levity ! " uttered Brassy. " I don't mean it as levity. 
 Who else is likely to liave got hold of her, but you?— you 
 had the Lest right to her." 
 
 " Did you get hold of her ? " asked the clergyman, looking 
 at him keenly. 
 
 " If I did get hold of her, I shouldn't have been able to 
 keep her," retorted the imperturbable Brassy. " Not likely. 
 Here was Nomy here, the next day, sobbing her eyes out, 
 and looking all over my rooms and into my cupboards. 
 When she had done, I asked her if she thought I had locked 
 her up in one of 'em. My opinion is, parson, that you and 
 ISTomy and Mary are all going cracked together over this 
 matter. What do I know of Regina Winter — or want with 
 her ? Not so much as you." 
 
 "Where can she be?" bewailed the clergyman, in his 
 perplexity. " On what mysterious spot of this fair earth can 
 she be hidden ? Is she dead or alive ? " 
 
 " She's not in my pocket," returned Brassy, " and I'm sure 
 you are welcome to search everything else that's mine. 
 Because I may have got the character for having taken a 
 hare or so, you must go, slap off-hand, and suspect I'd take 
 a woman ! The two are not the same articles, parson." 
 
 Nothing more satisfactory could be got out of Brassy 
 Brown, and the affair remained as unfathomable as at its 
 first onset. A new mistress was procured for the school. 
 Mary Brown, whose health was growing rapidly worse, 
 returned home to The Rill to die. Brassy continued to 
 pursue his free-and-easy sort of life ; and the village, in 
 time, ceased to think and speak of Regina. But there were 
 two hearts in which she was never forgotten — those of poor, 
 faithful Nomy and of the Reverend John Lewis, 
 
 II. 
 
 The Reverend John Lewis lay on his bed, in Littleford 
 Vicarage, tossing and turning from side to side. The 
 cheek's hectic, of which observant friends had predicted 
 mischief in the earlier part of his clerical career, had at 
 
TFIE PARSON'S OATH. 
 
 395 
 
 lengtli slione out in its true nature, and John Lewis was 
 dying of decline. Seven years had elapsed since the now 
 nearly-forgotten disappearance of Eegina Winter, and he had 
 been an ailing, fading man ever since. 
 
 The years had brought several changes to the village. 
 Mrs. Budd was dead, and Nomy, whose husband had been 
 killed in an affray with poachers, was now the housekeej)er 
 and general servant at the Vicarage. It had been a 
 desperate conflict, this affray : two gamekeepers were shot 
 dead, and others badly wounded. Several lav/less characters 
 were committed for trial, on suspicion of being concerned in 
 it, one of whom was Mr. Brassy Brown. But when the trial 
 came on at the assizes, the suspicions could not be converted 
 into proofs, and the men were discharged. Brassy Brown 
 felt, or affected, great indignation. They had treated him 
 like a low, common poacher, ho raved, instead of a gentle- 
 man, as he was, by descent, and he declared he would not 
 stop amongst them. He was as good as his word : advertised 
 his small estate for sale, j)Ocketed the money, and took shi23 
 at Liverpool. Some people thought he went to America, 
 some to Australia (not then flocked to as it is now), and 
 some to the coast of Africa; but Brassy himself never 
 said where, and after his departure he was never more 
 heard of. 
 
 The Eeverend John Lewis lay on his bed, tossing and 
 turning. His restlessness that night was not wholly the 
 result of his feverish, sick state. He had just awakened 
 from a disagreeable dream. He thought that Eegina Winter 
 came to him dressed in white, with a pale, sorrowful face, 
 and gently reproached him with neglecting his oath, and 
 suffering her to lie in unconsecrated ground. He thought 
 he asked the question. Where are you lying? and she 
 glided on before, telling him to come and see. He seemed, 
 after they had gone some way, to lose sight of her, and to 
 have halted, himself, on a spot of ground familiar to him. 
 But just then he awoke, and, try as he v/ould, was unable to 
 recall the features of the place, which he had seemed, in his 
 sleep, to know so well. 
 
 With this dream, all the old trouble came back again, 
 
396 
 
 THE PARSON'S OATH. 
 
 the painful feelings, the yearning after Eegina, which he 
 had, in a degree, outgrown. He had long been very ill; 
 for many months had daily looked for death; his hours 
 were passed in great pain and weariness ; yet death came 
 not : and the somewhat visionary idea now rushed over his 
 mind, was it that he could not die — that he was not per- 
 mitted to die until he had fulfilled his oath to Eegina, 
 found, and buried her? No wonder, with these thoughts 
 haunting him, that the Vicar slept no more that night. 
 
 He retired to rest the next evening, thinking of his 
 dream, wondering whether it would visit him again. Not 
 precisely that, but one bearing upon it did. Could it have 
 been but the sequence to his waking thoughts ? He thought 
 he stood upon a plot of ground, a green plot of ground, 
 about two yards square, and all around was cultivated land. 
 He appeared to know, beyond all doubt, that Eegina was 
 lying buried in this spot, and again all the features of the 
 place seemed perfectly familiar to him, but when he awoke, 
 they had, as on the previous night, faded from his recollec- 
 tion. 
 
 I None can tell how the Vicar longed, all throughout the 
 ensuing day, for night to come. A conviction lay strong 
 upon his mind that the real spot of Eegina's resting-place 
 would be revealed to him. He had not, during these two 
 days, spoken to any one of these singular dreams ; not even 
 to Nomy, or to the young clergyman who had come to do 
 his duty for him, and who was to him like a brother. The 
 reader may be disposed to doubt that such dreams ever had 
 place, but that they had, and that the body was found in 
 consequence, is an authenticated fact. 
 
 The third night came and passed, and, with the first 
 faint glimmering of morning light, Mr. Lewis summoned 
 his housekeeper, who dressed herself, and hastened to his 
 room. 
 
 " Nomy ! " he exclaimed, " I have a strange trouble upon 
 my mind. I cannot rest." 
 
 " Dear master," she said, " what is it ? I am sure trouble's 
 bad for you." 
 
 These last three nights I have been dreaming of Eegina. 
 
THE PABSON'S OATH. 
 
 397 
 
 1 tliought she came and pointed out to me wlicre bIic was 
 lying, and though I saw it, and stood upon it, though aU 
 around the spot was familiar in my dreams, 1 cannot recall 
 it when I awake. This last night it seemed the plainest, 
 and the place where I stood I now know was a garden, for 
 I saw the vegetables ; not a ploughed or pasture field, as I 
 had thought yesterday. And I don't know why, but Mary 
 Brown seemed in some way to be mixed up with this last 
 dream." 
 
 " You had better call to mind all the places where you 
 have ever seen Mary Brown, master, or where she ever was, 
 to your knowledge, with Miss Eegina," whispered the 
 woman, after serious thought. " It might afford some clue, 
 maybe." 
 
 The Vicar lay back on his bed, remaining silent, his hand 
 shading his eyes, as if he would shut out outward things. 
 The woman stood watching him. 
 
 " Where is there a privet-hedge, Nomy ? " he said, after 
 a while, without removing his hand — " a privet-hedge, and 
 potatoes planted under it, with a path running across 
 to it?" 
 
 "A privet-hedge and potatoes growing by it," uttered 
 Nomy ; " there's many such in this neighbourhood, master." 
 
 " The kidney-beans lie in this way," he added, making a 
 movement with the unoccupied hand, " and the peas — they 
 are just coming up — are lower down. The cabbages are 
 
 close under foot Oh, Nomy!" he cried out, with a 
 
 positive shriek, " I recollect — I see it all ! " 
 
 The servant drew nearer to the bed, and grasped hold of 
 the counterpane. A nameless terror was stealing over her. 
 
 " It is Brassy Brown's garden," gasped the invalid ; " I 
 see every part of it, as I used to see it when I went to read 
 to Mary in her illness. The green spot — but the green 
 was only in my dream — is on the right of the narrow path 
 leading to the back-door, along the side of the house. 
 Cabbages were growing on it in the spring I used to go to 
 Mary. I saw Brassy transplanting them there, the very 
 day I went to ask news of Eegina. I believe solemnly,*' 
 uttered the clergyman, with emphasis, " as truly as that wo 
 
398 
 
 THE PARSON'S OATH. 
 
 must all one clay come to the same earth, that Eegina lies 
 there. Call Mr. Hampton." 
 
 The young curate was summoned out of his sleep, and 
 came. Mr. Lewis related his extraordinary dreams to him, 
 and his sacred conviction that, in this particular spot, the 
 remains would be found. Before midday, not less than 
 twenty inhabitants of Littleford had listened to these dreams, 
 from the Vicar's own lips. 
 
 He could not go himself, he was too weak to get there 
 and to risk the agitation it would entail, but he took a 
 ■piece of paper, and drew a plan of Brassy Brown's garden, 
 minutely marking the precise spot where he believed the 
 body would be found. A company — such a company ! — 
 armed with spades, pickaxes, and shovels, and headed by 
 Sq^uire Eickhurst and the Eeverend Mr. Hampton, flocked 
 to The Eill in the afternoon : the new owner of the place 
 willingly granting them leave to turn up his garden. 
 
 It was in spring, just about the time of year she had dis- 
 appeared, and the spot wt^s now planted with broccoli. 
 They rooted them up, and dug and dug ; and, a few feet 
 below the surface, they came upon the mouldering remains 
 of Eegina Winter — dressed as she had been dressed that 
 evening : a black dress, a black-and-white plaid shawl, a 
 white lace collar, and a straw bonnet trimmed with black. 
 The bonnet and shawl were torn and tumbled, as if in a 
 struggle, and lay upon her. 
 
 A coroner's inquest was held, and the cause of death 
 proved at it. She had been shot in the left breast, in, or 
 close toj the heart. The verdict was "Wilful Murder 
 against George Brown ; " though some of the jury were for 
 bringing it in "Manslaughter," believing it might have 
 been the result of an accident. Brassy always kept loaded 
 guns about the house. 
 
 Then came a contention : between the Vicar and Nomy, 
 between the Vicar and his curate, between the Vicar and 
 the Squire : he insisting upon officiating at her burial, and 
 they saying he was not fit to do it. But on the afternoon 
 appointed for the service, the Vicar struggled up out of his 
 bed, and dressed himself. " I took a rash oath, during her 
 
Me parson^s oath. 
 
 399 
 
 life, tiiat I would give her Christian burial," he auswercd to 
 their remonstranceSj " and I must fulfil it." 
 
 There was scarcely moving room in the churchyard : all 
 Littleford, and its neighbourhood for some miles round, 
 flocked thither to witness that singular interment. The 
 remains of the once happy girl, about whose ill fate there 
 could be no doubt, whatever may have been its mysterious 
 details, brought, after the lapse of seven years, to their 
 home in consecrated ground ; and the weakened frame, the 
 wan, attenuated face of him who stood there, in his white 
 surplice, reading the service over her ! Many who witnessed 
 that funeral are dead, but, of those who remain, not one has 
 forgotten the scene, or will ever forget it. 
 
 With the last word of the burial service, the Eeverend 
 John Lewis's strength, so artificially buoyed up with excite- 
 ment, deserted him, and it was feared he could not walk 
 back to the Vicarage, short as the distance was. Leaning 
 on Squire Eickhurst, on one side, and on Mr. Hampton, on 
 the other, he at length gained it. Before he had well 
 reposed an instant on the sofa, preparatory to being taken 
 back to his bed, Ted Timms, the man who had been the 
 intimate associate of Brassy Brown, put his head into the 
 room, and asked to speak with the Vicar alone. 
 
 " Be quick in what you have to say, Timms," panted the 
 Vicar, " for I am very ill." 
 
 " I thought it my duty to come in and make a clean 
 breast of it, sir," began the man. " I have been away from 
 Littleford, till to-day, since the body were found, or I should 
 have been here afore. I think I hold the clue to this 
 murder." 
 
 " Speak up," breathed the Vicar. " My hearing is grovv- 
 ing dull." 
 
 " The night afore Brassy Brown went away for good, the 
 very night afore it, we was a-drinking together at my place, 
 and Brassy got a drop too much, which is what he didn't 
 often do. We got talking about a many things ; a-bragging 
 what feats, for good or for bad, we had done in our career ; 
 boasting, as it were, one again the t'other. Brassy at last 
 hiccupped out that he had, one night, had a desperate quarrel 
 
400 
 
 THE PARSON'S OATH. 
 
 Avith a girl in his house, at The EiU ; and at last got so 
 mad that he shot her, though he never meant to kiH her. I 
 didn't pay much attention to him then, setting it down to 
 the boastings of a man in his cups ; but, sir, I now think it 
 were nothing but the truth, and that he spoke of Miss Gina. 
 The shot must have killed her, and he might have buried 
 her in the garden tliat same night. If you remember, sir, 
 Mary Brown told folks she was frightened by fancying she 
 saw something black a-creeping from that spot into the 
 house, while she was a-shaking at the gate. It must have 
 been Brassy a-digging the grave then." 
 
 " Make ready with the sacrament," murmured John Lewis 
 to Mr. Hampton, as he feebly resisted their wishes to carry 
 him upstairs, after the departure of Timms ; " I feel my 
 time here is growing short." 
 
 Sure enough, that night he died. It indeed would seem 
 as if he had only been permitted to linger on earth for the 
 purpose of burying Eegina Winter. 
 
A MESMERIST OF THE YEARS 
 GONE BY. 
 
 The IlT'holy Wish, 
 
 26 
 
A MESMERIST OF THE YEARS 
 GONE BY. 
 
 I. 
 
 One afternoon, in the spring of 1854, two distinguished- 
 looking men might have been seen in Paris, strolling along 
 the Boulevard des Italiens. Handsome, tall, and straight 
 of limb they were, with sufficient resemblance in the general 
 air and contour of feature to prove that kindred blood united 
 them — that of brotherhood. The elder was of dark hue and 
 of resolute, but sombre, cast of countenance ; while the fair 
 features, with their ever-ready smile, the wavy auburn hair, 
 and bright complexion of the younger, seemed to say that 
 he was cast in a less stern mould. 
 
 They were descendants of the old nobility, the ancienne 
 noblesse of the Faubourg St. Germain, a race which seemed 
 to be gradually disappearing from the surface of revolu- 
 tionized France. Their father was a St. Sevron, but he had 
 been dead some years, and they had been reared in all the 
 pride, the exclusive ideas, and the poverty of their mother, 
 who was of the family of the De Montcarsons. Gaston, the 
 younger, was serving in the French army, as yet but a 
 lieutenant, but Andre pursued no occupation. 
 
 They had met by chance on the Boulevards, and Gaston 
 put his arm through his brother's, and turned to pursue 
 with him the same way. The utmost aflfection had always 
 
404 A MESMERIST OF THE YEARS GONE BY. 
 
 Bubsisted between them. The difference in their ages, ten 
 years, caused Gaston to regard his elder brother with the 
 love and reverence due to a father ; whilst Andre was fer- 
 vently attached to him, who in infancy had nestled his curly 
 head upon his breast, as its resting-place, and looked up to 
 him through his childish tears, and told him all his little 
 troubles. 
 
 Where were you bound to ? " asked the elder brother. 
 
 " I was looking for Cartier. He promised to meet me, 
 and he has missed his appointment. And you ? " 
 
 " I don't know. Anywhere, Gaston ! I am nearly sick 
 of this inert life." 
 
 " By Jove ! I'm nearly sick of having too much to do," 
 laughed the more active younger brother. "What with 
 morning drills and midday exercises, afternoon visits and 
 gossip, and evening amusements, I seldom find the day long 
 enough." 
 
 " You w^ere born to see things couleur-de-rose ! " grumbled 
 the melancholy elder brother. 
 
 " What's the use of looking at them couleur-de-noir ? " 
 retorted Gaston. " It is a pity you are not in the army, 
 Andre : there will be occupation enough, if this war goes 
 on." 
 
 " I in the army ! " haughtily returned Andre. " You are 
 mocking me. No, no. I must be my own master. If the 
 Legitimists, indeed, were on the throne But it is profit- 
 less to enter upon these topics with you." 
 
 " That it is," replied Gaston, good-humouredly. " I am 
 content to enjoy things as I find them, without tormenting 
 myself after what's past. There goes Cartier ! Where's he 
 off to, in that quarter ? " 
 
 Unlinking his arm from his brother's, Gaston de St. Sevron 
 set off, full speed, to catch his friend Cartier. Andre pur- 
 sued his way till he came to the Eue de Eivoli, where he 
 ascended to a handsome appartement in one of its handsome 
 houses. As he was shown into the drawing-room, a lady 
 rose to receive him, a quiet, calm English lady of middle 
 age, Mrs. Elliot. 
 
 She had come to Paris a year previously, with her niece^ 
 
A MESMERIST OF THE YEARS GONE BY. 405 
 
 bringing, amongst otlier letters of introduction, one for old 
 Madame de St. Sevron. The families had become intimate, 
 for they mutually liked each other. Mrs. Elliot admired 
 the fine old dame of the ancient regime, so resigned, yet 
 still so simply grand in her fallen fortunes, and the two 
 young Frenchmen began by liking Miss Alice Dare, and 
 ended by loving her. She was so different, this English 
 maiden, from all the young French ladies of their experi- 
 ence. Never losing the self-possession of her manners, her 
 speech was frank, and her intercourse with them free and 
 open as that of a sister. It surprised them with its novelty, 
 while it charmed them with its pleasing trustingness ; and 
 when, at the end of three-months' sojourn, the ladies quitted 
 Paris, it may be questioned which of the two young men 
 missed them most. " You will be sure to return ? " they 
 had said to her, and she had laughingly replied, " Perhaps 
 yes : perhaps no." She did return. One frosty day, some 
 months afterwards, in the January of 1854, if the old apparte- 
 ment of the St. Sevrons, which, dirty and confined as it was, 
 was situated in the aristocratic Quartier de St. Germain, 
 could have looked down into the street, which it could not, 
 being so high, it would have seen Miss Dare's carriage at 
 the great door, and Miss Dare, followed by her aunt, stepping 
 out of it, to gladden the eyes of poor Madame de St. Sevron. 
 To gladden another person's also, who was sitting there; 
 but let that pass for the present. Mrs. Elliot had no other 
 home than the one she enjoyed as the protectress of Miss 
 Dare : for Miss Dare was an orphan and an heiress, and 
 moreover being of age, she was mistress of herself and her 
 fine fortune. She could not boast of beauty, this young 
 English lady, but there was a peculiar charm of manner 
 about her which rendered her eminently attractive. 
 
 To return. When Andre de Sevron made his call this 
 day, he found Mrs. Elliot alone, and cat with her, almost 
 in silence, restlessly watching the door — watching for one 
 who did not enter. Presently he asked whether made- 
 moiselle was out. 
 
 "Alice is not out," replied Mrs. Elliot. "I fancy she 
 is writing letters. Judith," she added, rising to speak to 
 
406 A MESMEEIST OF THE YEABS GONE BY. 
 
 a young woman wto sat sewing in the ante-room, "see 
 where Miss Alice is. Tell her Mr. cle St. Sevron is here." 
 
 " My mistress is writing, ma'am," said the girl, presently 
 returning. " She says she knew Mr. St. de Sevron was here, 
 for she heard his voice, but she hopes he will excuse her, for 
 she fears to be too late for the post." 
 
 A warmer shade, it could scarcely be called colour, 
 rose in the dark cheek of Andre de St. Sevron. Ere it 
 faded, to leave the face more sallow than before, the door 
 opened and his brother entered. 
 
 He was at no loss for conversation. He chatted with Mrs. 
 Elliot, he joked his brother on his idleness, he told a piquant 
 anecdote of the day, he hummed over for them a song in the 
 last new drama. And he did not break it off, the humming, 
 when Miss Dare came in, but carried the tune through to 
 the end. 
 
 " Will you pardon my rudeness ? " he said, with his sunny 
 smile, as he went up and held out his hand. " I had just 
 caught the air, and Mrs. Elliot was anxious to hear it." 
 
 " You went, then, on Sunday night ? " she exclaimed. 
 
 " To be sure," he replied. " I told you I should go. 
 Don't frown. Miss Alice. You, in England, are taught to 
 think these Sunday pleasures sins : it is part of our religion 
 to enjoy them." 
 
 " Very good," returned Miss Dare, quietly. " But why do 
 you say I frowned ? " 
 
 " Because I feared you might. You must go and see this 
 new drama. Miss Alice." 
 
 " Shall I get you places for to-night ? " interposed Andre, 
 eagerly. " It is creating a perfect furore." 
 
 " Then I think I shall wait till the furore's over," returned 
 Miss Dare. " I don't like these crowded nights." 
 
 "Have you finished your letters, Alice?" said Mrs. 
 Elliot. 
 
 " No. I got tired. They will do to-morrow." 
 
 " She would not come when she heard my voice : did she 
 come at Ids ? " asked Andre, of himself. And he continued 
 to look at her, as she sat there smiling at the apt phrases of 
 his gay and gallant brother. He rose to leave. 
 
A MESMERIST OF THE YEARS GONE BY.. 407 
 
 " Are you coming, Gaston ? " he inq^uired. 
 
 " Not I ; not for this hour," protested Gaston. " I am 
 relating a story to Miss Alice, and you have interrupted 
 it." 
 
 " What story ? " 
 
 " Something Oartier told me to-day about the new Court 
 and our charming Imj)eratrice. I would advise you not to 
 inquire particulars: they will not suit your Legitimist 
 reverence." 
 
 Andre left the house, and made his way home to the 
 Faubourg St. Germain. Toiling up the live flights of stairs, 
 he opened the outer door of the apartment, with his pass- 
 key. A very narrow antechamber, encumbered with trunks 
 and firewood, passed, he found himself in the small and 
 dingy sitting-room. The cloth was laid for dinner, and his 
 mother sat in an attitude of waiting, her hands and her 
 black mittens crossed before her. She was remarkably like 
 her eldest son, especially in the expression of the face and 
 eye, half stern, half melancholy. 
 
 " It is a quarter-past five, my son, and Nannette is waiting 
 to serve the soup," she said. " Have you seen your 
 brother?" 
 
 " I left him in the Eue de Kivoli," replied Andre. " Let 
 us begin. I am sorry I kept you waiting, mother." 
 
 Nannette, an ancient dame, who had lived in Madame's 
 family unheard-of years, and remembered some of its former 
 grandeur, but who had long fallen to be the solitary maid- 
 of-all-work, put the potage on the table, and they sat down 
 to it. An hour afterwards, the repast concluded, Gaston was 
 heard. He ascended the stairs in a great bustle, leaping up 
 three at a time, and burst into the room. 
 
 " I hope you did not wait dinner for me ! " 
 
 " No. But where have you been, my child ! " It was the 
 mother's familiar mode of expression : Andre was " my 
 son," Gaston, " my child." 
 
 " I stayed on at Mrs. Elliot's, mother, unconscious of the 
 time, and when I left, was astonished to find it was half-past 
 five. Just then Cartier came up, and made me go to dine 
 with him, knov/ing I should be late here." 
 
408 A MESMERIST OF THE YEAHS GONE BY. 
 
 " Where are you jSying to now, child ? demanded Madame 
 de St. Sevron, as Gaston opened the opposite door. 
 
 " To dress. I am going to the theatre ; the Porte St. 
 Martin. And it is late. I don't know who's not waiting 
 for me." 
 
 He entered and closed the door as he spoke. It was the 
 joint dressing-room of himself and Andre. Their beds were 
 in two enclosed recesses in the same chamber — shut-iip cup- 
 boards, an English bedroom would call them. Madame 
 de St. Sevron slept in a recess partitioned off from the ante- 
 room, and where old Nannette slept never could be divined ; 
 unless it was on the pile of wood outside, or on the poele in 
 the kitchen. 
 
 Not long was Gaston dressing : he was never long over 
 anything : and out he went, as dashing a young officer as 
 Paris could show. Andre remained by the side of the fire, 
 moodily looking into it. His mother sat on the other side, 
 lost in dreams of the nation's and her own departed great- 
 ness. As the clock struck eight, Andre rose and stretched 
 himself. 
 
 " Going out, my son ? " 
 
 " I shall take a stroll as far as the Porte St. Martin. 
 They play a sterling afterpiece there to-night. Good-night, 
 dear mother. You may be in bed before I return." 
 
 Andre de St. Sevron reached the Porte St. Martin, but he 
 found some difficulty in getting into the pit of the theatre. 
 An attractive piece was on, and the audience were closely 
 packed. He did manage, somehow, to wedge his way in, and 
 obtain a side-view of the stage. 
 
 He obtained a view of something else. Panging his eyes 
 round the house, they were arrested by a box, amidst whose 
 brilliant crowd was the distinguished form of his brother, 
 laughing and talking to Miss Dare. Slie was not talking ; 
 she was only listening ; the more dangerous pastime, in 
 such a case, of the two ; and Andre knew it. 
 
 Andre de St. Sevron looked no more at the stage. He 
 bent his dark brows, and, covered by the crush and crowd 
 around, watched keenly that box, in one of whose inmates 
 all the hopes of his future life were concentred. Once he 
 
A MESMERIST OF THE YEARS GONE BY. 409 
 
 started up, and would have made for it, but he remembered 
 his careless costume, and remained where he was. Before 
 the close of the performance, he left the house, and walked 
 rapidly home. His mother had retired, and Andre sat 
 down before the nearly burnt-out fire. Mechanically, with 
 the air of one whose mind knows not what his hands are 
 doing, he pushed the pieces of wood together, that they 
 might blaze up, and fell into a train of thought. 
 
 " Is it real or imaginary, this nightmare which oi)presses 
 me ? For some time, ever since she returned to Paris, its 
 shadows have hovered over me. They are growing darker : 
 more dark than ever have they been to-day. If I thought 
 he loved her, I think I could give her up — psha ! a soldier- 
 boy, of five-and-twenty, love ? Not he. His heart is in his 
 profession; in his amusements; in his companions, light 
 and void of care as is the wind. Why, to tie that lad down 
 to matrimony, even with her, would be like chaining him 
 to the grave ! And if she, if it be true " — Andre winced 
 visibly — " if indeed her fancy is temporarily caught by him, 
 the kinder course to him, to both, would be to remove him 
 from the danger. I must look to it. Why did I suffer 
 myself to become enthralled by this English girl ? I, who 
 have hitherto made a stone of my feelings as regards women ? 
 But — if one must marry sometime — as well Alice as another. 
 We should be equally matched. Thirty-five years to her 
 two-and-twenty : all well: the husband should have more 
 experience than the wife. She has a large fortune, and I 
 have an ancient name. What can either side desire more ? 
 
 Not many mornings after this, Paris awoke with the news 
 that certain regiments were ordered to Marseilles, on their 
 way to commence the war, now declared against Eussia, the 
 regiment in which Gaston de St. Sevron served not being 
 one. " God be thanked ! " murmured Madame de St. Sevron, 
 though she said it not in the hearing of her sons. She 
 owned a brave heart, this lady, one which did not disgrace 
 her high lineage ; and if needs must have been that her son 
 had gone forth to meet his country's enemies, she would 
 have struggled for a calm voice in which to bid God speed 
 him. But there was something behind. 
 
410 A MESMERIST OF TPIE YEAES GONE BY. 
 
 From tlie very first faint rumour of an impending war, 
 certain mouldy prophecies, rummaged out from it is impos- 
 sible to say what hidden archives of Paris, had been secretly 
 circulated amongst parties inimical to the war and to the 
 new Imperial power. They had found their way to the 
 hands of Madame de St. Sevron. Not much could she make 
 out of them : those who were able to read th6m in their 
 original Latin, j^i'ofessed to make more. They were written 
 in the reigns of Charles IX. and Henri IV. They were 
 carried down to, and indeed beyond, the present time, 
 pointing clearly to a war to be begun in the year 1854 
 against Russia, and which would bring desolation in its 
 train ; famine, pestilence, and wholesale slaughter, till the 
 earth should be partially decimated. Oh, not for that," 
 murmured Madame de St. Sevron, "did I bear my son. 
 Engaged with an open, honourable enemy, he must take his 
 chance and trust in Heaven ; but famine — pestilence— 
 indiscriminate butchery — my God, I thank Thee that he is 
 spared the risk ! " She did not tell her sons she had seen 
 these old, yellow sheets of j^archment : she knew that 
 Andre would have haughtily sneered over them, and Gaston 
 made merry. 
 
 In the afternoon of this day, so full of gossip and excite- 
 ment for Paris, Gaston went to call in the Rue de Rivoli. 
 Alice Dare rose and stood by the centre table as he entered, 
 glancing at him with a searching gaze. " Is it true ? " were 
 her first words, scarcely replying to his greeting. 
 
 " Is what true. Miss Alice ? " 
 
 " That the war has begun ? That you soldiers are ordered 
 off?'" 
 
 " True that we arc ordered off. But the wal* has no* 
 actually begun. And it never may begin. Some of our 
 wiseacres think it never will." 
 
 " Are you ordered out ? " she continued, in a low voice. 
 
 " No : our regiment has not received the honour. We 
 remain here." 
 
 She drew a long breath, as if relieved, took her hand from 
 the table on which it had leaned, and sat down on her favourite 
 sofa by the window. Her spirits seemed to rise high. 
 
A MESMERIST OF THE YEARS GONE BY. 411 
 
 Now, don't impose upon us witli the nonsense that you 
 are disappointed ! " she exclaimed, interrupting something 
 he was saying to Mrs. Elliot. " You soldiers like to uphold 
 your martial character, and so pretend to great bravery. 
 Had you been ordered out, Monsieur Gaston, you might 
 have gone with a downcast heart ; or perhaps have invented 
 some plausible excuse for staying at home, not caring to 
 get into the way of cannon-balls." 
 
 " Alice ! Alice ! " remonstrated Mrs. Elliot. " She is fond 
 of joking, Monsieur Gaston." 
 
 The young man's cheek and brow flushed a glowing red, 
 showing that he felt her words. Not individually: for 
 never did a braver or more courageous heart beat than that 
 of Gaston de St. Sevron, And there was something in the 
 conscious, averted eye of Alice, as she turned it from his 
 gaze, which told him that she knew the reproach of cowardice 
 never could come near him. 
 
 II. 
 
 What could it be that Andre de St. Sevron was so busy 
 over ? For some days he was not seen in his old haunts ; 
 he did not call in the Rue de Eivoli ; he was only at home 
 night and morning. He was mingling, instead, with military 
 officers, a thing he rarely condescended to do ; he was in 
 and out of the bureau of financiers ; he was haunting the 
 cabinet of the ministers-at-war. The secret of the whole 
 was, that he was endeavouring to accomplish the exchange 
 of his brother from one regiment to another. 
 
 And he effected it. One afternoon it was settled. 
 
 Andre was at rest now. He had scarcely taken food for 
 some days ; but he now turned into a cheap restaurant, and 
 dined for twenty-five sous, lie, this proud descendant of the 
 once-sumptuous regime. The lamps were lighted in the 
 streets when he reached home, and he ascended the high 
 staircase by feel, not by sight. His mother was reclining in 
 her fauteuil, in the warm corner. 
 
 " You don't seem well, mother ! " he exclaimed affection- 
 
412 A MESMERIST OF THE YEARS GONE BY. 
 
 ately, for both boys deej^ly loved and reverenced their 
 mother. " Is it the old pain at your chest ? " 
 
 " I am free to-night from bodily ailments, my son," replied 
 Madame de St. Sevron, " but my spirits are unusually de- 
 pressed. Some calamity seems to be hanging over me. My 
 old friend, the Comtesse de Morny, was here this afternoon, 
 and she was going on in a melancholy strain about this 
 miserable war which is looming in the future. It set me 
 thinking about Gaston. His regiment is left tranquil as 
 yet ; but how long may it remain so ? " 
 
 " Mother," began Andre, in a hesitating voice, as he drew 
 his chair close to hers, and took her hand, " it would be 
 fortunate for Gaston to go out to the war. Do you know 
 what I have been occupied with these last few days ? " 
 
 " How should I know, my son ? " 
 
 " I have been effecting for Gaston what his own luck did 
 not effect for him. I have procured his exchange into one 
 of these departing regiments." 
 
 The old lady turned her face slowly towards the speaker, 
 and her lips parted as if with extreme astonishment or per- 
 plexity ; not so much yet with terror, for her senses had not 
 fully taken in the purport of the words. 
 
 " You can't imagine the trouble I had," continued Andre ; 
 " the officers, one and all, are so eager to get out, and be 
 doing. Marshal St. Arnaud managed it at last. He knows 
 what a fine fellow Gaston is." 
 
 Oh, the sharp, shrill cry of anguish that issued from the 
 lips of Madame de St. Sevron ! She clenched Andre's arm 
 with a pressure of which he had deemed her aged and thin 
 fingers incapable, and a torrent of rejDroaches burst from her, 
 
 " You have done this ! you have acted the part of Judas 
 by your own brother ! You would drive him out to swell 
 the dead on those far-off plains ! — where the corpses are to 
 lie in heaps, stricken down by war and pestilence ! " 
 
 "Oh, mother! don't talk like that. War! pestilence! 
 What pestilence ? And as to war, our brave soldiers can 
 hold their lines against the Eussians. Whence got you such 
 ideas ? " 
 
 " They are not my ideas," interrupted Madame de St. 
 
A MESMERIST OF THE YEARS GONE BY. 413 
 
 Sevron, fiercely ; " they are the revelations of one who lived 
 and died ages ago. Every political event that has since 
 come to pass in France is written down in these dread 
 prophecies, especially those of later times : the Kevolution ; 
 the murder of the king ; our downfall ; the rising of the 
 Eagle, its triumph, its bloody sway, and then its fall ; the 
 Orleans dynasty; the Kepublic, swayed over by a second 
 Eagle ; the second Empire, and this fearful war which is to 
 destroy the flower of the Western armies, and bring pesti- 
 lence, famine, woe, madness in its train ! " 
 
 " Dear mother," interposed the astonished Andre, " you 
 must be lapsing into your dotage. Prophecies ! " he con- 
 tinued, in a tone of haughty scorn. Because some fools — 
 though more knaves than fools— are circulating these wicked 
 absurdities to answer their own ends, you must attach im- 
 portance to them — 7J0U I Mother, be yourself again : re- 
 member you are a De Montcarson." 
 
 " I will be myself again when you are again a brother,'' 
 she retorted. "What are we to do without Gaston? how 
 exist, wanting him ? Is he not the sunshine of our miserable 
 household ? is it not he, with his sweet temper and joyous 
 spirit, that brings what ray of light comes into it? Has be 
 not been something for us both to love — an end to live for 
 — a continuous happiness to look forward to day by day as 
 we awake? Andre! if you indeed drive my child out to 
 death, may God forgive you, for I never will ! " 
 
 At this moment the door of the inner room opened, and 
 Gaston came out. He had been making ready for a party 
 at Mrs. Elliot's. 
 
 " Gaston," exclaimed Andre, drawing up his tall form fear- 
 lessly, "our mother seems to have some mist before her 
 eyes, causing her to see things in false colours. I have been 
 exerting all the energy and influence I possess to advance 
 your interest, and have succeeded in effecting an exchange 
 Tor you into one of the regiments ordered to the East. 
 It " 
 
 " Parbleu ! but I think you might have consulted me 
 first ! " ejaculated the amazed young soldier. " T may have 
 interests that bind me, if possible, to Paris." 
 
414 A MESMERIST OF THE YEAES GONE BY. 
 
 " Tush, my brother ! guard against frittering away time 
 until you become a useless dreamer, as I have done. I have 
 had, in this step, but your true welfare at heart ; I swear it 
 to you, by the honour of our name ! Go forth and prosper. 
 Use your sword bravely, and come back to us a captain — a 
 colonel — a general : no rank is inaccessible to him who 
 shows himself a lion on the battle-field." 
 
 " The battle-field gives stepping-stones, and it blows off 
 heads," returned the careless Gaston. " If I go out, I must 
 bear my chance of one, as of the other ; and I should flinch 
 from neither." 
 
 Again that cry of anguish from Madame de St. Sevron, 
 but this time it was low and wailing, as she threw her 
 feeble hands round her boy. " Oh, Gaston, my latest born ! " 
 she murmured, " if you die out there, you take my life with 
 you!" 
 
 Andre looked on, and saw, and heard. He might have 
 hesitated, might have endeavoured to undo his work, but 
 that he truly believed the interests of Gaston lay in his 
 being in active service. 
 
 It was late in the evening when Gaston do St. Sevron 
 entered the reception-rooms of Mrs. Elliot. A gay party 
 was assembled. In the course of the night he contrived to 
 find himself alone with Miss Dare. Some people were at 
 cards, and others had gathered round the piano, where a 
 lady was shrieking through some Italian songs. 
 
 " Why have you brought me into this room ? " demanded 
 Alice. " There's no one in it, you see." 
 
 " That is why I did bring you," replied Gaston. " I may 
 not be able to call upon you again, so I would say a word 
 of adieu to you now : and I hate saying it in a crowd." 
 
 " J ust tell me what you mean ! " she exclaimed. " I don't 
 like riddles. Take leave till when ? till to-morrow ? " 
 
 " To-morrow, no ! " he replied. " Probably for ever. I 
 am going out to the East. Ere eight-and-forty Iiours, wo 
 shall be on our road." 
 
 Her face, even her lips, turned of a ghastly whiteness. 
 Gaston saw it. 
 
 " Why did you deceive me ? " was her first question. 
 
A MESMERIST OF THE YEABS GONE BY, 415 
 
 "The other day, you said your regiment remained in 
 Paris/' 
 
 " The regiment remains. But I have exchanged into one 
 going out. You did me the honour to suggest that, were I 
 ordered off, I might be capable of inventing some disgraceful 
 ruse to evade it," he added, determined to hazard a little 
 joke. "Do you not think the insinuation was enough to 
 make a fellow apply for permission to seek the risk ? " 
 
 "Oh, Gaston!" she exclaimed wildly, her livid features 
 one keen expression of dismay, " do not torture me ! You 
 knew that all I said was but in jest." 
 
 " How could I know it ? On my honour, I did not know 
 whether you were in jest or earnest." 
 
 "You are but jesting with me now! " she uttered, laying 
 her trembling hands upon his arm in her excitement. 
 
 " Alice, my love, why this emotion ? " he whispered, more 
 tenderly than he had ever permitted himself to speak to her. 
 " Sit down and be calm." 
 
 " You are not going ! " she exclaimed, in agitation, raising 
 her head and checking the tears, as the colour flashed into 
 her cheeks. " And I am foolish and nervous to-night. But 
 you are not going ? " 
 
 " My dear Alice, I am assuredly going. But when I said 
 I made the exchange in consequence of your observations to 
 me, that was not true. I never applied — I never wished to 
 apply, or to leave Paris : and till eight o'clock this night, I 
 knew no more of the matter than you did. It is Andre 
 who has done it. He believes that my interests lie in being 
 in active service, and he has exerted himself to effect an 
 exchange. I am now in the regiment." 
 
 The first shock had passed, and she was still and quiet. 
 " When do you leave ? " she asked, 
 
 " The day after to-morrow." 
 
 " And when return ? " 
 
 " Alice ! as well inquire when the next comet will be dis- 
 covered, or any other event which may or may not happen. 
 If I do return, you are the first friend I shall seek a welcome 
 from. And now I must leave you." 
 
 She stood up by his side, her eyes cast down, and her 
 
416 A MESMERIST OF THE YEABS GONE BY. 
 
 cheeks crimson. He took her hand in his, and pressed it to 
 his heart. He did more. He threw his arm round her 
 waist, and kissed, five or six times, those glowing cheeks, 
 and she resisted not. But when he had finally left the 
 room, she flew upstairs to her chamber, and, bolting herself 
 within, indulged in an hysterical burst of tears. 
 
 IIL 
 
 The following summer was one of suspense and anxiety to 
 many people; to France, as well as to our own country. 
 Sickness was not spared to the French capital, any more 
 than to ours ; and varied reports from the East, where the 
 allied armies were gathered, kept up a continual excitement. 
 Now they were at Malta, now at Gallipoli, now some of 
 them at Constantinople, and now in the desert plains sur- 
 rounding Varna. Eumours came to Paris of minor engage- 
 ments with the enemy, more than rumours of fearfully 
 devastating sickness : but a brave heart sat in every Parisian 
 breast. " The British Lion and the French Eagle," they 
 shouted, " can never be subdued ! " 
 
 Several letters arrived from Gaston de St. Sevron : to his 
 mother, to Andre, to former companions : letters as gay as 
 himself. It was evident he contrived to lead a merry life 
 amidst all the discomforts tha"- attended the army; but 
 Gaston carried happiness with him in his own sunny heart. 
 Andre de St. Sevron had made no progress in his wooing — 
 if it was wooing he meant. A few days after the departure 
 of Gaston, Miss Dare had left, with her aunt, for Switzerland. 
 " I am tired of Paris," was her reply to Mrs. Elliot's com- 
 ment upon the suddenness of her resolution. 
 
 Now at that period, as is well remembered yet, a certain 
 class of people had begun to exercise a wonderful influence 
 in Paris — the mesmerists. Some persons called them char- 
 latans; others bowed to their power, and were terrified at 
 it. One of them was especially noted for her revelations, a 
 woman ; but for obvious reasons her name is not given here. 
 It was a recognized fact that many a heavy transaction was 
 
A MESMERIST OF THE YEARS GONE BY. 417 
 
 done on the Bourse, the secret incentive to whicli was neither 
 more nor less than a seance with one or other of the mes- 
 merists regarding news from the seat of war. It was a 
 curious thing, difficult to understand — that they should be 
 able to reveal events passing in the far-off East. And when, 
 days afterwards, authentic tidings would come to prove 
 their truth, people knew not what to think. Their fame 
 grew. Individuals of all classes, high and low, scoffers 
 once, scrupled not to consult the mesmerists in secret — few 
 of them cared to own it. One gentleman, a well-known 
 financier in Parisian circles, was banteringly accused, in 
 evening society, of having gone that morning to visit one. 
 He indignantly denied it, and was believed. Nevertheless, 
 he had been. They assumed to possess the power of reveal- 
 ing everything ; from the general doings of the army, to the 
 thoughts and movements of those forming it. 
 
 One day, towards the latter end of September, Andre de 
 St. Sevron was dragging himself and his legs along the 
 Tuileries gardens, in his usual listless mood, when he 
 suddenly encountered Miss Dare and her maid. He 
 brightened up to energy. 
 
 " This is indeed an unexpected pleasure ! " he exclaimed. 
 " When did you arrive ? " 
 
 " Last night," she replied ; " and we have seen no one yet. 
 What news is there ? " 
 
 " The troops have landed in the Crimea," said Andre, 
 thinking the word "news" could only refer to the all- 
 engrossing topic. " Where is Mrs. Elliot ? " 
 
 " She was busy with her packing-cases when I came out. 
 I expect her to join me presently. Do you mind sitting 
 down, for I am tired with yesterday's journey? Judith," 
 she continued, turning to the girl, " you can go and execute 
 the commission my aunt gave you. You will find me here." 
 And the servant departed on her errand, and Andre sat down 
 on the bench by Miss Dare's side. 
 
 " Have you heard recently from your brother ? " she in- 
 quired, turning her face away. 
 
 " No, we have not," answered Andre. " His letters used 
 to come pretty regularly at first, but latterly we have received 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 27 
 
418 A MESMERIST OF THE YEARS GONE BY. 
 
 none. I may confess to you tliat I am getting anxious. 
 Not tliat there's fear on Gaston's account, for if anything 
 unfortunately happened to him, his brother-officers would 
 write, but my poor mother torments herself out of her life. 
 She is now a mere skeleton." 
 
 I attach no importance to the non-receipt of letters from 
 this allied expedition of ours," observed Miss Dare. " My 
 aunt has a son out there, a young ensign, and though we 
 know he writes regularly, more of his letters are lost, or 
 delayed, than come to hand." 
 
 " There has been a disagreeable rumour flying about Paris 
 these last few hours," proceeded Andre, unconsciously 
 dropping his voice, " but I cannot find that it proceeds from 
 any source save the prolific brains of the mesmerists. I 
 was at the telegraph-office this morning, and nothing of it 
 had been heard there." 
 
 " Mesmerists ! " exclaimed Miss Dare. " Are they busying 
 themselves about the war ? " 
 
 " They are : and, what's worse, they keep Paris in a hotter 
 fever than it would otherwise be. Some events, it cannot be 
 denied, they have described exactly ; aye, nearly in the very 
 hour in which they occurred." 
 
 " But what is this present rumour you allude to ? " 
 
 "I don't put any faith in it," said Andre, imperiously. 
 Yet his uneasy, nervous movement, as he spoke, proved he 
 did, " It is, that the troops have landed in the Crimea — but 
 that was known ; that some days afterwards, upon encounter- 
 ing the Eussians, a desperate battle ensued, and that 
 thousands of the allies, men and officers, are down." 
 
 Miss Dare compressed her lips. " But, you say, even the 
 telegraph has no news of this ? " she observed, in a cheerful 
 voice, after some minutes' thought. 
 
 " No, no ; it all comes from these infernal mesmerists — I 
 beg your pardon for the word. But, you see, as they have 
 been right before, they may be again. I have been in a 
 state of worry since the morning, lest the report should 
 reach my mother." 
 
 "Have you been yourself to consult the mesmerists?" 
 inquired Miss Dare, 
 
A MESMERIST OF THE YEARS GONE BY. 419 
 
 " Thank you. There are enough idiots who go, without 
 :.nj making one." 
 
 " Then, were I you, I should go and hear what they do 
 ^ay," she rejoined firmly, " and exercise my own judgment 
 as to whether there was anything in it. It seems to me 
 that such imposture, if it be imposture, must be readily 
 detected." 
 
 Andre de St. Sevron sat silent. He did not choose to 
 confess to her that it was the very plan he had been debating 
 in his own mind. 
 
 " Do ladies go ? " proceeded Miss Dare. 
 
 " Some have gone. I suppose you are aware that we have 
 women speculators on the Bourse as well as men. And it 
 is chiefly for these speculations that the clairvoyantes are 
 consulted." 
 
 " Do you know," she said in a low, timid voice, " I should 
 much like to go." 
 
 " Go where ? " ejaculated Andre. 
 
 " To hear, or see — which do you call it ? — one of these 
 mesmerists. It has never fallen to my chance to be present 
 at any of their exhibitions, though I have often wished it. 
 "Why not now, as well as at another time? Will you take 
 me, Andre ? " 
 
 " You English demoiselles are remarkably independent ! " 
 was Andre's observation. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " it is our privilege. But we retain our 
 dignity and self-possession, Andre, and no harm can come 
 near us. Will you go ? " 
 
 " If you are in earnest in wishing it. When shall it be ? 
 Some hour that will suit Mrs. Elliot." 
 
 " I will not have Mrs. Elliot, or tell her of it," interrupted 
 Miss Dare. " I ask you to accompany me, because it might 
 not be right for a young lady to appear there alone. Take 
 me to the first of them all ; the woman with the wonderful 
 reputation. I will be ready this evening." 
 
 " At what hour ? " 
 
 "Seven." 
 
 It was before a house in the neighbourhood of the Rue St, 
 
420 A MESMERIST OF THE YEAES GONE BY 
 
 Denis, that a hired citadine stopped that night, soon after 
 the hour named by Miss Dare. She stepped out of it, 
 attended by Andre de St. Sevron. Her own man-servant sat 
 on the box with the driver. This may be looked upon as a 
 curious adventure for her, or any other English lady, to 
 engage in, but she was troubled and anxious, and thought 
 not of forms and ceremonies ; and she went through with it. 
 
 It was the house of the renowned mesmerist, for Andre 
 had obeyed her wishes. They were shown into the waiting- 
 room, a sort of badly furnished and worse-lighted salle-a- 
 manger, and were told they would soon be called for, but the 
 clairvoyante was just then engaged. 
 
 Alice Dare grew impatient at the delay, and began to 
 pace the room. Perhaps she did not feel quite satisfied with 
 what she had undertaken. " If we are kept here much 
 longer," she observed to her companion, I shall return." 
 
 Andre opened the door, with a view of looking for the 
 person who had shown them in. He could see no one. On 
 the right was the staircase they had ascended ; on the left, 
 a long corridor, which was lighted by a bit of candle, stuck 
 in a tin sconce nailed to the wall. Suddenly, as he stood, a 
 door at the extreme end of the passage opened and closed, 
 and a gentleman was walking down the passage towards him. 
 It was a friend of St. Sevron's, a man of sixty years. 
 
 " What ! you here, St. Sevron ! " was the exclamation. 
 " Have you, the cynical, come to pray advice of the 
 oracle ? " 
 
 " I may retort by the same question," replied St. Sevron, 
 drawing- to the door behind him, that Alice might not be 
 seen. " What has the oracle done for you ? " 
 
 " Little for me, by all that's sombre ! " replied the old 
 man. " If what she says is true, the funds will go down 
 awfully." 
 
 What does she say ? " 
 
 "You'll hear enough, if you go in, without my telling 
 you. One thing I trust she may be wrong in —that St. 
 Arnaud's dead." 
 
 " Bah ! " 
 
 " She affirms it. Not killed in the battle. Died of natural 
 
A MESMERIST OF THE YEABS GONE BY. 421 
 
 disease after it— after anotlier attack of cholera ! * I say ! 
 a compact ? " 
 
 " Well ? " returned St. Sevron. 
 
 " That neither of us has seen the other here." 
 
 " Be it so." 
 
 As the gentleman passed down the staircase, St. Sevron 
 and Miss Dare were summoned to the reception-room. A 
 woman, attired in black silk, with a white bandage over her 
 eyes, leant back asleep — at least was in the attitude of sleep 
 — in an easy-chair. A man, short of stature, with round, 
 cunning eyes, likewise dressed in black, and well dressed, sat 
 at a table. 
 
 "You must put your questions to madame through me," 
 he observed to the visitors. "What is it you wish to 
 know?" 
 
 "Of the welfare of one who is serving in the Crimea," 
 rejoined Andre. " An officer." 
 
 " Have you aught belonging to him about you ? " inquired 
 the man. 
 
 " I have a piece of his hair and a letter," was St. Sevron's 
 reply. For, be it observed, the last time Gaston wrote to 
 his mother from Varna, he enclosed to her a lock of his hair, 
 according to a request she had made. This letter and hair 
 Andre had borrowed, for that evening, knowing something 
 of the requisitions of the mesmerists. The man returned 
 the letter to Andre as useless, but he took the hair, and 
 ^placed it on the top of the looman's head. 
 
 The woman became restless, stirred, and sighed heavily. 
 It was some minutes before she spoke. 
 
 " What do you see ? " inquired the man of her. " How is 
 he employed now, from whom that hair was severed ? " 
 
 " I see a plain whose heights are rugged and uneven," she 
 murmured. " I see it strewn with corpses. They are bury- 
 ing them ; but they are often called off. There are many 
 wounded, hundreds upon hundreds. I see a wide expanse of 
 water, and ships " 
 
 * It is certain that the death, and its cause, of ^Marshal de St. Arnaud 
 was positively affirmed in secret, in Paris, some days before the telegraph 
 brought news of the fact. 
 
422 A MESMERIST OF THE YEARS GONE Bt. 
 
 " Is he wlio owns tliat hair amongst the wounded ? Ask 
 her," interrupted Andre, eagerly, whilst Alice clung to his 
 arm, partly in suspense, partly in terror. And the man put 
 the question. 
 
 *^ I cannot find him," she went on to murmur, speaking at 
 intervals, and with difficulty. "Ah! I see now. His 
 luxuriant hair is fair and bright, but it is all bloody, and 
 his face is white, and his jaw fallen. He is with the dead." 
 
 " Dead ! " breathed Andre, who, much as he despised him- 
 self for it, could not shake off the feeling of horror that was 
 creeping over him, 
 
 " Dead. One — two — three — four wounds, all in front. He 
 died bravely. Stay ! stay ! they have come to him — they 
 are taking him — now they search his pockets — there's a 
 knife, and letters, and— and things I can't see — they get in 
 the light. Where to now? There they go! Ah! they 
 are bearing him to the great pit, where so many are being 
 thrown." 
 
 Nothing more could he get out of the woman— and the 
 reader will probably think this was quite enough. She Yvent 
 rambling on to other sights she saw, or made believe to see, 
 on the battle-field. xAndre de St. Sevron conducted his 
 companion from the room. She never spoke a word ; nor 
 he. But in the coach he recovered his spirits. His common- 
 sense and judgment returned to him with the fading away 
 of the mesmeric scene, and he no longer condescended to 
 admit apprehension for the fate of his brother. "It was 
 all absurd ; nothing but clap-trap ; a disgraceful mode of 
 swindling the credulous out of money ! " he indignantly 
 exclaimed, but he was interrupted by the sound of a sob, and 
 turning to Miss Dare, he found she was weeping silently. 
 He went over to the side of the coach where she sat, and 
 took her hand, and essayed to soothe her. But she shrank 
 from him. 
 
 " Nay, do not push me away, Alice," he whispered affec- 
 tionately ; " suffer me to comfort you. I have long hoped 
 that I might be your comforter through life. I should have 
 told you this in the spring, but for your sudden departure 
 from Paris. I have only waited your return to speak." 
 
A MESMERIST OF THE YEARS GONE BY. 423 
 
 " You my sootlier in life ! " she passionately exclaimed, 
 through her convulsive sobs — " you, who plotted and worked 
 in slyness and in secret till you succeeded in driving your 
 brave brother out to the death he has met ! " 
 
 " Hushj hush, Alice," remonstrated Andre ; " my brother 
 has met with no death. How can you suffer the ridiculous 
 farce we have come from to scare away your reason ? Alice, 
 you are the only woman I ever cared for : you must promise 
 to be my dear v/ife." 
 
 " Listen ! " spoke Miss Dare, arresting her sobs by a 
 resolute effort. " I will tell you a history. I might shrink 
 from repeating it at most times, but this night I am in no 
 mood to stand on ceremony. I am the promised wife of one 
 in my own land. When I engaged myself, I thought I 
 liked him ; and so I did. But I came to Paris ; I saw your 
 brother ; I became intimate vnili him ; and then I found I 
 had mistaken liking for love. Andre de St. Sevron, I loved 
 your brother ; I loved Mm ; had you not forced him from me, 
 I know that in time I should have been his v/ife, for I would 
 have given up that other engagement at his bidding. Are 
 you answered ? " 
 
 " These fancies will wear away in time," observed Andre, 
 gloomily. " Let me hope — — " 
 
 "Hope nothing," interrupted Alice, with fearless im- 
 petuosity. " When these fancies, as you call them, shall 
 have worn away, I shall marry him who is waiting for me ; 
 and perhaps not make him the less good wife, because I 
 for a few months passionately loved one who is in his grave." 
 
 " I would endeavour to render you happy, Alice," he per- 
 sisted, clinging even against hope. 
 
 " Your endeavours have not been so directed hitherto," 
 she retorted. " You have contrived to tear from me what 
 romance I had in life ; you have been the means of slaying 
 your brother. Look there, Andre de St. Sevron ! " she 
 suddenly exclaimed, pulling him towards the coach-window, 
 " do you see these men who are passing home from their 
 day's work— some in blouses, some in rags ? — there is not 
 one amongst them that I would not marry in preference to 
 
 you!" 
 
424 A MESMERIST OF THE YEARS GONE BY. 
 
 He left Alice Dare at her residence ; and, dismissing tte 
 citadine, walked, with the moody step of grief and despair, 
 to the Faubourg St. Germain. Her reproaches had told 
 home. If it should indeed prove that Gaston Jiad fallen, 
 why, he had driven him out to perish. And what would be 
 his own future? To live on alone — to hear that slie had 
 married one of her own nation, one to whom she had been 
 engaged for years ! He looked across the fireplace at his 
 poor old mother, now so near her end, but there was no 
 comfort for him there. Comfort ! Even her life he had 
 contributed to shorten. Andre de St. Sevron was apt to say 
 he was born under a miserable star, but never had he felt 
 the conviction so keenly as on that night. 
 
 Some days afterwards, on Sunday, the 1st of October, came 
 the official tidings of the battle of the Alma. And when the 
 lists of killed and wounded a^^peared, the name of Gaston 
 de St. Sevron was amongst the slain. 
 
SOLDIER'S CAREER. 
 
A SOLDIER'S CAEEER, 
 
 FROM A RECORD OF THE PAST. 
 
 I. 
 
 I DO not know wlietlier tlie following sketch will prove of 
 mucti interest to the general reader, since it refers to time 
 and events that are past. The incidents related in it are 
 authentic, though they savour strongly of romance. 
 
 In the year 1833, a handsome young lad of seventeen, 
 whom it will not do to call here by his full name, went out 
 to India as a cadet. It is his career — and it was but a 
 short one — that is about to be told. He was a high-spirited, 
 noble boy, though wild, thoughtless, and everlastingly in 
 scrapes; and had caused his guardians no end of trouble 
 and expense. But they could not help admiring the lad, 
 with all his faults ; and his mother, while she would call 
 him her unlucky boy, called him likewise her darling 
 Harry. Henry Lynn was the name given him in baptism ; 
 there's no necessity to suppress that. He was the younger 
 of two sons; and a profitable living, in the gift of tho 
 family, w^as destined for him. So, by way of j)reparation, 
 the child, at nine years old, was sent to Dr. Bringemon's 
 great academy in London, where he picked up notions quite 
 at variance with those of his sober father and mother. At 
 twelve years old he had fallen in love with a soldier's coat, 
 and told his sisters privately that they should never make a 
 parson of Mm, At fourteen, ere the mourning he wore for 
 
428 
 
 A SOLDIER'S CAREER 
 
 his father was soiled, he wrote word home that he would be 
 a captain in India. He was sent for to the Hall. His 
 mother cried, his guardians talked of a birch-rod, but 
 Master Harry held to his own will. He lavished love upon 
 his mother, but he laughingly defied his guardians ; and 
 
 the upshot of the business was that Henry Lynn G was 
 
 posted as a gentleman- cadet, and at seventeen set sail for 
 India. 
 
 It would seem that he liked the life he found there, for, 
 some five or six years afterwards, when, by the death of his 
 brother, he succeeded to the family estate, and it was 
 supposed he would sell out and go home to enjoy it, he 
 made no change at all, save paying off his debts, and 
 launching forth into fresh expenses — which he had been 
 quite ready to do before. Few men were so universally 
 liked as Harry Lynn. Impetuous, open-hearted, generous, 
 and handsome as he had been in boyhood, so he remained in 
 manhood. 
 
 Now, do you know much about that race of men 
 called the Sikhs? Few do, save that they are people 
 inhabiting certain tracts of land in India. Nobody had 
 ever heard of them till about two hundred years ago, 
 speaking in round numbers, when they came to light as 
 natives of Hindostan ; a peaceful, submissive race of men, 
 inoffensive as are our Quakers. Their religion was a 
 mixture of Mahometanism and Hindooism, neither entirely 
 one nor the other, which brought down upon them persecu- 
 tions from the bigots of both creeds; and towards the 
 termination of the empire of Delhi these persecutions 
 became so excessive that the Sikhs were compelled to rise 
 in arms against their oppressors. It takes but little, when 
 one© the train is laid, to change a peaceful race of men to 
 one of cruelty ; and the Sikhs were goaded to become such. 
 They established certain chieftaincies amongst themselves, 
 called Missuls, and, with time, rose to greatness. Some of 
 them took possession of that portion of India which, being 
 watered by the five branches of the Indus, is called the 
 Punjab, or Land of Five Waters ; whilst others settled them- 
 selves on the opposite, or eastern, side of the Sutlej. 
 
A SOLDIER'S CAREER. 
 
 429 
 
 It is more than three-parts of a century now, that the 
 Sikhs of the Punjab, on the western side of the Sutlej, were 
 first governed by Runjeet Singh — a man of great ability, 
 who established his kingdom, called by the name of its 
 capital, Lahore, on a sure foundation. But power begets 
 the love of power, and Eunjeet Singh cast his eye to the 
 Sikhs on the east of the Sutlej, and thought he should like 
 to govern them. His hopes were fruitless, for they had 
 been taken under the protection of the British Government ; 
 and the chances of a war with that formidable power 
 Eunjeet Singh knew better than to hazard. On the con- 
 trary, he entered into a treaty with the British authorities, 
 which proved of advantage to both parties. Years wore on, 
 and the kingdom of Lahore increased in importance. On 
 the termination of the continental wars, when Napoleon was 
 sent to St. Helena, numerous European soldiers, men and 
 officers, passed over to India, and enlisted into the service 
 of Eunjeet Singh. Under the example and training of these 
 brave men, the army of Eunjeet Singh became almost equal 
 to our own. It carried its conquests into Afghanistan, and 
 amongst other provinces that fell before its prowess was the 
 beautiful Vale of Cashmere, so celebrated in song. But 
 Eunjeet Singh died in the course of time, and, with his 
 death, all the jealousies and ill-feeling of the Sikhs towards 
 the British, which he had kept under, broke out with 
 irresistible bitterness, and there was little peace in the 
 Punjab afterwards. Not that these animosities and petty 
 wars concern us here. 
 
 In the same year that Harry Lynn obtained his captaincy 
 he went about exploring the country. Amongst other places 
 that he visited was Lahore, and when he left it he per- 
 formed an exploit that officers have borne the character 
 for being expert at — from a captain bold of Halifax and 
 ghostly memory, down to those of our own times — he " ran 
 away with a maid, who " — did not hang herself, but went 
 with him to his quarters at Calcutta. 
 
 She was one of the loveliest creatures possible to be 
 imagined, as some few men, then living at Calcutta, can 
 remember now ; but that was no justification for the step 
 
430 
 
 A SOLDIER'S CAREER, 
 
 taken by Captain Lynn. Her mother, a Sikli, had married 
 one of those European officers who had joined Eunjeet 
 Singh's army, a handsome Frenchman; and this child, 
 Agee, their only one, was strikingly like her father, so that 
 her beauty was of the European, not Asiatic, cast. The 
 Frenchman died v/hen she was an infant, and her mother 
 married again, a Sikh. All trace, nearly all remembrance, 
 of the lady's early alliance was lost, and Agee was brought 
 up in the customs, habits, and religion of her mother's land. 
 During the visit of Captain Lynn at Lahore he became 
 acquainted with her, a lovely girl just blossoming into 
 womanhood; a powerful attachment sprang up between 
 them, and the result was — as I have told you above. Such 
 was the history of the girl, and the particulars of the affair, 
 as they became known, bit by bit, to Captain Lynn's circle 
 of friends at Calcutta. 
 
 He enshrined her in a secluded home at Calcutta ; he 
 surrounded her with all sorts of expensive luxuries; he 
 lavished every proof of affection upon her save one — 
 marriage. And that she could not now expect. 
 
 Yet this Indian girl must not be judged as we should 
 judge one reared in our own land of propriety and civiliza- 
 tion. She knew not that she was committing any grave 
 offence ; modest, gentle, innocent in mind as she was before, 
 so she remained. The very few friends admitted by Captain 
 Lynn recognized this, and involuntarily accorded her a 
 respect quite at variance with the position. 
 
 We must now go on to the autumn of 1845. In her 
 Calcutta home, in a luxurious apartment of it, richly fur- 
 nished with articles peculiar to an Eastern life, sat this 
 young girl we have been speaking of, Agee. She was in 
 evening dress, enhancing, if that were possible, her surpassing 
 beauty. Her robe was of muslin sprigged with silver, silver 
 ornaments were on her neck and arms, and were interlaced 
 with her dark hair. Young and lovely, she looked fitted to 
 adorn society ; a nameless grace pervaded her presence, a 
 sweet, modest refinement shone forth in her every look and 
 action. Poor girl! hers was an unhappy fate. Calcutta 
 
A SOLDIER'S CAREER. 
 
 431 
 
 railed at her greatly, especially those ladies in it who had 
 sisters to marry, and who would have given their heads to 
 get Harry Lynn. None thought of compassion ; it was all 
 censure ; yet she merited far more of the one than of the 
 other, and she was very unhappy. She had not understood 
 these matters when she left Lahore, poor maiden; she 
 understood them too well now. Perhaps the consciousness 
 was especially present to her this evening, for her pale 
 delicate features wore a look of pain, and tears gathered 
 frequently in her eyes. The room was redolent of a sweet 
 perfume, emitted from burning pastilles ; it was open to the 
 terrace, and the breezy fans intervening kept up a delightful 
 motion. Outside, stretched at his ease on a large bench, his 
 heels higher than his head, and lazily blowing clouds into 
 the air from his cigar, was one of the handsomest men in all 
 Calcutta, and in manners one of the most prepossessing — and 
 the two don't always go together. You guess of course that it 
 was Harry Lynn, He was quite as deep in thought as Agee 
 inside, and it may be that his reflections, occurring in dis- 
 jointed interludes, were, like hers, not agreeable, for a contrac- 
 tion, as of perplexity or anger, sat on his otherwise open brow. 
 
 I was a fool — that's what I was ! — and awfully to blame. 
 I ought not to have brought her away with me or s'addled 
 myself like this for years. How the deuce it's to be broken 
 through now I can't see. By Jove ! I shall be worn to 
 a skeleton with all this planning and perplexity. I have no 
 sleep at night for worrying over it. 
 
 "My mother writes me that it's time I married! and 
 thinks me an ungrateful dog never to have run over to 
 England. Ungrateful ! no, no, not that, dearest mother. 
 Thoughtlessness was born with me, and will never leave me. 
 It is time I married ; in a year I shall count thirty summers, 
 and a fellow gets confirmed in bachelor habits after that. 
 I wish I could marry. Maria Grame is the dearest and love- 
 liest girl I have ever known, but it's of no use telling the 
 old colonel I think so till Agee's disposed of. Maria cannot 
 know anything about her, that's clear, for she's too correct 
 a girl to have listened to my semi-lovemaking if she did. 
 Wish I could make it whoUv ! " 
 
432 
 
 A SOLDIER'S CAREER. 
 
 Captain Lynn broke oflf for a moment to shake the ashes 
 from his cigar. 
 
 " We might be married here ; I would get leave of absence 
 and take her to England ; my dear mother's old heart would 
 be delighted ; and Maria — but wliere's the use of planning 
 if one can't execute ? Whafs to he done ivith Agee ? I can't 
 turn her over as one does a ballet-dancer. If I could see 
 any way to send her back to Lahore, with a few thousands 
 settled on her — but there's none to be seen. She would 
 rebel at the first hint of parting, and as to force and 
 stratagem — awkward both ; and the end not gained perhaps. 
 The worst is she's so innocent and unsuspicious, so different 
 from this sort of thing in general, that there's no knowing 
 how to deal with her. This all comes of my own folly. 
 Devil take the cigar ! it's gone out." 
 
 Eising, and throwing his cigar away, Harry Lynn stepped 
 into the room, and spoke, his tone betraying somewhat of 
 the irritation of his thoughts. 
 
 " Agee ! how fond you are of those pastilles. The smell 
 of them is quite overpowering." 
 
 " I will not light any more ; these are nearly out," she 
 answered in perfect English, for she had been an apt scholar 
 under his tuition. 
 
 "Oh, light as many as you please," he returned, in a 
 kinder and more careless tone. " I am going to dress." 
 
 " To dress ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " There's a party at Colonel Grame's to-night. I promised 
 to be there." 
 
 She leaned back on the ottoman, her whole attitude 
 bespeaking disappointment, if not despair. "How many 
 nights — weeks — months have you thus spoken : leaving me 
 to this home-solitude ; to my dreary thoughts ! " 
 
 " Now, Agee, don't be unreasonable," he remonstrated. 
 " I am sure you, of all people, cannot complain of neglect. 
 But society has also claims on me." 
 
 "It had the same claims when I was first here," 
 she answered mournfully, " and you did not leave me 
 then." 
 
 He soothed her, but he evaded a direct answer, and strode 
 
A SOLDIER'S CAREER. 
 
 433 
 
 Otit of tlie room. He was never otherwise than affectionate, 
 though he had tired of her in accordance with the nature of 
 man. When he returned, he was in full dress, and, wishing 
 her good-night, left for Colonel Grame's, gaily whistling 
 some bars from the last new opera that had found its way 
 from our shores to Calcutta. 
 
 Agee sat on where she was. Musical instruments, on 
 which she was a finished performer, were at hand, books in 
 French and English lay on the tables ; but she neglected 
 all, and never moved from her attitude of despair. Late in 
 the evening, a middle-aged woman, dressed in a fashion 
 peculiar to Lahore, glided in. 
 
 "Ever thus, lady," she said in their native language, 
 " ever cast down ! You would be better and ha23pier in 
 your own land than here ; and— the time has come when you 
 must indeed return to it." 
 
 Agee looked up with a deepening colour, for the words 
 were peremptorily spoken. 
 
 " Listen ! " cried the woman, earnestly, as she bent to her 
 mistress. " This bosom pillowed your head in its infancy ; 
 you were the solace of this poor heart in your childhood, 
 and when you left us, I thought it would have broken. 
 Your mother died ; and I, who felt myself more to you than 
 she had ever been^ set out to seek you. Far, far I travelled ; 
 through hunger, and thirst, and heat, and weariness ; along 
 plains of sand, over deserts, through rivers, across moun- 
 tains ; with no guide to direct me, save instinct — the same 
 instinct that will take a bird to its nest ! and when I was 
 well-nigh wearied out of life, I found you. What motive 
 had I, think you, except love ? " 
 
 " Dayah ! " cried the young lady, rousing herself, " I know 
 your love for me. I know you have been to me all that a 
 mother can be— more than mine was: that you have re- 
 mained here in this strange land, away from tics and kindred, 
 for my sake. I know all this." 
 
 " Then, remembering it, dear lady, you may be sure I 
 would be silent for ever, rather than speak a word to give 
 you pain. Yet I must say that word this night." 
 
 " Say on," she faintly cried. 
 The Unholy Wish, 28 
 
434 
 
 A SOLDIER'S CAREER. 
 
 " You liave clung to this Englisliman longer tlian is well. 
 You " 
 
 "Not so," interrupted Agee, her pale clieek flushing. 
 " We shall cling to each other so long as our years shall 
 last." • 
 
 " No, no, lady," returned the woman ; " he seeks to deceive, 
 if he says that. There is a fair girl of the north ready to 
 supplant you ; one whose eyes are of the beautiful hue of 
 the heavens; whose hair is as sunny threads of gold. I 
 have seen her. This very day, in public, he was by her 
 side." 
 
 " What of her ? " shivered Agee. 
 
 " She is to be his wife : it is no secret in Calcutta. And 
 you, lady, will be put away, estranged from him more 
 effectually than if you had never known him. It is their 
 custom, these Europeans." 
 
 Agee did not answer. She rose and stood there, motion- 
 less and rigid. It seemed as if the woman's gaze, bent on 
 her, had turned her into stone, like the Mgis, of old. Was 
 this the cause of his changed affection— that he loved 
 another ? 
 
 The attendant looked round, and bringing her face in 
 closer contact with that of her mistress, proceeded in a 
 cautious whisper — - 
 
 " I have heard again to-day. The Sikhs waver no longer ; 
 they are united and determined, and the war is coming on 
 rapidly. In three moons from this, lady, they vail have 
 possession of India." 
 
 But still there was no answer. It was as if the young 
 girl heard not. 
 
 " The Akalio * are urging them on now," proceeded the 
 old nurse, " so any thought of peace is fruitless. You must 
 not stay here : the land will be overrun with blood, from 
 one end of it to the other." 
 
 " You have had news ? " asked Agee, at length. " Who 
 was your messenger ? " 
 
 "He who always is. He is true to me and swift. He 
 
 AVandering Priests. A fanatic race of men, possessing unbounded 
 influence in the Punjab, especially over the native chieftains. 
 
A SOLDIER^S CAREEIt. 
 
 435 
 
 Returns tlic day after to-morrow, not earlier, for he must 
 have time for rest. Leave this false Englishman at once, 
 clearest lady ; our people must not find you here with him. 
 I will conduct you back to our own land ; and let the two 
 years you have passed out of it be blotted from remem- 
 brance." 
 
 A ste]} was heard, and the speaker bent down her ear to 
 listen. It was that of Captain Lynn, and she drew away as 
 noiselessly as she had entered. Agee sank down and buried 
 her face in her hands. 
 
 It was for this, then, that the unhappy girl had followed 
 him! It was for this she had relinquished her beloved 
 native land, envying the very winds that blew towards it ; 
 her dearest friends ; her fair fame, though she knew it not ; 
 her childhood's language — only to be cast aside for another ; 
 one to be as much loved and more honoured than she had 
 been! 
 
 Captain Lynn came on, whistling ; rather a habit of his* 
 But his step was slow, and the tune— if it might be called 
 one — was melancholy as the Dead March in Saul." She 
 rose in an outburst of passionate sobs when he entered, and 
 throwing herself at his feet, wildly clasped his knees. 
 
 " Oh, send me not away from you ! " she besought in 
 agony. " This northern girl cannot love you as I have 
 loved. Will she tend you in sickness — bear with your way- 
 ward moods in health ? — would she give up home, mother, 
 reputation for you as I did, and endure silently the scorn 
 and neglect of the \Yovld ? " 
 
 " Agee, what mean you ? " he asked in agitation, 
 
 " You. are false to me ! " she exclaimed ; " you are about 
 to turn me adrift that you may wed the fair girl of the north. 
 I have not deserved it of you." 
 
 " Stay, Agee ! " he interrupted. " Whence you derived 
 this information, I know not. That my name has been 
 coupled with this English lady's is, I believe, true ; but it 
 will never be coupled with hers again. From this night I 
 go to her house no more." 
 
 " More deceit ! more deceit ! " she wailed, lifting her 
 hands wildly. " You are mocking me now ! " 
 
436 
 
 A SOLDIERS S CAREER. 
 
 " No ; on a soldier's lionoiir. I have bid adieu to Maria 
 Grame for ever/' 
 
 The fact was, Colonel Grame, finding that the attentions 
 of Captain Lynn at his house were daily becoming more 
 particular, had that night intimated to him that, "under 
 existing circumstances," his friendship with his daughters 
 had better cease. Whether, when he lingered with Maria 
 for a moment in parting, Captain Lynn had whispered a 
 hope that a more favourable future might yet dawn for 
 them, cannot be known ; if so, he would not be likely to 
 speak of it to the Asiatic girl. 
 
 II. 
 
 It was the following December. Captain Lynn had trans- 
 ferred his quarters to Umballah, where a great portion of 
 the British army was now collected. Preparations were 
 being mjide for battle, but much uncertainty was experienced 
 regarding the movements of the Sikhs. Some days, news 
 would be brought that they were about to cross the Sutlej ; 
 others, that they were crossing it ; again, that they were 
 retreating and would not cross at all. But these various 
 details need not be given here. 
 
 Captain Lynn, to his most excessive annoyance, had been 
 followed to Umballali by the young Sikh woman, Agee — ■ 
 not to his quarters, of course, but to the town. He had 
 peremptorily enjoined her to remain at Calcutta until his 
 return. The old nurse or attendant, Dayah, had accom- 
 panied her thither, and this woman never ceased to urge 
 upon her mistress the expediency of her quitting any place 
 that contained Captain Lynn. One evening, she glided into 
 Agee's presence, her face pale, her mouth compressed, and 
 approached with a dread whisper— 
 
 " Lady, you must leave him now : the hour has come. A 
 few days will see him and his companions mown down; 
 earth shall hold them no more." 
 
 Agee's lips turned white as marble. 
 
 " They are crossing the Sutlej," continued the woman in 
 
A SOLDIER'S CAREER. 
 
 437 
 
 a still lower whisper, as if she feared the very walls would 
 hear her, " an army of from sixty to a hundred thousand 
 strong. What can their handful of British troops effect 
 against it ? — and that handful not yet conveyed thither ? " 
 
 " When heard you this ? " murmured Agee. 
 
 " He came this evening ; he is swift and sure of foot, and 
 has outstripped the European news-scouts by some hours ; 
 but their great chieftain * will know it ere to-morrow's suij 
 be up. He little suspects the fate that is in store for him ! 
 They are fine of limb, these northern soldiers, tall and 
 straight ; but ere long they must measure their length upon 
 the earth. As tho grass falls before the scythe, so must 
 they fall before their fierce and powerful foe." 
 
 " And Captain Lynn ? " shivered Agee, from between her 
 bloodless lips. 
 
 "He must share the fate of his comrades — what should 
 hinder it ? Why, even did you turn apostate to your oath, 
 lady, and betray to him what I have now told you, which 
 you know you may not do, it could not serve him ; he would 
 still go to battle with the rest. You must escape with me.'' 
 
 But Agee, with an impatient gesture, turned away and 
 ventured forth into the night. Captain Lynn was leaving 
 his quarters to join a carouse of some of his brother-officers, 
 got up on the spur of the moment, when he came full upon 
 her, stealing up. 
 
 " You are on the eve of being ordered out to battle," she 
 whispered. " You must not go." 
 
 " Not go ? " he exclaimed, wondering what she was talk- 
 ing of. 
 
 " Sickness must be your excuse," she eagerly explained. 
 " A man unable to rise from his bed cannot be expected to 
 go out and fight." 
 
 " Are you in your right mind, Agee ? " he asked, laughing 
 lightly. 
 
 " You would never leave the battlefield with life " 
 " Then I must die on it, child." 
 " You can make a joke even of this ! " 
 " No, not a joke. Though that's a good one of yours 
 
 Governor-General. 
 
438 
 
 A SOLDIER'S CAREER. 
 
 about sickness. An Englishman does not know what fear 
 is," he said, drawing himself unconsciously to his full height ; 
 
 and for the chances of war, we must all share them, and 
 trust to Providence." 
 
 " Dayali is curious in herbs and medicines," she persisted, 
 in a despairing whisper, " many of our women are so. A 
 potion from her would render you incapable of marching 
 with the rest ; and to the world you would seem sick unto 
 death." 
 
 " That's quite enough, A gee," he said, half peevishly, 
 half laughingly. "You don't understand these things, 
 child. And you promised me yesterday to leave this place ! 
 I was in hopes you were gone." 
 
 " You seem strangely anxious to harm my countrymen," 
 she exclaimed, still reverting to the war. 
 
 " Not at all. I wish to my soul they were other than 
 yours, but I must do my duty." 
 
 Thirteen of them were present ; the ominous number ; 
 and they sat around the convivial table of night. Not with 
 the luxurious appurtenances usual in polished Europe ; the 
 rich plate, the glittering crystal, the numerous lights ; such 
 things pertain not to a half-civilized land or to a time of war 
 and tumult ; but the gay jest, the sparkling remark, and the 
 merry song went round all the same. Gallant, gallant 
 officers they were, true-hearted Englishmen, in the flower of 
 early manhood ! And they knew not that the shadow of 
 grim Death was upon them, his dart pointed at the heart 
 of all. 
 
 " The information is so imperfect, so contradictory," 
 observed Major Challoner, the only grey-headed man at the 
 board : " if we lance the full tilt of belief into a report one 
 day, it is contradicted the next." 
 
 " In my opinion our march will be useless," cried hand- 
 some Lieutenant Bell. " I don't believe the Sikhs are 
 coming forward at all." 
 
 " They dare not cross," burst forth the hot-headed young 
 Irishman, Dan Ennis. 
 
 " I hope to goodness they may ! " exclaimed little Parker, 
 
A SOLDIEFS CAREEB. 
 
 439 
 
 who had certainly been smuggled into the army, for he was 
 under height, or looked it. " The glory of routing 'em right 
 and left ! " 
 
 " They may prove a more formidable enemy than we think 
 for," remarked the cautious old major who had spoken first. 
 
 " Not they," replied Harry Lynn, contemptuously. " An 
 inorganised rabble never proved formidable. The wine 
 stands with you, Henderson." 
 
 " For my part," resumed Major Challoner, as he thought- 
 fully filled his glass, " I think Sir Henry " 
 
 " Well, major ? " cried one ; for the major had brought his 
 sentence to a standstill. 
 
 " What's that in the shade ? There ! by the entrance ? 
 Who's eavesdropping ? " 
 
 Every head was turned round at the exclamation of Major 
 Challoner. A figure, clad from head to foot in a long black 
 garment, with a cowl drawn over the face, if it had a face ; 
 in short, a dim, shapeless form, stood there in the obscurity. 
 
 " What do you want ? Who are you ? " roared out Major 
 Challoner in his mother-tongue ; indeed, he could speak no 
 other. 
 
 " Beware ! " was uttered by the figure in Hindostanee ; a 
 language familiar to some of them only ; but the voice was 
 as a strange unearthly sound, ringing with startling distinct- 
 ness through the depths of the room. "You sit here, 
 mocking at the Sikhs, but know that the moment you march 
 upon them you are doomed — doomed ! They are crossing 
 the Sutlej now, a hundred thousand strong. You will be 
 cut off in your early lives; your fair British homes you 
 will never see again : not one of you but will be struck 
 down ; not one will be left alive to mourn the rest ! Pray 
 to the Lord for your souls: as sure as that you go out 
 against the Sikhs, your destruction cometh : and they have 
 need of prayer who rush into His presence uncalled by 
 Him." 
 
 Surprise kept the ofiicers silent. Lieutenant Parker, 
 who had more ready bravery in him than many a man twice 
 his size, was the first to start from his seat and rush after 
 the form ; others followed : but it was already gone. They 
 
440 
 
 A SOLDIER'S CAREER. 
 
 looked outside, and could see no trace of it ; but tliere were 
 many ins and outs of buildings close by that migbt favour 
 concealment. 
 
 " What was it all ? " cried Major Cballoner, who had not 
 understood a word. 
 
 "Oh, a trick of one of the fellows," said Henderson: 
 " nothing else." 
 
 " I don't know," cried the young Irishman, dubiously. 
 " I hate such tricks. I can fight a host of men hand to 
 hand, and glory in it : but for these ghosts and warnings 
 and omens, I wish the fiend had them all." 
 
 " Did you ever see a ghost, Ennis ? " asked Captain Lynn, 
 winking at the rest, for the lieutenant's superstitious 
 tendencies were well known in the regiment. " What are 
 ghosts like ? " 
 
 " Which of us was to die, eh ? " cried Major Challoner. 
 
 " Every one of us," cried Bell, making a joke of it. " We 
 had better have a batch of will-making, and go to prayers 
 afterwards." 
 
 " All, eh ? That s rather too good a jest," returned the 
 major. 
 
 " You and all, major," nodded Quicksilver Peacock, as he 
 was designated amongst his comrades, from the mercurial 
 tendency he possessed of never being still. " By George ! 
 the black fellow, ghost or no ghost, must think we have 
 tolerable swallows! I should like to get at his with my 
 good sword." 
 
 " Thirteen as brave fellows as ever drew breath ! " laughed 
 Parker. " A pretty go if we are to make food forthwith for 
 the vultures ! " 
 
 "And be sent to our accounts with all our imperfec- 
 tions " 
 
 " If you go on like this, I won't stop with you," inter- 
 rupted the young Irishman. 
 
 They did go on ; and enjoyed their laugh at him : but 
 there was scarcely one heart, brave though they all were, on 
 which the incident had not struck an uncomfortable feeling, 
 a sort of chill. It was as if they had seen the shadow of 
 Peath, which ^talked on before. 
 
A SOLDIER'S CAREER. 
 
 441 
 
 III. 
 
 The Sikhs advanced unconscious of the mocking disbelief 
 of their British adversaries, and encamped themselves before 
 the gates of Ferozepore, an army sixty thousand strong. 
 That they did not make themselves masters of the town was 
 a matter of astonishment then, and will ever remain such. 
 
 By command of the Governor-General, Sir Henry 
 Hardinge, all the troops that could be mustered together at 
 XJmballah marched out to meet this force and to succour 
 Ferozepore. They were headed by the Commander-in- 
 Chief, General Sir Hugh Gough, and were accompanied by 
 Sir Henry, who, laying aside his dignity as Governor of 
 India, took upon himself a command in the army under Sir 
 Hugh. The marches were forced, about thirty miles per 
 day. Both men and officers endured all sorts of hardship 
 and privation without a murmur: the most painful to be 
 borne perhaps was that arising from the want of water, 
 there being none to be found on the route. On December 18, 
 after some days' march, they reached the village of Moodkee 
 about one hour after noon, and proceeded to encamp there, 
 trusting the next day's march would bring them to Feroze- 
 pore. 
 
 But we civilians, in our peaceful country, talk as we may, 
 cannot form any adequate idea of the hardships undergone 
 by the soldiers on these Indian plains in time of war ; the 
 unconscious British trooper who has never been out of his 
 own island would scarcely believe in them. Long marches 
 in the burning sun, over roads heavy with sand, which, 
 flying to the eyes, goes half-way towards entailing blindness ; 
 or trailing painfully through the tangled jungle and brush- 
 wood, with no water, no refreshment, to cool their parched 
 lips. We know not what intense thirst is ; the cravings of 
 real hunger ; the pain of continued and heavy toil. Some- 
 times, nay often, it happened, through this period of the 
 Sikh war, that when the men had arrived at the end of their 
 march, it would be two hours before the tents and baggage 
 
442 
 
 A SOLDIER'S CAEEEB 
 
 came up, and until they did come there was no chance of 
 refreshment. So the troops, all in a state of physical ex- 
 haustion painful to witness, still more painful to bear, would 
 sink down on the ground, utterly prostrated, beneath the 
 burning rays of an Indian sun, or, worse still, under torrents 
 of rain. Was it a matter of surprise that the hospitals were 
 overflowing ? 
 
 But to return to these men we are speaking of. They 
 arrived at Moodkee, exhausted with their march and with 
 physical privations, and had barely taken up their station 
 before its walls, when the Sikhs bore down u^^on them and 
 opened a tremendous fire. But weary and unfit for contest 
 as they were, the men had the spirit of Britons, and rushed 
 forward to meet their powerful enemy. They repulsed and 
 routed them for the time, but with a fearful loss both of 
 men and officers. 
 
 They were burying their dead the next day, calling over 
 the muster-rolls, succouring the wounded, and consoling 
 the dying, when Captain Lynn and little Parker ran against 
 Lieutenant Ennis. 
 
 " I say ! " cried the Irishman, " it's beginning to Vvork 
 itself out. We were thirteen, you know, that night at 
 Umballah, and five are already gone." 
 
 " Four," responded Harry Lynn. 
 Wrong, Captain, they have just found poor Henderson." 
 
 " Dead?" 
 
 " Stark and cold. He was under a heap of slain." 
 
 On the 21st, the army marched out of camp, leaving it 
 standing, and neared Ferozepore, after a march of sixteen 
 miles. Here they met with General Sir John Littler, com- 
 manding about five thousand men. The Sikhs were at 
 hand, and the whole body of our troops were at once formed 
 into four divisions and arranged in fighting order. But 
 again, as in the recent battle of Moodkee, were the unfor- 
 tunate men hurried into action unfit for the contest, hungry, 
 thirsty, and weary. 
 
 The battle of Ferozeshah, as it was called, began under a 
 mutual assault of cannon ; but the light artillery of the 
 British was of little avail against the heavy guns of the 
 
A SOLDIEE'S CAREER, 
 
 443 
 
 Siklis, so tlie firing was ordered to cease and ilie infantry to 
 advance. The Sikh army was strongly entrenched among 
 the jungle and brushwood, rendering the approach of our 
 infantry not only difficult but dangerous. They advanced 
 in line, and charged with the bayonet, but the firing of the 
 enemy was redoubled : and tlie SiMs had laid mines, wliich 
 tvere noio fired underneath our soldiers' feet. Hundreds were 
 thus shattered to pieces ; officers, men, and horses were in- 
 discriminately blown up. The action soon raged fearfully, 
 the slaughter being terrible; the heavy cannonade of the 
 Sikhs kept uj) a continuous roar, overwhelming with 
 destruction the ill-fated Europeans : but the latter were 
 gallant fellows, cheering on each other with their in- 
 domitable breasts of valour, carrying much and overcoming 
 much. The atmosphere seemed alive with bullets ; the roll 
 of the musketry grew deeper and deeper ; the shouts and 
 noise of the combatants increased the confusion ; above the 
 roar of the tempest would be heard the voices of the com- 
 manding officers : " Men of the Europeans, prepare to 
 
 charge. Charge ! " and, mingling painfully with the tumult, 
 rose the shrieks of the wounded and the groans of the dying, 
 i Night put a sto23 to the slaughter. Some of the troops 
 retired to bivouac at a little distance, but considerable 
 numbers of each contending party intermingled on the 
 plain together. 
 
 I But oh ! w^hat a night it was ! The air cutting cold ; no 
 tents, no covering, no food for the exhausted soldiery, who 
 had been sixteen hours under arms, and, worse than all, no 
 ivater ! Many a wounded man died that night for want of 
 it. There was very little medical assistance, for the 
 numbers wounded were too great to' allow of much, and the 
 shades of darkness were upon the earth. And so there they 
 lay, poor fellows, groaning in their agony ; no linen to 
 bandage up their wounds, no pillow to lay their beating 
 heads upon, save the dead bodies that crowded there and 
 the horses that were slain. It was a ghastly sight, that 
 field of battle, as seen by the glimmering of some solitary 
 torch ; it would be more ghastly still in the coming moon- 
 light. The forms of the dead lay stiffened and rigid as 
 
A SOLDIER'S CAEEER. 
 
 they had fallen, the sharp expression of anguish yet con- 
 spicuous on the livid, upturned faces. Officers and men, 
 Sikhs and British, had fallen there together, peaceful 
 towards each other in death, though they were not so in 
 life. Ah ! they were equal now : the officers, some per- 
 chance of noble family, who had been reared luxuriously, 
 and the men, who, it may be, had never known a home, or 
 an asylum worthy the name. The one class had received 
 no more care than the other in dying : there was no wife 
 or mother to soothe their agonies of body, no priest to 
 administer calmness to the soul: equal as they would be 
 in the next world, so had been the last scene of their lives 
 in this. But striking more painfully still upon the heart 
 of the beholder, himself hitherto spared, came the incessant 
 cries of the departing — of those who might have been saved ; 
 the vain cry that went up around for water ; and the 
 anguished, unanswered calls for assistance, the sharp, eager 
 question of were they to be left there, among the dead, to 
 die! 
 
 In a part of the field, near to the camp of the Governor- 
 General, reclining on the ground in their arms, was a 
 group of officers. When you last saw some of these it was 
 at that convivial night-meeting at Umballah. All were 
 not there of that thirteen : five had been slain at Moodkee 
 and three more in that day's carnage. Leaving five : but 
 two of those five were wounded, it was thought mortally. 
 
 " I say ! " cried Lieutenant Bell, who had been nursed in 
 blue and silver at his mother's apron-string, and had never 
 known a care in the world, except that of his handsome 
 face, " we were all calling out for a taste of the battlefield, 
 but I don't admire such rough work as this." 
 
 "Eough enough," commented Major Challoner. "But 
 there's the glory, you know, Bell." 
 
 " Egad, I'd rather have another sort of glory, than what's 
 to be got fighting with these demons of Sikhs. If they 
 were but an honourable, open foe, meeting you hand to 
 hand, it would be something like. Who would have laid a 
 powder-magazine under our feet, to blow us up wholesale, 
 s^ve these sneaking cowards of heathens ? " 
 
A SOLDIER'S CAKEEFv. 
 
 445 
 
 " All stratagems are fair in war, tliey say." 
 
 " Stratagems be shot ! " muttered the lieutenant wrath- 
 fuUy. " I think those proliiic-brained enthusiasts who rave 
 so much of the glories of war, major, exciting us on to 
 become soldiers, might put in a little about its horrors. 
 What was that cry ? " 
 
 " Only a death-shriek," said Major Challoner. 
 
 " Ugh ! " shivered the young man. " How ghastly the 
 heaps of slain look in the moonlight ! " 
 
 " Why, yes," cried the major. " One who faints at the 
 sight of blood had best go away from a field when the battle's 
 over. I freely admit that it wants the excitement of engage- 
 ment to keep one's S23irit above zero." 
 
 " Do you know," resumed the lieutenant, " the scene has 
 several times to-day put me in mind of a war-description of 
 Byron ? It's in a short poem, or fragment, of his, called 
 ' The Devil's Drive.' Do you know it ? " 
 
 " Not I," growled Major Challoner, " poetry's not in my 
 line : never read a verse in my life. It may be in yours." 
 
 " It is a glance at the battle of Leipsic. He watches the 
 red blood running in such streams from the mountains of 
 slain, that the field 'looks like the waves of Hell.' The 
 * he ' being the devil, you know." 
 
 " Ah," cried the major, " very likely. It partakes more 
 of the devil's work than angels'." 
 
 "Hark at the moans of those poor wretches, dying for 
 w^ater ! Ugh ! " shivered the young man again, " how damp 
 it is ! " 
 
 " And bitter cold. Lynn, how are you ? " 
 
 A groan was the only answer Major Challoner received. 
 Captain Lynn had been dangerously wounded in the leg 
 with grape-shot* 
 
 " How's the pain ? " 
 
 " Oh, don't talk about the pain," murmured poor Harry 
 Lynn. " If I could only have some water ! Hundreds 
 echoed the cry that night, in vain. 
 
 Major Challoner moved away on a work of succour. Ex- 
 hausted though he might be, and necessary as repose was to 
 Jiim, he could not hear those wails for help around and lie 
 
446 
 
 A SOLDIER'S CAREER. 
 
 clown to his own rest. There came up to the spot soon 
 afterwards, making his Avay over the prostrate bodies, the 
 young Irishman, Ennis. 
 
 " Lynn ! Bell ! " he cried eagerly, " by all that's true, I 
 have seen it again ! " 
 
 " Seen what ? " asked Captain Lynn, rousing himself 
 momentarily from his agony. 
 
 " That bird of ill-omen : the black form — ghost, banshee^ 
 or whatever ifc might be— which appeared to us that night at 
 Umballah." 
 
 Don't be a fool," retorted Bell, savagely, disturbed out of 
 the sleep into which he was falling. " Your superstitious 
 absurdities are not wanted to-night, Ennis ; we've horrors 
 enough without them." 
 
 " I swear I saw it ! I swear it by the Blessed Virgin ! 
 The same black, shapeless figure. It's dodging about the 
 field, as if it were seeking something amongst the dead." 
 
 " I wish you were dodging amongst the dead ! " growled 
 the handsome lieutenant. " Why did you not stop in Ireland 
 along with your banshees, if you are so fond of them ? Your 
 teeth are chattering now." 
 
 " With cold," answered Ennis, hastily. " But I must go 
 back : I am on the Staff, in the place of poor Bellassis. 
 Lynn, can I change your position before I go ? " 
 
 Towards the hour of midnight. Captain Lynn, between 
 his paroxysms of pain, had droj)ped into an uneasy doze, 
 when some movement aroused him. The dark shape 
 sj3oken of by Lieutenant Ennis was bending over him. 
 
 Doubting if he were awake, or whether it was not a delu- 
 sion of the imagination, caused by the conversation of his 
 brother-officers, he rubbed his eyes and gazed uj) at it, when 
 the figure drew back the dark coavI and disclosed to his 
 astonished sight the features of the young Asiatic. 
 
 " Good heavens, Agee ! What brought — how came you 
 here?" 
 
 " I told you I would share your fate, whatever it might 
 be," she whispered. " You talked of separation, and I let 
 you talk, keeping to my own resolve. I assumed this 
 disguise that night at XJmballah, hoping to frighten you 
 
A SOLDIER'S CAllEEPi. 
 
 447 
 
 from iilarcliing against tlie Sildis. And wlicn I found it was 
 useless, and you left, I followed in the track of the regiment ; 
 but I could not come up with it until this night.'* 
 
 "It was not your voice that spoke to us that night at 
 Umballah ! " exclaimed Captain Lynn, bewildered with her 
 words. 
 
 "It was my voice, but I spoke through a small bone 
 instrument, in use among the Sikhs, something like a ring ; 
 so that none could recognise it to be the voice of a woman. 
 I have come now to save you. I will find you a sure asylum 
 amongst my countrymen. Kise, and follow me." 
 
 " I shall never rise again," was his reply. " I am severely 
 wounded." 
 
 " Wounded ! " she uttered, in an accent of deep horror. 
 " But you must not stay in this spot : it is certain destruc- 
 tion." 
 
 " Destruction anywhere for me. Why in this spot more 
 than in another ? " 
 
 "I have wandered amongst the Sikhs unmolested this 
 night," she whispered, " speaking my own tongue. They 
 have just found out the place where your chiefs are en- 
 camped, and are hastening back to fire on it. This is in 
 the direct line. You must not remain here." 
 
 " To fire on the camp ! " he screamed. " Bell ! " 
 
 But the young lieutenant slept heavily. " Bell ! Bell ! " 
 continued Captain Lynn, 
 
 " What are you about to do ? " cried Agee, wildly. " Would 
 you betray me — what I have told you ? " 
 
 " Betray you ! No, no, I don't meant that. Sink down 
 here by my side, Agee ; the light does not give here, in the 
 shade of the hillock." 
 
 He pulled her down with one hand, and managed, though 
 he could not stir his maimed leg, to stretch out the other till 
 it touched the lieutenant, who partially aroused himself. 
 
 " Bell ! Bell ! fly to the camp. The enemy are upon 
 them, opening their guns. Bell, I say ! " 
 
 " What guns ? " cried the sleepy lieutenant, raising him- 
 self into a sitting posture. " Guns ! Where are our scouts 
 and sentinels then ? Have we none out ? " 
 
448 
 
 A SOLDIER'S CAHEEPu 
 
 " Are you a coward ? " reiterated Captain Lynn ; " every 
 moment that yon waste is wortli a Jew's ransom. Fly'Tor 
 your life, and arouse the Staff. Would you have the camp 
 destroyed ? " 
 
 The lieutenant, fully aroused now to the sense of the 
 words, started up in haste to do his mission. Captain Lynn 
 turned to that dark figure by his side. 
 
 " Now, Agee ! quick ! you can make your escape." 
 
 " As I have clung to thee in life, so will I in death," she 
 murmured. " What, think you, will existence be for me 
 henceforth, that you should wish me to remain in it ? " 
 
 " This is madness ! " he exclaimed in much excitement. 
 
 Agee " 
 
 Boom! — boom!— boom! rolled the thunder of the Sikhs' 
 heavy gun. It had commenced its work of destruction. 
 Captain Lynn, supporting himself on his elbow as he best 
 could, turned his head to look after his messenger. Even 
 in that very moment, as he gazed, a shot overtook the young 
 lieutenant. With a wild, piercing cry, that reached and 
 rung in the ear of Captain Lynn, he leaped some feet into 
 the air. It was the last cry that ever came from poor 
 William Bell. He was shot right through the heart. 
 
 Captain Lynn, amidst all the smoke and the dismay and 
 the confusion that now reigned around, was conscious of a 
 start and a moan beside him : but not for a few minutes was 
 he aware that the unhappy young lady who lay there had 
 received her death-wound. 
 
 "Oh, Agee! this is fearful!" he cried, almost beside 
 himself with horror. " And I am helpless— helpless ! " he 
 despairingly wailed, wildly throwing his arms up, in vain 
 efforts to move ; " I cannot bear you hence to safety and 
 succour ! " 
 
 "There is no succour for me," she returned in hollow 
 tones, "my soul is fleeing. But oh, Henry! which dost 
 thou think is more welcome to me — to live on in perpetual 
 dread that thou wilt desert me for another, or to sink 
 quietly to death thus by thy side ? " 
 
 The camp, so startlingly aroused from its temporary 
 security, sallied out against the Sikhs, but not until fearful 
 
A SOLDIER'S CAREER. 
 
 449 
 
 havoc had been committed. The whole of the Staff, with 
 the exception of Captain Hardinge, were killed or disabled. 
 Sir Henry ordered Her Majesty's 80th Foot and the 1st 
 European Light Infantry to the attack, who drove back the 
 enemy and spiked their gun. 
 
 What were the reflections of Captain Lynn as he lay 
 there through the night, with the dead body of the young 
 girl resting against him ? Not such as can tend to soothe 
 the conscience of a dying man. He felt that the career 
 bestowed on him from above was over, and how had he 
 worked it out ? He saw things clearly now : the near 
 approach of death dashed away the scales from his eyes, and 
 denuded his conscience of its worldly sophistries. The 
 recollection of the life he had led came pressing on his 
 brain. He knew that it was not one that fitted him to stand 
 at that Judgment-bar whither he was hastening, to which 
 Iter spirit had already flown : and, it may be, in those closing 
 hours, in his soul's sharp tribulation, that he wailed forth 
 an agonized petition for renewed days, like unto one we 
 read of — not that he might return to his years of vanity, 
 but that he might strive to redeem the past. But no : the 
 sun went not back for him. 
 
 With daylight the battle was renewed. The conflict 
 raged with redoubled fury, and the slaughter on both sides 
 was great. Victory appeared at length to favour the 
 British, and the engagement, it was thought, was over. 
 Our troops began to collect their wounded and bury their 
 dead, when, suddenly, a force of the enemy, thirty thousand 
 strong, consisting of cavalry and their camel-corps with 
 swivels, bore down upon them. The infantry drove them 
 back at the point of the bayonet, amidst showers of round 
 and grape. The British forces were certainly at this 
 moment in a critical position: all their ammunition was 
 expended, and they had not a single gun whereiuith to answer 
 the enemy. Thirty thousand fresh troops and a heavy 
 cannonade brought to bear .-upon our exhausted and, as far 
 as artillery went, defenceless soldiers ! Yet strange to say, 
 at sight of some threatening manoeuvres, the Sikhs fled, 
 leaving the British in possession of the field and of much of 
 
 The Unholy Wish. 29 
 
450 
 
 A SOLDIER'S CAREER. 
 
 their artillery ! And thus, in this strange manner, ended 
 the sanguinary battle of Ferozeshah. You don't want to 
 hear of many such, do you? 
 
 " A well ! a well ! " broke forth, in shouts of exultation, 
 from some hundreds of British voices soon after the fighting 
 was over. It was really true : they had discovered one in 
 front of the village they had taken. Bitter disappointment ! 
 the water was putrid, it having been half filled with their 
 dead by the Sikhs. Nevertheless, it was greedily partaken 
 of : general officers, poor soldiers, all pressed round to drink* 
 " Horrible ! " shudders the dandy, sipping his claret at home. 
 It was horrible ; but when you, my dear sir, shall have expe- 
 rienced the blessings of a forced march under an Indian sun, 
 winding up with a hot engagement of some six-and-twenty 
 hours at its end, without a drop of moisture having gone 
 into your parched lips, you will not turn away from even 
 putrid water. 
 
 Two only remained out of the thirteen officers of Umballah 
 memory, Capain Lynn and the young Irishman, and they 
 were wounded unto death. Major Challoner and Captain 
 Peacock had that day fallen. The Asiatic girl, when she 
 pretended to foretell their doom, knowing nothing of it, 
 gave a pretty good guess at the extent of the carnage. They, 
 the two yet living, had been drawn aside from the dead, and 
 were lying close to each other, amidst a whole crowd of 
 wounded ; and the agony of their wounds was even as nothing 
 compared with that arising from their distressing thirst. 
 
 " Lynn," cried the Irishman, who retained his superstition 
 .to the last, " we can sympathise with Dives now, when he 
 asks for Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and 
 come and cool his tongue. It has been an unlucky fight for 
 us : there was no escaping our fate." 
 
 " We have earned laurels, you know," returned Captain 
 Lynn, with half-mocking bitterness on his lip. Poor Harry 
 Lynn ! take it for all in all, his was a cruel fate, and his 
 heart ^as full. 
 
 " And lost life," retorted Ennis. " For my part, I expected 
 the bullet that struck me, after what I saw yesterday. You 
 matter-of-fact Anglicans don't stoop to believe in death- 
 
A SOLDIER'S CAREER. 
 
 451 
 
 warnings. Perhaps I may see it again before I die : but it 
 must make haste." 
 
 A paler shade, if that could be, came over the face of 
 Captain Lynn, and he pressed his hands upon his temples. 
 He was about to speak, about to tell Ennis that he need 
 have no fear of seeing " it " again, when a wild shouting 
 noise in the distance stopped his words. 
 
 " What's all that ? " inquired Lieutenant Ennis of a soldier 
 who approached carrying something in his hand. It was a 
 man belonging to Captain Lynn's corps. 
 
 " We have been rummaging over the Sikh entrenchment, 
 sir," was the reply, "and in it we have found the mess 
 stores which they had captured, intended for the Bengal 
 Native Infantry. There was a lot of beer in it— so glorious ! 
 It is being dealt out, and I have brought you some." 
 
 The officers raised their earnest eyes, their parched, eager 
 lips, and a rush of joy, almost frantic in its excess, 
 illumined their dying features. 
 
 " God be thanked ! — He is with us still, Lynn," reverently 
 spoke Ennis as he fell back, after drinking of the sweetest 
 draught he had ever yet tasted. " We can now die in peace. 
 God be thanked ! " 
 
 " Amen," responded Harry Lynn. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED BV WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.