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 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
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 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
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 1897 
 
 
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UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 10001362204 
 
 A DARK NIGHT'S WORK 
 
 AND OTHER TALES 
 
POCKET EDITION 
 
 OF 
 
 MRS. GASKELL'S WORKS. 
 
 In Eight Volumes, bound in Half-Cloth, 
 with cut or uncut edges. 
 
 Price is, 6d, per Volume. 
 
 CONTENTS OF THE VOLUMES i— 
 
 1. WIVES AND DAUGHTERS. 
 
 2. NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 3. SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 4. CRANFORD, and other Tales. 
 
 5. MARY BARTON, and other Tales. 
 
 6. RUTH, and other Tales. 
 
 7. A DARK NIGHT'S WORK, and other Tales. 
 
 8. MY LADY LUDLOW, and other Tales. 
 
 *^* Mrs. GaskelVs Works 7nay also be had in Seven Volumes, small 
 post 8v0y liTHp clothy or cloth boards^ gilt iop^ price is, 6d. 
 each ; or, with Four Illustrations to each Volume^ crown Zvo^ 
 3^. ^d. each. 
 
 LONDON: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE. 
 
A t^f7 
 DARK NIGHT'S WORK 
 
 AND OTHER TALES 
 MRS. GASKELL 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH. ELDER, & CO.. 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A DARK night's WORK 7 
 
 COUSIN PHILLIS 167 
 
 THE GREY WOMAN 259 
 
 THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON . , -312 
 
 TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE HUGUENOTS . 335 
 
 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM .... 349 
 
 LIZZIE LEIGH 386 
 
 THE CROOKED BRANCH 418 
 
 THE sexton's HERO . o , , . . 463 
 
 
 V 
 
A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IN the county town of a certain shire there lived (about forty 
 years ago) one Mr. Wilkins, a conveyancing attorney of 
 considerable standing. 
 
 The certain shire was but a small county, and the principal 
 town in it contained only about four thousand inhabitants ; so 
 in saying that Mr. Wilkins was the principal lawyer in Hamley, 
 I say very little, unless i add that he tiransacted all the legal 
 business of the gentry for tweety imaies Tound. His grandfather 
 had established the connection :; ;his father had consolidated and 
 strengthened it, and, indeed, by his wise and upright conduct, 
 as -well as by his professional skill, had obtained for himself the 
 position of confidential friend to many of the surrounding 
 families of distinction. He -visited among them in a way which 
 no mere lawyer had ever done before ; dined at their tables — he 
 alone, not accompanied by his wife, be it observed ; rode to the 
 meet occasionally as if by accident, ajLthough he was as well 
 mounted as any squire among them, and was often persuaded 
 (after a little coquetting about " professional engagements," and 
 "being wanted at the office ") to have a run with his clients ; 
 nay, once or twice he forgot his usual cautiom., was first in at the 
 death, and rode home with the brush. But in general he knew 
 his place ; as his place was held to be in that aristocratic county, 
 and in those days. Nor let it be supposed that he was in any 
 way a toad-eater. He respected himself too much for that. He 
 would give the most unpalatable advice, if need were ; would 
 counsel an unsparing reduction of expenditure to an extravagant 
 man ; would recommend such an abatement of family pride as 
 paved the way for one or two happy marriages in some instances ; 
 
8 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 nay, what was the most likely piece of conduct of all to give 
 offence forty years ago, he would speak up for an unjustly-used 
 tenant ; and that with so much temperate and well-timed wisdom 
 and good feeling, that he more than once gained his point. He 
 had one son, Edward. This boy was the secret joy and pride of 
 his father's heart. For himself he was not in the least ambitious, 
 but it did cost him a hard struggle to acknowledge that his own 
 business was too lucrative, and brought in too large an income, 
 to pass away into the hands of a stranger, as it would do if he 
 indulged his ambition for his son by giving him a college educa- 
 tion and making him into a barrister. This determination on 
 the more prudent side of the argument took place while Edward 
 was at Eton. The lad had, perhaps, the largest allowance of 
 pocket-money of any boy at school ; and he had always looked 
 forward to going to Christ Church along with his fellows, the 
 sons of the squires, his father's employers. It was a severe mor- 
 tification to him to find that his destiny was changed, and that 
 he had to return to Hamley to be articled to his father, and to 
 assume the hereditary subservient position to lads whom he had 
 licked in the playground, and beaten at learning. 
 
 His father tried to compensate him for the disappointment by 
 every indulgence which money could purchase. Edward's horses 
 were even finer than those of his father ; his literary tastes were 
 kept up and fostered, by his father's permission to form an ex- 
 tensive library, for which purpose a noble room was added to 
 Mr. Wilkins's already extensive house in the suburbs of Hamley. 
 And after his year of legal study in London his father sent him 
 to make the grand tour, with something very like carte blanche 
 as to expenditure, to judge from the packages which were sent 
 home from various parts of the Continent. 
 
 At last he came home — came back to settle as his father's 
 partner at Hamley. He was a son to be proud of, and right 
 down proud was old Mr. Wilkins of his handsome, accomplished, 
 gentlemanly lad. For Edward was not one to be spoilt by the 
 course of indulgence he had passed through ; at least, if it had 
 done him an injury, the effects were at present hidden from view. 
 He had no vulgar vices ; he was, indeed, rather too refined for 
 the society he was likely to be thrown into, even supposing that 
 society to consist of the highest of his father's employers. He 
 was well read, and an artist of no mean pretensions. Above all, 
 "his heart was in the right place," as his father used to observe. 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 9 
 
 Nothing could exceed the deference he always showed to him. 
 His mother had long been dead. 
 
 I do not know whether it was Edward's own ambition or his 
 proud father's wishes that had led him to attend the Hamley 
 assemblies. I should conjecture the latter, for Edward had of 
 himself too much good taste to wish to intrude into any society. 
 In the opinion of all the shire, no society had more reason to 
 consider itself select than that which met at every full moon in 
 the Hamley assembly-room, an excrescence built on to the 
 principal inn in the town by the joint subscription of all the 
 county families. Into those choice and mysterious precincts no 
 town's person was ever allowed to enter; no professional man 
 might set his foot therein ; no infantry officer saw the interior of 
 that ball or that card room. The old original subscribers 
 would fain have had a man prove his sixteen quarterings before 
 he might make his bow to the queen of the night ; but the old 
 original founders of the Hamley assemblies were dropping off; 
 minuets had vanished with them, country dances had died away ; 
 quadrilles were in high vogue — nay, one or two of the high 
 
 magnates of shire were trying to introduce waltzing, as they 
 
 had seen it in London, where it had come in with the visit of 
 the allied sovereigns, when Edward Wilkins made his dibut 
 on these boards. He had been at many splendid assemblies 
 abroad, but still the little old ball-room attached to the George 
 Inn in his native town was to him a place grander and more 
 awful than the most magnificent saloons he had seen in Paris 
 or Rome. He laughed at himself for this unreasonable feeling 
 of awe ; but there it was notwithstanding. He had been dining 
 at the house of one of the lesser gentry, who was under con- 
 siderable obligations to his father, and who was the parent of 
 eight " muckle-moo'd " daughters, so hardly likely to oppose 
 much aristocratic resistance to the elder Mr. Wilkins's clearly 
 implied wish that Edward should be presented at the Hamley 
 assembly-rooms. But many a squire glowered and looked black 
 at the introduction of Wilkins the attorney's son into the sacred 
 precincts ; and perhaps there would have been much more mor- 
 tification than pleasure in this assembly to the young man, had 
 it not been for an incident that occurred pretty late in the 
 evening. The lord-lieutenant of the county usually came with 
 a large party to the Hamley assemblies once in a season ; and 
 this night he was expected, and with him a fashionable duchess 
 
 A 2 
 
lO A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 and her daughters. But time wore on, and they did not make 
 their appearance. At last there was a rustling and a busthng, 
 and in sailed the superb party. For a few minutes dancing was 
 stopped ; the earl led the duchess to a sofa ; some of their ac- 
 quaintances came up to speak to them ; and then the quadrilles 
 were finished in rather a flat manner. A country dance followed, 
 in which none of the lord-lieutenant's party joined ; then there 
 was a consultation, a request, an inspection of the dancers, a 
 message to the orchestra, and the band struck up a waltz ; the 
 duchess's daughters flew off to the music, and some more young 
 ladies seemed ready to follow, but, alas 1 there was a lack of 
 gentlemen acquainted with the new-fashioned dance. One of 
 the stewards bethought him of young Wilkins, only just returned 
 from the Continent. Edward was a beautiful dancer, and 
 waltzed to admiration. For his next partner he had one of 
 
 the Lady s ; for the duchess, to whom the shire squires 
 
 and their little county politics and contempts were alike un- 
 known, saw no reason why her lovely Lady Sophy should 
 not have a good partner, whatever his pedigree might be, and 
 begged the stewards to introduce Mr. Wilkins to her. After 
 this night his fortune was made with the young ladies of the 
 Hamley assemblies. He was not unpopular with the mammas ; 
 but the heavy squires still looked at him askance, and the heirs 
 (whom he had licked at Eton) called him an upstart behind 
 his back. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 It was not a satisfactory situation. Mr. Wilkins had given his 
 son an education and tastes beyond his position. He could not 
 associate with either profit or pleasure with the doctor or the 
 brewer of Hamley ; the vicar was old and deaf, the curate a 
 raw young man, half frightened at the sound of his own voice. 
 Then, as to matrimony— for the idea of his marriage was hardly 
 more present in Edward's mind than in that of his father — he 
 could scarcely fancy bringing home any one of the young ladies 
 of Hamley to the elegant mansion, so full of suggestion and 
 association to an educated person, so inappropriate a dwelling 
 for an ignorant, uncouth, ill-brought-up girl. Yet Edward 
 
A DARK night's WORK. IT 
 
 was fully aware, if his fond father was not, that of all the 
 young ladies who were glad enough of him as a partner at the 
 Hamley assemblies, there was not one of them but would have 
 considered herself affronted by an offer of marriage from an 
 attorney, the son and grandson of attorneys. The young man 
 had perhaps received many a slight and mortification pretty 
 quietly during these years, which yet told upon his character 
 in after life. Even at this very time they were having their 
 effect. He was of too sweet a disposition to show resentment, 
 as many men would have done. But nevertheless he took a 
 secret pleasure in the power which his father's money gave him. 
 He would buy an expensive horse after five minutes' conversa- 
 tion as to the price, about which a needy heir of one of the 
 proud county families had been haggling for three weeks. His 
 dogs were from the best kennels in England, no matter at what 
 cost ; his guns were the newest and most improved make ; and 
 all these were expenses on objects which were among those of 
 daily envy to the squires and squires' sons around. They did 
 not much care for the treasures of art, which report said were 
 being accumulated in Mr. Wilkins's house. But they did covet 
 the horses and hounds he possessed, and the young man knew 
 that they coveted, and rejoiced in it. 
 
 By-and-by he formed a marriage, which went as near as 
 marriages ever do towards pleasing everybody. He was 
 desperately in love with Miss Lamotte, so he was dehghted 
 when she consented to be his wife. His father was dehghted 
 in his dehght, and, besides, was charmed to remember that 
 Miss Lamotte's mother had been Sir Frank Holster's younger 
 sister, and that, although her marriage had been disowned by 
 her family, as beneath her in rank, yet no one could efface her 
 name out of the Baronetage, where Lettice, youngest daughter 
 of Sir Mark Holster, born 1772, married H. Lamotte, 1799, 
 died 1810, was duly chronicled. She had left two children, 
 a boy and a girl, of whom their uncle. Sir Frank, took charge, 
 as their father was worse than dead — an outlaw whose name 
 was never mentioned. Mark Lamotte was in the army ; Lettice 
 had a dependent position in her uncle's family ; not intentionally 
 made more dependent than was rendered necessary by circum- 
 stances, but still dependent enough to grate on the feelings of 
 a sensitive girl, whose natural susceptibility to slights was 
 redoubled by the constant recollection of her father's disgrace. 
 
12 A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 
 
 As Mr. Wilkins well knew, Sir Frank was considerably in- 
 volved ; but it was with very mixed feelings that he listened 
 to the suit which would provide his penniless niece with a 
 comfortable, not to say luxurious, home, and with a handsome, 
 accomplished young man of unblemished character for a hus- 
 band. He said one or two bitter and insolent things to Mr. 
 Wilkins, even while he was giving his consent to the match ; 
 that was his temper, his proud, evil temper ; but he really and 
 permanently was satisfied with the connection, though he would 
 occasionally turn round on his nephew-in-law, and sting him 
 with a covert insult, as to his want of birth, and the inferior 
 position which he held, forgetting, apparently, that his own 
 brother-in-law and Lettice's father might be at any moment 
 brought to the bar of justice if he attempted to re-enter his 
 native country. 
 
 Edward was annoyed at all this ; Lettice resented it. She 
 loved her husband dearly, and was proud of him, for she had 
 discernment enough to see how superior he was in every way ta 
 her cousins, the young Holsters, who borrowed his horses, 
 drank his wines, and yet had caught their father's habit of 
 sneering at his profession. Lettice wished that Edward would 
 content himself with a purely domestic Hfe, would let himself 
 
 drop out of the company of the shire squirearchy, and find 
 
 his relaxation with her, in their luxurious library, or lovely 
 drawing-room, so full of white gleaming statues, and gems of 
 pictures. But, perhaps, this was too much to expect of any 
 man, especially of one who felt himself fitted in many ways to 
 shine in society, and who was social by nature. Sociality in 
 that county at that time meant conviviality. Edward did not 
 care for wine, and yet he was obliged to drink— and by-and-by 
 he grew to pique himself on his character as a judge of wine. 
 His father by this time was dead ; dead, happy old man, with 
 a contented heart — his affairs flourishing, his poorer neighbours 
 loving him, his richer respecting him, his son and daughter-in- 
 law, the most affectionate and devoted that ever man had, and 
 his healthy conscience at peace with his God. 
 
 Lettice could have lived to herself and her husband and 
 children. Edward daily required more and more the stimulus 
 of society. His wife wondered how he could care to accept 
 dinner invitations from people who treated him as "Wilkins 
 the attorney, a very good sort of fellow," as they introduced 
 
A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 1 3 
 
 him to strangers who might be staying in the country, but who 
 had no power to appreciate the taste, the talents, the impulsive 
 artistic nature which she held so dear. She forgot that by 
 accepting such invitations Edward was occasionally brought 
 into contact with people not merely of high conventional, but 
 of high intellectual rank ; that when a certain amount of wine 
 had dissipated his sense of inferiority of rank and position, he 
 was a brilliant talker, a man to be listened to and admired even 
 by wandering London statesmen, professional diners-out, or 
 any great authors who might find themselves visitors in a 
 
 • shire country-house. What she would have had him share 
 
 from the pride of her heart, she should have warned him to 
 avoid from the temptations to sinful extravagance which it led 
 him into. He had begun to spend more than he ought, not in 
 intellectual — though that would have been wrong — but in purely 
 sensual things. His wines, his table, should be such as no 
 squire's purse or palate could command. His dinner-parties — 
 small in number, the viands rare and delicate in quality, and 
 sent up to table by an Italian cook — should be such as even 
 the London stars should notice with admiration. He would 
 have Lettice dressed in the richest materials, the most delicate 
 lace ; jewellery, he said, was beyond their means ; glancing 
 with proud humility at the diamonds of the elder ladies, and 
 the alloyed gold of the younger. But he managed to spend as 
 much on his wife's lace as would have bought many a set of 
 inferior jewellery. Lettice well became it all. If, as people 
 said, her father had been nothing but a French adventurer, she 
 bore traces of her nature in her grace, her delicacy, her fascinat- 
 ing and elegant ways of doing all things. She was made for 
 society ; and yet she hated it. And one day she went out of 
 it altogether and for evermore. She had been well in the 
 morning when Edward went down to his office in Hamley. At 
 noon he was sent for by hurried trembling messengers. When 
 he got home breathless and uncomprehending, she was past 
 speech. One glance from her lovely loving black eyes showed 
 that she recognised him with the passionate yearning that had 
 been one of the characteristics of her love through life. There 
 was no word passed between them. He could not speak, any 
 more than could she. He knelt down by her. She was dying ; 
 she was dead ; and he knelt on immovable. They brought him 
 his eldest child, EUinor, in utter despair what to do in order to 
 
14 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 Touse him. They had no thought as to the effect on her, hitherta 
 shut up in the nursery during this busy day of confusion and 
 alarm. The child had no idea of death, and her father, kneel- 
 ing and tearless, was far less an object of surprise or interest to 
 her than her mother, lying still and white, and not turning her 
 head to smile at her darling. 
 
 "Mamma! mamma!" cried the child, in shapeless terror. 
 But the mother never stirred ; and the father hid his face yet 
 deeper in the bedclothes, to stifle a cry as if a sharp knife had 
 pierced his heart. The child forced her impetuous way from 
 her attendants, and rushed to the bed. Undeterred by deadly 
 cold or stony immobility, she kissed the lips and stroked the 
 glossy raven hair, murmuring sweet words of wild love, such as 
 had passed between the mother and child often and often 
 when no witnesses were by ; and altogether seemed so nearly 
 beside herself in an agony of love and terror, that Edward arose, 
 and softly taking her in his arms, bore her away, lying back 
 like one dead (so exhausted was she by the terrible emotion 
 they had forced on her childish heart), into his study, a little 
 room opening out of the grand library, where on happy evenings, 
 never to come again, he and his wife were wont to retire to 
 have coffee together, and then perhaps stroll out of the glass 
 door into the open air, the shrubbery, the fields — never more to 
 be trodden by those dear feet. What passed between father and 
 child in this seclusion none could tell. Late in the evening 
 EUinor's supper was sent for, and the servant who brought it in 
 saw the child lying as one dead in her father's arms, and before 
 he left the room, watched his master feeding her, the girl of six 
 years of age, with as tender care as if she had been a baby of 
 six months. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 From that time the tie between father and daughter grew very 
 strong and tender indeed. Ellinor, it is true, divided her affec- 
 tion between her baby sister and her papa ; but he, caring little 
 for babies, had only a theoretic regard for his younger child, 
 while the elder absorbed all his love. Every day that he dined 
 at home Ellinor was placed opposite to him while he ate his late 
 dinner ; she sat where her mother had done during the meal. 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 1 5 
 
 although she had dined and even supped some time before on the 
 more primitive nursery fare. It was half pitiful, half amusing, to 
 see the little girl's grave, thoughtful ways and modes of speech, 
 as if trying to act up to the dignity of her place as her father's 
 companion, till sometimes the little head nodded off to slumber 
 in the middle of lisping some wise little speech. " Old- 
 fashioned," the nurses called her, and prophesied that she would 
 not live long in consequence of her old-fashionedness. But 
 instead of the fulfilment of this prophecy, the fat bright baby 
 was seized with fits, and was well, ill, and dead in a day ! 
 EUinor's grief was something alarming, from its quietness and 
 concealment. She waited till she was left — as she thought — 
 alone at nights, and then sobbed and cried her passionate 
 cry for '^ Baby, baby, come back to me — come back ; " till 
 every one feared for the health of the frail little girl whose 
 childish affections had had to stand two such shocks. Her 
 father put aside all business, all pleasure of every kind, to win 
 his darling from her grief. No mother could have done more, 
 no tenderest nurse done half so much as Mr. Wilkins then did 
 for Ellinor. 
 
 If it had not been for him she would have just died of her 
 grief. As it was, she overcame it — but slowly, wearily — hardly 
 letting herself love any one for some time, as if she instinctively 
 feared lest all her strong attachments should find a sudden end 
 in death. Her love — thus dammed up into a small space — 
 at last burst its banks, and overflowed on her father. It was 
 a rich reward to him for all his care of her, and he took delight 
 — perhaps a selfish delight — in all the many pretty ways she 
 perpetually found of convincing him, if he had needed con- 
 viction, that he was ever the first object with her. The nurse 
 told him that half-an-hour or so before the earliest time at 
 which he could be expected home in the evenings, Miss Ellinor 
 began to fold up her doll's things and lull the inanimate treasure 
 to sleep. Then she would sit and listen with an intensity of 
 attention for his footstep. Once the nurse had expressed some 
 wonder at the distance at which Ellinor could hear her father's 
 approach, saying that she had listened and could not hear a 
 sound, to which Ellinor had replied — 
 
 ' ' Of course you cannot ; he is not your papa ! '* 
 Then, when he went away in the morning, after he had kissed 
 her, Ellinor would run to a certain window from which she could 
 
1 6 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 watch him up the lane, now hidden behind a hedge, now re- 
 appearing through an open space, again out of sight, till he 
 reached a great old beech-tree, where for an instant more she 
 saw him. And then she would turn away with a sigh, some- 
 times reassuring her unspoken fears by saying softly to herself — 
 
 " He will come again to-night." 
 
 Mr. Wilkins liked to feel his child dependent on him for all 
 her pleasures. He was even a little jealous of any one who 
 devised a treat or conferred a present, the first news of which 
 did not come from or through him. 
 
 At last it was necessary that Ellinor should have some more 
 instruction than her good old nurse could give. Her father did 
 not care to take upon himself the office of teacher, which he 
 thought he foresaw would necessitate occasional blame, an occa- 
 sional exercise of authority, which might possibly render him 
 less idolised by his little girl ; so he commissioned Lady Holster 
 to choose out one among her many protdg^es for a governess to 
 his daughter. Now, Lady Holster, who kept a sort of amateur 
 county register-office, was only too glad to be made of use in 
 this way ; but when she inquired a Httle further as to the sort of 
 person required, all she could extract from Mr. Wilkins was — 
 
 "You know the kind of education a lady should have, and 
 will, I am sure, choose a governess for Ellinor better than I 
 could direct you. Only, please, choose some one who will not 
 marry me, and who will let EUinor go on making my tea, and 
 doing pretty much what she likes, for she is so good they need 
 not try to make her better, only to teach her what a lady should 
 know." 
 
 Miss Monro was selected — a plain, intelligent, quiet woman 
 of forty — and it was difficult to decide whether she or Mr. 
 Wilkins took the most pains to avoid each other, acting with 
 regard to Ellinor, pretty much like the famous Adam and Eve 
 in the weather-glass : when the one came out the other went in. 
 Miss Monro had been tossed about and overworked quite enough 
 in her life not to value the privilege and indulgence of her even- 
 ings to herself, her comfortable schoolroom, her quiet cosy teas, 
 her book, or her letter-writing afterwards. By mutual agree- 
 ment she did not interfere with Ellinor and her ways and 
 occupations on the evenings when the girl had not her father 
 for companion ; and these occasions became more and more 
 frequent as years passed on, and the deep shadow was lightened 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 1 7 
 
 which the sudden death that had visited his household had cast 
 over him. As I have said before, he was always a popular man 
 at dinner-parties. His amount of intelligence and accomplish- 
 ment was rare in shire, and if it required more wine than 
 
 formerly to bring his conversation up to the desired point of 
 range and brilliancy, wine was not an article spared or grudged 
 at the county dinner-tables. Occasionally his business took 
 him up to London. Hurried as these journeys might be, he 
 never returned without a new game, a new toy of some kind, 
 to "make home pleasant to his little maid," as he expressed 
 himself. 
 
 He liked, too, to see what was doing in art, or in literature ; 
 and as he gave pretty extensive orders for anything he admired, 
 he was almost sure to be followed down to Hamley by one or 
 two packages or parcels, the arrival and opening of which 
 began soon to form the pleasant epochs in Ellinor's grave 
 though happy life. 
 
 The only person of his own standing with whom Mr. Wilkins 
 kept up any intercourse in Hamley was the new clergyman, a 
 bachelor, about his own age, a learned man, a fellow of his 
 college, whose first claim on Mr. Wilkins's attention was the 
 fact that he had been travelling-bachelor for his university, and 
 had consequently been on the Continent about the very same 
 two years that Mr. Wilkins had been there ; and although 
 they had never met, yet they had many common acquaintances 
 and common recollections to talk over of this period, which, 
 after all, had been about the most bright and hopeful of Mr. 
 Wilkins's life. 
 
 Mr. Ness had an occasional pupil ; that is to say, he never 
 put himself out of the way to obtain pupils, but did not refuse 
 the entreaties sometimes made to him that he would prepare a 
 young man for college, by allowing the said young man to 
 reside and read with him. "Ness's men" took rather high 
 honours, for the tutor, too indolent to find out work for himself, 
 had a certain pride in doing well the work that was found for 
 him. 
 
 When EUinor was somewhere about fourteen, a young Mr, 
 Corbet came to be pupil to Mr. Ness. Her father always 
 called on the young men reading with the clergyman, and 
 asked them to his house. His hospitality had in course of 
 time lost its recherchi and elegant character, but was always 
 
1 8 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 generous, and often profuse. Besides, it was in his character 
 to like the joyous, thoughtless company of the young better 
 than that of the old — given the same amount of refinement and 
 education in both. 
 
 Mr. Corbet was a young man of very good family, from a 
 distant county. If his character had not been so grave and 
 deliberate, his years would only have entitled him to be called 
 a boy, for he was but eighteen at the time when he came to 
 read with Mr. Ness. But many men of five-and-twenty have 
 not reflected so deeply as this young Mr. Corbet already had. 
 He had considered and almost matured his plan for life; had 
 ascertained what objects he desired most to accomplish in the 
 dim future, which is to many at his age only a shapeless mist ; 
 and had resolved on certain steady courses of action by which 
 such objects were most likely to be secured. A younger son, 
 his family connections and family interest pre-arranged a legal 
 career for him ; and it was in accordance with his own tastes 
 and talents. All, however, which his father hoped for him was, 
 that he might be able to make an income sufficient for a gentle- 
 man to live on. Old Mr. Corbet was hardly to be called 
 ambitious, or, if he were, his ambition was hmited to views 
 for the eldest son. But Ralph intended to be a distinguished 
 lawyer, not so much for the vision of the woolsack, which I 
 suppose dances before the imagination of every young lawyer, 
 as for the grand intellectual exercise, and consequent power 
 over mankind, that distinguished lawyers may always possess 
 if they choose. A seat in Parliament, statesmanship, and all 
 the great scope for a powerful and active mind that lay on each 
 side of such a career — ^these were the objects which Ralph 
 Corbet set before himself. To take high honours at college 
 was the first step to be accomphshed ; and in order to achieve 
 this Ralph had, not persuaded — persuasion was a weak instru- 
 ment which he despised — but gravely reasoned his father into 
 consenting to pay the large sum which Mr. Ness expected with 
 a pupil. The good-natured old squire was rather pressed for 
 ready money, but sooner than listen to an argument instead of 
 taking his nap after dinner he would have yielded anything. 
 But this did not satisfy Ralph ; his father's reason must be 
 convinced of the desirability of the step, as well as his weak 
 will give way. The squire listened, looked wise, sighed ; spoke 
 -of Edward's extravagance and the girls' expenses, grew sleepy. 
 
A DARK night's WORK. I9. 
 
 and said, "Very true," ^'That is but reasonable, certainly," 
 glanced at the door, and wondered when his son would have 
 ended his talking and go into the drawing-room ; and at length 
 found himself writing the desired letter to Mr. Ness, consenting 
 to everything, terms and all. Mr. Ness never had a more 
 satisfactory pupil ; one whom he could treat more as an in* 
 tellectual equal. 
 
 Mr. Corbet, as Ralph was always called in Hamley, was 
 resolute in his cultivation of himself, even exceeding what his 
 tutor demanded of him. He was greedy of information in the 
 hours not devoted to absolute study, Mr. Ness enjoyed giving 
 information, but most of all he liked the hard tough arguments 
 on all metaphysical and ethical questions in which Mr. Corbet 
 delighted to engage him. They lived together on terms of 
 happy equality, having thus much in common. They were 
 essentially different, however, although there were so many 
 points of resemblance. Mr. Ness was unworldly as far as the 
 idea of real unworldliness is compatible with a turn for self- 
 indulgence and indolence ; while Mr. Corbet was deeply, 
 radically worldly, yet for the accomplishment of his object 
 could deny himself all the careless pleasures natural to his age. 
 The tutor and pupil allowed themselves one frequent relaxation » 
 that of Mr. Wilkins's company. Mr. Ness would stroll to the 
 office after the six hours' hard reading were over — leaving Mr. 
 Corbet still bent over the table, book bestrewn — and see what 
 Mr. Wilkins's engagements were. If he had nothing better to do 
 that evening, he was either asked to dine at the parsonage, 
 or he, in his careless hospitable way, invited the other two to 
 dine with him, Ellinor forming the fourth at table, as far as 
 seats went, although her dinner had been eaten early with Miss 
 Motiro. She was little and slight of her age, and her father 
 never seemed to understand how she was passing out of child- 
 hood. Yet while in stature she was like a child ; in intellect, in 
 force of character, in strength of clinging affection, she was a 
 woman. There might be much of the simplicity of a child 
 about her, there was little of the undeveloped girl, varying from 
 day to day like an April sky, careless as to which way her own 
 character is tending. So the two young people sat with their 
 elders, and both relished the company they were thus pre- 
 maturely thrown into. Mr. Corbet talked as much as either 
 of the other two gentlemen ; opposing and disputing on any 
 
^O A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 side, as if to find out how much he could urge against received 
 opinions. Ellinor sat silent ; her dark eyes flashing from time 
 to time in vehement interest— sometimes in vehement indig- 
 jiation if Mr. Corbet, riding a-tilt at every one, ventured to 
 attack her father. He saw how this course excited her, and 
 rather liked pursuing it in consequence ; he thought it only 
 amused him. 
 
 Another way in which Ellinor and Mr. Corbet were thrown 
 together occasionally was this : Mr. Ness and Mr. Wilkins 
 shared the same Times between them ; and it was Ellinor's 
 duty to see that the paper was regularly taken from her father's 
 house to the parsonage. Her father liked to dawdle over it. 
 Until Mr. Corbet had come to live with him, Mr. Ness had not 
 jnuch cared at what time it was passed on to him ; but the 
 young man took a strong interest in all public events, and 
 especially in all that was said about them. He grew impatient 
 if the paper was not forthcoming, and would set off himself 
 to go for it, sometimes meeting the penitent breathless Ellinor 
 in the long lane which led from Hamley to Mr. Wilkins's house. 
 At first he used to receive her eager ' ' Oh ! I am so sorry, Mr. 
 Corbet, but papa has only just done with it," rather gruffly. 
 After a time he had the grace to tell her it did not signify ; and 
 by-and-by he would turn back with her to give her some advice 
 about her garden, or her plants — for his mother and sisters 
 were first-rate practical gardeners, and he himself was, as he 
 expressed it, "a capital consulting physician for a sickly plant." 
 
 All this time his voice, his step, never raised the child's colour 
 one shade the higher, never made her heart beat the least 
 ■quicker, as the slightest sign of her father's approach was 
 wont to do. She learnt to rely on Mr. Corbet for advice, 
 for a little occasional sympathy, and for much condescending 
 attention. He also gave her more fault-finding than all the 
 rest of the world put together; and, curiously enough, she 
 was grateful to him for it, for she really was humble and 
 wished to improve. He liked the attitude of superiority which 
 this implied and exercised right gave him. They were very 
 good friends at present. Nothing more. 
 
 All this time I have spoken only of Mr. Wilkins's life as he 
 stood in relation to his daughter. But there is far more to 
 l)e said about it. After his wife's death, he withdrew himself 
 from society for a year or two in a more positive and decided 
 
A DARK NIGHrS WORK. 21 
 
 manner than is common with widowers. It was during this 
 retirement of his that he riveted his httle daughter's heart in 
 such a way as to influence all her future life. 
 
 When he began to go out again, it might have been per- 
 ceived — had any one cared to notice — how much the different 
 characters of his father and wife had influenced him and kept 
 him steady. Not that he broke out into any immoral conduct, 
 but he gave up time to pleasure, which both old Mr. Wilkins 
 and Lettice would have quietly induced him to spend in the 
 office, superintending his business. His indulgence in hunting, 
 and all field sports, had hitherto been only occasional ; they 
 now became habitual, as far as the seasons permitted. He- 
 shared a moor in Scotland with one of the Holsters one year, 
 persuading himself that the bracing air was good for Ellinor's 
 health. But the year afterwards he took another, this time 
 joining with a comparative stranger ; and on this moor there 
 was no house to which it was fit to bring a child and her 
 attendants. He persuaded himself that by frequent journeys 
 he could make up for his absences from Hamley. But journeys 
 cost money ; and he was often away from his office when im- 
 portant business required attending to. There was some talk 
 of a new attorney setting up in Hamley, to be supported by 
 one or two of the more influential county faniilies, who had 
 found Wilkins not so attentive as his father. Sir Frank Holster 
 sent for his relation, and told him of this project, speaking tO' 
 him, at the same time, in pretty round terms on the folly of 
 the life he was leading. Foolish it certainly was, and as such 
 Mr. Wilkins was secretly acknowledging it ; but when Sir 
 Frank, lashing himself, began to talk of his hearer's presump- 
 tion in joining the hunt, in aping the mode of life and amuse- 
 ments of the landed gentry, Edward fired up. He knew how 
 much Sir Frank was dipped, and comparing it with the round 
 sum his own father had left him, he said some plain truths to 
 Sir Frank which the latter never forgave, and henceforth there 
 was no intercourse between Holster Court and Ford Bank, as 
 Mr. Edward Wilkins had christened his father's house on his 
 first return from the Continent. 
 
 The conversation had two consequences besides the immediate 
 one of the quarrel. Mr. Wilkins advertised for a responsible 
 and confidential clerk to conduct the business under his own 
 superintendence ; and he also wrote to the Heralds' College to 
 
22 A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 
 
 ask if he did not belong to the family bearing the same name- 
 in South Wales — those who have since reassumed their ancient 
 name of De Winton. 
 
 Both applications were favourably answered. A skilful, ex- 
 perienced, middle-aged clerk was recommended to him by one 
 of the principal legal firms in London, and immediately en- 
 gaged to come to Hamley at his own terms ; which were pretty 
 high. But, as Mr. Wilkins said it was worth any money to 
 pay for the relief from constant responsibility which such a 
 business as his involved, some people remarked that he had 
 never appeared to feel the responsibility very much hitherto, 
 as witness his absences in Scotland, and his various social 
 engagements when at home ; it had been very different (they 
 said) in his father's day. The Heralds' College held out hopes 
 of affiliating him to the South Wales family, but it would 
 require time and money to make the requisite inquiries and 
 substantiate the claim. Now, in many a place there would be 
 none to contest the right a man might have to assert that he 
 belonged to such and such a family^ or even to assume their 
 
 arms. But it was otherwise in shire. Every one was up 
 
 in genealogy and heraldry, and considered filching a name and 
 a pedigree a far worse sin than any of those mentioned in the 
 Commandments. There were those among them who would 
 doubt and dispute even the decision of the Heralds* College ; 
 but with it, if in his favour, Mr. Wilkins intended to be 
 satisfied, and accordingly he wrote in reply to their letter, to 
 say, that of course he was aware such inquiries would take a 
 considerable sum of money, but still he wished them to be 
 made, and that speedily. 
 
 Before the end of the year he went up to London to order a 
 brougham to be built (for EUinor to drive out in in wet weather, 
 he said ; but as going in a closed carriage always made her 
 ill, he used it principally himself in driving to dinner-parties), 
 with the De Winton Wilkinses' arms neatly emblazoned on 
 panel and harness. Hitherto he had always gone about in 
 a dog-cart — the immediate descendant of his father's old* 
 fashioned gig. 
 
 For all this, the squires, his employers, only laughed at him, 
 and did not treat him with one whit more respect. 
 
 Mr. Dunster, the new clerk, was a quiet, respectable-looking 
 man ; you could not call him a gentleman in manner, and 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 23 
 
 yet no one could say he, was vulgar. He had not much vary^ 
 ing expression on his face, but a permanent one of thought- 
 ful consideration of the subject in hand, whatever it might be, 
 that would have fitted as well with the profession of medicine 
 as with that of law, and was quite the right look for either. 
 Occasionally a bright flash of sudden intelligence lightened 
 up his deep-sunk eyes, but even this was quickly extinguished 
 as by some inward repression, and the habitually reflective, 
 subdued expression returned to the face. As soon as he came 
 into his situation, he first began quietly to arrange the papers, 
 and next the business of which they were the outer sign, 
 into more methodical order than they had been in since old 
 Mr. Wilkins's death. Punctual to a moment himself, he 
 looked his displeased surprise when the inferior clerks came 
 tumbling in half-an-hour after the time in the morning ; and 
 his look was more effective than many men's words ; hence- 
 forward the subordinates were within five minutes of the 
 appointed hour for opening the office; but still he was 
 always there before them. Mr. Wilkins himself winced under 
 his new clerk's order and punctuahty ; Mr. Dunster's raised 
 eyebrow and contraction of the lips at some woeful confusion 
 in the business of the office, chafed Mr. Wilkins more, far 
 more, than any open expression of opinion would have done ; 
 for that he could have met, and explained away as he fancied. 
 A secret respectful dishke grew up in his bosom against Mr. 
 Dunster. He esteemed him, he valued him, and he could 
 not bear him. Year after year Mr. Wilkins had become 
 more under the influence of his feehngs, and less under the 
 command of his reason. He rather cherished than repressed 
 his nervous repugnance to the harsh measured tones of Mr. 
 Dunster's voice ; the latter spoke with a provincial twang 
 which grated on his employer's sensitive ear. He was annoyed 
 at a certain green coat which his new clerk brought with him, 
 and he watched its increasing shabbiness with a sort of childish 
 pleasure. But by-and-by Mr. Wilkins found out that, from 
 some perversity of taste, Mr. Dunster always had his coats, 
 Sunday and working-day, made of this obnoxious colour ; 
 and this knowledge did not diminish his secret irritation. 
 The worst of all, perhaps, was, that Mr. Dunster was really 
 invaluable in many ways ; "a perfect treasure," as Mr. Wilkins 
 used to term him in speaking of him after dinner; but, foe 
 
24 A DARK NIGHTS WORK. 
 
 all that, he came to hate his " perfect treasure," as he gradually 
 felt that Dunster had become so indispensable to the business 
 that his chief could not do without him. 
 
 The clients re-echoed Mr. Wilkins's words, and spoke of 
 Mr. Dunster as invaluable to his master ; a thorough treasure, 
 the very saving of the business. They had not been better 
 attended to, not even in old Mr. Wilkins's days ; such a clear 
 head, such a knowledge of law, such a steady, upright fellow, 
 always at his post. The grating voice, the drawling accent, 
 the bottle-green coat, were nothing to them ; far less noticed, 
 in fact, than Wilkins's expensive habits, the money he paid 
 for his wine and horses, and the nonsense of claiming kin 
 with the Welsh Wilkinses, and setting up his brougham to 
 
 drive about • shire lanes, and be knocked to pieces over 
 
 the rough round paving-stones thereof. 
 
 All these remarks did not come near Ellinor to trouble her 
 life. To her, her dear father was the first of human beings ; 
 so sweet, so good, so kind, so charming in conversation, so 
 full of accomphshment and information ! To her healthy, 
 happy mind every one turned their bright side. She lofed 
 Miss Monro — all the servants — especially Dixon, the coach- 
 man. He had been her father's playfellow as a boy, and, 
 with all his respect and admiration for his master, the freedom 
 of intercourse that had been established between them then 
 had never been quite lost. Dixon was a fine, stalwart old 
 fellow, and was as harmonious in his ways with his master 
 as Mr. Dunster was discordant ; accordingly he was a great 
 favourite, and could say many a thing which might have been 
 taken as impertinent from another servant. 
 
 He was Ellinor's great confidant about many of her little 
 plans and projects ; things that she dared not speak of to Mr. 
 Corbet, who, after her father and Dixon, was her next best 
 friend. This intimacy with Dixon displeased Mr. Corbet. 
 He once or twice insinuated that he did not think it was 
 well to talk so familiarly as Ellinor did with a servant — one 
 out of a completely different class — such as Dixon. Ellinor 
 did not easily take hints ; every one had spoken plain out to 
 her hitherto ; so Mr. Corbet had to say his meaning plain out 
 at last. Then, for the first time, he saw her angry ; but she 
 was too young, too childish, to have words at will to express 
 her feelings ; she only could say broken beginnings of sentences. 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 2$ 
 
 such as "What a shame! Good, dear Dixon, who is as loyal 
 and true and kind as any nobleman. I like him far better 
 than you, Mr. Corbet, and I shall talk to him." And then she 
 burst into tears and ran away, and would not come to wish 
 Mr. Corbet good-bye, though she knew she should not see him 
 again for a long time, as he was returning the next day to his 
 father's house, from whence he would go to Cambridge. 
 
 He was annoyed at this result of the good advice he had 
 thought himself bound to give to a motherless girl, who had no 
 one to instruct her in the proprieties in which his own sisters 
 were brought up ; he left Hamley both sorry and displeased. 
 As for EUinor, when she found out the next day that he really 
 was gone — gone without even coming to Ford Bank again to 
 see if she were not penitent for her angry words — gone without 
 saying or hearing a word of good-bye — she shut herself up in 
 her room, and cried more bitterly than ever, because anger 
 against herself was mixed with her regret for his loss. Luckily, 
 her father was dining out, or he would have inquired what was 
 the matter with his darling ; and she would have had to try to 
 explain what could not be explained. As it was, she sat with 
 her back to the light during the schoolroom tea, and after- 
 wards, when Miss Monro had settled down to her study of the 
 Spanish language, Ellinor stole out into the garden, meaning to 
 have a fresh cry over her own naughtiness and Mr. Corbet's 
 departure ; but the August evening was still and calm, and 
 put her passionate grief to shame, hushing her up, as it were, 
 with the other young creatures, who were being soothed to 
 rest by the serene time of day, and the subdued light of the 
 twilight sky. 
 
 There was a piece of ground surrounding the flower-garden, 
 which was not shrubbery, nor wood, nor kitchen-garden — only 
 a grassy bit, out of which a group of old forest trees sprang. 
 Their roots were heaved above ground ; their leaves fell in 
 autumn so profusely that the turf was ragged and bare in 
 spring ; but, to make up for this, there never was such a place 
 for snowdrops. 
 
 The roots of these old trees were Ellinor's favourite play- 
 place ; this space between these two was her doll's kitchen, 
 that its drawing-room, and so on. Mr. Corbet rather despised 
 her contrivances for doll's furniture, so she had not often 
 brought him here ; but Dixon delighted in them, and contrived 
 
26 A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 
 
 and planned Avith the eagerness of six years old rather than 
 forty. To-night EUinor went to this place, and there were 
 ■all a new collection of ornaments for Miss Dolly's sitting-room 
 made out of fir-bobs, in the prettiest and most ingenious way. 
 She knew it was Dixon's doing, and rushed -off in search of him 
 to thank him. 
 
 ** What's the matter with my pretty?" asked Dixon, as soon 
 as the pleasant excitement of thanking and being thanked was 
 over, and he had leisure to look at her tear-stained face. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ! Never mind," said she, reddening. 
 
 Dixon was silent for a minute or two, while she tried to turn 
 off his attention by her hurried prattle. 
 
 ' ' There's no trouble afoot that I can mend ? " asked he, in a 
 minute or two. 
 
 "Oh, no! It's really nothing — nothing at all," said she. 
 '" It's only that Mr. Corbet went away without saying good- 
 bye to me, that's all." And she looked as if she should have 
 liked to cry again. 
 
 '*That was not manners," said Dixon decisively. 
 
 " But it was my fault," replied Ellinor, pleading against the 
 condemnation. 
 
 Dixon looked at her pretty sharply from under his ragged 
 bushy eyebrows. 
 
 *' He had been giving me a lecture, and saying I didn't do 
 what to's sisters did— ^just as if I were to be always trying to 
 be like somebody else — and I was cross and ran away." 
 
 " Then it was Missy who wouldn't say good-bye. That was 
 not manners in Missy." 
 
 " But, Dixon, I don't hke being lectured ! " 
 
 " I reckon you don't get much of it. But, indeed, my pretty, 
 I dare say Mr. Corbet was in the right ; for, you see, master is 
 busy, and Miss Monro is so dreadful learned, and your poor 
 mother is dead and gone, and you have no one to teach you 
 how young ladies go on ; and by all accounts Mr. Corbet 
 comes of a good family. I've heard say his father had the 
 best stud-farm in all Shropshire, and spared no money upon it ; 
 and the young ladies his sisters will have been taught the best 
 of manners ; it might be well for my pretty to hear how they 
 go on." 
 
 "You dear old Dixon, you don't know anything about my 
 lecture, and I'm not going to tell you. Only I dare say Mr. 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 2/ 
 
 Corbet might be a little bit right, though I'm sure he was a 
 great deal wrong." 
 
 "But you'll not go on a-fretting — ^^you won't now, there's 
 a good young lady — for master won't like it, and it'll make 
 him uneasy, and he's enough of trouble without your red eyes, 
 bless them." 
 
 " Trouble— papa, trouble ! Oh, Dixon ! what do you mean?" 
 exclaimed EUinor, her face taking all a woman's intensity of 
 expression in a minute. 
 
 "Nay, I know nought," said Dixon evasively. "Only that 
 Dunster fellow is not to my mind, and I think he potters the 
 master sadly with his fid-fad ways." 
 
 " I hate Mr. Dunster ! " said Ellinor vehemently. " I won't 
 speak a word to him the next time he comes to dine with 
 papa." 
 
 " Missy will do what papa Hkes best," said Dixon admonish- 
 ingly ; and with this the pair of " friends " parted. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The summer afterwards Mr. Corbet came again to read with 
 Mr. Ness. He did not perceive any alteration in himself, and 
 indeed his early-matured character had hardly made progress 
 during the last twelve months, whatever intellectual acquirements 
 he might have made. Therefore it was astonishing to him to 
 see the alteration in Ellinor Wilkins. She had shot up from a 
 rather puny girl to a tall, slight young lady, with promise of 
 great beauty in the face, which a year ago had only been remark- 
 able for the fineness of the eyes. Her complexion was clear 
 now, although colourless — twelve months ago he would have 
 called it sallow — her delicate cheek was smooth as marble, her 
 teeth were even and white, and her rare smiles called out a 
 lovely dimple. 
 
 She met her former friend and lecturer with a grave shyness, 
 for she rem.embered well how they had parted, and thought he 
 could hardly have forgiven, much less forgotten, her passionate 
 flinging away from him. But the truth was, after the first few 
 hours of offended displeasure, he had ceased to think of it at 
 
28 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 all. She, poor child, by way of proving her repentance, had 
 tried hard to reform her boisterous tom-boy manners, in order 
 to show him that, although she would not give up her dear old 
 friend Dixon, at his or any one's bidding, she would strive to 
 profit by his lectures in all things reasonable. The consequence 
 was, that she suddenly appeared to him as an elegant dignified 
 young lady, instead of the rough little girl he remembered. 
 Still below her somewhat formal manners there lurked the old 
 wild spirit, as he could plainly see after a little more watching ; 
 and he began to wish to call this out, and to strive, by remind- 
 ing her of old days, and all her childish frolics, to flavour 
 her subdued manners and speech with a httle of the former 
 originality. 
 
 In this he succeeded. No one, neither Mr. Wilkins, nor 
 Miss Monro, nor Mr. Ness, saw what this young couple were 
 about — they did not know it themselves ; but before the summer 
 was over they were desperately in love with each other, or 
 perhaps I should rather say, Ellinor was desperately in love 
 with him — he, as passionately as he could be with any one ; but 
 in him the intellect was superior in strength to either affections 
 or passions. 
 
 The causes of the blindness of those around them were these : 
 Mr. Wilkins still considered Ellinor as a little girl, as his own 
 pet, his darling, but nothing more. Miss Monro was anxious 
 about her own improvement. Mr. Ness was deep in a new 
 edition of "Horace," which he was going to bring out with 
 notes. I believe Dixon would have been keener-sighted, but 
 Ellinor kept Mr. Corbet and Dixon apart for obvious reasons — 
 they were each her dear friends, but she knew that Mr. Corbet 
 did not like Dixon, and suspected that the feeling was mutual. 
 
 The only change of circumstances between this year and the 
 previous one consisted in this development of attachment 
 between the young people. Otherwise, everything went on 
 apparently as usual. With Ellinor the course of the day was 
 something like this : up early and into the garden until break- 
 fast time, when she made tea for her father and Miss Monro in 
 t.he dining-room, always taking care to lay a little nosegay of 
 freshly gathered flowers by her father's plate. After breakfast, 
 when the conversation had been on general and indifferent 
 subjects, Mr. Wilkins withdrew into the little study so often 
 mentioned. It opened out of a passage that ran between the 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 29 
 
 dining-room and the kitchen, on the left hand of the hall. 
 Corresponding to the dining-room on the other side of the hall 
 was the drawing-room, with its side-window serving as a door 
 into a conservatory, and this again opened into the library. 
 Old Mr. Wilkins had added a semicircular projection to the 
 library, which was lighted by a dome above, and showed off 
 his son's Italian purchases of sculpture. The library was by 
 far the most striking and agreeable room in the house; and 
 the consequence was that the drawing-room was seldom used, 
 and had the aspect of cold discomfort common to apartments 
 rarely occupied. Mr. Wiikins's study, on the other side of the 
 house, was also an afterthought, built only a few years ago, and 
 projecting from the regularity of the outside wall ; a little stone 
 passage led to it from the hall, small, narrow, and dark, and out 
 of which no other door opened. 
 
 The study itself was a hexagon, one side window, one fire- 
 place, and the remaining four sides occupied with doors, two of 
 which have been already mentioned, another at the foot of the 
 narrow winding stairs which led straight into Mr. Wiikins's 
 bedroom over the dining-room, and the fourth opening into a 
 path through the shrubbery to the right of the flower-garden as 
 you looked from the house. This path led through the stable- 
 yard, and then by a short cut right into Hamley, and brought 
 you out close to Mr. Wiikins's office ; it was by this way he 
 always went and returned to his business. He used the study 
 for a smoking and lounging room principally, although he 
 always spoke of it as a convenient place for holding confidential 
 communications with such of his chents as did not like discuss- 
 ing their business within the possible hearing of all the clerks 
 in his office. By the outer door he could also pass to the 
 stables, and see that proper care was taken at all times of his 
 favourite and valuable horses. Into this study Ellinor would 
 follow him of a morning, helping him on with his greatcoat, 
 mending his gloves, talking an infinite deal of merry fond 
 nothing ; and then, clinging to his arm, she would accompany 
 him in his visits to the stables, going up to the shyest horses, 
 and petting them, and patting them, and feeding them with 
 bread all the time that her father held converse with Dixon. 
 When he was finally gone — and sometimes it was a long time 
 first— she returned to the schoolroom to Miss Monro, and tried 
 to set herself hard at work on her lessons. But she had not 
 
30 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 much time for steady application ; if her father had cared for 
 her progress in anything, she would and could have worked 
 hard at that study or accomplishment ; but Mr. Wilkins, the 
 ease and pleasure loving man, did not wish to make himself 
 into the pedagogue, as he would have considered it, if he had 
 ever questioned Ellinor with a real steady purpose of ascertain- 
 ing her intellectual progress. It was quite enough for him that 
 her general intelligence and variety of desultory and miscel- 
 laneous reading made her a pleasant and agreeable companion 
 for his hours of relaxation. 
 
 At twelve o'clock, Ellinor put away her books with joyful 
 eagerness, kissed Miss Monro, asked her if they should go a 
 regular walk, and was always rather thankful when it was de- 
 cided that it would be better to stroll in the garden — a decision 
 very often come to, for Miss Monro hated fatigue, hated dirt, 
 hated scrambling, and dreaded rain ; all of which are evils, the 
 chances of which are never far distant from country walks. So 
 Ellinor danced out into the garden, worked away among her 
 flowers, played at the old games among the roots of the trees, 
 and, when she could, seduced Dixon into the flower-garden to 
 have a little consultation as to the horses and dogs. For it 
 was one of her father's few strict rules that Ellinor was never 
 to go into the stable-yard unless he were with her ; so these 
 tete-a-tetes with Dixon were always held in the flower-garden, 
 or bit of forest ground surrounding it. Miss Monro sat and 
 basked in the sun, close to the dial, which made the centre of 
 the gay flower-beds, upon which the dining-room and study 
 windows looked. 
 
 At one o'clock, Ellinor and Miss Monro dined. An hour was 
 allowed for Miss Monro's digestion, which Ellinor again spent 
 out of doors, and at three, lessons began again and lasted till 
 five. At that time they went to dress preparatory for the 
 schoolroom tea at half-past five. After tea Ellinor tried to 
 prepare her lessons for the next day ; but all the time she was 
 listening for her father's footstep — the moment she heard that, 
 she dashed down her book, and flew out of the room to wel- 
 come and kiss him. Seven was his dinner-hour ; he hardly 
 ever dined alone ; indeed, he often dined from home four days 
 out of seven, and when he had no engagement to take him out 
 he liked to have some one to keep him company : Mr. Ness 
 very often, Mr. Corbet along with him if he was in Hamley, 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 31 
 
 a stranger friend, or one of his clients. Sometimes, reluctantly, 
 and when he fancied he could not avoid the attention without 
 giving offence, Mr. Wilkins would ask Mr. Dunster, and then 
 the two would always follow EUinor into the library at a very 
 early hour, as if their subjects for tete-d-iete conversation were 
 quite exhausted. With all his other visitors, Mr. Wilkins sat 
 long — yes, and 'yearly longer ; with Mr. Ness, because they 
 became interested in each other's conversation ; with some of 
 the others, because the wine was good, and the host hated 
 to spare it. 
 
 Mr. Corbet used to leave his tutor and Mr. Wilkins and 
 saunter into the library. There sat Ellinor and Miss Monro, 
 each busy with their embroidery. He would bring a stool to 
 EUinor's side, question and tease her, interest her, and they 
 would become entirely absorbed in each other, Miss Jvlonro's 
 sense of propriety being entirely set at rest by the consideration 
 that Mr. Wilkins must know what he was about in allowing 
 a young man to become thus intimate with his daughter, who, 
 after all, was but a child. 
 
 Mr. Corbet had lately fallen into the habit of walking up to 
 Ford Bank for the Times every day, near twelve o'clock, and 
 lounging about in the garden until one ; not exactly with either 
 Ellinor or Miss Monro, but certainly far more at the beck and 
 call of the one than of the other. 
 
 Miss Monro used to think he would have been glad to stay 
 and lunch at their early dinner, but she never gave the invita- 
 tion, and he could not well stay without her expressed sanction. 
 He told Ellinor all about his mother and sisters, and their ways 
 of going on, and spoke of them and of his father as of people 
 she was one day certain to know, and to know intimately ; 
 and she did not question or doubt this view of things ; she 
 simply acquiesced. 
 
 He had some discussion with himself as to whether he should 
 speak to her, and so secure her promise to be his before return- 
 ing to Cambridge or not. He did not like the formality of an 
 application to Mr, Wilkins, which would, aftet* all, have been 
 the proper and straightforward course to pursue with a girl 
 of her age — she was barely sixteen. Not that he anticipated 
 any difficulty on Mr. Wilkins's part ; his approval of the inti- 
 macy which at their respective ages was pretty sure to lead to 
 an attachment, was made as evident as could be by actions 
 
32 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 without words. But there would have to be reference to his 
 own father, who had no notion of the whole affair, and would 
 be sure to treat it as a boyish fancy ; as if at twenty-one Ralph 
 was not a man, as clear and deliberative in knowing his own 
 mind, as resolute as he ever would be in deciding upon the 
 course of exertion that should lead him to independence and 
 fame, if such were to be attained by clear intellect and a 
 strong will. 
 
 No ; to Mr. Wilkins he would not speak for another year 
 or two. 
 
 But should he tell Ellinor in direct terms of his love — his 
 intention to marry her? 
 
 Again he inchned to the more prudent course of silence. He 
 was not afraid of any change in his own incHnations : of them 
 he was sure. But he looked upon it in this way : If he made a 
 regular declaration to her she would be bound to tell it to her 
 father. He should not respect her or like her so much if she 
 did not. And yet this course would lead to all the conversa- 
 tions, and discussions, and references to his own father, which 
 made his own direct appeal to Mr. Wilkins appear a premature 
 step to him. 
 
 Whereas he was as sure of Ellinor's love for him as if she 
 had uttered all the vows that women ever spoke ; he knew 
 even better than she did how fully and entirely that innocent 
 girlish heart was his own. He was too proud to dread her 
 inconstancy for an instant ; "besides," as he went on to him- 
 self, as if to make assurance doubly sure, ' ' whom does she 
 see? Those stupid Holsters, who ought to be only too proud of 
 having such a girl for their cousin, ignore her existence, and 
 spoke slightingly of her father only the very last time I dined 
 
 there. The country people in this precisely Boeotian shire 
 
 clutch at me because my father goes up to the Plantagenets 
 for his pedigree — not one whit for myself — and neglect Ellinor ; 
 and only condescend to her father because old Wilkins was 
 nobody-knows-who's son. So much the worse for them, but so 
 much the better for me in this case. I'm above their silly 
 antiquated prejudices, and shall be only too glad when the 
 fitting time comes to make Ellinor my wife. After all, a 
 prosperous attorney's daughter may not be considered an un- 
 suitable match for me — younger son as I am. Ellinor will 
 make a glorious woman three or four years hence ; just the 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 33 
 
 style my father admires — such a figure, such limbs. I'll be 
 patient, and bide my time, and watch my opportunities, and 
 all will come right." 
 
 So he bade EUinor farewell in a most reluctant and affectionate 
 manner, although his words might have been spoken out in 
 Hamley market-place, and were little different from what he 
 said to Miss Monro. Mr. Wilkins half expected a disclosure 
 to himself of the love which he suspected in the young man ; 
 and when that did not come, he prepared himself for a confidence 
 from Ellinor. But she had nothing to tell him, as he very well 
 perceived from the child's open unembarrassed manner when 
 they were left alone together after dinner. He had refused 
 an invitation, and shaken off Mr. Ness, in order to have this 
 confidential tete-a-tete with his motherless girl ; and there was 
 nothing to make confidence of. He was half inclined to be 
 angry ; but then he saw that, although sad, she was so much 
 at peace with herself and with the world, that he, always an 
 optimist, began to think the young man had done wisely in 
 not tearing open the rosebud of her feelings too prematurely. 
 
 The next two years passed over in much the same way— or 
 a careless spectator might have thought so. I have heard 
 people say, that if you look at a regiment advancing with 
 steady step over a plain on a review-day, you can hardly tell 
 that they are not merely marking time on one spot of ground, 
 unless you compare their position with some other object by 
 which to mark their progress, so even is the repetition of the 
 movement. And thus the sad events of the future life of this 
 father and daughter were hardly perceived in their steady 
 advance, and yet over the monotony and flat uniformity of their 
 days sorrow came marching down upon them like an armed 
 man. Long before Mr. Wilkins had recognised its shape, it 
 was approaching him in the distance — as, in fact, it is approach- 
 ing all of us at this very time ; you, reader, I, writer, have each 
 our great sorrow bearing down upon us. It may be yet beyond 
 the dimmest point of our horizon, but in the stillness of the night 
 our hearts shrink at the sound of its coming footstep. Well is 
 it for those who fall into the hands of the Lord rather than into 
 the hands of men ; but worst of all is it for him who has here- 
 after to mingle the gall of remorse with the cup held out to him 
 by his doom. 
 
 Mr. Wilkins took his ease and his pleasure yet more and 
 
34 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 more every year of his life ; nor did the quahty of his ease 
 and his pleasure improve ; it seldom does with self-indulgent 
 people. He cared less for any books that strained his faculties 
 a little — less for engravings and sculptures — perhaps more for 
 pictures. He spent extravagantly on his horses ; * ' thought of 
 eating and drinking." There was no open vice in all this, so 
 that any awful temptation to crime should come down upon 
 him, and startle him out of his mode of thinking and living ; 
 half the people about him did much the same, as far as their 
 lives were patent to his unreflecting observation. But most of 
 his associates had their duties to do, and did them with a heart 
 and a will, in the hours when he was not in their company. 
 Yes ! I call them duties, though some of them might be self- 
 imposed and purely social ; they were engagements they had 
 entered into, either tacitly or with words, and that they fulfilled. 
 From Mr. Hetherington, the Master of the Hounds, who was 
 up at — no one knows what hour, to go down to the kennel 
 and see that the men did their work well and thoroughly, to 
 stern old Sir Lionel Playfair, the upright magistrate, the 
 thoughtful, conscientious landlord — they did their work accord- 
 ing to their lights ; there were few laggards among those with 
 whom Mr. Wilkins associated in the field or at the dinner-table. 
 Mr. Ness — though as a clergyman he w^as not so active as he 
 might have been— yet even Mr. Ness fagged away with his 
 pupils and his new edition of one of the classics. Only Mr. 
 Wilkins, dissatisfied with his position, neglected to fulfil the 
 duties thereof. He imitated the pleasures, and longed for the 
 fancied leisure of those about him ; leisure that he imagined 
 would be so much more valuable in the hands of a man like 
 himself, full of intellectual tastes and accomplishments, than 
 frittered away by dull boors of untravelled, uncultivated squires 
 — whose company, however, be it said by the way, he never 
 refused. 
 
 And yet daily Mr. Wilkins was sinking from the intellectually 
 to the sensually self-indulgent man. He lay late in bed, and 
 hated Mr. Dunster for his significant glance at the office-clock 
 when he announced to his master that such and such a chent 
 had been waiting more than an hour to keep an appointment. 
 "Why didn't you see him yourself, Dunster? I'm sure you 
 would have done quite as well as me," Mr. Wilkins sometimes 
 rephed,. partly with a view of saying something pleasant to the 
 
A DARK NIGHTS WORK. 35 
 
 man whom he dishked and feared. Mr. Dunster always repHed, 
 in a meek matter-of-fact tone, "Oh, sir, they wouldn't like to 
 talk over their affairs with a subordinate. '" 
 
 And every time he said this, or some speech of the same kind, 
 the idea came more and more clearly into Mr. Wilkins's head, 
 of how pleasant it would be to himself to take Dunster into 
 partnership, and thus throw all the responsibility of the real 
 work and drudgery upon his clerk's shoulders. Importunate 
 clients, who would make appointments at unseasonable hours 
 and would keep to them, might confide in the partner, though 
 they would not in the clerk. The great objections to this 
 course were, first and foremost, Mr. Wilkins's strong dislike 
 to Mr. Dunster — his repugnance to his company, his dress, 
 his voice, his ways — all of which irritated his employer, till 
 his state of feeling towards Dunster might be called antipathy ; 
 next, Mr. Wilkins was fully aware of the fact that all Mr. 
 Dunster's actions and words were carefully and thoughtfully 
 pre-arranged to further the great unspoken desire of his life 
 — that of being made a partner where he now was only a 
 servant. Mr. Wilkins took a malicious pleasure in tantalising 
 Mr. Dtinster by such speeches as the one I have just mentioned, 
 which always seemed like an opening to the desired end, but 
 still for a long time never led any further. Yet all the while 
 that end was becoming more and more certain, and at last it 
 was reached. 
 
 Mr. Dunster always suspected that the final push was given 
 by some circumstance from without ; some reprimand for 
 neglect — some threat of withdrawal of business which his 
 employer had received ; but of this he could not be certain ; 
 all he knew was, that Mr. Wilkins proposed the partnership 
 to him in about as ungracious a way as such an offer could 
 be made ; an ungraciousness which, after all, had so little effect 
 on the real matter in hand, that Mr. Dunster could pass over it 
 with a private sneer, while taking all possible advantage of the 
 tangible benefit it was now in his power to accept. 
 
 Mr. Corbet's attachment to EUinor had been formally dis- 
 closed to her just before this time. He had left college, entered 
 at the Middle Temple, and was fagging away at law, and 
 feeling success in his own power; Ellinor was to " come out " 
 at the next Hamley assemblies ; and her lover began to be 
 jealous of the possible admirers her striking appearance and 
 
36 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 piquant conversation might attract, and thought it a good time 
 to make the success of his suit certain by spoken words and 
 promises. 
 
 He needed not have alarmed himself even enough to make 
 him take this step, if he had been capable of understanding 
 EUinor's heart as fully as he did her appearance and conver- 
 sation. She never missed the absence of formal words and 
 promises. She considered herself as fully engaged to him, as 
 much pledged to marry him and no one else, before he had 
 asked the final question, as afterwards. She was rather sur- 
 prised at the necessity for those decisive words — 
 
 " EUinor, dearest, will you — can you marry me?" and her 
 reply was — given with a deep blush I must record, and in a 
 soft murmuring tone — 
 
 "Yes — oh, yes — I never thought of anything else." 
 
 " Then I may speak to your father, may not I, darling?" 
 
 "He knows; I am sure he knows; and he likes you so 
 much. Oh, how happy I am ! " 
 
 " But still I must speak to him before I go. When can I see 
 him, my EUinor? I must go back to town at four o'clock." 
 
 " I heard his voice in the stable-yard only just before you 
 came. Let me go and find out if he is gone to the office 
 yet." 
 
 No ! to be sure he was not gone. He was quietly smoking 
 a cigar in his study, sitting in an easy-chair near the open 
 window, and leisurely glancing at all the advertisements in the 
 Times. He hated going to the office more and more since 
 Dunster had become a partner ; that fellow gave himself such 
 airs of investigation and reprehension. 
 
 He got up, took the cigar out of his mouth, and placed a 
 chair for Mr. Corbet, knowing well why he had thus formally 
 prefaced his entrance into the room with a — 
 
 "Can I have a few minutes' conversation with you, Mr. 
 Wilkins?" 
 
 "Certainly, my dear fellow. Sit down. Will you have a 
 cigar?" 
 
 " No ! I never smoke." Mr. Corbet despised all these kinds 
 of indulgences, and put a little severity into his refusal, but 
 quite unintentionally ; for though he was thankful he was not 
 as other men, he was not at all the person to trouble himself 
 unnecessarily with their reformation. 
 
A DARK night's WORK. yj 
 
 " I want to speak to you about Ellinor. She says she thinks 
 you must be aware of our mutual attachment." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Wilkins — he had resumed his cigar, partly 
 to conceal his agitation at what he knew was coming — "I 
 believe I have had my suspicions. It is not very long since I 
 was young myself." And he sighed over the recollection of 
 Lettice, and his fresh, hopeful youth. 
 
 "And I hope, sir, as you have been aware of it, and have 
 never manifested any disapprobation of it, that you will not 
 refuse your consent — a consent I now ask you for — to our 
 marriage." 
 
 Mr. Wilkins did not speak for a little while — a touch, a 
 thought, a word more would have brought him to tears ; for 
 at the last he found it hard to give the consent which would 
 part him from his only child. Suddenly he got up, and putting 
 his hand into that of the anxious lover (for his silence had 
 rendered Mr. Corbet anxious up to a certain point of perplexity 
 — he could not understand the implied he would and he would 
 not), Mr. Wilkins said — 
 
 "Yes! God bless you both! I will give her to you, some 
 day — only it must be a long time first. And now go away — go 
 back to her — for I can't stand this much longer." 
 
 Air. Corbet returned to Ellinor. Mr. Wilkins sat down and 
 buried his head in his hands, then went to his stable, and had 
 Wildfire saddled for a good gallop over the country. Mr. 
 Dunster waited for him in vain at the office, where an obstinate 
 old country gentleman from a distant part of the shire would 
 ignore Dunster's existence as a partner, and pertinaciously 
 demanded to see Mr. Wilkins on important business. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A FEW days afterwards, Elhnor's father bethought himself that 
 some further communication ought to take place between him 
 and his daughter's lover regarding the approval of the family of 
 the latter to the young man's engagement, and he accordingly 
 wrote a very gentlemanly letter, saying that of course he trusted 
 that Ralph had informed his father of his engagement ; that 
 Mr. Corbet was well known to Mr. Wilkins by reputation, 
 
38 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 holding the position which he did in Shropshire, but tiiat as 
 Mr. Wilkins did not pretend to be in the same station of life, 
 Mr. Corbet might possibly never even have heard of his name, 
 although in his own county it was well known as having been 
 for generations that of the principal conveyancer and land-agent 
 
 of shire ; that his wife had been a member of the old 
 
 knightly family of Holsters, and that he himself was descended 
 from a younger branch of the South Wales De Wintons, or 
 Wilkins ; that Ellinor, as his only child, would naturally inherit 
 all his property, but that in the meantime, of course, some 
 settlement upon her would be made, the nature of which might 
 be decided nearer the time of the marriage. 
 
 It was a very good straightforward letter, and well fitted for 
 the purpose to which Mr. Wilkins knew it would be applied 
 — of being forwarded to the young man's father. One would 
 have thought that it was not an engagement so disproportionate 
 in point of station as to cause any great opposition on that 
 score ; but, unluckily, Captain Corbet, the heir and eldest son, 
 had just formed a similar engagement with Lady Maria Brabant, 
 the daughter of one of the proudest earls in — — shire, who had 
 always resented Mr. Wilkins's appearance on the field as an 
 insult to the county, and ignored his presence at every dinner- 
 table where they met. Lady Maria was visiting the Corbets 
 at the very time when Ralph's letter, enclosing Mr. Wilkins's, 
 reached the paternal halls, and she merely repeated her father's 
 opinions when Mrs. Corbet and her daughters naturally ques- 
 tioned her as to who these Wilkinses were ; they remembered 
 the name in Ralph's letters formerly ; the father was some 
 friend of Mr. Ness's, the clergym.an with whom Ralph had 
 read ; they believed Ralph used to dine with these Wilkinses 
 sometimes, along with Mr. Ness. 
 
 Lady Maria was a good-natured girl, and meant no harm in 
 repeating her father's words ; touched up, it is true, by some of 
 the dislike she herself felt to the intimate alliance proposed, 
 which would make her sister-in-law to the daughter of an "up- 
 start attorney," "not received in the county," "always trying 
 to push his way into the set above him," "claiming connection 
 
 with the De Wintons of Castle, who, as she well knew, only 
 
 laughed when he was spoken of, and said they were more rich in 
 relations than they were aware of" — "not people papa would 
 ever like her to know, whatever might be the family connection." 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 39 
 
 These little speeches told in a way which the girl who uttered 
 them did not intend they should. Mrs. Corbet and her daughters 
 set themselves violently against this foolish entanglement of 
 Ralph's ; they would not call it an engagement. They argued 
 and they urged, and they pleaded, till the squire, anxious for 
 peace at any price, and always more under the sway of the 
 people who were with him, however unreasonable they might 
 be, than of the absent, even though these had the wisdom 
 of Solomon or the prudence and sagacity of his son Ralph, 
 wrote an angry letter, saying that, as Ralph was of age, of 
 course he had a right to please himself, therefore all his father 
 could say was, that the engagement was not at all what either 
 he or Ralph's mother had expected or hoped ; that it was a 
 degradation to the family just going to ally themselves with a 
 peer of James the First's creation ; that of course Ralph must 
 do what he liked, but that if he married this girl he must never 
 expect to have her received by the Corbets of Corbet Hall 
 as a daughter. The squire was rather satisfied with his 
 production, and took it to show it to his wife ; but she did 
 not think it was strong enough, and added a httle post- 
 script — 
 
 "Dear Ralph, — Though, as second son, you are entitled 
 to Bromley at my death, yet I can do much to make the 
 estate worthless. Hitherto, regard for you has prevented my 
 taking steps as to sale of timber, &c., which would materially 
 increase your sisters' portions ; this just measure I shall in- 
 fallibly take if I find you persevere in keeping to this silly 
 engagement. Your father's disapproval is always a sufficient 
 reason to allege." 
 
 Ralph was annoyed at the receipt of these letters, though he 
 only smiled as he locked them up in his desk. 
 
 "Dear old father; how he blusters! As to my mother, 
 she is reasonable when I talk to her. Once give her a 
 definite idea of what Ellinor's fortune will be, and let her, 
 if she chooses, cut down her timber — a threat she has held 
 over me ever since I knew what a rocking-horse was, and 
 which I have known to be illegal these ten years past — 
 and she'll come round. I know better than they do how 
 Reginald has run up post-obits, and as for that vulgar 
 
40 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 high-born Lady Maria they are all so full of, why, she is a 
 Flanders mare to my Ellinor, and has not a silver penny to cross 
 herself with, besides ! I bide my time, you dear good people ! " 
 
 He did not think it necessary to reply to these letters imme- 
 diately, nor did he even allude to their contents in his to 
 Ellinor. Mr. Wilkins, who had been very well satisfied with 
 his own letter to the young man, and had thought that it must 
 be equally agreeable to every one, was not at all suspicious of 
 any disapproval, because the fact of a distinct sanction on the 
 part of Mr. Ralph Corbet's friends to his engagement was not 
 communicated to him. 
 
 As for Ellinor, she trembled all over with happiness. Such 
 a summer for the blossoming of flowers and ripening of fruit 
 had not been known for years ; it seemed to her as if bounti- 
 ful loving Nature wanted to fill the cup of EUinor's joy to 
 overflowing, and as if everything, animate and inanimate, sym- 
 pathised with her happiness. Her father was well, and 
 apparently content. Miss Monro was very kind. Dixon's 
 lameness was quite gone off. Only Mr. Dunster came creep- 
 ing about the house, on pretence of business, seeking out her 
 father, and disturbing all his leisure with his dust-coloured 
 parchment-skinned careworn face, and seeming to disturb the 
 smooth current of her daily life whenever she saw him. 
 
 Ellinor made her appearance at the Hamley assemblies, but 
 with less dclat that either her father or her lover expected. 
 Her beauty and natural grace were admired by those who 
 could discriminate ; but to the greater number there was (what 
 they called) "a want of style " — want of elegance there certainly 
 was not, for her figure was perfect, and though she moved 
 shyly, she moved well. Perhaps it was not a good place for 
 a correct appreciation of Miss Wilkins ; some of the old 
 dowagers thought it a piece of presumption in her to be 
 there at all — but the Lady Holster of the day (who remembered 
 her husband's quarrel with Mr. Wilkins, and looked away 
 whenever Ellinor came near) resented this opinion. "Miss 
 Wilkins is descended from Sir Frank's family, one of the oldest 
 in the county ; the objection might have been made years ago 
 to the father, but as he had been received, she did not know 
 why Miss Wilkins was to be alluded to as out of her place." 
 EUinor's greatest enjoyment in the evening was to hear her 
 father say, after all was over, and they were driving home — 
 
A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 4 1 
 
 "Well, I thought my Nelly the prettiest girl there, and I 
 think I know some other people who would have said the same 
 if they could have spoken out," 
 
 " Thank you, papa," said EUinor, squeezing his hand, which 
 she held. She thought he alluded to the absent Ralph as the 
 person who would have agreed with him, had he had the 
 opportunity of seeing her ; but no, he seldom thought much 
 of the absent ; but had been rather flattered by seeing Lord 
 Hildebrand take up his glass for the apparent purpose of 
 watching Ellinor. 
 
 "Your pearls, too, were as handsome as any in the room, 
 child — but we must have them re-set ; the sprays are old- 
 fashioned now. Let me have them to-morrow to send up 
 to Hancock." 
 
 ' ' Papa, please, I had rather keep them as they are — as 
 mamma wore them." 
 
 He was touched in a minute. 
 
 " Very well, darling. God bless you for thinking of it ! " 
 
 But he ordered her a set of sapphires instead, for the next 
 assembly. 
 
 These balls were not such as to intoxicate Ellinor with 
 success, and make her in love with gaiety. Large parties 
 came from the different country-houses in the neighbourhood, 
 and danced with each other. When they had exhausted the 
 resources they brought with them, they had generally a few 
 dances to spare for friends of the same standing with whom 
 they were most intimate. Ellinor came with her father, and 
 joined an old card-playing dowager, by way of a chaperone — 
 the said dowager being under old business obligations to the 
 firm of Wilkins & Son, and apologising to all her acquaint- 
 ances for her own weak condescension to Mr. W^ilkins's foible 
 in wishing to introduce his daughter into society above her 
 natural sphere. It was upon this lady, after she had uttered 
 some such speech as the one I have just mentioned, that Lady 
 Holster had come down with the pedigree of Ellinor's mother. 
 But though the old dowager had drawn back a little discomfited 
 at my lady's reply, she was not more attentive to Ellinor in 
 consequence. She allowed Mr. Wilkins to bring in his daughter 
 and place her on the crimson sofa beside her ; spoke to her 
 occasionally in the interval that elapsed before the rubbers could 
 be properly arranged in the card-room ; invited the girl to 
 
42 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 accompany her to that sober amusement, and on EUinor's 
 dechning, and preferring to remain with her father, the dowager 
 left her with a sweet smile ,on her plump counteni^nce, and 
 an approving conscience somewhere within her portly frame, 
 assuring her that she had done all that could possibly have been 
 •expected from her towards "that good Wilkins's daughter." 
 Ellinor stood by her father watching the dances, and thankful 
 for the occasional chance of a dance. While she had been 
 sitting by her chaperone, Mr. Wilkins had made the tour of 
 the room, dropping out the little fact of his daughter's being 
 present wherever he thought the seed likely to bring forth the 
 fruit of partners. And some came because they liked Mr. 
 Wilkins, and some asked Ellinor because they had done their 
 ■duty dances to their own party, and might please themselves. 
 So that she usually had an average of one invitation to every 
 three dances ; and this principally towards the end of the 
 evening. 
 
 But considering her real beauty, and the care which her father 
 always took about her appearance, she met with far less than 
 her due of admiration. Admiration she did not care for ; 
 partners she did ; and sometimes felt mortified when she had 
 to sit or stand quiet during all the first part of the evening. If 
 it had not been for her father's wishes she would much rather 
 have stayed at home ; but, nevertheless, she talked even to the 
 irresponsive old dowager, and fairly chatted to her father when 
 she got beside him, because she did not like him to fancy that 
 she was not enjoying herself. 
 
 And, indeed, she had so much happiness in the daily course 
 of this part of her life, that, on looking back upon it afterwards, 
 she could not imagine anything brighter than it had been. 
 The delight of receiving her lover's letters — the anxious happi- 
 ness of replying to them (always a little bit fearful lest she 
 should not express herself and her love in the precisely happy 
 medium becoming a maiden) — the father's love and satisfac- 
 tion in her — the calm prosperity of the whole household — 
 was delightful at the time, and, looking back upon it, it was 
 dreamlike. 
 
 Occasionally Mr. Corbet came down to see her. He always 
 slept on these occasions at Mr. Ness's ; but he was at Ford Bank 
 the greater part of the one day between two nights that he 
 allowed himself for the length of his visits. And even these 
 
A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 43 
 
 short peeps were not frequently taken. He was working hard at 
 law : fagging at it tooth and nail ; arranging his whole life so 
 as best to promote the ends of his ambition ; feeling a delight 
 in surpassing and mastering his fellows — those wh3 started in 
 the race at the same time. He read Ellinor's letters over and 
 over again ; nothing else besides law-books. He perceived 
 the repressed love hidden away in subdued expressions in her 
 communications, with an amused pleasure at the attempt at con- 
 cealment. He was glad that her gaieties were not more gay ; 
 he was glad that she was not too much admired, although a little 
 
 indignant at the want of taste on the part of the shire 
 
 gentlemen. But if other admirers had come prominently for- 
 ward, he would have had to take some more decided steps to 
 assert his rights than he had hitherto done ; for he had caused 
 Ellinor to express a wish to her father that her engagement 
 should not be too much talked about until nearer the time 
 when it would be prudent for him to marry her. He thought 
 that the knowledge of this, the only imprudently hasty step he 
 ever meant to take in his life, might go against his character for 
 wisdom, if the fact became known while he was as yet only a 
 student. Mr. Wilkins wondered a httle ; but acceded, as he 
 always did, to any of EUinor's requests. Mr. Ness was a confi- 
 dant, of course, and some of Lady Maria's connections heard 
 of it, and forgot it again very soon ; and, as it happened, no 
 one else was sufficiently interested in Ellinor to care to ascertain 
 the fact. 
 
 All this time, Mr. Ralph Corbet maintained a very quietly de- 
 cided attitude towards his own family. He was engaged to Miss 
 Wilkins ; and all he could say was, he felt sorry that they dis- 
 approved of it. He was not able to marry just at present, and 
 before the time for his marriage arrived he trusted that his 
 family would take a more reasonable view of things, and be 
 wilhng to receive her as his wife with all becoming respect or 
 affection. This was the substance of what he repeated in 
 different forms, in reply to his father's angry letters. At length, 
 his invariable determination made way with his father ; the 
 paternal thunderings were subdued to a distant rumbhng in the 
 sky ; and presently the inquiry was broached as to how much 
 fbrtune Miss Wilkins would have ; how much down on her 
 marriage ; what were the eventual probabilities. Now this was 
 a point which Mr. Ralph Corbet himself wished to be informed 
 
44 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 upon. He had not thought much about it in making the 
 engagement ; he had been too young, or too much in love. 
 But an only child of a wealthy attorney ought to have something 
 considerable ; and an allowance so as to enable the young 
 couple to start housekeeping in a moderately good part of town, 
 would be an advantage to him in his profession. So he replied 
 to his father, adroitly suggesting that a letter containing certain 
 modifications of the inquiry which had been rather roughly put 
 in Mr. Corbet's last, should be sent to him, in order that he 
 might himself ascertain from Mr. Wilkins what were Ellinor's 
 prospects as regarded fortune. 
 
 The desired letter came ; but not in such a form that he could 
 pass it on to Mr. Wilkins ; he preferred to make quotations, and 
 even these quotations were a little altered and dressed before he 
 sent them on. The gist of his letter to Mr. Wilkins was this. 
 He stated that he hoped soon to be in a position to offer EUinor 
 a home ; that he anticipated a steady progress in his profession, 
 and consequently in his income ; but that contingencies might 
 arise, as his father suggested, which would deprive him of the 
 power of earning a livelihood, perhaps when it might be more 
 required than it would be at first ; that it was true that, after his 
 mother's death, a small estate in Shropshire would come to him 
 as second son, and of course Elhnor would receive the benefit 
 of this property, secured to her legally as Mr. Wilkins thought 
 best— that being a matter for after discussion— but that at pre- 
 sent his father was anxious, as might be seen from the extract, 
 to ascertain whether Mr. Wilkins could secure him from the con- 
 tingency of having his son's widow and possible children thrown 
 upon his hands, by giving Ellinor a dowry ; and if so, it was 
 gently insinuated, what would be the amount of the same. 
 
 When Mr. Wilkins received this letter it startled him out of a 
 happy day-dream. He liked Ralph Corbet and the whole con- 
 nection quite well enough to give his consent to an engagement ; 
 and sometimes even he was glad to think that Ellinor's future- 
 was assured, and that she would have a protector and friends 
 after he was dead and gone. But he did not want them to 
 assume their responsibilities so soon. He had not distinctly 
 contemplated her marriage as an event likely to happen before 
 his death. He could not understand how his own life would gb 
 on without her : or indeed why she and Ralph Corbet could not 
 continue just as they were at present. He came down to break- 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 45 
 
 fast with the letter in his hand. By EUinor's blushes, as she 
 glanced at the handwriting, he knew that she had heard from 
 her lover by the same post ; by her tender caresses — caresses 
 given as if to make up for the pain which the prospect of her 
 leaving him was sure to cause him — he was certain that she was 
 .aware of the contents of the letter. Yet he put it in his pocket, 
 and tried to forget it. 
 
 He did this not merely from his reluctance to complete any 
 arrangements which might facilitate EUinor's marriage. There 
 was a further annoyance connected with the affair. His money 
 matters had been for some time in an involved state ; he had 
 been living beyond his income, even reckoning that, as he always 
 •did, at the highest point which it ever touched. He kept no 
 regular accounts, reasoning with himself — or, perhaps, I should 
 rather say persuading himself — that there was no great occasion 
 for regular accounts, when he had a steady income arising from 
 his profession, as well as the interest of a good sum of money 
 left him by his father ; and when, living in his own house near a 
 •country town where provisions were cheap, his expenditure for 
 his small family — only one child — could never amount to any- 
 thing like his incomings from the above-mentioned sources. 
 But servants and horses, and choice wines and rare fruit-trees, 
 and a habit of purchasing any book or engraving that may take 
 the fancy, irrespective of the price, run away with money, even 
 though there be but one child. A year or two ago, Mr. Wilkins 
 had been startled into a system of exaggerated retrenchment — 
 retrenchment which only lasted about six weeks — by the sudden 
 bursting of a bubble speculation in which he had invested a part 
 of his father's savings. But as soon as the change in his habits, 
 necessitated by his new economies, became irksome, he had com- 
 forted himself for his relapse into his former easy extravagance 
 of living by rem.embering the fact that Ellinor was engaged to 
 the son of a man of large property: and that though Ralph was 
 only the second son, yet his mother's estate must come to him, 
 as Mr. Ness had already mentioned, on first hearing of her 
 engagement. 
 
 Mr. Wilkins did not doubt that he could easily make Ellinor 
 a fitting allowance, or even pay down a requisite dowry ; but 
 the doing so would involve an examination into the real state of 
 his affairs, and this involved distasteful trouble. He had no 
 idea how much more than mere temporary annoyance would 
 
46 A DARK NIGHTS WORK. 
 
 arise out of the investigation. Until it was made, he decided 
 in his own mind that he would not speak to Ellinor on the 
 subject of her lover's letter. So for the next few days she was 
 kept in suspense, seeing little of her father ; and during the 
 short times she was with him she was made aware' that he was 
 nervously anxious to keep the conversation engaged on general 
 topics rather than on the one which she had at heart. As I 
 have already said, Mr. Corbet had written to her by the same 
 post as that on which he sent the letter to her father, telling her 
 of its contents, and begging her (in all those sweet words which 
 lovers know how to use) to urge her father to compliance for his 
 sake — his, her lover's — who was pining and lonely in all the 
 crowds of London, since her loved presence was not there. He 
 did not care for money, save as a means of hastening their 
 marriage ; indeed, if there were only some income fixed, however 
 small — some time for their marriage fixed, however distant — he 
 could be patient. He did not want superfluity of wealth ; his 
 habits were simple, a:s she well knew ; and money enough would 
 be theirs in time, both from her share of contingencies, and the 
 certainty of his finally possessing Bromley. 
 
 Ellinor delayed replying to this letter until her father should 
 have spoken to her on the subject. But as she perceived that 
 he avoided all such conversation, the young girl's heart failed 
 her. She began to blame herself for wishing to leave him, to 
 reproach herself for being accessory to any step which made him 
 shun being alone with her, and look distressed and full of care 
 as he did now. It was the usual struggle between father and 
 lover for the possession of love, instead of the natural and grace- 
 ful resignation of the parent to the prescribed course of things ; 
 and, as usual, it was the poor girl who bore the suffering for no 
 fault of her own : although she blamed herself for being the cause 
 of the disturbance in the previous order of affairs. Ellinor had no 
 one to speak to confidentially but her father and her lover, and 
 when they were at issue she could talk openly to neither, so she 
 brooded over Mr. Corbet's imanswered letter, and her father's 
 silence, and became pale and dispirited. Once or twice she 
 looked up suddenly, and caught her father's eye gazing upon her 
 with a certain wistful anxiety ; but the instant she saw this he 
 pulled himself up, as it were, and would begin talking gaily 
 about the small topics of the day. 
 
 At length Mr. Corbet grew impatient at not hearing either 
 
A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 47 
 
 from Mr. Wilkins or Ellinor, and wrote urgently to the former, 
 making known to him a new proposal suggested to him by his. 
 father, which was, that a certain sum should be paid down by 
 Mr. Wilkins, to be applied, under the management of trustees, 
 to the improvement of the Bromley estate, out of the profits of 
 which, or other sources in the elder Mr. Corbet's hands, a heavy 
 rate of interest should be paid on this advance, which would 
 secure an income to the young couple immediately, and con- 
 siderably increase the value of the estate upon which Ellinor's 
 settlement was to be made. The terms offered for this laying 
 down of ready money were so advantageous, that Mr. Wilkins 
 was strongly tempted to accede to them at once ; as Ellinor's 
 pale cheek and want of appetite had only that very morning 
 smote upon his conscience, and this immediate transfer of ready 
 money was as a sacrifice, a soothing balm to his self-reproach, 
 and laziness and dislike to immediate unpleasantness of action 
 had its counterbalancing weakness in imprudence. Mr. Wilkins- 
 made some rough calculations on a piece of paper — deeds, and 
 all such tests of accuracy, being down at the office ; discovered 
 that he could pay down the sum required ; wrote a letter agree- 
 ing to the proposal, and before he sealed it called Ellinor inta 
 his study, and bade her read what he had been writing and tell 
 him what she thought of it. Ke watched the colour come rush- 
 ing into her white face, her Hps quiver and tremble, and even 
 before the letter was ended she was in his arms kissing him, and 
 thanking him with blushing caresses rather than words. 
 
 "There, there!" said he, smiling and sighing; "that will 
 do. Why, I do believe you took me for a hard-hearted father, 
 just like a heroine's father in a book. You've looked as woe- 
 begone this week past as Ophelia. One can't make up one's, 
 mind in a day about such sums of money as this, little woman ; 
 and you should have let your old father have time to consider." 
 
 " Oh, papa ; I was only afraid you were angry." 
 
 "Well, if I was a bit perplexed, seeing you look so ill and 
 pining was not the way to bring me round. Old Corbet, I 
 must say, is trying to make a good bargain for his son. It is- 
 well for me that I have never been an extravagant man." 
 
 "But, papa, we don't want all this much." 
 
 "Yes, yes ! it is all right. You shall go into their family as. 
 a well-portioned girl, if you can't go as a Lady Maria. Come, 
 don't trouble your little head any more about it. Give me one 
 
48 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 more kiss, and then we'll go and order the horses, and have a 
 ride together, by way of keeping holiday. I deserve a holiday, 
 don't I, Nelly?" 
 
 Some country people at work at the roadside, as the father 
 and daughter passed along, stopped to admire their bright 
 happy looks, and one spoke of the hereditary handsomeness 
 of the Wilkins family (for the old man, the present Mr. 
 Wilkins's father, had been fine-looking in his drab breeches 
 and gaiters, and usual assumption of a yeoman's dress). 
 Another said it was easy for the rich to be handsome ; they 
 had always plenty to eat, and could ride when they were tired 
 of walking, and had no care for the morrow to keep them from 
 sleeping at nights. And, in sad acquiescence with their con- 
 trasted lot, the men went on with their hedging and ditching 
 in silence. 
 
 And yet, if they had known — if the poor did know — the 
 troubles and temptations of the rich ; if those men had foreseen 
 the lot darkening over the father, and including the daughter in 
 its cloud ; if Mr. Wilkins himself had even imagined such a 
 future possible. . . . Well, there was truth in the old heathen 
 saying, " Let no man be envied till his death." 
 
 EUinor had no more rides with her father ; no, not ever 
 again ; though they had stopped that afternoon at the summit 
 of a breezy common, and looked at a ruined hall, not so very 
 far off, and discussed whether they could reach it that day, and 
 decided that it was too far away for anything but a hurried in- 
 spection, and that some day soon they would make the old 
 place into the principal object of an excursion. But a rainy 
 time came on, when no rides were possible ; and whether it 
 was the influence of the weather, or some other care or trouble 
 that oppressed him, Mr. Wilkins seemed to lose all wish for 
 much active exercise, and rather sought a stimulus to his spirits 
 and circulation in wine. But of this EUinor was innocently 
 unaware. He seemed dull and weary, and sat long, drowsing 
 and drinking after dinner. If the servants had not been so 
 fond of him for much previous generosity and kindness, they 
 would have complained now, and with reason, of his irrita- 
 bility, for all sorts of things seemed to annoy him. 
 
 " You should get the master to take a ride with you, miss," 
 said Dixon one day, as he was putting EUinor on her horse. 
 *' He's not looking well. He's studying too much at the office." 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 49 
 
 But when Ellinor named it to her father, he rather hastily 
 repUed that it was all very well for women to ride out when- 
 ever they hked— men had something else to do; and then, as 
 he saw her look grave and puzzled, he softened down his 
 abrupt saying by adding that Dunster had been making a fuss 
 about his partner's non-attendance, and altogether taking a 
 good deal upon himself in a very offensive way, so that he 
 thought it better to go pretty regularly to the office, in order 
 to show him who was master — senior partner, and head of 
 the business, at any rate. 
 
 Ellinor sighed a little over her disappointment at her father's 
 preoccupation, and then forgot her own little regret in anger at 
 Mr. Dunster, who had seemed all along to be a thorn in her 
 father's side, and had latterly gained some power and authority 
 over him, the exercise of which, Ellinor could not help thinking, 
 was a very impertinent line of conduct from a junior partner, so 
 lately only a paid clerk, to his superior. There was a sense of 
 something wrong in the Ford Bank household for many weeks 
 about this time. Mr. Wilkins was not like himself, and his 
 cheerful ways and careless genial speeches wefe missed, even on 
 the days when he was not irritable, and evidently uneasy with 
 himself and all about him. The spring w-as late in coming, and 
 cold rain and sleet made any kind of outdoor exercise a trouble 
 and discomfort rather than a bright natural event in the course 
 of the day. All sound of winter gaieties, of assemblies and meets, 
 and jovial dinners, had died away, and the summer pleasures 
 were as yet unthought of. Still Ellinor had a secret perennial 
 source of sunshine in her heart ; whenever she thought of Ralph 
 she could not feel much oppression from the present unspoken 
 and indistinct gloom. He loved her ; and oh, how she loved 
 
 him ! and perhaps this very next autumn but that depended 
 
 on his own success in his profession. After all, if it was not this 
 autumn it would be the next ; and with the letters that she re- 
 ceived weekly, and the occasional visits that her lover ran down 
 to Hamley to pay Mr. Ness, Ellinor felt as if she would almost 
 prefer the delay of the time when she must leave her father's for 
 a husband's roof. 
 
50 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 At Easter — ^just when the heavens and earth were looking 
 their dreariest, for Easter fell very early this year — Mr. Corbet 
 came down. Mr. Wilkins was too busy to see much of him ; 
 they were together even less than usual, although not less 
 friendly when they did meet. But to Ellinor the visit was one 
 of unmixed happiness. Hitherto she had always had a httle 
 fear mingled up with her love of Mr. Corbet ; but his manners 
 were softened, his opinions less decided and abrupt, and his 
 whole treatment of her showed such tenderness, that the young 
 girl basked and revelled in it. One or two of their conversa- 
 tions had reference to their future married life in London ; 
 and she then perceived, although it did not jar against her, 
 that her lover had not forgotten his ambition in his love. He 
 tried to inoculate her with something of his own craving for 
 success in life ; but it was all in vain : she nestled to him, and 
 told him she did not care to be the Lord Chancellor's wife- 
 wigs and woolsacks were not in her line ; only if he wished it, 
 she would wish it. 
 
 The last two days of his stay the weather changed. Sudden 
 heat burst forth, as it does occasionally for a few hours even 
 in our chilly English spring. The grey-brown bushes and trees 
 started almost with visible progress into the tender green shade 
 which is the forerunner of the bursting leaves. The sky was of 
 full cloudless blue. Mr. Wilkins was to come home pretty early 
 from the office to ride out with his daughter and her lover ; but, 
 after waiting some time for him, it grew too late, and they were 
 obliged to give up the project. Nothing would serve ElHnor, 
 then, but that she must carry out a table and have tea in the 
 garden, on the sunny side of the tree, among the roots of which 
 she used to play when a child. Miss Monro objected a little to 
 this caprice of Ellinor's, saying that it was too early for out-of- 
 door meals ; but Mr. Corbet overruled all objections, and helped 
 her in her gay preparations. She always kept to the early hours 
 of her childhood, although she, as then, regularly sat with her 
 father at his late dinner ; and this meal al fresco was to be a 
 reality to her and Miss Monro. There was a place arranged 
 for her father, and she seized upon him as he was coming from 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 51 
 
 the stable-yard, by the shrubbery path, to his study, and with 
 merry playfulness made him a prisoner, accusing him of dis- 
 appointing them of their ride, and drawing him, more than half 
 unwilling, to his chair by the table. But he was silent, and 
 almost sad : his presence damped them all ; they could hardly 
 tell why, for he did not object to anything, though he seemed 
 to enjoy nothing, and only to force a smile at Ellinor's occa- 
 sional sallies. These became more and more rare as she per- 
 ceived her father's depression. She watched him anxiously. 
 He perceived it, and said — shivering in that strange unaccount- 
 able manner which is popularly explained by the expression that 
 some one is passing over the earth that will one day form your 
 grave — 
 
 "Ellinor ! this is not a day for out-of-door tea. I never felt 
 so chilly a spot in my life. I cannot keep from shaking where 
 I sit. I must leave this place, my dear, in spite of all your 
 good tea." 
 
 "Oh, papa ! I am so sorry. But look how full that hot sun's- 
 rays come on this turf. I thought I had chosen such a capital 
 spot ! " 
 
 But he got up and persisted in leaving the table,, although he 
 was evidently sorry to spoil the little party. He walked up and 
 down the gravel walk, close by them, talking to them as he kept 
 passing by and trying to cheer them up. 
 
 "Are you warmer now, papa?" asked Ellinor. 
 
 "Oh, yes ! all right. It's only that place that seems so chilly 
 and damp. I'm as warm as a toast now." 
 
 The next morning Mr. Corbet left them. The unseasonably 
 fine weather passed away too, and all things went back to their 
 rather grey and dreary aspect ; but Ellinor was too happy to feel 
 this much, knowing what absent love existed for her alone, and. 
 from this knowledge unconsciously trusting in the sun behind, 
 the clouds. 
 
 I have said that few or none in the immediate neighbourhood 
 of Hamley, beside their own household and Mr. Ness, knew of 
 Ellinor's engagement. At one of the rare dinner-parties to which 
 she accompanied her father — it was at the old lady's house whO' 
 chaperoned her to the assemblies — she was taken in to dinner by 
 a young clergyman staying in the neighbourhood. He had just 
 had a small living given to him in his own county, and he felt as 
 if this was a great step in his life. He was good, innocent, and 
 
52 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 rather boyish in appearance. Ellinor was happy and at her ease, 
 and chatted away to this Mr. Livingstone on many Httle points 
 ■of interest which they found they had in common : church music, 
 and the difficulty they had in getting people to sing in parts ; 
 Salisbury Cathedral, which they had both seen ; styles of church 
 architecture, Ruskin's works, and parish schools, in which Mr. 
 Livingstone was somewhat shocked to find that Ellinor took no 
 great interest. When the gentlemen came in from the dining- 
 room, it struck Ellinor, for the first time in her life, that her 
 father had taken more wine than was good for him. Indeed, this 
 had rather become a habit with him of late ; but as he always 
 tried to go quietly off to his own room when such had been the 
 case, his daughter had never been aware of it before, and the 
 perception of it now made her cheeks hot with shame. She 
 thought that every one must be as conscious of his altered manner 
 and way of speaking as she was, and after a pause of sick silence, 
 during which she could not say a word, she set to and talked to 
 Mr. Livingstone about parish schools, anything, with redoubled 
 vigour and apparent interest, in order to keep one or two of the 
 company, at least, from noticing what was to her so painfully 
 obvious. 
 
 The effect of her behaviour was far more than she had intended. 
 She kept Mr. Livingstone, it is true, from observing her father, 
 but she also riveted his attention on herself. He had thought 
 her very pretty and agreeable during dinner : but after dinner he 
 considered her bewitching, irresistible. He dreamed of her all 
 night, and wakened up the next morning to a calculation of how 
 far his income would allow him to furnish his pretty new par- 
 sonage with that crowning blessing, a wife. For a day or two he 
 did up little sums, and sighed, and thought of Ellinor, her face 
 listening with admiring interest to his sermons, her arm passed 
 into his as they went together round the parish ; her sweet voice 
 instructing classes in his schools — turn where he would, in his 
 imagination Ellinor's presence rose up before him. 
 
 The consequence was that he wrote an offer, which he found 
 a far more perplexing piece of composition than a sermon ; a 
 real hearty expression of love, going on, over all obstacles, to a 
 straightforward explanation of his present prospects and future 
 hopes, and winding up with the information that on the succeed- 
 ing morning he would call to know whether he might speak to 
 Mr. Wilkins on the subject of this letter. It was given to Ellinor 
 
A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 53 
 
 in the evening, as she was sitting with Miss Monro in the hbrary. 
 Mr. Wilkins was dining out, she hardly knew where, as it was a 
 sudden engagement, of which he had sent word from the office 
 —a gentleman's dinner-party, she supposed, as he had dressed 
 in Hamley without coming home. Ellinor turned over the letter 
 when it was brought to her, as some people do when they cannot 
 recognise the handwriting, as if to discover from paper or seal 
 what two moments would assure them of, if they opened the 
 letter and looked at the signature. Ellinor could not guess who 
 had written it by any outward sign ; but the moment she saw the 
 name " Herbert Livingstone," the meaning of-^the letter flashed 
 upon her and she coloured all over. She put the letter away, 
 unread, for a few minutes, and then made some excuse for leaving 
 the room and going upstairs. When safe in her bedchamber, 
 she read the young man's eager words with a sense of self- 
 reproach. How must she, engaged to one man, have been 
 behaving to another, if this was the result of a single evening's 
 interview ? The self-reproach was unjustly bestowed ; but with 
 that we have nothing to do. She made herself very miserable ; 
 and at last went down with a heavy heart to go on with Dante, 
 and rummage up words in the dictionary. All the time she 
 •seemed to Miss Monro to be plodding on with her Italian more 
 diligently and sedately than usual, she was planning in her own 
 mind to speak to her father as soon as he returned (and he had 
 said that he should not be late), and beg him to undo the mischief 
 she had done by seeing Mr. Livingstone the next morning, and 
 frankly explaining the real state of affairs to him. But she 
 wanted to read her letter again, and think it all over in peace ; 
 and so, at an early hour, she wished Miss Monro good-night, 
 and went up into her own room above the drawing-room, and 
 overlooking the flower-garden and shrubbery-path to the stable- 
 yard, by which her father was sure to return. She went upstairs 
 and studied her letter well, and tried to recall all her speeches 
 and conduct on that miserable evening — as she thought it then 
 — not knowing what true misery was. Her head ached, and 
 she put out the candle, and went and sat on the window-seat, 
 looking out into the moonht garden, watching for her father. 
 She opened the window ; partly to cool her forehead, partly to 
 enable her to call down softly when she should see him coming 
 along. By-and-by the door from the stable-yard into the 
 shrubbery clicked and opened, and in a moment she saw Mr. 
 
54 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 Wilkins moving through the bushes ; but not alone, Mr, Dunster 
 was with him, and the two were talking together in rather ex- 
 cited tones, immediately lost to hearing, however, as they entered 
 Mr. Wilkins's study by the outer door. 
 
 "They have been dining together somewhere. Probably at 
 Mr. Hanbury's" (the Hamley brewer), thought Ellinor. "But 
 how provoking that he should have come home with papa this 
 night of all nights ! " 
 
 Two or three times before Mr. Dunster had called on Mr. 
 Wilkins in the evening, as Ellinor knew ; but she was not 
 quite aware of the reason for such late visits, and had never 
 put together the two facts — as cause and consequence) — that 
 on such occasions her father had been absent from the office 
 all day, and that there might be necessary business for him 
 to transact, the urgency of which was the motive for Mr. 
 Dunster's visits. Mr. Wilkins always seemed to be annoyed 
 by his coming at so late an hour, and spoke of it, resenting 
 the intrusion upon his leisure ; and EUinor, without considera- 
 tion, adopted her father's mode of speaking and thinking on 
 the subject, and was rather more angry than he was whenever 
 the obnoxious partner came on business in the evening. This 
 night was, of all nights, the most ill-purposed time (so Ellinor 
 thought) for a tete-a-tete with her father ! However, there 
 was no doubt in her mind as to what she had to do. So late 
 as it was, the unwelcome visitor could not stop long ; and then 
 she would go down and have her little confidence with her 
 father, and beg him to see Mr. Livingstone when he came 
 next morning, and dismiss him as gently as might be. 
 
 She sat on in the window-seat ; dreaming waking dreams 
 of future happiness. She kept losing herself in such thoughts, 
 and became almost afraid of forgetting why she sat there. 
 Presently she felt cold, and got up to fetch a shawl, in 
 which she muffled herself and resumed her place. It seemed 
 to her growing very late ; the moonlight was coming fuller 
 and fuller into the garden and the blackness of the shadow 
 was more concentrated and stronger. Surely Mr. Dunster 
 could not have gone away along the dark shrubbery-path 
 so noiselessly but what she must have heard him? No! 
 there was the swell of voices coming up through the window 
 from her father's study : angry voices they were ; and her 
 anger rose sympathetically, as she knew that her father was 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 55 
 
 being irritated. There was a sudden movement, as of chairs 
 pushed hastily aside, and then a mysterious unaccountable 
 noise — heavy, sudden ; and then a slight movement as of 
 <:hairs again ; and then a profound stillness. Ellinor leaned 
 her head against the side of the window to listen more intently, 
 for some mysterious instinct made her sick and faint. No sound — 
 no noise. Only by-and-by she heard, what we have ail heard 
 at such times of intent listening, the beating of the pulses of 
 her heart, and then the whirling rush of blood through her 
 head. How long did this last? She never knew. By-and-by 
 she heard her father's hurried footstep in his bedroom, next 
 to hers ; but when she ran thither to speak to him, and ask 
 him what was amiss — if anything had been — if she might 
 come to him now about Mr. Livingstone's letter, she found 
 that he had gone down again to his study, and almost at the 
 same moment she heard the little private outer door of that 
 room open ; some one went out, and then there were hurried 
 footsteps along the shrubbery-path. She thought, of course, 
 that it was Mr. Dunster leaving the house ; and went back for 
 Mr. Livingstone's letter. Having found it, she passed through 
 her father's room to the private staircase, thinking that if 
 she went by the more regular way, she would have run 
 the risk of disturbing Miss Monro, and perhaps of being 
 questioned in the morning. Even in passing down this remote 
 staircase, she trod softly for fear of being overheard. When 
 she entered the room, the full light of the candles dazzled her 
 for an instant, coming out of the darkness. They were flaring 
 wildly in the draught that came in through the open door, by 
 which the outer air was admitted ; for a moment there seemed 
 no one in the room, and then she saw, with strange sick horror, 
 the legs of some one lying on the carpet behind the table. As 
 if compelled, even while she shrank from doing it, she went 
 round to see who it was that lay there so still and motionless as 
 never to stir at her sudden coming. It was Mr. Dunster ; his 
 head propped on chair-cushions, his eyes open, staring, dis- 
 tended. There was a strong smell of brandy and hartshorn in 
 the room ; a smell so powerful as not to be neutralised by the 
 free current of night air that blew through the two open doors. 
 Ellinor could not have told whether it was reason or instinct 
 that made her act as she did during this awful night. In think- 
 ing of it afterwards, with shuddering avoidance of the haunting 
 
56 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 memory that would come and overshadow her during many, 
 many years of her hfe, she grew to believe that the powerful 
 smell of the spilt brandy absolutely intoxicated her — an un- 
 conscious Rechabite in practice. But something gave her a 
 presence of mind and a courage not her own. And though 
 she learnt to think afterwards that she had acted unwisely, if 
 not wrongly and wickedly, yet she marvelled, in recalling that 
 time, how she could have then behaved as she did. First of all 
 she lifted herself up from her fascinated gaze at the dead man, 
 and went to the staircase door, by which she had entered the 
 study, and shut it softly. Then she went back — looked again ; 
 took the brandy-bottle, and knelt down, and tried to pour some 
 into the mouth ; but this she found she could not do. Then she 
 wetted her handkerchief with the spirit, and moistened the lips ; 
 all to no purpose ; for, as I have said before, the man was dead 
 — killed by rupture of a vessel of the brain ; how occasioned I 
 must tell by-and-by. Of course, all Ellinor's little cares and 
 efforts produced no effect ; her father had tried them before — 
 vain endeavours all, to bring back the precious breath of life ! 
 The poor girl could not bear the look of those open eyes, and 
 softly, tenderly, tried to close them, although unconscious that 
 in so doing she was rendering the pious ofhces of some beloved 
 hand to a dead man. She was sitting by the body on the floor 
 when she heard steps coming with rushing and yet cautious 
 tread, through the shrubbery ; she had no fear, although it 
 might be the tread of robbers and murderers. The awfulness 
 of the hour raised her above common fears ; though she did not 
 go through the usual process of reasoning, and by it feel assured 
 that the feet which were coming so softly and swiftly along were 
 the same which she had heard leaving the room in like manner 
 only a quarter of an hour before. 
 
 Her father entered, and started back, almost upsetting some 
 one behind him by his recoil, on seeing his daughter in her 
 motionless attitude by the dead man. 
 
 "My God, Ellinor ! what has brought you here?" he said, 
 almost fiercely. 
 
 But she answered as one stupefied — 
 
 •' I don't know. Is he dead?" 
 
 " Hush, hush, child ; it cannot be helped." 
 
 She raised her eyes to the solemn, pitying, awe-stricken face 
 behind her father's — the countenance of Dixon. 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 57 
 
 " Is he dead ? " she asked of him. 
 
 The man stepped forwards, respectfully pushing his master on 
 one side as he did so. He bent down over the corpse, and 
 looked, and hstened, and then reaching a candle off the table, 
 he signed Mr. Wilkins to close the door. And Mr. Wilkins 
 obeyed, and looked with an intensity of eagerness almost 
 amounting to faintness on the experiment, and yet he could 
 not hope. The flame was steady — steady and pitilessly un- 
 stirred, even when it was adjusted close to mouth and nostril ; 
 the head was raised up by one of Dixon's stalwart arms, while 
 he held the candle in the other hand. EUinor fancied that 
 there was some trembling on Dixon's part, and grasped his 
 wrist tightly in order to give it the requisite motionless firmness. 
 
 All in vain. The head was placed again on the cushions, the 
 servant rose and stood by his master, looked sadly on the dead 
 man, whom, hving, none of them had liked or cared for, and 
 Ellinor sat on, quiet and tearless, as one in a trance. 
 
 " How was it, father?" at length she asked. 
 
 He would fain have had her ignorant of all, but so questioned 
 by her lips, so adjured by her eyes, in the very presence of 
 death, he could not choose but speak the truth ; he spoke it in 
 convulsive gasps, each sentence an effort — 
 
 "He taunted me — he was insolent, beyond my patience — I 
 could not bear it. I struck him — I can't tell how it was. He 
 must have hit his head in falling. Oh, my God ! one little hour 
 ago I was innocent of this man's blood ! " He covered his face 
 with his hands. 
 
 Ellinor took the candle again ; kneeling behind Mr. Dunster's 
 head she tried the futile experiment once more. 
 
 " Could not a doctor do some good?" she asked of Dixon, in 
 a hopeless voice. 
 
 " No ! " said he, shaking his head, and looking with a side- 
 long glance at his master, who seemed to shrivel up and to 
 shrink away at the bare suggestion. " Doctors can do nought, 
 I'm afeard. All that a doctor could do, I take it, would be to 
 open a vein, and that I could do along with the best of them, 
 if I had but my fleam here." He fumbled in his pockets as he 
 spoke, and, as chance would have it, the "fleam" (or cattle lancet) 
 was somewhere about his dress. He drew it out, smoothed and 
 tried it on his finger. Ellinor tried to bare the arm, but turned 
 sick as she did so. Her father started eagerly forwards, and did 
 
53 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 what was necessary with hurried trembhng hands. If they had 
 cared less about the result, they might have been more afraid 
 of the consequences of the operation in the hands of one so 
 ignorant as Dixon. But, vein or artery, it signified little ; no 
 living blood gushed out ; only a little watery moisture followed 
 the cut of the fleam. They laid him back on his strange sad 
 death-couch. Dixon spoke next. 
 
 " Master N'ed ! " said he — for he had known Mr. Wilkins in 
 his days of bright careless boyhood, and almost was carried 
 back to them by the sense of charge and protection which the 
 servant's presence of mind and sharpened senses gave him over 
 his master on this dreary night — "Master Ned! we must do 
 summut." 
 
 No one spoke. What was to be done? 
 
 " Did any folk see him come here? " Dixon asked, after a time. 
 EUinor looked up to hear her father's answer, a wild hope coming 
 into her mind that all might be concealed somehow ; she did 
 not know how, nor did she think of any consequences except 
 saving her father from the vague dread, trouble, and punishment 
 that she was aware would await him if all were known. 
 
 Mr. Wilkins did not seem to hear ; in fact, he did not hear 
 anything but tiie unspoken echo of his own last words, that 
 w^ent booming through his heart : "An hour ago I was innocent 
 of this man's blood ! Only an hour ago ! " 
 
 Dixon got up and poured out half a tumblerful of raw spirit 
 from the brandy-bottle that stood on the table. 
 
 "Drink this, Master Ned!" putting it to his master's hps. 
 " Nay" — to EUinor — " it will do him no harm ; only bring back 
 his senses, which, poor gentleman, are scared away. We shall 
 need all our wits. Now, sir, please answer my question. Did 
 any one see Measter Dunster come here? " 
 
 "I don't know," said Mr. Wilkins, recovering his speech. 
 "It all seems in a mist. He offered to walk home with me ; I 
 did not want him. I was almost rude to him to keep him off. 
 I did not want to talk of business ; I had taken too much wine 
 to be very clear, and some things at the office were not quite in 
 order, and he had found it out. If any one heard our conversa- 
 tion, they must know I did not want him to come with me. 
 Oh ! why would he come ! He was as obstinate — he would 
 come — and here it has been his death ! " 
 
 "Well, sir, what's done can't be undone, and I'm sure we'd 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 59 
 
 any of us bring him back to life if we could, even by cutting off 
 our hands, though he was a mighty plaguey chap while lie'd 
 breath in him. But what I'm thinking is this : it'll maybe go 
 awkward with you, sir, if he's found here. One can't say. But 
 don't you think, miss, as he's neither kith nor kin to miss him, 
 we might just bury him away before morning, somewhere? 
 There's better nor four hours of dark. I wish we could put him 
 i' the churchyard, but that can't be ; but, to my mind, the 
 sooner we set about digging a place for him to lie in, poor 
 fellow, the better it'll be for us all in the end. I can pare a 
 piece of turf up where it'll never be missed, and if master '11 
 take one spade, and I another, why, we'll lay him softly down, 
 and cover him up, and no one '11 be the wiser." 
 
 There was no reply from either for a minute or so. Then 
 Mr. Wilkin s said — 
 
 " If my father could have known of my living to this ! Why, 
 they will try me as a criminal ; and you, Ellinor? Dixon, you 
 are right. We must conceal it, or I must cut my throat, for I 
 never could live through it. One minute of passion, and my 
 life blasted !" 
 
 "Come along, sir," said Dixon; "there's no time to lose." 
 And they went out in search of tools; Ellinor following them, 
 shivering all over, but begging that she might be with them, 
 and not have to remain in the study with 
 
 She would not be bidden into her own room ; she dreaded 
 inaction and solitude. She made herself busy with carrying 
 heavy baskets of turf, and straining her strength to the utmost ; 
 fetching all that was wanted, with soft swift steps. 
 
 Once, as she passed near the open study door, she thought 
 that she heard a rustling, and a flash of hope came across her. 
 Could he be reviving? She entered, but a moment was enough 
 to undeceive her ; it had only been a night rustle among the 
 trees. Of hope, life, there was none. 
 
 They dug the hole deep and well ; working with fierce energy 
 to quench thought and remorse. Once or twice her father asked 
 /or brandy, which Ellinor, reassured by the apparently good 
 effect of the first dose, brought to him without a word ; and 
 once at her father's suggestion she brought food, such as she 
 could find in the dining-room without disturbing the household, 
 for Dixon. 
 
 When all was ready for the reception of the body in its un- 
 
6o A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 blessed grave, Mr. Wilkins bade Ellinor go up to her own room 
 — she had done all she could to help them ; the rest must be 
 done by them alone. She felt that it must; and indeed both 
 her nerves and her bodily strength were giving way. She 
 would have kissed her father, as he sat wearily at the head of 
 the grave — Dixon had gone in to make some arrangement 
 for carrying the corpse — but he pushed her away quietly, but 
 resolutely — 
 
 "No, Nelly, you must never kiss me again; I am a mur- 
 derer." 
 
 " But I will, my own darling papa," said she, throwing her 
 arms passionately round his neck, and covering his face with 
 kisses. "I love you, and I don't care what you are, if you 
 were twenty times a murderer, which you are not ; I am sure 
 it was only an accident." 
 
 "Go in, my child, go in, and try to get some rest. But go 
 in, for we must finish as fast as we can. The moon is down ; 
 it will soon be daylight. What a blessing there are no rooms 
 on one side of the house. Go, Nelly." And she went ; strain- 
 ing herself up to move noiselessly, with eyes averted, through 
 the room which she shuddered at as the place of hasty and un- 
 hallowed death. 
 
 Once in her own room she bolted the door on the inside, and 
 then stole to the window, as if some fascination impelled her to 
 watch all the proceedings to the end. But her aching eyes 
 could hardly penetrate through the thick darkness, which at 
 the time of the year of which I am speaking, so closely precedes 
 the dawn. She could discern the tops of the trees against the 
 sky, and could single out the well-known one, at a little distance 
 from the stem of which the grave was made, in the very piece 
 of turf over which so lately she and Ralph had had their merry 
 little tea-making ; and where her father, as she now remembered, 
 had shuddered and shivered, as if the ground on which his seat 
 had then been placed was fateful and ominous to him. 
 
 Those below moved softly and quietly in all they did ; but 
 every sound had a significant and terrible interpretation to 
 Ellinor's ears. Before they had ended, the little birds had 
 begun to pipe out their gay reveillde to the dawn. Then doors 
 closed, and all was profoundly still. 
 
 Ellinor threw herself, in her clothes, on the bed ; and was 
 thankful for the intense weary physical pain which took off 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 6l 
 
 something of the anguish of thought — anguish that she fancied 
 from time to time was leading to insanity. 
 
 By-and-by the morning cold made her instinctively creep 
 between the blankets ; and, once there, she fell into a dead 
 heavy sleep. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Ellinor was awakened by a rapping at her door : it was her 
 maid. 
 
 She was fully aroused in a moment, for she had fallen asleep 
 with one clearly defined plan in her mind, only one, for all 
 thoughts and cares having no relation to the terrible event were 
 as though they had never been. All her purpose was to shield 
 her father from suspicion. And to do this she must control 
 herself— heart, mind, and body must be ruled to this one end. 
 
 So she said to Mason — 
 
 *' Let me lie half-an-hour longer; and beg Miss Monro not 
 to wait breakfast for me ; but in half-an-hour bring me up a 
 cup of strong tea, for I have a bad headache." 
 
 Mason went away. Ellinor sprang up ; rapidly undressed 
 herself, and got into bed again, so that when her maid returned 
 with her breakfast, there was no appearance of the night having 
 been passed in any unusual manner. 
 
 " How ill you do look, miss ! " said Mason. " I am sure you 
 had better not get up yet." 
 
 Ellinor longed to ask if her father had yet shown himself; but 
 this question — so natural at any other time — seemed to her so 
 suspicious under the circumstances, that she could not bring her 
 lips to frame it. At any rate, she must get up and struggle to 
 make the day like all other days. So she rose, confessing that 
 she did not feel very well, but trying to make light of it, and 
 when she could think of anything but the one awe, to say a 
 trivial sentence or two. But she could not recollect how she 
 behaved in general, for her hfe hitherto had been simple, and 
 led without any consciousness of effect. 
 
 Before she was dressed, a message came up to say that Mr. 
 Livingstone was in the drawing-room. 
 
 Mr. Livingstone ! He belonged to the old Hfe of yesterday ! 
 The billows of the night had swept over his mark on the sands 
 
62 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 of her memory ; and it was only by a strong effort that she could 
 remember who he was — what he waiited. She sent Mason down 
 to inquire from the servant who admitted him whom it was that 
 he had asked for. 
 
 " He asked for master first. But master has not rung for his 
 water yet, so James told him he was not up. Then he took 
 thought for a while, and asked could he speak to you, he would 
 wait if you were not at hberty ; but that he wished particular to 
 see either master, or you. So James asked him to sit down in 
 the drawing-room, and he would let you know." 
 
 "I must go," thought EUinor. "I will send him away 
 directly ; to come, thinking of marriage, to a house hke this — 
 to-day, too ! " 
 
 And she went down hastily, and in a hard unsparing mood 
 towards a man, whose affection for her she thought was like a 
 gourd, grown up in a night, and of no account, but as a piece 
 of foolish, boyish excitement. 
 
 She never thought of her own appearance — she had dressed 
 without looking in the glass. Her only object was to dismiss 
 her would-be suitor as speedily as possible. All feelings of shy- 
 ness, awkwardness, or maiden modesty, were quenched and 
 overcome. In she went. 
 
 He was standing by the mantelpiece as she entered. He 
 made a step or two forward to meet her ; and then stopped, 
 petrified, as it were, at the sight of her hard white face. 
 
 * ' Miss Wilkins, I am afraid you are ill ! I have come too 
 early. But I have to leave Hamley in half-an-hour, and I 
 thought Oh, Miss Wilkins ! what have I done? " 
 
 For she sank into the chair nearest to her, as if overcome by 
 his words ; but indeed, it was by the oppression of her own 
 thoughts : she was hardly conscious of his presence. 
 
 He came a step or two nearer, as if he longed to take her in 
 his arms and comfort and shelter her ; but she stiffened herself 
 and arose, and by an effort walked towards the fireplace, and 
 there stood, as if awaiting what he would say next. But he was 
 overwhelmed by her aspect of illness. He almost forgot his 
 own wishes, his own suit, in his desire to relieve her from the 
 pain, physical as he believed it, under which she was suffering. 
 It was she who had to begin the subject. 
 
 "I received your letter yesterday, Mr. Livingstone. I was 
 anxious to see you to-day, in order that I might prevent you 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 6^ 
 
 from speaking to my father. I do not say anything of the kind 
 of affection you can feel for me — me, whom you have only seen 
 once. All I shall say is, that the sooner we both forget what I 
 must call folly, the better." 
 
 She took the airs of a woman considerably older and more 
 experienced than himself. He thought her haughty ; she was 
 only miserable. 
 
 "You are mistaken," said he, more quietly and with more 
 dignity than was Hkely from his previous conduct. " I will not 
 allow you to characterise as folly what might be presumptuous 
 on my part — I had no business to express myself so soon — but 
 which in its foundation was true and sincere. That I can answer 
 for most solemnly. It is possible, though it may not be a usual 
 thing, for a man to feel so strongly attracted by the charms and 
 qualities of a woman, even at first sight, as to feel sure that she, 
 and she alone, can make his happiness. My folly consisted — 
 there you are right — in even dreaming that you could return my 
 feelings in the shghtest degree, when you had only seen me 
 once ; and I am most truly ashamed of myself. I cannot tell 
 you how sorry I am, when I see how you have compelled your- 
 self to come and speak to me when you are so ill." 
 
 She staggered into a chair, for with all her wish for his speedy 
 dismissal, she was obliged to be seated. His hand was upon 
 the bell. 
 
 " No, don't ! " she said. "Wait a minute." 
 
 His eyes, bent upon her with a look of deep anxiety, touched 
 her at that moment, and she was on the point of shedding tears ; 
 but she checked herself, and rose again. 
 
 "T will go," said he. "It is the kindest thing I can do. 
 Only, may I write ! May I venture to write and urge what I 
 have to say more coherently?" 
 
 ' * No ! " said she. * ' Don't write. I have given you my answer. 
 We are nothing, and can be nothing to each other. I am 
 engaged to be married. I should not have told you if you had 
 not been so kind. Thank you. But go now." 
 
 The poor young man's face fell, and he became almost as 
 white as she was for the instant. After a moment's reflection, 
 he took her hand in his, and said — 
 
 " May God bless you, and him too, whoever he be ! But if 
 you want a friend, I may be that friend, may I not? and try to 
 prove that my words of regard are true, in a better and higher 
 
 ;/" 
 
64 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 sense than I used them at first." And kissing her passive hand, 
 he was gone and she was left sitting alone. 
 
 But solitude was not what she could bear. She went quickly- 
 upstairs, and took a strong dose of sal-volatile, even while she 
 heard Miss Monro calling to her. 
 
 "My dear, who was that gentleman that has been closeted 
 with you in the drawing-room all this time?" 
 
 And then, without listening to EUinor's reply, she went on — 
 
 " Mrs. Jackson has been here " (it was at Mrs. Jackson's house 
 that Mr. Dunster lodged), "wanting to know if we could tell 
 her where Mr. Dunster was, for he never came home last night 
 at all. And you were in the drawing-room with — who did you 
 say he was? — that Mr. Livingstone, who might have come at a 
 better time to bid good-bye ; and he had never dined here, had 
 he? so I don't see any reason he had to come calling, and P. P. 
 C.-ing, and your papa not up. So I said to Mrs. Jackson, ' I'll 
 send and ask Mr. Wilkins, if you like, but I don't see any use 
 in it, for I can tell you just as well as anybody, that Mr. Dunster 
 is not in this house, wherever he may be.' Yet nothing would 
 satisfy her but that some one must go and waken up your papa, 
 and ask if he could tell where Mr. Dunster was." 
 
 "And did papa?" inquired Ellinor, her dry throat huskily 
 forming the inquiry that seemed to be expected from her. 
 
 " No ! to be sure not. How should Mr. Wilkins know? As 
 I said to Mrs. Jackson, ' Mr. Wilkins is not likely to know where 
 Mr. Dunster spends his time when he is not in the office, for 
 they do not move in the same rank of life, my good woman ; ' 
 and Mrs. Jackson apologised, but said that yesterday they had 
 both been dining at Mr. Hodgson's together, she believed ; and 
 somehow she had got it into her head that Mr. Dunster might 
 have missed his way in coming along Moore Lane, and might 
 have slipped into the canal ; so she just thought she would step 
 up and ask Mr. Wilkins if they had left Mr. Hodgson's together, 
 or if your papa had driven home. I asked her why she had not 
 told me all these particulars before, for I could have asked your 
 papa myself all about when he last saw Mr. Dunster; and I 
 went up to ask him a second time, but he did not like it at all, 
 for he was busy dressing, and I had to shout my questions 
 through the door, and he could not always hear me at first." 
 
 " What did he say?" 
 
 " Oh ! he had walked part of the way with Mr. Dunster, and 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 65 
 
 then cut across by the short path through the fields, as far as I 
 could understand him through the door. He seemed very much 
 annoyed to hear that Mr. Dunster had not been at home all 
 night ; but he said I was to tell Mrs. Jackson that he would 
 go to the office as soon as he had had his breakfast, which he 
 ordered to be sent up directly into his own room, and he had no 
 doubt it would all turn out right ; but that she had better go 
 home at once. And, as I told her, she might find Mr. Dunster 
 there by the time she got there. There, there is your papa 
 going out ! He has not lost any time over his breakfast ! " 
 
 Ellinor had taken up the Hamley Exa7niner, a daily paper, 
 which lay on the table, to hide her face in the first instance ; 
 but it served a second purpose, as she glanced languidly over 
 the columns of the advertisements. 
 
 "Oh ! here are Colonel Macdonald's orchideous plants to be 
 sold. All the stock of hothouse and stove plants at Hartwell 
 Priory. I must send James over to Hartwell to attend the sale. 
 It is to last for three days." 
 
 " But can he be spared for so long?" 
 
 "Oh, yes ; he had better stay at the little inn there, to be on 
 the spot. Three days," and as she spoke, she ran out to the 
 gardener, who was sweeping up the newly-mown grass in the 
 front of the house. She gave him hasty and unlimited directions, 
 only seeming intent — if any one had been suspiciously watching 
 her words and actions — to hurry him off to the distant village, 
 where the auction was to take place. 
 
 When he was once gone she breathed more freely. Now, no 
 one but the three cognisant of the terrible reason of the disturb- 
 ance of the turf under the trees in a certain spot in the belt 
 round the flower-garden, would be hkely to go into the place. 
 Miss Monro might wander round with a book in her hand ; but 
 she never noticed anything, and was short-sighted into the 
 bargain. Three days of this moist, warm, growing weather, 
 and the green grass would spring, just as if life — was what it 
 had been twenty-four hours before. 
 
 When all this was done and said, it seemed as if Ellinor's 
 strength and spirit sank down at once. Her voice became 
 feeble, her aspect wan ; and although she told Miss Monro 
 that nothing was the matter, yet it was impossible for any one 
 who loved her not to perceive that she was far from well. The 
 kind governess placed, her pupil on the sofa, covered her feet 
 
 c 
 
66 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 up warmly, darkened the room, and then stole out on tiptoe, 
 fancying that Ellinor would sleep. Her eyes were, indeed, 
 shut ; but try as much as she would to be quiet, she was up in 
 less than five minutes after Miss Monro had left the room, and 
 walking up and down in all the restless agony of body that 
 arises from an overstrained mind. But soon Miss Monro re- 
 appeared, bringing with her a dose of soothing medicine of 
 her own concocting, for she was great in domestic quackery. 
 What the medicine was Ellinor did not care to know ; she 
 drank it without any sign of her usual merry resistance to physic 
 of Miss Monro's ordering ; and as the latter took up a book, 
 and showed a set purpose of remaining with her patient, Ellinor 
 was compelled to lie still, and presently fell asleep. 
 
 She awakened late in the afternoon with a start. Her father 
 was standing over her, listening to Miss Monro's account of her 
 indisposition. She only caught one glimpse of his strangely 
 altered countenance, and hid her head in the cushions — hid it 
 from memory, not from him. For in an instant she must have 
 conjectured the interpretation he was hkely to put upon her 
 shrinking action, and she had turned towards him, and had 
 thrown her arms round his neck, and was kissing his cold, 
 passive face. Then she fell back. But all this time their sad 
 eyes never met — they dreaded the look of recollection that must 
 be in each other's gaze. 
 
 " There, my dear ! " said Miss Monro. " Now you must lie 
 still till I fetch you a little broth. You are better now, are not 
 you?" 
 
 "You need not go for the broth. Miss Monro," said Mr. 
 Wilkins, ringing the bell. " Fletcher can surely bring it." He 
 dreaded the being left alone with his daughter — nor did she 
 fear it less. She heard the strange alteration in her father's 
 voice, hard and hoarse, as if it was an effort to speak. The 
 physical signs of his suffering cut her to the heart ; and yet she 
 wondered how it was that they could both be alive, or, if alive, 
 they were not rending their garments and crying aloud. Mr. 
 Wilkins seemed to have lost the power of careless action and 
 speech, it is true. He wished to leave the room now his anxiety 
 about his daughter was relieved, but hardly knew how to set 
 about it. He was obliged to think about the veriest trifle, in 
 order that by an effort of reason he might understand how he 
 should have spoken or acted if he had been free from blood- 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 67 
 
 guiltiness. Ellinor understood all by intuition. But hence- 
 forward the unspoken comprehension of each other's hidden 
 motions made their mutual presence a burdensome anxiety to 
 each. Miss Monro was a relief; they were glad of her as a 
 third person, unconscious of the secret which constrained them. 
 This afternoon her unconsciousness gave present pain, although 
 on after reflection each found in her speeches a cause of 
 rejoicing. 
 
 " And Mr. Dunster, Mr. Wilkins, has he come home yet?" 
 
 A moment's pause, in which Mr. Wilkins pumped the words 
 out of his husky throat — 
 
 " I have not heard. I have been riding. I went on business 
 to Mr. Estcourt's. Perhaps you will be so kind as to send and 
 inquire at Mrs. Jackson's." 
 
 Ellinor sickened at the words. She had been all her life a 
 truthful plain-spoken girl. She held herself high above deceit. 
 Yet, here came the necessity for deceit — a snare spread around 
 her. She had not revolted so much from the deed which 
 brought unpremeditated death, as she did from these words of 
 her father's. The night before, in her mad fever of affright, 
 she had fancied that to conceal the body was all that would 
 be required ; she had not looked forward to the long, weary 
 course of small lies, to be done and said, involved in that one 
 mistaken action. Yet, while her father's words made her soul 
 revolt, his appearance melted her heart, as she caught it, half 
 turned away from her, neither looking straight at Miss Monro, 
 nor at anything materially visible. His hollow sunken eye 
 seemed to EUinor to have a vision of the dead man before 
 it. His cheek was livid and worn, and its healthy colouring, 
 gained by years of hearty outdoor exercise, was all gone into 
 the wanness of age. His hair, even to Ellinor, seemed greyer 
 for the past night of wretchedness. He stooped, and looked 
 dreamily earthward, where formerly he had stood erect. It 
 needed all the pity called forth by such observation to quench 
 Ellinor's passionate contempt for the course on which she and 
 her father were embarked, when she heard him repeat his words 
 to the servant who came with her broth. 
 
 " Fletcher ! go to Mrs. Jackson's and inquire if Mr. Dunster 
 is come home yet. I want to speak to him." 
 
 "To him !" lying dead where he had been laid ; killed by the 
 man who now asked for his presence. Ellinor shut her eyes, and 
 
68 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 lay back in despair. She wished she might die, and be out of 
 this horrible tangle of events. 
 
 Two minutes after, she was conscious of her father and Miss 
 Monro stealing softly out of the room. They thought that 
 she slept. 
 
 She sprang off the sofa and knelt down. 
 
 "O God," she prayed, "Thou knowest ! Help me ! There 
 is none other help but Thee ! " 
 
 I suppose she fainted. For, an hour or more afterwards, 
 Miss Monro, coming in, found her lying insensible by the side 
 of the sofa. 
 
 She was carried to bed. She was not delirious, she was only 
 in a stupor, which they feared might end in delirium. To 
 obviate this, her father sent far and wide for skilful physicians, 
 who tended her, almost at the rate of a guinea the minute. 
 
 People said how hard it was upon Mr. Wilkins, that scarcely 
 had that wretch Dunster gone off, with no one knows how 
 much out of the trusts of the firm, before his only child fell 
 ill. And, to tell the truth, he himself looked burnt and seared 
 with affliction. He had a startled look, they said, as if he 
 never could tell, after such experience, from which side the 
 awful proofs of the uncertainty of earth would appear, the 
 terrible phantoms of unforeseen dread. Both rich and poor, 
 town and country, sympathised with him. The rich cared 
 not to press their claims, or their business, at such a time ; 
 and only wondered, in their superficial talk after dinner, how 
 such a good fellow as Wilkins could ever have been deceived 
 by a man like Dunster. Even Sir Frank Holster and his lady 
 forgot their old quarrel, and came to inquire after Ellinor, and 
 sent her hothouse fruit by the bushel. 
 
 Mr. Corbet behaved as an anxious lover should do. He wrote 
 daily to Miss Monro to beg for the most minute bulletins ; he 
 procured everything in town that any doctor even fancied might 
 be of service. He came down as soon as there was the slightest 
 hint of permission that Ellinor might see him. He overpowered 
 her with tender words and caresses, till at last she shrank away 
 from them, as from something too bewildering, and past all 
 right comprehension. 
 
 But one night before this, when all windows and doors stood 
 open to admit the least breath that stirred the sultry July air, a 
 servant on velvet tiptoe had stolen up to EUinor's open door, and 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 69 
 
 had beckoned out of the chamber of the sleeper the ever watchful 
 nurse, Miss Monro. 
 
 "A gentleman wants you," were all the words the housemaid 
 dared to say so close to the bedroom. And softly, softly Miss 
 Monro stepped down the stairs, into the drawing-room ; and 
 there she saw Mr. Livingstone. But she did not know him ; 
 she had never seen him before. 
 
 " I have travelled all day. I heard she was ill — was dying. 
 May I just have one more look at her? I will not speak ; I will 
 hardly breathe. Only let me see her once again ! " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir, but I don't know who you are ; and 
 if you mean Miss Wilkins by ' her,' she is very ill, but we hope 
 not dying. She was very ill, indeed, yesterday ; very dangerously 
 ill, I may say, but she is having a good sleep, in consequence of 
 a soporific medicine, and we are really beginning to hope" 
 
 But just here Miss Monro's hand was taken, and, to her infinite 
 surprise, was kissed before she could remember how improper 
 such behaviour was. 
 
 " God bless you, madam, for saying so. But if she sleeps, will 
 you let me see her? it can do no harm, for I will tread as if on 
 egg-shells ; and I have come so far — if I might just look on her 
 sweet face. Pray, madam, let me just have one sight of her. I 
 will not ask for more." 
 
 But he did ask for more after he had had his wish. He stole 
 upstairs after Miss Monro, who looked round reproachfully at 
 him if even a nightingale sang, or an owl hooted in the trees 
 outside the open windows, yet who paused to say herself, outside 
 Mr. Wilkins's chamber door — 
 
 " Her father's room ; he has not been in bed for six nights, 
 till to-night ; pray do not make a noise to waken him." And on 
 into the deep stillness of the hushed room, where one clear ray 
 of hidden lamplight shot athwart the floor, where a watcher, 
 breathing softly, sat beside the bed — where Ellinor's dark head 
 lay motionless on the white pillow, her face almost as white, her 
 form almost as still. You might have heard a pin fall. After a 
 while he moved to withdraw. Miss Monro, jealous of every 
 sound, followed him, with steps all the more heavy because they 
 were taken with so much care, down the stairs, back into the 
 drawing-room. By the bed-candle flaring in the draught, she 
 saw that there was the glittering mark of wet tears on his cheek ; 
 and she felt, as she said afterwards, "sorry for the young man." 
 
70 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 And yet she urged him to go, for she knew that she might be 
 wanted upstairs. He took her hand, and wrung it hard. 
 
 "Thank you. She looked so changed — oh! she looked as 
 though she were dead. You will write — Herbert Livingstone, 
 Langham Vicarage, Yorkshire ; you will promise me to write. 
 If I could do anything for her, but I can but pray. Oh, my 
 darling ; my darling ! and I have no right to be with her." 
 
 " Go away, there's a good young man," said Miss Monro, all 
 the more pressing to hurry him out by the front door, because 
 she was afraid of his emotion overmastering him, and making 
 him noisy in his demonstrations. " Yes, I will write ; I will write, 
 never fear ! " and she bolted the door behind him and was 
 thankful. 
 
 Two minutes afterwards there was a low tap ; she undid the 
 fastenings, and there he stood, pale in the moonhght. 
 
 " Please don't tell her I came to ask about her ; she might not 
 like it." 
 
 " No, no ! not I ! Poor creature, she's not likely to care to 
 hear anything this long while. She never roused at Mr. Corbet's 
 name." 
 
 " Mr. Corbet's ! " said Livingstone, below his breath, and he 
 turned and went away ; this time for good. 
 
 But EUinor recovered. She knew she was recovering, when 
 day after day she felt involuntary strength and appetite return. 
 Her body seemed stronger than her will ; for that would have 
 induced her to creep into her grave, and shut her eyes for ever 
 on this world, so full of troubles. 
 
 She lay, for the most part, with her eyes closed, very still and 
 quiet ; but she thought with the intensity of one who seeks for 
 lost peace, and cannot find it. She began to see that if in the 
 mad impulses of that mad nightmare of horror, they had all 
 strengthened each other, and dared to be frank and open, con- 
 fessing a great fault, a greater disaster, a greater woe— which in 
 the first instance was hardly a crime — their future course, though 
 sad and sorrowful, would have been a simple and straightforward 
 one to tread. But it was not for her to undo what was done, 
 and to reveal the error and shame of a father. Only she, turning 
 anew to God, in the solemn and quiet watches of the night, made 
 a covenant, that in her conduct, her own personal individual life, 
 she would act loyally and truthfully. And as for the future, and 
 all the terrible chances involved in it, she would leave it in His 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 7 1 
 
 hands — if, indeed (and here came in the Tempter), He would 
 watch over one whose hfe hereafter must seem based upon a he. 
 Her only plea, offered " standing afar off," was, " The lie is said 
 and done and over — it was not for my own sake. Can filial piety 
 be so overcome by the rights of justice and truth, as to demand 
 of me that I should reveal my father's guilt." 
 
 Her father's severe sharp punishment began. He knew why 
 she suffered, what made her young strength falter and tremble, 
 what made her life seem nigh about to be quenched in death. 
 Yet he could not take his sorrow and care in the natural manner. 
 He was obliged to think how every word and deed would be con- 
 strued. He fancied that people were watching him with suspicious 
 eyes, when nothing was further from their thoughts. For once 
 let the " public " of any place be possessed by an idea, it is more 
 difiicult to dislodge it than any one imagines who has not tried. 
 If Mr. Wilkins had gone into the Hamley market-place, and pro- 
 claimed himself guilty of the manslaughter of Mr. Dunster — nay, 
 if he had detailed all the circumstances — the people would have 
 exclaimed, "Poor man, he is crazed by this discovery of the 
 unworthiness of the man he trusted so ; and no wonder — it was 
 such a thing to have done — to have defrauded his partner to such 
 an extent, and then have made off to America ! " 
 
 For many small circumstances, which I do not stop to detail 
 here, went far to prove this, as we know, unfounded supposition ; 
 and Mr. Wilkins, who was known, from his handsome boyhood, 
 through his comely manhood, up to the present time, by all the 
 people in Hamley, was an object of sympathy and respect to 
 every one who saw him, as he passed by, old, and lorn, and 
 haggard before his time, all through the evil conduct of one, 
 London-bred, who was as a hard, unlovely stranger to the 
 popular mind of this little country town. 
 
 Mr. Wilkins's own servants liked him. The workings of his 
 temptations were such as they could understand. If he had been 
 hot-tempered he had also been generous, or I should rather say 
 careless and lavish with his money. And now that he was 
 cheated and impoverished by his partner's delinquency, they 
 thought it no wonder that he drank long and deep in the solitary 
 evenings which he passed at home. It was not that he was 
 without invitations. Every one came forward to testify their 
 respect for him by asking him to their houses. He had probably 
 never been so universally popular since his father's death. But, 
 
72 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 as he said, he did not care to go into society while his daughter 
 was so ill — he had no spirits for company. 
 
 But if any one had cared to observe his conduct at home, and 
 to draw conclusions from it, they could have noticed that, 
 anxious as he was about EUinor, he rather avoided than sought 
 her presence, now that her consciousness and memory were 
 restored. Nor did she ask for, or wish for him. The presence 
 of each was a burden to the other. Oh, sad and woeful night 
 of May— overshadowing the coming summer months with gloom 
 and bitter remorse ! 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Still youth prevailed over all. Ellinor got well, as I have said, 
 even when she would fain have died. And the afternoon came 
 when she left her room. Miss Monro would gladly have made 
 a festival of her recovery, and have had her conveyed into the 
 unused drawing-room. But Ellinor begged that she might be 
 taken into the library — into the schoolroom — anywhere (thought 
 she) not looking on the side of the house on the flower-garden, 
 which she had felt in all her illness as a ghastly pressure lying 
 within sight of those very windows, through which the morning 
 sun streamed right upon her bed — like the accusing angel, 
 bringing all hidden things to hght. 
 
 And when EUinor was better still, when the bath-chair had 
 been sent up for her use, by some kindly old maid, out of 
 Hamley, she still petitioned that it might be kept on the lawn 
 or town side of the house, away from the flower-garden. 
 
 One day she almost screamed, when, as she was going to the 
 front door, she saw Dixon standing ready to draw her, instead 
 of Fletcher, the servant who usually went. But she checked all 
 demonstration of feeling ; although it was the first time she had 
 seen him since he and she and one more had worked their hearts 
 out in hard bodily labour. 
 
 He looked so stern and ill ! Cross, too, which she had never 
 seen him before. 
 
 As soon as they were out of immediate sight of the windows, 
 she asked him to stop, forcing herself to speak to him. 
 
 "Dixon, you look very poorly," she said, trembhng as she 
 spoke. 
 
A DARK night's WORK. "JT, 
 
 "Ay!" said he. "We didn't think much of it at the time, 
 did we, Miss Nelly? But it'll be the death on us, I'm thinking. 
 It has aged me above a bit. All my fifty years afore were but 
 as a forenoon of child's play to that night. Measter, too — I 
 could a-bear a good deal, but measter cuts through the stable- 
 yard, and past me, wi'out a word, as if I was poison, or a 
 stinking foumart. It's that as is worst, Miss Nelly, it is." 
 
 And the poor man brushed some tears from his eyes with the 
 back of his withered, furrowed hand. Elhnor caught the in- 
 fection, and cried outright, sobbed hke a child, even while she 
 held out her little white thin hand to his grasp. For as soon as 
 he saw her emotion, he was penitent for what he had said. 
 
 " Don't now — don't," was all he could think of to say. 
 
 " Dixon ! " said she at length, "you must not mind it. You 
 must try not to mind it. I see he does not like to be reminded 
 of that, even by seeing me. He tries never to be alone with me. 
 My poor old Dixon, it has spoilt ray life for me; for I don't 
 think he loves me any more." 
 
 She sobbed as if her heart would break ; and now it was 
 Dixon's turn to be comforter. 
 
 "Ah, dear, my blessing, he loves you above everything. It's 
 only he can't a-bear the sight of us, as is but natural. And if he 
 doesn't fancy being alone with you, there's always one as does, and 
 that's a comfort at the worst of times. And don't ye fret about 
 what I said a minute ago. I were put out because measter all 
 but pushed me out of his way this morning, without never a 
 word. But I were an old fool for telling ye. And I've really 
 forgotten why I told Fletcher I'd drag ye a bit about to-day. Th* 
 gardener is beginning for to wonder as you don't want to see th' 
 annuals and bedding-out things as you were so particular about 
 in May. And I thought I'd just have a word wi' ye, and then if 
 you'd let me, we'd go together just once round the flower-garden, 
 just to say you've been, you know, and to give them chaps a bit 
 of praise. You'll only have to look on the beds, my pretty, and 
 it must be done some time. So come along ! " 
 
 He began to put resolutely in the direction of the flower- 
 ,garden. Ellinor bit her lips to keep in the cry of repugnance 
 that rose to them. As Dixon stopped to unlock the door, he 
 said — 
 
 " It's not hardness, nothing like it ; I've waited till I heerd you 
 were better ; but it's in for a penny in for a pound wi' us all ; 
 
 C 2 
 
74 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 and folk may talk ; and bless your little brave heart, you'll stand 
 a deal for your father's sake, and so will I, though I do feel it 
 above a bit, when he puts out his hand as if to keep me off, and 
 I only going to speak to him about Clipper's knees ; though I'll 
 own I had wondered many a day when I was to have the good- 
 morrow master never missed sin' he were a boy till Well ! 
 
 and now you've seen the beds, and can say they looked mighty 
 pretty, and is done all as you wished ; and we're got out again, 
 and breathing fresher air than yon sun-baked hole, with its 
 smelhng flowers, not half so wholesome to snuff at as good 
 stable-dung." 
 
 So the good man chatted on ; not without the purpose of 
 giving Ellinor time to recover herself ; and partly also to drown 
 his own cares, which lay heavier on his heart than he could say. 
 But he thought himself rewarded by Ellinor's thanks, and warm 
 pressure of his hard hand as she got out at the front door, and 
 bade him good-bye. 
 
 The break to her days of weary monotony was the letters she 
 •constantly received from Mr. Corbet. And yet here again lurked 
 the sting. He was all astonishment and indignation at Mr. 
 Dunster's disappearance, or rather flight, to America. And now 
 that she was growing stronger he did not scruple to express 
 curiosity respecting the details, never doubting but that she was 
 perfectly acquainted with much that he wanted to know ; 
 although he had too much delicacy to question her on the point 
 which was most important of all in his eyes, namely, how far it 
 had affected Mr, Wilkins's worldly prospects ; for the report 
 prevalent in Hamley had reached London, that Mr. Dunster had 
 made away with, or carried off, trust property to a considerable 
 extent, for all which Mr. Wilkins would of course be liable. 
 
 It was hard work for Ralph Corbet to keep from seeking direct 
 information on this head from Mr. Ness, or, indeed, from Mr. 
 Wilkins himself. But he restrained himself, knowing that in 
 August he should be able to make all these inquiries personally. 
 Before the end of the long vacation he had hoped to marry 
 Ellinor: that was the time which had been planned by them 
 when they had met in the early spring before her illness and ali 
 this misfortune happened. But now, as he wrote to his father, 
 nothing could be definitely arranged until he had paid his visit 
 to Hamley, and seen the state of affairs. 
 
 Accordingly one Saturday in August, he came to Ford Bank, 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 75 
 
 this time as a visitor to Ellinor's home, instead of to his old 
 quarters at Mr. Ness's. 
 
 The house was still as if asleep in the full heat of the afternoon 
 sun, as Mr. Corbet drove up. The window-blinds were down ; 
 the front door wide open, great stands of heliotrope and roses 
 and geraniums stood just within the shadow of the hall ; but 
 through all the silence his approach seemed to excite no com- 
 motion. He thought it strange that he had not been watched for, 
 that EUinor did not come running out to meet him, that she 
 allowed Fletcher to come and attend to his luggage, and usher 
 him into the library just like any common visitor, any morning- 
 caller. He stiffened himself up into a moment's indignant 
 coldness of manner. But it vanished in an instant when, on the 
 door being opened, he saw Ellinor standing holding by the table, 
 looking for his appearance with almost panting anxiety. He 
 thought of nothing then but her evident weakness, her changed 
 looks, for which no account of her illness had prepared him. 
 For she was deadly white, lips and all ; and her dark eyes seemed 
 unnaturally enlarged, while the caves in which they were set were 
 strangely deep and hollow. Her hair, too, had been cut off pretty 
 closely ; she did not usually wear a cap, but with some faint idea 
 of making herself look better in his eyes, she had put on one this 
 day, and the effect was that she seemed to be forty years of 
 age ; but one instant after he had come in, her pale face was 
 flooded with crimson, and her eyes were full of tears. She had 
 hard work to keep herself from going into hysterics, but she 
 instinctively knew how much he would hate a scene, and she 
 checked herself in time. 
 
 " Oh," she murmured, " I am so glad to see you ; it is such a 
 comfort, such an infinite pleasure." And so she went on, cooing 
 out words over him, and stroking his hair with her thin fingers ; 
 while he rather tried to avert his eyes, he was so much afraid of 
 betraying how much he thought her altered. 
 
 But when she came down, dressed for dinner, this sense of 
 her change was diminished to him. Her short brown hair had 
 - already a little wave, and was ornamented by some black lace ; 
 she wore a large black lace shawl — it had been her mother's of 
 old — over some delicate-coloured muslin dress ; her face was 
 slightly flushed, and had the tints of a wild rose ; her lips kept 
 pale and trembhng with involuntary motion, it is true ; and as 
 the lovers stood together, hand in hand, by the window, he was 
 
76 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 aware of a little convulsive twitching at every noise, even while 
 she seemed gazing in tranquil pleasure on the long smooth slope 
 of the newly-mown lawn, stretching down to the little brook 
 that prattled merrily over the stones on its merry course to 
 Hamley town. 
 
 He felt a stronger twitch than ever before ; even while his 
 ear, less delicate than hers, could distinguish no peculiar sound. 
 About two minutes after Mr. Wilkins entered the room. He 
 came up to Mr. Corbet with a warm welcome : some of it real, 
 some of it assumed. He talked volubly to him, taking little or 
 no notice of EUinor, who dropped into the background, and sat 
 down on the sofa by Miss Monro ; for on this day they were all 
 to dine together. Ralph Corbet thought that Mr. Wilkins was 
 aged ; but no wonder, after all his anxiety of various kinds : 
 Mr. Dunster's flight and reported defalcations, EUinor's illness, 
 of the seriousness of which her lover was now convinced by her 
 appearance. 
 
 He would fain have spoken more to her during the dinner that 
 ensued, but Mr. Wilkins absorbed all his attention, talking and 
 questioning on subjects that left the ladies out of the conversation 
 almost perpetually. Mr. Corbet recognised his host's fine tact^ 
 even while his persistence in talking annoyed him. He was quite 
 sure that Mr. Wilkins was anxious to spare his daughter any 
 exertion beyond that — to which, indeed, she seemed scarcely 
 equal — of sitting at the head of the table. And the more her 
 father talked — so fine an observer was Mr. Corbet — the more 
 silent and depressed EUinor appeared. But by-and-by he ac- 
 counted for this inverse ratio of gaiety, as he perceived how 
 quickly Mr. Wilkins had his glass replenished. And here» 
 again, Mr. Corbet drew his conclusions, from the silent way in 
 which, without a word or a sign from his master, Fletcher gave 
 him more wine continually — wine that was drained off at once. 
 
 "Six glasses of sherry before dessert," thought Mr. Corbet to 
 himself. "Bad habit — no wonder EUinor looks grave." And 
 when the gentlemen were left alone, Mr. Wilkins helped himself 
 even still more freely ; yet without the slightest effect on the 
 clearness and brilliancy of his conversation. He had always 
 talked well and racily, that Ralph knew, and in this power he 
 now recognised a temptation to which he feared that his future 
 fatlier-in-law had succumbed. And yet, while he perceived that 
 this gift led into temptation, he coveted it for himself ; for he was 
 
A DARK night's WORK. ^J 
 
 perfectly aware that this fluency, this happy choice of epithets, 
 was the one thing he should fail in when he began to enter into 
 the more active career of his profession. But after some time 
 spent in listening, and admiring, with this little feeling of envy 
 lurking in the background, Mr. Corbet became aware of Mr. 
 Wilkins's increasing confusion of ideas, and rather unnatural 
 merriment ; and, with a sudden revulsion from admiration to 
 disgust, he rose up to go into the library, where Ellinor and 
 Miss Monro were sitting. Mr. Wilkins accompanied him, 
 laughing and talking somewhat loudly. Was Ellinor aware of 
 her father's state? Of that Mr. Corbet could not be sure. She 
 looked up with grave sad eyes as they came into the room, but 
 with no apparent sensation of surprise, annoyance, or shame. 
 When her glance met her father's Mr. Corbet noticed that it 
 seemed to sober the latter immediately. He sat down near the 
 open window, and did not speak, but sighed heavily from time 
 to time. Miss Monro took up a book, in order to leave the 
 young people to themselves ; and after a little low murmured 
 conversation, Ellinor went upstairs to put on her things for a 
 stroll through the meadows by the river-side. 
 
 They were sometimes sauntering along in the lovely summer 
 twilight, now resting on some grassy hedgerow bank, or standing 
 still, looking at the great barges, with their crimson sails, lazily 
 floating down the river, making ripples on the glassy opal sur- 
 face of the water. They did not talk very much ; Ellinor seemed 
 disinclined for the exertion ; and her lover was thinking over 
 Mr. Wilkins's behaviour, with some surprise and distaste of the 
 habit so evidently growing upon him. 
 
 They came home, looking serious and tired : yet they could 
 not account for their fatigue by the length of their walk, and 
 Miss Monro, forgetting Autolycus's song, kept fidgeting about 
 Ellinor, and wondering how it was she looked so pale, if she 
 had only been as far as the Ash Meadow. To escape from 
 this wonder, Ellinor went early to bed. Mr. Wilkins was gone, 
 no one knew where, and Ralph and Miss Monro were left to 
 > n half-hour's tete-a-tete. He thought he could easily account 
 for EUinor's languor, if, indeed, she had perceived as much 
 as he had done of her father's state, when they had come into 
 the library after dinner. But there were many details which 
 he was anxious to hear from a comparatively indifferent person, 
 and as soon as he could, he passed on from the conversation 
 
78 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 about EUinor's health, to inquiries as to the whole affair of Mr. 
 Dunster's disappearance. 
 
 Next to her anxiety about EUinor, Miss Monro liked to dilate 
 on the mystery connected with Mr. Dunster's flight ; for that 
 was the word she employed without hesitation, as she gave 
 him the account of the event universally received and believed 
 in by the people of Hamley. How Mr. Dunster had never 
 been liked by any one ; how everybody remembered that he 
 could never look them straight in the face ; how he always 
 seemed to be hiding something that he did not want to have 
 known ; how he had drawn a large sum (exact quantity un- 
 known) out of the county bank only the day before he left 
 Hamley, doubtless in preparation for his escape ; how some 
 one had told Mr. Wilkins he had seen a man just like Dunster 
 lurking about the docks at Liverpool, about two days after he 
 had left his lodgings, but that this some one, being in a hurry, 
 had not cared to stop and speak to the man ; how that the 
 affairs in the office were discovered to be in such a sad state 
 that it was no wonder that Mr. Dunster had absconded— he 
 that had been so trusted by poor dear Mr. Wilkins. Money 
 gone no one knew how or where. 
 
 "But has he no friends who can explain his proceedings,, 
 and account for the missing money, in some way?" asked Mr. 
 Corbet. 
 
 "No, none. Mr. Wilkins has written everywhere, right and 
 left, I believe. I know he had a letter from Mr. Dunster's 
 nearest relation — a tradesman in the City— a cousin, I think, 
 and he could give no information in any way. He knew that 
 about ten years ago Mr. Dunster had had a great fancy for 
 going to America, and had read a great many travels — all just 
 what a man would do before going off to a country." 
 
 " Ten years is a long time beforehand," said Mr. Corbet, half 
 smiling ; "shows malice prepense with a vengeance." But then, 
 turning grave, he said, " Did he leave Hamley in debt?" 
 
 "No ; I never heard of that," said Miss Monro, rather un- 
 willingly, for she considered it as a piece of loyalty to the 
 Wilkinses, whom Mr. Dunster had injured (as she thought), to 
 blacken his character as much as was consistent with any degree 
 of truth. 
 
 " It is a strange story," said Mr. Corbet, musing. 
 
 *'Not at all," she replied quickly; "I am sure, if you had 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 79* 
 
 seen the man, with one or two side-locks of hair combed over 
 his baldness, as if he were ashamed of it, and his eyes that 
 never looked at you, and his way of eating with his knife when 
 he thought he was not observed — oh, and numbers of things ! — 
 you would not think it strange." 
 
 Mr. Corbet smiled. 
 
 " I only meant that he seems to have had no extravagant or 
 vicious habits which would account for his embezzlement of the 
 money that is missing — but, to be sure, money in itself is a 
 temptation— only he, being a partner, was in a fair way of 
 making it without risk to himself. Has Mr. Wilkins taken 
 any steps to have him arrested in America? He might easily 
 do that." 
 
 "Oh, my dear Mr. Ralph, you don't know our good Mr. 
 Wilkins ! He would rather bear the loss, I am sure, and all 
 this trouble and care which it has brought upon him, than be 
 revenged upon Mr. Dunster." 
 
 "Revenged! What nonsense! it is simple justice— justice 
 to himself and to others — to see that villany is so sufficiently 
 punished as to deter others from entering upon such courses. 
 But I have little doubt Mr. Wilkins has taken the right steps ; 
 he is not the man to sit down quietly under such a loss." 
 
 •' No, indeed ! He had him advertised in the Times and in 
 the county papers, and offered a reward of twenty pounds for 
 information concerning him." 
 
 " Twenty pounds was too little." 
 
 " So I said. I told Ellinor that I would give twenty pounds 
 myself to have him apprehended, and she, poor darling ! fell 
 a-trembling, and said, * I would give all I have — I would give- 
 my life.' And then she was in such distress, and sobbed so, I 
 promised her I would never name it to her again." 
 
 "Poor child — poor child! she wants change of scene. Her 
 nerves have been sadly shaken by her illness." 
 
 The next day was Sunday ; Ellinor was to go to church for 
 the first time since her illness. Her father had decided it for 
 her, or else she would fain have stayed away — she would hardly 
 acknowledge why, even to herself, but it seemed to her as if the 
 very words and presence of God must there search her and find 
 her out. 
 
 She went early, leaning on the arm of her lover, and trying 
 to forget the past in the present. They walked slowly along; 
 
8o A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 between the rows of waving golden corn ripe for the harvest. 
 Mr. Corbet gathered blue and scarlet flowers, and made up a 
 little rustic nosegay for her. She took and stuck it in her girdle, 
 smiling faintly as she did so. 
 
 Hamley Church had, in former days, been collegiate, and was, 
 in consequence, much larger and grander than the majority of 
 country-town churches. The Ford Bank pew was a square one, 
 downstairs ; the Ford Bank servants sat in a front pew in the 
 gallery, right before their master. Ellinor was "hardening her 
 heart" not to listen, not to hearken to what might disturb the 
 wound wliich was just being skinned over, when she caught 
 Dixon's face up above. He looked worn, sad, soured, and 
 anxious to a miserable degree ; but he was straining eyes and 
 ears, heart and soul, to hear the solemn words read from the 
 pulpit, as if in them alone he could find help in his strait. 
 Ellinor felt rebuked and humbled. 
 
 She was in a tumultuous state of mind when they left church ; 
 she wished to do her duty, yet could not ascertain what it was. 
 Who was to help her with wisdom and advice? Assuredly he to 
 whom her future life was to be trusted. But the case must be 
 stated in an impersonal form. No one, not even her husband, 
 must ever know anything against her father from her. Ellinor 
 was so artless herself, that she had little idea how quickly and 
 easily some people can penetrate motives, and combine disjointed 
 sentences. She began to speak to Ralph on their slow, saunter- 
 ing walk homewards through the quiet meadows. 
 
 " Suppose, Ralph, that a girl was engaged to be married " 
 
 " I can very easily suppose that, with you by me," said he, 
 filling up her pause. 
 
 " Oh ! but I don't mean myself at all," replied she, reddening. 
 " I am only thinking of what might happen ; and suppose that 
 this girl knew of some one belonging to her — we will call it a 
 brother — who had done something wrong, that would bring 
 disgrace upon the whole family if it was known — though, indeed, 
 it might not have been so very wrong as it seemed, and as it 
 would look to the world — ought she to break off her engagement 
 for fear of involving her lover in the disgrace?" 
 
 " Certainly not, without telling him her reason for doing so." 
 
 " Ah ! but suppose she could not. She might not be at liberty 
 to do so." 
 
 " I can't answer supposititious cases. I must have the facts — 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 8 1 
 
 if facts there are — more plainly before me before I can give an 
 opinion. Wlio are you thinking of, Ellinor?" asked he rather 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Oh, of no one," she answered in affright. "Why should I 
 be thinking of any one? I often try to plan out what I should 
 do, or what I ought to do, if such and such a thing happened, 
 just as you recollect I used to wonder if I should have presence 
 of mind in case of fire." 
 
 " Then, after all, you yourself are the girl who is engaged, 
 and who has the imaginary brother who gets into disgrace? " 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so," said she, a little annoyed at having 
 betrayed any personal interest in the affair. 
 
 He was silent, meditating. 
 
 "There is nothing wrong in it," said she timidly, " is there?" 
 
 "I think you had better tell me fully out what is in your 
 mind," he replied kindly. "Something has happened which 
 has suggested these questions. Are you putting yourself in the 
 place of any one about whom you have been hearing lately ? I 
 know you used to do so formerly, when you were a little girl." 
 
 "No; it was a very foolish question of mine, and I ought 
 not to have said anything about it. See ! here is Mr. Ness over- 
 taking us." 
 
 The clergyman joined them on the broad walk that ran by the 
 river-side, and the talk became general. It was a reHef to Elli- 
 nor, who had not attained her end, but who had gone far towards 
 betraying something of her own individual interest in the ques- 
 tion she had asked. Ralph had been more struck even by her 
 manner than her words. He was sure that something lurked 
 behind, and had an idea of his own that it was connected with 
 Dunster's disappearance. But he was glad that Mr. Ness's 
 joining them gave him leisure to consider a little. 
 
 The end of his reflections was, that the next day, Monday, he 
 went into the town, and artfully learnt all he could hear about 
 Mr. Dunster's character and mode of going on ; and with still 
 more skill he extracted the popular opinion as to the embarrassed 
 nature of Mr. Wilkins's affairs — embarrassment which was gene- 
 rally attributed to Dunster's disappearance with a good large sum 
 belonging to the firm in his possession. But Mr. Corbet thought 
 otherwise ; he had accustomed himself to seek out the baser 
 motives for men's conduct, and to call the result of these re- 
 searches wisdom. He imagined that Dunster had been well paid 
 
82 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 by Mr. Wilkins for his disappearance, which was an easy way of 
 accounting for the derangement of accounts and loss of money 
 that arose, in fact, from Mr. Wiikins's extravagance of habits and 
 growing intemperance. 
 
 On the Monday afternoon he said to Ellinor, " Mr. Ness 
 interrupted us yesterday in a very interesting conversation. Do 
 you remember, love?" 
 
 Ellinor reddened, and kept her Iiead still more intently bent 
 over a sketch she was making. 
 
 "Yes ; I recollect." 
 
 "I have been thinking about it. I still think she ought to 
 tell her lover that such disgrace hung over him — I mean, over 
 the family with whom he was going to connect himself. Of 
 course, the only effect would be to make him stand by her still 
 more for her frankness." 
 
 " Oh ! but, Ralph, it might perhaps be something she ought 
 not to tell, whatever came of her silence." 
 
 " Of course there might be all sorts of cases. Unless I knew 
 more, I could not pretend to judge." 
 
 This was said rather more coolly. It had the desired effect. 
 EUinor laid down her brush, and covered her face with her hand. 
 After a pause, she turned towards him and said — 
 
 "I will tell you this; and more you mast not ask me. I 
 know you are as safe as can be. I am the girl, you are the 
 lover, and possible shame hangs over my father, if something—^ 
 oh, so dreadful" (here she blanched), "but not so very much 
 his fault, is ever found out." 
 
 Though this was nothing more than he expected, though 
 Ralph thought that he was aware what the dreadful something 
 might be, yet, when it was acknowledged in words his heart 
 contracted, and for a moment he forgot the intent, wistful, 
 beautiful face, creeping close to his to read his expression aright. 
 But after that his presence of mind came in aid. He took her 
 in his arms and kissed her ; murmuring fond words of sympathy, 
 and promises of faith, nay, even of greater love than before, 
 since greater need she might have of that love. But somehow 
 he was glad when the dressing-bell rang, and in the solitude of 
 his own room he could reflect on what he had heard ; for the 
 intelligence had been a great shock to him, although he had 
 fancied that his morning's inquiries had prepared him for it. 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 8$: 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Ralph Corbet found it a very difficult thing to keep down his- 
 curiosity during the next few days. It was a miserable thing to 
 have EUinor's unspoken secret severing them like a phantom. 
 But he had given her his word that he would make no further 
 inquiries from her. Indeed, he thought he could well enough 
 make out the outline of past events ; still, there was too much 
 left to conjecture for his mind not to be always busy on the sub- 
 ject. He felt inclined to probe Mr. Wilkins in their after-dinner 
 conversation, in which his host was frank and lax enough on 
 many subjects. But once touch on the name of Dunster and 
 Mr. Wilkins sank into a kind of suspicious depression of spirits ; 
 talking little, and with evident caution ; and from time to time 
 shooting furtive glances at his interlocutor's face. Ellinor was 
 resolutely impervious to any attempts of his to bring his conver- 
 sation with her back to the subject which more and more 
 engrossed Ralph Corbet's mind. She had done her duty, as 
 she understood it ; and had received assurances which she was 
 only too glad to beheve fondly with all the tender faith of her 
 heart. Whatever came to pass, Ralph's love would still be 
 hers ; nor was he unwarned of what might come to pass in some 
 dread future day. So she shut lier eyes to what might be in 
 store for her (and, after all, the chances were immeasurably 
 in her favour) ; and she bent herself with her whole strength 
 into enjoying the present. Day by day Mr. Corbet's spirits 
 flagged. He was, however, so generally uniform in the tenor 
 of his talk — never very merry, and always avoiding any subject 
 that might call out deep feeling either on his own or any one 
 else's part, that few people were aware of his changes of mood. 
 EUinor felt them, though she would not acknowledge them : it 
 was bringing her too much face to face with the great terror 
 of her life. 
 
 One morning he announced the fact of his brother's approach- 
 ing marriage ; the wedding was hastened on account of some 
 impending event in the duke's family; and the home letter he 
 had received that day was to bid his presence at Stokely Castle, 
 and also to desire him to be at home by a certain time not very 
 distant, in order to look over the requisite legal papers, and to^ 
 
84 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 give his assent to some of them. He gave many reasons why 
 this unlooked-for departure of his was absolutely necessary ; but 
 no one doubted it. He need not have alleged such reiterated 
 excuses. The truth was, he was restrained and uncomfort- 
 able at Ford Bank ever since Ellinor's confidence. He could 
 not rightly calculate on the most desirable course for his own 
 interests, while his love for her was constantly being renewed 
 by her sweet presence. Away from her, he could judge more 
 wisely. Nor did he allege any false reasons for his departure ; 
 but the sense of relief to himself was so great at his recall home, 
 •that he was afraid of having it perceived by others ; and so took 
 the very way which, if others had been as penetrating as him- 
 self, would have betrayed him. 
 
 Mr. Wilkins, too, had begun to feel the restraint of Ralph's 
 grave watchful presence. EUinor was not strong enough to be 
 married ; nor was the promised money forthcoming if she had 
 been. And to have a fellow dawdling about the house all day, 
 sauntering into the flower-garden, peering about everywhere, 
 and having a kind of right to put all manner of unexpected 
 •questions, was anything but agreeable. It was only Ellinor that 
 clung to his presence — clung as though some shadow of what 
 might happen before they met again had fallen on her spirit. 
 As soon as he had left the house she flew up to a spare bedroom 
 window, to watch for the last glimpse of the fly which was taking 
 him into the town. And then she kissed the part of the pane 
 on which his figure, waving an arm cut of the carriage window, 
 had last appeared ; and went down slowly to gather together all 
 ■the things he had last touched — the pen he had mended, the 
 flower he had played with, and to lock them up in the little 
 quaint cabinet that had held her treasures since she was a tiny 
 child. 
 
 Miss Monro was, perhaps, very wise in proposing the trans- 
 lation of a difficult part of Dante for a distraction to Ellinor. 
 The girl went meekly, if reluctantly, to the task set her by her 
 good governess, and by-and-by her mind became braced by the 
 exertion. 
 
 Ralph's people were not very slow in discovering that some- 
 thing had not gone on quite smoothly with him at Ford Bank. 
 They knew his ways and looks with family intuition, and could 
 easily be certain thus far. But not even his mother's skilfulest 
 wiles, nor his favourite sister's coaxing, could obtain a word or 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 8$ 
 
 a hint ; and when his father, the squire, who had heard the 
 opinions of the female part of the family on this head, began, in 
 his honest blustering way, in their tete-d-tetes after dinner, to- 
 hope that Ralph was thinking better than to run his head inta , 
 that confounded Hamley attorney's noose, Ralph gravely required 
 Mr. Corbet to explain his meaning, which he professed not to 
 understand so worded. And when the squire had, with much 
 perplexity, put it into the plain terms of hoping that his son was 
 thinking of breaking off his engagement to Miss Wilkins, Ralph 
 coolly asked him if he was aware that, in that case, he should 
 lose all title to being a man of honour, and might have an action- 
 brought against him for breach of promise? 
 
 Yet not the less for all this was the idea in his mind as a 
 future possibility. 
 
 Before very long the Corbet family moved en masse to Stokely 
 Castle for the wedding. Of course, Ralph associated on equal 
 terms with the magnates of the county, who were the employers 
 of EUinor's father, and spoke of him always as "Wilkins," just 
 as they spoke of the butler as " Simmons." Here, too, among 
 a class of men high above local gossip, and thus unaware of his 
 engagement, he learnt the popular opinion respecting his future 
 father-in-law ; an opinion not entirely respectful, though inter- 
 mingled with a good deal of personal liking. " Poor Wilkins,'* 
 as they called him, "was sadly extravagant for a man in his 
 position ,- had no right to spend money, and act as if he were a 
 man of independent fortune." His habits of Hfe were criticised ; 
 and pity, not free from blame, was bestowed upon him for the 
 losses he had sustained from his late clerk's disappearance and 
 defalcation. But what could be expected if a man did not 
 choose to attend to his own business? 
 
 The wedding went by, as grand weddings do, without let or 
 hindrance, according to the approved pattern. A Cabinet 
 minister honoured it with his presence, and, being a distant 
 relation of the Brabants, remained for a few days after the grand 
 occasion. During this time he became rather intimate with 
 Ralph Corbet ; many of their tastes were in common. Ralph 
 took a great interest in the manner of working out political ques- 
 tions ; in the balance and state of parties ; and had the right 
 appreciation of the exact qualities on which the minister piqued 
 himself. In return, the latter was always on the look-out for 
 promising young men, who, either by their capability of speech- 
 
S6 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 making or article-writing, might advance the views of his party. 
 Recognising the powers he most valued in Ralph, he spared no 
 pains to attach him to his own political set. When they sepa- 
 rated, it was with the full understanding that they were to see a 
 good deal of each other in London. 
 
 The holiday Ralph allowed himself was passing rapidly away ; 
 but, before he returned to his chambers and his hard work, he 
 had promised to spend a few more days with EUinor ; and it 
 suited him to go straight from the duke s to Ford Bank. He 
 left the Castle soon after breakfast — the luxurious, elegant break- 
 fast, served by domestics who performed their work with the 
 accuracy and perfection of machines. He arrived at Ford Bank 
 before the man-servant had quite finished the dirtier part of his 
 morning's work, and he came to the glass-door in his striped 
 cotton jacket, a little soiled, and rolling up his working apron. 
 Ellinor was not yet strong enough to get up and go out and 
 gather flowers for the rooms, so those left from yesterday were 
 rather faded ; in short, the contrast from entire completeness 
 and exquisite freshness of arrangement struck forcibly upon 
 Ralph's perceptions, which were critical rather than appreci- 
 ative ; and, as his affections were always subdued to his intellect, 
 Ellinor's lovely face and graceful figure flying to meet him did 
 not gain his full approval, because her hair was dressed in an 
 old-fashioned way, her waist was either too long or too short, 
 her sleeves too full or too tight for the standard of fashion to 
 which his eye had been accustomed while scanning the brides- 
 maids and various highborn ladies at Stokely Castle. 
 
 But, as he had always piqued himself upon being able to put 
 on one side all superficial worldliness in his chase after power, 
 it did not do for him to shrink from seeing and faeing the incom- 
 pleteness of moderate means. Only marriage upon moderate 
 means was gradually becoming more distasteful to him. 
 
 Nor did his subsequent intercourse with Lord Bolton, the 
 Cabinet minister before mentioned, tend to reconcile him to 
 early matrimony. At Lord Bolton's house he met polished and 
 intellectual society, and all that smoothness in ministering to the 
 lower wants in eating and drinking which seems to provide that 
 the right thing shall always be at the right place at the right 
 time, so that the want of it shall never impede for an instant the 
 feast of wit or reason ; while, if he went to the houses of his 
 friends, men of the same college and standing as himself, who 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 8/ 
 
 had been seduced into early marriages, he was uncomfortably 
 aware of numerous inconsistencies and hitches in their manages. 
 Besides, the idea of the possible disgrace that might befall the 
 family with which he thought of allying himself haunted him 
 with the tenacity and also with the exaggeration of a nightmare, 
 whenever he had overworked himself in his search after available 
 and profitable knowledge, or had a fit of indigestion after the 
 exquisite dinners he was learning so well to appreciate. 
 
 Christmas was, of course, to be devoted to his own family ; it 
 was an unavoidable necessity, as he told Ellinor, while, in reality, 
 he was beginning to find absence from his betrothed something 
 of a relief. Yet the wranglings and folly of his home, even 
 blessed by the presence of a Lady Maria, made him look forward 
 to Easter at Ford Bank with something of the old pleasure. 
 
 Ellinor, with the fine tact which love gives, had discovered his 
 annoyance at various little incongruities in the household at the 
 time of his second visit in the previous autumn, and had laboured 
 to make all as perfect as she could before his return. But she 
 had much to struggle against. For the first time in her life there 
 was a great want of ready money ; she could scarcely obtain the 
 servants' wages ; and the bill for the spring seeds was a heavy 
 weight on her conscience. For Miss Monro's methodical habits 
 had taught her pupil great exactitude as to all money matters. 
 
 Then her father's temper had become very uncertain. He 
 avoided being alone with her whenever he possibly could ; and 
 the consciousness of this, and of the terrible mutual secret which 
 was the cause of this estrangement, were the reasons why Ellinor 
 never recovered her pretty youthful bloom after her illness. Of 
 course it was to this that the outside world attributed her changed 
 appearance. They would shake their heads and say, "Ah, 
 poor Miss Wilkins ! What a lovely creature she was before 
 that fever ! " 
 
 But youth is youth, and will assert itself in a certain elasticity 
 of body and spirits ; and at times Ellinor forgot that fearful 
 night for several hours together. Even whei; her father's averted 
 eye brought it all once more before her, she had learnt to form 
 excuses and paUiations, and to regard Mr. Dunster's death as 
 only the consequence of an unfortunate accident. But she tried 
 to put the miserable remembrance entirely out of her mind ; to 
 go on from day to day thinking only of the day, and how to 
 arrange it so as to cause the least irritation to her father. She 
 
88 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 would so gladly have spoken to him on the one subject which 
 overshadowed all their intercourse ; she fancied that by speaking 
 she might have been able to banish the phantom, or reduce its 
 terror to what she believed to be the due proportion. But her 
 father was evidently determined to show that he was never more 
 to be spoken to on that subject ; and all she could do was to 
 follow his. lead on the rare occasions that they fell into some- 
 thing like the old confidential intercourse. As yet, to her, he 
 had never given way to anger ; but before her he had often 
 spoken in a manner which both pained and terrified her. Some- 
 times his eye in the midst of his passion caught on her face of 
 affright and dismay, and then he would stop, and make such an 
 effort to control himself as sometimes ended in tears. Ellinor 
 did not understand that both these phases were owing to his 
 increasing habit of drinking more than he ought to have done. 
 She set them down as the direct effects of a sorely burdened 
 conscience ; and strove more and more to plan for his daily life 
 at home, how it should go on with oiled wheels, neither a jerk 
 nor a jar. It was no wonder she looked wistful, and careworn, 
 and old. Miss Monro was her great comfort ; the total uncon- 
 sciousness on that lady's part of anything below the surf^ice, 
 and yet her full and dehcate recognition of all the little daily 
 cares and trials, made her sympathy most valuable to Ellinor, 
 while there was no need to fear that it would ever give Miss 
 Monro that power of seeing into the heart of things which it 
 frequently confers upon imaginative people, who are deeply 
 attached to some one in sorrow. 
 
 There was a strong bond between Ellinor and Dixon, 
 although they scarcely ever exchanged a word save on the most 
 commonplace subjects ; but their silence was based on different 
 feelings from that which separated Ellinor from her father. 
 Ellinor and Dixon could not speak freely, because their hearts 
 were full of pity for the faulty man whom they both loved so 
 well, and tried so hard to respect. 
 
 This was the state of the household to which Ralph Corbet 
 came down at Easter. He might have been known in London 
 as a brilliant diner-out by this time ; but he could not afford to 
 throw his life away in fireworks ; he calculated his forces, and 
 condensed their power as much as might be, only visiting where 
 he was likely to meet men who could help in his future career. 
 He had been invited to spend the Easter vacation at a certain 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 89 
 
 country house which would be full of such human stepping- 
 stones ; and he declined in order to keep his word to Ellinor, 
 and go to Ford Bank. But he could not help looking upon 
 himself a little in the light of a martyr to duty ; and perhaps 
 this view of his own merits made him chafe under his future 
 father-in-law's irritabiUty of manner, which now showed itself 
 •even to him. He found himself distinctly regretting that he 
 had suffered himself to be engaged so early in hfe ; and having 
 become conscious of the temptation and not having repelled it 
 at once, of course it returned and returned, and gradually 
 obtained the mastery over him. What was to be gained by 
 keeping to his engagement with Ellinor? He should have a 
 ■dehcate wife to look after, and even more than the common 
 additional expenses of married life. He should have a father- 
 in-law whose character at best had had only a local and 
 provincial respectability, which it was now daily losing by 
 habits which were both sensual and vulgarising ; a man, too, 
 who was strangely changing from joyous geniality into moody 
 surliness. Besides, he doubted if, in the evident change in the 
 prosperity of the family, the fortune to be paid down on the 
 occasion of his marriage to Ellinor could be forthcoming. 
 And above all, and around all, there- hovered the shadow of 
 some unrevealed disgrace, which might come to hght at any time 
 and involve him in it. He thought he had pretty well ascer- 
 tained the nature of this possible shame, and had little doubt it 
 would turn out to be that Dunster's disappearance, to America 
 or elsewhere, had been an arranged plan with Mr. Wilkins. 
 Although Mr. Ralph Corbet was capable of suspecting him of 
 this mean crime (so far removed from the impulsive commission 
 of the past sin which was dragging him daily lower and lower 
 down), it was of a kind that was pecuHarly distasteful to the 
 acute lawyer, who foresaw how such base conduct would taint 
 all whose names were ever mentioned, even by chance, in con- 
 nection with it. He used to lie miserably tossing on his sleepless 
 bed, turning over these things in the night season. He was tor- 
 ^mented by all these thoughts ; he would bitterly regret the past 
 events that connected him with Ellinor, from the day when he 
 first came to read with Mr. Ness up to the present time. But 
 when he came down in the morning, and saw the faded Ellinor 
 flash into momentary beauty at his entrance into the dining- 
 room, and when she blushingly drew near with the one single 
 
90 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 flower freshly gathered, which it had been her custom to place in 
 his buttonhole when he came down to breakfast, he felt as if his 
 better self was stronger than temptation, and as if he must be 
 an honest man and honourable lover, even against his wish. 
 
 As the day wore on the temptation gathered strength. Mr. 
 Wilkins came down, and while he was on the scene EUinor 
 seemed always engrossed by her father, who apparently cared 
 little enough for all her attentions. Then there was a com- 
 plaining of the food, which did not suit the sickly palate of a 
 man who had drunk hard the night before ; and possibly these 
 complaints were extended to the servants, and their incomplete- 
 ness or incapacity was thus brought prominently before the eyes 
 of Ralph, who would have preferred to eat a dry crust in silence 
 or to have gone without breakfast altogether, if he could have 
 had intellectual conversation of some high order, to having the 
 greatest dainties with the knowledge of the care required in 
 their preparation thus coarsely discussed before him. By the 
 time such breakfasts were finished, EUinor looked thirty, and 
 her spirits were gone for the day. It had become difficult 
 for Ralph to contract his mind to her small domestic interests, 
 and she had little else to talk to him about, now that he re- 
 sponded but curtly to all her questions about himself, and was 
 weary of professing a love which he was ceasing to feel, in all 
 the passionate nothings which usually make up so much of 
 lovers' talk. The books she had been reading were old classics 
 whose place in literature no longer admitted of keen discussion ; 
 the poor whom she cared for were all very well in their way ; 
 and, if they could have been brought in to illustrate a theory, 
 hearing about them might have been of some use ; but, as it 
 was, it was simply tiresome to hear day after day of Betty 
 Palmer's rheumatism and Mrs. Kay's baby's fits. There was 
 no talking politics with her, because she was so ignorant that 
 she always agreed with everything he said. 
 
 He even grew to find luncheon and Miss Monro not unpleasant 
 varieties to his monotonous tete-a-tetes. Then came the walk, 
 generally to the town to fetch Mr. Wilkins from his office ; and 
 once or twice it was pretty evident how he had been employing 
 his hours. One day in particular his walk was so unsteady and 
 his speech so thick, that Ralph could only wonder how it was 
 that EUinor did not perceive the cause ; but she was too openly 
 anxious about the headache of which her father complained to. 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 9I 
 
 have been at all aware of the, previous self-indulgence which 
 must have brought it on. This very afternoon, as ill-luck would 
 have it, the Duke of Hinton and a gentleman whom Ralph had 
 met in town at Lord Bolton's rode by, and recognised him ; saw 
 Ralph supporting a tipsy man with such quiet friendly interest 
 as must show all passers-by that they were previous friends. 
 Mr. Corbet chafed and fumed inwardly all the way home after 
 this unfortunate occurrence ; he was in a thoroughly evil temper 
 before they reached Ford Bank, but he had too much self- 
 command to let this be very apparent. He turned into the 
 shrubbery paths, leaving Ellinor to take her father into the 
 quietness of his own room, there to lie down and shake off his 
 headache. 
 
 Ralph walked along, ruminating in gloomy mood as to what 
 was to be done ; how he could best extricate himself from the 
 miserable relation in which he had placed himself by giving way 
 to impulse. Almost before he was aware, a little hand stole 
 within his folded arms, and Ellinor's sweet sad eyes looked 
 into his. 
 
 " I have put papa down for an hour's rest before dinner," said 
 she. " His head seems to ache terribly." 
 
 Ralph was silent and unsympathising, trying to nerve himself 
 up to be disagreeable, but finding it difficult in the face of such 
 sweet trust. 
 
 " Do you remember our conversation last autumn, Ellinor?" 
 he began at length. 
 
 Her head sank. They were near a garden-seat, and she 
 quietly sat down, without speaking. 
 
 "About some disgrace which you then fancied hung over 
 you ? " No answer. ' ' Does it still hang over you ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " she whispered, with a heavy sigh. 
 
 " And your father knows this, of course?" 
 
 "Yes ! " again in the same tone ; and then silence. 
 
 "I think it is doing him harm," at length Ralph went on 
 decidedly. 
 , " I am afraid it is," she said, in a low tone. 
 
 "I wish you would tell me what it is," he said, a little im- 
 patiently. " I might be able to help you about it," 
 
 " No ! you could not," replied Ellinor. "I was sorry to my 
 very heart to tell you what I did ; I did not want help ; all that 
 is past. But I wanted to know if you thought that a person 
 
92 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 situated as I was, was justified in marrying any one ignorant of 
 what might happen, what I do hope and trust never will." 
 
 " But if I don't know what you are alluding to in this 
 mysterious way, you must see — don't you see, love ? — I am in the 
 position of the ignorant man whom I think you said you could 
 not feel it right to marry. Why don't you tell me straight out 
 what it is?" He could not help his irritation betraying itself in 
 his tones and manner of speaking. She bent a little forward, and 
 looked full into his face, as though to pierce to the very heart's 
 truth of him. Then she said, as quietly as she had ever spoken 
 in her life — 
 
 " You wish to break off our engagement ? " 
 
 He reddened and grew indignant in a moment. "What 
 nonsense ! Just because I ask a question and make a remark ! 
 I think your illness must have made you fanciful, EUinor. 
 Surely nothing I said deserves such an interpretation. On the 
 contrary, have I not shown the sincerity and depth of my affection 
 to you by clinging to you through — through everything? " 
 
 He was going to say " through the wearying opposition of my 
 family," but he stopped short, for he knew that the very fact of 
 his mother's opposition had only made him the more determined 
 to have his own way in the first instance ; and even now he did 
 not intend to let out, what he had concealed up to this time, 
 that his friends all regretted his imprudent engagement. 
 
 Ellinor sat silently gazing out upon the meadows, but seeing 
 nothing. Then she put her hand into his. " I quite trust you, 
 Ralph. I was wrong to doubt. I am afraid I have grown 
 fanciful and silly." 
 
 He was rather put to it for the right words, for she had 
 precisely divined the dim thought that had overshadowed his 
 mind when she had looked so intently at him. But he caressed 
 her, and reassured her with fond w^ords, as incoherent as lovers' 
 words generally are. 
 
 By-and-by they sauntered homewards. When they reached 
 the house, Ellinor left him, and flew up to see how her father 
 was. When Ralph went into his own room he was vexed with 
 himself, both for what he had said and for what he had not said. 
 His mental look-out was not satisfactory. 
 
 Neither he nor Mr. Wilkins was in good humour with the 
 world in general at dinner-time, and it needs little in such 
 cases to condense and turn the lowering tempers into one 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 95 
 
 particular direction. As long as Ellinor and Miss Monra 
 stayed in the dining-room, a sort of moody peace had been 
 kept up, the ladies talking incessantly to each other about the 
 trivial nothings of their daily life, with an instinctive conscious- 
 ness that if they did not chatter on, something would be said by 
 one of the gentlemen which would be distasteful tothe other. 
 
 As soon as Ralph had shut the door behind them, Mr. Wilkins 
 went to the sideboard, and took out a bottle which had not 
 previously made its appearance. 
 
 "Have a httle cognac?" he asked, with an assumption of 
 carelessness, as he poured out a wine-glassful. " It's a capital 
 thing for the headache ; and this nasty lowering weather has 
 given me a racking headache all day." 
 
 "I am sorry for it," said Ralph, "for I wanted particularly 
 to speak to you about business — about my marriage, in fact." 
 
 " Well ! speak away, I'm as clear-headed as any man, if that's 
 what you mean." 
 
 Ralph bowed, a little contemptuously. 
 
 "What I wanted to say was, that I am anxious to have 
 all things arranged for my marriage in August. Ellinor is 
 so much better now ; in fact, so strong, that I think we may 
 reckon upon her standing the change to a London life pretty 
 well." 
 
 Mr. Wilkins stared at him rather blankly, but did not 
 immediately speak. 
 
 "Of course I may have the deeds drawn up in which, as 
 by previous arrangement, you advance a certain portion of 
 Ellinor's fortune for the purposes therein to be assigned ; as 
 we settled last year when I hoped to have been married in 
 August?" 
 
 A thought flitted through Mr. Wilkins's confused brain that 
 he should find it impossible to produce the thousands required 
 without having recourse to the money-lenders, who were already 
 making difficulties, and charging him usurious interest for the 
 advances they had lately made ; and he unwisely tried to obtain 
 a diminution in the sum he had originally proposed to give 
 Ellinor. "Unwisely," because he might have read Ralph's 
 Character better than to suppose he would easily consent to any 
 diminution without good and sufficient reason being given ; or 
 without some promise of compensating advantages in the future 
 for the present sacrifice asked from him. But perhaps Mr, 
 
94 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 Wilklns, dulled as he was by wine, thought he could allege a 
 good and sufficient reason, for he said — 
 
 " You must not be hard upon me, Ralph. That promise was 
 made before — before I exactly knew the state of my affairs ! " 
 
 "Before Dunster's disappearance, in fact," said Mr. Corbet, 
 fixing his steady, penetrating eyes on Mr. Wilkins's countenance. 
 
 "Yes — exactly — before Dunster's" mumbled out Mr, 
 
 Wilkins, red and confused, and not finishing his sentence. 
 
 "By the way," said Ralph (for with careful carelessness of 
 manner he thought he could extract something of the real nature 
 of the impending disgrace from his companion, in the state in 
 which he theii was ; and if he only knew more about this danger 
 he could guard against it ; guard others ; perhaps himself) — 
 " By the way, have you ever heard anything of Dunster since he 
 went off to —America, isn't it thought?" 
 
 He was startled beyond his power of self-control by the in- 
 stantaneous change in Mr. Wilkins which his question produced. 
 Both started up ; Mr. Wilkins white, shaking, and trying to say 
 something, but unable to form a sensible sentence. 
 
 " Good God ! sir, what is the matter?" said Ralph, alarmed 
 at these signs of physical suffering. 
 
 Mr. Wilkins sat down, and repelled his nearer approach with- 
 out speaking. 
 
 " It is nothing, only this headache which shoots through me 
 at times. Don't look at me, sir, in that way. It is very un- 
 pleasant to find another man's eyes perpetually fixed upon you. " 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Ralph coldly; his short-lived 
 sympathy, thus repulsed, giving way to his curiosity. But he 
 waited for a minute or two without daring to renew the con- 
 versation at the point where they had stopped : whether 
 interrupted by bodily or mental discomfort on the part of his 
 companion he was not quite sure. While he hesitated how to 
 begin again on the subject, Mr. Wilkins pulled the bottle of 
 brandy to himself and filled his glass again, tossing off the spirit 
 as if it had been water. Then he tried to look Mr. Corbet full 
 in the face, with a stare as pertinacious as he could make it, but 
 very different from the keen observant gaze which was trying to 
 read him through. 
 
 "What were we talking about?" said Ralph at length, with 
 the most natural air in the world, just as if he had really been 
 forgetful of some half-discussed subject of interest. 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 95 
 
 "Of what you'd a d — — d deal better hold your tongue 
 about," growled out Mr. Wilkins, in a surly thick voice. 
 
 "Sir!" said Ralph, starting to his feet with real passion at 
 being so addressed by "Wilkins the attorney." 
 
 " Yes," continued the latter, " I'll manage my own affairs, and 
 allow of no meddling and no questioning. I said so once before, 
 and I was not minded, and bad came of it ; and now I say it 
 again. And if you're to come here and put impertinent ques- 
 tions, and stare at me as you've been doing this half-hour past, 
 why, the sooner you leave this house the better ! " 
 
 Ralph half turned to take him at his word, and go at once ; 
 but then he "gave Ellinor another chance," as he worded it 
 in bis thoughts ; but it was in no spirit of conciUation that he 
 said — 
 
 " You've taken too much of that stuff, sir. You don't know 
 what you're saying. If you did, I should leave your house at 
 once, never to return." 
 
 " You think so, do you?" said Mr. Wilkins, trying to stand 
 up, and look dignified and sober. " I say, sir, that if you ever 
 venture again to talk and look as you have done to-night, why, 
 sir, I will ring the bell and have you shown the door by my 
 servants. So now you're warned, my fine fellow ! " He sat 
 down, laughing a foolish tipsy laugh of triumph. In another 
 minute his arm was held firmly but gently by Ralph. 
 
 "Listen, Mr. Wilkins," he said, in a low hoarse voice. 
 ' ' You shall never have to say to me twice what you have said 
 to-night. Henceforward we are as strangers to each other. As 
 to Ellinor" — his tones softened a little, and he sighed in spite of 
 himself — " I do not think we should have been happy. I believe 
 our engagement was formed when we were too young to know 
 our own minds, but I would have done my duty and kept to 
 my word ; but you, sir, have yourself severed the connection 
 between us by your insolence to-night. I, to be turned out of 
 your house by your servants ! — I, a Corbet of Westley, who 
 would not submit to such threats from a peer of the realm, let 
 him be ever so drunk ! " He was out of the room, almost out 
 of the house, before he had spoken the last words. 
 
 Mr. Wilkins sat still, first fiercely angry, then astonished, and 
 lastly dismayed into sobriety. "Corbet, Corbet! Ralph!" he 
 called in vain ; then he got up and went to the door, opened it, 
 looked into the fully-lighted hall ; all was so quiet there that he 
 
96 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 could hear the quiet voices of the women in the drawing-room 
 talking together. He thought for a moment, went to the hat- 
 stand, and missed Ralph's low-crowned straw hat. 
 
 Then he sat down once more in the dining-room, and 
 endeavoured to make out exactly what had passed ; but he 
 could not believe that Mr. Corbet had come to any enduring 
 or final resolution to break off his engagement, and he had 
 almost reasoned himself back into his former state of indigna- 
 tion at impertinence and injury, when Ellinor came in, pale, 
 hurried, and anxious. 
 
 "Papa! what does this mean?" said she, putting an open 
 note into his hand. He took up his glasses, but his hand shook 
 so that he could hardly read. The note was from the Parson- 
 age, to Ellinor ; only three lines sent by Mr. Ness's servant, 
 who had come to fetch Mr. Corbet's things. He had written 
 three lines with some consideration for EUinor, even when he 
 was in his first flush of anger against her father, and it must be 
 confessed of relief at his own freedom, thus brought about by 
 the act of another, and not of his own working out, which partly 
 saved his conscience. The note ran thus : 
 
 "Dear Ellinor, — Words have passed between your father 
 and me which have obliged me to leave his house, I fear, never 
 to return to it. I will write more fully to-morrow. But do not 
 grieve too much, for I am not, and never have been, good 
 enough for you. God bless you, my dearest Nelly, though I 
 call you so for the last time. — R. C." 
 
 "Papa, what is it?" Ellinor cried, clasping her hands to- 
 gether, as her father sat silent, vacantly gazing into the fire, 
 after finishing the note. 
 
 " I don't know ! " said he, looking up at her piteously ; " it's 
 the world, I think. Everything goes wrong with me and mine : 
 it went wrong before that night — so it can't be that, can it, 
 Ellinor?" 
 
 "Oh, papa!" said she, kneeling down by him, her face 
 hidden on his breast. 
 
 He put one arm languidly round her. "I used to read of 
 Orestes and the Furies at Eton when I was a boy, and I thought 
 it was all a heathen fiction. Poor little motherless girl ! " said 
 he, laying his other hand on her head, with the caressing gesture 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 97 
 
 he had been accustomed to use when she had been a little child. 
 "Did you love him so very dearly, Nelly?" he whispered, his 
 cheek against her ; "for somehow of late he has not seemed to 
 me good enough for thee. He has got an inkling that some- 
 thing has gone wrong, and he was very inquisitive — I may say 
 he questioned me in a relentless kind of way." 
 
 "Oh, papa, it was my doing, I'm afraid. I said something 
 long ago about possible disgrace." 
 
 He pushed her away ; he stood up, and looked at her with 
 the eyes dilated, half in fear, half in fierceness, of an animal 
 at bay ; he did not heed that his abrupt movement had almost 
 thrown her prostrate on the ground. 
 
 "You, Ellinor ! You — you " 
 
 " Oh, darling father, listen ! " said she, creeping to his knees, 
 and clasping them with her hands. " I said it, as if it were a 
 possible case, of some one else — last August — but he immedi- 
 ately applied it, and asked me if it was over me the disgrace, 
 or shame — I forget the words we used — hung ; and what could 
 I say?" 
 
 "Anything — anything to put him off the scent. God help 
 me, I am a lost man, betrayed by my child 1 " 
 
 Ellinor let go his knees, and covered her face. Every one 
 stabbed at that poor heart. In a minute or so her father spoke 
 again. 
 
 "I don't mean what I say. I often don't mean it now. 
 Ellinor, you must forgive me, my child!" He stooped, and 
 lifted her up, and sat down, taking her on his knee, and 
 smoothing her hair off her hot forehead. " Remember, child, 
 how very miserable I am, and have forgiveness for me. He 
 had none, and yet he must have seen I had been drinking." 
 
 " Drinking, papa ! " said Ellinor, raising her head, and looking 
 at him with sorrowful surprise. 
 
 "Yes. I drink now to try and forget," said he, blushing and 
 confused. 
 
 "Oh, how miserable we are!" cried EUinor, bursting into 
 tears — "how very miserable! It seems almost as if God had 
 forgotten to comfort us ! " 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! " said he. "Your mother said once she did 
 so pray that you might grow up religious ; you must be religious, 
 child, because she prayed for it so often. Poor Lettice, how glad 
 I am that you are dead ! " Here he began to cry like a child. 
 
98 A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 
 
 Ellinor comforted him with kisses rather than words. He pushed 
 her away, after a while, and said sharply: "How much does 
 he know ? I must make sure of that. How much did you tell 
 him, Ellinor?" 
 
 "Nothing — nothing, indeed, papa, but what I told you just 
 now ! " 
 
 " Tell it me again — the exact words 1 " 
 
 "I will, as well as I can ; but it was last August. I only 
 said, ' Was it right for a woman to marry, knowing that dis- 
 grace hung over her, and keeping her lover in ignorance of it ? ' " 
 
 " That was all, you are sure?" 
 
 " Yes. He immediately applied the case to me — to ourselves." 
 
 "And he never wanted to know what was the nature of the 
 threatened disgrace ? " 
 
 "Yes, he did." 
 ■ " And you told him ? " 
 
 " No, not a word more. He referred to the subject again to- 
 day, in the shrubbery ; but I told him nothing more. You quite 
 believe me, don't you, papa?" 
 
 He pressed her to him, but did not speak. Then he took the 
 note up again, and read it with as much care and attention as 
 he could collect in his agitated state of mind. 
 
 "Nelly," said he at length, "he says true; he is not good 
 enough for thee. He shrinks from the thought of the disgrace. 
 Thou must stand alone, and bear the sins of thy father." 
 
 He shook so much as he said this, that Ellinor had to put any 
 suffering of her own on one side, and try to confine her thoughts 
 to the necessity of getting her father immediately up to bed. 
 She sat by him till he went to sleep, and she could leave him, 
 and go to her own room, to forgetfulness and rest, if she could 
 find those priceless blessings. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Mr. Corbet was so well known at the Parsonage by the two 
 old servants, that he had no difficulty, on reaching it, after his 
 departure from Ford Bank, in having the spare bedchamber 
 made ready for him, late as it was, and in the absence of the 
 master, who had taken a httle holiday, now that Lent and 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 99 
 
 Easter were over, for the purpose of fishing. While his room 
 was getting ready, Ralph sent for his clothes, and by the same 
 messenger he despatched the little note to EUinor. But there 
 was the letter he had promised her in it still to be written ; 
 and it was almost his night's employment to say enough, yet 
 not too much ; for, as he expressed it to himself, he was half 
 way over the stream, and it would be folly to turn back, for 
 he had given nearly as much pain both to himself and Ellinor 
 by this time as he should do by making the separation final. 
 Besides, after Mr. Wilkins's speeches that evening — but he 
 was candid enough to acknowledge that, bad and offensive as 
 they had been, if they had stood alone they might have been 
 condoned. 
 
 His letter ran as follows : — 
 
 "Dearest Ellinor, for dearest you are, and I think will 
 ever be, my judgment has consented to a step which is giving 
 me great pain, greater than you will readily believe. I am con- 
 vinced that it is better that we should part ; for circumstances 
 have occurred since we formed our engagement which, although 
 I am unaware of their exact nature, I can see weigh heavily 
 upon you, and have materially affected your father's behaviour 
 — nay, I think, after to-night, I may almost say have entirely 
 altered his feelings towards me. What these circumstances are 
 I am ignorant, any further than that I know from your own 
 admission, that they may lead to some future disgrace. Now, 
 it may be my fault, it may be in my temperament, to be anxious, 
 above all things earthly, to obtain and possess a high reputation. 
 I can only say that it is so, and leave you to blame me for my 
 weakness as much as you like. But anything that might come 
 in between me and this object would, I own, be ill tolerated by 
 me ; the very dread of such an obstacle intervening would paralyse 
 me. I should become irritable, and, deep as my affection is, and 
 always must be, towards you, I could not promise you a happy, 
 peaceful life. I should be perpetually haunted by the idea of 
 what might happen in the way of discovery and shame. I am 
 the more convinced of this from my observation of your father's 
 altered character — an alteration which I trace back to the time 
 when I conjecture that the secret affairs took place to which you 
 have alluded. In short, it is for your sake, my dear Ellinor, 
 even more than for my own, that I feel compelled to affix a final 
 
lOO A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 meaning to the words which your father addressed to me last 
 night, when he desired me to leave his house for ever. God 
 bless you, my ElUnor, for the last time my Ellinor. Try to 
 forget as soon as you can the unfortunate tie which has bound 
 you for a time to one so unsuitable — I believe I ought to say so 
 unworthy of you — as — Ralph Corbet." 
 
 Ellinor was making breakfast when this letter was given her. 
 According to the wont of the servants of the respective house- 
 holds of the Parsonage and Ford Bank, the man asked if there 
 was any answer. It was only custom ; for he had not been de- 
 sired to do so. Ellinor went to the window to read her letter ; 
 the man waiting all the time respectfully for her reply. She 
 went to the writing-table, and wrote — 
 
 " It is all right — quite right. I ought to have thought of it 
 all last August. I do not think you will forget me easily, but I 
 entreat you never at any future time to blame yourself. I hope 
 you will be happy and successful. I suppose I must never write 
 to you again : but I shall always pray for you. Papa was very 
 sorry last night for having spoken angrily to you. You must 
 forgive him — there is great need for forgiveness in this world.— 
 Ellinor." 
 
 She kept putting down thought after thought, just to prolong 
 the last pleasure of writing to him. She sealed the note, and 
 gave it to the man. Then she sat down and waited for Miss 
 Monro, who had gone to bed on the previous night without 
 awaiting Ellinor's return from the dining-room. 
 
 "I am late, my dear," said Miss Monro, on coming down, 
 "but I have a bad headache, and I knew you had a plea- 
 sant companion." Then, looking round, she perceived Ralph's 
 absence. 
 
 "Mr. Corbet not down yet!" she exclaimed. And then 
 Ellinor had to tell her the outline of the facts so soon likely to 
 be made pubUc ; that Mr. Corbet and she had determined to 
 break off their engagement ; and that Mr. Corbet had accordingly 
 betaken himself to the Parsonage ; and that she did not expect 
 him to return to Ford Bank. Miss Monro's astonishment was 
 unbounded. She kept going over and over all the little circum- 
 stances she had noticed during the last visit, only on yesterday. 
 
A DARK NIGHTS WORK. lOI 
 
 in fact, which she could not reconcile with the notion that the 
 two, apparently so much attached to each other but a few hours 
 before, were now to be for ever separated and estranged. 
 Ellinor sickened under the torture ; which yet seemed like tor- 
 ture in a dream, from which there must come an awakening 
 and a relief. She felt as if she could not bear any more ; yet 
 there was more to bear. Her father, as it turned out, was very 
 ill, and had been so all night long ; he had evidently had some 
 kind of attack on the brain, whether apoplectic or paralytic 
 it was for the doctors to decide. In the hurry and anxiety of 
 this day of misery succeeding to misery, she almost forgot to 
 wonder whether Ralph were still at the Parsonage— still in 
 Hamley ; it was not till the evening visit of the physician that 
 she learnt that he had been seen by Dr. Moore as he was taking 
 his place in the morning mail to London. Dr. Moore alluded 
 to his name as to a thought that would cheer and comfort the 
 fragile girl during her night-watch by her father's bedside. But 
 Miss Monro stole out after the doctor to warn him off the subject 
 for the future, crying bitterly over the forlorn position of her 
 darling as she spoke — crying as Ellinor had never yet been able 
 to cry ; though all the time, in the pride of her sex, she was en- 
 deavouring to persuade the doctor it was entirely Ellinor's doing, 
 and the wisest and best thing she could have done, as he w^as 
 not good enough for her, only a poor barrister struggling for a 
 livelihood. Like many other kind-hearted people, she fell into 
 the blunder of lowering the moral character of those whom it is 
 their greatest wish to exalt. But Dr. Moore knew Ellinor too 
 well to believe the whole of what Miss Monro said ; she would 
 never act from interested motives, and was all the more likely to 
 cHng to a man because he was down and unsuccessful. No ! 
 there had been a lovers' quarrel ; and it could not have happened 
 at a sadder time. 
 
 Before the June roses were in full bloom, Mr. Wilkins was, 
 dead. He had left his daughter to the guardianship of Mr. Ness 
 by some will made years ago ; but Mr. Ness had caught a rheu- 
 matic fever with his Easter fishings, and been unable to be. 
 moved home from the little Welsh inn where he had been stay- 
 ing when he was taken ill. Since his last attack, Mr. Wilkins's 
 mind had been much affected ; he often talked strangely and 
 wildly ; but he had rare intervals of quietness and full possession 
 of his senses. At one of these times he must have written a half- 
 
r02 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 finished pencil note, which his nurse found under his pillow after 
 his death, and brought to Ellinor. Through her tear-blinded 
 eyes she read the weak, faltering words — 
 
 " I am very ill. I sometimes think I shall never get better, 
 so I wish to ask your pardon for what I said the night before I 
 was taken ill. I am afraid my anger made mischief between 
 you and Ellinor, but I think you will forgive a dying man. If 
 you will come back and let all be as it used to be, I will make 
 any apology you may require. If I go, she will be so very 
 friendless ; and I have looked to you to care for her ever since 
 you first " Then came some illegible and incoherent writ- 
 ing, ending with, "From my deathbed I adjure you to stand 
 her friend ; I will beg pardon on my knees for anything " 
 
 And there strength had failed ; the paper and pencil had been 
 laid aside to be resumed at some time when the brain was clearer, 
 the hand stronger. Ellinor kissed the letter, reverently folded it 
 up, and laid it among her sacred treasures, by her mother's 
 half-finished sewing, and a httle curl of her baby sister's golden 
 hair. 
 
 Mr. Johnson, who had been one of the trustees for Mrs. 
 Wilkins's marriage settlement, a respectable solicitor in the 
 county town, and Mr. Ness, had been appointed executors of his 
 will, and guardians to Ellinor. The will itself had been made 
 several years before, when he imagined himself the possessor of 
 a handsome fortune, the bulk of which he bequeathed to his only 
 child. By her mother's marriage-settlement, Ford Bank was 
 held in trust for the children of the marriage ; the trustees being 
 Sir Frank Holster and Mr. Johnson. There were legacies to 
 his executors ; a small annuity to Miss Monro, with the expres- 
 sion of a hope that it might be arranged for her to continue 
 living with Ellinor as long as the latter remained unmarried ; 
 all his servants were remembered, Dixon especially, and most 
 liberally. 
 
 What remained of the handsome fortune once possessed by 
 the testator? The executors asked in vain ; there was nothing. 
 They could hardly make out what had become of it, in such 
 utter confusion were all the accounts, both personal and official. 
 Mr. Johnson was hardly restrained by his compassion for the 
 orphan from throwing up the executorship in disgust. Mr. Ness 
 roused himself from his scholarlike abstraction to labour 'at the 
 examination of books, parchments, and papers, for EUinor's 
 
A DARK night's WORK. IO3 
 
 sake. Sir Frank Holster professed himself only a trustee for 
 Ford Bank. 
 
 Meanwhile she went on living at Ford Bank, quite unconscious 
 of the state of her father's affairs, but sunk into a deep, plaintive 
 melancholy, which affected her looks and the tones of her voice 
 in such a manner as to distress Miss Monro exceedingly. It was 
 not that the good lady did not quite acknowledge the great cause 
 her pupil had for grieving — deserted by her lover, her father dead 
 — but that she could not bear the outward signs of how much 
 these sorrows had told on EUinor. Her love for the poor girl 
 was infinitely distressed by seeing the daily wasting away, the 
 constant heavy depression of spirits, and she grew impatient of 
 the continual pain of sympathy. If Miss Monro could have 
 done something to relieve EUinor of her woe, she would have 
 been less inclined to scold her for giving way to it. 
 
 The time came when Miss Monro could act ; and after that, 
 there was no more irritation on her part. When all hope of 
 Ellinor's having anything beyond the house and grounds of Ford 
 Bank was gone ; when it was proved that of all the legacies be- 
 queathed by Mr. Wilkins not one farthing could ever be paid ; 
 when it came to be a question how far the beautiful pictures and 
 other objects of art in the house w^re not legally the property of 
 unsatisfied creditors, the state of her father's affairs was com- 
 municated to EUinor as delicately as Mr. Ness knew how. 
 
 She was drooping over her work — she always drooped now — 
 and she left off sewing to hsten to him, leaning her head on the 
 arm which rested on the table. She did not speak when he 
 had ended his statement. She was silent for whole minutes 
 afterwards ; he went on speaking out of very agitation and 
 awkwardness. 
 
 " It was all the rascal Dunster's doing, I've no doubt," said he, 
 trying to account for the entire loss of Mr. Wilkins's fortune. 
 
 To his surprise she lifted up her white stony face, and said, 
 slowly and faintly, but with almost solemn calnmess — 
 
 " Mr. Ness, you must never allow Mr. Dunster to be blamed 
 for this ! " 
 
 , "My dear EUinor, there can be no doubt about it. Your 
 father himself always referred to the losses he had sustained by 
 Dunster's disappearance." 
 
 EUinor covered her face with her hands. " God forgive us all," 
 she said, and relapsed into the old unbearable silence. Mr. Ness 
 
I04 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 had undertaken to discuss her future plans with her, and he was 
 obhged to go on. 
 
 " Now, my dear child — I have known you since you were quite 
 a little girl, you know — we must try not to give way to feeling" 
 — he himself was choking; she was quite quiet — "but think 
 what is to be done. You will have the rent of this house, and 
 we have a very good offer for it — a tenant on lease of seven years 
 at a hundred and twenty pounds a year" 
 
 " I will never let this house," said she, standing up suddenly, 
 and as if defying him. 
 
 " Not let Ford Bank ! Why? I don't understand it — I can't 
 have been clear — Ellinor, the rent of this house is all you will 
 have to live on ! " 
 
 "I can't help it, I can't leave this house. Oh, Mr. Ness, I 
 can't leave this house." 
 
 " My dear child, you shall not be hurried — I know how hardly 
 all these things are coming upon you (and I wish I had never 
 seen Corbet, with all my heart I do !) " — this was almost to him- 
 self, but she must have heard it, for she quivered all over — " but 
 leave this house you must. You must eat, and the rent of this 
 house must pay for your food ; you must dress, and there is 
 nothing but the rent to clothe you. I will gladly have you to 
 stay at the Parsonage as long as ever you like ; but, in fact, the 
 negotiations with Mr. Osbaldistone, the gentleman who offers to 
 take the house, are nearly completed" 
 
 " It is my house ! " said Ellinor fiercely. " I know it is settled 
 on me." 
 
 -' No, my dear. It is held in trust for you by Sir Frank Hol- 
 ster and Mr. Johnson ; you to receive all moneys and benefits 
 accruing from it" — he spoke gently, for he almost thought her 
 head was turned — " but you remember you are not of age, and 
 Mr. Johnson and I have full power." 
 
 Ellinor sat down, helpless. 
 
 " Leave me," she said at length. "You are very kind, but 
 you don't know all, I cannot stand any more talking now," she 
 added faintly. 
 
 Mr. Ness bent over her and kissed her forehead, and withdrew 
 without another word. He went to Miss Monro. 
 
 "Well! and how did you find her?" was her first inquiry, 
 after the usual greetings had passed between them. " It is really 
 quite sad to see how she gives way ; I speak to her, and speak to 
 
A DARK night's WORK. I05 
 
 her, and tell her how she is neglecting all her duties, and it does 
 no good." 
 
 " She has had to bear a still further sorrow to-day," said Mr. 
 Ness. " On the part of Mr. Johnson and myself I have a very 
 painful duty to perform to you as well as to her. Mr. Wilkins 
 has died insolvent. I grieve to say there is no hope of your ever 
 receiving any of your annuity ! " 
 
 Miss Monro looked very blank. Many happy little visions 
 faded away in those few moments ; then she roused up and said, 
 " I am but forty ; I have a good fifteen years of work in me left 
 yet, thank God. Insolvent ! Do you mean he has left no money? " 
 
 " Not a farthing. The creditors may be thankful if they are 
 fully paid." 
 
 "And Ellinor?" 
 
 "Ellinor will have the rent of this house, which is hers by 
 right of her mother's settlement, to live on." 
 
 " How much will that be?" 
 
 "One hundred and twenty pounds." 
 
 Miss Monro's lips went into a form prepared for whistling. 
 Mr. Ness continued — 
 
 "She is at present unwilling enough to leave this house, poor 
 girl. It is but natural ; but she has no power in the matter, 
 even were there any other course open to her. I can only say 
 how glad, how honoured, I shall feel by as long a visit as you 
 and she can be prevailed upon to pay me at the Parsonage." 
 
 "Where is Mr. Corbet?" said Miss Monro. 
 
 " I do not know. After breaking off his engagement he vvrote 
 me a long letter, explanatory, as he called it ; exculpatory, as I 
 termed it. I wrote back, curtly enough, saying that I regretted 
 the breaking-off of an intercourse which had always been very 
 pleasant to me, but that he must be aware that, with my intimacy 
 with the family at Ford Bank, it would be both awkward and 
 unpleasant to all parties if he and I remained on our previous 
 footing. Who is that going past the window? Ellinor riding?" 
 
 Miss Monro went to the window. " Yes ! I am thankful to 
 see her on horseback again. It was only this morning I advised 
 her to have a ride ! " 
 
 " Poor Dixon ! he will suffer too ; his legacy can no more be 
 paid than the others ; and it is not many young ladies who will 
 be as content to have so old-fashioned a groom riding after them 
 as EUinor seems to be." 
 
 D 2 
 
Io6 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 As soon as Mr. Ness had left, Miss Monro went to her desk 
 and wrote a long letter to some friends she had at the cathedral 
 town of East Chester, where she had spent some happy years of 
 her former life. Her thoughts had gone back to this time even 
 while Mr. Ness had been speaking ; for it was there her father 
 had lived, and it was after his death that her cares in search of 
 a subsistence had begun. But the recollections of the peaceful 
 years spent there were stronger than the remembrance of the 
 weeks of sorrow and care ; and, while EUinor's marriage had 
 seemed a probable event, she had made many a little plan of 
 returning to her native place, and obtaining what daily teaching 
 she could there meet with, and the friends to whom she w^as now 
 writing had promised her their aid. She thought that as Ellinor 
 had to leave Ford Bank, a home at a distance might be more 
 agreeable to her, and she went on to plan that they should live 
 together, if possible, on her earnings, and the small income that 
 would be EUinor's. Miss Monro loved her pupil so dearly, that, 
 if her own pleasure only were to be consulted, this projected life 
 would be more agreeable to her than if Mr. Wilkins's legacy had 
 set her in independence, with Ellinor away from her, married, and 
 with interests in which her former governess had but little part. 
 
 As soon as Mr. Ness had left her, Ellinor rang the bell, and 
 startled the servant who answered it by her sudden sharp desire 
 to have the horses at the door as soon as possible, and to tell 
 Dixon to be ready to go out with her. 
 
 She felt that she must speak to him, and in her nervous state 
 she wan-ted to be out on the free broad common, where no one 
 could notice or remark their talk. It was long since she had 
 ridden, and much wonder was excited by the sudden movement 
 in kitchen and stable-yard. But Dixon went gravely about his 
 work of preparation, saying nothing. 
 
 They rode pretty hard till they reached Monk's Heath, six or 
 seven miles away from Hamley. Ellinor had previously deter- 
 mined that here she would talk over the plan Mr. Ness had 
 proposed to her with Dixon, and he seemed to understand her 
 without any words passing between them. When she reined 
 in he rode up to her, and met the gaze of her sad eyes with 
 sympathetic, wistful silence. 
 
 " Dixon," said she, " they say I must leave Ford Bank." 
 
 " I was afeared on it, from all I've heerd say i' the town since 
 the master's death." 
 
A DARK night's WORK. lO/ 
 
 "Then you've heard — then you know — that papa has left 
 hardly any money — my poor dear Dixon, you won't have your 
 legacy, and I never thought of that before ! " 
 
 "Never heed, never heed," said he eagerly ; " I couldn't have 
 touched it if it had been there, for the taking it would ha' seemed 
 
 too like" Blood-money, he was going to say, but he stopped 
 
 in time. She guessed the meaning, though not the word he 
 would have used. 
 
 " No, not that," said she ; "his will was dated years before. 
 But oh, Dixon, what must I do? They will make me leave Ford 
 Bank, I see. I think the trustees have half let it already." 
 
 " But you'll have the rent on't, I reckon ? " asked he anxiously. 
 " I've many a time heerd 'em say as it was settled on the missus 
 first, and then on you." 
 
 "Oh, yes, it is not that; but you know, under the beech- 
 iree" 
 
 "Ay !" said he heavily. " It's been oftentimes on my mind, 
 waking, and I think there's ne'er a night as I don't dream of it." 
 
 " But how can I leave it?" Ellinor cried. "They may do a 
 hundred things — may dig up the shrubbery. Oh ! Dixon, I feel 
 as if it was' sure to be found out ! Oh ! Dixon, I cannot bear 
 any more blame on papa — it will kill me — and such a dreadful 
 thing, too ! " 
 
 Dixon's face fell into the lines of habitual pain that it had 
 always assumed of late years whenever he was thinking or 
 remembering anything. 
 
 " They must ne'er ha' reason to speak ill of the dead, that's 
 for certain," said he. "The Wilkinses have been respected in 
 Haniley all my lifetime, and all my father's before me, and — • 
 surely, missy, there's ways and means of tying tenants up from 
 alterations both in the house and out of it, and I'd beg the 
 trustees, or whatever they's called, to be very particular, if I was 
 you, and not have a thing touched either in the house, or the 
 gardens, or the meadows, or the stables. I think, wi' a word 
 from you, they'd maybe keep me on i' the stables, and I could 
 look after things a bit ; and the Day o' Judgment will come at 
 last, when ail our secrets will be made known wi'out our having 
 the trouble and the shame o' telling 'em. I'm getting rayther 
 tired o' this world. Miss Ellinor." 
 
 " Don't talk so," said Ellinor tenderly. " I know how sad it 
 is, but, oh ! remember how I shall want a friend when you're 
 
308 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 gone, to advise me as you have done to-day. You're not feeling 
 ill, Dixon, are you?" she continued anxiously. 
 
 " No ! I'm hearty enough, and likely for t' live. Father was 
 eighty-one, and mother above the seventies, when they died. 
 It's only my heart as is got to feel so heavy ; and as for that 
 matter, so is yours, I'll be bound. And it's a comfort to us both 
 if we can serve him as is dead by any care of ours, for he were 
 such a bright handsome lad, with such a cheery face, as never 
 should ha' known shame." 
 
 They rode on without much more speaking. Ellinor was 
 silently planning for Dixon, and he, not caring to look forward 
 to the future, was bringing up before his fancy the time, thirty 
 years ago, when he had first entered the elder Mr. Wiikins's 
 service as stable-lad, and pretty Molly, the scullery-maid, was 
 his daily delight. Pretty Molly lay buried in Hamley church- 
 yard, and few hving, except Dixon, could have gone straight to 
 her grave. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 In a few days Miss Monro obtained a most satisfactory reply to 
 her letter of inquiries as to whether a daily governess could find 
 employment in East Chester. P'or once the application seemed 
 to have come just at the right time. The canons were most of 
 them married men, with young families ; those at present in 
 residence welcomed the idea of such instruction as Miss Monro 
 could offer for their children, and could almost answer for their 
 successors in office. This was a great step gained. Miss Monro, 
 the daughter of a precentor to this very cathedral, had a secret 
 unwillingness to being engaged as a teacher by any wealthy 
 tradesman there; but to be received into the canons' families, in 
 almost any capacity, was like going home. Moreover, besides 
 the empty honour of the thing, there were many small pieces of 
 patronage in the gift of the Chapter— such as a small house open- 
 ing on to the Close, which had formerly belonged to the verger, 
 but which was now vacant, and was offered to Miss Monro at a 
 nominal rent. 
 
 Ellinor had once more sunk into her old depressed passive 
 state ; Mr. Ness and Miss Monro, modest and undecided as 
 they both were in general, had to fix and arrange everything for 
 
A DARK night's WORK. I09 
 
 iher. Her great interest seemed to be in the old servant Dixon, 
 and her great pleasure to lie in seeing him, and talking over 
 old times ; so her two friends talked about her, little knowing 
 what a bitter, stinging pain her "pleasure" was. In vain 
 Ellinor tried to plan how they could take Dixon with them to 
 East Chester. If he had been a woman it would have been a 
 feasible step ; but they were only to keep one servant, and 
 Dixon, capable and versatile as he was, would not do for that 
 servant. All this was what passed through Ellinor's mind : it 
 is still a question whether Dixon would have felt his love of his 
 native place, with all its associations and remembrances, or his 
 love for Ellinor, the stronger. But he was not put to the 
 proof; he was only told that he must leave, and seeing Ellinor's 
 extreme grief at the idea of their separation, he set himself to 
 comfort her by every means in his power, reminding her, with 
 tender choice of words, how necessary it was that he should 
 remain on the spot, in Mr. Osbaldistone's service, in order to 
 frustrate, by any small influence he might have, every project of 
 alteration in the garden that contained the dreadful secret. 
 He persisted in this view, though Ellinor repeated, with per- 
 dnacious anxiety, the care which Mr. Johnson had taken, in 
 drawing up the lease, to provide against any change or altera- 
 tion being made in the present disposition of the house or 
 grounds. 
 
 People in general were rather astonished at the eagerness Miss 
 Wilkins showed to sell all the Ford Bank furniture. Even 
 Miss Monro was a little scandalised at this want of sentiment, 
 although she said nothing about it; indeed justified the step, by 
 teUing every one how wisely Ellinor was acting, as the large, 
 handsome tables and chairs would be very much out of place 
 and keeping with the small, oddly-shaped rooms of their future 
 home in East Chester Close. None knew how strong was the 
 instinct of self-preservation, it may almost be called, which 
 impelled Ellinor to shake off, at any cost of present pain, the 
 incubus of a terrible remembrance. She wanted to go into an 
 unhaunted dwelling in a free, unknown country — she felt as if it 
 was her only chance of sanity. Sometimes she thought her 
 senses would not hold together till the time when all these 
 arrangements were ended. But she did not speak to nny one 
 about her feelings, poor child ; to whom could she speak on the 
 subject but to Dixon? Nor did she define them to herself. 
 
no A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 All she knew was, that she was as nearly going mad as possible; 
 and if she did, she feared that she might betray her father's 
 guilt. All this time she never cried, or varied from her dull, 
 passive demeanour. And they were blessed tears of relief that 
 she shed when Miss Monro, herself weeping bitterly, told her 
 to put her head out of the post-chaise window, for at the next 
 turning of the road they would catch the last gUmpse of Hamley 
 church spire. 
 
 Late one October evening, Eliinor had her first sight of East 
 Chester Close, where she was to pass the remainder of her life. 
 Miss Monro had been backwards and forwards between Hamley 
 and East Chester more than once, while Eliinor remained at ihe 
 Parsonage ; so she had not only the pride of proprietorship in 
 the whole of the beautiful city, but something of the desire of 
 hospitably welcoming Eliinor to their joint future home. 
 
 " Look! the fly must take us a long round, because of our 
 luggage ; but behind these high old walls are the canons' 
 gardens. That high-pitched roof, with the clumps of stonecrop 
 on the walls near it, is Canon Wilson's, whose four little girls 
 I am to teach. Hark ! the great cathedral clock. How proud 
 I used to be of its great boom when I was a child 1 I thought 
 all the other church clocks in the town sounded so shrill and 
 poor after that, which I considered mine especially. There are 
 rooks flying home to the elms in the Close. I wonder if they 
 are the same that used to be there when I was a girl. They 
 say the rook is a very long-hved bird, and I feel as if I could 
 swear to the way they are cawing. Ay, you may smile, Eliinor, 
 but I understand now those lines of Gray's you used to say so 
 prettily — 
 
 ; * I feel the gales that from ye blow, 
 
 A momentary bliss bestow, 
 And breathe a second spring.' 
 
 Now, dear, you must get out. This flagged walk leads to our 
 front-door ; but our back rooms, which are the pleasantest, look 
 on to the Close, and the cathedral, and the lime-tree walk, and 
 the deanery, and the rookery." 
 
 It was a mere slip of a house ; the kitchen being wisely placed 
 close to the front-door, and so reserving the pretty view for the 
 little dining-room, out of which a glass-door opened into a small 
 "walled-in garden, which had again an entrance into the Close. 
 
A DARK NIGHTS WORK. Ill 
 
 Upstairs was a bedroom to the front, which Miss Monro had 
 taken for herself, because, as she said, she had old associations 
 with the back of every house in the High Street, while Ellinor 
 mounted to the pleasant chamber above the tiny drawing- 
 room, both of which looked on to the vast and solemn cathedral^ 
 and the peaceful dignified Close. East Chester Cathedral 
 is Norman, with a low, massive tower, a grand, majestic nave, 
 and a choir full of stately historic tombs. The whole city is 
 so quiet and decorous a place, that the perpetual daily chants 
 and hymns of praise seemed to sound far and wide over the 
 roofs of the houses. Ellinor soon became a regular attendant 
 at all the morning and evening services. The sense of worship 
 calmed and soothed her aching weary heart, and to be punctual 
 to the cathedral hours she roused and exerted herself, when 
 probably nothing else would have been sufficient to this end. 
 
 By-and-by Miss Monro formed many acquaintances ; she 
 picked up, or was picked up by, old friends, and the descendants 
 of old friends. The grave and kindly canons, whose children 
 she taught, called upon her with their wives, and talked over 
 the former deans and chapters, of whom she had both a personal 
 and traditional knowledge, and as they walked away and talked 
 about her silent delicate-looking friend Miss Wilkins, and per- 
 haps planned some little present out of their fruitful garden or 
 bounteous , stores, which should make Miss Monro's table a 
 little more tempting to one apparently so frail as Ellinor, for the 
 household was always spoken of as belonging to Miss Monro, 
 the active and prominent person. By-and-by, Ellinor herself 
 won her way to their hearts, not by words or deeds, but by her 
 sweet looks and meek demeanour, as they marked her regular 
 attendance at cathedral service ; and when they heard of her 
 constant visits to a certain parochial school, and of her being 
 sometimes seen carrying a little covered basin to the cottages 
 of the poor, they began to try and tempt her, with more urgent 
 words, to accompany Miss Monro in her frequent tea-drinkings 
 Cit their houses. The old dean, that courteous gentleman and 
 good Christian, had early become great friends with Ellinor. 
 He would watch at the windows of his great vaulted library till 
 he saw her emerge from the garden into the Close, and then 
 -open the deanery door, and join her, she softly adjusting the 
 measure of her pace to his. The time of his departure from 
 East Chester became a great blank in her life, although she 
 
112 A DARK NIGHTS WORK. 
 
 would never accept, or allow Miss Monro to accept, his repeated 
 invitations to go and pay him a visit at his country-place. 
 Indeed, having once tasted comparative peace again in East 
 Chester Cathedral Close, it seemed as though she was afraid 
 of ever venturing out of those calm precincts. All Mr. Ness's 
 invitations to visit him at his parsonage at Hamley were declined, 
 although he was welcomed at Miss Monro's on the occasion of 
 his annual visit, by every means in their power. He slept at 
 one of the canon's vacant houses, and Hved with his two friends, 
 who made a yearly festivity, to the best of their means, in 
 his honour, inviting such of the cathedral clergy as were in 
 residence : or, if they failed, condescending to the town clergy. 
 Their friends knew well that no presents were so acceptable as 
 those sent while Mr. Ness was with them ; and from the dean, 
 who would send them a hamper of choice fruit and flowers from 
 Oxton Park, down to the curate, who worked in the same 
 schools as Ellinor, and who was a great fisher, and caught 
 splendid trout — all did their best to help them to give a wel- 
 come to the only visitor they ever had. The only visitor they 
 ever had, as far as the stately gentry knew. There was one, 
 however, who came as often as his master could give him a 
 holiday long enough to undertake a journey to so distant 
 a place ; but few knew of his being a guest at Miss Monro's, 
 though his welcome there was not less hearty than Mr. Ness's 
 — this was Dixon. Ellinor had convinced him that he could 
 give her no greater pleasure at any time than by allowing her 
 to frank him to and from East Chester. Whenever he came 
 they were together the greater part of the day ; she taking him 
 hither and thither to see all the sights that she thought would 
 interest or please him ; but they spoke very little to each other 
 during all this companionship. Miss Monro had much more 
 to say to him. She questioned him right and left whenever 
 Ellinor was out of the room. She learnt that the house at Ford 
 Bank was splendidly furnished, and no money spared on the 
 garden ; that the eldest Miss Hanbury was very well married ; 
 that Brown had succeeded to Jones in the haberdasher's shop. 
 Then she hesitated a little before making her next inquiry — 
 " I suppose Mr. Corbet never comes to the Parsonage now ?" 
 "No, not he. I don't think as how Mr. Ness would have 
 him ; but they write letters to each other by times. Old Job — 
 you'll recollect old Job, ma'am, he that gardened for Mr. Ness, 
 
A DARK night's WORK. II3 
 
 and waited in the parlour when there was company — did say as 
 one day he heard them speaking about Mr. Corbet ; and he's 
 a grand counsellor now — one of them as goes about at assize- 
 time, and speaks in a wig." 
 
 "A barrister, you mean," said Miss Monro. 
 
 "Ay; and he's something more than that, though I can't 
 rightly remember what." 
 
 Ellinor could have told them both. They had the Times lent 
 to them on the second day after pubhcation by one of their 
 friends in the Close, and EUinor, watching till Miss Monro's eyes 
 were otherwise engaged, always turned with trembling hands and 
 a beating heart to the reports of the various courts of law. In 
 them she found— at first rarely — the name she sought for, the 
 name she dwelt upon, as if every letter were a study. Mr. Losh 
 and Mr. Buncombe appeared for the plaintiff, Mr. Smythe and 
 Mr. Corbet for the defendant. In a year or two that name 
 appeared more frequently, and generally took the precedence of 
 the other, whatever it might be ; then on special occasions his 
 speeches were reported at full length, as if his words were 
 accounted weighty ; and by-and-by she saw that he had been 
 appointed a Queen's Counsel. And this was all she ever heard or 
 saw about him; his once familiar name never passed her lips 
 except in hurried whispers to Dixon, when he came to stay with 
 them. Ellinor had had no idea when she parted from Mr. 
 Corbet how total the separation between them was hence- 
 forward to be, so much seemed left unfinished, unexplained. It 
 was so difficult, at first, to break herself of the habit of constant 
 mental reference to him ; and for many a long year she kept 
 thinking that surely some kind fortune would bring them together 
 again, and all this heart-sickness and melancholy estrangement 
 from each other would then seem to both only as an ugly dream 
 that had passed away in the morning light. 
 
 The dean was an old man, but there was a canon who was 
 older still, and whose death had been expected by many, and 
 speculated upon by some, any time for ten years at least. Canon 
 Holdsworth was too old to show active kindness to any one ; the 
 good dean's hfe was full of thoughtful and benevolent deeds. 
 But he was taken, and the other left. Ellinor looked out at the 
 v^icant deanery with tearful eyes, the last thing at night, the first 
 in the morning. But it is pretty nearly the same with church 
 dignitaries as with kings ; the dean is dead, long five the dean I 
 
114 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 A clergyman from a distant county was appointed, and all the 
 Close was astir to learn and hear every particular connected with 
 him. Luckily he came in at the tag-end of one of the noble, 
 families in the peerage ; so, at any rate, all his future associates 
 could learn with tolerable certainty that he was forty-two years 
 of age, married, and with eight daughters and one son. The 
 deanery, formerly so quiet and sedate a dwelling of the one old 
 man, was now to be filled with noise and merriment. Iron 
 raiUngs were being placed before three windows, evidently to be 
 the nursery. In the summer publicity of open windows and 
 doors, the sound of the busy carpenters was perpetually heard all 
 over the Close : and by-and-by waggon-loads of furniture and 
 carriage-loads of people began to arrive. Neither Miss Monro 
 nor EUinor felt themselves of sufficient importance or station to 
 call on the new-comers, but they were as w^ell acquainted with 
 the proceedings of the family as if they had been in daily inter- 
 course ; they knew that the eldest Miss Beauchamp was seventeen, 
 and very pretty, only one shoulder was higher than the other; 
 that she was dotingly fond of dancing, and talked a great deal in 
 a ieie-d-tete, but not much if her mamma was by, and never opened 
 her lips at all if the dean was in the room ; that the next sister 
 was wonderfully clever, and was supposed to knov/ all the 
 governess could teach her, and to have private lessons in Greek 
 and mathematics from her father ; and so on down to the little 
 boy at the preparatory school and the baby-girl in arms. More- 
 over, Miss Monro, at any rate, could have stood an examination 
 as to the number of servants at the deanery, their division of 
 work, and the hours of their meals. Presently, a very beautiful,, 
 haughty-looking young lady made her appearance in the Close, 
 and in the dean's pew. She was said to be his niece, the orphan 
 daughter of his brother, General Beauchamp, come to East 
 Chester to reside for the necessary time before her marriage, 
 which was to be performed in the cathedral by her uncle, the 
 new dignitary. But as callers at the deanery did not see this 
 beautiful bride elect, and as the Beatichamps had not as yet fallen 
 into habits of intimacy with any of their new acquaintances, 
 very little was known of the circumstances of this approaching 
 wedding beyond the particulars given above. 
 
 EUinor and Miss Monro sat at their drawing-room window, a 
 little shaded by the muslin curtains, watching the busy prepara- 
 tions for the marriage, which was to take place the next day. 
 
A DARK night's WORK. II5 
 
 All morning long, hampers of fruit and flowers, boxes from the 
 railway — for by this time East Chester had got a railway— shop 
 messengers, hired assistants, kept passing backwards and forwards 
 in the busy Close. Towards afternoon the bustle subsided, the 
 scaffolding was up, the materials for the next day's feast carried 
 out of sight. It was to be concluded that the bride elect was 
 seeing to the packing of her trousseau, helped by the merry 
 multitude of cousins, and that the servants were arranging the 
 dinner for the day, or the breakfast for the morrow. So Miss 
 Monro had settled it, discussing every detail and every probability 
 as though she were a chief actor, instead of only a distant, 
 uncared-for spectator of the coming event. EUinor was tired, 
 and now that there was nothing interesting going on, she had 
 fallen back to her sewing, when she was startled by Miss Monro's 
 exclamation — 
 
 " Look, look ! here are two gentlemen coming along the lime- 
 tree walk ! it must be the bridegroom and his friend." Out of 
 much sympathy, and some curiosity, Ellinor bent forward, and 
 saw, just emerging from the shadow of the trees on to the full 
 afternoon sunlit pavement, Mr. Corbet and another gentleman ; 
 the former changed, worn, aged, though with still the same fine 
 intellectual face, leaning on the arm of the younger taller man, 
 and talking eagerly. The other gentleman was doubtless the 
 bridegroom, Ellinor said to herself; and yet her prophetic heart 
 did not believe her words. Even before the bright beauty at 
 the deanery looked out of the great oriel window of the drawing- 
 room, and blushed, and smiled, and kissed her hand — a gesture 
 replied to by Mr. Corbet with much e7npresse7nent, while the 
 other man only took off his hat, almost as if he saw her there 
 for the first time — Ellinor's greedy eyes watched him till he was 
 hidden from sight in the deanery, unheeding Miss Monro's eager 
 incoherent sentences, in turn entreating, apologising, comforting, 
 and upbraiding. Then she slowly turned her painful eyes upon 
 Miss Monro's face, and moved her lips without a sound being 
 heard, and fainted dead away. In all her life she had never 
 done so before, and when she came round she was not like her- 
 self; in all probability the persistence and wilfulness she, who 
 was usually so meek and docile, showed during the next twenty- 
 "four hours, was the consequence of fever. She resolved to be 
 present at the wedding ; numbers were going ; she would be 
 unseen, unnoticed in the crowd ; but whatever befell, go she 
 
Il6 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 would, and neither the tears nor the prayers of Miss Monro could 
 keep her back. She gave no reason for this determination ; in- 
 deed, in all probability she had none to give ; so there was no 
 arguing the point. She was inflexible to entreaty, and no one 
 had any authority over her, except, perhaps, distant Mr. Ness. 
 Miss Monro had all sorts of forebodings as to the possible scenes 
 that might come to pass. But all went on as quietly as though 
 the fullest sympathy pervaded every individual of the great 
 numbers assembled. No one guessed that the muffled, veiled 
 figure, sitting in the shadow behind one of the great pillars, was 
 that of one who had once hoped to stand at the altar with the 
 same bridegroom, who now cast tender looks at the beautiful 
 bride ; her veil white and fairy-like, Ellinor's black and shroud- 
 ing as that of any nun. 
 
 Already Mr. Corbet's name was known through the country 
 as that of a great lawyer ; people discussed his speeches and 
 character far and wide ; and the well-informed in legal gossip 
 spoke of him as sure to be offered a judgeship at the next 
 vacancy. So he, though grave, and middle-aged, and somewhat 
 grey, divided attention and remark with his lovely bride, and her 
 pretty train of cousin bridesmaids. Miss Monro need not have 
 feared for EUinor : she saw and heard all things as in a mist — a 
 dream ; as something she had to go through, before she could 
 waken up to a reality of brightness in which her youth, and the 
 hopes of her youth, should be restored, and all these weary years 
 of dreaminess and woe should be revealed as nothing but the 
 nightmare of a night. She sat motionless enough, still enough. 
 Miss Monro by her, watching her as intently as a keeper watches 
 a madman, and with the same purpose — to prevent any outburst 
 even by bodily strength, if such restraint be needed. When all 
 was over ; when the principal personages of the ceremony had 
 filed into the vestry to sign their names ; when the swarm of 
 townspeople were going out as swiftly as their individual notions 
 of the restraints of the sacred edifice permitted ; when the great 
 chords of the " Wedding March" clanged out from the organ, 
 and the loud bells pealed overhead — Ellinor laid her hand in 
 Miss Monro's. "Take me home," she said softly. And Miss 
 Monro led her home as one leads the bhnd. 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 11 J 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 There are some people who imperceptibly float away from 
 their youth into middle age, and thence pass into declining life 
 with the soft and gentle motion of happy years. There are 
 others who are whirled, in spite of themselves, down dizzy 
 rapids of agony away from their youth at one great bound, inta 
 old age with another sudden shock ; and thence into the vast 
 calm ocean where there are no shore-marks to tell of time. 
 
 This last, it seemed, was to be EUinor's lot. Her youth had 
 gone in a single night, fifteen years ago, and now she appeared 
 to have become an elderly woman ; very still and hopeless 
 in look and movement, but as sweet and gentle in speech and 
 smile as ever she had been in her happiest days. All young 
 people, when they came to know her, loved her dearly, though 
 at first they might call her dull, and heavy to get on with ; and 
 as for children and old people, her ready watchful sympathy 
 in their joys as well as their sorrows was an unfailing passage 
 to their hearts. After the first great shock of Mr. Corbet's 
 marriage was over, she seemed to pass into a greater peace than 
 she had known for years ; the last faint hope of happiness was 
 gone ; it would, perhaps, be more accurate to say, of the bright 
 happiness she had planned for herself in her early youth. 
 Unconsciously, she was being weaned from self-seeking in any 
 shape, and her daily life became, if possible, more innocent and 
 pure and holy. One of the canons used to laugh at her for her 
 constant attendance at all the services, and for her devotion to 
 good works, and call her always the reverend sister. Miss 
 Monro was a little annoyed at this faint clerical joke ; Ellinor 
 smiled quietly. Miss Monro disapproved of EUinor's grave 
 ways and sober severe style of dress. 
 
 " You may be as good as you like, my dear, and yet go dressed 
 in some pretty colour, instead of those perpetual blacks and greys, 
 and then there would be no need for me to be perpetually tell- 
 ing people you are only four-and-thirty (and they don't believe 
 me, though I tell them so till I am black in the face). Or if you 
 would but wear a decent-shaped bonnet, instead of always wear- 
 ing those of the poky shape in fashion when you were seventeen. " 
 
 The old canon died, and some one was to be appointed in his 
 
Il8 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 stead. These clerical preferments and appointments were the 
 all-important interests to the inhabitants of the Close, and the 
 discussion of probabilities came up invariably if any two met 
 together in street or house, or even in the very cathedral itself. 
 At length it was settled and announced by the higher powers. 
 An energetic, hard-working clergyman from a distant part of the 
 diocese, Livingstone by name, was to have the vacant canonry 
 
 Miss Monro said that the name was somehow familiar to her, 
 and by degrees she recollected the young curate who had come 
 to inquire after Ellinor in that dreadful illness she had had at 
 Hamley in the year 1829. Ellinor knew nothing of that visit ; 
 no more than Miss Monro did of what had passed between the 
 two before that anxious night. Ellinor just thought it possible 
 it might be the same Mr. Livingstone, and would rather it were 
 not, because she did not feel as if she could bear the frequent 
 though not intimate intercourse she must needs have, if such 
 were the case, with one so closely associated with that great 
 time of terror which she was striving to bury out of sight by 
 every effort in her power. Miss Monro, on the contrary, was 
 busy weaving a romance for her pupil ; she thought of the 
 passionate interest displayed by the fair young clergyman fifteen 
 years ago, and believed that occasionally men could be constant, 
 and hoped that, if Mr. Livingstone were the new canon, he 
 might prove the rara avis which exists but once in a century. 
 He came, and it w^as the same. He looked a little stouter, 
 a little older, but had still the gait and aspect of a young man. 
 His smooth fair face was scarcely lined at all with any marks of 
 care ; the blue eyes looked so kindly and peaceful that Miss 
 Monro could scarcely fancy they were the same which she had 
 seen fast filling with tears ; the bland calm look of the whole 
 man needed the ennoblement of his evident devoutness to be 
 raised into the type of holy innocence which some of the Romanists 
 call the "sacerdotal face." His entire soul was in his work, 
 and he looked as httle likely to step forth in the character of 
 either a hero of romance or a faithful lover as could be imagined. 
 Still Miss Monro was not discouraged ; she remembered the 
 warm, passionate feeling she had once seen break through the 
 calm exterior, and she believed that what had happened once 
 might occur again. 
 
 Of course, while all eyes were directed on the new canon, he 
 .had to learn who the possessors of those eyes were one by one ; 
 
A DARK night's WORK. II9 
 
 and it was probably some time before the idea came into his 
 mind that Miss Wilkins, the lady in black, with the sad pale 
 face, so constant an attendant at service, so regular a visitor at 
 the school, was the same Miss Wilkins as the bright vision of 
 his youth. It was her sweet smile at a painstaking child that 
 betrayed her — if, indeed, betrayal it might be called where there 
 was no wish or effort to conceal anything. Canon Livingstone 
 left the schoolroom almost directly, and, after being for an hour or 
 so in his house, went out to call on Mrs. Randall, the person who 
 knew more of her neighbours' aftairs than any one in East Chester. 
 The next day he called on Miss Wilkins herself. She would 
 have been very glad if he had kept on in his ignorance ; it was 
 so keenly painful to be in the company of one the sight of whom, 
 even at a distance, had brought her such a keen remembrance 
 of past misery ; and when told of his call, as she was sitting at 
 her sewing in the dining-room, she had to nerve herself for the 
 interview before going upstairs into the drawing-room, where 
 he was being entertained by Miss Monro with warm demonstra- 
 tions of welcome. A little contraction of the brow, a little com- 
 pression of the lips, an increased pallor on EUinor's part, was 
 all that Miss Monro could see in her, though she had put on 
 her glasses with foresight and intention to observe. She turned 
 to the canon ; his colour had certainly deepened as he went 
 forwards with outstretched hand to meet ElHnor. That was all 
 that v,'as to be seen ; but on the shght foundation of that blush, 
 Miss Monro built many castles ; and when they faded away, 
 one after one, she recognised that they were only baseless visions. 
 She used to put the disappointment of her hopes down to EUi- 
 nor's unvaried calmness of demeanour, which might be taken 
 for coldness of disposition ; and to her steady refusal to allow 
 Miss Monro to invite Canon Livingstone to the small teas they 
 were in the habit of occasionally giving. Yet he persevered in 
 his calls ; about once every fortnight he came, and would sit an 
 hour or more, looking covertly at his watch, as if, as Miss Monro 
 shrewdly observed to herself, he did not go away at last be- 
 cause he wished to do so, but because he ought. Sometimes 
 EUinor was present, sometimes she was away ; in this latter 
 case Miss Monro thought she could detect a certain wistful 
 watching of the door every time a noise was heard outside the 
 room. He always avoided any reference to former days at 
 Hamley, and that, Miss Monro feared, was a bad sign. 
 
I20 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 After this long uniformity of years without any event closely 
 touching on EUinor's own individual life, with the one great 
 exception of Mr. Corbet's marriage, something happened which 
 much affected her. Mr. Ness died suddenly at his parsonage, 
 and Ellinor learnt it first from Mr. Brown, a clergyman, whose 
 living was near Hamley, and who had been sent for by the Par- 
 sonage servants as soon as they discovered that it was not sleep, 
 but death, that made their master so late in rising. 
 
 Mr. Brown had been appointed executor by his late friend, 
 and wrote to tell Ellinor that after a few legacies were paid, she 
 was to have a hfe-interest in the remainder of the small property 
 which Mr. Ness had left, and that it would be necessary for her, 
 as the residuary legatee, to come to Hamley Parsonage as soon 
 as convenient, to decide upon certain courses of action with 
 regard to furniture, books, &c. 
 
 Ellinor shrank from this journey, which her love and duty 
 towards her dead friend rendered necessary. She had scarcely 
 left East Chester since she first arrived there, sixteen or seven- 
 teen years ago, and she was timorous about the very mode of 
 travelling ; and then to go back to Hamley, which she thought 
 never to have seen again ! She never spoke much about any 
 feelings of her own, but Miss Monro could always read her 
 silence, and interpreted it into pretty just and forcible words 
 that afternoon when Canon Livingstone called. She liked to talk 
 about Ellinor to him, and suspected that he liked to hear. She 
 was almost annoyed this time by the comfort he would keep 
 giving her ; there was no greater danger in travelling by rail- 
 road than by coach, a httle care about certain things was re- 
 quired, that was all, and the average number of deaths by 
 accidents on railroads was not greater than the average number 
 when people travelled by coach, if you took into consideration 
 the far greater number of travellers. Yes ! returning to the de- 
 serted scenes of one's youth was very painful. . . . Had Miss 
 Wilkins made any provision for another lady to take her place 
 as visitor at the school ? He believed it was her week. Miss 
 Monro was out of all patience at his entire calmness and reason- 
 ableness. Later in the day she became more at peace with him, 
 when she received a kind Httle note from Mrs. Forbes, a great 
 friend of hers, and the mother of the family she was now teach- 
 ing, saying that Canon Livingstone had called and told her 
 that Ellinor had to go on a very painful journey, and that Mrs. 
 
A DARK NIGHTS WORK. 121 
 
 Forbes was quite sure Miss Monro's companionship upon it 
 would be a great comfort to both, and that she could perfectly 
 be set at liberty for a fortnight or so, for it would fall in 
 admirably with the fact that " Jeanie was growing tall, and 
 the doctor had advised sea air this spring ; so a month's holi- 
 day would suit them now even better than later on." Was 
 this going straight to Mrs. Forbes, to whom she should herself 
 scarcely have liked to name it, the act of a good, thoughtful 
 man, or of a lover? questioned Miss Monro ; but she could not 
 answer her own inquiry, and had to be very grateful for the 
 deed, without accounting for the motives. 
 
 A coach met the train at a station about ten miles from 
 Hamley, and Dixon was at the inn where the coach stopped, 
 ready to receive them. 
 
 The old man was almost in tears at the sight of them again 
 in a familiar place. He had put on his Sunday clothes to do 
 them honour ; and to conceal his agitation he kept up a pre- 
 tended bustle about their luggage. To the indignation of the 
 inn-porters, who were of a later generation, he would wheel it 
 himself to the Parsonage, though he broke down from fatigue 
 once or twice on the way, and had to stand and rest, his ladies 
 waiting by his side, and making remarks on the alterations of 
 houses and the places of trees, in order to give him ample time 
 to recruit himself, for there was no one to wait for them and 
 give them a welcome to the Parsonage, which was to be their 
 temporary home. The respectful servants, in deep mourning, 
 had all prepared, and gave Ellinor a note from Mr. Brown, 
 saying that he purposely refrained from disturbing them that 
 day after their long journey, but would call on the morrow, and 
 tell them of the arrangements he had thought of making, always 
 subject to Miss Wilkins's approval. 
 
 These were simple enough ; certain legal forms to be gone 
 through, any selections from books or furniture to be made, and 
 the rest to be sold by auction as speedily as convenient, as the 
 successor to the living might wish to have repairs and alterations 
 effected in the old parsonage. For some days Ellinor employed 
 herself in business in the house, never going out except to church. 
 Miss Monro, on the contrary, strolled about everywhere, noticing 
 all the alterations in place and people, which were never im- 
 provements in her opinion. Ellinor had plenty of callers (her 
 tenants, Mr. and Mrs. Osbaldistone, among others), but, except- 
 
122 A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 
 
 ing in rare cases — most of them belonged to humble life — she 
 declined to see every one, as she had business enough on her 
 hands : sixteen years makes a great difference in any set ot 
 people. The old acquaintances of her father in his better days 
 were almost all dead or removed; there were one or two re- 
 maining, and these EUinor received ; one or two more, old and 
 infirm, confined to their houses, she planned to call upon before 
 leaving Hamley. Every evening, when Dixon had done his work 
 at Mr. Osbaldistone's, he came up to the parsonage, ostensibly 
 to help her in moving or packing books, but really because these 
 two clung to each other — were bound to each other by a bond 
 never to be spoken about. It was understood between them 
 that once before EUinor left she should go and see the old place, 
 Ford Bank. Not to go into the house, though Mr. and Mrs. 
 Osbaldistone had begged her to name her own time for revisit- 
 ing it, when they and their family would be absent, but to see 
 all the gardens and grounds once more ; a solemn, miserable 
 visit, which, because of the very misery it involved, appeared to 
 EUinor to be an imperative duty. 
 
 Dixon and she talked together as she sat making a catalogue 
 one evening in the old low-browed library ; the casement windows 
 were open into the garden, and the May showers had brought 
 out the scents of the new-leaved sweetbriar bush just below. 
 Beyond the garden hedge the grassy meadows sloped away down 
 to the river ; the Parsonage was so much raised that, sitting in 
 the house, you could see over the boundary hedge. Men with 
 instruments were busy in the meadow. EUinor, pausing in her 
 work, asked Dixon what they were doing. 
 
 " Them's the people for the new railway," said he. " Nought 
 would satisfy the Hamley folk but to have a railway all to them.- 
 selves— coaches isn't good enough now-a-days." 
 
 He spoke with a tone of personal offence natural to a man who 
 had passed all his life among horses, and considered railway- 
 engines as their despicable rivals, conquering only by stratagem. 
 
 By-and-by EUinor passed on to a subject the consideration of 
 which she had repeatedly urged upon Dixon, and entreated him 
 to come and form one of their household at East Chester. He 
 was growing old, she thought, older even in looks and feelings 
 than in years, and she would make him happy and comfortable 
 in his declining years if he would but come and pass them under 
 her care. The addition which Mr. Ness's bequest made to her 
 
A DARK night's WORK. I23 
 
 income would enable her to do not only this, but to relieve Miss 
 Monro of her occupation of teaching ; which, at the years she 
 had arrived at, was becoming burdensome. When she proposed 
 the removal to Dixon he shook his head. 
 
 "It's not that I don't thank you, and kindly, too; but I'm 
 too old to go chopping and changing." 
 
 "But it would be no change to come back to me, Dixon," 
 said Ellinor. 
 
 " Yes, it would. I were born i' Hamley, and it's i' Hamley I 
 reckon to die." 
 
 On her urging him a little more, it came out that he had a 
 strong feeling that if he did not watch the spot where the dead 
 man lay buried, the whole would be discovered ; and that this 
 dread of his had often poisoned the pleasure of his visit to East 
 Chester. 
 
 " I don't rightly know how it is, for I sometimes think if it 
 wasn't for you, missy, I should be glad to have made it all 
 clear before I go ; and yet at times I dream, or it comes into 
 my head as I lie awake with the rheumatics, that some one is 
 there, digging ; or that I hear 'em cutting down the tree ; and 
 then I get up and look out of the loft window — you'll mind 
 the window over the stables, as looks into the garden, all 
 covered over wi' the leaves of the jargonelle pear-tree? That 
 were my room when first I come as stable-boy, and tho' Mr. 
 Osbaldistone would fain give me a warmer one, I allays tell 
 him I like th' old place best. And by times I've getten up five 
 or six times a-night to make sure as there was no one at work 
 under the tree." 
 
 Ellinor shivered a little. He saw it, and restrained himself 
 in the relief he was receiving from imparting his superstitious 
 fancies. 
 
 " You see, missy, I could never rest a-nights if I didn't feel as 
 if I kept the secret in my hand, and held it tight day and night, 
 so as I could open my hand at any minute and see as it was 
 there. No ! my own little missy will let me come and see her 
 now and again, and I know as I can allays ask her for what I 
 want ; and if it please God to lay me by, I shall tell her so, 
 and she'll see as I want for nothing. But somehow I could 
 ne'er bear leaving Hamley. You shall come and follow me to 
 my grave when my time comes." 
 
 " Don't talk so, please, Dixon," said she. 
 
124 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 " Nay, it'll be a mercy when I can lay me down and sleep in 
 peace : though I sometimes fear as peace will not come to me 
 even there." He was going out of the room, and was now 
 more talking to himself than to her. "They say blood will 
 out, and if it weren't for her part in it, I could wish for a clear 
 breast before I die." 
 
 She did not hear the latter part of this mumbled sentence. 
 She was looking at a letter just brought in and requiring an 
 immediate answer. It was from Mr. Brown. Notes from him 
 were of daily occurrence, but this contained an open letter the 
 writing of which was strangely familiar to her — it did not need 
 the signature " Ralph Corbet," to tell her whom the letter came 
 from. For some moments she could not read the words. They 
 expressed a simple enough request, and were addressed to the 
 auctioneer who was to dispose of the rather valuable library of 
 the late Mr. Ness, and whose name had been advertised in 
 connection with the sale, in the Athenceum, and other similar 
 papers. To him Mr. Corbet wrote, saying that he should be 
 unable to be present when the books were sold, but that he 
 wished to be allowed to buy in, at any price decided upon, a 
 certain rare folio edition of Virgil, bound in parchment, and 
 with notes in Italian. The book was fully described. Though 
 no Latin scholar, Ellinor knew the book well — remembered its 
 look from old times, and could instantly have laid her hand 
 upon it. The auctioneer had sent the request on to his 
 employer, Mr. Brown. That gentleman applied to Ellinor 
 for her consent. She saw that the fact of the intended sale 
 must be all that Mr. Corbet was aware of, and that he could 
 not know to whom the books belonged. She chose out the 
 book, and wrapped and tied it up with trembling hands. He 
 might be the person to untie the knot. It was strangely familiar 
 to her love, after so many years, to be brought into thus much 
 contact with him. She wrote a short note to Mr. Brown, in 
 which she requested him to say, as though from himself, and 
 without any mention of her name, that he, as executor, re- 
 quested Mr. Corbet's acceptance of the Virgil, as a remembrance 
 of his former friend and tutor. Then she rang the bell, and 
 gave the letter and parcel to the servant. 
 
 Again alone, and Mr. Corbet's open letter on the table. She 
 took it up and looked at it till the letters dazzled crimson on 
 the white paper. Her life rolled backwards, and she was a 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 1 25 
 
 girl again. At last she roused herself ; but instead of destroy- 
 ing the note — it was long years since all her love-letters from 
 him had been returned to the writer — she unlocked her little 
 writing-case again, and placed this letter carefully down at 
 the bottom, among the dead rose-leaves which embalmed the 
 note from her father, found after his death under his pillow, 
 the little golden curl of her sister's, the half-finished sewing 
 of her mother. 
 
 The shabby writing-case itself was given her by her father 
 long ago, and had since been taken with her everywhere. To be 
 sure, her changes of place had been but few ; but if she had gone 
 to Nova Zembla, the sight of that little leather box on awaking 
 from her first sleep, would have given her a sense of home. She 
 locked the case up again, and felt all the richer for that morning. 
 
 A day or two afterwards she left Hamley. Before she went 
 she compelled herself to go round the gardens and grounds 
 of Ford Bank. She had made Mrs. Osbaldistone understand 
 that it would be painful for her to re-enter the house ; but Mr. 
 Osbaldistone accompanied her in her walk. 
 
 " You see how literally we have obeyed the clause in the lease 
 which ties us out from any alterations," said he, smiling. " We 
 are living in a tangled thicket of wood. I must confess that I 
 should have liked to cut down a good deal ; but we do not do even 
 the requisite thinnings without making the proper application for 
 leave to Mr. Johnson. In fact, your old friend Dixon is jealous 
 of every pea-stick the gardener cuts. I never met with so faithful 
 a fellow. A good enough servant, too, in his way ; but some- 
 what too old-fashioned for my wife and daughters, who complain 
 of his being surly now and then." 
 
 "You are not thinking of parting with him?" said Ellinor, 
 jealous for Dixon. 
 
 " Oh, no ; he and I are capital friends. And I beheve Mrs. 
 Osbaldistone herself would never consent to his leaving us. But 
 some ladies, you know, like a little more subserviency in manner 
 than our friend Dixon can boast." 
 
 Ellinor made no reply. They were entering the painted 
 flower garden, hiding the ghastly memory. She could not speak. 
 She felt as if, with all her striving, she could not move — just as 
 one does in a nightmare — but she was past the place even as this 
 terror came to its acme ; and when she came to herself, Mr. 
 Osbaldistone was still blandly talking, and saying — 
 
126 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 "It is now a reward for our obedience to your wishes, Miss 
 Wilkins, for if the projected railway passes through the ash-field 
 yonder we should have been perpetually troubled with the sight of 
 the trains ; indeed, the sound would have been much more distinct 
 than it will be now coming through the interlacing branches. 
 Then you will not go in, Miss Wilkins? Mrs. Osbaldistone 
 
 desired me to say how happy Ah 1 I can understand such 
 
 feelings Certainly, certainly ; it is so much the shortest way 
 
 to the town, that we elder ones always go through the stable- 
 yard ; for young people, it is perhaps not quite so desirable. Ha 1 
 Dixon," he continued, " on the watch for the Miss Ellinor we so 
 often hear of ! This old man, " he continued to ElHnor, ' ' is never 
 satisfied with the seat of our young ladies, always comparing 
 their way of riding with that of a certain missy" 
 
 " I cannot help it, sir ; they've quite a different style of hand, 
 and sit all lumpish-hke. Now, Miss Ellinor, there " 
 
 "Hush, Dixon," she said, suddenly aware of why the old 
 servant was not popular with his mistress. " I suppose I may 
 be allowed to ask for Dixon's company for an hour or so ; we 
 have something to do together before we leave. " 
 
 The consent given, the two walked away, as by previous 
 appointment, to Hamley churchyard, where he was to point out 
 to her the exact spot where he wished to be buried. Trampling 
 over the long, rank grass, but avoiding passing directly over any 
 of the thickly-strewn graves, he made straight for one spot — a 
 little space of unoccupied ground close by, where Molly, the 
 pretty scullery-maid, lay — 
 
 Sacred to the Memory of 
 
 Mary Greaves, 
 
 Born 1797. Died 1818. 
 
 "We part to meet again." 
 
 " I put this stone up over her with my first savings," said he, 
 looking at it ; and then, pulling out his knife, he began to clean 
 out the letters. " I said then as I would lie by her. And it'll be 
 a comfort to think you'll see me laid here. I trust no one'll be 
 so crabbed as to take a fancy to this 'ere spot of ground." 
 
 Ellinor grasped eagerly at the only pleasure which her money 
 enabled her to give to the old man ; and promised him that she 
 would take care and buy the right to that particular piece o^ 
 ground. This was evidently a gratification Dixon had frequently 
 
A DARK night's WORK. I27 
 
 yearned after ; he kept saying, " I'm greatly obleeged to ye, Miss 
 Ellinor. I may say I'm truly obleeged." And when he saw 
 them off by the coach the next day, his last words were, " I 
 cannot justly say how greatly I'm obleeged to you for that matter 
 of the churchyard." It was a much more easy affair to give 
 Miss Monro some additional comforts ; she was as cheerful as 
 ever ; still working away at her languages in any spare time, but 
 confessing that she was tired of the perpetual teaching in which 
 her life had been spent during the last thirty years. EUinor was 
 now enabled to set her at liberty from this, and she accepted the 
 kindness from her former pupil with as much simple gratitude as 
 that with which a mother receives a favour from a child. " If 
 Ellinor were but married to Canon Livingstone, I should be 
 happier than I have ever been since my father died," she used to 
 say to herself in the solitude of her bedchamber, for talking 
 aloud had become her wont in the early years of her isolated life 
 as a governess. " And yet," she went on, "I don't know what I 
 should do without her ; it is lucky for me that things are not in 
 my hands, for a pretty mess I should make of them, one way or 
 another. Dear ! how old Mrs. Cadogan used to hate that word 
 'mess,' and correct her granddaughters for using it right before 
 my face, when I knew I had said it myself only the moment 
 before ! Well ! those days are all over now. God be thanked ! ' 
 In spite of being glad that "things were not in her hands," 
 Miss Monro tried to take affairs into her charge by doing all she 
 could to persuade Ellinor to allow her to invite the canon to their 
 " little sociable teas." The most provoking part was, that she 
 was sure he would have come if he had been asked ; but she. 
 could never get leave to do so. " Of course no man could go on 
 for ever and ever without encouragement," as she confided to 
 herself in a plaintive tone of voice ; and by-and-by many people 
 were led to suppose that the bachelor canon was paying attention 
 to Miss Forbes, the eldest daughter of the family to which the 
 delicate Jeanie belonged. It was, perhaps, with the Forbeses 
 that both Miss Monro and Ellinor were the most intimate of all 
 the families in East Chester. Mrs. Forbes was a widow lady of 
 good means, with a large family of pretty, delicate daughters. 
 
 She herself belonged to one of the great houses in shire, but 
 
 had married into Scotland ; so, after her husband's death, it was 
 the most natural thing in the world that she should settle in East 
 (^hester ; and one afteranotherof her daughters had become first. 
 
128 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 Miss Monro's pupil and afterwards her friend. Mrs. Forbes her- 
 self had always been strongly attracted by EUinor, but it was 
 long before she could conquer the timid reserve by which Miss 
 Wilkins was hedged round. It was Miss Monro, who was herself 
 incapable of jealousy, who persevered in praising them to one 
 another, and in bringing them together ; and now Ellinor was as 
 intimate and familiar in Mrs. Forbes's household as she ever 
 could be with any family not her own. 
 
 Mrs. Forbes was considered to be a little fanciful as to illness ; 
 but it was no wonder, remembering how many sisters she had 
 lost by consumption. Miss Monro had often grumbled at the 
 way in which her pupils were made irregular for very trifling 
 causes. But no one so alarmed as she, when, in the autumn 
 succeeding Mr. Ness's death, Mrs. Forbes remarked to her on 
 EUinor's increased delicacy of appearance, and shortness of 
 breathing. From that time forwards she worried Ellinor (if any 
 one so sweet and patient could ever have been worried) with 
 respirators and precautions. Ellinor submitted to all her friend's 
 wishes and cares, sooner than make her anxious, and remained 
 a prisoner in the house through the whole of November. Then 
 Miss Monro's anxiety took another turn. EUinor's appetite and 
 spirits failed her — not at all an unnatural consequence of so 
 many weeks' confinement to the house. A plan was started, 
 quite suddenly, one morning in December, that met with approval 
 from every one but Ellinor, who was, however, by this time too 
 languid to make much resistance. 
 
 Mrs. Forbes and her daughters were going to Rome for three 
 or four months, so as to avoid the trying east winds of spring ; 
 why should not Miss Wilkins go with them? They urged it, 
 and Miss Monro urged it, though with a little private sinking of 
 the heart at the idea of the long separation from one who was 
 almost like a child to her. Ellinor was, as it were, lifted off her 
 feet and borne away by the unanimous opinion of others — the 
 doctor included — who decided that such a step was highly de- 
 sirable, if not absolutely necessary. She knew that she had only 
 a life-interest both in her father's property and in that bequeathed 
 to her by Mr. Ness. Hitherto she had not felt much trouble by 
 this, as she had supposed that in the natural course of events 
 she should survive Miss Monro and Dixon, both of whom she 
 looked upon as dependent upon her. All she had to bequeath to 
 the two was the small savings, which would not nearly suffice for 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 1 29 
 
 both purposes, especially considering that Miss Monro had given 
 up her teaching, and that both she and Dix6n were passing 
 into years. 
 
 Before Ellinor left England she had made every arrangement 
 for the contingency of her death abroad that Mr. Johnson could 
 suggest. She had written and sent a long letter to Dixon ; and 
 a shorter one was left in charge of Canon Livingstone (she dared 
 not hint at the possibility of her dying to Miss Monro) to be sent 
 to the old man. 
 
 As they drove out of the King's Cross station, they passed a 
 gentleman's carriage entering. Ellinor saw a bright, handsome 
 lady, a nurse, and baby inside, and a gentleman sitting by them 
 whose face she could never forget. It was Mr. Corbet taking his 
 wife and child to the railway. They were going on a Christmas 
 visit to East Chester deanery. He had been leaning back, not 
 noticing the passers-by, not attending to the other inmates of the 
 carriage, probably absorbed in the consideration of some law case. 
 Such were the casual glimpses EUinorhad of one with whose life 
 she had once thought herself bound up. 
 
 Who so proud as Miss Monro when a foreign letter came ? 
 Her correspondent was not particularly graphic in her descrip- 
 tions, nor were there any adventures to be described, nor was 
 the habit of mind of Ellinor such as to make her clear and defi- 
 nite in her own impressions of what she saw, and her natural 
 reserve kept her from being fluent in communicating them even 
 to Miss Monro. But that lady would have been pleased to read 
 aloud these letters to the assembled dean and canons, and would 
 not have been surprised if they had invited her to the chapter- 
 house for that purpose. To her circle of untravelled ladies, 
 ignorant of Murray, but laudably desirous of information, all 
 Ellinor's historical reminiscences and rather formal details were 
 really interesting. There was no railroad in those days between 
 Lyons and Marseilles, so their progress was slow, and the passage 
 of letters to and fro, when they had arrived in Rome, long and 
 uncertain. But all seemed going on well. Ellinor spoke of 
 herself as in better health ; and Canon Livingstone (between 
 whom and Miss Monro great intimacy had sprung up since 
 Ellinor had gone away, and Miss Monro could ask him to tea) 
 confirmed this report of Miss Wilkins's health from a letter which 
 he had received from Mrs. Forbes. Curiosity about that letter 
 was Miss Monro's torment. What could they have had to write 
 
130 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 to each other about ? It was a very odd proceeding ; although 
 the Livingstones and Forbeses were distantly related, after the 
 manner of Scotland. Could it have been that he had offered to 
 Euphemia, after all, and that her mother had answered ; or, pos- 
 sibly, there was a letter from Efifie herself, enclosed. It 'was 
 a pity for Miss Monro's peace of mind that she did not ask him 
 straight a\^ay. She would then have learnt what Canon Living- 
 stone had no thought of concealing, that Mrs. Forbes had written 
 solely to give him some fuller directions about certain charities 
 than she had had time to think about in the hurry of starting. 
 As it was, and when, a little later on, she heard him speak of 
 the possibiHty of his going himself to Rome, as soon as his term 
 of residence was over, in time for the Carnival, she gave up her 
 fond project in despair, and felt very much like a child whose 
 house of bricks had been knocked down by the unlucky waft of 
 some passing petticoat. 
 
 Meanwhile, the entire change of scene brought on the exquisite 
 refreshment of entire change of thought. Ellinor had not been 
 able so completely to forget her past life for many years ; it was 
 like a renewing of her youth ; cut so suddenly short by the 
 shears of Fate. Ever since that night, she had had to rouse 
 herself on awakening in the morning into a full comprehension 
 of the great cause she had for much fear and heavy grief. Now, 
 when she wakened in her Httle room, fourth piano, No. 36, 
 Babuino, she saw the strange, pretty things around her, and 
 her mind went off into pleasant wonder and conjecture, happy 
 recollections of the day before, and pleasant anticipations of the 
 day to come. Latent in Ellinor was her father's artistic tempera- 
 ment ; everything new and strange was a picture and a dehght ; 
 the merest group in the street, a Roman facchino, with his cloak 
 draped over his shoulder, a girl going to market or carrying her 
 pitcher back from the fountain, everything and every person 
 that presented it or himself to her senses, gave them a delicious 
 shock, as if it were something strangely familiar from Pinelh, but 
 unseen by her mortal eyes before. She forgot her despondency, 
 her ill-health disappeared as if by magic ; the Misses Forbes, 
 who had taken the pensive, drooping invahd as a companion 
 out of kindness of heart, found themselves amply rewarded by 
 the sight of her amended health, and her keen enjoyment of 
 everything, and the half-quaint, half- naive expressions of her 
 pleasure. 
 
A DARK night's WORK. I3I 
 
 So March came round ; Lent was late that year. The great 
 nosegays of violets and camellias were for sale at the corner of 
 the Condotti, and the revellers had no difficulty in procuring 
 much rarer flowers for the belles of the Corso. The embassies 
 had their balconies ; the attaches of the Russian Embassy threw 
 their light and lovely presents at every pretty girl, or suspicion 
 of a pretty girl, who passed slowly in her carriage, covered over 
 with her white domino, and holding her wire mask as a pro- 
 tection to her face from the showers of lime confetti, which 
 otherwise would have been enough to blind her ; Mrs. Forbes 
 had her own hired balcony, as became a wealthy and respect- 
 able Englishwoman. The girls had a great basket full of 
 bouquets with which to pelt their friends in the crowd below ; 
 a store of moccoletti lay piled on the table behind, for it was the 
 last day of Carnival, and as soon as dusk came on the tapers 
 were to be lighted, to be as quickly extinguished by every means 
 in every one's power. The crowd below was at its wildest pitch ; 
 the rows of stately contadini alone sitting immovable as their 
 possible ancestors, the senators who received Brennus and his 
 Gauls. Masks and white dominoes, foreign gentlemen, and 
 the riffraff of the city, slow-driving carriages, showers of flowers, 
 most of them faded by this time, every one shouting and 
 struggling at that wild pitch of excitement which may so soon 
 turn into fury. The Forbes girls had given place at the window 
 to their mother and ElHnor, who were gazing half amused, half 
 terrified, at the mad parti-coloured movement below ; when a 
 familiar face looked up, smiling a recognition ; and "Hew shall 
 I get to you?" was asked in English, by the well-known voice 
 of Canon Livingstone. They saw him disappear under the 
 balcony on which they were standing, but it was some time 
 before he made his appearance in their room. And when he 
 did, he was almost overpowered with greetings ; so glad were 
 they to see an East Chester face. 
 
 ^ " When did you come ? Where are you ? What a pity you 
 did not come sooner ! It is so long since we have heard any- 
 thing ; do tell us everything ! It is three weeks since we have 
 had any letters ; those tiresome boats have been so irregular 
 because of the weather." " How was everybody — Miss Monro 
 in particular ? " Ellinor asks. 
 
 ' He, quietly smiling, replied to their questions by slow degrees. 
 He had only arrived the night before, and had been hunting for 
 
132 A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 
 
 them all day ; but no one could give him any distinct intel- 
 ligence as to their whereabouts in all the noise and confusion 
 of the place, especially as they had their only English servant 
 with them, and the canon was not strong in his Italian. He 
 was not sorry he had missed all but this last day of Carnival, 
 for he was half blinded and wholly deafened, as it was. He 
 was at the " Angleterre ; " he had left East Chester about a 
 week ago ; he had letters for all of them, but had not dared 
 to bring them through the crowd for fear of having his pocket 
 picked. Miss Monro was very well, but very uneasy at not 
 having heard from Ellinor for so long ; the irregularity of the 
 boats must be teUing both ways, for their English friends were 
 full of wonder at not hearing from Rome. And then followed 
 some well-deserved abuse of the Roman post, and some suspicion 
 of the carelessness with which Italian servants posted English 
 letters. All these answers were satisfactory enough, yet Mrs. 
 Forbes thought she saw a latent uneasiness in Canon Living- 
 stone's manner, and fancied once or twice that he hesitated in 
 replying to Ellinor's questions. But there was no being quite 
 sure in the increasing darkness, which prevented countenances 
 from being seen ; nor in the constant interruptions and screams 
 which were going on in the small crowded room, as wafting 
 handkerchiefs, puffs of wind, or veritable extinguishers, fastened 
 to long sticks, and coming from nobody knew where, put out 
 taper after taper as fast as they were lighted. 
 
 "You will come home with us," said Mrs. Forbes. " I can 
 only offer you cold meat with tea ; our cook is gone out, this 
 being a universal festa ; but we cannot part with an old friend 
 for any scruples as to the commissariat." 
 
 "Thank yoti. I should have invited myself if you had not 
 been good enough to ask me." 
 
 When they had all arrived at their apartment in the Babuino 
 (Canon Livingstone had gone round to fetch the letters with 
 which he was intrusted), Mrs. Forbes was confirmed in her 
 supposition that he had something particular and not very 
 pleasant to say to Ellinor, by the rather grave and absent 
 manner in which he awaited her return from taking off her 
 out-of-door things. He broke off, indeed, in his conversa- 
 tion with Mrs. Forbes to go and meet EUinor, and to lead 
 her into the most distant window before he delivered her 
 letters. 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 1 33 
 
 " From what you said in the balcony yonder, I fear you have 
 not received your home letters regularly?" 
 
 " No ! " replied she, startled and trembling, she hardly knew 
 why. 
 
 " No more has Miss Monro heard from you ; nor, I believe, 
 has some one else who expected to hear. Your man of business 
 — I forget his name." 
 
 "My man of business! Something has gone wrong, Mr. 
 Livingstone. Tell me — I want to know. I have been ex- 
 pecting it — only tell me." She sat down suddenly, as white 
 as ashes. 
 
 "Dear Miss Wilkins, I'm afraid it is painful enough, but 
 you are fancying it worse than it is. All your friends are 
 quite well ; but an old servant " 
 
 " Well ! " she said, seeing his hesitation, and leaning forwards 
 and griping at his arm. 
 
 " Is taken up on a charge of manslaughter or murder. Oh ! 
 Mrs. Forbes, come here ! " 
 
 For Ellinor had fainted, falling forwards on the arm she had 
 held. When she came round she was lying half undressed on 
 her bed ; they were giving her tea in spoonfuls. 
 
 " I must get up," she moaned. " I must go home." 
 
 "You must lie still," said Mrs. Forbes firmly. 
 
 "You don't know. I must go home," she repeated; and 
 she tried to sit up, but fell back helpless. Then she did not 
 speak, but lay and thought. "Will you bring me some 
 meat?" she whispered. "And some wine?" They brought 
 her meat and wine ; she ate, though she was choking. " Now, 
 please, bring me my letters, and leave me alone ; and after 
 that I should like to speak to Canon Livingstone. Don't let 
 him go, please. I won't be long — half-an-hour, I think. 
 Only let me be alone." 
 
 There was a hurried feverish sharpness in her tone that made 
 Mrs. Forbes very anxious, but she judged it best to comply with 
 her requests. 
 
 The letters were brought, the lights were arranged so that 
 she could read them lying on her bed; and they left her. 
 Then she got up and stood on her feet, dizzy enough, her 
 arms clasped at the top of her head, her eyes dilated and 
 staring as if looking at some great horror. But after a few 
 minutes she sat down suddenly, and began to read. Letters 
 
134 A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 
 
 were evidently missing". Some had been sent by an opportunity 
 that had been delayed on the journey, and had not yet arrived 
 in Rome. Others had been despatched by the post, but the 
 severe weather, the unusual snow, had, in those days, before 
 the railway was made between Lyons and Marseilles, put a stop 
 to many a traveller's plans, and had rendered the transmission 
 of the mail extremely uncertain ; so, much of that intelli- 
 gence which Miss Monro had evidently considered as certain 
 to be known to Ellinor was entirely matter of conjecture, and 
 could only be guessed at from what was told in these letters. 
 One was from Mr. Johnson, one from Mr. Brown, one from 
 Miss Monro ; of course the last-mentioned was the first read. 
 She spoke of the shock of the discovery of Mr. Dunster's 
 body, found in the cutting of the new line of railroad from 
 Hamley to the nearest railway station ; the body so hastily 
 buried long ago, in its clothes, by which it was now recognised 
 — a recognition confirmed by one or two more personal and 
 indestructible things, such as his watch and seal with his 
 initials ; of the shock to every one, the Osbaldistones in parti- 
 cular, on the further discovery of a fleam or horse-lancet, 
 having the name of Abraham Dixon engraved en the handle ; 
 how Dixon had gone on Mr. Osbaldistone's business to a 
 horse-fair in Ireland some weeks before this, and had had his 
 leg broken by a kick from an unruly mare, so that he was 
 barely able to move about when the officers of justice went 
 to apprehend him in Tralee. 
 
 At this point Ellinor cried out loud and shrill. 
 
 " Oh, Dixon ! Dixon ! and I was away enjoying myself." 
 
 They heard her cry, and came to the door, but it was bolted 
 inside. 
 
 "Please, go away," she said; "please, go. I will be very 
 quiet ; only, please, go." 
 
 She could not bear just then to read any more of Miss Monro's 
 letter ; she tore open Mr. Johnson's — the date was a fortnight 
 earlier than Miss Monro's ; he also expressed his wonder at not 
 hearing from her, in reply to his letter of January 9 ; but he 
 added, that he thought that her trustees had judged rightly ; the 
 handsome sum the railway company had offered for the land 
 when their surveyor decided on the alteration of the line, Mr. 
 Osbaldistone, &c. &c. She could not read any more ; it was 
 Fate pursuing her. Then she took the letter up again and tried 
 
A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 1 35 
 
 to read ; but all that reached her understanding was the fact 
 that Mr. Johnson had sent his present - letter to Miss Monro, 
 thinking that she might know of some private opportunity safer 
 than the post. Mr. Brown's was just such a letter as he 
 occasionally sent her from time to time ; a correspondence that 
 arose out of their mutual regard for their dead friend Mr. Ness. 
 It, too, had been sent to Miss Monro to direct. Ellinor was on 
 the point of putting it aside entirely, when the name of Corbet 
 caught her eye : "You will be interested to hear that the old 
 pupil of our departed friend, who was so anxious to obtain the 
 folio Virgil with the Italian notes, is appointed the new judge 
 in room of Mr. Justice Jenkin. At least I conclude that Mr. 
 Ralph Corbet, Q.C., is the same as the Virgil fancier." 
 
 "Yes," said Ellinor bitterly; "he judged well; it would 
 never have done," They were the first words of anything like 
 reproach which she ever formed in her own mind during all 
 these years. She thought for a few moments of the old times ; 
 it seemed to steady her brain to think of them. Then she took 
 up and finished Miss Monro's letter. That excellent friend had 
 done all which she thought Elhnor would have wished without 
 delay. She had written to Mr. Johnson, and charged him to 
 do everything he could to defend Dixon, and to spare no expense. 
 She was thinking of going to the prison in the county town, to 
 see the old man herself, but Ellinor could perceive that all these 
 endeavours and purposes of Miss Monro's were based on love 
 for her own pupil, and a desire to set her mind at ease as far as 
 she could, rather than from any idea that Dixon himself could 
 be innocent. Ellinor put down the letters, and went to the door, 
 then turned back, and locked them up in her writing-case with 
 trembling hands ; and after that she entered the drawing-room, 
 looking liker to a ghost than to a living woman. 
 
 " Can I speak to you for a minute alone ? " Her still, tune- 
 less voice made the words into a command. Canon Living- 
 stone arose and followed her into the little dining-room. " Will 
 you tell me all you know — all you have heard about my — you 
 know what?" 
 
 ' ' Miss Monro was my informant — at least at first — it was in 
 the Times the day before I left. Miss Monro says it could only 
 ^have been done in a moment of anger if the old servant is really 
 guilty ; that he was as steady and good a man as she ever knew, 
 and she seems to have a strong feeling against Mr. Dunster, as 
 
136 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 always giving your father much unnecessary trouble ; in fact, 
 she hints that his disappearance at the time was supposed to be 
 the cause of a considerable loss of property to Mr. Wilkins." 
 
 " No ! " said Ellinor eagerly, feeling that some justice ought 
 to be done to the dead man , and then she stopped short, fear- 
 ful of saying anything that should betray her full knowledge. 
 "I mean this," she went on; "Mr. Dunster was a very dis- 
 agreeable man personally — and papa — we none of us liked him ; 
 but he was quite honest — please remember that." 
 
 The canon bowed, and said a few acquiescing words. He 
 waited for her to speak again. 
 
 " Miss Monro says she is going to see Dixon in " 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Livingstone, I can't bear it ! " 
 
 He let her alone, looking at her pitifully, as she twisted 
 and wrung her hands together in her endeavour to regain the 
 quiet manner she had striven to maintain through the interview. 
 She looked up at him with a poor attempt at an apologetic 
 smile — 
 
 " It is so terrible to think of that good old man in prison ! " 
 
 " You do not believe him guilty ! " said Canon Livingstone, in 
 some surprise. " I am afraid, from all I heard and read, there 
 is but little doubt that he did kill the man ; I trust in some 
 moment of irritation, with no premeditated malice." 
 
 EUinor shook her head. 
 
 "How soon can I get to England?" asked she. "I must 
 start at once." 
 
 " Mrs. Forbes sent out while you were lying down. I am 
 afraid there is no boat to Marseilles till Thursday, the day after 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " But I must go sooner ! " said Ellinor, starting up. " I must 
 go ; please help me. He may be tried before I can get there ! " 
 
 "Alas ! I fear that will be the case, whatever haste you make. 
 The trial was to come on at the Hellingford Assizes, and that 
 town stands first on the Midland Circuit list. To-day is the 
 27th of February ; the assizes begin on the 7th of March." 
 
 " I will start to-morrow morning early for Civita ; there may 
 be a boat there they do not know of here. At any rate, I shall 
 be on my way. If he dies, I must die too. Oh ! I don't know 
 what I am saying, I am so utterly crushed down ! It would be 
 such a kindness if you would go away, and let no one come to 
 me, I know Mrs. Forbes is so good, she will forgive me. I 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 1 37 
 
 will say good-bye to you all before I go to-morrow morning ; but 
 I must think now." 
 
 For one moment he stood looking at her as if he longed to 
 comfort her by more words. He thought better of it, however, 
 and silently left the room. 
 
 For a long time Ellinor sat still ; now and then taking up Miss 
 Monro's letter, and re-reading the few terrible details. Then 
 she bethought her that possibly the canon might have brought 
 a copy of the Times, containing the examination of Dixon before 
 the magistrates, and she opened the door and called to a pass- 
 ing servant to make the inquiry. She was quite right in her 
 conjecture ; Dr. Livingstone had had the paper in his pocket 
 during his interview with her ; but he thought the evidence so 
 cotrclusive, that the perusal of it would only be adding to her 
 extreme distress by accelerating the conviction of Dixon's guilt, 
 which he believed she must arrive at sooner or later. 
 
 He had been reading the report over with Mrs. Forbes and 
 her daughters, after his return from Ellinor's room, and they 
 were all participating in his opinion upon it, when her request 
 for the Times was brought. They had reluctantly agreed, saying 
 there did not appear to be a shadow of doubt on the fact of 
 Dixon's having killed Mr. Dunster, only hoping there might 
 prove to be some extenuating circumstances, which Ellinor had 
 probably recollected, and which she was desirous of producing 
 on the approaching trial. 
 
 CHAPTER Xni. 
 
 Ellinor, having read the report of Dixon's examination in the 
 newspaper, bathed her eyes and forehead in cold water, and 
 tried to still her poor heart's beating, that she might be clear 
 and collected enough to weigh the evidence. 
 
 Every line of it was condemnatory. One or two witnesses spoke 
 of Dixon's unconcealed dislike of Dunster, a dishke which Ellinor 
 knew had been entertained by the old servant out of a species 
 of loyalty to his master, as well as from personal distaste. The 
 fl^am was proved beyond all doubt to be Dixon's ; and a man, 
 who had been stable-boy in Mr. Wilkins's service, swore that on 
 the day when Mr. Dunster was missed, and when the whole 
 
 E 2 
 
138 * A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 town was wondering what had become of him, a certain colt of 
 Mr Wilkins's had needed bleeding, and that he had been sent by 
 Dixon to the farrier's for a horse-lancet, an errand which he had 
 remarked upon at the time, as he knew that Dixon had a fleam 
 of his own. 
 
 Mr. Osbaldistone was examined. He kept interrupting him- 
 self perpetually to express his surprise at the fact of so steady 
 and well-conducted a man as Dixon being guilty of so heinous 
 a crime, and was willing enough to testify to the excellent 
 character which he had borne during all the many years he had 
 been in his (Mr. Osbaldistone's) service ; but he appeared to be 
 quite convinced by the evidence previously given of the prisoner's 
 guilt in the matter, and strengthened the case against him 
 materially by stating the circumstance of the old man's dogged 
 unwillingness to have the shghtest interference by cultivation with 
 that particular piece of ground. 
 
 Here EUinor shuddered. Before her, in that Roman bed- 
 chamber, rose the fatal oblong she knew by heart — a little green 
 moss or lichen, and thinly-growing blades of grass scarcely cover- 
 ing the caked and undisturbed soil under the old tree. Oh, that 
 she had been in England when the surveyors of the railway 
 between Ashcombe and Hamley had altered their hue ; she 
 would have entreated, implored, compelled her trustees not to 
 have sold that piece of ground for any sum of money whatever. 
 She would have bribed the surveyors, done she knew not what 
 — but now it was too late ; she would not let her mind wander 
 off to what might have been ; she would force herself again to 
 attend to the newspaper columns. There was little more : the 
 prisoner had been asked if he could say anything to clear him- 
 self, and properly cautioned not to say anything to incriminate 
 himself. The poor old man's person was described, and his 
 evident emotion. " The prisoner was observed to clutch at the 
 rail before him to steady himself, and his colour changed so 
 much at this part of the evidence that one of the turnkeys offered 
 him a glass of water, which he declined. He is a man of a 
 strongly-built frame, and with rather a morose and sullen cast 
 of countenance." 
 
 " My poor, poor Dixon ! " said Ellinor, laying down the paper 
 for an instant, and she was near crying, only she had resolved to 
 shed no tears till she had finished all, and could judge of the 
 chances. There were but a few lines more : "At one time the 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 1 39 
 
 prisoner seemed to be desirous of alleging something in his 
 defence, but he changed his mind, if such had been the case, 
 and in reply to Mr. Gordon (the magistrate) he only said, 
 ' You've made a pretty strong case but again me, gentlemen, 
 and it seems for to satisfy you ; so I think I'll not disturb your 
 minds by saying anything more.' Accordingly, Dixon now 
 stands committed for trial for murder at the next Hellingford 
 Assizes, which commence on March the seventh, before Baron 
 Rushton and Mr. Justice Corbet." 
 
 "Mr. Justice Corbet!" The words ran through Ellinor as 
 though she had been stabbed with a knife, and by an irrepres- 
 sible movement she stood up rigid. The young man, her lover 
 in her youth, the old servant who in those days was perpetually 
 about her — the two who had so often met in familiar if not 
 friendly relations, now to face each other as judge and accused ! 
 She could not tell how much Mr. Corbet had conjectured from 
 the partial revelation she had made to him of the impending 
 shame that hung over her and hers. A day or two ago she 
 could have remembered the exact words she had used in that 
 memorable interview ; but now, strive as she would, she could 
 only recall facts, not words. After all, the Mr. Justice Corbet 
 might not be Ralph. There was one chance in a hundred 
 against the identity of the two. 
 
 While she was weighing probabilities in her sick dizzy mind, 
 she heard soft steps outside her bolted door, and low voices 
 whispering. It was the bedtime of happy people with hearts at 
 ease. Some of the footsteps passed lightly on ; but there was a 
 gentle rap at Ellinor's door. She pressed her two hot hands 
 hard against her temples for an instant before she went to open 
 the door. There stood Mrs. Forbes in her handsome evening 
 dress, holding a lighted lamp in her hand. 
 
 "May I come in, my dear?" she asked. Ellinor's stiff dry 
 lips refused to utter the words of assent which indeed did not 
 come readily from her heart. 
 
 " I am so grieved at this sad news which the canon brings. I 
 can well understand what a shock it must be to you ; we have 
 Just been saying it must be as bad for you as it would be to us 
 if our old Donald should turn out to have been a hidden mur- 
 derer all these years that he has lived with us ; I really could 
 have as soon suspected Donald as that white-haired respectable 
 old man who used to come and see you at East Chester," 
 
I40 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 Ellinor felt that she must say something. "It is a terrible 
 shock— poor old man ! and no friend near him, even Mr, 
 Osbaldistone giving evidence against him. Oh, dear, dear, why- 
 did I ever come to Rome ? " 
 
 "Now, my dear, you must not let yourself take an exagge- 
 rated view of the case. Sad and shocking as it is to have been 
 so deceived, it is what happens to many of us, though not to so 
 terrible a degree ; and as to your coming to Rome having 
 anything to do with it " 
 
 (Mrs. Forbes almost smiled at the idea, so anxious was she 
 to banish the idea of self-reproach from EUinor's sensitive 
 mind, but Ellinor interrupted her abruptly — ) 
 
 " Mrs. Forbes ! did he — did Canon Livingstone tell you that 
 I m.ust leave to-morrow? I must go to England as fast as 
 possible to do what I can for Dixon." 
 
 "Yes, he told us you were thinking of it, and it was partly 
 that made me force myself in upon you to-night. I think, my 
 love, you are mistaken in feeling as if you were called upon to 
 do more than what the canon tells me Miss Monro has already 
 done in your name — engaged the best legal advice, and spared 
 no expense to give the suspected man every chance. What 
 could you do more even if you were on the spot? And it is very 
 possible that the trial may have come on before you get home. 
 Then what could you do ? He would either have been acquitted 
 or condemned ; if the former, he would find pubHc sympathy all 
 in his favour ; it always is for the unjustly accused. And if he 
 turns out to be guilty, my dear Ellinor, it will be far better for 
 you to have all the softening which distance can give to such a 
 dreadful termination to the life of a poor man whom you have 
 respected so long." 
 
 But Ellinor spoke again with a kind of irritated determination, 
 very foreign to her usual soft dociHty — 
 
 " Please just let me judge for myself this once. I am not un- 
 grateful. God knows I don't want to vex one who has been 
 so kind to me as you have been, dear Mrs. Forbes ; but I must 
 go — and every word you say to dissuade me only makes me 
 more convinced. I am going to Civita to-morrow. I shall be 
 that much on the way. I cannot rest here." 
 
 Mrs. Forbes looked at her in grave silence. Elhnor could 
 not bear the consciousness of that fixed gaze. Yet its fixity 
 only arose from Mrs. Forbes' perplexity as to how best to 
 
A DARK night's WORK. I4! 
 
 assist Ellinor, whether to restrain her, by further advice — of 
 which the first dose had proved so useless — or to speed her 
 departure. Ellinor broke in on her meditations — 
 
 "You have always been so kind and good to me — go on 
 being so — please, do ! Leave me alone now, dear Mrs. Forbes, 
 for I cannot bear talking about it, and help me to go to-morrow, 
 and you do not know how I will pray to God to bless you ! " 
 
 Such an appeal was irresistible. Mrs. Forbes kissed her very 
 tenderly, and went to rejoin her daughters, who were clustered 
 together in their mother's bedroom awaiting her coming. 
 
 "Well, mamma, how is she? What does she say? " 
 
 " She is in a very excited state, poor thing ! and has got so 
 strong an impression that it is her duty to go back to England 
 and do all she can for this wretched old man, that I am afraid 
 we must not oppose her. I am afraid that she really must go 
 on Thursday." 
 
 Although Mrs. Forbes secured the services of a travelling- 
 maid. Dr. Livingstone insisted on accompanying Ellinor to 
 England, and it would have required more energy than she 
 possessed at this time to combat a resolution which both words 
 and manner expressed as determined. She would much rather 
 have travelled alone with her maid ; she did not feel the need 
 of the services he offered ; but she was utterly listless and broken 
 down ; all her interest was centred in the thought of Dixon and 
 his approaching trial, and perplexity as to the mode in which 
 she must do her duty. 
 
 They embarked late that evening in the tardy Santa Iiicia, 
 and Ellinor immediately went to her berth. She was not sea- 
 sick ; that might possibly have lessened her mental sufferings, 
 which all night long tormented her. High-pe. :hed in an upper 
 berth, she did not like disturbing the other occupants of the 
 cabin till dayhght appeared. Then she descended and dressed, 
 and went on deck ; the vessel was just passing the rocky coast 
 of Elba, and the sky was flushed with rosy light, that made the 
 shadows on the island of the most exquisite purple. The sea 
 still heaved with yesterday's storm, but the motion only added 
 to the beauty of the sparkles and white foam that dimpled 
 and curled on the blue waters. The air was delicious, after 
 the closeness of the cabin, and Ellinor only wondered that more 
 people were not on deck to enjoy it. One or two stragglers 
 came up, time after time, and began pacing the deck. Dr. 
 
142 A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 
 
 Livingstone came up before very long ; but he seemed to have 
 made a rule of not obtruding himself on Ellinor, excepting 
 when he could be of some use. After a few words of common- 
 place morning greeting, he, too, began to walk backwards and 
 forwards, while Ellinor sat quietly watching the lovely island 
 receding fast from her view — a beautiful vision never to be seen 
 again by her mortal eyes. 
 
 Suddenly there was a shock and stound all over the vessel, 
 her progress was stopped, and a rocking vibration was felt 
 everywhere. The quarter-deck was filled with blasts of steam, 
 which obscured everything. Sick people came rushing up out 
 of their berths in strange undress ; the steerage passengers — 
 a motley and picturesque set of people, in many varieties of 
 gay costume — took refuge on the quarter-deck, speaking loudly 
 in all varieties of French and Italian patois. Ellinor stood 
 up in silent, wondering dismay. Was the Santa LiLcia going 
 down on the great deep, and Dixon unaided in his peril? Dr. 
 Livingstone was by her side in a moment. She could scarcely 
 see him for the vapour, nor hear him for the roar of the escap- 
 ing steam. 
 
 "Do not be unnecessarily frightened," he repeated, a little 
 louder. "Some accident has occurred to the engines. I will 
 go and make instant inquiry, and come back to you as soon as 
 I can. Trust to me." 
 
 He came back to where she sat trembling. 
 
 "A part of the engine is broken, through the carelessness of 
 these Neapolitan engineers ; they say we must make for the 
 nearest port — return to Civita, in fact." 
 
 " But Elba is not many miles away," said Ellinor. " If this 
 steam were but away, you could see it still." 
 
 "And if we were landed there we might stay on the island 
 for many days ; no steamer touches there ; but if we return to 
 Civita, we shall be in time for the Sunday boat." 
 
 "Oh, dear, dear!" said Ellinor. "To-day is the second — 
 Sunday will be the fourth — the assizes begin on the seventh ; 
 how miserably unfortunate ! " 
 
 "Yes ! " he said, " it is. And these things always appear so 
 doubly unfortunate when they hinder our serving others ! But 
 it does not follow that because the assizes begin at Hellingford 
 on the seventh, Dixon's trial will come on so soon. We may 
 still get to Marseilles on Monday evening ; on by diligence ta 
 
A DARK night's WORK. I43 
 
 Lyons ; it will — it must, I fear, be Thursday, at the earliest, 
 before we reach Paris — Thursday, the eighth — and I suppose 
 you know of some exculpatory evidence that has to be hunted 
 up?" 
 
 He added this unwillingly ; for he saw that Ellinor was jealous 
 of the secrecy she had hitherto maintained as to her reasons for 
 believing Dixon innocent ; but he could not help thinking that 
 she, a gentle, timid woman, unaccustomed to action or business, 
 would require some of the assistance which he would have been 
 so thankful to give her ; especially as this untoward accident 
 would increase the press of time in which what was to be done 
 would have to be done. 
 
 But no. Ellinor scarcely replied to his half-inquiry as to her 
 reasons for hastening to England. She yielded to all his direc- 
 tions, agreed to his plans, but gave him none of her confidence, 
 and he had to submit to this exclusion from sympathy in the 
 exact causes of her anxiety. 
 
 Once more in the dreary sala, with the gaudy painted ceiling, 
 the bare dirty floor, the innumerable rattling doors and windows t 
 Ellinor was submissive and patient in demeanour, because so 
 sick and despairing at heart. Her maid was ten times as demon- 
 strative of annoyance and disgust ; she who had no particular 
 reason for wanting to reach England, but who thought it became 
 her dignity to make it seem as though she had. 
 
 At length the weary time was over ; and again they sailed past 
 Elba, and arrived at Marseilles. Now Ellinor began to feel how 
 much assistance it was to her to have Dr. Livingstone for a 
 " courier," as he had several times called himself. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 * ' Where now ? " said the canon, as they approached the London 
 Bridge station. 
 
 " To the Great Western," said she ; " Hellingford is on that 
 line, I see. But, please, now we must part." 
 
 " Then I may not go with you to Hellingford? At any rate, 
 , you will allow me to go with you to the railway station, and do 
 my last office as courier in getting you your ticket and placing 
 you in the carriage." 
 
144 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 So they went together to the station, and learnt that no train 
 was leaving for Hellingford for two hours. There was nothing 
 for it but to go to the hotel close by, and pass aw^ay the time as 
 best they could. 
 
 Ellinor called for her maid's accounts, and dismissed her. Some 
 refreshment that the canon had ordered was eaten, and the table 
 cleared. He began walking up and down the room, his arms 
 folded, his eyes cast down. Every now and then he looked at 
 the clock on the mantelpiece. When that showed that it only 
 wanted a quarter of an hour to the time appointed for the train 
 to start, he came up to Ellinor, who sat leaning her head upon 
 her hand, her hand resting on the table. 
 
 " Miss Wilkins," he began — and there was something peculiar 
 in his tone which startled Ellinor — "I am sure you will not 
 scruple to apply to me if in any possible way I can help you in 
 this sad trouble of yours?" 
 
 ' ' No, indeed I won't ! " said Ellinor gratefully, and putting out 
 her hand as a token. He took it, and held it ; she went on, a 
 little more hastily than before : " You know you were so good as 
 to say you would go at once and see Miss Monro, and tell her all 
 you know, and that I will write to her as soon as I can." 
 
 " May I not ask for one line?" he continued, still holding her 
 hand. 
 
 " Certainly : so kind a friend as you shall hear all I can tell ; 
 that is, all I am at liberty to tell." 
 
 "A friend ! Yes, I am a friend ; and I will not urge any 
 other claim just now. Perhaps " 
 
 Ellinor could not affect to misunderstand him. His mamier 
 implied even more than his words. 
 
 '• No ! " she said eagerly. " We are friends. That is it. I 
 think we shall always be friends, though I will tell you now — 
 something — this much — it is a sad secret. God help me ! I am 
 as guilty as poor Dixon, if, indeed, he is guilty — but he is 
 innocent — indeed he is ! " 
 
 " If he is no more guilty than you, I am sure he is ! Let me 
 be more than your friend, Ellinor — let me know all, and help 
 you all that I can, with the right of an affianced husband." 
 
 " No, no ! " said she, frightened both at what she bad revealed, 
 and his eager, warm, imploring manner. "That can never be. 
 You do not know the disgrace that may be hanging over me." 
 
 " If that is all," said he, "I take my risk — if that is all — if you 
 
A DARK night's WORK. I45 
 
 only fear that I may shrink from sharing any peril you may be 
 exposed to." 
 
 " It is not peril — it is shame and obloquy " she m.urmured. 
 
 " Well ! shame and obloquy. Perhaps, if I knew all, I could 
 shield you from it." 
 
 " Don't, pray, speak any more about it now ; if you do, I must 
 say 'No.'" 
 
 She did not perceive the implied encouragement in these 
 words ; but he did, and they sufficed to make him patient. 
 
 The time was up, and he could only render her his last 
 services as "courier," and none other but the necessary words 
 at starting passed between them. 
 
 But he went away from the station with a cheerful heart ; 
 while she, sitting alone and quiet, and at last approaching near 
 to the place where so much was to be decided, felt sadder and 
 sadder, heavier and heavier. 
 
 All the intelligence she had gained since she had seen the 
 Galignani in Paris, had been from the waiter at the Great 
 Western Hotel, who, after returning from a vain search for an 
 unoccupied Times, had volunteered the information that there 
 was an unusual demand for the paper because of Hellingford 
 Assizes, and the trial there for murder that was going on. 
 
 There was no electric telegraph in those days ; at every station 
 Ellinor put her head out, and inquired if the murder trial at 
 HeUingford was ended. Some porters told her one thing, some 
 another, in their hurry ; she felt that she could not rely on them, 
 
 " Drive to Mr. Johnson's in the High Street — quick, quick. I 
 will give you half-a-crown if you will go quick." 
 
 For, indeed, her endurance, her patience, was strained almost 
 to snapping ; yet at HeUingford station, where doubtless they 
 could have told her the truth, she dared not ask the question. 
 It was past eight o'clock at night. In many houses in the Httle 
 country town there were unusual lights and sounds. The in- 
 habitants were showing their hospitality to such of the strangers 
 brought by the assizes, as were lingering there now that the busi- 
 ness which had drawn them was over. The judges had left the 
 town that afternoon, to wind up the circuit by the short list of a 
 neighbouring county town. 
 
 , Mr. Johnson was entertaining a dinner-party of attorneys when 
 he was summoned from dessert by the announcement of a " lady 
 who wanted to speak to him immediate and particular." 
 
14-6 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 He went into his study in not the best of tempers. There he 
 found his dient, IMiss Wilkins, white and ghastly, standing by 
 the fireplace, with her eyes fixed on the door. 
 
 " It is you, Miss Wilkins ! I am very glad " 
 
 " Dixon ! " said she. It was all she could utter. 
 
 Mr. Johnson shook his head. 
 
 "Ah; that's a sad piece of business, and I'm afraid it has 
 shortened your visit at Rome." 
 
 " Is he" 
 
 "Ay, I'm afraid there's no doubt of his guilt. At any rate, 
 the jury found him guilty, and" 
 
 "And ! " she repeated quickly, sitting down, the better to hear 
 the words that she knew were coming — 
 
 " He is condemned to death." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " The Saturday but one after the judges left the town, I sup- 
 pose — it's the usual time." 
 
 "Who tried him?" 
 
 "Judge Corbet; and, for a new judge, I must say I never 
 knew one who got through his business so well. It was really 
 as much as I could stand to hear him condemning the prisoner 
 to death. Dixon was undoubtedly guilty, and he was as stubborn 
 as could be — a sullen old fellow who would let no one help him 
 through. I'm sure I did my best for him at Miss Monro's desire 
 and for your sake. But he would furnish me with no particulars, 
 help us to no evidence. I had the hardest work to keep him 
 from confessing all before witnesses, who would have been 
 bound to repeat it as evidence against him. Indeed, I never 
 thought he would have pleaded ' Not Guilty.' I think it was only 
 with a desire to justify himself in the eyes of some old Hamley 
 acquaintances. Good God, Miss Wilkins ! What's the matter? 
 You're not fainting ! " He rang the bell till the rope remained 
 in his hands. " Here, Esther ! Jerry ! Whoever you are, come 
 quick ! Miss Wilkins has fainted ! Water ! Wine ! Tell Mrs. 
 Johnson to come here directly ! " 
 
 Mrs. Johnson, a kind, motherly woman, who had been ex- 
 cluded from the "gentlemen's dinner-party," and had devoted 
 her time to superintending the dinner her husband had ordered, 
 came in answer to his call for assistance, and found EUinor lying 
 back in her chair white and senseless. 
 
 " Bessy, Miss Wilkins has fainted ; she has had a long journey, 
 
A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 147 
 
 and is in a fidget about Dixon, the old fellow who was sentenced 
 to be hung for that murder, you know. I can't stop here, I must 
 go back to those men. You bring her round, and see her to bed. 
 The blue room is empty since Horner left. She must stop here, 
 and I'll see her in the morning. Take care of her, and keep her 
 mind as easy as you can, will you, for she can do no good by 
 fidgeting," 
 
 And, knowing that he left Ellinor in good hands, and with 
 plenty of assistance about her, he returned to his friends. 
 
 Ellinor came to herself before long. 
 
 '* It was very foolish of me, but I could not help it," said she 
 apologetically. 
 
 *' No ; to be sure not, dear. Here, drink this ; it is some of 
 Mr. Johnson's best port wine that he has sent out on purpose for 
 you. Or would you rather have some white soup — or what? 
 We've had everything you could think of for dinner, and you've 
 only to ask and have. And then you must go to bed, my dear 
 — Mr. Johnson says you must ; and there's a well-aired room, 
 for Mr. Horner only left us this morning," 
 
 " I must see Mr. Johnson again, please." 
 
 " But indeed you must not. You must not worry your poor 
 head with business now ; and Johnson would only talk to you on 
 business. No ; go to bed, and sleep soundly, and then you'll 
 get up quite bright and strong, and fit to talk about business." 
 
 " I cannot sleep — I cannot rest till I have asked Mr. Johnson 
 one or two more questions ; indeed I cannot," pleaded Ellinor. 
 
 Mrs. Johnson knew that her husband's orders on such occasions 
 were peremptory, and that she should come in for a good con- 
 jugal scolding if, after what he had said, she ventured to send 
 for him again. Yet Ellinor looked so entreating and wistful 
 that she could hardly find in her heart to refuse her. A bright 
 thought struck her. 
 
 " Here is pen and paper, my dear. Could you not write the 
 questions you wanted to ask? and he'll just jot down the 
 answers upon the same piece of paper. I'll send it in by Jerry. 
 He has got friends to dinner with him, you see." 
 
 EUinor yielded. She sat, resting her weary head on her hand, 
 and wondering what were the questions which would have come 
 so readily to her tongue could she have been face to face with 
 him. As it was, she only wrote this — 
 
 "How early can I see you to-morrow morning? Will you 
 
148 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 take all the necessary steps for my going to Dixon as soon as 
 possible? Could I be admitted to him to-night?" 
 
 The pencilled answers were — 
 
 " Eight o'clock. Yes. No." 
 
 " I suppose he knows best," said Ellinor, sighing, as she read 
 the last word. " But it seems wicked in me to be going to bed 
 — and he so near, in prison." 
 
 When she rose up and stood, she felt the former dizziness 
 return, and that reconciled her to seeking rest before she entered 
 upon the duties which were becoming clearer before her, now 
 that she knew all and was on the scene of action. Mrs. Johnson 
 brought her white-wine whey instead of the tea she had asked 
 for ; and perhaps it was owing to this that she slept so soundly. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 When Ellinor awoke the clear light of dawn was fully in the 
 room. She could not remember where she was ; for so many 
 mornings she had wakened up in strange places that it took her 
 several minutes before she could make out the geographical 
 whereabouts of the heavy blue m.oreen curtains, the print of the 
 lordheutenant of the county on the wall, and all the handsome 
 ponderous mahogany furniture that stuffed up the room. As 
 soon as full memory came into her mind, she started up ; nor 
 did she go to bed again, although she saw by her watch on the 
 dressing-table that it was not yet six o'clock. She dressed her- 
 self with the dainty completeness so habitual to her that it had 
 become an unconscious habit, and then — the instinct was irre- 
 pressible — she put on her bonnet and shawl, and went down, 
 past the servant on her knees cleaning the doorstep, out into the 
 fresh open air ; and so she found her way down the High Street 
 to Hellingford Castle, the building in which the courts of assize 
 were held — the prison in which Dixon lay condemned to die. 
 She almost knew she could not see him ; yet it seemed like some 
 amends to her conscience for having slept through so many hours 
 of the night if she made the attempt. She went up to the 
 porter's lodge, and asked the httle girl sweeping out the place if 
 she might see Abraham Dixon. The child stared at her, and 
 ran into the house, bringing out her father, a great burly man, 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 1 49 
 
 who had not yet donned either coat or waistcoat, and who, 
 consequently, felt the morning air as rather nipping. To him 
 Ellinor repeated her question. 
 
 "Him as is to be hung come Saturday se'nnight? Why, 
 ma'am, I've nought to do with it. You may go to the governor's 
 house and try ; but, if you'll excuse me, you'll have your walk 
 for your pains. Them in the condemned cells is never seen 
 by nobody without the sheriff's order. You may go up to 
 the governor's house and welcome ; but they'll only tell you the 
 same. Yon's the governor's house." 
 
 Ellinor fully believed the man, and yet she went on to the 
 house indicated, as if she still hoped that in her case there 
 might be some exception to the rule, which she now remembered 
 to have heard of before, in days when such a possible desire as 
 to see a condemned prisoner was treated by her as a wish that 
 some people might have, did have — people as far removed from^ 
 her circle of circumstances as the inhabitants of the moon. Of 
 course she met with the same reply, a little more abruptly given, 
 as if every man was from his birth bound to know such an 
 obvious regulation. 
 
 She went out past the porter, now fully clothed. He was sorry 
 for her disappointment, but could not help saying, with a slight 
 tone of exultation, " Well, you see I was right, ma'am ! " 
 
 She walked as nearly round the castle as ever she could, look- 
 ing up at the few high-barred windows she could see, and 
 wondering in what part of the building Dixon was confined. 
 Then she went into the adjoining churchyard, and sitting down 
 upon a tombstone, she gazed idly at the view spread below her 
 — a view which was considered as the lion of the place, to be 
 shown to all strangers by the inhabitants of Hellingford. EUinor 
 did not see it, however ; she only saw the blackness of that 
 fatal night, the hurried work — the lanterns glancing to and fro* 
 She only heard the hard breathing of those who are engaged 
 upon unwonted labour ; the few hoarse muttered v/ords ; the 
 swaying of the branches to and fro. All at once the church 
 clock above her struck eight, and then pealed out for distant 
 labourers to cease their work for a time. Such was the old 
 custom of the place. Ellinor rose up, and made her way back 
 to Mr. Johnson's house in High Street. The room felt close 
 and confined in which she awaited her interview with Mr. 
 Johnson, who had sent down an apology for having overslept 
 
150 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 himself, and at last made his appearance in a hurried half- 
 awakened state, in consequence of his late hospitality of the 
 night before. 
 
 " I am so sorry I gave you all so much trouble last night," 
 said Ellinor apologetically. "I was over-tired, and much 
 shocked by the news I heard." 
 
 " No trouble, no trouble, I am sure. Neither Mrs. Johnson 
 nor I felt it in the least a trouble. Many ladies I know feel such 
 things very trying, though there are others that can stand a 
 judge's putting on the black cap better than most men. I'm 
 sure I saw some as composed as could be under Judge Corbet's 
 speech." 
 
 " But about Dixon? He must not die, Mr. Johnson." 
 
 •' Well, I don't know that he will," said Mr. Johnson, in some- 
 thing of the tone of voice he would have used in soothing a 
 child. "Judge Corbet said something about the possibility of 
 a pardon. The jury did not recommend him to mercy : you see, 
 his looks went so much against him, and all the evidence was so 
 strong, and no defence, so to speak, for he would not furnish 
 any information on which we could base defence. But the judge 
 did give some hope, to my mind, though there are others that 
 think differently." 
 
 " I tell you, Mr. Johnson, he must not die, and he shall not. 
 To whom must I go?" 
 
 " Whew ! Have you got additional evidence?" with a sudden 
 sharp glance of professional inquiry. 
 
 " Never mind," Ellinor answered. " I beg your pardon , . . 
 only tell me into whose hands the power of life and death has 
 passed." 
 
 " Into the Home Secretary's — Sir Philip Homes ; but you 
 cannot get access to him on such an errand. It is the judge who 
 tried the case that must urge a reprieve — Judge Corbet." 
 
 "Judge Corbet ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and he was rather inclined to take a merciful view of 
 the whole case. I saw it in his charge. He'll be the person 
 for you to see. I suppose you don't like to give me your con- 
 fidence, or else I could arrange and draw up what will have to 
 be said?" 
 
 " No. What I have to say must be spoken to the arbiter— to 
 no one else. I am afraid I answered you impatiently just now. 
 You must forgive me ; if you knew all, I am sure you would," 
 
A DARK night's WORK. I5I 
 
 "Say no more, my dear lady. We will suppose you have 
 some evidence not adduced at the trial. Well ; you must go up 
 and see the judge, since you don't choose to impart it to any one, 
 and lay it before him. He will doubtless compare it with his 
 notes of the trial, and see how far it agrees with them. Of 
 course you must be prepared with some kind of proof; for Judge 
 Corbet will have to test your evidence." 
 
 " It seems strange to think of him as the judge," said Ellinor, 
 almost to herself. 
 
 "Why, yes. He's but a young judge. You knew him at 
 Hamley, I suppose? I remember his reading there with Mr. 
 Ness." 
 
 " Yes, but do not let us talk more about that time. Tell me 
 when can I see Dixon ? I have been to the Castle already, but 
 they said I must have a sheriff's order." 
 
 ' ' To be sure. I desired Mrs. Johnson to tell you so last 
 night. Old Ormerod was dining here ; he is clerk to the magis- 
 trates, and I told him of your wish. He said he would see Sir 
 Henry Croper, and have the order here before ten. But all this 
 time Mrs. Johnson is waiting breakfast for us. Let me take you 
 into the dining-room." 
 
 It was very hard work for Ellinor to do her duty as a guest, 
 and to allow herself to be interested and talked to on local affairs 
 by her host and hostess. But she felt as if she had spoken 
 shortly and abruptly to Mr. Johnson in their previous conversa- 
 tion, and that she must try and make amends for it ; so she 
 attended to all the details about the restoration of the church, 
 and the difficulty of getting a good music-master for the three 
 little Miss Johnsons, with all her usual gentle good breeding 
 and patience, though no one can tell how her heart and imagina- 
 tion were full of the coming interview with poor old Dixon. 
 
 By-and-by Mr. Johnson was called out of the room to see 
 Mr. Ormerod, and receive the order of admission from him. 
 Ellinor clasped her hands tight together as she listened with 
 apparent composure to Mrs. Johnson's never-ending praise of the 
 HuUah system. But when Mr. Johnson returned, she could not 
 Iielp interrupting her eulogy, and saying — 
 
 ' ' Then I may go now ? " 
 
 Yes, the order was there — she might go, and Mr. Johnson 
 would accompany her, to see that she met with no difficulty c?r 
 obstacle. 
 
152 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 As they walked thither, he told her that some one — a turnkey, 
 or some one — would have to be present at the interview ; that 
 such was always the rule in the case of condemned prisoners \ 
 but that if this third person was " obliging," he would keep out 
 of earshot. Mr. J ohnson quietly took care to see that the turnkey 
 who accompanied Ellinor was " obliging." 
 
 The man took her across high-walled courts, along stone 
 corridors, and through many locked doors, before they came to 
 the condemned cells. 
 
 " I've had three at a time in here," said he, unlocking the final 
 door, "after Judge Morton had been here. We always called 
 him the * Hanging Judge.' But it's five years since he died, and 
 now there's never more than one in at a time ; though once it was 
 a woman for poisoning her husband. Mary Jones was her name. " 
 
 The stone passage out of which the cells opened was light, and 
 bare, and scrupulously clean. Over each door was a small barred 
 window, and an outer window of the same description was placed 
 high up in the cell, which the turnkey now opened. 
 
 Old Abraham Dixon was sitting on the side of his bed, doing 
 nothing. His head was bent, his frame sunk, and he did not 
 seem to care to turn round and see who it was that entered. 
 
 Ellinor tried to keep down her sobs while the man went up to 
 him, and laying his hand on his shoulder, and hghtly shaking 
 him, he said — 
 
 " Here's a friend come to see you, Dixon." Then, turning to 
 Elhnor, he added, "There's some as takes it in this kind o' 
 stunned way, while others are as restless as a wild beast in a 
 cage, after they're sentenced." And then he withdrew into the 
 passage, leaving the door open, so that he could see all that 
 passed if he chose to look, but ostentatiously keeping his eyes 
 averted, and whistling to himself, so that he could not hear what 
 they said to each other. 
 
 Dixon looked up at Ellinor, but then let his eyes fall on the 
 ground again ; the increasing trembling of his shrunken frame 
 was the only sign he gave that he had recognised her. 
 
 She sat down by him, and took his large horny hand in hers. 
 She wanted to overcome her inclination to sob hysterically before 
 she spoke. She stroked the bony shrivelled fingers, on which 
 her hot scalding tears kept dropping. 
 
 "Dunnot do that," said he at length, in a hollow voice.. 
 *' Dunnot take on about it ; it's best as it is, missy." 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 1 53 
 
 " No, Dixon, it's not best. It shall not be. You know it shall 
 not — cannot be." 
 
 " I'm rather tired of living. It's been a great strain and 
 labour for me. I think I'd as lief be with God as with men. 
 And you see, I were fond on him ever sin' he were a little lad, 
 and told me what hard times he had at school, he did, just as if 
 I were his brother ! I loved him next to Molly Greaves. Dear ! 
 and I shall see her again, I reckon, come next Saturday week ! 
 They'll think well on me, up there, I'll be bound ; though I 
 cannot say as I've done all as I should do here below." 
 
 "But, Dixon," said Ellinor, "you know who did this — 
 this " 
 
 "Guilty o' murder," said he. "That's what they called it. 
 Murder ! And that it never were, choose who did it." 
 
 " My poor, poor father did it. I am going up to London this 
 afternoon ; I am going to see the judge, and tell him all." 
 
 " Don't you demean yourself to that fellow, missy. It's him 
 as left you in the lurch as soon as sorrow and shame came 
 nigh you." 
 
 He looked up at her now, for the first time ; but she went on 
 as if she had not noticed those wistful, weary eyes. 
 
 "Yes! I shall go to him. I know who it is ; and I am resolved. 
 After all, he may be better than a stranger, for real help ; and I 
 shall never remember any — anything else, when I think of you, 
 good faithful friend." 
 
 " He looks but a wizened old fellow in his grey wig. I should 
 hardly ha' known him. I gave him a look, as much as to say, 
 'I could tell tales o' you, my lord judge, if I chose.' I don't 
 know if he heeded me, though. I suppose it were for a sign of 
 old acquaintance that he said he'd recom mend me to mercy. But 
 I'd sooner have death nor mercy, by long odds. Yon man out 
 there says mercy means Botany Bay. It 'ud be like killing 
 me by inches, that would. It would. I'd liefer go straight to 
 heaven, than live on among the black folk." 
 
 He began to shake again : this idea of transportation, from 
 its very mysteriousness, was more terrifying to him than death. 
 He kept on saying plaintively, "Missy, you'll never let 'em 
 send me to Botany Bay ; I couldn't stand that." 
 
 " No, no!" said she. "You shall come out of this prison, 
 and go home with me to East Chester ; I promise you you shall. 
 I promise you. I don't yet quite know how, but trust in my 
 
154 A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 
 
 promise. Don't fret about Botany Bay. If you go there, I 
 go too. I am so sure you will not go. And you know if you 
 have done anything against the law in concealing that fatal 
 night's work, I did too, and if you are to be punished, I will 
 be punished too. But I feel sure it will be right ; I mean as 
 right as anything can be, wiih the recollection of that time 
 present to us, as it must always be." She almost spoke these 
 last words to herself. They sat on, hand in hand, for a few 
 minutes more in silence. 
 
 " I thought you'd come to me. I knowed you were far away 
 in foreign parts. But I used to pray to God. ' Dear Lord 
 God ! ' I used to say, ' let me see her again.' I told the chaplain 
 as I'd begin to pray for repentance, at after I'd done praying 
 that I might see you once again : for it just seemed to take 
 all my strength to say those words as I've named. And I 
 thought as how God knew what was in my heart better than I 
 could tell Him : how I was main and sorry for all as I'd ever 
 done wrong ; I allays were, at after it was done ; but I thought 
 as no one could know how bitter-keen I wanted to see you." 
 
 Again they sank into silence. EUinor felt as if she would 
 fain be away and active in procuring his release ; but she also 
 perceived how precious her presence was to him ; and she did 
 not like to leave him a moment before the time allowed her. 
 His voice had changed to a weak, piping, old man's quaver, 
 and between the times of his talking he seemed to relapse into 
 a dreamy state ; but through it all he held her hand tight, as 
 though afraid that she would leave him. 
 
 So the hour elapsed, with no more spoken words than those 
 above. From time to time Ellinor's tears dropped down upon 
 her lap ; she could not restrain them, though she scarce knew 
 why she cried just then. 
 
 At length the turnkey said that the time allowed for the inter- 
 view was ended. Ellinor spoke no word ; but rose, and bent 
 down and kissed the old man's forehead, saying — 
 
 " I shall come back to-morrow. God keep and comfort you ! " 
 
 So, almost without an articulate word from him in reply (he 
 rose up, and stood on his shaking legs, as she bade him fare- 
 well, putting his hand to his head with the old habitual mark 
 of respect), she went her way, swiftly out of the prison, swiftly 
 back with Mr. Johnson to his house, scarcely patient or strong 
 enough in her hurry to explain to him fully all that she meant 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 155 
 
 to do. She only asked him a few absolutely requisite questions ; 
 and informed him of her intention to go straight to London to 
 see Judge Corbet. 
 
 Jast before the railway carriage in which she was seated 
 started on the journey, she bent forward, and put out her hand 
 once more to Mr. Johnson. "To-morrow I will thank you for 
 all," she said. " I cannot now." 
 
 It was about the same time that she bad reached Hellingford 
 on the previous night, that she arrived at the Great Western 
 station on this evening — past eight o'clock. On the way she 
 had remembered and arranged many things : one important 
 question she had omitted to ask Mr. Johnson ; but that was 
 easily remedied. She had not inquired where she could find 
 Judge Corbet ; if she had, Mr. Johnson could probably have 
 given her his professional address. As it was, she asked for 
 a Post-Office Directory at the hotel, and looked out for his 
 private dwelling — 128 Hyde Park Gardens. 
 
 She rang for a waiter. 
 
 "Can I send a messenger to Hyde Park Gardens?" she said, 
 hurrying on to her business, tired and worn-out as she was. 
 " It is only to ask if Judge Corbet is at home this evening. If 
 he is, I must go and see him." 
 
 The waiter was a little surprised, and would gladly have had 
 her name to authorise the inquiry ; but she could not bear to- 
 send it ; it would be bad enough that first meeting, without the 
 feeling that he, too, had had time to recall all the past days. 
 Better to go in upon him unprepared, and plunge into the 
 subject. 
 
 The waiter returned with the answer while she yet was 
 pacing up and down the room restlessly, nerving herself for 
 the interview. 
 
 "The messenger has been to Hyde Park Gardens, ma'am. 
 The Judge and Lady Corbet are gone out to dinner." 
 
 Lady Corbet ! Of course Ellinor knew that he was married. 
 Had she not been present at the wedding in East Chester 
 Cathedral? But, somehow, these recent events had so carried 
 her back to old times, that the intimate association of the 
 names, "the Judge and Lady Corbet," seemed to awaken her 
 out of some dream. 
 
 "Oh, very well," she said, just as if these thoughts were 
 not passing rapidly through her mind. "Let me be called at 
 
156 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 seven to-morrow morning, and let me have a cab at the door 
 to Hyde Park Gardens at eight." 
 
 And so she went to bed ; but scarcely to sleep. All night 
 long she had the scenes of those old times, the happy, happy 
 days of her youth, the one terrible night that cut all happiness 
 short, present before her. She could almost have fancied that 
 she heard the long-silent sounds of her father's step, her father's 
 way of breathing, the rustle of his newspaper as he hastily 
 turned it over, coming through the lapse of years ; the silence 
 of the night. She knew that she had the little writing-case of 
 her girlhood with her, in her box. The treasures of the dead 
 that it contained, the morsel of dainty sewing, the little sister's 
 golden curl, the half-finished letter to Mr. Corbet, were all 
 there. She took them out, and looked at each separately ; 
 looked at them long — long and wistfully. "Will it be of any 
 use to me ? " she questioned of herself, as she was about to put 
 her father's letter back into its receptacle. She read the last 
 words over again, once more: " From my death-bed I adjure 
 you to stand her friend ; I will beg pardon on my knees for 
 anything." 
 
 "I will take it," thought she. "I need not bring it out; 
 most likely there will be no need for it, after what I shall have 
 to say. All is so altered, so changed between us, as utterly as 
 if it never had been, that I think I shall have no shame in 
 showing it him, for my own part of it. While, if he sees poor 
 papa's, dear, dear papa's suffering humility, it may make him 
 think more gently of one who loved him once, though they 
 parted in wrath with each other, I'm afraid." 
 
 So she took the letter with her when she drove to Hyde Park 
 Gardens. 
 
 Every nerve in her body was in such a high state of tension 
 that she could have screamed out at the cabman's boisterous 
 knock at the door. She got out hastily, before any one was 
 ready or willing to answer such an untimely summons ; paid 
 the man double what he ought to have had ; and stood there, 
 sick, trembling, and humble. 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 1 57 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. AND LAST. 
 
 "Is Judge Corbet at home? Can I see him?" she asked of 
 the footman, who at length answered the door. 
 
 He looked at her curiously, and a little familiarly, before he 
 replied — 
 
 "Why, yes ! He's pretty sure to be at home at this time of 
 day ; but whether he'll see you is quite another thing." 
 
 "Would you be so good as to ask him? It is on very 
 particular business." 
 
 ' ' Can you give me a card ? your name, perhaps, will do, if 
 you have not a card. I say, Simmons" (to a lady's-maid 
 crossing the hall), "is the judge up yet?" 
 
 " Oh yes ! he's in his dressing-room this half-hour. My lady 
 is coming down directly. It is just breakfast time." 
 
 " Can't you put it off, and come again, a httle later?" said 
 he, turning once more to Ellinor— white Elhnor ! trembling 
 EUinor ! 
 
 "No! please let me come in, I will wait. I am sure 
 Judge Corbet will see me, if you will tell him I am here. Miss 
 Wilkins. He will know the name." 
 
 " Well, then ; will you wait here till I have got breakfast in? " 
 said the man, letting her into the hall, and pointing to the 
 bench there. He took her, from her dress, to be a lady's- 
 maid or governess, or at most a tradesman's daughter ; and, 
 besides, he was behindhand with all his preparations. She 
 came in and sat down. 
 
 " You will tell him I am here," she said faintly. 
 
 "Oh yes, never fear: I'll send up word, though I don't 
 believe he'll come to you before breakfast." 
 
 He told a page, who ran upstairs, and, knocking at the 
 judge's door, said that a Miss Jenkins wanted to speak to 
 him. 
 
 " Who?" asked the judge from the inside. 
 
 " Miss Jenkins. She said you would know the name, sir." 
 
 " Not I. Tell her to wait. " 
 
 So EUinor waited. Presently down the stairs, with slow 
 deliberate dignity, came the handsome Lady Corbet, in her 
 rustling silks and ample petticoats, carrying her fine boy, and 
 followed by her majestic nurse. She was ill-pleased that any 
 
158 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 one should come and take up her husband's time when he 
 was at home, and supposed to be enjoying domestic leisure ; 
 and her imperious, inconsiderate nature did not prompt her 
 to any civility towards the gentle creature sitting down, weary 
 and heart-sick, in her house. On the contrary, she looked 
 her over as she slowly descended, till Ellinor shrank abashed 
 from the steady gaze of the large black eyes. Then she, her 
 baby and nurse, disappeared into the large dining-room, into 
 which all the preparations for breakfast had been carried. 
 
 The next person to come down would be the judge. Ellinor 
 instinctively put down her veil. She heard his quick decided 
 step ; she had known it well of old. 
 
 He gave one of his sharp, shrewd glances at the person sitting 
 in the hall and waiting to speak to him, and his practised eye 
 recognised the lady at once, in spite of her travel-worn dress. 
 
 "Will you just come into this room?" said he, opening the 
 door of his study, to the front of the house : the dining-room 
 was to the back ; they communicated by folding-doors. 
 
 The astute lawyer placed himself with his back to the window ; 
 it was the natural position of the master of the apartment ; but 
 it also gave him the advantage of seeing his companion's face 
 in full light. EUinor lifted her veil ; it had only been a dislike 
 to a recognition in the hall which had made her put it down. 
 
 Judge Corbet's countenance changed more than hers ; she had 
 been prepared for the interview ; he was not. But he usually 
 had the full command of the expression on his face. 
 
 *' Ellinor ! Miss Wilkins ! is it you?" And he went forwards, 
 holding out his hand with cordial greeting, under which the em- 
 barrassment, if he felt any, was carefully concealed. She could 
 not speak all at once in the way she wished. 
 
 " That stupid Henry told me ' Jenkins ! ' I beg your pardon. 
 How could they put you down to sit in the hall? You must 
 come in and have some breakfast with us ; Lady Corbet will be 
 delighted, I'm sure." His sense of the awkwardness of the 
 meeting with the woman who was once to have been his wife, 
 and of the probable introduction which was to follow to the 
 woman who was his actual wife, grew upon him, and made him 
 speak a little hurriedly. Ellinor's next words were a wonderful 
 rehef ; and her soft gentle way of speaking was like the touch of 
 a cooling balsam. 
 
 "Thank you, you must excuse me. I am come strictly on 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 1 59 
 
 business, otherwise I should never have thought of calhng on 
 you at such an hour. It is about poor Dixon." 
 
 "Ah! I thought as much!" said the judge, handing her a 
 chair, and sitting down himself. He tried to compose his mind 
 to business, but in spite of his strength of character, and his 
 present efforts, the remembrance of old times would come back 
 at the sound of her voice. He wondered if he was as much 
 changed in appearance as she struck him as being in that first 
 look of recognition ; after that first glance he rather avoided 
 meeting her eyes. 
 
 " I knew how much you would feel it. Some one at Helling- 
 ford told me you were abroad, in Rome, I think. But you must 
 not distress yourself unnecessarily ; the sentence is sure to be 
 commuted to transportation, or something equivalent. I was 
 talking to the Home Secretary about it only last night. Lapse 
 of time and subsequent good character quite preclude any idea 
 of capital punishment." All the time that he said this he had 
 other thoughts at the back of his mind — some curiosity, a little 
 regret, a touch of remorse, a wonder how the meeting (which, 
 of course, would have to be some time) between Lady Corbet 
 and Ellinor would go off ; but he spoke clearly enough on the 
 subject in hand, and no outward mark of distraction from it 
 appeared. 
 
 Ellinor answered — 
 
 "I came to tell you, what I suppose may be told to any 
 judge, in confidence and full reliance on his secrecy, that 
 Abraham Dixon was not the murderer." She stopped short, 
 and choked a little. 
 
 The judge looked sharply at her. 
 
 " Then you know who was?" said he. 
 
 "Yes," she rephed^ with a low, steady voice, looking him full 
 in the face, with sad, solemn eyes. 
 
 The truth flashed into his mind. He shaded his face, and 
 did not speak for a minute or two. Then he said, not looking 
 up, a little hoarsely, "This, then, was the shame you told me 
 of long ago?" 
 
 "Yes," said she. 
 
 Both sat quite still ; quite silent for some time. Through the 
 silence a sharp, clear voice was heard speaking through the 
 folding-doors. 
 
 "Take the kedgeree down, and tell the cook to keep it hot 
 
l6o A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 for the judge. It is so tiresome people coming on business 
 here, as if the judge had not his proper hours for being at 
 chambers." 
 
 He got up hastily, and went into the dining-room ; but he had 
 audibly some difficulty in curbing his wife's irritation. 
 
 When he came back, EUinor said — 
 
 " I am afraid I ought not to have come here now." 
 
 "Oh! it's all nonsense!" said he, in a tone of annoyance. 
 "You've done quite right." He seated himself where he had 
 been before ; and again half covered his face with his hand. 
 
 ' ' And Dixon knew of this. I believe I must put the fact 
 plainly to you — your father was the guilty person? He mur- 
 dered Uunster?" 
 
 " Yes. If you call it murder. It was done by a blow, in the 
 heat of passion. No one can ever tell how Dunster always 
 irritated papa," said Ellinor, in a stupid heavy way ; and then 
 she sighed. 
 
 "How do you know this?" There was a kind of tender 
 reluctance in the judge's voice, as he put all these questions. 
 Ellinor had made up her mind beforehand that something like 
 them must be asked, and must also be answered ; but she spoke 
 like a sleep-walker. 
 
 "I came into papa's room just after he had struck Mr. 
 Dunster the blow. He was lying insensible, as we thought — 
 dead, as he really was." 
 
 " What was Dixon's part in it ? He must have known a good 
 deal about it. And the horse-lancet that was found with his 
 name upon it?" 
 
 " Papa went to wake Dixon, and he brought his fleam— I 
 suppose to try and bleed him. I have said enough, have I not ? 
 I seem so confused. But I will answer any question to make it 
 appear that Dixon is innocent." 
 
 The judge had been noting all down. He sat still now with- 
 out replying to her. Then he wrote rapidly, referring to his 
 previous paper from time to time. In five minutes or so he 
 read the facts which Ellinor had stated, as he now arranged 
 them, in a legal and connected form. He just asked her one 
 or two trivial questions as he did so. Then he read it over to 
 her, and asked her to sign it. She took up the pen, and held 
 it, hesitating. 
 
 " This will never be made pubhc?" said she. 
 
A DARK night's WORK. l6l 
 
 " No ; I shall take care that no one but the Home Secretary 
 sees it." 
 
 '' Thank you. I could not help it, now it has come to this." 
 
 " There are not many men like Dixon," said the judge, almost 
 to himself, as he sealed the paper in an envelope. 
 
 " No," said Ellinor ; " I never knew any one so faithful." 
 
 And just at the same moment the reflection on a less faithful 
 person that these words might seem to imply struck both of 
 them, and each instinctively glanced at the other. 
 
 " Ellinor ! " said the judge, after a moment's pause, " we are 
 friends, I hope?"" 
 
 " Yes ; friends," said she, quietly and sadly. 
 
 He felt a little chagrined at her answer. Why, he could hardly 
 tell. To cover any sign of his feeling he went on talking. 
 
 ' ' Where are you living now ? " 
 
 "At East Chester." 
 
 " But you come sometimes to town, don't you? Let us know 
 always — whenever you come ; and Lady Corbet shall call on 
 you. Indeed, I wish you'd let me bring her to see you to-day." 
 
 "Thank you. I am going straight back to Hellingford ; at 
 least, as soon as you can get me the pardon for Dixon." 
 
 He half smiled at her ignorance. 
 
 ' ' The pardon must be sent to the sheriff, who holds the 
 warrant for his execution. But, of course, you may have every 
 assurance that it shall be sent as soon as possible. It is just the 
 same as if he had it now." 
 
 " Thank you very much," said Ellinor, rising. 
 
 "Pray don't go without breakfast. If you would rather not 
 see Lady Corbet just now, it shall be sent in to you in this room, 
 unless you have already breakfasted." 
 
 "No, thank you; I would rather not. You are very kind, 
 and I am very glad to have seen you once again. There is just 
 one thing more," said she, colouring a little and hesitating. 
 "This note to you was found under papa's pillow after his 
 death ; some of it refers to past things ; but I should be glad if 
 you could think as kindly as you can of poor papa — and so — 
 if you will read it " 
 
 He took it and read it, not without emotion. Then he laid it 
 down on his table, and said — 
 
 " Poor man ! he must have suffered a great deal for that 
 night's work. And you, Ellinor, you have suffered, too." 
 
l62 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 Yes, she had suffered ; and he who spoke had been one of the 
 instruments of her suffering, although he seemed forgetful of it. 
 She shook her head a little for reply. Then she looked up at 
 him — tliey were both standing at the time — and said — 
 
 " I think I shall be happier now. I always knew it must be 
 found out. Once more, good-bye, and thank you. I may take 
 this letter, I suppose?" said she, casting envious loving eyes at 
 her father's note, lying unregarded on the table. 
 
 "Oh! certainly, certainly," said he; and then he took her 
 hand ; he held it, while he looked into her face. He had 
 thought it changed when he had first seen her, but it was now 
 almost the same to him as of yore. The sweet shy eyes, the 
 indicated dimple in the cheek, and something of fever had 
 brought a faint pink flush into her usually colourless cheeks. 
 Married judge though he was, he was not sure if she had not 
 more charms for him still in her sorrow and her shabbiness than 
 the handsome stately wife in the next room, whose looks had not 
 been of the pleasantest when he left her a few minutes before. 
 He sighed a little regretfully as Ellinor went away. He had 
 obtained the position he had struggled for, and sacrificed for ; 
 but now he could not help wishing that the slaughtered creature 
 laid on the shrine of his ambition were alive again. 
 
 The kedgeree was brought up again, smoking hot, but it re- 
 mained untasted by him ; and though he appeared to be reading 
 the Times, he did not see a word of the distinct type. His wife, 
 meanwhile, continued her complaints of the untimely visitor, 
 whose name he did not give to her in its corrected form, as he 
 was not anxious that she should have it in her power to identify 
 the call of this morning with a possible future acquaintance. 
 
 When Elhnor reached Mr. Johnson's house in Hellingford, 
 that afternoon, she found Miss Monro was there, and that she 
 had been with much difficulty restrained by Mr. Johnson from 
 following her to London. 
 
 Miss Monro fondled and purred inarticulately through her tears 
 over her recovered darling, before she could speak intelligibly 
 enough to tell her that Canon Livingstone had come straight to 
 see her immediately on his return to East Chester, and had 
 suggested her journey to Hellingford, in order that she might be 
 of all the comfort she could to Elhnor. She did not at first let 
 out that he had accompanied her to Hellingford ; she was a little 
 afraid of Ellinor's displeasure at his being there ; Ellinor had 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 163 
 
 always objected so much to any advance towards intimacy with 
 him that Miss Monro had wished to make. But EUinor was 
 different now. 
 
 " How white you are, Nelly ! " said Miss Monro. " You have 
 been travelling too much and too fast, my child." 
 
 " My head aches ! " said Ellinor wearily. " But I must go to 
 the Castle, and tell my poor Dixon that he is reprieved — I am so 
 tired ! Will you ask Mr. Johnson to get me leave to see him ? 
 He will know all about it." 
 
 She threw herself down on the bed in the spare room ; the bed 
 with the heavy blue curtains. After an unheeded remonstrance, 
 Miss Monro went to do her bidding. But it was now late after- 
 noon, and Mr. Johnson said that it would be impossible for him 
 to get permission from the sheriff that night. 
 
 " Besides," said he courteously, " one scarcely knows whether 
 Miss Wilkins may not give the old man false hopes — whether she 
 has not been excited to have false hopes herself ; it might be a 
 cruel kindness to let her see him, without more legal certainty 
 as to what his sentence, or reprieve, is to be. By to-morrow 
 morning, if I have properly understood her story, which was a 
 little confused " 
 
 " She is so dreadfully tired, poor creature," put in Miss Monro, 
 who never could bear the shadow of a suspicion that Elhnor was 
 not wisest, best, in all relations and situations, of life. 
 
 Mr. Johnson went on, with a deprecatory bow : " Well, then 
 — it really is the only course open to her besides — persuade her 
 to rest for this evening. By to-morrow morning I will have ob- 
 tained the sheriffs leave, and he will most likely have heard from 
 London." 
 
 " Thank you ! I believe that will be best." 
 
 " It is the only course," said he. 
 
 When Miss Monro returned to the bedroom, Ellinor was in 
 a heavy feverish slumber ; so feverish and so uneasy did she 
 appear, that, after the hesitation of a moment or two. Miss Monro 
 had no scruple in wakening her. 
 
 But she did not appear to understand the answer to her re- 
 quest ; she did not seem even to remember that she had made 
 any request. 
 
 The journey to England, the misery, the surprises, had been 
 too much for her. The morrow morning came, bringing the 
 formal free pardon for Abraham Dixon. The sheriff's order for 
 
l64 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 her admission to see the old man lay awaiting her wish to use it ; 
 but she knew nothing of all this. 
 
 For days, nay weeks, she hovered between life and death, 
 tended, as of old, by Miss Monro, while good Mrs. Johnson was 
 ever wilHng to assist. 
 
 One summer evening in early June she wakened into memory. 
 
 Miss Monro heard the faint piping voice, as she kept her watch 
 by the bedside. 
 
 " Where is Dixon ?" asked she. 
 
 "At the canon's house at Bromham." This was the name of 
 Dr. Livingstone's country parish. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 ' ' We thought it better to get him into country air and fresh 
 scenes at once." 
 
 " How is he?" 
 
 " Much better. Get strong, and he shall come to see you." 
 
 " You are sure all is right? " said EUinor. 
 
 "Sure, my dear. All is quite right." 
 
 Then Ellinor went to sleep again, out of very weakness and 
 weariness. 
 
 From that time she recovered pretty steadily. Her great 
 desire was to return to East Chester as soon as possible. The 
 associations of grief, anxiety, and coming illness, connected with 
 Hellingford, made her wish to be once again in the solemn, quiet, 
 sunny close of East Chester. 
 
 Canon Livingstone came over to assist Miss Monro in manag- 
 ing the journey with her invalid. But he did not intrude himself 
 upon Ellinor, any more than he had done in coming from home. 
 
 The morning after her return, Miss Monro said — 
 
 " Do you feel strong enough to see Dixon ?" 
 
 " Yes. Is he here?" 
 
 " He is at the canon's house. He sent for him from Bromham, 
 in order that he might be ready for you to see him when you 
 wished." 
 
 " Please let him come directly," said Ellinor, flushing and 
 trembling. 
 
 She went to the door to meet the tottering old man ; she led 
 him to the easy-chair that had been placed and arranged for 
 herself; she knelt down before him, and put his hands on her 
 head, he trembhng and shaking all the while. 
 
 " Forgive me all the shame and misery, Dixon. Say you for- 
 
A DARK night's WORK. 165 
 
 give me ; and give me your blessing. And then let never a word 
 of the terrible past be spoken between us." 
 
 " It's not for me to forgive you, as never did harm to no 
 one " 
 
 " But say you do — it will ease my heart. " 
 
 " I forgive thee ! " said he. And then he raised himself to his 
 feet with effort, and, standing up above her, he blessed her 
 solemnly. 
 
 After that he sat down, she by him, gazing at him. 
 
 " Yon's a good man, missy," he said at length, hfting his slow 
 eyes and looking at her. " Better nor t'other ever was." 
 
 " He is a good man," said Ellinor. 
 
 But no more was spoken on the subject. The next day, 
 Canon Livingstone made his formal call. Ellinor would fain 
 have kept Miss Monro in the room, but that worthy lady knew 
 better than to stop. 
 
 They went on, forcing talk on indifferent subjects. At last he 
 could speak no longer on everything but that which he had most 
 at heart. " Miss Wilkins ! " (he had got up, and was standing 
 by the mantelpiece, apparently examining the ornaments upon 
 it) — " Miss Wilkins ! is there any chance of your giving me a 
 favourable answer now — you know what I mean — what we spoke 
 about at the Great Western Hotel, that day ?" 
 
 Ellinor hung her head. 
 
 " You know that I was once engaged before?" 
 
 " Yes ! I know ; to Mr. Corbet — he that is now the judge ; 
 you cannot suppose that would make any difference, if that 
 is all, I have loved you, and you only, ever since we met, 
 eighteen years ago. Miss Wilkins — Ellinor — put me out of 
 suspense." 
 
 " I will ! " said she, putting out her thin white hand for him 
 to take and kiss, almost with tears of gratitude, but she seemed 
 frightened at his impetuosity and tried to check him. " Wait — 
 you have not heard all — my poor, poor father, in a fit of anger, 
 irritated beyond his bearing, struck the blow that killed Mr. 
 Dunster — Dixon and I knew of it, just after the blow was struck 
 — we helped to hide it — we kept the secret — my poor father died 
 of sorrow and remorse — you now know all — can you still love me ? 
 It seems to me as if I had been an accomplice in such a terrible 
 thing ! " 
 
 " Poor, poor Ellinor !" said he, now taking her in his arms 
 
1 66 A DARK night's WORK. 
 
 as a shelter. ' ' How I wish I had known of all this years and 
 years ago : I could have stood between you and so much ! " 
 
 Those who pass through the village of Bromham, and pause 
 to look over the laurel-hedge that separates the rectory garden 
 from the road, may often see, on summer days, an old, old man, 
 sitting in a wicker-chair, out upon the lawn. He leans upon his 
 stick, and seldom raises his bent head ; but for all that his eyes 
 are on a level with the two little fairy children who come to him 
 in all their small joys and sorrows, and who learnt to lisp his 
 name almost as soon as they did that of their father and 
 mother. 
 
 Nor is Miss Monro often absent ; and although she prefers 
 to retain the old house in the Close for winter quarters, she gene- 
 rally makes her way across to Canon Livingstone's residence 
 every evening. 
 
 so ENDS "A DARK NIGHT'S WORK." 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 T T is a great thing for a lad when he is first turned into the 
 independence of lodgings. I do not think I ever was so 
 satisfied and proud in my hfe as when, at seventeen, I sate down 
 in a little three-cornered room above a pastry-cook's shop in the 
 county town of Eltham. My father had left me that afternoon, 
 after delivering himself of a few plain precepts, strongly expressed, 
 for my guidance in the new course of Hfe on which I was enter- 
 ing. I was to be a clerk under the engineer who had undertaken 
 to make the little branch hne from Eltham to Hornby. My 
 father had got me this situation, which was in a position rather 
 above his own in life ; or perhaps I should say, above the station 
 in which he was born and bred ; for he was raising himself every 
 year in men's consideration and respect. He was a mechanic 
 by trade ; but he had some inventive genius, and a great deal of 
 perseverance, and had devised several valuable improvements in 
 railway machinery. He did not do this for profit, though, as 
 was reasonable, what came in the natural course of things was 
 acceptable ; he worked out his ideas, because, as he said, "until 
 he could put them into shape, they plagued him by night and by 
 day." But this is enough about my dear father ; it is a good 
 thing for a country where there are many like him. He was a 
 sturdy Independent by descent and conviction ; and this it was, 
 I believe, which made him place me in the lodgings at the pastry- 
 cook's. The shop was kept by the two sisters of our minister at 
 home ; and this was considered as a sort of safeguard to my 
 morals, when I was turned loose upon the temptations of the 
 county town, with a salary of thirty pounds a year. 
 
 My father had given up two precious days, and put on his 
 Sunday clothes, in order to bring me to Eltham, and accompany 
 167 
 
l68 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 me first to the office, to introduce me to my new master (who was 
 under some obligations to my father for a suggestion), and next 
 to take me to call on the Independent minister of the little con- 
 gregation at Eltham. And then he left me ; and, though sorry 
 to part with him, I now began to taste with rehsh the pleasure 
 of being my own master. I unpacked the hamper that my 
 mother had provided me with, and smelt the pots of preserve 
 with all the delight of a possessor who might break into their 
 contents at any time he pleased. I handled and weighed in my 
 fancy the home-cured ham, which seemed to promise me inter- 
 minable feasts ; and, above all, there was the fine savour of 
 knowing that I might eat of these dainties when I liked, at my 
 sole will, not dependent on the pleasure of any one else, however 
 indulgent. I stowed my eatables away in the little corner cup- 
 board—that room was all corners, and everything was placed in 
 a corner, the fireplace, the window, the cupboard ; I myself 
 seemed to be the only tiling in the middle, and there was hardly 
 room for me. The table was made of a folding leaf under the 
 window, and the window looked out upon the market-place ; so 
 the studies for the prosecution of which my father had brought 
 himself to pay extra for a sitting-room for me, ran a considerable 
 chance of being diverted from books to men and women. I was 
 to have my meals with the two elderly Miss Dawsons in the little 
 parlour behind the three-cornered shop downstairs ; my break- 
 fasts and dinners at least, for, as my hours in an evening were 
 likely to be uncertain, my tea or supper was to be an independent 
 meal. 
 
 Then, after this pride and satisfaction, came a sense of deso- 
 lation. I had never been from home before, and I was an only 
 child ; and though my father's spoken maxim had been, " Spare 
 the rod, and spoil the child," yet, unconsciously, his heart had 
 yearned after me, and his ways towards me were more tender 
 than he knew, or would have approved of in himself could he 
 have known. My mother, who never professed sternness, was 
 far more severe than my father : perhaps my boyish faults 
 annoyed her more ; for I remember, now that I have written the 
 above words, how she pleaded for me once in my riper years, 
 when I had really offended against my father's sense of right. 
 
 But I have nothing to do with that now. It is about cousin 
 Phillis that I am going to write, and as yet I am far enough from 
 even saying who cousin Phillis was. 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 169 
 
 For some months after I was settled in Eltham, the new em- 
 ployment in which I was engaged — the new independence of my 
 life — occupied all my thoughts. I was at my desk by eight 
 o'clock, home to dinner at one, back at the office by two. The 
 afternoon work was more uncertain than the morning's ; it might 
 be the same, or it might be that I had to accompany Mr. Holds* 
 worth, the managing engineer, to some point on the line between 
 Eltham and Hornby. This I always enjoyed, because of the 
 variety, and because of the country we traversed (which was 
 very wild and pretty), and because I was thrown into companion- 
 ship with Mr. Holdsworth, who held the position of hero in my 
 boyish mind. He was a young man of live-and-twenty or so, 
 and was in a station above min^, both by birth and education ; 
 and he had travelled on the Continent, and wore mustachios 
 aqfi whi^kcirs of a somewhat foreign fashion. I was proud of 
 being seen with him. He was really a fine fellow in a good 
 number of ways, and I might have fallen into much worse 
 hands. 
 
 Every Saturday I wrote home, telling of my weekly doings — 
 my father had insisted upon this ; but there was so little variety 
 in my life that I often found it hard work to fill a letter. On 
 Sundays I went twice to chapel, up a dark narrow entry, to hear 
 droning hymns, and long prayers, and a still longer sermon, 
 preached to a small congregation, of which I was, by nearly a 
 score of years, the youngest member. Occasionally, Mr. Peters, 
 the minister, would ask me home to tea after the second service. 
 I dreaded the honour, for I usually sate on the edge of my chair 
 all the evening, and answered solemn questions, put in a deep 
 bass voice, until household prayer-time came, at eight o'clock, 
 when Mrs. Peters came in, smoothing down her apron, and the 
 maid-of-all-work followed, and first a sermon, and then a chapter 
 was read, and a long impromptu prayer followed, till some in- 
 stinct told Mr. Peters that supper-time had come, and we rose 
 from our knees with hunger for our predominant feeling. Over 
 supper the minister did unbend a httle into one or two ponderous 
 jokes, as if to show me that ministers were men, after all. And 
 then at ten o'clock I went home, and enjoyed my long-repressed 
 yawns in the three-cornered room before going to bed. 
 
 Dinah and Hannah Dawson, so their names were put on the 
 board above the shop-door — I always called them Miss Dawson 
 and Miss Hannah — considered these visits of mine to Mr. Peters 
 
 F 2 
 
IJO COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 as the greatest honour a young man could have ; and evidently- 
 thought that if, after such privileges, I did not work out my sal- 
 vation, I was a sort of modern Judas Iscariot. On the contrary, 
 they shook their heads over my intercourse with Mr. Holdsworth. 
 He had been so kind to me in many ways, that when I cut into 
 my ham, I hovered over the thought of asking him to tea in my 
 room, more especially as the annual fair was being held in Eltham 
 market-place, and the sight of the booths, the merry-go-rounds, 
 the wild-beast shows, and such country pomps, was (as I thought 
 at seventeen) very attractive. But when I ventured to allude to 
 my wish in even distant terms. Miss Hannah caught me up, and 
 spoke of the sinfulness of such sights, and something about wal- 
 lowing in the mire, and then vaulted into France, and spoke evil 
 of the nation, and all who had ever set foot therein, till, seeing 
 that her anger was concentrating itself into a point, and that that 
 point was Mr. Holdsworth, I thought it would be better to finish 
 my breakfast, and make what haste I could out of the sound of 
 her voice. I rather wondered afterwards to hear her and Miss 
 Dawson counting up their weekly profits with glee, and saying 
 that a pastry-cook's shop in the corner of the market-place, in 
 Eltham fair week, was no such bad thing. However, I never 
 ventured to ask Mr. Holdsworth to my lodgings. 
 
 There is not much to tell about thisfirst year of mine at Eltham. 
 But when I was nearly nineteen, and beginning to think of 
 whiskers on my own account, I came to know cousin Philiis, 
 whose very existence had been unknown to me till then. Mr. 
 Holdsworth and I had been out to Heathbridge for a day, work- 
 ing hard. Heathbridge was near Hornby, for our line of railway 
 was above half finished. Of course a day's outing was a great 
 thing to tell about in my weekly letters ; and I fell to describing 
 the country — a fault I was not often guilty of. I told my father 
 of the bogs, all over wild myrtle and soft moss, and shaking 
 ground over which we had to carry our line ; and how Mr, 
 Holdsworth and I had gone for our mid-day meals — for we had 
 to stay here for two days and a. night — to a pretty village hard 
 by, Heathbridge proper ; and how I hoped we should often have 
 to go there, for the shaking, uncertain ground was puzzhng our 
 •engineers — one end of the line going up as soon as the other was 
 weighted down. (I had no thought for the shareholders' interest?, 
 as may be seen ; we had to make a new line on firmer ground 
 before the junction railway was completed. ) I told all this at 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 171 
 
 great length, thankful to fill up my paper. By return letter, I 
 heard that a second cousin of my mother's was married to the 
 Independent minister of Hornby, Ebenezer Holman by name, 
 and lived at Heathbridge proper ; the very Heathbridge I had 
 described, or so my mother believed, for she had never seen her 
 cousin Phillis Green, who was something of an heiress (my father 
 beheved), being her father's only child, and old Thomas Green 
 had owned an estate of near upon fifty acres, which must have 
 come to his daughter. My mother's feehng of kinship seemed 
 to have been strongly stirred by the mention of Heathbridge ; 
 for my father said she desired me, if ever I went thither again, 
 to make inquiry for the Reverend Ebenezer Holman ; and if 
 indeed he hved there, I was further to ask if he had not married 
 one Philhs Green ; and if both these questions were answered in 
 the affirmative, I was to go and introduce myself as the only 
 child of Margaret Manning, born Moneypenny. I was enraged 
 at myself for having named Heathbridge at all, when I found 
 what it was drawing down upon me. One Independent minister, 
 as I said to myself, was enough for any man ; and here I knew 
 (that is to say, I had been catechised on Sabbath mornings by) 
 Mr. Hunter, our minister at home ; and I had had to be civil to 
 old Peters at Eltham, and behave myself for five hours running 
 whenever he asked me to tea at his house ; and now, just as I 
 felt the free air blowing about me up at Heathbridge, I was to 
 ferret out another minister, and I should perhaps have tp be 
 catechised by him, or else asked to tea at his house. Besides, 
 I did not like pushing myself upon strangers, who perhaps had 
 never heard of my mother's name, and such an odd name as it 
 was — Moneypenny ; and if they had, had never cared more for 
 her than she had for them, apparently, until this unlucky mention 
 of Heathbridge. 
 
 Still, I would not disobey my parents in such a trifle, however 
 irksome it might be. So the next time our business took me 
 to Heathbridge, and we were dining in the httle sanded inn- 
 Darlour, I took the opportunity of Mr. Holdsworth's being out 
 of the room, and asked the questions which I was bidden to ask 
 of the rosy-cheeked maid. I was either unintelligible or she was 
 stupid ; for she said she did not know, but would ask master ; 
 and of course the landlord came in to understand what it was I 
 wanted to know ; and I had to bring out all my stammering 
 inquiries before Mr. Holdsworth, who would never have attended 
 
172 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 to them, I dare say, if I had not blushed and blundered, and 
 made such a fool of myself. 
 
 "Yes," the landlord said, "the Hope Farm was in Heath- 
 bridge proper, and the owner's name was Holman, and he was 
 an Independent minister, and, as far as the landlord could tell, 
 his wife's Christian name was Phillis ; anyhow her maiden name 
 was Green." 
 
 " Relations of yours?" asked Mr. Holdsworth. 
 
 " No, sir — only my mother's second cousins. Yes, I suppose 
 they are relations. But I never saw them in my life." 
 
 " The Hope Farm is not a stone's throw from here," said the 
 officious landlord, going to the window. "If you carry your 
 eye over yon bed of hollyhocks, over the damson-trees in the 
 orchard yonder, you may see a stack of queer-like stone chimneys. 
 Tliem is the Hope Farm chimneys ; it's an old place, though 
 Holman keeps it in good order." 
 
 Mr. Holdsworth had risen from the table with more prompti- 
 tude than I had, and was standing by the window, looking. At 
 the landlord's last words, he turned round, smiling—" It is not 
 often that parsons know how to keep land in order, is it ? " 
 
 " Beg pardon, sir, but I must speak as I find ; and minister 
 Holman — we call the Church clergyman here * parson,' sir ; he 
 would be a bit jealous if he heard a Dissenter called parson — 
 minister Holman knows what he's about as well as e'er a farmer 
 in the neighbourhood. He gives up five days a week to his own 
 work, and two to the Lord's ; and it is difficult to say which he 
 works hardest at. He spends Saturday and Sunday a-writing 
 sermons and a-visiting his flock at Hornby ; and at five o'clock 
 on Monday morning he'll be guiding his plough in the Hope 
 Farm yonder just as well as if he could neither read nor write-. 
 But your dinner will be getting cold, gentlemen." 
 
 So we went back to table. After a while, Mr. Holdsworth 
 broke the silence—" If I were you, Manning, I'd look up these 
 relations of yours. You can go and see what they're like while 
 we're waiting for Dobson's estimates, and I'll smoke a cigar in 
 the garden meanwhile." 
 
 "Thank you, sir. But I don't know them, and I don't think 
 I want to know them." 
 
 "What did you ask all those questions for, then?" said he, 
 looking quickly up at me. He had no notion of doing or saying 
 things without a purpose. I did not answer, so he continued— 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 173 
 
 "Make up your mind, and go off and see what this farmer- 
 minister is like, and come back and tell me — I should like to hear." 
 I was so in the habit of yielding to his authority, or influence, 
 that I never thought of resisting, but went on my errand, though 
 I remember feeling as if I would rather have had my head cut 
 off. The landlord, who had evidently taken an interest in the 
 €vent of our discussion in a way that country landlords have, 
 accompanied me to the house-door, and gave me repeated 
 directions, as if I was likely to miss my way in two hundred 
 yards. But I listened to him, for I was glad of the delay, to 
 screw up my courage for the effort of facing unknown people 
 and introducing myself. I went along the lane, I recollect, 
 switching at all the taller roadside weeds, till, after a turn or 
 two, I found myself close in front of the Hope Farm. There 
 was a garden between the house and the shady, grassy lane ; I 
 afterwards found that this garden was called the court ; perhaps 
 because there was a low wall round it, with an iron railing on 
 the top of the wall, and two great gates between pillars crowned 
 with stone balls for a state entrance to the flagged path leading 
 up to the front door. It was not the habit of the place to go 
 in either by these great gates or by the front door ; the gates, 
 indeed, were locked, as I found, though the door stood wide 
 open. I had to go round by a side path lightly worn on a 
 broad, grassy way, which led past the court-wall, past a horse- 
 mount, half covered with stone-crop, and a little wild yellow 
 fumitory, to another door — "the curate," as I found it was 
 termed by the master of the house, while the front door, " hand- 
 some and all for show," was termed " the rector." I knocked 
 with my hand upon the " curate" door; a tall girl, about my 
 own age, as I thought, came and opened it, and stood there 
 silent, waiting to know my errand. I see her now — cousin 
 Phillis. The westering sun shone full upon her, and made a 
 slanting stream of light into the room within. She was dressed 
 in dark blue cotton of some kind ; up to her throat, down to 
 her wrists, with a little frill of the same wherever it touched her 
 white skin. And such a white skin as it was ! I have never 
 seen the like. She had light hair, nearer yellow than any other 
 colour. She looked me steadily in the face with large, quiet 
 eyes, wondering, but untroubled by the sight of a stranger. I 
 thought it odd that so old, so full-grown as she was, she should 
 wear a pinafore over her gown. 
 
•174 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 Before I had quite made up my mind what to say in reply to 
 her mute inquiry of what I wanted there, a woman's voice caUed 
 out, "Who is it, PhilHs? If it is any one for butter-milk send 
 them round to the back-door." 
 
 I thought I could rather speak to the owner of that voice than 
 to the girl before me ; so I passed her, and stood at the entrance 
 of a room, hat in hand, for this side-door opened straight into 
 the hall or house-place where the family sate when work was 
 done. There was a brisk little woman of forty or so ironing^ 
 some huge muslin cravats under the light of a long vine-shaded 
 casement window. She looked at me distrustfully till I began 
 to speak. "My name is Paul Manning," said I; but I saw 
 she did not know the name. " My mother's name was Money- 
 penny," said I — "Margaret Moneypenny." 
 
 "And she married one John Manning, of Birmingham," said 
 Mrs. Holman eagerly. "And you'll be her son. Sit down! 
 I am right glad to see you. To think of your being Margaret's 
 son ! Why, she was almost a child not so long ago. Well, to 
 be sure, it is five-and-twenty years ago. And what brings you 
 into these parts?" 
 
 She sate down herself, as if oppressed by her curiosity as to 
 all the five-and-twenty years that had passed by since she had 
 seen my mother. Her daughter Phillis took up her knitting — a 
 long grey worsted man's stocking, I remember— and knitted 
 away without looking at her work. I felt that the steady gaze 
 of those deep grey eyes was upon me, though once, when I 
 stealthily raised mine to hers, she was examining something 
 on the wall above my head. 
 
 When I had answered all my cousin Holman's questions, she 
 heaved a long breath, and said, " To think of Margaret Money- 
 penny's boy being in our house ! I wish the minister was here. 
 Phillis, in what field is thy father to-day?" 
 
 " In the five-acre ; they are beginning to cut the corn." 
 
 " He'll not like being sent for, then, else I should have liked 
 you to have seen the minister. But the five-acre is a good step 
 off. You shall have a glass of wine and a bit of cake before you 
 stir from this house, though. You're bound to go, you say, or else 
 the minister comes in mostly when the men have their four o'clock." 
 
 " I must go — I ought to have been off before now." 
 
 " Here, then, PhiUis, take the keys." She gave her daughter 
 some whispered directions, and Phillis left the room. 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 175 
 
 "She is my cousin, is she not?" I asked. I knew she was^ 
 but somehow I wanted to talk of her, and did not know how 
 to begin. 
 
 " Yes — Phillis Holman. She is our only child — now." 
 
 Either from that "now," or from a strange momentary wist- 
 fulness in her eyes, I knew that there had been more children, 
 who were now dead. 
 
 "How old is cousin Phillis?" said I, scarcely venturing on 
 -the new name, it seemed too prettily familiar for me to call her 
 by it ; but cousin Holman took no notice of it, answering 
 straight to the purpose. 
 
 "Seventeen last May-day ; but the minister does not like to 
 hear me calling it May-day," said she, checking herself with 
 a Httle awe. "Phillis was seventeen on the first day of May 
 last," she repeated in an emended edition. 
 
 "And I am nineteen in another month," thought I to my- 
 self ; I don't know why. 
 
 Then Phillis came in, carrying a tray with wine and cake 
 upon it. 
 
 " We keep a house-servant," said cousin Holman, " but it is 
 churning-day, and she is busy." It was meant as a Httle proud 
 apology for her daughter's being the handmaiden. 
 
 "I like doing it, mother," said Phillis, in her grave, full 
 voice. 
 
 I felt as if I were somebody in the Old Testament — ^who, I 
 could not recollect — being served and waited upon by the 
 daughter of the host. Was I like Abraham's steward, when 
 Rebekah gave him to drink at the well? I thought Isaac had 
 not gone the pleasantest way to work in winning him a wife. 
 But PhiUis never thought about such things. She was a stately, 
 gracious young woman, in the dress and with the simplicity of 
 a child. 
 
 As I had been taught, I drank to the health of my new-found 
 cousin and her husband ; and then I ventured to name my 
 cousin Phillis with a little bow of my head towards her ; but 
 I was too awkward to look and see how she took my compH- 
 ment. " I must go, now," said I, rising. 
 
 Neither of the women had thought of sharing in the wine ; 
 cousin Holman had broken a bit of cake for form's sake. 
 
 "I wish the minister liad been within," said his wife, rising 
 too. Secretly I was very glad he was not. I did not take 
 
176 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 .kindly to ministers in those days, and I thought he must be a 
 particular kind of man, by his objecting to the term May-day. 
 But before I went, cousin Holman made me promise that I 
 would come back on the Saturday following and spend Sunday 
 with them ; when I should see something of " the minister." 
 
 "Come on Friday, if you can," were her last words as she 
 stood at the curate-door, shading her eyes from the sinking sun 
 with her hand. 
 
 Inside the house sate cousin Phillis, her golden hair, her dazzl- 
 ing complexion, lighting up the corner of the vine -shadowed 
 room. She had not risen when I bade her good-bye ; she had 
 looked at me straight as she said her tranquil words of fare- 
 well. 
 
 I found Mr. Holdsworth down at the line, hard at work 
 superintending. As soon as he had a pause, he said, "Well, 
 Manning, what are the new cousins like ? How do preaching 
 and farming seem to get on together? If the minister turns 
 out to be practical as well as reverend, I shall begin to respect 
 him." 
 
 But he hardly attended to my answer, he was so much more 
 occupied with directing his workpeople. Indeed, my answer 
 did not come very readily ; and the most distinct part of it was 
 the mention of the invitation that had been given me. 
 
 " Oh ! of course you can go — and on Friday, too, if you like ; 
 there is no reason why not this week ; and you've done a long 
 spell of work this time, old fellow." 
 
 I thought that I did not want to go on Friday ; but when the 
 day came, I found that I should prefer going to staying away, 
 so I availed myself of Mr. Holdsworth 's permission, and went 
 over to Hope Farm some time in the afternoon, a little later 
 than my last visit. I found the "curate" open to admit the 
 soft September air, so tempered by the warmth of the sun that 
 it was warmer out of doors than in, although the wooden log 
 lay smouldering in front of a heap of hot ashes on the hearth. 
 The vine-leaves over the window had a tinge more yellow, their 
 edges were here and there scorched and browned ; there was no 
 ironing about, and cousin Holman sate just outside the house, 
 mending a sliirt. Phillis was at her knitting indoors : it seemed 
 as if she had been at it all the week. The many-speckled fowls 
 were pecking about in the farmyard beyond, and the milk-cans 
 glittered with brightness, hung out to sweeten. The court was 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 177 
 
 so full of flowers that they crept out upon the low-covered wall 
 and horse-mount, and were even to be found self-sown upon the 
 turf that bordered the path to the back of the house. I fancied 
 that my Sunday coat was scented for days afterwards by the 
 bushes of sweetbriar and the fraxinella that perfumed the air. 
 From time to time cousin Holman put her hand into a covered 
 basket at her feet, and threw handfuls of corn down for the 
 pigeons that cooed and fluttered in the air around, in expecta- 
 tion of this treat. 
 
 I had a thorough welcome as soon as she saw me. " Now, 
 this is kind — this is right down friendly," shaking my hand 
 warmly. " Phillis, your cousin Manning is come ! " 
 
 "Call me Paul, will you?" said I ; " they call me so at home, 
 and Manning in the office." 
 
 "Well; Paul, then. Your room is all ready for you, Paul; 
 for, as I said to the minister, ' I'll have it ready whether he 
 comes o' Friday or not.' And the minister said he must go 
 up to the Ash-field whether you were to come or not ; but he 
 would come home betimes to see if you were here. I'll show 
 you to your room, and you can wash the dust off a bit." 
 
 After I came down, I think she did not quite know what to 
 do with me ; or she might think that I was dull ; or she might 
 have work to do in which I hindered her ; for she called Phillis, 
 and bade her put on her bonnet, and go with me to the Ash- 
 field, and find father. So we set off, I in a little flutter of a 
 desire to make myself agreeable, but wishing that my com- 
 panion were not quite so tall ; for she was above me in height. 
 While I was wondering how to begin our conversation, she 
 took up the words. 
 
 "I suppose, cousin Paul, you have to be very busy at your 
 work all day long in general?" 
 
 ' ' Yes, we have to be in the office at half-past eight ; and we have 
 an hour for dinner, and then we go at it again till eight or nine." 
 
 "Then you have not much time for reading?" 
 
 " No," said I, with a sudden consciousness that I did not 
 make the most of what leisure I had. 
 
 " No more have I. Father always gets an hour before going 
 a-field in the mornings, but mother does not like me to get up 
 so early." 
 
 "My mother is always wanting me to get up earlier when 
 I am at home." 
 
178 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 "What time do you get up?" 
 
 " Oh !— ah ! — sometimes half-past six; not often though;" 
 for I remembered only twice that I had done so during the 
 past summer. 
 
 She turned her head, and looked at me. 
 
 ' ' Father is up at three ; and so was mother till she was ill. 
 I should like to be up at four." 
 
 * ' Your father up at three ! Why, what has he to do at that 
 hour?" 
 
 "What has he not to do? He has his private exercise in his 
 own room ; he always rings the great bell which calls the men 
 to milking ; he rouses up Betty, our maid ; as often as not he 
 , gives the horses their feed before the man is up — for Jem, who 
 takes care of the horses, is an old man; and father is always 
 ' loth to disturb him ; he looks at the calves, and the shoulders, 
 heels, traces, chaff, and corn before the horses go a-field ; he 
 has often to whip-cord the plough-whips ; he sees the hogs 
 fed ; he looks into the swill-tubs, and writes his orders for what 
 is wanted for food for man and beast ; yes, and for fuel, too. 
 And then, if he has a bit of time to spare, he comes in and 
 reads with me— but only Enghsh ; we keep Latin for the even- 
 ings, that we- may have time to enjoy it ; and then he calls in 
 the man to breakfast, and cuts the boys' bread and cheese, 
 and sees their wooden bottles filled, and sends them off to 
 their work ; — and by this time it is half-past six, and we have 
 our breakfast. There is father ! " she exclaimed, pointing out to 
 me a man in his shirt-sleeves, taller by the head than the other 
 two with whom he was working. We only saw him through 
 the leaves of the ash-trees growing in the hedge, and I thought 
 I must be confusing the figures, or mistaken : that man still 
 looked like a very powerful labourer, and had none of the pre- 
 cise demureness of appearance which I had always imagined 
 was the characteristic of a minister. It was the Reverend 
 Ebenezer Holman, however. He gave us a nod as we entered 
 the stubble-field; and I think he would have come to meet us 
 but that he was in the middle of giving some directions to his 
 men. I could see that Phillis was built more after his type 
 than her mother's. He, like his daughter, was largely made, 
 and of a fair, ruddy complexion, whereas hers was brilliant 
 and delicate. His hair had been yellow or sandy, but now was 
 grizzled. Yet his grey hairs betokened no failure in strength. 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 179. 
 
 T nev^r saw a more powerful man — deep chest, lean flanks, 
 well-planted head. By this time we were nearly up to him ; 
 and he interrupted himself and stepped forwards ; holding out 
 his hand to me, but addressing Phillis. 
 
 "Well, my lass, this is cousin Manning, I suppose. Wait 
 a minute, young man, and I'll put on my coat, and give you 
 
 a decorous and formal welcome. But Ned Hall, there 
 
 ought to be a water-furrow across this land : it's a nasty, 
 stiff, clayey, dauby bit of ground, and thou and I must fall 
 to, come next Monday — I beg your pardon, cousin Manning 
 — and there's old Jem's cottage wants a bit of thatch ; you 
 can do that job to-morrow while I am busy." Then, suddenly 
 changing the tone of his deep bass voice to an odd suggestion 
 of chapels and preachers, he added, " Now, I will give out the 
 psalm, ' Come all harmonious tongues,' to be sung to * Mount 
 Ephraim ' tune." 
 
 He lifted his spade in his hand, and began to beat time with 
 it ; the two labourers seemed to know both words and music, 
 though I did not ; and so did Phillis : her rich voice followed 
 her father's as he set the tune ; and the men came in with more 
 uncertainty, but still harmoniously. Phillis looked at me once 
 or twice with a little surprise at my silence ; but I did not know 
 the words. There we five stood, bareheaded, excepting Phillis, 
 in the tawny stubble-field, from which all the shocks of corn had 
 not yet been carried — a dark wood on one side, where the wood- 
 pigeons were cooing ; blue distance seen through the ash-trees 
 on the other. Somehow, I think that if I had known the words, 
 .and could have sung, my throat would have been choked up by 
 the feeling of the unaccustomed scene. 
 
 The hymn was ended, and the men had drawn off before I 
 could stir. I saw the minister beginning to put on his coat, and 
 looking at me with friendly inspection in his gaze, before I could 
 rouse myself. 
 
 "I daresay you railway gentlemen don't wind up the day 
 with singing a psalm together," said he ; " but it is not a bad 
 practice — not a bad practice. We have had it a bit earlier 
 to-day for hospitality's sake — that's all." 
 
 I had nothing particular to say to this, though I was thinking 
 a great deal. From time to time I stole a look at my com- 
 panion. His coat was black, and so was his waistcoat ; neck- 
 cloth he had none, his strong full throat being bare above the 
 
l8o COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 snow-white shirt. He wore drab-coloured knee-breeches, grey- 
 worsted stockings (I thought I knew the maker), and strong- 
 nailed shoes. He carried his hat in his hand, as if he hked to 
 feel the coming breeze lifting his hair. After a while, I saw 
 that the father took hold of the daughter's hand, and so, they 
 holding each other, went along towards home. We had to 
 cross a lane. In it there were two little children — one lying 
 prone on the grass in a passion of crying ; the other standing 
 stock still, with its finger in its mouth, the large tears slowly 
 rolling down its cheeks for sympathy. The cause of their 
 distress was evident ; there was a broken brown pitcher, and 
 a little pool of spilt milk on the road. 
 
 " Hollo ! hollo ! What's all this ? " said the minister. " Why, 
 what have you been about. Tommy?" lifting the little petti- 
 -coated lad, who was lying sobbing, with one vigorous arm. 
 Tommy looked at him with surprise in his round eyes, but no 
 affright — they were evidently old acquaintances. 
 
 " Mammy's jug ! " said he at last, beginning to cry afresh. 
 
 " Well ! and will crying piece mammy's jug, or pick up spilt 
 milk? How did you manage it, Tommy?" 
 
 " He" (jerking his head at the other) " and me was running 
 races." 
 
 " Tommy said he could beat me," put in the other. 
 
 " Now, I wonder what will make you two silly lads mind, and 
 not run races again with a pitcher of milk between you," said the 
 minister, as if musing. " I might flog you, and so save mammy 
 the trouble; for I daresay she'll do it if I don't." The fresh 
 burst of whimpering from both showed the probability of this. 
 " Or I might take you to the Hope Farm, and give you some 
 more milk ; but then you'd be running races again, and my milk 
 would follow that to the ground, and make another white pool. 
 I think the flogging would be best— don't you?" 
 
 " We would never run races no more," said the elder of the two. 
 
 " Then you'd not be boys ; you'd be angels." 
 
 " No, we shouldn't." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 They looked into each other's eyes for an answer to this puzzling 
 question. At length, one said, " Angels is dead folk." 
 
 " Come ; we'll not get too deep into theology. What do you 
 think of my lending you a tin can with a lid to carry the milk 
 home in? That would not break, at any rate; though I 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. I8l 
 
 would not answer for the milk not spilling if you ran races. 
 That's it ! " 
 
 He had dropped his daughter's hand, and now held out each of 
 his to the httle fellows. PhiUis and I followed, and listened to 
 the prattle which the minister's companions now poured out to 
 him, and which he was evidently enjoying. At a certain point, 
 there was a sudden burst of the tawny, ruddy-evening landscape. 
 The minister turned round and quoted a line or two of Latin. 
 
 "It's wonderful," said he, "how exactly Virgil has hit the 
 enduring epithets, nearly two thousand years ago, and in Italy ; 
 and yet how it describes to a T what is now lying before us in 
 the parish of Heathbridge, county , England." 
 
 "I dare say it does," said I, all aglow with shame, for I had 
 forgotten the little Latin I ever knew. 
 
 The minister shifted his eyes to Phillis's face ; it mutely gave 
 him back the sympathetic appreciation that I, in my ignorance, 
 could not bestow. 
 
 "Oh! this is worse than the catechism," thought I; "that 
 was only remembering words." 
 
 " Phillis, lass, thou must go home with these lads, and tell 
 their mother all about the race and the milk. Mammy must 
 always know the truth," now speaking to the children. "And 
 tell her, too, from me that I have got the best birch rod in the 
 parish ; and that if she ever thinks her children want a flogging 
 she must bring them to me, and, if I think they deserve it, I'll 
 give it them better than she can." So Phillis led the children 
 towards the dairy, somewhere in the back-yard, and I followed 
 the minister in through the " curate" into the house-place. 
 
 "Their mother," said he, "is a bit of a vixen, and apt to 
 punish her children without rhyme or reason. I try to keep 
 the parish rod as well as the parish bull." 
 
 He sate down in the three-cornered chair by the fireside, and 
 looked around the empty room. 
 
 " Where's the missus ? " said he to himself. But she was there 
 in a minute ; it was her regular plan to give him his welcome 
 home — by a look, by a touch, nothing more — as soon as she 
 could after his return, and he had missed her now. Regardless 
 of my presence, he went over the day's doings to her ; and then, 
 getting up, he said he must go and make himself "reverend," 
 and that then we would have a cup of tea in the parlour. The 
 parlour was a large room with two casemented windows on the 
 
l82 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 other side of the broad flagged passage leading from the rector- 
 door to the wide staircase, with its shallow, polished oaken steps, 
 on which no carpet was ever laid. The parlour-floor was covered 
 in the middle by a home-made carpeting of needlework and list. 
 One or two quaint family pictures of the Holman family hung 
 round the walls ; the fire-grate and irons were much ornamented 
 with brass ; and on a table against the wall between the windows, 
 a great beau-pot of flowers was placed upon the folio volumes of 
 Matthew Henry's Bible. It was a compliment to me to use this 
 room, and I tried to be grateful for it ; but we never had our 
 meals there after that first day, and I was glad of it ; for the large 
 house-place, living-room, dining-room, whichever you might like 
 to call it, was twice as comfortable and cheerful. There was a 
 rug in front of the great large fireplace, and an oven by the 
 grate, and a crook, with the kettle hanging from it, over the 
 bright wood-fire ; everything that ought to be black and polished 
 in that room v/as black and polished ; and the flags, and window- 
 curtains, and such things as were to be white and clean, were 
 just spotless in their purity. Opposite to the fireplace, extend- 
 ing the whole length of the room, was an oaken shovel-board, 
 with the right incline for a skilful player to send the weights into 
 the prescribed space. There were baskets of white work about, 
 and a small shelf of books hung against the wall, books used for 
 reading, and not for propping up a beau-pot of flowers. I took 
 down one or two of those books once when I was left alone in 
 the house-place on the first evening — Virgil, Caesar, a Greek 
 grammar — oh, dear ! ah, me ! and Phillis Holman's name in 
 each of them ! I shut them up, and put them back in their 
 places, and walked as far away from the bookshelf as I could. 
 Yes, and I gave my cousin Phillis a wide berth, although she 
 was sitting at her work quietly enough, and her hair was looking 
 more golden, her dark eyelashes longer, her round pillar of a 
 throat whiter than ever. We had done tea, and we had returned 
 into the house-place that the minister might smoke his pipe with- 
 out fear of contaminating the drab damask window-curtains of 
 the parlour. He had made himself " reverend " by putting on 
 one of the voluminous white muslin neckcloths that I had seen 
 cousin Holman ironing that first visit I had paid to the Hope 
 Farm, and by making one or two other unimportant changes in 
 his dress. He sate looking steadily at me, but whether he saw 
 me or not I cannot tell. At the time I fancied that he did, and 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 183 
 
 was gauginor nie in some unknown fashion in his secret mind. 
 Every now and then he took his pipe out of his mouth, knocked 
 out the ashes, and asked me some fresh question. As long as 
 these related to my acquirements or my reading, I shuffled un- 
 easily and did not know what to answer. By-and-by he got 
 round to the more practical subject of railroads, and on this I 
 was more at home. I really had taken an interest in my work ; 
 nor would Mr. Holdsworth, indeed, have kept me in his emplo}^- 
 ment if I had not given my mind as well as my time to it ; and 
 I was, besides, full of the difficulties which beset us just then, 
 owing to our not being able to find a steady bottom on the 
 Heathbridge moss, over which we wished to carry our line. In 
 the midst of all my eagerness in speaking about this, I could not 
 help being struck with the extreme pertinence of his questions. 
 I do not mean that he did not show ignorance of many of the 
 details of engineering : that was to have been expected ; but on 
 the premises he had got hold of, he thought clearly and reasoned 
 logically. PhiUis — so like him as she was both in body and 
 mind — kept stopping at her work and looking at me, trying to 
 fully understand all that I said. I felt she did ; and perhaps it 
 made me take more pains in using clear expressions, and arrang- 
 ing my words, than I otherwise should. 
 
 "She shall see I know something worth knowing, though it 
 mayn't be her dead-and-gone languages," thought I. 
 
 "I see," said the minister at length. "I understand it all. 
 You've a clear, good head of your own, my lad — choose how 
 you came by it." 
 
 "From my father," said I proudly. "Have you not heard 
 of his discovery of a new method of shunting? It was in the 
 Gazette. It was patented. I thought every one had heard of 
 Manning's patent winch." 
 
 "We don't know who invented the alphabet," said he, half 
 smiling, and taking up his pipe. 
 
 " No, I dare say not, sir," replied I, half offended ; " that's so 
 long ago." 
 
 Puff— puff— puff. 
 
 "But your father must be a notable man. I heard of him 
 once before ; and it is not many a one fifty miles away whose 
 fame reaches Heathbridge." 
 
 " My father is a notable man, sir. It is not me that says so ; 
 it is Mr. Holdsworth, and — and everybody." 
 
l84 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 " He is right to stand up for his father," said cousin Holman, 
 as if she were pleading for me. 
 
 I chafed inwardly, thinking that my father needed no one to 
 stand up for him. He was man sufficient for himself. 
 
 "Yes — he is right," said the minister placidly. " Right, be- 
 cause it comes from his heart— riglit, too, as I believe in point of 
 fact. Else there is many a young cockerel that will stand upon 
 a dunghill and crow about his father, by way of making his 
 own plumage to shine. I should like to know thy father," he 
 went on, turning straight to me, with a kindly, frank look in 
 his eyes. 
 
 But I was vexed, and would take no notice. Presently, hav- 
 ing finished his pipe, he got up and left the room. PhiUis put 
 her work hastily down, and went after him. In a minute or two 
 she returned, and sate down again. Not long after, and before 
 I had quite recovered my good temper, he opened the door out 
 of which he had passed, and called to me to come to him. I 
 went across a narrow stone passage into a strange, many- 
 cornered room, not ten feet in area, part study, part counting- 
 house, looking into the farmyard ; with a desk to sit at, a desk 
 to stand at, a spittoon, a set of shelves with old divinity books 
 upon them ; another, smaller, filled with books on farriery, farm- 
 ing, manures, and such subjects, with pieces of paper containing 
 memoranda stuck against the whitewashed walls with wafers, 
 nails, pins, anything that came readiest to hand ; a box of 
 carpenter's tools on the floor, and some manuscripts in short- 
 hand on the desk. 
 
 He turned round half laughing. "That foolish girl of mine 
 thinks I have vexed you," — putting his large, powerful hand on 
 my shoulder. " ' Nay,' says I ; ' kindly meant is kindly taken ' 
 — is it not so ? " 
 
 " It was not quite, sir," replied I, vanquished by his manner ; 
 " but it shall be in future." 
 
 "Come, that's right. You and I shall be friends. Indeed, 
 it's not many a one I would bring in here. But I was reading a 
 book this morning, and I could not make it out ; it is a book 
 that was left here by mistake one day ; I had subscribed to 
 Brother Robinson's sermons ; and I was glad to see this instead 
 of them, for sermons though they be, they're . . . well, never 
 mind ! I took 'em both, and made my old coat do a bit longer ; 
 but all's fish that comes to my net. I have fewer books than 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 185 
 
 leisure to read them, and I have a prodigious big appetite. 
 Here it is." 
 
 It was a volume of stiff mechanics, involving many technical 
 terms, and some rather deep mathematics. These last, which 
 would have puzzled me, seemed easy enough to him ; all that he 
 wanted was the explanations of the technical words, which I 
 could easily give. 
 
 While he was looking through the book to find the places 
 where he had been puzzled, my wandering eye caught on some 
 of the papers on the wall, and I could not help reading one, 
 which has stuck by me ever since. At first, it seemed a kind of 
 weekly diary ; but then I saw that the seven days were por- 
 tioned out for special prayers and intercessions : Monday for his 
 family, Tuesday for enemies, Wednesday for the Independent 
 churches, Thursday for all other churches, Friday for persons 
 afflicted, Saturday for his own soul, Sunday for all wanderers 
 and sinners, that they might be brought home to the fold. 
 
 We were called back into the house-place to have supper. A 
 door opening into the kitchen was opened ; and all stood up in 
 both rooms, while the minister, tall, large, one hand resting on 
 the spread table, the other lifted up, said, in the deep voice that 
 would have been loud had it not been so full and rich, but with 
 the peculiar accent or twang that I believe is considered devout 
 by some people, "Whether we eat or drink, or whatsoever we 
 do, let us do all to the glory of God." 
 
 The supper was an immense meat pie. We of the house- 
 place were helped first ; then the minister hit the handle of his 
 buckhorn carving-knife on the table once, and said — 
 
 " Now or never," which meant, did any of us want any more ; 
 and when we had all declined, either by silence or by words, he 
 knocked twice with his knife on the table, and Bettty came in 
 through the open door, and carried off the great dish to the 
 kitchen, where an old man and a young one, and a help-girl, 
 were awaiting their meal. 
 
 " Shut the door, if you will," said the minister to Betty. 
 
 " That's in honour of you," said cousin Holman, in a tone of 
 satisfaction, as the door was shut. " When we've no stranger 
 with us, the minister is so fond of keeping the door open, and 
 talking to the men and maids, just as much as to Phillis and me." 
 
 "It brings us all together, like a household, just before we 
 meet as a household in prayer," said he in explanation. " But 
 
1 86 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 to go back to what we were talking about — can you tell me of 
 any simple book on dynamics that I could put in my pocket, 
 and study a little at leisure times in the day ? " 
 
 " Leisure times, father?" said Philhs, with a nearer approach 
 to a smile than I had yet seen on her face. 
 
 " Yes ; leisure times, daughter. There is many an odd minute 
 lost in waiting for other folk ; and now that railroads are coming 
 so near us, it behoves us to know something about them." 
 
 I thought of his own description of his "prodigious big 
 appetite " for learning. And he had a good appetite of his own 
 for the more material victual before him. But I saw, or fancied 
 I saw, that he had some rule for himself in the matter both of 
 food and drink. 
 
 As soon as supper was done the household assembled for 
 prayer. It was a long impromptu evening prayer ; and it would 
 have seemed desultory enough had I not had a glimpse of the 
 kind of day that preceded it, and so been able to find a clue to 
 the thoughts that preceded the disjointed utterances ; for he kept 
 there kneeling down in the centre of a circle, his eyes shut, his 
 outstretched hands pressed palm to palm — sometimes with a 
 long pause of silence, as if waiting to see if there was anything 
 else he wished to "lay before the Lord" (to use his own 
 expression) — before he concluded with the blessing. He prayed 
 for the cattle and live creatures, rather to my surprise ; for my 
 atttention had begun to wander, till it was recalled by the 
 familiar words. 
 
 And here I must not forget to name an odd incident at the 
 conclusion of the prayer, and before we had risen from our knees 
 (indeed, before Betty was well awake, for she made a nightly 
 practice of having a sound nap, her weary head lying on her 
 stalwart arms) ; the minister, still kneeling in our midst, but with 
 his eyes wide open, and his arms dropped by his side, spoke to 
 the elder man, who turned round on his knees to attend. "John, 
 didst see that Daisy had her warm mash to-night ; for we must 
 not neglect the means, John, — two quarts of gruel, a spoonful 
 of ginger, and a gill of beer — the poor beast needs it, and I fear 
 it slipped out of my mind to tell thee ; and here was I asking a 
 blessing and neglecting the means, which is a mockery," said 
 he, dropping his voice. 
 
 Before we went to bed he told me he should see little or nothing 
 more of me during my visit, which was to end on Sunday evening, 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 187 
 
 as he always gave up both Saturday and Sabbath to his work in 
 the ministry. I remembered that the landlord at the inn had 
 told me this on the day when I first inquired about these new 
 relations of mine ; and I did not dislike the opportunity which I 
 saw would be afforded me of becoming more acquainted with 
 cousin Holman and Phillis, though I earnestly hoped that the 
 latter would not attack me on the subject of the dead languages. 
 
 I went to bed, and dreamed that I was as tall as cousin 
 Philhs, and had a sudden and miraculous growth of whisker, 
 and a still more miraculous acquaintance with Latin and Greek. 
 Alas! I wakened up still a short, beardless lad, with '' tempus 
 fugit " for my sole remembrance of the little Latin I had once 
 learnt. While I was dressing, a bright thought came over me : 
 I could question cousin Phillis, instead of her questioning me, 
 and so manage to keep the choice of the subjects of conversation 
 in my own power. 
 
 Early as it was, every one had breakfasted, and my basin of 
 bread and milk was put on the oven-top to await my coming 
 down. Every one was gone about their work. The first to come 
 into the house-place was Phillis with a basket of eggs. Faithful 
 to my resolution, I asked — 
 
 " What are those?" 
 
 She looked at me for a moment, and then said gravely — 
 
 " Potatoes ! " 
 
 *' No ! they are not," said L " They are eggs. What do you 
 mean by saying they are potatoes ? " 
 
 "What do you mean by asking me what they were, when they 
 were plain to be seen?" retorted she. 
 
 We were both getting a little angry with each other. 
 
 "I don't know. I wanted to begin to talk to you ; and I was 
 afraid you would talk to me about books as you did yesterday. 
 I have not read nuich ; and you and the minister have read so 
 much." 
 
 " I have not," said she. " But you are our guest ; and mother 
 . says I must m.ake it pleasant to you. We won't talk of books. 
 ,What must we talk about?" 
 
 " I don't know. How old are you?" 
 
 " Seventeen last May. How old are ycu? " 
 
 "I am nineteen. Older than you by nearly two years," said 
 I, drawing myself up to my full height. 
 
 "I should not have thought you were above sixteen," she 
 
J 88 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 replied, as quietly as if she were not saying the most provoking 
 thing she possibly could. Then came a pause. 
 
 " What are you going to do now?" asked I. 
 
 "I should be dusting the bed-chambers; but mother said I 
 had better stay and make it pleasant to you," said she, a little 
 plaintively, as if dusting rooms was far the easiest task. 
 
 "Will you take me to see the Hve-stock? I like animals, 
 though I don't know much about them." 
 
 "Oh, do you. I am so glad. I was afraid you would not 
 like animals, as you did not like books.'* 
 
 I wondered why she said this. I think it was because she 
 had begun to fancy all our tastes must be dissimilar. We went 
 together all through the farmyard ; we fed the poultry, she 
 kneeling down with her pinafore full of corn and meal, and 
 tempting the little timid, downy chickens upon it, much to the 
 anxiety of the fussy ruffled hen, their mother. She called to 
 the pigeons, who fluttered down at the sound of her voice. She 
 and I examined the great sleek cart-horses ; sympathised in our 
 dislike of pigs ; fed the calves, coaxed the sick cow, Daisy ; and 
 admired the others out at pasture; and came back tired and 
 hungry and dirty at dinner-time, having quite forgotten that 
 there were such things as dead languages, and consequently 
 capital friends. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Cousin Holman gave me the weekly county newspaper to read 
 aloud to her, while she mended stockings out of a high piled-up 
 basket, PhiUis helping her mother, I read and read, unregardful 
 of the words I was uttering, thinking of all manner of other 
 things ; of the bright colour of Phillis's hair, as the afternoon 
 sun fell on her bending head ; of the silence of the house, which 
 enabled me to hear the double tick of the old clock which stood 
 half-way up the stairs ; of the variety of inarticulate noises which 
 cousin Holman made while I read, to show her sympathy, 
 wonder, or horror at the newspaper intelligence. The tranquil 
 monotony of that hour made me feel as if I had lived for ever, 
 and should live for ever droning out paragraphs in that warm 
 sunny room, with my two quiet hearers, and the curled-up pussy 
 'Cat sleeping on the hearthrug, and the clock on the house-stairs 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 189 
 
 perpetually clicking out the passage of the moments. By-and-by 
 Betty the servant came to the door into the kitchen, and made 
 a sign to Phillis, who put her half-mended stocking down, and 
 went away to the kitchen without a word. Looking at cousin 
 Holman a minute or two afterwards, I saw that she had dropped 
 her chin upon her breast, and had fallen fast asleep. I put the 
 newspaper down, and was nearly following her example, when 
 a waft of air from some unseen source slightly opened the door 
 of communication with the kitchen, that PhilHs nmst have left 
 unfastened ; and I saw part of her figure as she sate by the 
 dresser, peeling apples with quick dexterity of finger, but with 
 repeated turnings of her head towards some book lying on the 
 dresser by her. I softly rose, and as softly went into the kit- 
 chen, and looked over her shoulder ; before she was aware of 
 my neighbourhood, I had seen that the book was in a language 
 unknown to me, and the running title was " L'Inferno." Just 
 as I was making out the relationship of this word to " infernal," 
 she started and turned round, and, as if continuing her thought 
 as she spoke, she sighed out — 
 
 "Oh! it is so difficult! Can you help me?" putting her 
 finger below a line. 
 
 "Me! I! Not I! I don't even know what language it 
 is in ! " 
 
 " Don't you see it is Dante?" she replied, almost petulantly ; 
 she did so want help. 
 
 " Italian, then? " said I dubiously ; for I was not quite sure. 
 
 "Yes. And I do so want to make it out. Father can help 
 me a little, for he knows Latin ; but then he has so little time." 
 
 "You have not much, I should think, if you have often to try 
 and do two things at once, as you are doing now." 
 
 "Oh! that's nothing! Father bought a heap of old books 
 cheap. And I knew something about Dante before ; and I 
 have always liked Virgil so much. Paring apples is nothing, if 
 I could only make out this old Italian. I wish you knew it." 
 
 "I wish I did," said I, moved by her impetuosity of tone. 
 " If, now, only Mr. Holdsworth were here ; he can speak Italian 
 like anything, I believe." 
 
 "Who is Mr. Holdsworth?" said Phillis, looking up. 
 
 " Oh, he's our head engineer. He's a regular first-rate fellow I 
 He can do anything ; " my hero-worship and my pride in my 
 chief all coming into play. Besides, if I was not clever and 
 
IQO COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 book-learned myself, it was something to belong to some one 
 who was. 
 
 " Plow is it that he speaks Italian?" asked Phillis. 
 
 "He had to make a railway through Piedmont, which is in 
 Italy, I believe ; and he had to talk to all the workmen in 
 Italian ; and I have heard him say that for nearly two years 
 he had only Italian books to read in the queer outlandish places 
 he was in." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " said Phillis ; " I wish "—and then she stopped. 
 I was not quite sure whether to say the next thing that came 
 into my mind ; but I said it. 
 
 "Could I ask him anything about your book, or your diffi- 
 culties?" 
 
 She was silent for a minute or so, and then she made reply — 
 
 " No ! I think not. Thank you very much, though. I can 
 generally puzzle a thing out in time. And then, perhaps, I re- 
 member it better than if some one had helped me. I'll put it 
 away now, and you must move off, for I've got to make the 
 paste for the pies ; we always have a cold dinner on Sabbaths." 
 
 " But I may stay and help you, mayn't I?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; not that you can help at all, but I like to have you 
 with me." 
 
 I was both flattered and annoyed at this straightforward avowal. 
 I was pleased that she liked me ; but I was young coxcomb 
 enough to have wished to play the lover, and I was quite wise 
 enough to perceive that if she had any idea of the kind in her 
 head she would never have spoken out so frank]y. I comforted 
 myself immediately, however, by finding out that the grapes 
 were sour. A great tall girl in a pinafore, half a head taller 
 than I was, reading books that I had never heard of, and talking 
 about them too, as of far more interest than any mere personal 
 subjects ; that was the last day on which I ever thought of my 
 dear cousin Phillis as the possible mistress of my heart and life. 
 But we were all the greater friends for this idea being utterly put 
 away and buried out of sight. 
 
 Late in the evening the minister came home from Hornby. He 
 had been calling on the different members of his flock ; and un- 
 satisfactory work it had proved to him, it seemed, from the frag- 
 ments that dropped out of his thoughts into his talk. 
 
 ' ' I don't see the men ; they are all at their business, their shops, 
 or their warehouses ; they ought to be there. I have no fault to 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 191 
 
 find with them ; only if a pastor's teaching or words of admoni- 
 tion are good for anything, they are needed by the men as much 
 as by the women." 
 
 " Cannot you go and see them in their places of business, and 
 remind them of their Christian privileges and duties, minister?" 
 asked cousin Holman, who evidently thought that her husband's 
 words could never be out of place. 
 
 " No ! " said he, shaking his head. " I judge them by myself. 
 If there are clouds in the sky, and I am getting in the hay just 
 ready for loading, and rain sure to come in the night, I should 
 look ill upon Brother Robinson if he came into the field to speak 
 about serious things." 
 
 " But, at any rate, father, you do good to the women, and 
 perhaps they repeat what you have said to them to their hus- 
 bands and children ? " 
 
 " It is to be hoped they do, for I cannot reach the men directly ; 
 but the women are apt to tarry before coming to me, to put on 
 ribbons and gauds ; as if they could hear the message I bear to 
 them best in their smart clothes. Mrs. Dobson to-day — Phillis, 
 I am thankful thou dost not care for the vanities of dress ! " 
 
 Phillis reddened a little as she said, in a low humble voice — 
 
 "But I do, father, I'm afraid. I often wish I could wear 
 pretty - coloured ribbons round my throat hke the squire's 
 daughters." 
 
 " It's but natural, minister ! " said his wife ; " I'm not above 
 liking a silk gown better than a cotton one myself ! " 
 
 "The love of dress is a temptation and a snare," said he 
 gravely. ' ' The true adornment is a meek and quiet spirit. And, 
 wife," said he, as a sudden thought crossed his mind, "in that 
 matter I, too, have sinned. I wanted to ask you, could we not 
 sleep in the grey room, instead of our own ? " 
 
 "Sleep in the grey room?— change our room at this time o' 
 day ! " cousin Holman asked, in dismay. 
 
 "Yes," said he. " It would save me from a daily temptation 
 to anger. Look at my chin!" he continued ; "I cut it this 
 morning — I cut it on Wednesday when I was shaving ; I do not 
 know how many times I have cut it of late, and all from im- 
 patience at seeing Timothy Cooper at his work in the yard." 
 
 " He's a downright lazy tyke 1 " said cousin Holman. " He's 
 not worth his wage. There's but Httle he can do, and what he 
 can do, he does badly." 
 
192 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 "True," said the minister. "But he is but, so to speak, a 
 half-wit ; and yet he has got a wife and children." 
 
 " More shame for him ! " 
 
 " But that is past change. And if I turn him off, no one else 
 will take him on. Yet I cannot help watching him of a morning 
 as he goes sauntering about his work in the yard ; and I watch, 
 and I watch, till the old Adam rises strong within me at his lazy 
 ways, and some day, I am afraid, I shall go down and send him 
 about his business — let alone the way in which he makes me cut 
 myself while I am shaving — and then his wife and children will 
 starve. I wish we could move to the grey room." 
 
 I do not remember much more of my first visit to the Hope 
 Farm. We went to chapel in Heathbridge, slowly and deco- 
 rously walking along the lanes, ruddy and tawny with the 
 colouring of the coming autumn. The minister walked a little 
 before us, his hands behind his back, his head bent down, think- 
 ing about the discourse to be delivered to his people, cousin 
 Holman said ; and we spoke low and quietly, in order not to 
 interrupt his thoughts. But I could not help noticing the re- 
 spectful greetings which he received from both rich and poor 
 as we went along ; greetings which he acknowledged with a 
 kindly wave of his hand, but with no words of reply. As we 
 drew near the town, I could see some of the young fellows we 
 met cast admiring looks on Phillis ; and that made me look too. 
 She had on a white gown, and a short black silk cloak, according 
 to the fasliion of the day. A straw bonnet, with brown ribbon 
 strings ; that was all. But what her djess wanted in colour, her 
 sweet bonny face had. The walk made her cheeks bloom like 
 the rose ; the very whites of her eyes had a blue tinge in them, 
 and her dark eyelashes brought out the depth of the blue eyes 
 themselves. Her yellow hair was put away as straight as its 
 natural curliness would allow. If she did not perceive the ad- 
 miration she excited, I am sure cousin Holman did ; for she 
 looked as fierce and as proud as ever her quiet face could look, 
 guarding her treasure, and yet glad to perceive that others could 
 see that it was a treasure. That afternoon I had to return to 
 Eltham to be ready for the next day's work. I found out after- 
 wards that the minister and his family were all " exercised in 
 spirit," as to whether they did well in asking me to repeat my 
 visits at the Hope Farm, seeing that of necessity I must return 
 to Eltham on the Sabbath-day. However, they did go on asking 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 193 
 
 me, and I went on visiting them, whenever my other engage- 
 ments permitted me, Mr. Holdsworth being in this case, as in 
 all, a kind and indulgent friend. Nor did my new acquaintances 
 oust him from my strong regard and admiration. I had room 
 in my heart for all, I am happy to say, and as far as I can re- 
 member, I kept praising each to the other in a manner which, 
 if I had been an older man, living more amongst people of the 
 world, I should have thought unwise, as well as a little ridiculous. 
 It was unwise, certainly, as it was almost sure to cause disappoint- 
 ment if ever they did become acquainted ; and perhaps it was 
 ridiculous, though I do not think we any of us thought it so at 
 the time. The minister used to listen to my accounts of Mr. 
 Holdsworth's many accomplishments and various adventures in 
 travel with the truest interest, and most kindly good faith ; and 
 Mr. Holdsworth in return liked to hear about my visits to the 
 farm, and description of my cousins' life there— liked it, I mean, 
 as much as he liked anything that was merely narrative, without 
 leading to action. 
 
 So I went to the farm certainly, on an average, once a month 
 during that autumn ; the course of life there was so peaceful and 
 quiet, that I can only remember one small event, and that was 
 one that I think I took more notice of than any one else : Phillis 
 left off wearing the pinafores that had always been so obnoxious 
 to me : I do not know why they were banished, but on one of my 
 visits I found them replaced by pretty linen aprons in the morning, 
 and a black silk one in the afternoon. And the blue cotton gown 
 became a brown stuff one as winter drew on ; this sounds like 
 some book I once read, in which a migration from the blue bed to 
 the brown was spoken of as a great family event. 
 
 Towards Christmas my dear father came to see me, and to 
 consult Mr. Holdsworth about the improvement which has since 
 been known as "Manning's driving wheel." Mr. Holdsworth, as 
 I think I have before said, had a very great regard for my father, 
 who had been employed in the same great machine-shop in which 
 Mr. Holdsworth had served his apprenticeship ; and he and my 
 father had many mutual jokes about one of these gentlemen- 
 apprentices who used to set about his smith's work in white 
 wash-leather gloves, for fear of spoiling his hands. Mr. Holds- 
 worth often spoke to me about my father as having the same kind 
 of genius for mechanical invention as that of George Stephenson, 
 and my father had come over now to consult him about several 
 
 G 
 
194 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 improvements, as well as an offer of partnership. It was a great 
 pleasure to me to see the mutual regard of these two men. 
 Mr. Holdsworth, young, handsome, keen, well-dressed, an object 
 of admiration to all the youth of Eltham ; my father, in his 
 decent but unfashionable Sunday clothes, his plain, sensible face 
 full of hard lines, the marks of toil and thought, — his hands, 
 blackened beyond the power of soap and water by years of 
 labour in the foundry ; speaking a strong Northern dialect, while 
 Mr. Holdsworth had a long soft drawl in his voice, as many of 
 the Southerners have, and was reckoned in Eltham to give him- 
 self airs. 
 
 Although most of my father's leisure time was occupied with 
 conversations about the business I have mentioned, he felt that 
 he ought not to leave Eltham without going to pay his respects 
 to the relations who had been so kind to his son. So he and I 
 ran up on an engine along the incomplete line as far as Heath- 
 bridge, and went, by invitation, to spend a day at the farm. 
 
 It was odd and yet pleasant to me to perceive how these two 
 men, each having led up to this point such totally dissimilar 
 lives, seemed to come together by instinct, after one quiet straight 
 look into each other's faces. My father was a thin, wiry man 
 of five foot seven ; the minister was a broad-shouldered, fresh- 
 coloured man of six foot one ; they were neither of them great 
 talkers in general — perhaps the minister the most so — but they 
 spoke much to each other. My father went into the fields with 
 the minister ; I think I see him now, with his hands behind his 
 back, listening intently to all explanations of tillage, and the 
 different processes of farming ; occasionally taking up an imple- 
 ment, as if unconsciously, and examining it with a critical eye> 
 and now and then asking a question, which I could see was con- 
 sidered as pertinent by his companion. Then we returned to look 
 at the cattle, housed and bedded in expectation of the snowstorm 
 hanging black on the western horizon, and my father learned the 
 points of a cow with as much attention as if he meant to turn 
 farmer. He had his little book that he used for mechanical 
 memoranda and measurements in his pocket, and he took it out 
 to write down "straight back," "small muzzle," " deep barrel," 
 and I know not what else, under the head " cow." He was very 
 critical on a turnip-cutting machine, the clumsiness of which first 
 incited him to talk ; and when we went into the house he sat 
 thinking and quiet for a bit, while PhiUis and her mother made 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 195 
 
 the last preparations for tea, with a little unheeded apology from 
 cousin Hoiman, because we were not sitting in the best parlour, 
 which she thought might be chilly on so cold a night. I wanted 
 nothing better than the blazing, crackling fire that sent a glow 
 over all the house-place, and warmed the snowy flags under otir 
 feet till they seemed to have more heat than the crimson rug 
 right in front of the fire. After tea, as Phillis and I were talk- 
 ing together very happily, I heard an irrepressible exclamation 
 from cousin Hoiman — 
 
 " Whatever is the man about ! " 
 
 And on looking round, I saw my father taking a straight 
 burning stick out of the fire, and, after waiting for a minute, 
 and examining the charred end to see if it was fitted for his 
 purpose, he w'ent to the hard-wood dresser, scoured to the last 
 pitch of whiteness and cleanliness, and began drawing with the 
 stick ; the best substitute for chalk or charcoal within his reach, 
 for his pocket-book pencil was not strong or bold enough for his 
 purpose. When he had done, he began to explain his new 
 model of a turnip-cutting machine to the minister, who had 
 been watching him in si'ence all the time. Cousin Hoiman had, 
 in the meantime, taken a duster out of a drawer, and, under 
 pretence of being as much interested as her husband in the 
 drawing, was secretly trying on an outside mark how easily it 
 would come off, and whether it would leave her dresser as white 
 as before. Then Phillis was sent for the book on dynamics, 
 about which I had been consulted during my first visit, and my 
 father had to explain many difficulties, which he did in language 
 as clear as his mind, making drawings with his stick wherever 
 they were needed as illustrations, the minister sitting with his 
 massive head resting on his hands, his elbows on the table, almost 
 unconscious of Phillis, leaning over and listening greedily, with 
 her hand on his shoulder, sucking in information like her father's 
 own daughter. I was rather sorry for cousin Hoiman ; I had 
 been so once or twice before ; for do what she would, she was 
 completely unable even to understand the pleasure her husband 
 and daughter took in intellectual pursuits, much less to care in 
 the least herself for the pursuits themselves, and was thus un- 
 avoidably throw^n out of some of their interests. I had once or 
 twice thought she was a little jealous of her own child, as a fitter 
 companion for her husband than she was herself; and I fancied 
 the minister himself was aware of this feeling, for I had noticed 
 
196 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 an occasional sudden change of subject, and a tenderness of 
 appeal in his voice as he spoke to her, which always made her look 
 contented and peaceful again. I do not think that PhiUis ever 
 perceived these Httle shadows ; in the first place, she had such 
 complete reverence for her parents that she listened to them both 
 as if they had been St. Peter and St. Paul ; and besides, she was 
 always too much engrossed with any matter in hand to think 
 about other people's manners and looks. 
 
 This night I could see, though she did not, how much she was 
 winning on my father. She asked a few questions which showed 
 that she had followed his explanations up to that point ; possibly, 
 too, her unusual beauty might have something to do with his 
 favourable impression of her ; but he made no scruple of express- 
 ing his admiration of her to her father and mother in her absence 
 from the room ; and from that evening I date a project of his 
 which came out to me a day or two afterwards, as we sate in my 
 little three-cornered room in Eltham. 
 
 " Paul," he began, " I never thought to be a rich man ; but I 
 think it's coming upon me. Some folk are making a deal of my 
 new machine " (calling it by its technical name), "and Ellison, of 
 the Borough Green Works, has gone so far as to ask me to be his 
 parner." 
 
 " Mr Ellison the justice !— who lives in King Street? why, he 
 drives his carriage ! " said I, doubting, yet exultant. 
 
 "Ay, lad, John Ellison. But that's no sign that I shall drive 
 my carriage. Though I should like to save thy mother walking, 
 for she's not so young as she was. But that's a long way off, 
 anyhow. I reckon I should start with a third profit. It might 
 be seven hundred, or it might be more. I should like to have the 
 power to work out some fancies o' mine. I care for that much 
 more than for th' brass. And Ellison has no lads ; and by nature 
 the business would come to thee in course o' time. Ellison's 
 lassies are but bits o' things, and are not like to come by husbands 
 just yet ; and when they do, maybe they'll not be in the me- 
 chanical line. It will be an opening for thee, lad, if thou art 
 steady. Thou'rt not great shakes, I know, in th' inventing line ; 
 but many a one gets on better without having fancies for some- 
 thing he does not see and never has seen. I'm right down glad 
 to see that mother's cousins are such uncommon folk for sense and 
 goodness. I have taken the minister to my heart like a brother, 
 and she is a womanly quiet sort of a body. And I'll tell you 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 197 
 
 frank, Paul, it will be a happy day for me if ever you can come 
 and tell me that Phillis Holman is like to be my daughter. I 
 think if that lass had not a penny, she would be the making of a 
 man ; and she'll have yon house and lands, and you may be her 
 match yet in fortune if all goes well." 
 
 I was growing as red as fire ; I did not know what to say, and 
 yet I wanted to say something ; but the idea of having a wife of 
 my own at some future day, though it had often floated about in 
 my own head, sounded so strange when it was thus first spoken 
 about by my father. He saw my confusion, and half smiling 
 said — ■ 
 
 ' • Well, lad, what dost say to the old father's plans ? Thou art 
 but young, to be sure ; but when I was thy age, I would ha' given 
 my right hand if I might ha' thought of the chance of wedding 
 the lass I cared for " 
 
 " My mother?" asked I, a little struck by the change of his 
 tone of voice. 
 
 " No ! not thy mother. Thy mother is a very good woman — 
 none better. No ! the lass I cared for at nineteen ne'er knew how 
 I loved her, and a year or two after and she was dead, and ne'er 
 knew. I think she would ha' been glad to ha' known it, poor 
 Molly ; but I had to leave the place where we lived for to try to 
 earn my bread — and I meant to come back — but before ever I did, 
 she was dead and gone : I ha' never gone there since. But if you 
 fancy PhiUis Holman, and can get her to fancy you, my lad, 
 it shall go different with you, Paul, to what it did with your 
 father." 
 
 I took counsel with myself very rapidly, and I came to a clear 
 conclusion. 
 
 ^ " Father," said I, " if I fancied Phillis ever so much, she would 
 never fancy me. I like her as much as I could like a sister ; and 
 she likes me as if I were her brother — her younger brother." 
 
 I could see my father's countenance fall a little. 
 
 " You see she's so clever — she's more like a man than a woman 
 — she knows Latin and Greek." 
 
 "She'd forget 'em, if she'd a houseful of children," was my 
 father's comment on this. 
 
 " But she knows many a thing besides, and is wise as well as 
 learned : she has been so much with her father. She would 
 never think much of me, and I should like my wife to think a 
 deal of her husband." 
 
198 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 "It is not just book-learning or the want of it as makes a wife 
 think much or little of her husband," replied my father, evidently 
 unwilling to give up a project which had taken deep root in his 
 mind. " It's a something — I don't rightly know how to call it 
 — if he's manly, and sensible, and straightforward ; and I reckon 
 you're that, my boy." 
 
 " I don't think I should like to have a wife taller than I am, 
 father," said I, smihng ; he smiled too, but not heartily. 
 
 " Well," said he, after a pause. " It's but a few days I've been 
 thinking of it, but I'd got as fond of my notion as if it had been a 
 new engine as I'd been planning out. Here's our Paul, thinks I 
 to myself, a good sensible breed o' lad, as has never vexed or 
 troubled his mother or me ; with a good business opening out 
 before him, age nineteen, not so bad-looking, though perhaps not 
 to call handsome, and here's his cousin, not too near a cousin, 
 but just nice, as one may say ; aged seventeen, good and true, 
 and well brought up to work with her hands as well as her head ; 
 a scholar — but that can't be helped, and is more her misfortune 
 than her fault, seeing she is the only child of a scholar — and as 
 I said afore, once she's a wife and a mother she'll forget it all, 
 I'll be bound — with a good fortune in land and house when it 
 shall please the Lord to take her parents to himself ; with eyes 
 like poor Molly's for beauty, a colour that comes and goes on a 
 milk-white skin, and as pretty a mouth" 
 
 "Why, Mr. Manning, what fair lady are you describing?" 
 asked Mr. Holdsworth, who had come quickly and suddenly 
 upon our tite-d-tdte , and had caught my father's last words as he 
 entered the room. 
 
 Both my father and I felt rather abashed ; it was such an odd 
 subject for us to be talking about ; but my father, like a straight- 
 forward, simple man as he was, spoke out the truth. 
 
 "I've been telling Paul of Ellison's offer, and saying how 
 good an opening it made for him " 
 
 "I wish I'd as good," said Mr. Holdsw^orth, " But has the 
 business a ' pretty mouth ' ? " 
 
 " You're always so full of your joking, Mr. Holdsworth," said 
 my father. " I was going to say that if he and his cousin Phillis 
 Holman liked to make it up between them, I would put no spoke 
 in the wheel." 
 
 "Phillis Holman 1" said Mr. Holdsworth. "Is she the 
 daughter of the minister-farmer out at Heathbridge. Have I 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 199 
 
 been helping on the course of true love by letting you go there 
 so often? I knew nothing of it." 
 
 "There is nothing to know," said I, more annoyed than I 
 chose to show. " There is no more true love in the case than 
 may be between the first brother and sister you may choose to 
 meet. I have been telling father she would never think of me ; 
 she's a great deal taller and cleverer ; and I'd rather be taller 
 and more learned than my wife when I have one." 
 
 "And it is she, then, that has the pretty mouth your father 
 spoke about? I should think that would be an antidote to the 
 cleverness and learning. But I ought to apologise for break- 
 ing in upon your last night ; I came upon business to your 
 father." 
 
 And then he and my father began to talk about many things 
 that had no interest for me just then, and I began to go over 
 again my conversation with my father. The more I thought 
 about it, the more I felt that I had spoken truly about my 
 feelings towards Phillis Holman. I loved her dearly as a sister, 
 but I could never fancy her as my wife. Still less could I think 
 of her ever — yes, condescending, that is the word — condescending 
 to marry me. I was roused from a reverie on what I should like 
 my possible wife to be, by hearing my father's warm praise of the 
 minister, as a most unusual character ; how they had got back 
 from the diameter of driving-wheels to the subject of the Holmans 
 I could never tell ; but I saw that my father's weighty praises 
 were exciting some curiosity in Mr. Holdsworth's mind ; indeed, 
 he said, almost in a voice of reproach — 
 
 "Why, Paul, you never told me what kind of a fellow this 
 minister-cousin of yours was ? " 
 
 " I don't know that I found out, sir," said I. "But if I had, 
 I don't think you'd have listened to me, as you have done to my 
 father." 
 
 " No ! most likely not, old fellow," replied Mr. Holdsworth, 
 laughing. And again and afresh I saw what a handsome plea- 
 sant clear face his was ; and though this evening I had been a 
 bit put out with him — through his sudden coming, and his having 
 heard my father's open-hearted confidence — my hero resumed all 
 his empire over me by his bright merry laugh. 
 
 And if he had not resumed his old place that night, he would 
 have done so the next day, when, after my father's departure, Mr. 
 Holdsworth spoke about him with such just respect for his 
 
2CO COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 character, such ungrudging admiration of his great mechanical 
 genius, that I was compelled to say, almost unawares — 
 
 " Thank you, sir, I am very much obliged to you." 
 
 " Oh, you're not at all. I am only speaking the truth. Here's 
 a Birmingham workman, self-educated, one may say — having 
 never associated with stimulating minds, or had what advantages 
 travel and contact with the world may be supposed to afford — • 
 working out his own thoughts into steel and iron, making a scien- 
 tific name for himself — a fortune, if it pleases him to work for 
 money— and keeping his singleness of heart, his perfect simpli- 
 city of manner ; it puts me out of patience to think of my expen- 
 sive schoohng, my travels hither and thither, my heaps of scientific 
 books, and I have done nothing to speak of. But it's evidently 
 good blood ; there's that Mr. Holman, that cousin of yours, made 
 of the same stuff." 
 
 " But he's only cousin because he married my mother's second 
 cousin," said I. 
 
 " That knocks a pretty theory on the head, and twice over, too. 
 I should like to make Holman's acquaintance." 
 
 " I am sure they would be so glad to see you at Hope Farm," 
 said I eagerly. " In fact, they've asked me to bring you several 
 times : only I thought you would find it dull." 
 
 " Not at all. I can't go yet though, even if you do get me an 
 
 invitation ; for the Company want me to go to the 
 
 Valley, and look over the ground a bit for them, to see if it 
 
 would do for a branch line ; it's a job which may take me away 
 for some time ; but I shall be backwards and forwards, and you're 
 quite up to doing what is needed in my absence ; the only work 
 that may be beyond you is keeping old Jevons from drinking." 
 
 He went on giving me directions about the management of the 
 men employed on the line, and no more was said then, or for 
 several months, about his going to Hope Farm. He went off into 
 
 Valley, a dark overshadowed dale, where the sun seemed to 
 
 set behind the hills before four o'clock on midsummer afternoon. 
 
 Perhaps it was this that brought on the attack of low fever 
 which he had soon after the beginning of the new year ; he was 
 very ill for many weeks, almost many months ; a married sister 
 — his only relation, I think— came down from London to nurse 
 him, and I went over to him when I could, to see him, and give 
 him "masculine news," as he called it ; reports of the progress 
 of the line, which, I am glad to say, I was able to carry on in 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 201 
 
 his absence, in the slow gradual way which suited the company 
 best, while trade was in a languid state, and money dear in the 
 market. Of course, with this occupation for my scanty leisure, 
 I did not often go over to Hope Farm. Whenever I did go, I 
 met with a thorough welcome ; and many inquiries were made 
 as to Holdsworth's illness, and the progress of his recovery. 
 
 At length, in June I think it was, he was sufficiently recovered 
 to come back to his lodgings at Eltham, and resume part at least 
 of his work. His sister, Mrs. Robinson, had been obliged to leave 
 him some weeks before, owing to some epidemic amongst her own 
 children. As long as I had seen Mr. Holdsworth in the rooms at 
 the little inn at Hensleydale, where I had been accustomed to 
 look upon him as an invalid, I had not been aware of the visible 
 shake his fever had given to his health. But, once back in the 
 old lodgings, where I had always seen him so buoyant, eloquent, 
 decided, and vigorous in former days, my spirits sank at the 
 change in one whom I had always regarded with a strong feeling 
 of admiring affection. He sank into silence and despondency after 
 the least exertion ; he seemed as if he could not make up his 
 mind to any action, or else that, when it was made up, he lacked 
 strength to carry out his purpose. Of course, it was but the 
 natural state of slow convalescence, after so sharp an illness ; but, 
 at the time, I did not know this, and perhaps I represented his 
 state as more serious than it was to my kind relations at Hope 
 Farm ; who, in their grave, simple, eager way, immediately 
 thought of the only help they could give. 
 
 "Bring him out here,'' said the minister. " Our air here is 
 good to a proverb ; the June days are fine ; he may loiter away 
 his time in the hay-field, and the sweet smells will be a balm in 
 themselves — better than physic." 
 
 "And," said cousin Holman, scarcely waiting for her husband 
 to finish his sentence, " tell him there is new milk and fresh eggs 
 to be had for the asking ; it's lucky Daisy has just calved, for her 
 milk is always as good as other cows' cream ; and there is the 
 plaid room with the morning sun all streaming in." 
 
 PhiUis said nothing, but looked as much interested in the pro- 
 ject as any one. I took it up myself. I wanted them to see him ; 
 him to know them. I proposed it to him when I got home. He 
 was too languid, after the day's fatigue, to be willing to make the 
 little exertion of going amongst strangers ; and disappointed me 
 by almost declining to accept the invitation I brought. The next 
 
 G 2 
 
202 COUSIN PHTLLIS. 
 
 morning it was different ; he apologised for his ungraciousness 
 of the night before ; and told me that he would get all things in 
 train, so as to be ready to go out with me to Hope Farm on the 
 following Saturday. 
 
 " For you must go with me, Manning," said he ; "I used to be 
 as impudent a fellow as need be, and rather liked going amongst 
 strangers and making my way ; but since my illness I am almost 
 like a girl, and turn hot and cold with shyness, as they do, I 
 fancy." 
 
 So it was fixed. We were to go out to Hope Farm on Satur- 
 day afternoon ; and it was also understood that if the air and the 
 life suited Mr. Holdsworth, he was to remain there for a week or 
 ten days, doing what work he could at that end of the line, while 
 I took his place at Eltham to the best of my ability. I grew a 
 little nervous, as the time drew near, and wondered how the 
 brilliant Holdsworth would agree with the quiet quaint family of 
 the minister ; how they would like him and many of his half- 
 foreign ways. I tried to prepare him, by telling him from time 
 to time little things about the goings-on at Hope Farm. 
 
 " Manning," said he, " I see you don't think I am half good 
 enough for your friends. Out with it, man." 
 
 " No," I replied boldly. " I think you are good ; but I don't 
 know if you are quite of their kind of goodness." 
 
 "And you've found out already that there is greater chance 
 of disagreement between two 'kinds of goodness,' each having 
 its own idea of right, than between a given goodness and a 
 moderate degree of naughtiness — which last often arises from 
 an indifference to right?" 
 
 "I don't know. I think you're talking metaphysics, and I 
 am sure that is bad for you." 
 
 " ' When a man talks to you in a way that you don't under- 
 stand about a thing which he does not understand, them's 
 metaphysics.' You remember the clown's definition, don't 
 you, Manning?" 
 
 " No, I don't," said T. " But what I do understand is, that 
 you must go to bed ; and tell me at what time we must start 
 to-morrow, that I may go to Hep worth, and get those letters 
 written we were talking about this morning." 
 
 "Wait till to-morrow, and let us see what the day is like, ' 
 he answered, with such languid indecision as showed me he 
 was over-fatigued. So I went my way. 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 203 
 
 The morrow was blue and sunny, and beautiful ; the very 
 perfection of an early summer's day. Mr. Holdsworth was all 
 impatience to be off into the country ; morning had brought 
 back his freshness and strength, and consequent eagerness 
 to be doing. I was afraid we were going to my cousin's farm 
 rather too early, before they would expect us ; but what could 
 I do with such a restless vehement man as Holdsworth was 
 that morning? We came down upon the Hope Farm before 
 the dew was off the grass on the shady side of the lane ; the 
 great house-dog was loose, basking in the sun, near the closed 
 side door. I was surprised at this door being shut, for all 
 summer long it was open from morning to night; but it w.ns 
 only on latch. I opened it. Rover watching me with half- 
 suspicious, half-trustful eyes. The room was empty. 
 
 " I don't know where they can be," said I. " But come in 
 and sit down while I go and look for them. You must be 
 tired." 
 
 "Not I. This sweet balmy air is hke a thousand tonics. 
 Besides, this room is hot, and smells of those pungent wood- 
 ashes. What are we to do ? " 
 
 " Go round to the kitchen. Betty will tell us where they 
 are." 
 
 So we went round into the farmyard, Rover accompanying 
 us out of a grave sense of duty. Betty was washing out her 
 milk-pans in the cold bubbling spring-water that constantly 
 trickled in and out of a stone trough. In such weather as 
 this most of her kitchen-work was done out of doors. 
 
 "*Eh, dear!" said she, "the minister and missus is away at 
 Hornby ! They ne'er thought of your coming so betimes ! 
 The missus had some errands to do, and she thought as she'd 
 walk with the minister and be back by dinner-time." 
 
 " Did not they expect us to dinner? " said I. 
 
 "Well, they did, and they did not, as I may say. Missus 
 said to me the cold lamb would do well enough if you did not 
 come ; and if you did I was to put on a chicken and some 
 bacon to boil ; and I'll go do it now, for it is hard to boil 
 bacon enough." 
 
 "And is Phillis gone, too?" Mr. Holdsworth was making 
 friends with Rover. 
 
 ' ' No ! She's just somewhere about. I reckon you'll find 
 her in the kitchen-garden, getting peas." 
 
204 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 " Let us go there," said Holdsworth, suddenly leaving off his 
 play with the dog. 
 
 So I led the way into the kitchen-garden. It was in the first 
 promise of a summer profuse in vegetables and fruits. Perhaps 
 it was not so. much cared for as other parts of the property ; 
 but it was more attended to than most kitchen-gardens be- 
 longing to farm-houses. There were borders of flowers along 
 each side of the gravel-walks ; and there was an old sheltering 
 wall on the north side covered with tolerably choice fruit-trees ,- 
 there was a slope down to the fish-pond at the end, where 
 there were great strawberry-beds ; and raspberry-bushes and 
 rose-bushes grew wherever there was a space ; it seemed a 
 chance which had been planted. Long rows of peas stretched 
 at right angles from the main walk, and I saw Phillis stooping 
 down among them, before she saw us. As soon as she heard 
 our cranching steps on the gravel, she stood up, and, shading 
 her eyes from the sun, recognised us. She was quite still 
 for a moment, and then came slowly towards us, blushing a 
 little from evident shyness. I had never seen Phillis shy 
 before. 
 
 "This is Mr. Holdsworth, Phillis," said I, as soon as I had 
 shaken hands with her. She glanced up at him, and then 
 looked down, more flushed than ever at his grand formality 
 of taking his hat off and bowing ; such manners had never 
 been seen at Hope Farm before. 
 
 ' ' Father and mother are out. They will be so sorry ; you 
 did not write, Paul, as you said you would." 
 
 " It was my fault," said Holdsworth, understanding what 
 she meant as well as if she had put it more fully into words. 
 " I have not yet given up all the privileges of an invalid ; one 
 of which is indecision. Last night, when your cousin asked 
 me at what time we were to start, I really could not make 
 up my mind.'"* 
 
 Phillis seemed as if she could not make up her mind as to 
 what to do with us. I tried to help her — 
 
 " Have you finished getting peas?" taking hold of the half- 
 filled basket she was unconsciously holding in her hand; "or 
 may we stay and help you?" 
 
 " If you would. But perhaps it will tire you, sir ? " added she, 
 speaking now to Holdsworth. 
 
 "Not a bit," said he. " It will carry me back twenty years 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 205 
 
 In my life, when I used to gather peas in my grandfather's 
 garden. I suppose I may eat a few as I go along? " 
 
 " Certainly, sir. But if you went to the strawberry-beds you 
 would find some strawberries ripe, and Paul can show you where 
 they are." 
 
 " I am afraid you distrust me. I can assure you I know the 
 exact fulness at which peas should be gathered. I take great 
 care not to pluck them when they are unripe. I will not be 
 turned off, as unfit for my work." 
 
 This was a style of half-joking talk that Phillis was not accus- 
 tomed to. She looked for a moment as if she would have liked 
 to defend herself from the playful charge of distrust made 
 against her, but she ended by not saying a word. We all 
 plucked our peas in busy silence for the next five minutes. 
 Then Holdsworth lifted himself up from between the rows, 
 and said, a little wearily — 
 
 "I am afraid I must strike work. I am not as strong as I 
 fancied myself." 
 
 Phillis was full of penitence immediately. He did, indeed, look 
 pale ; and she blamed herself for having allowed him to help her. 
 
 " It was very thoughtless of me. I did not know — I thought, 
 perhaps, you really liked it, I ought to have offered you some- 
 thing to eat, sir ! Oh, Paul, we have gathered quite enough ; 
 how stupid I was to forget that Mr. Holdsworth had been ill ! " 
 And in a blushing hurry she led the way towards the house. 
 We went in, and she moved a heavy cushioned chair forwards, 
 into which Holdsworth was only too glad to sink. Then with 
 deft and quiet speed she brought in a little tray, wine, water, 
 cake, home-made bread, and newly-churned butter. She stood 
 by in some anxiety till, after bite and sup, the colour returned 
 to Mr. Holdsworth's face, and he would fain have made us some 
 laughing apologies for the fright he had given us. But then 
 Phillis drew back from her innocent show of care and interest, 
 and relapsed into the cold shyness habitual to her when she was 
 iirst thrown into the company of strangers. She brought out the 
 last week's county paper (which Mr. Holdsworth had read five 
 days ago), and then quietly withdrew ; and then he subsided into 
 languor, leaning back and shutting his eyes as if he would go to 
 sleep. I stole into the kitchen after Phillis ; but she had made 
 the round of the corner of the house outside, and I found her 
 siltjng on the horse-mount, with her basket of peas, and a basin 
 
206 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 into which she was sbeUing them. Rover lay at her feet, snap- 
 ping now and then at the flies. I went to her, and tried to help 
 her ; but somehow the sweet crisp young peas found their way 
 more frequently into my mouth than into the basket, while we 
 talked together in a low tone, fearful of being overheard through 
 the open casements of the house-place in which Holdsworth was 
 resting. 
 
 " Don't you think him handsome?" asked I. 
 
 "Perhaps — yes — I have hardly looked at him," she replied, 
 ** But is not he very like a foreigner?" 
 
 " Yes, he cuts his hair foreign fashion," said I. 
 
 " I like an Englishman to look like an Englishman." 
 
 " I don't think he thinks about it. He says he began that way 
 when he was in Italy, because everybody wore it so, and it is 
 natural to keep it on in England." 
 
 " Not if he began it in Italy because everybody there wore it 
 so. Everybody here wears it differently." 
 
 I was a little offended with Phillis's logical fault-finding with 
 my friend ; and I determined to change the subject. 
 
 "When is your mother coming home?" 
 
 " I should think she might come any time now ; but she had 
 to go and see Mrs. Morton, who was ill, and she might be kept, 
 and not be home till dinner. Don't you think you ought to go 
 and see how Mr. Holdsworth is going on, Paul ? He may be 
 faint again." 
 
 I went at her bidding ; but there was no need for it. Mr. 
 Holdsworth was up, standing by the window, his hands in his 
 pockets ; he had evidently been watching us. He turned away 
 as I entered. 
 
 "So that is the girl I found your good father planning for 
 your wife, Paul, that evening when I interrupted you ! Are you of 
 the same coy mind still? It did not look hke it a minute ago." 
 
 " Phillis and I understand each other," I replied sturdily. 
 " We are like brother and sister. She would not have me as a 
 husband if there was not another man in the world ; and it 
 would take a deal to make me think of her — as my father 
 wishes" (somehow I did not like to say "as a wife"), " but we 
 love each other dearly." 
 
 "Well, I am rather surprised at it — not at your loving each 
 other in a brother-and-sister kind of way — but at your finding it 
 so impossible to fall in love with such a beautiful woman." 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 207 
 
 Woman ! beautiful woman ! I had thought of Philhs as a 
 comely but awkward girl ; and I could not banish the pinafore 
 from my mind's eye when I tried to picture her to myself. Now 
 I turned, as Mr. Holdsworth had done, to look at her again out 
 of the window : she had just finished her task, and was standing 
 up, her back to us, holding the basket, and the basin in it, high 
 in air, out of Rover's reach, who was giving vent to his delight 
 at the probability of a change of place by glad leaps and barks, 
 and snatches at what he imagined to be a withheld prize. At 
 length she grew tired of their mutual play, and with a feint of 
 striking him, and a "Down, Rover! do hush!" she looked 
 towards the window where we were standing, as if to reassure 
 herself that no one had been disturbed by the noise, and seeing 
 us, she coloured all over, and hurried away, with Rover still 
 curving in sinuous lines about her as she walked. 
 
 " I should like to have sketched her," said Mr. Holdsworth, 
 as he turned away. He went back to his chair, and rested in 
 silence for a minute or two. Then he was up again. 
 
 •' I would give a good deal for a book," said he. " It would 
 keep me quiet." He began to look round ; there were a few 
 volumes at one end of the shovel-board. 
 
 "Fifth volume of Matthew Henry's Commentary," said he, 
 reading their titles aloud. " Housewife's Complete Manual ; 
 Berridge on Prayer ; L'Inferno — Dante!" in great surprise, 
 "Why, who reads this?" 
 
 "I told you Phillis read it. Don't you remember? She 
 knows Latin and Greek, too." 
 
 "To be sure ! I remember ! But somehow I never put two 
 and two together. That quiet girl, full of household work, is the- 
 wonderful scholar, then, that put you to rout with her questions 
 when you first began to come here. To be sure, ' Cousin Phillis ! ' 
 What's here ; a paper with the hard obsolete words written out. 
 I wonder what sort of a dictionary she has got. Baretti won't tell 
 her all these words. Stay ! I have got a pencil here. I'll write 
 down the most accepted meanings, and save her a little trouble." 
 
 So he took her book and the paper back to the little round 
 table, and employed himself in writing explanations and defini- 
 tions of the words which had troubled her. I was not sure if 
 he was not taking a liberty ; it did not quite please me, and yet 
 I did not know why. He had only just done, and replaced the 
 paper in the book, and put the latter back in its place, when I 
 
2o8 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 heard the sound of wheels stopping in the lane, and looking out, 
 I saw cousin Holman getting out of a neighbour's gig, making 
 her little curtsey of acknowledgment, and then coming towards 
 the house. I went out to meet her. 
 
 " Oh, Paul ! " said she, " I am so sorry I was kept ; and then 
 Thomas Dobson said if I would wait a quarter of an hour he 
 
 would But Where's your friend Mr. Holdsworth? I hope 
 
 he is come?" 
 
 Just then he came out, and with his pleasant cordial manner 
 took her hand, and thanked her for asking him to come out here 
 to get strong. 
 
 ' ' I'm sure I am very glad to see you, sir. It was the minister's 
 thought. I took it into my head you would be dull in our quiet 
 house, for Paul says you've been such a great traveller ; but the 
 minister said that dulness would perhaps suit you while you 
 were but ailing, and that I was to ask Paul to be here as much 
 as he could. I hope you'll find yourself happy with us, I'm 
 sure, sir. Has Phillis given you something to eat and drink, I 
 wonder? there's a deal in eating a little often, if one has to get 
 strong after an illness." And then she began to question him 
 as to the details of his indisposition in her simple motherly 
 way. He seemed at once to understand her, and to enter into 
 friendly relations with her. It was not quite the same in the 
 evening, when the minister came home. Men have always 
 a little natural antipathy to get over when they first meet as 
 strangers. But in this case each was disposed to make an effort 
 to like the other ; only each was to each a specimen of an un- 
 known class. I had to leave the Hope Farm on Sunday afternoon , 
 as I had Mr. Holdsworth's work as well as my own to look to in 
 Eltham ; and I was not at all sure how things would go on during 
 the week that Holdsworth was to remain on his visit ; I had been 
 once or twice in hot water already at the near clash of opinions 
 between the minister and my much-vaunted friend. On the 
 Wednesday I received a short note from Holdsworth ; he was 
 going to stay on, and return with me on the following Sunday, 
 and he wanted me to send him a certain list of books, his theodo- 
 lite, and other surveying instruments, all of which could easily be 
 conveyed down the line to Heathbridge. I went to his lodgings 
 and picked out the books. Itahan, Latin, trigonometry ; a pretty 
 considerable parcel they made, besides the implements. I began 
 to be curious as to the general progress of affairs at Hope Farm, 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 209 
 
 but I could not go over till the Saturday. At Heathbridge I 
 found Holdsworth, come to meet me. He was looking quite 
 a different man to what I had left him ; embrowned, sparkles 
 in his eyes, so languid before. I told him how much stronger 
 he looked. 
 
 "Yes ! " said he. " I am fidging fain to be at work again. 
 Last week I dreaded the thoughts of my employment ; now I 
 am full of desire to begin. This week in the country has done 
 wonders for me." 
 
 " You have enjoyed yourself, then?" 
 
 * ' Oh ! it has been perfect in its way. Such a thorough 
 country life ! and yet removed from the dulness which I always 
 used to fancy accompanied country life, by the extraordinary 
 intelligence of the minister. I have fallen into calling him ' the 
 minister,' like every one else." 
 
 " You get on with him, then ? " said I. "I was a little afraid." 
 
 " I was on the verge of displeasing him once or twice, I fear, 
 with random assertions and exaggerated expressions, such as 
 one always uses with other people, and thinks nothing of; but 
 I tried to check myself when I saw how it shocked ihe good 
 man ; and really it is very wholesome exercise, this trying to 
 make one's words represent one's thoughts, instead of merely 
 looking to their effect on others." 
 
 •* Then you are quite friends now?" I asked. 
 
 " Yes, thoroughly ; at any rate as far as I go. I never met 
 a man with such a desire for knowledge. In information, as far 
 as it can be gained from books, he far exceeds me on most 
 
 subjects ; but then I have travelled and seen Were not you 
 
 surprised at the list of things I sent for?" 
 
 " Yes ; I thought it did not promise much rest." 
 
 " Oh, some of the books were for the minister, and some for 
 his daughter. (I call her Phillis to myself, but I use euphuisms 
 in speaking about her to others. I don't like to seem famihar, 
 and yet Miss Holman is a terra I have never heard used. ) ' 
 
 " I thought the Italian books were for her." 
 
 "Yes ! Fancy her trying at Dante for her first book in Italian ! 
 I had a capital novel by Manzoni, '/ Promessi Sposi,' just the 
 thing for a beginner ! and if she must still puzzle out Dante, my 
 dictionary is far better than hers," 
 
 "Then she found out you had written those definitions on 
 her list of words ? " 
 
2IO COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 " Oh ! yes " — with a smile of amusement and pleasure. He 
 was going to tell me what had taken place, but checked himself. 
 
 ' ' But I don't think the minister will like your having given 
 her a novel to read ? " 
 
 " Pooh ! What can be more harmless? Why make a bug- 
 bear of a word ! It is as pretty and innocent a tale as can be 
 met with. You don't suppose they take Virgil for gospel?" 
 
 By this time we were at the farm. I think Phillis gave me a 
 warmer welcome than usual, and cousin Holman was kindness 
 itself. Yet somehow I felt as if I had lost my place, and that 
 Holdsworth had taken it. He knew all the ways of the house ; 
 he was full of little filial attentions to cousin Holman ; he treated 
 Phillis with the affectionate condescension of an elder brother ; 
 not a bit more ; not in any way different. He questioned me 
 about the progress of affairs in Eltham with eager interest. 
 
 "Ah ! " said cousin Holman, "you'll be spending a different 
 kind of time next week to what you have done this ! I can 
 see how busy you'll make yourself ! But if you don't take care 
 you'll be ill again, and have to come back to our quiet ways of 
 going on," 
 
 ' ' Do you suppose I shall need to be ill to wish to come back 
 here?" he answered warmly. "I am only afraid you have 
 treated me so kindly that I shall always be turning up on your 
 hands." 
 
 " That's right," she replied. " Only don't go and make your- 
 self ill by over-work. I hope you'll go on with a cup of new 
 milk every morning, for I am sure that is the best medicine ; and 
 put a teaspoonful of rum in it if you like ; many a one speaks 
 highly of that, only we had no rum in the house." 
 
 I brought with me an atmosphere of active life which I think 
 he had begun to miss ; and it was natural that he should seek 
 my company, after his week of retirement. Once I saw Phillis 
 looking at us as we talked together with a kind of wistful 
 curiosity ; but as soon as she caught my eye, she turned away, 
 blushing deeply. 
 
 That evening I had a little talk with the minister. I strolled 
 along the Hornby road to meet him ; for Holdsworth was giving 
 Phillis an Italian lesson, and cousin Holman had fallen asleep 
 over her work. 
 
 Somehow, and not unwillingly on my part, our talk fell on the 
 friend whom I had introduced to the Hope Farm. 
 
COUSIN PHI-LLIS. 211 
 
 " Yes ! I like him ! " said the minister, weighing his words a 
 little as he spoke. " I like him. I hope I am justified in doing 
 it, but he takes hold of me, as it were ; and I have almost been 
 afraid lest he carries me away, in spite of my judgment." 
 
 "He is a good fellow; indeed he is," said I. "My father 
 thinks well of him ; and I have seen a deal of him. I would 
 not have had him come here if I did not know that you would 
 approve of him. " 
 
 "Yes" (once more hesitating), " I like him, and I think he 
 is an upright man ; there is a want of seriousness in his talk at 
 times, but, at the same time, it is wonderful to listen to him ! 
 He makes Horace and Virgil living, instead of dead, by the 
 stories he tells me of his sojourn in the very countries where they 
 lived, and where to this day, he says But it is like dram- 
 drinking. I listen to him till I forget my duties, and am carried 
 off my feet. Last Sabbath evening he led us away into talk on 
 profane subjects ill befitting the day." 
 
 By this time we were at the house, and our conversation 
 stopped. But before the day was out, 1 saw the unconscious 
 hold that my friend had got over all the family. And no wonder: 
 he had seen so much and done so much as compared to them, 
 and he told about it all so easily and naturally, and yet as I 
 never heard any one else do ; and his ready pencil was out in an 
 instant to draw on scraps of paper all sorts of illustrations — 
 modes of drawing up water in Northern Italy, wine-carts, 
 buffaloes, stone-pines, I know not what. After we had all 
 looked at these drawings, Phillis gathered them together, and 
 took them. 
 
 It is many years since I have seen thee, Edward Holdsworth, 
 but thou wast a delightful fellow ! Ay, and a good one too ; 
 though much sorrow was caused by thee ! 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Just after this I went home for a week's holiday. Everything 
 was prospering there ; my father's new partnership gave evident 
 satisfaction to both parties. There was no display of increased 
 wealth in our modest household ; but my mother had a few 
 extra comforts provided for her by her husband. I made 
 
212 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 acquaintance with Mr. and Mrs. Ellison, and first saw pretty 
 Margaret Ellison, who is now my wife. When I returned to 
 Eltham, I found that a step was decided upon which had been 
 in contemplation for some time ; that Holdsworth and I should 
 remove our quarters to Hornby ; our daily presence, and as 
 much of our time as possible, being required for the completion 
 -of the line at that end. 
 
 Of course this led to greater facility of intercourse with the 
 Hope Farm people. We could easily walk out there after our 
 day's work was done, and spend a balmy evening hour or two, 
 and yet return before the summer's twilight had quite faded 
 away. Many a time, indeed, we would fain have stayed longer 
 — the open air, the fresh and pleasant country, made so agree- 
 able a contrast to the close, hot town lodgings which I shared 
 with Mr. Holdsworth ; but early hours, both at eve and morn, 
 were an imperative necessity with the minister, and he made no 
 scruple at turning either or both of us out of the house directly 
 after evening prayer, or "exercise," as he called it. The re- 
 membrance of many a happy day, and of several little scenes, 
 comes back upon me as I think of that summer. They rise like 
 pictures to my memory, and in this way I can date their succes- 
 sion ; for I know that corn-harvest must have come after hay- 
 making, apple-gathering after corn-harvest. 
 
 The removal to Hornby took up some time, during which we 
 had neither of us any leisure to go out to the Hope Farm. Mr. 
 Holdsworth had been out there once during my absence at 
 home. One sultry evening, when work was done, he proposed 
 our walking out and paying the Holmans a visit. It so 
 happened that I had omitted to write my usual weekly letter 
 home in our press of business, and I wished to finish that before 
 going out. Then he said that he would go, and that I could 
 follow him if I liked. This I did in about an hour ; the weather 
 was so oppressive, I remember, that I took off my coat as I 
 walked, and hung it over my arm. All the doors and windows 
 at the farm were open when I arrived there, and every tiny leaf 
 on the trees was still. The silence of the place was profound ; 
 at first I thought that it was entirely deserted ; but just as I 
 drew near the door I heard a weak sweet voice begin to sing ; 
 it was cousin Holman, all by herself in the house-place, piping 
 up a hymn, as she knitted away in the clouded light. She gave 
 me a kindly welcome, and poured out all the small domestic 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 215 
 
 news of the fortnight past upon me, and, in return, I told her 
 about my own people and my visit at home. 
 
 "Where were the rest? " at length I asked. 
 
 Betty and the men were in the field helping with the last load 
 of hay, for the minister said there would be rain before the morn- 
 ing. Yes, and the minister himself, and PhiUis, and Mr. Holds- 
 worth, were all there helping. She thought that she herself 
 could have done something ; but perhaps she was the least fit 
 for haymaking of any one ; and somebody must stay at home 
 and take care of the house, there were so many tramps about ; 
 if I had not had something to do with the railroad she would 
 have called them navvies. I asked her if she minded being left 
 alone, as I should like to go and help ; and having her full and 
 glad permission to leave her alone, I went off, following her 
 directions : through the farmyard, past the cattle-pond, into the 
 ash-field, beyond into the higher field with two holly-bushes in 
 the middle. I arrived there : there was Betty with all the farm- 
 ing men, and a cleared field, and a heavily laden cart ; one man 
 at the top of the great pile ready to catch the fragrant hay 
 which the others threw up to him with their pitchforks ; a little 
 heap of cast-off clothes in a corner of the field (for the heat, even 
 at seven o'clock, was insufferable), a few cans and baskets, and 
 Rover lying by them panting, and keeping watch. Plenty of 
 loud, hearty, cheerful talking ; but no minister, no Phillis, no 
 Mr. Holdsworth. Betty saw me first, and understanding who it 
 was that I was in search of, she came towards me. 
 
 •* They're out yonder — agait wi' them things o' Measter Holds- 
 worth's." 
 
 So "out yonder " I went ; out on to a broad upland common, 
 full of red sand-banks, and sweeps and hollows ; bordered by 
 dark firs, purple in the coming shadows, but near at hand all 
 ablaze with flowering gorse, or, as we call it in the south, furze- 
 bushes, which, seen against the belt of distant trees, appeared 
 brilliantly golden. On this heath, a little way from the field- 
 gate, I saw the three. I counted their heads, joined together in 
 an eager group over Holdsworth's theodolite. He was teaching 
 the minister the practical art of surveying and taking a level. I 
 was wanted to assist, and was quickly set to work to hold the 
 chain. Phillis was as intent as her father ; she had hardly time 
 to greet me, so desirous was she to hear some answer to her 
 father's question. 
 
214 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 So we went on, the dark clouds still gathering, for perhaps 
 five minutes after my arrival. Then came the blinding light- 
 ning and the rumble and quick-following rattling peal of thunder 
 right over our heads. It came sooner than I expected, sooner 
 than they had looked for : the rain delayed not ; it came pouring 
 down ; and what were we to do for shelter? Phillis had nothing 
 on but her indoor things — no bonnet, no shawl. Quick as the 
 darting lightning around us, Holdsworth took off his coat and 
 wrapped it round her neck and shoulders, and, almost without a 
 word, hurried us all into such poor shelter as one of the over- 
 hanging sand-banks could give. There we were, cowered down, 
 close together, Phillis innermost, almost too tightly packed to 
 free her arms enough to divest herself of the coat, which she, in 
 her turn, tried to put lightly over Holdsworth's shoulders. In 
 doing so she touched his shirt. 
 
 " Oh, how wet you are ! " she cried, in pitying dismay ; "and 
 you've hardly got over your fever ! Oh, Mr. Holdsworth, I am 
 so sorry ! " He turned his head a little, smiling at her. 
 
 " If I do catch cold, it is all my fault for having deluded you 
 into staying out here ! " But she only murmured again, " I am 
 so sorry." 
 
 The minister spoke now. " It is a regular downpour. Please 
 God that the hay is saved ! But there is no likelihood of its 
 ceasing, and I had better go home at once, and send you all 
 some wraps ; umbrellas will not be safe with yonder thunder 
 and lightning." 
 
 Both Holdsworth and I offered to go instead of him ; but he 
 was resolved, although perhaps it would have been wiser if 
 Holdsworth, wet as he already was, had kept himself in exercise. 
 As he moved off, Phillis crept out, and could see on to the storm- 
 swept heath. Part of Holdsworth's apparatus still remained 
 exposed to all the rain. Before we could have any warning, she 
 had rushed out of the shelter and collected the various tlnngs, 
 and brought them back in triumph to where we crouched. Holds- 
 worth had stood up, uncertain whether to go to her assistance or 
 not. She came running back, her long lovely hair floating and 
 dripping, her eyes glad and bright, and her colour freshened to a 
 glow of health by the exercise and the rain. 
 
 " Now, Miss Holman, that's what I call wilful," said Holds- 
 worth, as she gave them to him. " No, I won't thank you " (his 
 looks were thanking her all the time). " My little bit of damp- 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 215 
 
 ness annoyed you, because you thought I had got wet in your 
 service ; so you were determined to make me as uncomfortable 
 as you were yourself. It was an unchristian piece of revenge ! " 
 His tone of badinage (as the French call it) would have been 
 palpable enough to any one accustomed to the world ; but Phillis 
 was not, and it distressed or rather bewildered her. " Unchris- 
 tian " had to her a very serious meaning ; it was not a word to be 
 used lightly ; and though she did not exactly understand what 
 wrong it was that she was accused of doing, she was evidently 
 desirous to throw off the imputation. At first her earnestness to 
 disclaim unkind motives amused Holdsworth ; while his hght 
 continuance of the joke perplexed her still more ; but at last he 
 said something gravely, and in too low a tone for me to hear, 
 which made her all at once become silent, and called out her 
 blushes. After a while, the minister came back, a moving mass 
 of shawls, cloaks, and umbrellas. Phillis kept very close to her 
 father's side on our return to the farm. She appeared to me 
 to be shrinking away from Holdsworth, while he had not the 
 slightest variation in his manner from what it usually was in his 
 graver moods ; kind, protecting, and thoughtful towards her. 
 Of course, there was a great commotion about our wet clothes ; 
 but I name the little events of that evening now because I 
 wondered at the time what he had said in that low voice to 
 silence Phillis so effectually, and because, in thinking of their 
 intercourse by the light of future events, that evening stands out 
 with some prominence. 
 
 - 1 have said that after our removal to Hornby our communica- 
 tions with the farm became almost of daily occurrence. Cousin 
 Holman and I were the two who had least to do with this inti- 
 macy. After Mr. Holdsworth regained his health, he too often- 
 talked above her head in intellectual matters, and too often in his 
 hght bantering tone for her to feel quite at her ease with him. I 
 really believe that he adopted this latter tone in speaking to her 
 because he did not know what to talk about to a purely motherly 
 woman, whose intellect had never been cultivated, and whose 
 loving heart was entirely occupied with her husband, her child, 
 her household affairs, and, perhaps, a little with the concerns of 
 the members of her husband's congregation, because they, in a 
 way, belonged to her husband. I had noticed before that she had 
 fleeting shadows of jealousy even of Phillis, when her daughter 
 and her husband aooeared to have strong interests and sym-. 
 
2l6 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 pathies in things which were quite beyond her comprehension, 
 I had noticed it in my first acquaintance with them, I say, and 
 had admired the delicate tact which made the minister, on such 
 occasions, bring the conversation back to such subjects as those 
 on which his wife, with her practical experience of everyday life, 
 was an authority ; while Phillis, devoted to her father, uncon- 
 sciously followed his lead, totally unaware, in her filial reverence, 
 of his motive for doing so. 
 
 To return to Holdsworth. The minister had at more than 
 one time spoken of him to me with shght distrust, principally 
 occasioned by the suspicion that his careless words were not 
 always those of soberness and truth. But it was more as a pro- 
 test against the fascination which the younger man evidently exer- 
 cised over the elder one — more as it were to strengthen himself 
 against yielding to this fascination — that the minister spoke out 
 to me about this failing of Holdsworth's, as it appeared to him. 
 In return Holdsworth was subdued by the minister's upright- 
 ness and goodness, and delighted with his clear intellect — his 
 strong healthy craving after further knowledge. I never met 
 two men who took more thorough pleasure and relish in each , 
 other's society. To Phillis his relation continued that of an elder 
 brother : he directed her studies into new paths, he patiently drew 
 out the expression of many of her thoughts, and perplexities, and 
 unformed theories, scarcely ever now falling into the vein of 
 banter which she was so slow to understand. 
 
 One day — harvest-time— he had been drawing on a loose piece 
 of paper — sketching ears of corn, sketching carts drawn by bul- 
 locks and laden with grapes — all the time talking with Phillis and 
 me, cousin Holman putting in her not pertinent remarks, when 
 suddenly he said to Phillis — • 
 
 * ' Keep your head still ; I see a sketch ! I have often tried to 
 draw your head from memory, and failed ; but I think I can do 
 it now. If I succeed I will give it to your mother. You would 
 like a portrait of your daughter as Ceres, would you not, 
 ma'am?" 
 
 " I should like a picture of her ; yes, very much, thank you, 
 Mr. Holdsworth ; but if you put that straw in her hair" (he was 
 holding some wheat ears above her passive head, looking at the 
 effect with an artistic eye), "you'll ruffle her hair. PhiUis, my 
 dear, if you're to have your picture taken, go upstairs, and brush 
 your hair smooth." 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 217 
 
 " Not on any account. I beg your pardon, but I want hair 
 loosely flowing." 
 
 He began to draw, looking intently at Phillis ; I could see this 
 stare of his discomposed her — her colour came and went, her 
 breath quickened with the consciousness of his regard ; at last, 
 when he said, " Please look at me for a minute or two, I want to 
 get in the eyes," she looked up at him, quivered, and suddenly 
 got up and left the room. He did not say a word, but went on 
 with some other part of the drawing ; his silence was unnatural, 
 and his dark cheek blanched a little. Cousin Holman looked up 
 from her work, and put her spectacles down. 
 
 ' ' What's the matter ? Where is she gone ? " 
 
 Holdsworth never uttered a word, but went on drawing. I felt 
 obhged to say something ; it was stupid enough, but stupidity 
 was better than silence just then. 
 
 " I'll go and call her," said T. So I went into the hall, and to 
 the bottom of the stairs ; but just as I was going to call Phillis, 
 she came down swiftly with her bonnet on, and saying, "I'm 
 going to father in the five-acre," passed out by the open " rector," 
 right in front of the house-place windows, and out at the litde 
 white side-gate. She had been seen by her mother and Holds- 
 worth as she passed ; so there was no need for explanation, only 
 cousin Holman and I had a long discussion as to whether she 
 could have found the room too hot, or what had occasioned her 
 sudden departure. Holdsworth was very quiet during all the rest 
 of that day ; nor did he resume the portrait-taking by his own 
 desire, only at my cousin Holman's request the next time that he 
 came ; and then he said he should not require any more formal 
 sittings for only such a slight sketch as he felt himself capable of 
 making. Phillis was just the same as ever the next time I saw 
 her after her abrupt passing me in the hall. She never gave any 
 explanation of her rush out of the room. 
 
 So all things went on, at least as far as my observation reached 
 at the time, or memory can recall now, till the great apple-gather- 
 ing of the year. The nights were frosty, the mornings and even- 
 ings were misty, but at mid-day all was sunny and bright, and it 
 was one mid-day that both of us being on the line near Heath- 
 bridge, and knowing that they were gathering apples at the farm, 
 we resolved to spend the men's dinner-hour in going over there. 
 We found the great clothes-baskets full of apples, scenting the 
 house and stopping up the way ; and an universal air of merry 
 
2l8 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 contentment with this the final produce of the year. The yellow 
 leaves hung on the trees ready to flutter down at the slightest puff 
 of air ; the great bushes of Michaelmas daisies in the kitchen- 
 garden were making their last show of flowers. We must needs 
 taste the fruit off the different trees, and pass our judgment as to 
 their flavour ; and we went a.way with our pockets stuffed with 
 those that we liked best. As we had passed to the orchard, 
 Holdsworth had admired and spoken about some flower which he 
 saw ; it so happened he had never seen this old-fashioned kind 
 since the days of his boyhood. I do not know whether he had 
 thought anything more about this chance speech of his, but I 
 know I had not — when Phillis, who had been missing just at the 
 last moment of our hurried visit, re-appeared with a little nosegay 
 of this same flower, which she was tying up with a blade of grass. 
 She offered it to Holdsworth as he stood with her father on the 
 point of departure. I saw their faces. I saw for the first time an 
 unmistakable look of love in his black eyes ; it was more than 
 gratitude for the little attention ; it was tender and beseeching — . 
 passionate. She shrank from it in confusion, her glance fell on 
 me ; and, partly to hide her emotion, partly out of real kindness at 
 what might appear ungracious neglect of an older friend, she flew 
 off to gather me a few late-blooming China roses. But it was the 
 first time she had ever done anything of the kind for me. 
 
 We had to walk fast to be back on the line before the men's re- 
 turn, so we spoke but little to each other, and of course the after- 
 noon was too much occupied for us to have any talk. In the 
 evening we went back to our joint lodgings in Hornby. There, on 
 the table, lay a letter for Holdsworth, which had been forwarded 
 to him from Eltham. As our tea was ready, and I had had 
 nothing to eat since morning, I fell to directly, without paying 
 much attention to my companion as he opened and read his letter. 
 He was very silent for a few minutes ; at length he said — 
 
 " Old fellow ! I'm going to leave you?" 
 
 " Leave me !" said I. "How? When?" 
 
 " This letter ought to have come to hand sooner. It is from 
 Greathed the engineer " (Greathed was w^ell known in those days ; 
 he is dead now, and his name half- forgotten) ; " he wants to see 
 me about some business ; in fact, I may as well tell you, Paul, 
 this letter contains a very advantageous proposal for me to go out 
 to Canada, and superintend the making of a Hne there. 
 
 I was in utter dismay. 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 219 
 
 "But what will our company say to that? " 
 
 ' ' Oh, Greathed has the superintendence of this line, you 
 know ; and he is going to be engineer-in-chief to this Canadian 
 line : many of the shareholders in this company are going in for 
 the other, so I fancy they will make no difficulty in following 
 Greathed's lead. He says he has a young man ready to put in 
 my place." 
 
 " I hate him," said I. 
 
 "Thank you," said Holdsworth, laughing. 
 
 " But you must not," he resumed ; "for this is a very good 
 thing for me ; and, of course, if no one can be found to take my 
 inferior work, I can't be spared to take the superior. I only wish 
 I had received this letter a day sooner. Every hour is of conse- 
 quence, for Greathed says they are threatening a rival line. Do 
 you know, Paul, I almost fancy I must go up to-night ? I can 
 take an engine back to Eltham, and catch the night train. I 
 should not like Greathed to think me lukewarm." 
 
 "But you'll come back?" I asked, distressed at the thouglit 
 of this sudden parting. 
 
 "Oh, yes! At least I hope so. They may want me to go 
 out by the next steamer, that will be on Saturday." He began 
 to eat and drink standing, but I think he was quite unconscious 
 of the nature of either his food or his drink. 
 
 " J. will go to-night. Activity and readiness go a long way in 
 our profession. Remember that, my boy ! I hope I shall come 
 back, but if I don't, be sure and recollect all the words of 
 wisdom that have fallen from my lips. Now, where's the port- 
 manteau ? If I can gain half-an-hour for a gathering up of my 
 things in Eltham, so much the better. I'm clear of debt any- 
 how ; and what I owe for my lodgings you can pay for me out 
 of my quarter's salary, due November 4th." 
 
 "Then you don't think you will come back?" I said de- 
 spondingly. 
 
 "I will come back some time, never fear," said he kindly. 
 " I may be back in a couple of days, having been found incom- 
 petent for the Canadian work ; or I may not be wanted to go 
 out so soon as I now anticipate. Anyhow, you don't suppose I 
 am going to forget you, Paul — this work out there ought not to 
 take me above two years, and, perhaps, after that, we may be 
 employed together again." 
 
 Perhaps ! I had very little hope. The same kind of happy 
 
220 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 days never return. However, I did all I could in helping 
 him : clothes, papers, books, instruments ; how we pushed and 
 struggled — how I stuffed. All was done in a much shorter time 
 than we had calculated upon, when I had run down to the sheds 
 to Older the engine. I was going to drive him to Eltham. We 
 sat ready for a summons. Holdsworth took up the little nose- 
 gay he had brought away from the Hope Farm, and had laid 
 on the mantelpiece on first coming into the room. He smelt at 
 it, and caressed it with his lips. 
 
 "What grieves me is that I did not know — that I have not 
 said good-bye to — to them." 
 
 He spoke in a grave tone, the shadow of the coming separa- 
 tion falling upon him at last. 
 
 "I will tell them," said I. "I am sure they will be very 
 sorry," Then we were silent. 
 
 " I never liked any family so much." 
 
 " I knew you would like them." 
 
 " How one's thoughts change, — this morning I was full of a 
 hope, Paul." He paused, and then he said — 
 
 " You put that sketch in carefully?" 
 
 " That outline of a head ? " asked I. But I knew he meant an 
 abortive sketch of Phillis, which had not been successful enough 
 for him to complete it with shading or colouring. 
 
 "Yes. What a sweet innocent face it is! and yet so — Oh, 
 dear ! " 
 
 He sighed and got up, his hands in his pockets, to walk up and 
 down the room in evident disturbance of mind. He suddenly 
 stopped opposite to me. 
 
 " You'll tell them how it all was. Be sure and tell the good 
 minister that I was so sorry not to wish him good-bye, and to 
 thank him and his wife for all their kindness. As for Phillis, — 
 please God in two years Til be back and tell her myself all in 
 my heart." 
 
 "You love Phillis, then?" said I. 
 
 " Love her ! — Yes, that I do. Who could help it, seeing her 
 as I have done? Her character as unusual and rare as her 
 beauty ! God bless her ! God keep her in her high tranquillity, 
 her pure innocence. — Two years ! It is a long time. But she 
 lives in such seclusion, almost like the sleeping beauty, Paul," — 
 (he was smiling now, though a minute before I had thought him 
 on the verge of tears) — "but I shall come back like a prince 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 221 
 
 from Canada, and waken her to my love. I can't help hoping 
 that it won't be difficult, eh, Paul?" 
 
 This touch of coxcombry displeased me a little, and I made 
 no answer. He went on, half apologetically — 
 
 " You see, the salary they offer me is large ; and besides that, 
 this experience will give me a name which will entitle me to 
 expect a still larger in any future undertaking." 
 
 " That won't influence Phillis." 
 
 " No ! but it will make me more ehgible in the eyes of her 
 father and mother." 
 
 I made no answer. 
 
 "You give me your best wishes, Paul," said he, almost 
 pleading. " You would like me for a cousin ? " 
 
 I heard the scream and whistle of the engine ready down at 
 the sheds. 
 
 "Ay, that I should," I rephed, suddenly softened towards my 
 friend now that he was going away, " I wish you were to be 
 married to-morrow, and I were to be best man." 
 
 ' ' Thank you, lad. Now for this cursed portmanteau (how 
 the minister would be shocked) ; but it is heavy ! " and off we 
 sped into the darkness. 
 
 He only just caught the night train at Eltham, and I slept, 
 desolately enough, at my old lodgings at Miss Dawson's, for 
 that ,night. Of course the next few days I was busier than ever, 
 doing both his work and my own. Then came a letter from 
 him, very short and affectionate. He was going out in the 
 Saturday steamer, as he had more than half expected ; and by 
 the following Monday the man who was to succeed him would be 
 down at Eltham. There was a P.S., with only these words : — 
 
 " My nosegay goes with me to Canada, but I do not need it 
 to remind me of Hope Farm." 
 
 Saturday came ; but it was very late before I could go out to 
 the farm. It was a frosty night, the stars shone clear above me, 
 and the road was crisping beneath my feet. They must have 
 heard my footsteps before I got up to the house. They were 
 sitting at their usual employments in the house-place when I 
 went in. Phillis's eyes went beyond me in their look of welcome, 
 and then fell in quiet disappointment on her work. 
 
 "And Where's Mr. Holdsworth?" asked cousin Holman, in 
 a minute or two. " I hope his cold is not worse, — I did not hke 
 his short cough." 
 
222 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 I laughed awkwardly ; for I felt that I was the bearer of 
 unpleasant news. 
 
 " His cold had need be better — for he's gone — gone away to 
 Canada ! " 
 
 I purposely looked away from Phillis, as I thus abruptly told 
 my news. 
 
 " To Canada ! " said the minister. 
 
 " Gone away ! " said his wife. 
 
 But no word from Phillis. 
 
 " Yes ! " said I. " He found a letter at Hornby when we got 
 home the other night — when we got home from here ; he ought 
 to have got it sooner; he was ordered to go up to London 
 directly, and to see some people about a new line in Canada, 
 and he's gone to lay it down ; he has sailed to-day. He was 
 sadly grieved not to have time to come out and wish you all 
 good-bye ; but he started for London within two hours after he 
 got that letter. He bade me thank you most gratefully for all 
 your kindnesses ; he was very sorry not to come here once 
 again." 
 
 Phillis got up and left the room with noiseless steps. 
 
 " I am very sorry," said the minister. 
 
 ' ' I am sure so am I ! " said cousin Holman. ' ' I was real fond 
 of that lad ever since I nursed him last June after that bad fever." 
 
 The minister went on asking me questions respecting Holds- 
 worth's future plans ; and brought out a large old-fashioned 
 atlas, that he might find out the exact places between which 
 the new railroad was to run. Then supper was ready ; it was 
 always on the table as soon as the clock on the stairs struck eight, 
 and down came Phillis — her face white and set, her dry eyes 
 looking defiance at me, for I am afraid I hurt her maidenly 
 pride by my glance of sympathetic interest as she entered the 
 room. Never a word did she say — never a question did she 
 ask about the absent friend, yet she forced herself to talk. 
 
 And so it was all the next day. She was as pale as could be, 
 like one who has received some shock ; but she would not let 
 me talk to her, and she tried hard to behave as usual. Two 
 or three times I repeated, in public, the various affectionate 
 messages to the family with which I was charged by Holds- 
 worth ; but she took no more notice of them than if my words 
 had been empty air. And in this mood I left her on the Sabbath 
 evening. 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 223 
 
 My new master was not half so indulgent as my old one. 
 He kept up strict discipline as to hours, so that it was some 
 time before I could again go out, even to pay a call at the Hope 
 Farm. 
 
 It was a cold misty evening in November. The air, even in- 
 doors, seemed full of haze ; yet there was a great log burning on 
 the hearth, which ought to have made the room cheerful. Cousin 
 Holman and Phillis were sitting at the little round table before 
 the fire, working away in silence. The minister had his books 
 out on the dresser, seemingly deep in study, by the light of his 
 solitary candle ; perhaps the fear of disturbing him made the 
 unusual stillness of the room. But a welcome was ready for me 
 from all ; not noisy, not demonstrative — that it never was ; my 
 damp wrappers were taken off, the next meal was hastened, and 
 a chair placed for me on one side the fire, so that I pretty much 
 commanded a view of the room. My eye caught on Phillis, 
 looking so pale and weary, and with a sort of aching tone (if I 
 may call it so) in her voice. She was doing all the accustomed 
 things — fulfilling small household duties, but somehow differently 
 — I can't tell you how, for she was just as deft and quick in her 
 movements, only the light spring was gone out of them. Cousin 
 Holman began to question me ; even the minister put aside his 
 books, and came and stood on the opposite side of the fireplace, 
 to hear what waft of intelligence I brought. I had first to tell 
 them why I had not been to see them for so long — more than 
 five weeks. The answer was simple enough ; business and the 
 necessity of attending strictly to the orders of a new superinten- 
 dent, who had not yet learned trust, much less indulgence. The 
 minister nodded his approval of my conduct, and said — 
 
 "Right, Paul! 'Servants, obey in all things your masters 
 according to the flesh.' I have had my fears lest you had too 
 much license under Edward Holdsworth." 
 
 " Ah," said cousin Holman, " poor Mr. Holdsworth, he'll be 
 on the salt seas by this time ! " 
 
 "No, indeed," said I, "he's landed. I have had a letter 
 from him from Halifax." 
 
 Immediately a shower of questions fell thick upon me. When ? 
 How? What was he doing? How did he like it? What sort 
 of a voyage? &c. 
 
 " Many is the time we thought of him when the wind was 
 blowing so hard ; the old quince-tree is blown down, Paul, that 
 
2 24 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 on the right hand of the great pear-tree ; it was blown down last 
 Monday week, and it was that night that I asked the minister to 
 pray in an especial manner for all them that went down in ships 
 upon the great deep, and he said then, that Mr. Holdsworth 
 might be already landed ; but I said, even if the prayer did not 
 fit him, it was sure to be fitting somebody out at sea, who would 
 need the Lord's care. Both Phillis and I thought he would be 
 a month on the seas." 
 
 Phillis began to speak, but her voice did not come rightly at 
 first. It was a httle higher pitched than usual, when she said — 
 
 "We thought he would be a month if he went in a sailing- 
 vessel, or perhaps longer. I suppose he went in a steamer?" 
 
 ' ' Old Obadiah Grimshaw was more than six weeks in getting 
 to America," observed cousin Holman. 
 
 " I presume he cannot as yet tell how he likes his new work ? " 
 asked the minister. 
 
 ' ' No ! he is but just landed ; it is but one page long. I'll read 
 it to you, shall I ? — ■ 
 
 " ' Dear Paul, — We are safe on shore, after a rough passage. 
 Thought you would like to hear this, but homeward-bound 
 steamer is making signals for letters. Will write again soon. 
 It seems a year since I left Hornby. Longer since I was at the 
 farm. I have got my nosegay safe. Remember me to the 
 Holmans. — Yours, ' E. H.' " 
 
 " That's not much, certainly," said the minister. " But it's a 
 comfort to know he's on land these blowy nights." 
 
 Phillis said nothing. She kept her head bent down over her 
 work ; but I don't think she put a stitch in, while I was reading 
 the letter. I wondered if she understood what nosegay was 
 meant ; but I could not tell. When next she lifted up her face, 
 there were two spots of brilliant colotir on the cheeks that had 
 been so pale before. After I had spent an hour or two there, I 
 was bound to return back to Hornby. I told them I did not know 
 when I could come again, as we — by which I mean the company 
 — had undertaken the Hensleydale line ; that branch for which 
 poor Holdsworth was surveying when he caught his fever. 
 
 "But you'll have a holiday at Christmas," said my cousin. 
 *' Surely they'll not be such heathens as to work you then?" 
 
 " Perhaps the lad will be going home," said the minister, as if 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 225 
 
 to mitigate his wife's urgency ; but for all that, I believe he 
 wanted me to come. Phillis fixed her eyes on me with a wist- 
 ful expression, hard to resist. Rut, indeed, I bad no thought of 
 resisting. Under my new master I had no hope of a holiday long 
 enough to enable me to go to Birmingham and see my parents 
 with any comfort ; and nothing could be pleasanter to me than to 
 find myself at home at my cousin's for a day or two, then. So it 
 was fixed that we were to meet in Hornby Chapel on Christmas 
 Day, and that I was to accompany them home after service, and 
 if possible to stay over the next day. 
 
 I was not able to get to chapel till late on the appointed day, 
 and so I took a seat near the door in considerable shame, although 
 it really was not my fault. When the service was ended I went 
 and stood in the porch to await the coming out of my cousins. 
 Some worthy people belonging to the congregation clustered into 
 a group just where I stood, and exchanged the good wishes of 
 the season. It had just begun to snow, and this occasioned a 
 little delay, and they fell into further conversation. I was not 
 attending to what was not meant for me to hear, till I caught 
 the name of Phillis Holman. And then I listened ; where was 
 the harm? 
 
 " I never saw any one so changed ! " 
 
 " I asked Mrs. Holman," quoth another, " ' Is Phillis well?' 
 and she just said she had been having a cold which had pulled 
 her down ; she did not seem to think anything of it." 
 
 " They had best take care of her," said one of the oldest of the 
 good ladies; " Phillis comes of a family as is not long-lived. Her 
 mother's sister, Lydia Green, her own aunt as was, died of a 
 decline just when she was about this lass's age." 
 
 This ill-omened talk was broken in upon by the coming out of 
 the minister, his wife and daughter, and the consequent inter- 
 change of Christmas compliments. I had had a shock, and felt 
 heavy-hearted and anxious, and hardly up to making the appro- 
 priate replies to the kind greetings of my relations. I looked 
 askance at Phillis. She had certainly grown taller and slighter, 
 and was thinner ; but there was a flush of colour on her face which 
 deceived me for a time, and made me think she was looking as 
 well as ever. I only saw her paleness after we had returned to 
 the farm, and she had subsided into silence and quiet. Her grey 
 eyes looked hollow and sad ; her complexion was of a dead white. 
 
226 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 But she went about just as usual ; at least, just as she had done 
 the last time I was there, and seemed to have no ailment ; and I 
 was inclined to think that my cousin was right when she had 
 answered the inquiries of the good-natured gossips, and told them 
 that Phillis was suffering from the consequences of a bad cold, 
 nothing more. 
 
 I have said that I was to stay over the next day ; a great deal 
 of snow had come down, but not all, they said, though the ground 
 was covered deep with the white fall. The minister was anxiously 
 housing his cattle, and preparing all things for a long continuance 
 of the same kind of weather. The men were chopping wood, 
 sending wheat to the mill to be ground before the road should be- 
 come impassable for a cart and horse. My cousin and Phillis had 
 gone upstairs to the apple-room to cover up the fruit from the 
 frost. I had been out the greater part of the morning, and came 
 in about an hour before dinner. To mysurprise, knowing how she 
 had planned to be engaged, I found Phillis sitting at the dresser, 
 resting her head on her two hands and reading, or seeming to read. 
 She did not look up when I came in, but murmured something 
 about her mother having sent her down out of the cold. It 
 flashed across me that she was crying, but I put it down to some 
 little spirt of temper ; I might have known better than to suspect 
 the gentle, serene Phillis of crossness, poor girl ; I stooped down, 
 and began to stir and build up the fire, which appeared to have 
 been neglected. While my head was down I heard a noise which 
 made me pause and listen — a sob, an unmistakable, irrepressible 
 sob. I started up. 
 
 " PhilHs ! " I cried, going towards her, with my hand out, to 
 take hers for sympathy with her sorrow, whatever it was. But 
 she was too quick for me, she held her hand out of my grasp, 
 for fear of my detaining her ; as she quickly passed out of the 
 house, she said — 
 
 "Don't, Paul ! I cannot bear it ! " and passed me, still sobbing, 
 and went out into the keen, open air. 
 
 I stood still and wondered. What could have come to Phillis ? 
 The most perfect harmony prevailed in the family, and Phillis 
 especially, good and gentle as she was, was so beloved that if 
 they had found out that her finger ached, it would have cast a 
 shadow over their hearts. Had I done anything to vex her? 
 No : she was crying before I came in. I went to look at her 
 book — one of those unintelligible Italian books. I could make 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 227 
 
 neither head nor tail of it. I saw some pencil-notes on the margin, 
 in Holdsworth's handwriting. 
 
 Could that be it? Could that be the cause of her white looks, 
 her weary eyes, her wasted figure, her struggling sobs? This 
 idea came upon me like a flash of lightning on a dark night, 
 making all things so clear we cannot forget them afterwards when 
 the gloomy obscurity returns. I was still standing with the book 
 in my hand when I heard cousin Holman's footsteps on the stairs, 
 and as I did not wish to speak to her just then, I followed Phillis's 
 example, and rushed out of the house. The snow was lying on 
 the ground ; I could track her feet by the marks they had made ; 
 I could see where Rover had joined her. I followed on till I 
 came to a great stack of wood in the orchard— it was built up 
 against the back wall of the outbuildings, — and I recollected then 
 how Phillis had told me, that first day when we strolled about 
 together, that underneath this stack had been her hermitage, her 
 sanctuary, when she was a child ; how she used to bring her book 
 to study there, or her work, when she was not wanted in the 
 house; and she had now evidently gone back to this quiet retreat 
 of her childhood, forgetful of the clue given me by her footmarks 
 on the new-fallen snow. The stack was built up very high ; but 
 through the interstices of the sticks I could see her figure, 
 although I did not all at once perceive how I could get to her. 
 She was sitting on a log of wood, Rover by her. She had laid 
 her cheek on Rover's head, and had her arm round his neck, 
 partly for a pillow, partly from an instinctive craving for warmth 
 on that bitter cold day. She was making a low moan, like an 
 animal in pain, or perhaps more like the sobbing of the wind. 
 Rover, highly flattered by her caress, and also, perhaps, touched 
 by sympathy, was flapping his heavy tail against the ground, but 
 not otherwise moving a hair, until he heard my approach with 
 his quick erect ears. Then, with a short, abrupt bark of dis- 
 trust, he sprang up as if to leave his mistress. Both he and I 
 were immovably still for a moment. I was not sure if what I 
 longed to do was wise ; and yet I could not bear to see the sweet 
 serenity of my dear cousin's life so disturbed by a suffering which 
 I thought I could assuage. But Rover's ears were sharper than 
 my breathing was noiseless : he heard me, and sprang out from 
 under Phillis's restraining hand. 
 
 "Oh, Rover, don't you leave me too," she plained out. 
 
 " Phillis ! " said I, seeing by Rover's exit that the entrance to 
 
2 28 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 where she sat was to be found on the other side of the stack. 
 ' ' PhilHs, come out ! You have got a cold ah-eady ; and it is not 
 fit for you to sit there on such a day as this. You know how 
 displeased and anxious it would make them all." 
 
 She sighed, but obeyed ; stooping a little, she came out, and 
 stood upright, opposite to me in the lonely, leafless orchard. Her 
 face looked so meek and so sad that I felt as if I ought to beg her 
 pardon for my necessarily authoritative words. 
 
 ' ' Sometimes I feel the house so close," she said ; " and I used 
 to sit under the wood-stack when I was a child. It was very 
 kind of you, but there was no need to come after me. I don't 
 catch cold easily." 
 
 "Come with me into this cow-house, Phillis. I have got 
 something to say to you ; and I can't stand this cold, if you can." 
 
 I think she would have fain run away again ; but her fit of 
 energy was all spent. She followed me unwillingly enough — that 
 I could see. The place to which I took her was full of the 
 fragrant breath of the cows, and was a little warmer than the 
 outer air. I put her inside, and stood myself in the doorway, 
 thinking how I could best begin. At last I plunged into it. 
 
 "I must see that you don't get cold for more reasons than one ; 
 if you are ill, Holdsworth will be so anxious and miserable out 
 there " (by which I meant Canada) — 
 
 She shot one penetrating look at me, and then turned her face 
 away with a slightly impatient movement. If she could have run 
 away then she would, but I held the means of exit in my own 
 power. " In for a penny in for a pound," thought I, and I went 
 on rapidly, anyhow. 
 
 " He talked so much about you, just before he left — that night 
 after he had been here, you know— and you had given him. those 
 flowers." She put her hands up to hide her face, but she was 
 listening now— listening with all her ears. 
 
 " He had never spoken much about you before, but the sudden 
 going away unlocked his heart, and he told me how he loved 
 you, and how he hoped on his return that you might be his wife." 
 
 "Don't," said she, almost gasping out the word, which she 
 had tried once or twice before to speak ; but her voice had been 
 choked. Now she put her hand backwards ; she had quite 
 turned away from me, and felt for mine. She gave it a soft 
 lingering pressure ; and then she put her arms down on the 
 wooden division., and laid her head on it, and cried quiet tears. 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 229 
 
 I did not understand her at once, and feared lest I had mis- 
 taken the whole case, and only annoyed her. I went up to her. 
 "Oh, Phillis ! I am so sorry — I thought you would, perhaps, 
 have cared to hear it ; he did talk so feelingly, as if he did 
 love you so much, and somehow I thought it would give you 
 pleasure." 
 
 She lifted up her head and looked at me. Such a look ! Her 
 -eyes, glittering with tears as they were, expressed an almost 
 heavenly happiness ; her tender mouth was curved with rapture 
 — her colour vivid and blushing ; but as if she was afraid her 
 face expressed too much, more than the thankfulness to me 
 she was essaying to speak, she hid it again almost immediately. 
 •So it was all right then, and my conjecture was well founded. 
 I tried to remember something more to tell her of what he had 
 said, but again she stopped me. 
 
 " Don't," she said. She still kept her face covered and hidden. 
 In half a minute she added, in a very low voice, " Please, Paul, I 
 think I would rather not hear any more — I don't mean but what 
 
 I have — but what I am very much obliged Only — only, 1 
 
 think I would rather hear the rest from himself when he comes 
 back." 
 
 And then she cried a little more, in quite a different way. I 
 'did not say any more, I waited for her. By-and-by she turned 
 towards me — not meeting my eyes, however ; and putting her 
 hand in mine, just as if we were two children, she said — 
 
 "We had best go back now — I don't look as if I had been 
 crying, do I? 
 
 ' ' You look as if you had a bad cold," was all the answer I made. 
 
 " Oh ! but I am — I am quite well, only cold ; and a good run 
 will warm me. Come along, Paul." 
 
 So we ran, hand in hand, till, just as we were on the threshold 
 of the house, she stopped — 
 
 " Paul, please, we won't speak about that again," 
 
230 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 When I went over on Easter Day, I heard the chapel-gossips 
 complimenting cousin Holman on her daughter's blooming looks, 
 quite forgetful of their sinister prophecies three months before. 
 And I looked at Phillis, and did not wonder at their words. I 
 had not seen her since the day after Christmas Day. I had left 
 the Hope Farm only a few hours after I had told her the news 
 which had quickened her heart into renewed life and vigour. The 
 remembrance of our conversation in the cow-house was vividly in 
 my mind as I looked at her when her bright healthy appearance 
 was remarked upon. As her eyes met mine our mutual recollec- 
 tions flashed intelhgence from one to the other. She turned away, 
 her colour heightening as she did so. She seemed to be shy of 
 me for the first few hours after our meeting, and I felt rather 
 vexed with her for her conscious avoidance of me after my long 
 absence. I had stepped a little out of my usual line in telling her 
 what I did ; not that I had received any charge of secrecy, or 
 given even the sliglitest promise to Holdsworth that I would not 
 repeat his words. But I had an uneasy feehng sometimes when I 
 thought of what I had done in the excitement of seeing Phillis so 
 ill and in so much trouble. I meant to have told Holdsworth 
 when I wrote next to him ; but when I had my half-finished letter 
 before me I sate with my pen in my hand hesitating. I had more 
 scruple in reveahng what I had found out or guessed at of PhiUis's 
 secret than in repeating to her his spoken words. I did not think 
 I had any right to say out to him what I believed — namely, that 
 she loved him dearly, and had felt his absence even to the injury 
 of her health. Yet to explain what I had done in telling her how 
 he had spoken about her that last night, it would be necessary to 
 give my reasons, so I had settled within myself to leave it alone. 
 As she had told me she should like to hear all the details and 
 fuller particulars and more explicit declarations first from him, so 
 he should have the pleasure of extracting the delicious tender 
 secret from her maidenly lips. I would not betray my guesses, 
 my surmises, my all but certain knowledge of the state of her 
 heart. I had received two letters from him after he had settled 
 to his business ; they were full of life and energy ; but in each 
 there had been a message to the family at the Hope Farm of more 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 231 
 
 than common regard ; and a slight but distinct mention of Phillis 
 herself, showing that she stood single and alone in his memory. 
 These letters I had sent on to the minister, for he was sure to care 
 for them, even supposing he had been unacquainted with their 
 writer, because they were so clever and so picturesquely worded 
 that they brought, as it were, a whiff of foreign atmosphere into 
 his circumscribed life. I used to wonder what was the trade or 
 business in which the minister would not have thriven, mentally 
 I mean, if it had so happened that he had been called into that 
 state. He would have made a capital engineer, that I know; and 
 he had a fancy for the sea, like many other land-locked men to 
 whom the great deep is a mystery and a fascination. He read 
 law-books with relish ; and once happening to borrow ' ' De Lolme 
 on the British Constitution " (or some such title), he talked about 
 jurisprudence till he was far beyond my depth. But to return to 
 Holdsworth's letters. When the minister sent them back he also 
 wrote out a list of questions suggested by their perusal, which I 
 was to pass on in my answers to Holdsworth, until I thought of 
 suggesting a direct correspondence between the two. That was 
 the state of things as regarded the absent one when I went to the 
 farm for my Easter visit, and when I found Phillis in that state of 
 shy reserve towards me which I have named before. I thought 
 she was ungrateful ; for I was not quite sure if I had done wisely 
 in having told her what I did. I had committed a fault, or a 
 folly, perhaps, and all for her sake ; and here was she, less 
 friends with me than she had ever been before. This little 
 estrangement only lasted a few hours. I think that as soon as 
 she felt pretty sure of there being no recurrence, either by word, 
 look, or allusion, to the one subject that was predominant in 
 her mind, she came back to her old sisterly ways with me. She 
 had much to tell me of her own familiar interests ; how Rover 
 had been ill, and how anxious they had all of them been, and 
 how, after some little discussion between her father and her, 
 both equally grieved by the sufferings of the old dog, he had 
 been *' remembered in the household prayers," and how he had 
 begun to get better only the very next day, and then she would 
 have led me into a conversation on the right ends of prayer, and 
 on special providences, and I know not what ; only I "jibbed" 
 like their old cart-horse, and refused to stir a step in that 
 direction. Then we talked about the different broods of 
 chickens, and she showed me the hens that were good mothers, 
 
232 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 and told me the characters of all the poultry with the utmost 
 good faith ; and in all good faith I listened, for I believe there 
 was a great deal of truth in all she said. And then we strolled 
 on into the wood beyond the ash-meadow, and both of us sought 
 for early primroses, and the fresh green crinkled leaves. She 
 was not afraid of being alone with me after the first day. I 
 never saw her so lovely, or so happy. I think she hardly knew 
 why she was so happy all the time. I can see her now, standing 
 under the budding branches of the grey trees, over which a 
 tinge of green seemed to be deepening day after day, her sun- 
 bonnet fallen back on her neck, her hands full of delicate wood- 
 fiovvers, quite unconscious of my gaze, but intent on sweet 
 mockery of some bird in neighbouring bush or tree. She had 
 the art of warbling, and replying to the notes of different birds, 
 and knew their song, their habits and ways, more accurately 
 than any one else I ever knew. She had often done it at my 
 request the spring before ; but this year she really gurgled, and 
 whistled, and warbled just as they did, out of the very fulness 
 and joy of her heart. She was more than ever the very apple of 
 her father's eye ; her mother gave her both her own share of love 
 and that of the dead child who had died in infancy. I have 
 heard cousin Holman murmur, after a long dreamy look at 
 Phillis, and tell herself how like she was growing to Johnnie, 
 and soothe herself with plaintive inarticulate sounds, and many 
 gentle shakes of the head, for the aching sense of loss she would 
 never get over in this world. The old servants about the place 
 had the dumb loyal attachment to the child of the land, common 
 to most agricultural labourers ; not often stirred into activity or 
 expression. My cousin Phillis was hke a rose that had come to 
 full bloom on the sunny side of a lonely house, sheltered from 
 storms. I have read in some book of poetry — 
 
 " A maid whom there were none to praise. 
 And very few to love." 
 
 And somehow those lines always reminded me of Philhs ; yet 
 they were not true of her either. I never heard her praised ; 
 and out of her own household there were very few to love her ; 
 but though no one spoke out their approbation, she always did 
 right in her parents' eyes, out of her natural simple goodness 
 and wisdom. Holdsworth's name was never mentioned between 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 233 
 
 us when we were alone ; but I had sent on his letters to the 
 minister, as I have said ; and more than once he began to talk 
 about our absent friend, when he was smoking his pipe after 
 the day's work was done. Then PhiUis hung her head a little 
 over her work, and listened in silence. 
 
 "I miss him more than I thought for; no offence to you, 
 Paul. I said once his company was like dram-drinking ; that 
 was before I knew him ; and perhaps I spoke in a spirit of 
 judgment. To some men's minds everything presents itself 
 strongly, and they speak accordingly ; and so did he. And 
 I thought in my vanity of censorship that his were not true and 
 sober words ; they would not have been if I had used them, but 
 they were so to a man of his class of perceptions. I thought of 
 the measure with which I had been meting to him when Brother 
 Robinson was here last Thursday, and told me that a poor little 
 quotation I was making from the Georgics savoured of vain 
 babbling and profane heathenism. He went so far as to say 
 that by learning other languages than our own, we were flying 
 in the face of the Lord's purpose when He had said, at the 
 building of the Tower of Babel, that He would confound their 
 languages so that they should not understand each other's 
 speech. As Brother Robinson was to me, so was I to the quick 
 wits, bright senses, and ready words of Holdsworth." 
 
 The first little cloud upon my peace came in the shape of a 
 letter from Canada, in which there were two or three sentences 
 that troubled me more than they ought to have done, to judge 
 merely from the words employed. It was this : — " I should feel 
 dreary enough in this out-of-the-way place if it were not for a 
 friendship I have formed with a French Canadian of the name 
 of Ventadour. He and his family are a great resource to me in 
 the long evenings. I never heard such delicious vocal music as 
 the voices of these Ventadour boys and girls in their part songs ; 
 and the foreign element retained in their characters and manner 
 of living reminds me of some of the happiest days of my life. 
 Lucille, the second daughter, is curiously like Phillis Holman." 
 In vain I said to myself that it was probably this likeness that 
 made him take pleasure in the society of the Ventadour family. 
 In vain I told my anxious fancy that nothing could be more 
 natural than this intimacy, and that there was no sign of its 
 leading to any consequence that ought to disturb me. I had a 
 presentiment, and I was disturbed ; and I could not reason it 
 
 H2 
 
234 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 away. I dare say my presentiment was rendered more per- 
 sistent and keen by the doubts which would force themselves 
 into my mind, as to whether I had done well in repeating 
 Holdsworth's words to PhiUis. Her state of vivid happiness 
 this summer was markedly different to the peaceful serenity of 
 former days. If in my thoughtfulness at noticing this I caught 
 her eye, she blushed and sparkled all over, guessing that I was 
 remembering our joint secret. Her eyes fell before mine, as if 
 she could hardly bear me to see the revelation of their bright 
 glances. And yet I considered again, and comforted myself 
 by the reflection that, if this change had been anything more 
 than my silly fancy, her father or her mother would have 
 perceived it. But they went on in tranquil unconsciousness 
 and undisturbed peace. 
 
 A change in my own life was quickly approaching. In the 
 
 July of this year my occupation on the railway and its 
 
 branches came to an end. The lines were completed, and I 
 
 was to leave shire, to return to Birmingham, where there 
 
 was a niche already provided for me in my father's prosperous 
 business. But before I left the north it was an understood thing 
 amongst us all that I was to go and pay a visit of some weeks at 
 the Hope Farm. My father was as much pleased at this plan 
 as I was ; and the dear family of cousins often spoke of things 
 to be done, and sights to be shown me, during this visit. My 
 want of wisdom in having told ' ' that thing " (under such ambigu- 
 ous words I concealed the injudicious confidence I had made to 
 PhiUis) was the only drawback to my anticipations of pleasure. 
 
 The ways of life were too simple at the Hope Farm for my 
 coming to them to make the slightest disturbance. I knew my 
 room, like a son of the house. I knew the regular course of 
 their days, and that I was expected to fall into it, like one of the 
 family. Deep summer peace brooded over the place ; the warm 
 golden air was filled with the murmur of insects near at hand, 
 the more distant sound of voices out in the fields, the clear far- 
 away rumble of carts over the stone-paved lanes miles away. 
 The heat was too great for the birds to be singing ; only now 
 and then one might hear the wood-pigeons in the trees beyond 
 the ash-field. The cattle stood knee-deep in the pond, flicking 
 their tails about to keep off the flies. The minister stood in the 
 hay-field, without hat or cravat, coat or waistcoat, panting and 
 smiling. Phillis had been leading the row of farm-servants, turn- 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 235 
 
 ing the swathes of fragrant hay with measured movement. She 
 went to the end — to the hedge, and then, throwing down her 
 rake, she came to me with her free sisterly welcome. "Go, 
 Paul ! " said the minister. "We need all hands to make use of 
 the sunshine to-day. ' Whatsoever thine hand findeth to do, do 
 it with all thy might.' It will be a healthy change of work for 
 thee, lad; and I find my best rest in change of work." So 
 off I went, a willing labourer, following Phillis's lead ; it was 
 the primitive distinction of rank ; the boy who frightened the 
 sparrows off the fruit was the last in our rear. We did not leave 
 off till the red sun was gone down behind the fir-trees bordering 
 the common. Then we went home to supper — prayers — to 
 bed ; some bird singing far into the night, as I heard it through 
 my open window, and the poultry beginning their clatter and 
 cackle in the earliest morning. I had carried what luggage 
 I immediately needed with me from my lodgings, and the rest 
 was to be sent by the carrier. He brought it to the farm be- 
 times that morning, and along with it he brought a letter or two 
 that had arrived since I had left. I was talking to cousin Hol- 
 man — about my mother's ways of making bread, I remember ; 
 cousin Holman was questioning me, and had got me far beyond 
 my depth — in the house-place, when the letters were brought in 
 by one of the men, and I had to pay the carrier for his trouble 
 before I could look at them. A bill — a Canadian letter ! What 
 instinct made me so thankful that I was alone with my dear 
 unobservant cousin? What made me hurry them away into 
 my coat-pocket? I do not know. I felt strange and sick, and 
 made irrelevant answers, I am afraid. Then I went to my 
 room, ostensibly to carry up my boxes. I sate on the side of 
 my bed and opened my letter from Holdsworth. It seemed to 
 me as if I had read its contents before, and knew exactly what 
 he had got to say. I knew he was going to be married to 
 Lucille Ventadour ; nay, that he was married ; for this was the 
 5th of July, and he wrote word that his marriage was fixed to 
 take place on the 29th of June. I knew all the reasons he gave, 
 all the raptures he went into. I held the letter loosely in my 
 hands, and looked into vacancy, yet I saw a chaffinch's nest on 
 the lichen-covered trunk of an old apple-tree opposite my 
 window, and saw the m.other-bird come fluttering in to feed her 
 brood— and yet I did not see it, although it seemed to me after- 
 wards as if I could have drawn every fibre, every feather. I was 
 
236 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 stirred up to action by the merry sound of voices and the clamp 
 of rustic feet coming home for the mid-day meal. I knew I 
 must go down to dinner ; I knew, too, I must tell Phillis ; for 
 in his happy egotism, his new-fangled foppery, Holdsworth 
 had put in a P.S., saying that he should send wedding-cards to 
 me and some other Hornby and Eltham acquaintances, and 
 "to his kind friends at Hope Farm." Phillis had faded away 
 to one among several "kind friends." I don't know how I got 
 through dinner that day. I remember forcing myself to eat, 
 and talking hard ; but I also recollect the wondering look in the 
 minister's eyes. He was not one to think evil without cause ; 
 but many a one would have taken me for drunk. As soon as I 
 decently could I left the table, saying I would go out for a walk. 
 At first I must have tried to stun reflection by rapid walking, for 
 1 had lost myself on the high moorlands far beyond the familiar 
 gorse-covered common, before I was obliged for very weariness 
 to slacken my pace. I kept wishing — oh ! how fervently wish- 
 ing I had never committed that blunder ; that the one little half- 
 hour's indiscretion could be blotted out. Alternating with this 
 was anger against Holdsworth ; unjust enough, I dare say. I 
 suppose I stayed in that solitary place for a good hour or more, 
 and then I turned homewards, resolving to get over the telling 
 Phillis at the first opportunity, but shrinking from the fulfilment 
 of my resolution so much that when I came into the house and 
 saw Phillis (doors and windows open wide in the sultry weather) 
 alone in the kitchen, I became quite sick with apprehension. 
 She was standing by the dresser, cutting up a great household 
 loaf into hunches of bread for the hungry labourers who might 
 come in any minute, for the heavy thunderclouds were over- 
 spreading the sky. She looked round as she heard my step. 
 
 "You should have been in the field, helping with the hay," 
 said she, in her calm, pleasant voice. I had heard her as I came 
 near the house softly chanting some hymn-tune, and the peaceful- 
 ness of that seemed to be brooding over her now. 
 
 " Perhaps I should. It looks as if it was going to rain." 
 
 " Yes, there is thunder about. Mother has had to go to bed 
 with one of her bad headaches. Now you are come in " 
 
 " Phillis," said I, rushing at my subject and interrupting her, 
 " I went a long walk to think over a letter I had this morning — a 
 letter from Canada. You don't know how it has grieved me. " I 
 held it out to her as I spoke. Her colour changed a little, but it 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 237 
 
 was more the reflection of my face, I think, than because she 
 formed any definite idea from my words. Still she did not take 
 the letter. I had to bid her read it, before she quite understood 
 what I wished. She sate down rather suddenly as she received 
 it into her hands ; and, spreading it on the dresser before her, she 
 rested her forehead on the palms of her hands, her arms supported 
 on the table, her figure a little averted, and her countenance thus 
 shaded. I looked out of the open window ; my heart was very 
 heavy. How peaceful it all seemed in the farmyard ! Peace and 
 plenty. How still and deep was the silence of the house ! Tick- 
 tick went the unseen clock on the wide staircase. I had heard 
 the rustle once, when she turned over the page of thin paper. She 
 must have read to the end. Yet she did not move, or say a word, 
 or even sigh. I kept on looking out of the window, my hands in 
 my pockets. I wonder how long that time really was? It seemed 
 to me interminable — unbearable. At length I looked round at 
 her. She must have felt my look, for she changed her attitude 
 with a quick sharp movement, and caught my eyes. 
 
 "Don't look so sorry, Paul," she said. "Don't, please. I can't 
 bear it. There is nothing to be sorry for. I think not, at least. 
 You have not done wrong, at any rate." I felt that I groaned, 
 but I don't think she heard me. "And he, — there's no wrong in 
 his marrying, is there ? I'm sure I hope he'll be happy. Oh ! 
 how I hope it ! " These last words were like a wail ; but I be- 
 lieve she was afraid of breaking down, for she changed the key in 
 which she spoke, and hurried on. " Lucille — that's our English 
 Lucy, I suppose ? Lucille Holdsvvorth ! It's a pretty name ; and 
 
 I hope 1 forget what I was going to say. Oh ! it was this. 
 
 Paul, I think we need never speak about this again ; only remem- 
 ber you are not to be sorry. You have not done wrong ; you have 
 been very, very kind ; and if I see you looking grieved I don't 
 know what I might do ; — I might break down, you know." 
 
 I think she was on the point of doing so then, but the dark 
 storm came dashing down, and the thundercloud broke right 
 above the house, as it seemed. Her mother, roused from sleep, 
 called out for Phillis ; the men and women from the hayfield came 
 running into shelter, drenched through. The minister followed, 
 smiling, and not unpleasantly excited by the war of elements ; 
 for, by dint of hard work through the long summer's day, the 
 greater part of the hay was safely housed in the barn in the field. 
 Once or twice in the succeeding bustle I came across Phillis, 
 
238 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 always busy, and, as it seemed to me, always doing the right 
 thing. When I was alone in my own room at night I allowed 
 myself to feel relieved : and to believe that the worst was over, 
 and was not so very bad after all. But the succeeding days were 
 very miserable. Sometimes I thought it must be my fancy that 
 falsely represented Phillis to me as strangely changed, for surely, 
 if this idea of mine was well-founded, her parents — her father 
 and mother — her own flesh and blood — would have been the first 
 to perceive it. Yet they went on in their household peace and 
 content ; if anything, a little more cheerfully than usual, for the 
 "harvest of the first fruits," as the minister called it, had been 
 more bounteous than usual, and there was plenty all around, in 
 which the humblest labourer was made to share. After the one 
 thunderstorm, came one or two lovely serene summer days, during 
 which the hay was all carried ; and then succeeded long soft rains 
 fining the ears of corn, and causing the mown grass to spring 
 afresh. The minister allowed himself a few more hours of relaxa- 
 tion and home enjoyment than usual during this wet spell : hard 
 earth-bound frost was his winter holiday ; these wet days, after 
 the hay harvest, his summer holiday. We sate with open win- 
 dows, the fragrance and the freshness called out by the soft-falling^ 
 rain filling the house-place ; while the quiet ceaseless patter 
 among the leaves outside ought to have had the same lulling 
 effect as all other gentle perpetual sounds, such as mill-wheels 
 and bubbling springs, have on the nerves of happy people. But 
 two of us were not happy. I was sure enough of myself, for one. 
 I was worse than sure, — I was wretchedly anxious about Phillis. 
 Ever since that day of the thunderstorm there had been a new, 
 sharp, discordant sound to me in her voice, a sort of jangle in her 
 tone ; and her restless eyes had no quietness in them ; and her 
 colour came and went without a cause that I could find out. The 
 minister, happy in ignorance of what most concerned him, brought 
 out his books ; his learned volumes and classics. Whether he 
 read and talked to Phillis, or to me, I do not know ; but feeling 
 by instinct that she was not, could not be, attending to the peace- 
 ful details, so strange and foreign to the turmoil in her heart, I 
 forced myself to listen, and if possible to understand. 
 
 "Look here!" said the minister, tapping the old vellum- 
 bound book he held ; "in the first Geologic he speaks of rolling 
 and irrigation ; a little further on he insists on choice of the best 
 seed, and advises us to keep the drains clear. Again, no Scotch 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 239 
 
 farmer could give shrewder advice than to cut hght meadows 
 while the dew is on, even though it involve night-work. It is all 
 living truth in these days." He began beating time with a ruler 
 upon his knee, to some Latin lines he read aloud just then. I 
 suppose the monotonous chant irritated Phillis to some irregular 
 energy, for I remember the quick knotting and breaking of the 
 thread with which she was sewing. I never hear that snap re- 
 peated now, without suspecting some sting or stab troubling the 
 heart of the worker. Cousin Holman, at her peaceful knitting, 
 noticed the reason why PhilHs had so constantly to interrupt the 
 progress of her seam. 
 
 "It is bad thread, I'm afraid," she said, in a gentle, sym- 
 pathetic voice. But it was too much for PhiUis. 
 
 "The thread is bad — everything is bad — I am so tired of it 
 all ! " And she put down her work, and hastily left the room. 
 I do not suppose that in all her life Phillis had ever shown so 
 much temper before. In many a family the tone, the manner, 
 would not have been noticed ; but here it fell with a sharp sur- 
 prise upon the sweet, calm atmosphere of home. The minister 
 put down ruler and book, and pushed his spectacles up to his 
 forehead. The mother looked distressed for a moment, and then 
 smoothed her features and said in an explanatory tone — "It's 
 the weather, I think. Some people feel it different to others. It 
 always brings on a headache with me." She got up to follow 
 her daughter, but half-way to the door she thought better of it, 
 and came back to her seat. Good mother ! she hoped the better 
 to conceal the unusual spirt of temper, by pretending not to 
 take much notice of it. "Go on, minister," she said; "it is 
 very interesting what you are reading about, and when I don't 
 quite understand it, I like the sound of your voice." So he went 
 on, but languidly and irregularly, and beat no more time with 
 his ruler to any Latin lines. When the dusk came on, early 
 that July night because of the cloudy sky, Phillis came softly 
 back, making as though nothing had happened. She took up 
 her work, but it was too dark to do many stitches ; and she 
 dropped it soon. Then I saw her hand stole into her mother's, 
 and how this latter fondled it with quiet little caresses, while the 
 minister, as fully aware as I was of this tender pantomime, went 
 on talking in a happier tone of voice about things as uninterest- 
 ing to him, at the time, I verily believe, as they were to me ; 
 and that is saying a good deal, and shows how much more real 
 
240 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 what was passing before him was, even to a farmer, than the 
 agricultural customs of the ancients. 
 
 I remember one thing more — an attack which Betty the servant 
 made upon me one day as I came in through the kitchen where she 
 was churning, and stopped to ask her for a drink of butter-milk. 
 
 "I say, cousin Paul" (she had adopted the family habit of 
 addressing me generally as cousin Paul, and always speaking 
 of me in that form), " something's amiss with our Phillis, and I 
 reckon you've a good guess what it is. She's not one to take 
 up wi' such as you" (not complimentary, but that Betty never 
 was, even to those for whom she felt the highest respect), "but 
 I'd as lief yon Holdsworth had never come near us. So there 
 you've a bit o' my mind." 
 
 And a very unsatisfactory bit it was. I did not know what to 
 answer to the glimpse at the real state of the case implied in the 
 shrewd woman's speech ; so I tried to put her off by assuming 
 surprise at her first assertion. 
 
 "Amiss with Phillis! I should like to know why you think 
 anything is wrong with her. She looks as blooming as any one 
 can do." 
 
 " Poor lad ! you're but a big child, after all ; and you've likely 
 never beared of a fever-flush. But you know better nor that, 
 my fine fellow ! so don't think for to put me off wi' blooms and 
 blossoms and such-like talk. What makes her walk about for 
 hours and hours o' nights when she used to be abed and asleep? 
 I sleep next room to her, and hear her plain as can be. What 
 makes her come in panting and ready to drop into that chair," 
 — nodding to one close to the door — " and it's ' Oh ! Betty, some 
 water, please?' That's the way she comes in now, when she 
 used to come back as fresh and bright as she went out. If yon 
 friend o' yours has played her false, he's a deal for t' answer for : 
 she's a lass who's as sweet and as sound as a nut, and the very 
 apple of her father's eye, and of her mother's too, only wi' her 
 she ranks second to th' minister. You'll have to look after yon 
 chap, for I, for one, will stand no wrong to our Phillis." 
 
 What was I to do, or to say? I wanted to justify Holdsworth, 
 to keep Phillis's secret, and to pacify the woman all in the same 
 breath. I did not take the best course, I'm afraid. 
 
 " I don't believe Holdsworth ever spoke a word of — of love to 
 her in all his life. I am sure he didn't." 
 
 "Ay, ay! but there's eyes, and there's hands, as well as 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 241 
 
 tongues ; and a man has two o' th' one and but one o' 
 t'other." 
 
 "And she's so young ; do you suppose her parents would not 
 have seen it?" 
 
 "Well ! if you ax me that, I'll say out boldly, ' No.' They've 
 called her ' the child ' so long — ' the child ' is always their name 
 for her when they talk on her between themselves, as if never 
 anybody else had a ewe-lamb before them — that she's grown up 
 to be a woman under their very eyes, and they look on her still 
 as if she were in her long clothes. And you ne'er heard on a 
 man falling in love wi' a babby in long clothes ! " 
 
 " No ! " said I, half laughing. But she went on as grave as a 
 judge. 
 
 " Ay ! you see you'll laugh at the bare thought on it — and I'll 
 be bound th' minister, though he's not a laughing man, would 
 ha' sniggled at th' notion of falling in love wi' the child. Where's 
 Holdsworth off to ? " 
 
 " Canada," said I shortly. 
 
 " Canada here, Canada there," she replied testily. " Tell me 
 how far he's off, instead of giving me your gibberish. Is he a 
 two days' journey away? or a three? or a week?" 
 
 " He's ever so far off — three weeks at the least," cried I in 
 despair. "And he's either married, or just going to be. So 
 there ! " I expected a fresh burst of anger. But no ; the matter 
 was too serious. Betty sate down, and kept silence for a minute 
 or two. She looked so miserable and downcast, that I could not 
 help going on, and taking her a little into my confidence. 
 
 " It is quite true what I said. I know he never spoke a word 
 to her. I think he hked her, but it's all over now. The best 
 thing we can do — the best and kindest for her — and I know you 
 love her, Betty " 
 
 " I nursed her in my arms ; I gave her little brother his last 
 taste o' earthly food," said Betty, putting her apron up to her 
 eyes. 
 
 ' ' Well ! don't let us show her we guess that she is grieving ; 
 she'll get over it the sooner. Her father and mother don't even 
 guess at it, and we must make as if we didn't. It's too late now 
 to do anything else." 
 
 "I'll never let on; I know nought. I've known true love 
 mysel', in my day. But I wish he'd been farred before he ever 
 came near this house, with his ' Please Betty' this, and ' Please 
 
242 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 Betty ' that, and drinking up our new milk as if he'd been a cat. 
 I hate such beguiling ways." 
 
 I thought it was as well to let her exhaust herself in abusing 
 the absent Holdsworth ; if it was shabby and treacherous in me, 
 I came in for my punishment directly. 
 
 " It's a caution to a man how he goes about beguiling. Some 
 men do it as easy and innocent as cooing doves. Don't you be 
 none of 'em, my lad. Not that you've got the gifts to do it, either; 
 you're no great shakes to look at, neither for figure nor yet for 
 face, and it would need be a deaf adder to be taken in wi' your 
 words, though there may be no great harm in 'em." A lad of 
 nineteen or twenty is not flattered by such an outspoken opinion 
 even from the oldest and ugliest of her sex ; and I was only too 
 glad to change the subject by my repeated injunctions to keep 
 Phillis's secret. The end of our conversation was this speech of 
 her's — 
 
 " You great gaupus, for all you're called cousin o' th' minister 
 — many a one is cursed wi' fools for cousins — d'ye think I can't 
 see sense except through your spectacles ? I give you leave to 
 cut out my tongue, and nail it up on th' barn-door for a caution 
 to magpies, if I let out on that poor wench, either to herself, or 
 any one that is hers, as the Bible says. Now you've heard me 
 speak Scripture language, perhaps you'll be content, and leave 
 me my kitchen to myself." 
 
 During all these days, from the 5th of July to the 17th, I must 
 have forgotten what Holdsworth had said about sending cards. 
 And yet I think I could not have quite forgotten ; but, once 
 having told Phillis about his marriage, I must have looked upon 
 the after-consequence of cards as of no importance. At any rate, 
 they came upon me as a surprise at last. The penny-post reform , 
 as people call it, had come into operation a short time before ; but 
 the never-ending stream of notes and letters which seem now to 
 flow in upon most households had not yet begun its course ; at 
 least in those remote parts. There was a post-office at Hornby ; 
 and an old fellow, who stowed away the few letters in any or all 
 his pockets, as it best suited him, was the letter-carrier to Heath- 
 bridge and the neighbourhood. I have often met him in the lanes 
 thereabouts, and asked him for letters. Sometimes I have come 
 upon him, sitting on the hedge-bank resting ; and he has begged 
 me to read him an address, too illegible for his spectacled eyes 
 to decipher. When I used to inquire if he had anything for me, 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 243 
 
 or for Holdswordi (he was not particular to whom he gave up the 
 letters, so that he got rid of them somehow, and could set off 
 homewards), he would say he thought that he had, for such was 
 his invariable safe form of answer ; and would fumble in breast- 
 pockets, waistcoat-pockets, breeches-pockets, and, as a last re- 
 source, in coat-tail pockets ; and at length try to comfort me, if I 
 looked disappointed, by telling me, " Hoo had missed this toime, 
 but was sure to write to-morrow;" "hoo" representing an 
 imaginary sweetheart. 
 
 Sometimes I had seen the minister bring home a letter which 
 he had found lying for him at the little shop that was the post- 
 ofhce at Heathbridge, or from the grander establishment at 
 Hornby. Once or twice Josiah, the carter, remembered that the 
 old letter-carrier had trusted him with an epistle to " Measter," 
 as they had met in the lanes. I think it must have been about 
 ten days after my arrival at the farm, and my talk to Phillis 
 cutting bread-and-butter at the kitchen dresser, before the day 
 on which the minister suddenly spoke at the dinner-table, and 
 said — 
 
 " By-the-bye, I've got a letter in my pocket. Reach me my 
 coat here, Phillis." The weather was still sultry, and for cool- 
 ness and ease the minister was sitting in his shirt- sleeves. "I 
 went to Heathbridge about the paper they had sent me, which 
 spoils all the pens — and I called at the post-office, and found a 
 letter for me, unpaid, — and they did not like to trust it to old 
 Zekiel. Ay ! here it is ! Now we shall hear news of Holdsworth, 
 — I thought I'd keep it till we were all together." My heart 
 seemed to stop beating, and I hung my head over my plate, not 
 daring to look up. What would come of it now ? What was 
 Phillis doing? How was she looking? A moment of suspense, 
 — and then he spoke again. "Why? what's this? Here are 
 two visiting tickets with his name on, no writing at all. No ! it's 
 not his name on both. Mrs. Holdsworth. The young man has 
 gone and got married." I lifted my head at these words ; I could 
 not help looking just for one instant at Phillis. It seemed to me 
 as if she had been keeping watch over my face and ways. Her 
 face was brilliantly flushed ; her eyes were dry and glittering ; 
 but she did not speak ; her Hps were set together almost as if she 
 was pinching them tight to prevent words or sounds coming out. 
 Cousin Holman's face expressed surprise and interest. 
 
 "Well!" said she, "who'd ha' thought it? He's made 
 
244 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 quick work of his wooing and wedding. I'm sure I wish him 
 happy. Let me see" — counting on her fingers, — "October, 
 November, December, January, February, March, April, May, 
 June, July, — at least we're at the 28th, — it is nearly ten months 
 after all, and reckon a month each way off" 
 
 "Did you know of this news before?" said the minister, 
 turning sharp round on me, surprised, I suppose, at my 
 silence, — hardly suspicious, as yet. 
 
 " I knew — I had heard — something. It is to a French Cana- 
 dian young lady," I went on, forcing myself to talk. "Her 
 name is Ventadour." 
 
 "Lucille Ventadour!" said Phillis, in a sharp voice, out 
 of tune. 
 
 " Then you knew, too ! " exclaimed the minister. 
 
 We both spoke at once. I said, " I heard of the probability 
 
 of , and told Phillis." She said, " He is married to Lucille 
 
 Ventadour, of French descent ; one of a large family near St. 
 Meurice ; am not I right?" I nodded. "Paul told me,— 
 that is all we know, is not it? Did you see the Howsons, 
 father, in Heathbridge ? " and she forced herself to talk more 
 than she had done for several days, asking many questions, 
 trying, as I could see, to keep the conversation off the one 
 raw surface, on which to touch was agony. I had less self- 
 command ; but I followed her lead. I was not so much 
 absorbed in the conversation but what I could see that 
 the minister was puzzled and uneasy ; though he seconded 
 Phillis's efforts to prevent her mother from recurring to the 
 great piece of news, and uttering continual exclamations of 
 wonder and surprise. But with that one exception we were 
 all disturbed out of our natural equanimity, more or less. 
 Every day, every hour, I was reproaching myself more and 
 more for my blundering officiousness. If only I had held my 
 foolish tongue for that one half-hour ; if only I had not been 
 in such impatient haste to do something to relieve pain 1 I 
 could have knocked my stupid head against the wall in my 
 remorse. Yet all I could do now was to second the brave 
 girl in her efforts to conceal her disappointment and keep her 
 maidenly secret. But I thought that dinner would never, 
 never come to an end. I suffered for her, even more than 
 for myself. Until now everything which I had heard spoken^ 
 in that happy household were simple words of true meaning. 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 245 
 
 If we had aught to say, we said it ; and if any one preferred 
 silence, nay, if all did so, there would have been no spasmodic, 
 forced efforts to talk for the sake of talking, or to keep off in- 
 trusive thoughts or suspicions. 
 
 At length we got up from our places, and prepared to dis- 
 perse ; but two or three of us had lost our zest and interest in 
 the daily labour. The minister stood looking out of the window 
 in silence, and when he roused himself to go out to the fields 
 where his labourers were working, it was with a sigh ; and he 
 tried to avert his troubled face as he passed us on his way to 
 the door. When he had left us, I caught sight of Phillis's face,, 
 as, thinking herself unobserved, her countenance relaxed for a 
 moment or two into sad, woeful weariness. She started into 
 briskness again when her mother spoke, and hurried away to do 
 some little errand at her bidding. When we two were alone, 
 cousin Holman recurred to Holdsworth's marriage. She was 
 one of those people who like to view an event from every side 
 of probability, or even possibility ; and she had been cut short 
 from indulging herself in this way during dinner. 
 
 "To think of Mr. Holdsworth's being married! I can't 
 get over it, Paul. Not but what he was a very nice young 
 man ! I don't like her name, though ; it sounds foreign. 
 Sayv it again, my dear. I hope she'll know how to take care 
 of him, English fashion. He is not strong, and if she does 
 not see that his things are well aired, I should be afraid of the 
 old cough." 
 
 ' ' He always said he was stronger than he had ever been 
 before, after that fever." 
 
 ' ' He might think so, but I have my doubts. He was a very 
 pleasant young man, but he did not stand nursing very well. 
 He got tired of being coddled, as he called it. I hope they'll 
 soon come back to England, and then he'll have a chance for 
 his health. I wonder now, if she speaks English ; but, to be 
 sure, he can speak foreign tongues like anything, as I've heard, 
 the minister say." 
 
 And so we went on for some time, till she became drowsy 
 over her knitting, on the sultry summer afternoon ; and I stole 
 away for a walk, for I wanted some solitude in which to think 
 over things, and, alas ! to blame myself with poignant stabs of 
 remorse. 
 
 I lounged lazily as soon as I got to the wood. Here and 
 
246 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 there the bubbling, brawhng brook circled round a great stone, 
 or a root of an old tree, and made a pool ; otherwise it coursed 
 brightly over the gravel and stones. I stood by one of these 
 for more than half-an-hour, or, indeed, longer, throwing bits of 
 wood or pebbles into the water, and wondering what I could 
 do to remedy the present state of things. Of course all my 
 meditation was of no use ; and at length the distant sound of 
 the horn employed to tell the men far afield to leave off work, 
 warned me that it was six o'clock, and time for me to go home. 
 Then I caught wafts of the loud-voiced singing of the evening 
 psalm. As I was crossing the ash-field, I saw the minister at 
 some distance talking to a man. I could not hear what they 
 were saying, but I saw an impatient or dissentient (I could 
 not tell which) gesture on the part of the former, who walked 
 quickly away, and was apparently absorbed in his thoughts, 
 for though he passed within twenty yards of me, as both our 
 paths converged towards home, he took no notice of me. He 
 passed the evening in a way which was even worse than dinner- 
 time. The minister was silent, depressed, even irritable. Poor 
 cousin Holman was utterly perplexed by this unusual frame of 
 mind and temper in her husband ; she was not well herself, 
 and was suffering from the extreme and sultry heat, which 
 made her less talkative than usual. Phillis, usually so re- 
 verently tender to her parents, so soft, so gentle, seemed now 
 to take no notice of the unusual state of things, but talked to 
 me — to any one, on indifferent subjects, regardless of her 
 father's gravity, of her mother's piteous looks of bewilderment. 
 But once my eyes fell upon her hands, concealed under the 
 table, and I could see the passionate, convulsive manner in 
 which she laced and interlaced her fingers perpetually, wring- 
 ing them together from time to time, wringing till the com- 
 pressed flesh became perfectly white. What could I do? I 
 talked with her, as I saw she wished ; her grey eyes had dark 
 circles round them, and a strange kind of dark light in them ; 
 her cheeks were flushed, but her lips were white and wan. I 
 wondered that others did not read these signs as clearly as I 
 did. But perhaps they did ; I think, from what came after- 
 wards, the minister did. 
 
 Poor cousin Holman ! she worshipped her husband ; and the 
 outward signs of his uneasiness were more patent to her simple 
 heart than were her daughter's. After a while she could bear it 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 247 
 
 no longer. She got up, and, softly laying her hand on his broad 
 stooping shoulder, she said — 
 
 " What is the matter, minister? Has anything gone wrong ? " 
 
 He started as if from a dream. Phillis hung her head, and 
 caught her breath in terror at the answer she feared. But he, 
 looking round with a sweeping glance, turned his broad, wise 
 face up to his anxious wife, and forced a smile, and took her 
 hand in a reassuring manner. 
 
 ' ' I am blaming myself, dear. I have been overcome with anger 
 this afternoon. I scarcely knew what I was doing, but I turned 
 away Timothy Cooper. He has killed the Ribstone pippin at the 
 corner of the orchard ; gone and piled the quicklime for the mor- 
 tar for the new stable wall against the trunk of the tree — stupid 
 fellow ! killed the tree outright — and it loaded with apples ! " 
 
 "And Ribstone pippins are so scarce," said sympathetic cousin 
 Holman. 
 
 *' Ay ! But Timothy is but a half-wit ; and he has a wife and 
 children. He had often put me to it sore, with his slothful ways, 
 but I had laid it before the Lord, and striven to bear with him. 
 But I will not stand it any longer, it's past my patience. And 
 he has notice to find another place. Wife, we won't talk more 
 about it." He took her hand gently off his shoulder, touched it 
 with his lips ; but relapsed into a silence as profound, if not quite 
 so morose in appearance, as before. I could not tell why, but 
 this bit of talk between her father and mother seemed to take all 
 the factitious spirits out of Phillis. She did not speak now, but 
 looked out of the open casement at the calm large moon, slowly 
 moving through the twilight sky. Once I thought her eyes were 
 filling with tears ; but, if so, she shook them off, and arose with 
 alacrity when her mother, tired and dispirited, proposed to go to 
 bed immediately after prayers. We all said good-night in our 
 separate ways to the minister, who still sat at the table with the 
 great Bible open before him, not much looking up at any of our 
 salutations, but returning them kindly. But when I, last of all, 
 was on the point of leaving the room, he said, still scarcely look- 
 ing up— 
 
 " Paul, you will oblige me by staying here a few minutes. I 
 would fain have some talk with you." 
 
 I knew what was coming, all in a moment. I carefully shut-to 
 the door, put out my candle, and sat down to my fate. He 
 seemed to find some difficulty in beginning, for, if I had not 
 
248 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 heard that he wanted to speak to me, I should never have guessed 
 it, he seemed so much absorbed in reading a chapter to the end. 
 Suddenly he lifted his head up and said — 
 
 " It is about that friend of yours, Holdsworth ! Paul, have you 
 any reason for thinking he has played tricks upon Phillis? " 
 
 I saw that his eyes were blazing with such a fire of anger at 
 the bare idea, that I lost all my presence of mind, and only re- 
 peated — 
 
 " Played tricks on Phillis ! " 
 
 " Ay ! you know what I mean : made love to her, courted her, 
 made her think that he loved her, and then gone away and left 
 her. Put it as you will, only give me an answer of some kind or 
 another — a true answer, I mean — and don't repeat my words, 
 Paul." 
 
 He was shaking all over as he said this. I did not delay a 
 moment in answering him — 
 
 " I do not believe that Edward Holdsworth ever played tricks 
 on Phillis, ever made love to her ; he never, to my knowledge, 
 made her believe that he loved her." 
 
 I stopped ; I wanted to nerve up my courage for a confession, 
 yet I wished to save the secret of Phillis's love for Holdsworth as 
 much as I could ; that secret which she had so striven to keep 
 sacred and safe ; and I had need of some reflection before I went 
 on with what I had to say. 
 
 He began again before I had quite arranged my manner of 
 speech. It was almost as if to himself — " She is my only child ; 
 my little daughter ! She is hardly out of childhood : I have 
 thought to gather her under my wings for years to come ; her 
 mother and I would lay down our lives to keep her from harm 
 and grief." Then raising his voice, and looking at me, he said, 
 " Something has gone wrong with the child ; and it seems to me 
 to date from the time she heard of that marriage. It is hard to 
 think that you may know more of her secret cares and sorrows 
 than I do, — but perhaps you do, Paul, perhaps you do, — only, 
 if it be not a sin, tell me what I can do to make her happy again ; 
 tell me." 
 
 " It will not do much good, I am afraid," said I, " but I will 
 own how wrong I did ; I don't mean wrong in the way of sin, 
 but in the way of judgment. Holdsworth told me just before 
 he went that he loved Phillis, and hoped to make her his wife, 
 and I told her." 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 249 
 
 There ! it was out ; all my part in it, at least ; and I set my 
 lips tight together, and waited for the words to come. I did 
 not see his face ; I looked straight at the wall opposite ; but I 
 heard him once begin to speak, and then turn over the leaves 
 m the book before him. How awfully still that room was ! 
 The air outside, how still it was ! The open window let in no 
 rustle of leaves, no twitter or movement of birds — no sound 
 whatever. The clock on the stairs — the minister's hard breath- 
 ing — was it to go on for ever? Impatient beyond bearing at 
 the deep quiet, I spoke again — 
 
 " I did it for the best, as I thought." 
 
 The minister shut the book to hastily, and stood up. Then I 
 saw how angry he was. 
 
 " For the best, do you say? It was best, was it, to go and 
 tell a young girl what you never told a word of to her parents, 
 who trusted you like a son of their own?" 
 
 He began walking about, up and down the room close under 
 the open windows, churning up his bitter thoughts of me. 
 
 " To put such thoughts into the child's head," continued he ; 
 "to spoil her peaceful maidenhood with talk about another 
 man's love; and such love, too," he spoke scornfully now — "a 
 love that is ready for any young woman. Oh, the misery in my 
 poor little daughter's face to-day at dinner — the misery, Paul ! 
 I thought you were one to be trusted — your father's son too, to 
 go and put such thoughts into the child's mind ; you two talking 
 together about that man wishing to marry her." 
 
 I could not help remembering the pinafore, the childish gar- 
 ment which Phillis wore so long, as if her parents were unaware 
 of her progress towards womanhood. Just in the same way the 
 minister spoke and thought of her now, as a child, whose inno- 
 cent peace I had spoiled by vain and foolish talk. I knew that 
 the truth was different, though I could hardly have told it now ; 
 but, indeed, I never thought of trying to tell ; it was far from 
 my mind to add one iota to the sorrow which I had caused. 
 The minister went on walking, occasionally stopping to move 
 things on the table, or articles of furniture, in a sharp, impatient, 
 meaningless way, then he began again — 
 
 "So young, so pure from the world! how could you go and 
 talk to such a child, raising hopes, exciting feelings — all to 
 end thus ; and best so, even though I saw her poor piteous 
 face look as it did? I can't forgive you, Paul; it was more 
 
250 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 than wrong — it was wicked — to go and repeat that man's 
 words." 
 
 His back was now to the door, and, in hstening to his low 
 angry tones, he did not hear it slowly open, nor did he see 
 Phillis, standing just within the room, until he turned round ; 
 then he stood still. She must have been half undressed ; but 
 she had covered herself with a dark winter cloak, which fell in 
 long folds to her white, naked, noiseless feet. Her face was 
 strangely pale : her eyes heavy in the black circles round them. 
 She came up to the table very slowly, and leant her hand upon 
 it, saying mournfully — 
 
 " Father, you must not blame Paul. I could not help hearing 
 a great deal of what you were saying. He did tell me, and 
 perhaps it would have been wiser not, dear Paul ! But — oh, 
 dear ! oh, dear ! I am so sick with shame ! He told me out 
 of his kind heart, because he saw — that I was so very unhappy 
 at his going away." 
 
 She hung her head, and leant more heavily than before on 
 her supporting hand. 
 
 "I don't understand," said her father ; but he was beginning 
 to understand. Phillis did not answer till he asked her again. 
 I could have struck him now for his cruelty ; but then I 
 knew all. 
 
 " I loved him, father ! " she said at length, raising her eyes to 
 the minister's face. 
 
 " Had he ever spoken of love to you ? Paul says not ! " 
 
 " Never." She let fall her eyes, and drooped more than ever. 
 I almost thought she would fall. 
 
 " I could not have believed it," said he, in a hard voice, yet 
 sighing the moment he had spoken. A dead silence for a 
 moment. " Paul ! I was unjust to you. You deserved blame, 
 but not all that I said." Then again a silence. I thought I 
 saw Phillis's white lips moving, but it might be the flickering of 
 the candlelight — a moth had flown in through the open case- 
 ment, and was fluttering round the flame ; I might have saved 
 it, but I did not care to do so, my heart was too full of other 
 things. At any rate, no sound was heard for long endless 
 minutes. Then he said — " Phillis ! did we not make you happy 
 here? Have we not loved you enough?" 
 
 She did not seem to understand the drift of this question ; she 
 looked up as if bewildered, and her beautiful eyes dilated with a- 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 251 
 
 painful, tortured expression. He went on without noticing the 
 look on her face ; he did not see it, I am sure. 
 
 "And yet you would have left us, left your home, left your 
 father and your mother, and gone away with this stranger, 
 wandering over the world." 
 
 He suffered, too ; there were tones of pain in the voice in which 
 he uttered this reproach. Probably the father and daughter were 
 never so far apart in their lives, so unsympathetic. Yet some 
 new terror came over her, and it was to him she turned for help. 
 A shadow came over her face, and she tottered towards her 
 father ; falling down, her arms across his knees, and moaning 
 out — 
 
 " Father, my head ! my head ! " and then she slipped through 
 his quick-enfolding arms, and lay on the ground at his feet. 
 
 I shall never forget his sudden look of agony wliile I live ; 
 never ! We raised her up ; her colour had strangely darkened ; 
 she was insensible. I ran through the back-kitchen to the yard 
 pump, and brought back water. The minister had her on his 
 knees, her head against his breast, almost as though she were a 
 sleeping child. He was trying to rise up with his poor precious 
 burden, but the momentary terror had robbed the strong man 
 of his strength, and he sank back in his chair with sobbing 
 breath. 
 
 " She is not dead, Paul ! is she?" he whispered, hoarse, as I 
 came near him. 
 
 I, too, could not speak, but I pointed to the quivering of the 
 muscles round her mouth. Just then cousin Holman, attracted 
 by some unwonted sound, came down. I remember I was sur- 
 prised at the time at her presence of mind, she seemed to know 
 so much better what to do than the minister, in the midst of the 
 sick affright which blanched her countenance, and made her 
 tremble all over. I think now that it was the recollection of 
 what had gone before ; the miserable thought that possibly his 
 words had brought on this attack, whatever it might be, that so 
 unmanned the minister. We carried her upstairs, and while 
 the women were putting her to bed, still unconscious, still slightly 
 convulsed, I slipped out, and saddled one of the horses, and 
 rode as fast as the heavy-trotting beast could go, to Hornby, to 
 find the doctor there, and bring him back. He was out, might 
 be detained the whole night. I remember saying, " God help 
 us all ! " as I sate on my horse, under the window, through which 
 
253 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 the apprentice's head had appeared to answer my furious tugs at 
 the night-bell. He was a good-natured fellow. He said — 
 
 " He may be home in half-an-hour, there's no knowing ; but 
 I dare say he will. I'll send him out to the Hope Farm directly 
 he comes in. It's that good-looking young woman, Holman's 
 daughter, that's ill, isn't it?" 
 
 ••Yes." 
 
 " It would be a pity if she was to go. She's an only child, 
 isn't she ? I'll get up, and smoke a pipe in the surgery, ready 
 for the governor's coming home. I might go to sleep if I went 
 to bed again." 
 
 " Thank you, you're a good fellow ! " and I rode back almost 
 as quickly as I came. 
 
 It was a brain fever. The doctor said so, when he came in 
 the early summer morning. I believe we had come to know the 
 nature of the illness in the night-watches that had gone before. 
 As to hope of ultimate recovery, or even evil prophecy of the 
 probable end, the cautious doctor would be entrapped into 
 neither. He gave his directions, and promised to come again ; 
 so soon, that this one thing showed his opinion of the gravity of 
 the case. 
 
 By God's mercy she recovered, but it was a long, weary time 
 first. According to previously made plans, I was to have gone 
 home at the beginning of August. But all such ideas were put 
 aside now, without a word being spoken. I really think that I 
 was necessary in the house, and especially necessary to the 
 minister at this time ; my father was the last man in the world, 
 under such circumstances, to expect me home. 
 
 I say I think I was necessary in the house. Every person (I 
 had almost said every creature, for all the dumb beasts seemed 
 to know and love Phillis) about the place went grieving and sad, 
 as though a cloud was over the sun. They did their work, each 
 striving to steer clear of the temptation to eye-service, in fulfil- 
 ment of the trust reposed in them by the minister. For the day 
 after Phillis had been taken ill, he had called all the men employed 
 on the farm into the empty barn ; and there he had entreated 
 their prayers for his only child ; and then and there he had told 
 them of his present incapacity for thought about any other thing 
 in this world but his little daughter, lying nigh unto death, and 
 he had asked them to go on with their daily labours as best they 
 could, without his direction. So, as I say, these honest men did 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 253 
 
 their work to the best of their ability, but they slouched along 
 with sad and careful faces, coming one by one in the dim morn- 
 ings to ask news of the sorrow that overshadowed the house ; 
 and receiving Betty's intelligence, always rather darkened by 
 passing through her mind, with slow shakes of the head, and 
 a dull wistfulness of sympathy. But, poor fellows, they were 
 hardly fit to be trusted with hasty messages, and here my poor 
 services came in. One time I was to ride hard to Sir William 
 Bentinck's, and petition for ice out of his ice-house, to put on 
 Phillis's head. Another it was to Eltham I must go, by train, 
 horse, anyhow, and bid the doctor there come for a consultation, 
 for fresh symptoms had appeared, which Mr. Brown, of Hornby, 
 considered unfavourable. Many an hour have I sate on the 
 window-seat, half way up the stairs, close by the old clock, 
 listening in the hot stillness of the house for the sounds in the 
 sick-room. The minister and I met often, but spoke together 
 seldom. He looked so old — so old ! He shared the nursing 
 with his wife ; the strength that was needed seemed to be given 
 to them both in that day. They required no one else about 
 their child. Every office about her was sacred to them ; even 
 Betty only went into the room for the most necessary purposes. 
 Once I saw Phillis through the open door ; her pretty golden 
 hair had been cut off long before ; her head was covered with 
 wet cloths, and she was moving it backwards and forwards on 
 the pillow, with weary, never-ending motion, her poor eyes shut, 
 trying in the old accustomed way to croon out a hymn tune, but 
 perpetually breaking it up into moans of pain. Her mother sate 
 by her, tearless, changing the cloths upon her head with patient 
 solicitude. I did not see the minister at first, but there he was 
 in a dark corner, down upon his knees, his hands clasped to- 
 gether in passionate prayer. Then the door shut, and I saw 
 no more. 
 
 One day he was wanted ; and I had to summon him. Brother 
 Robinson and another minister, hearing of his " trial," had come 
 to see him. I told him this upon the stair-landing in a whisper. 
 He was strangely troubled. 
 
 "They will want me to lay bare my heart. I cannot do it. 
 Paul, stay with me. They mean well ; but as for spiritual help 
 at such a time — it is God only, God only, who can give it." 
 
 So I went in with him. They were two ministers from the 
 neighbourhood ; both older than Ebenezer Holman ; but evi- 
 
254 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 dently inferior to him in education and worldly position. I 
 thought they looked at me as if I were an intruder, but remem- 
 bering the minister's words I held my ground, and took up one 
 of poor Phillis's books (of which I could not read a word) to have 
 an ostensible occupation. Presently I was asked to "engage 
 in prayer," and we all knelt down ; Brother Robinson " leading," 
 and quoting largely, as I remember, from the Book of Job. He 
 seemed to take for his text, if texts are ever taken for prayers, 
 " Behold, thou hast instructed many ; but now it is come upon 
 thee, and thou faintest, it toucheth thee, and thou art troubled." 
 When we others rose up, the minister continued for some min- 
 utes on his knees. Then he too got up, and stood facing us, 
 for a moment, before we all sate down in conclave. After a 
 pause Robinson began — 
 
 "We grieve for you, Brother Holman, for your trouble is 
 great. But we would fain have you remember you are as a 
 light set on a hill ; and the congregations are looking at you 
 with watchful eyes. We have been talking as we came along 
 on the two duties required of you in this strait ; Brother Hodgson 
 and me. And we have resolved to exhort you on these two 
 points. First, God has given you the opportunity of showing 
 forth an example of resignadon." Poor Mr. Holman visibly 
 winced at this word. I could fancy how he had tossed aside 
 such brotherly preachings in his happier moments ; but now 
 his whole system was unstrung, and "resignation" seemed a 
 term which presupposed that the dreaded misery of losing 
 Phillis was inevitable. But good, stupid Mr. Robinson went on. 
 " We hear on all sides that there are scarce any hopes of your 
 child's recovery ; and it may be well to bring you to mind of 
 Abraham ; and how he was willing to kill his only child when 
 the Lord commanded. Take example by him. Brother Holman. 
 Let us hear you say, ' The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh 
 away. Blessed be the name of the Lord ! ' " 
 
 There was a pause of expectancy. I verily believe the minister 
 tried to feel it ; but he could not. Heart of flesh was too strong. 
 Heart of stone he had not. 
 
 " I will say it to my God, when He gives me strength — when 
 the day comes," he spoke at last. 
 
 The other two looked at each other, and shook their heads. 
 I think the reluctance to answer as they wished was not quite 
 unexpected. The minister went on : "There are hopes yet," 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 255 
 
 he said, as if to himself. " God has given me a great heart for 
 hoping, and I will not look forward beyond the hour." Then 
 turning more to them, and speaking louder, he added : 
 "Brethren, God will strengthen me when the time comes, 
 when such resignation as you speak of is needed. Till then I 
 cannot feel it ; and what I do not feel I will not express ; using 
 words as if they were a charm," He was getting chafed, I 
 could see. 
 
 He had rather put them out by these speeches of his ; but 
 after a short time, and some more shakes of the head, Robinson 
 began again — 
 
 " Secondly, we would have you listen to the voice of the rod, 
 and ask yourself for what sins this trial has been laid upon you ; 
 whether you may not have been too much given up to your farm 
 and your cattle ; whether this world's learning has not puffed you 
 up to vain conceit and neglect of the things of God ; whether you 
 have not made an idol of your daughter ? " 
 
 " I cannot answer — I will not answer ! " exclaimed the minister, 
 " My sins I confess to God. But if they were scarlet (and they 
 are so in His sight," he added humbly), " I hold with Christ 
 that afflictions are not sent by God in wrath as penalties for sin." 
 
 "Is that orthodox, Brother Robinson?" asked the third 
 minister, in a deferential tone of inquiry. 
 
 Despite the minister's injunction not to leave him, I thought 
 matters were getting so serious that a little homely interruption 
 would be more to the purpose than my continued presence, and 
 I went round to the kitchen to ask for Betty's help. 
 
 " 'Od rot 'em ! " said she ; " they're always a-coming at incon- 
 venient times ; and they have such hearty appetites, they'll make 
 nothing of what would have served master and you since our 
 poor lass has been ill. I've but a bit of cold beef in th' house ; 
 but I'll do some ham and eggs, and that '11 rout 'em from worry- 
 ing the minister. They're a deal quieter after they've had their 
 victual. Last time as old Robinson came, he was very repre- 
 hensible upon master's learning, which he couldn't compass to 
 save his life, so he needn't have been afeared of that temptation, 
 and used words long enough to have knocked a body down ; 
 but after me and missus had given him his fill of victual, and 
 he'd had some good ale and a pipe, he spoke just like any other 
 man, and could crack a joke with me." 
 
 Their visit was the only break in the long weary days and 
 
256 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 nights. I do not mean that no other inquiries were made. I 
 believe that all the neighbours hung about the place daily till 
 they could learn from some out-comer how Phillis Holman was. 
 But they knew better than to come up to the house, for the 
 August weather was so hot that every door and window was kept 
 constantly open, and the least sound outside penetrated all 
 through. I am sure the cocks and hens had a sad time of it ; 
 for Betty drove them all into an empty barn, and kept them 
 fastened up in tlie dark for several days, with very little effect as 
 regarded their crowing and clacking. At length came a sleep 
 which was the crisis, and from which she wakened up with a new 
 faint life. Her slumber had lasted many, many hours. We 
 scarcely dared to breathe or move during the time ; we had 
 striven to hope so long, that we were sick at heart, and durst 
 not trust in the favourable signs : the even breathing, the 
 moistened skin, the shght return of delicate colour into the pale, 
 wan lips. I recollect stealing out that evening in the dusk, and 
 wandering down the grassy lane, under the shadow of the over- 
 arching elms to the little bridge at the foot of the hill, where the 
 lane to the Hope Farm joined another road to Hornby. On the 
 low parapet of that bridge I found Timothy Cooper, the stupid, 
 half-witted labourer, sitting, idly throwing bits of mortar into the 
 brook below. He just looked up at me as I came near, but gave 
 me no greeting, either by word or gesture. He had generally 
 made some sign of recognition to me, but this time I thought he 
 was sullen at being dismissed. Nevertheless I felt as if it would 
 be a relief to talk a little to some one, and I sate down by him. 
 While I was thinking how to begin, he yawned wearily. 
 
 "You are tired, Tim," said I. 
 
 "Ay," said he. " But I reckon I may go home now." 
 
 " Have you been sitting here long?" 
 
 "Welly all day long. Leastways sin' seven i' th' morning. 
 
 " Why, what in the world have you been doing?" 
 
 "Nought." 
 
 " Why have you been sitting here, then?" 
 
 " T' keep carts off." He was up now, stretching himself, and 
 shaking his lubberly limbs. 
 
 " Carts ! what carts?" 
 
 "Carts as might ha' wakened yon wench! It's Hornby 
 market-day. I reckon yo're no better nor a half-wit yoursel'." 
 He cocked his eye at me as if he were gauging my intellect. 
 
COUSIN PHILLIS. 257 
 
 "And have you been sitting here all day to keep the lane 
 quiet?" 
 
 "Ay. I've nought else to do. Th' minister has turned me 
 adrift. Have yo' heard how th' lass is faring to-night?" 
 
 "They hope she'll waken better for this long sleep. Good- 
 night to you, and God bless you, Timothy," said I. 
 
 He scarcely took any notice of my words, as he lumbered 
 across a stile that led to his cottage. Presently I went home to 
 the farm. Phillis had stirred, had spoken two or three faint 
 words. Her mother was with her, dropping nourishment into 
 her scarce conscious mouth. The rest of the household were 
 summoned to evening prayer for the first time for many days. 
 It was a return to the daily habits of happiness and health. But 
 in these silent days our very lives had been an unspoken prayer. 
 Now we met in the house-place, and looked at each other with 
 strange recognition of the thankfulness on all our faces. We 
 knelt down ; we waited for the minister's voice. He did not 
 begin as usual. He could not ; he was choking. Presently 
 we heard the strong man's sob. Then old John turned round 
 on his knees, and said — 
 
 * ' Minister, I reckon we have blessed the Lord wi' all our 
 souls, though we've ne'er talked about it ; and maybe He'll not 
 need spoken words this night. God bless us all, and keep our 
 Phillis safe from harm ! Amen." 
 
 Old John's impromptu prayer was all we had that night. 
 
 "Our Phillis," as he had called her, grew better day by day 
 from that time. Not quickly ; I sometimes grew desponding, 
 and feared that she would never be what she had been before ; 
 no more she has, in some ways. 
 
 I seized an early opportunity to tell the minister about Timothy 
 Cooper's unsolicited watch on the bridge during the long sum- 
 mer's day. 
 
 "God forgive me!" said the minister. "I have been too 
 proud in my own conceit. The first steps I take out of this 
 house shall be to Cooper's cottage." 
 
 I need hardly say Timothy was reinstated in his place on the 
 farm ; and I have often since admired the patience with which 
 his master tried to teach him how to do the easy work which 
 was henceforward carefully adjusted to his capacity. 
 
 Phillis was carried downstairs, and lay for hour after hour 
 quite silent on the great sofa, drawn up under the windows of 
 
 I 
 
258 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 the house-place. She seemed always the same, gentle, quiet, 
 and sad. Her energy did not return with her bodily strength. 
 It was sometimes pitiful to see her parents' vain endeavours to 
 rouse her to interest. One day the minister brought her a set 
 of blue ribbons, reminding her with a tender smile of a former 
 conversation in which she had owned to a love of such feminine 
 vanities. She spoke gratefully to him, but when he was gone 
 she laid them on one side, and languidly shut her eyes. Another 
 time I saw her mother bring her the Latin and Italian books that 
 she had been so fond of before her illness — or, rather, before 
 Holdsworth had gone away. That was worst of all. She turned 
 her face to the wall, and cried as soon as her mother's back was 
 turned. Betty was laying the cloth for the early dinner. Her 
 sharp eyes saw the state of the case. 
 
 " Now, Phillis ! " said she, coming up to the sofa; "we ha' 
 done a' we can for you, and th' doctors has done a' they can for 
 you, and I think the Lord has done a' He can for you, and more 
 than you deserve, too, if you don't do something for yourself. 
 If I were you, I'd rise up and snuff the moon, sooner than 
 break your father's and your mother's hearts wi' watching and 
 waiting till it pleases you to fight your own way back to cheer- 
 fulness. There, I never favoured long preachings, and I've said 
 my say." 
 
 A day or two after Phillis asked me, when we were alone, if I 
 thought my father and mother would allow her to go and stay 
 with them for a couple of months. She blushed a little as she 
 faltered out her wish for change of thought and scene. 
 
 "Only for a short time, Paul. Then — we will go back to the 
 peace of the old days. I know we shall ; I can, and I will ! " 
 
 I 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 PORTION I. 
 
 THERE is -a mill by the Neckar-side, to which many people 
 resort for coffee, according to the fashion which is almost 
 national in Germany. There is nothing particularly attractive in 
 the situation of this mill ; it is on the Mannheim (the flat and un- 
 romantic) side of Heidelberg. The river turns the mill-wheel with 
 a plenteous gushing sound ; the out-buildings and the dwelling- 
 house of the miller form a well-kept dusty quadrangle. Again, 
 further from the river there is a garden full of willows, and arbours, 
 and flower-beds not well kept, but very profuse in flowers and 
 luxuriant creepers, knotting and looping the arbours together. 
 In each of these arbours is a stationary table of white painted 
 wood, and light movable chairs of the same colour and material. 
 I went to drink coffee there with some friends in 184 — . The 
 stately old miller came out to greet us, as some of the party were 
 known to him of old. He was of a grand build of a man, and 
 his loud musical voice, with its tone friendly and familiar, his 
 rolling laugh of welcome, went well with the keen bright eye, the 
 fine cloth of his coat, and the general look of substance about the 
 place. Poultry of all kinds abounded in the mill-yard, where 
 there were ample means of livelihood for them strewed on the 
 ground ; but not content with this, the miller took out handfuls 
 of corn from the sacks, and threw liberally to the cocks and hens 
 that ran almost under his feet in their eagerness. And all the 
 time he was doing this, as it were habitually, he was talking to 
 us, and ever and anon calling to his daughter and the serving- 
 maids, to bid them hasten the coffee we had ordered. He 
 followed us to an arbour, and saw us served to his satisfaction 
 with the best of everything we could ask for ; and then left us to 
 go round to the different arbours and see that each party was 
 259 
 
26o THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 properly attended to ; and, as he went, this great, prosperous, 
 happy-looking man whistled softly one of the most plaintive airs 
 I ever heard. 
 
 " His family have held this mill ever since the old Palatinate 
 days ; or rather, I should say, have possessed the ground ever 
 since then, for two successive mills of theirs have been burnt 
 down by the French. If you want to see Scherer in a passion, 
 just talk to him of the possibility of a French invasion." 
 
 But at this moment, still whisthng that mournful air, we saw 
 the miller going down the steps that led from the somewhat 
 raised garden into the mill-yard ; and so I seemed to have lost 
 my chance of putting him in a passion. 
 
 We had nearly finished our coffee, and our "kucken," and 
 our cinnamon cake, when heavy splashes fell on our thick leafy 
 covering ; quicker and quicker they came, coming through the 
 tender leaves as if they were tearing them asunder ; all the 
 people in the garden were hurrying under shelter, or seeking for 
 their carriages standing outside. Up the steps the miller came 
 hastening, with a crimson umbrella, fit to cover every one left 
 in the garden, and followed by his daughter, and one or two 
 maidens, each bearing an umbrella. 
 
 "Come into the house — come in, I say. It is a summer- 
 storm, and will flood the place for an hour or two, till the river 
 carries it away. Here, here." 
 
 And we followed him back into his own house. We went into 
 the kitchen first. Such an array of bright copper and tin vessels 
 I never saw ; and all the wooden things were as thoroughly 
 scoured. The red tile floor was spotless when we went in, but 
 in two minutes it was all over slop and dirt with the tread of 
 many feet ; for the kitchen was filled, and still the worthy miller 
 kept bringing in more people under his great crimson umbrella. 
 He even called the dogs in, and made them lie down under the 
 tables. 
 
 His daughter said something to him in German, and he shook 
 his head merrily at her. Everybody laughed. 
 
 ' ' What did she say ? " I asked. 
 
 " She told him to bring the ducks in next ; but indeed if more 
 people come we shall be suffocated. What with the thundery 
 weather, and the stove, and all these steaming clothes, I really 
 think we must ask leave to pass on. Perhaps we might go in 
 and see Frau Scherer." 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 261 
 
 My friend asked the daughter of the house for permission to 
 go into an inner chamber and see her mother. It was granted, 
 and we went into a sort of saloon, overlooking the Neckar ; very 
 small, very bright, and very close. The floor was slippery with 
 pohsh ; long narrow pieces of looking-glass against the walls 
 reflected the perpetual motion of the river opposite ; a white 
 porcelain stove, with some old-fashioned ornaments of brass 
 about it ; a sofa, covered with Utrecht velvet, a table before it, 
 and a piece of worsted-worked carpet under it ; a vase of artificial 
 flowers ; and, lastly, an alcove with a bed in it, on which lay the 
 paralysed wife of the good miller, knitting busily, formed the 
 furniture. I spoke as if this was all that was to be seen in the 
 room ; but, sitting quietly, while my friend kept up a brisk con- 
 versation in a language which I but half understood, my eye was 
 caught by a picture in a dark corner of the room, and I got up 
 to examine it more nearly. 
 
 It was that of a young girl of extreme beauty : evidently of 
 middle rank. There was a sensitive refinement in her face, as if 
 she almost shrank from the gaze which, of necessity, the painter 
 must have fixed upon her. It was not over-well painted, but I 
 felt that it must have been a good likeness, from this strong 
 impress of peculiar character which I have tried to describe. 
 From the dress, I should guess it to have been painted in the 
 latter half of the last century. And I afterwards heard that I 
 was right. 
 
 There was a little pause in the conversation. 
 
 "Will you ask Frau Scherer who this is ? " 
 
 My friend repeated my question, and received a long reply in 
 German, Then she turned round and translated it to me. 
 
 "It is the likeness of a great-aunt of her husband's." (My 
 friend was standing by me, and looking at the picture with 
 sympathetic curiosity.) "See! here is the name on the open 
 page of this Bible, ' i\nna Scherer, 1778.' Frau Scherer says 
 there is a tradition in the family that this pretty girl, with her 
 complexion of lilies and roses, lost her colour so entirely through 
 fright, that she was known by the name of the Grey Woman. 
 She speaks as if this Anna Scherer lived in some state of life- 
 long terror. But she does not know details ; refers me to her 
 husband for them. She thinks he has some papers which were 
 written by the original of that picture for her daughter, who 
 died in this very house not long after our friend there was 
 
262 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 married. We can ask Herr Scherer for the whole story if you 
 like." 
 
 "Oh yes, pray do!" said I. And, as our host came in at 
 this moment to ask how we were faring, and to tell us that he 
 had sent to Heidelberg for carriages to convey us home, seeing 
 no chance of the heavy rain abating, my friend, after thanking 
 him, passed on to my request. 
 
 "Ah!" said he, his face changing, "the aunt Anna had a 
 sad history. It was all owing to one of those hellish French- 
 men ; and her daughter suffered for it — the cousin Ursula, as 
 we all called her when I was a child. To be sure, the good 
 cousin Ursula was his child as well. The sins of the fathers 
 are visited on their children. The lady would like to know all 
 about it, would she ? Well, there are papers — a kind of apology 
 the aunt Anna wrote for putting an end to her daughter's engage- 
 ment — or rather facts which she revealed, that prevented cousin 
 Ursula from marrying the man she loved ; and so she would 
 never have any other good fellow, else I have heard say my 
 father would have been thankful to have made her his wife." 
 All this time he was rummaging in the drawer of an old- 
 fashioned bureau, and now he turned round, with a bundle of 
 yellow MSS. in his hand, which he gave to my friend, saying, 
 •' Take it home, take it home, and if you care to make out our 
 crabbed German writing, you may keep it as long as you like. 
 and read it at your leisure. Only I must have it back again 
 when you have done with it, that's all." 
 
 And so we became possessed of the manuscript of the follow- 
 ing letter, which it was our employment, during many a long 
 evening that ensuing winter, to translate, and in some parts to 
 abbreviate. The letter began with some reference to the pain 
 which she had already inflicted upon her daughter by some un- 
 explained opposition to a project of marriage ; but I doubt if, 
 without the clue with which the good miller had furnished us, 
 we could have made out even this much from the passionate, 
 broken sentences that made us fancy that some scene between 
 the mother and daughter — and possibly a third person — had 
 occurred just before the mother had begun to write. 
 
 "Thou dost not love thy child, mother ! Thou dost not care 
 if her heart is broken ! " Ah, God ! and these words of my 
 heart-beloved Ursula ring in my ears as if the sound of them 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. .263 
 
 would fill them when I lie a-dying. And her poor tear-stained 
 face comes between me and everything else. Child ! hearts do 
 not break ; life is very tough as well as very terrible. But I will 
 not decide for thee. I will tell all ; and thou shalt bear the 
 burden of choice. I may be wrong ; I have little wit left, and 
 never had much, I think ; but an instinct serves me in place of 
 judgment, and that instinct tells me that thou and thy Henri 
 must never be married. Yet I may be in error. I would fain 
 make my child happy. Lay this paper before the good priest 
 Schriesheim ; if, after reading it, thou hast doubts which make 
 thee uncertain. Only I will tell thee all now, on condition that 
 no spoken word ever passes between us on the subject. It 
 would kill me to be questioned. I should have to see all 
 present again. 
 
 My father held, as thou knowest, the mill on the Neckar, 
 where thy new-found uncle, Scherer, now lives. Thou remem- 
 berest the surprise with which we were received there last 
 vintage twelvemonth. How thy uncle disbelieved me when I 
 said that I was his sister Anna, whom he had long believed to 
 be dead, and how I had to lead thee underneath the picture, 
 painted of me long ago, and point out, feature by feature, the 
 likeness between it and thee ; and how, as I spoke, I recalled 
 first to my own mind, and then by speech to his, the details 
 of the time when it was painted ; the merry words that passed 
 between us then, a happy boy and girl ; the position of the 
 articles of furniture in the room ; our father's habits ; the 
 cherry-tree, now cut down, that shaded the window of my bed- 
 room, through which my brother was wont to squeeze himself, 
 in order to spring on to the topmost bough that would bear 
 his weight ; and thence would pass me back his cap laden with 
 fruit to where I sat on the window-sill, too sick with fright for 
 him to care much for eating the cherries. 
 
 And at length Fritz gave way, and believed me to be his sister 
 Anna, even as though I were risen from the dead. And thou 
 rememberest how he fetched in his wife, and told her that I was 
 not dead, but was come back to the old home once more, changed 
 as I was. And she would scarce believe him, and scanned me with 
 a cold, distrustful eye, till at length — for I knew her of old as 
 Babette Miiller — I said that I was well-to-do, and needed not to 
 seek out friends for what they had to give. And then she asked— 
 not me, but her husband— why I had kept silent so long, leading 
 
264 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 all — father, brother, every one that loved me in my own dear 
 home — to esteem me dead. And then thine uncle (thou remem- 
 berest ?) said he cared not to know more than I cared to tell ; that 
 I was his Anna, found again, to be a blessing- to him in his old 
 age, as I had been in his boyhood. I thanked him in my heart 
 for his trust ; for were the need for telhng all less than it seems to 
 me now I could not speak of my past hfe. But she, who was my 
 sister-in-law still, held back her welcome, and, for want of that, 
 I did not go to hve in Heidelberg as I had planned beforehand, in 
 order to be near my brother Fritz, but contented myself with his 
 promise to be a father to my Ursula when I should die and leave 
 this weary world. 
 
 That Babette Miiller was, as I may say, the cause of all my 
 life's suffering. She was a baker's daughter in Heidelberg— a 
 great beauty, as people said, and, indeed, as I could see for 
 myself. I, too — thou sawest my picture — was reckoned a beauty, 
 and I believe I was so. Babette Miiller looked upon me as a 
 rival. She liked to be admired, and had no one much to love her. 
 I had several people to love me — thy grandfather, Fritz, the old 
 servant Katchen, Karl, the head apprentice at the mill — and I 
 feared admiration and notice, and the being stared at as the 
 " Schone Miillerin," whenever I went to make my purchases in 
 Heidelberg. 
 
 Those were happy, peaceful days. I had Katchen to help me 
 in the housework, and whatever we did pleased my brave old 
 father, who was always gentle and indulgent towards us women, 
 though he was stern enough with the apprentices in the mill. 
 Karl, the oldest of these, was his favourite ; and I can see now 
 that my father wished him to marry me, and that Karl himself 
 was desirous to do so. But Karl was rough-spoken, and passion- 
 ate—not with me, but with the others — and I shrank from him in a 
 way which, I fear, gave him pain. And then came thy uncle Fritz's 
 marriage ; and Babette was brought to the mill to be its mistress. 
 Not that I cared much for giving up my post, for, in spite of my 
 father's great kindness, I always feared that I did not manage well 
 for so large a family (with the men, and a girl under Katchen, we 
 sat down eleven each night to supper). But when Babette began 
 to find fault with Katchen, I was unhappy at the blame that fell 
 on faithful servants ; and by-and-by I began to see that Babette 
 was egging on Karl to make more open love to me, and, as she 
 once said, to get done with it, and take me off to a home of my 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 265 
 
 own. My father was growing old, and did not perceive all my 
 daily discomfort. The more Karl advanced, the more I disliked 
 him. He was good in the main, but I had no notion of being 
 married, and could not bear any one who talked to me about it. 
 
 Things were in this way when I had an invitation to go to 
 Carlsruhe to visit a schoolfellow, of whom I had been very fond. 
 Babette was all for my going ; 1 don't think I wanted to leave 
 home, and yet I had been very fond of Sophie Rupprecht. But 
 I was always shy among strangers. Somehow the affair was 
 settled for me, but not until both Fritz and my father had made 
 inquiries as to the character and position of the Rupprechts. 
 They learned that tlie father had held some kind of inferior 
 position about the Grand-duke's court, and was now dead, leaving 
 a widow, a noble lady, and two daughters, the elder of whom was 
 Sophie, my friend. Madame Rupprecht was not rich, but more 
 than respectable — genteel. When this was ascertained, my father 
 made no opposition to my going ; Babette forwarded it by all the 
 means in her power, and even my dear Fritz had his word to say 
 in its favour. Only Katchen was against it — Katchen and Karl. 
 The opposition of Karl did more to send me to Carlsruhe than 
 anything. For I could have objected to go ; but when he took 
 upon himself to ask what was the good of going a-gadding, visiting 
 strangers of whom no one knew anything, I yielded to circum- 
 stances — to the puUing of Sophie and the pushing of Babette. I 
 was silently vexed, I remember, at Babette's inspection of my 
 clothes ; at the way in which she settled that this gown was too 
 old-fashioned, or that too common, to go with me on my visit to a 
 noble lady ; and at the way in which she took upon herself to 
 spend the money my father had given me to buy what was 
 requisite for the occasion. And yet I blamed myself, for every 
 one else thought her so kind for doing all this ; and she herself 
 meant kindly, too. 
 
 At last I quitted the mill by the Neckar-side. It was a long 
 day's journey, and Fritz went with me to Carlsruhe. The 
 Rupprechts lived on the third floor of a house a little behind one 
 of the principal streets, in a cramped-up court, to which we gained 
 admittance through a doorway in the street. I remember how 
 pinched their rooms looked after the large space we had at the 
 mill, and yet they had an air of grandeur about them which was 
 new to me, and which gave me pleasure, faded as some of it was. 
 Madame Rupprecht was too formal a lady for me ; I was never at 
 
 I 2 
 
266 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 my ease with her ; but Sophie was all that I had recollected her 
 at school — kind, affectionate, and only rather too ready with her 
 expressions of admiration and regard. The little sister kept out 
 of our way ; and that was all we needed, in the first enthusiastic 
 renewal of our early friendship. The one great object of Madame 
 Rupprecht's life was to retain her position in society ; and as her 
 means were much diminished since her husband's death, there was 
 not much comfort, though there was a great deal of show, in their 
 way of living ; just the opposite of what it was at my father's 
 house. I believe that my coming was not too much desired by 
 Madame Rupprecht, as I brought with me another mouth to be 
 fed ; but Sophie had spent a year or more in entreating for 
 permission to invite me, and her mother, having once consented, 
 was too well-bred not to give me a stately welcome. 
 
 The life in Carlsruhe was very different from what it was at 
 home. The hours were later, the coffee was weaker in the 
 morning, the pottage was weaker, the boiled beef less relieved 
 by other diet, the dresses finer, the evening engagements constant. 
 I did not find these visits pleasant. We might not knit, which 
 would have relieved the tedium a little ; but we sat in a circle, 
 talking together, only interrupted occasionally by a gentleman, 
 who, breaking out of the knot of men who stood near the door, 
 talking eagerly together, stole across the room on tiptoe, his hat 
 under his arm, and bringing his feet together in the position we 
 call the first at the dancing-school, made a low bow to the lady 
 he was going to address. The first time I saw these manners I 
 could not help smihng ; but Madame Rupprecht saw me, and 
 spoke to me next morning rather severely, telling me that, of 
 course, in my country breeding I could have seen nothing of 
 court manners, or French fashions, but that that was no reason for 
 my laughing at them. Of course I tried never to smile again in 
 company. This visit to Carlsruhe took place in '89, just when 
 every one was full of the events taking place at Paris ; and yet 
 at Carlsruhe French fashions were more talked of than French 
 politics. Madame Rupprecht, especially, thought a great deal 
 of all French people. And this again was quite different to us at 
 home. Fritz could hardly bear the name of a Frenchman ; and it 
 had nearly been an obstacle to my visit to Sophie that her mother 
 preferred being called Madame to her proper title of Frau. 
 
 One night I was sitting next to Sophie, and longing for the 
 time when we might have supper and go home, so as to be able 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 267 
 
 to speak together, a thing forbidden by Madame Riipprecht's 
 rules of etiquette, which strictly prohibited any but the most 
 necessary conversation passing between members of the same 
 family when in society. I was sitting, I say, scarcely keeping 
 back my inclination to yawn, when two gentlemen came in, one 
 of whom was evidently a stranger to the whole party, from the 
 formal manner in which the host led him up, and presented him 
 to the hostess. I thought I had never seen any one so handsome 
 or so elegant. His hair was powdered, of course, but one could 
 see from his complexion that it was fair in its natural state. His 
 features were as 'delicate as a girl's, and set off by two little 
 "mouches," as we called patches in those days, one at the left 
 corner of his mouth, the other prolonging, as it were, the right 
 eye. His dress was blue and silver. I was so lost in admiration 
 of this beautiful young man, that I was as much surprised as if 
 the angel Gabriel had spoken to me, when the lady of the house 
 brought him forward to present him to me. She called him 
 Monsieur de la Tourelle, and he began to speak to me in French ; 
 but though I understood him perfectly, I dared not trust myself 
 to reply to him in that language. Then he tried German, speak- 
 ing it with a kind of soft hsp that I thought charming. But, 
 before the end of the evening, I became a little tired of the affected 
 softness and effeminacy of his manners, and the exaggerated com- 
 pliments he paid me, which had the effect of making all the 
 company turn round and look at me. Madame Rupprecht was, 
 however, pleased with the precise thing that displeased me. She 
 hked either Sophie or me to create a sensation ; of course she 
 would have preferred that it should have been her daughter, but 
 her daughter's friend was next best. As we went away, I heard 
 Madame Rupprecht and Monsieur de la Tourelle reciprocating 
 civil speeches with might and main, from which I found out that 
 the French gentleman Vas coming to call on us the next day. I 
 do not know whether I was more glad or frightened, for I had been 
 kept upon stilts of good manners all the evening. But still I was 
 flattered when Madame Rupprecht spoke as if she had invited 
 him because he had shown pleasure in my society, and even more 
 gratified by Sophie's ungrudging delight at the evident interest I 
 had excited in so fine and agreeable a gentleman. Yet, with all 
 this, they had hard work to keep me from running out of the 
 salon the next day, when we heard his voice inquiring at the 
 gate on the stairs for Madame Rupprecht. They had made 
 
268 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 me put on my Sunday gown, and they themselves were dressed 
 as for a reception. 
 
 When he had gone away, Madame Rupprecht congratulated 
 me on the conquest I had made ; for, indeed, he had scarcely 
 spoken to any one else, beyond what mere civility required, and 
 had almost invited himself to come in the evening to bring some 
 new song, which was all the fashion in Paris, he said. Madame 
 Rupprecht had been out all the morning, as she told me, to glean 
 information about Monsieur de la Tourelle. Hewasapropri^taire, 
 had a small chateau on the Vosges mountains ; he owned land 
 there, but had a large income from some sources quite indepen- 
 dent of this property. Altogether, he was a good match, as she 
 emphatically observed. She never seemed to think that I could 
 refuse him after this account of his wealth, nor do I beheve she 
 would have allowed Sophie a choice, even had he been as old and 
 ugly as he was young and handsome. I do not quite know — so 
 many events have come to pass since then, and blurred the clear- 
 ness of my recollections— if I loved him or not. He was very 
 much devoted to me ; he almost frightened me by the excess of 
 his demonstrations of love. And he was very charming to every- 
 body around me, who all spoke of him as the most fascinating of 
 men, and of me as the most fortunate of girls. And yet I never 
 felt quite at my ease with him. I was always relieved when his 
 visits were over, although I missed his presence when he did not 
 come. He prolonged his visit to the friend with whom he was 
 staying at Carlsruhe, on purpose to woo me. He loaded me 
 with presents, which I was unwilling to take, only Madame 
 Rupprecht seemed to consider me an affected prude if I refused 
 them. Many of these presents consisted of articles of valuable old 
 jewellery, evidently belonging to his family : by accepting these 
 I doubled the ties which were formed around me by circumstances 
 even more than by my own consent. In those days we did not 
 write letters to absent friends as frequently as is done now, and I 
 had been unwilhng to name him in the few letters that I wrote 
 home. At length, however, I learned from Madame Rupprecht 
 that she had written to my father to announce the splendid con- 
 quest I had made, and to request his presence at my betrothal. 
 I started with astonishment. I had not realised that affairs had 
 gone so far as this. But when she asked me, in a stern, offended 
 manner, what I had meant by my conduct if I did not intend to 
 marry Monsieur de la Tourelle — I had received his visits, his 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 269 
 
 presents, all his various advances without showing any unwilling- 
 ness or repugnance — (and it was all true ; I had shown no repug- 
 nance, though I did not wish to be married to him — at least, not 
 so soon) — what could I do but hang my head, and silently consent 
 to the rapid enunciation of the only course which now remained 
 for me if I would not be esteemed a heartless coquette all the 
 rest of my days ? 
 
 There was some difficulty, which I afterwards learnt that my 
 sister-in-law had obviated, about my betrothal taking place from 
 home. My father, and Fritz especially, were for having me 
 return to the mill, and there be betrothed, and thence be married. 
 But the Rupprechts and Monsieur de la Tourelle were equally 
 urgent on the other side; and Babette was unwilling to have the 
 trouble of the commotion at the mill ; and also, I think, a little 
 disliked the idea of the contrast of my grander marriage with 
 her own. 
 
 So my father and Fritz ^came over to the betrothal. They were 
 to stay at an inn in Carlsruhe for a fortnight, at the end of which 
 time the marriage was to take place. Monsieur de la Tourelle 
 told me he had business at home, which would oblige him to be 
 absent during the interval between the two events ; and I was 
 very glad of it, for I did not think that he valued my father and 
 my brother as I could have wished him to do. He was very 
 polite to them ; put on all the soft, grand manner, which he had 
 rather dropped with me ; and complimented us all round, 
 beginning with my father and Madame Rupprecht, and ending 
 with httle Alwina. But he a little scoffed at the old-fashioned 
 'church ceremonies which my father insisted on ; and I fancy 
 Fritz must have taken some of his compliments as satire, for I saw 
 certain signs of manner by which I knew that my future husband, 
 for all his civil words, had irritated and annoyed my brother. 
 But all the money arrangements were liberal in the extreme, and 
 more than satisfied, almost surprised, my father. Even Fritz 
 lifted up his eyebrows and whistled. I alone did not care about 
 anything. I was bewitched, — in a dream, — a kind of despair. 
 I had got into a net through my own timidity and weakness, and 
 I did not see how to get out of it. I clung to my own home- 
 people that fortnight as I had never done before. Their voices, 
 their ways, were all so pleasant and familiar to me, after the con- 
 straint in which I had been Hving. I might speak and do as I 
 liked without being corrected by Madame Rupprecht, or reproved 
 
270 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 in a delicate, complimentary way by Monsieur de la Tourelle. 
 One day I said to my father that I did not want to be married, 
 that I would rather go back to the dear old mill; but he seemed 
 to feel this speech of mine as dereliction of duty as great as if I 
 had committed perjury ; as if, after the ceremony of betrothal, 
 no one had any right over me but my future husband. And yet 
 he asked me some solemn questions ; but my answers were not 
 such as to do me any good. 
 
 " Dost thou know any fault or crime in this man that should 
 prevent God's blessing from resting on thy marriage with him? 
 Dost thou feel aversion or repugnance to him in any way?" 
 
 And to all this what could I say? I could only stammer out 
 that I did not think I loved him enough ; and my poor old 
 father saw in this reluctance only the fancy of a silly girl who 
 did not know her own mind; but who had now gone too far to 
 recede. 
 
 So we were married, in the Court chapel, a privilege which 
 Madame Rupprecht had used no end of efforts to obtain for us, 
 and which she must have thought was to secure us all possible 
 happiness, both at the time and in recollection afterwards. 
 
 We were married ; and after two days spent in festivity at 
 Carlsruhe, among all our new fashionable friends there, I bade 
 good-bye for ever to my dear old father. I had begged my 
 husband to take me by way of Heidelberg to his old castle in 
 the Vosges ; but I found an amount of determination, under 
 that effeminate appearance and manner, for which I was not 
 prepared, and he refused my first request so decidedly that I 
 dared not urge it. "Henceforth, Anna," said he, "you will 
 move in a different sphere of life ; and though it is possible that 
 you may have the power of showing favour to your relations 
 from time to time, yet much or familiar intercourse will be 
 undesirable, and is what I cannot allow." I felt almost afraid, 
 after this formal speech, of asking my father and Fritz to come 
 and see me ; but, when the agony of bidding them farewell 
 overcame all my prudence, I did beg them to pay me a visit ere 
 long. But they shook their heads, and spoke of business at 
 home, of different kinds of life, of my being a Frenchwoman 
 now. Only my father broke out at last with a blessing, and 
 said, "If my child is unhappy — which God forbid — let her 
 remember that her father's house is ever open to her." I was 
 on the point of crying out, " Oh ! take me back then now, my 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 27 1. 
 
 father i oh, my father ! " when I felt, rather than saw, my 
 husband present near me. He looked on with a slightly con- 
 temptuous air ; and, taking my hand in his, he led me weeping 
 away, saying that short farewells were always the best when they 
 were inevitable. 
 
 It took us two days to reach his chateau in the Vosges, for the 
 roads were bad and the way difficult to ascertain. Nothing could 
 be more devoted than he was all the time of the journey. It 
 seemed as if he were trying in every way to make up for the 
 separation which every hour made me feel the more complete 
 between my present and my former hfe. I seemed as if I were 
 only now wakening up to a full sense of what marriage was, and 
 I dare say I was not a cheerful companion on the tedious journey. 
 At length, jealousy of my regret for my father and brother got 
 the better of M. de la Tourelle, and he became so much displeased 
 with me that I thought my heart would break with the sense of 
 desolation. So it was in no cheerful frame of mind that we 
 approached Les Rochers, and I thought that perhaps it was 
 because I was so unhappy that the place looked so dreary. On 
 one side, the chateau looked like a raw new building, hastily run 
 up for some immediate purpose, without any growth of trees or 
 underwood near it, only the remains of the stone used for build- 
 ing, not yet cleared away from the immediate neighbourhood, 
 although weeds and lichens had been suffered to grow near and 
 over the heaps of rubbish ; on the other, were the great rocks 
 from which the place took its name, and rising close against them, 
 as if almost a natural formation, was the old castle, whose build- 
 ing dated many centuries back. 
 
 It was not large nor grand, but it was strong and picturesque,, 
 and I used to wish that we lived in it rather than in the smart, 
 half-furnished apartment in the new edifice, which had been 
 hastily got ready for my reception. Incongruous as the two parts 
 were, they were joined into a whole by means of intricate passages 
 and unexpected doors, the exact positions of which I never fully 
 understood. M. de la Tourelle led me to a suite of rooms set 
 apart for me, and formally installed me in them, as in a domain of 
 which I was sovereign. He apologised for the hasty preparation 
 which was all he had been able to make for me, but promised, 
 before I asked, or even thought of complaining, that they should 
 be made as luxurious as heart could wish before many weeks had 
 elapsed. But when, in the gloom of an autumnal evening, I 
 
272 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 caught my own face and figure reflected in all the mirrors, which 
 showed only a mysterious background in the dim light of the 
 many candles which failed to illuminate the great proportions of 
 the half-furnished salon, I clung to M. de la Tourelle, and begged 
 to be taken to the rooms he had occupied before his marriage, he 
 seemed angry with me, although he affected to laugh, and so 
 decidedly put aside the notion of my having any other rooms but 
 these, that I trembled in silence at the fantastic figures and shapes 
 which my imagination called up as peophng the background of 
 those gloomy mirrors. There was my boudoir, a little less dreary 
 — my bedroom, with its grand and tarnished furniture, which I 
 commonly made into my sitting-room, locking up the various doors 
 which led into the boudoir, the salon, the passages — all but one 
 through which M. de la Tourelle always entered from his own 
 apartments in the older part of the castle. But this preference of 
 mine for occupying my bedroom annoyed M. de la Tourelle, I am 
 sure, though he did not care to express his displeasure. He would 
 always allure me back into the salon, which I disliked more and 
 more from its complete separation from the rest of the building 
 by the long passage into which all the doors of my apartment 
 opened. This passage was closed by heavy doors and portieres 
 through which I could not hear a sound from the other parts of 
 the house, and, of course, the servants could not hear any move- 
 ment or cry of mine unless expressly summoned. To a girl brought 
 up as I had been in a household where every individual lived all 
 day in the sight of every other member of the family, never wanted 
 either cheerful words or the sense of silent companionship, this 
 grand isolation of mine was very formidable ; and the more so, 
 because M. de la Tourelle, as landed proprietor, sportsman, and 
 what not, was generally out of doors the greater part of every day, 
 and sometimes for two or three days at a time. I had no pride 
 to keep me from associating with the domesdcs ; it would have 
 been natural to me in many ways to have sought them out for a 
 word of sympathy in those dreary days when I was left so entirely 
 to myself, had they been like our kindly German servants. But I 
 disliked them, one and all ; I could not tell why. Some were civil, 
 but there was a familiarity in their civility which repelled me ; 
 others were rude, and treated me more as if I were an intruder 
 than their master's chosen wife ; and yet of the two sets I liked 
 these last the best. 
 
 The principal male servant belonged to this latter class. I was 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 273 
 
 very much afraid of him, he had such an air of suspicious surliness 
 about him in all he did for me ; and yet M. de la Tourelle spoke 
 of him as most valuable and faithful. Indeed, it sometimes struck 
 me that Lefebvre ruled his master in some things ; and this I could 
 not make out. For, while M. de la Tourelle behaved towards me 
 as if I were some precious toy or idol, to be cherished, and fostered, 
 and petted, and indulged, I soon found out how little I, or, appa- 
 rently, any one else, could bend the terrible will of the man who 
 had on first acquaintance appeared to me too effeminate and 
 languid to exert his will in the slightest particular. I had learnt 
 to'know his face better now ; and to see that some vehement depth 
 of feeling, the cause of which I could not fathom, made his grey 
 eye ghtter with pale light, and his lips contract, and his delicate 
 cheek whiten on certain occasions. But all had been so open and 
 above-board at home, that I had no experience to help me to 
 unravel any mysteries among those who lived under the same roof. 
 I understood that I had made what Madame Rupprecht and her 
 set would have called a great marriage, because I lived in a chateau 
 with many servants, bound ostensibly to obey me as a mistress. I 
 understood that M. de la Tourelle was fond enough of me in his 
 way — proud of my beauty, I dare say (for he often enough spoke 
 about it to me) — but he was also jealous, and suspicious, and 
 uninfluenced by my wishes, unless they tallied with bis own. I 
 felt at this time as if I could have been fond of him, too, if he 
 would have let me ; but I was timid from my childhood, and 
 before long my dread of his displeasure (coming down like thunder 
 into the midst of his love, for such slight causes as a hesitation 
 in reply, a wrong word, or a sigh for my father), conquered my 
 humorous inclination to love one who was so handsome, so accom- 
 plished, so indulgent and devoted. But if I could not please him 
 when indeed I loved him, you may imagine how often I did wrong 
 when I was so much afraid of him as to quietly avoid his company 
 for fear of his outbursts of passion. One thing I remember 
 noticing, that the more M. de la Tourelle was displeased with me 
 the more Lefebvre seemed to chuckle ; and when I was restored 
 to favour, sometimes on as sudden an impulse as that which occa- 
 sioned my disgrace, Lefebvre would look askance at me with his 
 cold, malicious eyes, and once or twice at such times he spoke 
 most disrespectfully to M. de la Tourelle. 
 
 I have almost forgotten to say that, in the early days of my life 
 at Les Rochers, M. de la Tourelle, in contemptuous indulgent 
 
274 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 pity at my weakness in disliking the dreary grandeur of the 
 salon, wrote up to the milliner in Paris from whom my cofbeilie 
 de mariage had come, to desire her to look out for me a maid 
 of middle age, experienced in the toilette, and with so much 
 refinement that she might on occasion serve as companion to me. 
 
 PORTION II. 
 
 A Norman woman, Amante by name, was sent to Les Rochers 
 by the Paris milliner, to become my maid. She was tall and 
 handsome, though upwards of forty, and somewhat gaunt. 
 But, on first seeing her, I liked her ; she was neither rude nor 
 famihar in her manners, and had a pleasant look of straightfor- 
 wardness about her that I had missed in all the inhabitants of 
 the chateau, and had foolishly set down in my own mind as a 
 national want. Amante was directed by M. de la Tourelle to 
 sit in my boudoir, and to be always within call. He also gave 
 her many instructions as to her duties in matters which, perhaps, 
 strictly belonged to my department of management. But I was 
 young and inexperienced, and thankful to be spared any re- 
 sponsibility. 
 
 I dare say it was true what M. de la Tourelle said — before many 
 weeks had elapsed — that, for a great lady, a lady of a castle, I 
 became sadly too famihar with my Norman waiting-maid. But 
 you know that by birth we were not very far apart in rank, 
 Amante was the daughter of a Norman farmer, I, of a German 
 miller ; and besides that, my life was so lonely ! It almost 
 seemed as if I could not please my husband. He had written 
 for some one capable of being my companion at times, and now 
 he was jealous of my free regard for her — angry because I could 
 sometimes laugh at her original tunes and amusing proverbs, 
 while when with him I was too much frightened to smile. 
 
 From time to time families from a distance of some leagues 
 drove through the bad roads in their heavy carriages to pay us a 
 visit, and there was an occasional talk of our going to Paris when 
 public affairs should be a little more settled. These little events 
 and plans were the only variations in my life for the first twelve 
 months, if I except the alternations in M. de la Tourelle's temper, 
 his unreasonable anger, and his passionate fondness. 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 •^/> 
 
 Perhaps one of the reasons that made me take pleasure and 
 comfort in Amante's society was, that whereas I was afraid of 
 everybody (I do not think I was half as much afraid of things as 
 of persons), Amante feared no one. She would quietly beard 
 Lefebvre, and he respected her all the more for it ; she had a 
 knack of putting questions to M. de la Tourelle, which respect- 
 fully informed him that she had detected the weak point, but 
 forbore to press him too closely upon it out of deference to his 
 position as her master. And with all her shrewdness to others, 
 she had quite tender ways with me ; all the more so at this time 
 because she knew, what I had not yet ventured to tell M. de la 
 Tourelle, that by-and-by I might become a mother — that wonder- 
 ful object of mysterious interest to single women, who no longer 
 hope to enjoy such blessedness themselves. 
 
 It was once more autumn ; late in October. But I was recon- 
 ciled to my habitation ; the walls of the new part of the building 
 no longer looked bare and desolate ; the deh7'is had been so far 
 cleared away by M. de la Tourelle's desire as to make me a little 
 flower-garden, in which I tried to cultivate those plants that I 
 remembered as growing at home. Amante and I had moved 
 the furniture in the rooms, and adjusted it to our liking ; my 
 husband had ordered many an article from time to time that he 
 thought would give me pleasure, and I was becoming tame to 
 my apparent imprisonment in a certain part of the great build- 
 ing, the whole of which I had never yet explored. It was 
 October, as I say, once more. The days were lovely, though 
 short in duration, and M. de la Tourelle had occasion, so he 
 said, to go to that distant estate, the superintendence of which 
 so frequently took him away from home. He took Lefebvre 
 with him, and possibly some more of the lacqueys ; he often 
 did. And my spirits rose a little at the thought of his absence ; 
 and then the new sensation that he was the father of my unborn 
 babe came over me, and I tried to invest him with this fresh 
 character. I tried to beheve that it was his passionate love for 
 me that made him so jealous and tyrannical, imposing, as he- 
 did, restrictions on my very intercourse with my dear father, 
 from whom I was so entirely separated, as far as personal inter- 
 course was concerned. 
 
 I had, it is true, let myself go into a sorrowful review of all the 
 troubles which lay hidden beneath the seeming luxury of my life. 
 I knew that no one cared for me except my husband and Amante ;, 
 
276 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 for it was clear enough to see that I, as his wife, and also as a 
 fa7 venue, was not popular among the few neighbours who sur- 
 rounded us \ and as for the servants, the women were all hard and 
 impudent-looking, treating me with a semblance of respect that 
 had more of mockery than reality in it ; while the men had a 
 lurking kind of fierceness about them, sometimes displayed even 
 to M. de la Tourelle, who on his part, it must be confessed, was 
 ■often severe, even to cruelty, in his management of them. My 
 husband loved me, I said to myself, but I said it almost in the 
 form of a question. His love was shown fitfully, and more in 
 ways calculated to please himself than to please me. I felt that 
 for no wish of mine would he deviate one tittle from any pre- 
 determined course of action. I had learnt the inflexibility of those 
 thin delicate lips ; I knew how anger would turn his fair com- 
 plexion to deadly white, and bring the cruel light into his pale 
 blue eyes. The love I bore to any one seemed to be a reason for 
 his hating them, and so I went on pitying myself one long dreary 
 afternoon during that absence of his of which I have spoken, only 
 sometimes remembering to check myself in my murmurings by 
 thinking of the new unseen link between us, and then crying 
 afresh to think how wicked I was. Oh, how well I remember 
 that long October evening ! Amante came in from time to time, 
 talking away to cheer me — talking about dress and Paris, and I 
 hardly know what, but from time to time looking at me keenly 
 with her friendly dark eyes, and with serious interest, too, though 
 all her words were about frivolity. At length she heaped the fire 
 with wood, drew the heavy silken curtains close ; for I had been 
 anxious hitherto to keep them open, so that I might see the pale 
 moon mounting the skies, as I used to see her — the same moon — 
 rise from behind the Kaiser Stuhl at Heidelberg ; but the sight 
 made me cry, so Amante shut it out. She dictated to me as a 
 nurse does to a child. 
 
 " Now, madame must have the little kitten to keep her com- 
 pany," she said, " while I go and ask Marthon for a cup of coffee." 
 I remember that speech, and the way it roused me, for I did not 
 like Amante to think I wanted amusing by a kitten. It might be 
 my petulance, but this speech — such as she might have made to a 
 child— annoyed me, and I said that I had reason for my lowness 
 of spirits — meaning that they were not of so imaginary a nature 
 that I could be diverted from them by the gambols of a kitten. 
 So, though I did not choose to tell her all, I told her a part : and 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 2/7 
 
 as I spoke, I began to suspect that the good creature knew much 
 of what I withheld, and that the Httle speech about the kitten 
 was more thoughtfully kind than it had seemed at first. I said 
 that it was so long since I had heard from my father ; that he was 
 an old man, and so many things might happen — I might never see 
 him again — and I so seldom heard from him or my brother. It 
 was a more complete and total separation than I had ever antici- 
 pated when I married, and something of my home and of my life 
 previous to my marriage I told the good Amante ; for I had not 
 been brought up as a great lady, and the sympathy of any human 
 'being was precious to me. 
 
 Amante listened with interest, and in return told me some of 
 the events and sorrows of her own life. Then, remembering 
 her purpose, she set out in search of the coffee, which ought to 
 have been brought to me an hour before ; but, in my husband's 
 absence, my v^ishes were but seldom attended to, and I never 
 dared to give orders. 
 
 Presently she returned, bringing the coffee and a large cake. 
 
 "See!" said she, setting it down. "Look at my plunder. 
 Madame must eat. Those who eat always laugh. And, 
 besides, I have a little news that will please madame." Then 
 she told me that lying on a table in the great kitchen was a 
 bundle of letters, come by the courier from Strasburg that very 
 afternoon : then, fresh from her conversation with me, she had 
 hastily untied the string that bound them, but had only just 
 traced out one that she thought was from Germany, when a 
 servant-man came in, and, with the start he gave her, she 
 dropped the letters, which he picked up, swearing at her for 
 having untied and disarranged them. She told him that she 
 believed there was a letter there for her mistress ; but he only 
 swore the more, saying, that if there was it was no business of 
 hers, or of his either, for that he had the strictest orders always 
 to take all letters that arrived during his master's absence into 
 the private sitting-room of the latter — a room into which I had 
 never entered, although it opened out of my husband's dressing- 
 room. 
 
 I asked Amante if she had not conquered and brought me this 
 letter. No, indeed, she replied, it was almost as much as his, 
 life was worth to live among such a set of servants : it was only 
 a month ago that Jacques had stabbed Valentin for some jesting 
 talk. Had I never missed Valentin — that handsome young lad 
 
278 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 who carried up the wood into my salon? Poor fellow ! he lies 
 dead and cold now, and they said in the village he had put an 
 end to himself, but those of the household knew better. Oh ! I 
 need not be afraid ; Jacques was gone no one knew where ; but 
 with such people it was not safe to upbraid or insist. Monsieur 
 would be at home the next day, and it would not be long to 
 wait. 
 
 But I felt as if I could not exist till the next day without the 
 letter. It might be to say that my father was ill, dying — he 
 might cry for his daughter from his death-bed ! In short, there 
 was no end to the thoughts and fancies that haunted me. It 
 was of no use for Amante to say that, after all,, she might be mis- 
 taken — that she did not read writing well — that she had but a 
 glimpse of the address ; I let my coffee cool, my food all became 
 distasteful, and I wrung my hands with impatience to get at the 
 letter, and have some news of my dear ones at home. All the 
 time Amante kept her imperturbable good temper, first reason- 
 ing, then scolding. At last she said, as if wearied out, that if I 
 would consent to make a good supper, she would see what could 
 be done as to our going to monsieur's room in search of the 
 letter, after the servants were all gone to bed. We agreed to 
 go together when all was still, and look over the letters ; there 
 could be no harm in that ; and yet, somehow, we were such 
 cowards we dared not do it openly and in the face of the 
 household. 
 
 Presently my supper came up— partridges, bread, fruits, and 
 cream. How well I remember that supper ! We put the un- 
 touched cake away in a sort of buffet, and poured the cold coffee 
 out of the window, in order that the servants might not take 
 offence at the apparent fancifulness of sending down for food I 
 could not eat. I was so anxious for all to be in bed, that I told 
 the footman who served that he need not wait to take away the 
 plates and dishes, but might go to bed. Long after I thought 
 the house was quiet, Amante, in her caution, made me wait. 
 It was past eleven before we set out, with cat-like steps and 
 veiled hght, along the passages, to go to my husband's room 
 and steal my own letter, if it was indeed there ; a fact about 
 which Amante had become very uncertain in the progress of 
 our discussion. 
 
 To make you understand my story, I must now try to explain 
 to you the plan of the chateau. It had been at one time a forti- 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 279 
 
 fied place of some strength, perched on the summit of a rock, 
 which projected from the side of the mountain. But additions 
 had been made to the old building (which must have borne a 
 strong resemblance to the castles overhanging the Rhine), and 
 these new buildings were placed so as to command a magni- 
 ficent view, being on the steepest side of the rock, from which 
 the mountain fell away, as it were, leaving the great plain of 
 France in full survey. The ground-plan was something of the 
 shape_of three sides of an oblong; my apartments in the 
 modern edifice occupied the narrow end, and had this grand 
 prospect. The front of the castle was old, and ran parallel to 
 the road far below. In this were contained the offices and 
 public rooms of various descriptions, into which I never pene- 
 trated. The back wing (considering the new building, in which 
 my apartments were, as the centre) consisted of many rooms, 
 of a dark and gloomy character, as the mountain-side shut out 
 much of the sun, and heavy pine woods came down within a 
 few yards of the windows. Yet on this side — on a projecting 
 plateau of the rock — my husband had formed the flower-garden 
 of which I have spoken ; for he was a great cultivator of flowers 
 in his leisure moments. 
 
 Now my bedroom was the corner room of the new buildings 
 on the part next to the mountain. Hence I could have let my- 
 self down into the flower-garden by my hands on the window- 
 sill on one side, without danger of hurting myself; while the 
 windows at right angles with these looked sheer down a descent 
 of a hundred feet at least. Going still farther along this wing, 
 you came to the old building ; in fact, these two fragments of 
 the ancient castle had formerly been attached by some such con- 
 necting apartments as my husband had rebuilt. These rooms 
 belonged to M. de la Tourelle. His bedroom opened into mine, 
 his dressing-room lay beyond ; and that was pretty nearly all I 
 knew, for the servants, as well as he himself, had a knack of 
 turning me back, under some pretence, if ever they found me 
 walking about alone, as I was inclined to do, when first I came, 
 from a sort of curiosity to see the whole of the place of which I 
 found myself mistress. M. de la Tourelle never encouraged me 
 to go out alone, either in a carriage or for a walk, saying always 
 that the roads were unsafe in those disturbed times ; indeed, I 
 have sometimes fancied since that the flower-garden, to which 
 the only access from the castle was through his rooms, was de- 
 
28o THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 signed in order to give me exercise and employment under his 
 own eye. 
 
 But to return to that night. I knew, as I have said, that M. 
 de la Tourelle's private room opened out of his dressing-room, 
 and this out of his bedroom, which again opened into mine, the 
 corner room. But there were other doors into all these rooms, 
 and these doors led into a long gallery, lighted by windows, 
 looking into the inner court. I do not remember our consult- 
 ing much about it ; we went through my room into my hus- 
 band's apartment through the dressing-room, but the door of 
 communication into his study was locked, so there was nothing 
 for it but to turn back and go by the gallery to the other door. 
 I recollect noticing one or two things in these rooms, then seen 
 by me for the first time. I remember the sweet perfume that 
 hung in the air, the scent bottles of silver that decked his toilet- 
 table, and the whole apparatus for bathing and dressing, more 
 luxurious even than those which he had provided for me. But 
 tiie room itself was less splendid in its proportions than mine. 
 In truth, the new buildings ended at the entrance to my hus- 
 band's dressing-room. There were deep window recesses in 
 walls eight or nine feet thick, and even the partitions between 
 the chambers were three feet deep ; but over all these doors or 
 windows there fell thick, heavy draperies, so that I should think 
 no one could have heard in one room what passed in another. 
 We went back into my room, and out into the gallery. We 
 had to shade our candle, from a fear that possessed us, I don't 
 know why, lest some of the servants in the opposite wing might 
 trace our progress towards the part of the castle unused by any 
 one except my husband. Somehow, I had always the feeling 
 that all the domestics, except Amante, were spies upon me, and 
 that I was trammelled in a web of observation and unspoken 
 limitation extending over all my actions. 
 
 There was a light in the upper room ; we paused, and Amante 
 would have again retreated, but I was chafing under the delays. 
 What was the harm of my seeking my father's unopened letter to 
 me in my husband's study ? I, generally the coward, now blamed 
 Amante for her unusual timidity. But the truth was, she had far 
 more reason for suspicion as to the proceedings of that terrible 
 household than I had ever known of. I urged her on, I pressed 
 on myself ; we came to the door, locked, but with the key in it ; 
 we turned it, we entered ; the letters lay on the table, their white 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 28 1 
 
 oblongs catching the light in an instant, and revealing themselves 
 to my eager eyes, hungering after the words of love from my 
 peaceful, distant home. But just as I pressed forward to examine 
 the letters, the candle which Amante held, caught in some 
 draught, went out, and we were in darkness. Amante pro- 
 posed that we should carry the letters back to my salon, col- 
 lecting them as well as we could in the dark, and returning 
 all but the expected one for me ; but I begged her to return 
 to my room, where I kept tinder and flint, and to strike a fresh 
 hght ; and so she went, and I remained alone in the room, ot 
 which I could only just distinguish the size, and the principal 
 articles of furniture : a large table, with a deep, overhanging 
 cloth, in the middle, escritoires and other heavy articles against 
 the wails; all this I could see as I stood there, my hand on 
 the table close by the letters, my face towards the window, 
 which, both from the darkness of the wood, growing high up 
 the mountain-side, and the faint light of the declining moon, 
 seemed only like an oblong of paler, purpler black than the 
 shadowy room. How much I remembered from my one in- 
 stantaneous glance before the candle went out, how much I 
 saw as my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I do not 
 know, but even now, in my dreams, comes up that room of 
 horror, distinct in its profound shadow. Amante could hardly 
 have been gone a minute before I felt an additional gloom 
 before the window, and heard soft movements outside — soft, 
 but resolute, and continued until the end was accomplished, 
 and the window raised. 
 
 In mortal terror of people forcing an entrance at such an 
 hour, and in such a manner as to leave no doubt of their pur- 
 pose, I would have turned to fly when first I heard the noise, 
 only that I feared by any quick motion to catch their attention, 
 as I also ran the danger of doing by opening the door, which 
 was all but closed, and to whose handlings I was unaccustomed. 
 Again, quick as lightning, I bethought me of the hiding-place 
 between the locked door to my husband's dressing-room and 
 the portiere which covered it ; but I gave that up ; I felt as 
 if I could not reach it without screaming or fainting. So I 
 sank down softly, and crept under the table, hidden, as I hoped, 
 by the great, deep table-cover, with its heavy fringe. I had 
 not recovered my swooning senses fully, and was trying to 
 reassure myself as to my being in a place of comparative safety. 
 
282 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 for, above all things, I dreaded the betrayal of fainting, and 
 struggled hard for such courage as I might attain by deadening 
 myself to the danger I was in by inflicting intense pain on 
 myself. You have often asked me the reason of that mark on 
 my hand ; it was where, in my agony, I bit out a piece of 
 flesh with my relentless teeth, thankful for the pain, which 
 helped to numb my terror. I say, I was but just concealed 
 when I heard the window lifted, and one after another stepped 
 over the sill, and stood by me so close, that I could have 
 touched their feet. Then they laughed and whispered ; my 
 brain swam so that I could not tell the meaning of their words, 
 but I heard my husband's laughter among the rest — low, hissing, 
 scornful — as he kicked something heavy that they had dragged 
 in over the floor, and which lay near me ; so near, that my 
 husband's kick, in touching it, touched me too. I don't know 
 why — I can't tell how — but some feeling, and not curiosity, 
 prompted me to put out my hand, ever so softly, ever so little, 
 and feel in the darkness for what lay spurned beside me. I 
 stole my groping palm upon the clenched and chilly hand of 
 a corpse ! 
 
 Strange to say, this roused me to instant vividness of thought. 
 Till this moment I had almost forgotten Amante ; now I planned 
 with feverish rapidity how I could give her a warning not to 
 return ; or rather, I should say, I tried to plan, for all my pro- 
 jects were utterly futile, as I might have seen from the first. 
 I could only hope she could hear the voices of those who were 
 now busy in trying to kindle a light, swearing awful oaths at 
 the mislaid articles which would have enabled them to strike 
 fire. I heard her step outside coming nearer and nearer ; I 
 saw from my hiding-place the line of light beneath the door 
 more and more distinctly ; close to it her footstep paused ; the 
 men inside — at the time I thought they had been only two, 
 but I found out afterwards there were three— paused in their 
 endeavours, and were quite still, as breathless as myself, I 
 suppose. Then she slowly pushed the door open with gentle 
 motion, to save her flickering candle from being again ex- 
 tinguished. For a moment all was still. Then I heard my hus- 
 band say, as he advanced towards her (he wore riding boots, the 
 shape of which I knew well, as I could see them in the light) — 
 
 "Amante, may I ask what brings you here into my private 
 room?" 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 285 
 
 He stood between her and the dead body of a man, from 
 which ghastly heap I shrank away as it ahiiost touched me, so 
 close were we all together. I could not tell whether she saw it 
 or not ; I could give her no warning, nor make any dumb 
 utterance of signs to bid her what to say — if, indeed, I knew 
 myself what would be best for her to say. 
 
 Her voice was quite changed when she spoke ; quite hoarse, 
 and very low ; yet it was steady enough as she said, what was the 
 truth, that she had come to look for a letter which she believed 
 had arrived for me from Germany. Good, brave Amante ! Not 
 a word about me. M. de la Tourelle answered with a grim 
 blasphemy and a fearful threat. He would have no one prying 
 into his premises ; madame should have her letters, if there were 
 any, when he chose to give them to her, if, indeed, he thought it 
 well to give them to her at all. As for Amante, this was her first 
 warning, but it was also her last ; and, taking the candle out of 
 her hand, he turned her out of the room, his companions discreetly 
 making a screen, so as to throw the corpse into deep shadow, 
 I heard the key turn in the door after her — if I had ever had any 
 thought of escape it was gone now. I only hoped that whatever 
 was to befall me might soon be over, for the tension of nerve was 
 growing more than I could bear. The instant she could be sup- 
 posed to be out of hearing, two voices began speaking in the 
 most angry terms to my husband, upbraiding him for not having 
 detained her, gagged her — nay, one was for killing her, saying he 
 had seen her eye fall on the face of the dead man, whom he now 
 kicked in his passion. Though the form of their speech was as if 
 they were speaking to equals, yet in their tone there was some- 
 thing of fear. I am sure my husband was their superior, or 
 captain, or somewhat. He replied to them almost as if he were 
 scoffing at them, saying it was such an expenditure of labour 
 having to do with fools ; that, ten to one, the woman was only 
 teUing the simple truth, and that she was frightened enough by 
 discovering her master in his room to be thankful to escape and 
 return to her mistress, to whom he could easily explain on the 
 morrow how he happened to return in the dead of night. But 
 his companions fell to cursing me, and saying that since M. de la 
 Tourelle had been married he was fit for nothing but to dress him- 
 self fine and scent himself with perfume ; that, as for me, they 
 could have got him twenty girls prettier, and with far more spirij 
 in them. He quietly answered that I suited him, and that was 
 
284 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 enough. All this time they were doing something— I could not 
 see what — to the corpse ; sometimes they were too busy rifling 
 the dead body, I believe, to talk ; again they let it fall with a 
 heavy, resistless thud, and took to quarrelling. They taunted 
 my husband with angry vehemence, enraged at his scoffing and 
 scornful replies, his mocking laughter. Yes, holding up his poor 
 dead victim, the better to strip him of whatever he wore that was 
 valuable, I heard my husband laugh just as he had done when 
 exchanging repartees in the little salon of the Rupprechts at 
 Carlsruhe. I hated and dreaded him from that moment. At 
 length, as if to make an end of the subject, he said, with cool 
 determination in his voice — 
 
 " Now, my good friends, what is the use of all this talking, 
 when you know in your hearts that, if I suspected my wife of 
 knowing more than I chose of my affairs, she would not outlive 
 the day ? Remember Victorine. Because she merely joked about 
 my affairs in an imprudent manner, and rejected my advice to 
 keep a prudent tongue — to see what she hked, but ask nothing 
 and say nothing — she has gone a long journey — longer than to 
 Paris." 
 
 ' ' But this one is different to her ; we knew all that Madame 
 Victorine knew, she was such a chatterbox ; but this one may find 
 out a vast deal, and never breathe a word about it, she is so sly. 
 Some fine day we may have the country raised, and the gendarmes 
 down upon us from Strasburg, and all owing to your pretty doll, 
 with her cunning ways of coming over you." 
 
 I think this roused M. de la Tourelle a little from his con- 
 temptuous indifference, for he ground an oath through his teeth, 
 and said, ' ' Feel ! this dagger is sharp, Henri. If my wife breathes 
 a word, and I am such a fool as not to have stopped her mourh 
 effectually before she can bring down gendarmes upon us, just let 
 that good steel find its way to my heart. Let her guess but one 
 tittle, let her have but one slight suspicion that I am not a ' grand 
 propri^taire,' much less imagine that I am a chief of chauffeurs, 
 and she follows Victorine on the long journey beyond Paris that 
 very day." 
 
 " She'll outwit you yet ; or I never judged women well. Those 
 -still silent ones are the devil. She'll be off during some of your 
 absences, having picked out some secret that will break us all on 
 the wheel." 
 
 "Bah!" said his voice; and then in a minute he added, 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 285 
 
 " Let her go if she will. But, where she goes, I will follow ; so 
 don't cry before you're hurt." 
 
 By this time, they had nearly stripped the body ; and the con- 
 versation turned out what they should do with it. I learnt that 
 the dead man was the Sieur de Poissy, a neighbouring gentleman, 
 whom I had often heard of as hunting with my husband. I had 
 never seen him, but they spoke as if he had come upon them while 
 they were robbing some Cologne merchant, torturing him after 
 the cruel practice of the chauffeurs, by roasting the feet of their 
 victims in order to compel them to reveal any hidden circum- 
 stances connected with their wealth, of which the chauffeurs 
 afterwards made use ; and this Sieur de Poissy coming down 
 upon them, and recognising M. de la Tourelle, they had killed 
 him, and brought him thither after nightfall. I heard him whom- 
 I called my husband laugh his little light laugh as he spoke of the 
 way in which the dead body had been strapped before one of the 
 riders, in such a way that it appeared to any passer-by as if, in- 
 truth, the murderer were tenderly supporting some sick person. 
 He repeated some mocking reply of double meaning, which he 
 himself had given to some one who made inquiry. He enjoyed 
 the play upon words, softly applauding his own wit. And all 
 the time the poor helpless outstretched arms of the dead lay close 
 to his dainty boot ! Then another stooped (my heart stopped 
 beating), and picked up a letter lying on the ground — a letter 
 that had dropped out of M. de Poissy's pocket — a letter from 
 his wife, full of tender words of endearment and pretty babblings 
 of love. This was read aloud, with coarse ribald comments 
 on every sentence, each trying to outdo the previous speaker. 
 When they came to some pretty words about a sweet Maurice, 
 their little child away with its mother on some visit, they 
 laughed at M. de la Tourelle, and told him that he would be 
 hearing such woman's drivelhng some day. Up to that 
 moment, I think, I had only feared him, but his unnatural, 
 half-ferocious reply made me hate even more than I dreaded 
 him. But now they grew weary of their savage merriment ; 
 the jewels and watch had been appraised, the money and 
 papers examined ; and apparently there was some necessity 
 for the body being interred quietly and before daybreak. They 
 had not dared to leave him where he was slain, for fear lest 
 people should come and recognise him, and raise the hue and 
 cry upon them. For they all along spoke as if it was their 
 
2E6 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 constant endeavour to keep the immediate neighbourhood of 
 Les Rochers in the most orderly and tranquil condition, so as 
 never to give cause for visits from the gendarmes. They 
 disputed a little as to whether they should mal^e their way into 
 the castle larder through the gallery, and satisfy their hunger 
 before tlie hasty interment, or afterwards. I listened with 
 eager feverish interest as soon as this meaning of their speeches 
 reached my hot and troubled brain, for at the time the words 
 they uttered seemed only to stamp themselves with terrible 
 force on my memory, so that I could hardly keep from repeat- 
 ing them aloud like a dull, miserable, unconscious echo ; but 
 my brain was numb to the sense of what they said, unless I 
 myself were named, and then, I suppose, some instinct of self- 
 preservation stirred within me, and quickened my sense. And 
 how I strained my ears, and nerved my hands and limbs, 
 beginning to twitch with convulsive movements, which I feared 
 might betray me ! I gathered every word they spoke, not 
 knowing which proposal to wish for, but feeling that whatever 
 was finally decided upon, my only chance of escape was draw- 
 ing near. I once feared lest my husband should go to his 
 bedroom before I had had that one chance, in which case he 
 would most likely have perceived my absence. He said that 
 his hands were soiled (I shuddered, for it might be with life* 
 blood), and he would go and cleanse them ; but some bitter 
 jest turned his purpose, and he left the room with the other 
 two — left it by the gallery door. I^eft me alone in the dark 
 with the stiffening corpse ! 
 
 Now, now was my time, if ever ; and yet I could not move. 
 It was not my cramped and stiffened joints that crippled me, 
 it was the sensation of that dead man's close presence. I 
 almost fancied — I almost fancy still — I heard the arm nearest 
 to me move ; lift itself up, as if once more imploring, and fall 
 in dead despair. At that fancy — if fancy it were — I screamed 
 aloud in mad terror, and the sound of my own strange voice 
 broke the spell. I drew myself to the side of the table farthest 
 from the corpse, with as much slow caution as if I really could 
 have feared the clutch of that poor dead arm, powerless for 
 evermore. I softly raised myself up, and stood sick and trem- 
 bling, holding by the table, too dizzy to know what to do next. 
 I nearly fainted, when a low voice spoke— when Amante, from 
 ihe outside of the door, whispered, " Madame ! " The faithful 
 
I 
 
 THE GREY WOMAN. 287 
 
 creature had been on the watch, had heard my scream, and 
 having seen the three ruffians troop along the gallery, down the 
 stairs, and across the court to the offices in the other wing of 
 the castle, she had stolen to the door of the room in which I 
 was. The sound of her voice gave me strength ; I walked 
 straight towards it, as one benighted on a dreary moor, suddenly 
 perceiving the small steady light which tells of human dwellings^ 
 takes heart, and steers straight onward. Where I was, where 
 that voice was, I knew not ; but go to it I must, or die. The 
 door once opened — I know not by which of us — I fell upon her 
 neck, grasping her tight, till my hands ached with the tension 
 of their hold. Yet she never uttered a word. Only she took 
 me up in her vigorous arms, and bore me to my room, and laid 
 me on my bed. I do not know more ; as soon as I was placed 
 there I lost sense ; I came to myself with a horrible dread lest 
 my husband was by me, with a belief that he was in the room, 
 in hiding, wai,ting to hear my first words, watching for the least 
 sign of the terrible knowledge I possessed to murder me. I 
 dared not breathe quicker, I measured and timed each heavy 
 inspiration ; I did not speak, nor move, nor even open my eyes, 
 for long after I was in my full, my miserable senses. I heard 
 some one treading softly about the room, as if with a purpose, 
 not as if for curiosity, or merely to beguile the time ; some one 
 passed in and out of the salon ; and I still lay quiet, feeling as 
 if death were inevitable, but wisliing that the agony of death 
 were past. Again faintness stole over me ; but just as I was 
 sinking into the horrible feeling of nothingness, I heard Amante's 
 voice close to me, saying — 
 
 " Drink this, madame, and let us be gone. All is ready." 
 I let her put her arm under my head and raise me, and pour 
 something down my throat. All the time she kept talking in a 
 quiet, measured voice, unhke her own, so dry and authoritative ; 
 she told me that a suit of her clothes lay ready for me, that 
 she herself was as much disguised as the circumstances per- 
 mitted her to be, that what provisions I had left from my 
 supper were stowed away in her pockets ; and so she went on, 
 dwelling on little details of the most commonplace description, 
 but never alluding for an instant to the fearful cause why flight 
 was necessary. I made no inquiry as to how she knew, or 
 what she knew. I never asked her either then or afterwards ; 
 1 could not bear it — we kept our dreadful secret close. But I 
 
288 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 suppose she must have been in the dressing-room adjoining", 
 and heard all. 
 
 In fact, I dared not speak even to her, as if there were 
 anything beyond the most common event in Hfe in our pre- 
 paring thus to leave the house of blood by stealth in the dead 
 of night. She gave me directions — short condensed directions, 
 without reasons — ^just as you do to a child ; and like a child 
 I obeyed her. She went often to the door and listened ; and 
 often, too, she went to the window, and looked anxiously out. 
 For me, I saw nothing but her, and I dared not let my eyes 
 wander from her for a minute ; and I heard nothing in the 
 deep midnight silence but her soft movements, and the heavy 
 beating of my own heart. At last she took my hand, and led 
 me in the dark, through the salon, once more into the terrible 
 gallery, where across the black darkness the windows admitted 
 pale sheeted ghosts of light upon the floor. Clinging to her 
 I went ; unquestioning — for she was human sympathy to me, 
 after the isolation of my unspeakable terror. On we went, 
 turning to the left instead of to the right, past my suite of 
 sitting-rooms, where the gilding was red with blood, into that 
 unknown wing of the castle that fronted the main road, lying 
 parallel far below. She guided me along the basement passages 
 to which we had now descended, until we came to a little open 
 door, through which the air blew chill and cold, bringing for 
 the first time a sensation of life to me. The door led into a 
 kind of cellar, through which we groped our way to an opening 
 like a window, but which, instead of being glazed, was only 
 fenced with iron bars, two of which were loose, as Amante 
 evidently knew, for she took them out with the ease of one who 
 had performed the action often before, and then helped me to 
 follow her out into the free, open air. 
 
 We stole round the end of the building, and on turning the 
 corner — she first — I felt her hold on me tighten for an instant, 
 and the next step I, too, heard distant voices, and the blows of a 
 spade upon the heavy soil, for the night was very warm and still. 
 
 We had not spoken a word ; we did not speak now. Touch 
 was safer and as expressive. She turned down towards the 
 high road ; I followed. I did not know the path ; we stumbled 
 again and again, and I was much bruised ; so doubtless was 
 she ; but bodily pain did me good. At last, we were on the 
 plainer path of the high road. 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 289 
 
 I had such faith in her that I did not venture to speak, even 
 when she paused, as wondering to which hand she should turn. 
 But now, for the first time, she spoke — 
 
 ' ' Which way did you come when he brought you here 
 firstly" 
 
 I pointed — I could not speak. 
 
 We turned in the opposite direction ; still going along the 
 high road. In about an hour, we struck up to the mountain- 
 side, scrambling far up before we even dared to rest ; far up 
 and away again before day had fully dawned. Then we looked 
 about for some place of rest and concealment ; and now we 
 dared to speak in whispers. Amante told me that she had 
 locked the door of communication between his bedroom and 
 mine, and, as in a dream, I was aware that she had also locked 
 and brought away the key of the door between the latter and 
 the salon. 
 
 " He will have been too busy this night to think much about 
 you — he will suppose you are asleep — I shall be the first to be 
 missed ; but they will only just now be discovering our loss." 
 
 I remember those last words of hers made me pray to go on ; 
 I felt as if we were losing precious time in thinking either of 
 rest or concealment ; but she hardly replied to me, so busy was 
 she in seeking out some hiding-place. At length, giving it up 
 in despair, we proceeded onwards a httle way ; the mountain- 
 side sloped downwards rapidly, and in the full morning light 
 we saw ourselves in a narrow valley, made by a stream which 
 forced its way along it. About a mile lower down there rose 
 the pale blue smoke of a village, a mill-wheel was lashing up 
 the water close at hand, though out of sight. Keeping under 
 the cover of every sheltering tree or bush, we worked our way 
 down past the mill, down to a one-arched bridge which doubt- 
 less formed part of the road between the village and the mill. 
 
 "This will do," said she ; and we crept under the space, and 
 climbing a little way up the rough stone-work, we seated our- 
 selves on a projecting ledge, and crouched in the deep damp 
 shadow. Amante sat a little above me, and made me laymy 
 head on her lap. Then she fed me, and took some food herself; 
 and opening out her great dark cloak, she covered up every 
 light-coloured speck about us ; and thus we sat, shivering and 
 shuddering, yet feeling a kind of rest through it all, simply from 
 the fact that motion was no longer imperative, and that during 
 
290 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 the daylight our only chance of safety was to be still. But the 
 damp shadow in which we were sitting was blighting, from the 
 circumstance of the sunlight never penetrating there ; and I 
 dreaded lest, before night and the time for exertion again came 
 on, I should feel illness creeping all over me. To add to our 
 discomfort, it had rained the whole day long, and the- stream, 
 fed by a thousand little mountain brooklets, began to swell 
 into a torrent, rushing over the stones with a perpetual and 
 dizzying noise. 
 
 Every now and then I was wakened from the painful doze 
 into which I continually fell, by a sound of horses' feet over our 
 head : sometimes lumbering heavily as if dragging a burden, 
 sometimes rattling and galloping, and with the sharper cry of 
 men's voices coming cutting through the roar of the waters. 
 At length, day fell. We had to drop into the stream, which 
 came above our knees as we waded to the bank. There we 
 stood, stiff and shivering. Even Amante's courage seemed to 
 fail. 
 
 "We must pass this night in shelter, somehow," said she. 
 For indeed the rain was coming down pitilessly. I said nothing. 
 I thought that surely the end must be death in some shape ; 
 and I only hoped that to death might not be added the terror 
 of the cruelty of men. In a minute or so she had resolved 
 on her course of action. We went up the stream to the mill. 
 The familiar sounds, the scent of the wheat, the flower whiten- 
 ing the walls — all reminded me of home, and it seemed to me 
 as if I must struggle out of this nightmare and waken, and find 
 myself once more a happy girl by the Neckar-side. They were 
 long in unbarring the door at which Amante had knocked ; at 
 length, an old feeble voice inquired who was there, and what 
 was sought ? Amante answered shelter from the storm for two 
 wornen ; but the old woman replied, with suspicious hesitation, 
 that she was sure it was a man who was asking for shelter, and 
 that she could not let us in. But at length she satisfied herself, 
 and unbarred the heavy door, and admitted us. She was not 
 an unkindly woman ; but her thoughts all travelled in one circle, 
 and that was, that her master, the miller, had told her on no 
 account to let any man into the place during his absence, and 
 that she did not know if he would not think two women as bad ; 
 and yet that as we were not men, no one could say she had dis- 
 obeyed him, for it was a shame to let a dog be out such a night 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 29 1 
 
 as this. Amante, with ready wit, told her to let no one know 
 that we had taken shelter there that night, and that then her 
 master could not blame her ; and while she was thus enjoining 
 secrecy as the wisest course, with a view to far other people 
 than the miller, she was hastily helping me take off my wet 
 clothes, and spreading them, as well as the brown mantle that 
 had covered us both, before the great stove which warmed the 
 room with the effectual heat that the old woman's failing vitality 
 required. All this time the poor creature was discussing with 
 herself as to whether she had disobeyed orders, in a kind of 
 garrulous way that made me fear much for her capability of re- 
 taining anything secret if she was questioned. By-and-by, she 
 wandered away to an unnecessary revelation of her master's 
 whereabouts ; gone to help in the search for his landlord, the 
 Sieur de Poissy, who lived at the chateau just above, and who 
 had not returned from his chase the day before ; so the intendant 
 imagined he might have met with some accident, and had sum- 
 moned the neighbours to beat the forest and the hill-side. She 
 told us much besides, giving us to understand that she would 
 fain meet with a place as housekeeper where there were more 
 servants and less to do, as her life here was very lonely and 
 dull, especially since her master's son had gone away — gone 
 to the wars. She then took her supper, which was evidently 
 apportioned out to her with a sparing hand, as, even if the idea 
 had come into her head, she had not enough to offer us any. 
 Fortunately, warmth was all that we required, and that, thanks 
 to Amante's care, was returning to our chilled bodies. After 
 supper, the old woman grew drowsy ; but she seemed uncom- 
 fortable at the idea of going to sleep and leaving us still in the 
 house. Indeed, she gave us pretty broad hints as to the 
 propriety of our going once more out into the bleak and stormy 
 night ; but we begged to be allowed to stay under shelter of 
 some kind ; and, at last, a bright idea came over her, and she 
 bade us mount by a ladder to a kind of loft, which went half 
 over the lofty mill-kitchen in which we were sitting. We 
 obeyed her — what else could we do? — and found ourselves in 
 a spacious floor, without any safeguard or wall, boarding, or 
 railing, to keep us from falling over into the kitchen, in case we 
 went too near the edge. It was, in fact, the store-room or 
 garret for the household. There was bedding piled up, boxes 
 and chests, mill sacks, the winter store of apples and nuts^ 
 
292 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 bundles of old clothes, broken furniture, and many other things. 
 No sooner were we up there, than the old woman dragged the 
 ladder, by which we had ascended, away with a chuckle, as if 
 she was now secure that we could do no mischief, and sat herself 
 down again once more, to doze and await her master's return. 
 We pulled out some bedding, and gladly laid ourselves down 
 in our dried clothes and in some warmth, hoping to have the 
 sleep we so much needed to refresh us and prepare us for the 
 next day. But I could not sleep, and I was aware, from her 
 breathing, that Amante was equally wakeful. We could both 
 see through the crevices between the boards that formed the 
 flooring into the kitchen below, very partially lighted by the 
 common lamp that hung against the wall near the stove on the 
 opposite side to that on which we were. 
 
 PORTION III. 
 
 Far on in the night there were voices outside reached us in 
 our hiding-place ; an angry knocking at the door, and we saw 
 through the chinks the old woman rouse herself up to go and 
 open it for her master, who came in, evidently half drunk. To 
 my sick horror, he was followed by I.efebvre, apparently as 
 sober and wily as ever. They were talking together as they 
 came in, disputing about something; but the miller stopped 
 the conversation to swear at the old woman for having fallen 
 asleep, and, with tipsy anger, and even with blows, drove the 
 poor old creature out of the kitchen to bed. Then he and 
 Lefebvre went on talking — about the Sieur de Poissy's dis- 
 appearance. It seemed that Lefebvre had been out all day, 
 along with other of my husband's men, ostensibly assisting in 
 the search ; in all probability trying to blind the Sieur de Poissy's 
 followers by putting them on a wrong scent, and also, I fancied, 
 from one or two of Lefebvre's sly questions, combining the 
 hidden purpose of discovering us. 
 
 Although the miller was tenant and vassal to the Sieur de 
 Poissy, he seemed to me to be much more in league with the 
 people of M. de la Tourelle. He was evidently aware, in part, 
 of the life which Lefebvre and the others led ; although, again, 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 293 
 
 I do not suppose that he knew or imagined one-half of their 
 crimes ; and also, I think, he was seriously interested in dis- 
 covering the fate of his master, little suspecting Lefebvre of 
 murder or violence. He kept talking himself, and letting out 
 all sorts of thoughts and opinions ; watched by the keen eyes 
 of Lefebvre gleaming out below his shaggy eyebrows. It was 
 evidently not the cue of the latter to let out that his master's 
 wife had escaped from that vile and terrible den ; but though 
 he never breathed a word relating to us, not the less was I 
 certain he was thirsting for our blood, and lying in wait for us 
 at every turn of events. Presently he got up and took his leave ; 
 and the miller bolted him out, and stumbled off to bed. Then 
 we fell asleep, and slept sound and long. 
 
 The next morning, when I awoke, I saw Amante, half raised, 
 resting on one hand, and eagerly gazing, with straining eyes, into 
 the kitchen below. I looked too, and both heard and saw the 
 miller and two of his men eagerly and loudly talking about the 
 old woman, who had not appeared as usual to make the fire in 
 the stove, and prepare her master's breakfast, and who now, late 
 on in the morning, had been found dead in her bed ; whether 
 from the effect of her master's blows the night before, or from 
 natural causes, who can tell? The miller's conscience upbraided 
 him a little, I should say, for he was eagerly declaring his value 
 for his housekeeper, and repeating how often she had spoken of 
 the happy life she led with him. The men might have had their 
 doubts, but they did not wish to offend the miller, and all agreed 
 that the necessary steps should be taken for a speedy funeral. 
 And so they went out, leaving us in our loft, but so much alone, 
 that, for the first time almost, we ventured to speak freely, though 
 still in a hushed voice, pausing to listen continually. Amante 
 took a more cheerful view of the whole occurrence than I did. She 
 said that, had tlie old woman lived, we should have had to depart 
 that morning, and that this quiet departure would have been the 
 best thing we could have had to hope for, as, in all probability, 
 the housekeeper would have told her master of us and of our 
 resting-place, and this fact would, sooner or later, have been 
 brought to the knowledge of those from whom we most desired to 
 keep it concealed ; but that now we had time to rest, and a shelter 
 to rest in, during the first hot pursuit, which we knew to a fatal 
 certainty was being carried on. The remnants of our food, and 
 the stored-up fruit, would supply us with provision ; the only 
 
294 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 thing to be feared was, that something might be required from 
 the loft, and the miller or some one else mount up in search of 
 it. But even then, with a little arrangement of boxes and chests, 
 one part might be so kept in shadow that we might yet escape 
 observation. All this comforted me a little ; but, I asked, how- 
 were we .ever to escape? The ladder was taken away, which 
 was our only means of descent. But Amante replied that she 
 could make a sufficient ladder of the rope lying coiled among 
 other things, to drop us down the ten feet or so — with the advan- 
 tage of its being portable, so that we might carry it away, and 
 thus avoid all betrayal of the fact that any one had ever been 
 hidden in the loft. 
 
 During the two days that intervened before we did escape, 
 Amante made good use of her time. She looked into every box 
 and chest during the man's absence at his mill ; and finding 
 in one box an old suit of man's clothes, which had probably 
 belonged to the miller's absent son, she put them on to see if 
 they would fit her ; and, when she found that they did, she cut 
 her own hair to the shortness of a man's, made me clip her 
 black eyebrows as close as though they had been shaved, and 
 by cutting up old corks into pieces such as would go into her 
 cheeks, she altered both the shape of her face and her voice to 
 a degree which I should not have believed possible. 
 
 All this time I lay like one stunned ; my body resting, and 
 renewing its strength, but I myself in an almost idiotic state — 
 else surely I could not have taken the stupid interest which I 
 remember I did in all Amante's energetic preparations for dis- 
 guise. I absolutely recollect once the feehng of a smile coming 
 over my stiff face as some new exercise of her cleverness proved 
 a success. 
 
 But towards the second day, she required me, too, to exert 
 myself ; and then all my heavy despair returned. I let her dye 
 my fair hair and complexion with the decaying shells of the 
 stored-up walnuts, I let her blacken my teeth, and even volun- 
 tarily broke a front tooth, the better to effect my disguise. But 
 through it all I had no hope of evading my terrible husband. 
 The third night the funeral was over, the drinking ended, 
 the guests gone ; the miller put to bed by his men, being too 
 drunk to help himself. They stopped a little while in the 
 kitchen talking and laughing about the new housekeeper likely 
 to come ; and they, too, went off shutting, but not locking 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 29S 
 
 the door. Everything favoured us. Amante had tried her 
 ladder on one of the two previous nights, and could, by a 
 dexterous throw from beneath, unfasten it from the hook to 
 which it was fixed, when it had served its office ; she made up 
 a bundle of worthless old clothes in order that we might the 
 better preserve our characters of a travelling pedlar and his 
 wife ; she stuffed a hump on her back, she thickened my figure, 
 she left her own clothes deep down beneath a heap of others 
 in the chest from which she had taken the man's dress which 
 she wore ; and with a few francs in her pocket — the sole 
 money we had either of us had about us when we escaped — we 
 let ourselves down the ladder, unhooked it, and passed into 
 the cold darkness of night again. 
 
 We had discussed the route which it would be well for us to 
 take while we lay perdues in our loft. Amante had told me 
 then that her reason for inquiring, when we first left Les 
 Rochers, by which way I had first been brought to it, was to 
 avoid the pursuit which she was sure would first be made in 
 the direction of Germany ; but that now she thought we might 
 return to that district of country where my German fashion of 
 speaking French would excite least observation. I thought 
 that Amante herself had something peculiar in her accent, 
 which I had heard M. de la Tourelle sneer at as Norman 
 patois ; but I said not a word beyond agreeing to her proposal 
 that we should bend our steps towards Germany. Once there 
 we should, I thought, be safe. Alas ! I forgot the unruly time 
 -that was overspreading all Europe, overturning all law, and all 
 the protection which law gives. 
 
 How we wandered— not daring to ask our way — how we lived, 
 how we struggled through many a danger and still more terrors 
 of danger, I shall not tell you now. I will only relate two of 
 our adventures before we reached Frankfort. The first, although 
 fatal to an innocent lady, was yet, I believe, the cause of my 
 safety ; the second I shall tell you, that you may understand 
 why I did not return to my former home, as I had hoped to do 
 when we lay in the miller's loft, and I first became capable of 
 groping after an idea of what my future life might be. I cannot 
 tell you how much in these doubtings and wanderings I became 
 attached to Amante. I have sometimes feared since, lest 1 
 cared for her only because she was so necessary to my own 
 safety ; but, no ! it was not so ; or not so only or principally. 
 
296 THE .GREY WOMAN. 
 
 She said once that she was flying for her own hfe as well as for 
 mine ; but we dared not speak much on our danger, or on the 
 horrors that had gone before. We planned a little what was 
 to be our future course ; but even for that we did not look 
 forward long ; how could we, when every day we scarcely knew 
 if we should see the sun go down? For Amante knew or 
 conjectured far more than I did of the atrocity of the gang to 
 which M. de la Tourelle belonged ; and every now and then, 
 just as we seemed to be sinking into the calm of security, we 
 fell upon traces of a pursuit after us in all directions. Once, 
 I remember — we must have been nearly three weeks wearily 
 walking through unfrequented ways, day after day, not daring 
 to make inquiry as to our whereabouts, nor yet to seem purpose- 
 less in our wanderings — we came to a kind of lonely roadside 
 farrier's and blacksmith's. I was so tired that Amante declared 
 that, come what might, we would stay there all night ; and 
 accordingly she entered the house, and boldly announced herself 
 as a travelling tailor, ready to do any odd jobs of work that 
 might be required, for a night's lodging and food for herself 
 and wife. She had adopted this plan once or twice before, and 
 with good success ; for her father had been a tailor in Rouen, 
 and as a girl she had often helped him with his work, and knew 
 the tailor's slang and habits, down to the particular whistle and 
 cry which in France tells so much to those of a trade. At this 
 blacksmith's, as at most other solitary houses far away from a 
 town, there was not only a store of men's clothes laid by as 
 wanting mending when the housewife could afford time, but 
 there was a natural craving after news from a distance, such 
 news as a wandering tailor is bound to furnish. The early 
 November afternoon was closing into evening, as we sat down, 
 she cross-legged on the great table in the blacksmith's kitchen, 
 drawn close to the window, I close behind her, sewing at 
 another part of the same garment, and from time to time well 
 scolded by my seeming husband. All at once she turned round 
 to speak to me. It was only one word, "Courage!" I had 
 seen nothing ; I sat out of the light ; but I turned sick for an 
 instant, and then I braced myself up into a strange strength of 
 endurance to go through I knew not what. 
 
 The blacksmith's forge was in a shed beside the house, and 
 fronting the road. I heard the hammers stop plying their 
 continual rhythmical beat. She had seen why they ceased. A 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 297 
 
 rider had come up to the forge and dismounted, leading his 
 horse in to be re-shod. The broad red hght of the forge-fire 
 had revealed the face of the rider to Amante, and she appre- 
 hended the consequence that really ensued. 
 
 The rider, after some words with the blacksmith, was ushered 
 in by him into the house-place where we sat. 
 
 *' Here, good wife, a cup of wine and some galette for this 
 gentleman." 
 
 "Anything, anything, madam, that I can eat and drink in 
 my hand while my horse is being shod. I am in haste, and 
 must get on to Forbach to-night." 
 
 The blacksmith's wife lighted her lamp ; Amante had asked 
 her for it five minutes before. How thankful we were that she 
 had not more speedily complied with our request ! As it was,, 
 w-e sat in dusk shadow, pretending to stitch away, but scarcely 
 able to see. The lamp was placed on the stove, near which my 
 husband, for it was he, stood and warmed himself. By-and-by 
 he turned round, and looked all over the room, taking us in with 
 about the same degree of interest as the inanimate furniture. 
 Amante, cross-legged, fronting him, stooped over her work, 
 whistling softly all the while. He turned again to the stove, 
 impatiently rubbing his hands. He had finished his wine and 
 galette, and wanted to be off. 
 
 " I am in haste, my good woman. Ask thy husband to 
 get on more quickly. I will pay him double if he makes 
 haste." 
 
 The woman went out to do his bidding ; and he once more 
 turned round to face us. Amante went on to the second part of 
 the tune. He took it up, whistled a second for an instant or so, 
 and then the blacksmith's wife re-entering, he moved towards 
 her, as if to receive her answer the more speedily. 
 
 " One moment, monsieur — only one moment. There was a 
 Txail out of the off-foreshoe, which my husband is replacing ; it 
 would delay monsieur again if that shoe also came off." 
 
 "Madame is right," said he, "but my haste is urgent. If 
 madame knew my reasons, she would pardon my impatience. 
 Once a happy husband, now a deserted and betrayed man, I 
 pursue a wife on whom I lavished all my love, but who has 
 abused my confidence, and fled from my house, doubtless to* 
 some paramour ; carrying off with her all the jewels and money 
 on which she could lay her hands. It is possible madame 
 
 K 2 
 
298 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 may have heard or seen something of her ; she was accom- 
 panied in her flight by a base, profligate woman from Paris, 
 whom I, unhappy man, had myself engaged for my wife's 
 waiting-maid, little dreaming what corruption I was bringing 
 into my house ! " 
 
 "Is it possible?" said the good woman, throwing up her 
 hands. 
 
 Amante went on whistling a little lower, out of respect to the 
 conversation. 
 
 " However, I am tracing the wicked fugitives ; I am on their 
 track " (and the handsome, effeminate face looked as ferocious 
 as any demon's). "They will not escape me ; but every minute 
 is a minute of misery to me, till I meet my wife. Madame has 
 sympathy, has she not?" 
 
 He drew his face into a hard unnatural smile, and then both 
 went out to the forge, as if once more to hasten the blacksmith 
 over his work. 
 
 Amante stopped her whistling for one instant. 
 
 "Go on as you are, without change of an eyelid even; in a 
 few minutes he will be gone, and it will be over ! " 
 
 It was a necessary caution, for I was on the point of giving 
 way, and throwing myself weakly upon her neck. We went on, 
 she whistling and stitching, I making semblance to sew. And 
 it was well we did so ; for almost directly he came back for his 
 whip, which he had laid down and forgotten ; and again I felt 
 one of those sharp, quick-scanning glances, sent all round the 
 room, and taking in all. 
 
 Then we heard him ride away ; and then — it had been long 
 too dark to see well — I dropped my work, and gave way to my 
 trembling and shuddering. The blacksmith's wife returned. 
 She was a good creature. Amante told her I was cold and 
 weary, and she insisted on my stopping my work, and going to 
 sit near the stove ; hastening, at the same time, her preparations 
 for supper, which, in honour of us, and of monsieur's Hberal 
 payment, was to be a little less frugal than ordinary. It was 
 well for me that she made me taste a little of the cider-soup she 
 was preparing, or I could not have held up, in spite of Amante's 
 warning look, and the remembrance of her frequent exhortations 
 to act resolutely up to the characters we had assumed, whatever 
 tefell. To cover my agitation, Amante stopped her whistling, 
 and began to talk ; and, by the time the blacksmith came in, 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 299 
 
 she and the good woman of the house were in full flow. He 
 began at once upon the handsome gentleman, who had paid 
 him so well ; all his sympathy was with him, and both he and 
 his wife only wished he might overtake his wicked wife, and 
 punish her as she deserved. And then the conversation took a 
 turn, not uncommon to those whose lives are quiet and mono- 
 tonous ; every one seemed to vie with each other in telHng about 
 some horror ; and the savage and mysterious band of robbers 
 called the Chauffeurs, who infested all the roads leading to the 
 Rhine, with Schinderhannes at their head, furnished many a 
 tale which made the very marrow of my bones run cold, and 
 quenched even Amante's power of talking. Her eyes grew large 
 and wild, her cheeks blanched, and for once she sought by her 
 looks help from me. The new call upon me roused me. I rose 
 and said, with their permission, my husband and I would seek 
 our bed, for that we had travelled far and were early risers. I 
 added that we would get up betimes, and finish our piece of 
 work. The blacksmith said we should be early birds if we rose 
 before him ; and the good wife seconded my proposal with 
 kindly bustle. One other such story as those they had been 
 relating, and I do believe Amante would have fainted. 
 
 As it was, a night's rest set her up ; we arose and finished our 
 work betimes, and shared the plentiful breakfast of the family. 
 Then we had to set forth again ; only knowing that to Forbach 
 we must not go, yet believing, as was indeed the case, that 
 P'orbach lay between us and that Germany to which we were 
 directing our course. Two days more we wandered on, making 
 a round, I suspect, and returning upon the road to Forbach, a 
 league or two nearer to that town than the blacksmith's house. 
 But as we never made inquiries I hardly knew where we were, 
 when we came one night to a small town, with a good large 
 rambling inn in the very centre of the principal street. We had 
 begun to feel as if there were more safety in towns than in the 
 loneliness of the country. As we had parted with a ring of 
 mine not many days before to a travelling jeweller, who was too 
 glad to purchase it far below its real value to make many in- 
 quiries as to how it came into the possession of a poor working 
 tailor, such as Amante seemed to be, we resolved to stay at this 
 inn all night, and gather such particulars and information as we 
 could by which to direct our onward course. 
 
 We took our supper in the darkest corner of the salle-d^ 
 
300 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 manger, having previously bargained for a small bedroon:i 
 across the court, and over the stables. We needed food sorely ; 
 but we hurried on our meal from dread of any one entering that 
 public room who might recognise us. Just in the middle of our 
 meal, the public diligence drove lumbering up under the porte 
 coch^re, and disgorged its passengers. Most of them turned 
 into the room where we sat, cowering and fearful, for the door 
 was opposite to the porter's lodge, and both opened on to the 
 wide-covered entrance from the street. Among the passengers 
 came in a young fair-haired lady, attended by an elderly French 
 maid. The poor young creature tossed her head and shrank 
 away from the common room, full of evil smells and promiscuous 
 company, and demanded, in German French, to be taken to seme 
 private apartment. We heard that she and her maid had come 
 in the coup^, and, probably from pride, poor young lady ! she 
 had avoided all association with her fellow-passengers, thereby 
 exciting their dislike and ridicule. All these little pieces of 
 hearsay had a significance to us afterwards, though, at the time, 
 the only remark made that bore upon the future was Amante's 
 whisper to me that the young lady's hair was exactly the colour of 
 mine, which she had cut off and burnt in the stove in the miller's 
 kitchen in one of her descents from our hiding-place in the loft. 
 As soon as we could, we struck round in the shadow, leaving 
 the boisterous and merry fellow-passengers to their supper. We 
 crossed the court, borrowed a lantern from the ostler, and 
 scrambled up the rude steps to our chamber above the stable. 
 There was no door into it ; the entrance was the hole into 
 which the ladder fitted. The window looked into the court. 
 We were tired and soon fell asleep. I was wakened by a noise 
 in the stable below. One instant of listening, and I wakened 
 Amante, placing my hand on her mouth, to prevent any ex- 
 clamation in her half-roused state. We heard my husband 
 speaking about his horse to the ostler. It was his voice. I am. 
 sure of it. Amante said so too. We durst not move to rise 
 and satisfy ourselves. For five minutes or so he went on giving 
 directions. Then he left the stable, and, softly stealing to our 
 window, we saw him cross the court and re-enter the inn. We 
 consulted as to what we should do. We feared to excite remark 
 or suspicion by descending and leaving our chamber, or else 
 immediate escape was our strongest idea. Then the ostler left 
 the stable, locking the door on the outside. 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 30I 
 
 " We must try and drop through the window — if indeed it is 
 well togo at all," said Amante. 
 
 With reflection came wisdom. We should excite suspicion 
 by leaving without paying our bill. We were on foot, and 
 might easily be pursued. So we sat on our bed's edge, talking 
 and shivering, while from across the court the laughter rang 
 merrily, and the company slowly dispersed one by one, their 
 lights flitting past the windows as they went upstairs and settled 
 each one to his rest. 
 
 We crept into our bed, holding each other tight, and listen- 
 ing to every sound, as if we thought we were tracked, and might 
 meet our death at any moment. In the dead of night, just at 
 the profound stillness preceding the turn into another day, we 
 heard a soft, cautious step crossing the yard. The key into 
 the stable was turned — some one came into the stable — we felt 
 rather than heard him there. A horse started a little, and 
 made a restless movement with his feet, then whinnied re- 
 cognition. He who had entered made two or three low sounds 
 to the animal, and then led him into the court. Amante sprang 
 to the window with the noiseless activity of a cat. She looked 
 out, but dared not speak a word. We heard the great door 
 into the street open— a pause for mounting, and the horse's 
 footsteps were lost in distance. 
 
 Then Amante came back to me, " It was he ! he is gone ! " 
 said she, and once more we lay down, trembling and shaking. 
 
 This time we fell sound asleep. We slept long and late. 
 We were wakened by many hurrying feet, and many confused 
 voices ; all the w^orld seemed awake and astir. We rose and 
 dressed ourselves, and coming down we looked around among 
 the crowd collected in the courtyard, in order to assure our- 
 selves he was not there before we left the shelter of the stable. 
 
 The instant we were seen, two or three people rushed to us. 
 
 " Have you heard? — Do you know ? — That poor young lady 
 — oh, come and see ! " And so we were hurried, almost in 
 spite of ourselves, across the court and up the great open stairs 
 of the main building of the inn, into a bedchamber where lay 
 the beautiful young German lady, so full of graceful pride the 
 night before, now white and still in death. By her stood the 
 French maid, crying and gesticulating. 
 
 "Oh, Madame ! if you had but suffered me to stay with you ! 
 Oh ! the baron, what will he say?' and so she went on. Her 
 
302 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 state had but just been discovered ; it had been supposed that 
 she was fatigued, and was sleeping late, until a few minutes 
 before. The surgeon of the town had been sent for, and the 
 landlord of the inn was trying vainly to enforce order until he 
 came, and, from time to time, drinking little cups of brandy, 
 and offering them to the guests, who were all assembled there, 
 pretty much as the servants were doing in the courtyard. 
 
 At last the surgeon came. All fell back, and hung on the 
 words that were to fall from his lips. 
 
 "See!" said the landlord. "This lady came last night by 
 the diligence with her maid. Doubtless, a great lady, for she 
 must have a private sitting-room " 
 
 " She was Madame the Baroness de Roeder," said the French 
 maid. 
 
 — " And was difficult to please in the matter of supper, and a 
 sleeping-room. She went to bed well, though fatigued. Her 
 maid left her " 
 
 " I begged to be allowed to sleep in her room, as we were in 
 a strange inn, of the character of which we knew nothing ; but 
 she would not let me, my mistress was such a great lady." 
 
 — "And slept with my servants," continued the landlord. 
 " This morning we thought madame was still slumbering ; but 
 when eight, nine, ten, and near eleven o'clock came, I bade her 
 maid use my pass-key, and enter her room " 
 
 " The door was not locked, only closed. And here she was 
 found — dead, is she not, monsieur? — with her face down on her 
 pillow, and her beautiful hair all scattered wild; she would 
 never let me tie it up, saying it made her head ache. Such 
 hair ! " said the waiting-maid, lifting up a long golden tress, 
 and letting it fall again. 
 
 I remembered Amante's words the night before, and crept 
 close up to her. 
 
 Meanwhile, the doctor was examining the body underneath 
 the bedclothes, which the landlord, until now, had not allowed 
 to be disarranged. The surgeon drew out his hand, all bathed 
 and stained with blood ; and holding up a short sharp knife, 
 with a piece of paper fastened round it. 
 
 "Here has been foul play," he said. "The deceased lady 
 has been murdered. This dagger was aimed straight at her 
 heart." Then putting on his spectacles, he read the writing on 
 the bloody paper, dimmed and horribly obscured as it was : — 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 303 
 
 NUMERO Un. 
 
 Ainsi les Chauffeurs se vengent. 
 
 "Let us go!" said I to Amante. "Oh, let us leave this 
 horrible place ! " 
 
 "Wait a little," said she. "Only a few minutes more. It 
 will be better." 
 
 Immediately the voices of all proclaimed their suspicions of 
 the cavalier who had arrived last the night before. He had, 
 they said, made so many inquiries about the young lady whose 
 supercilious conduct all in the salle-d-mange?" had been dis- 
 cussing on his entrance. They were talking about her as 
 we left the room ; he must have come in directly afterwards, 
 and not until he had learnt all about her had he spoken of 
 the business which necessitated his departure at dawn of day, 
 and made his arrangements with both landlord and ostler 
 for the possession of the keys of the stable and porte cochere. 
 In short, there was no doubt as to the murderer, even before 
 the arrival of the legal functionary who had been sent for 
 by the surgeon ; but the word on the paper chilled every one 
 with terror. Les Chauffeurs, who were they? No one knew ; 
 some of the gang might even then be in the room overhearing, 
 and noting down fresh objects for vengeance. In Germany, 
 I had heard little of this terrible gang, and I had paid no 
 greater heed to the stories related once or twice about them 
 in Carlsruhe than one does to tales about ogres. But here, 
 in their very haunts, I learnt the full amount of the terror 
 they inspired. No one would be legally responsible for any 
 evidence criminating the murderer. The public prosecutor 
 shrank from the duties of his office. What do I say ? Neither 
 Amante nor I, knowing far more of the actual guilt of the 
 man who had killed that poor sleeping young lady, durst 
 breathe a word. We appeared to be wholly ignorant of 
 everything: we, who might have told so much. But how 
 could we? we were broken down with terrific anxiety and 
 fatigue, with the knowledge that we, above all, were doomed 
 victims ; and that the blood, heavily dripping from the bed- 
 clothes on to the floor, was dripping thus out of the poor dead 
 body because, when hving, she had been mistaken for me. 
 
 At length Amante went up to the landlord, and asked permis- 
 sion to leave his inn, doing all openly and humbly, so as to 
 
304 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 excite neither ill-will nor suspicion. Indeed, suspicion was 
 otherwise directed, and he willingly gave us leave to depart. A 
 few days afterwards we were across the Rhine, in Germany, 
 making our way towards Frankfort, but still keeping our dis- 
 guises, and Amante still working at her trade. 
 
 On the way we met a young man, a wandering journeyman 
 from Heidelberg. I knew him, although I did not choose 
 that he should know me. I asked him, as carelessly as I 
 could, how the old miller was now? He told me he was 
 dead. This realisation of the worst apprehensions caused 
 by his long silence shocked me inexpressibly. It seemed as 
 though every prop gave way from under me. I had been 
 talking to Amante only that very day of the safety and comfort 
 of the home that awaited her in my father's house ; of the 
 gratitude which the old man would feel towards her ; and how 
 there, in that peaceful dwelling, far away from the terrible 
 land of France, she should find ease and security for all the 
 rest of her hfe. All this I thought I had to promise, and even 
 yet more had I locked for, for myself. I looked to the unbur- 
 dening of my heart and conscience by telling all I knew to my 
 best and wisest friend. I looked to his love as a sure guidance 
 as well as a comforting stay, and, behold, he has gone away 
 from me for ever ! 
 
 I had left the room hastily on hearing of this sad news from 
 the Heidelberger. Presently, Amante followed. 
 
 " Poor madame," said she, consoling me to the best of her 
 abihty. And then she told me by degrees what more she had 
 learned respecting my home, about which she knew almost as 
 much as I did, from my frequent talks on the subject both 
 at Les Rochers and on the dreary, doleful road we had come 
 along. She had continued the conversation after I left, by 
 asking about my brother and his wife. Of course, they lived 
 on at the mill, but the man said (with what truth I know 
 not, but I believed it firmly at the time) that Babette had 
 completely got the upper hand of my brother, who only saw 
 through her eyes and heard with her ears. That there had 
 been much Heidelberg gossip of late days about her sudden 
 intimacy with a grand French gentleman who had appeared 
 at the mill — a relation, by marriage — married, in fact, to the 
 miller's sister, who, by all accounts, had behaved abominably 
 and ungratefully. But that was no reason for Babette's extreme 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 305 
 
 and sudden intimacy with him, going about everywhere with 
 the French gentleman ; and since he left (as the Heidelberger 
 said he knew for a fact) corresponding with him constantly. 
 Yet her husband saw no harm in it all, seemingly ; though, 
 to be sure, he was so out of spirits, what with his father's death 
 and the news of his sister's infamy, that he hardly knew how to 
 hold up his head. 
 
 "Now," said Amante, "all this proves that M. de la Tourelle 
 has suspected that you would go back to the nest in which 
 you were reared, and that he has been there, and found that 
 you have not yet returned ; but probably he still imagines that 
 you will do so, and has accordingly engaged your sister-in-law 
 as a kind of informant. Madame has said that her sister-in-law 
 bore her no extreme good-will ; and the defamatory story he 
 has got the start of us in spreading, will not tend to increase 
 the favour in which your sister-in-law holds you. No doubt 
 the assassin was retracing his steps when we met him near 
 Forbach, and having heard of the poor German lady, with 
 her French maid, and her pretty blonde complexion, he followed 
 her. If madame will still be guided by me — and, my child, 
 I beg of you still to trust me," said Amante, breaking out of 
 her respectful formality into the way of talking more natural 
 to those who had shared and escaped from common dangers 
 — more natural, too, where the speaker was conscious of a 
 power of protection which the other did not possess — ' ' we 
 will go on to Frankfort, and lose ourselves, for a time at least, 
 in the numbers of people who throng a great town : and you 
 have told me that Frankfort is a great town. We will still be 
 husband and wife ; we will take a small lodging, and you shall 
 housekeep and live indoors. I, as the rougher and the more 
 alert, will continue my father's trade, and seek work at the 
 tailors' shops." 
 
 I could think of no better plan, so we followed this out. In 
 a back street at Frankfort we found two furnished rooms to Jet 
 on a sixth storey. The one we entered had no light from day ; 
 a dingy lamp swung perpetually from the ceiling, and from that, 
 or from the open door leading into the bedroom beyond, came 
 our only light. The bedroom was more cheerful, but very 
 small. Such as it was, it almost exceeded our possible means. 
 The money from the sale of my ring was almost exhausted, and 
 Amante was a stranger in the place, speaking only French, 
 
3o6 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 moreover, and the good Germans were hating the French people 
 right heartily. However, we succeeded better than our hopes, 
 and even laid by a little against the time of my confinement. 
 I never stirred abroad, and saw no one, and Amante's want 
 of knowledge of German kept her in a state of comparative 
 isolation. 
 
 At length my child was born — my poor worse than fatherless 
 child. It was a girl, as I had prayed for. I had feared lest a 
 boy might have something of the tiger nature of its father, but 
 a girl seemed all my own. And yet not all my own, for the 
 faithful Amante's delight and glory in the babe almost exceeded 
 mine ; in outward show it certainly did. 
 
 We had not been able to afford any attendance beyond what a 
 neighbouring sage-femme could give, and she came frequently, 
 bringing in with her a little store of gossip, and wonderful tales 
 culled out of her own experience, every time. One day she 
 began to tell me about a great lady in whose service her 
 daughter had lived as sculhon, or some such thing. Such a 
 beautiful lady ! with such a handsome husband. But grief 
 comes to the palace as well as to the garret, and why or 
 wherefore no one knew, but somehow the Baron de Roeder 
 must have incurred the vengeance of the terrible Chauffeurs ; 
 for not many months ago, as madame was going to see her 
 relations in Alsace, she was stabbed dead as she lay in bed at 
 some hotel on the road. Had I not seen it in the Gazette ? 
 Had I not heard ? Why, she had been told that as far off as 
 I^yons there were placards offering a heavy reward on the part 
 of the Baron de Roeder for information respecting the murderer 
 of his wife. But no one could help him, for all who could 
 bear evidence were in such terror of the Chauffeurs ; there 
 were hundreds of them, she had been told, rich and poor, great 
 gentlemen and peasants, all leagued together by most frightful 
 oaths to hunt to the death any one who bore witness against 
 them ; so that even they who survived the tortures to which the 
 Chauffeurs subjected many of the people whom they plundered, 
 dared not to recognise them again, would not dare, even did 
 they see them at the bar of a court of justice ; for, if one were 
 condemned, were there not hundreds sworn to avenge his 
 death? 
 
 I told all this to Amante, and we began to fear that if M. de 
 la Tourelle, or Lefebvre, or any of the gang at Les Rochers, 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 307 
 
 had seen these placards, they would know that the poor lady 
 stabbed by the former was the Baroness de Roeder, and that 
 they would set forth again in search of me. 
 
 This fresh apprehension told on my health and impeded my 
 recovery. We had so little money we could not call in a physi- 
 cian, at least not one in established practice. But Amante 
 found out a young doctor, for whom indeed she had sometimes 
 worked ; and offering to pay him in kind, she brought him to 
 see me, her sick wife. He was very gentle and thoughtful, 
 though, like ourselves, very poor. But he gave much time and 
 consideration to the case, saying once to Amante that he saw 
 my constitution had experienced some severe shock from which 
 it was probable that my nerves would never entirely recover. 
 By-and-by I shall name this doctor, and then you will know, 
 better than I can describe, his character. 
 
 I grew strong in time — stronger, at least. I was able to work 
 a little at home, and to sun myself and my baby at the garret- 
 window in the roof. It was all the air I dared to take. I con- 
 stantly wore the disguise I had first set out with ; as constantly 
 had I renewed the disfiguring dye which changed my hair and 
 complexion. But the perpetual state of terror in which I had 
 been during the whole months succeeding my escape from Les 
 Rochers made me loathe the idea of ever again walking in the 
 open daylight, exposed to the sight and recognition of every 
 passer-by. In vain Amante reasoned— in vain the doctor urged. 
 Docile in every other thing, in this I was obstinate. I would 
 not stir out. One day Amante returned from her work, full of 
 news — some of it good, some such as to cause us apprehension. 
 The good news was this ; the master for whom she worked as 
 journeyman was going to send her with some others to a 
 great house at the other side of Frankfort, where there were 
 to be private theatricals, and where many new dresses and 
 much alteration of old ones would be required. The tailors 
 employed were all to stay at this house until the day of 
 representation was over, as it was at some distance from the 
 town, and no one could tell when their work would be ended. 
 But the pay was to be proportionately good. 
 
 The other thing she had to say was this : she had that day 
 met the travelling jeweller to whom she and I had sold my ring. 
 It was rather a peculiar one, given to me by my husband ; we 
 had felt at the time that it might be the means of tracing us, but 
 
3o8 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 we were penniless and starving, and what else could we do? 
 She had seen that this Frenchman had recognised her at the 
 same instant that she did him, and she thought at the same 
 time that there was a gleam of more than common intelligence 
 -on his face as he did so. This idea had been confirmed by his 
 following her for some way on the other side of the street ; but 
 she had evaded him with her better knowledge of the town, and 
 the increasing darkness of the night. Still it was well that she was 
 going to such a distance from our dwelling on the next day ; and 
 she had brought me in a stock of provisions, begging me to keep 
 within doors, with a strange kind of fearful obHvion of the fact 
 that I had never set foot beyond the threshold of the house since 
 I had first entered it — scarce ever ventured down the stairs. But, 
 although my poor, my dear, very faithful Amante was like one 
 possessed that last night, she spoke continually of the dead, which 
 is a bad sign for the living. She kissed you — yes ! it was you, 
 my daughter, my darling, whom I bore beneath my bosom away 
 from the fearful castle of your father — I call him so for the first 
 time, I must call him so once again before I have done — Amante 
 kissed you, sweet baby, blessed little comforter, as if she never 
 could leave off. And then she went away, alive. 
 
 Two days, three days passed away. That third evening I 
 was sitting within my bolted doors — you asleep on your pillow 
 by my side — when a step came up the stair, and I knew it 
 must be for me ; for ours were the topmost rooms. Some one 
 knocked ; I held my very breath. But some one spoke, and I 
 knew it was the good Doctor Voss. Then I crept to the door, 
 and answered. 
 
 "Are you alone? " asked I. 
 
 " Yes," said he, in a still lower voice. *' Let me in." I let 
 him in, and he was as alert as I in bolting and barring the 
 door. Then he came and whispered to me his doleful tale. 
 He had come from the hospital in the opposite quarter of the 
 town, the hospital which he visited ; he should have been with 
 me sooner, but he had feared lest he should be watched. He had 
 come from Amante's deathbed. Her fears of the jeweller were 
 too well founded. She had left the house where she was em- 
 ployed that morning, to transact some errand connected with 
 her work in the town ; she must have been followed, and 
 dogged on her way back through solitary wood-paths, for 
 some of the wood-rangers belonging to the great house had 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 309 
 
 found her lying there, stabbed to death, but not dead ; with 
 the poniard again plunged through the fatal writing, once 
 more; but this time with the word "un" underlined, so as tO' 
 show that the assassin was aware of his previous mistake : — 
 
 Numero Un. 
 Ainsi les Chauffeurs se vengent. 
 
 They had carried her to the house, and given her restoratives 
 till she had recovered the feeble use of her speech. But, oh, 
 faithful, dear friend and sister ! even then she remembered me, 
 and refused to tell (what no one else among her fellow-workmen 
 knew) where she lived or with whom. Life was ebbing away 
 fast, and they had no resource but to carry her to the nearest 
 hospital, where, of course, the fact of her sex was made known. 
 Fortunately both for her and for me, the doctor in attendance 
 was the very Doctor Voss whom we already knew. To him, 
 while awaiting her confessor, she told enough to enable him to- 
 understand the position in which I was left ; before the priest 
 had heard half her tale, Amante was dead. 
 
 Doctor Voss told me he had made all sorts of ditotws, and 
 waited thus, late at night, for fear of being watched and 
 followed. But I do not think he was. At any rate, as I 
 afterwards learnt from him, the Baron Roeder, on hearing of 
 the similitude of this murder with that of his wife in every 
 particular, made such a search after the assassins, that, al- 
 though they were not discovered, they were compelled to take 
 to flight for the time. 
 
 I can hardly tell you now by what arguments Dr. Voss, at 
 first merely my benefactor, sparing me a portion of his small 
 modicum, at length persuaded me to become his wife. His 
 wife he called it, I called it ; for we went through the religious 
 ceremony too much slighted at the time, and as we were both 
 Lutherans, and M. de la Tourelle had pretended to be of the 
 reformed religion, a divorce from the latter would have been 
 easily procurable by German law, both ecclesiastical and legale 
 could we have summoned so fearful a man into any court. 
 
 The good doctor took me and my child by stealth to his 
 modest dwelling ; and there I lived in the same deep retire- 
 ment, never seeing the full light of day, although when the dye 
 had once passed away from my face my husband did not wislt 
 
3IO THE GREY WOMAN. 
 
 me to renew it. There was no need ; my yellow hair was grey, 
 my complexion was ashen-coloured, no creature could have 
 recognised the fresh-coloured, bright-haired young woman of 
 eighteen months before. The few people whom I saw knew 
 me only as Madame Voss ; a widow much older than himself, 
 whom Dr. Voss had secretly married. They called me the 
 Grey Woman. 
 
 He made me give you his surname. Till now you have 
 known no other father — while he lived you needed no father's 
 love. Once only, only once more, did the old terror come 
 upon me. For some reason, which I forget, I broke through 
 ray usual custom, and went to the window of my room for 
 some purpose, either to shut or to open it. Looking out into 
 the street for an instant, I was fascinated by the sight of M, 
 de la Tourelle, gay, young, elegant as ever, walking along on 
 the opposite side of the street. The noise I had made with the 
 window caused him to look up ; he saw me, an old grey woman, 
 and he did not recognise me ! Yet it was not three years since 
 we had parted, and his eyes were keen and dreadful, like those 
 of the lynx. 
 
 I told M. Voss, on his return home, and he tried to cheer me, 
 but the shock of seeing M. de la Tourelle had been too terrible 
 for me. I was ill for long months afterwards. 
 
 Once again I saw him. Dead. He and Lefebvre were at last 
 caught ; hunted down by the Baron de Roeder in some of their 
 crimes. Dr. Voss had heard of their arrest ; their condemnation, 
 their death ; but he never said a word to me, until one day he 
 bade me show him that I loved him by my obedience and my 
 trust. He took me a long carriage-journey, where to I know 
 not, for we never spoke of that day again ; I was led through a 
 prison, into a closed courtyard, where, decently draped in the 
 last robes of death, concealing the marks of decapitation, lay 
 M. de la Tourelle, and two or three others, whom I had known 
 at Les Rochers. 
 
 After that conviction Dr. Voss tried to persuade me to return 
 to a more natural mode of life, and to go out more. But 
 although I sometimes complied with his wish, yet the old terror 
 was ever strong upon me, and he, seeing what an effort it was, 
 gave up urging me at last. 
 
 You know all the rest. How we both mourned bitterly the 
 loss of that dear husband o'ld father— for such I will call him 
 
THE GREY WOMAN. 3II 
 
 ever — and as such you must consider him, my child, after this 
 one revelation is over. 
 
 Why has it been made? you ask. For this reason, my 
 child. The lover, whom you have only known as M. Lebrun, 
 a French artist, told me but yesterday his real name, dropped 
 because the bloodthirsty Republicans might consider it as too 
 aristocratic. It is Maurice de Poissy. 
 
 5> 
 
THE 
 
 HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 
 
 I WAS born at Sawley, where the shadow of Pendle Hill 
 falls at sunrise. I suppose Sawley sprang up into a 
 village in the time of the monks, who had an abbey there. 
 Many of the cottages are strange old places ; others, again, 
 are built of the abbey stones, mixed up with the shale from 
 the neighbouring quarries ; and you may see many a quaint 
 bit of carving worked into the walls, or forming the lintels of 
 the doors. There is a row of houses, built still more recently, 
 where one Mr. Peel came to live for the sake of the water- 
 power, and gave the place a fillip into something like life — 
 though a different kind of life, as I take it, from the grand, 
 slow ways folks had when the monks were about. 
 
 Now it was — six o'clock, ring the bell, throng to the factory ; 
 sharp home at twelve ; and even at night, when work was 
 done, we hardly knew how to walk slowly, we had been so 
 bustled all day long. I can't recollect the time when I did 
 not go to the factory. My father used to drag me there 
 when I was quite a little fellow, in order to wind reels for 
 him. I never remember my mother. I should have been a 
 better man than I have been, if I had only had a notion of 
 the sound of her voice, or the look on her face. 
 
 My father and I lodged in the house of a man who also 
 worked in the factory. We were sadly thronged in Sawley, 
 so many people came from different parts of the country to 
 earn a livelihood at the new work ; and it was some time 
 before the row of cottages I have spoken of could be built. 
 While they were building, my father was turned out of his 
 lodgings for drinking and being disorderly, and he and I 
 slept in the brick-kiln ; that is to say, when we did sleep o' 
 
THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 313 
 
 nights ; but, ofien and often, we went poaching ; and many 
 a hare and pheasant have I rolled up in clay, and roasted in 
 the embers of the kiln. Then, as followed to reason, I was 
 drowsy next day over my work ; but father had no mercy on 
 me for sleeping, for all he knew the cause of it, but kicked 
 me where I lay, a heavy lump on the factory floor, and cursed 
 and swore at me till I got up for very fear, and to my winding 
 again. But, when his back was turned, I paid him off with 
 heavier curses than he had given me, and longed to be a 
 man, that I might be revenged on him. The words I then 
 spoke I would not now dare to repeat ; and, worse than hating 
 words, a hating heart went with them. I forget the time 
 when I did not know how to hate. When I first came to 
 read, and learnt about Ishmael, I thought I must be of his 
 doomed race, for my hand was against every man, and every 
 man's against me. But I was seventeen or more before I cared 
 for my book enough to learn to read. 
 
 After the row of cottages was finished, father took one, and 
 set up for himself, in letting lodgings. I can't say much for 
 the furnishing ; but there was plenty of straw, and we kept up 
 ^ood fires ; and there is a set of people who value warmth 
 above everything. The worst lot about the place lodged with 
 us. We used to have a supper in the middle of the night ; 
 there was game enough, or if there was not game, there was 
 poultry to be had for the stealing. By day, we all made a 
 show of working in the factory. By night, we feasted and 
 drank. 
 
 Now this web of my life was black enough, and coarse 
 enough ; but by-and-by, a little golden, filmy thread began to 
 be woven in — the dawn of God's mercy was at hand. 
 
 One blowy October morning, as I sauntered lazily along to 
 the mill, I came to the little wooden bridge over a brook 
 that falls into the Bribble. On the plank there stood a child, 
 balancing the pitcher on her head, with which she had been 
 to fetch water. She was so light on her feet that, had it not 
 been for the weight of the pitcher, I almost believe the wind 
 would have taken her up, and wafted her away as it carries 
 off a blow-ball in seed-time ; her blue cotton dress was blown 
 before her, as if she were spreading her wings for a flight ; 
 she turned her face round, as if to ask me for something, but 
 when she saw who it was, she hesitated, for I had a bad name 
 
314 THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 
 
 in the village, and I doubt not she had been warned against 
 me. But her heart was too innocent to be distrustful ; so she 
 said to me, timidly — 
 
 "Please, John Middleton, will you carry me this heavy jug 
 just over the bridge?" 
 
 It was the very first time I had ever been spoken to gently. 
 I was ordered here and there by my father and his rough com- 
 panions ; I was abused, and cursed by them if I failed in doing 
 what they wished ; if I succeeded, there came no expression 
 of thanks or gratitude. I was informed of facts necessary for 
 me to know. But the gentle words of request or entreaty were 
 aforetime unknown to me, and now their tones fell on my ear 
 soft and sweet as a distant peal of bells. I wished that I knew 
 how to speak properly in reply ; but though we were of the 
 same standing as regarded worldly circumstances, there was 
 some mighty difference between us, which made me unable 
 to speak in her language of soft words and modest entreaty. 
 There was nothing for me but to take up the pitcher in a 
 kind of gruff, shy silence, and carry it over the bridge, as 
 she had asked me. When I gave it her back again, she 
 thanked me and tripped away, leaving me, wordless, gazing 
 after her hke an awkward lout as I was. I knew well enough 
 who she was. She was grandchild to Eleanor Hadfield, an 
 aged woman, who was reputed as a witch by my father and 
 his set, for no other reason, that I can make out, than her 
 scorn, dignity, and fearlessness of rancour. It was true we 
 often met her in the grey dawn of the morning, when we 
 returned from poaching, and my father used to curse her, 
 under his breath, for a witch, such as were burnt long ago 
 on Pendle Hill top ; but I had heard that Eleanor was a 
 skilful sick nurse, and ever ready to give her services to those 
 who were ill ; and I believe that she had been sitting up 
 through the night (the night that we had been spending 
 under the wild heavens, in deeds as wild) with those who 
 were appointed to die. Nelly was her orphan granddaughter 
 — her httle handmaiden, her treasure, her one ewe lamb. 
 Many and many a day have I watched by the brook-side, 
 hoping that some happy gust of wind, coming with oppor- 
 tune bluster down the hollow of the dale, might make me 
 necessary once more to her. I longed to hear her speak to 
 me again. I said the words she had used to myself, trying 
 
THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 315 
 
 to catch her tone ; but the chance never came again. I do 
 not know that she ever knew how I watched for her there. 
 I found out that she went - to school, and nothing would 
 serve me but that I must go too. My father scoffed at me ; 
 I did not care. I knew nought of what reading was, 
 nor that it was likely that I should be laughed at ; I, a 
 great hulking lad of seventeen or upwards, for going to learn 
 my A, B, C, in the midst of a crowd of little ones. I stood 
 just this way in my mind. Nelly was at school ; it was the 
 best place for seeing her, and hearing her voice again. There- 
 fore I would go too. My father talked, and swore, and 
 threatened, but I stood to it. He said I should leave school, 
 weary of it in a month. I swore a deeper oath than I like 
 to remember, that I would stay a year, and come out a 
 reader and a writer. My father hated the notion of folks 
 learning to read, and said it took all the spirit out of them : 
 besides, he thought he had a right to every penny of my 
 wages, and though, when he was in good humour, he might 
 have given me many a jug of ale, he grudged my twopence 
 a week for schooUng. However, to school I went. It was 
 a different place to what I had thought it before I went 
 inside. The girls sat on one side, and the boys on the other ; 
 so I was not near Nelly. She, too, was in the first class ; 
 I was put with the little toddling things that could hardly 
 run alone. The master sat in the middle, and kept pretty 
 strict watch over us. But I could see Nelly, and hear her 
 read her chapter ; and even when- it was one with a long 
 list of hard names, such as the master was very fond of 
 giving her, to show how well she could hit them off without 
 speUing, I thought I had never heard a prettier music. Now 
 and then she read other things. I did not know what they 
 were, true or false ; but I listened because she read ; and, 
 by-and-by, I began to wonder. I remember the first word 
 I ever spoke to her was to ask her (as we were coming 
 out of school) who was the Father of whom she had been 
 reading, for when she said the words *'Our Father," her 
 voice dropped into a soft, holy kind of low sound, which 
 struck me more than any loud reading, it seemed so loving 
 and tender. When I asked her this, she looked at me with 
 her great blue wondering eyes, at first shocked ; and then, 
 as it were, melted down into pity and sorrow, she said in 
 
3l6 THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 
 
 the same way, below her breath, in which she read the words, 
 " Our Father," — 
 
 " Don't you know? It is God." 
 
 "God?" 
 
 " Yes ; the God that grandmother tells me about." 
 
 "Tell me what she says, will you?" So we sat down on 
 the hedge-bank, she a httle above me, while I looked up 
 into her face, and she told me all the holy texts her grand- 
 mother had taught her, as explaining all that could be ex- 
 plained of the Almighty. I listened in silence, for indeed 
 I was overwhelmed with astonishment. Her knowledge was 
 principally rote-knowledge; she was too young for much 
 more ; but we, in Lancashire, speak a rough kind of Bible 
 language, and the texts seemed very clear to me. I rose 
 up, dazed and overpowered. I was going away in silence, 
 when I bethought me of my manners, and turned back, and 
 said "Thank you," for the first time I ever remember saying 
 it in my life. That was a great day for me, in more ways 
 than one. 
 
 I was always one who could keep very steady to an object 
 when once I had set it before me. My object was to know 
 Nelly. I was conscious of nothing more. But it made me 
 regardless of all other things. The master might scold, the 
 httle ones might laugh ; I bore it all without giving it a second 
 thought. I kept to my year, and came out a reader and 
 writer ; more, however, to stand well in Nelly's good opinion, 
 than because of my oath. About this time, my father com- 
 mitted some bad, cruel deed, and had to fly the country. 
 I was glad he went ; for I had never loved or cared for 
 him, and wanted to shake myself clear of his set. But it 
 was no easy matter. Honest folk stood aloof; only bad 
 men held out their arms to me with a welcome. Even Nelly 
 seemed to have a mixture of fear now with her kind ways 
 towards me. I was the son of John Middleton, who, if he 
 were caught, would be hung at Lancaster Castle. I thought 
 she looked at me sometimes with a sort of sorrowful horror. 
 Others were not forbearing enough to keep their expression 
 of feehng confined to looks. The son of the overlooker at 
 the mill never ceased twitting me with my father's crime ; he 
 now brought up his poaching against him, though I knew 
 very well how many a good supper he himself had made 
 
THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 317 
 
 on game which had been given him to make him and his 
 father wink at late hours in the morning. And how were such 
 as my father to come honestly by game ? 
 
 This lad, Dick Jackson, was the bane of my life. He was 
 a year or two older than I was, and had much power over 
 the men who worked at the mill, as he could report to his 
 father what he chose. I could not always hold my peace 
 when he "threaped" me with my father's sins, but gave it 
 him back sometimes in a storm of passion. It did me no 
 good ; only threw me farther from the company of better 
 men, who looked aghast and shocked at the oaths I poured 
 out — blasphemous words learnt in my childhood, which I 
 could not forget now that I would fain have purified myself 
 of them ; while all the time Dick Jackson stood by, with 
 a mocking smile of intelligence ; and when I had ended, 
 breathless and weary with spent passion, he would turn to 
 those whose respect I longed to earn, and ask if I were not 
 a worthy son of my father, and likely to tread in his steps. 
 But this smiling indifference of his to my miserable vehemence 
 was not all, though it was the worst part of his conduct, 
 for it made the rankhng hatred grow up in my heart, and 
 overshadow it like the great gourd-tree of the prophet Jonah. 
 But his was a merciful shade, keeping out the burning sun r 
 mine blighted what it fell upon. 
 
 What Dick Jackson did besides, was this. His father was a 
 skilful overlooker, and a good man. Mr. Peel valued him so 
 much, that he was kept on, although his health was failing ; 
 and when he was unable, through illness, to come to the mill, 
 he deputed his son to watch over, and report the men. It was 
 too much power for one so young — I speak it calmly now. 
 Whatever Dick Jackson became, he had strong temptations 
 when he was young, which will be allowed for hereafter. But 
 at the time of which I am telling, my hate raged like a fire. I 
 believed that he was the one sole obstacle to my being received 
 as fit to mix with good and honest men. I was sick of crime 
 and disorder, and would fain have come over to a different 
 kind of life and have been industrious, sober, honest, and 
 right-spoken (I had no idea of higher virtue then), and at 
 every turn Dick Jackson met me with his sneers. I have 
 walked the night through, in the old abbey field, planning how: 
 I could outwit him, and win men's respect in spite of him. 
 
3l8 THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 
 
 The first time I ever prayed was underneath the silent stars, 
 kneeling by the old abbey walls, throwing up my arms, and 
 asking God for the power of revenge upon him. 
 
 I had heard that if I prayed earnestly, God would give me 
 what I asked for, and I looked upon it as a kind of chance for 
 the fulfilment of my wishes. If earnestness would have won 
 the boon for me, never were wicked words so earnestly spoken. 
 And oh, later on, my prayer was heard, and my wish granted ! 
 All this time I saw little of Nelly. Her grandmother was 
 failing, and she had much to do indoors. Besides, I believed 
 I had read her looks aright, when I took them to speak of 
 aversion ; and I planned to hide myself from her sight, as it 
 were, until I could stand upright before men, with fearless 
 eyes, dreading no face of accusation. It was possible to 
 acquire a good character; I would do it — I did it: but no 
 one brought up among respectable untempted people can 
 tell the unspeakable hardness of the task. In the evenings 
 I would not go forth among the village throng ; for the 
 acquaintances that claimed me were my father's old associates, 
 who would have been glad enough to enlist a strong young 
 man like me in their projects ; and the men who would have 
 shunned me, and kept aloof, were the steady and orderly. 
 So I stayed indoors, and practised myself in reading. You 
 will say I should have found it easier to earn a good character 
 away from Sawley, at some place where neither I nor my 
 father was known. So I should ; but it would not have 
 been the same thing to my mind. Besides, representing all 
 good men, all goodness to me, in Sawley Nelly lived. In 
 her sight I would work out my life, and fight my way 
 upwards to men's respect. Two years passed on. Every 
 day I strove fiercely ; every day my struggles were made 
 fruitless by the son of the overlooker ; and I seemed but 
 where I was — but where I must ever be esteemed by all wh.o 
 knew me — but as the son of the criminal — wild, reckless, ripe 
 for crime myself. Where was the use of my reading and 
 writing? These acquirements were disregarded and scouted 
 by those among whom I was thrust back to take my portion. 
 I could have read any chapter in the Bible now ; and Nelly 
 seemed as though she would never know it. I was driven in 
 upon my books ; and few enough of them I had. The pedlars 
 brought them round in their packs, and I bought what I 
 
THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 319 
 
 could. I had the "Seven Champions," and the "Pilgrim's 
 Progress;" and both seemed to me equally wonderful, and 
 equally founded on fact. P got Byron's "Narrative," and 
 Milton's "Paradise Lost;" but I lacked the knowledge which 
 would give a clue to all. Still they afforded me pleasure, 
 because they took me out of myself, and made me forget 
 my miserable position, and made me unconscious (for the 
 time at least) of my one great passion of hatred against 
 Dick Jackson. 
 
 When Nelly was about seventeen her grandmother died, 
 I stood aloof in the churchyard, behind the great yew-tree, 
 and watched the funeral. It was the first religious service 
 that ever I heard ; and to my shame, as I thought, it affected 
 me to tears. The words seemed so peaceful and holy that 
 . I longed to go to church, but I durst not, because I had 
 never been. The parish church was at Bolton, far enough 
 away to serve as an excuse for all who did not care to go. 
 I heard Nelly's sobs filling up every pause in the clergyman's 
 voice ; and every sob of hers went to my heart. She passed 
 me on her way out of the churchyard ; she was so near I 
 might have touched her ; but her head was hanging down, 
 and I durst not speak to her. Then the question arose, what 
 was to become of her? She must earn her living; was it to 
 be as a farm-servant or by working at the mill? I knew 
 enough of both kinds of life to make me tremble for her. 
 My wages were such as to enable me to marry, if I chose ; 
 and I never thought of woman, for my wife, but Nelly. Still, 
 I would not have married her now, if I could ; for, as yets 
 I had not risen up to the character which I determined it 
 was fit that Nelly's husband should have. When I was rich 
 in good report, I would come forward and take my chance, 
 but until then I would hold my peace. I had faith in the 
 power of my long-continued dogged breasting of opinion. 
 Sooner or later it must, it should, yield, and I be received 
 among the ranks of good men. But, meanwhile, what was 
 to become of Nelly ? I reckoned up my wages ; I went to 
 inquire what the board of a girl would be who should help 
 her in her household work, and live with her as a daughter, 
 at the house of one of the most decent women of the place ; 
 she looked at me suspiciously. I kept down my temper, 
 and told her I would never come near the place ; that I 
 
3:0 THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 
 
 would keep away from that end of the village, and that the 
 girl for whom I made the inquiry should never know but 
 what the parish paid for her keep. It would not do ; she 
 suspected me ; but I know I had power over myself to 
 have kept my word ; and besides, I would not for worlds 
 have had Nelly put under any obligation to me, which should 
 speck the purity of her love, or dim it by a mixture of grati- 
 tude — the love that I craved to earn, not for my money, 
 not for my kindness, but for myself. I heard that Nelly had 
 met with a place in Bolland ; and I could see no reason why 
 I might not speak to her once before she left our neigh- 
 bourhood. I meant it to be a quiet friendly telling her of 
 my sympathy in her sorrow. I felt I could command myself. 
 So, on the Sunday before she was to leave Sawley, I waited 
 near the wood-path by which I knew that she would return 
 from afternoon church. The birds made such a melodious 
 warble, such a busy sound among the leaves, that I did not 
 hear approaching footsteps till they were close at hand, and 
 then there were sounds of two persons' voices. The wood 
 was near that part of Sawley where Nelly was staying with 
 friends ; the path through it led to their house, and theirs only, 
 so I knew it must be she, for I had watched her setting out to 
 church alone. 
 
 But who was the other? 
 
 The blood went to my heart and head, as if I were shot, 
 when I saw that it was Dick Jackson. Was this the end 
 of it all? In the steps of sin which my father had trod, I 
 would rush to my death and my doom. Even where I stood 
 I longed for a weapon to slay him. How dared he come 
 near my Nelly? She too — I thought her faithless, and forgot 
 how little I had ever been to her in outward action ; how few 
 words, and those how uncouth, I had ever spoken to her ; 
 and I hated her for a traitress. These feelings passed through 
 me before I could see, my eyes and head were so dizzy and 
 blind. When I looked I saw Dick Jackson holding her hand, 
 and speaking quick and low and thick, as a man speaks in 
 great vehemence. She seemed white and dismayed ; but all 
 at once, at some word of his (and what it was she never 
 would tell me), she looked as though she defied a fiend, and 
 wrenched herself out of his grasp. He caught hold of her 
 again, and began once more the thick whisper that I loathed. 
 
THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 32 1 
 
 I could bear it no longer, nor did I see why I should. I 
 stepped out from behind the tree where I had been lying. 
 When she saw me, she lost her look of one strung up to 
 desperation, and came and clung to me ; and I felt like a 
 giant in strength and might. I held her with one arm, but 
 I did not take my eyes off him ; I felt as if they blazed down 
 into his soul and scorched him up. He never spoke, but 
 tried to look as though he defied me. At last, his eyes fell 
 before mine ; I dared not speak, for the old horrid oaths 
 thronged up to my mouth, and I dreaded giving them way, 
 and terrifying my poor, trembling Nelly. 
 
 At last, he made to go past me : I drew her out of the 
 pathway. By instinct she wrapped her garments round her, 
 as if to avoid his accidental touch ; and he was stung by 
 this, I suppose — I believe- — to the mad, miserable revenge 
 he took. As my back was turned to him, in an endeavour 
 to speak some words to Nelly that might soothe her into 
 calmness, she, who was looking after him, like one fascinated 
 with terror, saw him take a sharp, shaley stone, and aim it 
 at me. Poor darling ! she clung round me as a shield, making 
 her sweet body into a defence for mine. It hit her, and she 
 spoke no word, kept back her cry of pain, but fell at my feet 
 in a swoon. He— the coward ! — ran off as soon as he saw 
 w^hat he had done. I was with Nelly alone in the green 
 gloom of the wood. The quivering and leaf-tinted light made 
 her look as if she were dead. I carried her, not knowing 
 if I bore a corpse or not, to her friend's house. I did not 
 stay to explain, but ran madly for the doctor. 
 
 Well ! I cannot bear to recur to that time again. Five 
 weeks I lived in the agony of suspense ; from which my 
 only relief was in laying savage plans for revenge. If I hated 
 him before, what think ye I did now ? It seemed as if earth 
 could not hold us twain, but that one of us must go down 
 to Gehenna. I could have killed him ; and would have done 
 it without a scruple, but that seemed too poor and bold a 
 revenge. At length — oh, the weary waiting !— oh, the sicken- 
 ing of my heart ! — Nelly grew better ; as well as she was ever 
 to grow. The bright colour had left her cheek ; the mouth 
 quivered with repressed pain, the eyes were dim with tears 
 that agony had forced into them ; and I loved her a thousand 
 times better and more than when she was bright and bloom - 
 
 L 
 
322 THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 
 
 ing ! What was best of all, I began to perceive that she 
 cared for me. I know her grandmother's friends warned her 
 against me, and told her I came of a bad stock ; but she had 
 passed the point where remonstrance from bystanders can take 
 effect — she loved me as I was, a strange mixture of bad and 
 good, all unworthy of her. We spoke together now, as those 
 do whose lives are bound up in each other. I told her I 
 would marry her as soon as she had recovered her health. 
 Her friends shook their heads ; , but they saw she would be 
 unfit for farm-service or heavy work, and they perhaps thought, 
 as many a one does, that a bad husband was better than 
 none at all. Anyhow, we were married ; and I learnt lo 
 bless God for my happiness so far beyond my deserts. 
 I kept her like a lady. I was a skilful workman, and earned 
 good wages ; and every want she had I tried to gratify* 
 Her wishes were few and simple enough, poor Nelly! If 
 they had been ever so fanciful, I should have had my 
 reward in the new feeling of the holiness of home. She 
 could lead me as a little child with the charm of her gentle 
 voice, and her ever-kind words. She would plead for all 
 when I was full of anger and passion ; only Dick Jackson's 
 name passed never between our lips during all that time. 
 In the evening she lay back in her beehive chair, and read 
 to me. I think I see her now, pale and weak, with her 
 sweet young face lighted by her holy, earnest eyes, telling 
 me of the Saviour's life and death, till they were filled with 
 tears. I longed to have been there, to have avenged Him 
 on the wicked Jews. I liked Peter the best of all the 
 disciples. But I got the Bible myself, and read the mighty 
 act of God's vengeance, in the Old Testament, with a kind 
 of triumphant faith that, sooner or later. He would take my 
 cause in hand, and revenge me on mine enemy. 
 
 In a year or so, Nelly had a baby — a httle girl with 
 eyes just like hers, that looked, with a grave openness, 
 right into yours. Nelly recovered but slowly. It was just 
 before winter, the cotton-crop had failed, and master had 
 to turn off many hands. I thought I was sure of being 
 kept on, for I had earned a steady character, and did my 
 work well ; but once again it was permitted that Dick Jackson 
 should do me wrong. He induced his father to dismiss me 
 among the first in my branch of the business ; and there 
 
THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 323 
 
 was I, just before winter set in, with a wife and new-born 
 child, and a small enough store of money to keep body 
 and soul together till I could get to work again. All my 
 savings had gone by Christmas Eve, and we sat in the house 
 foodless for the morrow's festival. Nelly looked pinched and 
 worn ; the baby cried for a larger supply of milk than its 
 poor starving mother could give it. My right hand had 
 not forgot its cunning, and I went out once more to my 
 poaching. I knew where the gang met ; and I knew what 
 a welcome back I should have — a far warmer and more 
 hearty welcome than good men had given me when I tried 
 to enter their ranks. On the road to the meeting-place I 
 fell in with an old man, one who had been a companion to 
 my father in his early days. 
 
 "What, lad! " said he, "art thou turning back to the old 
 trade? It's the better business, now that cotton has failed." 
 
 "Ay," said I, "cotton is starving us outright, A man may 
 bear a deal himself, but he'll do aught bad and sinful to save 
 his wife and child." 
 
 "Nay, lad," said he, "poaching is not sinful; it goes 
 against man's laws, but not against God's." 
 
 I was too weak to argue or talk much. I had not tasted 
 food for two days. But I murmured, " At any rate, I trusted 
 to have been clear of it for the rest of my days. It led my 
 father wrong at first. I have tried and I have striven. Now I 
 give all up. Right or wrong shall be the same to me. Some 
 are fore-doomed; and so am I." And, as I spoke, some 
 notion of the futurity that would separate Nelly, the pure and 
 holy, from me, the reckless and desperate one, came over me 
 with an irrepressible burst of anguish. Just then the bells of 
 Bolton-in-Bolland struck up a glad peal, which came over the 
 woods, in the solemn midnight air, hke the sons of the morning 
 shouting for joy — they seemed so clear and jubilant. It was 
 Christmas Day : and I felt like an outcast from the gladness 
 and the salvation. Old Jonah spoke out : 
 
 " Yon's the Christmas bells. I say, Johnny, my lad, I've no 
 notion of taking such a spiritless chap as thou into the thick of 
 it, with thy rights and thy wrongs. We don't trouble ourselves 
 with such fine lawyer's stuff, and we bring down the ' varmint * 
 all the better. Now, I'll not have thee in our gang, for thou 
 art not up to the fun, and thou'd hang fire when the time came 
 
324 THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 
 
 to be doing. But I've a shrewd guess that plaguey wife and 
 child of thine are at the bottom of thy half-and-half joining. 
 Now, I was thy father's friend afore he took to them helter- 
 skelter ways, and I've five shiUings and a neck of mutton at 
 thy service. I'll not list a fasting man ; but if thou'lt come to 
 us with a full stomach, and say, ' I like your life, my lads, and 
 I'll make one of you with pleasure, the first shiny night, 
 why, we'll give you a welcome and a half ; but, to-night, make 
 no more ado, but turn back with me for the mutton and the 
 money." 
 
 I was not proud : nay, I was most thankful. I took the 
 meat, and boiled some broth for my poor Nelly. She was in a 
 sleep, or a faint, I know not which ; but I roused her, and held 
 her up in bed, and fed her with a teaspoon, and the light came 
 back to her eyes, and the faint, moonlight smile to her lips ; 
 and when she had ended, she said her innocent grace, and fell 
 asleep, with her baby on her breast. I sat over the fire, and 
 listened to the bells, as they swept past my cottage on the gusts 
 of the wind. I longed and yearned for the second coming of 
 Christ, of which Nelly had told me. The world seemed cruel, 
 and hard, and strong — too strong for me ; and I prayed to 
 cling to the hem of His garment, and be borne over the rough 
 places when I fainted and bled, and found no man to pity or 
 help me, but poor old Jonah, the publican and sinner. All this 
 time my own woes and my own self were uppermost in my 
 mind, as they are in the minds of most who have been hardly 
 used. As I thought of my wrongs, and my sufferings, my 
 heart burned against Dick Jackson ; and as the bells rose and 
 fell, so my hopes waxed and waned, that in those mysterious 
 days, of which they were both the remembrance and the 
 prophecy, he would be purged from off the earth. I took 
 Nelly's Bible, and turned, not to the gracious story of the 
 Saviour's birth, but to the records of the former days, when the 
 Jews took such w^ild revenge upon all their opponents. I was 
 a Jew — a leader among the people. Dick Jackson was as 
 Pharaoh, as the King Agag, who walked delicately, thinking 
 the bitterness of death was past — in short, he was the con- 
 quered enemy, over whom I gloated, with my Bible in my 
 hand — that Bible which contained our Saviour's words on the 
 Cross. As yet, those words seemed faint and meaningless 
 to me, like a tract of country seen in the starlight haze ; while 
 
THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 325 
 
 the histories of the Old Testament were grand and distinct in 
 the blood-red colour of sunset. By-and-by that night passed 
 into day, and little piping voices came round, carol-singing. 
 They wakened Nelly. I went to her as soon as I heard her 
 stirring. 
 
 "Nelly," said I, "there's money and food in the house ; I 
 will be off to Padiham seeking work, while thou hast something 
 to go upon." 
 
 "Not to-day," said she; "stay to-day with me. If thou 
 wouldst only go to church with me this once" — for you see I 
 liad never been inside a church but when we were married, and 
 she was often praying me to go ; and now she looked at me, 
 'with a sigh just creeping forth from her lips, as she expected 
 a refusal. But I did not refuse. I had been kept away from 
 church before because I dared not go ; and now I was des- 
 perate, and dared do anything. If I did look like a heathen 
 in the face of all men, why, I was a heathen in my heart, for I 
 was falling back into all my evil ways. I had resolved, if my 
 search of work at Padiham should fail, I would follow my 
 father's footsteps, and take with my own right hand and by my 
 strength of arm what it was denied me to obtain honestly. I 
 had resolved to leave Sawley, where a curse seemed to hang 
 over me : so what did it matter if I went to church, all un- 
 beknowing what strange ceremonies were there performed ? I 
 walked thither as a sinful man — sinful in my heart. Nelly 
 hung on my arm, but even she could not get me to speak. I 
 went in ; she found my places, and pointed to the words, and 
 looked up into my eyes with hers, so full of faith and joy. But 
 I saw nothing but Richard Jackson — I heard nothing but his 
 loud nasal voice, making response, and desecrating all the holy 
 words. He was in broadcloth of the best — I in my fustian 
 jacket. He was prosperous and glad — I was starving and 
 desperate. Nelly grew pale, as she saw the expression in my 
 eyes ; and she prayed ever and ever more fervently as the 
 thought of me tempted by the Devil even at that very moment 
 came more fully before her. 
 
 By-and-by she forgot even me, and laid her soul bare before 
 God, in a long, silent, weeping prayer, before we left the church. 
 Nearly all had gone ; and I stood by her, unwilling to disturb 
 her, unable to join her. At last she rose up, heavenly calm. 
 She took my arm, and we went home through the woods, where 
 
326 THE HEaIiT of JOHN MIDDLETON. 
 
 all the birds seemed tame and familiar. Nelly said she thought 
 all living creatures knew it was Christmas Day, and rejoiced, 
 and were loving together. I believed it was the frost that had 
 tamed them ; and I felt the hatred that was in me, and knew 
 that Vvhatever else was loving, I was full of malice and uncharit- 
 ableness ; nor did I wish to be otherwise. That afternoon I 
 bade Nelly and our child farewell, and tramped to Padiham. I 
 got work — how I hardly know ; for stronger and stronger came 
 the force of the temptation to lead a wild, free life of sin ; legions 
 seemed whispering evil thoughts to me, and only my gentle, 
 pleading Nelly to pull me back from the great gulf. However, 
 as I said before, I got work, and set off homewards to move my 
 wife and child to that neighbourhood. I hated Sawley, and yet 
 I was fiercely indignant to leave it, with my purposes unaccom- 
 plished. I was still an outcast from the more respectable, who 
 stood afar off from such as I ; and mine enemy lived and 
 flourished in their regard. Padiham, however, was not so far 
 away for me to despair — to relinquish my fixed determination. 
 It was on the eastern side of the great Pendle Hill, ten miles 
 away, maybe. Hate will overleap a greater obstacle. I took a 
 cottage on the Fell, high up on the side of the hill. We saw a 
 long black moorland slope before us, and then the grey stone 
 houses of Padiham, over which a black cloud hung, different 
 from the blue wood or turf smoke about Sawley. The wild 
 winds came down and whistled round our house many a day 
 when all was still below. But I v/as happy then. I rose in 
 men's esteem. I had work in plenty. Our child lived and 
 throve. But I forgot not our country proverb — " Keep a stone 
 in thy pocket for seven years : turn it, and keep it seven years 
 more ; but have it ever ready to cast at thine enemy when the 
 time comes." 
 
 One day a fellow-workman asked me to go to a hill-side 
 preaching. Now, I never cared to go to church ; but there 
 was something newer and freer in the notion of praying to God 
 right under His great dome ; and the open air had had a charm 
 to me ever since my wild boyhood. Besides, they said, these 
 ranters had strange ways with them, and I thought it would be 
 fun to see their way of setting about it ; and this ranter of all 
 others had made himself a name in our parts. Accordingly we 
 went ; it was a fine summer's evening, after work was done. 
 When we got to the place we saw such a crowd as I never saw 
 
THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON, 327 
 
 before — men, women, and children ; all ages were gathered to- 
 gether, and sat on the hill-side. They were careworn, diseased^ 
 sorrowful, criminal ; all that was told on their faces, which were 
 hard and strongly marked. In the midst, standing in a cart, 
 was the ranter. When I first saw him, I said to my companion, 
 " Lord ! what a little man to make all this pother ! I could trip 
 him up with one of my fingers," and then I sat down, and looked 
 about me a bit. All eyes were fixed on the preacher ; and I 
 turned mine upon him too. He began to speak ; it was in no 
 fine-drawn language, but in words such as we heard every day 
 of our lives, and about things we did every day of our lives. He 
 ' did not call our shortcomings pride or w^orldliness, or pleasure- 
 seeking, which would have given us no clear notion of what he 
 meant, but he just told us outright what we did, and then he 
 gave it a name, and said that it was accursed, and that we were 
 lost if we went on so doing. 
 
 By this time the tears and sweat were running down his face ; 
 he was wrestling for our souls. We wondered how he knew our 
 innermost lives as he did, for each one of us saw his sin set before 
 him in plain-spoken words. Then he cried out to us to repent ; 
 and spoke first to us, and then to God, in a way that would have 
 shocked many — but it did not shock me. I liked strong things ; 
 and I liked the bare, full truth : and I felt brought nearer to 
 God in that hour — the summer darkness creeping over us, and 
 one after one the stars coming out above us, like the eyes of the 
 angels watching us — than I had ever done in my life before. 
 When he had brought us to our tears and sighs, he stopped his 
 loud voice of upbraiding, and there was a hush, only broken by 
 sobs and quivering moans, in which I heard through the gloom 
 the voices of strong men in anguish and supplication, as well as 
 the shri^ller tones of women. Suddenly he was heard again ; by 
 this time we could not see him ; but his voice was now tender as 
 the voice of an angel, and he told us of Christ, and implored us 
 to come to Him. I never heard such passionate entreaty. He 
 spoke as if he saw Satan hovering near us in the dark, dense 
 night, and as if our only safety lay in a very present coming to 
 the Cross ; I believe he did see Satan ; we know he haunts the 
 desolate old hills, awaiting his time, and now or never it was 
 with many a soul. At length there was a sudden silence ; and 
 by the cries of those nearest to the preacher, we heard that he 
 had fainted. We had all crowded round him, as if he were our 
 
328 THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 
 
 safety and our guide ; and he was overcome by the heat and the 
 fatigue, for we were the fifth set of people whom he had addressed 
 that day. I left the crowd who were leading him down, and took 
 a lonely path myself. 
 
 Here was the earnestness I needed. To this weak and weary 
 fainting man, religion was a life and a passion. I look back now, 
 and wonder at my blindness as to what was the root of all my 
 Nelly's patience and long-suffering ; for I thought now I had 
 found out what religion was, and that hitherto it had been all 
 an unknown thing to me. 
 
 Henceforward, my life was changed. I was zealous and fana- 
 tical. Beyond the set to whom I had affiliated myself, I had no 
 sympathy. I would have persecuted all who differed from me, 
 if I had only had the power. I became an ascetic in all bodily 
 enjoyments. And, strange and inexplicable mystery, I had 
 some thoughts that by every act of self-denial I was attaining 
 to my unholy end, and that, when I had fasted and prayed 
 long enough, God would place my vengeance in my hands. I 
 have knelt by Nelly's bedside, and vowed to live a self-deny- 
 ing life, as regarded all outward things, if so that God would 
 grant my prayer. I left it in His hands. I felt sure He would 
 trace out the token and the word ; and Nelly would hsten to 
 my passionate words, and lie awake sorrowful and heart-sore 
 through the night ; and I would get up and make her tea, and 
 rearrange her pillows, with a strange and wilful blindness that 
 my bitter words and blasphemous prayers had cost her miser- 
 able, sleepless nights. My Nelly was suffering yet from that 
 blow. How or where the stone had hurt her, I never under- 
 stood ; but in consequence of that one moment's action, her 
 limbs became numb and dead, and, by slow degrees, she took 
 to her bed, from whence she was never carried alive. There 
 she lay, propped up by pillows, her meek face ever bright, and 
 smiling forth a greeting ; her white, pale hands ever busy with 
 some kind of work ; and our little Grace was as the power of 
 motion to her. Fierce as I was away from her, I never could 
 speak to her but in my gentlest tones. She seemed to me as 
 if she had never wrestled for salvation as I had ; and when 
 away from her, I resolved many a time and oft, that I would 
 rouse her up to her state of danger when I returned home that 
 evening — even if strong reproach were required I would rouse 
 her up to her soul's need. But I came in and heard her voice 
 
THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 329 
 
 singing softly some holy word of patience, some psalm which, 
 maybe, had comforted the martyrs, and when I saw her face 
 like the face of an angel, full of patience and happy faith, I 
 put off my awakening speeches till another time. 
 
 One night, long ago, when I was yet young and strong, 
 although my years were past forty, I sat alone in my house- 
 place. Nelly was always in bed, as I have told you, and Grace 
 lay in a cot by her side. I believed them to be both asleep ; 
 though how they could sleep I could not conceive, so wild 
 and terrible was the night. The wind came sweeping down 
 from the hill-top in great beats, like the pulses of heaven ; and, 
 during the pauses, while I listened for the coming roar, I felt 
 the earth shiver beneath me. The rain beat against windows 
 and doors, and sobbed for entrance. I thought the Prince of the 
 Air was abroad ; and I heard, or fancied I heard, shrieks come 
 on the blast, like the cries of sinful souls given over to his power. 
 
 The sounds came nearer and nearer. I got up and saw to 
 the fastenings of the door, for though I cared not for mortal 
 man, I did care for what I believed was surrounding the house, 
 in evil might and power. But the door shook as though it, 
 too, were in deadly terror, and I thought the fastenings would 
 give way. I stood facing the entrance, lashing my heart up 
 to defy the spiritual enemy that I looked to see, every instant, 
 in bodily presence ; and the door did burst open, and before 
 me stood— what was it? man or demon? a grey-haired man, 
 with poor, worn clothes all wringing wet, and he himself 
 battered and piteous to look upon, from the storm he had 
 passed through. 
 
 " Let me in ! " he said. " Give me shelter. I am poor, or 
 I would reward you. And I am friendless, too," he said, look- 
 ing up in my face, hke one seeking what he cannot find. In 
 that look, strangely changed, I knew that God had heard me ; 
 for it was the old cowardly look of my Hfe's enemy. Had he 
 been a stranger, I might not have welcomed him ; but as he 
 was mine enemy, I gave him welcome in a lordly dish. I sat 
 opposite to him. "Whence do you come?" said I. "It is 
 a strange night to be out on the fells." 
 
 He looked up at me sharp ; but in general he held his head 
 down like a beast or hound. 
 
 " You won't betray me. I'll not trouble you long. As soon 
 as the storm abates, I'll go." 
 
 L 2 
 
330 THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 
 
 " Friend," said I, " what have I to betray?" and I trembled 
 lest he should keep himself out of my power and not tell me. 
 "You come for shelter, and I give you of my best. Why do 
 you suspect me? " 
 
 '•Because," said he, in his abject bitterness, "all the world 
 is against me. I never met with goodness or kindness ; and 
 now I am hunted like a wild beast. I'll tell you — I'm a con- 
 vict returned before my time. I was a Sawley man" (as if I, 
 of all men, did not know it !), "and I went back, like a fool, 
 to the old place. They've hunted me out where I would fain 
 have lived rightly and quietly, and they'll send me back to that 
 hell upon earth, if they catch me. I did not know it would 
 be such a night. Only let me rest and get warm once more, 
 and I'll go away. Good, kind man, have pity upon me ! " I 
 smiled all his doubts away ; I promised him a bed on the floor, 
 and I thought of Jael and Sisera. My heart leaped up like a 
 war-horse at the sound of the trumpet, and said, " Ha, ha, the 
 Lord hath heard my prayer and supplication ; T shall have 
 vengeance at last ! " 
 
 He did not dream who I was. He was changed ; so that I, 
 who had learned his features with all the dihgence of hatred, 
 did not, at first, recognise him ; and he thought not of me, only 
 of his own woe and affright. He looked into the fire with the 
 dreamy gaze of one whose strength of character, if he had any, 
 is beaten out of him, and cannot return at any emergency what- 
 soever. He sighed and pitied himself, yet could not decide 
 on what to do. I went softly about my business, which was 
 to make him up a bed on the floor, and, when he was lulled 
 to sleep and security, to make the best of my way to Padiham, 
 and summon the constable, into whose hands I would give him 
 up, to be taken back to his "hell upon earth." I went into 
 Nelly's room. She was awake and anxious. I saw she had 
 been listening to the voices. 
 
 "Who is there?" said she. "John, tell me ; it sounded hke 
 a voice I knew. For God's sake, speak ! " 
 
 I smiled a quiet smile. " It is a poor man, who has lost his 
 way. Go to sleep, my dear — I shall make him up on the floor. 
 I may not come for some time. Go to sleep ; " and I kissed 
 her. I thought she was soothed, but not fully satisfied. How- 
 ever, I hastened away before there was any further time for 
 questioning. I made up the bed, and Richard Jackson, tired 
 
THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 33I 
 
 out, lay down and fell asleep. My contempt for him almost 
 equalled my hate. If I were avoiding return to a place which 
 I thought to be a hell upon earth, think you I would have 
 taken a quiet sleep under any man's roof till, somehow or 
 another, I was secure. Now comes this man, and, with in- , 
 continence of tongue, blabs out the very thing he most should 
 conceal, and then lies down to a good, quiet, snoring sleep. 
 I looked again. His face was old, and worn, and miserable. 
 So should mine enemy look. And yet it was sad to gaze upon 
 him, poor, hunted creature ! 
 
 I would gaze no more, lest I grew weak and pitiful. Thus 
 I took my hat, and softly opened the door. The wind blew 
 in, but did not disturb him, he was so utterly weary. I was 
 out in the open air of night. The storm was ceasing, and, 
 instead of the black sky of doom that I had seen when I 
 last looked forth, the moon was come out, wan and pale, 
 as if wearied with the fight in the heavens, and her white 
 light fell ghostly and calm on many a well-known object. 
 Now and then, a dark, torn cloud was blown across her 
 home in the sky ; but they grew fewer and fewer, and at 
 last she shone out steady and clear. I could see Padihaui 
 down before me. I heard the noise of the watercourses down 
 the hill-side. My mind was full of one thought, and strained 
 upon that one thought, and yet my senses were most acute 
 and observant. When I came to the brook, it was swollen. 
 to a rapid, tossing river ; and the little bridge, with its hand- 
 rail, was utterly swept away. It was like the bridge at Sawley, 
 where I had first seen Nelly ; and I remembered that day even 
 then in the midst of my vexation at having to go round. I 
 turned away from the brook, and there stood a little figure 
 facing me. No spirit from the dead could have affrighted 
 me as it did ; for I saw it was Grace, whom I had left in 
 bed by her mother's side. 
 
 She came to me, and took my hand. Her bare feet glittered 
 white in the moonshine, and sprinkled the light upwards, as 
 they plashed through the pool. 
 
 "Father," said she, "mother bade me say this." Then, 
 pausing to gather breath and memory, she repeated these 
 words like a lesson of which she feared to forget a syllable — 
 
 " Mother says, ' There is a God in heaven ; and in His house 
 are many mansions. If you hope to meet her there, you will 
 
332 THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 
 
 come back and speak to her ; if you are to be separate for 
 ever and ever, you will go on, and may God have mercy 
 on her and on you ! ' Father, I have said it right — every 
 word." 
 
 I was silent. At last, I said — 
 
 "What made mother say this? How came she to send 
 you out?" 
 
 "I was asleep, father, and I heard her cry. I wakened 
 up, and I think you had but just left the house, and that 
 she was caUing for you. Then she prayed, with the tears 
 rolling down her cheeks, and kept saying — ' Oh, that I could 
 walk! — oh, that for one hour I could run and walk!' So I 
 said, ' Mother, I can run and walk. Where must I go ? " 
 And she clutched at my arm, and bade God bless me, and 
 told me not to fear, for that He would compass me about» 
 and taught me my message : and now, father, dear father, 
 you will meet mother in heaven, won't you, and not be 
 separate for ever and ever?" She clung to my knees, and 
 pleaded once more in her mother's words. I took her up in 
 my arms, and turned homewards. 
 
 " Is yon man there, on the kitchen floor?" asked I. 
 
 " Yes ! " she answered. At any rate, my vengeance was not 
 out of my power yet. 
 
 When we got home I passed him, dead asleep. 
 
 In our room, to which my child guided me, was Nelly. 
 She sat up in bed, a most unusual attitude for her, and one 
 of which I thought she had been incapable of attaining to 
 without help. She had her hands clasped, and her face rapt, 
 as if in prayer : and when she 'saw me, she lay back with a 
 sweet ineffable smile. She could not speak at first ; but when 
 I came near, she took my hand and kissed it ; and then she 
 called Grace to her, and made her take off her cloak and her 
 wet things, and dressed in her short scanty night-gown, she 
 slipped in to her mother's warm side ; and all this time my 
 Nelly never told me why she summoned me : it seemed enough 
 that she should hold my hand, and feel that I was there. I 
 believe she had read my heart ; and yet I durst not speak to 
 ask her. At last, she looked up. "My husband," said she, 
 "God has saved you and me from a great sorrow this night." 
 I would not understand, and I felt her look die away into 
 disappointment. 
 
THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 333 
 
 "That poor wanderer in the house-place is Richard Jackson, 
 is it not?" 
 
 I made no answer. Her face grew white and wan. 
 
 "Oh," said she, "this is hard to bear. Speak what is in 
 your mind, I beg of you. I will not thwart you harshly ; 
 dearest John, only speak to me." 
 
 " Why need I speak ? You seem to know all." 
 
 " I do know that his is a voice I can never forget ; and I do 
 know the awful prayers you have prayed, and I know how I 
 have lain awake, to pray that your words might never be heard ; 
 and I am a powerless cripple. I put my cause in God's hands. 
 You shall not do the man any harm. What you have it in your 
 thoughts to do, I cannot tell. But I know that you cannot 
 do it. My eyes are dim with a strange mist ; but some voice 
 tells me that you will forgive even Richard Jackson. Dear 
 husband — dearest John, it is so dark, I cannot see you: but 
 speak once to me." 
 
 I moved the candle ; but when I saw her face, I saw what 
 was drawing the mist over those loving eyes — how strange and 
 woeful that she could die ! Her little girl lying by her side 
 looked in my face, and then at her ; and the wild knowledge of 
 death shot through her young heart, and she screamed aloud. 
 
 Nelly opened her eyes once more. They fell upon the 
 gaunt, sorrow-worn man who was the cause of all. He roused 
 him from his sleep, at that child's piercing cry, and stood at 
 the doorway, looking in. He knew Nelly, and understood 
 where the storm had driven him to shelter. He came to- 
 wards her — 
 
 "Oh, woman — dying woman — you have haunted me in the 
 loneliness of the Bush far away — you have been in my dreams 
 for ever — the hunting of men has not been so terrible as the 
 hunting of your spirit — that stone — that stone ! " He fell down 
 by her bedside in an agony ; above which her saint-like face 
 looked on us all, for the last time, glorious with the coming 
 light of heaven. She spoke once again — 
 
 " It was a moment of passion ; I never bore you malice for it. 
 I forgive you ; and so does John, I trust." 
 
 Could I keep my purpose there? It faded into nothing. But, 
 above my choking tears, I strove to speak clear and distinct, for 
 her dying ear to hear, and her sinking heart to be gladdened. 
 
 " I forgive you, Richard ! I will befriend you in your trouble." 
 
334 THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 
 
 She could not see ; but, instead of the dim shadow of death 
 stealing over her face, a quiet light came over it, which we knew 
 was the look of a soul at rest. 
 
 That night I listened to his tale for her sake ; and I learned 
 that it is better to be sinned against than to sin. In the storm 
 of the night mine enemy came to me ; in the calm of the grey 
 morning I led him forth, and bade him "God speed," And a 
 woe had come upon me, but the burning burden of a sinful, 
 angry heart was taken off. I am old now, and my daughter is 
 married. I try to go about preaching and teaching in my rough, 
 rude way; and what I teach is, how Christ lived and died, and 
 what was Nelly's faith of love. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES OF 
 THE HUGUENOTS. 
 
 I HAVE always been interested in the conversation of any one 
 who could tell me anything about the Huguenots ; and, 
 little by little, I have picked up many fragments of information 
 respecting them. I will just recur to the well-known fact, that 
 five years after Henry the Fourth's formal abjuration of the 
 Protestant faith, in fifteen hundred and ninety-three, he secured' 
 to the French Protestants their religious liberty by the Edict of 
 Nantes. His unworthy son, however, Louis the Thirteenth, re- 
 fused them the privileges which had been granted to them by this 
 act ; and, when reminded of the claims they had, if the promises 
 of Henry the Third and Henry the Fourth were to be regarded, 
 he answered that "the first-named monarch feared them, and 
 the latter loved them ; but he neither feared nor loved them." 
 The extermination of the Huguenots was a favourite project with 
 Cardinal Richelieu, and it was at his instigation that the second 
 siege of Rochelle was undertaken— known even to the most 
 careless student of history for the horrors of famine which the 
 besieged endured. Miserably disappointed as they were at the 
 failure of the looked-for assistance from England, the mayor of 
 the town, Guiton, rejected the conditions of peace which Car- 
 dinal Richelieu offered ; namely, that they would raze their 
 fortifications to the ground, and suffer the Catholics to enter. 
 But there was a traitorous faction in the town ; and, on Guiton's 
 rejection of the terms, this faction collected in one night a crowd 
 of women, and children, and aged persons, and drove them 
 beyond the lines ; they were useless, and yet they ate food. 
 Driven out from the beloved city, tottering, faint, and weary, 
 they were fired at by the enemy ; and the survivors came plead- 
 335 
 
336 TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE HUGUENOTS. 
 
 ing back to the walls of Rochelle, pleading for a quiet shelter to 
 die in, even if their death were caused by hunger. When tvro- 
 thirds of the inhabitants had perished ; when the survivors 
 were insufficient to bury their dead ; when ghastly corpses out- 
 numbered the living — miserable, glorious Rochelle, stronghold 
 of the Huguenots, opened its gates to receive the Roman Catholic 
 Cardinal, who celebrated mass in the church of St. Marguerite, 
 once the beloved sanctuary of Protestant worship. As we cling 
 to the memory of the dead, so did the Huguenots remember 
 Rochelle. Years — long years of suffering — gone by, a village 
 sprang up, not twenty miles from New York, and the name 
 of that village was New Rochelle ; and the old men told with 
 tears of the sufferings their parents had undergone when they 
 were httle children, far away across the sea, in the "pleasant" 
 land of France. 
 
 Richelieu was otherwise occupied after this second siege of 
 Rochelle, and had to put his schemes for the extermination 
 of the Huguenots on one side. So they lived in a kind of 
 trembling, uncertain peace during the remainder of the reign 
 of Louis the Thirteenth. But they strove to avert persecution 
 by untiring submission. It was not until sixteen hundred 
 and eighty-three that the Huguenots of the south of France 
 resolved to profess their religion, and refuse any longer to be 
 registered among those of the Roman Catholic faith ; to be 
 martyrs rather than apostates or hypocrites. On an appointed 
 Sabbath, the old deserted Huguenot churches were re-opened ; 
 nay, those in ruins, of which but a few stones remained to tell 
 the tale of having once been holy ground, were peopled with 
 attentive hearers, listening to the word of God as preached by 
 reformed ministers. Languedoc, Cevennes, Dauphiny, seemed 
 alive with Huguenots — even as the Highlands were, at the chief- 
 tain's call, alive with armed men, whose tartans had been hidden 
 but a moment before in the harmonious and blending colours of 
 the heather. 
 
 Dragonnades took place, and cruelties were perpetrated which 
 it is as well, for the honour of human nature, should be for- 
 gotten. Twenty-four thousand conversions were announced 
 to Le Grand Louis, who fully believed in them. The more far- 
 seeing Madame de Maintenon hinted at her doubts in the famous 
 speech, " Even if the fathers are hypocrites, the children will be 
 Catholics." 
 
r 
 
 TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE HUGUENOTS. 337 
 
 And then came the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. A 
 multitude of weak reasons were alleged, as is generally the 
 case where there is not one that is really good, or presentable ; 
 such as that the Edict was never meant to be perpetual ; that 
 (by the blessing of Heaven and the dragonnades) the Huguenots 
 had returned to the true faith, therefore the Edict was useless — 
 a mere matter of form, &c. &c. 
 
 As a "mere matter of form," some penalties were decreed 
 against the professors of the extinct heresy. Every Huguenot 
 place of worship was to be destroyed ; every minister who 
 refused to conform was to be sent to the Hopitaux de Forfats 
 at Marseilles and at Valence. If he had been noted for his 
 zeal he was to be considered "obstinate," and sent to slavery 
 for life in such of the West-Indian islands as belonged to the 
 French. The children of Huguenot parents were to be taken 
 from them by force, and educated by the Roman Catholic 
 monks or nuns. These are but a few of the enactments con- 
 tained in the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. 
 
 And now come in some of the traditions which I have heard 
 and collected. 
 
 A friend of mine, a descendant from some of the Huguenots 
 who succeeded in emigrating to England, has told me the 
 following particulars of her great-great-grandmother's escape. 
 This lady's father was a Norman farmer, or rather small landed 
 proprietor. His name was Lefebvre ; he had two sons, grown 
 men, stout and true ; able to protect themselves, and choose 
 their own line of conduct. But he had also one little daughter, 
 Magdalen, the child of his old age, and the darling of his house, 
 keeping it alive and glad with her innocent prattle. His small 
 estate was far away from any large town, with its corn-fields and 
 orchards surrounding the old ancestral house. There was plenty 
 always in it ; and though the wife was an invalid, there was 
 always a sober cheerfulness present, to give a charm to the 
 abundance. 
 
 The family Lefebvre lived almost entirely on the produce of 
 the estate, and had little need for much communication with 
 their nearest neighbours, with whom, however, as kindly well- 
 meaning people, they were on good terms, although they differed 
 in their religion. In those days, coffee was scarcely known, even 
 in large cities ; honey supplied the place of sugar ; and for the 
 pottage, the bouilli, the vegetables, the salad, the fruit, the 
 
2,3^ TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE HUGUENOTS. 
 
 garden, farm, and orchards of the Lefebvres was all-sufficient. 
 The woollen cloth was spun by the men of the house on winter's 
 evenings, standing by the great wheel, and carefully and slowly 
 turning it to secure evenness of thread. The women took 
 charge of the linen, gathering and drying, and beating the bad- 
 smelling hemp, the ugliest crop that grew about the farm ; and 
 reserving the delicate blue-flowered flax for the fine thread needed 
 for the daughter's trousseau ; for as soon as a woman-child was 
 born, the mother, lyiag too faint to work, smiled as she planned 
 the web of dainty linen, which was to be woven at Rouen, out 
 of the flaxen thread of gossamer fineness, to be spun by no 
 hand, as you may guess, but that mother's own. And the farm 
 maidens took pride in the store of sheets and table napery 
 which they were to have a share in preparing for the future 
 wedding of the little baby, sleeping serene in her warm cot by 
 her mother's side. Such being the self-sufficient habits of the 
 Norman farmers, it was no wonder that, in the eventful year 
 of sixteen hundred and eighty-five, Lefebvre remained ignorant 
 for many days of that Revocation which was stirring the whole 
 souls of his co-religionists. But there was to be a cattle fair at 
 Avranches, and he needed a barren cow to fatten up and salt for 
 the winter's provision. Accordingly, the large-boned Norman 
 horse was accoutred, summer as it was, with all its parapher- 
 nalia of high-peaked wooden saddle, blue sheep-skin, scarlet 
 worsted fringe and tassels ; and the farmer Lefebvre, shghtly 
 stiff in his limbs after sixty winters, got on from the horse-block 
 by the stable wall, his little daughter Magdalen nodding and 
 kissing her hand as he rode away. When he arrived at the fair 
 in the great place before the cathedral in Avranches, he was 
 struck with the absence of many of those who were united to 
 him by the bond of their common persecuted religion ; and on 
 the faces of the Huguenot farmers who were there was an 
 expression of gloom and sadness. In answer to his inquiries, 
 he learnt for the first time of the Revocation of the Edict of 
 Nantes. He and his sons could sacrifice anything — would be 
 proud of martyrdom, if need were — but the clause which cut 
 him to the heart was that which threatened that his pretty, 
 innocent sweet Magdalen might be taken from him and consigned 
 to the teachings of a convent. A convent, to the Huguenots' 
 excited prejudices, implied a place of dissolute morals, as well 
 as of idolatrous doctrine. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE HUGUENOTS. 339 
 
 Poor Farmer Lefebvre thought no more of the cow he went 
 to purchase ; the life and death — nay, the salvation or damna- 
 tion — of his darling seemed to him to depend on the speed with 
 which he could reach his home, and take measures for her 
 safety. What these were to be he could not tell in this moment 
 of bewildered terror ; for, even while he watched the stable-boy 
 at the inn arranging his horse's gear, without daring to help 
 him, for fear his early departure and undue haste might excite 
 suspicion in the malignant faces he saw gathering about him — 
 even while he trembled with impatience, his daughter might be 
 carried away out of his sight for ever and ever. He mounted 
 and spurred the old horse ; but the road was hilly, and the 
 steed had not had his accustomed rest, and was poorly fed, 
 according to the habit of the country ; and, at last, he almost 
 stood still at the foot of every piece of rising ground. Farmer 
 Lefebvre dismounted, and ran by the horse's side up every hill, 
 pulling him along, and encouraging his flagging speed by every 
 conceivable noise, meant to be cheerful, though the tears were 
 fast running down the old man's cheeks. He was almost sick 
 with the revulsion of his fears, when he saw Magdalen sitting 
 out in the sun, playing with the " froraages " of the mallow- 
 plant, which are such a delight to Norman children. He got 
 off his horse, which found its accustomed way into the stable. 
 He kissed Magdalen over and over again, the tears coming 
 down his cheeks like rain. And then he went in to tell his wife 
 — his poor invalid wife. She received the news more tranquilly 
 than he had done. Long illness had deadened the joys and 
 fears of this world to her. She could even think and suggest. 
 "That night a fishing-smack was to sail from Granville to the 
 Channel Islands. Some of the people, who had called at the 
 Lefebvre farm on their way to Avranches, had told her of 
 ventures they were making, in sending over apples and pears to 
 be sold in Jersey, where the orchard crops had failed. The cap- 
 tain was a friend of one of her absent sons : for his sake " 
 
 "But we must part from hey- — from Magdalen, the apple of 
 our eyes. And she — she has never left her home before, never 
 been away from us — who will take care of her ? Marie, I say» 
 who is to take care of the precious child?" And the old man 
 was choked with his sobs. Then his wife made answer, and. 
 said — 
 
 " God will take care of our precious child, and keep her safe 
 
340 TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE HUGUENOTS. 
 
 from harm, till we two— or you, at least, dear husband — can 
 leave this accursed land. Or, if we cannot follow her, she will 
 be safe for heaven ; whereas if she stays here to be taken to the 
 terrible convent, hell will be her portion, and we shall never see 
 her again — never ! " 
 
 So they were stilled by their faith into sufficient composure to 
 plan for the little girl. The old horse was again to be harnessed 
 and put into the cart, and if any spying Romanist looked into 
 the cart, what would they see but straw and a new mattress 
 rolled up, and peeping out of a sackcloth covering. The mother 
 blessed her child, with a full conviction that she should never 
 see her again. The father went with her to Granville. On the 
 way the only relief he had was caring for her comfort in her 
 strange imprisonment. He stroked her cheeks and smoothed 
 her hair with his labour-hardened fingers, and coaxed her to eat 
 the food her mother had prepared. In the evening her feet 
 were cold ; he took off his warm flannel jacket to wrap them in. 
 Whether it was that chill coming on the heat ,of the excited 
 day, or whether the fatigue and grief broke down tl:e old man. 
 utterly, no one can say. The child Magdalen was safely extri- 
 ca'ted from her hiding-place at the Quai at Granville, and 
 smuggled on board of the fishing-smack, with her great chest 
 of clothes and half-collected troztsseau ; the captain took her 
 safe to Jersey, and willing friends received her eventually in 
 London. But the father — moaning to himself, "If I am 
 bereaved of my children, I am bereaved," saying that pitiful 
 sentence over and over again, as if the repetition could charm 
 away the deep sense of woe — went home, and took to his bed 
 and died ; nor did the mother remain long after him. 
 
 One of these Lefebvre sons was the grandfather of the Duke 
 of Dantzic, one of Napoleon's marshals. The little daughter's 
 descendants, though not very numerous, are scattered over 
 England, and one of them, as I have said, is the lady who told 
 me this, and many other particulars relating to the exiled 
 Huguenots. 
 
 At first the rigorous decrees of the Revocation were princi- 
 pally enforced against the ministers of religion. They were all 
 required to leave Paris at forty-eight hours' notice, under severe 
 penalties for disobedience. Some of the most distinguished 
 among them were ignominiously forced to leave the country ; 
 but the expulsion of these ministers was followed by the emigra- 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE HUGUENOTS. 341 
 
 tion of the more faithful among their people. In Languedoc 
 this was especially the case ; whole congregations followed their 
 pastors ; and France was being rapidly drained of the more 
 thoughtful and intelhgent of the Huguenots (who, as a people, 
 had distinguished themselves in manufacture and commerce), 
 when the king's minister took the alarm, and prohibited emigra- 
 tion, under pain of imprisonment for life ; imprisonment for life 
 including abandonment to the tender mercies of the priests. 
 Here again I may relate an anecdote told me by my friend : — 
 A husband and wife attempted to escape separately from some 
 town in Brittany ; the wife succeeded and reached England, 
 where she anxiously awaited her husband. The husband was 
 arrested in the attempt, and imprisoned. The priest alone was 
 allowed to visit him ; and after vainly using argument to endea- 
 vour to persuade him to renounce his obnoxious religion, the 
 priest, with cruel zeal, had recourse to physical torture. There 
 was a room in the prison with an iron floor, and no seat, nor 
 means of support or rest ; into this room the poor Huguenot 
 was introduced. The iron flooring was gradually heated (one 
 remem.bers the gouty gentleman whose cure was effected by a 
 similar process in "Sandford and Merton ; " but there the heat 
 was not carried up to torture, as it was in the Hug-uenot's case) ; 
 still the brave man was faithful. The process was repeated ; 
 all in vain. The flesh on the soles of his feet was burnt off, 
 and he was a cripple for life ; but cripple or sound, dead or 
 alive, a Huguenot he remained. And by-and-by they grew 
 weary of their useless cruelty, and the poor man was allowed 
 to hobble about on crutches. How it was that he obtained his 
 liberty at last, my informant could not tell. He only knew that, 
 after years of imprisonment and torture, a poor grey cripple- 
 was seen wandering about the streets of London, making vain 
 inquiries for his wife in his broken English, as little understood 
 by most as the Moorish maiden's cry for "Gilbert, Gilbert." 
 Some one at last directed him to a coffee-house near Soho 
 Square, kept by an emigrant, who thrived upon the art, even 
 then national, of making good coffee. It was the resort of the 
 Huguenots, many of whom by this time had turned their intelli- 
 gence to good account in busy, commercial England. 
 
 To this coffee-house the poor cripple hied himself ; but no one 
 knew of his wife ; she might be alive, or she might be dead ; it 
 seemed as if her name had vanished from the earth. In the 
 
342 TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE HUGUENOTS. 
 
 corner sat a pedlar, listening to everything but saying nothing. 
 He had come to London to lay in a stock of wares for his 
 rounds. Now the three harbours of the French emigrants were 
 Norwich, where they established the manufacture of Norwich 
 crape ; Spitalfields, in London, where they embarked in the 
 silk trade ; and Canterbury, where a colony of them carried 
 on one or two delicate employments, such as jewellery, wax- 
 bleaching, &c. The pedlar took Canterbury in his way, and 
 sought among the French residents for a woman who might 
 correspond to the missing wife. She was there, earning her 
 livelihood as a milliner, and believing her husband to be either 
 a galley-slave, or dead long since in some of the terrible prisons. 
 But, on hearing the pedlar's tale, she set off at once to London, 
 and found her poor crippled husband, who lived many years 
 afterwards in Canterbury, supported by his wife's exertions. 
 
 Another Huguenot couple determined to emigrate. They 
 could disguise themselves; but their baby? If they were seen 
 passing through the gates of the town in which they lived, with 
 a child, they would instantly be arrested, suspected Huguenots 
 as they were. Their expedient was to wrap the baby into a 
 formless bundle, to one end of which was attached a string ; 
 and then, taking advantage of the deep gutter which runs in 
 the centre of so many old streets in French towns, they placed 
 the baby in this hollow, close to one of the gates, after dusk. 
 The gendarme came out to open the gate to them. They 
 were suddenly summoned to see a sick relation, they said ; 
 they were known to have an infant child, which no Huguenot 
 mother would willingly leave behind to be brought up by 
 Papists. So the sentinel concluded that they were not going 
 to emigrate, at least this time, and locking the great town- 
 gates behind them, he re-entered his little guard-room. " Now 
 quick ! quick ! the string under the gate ! Catch it with your 
 hook stick ! There, in the shadow ! There ! Thank God ! 
 the baby is safe ; it has not cried ! Pray God the sleeping 
 draught be not too strong ! " It was not too strong. Father, 
 mother, and babe escaped to England, and their descendants 
 may be reading this very paper. 
 
 England, Holland, and the Protestant states of Germany were 
 the places of refuge for the Norman and Breton Protestants. 
 From the south of France escape was more difficult. Algerine 
 pirates infested the Mediterranean, and the small vessels ia 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE HUGUENOTS. 343 
 
 which many of the Huguenots embarked from the southern 
 ports were an easy prey. There were Huguenot slaves in 
 Algiers and Tripoli for years after the Revocation of the Edict 
 of Nantes. Most Catholic Spain caught some of the fugitives, 
 who were welcomed by the Spanish Inquisition with a different 
 kind of greeting from that which the wise, far-seeing William 
 the Third of England bestowed on such of them as sought 
 English shelter after his accession. We will return to the 
 condition of the English Huguenots presently. First, let us 
 follow the fortunes of those French Protestants who sent a 
 letter to the State of Massachusetts (among whose historical 
 papers it is still extant) giving an account of the persecutions 
 to which they were exposed, and the distress they were under- 
 going, stating the wish of many of them to emigrate to America, 
 and asking how far they might have privileges allowed them 
 for following out their pursuit of agriculture. What answer 
 was returned may be guessed from the fact that a tract of 
 land comprising about eleven thousand acres at Oxford, near 
 the present town of Worcester, Massachusetts, was granted 
 to thirty Huguenots, who were invited to come over and settle 
 there. The invitation came like a sudden summons to a land 
 of hope across the Atlantic. There was no time for prepara- 
 tions ; these might excite suspicion ; they left the "pot boiling 
 on the fire" (to use the expression of one of their descendants), 
 and carried no clothes with them but what they wore. The 
 New Englanders had too lately escaped from religious per- 
 secution themselves not to welcome and shelter and clothe 
 these poor refugees when they once arrived at Boston. The 
 little French colony at Oxford was called a plantation, and 
 Gabriel Bernon, a descendant of a knightly name in Froissart, 
 a Protestant merchant of Rochelle, was appointed undertaker 
 for this settlement. They sent for a French Protestant minister, 
 and assigned to him a salary of forty pounds a year. They 
 bent themselves assiduously to the task of cultivating the half- 
 cleared land, on the borders of which lay the dark forest^ 
 among which the Indians prowled and lurked ready to spring 
 upon the unguarded households. To protect themselves from 
 this creeping, deadly enemy the French built a fort, traces of 
 which yet remain. But on the murder of the Johnson family 
 the French dared no longer remain on the bloody spot, although 
 more than ten acres of ground were in garden cultivation. 
 
344 TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE HUGUENOTS. 
 
 around the fort ; and long afterwards, those who told in 
 hushed, awe-struck voices of the Johnson murder, could point 
 to the rose-bushes, the apple and pear trees yet standing in 
 the Frenchmen's deserted gardens. Mrs. Johnson was a sister 
 of Andrew Sigourney, one of the first Huguenots who came 
 over. He saved his sister's life by dragging her by main 
 force through a back door, while the Indians massacred her 
 children, and shot down her husband at his own threshold. 
 To preserve her life was but a cruel kindness. 
 
 Gabriel Bernon lived to a patriarchal age, in spite of his early 
 sufferings in France and the wild Indian cries of revenge around 
 his home in Massachusetts. He died rich and prosperous. He 
 had kissed Queen Anne's hand, and become intimate with some 
 of the English nobihty, such as Lord Archdale, the Quaker 
 Governor of Carolina, who had lands and governments in the 
 American States. The descendants of the Huguenot refugees 
 repaid in part their debt of gratitude to Massachusetts in various 
 ways during the War of Independence ; one, Gabriel Manigault, 
 by advancing a large loan to further the objects of it. Indeed, 
 three of the nine presidents of the old Congress which conducted 
 the United States through the revolutionary war were descendants 
 of the French Protestant refugees. General Francis Marion, who 
 fought bravely under Washington, was of Huguenot descent. In 
 fact, both in England and France, the Huguenot refugees showed 
 themselves temperate, industrious, thoughtful, and intelligent 
 people, full of good principle and strength of character. But all 
 this is implied in the one circumstance that they suffered and 
 emigrated to secure the rights of conscience. 
 
 In the State of New York they fondly called their plantation 
 or settlement by the name of the precious city which had been their 
 stronghold, and where they had suffered so much. New Rochelle 
 was built on the shore of Long Island Sound, twenty-three miles 
 from New York. On the Saturday afternoons the inhabitants of 
 New Rochelle harnessed their horses to their carts, to convey the 
 women and Httle ones, and the men in the prime of life walked 
 all the distance to New York, camping out in their carts in the 
 environs of the city through the night, till the bell summoned 
 them on Sunday morning to service in the old Church du Saint 
 Esprit. In the same way they returned on Sunday evening. 
 The old longing for home, recorded in Allan Cunningham's 
 ballad— 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES Of' THE HUGUENOTS. 345 
 
 ** It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain would I be ; 
 Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! " — 
 
 clung to the breasts, and caused singular melancholy in some of 
 them. There was one old man who went every day down to the 
 seashore, to look and gaze his fill towards the beautiful cruel land 
 where most of his life had been passed. With his face to the 
 east — his eyes strained as if by force of longing looks he could see 
 the far-distant France — he said his morning prayers and sang one 
 of Clement Marot's hymns. There had been an edition of the 
 Psalms of David put into French rhyme (" Pseaumes de David, 
 mis en Rime fran9oise, par Clement Marot et Theodore de 
 Beze,"), published in as small a form as possible in order that the 
 book might be concealed in their bosoms if the Huguenots were 
 surprised in their worship while they lived in France. 
 
 Nor were Oxford and New Rochelle the only settlements of 
 the Huguenots in the United States. Farther south again they 
 were welcomed, and found resting-places in Virginia and South 
 Carolina. 
 
 I now return to the Huguenots in England. Even during 
 James the Second's reign, collections were made for the refugees ; 
 and, in the reign of his successor, fifteen thousand pounds were 
 voted by Parliament " to be distributed among persons of quality, 
 and all such as, by age or infirmity, were unable to support them- 
 selves." There are still, or were, not many years ago, a few 
 survivors of the old Huguenot stock, who go, on quarter-day, to 
 claim their small benefit from this fund at the Treasury ; and, 
 doubtless, at the time it was granted there were many friendless 
 and helpless to whom the httle pensions were inestimable boons. 
 But the greater part were active, strong men, full of good sense 
 and practical talent ; and they preferred taking advantage of the 
 national good-will in a more independent form. Their descen- 
 dants bear honoured names among us. Sir Samuel Romilly, 
 Mrs. Austin, and Miss Harriet Martineau are three of those that 
 come most prominently before me as I write ; but each of these 
 names is suggestive of others in the same families worthy of note. 
 Sir Samuel Romilly's ancestors came from the south of France, 
 where the paternal estate fell to a distant relation rather than 
 to the son, because the former was a Catholic, while the latter 
 had preferred a foreign country with " freedom to worship God." 
 In Sir Samuel Romilly's account of his father and grandfather, 
 
346 TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE HUGUENOTS. 
 
 it is easy to detect the southern character predominating. 
 Most affectionate, impulsive, generous, carried away by trans- 
 ports of anger and of grief, tender and true in all his relation- 
 ships — the reader does not easily forget the father of Sir Samuel 
 Romilly, with his fond adoption of Montaigne's idea, " playing on 
 a flute by the side of his daughter's bed, in order to waken her in 
 the morning." No wonder he himself was so beloved I But 
 there was much more demonstration of affection in all these 
 French households, if what I have gathered from their descen- 
 dants be correct, than we English should ever dare to manifest. 
 French was the language still spoken among themselves sixty 
 and seventy years after their ancestors had quitted France. In 
 the Romilly family, the father established it as a rule that French 
 should be always spoken on a Sunday. Forty years later, the 
 lady to whom I have so often alluded was living, an orphan child 
 with two maiden aunts, in the heart of London city. They always 
 spoke French. English was the foreign language ; and a certain 
 pride was cultivated in the little damsel's mind by the fact of her 
 being reminded every now and then that she was a little French 
 girl, bound to be polite, gentle, and attentive in manners ; to 
 stand till her elders gave her leave to sit down ; to curtsey on 
 entering or leaving a room. She attended her relations to- 
 the early market near Spitalfields, where many herbs, not in 
 general use in England, and some "weeds," were habitually 
 brought by the market-women for the use of the French people. 
 Burnet, chervil, dandelion, were amongst the number, in order 
 to form the salads which were a principal dish at meals. 
 There were still hereditary schools in the neighbourhood, kept 
 by descendants of the first refugees who established them, and 
 to which the Huguenot families still sent their children. A 
 kind of correspondence was occasionally kept up with the un- 
 seen and distant relations in France — third or fourth cousins, 
 it might be. As was to be expected, such correspondence 
 languished and died by slow degrees. But tales of their 
 ancestors' sufferings and escapes beguiled the long winter 
 evenings. Though far away from France, though cast off by 
 her a hundred years before, the gentle old ladies, who had 
 lived all their lives in London, considered France as their 
 country, and England as a strange land. Upstairs, too, was a 
 great chest — the very chest Madame Lefebvre had had packed 
 to accompany her in her flight and escape in the mattress. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE HUGUENOTS. 34/ 
 
 The stores her fond mother liad provided for her trojisseau 
 were not yet exhausted, though she slept in her grave ; and 
 out of them her little orphan descendant was dressed ; and 
 when the quaintness of the pattern made the child shrink 
 from putting on so peculiar a dress, she was asl^ed, "Are you 
 not a little French girl? You ought to be proud of wearing 
 a French print — there are none like it in England." In all 
 this, her relations and their circle seem to have differed from 
 the refugee friends of old Mr. Romilly, who, we are told, 
 "desired nothing less than to preserve the memory of their 
 origin ; and their chapels were therefore ill-attended. A large, 
 uncouth room, the avenues to which were narrow courts and 
 dirty alleys, , . . with irregular unpainted pews and dusty un- 
 plastered walls ; a congregation consisting principally of some 
 strange-looking old women scattered here and there," &c. Pro- 
 bably these old ladies looked strange to the child, who recorded 
 these early impressions in after-life, because they clung with 
 fond pride to the dress of their ancestors, and decked them- 
 selves out in the rich grotesque raiment which had formed part 
 of their mother's trousseau. At any rate, there certainly was 
 a little colony in the heart of the city, at the end of the last 
 century, who took pride in their descent from the sufferings 
 Huguenots, who mustered up relics of the old homes and 
 the old times in Normandy or Languedoc. A sword wielded 
 by some great-grandfather in the wars of the League ; a gold 
 whistle, such as hung ever ready at the master's girdle before 
 bells were known in houses, or ready to summon out-of-door 
 labourers ; some of the very ornaments sold at the famous 
 curiosity-shop at Warwick for ladies to hang at their chate- 
 laines, within this last ten years, were brought over by the 
 flying Huguenots. And there were precious Bibles, secured 
 by silver clasps and corners ; strangely-wrought silver spoons, 
 the handle of which enclosed the bowl ; a travelling-case, con- 
 taining a gold knife, spoon, and fork, and a crystal goblet,, 
 on which the coat-of-arms was engraved in gold. All these,, 
 and many other rehcs, tell of the affluence and refinement the 
 refugees left behind for the sake of their religion. 
 
 There is yet an hospital (or rather great almshouse) for aged 
 people of French descent somewhere near the City Road, which 
 is supported by the proceeds of land bequeathed, I believe, by 
 some of the first refugees, who were prosperous in trade after 
 
34S TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE HUGUENOTS. 
 
 settling in England. But it has lost much of its distinctive 
 national character. Fifty or sixty years ago, a visitor might 
 have heard the inmates of this hospital chattering away in anti- 
 quated French. Now they speak English, for the majority of 
 their ancestors in four generations have been English, and pro- 
 bably some of them do not know a word of French. Each 
 inmate has a comfortable bedroom, a small annuity for clothes, 
 &c., and sits and has meals in a public dining-room. As a 
 Httle amusing mark of deference to the land of their founders, 
 I may mention that a Mrs. Stephens, who was admitted within 
 the last thirty years, became Madame St. Etienne as soon as 
 she entered the hospital. 
 
 I have now told all I know about the Huguenots. I pass the 
 mark to some one else. 
 
 ^S* 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 AFTER I left Oxford, I determined to spend some months 
 ■ in travel before settling down in life. My father had left 
 me a few thousands, the income arising from which would be 
 enough to provide for all the necessary requirements of a 
 lawyer's education ; such as lodgings in a quiet part of 
 London, fees and payment to the distinguished barrister with 
 whom I was to read ; but there would be small surplus left 
 over for luxuries or amusements ; and as I was rather in debt 
 on leaving college, since I had forestalled my income, and the 
 expenses of my travelling would have to be defrayed out of my 
 capital, I determined that they should not exceed fifty pounds. 
 As long as that sum would last me I would remain abroad ; 
 when it was spent my holiday should be over, and I would 
 return and settle down somewhere in the neighbourhood of 
 
 Russell Square, in order to be near Mr. 's chambers in 
 
 Lincoln's Inn. I had to wait in London for one day while 
 my passport was being made out, and I went to examine the 
 streets in which I purposed to live ; I had picked them out, 
 from studying a map, as desirable, and so they were, if judged 
 entirely by my reason ; but their aspect was very depressing 
 to one country-bred, and just fresh from the beautiful street- 
 architecture of Oxford. The thought of living in such a mono- 
 tonous grey district for years made me all the more anxious 
 to prolong my holiday by all the economy which could eke 
 out my fifty pounds. I thought I could make it last for one 
 hundred days at least. I was a good walker, and had no 
 very luxurious tastes in the matter of accommodation or food ; 
 I had as fair a knowledge of German and French as any 
 untravelled Englishman can have ; and I resolved to avoid 
 expensive hotels such as my own countrymen frequented. 
 349 
 
350 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 I have stated this much about myself to explain how I fell 
 in with the little story that I am going to record, but with which 
 I had not much to do — my part in it being little more than that 
 ■of a sympathising spectator. I had been through France into 
 Switzerland, where I had gone beyond my strength in the way 
 of walking, and I was on my way home, when one evening I 
 came to the village of Heppenheim, on the Berg-Strasse. I 
 had strolled about the dirty town of Worms all morning, and 
 dined in a filthy hotel ; and after that I had crossed the Rhine, 
 and walked through Lorsch to Heppenheim. I was unnaturally 
 tired and languid as I dragged myself up the rough-paved and 
 irregular village street to the inn recommended to me. It was 
 a large building with a green court before it. A cross-looking 
 but scrupulously clean hostess received me, and showed me into 
 a large room with a dinner-table in it, which, though it might 
 have accommodated thirty or forty guests, only stretched down 
 half the length of the eating-room. There were windows at 
 each end of the room ; two looked to the front of the house, on 
 which the evening shadows had already fallen; the opposite 
 two were partly doors, opening into a large garden full of 
 trained fruit trees and beds of vegetables, amongst which rose- 
 bushes and other flowers seemed to grow by permission, not by 
 original intention. There was a stove at each end of the room, 
 which, I suspect, had originally been divided into two. The 
 door by which I had entered was exactly in the middle, and 
 opposite to it was another, leading to a great bed-chamber, 
 which my hostess showed me as my sleeping quarters for the 
 night. 
 
 If the place had been much less clean and inviting, I should 
 have remained there ; I was almost surprised myself at my vis 
 inerticB ; once seated in the last warm rays of the slanting sun 
 by the garden window, I was disinclined to move, or even to 
 speak. My hostess had taken my orders as to my evening 
 meal, and had left me. The sun went down, and I grew 
 shivery. The vast room looked cold and bare ; the darkness 
 brought out shadows that perplexed me, because I could not 
 fully make out the objects that produced them after dazzling 
 my eyes by gazing out into the crimson light. 
 
 Some one came in ; it was the maiden to prepare for my 
 supper. She began to lay the cloth at one end of the large 
 table. There was a smaller one close by me. I mustered up 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 35 I 
 
 ray voice, which seemed a httle as if it were getting beyond my 
 control, and called to her — 
 
 " Will you let me have my supper here on this table?" 
 She came near ; the light fell on her while I was in shadow. 
 She was a tall young woman, with a fine strong figure, a pleasant 
 face, expressive of goodness and sense, and with a good deal 
 of comeliness about it too, although the fair complexion was 
 bronzed and reddened by weather, so as to have lost much of 
 its delicacy, and the features, as I had afterwards opportunity- 
 enough of observing, were anything but regular. She had white 
 teeth, however, and well-opened blue eyes— grave-looking eyes 
 which had shed tears for past sorrow — plenty of hght-brown 
 hair, rather elaborately plaited, and fastened up by two great 
 silver pins. That was all — perhaps more than all — I noticed 
 that first night. She began to lay the cloth where I had 
 directed. A "shiver passed over me; she looked at me, and 
 then said — 
 
 " The gentleman is cold ; shall I light the stove ?" 
 Something vexed me — I am not usually so impatient : it was 
 the coming on of serious illness — I did not like to be noticed 
 so closely ; I believed that food would restore me, and I did 
 not want to have my meal delayed, as I feared it might be 
 by the lighting of the stove : and most of all I was feverishly 
 annoyed by movement. I answered sharply and abruptly — 
 '' No ; bring supper quickly ; that is all I want." 
 Her quiet, sad eyes met mine for a moment ; but I saw no 
 change in their expression, as if I had vexed her by my rude- 
 ness : her countenance did not for an instant lose its look of 
 patient sense, and that is pretty nearly all I can remember of 
 Thekla that first evening at Heppenheim. 
 
 I suppose I ate my supper, or tried to do so, at any rate ; and 
 I must have gone to bed, for days after I became conscious of 
 lying there, weak as a new-born babe, and with a sense of past 
 pain in all my weary limbs. As is the case in recovering from 
 fever, one does not care to connect facts, much less to reason 
 upon them ; so how I came to be lying in that strange bed, in 
 that large, half-furnished room, in what house that room was, 
 in what town, in what country, I did not take the trouble to 
 recall. It was of much more consequence to me then to discover 
 what was the well-known herb that gave the scent to the clean, 
 coarse sheets in which I lay. Gradually I extended my observa- 
 
352 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 tions, always confining myself to the present. I must have bsen 
 well cared for by some one, and that lately too, for the window 
 was shaded, so as to prevent the morning sun from coming in 
 upon the bed ; there was the crackling of fresh wood in the great 
 white china stove, which must l^ave been newly replenished within 
 a short time. 
 
 By-and-by the door opened slowly. I cannot tell why, but 
 my impulse was to shut my eyes as if I were still asleep. But 
 I could see through my apparently closed eyelids. In came, 
 walking on tip-toe, with a slow care that defeated its object, 
 two men. The first was aged from thirty to forty, in the dress of 
 a Black Forest peasant — old-fashioned coat and knee-breeches 
 of strong blue cloth, but of a thoroughly good quality ; he was 
 followed by an older man, whose dress, of more pretension as to 
 cut and colour (it was all black), was, nevertheless, as I had 
 often the opportunity of observing afterwards, worn threadbare. 
 
 Their first sentences, in whispered German, told me who they 
 were : the landlord of the inn where I was lying a helpless log, 
 and the village doctor who had been called in. The latter felt 
 my pulse, and nodded his head repeatedly in approbation. I 
 had instinctively known that I was getting better, and hardly 
 cared for this confirmation ; but it seemed to give the truest 
 pleasure to the landlord, who shook the hand of the doctor in a 
 pantomime expressive of as much thankfulness as if I had been 
 his brother. Some low-spoken remarks were made, and then 
 some question was asked, to which, apparently, my host was 
 unable to reply. He left the room, and in a minute or two re- 
 turned, followed by Thekla, who was questioned by the doctor, 
 and replied with a quiet clearness, showing how carefully the 
 details of my illness had been observed by her. Then she left 
 the room, and, as if every minute had served to restore to my 
 brain its power of combining facts, I was suddenly prompted to 
 open my eyes, and ask in the best German I could muster what 
 day of the month it was ; not that I clearly remembered the date 
 of my arrival at Heppenheim, but I knew it was about the be- 
 ginning of September. 
 
 Again the doctor conveyed his sense of extreme satisfaction in 
 a series of rapid pantomimic nods, and then replied, in deliberate 
 but tolerable English, to my great surprise — 
 
 "It is the 29th of September, my dear sir. You must thank 
 the dear God. Your fever has made its course of twenty-one 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 353 
 
 days. Now patience and care must be practised. The good 
 host and his household will have the care ; you must have the 
 patience. If you have relations in England, I will do my en- 
 deavours to tell them the state of your health." 
 
 " I have no near relations," said I, beginning in my weakness 
 to cry, as I remembered, as if it had been a dream, the days 
 when I had father, mother, sister. 
 
 "Chut, chut!" said he; then, turning to the landlord, he 
 told him in German to make Thekla bring me one of her good 
 bouillons ; after which I was to have certain medicines, and to 
 sleep as undisturbedly as possible. For days, he went on, I 
 should require constant watching and careful feeding ; every 
 twenty minutes I was to have something, either wine or soup, 
 in small quantities. 
 
 A dim notion came into my hazy mind that my previous hus- 
 bandry of my fifty pounds, by taking long walks and scanty diet, 
 would prove in the end very bad economy ; but I sank into dozing 
 unconsciousness before I could quite follow out my idea. I was 
 roused by the touch of a spoon on my lips ; it was Thekla feed- 
 ing me. Her sweet, grave face had something approaching to 
 a mother's look of tenderness upon it, as she gave me spoonful 
 after spoonful with gentle patience and dainty care : and then 
 I fell asleep once more. When next I wakened it was night ; 
 the stove was lighted, and the burning wood made a pleasant 
 crackle, though I could only see the outlines and edges of red 
 flame through the crevices of the small iron door. The un- 
 curtained window on my left looked into the purple solemn 
 night. Turning a little, I saw Thekla sitting near a table, sew- 
 ing diligently at some great white piece of household work. 
 Every now and then she stopped to snuff the candle ; sometimes 
 she began to ply her needle again immediately ; but once or 
 twice she let her busy hands lie idly in her lap, and looked into 
 the darkness, and thought deeply for a moment or two ; these 
 pauses always ended in a kind of sobbing sigh, the sound of 
 which seemed to restore her to self-consciousness, and she took 
 to her sewing even more diligently than before. Watching her 
 had a sort of dreamy interest for me ; this diligence of hers was 
 a pleasant contrast to my repose ; it seemed to enhance the 
 flavour of my rest. I was too much of an animal just then to 
 have my sympathy, or even my curiosity, strongly excited by 
 her look of sad remembrance, or by her sighs. 
 
354 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 After a while she gave a httle start, looked at a watch lying by 
 her on the table, and came, shading the candle by her hand, 
 softly to my bedside. When she saw my open eyes she went to 
 a porringer placed at the top of the stove, and fed me with soup. 
 She did not speak while doing this. I was half aware that she 
 had done it many times since the doctor's visit, although this 
 seemed to be the first time that I was fully awake. She passed 
 her arm under the pillow on which my head rested, and raised 
 me a very little ; her support was as firm as a man's could have 
 been. Again back to her work, and I to my slumbers, without 
 a word being exchanged. 
 
 It was broad daylight when I wakened again ; I could see the 
 sunny atmosphere of the garden outside stealing in through the 
 nicks at the side of the shawl hung up to darken the room — a 
 shawl which I was sure had not been there when I had observed 
 the window in the night. How gently my nurse must have 
 moved about while doing her thoughtful act ! 
 
 My breakfast was brought me by the hostess ; she who had 
 received me on my first arrival at this hospitable inn. She 
 meant to do everything kindly I am sure ; but a sick-room was 
 not her place ; by a thousand little mal-adroitnesses she fidgeted 
 me past bearing : her shoes creaked, her dress rustled ; she 
 asked me questions about myself which it irritated me to 
 answer ; she congratulated me on being so much better, while 
 I was faint for want of food which she delayed giving me in 
 order to talk. My host had more sense in him when he came 
 in, although his shoes creaked as well as hers. By this time 
 I was somewhat revived, and could taik a Httle ; besides, it 
 seemed churlish to be longer without acknowledging so much 
 kindness received. 
 
 " I am afraid I have been a great trouble," said I. "I can 
 only say that I am truly grateful." 
 
 His good, broad face reddened, and he moved a little uneasily. 
 
 " I don't see how I could have done otherwise than I — than 
 we did," replied he, in the soft German of the district. "We 
 were all glad enough to do what we could ; I don't say it was a 
 pleasure, because it is our busiest time of year — but then," said 
 he, laughing a little awkwardly, as if he feared his expression, 
 might have been misunderstood, " I don't suppose it has been a 
 pleasure to you either, sir, to be laid up so far from home." 
 
 *' No, indeed." 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 355 
 
 " I may as well tell you now, sir, that we had to look over 
 your papers and clothes. In the first place, when you were so 
 ill I would fain have let your kinsfolk know, if I could have 
 found a clue ; and besides, you needed hnen." 
 
 " I am wearing a shirt of yours, though," said I, touching my 
 sleeve. 
 
 " Yes, sir ! " said he, again reddening a little. " I told Thekla 
 to take the finest out of the chest ; but I am afraid you find it 
 coarser than your own." 
 
 For all answer I could only lay my weak hand on the great 
 brown paw resting on the bed-side. He gave me a sudden 
 squeeze in return that I thought would have crushed my bones. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," said he, misinterpreting the sudden 
 look of pain which I could not repress ; " but watching a man 
 come out of the shadow of death into life makes one feel very 
 friendly towards him." 
 
 "No old or true friend that I have had could have done 
 more for me than you, and your wife, and Thekla, and the 
 good doctor." 
 
 " I am a widower," said he, turning round the great wedding- 
 ring that decked his third finger. ' ' My sister keeps house for 
 me, and takes care of the children— that is to say, she does it 
 with the help of Thekla, the house-maiden. But I have other 
 servants," he continued. "I am well-to-do, the good God be 
 thanked! I have land, and cattle, and vineyards. It will soon 
 be our vintage-time, and then you must go and see my grapes 
 as they come into the village. I have a ' chasse,' too, in the 
 Odenwald ; perhaps one day you will be strong enough to go 
 and shoot the ' chevreuiV with me," 
 
 His good, true heart was trying to make me feel like a wel- 
 come guest. Some time afterwards I learnt from the doctor 
 that — my poor fifty pounds being nearly all expended — my host 
 and he had been brought to believe in my poverty, as the neces- 
 sary examination of my clothes and papers showed so little 
 evidence of wealth. But I myself have but little to do with my 
 story ; I only name these things, and repeat these conversations, 
 to show what a true, kind, honest man my host was. By the 
 way, I may as well call him by his name henceforward, Fritz 
 Miiller. The doctor's name, Wiedermann. 
 
 I was tired enough with this interview with Fritz Miiller ; but 
 when Dr. Wiedermann came he pronounced me to be much 
 
356 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 better ; and through the day much the same course was pursued 
 as on the previous one : being fed, lying still, and sleeping, 
 were my passive and active occupations. It was a hot, sun- 
 shiny day, and I craved for air. Fresh air does not enter into 
 the pharmacopoeia of a German doctor ; but somehow I obtained 
 my wish. During the morning hours the window through 
 which the sun streamed — the window looking on to the front 
 court — was opened a httle ; and through it I heard the sounds 
 of active life, which gave me pleasure and interest enough. 
 The hen's cackle, the cock's exultant call when he had found 
 the treasure of a grain of corn, the movements of a tethered 
 donkey, and the cooing and whirring of the pigeons which 
 lighted on the window-sill, gave me just subjects enough for 
 interest. Now and then a cart or carriage drove up — I could 
 hear them ascending the rough village street long before they 
 stopped at the " Halbmond," the village inn. Then there 
 came a sound of running and haste in the house ; and Thekla 
 was always called for in sharp, imperative tones. I heard 
 little children's footsteps, too, from time to time ; and once 
 there must have been some childish accident or hurt, for a 
 shrill, plaintive little voice kept calling out, "Thekla, Thekla, 
 Hebe Thekla." Yet, after the first early morning hours, when 
 my hostess attended on my wants, it was always Thekla who 
 came to give me my food or my medicine ; who redded up my 
 room ; who arranged the degree of light, shifting the temporary 
 curtain with the shifting sun ; and always as quietly and de- 
 liberately as though her attendance upon me were her sole 
 work. Once or twice my hostess came into the large eating- 
 room (out of which my room opened), and called Thekla away 
 from whatever was her occupation in my room at the time, in a 
 sharp, injured, imperative whisper. Once I remember it was 
 to say that sheets were wanted for some stranger's bed, and to 
 ask where she, the speaker, could have put the keys, in a tone 
 of irritation, as though Thekla were responsible for Fraulein 
 Miiller's own forgetfulness. 
 
 Night came on ; the sounds of daily life died away into 
 silence ; the children's voices were no more heard ; the poultry 
 were all gone to roost ; the beasts of burden to their stables ; 
 and travellers were housed. Then Thekla came in softly and 
 quietly, and took up her appointed place, after she had done 
 all in her power for my comfort. I felt that I was in no 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 357 
 
 state to be left all those weary hours which intervened between 
 sunset and sunrise ; but I did feel ashamed that this young 
 woman, who had watched by me all the previous night, and, 
 for aught I knew, for many before, and had worked hard, 
 been run off her legs, as English servants would say, all day 
 long, should come and take up her care of me again ; and 
 it was with a feeling of relief that I saw her head bend 
 forwards, and finally rest on her arms, which had fallen on 
 the white piece of sewing spread before her on the table. 
 She slept ; and I slept. When I wakened dawn was stealing 
 into the room, and making pale the lamplight. Thekla 
 was standing by the stove, where she had been preparing 
 the bouillon I should require on wakening. But she did not 
 notice my half-open eyes, although her face was turned towards 
 the bed. She was reading a letter slowly, as if its words were 
 familiar to her, yet as though she were trying afresh to extract 
 some fuller or some different meaning from their construction. 
 She folded it up softly and slowly, and replaced it in her pocket 
 with the quiet movement habitual to her. Then she looked 
 before her, not at me, but at vacancy filled up by memories ; 
 and as the enchanter brought up the scenes and people which 
 she saw, but I could not, her eyes filled with tears — tears that 
 gathered almost imperceptibly to herself as it would seem — for 
 when one large drop fell on her hands (held slightly together 
 before her as she stood) she started a little, and brushed her 
 eyes with the back of her hand, and then came towards the bed 
 to see if I was awake. If I had not witnessed her previous 
 emotion, I could never have guessed that she had any hidden 
 sorrow or pain from her manner, tranquil, self-restrained as 
 usual. The thought of this letter haunted me, especially as 
 more than once I, wakeful or watchful during the ensuing 
 nights, either saw it in her hands, or suspected that she had 
 been recurring to it from noticing the same sorrowful, dreamy 
 look upon her face when she thought herself unobserved. Most 
 likely every one has noticed how inconsistently out of proportion 
 some ideas become when one is shut up in any place without 
 cliange of scene or thought. I really grew quite irritated about 
 this letter. If I did not see it, I suspected it \2iy perdu in her 
 pocket. What was in it ? Of course it was a love-letter ; but 
 if so, what was going wrong in the course of her love ? I became 
 like a spoilt child in my recovery ; every one whom I saw for 
 
358 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 the time being was thinking only of me, so it was perhaps no 
 wonder that I became my sole object of thought ; and at last 
 the gratification of my curiosity about this letter seemed to me 
 a duty that I owed to myself. As long as my fidgety inquisitive- 
 ness remained ungratified, I felt as if I could not get well. But, 
 to do myself justice, it was more than inquisitiveness, Thekla 
 had tended me with the gentle, thoughtful care of a sister, in 
 the midst of her busy life. I could often hear the Fraulein's 
 sharp voice outside blaming her for something that had gone 
 wrong ; but I never heard much from Thekla in reply. Her 
 name was called in various tones by different people, more 
 frequently than I could count, as if her services were in perpetual 
 requisition, yet I was never neglected, or even long uncared-for. 
 The doctor was kind and attentive ; my host friendly and really 
 generous ; his sister subdued her acerbity of manner when in 
 my room ; but Thekla was the one of all to whom I owed my 
 comforts, if not my life. If I could do anything to smooth her 
 path (and a little money goes a great way in these primitive 
 parts of Germany), how willingly would I give it? So one night 
 I began — she was no longer needed to watch by my bedside, but 
 she was arranging my room before leaving me for the night — 
 
 "Thekla," said I, "you don't belong to Heppenheim, do 
 you?" 
 
 She looked at me, and reddened a little. 
 
 " No. Why do you ask ? " 
 
 " You have been so good to me that I cannot help wanting to 
 know more about you. I must needs feel interested in one who 
 has been by my side through my illness as you have. Where 
 do your friends live? Are your parents alive?" 
 
 All this time I was driving at the letter. 
 
 " I was born at Altenahr. My father is an innkeeper there. 
 He owns the 'Golden Stag.' My mother is dead, and he has 
 married again, and has many children." 
 
 "And your stepmother is unkind to you," said I, jumping to 
 a conclusion. 
 
 "Who said so?" asked she, with a shade of indignation in 
 her tone. " She is a right good woman, and makes my father 
 a good wife." 
 
 " Then why are you here living so far from home?" 
 
 Now the look came back to her face which I had seen upon 
 it during the night hours when I had watched her by stealth ! 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 359 
 
 a dimming of the grave frankness of her eyes, a hght quiver at 
 the corners of her mouth. But all she said was, " It was better." 
 
 Somehow, I persisted with the wilfulness of an invalid. I am 
 half-ashamed of it now. 
 
 "But why better, Thekla? Was there" How should 
 
 I put it? I stopped a little, and then rushed blindfold at my 
 object : " Has not that letter which you read so often something 
 to do with your being here?" 
 
 She fixed me with her serious eyes till I believe I reddened 
 far more than she ; and I hastened to pour out, incoherently 
 enough, my conviction that she had some secret care, and my 
 desire to help her if she was in any trouble. 
 
 "You cannot help me," said she, a little softened by my 
 explanation, though some shade of resentment at having been 
 thus surreptitiously watched yet lingered in her manner. "It 
 is an old story ; a sorrow gone by, past, at least it ought to be, 
 only sometimes I am foolish " — her tones were softening now — 
 "and it is punishment enough that you have seen my folly." 
 
 " If you had a brother here, Thekla, you would let him 
 give you his sympathy if he could not give you his help, 
 and you would not blame yourself if you had shown him your 
 sorrow, should you? I tell you again, let me be as a brother 
 to you." 
 
 "In the first place, sir" — this "sir" was to mark the dis- 
 tinction between me and the imaginary brother — " I should 
 have been ashamed to have shown even a brother my sorrow, 
 which is also my reproach and my disgrace." These were 
 strong words, and I suppose my face showed that I attributed 
 to them a still stronger meaning than they warranted ; but honi 
 soit qui mal y pense — for she went on dropping her eyes and 
 speaking hurriedly. 
 
 ' ' My shame and my reproach is this : I have loved a man 
 who has not loved me" — she grasped her hands together till 
 the fingers made deep white dents in the rosy flesh — "and I 
 can't make out whether he ever did, or whether he did once 
 and is changed now ; if only he did once love me, I could for- 
 give myself." 
 
 With hasty, trembling hands she began to re-arrange the 
 tisane and medicines for the night on the little table at my 
 bed-side. But, having got thus far, I was determined to 
 persevere. 
 
360 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 " Thekla," said I, " tell me all about it, as you would to your 
 mother, if she were alive. There are often misunderstandings 
 which, never set to rights, make the misery and desolation of a 
 lifetime." 
 
 She did not speak at first. Then she pulled out the letter, 
 and said, in a quiet, hopeless tone of voice — 
 
 "You can read German writing? Read that, and see if I 
 have any reason for misunderstanding." 
 
 The letter was signed " Franz Weber," and dated from some 
 small town in Switzerland — I forget what — about a month 
 previous to the time when I read it. It began with acknow- 
 ledging the receipt of some money which had evidently been 
 requested by the writer, and for which the thanks were almost 
 fulsome, and then, by the quietest transition in the world, he 
 went on to consult her as to the desirability of his marrying 
 some girl in the place from which he wrote, saying that this 
 Anna Somebody was only eighteen, and very pretty, and her 
 father a well-to-do shopkeeper, and adding, with coarse cox- 
 combry, his belief that he was not indifferent to the maiden 
 herself. He wound up by saying that, if this marriage did take 
 place, he should certainly repay the various sums of money 
 which Thekla had lent him at different times. 
 
 I was some time in making out all this. Thekla held the 
 candle for me to read it ; held it patiently and steadily, not 
 speaking a word till I had folded up the letter again, and given 
 it back to her. Then our eyes met. 
 
 "There is no misunderstanding possible, is there, sir?" asked 
 she, with a faint smile. 
 
 " No," I rephed ; " but you are well rid of such a fellow." 
 
 She shook her head a httle. " It shows his bad side, sir. 
 We have all our bad sides. You must not judge him 
 harshly ; at least, I cannot. But then we were brought up 
 together." 
 
 " At Altenahr ? " 
 
 "Yes; his father kept the other inn, and our parents, 
 instead of being rivals, were great friends. Franz is a little 
 younger than I, and was a delicate child. I had to take him 
 to school, and I used to be so proud of it and of my charge. 
 Then he grew strong, and was the handsomest lad in the 
 village. Our fathers used to sit and smoke together, and talk 
 of our marriage, and Franz must have heard as much as I. 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 361 
 
 Whenever he was in trouble, he would come to me for what 
 advice I could give him, and he danced twice as often with 
 me as with any other girl at all the dances, and always 
 brought his nosegay to me. Then his father wished him 
 to travel, and learn the ways at the great hotels on the 
 Rhine before he settled down in Altenahr. You know that 
 is the custom in Germany, sir. They go from town to 
 town as journeymen, learning something fresh everywhere, 
 they say." 
 
 " I knew that was done in trades," I replied. 
 
 "Oh, yes; and among inn-keepers, too," she said. "Most 
 of the waiters at the great hotels in Frankfort, and Heidel- 
 berg, and Mayence, and I dare say at all the other places, are 
 the sons of inn-keepers in small towns, who go out into the 
 world to learn new ways, and perhaps to pick up a little 
 English and French ; otherwise, they say, they should never 
 get on. Franz went off from Altenahr on his journeyings 
 four years ago next May-day, and before he went, he brought 
 me back a ring from Bonn, where he bought his new clothes. 
 I don't wear it now ; but I have got it upstairs, and it comforts 
 me to see something that shows me it was not all my silly 
 fancy. I suppose he fell among bad people, for he soon 
 began to play for money — and then he lost more than he 
 could always pay ; and sometimes I could help him a little, 
 for we wrote to each other from time to time, as we knew each 
 other's addresses ; for the little ones grew around my father's 
 hearth, and I thought that I, too, would go forth into the 
 world and earn my own living, so that — well, I will tell the 
 truth — I thought that by going into service, I could lay by 
 enough for buying a handsome stock of household linen, and 
 plenty of pans and kettles against — against what will never come 
 to pass now." 
 
 "Do the German women buy the pots and kettles, as you 
 call them, when they are married?" asked I, awkwardly, laying 
 hold of a trivial question to conceal the indignant sympathy with 
 her wrongs which I did not like to express. 
 
 "Oh, yes; the bride furnishes all that is wanted in the 
 kitchen, and all the store of house-linen. If my mother had 
 lived, it would have been laid by for me, as she could have 
 afforded to buy it, but my stepmother will have hard enough 
 work to provide for her own four little girls. However," 
 
362 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 -she continued, brightening up, " I can help her, for now 
 I shall never marry; and my master here is just and liberal, 
 and pays me sixty florins a year, which is high wages." 
 (Sixty florins are about five pounds sterling.) " And now, 
 good-night, sir. This cup to the left holds the tisane, that 
 to the right the acorn-tea." She shaded the candle, and was 
 leaving the room. I raised myself on my elbow, and called 
 her back. 
 
 "Don't go on thinking about this man," said I. "He 
 was not good enough for you. You are much better un- 
 married." 
 
 " Perhaps so," she answered gravely. "But you cannot do 
 him justice ; you do not know him." 
 
 A few minutes after, I heard her soft and cautious return ; 
 she had taken her shoes off, and came in her stockinged feet 
 up to my bedside, shading the light with her hand. When she 
 saw that my eyes were open, she laid down two letters on the 
 table, close by my night-lamp. 
 
 " Perhaps, some time, sir, you would take the trouble to 
 read these letters ; you would then see how noble and clever 
 P>anz really is. It is I who ought to be blamed, not he." 
 
 No more was said that night. 
 
 Some ^ime the next morning I read the letters. They were 
 filled with vague, inflated, sentimental descriptions of his inner 
 life and feelings ; entirely egotistical, and intermixed with quota- 
 tions from second-rate philosophers and poets. There was, it 
 must be said, nothing in them offensive to good principle or 
 good feeling, however much they might be opposed to good 
 taste. I was to go into the next room that afternoon for the 
 first time of leaving my sick chamber. All morning I lay and 
 ruminated. From time to time I thought of Thekla and Franz 
 Weber. She was the strong, good, helpful character, he the 
 weak and vain ; how strange it seemed that she should have 
 cared for one so dissimilar ; and then I remembered the various 
 happy marriages when to an outsider it seemed as if one was so 
 inferior to the other that their union would have appeared a 
 subject for despair if it had been looked at prospectively My 
 host came in, in the midst of these meditations, bringing a great 
 flowered dressing-gown, lined with flannel, and the embroidered 
 smoking-cap which he evidently considered as belonging to 
 this Indian-looking robe. They had been his father's, he told 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. ^'^.^ 
 
 me, and as he helped me to dress he went on with his communi- 
 cations on small family matters. His inn was flourishing ; 
 the numbers increased every year of those who came to see the 
 church at Heppenheim — the church which was the pride of the 
 place, but which I had never yet seen. It was built by. the 
 great Kaiser Karl. And there was the Castle of Starkenburg, 
 too, which the Abbots of Lorsch had often defended, stalwart 
 churchmen as they were, against the temporal power of the 
 emperors. And Melibocus was not beyond a walk either. la 
 fact, it was the work of one person to superintend the inn 
 alone ; but he had his farm and his vineyards beyond, which 
 ■of themselves gave him enough to do. And his sister was 
 ■oppressed with the perpetual calls made upon her patience 
 and her nerves in an inn ; and would rather go back and 
 live at Worms. And his children wanted so much looking 
 after. By the time he had placed himself in a condition for 
 requiring my full sympathy, I had finished my slow toilette, 
 and I had to interrupt his confidences, and accept the help 
 of his good strong arm to lead me into the great eating-room 
 ■out of which my chamber opened. I had a dreamy recollec- 
 tion of the vast apartment. But how pleasantly it was changed. 
 There was the bare half of the room, it is true, looking as it 
 had done on that first afternoon, sunless and cheerless, with 
 the long, unoccupied table, and the necessary chairs for the 
 possible visitors ; but round the windows that opened on the 
 garden a part of the room was enclosed by the household clothes*- 
 horses hung with great pieces of the blue homespun cloth of 
 which the dress of the Black Forest peasant is made. This shut- 
 in space was warmed by the lighted stove, as well as by the 
 lowering rays of the October sun. There was a little round 
 walnut table with some flowers upon it, and a great cushioned 
 arm-chair, placed so as to look out upon the garden and the hills 
 beyond. I felt sure that this was all Thekla's arrangement ; 
 I had rather wondered that I had seen so httle of her this day. 
 She had come once or twice on necessary errands into my 
 room in the morning, but had appeared to be in great haste, 
 and had avoided meeting my eye. Even when I had returned 
 the letters, which she had intrusted to me with so evident a 
 purpose of placing the writer in my good opinion, she had 
 never inquired as to how far they had answered her design ; 
 she had merely taken them with some low word of thanks. 
 
364 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 and put them hurriedly into her pocket. I suppose she shrank 
 from remembering how fully she had given me her confidence 
 the night before, now that daylight and actual life pressed 
 close around her. Besides, there surely never was any one in 
 such constant request as Thekla. I did not like this estrange- 
 ment, though it was the natural consequence of my improved 
 health, which would daily make me less and less require 
 services which seemed so urgently claimed by others. And, 
 moreover, after my host left me — I fear I had cut him a little 
 short in the recapitulation of his domestic difficulties, but he 
 was too thorough and good-hearted a man to bear malice — I 
 wanted to be amused or interested. So I rang my little hand- 
 bell, hoping that Thekla would answer it, when I could have 
 fallen into conversation with her, without specifying any de- 
 cided want. Instead of Thekla the Fraiilein came, and I had 
 to invent a wish, for I could not act as a baby, and say that I 
 wanted my nurse. However, the Fraiilein was better than no 
 one, so I asked her if I could have some grapes, which had 
 been provided for me on every day but this, and which were 
 especially grateful to my feverish palate. She was a good, 
 kind woman, although, perhaps, her temper was not the best 
 in the world ; and she expressed the sincerest regret as she told 
 me that there were no more in the house. Like an invalid I 
 fretted at my wish not being granted, and spoke out. 
 
 *' But Thekla told me the vintage was not till the fourteenth ; 
 and you have a vineyard close beyond the garden, on the slope 
 of the hill out there, have you not ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and grapes for the gathering. But perhaps the gentle- 
 man does not know our laws. Until the vintage (the day of 
 beginning the vintage is fixed by the Grand Duke, and adver- 
 tised in the public papers) — until the vintage, all owners of 
 vineyards may only go on two appointed days in every week to 
 gather their grapes ; on those two days (Tuesdays and Fridays, 
 this year) they must gather enough for the wants of their 
 families ; and if they do not reckon rightly, and gather short 
 measure, why, they have to go without. And these two last 
 days the ' Half-Moon ' has been besieged with visitors, all of 
 whom have asked for grapes. But to-morrow the gentle- 
 man can have as many as he will ; it is the day for gathering 
 them." 
 
 "What a strange kind of paternal law," I grumbled out. 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 365 
 
 *'Why is it so ordained? Is it to secure the owners against 
 pilfering from their unfenced vineyards?" 
 
 "I am sure I cannot tell," she replied. "Country people in 
 these villages have strange customs in many ways, as I dare 
 say the English gentleman has perceived. If he would come to 
 Worms he would see a different kind of life." 
 
 "But not a view like this," I replied, caught by a sudden 
 change of light — some cloud passing away from the sun, or 
 something. Right outside of the windows was, as I have so 
 often said, the garden. Trained plum-trees with golden leaves, 
 great bushes of purple, Michaelmas daisy, late-flowering roses, 
 apple-trees, partly stripped of their rosy fruit, but still with 
 enough left on their boughs to require the props set to support 
 the luxuriant burden ; to the left an arbour covered over with 
 honeysuckle and other sweet-smelling creepers — all bounded by 
 a low grey stone wall which opened out upon the steep vine- 
 yard that stretched up the hill beyond, one hill of a series rising 
 higher and higher into the purple distance. " Why is there 
 a rope with a bunch of straw tied in it stretched across the 
 opening of the garden into the vineyard?" I inquired, as my 
 eye suddenly caught upon the object. 
 
 "It is the country way of showing that no one must pass 
 along that path. To-morrow the gentleman will see it re- 
 moved ; and then he shall have tlie grapes. Now I will go 
 and prepare his coffee." With a curtsey, after the fashion of 
 W^orms gentility, she withdrew. But an under-servant brought 
 me my coffee ; and with her I could not exchange a word : 
 fhe spoke in such an execrable patois. I went to bed early, 
 weary and depressed. I must have fallen asleep immediately, 
 for I never heard any one come to arrange my bed-side table ; 
 yet in the morning I found that every usual want or wish of 
 mine had been attended to. 
 
 I was wakened by a tap at my door, and a pretty piping 
 child's voice asking, in broken German, to come in. On giving 
 the usual permission, Thekla entered, carrying a great lovely 
 boy of two years old, or thereabouts, who had only his little 
 night-shirt on, and was all flushed with sleep. He held tight 
 in his hands a great cluster of muscatel and noble grapes. He 
 seemed like a little Bacchus, as she carried him towards me 
 with an expression of pretty loving pride upon her face as she 
 looked at him. But when he came close to me — the grim. 
 
365 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 wasted, unshorn — he turned quick away, and hid his face in 
 her neck, still grasping tight his bunch of grapes. She spoke 
 to him rapidly and softly, coaxing him, as I could tell full 
 well, although I could not follow her words ; and in a minute 
 or two the little fellow obeyed her, and turned and stretched 
 himself almost to overbalancing out of her arms, and half- 
 dropped the fruit on the bed by me. Then he clutched at 
 her again, burying his face in her kerchief, and fastening his 
 Httle fists in her luxuriant hair. 
 
 "It is my master's only boy," said she, disentangling his 
 fingers with quiet patience, only to have them grasp her braids 
 afresh. "He is my little Max, my heart's delight, only he 
 must not pull so hard. Say his ' to-meet-again,' and kiss his 
 hand lovingly, and we will go." The promise of a speedy de- 
 parture from my dusky room proved irresistible ; he babbled 
 out his Aufwiedersehen, and kissing his chubby hand, he was 
 borne away joyful and chattering fast in his infantile half-lan- 
 guage. I did not see Thekla again until late afternoon, when 
 she brought me in my coffee. She was not like the same 
 creature as the blooming, cheerful maiden whom I had seen 
 in the morning ; she looked wan and careworn, older by several 
 years. 
 
 "What is the matter, Thekla?" said I, with true anxiety as 
 to what might have befallen my good, faithful nurse. 
 
 She looked round before answering. "I have seen him,'^ 
 she said. "He has been here, and the Fraulein has been so 
 angry ! She says she will tell my master. Oh, it has been 
 such a day ! " The poor young woman, who was usually so 
 composed and self-restrained, was on the point of bursting into 
 tears ; but by a strong effort she checked herself, and tried to 
 busy herself with rearranging the white china cup, so as to 
 place it more conveniently to my hand. 
 
 "Come, Thekla," said I, "tell me all about it. I have 
 heard loud voices talking, and I fancied something had put 
 the Fraulein out ; and Lottchen looked flurried when she 
 brought me my dinner. Is Franz here? How has he found 
 you out ? " 
 
 " He is here. Yes, I am sure it is he ; but four years make 
 such a difference in a man ; his whole look and manner seemed 
 so strange to me ; but he knew me at once, and called me all 
 the old names which we used to call each other when we were 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 2>^J 
 
 children ; and he must needs tell me how it had come to pass 
 that he had not married that Swiss Anna. He said he had 
 never loved her ; and that now he was going home to settle, 
 
 and he hoped that I would come too, and" There she 
 
 stopped short. 
 
 "And marry him, and live at the inn at Altenahr," said I, 
 smiling to reassure her, though I felt rather disappointed about 
 the whole affair. 
 
 "No," she replied. "Old Weber, his father, is dead; he 
 died in debt, and Franz will have no money. And he was 
 always one that needed money. Some are, you know ; and 
 while I was thinking, and he was standing near me, the- 
 Fraulein came in ; and — and — I don't wonder — for poor Franz 
 is not a pleasant-looking man nowadays — she was very angry, 
 and called me a bold, bad girl, and said she could have no 
 such goings on at the 'Halbmond,' but would tell my master 
 when he came home from the forest." 
 
 " But you could have told her that you were old friends." I 
 hesitated before saying the word lovers, but, after a pause, out 
 it came. 
 
 "Franz might have said so," she replied, a little stiffly. " I 
 could not ; but he went off as soon as she bade him. He went 
 to the ' Adler ' over the way, only saying he would come for 
 my answer to-morrow morning. I think it was he that should 
 have told her what we were — neighbours' children and early 
 friends — not have left it all to me. Oh," said she, clasping her 
 hands tight together, "she will make such a story of it to my 
 master." 
 
 "Never mind," said I, "tell the master I want to see him, 
 as soon as he comes in from the forest, and trust me to set 
 him right before the Fraulein has the chance to set him wrong." 
 
 She looked up at me gratefully, and went away without any 
 more words. Presently, the fine burly figure of my host stood 
 at the opening to my enclosed sitting-room. He was there, 
 three-cornered hat in hand, looking tired and heated as a man 
 does after a hard day's work, but as kindly and genial as ever, 
 which is not what every man is who is called to business after 
 such a day, before he has had the necessary food and rest. 
 
 I had been reflecting a good deal on Thekla's story ; I could 
 not quite interpret her manner to-day to my full satisfaction ; 
 but vet the love which had i^rown with her growth, must 
 
368 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 assuredly have been called forth by her lover's sudden re- 
 appearance ; and I was inclined to give him some credit for 
 having broken off an engagement to Swiss Anna, which had 
 promised so many worldly advantages ; and, again, I had con- 
 sidered that if he was a little weak and sentimental, it was 
 Thekla v^'ho would marry him by her own free will, and per- 
 haps she had sense and quiet resolution enough for both. So 
 I gave the heads of the little history I have told you to my 
 good friend and host, adding that I should hke to have a man's 
 opinion of this man ; but that if he were not an absolute good- 
 for-nothing, and if Thekla still loved him, as I believed, I 
 would try and advance them the requisite money towards 
 establishing themselves in the hereditary inn at Altenahr. 
 
 Such was the romantic ending to Thekla's sorrows I had 
 been planning and brooding over for the last hour. As I 
 narrated my tale, and hinted at the possible happy conclusion 
 that might be in store, my host's face changed. The ruddy 
 colour faded, and his look became almost stern — certainly very 
 grave in expression. It was so unsympathetic, that I instinc- 
 tively cut my words short. When I had done, he paused a 
 little, and then said, "You would wish me to learn all I can 
 respecting this stranger now at the 'Adler,' and give you the 
 impression I receive of the fellow." 
 
 " Exactly so," said I. "I want to learn all I can about him 
 for Thekla's sake." 
 
 " For Thekla's sake I will do it," he gravely repeated. 
 "And come to me to-night, even if I am gone to bed? " 
 " Not so," he replied. " You must give me all the time yon 
 can in a matter like this." 
 
 " But he will come for Thekla's answer in the morning." 
 " Before he comes you shall know all I can learn." 
 I was resting during the fatigues of dressing the next day, 
 when my host tapped at my door. He looked graver and 
 sterner than I had ever seen him do before. He sat down 
 almost before I had begged him to do so. 
 
 "He is not worthy of her," he said. " He drinks brandy 
 right hard ; he boasts of his success at play, and "—here he 
 set his teeth hard — "he boasts of the women who have loved 
 him. In a village like this, sir, there are always those who 
 spend their evenings in the gardens of the inns ; and this man, 
 after he had drank his fill, made no secrets. It needed no 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 369 
 
 spying to find out what he was, else I should not have been 
 the one to do it." 
 
 " Thekla must be told of this," said I. "She is not the 
 woman to love any one whom she cannot respect." 
 
 Hcrr Miiller laughed a low, bitter laugh, quite unlike himself. 
 Then he replied — 
 
 "As for that matter, sir, you are young; you have had no 
 great experience of women. From what my sister tells me 
 there can be little doubt of Thekla's feeling towards him. She 
 found them standing together by the window — his arm round 
 Thekla's waist, and whispering in her ear ; and, to do the 
 maiden justice, she is not the one to suffer such familiarities 
 from every one. No," continued he, still in the same con- 
 temptuous tone, "you'll find she will make excuses for his 
 faults and vices ; or else, which is perhaps more likely, she will 
 not believe your story, though I who tell it you can vouch for 
 the truth of every word I say." He turned short away and 
 left the room. Presently I saw his stalwart figure in the hill- 
 side vineyard, before my windows, scaling the steep ascent 
 with long, regular steps, going to the forest beyond. I w^as 
 otherwise occupied than in watching his progress during the 
 next hour. At the end of that time he re-entered my room, 
 looking heated and slightly tired, as if he had been walking 
 fast or labouring hard ; but with the cloud off his brows, and 
 the kindly hght shining once again out of his honest eyes. 
 
 "I ask your pardon, sir," he began, "for troubling you 
 afresh. I believe I was possessed by the devil this morning. 
 I have been thinking it over. One has, perhaps, no right to 
 rule for another person's happiness. To have such a " — here 
 the honest fellow choked a little — "such a woman as Thekla 
 to love him ought to raise any man. Besides, I am no judge 
 for him or for her. I have found out this morning that I love 
 her myself ; and so the end of it is, that if you, sir, who are 
 so kind as to interest yourself in the matter, and if you think 
 it is really her heart's desire to marry this man — which ought 
 to be his salvation both for earth and heaven — I shall be very 
 glad to go halves with you in any plan for setting them up 
 in the inn at Altenahr ; only allow me to see that whatever 
 money we advance is well and legally tied up, so that it is 
 secured to her. And be so kind as to take no notice of what 
 I have said about my having found out that I have loved her. 
 
370 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENKEIM. 
 
 I named it as a kind of apology for my hard words this morn- 
 ing, and as a reason why I was not a fit judge of what was 
 best." He had hurried on so that I could not have stopped 
 his eager speaking even had I wished to do so ; but I was 
 too much interested in the revelation of what was passing in 
 his brave tender heart to desire to stop him. Now, however, 
 his rapid words tripped each other up, and his speech ended 
 in an unconscious sigh. 
 
 "But," I said, "since you were here Thekla has come 
 to me, and we have had a long talk. She speaks now as 
 openly to me as she would if I were her brother ; with sensible 
 frankness, where frankness is wise — with modest reticence, 
 where confidence would be unbecoming. She came to ask 
 me if I thought it her duty to marry this fellow, whose very 
 appearance, changed for the worse, as she says it is, since 
 she last saw him four years ago, seemed to have repelled 
 her." 
 
 "She could let him put his arm round her waist yesterday," 
 said Herr Miiller, with a return of his morning's surliness. 
 
 " And she would marry him now if she could believe it to be 
 her duty. For some reason of his own this Franz Weber has 
 tried to work upon this feeling of hers. He said it would be 
 the saving of him." 
 
 "As if a man had not strength enough in him — a man who is 
 good for aught — to save himself, but needed a woman to pull 
 him through life." 
 
 "Nay," I replied, hardly able to keep from smiling, "you 
 yourself said, not five minutes ago, that her marrying him might 
 be his salvation both for earth and heaven." 
 
 "That was when I thought she loved the fellow," he answered 
 quick. " Now but what did you say to her, sir?" 
 
 *' I told her, what I believe to be as true as gospel, that as she 
 owned she did not love him any longer, now his real self had 
 come to displace his remembrance, that she would be sinning in 
 marrying him — doing evil that possible good might come. I 
 was clear myself on this point, though I should have been 
 perplexed how to advise if her love had still continued." 
 
 " And what answer did she make? " 
 
 " She ^^•ent over the history of their lives. She was pleading 
 against her wishes to satisfy her conscience. She said that all 
 along through their childhood she had been his strength ; that 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 37 1 
 
 while under her personal influence he had been negatively good ; 
 away from her, he had fallen into mischief" 
 
 " Not to say vice," put in Herr Miiller. 
 
 "And now he came to her penitent, in sorrow, desirous of 
 amendment, asking her for the love she seems to have considered 
 as tacitly plighted to him in years gone by " 
 
 "And which he has slighted and insulted. I hope you 
 told her of his words and conduct last night in the ' Adler ' 
 gardens ? " 
 
 "No; I kept myself to the general principle, which, I am 
 sure, is a true one. I repeated it in different forms ; for 
 the idea of the duty of self-sacrifice had taken strong posses- 
 sion of her fancy. Perhaps, if I had failed in setting her 
 notion of her duty in the right aspect, I might have had 
 recourse to the statement of facts, which would have pained 
 her severely, but would have proved to her how little his 
 words of penitence and promises of amendment were to be 
 trusted to." 
 
 "And it ended?" 
 
 " Ended by her being quite convinced that she would be doing 
 wrong instead of right if she married a man whom she had 
 entirely ceased to love, and that no real good could come from 
 a course of action based on wrongdoing." 
 
 " That is right and true," he replied, his face broadening into 
 happiness again. 
 
 " But she says she must leave your service, and go elsewhere." 
 
 " Leave my service she shall ; go elsewhere she shall not." 
 
 " I cannot tell what you may have the power of inducing her 
 to do ; but she seems to me very resolute." 
 
 "Why?" said he, firing round at me, as if I had made her 
 resolute. 
 
 "She says your sister spoke to her before the maids of the 
 household, and before some of the townspeople, in a way that 
 she could not stand ; and that you yourself, by your manner 
 to her last night, showed how she had lost your respect. She 
 added, with her face of pure maidenly truth, that he had come 
 into such close contact with her only the instant before your 
 sister had entered the room." 
 
 "With your leave, sir," said Herr Muller, turning towards 
 the door, " I will go and set all that right at once." 
 
 It was easier said than done. When I next saw Thekla, 
 
372 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 her eyes were swollen up with crying, but she was silent, 
 almost defiant towards me. A look of resolute determination 
 had settled down upon her face. I learnt afterwards that 
 parts of my conversation with Herr Miiller had been in- 
 judiciously quoted by him in the talk he had had with 
 her I thought I would leave her to herself, and wait till 
 she unburdened herself of the feelings of unjust resentment 
 towards me. But it was days before she spoke to me with 
 anything like her former frankness. I had heard all about it 
 from my host long before. 
 
 He had gone to her straight on leaving me ; and like a 
 foolish, impetuous lover, had spoken out his mind and his 
 wishes to her in the presence of his sister, who, it must be 
 remembered, had heard no explanation of the conduct which 
 had given her propriety so great a shock the day before. Herr 
 Miiller thought to reinstate Thekla in his sister's good opinion 
 by giving her in the Fraulein's very presence the highest possible 
 mark of his own love and esteem. And there in the kitchen, 
 where the Fraulein was deeply engaged in the hot work of 
 making some delicate preserve on the stove, and ordering 
 Thekla about with short, sharp displeasure in her tones, the 
 master had come in, and possessing himself of the maiden's 
 hand, had, to her infinite surprise — to his sister's infinite 
 indignation — made her the offer of his heart, his wealth, his 
 life ; had begged of her to marry him. I could gather from 
 his account that she had been in a state of trembling discom- 
 fiture at first ; she had not spoken, but had twisted her hand 
 out of his, and had covered her face with her apron. And 
 then the Fraulein had burst forth — "accursed words," he 
 called her speech. Thekla uncovered her face to listen — 
 to listen to the end — to listen to the passionate recrimination 
 between the brother and the sister. And then she went up 
 close to the angry Fraulein, and had said, quite quietly, but 
 with a manner of final determination which had evidently 
 sunk deep into her suitor's heart, and depressed him into 
 hopelessness, that the Fraulein had no need to disturb herself; 
 that on this very day she had been thinking of marrying 
 another man, and that her heart was not like a room to let, 
 into which as one tenant went out another might enter. 
 Nevertheless, she felt the master's goodness. He had always 
 treated her well from the time when she had entered the 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 373 
 
 house as his servant. And she should be sorry to leave 
 him ; sorry to leave the children, very sorry to leave Uttle 
 Max ; yes, she should even be sorry to leave the Fraulein, 
 who was a good woman, only a little too apt to be hard 
 on other women. But she had already been that very 
 day and deposited her warning at the police office ; the 
 busy time would be soon over, and she should be glad to 
 leave their service on All Saints' Day. Then (he thought) 
 she had felt inclined to cry, for she suddenly braced her- 
 self up, and said, yes, she should be very glad ; for some- 
 how, though they had been kind to her, she had been very 
 unhappy at Heppenheim ; and she would go back to her 
 home for a time, and see her old father and kind step- 
 mother, and her nursling half-sister Ida, and be among her 
 own people again. 
 
 I could see it was this last part that most of all rankled in 
 Herr Miiller's mind. In all probability Franz Weber was making 
 his way back to Altenahr too ; and the bad suspicion would 
 keep welling up that some lingering feeling for her old lover 
 and disgraced playmate was making her so resolute to leave 
 and return to Altenahr. 
 
 For some days after this I was the confidant of the whole 
 household, excepting Thekla. She, poor creature, looked miser- 
 able enough ; but the hardy, defiant expression was always on 
 her face. Lottchen spoke out freely enough ; the place would 
 not be worth having if Thekla left it ; it was she who had the 
 head for everything, the patience for everything ; who stood 
 between all the under-servants and the Fraulein's tempers. 
 As for the children, poor motherless children ! Lottchen was 
 sure that the master did not know what he was doing when 
 he allowed his sister to turn Thekla away — and all for what? 
 for having a lover, as every girl had who could get one. Why,^ 
 the little boy Max slept in the room which Lottchen shared 
 with Thekla ; and she heard him in the night as quickly as if 
 she was his mother ; when she had been sitting up with me, 
 when I was so ill, Lottchen had had to attend to him ; and 
 it was weary work after a hard day to have to get up and 
 soothe a teething child ; she knew she had been cross enough 
 sometimes ; but Thekla was always good and gentle with him, 
 however tired she was. And as Lottchen left the room I 
 could hear her repeating that she thought she should leave 
 
374 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 when Thekla went, for that her place would not be worth 
 having. 
 
 Even the Fraulein had her word of regret — regret mingled 
 with self-justification. She thought she had been quite right 
 in speaking to Thekla for allowing such familiarities ; how 
 was she to know that the man was an old friend and play- 
 mate? He looked like a right profligate good-for-nothing. 
 And to have a servant take up her scolding as an unpardon- 
 able offence, and persist in quitting her place, just when she 
 had learnt all her work, and was so useful in the household 
 — so useful that the Fraulein could never put up with any 
 fresh, stupid house-maiden ; but, sooner than take the trouble 
 of teaching the new servant where everything was, and how 
 to give out the stores if she was busy, she would go back to 
 Worms. For, after all, housekeeping for a brother was thank- 
 less work ; there was no satisfying men ; and Heppenheim was 
 but a poor ignorant village compared to Worms. 
 
 She must have spoken to her brother about her intention 
 of leaving him and returning to her former home ; indeed, a 
 feeling of coolness had evidently grown up between the brother 
 and sister during these latter days. When one evening Herr 
 Miiller brought in his pipe, and, as his custom had sometimes 
 been, sat down by my stove to smoke, he looked gloomy and 
 annoyed. I let him puff away, and take his own time. At 
 iength he began — 
 
 " I have rid the village of him at last. I could not bear to 
 have him here disgracing Thekla with speaking to her when- 
 ever she went to the vineyard or the fountain. I don't believe 
 she likes him a bit." 
 
 " No more do I," I said. He turned on me — 
 
 "Then why did she speak to him at all? Why cannot she 
 like an honest man who likes her? Why is she so bent on 
 going home to Altenahr?" 
 
 "She speaks to him because she has known him from a 
 child, and has a faithful pity for one whom she has known 
 so innocent, and who is now so lost in all good men's regard. 
 As for not liking an honest man (though I may have my own 
 opinion about that), liking goes by fancy, as we say in English ; 
 and Altenahr is her home; her father's house is at Altenahr, 
 as you knew." 
 
 "I wonder if he will go there," quoth Herr Muller, after 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 375 
 
 two or three more puffs. * ' He was fast at the ' Adler ; ' he 
 could not pay his score, so he kept on staying here, saying 
 that lie should receive a letter from a friend with money in a 
 day or two ; lying in wait, too, for Thekla, who is well known 
 and respected all through Heppenheim : so his being an old 
 friend of hers made him have a kind of standing. I went in 
 this morning and paid his score, on condition that he left the 
 place this day ; and he left the village as merrily as a cricket, 
 caring no more for Thekla than for the Kaiser who built our 
 church ; for he never looked back at the ' Halbmond,' but went 
 whisthng down the road." 
 
 ** That is a good riddance," said I. 
 
 "Yes. But my sister says she must return to Worms. And 
 Lottchen has given notice ; she says the place will not be worth 
 having when Thekla leaves. I wish I could give notice too." 
 
 " Try Thekla again." 
 
 " Not I," said he, reddening. " It would seem now as if I 
 only wanted her for a housekeeper. Besides, she avoids me at 
 every turn, and will not even look at me. I am sure she bears 
 me some ill-will about that ne'er-do-well." 
 
 There was silence between us for some time, which he at 
 length broke. 
 
 * ' The pastor has a good and comely daughter. Her 
 mother is a famous housewife. They often have asked me to 
 come to the parsonage and smoke a pipe. When the vintage 
 is over, and I am less busy, I think I will go there and look 
 about me." 
 
 "When is the vintage? asked I. "I hope it will take 
 place soon, for I am growing so well and strong I fear I 
 must leave you shortly ; but I should like to see the vintage 
 first." 
 
 "Oh, never fear! you must not travel yet awhile; and 
 Government has fixed the grape-gathering to begin on the 
 fourteenth." 
 
 ' ' What a paternal Government ! How does it know when 
 the grapes will be ripe ? Why cannot every man fix his own 
 time for gathering his own grapes?" 
 
 "That has never been our way in Germany. There are 
 people employed by the Government to examine the vines, 
 and report when the grapes are ripe. It is necessary to 
 make laws about it ; for, as you must have seen, there is 
 
376 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 nothing but the fear of the law to protect our vineyards 
 and fruit-trees ; there are no enclosures along the Berg- 
 Strasse, as you tell me you have in England ; but, as people 
 are only allowed to go into the vineyards on stated days, 
 no one, under pretence of gathering his own produce, can 
 stray into his neighbour's grounds and help himself, without 
 some of the duke's foresters seeing him." 
 
 " Well," said I, "to each country its own laws." 
 
 I think it was on that very evening that Thekla came in 
 for something. She stopped arranging the table-cloth and 
 the flowers, as if she had something to say, yet did not know 
 how to begin. At length I found that her sore, hot heart 
 wanted some sympathy ; her hand was against every one's, and 
 she fancied every one had turned against her. She looked 
 up at me, and said, a little abruptly — 
 
 " Does the gentleman know that I go on the fifteenth?" 
 
 "So soon?" said I, with surprise. "I thought you were 
 to remain here till All Saints' Day." 
 
 "So I should have done — so I must have done — if the 
 Fraulein had not kindly given me leave to accept of a 
 place — a very good place, too — of housekeeper to a widow- 
 lady at Frankfort. It is just the sort of situation I have 
 always wished for. I expect I shall be so happy and com- 
 fortable there." 
 
 " Methinks the lady doth protest too much," came into my 
 mind. I saw she expected me to doubt the probabihty of her 
 happiness, and was in a defiant mood. 
 
 "Of course," said I, "you would hardly have wished to 
 leave Heppenheim if you had been happy here ; and every 
 new place always promises fair, whatever its performance 
 may be. But wherever you go, remember you have always 
 a friend in me." 
 
 "Yes," she replied, "I think you are to be trusted. 
 Though, from my experience, I should say that of very few- 
 men." 
 
 "You have been unfortunate," I answered: "many men 
 would say the same of women." 
 
 She thought a moment, and then said, in a changed tone 
 of voice, " The P'raulein here has been much more friendly 
 and helpful of these late days than her brother ; yet I have 
 served him faithfully, and have cared for his little Max as 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 377 
 
 though he were my own brother. But this morning he spoke 
 to me for the first time for many days ; he met me in the 
 passage, and, suddenly stopping, he said he was glad I had 
 met with so comfortable a place, and that I was at full hberty 
 to go whenever I liked : and then he went quickly on, never 
 waiting for my answer." 
 
 "And what was wrong in that? It seems to me he was 
 trying to make you feel entirely at your ease, to do as you 
 thought best, without regard to his own interests," 
 
 "Perhaps so. It is silly, I know," she continued, turning 
 full on me her grave, innocent eyes; "but one's vanity 
 suffers a little when every one is so willing to part with 
 one." 
 
 " Thekla ! I owe you a great debt — let me speak to you 
 openly. I know that your master wanted to marry you, and 
 that you refused him. Do not deceive yourself. You are sorry 
 for that refusal now? " 
 
 She kept her serious look fixed upon me ; but her face 
 and throat reddened all over. 
 
 "No," said she, at length; "I am not sorry. What can 
 you think I am made of; having loved one man ever since 
 I was a little child until a fortnight ago, and now just as 
 ready to love another? I know you do not rightly consider 
 what you say, or I should take it as an insult." 
 
 "You loved an ideal man; he disappointed you, and you 
 clung to your remembrance of him. He came, and the 
 reality dispelled all illusions." 
 
 " I do not understand philosophy," said she. " I only know 
 that I think that Herr MuUer had lost all respect for me from 
 what his sister had told him ; and I know that I am going 
 away ; and I trust I shall be happier in Frankfort than I have 
 been here of late days." So saying, she left the room. 
 
 I was wakened up on the morning of the fourteenth by 
 the merry ringing of church bells, and the perpetual firing 
 and popping off of guns and pistols. But all this was over 
 by the time I was up and dressed, and seated at breakfast 
 in my partitioned room. It was a perfect October day ; 
 the dew not yet off the blades of grass, glistening on the 
 delicate gossamer webs, which stretched from flower to flower 
 in the garden, lying in the morning shadow of the house. 
 But beyond the garden, on the sunny hill-side, men, women ^ 
 
378 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 and children were clambering up the vineyards like ants — 
 busy, irregular in movement, clustering together, spreading 
 wide apart — I could hear the shrill merry voices as I sat — 
 and all along the valley, as far as I could see, it was much 
 the same ; for every one filled his house for the day of 
 the vintage, that great annual festival. Lottchen, who had 
 brought in my breakfast, was all in her Sunday best, having 
 risen early to get her work done and go abroad to gather 
 grapes. Bright colours seemed to abound ; I could see dots of 
 scarlet, and crimson, and orange through the fading leaves ; it 
 was not a day to languish in the house ; and I was on the 
 point of going out by myself, when Herr Miiller came in 
 to offer me his sturdy arm, and help me in walking to the 
 vineyard. We crept through the garden, scented with late 
 flowers and sunny fruit — we passed through the gate I had so 
 often gazed at from the easy-chair, and were in the busy 
 vineyard ; great baskets lay on the grass already piled nearly 
 full of purple and yellow grapes. The wine made from these 
 was far from pleasant to my taste ; for the best Rhine wine is 
 made from a smaller grape, growing in closer, harder clusters ; 
 but the larger and less profitable grape is by far the most pictur- 
 esque in Its mode of growth, and far the best to eat into the 
 bargain. Wherever we trod, it was on fragrant, crushed vine- 
 leaves ; every one we saw had his hands and face stained with 
 the purple juice. Presently I sat down on a sunny bit of grass, 
 and my host left me to go further afield, to look after the more 
 distant vineyards. I watched his progress. After he left me, 
 he took off coat and waiscoat, displaying liis snowy shirt and 
 gaily-worked braces ; and presently he was as busy as any one. 
 I looked down on the village ; the grey and orange and crimson 
 roofs lay glowing in the noonday sun. I could see down into 
 the streets ; but they were all empty — even the old people came 
 toiling up the hill-side to share in the general festivity. 
 Lottchen had brought up cold dinners for a regiment of men ; 
 every one came and helped himself. Thekla was there, leading 
 the little Karoline, and helping the toddling steps of Max ; but 
 she kept aloof from me ; for I knew, or suspected, or had 
 probed too much. She alone looked sad and grave, and spoke 
 so little, even to her friends, that it was evident to see that she 
 was trying to wean herself finally from the place. But I could 
 see that she had lost her short, defiant manner. What she did 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 379 
 
 say was kindly and gently spoken. The Fraulein came out late 
 in the morning, dressed, I suppose, in the latest Worms fashion 
 — quite different to anything I had ever seen before. She came 
 up to me, and talked very graciously to me for some time. 
 
 "Here comes the proprietor (squire) and his lady, and their 
 dear children. See, the vintagers have tied bunches of the 
 finest grapes on to a stick, heavier than the children, or even 
 the lady can carry. Look ! look ! how he bows ! — one can tell 
 he has been an attach^ at Vienna. That is the Court way of 
 bowing there — holding the hat right down before them, and 
 bending the back at right angles. How graceful ! And here is 
 the doctor 1 I thought he would spare time to come up here. 
 Well, doctor, you will go all the more cheerfully to your next 
 patient for having been up into the vineyards. Nonsense, 
 about grapes making other patients for you. Ah, here is the 
 pastor and his wife, and the Fraulein Anna. Now, where is 
 my brother, I wonder? Up in the far vineyard, I make no- 
 doubt. Mr. Pastor, the view up above is far finer than what 
 it is here, and the best grapes grow there ; shall I accompany 
 you and madame, and the dear Fraulein? The gentleman will 
 excuse me." 
 
 I was left alone. Presently I thought I would walk a little 
 farther, or at any rate change my position. I rounded a corner 
 in the pathway, and there I found Thekla, watching by little 
 sleeping Max. He lay on her shawl ; and over his head she 
 had made an arching canopy of broken vine-branches, so that 
 the great leaves threw their cool, flickering shadows on his face. 
 He was smeared all over with grape-juice, his sturdy fingers 
 grasped a half-eaten bunch even in his sleep. Thekla was 
 keeping Lina quiet by teaching her how to weave a garland for 
 her head out of field-flowers and autumn-tinted leaves. The 
 maiden sat on the ground, with her back to the valley beyond, 
 the child kneeling by her, watching the busy fingers with eager 
 intentness. Both looked up as I drew near, and we exchanged 
 a few words. 
 
 " Where is the master?" I asked. " I promised to await his 
 return ; he wished to give me his arm down the wooden steps ; 
 but I do not see him." 
 
 " He is in the higher vineyard," said Thekla quietly, but not 
 looking round in that direction. " He will be some time there, 
 I should think. He went with the pastor and his wife : he will 
 
380 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 have to speak to his labourers and his friends. My arm is 
 strong ; and I can leave Max in Lina's care for five minutes. 
 If you are tired, and want to go back, let me help you down 
 the steps ; they are steep and slippery." 
 
 I had turned to look up the valley. Three or four hundred 
 yards off, in the higher vineyard, walked the dignified pastor, 
 and his homely decorous wife. Behind came the Fraulein 
 Anna, in her short-sleeved Sunday gown, daintily holding a 
 parasol over her luxuriant brown hair. Close behind her came 
 Herr Miiller, stopping now to speak to his men — again, to cull 
 -xDut a bunch of grapes to tie on to the Fraulein's stick ; and by 
 my feet sate the proud serving-maid in her country dress, 
 waiting for my answer, with serious, upturned eyes, and sad, 
 composed face. 
 
 " No, I am much obliged to you, Thekla ; and if I did not 
 feel so strong, I would have thankfully taken your arm. But I 
 only wanted to leave a message for the master, just to say that 
 I have gone home." 
 
 " Lina will give it to the father when he comes down," 
 said Thekla. 
 
 I went slowly down into the garden. The great labour of 
 the day was over, and the younger part of the population had 
 returned to the village, and were preparing the fireworks and 
 pistol-shootings for the evening. Already one or two of those 
 well-known German carts (in the shape of a V) were standing 
 near the vineyard gates, the patient oxen meekly waiting while 
 basketful after basketful of grapes were being emptied into the 
 leaf-lined receptacle. 
 
 As I sat down in ray easy-chair close to the open window 
 through which I had entered, I could see the men and women 
 on the hill-side drawing to a centre, and all stand round the 
 pastor, bareheaded, for a minute or so. I guessed that some 
 words of holy thanksgiving were being said, and I wished that 
 I had stayed to hear them, and mark my especial gratitude for 
 having been spared to see that day. Then I heard the distant 
 voices, the deep tones of the men, the shriller pipes of women 
 and children, join in the German harvest-hymn, which is gene- 
 rally sung on such occasions ; * then silence, while I concluded 
 
 * Wir pfliigen und wir streuen 
 Den Saamen auf das Land ; 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 38 1 
 
 that a blessing was spoken by the pastor, with outstretched 
 arms ; and then they once more dispersed, some to the village, 
 some to finish their labours for the day among the vines. I saw 
 Thekla coming through the garden with Max in her arms, and 
 Lina clinging to her woollen skirts. Thekla made for my open 
 window ; it was rather a shorter passage into the house than 
 round by the door. "I may come through, may I not?" she 
 asked softly. "I fear Max is not well ; I cannot understand 
 his look, and he wakened up so strange ! " She paused to let 
 me see the child's face ; it was flushed almost to a crimson look 
 of heat, and his breathing was laboured and uneasy, his eyes 
 half-open and filmy. 
 
 "Something is wrong, I am sure," said I. "I don't know 
 anything about children, but he is not in the least like himself." 
 
 She bent down and kissed the cheek so tenderly that she 
 would not have bruised the petal of a rose. " Heart's darling," 
 she murmured. He quivered all over at her touch, working his 
 fingers in an unnatural kind of way, and ending with a convulsive 
 twitching all over his body. Lina began to cry at the grave, 
 anxious look on our faces. 
 
 "You had better call the Fraulein to look at him," said I. 
 "I feel sure he ought to have a doctor; I should say he was 
 going to have a fit." 
 
 "The Fraulein and the master are gone to the pastor's for 
 coffee, and Lottchen is in the higher vineyard, taking the men 
 their bread and beer. Could you find the kitchen-girl, or old 
 Karl? he will be in the stables, I think. I must lose no time." 
 Almost without waiting for my reply, she had passed through 
 the room, and in the empty house I could hear her firm, careful 
 footsteps going up the stair ; Lina's pattering beside her ; and 
 the one voice wailing, the other speaking low comfort, 
 
 I was tired enough, but this good family had treated me too 
 
 Das Wachsen und Gedeihen 
 Steht, in des Hochsten Hand. 
 Er sendet Thau und Regen. 
 Und Sonn und Mondenschein ; 
 Von Ihm kommt aller Segen, 
 Von unserm Gott allein : 
 Alle g:ute Gabe kommt her 
 Von Gott dem Herrn, 
 Drum dankt und hofft auf Ihm. 
 
382 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 much like one of their own for me not to do what I could in 
 such a case as this. I made my way out into the street, for the 
 first time since I had come to the house on that memorable 
 -evening six weeks ago. I bribed the first person I met to 
 guide me to the doctor's, and sent him straight down to the 
 " Halbmond," not staying to listen to the thorough scolding 
 he fell to giving me ; then on to the parsonage, to tell the 
 master and the Fraulein of the state of things at home. 
 
 I was sorry to be the bearer of bad news into such a festive 
 chamber as the pastor's. There they sat, resting after heat 
 and fatigue, each in their best gala dress, the table spread 
 with "Dicker-milch," potato-salad, cakes of various shapes 
 and kinds — all the dainty cates dear to the German palate. 
 The pastor was talking to Herr Miiller, who stood near the 
 pretty young Fraulein Anna, in her fresh white chemisette, 
 with her round white arms, and her youthful coquettish airs, 
 as she prepared to pour out the coffee ; our Fraulein was 
 talking busily to the Frau Mama ; the younger boys and girls 
 of the family filling up the room. A ghost would have startled 
 the assembled party less than I did, and would probably have 
 been more welcome, considering the news I brought. As he 
 listened, the master caught up his hat and went forth, without 
 apology or farewell. Our Fraulein made up for both, and 
 questioned me fully ; but now she, I could see, was in haste 
 to go, although restrained by her manners, and the kind- 
 hearted Frau Pastorin soon set her at liberty to follow her 
 incHnation. As for me I was dead beat, and only too glad 
 to avail myself of the hospitable couple's pressing request that 
 I would stop and share their meal. Other magnates of the 
 village came in presently, and relieved me of the strain of 
 keeping up a German conversation about nothing at all with 
 entire strangers. The pretty Fraulein's face had clouded over 
 a little at Herr Miiller's sudden departure ; but she was soon 
 as bright as could be, giving private chase and sudden little 
 scoldings to her brothers, as they made raids upon the dainties 
 under her charge. After I was duly rested and refreshed, I 
 took my leave ; for I, too, had my quieter anxieties about the 
 sorrow in the Miiller family. 
 
 The only person I could see at the "Halbmond" was 
 Lottchen ; every one else was busy about the poor little Max, 
 who was passing from one fit into another. I told Lottchen 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 383 
 
 to ask the doctor to come in and see me before he took his 
 leave for the night, and tired as I was, I kept up till after his 
 visit, though it was very late before he came ; I could see from 
 his face how anxious he was. He would give me no opinion 
 as to the child's chances of recovery, from which I guessed that 
 he had not much hope. But when I expressed my fear he cut 
 me very short. 
 
 ''' The truth is, you know nothing about it ; no more do T, 
 for that matter. It is enough to try any man, much less a 
 father, to hear his perpetual moans — not that he is conscious 
 of pain, poor httle worm ; but if she stops for a moment in 
 her perpetual carrying him backwards and forwards, he plains 
 so piteously it is enough to — enough to make a man bless the 
 Lord who never led him into the pit of matrimony. To see 
 the father up there, following her as she walks up and down 
 the room, the child's head over her shoulder, and Miiller trying 
 to make the heavy eyes recognise the old familiar ways of play, 
 and the chirruping sounds which he can scarce make for crying 
 
 1 shall be here to-morrow early, though before that either 
 
 lifeW death will have come without the old doctor's help." 
 
 All night long I dreamt my feverish dream — of the vineyard — 
 the carts, which held little coffins instead of baskets of grapes — 
 of the pastor's daughter, who would pull the dying child out of 
 Thekla's arms ; it was a bad, weary night ! I slept long into 
 the morning ; the broad daylight filled my room, and yet no one 
 had been near to waken me ! Did that mean life or death? I 
 got up and dressed as fast as I could ; for I was aching all over 
 with the fatigue of the day before. Out into the sitting-room ; 
 the table was laid for breakfast, but no one was there. I passed 
 into the house beyond, up the stairs, blindly seeking for the room 
 where I might know whether it was life or death. At the door 
 of a room I found Lottchen crying ; at the sight of me in that 
 unwonted place she started, and began some kind of apology, 
 broken both by tears and smiles, as she told me that the doctor 
 said the danger was over — past, and that Max was sleeping a 
 gentle peaceful slumber in Thekla's arms — arms that had held 
 him all through the livelong night. 
 
 " Look at him, sir ; only go in softly ; it is a pleasure to see 
 the child to-day ; tread softly, sir." 
 
 She opened the chamber-door. I could see Thekla sitting, 
 propped up by cushions and stools, holding her heavy burden. 
 
384 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 
 and bending over him with a look of tenderest love. Not far off 
 stood the Fraulein, all disordered and tearful, stirring or season- 
 ing some hot soup, whUe the master stood by her impatient. 
 As soon as it was cooled or seasoned enough he took the basin 
 and went to Thekla, and said something very low ; she lifted up 
 her head, and I could see her face ; pale, weary with watching, 
 but with a soft, peaceful look upon it, which it had not worn for 
 weeks. Fritz Mtiller began to feed her, for her hands were 
 occupied in holding his child ; I could not help remembering 
 Mrs. Inchbald's pretty description of Dorriforth's anxiety in 
 feeding Miss Milner ; she compares it, if I remember rightly, 
 to that of a tender-hearted boy, caring for his darhng bird, the 
 loss of which would embitter all the joys of his holidays. We 
 closed the door without noise, so as not to waken the sleeping 
 child. Lottchen brought me my coffee and bread ; she was 
 ready either to laugh or to weep on the slightest occasion. I 
 could not tell if it was in innocence or mischief she asked me 
 the following question — 
 
 " Do you think Thekla will leave to-day, sir?" 
 
 In the afternoon I heard Thekla's step behind my extemporary 
 screen. I knew it quite well. She stopped for a moment before 
 emerging into my view. 
 
 She was trying to look as composed as usual, but, perhaps 
 because her steady nerves had been shaken by her night's watch- 
 ing, she could not help faint touches of dimples at the corners 
 of her mouth, and her eyes were veiled from any inquisitive look 
 by their drooping lids. 
 
 "I thought you would hke to know that the doctor says 
 Max is quite out of danger now. He will only require 
 care." 
 
 "Thank you, Thekla ; Doctor has been in already this 
 
 afternoon to tell me so, and I am truly glad." 
 
 She went to the window, and looked out for a moment. Many 
 people were in the vineyards again to-day ; although we, in our 
 household anxiety, had paid them but little heed. Suddenly she 
 turned round into the room, and I saw that her face was crimson 
 with blushes. In another instant Herr Mtiller entered by the 
 window. 
 
 " Has she told you, sir?" said he, possessing himself of her 
 hand, and looking all aglow with happiness. " Hast thou told 
 our good friend?" addressing her. 
 
SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 385 
 
 " No. I was going to tell him, but I did not know how to 
 begin." 
 
 "Then I will prompt thee. Say after me — 'I have been a 
 wilful, foolish woman ' " 
 
 She wrenched her hand out of his, half-laughing — "I am a 
 foolish woman, for I have promised to marry him. But he is a 
 still more foolish man, for he wishes to marry me. That is what 
 I say." 
 
 " And I have sent Babette to Frankfort with the pastor. He 
 is going there, and will explain all to Frau v. Schmidt ; and 
 Babette will serve her for a time. When Max is well enough to 
 have the change of air the doctor prescribes for him, thou shalt 
 take him to Altenahr, and thither will I also go ; and become 
 known to thy people and thy father. And before Christmas the 
 gentleman here shall dance at our wedding." 
 
 " I must go home to England, dear friends, before many days 
 are over. Perhaps we may travel together as far as Remagen. 
 Another year I will come back to Heppenheim and see you." 
 
 As I planned it, so it was. We left Heppenheim all together 
 on^a lovely All-Saints' day. The day before — the day of All- 
 Souls — I had watched Fritz and Thekla lead little Lina up to 
 the Acre of God, the Field of Rest, to hang the wreath of im- 
 mortelles on her mother's grave. Peace be with the dead and 
 the living. 
 
 ■m 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 WHEN Death is present in a household on a Christmas 
 Day, the very contrast between the time as it now is, 
 and the day as it has often been, gives a poignancy to sorrow 
 — a more utter blankness to the desolation. James Leigh 
 died just as the far-away bells of Rochdale Church were ring- 
 ing for morning service on Christmas Day, 1836. A few 
 minutes before his death, he opened his already glazing eyes, 
 and made a sign to his wife, by the faint motion of his lips, 
 that he had yet something to say. She stooped close down, 
 and caught the broken whisper, "I forgive her, Annie! May 
 God forgive me ! " 
 
 " Oh, my love, my dear ! only get well, and I will never cease 
 showing my thanks for those words. May God in heaven bless 
 thee for saying them. Thou'rt not so restless, my lad ! may be 
 —Oh, God ! " 
 
 For even while she spoke he died. 
 
 They had been two-and-twenty years man and wife ; for 
 nineteen of those years their life had been as calm and happy 
 as the most perfect uprightness on the one side, and the most 
 complete confidence and loving submission on the other, could 
 make it. Milton's famous line might have been framed and 
 hung up as the rule of their married life, for he was truly the 
 interpreter, who stood between God and her ; she would have 
 considered herself wicked if she had ever dared even to think 
 him austere, though as certainly as he was an upright man, 
 so surely was he hard, stern, and inflexible. But for three 
 years the moan and the murmur had never been out of her 
 heart ; she had rebelled against her husband as against a 
 tyrant, with a hidden, sullen rebellion, which tore up the old 
 386 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 2>^7 
 
 landmarks of wifely duty and affection, and poisoned the foun- 
 tains whence gentlest love and reverence had once been for 
 ever springing. 
 
 But those last blessed words replaced him on his throne in 
 her heart, and called out penitent anguish for all the bitter 
 estrangement of later years. It was this which made her refuse 
 all the entreaties of her sons, that she would see the kind- 
 hearted neighbours, who called on their way from church, to 
 sympathise and condole. No ! she would stay with the dead 
 husband that had spoken tenderly at last, if for three years 
 he had kept silence ; who knew but what, if she had only 
 been more gentle and less angrily reserved he might have 
 relented earlier— and in time? 
 
 She sat rocking herself to and fro by the side of the bed, 
 while the footsteps below went in and out ; she had been 
 in sorrow too long to have any violent burst of deep grief 
 now ; the furrows were well w'orn in her cheeks, and the tears 
 flowed quietly, if incessantly, all the day long. But when 
 the^winter's night drew on, and the neighbours had gone 
 away to their homes, she stole to the window, and gazed out, 
 long and wistfully, over the dark grey moors. She did not 
 hear her son's voice, as he spoke to her from the door, nor 
 his footstep as he drew nearer. She started when he touched 
 her. 
 
 "Mother! comedown to us. There's no one but Will and 
 me. Dearest mother, we do so want you." The poor lad's 
 voice trembled, and he began to cry. It appeared to require 
 an effort on Mrs. Leigh's part to tear herself away from the 
 window, but with a sigh she complied with his request. 
 
 The two boys (for though Will was nearly twenty-one, she 
 still thought of him as a lad) had done everything in their 
 power to make the house-place comfortable for her. She 
 herself, in the old days before her sorrow, had never made 
 a brighter fire or a cleaner hearth, ready for her husband's 
 return home, than now awaited her. The tea-things were 
 all put out, and the kettle was boiling ; and the boys had 
 calmed their grief down into a kind of sober cheerfulness. 
 They paid her every attention they could think of, but received 
 little notice on her part ; she did not resist, she rather sub- 
 mitted to all their arrangements ; but they did not seem to 
 touch her heart. 
 
388 IJZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 When tea was ended — it was merely the form of tea that had 
 been gone through — Will moved the things away to the dresser. 
 His mother leant back languidly in her chair. 
 
 "Mother, shall Tom read you a chapter? He's a better 
 scholar than I." 
 
 "Ay, lad ! " said she, almost eagerly. " That's it. Read me 
 the Prodigal Son. Ay, ay, lad. Thank thee." 
 
 Tom found the chapter, and read it in the high-pitched 
 voice which is customary in village schools. His mother bent 
 forward, her lips parted, her eyes dilated ; her whole body 
 instinct with eager attention. Will sat with his head depressed 
 and hung down. He knew why that chapter had been chosen ; 
 and to him it recalled the family's disgrace. When the reading 
 was ended, he still hung down his head in gloomy silence. 
 But her face was brighter than it had been before for the 
 day. Her eyes looked dreamy, as if she saw a vision ; and 
 by-and-by she pulled the Bible towards her, and, putting her 
 finger underneath each word, began to read them aloud in 
 a low voice to herself; she read again the words of bitter 
 sorrow and deep humiliation ; but most of all, she paused 
 and brightened over the father's tender reception of the repentant 
 prodigal. 
 
 So passed the Christmas evening in the Upclose Farm. 
 
 The snow had fallen heavily over the dark waving moorland 
 before the day of the funeral. The black storm-laden dome 
 of heaven lay very still and close upon the white earth, as 
 they carried the body forth out of the house which had known 
 his presence so long as its ruling power. Two and two the 
 mourners followed, making a black procession, in their winding 
 march over the unbeaten snow, to Milne Row Church ; now- 
 lost in some hollow of the bleak moors, now slowly climbing 
 the heaving ascents. There was no long tarrying after the 
 funeral, for many of the neighbours who accompanied the body 
 to the grave had far to go, and the great white flakes which 
 came slowly down were the boding forerunners of a heavy 
 storm. One old friend alone accompanied the widow and her 
 sons to their home. 
 
 The Upclose Farm had belonged for generations to the 
 Leighs ; and yet its possession hardly raised them above the 
 rank of labourers. There was the house and out-buildings, 
 all of an old-fashioned kind, and about seven acres of barren 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 389 
 
 unproductive land, which they had never possessed capital 
 enough to improve ; indeed, they could hardly rely upon it for 
 subsistence ; and it had been customary to bring up the sons to 
 some trade, such as a wheelwright's or blacksmith's. 
 
 James Leigh had left a will in the possession of the old man 
 Svho accompanied them home. He read it aloud. James had 
 bequeathed the farm to his faithful wife, Anne Leigh, for her 
 lifetime, and afterwards to his son William. The hundred and 
 odd pounds in the savings bank was to accumulate for Thomas. 
 
 After the reading was ended, Anne Leigh sat silent for a 
 time, and then she asked to speak to Samuel Orme alone. 
 The sons went into the back kitchen, and thence strolled out 
 into the fields regardless of the driving snow. The brothers 
 were dearly fond of each other, although they were very different 
 in character. Will, the elder, was like his father, stern, reserved 
 and scrupulously upright. Tom (who was ten years younger) 
 was gentle and delicate as a girl, both in appearance and 
 character. He had always clung to his mother and dreaded 
 his father. They did not speak as they walked, for they were 
 only in the habit of talking about facts, and hardly knew the 
 more sophisticated language applied to the description of 
 feelings. 
 
 Meanwhile their mother had taken hold of Samuel Orme's 
 arm with her trembling hand. 
 
 " Samuel, I must let the farm — I must." 
 
 ' ' Let the farm ! What's come o'er the woman ? " 
 
 "Oh, Samuel!" said she, her eyes swimming in tears, 
 "I'm just fain to go and live in Manchester. I mun let the 
 farm." 
 
 Samuel looked, and pondered, but did not speak for some 
 time. At last he said — 
 
 " If thou hast made up thy mind, there's no speaking again 
 it ; and thou must e'en go. Thou'lt be sadly pottered wi' 
 Manchester ways ; but that's not my look-out. Why, thou'lt 
 have to buy potatoes, a thing thou hast never done afore in 
 all thy born hfe. Well ! it's not my look-out. It's rather for 
 me than again me. Our Jenny is going to be married to 
 Tom Higginbotham, and he was speaking of wanting a bit of 
 land to begin upon. His father will be dying sometime, I 
 reckon, and then he'll step into the Croft Farm. But mean- 
 while " 
 
390 LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 "Then, thou'lt let the farm," said she, still as eagerly as 
 ever. 
 
 "Ay, ay, he'll take it fast enough, I've a notion. But I'll not 
 drive a bargain with thee just now ; it would not be right ; we'll 
 wait a bit." 
 
 " No ; I cannot wait ; settle it out at once." 
 
 "Well, well; I'll speak to Will about it. I see him out 
 yonder. I'll step to him and talk it over." 
 
 Accordingly he went and joined the two lads, and, without 
 more ado, began the subject to them. 
 
 "Will, thy mother is fain to go live in Manchester, and 
 covets to let the farm. Now, I'm willing to take it for Tom 
 Higginbotham ; but I like to drive a keen bargain, and there 
 would be no fun chaffering with thy mother just now. Let thee 
 and me buckle to, my lad ! and try and cheat each other ; it will 
 warm us this cold day." 
 
 "Let the farm!" said both the lads at once, with infinite 
 surprise. " Go live in Manchester ! " 
 
 When Samuel Orme found that the plan had never before 
 been named to either Will or Tom, he would have nothing to do 
 with it, he said, until they had spoken to their mother. Likely 
 she was " dazed" by her husband's death ; he would wait a day 
 or two, and not name it to any one ; not to Tom Higginbotham 
 himself, or may be he would set his heart upon it. The lads had 
 better go in and talk it over with their mother. He bade them 
 good day, and left them. 
 
 Will looked very gloomy, but he did not speak till they got 
 near the house. Then he said — 
 
 "Tom, go to th' shippon, and supper the cows. I want to 
 speak to mother alone." 
 
 When he entered the house-place, she was sitting before the 
 fire, looking into its embers. She did not hear him come in : 
 for some time she had lost her quick perception of outward 
 things. 
 
 " Mother ! what's this about going to Manchester? " asked he. 
 
 "Oh, lad!" said she, turning round, and speaking in a be- 
 seeching tone, " I must go and seek our Lizzie. I cannot rest 
 here for thinking on her. Many's the time I've left thy father 
 sleeping in bed, and stole to th' window, and looked and looked 
 my heart out towards Manchester, till I thought I must just set 
 out and tramp over moor and moss straight away till I got there, 
 
-LIZZIE LEIGH. 35I 
 
 and then lift up every downcast face till I came to our Lizzie. 
 And often, when the south wind was blowing soft among the 
 hollows, I've fancied (it could but be fancy, thou knowest) I 
 heard her crying upon me ; and I've thought the voice came 
 closer and closer, till at last it was sobbing out, ' Mother ! ' close 
 to the door ; and I've stolen down, and undone the latch before 
 now, and looked out into the still, black night, thinking to see 
 her— and turned sick and sorrowful when I heard no living 
 sound but the sough of the wind dying away. Oh, speak not to- 
 me of stopping here, when she may be perishing for hunger, like 
 the poor lad in the parable." And now she lifted up her voice, 
 and wept aloud. 
 
 Will was deeply grieved. He had been old enough to be told 
 the family shame when, more than two years before, his father 
 had^ had his letter to his daughter returned by her mistress in 
 Manchester, telhng him that Lizzie had left her service some 
 time — and why. He had sympathised with his father's stern 
 anger; though he had thought him something hard, it is true, 
 when he had forbidden his weeping, heart-broken wife to go and 
 try to find her poor sinning child, and declared that henceforth 
 they would have no daughter ; that she should be as one dead, 
 and her name never more be named at market or at meal time, 
 in blessing or in prayer. He had held his peace, with compressed 
 lips and contracted brow, when the neighbours had noticed to 
 him how poor Lizzie's death had aged both his father and his 
 mother ; and how they thought the bereaved couple would never 
 hold up their heads again. He himself had felt as if that one 
 event had made him old before his time ; and had envied Tom 
 the tears he had shed over poor, pretty, innocent, dead Lizzie. 
 He thought about her sometimes, till he ground his teeth to- 
 gether, and could have struck her down in her shame. His 
 mother had never named her to him until now. 
 
 "Mother!" said he, at last. "She may be dead. Most 
 likely she is." 
 
 " No, Will ; she is not dead," said Mrs. Leigh. " God will 
 not let her die till I've seen her once again. Thou dost not 
 know how I've prayed and prayed just once again to see her 
 sweet face, and tell her I've forgiven her, though she's broken 
 my heart — she has, Will." She could not go on for a minute 
 or two for the choking sobs. "Thou dost not know that, 
 or thou wouldst not say she could be dead— for God is very 
 
392 LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 merciful, Will ; He is : He is much more pitiful than man. I 
 could never ha' spoken to thy father as I did to Him — and 
 yet thy father forgave her at last. The last words he said were 
 that he forgave her. Thou'lt not be harder than thy father, 
 Will? Do not try and hinder me going to seek her, for it's 
 no use." 
 
 Will sat very still for a long time before he spoke. At last he 
 said, "I'll not hinder you. I think she's dead, but that's no 
 matter." 
 
 "She's not dead," said her mother, with low earnestness. 
 Will took no notice of the interruption. 
 
 " We will all go to Manchester for a twelvemonth, and let the 
 farm to Tom Higginbotham. I'll get blacksmith's work ; and 
 Tom can have good schooling for awhile, which he's always 
 craving for. At the end of the year you'll come back, mother, 
 and give over fretting for Lizzie, and think with me that she is 
 dead — and, to my mind, that would be more comfort than to 
 think of her living ; " he dropped his voice as he spoke these 
 last words. She shook her head, but made no answer. He 
 asked again — 
 
 " Will you, mother, agree to this?" 
 
 "I'll agree to it a-this-ns," said she. " If I hear and see 
 nought of her for a twelvemonth, me being in Manchester look- 
 ing out, I'll just ha' broken my heart fairly before the year's 
 ended, and then I shall know neither love nor sorrow for her 
 any more, when I'm at rest in my grave. I'll agree to that, 
 Will." 
 
 " Well, I suppose it must be so. I shall not tell Tom, mother, 
 why we're flitting to Manchester. Best spare him." 
 
 "As thou wilt," said she sadly, " so that we go, that's all." 
 
 Before the wild daffodils were in flower in the sheltered copses 
 round Upclose Farm, the Leighs were settled in their Manchester 
 home ; if they could ever grow to consider that place as a home, 
 where there was no garden or outbuilding, no fresh breezy outlet, 
 no far-stretching view, over moor and hollow ; no dumb animals 
 to be tended, and, what more than all they missed, no old haunt- 
 ing memories, even though those remembrances told of sorrow^ 
 and the dead and gone. 
 
 Mrs. Leigh heeded the loss of all these things less than her 
 sons. She had more spirit in her countenance than she had 
 had for months, because now she had hope ; of a sad enough 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 393 
 
 kind, to be sure, but still it was hope. She performed all her 
 household duties, strange and complicated as they were, and 
 bewildered as she was with all the town necessities of her new 
 manner of life ; but when her house was "sided," and the boys 
 come home from their work in the evening, she would put on 
 her things and steal out, unnoticed, as she thought, but not 
 without many a heavy sigh from Will, after she had closed the 
 house-door and departed. It was often past midnight before she 
 came back, pale and weary, with almost a guilty look upon her 
 face ; but that face so full of disappointment and hope deferred, 
 that Will had never the heart to say what he thought of the 
 folly and hopelessness of the search. Night after night it was 
 renewed, till days grew to weeks, and weeks to months. All 
 this time Will did his duty towards her as well as he could, 
 withoiit having sympathy with her. He stayed at home in 
 the evenings for Tom's sake, and often wished he had Tom's 
 pleasure in reading, for the time hung heavy on his hands as he 
 sat up for his mother. 
 
 I need not tell you how the mother spent the weary hours 
 And yet I will tell you something. She used to wander out, at 
 first as if without a purpose, till she ralHed her thoughts, and 
 brought all her energies to bear on the one point ; then she went 
 with earnest patience along the least-known ways to some new 
 part of the town, looking wistfully with dumb entreaty into 
 people's faces ; sometimes catching a glimpse of a figure which 
 had a kind of momentary likeness to her child's, and following 
 that figure with never-wearying perseverance, till some light 
 from shop or lamp showed the cold strange face which was not 
 her daughter's. Once or twice a kind-hearted passer-by, struck 
 by her look of yearning woe, turned back and offered help, or 
 asked her what she wanted. When so spoken to, she answered 
 only, "You don't know a poor girl they call Lizzie Leigh, do 
 you ? " and when they denied all knowledge, she shook her 
 head, and went on again. I think they believed her to be 
 crazy. But she never spoke first to any one. She sometimes 
 took a few minutes' rest on the door-steps, and sometimes (very 
 seldom) covered her face and cried ; but she could not afford to 
 lose time and chances in this way ; while her eyes were blinded 
 with tears, the lost one might pass by unseen. 
 
 One evening, in the rich time of shortening autumn days, 
 Will saw an old man, who, without being absolutely drunk, 
 
 N 2 
 
394 LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 could not guide himself rightly along the foot-path, and was 
 mocked for his unsteadiness of gait by the idle boys of the 
 neighbourhood. For his father's sake, Will regarded old age 
 with tenderness, even when most degraded and removed from 
 the stern virtues which dignified that father ; so he took the old 
 man home, and seemed to believe his often-repeated assertions, 
 that he drank nothing but water. The stranger tried to stiffen 
 himself up into steadiness as he drew nearer home, as if there 
 was some one there for whose respect he cared even in his half- 
 intoxicated state, or whose feelings he feared to grieve. His 
 home was exquisitely clean and neat, even in outside appear- 
 ance ; threshold, window, and window-sill were outward signs 
 of some spirit of purity within. Will was rew^arded for his 
 attention by a bright glance of thanks, succeeded by a blush 
 of shame, from a young woman of twenty or thereabouts. She 
 did not speak or second her father's hospitable invitations to 
 liim to be seated. She seemed unwilling that a stranger should 
 witness her father's attempts at stately sobriety, and Will could 
 not bear to stay and see her distress. But when the old man, 
 with many a flabby shake of the hand, kept asking him to come 
 again some other evening, and see them, Will sought her down- 
 cast eyes, and, though he could not read their veiled meaning, 
 he answered timidly, " If it's agreeable to everybody, I'll come, 
 and thank ye." But there was no answer from the girl, to 
 whom this speech was in reahty addressed ; and Will left the 
 house, liking her all the better for never speaking. 
 
 He thought about her a great deal for the next day or two ; 
 he scolded himself for being so foolish as to think of her, and 
 then fell to with fresh vigour, and thought of her more than 
 ever. He tried to depreciate her : he told himself she was not 
 pretty, and then made indignant answer that he liked her looks 
 much better than any beauty of them all. He wished he was 
 not so country-looking, so red-faced, so broad-shouldered ; while 
 she was like a lady, with her smooth, colourless complexion, her 
 bright dark hair, and her spotless dress. Pretty or not pretty 
 she drew his footsteps towards her ; he could not resist the 
 impulse that made him wish to see her once more, and find out 
 some fault which should unloose his heart from her unconscious 
 keeping. But there she was, pure and maidenly as before. He 
 sat and looked, answering her father at cross-purposes, while 
 she drew more and more into the shadow of the chimney-corner 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 395 
 
 out of sight. Then the spirit that possessed him (it was not he 
 himself, sure, that did so impudent a thing !) made him get up 
 and carry the candle to a different place, under the pretence of 
 giving her more light at her sewing, but in reality to be able 
 to see her better. She could not stand this much longer, but 
 jumped up and said she must put her httle niece to bed ; and 
 surely there never was, before or since, so troublesome a child 
 of two years old, for though Will stayed an hour and a half 
 longer, she never came down again. He won the father's heart, 
 though, by his capacity as a listener ; for some people are not 
 at all particular, and, so that they themselves may talk on un- 
 disturbed, are not so unreasonable as te expect iittention to 
 what they say. 
 
 Will did gather this much, however, from the old man's talk. 
 He had once been quite in a genteel line of business, but had 
 failed for more money than any greengrocer he had heard of; 
 at least, any who did not mix up fish and game with green- 
 grocery proper. This grand failure seemed to have been the 
 Invent of his life, and one on which he dwelt with a strange 
 kind of pride. It appeared as if at present he rested from his 
 past exertions (in the bankrupt line), and depended on his 
 daughter, who kept a small school for very young children. 
 But all these particulars Will only remembered and under- 
 stood when he had left the house ; at the time he heard them, 
 he was thinking of Susan. After he had made good his foot- 
 ing at Mr. Palmer's, he was not long, you may be sure, with- 
 out finding some reason for returning again and again. He 
 listened to her father, he talked to the little niece, but he 
 looked at Susan, both while he listened and while he talked. 
 Her father kept on insisting upon his former gentility, the 
 details of which would have appeared very questionable to 
 Will's mind, if the sweet, delicate, modest Susan had not 
 thrown an inexplicable air of refinement over all she came near. 
 She never spoke much ; she was generally diligently at work ; 
 but when she moved it was so noiselessly, and when she did 
 speak, it was in so low and soft a voice, that silence, speech, 
 motion, and stillness alike seemed to remove her high above 
 Will's reach into some saintly and inaccessible air of glory — 
 high above his reach, even as she knew him ! And, if she were 
 made acquainted with the dark secret behind of his sister's shame, 
 which was kept ever present to his mind by his mother's nightly 
 
3g6 LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 search among the outcast and forsaken, would not Susan shrink 
 away from him with loathing, as if he were tainted by the 
 involuntary relationship ? This was his dread ; and thereupon 
 followed a resolution that he would withdraw from her sweet 
 company before it was too late. So he resisted internal tempta- 
 tion, and stayed at home, and suffered and sighed. He became 
 angry with his mother for her untiring patience in seeking for 
 one who he could not help hoping was dead rather than alive. 
 He spoke sharply to her, and received only such sad deprecatory 
 answers as made him reproach himself, and still more lose 
 sight of peace of mind. This struggle could not last long with- 
 out affecting his health ; and Tom, his sole companion through 
 the long evenings, noticed his increasing languor, his restless 
 irritability, with perplexed anxiety, and at last resolved to call 
 his mother's attention to his brother's haggard, careworn 
 looks. She listened with a startled recollection of Will's claims 
 upon her love. She noticed his decreasing appetite and half- 
 checked sighs. 
 
 " Will, lad! what's come o'er thee?" said she to him, as he 
 sat listlessly gazing into the fire. 
 
 "There's nought the matter with me," said he, as if annoyed 
 at her remark. 
 
 "Nay, lad, but there is." He did not speak again to con- 
 tradict her; indeed, she did not know if he had heard her, so 
 unmoved did he look. 
 
 " Wouldst like to go to Upclose Farm?" asked she sor- 
 rowfully. 
 
 " It's just blackberrying time," said Tom. 
 
 Will shook his head. She looked at him awhile, as if trying 
 to read that expression of despondency, and trace it back to its 
 source. 
 
 "Will and Tom could go," said she, " I must stay here till 
 I've found her, thou knowest," continued she, dropping her 
 voice. 
 
 He turned quickly round, and with the authority he at all 
 times exercised over Tom, bade him begone to bed. 
 
 When Tom had left the room, he prepared to speak. 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 397 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 "Mother," then said Will, "why will you keep on thinking 
 she's alive? If she were but dead, we need never name her 
 name again. We've never heard nought on her since father 
 wrote her that letter ; we never knew whether she got it or not. 
 She'd left her place before then. Many a one dies in " 
 
 "Oh, my lad! dunnot speak so to me, or my heart will 
 break outright," said his mother, with a sort of cry. Then 
 she calmed herself, for she yearned to persuade him to her 
 own belief. "Thou never asked, and thourt too like thy 
 father for me to tell without asking — but it were all to be 
 near Lizzie's old place that I settled down on this side o* 
 Manchester ; and the very day at after we came, I went to 
 her old missus, and asked to speak a word wi her. I had 
 a strong mind to cast it up to her, that she should ha' sent 
 my poor lass away, without telhng on it to us first ; but she 
 were in black, and looked so sad I could na' find in my heart 
 to threep it up. But I did ask her a bit about our Lizzie. 
 The master would have turned her away at a day's warning 
 (he's gone to t'other place ; I hope he'll meet wi' more mercy 
 there than he showed our Lizzie — I do), and when the missus 
 asked her should she write to us, she says Lizzie shook her 
 head ; and when she speered at her again, the poor lass went 
 down on her knees, and begged her not, for she said it would 
 break my heart (as it has done. Will — God knows it has)," 
 said the poor mother, choking with her struggle to keep down 
 her hard overmastering grief, "and her father would curse 
 her — Oh, God, teach me to be patient." She could not speak 
 for a few minutes — "and the lass threatened, and said she'd 
 go drown herself in the canal, if the missus wrote home — 
 and so 
 
 "Well! I'd got a trace of my child— the missus thought 
 she'd gone to the workhouse to be nursed ; and there I went 
 — and there, sure enough, she had been — and they'd turned 
 her out as she were strong, and told her she were young enough 
 to work— but whatten kind o' work would be open to her, lad, 
 and her baby to keep?" 
 
 Will listened to his mother's tale with deep sympathy, not 
 
398 LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 unmixed with the old bitter shame. But the opening of her 
 heart had unlocked his, and after a while he spoke — • 
 
 "Mother! I think I'd e'en better go home. Tom can stay 
 wi' thee. I know I should stay too, but I cannot stay in 
 peace so near — her — without craving to see her — Susan Palmer, 
 I mean." 
 
 "Has the old Mr. Palmer thou telled me on a daughter?" 
 asked Mrs. Leigh. 
 
 ** Ay, he has. And I love her above a bit. And it's because 
 I love her I want to leave Manchester. That's all." 
 
 Mrs. Leigh tried to understand this speech for some time, but 
 found it difficult of interpretation. 
 
 "Why shouldst thou not tell her thou lov'st her? Thou'rt 
 a likely lad, and sure o' work. Thou'lt have Upclose at my 
 death ; and as for that, I could let thee have it now, and keep 
 mysel' by doing a bit of charing. It seems to me a very 
 backwards sort o' way of winning her to think of leaving 
 Manchester." 
 
 "Oh, mother, she's so gentle and so good — she's down- 
 right holy. She's never known a touch of sin ; and can I ask 
 her to marry me, knowing what we do about Lizzie, and fearing 
 worse ? I doubt if one like her could ever care for me ; but 
 if she knew about my sister, it would put a gulf between us, 
 and she'd shudder up at the thought of crossing it. You don't 
 know how good she is, mother ! " 
 
 "Will, Will ! if she's so good as thou say'st, she'll have pity 
 on such as my Lizzie. If she has no pity for such, she's a cruel 
 Pharisee, and thou'rt best without her." 
 
 But he only shook his head and sighed ; and for the time the 
 conversation dropped. 
 
 But a new idea sprang up in Mrs. Leigh's head. She thought 
 that she would go and see Susan Palmer, and speak up for 
 Will, and tell her the truth about Lizzie ; and according to 
 her pity for the poor sinner, would she be worthy or unworthy 
 of him. She resolved to go the very next afternoon, but 
 without telling any one of her plan. Accordingly she looked 
 out the Sunday clothes she bad never before had the heart to 
 unpack since she came to Manchester, but which she now 
 desired to appear in, in order to do credit to Will. She put 
 on her old-fashioned black mode bonnet, trimmed with real 
 lace; her scarlet cloth cloak, which she had had ever since 
 
i.izzm LEIGH. 399 
 
 she was married ; and, always spotlessly clean, she set forth 
 on her unauthorised embassy. She laiew the Palmers lived 
 in Crown Street, though where she had heard it she could 
 not tell ; and modestly asking her way, she arrived in the 
 street about a quarter to four o'clock. She stopped to inquire 
 the exact number, and the woman whom she addressed told her 
 that Susan Palmer's school would not be loosed till four, and 
 asked her to step in and wait until then at her house. 
 
 "For," said she, smihng, "them that wants Susan Palmer 
 wants a kind friend of ours ; so we, in a manner, call cousins. 
 Sit down, missus, sit down. I'll wipe the chair, so that it 
 shanna dirty your cloak. My mother used to wear them 
 bright cloaks, and they're right gradely things agaiu a green 
 held." 
 
 "Han ye known Susan Palmer long?" asked Mrs. Leigh, 
 pleased with the admiration of her cloak. 
 
 " Ever since they corned to live in our street Our Sally goes 
 to her school." 
 
 ' ' Whatten sort of a lass is she, for I ha' never seen 
 her?" 
 
 "Well, as for looks, I cannot say. It's so long since 1 first 
 knowed her, that I've clean forgotten what I thought of her then. 
 My master says he never saw such a smile for gladdening the 
 heart. But may be it's not looks you're asking about. The best 
 thing I can say of her looks is, that she's just one a stranger 
 would stop in the street to ask help from if he needed it. All 
 the little childer creeps as close as they can to her ; she'll 
 have as many as three or four hanging to her apron all at 
 once." 
 
 " Is she cocket at all?" 
 
 " Cocket, bless you ! you never saw a creature less set up in 
 all your life. Her father's cocket enough. No ! she's not cocket 
 any way. You've not heard much of Susan Palmer, I reckon, if 
 you think she's cocket. She's just one to come quietly in, and 
 do the very thing most wanted ; little things, may be, that any 
 one could do, but that few would think on, for another. She'll 
 bring her thimble wi' her, and mend up after the childer o' 
 nights ; and she writes all Betty Harker's letters to her grand- 
 child out at service ; and she's in nobody's way, and that's a 
 great matter, I take it. Here's the childer running past ! School 
 is loosed. You'll find her now, missus, ready to hear and to 
 
400 LIZZIB LEIGH. 
 
 help. But we none on us frab her by going near her in school- 
 time." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Leigh's heart began to beat, and she could almost 
 have turned round and gone home again. Her country breeding 
 had made her shy of strangers, and this Susan Palmer appeared 
 to her like a real born lady by all accounts. So she knocked 
 with a timid feeling at the indicated door, and when it was 
 opened, dropped a simple curtsey without speaking. Susan had 
 her little niece in her arms, curled up with fond endearment 
 against her breast, but she put her gently down to the ground, 
 and instantly placed a chair in the best corner of the room for 
 Mrs. Leigh, when she told her who she was. " It's not Will as 
 has asked me to come," said the mother apologetically; "I'd 
 a wish just to speak to you myself ! " 
 
 Susan coloured up to her temples, and stooped to pick up the 
 little toddling girl. In a minute or two Mrs. Leigh began again. 
 
 ' ' Will thinks you would na respect us if you knew all ; but 1 
 think you could na help feeling for us in the sorrow God has put 
 upon us ; so I just put on my bonnet, and came off unknownst 
 to the lads. Every one says you're very good, and that the Lord 
 has keeped you from falling from His ways ; but may be you've 
 never yet been tried and tempted as some is. I'm perhaps 
 speaking too plain, but my heart's welly broken, and I can't be 
 choice in my words as them who are happy can. Well now ! 
 I'll tell you the truth. Will dreads you to hear it, but I'll 
 
 just tell it you. You mun know'' but here the poor 
 
 woman's words failed her, and she could do nothing but 
 sit rocking herself backwards and forwards, with sad eyes, 
 straight gazing into Susan's face, as if they tried to tell the 
 tale of agony which the quivering lips refused to utter. 
 Those wretched, stony eyes forced the tears down Susan's 
 cheeks, and, as if this sympathy gave the mother strength, 
 she went on in a low voice — "I had a daughter once, my 
 heart's darling. Her father thought I made too much on 
 her, and that she'd grow marred staying at home ; so he 
 said she mun go among strangers and learn to rough it. 
 She were young, and liked the thought of seeing a bit of 
 the world ; and her father heard on a place in Manchester. 
 Well ! I'll not weary you. That poor girl were led astray ; 
 and first thing we heard on it, was when a letter of her 
 father's was sent back by her missus, saying she'd left her 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. /;oi 
 
 place, or, to speak right, the master had turned her into 
 the street soon as he had heard of her condition — and she 
 not seventeen 1" 
 
 She now cried aloud ; and Susan wept too. The little child 
 locked up into their faces, and, catching their sorrow, began to 
 whimper and wail. Susan took it softly up, and hiding her face 
 in its little neck, tried to restrain her tears, and think of comfort 
 for the mother. At last she said — 
 
 ' ' Where is she now ? " 
 
 " Lass ! I dunnot know," said Mrs. Leigh, checking her sobs 
 to communicate this addition to her distress. "Mrs. Lomax 
 telled me she went " 
 
 "Mrs. Lomax — what Mrs. Lomax?" 
 
 "Her as lives in Brabazon Street. She telled me my poor 
 wench went to the workhouse fra there. I'll not speak again 
 the dead ; but if her father would but ha' letten me — but he 
 were one who had no notion — no, I'll not say that ; best say 
 nought. He forgave her on his death-bed. I dare say I did na 
 go th' right way to work." 
 
 "Will you hold the child for me one instant?" said Susan. 
 
 ' ' Ay, if it will come to me. Childer used to be fond 
 on me till I got the sad look on my face that scares them, 
 I think." 
 
 But the little girl clung to Susan ; so she carried it upstairs 
 with her. Mrs. Leigh sat by herself — how long she did not 
 know. 
 
 Susan came down with a bundle of far-worn baby clothes. 
 
 "You must listen to me a bit, and not think too much 
 about what I'm going to tell you. Nanny is not my niece, 
 nor any kin to me, that I know of. I used to go out work- 
 ing by the day. One night as I came home, I thought 
 some woman was following me ; I turned to look. The 
 woman, before I could see her face (for she turned it to 
 one side), offered me something. I held out my arms by 
 instinct ; she dropped a bundle into them, with a bursting 
 sob that went straight to my heart. It was a baby. I looked 
 round again ; but the woman was gone. She had run away 
 as quick as lightning. There was a little packet of clothes- 
 very few — and as if they were made out of its mother's gowns, 
 for they were large patterns to buy for a baby. I was 
 always fond of babies ; and I had not my wits about me. 
 
402 LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 father says; for it was very cold, and when I'd seen as well 
 as I could (for it was past ten) that there was no one in 
 the street, I brought it in and warmed it. Father was very 
 angry when he came, and said he'd take it to the workhouse 
 the next morning, and flyted me sadly about it. But when 
 morning came I could not bear to part with it ; it had slept 
 in my arms all night ; and I've heard what workhouse 
 bringing-up is. So I told father I'd give up going out 
 working, and stay at home and keep school, if I might 
 only keep the baby ; and, after a while, he said if I earned 
 enough for him to have his comforts, he'd let me ; but he's 
 never taken to her. Now, don't tremble so — I've but a little 
 more to tell — and may be I'm wrong in telling it ; but I used 
 to work next door to Mrs. Lomax's, in Brabazon Street, and 
 the servants were all thick together ; and I heard about 
 Bessy (they called her) being sent away. I don't know that 
 ever I saw her ; but the time would be about fitting to this 
 child's age, and I've sometimes fancied it was hers. And 
 now, will you look at the little clothes that came with her 
 — bless her ! " 
 
 But Mrs. Leigh had fainted. The strange joy and shame, 
 and gushing love for the little child, had overpowered her ; 
 it was some time before Susan could bring her round. There 
 she was all trembling, sick with impatience to look at the 
 little frocks. Among them was a slip of paper which Susan 
 had forgotten to name, that had been pinned to the bundle. 
 On it was scrawled, in a round, stiff hand — 
 
 ' * Call her Anne. She does not cry much, and takes a deal 
 Of notice. God bless you, and forgive me." 
 
 The writing was no clue at all; the name "Anne," common 
 though it w^as, seemed something to build upon. But Mrs. 
 Leigh recognised one of the frocks instantly, as being made 
 out of a part of a gown that she and her daughter had bought 
 together in Rochdale. 
 
 She stood up, and stretched out her hands in the attitude of 
 blessing over Susan's bent head. 
 
 * ' God bless you, and show you His mercy in your need, as 
 you have shown it to this little child." 
 
 She took the little creature in her arms, and smoothed 
 away her sad looks to a smile, and kissed it fondly, saying 
 over and over again, "Nanny, Nanny, my little Nanny." 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 403: 
 
 At last the child was soothed, and looked in her face and 
 smiled back again. 
 
 " It has her eyes," said she to Susan. 
 
 "I never saw her to the best of my knowledge. I think it 
 must be hers by the frock. But where can she be? " 
 
 "God knows," said Mrs. Leigh; "I dare not think she's 
 dead. I'm sure she isn't." 
 
 "No; she's not dead. Every now and then a little packet 
 is thrust in under our door, with, may be, two half-crowns 
 in it ; once it was half-a-sovereign. Altogether I've got seven- 
 and-thirty shillings wrapped up for Nanny. I never touch 
 it, but I've often thought the poor mother feels near to 
 God when she brings this money. Father wanted to set 
 the policeman to watch, but I said No ; for I was afraid 
 if she was watched she might not come, and it seemed such 
 a holy thing to be checking her in, I could not find in my 
 heart to do it." 
 
 "Oh, if we could but find her! I'd take her in my arm?,, 
 and we'd just lie down and die together." 
 
 "Nay, don't speak so!" said Susan gently; "for all that's 
 come and gone, she may turn right at last. Mary Magdalen 
 did, you know." 
 
 **Eh! but I were nearer right about thee than Will. He 
 thought you would never look on him again if you knew about 
 Lizzie. But thou'rt not a Pharisee." 
 
 " I'm sorry he thought I could be so hard," said Susan, in 
 a low voice, and colouring up. Then Mrs. Leigh was alarmed, 
 and, in her motherly anxiety, she began to fear lest she had. 
 injured Will in Susan's estimation. 
 
 "You see Will thinks so much of you — gold would not be 
 good enough for you to walk on, in his eye. He said you'd 
 never look at him as he was, let alone his being brother 
 to my poor wench. He loves you so, it makes him think 
 meanly on everything belonging to himself, *.s not fit to 
 come near ye ; but he's a good lad, and a good son. Thou'lt 
 be a happy woman if thou'lt have him, so don't let my words 
 go against him — don't ! " 
 
 But Susan hung her head, and made no answer. She had 
 not known until now that Will thought so earnestly and 
 seriously about her ; and even now she felt afraid that Mrs. 
 Leigh's words promised her too much happiness, and that 
 
404 LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 they could not be true. At any rate, the instinct of modesty 
 made her shrink from saying anything which might seem 
 like a confession of her own feelings to a third person. Ac- 
 cordingly she turned the conversation on the child. 
 
 " I am sure he could not help loving Nanny," said she. 
 "There never was such a good little darling; don't you 
 think she'd win his heart if he knew she was his niece, and 
 perhaps bring him to think kindly on his sister? " 
 
 "I dunnot know," said Mrs. Leigh, shaking her head. 
 
 * ' He has a turn in his eye like his father, that makes me 
 
 He's right down good though. But, you see, I've never been 
 a good one at managing folk ; one severe look turns me sick, 
 and then I say just the wrong thing, I'm so fluttered. Now 
 I should like nothing better than to take Nancy home with me, 
 but Tom knows nothing but that his sister is dead, and I've 
 not the knack of speaking rightly to Will. I dare not do it, 
 and that's the truth. But you mun not think badly of Will. 
 He's so good hissel, that he can't understand how any one can 
 do wrong ; and, above all, I'm sure he loves you dearly." 
 
 "I don't think I could part with Nancy," said Susan, 
 anxious to stop this revelation of Will's attachment to her- 
 self. " He'll come round to her soon ; he can't fail ; and 
 I'll keep a sharp look-out after the poor mother, and try and 
 catch her the next time she comes with her little parcels of 
 money." 
 
 ' ' Ay, lass ; we mun get hold of her ; my Lizzie. I love 
 thee dearly for thy kindness to her child ; but if thou canst 
 catch her for me, I'll pray for thee when I'm too near my death 
 to speak words ; and, while I live, I'll serve thee next to her 
 — she mun come first, thou know'st. God bless thee, lass. 
 My heart is lighter by a deal than it was when I comed in. 
 Them lads will be looking for me home, and I mun go, 
 and leave this little sweet one" (kissing it). " If I can take 
 courage, I'll tell Will all that has come and gone between 
 us two. He may come and see thee, mayn't he? " 
 
 " Father will be very glad to see him, I'm sure," replied 
 Susan. The way in which this was spoken satisfied Mrs. 
 Leigh's anxious heart that she had done Will no harm by 
 what she had said ; and, with many a kiss to the little one, 
 and one more fervent tearful blessing on Susan, she went 
 homewards. 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 40$ 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 That night Mrs. Leigh stopped at home — that only night 
 for many months. Even Tom, the scholar, looked up from 
 his books in amazement ; but then he remembered that Will 
 had not been well, and that his mother's attention having 
 been called to the circumstance, it was only natural she 
 should stay to watch him. And no watching could be more 
 tender, or more complete. Her loving eyes seemed never 
 averted from his face — his grave, sad, careworn face. When 
 Tom went to bed the mother left her seat, and going up 
 to Will, where he sat looking at the fire, but not seeing it, 
 she kissed his forehead, and said — 
 
 " Will ! lad, I've been to see Susan Palmer ! " 
 
 She felt the start under her hand which was placed on his 
 shoulder, but he was silent for a minute or two. Then he 
 said — 
 
 "What took you there, mother ? " 
 
 " Wliy, my lad, it was hkely I should wish to see one 
 you cared for ; I did not put myself forward. I put on my 
 Sunday clothes, and tried to behave as yo'd ha' liked me. At 
 least, I remember trying at first ; but after, I forgot all." 
 
 She rather wished that he would question her as to what 
 made her forget all. But he only said — 
 
 " How was she looking, mother ? " 
 
 "Well, thou seest I never set eyes on her before ; but she's 
 a good, gentle-looking creature ; and I love her dearly, as I've 
 reason to." 
 
 Will looked up with momentary surprise, for his mother was 
 too shy to be usually taken with strangers. But, after all, it 
 was natural in this case, for who could look at Susan without 
 loving her? So still he did not ask any questions, and his poor 
 mother had to take courage, and try again to introduce the 
 subject near to her heart. But how ? 
 
 "Will!" said she (jerking it out in sudden despair of her 
 own powers to lead to what she wanted to say), "I telled 
 her all." 
 
 "Mother! you've ruined me," said he, standing up, and 
 
4C6 "LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 standing opposite to her with a stern white look of affright on 
 his face. 
 
 "No! my own dear lad; dunnot look so scared; I have 
 not ruined you ! " she exclaimed, placing her two hands on 
 his shoulders, and looking fondly into his face. " She's not 
 one to harden her heart against a mother's sorrow. My own 
 lad, she's too good for that. She's not one to judge and scorn 
 the sinner. She's too deep read in her New Testament for that. 
 Take courage, Will ; and thou may'st, for I watched her well, 
 though it is not for one woman to let out another's secret. Sit 
 thee down, lad, for thou look'st very white." 
 
 He sat down. His mother drew a stool towards him, and 
 sat at his feet. 
 
 "Did you tell her about Lizzie, then?" asked he, hoarse 
 and low. 
 
 " I did ; I telled her all ! and she fell a-crying over my deep 
 sorrow, and the poor wench's sin. And then a light comed 
 into her face, trembling and quivering with some new glad 
 "thought; and what dost thou think it was, Will, lad? Nay, 
 ni not misdoubt but that thy heart will give thanks as mine 
 did, afore God and His angels, for her great goodness. That 
 little Nanny is not her niece, she's our Lizzie's own child, my 
 little grandchild." She could no longer restrain her tears ; 
 and they fell hot and fast, but still she looked into his face. 
 
 " Did she know it was Lizzie's child ? I do not comprehend," 
 said he, flushing red. 
 
 "She knows now; she did not at first, but took the little 
 helpless creature in, out of her own pitiful, loving heart, guess- 
 ing only that it was the child of shame ; and she's worked for 
 it, and kept it, and tended it ever sin' it were a mere baby, 
 and loves it fondly. Will! won't you love it?" asked she 
 beseechingly. 
 
 He was silent for an instant ; then he said, " Mother, I'll try. 
 Give me time, for all these things startle me. To think of Susan 
 having to do with such a child ! " 
 
 "Ay, Will! and to think, as may be yet, of Susan having 
 to do with the child's mother ! For she is tender and pitiful, 
 and speaks hopefully of my lost one, and will try and find her 
 for me, when she comes, as she does sometimes, to thrust 
 money under the door, for her baby. Think of that, Will. 
 Here's Susan, good and pure as the angels in heaven, yet. 
 
"LIZZIE LEIGH. 407 
 
 like them, full of hope and mercy, and one who, hke them, 
 will rejoice over her as repents. Will, my lad, I'm not afeard of 
 you now ; and I must speak, and you must listen. I am your 
 mother, and I dare to command you, because I know I am in 
 the right, and that God is on my side. If He should lead the 
 poor wandering lassie to Susan's door, and she comes back, 
 crying and sorrowful, led by that good angel to us once more, 
 thou shalt never say a casting-up word to her about her sin, but 
 be tender and helpful towards one ' who was lost and is found ; ' 
 so may God's blessing rest on thee, and so may'st thou lead 
 Susan home as thy wife." 
 
 She stood no longer as the meek, imploring, gentle mother, 
 but firm and dignified, as if the interpreter of God's will. Her 
 manner was so unusual and solemn, that it overcame all Will's 
 pride and stubbornness. He rose softly while she was speak- 
 ing, and bent his head, as if in reverence at her words, and 
 the solemn injunction which they conveyed. When she had 
 spoken, he said, in so subdued a voice that she was almost 
 surprised at the sound, " Mother, I will." 
 
 " I may be dead and gone ; but, all the same, thou wilt take 
 home the wandering sinner, and heal up her sorrows, and lead 
 her to her Father's house. My lad, I can speak no more ; I'm 
 turned very faint." 
 
 He placed her in a chair ; he ran for water. She opened her 
 ■eyes, and smiled. 
 
 " God bless you. Will. Oh ! I am so happy. It seems as if 
 she were found ; my heart is so filled with gladness." 
 
 That night Mr. Palmer stayed out late and long. Susan was 
 afraid that he was at his old haunts and habits — getting tipsy 
 at some public-house ; and this thought oppressed her, even 
 though she had so much to make her happy in the conscious- 
 ness that Will loved her. She sat up long, and then she went 
 to bed, leaving all arranged as well as she could for her father's 
 return. She looked at the little rosy, sleeping girl who was her 
 bed-fellow, with redoubled tenderness, and with many a prayer- 
 ful thought. The little arms entwined her neck as she lay down, 
 for Nanny was a light sleeper, and was conscious that she, who 
 was loved with all the power of that sweet, childish heart, was 
 near her, and by her, although she was too sleepy to utter any 
 of her half-formed words. 
 
 And, by-and-by, she heard her father come home, stumbling 
 
408 -LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 uncertain, trying first the windows, and next the door-fasten- 
 ings, with many a loud incoherent murmur. The little inno- 
 cent twined around her seemed all the sweeter and more 
 lovely, when she thought sadly of her erring father. And 
 presently he called aloud for a light. She had left matches 
 and all arranged as usual on the dresser ; but, fearful of some 
 accident from fire, in his unusually intoxicated state, she now- 
 got up softly, and putting on a cloak, went down to his 
 assistance. 
 
 Alas ! the little arms that were unclosed from her soft neck 
 belonged to a light, easily-awakened sleeper. Nanny missed 
 her darling Susy ; and terrified at being left alone, in the vast 
 mysterious darkness, which had no bounds and seemed infinite, 
 she slipped out of bed, and tottered, in her little nightgown, 
 towards the door. There was a light below, and there was 
 Susy and safety ! So she went onwards two steps towards 
 the steep, abrupt stairs ; and then, dazzled by sleepiness, she 
 stood, she wavered, she fell ! Down on her head on the stone 
 floor she fell ! Susan flew to her, and spoke all soft, entreat- 
 ing, loving words ; but her white lids covered up the blue 
 violets of eyes, and there was no murmur came out of tlie 
 pale lips. The warm tears that rained down did not awaken 
 her ; she lay stiff, and weary with her short life, on Susan's 
 knee, Susan went sick with terror. She carried her upstairs, 
 and laid her tenderly in bed ; she dressed herself most hastily, 
 with her trembling fingers. Her father was asleep on the 
 settle downstairs ; and useless, and worse than useless, if 
 awake. But Susan flew out of the door, and down the quiet 
 resounding street, towards the nearest doctor's house. Quickly 
 she went, but as quickly a shadow followed, as if impelled by 
 some sudden terror. Susan rang wildly at the nightbell— the 
 shadow crouched near. The doctor looked out from an up- 
 stairs window. 
 
 "A little child has fallen downstairs, at No. 9 Crown Street, 
 and is very ill — dying, I'm afraid. Please, for God's sake, sir, 
 come directly. No. 9 Crown Street." 
 
 " I'll be there directly," said he, and shut the window. 
 
 " For that God you have just spoken about — for His sake — 
 tell me, are you Susan Palmer? Is it my child that lies a- 
 dying?" said the shadow, springing forwards, and clutching 
 poor Susan's arm. 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 409 
 
 "It is a little child of two years old. I do not know whose 
 it is ; I love it as my own. Com with me, whoever you are; 
 come with me." 
 
 The two sped along the silent streets— as silent as the night 
 were they. They entered the house ; Susan snatched up the 
 light, and carried it upstairs. The other followed. 
 
 She stood with wild, glaring eyes by the bedside, never look- 
 ing at Susan, but hungrily gazing at the little, white, still child. 
 She stooped down, and put her hand tight on her own heart, as 
 if to still its beating, and bent her ear to the pale lips. What- 
 ever the result was, she did not speak ; but threw off the bed- 
 clothes wherewith Susan had tenderly covered up the little 
 creature, and felt its left side. 
 
 Then she threw up her arms, with a cry of wild despair. 
 
 "She is dead ! she is dead ! " 
 
 She looked so fierce, so mad, so haggard, that, for an 
 instant, Susan was terrified ; the next, the holy God had put 
 courage into her heart, and her pure arms were round that 
 guilty, wretched creature, and her tears were falling fast and 
 warm upon her breast. But she was thrown off with vio- 
 lence. 
 
 "You killed her — you slighted her — you let her fall down 
 those stairs ! you killed her ! " 
 
 Susan cleared off the thick mist before her, and, gazing at 
 the mother with her clear, sweet angel eyes, said, mourn- 
 fully— 
 
 " I would have laid down my own life for her." 
 
 "Oh, the murder is on my soul!" exclaimed the wild, 
 bereaved mother, with the fierce impetuosity of one who has 
 none to love her, and to be beloved, regard to whom might 
 teach self-restraint. 
 
 " Hush ! " said Susan, her finger on her lips. " Here is the 
 doctor. God may suffer her to live." 
 
 The poor mother turned sharp round. The doctor mounted 
 the stair. Ah ! that mother was right ; the little child was 
 really dead and gone. 
 
 And when he confirmed her judgment, the mother fell down 
 in a fit. Susan, with her deep grief, had to forget herself, and 
 forget her darling (her charge for years), and question the 
 doctor what she must do with the poor wretch, who lay on the 
 floor in such extreme of misery. 
 
4IO LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 " She is the mother ! " said she. 
 
 "Why did she not take better care of her child?" asked he, 
 almost angrily. 
 
 But Susan only said, " The little child slept with me ; and it 
 was I that left her." 
 
 "I will go back and make up a composing draught; and 
 while I am away you must get her to bed." 
 
 Susan took out some of her own clothes, and softly undressed 
 the stiff, powerless form. There was no other bed in the house 
 but the one in which her father slept. So she tenderly hfted 
 the body of her darling ; and was going to take it downstairs, 
 but the mother opened her eyes, and seeing what she was 
 about, she said — 
 
 " I am not worthy to touch her, I am so wicked. I have 
 spoken to you as I never should have spoken ; but I think you 
 are very good. May I have my own child to lie in my arms for 
 a little while?" 
 
 Her voice was so strange a contrast to what it had been 
 before she had gone into the fit, that Susan hardly recognised 
 it : it was now so unspeakably soft, so irresistibly pleading ; 
 the features too had lost their fierce expression, and were 
 almost as placid as death. Susan could not speak, but she 
 carried the little child, and laid it in its mother's arms ; then, 
 as she looked at them, something overpowered her, and she 
 knelt down, crying aloud — 
 
 " Oh, my God, my God, have mercy on her, and forgive and 
 comfort her." 
 
 But the mother kept smiling, and stroking the little face, 
 murmuring soft, tender words, as if it were alive. She was 
 going mad, Susan thought ; but she prayed on, and on, and 
 ever still she prayed with streaming eyes. 
 
 The doctor came with the draught. The mother took it, 
 with docile unconsciousness of its nature as medicine. The 
 doctor sat by her ; and soon she fell asleep. Then he rose 
 softly, and beckoning Susan to the door, he spoke to her ihere. 
 
 "You must take the corpse out of her arms. She will not 
 awake. That draught will make her sleep for many hours. 
 I will call before noon again. It is now daylight. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 Susan shut him out ; and then, gently extricating the dead 
 child from its mother's arms, she could not resist making her 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 4II 
 
 own quiet moan over her darling. She tried to learn off its 
 little placid face, dumb and pale before her. 
 
 " Not all the scalding tears of care 
 Shall wash away that vision fair : 
 Not all the thousand thoughts that rise, 
 Not all the sights that dim her eyes, 
 
 Shall e'er usurp the place 
 
 Of that little angel-face." 
 
 And then she remembered what remained to be done. She 
 saw that all was right in the house ; her father was still dead 
 asleep on the settle, in spite of all the noise of the night. She 
 went out through the quiet streets, deserted still, although it 
 was broad daylight, and to where the Leighs lived. Mrs. 
 Lei^h, who kept her country hours, was opening her window- 
 shutters. Susan took her by the arm, and, without speaking, 
 went into the house-place. There she knelt down before the 
 astonished Mrs. Leigh, and cried as she had never done before ; 
 but the miserable night had overpowered her, and she who had 
 gone through so much calmly, now that the pressure seemed 
 removed could not find the power to speak. 
 
 "My poor dear! What has made thy heart so sore as to 
 come and cry a-this-ons ? Speak and tell me. Nay, cry on, 
 poor wench, if thou canst not speak yet. It will ease the heart, 
 and then thou canst tell me." 
 
 ** Nanny is dead ! " said Susan. " I left her to go to father, 
 and she fell downstairs, and never breathed again. Oh, that's 
 my sorrow ! But I've more to telL Her mothfer is come — is 
 in our house ! Come and see if it's your Lizzie." 
 
 Mrs. Leigh could not speak, but, trembling, put on her 
 things, and went with Susan in dizzy haste back to Crov/n 
 Street. 
 
412 LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 As they entered the house in Crown Street, they perceived that 
 the door would not open freely on its hinges, and Susan instinc- 
 tively looked behind to see the cause of the obstruction. She 
 immediately recognised the appearance of a little parcel, wrapped 
 in a scrap of newspaper, and evidently containing money. She 
 stooped and picked it up. "Look!" said she sorrowfully, 
 " the mother was bringing this for her child last night." 
 
 But Mrs. Leigh did not answer. So near to the ascertaining 
 if it were her lost child or no, she could not be arrested, but 
 pressed onwards with trembling steps and a beating, fluttering 
 heart. She entered the bedroom, dark and still. She took no 
 heed of the little corpse over which Susan paused, but she went 
 straight to the bed, and, withdrawing the curtain, saw Lizzie ; 
 but not the former Lizzie, bright, gay, buoyant, and undimmed. 
 This Lizzie was old before her time ; her beauty was gone ; 
 deep lines of care, and, alas ! of want (or thus the mother 
 imagined) were printed on the cheek, so round, and fair, and 
 smooth, when last she gladdened her mother's eyes. Even in 
 her sleep she bore the look of woe and despair which was the 
 prevalent expression of her face by day ; even in her sleep she 
 had forgotten how to smile. But all these marks of the sin 
 and sorrow she had passed through only made her mother love 
 her the more. She stood looking at her with greedy eyes, 
 which seemed as though no gazing could satisfy their longing ; 
 and at last she stooped down and kissed the pale, worn hand 
 that lay outside the bedclothes. No touch disturbed the 
 sleeper; the mother need not have laid the hand so gently 
 down upon the counterpane. There was no sign of life, save 
 only now and then a deep sob-like sigh. Mrs. Leigh sat 
 down beside the bed, and still holding back the curtain, looked 
 on and on, as if she could never be satisfied. 
 
 Susan would fain have stayed by her darling one ; but she 
 had many calls upon her time and thoughts, and her will had 
 now, as ever, to be given up to that of others. All seemed to 
 devolve the burden of their cares on her. Her father, ill- 
 humoured from his last night's intemperance, did not scruple 
 
'LIZZIE LEIGH. 413 
 
 to reproach her with being the cause of little Nanny's death ; 
 and when, after bearing his upbraiding meekly for some time, 
 she could no longer restrain herself, but began to cry, he 
 wounded her even more by his injudicious attempts at comfort ; 
 for he said it was as well the child was dead ; it was none of 
 theirs, and why should they be troubled with it? Susan wrung 
 her hands at this, and came and stood before her father, and 
 implored him to forbear. Then she had to take all requisite 
 steps for the coroner's inquest ; she had to arrange for the 
 dismissal of her school ; she had to summon a little neigh- 
 bour, and send his willing feet on a message to William 
 Leigh, who, she felt, ought to be informed of his mother's 
 whereabouts, and of the whole state of affairs. She asked 
 her messenger to tell him to come and speak to her ; that 
 his mother was at her house. She was thankful that her 
 father sauntered out to have a gossip at the nearest coach- 
 stand, and to relate as many of the night's adventures as he 
 knew ; for as yet he was in ignorance of the watcher and the 
 watched, who silently passed away the hours upstairs. 
 
 At dinner-time Will came. He looked red, glad, impatient, 
 excited. Susan stood calm and white before him, her soft,, 
 loving eyes gazing straight into his. 
 
 "Will," said she, in a low, quiet voice, "your sister is 
 upstairs." 
 
 " My sister ! " said he, as if affrighted at the idea, and losing 
 his glad look in one of gloom. Susan saw it, and her heart sank 
 a little, but she went on as calm to all appearance as ever. 
 
 " She was little Nanny's mother, as perhaps you know. Poor 
 little Nanny was killed last night by a fall downstairs." All 
 the calmness was gone ; all the suppressed feeling was dis- 
 played in spite of every effort. She sat down, and hid her face 
 from him, and cried bitterly. He forgot everything but the 
 wish, the longing to comfort her. He put his arm round her 
 waist, and bent over her. But all he could say, was, "Oh, 
 Susan, how can I comfort you? Don't take on so — pray 
 don't ! " He never changed the words, but the tone varied 
 every time he spoke. At last she seemed to regain her power 
 over herself; and she wiped her eyes, and once more looked 
 upon him with her own quiet, earnest, unfearing gaze. 
 
 "Your sister was near the house. She came in on hearing 
 my words to the doctor. She is asleep now, and your mother 
 
414 "LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 is watching her. I wanted to tell you all riiyself. Would you 
 like to see your mother?" 
 
 ' ' No ! " said he. "I would rather see none but thee. Mother 
 told me thou knew'st all." His eyes were downcast in their shame. 
 
 But the holy and pure did not lower or veil her eyes. 
 
 She said, "Yes, I know all — all but her sufferings. Think 
 what they must have been ! " 
 
 He made answer, low and stern, "She deserved them all; 
 every jot." 
 
 "In the eye of God, perhaps she does. He is the Judge; 
 we are not." 
 
 "Oh!" she said, with a sudden burst, "Will Leigh! I 
 have thought so well of you ; don't go and make me think you 
 cruel and hard. Goodness is not goodness unless there is 
 mercy and tenderness with it. There is your mother, who has 
 been nearly heart-broken, now fujl of rejoicing over her child. 
 Think of your mother." ^ 
 
 "I do think of her," said he. "I remember the promise 
 I gave her last night. Thou shouldst give me time. I would 
 do right in time. I never think it o'er in quiet. But I will do 
 what is right and fitting, never fear. Thou hast spoken out 
 very plain to me, and misdoubted me, Susan ; I love thee so, 
 that thy words cut me. If I did hang back a bit from making 
 sudden promises, it was because not even for love of thee, 
 would I say what I was not feeling ; and at first I could 
 not feel all at once as thou wouldst have me. But I'm not 
 cruel and hard ; for if I had been, I should na' have grieved as 
 I have done." 
 
 He made as if he were going away ; and indeed he did 
 feel he would rather think it over in quiet. But Susan, grieved 
 at her incautious words, which had all the appearance of 
 harshness, went a step or two nearer — paused — and then, all 
 over blushes, said in a low, soft whisper — 
 
 "Oh, Will! I beg your pardon. I am very sorry. Won't 
 you forgive me?" 
 
 She who had always drawn back, and been so reserved, said 
 this in the very softest manner ; with eyes now uplifted beseech- 
 ingly, now dropped to the ground. Her sweet confusion told 
 more than words could do ; and Will turned back, all joyous 
 in his certainty of being beloved, and took her in his arms, 
 and kissed her. 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 415 
 
 " My own Susan ! " he said. 
 
 Meanwhile the mother watched her child in the room above. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon before she awoke, for the 
 sleeping draught had been very powerful. The instant she 
 awoke, her eyes were fixed on her mother's face with a 
 gaze as unflinching as if she were fascinated. Mrs. Leigh 
 did not turn away, nor move ; for it seemed as if motion 
 would unlock the stony command over herself which, while 
 so perfectly still, she was enabled to preserve. But by-and-by 
 Lizzie cried out, in a piercing voice of agony — 
 
 "Mother, don't look at me! I have been so wicked!" 
 and instantly she hid her face, and grovelled among the bed- 
 clothes, and lay like one dead, so motionless was she. 
 
 Mrs. Leigh knelt down by the bed, and spoke in the most 
 soothing tones. 
 
 "Lizzie, dear, don't speak so. I'm thy mother, darling; 
 don't be afeard of me. I never left off loving thee, Lizzie. 
 I was always a-thinking of thee. Thy father forgave thee 
 afore he died." (There was a little start here, but no sound 
 was heard.) "Lizzie, lass, I'll do ought for thee; I'll live 
 for thee ; only don't be afeard of me. Whate'er thou art or 
 hast been, we'll ne'er speak on't. We'll leave th' oud times 
 behind us, and go back to the Upclose Farm. I but left it 
 to find thee, my lass ; and God has led me to thee. Blessed 
 be His name. And God is good, too, Lizzie. Thou hast 
 not forgot thy Bible, I'll be bound, for thou wert always a 
 scholar. I'm no reader, but I learnt off them texts to comfort 
 me a bit, and I've said them many a time a day to myself. 
 Lizzie, lass, don't hide thy head so ; it's thy mother as is 
 speaking to thee. Thy little child clung to me only yesterday ; 
 and if it's gone to be an angel, it will speak to God for thee. 
 Nay, don't sob a-that-'as ; thou shalt have it again in heaven ; 
 I know thou'lt strive to get there, for thy little Nancy's sake — 
 and listen ! I'll tell thee God's promises to them that are 
 penitent — only doan't be afeard." 
 
 Mrs. Leigh folded her hands, and strove to speak very clearly, 
 while she repeated every tender and merciful text she could 
 remember. She could tell from the breathing that her daughter 
 was listening ; but she was so dizzy and sick herself when she 
 had ended, that she could not go on speaking. It was all she 
 could do to keep from crying aloud. 
 
4l6 LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 At last she heard her daughter's voice. 
 
 "Where have they taken her to ?" she asked. 
 
 "She is downstairs. So quiet, and peaceful, and happy she 
 looks." 
 
 " Could she speak ! Oh, if God — if I might but have heard 
 her little voice ! Mother, I used to dream of it. May I see her 
 once again? Oh, mother, if I strive very hard and God is ver}- 
 merciful, and I go to heaven, I shall not know her — I shall not 
 know my own again ; she will shun me as a stranger, and cling 
 to Susan Palmer and to you. Oh, woe! Oh, woe!" She 
 shook with exceeding sorrow. 
 
 In her earnestness of speech she had uncovered her face, and 
 tried to read Mrs. Leigh's thoughts through her looks. And 
 when she saw those aged eyes brimming full of tears, and 
 marked the quivering lips, she threw her arms round the 
 faithful mother's neck, and wept there as she had done in 
 many a childish sorrow, but with a deeper, a more wretched 
 grief. 
 
 Her mother hushed her on her breast ; and lulled her as if 
 she were a baby ; and she grew still and quiet. 
 
 They sat thus for a long, long time. At last, Susan Palmer 
 came up with some tea and bread and butter for Mrs. Leigh. 
 She watched the mother feed her sick, unwilling child, with 
 every fond inducement to eat which she could devise ; they 
 neither of them took notice of Susan's presence. That night 
 they lay in each other's arms ; but Susan slept on the ground 
 beside them. 
 
 They took the little corpse (the little unconscious sacrifice, 
 whose early calling home had reclaimed her poor wandering 
 mother) to the hills, which in her lifetime she had never 
 seen. They dared not lay her by the stern grandfather in 
 Milne Row churchyard, but they bore her to a lone moor- 
 land graveyard, where, long ago, the Quakers used to bury 
 their dead. They laid her there on the sunny slope, where the 
 earliest spring flowers blow. 
 
 Will and Susan live at the Upclose Farm. Mrs. Leigh and 
 Lizzie dwell in a cottage so secluded that, until you drop into 
 the very hollow where it is placed, you do not see it. Tom 
 is a schoolmaster in Rochdale, and he and Will help to 
 support their mother. I only know that, if the cottage be 
 hidden in a green hollow of the hills, every sound of sorrow 
 
LIZZIE LEIGH. 417 
 
 in the whole upland is heard there— every call of suffering or 
 of sickness for help is listened to by a sad, gentle-looking 
 woman, who rarely smiles (and when she does her smile is 
 more sad than other people's tears), but who comes out of 
 her seclusion whenever there is a shadow in any household. 
 Many hearts bless Lizzie Leigh, but she— she prays always 
 and ever for forgiveness — such forgiveness as may enable her 
 to see her child once more. Mrs. Leigh is quiet and happy. 
 Lizzie is, to her eyes, something precious — as the lost piece 
 of silver — found once more. Susan is the bright one who 
 brings sunshine to all. Children grow around her and call 
 her blessed. One is called Nanny ; her Lizzie often takes to 
 the sunny graveyard in the uplands, and while the little creature 
 gathers the daisies, and makes chains, Lizzie sits by a little 
 grave and weeps bitterly. 
 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 NOT many years after the beginning of this century, a 
 worthy couple of the name of Huntroyd occupied a 
 small farm in the North Riding of Yorkshire. They had 
 married late in life, although they were very young when 
 they first began to " keep company" with each other. Nathan 
 Huntroyd had been farm-servant to Hester Rose's father, and 
 had made up to her at a time when her parents thought she 
 might do better ; and so, without much consultation of her 
 feelings, they had dismissed Nathan in somewhat cavalier 
 fashion. He had drifted far away from his former connec- 
 tions, when an uncle of his died, leaving Nathan— by this 
 time upwards of forty years of age — enough money to stock 
 a small farm, and yet have something over to put in the 
 bank against bad times. One of the consequences of this 
 bequest was, that Nathan was looking out for a wife and 
 housekeeper, in a kind of discreet and leisurely way, when 
 one day he heard that his old love, Hester, was — not married 
 and flourishing, as he had always supposed her to be — but 
 a poor maid-of-all-work, in the town of Ripon. For her father 
 had had a succession of misfortunes, which had brought him 
 in his old age to the workhouse ; her mother was dead ; her 
 only brother struggling to bring up a large family ; and 
 Hester herself, a hard-working, homely -looking (at thirty- 
 seven) servant. Nathan had a kind of growling satisfaction 
 (which only lasted a minute or two, however) in hearing of 
 these turns of fortune's wheel. He did not make many intel- 
 ligible remarks to his informant, and to no one else did he 
 say a word. But a few days afterwards, he presented him- 
 self, dressed in his Sunday best, at Mrs. Thompson's back 
 door in Ripon. 
 
 Hester stood there, in answer to the good sound knock 
 418 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 419 
 
 his good sound oak-stick made ; she with the light full upon 
 her, he in shadow. For a moment there was silence. He 
 was scanning the face and figure of his old love, for twenty- 
 years unseen. The comely beauty of youth had faded away 
 entirely ; she was, as I have said, homely-looking, plain- 
 featured, but with a clean skin, and pleasant frank eyes. 
 Her figure was no longer round, but tidily draped in a blue 
 and white bedgown, tied round her waist by her white apron- 
 strings, and her short red hnsey petticoat showed her tidy 
 feet and ankles. Her former lover fell into no ecstasies. He 
 simply said to himself, ' ' She'll do ; " and forthwith began upon 
 his business. 
 
 "Hester, thou dost not mind me. I am Nathan, as thy 
 father turned off at a minute's notice, for thinking of thee for 
 a wife, twenty year come Michaelmas next. I have not thought 
 much upon matrimony since. But Uncle Ben has died, leaving 
 me a small matter in the bank ; and I have taken Nab-End 
 Farm, and put in a bit of stock, and shall want a missus to 
 see after it. Wilt like to come? I'll not mislead thee. It's 
 dairy, and it might have been arable. But arable takes more 
 horses nor it suited me to buy, and I'd the offer of a tidy lot 
 of kine. That's all. If thou'lt have me, I'll come for thee as 
 soon as the hay is gotten in." 
 
 Hester only said, " Come in, and sit thee down." 
 He came in, and sat down. For a time, she took no more 
 notice of him than of his stick, bustling about to get dinner 
 ready for the family whom she served. He meanwhile watched 
 her brisk, sharp movements, and repeated to himself, "She'll 
 do ! " After about twenty minutes of silence thus employed, 
 he got up, saying — 
 
 "Well, Hester, I'm going. When shall I come back again ? " 
 "Please thysel', and thou'U please me," said Hester, in a 
 tone that she tried to make light and indifferent ; but he saw 
 that her colour came and went, and that she trembled while 
 she moved about. In another moment Hester was soundly 
 kissed ; but when she looked round to scold the middle-aged 
 farmer, he appeared so entirely composed that she hesitated. 
 He said — 
 
 " I have pleased myseV, and thee too, I hope. Is it a month's 
 wage, and a month's warning? To-day is the eighth. July 
 eighth is our wedding-day. I have no time to spend a-wooing 
 
420 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 before then, and wedding must na take long. Two days is 
 enough to throw away, at our time o' life." 
 
 It was like a dream ; but Hester resolved not to think more 
 about it till her work was done. And when all was cleaned up 
 for the evening, she went and gave her mistress warning, telling 
 her all the history of her life in a very few words. That day 
 month she was married from Mrs. Thompson's house. 
 
 The issue of the marriage was one boy, Benjamin. A few 
 years after his birth, Hester's brother died at Leeds, leaving 
 ten or twelve children. Hester sorrowed bitterly over this loss ; 
 and Nathan showed her much quiet sympathy, although he 
 could not but remember that Jack Rose had added insult to 
 the bitterness of his youth. He helped his wife to make ready 
 to go by the waggon to Leeds. He made light of the household 
 difficulties, which came thronging into her mind after all was 
 fixed for her departure. He filled her purse, that she might 
 have wherewithal to alleviate the immediate wants of her 
 brother's family. And as she was leaving, he ran after the 
 waggon. "Stop, stop!" he cried. "Hetty, if thou wilt^if 
 it wunnot be too much for thee — bring back one of Jack's 
 wenches for company, like. We've enough and to spare ; and 
 a lass will make the house winsome, as a man may say." 
 
 The waggon moved on ; while Hester had such a silent 
 swelling of gratitude in her heart, as was both thanks to her 
 husband, and thanksgiving to God. 
 
 And that was the way that little Bessy Rose came to be an 
 inmate of the Nab's-End Farm. 
 
 Virtue met with its own reward in this instance, and in a 
 clear and tangible shape, too, which need not delude people 
 in general into thinking that such is the usual nature of virtue's 
 rewards. Bessy grew up a bright, affectionate, active girl ; a 
 daily comfort to her uncle and aunt. She was so much a 
 darling in the household that they even thought her worthy 
 of their only son Benjamin, who was perfection in their eyes. 
 It is not often the case that two plain, homely people have a 
 child of uncommon beauty ; but it is so sometimes, and Ben- 
 jamin Huntroyd was one of these exceptional cases. The hard- 
 working, labour-and-care-marked farmer, and the mother, who 
 could never have been more than tolerably comely in her best 
 days, produced a boy who might have been an earl's son for 
 grace and beauty. Even the hunting squires of the neighbour- 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 421 
 
 hood reined up their horses to admire him, as he opened the 
 gates for them. He had no shyness, he was so accustomed to 
 admiration from strangers and adoration from his parents from 
 his earUest years. As for Bessy Rose, he ruled imperiously 
 over her heart from the time she first set eyes on him. And 
 as she grew older, she grew on in loving, persuading herself 
 that what her uncle and aunt loved so dearly it was her duty 
 to love dearest of all. At every unconscious symptom of the 
 young girl's love for her cousin, his parents smiled and winked : 
 all was going on as they wished, no need to go far afield for 
 Benjamin's wife. The household could go on as it was now ; 
 Nathan and Hester sinking into the rest of years, and relin- 
 quishing care and authority to those dear ones, who, in process 
 of time, might bring other dear ones to share their love. 
 
 But Benjamin took it all very coolly. He had been sent to a 
 day-school in the neighbouring town — a grammar-school, in the 
 high state of neglect in which the majority of such schools were 
 thirty years ago. Neither his father nor his mother knew much 
 of learning. All they knew (and that directed their choice of a 
 school) was that they could not, by any possibility, part with 
 their darHng to a boarding-school; that some schooling he 
 must have, and that Squire Pollard's son went to Highminster 
 Grammar School. Squire Pollard's son, and many another 
 son destined to make his parents' hearts ache, went to this 
 school. If it had not been so utterly bad a place of education, 
 the simple farmer and his wife might have found it out sooner. 
 But not only did the pupils there learn vice, they also learnt 
 deceit. Benjamin was naturally too clever to remain a dunce, 
 or else, if he had chosen so to be, there was nothing in High- 
 minster Grammar School to hinder his being a dunce of the 
 first water. But, to all appearance, he grew clever and gentle- 
 man-like. His father and mother were even proud of his airs 
 and graces, when he came home for the holidays ; taking them 
 for proofs of his refinement, although the practical effect of 
 such refinement was to make him express his contempt for his 
 parents' homely ways and simple ignorance. By the time he 
 was eighteen, an articled clerk in an attorney's office at High- 
 minster,— for he had quite declined becoming a "mere clod- 
 hopper," that is to say, a hard-working, honest farmer like his 
 father — Bessy Rose was the only person who was dissatisfied 
 with him. The little girl of fourteen instinctively felt there was 
 
422 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 something wrong about him. Alas ! two years more, and the 
 girl of sixteen worshipped his very shadow, and would not see 
 that aught could be wrong with one so soft-spoken, so hand- 
 some, so kind as Cousin Benjamin. For Benjamin had dis- 
 covered that the way to cajole his parents out of money for 
 every indulgence he fancied, was to pretend to forward their 
 innocent scheme, and make love to his pretty cousin, Bessy 
 Rose. He cared just enough for her to make this work of 
 necessity not disagreeable at the time he was performing it. 
 But he found it tiresome to remember her little claims upon 
 him, when she was no longer present. The letters he had 
 promised her during his weekly absence at Highminster, the 
 trifling commissions she had asked him to do for her, were all 
 considered in the light of troubles ; and even when he was 
 with her, he resented the inquiries she made as to his mode 
 of passing his time, or what female acquaintances he had in 
 Highminster. 
 
 When his apprenticeship was ended, nothing would serve 
 him but that he must go up to London for a year or two. 
 Poor Farmer Huntroyd was beginning to repent of his ambi- 
 tion of making his son Benjamin a gentleman. But it was too 
 late to repine now. Both father and mother felt this, and, 
 however sorrowful they might be, they were silent, neither 
 demurring nor assenting to Benjamin's proposition when first 
 he made it. But Bessy, through her tears, noticed that both 
 her uncle and aunt seemed unusually tired that night, and sat 
 hand-in-hand on the fireside settle, idly gazing into the bright 
 flame, as if they saw in it pictures of what they had once hoped 
 their lives would have been. Bessy rattled about among the supper 
 things, as she put them away after Benjamin's departure, 
 making more noise than usual — as if noise and bustle was 
 what she needed to keep her from bursting out crying — and, 
 having at one keen glance taken in the position and looks of 
 Nathan and Hester, she avoided looking in that direction 
 again, for fear the sight of their wistful faces should make 
 her own tears overflow. 
 
 "Sit thee down, lass — sit thee down. Bring the creepie- 
 stool to the fireside, and let's have a bit of talk over the lad's 
 plans," said Nathan, at last rousing himself to speak. Bessy 
 came and sat down in front of the fire, and threw her apron 
 over her face, as she rested her head on both hands. Nathan 
 
 i 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 423 
 
 felt as if it was a chance which of the two women burst out 
 crying first. So he thought he would speak, in hopes of keep- 
 ing off the infection of tears. 
 
 " Didst ever hear of this mad plan afore, Bessy? " 
 
 "No, never!" Her voice came muffled and changed from 
 under her apron. Hester felt as if the tone, both of question 
 and answer, implied blame, and this she could not bear. 
 
 "We should ha' looked to it when we bound him, for of 
 necessity it would ha' come to this. There's examins, and 
 catechizes, and I dunno what all for him to be put through 
 in London. It's not his fault." 
 
 "Which on us said it were?" asked Nathan, rather put 
 out. " Thof, for that matter, a few weeks would caiTy him 
 over the mire, and make him as good a lawyer as any judge 
 among 'em. Oud Lawson the attorney told me that, in a 
 talk I had wi' him a bit sin. Na, na ! it's the lad's own 
 hankering after London that makes him want for to stay there 
 for a year, let alone two." 
 
 Nathan shook his head. 
 
 "And if it be his own hankering," said Bessy, putting down 
 her apron, her face all flame, and her eyes swollen up, "I 
 dunnot see harm in it. Lads aren't like lasses, to be teed 
 to their own fireside like th' crook yonder. It's fitting for a 
 young man to go abroad and see the world afore he settles 
 down." 
 
 Hester's hand sought Bessy's, and the two women sat in 
 sympathetic defiance of any blame that should be thrown on 
 the beloved absent. Nathan only said — 
 
 "Nay, wench, dunnot wax up so; whatten's done's done; 
 and worse, it's my doing. I mun needs make my bairn a 
 gentleman ; and we mun pay for it." 
 
 " Dear uncle ! he wunna spend much, I'll answer for it ; and 
 I'll scrimp and save i' the house to make it good." 
 
 "Wench!" said Nathan solemnly, "it were not paying in 
 cash I were speaking on : it were paying in heart's care, and 
 heaviness of soul. Lunnon is a place where the devil keeps 
 court as well as King George; and my poor chap has more 
 nor once welly fallen into his clutches here. I dunno what 
 he'll do when he gets close within sniff of him." 
 
 "Don't let him go, father!" said Hester, for the first time 
 taking this view. Hitherto she had only thought of her own 
 
424 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 grief at parting with him. " Father, if you think so, keep him 
 here, safe under our own eye. " 
 
 " Nay ! " said Nathan, " he's past time o' hfe for that. Why, 
 there's not one on us knows where he is at this present time, 
 and he not gone out of our sight an hour. He's too big to 
 be put back i' th* go-cart, mother, or keep within doors with 
 tlie chair turned bottom upwards." 
 
 ' ' I wish he were a wee bairn lying in my arms again. It 
 were a sore day when I weaned him ; and I think hfe's been 
 gettin' sorer and sorer at every turn he's ta'en towards man- 
 hood." 
 
 " Coom, lass, that's noan the way to be talking. Be thank- 
 ful to Marcy that thou'st getten a man for thy son as stands 
 five foot eleven in's stockings, and ne'er a sick piece about 
 him. We wunnot grudge him his fling, will we, Bess, my 
 wench? He'll be coming back in a year, or, may be, a bit 
 more ; and be a' for settling in a quiet town like, wi' a wife 
 that's noan so fur fra' me at this very minute. An' we oud folk, 
 as we get into years, must gi' up farm, and tak a bit on a 
 house near Lawyer Benjamin." 
 
 And so the good Nathan, his own heart heavy enough, tried 
 to soothe his womenkind. But of the three, his eyes were 
 longest in closing, his apprehensions the deepest founded. 
 
 "I misdoubt me I hanna done well by th' lad. I misdoubt 
 me sore," was the thought that kept him awake till day began 
 to dawn. "Summat's wrong about him, or folk would na 
 look at me wi' such piteous-like een when they speak on him. 
 I can see th' meaning of it, thof I'm too proud to let on. And 
 Lawson, too, he holds his tongue more nor he should do, 
 when I ax him how my lad's getting on, and whatten sort of 
 a lawyer he'll mak. God be marciful to Hester an' me, if 
 th' lad's gone away ! God be marciful ! But may be it's this 
 lying waking a' the night through, that maks me so fearfu'. 
 Why, when I were his age, I daur be bound I should ha* spent 
 money fast enoof, i' I could ha' come by it. But I had to arn it ; 
 that maks a great differ'. Well ! It were hard to thwart th' 
 child of our old age, and we waitin' so long for to have 'un ! " 
 
 Next morning, Nathan rode Moggy, the cart-horse, into 
 Highminster to see Mr. Lawson. Anybody who saw him 
 ride out of his own yard would have been struck with the 
 change in him which was visible when he returned ; a change, 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 425 
 
 more than a day's unusual exercise should have made in a man 
 of his years. He scarcely held the reins at all. One jerk of 
 Moggy's head would have plucked them out of his hands. His 
 head was bent forward, his eyes looking on some unseen thing, 
 with long unwinking gaze. But as he drew near home on his 
 return, he made an effort to recover himself. 
 
 " No need fretting them," he said ; " lads will be lads. But 
 I didna think he had it in him to be so thowtless, young as 
 he is. Well, well ! he'll, may be, get more wisdom i' Lunnon. 
 Anyways it's best to cut him off fra such evil lads as Will 
 Hawker, and such-like. It's they as have led my boy astray. 
 He were a good chap till he knowed them — a good chap till 
 he knowed them." 
 
 But he put all his cares in the background when he came 
 into the house-place, where both Bessy and his wife met him 
 at the door, and both would fain lend a hand to take off his 
 great-coat. 
 
 "Theer, wenches, theer ! ye might let a man alone for to 
 get out on's clothes! Why, I might ha' struck thee, lass," 
 And he went on talking, trying to keep them off for a time 
 from the subject that all had at heart. But there was no 
 putting them off for ever ; and, by dint of repeated question- 
 ing on his wife's part, more was got out than he had ever 
 meant to tell — enough to grieve both his hearers sorely : and 
 yet the brave old man still kept the worst in his own breast. 
 
 The next day Benjamin came home for a week or two, 
 before making his great start to London. His father kept 
 him at a distance, and was solemn and quiet in his manner 
 to the young man. Bessy, who had shown anger enough at 
 first, and had uttered many a sharp speech, began to relent, 
 and then to feel hurt and displeased that her uncle should 
 persevere so long in his cold, reserved manner, and Benjamin 
 just going to leave them. Her aunt went, tremblingly busy, 
 about the clothes-presses and drawers, as if afraid of letting 
 herself think either of the past or the future ; only once or 
 twice, coming behind her son, she suddenly stopped over his 
 sitting figure, and kissed his cheek, and stroked his hair. 
 Bessy remembered afterwards — long years afterwards — how he 
 had tossed his head away with nervous irritability on one of 
 these occasions, and had muttered— her aunt did not hear it, 
 but Bessy did — 
 
 02 
 
426 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 " Can't you leave a man alone? " 
 
 Towards Bessy herself he was pretty gracious. No other 
 words express his manner : it was nat warm, nor tender, nor 
 cousinly, but there was an assumption of underbred polite- 
 ness towards her as a young, pretty woman ; which politeness 
 was neglected in his authoritative or grumbling manner to- 
 wards his mother, or his sullen silence before his father. 
 He once or twice ventured on a compliment to Bessy on her 
 personal appearance. She stood still, and looked at him with 
 astonishment. 
 
 "How's my eyes changed sin' last thou saw'st them," she 
 asked, " that thou must be telling me about 'em i' that fashion? 
 I'd rayther by a deal see thee helping thy mother when she's 
 dropped her knitting-needle and canna see i' th' dusk for to 
 pick it up." 
 
 But Bessy thought of his pretty speech about her eyes long 
 after he had forgotten making it, and would have been puzzled 
 to tell the colour of them. Many a day, after he was gone, 
 did she look earnestly in the little oblong looking-glass, which 
 hung up against the wall of her little sleeping-chamber, but 
 which she used to take down in order to examine the eyes 
 he had praised, murmuring to herself, " Pretty soft grey eyes ! 
 Pretty soft grey eyes ! " until she would hang up the glass again 
 with a sudden laugh and a rosy blush. 
 
 In the days when he had gone away to the vague distance 
 and vaguer place — the city called London— Bessy tried to for- 
 get all that had gone against her feeling of the affection and 
 duty that a son owed to his parents ; and she had many things 
 to forget of this kind that would keep surging up into her 
 mind. For instance, she wished that he had not objected to 
 the home-spun, home-made shirts which his mother and she 
 had had such pleasure in getting ready for him. He might 
 not know, it was true— and so her love urged — how carefully 
 and evenly the thread had been spun : how, not content with 
 bleaching the yarn in the sunniest meadow, the linen, on its 
 return from the weaver's,, had been spread out afresh on the 
 sweet summer grass, and watered carefully night after night 
 when there was no dew to perform the kindly office. He did 
 not know— for no one but Bessy herself did — how many false 
 or large stitches, made large and false by her aunt's faihng 
 eyes (who yet liked to do the choicest part of the stitching all 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 42/ 
 
 by herself), Bessy had unpicked at night in her own room, 
 and with dainty fingers had restitched ; sewing eagerly in the 
 dead of night. All this he did not know ; or he could never 
 have complained of the coarse texture, the old-fashioned make 
 of these shirts ; and urged on his mother to give him part 
 of her little store of egg and butter money in order to buy 
 newer-fashioned linen in Highminster. 
 
 When once that little precious store of his mother's was 
 discovered, it was well for Bessy's peace of mind that she did 
 not know how loosely her aunt counted up the coins, mistaking 
 guineas for shillings, or just the other way, so that the amount 
 was seldom the same in the old black spoutless teapot. Yet 
 this son, this hope, this love, had still a strange power of 
 fascination over the household. The evening before he left, 
 he sat between his parents, a hand in theirs on either side, 
 and Bessy on the old creepie-stool, her head lying on her 
 aunt's knee, and looking up at him from time to time, as if 
 to learn his face off by heart ; till his glances meeting hers, 
 made her drop her eyes, and only sigh. 
 
 He stopped up late that night with his father, long after the 
 women had gone to bed. But not to sleep ; for I will answer 
 for it the grey-haired mother never slept a wink till the late 
 dawn of the autumn day ; and Bessy heard her uncle come 
 upstairs with heavy, deliberate footsteps, and go to the old 
 stocking which served him for bank, and count out the golden 
 guineas ; once he stopped, but again he went on afresh, as if 
 resolved to crown his gift with liberality. Another long pause 
 — in which she could but indistinctly hear continued words, it 
 might have been advice, it might be a prayer, for it was in 
 her uncle's voice — and then father and son came up to bed. 
 Bessy's room was but parted from her cousin's by a thin wooden 
 partition ; and the last sound she distinctly heard, before her 
 eyes, tired out with crying, closed themselves in sleep, was the 
 guineas clinking down upon each other at regular intervals, 
 as if Benjamin were playing at pitch and toss with his father's 
 present. 
 
 After he was gone, Bessy wished he had asked her to walk 
 part of the way with him into Highminster. She was all ready, 
 her things laid out on the bed ; but she could not accompany 
 him without invitation. 
 
 The little household tried to close over the gap as best they 
 
428 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 might. They seemed to set themselves to their daily work with 
 unusual vigour ; but somehow when evening came there had 
 been little done. Heavy hearts never make light work, and 
 there was no telling how much care and anxiety each had had 
 to bear in secret in the field, at the wheel, or in the dairy. 
 Formerly he was looked for every Saturday — looked for, though 
 he might not come ; or if he came, there were things to be 
 spoken about that made his visit anything but a pleasure : still 
 he might come, and all things might go right ; and then what 
 sunshine, what gladness to those humble people ! But now he 
 was away, and dreary winter was come on ; old folks' sight 
 fails, and the evenings were long, and sad, in spite of all Bessy 
 could do or say. And he did not write so often as he might — 
 so every one thought ; though every one would have been ready 
 to defend him from either of the others who had expressed such 
 a thought aloud. "Surely," said Bessy to herself, when the first 
 primroses peeped out in a sheltered and sunny hedge-bank, and 
 she gathered them as she passed home from afternoon church 
 — "surely, there never will be such a dreary, miserable winter 
 again as this has been." There had been a great change in 
 Nathan and Hester Huntroyd during this last year. The spring 
 before, when Benjamin was yet the subject of more hopes than 
 fears, his father and mother looked what I may call an elderly 
 middle-aged couple : people who had a good deal of hearty 
 work in them yet. Now — it was not his absence alone that 
 caused the change — they looked frail and old, as if each day's 
 natural trouble was a burden more than they could bear. For 
 Nathan had heard sad reports about his only child, and had 
 told them solemnly to his wife, as things too bad to be believed, 
 and yet, " God help us if he is indeed such a lad as this ! " 
 Their eyes were become too dry and hollow for many tears ; 
 they sat together, hand in hand ; and shivered, and sighed, and 
 did not speak many words, or dare to look at each other : and 
 then Hester had said — 
 
 "We mauna tell th' lass. Young folks' hearts break wi' a 
 little, and she'd be apt to fancy it were true." Here the old 
 woman's voice broke into a kind of piping cry, but she struggled, 
 and her next words were all right. " We mauna tell her; he's 
 bound to be fond on her, and, may be, if she thinks well on him. 
 and loves him, it will bring him straight ! " 
 
 •' God grant it ! " said Nathan. 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 429 
 
 "God shall grant it!" said Hester, passionately moaning 
 out her words ; and then repeating them, alas ! with a vain 
 repetition. 
 
 "It's a bad place for lying, is Highminster," said she at 
 length, as if impatient of the silence. "I never knowed such 
 a place for getting up stories. But Bessy knows nought on, 
 and nother you nor me belie'es 'em, that's one blessing." 
 
 But if they did not in their hearts believe them, how came 
 they to look so sad, and worn, beyond what mere age could 
 make them ? 
 
 Then came round another year, another winter, yet more 
 miserable than the last. This year, with the primroses, came 
 Benjamin; a bad, hard, flippant young man, with yet enough 
 of specious manners and handsome countenance to make his 
 appearance striking at first to those to whom the aspect of a 
 London fast young man of the lowest order is strange and 
 new. Just at first, as he sauntered in with a swagger and an 
 air of indifference, which was partly assumed, partly real, his 
 old parents felt a simple kind of awe of him, as if he were not 
 their son, but a real gentleman ; but they had too much fine 
 instinct in their homely natures not to know, after a very few 
 minutes had passed, that this was not a true prince. 
 
 " Whatten ever does he mean," said Hester to her niece, as 
 soon as they were alone, "by a them maks and wearlocks? 
 And he minces his words as if his tongue were clipped short, 
 or split like a magpie's. Hech ! London is as bad as a hot 
 day i' August for spoiling good flesh ; for he were a good- 
 looking lad when he went up ; and now, look at him, with his 
 skin gone into lines and flourishes, just like the first page on 
 a copybook." 
 
 "I think he looks a good deal better, aunt, for them new- 
 fashioned whiskers ! " said Bessy, blushing still at the remem- 
 brance of the kiss he had given her on first seeing her — a 
 pledge, she thought, poor girl, that, in spite of his long silence 
 in letter-writing, he still looked upon her as his troth-plight 
 wife. There were things about him which none 'of them liked, 
 although they never spoke of them ; yet there was also some- 
 thing to gratify them in the way in which he remained quiet 
 at Nab-End, instead of seeking variety, as he had formerly 
 done, by constantly stealing off to the neighbouring town. 
 His father had paid all the debts that he knew of, soon after 
 
430 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 Benjamin had gone up to London ; so there were no duns 
 that his parents knew to alarm him, and keep him at home. 
 And he went out in the morning with the old man, his father, 
 and lounged by his side, as Nathan went round his fields, 
 with busy yet infirm gait, having heart, as he would have 
 expressed it, in all that was going on, because at length his 
 son seemed to take an interest in the farming affairs, and 
 stood patiently by his side while he compared his own small 
 galloways with the great shorthorns looming over his neigh- 
 bour's hedge. 
 
 "It's a slovenly way, thou seest, that of selling th' milk; 
 folk don't care whether it's good or not, so that they get 
 their pint-measure full of stuff that's watered afore its leaves 
 th' beast, instead o' honest cheating by the help o' th' pump. 
 But look at Bessy's butter, what skill it shows ! part her 
 own manner o' making, and part good choice o' cattle. It's 
 a pleasure to see her basket, a' packed ready for to go to 
 market ; and it's noan o' a pleasure for to see the buckets 
 fu' of their blue starch-water as yon beasts give. I'm thinking 
 they crossed th' breed wi' a pump not long sin'. Hech 1 
 but our Bessy's a clever canny wench ! I sometimes think 
 thou'lt be for gie'ing up th' law, and taking to th' oud trade, 
 when thou wedst wi' her ! " This was intended to be a 
 skilful way of ascertaining whether there was any ground 
 for the old farmer's wish and prayer that Benjamin might 
 give up the law and return to the primitive occupation of his 
 father. Nathan dared to hope it now, since his son had never 
 made much by his profession, owing, as he had said, to his want 
 of a connection : and the farm, and the stock, and the clean 
 wife, too, were ready to liis hand ; and Nathan could safely 
 rely on himself never in his most unguarded moments to 
 reproach his son with the hardly - earned hundreds that had 
 been spent on his education. So the old man hstened with 
 painful interest to the answer which his son was evidently 
 struggling to make ; coughing a little, and blowing his nose 
 before he spoke. 
 
 "Well! you see, father, law is a precarious livelihood; 
 a man, as I may express myself, has no chance in the pro- 
 fession unless he is known — known to the judges, and tip-top 
 barristers, and that sort of thing. Now, you see, my mother 
 and you have no acquaintance that you may call exactly in 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 431 
 
 that line. But luckily I have met with a man, a friend, as 
 I may say, who is really a first-rate fellow, knowing everybody, 
 from the Lord Chancellor downwards ; and he has offered me 
 
 a share in his business — a partnership, in short" He 
 
 hesitated a Httle. 
 
 "I'm sure that's uncommon kind of the gentleman," said 
 Nathan. " I should like for to thank him mysen ; for it's 
 not many as would pick up a young chap out o' th' dirt 
 c!s it were, and say ' Here's hauf my good fortune for you, 
 sir, and your very good health.' Most on 'em, when they're 
 get: in' a bit o' luck, run off wi' it to keep it a' to themselves, 
 and gobble it down in a corner. What may be his name, for I 
 shou'd like to know it ? " 
 
 "You don't quite apprehend me, father. A great deal of 
 what you've said is true to the letter. People don't like to 
 share their good luck, as you say." 
 
 "The more credit to them as does," broke in Nathan. 
 
 "Ay, but, you see, even such a fine fellow as my friend 
 Cavendish does not like to give away half his good practice 
 for nothing. He expects an equivalent." 
 
 "An equivalent," said Nathan : his voice had dropped down 
 an octave. "And what may that be? There's always some 
 meaning in grand words, I take it, though I am not book-larned 
 enough to find it out." 
 
 " Why, in this case, the equivalent he demands for taking me 
 into partnership, and afterwards relinquishing the whole business 
 to me, is three hundred pounds down." 
 
 Benjamin looked sideways from under his eyes to see how 
 his father took the proposition. His father struck his stick 
 deep down in the ground, and leaning one hand upon it, faced 
 round at him. 
 
 "Then thy fine friend may go and be hanged. Three 
 hunder pound ! I'll be darned an' danged too, if I know 
 where to get 'em, if I'd be making a fool o' thee an* mysen 
 too." 
 
 He was out of breath by this time. His son took his 
 father's first words in dogged silence ; it was but the burst of 
 surprise he had led himself to expect, and did not daunt him 
 for long. 
 
 " I should think, sir" — — 
 
 "'Sir' — whatten for dost thou 'sir' me? Is them vour 
 
432 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 manners? I'm plain Nathan Huntroyd, who never took on to 
 be a gentleman ; but I have paid my way up to this time, 
 which I shannot do much longer, if I'm to have a son coming 
 an' asking me for three hundred pound, just meet same as if I 
 were a cow, and had nothing to do but let down my milk to the 
 first person as strokes me." 
 
 "Well, father," said Benjamin, with an affectation of frank- 
 ness, "then there's nothing for me, but to do as I have often 
 planned before — go and emigrate." 
 
 "And what?" said his father, looking sharply and steadily 
 at him. 
 
 " Emigrate. Go to America, or India, or some colony 
 where there would be an opening for a young man of 
 spirit." 
 
 Benjamin had reserved this proposition for his trump card, 
 expecting by means of it to carry all before him. But, 
 to his surprise, his father plucked his stick out of the hole 
 he had made when he so vehemently thrust it into the 
 ground, and walked on four or five steps in advance ; there 
 he stood still again, and there was a dead silence for a few 
 minutes. 
 
 "It 'ud, may be, be the best thing thou couldst do," the 
 father began. Benjamin set his teeth hard to keep in curses. 
 It was well for poor Nathan he did not look round then, 
 and see the look his son gave him. " But it would come 
 hard like upon us, upon Hester and me, for, whether thou'rt 
 a good 'un or not, thou'rt our flesh and blood, our only 
 bairn, and if thou'rt not all as a man could wish, it's, may be, 
 
 been the fault on our pride i' the It 'ud kill the missus 
 
 if he went off to Amerikay, and Bess, too, the lass as thinks so 
 much on him ! " The speech, originally addressed to his son, 
 had wandered off into a monologue— as keenly hstened to by 
 Benjamin, however, as if it had all been spoken to him. After 
 a pause of consideration, his father turned round: "Yon man 
 — I wunnot call him a friend o' yourn, to think of asking you 
 for such a mint o' money — is not th' only one, I'll be bound, 
 as could give ye a start i' the law ? Other folks 'ud, may be, do 
 it for less?" 
 
 "Not one of 'em ; to give me equal advantages," said Ben- 
 jamin, thinking he perceived signs of relenting. 
 
 " Well, then, thou may'st tell him that it's nother he nor thee 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 433 
 
 as '11 see th' sight o' three hundred pound o' my money. I'll 
 not deny as I've a bit laid up again a rainy day ; it's not so 
 much as thatten though, and a part on it is for Bessy, as has 
 been like a daughter to us." 
 
 " But Bessy is to be your real daughter some day, when I've 
 a home to take her to," said Benjamin ; for he played very 
 fast and loose, even in his own mind, with his engagement 
 with Bessy. Present with her, when she was looking her 
 brightest and best, he behaved to her as if they were engaged 
 lovers ; absent from her, he looked upon her rather as a good 
 wedge, to be driven into his parents' favour on his behalf. 
 Now, however, he was not exactly untrue in speaking as if he 
 meant to make her his wife ; for the thought was in his mind, 
 though he made use of it to work upon his father. 
 
 " It will be a dree day for us, then," said the old man. " But 
 God '11 have us in his keeping, and '11, may-happen, be taking 
 more care on us i' heaven by that time than Bess, good lass 
 as she is, has had on us at Nab-End. Her heart is set on 
 thee, too. But, lad, I hanna gotten the three hunder ; I keeps 
 my cash i' th' stocking, thou know'st, till it reaches fifty pound, 
 and then I takes it to Ripon Bank. Now the last scratch 
 they'n gi'en me made it just two hunder, and I hanna but on 
 to fifteen pound yet i' the stockin', and I meant one hunder 
 an' the red cow's calf to be for Bess, she's ta'en such pleasure 
 like i' rearing it." 
 
 Benjamin gave a sharp glance at his father to see if he was 
 teUing the truth ; and that a suspicion of the old man, his 
 father, had entered into the son's head, tells enough of his ow'n 
 character. 
 
 " I canna do it, I canna do it, for sure, although I shall like 
 to think as I had helped on the wedding. There's the black 
 heifer to be sold yet, and she'll fetch a matter of ten pound ; 
 but a deal on't will be needed for seed-corn, for the arable did 
 but bad last year, and I thought I would try ; I'll tell thee 
 what, lad ! I'll make it as though Bess lent thee her hunder, 
 only thou must give her a writ of hand for it, and thou shalt 
 have a' the money i' Ripon Bank, and see if the lawyer wunnot 
 let thee have a share of what he offered thee at three hunder 
 for two. I dunnot mean for to wrong him, but thou must 
 get a fair share for the money. At times I think thou'rt 
 done by folk ; now, I wadna have you cheat a bairn of a 
 
434 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 brass farthing; same time I wadna have thee so soft as to 
 be cheated." 
 
 To explain this, it should be told that some of the bills which 
 Benjamin had received money from his father to pay, had been 
 altered so as to cover other and less creditable expenses which 
 the young man had incurred ; and the simple old farmer, who 
 had still much faith left in him for his boy, was acute enough 
 to perceive that he had paid above the usual price for the 
 articles he had purchased. 
 
 After some hesitation, Benjamin agreed to receive the two 
 hundred, and promised to employ it to the best advantage in 
 setting himself up in business. He had, nevertheless, a strange 
 hankering after the additional fifteen pounds that was left to 
 accumulate in the stocking. It was his, he thought, as heir 
 to his father ; and he soon lost some of his usual complaisance 
 for Bessy that evening, as he dwelt on the idea that there was 
 money being laid by for her, and grudged it to her even in 
 imagination. He thought more of this fifteen pounds that he 
 was not to have than of all the hardly-earned and humbly- 
 saved two hundred that he was to come into possession of. 
 Meanwhile, Nathan was in unusual spirits that evening. He 
 was so generous and affectionate at heart, that he had an 
 unconscious satisfaction in having helped two people on the 
 road to happiness by the sacrifice of the greater part of his 
 property. The very fact of having trusted his son so largely, 
 seemed to make Benjamin more worthy of trust in his father's 
 estimation. The sole idea he tried to banish was, that, if all 
 came to pass as he hoped, both Benjamin and Bessy would 
 be settled far away from Nab- End ; but then he had a child- 
 like reliance that "God would take care of him and his 
 missus, somehow or anodder. It wur o' no use looking too 
 far ahead." 
 
 Bessy had to hear many unintelligible jokes from her uncle 
 that night ; for he made no doubt that Benjamin had told her 
 all that had passed, whereas the truth was, his son had said 
 never a word to his cousin on the subject. 
 
 When the old couple were in bed, Nathan told his wife of 
 the promise he had made to his son, and the plan in life which 
 the advance of the two hundred was to promote. Poor Hester 
 was a httle startled at the sudden change in the destination of 
 the sum, which she had long thought of with secret pride ss 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 43^ 
 
 •' money i' th' bank." But she was willing enough to part with 
 it, if necessary, for Benjamin. Only, how such a sum could 
 be necessary, was the puzzle. But even this perplexity was 
 jostled out of her mind by the overwhelming idea, not only 
 of "our Ben" settling in London, but of Bessy going there 
 too as his wife. This great trouble swallowed up all care 
 about money, and Hester shivered and sighed all the night 
 through v/ith distress. In the morning, as Bessy was kneading 
 the bread, her aunt, who had been sitting by the fire in an 
 unusual manner, for one of her active habits, said — 
 
 " I reckon we maun go to th' shop for our bread, an' that's a 
 thing I never thought to come to so long as I lived." 
 
 Bessy looked up from her kneading, surprised. 
 
 "I'm sure, I'm noan going to eat their nasty stuff. What 
 for do ye want to get baker's bread, aunt? This dough 
 will rise as high as a kite in a south wind." 
 
 "I'm not up to kneading as I could do once; it welly 
 breaks my back ; and when thou'rt off in London, I reckon 
 we maun buy our bread, first time in my life." 
 
 "I'm not a-going to London," said Bessy, kneading away 
 with fresh resolution, and growing very red, either with the 
 idea or the exertion. 
 
 " But our Ben is going partner wi' a great London lawyer, 
 and thou know'st he'll not tarry long but what he'll fetch 
 thee." 
 
 "Now, aunt," said Bessy, stripping her arms of the dough, 
 but still not looking up, "if that's all, don't fret yourself. 
 Ben will have twenty minds in his head afore he settles, 
 eyther in business or in wedlock. I sometimes wonder," 
 she said, with increasing vehemence, "why I go on thinking 
 on him ; for I dunnot think he thinks on me, when I'm 
 out o' sight. I've a month's mind to try and forget him 
 this time when he leaves us — that I have ! " 
 
 "For shame, wench! and he to be planning and purpos- 
 ing all for thy sake. It wur only yesterday as he v,ur 
 talking to thy uncle, and mapping it out so clever; only 
 thou seest, wench, it'll be dree work for us when both thee 
 and him is gone." 
 
 The old woman began to cry the kind of tearless cry 
 of the aged. Bessy hastened to comfort her ; and the two 
 talked, and grieved, and hoped, and planned for the days 
 
436 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 that now were to be, till they ended, the one in being consoled, 
 the oiher in being secretly happy. 
 
 Nathan and his son came back from Highminster that 
 evening, with their business transacted in the roundabout 
 way which was most satisfactory to the old man. If he 
 had thought it necessary to take half as much pains in 
 ascertaining the truth of the plausible details by which his son 
 bore out the story of the offered partnership as he did 
 in trying to get his money conveyed to London in the 
 most secure manner, it would have been well for him. But 
 he knew nothing of all this, and acted in the way which 
 satisfied his anxiety best. He came home tired, but content ; 
 not in such high spirits as on the night before, but as easy 
 in his mind as he could be on the eve of his son's departure. 
 Bessy, pleasantly agitated by her aunt's tale of the morning 
 of her cousin's true love for her— what ardently we wish 
 we long believe — and the plan which was to end in their 
 marriage — end to her, the woman, at least — Bessy looked 
 almost pretty in her bright, blushing comehness, and more 
 than once, as she moved about from kitchen to dairy, 
 Benjamin pulled her towards him, and gave her a kiss. 
 To all such proceedings the old couple were wilfully blind ; 
 and, as night drew on, every one became sadder and quieter, 
 thinking of the parting that was to be on the morrow. As 
 the hours slipped away, Bessy too became subdued ; and, 
 by-and-by, her simple cunning was exerted to get Benjamin 
 to sit down next his mother, whose very heart was yearning 
 after him, as Bessy saw. When once her child was placed 
 by her side and she had got possession of his hand, the 
 old woman kept stroking it, and murmuring long unused 
 words of endearment, such as she had spoken to him while 
 he was yet a little child. But all this was wearisome to 
 him. As long as he might play with, and plague, and 
 caress Bessy, he had not been sleepy ; but now he yawned 
 loudly. Bessy could have boxed his ears for not curbing 
 this gaping ; at any rate, he need not have done it so 
 openly — so almost ostentatiously. His mother was more 
 pitiful. 
 
 " Thou'rt tired, my lad!" said she, putting her hand 
 fondly on his shoulder; but it fell off, as he stood up sud- 
 denly, and said — 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 43/ 
 
 **Yes, deuced tired! I'm off to bed." And with a rough, 
 careless kiss all round, even to Bessy, as if he was "deuced 
 tired " of playing the lover, he was gone ; leaving the three 
 to gather up their thoughts slowly, and follow him upstairs. 
 
 He seemed almost impatient at them for rising betimes 
 to see him off the next morning, and made no more of a 
 good-bye than some such speech as this: "Well, good folk, 
 when next I see you, I hope you'll have merrier faces than 
 you have to-day. Why, you might be going to a funeral r 
 it's enough to scare a man from the place ; you look quite 
 ugly to what you did last night, Bess." 
 
 He was gone ; and they turned into the house, and 
 settled to the long day's work without many words about 
 their loss. They had no time for unnecessary talking, indeed, 
 for much had been left undone, during his short visit, that 
 ought to have been done ; and they had now to work double 
 tides. Hard work was their comfort for many a long^ 
 day. 
 
 For some time Benjamin's letters, if not frequent, were 
 full of exultant accounts of his well-doing. It is true that 
 the details of his prosperity were somewhat vague ; but 
 the fact was broadly and unmistakably stated. Then came 
 longer pauses ; shorter letters, altered in tone. About a 
 year after he had left them, Nathan received a letter which 
 bewildered and irritated him exceedingly. Something had 
 gone wrong — what, Benjamin did not say — but the letter 
 ended with a request that was almost a demand, for the 
 remainder of his father's savings, whether in the stocking 
 or the bank. Now, the year had not been prosperous with 
 Nathan ; there had been an epidemic among cattle, and he 
 had suffered along with his neighbours ; and, moreover, the 
 price of cows, when he had bought some to repair his wasted 
 stock, was higher than he had ever remembered it before. 
 The fifteen pounds in the stocking, which Benjamin left, 
 had diminished to Httle more than three ; and to have that 
 required of him in so peremptory a manner ! Before Nathan 
 imparted the contents of this letter to any one (Bessy and 
 her aunt had gone to market on a neighbour's cart that 
 day), he got pen and ink and paper, and wrote back an 
 ill-spelt, but very exphcit and stern negative. Benjamin 
 had had his portion ; and if he could not make it do, so 
 
43^ THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 much tlie worse for him ; his father had no more to give 
 him. That was the substance of the letter. 
 
 The letter was written, directed, and sealed, and given 
 to the country postman, returning to Highminster after 
 his day's distribution and collection of letters, before Hester 
 and Bessy came back from market. It had been a pleasant 
 day of neighbourly meeting and sociable gossip : prices had 
 been high, and they were in good spirits, only agreeably 
 tired, and full of small pieces of news. It was some time 
 before they found out how flatly all their talk fell on the 
 ears of the stay-at-home listener. But when they saw that his 
 depression was caused by something beyond their powers 
 of accounting for by any little every-day cause, they urged 
 him to tell them what was the matter. His anger had not 
 gone off. It had rather increased by dwelUng upon it, and 
 he spoke it out in good, resolute terms ; and, long ere he 
 had ended, the two women were as sad, if not as angry, 
 as himself. Indeed, it was many days before either feeling 
 wore away in the minds of those who entertained them. 
 Bessy was the soonest comforted, because she found a vent 
 for her sorrow in action ; action that was half as a kind of 
 compensation for many a sharp word that she had spoken 
 when her cousin had done anything to displease her on 
 his last visit, and half because she believed that he never 
 could have written such a letter to his father unless his want 
 of money had been very pressing and real ; though how 
 he could ever have wanted money so soon, after such a 
 heap of it had been given to him, was more than she could 
 justly say. Bessy got out all her savings of little presents 
 of sixpences and shiUings, ever since she had been a child, — 
 of all the money she had gained for the eggs of two hens, 
 called her own ; she put the whole together, and it was above 
 two pounds — two pounds five and sevenpence, to speak 
 accurately — and leaving out the penny as a nest-egg for 
 her future savings, she made up the rest in a little parcel^ 
 and sent it, with a note, to Benjamin's address in London: — 
 
 " From a well-wisher. 
 " D^ Benjamin,— Unkle has lost 2 cows and a vast of 
 monney. He is a good deal An gored, but more Troubled. 
 So no more at present. Hopeing this will finding you well 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 439 
 
 As it leaves us. Tho' lost to Site, To Memory Dear. Re- 
 payment not kneeded. — Your effectonet cousin, 
 
 " Elizabeth Rose." 
 
 When this packet was once fairly sent off, Bessy began to 
 sing again over her work. She never expected the mere 
 form of acknowledgment ; indeed, she had such faith in the 
 carrier (who took parcels to York, whence they wer^ for- 
 warded to London by coach), that she felt sure he would go 
 on purpose to London to deliver anything intrusted to him, 
 if he had not full confidence in the person, persons, coach 
 and horses, to whom he committed it. Therefore she was 
 not anxious that she did not hear of its arrival. " Giving a 
 thing to a man as one knows," said she to herself, "is a vast 
 different to poking a thing through a hole into a box, th' 
 inside of which one has never clapped eyes on ; and yet letters 
 get safe some ways or another." (The behef in the infallibility 
 of the post was destined to a shock before long.) But she 
 had a secret yearning for Benjamin's thanks, and some of the 
 old words of love that she had been without so long. Nay, 
 she even thought — when, day after day, week after week, 
 passed by without a Hne — that he might be winding up his 
 affairs in that weary, wasteful London, and coming back to 
 Nab- End to thank her in person. 
 
 One day— her aunt was upstairs, inspecting the summer's 
 make of cheeses, her uncle out in the fields — the postman 
 brought a letter into the kitchen to Bessy. A country post- 
 man, even now, is not much pressed for time, and in those 
 <iays there were but few letters to distribute, and they were 
 only sent out from Highminster once a week into the district 
 in which Nab-End was situated ; and on those occasions, the 
 letter-carrier usually paid morning calls on the various people 
 for whom he had letters. So, half standing by the dresser, 
 half sitting on it, he began to rummage out his bag. " It's 
 a queer-like thing I've got for Nathan this time. I am afraid 
 it will bear ill news in it, for there's * Dead Letter Office ' 
 stamped on the top of it." 
 
 " Lord save us," said Bessy, and sat down on the nearest 
 ■chair, as white as a sheet. In an instant, however, she was 
 lip, and snatching the ominous letter out of the man's hands, 
 she pushed him before her out of the house, and said, " Be 
 
440 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 off wi' thee, afore aunt comes down ; " and ran past him as 
 hard as she could, till she reached the field where she expected 
 to find her uncle. 
 
 "Uncle," said she, breathless, "what is it? Oh, uncle, 
 speak ! Is he dead ? " 
 
 Nathan's hands trembled, and his eyes dazzled. " Take 
 it," he said, *' and tell me what it is." 
 
 " It's a letter — it's from you to Benjamin, it is — and there's 
 words written on it, ' Not known at the address given ; ' so 
 they've sent it back to the writer — that's you, uncle. Oh, it 
 gave me such a start, with them nasty words written out- 
 side ! " 
 
 Nathan had taken the letter back into his own hands, and 
 was turning it over, while he strove to understand what the 
 quick-witted Bessy had picked up at a glance. But he arrived 
 at a different conclusion. 
 
 "He's dead!" said he. "The lad is dead, and he never 
 knowed how as I were sorry I wrote to 'un so sharp. My 
 lad ! my lad ! " Nathan sat down on the ground where he 
 stood, and covered his face with his old, withered hands. The 
 letter returned to him was one which he had written, with 
 infinite pains and at various times, to tell his child, in kinder 
 words and at greater length than he had done before, the 
 reasons why he could not send him the money demanded. 
 And now Benjamin was dead ; nay, the old man immediately 
 jumped to the conclusion that his child had been starved to 
 death, without money, in a wild, wide, strange place. All he 
 could say at first was — 
 
 "My heart, Bess — my heart is broken!" And he put his 
 hand to his side, still keeping his shut eyes covered with the 
 other, as though he never wished to see the light of day again. 
 Bessy was down by his side in an instant, holding him in her 
 arms, chafing and kissing him. 
 
 " It's noan so bad, uncle ; he's not dead ; the letter does not 
 say that, dunnot think it. He's flitted from that lodging, and 
 the lazy tykes dunna know where to find him ; and so they 
 just send y' back th' letter, instead of trying fra' house to 
 house, as Mark Benson would. I've always heerd tell on 
 * south-country folk for laziness. He's noan dead, uncle ; he's 
 just flitted, and he'll let us know afore long where he's getten 
 to. May be it's a cheaper place, for that lawyer has cheated 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 441 
 
 him, ye reck'Iet, and he'll be trying to hve for as little as he can, 
 that's all, uncle. Dunnot take on so, for it doesna say he's dead. " 
 
 By this time Bessy was crying with agitation, although she 
 firmly believed in her own view of the case, and had felt the 
 opening of the ill-favoured letter as a great relief. Presently 
 she began to urge, both with word and action, upon her uncle, 
 that he should sit no longer on the damp grass. She pulled 
 him up, for he was very stiff, and, as he said, " all shaken to 
 dithers." She made him walk about, repeating over and over 
 again her solution of the case, always in the same words, 
 beginning again and again, " He's noan dead ; it's just been 
 a flitting," and so on. Nathan shook his head, and tried to 
 be convinced ; but it was a steady belief in his own heart for 
 all that. He looked so deathly ill on his return home with 
 Bessy (for she would not let him go on with his day's work), 
 that his wife made sure he had taken cold, and he, weary and 
 indifferent to life, was glad to subside into bed and the rest 
 from exertion which his real bodily illness gave him. Neither 
 Bessy nor he spoke of the letter again, even to each other, for 
 many days, and she found means to stop Mark Benson's 
 tongue, and satisfy his kindly curiosity, by giving him the rosy 
 side of her own view of the case. 
 
 Nathan got up again, an older man in looks and constitution 
 by ten years for that week of bed. His wife gave him many 
 a scolding on his imprudence for sitting down in the wet field, 
 if ever so tired. But now she, too, was beginning to be uneasy 
 at Benjamin's long-continued silence. She could not write 
 herself, but she urged her husband many a time to send a letter 
 to ask for news of her lad. He said nothing in reply for some 
 time : at length he told her he would write next Sunday after- 
 noon. Sunday was his general day for writing, and this Sunday 
 he meant to go to church for tl>e first time since his illness. 
 On Saturday he was very persistent, against his wife's wishes 
 (backed by Bessy as hard as she could), in resolving to go into 
 Highminster to market. The change would do him good, he 
 said. But he came home tired, and a little mysterious in his 
 ways. When he went to the shippon the last thing at night, 
 he asked Bessy to go with him, and hold the lantern, while he 
 looked at an ailing cow ; and when they were fairly out of the 
 ear-shot of the house, he pulled a little shop-parcel from his 
 pocket and said — 
 
442 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 " Thou'lt put that on ma Sunday hat, wilt'ou, lass? It'll 
 be a bit on a comfort to me ; for I know my lad's dead and 
 gone, though I dunna speak on it, for fear o' grieving th' old 
 woman and ye." 
 
 " I'll put it on, uncle, if But he's noan dead." (Bessy 
 
 was sobbing. ) 
 
 "I know — I know, lass. I dunnot wish other folk to hold 
 my opinion ; but I'd like to wear a bit o' crape out o' respect 
 to my boy. It 'ud have done me good for to have ordered 
 a black coat, but she'd see if I had na' on my wedding-coat, 
 Sundays, for a' she's losing her eyesight, poor old wench ! 
 But she'll ne'er take notice o' a bit o' crape. Thou'lt put it on 
 all canny and tidy." 
 
 So Nathan went to church with a strip of crape, as narrow 
 as Bessy durst venture to make it, round his hat. Such is 
 the contradictoriness of human nature, that, though he was 
 most anxious his wife should not hear of his conviction that 
 their son was dead, he was half hurt that none of his neigh- 
 bours noticed his sign of mourning so far as to ask him for 
 whom he wore it. 
 
 But after a while, when they never heard a word from or about 
 Benjamin, the household wonder as to what had become of him 
 grew so painful and strong, that Nathan no longer kept his 
 idea to himself. Poor Hester, however, rejected it with her 
 whole will, heart, and soul. She could not and would not 
 believe — nothing should make her believe — that her only child 
 Benjamin had died without some sign of love or farewell to 
 her. No arguments could shake her in this. She believed 
 that, if all natural means of communication between her and 
 him had been cut off at the last supreme moment — If death 
 had come upon him in an instant, sudden and unexpected — 
 her intense love would have been supernaturally made conscious 
 of the blank. Nathan at times tried to feel glad that she 
 could still hope to see the lad again ; but at other moments he 
 wanted her sympathy in his grief, his self-reproach, his weary 
 wonder as to how and what they had done wrong in the treat- 
 ment of their son, that he had been such a care and sorrow to 
 his parents. Bessy was convinced, first by her aunt, and then 
 by her uncle — honestly convinced— on both sides of the argu- 
 ment ; and so, for the time, able to sympathise with each. 
 But she lost her youth in a very few months ; she looked set 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 443. 
 
 and middle-aged long before she ought to have done ; and 
 rarely smiled and never sang again. 
 
 All sorts of new arrangements were required by the blow 
 which told so miserably upon the energies of all the household 
 at Nab-End. Nathan could no longer go about and direct his 
 two men, taking a good turn of work himself at busy times. 
 Hester lost her interest in the dairy ; for which, indeed, her 
 increasing loss of sight unfitted her. Bessy would either do 
 field-work, or attend to the cows and the shippon, or churn, 
 or make cheese ; she did all well, no longer merrily, but with 
 something of stern cleverness. But she was not sorry when 
 her uncle, one evening, told her aunt and her that a neigh- 
 bouring farmer, Job Kirkby, had made him an offer to take so 
 much of his land off his hands as would leave him only pas- 
 ture enough for two cows, and no arable to attend to ; while 
 Farmer Kirkby did not wish to interfere with anything in the 
 house, only would be glad to use some of the out-building for 
 his fattening cattle. 
 
 " We can do wi' Hawky and Daisy ; it'll leave us eight or ten 
 pound o' butter to take to market i' summer time, and keep us 
 fra' thinking too much, which is what I'm dreading on as I get 
 into years." 
 
 " Ay," said his wife. " Thou'U not have to go so far afield, 
 if it's only the Aster-Toft as is on thy hands. And Bess will 
 have to gie up her pride i' cheese, and tak' to making cream- 
 butter. Td allays a fancy for trying at cream -butter, but th* 
 whey had to be used ; else, where I come fra', they'd never ha' 
 looked near whey-butter." 
 
 When Hester was left alone with Bessy, she said, in allu- 
 sion to this change of plan — 
 
 "Fm thankful to the Lord that it is as it is: for I were 
 allays afeared Nathan would have to gie up the house and 
 farm altogether, and then the lad would na' know where 
 to find us when he came back fra' Merikay. He's gone 
 there for to make his fortune, I'll be bound. Keep up 
 thy heart, lass, he'll be home some day ; and have sown 
 his wild oats. Eh ! but thatten's a pretty story i' the 
 Gospel about the Prodigal, who'd to eat the pigs' vittle at 
 one time, but ended i' clover in his father's house. And 
 I'm sure our Nathan '11 be ready to forgive him, and love 
 him, and make much of him, may be a deal more nor me, 
 
444 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 who never gave in to 's death. It'll be liken to a resurrection 
 to our Nathan." 
 
 Farmer Kirkby, then, took by far the greater part of 
 the land belonging to Nab-End Farm ; and the work about 
 the rest, and about the two remaining cows, was easily done 
 by three pairs of willing hands, with a little occasional 
 assistance. The Kirkby family were pleasant enough to 
 have to deal with. There was a son, a stiff, grave bachelor, 
 who was very particular and methodical about his work, and 
 rarely spoke to any one. But Nathan took it into his head 
 that John Kirkby was looking after Bessy, and was a good 
 deal troubled in his mind in consequence ; for it was the 
 first time he had to face the effects of his belief in his son's 
 death ; and he discovered, to his own surprise, that he had 
 not that implicit faith which would make it easy for him to 
 look upon Bessy as the wife of another man, than the one 
 to whom she had been betrothed in her youth. As, however, 
 John Kirkby seemed in no hurry to make his intentions 
 <if indeed he had any) clear to Bessy, it was only now and 
 then that his jealousy on behalf of his lost son seized upon 
 Nathan. 
 
 But people, old, and in deep hopeless sorrow, grow 
 irritable at times, however they may repent and struggle against 
 their irritability. There were days when Bessy had to bear 
 a good deal from her uncle ; but she loved him so dearly 
 and respected him so much, that, high as her temper was 
 to all other people, she never returned him a rough or 
 impatient word. And she had a reward in the conviction 
 of his deep, true affection for her, and her aunt's entire and 
 most sweet dependence upon her. 
 
 One day, however — it was near the end of November — 
 Bessy had had a good deal to bear, that seemed more 
 than usually unreasonable, on behalf of her uncle. The 
 truth was, that one of Kirkby's cows was ill, and John 
 Kirkby was a good deal about in the farmyard ; Bessy 
 was interested about the animal, and had helped in preparing 
 a mash over their own fire, that had to be given warm to 
 the sick creature. If John had been out of the way, there 
 would have been no one more anxious about the affair 
 than Nathan ; both because he was naturally kind-hearted and 
 neighbourly, and also because he was rather proud of 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 445 
 
 his reputation for knowledge in the diseases of cattle. But 
 because John was about, and Bessy helping a little in 
 what had to be done, Nathan would do nothing, and chose 
 to assume that "nothing to think on ailed th' beast, but 
 lads and lasses were allays fain to be feared on some- 
 thing." Now John was upwards of forty, and Bessy nearly 
 eight-and- twenty, so the terms lads and lasses did not exactly 
 apply to their case. 
 
 When Bessy brought the milk in from their own cows, 
 towards half-past five o'clock, Nathan bade her make the 
 doors, and not be running out i' the dark and cold about 
 other folks' business ; and, though Bessy was a little sur- 
 prised and a good deal annoyed at his tone, she sat down 
 to her supper without making a remonstrance. It had 
 long been Nathan's custom to look out the last thing at 
 night, to see " what mak' o' weather it wur ; " and when, 
 towards half-past eight, he got his stick and went out— two 
 or three steps from the door, which opened into the house- 
 place where they were sitting — Hester put her hand on her 
 niece's shoulder and said — 
 
 "He's gotten a touch o' the rheumatics, as twinges him 
 and makes him speak so sharp. I didna like to ask thee 
 afore him, but how's yon poor beast?" 
 
 "Very aiHng, belike. John Kirkby wur off for th' cow- 
 doctor when I cam in. I reckon they'll have to stop up 
 wi't a' night." 
 
 Since their sorrows her uncle had taken to reading a 
 chapter in the Bible aloud, the last thing at night. He 
 could not read fluently, and often hesitated long over 
 a word, which he miscalled at length ; but the very fact 
 of opening the book seemed to soothe those old bereaved 
 parents ; for it made them feel quiet and safe in the presence 
 of God, and took them out of the cares and troubles of 
 this world into that futurity which, however dim and 
 vague, was to their faithful hearts as a sure and certain 
 rest. This little quiet time — Nathan sitting with his horn 
 spectacles, the tallow candle between him and the Bible, 
 and throwing a strong light on his reverent, earnest face ; 
 Hester sitting on the other side of the fire, her head bowed 
 in attentive hstening, now and then shaking it, and moaning' 
 a little, but when a promise came, or any good tidings 
 
44^ THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 of great joy, saying "Amen" with fervour; Bessy by her 
 aunt, perhaps her mind a Httle wandering to some household 
 cares, or it might be on thoughts of those who were 
 absent — this Httle quiet pause, I say, was grateful and 
 soothing to this household, as a lullaby to a tired child. 
 But this night, Bessy, sitting opposite to the long, low 
 window, only shaded by a few geraniums that grew in 
 the sill, and to the door alongside that window through 
 which her uncle had passed not a quarter of an hour before, 
 saw the wooden latch of the door gently and almost 
 noiselessly lifted up, as if some one were trying it from the 
 •outside. 
 
 She was startled ; and watched again, intently, but it 
 was perfectly still now. She thought it must have been 
 that it had not fallen into its proper place, when her uncle 
 had come in and locked the door. It was just enough to 
 make her uncomfortable, no more ; and she almost per- 
 suaded herself it must have been fancy. Before going up- 
 stairs, however, she went to the window to look out into the 
 darkness ; but all was still. Nothing to be seen ; nothing to 
 be heard. So the three v/ent quietly upstairs to bed. 
 
 The house was little better than a cottage. The front 
 door opened on a house-place, over which was the old 
 oouple's bedroom. To the left, as you entered this pleasant 
 house-place, and at close right angles with the entrance, 
 was a door that led into the small parlour, which was 
 Hester's and Bessy's pride, although not half as comfort- 
 able as the house-place, and never on any occasion used 
 as a sitting-room. There were shells and bunches of honesty 
 in the fireplace ; the best chest of drawers, and a company 
 set of gaudy-coloured china, and a bright common carpet 
 on the floor ; but all failed to give it the aspect of the 
 homely comfort and delicate cleanliness of the house-place. 
 Over this parlour was the bedroom which Benjamin had 
 slept in when a boy, when at home. It was kept still in 
 a kind of readiness for him. The bed was yet there, in 
 which none had slept since he had last done, eight or 
 nine years ago ; and every now and then the warming- 
 pan was taken quietly and silently up by his old mother, 
 and the bed thoroughly aired. But this she did in her 
 liusband's absence, and without saying a word to any one; 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 447 
 
 nor did Bessy offer to help her, though her eyes often 
 filled with tears as she saw her aunt still going through 
 the hopeless service. But the room had become a receptacle 
 for all unused things ; and there was always a corner of it 
 appropriated to the winter's store of apples. To the left of 
 the house-place, as you stood facing the fire, on the side 
 opposite to the window and outer door, were two other doors ; 
 the one on the right led into a kind of back kitchen, and 
 had a lean-to roof, and a door opening on to the farm-yard 
 and back premises ; the left-hand door gave on the stairs, 
 underneath which was a closet, in which various household 
 treasures were kept, and beyond that the dairy, over which 
 Bessy slept ; her little chamber window opening just above 
 the sloping roof of the back-kitchen. There were neither 
 blinds nor shutters to any of the windows either upstairs 
 or down ; the house was built of stone, and there was heavy 
 framework of the same material round the little casement 
 windows, and the long, low window of the house-place was 
 divided by what, in grander dwellings, would be called 
 mullions. 
 
 By nine o'clock this night of which I am speaking, all had 
 gone upstairs to bed ; it was even later than usual, for the 
 burning of candles was regarded so much in the light of an 
 extravagance, that the household kept early hours even for 
 country-folk. But, somehow, this evening, Bessy could not 
 sleep, although in general she was in deep slumber five 
 minutes after her head touched the pillow. Her thoughts 
 ran on the chances for John Kirkby's cow, and a little fear 
 lest the disorder might be epidemic, and spread to their own 
 cattle. Across all these homely cares came a vivid, uncom- 
 fortable recollection of the way in which the door-latch went 
 up and down, without any sufficient agency to account for 
 it. She felt more sure now, than she had done downstairs, 
 that it was a real movement, and no effect of her imagina- 
 tion. She wished that it had not happened just when her 
 uncle was reading, that she might at once have gone quick 
 to the door, and convinced herself of the cause. As it was, 
 her thoughts ran uneasily on the supernatural ; and thence 
 to Benjamin, her dear cousin and playfellow, her early lover. 
 She had long given him up as lost for ever to her, if not 
 actually dead ; but this very giving him up for ever involved 
 
448 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 a free, full forgiveness of all his wrongs to her. She thought 
 tenderly of him, as of one who might have been led astray 
 in his later years, but who existed rather in her recollection 
 as the innocent child, the spirited lad, the handsome, dash- 
 ing young man. If John Kirkby's quiet attentions had ever 
 betrayed his wishes to Bessy — if indeed he ever had any 
 wishes on the subject — her first feeling would have been to 
 compare his weather-beaten, middle-aged face and figure 
 with the face and figure she remembered well, but never 
 more expected to see in this life. So thinking, she became 
 very restless, and weary of bed, and, after long tossing and 
 turning, ending in a belief that she should never get to sleep 
 at all that night, she went off soundly and suddenly. 
 
 As suddenly was she wide awake, sitting up in bed, listen- 
 ing to some noise that must have awakened her, but which 
 was not repeated for some time. Surely it was in her uncle's 
 room — her uncle was up ; but, for a minute or two, there 
 was no further sound. Then she heard him open his door, 
 and go downstairs, with hurried, stumbling steps. She now 
 thought that her aunt must be ill, and hastily sprang out of 
 bed, and was putting on her petticoat with hurried, trem- 
 bhng hands, and had just opened her chamber door, when 
 she heard the front door undone, and a scuffle, as of the 
 feet of several people, and many rude, passionate words, 
 spoken hoarsely below the breath. Quick as thought she 
 understood it all — the house was lonely— her uncle had the 
 reputation of being well-to-do— they had pretended to be 
 belated, and had asked their way or something. What a 
 blessing that John Kirkby's cow was sick, for there were 
 several men watching with him ! She went back, opened 
 her window, squeezed herself out, slid down the lean-to roof, 
 and ran barefoot and breathless to the shippon— 
 
 •'John, John, for the love of God, come quick; there's 
 robbers in the house, and uncle and aunt '11 be murdered ! " 
 she whispered, in terrified accents, through the closed and 
 barred shippon door. In a moment it was undone, and 
 John and the cow-doctor stood there, ready to act, if they 
 but understood her rightly. Again she repeated her words, 
 with broken, half-unintelligible explanations of what she as 
 yet did not rightly understand. 
 
 "Front door is open, say'st thou?" said John, arming 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 449 
 
 himself with a pitchfork, while the cow-doctor took some 
 other implement. "Then I reckon we'd best make for 
 that way o' getting into th' house, and catch 'em all in a 
 trap." 
 
 "Run! run!" was all Bessy could say, taking hold of 
 John Kirkby's arm, and pulling him along with her. Swiftly 
 did the three run to the house round the corner, and in at 
 the open front door. The men carried the horn lantern 
 they had been using in the shippon, and by the sudden 
 oblong light that it threw, Bessy saw the principal object 
 of her anxiety, her uncle, lying stunned and helpless on 
 the kitchen-floor. Her first thought was for him ; for she 
 had no idea that her aunt was in any immediate danger, 
 although she heard the noise of feet, and fierce, subdued 
 voices upstairs. 
 
 " Make th' door behind us, lass. We'll not let 'em escape ! " 
 said brave John Kirkby, dauntless in a good cause, though he 
 knew not how many there might be above. The cow-doctor 
 fastened and locked the door, saying, "There!" in a defiant 
 tone, as he put the key in his pocket. It was to be a struggle 
 for life or death, or, at any rate, for effectual capture or 
 desperate escape. Bessy kneeled, down by her uncle, who 
 did not speak nor give any sign of consciousness. Bessy 
 raised his head by drawing a pillow off the settle, and putting 
 it under him ; she longed to go for water into the back kitchen, 
 but the sound of a violent struggle, and of heavy blows, and 
 of low, hard curses spoken through closed teeth, and muttered 
 passion, as though breath were too much needed for action to 
 be wasted in speech, kept her still and quiet by her uncle's 
 side in the kitchen, where the darkness might almost be felt, 
 so thick and deep was it. Once — in a pause of her own heart's 
 beating — a sudden terror came over her ; she perceived, in 
 that strange way in which the presence of a living creature 
 forces itself on our consciousness in the darkest room, that 
 some one was near her, keeping as still as she. It was not 
 the poor old man's breathing that she heard, nor the radiation 
 of his presence that she felt ; some one else was in the kitchen ; 
 another robber, perhaps, left to guard the old man, with 
 murderous intent if his consciousness returned. Now Bessy 
 was fully aware that self-preservation would keep her terrible 
 companion quiet, as there was no motive for his betraying 
 
 P 
 
45Q THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 himself stronger than the desire of escape ; any effort for which 
 he, the unseen witness, must know would be rendered abortive 
 by the fact of the door being locked. 
 
 Yet with the knowledge that he was there, close to her, still, 
 silent as the grave — with fearful, it might be deadly, un- 
 spoken thoughts in his heart — possibly even with keener and 
 stronger sight than hers, as longer accustomed to the darkness, 
 able to discern her figure and posture, and glaring at her like 
 some wild beast — Bessy could not fail to shrink from the vision 
 that her fancy presented ! And still the struggle went on up- 
 stairs ; feet slipping, blows sounding, and the wrench of inten- 
 tioned aims, the strong gasps for breath, as the wrestlers paused 
 for an instant. In one of these pauses, Bessy felt conscious of a 
 creeping movement close to her, which ceased when the noise 
 of the strife above died away, and was resumed when it again 
 began. She was aware of it by some subtle vibration of the 
 air, rather than by touch or sound. She was sure that he 
 who had been close to her one minute as she knelt, was, the 
 next, passing stealthily towards the inner door which led to 
 the staircase. She thought he was going to join and strengthen 
 his accomplices, and, with a great cry, she sprang after him ; 
 but just as she came to l,he doorway, through which some 
 dim portion of hght from the upper chambers came, she saw 
 one man thrown downstairs, with such violence that he fell 
 almost at her very feet, while the dark, creeping figure glided 
 suddenly away to the left, and as suddenly entered the closet 
 beneath the stairs. Bessy had no time to wonder as to his 
 purpose in so doing, whether he had at first designed to aid his 
 accomplices in their desperate fight or not. He was an enemy, 
 a robber, that was all she knew, and she sprang to the door 
 of the closet, and in a trice had locked it on the outside. And 
 then she stood frightened, panting in that dark corner, sick 
 with terror lest the man who lay before her was either John 
 Kirkby or the cow-doctor. If it were either of those friendly 
 two, what would become of the other — of her uncle, her aunt, 
 herself? But, in a very few minutes, this wonder was ended ; 
 her two defenders came slowly and heavily down the stairs, 
 dragging with them a man, fierce, sullen, despairing — disabled 
 with terrible blows, which had made his face one bloody, 
 swollen mass. As for that, neither John nor the cow-doctor 
 were much more presentable. One of them bore the lantern 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 45 I 
 
 in his teeth, for all their strength was "taken up by the weight 
 of the fellow they were bearing. 
 
 " Take care," said Bessy, from her corner ; " there's a chap 
 just beneath your feet. I dunno know if he's dead or alive, and 
 uncle lies on the floor just beyond." 
 
 They stood still on the stairs for a moment. Just then the 
 robber they had thrown downstairs stirred and moaned. 
 
 "Bessy," said John, "run off to th' stable and fetch ropes 
 and gearing for to bind 'em, and well rid the house on 'em, 
 and thou can'st go see after th' oud folks, who need it 
 sadly." 
 
 Bessy was back in a very few minutes. When she came in, 
 there was more light in the house-place, for some one had 
 stirred up the raked fire. 
 
 "That felly makes as though his leg were broken," said 
 John, nodding towards the man still lying on the ground. 
 Bessy felt almost sorry for him as they handled him — not over 
 gently — and bound him, only half-conscious, as hardly and 
 tightly as they had done his fierce, surly companion. She even 
 felt so sorry for his evident agony, as they turned him over 
 and over, that she ran to get him a cup of water to moisten 
 his lips. 
 
 " Tm loth to leave yo' with him alone," said John, "though 
 Tm thinking his leg is broken for sartain, and he can't stir, 
 even if he comes to hissel, to do yo' any harm. But we'll just 
 take off this chap, and mak sure of him, and then one on us '11 
 come back to yo', and we can, may be, find a gate or so for 
 yo' to get shut on him out o th' house. This felly's made 
 safe enough, I'll be bound," said he, looking at the burglar, 
 who stood, bloody and black, with fell hatred on his sullen 
 face. His eye caught Bessy's as hers fell on him with dread 
 so evident that it made him smile, and the look and the smile 
 prevented the words from being spoken which were on Bessy's 
 hps. 
 
 She dared not tell, before him, that an able-bodied accomplice 
 still remained in the house, lest, somehow, the door which kept 
 him a prisoner should be broken open and the fight renewed. 
 So she only said to John, as he was leaving the house — 
 
 " Thou'll not be long away, for I'm afeared of being left wi' 
 this man." 
 
 " He'll noan do thee harm," said John. 
 
452 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 " No ! but I'm feared lest he should die. And there's uncle 
 and aunt. Come back soon, John ! " 
 
 "Ay, ay!" said he, half-pleased; "I'll be back, never 
 fear me." 
 
 So Bessy shut the door after them, but did not lock it, for 
 fear of mischances in the house, and went once more to her 
 imcle, whose breathing, by this time, was easier than when 
 she had first returned into the house-place with John and 
 the doctor. By the light of the fire, too, she could now 
 see that he had received a blow on the head, which was 
 probably the occasion of his stupor. Round this wound, 
 which was bleeding pretty freely, Bessy put cloths dipped 
 in cold water, and then leaving him for a time, she lighted 
 a candle, and was about to go upstairs to her aunt, when, 
 just as she was passing the bound and disabled robber, she 
 heard her name softly, urgently called— 
 
 "Bessy, Bessy!" At first the voice sounded so close that 
 she thought it must be the unconscious wretch at her feet. 
 But once again that voice thrilled through her — 
 
 " Bessy, Bessy ! for God's sake, let me out ! " 
 
 She went to the stair-closet door, and tried to speak, but 
 could not, her heart beat so terribly. Again, close to her 
 ear — 
 
 "Bessy, Bessy! they'll be back directly; let me out, I say I 
 For God's sake, let me out ! " And he began to kick violently 
 against the panels. 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! " she said, sick with a terrible dread, yet with 
 a will strongly resisting her conviction. " Who art you ? " But 
 she knew — knew quite well. 
 
 " Benjamin." An oath. " Let me out, I say, and I'll be off, 
 and out of England by to-morrow night, never to come back, 
 and you'll have all my father's money." 
 
 "D'ye think I care for that?" said Bessy vehemently, 
 feeling with trembling hands for the lock; "I wish there 
 was noan such a thing as money i' the world, afore yo'd 
 come to this. There, yo're free, and I charge yo' never 
 to let me see your face again. I'd ne'er ha' let yo' loose 
 but for fear o' breaking their hearts, if yo' hanna killed him 
 already." But, before she had ended her speech, he was 
 gone — off into the black darkness, leaving the door open 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 453 
 
 wide. With a new terror in her mind, Bessy shut it afresh 
 — shut it and bolted it this time. Then she sat down on 
 the first chair, and reheved her soul by giving a great and 
 exceeding bitter cry. But she knew it was no time for 
 giving way, and lifting herself up with as much effort as 
 if each of her limbs was a heavy weight, she went into 
 the back kitchen, and took a drink of cold water. To her 
 surprise, she heard her uncle's voice saying feebly — 
 
 " Carry me up, and lay me by her." 
 
 But Bessy could not carry him : she could only help his 
 faint exertions to walk upstairs : and by the time he was 
 there, sitting panting on the first chair she could find, John 
 Kirkby and Atkinson returned. John came up now to her 
 aid. Her aunt lay across the bed in a fainting fit, and her 
 uncle sat in so utterly broken-down a state that Bessy feared 
 immediate death for both. But John cheered her up, and 
 lifted the old man into his bed again, and, while Bessy tried 
 to compose poor Hester's limbs into a position of rest, John 
 went down to hunt about for the little store of gin which was 
 always kept in a corner cupboard against emergencies. 
 
 "They've had a sore fright," said he, shaking his head, 
 as he poured a little gin and hot water into their mouths 
 with a tea-spoon, while Bessy chafed their cold feet; "and 
 it and the cold have been welly too much for 'em, poor old 
 folk ! " 
 
 He looked tenderly at them, and Bessy blessed him in her 
 heart for that look. 
 
 "I maun be off. I sent Atkinson up to th* farm for to 
 bring down Bob, and Jack came wi* him back to th' shippon 
 for to look after t'other man. He began blackguarding us 
 all round, so Bob and Jack were gagging him wi' bridles 
 when I left." 
 
 "Ne'er give heed to what he says," cried poor Bessy, a 
 new panic besetting her. "Folks o' his sort are allays for 
 dragging other folk into their mischief. I'm right glad he 
 were well gagged." 
 
 "Well! but what I were saying were this: Atkinson and 
 me will take t'other chap, who seems quiet enough, to th' 
 shippon, and it'll be one piece o' work for to mind them 
 and the cow ; and I'll saddle old bay mare and ride for 
 
454 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 constables and doctor fra Highminster. I'll bring Dr. 
 Preston up to see Nathan and Hester first, and then 1 
 reckon th' broken-legged chap down below must have his 
 turn, for all as he's met wi' his misfortunes in a wrong line 
 o' life." 
 
 " Ay ! " said Bessy. " We maun ha' the doctor sure enough, 
 for look at them how they lie ! like two stone statues on a church 
 monument, so sad and solemn." 
 
 "There's a look o' sense come back into their faces though, 
 sin' they supped that gin -and- water. I'd keep on a-bathing 
 his head and giving them a sup on't fra' time to time, if I 
 was you, Bessy." 
 
 Bessy followed him downstairs, and lighted the men out of 
 the house. She dared not light them carrying their burden 
 even, until they passed round the corner of the house ; so 
 strong was her fearful conviction that Benjamin was lurking 
 near, seeking again to enter. She rushed back into the 
 kitchen, bolted and barred the door, and pushed the end 
 of the dresser against it, shutting her eyes as she passed 
 the uncurtained window, for fear of catching a glimpse of 
 a white face pressed against the glass, and gazing at her. 
 The poor old couple lay quiet and speechless, although 
 Hester's position had slightly altered : she had turned a 
 little on her side towards her husband, and had laid one 
 shrivelled arm around his neck. But he was just as Bessy 
 had left him, with the wet cloths around his head, his 
 eyes not wanting in a certain intelligence, but solemn, and 
 unconscious to all that was passing around as the eyes of 
 death. 
 
 His wife spoke a little from time to time — said a word of 
 thanks, perhaps, or so; but he, never. All the rest of that 
 terrible night, Bessy tended the poor old couple with constant 
 care, her own heart so stunned and bruised in its feelings that 
 she went about her pious duties almost Hke one in a dream. 
 The November morning was long in coming; nor did she 
 perceive any change, either for the worse or the better, before 
 the doctor came, about eight o'clock. John Kirkby brought 
 him ; and was full of the capture of the two burglars. 
 
 As far as Bessy could make out, the participation of that un- 
 natural Third was unknown. It was a relief, almost sickening 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 455 
 
 in the revulsion it gave her from her terrible fear, which now 
 she felt had haunted and held possession of her all night long, 
 and had, in fact, paralysed her from thinking. Now she felt 
 and thought with acute and feverish vividness, owing, no 
 doubt, in part, to the sleepless night she had passed. She 
 felt almost sure that her uncle (possibly her aunt, too) had 
 recognised Benjamin ; but there was a faint chance that they 
 had not done so, and wild horses should never tear the secret 
 from her, nor should any inadvertent word betray the fact that 
 there had been a third person concerned. As to Nathan, he 
 had never uttered a word. It was her aunt's silence that 
 made Bessy fear lest Hester knew, somehow, that her son was 
 concerned. 
 
 The doctor examined them both closely ; looked hard at 
 the wound on Nathan's head ; asked questions which Hester 
 answered shortly and unwillingly, and Nathan not at all : 
 shutting his eyes, as if even the sight of a stranger was pain 
 to him. Bessy replied in their stead to all that she could 
 answer respecting their state ; and fallowed the doctor down- 
 stairs Avith a beating heart. When they came into the house- 
 place, they found John had opened the outer door to let in 
 some fresh air, had brushed the hearth and made up the fire, 
 and put the chairs and table in their right places. He reddened 
 a little as Bessy's eye fell upon his swollen and battered face, 
 but tried to smile it off in a dry kind of way — 
 
 "Yo' see, I'm an ould bachelor, and I just thought as I'd 
 redd up things a bit. How dun yo' find 'em, doctor ? " 
 
 "Well, the poor old couple have had a terrible shock. I 
 shall send them some soothing medicine to bring down the 
 pulse, and a lotion for the old man's head. It is very well 
 it bled so much ; there might have been a good deal of inflam- 
 mation." And so he went on, giving directions to Bessy for 
 keeping them quietly in bed through the day. From these direc- 
 tions she gathered that they were not, as she had feared all night 
 long, near to death. The doctor expected them to recover, 
 though they would require care. She almost wished it had 
 been otherwise, and that they, and she too, might have just 
 Iain down to their rest in the churchyard— so cruel did life 
 seem to her ; so dreadful the recollection of that subdued 
 voice of the hidden robber smiting her with recognition. 
 
456 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 All this time John was getting things ready for breakfast, 
 with something of the handiness of a woman. Bessy half 
 resented his officiousness in pressing Dr. Preston to have a 
 cup of tea, she did so want him to be gone and leave her 
 alone with her thoughts. She did not know that all was done 
 for love of her ; that the hard-featured short-spoken John was 
 thinking all the time how ill and miserable she looked, and 
 trying with tender artifices to make it incumbent upon her 
 sense of hospitality to share Dr. Preston's meal. 
 
 " I've seen as the cows is milked," said he, "yourn and all ; 
 and Atkinson's brought ours round fine. Whatten a marcy 
 it were as she were sick just this very night ! Yon two chaps 
 'ud ha' made short work on't, if yo' hadna fetched us in ; and 
 as it were, we had a sore tussle. One on 'em '11 bear the marks 
 on't to his dying day, wunnot he, doctor?" 
 
 " He'll barely have his leg well enough to stand his trial at 
 York Assizes ; they're coming off in a fortnight from now," 
 
 "Ay, and that reminds me, Bessy, yo'll have to go witness 
 before Justice Royds. Constables bade me tell yo', and gie 
 yo' this summons. Dunnot be feared : it will not be a long 
 job, though I'm not saying as it'll be a pleasant one. Yo'll 
 have to answer questions as to how, and all about it ; and 
 Jane" (his sister) "will come and stop wi' th* oud folks; and 
 I'll drive yo' in the shandry." 
 
 No one knew why Bessy's colour blenched, and her eye 
 clouded. No one knew how she apprehended lest she should 
 have to say that Benjamin had been of the gang, if, indeed, 
 in some way, the law had not followed on his heels quick 
 enough to catch him. 
 
 But that trial was spared her ; she was warned by John to 
 answer questions, and say no more than was necessary, for 
 fear of making her story less clear ; and as she was known, 
 by character at least, to Justice Royds and his clerk, they 
 made the examination as little formidable as possible. 
 
 When all was over, and John was driving her back again, he 
 expressed his rejoicing that there would be evidence enough 
 to convict the men, without summoning Nathan and Hester 
 to identify them. Bessy was so tired that she hardly under- 
 stood what an escape it was; how far greater than even her 
 companion understood. 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 457 
 
 Jane Kirkby stayed with' her for a week or more, and was an 
 unspeakable comfort. Otherwise she sometimes thought she 
 should have gone mad, with the face of her uncle always re- 
 minding her, in its stony expression of agony, of that fearful 
 night. Her aunt was softer in her sorrow, as became one of 
 her faithful and pious nature ; but it was easy to see how her 
 heart bled inwardly. She recovered her strength sooner than 
 her husband ; but as she recovered, the doctor perceived the 
 rapid approach of total blindness. Every day, nay, every 
 hour of the day, that Bessy dared, without fear of exciting 
 their suspicions of her knowledge, she told them, as she had 
 anxiously told them at first, that only two men, and those 
 perfect strangers, had been discovered as being concerned in 
 the burglary. Her uncle would never have asked a question 
 about it, even if she had withheld all information respecting 
 the affair ; but she noticed the quick, watching, waiting glance 
 of his eye, whenever she returned from any person or place 
 where she might have been supposed to gain intelligence if 
 Benjamin were suspected or caught : and she hastened to re- 
 lieve the old man's anxiety, by always telling all that she had 
 heard ; thankful that as the days passed on the danger she 
 sickened to think of grew less and less. 
 
 Day by day, Bessie had ground for thinking that her aunt 
 knew more than she had apprehended at first. There was 
 something so very humble and touching in Hester's blind way 
 of feeling about for her husband — stern, woe- begone Nathan — 
 and mutely striving to console him in the deep agony of which 
 Bessy learnt, from this loving, piteous manner, that her aunt 
 was conscious. Her aunt's face looked blankly up into his, 
 tears slowly running down from her sightless eyes ; while from 
 time to time, when she thought herself unheard by any save 
 him, she would repeat such texts as she had heard at church 
 in happier days, and which she thought, in her true, simple 
 piety, might tend to console him. Yet, day by day, her aunt 
 grew more and more sad. 
 
 Three or four days before assize-time, two summonses to 
 attend the trial at York were sent to the old people. Neither 
 Bessy, nor John, nor Jane, could understand this : for their 
 own notices had come long before, and they had been told that 
 their evidence would be enough to convict. 
 
 P 2 
 
458 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 But, alas ! the fact vvas, that the lawyer employed to defend 
 the prisoners had heard from them that there was a third 
 person engaged, and had heard who that third person was ; 
 and it was this advocate's business to diminish, if possible, 
 the guilt of his clients, by proving that they were but tools 
 in the hands of one who had,- from his superior knowledge 
 of the premises and the daily customs of the inhabitants, 
 been the originator and planner of the whole affair. To 
 do this it was necessary to have the evidence of the parents, 
 who, as the prisoners had said, must have recognised the 
 voice of the young man, their son. For no one knew that 
 Bessy, too, could have borne witness to his having been 
 present ; and, as it was supposed that Benjamin had escaped 
 out of England, there was no exact betrayal of him on the part 
 of his accomphces. 
 
 Wondering, bewildered, and weary, the old couple reached 
 York, in company with John and Bessy, on the eve of the day 
 of trial. Nathan was still so self-contained, that Bessy could 
 never guess what had been passing in his mind. He was almost 
 passive under his old wife's trembling caresses ; he seemed 
 hardly conscious of them, so rigid was his demeanour. 
 
 She, Bessy feared at times, was becoming childish ; for she 
 had evidently so great and anxious a love for her husband, 
 that her memory seemed going in her endeavours to melt the 
 stonyness of his aspect and manners ; she appeared occasionally 
 to have forgotten why he was so changed, in her piteous little 
 attempts to bring him back to his former self. 
 
 "They'll, for sure, never torture them when they see what 
 old folks they are ! " cried Bessy, on the morning of the trial, a 
 dim fear looming over her mind. "They'll never be so cruel, 
 for sure ? " 
 
 But "for sure" it was so. The barrister looked up at the 
 judge, almost apologetically, as he saw how hoary-headed 
 and woeful an old man was put into the witness-box, when 
 the defence came on, and Nathan Huntroyd was called on for 
 his evidence. 
 
 "It is necessary, on behalf of my clients, my lord, that I 
 should pursue a course which, for all other reasons, I 
 deplore." 
 
 " Go on ! " said the judge. "What is right and legal must 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 459 
 
 be done." But, an old man himself, he covered his quivering 
 mouth with his hand as Nathan, with grey, unmoved face, 
 and solemn, hollow eyes, placing his two hands on each side 
 of the witness-box, prepared to give his answers to questions, 
 the nature of which he was beginning to foresee, but would 
 not shrink from replying to truthfully; "the very stones" (a^ 
 he said to himself, with a kind of dulled sense of the Eternal 
 Justice) "rise up against such a sinner." 
 
 " Your name is Nathan Huntroyd, I believe? " 
 
 "It is." 
 
 " You live at Nab-End Farm ?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 ' ' Do you remember the night of November the twelfth ? '* 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You were awakened that night by some noise, I believe. 
 What was it?" 
 
 The old man's eyes fixed themselves upon his questioner 
 with the look of a creature brought to bay. That look the 
 barrister never forgets. It will haunt him till his dying 
 day. 
 
 " It was a throwing up of stones against our window." 
 
 " Did you hear it at first?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " What awakened you, then ? " 
 
 "She did." 
 
 ' ' And then you both heard the stones. Did you hear nothing 
 else?" 
 
 A long pause. Then a low, clear " Yes." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Our Benjamin asking us for to let him in. She said as it 
 were him, leastways." 
 
 " And you thought it was him, did you not ? ** 
 
 "I told her" (this time in a louder voice) "for to get to 
 sleep, and not be thinking that every drunken chap as passed 
 by were our Benjamin, for that he were dead and gone." 
 
 "And she?" 
 
 "She said as though she'd heerd our Benjamin, afore she 
 were welly awake, axing for to be let in. But I bade her ne'er 
 heed her dreams, but turn on her other side and get to sleep 
 again." 
 
460 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 "And did she?" 
 
 A long pause— judge, jury, bar, audience, all held their breathy 
 At length Nathan said — 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "What did you do then? (My lord, I am compelled to ask 
 these painful questions.)" 
 
 ' ' I saw she wadna be quiet : she had allays thought he would 
 come back to us, hke the Prodigal i' th' Gospels." (His 
 voice choked a little, but he tried to make it steady, succeeded, 
 and went on.) " She said, if I wadna get up she would ; and 
 just then I heerd a voice. I'm not quite mysel, gentlemen — 
 I've been ill and i* bed, an' it makes me trembling-like. Some 
 one said, ' Father, mother, I'm here, starving i' the cold — 
 wunnot yo' get up and let me in?' " 
 
 " And that voice was ? " 
 
 " It were hke our Benjamin's. I see whatten yo're driving 
 at, sir, and I'll tell yo' truth, though it kills me to speak it. I 
 dunnot say it were our Benjamin as spoke, mind yo' — I only 
 say it were like " 
 
 "That's all I want, my good fellow. And on the strength 
 of that entreaty, spoken in your son's voice, you went down 
 and opened the door to these two prisoners at the bar, and to a 
 third man?" 
 
 Nathan nodded assent, and even that counsel was too 
 merciful to force him to put more into words. 
 
 "Call Hester Huntroyd." 
 
 An old woman, with a face of which the eyes were evidently- 
 blind, with a sweet, gentle, careworn face, came into the wit- 
 ness-box, and meekly curtseyed to the presence of those 
 whom she had been taught to respect — a presence she could 
 not see. 
 
 There was something in her humble, blind aspect, as she 
 stood waiting to have something done to her — what her poor 
 troubled mind hardly knew — that touched all who saw her, 
 inexpressibly. Again the counsel apologised, but the judge- 
 could not reply in words ; his face was quivering all over, and 
 the jury looked uneasily at the prisoners' counsel. That gentle- 
 man saw that he might go too far, and send their sympathies off 
 on the other side ; but one or two questions he must ask. So, 
 hastily recapitulating much that he had learned from Nathan^ 
 
THE CROOKED BRANCH. 461 
 
 he said, "You believed it was your son's voice asking to be 
 let in?" 
 
 "Ay! Our Benjamin came home, I'm sure; choose where 
 he is gone." 
 
 She turned her head about, as if listening for the voice of her 
 child, in the hushed silence of the court. 
 
 "Yes; he came home that night— and your husband went 
 down to let him in ? " 
 
 "Well! I believe he did. There was a great noise of folk 
 downstair." 
 
 "And you heard your son Benjamin's voice among the 
 others ? " 
 
 "Is it to do him harm, sir?" asked she, her face growing 
 more intelligent and intent on the business in hand. 
 
 " That is not my object in questioning you. I believe he has 
 left England, so nothing you can say will do him any harm. 
 You heard your son's voice, I say ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. For sure I did. " 
 
 "And some men came upstairs into your room? What did 
 they say?" 
 
 " They axed where Nathan kept his stocking." 
 
 " And you — did you tell them ?" 
 
 " No, sir, for I knew Nathan would not like me to." 
 
 " What did you do then ? " 
 
 A shade of reluctance came over her face, as if she began to 
 perceive causes and consequences. 
 
 " I just screamed on Bessy— that's my niece, sir." 
 
 "And you heard some one shout out from the bottom of the 
 stairs ? " 
 
 She looked piteously at him, but did not answer. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, I wish to call your particular 
 attention to this fact : she acknowledges she heard some one 
 shout — some third person, you observe — shout out to the two 
 above. What did he say? That is the last question I shall 
 trouble you with. What did the third person, left behind, 
 downstairs, say?" 
 
 Her face worked — her mouth opened two or three times as if 
 to speak— she stretched out her arms imploringly ; but no word 
 came, and she fell back into the arms of those nearest to her. 
 Nathan forced himself forward into the witness-box — 
 
4^2 THE CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 " My Lord Judge, a woman bore ye, as I reckon ; it's a cruel 
 shame to serve a mother so. It wur my son, my only child, as 
 called out for us t' open door, and who shouted out for to hold 
 th' oud woman's throat if she did na stop her noise, when hoo'd 
 fain ha' cried for her niece to help. And now yo've truth, and 
 a' th' truth, and I'll leave yo' to th' judgment o' God for th' 
 way yo've getten at it." 
 
 Before night the mother was stricken with paralysis, and lay 
 on her death-bed. But the broken-hearted go Home, to be 
 comforted of God. 
 
THE SEXTON'S HERO. 
 
 THE afternoon sun shed down his glorious rays on the 
 grassy churchyard, making the shadow, cast by the old 
 yew-tree under which we sat, seem deeper and deeper by 
 contrast. The everlasting hum of myriads of summer insects 
 made luxurious lullaby. 
 
 Of the view that lay beneath our gaze, I cannot speak 
 adequately. The foreground was the grey-stone wall of the 
 vicarage garden ; rich in the colouring made by innumerable 
 lichens, ferns, ivy of most tender green and most delicate 
 tracery, and the vivid scarlet of the crane's-bill, which found 
 a home in every nook and crevice — and at the summit of that 
 old wall flaunted some unpruned tendrils of the vine, and long 
 flower-laden branches of the climbing rose-tree, trained against 
 the inner side. Beyond, lay meadow green and mountain grey, 
 and the blue dazzle of Morecambe Bay, as it sparkled between 
 us and the more distant view. 
 
 For a while we were silent, living in sight and murmuring 
 sound. Then Jeremy took up our conversation where, sud- 
 denly feeling weariness, as we saw that deep green shadowy 
 resting-place, we had ceased speaking a quarter of an hour 
 before. 
 
 It is one of the luxuries of holiday-time that thoughts are 
 not rudely shaken from us by outward violence of hurry 
 and busy impatience, but fall maturely from our lips in the 
 sunny leisure of our days. The stock may be bad, but the 
 fruit is ripe. 
 
 " How would you then' define a hero?" I asked. 
 
 There was a long pause, and I had almost forgotten my 
 question in watching a cloud-shadow floating over the far- 
 away hills, when Jeremy made answer — 
 463 
 
464 THE sexton's hero. 
 
 "My idea of a hero is one who acts up to the highest idea 
 of duty he has been able to form, no matter at what sacrifice. 
 I think that by this definition, we may include all phases of 
 character, even to the heroes of old, whose sole (and to us, low) 
 idea of duty consisted in personal prowess." 
 
 " Then you would even admit the miHtary heroes?" asked I. 
 
 " I would ; with a certain kind of pity for the circumstances 
 which had given them no higher ideas Of diity. Still, if they 
 sacrificed self to do what they sincerely believed to be right, I 
 do not think I could deny them the title of hero." 
 
 "A poor, unchristian heroism, whose manifestation consists 
 in injury to others ! " I said. 
 
 We were both startled by a third voice, 
 
 "If I might make so bold, sir" — and then the speaker 
 stopped. 
 
 It was the Sexton, whom, when we first arrived, we had 
 noticed, as an accessory to the scene, but whom we had for- 
 gotten, as much as though he were as inanimate as one of the 
 moss-covered headstones. 
 
 " If I might be so bold," said he again, waiting leave to 
 speak. Jeremy bowed in deference to his white, uncovered 
 head. And so encouraged, he went on. 
 
 "What that gentleman" (alluding to my last speech) "has 
 just now said, brings to my mind one who is dead and gone 
 this many a year ago. I, may be, have not rightly understood 
 your meaning, gentlemen, but as far as I could gather it, I 
 think you'd both have given in to thinking poor Gilbert Dawson 
 a hero. At any rate," said he, heaving a long, quivering sigh, 
 " I have reason to think him so." 
 
 "Will you take a seat, sir, and tell us about him?" said 
 Jeremy, standing up until the old man was seated. I confess 
 I felt impatient at the interruption. 
 
 " It will be forty-five year come Martinmas," said the Sexton, 
 sitting down on a grassy mound at our feet, "since I finished 
 my 'prenticeship, and settled down at Lindal. You can see 
 Lindal, sir, at evenings and mornings across the bay ; a little 
 to the right of Grange ; at least, I used to see it, many a time 
 and oft, afore my siglit grew so dark : and I have spent many 
 a quarter of an hour a-gazing at it far away, and thinking of 
 the days I lived there, till the tears came so thick to my eyes, 
 I could gaze no longer. I shall never look upon it again, either 
 
THE sexton's hero. 465 
 
 far-off or near, but you may see it, both ways, and a terrible 
 bonny spot it is. In my young days, \\hen I went to settle 
 there, it was full of as wild a set of young fellows as ever were 
 clapped eyes on ; all for fighting, poaching, quarrelling, and 
 such-like work. I were startled myself when I first found what 
 a set I were among, but soon I began to fall into their ways, 
 and I ended by being as rough a chap as any on 'em. I'd 
 been there a matter of two year, and were reckoned by most 
 the cock of the village, when Gilbert Dawson, as I was speaking 
 of, came to Lindal. He were about as strapping a chap as 
 I was (I used to be six feet high, though now I'm so shrunk 
 and doubled up), and, as we were like in the same trade (both 
 used to prepare osiers and wood for the Liverpool coopers, who 
 ^et a deal of stuff from the copses round the bay, sir), we were 
 thrown together, and took mightily to each other. I put my 
 best leg foremost to be equal with Gilbert, for I'd had some 
 schooling, though since I'd been at Lindal I'd lost a good part 
 of what I'd learnt ; and I kept my rough ways out of sight for 
 a time, I felt so ashamed of his getting to know them. But 
 that did not last long. I began to think he fancied a girl I 
 dearly loved, but who had always held off from me. Eh ! but 
 she was a pretty one in those days ! There's none like her, 
 now. I think I see her going along the road with her dancing 
 tread, and shaking back her long yellow curls, to give me or 
 any other young fellow a saucy word ; no wonder Gilbert was 
 taken with her, for all he was grave, and she so merry and 
 light. But I began to think she liked him again ; and then 
 my blood was all afire. I got to hate him for everything he 
 did. Aforetime I had stood by, admiring to see him, how he 
 leapt, and what a quoiter and cricketer he was. And now I 
 ground my teeth with hatred whene'er he did a thing which 
 caught Letty's eye. I could read it in her look that she 
 liked him, for all she held herself just as high with him as 
 with all the rest. Lord God forgive me ! how I hated that 
 man." 
 
 He spoke as if the hatred were a thing of yesterday, so clear 
 within his memory were shown the actions and feelings of his 
 youth. And then he dropped his voice, and said — 
 
 "Well! I began to look out to pick a quarrel with him, 
 for my blood was up to fight him. If I beat him (and I were 
 a rare boxer in those days), I thought Letty would cool towards 
 
466 THE sexton's hero. 
 
 him. So one evening at quoits (I'm sure I don't know how or 
 why, but large doings grow out of small words) I fell out with 
 him, and challenged him to fight. I could see he were very 
 wroth by his colour coming and going — and, as I said before, 
 he were a fine active young fellow. But all at once he drew 
 in, and said he would not fight. Such a yell as the Lindal 
 lads, who were watching us, set up ! I hear it yet. I could 
 na' help but feel sorry for him, to be so scorned, and I thought 
 he'd not rightly taken my meaning, and I'd give him another 
 chance ; so I said it again, and dared him, as plain as words 
 could speak, to fight out the quarrel. He told me then, he 
 had no quarrel against me ; that he might have said some- 
 thing to put me up ; he did not know that he had, but that 
 if he had, he asked pardon ; but that he would not fight 
 no-how. 
 
 " I was so full of scorn at his cowardliness, that I was vexed 
 I'd given him the second chance, and I joined in the yell that 
 was set up, twice as bad as before. He stood it out, his teeth 
 set, and looking very white, and when we were silent for want 
 of breath, he said out loud, but in a hoarse voice, quite different 
 from his own — 
 
 " * I cannot fight, because I think it is wrong to quarrel, and 
 use violence. ' 
 
 "Then he turned to go away; I were so beside myself with 
 scorn and hate, that I called out — 
 
 "'Tell truth, lad, at least; if thou dare not fight, dunnot 
 go and tell a lie about it. Mother's moppet is afraid of a 
 black eye, pretty dear. It shannot be hurt, but it munnot 
 tell lies.' 
 
 "Well, they laughed, but I could not laugh. It seemed 
 such a thing for a stout young chap to be a coward and 
 afraid ! 
 
 "Before the sun had set, it was talked of all over Lindal, 
 how I had challenged Gilbert to fight, and how he'd denied 
 me ; and the folks stood at their doors, and looked at him 
 going up the hill to his home, as if he'd been a monkey or a 
 foreigner — but no one wished him good e'en. Such a thing 
 as refusing to fight had never been heard of afore at Lindal. 
 Next day, however, they had found voice. The men muttered 
 the word * coward ' in his hearing, and kept aloof ; the women 
 •tittered as he passed, and the httle impudent lads and lasses 
 
THE sexton's hero. 467 
 
 shouted out, ' How long is it sin' thou turned Quaker?' ' Good- 
 bye, Jonathan Broad-brim,' and such-Hke jests. 
 
 "That evening I met him, with Letty by his side, coming up 
 from the shore. She was almost crying as I came upon them 
 at the turn of the lane ; and looking up in his face, as if beg- 
 ging him something. And so she was, she told me it after. For 
 she did really hke him ; and could not abide to hear him 
 scorned by every one for being a coward ; and she, coy as she 
 was, all but told him that very night that she loved him,, 
 and begged him not to disgrace himself, but fight me as I'd 
 dared him to. When he still stuck to it he could not, for that 
 it was wrong, she was so vexed and mad-like at the way she'd 
 spoken, and the feelings she'd let out to coax him, that she 
 said more stinging things about his being a coward than all 
 the rest put together (according to what she told me, sir, after- 
 wards), and ended by saying she'd never speak to him again, as 
 long as she lived ; she did once again, though — her blessing 
 was the last human speech that reached his ear in his wild 
 death-struggle. 
 
 * * But much happened afore that time. From the day I met 
 them walking, Letty turned towards me ; I could see a part 
 of it was to spite Gilbert, for she'd be twice as kind when he 
 was near, or likely to hear of it ; but by-and-by she got to 
 like me for my own sake, and it was all settled for our marriage. 
 Gilbert kept aloof from every one, and fell into a sad, careless 
 way. His very gait was changed ; his step used to be brisk 
 and sounding, and now his foot lingered heavily on the ground. 
 I used to try and daunt him with my eye, but he would always 
 meet my look in a steady, quiet way, for all so much about 
 him was altered ; the lads would not play with him ; and as 
 soon as he found he was to be slighted by them whenever he 
 came to quoiting or cricket, he just left off coming. 
 
 ** The old clerk was the only one he kept company with ; or 
 perhaps, rightly to speak, the only one who would keep com- 
 pany with him. They got so thick at last, that old Jonas 
 would say, Gilbert had gospel on his side, and did no more 
 than gospel told him to do ; but we none of us gave much 
 credit to what he said, more by token our vicar had a brother, 
 a colonel in the army ; and as we threeped it many a time to 
 Jonas, would he set himself up to know the gospel better than 
 the vicaf? that would be putting the cart afore the horse, like 
 
468 THE sexton's hero. 
 
 the French radicals. And if the vicar had thought quarrelling 
 and fighting wicked, and again the Bible, would he have made 
 so much work about all the victories, that were as plenty as black- 
 berries at that time of day, and kept the little bell of Lindal 
 church for ever ringing; or would he have thought so much 
 of • my brother the colonel,' as he was always talking on ? 
 
 ' ' After I was married to Letty I left off hating Gilbert. I 
 even kind of pitied him — he was so scorned and slighted ; and 
 for all he'd a bold look about him, as if he were not ashamed, 
 he seemed pining and shrunk. It's a wearying thing to be kept 
 at arm's length by one's kind ; and so Gilbert found it, poor 
 fellow. The little children took to him, though ; they'd be 
 round about him like a swarm of bees — them as was too young 
 to know what a coward was, and only felt that he was ever 
 ready to love and to help them, and was never loud or cross, 
 Jiowever naughty they might be. After a while we had our 
 little one, too ; such a blessed darling she was, and dearly did 
 we love her ; Letty in especial, who seemed to get all the 
 thought I used to think sometimes she wanted, after she had 
 her baby to care for. 
 
 "All my kin lived on this side the bay, up above Kellet. 
 Jane (that's her that lies buried near yon white rose-tree) was 
 to be married, and nought would serve her but that Letty and 
 I must come to the wedding ; for all my sisters loved Letty, 
 she had such winning ways with her. Letty did not like to 
 leave her baby, nor yet did I want her to take it : so, after a 
 talk, we fixed to leave it with Letty's mother for the afternoon. 
 I could see her heart ached a bit, for she'd never left it till then, 
 and she seemed to fear all manner of evil, even to the French 
 coming and taking it away. Well ! we borrowed a shandry, 
 and harnessed my old grey mare, as I used in th' cart, and 
 set off as grand as King George across the sands about three 
 o'clock, for you see it were high-water about twelve, and we'd 
 to go and come back same tide, as Letty could not leave her 
 baby for long. It were a merry afternoon were that ; last 
 time I ever saw Letty laugh heartily ; and, for that matter, 
 last time I ever laughed downright hearty myself. The latest 
 crossing-time fell about nine o'clock, and we were late at start- 
 ing. Clocks were wrong ; and we'd a piece of work chasing 
 a pig father had given Letty to take home ; we bagged him 
 at last, and he screeched and screeched in the back part o* 
 
THE sexton's hero. 469 
 
 th' shandry, and we laughed and they laughed ; and in the 
 midst of all the merriment the sun set, and that sobered us a 
 bit, for then we knew what time it was. I whipped the old 
 mare, but she was a deal beener than she was in the morning, 
 and would neither go quick up nor down the brows, and they're 
 not a few 'twixt Kellet and the shore. On the sands it were 
 worse. They were very heavy, for the fresh had come down 
 after the rains we'd had. Lord ! how I did whip the poor 
 mare, to make the most of the red light as yet lasted. You, 
 may be, don't know the sands, gentlemen. From Bolton side, 
 where we started from, it is better than six mile to Cart Lane, 
 and two channels to cross, let alone holes and quicksands. 
 At the second channel from us the guide waits, all during cross- 
 ing-time from sunrise to sunset ; but for the three hours on 
 each side high-water he's not there, in course. He stays after 
 sunset if he's forespoken, not else. So now you know where 
 we were that awful night. For we'd crossed the first channel 
 about two mile, and it were growing darker and darker above 
 and around us, all but one red line of light above the hills, 
 Ivhen we came to a hollow (for all the sands look so flat, there's 
 many a hollow in them where you lose all sight of the shore). 
 We were longer than we should ha' been in crossing the hollow, 
 the sand was so quick; and when we came up again, there, 
 again the blackness, was the white line of the rushing tide 
 coming up the bay ! It looked not a mile from us ; and when 
 the wind blows up the bay it comes swifter than a galloping 
 horse. ' Lord help us ! ' said I ; and then I were sorry I'd 
 spoken, to frighten Letty ; but the words were crushed out 
 of my heart by the terror. I felt her shiver up by my side, 
 and clutch my coat. And as if the pig (as had screeched 
 himself hoarse some time ago) had found out the danger we 
 were all in, he took to squealing again, enough to bewilder 
 any man. I cursed him between my teeth for his noise ; and 
 yet it was God's answer to my prayer, blind sinner as I was. 
 Ay ! you may smile, sir, but God can work through many a 
 scornful thing, if need be. 
 
 "By this time the mare was all in a lather, and trembling 
 and panting, as if in mortal fright ; for though we were on 
 the last bank afore the second channel, the water was 
 gathering up her legs ; and she so tired out ! When we 
 came close to the channel she stood still, and not all my 
 
470 THE sexton's HERO. 
 
 flogging could get her to stir ; she fairly groaned aloud, and 
 shook in a terrible quaking way. Till now Letty had not 
 spoken : only held my coat tightly. I heard her say some- 
 thing, and bent down my head. 
 
 " ' I think, John — I think — I shall never see baby again ! ' 
 
 "And then she sent up such a cry — so loud, and shrill, 
 and pitiful ! It fairly maddened me. I pulled out my knife 
 to spur on the old mare, that it might end one way or the 
 other, for the water was stealing sullenly up to the very 
 axle-tree, let alone the white weaves that knew no mercy in 
 their steady advance. That one quarter of an hour, sir, 
 seemed as long as all my life since. Thoughts and fancies, 
 and dreams, and memory ran into each other. The mist, 
 the heavy mist, that was like a ghastly curtain, shutting us 
 in for death, seemed to bring with it the scents of the 
 flowers that grew around our own threshold ; it might be, 
 for it was falling on them like blessed dew, though to us 
 it was a shroud. Letty told me at after, she heard her 
 baby crying for her, above the gurgling of the rising waters, 
 as plain as ever she heard anything ; but the sea-birds 
 were skirling, and the pig shrieking ; I never caught it ; it 
 was miles away, at any rate. 
 
 "Just as I'd gotten my knife out, another sound was close 
 upon us, blending with the gurgle of the near waters, and 
 the roar of the distant (not so distant though) ; we could 
 hardly see, but we thought we saw something black against 
 the deep lead colour of wave, and mist, and sky. It neared 
 and neared : with slow, steady motion, it came across the 
 channel right to where we were. 
 
 " Oh, God ! it was Gilbert Dawson on his strong bay 
 horse. 
 
 " Few words did we speak, and little time had we to say 
 them in. I had no knowledge at that moment of past or 
 future — only of one present thought — how to save Letty, 
 and, if I could, myself. I only remembered afterwards that 
 Gilbert said he had been guided by an animal's shriek of 
 terror ; I only heard, when all was over, that he had been 
 uneasy about our return, because of the depth of fresh, and 
 had borrowed a pillion, and saddled his horse early in the 
 evening, and ridden down to Cart Lane to watch for us. If 
 all had gone well, we should ne'er have heard of it. As 
 
THE SEXTON'S HERO. 471 
 
 it was, old Jonas told it, the tears down-dropping from his 
 withered cheeks. 
 
 "We fastened his horse to the shandry. We lifted Letty 
 to the pillion. The waters rose every instant with sullen 
 sound. They were all but in the shandry. Letty clung to 
 the pillion handles, but drooped her head as if she had yet 
 no hope of life. Swifter than thought (and yet he might 
 have had time for thought and for temptation, sir — if he 
 had ridden off with Letty, he would have been saved, not 
 me), Gilbert was in the shandry by my side. 
 
 " ' Quick ! ' said he, clear and firm. ' You must ride before 
 her, and keep her up. The horse can swim. By God's 
 mercy I will follow. I can cut the traces, and if the mare 
 is not hampered with the shandry, she'll carry me safely 
 through. At any rate, you are a husband and a father. 
 No one cares for me.' 
 
 "Do not hate me, gentlemen. I often wish that night 
 was a dream. It has haunted my sleep ever since like a 
 dream, and yet it was no dream. I took his place on the 
 saddle, and put Letty's arms around me, and felt her head 
 rest on my shoulder. I trust in God I spoke some word of 
 thanks ; but I can't remember. I only recollect Letty raising 
 her head, and calling out — 
 
 " ' God bless you, Gilbert Dawson, for saving my baby 
 from being an orphan this night.' And then she fell against 
 me, as if unconscious. 
 
 "I bore her through; or, rather, the strong horse swam 
 bravely through the gathering waves. We were dripping 
 wet when we reached the banks in-shore ; but we could 
 have but one thought — where was Gilbert? Thick mists and 
 heaving waters compassed us round. Where was he? We 
 shouted. Letty, faint as she was, raised her voice and 
 shouted clear and shrill. No answer came, the sea boomed 
 on with ceaseless sullen beat. I rode to the guide's house. 
 He was a-bed, and would not get up, though I offered him 
 more than I was worth. Perhaps he knew it, the cursed old 
 villain ! At any rate, I'd have paid it if I'd toiled my hfe 
 long. He said I might take his horn and welcome. I did, 
 and blew such a blast through the still, black night, the echoes 
 came back upon the heavy air : but no human voice or sound 
 was heard — that wild blast could not awaken the dead ! 
 
472 THE sexton's HERO. 
 
 ' ' I took Letty home to her baby, over whom she wept the 
 livelong night. I rode back to the shore about Cart Lane ; 
 and to and fro, with weary march, did I pace along the 
 brink of the waters, now and then shouting out into the 
 silence a vain cry for Gilbert. The waters went back and 
 left no trace. Two days afterwards he was washed ashore 
 near Flukeborough. The shandry and poor old mare were 
 found half-buried in a heap of sand by Arnside Knot. As 
 far as we could guess, he had dropped his knife while trying 
 to cut the traces, and so had lost all chance of life. Any 
 rate, the knife was found in a cleft of the shaft. 
 
 " His friends came over from Garstang to his funeral. I 
 wanted to go chief mourner, but it was not my right, and I 
 might not ; though I've never done mourning him to this 
 day. When his sister packed up his things, I begged hard 
 for something that had been his. She would give me none 
 of his clothes (she was a right-down saving woman), as she 
 had boys of her own, who might grow up into them. But 
 she threw me his Bible, as she said they'd gotten one already, 
 and his were but a poor used-up thing. It was his, and so 1 
 cared for it. It were a black leather one, with pockets at 
 the sides, old-fashioned-wise ; and in one were a bunch of wild 
 flowers, Letty said she could almost be sure were some she 
 had once given him. 
 
 " There were many a text in the Gospel, marked broad with 
 his carpenter's pencil, which more than bore him out in his 
 refusal to fight. Of a surety, sir, there's call enough for 
 bravery in the service of God, and to show love to man, with- 
 out quarrelling and fighting. 
 
 " Thank you, gentlemen, for listening to me. Your words 
 called up the thoughts of him, and my heart was full to speak- 
 ing. But I must make up ; I've to dig a grave for a little child, 
 who is to be buried to-morrow morning, just when his play- 
 mates are trooping off to school." 
 
 *• But tell us of Letty ; is she yet alive?" asked Jeremy. 
 
 The old man shook his head, and struggled against a choking 
 sigh. After a minute's pause he said — 
 
 ' ' She died in less than two year at after that night. She 
 was never like the same again. She would sit thinking, on 
 Gilbert, I guessed : but I could not blame her. We had a 
 boy, and we named it Gilbert Dawson Knipe ; he that's 
 
THE SEXTON'S HERO. 473 
 
 stoker on the London railway. Our girl was carried off in 
 teething ; and Letty just quietly drooped, and died in less 
 than a six week. They were buried here ; so I came to be 
 near them, and away from Lindal, a place I could never abide 
 after Letty was gone." 
 
 He turned to his work, and we, having rested sufficiently, 
 rose up, and came away. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & CO. 
 Edinburgh and London. 
 
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