THROWN TOGETHER 
 
LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 
 AND PARLIAMENT STREET 
 
THROWN TOGETHER 
 
 A STORY 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 'MISUNDERSTOOD' ^THWARTED' &;C. 
 
 TBNTS THOUSAND 
 
 LONDON 
 RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET 
 
 ) ^ublts^crs tn Orbiitarn to ^er S^KJwtij l^c (Qu«n 
 
 1877 
 
 All rights reserved 
 

 PREFACE. 
 
 The following Story, like its predecessor * Misunder- 
 stood/ is not intended for cMldreij. Even less so since, 
 in the course of the narrative, the Author is obliged, now 
 and then, to side, as it were, witli the children aa^ainst 
 the parents. 
 
 The Story, though not devoid of ' grown-up ' cha- 
 racters, is mainly founded on the lives of children ; and 
 so appeals only to those who are interested in the 
 subject. 
 
 May 1872. 
 
 531 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 _»o^ 
 
 I. The Heroine's Home 1 
 
 H. Children's Lives in the Summer Season 28 
 
 Mrs. Middleton's Rules and Regulations 53 
 
 IV. The New Relation at Luncheon . . 67 
 
 V. The Hero's Home 85 
 
 VI Why Mervyn and his Mother were late 
 EOR Dinner 
 
 VII. Breaking the News . 
 Vni. The Middleton Family Move . 
 
 IX. The Gate among the Old Welsh Hills 14G 
 
 X. The Vicar and his Maiden Sister 
 
 XL GWEN AND HER ViCTIM 
 
 XII. Mervyn's Arrival at Granton 
 
 XIII. Mrs. Middleton's Headache 
 
 XIV. Nina and Mervyn thrown Together 
 
 98 
 113 
 137 
 
 153 
 159 
 175 
 208 
 
 222 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER / PAUE 
 
 XV. The Ghost in the Shrubbery . . . 240 
 
 XVI. Sunday at Granton . . . . . 253 
 
 XVII. A Midnight Scene 264 
 
 XVIII. War to the Knife . . , . . 277 
 
 XIX. Nina ... . . . . 290 
 
 XX. The Storm 299 
 
 XXI. Magdalen's Eeturn 315 
 
 XXII. Mother and Daughter brought Together 324 
 
 XXIII. Back at Glen Mervyn .... 335 
 
 XXIV. Meeting of Lord Wardlaw and Meryyn 
 
 Lyndsay 346 
 
 XXV. The Difficulties of the New Menage . 359 
 
 XXVI. The Shot in the Woods .... 372 
 
 XXVII. The Footsteps on the Dead Leaves . 887 
 
 XXVIII. The Tryst by the Gate . . . .392 
 XXIX. The Message 367 
 
THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE heroine's HOME. 
 
 Five o'clock on a July afternoon in a London school- 
 room, and tlie depressing sound of tlie scale of 0. 
 
 Would not such a combination make tlie least frivolous 
 rejoice tliat their education was completed ? 
 
 Cecily Middleton, aged seven, is toiling up and down 
 tlie piano, witli liot heavy fingers, giving her wrist and 
 arm a tremendous jerk every time it is her thumb's 
 turn to go under ; for which clumsy manoeuvre she i& 
 every time pulled up by the governess at her side, and 
 compelled to return to the bottom of the piano, and 
 begin the ascent again. 
 
 Nina Middleton, some years her senior, is sitting at 
 the table, limp and listless, by way of doing a rule-of- 
 three sum. "With her hair all pushed back from her 
 hot face, and her chin resting on her hands, she is 
 determining in her own mind that it is far too hot 
 for any sum to come right; and she feels profoundly 
 indifferent as to workmen and the rate of their wages. 
 
THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 which is the problem she has been given to consider. 
 What can it matter ? Whether the answer will be in 
 money or in workmen she feels incapable of hazarding 
 an opinion, and it seems to her so very unimportant. 
 
 * Nina, vons ne faites rien.' 
 
 Thus suddenly rebuked, Mna roused herself, and 
 proceeded with a long-drawn sigh to multiply the first 
 and second terms together, and to divide by the third, 
 producing thereby a hideous confusion. Seeing her 
 mistake, she, with another sigh of weariness and bore- 
 dom, rubbed out what she had done, and began again ; 
 but the melancholy intonation of the scale of C, com- 
 bined with the state of the atmosphere, seemed to 
 render calculation impossible, and she found herself 
 reducing pence to shillings, and allowing for forty-eight 
 farthings in a pound. Growing desperate at last, with 
 heat and incapacity, she rubbed out the whole sum — 
 question and all ; and then, in despair at what she had 
 done, she drew her pencil down the slate with a terrific 
 squeak, which brought upon her the wrath of Made- 
 moiselle, and elicited shrieks of delight and amusement 
 from Cecily. 
 
 Of course anything that created a momentary diver- 
 sion from the scale of C was hailed as a relief by 
 Cecily ; and it took Mademoiselle some minutes, first 
 to reprove Nina, and then to rise and reset the sum. 
 
 But this was no solitary instance of Cecily's power of 
 deriving amusement from the trifling events of every, 
 day life. The squeak of a pencil was quite sufficient, 
 in lesson- time, to evoke her mirth; and any of the 
 
THE HEROINE'S HOME. 
 
 hundred little accidents to whicli we are all more or 
 less exposed in our daily patli could send her into fits 
 of laughter at any moment. If Mademoiselle knocked 
 her funny-bone, or caught her gown in the fender, 
 upset a cup of tea into her lap, or stumbled over a 
 stool, Cecily was off, and there was no stopping her. 
 
 She enjoyed the few minutes of leisure at the piano 
 to the full ; and, after having recovered from the 
 laughter produced by the squeak, she prbceeded to 
 swing her legs backwards and forwards to cool herself. 
 Tn so doing, she made the startling discovery that by 
 kicking the piano above the pedal, a vibration could be 
 produced, and was immensely delighted. But, on at- 
 tempting to bring the discovery to greater perfection 
 by a somewhat more violent kick. Mademoiselle re- 
 monstrated from the table, and put an end at once 
 to any further experiments. An attempt at ' hot-cross 
 buns * with one finger met with a similar reception, 
 and she was reduced to twisting round and round on 
 t:he music-stool, till Mademoiselle once more returned 
 to her side. 
 
 But opportunities for amusement were not quite over 
 yet ; for, as Mademoiselle reseated herself, she contrived 
 to knock her finger against the notes, and raised that 
 wounded member to her mouth vdth an exclamation 
 of pain. Peal upon peal from Cecily — truly dehghted 
 was she ! She rolled about on her seat till she nearly 
 fell off the music-stool ; and Mademoiselle, in an injured 
 and somewhat huffy tone, desired her to resume her 
 b2 
 
THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 practice ; and soon laughter and amusement were lost 
 in the intricacies of the scale of C. 
 
 Meanwhile Nina worked away at her snm, and 
 finished it ; pnt away her slate, and went to the open 
 window, where she arrived just in time to see a 
 hansom drive up to the door, and her father jump out 
 of it. 
 
 This was rather an unusual event, and Nina felt 
 puzzled to account for it. It was very seldom that he 
 came home at this hour. He generally went straight 
 to the park from his club, and she thought something 
 particular must have brought him home, which opinion 
 was confirmed by her hearing him call out to the footman 
 at the door, in a tone of unwonted excitement, * Has 
 Mrs. Middleton come home from her drive ? ' 
 
 Nina felt very curious to know what could make him 
 in such a hurry, and was just about to lean out of the 
 window, in order to make herself still further mistress 
 of what was going on below, when Cecily's music-lesson 
 came to an end ; and Mademoiselle, having betaken 
 herself to her bed-room to prepare for tea, the eman- 
 cipated captive came running to the window, ex- 
 claiming eagerly, 'Didn't I hear a hansom drive 
 up?' 
 
 Nina instantly drew in her head, and came away 
 from the window. Cecily's childish excitement over 
 the hansom made her feel ashamed of her curiosity 
 about it, and she answered, in an uninterested tone of 
 voice, * Yes, it was papa.' 
 
 Nina was a good deal older than her sister by years, 
 
THE HEROINE'S HOME. 
 
 and many years older by disposition and temperament, 
 for Cecily was childisli and backward for her age. 
 Moreover, Nina was a very prond cbild, and made 
 tlie most of tbe years between Ciiem. Cecily was 
 always so over-excited and over-interested in every- 
 thing, that JS'ina often felt lowered in ber own estima- 
 tion by being interested in the tbings at all. 
 
 ' Papa ! ' exclaimed Cecily ; ' ob ! perbaps be's come 
 to take us out in tbe park. Wbat fun ! what fun ! ' 
 
 And, in spite of tbe state of tbe tbermometer, Cecily 
 capered about, and clapped ber bands witb deligbt. 
 
 Tbese transports were cbildisb, and Nina could not 
 demean berself by joining in tbem. So sbe remarked 
 carelessly tbat sbe didn't suppose be bad ; be might 
 only bave come to get a pocket-bandkercbief, or perbaps 
 to fetcb bis cards. 
 
 Presently Cecily said, *Here comes mamma in tbe 
 carriage, and papa is standing on tbe door-step, waiting 
 to speak to ber.' 
 
 Nina's curiosity overcame ber pride, and sbe jumped 
 up and joined ber sister at tbe window. 
 
 Tbe carriage drove up to tbe door. Colonel Middle- 
 ton advanced eagerly, and tbe children beard him say, 
 ^ Lydia, it is all settled ! Come into my room and read 
 Magdalen's letter.' 
 
 ' Oh, Nina, did you bear ? ' exiclaimed Cecily ; * it was 
 about Aunt Magdalen again. There's some secret about 
 ber, I am sure. This is tbe second or third time papa 
 and mamma bave talked about ber to-day. Wbat can 
 it be e ' 
 
THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 Nina answered indifferently that she did not know ; 
 but the expression in her eyes was not so uninterested 
 as she would have her voice to sound. For her Aunt 
 Magdalen, and her Aunt Magdalen's boy, Mervyn 
 Lyndsay, were objects of deep interest to her ; and she 
 was inwardly quite as anxious as Cecily to discover 
 what the news could be that seemed to have reference 
 to them. She leaned out of the window still further^ 
 to see what was going on below ; but there was little 
 more to be seen. Colonel and Mrs. Middleton entered 
 the house, the footman took books and parcels out of 
 the carriage, the coachman drove round to the stables, 
 and the two little girls were left wondering, each in her 
 different way, what it could all mean. 
 
 Leaving them in their perplexity, let us descend to 
 the hall- door ; and, going back a few minutes, let ua 
 stand with Colonel Middleton on the door- step, while 
 the carriage drives up to the door. 
 
 * Lydia, it is all settled ! Come into my room and 
 read Magdalen's letter.' So saying Colonel Middleton. 
 led the way to the smoking-room, and shut the door. 
 
 * I am so glad, I can't tell you,' he said, as he handed 
 his wife the letter, and watched her while she read it. 
 
 * Magdalen deserves to be happy, if anyone does ; and 
 after all, in spite of her many years of widowhood, she 
 is still quite a girl. I can't say how glad I am she has 
 come to this conclusion.' He went on, walking up and 
 down the room, every now and then glancing at his 
 wife's face as she went on with the letter. * I was still 
 half afraid she would not make up her mind to the 
 
THE HEROINE'S HOME. 
 
 step, in spite of my last letter. But it is that that has 
 done it, of course.' 
 
 And Colonel Middleton continued his walk, in a high 
 state of self-glorification and excitement. 
 
 'A very nice sensible letter,' said Mrs. Middleton. 
 * I am, indeed, delighted that she should have arrived at 
 such a wise determination ; I suppose one of her reasons 
 for hesitating was Mervyn. But it would have been 
 absurd to sacrifice herself for his sake. Besides he is 
 getting such a big boy now that it will not make much 
 difference to him, as he will be going to school.' 
 
 All this was said in a very decided tone. 
 
 ' Of course, of course,' answered Colonel Middleton, 
 in the easy way in which people make up their minds 
 for others, and reconcile themselves to matters that do 
 not concern them. ' He will . . . Who's there r 
 Say not at home ! ' 
 
 This was spoken sharply, as some one tapped at the 
 door ; for Colonel Middleton was in great excitement 
 over his news, and he wanted to talk it over with his 
 wife. Therefore he greatly resented the interruption. 
 It was too late, however ; the door opened, and a gen- 
 tleman was aimounced. Mrs. Middleton went out by 
 another door, and Colonel Middleton advanced to greet 
 the new arrival. He was much too full of his subject 
 to talk long on any other, and at the first pause in the 
 conversation he introduced it. 
 
 * My sister, Mrs. Lyndsay, is going to marry Lord 
 Wardlaw.' 
 
 * I am delighted to hear it ! I heard rumours of the 
 
6 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 kind, but as I was told it was not settled, I did not 
 like to congratulate you. Mrs. Ljndsay has only one 
 child, I think ? ' 
 
 * Only one ; a boy. It was on his account chiefly 
 that she hesitated. Her husband died when the boy 
 was a baby, and mother and son have lived so much 
 alone, and been thrown so entirely on each other's 
 companionship, that he has been treated more as a 
 friend and equal than boys of his age generally are; 
 and so I suppose she felt a second marriage was a little 
 hard upon him. Indeed I doubt if she would have 
 done it, had it not been that Mervyn is old enough to 
 go to school. However, we have just heard from her 
 that it is all settled, and the marriage will take place 
 almost immediately. Wardlaw is a charming fellow, 
 and he and Magdalen were great Mends in old days ; 
 so it is quite a romantic story.' 
 
 ' Ah ! that is just what I was told ; that there was 
 some misunderstanding between them in their early 
 days, otherwise they would have married years ago.' 
 
 * It hardly amounted to that. Wardlaw was then far 
 too poor to think of marrying, and he had no prospects, 
 as he had two elder brothers at that time. But I know 
 what you are alluding to. They got him appointed to 
 the Spanish Embassy, when they thought he was falling 
 in love with Magdalen.' 
 
 * Who do you mean by " they ? " ' 
 
 * My father and old Lyndsay, afterwards Magdalen's 
 husband. Wardlaw was in the diplomatic service, 
 waiting for an appointment, and was meanwhile in 
 
THE HEROINE'S HOME, 
 
 London, where lie was constantly in Magdalen's society. 
 Old Lyndsay was my father's dearest friend, and was 
 also a great deal in the house. When he saw how 
 matters were going on, he came to my father, and asked 
 him if he wished his daughter to marry a pauper. My 
 dear old father, who would never have noticed anything, 
 however palpable, that was going on right under his 
 •eyes, took fright directly ; put himself at once into Lynd- 
 say's hands, and begged him to help him out of the 
 scrape. Acting upon his friend's advice, he immediately 
 left town with my sister, on the plea of feeling ill him- 
 self and needing change of air. 
 
 ' Meantime Lyndsay, who had interest just then with 
 the Foreign Office, got Wardlaw this appointment, 
 which he was too poor to refuse ; and he proceeded at 
 once to Madrid. 
 
 * Shortly afterwards my father died, and my sister 
 found herself alone and penniless, dependent on me, 
 who had already a wife and several children. It was 
 then that Lyndsay stepped forward and laid himself 
 and his fortune at her feet. Hers is a very grateful 
 nature, and she had received nothing but kindness all 
 her life from her father's friend. 
 
 * During her father's short illness, too, Lyndsay had 
 been her right hand. All unconscious of the wrong he 
 had done her, she became his wife.* 
 
 * Did you know of it ? ' 
 
 * Believe me, no ; or I should not have allowed her to 
 take such a step without at least opening her eyes.' 
 
 * Then how do you know it now ? * 
 
10 THROWN TOGETHEB. 
 
 * I am coming to that presently. Let me tell mj 
 story my own way. Well ! Lyndsay only lived eighteen 
 months after his marriage.' 
 
 * Was she happy with him ? ' 
 
 * I believe she was happy enough, but she must have 
 been very dull. To begin with, a man of fifty cannot 
 be much of a companion for a girl of nineteen; and 
 then they lived almost entirely at Grlen-Mervyn, his 
 wild out-of-the-way place in Wales. So I saw very 
 little of them. They came to London to see a doctor 
 for Lyndsay about eleven months after their marriage. 
 That was the beginning of the illness that ended with 
 his death.' 
 
 * I wonder why Wardlaw did not come back when he 
 found she was free ? ' 
 
 *You must remember that nothing had passed 
 between them, and that he had no reason to suppose 
 she cared for him. Quite the contrary. Eor almost 
 the first thing he heard of her after he arrived in 
 Madrid, was the report of her intended marriage. Also 
 he may have been too proud to marry her when she was 
 a rich widow, or he may have resented her marriage, or 
 a hundred things. Anyhow, as we know, he didn't ; 
 and it is only a year ago that, by the successive deaths 
 of his father and brothers, he became Lord Wardlaw, 
 with wealth sufficient to enable him to give up his 
 diplomatic career, and to return to England. 
 
 * He and Magdalen met again this spring in London » 
 I must own my wife and I secretly hoped that the old 
 intimacy might be renewed, and that we might see her 
 
THE HEROINE'S HOME. 11 
 
 rewarded for her long years of devotion to others. 
 Imagine our disappointment wlien she left town at the 
 end of June, and returned with her boy to Wales. 
 Rumour, however, was not so silent on the subject as 
 she ; and we soon heard that she had refused Lord 
 "Wardlaw. Upon this I wrote to her, urging her to re- 
 consider her determination. I urged her not to throw 
 away such a chance of happiness, and my wife added 
 her entreaties to mine. 
 
 ' Magdalen answered both letters in her usual gentle 
 way, thanking us most gratefully for our interest in 
 her, but saying at the same time very decidedly that 
 she had given the matter a great deal of consideration, 
 and that the conclusion she had arrived at was final. 
 
 ' As my sister's only relation, I sent for Lord Wardlaw, 
 and spoke to him on the subject. In the course of our 
 conversation we referred to the past, and somehow or 
 other the truth oozed out ; and I, for the first time, dis- 
 covered that both had been victims of a plot between 
 my father and old Lyndsay. Lord Wardlaw himself 
 had only dimly suspected it till his return to England, 
 and Mrs. Lyndsay, he said, had evidently no idea who 
 had got him the appointment, nor why it was done. 
 These are his own words. " At the time we were 
 mutually hurt at each other's inexpHcable conduct, and 
 both felt we had been mistaken in supposing ourselves 
 cared for. She judged by my accepting an appointment 
 without telling her, or coming to wish her good-bye ; 
 and I judged by what Mr. Lyndsay told me, which was 
 that she had begged her father to take her out of town. 
 
12 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 as she was tired of London and its gaieties. I left 
 England in a state of pique, and the announcement of 
 her intended marriage fell under my eyes very shortly. 
 It seemed to confirm my original impression, which 
 was, that in spite of the disparity of years between them, 
 it was Lyndsay she cared for, and not me at all. I 
 beheve I should have enlightened her as to all this ; but 
 I could not make up my mind to be the one to lower 
 her son's father in her eyes. Besides, she might have 
 resented it, and I might have done my own cause more 
 harm than good. After all he was her husband after- 
 wards ; and probably in that relation he behaved him- 
 self so as to wipe out any early offences, and I should 
 have been sorry to tarnish his memory." 
 
 ' After this conversation I wrote again to my sister, 
 laying the facts of the case plainly before her. I feared 
 that, besides the difficulty about the step-father, she 
 might be hampered by some foolish idea of being true, 
 to her husband's memory, or something of that sort ; 
 and I did not think it necessary she should be true to 
 the memory of anyone who had used her so ill. Also I 
 saw that in withholding from her the truth of the old 
 misunderstanding. Lord Wardlaw was removing one of 
 the strongest arguments in his own. favour. 1 honoured 
 him for his reticence, but was troubled with no such 
 scruples myself. 
 
 * I told her exactly how it had all come about, feeling 
 all the while what a powerful advocate I was, my sister's 
 sense of justice being so strong. For the answer to this 
 letter I cannot tell you how auxiously I waited. But 
 
THE HEROINE'S HOME. 13 
 
 here it is, and a most satisfactory one ; for tliongli I 
 cannot say it is exactly an answer — ^for my dear generous 
 sister does not make the slightest or most distant allu- 
 sion to her husband's conduct — ^yet she tells me de- 
 cidedly she has accepted Lord Wardlaw, and that is all 
 I care about.' 
 
 Colonel Middleton drew a long breath, and waited to 
 receive his friend's renewed congratulations. The con- 
 versation then branched off to other subjects, and shortly 
 afterwards his friend took his leave, and Colonel 
 Middleton went up into the drawing-room to seek his 
 wife. 
 
 He found her surrounded by five o'clock visitors, and 
 saw there was not a chance of speaking to her ; so, after 
 talking over his sister's engagement with one or two 
 ladies who knew her, he strolled out of the room, and 
 bethought himself of what he would do next. This was 
 his life. He was always wondering what he would do 
 next. 
 
 Rowland Middleton was a man who * hung about ' all 
 day. He had nothing to do. If he had had, he would 
 not have done it. He was an easy-going indolent man, 
 who left everything to other people, and found it 
 answered very well. He lived on his wife's fortune, 
 and had no employment of his own. He had sold out 
 of the army on his marriage, and had ever since con- 
 gratulated himself on having done with the trouble and 
 worry of a constantly recurring occupation. 
 
 He was a kind good sort of man, not without a certain 
 degree of cleverness, for he was agreeable and amusing 
 
14 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 in society ; but there it began and en^ed, for lie never 
 opened a book or cultivated his mind in any way. But 
 he was fond of his wife, fond of his children, and had 
 never done or said an unkind thing in his life. 
 
 Such was the man to whom Providence had assigned 
 the care and responsibility of eight children — five sons 
 and three daughters. 
 
 He had married young a woman older than himself, 
 and perhaps his wife was a little too much for him. 
 She was an only child and an heiress, and had always 
 been accustomed to have her own way, and been spoilt 
 and made much of. She had all the energy, all the 
 strength of purpose, and all the fortune that he lacked. 
 The place in Shropshire was hers, the house in London 
 was hers, and she was capable of managing it all, and of 
 managing him likewise. He left everything to her ; it 
 saved him trouble, and she liked it. This was particu- 
 larly the case with the children. Mrs. Middleton was 
 full of theories on the subject of education. Her children 
 were suffering under the reaction that always follows an 
 excess of any kind. The reaction from despotism is 
 anarchy, and again from anarchy it will always be 
 despotism, and so on for ever. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton, as a child, had been brought up on 
 the new system of education — where children are, and 
 know they are, the chief objects in the house ; are 
 always in their parents' society, and join as they please 
 in every conversation. Mrs. Middleton, as a mother, 
 had reverted to the system on which her parents had 
 been educated, and brought up her children strictly, 
 
THE HEROINE'S HOME. 15 
 
 assigning to them their school-rooms and their nur- 
 series as their places of abode, and only admitting them 
 to their parents' society at stated times. No child of 
 Mrs. Middleton's ever strolled into the drawing-room 
 at promiscuous hours. There was never any danger of 
 the door opening slowly, and a small head protruding 
 itself somewhere below the handle of the door, while 
 the owner of the head delivered itself of some little 
 remark invented as an excuse for getting into her 
 society. But as Mna Middleton is the heroine of this 
 story, we shall hear more of Mrs. Middleton' s system 
 and its results hereafter, and so need not animadvert 
 upon it now, except in so far as it affected her husband, 
 of whom we were speaking. 
 
 He had never been encouraged to break in upon his 
 children's lesson hours, either by paying them visits in 
 the school-room, or by taking them out walking with 
 him. 
 
 By degrees he had ceased to expect much com- 
 panionship in his children after their school-room life 
 had fairly begun, especially since his three eldest boys 
 had gone to school, and the school-room party consisted 
 of the two little girls of whom this story has already 
 spoken. It always seemed to him that it was too early 
 or too late when he wanted to send for them. They 
 had either just begun their lessons, or just sat down to 
 their tea. So he contented himself with playing with 
 the little ones in the nursery, and seeing the others at 
 stated times, i.e. luncheon, and for a few minutes before 
 dressing for dinner. That is, if he felt inclined. He 
 
16 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 was not a man wlio wonld give up a pleasanter engage- 
 ment for the sake of being with his children. And so 
 it often happened that if he was out at luncheon, or late 
 in dressing for dinner, he and his little girls did not 
 meet all day. Sometimes — but this was very rarely — ^he 
 would take them for a walk, and on the hope of this 
 walk the sanguine Cecily lived from day to day. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton always had the school-room party 
 down to luncheon. It was the exception she made to 
 the rules of the old system. She considered it a good 
 thing, lest the children should grow shy in their manners 
 or awkward in their ways. 
 
 These London luncheons were a great penance to th© 
 little girls. Their shut-up school-room life made them 
 shy and sensitive, and their parents' ways with them 
 during that meal were not calculated to help them, 
 diametrically opposed as those ways were. For their 
 mother never lost an opportunity of finding fault with 
 them, and pointing out their failings, no matter who was 
 there ; while Colonel Middleton's way of noticing them 
 was by a kind of fatherly teasing, which, highly amusing 
 to him, was a great, though unexpressed, terror to them, 
 for they never knew what he was going to say next. It 
 was often convenient to him to be * funny ' at their ex- 
 pense, but the wit which made him a favourite in society 
 was a constant source of dread to his little daughters. 
 Still they were very fond of him ; indeed, there could be 
 no doubt that if the question elder girls are so fond of 
 putting to their youngers, 'Which do you like best, 
 your papa or your mamma ? ' had been put to the little 
 
THE HEROINE'S HOME. 17 
 
 Middletons, the answer would have been very decidedly 
 in Colonel Middle ton's favour. 
 
 He never scolded them, or interfered with them in 
 any way ; he left all that to his wife. As long as they 
 were nicely dressed and looked pleased to see him, that 
 was all he cared for. They were pretty little girls, and 
 he was proud of them, and quite satisfied with them. 
 He didn't bother his head about their characters, or 
 listen much when his wife complained of Mna's being 
 ' an odd child,' and Cecily ' very childish and backward.' 
 Neither was he at all concerned when told that the 
 governesses said Nina was proud and obstinate and 
 Cecily lazy and inattentive. * Children must be naughty 
 sometimes,' he said, ' and it was quite right they should 
 show it in the school-room, and keep their good be- 
 haviour for downstairs.' 
 
 Taking his wife's tone, he called Nina * a queer 
 customer,' but he himself seldom saw anything in her 
 to justify his saying so. He noticed certainly that she 
 often flushed angrily, and tossed her head at luncheon 
 when her mother found fault with her, but this he 
 rather admired ; he thought it showed she had ' a spirit 
 of her own,' and he liked it : it became her so well. 
 He had an idea sometimes that she took things rather 
 too strongly. He thought it a pity ; he always took 
 things so easy himself ; but he supposed she would find 
 out her mistake as life went on. 
 
 Nina was what is called 'an odd child.' She was 
 silent and reserved, singularly undemonstrative, and 
 rather obstinate and self-willed. The nurses called her 
 
 c 
 
18 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 * hanglity,' and the governesses called her * cold.' Her 
 mother never professed to understand her, and often 
 expressed it as her opinion that she would grow np a 
 very disagreeable woman. But her father, though he 
 could not get her to chatter to him as Cecily did, did 
 not discover all this in her, or think of her otherwise 
 than as rather a character. He was proud of her 
 beauty, pleased that he could discover in her face a 
 strong likeness to his sister. Also she was his first 
 daughter, the three eldest being boys. With Cecily, 
 his younger girl, he was certainly more at his ease, but 
 he had not the same pride in her. She was a winning 
 little thing, very shy and timid ; but when alone with 
 him, away from her mother's dreaded eye, and relieved 
 from the fear of his joking her in company, she would 
 chatter to him as freely as possible. He teased her a 
 great deal ; he couldn't help it. She was just the sort 
 of child to be teased, because she was always so affected 
 by it. Her tears came so readily that her mother called 
 her a cry-baby. This was a very sore point vnth poor 
 Httle Cecily. Her father sometimes converted her name 
 into ' Silly-ly,' or * Silly-Billy,' and the fear that he 
 would do so at luncheon before visitors kept the child in 
 a constant state of anxiety during that meal. 
 
 When her school-boy brothers were at home, poor 
 Cecily had a sad time of it. But it was her father's 
 refined teasing that she dreaded most. If there was a 
 goose at luncheon, she knew as well as possible that 
 before the carving-knife was plunged into it, he would 
 turn to her and say, * Drop a tear for your brother.' Then 
 
THE HEROINE'S HOME. 19 
 
 if, when she thought him too busily engaged in carving 
 to notice her, she surreptitiously said ' Yes ' to the 
 servant when he brought her some, her father would be 
 sure to look up and say, ^ Eating your own brother, 
 unnatural Silly-Billy ! ' If anyone could have known 
 how the child dreaded Michaelmas Day ! 
 
 * Why do you eat goose, then ? ' asked IsTina con- 
 temptuously one day, wlien Cecily had been dismissed 
 in tears from the dining-room, because, as her mother 
 said, she couldn't take a joke ; ' if you didn't eat it, 
 there wouldn't be such a talk about it. It's every 
 Michaelmas Day the same thing.' 
 
 ' It's the apple sauce ! ' sobbed Cecily. 
 Sometimes the simple child would be caught un- 
 suspectingly. 
 
 ' Did I hear you singing this morning, Cecily ? ' 
 ' Me singing ? !N'o, papa.' 
 
 * What was that noise, then, in the garden under my 
 window ? ' 
 
 * ISToise, papa ? I didn't hear anything. Oh yes, the 
 old donkey brayed, that was all.' 
 
 * Exactly ; I thought it was one of your relations ; I 
 knew I could not mistake the family voice.' 
 
 As we began by saying, his little girls were very fond 
 of him all the same, Cecily especially. 
 
 They were always glad when he did manage to call 
 them at the right time, or take them out walking with 
 him. The latter above all. It relieved the dullness of 
 their school-room life, and was a great pleasure to 
 them and, at this very moment, while he is debating 
 c2 
 
20 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 in his own mind what he will do next, they are both 
 bolting their bread and butter as fast as thej can, in 
 the hope that he will take them out in the park. 
 
 They have been, as we know, on the qui vive ever 
 since they heard his hansom drive up to the door, won- 
 dering what has brought him home. For like all chil- 
 dren, Nina and Cecily Middleton were very much taken 
 up with the affairs of their elders, and were always 
 putting two and two together, after the fashion of those 
 who are kept in the dark. Perhaps, from the state of 
 repression in which they lived, they did it more than 
 most children; but it is more generally done than 
 parents have any idea of. And so it was, that from a 
 few words dropped lately at luncheon, and other ways 
 too insignificant to convey any idea except to already 
 sharpened comprehensions, these two young creatures, 
 who lived such a shut- up school-room life, that they 
 were not supposed to know of anything that went on 
 outside its walls, not only knew that there was a secret, 
 but were perfectly aware that it concerned their Aunt 
 Magdalen and their Cousin Mervyn. 
 
 To return to Colonel Middleton. With the strange 
 contradiction which we ofben find in a character, this 
 man, who never took the trouble to manage his own 
 affairs, was very fond of managing other people's ; and 
 he had always turned his attention very much to those 
 of his only sister, the Mrs. Lyndsay, whose intended 
 second marriage was causing him such satisfaction. To 
 begin with, his sister was a great deal younger than 
 himself, so that he had always been accustomed to look 
 
THE HEROINE'S HOME. 21 
 
 upon lier as a cHld. And tlien she tad been left a 
 widow when she was so very young. Moreover, she 
 had been left with an only son, heir to a large property ; 
 and anyone who heard Colonel Middleton descant on 
 the sad position of a woman thus left without the 
 help of a husband's advice, guidance, and control, would 
 never have supposed that his own wife dispensed with 
 all three, and got on very well without them. When 
 his sister was in town he would bestow many of his idle 
 hours upon her, sitting with her, discoursing on the 
 management of property and the education of children 
 — of both which subjects she knew him to be profoundly 
 ignorant. But she did what was the kindest and wisest 
 thing to do — listened patiently, and was grateful for his 
 interest in her and in her boy, a.nd went her own way, 
 doing what her own. right-mindedness and good sense 
 told her was best ; and he, misled by her gentleness and 
 courtesy, would go away puffed up with the importance 
 of having directed her for her good, and would be very 
 long before he discovered that after all his advice had 
 not been taken. He was always urging her to send her 
 boy to school, even before the poor little fellow was out 
 of petticoats ; yet Mervyn Lyndsay was now a well- 
 grown boy in jacket and trowsers ; and it was only now 
 and then that it flashed across Colonel Middleton that 
 his nephew was still at home. 
 
 It was, however, not entirely for the sake of giving 
 
 . advice to his sister, that Colonel Middleton was so often 
 
 to be found sitting in her drawing-room when she was 
 
 in town. He was really fond of her, and there was 
 
22 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 something about her house and surroundings that ho 
 did not find in his own. There was a sense of calm and 
 repose about her which he could not define, and a charm 
 in her society and conversation which always attracted 
 him. Everything in her house went on smoothly; there 
 were no jars. At home, though the children were kept 
 so strict, and there were so many rules and regulations, 
 there was always a noise and a bustle. The fact was, 
 there was no repose about Mrs. Middleton. She was 
 always scolding a servant or a tradesman, or a child. 
 She never sat in one place long ; was always bustling in 
 and out of the room, or going up and down stairs ; 
 always writing notes, sending messages, or receiving 
 parcels. Though she had nothing to do with the chil- 
 dren's lessons, and only nominally presided over the 
 household and kitchen, yet she always seemed too busy 
 to speak to him. 
 
 Magdalen, though she taught her boy herself, super- 
 intended the household, and was in constant correspon- 
 dence with steward, bailiff, &c., seemed always to have 
 leisure to attend to him, and a clear head, and unfeigned 
 interest in what he was saying. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton, as we have said before, never had a 
 child in the room except at stated times. ' Occupation 
 would be impossible if she did,' she said. 
 
 Colonel Middleton always found Magdalen with her 
 little boy with her, either astride on her lap while she 
 read to him, or if she was too busy to attend to him, 
 driving a tandem of chairs by himself in the corner 
 while she transacted her business. 
 
THE HEROINE'S HOME. 
 
 Neither could lie complain tliat the child was in the 
 way ; for if Mrs. Lyndsay fancied her brother wanted to 
 speak to her alone, she always sent the boy away. And 
 at her gentle word of dismissal, Mervyn always went up 
 to the nursery without a murmur. 
 
 Colonel Middleton himself was always the first to 
 object to such a measure ; he was very fond of the boy. 
 He was such a handsome merry little fellow, and so 
 manly and independent ; and yet he had such engaging 
 manners, and such pretty caressing ways. There had 
 always been something very attractive about the child 
 ever since he was quite a baby. Colonel Middleton had 
 often been puzzled to think why this child's demeanour 
 was so different from that of his own children. Even 
 the way he came into the room was so different from 
 the shy bored manner in which his children presented 
 themselves. This little fellow always came bounding in, 
 so sure of a welcome, so certain that his appearance in 
 ' the room was just as great a pleasure to others as it 
 was to himself; so happy to come, so convinced that 
 everyone was happy to see him. His was the fearless 
 confidence of one who had never known anything but 
 love all his life, and expected it from everything and 
 everybody. Colonel Middleton liked to watch him at 
 his games, too ; to see how completely he was engrossed 
 in his imaginary tandem or four-in-hand. It was so 
 clear that to him the chairs were unmanageable refrac- 
 tory horses ; that the stool on the top of the sofa was a 
 high coach box ; and that the ribbon he had taken off his 
 mother's neck, and the bit of string tied to the paper- 
 
24 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 knife did really form as good and as efficacious a pair of 
 reins and a horse- whip as the best saddle- shop in Lon- 
 don could produce ! Perhaps they did ; since things 
 are not so much as they are, as as we see them. The 
 leader was always frisky ; and Colonel Middleton could 
 not but envy the power of imagination with which chil- 
 dren are gifted, when little Mervyn would say earnestly, 
 looking at the inanimate motionless chair, 
 
 * He kicks deffer'ly, doesn't he ? but you needn't be 
 fightened, Uncle Rowley, 'cas I'll hold him.' 
 
 Mervyn got his share of teasing as well as his little 
 cousins. Colonel Middleton was always teasing him 
 about Wales, and the child was passionately fond of 
 his home. He called him ' Taffy,' and would sing, 
 directly he came into the room — 
 
 TajQfj was a Welshman, 
 Taffy was a thief. 
 
 His own little Cecily would have swum away in her 
 tears at once ; but Mervyn, before he was four years 
 old, had learnt to retaliate by calling him ' Uncle 
 Roley-poley,' and would retort upon his rhymes by a 
 vigorous 
 
 Eowley-poley, gammon and spinach, 
 Heigho, says Uncle Kowley. 
 
 Of course all this was some time before our story 
 opens. As we said before, Mervyn was now a well- 
 grown boy in jacket and trowsers ; but the liking for 
 the boy remained in Colonel Middleton, and he still 
 was aware of the difference between him and his own 
 
THE HEROINE'S HOME. 25 
 
 cliildreii, tliough he could not define what it was. At 
 the same time, he never had thought, and did not now 
 think, of comparing his wife's system of education with 
 his sister's ; he always felt so sure the former must 
 be right. Besides, he was much too lazy ever to take 
 matters into his own hands. * To take things as they 
 are, and make the best of them,' had ever been the 
 practice of his life ; and also he was well aware that 
 what could be done with an only child could not be 
 done in the case of a large family. He would have 
 been the first to complain if the children came too 
 forward, or were the least in the way. He liked their 
 society when he felt inclined for it ; but he by no 
 means liked the trouble of children ; and it happened 
 constantly in the season that he was so busy amusing 
 himself that two or three days would elapse with- 
 out his coming to speech with his little school-room 
 girls. 
 
 We left him just now, thinking what he would do 
 next. It occurred to him, as he stood on the stairs 
 debating, that his little daughters would have finished 
 their lessons; and that as he had a stray hour, he 
 might as well take them out as do anything else.^ So 
 he ran upstairs, turned down the passage to the school- 
 room, and gave a long low whistle. There was no 
 answer at first, and he repeated it several times. Pre- 
 sently a door at the end of the passage opened, and a 
 little voice said — 
 
 * Is that the Bully that keeps on whistling ? * 
 
 ' No, Silly-Billy, it's me. Come here ! ' 
 
26 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 Cecily ran up to him, joyfully whispering, ' Take us 
 out in the park, papa, ^please do.' 
 
 * What will mamma and Mademoiselle say ? ' 
 
 * Oh, Mademoiselle won't mind. She's got migraine, 
 she says ; or perhaps it's cowp-de-vent, she thinks, as 
 she's heen rather sick.' 
 
 Colonel Middleton thought Mademoiselle must be 
 clever to get cowp-de-vent on so sultry a day, and also 
 that sickness was not generally part of the com- 
 plaint. 
 
 'Why, there's not a breath of wind anywhere,' he 
 said. 
 
 * Cecily means coujp-de-soleil,^ said Nina, appearing at 
 the door. 
 
 This was much more comprehensible ; and Colonel 
 Middleton sent a very civil message to Mademoiselle, 
 to the effect that if she wo aid like to lie down and rest, 
 he would relieve her of her pupils, and take them out 
 for a walk. 
 
 ' But make yourselves very smart,' he said, as he left 
 them ; * I can't walk with little Cinderellas.' 
 
 * Sundays, then, I suppose ? ' "eid Cecily. 
 
 * Sundays ? ' repeated Colonel Middleton, rather 
 mystified. 
 
 ' I mean frocks and hats,' she answered. 
 
 * Frocks and hats ? ' he questioned, still more be- 
 wildered ; * what does she mean, Mna ? ' 
 
 ' She means are we to put on our Sunday things ; 
 our best things, you know,' explained Nina. 
 
THE HEROINE'S HOME. 27 
 
 * Oh, I see ! Yes, your best clotlies, certainly ; and 
 come into the smoking-room when you are ready.' 
 
 They joined him in about ten minutes, looking as 
 neat and pretty as any father could desire ; and he got 
 up and put on his hat. 
 
28 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 children's LIYES in the LONDON SEASON. 
 
 * Where sliall we go ? ' lie said, as lie shut the hall-door. 
 
 * Oh ! the park, papa, — flease,^ — said Cecily. 
 
 * What makes you so fond of the park ? * 
 
 * Oh ! it's such fun, papa. I like seeing all the 
 people riding, and passing the people who you know, 
 and seeing you take off your hat, or hold up your 
 umbrella.' 
 
 ' Hold up my umbrella ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. When you see a lady, you always take your 
 hat off ; but when you see a gentleman that you know, 
 you hold up your umbrella ; at least, if he's riding you 
 do. If he's walking you hold up two fingers, and say, 
 " How are you ? " Nina and I always call them 
 papa's " how-are-yous." We meet them sometimes in 
 the streets or squares when we're walking with Ma- 
 demoiselle, and then we always say to each other, 
 " How are you ? " Don't we, ISTina ? ' 
 
 But Nina was looking at a perambulator in the 
 distance, and didn't answer. Cecily, not at all dis- 
 comfited, went chattering on. 
 
 * Mademoiselle always takes us into Berkeley Squa.re 
 
CHILDREN IN THE LONDON SEASON. 29 
 
 or Kensington Gardens, wliere there are no " How-are- 
 yous," or anything to look at. It's very dull.' 
 
 * But don't you play games in the square ? I re- 
 member thinking games in Berkeley Square very good 
 fun when I was a child.' 
 
 * Ah ! but then you were a boy, and we're girls, you 
 see. We mayn't play with boys, and the games in 
 Berkeley Square are for boys and girls. It's a great 
 bore not being able to play with boys ; I like them 
 much better than girls. I wish you would ask mamma 
 to let us, papa. Will you ? ' 
 
 Colonel Middleton felt he was getting himself into 
 a mess, and, to gain time for reflection, he said : * So 
 you never play with boys ? ' 
 
 * No, hardly ever. There's only one boy we may 
 play with, and he's gone now.' 
 
 ' Who's that ? ' asked Colonel Middleton. 
 
 * Oh, that's Mervyn,* said Cecily. 
 
 At this moment Nina, who had been lingering be- 
 hind, kissing her hand to the perambulator she had 
 been watching, came running up. 
 
 ' What were you looking at ? * asked her father. 
 
 Nina pointed to a perambulator which was crossing 
 the road, in which he recognised his two youngest 
 children. 
 
 * Going home to bed I suppose,' he said, turning 
 round and shaking his stick at them. The nurses 
 were seen making frantic attempts to induce the 
 children to see and return their father's salutation; 
 but the little occupants of the perambulator looked in 
 
30 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 every direction but the right one. The eldest kissed 
 his hand in the direction of the sky, and the other 
 maintained a stolid indifference to everything and 
 everybody. 
 
 * So you play with Mervyn ? ' resumed Colonel Mid- 
 dleton, as they walked on ; and he was silent for some 
 time after, his thoughts wandering off to Mervyn. He 
 wondered how the boy would take the news of his 
 mother's intended marriage. *Do children in general 
 object to step-fathers and step-mothers ? ' he asked him- 
 self * Why should they object to the former ? ' He 
 thought perhaps his little girls might be able to throw 
 some light upon the subject ; and never for a moment 
 dreaming that they would be able to follow the course 
 of his thoughts, he asked abruptly : * How should you 
 feel if anyone were to tell you you were going to have a 
 papa ? ' 
 
 Nina saw the drift of the question in a moment, and 
 flushed indignant scarlet up to the eyes. The more 
 simple Cecily was auite innocent of his meaning, and 
 answered directly : * Going to have a papa ! Why, we've 
 got one.' 
 
 * Ah ! to be sure, so you have, I forgot,' said Colonel 
 Middleton, rather puzzled at seeing the case was not 
 quite analogous. ' But I mean, supposing you were 
 told you were going to have a new one ? ' 
 
 ' Two papas ! ' exclaimed Cecily ; ' why, we couldn't 
 have two, could we ? ' 
 
 ' No, no, I don't quite mean that. Supposing you'd 
 never had one No, bother, how is it ? Supposing 
 
CHILDREN IN THE LONDON SEASON. 31 
 
 you liad liad one and lie was dead, how should you feel 
 if you were told you were going to have another ? ' 
 
 ' I should be crying so about the dead one, that I 
 shouldn't be able to see the new one,' said the tender- 
 hearted Cecily, looking very much as if she were going 
 to begila at once. 
 
 Colonel Middleton got a little afraid of a scene in the 
 street. He took her hand, and tried to laugh her out of 
 it. * How can I put it ? ' he mentally questioned. 'Look 
 here,' he said : ' supposing you couldn't remember your 
 own papa, how should you feel if you were told you 
 were going to have another ? ' 
 
 * Why, that would be like Mervyn,' answered Cecily ; 
 * he can't remember his papa.' 
 
 ' Exactly,' said Colonel Middleton eagerly : * well, 
 how would Mervyn feel ? ' 
 
 But before Cecily could answer, Mna burst in : * How 
 would he feel ? angry, miserable ! He would never look 
 at him, or speak to him ; no more would I, if I were 
 Mervyn ! ' 
 
 ' Whew ! ' whistled Colonel Middleton. This was 
 altogether a bad look-out. He walked on silently for 
 some time, feeling, as he had once or twice felt before, 
 when in conversation with his eldest daughter, that she 
 was a httle too much for him. 
 
 This easy-going man had occasionally been made 
 rather uncomfortable by a look in her eyes, and by 
 the sense that she altogether took things much more 
 strongly than he did. He wondered now why she had 
 suddenly got so hot about his question, and glanced 
 
82 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 curiously now and then, as they walked on, at the hand- 
 some little face by his side, still flushed with the eager- 
 ness with which she had spoken. He turned to the 
 more shallow Cecily, and changed the conversation. 
 
 While they two chatted away, Nina walked along in 
 a perfect storm of indignation. She had of course, in 
 her usual way, put two and two together, and saw how 
 ifc all was as clearly as possible. Sympathy for Mervyn 
 and hatred to the imaginary step-father were the two 
 prominent feehngs in her heart. She was very fond of 
 her cousin, and had a great admiration for his character, 
 differing though ifc did so entirely from her own. Per- 
 haps that was why she admired it. Their natures were 
 diametrically opposed, their way of life utterly different ; 
 and yet these two children had a fascination the one for 
 the other ; so that though Nina could little understand 
 his open unreserve, his demonstrative ways with his 
 mother, and his entire freedom from the sensitive pride 
 by which she was herself eaten up, yet she could sym- 
 pathize very strongly with him. As she thought of the 
 way in which his life was bound up in his mother's, of 
 the way in which he watched over and attended to her, 
 and seemed always to prefer her society to any other — 
 how they sat together, walked together, rode together — 
 and then pictured to herself an old ogre of a step-father 
 coming in between them and marring it all, she stamped 
 her foot upon the ground, and grew hot all over in her 
 sympathetic indignation. He would interfere with Mer- 
 vyn ; he would perhaps keep him all day in a school- 
 room as she herself was kept, shut out altogether from 
 
CHILDREN IN THE LONDON SEASON. 33 
 
 his motlier's society ; he would even perhaps separate 
 him entirely from her, and send him to school. 
 
 The crack of the little heel upon the pavement would 
 almost have been audible to her father's ears had he not 
 at that moment been stopped by a passing * How are 
 you?' 
 
 Colonel Middleton drew his friend on one side, so that 
 the children should not overhear the conversation ; but 
 !N'ina was quite able to understand that her father was 
 being congratulated on her aunt's marriage ; and as the 
 friend moved on, she caught the words, ' Wardlaw is 
 such a charming fellow.' 
 
 ' Wardlaw ! ' she muttered to herself ; * such a name, 
 too ! I'll never call him Uncle Wardlaw, that I am 
 quite determined! ' 
 
 Colonel Middleton and his little girls were now 
 standing opposite Stanhope Gate, waiting for an oppor- 
 tunity to cross over into the park. 
 
 As they stood there, an omnibus passed, loaded inside 
 and out with passengers. Little Cecily's eyes wandered 
 all over it, amused to see how covered it was with 
 human beings. Colonel Middleton was just going to 
 tell her not to stare up at the omnibus, when, to his 
 horror, he saw her face light up with excitement and 
 recognition. She smiled and nodded repeatedly, and a 
 man, sitting on the top of the omnibus, made her a 
 hesitating but very respectful bow. 
 
 * Cecily,' he exclaimed angrily, ' what on earth are 
 you about ? ' 
 
 * Didn't you see him, papa ? ' she answered, still so 
 
34 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 excited at the oecarrence that she did not notice her 
 father's tone ; * and how smart he was ! I never saw 
 him so smart before. I think he must have been at the 
 Crystal Palace. I suppose it was because he was so 
 smart that you didn't know him again ? ' 
 
 * What are you talking about ? ' said Colonel Middle- 
 ton, not at all mollified by this explanation. * How 
 should I or you know a low fellow on the top of an 
 omnibus ? ' 
 
 * Papa ! ' she exclaimed reproachfully, * it was the 
 clock-man ! ' 
 
 At this moment the policeman made a sign that the 
 road was clear, and they were obliged to cross, so that 
 Cecily's lecture was postponed for a time ; but as soon 
 as they got into the park, he said gravely, ' N ow remem- 
 ber, Cecily, never on any consideration nod to anyone 
 on the top of an omnibus. Young ladies do not do 
 these kind of things. Your mamma would be horrified 
 if she heard of it. Do you hear me ? ' 
 
 *But, papa,' persisted Cecily, 'he was our own clock- 
 man, who winds up the school-room clock every 
 Saturday ; and as it's a half holiday, and Mademoiselle 
 in her room, I always have a nice little talk with him, 
 and he is so kind and amusing. So how could I not 
 nod to him when I see him in the streets ? ' 
 
 All this was said in a most plaintive voice, and she 
 looked up to her father imploringly, adding, * He is the 
 nicest clock-man, and he does make the school-room 
 clock go so well.' 
 
 When she first began to speak, Colonel Middleton 
 
CHILDREN IN THE LONDON SEASON, 36 
 
 bad been making up bis mind not to see a lady wbo 
 was approacbing, wbom be remembered once meeting 
 at a croquet party in bis own neigbbourbood in tbe 
 country, and wbo be saw was trying to bow to bim ; 
 but tbe look in Cecily's innocent eyes as sbe asked bim 
 bow sbe could ignore ber scbool-room friend wben sbe 
 met bim in tbe street, made bim feel ratber asbamed of 
 bis intention. He felt rebuked by tbe cbild's wonder- 
 ing gaze, and made tbe lady in question a very cordial 
 bow as sbe passed. Lucky for bim tbat be did so, for 
 tbe moment sbe was gone Cecily recognised ber witb all 
 tbe astonisbment and excitement wbicb cbildren feel at 
 seeing a country friend in London. Tbey always seem 
 to tbink it so extraordinary tbat anyone wbom tbey are 
 accustomed to see only among fields and bedges sbould 
 be walking. in tbe park like any otber person. 
 
 * Wby, tbat is tbe lady tbat stays sometimes witb 
 Mrs. Stapleton ! Ob, papa ! wbat a pity you didn't 
 stop and speak to ber ! Wby didnH you stop ? ' 
 
 * My dear, I don't know tbat I bad anytbing to say 
 to ber.' 
 
 * Ob ! I could bave tbougbt of sucb lots of tbings. 
 You migbt bave asked after Mrs. Stapleton' s silver 
 pbeasant, and tbe guinea-pigs, and so mucb besides. 
 May I run after ber and call ber back to speak to you ? ' 
 
 But somebow Colonel Middleton did not feel tbat 
 lively interest in bis neigbbour's belongings tbat Cecily 
 seemed to take it for granted be sbould, and be posi- 
 tively refused to allow any advances of tbe kind to be 
 D 2 
 
86 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 made. The lady, lie said, was enjoying ter walk, and 
 he insisted that she should be allowed to pnrsue lier 
 way unmolested. 
 
 Directly after they came to another stop. A tall fair 
 man hailed Colonel Middleton with an appearance of 
 great pleasure, which feeling seemed reciprocated. 
 Cecily saw they were likely to talk some time, so she 
 strayed a little from the gronp, and leant against the 
 railing, in imitation of some gentlemen she saw doing 
 so, to their great amusement ; but Nina, attracted by 
 something in the new comer's face, stood watching 
 him as he conversed with her father. He laughed 
 very often, and it was such a ringing, pleasant laugh, 
 that she caught herself once or twice laughing too ; it 
 sounded so very cheery. She felt quite glad when she 
 heard her father ask him to luncheon the next day, 
 and hoped they would continue talking some time, so 
 much did she like watching the pleasant face. 
 
 Presently she caught his eye, and he came forward 
 smiling kindly, and shook hands with her, saying, 
 * This is one of your little girls, I am sure,' and asked 
 her her name. She fancied he looked a little dis- 
 appointed at her answer, but he said nothing, and 
 resumed his conversation with her father. 
 
 He seemed very amusing, for Colonel Middleton 
 laughed almost as much as he. As he talked, Mna 
 could not help noticing how often he glanced at her, 
 and always with an expression of interest. At last he 
 said good-bye, shaking hands cordially with Colonel 
 Middleton, and taking off his hat with a smile to ISTina, 
 
CHILDREN IN THE LONDON SEASON. 37 
 
 which, pleased lier very much, though, it made her feel 
 rather shy. 
 
 * Come along,' said her father. ' Where's Cecily ? ' 
 Cecily was engaged in trying to copy the attitude of 
 
 one of the gentlemen she had been watching. She was 
 standing with her back to the raihngs, and trying to 
 get her elbows on the top, that she might support 
 herself by them, as he was doing. But being many 
 inches too short, the experiment proved a failure, and 
 being called to order by Colonel Middleton, she gave it 
 up, and joined him and her sister. 
 
 Nina longed to know who the stranger was, but for 
 that very reason could not make up her mind to ask. 
 
 Cecily saved her the trouble. 
 
 ' Papa,' she said, ' Who is that gentleman ? ' 
 
 ' Well, dear,' he answered, in as indifferent a manner 
 as he could assume, * I don't know that you will be 
 much the wiser if I tell you. His name is Lord 
 Wardlaw.' 
 
 ITina took a step backward, in her astonishment. 
 
 * That Lord Wardlaw ! ' she mentally said. ' That 
 Mervyn's step-father ! ' 
 
 Her feelings with regard to her aunt's marriage 
 underwent a sudden change. The interfering old ogre 
 disappeared, and she began to think she did not pity 
 Mervyn so very much after all. 
 
 ' I shall call him Uncle Wardlaw,' she settled in her 
 own mind. 
 
 * We must be going home,' said Colonel Middleton, 
 looking at his watch. 
 
38 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 * Home ? ' said Cecily regretfully, ' back to the dull 
 old school-room J away from the four-in-hands, and all 
 the fun. Oh dear ! what a pity ! ' 
 
 * Well, I am going to do a little shopping first,' said 
 her father, * so I shall not go home straight, and per- 
 haps I'll take you back in a hansom.' 
 
 This made up for everything. Cecily's idea of the 
 height of bliss began and ended in a hansom, and she 
 became as eager to leave the park as she had been to 
 come into it. They turned out at Albert Gate. 
 
 * What sort of shop, papa ? ' she said eagerly. 
 
 * That one,' he said, pointing to the flower- shop oppo- 
 site. ' I want to get a flower for my coat.' 
 
 * Oh dear, that's rather dull ! ' said Cecily, in a dis- 
 appointed tone, for her mind had been running on 
 strawberries and cream. * Gunter's is close by, papa ! * 
 she added, wistfully. 
 
 * Too late for ices to-night,' he answered, as he opened 
 the shop-door ; ' but another time, perhaps.' 
 
 Cecily was quite satisfied, but Mna knew well enough 
 what her father's promises were worth. Perhaps her 
 penetration had long ago discovered how completely life 
 was with him the fancy of the moment ; and she knew 
 it was very likely he would not even reraember to take 
 them another walk all the season. 
 
 * Choose m.e a flower, children,' he said, turning to 
 them. Cecily immediately produced an enormous 
 peony, to the great amusement of the shopman, and 
 somewhat to the annoyance of Colonel Middleton, who 
 
CHILDREN IN THE LONDON SEASON 39 
 
 did not like being made, even in the slightest} way, to 
 look ridiculous. 
 
 * All ! that is something like/ he said, taking the 
 spotless yellow rose-bud which his eldest daughter 
 silently handed him. 
 
 They called a hansom outside, and Cecily jumped in 
 with great delight. She sat bodkin, so she had a 
 capital view of everything all down Piccadilly, and in- 
 dulged in little bows to the passers-by every now and 
 then, unknown to her father, who was not looking her 
 way. 
 
 She threw open the doors with a great clatter when 
 they stopped, and tried to jump out on to the pavement, 
 as she had so often admiringly watched her father do 
 from the school-room window. 
 
 But her legs not being long enough for the operatiouj 
 she fell short of the kerbstone, and splashed into a 
 puddle lately deposited by a friendly water-cart. 
 
 * Really, Cecily, you are too clumsy for anything,' 
 said her father ; ' look at your boots ! ' 
 
 Cecily looked in dismay, and made the best of her 
 way upstairs, in great fear of meeting her mother. 
 
 Mna went up to her father and wished him good- 
 night. 
 
 * What ! shan't I see you again ? ' 
 
 ' No, papa, there is a dinner-party to-night.' 
 
 * Good gracious ! so there is. I quite forgot. I'm 
 afraid I shall be late ; ' and hastily kissing her, he ran 
 off to his dressing-room. 
 
40 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 Nina went up to tlie school-room, and found it was 
 past half-past seven. 
 
 Mademoiselle informed her that her mother had been 
 to the school-room to wish them good-night, not know- 
 ing they were out with their father ; and that she had 
 left a message to say that she was sorry to miss them, 
 and that she * hoped they would work hard at their 
 lessons to-morrow after such a treat as a walk in the park.' 
 
 Nina received the information and the message with a 
 sort of haughty indifference, and went upstairs to take 
 off her things. Cecily was in full talk. 
 
 * Nina, there's such lots of people coming to dinner 
 to-night ; do let's come to the school-room window, and 
 see them arrive.' 
 
 This was a favourite pastime generally with both ; but 
 to-night Nina's head was full of her boy cousin, and she 
 did not feel much interest in it. 
 
 ' Oh, Nina, we'll go to the top of the stairs, and see 
 them all go down to dinner. I've found a better place 
 than ever to see from, where there's plenty of room for 
 two.' 
 
 When they returned to the school-room it was only a 
 quarter to eight, and therefore too soon for any arrivals. 
 Nina instantly took a book, and sat down upon the floor 
 with it. 
 
 Cecily, who had already stationed herself at the 
 window, was in despair. 
 
 *0h! Nina, donH read. I know if you once begin, 
 you'll never leave off to look at the people.' 
 
 * Yes, I did,' said Nina absently ; for she was already 
 
CHILDREN IN THE LONDON SEASON. 41 
 
 deep in Iter book, and hardly heard what her sister was 
 saying. * I can, I mean I should — I shall.' 
 
 ' Oh ! you're not attending a bit,' said Cecily, 
 despairingly ; * you're thinking about that stupid book, 
 and here conies the first carriage and everything. I 
 wish there were no books in the world, that I do! . . . , 
 Yes ! it's stopping .... it's stopped at the door . . . 
 yes! and they've let down the steps, and out comes 
 such a smart lady ; lots of diamonds ! . . . ITow her 
 husband is telling the footman what time the carriage 
 is to come, and then he goes into the house. ISTo ! his 
 wife turns round, and tells him she's forgotten some- 
 thing. I wonder if it's her gloves, or her fan, or what. 
 Perhaps it's a present for mamma. Such a hunt they're 
 having in the carriage, but they can't find it. Ah ! now 
 the footman has picked it up on the step. Oh ! it's 
 only her pocket-handkerchief ; how dull ! Now they've 
 both gone in. Oh ! here comes another carriage. 
 N^ina, do come ! ' But all these remarks were lost upon 
 'Nina, who was now buried in her book. 
 
 Mademoiselle, taking pity on the eager Cecily, and 
 moreover, a little excited herself, joined her at the 
 window, and entered with spirit into the entertainment. 
 
 Cecily's flow of chatter went on increasing in ex- 
 citement as more guests arrived, reaching Mna faintly 
 in little shrieks (for Cecily's head was half out of 
 window), mingled with Mademoiselle's occasional re- 
 marks — ' Ah ! quelle belle toilette ! Mais vraiment ! 
 Combien c'est comme il faut ! Regardez done ! que 
 f^^ette dajne est bien mise ! Quelle charmante coiffure ! ' 
 
42 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 * A hansom ! A hansom ! and a " How-are-yon " in 
 it,' exclaimed Cecily, drawing in her head. ' Nina, I 
 do believe it's the same we met in the park ! ' 
 
 Down went Nina's book, and she was at her sister's 
 side in a moment. She was only just in time to see a 
 tall man pay his cab, and run up the steps. But she 
 was disappointed, for it was not Lord "Wardlaw, or any- 
 one the least like him. 
 
 ' How could you say it was one we saw in the parl?:^ 
 Cecily ! He was tall and fair, and this man has got 
 nasty dark hair, quite black and oily. Phaugh ! ' And 
 Nina made a gesture of disgust. 
 
 Cecily took it up rather warmly. * Dark hair isn't 
 nasty a bit, and I'm sure he's a very nice man. He 
 spoke so kindly to the cabman when he stopped next 
 door by mistake, and didn't holloa and shout at him like 
 some people would, and call him a fool.' 
 
 * Cecile, Cecile,' said Mademoiselle reprovingly^ 
 catching only the last word, * taisez-vous done ! ' 
 
 Thas rebuked, Cecily turned again to the window,, 
 muttering as she did so, ' Besides, the fair man isn't the 
 only " How-are-you " in the world.' 
 
 But to Nina just now he was, for her thoughts were 
 full of Mervyn, and she wanted to know more of the 
 man who was to bring such a change into his life. So- 
 she made no objection when Cecily presently suggested 
 that it was time they should go and establish themselves 
 on the staircase, for she wanted to satisfy herself whether 
 Lord Wardlaw was of the party or not. 
 
 Mademoiselle agreed to the plan on condition that they 
 
CHILDREN IN THE LONDON SEASON 43 
 
 would promise not to make a noise, or let themselves be 
 seen, and also that they would return very soon, as it 
 was time for Cecily to go to bed. She herself remained 
 behind to have her supper. Her head, she said, was 
 still bad, and it was probable she should retire early. 
 The two little girls wished her good-night, and ran 
 down- stairs, settling themselves in a corner where they 
 could see without being seen. 
 
 The drawing-room doors were open, and they could 
 hear a faint buzz of conversation every now and then 
 rise and die away almost directly, to begin again in 
 another part of the room, with the same melancholy 
 result. Their mother's clear decided tones rose above 
 the rest every now and then, as if she were making an 
 effort to suggest topics which might furnish some sort 
 of spasmodic conversation to cheer the gloomy interval 
 between the arrival of the guests and the announcement 
 of dinner. At last the butler came up the stairs, and 
 went into the drawing-room. 
 
 There was a moment's greater silence than ever, and 
 then, with a rush and a roar, conversation sprang up. 
 Then came the rustling of gowns and the tramp of many 
 feet, the sound of many voices, and mingled laughter, 
 getting nearer and nearer to the children as the party 
 streamed out on the landing and passed down the stairs. 
 
 It seemed as if each man had for many weeks kept 
 pent up within him a certain conversation he wished to 
 hold with the particular lady who was consigned to him 
 to take down to dinner, and that now, at last, the oppor- 
 tunity had come. 
 
44 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 Nina and Cecily felt quite deafened by tlie torrent 
 of words wHch swept past them. ' Wliat chatter- 
 boxes ! ' muttered Cecily, but she was called to order by 
 a frown from her elder sister. 
 
 First came their father, good-looking, cheerful, and 
 witty, evoking light rippling laughter from the pretty 
 woman on his arm, while his attention was divided 
 between her and Mna's yellow rose-bud, which he was 
 re-arranging in his button-hole. Then, two and two, 
 came the guests, strangers to the children mostly, 
 though they sometimes recognised faces they knew in 
 open carriages and an occasional * How-are-you ; * but 
 Xina looked in vain for Lord Wardlaw. Last of all, on 
 the arm of some foreign prince — erect, well-dressed, and 
 self-dependent — came the children's mother. 
 
 Clear and loud were her tones as she discoursed 
 with him in his own language, every word of which 
 was intelligible to her eldest daughter. Any close 
 observer would have seen N"ina shrink into herself a 
 little as her mother swept out upon the landing, as 
 if there were something in that mother's appearance 
 and manner which jarred a little upon the child's 
 sensitive organisation. Nay, more, as if her very 
 presence excited some curious feeling within her ; for 
 her cheeks flushed a little, and her eyes fell, while into 
 the corners of the tightly compressed little mouth 
 crept an expression which was not fear, nor dislike, nor 
 contempt, but which partook a little of all three, and 
 was gone before one could be certain it had been there 
 at all, changing into keen interest and excitement as 
 
CHILDREN IN THE LONDON SEASON. 45 
 
 her mother's words reached her : * So you knew Lord 
 Wardlaw abroad, and think my sister-in-law a very 
 Incky person ? So do I. . . . Yes, there is a boy ; 
 but, of course, he will go to school, and . . .' Here 
 the decided tones died away in the distance, and were 
 lost in the hum of voices which now proceeded from the 
 dining-room. 
 
 Had IN'ina followed the company downstairs, she 
 would have heard plenty about Lord Wardlaw ; for 
 during the first two courses he and his marriage, and 
 his previous history, formed the chief subjects of con- 
 versation. There was but one opinion as to himself. 
 He was charming. The verdict was unanimous. Opinions 
 as to whether Lord Wardlaw or Mrs. Lyndsay were 
 the * lucky one ' were a little divided. Some thought 
 the luck on his side, in possessing such a pretty, 
 charming wife as Colonel Middleton's sister. Others, 
 sitting a good way from Colonel Middleton, thought 
 it on hers. A young man like Lord Wardlaw, with 
 a fair fortune : who might have married any of the 
 pretty London girls of the day, had he been so disposed. 
 Others aside, to each other, thought a rich widow a 
 great windfall. Others again, still aside, thought the 
 boy a terrible stumbling-block. Some rejoiced at the 
 constancy of affection displayed by Lord Wardlaw. 
 ' That sort of thing is so rare in these days.' Colonel 
 Middleton told the whole story of the early friendship 
 from his end of the table, while his wife told it from 
 hers. By degrees, the conversation branched oflp to 
 other subjects, with which we have nothing to do. So 
 
46 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 now, while the champagne goes round, and the clatter 
 of voices and laughter sounds up the staircase, let us 
 return to the school-room, and follow the young lives 
 there. 
 
 It is nearly nine o'clock, and Cecily has gone to bed. 
 Mademoiselle, still suffering from her headache, has 
 also retired, and in the rapidly- darkening school-room 
 Nina sits alone. She has been reading by the fading 
 light, and the book is still open in her hand ; but now she 
 is leaning against the window-sill, looking out into the 
 street. It is an oppressive night, and both the windows 
 are wide open. Not much to be seen of interest there : 
 an organ below is playing a popular air, but otherwise 
 the street is almost deserted, for the roll of dinner- 
 carriages is over, and that of the later entertainments 
 not yet begun. Truly the only thing of interest is the 
 handsome little face itself. 
 
 The face is a curious mixture : the soft dreamy eyes 
 contrast so sharply with the firm, I had almost said 
 hard, little mouth. A varying face, for its earnest, 
 thoughtful expression now is as different as possible 
 from that which stole over it on the staircase not 
 half-an-hour ago. 
 
 Sad that th^ sight of a mother should have the 
 power to call up such an expression. But alas ! it was 
 not a solitary instance. It seemed, indeed, as if there 
 were something antagonistic in the dispositions of 
 mother and daughter ; so utterly different was their 
 organisation, that it appeared hopeless that they should 
 ever understand one another. Mutual love and for- 
 
-CHILDREN IN THE LONDON SEASON 47 
 
 bearance would have done it. Patience on the one 
 side and reverence on the other might have drawn them 
 together ; but unhappily these feelings were unknown to 
 either mother or daughter. 
 
 No doubt Nina was not easy to understand, nor was 
 she a winning or attractive child. No, she was, as her 
 mother said, ' an odd child ; ' one of those children who 
 incur the opprobrium * difficult ' — God help them ! for 
 few others will. Cold, proud, indifferent. 
 
 Let us watch her a little before we join in the verdict 
 ourselves. 
 
 The July evening is coming to a close. The organ 
 has strayed farther away. Every now and then snatches 
 of chorus sound from Park Lane, as the 'merry little 
 street-boys return from bathing in the Serpentine. 
 Everything speaks of the end of the busy day, and Nina 
 rouses herself from her reverie, and looks at the school- 
 room clock. 
 
 It is past nine, and she puts away her book, and 
 prepares to leave the room. But first she stoops down 
 and takes off her shoes. Then, very quietly, almost 
 stealthily, the child opens the school-room door, and 
 passes along the passage, and up the stairs. 
 
 Her bed-room door is open, and Cecily's voice is 
 heard from within, singing little songs to herself, to 
 beguile the time while she is waiting for her sister. 
 But Nina brushes past, and turns down a passage which 
 corresponds with the school-room one below. Where 
 can the child be going ? 
 
 Here a door stands partly open, and Nina hesitates 
 
48 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 a moment before she passes it. Voices and laughter 
 from within, and the clatter of plates and dishes, 
 intimate that the nurses are at supper, and very quietly 
 she creeps past, as if afraid of being discoyered. Very, 
 very quietly, and enters with a noiseless step a dark- 
 ened room a little farther on. 
 
 A night-light burns dimly on the table, and Nina 
 stands by the door till her eyes get sufficiently ac- 
 customed to the subdued light to be able to distinguish 
 the different objects in the room. 
 
 A big bed, a small bed, and two cribs, proclaim the 
 bed-room nursery. The big bed is empty, but three 
 sleeping children occupy the others. 
 
 In a little bed by itself lies a big rosy boy about five, 
 and in the crib next the wall a rosy baby girl. 
 
 Without glancing at these two, ISTina passes on to the 
 crib on the other side of the big bed, and stands at its 
 foot, motionless. A restless sleeper this. The bed- 
 clothes are tossed about in every direction, the little 
 face on the pillow is flushed, and the long fair hair all 
 in disorder. He cannot have been asleep long, nor 
 does he seem to sleep soundly now, for disjointed words 
 proceed from his lips, and he stirs uneasily. He must, 
 judging by the profusion of hair, and general aspect of 
 the lovely little face, be at least three years old ; but 
 his face and hands are scarcely as large as those of the 
 baby-sister who sleeps so soundly in the crib opposite. 
 The little hand and arm that lie outside the coverlet are 
 thin and small, and sadly blue are the veins in the 
 transparent forehead. 
 
CHILDREN IN THE LONDON SEASON. 49 
 
 And now let us take one glance at tlie face of the 
 child who is cold, hard, indifferent. 
 
 Where is the look of hanghty indifference with which 
 it received her mother's message ? Where is the look 
 of supercilious contempt with which it watched that 
 mother on the stairs ? Where is even the firm tightlj- 
 eompressed little mouth ? 
 
 Gone ! all gone !-^all merged in an expression of 
 yearning tenderness, of passionate affection, which per- 
 vades and beautifies the entire countenance. 
 
 The child's whole soul is in her face as she gazes at 
 her Httle invalid brother. Gazes, gazes, as if she could 
 never gaze enough. 
 
 Going to his side at last, she bends over him, and tries 
 to arrange the rumpled bed-clothes, and to relieve the 
 hot forehead of the tangled, disordered hair. Bending 
 closer still, she impresses tender kisses on his pillow, on 
 the sheet, on his hair ; and, as she does it, she whispers 
 softly, ' Good night, Totty, good night ! ' 
 
 Then returning to the foot of the crib, she stands 
 there for a few minutes, as if to assure herself his sleep 
 is sound. It seemed as though she fears it is so light a 
 slumber that he may waken at any moment and find 
 the nurses not yet come to bed, for she appears loth to 
 leave him. 
 
 Is she going to keep a lonely vigil till that time shall 
 come ? for she twines her arms around the bars of his 
 crib, and lays her head upon them. 
 
 No ; she is only repeating to herself, ere she leaves 
 him in the darkness, the old rhyme, sHghtly varied, with 
 
60 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 which many a nervous child has soothed itself to sleep 
 
 amid the fancied terrors of a lonely room. 
 
 Four corners to his bed, 
 Four angels round his head, 
 One to watch, two to pray. 
 And one to keep all fears away. 
 
 The regular breathing of the other children is heard 
 in the stillness as she stands there watching, and the 
 sound seems to irritate her a little, as if their health 
 and strength contrasted painfully in her mind with the 
 frail little sleeper before her. 
 
 But Totty does not stir again, and she is satisfied. 
 
 Her dark eyes seem to glow with the intensity of 
 the loYe within her, as she takes a farewell gaze, and 
 without one glance at the other beds she retires as 
 noiselessly as she came ; turning once more ere she 
 passes into the lighted passage, to kiss her hand to the 
 little sleeper, and to murmur softly, * Grood-night, Totty, 
 good-night ! ' Then quickly and hastily she goes down 
 the stairs, and regains her own room. 
 
 Night after night, unknown to all, suspected by none, 
 does the child pay this noiseless visit. !N'ight after 
 night does the little figure steal up the staircase, shoes 
 in hand, and disappear in the darkened room. She is 
 always more or less in fear of detection, but never yet 
 has she been discovered. 
 
 Mademoiselle always supposes her in her bed-room, 
 Cecily supposes her with Mademoiselle ; housemaids 
 and nurses are alike busy at their supper ; and so 
 hitherto she has escaped. 
 
CHILDREN IN THE LONDON SEASON. 61 
 
 It may be that He unto wlioin all hearts are open, and 
 wliose pity is eqnal to His power, ordered that it should 
 be so, and gave His angels charge concerning her, to 
 keep all hindrances away. 
 
 It may be that He was leading the wayward child to 
 Himself, through her love for her baby brother ; lest in 
 the lovelessness of the atmosphere in which she lived, 
 the little heart should really come to be as cold and hard 
 as it was there considered, and so should never rise into 
 the experience of that higher love which is in itself both 
 God and heaven. 
 
 * For it is through the gush of our human tenderness 
 that the soul first learns its destiny is divine ; it is 
 through a mortal yearning, unsatisfied, that the soul 
 ascends, seeking a higher object; it is through our 
 human afiections that the immortal and the infinite in 
 us reveals itself.' 
 
 The voices of the ladies returning to the drawing- 
 room came up the stairs half an hour after, and roused 
 Mna from her dreamless sleep. She woke with a 
 beating heart, for she was startled and confused, and she 
 dreamily fancied Totty must be ill, and that the voices 
 she heard were those of the alarmed nurses. By degrees 
 she remembered what it all meant, and with a sigh of 
 relief she lay down again. But the moment's fear had 
 unsettled her, and she could not get to sleep. 
 
 She lay, wondering whether the voices had disturbed 
 
 Totty too ; and if so, whether he would find the nurses 
 
 come to bed or not. Vague fears haunted her of his 
 
 lying awake frightened, and not able to make himself 
 
 e2 
 
52 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 heard. She could not calm herself about it, except by 
 repeating the soothing rhymes over and over again ; and 
 sleep overtook her, dreamily murmuring — 
 
 Four corners to his bed, 
 Four angels round his head, 
 One to watch, two to pray, 
 And one to keep all fears away. 
 
MRS. MIDDLETON'S BEGULATIONS. 53 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MRS. MIDDLETON'S RULES AND REGULATIONS. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton was, as we have said, a woman of 
 theory, and her theories on the subject of the education 
 and training of children were very decided. Her system, 
 as she imagined, combined the advantages of the old 
 system and the advantages of the new. 
 
 * Children now-a-days,' said Mrs. Middleton, *were 
 too much made of, took too prominent a part in the 
 household economy, and were taught to think them- 
 selves of too great importance.' They came too forward 
 altogether, and were too much with their parents, to 
 the exclusion, on the one hand, of many topics of con- 
 versation ; or to the hearing a great deal that was not 
 intended for their ears, on the other. The nursery and 
 the school-room were the proper places for them, regular 
 walks with their nurses or governesses quite change 
 enough, and she insisted on early hours for rising and 
 going to bed. 
 
 Prompt obedience to herself she exacted ; quick, un- 
 answering submission to every order. All very well in 
 its way. But the" fault in Mrs. Middleton' s system 
 was, that there was no confidence or love between 
 
/)4 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 lier and her cMldren — no interchange of thought and 
 aflPection. 
 
 She did not see enough of them to understand them ; 
 she not watch or study them at all ; so that she failed 
 to discover where her system fell short ; or, indeed, that 
 a system which succeeded with one child might possibly 
 fail with another ; that all children are not alike ; and 
 that where characters and temperaments differ, methods 
 of training should differ also, or at least be modified 
 and adapted. 
 
 Strong in the knowledge that her system had had 
 great success with her three elder boys, she was firm 
 in her own confident opinion that her theories were 
 perfect, and her practice more perfect still. 
 
 It so happened, that with her three easy-going, thick- 
 skinned boys, it had all answered very well ; but she 
 failed to see that she had in her little daughters totally 
 different characters to deal with. 
 
 Nina was a child who could have been led through 
 her affections, had those affections been drawn out ; 
 but this * driving ' system only stirred up her pride and 
 self-will. Sensitive to the last degree, she had learnt 
 to be ashamed of the deep feelings within her, and to 
 call up pride to help her to overconie and conceal them : 
 and that pride had now become so completely a second 
 nature, that she daily acted an indifference to everything 
 and everybody that she did not really feel. 
 
 Cecily, timid and nervous, was a child who needed 
 protection and help, and who should have been encou- 
 raged to overcome her self- consciousness and fear of 
 
MRS. MIDDZETON'S REGULATIONS. 55 
 
 ridicule ; and have been taught that she could depend 
 upon her mother's love and assistance — ^instead of 
 which she feared her, and never felt at ease in her 
 presence. 
 
 Outwardly, they were no doubt well-behaved and 
 submissive. But their good behaviour was merely a 
 mask worn in their mother's presence, which concealed 
 their real selves from her and from others. There was 
 no deep feehng at work in their hearts. There was 
 never any appeal made to their affections ; to their 
 sense of right, or their individual responsibility — no 
 inculcation of principle, on which a superstructure of 
 religion might be built. If they did wrong they were 
 punished — that was all. Neither was punishment ever 
 followed up by forgiveness and advice. They were 
 never taught that their failings made their mother un- 
 happy, and that for her sake they ought to try and not 
 offend again — a doctrine which conveys so forcibly to 
 young minds that their sins are displeasing to God, and 
 that out of love to Him more than out of fear they 
 should strive to overcome them. No ! Nothing of all 
 this. Nothing but the fear of punishment, and the 
 dread of public remark. But, after all, it was not so 
 much the training as the mother herself. Had her 
 example been always good and attractive, her system 
 might have succeeded better. Her own character 
 was all unformed and undisciplined ; she had not edu- 
 cated or trained herself, therefore how was it possible 
 she could rightly train and educate others ? The fact 
 was, she was intensely selfish. She was an only child 
 
56 TBBOWJ^ TOGETHER 
 
 and an heiress. She had always been indulged in every- ^ 
 thing, and been accustomed to have her own way, and 
 to be worshipped and flattered by all. She had 'a 
 strong will, a quick temper, and an immense idea of 
 her own importance. She was clever, managing, and 
 determined ; worldly, and very ambitious. Was this a 
 person likely to enter into all the difficulties and trials 
 of child life ? — to put herself in her children's place, 
 and to view the unfolding chart of life with their won- 
 dering puzzled eyes ? ISTo ! She had her place in the 
 world, and the children had theirs. Hers immeasurably 
 superior and important — ^theirs less than secondary, 
 simply subservient to her, and to her will. 
 
 Some day it wonld be different, perhaps. As grown- 
 up girls and boys she might hereafter allow them to 
 assume some individuality ; but at present they were 
 just children — a mere flock of sheep to be driven ac- 
 cording to her way, without any distinction. She 
 made certain rules, and they were to follow them — 
 that was all. If they didn't, they were punished — 
 there was no middle course. She was not fond of 
 children. A child was to her raw material, out of 
 which something might be made some day ; but as a 
 child it did not interest her. The society of children 
 gave her no pleasure. 
 
 Perhaps this arose from idleness, perhaps from selfish- 
 ness, perhaps from stupidity. 
 
 She found it a great trouble to provide answers to 
 their questions, and was bored to find that when she 
 had answered one it gave rise to another. She was too 
 
MRS, MIDDLETON'S REGULATIONS. 57 
 
 selfish to come down from the heights of her own ma- 
 ture reflections, and to lower herself to the level of 
 the baby questioner. Perhaps, in spite of her vaunted 
 cleverness, she was too stupid or too ignorant to satisfy 
 their curiosity. It requires no small amount of know- 
 ledge to parry successfully the questions of an enquiring 
 child-mind. 
 
 The questioning child is never the favourite in the 
 nursery, because it is often beyond the nurse's power to 
 satisfy its thirst for information ; and so she is often 
 floored, and feels lowered by having her ignorance 
 exposed. 
 
 Anyhow, from whatever cause it arose, Mrs. Middle- 
 ton was not fond of children ; she did not understand 
 them ; she had not realized that self must be put on one 
 side before she could really train or influence them ; and 
 the consequence was that she had no real influence over 
 them, and they neither loved nor respected her. 
 
 Of direct attempts there was no lack. Lecture by 
 the hour would Mrs. Middleton ; precept upon precept, 
 rule upon rule, she would sometimes shower upon her 
 little daughters when complaints against them were 
 brought before her. But they saw her at times when 
 she was not thinking of them, and they had, alas ! 
 learnt to discover her inconsistencies, and to compare 
 the purity of her theories with the faultiness of her 
 practice. What was the good, for instance, of her 
 punishing them for an outbreak of temper, when they 
 could see, by her flushing cheek and raised voice, that 
 her own was not under her control ? Did they not 
 
68 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 intuitively feel tliafc it was not so mncli that they had ^ 
 sinned, as that they had wounded their mother's amour 
 propre, or irritated her nervous temper ; and that they 
 were suffering from revenge, not punishment ; that it 
 was only because they were the weaker that they went 
 to the wall, since the sin was the same on both sides ? 
 
 Vain was her teaching while her conduct was at 
 variance with it. For there is a great and important 
 difference between direct and indirect influence, which 
 is well defined thus : ' Our direct efforts to teach may 
 be contradicted by our lives, while the indirect influence 
 is onr very life.' 
 
 Strict is the watch a mother should keep over herself 
 in her children's presence, lest they lose belief in the 
 goodness, justice, and love which is to lead them to 
 God, and of which, till they know Him, she is to them 
 the embodiment. Let them believe in one person, 
 though all others fail them. She should be on her 
 guard lest their sense of right and justice get marred 
 by her inconsistency, their affections chilled by her 
 changeability, or their minds confused in striving to 
 reconcile her teaching with her daily conduct. 
 
 Surely a mother's should indeed be a life of prayer 
 while contending with such difficulties as these, for she 
 is but human herself But with such an end in view it 
 is worth the struggle ; for all through life her children 
 will have the memory of at least one person whom they 
 could safely believe in, and be helped by that recollec- 
 tion, even amidst all the sin and darkness around them, 
 to have faith in the divinity of this human nature which 
 
MRS. MIDDLETON'S REGULATIONS, 59 
 
 our Saviour condescended to assume. In tliat other 
 mother in our story, to whom we have only, as yet, 
 slightly alluded, was a bright pattern and example for 
 ever before Mrs. Middleton ; but her eyes were closed to 
 her young sister-in-law's merits, and she saw no ways 
 perfect but her own. 
 
 Magdalen Lyndsay had, in the training of her boy, 
 acted in every way contrary to Mrs. Middleton's ideas, 
 and Mrs. Middleton despised her system accordingly. 
 But the fact was, Magdalen Lyndsay had no ' system.' 
 Love and complete confidence existed between her and 
 her boy, and on that foundation she built. 
 
 Mervyn had never had any inconsistencies to confuse 
 him in his mother, or anything to shake his firm abiding 
 belief in her. He knew that when an obedience was 
 exacted from him which conflicted with his own wishes, 
 it was for the love of him, or for some wise reason, that 
 it was demanded. He looked for, and expected, the 
 cheering tone of encouragement, the bright smile of 
 approval ; and with the help of them, and for the sake 
 of them, he made efibrts to overcome his faults, the 
 very idea of which would have been Greek to Nina 
 Middleton. 
 
 Magdalen had never brought Self to bear in any way 
 against her boyj she had never allowed herself to be 
 personally irritated by his faults, or outivardly vexed if 
 her time was broken in upon. 
 
 Ten times out of twenty these are the real causes of 
 children's offences. It is not so much what they are 
 saying or doing at the time, as that they have chosen a 
 
00 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 time which is inconvenient to ns for saying or doing it ; 
 and had it happened when we were disengaged, or been 
 in a different frame of mind, or better temper, we should 
 have seen no offence in it. No wonder that children 
 get puzzled when they find that what passed without 
 remark one day is a terrible offence the next, and that 
 what was looked upon as a crime yesterday may be 
 done with impunity to-day. 
 
 Magdalen had been alive to all these dangers, and had 
 striven to steer clear of them. All she asked in return 
 was reverence and obedience ; and these Mervyn had 
 never, as yet, failed to render. 
 
 No more, to be sure, had Nina ; obedience at least, as 
 far as her mother knew. But herein lay the difference. 
 Mervyn' s character was as an unrolled map to his 
 mother, and she knew every part of it well. She could 
 answer for him as for herself. Nina's was as a sealed 
 book to hers ; and if Mrs. Middleton thought she could 
 answer for her, or depend upon her obedience, it was 
 only because she never thought about it at all. She 
 had no more idea of the strength of character, the 
 strength of purpose and will, or the power of resistance 
 and rebellion, which lay behind the girl's impassive ex- 
 terior, than she had of the powers of affection which 
 dwelt there equally hidden. 
 
 No ! no one knew what went on in the heart of the 
 child, who was called ' odd, cold, unaccountable.' 
 
 No one guessed what depths of tenderness existed 
 under her apparent indifference; walled in, and kept 
 
MRS. MIDBLETON'S BEGULATIONS. 6 J 
 
 down by the sensitive pride wLicb. had become a second 
 nature. 
 
 Long had they lain there dormant, tinsnspected and 
 uncalled for, till the birth of little Totty, the first of all 
 Mrs. Middleton's children who had not been a highly 
 satisfactory baby — a baby that she was proud to show if 
 sent for — fine, forward, and healthy. 
 
 Till he appeared, Mrs. Middleton's babies had all 
 been framed after the same pattern ; had stood their 
 vaccination well, cut their teeth at the proper time, ran 
 alone when she thought it time they should do so, fallen 
 into all her plans for their feeding and sleeping, and 
 yielded to treatment directly if by any chance they fell ill. 
 
 But alas ! poor little Totty was a sad exception to all 
 this. A wailing, sufiering baby from his birth, he ran 
 counter to his mother's rules in every way. He was 
 weeks getting over his vaccination ; he cut every tooth 
 late ; he had not attempted to crawl at the age when 
 the others ran alone; and at two years old he had still 
 to be put to sleep by being carried up and down the 
 room. Perhaps this was, in Mrs. Middleton's eyes, the 
 greatest ofience of all. It was one of her most stringent 
 rules, and no doubt a very good one, that her babies 
 should, at as early an age as possible, be put into bed, 
 and left to go to sleep by themselves. The others had 
 fallen into the way of it very soon, as healthy children 
 will; but with Totty it was almost an impossibility. 
 He would lie awake for hours crying, unless soothed 
 and hushed like a baby. 
 
 For a long time Mrs. Middleton had persevered ; the 
 
62 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 nurses were obliged to (5bey her, and poor Totty had to 
 be put into bis crib awake, to cry himself to sleep alone. 
 But no one could bear to hear the wail of the delicate 
 child proceeding from the bedroom nursery, and the 
 nurses often broke through Mrs. Middleton's rules. Ifc 
 was no difficult matter, since she so seldom visited the 
 nurseries. She laid down rules, and took it for granted 
 they were followed, but she was by no means often 
 enough with the children to see that they were carried 
 out. So it was only by chance that she every now and 
 then discovered that Totty was still put to sleep. Each 
 time she put a stop to it, and laid down stricter regula- 
 tions than ever. But it was no use. Totty suffered 
 from want of sleep or exhaustion from crying ; and even 
 the doctor at last told Mrs. Middleton that the child 
 must, for his health's sake, be humoured, till he was 
 older and stronger. It was her first defeat. As he 
 grew older she renewed her attempts to get him into 
 better habits, but seldom with any success. 
 
 It was never clearly given out what was the matter 
 with Totty ; but the real truth was there was something 
 the matter with his spine, which the doctors greatly 
 feared would one day develop into distinct disease of the 
 spine. But it had by no means reached that stage yet. 
 He could stand alone now; but though nearly four 
 years old, he rarely attempted to walk, neither did the 
 doctors wish that he should. His chest was delicate, 
 too, and he had once had an attack of inflammation of 
 the lungs, which had left him very liable to catch bad 
 colds. 
 
MRS. MIDDLETON'S REGULATIONS. 63 
 
 He was a lovelj little fellow, and singularly intelli- 
 gent. Thougli he might fall short of his brothers and 
 sisters in many ways, in face there was not one that 
 could in any way compare with him. But an ambitious 
 woman like Mrs. Middleton was not content with this. 
 She looked on to the future, and saw that the day would 
 never come when she should be proud of this son as she 
 would be of the others. If it had been in the case of a 
 girl, it would not have mattered so very much ; but a 
 delicate, puny man ! 
 
 Perhaps Totty's deficiencies would not have been so 
 apparent, if he had not, when he was eighteen months 
 old, been succeeded by a baby sister who more than 
 came up to the standard of the Middleton baby ; who 
 was even stronger, finer, and more forward; who 
 walked, in short, in all the paths Mrs. Middleton had 
 marked out ; and who raced after poor little Totty with 
 such speed, that now, at a year and a half, she ran 
 about out of doors, while Totty still was driven in a 
 perambulator. 
 
 Nina was of some age when Totty was born ; and to 
 begin with, the tiny ailing child, who seemed always 
 crying and in pain, excited her pity ; it was such a new 
 thing in their nursery. With a child's quickness, she 
 soon began to suspect that her nuother was a little bit 
 annoyed by it, and was rather ashamed of the puny, 
 pale-faced baby. Mooning over it by herself, the sus- 
 picion became daily more confirmed in her mind ; and 
 any chance word that Mrs. Middleton let fall upon the 
 subject strengthened it, till at last it became a cer- 
 
64 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 tainty. From thinking Totty was overlooked, slie grew 
 to think he was despised ; and from allowing to herself 
 that he was despised, she persuaded herself that he was 
 ill-treated. Then woke there up in her heart the pity 
 that is akin to love. Then came the sense of loving 
 protection towards the sickly child, and the determina- 
 tion to take its part against everybody, and to be to it 
 the defender that it seemed to her to need so much. 
 Alas ! that so pure a feeling should have been mixed 
 with antagonistic ill-will towards her mother ; so that 
 Nina was both at her best, and at her worst, when she 
 loved her little brother. 
 
 Day by day her love for him deepened. It grew with 
 her growth, and strengthened with her strength ; while, 
 with characteristic pride, she strove to hide it from her 
 mother and from everyone. It was her cherished secret, 
 and such it remained ; since no one, except perhaps the 
 nurse, guessed at it. 
 
 Mna's character in the house was that she was not 
 fond of children ; that she did not care for her younger 
 brother and sisters. 
 
 Her mother often remarked, ' Some girls make such 
 nice little elder sisters, but Nina doesn't seem to care 
 for the younger ones at all.' Of such remarks Mna 
 would take no notice, only pursing up her mouth, and 
 hugging her secret tighter than ever, laughing to think 
 how wrong they all were ; while her expression of coun- 
 tenance would be taken for pride and temper, and her 
 mother be confirmed in her opinion that she was a most 
 odd, unaccountable child. 
 
MRS. MIDDLETON'S REGULATIONS, 65 
 
 As Totty grew older and Nina loved him more and 
 more, she grew so sensitive about him that her heart 
 would beat when his name was mentioned, and his con- 
 stitution discussed ; and to hide it, she always put on an 
 air of indifference whenever he was spoken of. 
 
 When Totty was succeeded by another baby, she felt 
 him to become more hers than ever. Deeper and deeper 
 grew her love and her pity, when she saw the other 
 child wax stronger and finer month by month, while 
 poor little Totty seemed to make no progress at all ; 
 and angry feelings would rise in her heart when she 
 heard one child held up to the deterioration of the 
 other. She could not bear to hear them compared, and 
 her heart would beat loudly when she heard hints every 
 now and then dropped in the nursery that the baby 
 would walk first. How anxiously she watched them 
 both ; and how to the last she hoped against hope ! 
 
 Yet, as we have said, at eighteen months the baby 
 ran about everywhere, while Totty looked on from his 
 perambulator. No one knew the storm of feeling which 
 swept over the child when Totty was openly overlooked, 
 by being left in the nursery, while the baby was sent 
 for to see visitors in the drawing-room. 
 
 Poor child ! the complications of troubles that she 
 went through on his account were many ; but still, in 
 spite of them all, it was better for her and happier than 
 that indifference to everything and everybody which 
 had distinguished her before she had a Totty on whom 
 to expend her affection. And yet her mother had never 
 
 F 
 
m THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 noticed the change, and was perfectly ignorant of thei 
 girl's power of affection ! 
 
 Mrs. Middleton had indeed a good deal to discover. 
 She was content, so far, with the outward covering of 
 good behaviour Nina wore in her presence ; but she had 
 yet to learn what an obedience is worth which is not 
 founded on religion, love, or veneration. There was an 
 expression sometimes in the handsome little face which 
 would have led an acute observer to wonder how far 
 that outward covering would avail if any real cause of 
 antagonism should ever arise, and to fancy that, if it 
 should ever be thrown off, it would be war to the knife 
 between mother and daughter ! Whether such a fancy 
 would be correct or not, the events of the story will 
 show. 
 
THE NEW RELATION AT LUNCHEON, Q7 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 THE NEW RELATION AT LUNCHEON. 
 
 There was sometliiiig tlie matter with Mademoiselle the 
 next morning at breakfast, for she was silent and 
 moody, and hardly answered Mna when she asked her 
 if she didn't think the butter was much better iced than 
 usual. 
 
 It was evident that Mna was rather in disgrace, for 
 Mademoiselle's manner to Cecily was quite different. 
 Seeing how matters stood, Mna, with her usual indif- 
 ference, simply refrained from any further attempts at 
 conversation, and ate her breakfast in silence. There 
 was a new-comer at breakfast — the rosy five-year-old 
 boy, by name Edmund. He had just begun his school- 
 room life by breakfasting with his sisters, and taking 
 his morning walk with them. This was by way of 
 familiarising him with the French language, as no other 
 was allowed to be spoken at such times. Conversation 
 at breakfast did not, under all these circumstances, flow 
 rapidly. Edmund, to whom the arrangement had, as 
 yet, all the charm of novelty, sat with a broad grin 
 on his ruddy countenance whenever anyone spoke. 
 His own part in the proceedings was limited to ' S'il 
 f2 
 
THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 vous plait,' when he wanted more bread and butter, and 
 * Merci ' (by him pronounced in broad English ' Mercy' ), 
 when his wants had been supplied. One long sentence 
 which Mademoiselle addressed to Cecily elicited his 
 scorn, and he exclaimed, ' You*re talking rubbish.' 
 
 Cecily was, of course, immediately assailed with a fit 
 of giggliiig ; and all three being now alienated, Made- 
 moiselle broke up the breakfast party, and sent them all 
 to dress for their walk. Edmund was in a terrible 
 hurry to be off. The Guards march through a certain 
 part of the park, playing their band, on their return 
 from drill, and if the school-room party do not start in 
 good time they will miss them. They get off presently ; 
 Edmund and Cecily in front, Mna and Mademoiselle 
 behind ; till they come to the first crossing, and then 
 Mademoiselle calls the little boy to her side, and sends 
 Nina on to join her sister. 
 
 ' What's the matter with Mademoiselle, Cecily ? ' 
 
 * I don't know. She was all right at breakfast 
 before you came down, and was talking away to me 
 about her headache, and how she couldn't get to sleep, 
 and all that sort of thing.' Mna was silent. She saw 
 now the reason of the gloom. She had omitted to ask 
 after Mademoiselle's headache ! 
 
 '"What made her talk about it?' she asked pre- 
 sently. 
 
 * Oh, I asked her if it was gone when she came 
 down,' answered Cecily, ' and so then she told me all 
 about it.' 
 
 Now this was a very old offence of Nina's. She 
 
TRB NEW RELATION AT LUNCHEON. 69 
 
 never conld make up Iter mind to ask people after 
 their headaclies, and other little ailments. What was 
 the most simple everyday affair to most people, was 
 a great difficulty to her. 
 
 I fear this Httle heroine of mine will seem to many 
 people a very disagreeable character, and they will 
 think her mother fully justified in holding that opinion. 
 It will, indeed, require the power of seeing ' the soul 
 of goodness in things evil ' to make them a little patient 
 with her. But so many weaknesses spring from per- 
 verted good, and so many follies have their root in 
 virtues, that perhaps the germ of good in the child's 
 peculiar disposition may be found, if searched for. As 
 extravagance springs oftentimes from lavish generosity 
 gossip and curiosity, from an over-kindly interest in 
 the affairs of others ; so perhaps this want of cour- 
 tesy and kindliness in Nina might spring from the 
 innate truthfulness of the child's nature, over-straiued 
 and far-fetched though it might be. She was afraid of 
 seeming more interested in the person than she really 
 was ; she could not say she was sorry when she knew 
 she was not really grieved. Her idea of being sorry 
 was something so very different. She did not, she told 
 herself, know how to look while the person was answer- 
 ing her question. She couldn't be affected, and put on 
 looks. If she might just run in and say ' How is your 
 headache ? ' and rush away without waiting for the 
 answer, she wouldn't mind half so much; but the 
 standing there listening, and then not knowing what 
 to say next, or how soon to begin talking of some- 
 
70 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 tiling else, all this made courteous enquiry a very 
 diflBcult matter to Nina Middleton. 
 
 * At any rate it is too late now,' slie told herself, as 
 she walked silently along by Cecily's side. 
 
 Cecily was, as usual, full of talk. 
 
 * I say, Mna, you know a tandem, and you know a 
 four-in-hand ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' said Mna, * what of them ? ' 
 
 * What do you call a thing that is neither a tandem 
 nor a four-in-hand ? ' 
 
 The extreme vagueness of the question made Nina 
 hesitate. 
 
 ' I'll tell you all that it ^57^'^,' continued Cecily, ' and 
 then you can tell me what it is easier. It isn't a 
 barouche, nor a brougham, nor a dog-cart ; it isn't a 
 break, nor an omnibus, nor a t-cart, nor an Irish car, 
 nor a waggonette, nor a landau, nor a pony- carriage, 
 
 nor a cabriolet, nor Oh dear ! I'm so tired ! 
 
 Well, Mna, it's none of those ; what can it 
 
 be?' 
 
 * What is it like ? ' asked Nina, * and where did you 
 see it?' 
 
 *It's got three horses, one in front of the other,' 
 answered Cecily, ' and I saw it in the mews from my 
 bed-room window. I'm sure it's quite a new thing, 
 for I never saw it before.' 
 
 * I can't think what it can be,' said Nina. 
 
 * Perhaps it will be there when we go home,' said 
 Cecily. * I wanted so to see it start, but Mademoiselle 
 called me just as the last horse was put in.' 
 
THE NEW RELATION AT LUNCHEON, 71 
 
 They were just entering Kensington Gardens as she 
 spoke, and Edmund, released from Mademoiselle, came 
 running up to ask Cecily to play at horses, and the 
 little sisters' conversation came to an end. 
 
 Kensington Gardens and Rotten Row, at that early 
 hour on a summer's morning, present a very different 
 appearance to Kensington Gardens and Rotten Row 
 a few hours later in the day. From half-past eight 
 to half-past ten or eleven, both are quite given up, 
 as it were, to children. 
 
 Before the heat of the day has begun — while the 
 trees wear that peculiar bright green which the day's 
 dust will turn into brown, while the morning air is 
 fresh and sweet — reigns all along the length of the 
 Serpentine what may be called *the children's hour.' 
 There are tiny ponies, with tiny riders, sometimes led 
 by grooms walking at the side, sometimes connected 
 with big horses and careful old coachmen by long 
 leading-reins. Babies in Spanish- saddles, jogging along 
 close by the raihngs, where the nurse walks ; plucky 
 little boys tearing along at a hand- gallop ; little girls 
 with streaming hair racing after them, as quick as the 
 groom will allow. They mostly laugh and talk as they 
 ride along, and their voices sound merry in the still 
 summer air, and their bright hair looks brighter in 
 the summer sunshine. 
 
 Alongside, within the railings, are all the little 
 walkers. They look so cool and fresh in their brown 
 holland costumes, and shady hats — particularly the 
 
72 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 babies, who lie lazily back in their perambulators, under 
 the great shady awnings. 
 
 There is a pleasant hum of voices and laughter all 
 round about, mingled with the clink of the horses' 
 harness, and the refreshing sound of neighbouring 
 water-carts. 
 
 The Serpentine looks cool and clear, gleaming in the 
 sun ; and the din of London traffic is so mellowed by 
 distance as to be rather soothing than otherwise. 
 
 The scene altogether is so different to what it will 
 be a few hours later, when to the lightheartedness and 
 carelessness of the * children's hour ' will succeed one 
 known well enough without description ; when youth 
 and beauty and fashion will crowd into the park, 
 bringing with them cares, and aims, and interests uji- 
 known as yet to the chattering throng in full possession 
 now. 
 
 Punctually at eleven the little Middletons left the 
 park, and proceeded home. The town was beginning 
 to stir as they reached Grosvenor Gate, and Cecily 
 sighed deeply at the thought of returning to lessons. 
 She flew to her window directly she got into her bed- 
 room, but there was no sign as yet of the carriage 
 she had mentioned to Mna. 
 
 Lessons occupied the rest of the morning, and at a 
 quarter to two they were sent upstairs to get ready for 
 luncheon. Cecily's head was out of the window in a 
 moment, and as quickly drawn in. 
 
 * Nina ! here it is, just come home ; the three horses 
 and all ! Do come and look.' 
 
THE NEW RELATION AT LUNCHEON, 73 
 
 Nina was washnig her hands, and couldn't come 
 directly. 
 
 * There are two gentlemen besides grooms. One is 
 that young one we so often see, and a new one. He 
 looks like a " How-are-you ? " but I'm not quite sure. 
 I^ow they've got out, and are patting the horses. Do 
 €ome ! ' 
 
 Nina advanced to the window, and a deep colour 
 overspread her face when, in the new gentleman, she 
 recognised Lord Wardlaw. 
 
 ' Do you know what it's called ? ' exclaimed Cecily, 
 excitedly ; ' isn't it a jolly carriage ? ' 
 
 ' No, I don't,' Nina said absently, her eyes intent on 
 the figure below ; ' and Cecily, you'll be late if you 
 don't get ready.' 
 
 She remained gazing at Lord Wardlaw, and thinking 
 of Mervyn. She felt almost sure he was nice, and 
 longed to write and tell Mervyn so. He was speaking 
 to the groom about one of the horse's feet, and he 
 seemed so kind about it. The other gentleman seemed 
 to be pooh-poohing it, but Lord "Wardlaw seemed to be 
 insisting on having it attended to, and examined it 
 carefully himself. Then a little child ran out of the 
 stables, and he turned round and patted its head, and 
 stooped down and talked to it. Nina thought she saw 
 him put his hand iu his pocket and put something into 
 the child's hand, but was not quite sure. Then he 
 spoke to his friend, and pointed to the house. 
 
 ' He is saying he is coming here to luncheon,' thought 
 Nina, and she blushed. 
 
74 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 The other man seemed to say he would come to ; and 
 they walked off together, arm-in-arm. But as they 
 went Nina noticed that Lord Wardlaw did not forget to 
 turn round and nod to the little child he had been 
 talking to, who stood in the middle of the road staring 
 after them. 
 
 All this time Cecily had not bep:un to get ready ; she 
 had been so taken up with the horses and the new kind 
 of carriage. To her horror the gong sounded, and 
 Mademoiselle came in to fetch them. 
 
 'Oh, what shall I do ? ' she exclaimed. 
 
 Mademoiselle answered, she must come down alone, 
 as it was better for one to be late than three. And so 
 she and Nina proceeded downstairs, leaving poor Cecily 
 in mortal terror. It was such a terrible offence to be 
 late for luncheon. When they reached the dining-room 
 they found no one there, and the butler informed them 
 that Mrs. Middle ton would not be down for ten minutes 
 or so, but had sent word they were not to wait for her. 
 
 ' And zee Cornel ? ' asked Mademoiselle. 
 
 The Colonel was engaged with two gentlemen, but 
 would be in directly. 
 
 Nina felt her heart beat at the thought of so soon 
 seeing Mervyn's step- father; and she wondered where 
 he would sit. She had herself Mademoiselle on one side, 
 and Cecily's vacant place on the other. She hoped he 
 would sit exactly opposite, so that she might have a 
 good look at him. 
 
 The door opened, and in came the three gentlemen. 
 Nina, with the flush which excitement lent to her cheek. 
 
THE NEW RELATION AT LUNCHEON. 75 
 
 was looking very handsome, and her father came np and 
 kissed her. 
 
 * Good morning, my little woman.' 
 
 ' Wardlaw, this is my eldest daughter: Mna, this is 
 Lord Wardlaw. Mr. Leigh — Miss Middleton ! ' 
 
 And Colonel Middleton sat down, laughing. This 
 was all against the rules. Mrs. Middleton never allowed 
 any introductions to the little girls, and particularly 
 disliked Nina being brought forward in this way. With 
 her it was, * Children, say how do you do to this gentle- 
 man,' but anything like the above introduction was 
 quite against her principles. Mr. Leigh bowed as if 
 Nina was grown up, and made some civil remark about 
 the weather. Mrs. Middleton would have been furious 
 if she had been there. Colonel Middleton, in his wife's 
 absence, thought it rather a good joke. 
 
 *We shall have her out and dancing about in no 
 time,' he said. 
 
 * The sooner the better,' answered Mr. Leigh. 
 
 But it was all lost upon Nina. Her eyes were fixed 
 on Lord Wardlaw, wondering if he would remember 
 her. She was not left long in doubt. 
 
 * We made friends in the park yesterday,' he said, in 
 the kind voice which had attracted her before, coming 
 up and taking her hand. 
 
 Nina got very red, and shy, and didn't know what 
 to say ; but she was conscious of a feeling of pleasure 
 when Lord Wardlaw seated himself by her side. 
 
 ' Something wrong, Wardlaw ! ' said Colonel Middle- 
 ton, as he saw Lord Wardlaw looking enquiringly at 
 
76 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 tlie silver mug and diminutive knife and fork in front 
 of him. 
 
 Now the last thing Nina wished was to drive Lord 
 Wardlaw away, but between shyness and truthfulness 
 she did her best to do the very thing she did not want. 
 
 ' You've got Cecily's place,' she said, bluntly. 
 
 * I'm sure I beg Cecily's pardon,' he said, smiling ; 
 * what had I better do ? ' 
 
 * Nonsense, my dear fellow, don't trouble yourself to 
 move. Have the things changed.' 
 
 And so, to Nina's great satisfaction, the arrangement 
 was not altered. 
 
 ' By the way, where is Miss Cecily ? ' said Colonel 
 Middleton ; * late for luncheon ! Lucky for her her 
 mamma is late too.' And Colonel Middleton winked at 
 Nina as he spoke. 
 
 But Nina did not smile. There was a loyalty in the 
 child's nature, and a truthfulness which made anything 
 underhand impossible to her. She knew she would not 
 have smiled if her mother had been present, and so she 
 was too honest to do it just because she was not there. 
 She kept her eyes on her plate. None of this was lost 
 upon Lord Wardlaw. Perhaps it was some qualities of 
 this kind that had attracted him years ago to Magdalen 
 Middleton. 
 
 At this juncture Cecily, looking shy and frightened, 
 was seen trying to glide into the room unobserved. 
 The change in her face when she saw her mother was 
 not there was very remarkable. 
 
 * Come here, you rogue, and give me a kiss,' said 
 
THE NEW RELATION AT LUNCHEON 77 
 
 Colonel Middleton ; * what do yon mean by being 
 late?' 
 
 Cecily sprang to bis side, delighted with her re- 
 ception. 
 
 * Oh papa, it was looking at the carriage. I quite 
 forgot to get ready.' 
 
 Colonel Middleton was rather anxious to trot his 
 little girls out before their new relation, and encourage 
 Cecily to converse. 
 
 *Sit down here, between me and Mr. Leigh, and 
 explain yourself.' 
 
 The near vicinity of one of the heroes of the mews 
 was too much for Cecily. She quite jumped at the 
 name, and exclaimed : * Oh ! how very funny ! I was 
 wondering who it was.' 
 
 ' You have not had long to wonder,' said her father ; 
 
 * you have hardly been a minute in the room.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but I was wondering before,' said Cecily. 
 Everybody laughed. 
 
 * What do you mean ? ' asked Colonel Middleton. 
 ' When have you seen that gentleman before ? ' 
 
 * I was watching him while I was getting ready for 
 luncheon,' said Cecily. * That's what made me late.' 
 
 ' Upon my word,' said her father, ' I call this sort of 
 thing quite romantic' 
 
 * What do you call it ? ' exclaimed Cecily eagerly ; 
 
 * that is just what I want to know.' 
 
 * Come, come,' said Colonel Middleton, ' you must 
 explain yourself. What do you mean ? ' 
 
 ' I mean,' she said, ' that I want to know what you 
 
78 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 call a carriage that is not a waggonette, nor a t-cart, 
 nor a tandem, nor — ^ — ' 
 
 * My goodness, child ! ' exclaimed her father, * one 
 would think yon had come straight from the mews ! ' 
 
 'So I have,' she answered, *at least. . . .' and she 
 broke off, astonished at the langhter with which her 
 speech was received, and dismayed at a reproachful 
 sound which broke from Mademoiselle. Nina now 
 roused herself to speak, for she was expecting her 
 mother to appear every moment, and feared Cecily might 
 get into disgrace. 
 
 * Our bed-room window looks out on the mews, papa,' 
 she said, ' and Cecily is very fond of watching what 
 goes on there. Not our stables, you know, but a 
 gentleman's; Mr. Leigh's, I suppose, as I sometimes 
 see him there. There was a new kind of carriage there 
 this morning, and Cecily has been wanting to know 
 what it is called. It's got three horses, one in front of 
 the other, and we saw Mr. Leigh and . . . you,' she 
 added, turning to Lord Wardlaw, ' getting out of it this 
 morning.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that's called a harum-scarum,' said Lord Ward- 
 law, kindly. 
 
 * If I want a clear sensible answer, I always get it 
 out of Mna,' said Colonel Middleton. 'You're a 
 harum-scarum sort of creature yourself, " Silly-BiUy," 
 and it's just the sort of carriage for you.' 
 
 *I shall be delighted to give Miss Cecily a drive in 
 mine,' said Mr. Leigh. 
 
THE NEW RELATION AT LUNCHEON. 79 
 
 ' Oh, shouldn't I like it ! ' exclaimed Cecilj, clapping 
 her hands ; and her face beamed with delight. 
 
 ' Like what ? ' said a very decided voice, as the door 
 opened. 
 
 Cecily's face clouded over with an expression of fear ; 
 her eyes dropped, and she went on eating her dinner. 
 Colonel Middleton looked uneasy, and 'Nma, disturbed ; 
 for Mrs. Middleton had entered the room. She greeted 
 both guests with warmth, especially Lord Wardlaw, 
 and took her seat at the head of the table. 
 
 'I feel as if I have disturbed a conversation,' she 
 said blandly ; * I heard such a babel of voices as I came 
 along.' 
 
 'We were talking about harum-scarums,' said Lord 
 Wardlaw. 
 
 * I have a great dislike to that kind of foolish carriage,' 
 said Mrs. Middleton. *I always think a young man 
 must be either very idle or very foolish who sets up any- 
 thing of the kind. I shall never allow my sons to do 
 such a thing.' 
 
 There was rather an awkward silence after this 
 speech. Mr. Leigh looked very uncomfortable ; he was 
 very young, not much more than a boy, and he dreaded 
 Mrs. Middleton' s scorn. 
 
 There was a twinkle in Lord Wardlaw' s eye, and he 
 was the first to speak. 
 
 * I am afraid, Mrs. Middleton, you will have a very 
 poor opinion of me when I tell you I have been driving 
 in one this morning.' 
 
 Now nothing could make Mrs. Middleton think badly 
 
so THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 of Lord Wardlaw. He was in tlie highest favour. She 
 answered graciously, *It would take a great deal to 
 make me alter my opinion of Lord Wardlaw, and I am 
 quite sure idleness and folly could not be mentioned in 
 connection with his name. Some other motive must 
 have been at work.' 
 
 * Probably drove with a friend to prevent his breaking 
 his neck,* suggested Colonel Middleton, winking at 
 Mr. Leigh, who blushed crimson. 
 
 But here Cecily, who had been struggling hard to 
 repress it for some minutes, broke into such a fit of 
 giggling that the conversation was brought to an abrupt 
 termination. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton could hardly believe her ears, and 
 was turning indignantly towards her to order her out of 
 the room, when Lora Wardlaw interposed. 
 
 VI must intercede,' he said. *This conversation, 
 coming so close upon that which preceded it, has been a 
 little too much for the child. Will you trust me to 
 explain it to you, and, meanwhile, overlook the trans- 
 gression for this time — as the first favour I have asked 
 on entering the family,' he added in a lower tone ; and 
 Mrs. Middleton at once gave in. 
 
 It would be hard to say whether Mr. Leigh or Cecily 
 was the most relieved by this arrangement. The former 
 had feared Lord Wardlaw was going to declare him the 
 owner of a harum-scarum, and poor Cecily had been in 
 agonies. Nina, too, had been on thorns ; but her opinion 
 of Lord Wardlaw rose higher and higher, and as she 
 left the dining-room she told herself that, far from 
 
THE NEW RELATION AT LUNCHEON. 81 
 
 being to be pitied, Mervyn was to be envied on the 
 acquisition of so cbarming a step-father. 
 
 There was a feeling of freedom all over the house 
 that afternoon, for Mrs. Middleton and her husband 
 went to a breakfast soon after four o'clock, and were 
 not expected home till late at night. Extra strictness 
 is apt to produce eye-service, and Mrs. Middleton's 
 household was no exception to the rule. Everyone, 
 from the governess down to the footman, children in- 
 cluded, felt as if a weight were lifted off their minds^ 
 and began to turn over in their thoughts how best to 
 avail themselves of the opportunity afforded them. 
 
 When the cat's away 
 The mice do play. 
 
 And every mouse in the establishment thought of some 
 little game. Mademoiselle went off to tea with a friend, 
 leaving the school-room under Nina's care. The head 
 nurge went to the play, deputing all her duties to the 
 nurserymaid. Cecily and Edmund, directly tea was 
 over, made an inroad into the drawing-room, and 
 amused themselves by looking at the photograph-books, 
 &c., which were, as a rule, denied to them ; and Nina 
 went up to the nursery, and carried Totty into her bed- 
 room to spend the evening with her. Cecily also made 
 a minute examination of all the invitations in the look- 
 ing-glass over the chimney-piece, and tried to calculate 
 how many times her father and mother would dine out 
 that week. Meanwhile Edmund went on the balcony, 
 climbed over into the adjoining one, and peeped in at 
 
 G 
 
82 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 the neighbour's windows. But tlie sound of niggers 
 comino" down the street distracted tliem both, and they 
 flew off to carry the news to Nina and Totty. 
 
 She was sitting on the floor with her little brother in 
 her arms, talking softly to him, or singing him little 
 songs ; and when the others burst in with their news 
 she answered sharply that she did not care about niggers. 
 For she resented the interruption, and their noisy 
 entrance had startled the nervous child in her lap. 
 
 The animation, however, which shone in Totty' s pale 
 Uttle face at the news, made her pause, and bending 
 her head over him, she whispered tenderly, 
 
 * Would Totty like to see them ? ' 
 
 ' What are they like ? ' asked Totty. 
 
 * They are black men, darling, and they sing and 
 dance.' 
 
 Totty shuddered. 
 
 Evidently he had not been prepared for the nature of 
 the entertainment. 
 
 * Must I really go ? ' he said, fearfally. 
 
 * yes, Totty,' said Edmund. ' Come on ; they're 
 jolly men, you know.' 
 
 But Nina, meeting the appealing glance of the great 
 blue eyes, settled it for him in a moment. Throwing 
 her arms round him, she assured him that no one and 
 nothing should make him see anything he did not like. 
 
 ' Totty 's a muff,' said Edmund; but fortunately for 
 him Mna did not hear. 
 
 Then he and Cecily ran off again, and the brother and 
 sister were left alone. 
 
THE NEW RELATION AT LUNCHEON. 85 
 
 * We're happier witliout them, ain't we darling ? and 
 we'll go on looking at the pictures.' 
 
 Then, as it got later, and he grew weary, she pillowed 
 his head on her shoulder and sang softly to him in the 
 gathering twilight. 
 
 Song after song he called for, joining in sometimes 
 himself, but for the most listening quietly, and following 
 the events of the tales contained in the quaint old ballads 
 with eager interest. 
 
 The crowning favourite was kept to the last, and 
 
 sung slowly and distinctly, that he might follow the 
 
 sense : 
 
 Lord Thomas 
 
 He was 
 
 A forester bold 
 
 And hunted 
 
 The king's brown deer, 
 
 And Eleanor 
 
 She 
 "Was a faire maiden, 
 
 He 
 Loved her dear. 
 
 On and on, through the twelve or thirteen stanzas, of 
 which the ballad is composed. 
 
 Totty was half asleep towards the end, but kindled 
 into sudden enthusiasm at the thrilling consummation. 
 
 He cut off . " 
 
 His 
 
 Own brown wife's head, 
 And threw it against the wall ! ! 
 
 ' Oh, ISTina ! did he really ? ' 
 
 This question would always come whenever the verse 
 G 2 
 
84 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 was sung ; and Nina, seeing the shrinking in his eyes, 
 would always answer, 
 
 * No, darling, not really ; it's only a tale.^ 
 
 She had once said story ; but this had so confused 
 truth and falsehood in Totty's mind, and made him so 
 fearfal of how far Nina herself might be implicated in 
 the untruth, that she tad since substituted the word 
 ' tale.' 
 
 * Only a tale, darling, that's all.' 
 
 * But is it a joke, Nina ? ' 
 
 * Yes, darling, it's a kind of joke.' 
 
 * A kind of a sort of a joke,' he would repeat rather 
 anxiously ; * isn't it, Nina ? ' 
 
 Nina had tried leaving out the verse altogether, but 
 he always discovered this and asked for it. In spite of 
 his fear, it fascinated him, and he would not for the 
 world have allowed her to miss it. 
 
 ' Now again,' he said sleepily, just as she had safely 
 reached the end of the fourteenth verse ; and Nina, 
 unmurmuring, began all over again. 
 
 He was . fetched to bed at seven, and then she went 
 and joined the others on the drawing-room balcony. 
 
THE HERO'S HOME. 85 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE HEUO'S HOME. 
 
 * Here ! Beth-Gelert. Here ! halloa, old fellow ! ' 
 
 The hills all around canght up the sound of the fresh 
 young voice, and echoed it from one to the other. 
 
 ' N'ot there ! old Stupid ! Here ! ' rang out the merry 
 tones again, and again the hills reverberated, ' Not 
 there ! old Stupid ! Here ! ' 
 
 And then such a ringing laugh pealed through the 
 air, that the old hills sounded mad with joy as they 
 took it up, and repeated it again and again. 
 
 Mervyn Lyndsay put down his books on a bit of rock, 
 and bounded lightly up the sides of one of the hills, till 
 he reached a spot from whence he could command a 
 better view of the surrounding country ; and there he 
 stood, shading his eyes with his hand from the setting 
 sun, and looking eagerly round in search of something. 
 
 The old "Welsh hills looked down admiringly on the 
 graceful figure and the bright young face — the only 
 animate things to be seen in that secluded spot. 
 
 Save one — the dog Beth-Gelert, who, confused by the 
 echoes, had been careering along in the opposite direc- 
 tion to join his young master, and who now, having 
 
8(5 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 given up tlieir meeting as a bad job, was runniiig at 
 full speed towards Glen-Mervyn, the boy's ancestral 
 home. 
 
 It was hidden away among the trees to the left, and 
 only the chimneys could be seen, even from the high 
 eminence where Mervyn now stood. Seeing at a glance 
 the position of affairs, with another merry laugh, the 
 boy bounded down the hill again, caught up his books, 
 and ran at full speed towards the house, hoping to over- 
 take the dog. By some short cut through a plantation, 
 probably known only to himself, he reached the stables 
 in a few minutes ; where, on glancing at the stable 
 clock, his face expressed astonishment, and he increased 
 his speed. 
 
 Opening a back door, he ran through some passages, 
 and emerged into a large old-fashioned hall, decorated 
 with antlers and banners, and adorned with figures of 
 old knights in armour. Then, pushing open a heavy 
 oak door, he entered a long low drawing-room, and, 
 throwing down his books and hat on the nearest table, 
 he advanced to a bow window at the other end of the 
 room, and exclaimed : 
 
 ' Oh mother, darling ! I'm sorry I'm so late. I hope 
 I haven't kept you waiting for tea.' 
 
 The lady whom he addressed was sitting in the bow 
 window, with an open letter in her hand, apparently lost 
 in thought. Her head was turned towards the window, 
 and her eyes were wandering over the beautiful Welsh 
 country, which stretched away beyond the gardens and 
 pleasure-grounds. She was quite young, and probably 
 
THE HERO'S HOME. 87 
 
 looked even younger than she really was ; too young, in 
 fact, to be the mother of the well- grown boy who stood by 
 her side. So deep was her absorption, that she did not 
 even hear Mervyn's noisy entrance ; and it was not till 
 his voice sounded close to her that she woke from her 
 reverie, and then she turned round with a start, and 
 exclaimed ; 
 
 * Is that you, darling ? how you startled me ! ' 
 Mervyn was unfeignedly astonished. 
 
 ' Me, mother ! why of course it is I ! Who else should 
 it be ? ' 
 
 ' To be sure,' said Mrs. Lyndsay, ' I don't know, as 
 you say, who else it could be ; but I don't think I was 
 expecting you so soon.' 
 
 * So soon ! ' echoed Mervyn ; * why I am so dreadfully 
 late that I thought you would be wondering what had 
 become of me ! Why, mother ! do you know it is half- 
 past five ? ' 
 
 ' Is it possible ? ' said his mother ; but she still anr 
 swered rather absently, and her eyes seemed to have an 
 irresistible inclination to wander again to the distant 
 mountains. 
 
 * But tell me, dear,' she continued, as with an effort 
 she shook off her reverie, and rose from her seat, ' what 
 is it makes you so late ? And, my child, how hot you 
 are ! ' she concluded, laying her hand against his flushed 
 cheek. 
 
 As she moved from her chair, the letter, which had 
 been lying on her lap, fell to the ground, and as Mervyn 
 picked it up and gave it to her, he could not help 
 
88 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 seeing that slie flushed slightly, and rather hastily took 
 it from his hand. He was puzzled for a moment, but he 
 soon forgot the passing feeling in the excitement of 
 relating his adventures with Beth-Grelert, to which his 
 mother listened with all her usual interest and ani- 
 mation. 
 
 Magdalen Lyndsay, as the reader is already aware, 
 was a widow, and Mervyn was her only child. She had 
 married early a man many years her senior, and he had 
 died eighteen months after, leaving her sole guardian of 
 her son and of his property. We will glance at her 
 individual history from the time of her husband's 
 death. 
 
 It seemed to her her duty to live herself, and to bring 
 up her boy, among his own people, and in his fore- 
 father's home ; and so, in spite of the objections raised 
 by her relations, and especially by her brother, she 
 settled always to spend eight months of the year at 
 Glen-Mervyn. Colonel Middleton represented to her 
 the loneliness of such an arrangement ; * buried alive ' 
 as he called it, in a solitary part of Wales, with a child 
 who was too young to be a companion. But she resisted 
 all his attempts to induce her to make a home in London, 
 and to content herself with flying visits to Grien- Mervyn. 
 She was not only Mervyn' s mother, she argued, but 
 sole manager of his property till he should come of age 
 to undertake it himself. Her husband had placed trust 
 in her by his will, and she was determined to prove 
 herself worthy of his confidence. She promised she 
 would always come to London for four months in the 
 
THE HERO'S HOME. 89 
 
 year, and hoped all lier relations would visit her at 
 Glen-Mervyn whenever they felt inclined ; and for the 
 rest of the time, she said, if she could not be contented 
 with a beautiful home and plenty of occupation, a child, 
 and youth, and health with which to enjoy it all, she 
 thought she must he a very poor creature indeed. 
 
 Her brother, who looked upon her as a child herself, 
 could not at all see the force of this argument. ' Really 
 Magdalen,' he said, ' you must be very conceited if you 
 think the estate cannot get on quite well without you. 
 A better-ordered, better-managed property cannot be ; 
 and surely a land-steward, who has lived so many years 
 upon it, does not require you to tell him what to do.' 
 
 * All very true,' his sister answered ; ' but I have great 
 faith in the master's eye.' 
 
 * Master's eye, yes,' he repeated contemptuously; 
 *but the eye of a girl of your age is not exactly the 
 same thing. And what on earth can you, who have 
 lived all your life in a London street, know about 
 managing a property ? ' 
 
 *You forget, Rowley, that I have been married 
 eighteen months, and lived all that time on the very 
 property of which you are speaking.' 
 
 ' Eighteen months ! your experience must be vast, 
 truly ! ' 
 
 ' Grreater than you think, perhaps,' said Magdalen, as 
 her thoughts reviewed those eighteen months of close 
 companionship with a man, who, though old enough to 
 be her father, had always insisted on her taking interest 
 in his pursuits ; and by this means had instilled into 
 
90 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 her mind much that she would never have dreamt of 
 enquiring into; for which knowledge, little as it had 
 interested her at the time, she was grateful now, since it 
 would enable her to undertake her new duties. 
 
 *As to the dulness,' she added, 'I am used to it, 
 and . . . .' But here she broke off, for not even to her 
 brother would she confess how dreary that eighteen 
 months of married life had been, owing to her husband's 
 jealous temperament, which, though she knew it sprang 
 from over-affection, had been very hard to bear. Hence 
 their secluded Hfe ; for he could not bear that any but 
 himself should engross her attention for a minute. He 
 could not bear her interest diverted from him and his 
 interests for a single instant. He was jealous even of 
 her occupations, if they tended in any way to the 
 neglect of himself; jealous of the care she bestowed on 
 the poor ; jealous of her relations ; jealous of her love 
 for her baby boy. But Magdalen had been marvellously 
 patient with him, for she had recognised through it all, 
 and been grateful for, the love which prompted it. 
 Gratitude was a very prominent feature in her character. 
 She had married him from gratitude, borne with him 
 through gratitude ; and now, with a feeling of gratitude 
 for his memory, she was eager to devote her life to fol- 
 lowing out his wishes. But she was half conscious all 
 the time that life looked brighter ; that the prospect of 
 Glen-Mervyn, with her boy, which seemed so dull to 
 others, was to her, by comparison with the life she had 
 led there, suffused with light and hope and enjoyment ; 
 and that the days that were coming in the old Welsh 
 
THE HERO'S HOME. ' 91 
 
 home, relieved of the perpetual strain of trying to 
 satisfy an affection which never could be satisfied, would 
 be very very pleasant. But all this she could not, and 
 would not, tell ; and therefore she broke off her sentence 
 hurriedly, fearing she had said too much. 
 
 'I don't understand you, Magdalen,' said Colonel 
 Middleton ; * nor can I conceive a girl of your age 
 voluntarily exiling herself in that way. You will grow 
 morbid and unsociable, and be an old woman before 
 your time.' 
 
 His sister laughed merrily at the idea. 
 
 ' You must try and prevent that by coming very often 
 to stay with me, dear Rowley. You and Lydia must 
 look upon Grlen-Mervyn as a second home, to come and 
 go when you like, and always with as many children as 
 you like to bring.' 
 
 And so the argument ended for that time, to be 
 renewed again and again, and always with the same 
 result. Magdalen was firm, and no amount of talking 
 made her waver in her resolution for a moment. She 
 settled at Glen-Mervyn shortly afterwards, and it had 
 been her home from that time until the day on which 
 this chapter opens. It was not such utter seclusion, 
 after all. In the shooting season the house was always 
 more or less full of relations ; and the early months of 
 the year she spent in London, returning to Wales in 
 June. Those years had been singularly uneventful and 
 singularly peaceful. Care and anxiety had been un- 
 known, and sorrow had held aloof from Grlen-Mervyn. 
 
 In the management of the property, in the care of the 
 
THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 poor, in forwarding every scheme for the improvement 
 and well-being of all around her ; and above all, in the 
 education and training of her boy, Magdalen Lyndsay 
 had found occupation and interest, and in them had 
 been satisfied. Beloved and esteemed by all, respon- 
 sible mainly for the well-being of those around her for 
 many miles ; with youth and health with which to 
 enjoy everything, and wealth sufficient to gratify every 
 passing desire — her life was neither empty nor dull. 
 Useful, responsible, powerful, and respected, what more 
 did she want ? Only affection ; and even that was hers ; 
 for as her boy grew on, he developed such strong affec- 
 tions, and such devotion to herself, that she had no 
 longing to soothe, and no feeling unsatisfied. He 
 showed a care and a thought for her beyond his years 
 — a protecting kind of love which was very touching in 
 a boy of his age. 
 
 From his earliest childhood he had been accustomed 
 to be told — * Take care of her, Mervyn ; you are all she 
 has.' 'Kemember, Mervyn, she has no one but you.' 
 Aiid such admonitions had sunk into his childish heart, 
 and brought forth abundant fruit as years went on. He 
 seemed completely to understand his position of ' the 
 only son of his mother, and she was a widow.' He 
 was full of little cares, little attentions; wonderfully 
 thoughtful for her, and careful of her ; unselfish as a 
 woman ; obedient to her slightest wish. He had never 
 given her pain in his life, had ever treated her with 
 reverence, and his childish faults she had always been 
 able to reach through his affections. Sometimes, re- 
 
THE HERO'S HOME. 93 
 
 fleeting on his character, she had told herself that he 
 was faultless — marvellously perfect. To be sure, he had 
 few temptations. He was singularly free from the 
 faults of boyhood ; but then his life and position had 
 made him old for his years ; open as the day, but then 
 there had never been any need of concealment. He had 
 always felt himself responsible for his mother's happi- 
 ness and well-being. Felt it, and gloried in it ; and 
 even rather resented any interference from relations. 
 Perhaps, if any fault had been engendered by his life 
 with her, it was a slight inclination to monopolise her 
 attention, and to feel restless and injured if by any 
 chance he could not get that exclusive devotion from 
 her to which he was accustomed. 
 
 Magdalen had seen it was her duty to prevent his 
 growing too dependent on her ; and made up her mind 
 to resign his education into other hands, even before she 
 sent him to school. She had, therefore, made arrange- 
 ments with the vicar of the parish to receive and teach 
 him for so many hours a day. No one but herself knew 
 what a sacrifice it was, nor how she missed his compa- 
 nionship. But where her boy's good was concerned, 
 Magdalen never thought of herself. 
 
 Considering all this, it may well be imagined that 
 Mervyn should be rather surprised at her not discover- 
 ing he was late ; at her admission that he had startled 
 her ; and at her exclamation, ' Is that you, darling ? ' 
 As if in wide Wales it could be anyone else ! He 
 thought it over in the pretty drawing-room after they 
 had had their tea, and his mother had gone upstairs to 
 
04 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 put on her riding-habit ; and his reflections were not 
 altogether pleasant. What could she have been 
 thinking of so earnestly when he came in ? What 
 was that letter she had in her hand, to which she did 
 not make any allusion ? Why had she seemed so 
 anxious to recover it when it fell from her hand ? Was 
 it all connected with something he was not to know ? 
 It was so unusual to find her doing nothing — she was 
 always occupied about something. Seldom had he seen 
 her so abstracted. Thinking of this, it for the first time 
 crossed his mind that she had been rather thoughtful 
 ever since they returned to Glen-Mervyn from London, 
 three weeks ago. Several times he remembered lately 
 he had found her unoccupied and rather absent, and 
 was conscious that she had now and then failed a little 
 in her usual unflagging interest in what he was saying. 
 
 What could it all mean, and had it anything to do 
 with that mysterious letter ? And wliy should he call 
 it mysterious, he questioned the next minute. * Mother 
 has no secrets from me,' he mentally exclaimed ; * and I 
 shall certainly ask her all about it directly she comes 
 down. I wonder why I didn't ask her directly.' 
 
 And yet he felt there had been something in his 
 mother's face, and in her complete avoidance of any 
 explanation, that would make it difficult to approach 
 the subject naturally ; and if there was to be any con- 
 straint, it was better to leave it alone altogether. Con- 
 straint ! — between him and his mother ! The very idea 
 made the poor boy's lip quiver, and he smiled, or rather 
 tried to smile, at the bare thought of such a thing ; but 
 
THE HERO'S HOME. 95 
 
 tlie smile died away almost directly, and left his face 
 very grave indeed. 
 
 What could it be? Was any misfortune hanging 
 over them ? What misfortune could there be as long 
 as they were well and together ? Unless .... The 
 old bug-bear — school ! Could his officious uncle be 
 urging his being sent there at once, instead of waiting, 
 as had always been decided, till next Christmas ? 
 
 Mervyn was accustomed to his uncle's coming for- 
 ward on every occasion to further his being sent to 
 school, and always greatly resented it. What other 
 misfortune could be impending, if not this ? 
 
 He brooded over it, making himself quite miserable, 
 till a sound reached his ears, which reassured him at 
 once. It was his mother's voice from her window over- 
 head, singing as she dressed : and the voice was so gay, 
 so ringing, that Mervyn forgot his fears directly, and 
 felt his spirits rise with the clear high notes of her song, 
 till he forgot everything in the pleasure of listening to 
 it. His mother would not sing like that if sorrow were 
 impending. His mother would not sing like that if he 
 were going to be taken from her. 
 
 And with a sigh of relief he lay back in an arm- 
 chair, and told himself he had been frightened for 
 nothing. He sat there, gazing round the room, and 
 thinking how pretty it was, and mentally comparing it 
 with the prim little parlour at the Vicarage he had just 
 quitted. With his mother's voice in his ears, he went 
 off into a reverie about her. There was no one like her 
 in the wide world — no one. Everything about her 
 
96 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 seemed to cateli her charm, and instantly to become 
 different from things about other people. 
 
 How diflferent, for instance, was the room in which 
 he was sitting from the vicar's prim little drawing-room 
 which he had just quitted. There was no particular 
 thing he could take hold of to admire ; he was not suf- 
 ficiently master of the subject to say wherein consisted 
 its charm ; he only knew, or rather felt, in a boy's 
 vague way, that it was all just as perfect as it could be. 
 Wherever the eye wandered, it rested content. The 
 chairs were just in the nooks and corners where they 
 were most cosy ; there were pretty little tables, and 
 pretty china in odd comers. There was no unused look 
 about the room, no stiffness or formality, yet no untidi- 
 ness ; no lack of signs of employment, though it had 
 no occupant, since early morning, but herself. There 
 was work on one table, books on another ; the piano 
 was open, and the leaves of a piece of music fluttered in 
 the soft wind that blew in at the window, as if some 
 one had lately risen from it. There were flowers in 
 different parts of the room, arranged in a sort of natural 
 luxuriance peculiar to a lady, to which few others can 
 ever attain. So unlike, thought Mervyn, the stiff little 
 rows of flowers in the vicar's * parlour,' one row red, 
 one blue, one yellow, without a leaf or morsel of green 
 to relieve the mass of colour. As unlike his mother's 
 arrangement as the vicar's prim maiden sister was 
 unlike his mother herself. 
 
 The big bow-window opened on to the garden, and 
 there again his mother's taste was displayed in the 
 
THE HERO'S HOME. 97 
 
 pretty laying out of the beds, and harmony of colour. 
 There was a pair of gardening gloves, and a watering- 
 pot lying by one of the beds ; everything showed signs 
 of life and employment, though he knew for certain that 
 no one but herself had been there all day. 
 
 A light step sounded on the oak floor outside, and 
 the concluding words of the song. And then hia 
 mother came in in her riding-habit. She stopped at 
 the table to take up his hat, and put his books in a 
 heap. 
 
 * Untidy boy,' she said, smiling; 'when will you 
 remember to leave your hat in the hall ! ' 
 
 Mervyn jumped up to take it away ; but Mrs. Lynd 
 say stopped him as he was rushing off with it, and 
 said, 
 
 ' You had better put it on your head instead now,, 
 dear, for the horses are at the door.' 
 
gS THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 WHY MERYTN AND HIS MOTHER WERE LATE FOR DINNER. 
 
 It was' a lovely summer evening as mother and son 
 rode off from the house. Their way lay through the 
 wildest and most beautiful part of the property ; the 
 sun was not yet beginning to set. Conversation never 
 flagged for a moment ; questions and answers followed 
 in quick succession. The hills echoed their merry 
 laughter, and the sound of Mervyn's shouts to Beth- 
 Gelert. The sun had sunk to rest some time before 
 they turned their faces homeward. They rode slowly 
 back to Glen-Mervyn, in the soft twilight ; every now 
 and then disturbed in their conversation to bid good- 
 night to the passers-by in their picturesque Welsh 
 attire, returning from their day's work ; or even to 
 rein up their horses altogether, while Mrs. Lyndsay 
 stopped to enquire into the welfare of those more 
 particularly known to her. 
 
 The ride terminated in a brisk gallop, which brought 
 them back to Glen-Mervyn just as the dressing-bell 
 was ringing, and Mrs. Lyndsay, dismounting, ran up to 
 dress. Mervyn was not so long dressing as she, so he 
 did not think it necessary to follow her example at once. 
 
LATE FOR DINNER. 99 
 
 He was in high spirits ; the thought which had 
 troubled him had passed away, dispelled by the plea- 
 sure of his ride ; and he stood chatting to the groom 
 about an impending cricket-match in the village, in 
 which he was to take a part, and of which his head 
 was full. He could have remained there for ever, 
 discussing it, and slashing off the heads of the flowers 
 with his riding- whip ; but the groom was obliged to 
 return to the stables, and so the conversation came to 
 an end. 
 
 Magdalen Lyndsay, meanwhile, now that her boy's 
 eyes are no longer on her, has returned to the reverie 
 which his entrance some hours before had interrupted ; 
 and leaning against the window in her riding-habit, 
 her eyes are wandering once more to the old Welsh 
 hills, and her mind is again revolving the question it 
 was revolving then. How is she to tell him that which 
 she has to tell ? It is now nearly a fortnight since the 
 question first presented itself to her mind, and she has 
 found no answer yet. 
 
 The letter received ,that afternoon has shown her 
 that she must lose no time ; nay, that if possible, he 
 must be told this very night. ' Oh, no,' says a voice in 
 the mother's heart ; * no, not to-night ; let him have 
 one day more ! He is so gay, so light-hearted this 
 evening ; his laugh is so ringing, his dear eyes so 
 bright. No ! not to-night ! not to-night ! It may rain 
 to-morrow, and he may be less gay ; and when the 
 wind sighs round the mountains, and the rain drips 
 against the window, making him dull and listless, it 
 h2 
 
100 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 will be easier for him to hear what she has to say. 
 But to-night it is so sweet and fair; the air is so 
 balmy, and all nature seems so gay. The birds and 
 insects are singiag and rejoicing ; let him share in 
 their gladness to-night. He mnst not be the one sad 
 thing Tinder the summer sky ! Let him have one more 
 evening in the garden with his mother all his own.* 
 . . . What a dear bright face it is ! The sunny 
 smile and wavy hair, the frank sweet mouth, and 
 honest speaking eyes ; how familiar and how dear is it 
 all to the mother's heart. And she is to be the one to 
 bring a cloud over it ! Her hand it is that is to lay a 
 cross upon him, and tell him to take it np and bear it 
 cheerfully. God knows how she has dreaded it ! how 
 she has hated the thought of inflicting pain upon him, 
 and darkening, even though she feels it will be but for 
 a moment, his happy young life. 
 
 And yet it must be done. Already all the arrange- 
 ments are complete, and on that day three weeks she is 
 to become Lord Wardlaw's wife. And as yet Mervyn 
 knows not of the existence of such a person ! Truly 
 there is no time to be lost. But Magdalen has had a 
 hard time of it lately, and she has not trusted herself 
 yet to speak on the subject to her boy. It is only a 
 fortnight since she has learnt the tale of her husband's 
 treachery, and scarcely yet has she recovered from the 
 confusion and indignation into which the revelation has 
 thrown her. She has been living again lately in that 
 olden time, and, bit by bit, she has been through it all 
 once more. First, the quiet life with her father, in 
 
LATE FOR DINNER, 101 
 
 their London home — even, uneventfal ; she the only- 
 young thing there, with no companions but the two 
 old men. Then the days when she first knew Charlie 
 Digby. What a charm his society had brought into 
 her life, even before love grew up in her heart, when 
 a closer acquaintance showed him to be all that was 
 manlj and true ! Then had followed the intuitive 
 conviction that he loved her, and the contented waiting 
 on from day to day till he should speak, while she 
 painted the scene of the happy future she felt so certain 
 lay before her. Then the rude shock of his sudden 
 departure without word or sign, without farewell ; the 
 sudden conviction that she had deceived herself, and 
 been deceived ; the bitter pain of the loss of his love, 
 mingled with the wounded pride at being forsaken. 
 Then the cold blank of life without a fature ; the lack 
 of interest in everything ; the loss of faith not only 
 in him, but in the truth, and the virtue and the man- 
 liness of which he had been to her the embodiment; 
 the return to the dull monotonous life with two old 
 men. Then had come her father's illness and death, 
 which had, in God's good providence, given a fresh 
 turn to her thoughts. For the contact with pain and 
 death taught her how insignificant is life, how fleeting 
 its joys, and how short-lived its sorrows. Face to face 
 with the tremendous reality of death, all else had 
 seemed to her shadowy, and life dwarfed by the thought 
 of eternity. 
 
 In this frame of mind had she met the advances of 
 the man who became her husband. It seemed to her to 
 
102 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 matter so little, and to be for such, a very little while. 
 Also she was lonely and desolate, and filled with gratitude 
 to her only friend, whose fidelity contrasted so favourably 
 with the changeability of the man whom she had fancied 
 loved her. At once and for ever she had cast aside all 
 longings and repinings, sealed up the past, and striveu 
 to put it away. Charles Digby passed out of her life, 
 and she gave herself heart and soul to her new duties. 
 So much so, that when, after all those years, they met 
 again, and, as we have seen, he asked her to link her 
 fate with his, she felt it was impossible. That part of 
 her life seemed so far away ; it so completely belonged 
 to her youth, that she felt quite unable to revive it. In 
 fact, it seemed to her almost ridiculous that he should 
 ask it. Besides, she had been disappointed in him. All 
 that in Charles Digby had called forth her affection had 
 proved to be her own creation ; and the man she had 
 loved had not been he, but a being of her own imagina- 
 tion, endowed with qualities which he did not possess. 
 
 She was too kind to tell him all this, but she firmly 
 and definitely refused ; and without giving him time to 
 protest, she left London, as we have seen, and returned 
 home. 
 
 Nor did she repent her decision. * Oh no ! ^ she said 
 to herself often, as she thought it over in the calm soli- 
 tude of Glen-Mervyn. ' Oh no. I am too old now to 
 begin a fresh life, and I have seen too many changes 
 to wish for more. I am happy and content in my pre- 
 sent life, and I ask for nothing else. Besides, there is 
 Mervyn. I am not free to choose my own life. I am a 
 
LATE FOR DINNER. 10b 
 
 motlier, and motherhood and its duties is my life now. 
 I live for him, not for myself. My life is laid out for 
 me, and I have neither the wish nor the strength to 
 begin life all over again.' 
 
 And in this frame of mind had Magdalen remained 
 till the news contained in her brother's letter threw 
 all her thoughts into confusion. 
 
 Colonel Middleton had never said a truer thing in his 
 life than when he told his friend that, in withholding 
 the truth from her, Lord Wardlaw was neglecting the 
 most powerful argument in his own favour, her sense of 
 justice being so strong. For she never hesitated from 
 that moment as to what path to pursue. All the ob- 
 jections and all the arguments she had previously raised 
 in her own mind, which seemed to her then so convinc- 
 ing and satisfactory, gave way before the one great 
 motive of repairing that old injustice, and striving to 
 atone for that past which she could never, never undo. 
 
 At once her mind was made up. She received her 
 brother's letter one sunny morning while Mervyn was at 
 the Vicarage ; and long before he returned home, the 
 letter which conveyed the expression of her determina- 
 tion was on its way to London. When he came bound- 
 ing home in the afternoon, the promise which was to 
 work such a change in his life was given, the days of his 
 life alone with his mother were numbered ; their happy 
 dual solitude was already drawing to a close. He came 
 along singing and jumping, making straight for the tree 
 where she was sitting ; with his eyes full of love, and 
 his ears awaiting her words of loving welcome. 
 
104 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 And she, stunned and bewildered still, with her past 
 and her present all marred and mingled, all linked and 
 yet distorted, watched him blankly as he came along, 
 almost shrinking from the sight of him she loved so 
 dearly when she remembered whose son he was. Yet, 
 by the time he reached her, she had so far controlled 
 herself that there was nothing unusual in her manner, 
 and he noticed nothing but that she looked pale and 
 tired ; and in his pretty, protecting way, he enquired if 
 she had a headache, and ran off to hurry the afternoon 
 tea. His loving little attentions brought tears into her 
 eyes — those eyes that had been so dry and hard all day. 
 She had indeed spent a terrible afternoon. The revela- 
 tion of her husband's treachery had thrown all her past 
 into confusion, and turned all her life into a sham. It 
 seemed to her that the whole thing, with all its aims 
 and motives, had been a delusion, a chimera, a thing of 
 her own imagination. Grratitude had been the main- 
 spring of all her actions, the governing impulse of her 
 life ; and now to find she owed him none ! 
 
 All her devotion to him in his life-time, all her respect 
 for his memory and his wishes since his death — all 
 turned into foolishness and mockery. Love she had 
 never naturally felt for him, but by infinite efforts, aided 
 by her deep gratitude, she had attained to something 
 like its counterfeit. And all the time she had owed him 
 no gratitude, no respect even, no veneration — nothing ! 
 Less than nothing, worse than nothing — only contemp- 
 tuous indignation and a burning sense of wrong. 
 
 All was chaos in her Dast • and she looked back upon 
 
LATE FOR DINNER. 105 
 
 it, bewildered. The duty slie liad striven to fulfil to one 
 man she had all the time owed to another ; the feelings 
 she had created and encouraged were those which ought 
 never to have existed, while those she had struggled to 
 stifle were just those she ought to have cherished. 
 
 Had she ever, in all her life, she asked herself, done 
 what was right, or properly understood one human 
 being with whom she had been thrown ? Their images 
 were now all so changed and confused that not one re- 
 mained to her what she had fancied it to be. The kind 
 old patron of her youth was lost in the designing, trea- 
 cherous friend, and merged again in the over- affectionate 
 and exacting husband. The Charlie Digby of her early 
 days was not the Lord Wardlaw of to-day, but a mixture 
 of what she had at first believed him, what she had 
 afterwards supposed him, and what she had since dis- 
 covered him to be : three distinct characters, now all 
 confused together. 
 
 The father she had loved and venerated was gone, so 
 changed that he seemed to be a stranger, for he had 
 been privy to the deception, and his ima,ge could never 
 again be to her the untarnished memory it had hitherto 
 been. iNTo one remained familiar ; and she seemed to 
 have been living all her days deceived — entangled in a 
 web of delusions. And Magdalen, torn from all her 
 accustomed moorings, felt herself drifting out into a sea 
 of darkness and doubt. 
 
 From such shipwreck as this her boy's lips on her 
 forehead saved her; and the tears which his caresses 
 brought to her eyes, while they dimmed her outward 
 
106 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 vision, dispelled lier mental blindness, and slie saw one 
 light in the darkness, one spar to which she might cling 
 — her child ! 
 
 In the confusion of images which had bewildered her, 
 his at least stood clear and well defined, consistent, 
 loving, and unchanged ; and whatever other duties she 
 had mistaken or left undone, to this at least she had 
 been faithful, and had performed it well. In all the 
 landscape behind her, his figure was the clearest and 
 the most familiar. Her years of motherhood extended 
 over a space of time, compared to which her early friend- 
 ship seemed a moment, and her married life a dream. 
 The very thought of him enabled her to shake off her 
 misty retrospection, and to return to the present mo- 
 ment. The dim figures sped away, and that of her boy 
 took their place. They might seem shadowy and un- 
 real, but there was nothing unreal about him. The past 
 was her own and theirs : it was gone — past recall — 
 there was no use dwelling upon it. What she could do 
 to repair it she had done, and dreaming over it was idle 
 and vain. But this young fresh life by her side, with 
 whom the past had nothing to do, he has his part in her 
 present and her future, and his must be considered too. 
 The pure unselfishness of a mother's love made her for- 
 get her share in the matter, and turn her thoughts to 
 his. How would the new future appear to him ? 
 
 This question she felt was, after all, the most impor- 
 tant now, and to find an answer to it her attention 
 must be given. How was she to tell him of the change 
 which was coming ? It was a difficulty that must be 
 
LATE FOR DINNER. 107 
 
 faced and surmounted, and she roused herself and gave 
 her mind to the task. 
 
 To this frame, of mind she had arrived when he 
 returned with the tea; and as she met the loving 
 glance of his eye, and marked the delight he took 
 in ministering to her wants, a fear came into her heart 
 of how the news would affect him. As she thought 
 of how completely he had had her to himself all these 
 years, and how accustomed he had always been to look 
 upon her as his exclusive possession, the fear increased, 
 and she resolved to put off the announcement for the 
 present. She had gone through so much of agitation 
 already, she had not the strength to encounter more. 
 So she left the morrow to take care of itself, and gave 
 herself up unrestrainedly to the pleasure of her boy's so- 
 ciety, and the charm of his light-heartedness and youth. 
 
 * Why should I make him sad before the time ?' she 
 asked herself; and she lay back in her chair, watching 
 him, and listening to him, rejoicing to see him so gay. 
 He was always full of life and spirits, but that day he 
 had seemed even more joyful than usual. His father 
 had been of a morbid niopy disposition, but the boy 
 inherited from his mother the happy quality of turning 
 every little thing into enjoyment, and finding amuse- 
 ment everywhere. 
 
 As he sat there, chatting and laughing, recounting 
 little things that had happened at the Vicarage, his 
 mother gazed at him with fond pride and affection ; and 
 the heart that had so lately glowed with contemptuous 
 indignation towards the father was filled with loving 
 
108 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 admiration for the son. Then, when she met the honest 
 speaking eyes, and drank in the frank open smile, 
 she inwardly murmured : ' Thank God ; there is no- 
 thing of his father about him. Thank Grod he never 
 knew him — cannot remember ever to have seen him.' 
 
 Day after day from that time she had put off telling 
 him what she knew would cause him pain. Every 
 day she said to herself, ' To-morrow.' Yet when the 
 morrow came she had ever some reason to assign to 
 herself, why it should be put off still. 
 
 It is now, as we have said, nearly a fortnight since 
 her resolution Avas taken. The letter she has received 
 to-day has shown her the announcement cannot be 
 delayed ; and yet here she is, leaning against the 
 window-sill, as unwilling as ever to obtrude it upon 
 his sunny path. The mother's voice within her is ever 
 the most powerful, and insists on making itself heard. 
 * Not to-night ! not to-night ! let him have one day 
 more ! ' 
 
 The worst of it was, she had not only to announce 
 the unwelcome news, but to prepare him for an almost 
 immediate parting with herself. On that intermediate 
 separation, that impending parting, she could not dwell 
 herself for a moment without a tightening at her throat, 
 and a strange thrill at her heart. How, then, could 
 she expect it of him ? 
 
 He was to spend the time of her absence at his 
 tincle's ; but as Colonel Middleton and his family would 
 not be settled in the country till after her marriage, 
 Mervyn must be left under the vicar's charge for at 
 
LATE FOR DINNER. 109 
 
 least a week or ten days, if the vicar would consent to 
 the arrangement. But she had not yet consulted him 
 on the subject, for she did not like Mervyn to be the 
 last to hear of what concerned him so much the most 
 nearly. 
 
 All this made it very necessary that Mervyn should 
 be soon told, and Magdalen resolved that she would not 
 put off the announcement later than the following day. 
 The gong sounded as she came to this resolution, and 
 with a start she remembered that she had not begun to 
 dress. 
 
 Mervyn, meanwhile, all unconscious, was dressing 
 himself for dinner with all his might. I say with all 
 his might, for he had a way of getting engrossed heart 
 and soul in the different details of his toilet, common 
 to some boys of his age. For instance, washing his 
 hands became, under the earnest attention he gave to 
 it, a process for the manufacture of soap-suds, with 
 which his basin was presently filled. Plunged up to 
 elbows in the soft creamy mess, he enjoyed some de- 
 licious moments. As the soap-suds increased in size 
 and beauty a bright idea seized him, and withdrawing 
 his arms from the basin, he fetched from among a heap 
 of treasures an old pipe, and forthwith began blowing 
 soap-bubbles. The five-minutes bell startled him in 
 the midst of his operations, and in a great flurry he 
 brought them to a close. I^ext came his hair, which 
 he brushed and combed with the utmost violence. Then 
 he plastered it down with both hands, and advanced to 
 the looking-glass to see the result. 
 
no THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 To his dismay he foiuid it was guiltless of a parting, 
 and with a sigh he resigned himself to the necessity of 
 making one. This was always a great undertaking, 
 and he tried and tried again to make a straight one, 
 but to no purpose. ISTo one could have accused him of 
 not taking pains about it, for he dug the comb into his 
 head with an energy for which he suffered all the 
 evening. At last something like a successful result 
 was obtained, and after gazing at it in the glass for 
 some minutes with great admiration, he proceeded to 
 put on his jacket, and to pull off his boots. Just at 
 this moment the gong sounded. Thereupon ensued a 
 tremendous hunt for his- shoes, his flurry augmented by 
 the consternation into which the unexpected sound had 
 thrown him. He looked under the bed, he groped on 
 all fours under the sofa, he made himself quite flat and 
 forced himself under the wardrobe; he looked in all 
 the most possible and all the most impossible places, 
 and finally discovered they had been at his side all the 
 time. He sprang to his feet when they were on, and 
 made for the door. Full tilt he came right against the 
 water-jug, which he had inadvertently placed in the 
 middle of the room, and down it went, its contents 
 wildly rushing in every direction. Who does not know 
 the feeling of utter hopelessness which attends such a 
 calamity ! First comes the horrible suspicion — for it 
 is only a suspicion at first — that foot or gown has 
 caught the jug as one was hurrying along, mingled 
 with the faint hope that it may rock back to its place, 
 to catch the sound of which the expectant ear listens 
 
LATE FOR JDIN^^JEH. Ill 
 
 eagerly. But no sucli sound comes ; only a dull thud 
 as the jug rolls over on the floor, and in a moment the 
 stream is rushing in two or three diiSerent channels 
 to all parts of the room. What a feeling of utter 
 despair of ever being able to cope with such an acci- 
 dent ! How hurriedly the question glances through 
 the mind as to whether the sponges or the towels shall 
 be sacrificed ! Hasty recollections of the aspect of the 
 sponges, after doing service on the last occasion of the 
 kind, sweep through the mind, and produce an inward 
 shrinking from subjecting them to a similar operation. 
 But there is never time for thought. Whatever is to be 
 done has to be done quickly, for while you are reflect- 
 ing one stream is nearing a row of boots and slippers, 
 while another is making stealthy advances to the gown 
 you have just thrown ofl*, which has accidentally slipped 
 from the bed, and a third is seen creeping out under the 
 door, with the obvious intention of taking a turn in the 
 passage. If to add to your anxiety, the accident occurs 
 in a friend's house, and you know that that friend is par- 
 ticular about his furniture, has lately carpeted his rooms, 
 and perhaps occupies himself the rooms underneath, of 
 which the ceiling has just been whitewashed, the situa- 
 tion is indeed terrible. I am not sure that in any case 
 (speaking from the depths of a vast experience) instant 
 flight is not the most satisfactory solution of the difl&culty, 
 leaving who may, or who will, to repair the mischief. 
 At any rate, Mervyn came to that conclusion, after 
 one hasty glance at the hurrying stream. And then he 
 ran down the stairs, two steps at a time, and burst into 
 
112 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 the drawing-room, with a confused account of the 
 circumstances which had detained him, in which soap- 
 suds and partings, shoes and water-jugs, were mixed 
 in so vague a manner, that his mother would have been 
 hopelessly bewildered, if she had been there. But, to 
 Mervyn's surprise, he found he was speaking to the air, 
 for the room was empty ! 
 
BREAKING THE NEWS. 113 
 
 CHAPTER yil. 
 
 BEEAKING THE NEWS. 
 
 Before lie had time to wonder at Ms mother's unusual 
 unpunctualitj, she came into the room behind him ; and 
 in his eagerness to begin his story all over again, he lost 
 sight of it. He followed her into the dining-room, 
 talking all the way, and they sat down to dinner. The 
 long meditation upstairs had left its traces on Magdalen 
 Lyndsay's calm sweet face, and she was rather silent 
 and thoughtful. But she strove to shake it off, and to 
 enter into what her boy was saying. 
 
 Having finished his story about the water-jug, he 
 branched off to another subject. 
 
 * Mother, you^ll come and look at the cricket-match, 
 of course ? ' 
 
 ' The cricket-match, dear ; what cricket-match ? ' 
 ' Why, tlie cricket-match, mother ; the one I'm going 
 to play in, you know — Married v. Single.' 
 
 * Oh I the village cricket-match. Yes ; I had for- 
 gotten. Which side did you say you played on, 
 dear ? ' 
 
 Mervyn's look of astonishment recalled her to herself, 
 1 
 
114 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 and she laughed. Mervyn laughed too, though he felt 
 a little injured that so important an event should not 
 have taken more hold upon his mother's memory and 
 attention. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, dear,' she said ; ' I was not think- 
 ing of what I was saying.' And she laughed again. 
 
 * But mother, do think now,' he said eagerly, ' because 
 it's so important. The vicar thinks I shall be a great 
 addition to his side. (He plays on the Single, you 
 know.) Isn't that pleasant to think of ? ' he added, 
 earnestly. 
 
 If his mother did not quite enter into the delights of 
 the position, at any rate she thought it pleasant to see 
 the bright face and sparkling eyes with which the 
 question was put. 
 
 ' Tes, my darling,' she answered tenderly. 
 
 * And you'll come, won't you, mother dear ? There'll 
 be a nice Httle tent for you to sit in, quite away from 
 the crowd ; and then I'll come and talk to you between 
 my turns. You'll like to see me get a lot of runs, won't 
 you ? Promise to come ! ' 
 
 ' I shall certainly come if ' She broke off 
 
 suddenly. * If I am here,' she was going to say, but 
 she stopped just in time. 
 
 * When is the match ? ' she concluded. 
 
 * To-morrow week is the Married v. Single, and a 
 fortnight after Glen-Mervyn plays the village club. I 
 am in both, so you can take your choice. But I think 
 you had better come to both. There is nothing to pre- 
 vent it, you know,' he added with a little laugh. 
 
BREAKING THE NEWS. 116 
 
 ISTothing to prevent it ! No ! Nothing ; except tliat 
 by tliat time slie would be Lord Wardlaw's wife, 
 hundreds of miles away. 
 
 The thought smote upon her so sharply ; it came so 
 vividly before her that he would be playing his cricket- 
 matches as usual, and that she would be far away. It 
 brought the thought of parting so near, and the pain of 
 it so clearly, that she hastily drank off a glass of water 
 to hide the emotion she could not repress. 
 
 * Let us finish dinner quickly, darling,' she said 
 hurriedly, ' and then we will go and sit in the garden. It 
 is such a lovely night. In fact, I think I will leave you 
 to finish alone, for I want to get out into the air.' And 
 she rose from her chair as she spoke. Mervyn looked 
 rather surprised at the suddenness of the arrangement. 
 
 * Why, mother ! you have had no strawberries and 
 cream, and I was going to make you such a nice mess.' 
 
 * I don't want any to-night, dear,' she answered 
 rather faintly, as she gained the door ; but by an irre- 
 sistible impulse she returned to his side, and put her 
 arms round his neck. 
 
 ' Grod bless you, my darling ! my darling ! ' she 
 whispered, as she kissed him. 
 
 ' I shan't be long, mother dear,' he said, warmly re- 
 turning her caresses ; and before the door had closed 
 behind her, he was absorbed in his strawberry mess. 
 He followed her in about ten minutes, and found her 
 sitting outside the window in the twilight, on a low 
 garden-chair. At her request he fetched her a white 
 ehawl, and after putting it over her shoulders, he sat 
 i2 
 
116 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 down on the grass by her side, put his head against her 
 knees, and got possession of one of her hands. 
 
 * ]N"ow for a nice talk, mothej.' 
 
 * What shall we talk &,bout, darling ? ' she said. ' 1 
 think you must begin to-night. This lovely evening 
 has set me dreaming, and I can think of nothing to say.' 
 
 * It is very beautiful, is'nt it ? ' said the boy, follow- 
 ing his mother's gaze over lake and mountain, lit up by 
 the silvery moon ; but his child's mind only grasped the 
 external beauty of the familiar landscape (admired and 
 loved, because it was familiar), while her's had wan- 
 dered off to dim imaginings of that internal beauty, of 
 which all that is most lovely here is but the faint and 
 imperfect expression — an attempt to render to our finite 
 comprehension the grace and glory of that which is 
 infinite and unseen. 
 
 * I love Glen-Mervyn so much, mother, don't you ? 
 There is no place like it in the world, I think.' 
 
 Mervyn's * world ' was rather limited, being confined 
 to Glen-Mervyn and London. But his mother did not 
 check the outpourings of his feelings by pointing this 
 out. 
 
 ' It is quite right, darling, that you should love your 
 home, and I am glad you do. We have lived in it so 
 many years now, you and I.' 
 
 * So many years,' repeated Mervyn, ^ ever since I was 
 born mother, haven't we — you and I.' 
 
 And he repeated the words ' you and I ' with a sense 
 of fond proud appropriation, while he tightened his 
 grasp on his mother's hand. 
 
BREAKING THE NEWS. 117 
 
 ' And I should Hke to go on living here for ever, 
 mother,' lie burst out again after a few minutes' silence ; 
 * just you and I, only you and I.' 
 
 And he repeated * you and I ' in the same tone as 
 before. 
 
 ' You will talk differently in a few years, Mervyn,' 
 she answered, with a laugh which was half a sigh. 
 
 'l^ever, mother,' he returned, with all the positive 
 confidence of youth, which, feeling itself so warm and 
 faithful, cannot grasp the idea of change. 
 
 * I should like everything to go on for ever as it is, 
 with no alteration of any kind.' 
 
 ' Oh, but that is impossible, my darling. In this 
 world changes must come. Look how many occur 
 every moment round you. The laws of our being and 
 of nature proclaim that change must be. The child 
 changes into man, the bud into the flower, and the 
 blossom into the fruit. We should not desire it other- 
 wise, of course, and there is nothing painful in it ; but 
 still it is so. The evening we are enjoying now is not 
 the evening we were enjoying three hours ago. The 
 evening has turned to twilight, and the twilight to 
 night. The very bit of blue sky I found it so pleasant 
 to rest my eyes on when we first came out, admiring 
 its calm blank space, is now glittering with innumerable 
 stars ! Nothing seems to remain the same for a 
 moment.' 
 
 * Yes, mother,' said Mervyn, restlessly, * I know 
 things change; but people, mother, and feelings, they 
 don't change.' 
 
118 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 Such a curious look passed over her face at his words. 
 Three times she seemed about to speak with some ex- 
 citement, but checked herself each time. 
 
 * You and I for instance, mother ; we do not change.' 
 
 * And do you really think, Mervyn, that you are not 
 changed, from the little tottering thing with long hair 
 and blue shoes, that used to patter about on this 
 terrace, and ride on Beth-Gelert's back. I pity Beth- 
 Gelert, if you take to such horsemanship now,' she 
 added, laughing. 
 
 Mervyn laughed too, though he was rather bored. 
 
 * I forgot,' he said. 
 
 He knew by experience what it was for his mother's 
 sense of humour to be tickled ; and it hurt his dignity 
 to see he had made himself ridiculous. 
 
 ^ I beg your pardon, dear,' she said, still laughing ; 
 ' but the idea of your not having changed since you 
 were a baby amused me so. But I promise to be very 
 grave now.' 
 
 ' Well, mother,' he said eagerly, returning to his 
 point, ' it is only while one is growing that there are 
 such great changes. E"ow you, at any rate, have not 
 changed. I can't remember you the least different 
 rom what you are now.' 
 
 * Even there, Mervyn, I cannot agree with you. You 
 may not notice it, but I am by no means the girl I was 
 when I first brought you, a baby, to Glen- Mervyn. Oh 
 dear no ! ' she went on half to herself, as she leant back 
 in her chair, and went off into a reverie, ' very different. 
 In thought, in ideas, in everything. It would be strange, 
 
BREAKING THE NEWS. 119 
 
 indeed, if I were quite tlie same. I should not wisli 
 it, Mervyn. I should be sorry to think I were not 
 changed.' 
 
 ' Do you mean changed to look at, mother ? ' 
 
 ' N"o. I was not thinking of appearance then,' she 
 answered, * so much as mind and feeling. For change in 
 them, I hope, means improvement, progress ; and in 
 that sense I love change.' 
 
 'And I don't, mother,' said Mervyn, very decidedly; 
 * in every sense I hate changes, I think they are horrid.' 
 
 * You have not seen many,' she said, smiling. 
 
 ' No more have you, have you, mother P ' 
 
 Again the curious look came into her face, and her 
 eyes shone with a look which was half sad, half 
 agitated. 
 
 Mervyn noticed it this time : he drew near and kissed 
 her, whispering, 'I forgot.' 
 
 For he thought she was thinking of his dead father. 
 
 She returned his caresses fondly, but she did not 
 speak ; and he meanwhile, with his hand locked in hers, 
 was going through a certain train of thought, which 
 always came upon him when the subject of that father 
 was — which it was very rarely — mentioned between 
 them. He hardly dared confess even to himself how 
 much he disHked his mother having a past with which 
 he had nothing to do, and how much he inwardly re- 
 joiced that she was all his own, and that there was no 
 father to come in between them. Even to her he had 
 never hinted at this, and she had no idea of it. It was 
 a curious part of the boy's affection that his greatest 
 
120 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 pleasure in it was that sense of monopoly, that feeling 
 of appropriation. It was the reflection that no one but 
 himself had the right to her which made him so happy 
 in her possession. 
 
 His mother's voice quite startled him when she spoke 
 again. 
 
 * No, Mervyn,' she said, taking up the conversation 
 from its starting-point : ' it is no use battling with the 
 truth. Changes must be. We may fight against them, 
 and stretch out our hands to beat them away and keep 
 them back, crying that they shall not, must not come ; 
 but it is only the foolish beating of the caged bird 
 against the bars, and quite as in vain as hopeless ; for 
 come they will, bringing with them joy or sorrow, as 
 may be the will of Him who ordained and foresaw them 
 from the first. And in the end we see it was best.' 
 
 * Mother ! ' said the boy, rather fearfully, ' don't ! 
 Why do you talk like this ? ' 
 
 *I had a letter to-day, Mervyn, from a very old 
 friend ; and it is the consideration of all the changes 
 that have come on me since first we were friends to- 
 gether that has set me thinking so of change. When I 
 was a young girl we saw much of each other. Then, 
 his way in life lay in one road, mine in another, and so 
 we parted. It may be that in those young days we two 
 dreamed as little of changes being possible as you do 
 now. And yet they came, Mervyn ; yet they came ! 
 Thank God ! ' she added dreamily, ' there is a land 
 where changes cannot come ; but it is not here, Mervyn 
 — not here ! ' 
 
BREAKING THE NEWS, 121 
 
 ' But, motlier,' urged tlie boy, ' wliy do you talk so ? 
 You frigliten me ; for you talk as if a change were 
 coming. Wliy do you ? ' 
 
 ' Because, my darling, a change is coming, and I 
 want to prepare you for it. I had not meant to speak 
 of it to-night ; but as our talk has taken this turn, the 
 way seems paved for me to tell you of that which is 
 coming into our lives, and which I humbly trust wdll 
 bring happiness to us both.' 
 
 ' What is it, mother ? ' said Mervyn, in a very low 
 voice. 
 
 ' In the old days, dear, of which I have been speak- 
 ing, I remember two old men, who had been friends 
 from their earliest boyhood. The one was rich and 
 unmarried ; the other poor, a widower, with a grown- 
 up daughter and a married son. They lived in London. 
 The rich friend, out of his abundance, was always 
 showering his gifts on the poor friend and his daughter. 
 It was he who provided the horse she daily rode, and 
 contributed to many other little enjoyments and com- 
 forts which her father would not have been able to 
 afford for her. It was his interest that had procured 
 the married son a commission in the Guards ; and he it 
 was who had introduced to him the woman he had 
 married. He was a constant visitor at the house, 
 always welcomed with delight by the father, and held 
 in great esteem by the girl herself. Another constant 
 visitor was a young man of the name of Charles Digby. 
 He was the younger son of Lord Wardlaw, and was 
 amusing himself in London previous to beginning his 
 
l'J2 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 diplomatic career. Both father and daughter enjoyed 
 his society. His companionship had a great charm for 
 the young girl, who had always been, more or less, as 
 you are, Mervyn — a solitary child ; and who had never 
 known what it was to have a companion of her own 
 age, her brother being so many years older than she. 
 Suddenly his visits ceased ; but before the girl had 
 time to begin to wonder what had become of him her 
 father announced to her his intention of going to the 
 sea-side for change of air, and they almost immediately 
 left town. The young girl missed her companion 
 sorely, and felt a little hurt that he had not come to 
 wish her good-bye ; when, on questioning her father, 
 she found Charlie Digby had obtained the appointment 
 for which he had been waiting, and was now on his 
 way to Madrid. However, the sudden and dangerous 
 illness of her father put all other thoughts out of her 
 head. He died; and the girl found herself, a few 
 weeks after leaving London, alone, penniless, and de- 
 pendent on her married brother with his large family. 
 Pitying, no doubt, her friendless condition, her father's 
 friend asked her whether she could bear the disparity 
 of years between them, and become his wife. She 
 consented, and for eighteen months he made her a 
 kind and indulgent husband. Then he died. Mean- 
 while years rolled on. By the successive deaths of his 
 father and brothers, Charlie Digby succeeded to the 
 family honours, and returned to England. He met 
 once more the friend of his youth ; the old intimacy 
 was renewed; the old delight in each other's society 
 
BREAKING THE NEWS, 123 
 
 revived, and lie asked lier to become his wife. . . . 
 And now, Mervyn, have you any idea why I have told 
 you this story ? ' 
 
 ' 1^0, mother,' answered the boy. ' It's awfully in- 
 teresting ; but I don't know why you have told it to 
 me.' 
 
 * How tiresome of you, dear ! ' she said, laughing ; 
 but her smile died away as she thought she perceived 
 a certain sort of anxiety in the boy's face which seemed 
 to contradict his words. 
 
 * I have told it to you, darling, because all the people 
 therein mentioned concern you very nearly. Think it 
 over, bit by bit, before I tell you their names.' 
 
 She waited a minute, and then said, slowly and 
 distinctly : * The names of the two old men were 
 William Middleton and — Mervyn Lyndsay ; and the 
 girl's name — Magdalen.' 
 
 There was a long silence after Mrs. Lyndsay had 
 spoken ; and in the calm stillness of the summer even- 
 ing Mervyn' s quick breathing could be distinctly heard. 
 
 It may be that the old story had for a moment re- 
 vived the old feehngs in Magdalen's breast, for the 
 next words were spoken dreamily — more to herself than 
 to the boy. 
 
 * By the recollection of the long, long years of sepa- 
 tation, he urged her not to refuse him ; by his loneliness 
 and exile in a foreign land, he prayed her to make him 
 happy now, and — she consented.' 
 
 Mrs. Lyndsay paused again, but the silence was not 
 
124 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 broken. Mervyn remained sitting where lie was, with his 
 head against her knees, and he neither spoke nor moved. 
 
 Mrs. Lyndsay, knowing his impetuous, excitable na- 
 ture, marvelled to find him take the news so quietly. 
 She wondered what was passing in his mind, and 
 longed to take one look at his face ; but in the position 
 in which he was sitting it was hidden from her, and 
 she felt it was better not to disturb him, or to force him 
 to speak too soon. 
 
 She knew some time must be allowed for the shock 
 of a piece of utterly unexpected intelligence, but she 
 had not expected that Mervyn would be able to restrain 
 for so long expression of some kind, accustomed as he 
 was to pour forth to her at once all that was in his 
 thoughts. For there was never restraint of any kind 
 between them. His face was like a glass to her, in 
 which every passing thought, however fleeting, was 
 reflected. How well she knew the eager way in which 
 his ideas came bubbling up from his lips, helter-skelter, 
 anyhow, in his hurry to make her participate in them. 
 She had expected an outburst, and had nerved herself 
 to meet it ; but this long delay she had not been pre- 
 pared for, and she began to think he had more self- 
 control than she had given him credit for. 
 
 She had revolved in her own mind for some time 
 past all the stories she had heard and read of step- 
 children and step-parents — stories telling of jars in 
 family life, of petty jealousies, and ill-behaviour on both 
 sides ; stories, the recollection of which had made her 
 shrink from the idea of such elements of discord in 
 
BREAKING THE NEWS. 125 
 
 her home ; and the thought of which had made her 
 dread more than anything else breaking the news to 
 her boy, lest he should in his demeanour disclose a 
 lurking in his breast of some such feelings. For there 
 was in Magdalen Lyndsay's spirit a profound contempt 
 of anything small and petty; and she had always so 
 gloried in the grand broad lines of Mervyn's character 
 — grand because simple, broad because so true and 
 unselfish. 
 
 And now she began to think with piide and hope 
 that he was not going to disappoint her ; that he was 
 above all these little feelings ; that the frank, generous 
 nature she had always so delighted in was coming to 
 his help now, and that he would stand the test. N'ay, 
 more ; that there was nothing selfish in his fond, proud 
 appropriation of herself, but that in his loving devotion 
 there were deeps which even she had not fathomed or 
 suspected; and as she thought of it, her love and 
 admiration deepened. 
 
 But she began to wish he would speak. This pent-up 
 reserve was no^ natural to him, and at last she felt she 
 must hear what his feelings were. So, laying her hand 
 caressingly on his hair, she tried to turn his hidden face 
 toward herself, saying, in a fond, low tone, in which all 
 her love and all her admiration seemed to express itself: 
 
 ' Speak to me, my darling.' 
 
 And then the burst came, vnth such passionate grief 
 and despair, that she was appalled at his violence, and 
 merely gazed at him, astonished. 
 
 * Mother ! mother ! ' he exclaimed ; and ho started to 
 
126 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 his feet, and wrung liis hands ; ' Oh ! mother ! mother ! 
 mother ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Lyndsaj did not check him, or try to make him 
 control himself, though she had never in his life seen 
 him give way in this manner before. Turning her eyes 
 from the face of the agitated boy to the calm star-lit 
 sky above, she breathed a silent prayer for him and for 
 herself, and then she waited to calm herself before 
 speaking to him. 
 
 She needed calming, for she was startled and alarmed, 
 disappointed too ; yea, even — for she was but human — 
 a Httle indignant. For there was in his manner as much 
 of anger as of sorrow ; as much, I had almost said, of 
 defiance in his passionate cry of * Mother, mother,' as of 
 broken-hearted entreaty ; as much of ' you sJiall not do 
 this thing,' as of * you will not, you can not, you surely 
 do not mean to ! ' 
 
 And Magdalen was high-spirited as he ; and for an 
 instant her eyes had the self-same sparkle in them which 
 was flashing from both of his. But only for a moment. 
 It faded away directly, and gave place to a mournful, 
 pitying light, which melted the boy at once, and caused 
 him to throw himself at her knees, and exclaim in a 
 less passionate, more despairing tone : 
 
 * Oh mother, say you do not mean it ; say it is all a 
 mistake.' 
 
 * I cannot say so, Mervyn.* 
 
 The low, sweet voice so dearly loved, thrilled through 
 the boy, and woke up his love with greater force than 
 ever ; woke up, too, the feeling of blind resentment, 
 
BREAKING THE NEWS. 127 
 
 wMcli her loving look had melted, and he ground his 
 teeth together in his effort to keep back the torrent of 
 words which rose to his lips, hut which, in spite of him- 
 self, escaped almost before he was aware : 
 
 * You sliall not do it ! I won't have it ! I hate him ! 
 
 ' Mervyn ! ' 
 
 Frightened into silence by the stern indignant tone, 
 so unlike what he was accustomed to hear from his 
 mother's Hps, the boy stood, breathless, with the tears 
 standing in his angry gleaming eyes. 
 
 Magdalen had risen as she spoke, and she now stood 
 confronting him, pressing both her hands together, in 
 her effort to keep back the angry feelings which were 
 rising in her breast, while she told herself she was as 
 bad as he if she allowed .herself to be overcome by 
 them. 
 
 Mother and son struggled together to overcome the 
 same spirit which strove to master them, and which, in 
 all their lives, till that moment, neither had ever brought 
 to bear one against the other. And Magdalen was 
 victorious. Her deep mother's love came to her help, 
 and she resolved as she stood to put self on one side 
 altogether, and by the might of that love to bear with 
 him patiently. 
 
 Then she sat down, and drew the boy towards her ; 
 but, to her surprise, he resisted, and even shook her 
 hand off his shoulder. She was deeply hurt. For the 
 first time in his life he bad failed in his loving respect 
 for her. She had never been wounded through him 
 before, and it cut her to the heart. 
 
128 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 Was this the beginning of the end ? she asked herself. 
 Was the step she was about to take to entail for ever 
 this sort of thing npon her ? was all her past life of 
 devotion to go for nothing ? and was his love and vene- 
 ration" to give way at the first check ? Back to the 
 sunny past on which her thoughts had been so lately 
 dwelling, they travelled before she could stop them ; and 
 it seemed so hard, so very hard. She might — she told 
 herself, as they raced in hot haste through her brain, 
 till her own side of the question came so vividly before 
 her, that she had thought for nothing else — ha\e hurled 
 at the boy's head his father's unworthy conduct, and 
 shown him how much more that other was the injured 
 one than he. She might have told him of her blighted 
 early life, separated from the lover of her youth, and 
 married to the very man by whose means that separa- 
 tion had, unknown to herself, been efiected. Her 
 thoughts were in a whirl of agitation, and she felt there 
 was nothing she might not with justice say. But 
 Magdalen was a woman and a mother. She could not, 
 and would not, disclose such things to a child, and that 
 child her own son. 
 
 It was only for a moment that the thought of all these 
 things overcame her; and then came to her help the 
 habit which was with her a second nature, of lowering 
 her thoughts to his level, and seeing things from his 
 point of view. So she stamped out past recollections 
 which might weaken her for the present, and looked out 
 upon it all with her boy's eyes. And as she looked, 
 she saw : and as she saw, she pitied ; and as she pitied, 
 she forgave. 
 
BREAKING THE NEWS. 129 
 
 And she drew him in spite of his resistance to her, 
 and she laid his head on her breast, and tenderly she 
 soothed and kissed him, till she conquered ; for, worn 
 out by the very force of his emotions, Mervyn was glad 
 to forget everything but the pleasure of resting his 
 throbbing head, and feeHng her cool lips on his hot 
 smarting eyelids. 
 
 There was a silence of some minutes, and then she 
 said softly : 
 
 ' My poor boy ; I am so sorry to see you like this ! ' 
 
 The words were so gentle, and the voice so sorrow fal, 
 that a wild hope shot through Mervyn's breast. She 
 who had never, as long as he could remember, failed to 
 do away with, to the utmost of her power, anything 
 that gave him sorrow, would she not now, that she saw 
 she was making him miserable, give way to him, and 
 make him happy. 
 
 ' Mother, mother ! why should it be ? ' 
 
 No answer ; only soft kisses on his eyelids, and the 
 caressing touch of her hand on his hair. 
 
 * Mother, darling ! you have me ; what else can you 
 want ? ' 
 
 ' What am I to say, my boy ; what can I do to com- 
 fort you ? ' 
 
 * Give it up ! Oh mother, give it up ! ' 
 
 * Poor boy, my own dear boy.' 
 
 The tender answers, so loving and yet so completely 
 apart from his questions, pretending so little to be replies 
 to them, fell mournfully on the boy's ear. He recognised 
 in them intuitively the * mind-made-up ' tone, against 
 
 K 
 
130 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 which there was no appeal; felt, that in his vain 
 struggling and repining, he was bnt dashing himself 
 against a rock — the rock of his mother's will ; of her 
 firm unalterable decision. And he felt, though he could 
 not have described it, that it was bitter to hear loving 
 words from the very source of his woe ; and to know 
 that there was neither the will nor the power there to 
 alter what was to come to pass, even though he, whom 
 she loved so well and would shield from all pain, desired 
 so earnestly to avert it, that it seemed as if his very 
 longing must keep it away ; that what he dreaded so 
 intensely was impossible, eould not be ; and there was 
 in his heart that tumult which, had it taken shape in 
 words, would have escaped in the passionate cry of the 
 psalmist, * If it had been an open enemy that had done 
 me this dishonour, I could have borne it, but it was 
 even thou.'* 
 
 While he was thinking, Magdalen remained silent, 
 only now and then passing her hand gently over his hair. 
 When he seemed to be calm and quiet, she spoke again. 
 
 * Now, darling,' she said gently ; * let us talk it out. 
 Ask yourself calmly what it is you dread so much in 
 this. Perhaps we shall find you are making a mountain 
 out of a mole-hill after all.' 
 
 A sound broke from Mervyn, savouring so strongly of 
 anger, that Magdalen stopped speaking, and felt rather 
 disheartened. But she was determined not to give it 
 up, but to conquer by gentleness. 
 
 ' I will bear with him to the end,' she murmured, * so 
 help me God ' ' 
 
I 
 
 BREAKING IJTE NEWS, 131 
 
 But she sighed as she said it, for she saw her 
 boy was going to test to the utmost her love and 
 forbearance. 
 
 Then, lowering herself once more to his level, she saw 
 that in his present state of agitated feeling it would not 
 do to treat his sorrow too lightly. She must try to feel 
 it as he felt it, and to argue it out from his point 
 of view. 
 
 If one method failed, she would try another ; and if 
 all were fruitless, she would appeal to his love for her. 
 
 * Mervyn, have you forgotten you are going to school 
 after Christmas ? ' 
 
 A vehement shake of the head was his answer, as 
 much as to say, * How could I forget anything so dis- 
 agreeable ? ' 
 
 ' Have you ever thought it over, dear, at all ? ' 
 
 * Never, mother.' 
 
 *You have a wonderful power, Mervyn, of putting 
 away from your thoughts anything you do not wish to 
 think of, haven't you ? It is a happy knack. But it is 
 only a knack. I cannot give it a higher name. I have 
 been thinking it is perhaps braver to look things firmly 
 in the face, than to put them so entirely away. . . .' 
 She looked at him a minute to see how far she might 
 go, and added : 
 
 ' Will you be brave, my darling, and face the future 
 for a moment with me ? ' 
 
 But Mervyn' s head went down again directly, and she 
 saw him shrink into himself. That failed, but she would 
 not be discouraged. 
 
 K 2 
 
132 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 * Very well, darling,' she said ; * I will not ask you to 
 do it if it pains you. Will you try, instead, to tell me 
 what it is you dread so much in the idea of the future 
 of which I have told you ? ' 
 
 A hundred ideas rushed through the boy's brain, but 
 not one could he put into words. His breast heaved 
 and his eyes moistened every time he attempted to 
 speak. The future seemed so dark, and such a com< 
 plication of miseries, that the very thought of it deprived 
 him of voice wherewith to express one. 
 
 His mother saw how it was. ' N'ever mind, dear,' she 
 said with a sigh, ' leave it for the present ; we will talk 
 of it some other time. That is to say, of your part in 
 it. Now we will talk of mine.' 
 
 This was her last resource ; an appeal to his feelings 
 for her sake ; and it succeeded directly ; for it made 
 Mervyn feel as if he had been selfish ; and he drew 
 closer to her, and listened with all his might. 
 
 ' Let me go back to what I was saying. About your 
 going to school. Well ! I do not share your happy 
 knack of putting that out of my head. It has been 
 constantly present to me for many months past, and the 
 thought of how dull and lonely I shall be without you 
 has made me feel very sad. And it is only the begin- 
 ning of the end, you know ; only the beginning of the 
 end.' 
 
 ' How do you mean, mother ? ' asked the boy. 
 
 * Ah, Mervyn, I am braver than you, for I have faced 
 the future and told myself that a month at Christmas, 
 six weeks at Midsummer, and three weeks at Easter, is 
 
BREAKING THE NEWS. 133 
 
 all that I shall see of mj boy — my sole and constant 
 companion of so many years. I have gone further, and 
 told myself that at the end of your school-life will come 
 a profession, which, let it be what it may, will necessi- 
 tate my seeing even less of you. That after that, you 
 will come of age — when my power over you, nay, my 
 very right to live in your home — ceases. That then 
 will come another era in your life, and I must give you 
 up, as many other mothers have done before me — to a 
 younger, fairer, more dearly-loved one, who . . .' 
 
 But at this point, Mervyn broke in with such vehe- 
 ment declarations of the impossibility of his ever loving 
 anyone half or a quarter as much as he did her, that she 
 was obliged to stop, laughing. 
 
 * Oh, Mervyn, Mervyn, you will think differently 
 some day ! And I, for one, should be sorry to think 
 you should have nothing better to love than such an 
 old woman as I shall be by that time. But I know,' 
 she added tenderly, * it is impossible for the young to 
 realise such things, so you must believe me, my boy, 
 though you cannot understand it yourself. And you 
 must try and see that, though I would not have it other- 
 wise, the pondering on these things has made me feel 
 that my life henceforth will not be so filled up and 
 satisfying as it has hitherto been. And so . . / 
 
 She broke off with a smile, and her eyes wandered 
 away again to the silvery moon. 
 
 ' And so ? . . .' questioned Mervyn, * so what, 
 mother ? ' 
 
 ' So God, in his great love and goodness, Mervyn, has 
 
134 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 sent back to me the friend pf my youth, to bring a new 
 interest into the life that was going to be so lonely, and 
 to be to me the companion and protector which you, 
 my boy, cannot at a distance be. And you, Mervyn, if 
 your love for me is as real and unselfish as I have 
 always believed it to be, far from regretting, should 
 rejoice that you do not leave me desolate and uncared 
 lor ; should be grateful to this friend who will guard 
 and cherish me in your absence and keep me happy till 
 you can return to me again. What do you regret in it, 
 Mervyn ? Why should it make you sad ? ' 
 
 Why ! Mervyn was unable to find an answer. He 
 began to fear he had been very selfish, but had no word 
 to say. 
 
 He was carried away by his mother's words, and by 
 the rapt expression of her face, and he only put his 
 head on her shoulder and said : 
 
 * I had no thought of all that.' 
 
 * ISTo, darling, I know you had not, and that is why I 
 thought I would put it before you. When the time for 
 going to school was really here, it would have broken 
 your hearfc to leave me alone, and to think of the soli- 
 tary days and lonely evenings that I should have to 
 spend. And now God has spared you that. We have 
 both a great deal to be thankful for, Mervyn, I think. 
 For your life, too, will be brighter for the change. The 
 friend of my youth will in time be the friend of yours, 
 and I know you will love him for my sake, till you 
 learn to love him for his own. . . . Won't you try 
 to love him, Mervyn, for my sake f ' 
 
BREAKING THE NEWS. 135 
 
 The words were spoken in tlie lowest whisper, and 
 her lips touched his forehead as they fell. 
 
 And Mervyn threw his arms round her, and exclaimed, 
 * I will ! I will ! Oh mother, indeed I will ! ' 
 
 That night, kneeling before the throne of God, Mag- 
 dalen Lindsay poured forth her thankfulness that at least 
 one work of her life should not have been in vain, and 
 that the love and care of years should have received this 
 palpable reward. 
 
 She had well nigh despaired several times during that 
 long and stormy interview. Fear, respect, duty, the 
 habit of obedience and d(rr ; nee to her will, the faith 
 in her wisdom and judgment ; by none of these usually 
 powerful agents had the boy been anyway moved or 
 swayed for a minute. 
 
 But love had been stronger than fear, stronger than 
 habit, stronger than faith even. She had touched the 
 right chord at last, and silenced at once all jars in his 
 heart. ISTothiug else would have won him — nothing! 
 
 Her years of devotion had not been wasted, after all. 
 The foundation of her power stood certain, being rooted 
 in love. She did not fear the future now as she had 
 feared it once or twice during their long conversation. 
 She felt that she and her boy had faced the struggle of 
 their lives, and that she had, by the power of love, been 
 victorious. What had conquered him once would con- 
 quer him for ever. 
 
 And as she bowed her head in silent thankfulness, 
 she understood, more clearly than she had ever done 
 
136 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 before, the power of a religion which is founded and 
 grafted on love. Nothing else would win us — nothing. 
 Not fear, or duty, or habit ; though they no doubt have 
 their influence, and are helps as far as they go. 
 
 But we want something stronger, something deeper, 
 something that takes a firmer hold upon us ; something, 
 in fact, that touches a chord in our hearts, and silences 
 all the jars of rebellion there. And it is only love that 
 can sound that chord ; only the Love which has bought 
 us the heaven which is but Its other name. 
 
THE MIDBLETON FAMILY MOVE. 137 
 
 CHAPTER yill. 
 
 THE MIDDLETON FAMILY MOVE. 
 
 In the course of a week after their walk with theii» father, 
 the little Middletons had it formally announced to them 
 that their aunt Magdalen was going to be married to 
 Lord Wardlaw in about a fortnight, and that their 
 cousin Mervyn was coming to stay with them at Granton 
 during his mother's absence abroad. 
 
 ' Mna is certainly a most unsatisfactory child,' said 
 Mrs. Middleton to her husband, when she returned to 
 the drawing-room after making the announcement. 
 * She showed no interest, expressed no surprise. One 
 would almost have thought from her manner that she 
 knew all about it before.' 
 
 It is certainly wonderful how much it is the practice 
 of children to put * two and two together ' of the scraps 
 they hear, and so get at a whole. Their parents are, for 
 the most part, as unaware of it as was Mrs. Middleton. 
 Aiiyone with a good memory will be able to recall for 
 himself how his saspicions, as a child, would be roused 
 by the conversation broken off on his entrance, the sen- 
 tence half finished, the warning look, or expressive 
 cough. So that the next time the subject was mentioned, 
 
138 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 his mind already sharpened, would be able to glean a bit 
 more, before the grown-np people would remember his 
 presence, and once more break off with an ' I forgot the 
 child,' or 'another time.' And so on, till he knows a 
 great deal, if not all, that was never intended for his 
 ears. Grown-up people are so careless, and children 
 are so sharp. 
 
 At any rate, one part of the announcement was a 
 surprise to JSTina, and that was that Mervyn should 
 be coming to Granton. The thought filled her with 
 pleasure, mingled with a fear lest he should not be 
 happy among them in their home, where everything 
 was so different from what he was accustomed to. She 
 wondered how he would endure their dull school-room 
 life, and submit to all the rules and regulations by which 
 they were surrounded. One comfort was, their French 
 governess always took her holiday in the months of 
 August, September, and October. She went to Paris to 
 study part of the time, and for the sake of that prospective 
 advantage for her daughters Mrs. Middleton allowed her 
 longer leave of absence than is the custom. She felt 
 she returned more and more qualified, after every holi- 
 day, to make her pupils perfect French scholars. In the 
 meantime they had an old French lady to superintend 
 the school-room, who had been Mrs. Middleton' s own 
 governess once for a time. This lady, though in mortal 
 terror of Mrs. Middleton, and a perfect slave to her 
 rules, was not, in herself, a very rigid disciplinarian, 
 and therefore Nina was glad that Mervyn' s visit should 
 be paid under her reign. 
 
THE MIDBLETON FAMILY MOVE. 13^ 
 
 The children were to leave London in about a week \ 
 and their parents were to remain behind for the wed- 
 ding ; but Mervyn was not to come till the whole family 
 were settled at Granton. Nina's thoughts were very 
 busy all that day mapping out the future, and wondering 
 if Mervyn would be happy. She was so abstracted 
 during the walk in the afternoon, that Cecily could get 
 nothing out of her, and was in despair at the small 
 amount of interest Nina took in the ' How- are-y ous ' 
 she pointed out to her, and even in the sudden appear- 
 ance of the harum-scarum. 
 
 'I wish I was the statue of Achilles,' sighed Cecily^ 
 as they crossed the road at Grosvenor Gate, on their 
 way to the Marble Arch. 
 
 ' Why ? ' asked ISTina, absently. 
 
 * He is always in the middle of the fun,' answered 
 Cecily, 'instead of being in all the dull parts of the 
 park Hke us. Just fancy what crowds of people are 
 sitting on the chairs close to him now, and lines of car- 
 riages blocked right in front of him. Why, he can see 
 the Queen or the Princess of Wales pass every day, 
 twice ; and it doesn't matter to him about the crowd, 
 because he can see right over their heads. Should you 
 like to be him, Mna ; or would you rather be the statue 
 of the Duke of Wellington ? ' 
 
 ' Neither ; ' answered Nina, suddenly interested, and 
 with a slight sparkle in her eye. ' I should like to be 
 the policeman who stands by the Drive, and can keep 
 back horses, and carts, and carriages, by just holding up 
 his hand. It must be so pleasant to see the prancing 
 
140 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 horses coming along as if nothing would stop them, and 
 to know that you have the power, by just putting up 
 two fingers, of forcing the grand coachman to pull them 
 back on their haunches, whether he likes it or not.' 
 
 * How funny ! ' said Cecily ; ' I shouldn't care a bit 
 about that. And I don't think Mervyn would either.' 
 
 ' How do you know what Mervyn would like ? ' asked 
 Nina. 
 
 ' I asked him one day,' answered Cecily, * and he said 
 he should like best to be the man who first thought of 
 putting the water-troughs in Piccadilly, for all the poor 
 thirsty horses to drink out of. He said he never got 
 tired of standing there, and seeing them all crowding 
 round.' 
 
 Kina did not talk any more after this. She was 
 musing on the kindness of disposition that her cousin's 
 wish demonstrated, and feeling that her own was a very 
 poor one by comparison with his. She wondered why 
 some people had so much nicer feelings than others, and 
 whether she should be able, when Mervyn came to live 
 with them, to find out how he managed to be so kind 
 and nice. 
 
 She did not speak again till they were returning 
 homewards round the park by Apsley House. As they 
 approached Hyde Park Corner they saw a crowd as- 
 sembled, as usual, waiting for the coming of the Queen 
 or the Princess of Wales. A message reached them 
 from Mademoiselle by Edmund, that they were to turn 
 ba<5k, and go home a quieter way. 
 
 Cecily was in despair. 
 
THE MIDDLETON FAMILY MOVE. 141 
 
 ' Oh Mna ! don't you think, for once, that Made- 
 moiselle would let us stand here, and see them pass ? ' 
 
 *You can ask her,' said Mna; but she knew well 
 enough what the answer would be. 
 
 ' You ask her, Edmund,' said Cecily, eagerly. 
 
 The little boy ran back, but soon returned, hot and 
 indignant. 
 
 ' She says "ITon, non," ' he exclaimed, 'and I heard 
 her say to herself some one was a vulgar fool. And T 
 think it was you, Nina.' 
 
 Both the little girls looked rather scared, and Nina 
 rather sharply told Edmund not to tell stories. Made- 
 moiselle then arrived on the spot, gesticulating with 
 both hands, to enforce her horror at the idea of young 
 ladies wishing to stand * parmi une foule vulgaire.' 
 
 ' There ! ' said Edmund, in a whisper to his sisters ; 
 * I told you she had said it, and you wouldn't believe me.' 
 
 They were all made to turn, and go home across the 
 park to Stanhope Gate. 
 
 Cecily was too ruf&ed by her disappointment to be 
 conversational, and Nina returned to her musings. 
 Indeed, her abstraction continued so great, that when 
 they got out of the park she walked absently over the 
 crossing into Park Lane, right under the jaws of a 
 hansom cab, coming along at the rate of ten miles an 
 hour. The bystanders shouted. Mademoiselle screamed, 
 and the cabman, pulling back his horse with violence, 
 called r^ut angrily. Startled and disturbed in her day- 
 dream by the noise, and forced to run against her will, 
 Nina was anything but grateful for her escape. 
 
142 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 ' I'd almost rather be run over than halloed at,' she 
 muttered to herself, as she arrived, hot and indignant, 
 on the pavement. 
 
 The day for leaving London came at last ; but how 
 shall we attempt to give a description of a * family- 
 start ! ' All the morning long Pickford's monster van 
 blocked up the street, while the nurseries and school- 
 room disgorged their contents into its open jaws. But 
 not satisfied with that, four cabs were loaded with what 
 was still remaining, or was wanted for more immediate 
 use. A perambulator on one cab, an enormous bath on 
 another, a rocking-horse on a third, besides boxes and 
 packages innumerable. 
 
 Five children, two nurses, a governess, a school-room 
 maid, a kitchen-maid, and a footman, composed the 
 living freight. Every nurse carried a child, every child 
 carried a toy, every other child carried a bird-cage. 
 Every woman that did not carry a child had converted 
 herself into a temporary hanging- stand, and from every 
 part of her was suspended a loose parcel. Leather-bags 
 containing the children's dinner, paper-bags containing 
 biscuits for a bye-meal, parcels containing what no room 
 had been found for in the big boxes, hung from her 
 arms ; while picture-books to amuse the younger ones 
 in the train, and dozens of minor packages, occupied 
 her hands. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton, who hated scenes of this kind, took 
 leave of the party in the drawing-room, on its way 
 down stairs ; but Colonel Middleton, who was, as usual, 
 out of a job, stationed himself at the hall-door to see the 
 
THE MIDDLETON FAMILY MOVE. 143 
 
 cliildren off. They came down in great excitement and 
 delight, their eagerness to be off being not, alas ! tem- 
 pered by any regret at parting from their parents. 
 
 The cabs were soon filled, the orders given, and the 
 long line filed round the corner into Park Lane on its 
 way to the station. 
 
 Cecily found herself separated from Edmund, and was 
 consequently very dull, for Mna was in one of her silent 
 and thoughtful moods; but she consoled herself by 
 chattering to Madame, who, being a new broom, was 
 sure to sweep clean in Cecily's eyes. 
 
 They arrived at the station in good time, and were in 
 their places a few moments before the train started. 
 INTina took a place near the window. She liked dreamily 
 to watch the fields and meadows as they flew past. It 
 helped her to think ; and she wanted to think over the 
 marriage, and several things connected with it. Lean- 
 ing back in her seat, with a book on her lap, she 
 absently scanned the faces of her fellow-travellers, while 
 she waited for the train to start. There was a lady 
 opposite her, two gentlemen, and themselves ; for the 
 nursery-party travelled second-class. The newspaper- 
 boy passed the carriage, and at sight of him, the lady 
 suddenly rose, and as suddenly dashed her head vio- 
 lently against the window, which she had not perceived 
 was shut. The surprise, combined with the blow, 
 nearly knocked her down backwards ; the window was 
 smashed to atoms, and great excitement reigned for a 
 minute in the carriage and on the platform. But the 
 lady had escaped being cut by the glass, and she ex- 
 
144 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 pressed herself unliurt, beyond being rather stunned by 
 the violence of the blow in her face. 
 
 The accident had the effect of producing a head official 
 of great importance, who, while congratulating the lady 
 on having escaped without injury, hastened to reassure 
 her by pointing out that she would be certain to feel the 
 effects more hereafter. He proceeded to observe, with 
 solemn hilarity, that he looked upon the misadventure 
 as a great compliment to the railway- carriage. It was 
 not often that the windows were clean enough to admit 
 of suoh a mistake being made. He then bowed himself 
 off, and the train proceeded on its way. 
 
 His remarks had left the lady in question in doubt as 
 to the amount of disfigurement inflicted on her face; 
 and she did not feel sufficiently intimate with any of her 
 fellow-passengers (much as the accident had drawn 
 them together for a few brief moments) to invite them 
 to inspect her countenance. It seemed hard that she 
 should be the only person to remain in ignorance of 
 what concerned her so much the most nearly, but the 
 fact remained, that she could not steal a glance at her 
 own face, while all the others were at liberty to do so. 
 She leant far back in her seat, to conceal herself from 
 view, in nervous horror of being looked at, continually 
 fancying she saw furtive and pitying glances directed at 
 her, and wondering whether her nose was red, her eye 
 black, or her forehead slowly developing a bump of 
 many colours. 
 
 Nina, now and then, in the pauses of her intent con- 
 centration on the country outside, looked at her ab- 
 
THE MIBDLETON FAMILY MOVE. 145 
 
 sently ; and tlie poor lady absolutely writhed under the 
 girl's unconscious gaze. 
 
 * It's the funniest book I ever read/ said Cecily, sud- 
 denly, from her end of the carriage. And she laughed 
 merrily, as she shut it up. 
 
 The unfortunate lady only caught the last word, and 
 the laugh that followed it. 
 
 ' Red ! did you say ? ' she said, starting and blushing 
 all over, wondering and not daring to ask of what fea- 
 ture the child was speaking. 
 
 * Ayes and noes,' said the unconscious Cecily, reading 
 the debates over Madame's shoulder ; ' they do look 
 funny : but it's more noes than ayes, I think.' 
 
 Cecily's grammar, combined with her sudden interest 
 in politics, put the finishing touch to the poor lady's 
 distress of mind. She raised her eyes with an appeal- 
 ing glance towards the child, and then saw, for the first 
 time, that the little girl was not speaking to her. 
 Realising the mistake she had made, and fearfal of 
 having betrayed herself, and of attracting the notice she 
 sought to avoid, she shrank back into her seat, and 
 never looked up again during the whole of the journey. 
 
146 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 '■^ 
 ^ 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE GATE AMONG THE OLD WELSH HILLS. 
 
 MOTHEE and son never spoke togetlier of tlie parting 
 which was every day approaching nearer, though the 
 thoughts of each were often busy with it, in a dif- 
 ferent way. To ham it only came at times by fits and 
 starts, forcing itself upon him, like a shadow coming 
 across his sunny path. To her it was ever present. He, 
 when the thought came upon him, drove it away, and 
 would not allow it to take any definite shape. She 
 allowed it to be a fact in her thoughts, and strove to 
 render it familiar. 
 
 Sitting sometimes in the twilight, with her boy's 
 head on her lap, and her fingers playing with his curly 
 hair, she would muse upon his deep afiection, and the 
 unalloyed peace and enjoyment of their life together, 
 till her hand would tremble and her eyes moisten, and 
 she would feel as if she could not let him go. 
 
 On her own side, she could not but tell herself that 
 it was a very serious step that she was taking ; that she 
 was going from a certain happiness — a happiness that 
 she had tried and proved — ^into the unknown. 
 
 On his, though she knew that eventually all would be 
 
GATE IN THE OLD WELSH HILLS. ]4V 
 
 for his own personal happiness, that the man who was 
 to fill a father's place to him was of all men the one he 
 would love and honour most, yet she felt there would 
 be much for him to bear in the meanwhile. 
 
 It was not tliat future that she feared for him so 
 much as that nearer one of the long months without her 
 spent in the colder atmosphere of his cousins' home ; 
 the pain of the parting itself, which every hour brought 
 nearer and nearer. The day came upon them all too 
 quickly. 
 
 *Mervyn,' she said at breakfast, * your uncle is to be 
 here at seven. I think I wdll walk with you as far as 
 the gate at half-past six, and then return to meet him 
 alone.' 
 
 That was all that passed between them on the subject. 
 All the day long she talked of his dog, his pony, and 
 his arrangements, and of his life with his cousins. 
 
 ' It won't be very long, my darling. Please God, in 
 a few months, I shall be back again, and we will have 
 such a happy winter here.' Mervyn felt his courage 
 giving way ; but his mother went on, without appearing 
 to notice it. 
 
 ' I have a fancy, Mervyn, that little Nina is not a 
 very happy child, and as you will be thrown so much 
 together, perhaps you may be able to help her. You 
 ought to be fond of her, darling, for she is very like me.* 
 
 Mervyn' s interest was immediately awakened. 
 
 * Yes, mother, she is a little ; that is, her eyes and her 
 hair are. But the great difference is that she looks so 
 cross, and you . . .' 
 
 l2 
 
148 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 * Wliat do I look ? * smiled his motlier, turning lier 
 soft eyes upon him. 
 
 Mervyn looked up, and met her glance with eyes of 
 such worship and admiration, that her own filled with 
 tears, which she forced back immediately. 
 
 *Tou know what I think, mother,' he answered,, 
 smiling. 
 
 Glad to see him smile, she went on. ' Will you try 
 and find out what Nina is like, and write and tell me^ 
 for I am curious to know ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered eagerly ; and then he went on to 
 speak of the other cousins, and to wonder if all the 
 elder boys would be at home. And so they talked on 
 quite cheerfully till half-past five, and then she said, 
 * We must go.' 
 
 They walked along, sometimes silent, sometimes con- 
 versing quietly, till they came to the gate. And there, 
 among the wild Welsh mountains, in the glorious sum- 
 mer sunset, the mother and son parted ; God having left 
 them long enough together to fit them for the work He 
 would have them do ; and now having other paths for 
 them to walk in, wherein to serve Him. 
 
 * God bless you, my darling, my darling, and have 
 you in His safe keeping for ever ! ' 
 
 She thought she could have controlled herself, but 
 she felt her courage going, and her voice shook and 
 faltered as she spoke. 
 
 So she determined to cut the parting short, much as 
 she longed to follow the impulse of her heart. For 
 there had come into the mother's breast a longing for 
 
GATE IN THE OLD WELSH HILLS. 149 
 
 which she could not account ; a longing to clasp him to 
 her, and to beg him to let her hear him say over and 
 over again how he loved, how he worshipped her, how 
 he forgave her even for seeming to desert him, and how 
 nothing would, or could, alter his love and devotion. 
 A longing, too, to thank him for all he had been to her 
 these many years, and for the life he had made so 
 bright ; a longing to assure him that his place in her 
 heart would for ever be kept for him, and that no new 
 love could replace or weaken the old one. It seemed as 
 if, in this crisis of her life, she needed his protecting 
 love more than ever, and as if the very thought of it 
 made it more precious just as she was sending it away. 
 She felt, for the moment, a weak, helpless, woman, and 
 graved for his young strength to lean upon, and the 
 assurance of his unchanging love. 
 
 But she must forego the relief of giving all these 
 feelings expression, lest he should weaken or fail. It 
 must be no sad memory of his mother that he must 
 carry with him during the long months of separation. 
 Nothing on her side must make the parting a whit 
 more painful to him. The quiver in her voice would 
 betray her ; she must not attempt to speak again. So 
 she broke off suddenly ; strained him to her, hiding her 
 face on his shoulder ; kissed his eyes, his lips, his hair ; 
 took his hands, and held them as if she could not let 
 them go ; gently disengaged herself from his clinging 
 embrace, and stepped back into the wood, leaving him 
 •standing watching her disappear among its leafy paths, 
 
150 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 turning round once fcliat lie migM see her bright and 
 smiling, waving him on, and kissing her hand. 
 
 Smiling and bright to the last. Such was the picture 
 he carried with him, as he turned away, feeling quite 
 brave and cheerful, and confident that she felt the same. 
 He vaulted over the gate, and took his way to the 
 Vicarage. 
 
 Something rushed past him as he walked, turned, 
 and bounded upon him. *Here, Beth-Gelert ! here! 
 Hallo, old fellow ! ' and Mervyn set off running, his 
 thoughts diverted, child-like, by the sight of his 
 favourite. And soon the echoes are ringing and laugh- 
 ing, as the dog and his young master betake themselves 
 to their new abode. 
 
 And she, meanwhile, as soon as he is fairly gone, has 
 returned to the gate, and is straining her eyes after the 
 straw hat as it vanishes in the distance, feeling as if 
 half the life in her was going with it. Leaning upon 
 the topmost bar for support, she is watching the slight 
 graceful figure with a yearning love and delight, half- 
 longing, and half- fearing that he will turn round and 
 let her see his bright young face once more. 
 
 But he pursues his way unconscious, and she realises 
 at last that he is really gone. 
 
 Then, as the echoes bear back to her the ringing 
 laugh and fresh young voice she loves so dearly, sho 
 stretches out her hands to the blank distance, and cries 
 almost aloud, in accents of uncontrollable sorrow, 
 * Come back, Mervyn ; come back, my darling ; I cannot 
 let you go.' . . . The old Welsh hills, who have sa 
 
GATE IN THE OLD WELSH HILLS. 151 
 
 often echoed the mingled laughter of mother and son, 
 look down pityingly on the lonely mother, and their 
 silence seems to tell her it is too late. . . . 
 
 So she turned and betook her to her desolate home ; 
 to the scenes whence his young presence has departed : 
 through the deserted gardens and the silent drawing- 
 room, up to the still old staircase to her own apartment, 
 where she may give way to her grief undisturbed. Yet, 
 though not looking to the right hand or to the left, she 
 has been conscious of the cricket-bat on the lawn, the 
 butterfly-net on the hall-table, the half-open door of the 
 empty bed-room, and the chill at her heart is greater 
 than ever when she reaches her chamber door. 
 
 Entering hastily, half-blinded by her tears, she throws 
 herself on her knees by the bedside ; and there, at last, 
 she is mastered by the grief that has been fighting with 
 her all day. For his sake she has kept it down, for his 
 sake she has striven to be gay ; that he might not be 
 saddened by the remembrance of her grief. But now 
 that his eye is no longer on her the strain is over, and 
 her slight figure is shaken by the great sobs she cannot 
 keep down. 
 
 * Oh my boy ! my boy ! How shall I live without 
 you ! ' 
 
 So must it ever be. ' The parent's love for the child,' 
 says a writer of the present century, 'must ever be 
 greater than the child's love for the parent ; not because 
 the child is worthier, but because the parent's heart is 
 larger.' 
 
 But what does it matter, would Magdalen have been 
 
152 THROWN TOGETHER. ' 
 
 the first to say, since lie and his dog are bounding 
 happily over the hills, and since he has carried away in 
 his heart a picture of her, bright and cheerful ; smiling 
 and gay to the last, waving him on, and kissing her 
 hand 1 
 
THE VICAR AND HIS MAIDEN SISTER. 153 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE YICAR AND HIS MAIDEN SISTER. 
 
 In tlie prim little parlour of the Yicarage was seated its 
 prim mistress, tlie vicar's maiden sister. 
 
 She was knitting bj the window, and her brother, 
 the Rey. Pendarvis Hughes, was sitting in an arm- 
 chair reading the paper. 
 
 It was evident that both were expecting some one ; 
 for the sister looked up at every sound, and even the 
 brother roused himself once or twice from his reading. 
 
 * You have got everything nice for him in his bed- 
 room, Gwen ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, everything, Pen ; quite a picture : a nice little 
 bit of scented soap, clean curtains, a beautiful ornament 
 in the fireplace, which I made myself; and I have 
 moved the case of stuffed birds from the library in 
 there. I thought it would amuse him, poor Kttle fellow. 
 Don't you think so ? 
 
 But the vicar had some time since become engrossed 
 in his paper. Gwen looked rather wistfully at him, 
 hoping he would speak again, but he said nothing more. 
 
 It was one of the great grievances of her life that he 
 talked to her so little. He never told her anything, or 
 
154 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 consulted her at all. She had to pump and pump if 
 she wanted to get anything out of him. He never 
 volunteered information, or if he did, he merely im- 
 parted it as a thing settled. He never talked things 
 over with her ; he just told her when he had made up 
 his mind. He was a man much taken up with his 
 books. To them all the time he could spare from hia 
 parish matters and his educational labours was given. 
 He was a silent thoughtful man, and his sister's frivo- 
 lous conversation and insipid remarks were the great 
 trials of his life. Her little talk about parish matters, 
 and her keen interest in the small amount of gossip she 
 did manage to collect came, in his mind, under the 
 head of ' women's cackle.' It wearied him sadly. Ha 
 was kind to her, and patient, and thoughtful for her 
 happiness and comfort, but he could not make her a 
 companion. 
 
 Poor thing ! she was entirely devoid of tact, and had 
 a wonderful aptitude for saying the wrong thing. She 
 loved and admired her brother, but was a little afraid 
 of him. She looked upon him as a very superior being, 
 and was quite aware of her own inferiority. 
 
 * He does not think much of women,' she would tell 
 her friends, mysteriously. But there was one woman in 
 the world in whom the rector believed implicitly, one 
 in whom he saw no fault or flaw whatever ; one, who in 
 his eyes, possessed all womanly virtues without womanly 
 weaknesses ; and that was Magdalen Lyndsay. 
 
 Ever since she had been brought, years ago, to 
 Glen-Mervyn, to be the companion of a man so many 
 
THE VICAR AND HIS MAIDEN SISTER. 165 
 
 years her senior, lie had esteemed and admired her. 
 Ho was the only person in the world who had really 
 known anything of her married life, and without asking 
 any questions he had guessed at her early history. That 
 is, he had always been convinced that his patron, Mr, 
 Lyndsay, had not been the object of her affections ; 
 and, realising this, he had admired more than he could 
 say the way in which she had nobly striven to do her 
 duty in the state of life to which God had called her. 
 He knew that she had had a hard time of it during her 
 husband's life- time ; and he had always privately hoped 
 that after his death Magdalen might form new ties, and 
 be rewarded for her devotion. But as time went on, 
 and there seemed no prospect of such an event, ho 
 ceased to expect it ; and when at last it had come, it 
 had taken him by surprise. 
 
 He had in the meantime grown so accustomed to 
 have her there — the mainspring of the well-being of all 
 around, and the ever ready seconder of all his plans for 
 good — that the prospect had, at first, dismayed him. 
 But he had got reconciled to it, more especially when 
 he found that, from the fact of Lord Wardlaw's having 
 no house on his estate in Ireland, she would still be able 
 to Hve a great deal at Grlen-Mervyn. 
 
 He had been much touched by the way she had,, 
 some years before, taken him into her confidence about 
 her boy, and confided his education to his care. He 
 had appreciated the unselfishness of the act, knowing 
 what it had cost her. He had appreciated it even more 
 after Mervyn had been his pupil for a few months. H© 
 
156 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 found the boy so intelligent and so eager over his work, 
 that it was a pleasure to teaeh him. It was quite a 
 new interest in the vicar's life, and he soon began to 
 look forward to the arrival of the boy as to one of the 
 greatest pleasures in the day. The contact with the 
 fresh enquiring mind made him young again, and he 
 grew to love the bright face and sunny smile as if the 
 boy had been his own son. 
 
 When Mrs. Lyndsay imparted to him her intended 
 marriage, and her difficulties about Mervyn, he will- 
 ingly undertook to house him for as long as his mother 
 wished, and ever since he was continually thinking 
 what he could do to make him happy. He was a little 
 vnervous at the prospect, feeling deeply for the boy under 
 his present circumstances, and knowing what a wrench 
 the parting would be. 
 
 As he sat reading the paper that day his mind re- 
 verted to it over and over again, and the sentences he 
 €very now and then let fall showed of what his thoughts 
 were full. 
 
 * Gwen,' he said again, * is the cricket-match to- 
 morrow ? ' 
 
 * Not till the next day,' she answered, eager to en- 
 courage the conversation ; ' and how I know is, that 
 as I was passing the green I saw no preparations for 
 the tent ; and I said to myself, How is this ? for I 
 thought, like you, that it was to-morrow. So I went 
 into Mr. Jones' shop, and asked ; and he told me it was 
 not to-morrow : so that is how I know, Pen dear, do 
 you see?' 
 
THE VICAR AND HIS MAIDEN SISTER. 157 
 
 * I am sorry for it,' said tlie vicar, and relapsed into 
 silence again. 
 
 * Pen,' she said timidly. 
 He looked up. 
 
 ' What time will dear little Mervjm come ? ' 
 
 * I cannot say.' 
 
 * Do you think he will ride or drive ? ' 
 
 * I cannot say.' 
 
 * Oh, but Pen, dear ; didn't Mrs. Lyndsay tell you ? 
 Because of his luggage, you know.' 
 
 A pause. 
 ' Pen.' 
 'What?' 
 
 * Do you think he will bring many boxes ? ' 
 
 * I really cannot say.' 
 
 ' Will Mrs. Lyndsay bring him ? ' 
 
 * I should say probably not.' 
 
 Poor dear ! think of her going to be a bride, and 
 having a nice young husband. Will it be a grand wed- 
 ding. Pen ? ' 
 
 Very wearily he answerecl, ' I do not know.' 
 
 * When does she go up to London, Pen, dear ? ' 
 
 * To-morrow.' 
 
 ' Colonel Middleton comes to fetch her, doesn't he, 
 Pen ? I heard he was expected ; isn't he ? Pen, dear, 
 I hear Lord Wardlaw is in Ireland, but goes to London 
 to meet her in a few days. Does he ? ' 
 
 * I believe so.' 
 
 ' Oh, Pen, dear ! how I should like to go to the wed- 
 ding 1 Shouldn't you ? ' 
 
168 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 Discouraged by his silence, she stopped ; but burst 
 out again in a moment. 
 
 * Pen, there is a carriage going along the high road, 
 one of the Grlen carriages. Oh, it is Colonel Middle- 
 ton ! Yes ! and he is going straight to the Glen. Oh, 
 dear me ! it is rather sad to think he has come to fetch 
 dear Mrs. Lyndsay away. How we shall get on with- 
 out her, I don't know ! Do you. Pen ? ' 
 
 The newspaper went up a little, and no answer was 
 given. 
 
 * The place will be quite in a stir to-morrow. Pen, * 
 won't it ? There'll be the Glen carriages going and 
 coming all day. I hear Mrs. Lyndsay is to be married 
 in ten days, from Colonel Middleton's house in London, 
 and then go abroad. Is that true, Pen ? ' 
 
 * I believe so.' 
 
 * Pen, dear, do you think little Mervyn will be sad 
 when he arrives to-night ? ' 
 
 * I cannot say.' 
 
 Just then footsteps were heard outside, and the vicar 
 and his sister rose simultaneously. 
 
 * Here he is ! * exclaimed Gwen. 
 
GWEN AND HER VICTIM, 159 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 GWEN AND HER YICTIM. 
 
 Such was the family into which Mervjn's lot was to be 
 cast till Colonel and Mrs. Middleton were ready to 
 receive him at Granton. 
 
 It was not altogether a bad half-way house. The 
 atmosphere into which he was to be translated at his 
 uncle's was, as we know, such a very different one from 
 that to which he was accustomed, that it was letting 
 him down gradually, not plunging him into it at once. 
 At the Vicarage, at any rate, he met with every care and 
 attention that thoughtful consideration could devise. 
 Gwen cared for all his creature comforts, and the vicar 
 did all in his power to amuse and distract him, and 
 make up to him for the loss of his mother's companion- 
 ship. For the first few days Mervyn got on pretty well. 
 It was quite natural to him to spend the greater part of 
 his day there ; he had done so for several years now, 
 and it was not till five o'clock drew near — the hour 
 when he was accustomed to scamper home to his mother 
 — ^that the present state of affairs seemed to him at all 
 strange. 
 
 But the thoughtful vicar, foreseeing this, was ever 
 
160 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 ready with some plan of anmsement and distraction, and 
 to join in it himself, to the neglect of his own more 
 important occupations. Mervyn was a little surprised 
 to find what a sudden and violent fancy the vicar had 
 taken to single wicket ; so much so that he must needs 
 begin the very moment five o'clock had struck, and 
 continue playing till it was time to get ready for supper; 
 and also at his newly awakened interest in distant 
 views from certain distant mountains which necessitated 
 their riding off the moment Mervyn had finished his 
 studies, if they hoped to be back before dusk 
 
 Gwen was a little sore at the way her brother mono- 
 polised the boy. She had looked forward to getting 
 out of him details of the wedding, of bridesmaids, 
 trousseau, cake, favours, and other matters in which 
 her heart delighted. And she literally had not, at the 
 end of three days, had one singje opportunity of a few 
 minutes' private conversation with him. In the presence 
 of her brother she dared not revert to such trivial 
 subjects. Besides, whenever she alluded in the most 
 distant manner to any of Mrs. Lyndsay's concerns, he 
 had taken to give her glances before which she quailed. 
 
 On the fourth day of Mervyn's stay, he received his 
 first letter from his mother. It was written from Colonel 
 Middleton's house in London, and announced her safe 
 arrival there. It did not contain much beyond expres- 
 sions of her longing to hear from him, and to know all 
 that he was doing. 
 
 It was given to him at breakfast, and he was conscious 
 of Gwen's eyes being fixed on him greedily the whole 
 time he was reading it. 
 
OWJSJV AND HER VICTIM. 161 
 
 The moment lie had finished it, she said, eagerly. 
 *Well?' 
 
 * Quite well, thank you,' said Mervyn, mistaking her 
 question. 
 
 ' Yes, but what news, dear ? What does she say about 
 Lord Wardlaw ? ' 
 
 Mervyn blushed deeply, and answered shortly, 
 *I^othing.' 
 
 ' Nothing ! ' exclaimed Grwen ; ' nothing about the 
 bridegroom ! Are 'you quite sure ? ' 
 
 'Quite sure,' said Mervyn, moving restlessly in his 
 chair. 
 
 ' Some more tea, Gwen,' said the vicar's voice. 
 * Mervyn, would you not like to go and answer your 
 mother's letter before we begin our work ? ' 
 
 Gladly Mervyn availed himself of the permission, and 
 went off to the little study. There, sitting down on the 
 rug in front of the fireplace, he kissed the letter over 
 and over again, in a transport of love and delight. 
 
 ' Mother ! my own mother ! ' he murmured, looking 
 with glowing eyes on the beloved hand- writing. ' Mine ! 
 my very own.' Then he kissed the paper again, kissed 
 the * my darling ' with which the letter began, kissed 
 the * Magdalen Lyndsay ' with which it ended ; and 
 jumping up hastily, sat down eagerly to the table, to 
 write his answer. He almost felt as if his mother were 
 by, and he were going to pour out his thoughts as usual. 
 Three days' events to tell her of ! Three days ! It was 
 actually as long as that since he had seen or spoken to 
 her. So he took a large sheet of paper and began at 
 
 M 
 
162 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 the very top, feeling as if lie should never have room for 
 all he had to say. But he soon found writing a very 
 different thing to talking. The turning of the sentences, 
 the spelling of the words, the time it took him, and the 
 trouble it was — all this rather cramped the free expres- 
 sion of his feelings, and the vicar came in to say the 
 postboy was going before he had written a page and a 
 half. He was obliged to let it go as it was, and the 
 whole transaction left on him a vague sense of disap- 
 pointment. He had not thought it Vould have been so 
 difficult to write to his mother. He had not said half he 
 meant to say. He had not answered half her questiono. 
 He did not feel as if he had been talking to her at all. 
 It depressed him, and made him sad all day. He could 
 not shake off the feeling. He half thought of writing 
 another letter, so as to send a good long one the next 
 day ; but as soon as his lessons were over, there came 
 cricket, and then supper, and then draughts, and then 
 bed. He woke the next morning feeling very miserable. 
 He felt more forlorn and more cut off from his mother 
 than he had done yet. He wondered how he could have 
 been so happy hitherto ! The life he was leading seemed 
 to him flat, unbearable. He wondered how he could 
 have put up with it for four days. The thought of his 
 life at Glen-Mervyn with his mother came upon him 
 with a sharp pang of contrast. He buried his head in 
 his pillow and cried for the first time since he had left 
 her. A longing to write to her came over him, and 
 jumping out of bed, he dressed himself hurriedly, and 
 ran down to tlie study. He wrote a letter there before 
 
OWEN AND HER VICTIM. 163 
 
 breakfast, and Ms feelings were relieved. Badly written, 
 badlj spelt, very blotted and ratber incoherent, it yet 
 conveyed to bis mother all that she wonld most wish to 
 hear. 
 
 Towards the end of the week he received the answer, 
 telling him of the pleasure it had been to her. 
 
 Meanwhile, the wedding-day was approaching. His 
 mother wrote to him two days before, timing her letter 
 to reach him on the day, telling him that she was going 
 to cross the same day and to travel on to Vienna via 
 Amiens and Paris. 
 
 She told him that if he answered her letter the day 
 he received it, she wonld find it waiting for her. The 
 letter ended by saying Colonel Middleton would write to 
 the vicar as soon as he and Mrs. Middleton were settled 
 at Granton. Mervyn looked very grave after reading 
 the letter, and ate his breakfast in silence. 
 
 ' Mr. Hughes,' he said after a time, ' will you give me 
 some foreign paper ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, my boy. Why ? ' 
 
 * Mother wants to find a letter waiting from me in 
 Paris,' he said, with an evident effort, * and she says I 
 must write it to-day,' 
 
 ' Why, good gracious ! ' exclaimed Gwen, ' to day is 
 the wedding-day ! ' 
 
 Before any answer could be made, the maid-servant 
 came in to say a poor boy had called to beg the vicar to 
 go without delay to his father, who was dying and 
 wished to see him. Mr. Hughes rose directly. 
 
 * It is many miles away, Mervyn,' he said, ' so I can- 
 ^ m2 
 
164 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 not be back till tbe afternoon. Amnse yourself as best 
 you can. I am sorry to leave you, but it cannot be 
 helped. You will find plenty of foreign paper in my 
 desk.' And lie hurried off. 
 
 The diversion was fortunate in one respect, but in 
 another it was unlucky that the boy should, on his 
 mother's wedding-day, be left exposed to the fire of 
 Gwen's curiosity and questions. However, he was safe 
 for a time, for the first thing was to write his foreign 
 letter to his mother to catch the morning post. So he 
 betook himself to the study, and Gwen went about her 
 household avocations. The boy was in a curious state 
 of mind, something like that in which he had been 
 when his mother first broke the news to him. He was 
 battling hard with himself, and trying to keep his feel- 
 ings down. Still he managed to write her a very nice 
 letter, folded it neatly, and addressed it, copying out the 
 direction from hers. Letter in hand, he went to seek 
 Gwen, to ask for a foreign stamp. He found her in the 
 drawing-room, and preferred his request, Gwen was 
 quite sure there was not such a thing in the house. 
 
 * Penny stamps would do,' said Mervyn, ' if I knew 
 how many to put on.' 
 
 * Now was there ever such a piece of luck ! ' ex- 
 claimed Gwen. ' Your dear mother gave me a little 
 gilt weighing-machine as a parting gift. She little 
 thought the first use I should put it to would be to 
 weigh your letter to her on her wedding-day ! ' 
 
 Mervyn winced. * Where is it ? ' he said. * On the 
 writing-table ? ' 
 
GWJEN AND HER VICTIM. 165 
 
 ' Dear me, no ! ' said Gwen ; ' do you think I would 
 let sucli a gift as that lie about on the tables to get 
 dusty ? N^o, it is nicely wrapped up in its box, just as 
 she gave it to me, upstairs in my drawer. Give me the 
 letter, dear, and I'll go up and weigh it.' 
 
 Mervyn handed her the letter, and she got up from 
 her chair. When she got to the door, she glanced at 
 the direction, and then looked at Mervyn, with a 
 twinkle in her eye. He felt irritated, without knowing 
 why. 
 
 * What is the matter ? ' he said. 
 
 ' You have not directed it right, dear,' she said with 
 an arch smile, coming towards him. 
 
 ' What's wrong ? ' he inquired, going up to her, and 
 reading it over her shoulder. 
 
 * It's all right. Miss Hughes ; it must be, for I copied 
 the direction out of mother's letter, word for word : 
 
 Mrs. Lyndsay, 
 
 Hotel du Louvre, 
 A Paris. 
 
 What can there be wrong about that ? ' 
 
 ' Oh the direction is all right, dear, I dare say. It's 
 the name ! ' And she pointed slyly to the * Mrs. Lynd- 
 say' and then to the clock. 'It is quite right now, 
 dear, but it will be wrong in a very little while, for her 
 name will be Lady Wardlaw. Think of that ! And by 
 the time your letter gets to Paris no one will know who 
 Mrs. Lyndsay is, for there will be no such person in the 
 world. Think of that ! Doesn't it seem funny ? To 
 think of your making such a inistake ! WeU, it was a 
 
166 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 very natural one, wasn't it ? How it will make Pen 
 laugh when I tell him. What a joke it will be at sup- 
 per to-night ! Well, you alter it, dear, while I run up 
 to get the weighing-machine. What a joke, isn't it ! ' 
 And with a little chuckle of delight, Gwen tripped out 
 of the room. 
 
 Surely next to being devoid of feeling, there is no- 
 thing worse than being devoid of tact. Almost as much 
 pain can be inflicted by the want of the one as by the 
 want of the other. No refinement of cruelty could have 
 done more than those few words of the unconscious 
 G wen's. The boy's feelings had been strung to the 
 highest pitch ; the embers that were smouldering in his 
 heart needed only a very little gust of wind to fan them 
 into a flame. He stood literally quivering under her 
 speech, and when the door closed he gasped with the 
 efibrt he made to control himself. For he felt there 
 must be no display, no betrayal of himself Gwen 
 would be back again in a- minute, and to save himself 
 from her, to hope to escape from the still greater trial 
 of her sympathy and condolences, he must at least ap- 
 pear unmoved. 
 
 It was a new lesson the poor child was learning — he 
 who had never had occasion to hide his feelings before. 
 But the contact with new characters necessitates the 
 calling forth of new qualities ; and he summoned up all 
 the self-control he could muster, and was himself sur- 
 prised to find he could command so much. 
 
 When Gwen returned with the weighing-machine, 
 
GIVEN AND HER VICTIM, 167 
 
 chattering as slie came along, she found him standing 
 jast where she had left him, and noticed nothing at all. 
 
 ' I've been laughing all the way down stairs,' she said, 
 * to think of your letter lying in the Paris hotel, and no 
 one knowing who it was for. Isn't it a nice little ma- 
 chine ? See ! you put the letter here, and the weights 
 there. One, two, three, four, five — I declare, six 
 stamps ! Oh, Mervyn, fancy the wedding going on to- 
 day ! How lovely your dear mother will look in her 
 bridal dress ! And fancy the carriages and the smart 
 dresses, and all the favours and cake ! How I wish I 
 could take a peep at it all ! Don't you ? I wonder 
 w^hat presents Lord Wardlaw has given his bride. Oh, 
 don't go, Mervyn, stop and talk a bit longer.' 
 
 For poor Mervyn was trying, like a hunted hare, to 
 escape from his tormentor. But Gwen had not done 
 with him yet. She had at last got her victim into her 
 clutches, and she was going to make the most of her op- 
 portunity. Question upon question, surmise upon sur- 
 mise, she inflicted upon the boy ; all, in fact, that the 
 vicar had so strenuously endeavoured to guard him from, 
 he had now to suffer. 
 
 But there are limits to human endurance, and Mervyn 
 at length felt he could bear no more. Faltering some 
 excuse about getting the stamps, he hastily snatched up 
 his letter, and made for the door. Nor did he take any 
 notice of the shrill little remonstrances that reached him 
 as he left the room. His courage was all gone, his self- 
 control had deserted him. 
 
 He hastily entered the little study, and locking the 
 
leS THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 door after him, tore tlie letter np into shreds, flung 
 them furiously into the fireplace, and then buried his 
 head in his hands, and cried as if his heart would 
 break. 
 
 * By the time- it gets to Paris no one will know who 
 Mrs. Lyndsay is, for there will be no such person in the 
 world ! ' 
 
 Over and over again the words rang in his head ; he 
 could not get away from them. IN'o such person in the 
 world ! No Magdalen Lyndsay any more ! She no 
 longer shared his name ! This last idea seemed to re- 
 move her further from him than any other thing. He 
 had always been so proud that he and she were the only 
 Lyndsay s left, and that their very initials were the 
 same. 
 
 How many old jokes and associations were connected 
 with this last idea. How he had always delighted to 
 seize upon her writing-paper, her smelling-bottle, her 
 prayer-book, and to answer her remonstrances vnth the 
 same old joke : ' It must be mine, if it has got my 
 initials ! ' What fights he had had with his mother's 
 maid from time immemorial, because he always would 
 take her pocket-handkerchiefs, and triumphantly point 
 to the mark as his justification. How fond he had been 
 of writing in any book he gave her : ' M. Lyndsay, from 
 M. Lyndsay.' And now it was all over ! It was a 
 little thing, no doubt ; but to him, in his excited frame 
 of mind, it seemed the key-note of the discord that was 
 coming into his life. 
 
 * No such person in the world ! ' No Magdalen 
 
GWEN AND HER VICTIM. 169 
 
 Lyndsay ! In fact, no mother ! Slie was Ms no longer ! 
 Seas rolled between them. She shared no longer his 
 home or his name. She was gone for ever : she was 
 to him as dead ! She might as well be lying in the 
 little churchyard at Glen-Mervyn. Better ! oh, far 
 better ! For then she would at least be near him, still 
 belong to him; still bear upon her tombstone the old 
 familiar name ! 
 
 With eyes blinded by their tears, he drew from his 
 pocket her letter received that morning, that he might 
 gaze upon the name once more. But it was not there. 
 
 ' Now and always my darling,' the letter ended, ' your 
 own loving Mother.' And his feelings underwent a 
 change. * Now and always,' he sobbed ; * now and 
 always.' 
 
 Oh yes ! she was his mother still ; his own, and no 
 one else's. He read the letter through. He drank in 
 the living love which breathed through every line of it, 
 and the thought of the marble tombstone fled away. 
 Under any name, and in any place, his own, his very 
 own ! * Now and always ! Now and always ! ' 
 
 Sudden contrition seized him for having so hastily 
 destroyed the letter, as he read his mother's reiterated 
 entreaties that she might find one waiting for her in 
 Paris. He must write another directly, and he set 
 about it at once. 
 
 It was a very dijQTerent one from the last. It breathed 
 out his feelings more, and was full of every sentiment 
 of affection. He directed it to her in her now name 
 boldly, without giving himself time to think, and was 
 
X70 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 sticking on the six stamps with great energy, when 
 Gwen tapped at the door. Mervyn unlocked it, and 
 confronted her bravely. 
 
 She had on her bonnet and shawl, and was in full 
 talk. 
 
 * I came to see what you were about, so quiet and 
 busy. I am going to do a little marketing in the 
 village. "Won't you come with me ? It is a nice 
 bright morning.' 
 
 *Yes,' said Mervyn, ' I will come; but I must just 
 finish stamping my letter.' 
 
 * Letter ! ' exclaimed Gwen. * Didn't you send it ! 
 Why, dear me ! dear me ! the post-boy has been gone 
 nearly three-quarters of an hour !'.... 
 
 Five minutes more saw Mervyn rushing wildly to- 
 wards the stables, and Gwen trotting as quick as she 
 could after him, talking all the way. Her shrill 
 little remonstrances and shriller assurances that it was 
 no use trying to overtake the postboy fell on ears 
 wilfully deaf and heedless. 
 
 The boy's mind was filled by only one thought. The 
 letter must go. Somehow or other it must be managed. 
 Arrived at the stable he began to saddle his pony 
 himself; and had nearly finished before the panting 
 Gwen came up to him. 
 
 *It's ... no ... use . . . dear . . . I'm . . . 
 sure,' she said, in little gasps ; ' he . . . must be nearly 
 
 . . . there ... by now.' 
 
 * He goes. by the high road,' answered Mervyn, his 
 mind intent on the straps and buckles. ' If I go across 
 country, I must get up to him.' 
 
GWEN AND HER VICTIM. 171 
 
 Gwen reiterated her assurances that it would be of 
 no avail, and that he would be sure just to miss the boy 
 on the road. 
 
 * Then I will ride on to the town,' said Mervyn, im- 
 patiently. 
 
 Gwen immediately entered into a long-winded argu- 
 ment, of which the upshot was that his pony would 
 never do it. A horse might, and it was most unfor- 
 tunate that Pen should on that morning, of all morn- 
 ings, have taken his horse, &c., &c., &c 
 
 * I know what I'll do,' interrupted Mervyn ; ' I'll ride 
 to Glen-Mervyn and send a man and horse from there. 
 Of course ! Why didn't I think of it before ! Glen- 
 Mervyn is all that distance nearer the town. Don't 
 keep me, Miss Hughes ; I am losing time.' And in a 
 fever of impatience he jumped on his pony, and gal- 
 loped away. His head was so full of the object he had 
 in view, that it had room for no other thought, or 
 his heart might have failed him a little as he neared the 
 familiar surroundings of his now desolate home. He 
 clattered into the stable-yard, and shouted for a groom 
 at the top of his voice. A man instantly appeared at 
 the door, testifying surprise and pleasure at the unex- 
 pected appearance of his young master. 
 
 ' Look here ! ' said Mervyn, eagerly ; * this letter has 
 missed the post. How can I get it to the town ? It is 
 a letter to mother, you see, George, and I don't know 
 wTiat I shall do if it doesn't go.' All the servants wor- 
 shipped Mervyn and his mother, and were ready to 
 work to the bone for either. The man entered at once 
 
172 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 into the importance of tlie case, and saw no difficulties 
 anywhere. The post did not leave the town for half an 
 hour after the postboy's arrival, as the letters had to be 
 sorted. A good horse would do it in an hour-and-a- 
 half. There was just time to saddle a horse and start. 
 Nothing could be easier. 
 
 * On then ; do it at once,' said Mervyn. * Take 
 mother's horse ; he is by far the quickest ; and be off 
 as soon as you can ! ' N"o sooner said than done. In a 
 few minutes Mervyn had the satisfaction of seeing the 
 man depart, with the precious letter in the pocket of 
 his saddle. He breathed a long sigh of relief. * She 
 will get it,' he said half out loud. ' She won't have to 
 ask for a letter in Paris, and find none. Oh how glad I 
 am.' And the tears came into his eyes. 
 
 It was his surroundings as much as anything else 
 that brought them there. All looked so much the same 
 as usual that it was difficult to believe she was really 
 gone. 
 
 * I will take a look at the house from the garden,' he 
 said, ' and then I shall understand it better.' 
 
 * So, leaving his pony in the yard, he went round on 
 to the terrace and stood in front of his empty, deserted 
 home. Oh how lonely it looked ! How solitary ! The 
 windows were all shut, the blinds were all down ; there 
 was silence and desolation over everything. His chest 
 heaved as he gazed, and he turned his head away for a 
 minute, as if he could not bear the sight. Could this 
 be Glen-Mervyn, the happy, the beloved home of his 
 childhood ? Oh no ! surely not ! Not this dreary- 
 
GWEN AND HER VICTIM. 173 
 
 looking place ! Could those be the lawns and gardens 
 he had loved so well ? He felt them to be hateful. 
 They were unsightly and hideous in their emptiness. 
 How could he have so deceived himself as to fancy 
 Glen-Mervyn a cheerful home-like place ! How could 
 he have thought it fair ? Why, it was loathsome, de- 
 testable ! He wished himself far away, out of its very 
 neighbourhood ; to leave it all behind, and to get away 
 from the very recollection of such dreariness and deso- 
 lation. He hurried to the stables, mounted his pony, 
 and gallopped back to the Vicarage. Change of thought 
 awaited him, happily, for the vicar had returned sooner 
 than he had expected, and the afternoon was spent in 
 study. But the recollection of that deserted home, so 
 near, weighed upon his spirits, and he began to long to 
 go to Granton. 
 
 He painted to himself the delights of the big house 
 so full of young people ; the Eton cousins, the big 
 school-room party, the society of his uncle and his 
 aunt. The little Vicarage with its prim drawing-room 
 and its uneventful days ; the want of youth and spirits 
 about the vicar and his sister, began to weary and 
 depress him, and his delight was great when at last the 
 summons came. 
 
 The vicar was going to London on business, so they 
 would travel thus far together, and then Mervyn would 
 go on alone. The thoughts of the change were de- 
 lightful. 
 
 So, one summer's evening, he bade a joyful good-bye 
 to Gwen, and he and the vicar started on their journey, 
 
174 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 catching the night mail on its way from Holyhead to 
 London. They arrived in the early morning, and after 
 a toilette and breakfast at the Euston Square Hotel, 
 Mervyn was established by Mr. Hughes in the train, 
 with plenty of books and papers to amuse him on the 
 way. The vicar stood talking to him at the window of 
 his carriage to the last, and then, when the train began 
 to move, he regretfully said farewell, bidding God bless 
 him and protect him, and restore him safely to his 
 people and his home. 
 
 And so they parted : the boy rich in the illusions of 
 youth, bright with hopes and anticipations ; his thoughts 
 fall of the pleasures and enjoyments he felt so sure 
 were awaiting him ; — the old man with no illusions on 
 his path to tell him otherwise than that his life would 
 be the emptier for the loss of the boy's bright society. 
 
MERVYN'S ARRIVAL AT GRANT ON. 175 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 meevyn's arrival at granton 
 
 It was about half-past six when Mervyn drove up to 
 the door of Granton. He jumped out in eager excite- 
 ment, half expecting to see his aunt and cousins as- 
 sembled in the hall. But there was no one there, and 
 he was ushered by the butler into an empty drawing- 
 room and there left. He felt very much inclined to run 
 out into the garden and call out all the names he could 
 think of ; but his intention was frustrated by the entrance 
 of his aunt. 
 
 * Ah, Mervyn, here you are. How do you do ? I 
 hope you are quite well.' 
 
 Mervyn ran joyfully up to her and kissed her warmly. 
 * I am so glad to see you. Aunt Lydia.' 
 
 She then asked him a few questions about his jour- 
 ney, &c., what lesson-books he had brought, and how far 
 advanced he was in this or that branch of learning. 
 
 Anyone but Mervyn would have felt a little chilled 
 by her manner, but he was not given to observe those 
 things ; and besides, he was too much accustomed to 
 love and sympathy to suppose that anyone would not 
 give them to him. He put it down to her not being 
 
176 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 quite well. So in tlie middle of one of her most pom- 
 pons sentences on tlie subject of mathematics, he asked 
 her earnestly if she had a headache, or was tired. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton looked surprised ; but the idea having 
 been put before her, she owned that she ivas a little tired. 
 
 * I only came down yesterday from London,' she said, 
 
 * and what with the wedding and altogether, I have been 
 very hard worked there lately. Your uncle is still in 
 town, but I expect him to-morrow. I think, perhaps, 
 you had better come up to the school-room now. I 
 daresay you will be glad of some tea.' 
 
 So saying, she rose, and Mervyn jumped up gladly, 
 and followed her. 
 
 * The elder boys are gone abroad with a tutor for their 
 holidays,' she said, as she led the way up many stairs 
 and along many passages to the far-distant school-room. 
 
 * So you will have only Nina and Cecily. They have 
 got an old French lady for their governess at present. 
 You speak French, of course ? I am sorry to say she is 
 inclined to speak English too much, and the girls are 
 only too glad to do the same. I hope you will set them 
 a good example.' 
 
 So saying, she turned down a passage, where voices 
 were at last heard ; and throwing open a door, she en- 
 tered, and said, ' Madame, I have brought my nephew. 
 Mervyn, this is Madame.' 
 
 Sitting at tea at a round table were Mna, Cecily, and 
 Edmund, and a very ugly old lady. Mna looked up 
 when Mervyn entered, with an expression of pleasure ; 
 and Cecily jumped up, and would have run to meet him, 
 
MERVYJSrS ARRIVAL AT GRANTON. 177 
 
 but seemed afraid to do so. She glanced timidly at her 
 mother, and sat down again. 
 
 Mervyn ran up to Madame and shook hands, and then 
 kissed his consins one after another. * It is a long time 
 since I have seen you, isn't it ? ' he said. * Mna has 
 grown very tall, Aunt Lydia, hasn't she ? and Edmund 
 looks to me much bigger.' 
 
 * I hope you will all take example from Cousin 
 Mervyn,' said Mrs. Middleton, without noticing his re- 
 marks. * See how civilly he says " How do you do " to 
 Madame.' 
 
 Madame looked uncomfortable ; Mervyn felt rather 
 shy ; while Nina tossed back her hair and muttered 
 something to herself about * never having called him 
 Cousin Mervyn in her life, and hardly knowing who her 
 mamma meant.' 
 
 Luckily Mrs. Middleton did not notice it. She 
 gathered up her rustling silk gown, and said, * Well, 
 now that I have made you all comfortable together, I 
 will leave you. Madame, I have a good deal to do this 
 evening, so I shall not want them down. Send Mervyn 
 to bed early, as he has had a long journey.* And she 
 swept out of the room. Mervyn had already engaged 
 in conversation with Cecily, in whom he found a ready 
 listener ; so he did not notice his aunt's concluding 
 remarks, otherwise he would certainly have rushed after 
 her to wish her good-night. 
 
 ' Will you take one cup of tea ? ' inquired Madame ; 
 * Cecily, place your cousin one chair.' 
 
 * Oh, sit by me,' said little Edmund. 
 
 N 
 
178 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 * N'o, by me, please,' said Cecil j. 
 
 Mervyn good-naturedly placed himself between tbem ; 
 after which the children all looked at one another, and 
 no one spoke. Mervyn was unaccustomed to the society 
 of children, and didn't quite know what to say. Besides, 
 he was very busy with his tea. He looked for some time 
 at N'ina, searching for the likeness of which his mother 
 had spoken ; but I^ina had been ruffled by her mother's 
 visit, and the expression of her face only confirmed him 
 in his opinion of wherein the difierence between them 
 lay. 
 
 His thoughts wandered off to his mother's sweet face, 
 though his eye still rested on Mna. 
 
 * How you stare ! ' said she at last ; ' what makes you 
 look at me ? ' 
 
 * Oh, I wasn't thinking about you,' he said, with a 
 child's candour. 
 
 * What were you thinking of, Mervyn ? ' asked Cecily. 
 ' Mother,' he answered ; and as he spoke the tears came 
 
 into his eyes. Mna's eyes softened, and she looked at 
 
 him pityingly; but Mervyn had averted his, and did 
 
 not observe the change. He did not talk much after 
 
 this, but remained in a state of dreamy abstraction. 
 
 When the tea was cleared away, he asked Mna to 
 
 show him his room. As they went along the passage he 
 
 heard a soft droning noise, which, as they neared the 
 
 apartment whence it proceeded, proved to be the following 
 
 song : — 
 
 Why did they sell my Dinah 
 Upon my wedding-day ? 
 
MERVYN'S ARRIVAL AT GRANTON. 179 
 
 * What is that, l^rina?' 
 
 Nina turned round, and held up her finger. 
 
 ' Hush ! ' she said ; * that is Totty being sung to sleep. 
 Come very softly.' A little way on she opened a door, 
 and saying, * This is your room,' went away. He went 
 in listlessly, but his face lighted up as he advanced 
 towards the window. 
 
 For there, on the dressing-table, lay a letter from his 
 mother ; and with a shout of joy he sprang towards it, 
 and eagerly devoured its contents. It was all that he 
 could wish. She had found his letter waiting in Paris, 
 and it had made her very happy. He felt more than re- 
 paid for all that letter had cost him, as he read and re- 
 read his mother's answer. He could not go back to the 
 school-room again. He wanted to think it over, and 
 enjoy it by himself. So he undressed, and got into bed. 
 
 He woke the next morning in high spirits, pleased at 
 the idea of being at Granton, and inclined to be quite 
 happy. He liked the large school-room party ; it seemed 
 cheerful and pleasant to him ; and he was so merry at 
 breakfast, that he made them all laugh. He won old 
 Madame's heart at once by his attentions to her, and by 
 constantly addressing his remarks to her. It struck 
 him that his cousins did not include her in their conver- 
 sation as much as they might. 
 
 As soon as breakfast was over, he proposed going out. 
 
 * Out ! ' said Cecily, with a groan. * I wish we could. 
 We've got to do lessons till half-past twelve ! ' 
 
 'What shall you do, Mervyn?' said Nina. *I'm 
 afraid you'll be rather dull.' 
 
180 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 'What does Aunt Lydia do in tlie morning?' he 
 asked. 
 
 * I'm sure I don't know/ said Nina, indifferently. 
 
 * Not know ! ' exclaimed Mervjn. 
 
 * She only came down the day before yesterday,' in- 
 terrupted Cecily. * In London she does all sorts of 
 things. I can't remember about Grranton.' 
 
 ' She generally has lots of company to see after down 
 here,' put in Nina, ' and she spends the day with them ; 
 but there's nobody come yet.' 
 
 ' But why do you ask, Mervyn ? ' laughed Cecily \ 
 * what can it matter to you ? ' 
 
 * Oh, only that I thought I would go and sit with her 
 while you did your lessons. Perhaps she would come 
 out for a little turn, and show me the place.' 
 
 Cecily looked very much astonished, and was going 
 to speak, when Madame called her away to her lessons. 
 Nina looked troubled. * I almost advise you not, Mer- 
 vyn ; she might be . . . busy.' 
 
 She could not make up her mind whether it would be 
 best to give him a hint of the state of affairs at Granton, 
 or to let him find it out for himself. 
 
 * Oh, if she's busy,' he answered, ' I'll go out by my- 
 self, but I must just run down and see her. Grood-bye 
 for the present. I'll come back when . I think you've 
 done your lessons.' And he ran off whistling. 
 
 Nina looked very thoughtful after he was gone. She 
 could not bear the thought of his being rebuffed, parti- 
 cularly on his first day at Cranton. And yet she feared 
 much that his reception could not but be very different 
 
MERVYN'S ARRIVAL AT GRANTON. J81 
 
 from tliat which, he seemed to expect, and to what he 
 had been accustomed. 
 
 She waited some time, listening rather anxiously for 
 the sound of his returning footsteps. But he did not 
 come. She was relieved about him at last, feeling that 
 he must have found some other amusement, or else he 
 would have come back to the school-room. She drew 
 her little table near to the window, and began to write 
 her French composition ; but the least sound in the 
 garden below made her jump up and look out, for she 
 could not think what he could be about. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mervyn, not finding his aunt in the draw- 
 ing-room, pursued his investigations farther, and found 
 her at last in a little morning-room, surrounded by 
 account-books. 
 
 ' Oh ! here you are ! ' he exclaimed. * Good morning. 
 Aunt Lydia ; IVe had such a hunt for you. Isn't it a 
 beautiful day ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton was so surprised to see him, that she 
 hardly knew what to say ; and while she was hesitating 
 he took a seat, and entered into conversation. Now 
 Mrs. Middleton was a woman who was accustomed to 
 live a great deal in society, and it was quite an event 
 for her to spend the morning alone. She never dreamt 
 of being at Granton without company, and the house 
 was generally more or less full, from the time they 
 arrived till they returned to London. It so happened 
 that Colonel Middleton and a party of friends were not 
 expected till that evening, and so she had found herself 
 quite solitary with the whole day before her, and had 
 
182 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 been a little dismayed at the prospect. So that Mer- 
 vjn's entry was not so very inopportune as it might 
 have been. At any rate, she did not feel inclined to 
 send him away. She was attracted, too, by his frank, 
 open manner, and not altogether callous to his good 
 looks and pleasant expression of countenance. The 
 room, which she had felt to be rather dull and silent 
 just now, seemed to be brightened by his presence ; and 
 she presently found herself not only listening, but join- 
 ing in the conversation, to the neglect of her business. 
 He seemed so sure that she would be glad to see him, 
 and took it so much as a matter of course that he should 
 be there, that she began to look upon it in the same 
 light herself. 
 
 ' Ain't you rather dull. Aunt Lydia, all alone ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton, on having the question pressed home 
 to her, owned that she was a little dull. 
 
 *I suppose you are always a little dull while Nina 
 and Cecily are at their lessons ? Mother used to be 
 while I was at the Yicarage. I was obliged to leave 
 her then, you know. She didn't mind being alone if 
 she had plenty to do, and she generally had that. But 
 still she used to count the hours sometimes for my les- 
 sons to be over, and for me to come home. I dare say 
 you often count the hours for Mna and Cecily's lessons 
 to be over, don't you. Aunt Lydia ? ' 
 
 'They go out for their walk then,' answered Mrs. 
 Middleton, rather evasively ; * and in the afternoon Nina 
 rides with the coachman.' 
 
 ' Don't you ride with her ? ' exclaimed Mervyn ; 
 
MERVYN'S ARRIVAL AT GRANTOJST, 183 
 
 * Motlier always rides with me. Oh, I forgot, of course 
 she's so much younger than you. It's a pity though, 
 isn't it ? You and Kina might have some nice gallops. 
 What are you going to do when you've finished your 
 bills?' 
 
 * Nothing particular ; but I shall never get on with 
 them if you sit talking to me.' 
 
 * iN'o, that you won't. Mother never can add if I am 
 talking. So I'll tell you what I'll do ; I'll run out in 
 the garden, and come back when I think you've done.' 
 And he went out by the window with a bound. 
 
 Somehow, Mrs. Middleton felt bored at his sudden 
 departure, and was half inclined to call him back. The 
 room felt duller and more silent than ever. She re- 
 turned to her bills with reluctance. Presently, a voice 
 at the window near the writing-table called out : 
 
 'Aunt Lydia, I've brought you a rose. Isn't it a 
 beauty ? Look ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton looked up ; and hardly knew whether 
 she admired most the beauty of the yellow rose he was 
 holding out, or that of his bright face above it, smiling 
 down upon her. She accepted it very graciously. 
 
 ' Do you know. Aunt Lydia, I almost advise you to 
 come out for a little run. You can't think how deli- 
 cious it is. "We might have a nice walk together.' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton looked round the empty room, and 
 then at the sunny garden. 
 
 ' I've half a mind to come,' she said ; ' it is dull after 
 London, and I've nothing particular to do.' 
 
184 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 * Oh yes, do,' said Mervyn ; * and I'll run up and fetch 
 your things, if you like.' 
 
 Before she could answer, he was gone ; and in ten 
 minutes returned with all her walking- things on his arm 
 in a heap. 
 
 ' I've been rather long,' he said, as he threw them 
 down on the nearest sofa ; ' but I think I've got them 
 at last. I don't beheve I've forgotten anything. You 
 see I didn't know where to find your things, so I've 
 been having a tremendous hunt in your drawers and 
 wardrobe, and that detained me. Mother's things are 
 always put in one place, so that I can find them easily. 
 I had to ring for your maid at last to help me. Shall I 
 put on your coat ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton found herself submitting to everything 
 proposed, and in a few minutes she and Mervyn were 
 walking in the garden, talking in a most friendly 
 manner. 
 
 * I want to understand the place, you see. Aunt Lydia. 
 I know Glen-Mervyn by heart, but all this is quite new. 
 Now will you show me everything, please. First the 
 flower-garden, then the kitchen-garden, then the glass ; 
 and we might finish up with the farm.' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton fancied she superintended everything 
 connected with the farm and garden, but never had she 
 so realised how very nominal that superintendence was, 
 and how very little she really understood of the details 
 of farming and gardening, till she took that walk with 
 her young nephew. It was all she could do to satisfy 
 his inquiries. The boy's knowledge and accuracy sur- 
 
MERVYN'S ARRIVAL AT GRANTON, 185 
 
 prised her, and every moment slie feared exposing lier 
 ignorance. His interest in tlie subject, and acquaintance 
 with matters of detail, seemed to her quite extraordinary, 
 and instead of giving instruction, she found herself 
 receiving it. 
 
 He had suggestions to make here and improvements 
 to recommend there, and all his remarks were sensible 
 and to the purpose. He seemed to know the name and 
 history of every flower that blossomed, and of every 
 shrub and tree that grew. It was just the same when 
 they came to the farm and inspected the machinery ; 
 and he entered into conversation with the man who 
 showed it to them with the ease of one who quite knew 
 what he was talking about. 
 
 Mervyn presently asked to see a certain farming 
 machine lately invented, which he seemed to take as a 
 matter of course should be there. The man shook his 
 head. 
 
 ' We have not got one, sir.' 
 
 Mervyn expressed great surprise, and turned to his 
 aunt. ' I wonder at that. Aunt Lydia ! ' 
 
 Now if there was one thing more than another on 
 which Mrs. Middleton prided herself, it was on keeping 
 up with the march of improvement, and being well up 
 in the latest inventions. She answered quite in a tone 
 of pique, ' That machine has only just appeared. I 
 should hardly think anybody had got one yet.' 
 
 ' Why, we've had it working at Glen-Mervyn nearly 
 three weeks ! ' exclaimed Mervyn. 
 
 Altogether, Mrs. Middleton retraced her steps to the 
 
186 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 house, feeling rather smaller, and also thinking a good 
 deal more of her companion than she had done when 
 she left it. 
 
 * You will make a capital landlord, Mervyn, some 
 day,' she said almost involuntarily ; ' who taught you 
 all this ? ' 
 
 * Mother,' he answered simply ; * she says she always 
 tries to teach me about all these sort of things, because 
 she wants me to be a good landlord when I grow up.' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton did not say anything more after this. 
 She was thinking of her own eldest boy, who, now 
 nearly sixteen, thought of nothing but cricket and 
 amusement, and had never taken interest in anything 
 connected with the management of the estate. She felt 
 quite certain he had not a tenth part of the knowledge 
 possessed by the child at her side. She began to wonder 
 whose fault it was. Governesses ? Tutors ? Whose ? 
 The boy himself, of course. An easy-going, indolent 
 youth, with nothing in him. Evidently Mervyn was a 
 superior kind of boy. 
 
 ' I wonder why my boys are so stupid ? ' she asked 
 herself. 
 
 And yet something in Mervyn' s last speech grated 
 rather uncomfortably on her ear. 
 
 * Mother says she always tries to teach me all these 
 sort of things,' &c. 
 
 * I'm sure no boy of mine would ever have cared to 
 hear about such things,' said one voice within her. 
 
 * Qui s' excuse, s'accuse,' said another. 
 
 *I can't remember,' said the first voice, 'ever to have 
 
MERVYN'S ARRIVAL AT GRANT ON. 187 
 
 taken a walk with one of them, talking quietly and 
 sensibly, in my life/ 
 
 * Did you ever ask one of them to come ? ' said the 
 second. 
 
 * I never asked this boy, and yet he came. Mij boys 
 would have thought it dull. Ah well, I suppose we 
 can't have everything. My boys are manly, active 
 creatures, and I suppose this boy is not. He is one of 
 those quiet, thoughtful, dreamy .... Good gracious, 
 Mervyn ! What's the matter ? ' 
 
 For with a shout which rang through the air, the boy 
 flung off his jacket, and bounded from her side towards 
 an old beech-tree. Throwing his arms round the trunk 
 he swung himself upwards and was soon lost to sight. 
 Re- appearing nearly at the top, he looked down upon 
 her astonished face with a merry laugh, and called out, 
 ' It was a squirrel. Aunt Lydia, and I havn't caught him 
 after all. Isn't it a pity ? ' 
 
 ' So that excuse won't do,' said the second voice in 
 Mrs. Middleton's breast, as she re-entered the house. 
 
 The whole proceeding had been watched by Nina from 
 the school-room window with the greatest astonishment. 
 First, at seeing her mother start for a walk with Mervyn, 
 and to hear them chatting as they went along, as if on 
 the most equal and friendly terms ; then at the length 
 of time which elapsed before their voices returning 
 brought her to the window again ; and last, though not 
 , least, at seeing Mervyn climb the tree, and look down 
 upon Mrs. Middle ton, laughing and shouting, evidently 
 completely at his ease with her. She had watched her 
 
188 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 raotlier anxiously, fearing Mervyn had gone too far, and 
 that he would receive a rebuke. She could hardly 
 believe her eyes when she saw Mrs. Middleton nod and 
 smile to the top of the tree, and then go in-doors without 
 so much as a remonstrance. 
 
 The httle daughter at the school-room window began 
 to puzzle out the very problem the mother was working 
 out in the drawing-room below. How was it ? Why 
 was this boy so different ? Whose fault was it that 
 others were not like him ? 
 
 Curiously enough, they both came to the same con- 
 clusion. It was Mervyn himself. He was so charming, 
 and of such an engaging disposition, that he gave and 
 received love wherever he went. N"o one could resist 
 him. He was unlike everyone else in the world. 
 
 And then the little daughter went on with her lessons, 
 and the mother resumed her household bills. 
 
 ' Done lessons ? ' said a merry voice, and a head peeped 
 in at the school-room door. 
 
 Mna looked up with one of her rare smiles, and 
 Madame, in the midst of her struggle with Cecily and 
 French grammar, felt refreshed by the sight of anything 
 so bright. 
 
 * Come in and take one chair,' she said. 
 
 * I've brought you a radish,' he said, advancing ; ' you 
 said you liked them at breakfast.' 
 
 The attention was more gratifying than the actual 
 gift, for the radish was fresh from its bed of mould, and 
 the hand that held it out was evidently the spade that 
 
MERVYirS ARRIVAL AT GRANTON. 189 
 
 had dug it therefrom. Madame shrank a little, and 
 Cecily was ojff in a fit of giggles directly. 
 
 * Oh, I forgot 1 ' said Mervyn ; * it's not washed. I'll 
 go and give it a rinse in my room.' Of course this 
 operation took him a good deal longer than he intended ; 
 it proved so very engrossing. 
 
 When he returned to the school-room, he found lessons 
 over, and his cousins gone out for their half-hour's air 
 and exercise in the garden. He pursued Madame into 
 her room, and presented his radish. He found her busy 
 washing her brushes ; and, his hand being in, he in- 
 stantly volunteered to join her in so interesting an occu- 
 pation. It was done with an amount of energy to which 
 Madame' s brushes were wholly unaccustomed. He then 
 stiU further won the old lady's heart by perambulating 
 the room, and asking a hundred and one questions as to 
 the history of each individual whose photograph adorned 
 Madame's waUs. Their names, their circumstances, 
 their habits and characters, were enquired into with an 
 interest which did her good, and made her quite loqua- 
 cious. 
 
 The luncheon-bell rang, and Nina came in, ready for 
 luncheon. 
 
 * Please go and get ready, Mervyn,' she said ; adding 
 shyly, * We are very punctual here, and mamma comes 
 in directly the bell rings.' 
 
 * Oh well, you can explain it to her, you know ; and I 
 shan't be a minute.' 
 
 He certainly was not, for he reached the dining-room 
 
190 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 door just as the scliool-room party was entering, and 
 was in time to see a morning -greeting between his aunt 
 and cousins. 
 
 * Why, Aunt Lydia ! ' he exclaimed, ' haven't you seen 
 Nina and Cecily before ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton answered rather hurriedly, ' N'o ; I 
 happen not to have been in the school-room to-day.' 
 
 Nina looked curiously at her mother for a minute, as 
 if wondering what phase of feeling had caused her to 
 make this evasive answer, since it was only about once 
 in three weeks that Mrs. Middleton ever came into the 
 school-room. 
 
 * Well, that is funny ! ' said Mervyn ; * we have had a 
 nice walk together, haven't we. Aunt Lydia ? But I 
 dare say Nina and Cecily will have their turn in the 
 afternoon.' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton looked rather uncomfortable, and 
 Nina blushed. 
 
 Mervyn went on : * I think it must be so funny to 
 have so many to be with. Aunt Lydia. You must find 
 it so diJ0B.cult to see each one much every day. Mother 
 has only got me to be with ; and you have got Nina, and 
 Cecily, and Edmund, and Totty, and Baby. Oh ! and 
 Willie, and Bowley, and Cuthbert, when they are at 
 home. Don't you find it rather difficult ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton, in the pauses of carving, answered 
 that a large family was, no doubt, inconvenient in more 
 ways than one. 
 
 * What are we going to do this afternoon, all of us ? ' 
 asked Mervyn presently. 
 
MERVYN'S ARRIVAL AT GR ANTON. 191 
 
 * What would you like to do ? ' enquired Mrs. Mid- 
 dleton. 
 
 ' Ride, I think,' he answered ; ' my pony is here, you 
 know. "Will you ride with me, Mna ? ' 
 
 Nina, with her eyes fixed on her plate, murmured 
 something unintelligible. 
 
 The difierence between her manner and Mervyn's 
 struck Mrs. Middleton forcibly, and she felt quite pro- 
 voked with her. 
 
 ' Why cannot you answer pleasantly ? ' she said, 
 sharply, ' instead of looking as if your cousin had 
 asked you to do some disagreeable thing. If I were 
 Mervyn I should not wish to ride with anything so 
 grumpy.' 
 
 Mna blushed till the tears came into her eyes. The 
 fact was, there was nothing she wished so much as to 
 ride with Mervyn ; but she was so unaccustomed to any 
 deviation from the usual rules, and so surprised at his 
 free way of talking before her mother, and so afraid 
 every moment he would be snubbed, that she had been 
 struck dumb when he had pointedly addressed himself 
 to her. 
 
 ' I didn't know if I might, mamma,' she answered, in 
 a low voice. 
 
 * And could you not ask me ? ' said Mrs. Middleton. 
 * Do you think Mervyn would hesitate to ask your Aunt 
 Magdalen if he wanted leave for anything ? Why can- 
 not you do the same ? ' 
 
 * Please let her come. Aunt Lydia,' burst in Mervyn, 
 much astonished and dismayed at the result of his 
 
192 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 simple request. He turned his bright animated face to 
 his aunt as he spoke. 
 
 * For your sake, Mervyn, I will say yes.' 
 
 The boy's gratitude and relief were great, and he 
 thanked her warmly. 
 
 * But what will you do, Aunt Lydia ? You will be all 
 alone. Shan't you be dull ? ' 
 
 *I am going to drive to the station,' she answered, 
 * to meet some people who are coming.' 
 
 * Then I suppose I shan't see you again till I come 
 back,' he said, as they all rose from the table ; ' so good- 
 bye till then.' And he ran up to her, and gave her a 
 
 Mrs. Middleton said nothing, and looked rather odd 
 as she returned it. Whether she was annoyed or pleased, 
 it was impossible to say. But when she returned to 
 the drawing-room she sat down upon the sofa; — and 
 thought. 
 
 Mervyn came down ten minutes after, ready for his 
 ride, and found the ponies and coachman at the door, 
 and Nina in her habit in the hall. 
 
 * Is he coming too ? ' he asked, indicating the coach- 
 man. 
 
 Nina nodded. Mervyn looked bored. 
 
 *You must lead the way,' he said, as they started, 
 * because you will know the prettiest road. I cannot 
 think why the coachman comes. I could take care of 
 you quite well.' 
 
 'He always rides with me,' said Mna. 
 
 * Does not Uncle Rowley ride with you ? ' 
 
MERVYirS AERIVAL AT GRANTON. 193 
 
 ' No, never.' 
 
 * And Cecily?' 
 
 * Oh, Cecily's afraid. Slie won't even get on a don- 
 key.' 
 
 * Isn't it rather dull riding alone with the coach- 
 man ?' 
 
 ' Yes, it is.' 
 
 * He looks rather cross.' 
 
 * So he is ; very cross.' 
 
 * What does he talk about ? ' 
 ' Oh, he never speaks.' 
 
 * Never speaks ? ' 
 'No.' 
 
 * Doesn't he answer when you speak to him ? ' 
 
 * I never speak to him. I am not allowed to. Mamma 
 does not like it.' 
 
 ' Dear, dear ! Do you ride along like two mutes ? 
 How dreary dull it must be ! ' 
 
 * So it is. But it is better than walking with Madame 
 and Cecily.' 
 
 * Mother and I have such delicious rides,' said the 
 boy, after a pause. * We laugh and talk all the way 
 along, and .... oh, mother ! ' he exclaimed, half in- 
 voluntarily, as the recollection came over him, and he 
 turned his head away to hide the tears that rushed to 
 his eyes. 
 
 Nina looked pityingly at his averted face, and longed 
 to say something to comfort him. 
 
 Her feelings must have been expressed in her eyes ? 
 for when Mervyn met the glance, he exclaimed, * You 
 
 
 
194 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 are like mother, I declare. She said jou were, and 
 I said .... Oh, I forgot ! I can't tell you what I 
 said.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, do ! ' 
 
 * You would not like it, you know,' said Mervyn. 
 
 * I assure you I should not mind,' said Nina. 
 
 She was pleased and interested, and the face she turned 
 to Mervyn was a very bright one. 
 
 ^ What a pity it is you don't always look like that ! 
 .... and then I should never have said it ! ' 
 
 * Well, but what did you say ? ' persisted Nina. 
 
 * Well, I said the difference was that you always 
 looked cross, and she never did.' 
 
 Clearly Nina had not expected this answer, for she 
 blushed crimson, and turned her head away. 
 
 * Ah, now you are offended ! ' said Mervyn. ' I told 
 you you would not like it. Why did you make me say 
 it?' 
 
 ' No, I am not offended,' said Nina ; but her voice was 
 rather unsteady. 
 
 The fact was, the child was hurt and disappointed. 
 She had been pleased at the idea of her aunt and cousin 
 making her the subject of their conversation, and she 
 did not like to think that they should have such an 
 opinion of her. 
 
 She wondered if Mervyn's speech had made any dif- 
 ference in her aunt's feelings towards her. She longed 
 to ask, but was too proud. 
 
 Finding Mervyn did not continue the conversation, 
 flhe got desperate, and tried to bring it on again. 
 
MERVYN'S ARRIVAL AT GRANTON. 195 
 
 * What else ? ' she said, in the voice of a martyr. * I 
 would rather hear everything.' 
 
 * Oh, that was all ! ' he answered. ' Let us have a 
 gallop.' 
 
 It was ten minutes or so before their ponies were 
 walking again ; and then Mervyn said, ' But it is a pity, 
 isn't it?' 
 
 *What is a pity?' 
 
 ' Why, that you always look so cross. 
 
 ' I don't ! ' flashed out Mna. 
 
 ' Oh, but you do, Nina. You can't tell, you know 
 because you don't see yourself. I don't mean to say 
 that you always do, but you do very often. N'ow at 
 luncheon to-day, oh dear me ! how cross you looked ! ' 
 
 ' You don't understand,' said I^ina, moving restlessly in 
 her saddle. ' I wasn't cross, exactly. It wasn't quite that.' 
 
 * WTiat then ? ' asked Mervyn. 
 
 Nina hesitated. She looked at Mervyn' s open face, 
 and felt she would never make him understand what 
 reserve meant, nor be able to explain the complications 
 of pride and sensitiveness. 
 • * It is no use, Mervyn ; you will never understand.' 
 
 ' Well, but tell me one thing. Was it because you did 
 mot want to ride with me this afternoon ?' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! ' exclaimed Nina, eagerly. 
 
 ' Wasn't it really ? I am sure I couldn't make out 
 whether you wanted to come or not. And I am certain 
 Aunt Lydia didn't know.' 
 
 * I didn't want her to,' said Nina, in a low voice. 
 
 o2 
 
196 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 *Did not want her to?' exclaimed Mervyn, in un- 
 feigned astonishment ; * why not ? ' 
 
 * I don't care for everybody to know what I like and 
 dislike/ she answered. 
 
 * But why ? ' persisted Mervyn ; ' what does it matter ? ' 
 Nina hesitated again. The expression of her ideas and 
 
 feelings was a very unwonted thing with her, and she 
 was dimly conscious that in expression they lost a goo(J 
 deal of their importance. 
 
 * It matters a great deal to me,' she answered ; * but 
 you will never understand, Mervyn, so it is no use trying 
 to explain.' 
 
 * I wish you would try, though,' said Mervyn. * It 
 seems to me such a trouble for nothing, to care so much 
 what people say.' 
 
 * It's not so much what they saij,^ said Mna, * as what 
 they might tTimkJ 
 
 'Think what?' 
 
 * Oh, all sorts of things.' 
 
 * What does it matter what people think ? ' 
 
 Nina had no answer to make to such a novel idea, 
 and the cousins rode on in silence. 
 
 * Who do you love most in the whole world ? ' was 
 Mervyn's next speech. 
 
 Nina was not at all prepared for such a question. 
 
 * Who do you ?' she said hastily, to gain time. 
 
 * Mother, of course,' he answered. ' Who else should 
 I love best? I only asked you because you have a 
 father too, and I thought you might have a favourite 
 between them.' 
 
MERVYN'S ARRIVAL AT GRANTON, 197 
 
 Perhaps at any other time Nina would have had more 
 •discrimination ; but, being driven into a corner by her 
 fear of Mervyn's pressing his first question, she spoke 
 without reflection. 
 
 ' You have got a father too, now,' she said. ' Lord 
 l# Wardlaw is your father.' 
 
 The words were hardly out of her mouth, before she 
 would have given worlds to recall them. 
 
 Mervyn's face flushed all over. He looked at hei 
 with an expression which- quite frightened her, and 
 then, giving his pony a cut with the whip, he galloped 
 away. 
 
 !Nina rode quietly after him, feeling very remorseful , 
 and her relief was great, when, at the turning of the 
 road, she met him coming towards her, looking much 
 as usual, though there were traces of tears about his eyes. 
 
 They did not recur to the subject, and soon reached 
 home. By tea-time Mervyn had quite recovered him- 
 self, and N'ina did her best to make up for having given 
 him pain by being quite conversational and lively. After 
 tea came lessons, and Mervyn strolled downstairs to look 
 for his aunt. She was not in the drawing-room, so he 
 rang the bell, and asked if she had come in. He was 
 informed that some company had arrived, and that Mrs. 
 Middleton had gone upstairs to show them to their 
 rooms. 
 
 ' Mrs. Middleton will be in her dressing-room, sir, 
 I think,' the servant added. 
 
 Up to her dressing-room went Mervyn, three steps at 
 a time, and knocked at the door. 
 
198 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 * Come in,' said his aunt's voice. 
 
 * I've come to have a little talk,' said Mervyn, ad-^ 
 vancing into the room, and seating himself at the end 
 of the sofa, on which Mrs. Middle ton was lying. * Are- 
 you tired, Aunt Ljdia ? Shall I fetch you some tea ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton was surprised at her visitor, and still 
 more so at the boldness with which he penetrated into- 
 her sanctum ; but still she did not send him away. 
 
 * I have had some tea, thank you,' she said. 
 
 * You don't look very comfortable. Aunt Lydia. Your 
 head is so low. Would you nofc like a pillow ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton confessed it might be an advantage,, 
 and was surprised at the skilful way in which the boy 
 arranged it under her head. 
 
 * Your tutor is coming to-morrow, Mervyn,' she said : 
 * so you will have plenty to do now. He will be here- 
 all the morning, and leave you work to occupy you in 
 the afternoon, which you may do in the school-room if 
 you promise not to disturb the girls. Then you will 
 have from luncheon-time till half-past four for riding- 
 or walking, and then work till six o'clock tea. After 
 that you are free. Of course, in the case of a game of 
 cricket, or bad weather, you can reverse the order of 
 your afternoon's work, and you may have a half-holiday 
 on Saturday.' 
 
 ' Oh ! do you have much cricket here ? ' exclaimed 
 Mervyn, eagerly. 
 
 * Who talks about cricket ? ' said a cheery voice ; and 
 a hand was laid on Mervyn' s shoulder. 
 
 * Mervyn, my boy ! I'm delighted to see you ! ' 
 
MEIIVYN'S ARRIVAL AT GM ANTON. 199 
 
 And looking round, he saw Colonel Middleton. 
 
 * Uncle Rowley ! ' exclaimed the boy, springing up 
 and kissing him ; ' when did you come ? ' 
 
 ' Just this moment,' answered Colonel Middleton ; 
 * why, you are grown even since I saw you, Mervyn. 
 He'll be a fine man, some of these days, Lydia ! ' he 
 said, looking at his wife for admiration. 
 
 * So you are taking care of your aunt, are you ? 
 That's right. What's the matter, Lydia ? Headache ? ' 
 
 ' ISTo,' she answered ; ' I was only resting after my 
 drive. The O'Briens have come, Rowley, and Mr. 
 West. You had better run down and see them.' 
 
 ' Shall I stay with you, or go with him ? ' said 
 Mervyn. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton did not see the necessity for either 
 course, and was about to advocate a return to the 
 school-room, when Colonel Middleton answered for her. 
 
 ' Yes, come along with me. Sir John is an old friend 
 of your mother's.' And off they both went. 
 
 Mervyn wearied of Sir John and Mr. West after a 
 time, and began to wonder what his cousins were about. 
 He thought they could not know that their father had 
 arrived, or they would surely have run down to see 
 him. So he burst into the school-room with the news. 
 
 * Uncle E/Owley's come.' 
 
 * Has he ? ' said Nina, indifferently. 
 
 She was sitting at the open window, reading a book, 
 and Cecily was playing with her doll. Madame had 
 gone into her room to dry her brushes. 
 
200 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 * How dull you look,' said Mervyn ; ' wliy don't you 
 come down ? ' 
 
 * We don't go down till a quarter to eiglit ever,' said • 
 Cecily, ' and sometimes not then, when there is company 
 here. Who's come, Mervyn ? ' 
 
 * The O'Briens, Sir John, and Mr. West,' answered 
 Mervyn. 
 
 ' All dulHes,' said Cecily ; ' we always call people we 
 don't know " duUies." I hope they won't stay long. 
 Where have you been, Mervyn ? ' 
 
 * Oh, I've been sitting with Aunt Lydia in her dress- 
 ing-room.' 
 
 * Sitting with mamma in her dressing-room ? ' said 
 Cecily ; ^ how very funny.' 
 
 * Why do you laugh ? ' said Mervyn ; * what makes 
 you think it so funny ? ' 
 
 * Oh, I don't know,' said Cecily ; * but it seems such a 
 funny thing to do. Did she ask you to come ? ' 
 
 * No,' said Mervyn ; 4t was only that I couldn't find 
 her in the drawing-room, so I went up there and found 
 her.' 
 
 * But what did you want her for ? ' persisted Cecily. 
 
 * Oh, I don't know ; nothing very particular ; only to 
 have a talk with her.' 
 
 Cecily looked very surprised. 
 
 * A talk with her ; how very odd ! Fancy wanting 
 to have a talk with mamma! What did you talk 
 about ? I'm sure I shouldn't know what to say.' 
 
 * I suppose that's because you're such a little girl,' 
 said Mervyn, rather puzzled. *Why, mother and I, 
 
MERVYN'S ARRIVAL AT GRANTON. 20] 
 
 wlien I'm at home, sometimes talk together tlie whole 
 afternoon. I dare say you will when you're older. 
 Nina would find plenty to talk to Aunt Lydia about, I 
 dare say ; wouldn't you, Nina ? ' 
 
 Now Nina, though pretending to read, was listening 
 intently to this conversation, and feeling very glad that 
 it was Cecily, and not her, that was being questioned. 
 She was by no means prepared to have it so suddenly 
 turned upon her. 
 
 ' Shouldn't I what ? ' she said. 
 
 * Have lots to say to Aunt Lydia,' he repeated ; * at 
 least, if she wasn't too tired to talk ? You know, Nina, 
 I am afraid she is very tired to-day. She was lying 
 down. Does she often lie on the sofa ? ' 
 
 ' Yes — ^no — I don't know ; I mean, I think she does,' 
 stammered Nina. 
 
 In a general way she would have answered indif- 
 ferently, but felt rather ashamed to do so before 
 Mervyn. 
 
 ' It isn't a headache, you know,' said Mervyn, ' be- 
 cause Uncle E/Owley asked her, and she said she was 
 only tired. Does she ofben have headaches Nina ? ' 
 
 Nina blushed and hesitated. 
 
 ' I believe she does,' she said, confused. 
 
 ' What do you generally do for her headaches ? ' was 
 the next question. 
 
 Nina blushed again, and then wondered why she 
 should. 
 
 ' I know a capital thing that I always do for mother,' 
 he went on, unheeding ; 'it's a handkerchief dipped in 
 
202 THROWN TOGETHEIL 
 
 eau-de-cologne and water, and laid on tlie forehead. 
 Mother's headaches always get cured by that. Did 
 you ever try that ? ' 
 
 * No/ said Nina, in a low voice. 
 
 * What do you do, then ? ' 
 
 * JSTothing,' said Mna, her truthfalness asserting itself 
 over her feelings of shame. 
 
 *I*m afraid you're not a good nurse, Nina,' said 
 Mervyn, looking fixedly at her. 
 
 Nina tried in vain to get away from Mervyn' s search- 
 ing eye. 
 
 ' It's not my fault,' she said, half crying. 
 
 She quite longed to explain to Mervyn how it all 
 was, and yet she felt it would be better for him to find 
 it out his own way. 
 
 * You don't understand,' she said, restlessly. 
 Mervyn was seized with remorse at having made her 
 
 unhappy, and embracing her warmly, begged her to 
 talk of something else. 
 
 * What do you generally do at this time ? ' he said ; 
 
 * let us have some fun ! ' 
 
 *What kind of fan?' said Nina, gently. She was 
 touched at his thought for her, and his caresses. 
 
 * A regular romp,' he said. 
 
 * Oh, yes ! ' exclaimed Cecily, clapping her hands ; 
 
 * and may I call Edmund ? He does so like a romp.' 
 
 * I will fetch him,' said Mervyn, * while you clear the 
 room.' 
 
 * You must take a message from Madame, Mervyn,* 
 said Nina, * or else you won't get him.' 
 
MERVYN'S ARRIVAL AT GRANT ON, 203 
 
 Madame's permission was soon obtained, and Mervyn 
 ran up to the nnrsery, and delivered his message to 
 Wilson, the head-nurse. She sent Edmund with the 
 nursery-maid into a back room to be got ready, and 
 Mervyn promised to wait for him. The baby was 
 trotting about in a lace frock and red ribbons ; and 
 Totty, in a brown-holland pinafore, was sitting on the 
 floor, with a picture-book in his lap. 
 
 ' How smart the baby is,' said Mervyn. 
 
 ' Yes, sir ; she's to go down to see Lady Lucy 
 O'Brien. I'm expecting her to be sent for every 
 minute.' 
 
 Just then a bell rang. 
 
 ' There it is. I must take her down.' 
 
 And Wilson carried the baby off, leaving Mervyn 
 alone with Totty. The little fellow looked up, and see- 
 ing a stranger, seemed terrified. 
 
 ' Don't be frightened, Totty,' said Mervyn ; ' I'll take 
 care of you.' 
 
 But the child was unused to strange faces, and he 
 shrank back. 
 
 ' Where's Nursey ? I want her,' he said. 
 
 ' She's coming back,' said Mervyn. ' Oh, don't cry^ 
 Totty.' 
 
 But Totty could not stand it. He was so very shy 
 and nervous. Large tears gathered in his great mourn- 
 ful eyes. 
 
 Mervyn was much distressed, and did not know what 
 to do. 
 
 ' Oh, don't cry, little man,' he said. * Look here ! ' 
 
204 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 And he executed a somersault in tlie air to divert tlie 
 child's attention. He succeeded, for Totty laughed in 
 the midst of his tears. 
 
 * Again ! ' he said. 
 
 Mervjn did it again and again, and Totty laughed 
 more merrily each time. 
 
 Mervyn was bounding about with his back to the 
 door, so that he did not perceive that anyone had 
 entered, till he saw a look of delight pass over Totty's 
 face, and the child stretched out his arms and said, 
 ^JS'ina!' 
 
 * I came to see what made you so long, Mervyn. 
 How is it you are all alone with Totty ? ' 
 
 Mervyn explained. 
 
 Nina's face darkened when she heard the baby had 
 been sent for. 
 
 ' But wasn't Totty frightened to be left with you ? ' 
 she asked, 
 
 Mervyn gave an account of his proceedings. 
 
 * He's so shy,' Nina said, apologetically; *he sees so 
 few people, and he's so delicate.' 
 
 ' But Totty likes me now, don't you, Totty ? ' said 
 Mervyn ; ' you'll come to me now, won't you ? ' And he 
 held out his arms. 
 
 But Totty didn't move, and Mervyn looked dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 ' Why won't he come, Nina ? ' 
 
 ' He can't,' said Nina, in a low voice. 
 
 ' Can't ! ' echoed Mervyn : « do you mean he can't 
 walk yet? ' 
 
MERVYJSrS ARRIVAL AT GRANTON. 205 
 
 Nina shook her head. 
 
 * Why, when I saw him in London, you said he would 
 run very soon.' 
 
 * I thought so then, but . . . .' 
 
 * Why, Mna, is he so delicate as all that ? Is h& 
 never going to be strong, like other boys ? ' 
 
 Nina couldn't trust herself to speak. 
 
 * Poor little fellow,' said Mervyn, in a whisper. 
 
 * You needn't pity him,' said Nina harshly, haunted 
 as usual by the fear that Totty was being considered a 
 black sheep ; ' he's very happy.' 
 
 As if in confirmation of her assertion, little Totty 
 looked up with a smile and said, * Come and look at my 
 pictures.' 
 
 'He likes you, Mervyn,' exclaimed Nina, surprised 
 out of her reserve ; * he doesn't often speak to new 
 people.' 
 
 Just then the nursery-maid came in with Edmund^ 
 who expressed himself ready to go down. 
 
 Poor little Totty's face clouded over. * Not me go — 
 no,' he said, shaking his head sorrowfully. 
 
 ' Why shouldn't he come ? ' said Mervyn, lifting the 
 child in his strong young arms; and before anyone 
 could object, he had carried him out of the room. 
 * He'd like to see us romping and jumping. Wouldn't 
 you, Totty ? ' he said, as they all went downstairs 
 together. 
 
 ' Me coming too ! ' was the little fellow's delighted 
 answer, as he twined his arms confidingly round Mer- 
 vyn's neck. 
 
206 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 When tliey got into tlie scliool-room, Mervyn es- 
 tablished him in a nice little corner, Tvhere he could see 
 everything that w^nt on ; and then the game began. 
 
 Its nature was not very decided. It was called a 
 romp, and a romp it certainly was. Cecily and Edmund 
 joined in it with vigour; and Nina, though a little 
 grand at first, was soon carried away by Mervyn' s 
 spirits and Totty's delight. 
 
 The confusion was at its height when the door 
 opened, and Mrs. Middleton, dressed for dinner, ap- 
 peared upon the scene, closely followed by her husband. 
 She stopped short in her astonishment. 
 
 The school-room table was pushed up against the 
 window, and the chairs were heaped upon it. Mervyn, 
 with Edmund on his back, was racing wildly round the 
 room, jumping over little heaps of books and maps, that 
 were placed (evidently for the purpose) at measured 
 intervals, in fall pursuit after Cecily, who was darting 
 about with inconceivable rapidity ; while Nina blew a 
 horn, and Totty clapped his hands from his corner. 
 
 ' Good gracious ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Middleton, ' what is 
 the meaning of this uproar ? ' 
 
 * We're hunting,' answered Mervyn, laughing and 
 breathless ; ' and we are having a capital run. Cecily's 
 the fox. Tally ho ! Yonder he goes ! Why do you 
 stop, Cecily ? And Nina ! go on blowing the horn.' 
 
 So saying, Mervyn, who was the only one who did 
 not seem discomposed at Mrs. Middleton' s entrance, 
 bounded over a big heap of books, and catching his foot 
 
MERVYN'S ARRIVAL AT GRANT ON. 207 
 
 in a loose one at the top, measured Ms length, on the 
 ground, rolling over Edmund as he fell. 
 
 ' Bravo ! ' exclaimed his uncle, laughing ; ' you took 
 that fence well ! ' 
 
 * This will never do,' said Mrs. Middleton. * Mervyn, 
 you must remember your cousins are young ladies, and 
 you mj^st not teach them these rough games.' 
 
 ^ Oh ! nonsense, Lydia ! ' said Colonel Middleton, 
 * what does it matter ! It will do them all the good in 
 the world. They're much too prim and old-fashioned. 
 I never saw Niaa look so animated, and look what a 
 colour Cecily has got. Little Totty, too ! See how he 
 enjoys it ! ' 
 
 ' Totty ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Middleton ; ' how did Totty 
 get here ? ' 
 
 'I brought him down, Aunt Lydia,' said Mervyn 
 running up ; * he was so dull all alone in the nursery, 
 and wanted to come.' 
 
 Happily for all parties, the dinner-bell rang at that 
 moment, and Mrs. Middleton hurried away. Colonel 
 Middleton remained behind a moment to wish them all 
 good-night, and Mervyn and Cecily eagerly asked for 
 leave to go on with the game. Colonel Middleton ran off 
 laughing, declaring he would not be responsible ; but he 
 was not sorry to find his laugh had been taken for 
 assent, when as he ran downstairs he heard the uproar 
 recommence with greater force than ever ; and Mervyn's 
 ringing voice reached him . as he crossed the hall : 
 ^ Tally ho ! Yonder he goes ! ' 
 
 And so ended Mervyn's first day at Granton. 
 
208 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 CHAPTER Xin. 
 
 MRS. MIDDLE ton's HEADACHE. 
 
 The order of tlie next day was rather changed. Mer* 
 vyn's tutor arrived at nine, and from that hour till 
 nearly luncheon-time he was closeted with him in a 
 Httle room looking out into the kitchen-garden. 
 
 There was comfort to come, however. His uncle in- 
 formed him at luncheon that Mr. West was a cricketer,, 
 and that there was going to be a game in the field 
 outside that afternoon, which Mervyn was welcome ta 
 join. 
 
 This was great news for the boy ; and he ran up to 
 his room directly, to put on his cricketing things and 
 get his bat. He looked into the school-room on his way 
 down, and found his cousins dressed for walking. 
 
 * Ain*t you coming to watch the game ? ' he said. 
 
 ' No,' said Cecily ; ' we're going for a dull old walk 
 on the high road. Isn't it a bore ? ' 
 
 * Oh, what a pity ! Shall I ask Aunt Lydia to let you 
 come and watch us, instead ? ' 
 
 * Oh, you can't go to mamma ! ' said Cecily, ' she's 
 shut up in her room, ill.' 
 
 * 111 ! ' exclaimed Mervyn ; * was that why she wasn't 
 
MRS, MIDDLETON'S HEADACHE. 209 
 
 at luncheon ? I was wondering where she was. "What 
 is the matter ? ' 
 
 'I don't know,* said Cecily. 
 
 * I^ot know ; Mna, don't you know ? ' 
 
 ' She has got a very bad headache, I believe,' said 
 Mna. 
 
 * Has she ? ' he exclaimed ; * have you seen her, 
 Mna ? ' 
 
 *No.' 
 
 * Ain't you going to her ? ' 
 
 Mervyn looked curiously at Mna ; but he was be- 
 ginning to understand her a little ; so he did not press 
 the question, but remained standing in the middle of the 
 room, swinging his bat round and round, and evidently 
 turning something over in his mind. 
 
 * How nice you look in your white flannel and blue 
 cap,' said Cecily, admiringly. 
 
 ' Do I ? ' he said, absently. ' I know what I'll do,' he 
 finished suddenly. * I'll try my bandage dipped in eau- 
 de-cologne and water ; I am sure it will do her good.' 
 And he ran out of the room, leaving his bat behind 
 him. 
 
 Mna had an instinctive feeling that a struggle had 
 been going on in her cousin's mind, and that it had been 
 hard for him to give up his favourite game for his aunt's 
 sake. She was filled with admiration for him, though 
 she felt fearful as to how his sacrifice would be received. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton was prostrate with a headache on the 
 p 
 
210 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 sofa, and had given orders that no one should disturb 
 her ; when, to her surprise, without knock or warning 
 of any kind, her dressing-room door slowly opened, and 
 somebody came in. 
 
 * Who is there ? who is there ? ' she exclaimed ; ' you 
 can't come in.' 
 
 * Oh, it is only me,' said a clear young voice ; and the 
 tone was so confident, so completely that of one who 
 merely meant to assert a perfect right, and was sure of 
 a welcome, that Mrs. Middleton said nothing more, and 
 only turned round to see who her visitor might be. To 
 her astonishment she saw Mervyn, with a bottle of eau- 
 de- cologne in one hand and a half-filled tumbler of 
 water in the other, advancing quietly towards her. 
 
 * You, Mervyn ! ISTo, no. I can't have any children 
 here now. I have got a very bad headache.' 
 
 * Oh, I won't let any of the children come in, I assure 
 you,' said Mervyn, as he deposited his glass and bottle 
 on a little table. ' I'll shut the door, and we shall be as 
 quiet as possible.' 
 
 * But what do you want ? ' she exclaimed. 
 
 * Well, only a pocket-hankerchief now,' he answered. 
 * I got the water and the eau-de-cologne from Uncle 
 Eowley's dressing-room ; but his handkerchiefs did not 
 do ; they were not soft enough. Where do you keep 
 yours ? Oh, I see ! in that drawer. Please don't move. 
 Here are some nice ones, like mother's. I shall want 
 two, you know. Is your head very bad ? ' 
 
 Taken by surprise, Mrs. Middleton answered ' Dread- 
 ful ! ' and, indeed, it was so bad just at that moment. 
 
MRS. MIDDLETON'S HEADACHE. 211 
 
 tliat she felt incapable of asking tlie boy any questions, 
 or of making any fartber efforts to get rid of him. 
 
 She lay there, forgetful of his presence, till she was 
 reminded of it by feeling a cold damp something laid 
 gently across her throbbing temples. It felt like ice 
 against her burning head, and, closing her eyes with a 
 sense of keen pleasure in the sensation, she involuntarily 
 exclaimed, ' How delicious ! ' 
 
 ' I thought you'd like it,' said the boy, triumphantly ; 
 * and as soon as this gets the least warm, I have got 
 another ready. It is soaking in the glass now. You 
 need not tell me when you are ready for it, because it 
 will hurt you to talk. If you just move your hand, I 
 shall understand.' 
 
 Too glad to avail herself of the permission, Mrs. 
 Middleton lay still for some time, and then gave the 
 required signal. Mervyn was watching for it, and in- 
 stantly removed the handkerchief; but, before putting 
 on a fresh one, he dabbed her forehead with the mixture, 
 and then blew softly on it. The effect was so charming, 
 that Mrs. Middleton found herself dreading every 
 moment that he would leave off. But he seemed to 
 know exactly how long to go on ; and at the right 
 moment he stopped, and put on the cold bandage again. 
 
 By degrees Mrs. Middleton felt the pain in her head 
 lessen, and a delicious sense of drowsiness come over 
 her. The glare of light in the room, which, when she 
 first lay down, she had felt, even though her eyes were 
 closed, got so subdued and pleasant, that she began to 
 feel quite sleepy ; and there was a monotonous droning 
 p2 
 
212 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 sound in the room for which she could not account, but 
 which was very soothing and pleasant. 
 
 She was gradually dozing off, but was still conscious 
 that at intervals the bandage on her head was changed, 
 as soon as it grew at all too warm to be of use. 
 
 At last she remembered nothing more, till she woke 
 some time after, free from pain and refreshed by her 
 nap. Opening her eyes, she found that the room was 
 carefully darkened, and that Mervyn was sitting at the 
 window, reading a book by as much light as he could 
 get ; or, rather, not reading it, for it was lying in his 
 lap, and he was peeping through the blinds out of the 
 window, which looked on the cricket-field, and from 
 whence rose every now and then merry shouts of ' Well 
 caught ! ' ' Well bowled ! ' ' Eun it out ! Eun it out ! ' 
 
 * Mervyn,' she said. 
 
 The boy turned his bright animated face from the 
 window, where he was watching the game, and jumped 
 up directly. 
 
 ' Are you better, Aunt Lydia ? ' he asked, eagerly 
 coming towards the sofa. * You've had such a nice long 
 sleep. Nearly an hour by my watch.' 
 
 * Yes, my dear boy,' she answered, taking his hand ; 
 * thanks to you, I am quite well. Why, how did you 
 learn to be such a good nurse and doctor ? You are 
 the best I ever met with.' 
 
 Mervyn 's face shone with elation at these compli- 
 ments, and he stood by her side, triumphant. 
 
 * I never remember getting rid of this kind of head- 
 ache so quickly,' she continued. ' Indeed, I generally 
 
MRS, MIDDLETON'S HEADACHE. 213 
 
 have to wait for a night's rest to take it off. I should 
 not have got to sleep-to day so easily, if the room had 
 not been so nice and dark. By the way, how was that ? 
 I remember the bhnds were all up when I first came in 
 to lie down.' 
 
 ' Oh, /darkened the room,' said Mervyn. ' I knew 
 yon would never get to sleep in that glaring light.' 
 
 ' It was very kind of you,' she said, with more warmth 
 than she usually expressed, * and very thoughtful. You 
 must have done it very quietly, too, for me not to have 
 heard it. But I am afraid, my dear boy, you must have 
 been very dull all this time in the dark. I hope you had 
 an amusing book ? ' 
 
 ' Well, not very,' he answered ; * but that did not 
 matter. It was the only one I could find that I thought 
 would amuse you. It was on the sofa, open, as if you 
 had been reading it ; so I went on from your place.' 
 
 ' But I don't quite understand,' said Mrs. Middleton ; 
 * you were not reading it to me, were yoa ? . . . By the 
 way, I did hear a droning monotonous noise as I went 
 off. Could that have been you reading out loud ? ' 
 
 Mervyn went off into fits of laughter ; and his aunt 
 laughed, too, partly with him, and partly at his delight 
 and amusement in what she had said. 
 
 ^ Why, that was me,' he said, 'reading you to sleep.' 
 
 * Beading me to sleep ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ! Mother says there is nothing like reading out 
 loud for sending one to sleep, and I always do it to her. 
 What did you think it was ? ' 
 
 * Well, I thought it was a humble-bee in the room, or 
 
214 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 a blue-bottle. Then I fancied it might be the mowing- 
 machine in the garden.' 
 
 Mervyn laughed more than ever at this. ' You see I 
 read softer and softer, till at last I got almost to a 
 whisper, and then I left off. If I had stopped suddenljj 
 you would have woke up directly.' 
 
 * But what were you reading ? ' 
 
 * I don't quite know what it is,' he answered. * It 
 was the only book 1 could find. I looked on your table, 
 but could only see " A Treatise on Hair- wash," and "A 
 Hundred Ways to Cook a Rabbit." It is a big book, 
 and rather dull.' So saying, he handed his aunt an 
 enormous volume of ' Graham's Domestic Medicine.' 
 
 * Is this what you have been reading ? ' said his aunt, 
 laughing. 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered. ^ I read from " Headache, dis- 
 tressing," to " Hydrophobia, causes of." When I got to 
 that I left off, for I saw you had gone to sleep.' 
 
 * But were you not longing to play cricket all the 
 time ? ' 
 
 The answer was painted on the boy's open face, but 
 he only said, ' Oh, as long as I was reading I was too 
 busy to think of it.' 
 
 ' But when you left off ? ' persisted Mrs. Middleton. 
 
 ' Well, yes — rather,' he replied. 
 
 * Then why did you not go ? I mean, you had done 
 all you could for me, and I was fast asleep.' 
 
 ' Well, you see. Aunt Lydia, I've got some rather 
 creaky boots on, and I was afraid of waking you if I 
 walked across the room.' 
 
MRS. MIDDLETON'S HEADACHE. 215 
 
 Mrs. Middleton looked at him for a moment as if tie 
 had been some natural curiosity, and then said, ' Well, 
 I won't detain you any longer, dear. Run out and have 
 your game. Your uncle will be wondering what has 
 become of you. I think I shall come out myself pre- 
 sently. I feel as if the fresh air would quite complete 
 the cure you have begun.' 
 
 Mervyn jumped up eagerly and rushed off, giving the 
 door such a bang as he went that it nearly brought back 
 the headache he had taken such pains to drive away, and 
 effectually convinced his aunt that quiet was anything 
 but natural to him. 
 
 She lay on the sofa after he was gone, puzzling over 
 him. If she could have put him down as a ' quiet boy,' 
 or a ' drawing-room boy,' she would have been more 
 able to account for his conduct of that afternoon. But 
 with the bang of the door still in her ears, and the up- 
 roar in the school-room the night before fresh in her 
 recollection, she was unable to put him down in the 
 first category. That there were ' boys and boys ' was 
 one of Mrs. Middleton's pet theories. Manly, active, 
 out-door boys on the one hand ; thoughtful, sedentary, 
 ' dramn-groom ' boys on the other. What more likely 
 than that Mervyn — an only child, living entirely with a 
 grown-up person, without companions — should have 
 become, even if it were not natural to him, accustomed 
 to sit a great deal indoors, reading or otherwise amusing 
 himself in a sedentary way. He could not really be 
 fond of cricket, or he would never have been able to 
 give up the game so readily, and amuse himself in her 
 
216 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 room so long. As she thought over it, she went to the '. 
 window, to pull up the blind. The first thing her eyes 
 fell on was Mervyn's graceful figure in its white flannels, 
 relieved by his blue cap. He was running full tilt after 
 the ball, which had just been sent to the furthest end 
 of the field, and snatching it up he hurled it with a 
 tremendous swing at the distant wicket with so true an 
 aim that the bails flew up in the air. 
 
 ' Well done ! ' shouted his uncle. ' I thought we 
 should never get that fellow out.' 
 
 The next batter sent the ball from the field into the 
 garden ; an.d Mrs. Middleton could not but admire the 
 agihty with which Mervyn climbed the haha, and swung 
 himself on to the lawn. He had hardly got back to his 
 place before a high ball came some way above his head. 
 He gave a bound in the air, and caught out the new 
 batter amid the applause of the rest. It was now his 
 turn to go in, and Mrs. Middleton watphed him getting 
 run after run till she got tired of standing, and went 
 back to the sofa. 
 
 She was more puzzled than ever. Of his fondness for 
 the game there could be no doubt ; of his manliness and 
 activity there could be no question. Neither by nature, 
 habit, nor inclination, was he a quiet sedentary boy. 
 How, then, was his conduct to be accounted for ? It had 
 evidently been prompted solely by unselfishness and 
 consideration for her. As manly and as active as her 
 own elder boys, he was at the same time as thoughtful 
 and as gentle as a woman. How was it that her children 
 were not like this ? she asked herself rather bitterly. 
 
MRS. MIDDLETON'S HEADACHE. 217 
 
 Not the boys, perhaps ; that was hardly to be expected ; 
 but the girls ? Nina, for instance, who was just Mervyn's 
 ^ge. How was it that she was so different ? 
 
 ' To be sure,' she said to herself, ' I am not often ill; 
 but I cannot remember a single instance of Nina at- 
 tempting to come near me at such times, or even in- 
 quiring how I was afterwards.' 
 
 How different this boy was ! How much he had 
 sought her out since his arrival. How pleased he seemed 
 to be in her society. Nina was so cold, so selfish, so 
 indifferent ; Cecily, so silly and childish ; the boys en- 
 tirely taken up with themselves and their own amuse- 
 ments. Magdalen was certainly very lucky in her boy. 
 
 ' There must be something wrong in my children's 
 dispositions,' she said to herself again. * A screw loose 
 somewhere. I wonder what makes them so cold and 
 selfish?' 
 
 So lay and pondered this woman, who with her own 
 hand had put from her the affections and driven away 
 the attentions that more loving mothers receive and 
 encourage. She had missed, through her own fault, 
 watchful care of little daughters, and the proud pro- 
 tecting affection of young sons. The tender solicitude, 
 the thoughtful consideration, which other women meet 
 with at the loving hands of their children, had never 
 been hers. In her selfishness she had never done any- 
 thing to promote or stimulate their love, and now she 
 was hurt to find it did not exist. With the want of 
 self-blame so conspicuous in her character, Mrs. Middle- 
 ton did not in her meditation arrive at this view of the 
 
218 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 matter, but continued to lay the blame on her cbildren's 
 natures. Dimly, indeed, for a moment, some such 
 thoughts as the above came into her mind, as she 
 contrasted the results of Magdalen's training with those 
 of her own ; but she thrust them away directly. 
 
 * Mervyn must be a curious boy,' she said to herself 
 at last, as if to put such ideas more entirely out of her 
 head ; ' a very curious boy. Fancy a boy of his age 
 sitting for nearly an hour in a dark room, and with a 
 game he so delights in going on under his very eyes ! I 
 don't understand it at all.' 
 
 And then she rose from the sofa and rang for her maid 
 to assist her in preparing for going out. 
 
 Isfina and Cecily were just returning from their walk 
 with Madame as Mrs. Middleton stepped out into the 
 garden. At sight of her mother Nina stopped short 
 and blushed crimson ; then, seeming to recollect herself, 
 she walked on with the rather defiant expression which 
 she often put on to hide her shyness. The fact was, 
 she was surprised to see her, and rather taken aback ; 
 for, struck by Mervyn 's conduct, she had been forming 
 a plan of trying to show her mother a little attention 
 like him. All the way along she had been making up 
 her mind that she would go to her room on her return, 
 and ask how she was, and whether she could do anything 
 for her. 
 
 She could not help feehng it was right to follow 
 Mervyn' s example, and show a little solicitude. But 
 the proceeding was so novel, that she hardly knew if 
 she should be able to manage it. It would look so odd^ 
 
MRS. MIBLLETON'S HEADACHE. 219 
 
 site had told herself ; her mother would be so surprised. 
 Perhaps she might meet with a rebuff; and at the very 
 thought her pride had risen. 
 
 How often she had rehearsed her project during the 
 walk, in her own mind ; how often she had first settled 
 upon, and then rejected, different ways of carrying it 
 out, would be incredible to any but such as she. Sup- 
 posing she knocked at the door very softly, and there 
 was no answer. What had she best do then ? Would 
 that mean her mother was asleep ? She could, of course, 
 run away very quickly, so that neither her mother nor 
 anyone else should ever know she had knocked at the 
 door, and not been answered. But then, supposing she 
 met her father or the lady's-maid in the passage, and 
 they were to ask her what she was doing there ? Worse 
 still, supposing, on hearing her knock, her mother should 
 say, * Who's there ? You can't come in.' Flight would 
 again be her only resource. But if her mother opened 
 the door and saw her speeding along the passage, what 
 was to be done then ? Or, even if that did not happen, 
 was there not a danger of her mother saying before all 
 the others, ' Who was that came bothering at my door ? ' 
 She hnew she should blush ; of course she would. She 
 always did when she least wished to do so. And what 
 explanation could she offer ? She felt it would be im- 
 possible to own wJiy she had knocked, after her mother 
 had said ' Who was that came bothering at my door ? ' 
 She must find some excuse, but what could it be ? She 
 could think of none. So she had told herself it was no 
 use ; she must give up her plan ; and she had soothed 
 
220 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 her conscience — which had pricked at the sight of 
 Mervyn's conduct — by telling herself she was not to 
 blame ; it was somebody else's fault, though whose she 
 cv)uld not exactly say. But it wouldn't do. Conscience 
 had told her she had not done all she might in framing 
 an excuse for going to her mother's room ; and she had 
 at last suddenly thought of gathering her a bouquet of 
 wild flowers. Then if her mother called out, ' Who's 
 there ? What do you want ? ' or even if she said, ' You 
 can't come in,' the answer was ready : * It is me, and 
 I've brought you some wild flowers.' Also she might 
 add quickly, * You needn't have them if you don't want 
 them.' At any rate she would pick them, and then see 
 how she ffelt. 
 
 Accordingly, she had gathered her bouquet, and was 
 beginning to feel quite brave about her project ; when, 
 as we have seen, everything was upset by her meeting 
 her mother in the garden, apparently quite well again. 
 The revulsion of feeling was so abrupt that Mna quite 
 started ; and then, feeling shy and guilty, and almost as 
 if her mother must guess what was passing in her mind, 
 she hid her flowers behind her, and tried to slip into the 
 house unobserved. 
 
 Fresh from the comparison between her own children 
 and her nephew, Mrs. Middleton was more than usually 
 alive to Nina's manner. She observed the action, too, 
 and in her irritation turned sharply round upon her. 
 
 ' Where are you going in such a hurry, and what have 
 you got in your hand ? ' 
 
MRS. MIDDLETON'8 HEADACHE. 221 
 
 Nina blushed crimson, and stammered out, * Only- 
 some flowers/ 
 
 * Why do you hide them ? And why do you get into 
 such a temper because I ask you a simple question ? ' 
 
 Just at that moment Mervyn came bounding up, bat 
 in hand, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, 
 
 * Oh, Aunt Lydia ! I'm so- glad to see you out ! How 
 does your head feel now ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, how is it ? ' stammered Nina, suddenly stricken 
 with shame. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton looked at the two children as they 
 stood before her, waiting for her answer. There was 
 no mistaking which had made the inquiry from real 
 interest, and which had, as it were, forced herself to 
 make it. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton addressed herself pointedly to her 
 nephew. 
 
 ' Thank you, my dear boy, I am really quite well 
 again. I don't want forced politeness, Nina,' she con- 
 cluded, coldly ; ' if you don't feel interest, pray do not 
 oblige yourself to express it ; and if you do feel it, you 
 certainly are not happy in your manner of showing it. 
 I wish you would learn to be as thoughtful and unsel- 
 fish as Mervyn, and then there would be no need to put 
 such a strain upon yourself. Your inquiries would then 
 come naturally ; but as it is, I believe you take interest 
 in nobody and nothing.' 
 
 Nina could not stand it ; she turned round and ran 
 into the house. 
 
222 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 NINA AND MEEVYN THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 As time went on, Mervyn imperceptibly fell into the 
 ways of tlie family into wMcli he had been thrown. 
 
 He became, like his cousins, surrounded by rules and 
 regulations, through which it was not easy to break. 
 His tutor occupied him all the morning, and left him a 
 good deal to prepare for the next day ; so that he had 
 only a few hours in the afternoon he could really call 
 his own. 
 
 School-room tea was at six o'clock, and a message 
 would come from head- quarters during that meal as to 
 whether or no the children's presence would be required 
 in the drawing-room for ten minutes before dinner. If 
 so, then a toilette had to be gone through ; and if not, 
 they remained in the school-room till bed- time. 
 
 After the shooting season began, and the house was 
 full of company, they were very seldom sent for. 
 
 The first time after Mervyn's arrival that the message 
 came up that they would not be required, his astonish- 
 ment was very great, and he could hardly believe he and 
 his cousins would not really see his uncle and aunt again 
 that evening, not even to wish them good-night. He 
 
NIIfA AND MERVYN THROWN TOGETHHIt. 223 
 
 was bustling off to his aunt's dressing-room, to see if lie 
 <30uld find her there, but Nina advised him not. 
 'You won't find her, Mervjn.' 
 
 * Why not ? I did the first day.' 
 
 ' That was quite a chance. When the house is full 
 she always stays with the company till the dressing-bell 
 rings.' 
 
 * Bother the company ! I wish they'd go. When 
 will they, ISTina ? ' 
 
 *If these went, others would come, so it would be 
 all the same. From the first of September the house is 
 always full.' 
 
 * But, Mna ! how can you go to bed without kissing 
 Aunt Lydia and wishing her good-night ? ' 
 
 ' If she doesn't care to say good-night to me, I don't 
 care to say good-night to her.' 
 
 Little by little Mervyn began to see how matters 
 stood. He observed how seldom Mrs. Middleton came 
 into the school-room ; how the children never went to 
 her unless expressly sent for. He noticed the mother's 
 demeanour to the children at luncheon, and the effect it 
 had upon them. He saw that they were not at ease in 
 her presence, and that it gave them no pleasure to be 
 with her. He realised that Cecily was afraid of her, and 
 that Nina was more reserved and silent than ever when 
 her mother was present, only answering when pointedly 
 addressed. They were glad to get away, and she was 
 not the least desirous to keep them. 
 
 His mother had warned him that he must not expect 
 to find his aunt and cousins on the same terms as herself 
 
224 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 and him ; but lie had not expected to find such a dif- 
 ference as this. Between the mother and her interests 
 and the children and theirs, he saw there was a great 
 gulf fixed. She lived her life, and they lived theirs — 
 parallel lines that never touched. He himself, accus- 
 tomed to talk out everything with his mother, felt the 
 want of having a grown-up person to speak to. Puzzled 
 by what he saw around him, he longed for some one fco 
 explain it to him, or at least to help him to improve it. 
 
 Had he had many opportunities of being with his 
 aunt, it would all have come out to her as naturally as 
 possible ; but he belonged to the school-room and its 
 life, and he was ' shunted ' like the rest. He saw his 
 aunt at luncheon, and sometimes during the ten minutes 
 before dinner, but alone — never. He made several 
 attempts to see her, but she was always surrounded by 
 company ; and after one or two unsuccessful pilgrimages 
 to the drawing-room, he had given it up. 
 
 And the effect it all had upon him was to depress him 
 greatly. Sometimes the isolation of the school-room life 
 weighed upon him terribly; the want of sympathy 
 bet^ireen the drawing-room and the school-room chilled 
 him. He felt he was in a cold, loveless home ; and as 
 he contrasted it with the warmth and love of the home 
 to which he had been accustomed, the loneliness of the 
 atmosphere into which he had passed seemed almost 
 more than he could bear. 
 
 Then the old longing for his mother would come 
 across him, and he would break out into passionate 
 lamentations at his separation from her. This would be 
 
NINA AND MERVYN THROWN TOGETHER, 225 
 
 late in tlie evening, when the younger ones were gone 
 to bed, and Madame was dozing in her arm-chair. Nina, 
 sitting by, with her book, would observe the dejection of 
 his attitude, and his averted face ; and, judging by what 
 she would prefer herself under the like circumstances, 
 would pretend not to see. 
 
 Btit it was not so that this child of so much love had 
 been accustomed to be treated. He was longing for the 
 sympathy that had always been his, and her apparent 
 indifference chilled him the more. 
 
 But there were wells of feeling hidden under Nina's 
 calm little face, and her heart would swell with pity for 
 him. If only she could give it expression! If only 
 she could do something to comfort him ! 
 
 Letting her book fall on her knees one night, she 
 leant her head upon her hands, and gazed at him as he 
 sat huddled up by the window with his face hidden ; a 
 whole world of pity in her dark eyes. Suddenly Mervyn 
 looked up, and their eyes met. 
 
 Something in their expression must have told him all 
 that the poor stiff little tongue could not say ; for the 
 boy rose up, and came and threw himself on the floor 
 by her side. 
 
 ' Kiss me, Nina,' the poor forlorn child exclaimed ; 
 ' nobody ever kisses me now ; nobody has, since the 
 evening mother went away.' 
 
 And Nina, moved with pity, put her arms round him, 
 and kissed him again and again. 
 
 * She'll soon come back,' she whispered, soothingly. 
 Q 
 
226 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 * Say it again,' wliispered the boy, clinging closer to 
 her. 
 
 And Nina said it over and over again. 
 
 From that time they understood each other better ; 
 and Mervyn, secure of sympathy, felt less lonely. He 
 understood that, cold and indifferent as Nina looked, 
 she was not really so ; and though he wondered why 
 she was so different to others, and why her manner was 
 so nngracions, yet he felt she was his friend, and he 
 was comforted. He took to watching her, and the more 
 he watched the more he was puzzled. 
 
 Mervyn was completely free from pride, and he could 
 not understand it in another. Her shrinking sensitive- 
 ness he could not enter into ; her reserve, too, was a 
 constant astonishment to him. Often and often, in their 
 long conversations out riding, or in the school-room 
 before bed-time, he would stop short in his surprise and 
 say, as he had said in their first one : * Why, Nina, what 
 does it matter ? Why should not people know ? ' 
 
 * I shouldn't like people to know. They might thinJc.* 
 
 * What does it matter what they think ? ' 
 
 Nina, on the other hand, could as Kttle understand 
 Mervyn's open fearlessness and unreserve. The way he 
 spoke out everything he thought, without fear of any- 
 one's opinion, was so surprising to her, as was also his 
 demonstrative way of expressing his affection. She 
 had, however, an inward admiration for it. She mar- 
 velled at it ; but it attracted her all the same. Un- 
 demons rative as she was herself, Mervyn's caressing 
 ways did not displease her. She began rather to like 
 
J^INA AND MERVYN THROWN TOGETHER, 227 
 
 being kissed ; and soon slie would not for tlie world 
 liave gone to bed without Mervjn's affectionate fare- 
 well. But still, for a long time, she maintained her 
 reserve on most points, leaving the talking to him. She 
 was the listener, generally, in their long so-called con- 
 versations. It was his curious store of thoughts and 
 fancies that came tumbling out as they rode along 
 together. She was always intelligent and interested, 
 but she seldom volunteered an idea of her own. 
 
 She learnt a good deal from him. His mind, from 
 his constant intercourse with his mother, was so much 
 better stored than Mna's. He had learnt a great deal 
 in that way, which he would never have picked up 
 otherwise. Sometimes he would repeat things his 
 mother had said, and detail her opinions on various 
 subjects. His conversation was discursive, but always 
 attractive and original. Religion came in in its turn, 
 which made Nina very shy. It was a subject on which 
 she was more reserved, if possible, than on any other. 
 She rather considered it one *just for Sunday.' She 
 kept it as a thing apart, and her own life flowed on 
 without it. She did not mix it up at all with her 
 everyday life, or bring it to bear on her difficulties and 
 temptations. She considered herself, her stem upright 
 self, with her strong sense of duty, quite sufficient for 
 the overcoming of those difficulties and temptations. 
 
 Yet she had a religion of her own ; and a very stern 
 creed was hers. Truth at all hazards, uncompromising 
 integrity and honesty, and a strict performance of re- 
 ligious duties. She would have thought it wrong not 
 
228 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 to go to churcli twice on Sunday, and she would not 
 have run on the Sabbath to save her life. 
 
 There was so much in the child that might have 
 turned to good in better hands. What she wanted was 
 softening ; in other words, love. She judged all people 
 by her own standard. Those who failed in the virtues 
 she admired, were done for, in her eyes. The slightest 
 deviation from truth, the smallest appearance of a want 
 of moral courage and a desire to conceal, and the 
 offender fell under her ban. 
 
 The little prevarications of society were hateful to 
 her. Her mother's civilities to people she knew she 
 did not care for, the little speeches she made savouring 
 of falsehood, were all observed by Mna, and her mother 
 judged accordingly. 
 
 The practice of saying ' I^ot at home ' she thought 
 positively wicked, and had long since made up her 
 mind that, when she came out, she would give the foot- 
 man private instructions to say ' Miss Middleton ^'.9 at 
 home, but does not feel inclined to see you.* 
 
 Mna's religion was as void of love as every other 
 part of her ; in fact, she reproduced her experience in 
 her religion thus : God, like her mother, exacted such 
 and such virtues, and required the performance of such 
 and such duties ; those who failed in them were punished 
 hereafter. There. was no more love for his creatures 
 and wish for their happiness in God than she had been 
 able to discover a love for herself and a wish for her 
 happiness in her mother. 
 
 Now Mervyn's religion was altogether framed on a 
 
^INA AND MERVYN THROWN TOGETHER, 229 
 
 different idea. His, too, had grown out of his ex- 
 perience and education. His effoi-ts against his faults 
 made his mother happy ; they Hkewise were pleasing to 
 God. He loved his mother, and tried to please her. 
 He loved God, and tried to please Him. His mother 
 loved him, and delighted to see him good and happy. 
 God loved him, and delighted also. His rehgion was 
 all love ; Nina's all duty. Nina's might be called the 
 Law, and Mervyn's the Gospel. In conversation these 
 differences often appeared, particularly when, as time 
 went on, Nina took to talking more herself, and reveal- 
 ing more of her own charater. 
 
 She had a good deal to bear from him in some ways. 
 She had exalted some of her faults into virtues. Mer- 
 vyn's fearless hand would demolish her idols, and show 
 that he held as worthless what she deemed of value. 
 
 One evening, as they sat alone in the school-room, he 
 suddenly said, ' I sometimes wish you were a little more 
 truthful, Nina.' 
 
 * What do you mean ? ' said Nina, quickly. 
 
 *■ Well, I mean that I think, in a kind of a way, you 
 tell a great many stories.' 
 
 ' Mervyn ! ' she indignantly exclaimed ; ' I never told 
 a story in my life.' 
 
 Mervyn was not at all discomposed by this outburst. 
 
 *That depends,' he said, in his fearless way, * on 
 what you call a story. Mother says we may act stories, 
 though we should be ashamed to tell them. I don't 
 ^suppose you would say you had done something if you 
 liad; but you are always pretending you don't care 
 
230 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 about things tliat jou do care for, and all that sort or 
 thing. It's no use your saying you don't, Nina,' he 
 concluded — for a sound, as of contradiction reached, 
 him — ' because I've watched you.' 
 
 The boy, in his honest simplicity, had hit a deeper 
 truth than he had any idea of. For there is a form of 
 pride — and poor little Nina's was of that form — which 
 is an affectation before others of what does not exist in 
 ourselves. There are those who scorn affectation or 
 deceit of any kind, and plume themselves on being 
 candid and true to the very backbone ; who yet, under 
 the influence of this kind of pride, will act falsehood 
 they would never tell. But it carries no weight with 
 it ; it fails entirely in accomplishing its object, because 
 nothing can be really strong but what is true ; and this 
 is false ; unreal ; a picture before others. ' You knoW;. 
 Nina,' continued the boy, * I think you are the most 
 extraordinary creature in the world ; I do, really. You. 
 always pretend not to be fond of Totty, and I know 
 you are as fond of him as you can be. Oh yes, you 
 are,' he continued — disregarding again an imploring^ 
 sound, in which a more experienced ear than his would 
 have detected a most unmistakable sign of tears — ' I 
 know you are ; and yet you want other people to think, 
 you're not ; and if that isn't acting stories,' he con- 
 cluded hotly, * I don't know what is ; and I'm sure it's 
 very wicked.' 
 
 Poor Nina ! Every one of Mervyn's bluff words had 
 cut deep into her heart. Two or three times she had 
 restrained herself, for she was ashamed of showing 
 
NINA AND MERVYN THROWN TOGETHER. 231 
 
 her feelings on the other hand ; and on the other, her 
 proud little spirit rebelled against being found fault 
 with ; but when he ended with * I'm sure it's very 
 wicked,' she could not bear it. The long pent-up tears 
 would come, and she burst into a violent fit of crying. 
 * Oh Mervyn, I do love Totty ; I love him so awfully^ 
 that I can't bear to talk about it ; and . . . and . . .' 
 
 But in a minute Mervyn' s arms were round her, and 
 he was asking her pardon over and over again for 
 having made her unhappy, and promising he would 
 never never mention the subject again. 
 
 Nina allowed herself to be caressed and comforted, 
 and did not bear him any malice. 
 
 * I don't mind you knowing I love him, Mervyn, as 
 long as you don't tell anyone else. Promise me you 
 won't.' And Mervyn, with his arms still round her, 
 promised eagerly. But the lesson took root all the 
 same, and bore fruit in after times. 
 
 Another time, Mervyn had been explaining some pic- 
 tures in a Scripture story-book to Edmund, one Sunday 
 afternoon ; and Mna, while reading her own book, had 
 been every now and then attracted by what she heard 
 him saying, and had tried to listen. 
 
 When the little boy had gone to bed, and the school- 
 room was dark, and deserted by all but her cousin and 
 herself, she came up to Mervyn, who was watching the 
 glow-worms in the garden from the open window, and 
 said, * What was that you were telling Edmund this 
 afternoon ? ' 
 
 Mervyn was heart and soul in the glow-worms, and 
 
232 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 did not at first remember to ^liat she was alluding ; bnt 
 after a few minutes' thought, he said, ' Oh you mean 
 the Scripture picture-book. I was only explaining to 
 him about Jesus Christ loving us. We were looking at 
 a picture of Him blessing little children, and Edmund 
 asked me why He did it.' 
 
 ' And what did you say ? ' asked Nina, turning away 
 her head. 
 
 ' Oh, only just told him, you know.' 
 
 * Yes, but told him what ? ' 
 
 ' Why, just what you would have told him yourself, 
 if you had been explaining it to him.' 
 
 Now Nina did not much like showing Mervyn her 
 ignorance, and yet the wish to hear what he had said 
 was very strong. 
 
 ' Well, but tell me just what you were telling him. 
 I want to hear how you said it.' 
 
 ' I told him it was because He loved them, and loved 
 them so much that He died for their sake. Then Ed- 
 mund asked me how much ; and I said even more than 
 our mothers love us. I didn't know how else to ex- 
 plain. But I couldn't say more than that, could I ? ' 
 And the peculiar smile radiated his face, which always 
 broke over it when he thought of his mother. 
 
 No answer from Nina. 
 
 * Mother says,' he went on, with glowing eyes, * that 
 God sends us mothers to show us how to love Him. 
 We couldn't, she says, learn to love Him all at once, 
 because it's so difficult. So He teaches us to love our 
 
NINA AND MERVYN THROWN TOGETHER, 233 
 
 motliers first, and then by that we learn to love Him. 
 So that makes it quite easy, doesn't it, Mna ? ' 
 
 * Yes — ^but — suppose,' said I^ina, slowly ; ' suppose 
 we don't love our mother, how are we to learn then ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, but then I never heard of such a thing as that, 
 jou know.' 
 
 A short; silence ensued. It was broken by Nina. 
 
 * How can we love anyone we have never seen ? 1 
 can't.' 
 
 * Oh, that is because you think to love anyone you 
 must be always sitting with them, and kissing them. 
 But mother says that is not the only kind of love.' 
 
 This was certainly more Mervyn's creed than Nina's ; 
 but she let it pass, because she wanted to hear what 
 else he had to say. 
 
 ' She says the real best way of showing love to any- 
 one is to try and please them. Well, we can do that 
 whether we have seen them or not. So when we try to 
 please God, we are loving Him ; don't you see ? You 
 do that, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' No,' she said, * I don't think I do.' 
 
 ' But you could if you liked ? ' 
 
 * No,' she repeated. * I don't think I could.' 
 
 * Well, but Nina, you can understand trying to please 
 your mother? Well, don't you see it is much the 
 same ? The things that please our mother please God 
 too. The same things please both.' 
 
 A very curious expression passed over the girl's face 
 at these words. She looked as if she could have said a 
 
234 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 good deal if slie chose ; but, by an evident effort, sha 
 restrained herself, and only said, ' What sort of 
 things ? ' 
 
 * Oh, all the right things, you know. Being obedient, 
 and kind to everyone, and trying to help people who 
 want help, keeping down our tempers, and not being 
 put out when things go wrong — oh ! you know them all, 
 !N'ina, as well as I do. But what I mean is, that when 
 we do all these things we are loving God, whether we 
 know it or not, because we are trying to please Him, 
 and to be like Him.' 
 
 ' But, Mervyn,' she objected, * nobody ever does all 
 that. One reads in little story-books of people doing so, 
 and in the Bible that our Saviour did it all ; but I never 
 saw anyone really like that.' 
 
 Mervyn looked at her in astonishment for a minute or 
 two, and then said, ' Ah ! that is because you don't 
 know mother as I do.' 
 
 * Does she always ?^ asked Nina. 
 
 ' MwaySy he answered proudly. ' I never saw mother 
 angry, or put out even, or anything that is wrong. She 
 is always gentle, and kind, and patient, and loving to 
 everybody. Oh mother ! ' he concluded, with quivering 
 lips, as the image he had conjured up brought her 
 vividly before him, ' there is no one like you in the^ 
 whole wide world — no one ! ' 
 
 And Nina meanwhile was battling hard with herself^ 
 and trying to keep down a voice in her heart, which, 
 try as she would, kept on ceaselessly saying, ' She i& 
 9n^ver gentle, or patient, or kind. She is lovins to no 
 
NINA AND MERVYN THROWN TOGETHER. 235 
 
 one. She thinks only of herself. I have seen her in a 
 passion over and over again.' 
 
 * It's not mj fault if I don't understand,' she said^ 
 half out loud. 
 
 ' What is not ? ' asked Mervyn. 
 
 ' Oh, nothing,' she answered, alarmed. 
 
 * When I was quite a little boy,' said Mervyn, laughing, 
 
 * I used to tell mother I was quite sure Jesus Christ was 
 not a bit better than her ; or, at least, that she was 
 quite as good as Him. She used to say, * Oh, hush ! ' 
 she couldn't bear me to say it. There was a picture of 
 Him in a book, and underneath was written, " He went 
 about doing good." I used to say it was an exact de- 
 scription of her. She always stopped me ; but it was 
 true all the same. Then when she wanted me to grow 
 like Him, I used to say, I would rather grow like her. 
 The fact was, it was much the same.' 
 
 ' And did you ? ' asked ISTina. 
 
 * Oh no,' said Mervyn ; * 1 never could manage to 
 grow like either. I never do anything I ought.' 
 
 ' Yes, you do,' said Mna, eagerly. ' You are always 
 kind and loving to everyone, I can't think how you 
 manage it, but you are. Oh, Mervyn ! I wish I was like 
 you.' 
 
 * Like me, Nina ? ' said the boy, and he blushed scarlet. 
 
 * Oh, if you only knew ! I am not a bit unselfish, or 
 patient, or anything that is good.' 
 
 ' Well, but you are better than me,' said Nina, rest- 
 lessly. * I don't believe I try, even. It is so difficulty 
 Mervyn.' 
 
tiSe THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 *Yes, it is awfully difficult. My particular things 
 seem so difficult. But then mother says, everybody 
 thinks it is their own particular things that are so 
 difficult; so she says that is no excuse at all.' 
 
 * What are your particular things, Mervyn ? ' 
 
 ' Mother knows,' he answered, blushing deeply. * Tell 
 me yours,' he added hastily, to change the conversation. 
 
 Nina glanced with curiosity at him, noticing the 
 reserve that had suddenly crept over him. She won- 
 dered whether in this character, outwardly so fair, there 
 was a hidden and unsuspected flaw. She felt she had 
 not got to the bottom of Mervyn quite, and wondered if 
 she ever should. Only He, unto whom all hearts are 
 open, knew what that flaw was. Circumstances were 
 to develop it hereafter ; and God held the instrument in 
 His hand. 
 
 * I think I know what yours are, Mna.' 
 
 'Tell me,' said Nina; 'no, don't! Oh yes, do! At 
 least begin, and I'll stop you if I don't like it.' 
 
 ' Oh, well,' said Mervyn, ' I don't mean that you 
 never do try ; but I know how you might, if you liked. 
 First of all, you might talk to poor old Madame a little 
 more, and be a leetle kinder to Cecily and Edmund. 
 Then you might smile when Aunt Lydia speaks to you 
 at luncheon ; and not try to hide from everybody how 
 you love Totty, and . . . .' 
 
 ' Oh, Mervyn,' she exclaimed, 'those are just the im- 
 possible things.' 
 
 ' Just what I said once to mother about mine I ' 
 
 ' And what did she say ? ' 
 
NINA AND MERVYN THROWN TOGETHER, 237 
 
 * She taught me this verse : " The things that are 
 impossible with men . . ." ' 
 
 * There ! ' said Nina, triumphantly, * the Bible says- 
 they are impossible too.' 
 
 * But wait,' said Mervj'n ; ' I hadn't finished. You 
 shouldn't interrupt me in the middle; "are possible 
 with God." That means He'll help, and make them 
 possible. I can't explain like mother, Nina ; but if you 
 try, you'll see. Now let's come and look at the glow- 
 worms.' 
 
 Nina sighed deeply ; but even as she sighed, the idea 
 of a Strength outside herself entered for the first time 
 into her mind. 
 
 * Wait one minute, Mervyn,' she said ; ' I want to ask 
 you one thing.' 
 
 * Well, what ? ' said the boy, rather reluctantly turn- 
 ing back from the open window. 
 
 ' How do you manage to be so kind and nice to every- 
 one ? You can't care for them all ? ' 
 
 * Oh yes, I do. I care for them everyone.' 
 
 * What Cecily and Edmund, and mamma, and Madame, 
 and all ? ' 
 
 * Oh yes ; each one in a difierent way.' 
 
 * When you ask Madame how her rheumatism is, is it 
 to please her, or because you think you ought ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, I really want to know.' 
 ' But why ? ' 
 
 * Poor old thing ! I like her ; and T am sorry to think 
 she should be in pain.' 
 
 * Oh well, it must be very nice to love everyone, and 
 
1238 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 must make it much easier. I am sure it is easier for 
 you than for me. I canH like people, somehow. I can't 
 see anything to like in them, or any reason why I should 
 like them.' 
 
 ' Mother says if we really loved God, we should love 
 everybody else because He does. !N'ow you think of the 
 person you love best in the whole world, and that will 
 show you how easy it would be. You needn't tell me 
 who you think of.' 
 
 Away flew Nina's thoughts to a little bed up- stairs, 
 where her baby brother lay sleeping. And as her heart 
 swelled at the thought of him, it told her how gladly 
 she would do anything in the world for him ; how wil- 
 lingly she would sacrifice herself to please him ; and how 
 anyone that he loved would gain her afiections imme- 
 diately. And so, through her love for her little brother, 
 there stole into the wayward little heart a faint glimmer 
 of the power of that higher love which worketh in us 
 both to will and to do of His good pleasure. 
 
 * I see, Mervyn,' she said, after a few minutes ; ' and 
 now I am ready to look at the glow-worms.' 
 
 Mervyn's influence gradually told upon ITina. Im- 
 perceptibly she softened, and came out of her reserve. 
 This, in its turn, acted upon him. As he found in her 
 more and more of a sympathetic companion, he grew 
 happier and more reconciled to his life. They became 
 the most inseparable of companions. Mervyn came to 
 her with everything. His mother's letters were shared 
 with her; his hopes for their future re-union were 
 
NINA AND MERVYN THROWN TOGETHER, 239 
 
 poured into lier ear. Her sjmpatliy was ever ready ; 
 and she strove with all her might to make up to him, 
 in some small degree, for his separation from his mother. 
 Her life was, no doubt, happier for the change. The 
 call he made on her love and sympathy drew her out of 
 herself, gave her an object in her life, softened and 
 warmed her. Her face now seldom wore its accustomed 
 scowl ; a gentler expression had come into her always 
 beautiful eyes ; and the likeness which Mervyn had at 
 first refused to see now struck him forcibly. She was 
 no longer encased in an armour of coldness and reserve; 
 she forgot herself, in fact, in her desire to keep Mervyn 
 happy. What she dreaded most was to see his face 
 overcast ; she could not bear him to be depressed by the 
 life which habit had made so natural to her ; and she 
 was always watching fearfully for the moments when 
 his longing for his mother should overcome him, and 
 make him listless and dejected. But it was only now 
 and then that he was cast down. Thanks to Nina, his 
 fits of sorrow came now less violently and at much 
 longer intervals. His natural high spirits and power of 
 enjoyment asserted themselves over the uncongenial cir- 
 cumstances in which he found himself thrown ; and no 
 one who heard him laughing and talking with Nina, as 
 they galloped over the country, would suppose he had a 
 care or a sorrow in the world. 
 
240 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE GHOST IN THE SHRUBBERY. 
 
 Nina was now always glad, for Mervyn's sake, when 
 they were sent for before dinner, little as she cared for 
 it herself. 
 
 But as the shooting season went on the house was 
 fuller than ever, and at one time nearly three weeks had 
 elapsed without a summons. 
 
 At last, one evening it came. Mervyn was delighted ; 
 and his spirits rose so high, that Nina felt quite pleased 
 too. 
 
 But it was an unfortunate evening. Mrs. Middleton 
 was in a bad temper, and found fault with Nina directly 
 she came into the room. Cecily, too, was awkward, 
 and managed to upset a flower- stand. There was 
 nothing but scolding all the time. Colonel Middleton 
 was tired with his day's shooting, and lay in an arm- 
 chair reading the paper, and taking no notice of any of 
 them. 
 
 On their return to the school-room Mervyn' s spirits 
 gave way. 
 
 Nina waited till Cecily had gone to bed, and then 
 came up to the window where he was sitting. 
 
THE GHOST IN THE SHRUBBERY, 241 
 
 ' What is the matter, Mervyn ? * 
 
 * Oh, Nina ! ' he exclaimed, with a burst of tears, * I 
 do want mother so badly.' 
 
 Nina bent down and kissed his forehead, taking refuge 
 in her old answer. 
 
 * She will soon be back again.' 
 
 ' No one seems to love anyone in this house ' — he 
 went on passionately — * it is a dreadful house to be in.' 
 
 Nina was powerless to comfort him. She felt how 
 true it was. Had she not often suffered from the same 
 feeling herself ? 
 
 But she had a cure which had never failed her at such 
 times. She would try its power now. 
 
 ' Come and see Totty,' she whispered. 
 
 The boy raised himself wearily, and followed her with- 
 out a word. 
 
 So the two children stole up stairs, and went softly 
 along the passages to the bedroom nursery, where Totty, 
 not quite asleep yet, lay expecting his nightly visitor. 
 
 Nina knelt down by his pillow, and signed to Mervyn 
 to kneel on the other side of the bed. 
 
 The little fellow smiled when he saw them, and held 
 up his face. ' Nina,' he said, sleepily, ' kiss me, Nina.' 
 
 ' Kiss Mervyn,' whispered Nina ; ' he wants to be 
 kissed too.' 
 
 Totty put one arm round Mervyn and one round 
 Nina, drawing them together as they knelt. He was 
 only half awake, and soon his arms relaxed their hold, 
 and his heavy eyes closed. 
 
 R 
 
242 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 Gradually lie fell asleep ; but the cliildreii knelt by his 
 bedside still. 
 
 Wui2b was always glad to linger, and Mervyn shrank 
 from leaving the little oasis of love and tenderness he 
 had found in the desert of Grranton. 
 
 He knelt there silently for some time, and then he 
 whispered, 'Let's say our prayers here.' 
 
 Softly he repeated his evening prayer, and began ' Our 
 Father ; ' then stopped, waiting for her to join. 
 
 But no sound came from the little bowed figure kneel- 
 ing in the darkness, and he finished it as he began it — 
 alone. 
 
 ' Come away now,' he whispered ; ' I'm better.' And 
 taking her unresisting hand, he led her way. 
 
 They returned, as noiselessly as they came, to the now 
 dark and silent school-room. 
 
 ' Come out,' said Mervyn. ' I don't want to go back 
 into that dreary room.' 
 
 So they went down a little back staircase, and opened 
 a side door. 
 
 The moon was shining peacefully all over the lawns 
 and gardens as the children stepped out upon the grass, 
 and made fantastic shadows of the two h'ttle figures. 
 
 Lights were seen at the dining-room windows and the 
 voices of the gentlemen sounded from within as they sat 
 over their wine. 
 
 ' Come into the shrubbery,' whispered Mna. 
 
 The way there led them past the drawing-room win- 
 dow, and they could see in. The ladies were sitting in 
 groups all over the room. There was one old lady to 
 
THE GHOST IN THE SHRUBBERY. 243 
 
 whom Mrs. Middleton was paying great court. These 
 two were near the open window, looking over a photo- 
 graph-book ; and Nina fancied she caught her own name 
 as she hurried bj. 
 
 The children sped on towards the shrubbery. As 
 they passed into its sombre paths, they came against the 
 figure of a man, and Nina started. 
 
 ' It's only me, miss,' said the voice of the head- 
 gardener. 
 
 * Good-night Watson,' said Mervyn pleasantly. 
 
 * Good-night, sir. You're out late this evening.' 
 
 * Yes,' said Mervyn, ' we've come out for a little air.' 
 
 * I suppose you and Miss Middleton are not afraid of 
 ghosts, sir, since you are going up to the shrubbery ? ' 
 
 * No,' laughed Mervyn. * But is there a ghost there ? ' 
 ' So the story goes,' answered the man. ' I can't say 
 
 I've ever seen it myself ; but they do say it is to be seen 
 on moonlight nights, and those who see it are haunted 
 by it for many a long night after.' 
 
 * What is it ? ' asked Mervyn. ' A shadowy lady, or 
 or a man with his head in his hand, or what ? ' 
 
 *■ They say it's a pair of brothers' the gardener 
 answered, smiling. * They fought a duel there one 
 moonlight night, for the love of the same lady, and both 
 were killed. So they are doomed to walk arm-in arm 
 for ever on moonlight nights. They have eyes blazing 
 like live coal, they say, from the hatred they bear one 
 another. But Lor' bless you, sir, it's all nonsense — ^it's 
 j^st a tale, and nothing more. Good- night to you.' 
 And the man passed on. 
 
 b2 
 
244 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 ' Did you ever hear the story before, Nina P ' asked 
 Mervyn, as they walked along. 
 
 ' jNTo/ she answered. ' I have heard the maids say the 
 shrubbery was haunted ; but T never asked more. I 
 hate ghost stories.' 
 
 ' Do you ? * * I think they are rather fun. Why 
 should you mind ? You don't believe them, do you ? ' 
 
 * !N"o,' she answered ; ' not exactly ; but they frighten 
 me all the same, and I think of them when I don't want 
 to, particularly when I can't get to sleep at night. Let 
 us talk of something else.' 
 
 A short silence, and then Mervyn said, ^Nina, why 
 wouldn't you join with me when I said " Our Father ?" ' 
 
 * I don't know,* she answered, in a low voice. 
 
 * Oh, you must know, Nina.' 
 ' I was shy.' 
 
 * Shy ! who of ? Not me, surely ! ' 
 Nina nodded. 
 
 * Oh, Nina, how fanny ? And what a fiinny thing to 
 be shy about. I can fancy being shy of doing anything 
 wrong ; but to be shy of saying your prayers ! I never 
 heard of such a thing.' 
 
 Nina felt really shy now. 
 
 * It isn't exactly that,' she said ; ' I can't quite 
 explain.' 
 
 * No,' he answered, ' I don't suppose you can.' 
 
 They had now reached an open part of the shrubbery, . 
 and as they moved out of the darkness into it, they were 
 struck by the beauty of the scene they came upon. The 
 lake lay before them, full in the light of the silvery 
 
THE GHOST IN THE SHRUBBERY, 245 
 
 moon. There was not a sound to be heard, and their 
 eyes were almost dazzled by the glitter of the moon- 
 beams on the waters. The peace of it, and the beauty 
 of it, affected Mervyn strangely. 
 
 ' Oh, Nina ! ' he exclaimed, * how beautiful ! I think 
 Heaven must be like this, don't you ? ' 
 
 Mna didn't answer. 
 
 ' Don't you often wonder what Heaven is like ? ' 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 * Why don't you speak, iNTina ? Don't you like talk- 
 ing about Heaven ? ' 
 
 * Yes — no — I mean I don't know what to say 
 about it.' 
 
 * But don't you often wonder about it ? ' 
 
 ' ^N'o, I don't think I do. But you may go on talking 
 about it if you like. What do you think it's like ? ' 
 
 * I don't know exactly. One thing I'm sure it's not 
 like, and that's Granton.' 
 
 * I don't . . . quite understand,' said Nina. 
 
 ' I mean that in Heaven everybody loves everybody. 
 Mother says Heaven is only another name for love. 
 There's not much of it at Granton,' he said rather 
 bitterly, as he recalled his feelings on their return that 
 evening from the drawing-room. * So Heaven can't be 
 very like Granton ; and if I thought it was, I'm sure I 
 shouldn't care to go there.' 
 
 ' Is it like Glen- Mervyn, do you think ? ' asked Nina, 
 timidly. 
 
 ' More like, I think,' he answered ; * at least when 
 mother is there. Not unless,' he added quickly, as 
 
246 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 memory brought before bim the lawns and gardens as 
 they had looked that day without her ; ' Oh, no ! ' with 
 a little shudder, * not unless.' 
 
 Nina seemed to be thinking deeply, and at last she 
 said, ' If Aunt Magdalen were here, would you think 
 Granton more like Heaven ? ' 
 
 * Oh, yes ! ' he said eagerly. 
 
 'Well, but then,' said Mna, rather puzzled, 'it is 
 having her with you that makes you think a place like 
 Heaven.' 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered ; ' and she says it will be being 
 with God that will make us so happy in Heaven. Do 
 you know she says she wouldn't care to go to Heaven if 
 God were not there ? ' 
 
 Nina looked very puzzled, and a little scared. 
 
 * " In Thy presence is the fulness of joy," ' said 
 Mervyn ; ' that is her favourite verse about Heaven. 
 She says it explains it so well. Do you understand it, 
 Nina?' 
 
 * Do I understand what ? ' 
 
 * Why that some day we shall love God so much that 
 we shall only be happy where He is, wherever that 
 may be.' 
 
 ' No,' she said, hardly above a whisper. 
 ' Sometimes I think you never will.' 
 ' Do yoib ? ' 
 
 * Well, just a little. I understand it this way, you 
 see. I know that I love mother so much that I am 
 happiest when I am with her. And so that helps me to 
 see that some day, when I love God as much as that, I 
 
THE GHOST IN THE SHRUBBERY, 247 
 
 shall be happiest with Him. She says I shall imder- 
 stand it better and better.' 
 
 ' But why do you say I shall never understand it ? * 
 
 * Because you don't love your mother, Nina, and so I 
 don't see how you are ever to learn.' 
 
 * But I love Totty,' she said quickly. 
 
 * Well, perhaps that may help you a little, but still 
 ... It doesn't seem to make you love other people, 
 
 Nina. I really think he is the only person. In Heaven, 
 everyone will love everyone, and you love so few. She 
 says it's quite made of love . . . But still,' he said — 
 suddenly breaking off short from his train of reasoning, 
 and returning with a child's delight to the thought of a 
 material Heaven, as he gazed on the lovely scene around 
 him — ' besides, all the love and the happiness, I dare 
 say there will be all this, and more. The moonlight 
 and the beautiful stillness, the golden gates, and the 
 angels, and . . . Hark ! what's that ? ' 
 
 It was the sound of approaching footsteps, and Mer- 
 vyn drew Nina back into the bushes, and both children 
 peered out eagerly into the darkness. Far down the 
 shrubbery path they saw two dark shadows approach- 
 ing, and shining from the figures were small red lights. 
 
 * What are they, Mervyn ? ' whispered Nina, seized 
 with a superstitious dread; 'what can those shadows 
 be?' 
 
 The gardener's story, so lately heard, forced itself 
 upon her unwilling attention ; and in spite of all she 
 told herself to the contrary, she could not deny the 
 witness of her own eyes, which simply showed her, 
 
248 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 advancing steadily along, two dark forms, arm-in-arm, 
 with eyes like live coal. At all times sensitive and 
 imaginative, Nina's nerves were just then strung to 
 their highest pitch. The hour, the scene around, the 
 thoughts on which her mind had been so lately dwell- 
 ing, all conspired to lift her out of the commonplace, 
 and to intensify her superstitious dread. She felt 
 herself to be suddenly standing on the narrow boundary- 
 line that separates the real from the unreal, the natural 
 from the supernatural ; and she was, for the moment, 
 unable to distinguish between the material and the 
 spirit world. Only one thought was clear ; she wished 
 she had never come. She shivered before the slow 
 approach of the shadows, and longed to drive them 
 back. Not only did she dread them for the time, but 
 she felt the thought of them would for ever haunt her, 
 and nights of future terror rose before her. Had not 
 the gardener said as much just now ? She would have 
 fled, but her feet seemed rooted to the ground. 
 
 Mervyn was transfixed too, but it was more by wonder 
 than by fear. And now the shadows were close at 
 hand. . . . But the mystery was soon cleared up. 
 
 Two figures came out into the moonlight, and stopped 
 to look at the scene on which the children had been 
 gazing. They were those of two gentlemen staying in 
 the house, come out to enjoy a stroll and smoke. Their 
 loud voices and the smell of their cigars seemed to 
 destroy the peace and sweetness of the night. A pass- 
 ing cloud obscured the moon at the same moment, and 
 completed what their presence had begun, bringing a 
 
THE GHOST IN THE SHRUBBERY, 249 
 
 bliglit on all around. Well might Nina have dreaded 
 their approach. No denizens of an nnseen world could 
 have wrought her more ruin in the present, or had 
 power so to haunt her with consuming fears for the 
 future. 
 
 The two gentlemen walked on, talking. 
 
 * How many children has Middleton ? ' 
 
 * Oh, a large f^imily ; seven or eight, I believe.' 
 
 ' I saw a very pretty little boy at the nursery- window 
 this evening, but he looked terribly delicate. What is 
 the matter with him ? ' 
 
 'Well, that's a sad business. He has never had a 
 day's health since he was born. I only wonder he has 
 struggled on so long. But he will never live to grow 
 up, poor little fellow . . . poor little fellow ! . . .' 
 
 And the voices and footsteps passed away down the 
 other side of the water, and were lost in the distance. 
 Like birds of evil omen they had come, and everything 
 rejoiced at their departure ; and the air grew still 
 again, and the sweet scents of nature resumed their 
 sway ; and the moon shone out peaceful as before. 
 Only one thing was wanting. The trees, waving 
 slightly in the breeze, seemed to bend their heads and 
 listen, as if waiting for that missing sound, as if listen- 
 ing for the childish voices to speak again of love and 
 Heaven. But they waited and listened in vain. When 
 the moonbeams reached one of the two little figures in 
 the bushes, they revealed a face from which all life and 
 colour seem to have fled. 
 
 ' Nina ! ' exclaimed Mervyn, terrified. * Nina ! speak 
 to me ! Don't look like that ! ' 
 
250 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 * Mervyn ! ' she gasped, ' did yon hear what they 
 said ? ' 
 
 * Mervyn,' she entreated, without waiting for an 
 answer ; * it isn't true, is it ? ' 
 
 And she clung to him as she spoke, looking as if life 
 and death hung upon his answer. 
 
 * 1^0, no, Mna darling,' he said, soothingly ; * it can't 
 be true. They don't know. They have made a mis- 
 take.' 
 
 * But, Mervyn,' she whispered faintly, ' if it should be 
 true ! ' 
 
 * Come home,' he said gently, but very firmly. ' I 
 won't let you think about it. Their saying it doesn't 
 make it true. Don't think about it, Nina. Forget 
 it.' 
 
 His assumption of manly contempt for the assertion, 
 and his protecting care, gave her courage for a moment, 
 and she allowed him to lead her home. They passed 
 again the lighted drawing-room, now full of gentlemen, 
 laughing or talking, and drinking tea. 
 
 The child, flitting by in the darkness, had time to see 
 her mother, the gayest of the gay, fanning herself and 
 chatting gaily ; had time even to seo the door open, and 
 the two smokers enter ; to see the very one who had 
 pronounced Totty's death-warrant take a chair by her 
 mother's side, and enter, laughing, into a conversation 
 with her. 
 
 The child could hear the mother's loud laugh even at 
 that distance, and it jarred upon her till she turned 
 shudderingly away. 
 
THE GHOST IN THE SHRUBBERY. 2ol 
 
 ' 6 an she know ? ' she asked herself; * can she reallj 
 know ? ' 
 
 Only too readily the answer came, with the qnick 
 stern judgment of the young. 
 
 ' She knows, and she does not care ! ' 
 
 Wildly her heart swelled with the old indignation 
 that Totty should be so despised and uncared for. It 
 bore down even the fresh new grief, with which she had 
 been overwhelmed just now. 
 
 She let Mervyn lead her upstairs, and, hardly know- 
 ing where she was, nor what she was doing, she found 
 herself standing at her bed-room door. 
 
 ' Good-night, Nina darling, and promise not to think 
 of it again.' 
 
 And Mervyn held both her hands, waiting for his 
 answer. The child's lips quivered, but she could make 
 no sound. She Jcnew she could not promise what he 
 asked her. She held up her face to be kissed, and 
 Mervyn was satisfied. 
 
 But all night long the words rang in her brain, keep- 
 ing sleep away from her weary eyelids, and causing her 
 to toss to and fro in her restless anxiety. 
 
 * He will never live to grow up ... . never live to 
 grow up ... . poor little fellow .... poor Httle fel- 
 low ... .' 
 
 Only varied by the constant question, ' Can she 
 know ? Can she really know ? ' Or the bitter, bitter 
 answer, ' She knows, and she does not care.^ 
 
 Where were the ghosts she had feared would haunt 
 her after hearing the story in the wood? And the 
 
263 THROWN TOGETHEH, 
 
 nights of horror that rose before her as she watched the 
 shadows approach ? Not once did these thoughts recur. 
 For what were such vague fantastic terrors to those 
 which assail her now ? What grim supernatural fancy 
 could thus stand by her pillow, and drive all sleep 
 away. 
 
 Ah! belief in ghosts may indeed be gone in our 
 highly civilised day, yet are there some which, with all 
 our enlightenment^ we shall never drive away. Ghosts 
 in white garments, shadowy ladies and headless knights, 
 with other creations of the brain, are laid for ever, 
 swept away with the relics of a long-past age of igno- 
 rance and superstition ; but torturing anxieties, haunt- 
 ing fears, an hourly, nameless dread: these are the 
 ghosts that mar our midnight slumbers, and they will 
 walk this earth of ours till time shall be no more. 
 
SUNDAY AT GHANTON. 253 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 SUNDAY AT GRANTON. 
 
 The next day was Sunday ; and ten o'clock found 
 Mervyn sitting in tlie scliool-room with, his cousins. 
 His tutor did not come on Sunday. Nina and Cecily 
 were learning their collects and writing them out by 
 heart, and lie was writing to his mother. Madame 
 was not in the room. 
 
 Conversation was chiefly carried on between Mervyn 
 and Cecily. Kina was nominally doing her Sunday 
 work, but in reality she was thinking of Totty, wonder- 
 ing over and over again how much truth there might 
 be in the conversation she had overheard. Her sleep- 
 less night had left its traces on her pale little face. She 
 hardly heard what the others were saying. 
 
 * Mervyn,' said Cecily, 'which part of the pew are 
 you going so sit in to-day ? ' 
 
 'As far as I can from you,' he answered laughing, 
 * because you fidget so.' 
 
 ' Oh no, I won't, Mervyn ; please sit by me.' 
 
 ' Why, last Sunday you dropped your prayer-book 
 twice, and tumbled over the hassock every time you 
 stood up.' 
 
264 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 * There'll hardly be room to stand up to-day. There 
 are such a lot of people in the house. I think there are 
 four ladies besides mamma, and six gentlemen besides 
 papa. How full the pew will be ! ' 
 
 * Why do you want to sit by me ? ' asked Mervyn, as 
 he wrote down a sentence in his letter. 
 
 *Tou*re so kind, and find my places. Nina never 
 will.' 
 
 * Why don't you find them before you go ? ' 
 
 * Such a trouble,' she sighed ; ' I never can remember 
 those horrid old Roman figures. I think it was so silly 
 of them to have letters for figures, don't you ? Y.'s and 
 X.'s, and all that rubbish.' 
 
 Mervyn laughed. * All right ; I'll sit by you.' 
 
 Cecily evinced much delight. 
 
 ' I think it's rather fun having a lot of people in the 
 pew,' she went on. ' I like seeing how they behave, and 
 what sort of things they do. Whether they take off 
 their gloves and veils, and whether they smell salts, and 
 fan themselves, and all that. I always think anyone 
 who fans themselves affected. Then I like to see who 
 kneels at the prayers, and who is lazy, and sits or lolls 
 instead, and who listens to the sermon and who doesn't. 
 It's great fun. Papa always goes to sleep. Do you 
 think that's quite right of him, Mervyn ? Nina thinks 
 it's very wrong indeed. I think it's rather unkind to 
 poor Mr. Heathcote, who's taken such trouble to make 
 a nice sermon. I believe it takes him a long time. It 
 seems rather unkind not to listen.' 
 
 * Do you listen, Cecily? ' 
 
SUNDAY AT GRANTON. 255 
 
 * Oh no, Mervyn ! I can't lielp thinking about other 
 things. I do try a little, but I get tired directly.' 
 
 Just at that moment, to the children's astonishment, 
 the door opened, and Mrs. Middleton came into the 
 room. She was accompanied by an old lady, and in her 
 Nina instantly recognised the one to whom she had 
 seen her mother paying court the evening before through 
 the drawing-room window. 
 
 ' These are my little girls,' said Mrs. Middleton, ' and 
 this is my nephew, Mervyn Lyndsay. Children, come 
 and say, " How do you do ? " ' 
 
 Mervyn was up in a moment, with beaming face and 
 outstretched hand. JSTina advanced coldly, and shook 
 hands Avithout speaking. But Cecily hung back shy 
 and frightened. Her mother's sudden entrance had 
 alarmed her, and she became conscious directly of rough 
 hair and inky j&ngers. 
 
 The difference between her children's manners and 
 those of her nephew struck Mrs. Middleton forcibly, and 
 she looked much annoyed. 
 
 ' Come forward, Cecily. What are you hiding for, 
 and why do you put your hand behind you ? ' 
 
 Cecily blushed all over, and stammered out something 
 unintelligible. 
 
 * Why can't you say " Good-morning " like a lady, and 
 not like a little charity-girl. Look at Mervyn ; he 
 shakes hands properly.' 
 
 *My hand is inky,' she said timidly, 
 
 * Young ladies' hands should never be inky. What 
 have you been doing to make them in such a state ? ' 
 
256 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 * IVe been copying out my collect,' said Cecily, hang- 
 ing her head. 
 
 * And IVe been writing to mother,' langhed Mervyn, 
 holding out his hands. *Mine are worse than Cecily's.' 
 
 The old lady turned to him directly. ' What a hand- 
 some boy,' she said, sotto voce. Then added, out loud, 
 * Ah ! you've been writing to your mother, have you ? 
 Give her my love, and tell her I think you are very like 
 her.' 
 
 *Do you know her ? ' said Mervyn eagerly. 
 
 The old lady replied in the affirmative, and he at 
 once plunged into conversation with her. 
 
 Her attention was thus completely distracted from 
 Mrs. Middleton's children, although she had been 
 brought to the school-room on purpose to see Nina, 
 whose photograph she had admired in the book last 
 night. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton was very much annoyed at Nina's 
 pale and languid appearance, which quite spoilt her 
 good looks, and provoked with both daughters for ap- 
 pearing to such disadvantage. She felt that they had 
 been a failure, and that Mervyn had carried all before 
 him. Still, she did not feel angry with Tiim. He looked 
 so handsome, so bright, and so pleasant, that she could 
 not wonder the old lady should have been most taken 
 with him. She lefb the room in a very bad temper, and 
 went to put on her things for church. 
 
 As soon as Nina was ready for church, she joined 
 Mervyn, and they both stood at the school-room window, 
 watching the party stream across the lawn. 
 
SUNDAY AT GRANT ON. 257 
 
 ' How smart they all are,' lie said. * Look at the 
 gowns and the parasols ; every colour under the sun. 
 There goes Uncle Rowley, with a white waistcoat and a 
 flower in his button-hole. Where's Aunt Lydia ? Oh ! 
 there she conies. She's lost something. Look what a 
 hunt she's having.' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton heard voices and looked up. 
 
 * What have you lost. Aunt Lydia ? ' shouted Mervyn. 
 ' My prayer-book,' she answered : ' see if you can find 
 
 me one.' 
 
 * Do you know the " Te Deum " by heart ?' he called 
 out. 
 
 ' Yes. Why ? ' 
 
 * Because I could lend you my second-best prayer- 
 book if you did. It's all there but the " Te Deum," 
 and that's torn out. Shall I throw ifc to you ? Look 
 out ! Catch ! ' 
 
 * No ! no ! certainly not ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Middleton, 
 gesticulating violently ; * bring it down.' 
 
 She was too late. Mervyn had hurled the book at 
 her, and it came fluttering down through the air with so 
 true an aim that it hit her parasol and knocked it out of 
 her hand. 
 
 ' Butter fingers ! ' escaped involuntarily from Mer- 
 vyn's lips, but fortunately the word did not reach his 
 aunt's ears. * You needn't mind,' he called out, as he 
 observed the look of horror with which she picked it 
 up ; * it's only my second best ! ' 
 
 Madame was now heard calling, and Mervyn and 
 Mna followed her downstairs. They did not go tlie 
 
 S 
 
258 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 same way as the di-awing-room party, wlio avoided stiles 
 and gates, so they arrived in church first, and estab- 
 Hshed themselves before the others came. 
 
 Mervyn sat between Mna and Cecily, and all three 
 were told by Madame to take up as little room as pos- 
 sible. She herself contrived to squeeze into a little 
 corner up against a pillar, as flat as a pancake. 
 
 Cecily proceeded to announce everybody in a loud 
 whisper as they arrived. 
 
 * There's Mr. Mellish the miller, and his wife. Here 
 come the butcher and his wife. They haven't brought 
 their little boy to-day. Perhaps he's got a cold. Oh ! 
 look at the turnpike woman. She's got a new bonnet. 
 She hasn't had one for a year. Here's poor old Langley ; 
 see how bent double he is. One could quite sit on his 
 back. Look at his dear old smock-frock. Oh, Mervyn, 
 isn't it fun being early and seeing all the people arrive ? 
 Here's Jones the gardener and his two daughters. How 
 stiff his neckcloth is ; he can hardly turn his head. 
 You see he only wears it on Sunday. Oh, I say ! the 
 cheesemonger and all his family are gone into deep 
 mourning since last Sunday. What can have happened ? 
 Oh dear me, here's mamma ! . . .' And Cecily in- 
 stantly became a model of propriety, as the party, led 
 by Mrs. Middleton, filed into church. 
 
 There was a great rustling and arranging, for it cer- 
 tainly was a large party, and quite as many as the pew 
 could hold. ISTina's eyes were often on her father and 
 mother that day during the service. They were exactly 
 opposite her, for it was a square pew. Mrs. Middleton 
 
SUNDAY AT GRANTON. 259 
 
 was clearly in a very bad temper, and took no part in 
 the service at all, and Colonel Middleton was lialf the 
 time talking and laughing with the young man next 
 him. Mervyn, disturbed by the whispering, looked up 
 once or twice, and his eye travelling on to Nina, he was 
 astonished at the expression of her face, and wondered 
 what she could be thinking of to make her look so. 
 Once, during the reading of the Commandments, Mrs. 
 Middleton spoke angrily to her husband. There was 
 something wrong with the seat, and she seemed to hold 
 him responsible. He answered, laughing, which seemed 
 to make her more angry than ever. In the middle of 
 their discussion Mna raised her eyes. Just at that 
 moment sounded in measured tones from the chancel, 
 
 * Honour thy father and thy mother.' Clear rose the 
 treble notes of Mervyn' s voice, and his eyes showed 
 where his thoughts had flown. Deep in her hands Nina 
 buried her face, and from the tightly-closed little mouth 
 came no sound at all. The clergyman gave for his text, 
 
 * In Thy presence is the fulness of joy.' Mervyn ex- 
 changed a glance with Nina, which she acknowledged 
 with her eyes. The sermon, as it went on, affected her 
 strangely. It was very homely, very plain ; but it re- 
 called Mervyn' s words by the moonlit water, and seemed 
 to make clearer what he had tried to explain. When 
 the clergyman spoke of happy homes, warmed by 
 family affection, she was all at sea; such happiness 
 found no parallel in her loveless home. But when he 
 went on to particular affections, she could think of her 
 little brother, and placing herself in fancy by his bed, 
 
 s2 
 
THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 the meaning dawned more clear. Tims does God choose 
 the weak things of the world to work His sovereign 
 purposes. For when the sermon ended, she had told 
 herself that if she only loved God as she loved Totty, 
 she would be able to say with the Psalmist, ' In Thy 
 presence is the fulness of joy.' 
 
 With these thoughts swelling in her heart, she 
 followed the party out of church. 
 
 * Well, that was a poor performance,' said one of the 
 gentlemen. 
 
 ' Terribly long,' whined the old lady. ' I nearly went 
 to sleep.' 
 
 The others chimed in, in the same strain, and then 
 walked on, still talking the sermon over, and heedless 
 of the presence of the children. Their words and their 
 voices jarred as they fell, upon the sensitive feelings of 
 the child. The thoughts suggested by the sermon fled 
 away, her fair dream vanished, and she felt as if she 
 had been foolish to be so impressed by what had affected 
 grown-up people so little. 
 
 Half ashamed of her own feelings, and yet shrinking 
 from hearing the discourse pulled to pieces, she retreated 
 to Madame' s side, and walked on in silence. 
 
 Cecily was hand-in-hand with her father some way 
 on, and Mervyn was running after them. Presently he 
 fell back, and came to join Nina. 
 
 * Nina, why do you stay behind ? ' 
 
 * I don't know.' 
 
 * What is the matter, Nina ? ' 
 
 * I don't know.' 
 
SUNDAY AT GRANTON. 261 
 
 ' Come and talk/ lie said, pulling lier away from 
 Madame. Nina did not resist him. 
 
 ' The clergyman said, jnst the same as mother, didn't 
 he ? ' he said triumphantly. ^ I was thinking of her all 
 the time. Who were you thinking of, Nina ? ' 
 
 * Totty,' she answered, roused and comforted by his 
 sympathetic appreciation. * I liked the sermon, Mer- 
 vyn ; didn't you ? ' 
 
 And she looked rather anxiously at him. 
 
 ' Oh yes,' he said warmly ; * I listened to every word.' 
 
 Just then Colonel Middleton was heard shouting to 
 Mervyn, and the boy ran away. But though regretting 
 that their conversation should be so abruptly broken 
 off, Mna did not relapse into the sad state in which he 
 had found her. His few words, and the sight of his 
 bright face, had made her quite happy again, and she 
 was independent now of the criticisms of her father's 
 friends. She entered quietly into conversation with 
 Madame, and troubled herself no more. 
 
 *Lydia,' said Colonel Middleton, as he watched 
 Mervyn coming, ' it strikes me we don't see enough of 
 this boy. He must be very dull here, cooped up in a 
 school-room with little girls. At any rate, his evenings 
 must be slow work. Why not have him down to dessert ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton answered that as their own children 
 never came to dessert, it had not occurred to her, but 
 that she was quite willing he should come. *Only,' 
 she added, * I won't have the girls. It is quite against 
 my principles.' 
 
 ' The girls are another affair,' he answered. ' Mervyn 
 
262 TUB OWN TOGETHER. 
 
 is only here for a time, and I don't see wliy lie is to be 
 kept so tight.' 
 
 That evening a pompons message was sent np to the 
 school-room to the effect that Mr. Lyndsay was to 
 present himself for the future in the dining-room at a 
 quarter before nine, which message was received with 
 acclamations by the said Mr. Lyndsay. 
 
 * But I don't like leaving you alone, Nina dear,' he 
 said, as they sat together in the school-room, waiting 
 for the hour to come; shan't you be very dull and 
 lonely ? ' 
 
 Nina had certainly felt a little dismayed at the pros- 
 pect. She had learned to prize his society so much^ 
 and to look forward to their long evenings together; 
 but she was glad he should have some change. So she 
 did not let her own disappointment appear. 
 
 ' I shall go to bed soon,' she answered. 
 
 * Yes ; and I'll come and tell you all about it on my 
 way to bed,' he said eagerly. f 
 
 It was an unfortunate evening for Nina to be left 
 alone ; for she was still haunted by the words she had 
 overheard the night before, and her mind was full of ' 
 fears about her little brother. He had caught a fresh 
 cold a day or two before, and two nights running she 1 
 had found him awake and coughing. 
 
 When Mervyn was gone down stairs, she went to the 
 bed-room nursery, and found him awake again. No 
 singing by his side had any effect ; and at last she took 
 him out of bed, wrapped him up in a shawl, and walked 
 him up and down the room. After a time he dozed off, 
 
SUNDAY AT GRANT ON. 263 
 
 and slie was putting him gently into bed again, when 
 the head nurse came in. She was very much offended 
 at the whole transaction, and gave vent to her annoyance 
 in a volley of words. But Nina did not heed her. 
 Totty was asleep. That was all she cared for, and she 
 returned to her bed-room comparatively satisfied about 
 him. She was dropping off to sleep herself when 
 Mervyn rushed in, full of what had been said and done 
 down stairs, and his hands full of candied orange-peel 
 and other delicacies which he had saved for her from his 
 own dessert, and which he crammed into her mouth in 
 the darkness with great vigour. 
 
264 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 A M I DNIGHT SCENE. 
 
 Colonel and Mrs. Middleton attended a county ball the 
 next evening, and as they drove home from it Mrs. 
 Middleton mnsed with great satisfaction on the events 
 of the evening. She had, altogether, been very suc- 
 cessful. Her party had enjoyed themselves ; she had 
 provided some of the prettiest girls in the room ; and she 
 herself had been asked to dance nearly all the quadrilles 
 and lancers. This last was a great satisfaction to her, 
 because she was always a little shaky about her age, 
 always a little afraid that she was considered a middle- 
 aged woman. Her husband looked, and was, so much 
 younger than she, that she was constantly in dread of 
 being taken for his mother. 
 
 They reached home at about half-past one o'clock; 
 and after wishing her guests good-night, Mrs. Middleton 
 went slowly up the stairs, candle in hand, humming a 
 waltz, and laughingly remarking to her husband that 
 her feet quite ached with dancing. 
 
 As she passed a great mirror on the stairs, she invo- 
 luntarily stopped to look at the reflection of herself in 
 it, with the light of the lamp shining on her. The 
 
A MIDNIGHT SCENE. 265 
 
 glass gave back tlie picture of a prosperous woman, a 
 woman satisfied with herself, and on good terms with 
 the world in general. 
 
 ' I am sure I improve in looks as I get older,' she 
 inwardly reflected. *I hope it will go on till Mna 
 comes out.' 
 
 She was moving slowly on, when a sound from 
 upstairs caused her involuntarily to stop and listen. 
 
 It was a low wailing cry from the direction of the 
 nursery ; and coming on the top of such different 
 reflections, it struck her with a kind of chill. 
 
 ' It is Totty,' she said half out loud. ' What can 
 make him cry at this hour ? ' Then she remembered 
 how Wilson the head-nurse was away for a night, and 
 how that probably he was affected by her absence. She 
 listened again, and the cry was repeated. 
 
 ' Too bad of Wilson,' muttered Mrs. Middleton ; ' she 
 accustoms him to this walking and singing, and now he 
 can't sleep without it.' 
 
 She walked on ; but the wailing increased, and she 
 stopped again to listen. 
 
 ' Perhaps he is not well. I think I will go up and 
 see what is the matter ; but I must get off my gown 
 first.' 
 
 She went into her dressing-room, and rang for her 
 maid ; but the sound of crying pursued her even there, 
 and she began to get uneasy. 
 
 ' Go up to the nursery, and see what is the matter 
 with Master Thomas,' she said hastily, as soon as her 
 maid appeared. 
 
^66 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 She walked up and down rather restlessly meanwhile. 
 * So tiresome, if he is going to be ill while Wilson is 
 away.' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton had no experience of illness ; all her 
 children had been strong ; and Totty, the only excep- 
 tion, she had always given over entirely to Wilson in 
 matters of health. She thought she saw difficulties 
 presenting themselves, and it made her rather nervous. 
 She continued to pace up and down till her maid re- 
 appeared. 
 
 * Well ? ' she said sharply. 
 
 ' Master Thomas seems very unwell, ma'am,' said the 
 maid. * The nursery-maid says he has not slept more 
 than an hour all night, and she can do nothing with 
 him. He seems very feverish, and coughs a good deal.' 
 
 ' Wait here till I come back,' said Mrs. Middleton ; 
 and she went straight upstairs as she was — satin gown, 
 wreath, diamonds, and all. She stopped for a minute 
 at the door of the bed-room nursery and looked in. 
 
 Totty, evidently very feverish, was tossing about 
 restlessly, crying and coughing. The nursery-maid 
 was sitting on his bed, vainly trying to quiet him and 
 get him to sleep. 
 
 * Sing Dinah,' he kept on saying piteously. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton was frightened. The child looked so 
 frail and ill, and she was so unaccustomed to the sight 
 of sick children. Totty, though delicate, had seldom 
 been seriously ill ; and she felt so helpless in the absence 
 of the nurse, and saw that the nursery-maid was help- 
 less too. 
 
A MIDNIGHT SCENE. 267 
 
 It was sucli a sudden change from the gay scene she 
 had left — so quick a transition from the thoughts on 
 which her mind had been so lately dwelling. In her 
 fear she jumped to conclusions directly. It was a new 
 sensation for her. She had never lost a child, or con- 
 ceived the possibility of such a thing ; and as the idea 
 rushed upon her, a feeling of rare tenderness rose in 
 her breast, and she told herself that Totty, of all her 
 children, was the one she could least spare. * He is 
 the only one of the lot who ever comes to be kissed, 
 or shows me any affection,' said an unwonted voice in 
 her heart. The sense of personal responsibility, too, 
 weighed her down, and she advanced very nervously 
 into the room. Still it was with her usual imperious 
 manner that she motioned away the nursery-maid, and 
 took her place on the bed. 
 
 But she had forgotten how startling her appearance 
 would be to the child — a figure decked in satin and 
 flowers coming into his room in the darkness — and was 
 not prepared for the convulsive start, and the expres- 
 sion of terror in his eyes. 
 
 * Go away, go away ! ' he exclaimed, shrinking from 
 her. ' I don't want you. Smart lady, go away.' 
 
 With the unwonted tenderness swelling in her heart, 
 the child's words fell blankly on the mother's ear. 
 Not a muscle of her face moved : for all the world, she 
 would not have shown how much they hurt her; but 
 they hit her none the less sharply for that. 
 
 She was obliged to get up and move out of the way, 
 while the dismayed nursery-maid exclaimed, ' Master 
 
268 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 Totty, dear ! it's your mamma ! Don't you know your 
 mamma ? ' 
 
 Totty stared hard, and Mrs. Middleton again advanced 
 to the bed ; but the moment the night-light shone upon 
 her, he clung to Jane, as terrified as ever. 
 
 * No, no ! ' he cried, ' send her away. She shines so. 
 She's on fire. Take the fire away. I'm so hot.' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton and Jane both thought he must be 
 raving, till the latter perceived that the light just 
 caught the necklace and pendant on Mrs. Middleton's 
 neck, making them glow and sparkle. 
 
 * I think it's the diamonds, ma'am,' she said timidly ; 
 for all the servants were afraid of Mrs. Middleton. 
 
 ' Then undo the thing and take it ofi*,' said her 
 mistress, harshly ; ' and be quick ! ' 
 
 She came near and held her head, so that Jane should 
 unfasten the clasp. In so doing the light played upon 
 her tiara, and Totty bursts out again. 
 
 * Her hair . . . the fire ! . . . Look ! ' 
 "With no gentle hand Mrs. Middleton tore the tiara 
 
 from her head and thrust it, with the necklace and 
 bracelets, into Jane's hand. 
 
 *Take them and throw them under the bed,' she 
 exclaimed. Her voice sounded dry and hard, and the 
 hand which held out the diamonds trembled a little ; 
 but her face was immovable. 
 
 'Totty, don't you know mamma now?' she said, 
 bending over the child. 
 
 The lustrous blue eyes met hers for a moment, and 
 their glance was one of recognition ; but there was no 
 
A MIDNIGHT SCENE, 269 
 
 sign of pleasure, no sign hardly of interest, and lie 
 relapsed into liis wailing cry, ' Sing Dinah, mamma.' 
 
 ' What does he mean, Jane ? ' 
 
 ' It's some song, ma'am, that Mrs. Wilson sings him 
 to sleep with, and he's been asking for it all night. 
 The tune's gone out of my head, or else I believe I 
 should have got him to sleep long ago.' 
 
 * Mamma will sing you to sleep to-night, Totty,' 
 whispered Mrs. Middleton. ' What shall she sing ? ' 
 
 * Sing Dinah, mamma,' he repeated. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton had dance music ringing in her head, 
 and began humming a slow, soothing valse. 
 
 But Totty burst out crying. ' ISTot that ! not that ! 
 Sing Dinah.' 
 
 Poor Mrs. Middleton tried another tune, but each 
 one was received by the same plaintive entreaty : * Oh, 
 please, not that. Sing Dinah.' 
 
 * But, my dear little boy,' she exclaimed, quite in 
 despair, * I don't know Dinah. I can't sing it.' 
 
 All the mother was awake in her now, and she felt 
 she would give anything in the world, to be able to 
 find out what the poor httle fellow wanted, and to be 
 the one to soothe him to sleep. 
 
 He was getting very excited, and the chances of sleep 
 seemed slighter every moment. Crying, too, made him 
 cough more violently ; and altogether she was getting 
 quite alarmed about him. 
 
 Anxiety had the effect of making her angry, and she 
 turned sharply round upon Jane. 
 
 ' How is it you can't remember this tune ? ' 
 
O70 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 * rm very sorry, ma'am,' answered Jane, ' but it's 
 clean gone out of my head. He'd go to sleep in a 
 minute if *we could find it, and he'd wake quite well, 
 for it's sleep he wants more than anything.' 
 
 * But what is to be done if we can't get him to sleep ? ' 
 exclaimed Mrs. Middleton. ' Good gracious ! is there 
 no one in the house who has heard the child sung to 
 sleep, night after night as it goes on? Does no one 
 ever come near the nursery, or take the slightest interest 
 in . . . .' What could haye made Mrs. Middleton 
 stop short in her sentence, and have caused that curious 
 expression to pass over her face ? Her theories and her 
 practice were perfect ; she never could conceive herself 
 to blame in any way ; she never by any chance owned 
 herself in the wrong ; everything that she did must be 
 right, simply because she did it. What, then, could 
 have made her cheek flush a little as she put the ques- 
 tion ? And why did she stop short in her lecture to the 
 nursery-maid? And why at that moment, of all moments, 
 when her thoughts were so pre-occupied, should a foolish 
 old proverb come dinning in her head, which she had 
 not heard or thought of for years : ' They that live in 
 glass houses should not throw stones ? ' ' What is to be 
 done ? ' she hastily finished. 
 
 The nursery-maid was about to answer, wben a slight 
 sound at the door made her look round ; and she was 
 BO startled at what she saw there, that an exclammation 
 burst from her lips, which Mrs. Middleton was too pre- 
 occupied to notice. 
 
 There, standing in the doorway, was Nina. She was 
 
A MIDNIGHT SCENE. 271 
 
 in lier little white night-gowii, and her feet were bare. 
 Her dark hair hung down over her shoulders, and she 
 carried a little lamp in her hand. The light, shining 
 on her features, revealed her handsome little face, wear- 
 ing its most resolute expression. Steadily she advanced 
 into the room, and her mother, bending over Totty, with 
 her back to the door, did not perceive her entrance. 
 Nearer and nearer she came, her eyes bright with ex- 
 citement, and yet having in them a far-away expression, 
 as if they reached on to her gaol, Totty's bedside, and 
 saw nothing either to the right hand or the left on the 
 way. Still Mrs. Middleton did not look round. Totty 
 began tossing about more restlessly than ever, per- 
 petually moaning, * I so sleepy, so sleepy. Sing Dinah, 
 mamma.' 
 
 ' My poor little boy,' exclaimed Mrs. Middleton, * I 
 wish I could. But I don't know the song, dear ; I never 
 heard it.' 
 
 * I can sing it,' said a clear young voice close by ; and 
 Mrs. Middleton, turning sharply round, came face to 
 face with her little daughter. Astonishment took from 
 her the power of utterance. She gazed at the little 
 white-robed figure as if it had been an apparition ; 
 though, even in the startled hurry of the moment, she 
 had time to admire the handsome little face with the 
 lamp-light on it, the dark eyes shining like two stars, 
 and the firm mouth. Nina met her mother's glance 
 fully, and did not shrink the least. In fact she was the 
 most unconcerned of the two, for Mrs. Middleton did 
 shrink a little from the glance of defiance shot at her 
 
272 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 from those sparkling eyes. Slie was in an unusually 
 tender frame of mind ; unnerved and anxious ; more in 
 need of loving sympathy than she had ever been in her 
 life ; and perhaps it struck her, as she met that glance, 
 how utterly void of child-like affection were those dark 
 eyes. Perhaps, too, already hurt by Totty's indifference, 
 she was wounded to find the same feeling intensified in 
 the heart of another of her children. But for the 
 moment, all these feelings were drowned in relief, when 
 Totty held out his arms to his sister, and said : * Carry 
 me, Nina ; put me to sleep ; ' and Mna answered, ' Yes, 
 darling, T will/ 
 
 Mrs. Middleton watched her as in a dream. She 
 saw Nina put down the lamp, and, bending over Totty, 
 push back the hair from his face, and arrange his night- 
 gown about his feet. She saw, with astonishment, 
 the eyes that had shot defiance at her, assume the 
 glow of tender affection. She saw the love and the 
 pity breaking out from all parts of the face, till the 
 child seemed transformed, and she was too bewildered 
 to speak. 
 
 * Sing Dinah, Nina ; sing Dinah ! ' 
 
 * I will, darling, I will,' 
 
 Did that soft whisper come from Nina, from that cold 
 imperious child? How tenderly she lifts him in her 
 arms, and how confidingly he puts his head on her 
 shoulder, and his arms round her neck. Fearing that 
 he may be cold she wraps a worsted shawl round him, 
 carefully enveloping his little bare feet. The oft- 
 repeated entreaty meets with a resnonse now, and softly 
 
A MIDNIGHT SCENE. 
 
 273 
 
 tlie quaint ditty sounds through tlie room, and the 
 plaintive wail of the child ceases. 
 
 ^^^^ 
 
 "Why did they sell my Di - - nah ? Why did they sell my Di 
 
 nah ? Why did they sell my Di - nah, Upon my wed-ding-day ? 
 
 Gradually the heavy eyes close, the arms relax their 
 hold, and he falls asleep. 
 
 Meanwhile, what are the feelings of the mother, thus^ 
 set aside, and vanquished ? They are mixed and various. 
 Something have they of relief, something of humiliation, 
 and something of admiration, not unmixed with a kind 
 of anger and jealousy. She could not tell why that 
 longing had risen in her breast to do for her boy what 
 he so earnestly desired, nor why her heart was so sore 
 at not being able. And then to see another — and that 
 other her own child — step in where there was uo place 
 
 T 
 
274 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 for her, and do what slie had been powerless to accom. 
 plish! And do it, too, in such an independent way. 
 That was what galled her so. They were both inde- 
 pendent of her, these children. She was an outsider, a 
 looker-on ; she, their motlier ; she, who had always been 
 accustomed to be first of all, and to be put before eyery- 
 body. Here she was nobody. It was a sore humilia- 
 tion ; her feelings and her pride were alike hurt by it. 
 
 * Why do I not gain my children's affection ? ' she 
 asked herself bitterly, as she watched the two pacing up 
 and down — ^both seeming so far from her, so near to 
 each other. 
 
 In spite of herself, she was fascinated watching them ; 
 in spite of herself, she admired and gazed at them. In 
 spite of herself, Mna's watchful face, bending over the 
 sleeping boy, attracted her and filled her with a new 
 feeling. She could not help looking at her with a certain 
 kind of respect ; she felt that there was that in the child 
 of which she had had no idea ; realised that there were 
 two sides to Nina's character, and was puzzled. The 
 one Nina was well known to her, but this Nina was a 
 stranger ; this one lived a life of which she, her mother, 
 knew nothing, and with which she had nothing to do. 
 And, with a sharp pang at her heart, came into her 
 mind the passage — ' Thou hast neither part nor lot in 
 this matter.' 
 
 Ever since the arrival of Mervyn, with his engaging 
 ways and pretty little attentions, she had had a dis- 
 satisfied feeling about her own children, and wondered 
 wherein the difference lay. Now she began to think 
 
A MIDNIGHT SCENE. 276 
 
 that in Mna, perhaps, the same feelings lay dormant, 
 and that it was slie who failed in drawing them out. 
 For the first time, she began to doubt herself, and to 
 question a little whether the fault did not lie with her. 
 The look which Mna had shot at her had hurt her, 
 frightened her ; there was something so like hatred in 
 the glance. It came just at the moment, too, when she 
 was feeling so unusually tender ; otherwise she would 
 not bave noticed it. Generally, sbe ascribed sucb ex- 
 pressions in Nina's face to the cbild's nature ; she was 
 cold, proud, unaccountable. But how could she think 
 this now? How could she mistake the tenderness 
 which pervaded every line of the face which was bend- 
 ing over the sleeping boy ? 
 
 ISTina, all this time, was quite unconscious of her 
 mother's presence. She was entirely wrapped in her 
 little brother, and had forgotten everything in her 
 anxiety for him. Up and down she paced, up and 
 down, still softly singing the monotonous tune ; watch- 
 ing with trembling anxiety the little face on her 
 shoulder, lest the child should awake again. 
 
 Satisfied at last that he was sleeping soundly, she 
 signed to tbe nursery-maid to re-arrange his bed, and 
 then gently laid him down. But to the last she con- 
 tinued singing, lest the change of position should rouse 
 him. 
 
 Her labour of love completed, she sank down on a 
 chair exhausted, arms and knees alike trembling under 
 the boy's weight. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton's impulse was to take her in her arms 
 t2 
 
276 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 and thank her, so great was the relief of seeing Totty 
 sleeping at last. But a kind of shyness born of prido 
 prevented her. She told herself not to act on impulse, 
 but to consider first what she meant to say. 
 
 She rose, and bent over the little bed, to gain a few 
 moments for reflection. When she turned round Mna 
 was gone. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton hurried after her ; but when she got 
 to the door the child had disappeared. The mother 
 strained her eyes through the darkness, to see if she 
 could catch a glimpse of the little white figure thread- 
 ing its way along the passages ; but she saw no sign 
 of it. ♦ 
 
 With a sense of disappointment for which she could 
 not account, she turned towards her own apartments. 
 The clock struck three as she entered her dressing- 
 room ; the candles had burnt down in their sockets, and 
 her maid had fallen asleep by the fire. 
 
WAH TO THE KNIFE, 277 
 
 CHAPTER XYIJI. 
 
 WAR TO THE KNIFE. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton woke the next morning to hear that 
 Totty had passed a good night, and was pretty well. 
 Things often look very different by daylight ; and she 
 told herself she had been unnecessarily alarmed. With 
 the night, too, her other phases of feeling passed away, 
 and she accused herself of weakness with regard to 
 both children. 
 
 Mna's conduct, certainly, still filled her with surprise, 
 but it ceased to inspire her with any deeper emotion. 
 She mused upon it for a long time, but could not 
 understand it the least. That it was her habit to be a 
 great deal with Totty was evident, and that she exer- 
 cised a very strong influence over him was also very 
 clear. 
 
 * I never saw her notice the younger ones,' she re- 
 flected. 
 
 In vain did Mrs. Middleton try to get to the bottom 
 of it. She went up to the nursery as soon as she was 
 dressed. She heard Kina and Cecily going down to 
 their school-room breakfast, and was provoked with 
 herself to find that she was glad she had not passed 
 
a78 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 them on the stairs. She could not conceal from herself 
 that she shrank from meeting Nina after what had 
 occurred. 
 
 She found Tottj pale and languid, with a good deal 
 of cough, but otherwise much as he had been for some 
 time past. 
 
 In the course of the day Wilson, the head-nurse 
 returned, and Mrs. Middleton had a long talk with her, 
 in her dressing-room, about the boj. She harped on 
 the old subject of singing him to sleep, proving that it 
 was to that habit that all the mischief of last night was 
 attributable. 
 
 * I always said so, Wilson, and now you see how 
 right I am. The consequence, is, that you can't ga 
 away for a night without the child making himself ill 
 for want of sleep.' 
 
 She then proceeded to relate how Mna had appeared, 
 and how at last Totty had been got to sleep. She was 
 too proud to ask Wilson any questions ; but rather 
 hoped the nurse might, in her answer, throw some light 
 upon the subject. 
 
 Wilson, in defending herself, somehow contrived to 
 throw the blame upon Nina, implying that, of course, 
 if the child expected his sister after he had been put to 
 bed, he lay awake waiting for her. 
 
 'What do you mean ? ' asked Mrs. Middleton. 
 
 Wilson answered, that for some weeks past she had 
 been trying to break Totty of the habit, as he seemed a 
 a little stronger, and had more than once put him to 
 bed awake; but that one evening, on returning at 
 
WAB TO THE KNIFE, 279 
 
 supper-time to see liow lie was getting on, she had 
 found Miss Nina singing him to sleep. 
 
 The conversation lasted some time, and when it was 
 over, Wilson was dispatched to the school-room to tell 
 Miss Middleton she was to come at once to her mother's 
 dressing-room. 
 
 When the nurse was gone, Mrs. Middleton went to 
 the open window and leaned out. She was musing on 
 the events of the night, and on what had passed be- 
 between her and Wilson. She was also trying to settle 
 in her own mind what she meant to say to Nina when 
 she appeared. She was determined to be very firm, and 
 to insist upon obedience. The arm of the law was on 
 her side, and she was going to take full advantage of it. 
 And yet, for once in her life, she felt a little nervous at 
 the prospect. She had an intuitive instinct that a 
 struggle was impending, and hardly knew how to 
 nerve herself to meet it. The child had come out in 
 such a new light that she felt a little afraid of her ; 
 involuntarily she respected her ; she could not but feel 
 that Nina had been victorious last night, and who 
 could tell that she would not be the victor again ? 
 
 Leaning out of the window, she debated the question 
 in her mind, and could find no satisfactory answer. So, 
 once before, did we see Magdalen Lyndsay stand ; feel- 
 ing, just like Mrs. Middleton, that a struggle was im- 
 pending ; and, like her, trying to nerve herself to meet it. 
 But how differently ! Love, gentleness, and patience, 
 were the weapons with which she armed herself, and 
 she came to the conflict with prayer. Mrs. Middle- 
 
280 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 ton was destitute of all these, and unconscions how 
 defenceless she was without them. Her weapons were 
 a strong will, uncompromising determination, and the 
 power of authority. We shall see how she fared with 
 them. 
 
 Three months ago that day, mother and son faced 
 the struggle of their lives ; mother and daughter have 
 theirs before them now 
 
 * Do you want me, mamma ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton started as the clear young voice 
 sounded in the room, and involuntarily shrank back a 
 little. It brought back so clearly the scene of last 
 night, and the way in which the same measured tones 
 had fallen on her ear — * I can sing it.' She recalled so 
 vividly her feelings when she turned round and con- 
 fronted the little white-robed figure with its streaming 
 hair, and the sense almost of fear with which she had 
 met the glance of those sparkling eyes. She felt as if 
 •she could not encounter them again, lest she should 
 read in them the dislike which had dismayed her 
 before. 
 
 And then the cold ring in the voice, the indifferent, 
 independent tone. Just so had it rung on her ear at 
 midnight ; hurting and galling her as it fell. It hurt 
 and galled her now. And, as if to bring out the cold 
 indifference in sharper contrast, how it had changed to 
 thrilling tones of love directly after, in answer to Totty's 
 appeal. 
 
 * 1 will, darling, I will.' 
 
 She felt almost as jealous of the girl's love for her 
 
WAH TO THE KNIFE. 281 
 
 brother, as she liad felt for the boy's love for Mna. 
 Both so independent of her. She was stung, injured, 
 and indignant, all in one. She felt more unwilling 
 every instant to confront the child again. With the 
 little figure photographed in her mind, she dreaded to 
 turn round and see it standing there. 
 
 But sooner or later it must be done ; and she wheeled 
 round suddenly, and saw Nina standing in the doorway. 
 But the aspect of the girl in her school-room pinafore, 
 and plaited hair, was so different to that of the image 
 she had conjured up, that Mrs. Middleton took courage. 
 
 The sparkle in the eyes was gone, and they were 
 heavy with want of sleep and undue excitement. There 
 was no brilliancy in the face ; it was very white, and 
 the child looked altogether ill and languid. Many 
 mothers would have taken alarm at the girl's appear- 
 ance, but Mrs. Middleton' s only feehng was personal 
 relief. 
 
 The pale little school-room girl before her was a 
 different creature to the beautiful defying apparition of 
 last night ; and she felt less nervous at the thought of 
 the task which lay before her. 
 
 ' Come in, and shut the door,' she said. 
 
 Nina obeyed, and came and stood in front of her 
 mother, who had meanwhile seated herself in an arm- 
 <5hair. And then there was a silence. Nina waited 
 quietly for her mother to begin; and Mrs. Middleton 
 felt that nothing was more impossible. There she sat, 
 and there, opposite her, stood the erect, motionless little 
 €gure. 
 
THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 The ticking of the clock, and the crackling of the 
 fire, were distinctly heard in the silence that reigned in 
 the room. Mrs. Middleton got quite provoked with 
 herself at last for not knowing how to begin, but feared 
 being at a disadvantage if she hurried into the discussion 
 too unguardedly. 
 
 * Totty is better,' she said at last. 
 
 Clearly Mna had not expected this beginning, for her 
 eyes softened a little, and a faint glow broke out on her 
 cheek. 
 
 * Yes,' she answered. 
 
 * Did you know it before, ^ina ? ' 
 
 * Yes, mamma.' 
 *How?' 
 ISTina hesitated. 
 
 * Speak out ! ' said Mrs. Middleton, sharply. 
 
 Nina's face instantly assumed an expression of 
 haughty indijQTerence. 
 
 * I saw him this morning,' she answered. 
 
 ' Indeed ! And pray how do you find time to pay 
 visits to the nursery between breakfast and your 
 lessons ? ' 
 
 * It wasn't between breakfast and lessons.' 
 ' When was it, then ? ' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 ' Nina ! answer me directly.' 
 
 ' It was before breakfast.' 
 
 * Why, I was up there myself at eight, and heard you 
 and Cecily going straight down from your room to the 
 school-room.' 
 
WAH TO THE KNIFE. 28a 
 
 ' It was before that.' 
 
 ' Tell me instantly when it was.' 
 
 * I don't know the exact hour.' 
 
 * Was it before your hair was done ? ' 
 • 'Yes.' 
 
 * Was it before you were dressed ? ' 
 *Yes.' 
 
 * Was it directly you were called ? ' 
 ' No.' 
 
 ' When was it then ? Speak out.' 
 
 Yery unwillingly the answer came. ' It was before I 
 '^was called, directly I woke; but I don't know what 
 o'clock it was.' 
 
 A short silence after this. Mrs. Middleton, with that 
 sore jealous feeling increasing in her heart, saw that 
 Nina's anxiety had been greater than her own, and that 
 she had been beforehand with her in enquiring after the 
 boy's health. She was nettled, and lost her temper. 
 
 ' And pray how long is it since you took this fancy to 
 Totty ? ' she said, in her most disagreeable manner. * I 
 thought you were too grand to play with the younger 
 ones.' 
 
 Poor Nina ! This sudden attack was too much for 
 her. Her eyes filled with tears, and she twisted her 
 hands nervously together. There was a terrible struggle 
 between her feelings and her pride. She would have 
 given worlds to have said she didn't care for Totty 
 much, while at the same time the very thought of him 
 made her heart beat wildly. 
 
 Mrs, Middleton felt more irritated than she had been 
 
284 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 yet. No word of hers produced any effect upon Mna, 
 while the very mention of her little brother produced 
 this wonderful change. Again she seemed to see the 
 face sbe had watched last night hurl defiance at her, 
 and then melt and glow as it bent over Totty. Again 
 she felt the outsider — the looker-on. Again she felt 
 how near the two were together, and how completely 
 independent of her. A few minutes ago she had felt 
 jealous of Mna for having been beforehand with her 
 that morning in showing anxiety and love for Totty. 
 Ncm she felt jealous of Totty for being able to inspire 
 all gentle emotions where she failed to extract anything ^ 
 but coldness and indifference. She bit her lip fiercely, 
 lest her face should betray some of the emotion she felt. 
 
 *How long,' she resumed presently, 'have you been 
 in the habit of going to the nursery after Totty is in 
 "bed?' 
 
 Nina winced a little, and then answered, * I can't 
 remember.' 
 
 ' That is nonsense, Nina.' 
 
 * I really can't, mamma.' 
 
 ' Then think.' 
 
 The ticking of the clock and the cracking of the fire 
 again made themselves heard; and Mrs. Middleton 
 wondered if the girl meant to answer, and what course 
 was to be pursued if she did not. 
 
 But Nina raised her head presently, and said, 
 
 Mt may be two years, or more. I have done it for so 
 long that I can't remember.' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton was quite overwhelmed with astonish- 
 
WAR TO THE KNIFE. 285 
 
 ment. *Wlij, Wilson spoke of it as of quite a new 
 thing the last few days.' 
 ' Wilson didn't know.' 
 
 * Did no one ever know ? ' 
 
 * JS'o, no one . . except . . .' 
 
 * Except who ? ' 
 
 ' Except Mervyn. He fonnd it ont.' 
 
 The calm cold little voice softened just a little as it 
 pronounced Mervyn' s name ; and the mother, with that 
 sore jealous feeling lying in her breast, noticed it directly. 
 Here, then, was another who could awaken in her child 
 feelings she herself was powerless to inspire. 
 
 * Why did you not tell me ? ' she burst out. 
 
 * Why should I ? ' answered Nina. 
 
 The cold answer stung Mrs. Middleton to the quick. 
 It showed again the perfect independence, the complete 
 indifference. It was as much to say, ' Why should I tell 
 you of my hopes, my fears, my sorrows ? What are they 
 to you?' 
 
 And surging once more in her brain was the verse 
 which had come into her mind with such a sharp pang 
 last night — ' Thou hast neither part nor lot in this 
 matter.' 
 
 * You knew very well I should forbid it,' she said, 
 coldly, after a few minutes' pause ; * I suppose that was 
 why.' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 ' At any rate, now that I know it, I do forbid it. You 
 must never do it again, Nina.' 
 
 The hot blood came rushiiig all over Nina's face and 
 
286 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 neck, and she pressed iter hands tightly together. She 
 lost all control over himself for a moment. 
 
 * Never do it again ! ' she exclaimed breathlessly, 
 * never go and see Totty at night again ! Oh mamma, 
 mamma, you can't mean it ! ' 
 
 * But I do mean it,' answered Mrs. Middleton. 
 
 * And why ? ' burst out Mna. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton, taken by surprise, was about to say 
 it was for Totty's own good, and to repeat what Wilson 
 had said about the child lying awake, expecting his 
 sister ; but !N'ina's flashing eyes and imperious manner 
 put her back up, and she asked herself why she should 
 condescend to explain her reasons. Her innate selfish- 
 ness resumed its sway ; and, forgetting the child's side 
 of the question, she only thought of her own, and grew 
 indignant at the idea of her authority being questioned. 
 
 * That is no business of yours,' she answered in a hard 
 dry voice. ' Those are my orders, and all you have got 
 to do is to obey them.' 
 
 All the passionate feeling faded out of Mna's eyes as 
 she listened. The flush died away from her cheek ; she 
 drew herself up a little, and her face became almost rigid. 
 She had evidently taken a resolution of some kind, and 
 by it meant to abide. Mrs. Middleton waited for an 
 answer, but none came. 
 
 * Nina ! ' she exclaimed, angrily, 
 
 * Yes, mamma.' 
 
 * Do you hear what I say ? ' 
 
 * Yes, mamma.* 
 
 * Are you going to obey me ? 
 
WAIt TO THE KNIFE. 287 
 
 Very quietly tlie child raised lier dark eyes, looked 
 lier motlier full in the face, and answered, in a low clear 
 voice, * I cannot obey you, mamma/ 
 
 Mrs. Middleton could hardly believe her ears. She 
 was dumbfounded, and did not know how to proceed. 
 Her temper got the better of her. 
 
 * How dare you speak to me like that ? ' she ex- 
 claimed ; ' what do you mean by saying such a thing to 
 your mother ? — a wretched little girl like you ! ' 
 
 An angry retort rose to Mna's lips, when she heard 
 a sound in the garden below, and she checked herself 
 and listened. It was Mervyn's voice, calling to her in 
 tones of great joy and excitement. 
 
 * Mna ! JSTina ! where are you ? I have got a letter 
 from mother, and I want to read it to you. Oh, Mna ! 
 it is such a dear letter.' 
 
 And a sound followed as if the boy were rapturously 
 kissing the paper. Mother and daughter, confronting 
 each other with flashing eyes and stormy faces, both 
 heard the words and the eager embraces ; both re- 
 cognised the glad love in the tones ; and both instinc- 
 tively averted their glance, one from the other. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton turned sharply away to the window, 
 and pretended to be looking out, and Nina hastily 
 dashed away a tear that she felt rising to her eyes. 
 
 ' You are the coldest, most unnatural child in the 
 world,' said Mrs. Middleton, much agitated. * J wish 
 Mervyn was my child instead of you.' 
 
 The moment she had said the words she would have 
 given worlds to recall them. She was determined to 
 
288 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 crush the spirit of rebellion and disobedience in her 
 daughter by the force of authority, and feared she had 
 lost ground by her momentary weakness. She changed 
 her tone directly. 
 
 * Either you will obey me, Nina,' she said in her 
 hardest manner, *or you will take the consequence. 
 So choose for yourself Do not for an instant suppose 
 I am not going to have my way.' 
 
 There is no saying what answer ITina would have 
 made a few moments before; but the very sound of 
 Mervyn's voice had woke up all her better feelings, and 
 her frame of mind had changed. She was touched, too^ 
 by her mother's unusual display of feeling. 
 
 * Mamma,' she said, earnestly, * I do not want to dis- 
 obey you ; indeed I do not. But I cannot promise not 
 to go and see Totty, because I know I should break my 
 word. Please do not ask me.' 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke. But, alas \ 
 as we have said, Mrs. Middleton's frame of mind had 
 changed too, and she was angry with herself for having 
 shown weakness, and with the child for having noticed 
 it. 
 
 She thought, too, that Nina's emotion rose from the 
 sense of being defeated, and she eagerly seized upon the 
 temporary advantage it gave her. She turned round, 
 and spoke sharply, harshly — showed plainly that she 
 looked upon their relative positions as those of task- 
 master and slave, and laid down her commands accord- 
 ingly. It was the first time she had been thwarted so 
 resolutely in her life, and she was determined it should 
 be the last. 
 
WAJR TO THE KNITE. 289 
 
 Nina's spirit was roused too. She answered angrily 
 and disrespectfully. The outward covering of good 
 behaviour was thrown off, and Mrs. Middleton realised 
 that she had really no power or influence over the girl 
 whatever. 
 
 In that galling moment she learnt what an obedience 
 is worth which is not founded on religion, love, or vene- 
 ration. It was, as has been predicted, war to the knife 
 between mother and daughter. Mrs. Middleton felt she 
 had failed, and was at her wit's end. Stung with mor- 
 tification in addition to all other feelings, she completely 
 lost all control over herself. ' Once for all, and for the 
 last time,' she cried, 'will you obey me or will you 
 not?' 
 
 ' I cannot promise,' the girl answered firmly. 
 
 ' Then go out of my sight this instant ! ' And Nina 
 turned, and went. 
 
290 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 NINA. 
 
 On the night of the comity ball Nina had been awakened 
 by the wheels of the carriage that brought her father 
 and mother home. All the day preceding she had been 
 unable to divest herself of the idea that Totty was 
 worse ; not, as she told herself, on account of what she 
 had overheard in the wood, but because he really seemed 
 to her to cough more, and to be weaker and more languid 
 than usual. 
 
 Her room was hot, and she got up, and opened her 
 door. It was then that she heard Totty crying and 
 coughing ; and after listening for a few minutes, she 
 made up her mind to go and see what was the matter ; 
 for she remembered that Wilson was away, and that 
 Totty was not much accustomed to the nursery-maid. 
 She was surprised and alarmed, when she reached the 
 nursery-door, to find it open, and to hear voices and see 
 lights in the room ; but her astonishment increased 
 when, peeping in, she saw her mother sitting by the 
 bed. Puzzled and frightened, she withdrew for a 
 minute, but soon returned to try and discover what was 
 going on. 
 
NINA. 291 
 
 She took in tlie state of aiSairs in a little while, and 
 she saw how necessary, for Totty's sake, her presence 
 and assistance were ; but she could not at first make up 
 her mind to go in. Concern for him, however, over- 
 came, as we have seen, every other feeling. 
 
 As long as she was employed in soothing the boy, 
 she had not thought much about her mother ; but the 
 moment he was asleep, a sudden fit of nervous shyness 
 had seized her, and she had fled away, regaining her 
 room with a beating heart. She had jumped hastily 
 into bed, and had fallen asleep, dreaming that her 
 mother was pursuing her. 
 
 Totty's languor and cough, when she visited him 
 next morning, had impressed her more than it had Mrs. 
 Middleton, and her anxiety quite prevented her attend- 
 ing to her lessons. In the midst of a struggle between 
 French history and fresh fears, her mother's message 
 had reached her. She had presented herself before her 
 with some trepidation; the summons was so unusual. 
 She puzzled much over what could be wanted of her, 
 but concluded she was to be lectured for her conduct of 
 the night before. 
 
 Her mother's first words had softened her directly. 
 She had realised that Mrs. Middleton shared her anxiety 
 about Totty, and had felt more drawn towards her than 
 she had ever done before. But as the conversation 
 went on, other and less pure feelings had been aroused. 
 Still, through it all, breaking forth every now and then, 
 between the dark clouds of dissension, she had recognised 
 the gleams of her mother's newly-awakened love for 
 u2 
 
292 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 Totty. Then, too, she had been moved with surprise, 
 mingled with a kind of pity, when she saw how over- 
 come Mrs. Middleton was at the contrast between 
 Mervyn's love for his mother and her own indifference. 
 
 She had so keenly realised herself, since Mervyn's 
 arrival, the great want of love in their home, that she 
 was half sorry for her mother when she saw she going 
 to realise it too. She would have been glad to obey her 
 if she could, but she was too honest to promise what 
 she knew she should not perform. 
 
 Totty must be considered first ; she could not desert 
 him. It was no use her promising not to see him. She 
 knew that at the first sound of his cry, or at the mere 
 thought of his lying awake, frightened at every sound, 
 she should no more be able to keep away from him than 
 she could prevent the wind blowing in her face. Ear- 
 nestly she had spoken words to this effect, as we have 
 seen; hoping that her mother, who seemed really 
 touched by Totty' s condition, would see it in the same 
 light as herself. But her appeal had failed, and then, 
 alas ! had come upon her the change wrought by her 
 mother's harshness and outbreak of temper. 
 
 Mna had broken out then altogether. * Her mother's 
 words and manner had goaded her to madness, and she 
 had given vent to words of whose import and violence 
 she was hardly aware, till her return, after her summary 
 dismissal, to the calm of the school-room. 
 
 Sitting at her desk and musing over all that had passed, 
 she was able to think of the conversation more calmly. 
 She would have been more sorry or more frightened at 
 
NINA. 293 
 
 its result if concern for Totty had not been occupying 
 her mind so entirely. 
 
 As the day wore on, she accused herself of not having 
 done all she might on his behalf. Why had she not 
 tried more to inspire her mother with her own fears ? Why 
 had she not told her of the conversation she had over- 
 heard in the garden, and boldly asked her if it were 
 true ? And why had she irritated her mother into 
 laying this command upon her ? For in that light she 
 regarded her mother's prohibition, and as such she felt 
 she must try to obey it. She had not promised ; no, a 
 promise was too binding. Her word once given, she 
 would not have been able to retract. But she was going 
 to try and act up to her mother's injunction, if possible, 
 by doing all in her power to keep away from Totty that 
 night. So, as soon as Mervyn was gone down to 
 dessert, she went straight to her bed-room, undressed, 
 and got into bed. 
 
 But she had not lain down long before a sort of terror 
 came over her — a terror of the darkness, a terror of the 
 howling of the wind without, a terror of every little 
 sound within ; a nameless terror, a shapeless, causeless 
 fear. She had sometimes had it before, but never so 
 strong as this. She generally fought against it; but 
 to-night her nerves were unstrung by all she had been 
 through, and she could not cope with it as usual. It 
 was this, in her, that enabled her to feel so much for 
 Totty in his nervous fears and fancies. She never 
 laughed, but felt for him sincerely, when he sometimes 
 told her a black man had peeped at him from between 
 
2<)4 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 the curtains, or that a great big dog had come and sat 
 down close to his bed. 
 
 So, because she was thus restless herself, she feared 
 he might be restless too. Because she was suflPering 
 from imaginary terrors, she feared he might be suflfering 
 too. How that roaring noise of the wind in the chimney- 
 would frighten him ! And his bed was so near it, too ! 
 The restless desire to see and console him came upon 
 her with over-mastering power, and nine o'clock found 
 her stealing along the passage, lamp in hand. 
 
 Totty was asleep ; but he seemed to her to breathe 
 with such difficulty that she bent over him to listen, her 
 lips nearly touching him as she did so. When she 
 raised her head again, she became aware that she was 
 not alone in the room. In the dim light she saw a 
 figure sittmg by one of the other beds; and in that 
 figure she recognised — her mother ! 
 
 Very few and stern were the words that fell from 
 Mrs. Middleton's lips. She did not speak at all till 
 they got into the passage ; and then she told her 
 daughter that she had not believed it possible she 
 would be guilty of so flagrant an act of disobedience, 
 but had stationed herself in the nursery to see. That she 
 should for the future provide against the repetition of 
 such a breach of her commands. That sure and certain 
 means should be adopted to ensure an observance of 
 her orders ; and that in the meantime Mna was to 
 consider herself in disgrace, and not to attempt to speak 
 to, or hold any communication with her mother on any 
 pretence whatsoever. 
 
NINA. 295 
 
 Mrs. Middleton then disappeared down tlie passage, 
 and Nina went into her own room. 
 
 It was a very wearied little being that sank down 
 upon the bed. Exhausted she was, physically and 
 mentally. She had hardly heard what her mother was 
 saying ; the words had fallen on her ear without her 
 taking in how much they contained. For she could 
 think of nothing but Totty. She was sure she was 
 not mistaken about him ; certain that he was not so 
 well. His breathing seemed to her to come in jerks, 
 and he looked, even in his sleep, so very ill. She was 
 sure he ought to be shown to a doctor. To Nina, a 
 doctor was an infallible power that stood between sick- 
 ness and danger. In her present state of nerves and 
 feeling, the idea took hold of her with extraordinary 
 force. When she woke the next morning, the same 
 idea filled her mind. If only he were shown to a doctor, 
 she should feel safe and happy. But how was she to 
 get it done ? 
 
 Her mother was fully occupied with the county ball 
 party, not yet dispersed; and was not likely to pay 
 another visit to the nursery. Her temporary anxiety 
 about Totty was, Mna knew, completely allayed by his 
 improved appearance the morning before ; and, pro- 
 bably, by finding him sleeping quietly in the evening. 
 But, then, she had not bent over him and heard that 
 dreadful jerky breathing. Wilson would not very 
 likely notice it either, and would put down his languor 
 and paleness to the sleeplessness of Monday night. 
 Besides, poor little Totty had cried * Wolf ^ too often 
 
296 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 for Wilson to be likely to take alarm. All, then, 
 depended upon herself; and her whole heart was set 
 on accomplishing her object. Probably she would not 
 have been so alive to Totty's condition, had it not been 
 for what she had overheard. His appearance, when she 
 went for a minute into the nursery, only confirmed her 
 in her resolution. Wilson was not there, or perhaps 
 Nina would have tried to inspire the woman with her 
 own fears. All the morning long she was trying to 
 shape a plan, but it was very difficult to know how 
 to set about it. She half thought, in her desperation, 
 of going straight to her mother. But then she re- 
 membered that she was in disgrace, and had been 
 forbidden to approach her on any pretence whatsoever. 
 Besides, the futility of offering advice to Mrs. Middle- 
 ton could not but occur to her. She passed a rest- 
 less morning, and by luncheon-time could not hold 
 her head up. Unfortunately she saw nothing of 
 Mervyn, so she could not relieve herself by consulting 
 with him. 
 
 Colonel Middleton, full of his new idea that his 
 nephew was too much cooped up, had sent him out 
 rabbiting with the keeper, and there was no chance 
 of his return till dusk. Her luncheon was, by her 
 mother's orders, sent up to her in the school-room, 
 and Madame, realising that something was wrong, 
 dared not be lenient where Mrs. Middleton was severe ; 
 though she was alarmed at the girl's appearance, and 
 felt sure she was ill. She asked no questions, but she 
 took it upon herself to forbid Nina's going out that 
 
NINA. 297 
 
 afternoon, and begged lier to lie down and rest while 
 she and Cecily were taking their walk. So the child 
 was left alone in the school-room to her own sad 
 thoughts. Rest was out of the question. The body 
 could not rest while the mind was so unquiet. She 
 told herself, as she sat there, musing, that she was 
 doing nothing for Totty ; that the afternoon was wear- 
 ing on, and that every moment was precious. She 
 tortured herself by the thought that the days were 
 getting very short, that the night would soon be here, 
 and that then it would be more difficult to send for the 
 doctor. 
 
 ' K I am to do it at all,' she said at last, out loud, I 
 must do it at once. But what can I do ? ' 
 
 She got up and walked restlessly up and down the 
 room. Suddenly it came into her mind, as a last 
 resource, that she would make an appeal to her father. 
 It must, indeed, have been a resolution born of despair ; 
 but once taken, she hesitated no more. 
 
 She lefb the school-room, went straight down to the 
 smoking-room, and knocked at the door. There was 
 no answer, so she opened the door, and peeped in. The 
 room was empty, and a fear came into her mind that 
 he was already gone out, and that she was too late. 
 She went hastily into the hall, to see if his hat were 
 missing. But all his hats were there, and his great- 
 coat, gloves, and riding-whip put ready. He was 
 evidently going for a ride, and had not yet started 
 It was nearly half-past three by the hall clock, so that 
 if he were going at all he would go soon. Would it be 
 
298 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 best to waylay Hmin the hall, or to return to the smoking- 
 room ? He would be sure to go in there the last thing 
 to fetch his cigars, and it would be a better hidiDg- 
 place than the hall. So the child retraced her steps, 
 and, fearful lest some one else might by chance come in 
 and find her there, she hid herself behind a sofa near 
 the window. Putting her head against it and stretch- 
 ing out her tired little limbs, she closed her weary 
 eyes ; and while she thought she was listening to every 
 sound that might indicate his approach, slumber stole 
 gently over her, and bore her away from her present 
 anxieties. 
 
 With her hands folded across her chest, her long, 
 dark eyelashes sweeping her cheek, and contrasting 
 with its deadly paleness — ^white as a beautiful marble 
 statue, and almost as motionless — she awaited her 
 father's comino^. 
 
TEE STORM, 299 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 Colonel Middleton was sadlj out of a job that day, 
 and cast about for some employment. He strolled into 
 his wife's boudoir, where she was writing letters for the 
 afternoon post, and pulled down the blinds, saying that 
 the sun was ruining the carpet. He then pulled them 
 up again, as the sun went behind a cloud, and Mrs. 
 Middleton complained of the darkness. Then he dis- 
 covered, or thought he discovered, that the blind was 
 out of order, and that the springs didn't go quite right; 
 so he pulled it up and down, rapidly and with the 
 utmost violence for some minutes, making a most hor- 
 rible noise. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton, fortunately for her, was called away 
 in the middle. 
 
 He then rang for the butler, and indignantly asked 
 him wJio was in the habit of pulling down these blinds, 
 because it was evident that that person did not know 
 how to do it. The butler was of opinion that it was 
 in all probability the housemaid, upon which he was 
 commissioned instantly to summon her to her master's 
 presence. The housemaid naturally repudiated the idea 
 
800 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 of not being mistress of that simple macHneiy, and 
 visited the blame on the under-housemaid. 
 
 But Colonel Middleton was not particular ; he only 
 wanted someone on whom to vent his grievance ; and 
 she underwent a lecture, of ten minutes or so, on the 
 art of pulling up blinds, for which I am afraid she was 
 anything but grateful. That little occupation over, and 
 the housemaid dismissed. Colonel Middleton discovered 
 a miniature blot of ink on the wall behind one of the 
 writing-tables ; and determined to trace it to its source. 
 
 His great desire on these occasions was not so much 
 to cure the evil as to find out its perpetrator ; and he 
 instantly attacked the footman, who happened at that 
 moment to come in with the coals. 
 
 He discoursed to him for some time on the necessity 
 of care in dipping his pen into the ink when sitting at 
 that particular writing-table ; as ink was so very likely 
 to be spurted on to the wall behind. 
 
 * It only wants a little care,' he urged ; * the com- 
 monest care would prevent it.' 
 
 The footman listened respectfully, coal-scuttle in 
 hand ; but as he was innocent of writing his letters in 
 the drawing-room, Colonel Middleton' s remarks did not 
 fall upon his ear with that power to which such eloquence 
 was entitled. 
 
 Pleased, however, with the sound of his own voice, 
 and having his hand well in, Colonel Middleton now 
 made some remarks on the want of brightness of the 
 coal-scuttle, and had some valuable hints to ofier on the 
 scouring and cleaning of the same. 
 
THE STORM, 301 
 
 But no servant could stand being found fault with for 
 the neglected duties of a fellow- servant ; and the foot- 
 man hastily reminded his master that cleaning and 
 scouring were not in his department : and referred him 
 to a certain ' Ann/ who seemed likely to prove the 
 delinquent. 
 
 But this was a matter of detail, above which Colonel, 
 Middleton's mind soared. 
 
 * I know, I know, my good fellow, I'm not blaming 
 you. I am only just saying, etc., etc., etc. ;' upon which 
 he launched into a still longer dissertation on household 
 duties ; till the footman, becoming desperate, suggested 
 fetching the said * Ann,' that she might bear the brunt 
 of the remarks upon her short-comings. But Colonel 
 Middleton did not at all care to confront the trembhng 
 form of Ann ; and having come to the end of his tether 
 he dismissed the subject and the footman at the same 
 moment. 
 
 Left alone in the boudoir, he strayed towards his 
 wife's vTriting- table, and began reading some notes and 
 letters he found lying there. They were evidently, in 
 his opinion, old, and not worth keeping ; for he began 
 tearing up one or two, and gathering the scraps into a 
 neat little heap. 
 
 His wife came in, in the middle. 
 
 ' My dear Lydia,' he said, * how very untidy your 
 writing-table is. Such an accumulation of old notes I 
 never saw.' 
 
 ' Oh ! please Rowley, leave them alone ; what Tiave 
 you been tearing up ? ' 
 
302 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 * Only notes that might have been burnt long ago. I 
 can't think why you keep them after they have been 
 answered.' 
 
 * But how do you know they Tiave been answered ? I 
 wish yon would not do these things without consulting 
 me. I do believe you have torn up the very one I was 
 just answering. Yes ! ' she went on, advancing to the 
 table, and hastily turning over the torn papers, ^ yes ! 
 that you have. There it is, torn to shreds. That is 
 Lady Drewe's writing ; and it was an invitation to go 
 there next month, and I haven't a notion what day she 
 asked us for. Really it is very tiresome ! ' 
 
 Colonel Middleton felt rather small, and did not quite 
 know how to defend himself. 
 
 * Well, you will be the sufferer,' said Mrs. Middleton, 
 biting her lips to keep down her irritation, * for you will 
 lose your shooting.' 
 
 Colonel Middleton was always a little amused to see 
 his wife in a rage, and pretended to be provokingly in- 
 different ; but the incident put an end to his * grievance- 
 hunting ' for that day, and he went off to the smoking- 
 room. He walked in whistling, and stood in front of 
 the fire, debating in his own mind what he would do 
 next. As he stood there, he fancied he heard a sound 
 of breathing. It was quite soft, but still audible, and 
 very regular. He looked about, but saw no means of 
 accounting for it. Still he went on, and he instituted a 
 search ; and, to his surprise, came upon a little figure, 
 evidently in hiding, lying asleep on the floor, near the 
 window. 
 
THE STORM, 303 
 
 ' Nina ! ' lie exclaimed. 
 
 But the worn-out cliild did not stir. He bent down 
 over her. 
 
 * Mna ! are you asleep ? ' 
 
 He touched her hair admiringly : ' What a handsome 
 little creature she is ! ' 
 
 Mna started up with a face of terror. 
 
 * Is he worse ? ' she exclaimed. 
 
 ' Who ? ' laughed Colonel Middleton. 
 
 ' Totty,' she answered, looking round her, bewildered. 
 
 ' My dear little girl, I am afraid you are not very well 
 to-day, or else you are dreaming. There is nothing the 
 matter with Totty.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, papa, there is ! ' she exclaimed ; ' I am sure 
 there is ! I don't think mamma can know, or she would 
 send for the doctor. Papa, will you please ask her to 
 send for him ! ' 
 
 ' Get up, my dear child, and sit in the arm-chair. I 
 don't quite understand all this.' 
 
 Nina seated herself in the arm-chair, and began to 
 pour out all that she had meant to say. 
 
 Colonel Middleton saw, by her incoherency, and the 
 nervous twist of her hands, that she was very much 
 agitated, and got puzzled, not seeing any sufficient 
 cause. 
 
 ' Did you come here to tell me all this ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, papa.' 
 
 ' And why ? ' 
 
 ' I thought you would ask mamma to send for the 
 doctor.' 
 
804 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 Colonel Middleton looked much bored. 
 
 * Oh, my dear, I never interfere. If your mother and 
 the nurses saw any occasion, she would of course have 
 sent for him. Her not having done so proves there is 
 no cause for alarm. Don't you see ? ' 
 
 * Oh, but papa, I don't think she can know ! He 
 looks so ill, so dreadfully ill ! ' And Nina burst into 
 tears. 
 
 Colonel Middleton had all a man's horror of tears, 
 He began to walk up and down the room. 
 
 * Oh, this will never do ! You are nervous, Mna, or 
 over-tired, or something. I think it is you, and not 
 Totty, that requires a doctor. Come with me to your 
 mother, and we will see if she can't give you a little sal 
 volatile, or something.' 
 
 But Mna shrank back. 
 
 * Oh no ! ' she exclaimed ; * I can't go to mamma. 
 She won't see me.' 
 
 * Not see you ! ' 
 
 * She has forbidden me to come near her.' 
 
 * Why, what naughty things have you been doing ? ' 
 said Colonel Middleton, patronisingly, * playing at fox- 
 hunting in the school-room, talking to the coachman 
 out riding, or what other enormity ? ' 
 
 The child was incapable of answering. She only 
 shook her head. 
 
 * So you want to make me the scapegoat, eh ? I 
 couldn't undertake to mediate between ladies, really. 
 It's not in my line.' 
 
 * Oh, papa I I don't want you to say anything about 
 
THE STORM. TjOo 
 
 me, only to try and persuade her to send for the doctor 
 for Totty.' 
 
 * But why — supposing, for the sake of the argument, 
 that Totty was ill (which he is not) — should you think 
 you know better than your mother and the nurses ? 
 Why, in short, should you take the matter into your 
 hands at all ? What is it to you ? ' 
 
 ' I love him so, papa ! * 
 
 The words burst from the girl's lips almost like a cry. 
 They seemed to escape her involuntarily, and she clasped 
 her hands together as she spoke. Her dark eyes glowed 
 and deepened, and seemed to say how powerful to her 
 that argument was, and how, in her mind, it explained 
 and accounted for everything. 
 
 Her father glanced at her rather uneasily, and felt, as 
 he had often felt before, that the girl was too much for 
 him. . 
 
 'My dear little daughter,' he said, *you take life 
 much too seriously. Now do listen to the advice of 
 your father, who has lived a good many years longer 
 than you have, and try to take things as they come. I 
 have always done so, and found it a capital plan. Now, 
 I will give you an excellent maxim, which I have always 
 found most consoling : " Les choses s'arrangent ! ' Try 
 and believe that other people are sure to manage matters 
 as well, if not better, than you are. If you want a thing 
 well done, dorCt do it yourself. Leave everything to 
 other people. It all comes right in the end. And now 
 run up- stairs again. A cup of tea will refresh you, and 
 I want to get a ride before dusk.' 
 
 X 
 
30G TJSROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 They stood opposite eacli other, these two — the easy- 
 going, shallow father, and the suffering, sensitive child. 
 The contrast between the two faces was very strongly 
 marked. Earnest intensity was written on every line 
 of hers, careless superficiality on his. 
 
 And in that moment the child recognised it ; saw that 
 what she felt he would never feel; that what she com- 
 prehended so clearly he would never, never understand. 
 
 Swift as an arrow there shot into her heart the con- 
 viction that she was wasting her time and spending her 
 strength in vain ; that she would never make more im- 
 pression on him than her own footfall would make upon 
 the shifting sand, which the next wave would efface 
 altogether. And as the thought smote upon her, 
 despair crept into her heart ; despair which would have 
 been mingled with contempt, if her sore heart had had 
 room for any other feeling. 
 
 She turned away without a word, and closed the door 
 behind her. 
 
 We need not follow the poor little thing up- stairs, 
 nor through the evening that followed, when, as night 
 closed in, all her fears returned with redoubled intensity. 
 All hope of the Doctor coming was over. She went to 
 her bed-room as soon as Mervyn had gone down to 
 dessert. She did not communicate her anxieties to 
 him ; perhaps she feared to give them expression. 
 
 She felt so tired when she had undressed, that she 
 lay down on the bed to rest for a few minutes before 
 going to Totty. 
 
 It was one of those oppressive, thundery evenings, 
 
THE STORM. 807 
 
 that come sometimes in October. She was overdone by- 
 excitement and bad nights, and she fell asleep directly. 
 
 She was awakened some hours after by the roll of 
 distant thunder. She started up, wondering what it 
 was, and dismayed to find she had been to sleep, and 
 that now it was too late to go to Totty. But it is not 
 the thunder which causes such an expression of terror 
 to come over her face. There is a sound above the 
 distant rumble to which she listens with a beating heart. 
 It is the loud ringing of the nursery-bell ! 
 
 Again and again it peals, and it is followed by a stir 
 and commotion in the house. 
 
 It is as she feared, then ! Her worst dread is realised 
 — Totty is taken ill ; and now it is night, and the doctor 
 is far away ! 
 
 With a beating heart she springs out of bed, crying, 
 ' Oh ! why didn't they listen to me ? Why wouldn't 
 they believe what I said ? ' 
 
 Yague ideas of running as she was over fields and 
 meadows to fetch him pass through her brain : who 
 would be so fleet as she ? 
 
 There is no feeling of triumph in the poor child's 
 breast that the event has proved her right, and that she 
 is justified in her forebodings. No — only a deadly fear. 
 She gropes her way to the door, trembling in every 
 limb, and grasps the handle in her shaking hand. It 
 seems to resist, and she steadies her hand and tries 
 again. Still she cannot open it. The handle turns, but 
 the door will not open. 
 
 * I must have bolted it by mistake,' she exclaims im- 
 x2 
 
308 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 patiently, and she pulls nervously at the little bolt. 
 All to no purpose ; and the child is getting more and 
 more agitated. 
 
 Suddenly a thought seems to dart into her mind, and 
 words to which she has hitherto attached no meaning 
 flash clear across her brain. Her mother has locked 
 her in ! 
 
 This, then, is the punishment of which she spoke ! 
 this the sure and certain means she has adopted to ensure 
 compliance with her commands ! 
 
 Then a mighty tempest passed over the soul of the 
 child, and her very being seemed shaken by the force of 
 the passions which stirred within her. Throwing her- 
 self upon her knees, she called aloud in her fury and 
 despair : * Mamma ! mamma ! I hate you ! I wish you 
 were dead ! ' Crouching against the door, she hammered 
 upon it with her hands, crying, * Open the door ! Open 
 it, I say ! Open it directly ! ' 
 
 A loud clap of thunder was the answer, rattling and 
 crackling over her head till the very room seemed to 
 shake. It was a kind of relief to the child. It seemed 
 to express all the wild feelings which were raging in 
 her heart — wrath, rebellion, hatred, and revenge. 
 
 The lightning flashed into the darkness of the room, 
 revealing the little figure crouching by the door. It 
 played about her, and she felt no fear ; it flashed in her 
 face, and she did not start or wince. The thunder 
 hurled with her anathemas against her mother, and she 
 flashed upon her in imagination with the lightning. 
 
THE STORM. 301) 
 
 Down came tlie torrents of rain, beating against the 
 window as if the very doors of Leaven were opening 
 and the waters pouring out. 
 
 It was a fearful storm ; but the tempest raging with- 
 out was as nothing compared with the tempest raging 
 in the heart of the child. To her the relief of tears 
 did not come. The furj of the tempest was spent, for 
 the danger is over when the rain comes. Not so with 
 the child. The storm of her fury was still raging, for 
 the danger is not over till the tears come. 
 
 And what is to bring them to her eyes ? Those eyes 
 are hard and dry ; the little heart is like a stone, and 
 the hot parched lips have no sign of softening in them. 
 But is anything too hard for the Lord ? He who smote 
 the Stony Rock that the waters gushed out, and ran in 
 the dry places, will soften the stony heart ; and ' Rivers 
 of water gush from mine eyes ' will He make the proud 
 lips say. 
 
 He who rides upon the whirlwind and directs the 
 storm — who rebuked the raging of the winds and waves, 
 so that they ceased, and there was a great calm — will 
 direct the whirlwind of anger, and say to the surging 
 waves of passion, ' Peace ! be still ! ' 
 
 Exhausted for a moment, the child lay quiet ; and 
 there came into her mind, she knew not wherefore, the 
 memory of Mervyn kneeling by Totty's bedside. Then 
 the thought of the moonlight on the water, and the 
 accents of Mervyn' s voice. 
 
 ' In heaven,' it seemed to repeat, * they aU love every- 
 
310 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 one, and you love so few. Sometimes I think you will 
 never understand . . . .' 
 
 'Forgive us our trespasses,' it said again, *as we 
 forgive them . . . .' 
 
 * Nina, why wouldn't you join with me ? . . . .' 
 
 The peace of the well-remembered scene, and the 
 thoughts of love and heaven connected with it, came 
 upon the child as she lay, like a cool hand laid upon a 
 burning forehead ; like oil on the tempestuous waters ; 
 like the chime of church bells heard through the howl- 
 ing of the wind on a wild wet night. 
 
 It seemed like a whisper from another world ; some- 
 thing which she, in her fury of feeling, had nothing to 
 do with ; which she was not pure enough to look upon, 
 or holy enough to understand. 
 
 Opposed to the atmosphere of wrath and hatred in 
 which she was now plunged, it seemed one of such 
 peace and love, and it seemed so far away ! Heaven 
 itself could not seem holier, since love is heaven, and 
 heaven is peace and love. Nor could heaven itself 
 seem more far away ! 
 
 Given up to all wicked feelings, she felt herself, as it 
 were, cut off from heaven, with its boundless universal 
 love, a prey to hatred and revenge, only fit now to look 
 from a distance on that scene of peace and purity. So 
 do we picture to ourselves the Lost looking from their 
 Place of Darkness, upon the Heaven which might have 
 been theirs ! 
 
 Struck with horror at the contrast, and longing to 
 escape from so terrible a condition, she cried aloud in 
 
 i 
 
THE STORM, 311 
 
 her desire to be saved from herself: * Mervjn ! Mervyn! * 
 Thus do we ever seek first earthly comfort and support ; 
 fljing ever first to our brother man ; forgetting that we 
 have a friend that sticketh closer than a brother, and 
 that He is ever near. 
 
 For all answer came into her mind again — heaven- 
 sent — ^the same words as before. 
 
 * Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them . . . .* 
 
 * Mna, why would you not join with me ?....' 
 
 * I will ! indeed I will ! ' 
 
 « Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that 
 trespass against us . . . Oh God ! help me not to feel 
 so wicked ! Help me !....' 
 
 Then came a pause in the storm, both within and 
 without; and there was a calm. The silence that 
 reigned made a sound in the passage audible ; and the 
 child listened intently. 
 
 Was it a voice ? . . . . It was .... It must be ! 
 .... She listened intently again. The voice was 
 hardly above a whisper, but the voice said ' Mna ! ' 
 
 * Mervyn ! ' she exclaimed ; * oh, Mervyn, is that you ? ' 
 
 * Yes, Nina, I've been here some time ; but you were 
 never quiet a moment, and I couldn't make you hear.' 
 
 ' Oh, Mervyn,' said Nina, ' unlock the door ! ' 
 
 * Hush, Nina. I can't. The key is not here. Listen 
 to what I am going to say. The doctor has come, and 
 he is in Totty's room.' 
 
 ' Oh, thank God ! thank God ! ' she exclaimed, and 
 the glad relief of tears came at last. * It will be all 
 right now.' 
 
312 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 * Don't crj so, Nina dear. I will go and see if I can 
 find ont more. Keep qniet till I come back. And 
 please don't cry.' 
 
 No need to tell her to keep qniet now ; the storm- 
 tempest has spent its fnry, and the wicked feelings have 
 fled away, dispelled bj the very sound of his voice 
 The tears came raining down after he had left her, 
 cooling the burning eyes, soothing and refreshing as a 
 soft summer shower. Gentler feelings came over her, 
 feelings of repentance and contrition as she sat there, 
 quiet, save for a little sobbing sigh now and then — 
 waiting for the first indication of his return. 
 
 The confusion in the house got greater ; doors opened 
 and shut, footsteps passed and re-passed ; but still 
 the little figure remained motionless as a statue ; un- 
 heeding and unmoved. A great calm had come upon 
 the soul of the child. The doctor was there ; what she 
 had so striven to bring about had been accomplished ; 
 what she had so despaired of had been brought to pass ; 
 the doctor was there. That was all that mattered now. 
 
 Mervyn came back at last, whispering that he could 
 find out nothing ; but that everybody was up and about 
 in the house ; and his aunt shut up with the doctor in 
 Totty's room. Then he went away. 
 
 All, then, that could be done was being done, and 
 everyone's mind full of Totty. Her own individual 
 presence could be no great good. So she sat there 
 calm and content ; satisfied, even thankful. 
 
 * Thank God,' she whispered every now and then, 
 and that whisper was heartfelt prayer. 
 
THE STORM. 313 
 
 Her heart was thrilling with a nameless feeling, half 
 pride, half joy, that Totty should thus be recognised as 
 an object worthy the anxiety and attention of the 
 whole household. 'Everyone in the house is up,' she 
 repeated, half-aloud ; * everyone is thinking about 
 Totty.' 
 
 A long time elapsed. Anxiety was beginning to 
 creep into her heart again, when the sudden sound of a 
 carriage driving away completely upset her, and she 
 started to her feet with a great cry, and a sudden chill 
 at her heart. 
 
 ' He is going because he can do no good ! ' she 
 exclaimed, wringing her hands, and running to the 
 window. Her suspicion, alas ! was fully confirmed 
 when she caught sight of the carriage vanishing in the 
 distance ; and from that moment hope fl6d. 
 
 Then came the longing, so mercifully withheld before, 
 to see him — if only for once more ; to be with him, to 
 hear his voice again ; and she flung herself on her 
 knees and sobbed, ' Oh God, pity me ! oh God ! help 
 me ! By some way or other take me to him and let 
 me see him again ! ' 
 
 Her face was hidden in her hands, and her ear was 
 deaf to any sound but the cry she was uttering. So 
 she did not hear the iinlocking of the door, nor see that 
 someone had entered ; till a hand was laid upon her 
 shoulder, and a voice said ' Come.' 
 
 Raising her head, she saw her mother standing 
 before her, and knew that her prayer was answered. 
 There was something in her mother's white face and 
 
314 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 shaking hands that checked the words which trembled 
 on the child's lips, and she answered her never a word. 
 But, as in a dream, she rose and followed her ; through 
 the familiar passages, into the familiar nursery, just as 
 she was, in her little white night-gown, with her dark 
 hair streaming. 
 
 As in a dream, she was conscious of the many forms 
 in the room, of the weeping nurses, of the unwonted 
 presence of her father; but she seemed to have no 
 concern with anyone or anything but Totty. She 
 thought of nothing, saw nothing, but him. 
 
 Everyone drew back to allow her to pass ; and she 
 moved on alone to the little white bed, where the still 
 little figure was lying. The world seemed to retire, 
 and to leave the brother and sister alone. She knelt 
 down by his side and clasped his thin little hands. 
 
 ' Totty,' she whispered. 
 
 The blue eyes opened, and a faint smile broke over 
 the colourless little face. 
 
 *Mna,' he just managed to breathe, * kiss me, Nina.* 
 
 A.nd as she kissed him — he died. 
 
MAGDALEN'S RETURN, 315 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Magdalen's eeturn. 
 
 Lady Waedlaw to Colonel Middleton. — * Charlie lias 
 been telegraphed for to Ireland, and went off at once. 
 I am coming straight to yon, and hope to be at Granton 
 Thursday morning.' 
 
 Such was the missive which was put into Mervyn's 
 hand the next day, as he sat by himself in the little 
 study, writing to his mother. It had arrived late the 
 evening before ; but in the confusion of events no one 
 had remembered to inform him of its contents. 
 
 ' Colonel Middleton told me to bring it direct to you, 
 sir,' said the butler, as he handed the paper, ' and to tell 
 you her ladyship will be here in a very few minutes.' 
 
 Mervyn opened the paper listlessly. Sick at heart, 
 the boy felt very indifferent to its contents. His only 
 feeling was vexation at the interruption, for he wanted 
 to relieve his full heart by pouring out to his mother 
 a recital of the sad events of the last few days. * Her 
 ladyship' conveyed no idea to him. He had not a 
 notion of whom the butler was speaking. Slowly he 
 opened the telegram, and slowly he read the contents. 
 But he did not take it in. He read it again, and then 
 
 I 
 
3Hi THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 again, and stared at it. Suddenly his colour deepened, 
 and he put his hand up to his head as if to steady his 
 brain, and to try to understand what he was reading. 
 What did the telegram say ? 
 
 By degrees the meaning dawned — just dawned 
 sHghtly. He gathered that she was coming ; but why, 
 or how, or when, he could not at first comprehend. 
 
 ' She is coming ! ' he said softly to himself; ' she is 
 coming here ! ' 
 
 Still he could not quite take it in, or realise all at 
 once what those few words really expressed. 
 
 * She is coming on Thursday,' he said, presently ; ' on 
 Thursday morning. Thursday ! that is how many days 
 off ? To-day is . . . why to-day is Thursday ! ' 
 he suddenly exclaimed ; * she is coming to-day ! to- 
 day !! ' 
 
 We must forgive him if, at that moment, all thoughts 
 of the sorrowing household fled away. He had room in 
 his heart for nothing but a joy so great, so boundless, 
 that his whole face changed, radiated with a sudden 
 light ; and he sprang to his feet with a sound which 
 would have been a shout if something like a sob had 
 not mingled with it. 
 
 Sorrow and death, which had been weighing upon 
 his young spirit so heavily, lost their depressing power, 
 and from their depths he rose into the height and 
 breadth of a happiness that seemed to lift him out of 
 himself. It was almost too much for him. She was 
 coming. She would be here almost directly. Hence- 
 forth, he would have nothing to regret, nothing to long 
 for. 
 
MAGDALEN'S RETURN. 317 
 
 * She will be here ! ' he told himself ; * she will stand 
 in this very room ! I shall see her ; I, with my own 
 eyes ! ' 
 
 And while fancy is thus painting the scene to the 
 heart of the child, the picture is a reality ; for Magdalen 
 is there ; she is standing in the room ; and if he only 
 turns his head, he will see her. 
 
 IsTo need for her to try and attract his attention for 
 fear of startling him; no need for her to still her 
 beating heart, and sofbly to pronounce his name ! He 
 was conscious of her presence directly — knew the very 
 rustle of her gown and the sound of her light footfall — 
 felt she was there, and shaded his eyes with his hand 
 before he turned them on her, as if he feared to be 
 dazzled by the sight of what he had so longed for. 
 
 Then, too, suddenly, came the fear and the misgiving, 
 Would she be changed ? Would there be some altera- 
 tion ? Would it be quite the mother he remembered — 
 whose picture fancy had been painting all the time ? 
 
 But when he really saw the sweet face, when his glance 
 rested on the well-known features and the familiar 
 smile — when he met the eyes that were shining and 
 glowing with love for him — all his doubts and fears 
 vanished. He threw up his hands with a glad cry, and 
 went straight into her arms without a word. 'Eov did 
 he find voice to express his joy and welcome till he felt 
 her arms enfold him, and her soft kisses rain on his 
 cheek. Then, and not till then, did his feelings find 
 vent in a tumult of love and rejoicing ! 
 
318 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 For a whole hour they have been together, and still 
 he has not exhausted all he has to say. She is sitting 
 with his hand in hers, gazing at him as at something 
 for which her eyes have long been searching, listening 
 while he pours forth what he has to tell. 
 
 The bare outline of what had happened she had heard 
 at the station, and she had seen her brother for a few 
 moments in the hall ; but beyond that she knew no- 
 thing. Very few words had passed between her and 
 Colonel Middleton, He had brought her at once to 
 the door of Mervyn's sitting-room, and had left her 
 to enter alone, while he went to tell his wife of her 
 arrival. 
 
 So that Mervyn's explanations were fully needed. 
 He gave her an account of all that had happened, from 
 the night of the county ball. He enlarged upon the 
 state of affairs between mother and daughter, and 
 painted a vivid picture of the lovelessness of the 
 Granton atmosphere, and of how he had suffered from 
 it. 
 
 His mother drew him to her when he spoke of these 
 things, softly whispering, * It is all over now ; ' and 
 Mervyn put his head on her shoulder, with a delicious 
 feeling of security and peace. But .his mind was more 
 full of the recent events than of his own bygone troubles, 
 and he returned to the subject of Nina. 
 
 * I have not seen her this morning,' he concluded. * I 
 peeped into her room, but she was fast asleep.' 
 
 * Is no one with her ? ' asked Lady Wardlaw. * Has 
 not your aunt been to her ? ' 
 
MAGDALEN'S RETURN. 319 
 
 * Site never goes into Nina's room, mother.' 
 
 * Bat has the poor child no one looking after her ? not 
 even the nurse or governess ? ' 
 
 * Oh no, mother 1 I don't think Mna would like it ; 
 she is not very . . « not exactly nice to the nurse and 
 governess, you see. I think they would be afraid to go 
 to her.' 
 
 * But it seems so sad the child should be alone in her 
 grief.' 
 
 ' She is asleep, mother.' 
 
 * Yes, dear ; but fancy what a lonely waking.' 
 
 Just then a message came that Mrs. Middleton would 
 like to see Lady Wardlaw ; and Magdalen rose directly. 
 She noticed Mervyn's look of disappointment. 
 
 * I am sorry to leave you so soon, darling ; but we 
 must not be selfish, you and I. Other people want us 
 just now, as much as we want each other, don't they ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no ! ' said Mervyn promptly. But he recovered 
 himself directly, and said, * Yes, mother ; and I'll go to 
 Nina and sit by her till she wakes.' 
 * * Do, darling, if you think she would like it.' 
 
 And then Magdalen followed the maid to Mrs. Middle- 
 ton's apartments, and Mervyn stole softly into Nina's 
 darkened room. He had grown so accustomed to her 
 sympathy in his pleasures and his pains, that it seemed 
 strange he should not be able to communicate to her the 
 joyful news of his mother's return. He half hoped to 
 find her awake ; and as he went along he had debated 
 within himself whether he would not wake her up to 
 tell her. But when he stood by her bedside his mind 
 
820 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 changed. Slie looked so pale and sad that he felt he 
 was quite selfish to be glad about anything while she 
 was so unhappy. His bright face clouded when his 
 eyes fell upon her face. He remembered that she would 
 wake to the memory of a sorrow as deep as his joy ; 
 and he felt that it would indeed be cruel to rouse her 
 from her quiet sleep. For, pale and ill though she 
 looked, she was sleeping quietly the sleep of thorough 
 exhaustion. For the time she had forgotten her troubles. 
 If she woke, she would remember them directly. No- 
 thing that he could do or say could comfort her like the 
 quiet sleep she was enjoying. What could he do for 
 her, loving and willing as he was, that unconsciousness 
 could do ? 
 
 What would we do for our belovM ? 
 
 Grod giveth His beloved — sleep ! 
 
 So he sat quietly down by her side to wait till she 
 should wake up herself. He did not mind waiting. 
 He had plenty to occupy his thoughts. The sun stole 
 in through the chinks of the closed shutters, and shone 
 upon the two children ; on the one who had got back 
 all that he had longed for ; on the other, from whom all 
 that she had loved had been taken away. One little 
 figure was almost as motionless as the other. 
 
 At last, with a sigh, Mna began to stir a little ; and 
 Mervyn restrained his eagerness, and hardly allowed 
 himself to breathe, lest he should hasten her return to 
 the consciousness of her sorrow. But in God's good 
 providence the child's waking thoughts brought her a 
 sense of rest and peace, to which she had long been a 
 
MAGDALEN'S RETURN. 321 
 
 stranger. Dimly came back to lier the scenes of last 
 night : the storm, and the tumult, and the passion ; 
 but, above all, was that strange new feeling of quiet 
 and relief. 
 
 For all anxiety is over now. Never again need she 
 start and tremble at the sound of the nursery-bell. 
 Never again need she lie awake restless, earing he is 
 restless too. No more anxious listening to the wind in 
 the chimney, fearing it may be roaring near his bed. 
 No more will he suffer from nervous fancies, from sick- 
 ness, or from pain. Never again need she wrestle wildly 
 with that haunting fear and dread. The ghost which 
 pursued her is laid for ever, and the worst is over now. 
 Never again need she chafe at the feeling that he is 
 overlooked and despised. The little ' black sheep ' is a 
 white lamb now, safe in the Shepherd's arms — is a ewe 
 lamb lying for ever and ever in the bosom of his Sa- 
 viour, above. Never again need her heart beat wildly, 
 and her jealous indignation be aroused, because lie is not 
 summoned to his parents' presence when the gaests are 
 assembled there. He is more highly exalted now ! In 
 his Father's presence for ever and ever, and the shining 
 angels round ! What recks he now, that his knees are 
 feeble and his limbs powerless and weak ? Has he not 
 wings to bear him whither his Father wills him to 
 
 go ? . . . 
 
 No thought of self mingled with these pure feelings. 
 Long ago Nina's self had gone out into Totty ; and in 
 her love for him she had lost sight of it. 
 
 T 
 
322 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 So quietly, and almost happily, she awoke, and found 
 Mervyn sitting by her bed. 
 
 * Mervyn ! ' she said, softly. 
 
 He bent over her, kissing her joyfully, but restraining 
 his words, lest his joy should seem selfish. 
 
 ' Mervyn,' she said quickly, ' let me look at your face.' 
 
 * Why ? ' he said, coming closer, and thinking he was 
 cleverly hiding the joy which was shining out of his 
 honest eyes. 
 
 * Mervyn, Aunt Magdalen has come ! I am sure of 
 it' 
 
 * Oh, never mind ! ' he answered, joyously, but still 
 trying to look grave ; * it doesn't matter a bit ! I mean 
 we won't talk about it, if you'd rather not. . . . 
 Oh, Nina ! how did you guess ? ' he finished, suddenly 
 letting his delight have its vent. * I didn't mean to tell 
 you, really.' 
 
 ' I guessed it by your face,' she answered, smiling. 
 ^ I'm so, so glad, Mervyn ! I can never tell you how 
 glad I am ! Oh, Mervyn, how happy you must be ! 
 But why do you say you had not meant to tell me ? ' 
 
 And she looked wistfully at his beaming eyes. Her 
 own glittered rather strangely, and her manner was 
 very excited. 
 
 A more experienced person than Mervyn would have 
 taken alarm at her appearance. He only took her 
 hands in his, and said, 
 
 * I was afraid of being selfish.' 
 
 *Tell me all about it,' she said, rather faintly, as she 
 tightened her hold on his hands. * I feel too tired and 
 
MAGDALEN'S RETURN. 328 
 
 too giddy to ask you questions ; and I ^vant so mucli to 
 hear.' 
 
 Mervyn instantly poured fortli his tale of joy ; and 
 she listened with an excited attention. 
 
 ^ In thy presence is the fulness of joy,' she whispered, 
 when he had finished. ' Is Granton like heaven now ? ' 
 
 Her lips quivered as she put the question. 
 
 * Oh no, Nina darling ! ' he said, with a sudden im- 
 pulse, throwing his arms round her neck ; * how can 1 
 be quite happy when you are so miserable. If I have 
 got my heaven, you have lost yours I * 
 
 The pain of her loss, the terrible sense of the void in 
 her life, smote upon Nina at his words, and she gave 
 way to a barst of bitter, bitter weeping. Clinging to 
 Mervyn, she begged him to love her, for she had no one 
 left to love her now ! , • . 
 
 y2 
 
 - 
 
324 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER BROUGHT TOGETHER. 
 
 Meanwhile Lady Wardlaw went straight to Mrs. Mid- 
 dleton's room. Her brother was just coining out, and at 
 sight of her he closed the door behind him rather 
 hastily, and drew her aside in the passage. 
 
 * I can't get her to cheer up at all,' he said, with a 
 very rueful face. * I don't know when I have seen her 
 so cut up. Perhaps you will be more fortunate than 
 me, being a fresh arrival. You will be able to distract 
 her a little by telling her about your travels, and so on. 
 Do try what you can do. And, I say, Magdalen, come 
 to the smoking-room afterwards. Everyone went off 
 this morning early, and I haven't a creature to speak to.' 
 
 He passed on, and Magdalen opened the door and 
 went in. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton rose to receive her — a mere wreck, to 
 Lady Wardlaw 's eyes, of the Mrs. Middleton of three 
 months ago. Even her manner was changed ; all the 
 decision had gone out of it. Her voice shook when she 
 tried to speak, and the hand she held out trembled all 
 over. In one short night the work had been done. 
 The strong-minded, self-willed Mrs. Middleton had be- 
 
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 325 
 
 oome an unnerved, broken-down woman. A stronger 
 than slie bad met and overcome ber ; bad taken away 
 tbe armour in wbicb sbe trusted, and laid ber powerless 
 and defeated in tbe dust. Sbe bad never, as we said 
 before, lost a cbild, or conceived tbe possibility of such 
 a tbing. But nevertbeless tbe King of Terrors bad 
 entered ber strongbold, and, beedless of ber and of ber 
 will, bad taken away tbe spoil. 
 
 In tbe silent watches of the night sbe bad been forced 
 to recognise a will stronger than ber own — a strength 
 greater, a Power before which she must bow. Nor bad 
 she known bow to stand her defeat. From the moment 
 when, roused by tbe bell, she had rushed to tbe nursery 
 and found Totty bad broken a blood-vessel, all ber 
 power of self-control bad fled. Utterly unnerved, com- 
 pletely helpless, every maid in tbe bouse bad been of 
 greater use than sbe. 
 
 In ber undisciplined rebellion she bad broken out into 
 reproaches first, into lamentations afterwards. She bad 
 failed utterly ; failed before the whole household ; ber 
 humiliation bad been complete. Even tbe doctor bad 
 been obliged to beg Colonel Middleton to take bis wife 
 away, as ber want of self-control was unnerving every- 
 one. 
 
 In that supreme moment, too, sbe bad realised ber 
 husband's shallowness, and turned in loathing from bis 
 superficial attempts at consolation. In ber helplessness 
 and her terror sbe bad felt he was no prop at all ; and 
 she bad longed — sbe who bad always been more than 
 sufficient for herself — for some strength to lean upon, 
 «ome one to turn to. 
 
326 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 Then had. come to her the thought of her little 
 daughter : the recollection of the dauntless way in 
 which the child had withstood her to her face, sooner 
 than promise to neglect her little brother. With Totty 
 dying before her eyes, Mrs. Middleton had forgotten the 
 disobedience, the irreverence, the determined opposi- 
 tion. She had only remembered the calmness, the fear- 
 lessness, the quiet. She had only felt that the child 
 who could act so was a tower of strength. The very 
 thought of the stedfast eyes and the firm little mouth 
 had been rest to her. Vividly she had remembered the 
 former scene in the bedroom-nursery, when the restless 
 child had been lulled to sleep, and her own anxiety 
 allayed, by the calm influence of the girl's presence and 
 power. She had felt it might help her again ; she had 
 felt she must have it at any price, though she knew the 
 price must be her own defeat. She had felt she must 
 fetch the girl, though she knew no hand but hers could 
 set the prisoner free. She must reverse her own decree, 
 herself put an end to the punishment she had devised 
 and inflicted. It was one step further into the Yalley of 
 Humiliation; but she had hardly seemed to care for 
 that. 
 
 She was a vaiaquished woman : what did it matter ? 
 
 So, while all were occupied with Totty, she had 
 stolen away to Mna's room. She had thought to find 
 the child asleep ; had turned the key very softly, and 
 entered gently, for fear of waking her too suddenly. 
 
 The little kneeling figure that had met her gaze ; the 
 face the child had turned towards her at her touch, the 
 
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER, 327 
 
 calmness with which she had risen and followed her ; 
 the utter absence of all questioning, of all excitement, of 
 all weak display of grief ; the power of self-control with 
 which she had knelt down by the bed and whispered the 
 dying boy's name — all this had been a moving pano- 
 rama before the mother's eyes ever since, making her 
 heart thrill with a feeling half of envy and half of ad- 
 miration, and causing her to regard the girl's strength, 
 as contrasted with her own weakness, in the light of 
 something almost superhuman. 
 
 She had been lying on the sofa in her dressing-room 
 ever since she had been brought in hysterics from the 
 m bedroom-nursery ; and her one longing all that time had 
 been for ISTina. 
 
 She wanted to learn the secret of her calmness, that 
 she might be calm too. She wanted to learn the secret 
 of her resignation, that she might be resigned too. 
 Above all, she wanted some one who could feel and 
 suffer, to sympathise and grieve with her. Her hus- 
 band's remarks on the sad event that morning, and his 
 trivial talking over the changes of plan it would entail, 
 had driven her wild. She had seen how little the loss 
 I personally affected him, and every word he had let fall 
 ^' had jarred upon her. She had felt as if no one but 
 Nina and herself had cared for the child at all. And 
 yet she dared not send for her, dared not go to hej-. It 
 was not from pride — poor woman, she was humbled 
 to the dust now — it was positively from fear. 
 
 Such was the state of mind in which Magdalen found 
 her when she entered the room. 
 
ii28 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 Her gentle words of sympathy made Mrs. Middleton 
 break down at first ; but in a few minutes it seemed a 
 relief to her to give an account of tb^poor little fellow's 
 sudden illness and deatb. 
 
 There was silence between tbem wben tbe recital was 
 over. 
 
 * Magdalen/ said Mrs. Middleton, ratber suddenly, 
 at last, * bave you seen any of tbe children since you 
 came ? V 
 
 * Only Mervyn, dear Lydia.' 
 
 * Did he mention any of tbem ; Cecily, or ... . 
 Edmund ? ' 
 
 * N'ot them ; only poor little ISTina.' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton got up, and began to walk restlessly 
 up and down the room. 
 
 * What did he say about her ? ' 
 
 ' He said he thought she was still asleep. But that 
 is some little time ago. She may be awake now. Do 
 you want to see her, Lydia ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton put out her band as if to keep the 
 subject off, and walked up and down more restlessly 
 than ever. That she was much agitated LadyWardlaw 
 could see, for her chest was heaving ; and she held one 
 hand to her heart, as if to still its beating. » 
 
 * Magdalen,' she said, suddenly turning round upon 
 her sister-in-law — and Lady Wardlaw was shocked to 
 see the expression of anguish which was painted on 
 her face — * Oh, Magdalen ! you don't know how I 
 long to see her, and yet I do not dare. . . . You 
 don't ^ow what a child that is! I have only 
 
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER, 329 
 
 lately discovered it. She is full of character and 
 determination, full of thought and affection, full of 
 self-control, and every other noble feeling. Unhappily 
 she has thwarted me, and I have been very severe 
 with her. More unhappily, still, the thwarting and 
 the severity were connected with .... my poor little 
 boy. And now I feel as if she would hate me. I 
 know she is one of those who must either love or hate ; 
 and I know she does not love me. So I am afraid 
 .... yes, Magdalen, afraid to see her. I could not — 
 my heart is too sad and sore — see hatred in the eyes of 
 my own child. Eyes,' she added, half to herself, ' that 
 i^an look so different. I could not be reproached, 
 triumphed over, despised. . . .' 
 
 ' Oh, hush, dear ! hush ! ' said Magdalen, much 
 shocked. 'Indeed, Lydia, I do not think you can 
 know what you are saying. The poor child is stupe- 
 fied with grief. It seems to me quite cruel to leave 
 her alone. Won't you come to her, and see ? ' 
 
 * iN'o, no,' said Mrs. Middleton ; ' I cannot, indeed I 
 cannot. Besides, I am sure she would not like it. You 
 <ion't understand her .... or me. How should you ? 
 You and Mervyn are so different.' 
 
 ' Dear Lydia,' remonstrated Magdalen, ' you will tire 
 yourself so if you walk up and down like that. Pray 
 fiit down.' 
 
 Mrs. Middleton sat down. 
 
 ' You have heard all this before, Magdalen?' 
 
 'Yes, Lydia.' 
 
 ' From Mervyn ? ' 
 
880 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 * From Mervyn.' 
 
 * Where is Mervyn now ? ' 
 
 * In Nina's room.' 
 
 * Nina is very fond of Mervyn.' 
 
 ' So I fancy ; and Mervyn is very fond of her.' 
 
 * It is selfisli of me to keep you away from Mervyn^ 
 Magdalen. Ton must be longing to be with bim, I am 
 sure. Pray do not stay here.' 
 
 * "Well, I will go to bim for a few minutes, and tben 
 I will see bow Nina is, and bring you word. Sball I ? ' 
 
 * I should be very grateful.' 
 
 Magdalen left the room, and proceeded down the 
 passage. Just outside Nina's room she met Mervyn, 
 who came bounding up to her, whispering eagerly : 
 * Mother, do go in and see Nina. I was coming to fetch 
 you.' 
 
 ' But, my darling,, do you think she would like it 1^ 
 You forget I am quite a stranger to her.' 
 
 For all answer Mervyn pushed open the door, and his 
 mother was obliged to go in. And then she found 
 herself alone with Nina. 
 
 The girl was lying just as Mervyn had left her, after 
 soothing her burst of grief. She looked very ill ; her 
 eyes were unnaturally large and bright, and had dark 
 rings under them. Though the general aspect of her 
 face was of a deadly pallor, there was a slight tinge of 
 crimson on each cheek. She started up when she saw 
 her aunt, and held out her hands without speaking. 
 Magdalen took them both ; they were burning hot. She 
 
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 831 
 
 was miicli alarmed at the girl's appearance, and at the 
 excitement of her words and manner. 
 
 ' Aunt Magdalen,' she said, earnestly, ' don't let Mer- 
 vyn stay here ; don't leave him here without you. He is 
 not happy here. I can't tell you how miserable he has 
 been sometimes without you.' 
 
 'No, dear,' said Magdalen, soothingly; 'I won't leave 
 him any more. But shan't you be sorry to lose him ? ' 
 
 * Oh yes ! Oh yes ! But that doesn't matter.' 
 
 ' Everything matters that makes you happy, my 
 child.' 
 
 ' I shall never be happy again,' she said, and she 
 burst into tears. 
 
 'And yet,' said Magdalen, gently, 'you would not 
 call back that sweet little fellow from his happiness in 
 Heaven to the life of weakness and suffering he led 
 here ? He would not wish to come ; he is happier now 
 than he has ever been before. You would not if you 
 could, dear child, would you ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no ! Oh no ! ' exclaimed Mna. 
 
 ' God loved him so, dear. He wanted to have him 
 with Himself. You can trust him to his Father, Nina, 
 who loves him even more than you.' _ 
 
 ' Aunt Magdalen,' said Nina, passionately, ' ijou would 
 have loved him, wouldn't you ? You wouldn't have 
 minded his being weak and sickly. You wouldn't have 
 thought more of the others because they were stronger 
 than him ? You wouldn't have been ashamed of him, 
 and have thought him the black sheep of the family, 
 and despised him ? If Mervyn had been like him, yoi^ 
 
532 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 wouldn't have done all this ? I mean even if you had 
 had other children, stronger and finer than him ? ' 
 
 * God forbid, dear,' said Magdalen, wondering what 
 the girl was driving at. * Do you not know that the 
 weakest and least prosperous child is always the one a 
 mother holds most dear ? ' 
 
 * She never did,' exclaimed Nina. 
 
 * Who, dear ? ' asked Magdalen, bewildered. 
 
 * Mamma ! ' she cried ; ' she despised him, she was 
 ashamed of him ; I don't believe she will be sorry he is 
 dead.' 
 
 Magdalen was inexpressibly shocked. Matters 
 between the mother and daughter seemed more hope- 
 less than she had expected. She was bewildered, too. 
 Coming fresh from Mrs. Middleton, in the abandonment 
 of her grief, the girl's statement seemed so contra- 
 dictory. She could not help feeling they were mis- 
 understanding each other, and that all might be set 
 right between them. But the most prominent idea in 
 her mind was that Nina's state should be put before 
 Mrs. Middleton at once. She was quite sure that the 
 •child was much shaken in nerves and in body, and she 
 felt she might very likely be on the brink of a nervous 
 fever, or some such illness. 
 
 No doubt it was her duty to call her sister-in-law's 
 attention to it without delay. The mother and daughter 
 must be brought together, and no weak fear of agitating 
 the former must prevent her instantly giving the alarm. 
 But she hardly liked to leave Nina alone, even while 
 ehe went to Mrs. Middleton's room on the other side of 
 
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 the house. So she went to the door, and called Mervyn. 
 He came directly. 
 
 * Stay with Nina,' she whispered, * and tell her, if you 
 have an opportunity, how unhappy her mother id, and 
 how she is longing to see her.' 
 
 But on her way she called to a servant in the hall, 
 and gave orders that the doctor should be sent for at 
 once. She found Mrs. Middleton sitting as she had left 
 her; but she looked up eagerly at her entrance, and 
 said, * Well?' 
 
 ' I have nothing good to tell you, Lydia,' she said 
 very gravely. ' I think E'ina is very ill, and I don't 
 think you ought to lose a moment in going to see 
 her.' 
 
 Her gentle womanly heart smote her as she uttered 
 the w^ords ; but foreign as it was to her nature to inflict 
 pain, she felt in this instance that it was the only thing 
 to be done. But she was not prepared for the effect of 
 her words on Mrs. Middleton. 
 
 * HI ! ' she cried, starting to her feet, and hastily 
 throwing a shawl over her shoulders. * She is dying, 
 Magdalen ! I see it in your face. Oh, my God ! am I 
 to lose two children in one day ? Take me to her. Oh 
 Magdalen, take me quickly.' 
 
 And she put her hand on her sister-in-law's shoulder 
 for support. 
 
 Magdalen answered gently : * Believe me, Lydia, no. 
 She is not so bad as that. Only ill enough to require a 
 mother's care and attention.' 
 
 * She shall have both,' exclaimed Mrs. Middleton. * 1 
 
334 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 would lay down my life for her. I will do anything and 
 everything I can to ... * 
 
 As she was speaking, the door slowly opened, and 
 Mervyn entered, leading Nina by the hand. Her eyes, 
 glowing with mingled feelings, sought her mother's 
 face. 
 
 * Mervyn has been telling me,' she began faintly, but 
 at sight of that mother, so wan-looking, so altered, she 
 stopped short. 
 
 The swollen eyes, the haggard look, the weak, nervous 
 motion of the hands, the change altogether, filled the 
 child with feelings which deprived her of speech. Her 
 mother stopped short, too, in what she was saying, and 
 stepped back just a little. But neither removed their 
 eyes from the other's face. Each recognised in the 
 other the presence of the same sacred common cause of 
 sorrow, and the change which that sorrow had efiected. 
 Each recognised that from the other every trace of 
 antagonism, pride, resistance, and self-will, had fled. 
 Neither spoke, but both understood. Pity, the main- 
 spring of all that was tender and holy in the girl, sprang 
 up in her heart at the sight. Anxiety and love, so long 
 unknown, woke up in the mother's breast, and pervaded 
 •every line of her face. . . . 
 
 Yery quietly Magdalen led Mervyn away, and closed 
 the door behind her. 
 
 So no eye but God's saw the meeting between mother 
 and daughter. 
 
BACK AT GLEN-MEMVYN. 336 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 BACK AT GLEN-MERVTN. 
 
 * Doesn't it seem funny, mother,' said Mervyn, * that all 
 this time I have never heard wTiy you came back so 
 suddenly ? Your last letter said not till December. I 
 have never had a minute to ask you till now.' 
 
 It was evening, and he was sitting in his mother's 
 bed-room. She was lying on the sofa, and he was in 
 his old position on the floor, with his head against her, 
 and her hand in his. 
 
 Magdalen answered that a sudden Fenian outbreak 
 on Lord Wardlaw's estates in Ireland had resulted in 
 the murder of his agent, and that his immediate presence 
 there had been necessary. Summoned by telegram, he 
 had started directly. 
 
 As she spoke, she fancied she felt Mervyn shrink a 
 little into himself, but he said nothing ; and she could 
 not see his face as she lay. His silence did not encourage 
 her to pursue the conversation, so she did not continue 
 it. She merely remarked that Lord Wardlaw would 
 join them at Grlen-Mervyn as soon as he was able, but 
 that she did not know when that would be ; and then 
 she wished the boy a fond good-night, and begged him 
 
836 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 to get to bed as quickly as possible, so as to have a good 
 sleep after the exciting events of the day. They had 
 both, certainly, been through a good deal of agitation. 
 Nina, after the meeting with her mother, had broken 
 down altogether, and the doctor, on his arrival, had 
 declared her to be in a very anxious state. She had 
 never left her mother's sofa, where she had first been 
 laid. The whole nervous system had seemed nnstrnng, 
 and her physical strength exhausted. She had got a 
 chill, too, and towards evening had become feverish and 
 disposed to wander. The doctor's orders that she 
 should be kept perfectly quiet, and not confuted by the 
 sight of different faces, were most stringent ; and the 
 younger children were to be sent away, and the house 
 kept as free of noise and bustle as possible. 
 
 Under these circumstances Lady Wardlaw had settled 
 to leave Grranton the next morning, taking Mervyn with 
 her. It was useless his staying, as far as Mna was 
 concerned, since the doctor desired that only one person 
 should go into her room besides the maid. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton had at once declared it her intention 
 to be that one, and had never left the girl's side since 
 the doctor's visit. It was not very likely that poor 
 little Mna would often be conscious enough to notice 
 Mervyn's absence, so Magdalen had no scruples about 
 taking him away. Lady Wardlaw could not help feel- 
 ing that it was a providential arrangement that the 
 mother and daughter should thus be left alone ; and 
 fervently hoped that anxiety and care on the one side 
 woxdd hereafter draw forth gratitude on the other, and 
 pave the way to love and confidence on both. 
 
SACK AT GLEN-MERVYN. 837 
 
 Thus suddenly Mervyn's exile came to an end ; and 
 early tlie next morning he left the scene of his varied 
 experiences, where he had unconsciously and indirectly 
 been the means of effecting so much. 
 
 They went straight to London, where they remained 
 for some little time. During their stay they had daily 
 telegrams and letters from Granton, which were on the 
 whole more cheering than otherwise. Magdalen also 
 had satisfactory accounts from her husband of the pro- 
 gress of his affairs in Ireland, and he seemed likely to be 
 able to get away sooner than he had expected. These 
 letters were not shared with Mervyn. He had never 
 mentioned his step-father, nor made any enquiry about 
 him. Whether it was from perversity, or sheer forget- 
 fiilness, Magdalen could not determine. She knew well 
 Mervyn's power of putting from him subjects that were 
 disagreeable or painful, and she feared sometimes that 
 he had really succeeded in shutting out altogether the 
 fact of Lord Wardlaw's existence. Had it not been that 
 the boy had gone through so much lately, she would 
 have questioned him about it ; but he was at times, in 
 spite of their re-union, so cast down and out of spirits 
 that she did not like to force unwelcome topics upon 
 him. He was sometimes filled with compunction for 
 having left Mna just when she seemed to need him most ; 
 he never could speak of Totty without tears ; and his 
 anxiety over the telegrams and letters was intense. So 
 she made up her mind to wait till they got back to Glen- 
 Mervyn before she opened the subject. 
 
 As soon as the reports were really hopefiil, she settled 
 z 
 
338 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 a day for leaving London, for slie was anxious to get 
 Mervyn back among Hs old associations, and to see him 
 recover his spirits. 
 
 They received a satisfactory account from Granton the 
 day they started on their journey, and Mervyn 's spirits 
 rose accordingly. They rose still higher as he journeyed 
 on, and got into the familiar country which indicated his 
 entry into his beloved Wales. Every landmark seemed 
 to bring him nearer and nearer to his old life, and the 
 troubles of his recent one grew dimmer every instant. 
 His mother marked with joy the light of his eye, and 
 the animation of his whole countenance. She really had 
 begun to fear that he had been cowed and saddened for 
 good in his cousins' home. 
 
 They arrived very late, and he was too tired to do 
 more than go straight to bed, reflecting on the happiness 
 in store. He woke the next morning in a perfect trans- 
 port of delight. The sight of the old Welsh hills from 
 his bedroom window made him spring out of bed with 
 a shout, at the thought that he was really back at Glen- 
 Mervyn. Back at Glen-Mervyn ! Back among the 
 much- loved scenes and the familiar surroundings ! 
 Back, with his mother at his side, to be parted from her 
 no more ! 
 
 When he went down- stairs and found her sitting in 
 her usual place at the breakfast table, he felt as if he 
 had never been away, and as if the last three months 
 had been part of a hideous dream which had disappeared 
 like a ghost at cock-crow. How delightful it was to 
 revisit all the familiar scenes with his mother ; to take 
 
BACK AT GLEN-MERVYN. 339 
 
 her to the gate wliere they had parted, and to feel that 
 all was over. How deUghtful, later in the day, to pay 
 a visit with her to the Vicarage, and to feel so inde- 
 pendent of Gwen and her tactless speeches ; to have no 
 concern with the prim little parlour and the stuflPed 
 birds ; to wander home in the autumn sunset talking it 
 all over, the words tumbling out unrestrainedly as of old» 
 instead of having to write and spell them. 
 
 * Oh mother ! ' he exclaimed suddenly, ' I feel now 
 just as if I had never been away from you or Glen- 
 Mervyn ! ' 
 
 ' Do you, darling ? ' she answered. ' Don't you feel 
 the least bit different in yourself for all the changes you 
 have been through ? ' 
 
 * Different ? ' he said quickly j ' Oh no ! Not the least. 
 Why should I?' 
 
 * Not even in your interests ? ' she questioned again. 
 ' No, mother.' 
 
 Lady Wardlaw smiled, and shghtly shook her head. 
 
 * I think I can prove the contrary,' she said. * To- 
 day, certainly, the old familiar surroundings have re- 
 vived in you very strongly your old interests. But till 
 now, since we met, what has been the chief topic of 
 your conversation — ^your last thought at night, and your . 
 first in the morning ? ' 
 
 ' Nina's illness,' she repeated ; * and Nina altogether, 
 and poor little Totty, and your Aunt Lydia. In short, 
 all the Granton affairs. Now, in the old days, used we 
 to talk so much about them all ? * 
 z2 
 
840 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 * No, he answered ; * I did not take tlie same interest 
 in them.' 
 
 * Who did we chiefly talk of and take interest in ? ' 
 she asked. 
 
 « Ourselves, I suppose,' he said rather unwillingly. 
 
 ' There is one difference in youthen, you see, already,' 
 she went on. ' Your sympathies are enlarged, and the 
 range of your existence is widened. We were very happy 
 together here, no doubt, you and I, but perhaps there 
 was a danger of our getting selfish ; so our isolated hap- 
 piness was brought to a close, and we were sent out into 
 the world, to form new interests, and to have our sym- 
 pathies for others drawn out. Do not for a moment, 
 darling, suppose that I think you love me less because 
 you love others more : I "know you don't. But I do see a 
 difference in you, for all the changes you have seen. 
 And it is a difference I am glad and thankful to see. 
 For I used to be a little frightened when you talked of 
 " you and I," as if " you and I " were the only two 
 people in the world, and as if there were no world at all 
 outside Glen-Mervyn. But now it is different, and I 
 cannot tell you how glad I am that it should be so.' 
 
 * But mother,' he objected, * I don't know that it is so 
 different as you think. Since I have been home, I feel 
 quite to have forgotten Grranton, and to take no interest 
 in anyone or anything outside Glen-Mervyn; I assure 
 you I don't.' 
 
 * Ah, Mervyn ! I know you better than you know 
 yourself. You think so, but I will prove to you that 
 you are wrong. Now I will make your heart beat, and 
 
BACK AT GLEN'MERVYN, 341 
 
 your eyea sparkle by what I am going to say, and yet it 
 does not concern me, or you, or Glen-Mervyn.' 
 
 Mervyn looked up, puzzled and unbelieving. 
 
 ' Between the trees,' she said, quietly, * I see the 
 telegraph boy coming along, and .... 
 
 But Mervyn had shot from her side, like an arrow 
 from a bow, and was tearing across the field to meet him, 
 before she could finish her sentence. 
 
 She walked on, smiHng to herself, and in a little 
 while he came back breathless and eager, with the 
 telegram in his hand. It proved very satisfactory. Nina 
 was going on perfectly well. * We shall get a letter 
 to-morrow, with fuller accounts,' remarked Mervyn, as 
 he walked by his mother's side, heart and mind full of 
 ISTina. 
 
 * So you feel no interest in anything outside Glen- 
 Mervyn ? ' she said presently, finding he continued 
 silent. 
 
 He looked up, smiHng brightly. * You are always 
 right, mother,' he said. ' Is there a difference in you 
 too, for the changes you have seen ? ' he asked after a 
 few minutes. ' Have you got interests now outside 
 Glen-Mervyn ? ' 
 
 He put the question rather anxiously, and looked up 
 into her face. 
 
 ' Mervyn,' she said — and it was evident she had not 
 heard what he had said, for her eyes were looking away 
 over the fields — ^just go and see what the telegraph 
 boy is coming to the house for. Does he want to be 
 paid, or what ? ' 
 
342 THBOWN TOGETHER, 
 
 Mervyn went off*, and came back running, with 
 another telegram in his hand. 
 
 * There were two,' he said. ' The hoy says I ran off 
 so quickly, he had not time to tell me.' 
 
 He handed it to his mother, and watched her while 
 she read it. Somehow, the autumn sunshine seemed to 
 him less bright, and the decaying leaves less golden. 
 
 She gave him the paper when she had read it. 
 
 * I must answer this by telegram,' she said, ' so I am 
 going in for a moment. I shall not be long.' 
 
 Her eyes were shining with that new expression that 
 he had noticed once or twice since their re-union, and a 
 happy smile played about her mouth. And that was 
 all the answer he ever got to his question, as to whether 
 she had interests outside Glen- Mervyn. 
 
 Yery slowly he followed her towards the house, read- 
 ing the telegram that told him Lord Wardlaw was 
 coming. Magdalen, when she joined him on the 
 terrace, saw how it was. She felt she had perhaps 
 been unwise in avoiding the subject till now. But then, 
 she had not expected her husband so soon. 
 
 They were standing, she and Mervyn, outside the 
 bow- window, where she had broken the news to him. 
 She felt emboldened by the memory of that conver- 
 sation, and the complete conquest she had achieved. 
 
 ' Mervyn,' she said, putting her hand on his shoulder, 
 * do you remember our conversation here that summer 
 night?' 
 
 * Yes, mother.' 
 
 But the answer came in rather a bored tone of voice. 
 
BACK AT GLEN'MERVYN. 348 
 
 * Have you often tliouglit it over since ? ' 
 ' No, mother.' 
 
 Magdalen glanced at him quickly, and a shadow 
 passed over her face. 
 
 ' You don't mean to say you still put the subject from 
 you, Mervyn, after all these months ? ' 
 
 Mervyn nodded. 
 
 * I was half afraid of this, from your letters. It is a 
 fatal habit of yours, Mervyn. I am grievously dis- 
 appointed.' 
 
 Mervyn hung his head, without answering. 
 
 'This cannot go on,' she said, very firmly. *The 
 sooner you turn your thoughts to the subject the better; 
 for you see he is coming to-morrow.* 
 
 ' Who ? ' said Mervyn, perversely. 
 
 She hesitated a minute, and then said, * Your father.' 
 
 * My fatJier I ' echoed Mervyn, his face crimsoning. 
 
 * Your step-father, then,' she said ; and there was 
 something like impatience in her tone ; * or Charlie, or 
 whatever you like to call . . . my husband.' 
 
 And Magdalen turned her head away, and pressed 
 her hands together to control herself. She was sur- 
 prised at the difficulty she felt in restraining her indigna- 
 tion. She wondered how far her patience and forbear- 
 ance would endure, if Mervyn was going to put them 
 to the test again. She realised that she was not so fit 
 to bear with him now as she had been on a former 
 occasion. She wondered why ; and probed her heart 
 and conscience to find an answer. Conscience had no 
 answer to make, but her full heart gave it directly. 
 
344 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 Ah ! it was all very well to be patient, and to make 
 allowances when it was a question of an abstract Lord 
 Wardlaw, a man towards whom, in her then puzzled 
 state of mind, she had had no definite feeling, beyond 
 the wish to repair an act of injustice. 
 
 But now ! . . . ITow what was it ? It was a ques- 
 tion of the husband she loved with all her heart and 
 soul ; the man who in a few short months had flooded 
 her life with sunshine, and brought back to her the 
 grace and glory of her youth ; who had radiated her 
 present and her future with a light her past had never 
 known ; and had caused the trials and disappointments 
 of the morning of her life to be lost in the full com- 
 pleteness of her noon- tide happiness ! And Magdalen 
 was troubled at the thought. 
 
 ' Am I getting selfish ? ' she asked herself. * Hap- 
 piness ought not to make me less able to think of and 
 feel for others. Can my new life be bad for me ? ' 
 
 But she knew it was not so. She knew that he who 
 had restored to her the ideal and the illusions of her 
 girlhood had done not only that, but infinitely more. 
 He had also restored to her her faith in human nature, 
 and her belief in human goodness, by bringing before 
 her a living picture of what natural goodness can be, 
 exalted by time and trial ; and the contact with such a 
 character had elevated her also, had implanted in her 
 new aspirations, and stimulated her to fresh efforts. 
 
 Even dwelling in thought on the beauty of his cha- 
 racter gave her strength now, and she felt it would 
 teach her to forbear. 
 
BACK AT GLEN-MERVYN, 345 
 
 His patience with his step-son would, she knew, be 
 inexhaustible ; so hers must not fail. Besides, it was so 
 foolish to have fears. Did she not hnow that he would 
 win the boy over directly? Was it hkely a loving 
 nature like Mervyn's could resist him? Then why 
 allow herself to be hurt and vexed by a mere prejudice 
 on the boy's part ? "Why not wait on quietly, certain 
 that all would be well ? 
 
 So, turning to Mervyn with her usual gentle smile, 
 she said : * Call him what you like, darling. The time 
 will come when you will be glad to call him father, and 
 till then I will wait.' 
 
S4Q THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 MEETING OF LORD WARDLAW AND MERYYN LTNDSAT. 
 
 The next morning's letter about Mna was as satisfac- 
 tory as possible. The worst was over, and she had now 
 only to get np her strength. 
 
 ' I wish she could come here,' said Mervyn ; ' she 
 would be so happy with us, mother.' 
 
 * I hope she will come when she is well enough,' Lady 
 Wardlaw answered ; * but I sometimes doubt if your 
 Aunt Lydia will ever make up her mind to part from 
 her.' 
 
 A short conyersation on the subject ensued ; and then 
 Mervyn got ready to go as usual to his studies at the 
 Vicarage. As he sped along through the autumn 
 woods his thoughts were given to any and every subject 
 but the impending arrival. It had completely escaped 
 his memory. He received a warm welcome from the 
 vicar, who did not conceal his pleasure at having him 
 to teach again. 
 
 Studies over, Mervyn had a long talk with him on 
 divers events that had occurred during his absence from 
 Glen-Mervyn, and found so much to say that he stayed 
 chatting till half-past five. 
 
LORD WARDLAW AI^D MERVYN. 347 
 
 ' Why, I quite forgot I was not living here,' he said, 
 laughing ; * I must be running home to give mother her 
 tea.' 
 
 As he went along he mused on the pleasure of having 
 his mother to take care of again ; of feeling that the 
 house contained her ; that she was there, safe and sound. 
 He thought of that sad day when he visited the deserted 
 terrace, and looked up at the empty house ; and the 
 overwhelming delight of hurrying home to her made 
 him almost wish to revive the old feeling of desolation, 
 that he might enjoy the present even more. So it came 
 into his head, when he got to the stables, to go round, 
 as he had done on the former occasion, and look at the 
 house from the garden. 
 
 It was dusk when he got there ; but from the draw- 
 ing-room window came a blaze of warm light, which 
 shone out into the darkness. The heart of the child 
 beat high as he thought of his mother sitting in the fire- 
 light, waiting for him to return. Clinging to the 
 branch of an old tree, which showered down golden 
 leaves under the impetus he gave to it, he swung him- 
 self up, and peeped in at the window, his eager eyes 
 searching for the beloved figure in its accustomed place. 
 There was a long pause and a long silence. Every dis- 
 tant sound was audible in the stillness that prevailed ; 
 the barking of distant dogs, the lowing of distant cattle, 
 and the distant voices of peasants as they wended their 
 way home. But no nearer sound was audible. 
 
 An old white owl, who had been disturbed in her seat 
 on the tree by the sudden bending of the branches. 
 
348 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 peered down upon the little figure from an npper 
 branch, as if wondering what that was that sat so very 
 still. The silence was broken at last by a low sob, and 
 the half- whispered words, * She doesn't want me ; I 
 needn't have hnrried home to give her her tea.' 
 
 There was a rustle among the branches, another shower 
 of golden leaves from the tree, as the little watcher 
 dropped from his seat, and stole away in the gathering 
 darkness. 
 
 The white owl, startled again and somewhat rudely 
 shaken from her perch, fluttered down upon the branch 
 he had left, and became a spectator of what had scared 
 the child away. 
 
 The fire was burning brightly, lighting up all the 
 corners of the room. It played upon the tea equipage, 
 revealing that the cups were empty, and the repast con- 
 cluded. Magdalen was sitting in a low arm-chair, 
 looking up to, and in deep conversation with, a tall fair 
 man, who stood on the hearth-rug, with his back to the 
 fire, looking down upon her as she sat. 
 
 The tell-tale firelight showed how intense was the 
 interest of the conversation, how happy were the faces 
 of the two as they talked. This was the scene which 
 had sent Mervyn rushing to his own little bedroom, in- 
 stead of going straight to his mother, as usual. 
 
 Half an hour afterwards Lady Wardlaw, getting un- 
 easy at his absence, went in search of him, and finding 
 his door locked, gently forced an entrance, and drew 
 his story from him. By that time he had grown tired 
 of his own society, and was ready to be consoled by her 
 
^ LORD WARDLAW AND MERVYN. 349 
 
 soothing kisses, and lier assurances that he was very 
 mnch wanted indeed, and that both she and Lord 
 Wardlaw had been expecting him every moment, and 
 wondering what could have become of him. 
 
 'Now, darling,' she said gently, but very firmly, 
 * brush your hair and run down. You will find Charlie 
 anxiously expecting you.' 
 
 * Ain't you coming, mother?' said Mervyn, rather 
 blankly. 
 
 'No, dear,' she answered, quietly; *I am going to 
 dress. We dine earlier to-night. Why, Mervyn, you 
 are not going to persuade yourself you are shy ! ' 
 
 Mervyn laughed a little at the idea of being shy ; and 
 Magdalen, anxious to keep him in a cheerful vein, 
 talked on to him gaily all the time he was washing his 
 hands and brushing his hair. She was suite sure he 
 and Lord Wardlaw would get on better without her, 
 and had made up her mind to leave them to themselves 
 at first. She knew well the boy's sociable and genial 
 disposition, and felt he would make friends directly. 
 
 * But you will come down soon, mother ? ' he said, as 
 he kissed her and ran off. 
 
 As he passed through the hall, on his way to the 
 drawing-room, his eye fell on a gun-case, lying there 
 with other packages. Attracted by the sight he stopped 
 short, and his eye sparkled. 
 
 * A breech-loader, I shouldn't wonder ! ' he exclaimed. 
 •toCe knelt down, undid the case, and examined the 
 guti eagerly. 
 
350 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 * I say, what a jolly one ! I wish I liad a breech- 
 loader ! I wonder if I could carry this.' 
 
 He took it out carefully, lifted it on to his shoulder, 
 and tried to rise to his feet, gun and all. It was very 
 heavy, and he nearly toppled over. In trying to recover 
 his balance the gun fell from his shoulder, and came 
 down with a crash on the marble floor. 
 
 The drawing-room door opened hastily, and Lord 
 Wardlaw came out. 
 
 ' Oh, I say, I'm so awfully sorry ! ' exclaimed Mervyn, 
 running up to him, and holding out his hands ; ' I liojpe 
 it is not hurt.' 
 
 And he looked eagerly up into his step-father's face, 
 with flushed cheeks and glowing eyes. 
 
 Lord "Wardlaw took both the boy's hands in his, and 
 returned the gaze with interest. His eyes never turned 
 towards the gun ; they were rivetted on the boy's face, 
 and he made no answer. 
 
 The past came rushing before him as he gazed. The 
 likeness of feature and colouring, the strange inde- 
 scribable resemblance of voice and manner, the expres- 
 sion in the eyes, took him back years and years, and he 
 seemed to be looking on the bright face of Magdalen 
 Middleton as it had appeared the first time he had 
 seen her. 
 
 It reminded him so forcibly of that first meeting, 
 riding in the Park, when, a few minutes after their 
 introduction, his horse had fallen on its knees, and, as 
 it recovered itself, she had turned to him, saying, ' I 
 hojpe it is not hurt ! / 
 
 \ 
 
LORD WARBLAW AND MERVYN, 851 
 
 It was the very same face, tlie very same manner, the 
 very same words. He felt himself carried straight back 
 to that day, and, as in a dream he was about to answer 
 as he had done then — when with sudden bitterness 
 came the memory of another figure in that tableau — 
 a figure riding on her other side. He seemed to see 
 again the sardonic smile, and to hear the sarcastic 
 remark on his horsemanship, and to feel the throb of 
 furious anger mingled with the sense of triumph as he 
 marked the indignation in Magdalen's face. 
 
 Then, when he thought how the child before him was 
 that man's son ; the man who had spoilt his youth, and 
 embittered his early manhood ; who had acted to him 
 the part of a traitor under the guise of a benefactor, 
 and been to him a very Judas : — he dropped the boy's 
 hands, and turned away without a Word. 
 
 So curious are the sudden changes and phases of 
 feeling ! He had not given his thoughts hitherto at all 
 to this meeting, and now it overpowered him. Mervyn, 
 on the other hand, who had dreaded and shrank from 
 it, was completely absorbed in the gun, and perhaps 
 only looked upon his step-father in the light of the 
 breech-loader's owner. He was afraid, from Lord 
 Wardlaw's manner, that he was angry, and, taking 
 hold of his hand again, he said : * I know I ought not to 
 have touched it, but it was so tempting.' 
 
 Lord Wardlaw put his disengaged hand over his eyes, 
 and tried to clear away the past and return to the 
 present. The sublime and the ridiculous are ever ready 
 to meet and mingle, and his sense of humour suddenly 
 
852 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 showed him the construction that might be put upon 
 his behaviour by the boj in this, the beginning of their 
 acquaintance, namelj, that he was a harsh and un- 
 forgiving step-father — an old ogre, in fact. It struck 
 him as so ridiculous that he should play a part so 
 foreign to his nature that he laughed, and with that 
 laugh the mist of bygone years cleared away. 
 
 * Never mind the gun, my dear boy^' he said; 'T 
 daresay there is no harm done.' 
 
 * Oh ! but do let me see,' said Mervyn eagerly, and 
 greatly relieved ; * it would be such a pity. A mag- 
 nificent breach-loader like that. Please look ! ' 
 
 Smiling at his eagerness, Lord Wardlaw knelt down, 
 and examined the gun carefully, Mervyn sitting on the 
 top of the packing-case, looking on. 
 
 * l!^ot injured a bit,' he said, after a pause ; * how did 
 it happen ? ' 
 
 , * I was trying to see if it was too heavy for me,' he 
 answered frankly, 'and I lost my balance. I do so 
 want a breech-loader,' he went on ; ' are they ever made 
 light enough for boys of my age ? ' 
 
 * To be sure,' said Lord Wardlaw, ' and you certainly 
 ought to have one. Can you shoot a hare yet ? ' 
 
 Mervyn launched at once into an account of his 
 performances, and Lord Wardlaw listened attentively at 
 first ; but the voice and manner made him dreamy 
 agaiQ after a time, and he caught himself listening 
 more to them than to what the boy was actually saying. 
 Mervyn brought him up short by proposing to take the 
 gun into the drawing-room, that he might look at it in 
 the light, and try to understand it. 
 
LORD WARDLAW AND MERVYN. 353 
 
 Lord Wardlaw assented, but not readily. He would 
 have preferred remaining in the darkened hall, listening 
 to the voice so full of association ; and he was perhaps 
 a little dreading the sight of the boy in the full glare of 
 the lighted room, lest his eyes should detect in him 
 some faint likeness to his father, and so destroy the 
 favourable impression the child was making on him. 
 Detecting in him every moment as he talked traces of 
 Magdalen's sentiments, tastes, and opinions, he was 
 beginning to feel the boy would become very dear to 
 him, and he wanted to forget everything that might 
 produce a contrary feeling. However, he rose, and did 
 as Mervyn requested, carried the gun into the drawing- 
 room, and laid it on the hearth-rug. Then he cast an 
 aaxious look at his step-son. But he was re-assured 
 when his eye fell on the graceful figure and beaming 
 face. There was no sort of likeness to anyone but 
 Magdalen, and Lord Wardlaw drew a long breath of 
 relief. 
 
 Standing on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire, 
 he looked down admiringly upon Mervyn bending over 
 the gun, and went on talking. 
 
 ' Do you understand it now ? ' he asked, after a brief 
 explanation. 
 
 ''Quite,' answered Mervyn; * and oh, how I wish 
 I had one ! I say ! how tall you are,' he exclaimed, 
 suddenly looking up, and measuring with his eye the 
 figure before him. *You must be taller than Uncle 
 Rowley. What is your height ? ' 
 
 * Six foot two,' answered Lord Wardlaw, smiling. 
 A A 
 
354 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 < Oh he is only six foot, so you are two inches taller 
 than him. I hope I shall be as tall as you. Mother is 
 five foot seven,' he added, proudly. 
 
 Lord Wardlaw was dreaming again, and answered 
 absently, ^Five foot seven! That is not much of a 
 height.' 
 
 *Not much of a height,' exclaimed Mervyn, in- 
 dignantly ; ' why it is a perfect beight for a lady.' 
 
 * A lady ? Oh, yes. I beg your pardon. I thought 
 you were speaking of a man. I agree with you that 
 five foot seven is a charming beight. What lady were 
 you speaking of ? ' 
 
 * Mother,' answered Mervyn, his voice and manner 
 softening. 
 
 ' Whose mother ? ' asked Lord Wardlaw, absently. 
 
 *Mme,' answered Mervyn, in his firm tone of proud 
 appropriation. 
 
 Lord Wardlaw still looked a little at sea, but sud- 
 denly recollecting bimself, he said : * A perfect height ; 
 yes, I did not understand you were speaking of Mag- 
 dalen.' 
 
 Lord Wardlaw' s voice softened too, as he pronounced 
 his wife's name, and Mervyn looked up sharply. For 
 there was in the tone the same ring of proud appropria- 
 tion that had just sounded in his own. It migbt have 
 been its ecbo. 
 
 And at that moment she entered, dressed for dinner. 
 Lord Wardlaw advanced and put a chair for her, un- 
 consciously coming up against Mervyn, who was in the 
 act of doing the same thing. All three laughed ; but 
 
LORD WARDLAW AND MERVYN. 366 
 
 •Mervyn's smile died away soonest, and he brushed 
 passed Lord Wardlaw, and went and stood by his 
 mother rather defiantly. His attitude expressed what 
 the tone of his voice had declared before— that he con- 
 sidered her his exclusive possession; and wished to 
 make patent his right of monopoly. 
 
 * You must go up and dress, darhng,' she said gently. 
 * Dinner will be early to-night.' 
 
 Mervyn went off directly, and Lord Wardlaw pre- 
 pared to follow. 
 
 ' Well, Charlie ? ' said his wife, questioningly, and 
 rather anxiously. 
 |; * We made Mends over a breech-loader,' he answered, 
 smiling, as he passed her. Left alone in the drawing- 
 room, by the flickering fire, Magdalen sank into a fit of 
 meditation. She wondered a little what had brought 
 that peculiar look into her husband's eye, and why her 
 entrance should so have changed the expression of 
 Mervyn' s face. He looked happy and friendly when 
 she had first caught sight of him as she opened the 
 door. She suspected the truth very soon. She saw 
 that it had been hard for her husband to meet Mr. 
 Lyndsay's son, and she feared it had revived some old 
 feelings of bitterness. She saw that Mervyn would love 
 and enjoy his step-father except in so far as she was 
 concerned ; be perfect friends apart from her, but feel 
 differently in her presence. That Httle contretemps 
 about the chair gave her an idea of how matters would be. 
 Mervyn, accustomed to care for her and monopolise her 
 entirely, would resent Lord Wardlaw's interference 
 aa2 
 
356 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 and she sighed as she wondered how it would all go on. 
 From that she fell to thinking what a curious position 
 theirs was. How curious it all was ! What a curious 
 thing life was ! What an odd history hers had been. 
 How strange it was that Charlie Digby should be, by a 
 curious chain of circumstances, master, as it were, in 
 Mr. Lyndsay's home. On what a different scene had 
 the walls of this room once looked down. As she 
 thought of that dreary time, so long ago, she wondered 
 how she ever could have borne it. What a life for a 
 girl to lead ! It was dangerous to turn her thoughts 
 that way ; and to think that while she was living out 
 day by day that dreary monotonous routine, incar- 
 cerated in a living tomb, Charlie had been living out 
 his in exile, fretting and chafing against her, against 
 fate, against Providence even ; thinking her worldly, 
 mercenary, faithless ; and that all the while they might 
 have been living happily together. She knew he was 
 thinking the same to-night ; she had seen it in his eyes. 
 And as she thought it over, she could not help wondering 
 wk]^ it had all been allowed. It was not as if he had 
 been situated like most men who, when disappointed 
 like him, can divert their thoughts by change and 
 amusement, and seek a new object of afiection. For 
 his life in the out-of-the-way foreign courts to which it 
 had throughout been his fate to be appointed, had 
 offered no distraction to him. No English face had 
 crossed his path, to put hers out of his head. So there 
 had been nothing to prevent the full force of early dis- 
 appointment falling upon him, and being a sore trial. 
 
LORD WARDLAW AND MERVYN. 357 
 
 Why should he have been tried like this ? What had he 
 done that he should have had his youth marred and 
 spoilt in this way ? 
 
 She was puzzled, till she began to meditate on a 
 subject of which she never tired — the beauty of her 
 husband's character ; and then she began to understand 
 a little. For she could not but tell herself that it was 
 that early trial that had helped to make it what it now 
 was. Though it was the same character which had at 
 first attracted her to him, she could not but own that 
 it was ennobled and matured under the influence of time 
 and trial. It might have been that, in a spirit so light 
 and happy, something of depth and earnestness had 
 been wanting, and God, by giving him the trial had 
 developed the want and supplied it. And the result 
 was a character at once rare and beautiful. For he was 
 not, as many would have been under the like circum- 
 stances, a soured embittered man. Far from it. He 
 had borne his life bravely, and retained through it all a 
 natural sweetness of temper and power of enjoyment ; 
 the freshness, in short, and the charm of youth ; the 
 almost boylike zest and keenness in both his amusements 
 and his occupations. 
 
 Still his character bore ineffaceable marks of his early 
 disappointment, giving the man strength, and depth, 
 and reality. 
 
 ' So it has been for the best, after all,' she said, half 
 out loud ; and as she spoke he came into the room. 
 
 'Charlie,' she said softly. 
 
 He came up smiling, but she detected through the 
 
358 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 smile the same expression site had noticed before. He 
 stationed himself on the hearth-rug, and looked all 
 round the room, taking in its minutest details ; and 
 then his eye met hers. She saw she was right in sup- 
 posing that his thoughts had followed the same train 
 as her own ; and a few questions drew the truth from 
 him. 
 
 * Life is difl&cult to understand, Charlie, isn't it ? ' she 
 said, rather wistfully. 
 
 ' Difficult,' he answered, *but not impossible.' 
 
 The wistful look left her face at the firm answer, and 
 was succeeded by one of loving admiration. Mervyn's 
 entrance prevented further conversation, and soon after 
 the gong sounded. 
 
 Dinner passed off pleasantly. Lord Wardlaw gave 
 an account of some of his Fenian adventures, and 
 Mervyn was a delighted and interested listener. The 
 conversation branched off to shooting, cricket, and other 
 subjects of a like nature. Charlie and Mervyn talked 
 eagerly, and Magdalen listened, which she was well 
 content to do. 
 
 Leaning back in her chair, and watching the two she 
 loved so dearly rapidly progressing in intimacy, her 
 doubts and fears vanished, and Hope told her that all 
 would be well. 
 
B1JFFICULTIE8 OF THE NEW MENAGE. 359 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE NEW MANAGE. 
 
 Hope, however, told a flattering tale. That first evening 
 was a very fair type of what followed. 
 
 Attracted, in spite of himself, to Lord Wardlaw, 
 Mervyn soon grew very fond of him, in so far as he 
 himself was concerned, and took great delight in his 
 society. He found him a most charming companion, as 
 keen and eager as he was himself, and just as capable 
 of enjoyment. 
 
 Mervyn had never had so much shooting, or so many 
 holidays in his life, as he gofc in the first three weeks 
 after his step-father's arrival. Lord Wardlaw had given 
 him a breech-loader, and was always planning out days 
 of fan for him in which to use it. He was kindness 
 itself to the boy, and no doubt Mervyn's life was really 
 the happier for the change. 
 
 Formerly there had certainly — though he had never 
 found it out — been a want in his life of a companion 
 with kindred tastes and pursuits. His mother's interest 
 and sympathy in all his pleasures, keen as they had 
 always been, were necessarily, as he grew older, a little 
 forced— a little those of a looker-on. She could enjoy 
 
360 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 them for liis sake, but she could not always join in 
 them. But here was one ever ready to share in them, 
 and with the same zest and unflagging zeal as himself. 
 
 Lord Wardlaw, on his side, soon got over the feelings 
 his first introduction to his step-son had temporarily 
 awakened, and daily found in him some new quality to 
 love and admire. 
 
 So far all went well. But the moment Lord Ward- 
 law in any way came between the boy and his mother, 
 the moment he interfered in the slightest degree with 
 what Mervyn considered his exclusive rights, that mo- 
 ment all was changed. 
 
 It might be only that he handed her her tea ; that he 
 mounted her on her horse ; that he brought her a floTver 
 from the conservatory for her hair : it was enough to 
 set the boy's blood boiling with indignation, and to 
 make him at once assume an attitude of defiant appro- 
 priation. He had always had a monopoly of her, and 
 he could not understand another interfering with it. 
 He would instantly assert his rights, and show that he 
 considered he had the first claim upon her. 
 
 Lord Wardlaw was very kind about it, but he could 
 not always give way ; neither did Magdalen desire it. 
 In fact, she rather discouraged her husband's humouring 
 Mervyn, as he was inclined to do at first, for she thought 
 it was bad for the boy. 
 
 Mervyn soon became aware that any such displays on 
 his part, accompanied as they generally were by flushing 
 cheeks and other demonstrations of anger, were not 
 I)leasing to his mother ; but this, instead of afiecting 
 
DIFFICULTIES OF THE NEW MENAGE. 36i 
 
 him in a right way, only made him all the more angry 
 with Lord Wardlaw. He would have hated any one 
 who caused that look of sorrowful displeasure to come 
 into her eyes. 
 
 One day they were all three walking in the direction 
 of the gate where Mervyn and his mother had parted. 
 Mervyn, who was a little way on in front, bounded over 
 it. Lord Wardlaw followed his example, and then turned 
 to assist his wife. 
 
 Magdalen, in getting over it, got her foot entangled 
 in her gown ; and if Lord Wardlaw had not been close 
 at hand, she must have fallen. 
 
 Mervyn, looking hastily around, took in. the position 
 of affairs, and was provoked with himself for not having 
 been as attentive as his step-father. 
 
 ' It is an awkward gate for a lady,* said Lord Ward- 
 law. * I think a step might be put on each side of the 
 third bar, to make it easier to climb. Don't you, Mag- 
 dalen?' • 
 
 ' I think it would be a very good plan,' she answered, 
 * and very easily done.' 
 
 'It had better be done at once, then,' said her hus- 
 band, *as we so often come this way. I will speak 
 about it.' 
 
 A sudden insane feeling of dislike to Lord Wardlaw's 
 interference came over Mervyn. 
 
 ' It's always been like that,' he said, quickly ; * it does 
 very well.' 
 
 Lord and Lady Wardlaw both looked round in sur- 
 
 prise. 
 
362 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 * My dear boy,' said the former, * it doesn't do at all 
 well if yoTir mother falls over it.' 
 
 * She never fell over it before,' said Mervyn, hardly 
 knowing what he was saying. * It must have been 
 your . . .' 
 
 * Your fault,' he was going to say ; but a look in his 
 mother's eyes, of astonishment mixed with displeasure, 
 stopped him. 
 
 She walked on, talking quietly to her husband, and 
 Mervyn was left behind, not knowing whether to follow 
 them or not. Hot tears blinded his eyes as he got over 
 the gate again, and went back into the wood. 
 
 * How dare he ! ' he muttered, as he slowly retraced 
 his steps homewards ; ' how dare he interfere ! He 
 shan't put a step on the gate ! I won't have it done ! 
 The gate's not his. It's mother's and mine ! Why 
 should he interfere ? He shan't ! K he dares to have 
 a step put on, I'll take it off again ! ' 
 
 His chest heaved as he thought of the glance he had 
 received from his mother. * How dare he ! ' he mut- 
 tered again, passionately, clenching his hands ; * how 
 dare he make her angry with me ! She was never 
 angry with me till he came.' 
 
 He did not go home till he had recovered himself a 
 little. No notice was taken. His step-father treated 
 him exactly as if nothing had happened ; only in his 
 mother's eyes he thought he saw the same grave 
 shadow, and it made him miserable. 
 
 A fresh turn, however, was given to his thoughts by 
 his mother's announcement that Mrs. Middleton had 
 
dJiFFICULTIES OF THE NEW MMaGE. 363 
 
 written to say Mna would come to Glen-Mervyn in a 
 few days. 
 
 For the next day or two he was full of plans for her 
 comfort and enjoyment. His mother saw the change 
 with pleasure, and greatly hoped that Nina's presence 
 would divert the boy's thoughts from herself, by giving 
 him a fresh object of love and care. 
 
 On the morning of her expected arrival, Mervyn, be- 
 fore starting for the Yicarage, went out to superintend 
 a little garden he was having arranged for his cousin, 
 close to his own. She was to divide her journey in two, 
 so she would be at Glen-Mervyn about the middle of the 
 day. He had got leave from his mother to come away 
 from the Yicarage two hours earlier than usual, so that 
 he might be at home to meet her. 
 
 The arrangements in the little garden completed, he 
 returned to the house to wish his mother * Good-bye ' 
 before starting. It occurred to him, on the way, to get 
 a bunch of violets for her ; and hastening into the break- 
 fast-room, he ran up to her and presented them. She 
 was in the act of receiving them with a smile, when 
 Lord Wardlaw came in, with the very ditto of Mervyn's 
 gift in his hand ; and advancing, without perceiving 
 what was going on, he held them out to his wife. Mag- 
 dalen looked from one to the other, puzzled and smiling. 
 Mervyn flushed crimson, and was in the act of pushing 
 back his step-father's gift, when his mother stopped him 
 with a look he well understood. 
 
 ' Oh, never mind,' said Lord Wardlaw, kindly; ' I did 
 
364 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 not see Mervyn had brought you some. I'll put mine in 
 the drawing-room.' And he walked off, whistling. 
 
 Mervyn stood in front of his mother, with downcast 
 eyes, his violets in his hand. She did not offer to take 
 them. He heard her sigh, and raising his head, he burst 
 out passionately — 
 
 ' Why does he always interfere ? It's not my fault ! ' 
 Lady Wai^dlaw made no answer, but moved away to 
 the window, and stood there looking out. 
 
 * Mother,' pleaded Mervyn, following her, and holding 
 out his violets, * please take them.' 
 
 * No, dear,' she answered gently, but very firmly ; ' I 
 cannot take them now.* 
 
 * Why not ? ' burst out Mervyn. 
 
 * They would give me no pleasure,' she answered ; 
 * they would only remind me that my boy's gift was 
 only . . . what I fear his affection for me is fast 
 becoming.' 
 
 ' What ? ' asked Mervyn hotly, anxious and yet fearful 
 to hear the end of the sentence. 
 
 'Selfish,' she answered sadly; utterly and entirely 
 selfish.' 
 
 ' I can't help it,' cried Mervyn; ' it is all his fault. I 
 was never like this before.' 
 
 * You were never tried,' she answered quietly. ' Life 
 is easy enough while there are no trials or temptations. 
 The battle is no battle wliere there are no foes to con- 
 tend with. True soldiery in life's warfare consists in 
 living in the thick of the fight, and contending with the 
 enemies that surround you.' 
 
DIFFICULTIES OF THE NEW MMNAOE. 365 
 
 * Then you do call him my enemy ? ' said Mervyn, 
 hardly knowing what he was saying. 
 
 ' Yon know very well that I did not mean that,* said 
 his mother. ^Jid in all his life he had never seen her 
 look so stem. 
 
 It maddened him. That his mother should speak 
 and look so, made him beside himself. He could not 
 trust himself to stay. His anger against his step- 
 father, who was the cause of these unwonted discussions 
 between him and his mother, rose too high in his heart, 
 and he rushed out of the room. In this mood he 
 started for the Vicarage, the incident having driven all 
 thoughts of Mna out of his head. Injured and moody, 
 smarting under his imaginary wrongs, he walked along 
 slowly and listlessly, as unlike his eager bounding self 
 as possible. 
 
 The vicar, noticed he was absent and inattentive, but 
 he asked no questions. He had seen Mervyn thus once 
 or twice lately, and guessed a Httle at the reason. He 
 set him free at the hour his mother had named, and 
 walked a Httle way with him; but he found him so 
 silent and gloomy, that he thought it best to leave him, 
 and turned off half-way to visit some of his poor 
 people. 
 
 Left to himself, Mervyn walked slowly on. He waa 
 thoroughly wretched and uncomfortable, angry with 
 himself, and displeased with everybody else. He 
 dawdled along, anxious to delay, as long as possible, his 
 return home. He reached the gate, and was gettiDg 
 absently over it, when his foot struck against some un« 
 wonted obstruction. 
 
THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 * What in tlie world is it ? ' he said to himself. And 
 he stooped down to see. 
 
 The ledge ! — the step Lord Wardlaw had spoken of ! — 
 the step he, in his wrath, had declared should never be 
 put on. His smouldering anger burst out. 
 
 * How dare he ! ' he exclaimed. * How dare he touch 
 our gates and interfere with our concerns ! I won't 
 have it ! Let him go and put steps on his own Fenian 
 gates, and leave ours alone. I said I would take it off 
 if he dared to put it on. And so I will ! ' 
 
 With all the strength of passion, the boy kicked at 
 the ledge with the heels of his boots, first on one side, 
 and then on the other. When he had loosened it a 
 little, he took out his pocket-knife, and with an energy 
 and a perseverance worthy of a better cause, dug out 
 the nails one by one. Then, standing on the bar of the 
 gate, he stamped upon the ledge with all his force, and 
 drove it from its place. It was easy after that to pull 
 it off, and to throw it away ; and then he drew a long 
 breath, and turned homewards. 
 
 Meanwhile Nina had arrived, and was sitting by the 
 fire in the drawing-room, patiently awaiting his return. 
 Outwardly patient at least; but it would have been 
 diiB&cult for anyone to guess, from her calm exterior, 
 how tufnultuously her heart was beating at the thoughts 
 of seeing Mervyn again. 
 
 A hundred recollections were rushing over her as she 
 sat there with her hands folded, gazing into the fire. 
 Thoughts of their life together, of the help he had been 
 to her, of the good he had unconsciously done her. 
 
DIFFICULTIES OF THE NEW MtlNAGE. 367 
 
 Absence, memory, and illness, had intensified her feel- 
 ing for him, and she had grown to look upon him as a 
 sort of angel-messenger of peace and goodness, who 
 had played the part of a guiding-star in her life ; lead- 
 ing her on, by the light of a bright example, to higher 
 and holier things. He reminded her of so much ; he 
 was so interwoven with every scene of the sacred past. 
 He would be for ever so closely associated in her mind 
 with her little dead brother, and with the memories she 
 held so sadly dear. When she had, shrinking, heard 
 Totty's death-warrant sounded in her ears, it was 
 Mervyn who had soothed and supported her. In that 
 terrible struggle on the night of the storm, it was the 
 thought of him, and the sound of his voice, that had 
 calmed her and brought her to a better state of feeling. 
 When she woke the morning after her little brother's 
 death, she had found Mervyn watching over her, striving 
 in his unselfishness to hide his own great joy in his pity 
 for her sorrow. It was he who had been instrumental 
 in softening her heart towards her mother ; and his 
 hand it was that had led her to her mother, and put an • 
 end to their estrangement. 
 
 So sat and pondered, the pale-faced child by the fire, 
 her heart swelling with love and admiration ; while the 
 object of her meditation, with eyes inflamed with 
 passion, was hacking away at the gate ! 
 
 Lady Wardlaw's motherly heart had ached when the 
 girl had first arrived, to see what a change her illness 
 had made. Nina was so pale and thin, so quiet and 
 subdued. She had felt it quite difficult to identify her 
 
368 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 with the child who, with glittering eyes and crimson 
 cheeks had addressed her so passionately. She took 
 her np-stairs at first, to take ofi* her things, and tried to 
 persuade her to lie down and rest ; but Nina, with an 
 animation which she had not yet shown, entreated so 
 earnestly to be allowed to come to the drawing-room, so 
 as to catch the first glimpse of Mervyn on his return, 
 that Magdalen brought her down again, and established 
 her by the fire. She tried, as they waited, to engage 
 her in conversation; but Nina's eyes wandered every 
 moment to the door, and she seemed to be listening to 
 every sound. 
 
 The door opened rather suddenly after a time, and 
 the girl started and got crimson. But it was only Lord 
 Wardlaw. 
 
 * Mervyn is late,' he said ; * he ought to be here by 
 this time. I suppose you are too tired to come and 
 meet him, Nina ? It is a most lovely afternoon.' 
 
 Nina looked so unfeignedly delighted at the idea, 
 that Magdalen had not the heart to demur, and sent for 
 her things. Lord Wardlaw wrapped her up carefully, 
 and promised, laughing, to carry her if she was tired. 
 
 * This fine mountain air will soon put a colour into 
 your little pale face,' he said kindly, as he opened the 
 hall- door. They stepped out into the autumn sunset ; 
 and Nina's eyes rested with a feeling she could not 
 define on the grand old mountains, and the richly 
 wooded country, lying under the warm glow of the . 
 setting sun. 
 
 They strolled on among the golden lights, and the 
 
DIFFICULTIES OF THE NEW MMAGE. 369 
 
 red-brown leaves; Lord Wardlaw talking pleasantly, 
 without obliging her to answer. She was thinking 
 how happy and how peaceful it all seemed ; what a 
 wild and beautiful home Mervyn's was ; and how happy 
 he must be. When they got to a certain point, from 
 which the path through the woods to the gate could be 
 seen for a very long way, Lord "Wardlaw spread a plaid 
 on a heap of dead leaves, and made Nina sit down. 
 
 ' That is the way he will come,' he said, as he seated 
 himself by her side ; ' so we shall see him for a long 
 time before he gets up to us.' 
 
 They did not have to wait very long. At the end of 
 the long vista a figure presently appeared in the shadow, 
 and emerged gradually into the light. Nina's face 
 flushed all over as Mervyn came in sight, and her 
 beautiful eyes glowed and deepened. They filled with 
 tears too, even while a smile of infinite pleasure 
 illumined her face. The yearning look which she fixed 
 upon him as he came along surprised and touched Lord 
 Wardlaw. He had had no idea the children were so 
 fond of one another. 
 
 ' He doesn't hurry himself,' he observed ; ' I never 
 knew Mervyn walk so slow. The fact is he doesn't see 
 us yet. He won't catch sight of you at first, as I think 
 I hide you a little by sitting on this side. Why, how 
 languidly the boy is coming i He generally bounds 
 along.' 
 
 Nina's heart beat quickly as she watched the graceful 
 figure approach; while, with something of her old 
 
870 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 characteristics, she felt half inclined to run away and 
 hide herself. 
 
 Mervjn, when he did at last catch sight of his step- 
 father, stopped short, and blushed scarlet. He did not 
 see who was sitting on the other side, and took it for 
 granted it must be his mother. He was seized with a 
 feeling of guilty shame, at the thought of what he had 
 just done. He had hardly realised, till that moment, 
 how wrongly he had been acting ; but now conscience 
 told him how much he would dread his mother going 
 on to the gate, and viewing the havoc he had made. 
 
 Suddenly, he recognised Mna ; and the little figure 
 in its deep mourning, the pale face bearing upon it the 
 traces of sickness and sorrow, sent all other thoughts 
 straight out of his head, and transported him back to 
 past scenes. He is at Granton again, in the chilling 
 atmosphere of that cold loveless home. Contrasting 
 sharply with the warmth and the love by which he is 
 surrounded, comes the recollection of the loneliness, the 
 isolation, the terrible depression ; of evenings of sadness 
 in the sombre school-room, before he had found in Mna 
 a friend and a comforter ; of the terrible longing for his 
 mother, and for the love and the sympathy that had 
 always been his. 
 
 The sight of the calm little face which had been such 
 a refuge to him in all that sad time, brought a burst of 
 love and gratitude to his heart ; brought thoughts of 
 the companionship, and the ever-ready sympathy, which 
 had helped to reconcile him to his separation from his 
 mother ; followed quickly by feelings of pity and ten 
 
DIFFICULTIES OF THE NEW MENAGE. 371 
 
 derness at the memory of tlie closing scenes of his visit, 
 her terrible trial, and her illness ; and his own com- 
 punction at having had to leave her in sickness and in 
 sorrow, jnst as she seemed to need him most. 
 
 He stopped short for a minute as all this rushed over 
 him; and then, in his old impetuous way, he dashed 
 forward, calHng out as he ran, ' Nina ! Nina ! ' 
 
 Nina started from her seat, and went eagerly to meet 
 him, all her shyness having fled at the first sound of 
 his voice. 
 
 Lord Wardlaw felt a little nervous as he saw the im- 
 petuous advance, fearing his step-son had forgotten how 
 weak and delicate Nina was. He held himself in readi- 
 ness to protect her, in case she should be knocked over ; 
 little knowing that the noisy greeting and boisterous 
 embraces were the best medicines the poor child could 
 have. But when, the meeting over, the children, with 
 arms entwined, and happy faces, came walking towards 
 him, their heads close together, in deep and eager con- 
 versation, he realised that there was no occasion for his 
 presence, and no need for his help; and smiling, left 
 them together, and went home to tell the story to his 
 wife. 
 
 bb2 
 
372 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 CHAPTER XXYI. 
 
 THE SHOT IN THE WOODS. 
 
 JJADY "Wardlaw noticed a cliange in Mervyn tliat evening, 
 and a cliange which she was glad to see. He was rather 
 quiet and thoughtful ; he did not force his attentions on 
 his mother, and he was particularly nice and affectionate 
 to Lord Wardlaw. She thought some part of the change 
 arose from having his little cousin to care for and 
 attend to. 
 
 But it was not only that. Nina had brought with 
 her such an atmosphere of Granton, that Mervyn's own 
 home by contrast seemed to him an earthly Paradise ; 
 and he found himself constantly comparing Lord Ward- 
 law with Colonel Middleton, and wondering that he had 
 never considered before what a much kinder and nicer 
 father one was than the other. 
 
 Nina did not talk much. Her eyes. Lady Wardlaw 
 noticed, were seldom off Mervyn, and they followed his 
 every movement with an evident love and delight. 
 Magdalen fancied a day spent alone with her cousin 
 would be a satisfaction to the girl, and make her feel 
 more at home. So she proposed to Lord Wardlaw that 
 they should ride the next day to a neighbour's house at 
 
 I 
 
THE SHOT IN THE WOODS. 373 
 
 a great distance, and have luncheon, leaving Mervyn in 
 charge of ISTina at home. A holiday was to be given 
 him for the purpose ; and the arrangement gave satis- 
 faction to all parties. So all the next day the two 
 children were alone, as in the old days. 
 
 Bit by bit, Mna told Mervyn of all the changes at 
 home ; of the happy state of things between her and her 
 mother ; and of how different it all was now. She was 
 getting quite fond of the baby, she said, and Edmund 
 had become such a nice little boy. Cecily, too, had 
 grown so much more sensible, and used to sit in her 
 room quite quiet, and get her anything she wanted. 
 
 Mademoiselle, who had come back, was so nice now 
 that she didn't mind the least asking her about her 
 headaches, and really wanted to hear the answer. 
 
 * When I was getting well, Mervyn,' she said, softly, 
 ^ and had so much time to lie still and think, I used to 
 go over all the things you and I used to talk about. I 
 made up my mind then that I would do what you asked 
 me, and try to do what I used to call my impossible 
 things. You remember what they were. Do you know 
 I found it all so much easier than I expected, that I 
 begin to think it was all my fancy before, or else my 
 fault. And Mervyn,' she added, in a whisper, * I don't 
 think you will have to say again that you think I shall 
 never underst&^nd about the love of God, because I don't 
 love my mother, and that so you don't see how I am 
 ever to learn. All that is quite different now. I am 
 beginning to understand it in the same way that yon 
 said you did. She had a headache one day, from sitting 
 
.374 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 up with me at night, and I did your cure, and I am 
 always going to take care of her now when she is ilL 
 And, Mervyn, do you remember telling me I loved so 
 very few ? Well, I don't think that is the case now. 
 Every day I love them all more, and that makes every- 
 thing so different. You first made me think how 
 pleasant it would be to love everybody, and how much 
 easier it would make everything. And it does make me 
 so much happier. If I were to hear that sermon again 
 about happy homes, and the love of parents, and 
 children, brothers and sisters, I should understand it 
 much better now. I feel it is all owing to you, Mervyn. 
 For if jou had never come to Gran ton, I should never 
 have kuown what being loving and kind meant. You 
 were always nice and affectionate and attentive to every- 
 one, and made everyone love you wherever you went. 
 I am always wishing to be like you, and am going to 
 try more and more.' 
 
 * Oh stop, stop ! Mna,' exclaimed the conscience- 
 stricken Mervyn, jumping up, and blushing scarlet, 
 * you don't know what I am, you don't really. I don't 
 deserve to be praised, indeed I don't.' 
 
 Mna looked at him in surprise. Then she remem- 
 bered that on a former occasion, when she had praised 
 him, he had blushed in the same way, and that a certain 
 reserve had crept over him, for which she had not been 
 able to account. She had wondered then what the flaw 
 could be in a character which she considered perfect. 
 She wondered now. He was evidently fully aware of it 
 himself ; so, after a minute's pause, she said, gently ; 
 
THE SHOT IN THE WOODS, 37A 
 
 * You wouldn't tell me about it once before, Merryn ; 
 but you'll tell me now ? ' 
 
 And he told ber : confessed all his evil feelings and 
 his ill behaviour, suppressing only what he had done to 
 the gate the day before, for not even to Nina could he 
 tell anything his mother did not know. 
 
 * You are dreadfully shocked, Nina,' he said, anxiously, 
 when he had finished, observiug the expression of her 
 face. 
 
 Nina could not deny it ; but the fact was, she was 
 more disappointed and puzzled than shocked. She had 
 exalted Mervyn's character into an idol, and now it had 
 crumbled away. Love, as demonstrated in hinn^ had 
 always seemed to her such a pure feeling, as well as such 
 a governing impulse, that she was puzzled to find that 
 that love was now the very cause of his erring, the actnal 
 obstacle and stumbling-block in his path. And she was 
 tempted in that moment to believe, as many others have 
 believed before her, to their infinite pain and trouble, 
 that it was wrong after all to love so intensely, and to 
 expend so much affection on human beings ; that it was, 
 in fact, to worship the creature more than the Creator ; 
 that such love degenerated into idolatry, and brought a 
 host of evils in its train. The child would have been 
 comforted by the words of a writer of the present cen- 
 tury: 'No one ever loved child, parent, or sister too 
 much. It is not the intensity of afiection, but its inter- 
 ference with truth or duty, that makes it idolatry. 
 Love was given, sanctioned, and encouraged .... that 
 self might he annulled.' Something of their sense and 
 
376 THROWN TOGETHEB, 
 
 meaning came to her as she thought. She tried in her 
 own mind to excuse him she loved by accusing herself, 
 and turning back her thoughts to her little dead 
 brother ; sought whether, in her love for him, such flaw 
 had not existed. But it was no use. Her innate truth- 
 fulness asserted itself over her wish to screen Mervyn ; 
 and she could not but own to herself that she would 
 have cared little wJio rendered the little boy tender and 
 loving offices, provided he were tended and loved. Nay 
 more, she would have loved anyone who loved him, and 
 been grateful to anyone who had showed for him thought 
 or consideration. Had not her life been made bitter by 
 the very want of love displayed toward the child ? Was 
 not her new-born love for her mother owing in a great 
 measure to the love she had shown for his memory ? 
 Did not her aflPection for Mervyn chiefly date from the 
 day she had found him playing in the nursery with 
 Totty ? She knew that if she were Mervyn she should 
 love Lord Wardlaw ten times more for making his 
 mother so happy ; and she was obhged to own to herself 
 that the fault lay not in the love, but in Mervyn him- 
 self. The flaw in his afiection for his mother was a 
 slight tinge of selfishness ; and selfishness is in itself a 
 contradiction to love. 
 
 Curiously enough, Mervyn' s own thoughts had been 
 following in something of the same train. His mind 
 had travelled back to his mother's words of yesterday, 
 when she had refused to take his violets. 
 
 * They would give me no pleasure ; for they would 
 
THE SHOT IN THE WOODS. 377 
 
 only remind me that my boy's gift was what I fear his 
 affection for me is fast becoming.' 
 
 And the scales fell from his eyes. 
 
 * I'll never be like that again,' he said, impetuously. 
 'I see it all now. I see that if I loved mother as un- 
 selfishly as you loved Totty, I should not mind who did 
 all the things for her as long as they were done. Now 
 should I ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps not,' said Nina, softly. 
 
 Mervyn's demeanour to his step-father that evening 
 was very marked. Twice he checked himself when 
 about to do some little service for his mother, because 
 he saw Lord Wardlaw on the point of doing it. He 
 went to bed happy, and full of new resolutions. But he 
 quite forgot to make his confession about the gate ! 
 
 'What a number of shooting accidents there have 
 been lately,' said Magdalen, the next morning at break- 
 fast, putting down the paper. ' This is the third I have 
 seen in a fortnight. Charlie and Mervyn, please be 
 careful.' 
 
 ' I wish I had a chance,' laughed Mervyn. ' There is 
 no fear of my shooting myself till Saturday, mother 
 dear, I am sorry to say.' 
 
 'Which way are you going to-day, Charlie?' asked 
 Magdalen. 
 
 Lord Wardlaw described his route, and added to 
 Mervyn, ' We may as well go together, Mervyn, as for 
 as we can. Our roads lie the same way for a bit.' 
 
378 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 The keeper and the dogs were waiting, and it was 
 time to start ; so Mervyn went to get his books toge- 
 ther, and Magdalen and Nina went into the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 ' What shall be our plan for the day, Nina ? ' 
 
 * I must write mamma a long letter, Aunt Magdalen. 
 She sends you so many messages in hers, that I think 
 you had better read it.' 
 
 Magdalen took it, and as she read rejoiced at the 
 anxious motherly tenderness and love it breathed. 
 
 * Good-bye, Magdalen,' said Lord Wardlaw, suddenly 
 appearing at the window. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Charlie,' she said, going towards him ; 
 * bear in mind my warning about shooting accidents.' 
 
 ' No fear with only one gun,' he answered, smiling, as 
 he leant against the window and lighted his cigar ; ' I 
 shan't be late to-day. It gets too dark to do any good 
 after half-past four. Good-bye, Nina. Where's Mer- 
 vyn? ' 
 
 Mervyn soon appeared, and the party started, Mag- 
 dalen and Nina watching them from the window. A 
 pretty sight, altogether. The tall athletic man, with his 
 gun on his shoulder, the graceful boy bounding along by 
 his side ; the keeper and the dogs behind. At any rate 
 the wife and mother thought so, looking at them with 
 loving eyes. 
 
 Just as they disappeared she saw Mervyn look up at 
 his step-father, and Lord Wardlaw throw his arm round 
 the boy's shoulder, and she turned with a sigh of plea- 
 sure from the window. 
 
THE SHOT IN THE WOODS. 379 
 
 The morning passed pleasantly and quickly, and after 
 luncheon Magdalen and Nina started for a drive. There 
 was a good deal to do in the town, and they were de- 
 tained there longer than Lady Wardlaw had expected, 
 so that it was nearly dark when they reached home. 
 She whipped up the ponies as they neared Glen-Mervyn, 
 saying she almost thought her husband would have 
 arrived first. But on enquiring of the butler she found 
 he had not returned. The lamps were lighted in the 
 drawing-room, and the tea was ready. They went up to 
 take oflp their things. When Mna came down again she 
 found Magdalen already there, pouring out the tea. 
 
 ' Charlie and Mervyn are both late,' she said, * but 
 I daresay they will be here directly.' 
 
 Nina drank her tea slowly, and found herself wishing 
 they would come in. Her illness had lefb her nervous, 
 and she had not so much self-control as she used to have. 
 Anything sudden was apt to startle her ; the unexpected 
 ringing of a bell, or opening of a door, especially. 
 Several times since she had been at Glen-Mervyn her 
 heart had leaped into her mouth at sudden sounds, and 
 she had wondered to see her aunt unmoved and un- 
 concerned. 
 
 She found herself now listening anxiously, and 
 wondering why her uncle and cousin did not appear. 
 It rendered her unable to talk ; and Magdalen, thinking 
 she was tired, took up a book, and began to read, Nina 
 leaned back in her chair, and watched her. How calm 
 she looked ! How quietly she was reading her book, 
 and how interested she seemed in it. Nina sighed, and 
 
380 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 wished she could be as calm, and not worry herself with 
 imaginary fears. It gave her strength, however ; for 
 she felt that it was but nervousness on her part, and 
 that there was nothing really to be alarmed about. 
 
 * I will not let myself get fussy,' she said, ' till half- 
 past five.* 
 
 Twenty minutes past ^yq^ five-and-twenty minutes 
 past five ; still no sound of any arrival. Mna's heart 
 began to beat again, but a glance at the calm face oppo- 
 site quieted her. Still she could not help wishing the 
 room were not quite so light and bright. It made 
 everything feel so like night, and she did not like to 
 think it was so late. What could they be doing ? Why 
 should hoth be so late ? It was impossible Lord Ward- 
 law could have shot for the last hour. Why did he 
 promise to be home before dusk ? And oh, why had 
 there been any talk about shooting accidents ? It was 
 that which made her so nervous. Her aunt's gentle 
 voice, breaking in upon her thoughts, quite made her 
 start. 
 
 * Mna,' she said, putting down her book, * what time 
 did Charlie say he would be home ? ' 
 
 In vain did Mna try to steady her voice to answer. 
 The flutter in her heart betrayed itself in her voice; 
 and Lady Wardlaw, alarmed, got up and went to her. 
 
 * My dear child, what is the matter ? Are you ill ? ' 
 Nina hid her face in the sofa cushion, and tried to 
 
 escape from her aunt's eye. She did not want to say 
 what was the matter. The last thing she wished was 
 to infect Magdalen with her fears. She hated herself 
 
THE SHOT IN THE WOODS. 381 
 
 for her weakness and want of self-control. She tried to 
 say she was only a little tired. Magdalen knelt down 
 by her side and pnt her arms round her. 
 
 * Tell me what it is, dear, and then perhaps I can 
 explain it away.' 
 
 * Oh, it's nothing, nothing, Aunt Magdalen,* she said, 
 still trying to hide her face ; * it is only I am so silly. 
 Since that dreadful night, everything frightens me, and 
 . . . . and . . . .' 
 
 Just then the clock struck half-past five, and Nina 
 started. 
 
 ' Are you frightened because they don't come home ? ' 
 said Magdalen, tenderly. ' You need not be dear, really. 
 Mervyn is apt to be unpunctual, and Charlie is often 
 much later than this.' 
 
 ' But he said . . . .' began Nina. 
 
 * He certainly said he would leave off shooting early ; 
 but he was shooting at a great distance to-day, and 
 would have a long walk after he had left off. He would 
 be sure to shoot till the last moment, don't you see ? I 
 don't think he could be home till now, I assure yon, 
 dear. He must have been a long way off all day, for 
 we have not heard a single shot. Generally there is 
 popping round the house all the time he is out.' 
 
 Comforted a little, Nina lay back in her chair again. 
 
 * I wonder if it is very dark,' she said. 
 
 'Would you like to come to the window and see? 
 The air will refresh you, and drive away these nervous 
 fancies.' 
 
^82 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 So saying, Magdalen walked across the room, drew 
 back the curtain, and opened the window. 
 
 Nina followed; and, leaning against it, peered ont 
 into the darkness. The air refreshed her, and she began 
 to feel a little braver. 
 
 ' Listen if there is any sign of them to be heard,' said 
 Magdalen, and she bent her head. Mna did the san)e. 
 
 For some minutes no sound reached their ears. The 
 fresh air played on their faces, and rustled faintly 
 among the dying leaves on the trees close at hand ; but 
 otherwise all was quiet. 
 
 Magdalen was just about to draw in her head, 
 when there rang out in the silence the loud report of a 
 gun! ... . 
 
 It came so suddenly that they both started, and Nina 
 exclaimed, * Oh, Aunt Magdalen ! Aunt Magdalen ! 
 what can that be ? ' 
 
 * It's all right, dear,' Magdalen answered ; but her 
 voice sounded rather strange. * It is Charlie letting off 
 his gun before he comes into the house. He will soon 
 be here now.' 
 
 * But that other sound,' Nina whispered to herself, so 
 faintly that the words were inaudible. 
 
 ' What ? ' said Magdalen, sharply. 
 
 * Oh nothing, nothing,' said Miia, shivering. * Let 
 us skut the window, Aunt Magdalen. It is so cold.' 
 
 So they returned into the warm room, and the lamp- 
 hght fell upon their faces, revealing Nina's paler than 
 ever, and a look on Magdalen's which had not been 
 there before. 
 
THE SHOT IN THE WOODS. 383 
 
 Slie sat down again with, her book, but sbe was not 
 reading it now ; and Mna crouched by the fire, pretend- 
 ing to warm herself, but in reality to keep her back to 
 Magdalen and avoid meeting her eye. 
 
 What is it that has brought that new expression on 
 Magdalen's calm face? What is the unexpressed dread 
 that has risen in her breast ? What was the sound she 
 heard after the shot, to which she is trying to attach 
 no importance ; which she is vainly persuading herself 
 must have been fancy ? 
 
 It was a boy's voice, shouting, as if in mortal terror 
 or pain, and a terrible fear has entered the mother's 
 heart. 
 
 For she knows ii was Mervyn's voice. 
 What if Mervyn, running home in the darkness, 
 had not seen Lord Wardlaw's figure, and had come 
 in the way, unperceived, just as the gun was being 
 letoff? . . . 
 
 It was, it Tnust have been fancy. Nina evidently had 
 not heard it, or she would have . . . Her eye wandered 
 on to the girl's figure, crouching by the fire. 
 
 Could it be possible that . . . oh no ! no ! im- 
 possible. 
 
 But why, then, did she sit huddled up like that, with 
 her back turned? Why did she not speak? What 
 could be the matter with the girl ? She was cold, pro- 
 bably, after standing at the window — cold, of course. 
 It was a cold night, and Nina was chilly after her 
 illness. But she ought to be warm by this time, in 
 front of that roaring fire. . . . 
 
384 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 What a curious thing attitude was ! It expressed so 
 much sometimes ! What did that huddled up, crouch- 
 ing attitude express ? 
 
 What if Nina liad heard it too ? Should she ask 
 her? 
 
 But the mother's heart failed her. She could not 
 ask, lest she should hear from the child's lips a con- 
 firmation of her own terrible suspicions. If both had 
 heard it, it could not be fancy. 
 
 She would wait five minutes more, and then ... if 
 they had not arrived, she would question the girl. 
 
 In the meanwhile she tried to persuade herself it had 
 not been Mervyn's voice. It was some boy passing, 
 either shouting to another, or startled by tbe sound of 
 the gun. 
 
 In vain ! The mother could not convince herself she 
 was mistaken ; knew in her heart that it was her boy's 
 voice ; the voice she loved so dearly, the voice that had 
 been the music of her life for so many, many years ! 
 
 The five minutes passed, and still she had not spoken. 
 But suddenly she feared she was selfish. 
 
 If Nina were really suffering from the same fear, 
 how cruel to let her bear it alone ! Shattered in 
 nerves already, what agonies of mind she might be 
 enduring ! 
 
 This must not be, she must do violence to her own 
 feelings, in order to assist another. 
 
 Pressing her hands upon her breast, and summoning 
 up all her courage, she roused herself to speak. 
 
 * Nina,' she said softly, ' come here.' She was a brave 
 
THE SHOT IN THE WOODS. 38d 
 
 woman ; but slie trembled when sbe saw the effect of 
 her words ; for tbe girl started first and shuddered, then 
 rose slowly, still keeping her face turned away, and 
 advanced to Magdalen's side. 
 
 It told its own tale, and the mother's heart sank . . . 
 sank. Slowly she turned the pale face towards herself , 
 and as she saw the eyes quail before her glance, she 
 knew there was no need to put the question, 
 
 ' You are a brave little thing, Nina,* she said, taking 
 the icy hands in hers ; * but you need not put a strain 
 upon yourself any longer. Sit down, dear, and tell me 
 all about it. You need not be afraid for me. We will 
 bear it together.' 
 
 Nina sank down, sobbing, on the floor, and laid her 
 head against Magdalen's knee. Magdalen bent down 
 and kissed her without speaking. 
 
 * It is hard you should have new troubles, my poor 
 child,' she said, faintly, after a pause ; and as she spoke 
 she clasped her hands tightly together. ' I won't ques- 
 tion you, darling, for we both know what we heard. 
 But we won't give up hope yet. It may be that ... it 
 . . . was averted just in time. And in that case they 
 will be here directly. We will wait patiently for ten 
 minutes longer, and then . . . if they have not come 
 ... we must send to see . . . what has happened. Do 
 not speak, dear; there is no need to answer. Only 
 pray.' 
 
 Her bowed head sank upon her clasped hands, her 
 lips just touching the girl's pale brow. Deep silence 
 reigned in the room ; no sound broke the solemn still- 
 C 
 
386 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 ness ; no sound of lamentation from within, no sound of 
 an arrival from without. The ten minutes slowlj ebbed 
 away. Six o'clock came and passed ; and still Mag- 
 dalen and Nina remained motionless — their eyes closed^ 
 and their hands folded. 
 
THE FOOTSTEPS ON THE DEAD LEAVES. 387 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE FOOTSTEPS ON THE DEAD LEAVES, 
 
 Merytn bonnded along bj bis step-fatber's side after 
 leaving Glen-Mervyn full of spirits. His good resolu- 
 tions bad strengtbened, and bis conscience was at rest. 
 
 He cbatted on, on all sorts of subjects, till tbej came 
 to tbe spot wbere tbeir roads diverged. 
 
 * Could I not meet you somewbere on tbe way back 
 tbis afternoon,' be said, turning bis brigbt face up to 
 bis companion, * so tbat we migbt walk bome togetber ? ' 
 
 Lord "Wardlaw put bis arm affectionately round the 
 boy as be answered, * Certainly, my dear fellow ! Let 
 me see. Wbat sball we make our try sting-place ? 
 Suppose we say tbe old gate ? I sball bave a good way 
 to come after I leave off sbooting, so I don't suppose I 
 sball be tbere till a quarter past five. You will arrive 
 first ; but if you don't mind waiting, I sball be very 
 glad of your company.' 
 
 So saying, Lord Wardlaw wisbed bim good-bye, and, 
 wbistling to tbe dogs, strode off. 
 
 Mervyn watcbed bim as be went along, rather 
 thoughtfully, and with a heightened colour. 
 cc2 
 
THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 * How very unfortunate/ he said to himself ; * I wish 
 I had remembered to tell mother last night ! ' 
 
 He half thought of running after him, and making 
 his confession, but was deterred by the thought of the 
 keeper. 
 
 *Well I must take care to be at the gate in good 
 time,* he said after awhile, ' so as to tell him all about 
 it before he finds it out for himself. That would in- 
 deed spoil it all.' 
 
 He turned round at last ; and full of hope and spirits, 
 ran oflf to the Vicarage, singing as he went. His last 
 resolution was that he would call LordWardlaw * father^ 
 on the very next opportunity, and he wondered vaguely 
 when that opportunity would be. He did not hurry 
 away from the Vicarage at five. His step-father had 
 said he should not be at the gate till a quarter past ; and 
 though he was anxious to arrive there first, he did not 
 wish to be too soon, and to have to wait about in the 
 dark. 
 
 He stayed chatting to the vicar for some time, till 
 Mr. Hughes remarked it was a dark evening, and he 
 thought he had better start. 
 
 *I could find my way home blindfold,' laughed Mer- 
 vyn, ' so it does not make much difference to me.' 
 
 However, he jumped up, and on glancing at the 
 clock was surprised to find that it was very nearly time 
 for Lord Wardlaw to be at the trysting-place. 
 
 / If I run all the way, I shall just catch him,' he said, 
 as he wished the vicar good-night. 
 
 He was surprised, when he got out of the Vicarage, 
 
THE FOOTSTEPS ON THE DEAD LEAVES. 389 
 
 to find how very dark it was. There were no stars, and 
 he could only just see his way. It was, as he had said, 
 no difficulty to him, knowing, as he did, every step of 
 the way ; but he began to think Lord Wardlaw might 
 be a little puzzled. 
 
 ' He will never find the gate,' he said to himself; * it 
 is a good thing I am here to show him where it is.' 
 
 He stopped for a minute to hear if there was any 
 sound of his approach. He fancied he heard something 
 in the distance, but was not quite sure. So he ran on 
 till he was within (as far as he could judge in the dark- 
 ness) a quarter of a mile of the gate. And then he 
 stopped and listened again. This time there was no 
 mistake. He heard Lord Wardlaw coming along 
 plainly, in a cross direction ahead of him, making 
 straight for the gate. He could distinguish his firm 
 quick footsteps, trampling over the dead leaves; and 
 the very words of the song he was singing as he went 
 
 along : 
 
 I had a message to send her, 
 To her who my soul loved best. 
 
 Mervyn wanted very much to attract his attention, and 
 to get him to wait till he came up to him, but his habit 
 of not calling him by any name made it rather awkward. 
 A false feeling of shyness prevented his calling out 
 ^ Father ! ' as his heart dictated. 
 
 * Another time I will,' he said to himself; * I can't do 
 it now.' While he hesitated Lord Wardlaw was getting 
 farther and farther away. 
 
 * Stop ! ' Mervyn called out. ' Halloa! stop a minute! ' 
 
390 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 It might have been the loud tones of his own song that 
 prevented Lord Wardlaw hearing ; or, if the sound did 
 reach his ears, he must have thought it was some boy- 
 passing by and calling to another, for he did not pause 
 or answer ; and Mervyn only heard the receding foot- 
 steps, and the song getting fainter in the distance — 
 
 But I had my task to finish, 
 And she had gone home to rest. 
 
 * He must be nearly at the gate now,' thought Mervyn. 
 * I shall never get up to him. Hardly had the thought 
 passed through his mind when it was succeeded by 
 another, which made him stop short and exclaim, ' Good 
 gracious ! ' 
 
 Quick as lightning came the thought that Lord 
 Wardlaw in the darkness would not perceive the change, 
 on the gate, and, expecting a step where there was 
 none, would most likely lose his footing in vaulting 
 over it, and get a very disagreeable fall. To make it 
 worse, he had his gun with him, and it would be loaded, 
 for he never fired it off till the last moment. Seized 
 with a sudden dread, Mervyn set off running with all 
 his might, hoping that he might just get within hearing 
 in time, and warn his step-father of the danger wnich 
 threatened him. 
 
 He tore along at the top of his speed, shouting as he 
 ran, breathless and panic- striken. He could hear the 
 loud tones of the manly voice above his own footsteps^ 
 and above his own quick breathing, still singing the 
 same song ; and he thought he must be gaining upon 
 him, for the song sounded clearer. But the gate must 
 
 
THE FOOTSTEPS ON THE DEAD LEAVES, 391 
 
 be very near now, and Mervyn knew how quickly he 
 would yault over it. And then . . . How cmld 
 he stop him ? What could he do to attract his atten- 
 tion ? He must be gaining upon him now, for he could 
 distinguish every word he was singing ; every note of 
 the music that was ringing through the wood — 
 
 And I cried in my passionate longing 
 
 Has the earth no angel friend, 
 Who will carry my love the message 
 
 That my heart desires to send. 
 
 The powerful voice drowned every sound, and Mervyn*s 
 faint cries were unheard. And now the gate must be 
 close at hand. Breathless and despairing there burst 
 from the boy's lips the wild piercing cry, * Father ! 
 father ! ' 
 
 For one happy moment he fancied there was a pause, 
 and he strained every nerve and tore along at lightning 
 speed. But if the word did reach Lord Wardlaw's ears 
 it was, unhappily, too unfamiliar for him to suppose it 
 could apply to him, and Mervyn' s pricking conscience 
 told him it was so. 
 
 To his dismay, the song burst out afresh, and the 
 firm footsteps on the crackling leaves increased in speed, 
 as if nearing the end of their journey. Presently, voice 
 and footsteps stopped. . . . 
 
 The darkness was broken by a sudden flash of light, 
 and simultaneously with a crash and a heavy fall 
 there rang out into the silence the sounds which, 
 penetrating far and wide, reached even to the open 
 window at Glen-Mervyn — the loud explosion of a gun, 
 followed by an agonised cry in a boy's voice. 
 
THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE TRYST BT THE GATE. 
 
 He was lying, prone and silent, by the gate, under the 
 shadow of the old Welsh hills. They were looking 
 down upon him in the darkness with pity and mute 
 despair. By the son of the man who wronged him, 
 wronged once more ! 
 
 This was what was awaiting Mervyn, when at length 
 !ie succeeded in dragging his trembling limbs to the 
 spot. Among the hills and the echoes — on the very 
 spot endeared to the boy by a thousand recollections — 
 lay the form of his step-father, brought low by his 
 means. The old Welsh hills, his boon friends and com- 
 panions, which have loved to echo his merry shouts and 
 laughter, which have so often looked down upon him 
 with pride and admiration, have echoed sadly his 
 wild piercing cry, and, relapsing into silence, were 
 looking down despairingly on the wreck and the ruin 
 before them. 
 
 How the boy got there he never could afterwards 
 tell ; how he reached the gate, how he climbed over it, 
 he never knew; how he knelt down, how he dared 
 
THE TRYST BY THE GATE. 393 
 
 kaeel down by the motionless figure as it lay, lie never 
 could imagine, lie never could bear to think. 
 
 Frozen with horror, stupefied with grief, he was for a 
 time deprived of sense or motion. The silence, the 
 darkness, the loneliness, the impossibility of doing any- 
 thing, the horror of the whole thing, deprived him of 
 the power to act, to think, to feel. Help he must have, 
 human aid and succour, communion with some living 
 thing, or he will go mad. But, in that wild secluded 
 spot, how is it to be found ? His fainting heart re- 
 minds him of a day gone by, when in sport he hid 
 himself in that lonely place, and saw no passer by from 
 morn to nightfall. It was horrible, horrible, to be alone 
 in the darkness with the dead. K he could lift up his 
 voice and call, if his frozen tongue could perform its 
 office, even then, who would hear ? Who would catch 
 the sound of his cry, and bear it onwards towards 
 liis home ? No one ! 
 
 Stop ! He has in that wild place friends who have 
 carried his voice far and wide in happier moments. 
 Weird, wild friends, so familiar as almost to seem 
 iLuman to him. The echoes ! Will they not help him 
 now ? Will they not repeat his cry for help, so that 
 some one shall be attracted by the sound ? It may be 
 that they will carry his appeal to the very doors of 
 Glen-Mervyn. They have done so before. His mother 
 Las often said, * I heard the echoes ringing and laugh- 
 ing, so I knew that my boy was near.' 
 
 Exerting himself to the utmost, he tries to give a 
 ■call. In vain. The echoes are mute and silent, for 
 
394 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 from his parched and trembling lips comes a sound 
 so faint they cannot catch it. His voice dies away, and 
 his heart sinks within him. 
 
 Darkness deeper, silence greater ; and the boy's nerves 
 are giving way. It is horrible, horrible, to be alone in 
 the darkness with the dead. The moments drag heavily 
 on — moments, or hours, or whatever they be. To him 
 they seem whole days, nights — he has lost all count 
 of time. Alone, quite alone, and no hope of human 
 help! 
 
 Presently it seems to him so long since it all happened,, 
 so long since the time he started from Glen-Mervyn^ 
 his step-father in health by his side, the keeper and the 
 dogs behind. That could not have been this morning. 
 Oh no, a long time ago ! His step-father has been 
 lying there many days now, and he, for years — or all his 
 life long, it be may be — has been sitting silent, alone in 
 the darkness with the dead. 
 
 Why should Thought at that moment suddenly 
 resume her sway ? Hitherto he has been too dazed, too 
 bewildered to collect his ideas ; but now, all in a 
 moment, from the darkness around him. Thought brings 
 clear tableaux before him, and gaze upon them he must^ 
 whether he will or no. Three vivid tableaux — the 
 past, the present, and the future. 
 
 Puts before him first the picture of his bright and 
 happy home. Lifelike and distinct are the moving 
 figures, just as he saw them last. 
 
 Shifts the tableau, and shows him clearly that its 
 brightness and its joy are flown. Forces upon him. the 
 
THE TRYST BY THE GATE. 395 
 
 sudden conyiction that, througli his passionate act of 
 selfish rebellion, he has wrecked his naother's new-found 
 happiness, and blasted the peace of her home. 
 
 Shifts it again, and holds before him the darkest 
 scene of all. His mother's love turned to hatred, his 
 mother's face averted from him with looks of loathing, 
 as the instrument and the cause of it all. 
 
 Drops the curtain, and leaves him shrinking, alone in 
 the darkness, with the dead. 
 
 'H.e feels at last what he has done ; and his one frantic 
 wish is to get away, away from it all, to hide himself 
 somewhere, where no one will ever see or hear of him 
 again. For he can never go home any more ; never 
 face her with the news ; never see her look of grief 
 first, of horror and of loathing afterwards. He must go 
 at once. Why has he stayed so long ? He must find 
 his way to the station, and catch the night-mail from 
 Holyhead on its way to London. He staggered to his 
 feet, and tried to remember which way he ought to 
 take. But as the needle turns to the north, so did his 
 longing eyes turn with an irresistible attraction towards 
 his beloved home. 
 
 * Going,' he muttered, * going far away ; never to 
 come back any more.' 
 
 All that he was leaving, all that he was losing, came 
 rushing over his soul like a whirlwind, and a sob burst 
 from his aching heart. 
 
 ' Mother ! ' he cried, holding out his hands in the 
 darkness, ' I shall never see you again ! Oh, mother J 
 good-bye ! good-bye 1 ' 
 
^96 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 But lie could not leave her like this. He must find 
 some way to tell lier of how it had all come about ; of 
 all he had meant to do ; of his contrition and his firm 
 resolutions. 
 
 *I have a message to send her,' he said, sobbing, 
 unconsciously using the words of the fatal song ; * and 
 send it I must and will.' 
 
 But the echoes will not take it, cruel and unforgiving 
 as they are ! Help and succour have throughout been 
 wanting ; messengers, then, are far away. 
 
 Oh, what was the nearest human habitation ? What 
 was the last human voice that fell upon his ear ? His 
 puzzled brain refused to remember ; his fainting heart 
 told him it was days and days ago. This dark silence 
 has gathered round him, this hideous silence has been 
 here, since .... since .... since he heard 
 loud notes of music ringing through the paths of the 
 wood ! 
 
 Linked were those notes to verses ; what did those 
 verses say ? . . . . 
 
 And there burst from his lips the words 
 
 And I cried in my passionate longing, 
 
 Has the earth no angel-friend 
 Who will carry my love the message 
 
 That my heart desires to send. 
 
 Those words have expressed his longing, and shown 
 him at last a way. 
 
 There is still no chance of human succour, there is 
 €till no hope of human aid ; but childlike thougths of 
 
THE TRYST BY THE GATE. 397 
 
 angel- spirits are floating round Mm now ! Songs that 
 his mother had sung him, hymns he has learnt to say. 
 An angel will whisper his message. His mother will 
 hear it some day ! . . . . 
 
 Very quietly he knelt down by his step-father's side. 
 
 * Father ! ' he said softly, ' you are my angel- friend. 
 I have a message to send her, and no one can give it 
 but you. I meant to tell you what I had done. I tried 
 all I could to overtake you. Oh, why did you go so 
 quickly ? You will tell her all this in her dreams, and 
 you will forgive me, I know. And tell her too, that I 
 loved you, and called you " father'' at last.' .... 
 
 Suddenly the boy paused, and starting, listened 
 intently. A vague feeling of electric hope thrilled 
 through his heart, and he bent over the figure again. 
 There was a slight rustle of the dead leaves, and a deep- 
 drawn sigh. Bending closer and closer, he heard the 
 sigh repeated, and a faint voice say, 
 
 * Be comforted, my child; I am not much hurt ! * 
 
398 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE MESSAGE. 
 
 It was quite true. Lord Wardlaw, in falliug, had 
 sprained Ms ancle, and been stunned for a time, by 
 falling with his head against the gate ; but the contents 
 of his gun had lodged themselves harmlessly in the 
 ground, and he had not so much as been singed. Not 
 sufficiently himself to be able to speak, he had yet been 
 aware of the boy's presence, and had gathered in the 
 sense of what he had said. 
 
 We need not paint the boys rapture, or his quick 
 transition from the very depths of misery to an over- 
 whelming joy. Those who have followed Mervyn's 
 history thus far will know that his nature was capable 
 of such sudden changes. 
 
 Full and free forgiveness was bestowed upon him by 
 his step-father, who at once declared he should never 
 give the subject a thought again. 
 
 ' I consider you my preserver,' he said, laughing, * for 
 what should I do now if you had not pursued me so per- 
 severingly. I should be in a nice plight alone here, in 
 the dark, with no means of getting assistance. I think 
 I shall have to send you home to order some conveyance 
 
THE MESSAGE. 399 
 
 from the stables, for I don't believe I can walk. Lend 
 me a band, Mervyn, and let me see.' 
 
 The result of the experiment was, that he could not 
 stand with any comfort ; and they held a long conver- 
 sation as to what had better be done. It was settled that 
 Mervyn should run to the stables, and give orders ; and 
 then go on, and tell his mother what had happened. 
 
 * I am afraid she will be anxious about us,' said Lord 
 Wardlaw, ' as we are so far behind our time ; so it will 
 be better for you not to return here, but to go on at once 
 to the house.' 
 
 ' I don't like leaving you alone,' said Mervyn wist- 
 fully. 
 
 * Never fear, my dear boy. I shall do very well.' 
 
 ' I'll rush all the way,' eagerly exclaimed Mervyn, * so 
 that you shan't have to wait here long ; and then I'll go 
 strait into the drawing-room and tell mother all. . . .' 
 
 * I have a message to send her,' interrupted Lord 
 Wardlaw — and dark as it was, Mervyn blushed crimson 
 ■ — * and you must give it word for word. Will you 
 promise to do so ? ' 
 
 ' I will do anything you tell me,' said the boy, and the 
 tears rushed to his eyes. * I will say anything, do any- 
 thing in the world, to please you.* 
 
 ' Very well,' said his step-father — and his voice showed 
 how touched he was — * then say only this. Do not add 
 one word to my message, nor take one word away. Say 
 that I have sprained my foot getting over the gate in 
 the dark, and that I have sent you on to say shall be 
 home as soon as a conveyance can be got ready. 
 
400 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 ' Only that ? ' said Mervyn wistfally ; * nothing about 
 how wrongly I behaved, and how sorry I am ? ' 
 
 ' Not a word/ said Lord Wardlaw firmly ; ' and abova 
 all, nothing about the gun.' 
 
 He particularly wanted to prevent the boy rushing in 
 to his mother in his present state of excitement, and 
 pouring out his confessions. He knew what a confused 
 account he would give of what had happened ; how long 
 it would take Magdalen and Nina to unravel the truth 
 from the vague recital ; and how much time they would 
 have to take alarm in the meantime. 
 
 Mervyn said nothing more, but ran off to do his step* 
 father's bidding. 
 
 Consternation reigned in the stables at his news, and 
 willing hands made hasty preparations to go to Lord 
 Wardlaw's assistance. 
 
 Then the boy sped on. His heart was very full as he 
 entered the halls he had so short a time ago thought ho 
 should never enter more, and sought the beloved pre- 
 sence he had thought he should never seek again. Re- 
 membering his step-father's injunctions, he checked his 
 bounding step in the passage, and quietly opened tho 
 drawing-room door. 
 
 He had meant to speak softly, he had meant to walk 
 in leisurely ; but when he saw her start from her seat 
 by the fire, and come to meet him with outstretched 
 hands and a face on which yearning love and delight 
 were vividly painted, he forgot everything but the joy 
 of meeting her with no load on his heart no heavy 
 tidings to unfold, and sprang to her embrace in a manner 
 
THE MESSAGE. 401 
 
 and with an eagerness wliicli at once confirmed her im- 
 pression that he had indeed been snatched from the- 
 jaws of death, and caused her nnquestioningly to clasp^ 
 him in her arms, murmuring, ' Thank God ! thank 
 God!' 
 
 Yet the boy wondered a little to see her so moved ;. 
 he wondered a little to feel her tremble; and when at 
 last she looked him all over, and said, * Not hurt ! not 
 singed, even ! * he wondered more. 
 
 He felt so undeserving of such love ; he felt such a 
 longing to confess his misdemeanour ; that, half- fearing 
 he should tell all before he knew what he was saying, he 
 hastily delivered his message. 
 
 ' Mother,* he said, * he has sprained his ankle, getting 
 over the gate in the dark, and has sent me on to say he 
 is coming as soon as a conveyance can be got from the 
 stables. And that is all I may tell you.' 
 
 Lady Wardlaw changed colour as he spoke, but she 
 looked more puzzled than alarmed. 
 
 * Tell me all about it, my darling,' she said, sitting 
 down and drawing him to her ; * do not hide anything 
 from me. And Mna, come here too, and help me to un- 
 derstand.' 
 
 Passing her arm round the slight form of the still trem-^ 
 bling girl, whose dark eyes never moved from Mervyn's 
 face, devouring him as one just risen from the grave, 
 Magdalen laid her disengaged hand on the boy's, and 
 waited for him to begin. 
 
 Mervyn's face was a study. Never in his life had he 
 been so puzzled and dumb-founded. To refuse to com- 
 D D 
 
402 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 ply with a request of Hs motlier's was a thing altogether 
 strange and impossible. On the other hand, to disobey 
 Lis step-father was equally impossible. To break his 
 promise — a promise made under such peculiar circum- 
 stances — was out of the question. He looked from his 
 mother to Nina, and from Nina to his mother, with a 
 scared face, and said nothing. 
 
 ' Mervyn,' said Magdalen faintly, ' something has hap- 
 pened to Charlie.' 
 
 For all answer Mervyn repeated his message, word 
 for word, adding, ' That is all, mother, really.' 
 
 ' You are hiding something from me, child,' she said, 
 in a sharp tone of pain. * That is not all, I am sure. 
 Why, your eyes are swollen with crying, and your face 
 as pale as death ! What has happened, Mervyn ? I 
 desire you to answer me ! ' 
 
 Poor Mervyn positively writhed under the words. 
 Concealment was so foreign to his nature, disobedience 
 to his mother, so utterly strange, that it was all he could 
 do to restrain himself from speaking. But above these 
 feelings rose his new-born love and loyalty to his step- 
 father, and prevailed. 
 
 ' I wish I could, mother,' he said mournfully ; ' but I 
 promised faithfully not.' 
 
 ' This is dreadful ! ' exclaimed Magdalen. ' Mervyn, 
 whatever promise you have made, I absolve you from it ! 
 Whatever commands have been laid upon you, 1 release 
 you from them ! You never disobeyed me before. Do 
 .not break my heart now ! ' 
 
 * Mother, mother ! ' cried the boy, in despair ; ' don't, 
 
THE MESSAGE. 403 
 
 please don't ! If you only knew all, you would say I 
 was right/ 
 
 ' But why should I not know all,' she demanded, * i^ 
 as you say, there is nothing ? ' 
 
 ' Because I have promised,' said Mervyn. 
 
 * Tell me one thing,' she said, and her voice faltered ; 
 * why did you shout and cry as if in grief or terror when 
 the gun went off ? ' 
 
 ' Good gracious ! ' exclaimed Mervyn, stepping back 
 in his astonishment, * how did you know anything about 
 the gun ? That is the very thing I was not to mention 
 to you.' 
 
 Magdalen was dismayed at the effect of her words. 
 
 ' There is some dreadful mystery here,' she said, rising 
 and advancing to the bell ; ' and if you will not unravel 
 it, I must find others who will.' 
 
 She took the bell-rope in her hand, and was about 
 to ring, when she was startled by a glad shout from 
 Mervyn, and, looking round, saw her husband in th© 
 doorway. 
 
 * Was my messenger unfaithful ? ' said Lord Wardlaw^ 
 rather sternly, as he took his wife in his arms. 
 
 * ISTo, father, no ! ' said Mervyn, eagerly ; * indeed I 
 was not. Ask Mna ! ' 
 
 * I must believe him, I suppose,' smiled Lord Ward- 
 law, as he met the pale girl's glowing eyes. 
 
 ' He would not say a word,' said Nina, proudly. * No, 
 not even when Aunt Magdalen positively ordered him. 
 
 DD 2 
 
404 THROWN TOGETHER, 
 
 to speak, and said slie would release liim from any and 
 every command tliat had been laid upon him.' 
 
 ' Well done ! ' said Lord Wardlaw ; ' well done, my 
 messenger ; and well done, little champion ! ' 
 
 •^But I may speak now,' said Mervyn,. eagerly ; *I 
 may tell them the whole story from the very beginning.' 
 
 'Every word,' replied his step-father, * only help me 
 to a chair first.' 
 
 Mervyn flew on the wings of love to execute his bid- 
 ding, almost upsetting his mother in his eagerness to 
 perform the office. She gave way, a little bewildered, 
 but well pleased to see the boy's demeanour. She sat 
 down on the sofa near, with her arm round Nina. The 
 impetuous boy flung himself at her feet, and poured 
 forth his tale. 
 
 They all listened with breathless interest, an interest 
 that became quite painful when he painted in vivid lan- 
 guage his hot pursuit through the woods, the terrible 
 denouement, and the harrowing details of his lonely 
 vigil in the darkness. But when he went on to describe 
 the three pictures that had risen around him, and the 
 determination to which gazing on them had brought 
 him, Magdalen held up her hand in mute entreaty, for 
 it was more than she could bear. But Mervyn would 
 not stop, would not spare himself or her, till he had 
 made a full and free confession. And he went on to 
 tell them all that he had felt, all that he had said, and 
 all that he had done. But he had gone too far. When 
 he got to the parting with his mother — when he re- 
 f)eated his words of passionate farewell, when he spoke 
 
THE MESSAGE. 405 
 
 of the message lie had tried to send her — he broke down 
 altogether, and sank, sobbing, into her arms. 
 
 * I will tell you the rest, Magdalen,' said Lord Ward- 
 law. * I will deliver the message that our boy desired 
 to send.' 
 
 So he gave it. A message, as we know, so tender, so 
 humble, so full of child-like love and confidence, that 
 his own voice faltered as he repeated it ; and Magdalen, 
 clasping her boy closer to her, bowed her head, weeping 
 over him, and whispered tender words of fervent blessing 
 and forgiveness. 
 
 * So, after all, Mervyn,' said Lord Wardlaw, pre- 
 sently, ' a breech-loader has been, from first to last, our 
 best friend.' 
 
 'No, father,' said Mervyn, eagerly : 'it is Nina who 
 has been our best friend. Slie first made me see I was 
 wrong. The praise is all due to her. She is the best, 
 the most unselfish ... 
 
 ' Mervyn ! ' burst passionately from the girl's lips, 
 * please do not praise me. Uncle Charlie, if you only 
 knew what I was before he came to Grant on, you would 
 see how much I owe to him, and how grateful I ought 
 to be.' 
 
 She spoke in a tone of concentrated fervour, sur- 
 prised out of her usual reserve ; and her beautifdl eyes 
 glowed and deepened as she raised them beseechingly to 
 Mervyn' s face. 
 
 ' Hush ! ' said Magdalen, very softly ; ' hush, my dar- 
 lings. Love one another and be grateful to one another, 
 
406 TPROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 if you will ; but give tlie praise only to Him by whom 
 you were thrown together.' 
 
 The book is ended, and the story is told. The cha- 
 racters have acted before us, and the curtain has fallen 
 on them all. So we have done with them ; and re- 
 turning each to our own life, forget, or only slightly 
 remember, the parts they have played. 
 
 Yet it may be, that in life's drama we are acting the 
 same parts as they ; it may be we are learning, in our 
 paths, the lessons they leamt in theirs. Our circum- 
 stances may be different, and our surroundings very 
 unlike, but the spirit underlying all is for ever the 
 same. 
 
 Varying widely as we all do, we are at least alike in 
 this : that we are daily, each of us, shedding abroad an 
 influence for good or for evil. Each upon each, and all 
 upon all. Some directly, some indirectly, some con- 
 sciously, and some unconsciously ! But each has his 
 use, each his place and function, which none but him- 
 self can fill. 
 
 The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to 
 the strong. The weak things of the world are some- 
 times chosen to confound the mighty ; the feeble and 
 insignificant have their place too, and may, for aught 
 we know, be exerting an influence on the powerful and 
 the mighty. 
 
 Strong and proud though we may be, some despised 
 one may be working in us, or in others, that which we 
 
THE MESSAGE. 407 
 
 are powerless to accomplisli. Therefore, we can despise 
 neither ourselves nor others, nor the positions which we 
 fill ; since one can supply what the othej? lacks, the parts 
 making a perfect whole. In that vast whole each is but 
 a unit, an atom ; yet without it, it may be, the whole 
 fabric would fall to pieces. 
 
 Looking upwards on a starlight evening, do we realise 
 the units of the glittering sky ? Standing by the sea, 
 do we consider the atoms of the sand we tread ? Yet 
 every star in the heavens has its space to brighten ; and 
 every grain of sand on the sea- shore has it place to 
 fill 
 
 Alike in Life and Nature, all seems chaos and con- 
 fusion. To us the sand seems ever vaguely shifting, 
 the toy of every wave and every footfall. To us the 
 stars seem loosely scattered, sown broadcast on the fir- 
 mament ; sand and stars alike, in a meaningless, pur- 
 poseless way. Yet there reigns over all creation the law 
 of purpose and of order. 
 
 So, to us, the infinite varieties of character in the 
 world seem thrown together in inextricable chaos — a 
 seething mass of conflicting ingredients, working out 
 their own ends amid error and confusion. Yet all is 
 pervaded by a Sovereign Purpose, which we in our 
 blindness do not see. To us, all is in hopeless en- 
 tanglement ; to our disordered minds all things are ont 
 of course ; to Him, all the parts, fitly joined together, 
 are working up to the end He has ordained— to a per- 
 fect consummation. Silently He is ordering all things 
 
408 THROWN TOGETHER. 
 
 to the same end ; mysteriously guiding our many feet, 
 by the many thousand paths, to the same goal, blending 
 our countless notes to the same glorious harmony ; 
 making, by His Almighty power, 'all things work 
 together for good.' 
 
 LONDON: PBINTBD BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUAttB 
 
 AND PAUHAilENT STREET 
 
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