jk^J^" 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 V 
 
 (n^^«
 
 \
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE.
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 ^ S;0M. 
 
 BY 
 
 LAURA M. LANE. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 Eoutioit : 
 SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, LOW, & SEAKLE, 
 
 CROWN BUILDINGS, 18S, FLEET STREET. 
 1S75. 
 
 \_All rights reserved.']
 
 LONDON 
 GILnKRT AND KIVINQTON, PRINTEKS, 
 
 ST. John's square.
 
 
 
 " At least, not rotting like a weed. 
 But, having sown some generous seed. 
 Fruitful of further thought and deed. 
 
 To pass, when Life her light withdraws, 
 I^'ot void of righteous self-applause. 
 Nor in a merely selfish cause — 
 
 In some good cause, not in mine own. 
 To perish, wept for, honour'd, known. 
 And like a warrior overthrown : 
 
 "Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears. 
 When, soil'd with noble dust, he hears 
 His country's war-song thrills his ears. 
 
 ****** 
 
 'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant. 
 Oh life, not death, for which we pant ; 
 More life, and fuller, that we want." 
 
 GG'i499
 
 TO 
 
 MY D E A E F A T U E li. 
 
 FKOM 
 
 HIS YOUNGEST CHILD.
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "A CAPITAL investment," said my uncle, 
 raising Ms glass to the light, and surveying 
 it critically tlirough his half-closed eye. 
 
 We were sitting at dessert. Only four 
 of us, my uncle, his partner Mr. Lawson, 
 my sister Agatha, and myself. The servants 
 had withdrawn, and we were left sole occu- 
 pants of the great, dreary dining-room. My 
 eyes had been wandering vaguely all around 
 in search of some congenial resting-place ; 
 but the heavy furniture, the pompous dis- 
 play of plate on the huge sideboard, the 
 allegorical pictures on the walls — which were 
 more liberal in the display of flesh than of 
 sentiment, — soon satisfied me, or rather 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 GENTLEMAN VERSOHOTLE. 
 
 brouglit me back witli a sense of accumulated 
 weariness to tlie group at tlie dinner- table. 
 My sister Agatlia, who sat opposite my uncle 
 and " did tlie honours," was leaning back 
 languidly in ber cbair, and dabbling the tips 
 of her delicate fingers in the bowl before 
 her, while she listened with an air of dis- 
 dainful weariness to the earnest "^ business 
 talk " which was being carried on between 
 the two gentlemen. Occasionally Mr. Lawson 
 turned to address her on some subject which 
 he considered suitable to the female intellect, 
 such as the weather, the unusual prevalence 
 of colds and coughs, or, may be, some 
 laboriously - constructed compliment ; and 
 then, conscious of having performed his duty, 
 he would turn back with a sigh of relief to 
 my uncle's talk about shares, and stocks, 
 and funds, and new railroads. My sister 
 certainly gave him scant encouragement. 
 She bent her head in answer to his questions, 
 and vouchsafed an occasional monosyllable, 
 but she never raised her eyes to her guest's 
 face. 1 felt angry with her. It was not 
 courteous or gracious on the part of.
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 3 
 
 the mistress of my uncle's house. I won- 
 dered how he liked it. But my uncle did 
 not trouble himself about the matter. He 
 liked to see Agatha sitting opposite him — 
 faultlessly dressed — with her pure Greek 
 profile supported by a taper hand glittering 
 with rings, just as he liked fine plate, and an 
 elegant equipage, and good livery, and a fine 
 pair of horses ; it all redounded to his credit ; 
 a pretty woman at the head of his table 
 gave a " finish " to his entertainments. Had 
 he been able to link his ideas to words, I 
 think he would have called Agatha a " good 
 investment." 
 
 " A good investment." This particular 
 phrase struck me somehow. It was strange 
 to sit musing over words that I heard every 
 day of my life, yet I found myself repeating 
 them again and again with singular persist- 
 ency. A good investment ! What did it 
 mean ? My uncle of course was speaking 
 about money ; but are there not other things 
 in life that one has to "invest," and put out 
 to " interest " and turn to the best account ? 
 "W^at about those talents "hid in a napkin," 
 B 2
 
 4 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 and an " nnprofitable servant " ? Surely 
 we ought all to make a " good invest- 
 ment." "WTiat did our money and time, my 
 sister's beauty, my uncle's practical wisdom, 
 and my longing after liiglier things bring of 
 real "profit"? 
 
 I was feeling unusually depressed. Early 
 in the afternoon my uncle and Agatha 
 had set out to pay a round of visits, 
 and I had consequently been left to my 
 own devices. I had put on my bonnet 
 and waterproof; and, escaping out of the 
 house by myself — for a wonder — had started 
 to call on Mrs. Leicester, our curate's wife. 
 I had found her surrounded by a tribe of 
 children, all busily employed ; one was 
 reading aloud, the others were working or 
 drawing ; my pet Willie was carving a little 
 boat, and creating a glorious pile of chips on 
 the parlour carpet, while Mrs. Leicester, who 
 was engaged in cutting out clothes for the 
 poor, would put in now and then a word of 
 explanation or encouragement, or of kindly 
 reproof to the various members of the small 
 fry gathered around her. I wondered how
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 5 
 
 she could bear the turmoil, and longed to 
 transplant her to my cosy sitting-room at 
 home, where I spent the greater part of my 
 time in luxurious selfishness. I knew that 
 Mrs. Leicester was a lady of good family — 
 far better born than myself, and that before 
 her marriao-e she had been accustomed to a 
 
 o 
 
 very different style of living. I saw too 
 that her eyes were heavy, and when I pressed 
 her ^dtli inquiries, I elicited the existence 
 of a bad headache. Yet no one would have 
 discovered it fi'om her manner, which was 
 bright and unrufiB.ed as ever. I went away 
 from the house with a strange feeling of 
 envy and self-reproach. Why could I not do 
 something for other people ? Why must I 
 always live outside the work and struggle 
 of life, and have to stuff my ears with cotton- 
 wool to deaden the cries of the suffering and 
 the sorrowful ? My uncle had positively for- 
 bidden my undertaking any " parish work," 
 and then, when I tried to make amends by 
 giving as much as I could from my allowance 
 to help on the good deeds I was not suffered 
 to engage in, my sister complained of my
 
 b GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 shabby bonnets, and my uncle insisted that 
 my bills should be sent in to him, and 
 stopped my allowance till I should have 
 "learned common sense." It was very try- 
 ing ! I was by nature indifferent to dress, and 
 I loathed the silk dresses and gay bonnets pro- 
 cured at the price of what my uncle termed, 
 " my hobbies." Under pain of his severe 
 displeasure, I was compelled to dress as my 
 sister did, but I never looked the least like 
 her. " Miss Agatha Grey " had been pro- 
 nounced by Miss Lavender, who conducts 
 that very superior establishment for " finish- 
 ing" young ladies in the Regent's Park, to 
 be the most elegant and well-bred of all her 
 pupils; but Miss. Dora Avas so unfortu- 
 nately plain ! My uncle, who looked upon a 
 plain face as a mistake, and who considered 
 "beauty" to be woman's chiefest virtue, felt 
 himself personally aggrieved when I added 
 to my natural defects by " dowdy " dressing; 
 so I was forced to yield. Agatha and I were 
 both dressed alike on the evening on which I 
 introduce our party to my readers. We wore 
 white silk dresses, striped with green and
 
 GE^^TLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 7 
 
 cut low, as the fashion then was. Agatha's 
 golden curls swept caressingly the snowy 
 shoulders, which rose fairly from the soft 
 folds of her lace bertha ; my hair was plaited 
 tightly and closely around my head. Her 
 exquisitely rounded arm was as white as the 
 lace that fell over it ; mine was brown, and 
 freckled, and rough like a nutmeg-grater. 
 Why in the world was I forced to dress in a 
 style for which I was evidently unfitted, 
 when thousands of others would have ex- 
 changed garments with me only too gladly ? 
 
 At a signal from Agatha, I rose and 
 followed her out of the room. Her tall, 
 lithe figure swept before me across the hall 
 and up the broad staircase into the drawing- 
 room. I placed a chair in front of the fire and 
 sat down with my hands clasped idly in my 
 lap. My sister paced restlessly up and down 
 the room. I could see the reflection of her 
 fair face in the glass as she passed behind 
 me — now full face — now profile — then the 
 magnificent fall of golden tresses — then the 
 face again, with the same knitted brow 
 and petulant curl of the lip. At last she
 
 8 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 threw herself down on the sofa by my 
 side. 
 
 " Oh, I am sick of this life, so sick of it ! " 
 she said passionately, " why must I live like 
 this?" 
 
 " It is not life at all," I said mournfully, 
 " it is bare existence." 
 
 My sister raised herself up on one elbow 
 and gazed curiously at me. There was 
 rarely any interchange of thought and feel- 
 ing between us. 
 
 "Do 7/0?^ feel- like this, Dora?" she asked 
 in a surprised tone. Well, you astonish 
 me ! I thought you were a contented sort 
 of girl, and could make yourself happy any- 
 where." 
 
 I smiled a little. " I am glad I appear 
 better than I am, Agatha, for the truth is, I 
 am not at all contented. I have been discon- 
 tented for the last two years — ever since we 
 left Miss Lavender's." 
 
 " Have you, Dora ? Well, I wonder I 
 never found it out before. You are a strange 
 girl!" 
 
 My sister looked into the fire meditatively
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 9 
 
 for a few minutes, and then she recom- 
 menced, — 
 
 " Such a Hfe as some people lead, Dora, 
 so full, so delightful, it makes one's heart 
 ache with envy to think of it." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, a life like Mrs. Leicester's." 
 
 " Mrs. Leicester ! My dear Dora ! What 
 on earth are you thinking about?" 
 
 Clearly my sister and I were at cross- 
 purposes. We had been calling different 
 results by the same name, and now we had to 
 return to first principles. Agatha sat up, 
 bolt upright on the sofa, in open-eyed expec- 
 tation of my reply. I began a little timidly, 
 for Agatha was a year older than myself, 
 besides being far wittier and handsomer. 
 
 " You know, Agatha, you were talking 
 about a full life ; now I call Mrs. Leicester's 
 full." 
 
 " Mercy, Dora ! Full of what ? Squalling 
 children and dirty old women, school teach- 
 ing and district visitings — and what else ?" 
 
 "Isn't that enough?" 
 
 " Enough ! my dear Dora ! " 
 
 I wish I could describe the tone in which
 
 10 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 Agatha said tliis ; it breathed a spirit of 
 profoundest pity for my benighted con- 
 dition. 
 
 " Well, Agatha," I said, " I have told you 
 what I mean by a full life. A life full of 
 occupation and of active human interests, 
 and of warm sympathy with our fellows ; so 
 that one may hope to leave the world a wee 
 bit better than one found it. That is my 
 ideal of a full life, and perhaps I should in- 
 clude all the dear affections that spring up 
 around unselfishness ; now tell me what is 
 yours." 
 
 I saw Agatha was extremely mystified. 
 To begin with, she had never heard me make 
 such a lengthy speech in my life. She saw 
 something had roused me out of my usual 
 placidity, but what it was was far " beyond 
 her ken." 
 
 " I'm sure I can't tell you, Dora. I can't 
 put things as you do. I want more society 
 and dancing, instead of these odious dinners, 
 and a better set of people, not these stupid, 
 heavy mercantile men, with their commercial 
 talk ; and oh ! that tiresome Mr. Lawson !
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 11 
 
 He is the climax of liorrors ; low-bred crea- 
 ture ! " 
 
 " His position is as good as uncle's." 
 
 "Well, uncle is a ' nobody.' " 
 
 " We are in the same box, then. You 
 forget our father was a merchant too." 
 
 " Yes, of course I know that. But that is 
 no reason why we should always stick in the 
 same set. It is our duty, Dora, to try to 
 rise higher." 
 
 When Agatha talked about "duty" it was 
 always too much for my risible faculties. 
 She had a way of giving full, high-sounding 
 names to her own petty ambitions. Thus in 
 conversation we were apt to find ourselves at 
 cross-questions, because we so often used the 
 same expressions in a different sense. 
 
 " I don't see anything to smile at, Dora," 
 my sister said. " Every one wishes to rise. 
 It is a natural feeling, and I, — well, I confess 
 I do not feel in my proper sphere. What- 
 ever my parents were, I feel I am born to 
 fill a higher position." 
 
 Certainly want of frankness was not one of 
 Agatha's faults.
 
 12 GENTLEMAN YERSCHOTLE. 
 
 " I am sick of this life," Agatha went on, 
 disregarding the somewhat satirical expres- 
 sion of my face; "and I tell you plainly, 
 Dora, I do not mean to bear it much longer. 
 I shall worry my uncle to death till he takes 
 a house at the West End, or else I shall 
 make him find me a chaperone who can in- 
 troduce me into good society. That I am 
 determined on. There are those men coming 
 up-stairs, Dora, I shall make my escape. You 
 may tell uncle I have a bad headache. I 
 mean to have one every time he brings Mr. 
 Lawson to dine, so the sooner he gets accus- 
 tomed to the fact the better." 
 
 Agatha made her exit at one door just as 
 the gentlemen came in at the other, and when 
 I had made the tea and endured a little of 
 Mr. Lawson's heavy politeness, I too escaped 
 to my own room — and — cried myself to 
 sleep !
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 It has been said that the things which most 
 rarely happen to us in hfe are the things 
 " we hoped for and the things we dreaded." 
 Whether this saying be true or not in its 
 broad, sweeping generahzation I cannot say, 
 but my sister Agatha's experience seems to 
 give it the lie in particular instances. The 
 wish of her heart was granted. Soon after 
 the conversation recorded above, there arrived 
 from India a cousin of my mother's who had 
 run away from school whilst a mere child 
 with a young and penniless officer. What 
 would have become of her had not Providence 
 solved the dif&culty by stationing her hus- 
 band in an unhealthy spot on the plains, 
 where he soon fell a victim to fever — depo- 
 nent sayeth not. Great sympathy was shown
 
 14 GENTLEMAN VEKSCHOYLE. 
 
 in tlie regiment for this poor young widow 
 hardly out of cliildliood, and the colonel's 
 wife brought her to her house, and nursed 
 and petted her as if she had been her own 
 child. But the young widow was not as 
 childlike as she appeared. The atmosphere 
 of second-rate boarding-schools does not 
 tend to elevate and purify the affections, or 
 preserve those refined and womanly senti- 
 ments which we desire to see in the future 
 mothers of Englishmen. The pretty little 
 girl, with her long black curls, and large 
 bright eyes, and pouting childish lips, had a 
 very good notion of the practical value of 
 money and position ; and when her tears 
 were dried — and it did not take loiig in that 
 hot climate to efface the traces of her sorrow 
 — she set herself to the task of making good 
 use of her present advantages with an amount 
 of energy which was worthy of a better cause. 
 A pretty young widow in her teens, who dis- 
 plays a proper amount of grief, and yet 
 shows herself to be not absolutely incon- 
 solable, is a very attractive morsel, especially 
 in India. She soon became the " raere."
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESOHOYLE. 15 
 
 There was very little else to distract attention 
 from her in that hot, dusty station, with the 
 thermometer at 95° in the shade. The 
 little widow smiled on all. She distributed 
 her favours with artless impartiality, and 
 then, to the disgust and horror of her 
 admirers, she surrendered to an old Indian 
 Judge, of uncertain temper and doubtful 
 reputation, and a constitution irretrievably 
 ruined by a systematic course of curry and 
 brandy-pawnee. What she could possibly 
 " see in him " was a question often asked in 
 the garrison. Those foolish young fellows, 
 who had been ensnared by her bright eyes, 
 and pouting lips, and childish ways, could 
 not believe she had married only because she 
 knew her lord was rolling in riches, and 
 belonged to a good old county family. But 
 such was the case ; and very soon an Indian 
 version of " Sir Peter and Lady Teazle " 
 was enacted before the eyes of the asto- 
 nished garrison. Then her second husband 
 died, and Madame retired to Calcutta and 
 held court there for some months ; but she 
 manifested no inclination to change her
 
 16 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 name a third time. She had had enough 
 of the married state, and had secured to 
 herself its best results in the shape of a 
 handsome income and a good English name. 
 At the earnest entreaty of her husband's 
 family — to whom she had written pathetic 
 letters on his decease — she returned to Eng- 
 land, and spent some time at the country 
 seat of her brother-in-law. Sir John St. Leger. 
 There she became acquainted with some of 
 the "best people" in the county. But some- 
 how she was not much appreciated, and her 
 relations saw her depart without a tear. She 
 herself said that English country people were 
 so stiff, and had such ridiculously strained 
 notions of propriety and etiquette, that it 
 was impossible for any woman of fashion to 
 consort with them. Clearly London was 
 her proper sphere. So to London she went, 
 and took a large house in May Fair, and 
 gave grand parties, and was so lavish with 
 her money and her horses, and her good wine, 
 that some of those very people who in the 
 country had pronounced her to be vulgar and 
 fast, were very glad to come and feast on
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSOHOYLE. 17 
 
 her fat things, and eat, and drink, and laugh 
 too, ab her expense. Agatha, who read of 
 these grand doings in the Morning Post, felt 
 it instantly to " be her duty " to call on our 
 mother's kinswoman, and lost no time in 
 persuading my uncle to accompany her. To 
 my great relief, I was not asked to join them. 
 Probably Agatha thought my plain face would 
 not tend to conciliate our new-found relative, 
 and so I was left at home in peace. Agatha 
 came back enchanted. Mrs. St. Leger had 
 evidently taken a fancy to her beautiful young 
 cousin. Agatha had heard several people 
 ask who she was, and Mrs. St. Leger had 
 said out loud, " Oh, a little cousin of hers, 
 that she meant to have a good deal with 
 her." Certainly, as Agatha stood before me 
 in her faultless costume of blue and grey, 
 her Paris bonnet surmounting a wealth of 
 bright, wavy hair, and her elegantly-gloved 
 hands toying with her white parasol, I did 
 not wonder at Mrs. St. Leger's taste. Agatha 
 was right. She was born to fill a high position. 
 Many a young duchess might have envied the 
 inbred ease and elegance of her manner. 
 
 VOL. I
 
 18 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 " Mrs. St. Leger has asked me to a the 
 dansante at her house on Friday. AYould 
 you like to go, Dora ? No, I suppose not ; 
 it's not your style, is it?" (Condescend- 
 ingly.) " Well, you will see Mrs. St. Leger 
 to-morrow, anyhow; she is coming to lunch." 
 
 I looked forward with some amount of 
 awe, as well as of curiosity, to Mrs. St. 
 Leger' s visit. What would a lady who 
 lived in the great fashionable world, and 
 who talked of lords and ladies as if they 
 were as common as blackbeetles, think of 
 poor me ? It was rather hard to go through 
 life feeling myself dowdy and ugly and un- 
 attractive. My only comfort lay in the fact 
 that Mrs. Leicester loved me in spite of my 
 defects. She even said — one day when I was 
 making an envious comparison of myself with 
 Agatha — that she liked my face the better 
 of the two, and that my voice was a thou- 
 sand times sweeter than Agatha's. I knew, 
 of course, that she only said this because she 
 was prejudiced against Agatha, who always 
 behaved very scornfully to her. She loved 
 me, and therefore she loved my face. Is not
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 19 
 
 beauty generally in the eyes of the beholder ? 
 So Mrs. Leicester's praise did not make me 
 conceited or boastful, but it greatly comforted 
 me, for I had almost thirsted to find a pair 
 of eyes that could rest kindly on my plain 
 visage and find pleasure there. 
 
 I imagined Mrs. St. Leger would be a 
 second Mrs. Leicester, only a great deal 
 more fashionable, and with grander and more 
 dignified manners. What a shock was in 
 store for me ! A stout, florid woman, with 
 a loud voice and ostentatious manner, came 
 into the drawing-room, where we were sitting 
 in state, waiting to receive our guest. At 
 the first sound of her loud "haw-haw !" my 
 vision of fashionable enchantment sunk to 
 the ground. This a fashionable lady ! Why, 
 she was not a lady at all ! Her conversation 
 was seasoned with slang words and spicy 
 anecdotes that savoured strongly of vulgar 
 scandal. In vain did I listen for a refined 
 sentiment or choice expression to indicate 
 one of " nature's noble women." I looked 
 at Agatha in horror. She was so very par- 
 ticular herself, so choice in her language, and 
 c 2
 
 20 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 correct in her sentiments. Yet tliere slie 
 sat, smiling sweetly, and even laughing out- 
 right at some of Mrs. St. Leger's broad jokes 
 and coarse expressions. The names of titled 
 people — with which her conversation was 
 profusely garnished — leavened the rest to 
 Agatha with the leaven of aristocratic purity. 
 It was so delicious to hear lords and baro- 
 nets and guardsmen rolled out in that charm- 
 ingly familiar way. Why, once when we had 
 caught a stray baronet, with whom my uncle 
 had business relations, we had gone half out 
 of our wits with fear lest we should uncon- 
 sciously do something that would stamp us 
 as " plebeian " in his noble eyes. Yet here 
 was this fat, florid-faced woman toasting her 
 feet on our fender, and mixing up noble 
 names with the latest scandal and the newest 
 slang ! Agatha did not perceive any incon- 
 gruity ; she sat drinking it in with delighted 
 ears. The conversation all bore the strong 
 vinous flavour of fashionable life. To be 
 sure, some of the expressions were stronger 
 than Miss Lavender would have approved, or 
 than Agatha would have admired from any
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 21 
 
 other woman's lips ; but tlie difference lay in 
 the speaker herself. The salt of olives cannot 
 be compared with the salt of salt herrings, 
 or the high flavour of venison with the taint 
 of bad mutton. This was how Agatha 
 settled the point. 
 
 Yet I should be ungrateful if I did not 
 record one great happiness that sprang for 
 me out of Mrs. St. Leger's dawn on our 
 horizon. In consequence of her great 
 " fancy " for Agatha, and the strong wish of 
 the latter to follow her new friend into the 
 enchanted circle of fashionable society, I was 
 left very much to my own devices, and in 
 consequence I was able to spend a large part 
 of my time with Mrs. Leicester. Although 
 my uncle had not withdrawn the ban he had . 
 placed on " parish work," he did not forbid 
 my personal intercourse with the clergyman's 
 family; indeed, I think he had some faint 
 kind of idea that religion and the society of 
 religious people was the proper sphere for the 
 plain woman of the family. Thus, although 
 I could not share in my friend's out-of-door 
 work, I was able to lighten her labours con-
 
 22 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 siderably by relieving her in part of the 
 education of her children. I grew very fond 
 of my little pupils. Looking back on the 
 past, I see that this was the happiest period 
 of my girlhood. Sometimes, when Agatha 
 had gone to some grand ball, and my uncle 
 was at a civic feast, I was able to escape for 
 the evening to my dear friends. It seemed 
 so strange, in comparison with our luxurious 
 and formal repasts, to sit at the long table 
 surrounded by merry children, and aid Mrs. 
 Leicester to dispense the tea and bread and 
 butter, and seed-cake, which composed the 
 modest meal. Then, after I had helped to 
 put some of the younger ones to bed, and 
 had been called back" again and again to 
 receive a farewell kiss and clinofins: embrace 
 from the little white-robed figures, how 
 pleasant it was to return to the cosy parlour 
 and sit with my head in Mrs, Leicester's lap, 
 listening to her gentle, helpful words, or re- 
 ceivhig her playful reproofs on the subject of 
 what she called my " morbid sensitiveness " ! 
 My trials always seemed lighter, and my 
 mercies greater, after one of those talks by
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOTLE. 23 
 
 the fireliglit. The atmosphere of peace dif- 
 fused about that pleasant Christian home 
 brought a soothing bahn to my restless heart. 
 Often Mr. Leicester would join us. It was a 
 relief to him, after the toils and discourage- 
 ments of the da}'-, to read aloud to us, eager 
 listeners, choice morsels of poetry, or some- 
 times good works of fiction, while Mrs. 
 Leicester produced her work-basket, and I 
 aided her, as best I could, to repair the 
 manifold rents in her children's garments. 
 To this hour I never hear " Childe Harold " 
 quoted but that the vision of a particularly 
 distressing rent in a white muslin frock rises 
 before my eyes, and Sir Walter Scott's 
 " Kenilworth " is inseparably connected with 
 the appalling holes in Willie's worsted socks. 
 Often, however, my work would fall from my 
 hands, and I would sit entranced, listening 
 with wide-open eyes and beating heart to the 
 deep, melodious voice of the reader, till a smile 
 from Mrs. Leicester, and the sounds of the 
 ceaseless " click " of her busy needle, would 
 drive me back to my work again. Oh ! those 
 were happy hours, and I did not envy Agatha
 
 24 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 her accounts of balls and fetes whicli were 
 now the sole subjects of her conversation. 
 Every day I saw the gulf widening between 
 us, and I knew not how it could ever be 
 bridged. Each spoke a language unintel- 
 ligible to the other. Each framed her life 
 according to a " chart " which could not be 
 deciphered by the other's eyes. 
 
 " You look very bright to-night, Dora," 
 my sister said, coming into my room in her 
 tumbled and tattered ball-dress. " What 
 have you been about ?" 
 
 " I have been spending the evening with 
 Mrs. Leicester." 
 
 " Isn't that dreadfully dull ?" 
 
 " Dull ! Indeed not. I cannot imagine 
 anybody or anything dull in that house," 
 I replied emphatically. 
 
 My sister laughed. 
 
 "Well, Dora, you are a queer girl ! We 
 are not a bit alike, are we ? " And with this 
 dictum I was not inclined to quarrel.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The season passed away, and to every one's 
 astonisliment my sister Agatlia remained 
 unmarried. There was no lack of admiration 
 and of " attention," which sometimes assumed 
 the tangible form of an " offer," but the 
 "right" man had not yet appeared on the 
 scene. Mrs. St. Leger was a little disap- 
 pointed. She pressed one eligible suitor 
 after another on her young cousin, and 
 descanted on elegant establishments, and 
 handsome settlements, and good social posi- 
 tion, but all to no purpose. Then Mrs. 
 St. Leger tried other tactics. She advised 
 and warned, and lectured Agatha on her 
 fastidiousness, and quoted the oft-told tale of 
 the " crooked stick." Agatha tossed her 
 dainty head in proud conviction that no
 
 26 GENTLEMAN \TERSCHOYLE. 
 
 sucli mortifying fate could be in store for her. 
 " All in good time," she said. " One of 
 these days I shall marry, and everybody 
 will approve my choice." 
 
 So Mrs. St. Leger was silenced, but cer- 
 tainly not convinced. 
 
 And here I may as well say that about 
 this time my own, and only, " love-affair " 
 began and ended. My place in this story is 
 a very subordinate one. I think my life has 
 always, more or less, been merged in the 
 lives of other people, and I should have 
 considerable difficulty in recording my own 
 history, though Agatha's could be written 
 well enough apart from mine. During my 
 frequent visits to Mrs. Leicester, I became 
 acquainted with one of her brothers, to 
 whom she was tenderly attached. He joined 
 in all our pleasant talks and readings, and it 
 was not long before we each became conscious 
 of a congeniality of mind and taste drawing 
 us closely together with the strong links of 
 mental sympathy. Oh ! those were happy 
 hours — hours that I can recall now, as I sit in 
 my solitary room, with all the freshness and
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 27 
 
 rapture of the past. Each day that we met 
 we seemed to hover on the brink of a mutual 
 avowal, and then, to my unspeakable sur- 
 prise, grief, and mortification, Arthur left 
 suddenly for India — where a chaplaincy had 
 been offered him — without a word of expla- 
 nation, or even of friendly farewell. The 
 blow was so unexpected — so cruel, that 
 my wonted fortitude entirely deserted me. 
 I had no heart, no spirit for my usual 
 employments. I listened apathetically to 
 the sneers of my uncle, and the reproaches 
 of my sister, which were called forth by the 
 sight of my woe-begone face. At last my 
 kind friend Mrs. Leicester, alarmed at the 
 change in my appearance, and fearing the 
 consequences on my health, divulged her 
 brother's secret. He loved me I That was 
 enough. Those three words were sufficient 
 to reanimate my drooping cheek with the 
 colour of life and hope. The rest was soon 
 told. Arthur had found it impossible to 
 remain longer in my society without reveal- 
 ing the secret he imagined to have guarded 
 so jealously, and, knowing that his suit would
 
 28 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 not for a moment be entertained by my 
 uncle, be bad resolved to accept tbe Indian 
 cbaplaincy at once. He left England, cbarg- 
 ing bis sister to keep bis memory alive in my 
 mind; for neitber tbe brotber nor tbe sister 
 bad discovered tbe fact wbicb I bad tbongbt 
 patent to every one, tbat I bad given my beart 
 long ago into bis keeping. After a year's trial 
 of bis Indian post, be meant to come back to 
 England and formally demand my uncle's 
 permission to make me an offer of marriage. 
 My miserable money bad been tbe only bar- 
 rier to tbe earlier consummation of our 
 bappiness. His generous soul revolted from 
 tbe suspicion of mercenary motives. His 
 wbole desire was to establisb bimself in sucb 
 a position tbat be could, witb bonourable 
 propriety, invite me to sbare bis bome. 
 
 Wben Mrs. Leicester bad placed tbe wbole 
 story before me, broken in its recital by 
 numerous tender kisses and sootbing words, 
 my wbole beart went fortb in one glad Te 
 Deum of praise and tbanksgiving to Him 
 Wbo bad blest me witb tbe love of one of 
 tbe noblest and best of men. Yes, Artbur,
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOTLE. 29 
 
 tlioiigli years have passed since that day — 
 though age has dimmed my sight, and time 
 has laid his iron hand upon my brow — your 
 memory can never fade from my heart. My 
 mind can never cease to recall the glorious 
 image of my first and only love — the love of 
 my youth, the sacred, enshrined memory of 
 my later years. We never met again ! Our 
 love was never to be blest with its full con- 
 summation — no lover's kiss has ever pressed 
 my lips, no lover's hand has ever fondly 
 clasped my own, no tender lover's words 
 have ever fallen on my ear. Before the year 
 had ended, a letter came, a black-edged pro- 
 phecy of woe. It was addressed to Mrs. 
 Leicester. From her dear lips I learnt my 
 trial as I had learnt my joy. With her arm 
 around me, with her lips pressing my brow, 
 I learnt that the arm I had longed to lean 
 upon, the lips I had hoped to press, the voice 
 I had thirsted to hear, were cold and hushed 
 in the silence of the grave. Arthur was dead 
 and buried; and my youth, my hope, my 
 love, was buried in his grave ! 
 
 The next mail brought a sealed packet
 
 30 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 for me. It contained a flower I had otice 
 dropped from my hair, and which he had 
 secretly treasured, a few verses that I had 
 copied for him, and a letter from himself 
 written when he knew that he was dying. 
 Oh, that letter ! Tears rush to my eyes at 
 the recollection. For the moment I am a 
 girl again — a broken-hearted, despairing girl 
 — looking out on life with sad, agonized eyes 
 — believing in no sweetness, no love, no 
 compensation. It was by the help of my 
 friends Mr. and Mrs. Leicester, kind, God- 
 sent friends — God often uses such to fulfil 
 His purposes — that I learnt to submit to my 
 heavy affliction. Gradually, one by one I 
 resumed the old occupations I had cast 
 aside in the first anguish of my trial, and 
 in the steady fulfilment of every-day duties I 
 found a sure and ever-present antidote to my 
 pain. And then, led by the hand of the 
 same kind friend to look upward to the 
 Divine Source of my chastisement, I was 
 enabled to say, " My God doth supply all my 
 need." Slowly the conviction stole over me 
 that I, who had been robbed so early of all
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 31 
 
 that sweetens and gladdens a woman's life, 
 must be marked out in some special manner 
 by God, who " setteth the solitary in families," 
 to help and comfort others. I, who could 
 have no sweet ties or home affections of my 
 own, must be intended to merge my indi- 
 vidual life and interests in the lives of other 
 people ; and this I have always tried to do. 
 This has helped me to look back on my 
 blighted girlhood with gently chastened sor- 
 row. This has caused me, by the joys up- 
 springing from the joys of others, to find 
 many sweet flowers yet blooming in the world 
 for me. Hearty friendships, childish caresses 
 — the blessings of the sick and of the sor- 
 rowful — all these are mine. And thus the 
 thought of the sun shining on my Arthur's 
 grave comes to me with a tender glimmer of 
 blessed rest and peace. But it must not be 
 imagined that I arrived at once, or by the 
 might of a single efl'ort, to this victory of 
 submission. I had many hard battles to fight, 
 many doubts and fears to conquer, many fits 
 of lonely sadaess to overcome, before I had 
 learnt even the alphabet of resignation.
 
 32 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 It was at the close of a day on which 
 I had been unusually tried, and when I 
 had found it impossible to keep my thoughts 
 from dwelling mournfully on that lonely grave 
 on the far-off Indian hills, that Agatha came 
 suddenly into my room. She had found 
 me so " mopish and disagreeable " lately (for 
 Agatha knew nothing of my trial), that she 
 had given up coming into my room to " talk 
 over " the events of the evening, to recount 
 her conquests, and to regale me with the 
 compliments that had filled her ears. Never 
 shall I forget her appearance on this parti- 
 cular evening. She was dressed in pale pink 
 crape, which hung about her in soft, clinging 
 folds; pearl ornaments shone in her ex- 
 quisitely arranged hair, and a chain of pearls 
 encircled her snowy neck. Her delicately 
 moulded arms were crossed pensively on 
 her breast. Her face wore a softened ex- 
 pression of unutterable happiness. Suddenly 
 she stooped down and kissed me — rather an 
 unusual proceeding on her part. 
 
 " Are you very sleepy, Dora ? " she asked. 
 "I have not seen anything of you for an age,
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 33 
 
 and I want you somehow to-night ; I have 
 got something to tell you, Dora." 
 
 One glance at her face was enough. 
 
 " You are engaged to be married," I said 
 quietly. 
 
 Agatha started back in confusion. 
 
 "Why, how did you know, Dora?" she 
 asked in a surprised tone. 
 
 Ah me ! were not her eyes filled with the 
 same glad light that had gleamed awhile ago 
 in my own, now burning with the mournful 
 lustre of " pale funereal torches " ? 
 
 " Tell me all about it," I said. 
 
 " Why, Dora, how you look ! Are you 
 ill?" 
 
 " No, no ; only very pleased, dear sister, 
 that you are happy." 
 
 The embrace that followed showed that 
 we were " sisters still," in spite of the wide 
 gulf of dissimilar tastes that stretched be- 
 tween us. 
 
 " Tell me," I said again. 
 
 " I am engaged — subject of course to 
 uncle's approval " (Agatha was always most 
 correct in her sentiments, and in her expres- 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 sions) " to Mr. Verschoyle — Philip A^er- 
 sclioyle — Sir Joyce Versclioyle's younger 
 brother. Phihp, Mr. Verschoyle I mean, is in 
 the Guards. Oh Dora, I shall like you to 
 see him. He is so handsome, and he looks 
 such a thorough gentleman, well-born to the 
 tips of his fingers ! And then he is so 
 pleasant, and good-tempered, and he has 
 such a nice way of doing everything. I shall 
 always feel so proud of him." 
 
 Clearly Agatha had fallen genuinely " in 
 love." I had so dreaded a mariage de 
 convenance that I hugged my sister in a 
 perfect transport of delight. Agatha sub- 
 mitted quietly, in spite of the injury inflicted 
 on her dainty attire. 
 
 *' Philip is coming here to-morrow, to see 
 uncle and talk about everything," Agatha 
 went on ; " he hasn't got any money, only 
 200/. of his own, and an allowance of 600/. 
 from Sir Joyce, but I have plenty ; what 
 does it matter?" 
 
 Ah ! how earnestly my heart echoed her 
 words, she could never, never know ! 
 
 " He has a position, and a good connexion ;
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESOHOYLE. 35 
 
 that is wliat I care for far more tlian mere 
 money," Agatlia continued, " and Philip is 
 such a perfect gentleman ! He is very fasti- 
 dious, so you must mind your p's and q's, 
 Dora. Oh, by the way, he can't bear notre 
 bonne consine, Mrs. St. Leger. He says he 
 cannot stand her vulgarity, and I must find 
 another chaperone." 
 
 " Very cool," I said, bridling with wrath ; 
 " how dared he speak hke that of your own 
 kinswoman ?" 
 
 Ao'atha lauofhed. 
 
 " My dear Dora ! How warm you are ! I 
 thought that Mrs. St. Leger's vulgarity 
 was a fact sufficiently patent to every one. 
 I'm rather sorry I ever became so intimate 
 with her ; for the future I shall be a little 
 more reserved." 
 
 Thus in her ingenuous frankness did 
 Agatha betray the fact that, having mounted 
 to a sufficient height, she meant to kick away 
 the ladder that had supported her first falter- 
 ing footsteps. 
 
 That night I sat long in my room, musing 
 on my late conversation with Agatha. How 
 D 2
 
 36 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 strange it seemed that Agatlia should know 
 nothing of my own love-story ; that she 
 should not see the darkness which had ob- 
 scured my eyes, nor feel the blow that had 
 struck me so cruelly, and left me faint and 
 bleeding ! Agatha's marriage had been 
 looked for and talked about ever since we 
 left school, yet now it struck me with a sense 
 of strangeness and newness. It seemed to 
 me quite terrible to meet such a crisis in 
 one's life whilst living in a whirlpool of care- 
 less gaiety. What could Agatha and Mr. 
 Yerschoyle (what a pretty name it was !) 
 know of each other's tastes and habits, 
 and principles and thoughts ? Surely a ball- 
 room was not a very fitting place in which to 
 choose the friend and companion of future 
 years, the soother of future sorrows, the 
 guide and protector in future seasons of 
 difficulty and danger ! In the diary which I 
 have kept all my life pretty regularly, and to 
 which I shall have occasion to refer several 
 times in the course of this story, I find the 
 date of Agatha's marriage, with these 
 words written underneath (I had copied
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 37 
 
 tliem from some book I was reading at the 
 time) : — 
 
 " Death itself to the reflecting mind is less 
 serious than marriage. Death is not even a 
 blow, is not even a pulsation ; it is a pause. 
 But marriage unrolls the awful lot of num- 
 berless generations. Health, genius, honour, 
 are the words inscribed on some ; on others 
 are disease, fatuity, and infamy."
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 My sister Agatha was married at St. George's, 
 Hanover Square, early in tile following spring. 
 Everything promised well for the beautiful 
 young creature standing by her bridegroom's 
 side, with the golden sunlight touching the 
 folds of her sheeny satin dress and gilding 
 her shining head with a transitory halo. 
 " They were a splendid couple," so every one 
 said. Mr. Verschoyle's tall, slight figure 
 and somewhat cold and clearly-cut features 
 helped to bring out in glowing contrast the 
 radiant beauty of his bride. There was no 
 coldness, however, in the eyes he bent on 
 Agatha ; ardent attachment and genuine ad- 
 miration were unmistakably written there. 
 And Agatha? One had only to see the 
 drooping tenderness of her face, and the soft
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 39 
 
 pink colour that flushed her cheeks, and the 
 happy light that flooded her glad eyes, to be 
 con\duced that on her part, at least, this was 
 a " love-match." In Philip Verschoyle she 
 found the realization of her ideal. Not a very 
 high or lofty conception certainly ; but, after 
 all, it is perhaps better to form humbler esti- 
 mates that can be satisfied and realized on 
 earth, than to go through life with one's 
 head in the clouds, groping about for a 
 celestial brightness that can never be called 
 down to illuminate our gloomy earth. At all 
 events, Agatha was perfectly satisfied, and 
 that was the great point. The other fact — 
 that Philip Verschoyle would never have 
 satisfied me — is hardly worth mentioning 
 without the sister-statement that I could 
 never in the faintest degree have satisfied 
 him. What he wished for in a wife — beauty, 
 elegance of manner, consummate tact, and 
 unfailing sweetness of temper — he found 
 realized in the person of his lovely bride. 
 To me he was always perfectly civil — but no 
 more. In marrying Agatha, it was plain to 
 see that he did not mean to marry " the
 
 40 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 whole family." He did not feel in tlie least 
 drawn towards the stout, common-place 
 uncle and the plain, dowdy sister. The 
 wedding-day was evidently a trial to him. 
 He could not reconcile the incongruous mix- 
 ture of the City and the Court. My uncle 
 had certainly not the talent of gathering a 
 " good set " about him, and by a " good set " 
 I mean a " set of good people." He did not 
 like city men who had " hobbies ;" and under 
 this designation he classed all those philan- 
 thropic and generous-hearted men who, fore- 
 most in " every good word and work," have 
 made England justly proud of her merchant 
 princes. These men were seldom to be 
 found around my uncle's table ; the hard- 
 headed, grasping money-maker was the type 
 more frequently to be met with. Certainly, 
 on the occasion of Agatha's wedding, my 
 uncle's friends did not shine in comparison 
 with Philip's high-born relatives. Still I 
 should have been very glad to have been 
 allowed to "pair off" with one of those 
 well-known, wooden-looking faces, instead 
 of with the fair, blond-whiskered sprig of
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 41 
 
 aristocracy assigned to me ; and lie was at 
 scanty pains to conceal the weariness he felt 
 in my society. Indeed I must have been a 
 very dull companion. I knew nothing of 
 the fashionable jargon he talked. I could 
 not join in any of his reminiscences of this 
 or that ball, or fete, or breakfast. He tried 
 me at first with a short catechism, some- 
 thing in this style : — 
 
 " Were you at Lady Carlton's last night ?" 
 
 "IS'o." 
 
 "You know her, of course?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 A prolonged stare ; I feel mj cheeks grow- 
 ing hotter and hotter. 
 
 " Thought every one knew Lady Carlton," 
 my companion says thoughtfully. 
 
 A dead silence. I was too humbled with 
 the sense of my extreme insignificance to 
 venture on a new topic. After a consider- 
 able interval, spent by my companion in the 
 consumption of ice-pudding, he returned with 
 praiseworthy perseverance to the charge, — 
 
 " Going to Lady Kimbolton's garden- 
 party, of course?"
 
 42 GENTLEMAN VERSOHOYLE. 
 
 "No." 
 
 " No ? I tliouglit all London was going." 
 
 I roused myself with an effort. 
 
 " I dare say all London is going — all 
 London society — your friends, I mean. But 
 my life is quite a different one ; I never go 
 out at all." 
 
 Then I relapsed into silence. My com- 
 panion eyed me in solemn astonishment. A 
 woman who "never went ont at all" was 
 a social phenomenon that had evidently 
 never before crossed his path. I looked at 
 Agatha ; she sat very quietly, not speaking, 
 except to answer some remark specially ad- 
 dressed to her, bnt she looked unspeakably 
 happy. She behaved with exquisite pro- 
 priety — just as a bride should behave. There 
 were no tears to dim her eyes and spoil her 
 complexion, neither was there any unseemly 
 display of merriment ; and as she sat there, 
 in all the glory of her perfect loveliness, and 
 I realized that this beautiful vision was going 
 to pass out of my sight, away from me, and 
 that I was to be left alone with my uncle 
 in that great, dreary house, the heavy tears
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 43 
 
 rolled swiftly down. This settled the matter 
 with my companion. Tears on the cheek of 
 beauty may be forgiven — there they glisten 
 like dewdrops on a rose — but those of a plain 
 woman cannot be expected to excite sym- 
 pathy. My companion turned away his 
 head, and abstained from any further at- 
 tempts at small-talk, for which I felt pro- 
 foundly grateful. 
 
 So Agatha bad farewell to her old home 
 and her old life, and passed away from us so 
 completely that the old London life in that 
 dreary Bloom sbury Square must have seemed 
 to her like a dream. And I ? I felt that I 
 had lost my only sister. Her little, hurried 
 notes, ending with apologies for not writing 
 more, but that she was going out to dinner, 
 or was expecting friends at home, or that 
 Philip was calling her to ride, were as so 
 much waste paper to me. Part of the season 
 they always spent in London, but I saw little 
 of them. The ceaseless round of gaiety they 
 indulged in rendered family intercourse and 
 restful leisure impossible. I generally spent 
 a fortnight every year with Agatha at her
 
 44 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 country house — "Woodbury, a pretty place 
 they had purchased close to Philip Yer- 
 schoyle's hereditary home; but even then 
 I saw very little of Agatha. The house 
 was always filled with other visitors, and 
 Agatha generally employed my time in writ- 
 ing notes, or in entertaining unwelcome 
 callers, or in dispensing the charities that 
 were her privilege as "Lady Bountiftil" of 
 the parish. Then, my visit at an end, my 
 sister would kiss me, saying, " Good-bye, 
 Dora, dear; I hope you have enjoyed your 
 visit." My brother-in-law would hand me 
 into the carriage with the most perfect 
 politeness, and I would find my face turned 
 towards home. I think I nearly always cried 
 all the way from the house to the station — 
 not so much from sorrow at parting with my 
 sister as from a kind of sorrowful regret for 
 the grief I could not feel. The thought of 
 " what might have been," of the sweet, 
 sisterly intercourse, the sympathetic inter- 
 change of thought and feeling, the tender 
 embraces that might have linked themselves 
 so sweetly to the ineffable sense of blood-
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 45 
 
 relationsliip, was tlie secret cause of my 
 unliappiness. My uncle usually surveyed 
 me scrutinizingly on my return from these 
 visits. 
 
 " You don't look any tlie fatter or better 
 for your change to the country, Miss Dora," 
 he said on one occasion, not unkindly ; " you 
 look as thin as a lamp-post." 
 
 " I don't feel ill, uncle, thank you." 
 
 " Have you been out driving much ?" 
 
 " No, uncle, not much." 
 
 "How was that?" 
 
 I hesitated a moment. 
 
 " There were other visitors in the house, 
 and the horses were always busy, and I had 
 a good deal to do indoors." 
 
 "What sort of things?" 
 
 " I had writing to do — notes for Agatha. 
 She is going to have a great archery party 
 next week." 
 
 " So you wrote the invitations, did you ? 
 Did she ask you to stop for it, pray?" 
 
 " No, uncle ; she knows I do not care for 
 that sort of thing." 
 
 " Umph ! she might have given you a
 
 46 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 cliance of refusing, anyhow ! You had better 
 not be in such a hurry to accept her next 
 invitation, Dora." 
 
 " Oh, uncle, I must ! She would forget 
 me. And, oh, she is my only sister ! " — and 
 here, quite unexpectedly, for some mysteri- 
 ous, feminine reason, I burst into tears. 
 
 My uncle only said " Pshaw," and walked 
 up and down the room impatiently. With a 
 mighty effort I gulped down a great lump 
 in my throat and moved towards the door. 
 " See here, Dora," my uncle said, " I have 
 more experience of the world than you. 
 You will always be a greenhorn, to the end 
 of your days. Just take my advice, and 
 don't run after your sister quite so much. 
 She's got her head turned with those fine 
 new relations, who don't care a dump for 
 you and me, though they hke your sister's 
 money well enough. Made in trade : all 
 made in trade. Yet they don't mind soiling 
 their fine fingers with it," my uncle concluded, 
 with a sardonic chuckle. 
 
 As the years rolled on I saw less and less 
 of my married sister. Philip liked to spend a
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 47 
 
 good portion of each year in travelling — that 
 never-failino^ resource for an idle man — and 
 then, as their circle of acquaintances rapidly 
 extended, they found themselves beset mth 
 invitations from hospitable country homes 
 that were all open to receive the pleasant 
 popular husband and his graceful and accom- 
 plished wife. As they had no children, they 
 were free to move about hither and thither, 
 just as they wished, and I think "home" 
 was the place where they were most rarely 
 to be found. Both were peculiarly fitted to 
 adorn the society they enjoyed so much, and 
 Philip thoroughly appreciated the universal 
 homage yielded to his lovely young wife, 
 whilst she continued to admire and value the 
 tact, the good-temper, and the pleasant, 
 polished ways which had excited the pride 
 and love of her girlish heart. Yet, loving 
 and united as they were, I think the " plea- 
 sures of the fireside " would soon have 
 palled upon them. They did not care for 
 reading, although each studied the Times 
 attentively, and Philip had his notions of 
 politics, and Agatha her well-bred criticisms
 
 48 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLB. 
 
 on art, and on books, and on book-writers, 
 very much, at their fingers' end. But beauti- 
 ful thoughts, and noble sentiments, and 
 melodious verse they did not love, and it is 
 love such things require. Not cold, half- 
 hearted, grudging toleration. They were 
 both too correct, too well-bred, too familiar 
 with the ways of the world to allow themselves 
 to be brought under the dominion of enthu- 
 siasm. I often wondered if Agatha longed 
 for children, but I think her busy life of 
 pleasure- seeking left her no time for such 
 tender cravings. 
 
 And now I have come to the crisis in my 
 own and in my sister's life. A change was 
 coming to both of us. Henceforth my life 
 was to flow out of its still current and mingle 
 with the flood of vivid family interests. The 
 first change that befell me was the death of 
 my uncle, after an illness of a few weeks' 
 duration. There had never been any strong 
 aff'ection or sympathy existing between us, 
 yet I felt his loss deeply. 
 
 " You are a good girl, Dora," he said 
 shortly before he died. "You've got more
 
 GENTLEMAN \T1RSCH0TLE. 49 
 
 heart than that fine sister of yours. There, 
 there, don't cry, I've never done so much 
 good that any one need cry for me." 
 
 This was the nearest approach to an ex- 
 pression of repentance that crossed his lips. 
 Mr. Leicester was constantly with him, read- 
 ing to him from the pages of Holy Writ, and 
 letting fall a word of exhortation or comfort 
 from time to time. My uncle always listened 
 attentively, but he said nothing. Whether 
 he grasped at the heavenly promises laid 
 before him we can never know. Silent, 
 reserved, in death as he had been in life, his 
 spirit passed away. 
 
 Agatha wrote to me from Paris four pages 
 of condolence expressed in the choicest lan- 
 guage. "She was so sorry for me in my 
 loneliness. I had better get that friend of 
 mine — Mrs. Leicester — to come and stay with 
 me," and later in the year I must go to her. 
 She hoped to be in England in May, and she 
 should go straight to Woodbury, for — here 
 came the reason for missing the London season 
 — Agatha was expecting to become a mother. 
 She seemed pleased at the prospect, not 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 outrageously so, but quietly and decorously, 
 as she accepted all tlie contingencies of life, 
 as she would have received a call to the 
 throne, or gracefully submitted to a loss of 
 fortune. Such a loss she was shortly called 
 on to experience. When my uncle's will was 
 opened it was discovered that only 5000/. 
 was left to Agatha, and, after a few legacies 
 to servants, came, " To my niece Dora I 
 leave the remainder of my personal property, 
 ■ with my house in Foggleton Square, and my 
 farm in Essex, believing her to be the more 
 deserving of my two nieces." My sister bore 
 her disappointment very well. She wrote me 
 a carefully-worded letter, refusing, gently 
 and decidedly, the offer I had immediately 
 made her of an equal share of my fortune. 
 
 " She was thankful to say that she had 
 enough. She had never been one to value 
 money. Now I was quite a millionaire." 
 (This sentence struck me uncomfortably. It 
 seemed to imply that I did care for money.) 
 *' What she did regret was the unjust com- 
 parison our uncle had seen fit to draw 
 between us. She would have been only too
 
 GENTLEMAN VEKSCHOYLE. 51 
 
 thankful to have been able to minister to 
 his last hours, had not duty kept her hj her 
 husband's side. With me, it was of course 
 different. I had enjoyed the privilege of 
 nursing him alone, and sick people naturally 
 clung to those they see most about them. 
 She assured me that she did not feel the 
 least envious of my good fortune, and re- 
 mained my affectionate sister, A. Verschoyle,'^ 
 
 The tone of injured innocence in this 
 letter jarred me in some foolish way. Mrs. 
 Leicester found me crying over it when she 
 came into my room. She took the letter I 
 handed to her, and read it with an amused 
 expression which gradually broke into a 
 smile. 
 
 " There is nothing in this letter to make 
 you cry, you fooHsh child ! " she said, gently 
 kissing my forehead ; but the amused look 
 did not pass away from her face. 
 
 E 2
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I FOUND my time fully occupied after my 
 uncle's death, witli the business arrangements 
 I was obliged to make on entering into pos- 
 session of my newly-acquired fortune. As I 
 had always had plenty of money of my own 
 — for Agatha and I had each inherited a 
 goodly portion from our father — I did not 
 feel particularly excited or pleased on the 
 subject of my new possessions. On the 
 contrary, I was rather sobered by the thought 
 of my added responsibilities. To make a just 
 and wise use of my fortune I felt to be no 
 easy matter. Worst of all, I had not the 
 right or the power to make my dear friends 
 the Leicesters share my too ample means. 
 Beyond a certain point I could never pass. 
 There was no right of blood, or of family con-
 
 GENTLEMAN ^TEESCHOYLE. 53 
 
 nexion, or of hereditary friendship that could 
 justify me in offering gifts of a substantial 
 character. I find in my diary the following 
 extract, written after a final settlement of my 
 affairs with the family lawyer : — 
 
 " He that is proud of riches is a fool ! For 
 if he be exalted above his neighbours because 
 he hath more gold, how much inferior is he 
 to a gold-mine ? How much is he to give 
 place to a chain of pearl, or a knot of 
 diamonds ? For certainly that is the greater 
 excellence from whence he derives all his 
 gallantry and pre-eminence over his neigh- 
 bours." 
 
 My next entr}^ is dated from the farm in 
 Essex, whither I had betaken myself, accom- 
 panied by Mrs. Leicester and all her children. 
 Such a month's holiday as they had ! How 
 they enjoyed the wild free life, and the rides 
 on the pony, and the excursions in search of 
 spring flowers, and the feasting on country 
 dainties ! I experienced the blessings of 
 riches as. I saw the mother's face glowing 
 with thankfulness to mark the rosy colour 
 stealino- over the faces of her town-bred
 
 54 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 cliildren. It seemed hard to leave these 
 pure delights and return to London to await 
 Agatha's arrival in England. No day had 
 been fixed for her journey. She told me 
 that she meant to take advantage of the first 
 calm morning for crossing the Channel. So 
 I waited, all packed up, ready to start for 
 Woodbury at a moment's notice. How long 
 the days seemed in that dreary London 
 house ! My first inquiry every morning, 
 when my maid entered the room, was for my 
 letter, but it did not come ; and I began to 
 regret my early departure from the Farm, 
 and to envy the children who wrote me 
 descriptions, in round text, of blooming 
 hedgerows, and of cuckoo notes, and of 
 adventures by " flood and fell," which were 
 perfectly maddening. Ah, me ! How little 
 I knew what was in store for me ! How little 
 I expected the revolution soon to be wi'ought 
 in my mode of life ! The remembrance of 
 the plans I then formed, and of the sad and 
 sudden catastrophe which baulked their ful- 
 filment, has ever since kept the rash " I 
 will " from my trembling lips. At length,
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 55 
 
 early one morning, — it was hardly daylight, 
 ray maid came to my bedside with a letter in 
 her hand. It had come by special mes- 
 senger, and was directed in an unknown 
 writing. I broke the seal with trembling 
 fingers and glanced at the signature, Mar}^ 
 Oldershaw; that was the name of Agatha's 
 housekeeper. 
 
 " Honoured Madam," it began, — 
 
 " Your sister is quite safe, but there has 
 been a dreadful accident. I think you ought 
 to come at once. 
 
 " Your obedient servant, 
 
 "Mart Oldershaw." 
 
 The letter fell from my hands. 
 
 " What does she mean ?" I asked blankly. 
 
 My maid Pym — the most faithful and de- 
 voted of creatures — took the letter I handed 
 to her and read it with an alarmed visage. 
 
 " It must be something bad, or Mrs. 
 Oldershaw would never write like this," she 
 said. " Gracious ma'am, can anything have 
 happened to Mr. Verschoyle?" 
 
 ''Can anything have happened?^' That 
 pohte. euphemism by which we speak of the
 
 56 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 work of tlie Great King of Terrors liad 
 already crossed my mind. 
 
 " I must go at once, Pym ; I must go to 
 her, poor Agatha ! Tell John to find out about 
 the trains, and to fetch a cab at once." 
 
 My faithful attendant departed swiftly to 
 fulfil my errand, and I began, with trembling 
 fingers, to dress myself. John came back 
 with the intelligence that a train would leave 
 Euston Station in half an hour's time. 
 
 " It was a slow train," he said. " We 
 should not get to Woodbury till four o'clock 
 in the afternoon," but this could not be 
 helped. In a short • time I was driving 
 through the almost empty streets towards 
 the station. The train was ready to start. 
 Pym and I were shuffled into a carriage by 
 the impatient guard, and in a few moments 
 Euston Station was far behind us. I can 
 vividly recall the tortures of that tedious 
 journey, the long pauses that were made at 
 each station, the endless delays, and the 
 stolid responses made to my half-frenzied 
 appeals. Pym put in a remark every now 
 and then in a tone of forced liveliness, but
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 57 
 
 for once slie did not meet witli any encou- 
 ragement. As tlie train neared our destina- 
 tion, and we recognized the familiar land- 
 marks, the good creature came close to me 
 and laid her hand caressingly on my lap. 
 
 "Miss Dora, dear, don't look so, don't 
 now ! It goes to my heart to see you. Just 
 take a little drop of wine. John put it up 
 for you, and charged me very particular to 
 make you drink every drop. Do now, Miss 
 Dora, you must get some strength to bear 
 up against what you may have to hear and 
 see." 
 
 The last argument struck me as possessing 
 some force. I took the wine from her kind 
 hand and drained it off at one gulp. It 
 certainly gave me new strength. The colour 
 flushed back to my face, much to Pym's 
 delight. Then the engine abated its speed, 
 and the train crept slowly in front of the 
 little red-brick station. Looking out of the 
 carriage window, I saw the old coachman 
 waiting on the platform. I made a sign to 
 him. He came up to the carriage at once 
 and opened the door.
 
 58 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 " How is Mrs. Yersclioyle ?" I asked, 
 breathlessly. 
 
 " Doing nicely, ma'am. Her baby was 
 born at ten this morning ! " 
 
 " Her baby ! Good heavens ! And the 
 accident, "William, — who was hurt?" 
 
 A spasm of pain crossed the old man's 
 face. 
 
 " For the Lord's sake. Miss Grey, come 
 away ! Don't ask me now. I've got the 
 waggonette here a-waiting for you. Come, 
 and let me drive you off at once." 
 
 He hurried across the platform to the gate 
 which the station-master was holding open. I 
 noticed an expression of respectful sympathy 
 on the man's face. What did it all mean ? 
 The waggonette was standing just outside 
 the gate. William helped me to get in and 
 jumped up on the box. We rattled through 
 the town at a good round pace. Then when 
 we were out on the country road that led to 
 the village of Woodbury, he let the reins 
 fall loosely on the horses' necks and turned 
 round. 
 
 " It's hard I've got to tell you this, Miss
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. ' 59 
 
 Dora, I was never a one to speak much. 
 You heard from Mrs. Oldershaw this morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And what did she say ?" 
 
 " She said that Mrs. Verschoyle was safe, 
 but that there had been a dreadful accident." 
 
 " She said true. Miss Dora, there has been 
 a dreadful accident. Missis is not hurt, but 
 some one else is." 
 
 " Who ? Mr. Verschoyle ?" 
 
 " Yes, Miss Dora, he was sore hurt — and, 
 oh! Miss Dora — he's dead! Master Philip 
 — I knowed him when he was a boy — a little 
 feller that used to ride in front of me round 
 the lawn, and his mother looking and laugh- 
 ing — and now he's dead. Miss Dora — killed 
 in an accident — on one of they infernal new- 
 fangled railways." 
 
 " Dead ! Oh, Agatha ! Oh, my poor 
 sister ! " 
 
 " Ah ! poor lady, she was lifted out of the 
 carriage pale and trembling-like, but not 
 much frightened. She has a fine sperit of 
 her own. ' I'm not hurt,' she says, ' but your
 
 60 GENTLEMAN VERSOHOYLE. 
 
 master is jammed in somehow. Help him 
 out.' We Hfted him out. His face was 
 bruised awfuh We knew he was dead at 
 once. We tried to hide his face from her, 
 but she was too quick for us. ' Why, is he 
 hurt ? ' she says, in rather a startled voice, 
 and with that she came up quickly and 
 looked in his face, and then she gave' a shriek 
 that I shall hear, Miss Dora, to my dying 
 day, and down she fell on the ground. They 
 lifted her up and took her home, but she 
 never moved or spoke. In the night Mrs. 
 Oldershaw came running for my missis to go 
 and help her, and I was sent off on horse- 
 back to fetch the doctor, but the baby was 
 born before we came back — it's a boy. Miss 
 Dora." 
 
 I nodded my head. The awfulness of the 
 catastrophe just related to me, forbade all 
 interest in other events. 
 
 " She couldn't be better, Miss Dora," the 
 good old man said, watching my face in- 
 tently. " The doctor told me so himself, when 
 I made so bold as to ask him, and maybe 
 the baby will be a comfort to her, poor soul !
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 61 
 
 Oh ! Miss Dora, to tliiuk of him, lying 
 there in the drawing-room yonder ; him who 
 was the best rider, and the best shot, and 
 the handsomest, pleasantest-spoken gentle- 
 man in the country ! Every inch a real born 
 gentleman was Master Philip. JSTone of 
 your new manufacturing sort ; and now 
 he's taken from us — Master Philip ! " 
 
 Heavy tears rolled down the good old 
 servant's face as he spoke. Volumes could 
 not have expressed such grief as did the 
 simple, tearful repetition of his master's name. 
 Perhaps amongst all Philip Verschoyle's titled 
 and fashionable acquaintances he did not 
 number so faithful a friend as this old family 
 servant. His sad story ended, he turned 
 away from me. His instinct told him I 
 wanted to be by my sister's side as soon as 
 possible. So on the horses trotted, along 
 the familiar high-road, past neat cottages, 
 and trim farms, and well-known local boun- 
 daries that I had often and often passed 
 before ; yet it was all so different ! Death 
 had lain its cold finger on every spot. " We 
 are mortal," the flowers seemed to whisper.
 
 62 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 " You must die ! " was tlie stern echo of the 
 bending trees. The hurrying clouds sweep- 
 ing across the broad expanse of bright blue 
 sky seemed to say, " Look up, look up ! 
 Live as we do, near the heavens ; set not 
 your affections on things of the earth." Oh ! 
 vain delusion, to make an idol of a " thing of 
 clay"! Yesterday Agatha was a happy, 
 rejoicing wife ; to-day she is bereaved of the 
 light of her eyes, the joy of her life, the 
 key-note of her existence. For her the sun 
 is darkened, and the moon no longer sheds a 
 tender light. Death, decay, corruption, are 
 written on her horizon. Her portion is bit- 
 terness. Her meat and her drink are tears. 
 She must change her bright raiment for the 
 sable garb of woe. Instead of jewels, her 
 head will be crowned with ashes. She will 
 sit in sackcloth, and mourn the desolation of 
 her home. Oh, Agatha I What has life in 
 store for you ? Where will you find comfort 
 and succour ? Then from my inmost heart 
 rose the fervent prayer, that God in His 
 great mercy might make use of me. His feeble 
 instrument, to cherish and comfort, and pour
 
 GENTLEMAN YEESCHOTLE. 63 
 
 oil into the wounds of tlie broken-liearted, 
 despairing widow. 
 
 Mj heart sank as we entered the village, 
 and passed the side of the house that looked 
 out on the street. The gates were opened 
 wide, and we drove round to the front 
 entrance. The doctor was just coming out. 
 I knew him well, but never had I seen his 
 kindly rubicund face crossed with such an 
 expression of gloom. 
 
 " Ah ! Miss Grey. You have come to a 
 sad house," he said, extending his hand to 
 help me down. 
 
 " May I see her? " was my only reply. 
 
 Dr. Roberts shook his head. 
 
 " No, certainly not. The sight of your 
 face would arouse her. She would begin to 
 wonder why you came, and to think and to 
 recall the past, — -just what she must not do. 
 No, no ; have a little patience. Miss Grey, 
 you will be useful enough by and by." 
 
 With another kindly pressure of the hand 
 the doctor left me. Disappointed, I sank 
 down on the hall-seat, and buried my face in 
 my hands.
 
 64 GENTLEMAN YERSCHOYLE. 
 
 " Miss Dora? " a voice said close to me. 
 
 It was William, the old coacliman, wlio 
 liad crept after me. 
 
 " Yes, William." 
 
 " Would you like to see him ? " 
 
 "Yes," I said, rising immediately. 
 
 William preceded me softly to tlie chamber 
 of death. I noticed that he slipped his shoes 
 oif outside the door and crept in barefoot. 
 There, in the luxuriously furnished drawing- 
 room — hung with fine pictures, and rich with 
 art-treasures collected durinof his foreisrn 
 travels — lay the dead master of the house. 
 William approached gently, and lifted the 
 handkerchief from the marble face locked in 
 the repose of death. The sunlight, falling 
 on his rigid features, lighted up the picture 
 of a Bacchanalian revel that hung over his 
 head on the wall. The flushed laughing 
 faces, the rich clusters of purple grapes, the 
 wine-cups raised to the eager lips of the 
 maddened f casters, contrasted in horrible 
 mockery with the pale, unearthly features of 
 the dead man. With him, the feasting and 
 the mirth he had loved so well had come to
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 65 
 
 an awful end. In the midst of his joj^ous 
 career, in the full zenith of his popularity, 
 the iron finger of the dread King had beck- 
 oned him away. Out of the brilliant circle 
 he had so long adorned, Philip Yerschoyle 
 had passed for ever. A fit of uncontrollable 
 weeping brought the terrified housekeeper to 
 my side. 
 
 " You should not have brought her here, 
 William," she said reproachfully, " just after 
 her journey : she was not fit for it. Come, 
 ma'am, to your own room, and let me bring 
 you a cup of tea. Come." 
 
 She drew me away, and led me across 
 the hall, and up the staircase to my bed- 
 room. At the threshold of Agatha's room I 
 paused. Not a movement was to be heard, 
 but, with my fingers on the handle of my 
 door, I heard a sound that startled me — a 
 sound I had never heard in that house before 
 — a long, wailing cry that penetrated me as I 
 stood at the end of the long corridor, looking 
 inquiringly into the housekeeper's face. 
 
 " It is a baby's cry .'" she said. 
 
 VOL. 1. F
 
 CHAPTER yi. 
 
 Ckeeping softly, with huslied voice and liglit 
 footstep, I was allowed to enter my sister's 
 dressing-room to see tlie new baby. He was 
 lying asleep in his nurse's arms — a frail little 
 creature, with a small, wrinkled face and tiny, 
 transparent hands about the size of butter- 
 flies' wings. I had never been a great lover 
 of babies, although I was fond enough of 
 children who were able to chatter ; but I had 
 not that inborn maternal love for helpless 
 infancy, which one often sees innate in the 
 hearts of very young girls. Yet as the nurse 
 laid in my arms the little helpless bundle — 
 all that was left to my sister of her happy 
 married life — the only living link that bound 
 her to the husband l^^ing cold and stark in 
 the room below us — as I thought of this, and
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. Q7 
 
 the little creature, disturbed by liis cliange of 
 position, uttered a feeble, wailing cry, there 
 welled up in my heart fresh from the Divine 
 Source of all tenderness, all love, all pity for 
 the helpless, a deep, nover-to-be-quenched 
 fountain of affection for the little unconscious 
 stranger fresh from the angels of God, who 
 had been sent to console this house of mourn- 
 ing and desolation, by the constant reminder 
 of his engrossing needs and the necessity of 
 ministering to the wants of his dawning life. 
 The sweet tyranny of babyhood began to 
 assert itself as, with the wailing infant in my 
 arms, I paced up and down the room till 
 the movement had lulled him once more to 
 sleep, and he lay with his dear little head 
 pillowed on my breast, and his tiny fists 
 doubled up under his chin. Then I sat down 
 in the nurse's rocking-chair, and hugged the 
 little creature close to me, feehng my heart 
 revive as I watched the heaving of his httle 
 breast and felt the warm pressure of his dear 
 little form. Oh, baby ! what a minister of 
 comfort you were to me ! How the peaceful 
 flow of your little life soothed my heart, 
 F 2
 
 68 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 bleeding and wrung by the sad and awful 
 catastrophe of the previous day ! How your 
 soft breathings overspread and dimmed the 
 hard, rigid picture of death and woe which 
 had hung before my eyes, blotting out the 
 blessed vision of Paradise, and darkening 
 even the countenance of the All-merciful 
 Creator. Sitting there with the baby on my 
 knee, whilst the heavy, contrite tears fell from 
 my eyes, T learnt to say, — 
 
 " Clouds and darkness are round about 
 Thee, but righteousness and judgment are 
 the habitation of Thy Throne, my 
 God!" 
 
 My days were nearly all spent in baby's 
 room. From the window of his nursery I 
 watched the sad procession bear away all 
 that was left of the father whose death had 
 heralded the dawn of this infant life. A 
 week after the event Dr. Eoberts came to 
 me as he had promised to do the instant that 
 I could be of use. 
 
 " There is work for you now. Miss Dora," 
 he said, looking a little grave — " difficult 
 work too. Are you ready and able for it ?"
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOTLE. 60 
 
 " I think so." 
 
 Dr. Roberts turned around abruptly, and 
 began to pace up and down the room. Evi- 
 dently he was very much perturbed. 
 
 " How is the youngster ? " he asked sud- 
 denly, 
 
 " Very well, I think." 
 
 " Umph. He has not been taken into his 
 mother's room yet, has he ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 A brilliant thought seemed to inspire the 
 good doctor. He stopped his restless 
 perambulations and seated himself by my 
 side. 
 
 " The time has come for you to go to 
 your sister," he said. " I saw a change 
 in her the instant I went into the room. 
 She is excited — restless : she is beginning 
 to question herself, and grope about in 
 her darkened mind for a connecting link 
 with the past. I candidly own. Miss Dora, 
 I dread the moment when she shall wake 
 up to a full consciousness of all that 
 has occurred. Now this is just where we 
 doctors fail, and where a woman may
 
 70 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 succeed. I want you to go to her and 
 take the child with you. I think she has 
 almost forgotten his existence. Now I 
 can't give you any directions as to what you 
 are to do or say. You must trust to your 
 own instincts. Say as little as possible, 
 and let the child do the rest. I shall come 
 again in the afternoon." 
 
 I walked to the window, and stood looking 
 out for some moments before I could muster 
 courage to pass into Agatha's room. I did 
 not see the pleasant expanse of country 
 before me. One point alone riveted my 
 eyes — the tower of the village church, under 
 whose shadow lay Philip Yerschoyle's grave. 
 Every moment the difficulty of the task 
 imposed on me seemed to increase. Clearly, 
 my only strength lay in immediate action. 
 I lifted the sleeping, unconscious baby out of 
 the cradle, and carried him boldly to his 
 mother's chamber. I had often been there 
 before. I could recall the reflection of 
 Agatha's graceful form in the cheval-glass 
 as her maid was giving the finishing touch 
 to her evening dress, whilst an incessant
 
 GENTLEMAN YERSCHOYLE. 71 
 
 ripple of careless small talk flowed between 
 her husband and herself as he stood warming 
 himself at the fire, fresh from the hunting- 
 field, and eager to give to his interested 
 audience a vivid account of a " good run." 
 Now, alas, all was changed ! In the darkened 
 chamber Agatha lay sleeping. The old nurse 
 sat working by the window. I crept softly 
 with my precious burden to the bedside, and 
 ensconced myself behind the curtain. All 
 was still, silent, as the gi^ave that had lately 
 yawned before our terrified eyes. Tlie baby 
 seemed strangely out of place. THiere were 
 the pretty frivolities of' muslin, and lace, and 
 of pink ribbon, prepared by happy mothers 
 to celebrate the dawn of a new life ? Where 
 were the letters filled with tender congratula- 
 tions and bright prophecies of manly achieve- 
 ments ? Where were the loving words, the 
 fond caresses of the rejoicing husband and 
 proud father ? Alas ! poor Agatha ! Her 
 babe could never feel a father's kiss ! His 
 fair christening robes must be darkened by 
 touches of funeral woe. Heavy sobs, despair- 
 ing murmurs, must take the place of sweet
 
 72 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 lullabies. These were my thoughts as I sat 
 with the babe pressed to my breast, and his 
 little, soft fingers clutching the crape folds of 
 my dress. I had thrown a white shawl across 
 my shoulders so that Agatha should not be 
 startled by the sight of mourning attire. So 
 we sat silently in that still, darkened chamber 
 till Agatha, began to stir. I heard a soft 
 stifled sigh, and then a restless movement of 
 the hand. Sitting there behind the curtain I 
 began to sing softly a hymn that Agatha and 
 I had been used to repeat when we were little 
 children. Hardly above my breath at first, 
 but gaining confidence as I noticed Agatha 
 turn her face around and lie quietly listening, 
 I sang through all the six verses as steadily 
 as I could. Wlien I had come to the end 
 the baby awoke and began to cry a little. A 
 quiver passed across Agatha's face. I moved 
 forward so that she could see the baby lying 
 on my lap, but my face was still hidden 
 behind the curtain. Then I began to sing 
 again. This time I chose a hymn Mrs. 
 Leicester had copied and sent to me, but I 
 sang it to a well-known tune.
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 73 
 
 I sat in the school of sorrow, 
 The Master was teaching there ; 
 
 Bnt my eyes were dim with weeping, 
 And my heart was full of care. 
 
 I saw that Agatha was lying with her 
 eyes closed, but I knew she was listening 
 attentively. I went on through the four 
 following verses, till I came to — 
 
 At last, in my heavy sorrow, 
 I looked from the Cross — above, 
 
 And I saw the Master watching. 
 With a glance of tender love. 
 
 The tears were rolling down Agatha's face. 
 I went on singing very softly. 
 
 He turu'd to the Cross before me. 
 And I thought I heard Him say, — 
 
 " My child, thou must bear thy burden, 
 " And learn thy task to-day. 
 
 " I may not tell the reason, 
 
 " 'Tis enough for thee to know 
 
 *' That I, the Master, am teaching, 
 " And give this cup of woe." 
 
 I looked at Agatha again; she was still 
 crying, but very quietly. I sang one more 
 verse.
 
 74 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 So I stoop'd to that weary sorrow; 
 
 One look at that face divine 
 Had given me power to trust Him, 
 
 And say, " Thy will, not mine." 
 
 Then I laid the baby down on the bed 
 close to my sister's side, and bent over her. 
 " Won't you look at your little son, dear 
 Agatha ? He has been lying on my lap all 
 the time I have been singing, so good and 
 quiet. I am so fond of him, Agatha ; you 
 must let me help you to take care of him 
 by-and-by." 
 
 I thought that by saying this I should give 
 the poor mother some thought to dwell on, 
 some hope for the future to lighten the 
 gloom of the dreary present. Then I lifted 
 the baby gently, and placed him in her arms, 
 and folded her hand around him. Agatha 
 looked at him for a moment with an expres- 
 sion of bewildered inquiry, and then, a 
 sudden light seemed to flash upon her. 
 
 " My baby, my baby," she wailed forth. 
 "Oh! He has no father:' 
 
 My own tears were falling fast. What could 
 I say ? How could I soothe a grief like hers ?
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 75 
 
 God crave me utterance. I bent over her and 
 drew lier anguished face down on my shoulder. 
 
 " Yes, God has taken him away from you, 
 dearest, for a little time, but He has given you 
 another love to comfort you, a little child to 
 cherish and protect, and bring up for Him. 
 Oh ! Agatha, try to take comfort in your 
 little son. See how helpless he is ! There, 
 take him in your arms. He is yours. Kiss 
 him, Agatha." 
 
 The mother lay with her son clasped in her 
 arms whilst the heavy tears rolled from her 
 face on his little night-dress. I did not 
 speak again. The ice was broken. She had 
 recognized the full extent of her sorrow, and 
 no stranger could intermeddle with her 
 bitterness. Silently the two lay for some 
 moments, and then, exhausted by the in- 
 tensity of her emotions, Agatha fell asleep 
 again, but this time her baby responded 
 to the gentle heaving of her breast. Pillowed 
 on his mother's bosom he lay too, in the 
 first sweet dreamless sleep of infancy. Thus, 
 Dr. Roberts found them when he came to 
 pay his promised visit.
 
 1^ GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 " You are a good nurse, Miss Dora," he 
 said approvingly. " How did you manage 
 this, ell ?" 
 
 " I do not know ; really I could not tell 
 you." 
 
 " Well, well, I will not ask. Let lier keep 
 the baby with her as much as she can. He 
 will interest and rouse her better than we 
 can. It is all very mysterious." The good 
 doctor ended with a short sigh. 
 
 So we left the baby in his mother's arms 
 till he awoke and cried for food, and then the 
 nurse came and carried him away. Agatha 
 stirred uneasily. 
 
 " He will soon come back," I said sooth- 
 ingly. " He is hungiy, poor little fellow. 
 Nurse shall bring him to you as soon as 
 possible." 
 
 Agatha seemed satisfied. She lay with 
 wide-opened eyes till the nurse reappeared 
 with the baby. Then she stretched out her 
 arms and took him in, and kissed him, and 
 cried over him till both fell asleep once 
 more. 
 
 So I sat by my sister's side all the rest of
 
 GENTLEMAN \T:RSCH0YLE. 11 
 
 the day. Sometimes when the baby grew 
 fretful I lifted him out of bed and walked up 
 and down the room, singing some little hymn 
 or fragment of nursery song I had learnt 
 from the Leicester children. Agatha followed 
 us with her eyes as far as she could. Twi- 
 light set in, and the gathering darkness made 
 her impatient. 
 
 " I can't see him," she murmured. 
 
 " Draw up the blind, nurse," I said. 
 
 Agatha turned away her head. The first 
 sight of the outer world was more than she 
 could bear. I purposely stood close by the 
 window, holding the baby up to catch the 
 glow of the dying sun. Just facing us stood 
 the old grey church. Turning around to look 
 at the baby, Agatha caught sight of the 
 weather-cock that glittered on the summit of 
 the church-tower. A shudder passed over her. 
 
 " Dora," she said faintly. 
 
 I was by her side in a moment. 
 
 " How long is it?" she whispered. 
 
 I knew what she meant. Placing the baby 
 in her arms I knelt down by the bedside and 
 clasped her trembling hand in mine.
 
 78 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 " Baby was a fortnight old yesterday," I 
 said. 
 
 " A fortnight — then, Dora, is — is — " the 
 question was lost in a passion of tears. 
 
 " Oh, Agatha, my sister, my dearest sister, 
 must you be told now ?" 
 
 " Yes," she murmured faintly. " Yes — 
 tell me now." 
 
 " He was laid just where you would wish 
 to lay him, Agatha. I saw the spot yester- 
 day. It was covered with flowers. A lovely 
 cross of white blossoms was laid at the head. 
 It was so bright and sunny too. I could not 
 think of death. My thoughts, Agatha, soared 
 heavenward to the place where the spirits of 
 the departed wait in happy rest the coming 
 of their King. Shall I say a hymn to you, 
 Agatha, about it ? I began " — 
 
 They are all gone into a world of light, 
 
 And I alone sit lingering here ! 
 Their very memory is fair and bright, 
 
 And my sad thoughts doth cheer. 
 
 Before I had ended her sobs were stilled, 
 soothed more, perhaps, by the familiar sound 
 of my voice than by any glimpse of the
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 79 
 
 heavenly consolation contained in the verses. 
 Then we did not talk any more. The baby 
 had full sway for the rest of the evening. 
 My last sight of Agatha, that night was a 
 very soothing one. She lay with her arm 
 encircling the sleeping form of her little son, 
 and her eyes dwelling tenderly on his uncon- 
 scious face. I left her with a heart filled 
 with profoundest thankfulness, feeling as- 
 sured " that the way of escape" to her trial 
 had already been found, and that in the voice 
 of her helpless babe she would find echoes 
 of a. diviner consolation than could be 
 breathed by mortal lips.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Extract from my diary. 
 
 " May 27th. — Agatha came down-stairs 
 to-day for the first time since her bereave- 
 ment. It has been a dreadful, dreadful day. 
 Thank God ! It has come to an end." . 
 
 How well I can recall every incident of 
 that long, anxious day ! Agatha had been 
 wonderfully composed, and even cheerful, 
 during the preceding week, but I had, never- 
 theless, been dreading her return to her old 
 habits of life, and in consequence to a fuller 
 realization of her sorrow. I knew that Philip's 
 face would smile at her from the recesses of 
 his favourite chair. His firm, elastic step 
 would echo in ghostly footfalls along the silent 
 corridors — his laugh and familiar tap would 
 ring out from the deep embrasures of the
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. . 81 
 
 windows — oh, I knew that the sense of her 
 bereavement would fall on Agatha's heart 
 with renewed bitterness, for I — even I — felt 
 the terrible blank in the home circle. I missed 
 the spirit and the life infused into a household 
 by the presence of the master. I missed the 
 central point around which all the domestic 
 duties and interests must revolve. I missed 
 the infusion of masculine force and energy 
 which is so sadly wanting in a feminine 
 establishment. Poor, poor Agatha ! As she 
 came into the drawing-room leaning on my 
 arm, and dressed in deep widow's weeds, the 
 full measure of her woe seemed to burst upon 
 her. She sank down on a chair and buried 
 her face in her hands. 
 
 " Oh, Dora," she said; "I shall never see 
 him ride up to the window again ! " 
 
 I knelt down by her side and drew her 
 poor widowed head down on my shoulder. 
 What could I say, what words could ever fill 
 up the void in her aching heart ? Happily, 
 baby — my never-failing resource — was brought 
 in at that moment, and Agatha took him in 
 her arms and cried over and kissed him with 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 a passion of maternal fondness which was 
 most touching to witness. Baby stayed with 
 us all the rest of the day. Agatha caused 
 his little crib to be brought into the drawing- 
 room and placed close by her sofa. The 
 simple, white curtains contrasted strangely 
 with the velvet and gilding and gorgeous 
 decorations of the apartment. A yet more 
 vivid contrast was present to my eyes — the 
 recollection of Philip's rigid form lying close 
 to the spot where now reposed the softly- 
 breathing infant. 
 
 Happily, Agatha was spared the sadness 
 of the association, nor did she know that she 
 was resting on the couch which had supported 
 her husband's lifeless frame. 
 
 Later I find this entry : — 
 
 " June 6th. — Agatha has been out to-day 
 for her first drive. She seemed to enjoy the 
 pleasant movement and the fresh air at first, 
 but coming home she had a sad upset. We 
 got to the top of Ashton Knoll. William 
 says she used to ride there with Philip to 
 see the hounds ' turn off.' I wish I had 
 known this before. My sister, who had been
 
 GENTLEMAN VEKSCHOYLE. 83 
 
 sitting quietly with her eyes half-closed in 
 evident enjoyment of the sunlight and the 
 fresh air playing on her face, started forward 
 with a short, sharp cry. I asked her what 
 was the matter ? ' Oh ! I thought I saw 
 him,' she sobbed out. ' Oh, Dora, I have 
 seen him here so often — on horseback — in — 
 in — his scarlet coat — kissing his hand to 
 me. Oh ! Philip ! Philip ; ' and she burst 
 into a fit of uncontrollable weeping. I 
 must take counsel with William before I 
 drive her myself again. He will know 
 all the old favourite haunts, and these 
 I must carefully avoid. my God ! 
 Give me patience and wisdom to deal 
 gently with this poor bleeding heart." 
 
 '^ June 16th. — Agatha has been much more 
 composed. I think that our daily walks in 
 the garden do her good. As we pace up and 
 down the broad walk, and the pure air sweeps 
 across the meadows stretching before us in 
 pleasant tides of emerald freshness, I can 
 see the pretty pink colour creeping back to 
 her white cheeks. Although she does not 
 care much for natural beauties, the calm and 
 G 2
 
 84 GENTLEMAN VERSCROYLE. 
 
 sweetness of nature cannot fail to sootlie her 
 jarred spirit." 
 
 " J^dy 2Mli. — Agatha's liealtli is, I think, 
 quite re-established. She has been able to 
 receive a few visits from country neighbours, 
 and has borne the trying ordeal remarkably 
 well — much better than I should have done 
 in her place I feel convinced. I never had 
 any patience for either visits or letters of 
 condolence. They seem to me a mockery 
 unless from very dear and intimate friends. 
 I think Agatha was very pleased to show 
 baby to her callers, and hear the praises 
 bestowed on his health and beauty. Her 
 heart is bound up in the child. Each day 
 she seems to love him better." 
 
 I might multiply extracts from my diary 
 to a wearisome length if I chose, but I have 
 preferred to select a few as samples of the 
 rest. They serve to show how gradually, by 
 the good providence of God, my sister learnt 
 to accept the heavy burden laid upon her, 
 and to find it mercifully lightened by the 
 voice and touch of the little consoler sent 
 from Heaven in the first anguish of her
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHDYLE. 85 
 
 widowhood. Agatha had never been what is 
 called " an affectionate girl." She had been 
 universally admired, and cited, and held up 
 as an example of elegance and amiability — 
 during our schooldays — but she did not make 
 many friends. It was on riiij shoulder that 
 aching heads were laid, in my ear were 
 whispered the little histories of disappoint- 
 ments or of unmerited reproofs which make 
 up the sum of school-girl misery. Marriage 
 had done a o^reat deal for Ag-atha. Sneer at 
 it as we may in these days of " women's 
 rights," and of active feminine competition 
 for posts which were once the sole preroga- 
 tives of the lords of the creation, yet the fact 
 must remain deeply engraven on the minds 
 and hearts of all right-thinking people — that 
 marriage is the legitimate end of woman's 
 existence. It is not her fault that a high 
 condition of civilization, creating habits of 
 luxury, and erecting false standards of social 
 prosperity, has produced an artificial mode of 
 existence, which is fatal to marriage ; neither 
 is it her fault that an undue preponderance 
 of the female element renders marriage im-
 
 86 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 possible for all, and forces many women to 
 create fresli interests and objects in life, in 
 whicli tliey may rightfully claim the help and 
 support of all good men. But it will be 
 woman's fault, and her country's curse and 
 ruin, if ever Englishwomen learn to regard 
 lightly and sneeringly that mysterious union 
 ordained by God for the hallowing and puri- 
 fying of our best affections, and chosen by 
 Him as the type and figure of that Heavenly 
 Union of Christ and His Church, which is 
 reflected in every true marriage. Out of the 
 full contentment of Aeatha's married life had 
 sprung a new wealth of love — a created 
 necessity for loving. The cold eyes of 
 Agatha's girlhood no longer looked out from 
 her fair face — a mother's tenderness filled 
 them with a gentle radiance, and pervaded 
 her every look and word. Her baby's tiny, 
 unconscious fingers thrilled back the memory 
 of Phillip's clasping hands. The fresh, guile- 
 less lips which met her own, the clear eyes 
 which looked daily on her with increased 
 intelligence and affection, imaged other eyes, 
 and other lips that had once pressed hers.
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 87 
 
 A tender husband's voice echoed beneath her 
 babe's cooing cry, the memory of his love 
 lingered in every line of the little form to 
 which he had given life. Sweet chastened 
 tears fell often from Agatha's eyes on the 
 tiny representative of his father seated on 
 her knee. What visions of future happiness 
 did she not conjure up as she sat with her 
 eyes riveted on her child's face, whilst a 
 tender smile played unconsciously upon her 
 lips. 
 
 Never shall I forget the christening day ! 
 The rain poured in torrents. My sister had 
 burst into tears at sight of the black ribbons 
 that peeped out from baby's fair christening 
 robes. Her tears, or the unwonted motion 
 of the carriage, and the cold patter of the 
 rain on the windows, or some mysterious 
 intuition of sympathy, seemed to affect the 
 baby, and he cried lugubriously when the 
 young vicar took him in his arms and signed 
 him with the sign of the cross, and bestowed 
 on him the names "Maurice Philip," that 
 had been chosen by the dead father in antici- 
 pation of the joyful event. I think we were
 
 88 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 all glad to get out of tlie cliurcli — I am sure 
 the vicar was — and to find ourselves driven 
 homewards with the wailing baby fast locked 
 in his nurse's arms. As we left the church 
 I remember a sudden rift in the clouds illumi- 
 nated the landscape with a pale, clear, watery- 
 light. The tombstones, washed white and 
 clean by that pitiless fall of heavy rain, stood 
 out in ghastly coldness. The wet leaves and 
 the long dank grass swept our feet as we 
 hurried back to the carriage ; but I saw 
 Agatha linger a moment and cast a glance 
 at the tall, granite monument, 
 
 "Sacred to the memory of 
 
 PHILIP VERSCHOYLE." 
 
 How large the letters looked ! Agatha's eyes 
 could not miss them !• Ah ! I saw plainly 
 enough she had seen when I re-entered the 
 carriage, and found her sitting, with bowed 
 head and her whole frame trembling with 
 emotion. Then she snatched the baby from 
 his nurse's arms, and pressed hot, burning 
 kisses on his little face, kissing him again 
 and again eagerly, passionately straining
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 89 
 
 him to lier broast with such vehemence that 
 the httle fellow recommenced his pitiful wail. 
 T stooped down then, and kissed his little 
 face — a privilege of aunt and godmother, 
 of which I had not availed myself in the 
 church. 
 
 " God bless him," I said softly. " God 
 bless him, and make him a comfort and a 
 credit to you, my dear sister." 
 
 " A credit," Agatha repeated, " yes, he 
 must be that. He is his father s son, Dora." 
 
 His father^ s son ! Oh ! true source of ma- 
 ternal fondness ; loved for himself, but infi- 
 nitely more for the sake of the dead father 
 who had given him life. In the memory 
 of the buried past, and in the hope of a 
 redeeming future, Agatha's life was now 
 spent. She longed to see reproduced before 
 her the graceful tact, the polished courtesy, 
 the inborn elegance and ease of manner that 
 had stamped Philip as preux-chevalier in 
 the eyes of all who knew him. From the 
 distant heights where Agatha now stood she 
 saw, as through a telescope, those far-ofi" 
 characteristics cleared and enlarged by fond,
 
 90 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 regretful memory. I, seeing how readily 
 she turned from the enjoyment of her babe's 
 httle life to fond castle-buildings and fairy 
 visions of a manly future, trembled some- 
 times and begged her to restrain her eager 
 gaze to things more real, visible, and present 
 on her horizon. I had not the heart to give 
 utterance to my thought, "May he not be 
 taken from us ere he reach the age of man- 
 hood ! " 
 
 Dear little Maurice ! Those baby-days 
 passed away only too quickly. Robes were 
 replaced by short frocks, frocks by hats and 
 jackets, bon-bons by bats and balls, baby- 
 talk by school-boy vernacular, almost before 
 we had begun to realize that he would not 
 always be a baby. As he grew older the 
 dark tints of his hair and eyes, the vigour 
 and breadth of his limbs and chest, and the 
 strength of muscle, seemed to remove him 
 further and further from the ideal resem- 
 blance Agatha had hoped to trace. But she 
 was not one whit disconcerted. The period 
 of childhood and rough boyhood once passed, 
 she did not doubt but that she should see
 
 GENTLEMAN YERSCHOYLE. 91 
 
 imaged in lier son the graceful elegance of 
 Philip Verschoyle. That " the child is father 
 to the man " seemed never to cross her 
 thoughts. She desired to carve Maurice into 
 an exact copy of her husband, not perceiving 
 the marble to be hewn in a different quarry, 
 and seamed and traced with veins of another 
 character. / saw plainly enough that Mau- 
 rice, in my sister's acceptation of the phrase, 
 could never be "his father's son." His little 
 thoughtful mind would force for itself fresh 
 channels. A thousand trifling incidents suf- 
 ficed to show me that Maurice's nature was 
 cast in a far different mould. But I did not 
 care to destroy my sister's illusion. " Nature 
 will otit,^' I said to myself, and so I kept my 
 own counsel. Never was there so devoted a 
 mother as Agatha ; she lived " for " and 
 " in " the life of her child. Before me lies a 
 packet of yellow-leaved letters labelled " fi^om 
 Agatha." They were written to me during 
 the visits I paid every year with unfailing 
 regularity to my farm in Essex, and to my 
 second home in London, Mrs. Leicester's. 
 (My London house I had disposed of soon
 
 92 GENTLEMAN VERSO HOTLE. 
 
 after taking up my abode at Woodbury.) On 
 every page I see written in my sister's 
 smooth, flowing characters, some mention of 
 her child. 
 
 " Darling baby is suffering martyrdom 
 with his teeth," I see in one of her first 
 letters. " He has been on my lap all the 
 morning. Just noAV he has repaid me by 
 looking up in my face with the sweetest 
 little smile in the world." Again she writes, 
 " To-day Maurice actually toddled right 
 across the room to me. He was standing in 
 the doorway holding on to a chair, and 
 tapping his foot on the floor in his indepen- 
 dent way. Then I called him and held out a 
 bonbon to attract his notice, and would you 
 believe it ! he came at once staggering right 
 across the room, swaying backwards and 
 forwards, yet never falling, till he caught his 
 foot in the rug and came down with his face 
 in my lap. Nurse says she never saw a hahy 
 walk so steadily for the first time." Later 
 Agatha writes, " Maurice can say mamma 
 quite plainly, and I hope he will say ' auntie ' 
 by the time you return. Do not be too
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 93 
 
 long away." Oli tliose foolish motlier letters. 
 How they "wring my heart. How, remem- 
 bering all that has " come and gone " since 
 those letters were written, I thank God for 
 that brief period of sunshine ! 
 
 Oh, mother ! Love your little one, cherish, 
 fondle him while you may ! Even if death's 
 cold hand be stayed, these are your best and 
 sweetest moments. Never again will he be 
 so entirely your oum. There lurks already in 
 that baby-heart, an individuality, a will, a 
 power, which, ere you have learnt to recog- 
 nize its existence, may overpower and over- 
 shadow your life !
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The house that had been purchased for a 
 country residence by the newly married pair, 
 and which had now become the home of the 
 widow and her child, merits a special descrip- 
 tion. To use Agatha's own words at the 
 time of the purchase, " it had only one draw- 
 back, and that was — the situation." One 
 side of the house looked upon the village 
 street, and although the walls were protected 
 by posts hung with chains, the little plebeians 
 whose natural sphere was the gutter could 
 not be prevented from creeping underneath 
 and sorely wounding patrician ears by the 
 sound of their vulgar merriment. Not that 
 it much mattered to Agatha, for this side of 
 the house was devoted to the kitchen depart- 
 ment. Here was the still-room, containing
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLB. 95 
 
 presses filled witli snowy linen, and cup- 
 boards where, through a kindly chink might 
 be caught tempting glimpses of rows of seduc- 
 tive pots neatly covered with white paper and 
 labelled " gooseberry," " red-currant," " apri- 
 cot," &c. From this mysterious chamber 
 have been known to issue the fumes of sacred 
 cookeries prepared by Mrs. Oldershaw's own 
 hands, in order to tempt invalid or fastidious 
 appetites which could not be supposed to 
 endure the ordinary productions of culinary 
 art. At the end of the long corridor I dis- 
 covered an empty room, and to the amaze- 
 ment of everybody I selected this apartment 
 for my own. It may seem strange to prefer 
 a small room opening out on the street, 
 where I should be constantly disturbed by 
 the common noise and stir of village life, to 
 one on the other side of the house, command- 
 ing an extensive view of well-wooded country. 
 But dearly as I loved the beauties of the 
 natural world, I have always loved better the 
 aspects of human life, its interests, and its 
 passions, and I can assure my readers that 
 none of these are found wanting in a village
 
 96 GENTLEMAN VERSOHOTLE. 
 
 street. From my little window I have wit- 
 nessed tragedies, comedies, scenes ricli with 
 pathos, rife with humour, dark with anguish 
 and despair. The little hamlet afforded abun- 
 dant material for the study of every phase of 
 the human heart. Histories of patient, un- 
 seen suffering have unfolded themselves as I 
 sat silently in my watch-tower. Temptations 
 manfully resisted, or weakly yielded to, have 
 been written before my eyes in characters of 
 honest pride or of burning shame. I have 
 learnt to understand the inner life of many 
 cottage homes as I have watched little chil- 
 dren running joyously to meet the father on 
 his return from his work, or shrinking fear- 
 fully and sullenly out of his sight ! A new 
 ribbon on a wife's bonnet has made clear to 
 my mind that long hesitation outside the 
 door of the village ale-house which ended in 
 a sudden turn, a brisk step towards home, 
 and then a lingering glance at the draper's 
 window. " Poor Molly ! It is' her wedding- 
 day. What a bright, quick-stepping lass she 
 was ten years ago ! Now, how pale and worn 
 she looks ! " Oh, husband ! how have you
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 97 
 
 fulfilled your vow to love and clierish lier ? 
 A sudden tear in the man's eye, a plunge 
 into the draper's shop and out again with a 
 little parcel in his hand. I wonder what 
 share a long- talk with the Yicar had in the 
 purchase of that bonnet ribbon ! 
 
 I learnt a good deal about the Vicar too, as 
 I sat at my little window, — a good deal about 
 the quiet week-day work that reflected 
 and embodied his Sunday ministrations. 
 What a strange life for a man who had spent 
 his former years in the chief ranks of intel- 
 lectual activity ! What did Hodge and Betty 
 know of refined scholarship ? What did they 
 know of the thousand common incidents of 
 struo-crlina: ao^ricultural life that had the 
 power to jar and grate on his finely strung, 
 sensitive nature ? Yet, for the sake of the 
 Great King he served so loyally, he had 
 abandoned the scholarly leisure of college life, 
 feeling human souls to be infinitely more 
 precious than classical studies or mathema- 
 tical investigations. To my great delight I 
 discovered him to be an old school-fellow of 
 Mr. Leicester's. He had been appointed to 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 the living of Woodbury during my sister's 
 absence in Paris, and the circumstances 
 under which we first met were so painful 
 that we had no heart for topics of personal 
 interest. I had therefore lived some time 
 at Woodbury before I discovered' the link 
 that bound him to my dearest friends. 
 Mr. Vernon, as may be imagined, found 
 himself strongly interested in the young 
 widow and her child, and when he had over- 
 come the awe with which a baby naturally 
 inspired liis bachelor soul, he was frequently 
 to be seen with the little white-robed figure 
 in his arms, or later he might have been dis- 
 covered on "all-fours" capering around the 
 drawing-room with baby mounted gloriously 
 on his back. I was very thankful to notice 
 the interest he manifested in my little nephew. 
 We had no other " men -folk " to look to for 
 guidance. His nearest relative, Sir Joyce 
 Verschoyle, hved the life of a recluse, and we 
 rarely saw him save on state occasions. 
 
 But I must return to my description of the 
 house. A broad carriage-drive brought one 
 from the village street to the front entrance.
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 99 
 
 The dining-room windows were first passed, 
 then the drawing-room and library which 
 occupied the entire ground-floor of the front- 
 half of the house. The windows opened on a 
 fine stone terrace. From thence a broad flight 
 of steps led to the lawn, which on one side 
 sloped towards a mimic lake, the terror of 
 his nurses durins; Maurice's childhood, and 
 on the other became lost in the winding paths 
 and thick shadow of the shrubbery. Beyond, 
 a young plantation of firs showed their deli- 
 cate, green, spiral heads against the sky. 
 Skirting the shrubbery was a lane that ran 
 down the whole length of the meadow-land, 
 which was only separated from the lawn by a 
 wide gravel path and an invisible ha-ha. 
 A gate at the end of the shrubbery opened 
 on the lane, and this was Mr. Vernon's 
 favourite mode of entrance ; the gable-ends 
 and thatched brown roof of the \dcarage 
 could be seen behind the fir-trees. Between 
 the shrubbery and the lawn extended a par- 
 terre of flowers, Maurice's pride and delight. 
 His little figure rises before me now ! I can 
 see his bright dark eyes, his curly hair, 
 H 2
 
 100 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 tossed by the wind that always blew freshly 
 across the fields, as he stands raking per- 
 severingly at his own little flower-bed. All 
 his play-time, in fine weather, was spent 
 in the garden. On wet days, he would often 
 ask to be allowed to come into " auntie's 
 room " to watch the passers-by. I, as I sat 
 reading or writing, would be kept au courant 
 of village politics by his lively chatter. Often 
 he envied the little children playing out in 
 the road, and longed for their companionship. 
 He was right, he was too much alone. My 
 little Maurice with his earnest, thoughtful 
 eyes, and his quick, inquiring little brain, 
 gave me many an anxious moment. I 
 felt that his education lacked one element 
 which is essential to the healthy develop- 
 ment of character. He needed the society 
 of children of his own age. Unfortunately, 
 none of our neighbours possessed offshoots 
 so young as Maurice. I rashly suggested 
 one day that a little child from the village, 
 warranted to be of clean health and morals, 
 should be brought in to cheer the loneliness 
 ot' the little patrician, but Agatha scouted the
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 101 
 
 plan with hori'or, — perhaps it teas a fooHsh 
 one, — and so the child was thrown back en- 
 tirely on the society of his mother. As far as 
 she could, she supplied the lack of children's 
 society. Never was there a more untiring, 
 good-tempered playfellow, still the child 
 remained "not like other children." A short 
 extract from my diary will explain the origi- 
 nality of his character better than could be 
 done by a lengthened description. 
 
 " Extract from my diary. 
 
 " October Srd. — Maurice has puzzled me 
 very much to-day. We were walking together 
 around the plantation, and Maurice was 
 amusing himself by ' scuffling ' the brown, 
 falling leaves under his feet, just as I can 
 remember doing when I was a child. Suddenly 
 we heard the report of a gun, and a little bird 
 fell through the branches down at our feet. 
 Maurice ran to pick it up, and came to 
 me with the little, warm, quivering frame 
 held carefully in his hands. After panting 
 for a few moments a film crept over its bright 
 little eyes, and it lay on Maurice's hand stiff
 
 102 GENTLEMAN VEESOHOYLE. 
 
 and dead. At my request lie ran to the gate 
 to see if the sportsmen were on the other 
 side of the hedge. They had just come 
 around to the same point, and received the 
 bird from Maurice with many thanks. I 
 thought he would have been put into high 
 spirits by this adventure, but, on the contrary, 
 he was very grave and silent during the walk 
 home. I, who have been taught to believe 
 field-sports to be tbe natural amusement of 
 Englishmen, began to relate to Maurice some 
 stories of the gay shooting parties that used 
 to assemble in his father's house. 
 
 " ' I shall never shoot, Aunt Dora,' he said 
 gravely. 'Whynot?' I asked in some sur- 
 prise: 'I couldn't — Idll,' Maurice said, stretch- 
 ing out his hand in the way he al\/ays does 
 when he is struggling for an expression. 
 " That bird, auntie, all cold and stiff! They 
 canH make it live again. I felt it quivering 
 so, it must have been in pain. It quivered — 
 quivered. Oh, auntie ! ' and here to my 
 surprise, Maurice burst into tears ! He 
 is such a manly little fellow, and so in- 
 different himself to physical suffering that
 
 GEKTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 103 
 
 this outburst took me quite by surprise. 
 As well as I could understand liis incoherent 
 utterances, I gather that he thinks it an 
 awful and a wicked act to destroy life. He 
 said, ' It lived ! it lived, auntie,' several times 
 in quite a pathetic tone. Little Maurice ! 
 You teach me many a lesson ! I see his 
 physical power and his courage does not 
 spring from any hardness of nature. He is 
 as soft-hearted and tender as a girl ! There 
 is no tenderness after all like the tenderness 
 of strength ! " 
 
 Another entry in my diary recalls a story 
 which I must preface by a description of the 
 interior economy of our village church. It 
 was filled with square pews, very much like 
 irregular sheep-pens of all shapes and sizes. 
 Every now and then a family that had reached 
 the requisite pitch of respectability had been 
 allowed to build its otvn j^eiv, according to its 
 own fancy ; and this remained the inheritance 
 of the descendants and their indisputable 
 right. To possess " a pew " in the church 
 lifted the worshipper far above the common 
 herd who occupied the benches at the sides,
 
 104 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 and at the end of the church ; where those 
 who were deaf, or slow of understanding, as 
 the old agricultural peasantry generally are, 
 could not have profited much by the services. 
 
 The family pew belonging to Sir Joyce 
 Yerschoyle, was a large square enclosure, so 
 high that the most aspiring bonnet could not 
 be described by the plebeian worshippers 
 outside. It was hung with thick crimson 
 curtains. A small fireplace occupied one 
 corner of this secluded retreat. A door 
 opened on a side chapel where reposed 
 the monuments of the Yerschoyle family. 
 Noble Crusaders lying cross-legged, and 
 peaceful ladies wearing frilled caps heavily 
 wrought in stone work. Around one monu- 
 ment thirteen little children knelt bolt upright 
 with little red marble prayer-books in their 
 hands. It was Maurice's delight to pass his 
 hand softly over their little, round, hard heads 
 when I took him into the chapel for a treat 
 after the service when he had been very good. 
 
 This, I am sorry to say, was not fre- 
 quently the case. Poor Maurice found his 
 Sunday mornings very dull indeed. He got
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 105 
 
 through the service pretty well, for he 
 enjoyed the singing, and quite outdid the clerk 
 himself by the warmth and fervour of his 
 responses. But oh ! the sermon ! That was 
 a sore trial. 
 
 One Sunday Maurice appeared unusually 
 attentive. The sermon was on the " Fall," 
 and I suppose Maurice recognized with a 
 certain amount of satisfaction the famihar 
 Scriptural names. My sister evidently con- 
 sidered this a sign of grace, for she watched 
 him very closely, and at lunch she said, — 
 
 " My little son was very attentive to-day 
 in church. Can you remember what the 
 sermon was about ?" 
 
 " The devil," said Maurice promptly. My 
 sister looked rather scandalized. She had 
 not imbibed any of the sceptical notions of 
 modern days respecting that personage, but 
 she had a well-bred horror of hearing his 
 name mentioned. 
 
 " It was about sin, was it not, Maurice ? 
 and about Adam and Eve being driven out 
 of Paradise ? I read to you all about it the 
 other day."
 
 106 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 " Yes, mamma, and about the wicked ser- 
 pent too that tempted Eve. He was the 
 devil, I know. Mamma, I should have 
 killed him if I had been Adam." 
 
 I thought of St. Greorge and the Dragon, 
 and was going to tell Maurice about him, but 
 my sister stopped the discussion by bidding 
 him fetch his Sunday puzzle. She imagined 
 that children's minds could be "corked" 
 or "uncorked" at will; but Maurice's little 
 brain had set to work, and could not be so 
 readily turned in a fresh direction. He sat 
 on the floor turning over the leaves of a 
 book, but scarcely glancing at the pictures. 
 Suddenly the fresh little voice chirped out — 
 
 " Mamma, why did not God kill the 
 devil ? " 
 
 I started, almost in terror, to hear the old, 
 old question propounded by such baby lips 
 — the doubt that has harassed tens of 
 thousands. All the hearts that have turned 
 away in horror from a Grod who permits evil 
 to work its cruel course in a ruined world, all 
 the anguish of souls groping in darkness for 
 a loving meaning that they cannot fathom —
 
 GENTLEMAN VEKSCHOYLE. 107 
 
 all this seemed gathered up in Maurice's baby 
 question. My sister looked a little discom- 
 posed, but more, I think, from the difficulty 
 of finding an appropriate reply than from 
 any sorrowful insight into the little mind 
 unfolding before her. 
 
 " You must not ask such foolish questions, 
 dear" (she actually tZicZ say foolish). "You 
 must believe what mamma reads you, and 
 not trouble your head about things you can't 
 understand." 
 
 Agatha then rose up by way of settling the 
 controversy, and passed out of the French 
 windows leading Maurice by the hand. Very 
 soon I heard his merry little voice chirping 
 busily as he trotted up and down the terrace 
 by his mother's side. Had he forgotten his 
 theological difficulty? Later in the afternoon 
 Maurice made his appearance at the door of 
 my sitting-room. 
 
 " Auntie, I have brought you a rose," he 
 said, advancing towards me. 
 
 " Thank you, darling ; will you put it in 
 my vase ?" 
 
 Maurice perched himself on the window-
 
 108 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 seat and commenced pulling about the flowers 
 that stood on a table close by. This was his 
 favourite spot on a Sunday afternoon. He 
 liked to watch the groups of villagers dressed 
 in their best who passed the window in the 
 course of their decorous Sunday stroll. He 
 sat there so quietly that I had almost for- 
 gotten his presence till I was startled by an 
 exclamation of pain. He held up for com- 
 miseration a small lacerated digit. 
 
 " Poor little finger," I said, stooping to 
 kiss the injured member. " You see, Maurice, 
 there are no roses without thorns." 
 
 " It's a great pity," Maurice said, gravely 
 considering the guilty flower. " Aunt Dora, 
 are the thorns the roses' sins V 
 
 " Not sms, Maurice," I said. " The rose 
 has no soul, so it cannot sin ; but thorns and 
 thistles are amongst the consequences of sin. 
 There were no weeds or thorns in Paradise, 
 I imagine ; only lovely flowers." 
 
 " It is a great pity !" Maurice said again, 
 with the thoughtful look deepening on his 
 little earnest face. " Aunt Dora, it's a great 
 pity sin ever came into the world, isn't it ?
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 109 
 
 Don't you think it would liave been very nice 
 if God /iri(? killed the devil?" 
 
 I think if I never prayed before in my Hfe 
 I prayed then to be given the wisdom to satisfy 
 — not to silence — my httle questioner. I drew 
 a portfoHo towards me and took from it a fine 
 engraving of Guide's Ecce Homo, the divine 
 Head crowned with thorns, the sorrowful eyes 
 upraised to heaven, the mouth parted in an- 
 guished supplication. Little Maurice stood 
 looking at it with an awed face, and hands 
 clasped reverently together. 
 
 " He bore the thorns, Maurice. Can we not 
 bear them too?" I asked gently. The child's 
 eyes filled with tears. " He knew it all, Mau- 
 rice," I went on ; " all the sin and the suffer- 
 ing, and the disease and the death. Yet He 
 could say, ' Even so. Father, for so it seemeth 
 good in Thy sight.' Little Maurice, dare we 
 say, ' God might have done better ; He might 
 have killed the devil ; He might have got rid 
 of sin and death at one blow.' Dare we 
 question His love when we remember that 
 His Son has suff'ered and bled for us ? " 
 Little Maurice stood silent for a short time.
 
 110 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 " May I keep tlie picture, auntie ?" lie said 
 at length ; "I think I understand." 
 
 " Yes, keep it, darling ; and, oh, remember 
 in all your difficulties, in all your perplexities 
 — the Gross is the only solution.'^ 
 
 Whether the child understood me or not I 
 cannot say, but from that day my picture hung 
 at the foot of his little bed — his most precious 
 possession.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Soon after the conversation recorded in my 
 last chapter, Agatha came to the conclusion 
 that Maurice was getting a little " beyond 
 her," and that she must entrust his education 
 to other hands. The baby lessons had met 
 their doom. The pleasant discursive teaching, 
 and the happy blending of work and play, 
 had to be exchanged for schoolboy plodding. 
 I had found great pleasure in watching the 
 lesson-giving. How lovely Agatha looked in 
 the chastened glory of her matronly beauty 
 as she sat bending over her little son, guid- 
 ing his hand through labyrinths of " pot- 
 hooks " and " hangers " till he arrived at the 
 dignity of "Capitals" and "Round-text;" 
 or encouraging him by her bright smile and 
 lively voice to persevere in the mysteries of
 
 112 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 the multiplication table ! He was an easy 
 child to teach. His eager mind absorbed the 
 teaching that was given him with readiness 
 and retained it well. He was very fond of 
 learning by heart, and he recited poetry with 
 remarkable power and grace. Passages from 
 Walter Scott, and Byron, and Campbell, re- 
 call to my mind the little figure standing 
 dressed in a Scotch kilt, tossing back his 
 dark curls from his forehead, and ringing out 
 his sweet melodies with fervent utterance 
 and animated gesture. The lessons went on 
 smoothly enough till Maurice reached that 
 trying age when intelligent children cease to 
 accept all teaching on faith and begin to cavil, 
 and ask questions, and to argue from first 
 principles. 
 
 Agatha was driven to her wits' end some- 
 times, and though she often succeeded in 
 silencing, she hardly ever convinced her 
 sceptical pupil.' A look at Maurice's face 
 often told me that he thought very lightly of 
 his mother's reasoning. I am convinced that 
 unless a woman be of a very superior order 
 of intelligence she had better have as little
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOrLE. 113 
 
 as possible to do with the education of her 
 sons. Children are marvellously clear-sighted. 
 They soon find out the shortcomings of their 
 teachers. No one, in my opinion, should 
 attempt to teach unless he be fully and tho- 
 roughly acquainted with his subject, and able 
 to meet and grapple with the difficulties that 
 may arise in the minds of the youngest pupil. 
 Agatha's surface knowledge, and lack of 
 mental culture and habits of reflection, were 
 very soon discovered by the penetrating vision 
 of her little son. I felt that she was in danger 
 of losing the strong hold she possessed on her 
 child's heart and mind; love soon fades when 
 reverence and behef have vanished. I was 
 therefore very relieved to find that Agatha 
 had made the discovery for herself, and that 
 little Maurice's education was for the future 
 to be entrusted to the capable hands of our 
 good Vicar. With this decision the cloud of 
 difficulty vanished. Agatha became once 
 more the fond mother, the darling playmate, 
 the loved companion of Maurice's childhood. 
 The somewhat defiant and suspicious tone 
 that had tinged his manner to his mother for 
 
 VOL. L I
 
 114 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 the past few montlis vanislied coni23letely : 
 mother and child were once more on the 
 proper level. Yet I pitied Agatha. How 
 lons^ the mornino;s seemed without her dar- 
 ling ! How sorrowfully she watched him 
 from the window as he went off gloriously 
 mounted on his pony, with old William carry- 
 ing his school-books by his side. How she 
 tried in vain to amuse herself with her book 
 or her needle in order to wile away the hours 
 that hung so heavily on her hands. Agatha's 
 life had always been an active one. The 
 claims of society had so engrossed her girl- 
 hood, as well as her married life, that she 
 had rarely known an idle hour. The morn- 
 ings that I could fill so pleasantly with my 
 reading and writing would have hung like 
 a mill- stone about her neck. Then, when 
 the awful blow that widowed her life put 
 out of her heart all desire for fashionable 
 excitements, her baby had been mercifully 
 given to her ; the ever - engrossing, ever- 
 deepening interests of a child's life had filled 
 up the void in her own. But, alas, for the 
 mother ! The son whose young life she has
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSOHOYLE. 115 
 
 nursed and clierislied, whose first faltering 
 footsteps she lias guided, whose lips she has 
 showered with kisses, whose slumbers she 
 has lulled with sweet baby songs — soon 
 teaches the fond, self- deluding parent that 
 his life, growing, yearning, vigorous, as- 
 piring, cannot be absorbed in hers ; that, 
 stretching: out in the g^reat Avorld before 
 him, are empires to win, laurels to gather, 
 glories to reach, battles to fight, glad 
 hymns to ring out of the sorrowful chimes 
 of earth. Deeply implanted in every human 
 breast lies a depth of yearning aspiration, a 
 sense of self-dissatisfaction, a longing for 
 better, wiser, higher, nobler things than 
 those which surround the present. And 
 from the depths of this glorious discontent, 
 this unknown, unconscious yearning and feel- 
 ing after God, this kindred sympathy with the 
 sighing and groaning that moans through- 
 out creation, springs forth the spirit of noble 
 enterprise, heroic action — patient, self-sacri- 
 ficino; labour — o-rand and often unrewarded 
 toil. Oh, Contentment ! How many sins 
 are committed in thy name ! What uncleanly
 
 116 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOrLE. 
 
 depths of selfish apathy, stoical indifference, 
 of mean and paltry existences art thou not 
 made to cover ! Never, never should we 
 be contented with ourselves, our lives, our 
 achievements or our advancement. Onward, 
 upward, higher and ever higher, must we 
 fix our restless, eager, unsatisfied gaze, never 
 to be gratified, never to be contented till, 
 after passing' through the gates of death, 
 we awake and are " satisfied " with the 
 likeness of the Eternal God. 
 
 Something of tliis natural craving for wider 
 fields and for a freer scope for action began to 
 assert itself in little Maurice's breast. During 
 six years he continued the pupil of Mr. Ver- 
 non, who was well satisfied with his progress 
 and ability ; but, at the expiration of that 
 time, he began to droop. Perhaps his health 
 failed him a little, but I think the real cause 
 was to be found in this spirit of dissatisfac- 
 tion. Mr. Vernon noticed the change with 
 grave solicitude. " He had nothing to com- 
 plain of," he said ; " the boy did his work well 
 and punctually, but he put no heart into it. 
 His lessons were no longer a delight. They
 
 GENTLEMAN VEUSCHOYLE. 117 
 
 had become a wearisome task." Mr. Vernon 
 suggested that Maurice should enjoy more 
 of the companionship of boys of his own 
 age, but Agatha had already collected around 
 her as many as she could; and the merry 
 shouts of Maurice and of his friends when they 
 played cricket in the field below, rang sweetly 
 in the ears of the mother and aunt as they 
 paced the boundary path at the foot of the 
 lawn, and watched the white-flannelled, athletic 
 forms of the young cricketers, and saw Mau- 
 rice's bronzed face flushed with animation, 
 and heard his merry laugh and noticed 
 the good temper, and the well-bred courtesy 
 that marked him — according to Agatha's 
 theory — 'to be "his father's son.'' Yet, 
 the excitement of the game once over, 
 Maurice would return to his old, listless, 
 dreamy moods — sitting with a book in his 
 hand, but hardly turning a page, or gazing 
 absently and gloomily out of the window. 
 
 He was sitting in my room one evening in 
 his usual moody fashion, when the following 
 conversation took place that I find recoredd 
 in my diary : — ■
 
 118 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 " August 8th, 18—. 
 
 " Maurice lias taken me by surprise to-day. 
 We have all wondered at the gloomy, taciturn 
 mood that has lately overcrept his joyous 
 spirit, but we have not ascribed it to any- 
 thing more serious than a temporary fit of 
 boyish ill-humour. To-day, after sitting in 
 silence for nearly an hour, he broke out with, 
 * Aunt Dora, which do you like best, things 
 or people ? ' 
 
 " ' Why, Maurice, what a strange question ! 
 Of course I like people best ; you and your 
 mamma are dearer to me than all the things in 
 the world.' 
 
 " Maurice instantly bestowed on me one of 
 his vehement boyish hugs, to the great detri- 
 ment of my attire. 
 
 " ' Oh ! I thought you would say so. You 
 are so good.' 
 
 " ' I don't think saying that proves any 
 very great amount of goodness,' I replied, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Maurice was very serious. 
 
 " ' Aunt Dora,' he said, ' I am sure tliat 
 most people like things better than people.*
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE . 119 
 
 "'What sort of things, Maurice — horses, 
 and dogs and carriages do you mean?' 
 
 *' ' No, no, Aunt Dora, things like books, or 
 a seat in parhament, or a title, something 
 like — like — success. What mamma calls a 
 * career,' cried the boy, struggling for an 
 expression. ' Can't you understand, Aunt 
 Dora?' 
 
 " ' You mean, I suppose, Maurice, that men 
 generally have some object in life, such as a 
 profession, or a seat in parliament, or some 
 philanthropic or literary employment. Isn't 
 that quite right ?' 
 
 " Maurice paused with a very grave face. 
 
 " ' I suppose so. Aunt Dora, when one is 
 grown up. And a seat in parliament — one 
 would feel in the middle of everything ! I 
 think I should like that. But, Aunt Dora, 
 I was thinking of Uncle Joyce, all shut up 
 for days in his museum, sticking pins through 
 poor flies (so did Maurice describe Sir Joyce 
 Verschoyle's entomological pursuits), or Mr. 
 Yernon when he gives himself a ' treat ' as 
 he calls it, and spends a whole afternoon 
 poring over a book. Aunt Dora, I like
 
 120 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 books, but I want a fellow to say, ' Isn't that 
 jolly ' to — or to say, ' Well done, old fellow.' 
 Aunt Dora, you can't understand because 
 you are a woman," (Maurice satisfactorily 
 solves my shortcomings in this clear manner) 
 " and women like being at home and — all 
 that ; but I — I feel I cant get on without other 
 fellows. What's the use of our great gardens 
 full of flowers, just for us three people? I 
 would like to have in all the boys from the 
 village, and let them all pick as much as they 
 like. Why must I have everytliing, and they 
 have nothing?' 
 
 " Maurice had arisen and was speaking ex- 
 citedly, stretching out his hand and clenching 
 it with such a bright colour flushing his face. 
 I never saw the boy look so handsome. The 
 entrance of a servant stopped our discussion. 
 To-morrow I must have a long talk with 
 Mr. Vernon." 
 
 I well remember keeping my resolution. 
 The next day was a half-holiday for Maurice, 
 so I left him playing cricket at a safe dis- 
 tance, and betook myself to Mr. Vernon's 
 door. I met with the kind, I might almost
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 121 
 
 say affectionate greeting, that never failed to 
 welcome me. He listened gravely, smiling 
 a little as I recapitulated Maurice's inco- 
 herent utterances, but sobering down into 
 an anxious, almost pained expression as my 
 story proceeded. He sat back in his study- 
 chair with his refined, scholarly head resting 
 on his hand, and his eyes riveted on the 
 carpet. I awaited in some anxiety his reply. 
 
 " I am glad the boy has spoken out," he 
 said at last. " It would have been dangerous 
 for him to have let this feeling rankle with- 
 out finding the courage to give it expression. 
 The solution, as far as lies in human power, 
 is simple enough. He must go to a public 
 school." 
 
 " Oh, Agatha," I said. My heart died 
 within me. 
 
 " Poor mother," echoed my companion. 
 " Ah, Miss Dora, a mother's life must of 
 necessity be one of sacrifice. ' A sword 
 shall pierce through thy heart ' was the 
 prediction uttered to the Blessed Mother of 
 our Lord, and the shadow of her great woe 
 falls across every mother's joy. But," con-
 
 122 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 tinued Mr. Yernoiij in a more cheerful 
 tone, " we need not take such a gloomy 
 view. Mrs. Verschoyle must have foreseen 
 separation from her son sooner or later. 
 Maurice has only decided that the time 
 has come when he ' can't get on without 
 other fellows ; ' he is simply expressing 
 the fact, that active and warm human in- 
 terests will always be the motive powers of 
 his existence. He is a boy of ardent affec- 
 tions and strong sympathies. A self -en- 
 grossed life he can never lead. Nor will he, 
 I am convinced, attach much importance to 
 the social distinctions and empty honours for 
 which others contend so greedily. No pro- 
 fession will ever attract him which does not 
 bring him into actual, living contact with his 
 fellows. Some dawn of this feeling is in his 
 mind when he sums up a seat in parliament 
 as ' being in the middle of everything.' He 
 can't exactly define it. He knows vaguely 
 that it is connected with helping and benefit- 
 ing a number of living, struggling men. 
 Already his feelings are enli.-ted very strongly 
 on the side of the oppressed. We shall have
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 123 
 
 him turning out a Radical if we don't take 
 care," smiled the Vicar. 
 
 "Will you come and talk to Mrs. Yer- 
 schoyle ?" I asked. 
 
 " Yes, certainly I will put the matter 
 before her. I shall tell her plainly that if 
 Maurice's craving for a wider sphere of 
 action, and for the wholesome level of school- 
 boy fellowship be not gratified, she runs a 
 very terrible risk. Maurice's strong, inde- 
 pendent spirit will find vent somehoiv, and 
 who knows what lawless rebellion, or wild 
 excess, may not be the sequel if this natural 
 craving be disregarded?" 
 
 " Who knows indeed," I thought, as I 
 walked home. Oh ! what a responsibility is 
 laid on a poor, ignorant woman who finds 
 herself entrusted with the bringing-up of a 
 man-child ! How few are fitted for the task ! 
 How few, indeed, realize the awfulness of the 
 charge imposed on them ! 
 
 As I neared the house I saw Agatha pacing 
 up and down the boundary path. She still 
 wore black, but the cap had long since been 
 abandoned, and her fair, matronly face was
 
 124 GENTLEMAN YEESCHOTLE. 
 
 crowned by an elaborate coiffure of golden 
 plaits. Sbe beld a white parasol over her 
 head. Maurice and one of his friends were 
 standing before her in the midst of the eager 
 recital of some amusing incident. Agatha, 
 with her hand to her ears, was laughingly- 
 protesting that she could not listen to two 
 voices at once. I, creeping behind them, 
 felt like a treacherous snake in the grass, 
 ready to weave a fatal thread over the health- 
 ful brightness of the hour. Happily the task 
 of opening Agatha's eyes to the inevitable 
 necessity of sending Maurice to school did 
 not devolve upon me. Mr. Vernon's last 
 words were a promise to call on Agatha at 
 ten on the following morning.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 We were sitting^ over our late breakfast on 
 the following morning when Mr. Vernon 
 made his appearance. I thought his bachelor 
 eyes wandered a little enviously around the 
 pleasant morning room, and rested longingly 
 on the snowy linen and delicate china that 
 covered the table. Agatha, in her elegant 
 morning costume of mauve and grey, rose to 
 greet him with her usual winning courtesy. 
 Mr. Vernon had proved himself a trust- 
 worthy friend during the years that followed 
 my sister's bereavement, and by force of 
 personal character as well as of reputation and 
 position he had secured a high place in her 
 regard. Agatha noticed the somewhat per- 
 turbed expression of his face, and attributed 
 the cause to some parochial trouble in which 
 she had no concern.
 
 126 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 " Do have a cup of tea, Mr. Yernou, or 
 some of your favourite cocoa ? I don't 
 believe your housekeeper looks half-enough 
 after you, and then, you always breakfast at 
 some unearthly hour ! " 
 
 Mr. Vernon smiled a little. 
 
 " Instead of spoiling, you ought to upbraid 
 me, Mrs. Yerschoyle, for neglect of duty. 
 Here am I, sitting in your breakfast-room, 
 when I ought to be helping Maurice over 
 the ' Pons Asinorum.' He is at this moment 
 gathering cherries in my garden." 
 
 "Ah! A holiday does him good," said 
 my sister equably, as she sipped her tea. 
 " I hope you are pleased with him, Mr. 
 Vernon." 
 
 "Yes," said the Vicar, with a half-sigh, 
 and then with a desperate plunge into the 
 matter in hand — " But it is about Maurice 
 that I have come this morning ; I have a 
 great deal to say to you." 
 
 " Indeed," said Agatha, with the same 
 equable smile. 
 
 "Maurice has been causing me uneasi- 
 ness for some time," continued the Vicar ;
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 127 
 
 " not through any fault of his, but simply 
 because he can no longer content himself 
 with the quiet occupations that have sufficed 
 for him until now. Solitary study is only 
 one degree less obnoxious to him than soli- 
 tary confinement. He needs the emulation 
 and the excitement of school-life. This is 
 what I have come to tell you to-day, 
 Mrs. Verschoyle. Maurice must go to 
 school." 
 
 Neither Mr. Vernon nor myself were pre- 
 pared for the cry that escaped Agatha's lips. 
 We both sat looking and feeling as guilty as 
 a couple of conspirators, but Agatha quickly 
 recovered herself. 
 
 " I cannot accept your verdict at once, Mr. 
 Vernon," she said, trying by a smile to dissi- 
 mulate the quivering of her lip. " Maurice, 
 I suppose, has been getting a fit of discon- 
 tent — like many children — and imagines that 
 he wants something he hasn't got : but only 
 suggest school as the alternative, and you 
 will see that he will recognize himself to be 
 best off in his own home." 
 
 "On the contrary, Mrs. Verschoyle; I
 
 128 GENTLEMAN VERSOHOYLE. 
 
 mentioned the matter to him this morning:, 
 and he is glad — eager to go." 
 
 " Glad to go ! Eager to go ! Away from 
 me, from his mother. Oh, Maurice ! " 
 
 The quiver in the lip was unmistakeable 
 now. Two salt tears fell on Agatha's white 
 hand as she played nervously with her tea- 
 cup. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Verschoyle," Mr. Yernon 
 said, very kindly, " I am afraid I am but a 
 clumsy adviser. I wish to spare you pain, 
 yet I seem to inflict it wantonly. Believe 
 me, it is not without a struggle that I have 
 arrived at the conclusion that Maurice must 
 be sent to school." Mr. Yernon paused 
 for a moment. My sister turned her inquir- 
 ing, tearful face towards him. " When I 
 say Maurice is glad and eager to go, I do 
 not mean you to infer that he is anxious 
 to leave you. Few boys love their home as 
 he does. Few mothers possess the hold over 
 their sons' hearts that you enjoy. There will 
 be a sore struggle in Maurice's breast on the 
 morning that he leaves for school. But, for 
 all that, he has heard the imperative voice,
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 129 
 
 wluch sooner or later speaks to every man, 
 telling him to rise up, to put away his 
 * childish things,' and to carve out a Hfe 
 and a future for himself. By the way, 
 have you ever thought of a profession for 
 Maurice?" 
 
 "No," replied my sister. 
 
 "You have no idea then of bringing him 
 up to follow any special career ?" 
 
 "There is no occasion for Maurice to tie 
 himself down to a profession," my sister 
 said decidedly. " He might, perhaps, like 
 a commission in the Guards, and I think 
 he w411 be fond of travelling. I thought 
 he would live very much as — his father 
 did!" Agatha said softly. 
 
 Mr. Vernon rose and walked to the window. 
 I saw he had some little difficulty in restrain- 
 ing an impatient reply. Then he crossed 
 over to Agatha's side and drew a chair close 
 to her. " Such a life as you are mapping out 
 for your son will never satisfy him. My dear 
 Mrs. Verschoyle, Maurice is cast in no com- 
 mon mould. He will need some verj^ en- 
 grossing object upon which he may expend 
 
 VOL, I. K
 
 130 GENTLEMAN VERSOHOYLE. 
 
 the energies of liis strong, restless nature. 
 The round of fashionable life will never 
 suffice for him. I see nothing but ruin be- 
 fore him if such is to be his future. Give 
 him a career, 'give him difficulties to master, 
 point him to heights yet unclimbed, and 
 his energy and indomitable spirit will bring 
 him gloriously to the summit. But keep him 
 in the lowlands, on the smooth, smiling, 
 flower-spread plains, and all the vital energy 
 that would lead him to overcome danger and 
 rise superior to labour, will prove his down- 
 fall and his ruin. We know not on what unhal- 
 lowed objects the energies may not be spent, 
 which, rightly directed, would launch him on 
 a noble and useful career." 
 
 Mr. Vernon spoke with unusual warmth. 
 I think some touch of his own earnestness 
 must have momentarily infected Agatha, for 
 the smooth current of her mind seemed 
 ruffled, and she looked unhappy and ill at 
 ease. 
 
 " Maurice has always been a good boy," 
 she said rather pettishly, " and you have 
 always been fond of him. I cannot think
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESOHOYLE. 131 
 
 why you should make so sure that he will 
 turn out badly, Mr. Vernon." 
 
 I could see Mr. Vernon biting his lip. 
 He had come, much against his inclination, 
 to perform what he considered to be his 
 duty, and it was rather trying to be so 
 completely misunderstood. 
 
 " I think we had better keep to the pre- 
 sent then, Mrs. Verschoyle, and let the 
 future take care of itself, or rather leave 
 it in God's wise hands. We know not what 
 discipline He has in store for the strengthen- 
 ing and perfecting of Maurice's character. 
 The question now is simply this, Maurice 
 feels his present sphere to be too contracted. 
 He says, clearly enough, that he would 
 prefer to go to school and find his level 
 amongst other boys. If he does 7iot go, the 
 moodiness and discontent which have been 
 creeping over him will increase, and the 
 boy's character will deteriorate in conse- 
 quence. The question now is, is he to go or 
 not?" 
 
 Mr. Vernon said all this with the air of 
 one who tries to speak in short syllables 
 K 2
 
 132 GENTLEMAN VERSOHOTLB. 
 
 for the benefit of a very weak understand- 
 ing ! To me it was perfectly exasperating ! 
 But happily for Agatha, she did not seem 
 to perceive it. 
 
 " I think," she said, after deliberating for a 
 moment or two, " I think that I will speak 
 to Maurice myself. His discontented fit may 
 have passed away by this time, and he will 
 be as eager to stay as he was eager to go 
 a few hours ago." 
 
 " Here comes Maurice at this moment," 
 said the Vicar, as the boy's face looked into 
 the room. " Now then he can answer for 
 himself." 
 
 I can see the group before me now : 
 Agatha sitting at the end of the table, with 
 an unwonted flush overspreading her usually 
 calm face ; Mr. Vernon standing by the 
 mantelpiece with his head leaning on his 
 hand, and Maurice, his arms full of school- 
 books, arrested in the doorway, his bright 
 eyes full of curious expectation, and his 
 lips parted in bewilderment. 
 
 " Maurice," my sister said, trying to speak 
 very clearly and calmly, " Mr. Vernon and I
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 133 
 
 have been talking about your going to school ; 
 Mr. Vernon thinks you would like to go, 
 but I do not. Would you like to leave me, 
 Maurice ?" 
 
 A decided "choke " in Agatha's voice con- 
 cluded the sentence. Poor Maurice looked 
 horribly disconcerted. Mr. Vernon, I am 
 convinced, wished himself a thousand miles 
 away. 
 
 " I should not like to leave you, mother," 
 Maurice said softly. 
 
 " There ! I thought not," Agatha said, 
 with an ill-suppressed tone of triumph in 
 her voice. " You are quite happy in your 
 home, my own boy, are you not ? You do 
 not want to go to school?" 
 
 " Mother," the boy answered, looking half 
 inchned to cry, " I don't know how to 
 answer you. You put the thing so queerly, 
 a fellow doesn't know what to say; but, 
 please, mother, I do want to go to school." 
 
 Here was a blow for poor Agatha. 
 
 "You contradict yourself, Maurice," my 
 sister said, a little coldly. " Just now you 
 declared you did 7iot want to leave me ;
 
 134 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 now you say you want to go to scliool. You 
 cannot do both." 
 
 There was a struggle in the boy's mind. 
 He stood with his eyes fixed on his mother's 
 face, and with his dark brows painfully knitted 
 together. 
 
 " Mother, I want to go to school ; I must 
 go to school. I can't live without a lot of 
 fellows ; I can't, indeed, I am so sick of 
 this tame life, the same things and the 
 same people day after day. Now, at school 
 things are always happening — different things 
 and different boys — more like a life. Mr. 
 Yernon says a school is a ' little world.' 
 I shall live like — like a man. Mother, I 
 m%tst go to school ; but, oh, mother, mother, 
 I love you, I do, indeed ; my darling, pretty 
 mother, I donH want to leave you." 
 
 No one saw Maurice spring across the 
 room, yet he was locked in his mother's 
 arms ere his sentence was finished. Some 
 of the bitterness of separation sunk in 
 Agatha's heart as her boy rained kisses 
 and tears upon her face. Already the fare- 
 well knell rang in her ears. The keen an-
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSOHOYLE. 135 
 
 guish of parting had stabbed lier with its 
 cruel blade ; and oh ! it was her son^s 
 hand that had dealt the blow ! Adieu ! ye 
 happy childish days ! Back into the far 
 distant past must sink the memory of the 
 baby caressings, the tender, motherly sooth- 
 ings, the first lisping prayer, the merry 
 lessons, the happy romps, the delicious nest- 
 lings on the mother's lap, the twilight 
 stories, the joyous histories of the day's 
 adventures. The bird had found its wings ; 
 already it strained impatiently against the 
 bars of its home-prison, eager to soar to 
 other fields. Oh, poor nestling ! Will you 
 ever return with wings clipped, and feathers 
 ruffled, to seek a peaceful asylum in the 
 home you were so ready to quit ? 
 
 Other eyes than mine were filled with 
 tears as the mother and son lay clasped in 
 a long, fond embrace, and Maurice's sobs 
 could be heard bursting forth with excited 
 vehemence. Then Agatha put him gently 
 aside, and, rising with graceful courtesy, 
 walked across to Mr. Vernon and laid her 
 hand in his. " I suppose I must own myself
 
 136 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 Yanquislied," slie said, with a faint smile; 
 " my little Maurice lias grov^m up so quickly 
 that I can hardly realize he is anything but a 
 baby still. But you have been wiser. Thank 
 you for all your kind advice ; and now, as 
 I am defeated. I must leave you master 
 of the field." 
 
 So saying, Agatha left the room, followed 
 by Maurice, who hardly left her side during 
 the rest of the day. No one could doubt his 
 admiration and love for his mother, who 
 noticed the persistent tenderness and cling- 
 in 2^ fondness of his manner after the decision 
 had been given in his favour, and he learnt 
 that he was to be sent to St. Winifred's. I 
 say " admiration, ^^ for that was a leading fea- 
 ture in Maurice's relations with his mother. 
 She had been the delight of his eyes ever 
 since his baby-days. " Darling, 'pretty mam- 
 ma " was one of the first sentences he had 
 ever uttered, and this admiration had grown 
 with liis growth. His little impertinent 
 praises and criticisms passed on her bon- 
 nets and dresses were very dear to Agatha. 
 The flattery that bad been her due all her
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 137 
 
 life had never fallen so sweetly as from 
 her son's fresh, guileless lips. 
 
 " No one praises my pretty caps now," 
 said a mother to me not long ago, who 
 had been bereaved of her sons, and I 
 thought a whole world of pathos was con- 
 tained in those simple words. 
 
 Agatha accepted her " defeat," as she 
 termed it, very sweetly. She saw that 
 separation from her son was inevitable, 
 and so she resigned herself with a good 
 grace. She found some degree of conso- 
 lation in procuring for her darling every 
 species of schoolboy luxury — from the 
 newest fishing-rods and tackle down to a 
 " coffee-pot " and " gridiron," which last 
 article Maurice specially insisted on. On 
 the evening before his departure, Maurice 
 came to my room to show me a beautiful 
 writing-desk, his mother's parting gift. 
 
 "Darling mother! How good she is!" 
 he said. " She has thought of every single 
 thing. I don't believe any other fellow has 
 got such a mother as I have. Aunt Dora !" 
 
 " Yet you don't mind leaving her," I said.
 
 138 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 The words were hardly out of my mouth 
 before I regretted them. 
 
 " Not mind, Aunt Dora ! Why ! last night 
 I stuffed half my bed-clothes into my mouth 
 to try and stop myself from crying. I went 
 round the house and looked at everything to- 
 day, and when I thought what a long time 
 it would be before I could see the dear old 
 place again— oh, dear ! — I felt quite sick ! 
 Aunt Dora, I'm very glad Mr. Vernon un- 
 derstands. He knows exactly. He never 
 says I don't mind leaving mother." 
 
 "Ah, you see, he is a superior being," 
 I said, smiling, " and your poor aunt Dora 
 is ' only a woman ! ' " 
 
 " Yes, that's just it," said Maurice, quite 
 seriously. " You are a woman, so of course 
 you can't understand." This solution was 
 always a source of immense consolation to 
 Maurice. " Aunt Dora," he said, at length, 
 " I want to ask you something. Can I take 
 away with me that picture — that print, you 
 know — you gave me when I was a little 
 fellow ? " 
 
 " Yes, certainly, dear boy."
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 139 
 
 " I shall hang it over my study mantel- 
 piece ; I always like to look at it when I'm 
 saying my prayers, somehow." 
 
 " I hope, dear Maurice, the sight of that 
 nobly-patient face may help to remind you of 
 our Great Example, and may lead you to 
 withstand — for His dear sake — some of the 
 temptations of school-life." 
 
 I said this rather hesitatingly. I was 
 always very shy of speaking about sacred 
 things, and I had a special horror of " tall'm^ 
 good^^ to my nephew. Maurice stood by me 
 without speaking for some time. I thought 
 he had not heard me. 
 
 "Aunt Dora," he said at last, "do you 
 think any one else was ever inspired besides 
 the men who wrote the Bible ?" 
 
 " Not in the same way, dear ; but, to a 
 certain degree, • I believe every one who 
 writes a noble thought or does a noble deed 
 is God-inspired." 
 
 " Aunt Dora," Maurice said slowly, rub- 
 bing his hand over his writing-desk, " I 
 believe the man who painted that picture 
 must have been inspired, it's such a face !
 
 140 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 Such a man's face, and so sweet too ; a little 
 like mamma's when she looks down on me. 
 I do like it so ; it makes me feel good to look 
 at it. Thank you, Aunt Dora; good night !" 
 A very warm hug, and my nephew de- 
 parted ; and then I, remembering how many 
 nights must pass away before 1 could again 
 feel the clinging pressure of those dear 
 arms, laid my head down on the table and, — 
 like the foolish woman that I am, — cried 
 bitterly.
 
 CHAPTER XT. 
 
 Poor Agatha ! The recollection of her white 
 face rises before me now as she sat at the 
 breakfast-table on the morning of Maurice's 
 departm^e for school. He was so full of 
 excitement that he could hardly eat a morsel 
 of food. Every now and then he darted from 
 the room to take another farewell look at one 
 of his prized possessions, or to bestow some 
 parting injunction on William who was en- 
 trusted with the care of his rabbits and pet 
 bantams. The tears rolled down Agatha's 
 cheek as the sound of the carriage-wheels 
 was heard on the gravel outside. Maurice 
 rushed at her in his usual impetuous fashion, 
 and flung his loving, boyish arms around her 
 neck. 
 
 " Don't cry, dear, darling mother ! I shall
 
 142 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 be liome soon, and I sliall write often and 
 tell you everij thing, and I mean to work hard. 
 Oh, mother !" 
 
 The boy stopped with a choke in his voice. 
 Aoratha raised the tearful face she had let 
 fall on her son's shoulder. With an amount 
 of self-possession that surprised me, she 
 folded the boy in her arms, and kissed and 
 blessed him, calling him her treasure, her 
 darling, and last and dearest title — "his 
 father's son." Never had I seen Agatha in 
 so dignified, so elevated a mood. The pas- 
 sion of maternal affection, which seemed to 
 have absorbed her whole being, had raised 
 her, for the moment, to a height of moral 
 grandeur, on which she stood as though 
 transfigured by a celestial radiance. What 
 was it but the divine power of love ennobling 
 and glorifying the heart once filled with 
 ignoble and worldly aims ? 
 
 In the midst of the farewell embraces 
 between the mother and son a servant entered 
 to announce the arrival of the dog-cart. One 
 rapid kiss was bestowed on my cheek, and — 
 the boy was gone ! Agatha and I went to
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 143 
 
 the window and watched hnn drive away. 
 He stood up in the dog-cart waving his hat 
 and kissing his hand, with all his dark curls 
 blowing across his forehead, till he was lost 
 to our sight. Then Agatha burst into tears. 
 I knelt down by her side and drew her face 
 on my shoulder, as I had so often done in 
 the early days of her widowhood. 
 
 " He has gone ! he has gone ! " she 
 wailed forth ; " and, oh, Dora ! he is all 1 
 have ! " 
 
 What could I say ? How could I, wno 
 had no children, console a mother's sorrow ? 
 Well do I remember how sadly and aimlessly 
 poor Agatha wandered about during the 
 remainder of the day. She gathered up all 
 the signs of boy life, which Maurice had scat- 
 tered all over the house, and carried them 
 away to his own room. There was the book 
 he had been reading, and the small piece 
 of carving work which had last occupied 
 his busy fiugers, and the song on the piano 
 which only last night Maurice had warbled 
 .out in his sweet, boyish treble, with one arm 
 around his mother's neck as she sat accom-
 
 144 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 panying him. Tliere was the bouquet of 
 flowers, half faded, from his own garden, that, 
 according to his custom, he had laid on his 
 mother's plate. All these relics, and many- 
 more besides, I watched Agatha gather up 
 silently and lock away in the boy's room, 
 locking out as she did so, or trying to 
 lock out the sweet memory of the bright 
 young presence that had cheered and in- 
 vigorated her widowed life. The torn, and 
 still quivering tendrils that had closed so 
 thankfully around this new affection, when 
 the relentless hand of death had torn her 
 first idol from her breast, had nothing 
 now to twine around. The daily routine 
 of commonplace feminine existence was all 
 that was left to Agatha. I think a letter 
 Agatha received from her boy on the follow- 
 ing morning was the best cordial that could 
 have been administered. 
 
 " Dearest mother," it began, " We came 
 here all right. I liked the look of the place 
 amazingly. It's like this " — (here followed a 
 diagram somewhat resembling a gigantic 
 towel-horse) — " and my dormitory is where
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 145 
 
 I've put tlie dab of ink. I was examined 
 this morning, and am put in tlie lower 
 fourth. Dr. Lowood was very pleased with 
 mj mathematics; mind you tell Mr. Yernon. 
 My study is a jolly little room. I haven't 
 tried the coffee-pot yet. Tell Aunt Dora 
 I've hung her picture up as I said I would. 
 Some of the fellows tease the new boys 
 awfully. One great bullying fellow has been 
 bothering me all day about the names of my 
 sisters, and what they are like. So I told 
 him I had three, and that their names were 
 Jemima, and Kezia, and Keren-Happuch ! 
 So the other boys all laughed, and the fellow 
 was shut up. I'll write again soon, and tell 
 you about the cricket-field, and all that. I'm 
 so glad I've come here ; but, oh, mother ! 
 I do so miss you. (This was underlined 
 several times.) Give my best love to Aunt 
 Dora and Mr. Yernon, and remember me to 
 all the servants ; and, please, tell Wilham to 
 be sure and feed the rabbits with fresh green 
 stuff. And now, good-bye, darling mother, ever 
 your loving son, 
 
 " Maurice." 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 Only the other day I saw again this pre- 
 cious little note. The ink is faded now, 
 and the paper is yellow and discoloured; yet, 
 through all the sorrows and bitterness of 
 years that have gone, has Agatha treasured 
 it in a corner of her desk ! 
 
 "We women at home settled down to the 
 quiet routine of our country life. Agatha 
 directed her household, inspected her stables 
 and greenhouses, wrote frequent letters to 
 Maurice, paid visits to her neighbours, 
 and occasionally dined out, or received 
 her friends at home ; whilst I helped Mr. 
 Vernon in the parish, visited the old women, 
 taught the children, and tried as much as 
 I could to lighten his untiring labours. So 
 the time passed smoothly on ; but in both 
 our hearts there was a strong, deep yearn- 
 ing for the sight of the bright face, and 
 the sound of the merry voice that had 
 vanished from our household. Oh, dearest 
 Maurice ! in after years have you ever found 
 hearts tenderer or more devoted than those 
 that waited in silent longing for your return 
 during your schoolboy days ?
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 147 
 
 Maurice's letters were a great comfort. 
 He had a peculiar talent for writing, whicli is 
 rather unusual in boys of his age. I believe 
 what deters most boys from letter-writing 
 is the knowledge that their thoughts and 
 interests meet with so little sympathy from 
 their elders. A good education, a fair amount 
 of food and. flannel and physic, is supposed 
 to satisfy all the requirements of boyhood. 
 Maurice had no such experience. He was 
 sure of affectionate interest, and so the frank, 
 confiding tone of his epistles never flagged. 
 I dare say it was a wonder to many that 
 Agatha's great indulgence did not spoil her 
 son. His disposition was so sweet and 
 generous that praise and love seemed its 
 natural food. He was ever amenable to the 
 voice of tender reproof, but I am convinced 
 that a harsh system would have brutalized 
 him and turned the sweet current of his 
 nature to gall and bitterness. I wonder how 
 many men have been " snubbed" and "tyran- 
 nized " to their ruin ? A census on this 
 subject would be instructive. Maurice's 
 school-life was a decided success. As Mr. 
 L 2
 
 148 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 Vernon had foi'eseen, tlie exuberant activity 
 of his ardent nature there found its legiti- 
 mate scope, and he grew and expanded, both 
 morally and mentally, with healthy rapidity. 
 He had a genuine love for study and a hearty 
 interest in his play. He " fagged hard," as 
 he expressed it, at Greek and Latin, but 
 mathematics and the natural sciences were 
 real delights to him, and he joined some 
 voluntary classes for the stud}^^ of natural 
 history and chemistry. Whether at work or 
 at play, his mind was given heartihj to the 
 occupation of the hour. He excelled in all 
 manly sports, and by virtue of this excel- 
 lence was soon in high favour with his 
 schoolfellows, for boys are quick to recognize 
 the superiority they are so apt to depreciate 
 and to begrudge in after years. And here I 
 must add what I heard from Dr. Lowood, 
 with unspeakable thankfulness, that in the 
 strongest excitement of victory, or in the 
 keenest disappointment of defeat, no profane 
 or impure word was ever heard to pass 
 Maurice's lips. He was no " saint,^' no un- 
 natural specimen of hothouse piety ; he dis-
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 149 
 
 played no unhealtliy aptitude for religious 
 phraseology, yet I believe that the truths of 
 vital godliness, which had been early set 
 before him by the reality of Mr. Vernon's 
 personal holiness, as well as by his instruc- 
 tion, had sunk deep into little Maurice's 
 heart. Not by pharisaical denouncements, 
 or by harsh and unloving censure, did Mau- 
 rice show forth the principles that guided his 
 life; but by obedience to Icnr, by steady 
 fulfilment of duty, by adhering rigidly to 
 truth both in the spirit and in the letter, by 
 deliberately refusing to listen, or look at, or 
 join in, anything that was impure and un- 
 worthy of Christian manliness, did Maurice 
 show forth to all around him that his feet 
 were set heavenward. I can vividly recall a 
 visit we paid to our darling after he had 
 been two months at school. Ag^atha had 
 patiently waited dm'ing those eight long 
 weeks out of deference to Mr. Vernon, who 
 had decided that Maurice ought to be left to 
 his own devices during that period at least. 
 When we arrived at St. Winifred's, we were 
 conducted to the cricket-field, where a match
 
 150 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYT.E. 
 
 was going on. There stood Maurice at tlie 
 wicket in his flannel costume, his face bronzed 
 by constant exposure to the air, his brows 
 knitted in eager suspense, a flush of glad 
 triumph overspreading his face, when sud- 
 denly he caught sight of his visitors. Down 
 went the bat, away across the field he rushed, 
 and in a moment his arms were flung around 
 his mother's neck. A universal titter re- 
 minded Agatha that social prejudice is as 
 strong with boys as with men. 
 
 " I ought to apologize, darling," she said 
 smiling ; " my boy must forgive me for 
 bringing this ridicule upon him." 
 
 *' Why, mother," Maurice said simply, " I 
 don't care a rush what those fellows think, 
 and I do care for you, mother — why I would 
 kiss you before the whole bench of bishops !" 
 
 Agatha's deference to " opinion^' found no 
 echo in her son's fearless heart. 
 
 " That is right, Verschoyle," said Dr. 
 Lowood from behind. " When I am a* 
 bishop I shall remember that avowal, and 
 call upon you to fulfil your word." 
 
 " Do, sir," said Maurice, laughing. " Come,
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 151 
 
 mother, first innings are over ; come and see 
 my study." 
 
 The boy was half beside himself with joy. 
 The numberless questions he asked, the 
 minute home details that he remembered, 
 fairly bewildered his mother. In return, we 
 were most attentive listeners and admirers. 
 I saw the print I had given him seven years 
 before, hanging over his mantelpiece; Maurice 
 called my attention to it at once. 
 
 " That is my best friend. Aunt Dora," he 
 said ; "I couldn't let a fellow swear with 
 that in the room. I don't feel a prig for 
 stopping him." 
 
 We carried away with us a very pleasant 
 image of our boy. Agatha was in better 
 spirits after that visit. She was now able 
 to realize her son's schoolboy life, and her 
 imagination could better bridge over the 
 gulf of separation. As each holiday-time 
 came round, and Maurice returned to us to 
 be once more, for a little space, the Hght of 
 our eyes and the joy of our hearts, we found 
 his love for home, his fond, admiring cling- 
 ing to his mother still unchanged. As he
 
 152 GENTLEMAN VEESOHOYLE. 
 
 grew in strength and manliness, liis respect- 
 ful, chivalrous bearing towards all women 
 seemed to increase. The strongest excite- 
 ment never carried him beyond the bounds of 
 respectful courtesy. He was strong as a 
 lion, but gentle as a lamb, and in his habits 
 of tender deference to the weak and helpless, 
 Agatha fondly discerned the mirrored image 
 of his father's graceful courtesy. Oh! How 
 blind, how dull she was, not to perceive how 
 far the politeness which sprang from Mau- 
 rice's inbred, innate purity of heart, outshone 
 the surface polish of the man of fashion. 
 The tender little compliments he still loved 
 to pay his mother arose out of the depths of 
 his overflowing afi'ection. I have seen her 
 flush with almost girlish pleasure, as her 
 boy's praises fell on her gratified ear. Indeed 
 no eye could behold without admiration the 
 fair, stately matron riding by the side of her 
 dark-browed, stalwart son. 
 
 " Lor' bless 'em," old William said one 
 day. " They be just like two young lovers. 
 They be ! " 
 
 And so they were. I have watched
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 153 
 
 Agatha's laughing face contrasted with. 
 Maurice's darker and more thoughtful coun- 
 tenance, till I could hardly believe that they 
 really were mother and child. The sweet, 
 pure happiness that glowed on Agatha's still 
 lovely face, made her a thousand times 
 more fascinating in my eyes than she had 
 ever appeared in by-gone days when — under 
 the chaperonage of Mrs. St. Leger — she had 
 made her debut in the great world of fashion- 
 able life. So thought my friend, Mrs. Lei- 
 cester, when, after many delays, I at last 
 prevailed on her to pay Woodbury a visit. 
 So must have thought all those who valued 
 the " human face divine," not for its bloom of 
 complexion, or regularity of feature, but for 
 that spirit of the Divine therein imaged, 
 which reflects itself in tender lights, and 
 sweet wreathing smiles, and eyes that gleam 
 with a soft, spiritual glow.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 At the close of Maurice's school career, he 
 expressed a decided wish to go to Oxford. 
 Of course my sister was obliged to submit, 
 comforting herself at the time by visions of 
 pleasant foreign travel to be enjoyed together 
 during the long vacation. But Maurice's 
 grand ideal of university life was doomed 
 to disappointment. The eager, hearty school- 
 boy life, with its rude principles of self- 
 government, its generous recognition of 
 superiority, and its strong instincts of 
 human fellowship, could not find a worthy 
 exchange in the " cliques " and worldliness 
 of college life. Maurice did not feel dis- 
 posed to cast in his lot with any particular 
 set. He could not join the reading men, 
 who sat up half the night drinking green
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 155 
 
 tea, Mviih wet towels round their heads, and 
 only permitted themselves to breathe the free 
 air of heaven during a short " constitutional " 
 undertaken for duty's sake. Nor could he 
 join hands with those boating, racing, sport- 
 ing men, who appear to look on our great 
 universities as " gymnasiums " for the de- 
 velopment of muscle and sinew. Neither 
 could he cast in his lot with the fast men, 
 the racing men, the wine-giving men, or 
 any other of those confraternities of dissi- 
 pation, which seem such peculiar nurseries 
 for the development and training of our 
 future pastors and masters. Maurice longed 
 for the hearty equality of the St. Winifred's 
 cricket-field, where the idle, the studious, 
 the sober, and the frivolous, met together 
 on a common ground, and where the nobler 
 and wiser of the community — by the force 
 of silent example — helped to leaven the mass 
 of schoolboy worldliness and vice. Maurice 
 found no such level platform at Oxford, and 
 the sense of human sympathy and fellowship, 
 that had always been a necessity of life with 
 him, was terribly lacking. Some of the old
 
 156 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 despondency crept over liim. From the 
 eager lieiglits of boyhood he had looked, 
 with earnest longing, on the future out- 
 stretched before him, and had sighed often 
 for the time when it should be his turn to 
 take his place in the great world, and join 
 in the struggles and victories of life. At 
 the very outset, he found himself disap- 
 pointed and discouraged. He had always 
 had great faith in the power of public 
 opinion, believing it to be to the mass what 
 conscience is to the individual. Without 
 precisely committing himself to the theory 
 that " the voice of the people is the voice 
 of God," he held that the opinion of the 
 majority of mankind must generally be right, 
 because the influence of the wise and good 
 must in due time leaven the indifference and 
 selfish indolence which pervades society more 
 generally than actual wrong-doing, and, per- 
 haps, is no less deadly in its effects. Mau- 
 rice believed that right principles had only 
 to be candidly and fairly stated, to win for 
 them universal acceptance. Had he not him- 
 self frequently seen a fresh imj^etus given to
 
 GENTLEMAN TERSCUOTLE. 157 
 
 a crowd of tliouglitless boys — bent on some 
 foolisli or wicked act — by a few timely words 
 uttered by some monitor, or favourite master, 
 who was able to strip tlie deed from its 
 specious mask and exhibit it in all the naked 
 deformity of evil ? Had not the crowd in- 
 variably gone with the higher voice, and had 
 not he, Maurice, had the ineffable satisfac- 
 tion of punching the heads of the recal- 
 citrant and invincibly ignorant ? Cruelty 
 and cowardliness had fled discomfited before 
 the rude tribunal of schoolboy justice. Oc- 
 casionally, a " bad set " had leagued to upset 
 order and defy morality, but the sixth form 
 generally had the best of it. Maurice was 
 no sickly hot-house plant — no innocent dar- 
 ling, fresh from the home nursery — what boy 
 ever is who has passed through the ordeal of 
 a public school ? Every phase of sin which is 
 afterwards to be encounteredin the world, every 
 deadly temptation of the flesh and the devil 
 is vanquished or yielded to in the little world 
 of school. Maurice saw enough at St. Wini- 
 fred's to prepare him for any of the sad after 
 revelations of colleQ:e life. He did not ex-
 
 158 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 pect to see the wheat separated from the 
 tares ; but what he did look for was, that his 
 favourite weapon, " public opinion," should.be 
 found protesting against vice and cowardice, 
 and boldly upholding the eternal principles 
 of truth and purity. Alas, poor Maurice ! 
 He found a great deal of sin, a great deal 
 of open disregard of truth and virtue ; this 
 he had expected to find. What startled and' 
 shocked him was the indifference, the selfish- 
 ness, the deadly slothfulness that pervaded 
 all ranks of undergraduate society. Not 
 that Oxford at that time was without its 
 religious sets. Thank God, the " schools of 
 our prophets " have never yet been found 
 destitute of men who acknowledge the divine 
 Presence, and hold fast to the eternal verities 
 of God. There were two " religious sets " 
 at Oxford at the time of Maurice's residence. 
 One much given to extemporary prayer- 
 meetings ; the other to hair-shirts and primi- 
 tive discipline. In both parties Maurice 
 rejoiced to find elements of heavenly truth ; 
 with both he could join hands, sympathizing 
 in the one with the clear insight which
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 159 
 
 enabled its disciples to approach the Throne 
 of God without the aid of human intervention, 
 believing and knowing that God *' is a Spirit," 
 and that He must be worshipped in spirit 
 and in truth. On the other hand, Maurice 
 admired and sympathized with the self-sacri- 
 ficing zeal of the newly arisen Tractarian 
 party, and heartily joined with them on 
 those points of apostolic origin and sacra- 
 mental life which he had been taught to 
 venerate by Mr. Vernon. But, alas, for Mau- 
 rice ! At first eagerly received by both 
 parties, each soon began to look coldly on 
 him. He subscribed to no party " shibbo- 
 leths," he adopted no " party " jargon ; very 
 soon he discovered that he could find no rest 
 for the sole of his foot amongst the " religious 
 circles " of Oxford. 
 
 So Maurice, in the midst of plenty, seemed 
 likely to die of famine. His great hunger for 
 human sympathy remained unsatisfied. The 
 reading men would discuss Homer and Plato 
 with him, but nothing else. The athletes 
 welcomed at first his strong arm, and his un- 
 failing, good-tempered assistance whenever
 
 160 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 an " oar " was wanted, and liis good seat and 
 his good taste in liorse-flesh. But when they 
 found that Maurice did not drink, that he did 
 not bet, that he looked coldly on the society 
 of professional jockeys and black-legs, and 
 was voted by them " a proud, staud-ofi&sh 
 sort of chap," and also that the peculiar 
 refinement of his manner and choice of ex- 
 pression gave to themselves an uncomfortable 
 sense of inferiority, they, too, gave Maurice 
 the cold shoulder, and he was again thrown 
 on his own resources. Of course, Maurice 
 was not wholly without friends. There were 
 many men at Oxford solitary units like him- 
 self, who could not easily throw themselves 
 into any special " set," and who fully appre- 
 ciated Maurice's catholic sympathies and 
 liberal tastes. He formed many warm in- 
 dividual friendships, but these did not supply 
 the lack of wider fellowship. Life at college 
 was not the grand, outstretching existence he 
 had hoped to find. Piety and learning, and 
 physical beauty, which were obliged to be 
 separated into different " cliques," instead 
 of aiding by their diverse gifts to build up
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 161 
 
 and strengthen the living edifice, did not 
 realize his ideal of what a nniversity ought 
 to be. For a short time he threw in his lot 
 with those of the undergraduates, who made 
 political economy and the theory of govern- 
 ment their study, and were great at debating 
 clubs. With these Maurice hoped to find his 
 ideal hfe — a life that merged all questions of 
 self-interest in the common good. Some of 
 the new theories struck him as beings wonder* 
 fully real and beautiful. He became a very 
 ardent disciple of the new school, and with 
 the fervour of a convert was prepared to 
 go all lengths, believing that he had found 
 realized, in that little circle of hot-headed 
 youths, the practical force of Christianity. 
 It was a terrible revulsion to discover as he 
 did, after pursuing some of the subjects to 
 their logical issue, that this phase of Chris- 
 tianity simply meant " Socialism," and that 
 such theories carried out to their proper 
 end, would result in the overthrow of all that 
 is venerable and holy, and that " kingcraft 
 and priestcraft " were better after all than 
 that most debasing and tyrannical of all 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 thraldoms — the empire of the individual 
 will. 
 
 Maurice turned away very sadly from this 
 last disappointment. During the remainder 
 of his college life he lived very quietly, enjoy- 
 ing the society of his intimate friends, work- 
 ing conscientiously for his degree, and pur- 
 suing his favourite scientific studies. He 
 was not exactly unhappy, but he had learnt 
 a very bitter lesson. He had discovered life 
 to be less satisfactory than he had hoped to 
 find it. The struggle between good and evil 
 was less clearly defined than he had imagined. 
 There was so much selfish indolence and ex- 
 clusiveness on the side of what appeared to 
 be good, there was so much kindliness and 
 heartiness on the side of what he knew to be 
 bad — that it really was very puzzling. People 
 did not seem to be black and white. Maurice 
 discovered a vast multitude who were merely 
 grey — neither reaching up to the heights of 
 God nor sinking to the depths of Satan — 
 people who were not actually vicious, and yet 
 Tv^ho lived as though there was no Ruler of 
 the world, who never extended longing, trem-
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 163 
 
 bling hands out into the darkness and mys- 
 tery that surrounds our world, and groped 
 about " if haply they might feel after God." 
 They seemed perfectly contented with this 
 present world, and led tolerably inoffensive 
 lives ; perhaps they were less disagreeable 
 to others than was poor Maurice sometimes 
 when he was tossed about with all sorts of 
 difficulties and perplexing questionings. His 
 joyous spirit was a good deal saddened by 
 his college experience. Very desponding 
 utterances often fell from his lips. He felt 
 less sure of himself, of society, of public 
 opinion, than he used to feel, but he never 
 felt less sure of God. He never lost sight of 
 those "grand, simple landmarks of morality." 
 He never ceased to " cling obstinately to 
 moral good," feeling that even if he did not 
 believe in God and in a future state, it would 
 still " be better to be generous than to be 
 selfish, better to be true than false, better to 
 be brave than to be a coward." 
 
 Another subject weighed hea^dly on Mau- 
 rice's mind during his last year at college. 
 With saddened eyes he now looked out npou 
 M 2
 
 164 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOTLE. 
 
 the future, and found there no bright, hopeful 
 light to illuminate the dull, level plain which 
 stretched before him. He saw no prospect 
 of ever enrolling himself in the ranks of that 
 struggling army whose battle-field is the 
 world. Had he been the son of Sir Joyce 
 Verschoyle his energies would have found 
 ample scope in the duties of his position as 
 a landowner and a magistrate. He would 
 have given his mind to those branches of 
 political economy which concern the moral 
 and physical welfare of the agricultural 
 labourer. He would have become a model 
 farmer, and have shown himself indefatigable 
 in the search of the best methods of draining 
 and enriching the soil. But, as it was, 
 Maurice found himself simply the heir to 
 his father's good name, whilst dependent 
 on his mother's bounty, and entirely free 
 from the responsibilities that are so wisely 
 attached to wealth and social position. 
 Maurice's allowance was large and liberal 
 enough to satisfy the requirements of the 
 most extravagant, and he spent his money 
 freely and royally as became " his father's
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 165 
 
 son." It never occurred to Maurice that 
 lie might sometime be in need of money, 
 or that mercenary motives would ever serve 
 as incentives to his ambition. He used what 
 he owned unquestioningly, as he breathed the 
 air ; both were necessary to existence. Money 
 was the happy accident of his position, and 
 he accommodated himself to it as, under 
 other circumstances, he would have accom- 
 modated himself to a hump-back or a lame 
 foot. Then, again, he accepted his father's 
 good name, and the deference that came with 
 it, much in the same easy fashion. It never 
 occurred to him that, under any circum- 
 stances, he could ever have been anything 
 but a gentleman ! In his most republican 
 days, when he was a member of the debating- 
 club, and spoke much on behalf of the hard- 
 handed sons of labour, and vindicated their 
 claims to a fuller share in the rights of 
 citizenship, declaring the vote of a working- 
 man, who could barely spell out his own 
 name, to be just as valuable as that of an 
 educated and polished gentleman — even in 
 those days it had never occurred to Maurice
 
 166 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 to seal his opinions by putting himself on 
 a social level with those " fellow-citizens " 
 whose cause he espoused so warmly. He 
 believed even then in a principle of equahty 
 that would still compel the toiling " fellow- 
 citizen" to call him "sir," whilst he ad- 
 dressed him by his Christian name, or called 
 him " my good fellow," by virtue of that 
 very social distinction which he affected to 
 despise. So there were two elements at 
 work and at war within Maurice's breast — 
 the one, by the force of long habit and tradi- 
 tion, preserving in him the instincts of family 
 pride; the other, by the power of his ever- 
 widening sympathies and keen insight into 
 the sufferings and joylessness of the majority 
 of mankind, ranking him very near the level 
 of democracy. His sentiments were aris- 
 tocratic ; his principles led him to espouse 
 the cause of the people. The happy blend- 
 ing of Conservative tradition and Liberal 
 policy now to be found in many noble 
 examples in our Houses of Parliament was 
 very rare in the days when Maurice was 
 passing through his university course.
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 167 
 
 Political ranks were then defined in hard 
 and rigid lines, very different from the 
 present system of shadings-off into " Con- 
 servative Liberal" and "Liberal Conser- 
 vative," which is so sadly confusing to the 
 nicely adjusted political opinions of the weaker 
 sex. Politics were easy enough to master when 
 / was a girl. Now, unless I look carefully at 
 the name of the " Honourable Member," and 
 find out on which side he ranks himself, I 
 find it impossible to discover whether he is a 
 Conservative or Liberal, so liberal have all 
 become. But it was far different in Maurice's 
 younger days. Then, there was no danger 
 of floundering unawares into the enemy's 
 tent. Each party occupied its o^vn camp, 
 and marched under its own banner. This 
 was what Maurice could not do. When Sir 
 Joyce suggested that he should stand at the 
 next election to represent the Conservative 
 interest, Maurice immediately replied that 
 the thing was not to be thought of. He 
 could never tie himself down to party Shib- 
 boleths, and really was not sufficiently sure 
 of his poHtical convictions to write himself
 
 168 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 " Conservative." Sir Joyce recoiled in 
 horror ! In spite of his secluded life, and 
 his entomological pursuits, he had retained 
 enough of the good old gentlemanly spirit 
 to be sure that " good blood," as well as 
 Providence, must be always on the side 
 of the Tories. The very idea of a " Ver- 
 schoyle " allowing himself to be " put up " in 
 the Liberal interest, and supported by all the 
 tradespeople, and mill-owners, and Manches- 
 ter traders in the town, was enough to make 
 tlie good Baronet's hair stand on end, and 
 Maurice was never again invited to represent 
 the county. Looking back on the past, I am 
 unable to discover whether Maurice decided 
 wisely or not. Certainly a seat in Parlia- 
 ment would have afforded a fine field for the 
 development of those warm human interests 
 which were the distinctive marks of his char- 
 acter. All measures for the promotion of 
 sanitary reform, the spread of education, and 
 the improvement of the moral condition of 
 the people, would have found a noble advo- 
 cate in Maurice. But on the other hand, 
 how could he base his candidature on the
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 169 
 
 avowal of principles he did not hold ? Or 
 liow could he reconcile to his conscience the 
 wholesale system of bribery which he soon 
 saw carried out by Sir Joyce's own son, 
 a young stripling some five years older than 
 Maurice, who had sucked in Conservative 
 prejudices with his mother's milk, and who 
 believed that the first circles in heaven were 
 reserved for the old county families ! So 
 Maurice turned his back on the only career 
 that seemed to open promisingly before him. 
 He had no particular bent towards any profes- 
 sion, he did not feel his vocation to be the 
 Church. The bar did not attract him, nor 
 the army or navy. He inclined chiefly to 
 medicine, believing it to be of all professions 
 the most happy in its results. It was also 
 the only one that afl'orded full scope to 
 scientific inquiry, and brought at the same 
 time the blessed sense of useful contact with 
 living and suffering men. This profession 
 was the only one that Agatha set her face 
 decidedly against ! He might amuse himself 
 with a " vocation " if he liked, though she 
 preferred his remaining at home. There was
 
 170 GENTLEMAN VEKSCHOYLE. 
 
 a living in the gift of the Verschoyle family 
 which would suit him exactly. The bar too 
 was a gentlemanly calling. The army had 
 been his father's own profession, and a com- 
 mission in the household troops was to be 
 had for the asking. But medicine — Faugh ! 
 the noble hands of a "Yerschoyle" must 
 never be found smelling of ointments, or 
 defiled with the pounding of pills. There 
 was something perfectly shocking in the 
 idea of a Yerschoyle being called up at any 
 hour of the night to set an old woman's leg, 
 or mend the broken pate of an Irish coster- 
 monger. Such a thing was not to be thought 
 of! And Maurice did not refer to it again. 
 He was not sure that he had any singular gift 
 or calling which would justify opposition on 
 the subject. Had he felt some special in- 
 sight, some deepening convictions, some 
 voice calling him imperatively to the work — 
 he would not have been silenced so easily, but 
 as he did not, the matter was quietly dropped. 
 But this uncertainty about the future, and 
 the hopelessness that grew out of the ever- 
 strengthening conviction that life held out
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 171 
 
 for him no very noble aims, made Maurice's 
 last year at college a very sad one. I did 
 not know it at tlie time, neither do I think 
 it necessary to record the various sources 
 from which I draw my knowledge of my 
 nephew's life. At many other periods, I 
 have been indebted to other eyes and other 
 pens for the revelations that could not other- 
 wise have reached me. The patient arrange- 
 ment of these facts so as to form a consecu- 
 tive history is the work I have set myself to 
 perform.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 "Any news from Maurice?" asked Mr. Ver- 
 non one evening, making liis appearance in 
 riding-dress at the door, just as we were 
 setting out on our usual after-dinner stroll 
 up and down the terrace. 
 
 " Yes, I had a good long letter this morn- 
 ing," Agatha replied. " He has written to 
 tell me that after he leaves Oxford he means 
 to go for a trip to the Mediterranean. He 
 will spend a short time at Gibraltar, where 
 his uncle. Colonel Verschoyle, is now sta- 
 tioned. He has just returned from India, 
 you know, and Gibraltar is the stepping- 
 stone to an English station. I am glad 
 Maurice is going; for once, Mr. Vernon, I 
 am not selfish ! You see, I know that I 
 shall soon have him akvays with me."
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 173 
 
 Mr. Vernon made no reply, but a short 
 and somewhat impatient sigh told me that 
 he did not altogether approve of such a 
 " mapping-out " of Maurice's future. 
 
 " I have just come from the Hall Farm," 
 Mr. Vernon said, changing the conversation 
 abruptly. *' You will be surprised to hear 
 that I found great difficulty in tearing myself 
 away." 
 
 "Indeed; are Mrs. Payne's charms so 
 potent?" laughed Agatha. 
 
 " No ; she was — as she always is — the 
 bitter ingredient in the cup ; but imagine my 
 surprise, when I entered that gloomy, wood- 
 panelled dining-room, to discover — a young 
 lady ! She was lying down on the exceed- 
 ingly hard, uncomfortable sofa which stands 
 against the wall, and she looked altogether 
 as unhappy and suffering, and yet fasci- 
 nating, a picture as I ever saw. She seemed 
 so thoroughly out of place, too, in that un- 
 youthful, grim household that I had great 
 difficulty to prevent myself from putting 
 her through a catechism of ' whys ' and 
 ' wheres.' Mrs. Payne, for once, proved her-
 
 174 GENTLEMAN VERSOHOYLE. 
 
 self a blessing ; she told me the whole history 
 with the most perfect composure, although, 
 the poor child winced visibly at some of her 
 remarks. It appears that Mr. Rosendale 
 had a brother in orders, a highly-gifted 
 man. I have often heard his name, yet I 
 never thought of connecting him witli our 
 neighbours at the Farm. Whilst a curate he 
 fell in love — as curates are apt to do — and 
 married the penniless daughter of his rector, 
 a man of first-rate family, and holding a very 
 good position in the county. The girl was a 
 beauty, and she had been expected to make a 
 grand match and retrieve the fallen fortunes 
 of her house, so her marriage was a cause of 
 great vexation to the family. Soon after her 
 marriage she lost her father, and very shortly 
 her husband was taken from her ; so the 
 poor thing, deserted by her family, was cast 
 on the wide world with her infant daughter, 
 the young lady I have described. Mr. Rosen- 
 dale seems to have behaved very well ; he 
 made his sister-in-law a sufl&cient allowance 
 to enable her to live abroad with her little 
 girl and give her a good education ; but I
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSGHOYLE. 175 
 
 don't think there was ever very much love 
 lost between them, and Mrs. Payne's tone hi 
 speaking of her brother-in-law's dependent 
 young relative fairly enraged me; I don't 
 think I ever felt so angry in my life," the 
 good Vicar went on, the sensitive colour 
 flushing his brow as he spoke. "I hardly 
 knew how to sit still as that dreadful woman 
 enumerated in her hard, grating voice the 
 sums of money Mr. Rosendale had expended 
 on his sister-in-law's maintenance and on the 
 education of this poor girl, who turned every 
 shade of crimson as she listened to the 
 recital." 
 
 "What a shame!" Agatha said indig- 
 nantly. " Dora, do remind me to give Mrs. 
 Payne ' two fingers ' next time I call there. 
 But, Mr. Vernon, where is the girl's mother?" 
 
 " She died five years ago, and Miss Hope 
 — that is the young lady's name — has con- 
 tinued her education at the French school 
 where her mother had first placed her. All 
 this, and the exact sum disbursed by Mr. 
 Rosendale, was made clear to me by the 
 eloquent Mrs. Payne. Miss Eosendale is
 
 176 . GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 now eigliteen years of age. She lias finislied 
 her education — according to the correct 
 phrase — and six weeks ago she was brought 
 for the first time to her uncle's home. She 
 caught cold in travelling, and has been laid 
 up with an attack of inflammation of the 
 lungs and fever ever since. She came down- 
 stairs to-day for tlie first time. Poor child ! 
 Anything more weary and desolate than her 
 young face I never saw before ; I can't drive 
 it out of my head," the Vicar said half to 
 himself. 
 
 " I wonder we have not heard of her from 
 Dr. Roberts," said Agatha. 
 
 " She has the doctor from Leighton ; the 
 Hall family are homoeopathists, you know." 
 
 " Oh ! I can fancy Mrs. Payne dosing the 
 poor girl every half -hour with horrible little 
 globules and soundly rating her all the while; 
 and then, I know, she considers she has a 
 talent for doctoring; she is always digging 
 up roots and making all sorts of nauseous 
 decoctions which the poor are obliged to 
 swallow before they can get a can of soup or 
 a scrap of cold meat from her kitchen. Never
 
 GENTLEMAN VEKSCHOTLE. 177 
 
 shall I forget what I endured when, out of 
 politeness, I tasted some of her spruce-beer. 
 Dora, who is so uncompromisingly truthful, 
 said immediately she didn't like it ; so, for 
 the credit of the Verschoyles, I was obliged 
 to go on sipping, and smiling, and hiding 
 my wry faces. Oh, it was terrible ! And 
 fancy that poor girl undergoing such an or- 
 deal ! Dora, we will go to the Hall Farm to- 
 morrow and see after this distressed damsel." 
 
 The farmers in the neighbourhood of 
 Woodbury belonged to the fast-fading race 
 of English yeomen. The land was mapped 
 out in a few large farms which descended 
 from father to son, and, although this was 
 very destructive to the spirit of enterprise 
 and progress, as it entirely prevented any 
 industrious, intelligent labourer from form- 
 ing any laudable schemes for " bettering 
 himself," by becoming the proprietor of a 
 few acres of ground, it certainly tended to 
 promote a very loyal and afifectionate feeling 
 amongst the tenantry. Good yeomen — they 
 were as proud of their hereditary claims as 
 Sir Joyce Yerschoyle himself. The Verschoyle 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 family history contained records of families 
 now living on the estate, whose members had 
 done their lord good service in times of civil 
 war. These men had no wish to rise in the 
 world, or to exchange their position for any 
 other. Comfortable people are generally 
 models of contentment. The " dangerous 
 classes" consist of the ill-educated, the ill- 
 paid, and the ill-fed. Quite beautiful senti- 
 ments of staunch Conservative loyalty 
 might be heard from the lips of these well- 
 to-do, prosperous farmers, who had held their 
 land under the Yerschoyle family from gene- 
 ration to generation. The sons of these men 
 were not unfrequently to be found amongst 
 the ranks of the liberal professions, and a 
 stray red-coat, or an eloquent young curate 
 was occasionally introduced by the proud 
 father as " my boy." The leading tenant, 
 Mr. Rosendale, lived at the Hall Farm. I 
 could remember him as long as I remember 
 Woodbury itself. His clearly-cut, hard- 
 featured physiognomy, his scrupulous neat- 
 ness of attire, his cold blue eyes and silvery- 
 white hair, his decorous behaviour, as he sat
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 179 
 
 in the corner of his family pew — the next to 
 our own — had arrested my attention on the 
 first Sunday after my arrival. He lived on 
 the farm with his widowed sister-in-law, Mrs. 
 Payne, a singularly disagreeable person whom 
 we avoided on all possible occasions. Indeed, 
 so much did we dislike Mrs. Payne, and her 
 "genteel" manners, and her lengthy remi- 
 niscences of " Clapham " society, and her 
 insufferable tone of superiority, that our 
 visits to Mr. E-osendale were less frequent 
 than to any of the other tenants. It was 
 therefore rather an event in our existences 
 when, on the day following Mr. Vernon's 
 discovery, we found ourselves setting out for 
 the Hall Farm. 
 
 It was a dark, gloomy afternoon. The 
 cold wind whistled mournfully through the 
 trees as we drove along. Agatha chose 
 the nearest road, which skirted an extensive 
 tract of barren common-ground. Ominous- 
 looking clouds were sweeping across the 
 sky. The distant hills stood out darkly 
 on the horizon. Down one of the rugged 
 tracks that crossed the common, a herd of 
 N 2
 
 180 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 cattle were quietly stepping and trying to 
 keep their feet away from the hard patches of 
 jagged, sandy ground which dotted the turf. 
 Out in the road one great tree reared its 
 solitary head. A tramp sat under its shelter 
 — a wicked-looking, blear-eyed old man — " 
 who sent his little son to beg from the cattle- 
 drover, and cursed him roundly because he 
 brought back no half -pence in his little hand. 
 A wide-opened gate indicated the approach 
 to the Hall Farm. We drove along a road 
 bordered on each side by an expanse of flat 
 pasture ground. The house, a solid, unin- 
 teresting-looking structure, stood out rigidly 
 against the gloomy sky. A cold blast of 
 wind swept up the pasture-land as we de- 
 scended from the pony-carriage, and stood 
 on the clean, bare-looking threshold. No 
 wonder that the young wife, brought years 
 ago from liondon to this dreary abode, had 
 soon drooped and withered away. Mr. 
 Rosendale came out to meet us. This was 
 his idea of befitting respect to the lady who 
 represented the feminine portion of the Ver- 
 schoyle family. He was not influenced by
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOTLE. 181 
 
 the same sentiment of warm, loyal affection 
 wliicli bound some of the other tenants so 
 closely to the widow of Philip Verschoyle. 
 His greeting was ceremoniously and chill- 
 ingly respectful. His cold, blue eyes did not 
 even kindle into a momentary gleam of 
 warmth, as Agatha, with winning cordiality 
 extended her hand to clasp his in friendly 
 greeting. His pride in his own position was 
 so firmly established that he could afford 
 better to pay Agatha her meed of respectful 
 homage, than to accept the graceful offer of 
 courteous equality which might be translated 
 to mean — " patronage." 
 
 Agatha was in nowise chilled, though I 
 felt the icyness of the old man's greeting 
 freeze into the marrow of my bones. She 
 kept up a ripple of graceful, animated talk as 
 her grim cavalier conducted her across the 
 slippery, oak-floored hall to the sitting-room. 
 A 3^oung girl rose from her low seat close to the 
 window, and bowed with calm self-possession. 
 
 " My niece," Mr. Rosendale said shortly, 
 by way of introduction. " Hope, place a 
 chair for Mrs. Verschoyle."
 
 182 GENTLEMAN VEESOHOYLE. 
 
 The chair was moved to the spot indicated 
 by her uncle's finger, and then the girl re- 
 tired to her low seat. She never raised her 
 eyes to ours. I can see her now, sitting in 
 that window, holding her work in her hand — 
 some coarse, household sewing which had 
 been probably given her by Mrs. Payne. 
 She was tall — as tall as Agatha, but much 
 slighter — her figure was lithe and supple, 
 and her movements graceful. Her dark hair 
 was plaited tightly around her head. She 
 was dressed in black, which rendered all the 
 more striking the deadly pallor of her face. 
 Her features were irregular but delicately 
 formed, the mouth rather large, but full- 
 lipped and sensitive, the eyebrows arched 
 and clearly defined. Altogether not a pretty, 
 but a very uncommon face. The eyes would 
 decide the scale in favour of beauty or plain- 
 ness. 
 
 Ah, I thought so. Large dark-grey eyes, 
 and lashes that swept her cheek. Decidedly 
 a beautiful face if any one cared to look long 
 enough, but her want of complexion will 
 always prevent her from being a " drawing-
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 183 
 
 room " belle. Never mind, Miss Hope, your 
 face has satisfied me. There are spiritual 
 depths in those grey eyes of yours, that will 
 shine out some day like sudden celestial 
 lights reflected on the surface of some lone 
 forest pool. 
 
 Agatha, with her wonted tact, concealed 
 entirely the object of her visit. For some time 
 she took not the slightest notice of Hope. 
 She discussed parish politics with Mr. Rosen- 
 dale, deplored the indisposition of Mrs. 
 Payne, who was confined to her room with a 
 sick headache, and after exhausting the whole 
 vocabulary of current topics, she brought the 
 conversation around gracefully to Hope. 
 
 " Your niece has only just returned from 
 France, so Mr. Vernon tells me. How do 
 you like England, Miss Rosendale?" 
 
 Hope raised her dark, serious eyes to my 
 sister's face. 
 
 " I do not like it," she said simply, speaking 
 with a sUghtly foreign accent, ' because, — ' " 
 
 Mr. Ro send ale's dry, cold voice finished 
 the sentence. 
 
 " My niece has lived so long amongst
 
 184 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLB. 
 
 foreigners that slie cannot accommodate 
 herself to plain English ways. Her mother 
 preferred France to her native land, and she 
 has brought up Hope in all her new-fangled 
 ideas, till she is fit for nothing but her 
 piano." 
 
 A painful flush passed over Hope's face. 
 
 " We lived abroad, madam," she said 
 steadily, " because we were poor, and my 
 mother wished to educate me well, so that I 
 might be able to earn my own living — as I 
 wish to do now." 
 
 Mr. Rosendale bit his lips. Poverty in his 
 eyes was the most unpardonable of crimes. 
 Hope could hardly have let fly any other 
 arrow that would have wounded him so 
 sorely. 
 
 " You do not look very fit to talk about 
 earning your living," my sister said very 
 kindly. All her motherly instincts, all the 
 best feelings of her nature, were aroused by 
 the helpless sadness of this orphan girl. 
 
 " I am not very strong," Hope replied, 
 " and ever since I came to England I have 
 been ill. Perhaps that is why I do not like it."
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 185 
 
 The vision of Mrs. Payne as a sick-nurse 
 floated before my sister's eyes as tlie girl 
 spoke. On the impulse of the moment her 
 next speech was made. 
 
 " Would not a little change do you good ? 
 Will you come and stay with me for a few 
 weeks, till you get a little stronger ?" 
 
 Hope did not reply, but for one rapid 
 moment her eyes sought her uncle's face. 
 His answer was soon given. 
 
 " I think it advisable that my niece should 
 learn to accustom herself to her home — my 
 house is now her home." 
 
 I thought I detected a slight shiver creep 
 across Hope's frame. 
 
 " Like many inconsiderate young people, 
 she is fond of talking at random," Mr. 
 Rosendale went on. " There is not the least 
 occasion for any one who bears my name to 
 go out as a governess, as she talks of doing, 
 neither should I permit it. Hope, therefore, 
 had better accustom herself as soon as 
 possible to the conditions of her new home. 
 I do not wish her to seek out of her 
 own station in life, those social enjoyments
 
 186 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 whicli cannot be found in lier uncle's 
 house." 
 
 The old man made this reply in the same 
 dry, sarcastic voice. Every sentence was 
 uttered clearly and trenchantly. He con- 
 cluded with the air of one who considered 
 the subject to be thoroughly exhausted. But 
 my sister's sudden whim was not to be 
 baulked. The offer she had been first led 
 to make from an impulse of pure good nature 
 now became strengthened by the opposition 
 it received. As Agatha Grey, my sister, had 
 never brooked contradiction, and now, as 
 Agatha Verschoyle, she felt she possessed 
 just claims to universal deference. 
 
 " Come, Mr. Rosendale," she said in her 
 pretty, wilful way, as fascinating now as it 
 ever was twenty years ago ; "do not let 
 us talk about ' station ' and ' social enjoy- 
 ments.' There is no such question between 
 us. I only want to carry off this poor sick 
 child for a little change of air. I am sure 
 this house is too bleak for her just now." 
 
 My sister could hardly refrain from shiver- 
 ing, as her eye roamed around the great barn-
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 187 
 
 looking apartment and then on the level, cold 
 expanse of pasture-land outside. 
 
 " She will like to sit in the greenhouse, and 
 sun herself on the terrace," Agatha con- 
 tinued. " You know what a warm, sheltered 
 position we enjoy. Come, Mr. Rosendale, I 
 will not be gainsayed. You must let your 
 niece come to me. I have set my heart on 
 it." 
 
 What would have been a smile on any other 
 face flitted across the old man's frosty coun- 
 tenance like a gleam of cold, wintry sunlight. 
 It shed no warmth, no genial, kindly ray. 
 The momentary illumination seemed only to 
 reveal more plainly the rigid coldness of his 
 physiognomy. 
 
 " Hope can go, of course, if you insist, 
 Mrs. Verschoyle. The Rosendales were ever 
 a loyal race. If my memory serves me, there 
 is an anecdote inscribed in your family records 
 which tells of an ancestor of mine, who, in 
 the heat of battle, gave up his horse at his 
 lord's command, and fought on foot for the 
 remainder of the day." 
 
 The old man's eyes rested on Agatha's
 
 188 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 face witli au expression of sarcastic, proud 
 humility. Agatlia lauglied. 
 
 " I must say you make me feel ashamed of 
 my ancestor. Raoul Verschoyle should have 
 set a better example to his followers than 
 that of robbing his faithful squire of his 
 horse ! Miss Rosendale, if your uncle's 
 story has not frightened you, I shall expect 
 you to-morrow at any hour you like to come. 
 You will like the change, will you not ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think so, madam," was Hope's 
 reply, as she raised a pair of very grateful 
 eyes to my sister's face. 
 
 " There ought to be no question of think- 
 ing, Hope," came from her uncle's cold, 
 withered lips. "Mrs. Verschoyle is con- 
 ferring on you an honour which is accorded 
 to few. I, myself, have never entered her 
 house." 
 
 " Where is my parasol ? " Agatha said, 
 coolly disregarding Mr. Rosendale's covert 
 sneer. " Thank you for the loan of your 
 niece, Mr. Rosendale; and, oh, do tell Mrs. 
 Payne how sorry I am her headache is so 
 bad."
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 189 
 
 The impatient ponies went off at a good 
 round trot. The chilly breeze as it came 
 sweeping up the pasture-land lifted the 
 hair from Mr. Rosendale's forehead as he 
 stood with his arms folded on the threshold 
 of the door. I could not help ejaculating 
 a mental thanksgiving when a sudden turn 
 brought us out on the highway, and the 
 Hall Farm and its cold, impassive master 
 were lost to our sight.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Agatha's sudden freak fairly took me by sur- 
 prise. Her intercourse with her brother-in- 
 law's tenants had always been characterized 
 by a clear recognition of their respective 
 stand-points. As Sir Joyce was a widower, 
 she had frequently presided at the festive 
 gatherings that took place from time to time 
 at the Hall, and I often envied the perfect 
 ease and winning cordiality of manner which 
 made her so popular amongst the tenantry. 
 Yet, with all her graciousness, her pleasant 
 courtesy, and her kindly tact, it was easy to 
 see that she never for one moment lost sight 
 of the fact that she was a being of a superior 
 order. Because she was not reserved and 
 unsympathizing like Sir Joyce, or insolent 
 and overbearing like his son and heir, Comp-
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 191 
 
 ton Versctioyle, it is not to be supposed that 
 she descended one inch from the lofty pin- 
 nacle on which the Verschoyle family had 
 stood from generation to generation. Her 
 wit, her " sociability," her flow of pleasant 
 small talk, although these endeared her to her 
 humble neighbours, never raised them a 
 single step from the level on which she kept 
 them standing by the force of her exquisite 
 courtesy. I have said many times in the 
 course of this story that Agatha was horn 
 to fill a high position. I never realized this 
 so strongly as in watching her intercourse 
 with her so-called inferiors. She stood so 
 firmly planted on the height of her position, 
 so assured of the power of good blood and a 
 good name, so quiet and calm in the posses- 
 sion of her right to social deference, that I 
 sometimes passed my hand across my brow 
 in puzzled bewilderment, and asked myself if 
 this really ivas my sister Agatha, or if a 
 fairy princess had not stolen her away from 
 her cradle and slipped into her place some 
 aristocratic offshoot of a noble house, who, 
 by marriage, found herself restored to her
 
 192 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 rightful position. Agatlia seemed to have 
 completely forgotten tlie fact that her own 
 antecedents were the reverse of noble — that 
 our " ancestors," a generation before, had 
 been " nobodies," and that by hard igno- 
 minious toil, the money had been scraped 
 together which she loved to spend so freely. 
 I never dared, by hint of word or look, re- 
 mind her of this distressing but veritable 
 fact. Sometimes I thought that my nephew 
 Maurice had derived some of his practical 
 and persevering habits from his hard-headed 
 maternal ancestors, but I never disclosed my 
 ideas on the subject to my sister. She had 
 not yet discovered him to possess other 
 qualities than those which belong naturally 
 to the well-born and well-bred English gentle- 
 man, and I did not care to be the one to un- 
 deceive her. Yet some very anxious thoughts 
 flitted across my brain as my sister and I sat 
 together in the drawing-room on the evening 
 of our visit to the Hall Farm. Agatha sat 
 in her luxurious arm-chair close to the win- 
 dow, where she could enjoy the gorgeous 
 sunset which came to compensate us for the
 
 GENTLEMAN VEBSCHOYLE. 193 
 
 gloomy cold of the day. Brilliant liues of 
 crimson and orange glowed in the evening 
 sky ; soft, warm tides of sunny light swept 
 over the landscape, and, creeping into the 
 room, played softly on Agatha's face and on 
 the folds of her rich black silk, and touched 
 the fair hand, swept with folds of delicate 
 lace, as it toyed with the pages of a maga- 
 zine. It was a pretty picture, yet somehow 
 it provoked me. The calm contentment 
 with which my sister slipped through life did 
 sometimes act as an irritant to my undis- 
 ciplined mind. Agatha laid down her book 
 and turned her uurafEed face towards me. 
 
 " Maurice will be home next week, Dora. 
 I think we must have a dinner-party soon. 
 Let me see, whom do I oioe a dinner to ? 
 Help me, Dora. There is Colonel Foster 
 and Lady Elizabeth, Mr. and Mrs. Bluett, 
 Sir John Newcome, the Oliphants — can you 
 think of anybody else ?" 
 
 Agatha was leaning back in her chair, 
 with an air of languid enjoyment, as she 
 counted off her " obligations " on hei* 
 fingers. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 " No, I can't tliink of anybody else. When 
 will Maurice return ?" 
 
 " Next Thursday." 
 
 " I thought you had forgotten he was 
 coming home," I said. 
 
 " Forgotten Maurice ! My dear Dora ! 
 What do you mean ?" 
 
 " I mean, Agatha," I said, feeling just as 
 frightened as I used to feel twenty years ago 
 whenever I ventured to differ in opinion from 
 my queenly sister — " I mean that when you 
 gave your invitation to Miss Rosendale, I 
 thought that you had forgotten — Maurice." 
 
 " Dora, I am afraid I must be very dense, 
 for I have certainly not the faintest glimmer 
 of your meaning." 
 
 " I only mean, Agatha, that you are acting 
 in direct opposition to your oft-quoted maxim, 
 that no mother ought to invite a lady to her 
 house whom she would not care to receive as a 
 daughter-in-law. I have heard you say this 
 so often that I must say I was a little sur- 
 prised when I heard you invite Miss Rosen- 
 dale to stay here." 
 
 I was prepared for an impatient reply, but
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESOHOYLE. 195 
 
 certainly not for the peal of uncontrollable 
 laughter whicli now fell on my ears. 
 
 " My dear Dora," Agatlia cried, when she 
 at last found herself able to speak, " I never 
 was so amused in my life ! The idea of your 
 setting up for a romantic match-maker, you 
 most innocent of maiden aunts ! Really, 
 though, I am very amiable not to be angry 
 with you. I may be particular about the 
 style of young ladies I invite to my house, 
 but surely I may allow a farmer's daughter 
 to come for a little change of air, and trust 
 to Maurice's gentlemanly instincts for the 
 rest. Why, Dora, I would as soon suspect 
 him of flirting with the housemaid ! Sup- 
 posing that I had young children, could I 
 not engage a nursery governess without fear 
 of Maurice's heart being stolen — and a pale, 
 sallow-faced girl like that ? I don't think, 
 Dora, we need be under any uneasiness." 
 
 Here the laughter broke out again. The 
 bright pink colour suffusing my sister's cheek, 
 and the thick golden plaits that crowned her 
 beautiful head, seemed to scoff" at the very 
 thought of sallow-faced charms. 
 2
 
 196 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 " You may laugh as you please, Agatha," 
 I repHed, rather huffily, as my sister's amused 
 eyes sought my face, " but I think I have 
 good grounds for what I am saying. Hope 
 s a lady. On her mother's side she is as 
 well-born as Maurice himself, and on her 
 father's side — well, Agatha, she is at all events 
 as well born as we are." 
 
 My sister flushed angrily, but I went on 
 doggedly. I was determined to " say my 
 say." 
 
 " As for her ' sallowness,' I dare say that 
 will improve with her health. Her face is 
 full of mind and feeling. I admire her a 
 great deal more than many girls who are pro- 
 fessed belles ; though she is certainly not what 
 a common observer would call pretty. If you 
 think a little, Agatha, you will, perhaps, ask 
 yourself if you are wise in throwing Maurice 
 into the society of such a girl for several 
 weeks." 
 
 " I am sorry to differ from you," my 
 sister replied coldly, rising at the same time 
 by way of putting an end to the discussion. 
 " I can see no possible reason for changing
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 197 
 
 my mind. Miss Rosendale is an invalid. She 
 will liave her meals sent up to her in the 
 morning room. Probably Maurice will only 
 see her once or twice — and if he does see 
 her every day, I can trust him. I know 
 Maurice will behave like a gentleman, like 
 his father's son." 
 
 Of course I said no more ; and it must not 
 be imagined that I had suddenly become 
 prudent and worldly-wise, and that I coveted 
 for my nephew's bride a woman who would 
 bring him rank and fortune. I concerned 
 myself very little about the matter, and I was 
 most certainly not a match-maker. But Aga- 
 tha had spoken a great deal lately about her 
 views and hopes with regard to Maurice's 
 future, and a "suitable" marriage had entered 
 prominently into her scheme. I wished for 
 a suitable marriage, too, but I used the word 
 in quite another sense. It was just as, years 
 before, when Agatha and I had talked of a 
 " full life," and by our use of the same term, 
 and our attachment thereto of different 
 meanings, had mystified one another con- 
 siderably. Up to the present time Maurice
 
 198 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 had remained heart-whole. He had displayed 
 the most provoking indifference to the charms 
 of his fair country neighbours, and, during 
 his brief visits to town, his attendance at 
 balls and evening parties, and other wife- 
 markets, had been very rare. Not that he 
 was misanthropical — far fi'om it— his dislike 
 to society sprang in a great measure from 
 his intolerance of anything like party spirit 
 and his contempt for class distinctions. He 
 could not enjoy a party given by a duchess 
 more than one given by the wife of a strug- 
 gling barrister. If the people he met were 
 well-bred, and well-informed, he did not care 
 to inquire on what step of the social ladder 
 they were standing. He professed, too, the 
 greatest indifference for money. He had 
 never known any of those sharp humiliating 
 cares that make some men so greedy in the 
 search, and so tenacious of their grasp. He 
 did not care if he dined off silver or willow- 
 pattern, provided the arrangements were 
 tasteful, and the guests pleasant and refined. 
 But these are not London maxims, and 
 Maurice, in consequence, found himself de-
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 199 
 
 spised for liolding them. So lie retired more 
 than ever into his shell, and was voted un- 
 sociable and exclusive, when the real fact 
 was, that his heart was hungry and craving 
 for a wider fellowship, a higher range of 
 human sympathy than the world of fashion 
 could ever satisfy. All this I had seen hinted 
 at or vaguely expressed in Maurice's letters, 
 but his mother had never found the key. 
 Sometimes a bitter speech, or an unguarded 
 utterance, would cause her to express a fear 
 lest Maurice should be imbibing " dangerous 
 views ;" and then would follow a tonder little 
 expostulatory note wintten on crested paper, 
 in Agatha's delicately flowing hand, and ex- 
 pressing the most correct sentiments in the 
 choicest possible language. Maurice would 
 write a laughing reply, full of jokes, puns, 
 and witty sayings, with now and then a word 
 revealing an under-current of sadness which 
 made my heart ache. But Agatha would be 
 quite satisfied, and not a little triumphant at 
 the success of her feminine pleading. Never 
 since Maurice's childish days had the mother 
 and son suffered from an instant of anta-
 
 200 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 gonisra. Agatha's maternal existence had 
 flowed on as smoothly as the placid current 
 of a smiling river. Were there any rocks, any 
 " breakers a-head ? " Time would show. 
 
 " Ah ! Glad to see you, Maurice," Comp- 
 ton Verschoyle had said once, extending a 
 patronizing finger to his young cousin as he 
 encountered him in a crush on the steps of 
 the Opera-house. " Been wanting to see 
 you, got an invitation for you to the Countess 
 of Dazzleton's ball on Tuesday — all London 
 will be there." 
 
 " All except me," Maurice said laughing. 
 " Many thanks, my dear fellow, but I am 
 engaged to help in some charades that even- 
 ing at Mrs. Scott's." 
 
 " Who's Mrs. Scott ?" 
 
 " I don't suppose you know her — her 
 husband is a barrister." 
 
 Then there came a rush and the two cousins 
 were separated. 
 
 " Strange fellah," Compton Verschoyle 
 muttered, " strange fellah. Fancy throwing 
 over the Countess of Dazzleton for Mrs. 
 Scott. Who the deuce is Mrs. Scott ? Fll
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 201 
 
 take good care I never put myself out of the 
 way to get him an invitation again." 
 
 Maurice in his simphcity imagined that he 
 had given his cousin a perfectly unanswer- 
 able reason for the refusal of his offer. How 
 could he get over the difficulty of a prior 
 engagement ? He was sorry to be obliged 
 to reject his cousin's kindness, but for his 
 own part he greatly preferred the pleasant 
 assemblies of literary and scientific people 
 which Mrs. Scott managed to collect in her 
 little drawing-room at Kensington to the 
 great crowded entertainments of the leader 
 of the London season. This was Maurice's 
 way of looking on society; this is why I 
 dreaded Hope's visit, and foresaw possible 
 consequences to which my sister's eyes 
 seemed blinded. 
 
 On the day following our visit to the farm, 
 Hope Rosendale arrived at Woodbury House. 
 She was very weak, so much so that she had to 
 be carried up the broad flight of stairs and 
 supported very carefully as she crept along 
 the gallery that ran around the hall. My 
 sister had chosen for her a small apartment
 
 202 GENTLEMAI^ VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 communicating with the morning-room, both 
 to save her unnecessary journeys, and also 
 on account of its southerly aspect. When I 
 went to pay her a visit, I found my maid, 
 Pym (now grown quite a stout, middle-aged 
 person), fussing about her in evident delight. 
 Nursing is Pym's strong point, and as I am 
 unfortunately possessed of a robust constitu- 
 tion, I do not afford my attendant so much 
 of her favourite occupation as she would 
 like. Hope was lying comfortably tucked up 
 on the sofa close to the window where she 
 could enjoy the view. This room had always 
 been occupied by young lady visitors, and it 
 contained all kinds of pretty knick-knacks. 
 It was furnished in pink. Lovely bunches 
 of rosebuds peeped from the chintz hangings. 
 A graceful statuette occupied the centre of the 
 mantelpiece, which was draped with pretty 
 hangings of pink and white. The walls were 
 hung with sketches that Agatha had pur- 
 chased whilst in Italy, and the fair atmo- 
 sphere of Italian skies seemed shed about the 
 room. Something of the universal brightness 
 and sunniness of the apartment seemed to
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 203 
 
 have fallen upou its occupant. A pair of 
 glowing eyes met mine ; lips "wreathed in 
 happy smiles fi-amecl an answer to my greet- 
 ing. The girl's enjoyment was so evident 
 that I advanced towards her with rather a 
 guilty feeling, remembering how, only the 
 night before, I had almost suggested that her 
 invitation should be withdrawn. 
 
 " I hope you feel better," I said a little 
 awkwardly. 
 
 "Oh! so well," the girl replied, raising 
 her dark, kindling eyes to my face. " How can 
 I thank you, madam ? How good of you to 
 invite me here ! " 
 
 " You must thank my sister," I replied, 
 feeling more guilty than ever. " Mrs. Ver- 
 schoyle is the mistress of the house, you 
 know. I am a visitor here — like yourself." 
 
 " A very long visitor," Hope laughed ; " you 
 have lived here ever since Mr. Maurice was 
 born." 
 
 " What do you know about Mr. Maurice ?" 
 I said, with suspicious sharpness. 
 
 " Nothing, oh nothing," Hope replied, 
 with a slightly surprised uplifting of her
 
 204 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 eyebrows ; " only Mrs. Payne told me so 
 many histories whilst I was ill, and this one 
 about Mr. Maurice's sad birth interested me 
 so much — that is all." 
 
 " Well, little invalid," my sister said, 
 coming into the room, " are you rested, and 
 would you like a cup of tea?" 
 
 " I have had some, thank you. Oh ! I am 
 so happy here. How nice it is ! So much 
 nicer than the Hall Farm." 
 
 " And Mrs. Payne," my sister added 
 incautiously. 
 
 A painful flush mounted to Hope's brow. 
 
 " One must make the best of one's rela- 
 tives," ahe said simply. " It would not be " 
 — Hope paused for a word — " comme-il-faut 
 for me to speak against them." 
 
 By saying this Hope pleased me very 
 much. She spoke with an amount of dignity 
 and self-possession that was very touching 
 from one in so forlorn a position. 
 
 " Well, well," my sister replied hastily, 
 " we won't talk about the Hall Farm. Make 
 the most of your stay here, my child. You 
 must get out in the gardens to-morrow.
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 205 
 
 Mrs. Oldershaw has just been telling me that 
 there is an invalid chair somewhere or other, 
 that you can be drawn about in till you get a 
 little stronger. Now I shall say Good-night 
 to you — we are going down to dinner." 
 
 I think Agatha was a little surprised to feel 
 an arm slipped around her neck and a kiss 
 printed on her cheek. The idea of embracing 
 a " farmer's daughter " had never entered her 
 mind. She laughed a little, and patted her 
 young guest kindly on the cheek ! Agatha 
 had Arab-like ideas of hospitality, and 
 perhaps she was a little touched by the girl's 
 gratitude. Yet I noticed that, somehow or 
 other, she managed that the caress should 
 never be repeated.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The outdoor and indoor influences of Wood- 
 bury seemed to revive Hope both physically 
 and morally. Old William, who had long 
 ago given the reins both figuratively and 
 literally into other hands, and whose position 
 in the household it would be somewhat hard 
 to define, placed himself entirely at Hope's 
 disposal, and the wheeling-chair and its pale 
 young occupant were to be encountered at all 
 hours in the shrubbery, or under the warm 
 southern wall of the kitchen garden, and 
 oftener still in the lane which skirted the 
 shrubbery walk. Hope had plenty of ques- 
 tions to ask. Her ignorance of English 
 rural life, and of the names of plants and 
 the uses of agricultural implements, filled 
 William with the profoundest pity. Then
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 207 
 
 the transition from tlie present to the past 
 — the past that is always more deep, real, 
 and abiding to the old than the lightly 
 skirmishing present — was very easy and 
 natural. Many traditions of the past glories 
 of the Verschoyles were unfolded to Hope's 
 delighted ears. Sometimes the old man's 
 recollections became confused. " The young 
 master " Hope discovered did not always 
 mean Maurice. 
 
 " Lor' bless ye, miss," William would say, 
 " not him — I mean not Master Maurice, but 
 Master Philip. It happened nigh on forty 
 year ago." 
 
 The story of " Master Philip's " tragical 
 fate was often on the old man's lips, and 
 Hope never tired of hearing about it, and of 
 the baby who came at the same time to give 
 back life and gladness to the stricken house- 
 hold. A better companion for Hope than 
 old WilHam could not have been found. His 
 simple garrulity was just what she needed to 
 interest and amuse her. Hope would lie 
 back in her chair with her eyes fixed inquir- 
 ingly on the old man's face, and her lips
 
 208 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 parted in an amused smile. Sometimes a 
 peal of fresli silvery laughter rose from the 
 shrubbery walk, and William might be dis- 
 covered illustrating, by many a quaint and 
 forcible gesture, the facts of his story. All 
 the servants treated Hope with marked 
 respect. No other class is, I believe, so 
 ready and quick to acknowledge the force 
 of real superiority. I question whether 
 Farmer Godfrey's extravagantly - dressed 
 daughter, fresh from her London boarding- 
 school, and " warranted " to excel in all 
 the accomplishments, would have met with 
 anything like the deference that was yielded 
 by all the household to our invalid guest, in 
 spite of her scanty wardrobe and rusty, black 
 pensionnaire dresses, which were entirely 
 guiltless of trimmings and furbelows. Hope's 
 manner was very quiet and' unassuming ; yet, 
 I think, it would have been a very difficult 
 matter to take a liberty with, or to patronize 
 her in the slightest degree. Her gratitude to 
 my sister was very thorough and genuine, yet, 
 I think, she accepted her hospitality very 
 much in the way in which a poor and friend-
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 209 
 
 less young princess miglit have received 
 tlie temporary offer of an asylum in time of 
 distress. She was neither overpowered nor 
 elated on finding herself the guest of the 
 " great lady " of the village. Her manner 
 to my sister was full of the affectionate 
 deference which every young girl — be she 
 princess or peasant — should display towards 
 an elder lady. In this she afibrded a marked 
 contrast to the flippant and fast and " slangy " 
 behaviour of many of our young neigh- 
 bours who enjoyed far higher advantages 
 of position. But, with all Hope's well- 
 bred and respectful demeanour, I never de- 
 tected one word or look which led me to 
 infer that her courtesy sprang from any 
 apprehension of the difference of social posi- 
 tion existing between her hostess and herself. 
 It is my belief that she would have treated 
 any old washerwoman to whom she found 
 herself indebted with much the same cour- 
 teous deference. Agatha was charmed with 
 
 o 
 
 her. She thought her a model of what a 
 " humble companion " ought to be. But 
 she made a great mistake. I was sure that 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 Hope did not view the matter in the same 
 light, and that the small ways by which my 
 sister fenced off her social existence from our 
 own, such as by causing her to dine by 
 herself in the morning-room, and to spend 
 her evenings there with Pym, instead of in the 
 drawing-room, were set down by her entirely 
 to her invalid condition. So Hope was per- 
 fectly satisfied, and so was Agatha ; and I, 
 seeing how the child throve and expanded 
 under the genial influences of Woodbury, felt 
 ashamed of my forebodings, and almost took 
 myself to task for my worldly and match- 
 making tendencies. I grew very fond of 
 Hope, even during those first few days that 
 preceded Maurice's arrival. Mr. Vernon 
 often turned his steps towards the morning- 
 room, where he was sure to meet a charming 
 smile of welcome from its youthful occupant. 
 Often Mr. Vernon was beguiled into quite 
 lengthy conversations, and even arguments, 
 with this child, who had first won her place 
 in his large and tender heart by the helpless- 
 ness and sadness of her condition. I, who 
 have always been very shy of expressing my
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 211 
 
 opinions, and have always had so poor an 
 estimate of my abilities that I would hardly 
 have ventured to dispute a point with a 
 mouse, was a little shocked at first by the 
 freedom Avith which this young girl gave 
 utterance to her crude views in opposition to 
 the superior wisdom of our Vicar. I was 
 surprised, too, to find that instead of silencing 
 her by one of those many crushing sayings 
 anent the folly and inexperience of youth, 
 which have passed into proverbs amongst 
 us, Mr. Vernon was always prepared to 
 fight her on her own grounds, and with 
 her own weapons, and to convince her by 
 arguments instead of silencing her by re- 
 proofs. I think he felt himself rewarded by 
 the candid avowal of error, which never 
 faltered on Hope's lips, and by the smile of 
 intellio:ent and ojlad recoo:nition which irradi- 
 ated her candid face when a new and a truer 
 light broke in on her dim speculations. I 
 could not help admiring too the eloquent and 
 original language which expressed the inspira- 
 tions of her active brain, and the bright re- 
 partee and clever quid pro quo that encountered 
 p 2
 
 212 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 Mr. Vernon's more sober utterances. Some- 
 times a word would fall from. Hope's lips 
 revealing a good deal of the shade that had 
 already darkened her young life. Sickness, 
 and grief, and the humihating cares and 
 struggles that are the necessary accom- 
 paniments of a small income, had been the 
 lot of Hope's mother; and Hope, like all only 
 children, had shared her mother's anxieties, 
 and entered into her difficulties, and had 
 become the nurse and acting housekeeper 
 of the establishment at an age when most 
 children are absorbed in their dolls and 
 sweetmeats. The harassing, corroding cares 
 of life fell heavily on the child's slender 
 shoulders, and early robbed her of a good 
 deal of the joyous, unquestioning spirit of 
 childhood. Life for her was full of anxious 
 and bitter problems. Oh ! fathers and 
 mothers, think well before you let the bur- 
 den of life rest on your child's frail form. 
 Bear it alone a little while, till the young 
 sinews are strengthened and braced for the 
 fight. You know not what a store of bitter 
 questionings, of morbid susceptibility, of
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 213 
 
 darkening fears, your selfisli clamourings 
 are even now preparing for your child. Let 
 the lambs frisk about in the green, pleasant 
 plains. Time enough to go up the rugged 
 mountains when Nature has provided a warm, 
 fleecy covering to ward off the chilly air. 
 
 On the death of Hope's mother two 
 years before she came to the Hall Farm 
 — Mr. Rosendale made arrangements that 
 Hope should take up her abode perma- 
 nently at the school, where she had for 
 some time been in the habit of attending 
 classes, and that her services as an English 
 teacher should be considered as partly equi- 
 valent for her education. So Hope at six- 
 teen found herself thrown a good deal on 
 her own resources. Again, a heavy burden 
 of responsibility was laid upon her. In 
 addition to the arduous task of drumming 
 the rudiments of her native tongue into the 
 heads of refractory French girls, who made 
 light of their young teacher's authority, and 
 often converted her class-room into a scene 
 of the wildest disorder, Hope found her- 
 self responsible for all the sins of omission
 
 214 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOTLE. 
 
 and commission of the Englisli pupils. She 
 was obhged to conduct them to church, to 
 watch them narrowly during the service, lest 
 any graceless collegian should take advan- 
 tage of a stray moment to slip a hillet-doux 
 into the hands of his inamorata, or lest the 
 pious young devotees should be drawing 
 caricatures of the clergyman, or writing 
 parodies of his sermons between the leaves 
 of their prayer-books. All these school-girl 
 profanities had to be checked by Hope, poor 
 flowery girl of seventeen, longing for freedom 
 and for youthful joys — feeling sometimes a 
 wild, mad desire to commit some foolish or 
 wicked act, which would release her from 
 this hateful bondage, and permit her to 
 breathe the free, pure air of heaven and bask 
 in the sunshine of liberty, by any means, 
 at any price. Weary, heart-sick, heart-sore, 
 was poor Hope Sunday after Sunday, as she 
 sat in that little bare-walled " temple," with 
 her eyes fixed, not on her prayer-book, but 
 on the faces of the school-girls, some of 
 whom were older than herself, but for whose 
 sins she was responsible. Hope's arrowy
 
 GENTLEMAN YERSCHOYLE. 215 
 
 intuitions of truth and lionour caused her 
 to be most bitterly intolerant of those vulgar, 
 unmaidenly manoeuvres which make one 
 reflect that it is certainly not from want of 
 instruction from the Devil that more flagrant 
 immorality does not flourish in "ladies- 
 schools." What the exact point is where 
 a woman is supposed to sacrifice her self- 
 respect I cannot pretend to say, but cer- 
 tainly I should not wish a brother of mine 
 to choose a wife who at the age of seventeen 
 is an adept in the art of secret flirtation, 
 clandestine correspondence, conversation fre- 
 quently carried on by look and sign in the 
 House of the most High God. There are, I 
 hope and believe, many ballet-dancers, whose 
 hearts are more fitted to admit the pure joys 
 of wifehood, than these highly-accomplished 
 damsels. Poor Hope, who lived in the midst 
 of this unwholesome atmosphere, and breathed 
 it in with sickening lips, felt its deadly in- 
 fluence pervading her own pure, honest heart, 
 by turning to gall and bitterness much of the 
 kindliness and tenderness of her womanly 
 nature. Her early education had unfitted
 
 216 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 her to *'take life easily." She felt, down in 
 the depths of her ingenuous soul, a positive 
 loathing for the girls under her care, and a 
 spirit of unkindly satire, a habit of sharp, 
 bitter speech, and a cold, unsympathizing 
 manner — filled the place of her old sensitive- 
 ness. Her power of keen feeling seemed to 
 have been called forth thus early only to be 
 blunted like early flowers that are nipped by 
 the cruel spring frost. One good ejQTect 
 sprang from this hardening change in her 
 character and the isolation caused by her 
 consequent unpopularity; it forced her to 
 throw herself heart and soul into her studies. 
 There, in her books, in the silent companion- 
 ship of the great dead, she found the noble 
 sentiments, the lofty aspirations, the high and 
 pure standards of morality which seemed 
 denied her on earth. In the pages of 
 Bossuet and Massillon, in the sage thoughts 
 of La Bruyere, the wit of Moliere, the 
 powerful resonances of Corneille, in the bio- 
 graphies of those gifted and devout women 
 who have helped more than any other in- 
 fluences to keep faith alive in the hearts of
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 217 
 
 the French people — Hope found an inex- 
 haustible resource. Nor did she content her- 
 self with French \NTiters alone. During the 
 vacation, the long, lonely days were sweetened 
 by delicious English readings which she had 
 procured at the price of a scanty wardrobe. 
 Shakespeare, Milton, Scott, Byron, Words- 
 worth, works of history, biography, travel — 
 were all eagerly devoured by the solitary 
 Eno^lish ofirl as she sat hour after hour in her 
 lonely room, cared for by, and caring for — 
 none. 
 
 Mr. Vernon found that his young an- 
 tagonist brought to the conflict a mind well 
 stored with useful and varied reading, and so 
 he treated her with the respect that all real 
 worth will ever pay to the struggling dawn of 
 an intellect. ^Hiat made Mr. Vernon's brow 
 cloud sometimes, and his eyes fill with sad- 
 ness, was the revelation of the absence of 
 any depth of real love either to God or man. 
 Are not the two inseparable ? Yet the love 
 was there we felt sure. It only needed a magic 
 touch to call it into being. It lay hidden 
 in the depths of her frozen heart. We knew
 
 218 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 not what instrument Grod would choose to 
 break up the ice and let the fountain gush 
 freely forth of the love that now looked 
 unconsciously out of the depths of her dark, 
 spiritual eyes. Religion with Hope was but 
 a Sunday word that included dreary services 
 in the little Protestant temple, feeble plati- 
 tudes from the pulpit, silly titterings and 
 sniggerings from the school-girls, then walk- 
 ing home to the ijensionnat with bitter con- 
 tempt filling her young heart. The rest of 
 the day would be gladly spent in the perusal 
 of some cherished volume of plays or poetry. 
 I wonder why Hope did not become a Roman 
 Catholic. There is so much in the warm glow 
 of Roman Churchmanship to attract the ill- 
 furnished hearts of lifeless Protestants. So 
 Hope had spent her existence till a letter 
 from Mr. Rosendale aroused her from her 
 stupor. It brought to her mind all the vague 
 longings she had felt after her mother's 
 death for the sight of a kinsman's face — 
 for some one to take her in his arms and love 
 and cherish her and call her his own. With 
 this new, tender feeling stirring her soul Hope
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 219 
 
 came to the Hall Farm, sickening for an ill- 
 ness, weak in frame, subdued in manner, and 
 with this strange, restless craving at her 
 heart. One day was enough. Hope speedily 
 sank back to her old indifference. What 
 would have become of her but for my sister's 
 invitation, the genial influences of earth and 
 sky, old William's kindly gossip, and the 
 Vicar's gentle consideration, I cannot pre- 
 tend to say. As it was, quite enough of the 
 old bitterness remained to make me start 
 sometimes as if stung by a serpent when 
 I heard the hard, unloving utterances which 
 fell so unnaturally from the girl's fresh lips.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The liouse was pervaded by a spirit of 
 unwonted excitement on tlie morning of 
 Maurice's arrival. Mrs. Oldersliaw in her 
 anxiety to make everything look its best, 
 wandered through the rooms, duster in hand, 
 pointing out infinitesimal particles of im- 
 purity to long-suffering housemaids who had 
 not learnt to " see dust " with the sharp eyes 
 of their chief. The shrubs and plants in 
 the hall were exchanged for new ones full of 
 fresh, sweet blossom. Large china bowls 
 filled with hothouse flowers were placed on 
 every available table and pedestal. Such 
 a renewing of white curtains and chintz 
 coverings, and such a distracting odour of 
 furniture polish, liad not been known in the 
 house before. Agatha was, for the most part.
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 221 
 
 very impatieut of house-cleanings. She liked 
 such unpleasant sublunary facts to be accom- 
 plished in the early hours of the morning or 
 at midnight, or at any other time Mrs. 
 Oldershaw might select, provided that she 
 were not troubled by the domestic tempest. 
 But on this particular morning it was quite 
 a different matter. She even watched some 
 of the housemaid's operations and made 
 a suggestion or two. It seemed quite right 
 and natural that the house should be turned 
 topsy-turvy, and that all the servants should 
 be scurrying hither and thither to bring 
 their quota of fond allegiance to the shrine 
 of her darling son. Old William even found 
 something to do. '* The young master's 
 stirrups and bit wanted rubbing up terrible," 
 he informed Hope, thus excusing himself 
 from his duties of charioteer for that morn- 
 ing. Hope slipping quietly about the house 
 with a book in her hand, and ensconcing 
 herself in various corners to watch Mrs. 
 Oldershaw's proceedings, looked very inte- 
 rested and pleased with the atmosphere of 
 excitement that surrounded her. I met her
 
 222 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 standing timidly at the door of tlie drawing- 
 room not venturing to go in. 
 
 " Would you like to see the room ?" I said. 
 
 "Yes, please, Miss Grey." 
 
 I pushed open the door. The room was 
 quite empty. The last particle of dust had 
 been swept away by Mrs. Oldershaw's careful 
 duster. 
 
 "Oh! What a beautiful place!" Hope 
 cried. 
 
 This had always been Agatha's favourite 
 apartment. It had been furn,ished very taste- 
 fully at the time of her marriage, and during 
 her foreign travels she had managed to 
 collect many beautiful treasures for the en- 
 richment of her English home. The prevail- 
 ing impression on entering the room was of 
 light and purity, whilst coldness was avoided 
 by the judicious blending of tints. One great 
 charm consisted in the absence of any par- 
 ticular colour. It could not be labelled as a 
 blue, or a green, or a red drawing-room. 
 The ground of the carpet was white — it 
 was covered with finely-interlaced garlands 
 of bright-coloured flowers. The hangings
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 223 
 
 and the cliair-coverings were of some richly- 
 tinted brocade. The deep bow-window was 
 festooned -with curtains of the same material, 
 confined by a cornice moulded in pure white 
 picked out with gold. The mantelpiece, 
 also of pure white marble, had been carved 
 by an Italian sculptor according to Agatha's 
 fancy. The dial of the clock was pale blue, 
 the framework of dead and burnished gold 
 surrounded by a wreath of filagree oak leaves 
 and acorns. Exquisite vases of Sevres por- 
 celain, and inlaid Indian jars relieved the 
 pure whiteness of the marble. A portrait of 
 Maurice peeped out from a broad blue velvet 
 shield just over Agatha's vrriting-table. The 
 walls were tinted with the palest shade of 
 pink, relieved in the panelling by lines of a 
 deeper colour. Florentine cabinets contain- 
 ing treasures of art, curiously-carved brac- 
 kets upholding graceful statuettes, pedestals 
 holding bouquets of choice flowers, endless 
 vistas of ferns reflected in deceiving mirrors, 
 met the pleased eye as it travelled around 
 the room. At the further end a draped 
 archway communicated with an inner apart-
 
 224 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 ment. From tlie curtains peeped out two 
 Nereids holding out great sliells filled with 
 flowers. Beyond, the eye fell on a trans- 
 parency which had been the delight of 
 Maurice's childhood. St. Cecilia appeared in 
 a luminous atmosphere of clouds, playing 
 with taper fingers on a golden harmonium, 
 whilst her face, full of divine, mystic rapture, 
 turned heavenward as if to catch inspiration 
 for her song. The walls of both apartments 
 were hung with pictures. Carlo Dolci's 
 sweet feminine grace was to be found by 
 the side of E-ubens' force of colour and 
 outline. Raphael's divine visions and Mu- 
 rillo's laughter-loving peasants, Rembrandt's 
 tragical effects of light and shade, and Claude 
 Loraine's clear sunny landscapes. Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds' refined portraits, and Flemish 
 pictures of horse-fairs and village smithies. 
 All these were to be found on my sister's 
 walls, and from one to the other did Hope 
 roam in an ecstasy of perfect enjoyment. 
 I know not how long we should have stood 
 there, had not Pym opportunely poked her 
 head in at the door.
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 225 
 
 " Miss Rosendale ! I've been looking for 
 you ail over the house. There's your lunch 
 waiting in the morning-room — a lovely bit of 
 jelly — and not a morsel of breakfast did you 
 eat." 
 
 So Hope was obliged to abandon her tour 
 of discovery. In the afternoon old William 
 volunteered his services, and Hope very gladly 
 stepped again into her chair to go off in quest 
 of sunshine and health. I offered to accom- 
 pany her. Agatha, I knew, would prefer a 
 tete-a-tete with her son. So I walked by 
 Hope's side up and down the shrubbery 
 walks, and around the kitchen garden, and 
 then we crossed the boundary path and 
 entered the fields where, in other days, Mau- 
 rice and his companions had played cricket, 
 whilst they filled the air with their merry 
 shouts. And whilst Hope leaned back in the 
 chair enjoying the fresh, sweet-scented air, 
 wafted across the meadows, and asked in- 
 numerable questions of William, — who was 
 delighted to dissipate the dark cloud of 
 ignorance that obscured her mind on all 
 agricultural topics, — and 1 gathered a hedge- 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 row nosegay of lioneysuckle and dog-roses, 
 and fox-glove and wild geranium for Hope's 
 toilet table, Maurice was striding across the 
 fields and through the lanes towards us. 
 He had come by an earlier train than he had 
 intended ; so, leaving his luggage at the 
 station, he had set off to walk through 
 the pleasant, leafy country which was 
 always very dear to him. He enjoyed now, 
 as much as in his boyish days, the fair 
 face of nature, the soft ethereal blue of the 
 skies, the fresh, verdant carpeting of the 
 earth, the pure, sweet voices of nature's 
 minstrelsy, and the fragrant odom^s of hedge- 
 row flowers. He was fully conscious of the 
 charms that surrounded him as his riuofino^ 
 step echoed along the shady lanes, as his 
 broad-chested, stalwart figure strode across 
 the fields, and the fresh country air swept his 
 brow, while it lifted his dark, clustering curls, 
 and brushed aside the thick, hirsute append- 
 ages which now adorned his face. He w.a,s 
 as keenly sensitive as any poet soul to the 
 thrilling influences, the subtle, tender voices 
 of nature. Its language could never fall un-
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 227 
 
 heeded on his ear. The tones of its ringing 
 music must ever find a melodious echo in his 
 heart. Yet now, as he paces the old familiar 
 paths at the close of his college career, he 
 feels that, with advancing years, he has lost 
 something that he had possessed in boyhood, 
 and in losing it he has lost half the charm of 
 life — he has lost lioi^e. At the outset of life 
 he finds himself bound by invisible fetters 
 that cramp his very soul. True, the fetters 
 were golden, but they were none the less hard 
 for that. Soft hands clasped them on his 
 wrists, tender kisses riveted their bonds, a 
 mother's loving eyes looked on him in his 
 prison-house ; but, oh ! these things only 
 made his bondage a thousand times more 
 hard to escape. He could fight against 
 tyranny, oppression, cruelty, injustice, but 
 how could he' war with love, gentleness, 
 sweetness, patience ? How could he turn 
 from the soft couch his mother's hands 
 had spread for him ; how could he escape 
 from her tender, clinging arms, and say, 
 "Give me stones for my pillow, the cold 
 earth for my bed ; give me hard fare, and 
 Q 2
 
 228 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 scanty clothing, but, oli ! give me a life ; give 
 me an object ; give me good, stirring, hearty 
 work amongst my fellows ; give me a place 
 in the ranks of the great battle of existence. 
 Don't tell me at twenty-four that I have 
 finished my course, that for me there remains 
 no longer either victory or defeat, that my life 
 must be spent in ingenious makeshifts, happy 
 devices for killing time, social enjoyments, 
 or, at the best, unfruitful, unproductive 
 study ! " Maurice, as he entered the out- 
 skirts of the village, looked with angry, 
 bitter eyes on the wretched, ill- ventilated, 
 ill-drained dwellings that housed the toiling 
 sons of the soil. But what could he do ? 
 The village belonged to his uncle, who 
 devoted his life to fly-catching, whilst his 
 cousin, Compton Yerschoyle, built stables 
 and dog-kennels that won the admiration 
 of the county, and might have suggested one 
 of Leech's famous caricatures. For whereas 
 the human beings on his father's estate were 
 huddled together like cattle, regardless of 
 health, decency, or comfort, each dog in 
 Mr. Compton Verschoyle's kennel owned its
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 229 
 
 little bit of tesselated pavement on which to 
 stretch its royal paws. But what could 
 Maurice do ? What power did he possess ? 
 What strange freak of fortune had bestowed 
 on him money and position without its cor- 
 responding responsibilities, and intellectual 
 energy without a field for its development ? 
 These thoughts, or very similar ones, passed 
 through Maurice's mind as he walked from 
 the station to his home, which, as his mother 
 had fondly said, was now to be " his for 
 good." And these thoughts caused a very 
 sad spirit to look out from his dark, thought- 
 ful eyes, and stole a good deal of the old, 
 triumphant firmness that used to characterize 
 his ringing footfall. Yet, as he walked through 
 the lane that bordered the fields at the end 
 of the shrubbery walk, and heard old Wil- 
 liam's mumbling voice on the other side of 
 the hedge, he was still boy enough to take a 
 leap over the barrier — -just to surprise the 
 dear old fellow. Two ladies greeted him 
 with a scream. One of them ran towards 
 him, dropping all the hedge-row treasures 
 she had collected in her lap, and flung her
 
 230 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 arms around the intruder's neck. The other 
 lay back in her chair, quite pale and silent, 
 with her eyes closed. Old William stood 
 shading his dim eyes with his hand, as if not 
 quite sure of the new arrival. 
 
 " Mr. Maurice, sir, so it be you — glad to 
 see you, sir ! How you be growed, sure-ly !" 
 
 This was William's stereotyped formula. 
 If Maurice could live to the age of Methu- 
 selah, this would be his invariable greeting. 
 
 " Hardly since last vacation, William. 
 How are you, my dear old fellow?" and 
 Maurice shook warmly the faithful old ser- 
 vant's hand. 
 
 " Nicely, sir, thank you — but, Miss Dora, 
 just look at the young lady !" 
 
 In our excitement we had forgotten Hope. 
 She was leaning back with closed eyes ; every 
 drop of colour had been driven from her face. 
 Maurice's ill-timed apparition over the hedge 
 had proved too great a shock to her nerves 
 weakened by illness : the poor child had 
 fainted. 
 
 " I'll run up to the house and get her 
 some wine," said Maurice in consternation.
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 231 
 
 " Poor thing ! What an idiot I was to jump 
 over that hedge !" 
 
 Off flew Maurice. He was through the 
 shrubbery, and across the lawn, he had 
 bounded up the terrace steps and passed 
 through the windows into the drawing-room 
 before the words were well out of his mouth. 
 Agatlia was sitting at the table writing. She 
 threw herself into his arms. 
 
 " My own darling boy," she murmured. 
 
 " Dearest mother — " his tones were not less 
 fond — then, gently disengaging her, " I. can't 
 wait a minute — a young lady has fainted. 
 Here," ringing the bell violently, — " John, 
 bring some wine, and send some of the 
 maids with salts and eau-de-cologne, and 
 all that sort of thing." 
 
 Then, seizing the decanter from the asto- 
 nished butler, Maurice disappeared again 
 through the window. Hope had recovered a 
 little during his absence, and was sitting up 
 in her chair with her head leaning on my 
 shoulder, and her long, dark lashes sweeping 
 her colourless cheek ; she looked like a piece 
 of very delicate waxwork.
 
 232 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 " Thank you, I am quite well now," Hope 
 said, after sipping a little of the wine I held 
 to her lips. " I am so sorry to give so much 
 trouble — what was it?" 
 
 "What was— what?" 
 
 " Wliat made me faint, I mean. I thought 
 I saw something fall suddenly over the hedge. 
 Was it a man?" 
 
 " It was your humble servant," said 
 Maurice, who was standing on the other 
 side of the chair. " Never again will I force 
 an entrance, save through legitimate gate- 
 ways, and I — " in answer to her inquiring 
 look — " am Maurice Verschoyle — at your 
 service." 
 
 A faint blush flitted across Hope's face. 
 
 " I think I should like to go in-door s and 
 lie down," she said. 
 
 The chair was accordingly turned towards 
 home — Maurice helping to push it up the 
 slope. I could see Agatha watching us from 
 the drawing-room window. Arrived at the 
 hall door, Maurice insisted on supporting 
 Hope up the stairs and installing her on the 
 sofa of the morning-room. Descending
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 233 
 
 swiftly, Maurice encountered his mother on 
 the first landing. 
 
 " You need not have flown off in that way, 
 Maurice, I have hardly seen you," Agatha 
 said, with a slight cloud on her fair brow. 
 
 "Dearest mother," Maurice said, kissing 
 the cloud away, " I have been performing the 
 plain duty of a worthy knight in succouring 
 a suffering damsel. 1 am coming down to talk 
 to you now — but first tell me — who is she ?"
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Hope remained in her room tlie greater part 
 of the following day. Maurice inquired for 
 lier at the breakfast table. " How is your 
 invalid, Aunt Dora ? " were almost his first 
 words. Agatha looked a little uncomfort- 
 able. Perhaps she was beginning to discover 
 that my forebodings contained a faint glimmer 
 of common sense. But then, who could 
 have foreseen Maurice's unlucky leap over 
 the hedge, and all the disasters in its train ? 
 Certainly not Agatha. After all, it was only 
 courteous that Maurice should inquire for 
 his victim, and express polite concern on 
 hearing of her indisposition. So the mother's 
 fair brow became smooth again, and her eyes 
 beaming with jDroud happiness rested fondly 
 on her son's face. Agatha, as she sat hand-
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 235 
 
 ling the coffee-pot and cups and saucers with 
 soft, plump, womanly hands, and a grace- 
 fully curving arm, was the ideal of a pros- 
 perous English matron. She wore on her 
 head a bewitching little lace cobweb, which 
 was dignified by the name of cap. Her dress 
 was of pale mauve cashmere, embroidered 
 with silk of a deeper hue. On the sofa lay 
 a white shawl, and a broad straw hat ready 
 to put on if her son should invite her to 
 stroll with him in the garden. There was no 
 " hint " of funeral black in her costume. The 
 dark pall of woe had been mercifully lightened 
 b}'' the vigorous brightness of her son's young 
 life. Looking back twenty-four years to 
 the day when I had found her prostrate, 
 helpless, engulfed in the depths of her 
 anguish, I felt that God had dealt very ten- 
 derly in leading her by such gentle paths to 
 the pleasant heights of pure maternal joys 
 on which she was now standing. Her cup 
 was very full, as she sat gazing lovingly into 
 her son's face. The simplest word she uttered 
 brought with it the sounds of a caress ! The 
 commonest expression from the lips of affec-
 
 236 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 tion is fraught with tender meanings. It 
 bears translation into a thousand celestial 
 tongues, which can only be interpreted by 
 the ears of love. 
 
 Maurice appeared rather silent and pre.- 
 occupied. I could not help contrasting his 
 "grown-up" behaviour with that of the old 
 school-boy, Maurice, whose first breakfast at 
 home was generally interspersed with sudden 
 wild rushes out into the stables to visit his 
 pets, greatly to the scandal of the solemn 
 butler. 
 
 " When do you start for the Mediter- 
 ranean?" Agatha asked, as she sipped her 
 chocolate. 
 
 " In about a month or six weeks ; I am in 
 no particular hurry about it, or anything 
 else," Maurice replied moodily. 
 
 " Ah ! you will enjoy it, Maurice, as I did 
 — years ago," Agatha added softly. " You 
 must make vie your travelling companion 
 next autumn." 
 
 " As I meant to do this year," Maurice 
 replied quickly, "but my uncle's invitation 
 altered my plans. I shall not be away long."
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 237 
 
 " No, and then I shall have you home — 
 for good " — (how tenderly Agatha's voice lin- 
 gered on the words !) " Where shall we spend 
 the winter, Maurice — in Paris ? " 
 
 " Wherever you like, mother," Maurice 
 replied, opening the Times that lay beside 
 him. " I really have no choice." 
 
 Was it only my fancy, or did Maurice's 
 voice sound very weary ? 
 
 " I think," Agatha went on complacently 
 (Agatha was not at all influenced by the 
 conditions of the surrounding mental atmo- 
 sphere), " I think, after all, we had better 
 spend our Christmas here quietly, and then 
 we can start for Paris early in January. We 
 might spend two or three months there very 
 pleasantly, and get back to London in good 
 time for the season. Dear me ! How strange 
 it will seem to drive in the Row again ! 
 I have lived out of the world so long. And 
 oh, Maurice, I have half promised Colonel 
 Foster that we will join him in a yachting 
 expedition next August. Lady Elizabeth is 
 going too, and the Bluetts and Lord Pol- 
 terton ; so it will be very pleasant."
 
 238 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 " Satisfactory to think we shall be drowned 
 in good company," Maurice said grimly. 
 
 "Don't you like the idea, Maurice?" iny 
 sister inquired in a tone of surprise ; " does 
 not my programme suit you ? " 
 
 "Oh, excellently well, mother;" Maurice 
 replied from behind the advertisement sheet 
 of the Times, which he was reading upside 
 down. " I am as wax in your hands ; mould 
 me into a fashionable idler as best you can." 
 
 Aofatha laus^hed. She never detected the 
 bitterness in his voice. Maurice threw down 
 the paper and walked to the window. He 
 stood for some time with his forehead pressed 
 against the glass. When he turned around 
 his face had something of the old childish 
 look it used to wear when he had been 
 " naughty," and wished to be forgiven ! 
 
 " Come and take a turn in the shrubbery, 
 mother," he said, slipping his arm around 
 her waist, and kissing her very gently. Soon 
 the mother and son were walking arm-in-arm 
 across the lawn, and I lost sight of Agatha's 
 broad hat behind the screen of clustering 
 shrubs.
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 239 
 
 Late in the afternoon I persuaded Hope 
 to come out with me to enjoy a Httle fresh 
 air, before the sun went down. We seated 
 ourselves beneath a clump of trees at the 
 farther end of the lawn. Lengthening 
 shadows were creeping across the grass. 
 Sweet balmy scents filled the air. There 
 was a pleasant stir of rustling leaves mingled 
 with the faint, ceaseless hum of insect life. 
 Flickerinof sunbeams fell athwart the branches 
 on Hope's black dress, and pale face, and 
 thin waxen hands. Tender summer lights 
 trembled on earth and sky, while already 
 a yellow light in the west heralded the repose 
 of the dying day. Hope closed her eyes in 
 a sudden ecstasy of happiness. The sweet 
 reviving influences of Nature stole health- 
 fully upon her weak frame and shattered 
 spirits. She lay back in her chair with 
 closed eyes and parted, smiling lips, till the 
 sounds of a quick step on the grass aroused 
 her. Maurice was coming* towards us, ridino-. 
 whip in hand. All the moodiness had for 
 the moment gone out of his face. He smiled 
 on Hope with something of the paternal
 
 240 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 kindliness which strong, pure-hearted men 
 often feel towards suffering womanhood. 
 
 " I hope you are better to-day," Maurice 
 said, extending his brown, shapely hand to 
 clasp the girl's thin fingers. " You do not 
 know how guilty you have made me feel." 
 
 " I am sorry I behaved so foolishly," Hope 
 replied a little stiffly. 
 
 " I was the foolish one," Maurice said 
 laug-hinsf. 
 
 " Yes, my dear," I said. " You have in- 
 spired me with a terror of hedges I can 
 assure you." 
 
 " Poor Aunt Dora, I can quite believe it. 
 No doubt your sleep is disturbed by visions 
 of endless bundles of arms and legs per- 
 petually flying over hedges. Is it not 
 so?" 
 
 I gave the graceless fellow a tap with my 
 knitting-needle, as a reward for his imper- 
 tinence. Hope sat perfectly silent, with her 
 eyes bent on the ground. 
 
 " Miss Rosendale," Maurice said, " is your 
 vacant chair to be filled again with silent 
 reproaches this evening ? "
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 241 
 
 A crimson flusli swept across Hope's bent 
 face. 
 
 " I always dine upstairs," slie said, very 
 coldly. 
 
 Agatha came across the lawn, holding up 
 her habit with one hand and shading her 
 eyes with the other. The prospect of a ride 
 with her son made her look unusually happy 
 and blooming. The sunshine lighting up 
 her fair, matronly face and burnishing her 
 bright hair with golden touches, helped to 
 bring out the radiance of her ripe beauty 
 in strong contrast with the pale, worn face 
 of the young sufferer. I could well under- 
 stand the contempt with which Agatha had 
 spoken of Hope's sallowness and insignifi- 
 cance, as I looked at the girl's down-bent 
 pallid face. Sitting silent and motionless, 
 with her hands crossed upon her lap, she 
 certainly did not look different from any 
 other " sallow - faced school - girl." Then 
 Agatha spoke to her, and Hope raised her 
 eyes in reply. It was like an illumination. 
 As one sees the silvery moonlight burst out 
 on some dark wintry sky, so did the light of 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 GENTLEMAN VEESOHOYLE. 
 
 those candid orbs irradiate and glorify the 
 girl's pale face. These startled glances of 
 Hope's were always very charming. It was 
 as if her spirit, taken unawares, had not time 
 to quench its ardent fires beneath the' shroud 
 of cold reserve which usually enveloped it, 
 but was compelled to allow the hidden passion 
 to look forth from the "windows of her 
 soul." 
 
 " That is right," my sister said in her 
 pleasant way; "enjoy the sunshine whilst 
 you can. Come, Maurice, the horses are 
 ready." 
 
 They went off together arm-in-arm. I 
 could see old William creep out from a 
 corner of the stable-yard, to watch them 
 mount. " They be a fine, handsome pair 
 sure-Z?/," the old man was probably saying, 
 confusing, as he so often did, the new young 
 master with the old. Agatha was a superb 
 horsewoman. We watched her mount her 
 horse with a dexterous spring, and canter off, 
 followed by Maurice, whose tall, stalwart 
 figure appeared to unusual advantage on 
 horseback. We could hear their voices
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 243 
 
 echoing in the distance as they cantered 
 along the lane. Hope sat with her head bent 
 a little forward, listening to the gay, rippling 
 laughter, wafted to us by the evening breeze. 
 
 " The good things of life are very unequally 
 divided," burst at length from her pale lips. 
 
 " It appears so, my dear," I replied, in 
 the gently didactic manner peculiar to maiden 
 ladies ; ' ' but if we could see beneath the sur- 
 face, I think we should find the distribution 
 to be more equal than we had imagined." 
 
 " What are you ladies philosophizing 
 about," asked Mr. Vernon, who just then 
 made his entrance by the shrubbery path, 
 according to his wont. 
 
 " Miss Dora is preaching contentment, the 
 favom^ite virtue of prosperous people," 
 Hope replied with the short, bitter laugh 
 which falls so very sadly from young lips. 
 
 Mr. Vernon looked a little pained, but 
 interested as he always is in all that Hope 
 says. I confess that I was rather cross. 
 Ah me ! I knew nothing of the bitter appren- 
 ticeship to which Hope had been early bound. 
 
 " You think, my dear, that your own 
 
 iv ^
 
 244 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 troubles are the most cliflBcult to bear. 
 Perhaps if you could change places with 
 some one you envy, you would find that she 
 was uncomplainingly bearing a cross you 
 would not have the strength to carry." I 
 said this in rather a sharp voice. 
 
 Hope bit her lip. Mr. Vernon looked on 
 with an expression of grave inquiry. 
 
 " I canH believe it," Hope said excitedly ; 
 " I can't believe that all people are tried as I 
 am ; I who have known poverty, and anxiety, 
 and care from my cradle. Humiliations, 
 snubs, scoldings, have been the meat and 
 drink of my childhood. And here at the 
 Hall Farm I am caged — fettered. Oh ! I 
 cannot bear it. Oh ! I ivish I was well and 
 strong, I would not stay there a day longer ; 
 and even here — " 
 
 Hope broke off suddenly. Never before 
 had a word of complaint crossed her lips. 
 Something must have strangely moved her. 
 Her face was working convulsively. Her 
 pale lips were quivering with excitement. 
 
 " Show me a token for good," the Vicar 
 said, very irrelevantly to my mind. " What
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 245 
 
 a natural human outcry that is of the 
 Psalmist's!" He said this softly; half to 
 himself. Hope did not hear him. 
 
 " It is of no use, Miss Dora," she went on ; 
 " I can't feel contented, so I won't pretend 
 to be. Why I have never known happiness. 
 I have never lived as a girl amongst girls. 
 Always something different, feeling different 
 from them. Mamma loved me, in her way, 
 but since I lost her, not a soul has cared 
 whether I lived or died ; and I have cared 
 for no one. I never looked up to, or re- 
 spected any one, till — till I knew you, Mr. 
 Vernon." A slight flush crossed the Vicar's 
 brow. He stood looking down with grave 
 tenderness on the girl's excited face. 
 
 " Just think of Mrs. Verschoyle," Hope 
 went on, with that rapid descent to the per- 
 sonal to which all feminine argument tends ; 
 " has she a care in the world ? Rich, ho- 
 noured, independent, what more can she 
 want?" 
 
 " You forget, Hope," I said severely, 
 " that my sister is a widow. You forget the 
 awful trial she has been called to bear."
 
 246 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 A bitter smile crept across Hope's face. 
 
 " Look at her, Miss Dora ; she is just riding 
 up to the gate. Tell me, does she look like a 
 broken-hearted woman ? " 
 
 Agatha's fair face, surmounted by a co- 
 quetish riding-hat and long blue veil, cer- 
 tainly did look wonderfully young and happy. 
 
 " Widows are a remarkably cheerful race, 
 as far as my experience goes." Hope went 
 on. " ' On n'a pas dans le coeur de quoi toujours 
 pleurer,' you know. Other interests arise, 
 other loves fill up the vacant place, and the 
 round of life goes forward just the same. But 
 want of money and all the car king, corroding 
 cares attending it, that is what embitters life, 
 and robs youth of all its sweetness. I should 
 be a model of contentment. Miss Dora, with a 
 house of my own and a good balance at my 
 bankers." 
 
 It horrified me to hear such withered sen- 
 timents from those girlish lips. I had always 
 had rather a despising of " money troubles," 
 probably because I knew very little about 
 them. I should, doubtless, have attempted 
 to crush Hope with a severe reply, had not
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 247 
 
 old William providentially appeared on the 
 scene with tlie wheeling-chair. Mr. Vernon 
 stood looking after Hope with a strange 
 cloud on his brow. 
 
 "What can you say to a girl like that?" 
 I said irritably. 
 
 " Nothing," was Mr. Vernon's calm reply. 
 
 " But it is positively dreadful to hear her," 
 I said, dropping the stitches of my knitting 
 in my perturbation. " Surely she ought to 
 be checked." 
 
 Mr. Vernon smiled a little ; probably he 
 doubted my powers of " checking." 
 
 " Poor child ! " he said feelingly, " the 
 iron of poverty has entered into her soul. 
 She looks out on life with a pair of jaundiced 
 eyes. We must not expect from her the 
 sound condition of healthy persons. But 
 I am sure, Miss Dora, that underneath all the 
 bitterness lies the germs of a very fine and 
 tender character." 
 
 " But how is it to be got at ? " I urged. 
 
 "Ah! we must leave that to God;" and 
 then the Vicar repeated half to himself, —
 
 248 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 " ' Think you mid all this mighty sum 
 Of things for ever speaking, 
 That nothing of itself will come, 
 But we must still be seeking.' 
 
 " It will be well for us to bear that in 
 mind, Miss Dora. We are sometimes in 
 danger of forgetting that God is strong 
 enough to do His own work. His grace is 
 sufficient." 
 
 " Was I not very rude to you, Miss Grey ? " 
 Hope asked, when I came to tuck her up for 
 the night; "I am afraid I spoke very 
 wrongly. Do forgive me." The large, serious 
 eyes she raised to my face were full of trust- 
 fulness and candour.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 I MUST return for a few moments to Mrs. 
 Payne, whom we left at the Hall Farm in 
 the agonies of a sick headache. I clo not 
 like to sully these pages with the delineation 
 of so unlovely a character, yet I feel that she 
 must occupy some place in this story ; for a 
 visit she paid Hope about the time of Maurice's 
 return home, and a conversation which then 
 ensued, greatly influenced the girl's conduct. 
 As the past is revealed to me in the clear 
 light of my after-knowledge, I am able to 
 account for a good deal which I then thought 
 very inexcusable in Hope's behaviour. On 
 this particular occasion I was sitting with 
 Hope in the morning-room, when " Mrs. 
 Payne " was announced. There entered an 
 elderly woman dressed in a stiff, crackling
 
 250 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 silk, a handsome lace shawl, and a bonnet — 
 if so common-place a title may be given to the 
 portentous structure — composed of nodding 
 feathers, and wonderful tufts of weedy grass, 
 and bows and ends of all descriptions which 
 she bore npon her head. Mrs. Payne, caught 
 in a severe gale of wind, must have been a 
 sight indeed ! How the stiff silk, inflated by 
 the breeze, would have swelled majestically 
 in billowy grandeur ; how the grasses, and 
 plumes, and laces, and streamers would have 
 acted the part of involuntary weathercocks ; 
 and how Mrs. Payne's cockatoo features, and 
 beady black eyes, and glittering false teeth, 
 and corkscrewy ringlets would have risen 
 severely superior to the frivolities of Nature 
 — I leave to the imagination of my readers. 
 Mrs. Payne always impressed me with a sense 
 of guilty terror. I felt instinctively that 
 before she had made one step into the room 
 she had appraised and chronicled each article 
 of my attire, that she saw my dress was made 
 on an old-fashioned pattern, that my collar 
 was of plain linen, that no rings glittered on 
 my fingers — even that the watch I carried
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 2-51 
 
 was an old-fasliioned hunting repeater of my 
 father's, and certainly not a befitting orna- 
 ment for a lady of wealth. Poor Hope must 
 have felt the same chilling atmosphere creep- 
 ing over her, foi' I noticed she always laid aside 
 her occupation, whether of work or of draw- 
 ing, the instant that Mrs. Payne made her ap- 
 pearance, and remained sitting perfectly still 
 in an attitude of painful attention during the 
 visit. The guilty feeling with which some 
 people inspire their neighbours is certainly 
 very remarkable. I suppose it is the result 
 of that morbid self-consciousness which is the 
 natural offspring of suspicion and mistrust. 
 One felt in Mrs. Payne's presence that her 
 sharp, black eyes were busily employed in 
 ferreting out some secret flaw, and therefore 
 one instinctively assumed a defensive atti- 
 tude. On this particular morning Hope sat 
 clasping her thin hands nervously together, 
 and speaking "jerkily." To speak at all 
 evidently cost her a painful effort. I did my 
 best towards sustaining a part in the con- 
 versation, but "small-talk" has never been 
 my forte, and the pauses became more and
 
 252 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 more gloomy and portentous. Hope twisted 
 her fingers in a perfect agony of nervousness 
 as she racked her brains in the hope of finding 
 some fresh topic, but Mrs. Payne preserved an 
 ominous silence. Clearly my presence was of 
 no assistance to Hope. I arose, and, mutter- 
 ing some lame excuse, shufl9.ed hastily from the 
 room, and breathed a sigh of unfeigned satisfac- 
 tion when 1 found the door shielding me from 
 Mrs. Payne's glassy stare. No sooner had I 
 left the room than Mrs. Payne rose from her 
 chair, and, with an air of gloomy mystery, 
 seated herself on the sofa by Hope's side. 
 
 " I am glad you have lost your headaches," 
 said poor Hope, gulping down her nervous- 
 ness with a strong, painful effort. " Is the 
 new cook S'oing; on well ?" 
 
 " Pshaw !" was Mrs. Payne's reply. 
 
 The mantle of solemn dignity in which she 
 enveloped herself in the presence of " com- 
 pany" was not to be taken into common use. 
 With her best gown, her best manners were 
 folded away ; and Mrs. Payne rating her 
 servants, and keeping a vigilant eye on the 
 larder and the beer-cellar was a totally different
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 253 
 
 person from Mrs. Payne arrayed in lier best 
 clothes, setting off to pay a round of calls. 
 
 " Pshaw ! " said Mrs. Payne, " I don't come 
 here to talk about headaches. What I suffer, I 
 suffer — and what I bear, I bear. You don't 
 find me lying lackadaisically upon sofas when 
 people call, and wheedling my betters into 
 inviting me away for change. Not but what 
 I am just as good as Mrs. Yerschoyle, and 
 have mixed in as good London society as ever 
 she did before she married Mr. Verschoyle, 
 for a nobody she was, and there is no denying 
 it ; and I am not one to fly in the face of Pro- 
 vidence, and cringe and bow down before what 
 I know is nothing but upstart pride. But 
 it's not to talk of my own feelings I have 
 come. I want to give you a piece of advice, 
 Hope, though no thanks for it I shall get ; 
 but I can't stand by and see my own sister's 
 husband's niece made the talk of the parish, 
 and her character at stake, and not a hand 
 stretched out to warn her — that I cannot." 
 
 Here Mrs. Payne paused. Breath is a 
 necessity of life. Her lungs required to be 
 inflated as well as those of the lower animals,
 
 254 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 and owing to this merciful provision of 
 nature Hope was enabled to get in a question 
 edgeways. 
 
 "What do people say about me?" she 
 asked calmly, but her face was very white. 
 
 " Ah, there you go, Hope, as proud as a 
 peacock. No gratitude do I expect ; but I 
 know my duty, and my duty I shall 
 do." 
 
 Mrs. Payne paused in admiring contem- 
 plation of her virtue, and Hope was enabled 
 to speak again. 
 
 " Will you tell me what people are saying, 
 Mrs. Payne ? I wish to know. If it is true, 
 I can gain experience by it. If false, I can 
 deny it. I have a right to know." 
 
 " There you go, Hope," Mrs. Payne said 
 again. " Talking of your ' rights ' and your 
 ' denyings,' when all I say is for your good, 
 and as I would speak to my own child if I had 
 one. For the long and short of the matter 
 is, that the whole parish is talking about you, 
 and about Mrs. Verschoyle's taking you up 
 in this way, and just as likely to drop you as 
 not, and her fine young son coming home
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 255 
 
 from college ; and people do say those young 
 Oxford men are no better than tliey should be, 
 and your head so likely to be turned, and 
 people saying you have a fine chance of setting^ 
 your cap at him, and, oh, boo — boo — boo," 
 sobbed Mrs. Payne from behind her pocket- 
 handkerchief — " to think of my own sister's 
 niece (by marriage) coming to this, abd living 
 to be a disgrace to her family." 
 
 Now to the credit of Woodbury be it said 
 that Mrs. Payne's rhodomontade contained 
 but the faintest germ of truth. Nor when 
 she left the Hall Farm, an hour before, had 
 she in the least contemplated the outpouring 
 of such a torrent of eloquence on Hope's 
 astonished ears. But, like a true orator, she 
 warmed to her subject, and clothed it in 
 additional garments of colour and form as her 
 words found utterance. Providence had en- 
 dowed her with a certain glibness of speech, 
 which she mistook for powers of reflection 
 and insight. Hence the tirade I have recorded 
 above. 
 
 The whole truth lay in a nutshell. Mrs. 
 Payne — in the course of her unbosomings to
 
 256 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 her friend and chief gossip, Mrs. Chisham, 
 the apothecary's wife, a timid, weak-eyed 
 little creature, who venerated Mrs. Payne 
 above all other women both on account of 
 her gifts of speech, and her grandly mys- 
 terious experiences of London society — had 
 profited by the occasion to give vehement 
 utterance to her disapproval of Hope's 
 " goings-on " generally, and in particular 
 of this egregious act of presumption which 
 assumed the form of a visit to Woodbury 
 House. Mrs. Chisham had feebly assented, 
 and had allowed herself to be betrayed into 
 certain feeble platitudes and vague genera- 
 lities anent the tendency to vanity and fast- 
 ness of the rising generation. All which 
 statements assumed colour and form through 
 the medium of Mrs. Payne's picturesque brain, 
 till, as she lay ruminating on her pillow, she 
 seemed actually to behold realized the pre- 
 visions of her evil fancy. On the following 
 morning she started immediately after break- 
 fast to " warn " Hope — not of her own scur- 
 rilous tongue and suspicious brain — but of the 
 actual dangers of disgrace and ruin which
 
 GENTLEMAN YEKSCHOYLE. 257 
 
 arose before her distorted vision. Hope, 
 altliougli she was accustomed to Mrs. Payne's 
 incoherences, and was clear-sighted enough 
 to see that the greatest danger lay in the 
 tongue of her mentor, felt a pang of very 
 bitter and humiliating shame strike through 
 her proud, sensitive heart. All the into- 
 lerant spirit of her youth arose in fierce 
 anger against the cruel, mean suspicions that 
 dogged her free footsteps. A sickening 
 horror of the littleness and meanness of the 
 atmosphere which surrounded her, brought 
 scalding tears to her pamed, dazzled eyes. 
 Then, with a strong effort, she mastered her 
 wrath, and turned coldly and calmly to the 
 executioner, \Yho was watching, with the 
 malevolent delight of small souls, the depth 
 of the stab she had inflicted. 
 
 "Mrs. Payne," Hope said very steadily, 
 " I thank you for coming to tell me this, as 
 you say you do so for my good. I hope you 
 will tell — the parish — that it is perfectly un- 
 true. My head is not ' turned ' on account 
 of this visit. I am ready to return to the 
 Fai'm whenever my uncle wishes, and I pin 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 GENTLEMAN VERSCHQYLE. 
 
 certainly not going to ' set my cap ' at Mr. 
 Verschoyle," Hope said, her eyes blazing with 
 wrath, though her voice was quite steady and 
 calm. " To begin with, I am not likely to 
 see him much." 
 
 Here was a splendid opportunity for Mrs. 
 Payne to let fly a parting shaft. So standing 
 up, Avith her parasol grasped in one hand 
 and holding up the folds of her best silk with 
 the other, she replied, — 
 
 " I told them " — (Mrs. Chisham was ad- 
 vanced to the dignity of a plural) — " that you 
 were not likely to see Mr. Maurice, as you 
 don't dine with the family or sit in the 
 drawing-room with Mrs. Verschoyle and her 
 friends. I told them you always sat in the 
 morning-room, and that Miss Grey's maid 
 sat with you for company. Not but what, 
 for my part, I would not be a guest in a 
 house where I was not thought good enough 
 to break my bread with ih.Q rest. But people 
 are different, and there are some who would 
 rather crawl on their hands and knees into 
 the houses of their betters, than get no 
 footing there at all. So good-bye to you.
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 259 
 
 Hope; I wish you well, I am sure. Make 
 my compliments to Miss Grey." 
 
 Mrs. Payne went on her way. She had 
 accomplished her errand. She had ruffled and 
 dismayed the young life that had for a while 
 found rest by the wayside. Hope felt herself 
 no longer an honoured guest but a dependant, 
 an inferior, eating the bread of charity, and 
 drinking the water of humiliation. Hot, in- 
 dignant tears flowed from her proud eyes. 
 Passionate sobs escaped from her bursting, 
 overcharged heart. The better part of her 
 nature, which had turned to sun itself in the 
 warmth of Agatha's gracious hospitality, 
 shrank back, nipped and blighted. All the 
 fairness faded from her skies, hope vanished 
 from her horizon. What was the use of 
 trjdng to be contented, and gentle, and 
 amiable ? These were the qualities of the 
 happy and the prosperous. Heaven did not 
 expect such virtues from the friendless. So the 
 girl's proud, quivering spirit sank further and 
 further beneaih the veil of cold reserve which 
 I had found so difficult to penetrate, and which 
 repelled me sometimes in spite of myself. 
 
 s 2
 
 260 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 1 had not the " key" then. Perhaps I was 
 less patient than I ought to have been with 
 the child, less mindful of the painfulness of 
 her position, less ready to excuse the bitter- 
 ness of spirit whose source lay hid in a region 
 I myself had never traversed. 
 
 " Judge not the working of his brain, 
 And of the heart thou canst not see ; 
 What seems to thy dull eyes a stain, 
 
 In God's pure sight may only be 
 A scar brought from some well-won field, 
 Where thou wouklst only faint and yield."
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 We saw little of Maurice during the first 
 days of his return home. Invitations were 
 rained upon him. There was always a break- 
 fast, or a luncheon, or a picnic, or an archaeo- 
 logical fete, or a meeting of the Book Club 
 on the tapis, and to all these social gather- 
 ings Maiu"ice betook himself with a bored, 
 dissatisfied face, very unlike his old boyish 
 delight in the society of other fellows. He 
 needed the fellowship of labour now rather 
 than that of amusement. So life in the 
 morning-room flowed on in much the same 
 even current, and I was beginning to felicitate 
 myself on the groundlessness of my appre- 
 hensions when Dame Nature began maliciously 
 to array herself against me. The weather 
 became suddenly and unbearably hot. Hope
 
 262 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOTLE. 
 
 and I fled to the shade of the great elms at 
 the bottom of the lawn, where, in spite of 
 gnats and midges, we managed to breathe 
 a little fresh air. Sometimes Agatha joined 
 us, but the gnats proved too much for her 
 equanimity, and she preferred the slow tor- 
 tures of the drawing-room. There Maurice 
 always bore her company after lunch, and 
 helped her to entertain those conscientious 
 victims of English etiquette who adhered 
 religiously to the conventional hours of 
 visiting. But in the morning Maurice was 
 generally to be found stretched on the grass 
 at our feet. Sometimes he would read aloud 
 to us novels which he had procured at the 
 Leighton circulating library, or poetry which 
 he interpreted very finely with his clear, 
 ringing voice. A date in my diary brings 
 vividly to my mind a conversation which 
 took place on one of these occasions. 
 
 Reading aloud one morning Shelley's 
 " Ode to the Sky-Lark," Maurice paused 
 after the verse, — 
 
 " The sweetest songs oft tell of saddest thought."
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 263 
 
 " A man must have sounded the depths of 
 life before he can soar to the heights of 
 poetry," he said. 
 
 There were three of us listening, but he 
 addressed himself specially to Hope. 
 
 " I have no patience with the sentimental 
 love of dwelling on sad subjects," she re- 
 plied, with sublime youthful scorn. " There 
 is enough real sorrow in the world without 
 seeking for it in poetry." 
 
 " Yet the sorrowful are the greatest lovers 
 of sorrowful poetry," Maurice urged in reply. 
 
 " Very foolish," Hope said shortly. 
 
 " Did you ever consider, my dear Miss 
 Hope, what an insupportable world this 
 would be if people were not foolish?" broke 
 in Mr. Vernon, with an amused smile. 
 
 " No," Hope said laughing, and colouring 
 slightly, whilst her eyes full of gentle candour 
 sought Mr. A^ernon's face. " I don't think I 
 have been particularly oppressed by the 
 sense of mankind. You know I have Car- 
 lyle's authority for saying they are " mostly 
 fools." 
 
 " Think," Mr. Vernon went on imperturb-
 
 264 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 ably, " tliink of Parliament witlioiit its dull 
 jokes, or with members too wise to laugh at 
 tliem ! Think of the awful pauses in conver- 
 sation which used to be filled with time- 
 honoured family witticisms. Think of never 
 being permitted to laugh save with a good 
 reason ! Oh, Miss Hope ! what a dull world 
 yours would be ! " 
 
 " We are a long way from the subject," 
 Hope said laughing. " We are discussing 
 jokes instead of sad poetry." 
 
 " Digressions, I perceive, would not be 
 permitted in your world," said the Vicar, 
 vrith. a good deal of quiet fun lurking in the 
 corners of his mouth. " I must shape my 
 mode of speech to a degree of arithmetical 
 precision before I come here again." 
 
 Such a kind glance fell on the girl's face, 
 which was a little flushed with the conscious- 
 ness of failure in an attempt to be " over- 
 wise." 
 
 '"' Shelley would have done better service," 
 she said dogmatically, "by helping us to 
 look for the happiness instead of the sadness 
 of life. We want to be tausj'ht to take delio:ht
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 265 
 
 in every common act — to be like the flowers, 
 just happy because they live, turning their 
 grateful faces to the sun, blooming in rocks 
 and crevices wherever they can get a footing. 
 Their happiness is inherent. It does not 
 depend on externals," said Hope, uncon- 
 sciously " talking " Ruskin. 
 
 " Yet there are blights among the flowers," 
 Mr. Vernon said. " The vegetable kingdom 
 bears its share in the great moral blight 
 which has fallen upon the universe. Your 
 flower has to bend its head beneath the rain- 
 drops. It is nipped by the frost. Its petals 
 are scattered by the wind. What becomes 
 of its inherent happiness then ?" 
 
 Hope was silent. Maurice, who had been 
 listening attentively, now took up the burden. 
 
 " If poetry were only to deal with cheerful 
 subjects," he said, " it would be as exaspe- 
 rating as I And the conversation of those 
 people who are always trying to explain 
 away sorrow. They don't feel the sting 
 themselves, so they refuse to believe in it. 
 Tell them your best friend is dead ; they 
 assure you it is a happy release. Tell them
 
 266 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 you have been plucked for your degree : 
 they assure you that success would have 
 been a greater misfortune. Tell them that 
 you are bankrupt, and they answer comfort- 
 ably that you exaggerate your little money 
 difficulties. Tell them you are going to be 
 hung, and I believe they would answer that 
 they envy your exalted position." 
 
 A general laugh followed Maurice's speech. 
 
 " You are quite right," Mr. Vernon said, 
 as soon as he could compose himself. " I 
 have heard that kind of talk. It is as you 
 say exasperating. One feels that the re- 
 bound from over-sensitiveness has been upon 
 callousness. We are not intended to brace 
 ourselves for endurance by an affectation of 
 stoicism. The Cross is meant to be felt. 
 What is the use of denying the existence of 
 sorrow ? One might as well try to see the 
 sun in the midnight sky. It is to burdened 
 and weary hearts that the sadness of poetry 
 speaks the language of universal sympathy. 
 The poet's heart must beat in unison with 
 every throb of human suffering, every craving 
 of human aspiration. The heart of the world
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 267 
 
 would break if tlie poet's song did not give 
 it relief." 
 
 No one felt inclined to make any answer 
 to the Vicar's speech. Maurice went off 
 with him, and we were left alone. Hope 
 was very silent for the rest of the morning. 
 
 Mr. Vernon dined with us that evening. 
 Just before dinner I came into the drawing- 
 room with a silver cross of Hope's in my 
 hand. 
 
 " Do you want anything from Leighton ? " 
 I asked. " I am going to send John to see 
 if this can be mended." 
 
 Mr. Vernon stretched out his hand for the 
 cross. 
 
 " Millicent Digby," he read engraved at 
 the back. " Then this is an heir-loom ; Digby 
 was the maiden-name of Miss Hope's mother." 
 
 " What Digbys are those ? " Maurice in- 
 quired, with, an unusual display of interest ; 
 " I knew some at college, Warwickshire 
 people." 
 
 " They belong to the same family," Mr. 
 Vernon replied, " but I don't suppose Miss 
 Rosendale knows anything about them."
 
 268 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOTLE. 
 
 " How do you mean ? " Maurice asked 
 curiously. 
 
 " Hope's mother married beneatli her," 
 Agatha said, rattier impatiently, " and she 
 was cut, in consequence, by all her family." 
 
 " She married her father's curate," Mr. 
 Vernon said, by way of an explanation. 
 
 " Was he a clergyman ? " Maurice asked in 
 a surprised tone : "I thought he was a 
 farmer ! ' Farming people,' you said, mother." 
 
 " Her uncle is a farmer," Agatha said, 
 biting her lip ; " and I really did not think 
 you would care for the exact details of Miss 
 Rosendale's pedigree. It is not a matter of 
 importance." 
 
 So the subject was dropped. Whilst we 
 were sitting at dessert, Hope's chair passed 
 slowly along the terrace. Mr. Vernou followed 
 it a long time with his eyes. 
 
 " When is she going back to the Hall 
 Farm ? " he asked. 
 
 " Never J I hope," Agatha said pleasantly ; 
 '' she must stay here till she gets better, and 
 then I must try to find her some comfortable 
 situation as governess or companion to an old
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 269 
 
 lady. Tliat would suit lier exactly. Her 
 manners are so humble and unassuming." 
 
 Clearly, Agatha had yet to discover the 
 strong foundations of pride and self-reliance 
 on which Hope's humility was based. An in- 
 dignant flush mounted to Mr. Vernon's brow. 
 He rose and followed me out of the room, 
 when I went to take Hope a bunch of grapes. 
 
 "What is Mrs. Verschoyle thinking about?" 
 he said impatiently. " Companion ! She is 
 not the least fitted for the position — a sensi- 
 tive, high-spirited girl like that." 
 
 I wondered at our good Vicar's unusual 
 display of warmth. 
 
 Hope was resting on the sofa. In her 
 lap lay treasures that old William had robbed 
 from the hedges and banks. Dog-roses, 
 honey-suckle, fox-glove, wild geranium, blue 
 germania, and drooping fern-leaves were 
 shaping themselves beneath her artistic 
 fingers into a glorious nosegay. 
 
 " We have been in your territory," Hope 
 said, looking smilingly into the Vicar's face. 
 " We went to the churchyard, and I got out of 
 the chair, and sat in the porch. The singers
 
 270 GEXTLEMAX VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 were practising inside, and the rooks were 
 cawing outside, but the two choirs did not 
 clash. And oh ! the sunshine ! Such lovely- 
 shadows fell across the long grass upon the 
 quiet graves. It was all so calm, so still; 
 it made me feel quite good. Why does one 
 feel so trustful outside the church, and so 
 sceptical and cold inside, Mr. Yernon ? " 
 Hope asked, half playfully ; but Mr. Vernon 
 looked very grave. 
 
 " Have you nothing left to make you ' feel 
 good' when the sun goes behind a cloud?" 
 he asked very gently. 
 
 Hope raised her eyes full of grateful affec- 
 tion to Mr. Vernon's face. 
 
 " Yes, other things make me feel that 
 I am breathing a true, pure, heavenly air. 
 1 know that all you say is real. Your good- 
 ness is a real abiding thing to beHeve in," 
 cried the girl, stretching out her hand with a 
 rare impulse to lay it in Mr. Vernon's. 
 
 " My dear child," Mr. Vernon said, and 
 then he stopped ; whatever of reproof or warn- 
 ing trembled on his lip, I do not know. It 
 was never uttered. Pym came in to carry
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 271 
 
 Hope off to bed. Before slie went she put a 
 little bouquet of wild flowers into Mr, 
 Vernon's liand. Duriuo- the rest of the 
 evening he frequently took it from his button- 
 hole and looked at it ; once so long and so 
 earnestly that I almost thought I saw tears 
 gathering in his eyes. He certainly was a 
 most tender-hearted man. 
 
 I could not help wishing that Hope would 
 try to take a little more interest in Maurice's 
 readings. The flice which, turned to Mr. 
 Vernon, flushed with enthusiasm and fire, 
 remained coldly impassive to the melodies of 
 Byron, and Moore, and Shelley, and Words- 
 worth. She would sit sewing, with an air 
 of calm indifierence which was perfectly 
 exasperating to behold. 
 
 " Does not Mr. Verschoyle read beauti- 
 fully?" I was provoked into asking one day. 
 
 " Yes, he reads well," Hope said, in her 
 quiet, cool way. " Had I better stitch this 
 on both sides, Miss Dora ? '' 
 
 Sometimes Maurice appealed to her opi- 
 nion. I noticed that she invariably differed 
 from his own tastes and predilections. Yet
 
 272 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 she never opposed him with the warmth and 
 the earnestness which she sometimes brought 
 to bear on Mr. Vernon. She gave her opinion 
 in a cold, careless way, as if, after all, the 
 matter were one of the profoundest indif- 
 ference. Maurice, who never did anything 
 by halves, who hated or loved, believed or 
 condemned with his whole heart, was very 
 much chagrined by this lukewarmness, which 
 was only varied by some touches of the old 
 bitterness which had pained me so much at 
 first. Maurice's soul was chilled by such 
 glimpses of the cold, cynical spirit which 
 always looks most sadly from a woman's 
 eyes. He was ill at ease himself, restless, 
 dissatisfied, almost hopeless. It was hard 
 that the same mocking fiend should look at 
 him from a girl's innocent eyes, and sneer at 
 him with the accents of a gi^^l's pure voice. 
 So during those bright summer days at 
 Woodbury, we were all, more or less, at 
 cross purposes.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 I FIND in my diary the following account. 
 
 " Hope is certainly a strange girl. To-day 
 a remark of Maurice's, uttered in the simplest 
 good faith, made her blaze up in a sudden 
 fire of resentment. Poor child, I fear she 
 ^vill have much to suffer before her lesson of 
 patience can be learnt." 
 
 As I copy this short extract fi'om the 
 yellow pages of my treasured journal, the 
 scene rises before my eyes in the fresh, vi^'id 
 colours of yesterday. I did not know, when 
 I wrote my accustomed record, before going 
 to sleep, that I was chronicling an important 
 epoch in my nephew's life. Do any of us, I 
 wonder, rightly estimate the greatness and 
 grandeur of the present ? It is only in looking 
 back through long telescopic ages that we 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 GENTLEMAN YERSCHOYLE. 
 
 learn to grasp the importance of some mo- 
 ment in the history of a life or nation which 
 passed unnoticed at the time. The past, 
 which to us is so fraught with momentous im- 
 port, was only a very common-place " pre- 
 sent" to the busy housewives living at the 
 time, and occupying themselves with their 
 eggs and butter, their churnings, sweepings, 
 brewings and bakings; all heedless of the 
 great revolutions of government or of reli- 
 gion, that each day was accomplishing in its 
 gradual course. So we leave the past to 
 speak to us with grandly solemn meaning, 
 and we ourselves look to the future as to 
 some indefinite distance, forgetting that each 
 day's even flow is making up the history of 
 what will one day be a glorious past, and is 
 bringing us up by quiet, noiseless footsteps 
 into the presence of the dim, intangible future. 
 Looking back on those pleasant summer days 
 which, at the time, seemed to flow on in a 
 calm, uneventful current, I am able, by the 
 light of my after-knowledge to understand 
 that they were the most eventful of Maurice's 
 life. But for those long mornings under the
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 275 
 
 trees, those readings, those comments, and 
 conflicts, which were sure to follow the 
 closing of the book ; but for all these things, 
 the sequel of this story would have been quite 
 diflferent. So the short accounts preserved in 
 my diary of the doings of each eventful day, 
 are now filled with a strange and powerful 
 interest. I must say a little more about 
 Hope's sudden blaze of wrath. Maurice had 
 been reading to us Scott's " Lady of the 
 Lake," and the ringing, martial music of the 
 Scottish bard had been rendered with pecu- 
 liar power by his deep, musical voice. I was so 
 entranced, so carried out of myself, and away 
 from the present moment, that I let fall in- 
 numerable stitches of the coverlet which I was 
 knitting for Widow Bartlett's son, and sat 
 with my hands clasped on my lap, in much 
 the same idle fashion that used, in other 
 days, to call forth a smiling reproof from Mrs. 
 Leicester. But Hope went on, stitch, stitch, 
 stitch, with the same calm imperturbability. 
 Her face was turned away, so I could not 
 perceive if an}^ animated expression counter- 
 balanced the stolid indifference of those busy 
 T 2
 
 276 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 fingers. At last, wlien Maurice had come 
 to tlie lines 
 
 " Then each at once his falchion drew, 
 Each on the ground his scabbard threw, 
 Each look'd to sun and stream and plain, 
 As what they ne'er might see again ; 
 Then foot and point and eye opposed, 
 In dubious strife they darkly closed." 
 
 He threw down the book, and turned with a 
 glowing face towards us. 
 
 " Certainly Scott is the Prince of Min- 
 strels," he exclaimed. " What fire, what 
 manly vigour breathes from his inspiriting 
 lines ! One page of this bright stirring 
 rhythm is worth a whole volume of modern 
 trash — what do you say, Miss Rosendale?" 
 
 " I am not an admirer of Scott," Hope 
 replied, with the air of calm indifference that 
 I always feel to be so exasperating. " He 
 ought to have confined himself to prose. In- 
 deed his poems are novels in verse. They 
 are quite destitute of poetical sentiment." 
 
 AYhether this was Ho])e's real opinion I 
 cannot say. To differ from and contradict 
 Maurice was her role in conversation, and I
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 277 
 
 often fancied that she did violence to her own 
 feelings thereby. 
 
 Maurice looked vexed. The hope of giving 
 pleasure to the invalid girl had mainly in- 
 fluenced his choice of books. 
 
 " You must not utter such heresies to Cap- 
 tain Foster to-night. 1 remember at school 
 he used to keep us awake at night with his 
 recitations from Scott. By the way, you are 
 well enough to join us downstairs now, are 
 you not?" 
 
 " No, I dine upstairs," Hope said shortly. 
 
 Agatha was giving a dinner party to some 
 of her neighbours. Hope had heard nothing 
 about it till Maurice spoke. 
 
 "Do you not feel strong enough yet?" 
 Maurice said in a very kind voice. " Would 
 not a little change be good for you ? I think, 
 if you could make the effort, you would 
 enjoy it." 
 
 How stupid Maurice was to be sure ! It 
 was not the least use poking him or frowning 
 at him. He would be sure to ask out loud, 
 in his terribly honest way, " A^^iat is that 
 for. Aunt Dora ?"
 
 278 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 " I should not enjoy it at all," was Hope's 
 somewhat ungracious reply. " On the con- 
 trary, it would be torture to me." 
 
 " Well," Maurice said, smiling, " I confess 
 that I am a sociable animal ; I love the society 
 of my kind. But in this case, of course, it is 
 different with you." 
 
 He meant that the guests were old play- 
 fellows, with whom he had enjoyed neigh- 
 bourly intercourse for years, whilst to Hope 
 they would be complete strangers. He was 
 always so courteous to Hope, so thoughtful 
 for her comfort and happiness. How could 
 she misunderstand him ? We were both 
 startled and shocked by the lightning change 
 in Hope's countenance. Like some fair 
 summer sky suddenly swept by angry, forked, 
 electric flashes, so did a tempest of passion, 
 rage, and scorn blaze out on the calm of 
 Hope's face. Angry, lurid lights gleamed 
 from lier deep, serious eyes ; bitter words 
 seemed ready to hiss like serpents from her 
 pale lips. We were silent, thunderstruck. 
 We waited like mariners, with sails furled and 
 masts dismantled, till the tempest should
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 279 
 
 have spent its force. With a strong effort 
 that almost amounted to a physical wrench, 
 Hope mastered her wrath, and turned a cold, 
 proud face towards Maurice. 
 
 " Yes, it is different with me," she said, 
 speaking slowly and with diflBculty. " You 
 are right to remind me ; but, oh ! I assure 
 you, I am not in danger of forgetting the 
 difference in our position. You are a gentle- 
 man, well-born, wealthy, heir to a good 
 name. You are a Verschoyle — and I — I am 
 only the niece of the tenant at the Hall Farm. 
 One of these days, perhaps, I may come to ask 
 you to recommend me for the post of nursery 
 governess, or " humble companion " in the 
 household of one of your friends ; but do not 
 ask me to meet them at dinner, Mr. Maurice, 
 and then regret your slip of the tongue." 
 
 She was gone almost before the last wither- 
 ing words had fallen from her pale lips ; 
 gone across the lawn with unfaltering step, 
 and head erect like a young stag. She had 
 never before walked so far without the help 
 of a friendly arm. We saw her put her hands 
 out blindly and gropingly as she neared the
 
 280 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 house. Maurice started to his feet, but before 
 lie could reach her Pym had espied her from 
 the still-room window, and had flown to her 
 assistance. I was too angry to move. I felt 
 thoroughly disappointed and not a little dis- 
 gusted. What right had she to speak with 
 such stinging bitterness to my boy, my 
 Maurice, the truest-hearted gentleman that 
 ever stepped the earth ? 
 
 " How stupid you are, Maurice ! She 
 is always intended to dine upstairs," I said 
 irritably. 
 
 But Maurice still stood looking after her 
 with regretful eyes. 
 
 " I would not have wounded her for 
 worlds," he said slowly. 
 
 *' Don't worry yourself, my dear," I said, 
 passing my hand over his dark, curly head. 
 " She is an impertinent, ungrateful young 
 puss. I shall give her a good scolding to- 
 night. 
 
 *' Pray do nothing of the sort. Aunt Dora, 
 Maurice replied hastily. 
 
 " My dear, she really deserves it. If she 
 is going to run a tilt against her kindest
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSOHOYLE. 281 
 
 friends in this way, she will never be happy. 
 She must be spoken to." 
 
 " Yes, she must," JNIaurice said decidedly. 
 " /shall speak to her. Aunt Dora. Leave her 
 to me." 
 
 Clearly Maurice possessed a good opinion 
 of his prowess. But horse-taming is one 
 thing, and young lady-taming is another ! 
 Something of this looked out of my eyes, I 
 suppose, for Maurice smiled a little, and said 
 again, " Leave her to me. Aunt Dora, I will 
 manage her; but promise me, you will not 
 interfere." 
 
 So I gave the promise, but with many 
 misgivings as to the success of Maurice's 
 undertaking. My mind, however, was quite 
 cleared of my ancient fears respecting any 
 danger to be apprehended from Maurice's 
 intercourse with Hope. Such an ebullition 
 of temper was sufficient to disenchant the 
 most ardent admirer. So at least I thought. 
 
 The dinner-party passed off very pleasantly. 
 Maurice at the head of his table made a 
 very courteous host, but he was a little silent, 
 a little preoccupied, I thought. Agatha,
 
 282 GEJJTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 however, was quite satisfied with her boy. 
 She sat opposite to him, in her handsome 
 dinner attire of velvet and lace — a superb 
 picture of English matronly beauty. She 
 was sketching out her plan of life to her 
 neighbour. Lord Polterton, who was slightly 
 deaf; so she was obliged to raise her voice a 
 little; and above the stream of fashionable 
 babble and college reminiscences rose the 
 mother's satisfied tones, " Yes, to the Medi- 
 terranean — but not for long." " Paris " was 
 the next word I caught, and then "The London 
 Season." Lord Polterton, who was a " beau " 
 of the ancient regime, bowed and showed his 
 glittering false teeth, as he remarked on the 
 benefit the beautiful Mrs. Verschoyle was 
 conferring on society by ceasing to hide her 
 light under a bushel. Agatha smiled back, 
 well pleased with the compliment. She 
 seemed like an ancient war-horse, already 
 scenting victory from afar. By anticipation 
 she lived on the honeyed food of society, and 
 tasted the sweet homage of flattery, but in a 
 nobler, purer sense than when she had made 
 self the first and last object of existence.
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 283 
 
 Once I saw Mr. Vernon, who was listening 
 like myself to Agatha's talk, look mournfully 
 across the table to Maurice, who caught his 
 eye, and smiled back a little sadly. So, 
 around this pleasant dinner- table many con- 
 trary interests were already invisibly clashing. 
 
 When the gentlemen joined the ladies in the 
 drawing-room, Maurice suddenly disappeared. 
 With a quick step he bounded up the stair- 
 case, passed along the gallery, and tapped at 
 the door of the morning-room. 
 
 " Come in," said Hope's voice a little 
 wearily. She thought she was speaking to 
 a servant. Maurice pushed open the door 
 gently, and stood in the doorway. Hope was 
 lying on the sofa — all the anger and excite- 
 ment had faded from her face, and left her 
 with a touching expression of weary sadness. 
 Maurice, who knew it best under its veil of 
 chilling indifference, was strongly moved 
 by the gentleness of the pale young face. 
 Slowly Hope turned her head, and discovered 
 Maurice. The vivid blood started to her 
 cheek, and dyed her brow, and even her 
 throat, with hot, burning shame. Maurice's
 
 284 GENTLEMAN VEHSCHOYLE. 
 
 kindly smile seemed to heap hot coals of fire 
 on her head. 
 
 " May I come in ? " Maurice asked. 
 
 " Certainly," Hope replied. She could 
 hardly refuse ! Was not Maurice the master 
 of the house ? 
 
 " I thought you would like to know how 
 we are getting on in the regions below," 
 Maurice said, advancing into the room, and 
 placing himself with his back to the light, and 
 in such a position that he could scan each 
 line of Hope's face. " Although you do 
 not like dinner-parties — neither should I in 
 your case — as I said this afternoon, ' It is 
 quite different with you.' Our guests are 
 old and intimate friends. To you they would 
 be strangers, and you would enjoy meeting 
 them no more than I enjoy a London dinner, 
 where I do not see a familiar face. Can 
 you understand the difference now, Miss 
 Hope?" 
 
 There was meaning in Maurice's voice. 
 There was contrition in Hope's face. Maurice 
 had gained the victory, but he did not triumph. 
 
 " Miss Hope," he said very gently, " is it a
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 285 
 
 good tiling to go through Hfe with the behef 
 that every man's hand is against you ? Would 
 it not be better to trust a little more, to try 
 and believe that such things as sincerity' 
 and disinterestedness really exist ? I think 
 morbid suspicion must be the atmosphere of 
 Satan." 
 
 This was strong language. Perhaps no 
 one had ever so spoken to Hope before. But 
 she loved it, as women do love stern words 
 from the men they respect. 
 
 "Miss Hope," Maurice went on, "we all 
 have our difficulties, and doubts, and sorrows, 
 and perplexities. "We are all burdened in 
 one way or another. Some of the bitterness 
 you feel has sunk into my own heart too. 
 Do not think you are the only one who seeks 
 for hght in the darkness. Miss Hope," 
 Maurice said, speaking with the outstretched 
 hand that had been his habit from child- 
 hood in moments of strong excitement, " will 
 you believe me, and take me for your friend, 
 or will you misunderstand me, and read a 
 covert, cowardly insult in every word I say ? 
 Which will you do ? "
 
 286 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOTLE. 
 
 What moved Hope so strangely ? What 
 caused swift, contrite, childish tears to roll 
 silently down her pale cheek ? 
 
 " Monsieur Maurice, be my friend," she 
 said, speaking with the French accent, which 
 with her was always a sure indication of 
 overwrought feeling. Maurice clasped the 
 tremulous hand extended to him with chival- 
 rous respect. Some of the tenderness with 
 which a kind-hearted surgeon will look down 
 on a sufferer whose wound he has just 
 probed gleamed from Maurice's honest 
 eyes. 
 
 "God bless you!" arose involuntarily to 
 his lips. So I found the two when I came 
 upstairs to look after my patient. Hope was 
 lying with her hands clasped tightly to- 
 gether, and with a strangely softened and 
 chastened expression on her face, whilst 
 Maurice was speaking earnestly to her. I 
 turned away. I had seen quite enough for 
 one night. 
 
 Passing along the gallery the next evening 
 with Maurice, we heard the unwonted sounds 
 of music proceeding from the morning-room.
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 287 
 
 A little French air was warbled forth in a 
 pure clear voice : — 
 
 " Si tu n'avais rien a me dire, 
 Pourquoi venir aupres de moi.'' 
 
 Maurice and I stood listening. The last 
 verse was sung very faintly; the performer 
 was evidently tired. Then she commenced 
 playing idle snatches from different com- 
 posers, touching the keys softly and 
 lovingly, all heedless of listening ears. 
 Maurice stole to the door and looked in. 
 Hope's slender hands now flew swiftly across 
 the keys, now lingered fondly on some melo- 
 dious chords. Her slight figure swayed and 
 bent with every change in the character of 
 her music. Her head was thrown slightly 
 back, her Hps were parted. Her upraised 
 eyes seemed to pierce the twilight. Some of 
 her dusky hair, escaped from its confinement, 
 fell in careless masses about her slender 
 throat. This pale, statuesque figure, striking 
 out wild melodies in the silence of the dying 
 day, might have stood for the embodiment of
 
 288 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 the spirit of harmony. Maurice came back 
 to me softly. 
 
 " Don't let us disturb her," he said, " the 
 charm would be broken." 
 
 It became our habit to leave the dining- 
 room door open, so that Hope's music might 
 steal down on us as we sat listening in the 
 twilight. Hope never knew we were lis- 
 tening. Agatha was going to tell her once, 
 so that she might play some piece "more 
 connectedly," she said; but Maurice begged 
 her not to do so. " It would break the 
 charm," he said again, as he sat with his 
 head on his hand listening to Hope's musical 
 utterances ; learning, perhaps, something 
 of the restless, passionate longings of the 
 girl's soul from her pleading touches, her 
 quick transitions, her full, firm chords ringing 
 out stern, relentless answers to her tender 
 modulations. So we sat silent, spell-bound, 
 watching the dusky twilight creep across the 
 meadows, as the yellow sunlight faded from 
 the sky, and the evening stars shone faintly 
 in the pale heavens. Nature's mysterious 
 voices joined themselves to the girl's sweet
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 289 
 
 harmonies, and stirred the heart of the young 
 man with a new and strange power. The 
 restlessness of his spirit was stilled awhile. 
 Faint echoes of a new subtle influence he had 
 never felt before, began to ring heavenly 
 chimes within his soul. Oh, Agatha ! If 
 you could but have known, would you have 
 sat listening so complacently to the girl's 
 music, and ordering the servants to step 
 lightly not to impede the sound ? Would 
 you not rather have drowned it with the 
 clash of money-bags, and the proclamation 
 of the Verschoyle pedigree ? 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 I THINK even Agatha's slumbering senses 
 would have been aroused to a full under- 
 standing of the "danger" to which her 
 thoughtlessness had exposed her son, if an 
 unfortunate cold had not forced her to remain 
 a prisoner in her room for some days. Cer- 
 tainly the Fates were against us ! Hope gave 
 up sitting on the lawn, and contented herself 
 with drives in the pony carriage, with old 
 William as charioteer, or strolls in the shrub- 
 bery accompanied by Pym. Nothing could 
 have been more perfect than her behaviour. 
 Her instincts taught her what was right and 
 seemly under the circumstances, and I do 
 not think the most censorious of "Mrs. 
 Grundy's " could have discovered a flaw in 
 the exquisite propriety of the young girl's
 
 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 291 
 
 conduct. Yet, in spite of her dignified 
 caution, she was thrown perpetually in 
 Maurice's way. How could she avoid meet- 
 ing him in the gallery, on the stairs, in the 
 hall — or how could she turn from the kind, 
 strong arm that was ever at her disposal to 
 help her from the carriage, or to take her 
 wraps from her tired hands ? How could 
 she repulse the young master of the house if 
 he invaded her sanctum— the morning-room 
 — to bring her a book or a flower, and then 
 remained " just for five minutes' chat." Pyni 
 was always there — Hope begged her to stay 
 with her. " She felt lonely," she said, " now 
 that Miss Dora was so much in Mrs. Ver- 
 schoyle's room." So the good creature, who 
 had conceived a strong affection for her 
 invalid charge, was very happy to sit working 
 at the window, whilst Hope read, or played 
 and sang, or sometimes sat working too, and 
 quite disposed for Pym's reminiscences. Pym 
 looked with very favourable eyes on her 
 young master's visits. She liked to hear 
 his " clever talk," which, as her feeling of 
 " proprietorship " in Maurice was very strong, 
 tJ 2
 
 292 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 seemed to reflect some kind of glory on lier 
 own mental powers ! *' Our young master," 
 the servants all called him, with a sense of 
 proud, exulting fondness. So, when Maurice 
 made his appearance in the morning-room, 
 he was always sure of a smiling welcome 
 from Pym, who would push a comfortable 
 chair towards him, and endeavour by nu- 
 merous simple wiles to prolong his visit. 
 How Miss Hope could sit there sewing so 
 cold and calm was a mystery to honest Pym, 
 whose own heart, at Hope's age, had been 
 accustomed to go pit-a-pat on the slightest 
 provocation. But, occasionally, even Pym 
 was satisfied. Words from Maurice's Ups had 
 sometimes the power to bring such a bright- 
 ness to her face, such radiant light to her 
 eyes, such a tender softening to her sensitive 
 mouth; that Pym would think that "really 
 if she had a colour, and a good complexion. 
 Miss Hope would be quite pretty." I, 
 coming in, in the midst of one of these little 
 scenes, and catching sight of the girl's face 
 all aglow with this new radiance, would turn 
 away with a strange sinking of the heart.
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 293 
 
 What fatal blindness liad fallen on my sister's 
 eyes ! How would she bear the revelation 
 that must dawn upon her sooner or later ? 
 Once Hope surprised me by going into 
 Agatha's room, and asking her if she might 
 return to the Hall Farm ; but Agatha — who 
 had grown rather tired of her semi-invalid 
 condition, and was a little wilful and exacting 
 and prone to tyrannize over me — was unable 
 to resist the temptation of disappointing the 
 pleading that my eyes could not fail to join 
 to Hope's request. So she only laughed and 
 patted Hope's cheek graciously, and said, — 
 
 " No, she could not spare her. Maurice 
 was going away in a fortnight, and she could 
 not bear the house without a young face. 
 Hope must stay as long as the flowers." 
 
 A very perplexed expression crossed the 
 girl's face. Some remonstrance seemed to 
 tremble on her lip, but it rested there ; she 
 left the room silently, and went back to Pym . 
 I, in the meantime, had made ony plan for 
 Hope. I had written to ask Mrs. Leicester 
 if she could receive her into her house as a 
 " daughter," and let the poor child enjoy all
 
 294 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 the benefits of a " home," in the pleasant 
 country vicarage to which Mr. Leicester had 
 been recently appointed. To my delight 
 Mrs. Leicester acceded to my request; so 
 now I had only to deal with Hope and her 
 uncle. From the former I did not anticipate 
 any difficulty, but how to gain Mr. Rosen- 
 dale's consent was a problem more difficult 
 to solve than that ancient one propounded 
 b}^ the mice in conclave — Hoiu to hell the cat ! 
 So I made my schemes, and my sister lived 
 on in her happy condition of indifference, 
 and Mr. Vernon watched Hope with those 
 same troubled eyes; and, meanwhile, the 
 young people approached nearer and nearer 
 to the brink of that flowery precipice which 
 permits of no ascent. Once fallen into the 
 depths of the sweet abyss, the path to the 
 calm, reasonable heights above, cannot be 
 retraced. Did they see tlie danger ? I think 
 not. Certainly, Maurice never paused to look 
 or think. He gave himself up to the fond 
 delirmm of the moment, and let the future 
 he undisturbed in shadowy outlines of dim, 
 tremulous joy. Marriage ! He never thought
 
 GENTLEMAN VEKSCHOTLE. 295 
 
 of that. He only tlioiiglit of Hope — of tlie 
 silent flashes of her deep, spiritual eyes, 
 revealing a mind that ansAvered to his own, 
 a heart that throbbed in unison with his, a 
 hand outstretched, ready to clasp his in help- 
 ful sympathy, sweet lips fraught with the 
 musical echo of his inmost thoughts. All 
 the thousand nameless things that make up 
 the sum of sweet human sympathy thrilled 
 unconsciously through the young man's heart; 
 stole from it the bitterness, the dissatisfac- 
 tion, the sense of " something wanting," and 
 made him feel rich, exulting, satisfied. I 
 think his mind was for a time less filled with 
 schemes of usefulness, with ambitious thirst- 
 ings for life's battle-field. Wearied, and 
 jarred, and hopeless, finding nothing in life 
 to satisfy his restless crayings, this young 
 girl had come to him, and filled his heart, 
 and revived his hope, and given him a new 
 object, a new interest, a new faith in the 
 sweetness of existence. For the moment he 
 was absorbed, selfishly engrossed, lost in the 
 ocean of this new, sacred happiness. Was it 
 to end there ? Was the pilgrim after his long
 
 296 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOTLE. 
 
 journeyings, his wearinesses, Lis wounds and 
 affonies to find his shrine revealed in the face 
 of his love ? 
 
 And the change in Hope was very wonder- 
 ful. Surely God is working miracles around 
 us every day by the magical power of sweet 
 affections. Hope, with this new tenderness 
 blossoming all over her life, looking out from 
 the soft depths of her glad eyes, lurking 
 about the chastened sweetness of her happy 
 lips, rippling forth in the sounds of her musi- 
 cal laughter, thrilling in the tones of her 
 tremulous voice, seemed hardly the same 
 being. All her nature glowed with the power 
 of this new impulse. The pale colouring of 
 her girlish existence had deepened into the 
 glorious fulness of ripe, womanly love. All 
 unconsciously, in the strength of her new- 
 found joy, she moved about in a dream of 
 .solemn happiness. Sweet invisible voices 
 spoke to her as she sat in the sombre twilight 
 glow. " The whole creation sigheth ;" but 
 Hope did not hear the sighing. For her all 
 nature thrilled with the music of joyous 
 anthems.
 
 GENTLEMAIS! VERSCHOYLE. 297 
 
 Happiness, hope, trust, the glory of love 
 shone round about her, dazzling her some- 
 times with its brightness, awing her with a 
 sense of its great and solemn power, thrilling 
 her with such sweetly sacred emotion that 
 often, as she sat with clasped hands, listening 
 to the rustling of the leaves as they trembled 
 in the evening breeze, sweet, delicious tears 
 would roll down her face, and f?Jl on her 
 fragile hands. Each tear washed some trace 
 of past sorrow and bitterness from her heart, 
 and left it pure and soft — a waxen page, ready 
 to receive the stamp of sweeter emotions, of 
 nobler thoughts, of higher and purer aspira- 
 tions. 
 
 Mr. Vernon, meeting us one day on the 
 lawn, turned back with me towards the 
 house. Hope, who had just returned from 
 her drive with William, was walking on in 
 front with Maurice. They turned to look at 
 the setting sun, Mr. Vernon grasped my 
 arm. His face was a little pale, I thought. 
 
 " What is it. Miss Dora ? " he said, looking 
 towards them. 
 
 " Only what is to be expected of two young
 
 298 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 
 
 people wlio are thrown constantly into each 
 other's society," I said rather angrily. 
 
 " He would not trifle with her," Mr. Vernon 
 said in an agitated whisper. *' He is not pur- 
 suing that horrible modern art of flirtation, 
 is he?" 
 
 *' No. It is all real enough," I replied 
 rather sadly ; " and oh ! Mr, Vernon, what 
 will come of it all ? What will his mother 
 say ?" 
 
 Mr. Vernon stood erect, 
 
 " Any mother ought to be glad, proud, 
 thanhfiil. Where could one find a truer bit 
 of womanhood, a more refined and honour- 
 able lady?" 
 
 Mr. Vernon strode away. I thought he 
 had said that he was coming to see Agatha ! 
 Clearly, whatever the women might think, 
 the men were all a little cracked about Hope ! 
 And there all the time stood those two foolish 
 young people, chattering together about the 
 sunset, and looking so supremely, radiantly 
 happy. Do not think that they were " love- 
 making," as the saying is. They had not 
 yet reached that stage. They were still in
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 299 
 
 tliat condition of blissful unconsciousness of 
 the new element at work in their hearts, 
 when every word is fraught with some vague, 
 delicious meaning. It was not any very noble 
 sentiment, any beautiful or eloquent speech 
 that made Chloe's cheek flush just now, and 
 her eyes sparkle with fond, foolish happiness. 
 It had something to do with " sealing-wax " 
 perhaps, or with a hole in her kid gloves, or 
 the name of a popular melody ! Never mind, 
 the charm lay tliere all the same. The soft, 
 delusive glamour is cast about the most trivial 
 and common-place action. Depend upon it, 
 when Sara Coleridge wrote those sedate love- 
 letters, and argued about psychology and 
 the natural sciences, there was running be- 
 neath her placid words a strong under-current 
 of that same enchanting river which extends 
 the circles of its m3^sterious influence alike to 
 the foolish and the wise. " I love you," 
 must have looked from the flourishes of her 
 crossed t's and carefully-dotted i's. Did she 
 ever attempt, I wonder, to analyze the curves 
 and contradictions of the " tender passion "? 
 So in this ecstasy of fond insanity, the lovers
 
 300 GENTLEMAN VEESCHOYLE. 
 
 — for SO I must now call tliem — passed the 
 remainder of tlieir days, till tlie fatal 4tli of 
 October, when Maurice was obliged to bid 
 England farewell for a time. As the day 
 approached he became moody, irritable, exact- 
 ing. Agatha looked with wonder on her boy. 
 Hope avoided him more carefully than ever, 
 and she went about the house with a set look 
 of hopeless misery that was very sad to see 
 on her young face. I think she was the first 
 to awake to a sense of the latitudes into which 
 she and Maurice had drifted. Poor ignorant 
 mariners, without chart or compass, they had 
 allowed themselves to float along on the 
 surface of the tide, and had suddenly become 
 engulfed in a torrent they had no strength 
 to resist. What was to be done ? I counted 
 the days to Maurice's departure as eagerly as 
 any school-girl ever counted the days before 
 the holidays. With Hope established under 
 Mrs. Leicester's roof and Maurice at Gibraltar, 
 might we not hope that one of those side- 
 winds which affect the destinies of mankind 
 piore strongly often than direct causes, would 
 dissipate some of the dijB&culty ?
 
 GENTLEMAN VERSCHOYLE. 301 
 
 Thus hoping, fearing, planning, striving 
 with perplexed vision to find a safe path out 
 of the difficulties which hedged us in, my 
 days and often my nights were spent. But 
 what can human surmisings read of the 
 future, which lies silently folded in the hollow 
 of God's hand ? 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
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