LADY-BIRD. 
 
 A TALE 
 
 LADY GEORGIANA jFULLEKTON, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "GRANTLEY MANOR," "ELLEN MIDDLETON," ETC. 
 
 "With caution judge of possibility; 
 Things thought unlikely, e'en impossible, 
 Experience often shows us to be true." 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 THREE VOLUMES IN ONE. 
 
 NEW-YORK : 
 D. APPLETON & COMPANY 
 
 346 & 348 BEOADWAY. 
 M.DCCO.LV. 
 
ALUMNUS 
 

 LADY-BIRD 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 w Gloom is upon thy silent hearth 
 O silent house ! . . . . 
 Sorrow is in the breezy sound 
 Of thy tall beeches whisp'ring round; 
 The shadow of long mournful hours 
 Hangs dim upon thy early flowers, 
 Even in thy sunshine seems to brood 
 Something more deep than Solitude." 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 «' Come to the woods in whose mossy dells 
 A light all made for the poet dwells : 
 There is light, there is youth, there is tameless mirth 
 Where the~streams and the lilies they wear have birth. 
 Joyous and free shall your wanderings be 
 As the flight of birds o'er the glittering sea. 
 Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come, 
 "Where the violets lie may be now your home — 
 Away from the chamber and the sullen hearth 
 The young winds are dancing in breezy mirth, 
 Their light stems thrill to the wild wood strains. 
 ****** 
 
 Bring the lyre and the wreath and the joyous lay, 
 Come forth to the sunshine." .... 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 The old manorial residence of Lifford Grange was one of 
 those habitations which have remained in the same family for 
 many centuries, which have been two or three times rebuilt in 
 the course of a thousand years, and each time have retained 
 3ome portion of the old mansion ; the new one, as it was called, 
 being — at the period of which we speak — about as deserving 
 )f that appellation as the Pont-Neuf at Paris, which happens 
 to be the oldest of all the bridges that span the Seine. An 
 xvenue of jews led up to the house ; on each side of these 
 iepulehrai-looking trees was a row of fine beeches, whose light 
 foliage contrasted with the hue and mitigated the gloom of 
 'Aie more solemn evergreens. " La parure de l'hiver et le deuil 
 le l'ete." r q^ 
 
LADY-BIRO. 
 
 The immediate approach to the house was through a square 
 court equally divided by the earriage-road, on each side of 
 which were two patches of grass, one of them adorned by a 
 sun-dial on which the sun never shone, and the other by the 
 dry basin of a fountain into which four hideous Tritons peep- 
 ed, as if in the vain hope of discovering water in its recesses, 
 On the other side of the house there were broad gravel walks, 
 and an extensive garden — if anything so flowerless could de- 
 serve the name. A river that looked like a canal divided it 
 from the flat extent beyond. Deeply and sullenly flowed this 
 stream, which had not the beauty of clearness although the 
 rank weeds in its bed were easily discerned. There was 
 neither life nor spirit in its rapidity : sullenly and silently it 
 hurried along, as if in haste, to exchange the open space it had 
 to traverse for the shade of a dark thicket which lay between 
 the park and the river into which it was about to flow. 
 
 The most ardent admirer of old-fashioned places must have 
 owned that there was something melancholy in the aspect of 
 Liflbrd Grange, with its massive walls, its heavy portals, its 
 projecting windows, all unadorned by the smallest sprig of 
 jessamine, the least invasion of ivy, the slightest familiar touch 
 of daring tendril or aspiring creeper. The interior of the 
 house corresponded with the exterior. It had large drawing- 
 rooms, and furniture which it would have required a giant's 
 strength to move, light-excluding windows and unapproachable 
 fire-places. Heavy red woollen curtains descended to the 
 floor in cumbrous folds. A regiment abreast might have 
 marched up the stair-case, and moderate-sized houses have 
 been built within the bed-rooms. There was a certain kind of 
 grandeur about the old Grange, and none of the usual appen- 
 dages of such a place were absolutely wanting, but there was 
 a total absence of comfort in its arrangements, and of charm 
 in its aspect both within and without. 
 
 The character of the owner seemed stamped upon its walls, 
 and inscribed on its portal. Mr. Lifford's family was as an- 
 cient as his house, and his pride as lofty as his rooms. Ho 
 was the last descendant of a race which had clung to the 
 Catholic church, through the ages of persecution, with a 
 fidelity which had given him an hereditary attachment to a 
 religion, the precepts of which he did not observe, the spirit 
 of which he certainly did not exhibit. He had not enemies, 
 for he kept too much aloof from others to interfere with them, 
 or to be interfered with himself. There was a kind of dignity 
 
LADY-BIRD. 5 
 
 and smooth, coldness about him which repelled without rude- 
 ness, and chilled without offending. It would have been 
 equally difficult to affront or to flatter him : his heart (if he 
 had one) was a sealed book which his few associate* had never 
 read : none knew if its pages were inscribed with fair or foul 
 characters, or were as blank as the handsome immoveable face 
 that formed, as it were, its title page. 
 
 During a journey that he made into Spain soon after com- 
 ing of age, he had married a Spanish girl of a family as ancient 
 as his own. She was an orphan, and her guardians readily be- 
 stowed her hand on the young Englishman; whose quarterings, 
 wealth, and religious profession answered the conditions they 
 deemed indispensable to a union with a daughter of their house. 
 Angustia was her name ; on the day of her marriage it sounded 
 in strange contrast with the beauty of her face and the bril- 
 liancy of her prospects : — a very few years later, when a pale, 
 suffering, and hopelessly infirm woman took possession of an 
 apartment on the ground-floor at Lifford Grange, from which 
 she never emerged but to take a few turns in a garden-chair 
 on the sunny side of the house, it seemed more in accordance 
 with her destiny. 
 
 The first years of her marriage had been spent in Spain, 
 and during that time she had two children, a girl called Ger- 
 trude and a boy two years younger. Soon after the birth of 
 this last child, she and her husband came to England ; and at 
 about the same period a paralytic stroke deprived her of the 
 use of her limbs, while a complication of diseases reduced her 
 to a state of almost continual suffering, and withdrew her en- 
 tirely from society. Her husband shut himself up more and 
 more in a proud retirement from the world, unsolaced, as it 
 appeared, in that haughty seclusion by any engrossing pursuit 
 or the performance of any active duties. The only inmate of 
 his house was his uncle, who had been educated in Spain, had 
 there received holy orders, and since his nephew's return to 
 England had inhabited the Grange and fulfilled there the 
 office of domestic chaplain, occasionally assisting the priest 
 of the neigbouring village of Stonehouseleigh. His nature 
 might have originally been cast in the same mould as his 
 nephew's ; his manner indeed was rougher and more abrupt — 
 but in his case the rock had been smitten, the rugged bark 
 had been softened, the ice had been melted by that light 
 which never shines in vain on the human heart, by that tiro 
 against which no adamant is proof, and which no natural bias 
 
 i 
 
LADY-BIRD. 
 
 can resist. That he had a heart no one could have doubted 
 who had witnessed his solicitude, his almost paternal kindness 
 for the pale invalid, who seldom conversed with any one but 
 him, and who had no other comforter or friend. 
 
 Her apartment was the least gloomy in the house, but at 
 the same time its aspect was of the gravest character. A few 
 valuable Spanish pictures hung on its walls, a large crucifix in 
 carved ivory stood opposite to her couch, and some books of 
 devotion, with heavy clasps and rich bindings, were always 
 lying within her reach. A bed of mignonette sent its sweet 
 sober smell into this room, where, during the brief hours of 
 winter sunshine, or the long afternoons of summer, wrapped 
 in Indian shawls and propped up by cushions, she would sit 
 at the window, her eyes fixed with an earnest and singular 
 expression on the dull landscape, or the pale northern sky. 
 The illness which had brought her to a premature old age 
 had also slightly impaired her speech and affected her mem- 
 ory, and hence she had not learned to speak English flu- 
 ently. 
 
 This and the continual sufferings she endured had isolated 
 her more and more from her children. She sent for them now 
 and then, and silently pressed them to her heart, or for hours 
 watched them at play on the terraces near her window ; but 
 there was little intercourse between them and herself. They 
 bounded by her in all the recklessness of youth and health. 
 They sometimes stopped to kiss her in that half-fond half-im- 
 patient manner with which children return caresses which de- 
 tain them from their sports. She had nothing wherewith to 
 attract them but a love which was almost too timid to show 
 itself. A barrier seemed to rise between her and those impe- 
 tuous young spirits which were rushing into all the fulness of 
 that life which was decaying within her ; but who could count 
 the prayers which rose from that lonely heart for those she 
 scarcely dared to love as other mothers love ? — who can tell 
 what mysterious deliverances from danger — what sudden ar- 
 rests on the border of an abyss — what softenings of the heart 
 when maddened by passion — what, strange reactions from evil 
 and aspirations towards heaven — may have been, in after life, 
 the result of those prayers poured forth on a bed of pain by 
 one who hardly counted in her children's existence, and the 
 pressure of whose feeble hand was often the only token she 
 could give them of her love ? 
 
 Once a day her husband came to see her, and sat by her 
 
LADY-BIRD. 7 
 
 for a few minutes. His presence seemed to impart a chill to 
 the very atmosphere. Mrs. Lifford mechanically drew her 
 shawl tighter on her breast during these visits, and her face 
 became paler than at other times. Sealed were the secrets of 
 those two hearts ; how little or how much they had cared for 
 each other none of those about them seemed to know, " rim 
 ne se rcsscmble comme le neant et la profondearP The 
 smooth surface of that monotonous existence might have 
 covered a volcano, or concealed an abyss. 
 
 The children of this marriage were strangely unlike each 
 other. Born under the same roof, growing up amongst the 
 same influences, they early exhibited the most striking dis- 
 similarity of character and of manners. Edgar was a fair and 
 gentle boy. whose placid gaiety no grave faces could subdue, 
 and no dull mode of life affect. Docile and pliable, he readily 
 received every impression, and adopted all the opinions which 
 his father put forward. If Mr. Lifford cared for anything in 
 the world, it was for his son. He talked to him of his ances- 
 tors, of his possessions, of the various honours which had been 
 conferred on his family in past times, the alliances they had 
 made, the historical records in which their names were em- 
 blazoned, the rank they held in the estimation of all who 
 valued the real nobility of an ancient descent above the 
 paltry distinction of a modern title ; and the child's large 
 blue eyes expanded with wonder and admiration at the great- 
 ness of all the Liffords that had been, that were now. and 
 that would be hereafter. He felt an innocent surprise at be- 
 longing himself to that favoured race, and a sincere compas- 
 sion for those whose ancestors had not been Crusaders, whose 
 quarterings were defective, and whose genealogy was imper- 
 fect. There was truth and goodness in the nature of that 
 child ; and if, in his father's teachings, there had been some- 
 thing akin to it — a touch of feeling or a spark of enthusiasm 
 — they might have kindled a noble ambition, and if in some 
 respects visionary, would yet have taught a lesson which has 
 redeemed from contempt many an illusion, and exalted many 
 a delusion. " Noblesse oblige ! " — that old French motto — 
 would have been the source of generous sentiments, the spur 
 to high achievements ; but pride in its coldest and hardest 
 form, and in its most miserable proportions, was learnt as a 
 lesson and adopted as a theory by a mind which it served to 
 narrow, though it did not pervert it. 
 
 But there was another mind and another heart of a far 
 
8 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 different stamp than that of Edgar, which was impressed, in- 
 deed, but never moulded by these teachings. It would have 
 been difficult to determine whether the tacit antagonism which 
 had established itself between Gertrude and her father was 
 the result or the cause of the dislike he seemed to have taken 
 to her. Was it because he did not love the foreign-looking 
 girl whose beauty might have gratified the most fastidious 
 paternal vanity, that she never, from her earliest childhood, 
 adopted his views, imbibed his prejudices, or seemed im- 
 pressed by his stateliness 1 — or did he not love her because 
 she was proud, though with a different kind of pride than his 
 own : daring and untractable in spite of her slender form and 
 delicate organisation ; and because her self-cultivated intel- 
 lect exercised itself in independent thought, and even in dis- 
 guised sarcasm ? If for a moment he unbended in conversa- 
 tion with his son, his rigidity returned the instant she entered 
 the room, or that the sound of her voice reached his ear. 
 Was it accidental, or from a strange instinct of revenge for 
 his coldness, that, when scarcely old enough to appreciate the 
 meaning of her words, she seemed to take pleasure in holding 
 cheap all distinctions of rank, all ancestral pride, all the order 
 of ideas with which her brother's ductile mind had been so 
 easily impressed ? Almost before she could speak plainly, 
 she had sung about the house — as if in defiance of the old 
 family pictures, which seemed to frown upon her — the old 
 rhyme which had marvellously taken her fancy : 
 
 " When Adam delved, and Eve span, 
 Where was then the gentleman ? " 
 
 As she grew older, she sneered at heraldry, irreverently 
 laughed at coats-of-arms, put embarrassing questions to Father 
 Lifford, as to the real value of such distinctions in a religious 
 point of view. — wondered if the apostles could have proved 
 sixteen quarterings ; and, in reading history, it was always the 
 interest of the people, the cause of Liberty — whether in the 
 just acceptation of the word, or in the perverted sense in 
 which it has too often been misapplied — that aroused her 
 sympathy, and awoke her enthusiasm. The misfortunes of 
 kings, the heroism of loyalty, the prestige of great names, had 
 not the same power to move her ; and her brother — not in 
 malice, but in the simplicity of his indignation — often re- 
 peated to his father and to his uncle what appeared to him 
 her enormities in these respects ; and the cold contempt of 
 
LADY-BIIID. 9 
 
 the former, the dogmatic manner in which the latter con- 
 demned them, without giving an explanation or permitting an 
 appeal, only confirmed impressions which a more condescend- 
 ing treatment might have effaced. 
 
 Obliged to be silent at home on such topics, Gertrude 
 often gave vent to her feelings when in the society of the only 
 companions which chance had placed within her reach. At an 
 early age a severe illness endangered her life, and during her 
 convalescence the doctor had insisted on her associating more 
 with other children, as the only means of checking the prema- 
 ture development of her mind, and diverting her from the in- 
 cessant reading which was rapidly exhausting her mental and 
 physical strength. Father Lifford, to whom the question was 
 referred, suggested that Mary Grey, a little girl a year or two 
 older than herself, and the daughter of a widow who lived in 
 the village of Stonehouseleigh with whom he had been ac- 
 quainted several years, would be the fittest resource in such 
 an emergency. He was aware how carefully Mrs. Redmond 
 had brought up her child, and also the one which her second 
 husband had bequeathed to her care, when — after a few 
 months marriage — he had died, leaving her poorer than be- 
 fore, and with two children to support instead of one. 
 
 Indeed, it was supposed by those who knew most of Mrs. 
 Grey, that, when she consented to marry Maurice Redmond, 
 a poor artist, whose face bore the impress of consumption, 
 whose heart had been nearly broken by the loss of a beautiful 
 young wife — an Italian singer — and whose last days were em- 
 bittered by anxiety about his little son, it was not in ignorance 
 or in recklessness that she did so ; but that if her heart had 
 been touched and her feelings interested, it had been more 
 through that pity which is akin to love, than from any more 
 romantic motive ; that she well knew how few were the days of 
 happiness that awaited her — if, indeed, with that knowledge 
 a thought of happiness could exist — but that she also knew 
 that she thus gained the right of soothing those few days of 
 lingering life, and of seeing a smile on the pale lips of the 
 dying man when he heard his little boy call her mother. 
 
 Everybody said it was like Mrs. Grey to make such a mar- 
 riage, and this was true. It was very like her, whether those 
 who said it shrugged their shoulders as they spoke, or had a 
 tear in their eye. She made many sacrifices, and worked hard 
 in different ways to make the ends of her small income meet. 
 Maurice always called her his mother, and when they were 
 1* ' 
 
1 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 children it was almost impossible to make him and Mary under- 
 stand that they were not brother and sister. The large village or 
 small town of Stonehouseleigh, where they lived, was about a 
 mile and a half distant from Liflbrd Grange. It consisted of 
 one long street, on one side of which flowed the same stream 
 that passed through the gardens of the Grange, now widened 
 into a river, and on the other side rose some hills, to whose 
 breezy heights and sunny nooks an abundance of gorse, of 
 heath, of sweet-smelling thyme, and of shining blackberries, 
 attracted the steps of little wanderers from the town. 
 
 Mrs. Redmond's cottage was on the outskirts of the High 
 Street. Every inch of the small garden that separated it 
 from the road was encumbered with flowers ; lilacs and labur- 
 nums, Guelder roses and seringa, dahlias and hollyhocks suc- 
 ceeded each other in endless variety. Convolvulus and hearts- 
 ease struggled together, sweetbriar and jessamine hustled each 
 other. They overran the paths and climbed to the windows. 
 Roses, also, in all their rich and common variety, not the pale, 
 hectic-tea-rose, or the triumph of horticultural art and Nature's 
 degradation, the black rose, but the glorious blooming cabbage 
 rose, the beautiful moss rose, the lovely blush rose, lent their 
 perfume to the air, and their bright colours to the aspect of 
 the little garden. 
 
 Mrs. Redmond had lived in Normandy at the time of her 
 first marriage, and had imported thence a number of rose-cut- 
 tings, and a great respect for tisanes, those simple medicines 
 of the French peasantry. There were few of her poor neigh- 
 bours who had not applied to her for remedies against their 
 various ailments, and, if her skill was not always successful, 
 her tender charity and sympathy were seldom unavailing. 
 Gertrude Lifford's acquaintance with Mary Grey, when once it 
 had begun, soon ripened into intimacy. For some weeks they 
 played together every day in the gardens of the Grange ; and, 
 when she was quite recovered, she often walked to the cottage, 
 and persuaded her maid to leave her there, while she visited 
 her own friends in the village. Maurice Redmond, as well as 
 Mary Grey, looked forward to these visits with the delight 
 which children feel in companions whose society is an unex- 
 pected pleasure, an unlooked for event. Edgar sometimes 
 came with his sister, and they met in their walks on the 
 hillocks of the downs and the green alleys of the Chase. 
 Some of the village children were occasionally called upon to 
 join in their sports, which were at once of an active and of 
 
LADY-BIRD. 1 \ 
 
 an imaginative character. Gertrude was the chief object 
 actor, and ruler in these childish pastimes, Her beauty, in- 
 telligence and waywardness, exacted a sort of homage which 
 they all instinctively paid her. The high-spirited Maurice, 
 the gentle Mary, the shy daughters of the tenant of Leigh 
 House Farm, and the sturdy boys of the game-keeper at the 
 Lodge owned her sway, and submitted to all her caprices. If 
 there was a dispute about the distance between the pink thorn 
 and the acacia-tree — which was to be the starting-point and the 
 goal of a race — it was her verdict that settled the question. 
 If they played at holding a mimic court, she was always the 
 Queen, and thrones of moss were erected, and crowns of wild 
 flowers woven for her girlish majesty. 
 
 They called her " Lady-Bird," — a name which Maurice had 
 given her one day, when, after a quarrel, he sought to appease 
 her. She had been bent on some rash experiment, against 
 which Mary had remonstrated ; provoked at her interference, 
 the impatient little beauty had pointed to a sober-looking 
 insect on an ivy-leaf, exclaiming at the same time, " You are 
 like that dull moth, Mary ! " At that moment a gorgeous 
 butterfly, with gold and purple wings, had dived in the bosom 
 of a red rose in her hand, and Mary rejoined, " And you are 
 like that gay butterfly ; n but Maurice cried out, "No, Mary is 
 a humble bee, and you a stinging wasp ! " Upon which the 
 offended beauty burst into tears, and, to make his peace with 
 her, he had called her " Lady-Bird." There was something 
 appropriate in this name. 
 
 She was, in a restricted sense, the only little lady amongst 
 tliem. In her looks and in her manner, there was a mixture 
 of reserve and vivacity, of impetuosity and timidity, which 
 answered to it singularly. She looked so proudly and so 
 gracefully shy if a stranger addressed her; she was so 
 passionate and easily ruffled, so pretty in her anger and 
 eloquent in her wrath, wild in her mirth and restless in her 
 movements. All the children in the neighbourhood soon knew 
 her by that name, even though they were not — like Mary 
 and Maurice — her associates and play-fellows. The urchins 
 at the cottage-doors used to call out as she passed, " There 
 goes the Lady-Bird." As time went on, the intercourse be- 
 tween Gertrude Lifford and Mrs. Redmond's children became 
 more habitual. It was far more so than any one was aware 
 of, except the maid who accompanied her in her walks. Her 
 father knew nothing of it, and her uncle had no idea of 
 
12 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 its extent, or that Maurice was as often her playmate as 
 Mary. 
 
 He was one of those boys who show early the gifts with 
 which Nature has endowed them, whose genius is apparent to 
 the most common observer, to whom everything seems easy, 
 and nothing unattainable. With few facilities for education, 
 he had managed to learn a great deal. He had read all the 
 books within his reach, and, at the age of thirteen, had made 
 himself acquainted with most of the principal English writers, 
 especially the poets ; had learned some Latin and some 
 French, and made such progress in music — which had been 
 his father's and his mother's art — that many of those who heard 
 him play the organ and the pianoforte augured for him the 
 distinctions, the advantages and sufferings of an artist's life. 
 He met with great kindness in the neighbourhood. Books 
 were lent him ; opportunities of hearing good music afforded 
 him. An organist in a neighbouring town gave him gratuitous 
 instruction. 
 
 But from the first moment that he became acquainted with 
 the little girl from Lifford Grange, the beautiful Lady-Bird 
 of his childhood, a new impetus was given to his imagination. 
 She entered with delight into all the schemes of childish 
 amusement which his fancy could suggest. He entertained 
 her. her little brother, and Mary with stories which he remem- 
 bered or invented about Knights and Princesses. Fairies and 
 Enchanters ; with verses which — though rude and incorre< I — ■ 
 were not without a vein of poetic genius. He taught them to 
 sing old ballads, to recite poetry, to act historical scenes. All 
 this was particularly congenial to Gertrude's lively imagina- 
 tion. She liked to enact Queen Margaret meeting the Bob- 
 ber in the forest, or Amy Bobsart disappearing through the 
 trap-door of the castle ; scenes from the " Midsummer Night's 
 Dream," or passages from the life of Bobin Hood. But their 
 grandest and favourite performance, reserved for the long 
 summer evenings and the prospect of an uninterrupted holi- 
 day, was Campbell's ballad, " O'Connor's Child," dramatized 
 by Maurice to suit their exigencies. 
 
 With a bunch of shamrock in his cap and a wooden sword 
 in his belt, he knelt on the greensward to ask of Edgar the 
 hand of his sister, while the little boy was taught to stammer 
 out in answer — 
 
 " Away, and choose a meaner bride 
 Than from O'Connor's house of pride ; 
 
LADY-BIRD. ] 3 
 
 Our name, our tribe, our high degree, 
 Are hung in Tara's Psaltery. 
 Witness to Eath's victorious brand. 
 And Cathal of the bloody hand. 
 Glory, I say, and power, and honour, 
 Are in the mansion of O'Connor, 
 But thou dost bear in hall and field 
 A meaner crest upon thy shield." 
 
 In what they called the second act, Gertrude, with a veil tied 
 round her head and a cloak loosely thrown on her shoulders, 
 leant her head on her hand and her elbow on a stile, while 
 Maurice sang the lines in which Connocht Moran tempts his 
 mistress to fly with him. 
 
 " Come far from Castle Connor's clans, 
 Come with thy belted forester, 
 Aud I, beside the Lake of Swans, 
 Will hunt for thee the fallow-deer, 
 And build thy hut, and bring thee home 
 The wild fowl and the honey-comb." 
 
 In the third act of this childish drama they flew together 
 through the green alleys of the Chase, her feet scarcely touch- 
 ing the grass as she ran, repeating — 
 
 " And I pursue by moonless shies 
 The light of Connocht Moran's eyes." 
 
 Then they stopped under some hazel trees, and built them- 
 selves a cabin with the boughs ; and he went out to search the 
 game with knife and spear, and she " his evening food to dress 
 would sing to him in happiness," 
 
 " Sweet is to us the hermitage 
 Of this untried untrodden shore, 
 Like birds all joyous from the cage, 
 For man's neglect we love it more." 
 
 Then came the fourth act with its death-scene. How 
 tragic they all thought it ! In an old hollow tree they sat, 
 Gertrude with her finger on her lips and her glancing eyes 
 looking timidly about her. Then, with her mouth close to 
 Maurice's ear, she whispered, " I hear the baying of their 
 beagle," and he answered in the same key, u 'Tis but the 
 screaming of the eagle." Then a great effort was made to 
 stir up an old dog who had been pressed into the service to 
 enact the " Couchant Hound" that starts up and listens, but 
 
14 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 this generally failed, and Edgar and Mary with hats on and 
 with sticks, personifying the murderous brothers, rushed upon 
 Maurice, who always fought too long and would not let him- 
 self be killed, which, as Mary observed, was very unreasonable, 
 as it was part of the play, and Gertrude screamed, 
 
 " spare him Brazil, Desmond fierce ! " 
 
 till she grew tired and hoarse, and fainted away before her 
 lover was fairly killed. 
 
 The last act, however, was Gertrude's delight. She recited 
 wonderfully well the spirited lines in which the daughter of 
 O'Connor, in the madness of her passion and the delirium of 
 her anguish, presents to her assassin brothers " the standard 
 of O'Connor's sway," and pronounces a curse, which is to be 
 fatally fulfilled on that battle day, and which dooms their 
 whole race to destruction. Her eyes flashed, her cheeks 
 glowed, her slender childish form trembled as she cried — 
 
 " Go then, away to Athunree, 
 High lift the banner of your pride, 
 But know that where its sheet unrolls, 
 The weight of blood is on your souls. 
 Go, where the havoc of your kerne 
 Shall float as high as mountain fern ; 
 Men shall no more your mansion know, 
 The nettles on your hearth shall grow, 
 Dead as the green oblivious flood 
 That mantles by your walls shall be 
 The glory of O'Connor's blood. 
 Away, away to Athunree." 
 
 Many a famous actress might have won applause for the look 
 and tone of wild inspiration with which she swore 
 
 "That sooner guilt the ordeal brand 
 Should grasp unhurt than they should hold 
 The banner with victorious hand, 
 Beneath a sister's curse unrolled." 
 
 Such were the amusements of these children during about 
 two years, and to Gertrude they were the happiest she had 
 known. Then Edgar went to school, and soon after Maurice 
 went to a school in London, and seldom came to Stonehouse- 
 leigh. Everything changed, — Gertrude and Mary were still 
 friends, but there was no excitement to the former in their 
 intercourse, and the latter took life very much in earnest, and 
 
LADY-BIRD. I5 
 
 had a great deal to do in her own home, and many cares and 
 thoughts and occupations which Lady-Bird did not under- 
 stand, and in which she had no sympathy. And though they 
 were fond of each other, there was no great intimacy between 
 them : still, enough to become at any moment closer, as it did 
 when a subject of common interest arose. 
 
 The link that connected them was an odd one ; some may 
 think it unnatural, but people are very different, and young 
 girls, especially, have strange grounds of sympathy. Certain 
 it is, that the circumstances which will be related in another 
 chapter served to bring them together, and to give an interest 
 to their intercourse which it had gradually been losing during 
 the last few years. Perhaps it grew out of the fulness of one 
 heart, and the emptiness of the other — something that re- 
 quired a vent in the one, a void to be filled in the other. This 
 will be better understood as the story proceeds. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ' Sweet recreation barred what does ensue, 
 But restless, dull, and moody melancholy, 
 Sister to grim and comfortless despair, 
 And at her heels a huge infectious troop 
 Of pale dist^mperatures, and foes to life." 
 
 SlIAKESPEAKE. 
 
 On the prostrate stem of an old beech-tree towards the 
 end of the month of May, about six years after Maurice had 
 left Stonehouseleigh for London, Gertrude and Mary were sit- 
 ting in a spot, which exhibits in all its varieties the peculiar 
 beauties of English forest scenery. The first tinge of spring 
 was colouring with its delicate green the thorns, the aspens, 
 and the briars, which in innumerable natural avenues and pic- 
 turesque intricacies formed a labyrinth, out of which sturdy 
 oaks rose in grim majesty, their gnarled and twisted branches 
 still exhibiting all the barrenness of winter, save where here 
 or there the young moss or the misletoe clung to their rugged 
 arms, and disguised their leaflessness. Daisies, cowslips, and 
 primroses, the blue hyacinth and the frail anemone, were scat- 
 tered about in abundance, here in rich clusters, there in bril- 
 liant carpets, everywhere in graceful beauty and confusion. It 
 
16 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 
 was exactly the moment when spring shows as great a variety 
 of colours as autumn, when it is as gorgeous in its greetings 
 as the latter season in its adieus. As short-lived as it is beau- 
 tit'ul. this hour of Nature's promise is no sooner arrived than 
 it disappears, and deepens into the monotony of summer. 
 
 Often in their childhood these two girls had met to play 
 where now they came to converse. Their bonnets were lying 
 on the grass, and served as receptacles for the flowers which 
 they gathered by handfuls without moving from their places. 
 " So you are expecting Maurice to-day ! " Gertrude exclaimed, 
 after a pause in the conversation. She was answered by a 
 smile and a faint blush of pleasure, not of embarrassment. 
 
 " How this spot puts me in mind of old times !" (at that 
 age the lapse of a few years constitutes a remote antiquity) 
 " of our games and our spoutings under this very tree, upon 
 which we are now sitting. Is Maurice much altered since he 
 Last went away ? Should I know him again ?" 
 
 " He is a great deal taller, but his features are not changed, 
 at least I think not, but as I have seen him every year in my 
 winter visits to my aunt, perhaps I can hardly judge. His 
 largo dark eyes and pale complexion are just what they always 
 were." 
 
 •• And is he as fond of poetry as ever ? Music has not 
 made him neglect it? " 
 
 ' : no ! he thinks, like Shakespeare, that ' music and sweet 
 poetry agree, as well they may — the sister and the brother ;' 
 the more he studies the one. the more he delights in the other. 
 When I was in London he brought something or other of 
 that kind to read to me almost every evening. It was pleasant 
 there to hear of fields, and woods, and streams. Only it would 
 have made me long to come home again, if only he could have! 
 got away too." 
 
 •• Then you know what it is to be so weary of a place as 
 to hate the very sight of it? " 
 
 " No, not quite that either : I did not hate London, only 
 I like the country much better." 
 
 " Whereas I would give anything to go to London. It is 
 too bad really never to have seen it." 
 
 u You can hardly imagine how different it is from Stone- 
 houseleigh, or even from Lancaster, Chester, or any of the 
 towns in our neighbourhood." 
 
 " The more unlike it is to this part of the world, the better 
 it would please me. The thickest of the London fogs, of which 
 
 
LADY-BIRD. 17 
 
 people talk so much, would be brighter to me than the finest 
 day at Lifford Grange." 
 
 " It makes me sad to hear you speak in that way of your 
 home." 
 
 " My home ! " (0 ! ' the world of dreary gloom that rose 
 in the shadowy depths of those deep-set eyes,' as the word was 
 re-echoed with emphatic meaning.) " You who have had 
 change in your life, Mary, and that before you cared or wished 
 for it, can hardly understand the pining desire I feel for it. j 
 It is becoming quite a passion with me. The world must be 
 such a beautiful, such an exciting thing ! " 
 
 " Do you mean the world that God has made, or the one 
 man makes, according to Cowper's definition % " 
 
 " I mean the world as God has made it, as man has adorned 
 it, as genius describes, and as imagination paints it. I mean 
 London, not as you saw it, Mary, from a small house in an 
 out-of-the-way street, and in its work-day dress of business and 
 routine, but London with its luxury, its wealth, its court, its 
 parliament, and what Charles Lamb — a greater poet perhaps 
 than your favourite, Cowper — calls its poetry. And I mean 
 Paris with all its brilliancy ; Italy with its bright skies, its 
 paintings, its music, its ruins, and its churches. I mean the 
 Alps with their eternal snows. I mean the sea with its rest- 
 less waves. I mean politics, and literature, and theatres, and 
 society, and everything that has change, and life, and spirit, 
 and movement about it. That is what I read of, long for, 
 pine for, and never shall enjoy." 
 
 " You look like a child, Lady-Bird, but you do not talk 
 like one ; no, nor like the very young girl that you are. How 
 do you come to know and to wish for all these things % I have 
 seen more of the world than you have, but they have scarcely 
 entered into my thoughts." 
 
 " Books, Mary, books tell me a great deal, and give me 
 strange feelings of pain and of pleasure. You do not know 
 how much I read — sometimes for hours together ; and when 
 I do not read, I dream. Do you know the pleasure of that % " 
 
 " Well, I rather like it at times ; but as I sleep very 
 soundly, it does not happen to me often." 
 
 Gertrude smiled, and said.: " I do not mean sleeping, but 
 
 waking dreams, — sitting with folded hands, and eyes fixed on 
 
 • some object that amuses without engrossing the mind ; and 
 
 letting yourself drift, as it were at random, down the stream 
 
 of yourimpressions, borne here and there by the current of 
 
18 LADY-BIRO. 
 
 vour thoughts ; motionless as if nothing was stirring in your 
 soul, and weaving the while the thread of your own destiny 
 into a web which a sound or a word can dissolve, as the wing 
 of an insect breaks the light gossamer, or a breath melts the 
 fanciful landscapes that frost prints on the windows. Have 
 you never dreamed in this way, Mary ?" 
 
 Mary answered with a faint blush and a smile, " Yes, but 
 when my thoughts stray away, I endeavour to catch and bring 
 them back again." 
 
 " Yours always run in the same direction, I suspect, so 
 you always know where to find them." 
 
 Mary's head was turned away, and Gertrude continued, 
 " The last book I have read is ' Corinne.' I found it in the 
 library, hidden under a heap of pamphlets, and have lived in 
 it for the last three days. It has redoubled my wish^ to see, 
 to hear, to live in short, for life is not life without interest 
 and excitement, I am sure of that. You read French, Mary — 
 do let me lend you ' Corinne ; ' it will show you what I mean 
 so much better than I can express it." 
 
 " I had rather not, dear Lady-Bird ; it may be right for 
 you to read such books — it would not answer for me." 
 
 " I believe you never read any but religious books," Ger- 
 trude scornfully exclaimed. 
 
 " 0, when Maurice is at home he reads all sorts of things 
 out loud, while I work — novels, and plays, and poetry ; but 
 1 have not much leisure for it at other times. Then, you 
 know, our positions in life will be so different, that what may 
 be irood for you might be useless, or worse than useless to 
 me." 
 
 ' : My position in life 1 What do you suppose it will be — 
 to live and die an old maid at Lifforcl Grange, or retire to 
 some nunnery, perhaps? Sometimes I have so longed for 
 something new, that I have been almost thinking of that last 
 alternative. I wish with all my heart they had sent me to a 
 convent-school; I would have worked clay and night to distin- 
 guish myself, and to gain prizes. A stimulant is everything, 
 ami emulation would have been a powerful one. Does not 
 your heart beat, and your check flush when you read some- 
 thing very eloquent ? — one of those passages that raise you 
 half-way between earth and heaven? You smile, Mary, and. 
 I know what you would say. It is not through such ecstacies 
 as these that we can rise to heaven. But better rise in any 
 way than grovel on the earth ; give me the wings of a butterfly, 
 
 
LADY-BIRD. 19 
 
 if I cannot have those of an angel. You never get absorbed 
 in anything but your prayers ; you never pore over a book, or 
 meditate on a poem ; once only I have seen you read with 
 your soul in your eyes ; but it was the life of St. Francis 
 Xavier, and in that — " 
 
 " Oh, in that there was enough to make a heart less cold 
 and hard than mine burn within itself as it read, and even 
 mine, dull as it is, could not but warm at such a flame." 
 
 " I thought I should elicit a spark of latent enthusiasm by 
 that allusion. But, tell me, does not Maurice care about the 
 things I was speaking of?" 
 
 A slight cloud passed over Mary's face, and she answered, 
 '• Only too much." 
 
 " Why too much, if they are not wrong? " 
 
 " I can hardly explain myself; but it seems to me difficult 
 to care so much about beauty of every sort, and to be at the 
 same time always contented with the state of life allotted to 
 us." 
 
 " But Maurice is, or, at least, means to be an artist, and I 
 have read, and I think I can understand that an artist lives 
 on beauty of every kind, and that variety and excitement can 
 alone keep alive the fire that inspires him : that genius dies 
 away in an atmosphere of monotony and dulness." 
 
 " But a quiet life is not necessarily a dull one," expostu- 
 lated Mary. " I should have thought that genius, and art, and 
 all those things you speak of, ought to make a man busy and 
 happy in himself, and in his home, especially if — " 
 
 "If what, Mary?" 
 
 Mary bent down her head, and twisted together the blades 
 of the long grass that grew at her feet, and then looking up 
 into Gertrude's face, she said with simplicity : 
 
 " Especially if he loved, and was beloved." 
 
 " Love ! " Gertrude repeated. " Love must be a very 
 strange, a very stroDg thing. It may be the deepest of all 
 joys, or the acutest of all miseries, but a quiet calm feeling, I 
 do not think it can be. I have read that it stirs up the heart 
 and moves the inmost soul, as a storm does the sea, or a hur- 
 ricane the forest." 
 
 " If so, we ought to fear it, but I do not believe that it is a 
 right sort of love that you speak of. What is right should 
 be calm." 
 
 " Can that be calm of which people die?" 
 
 " Do people die of love ? " 
 
20 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " Don't you think they do?" 
 
 " I don't know, but would it not even then be possible to 
 suffer and to die calmly? " 
 
 Calmly were her eyes raised to the soft blue sky over her 
 head — but Gertrude's were fixed on a rapid stream that mur- 
 mured along the bottom of the valley where they sat. 
 
 " Now that brook," she exclaimed, " I like it better than 
 all the other beauties of Nature put together. It never re- 
 mains in the same place, it hurries on, it is chafed with the i 
 stones that stop its onward course, and I like it for its anger; 
 I love to see it foam and struggle, and long to help it on, and 
 send it faster and faster where it is going — " 
 
 " And where is that ? " Mary asked. 
 
 ' : Why to the wide sea, I suppose." 
 
 " And then — when it gets there ? " 
 
 " Then it is lost amongst the waves, and the eye sees it no> 
 more." 
 
 " ! does not that make you think of life and eternity, 
 and would you not rather be like the silent stream that glides 
 through green pastures and gives freshness to the fields and 
 beauty to the flowers, than resemble that restless, useless, 
 brawling rivulet that often swells into a torrent, and does mis- 
 chief in its course? " 
 
 " Your thoughts, Mary, are all tuned to one key." 
 
 " Is not that the true secret of harmony? " 
 
 " A discord now and then has a good effect." 
 
 " You are too fond of them, dear Lady-Bird." 
 
 " Harmony can be very dull, and dulness harmonious. 
 Since Edgar's departure nobody quarrels at Lifford Grange, 
 and we arc gradually dying of ennui. At least, I am. Every- 
 thing goes on ' comme un ]ja2ner de musique] and I have al- 
 most wished that the house would catch fire, or I the mea- 
 sles." 
 
 ' ; Oh, that is so wrong, dear Lady-Bird. Do unsay it 
 immediately." 
 
 " I did not say the small-pox. I should not like to be 
 
 ugly." 
 
 '• Is that all you care about ? I cannot bear to hear you 
 speak in that reckless manner." 
 
 " Why, to tell you the truth, I am not happy, and I like 
 to joke better than to complain. Sir Thomas More joked om 
 the scaffold." 
 
 " He might well smile at the idea of death, but you — " 
 
LADY-BIRD. 21 
 
 " O, I have no wish to die, though I sometimes talk non- 
 sense about it. I can be at times more serious than you 
 would suppose." 
 
 Mary took Gertrude's hand, and kissed it affectionately. 
 Both remained silent a few instants, and then the latter ex- 
 claimed, 
 
 " It is so trying to be thwarted and teased about every tri- 
 fle. You know how long I have wished to have a dog, and a 
 ishort time ago the coachman gave me one — a little spaniel, 
 one of the breed they have at Woodlands. It was my con- 
 stant companion, and the greatest amusement to me. I kept 
 it out of everybody's way. Jane took care of it when I was 
 in the drawing-room, and it was so fond of me that I loved it 
 foolishly in return. Well, last Monday it escaped from her, 
 ran into the dining-room, and jumped on my knees. My fa- 
 ther asked whose dog it was, and when he heard it was mine 
 be ordered it to be sent away ; I begged him very earnestly 
 bo let me keep it; he peremptorily refused. I told him that it 
 was fond of me, and he sneered. The blood rushed to my 
 iface, and I said some passionate words. He rang the bell, 
 land desired that a groom should instantly carry my dog back 
 •to Woodlands, and that if it made its way again here it should 
 be shot. ! Mary, I am very foolish ; but I can hardly 
 ?peak without a choking sensation in my throat, and my cheek 
 burns like a hot coal. God forgive me for what I said, or 
 rather felt at the time. I thought of Pelisson and his spider." 
 " Was Father Lifford there — what did he say ? " 
 " He never looked up from the newspaper, but I think he 
 frowned and bit his lip when my father spoke of their shooting 
 ;he little animal." 
 
 " He has not been shot 1 " Mary anxiously asked. 
 
 " No — he was given to a lady who was just leaving Wood- 
 
 I ands, and she took him away with her. I went to my room 
 
 ind cried for some hours, more with anger than with sorrow. 
 
 In some ways my father treats me like a child, and in others as 
 
 i servant or a slave, and I am too like him to endure it 
 
 » patiently." 
 
 " But you have a great deal of personal liberty ; is not that 
 lionie compensation ? " 
 
 " Liberty to wander alone about an extensive prison, that 
 s all ; and even that is the result of neglect — not of kindness." 
 " Dearest Lady, are not your mother and Father Lifford 
 • and to you? " 
 
22 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 < : Mamma, you know is always ill — always suffering. She 
 can seldom bear the sound of a voice above a whisper. She 
 tells me not to shut myself up in her sick room : she has hard- 
 ly strength enough to talk to me. I some times wish to be more 
 attentive to her. but I do not know how to set about it. As 
 to Father Lifford, I don't think he likes me much ; Edgar is 
 his favourite, because he is such a good boy. He is always 
 finding fault with me, and I like his scoldings better than papa's 
 silence. In confession he is sometimes very kind, but that is 
 quite another thing, you know. H would be kind, perhaps, at 
 other times also if I behaved differently, and did not read books 
 that he disapproves, or would learn Spanish, or not laugh at 
 the divine rights of kings, or think Napoleon a great man, or 
 not talk of things he says I do not understand, but which I am 
 sure I know more about than he does." 
 
 " Lady-Bird, how can you think so ? He must be much 
 wiser than you, at his age — and a priest too." 
 
 " I am not talking of theology, or morality, or history, or 
 geography, but of other things which I have read, thought, and 
 made up my mind about, and which he will not even discuss, 
 or allow that they admit of argument. I dare not speak of 
 them before papa. There is something under his silence that 
 frightens me. But I am not afraid of provoking Father Lif- 
 ford, because I know the worst he will say." 
 " That is not generous." 
 
 " yes, it is, because he says all sorts of severe things to 
 me, and can order me to be silent if he chooses. Then I con- 
 sole myself with thinking that I had the best of the argument." 
 " Come, come, Lady-Bird, I will not listen to any more of 
 your iniquities. The sun is just about to set and we must be 
 going home." 
 
 " Another day over ! another sun setting ! another to-mor- 
 row coming ! " Gertrude murmured to herself, as with her 
 bonnet in her hand and her back against the stem of a tree, 
 she fixed her eyes on the gold and crimson clouds that were 
 blazing in the west. " How beautiful they are, those sunset 
 clouds ! How like another world, and a brighter one than this. 
 I sometimes think that the land of my birth may have some of 
 the dazzling beauty which shines in that western sky. I am 
 haunted by a vague recollection of that country where I was 
 born and where I spent the first years of my life. Perhaps 
 the air of the south breathed into my veins a fire which will 
 not let me rest contented as you all do. in this dull corner of 
 the wide world. Come, let us go home.'' 
 
 
LADY-BIRD. 23 
 
 " Let us go home ! " Words that in some oases are as sweet, 
 music to the ear, and the deepest joy of '•he heart. To others, 
 a sound full of sad meaning, a thought that weighs heavily on 
 the soul, and clouds the brow with the remembrance of suffer- 
 ing, and the anticipations of trial. Home ! Home ! Beau- 
 tiful English word : shelter, refuge — happiness, or consolation. 
 Would that you were always the heaven you sometimes arc ; 
 binding up the bruised heart, or gladdening the young spirit ! — 
 not the sanctuary of tyranny, and the mockery of domestic 
 bliss. 
 
 " I must go home," Gertrude Lifford said ; and Mary Grey 
 repeated, " Yes, we must go home." But a different tone was 
 in the voices, and a different picture in the minds of each of 
 these young girls. 
 
 " I know" (the one began as they walked along the alley of 
 hazel wood that led to the common), " I know you think it 
 strange that I am not more attentive, as it is called, to my 
 mother, but what can one do when people do not like atten- 
 tions, if they ask one not to put oneself out of the way on their 
 account ? " 
 
 " Perhaps, show them that it is love, and not a mere sense 
 of duty that prompts one. Few people like attentions which 
 do not seem the result of affection." 
 
 " Love and affection are strange words to me. I thought 
 that duty, not feeling, was to be the rule of our actions. I 
 should be much worse than I am, if once I began to act from 
 impulse. There rises up at times in me a spirit of defiance 
 which takes possession of my whole being, and steels my heart 
 against all gentle feelings. I rebel against the common-place 
 things that people say about loving others, as if love was to be 
 called up and laid aside at pleasure ! It is possible to be a 
 slave, and it may be a duty to remain one, (that is, by the way, 
 one of the points about which I argue with Father Lifford) ; 
 but to make oneself love people, simply because it is right to 
 do so, is an impossibility, an absurdity. You looked vexed, 
 Mary, do not suppose that I do not love mamma. Heaven for- 
 bid — poor patient suffering mamma. I do love her, and if I 
 did not I should not say so, for I hate every description of 
 lying, and canting lies worse than any others. But I wish you 
 to understand that your way of considering the subject would 
 be no security against evil in a nature like mine." 
 
 " But when I speak of love I do not mean a mere human 
 feeling, though even that " (Mary's voice faltered a little as 
 
24 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 she said this) u might teach us something of the nature of 
 true devotion ; but I mean that principle of charity which has 
 all the force of duty, the vivacity of impulse, and the tender 
 ness of affection." 
 
 '•Was it charity that used to make you so attentive to 
 Maurice ? " 
 
 A deep flush suffused the pale little girl's face, but she an- 
 swered steadily : 
 
 ' : He was always delicate ; it came naturally to me to care 
 for him and to watch him, and it was too great a happiness to 
 be like a duty." 
 
 " He was very captivating, certainly, and clever, also, as far 
 as I recollect, but then we are like Miranda in her island, we have 
 no opportunities for making comparisons. Do not be angry. 
 I am sure he was charming. Mamma used to call him ' El 
 Chico,' and Father Lifford liked him too. How old is he 
 now ? " 
 
 " About twenty-one." 
 
 "Of age, then?" 
 
 " yes, we sent him a large nosegay by the coach, or his 
 birthday would have past unnoticed." 
 
 " He is organist at one of the London chapels, is not he 1 " 
 
 " Yes, and he practises and composes a great deal, and 
 reads also many books, and writes verses. I think it is a 
 good thing for him to have those tastes — it keeps him out of 
 mischief." 
 
 " I see that your fears for those you love are greater than 
 your ambition, Mary. Do you value his genius only because 
 it may keep him out of mischief? " 
 
 " It is my way of saying more than I well know how to 
 say, dear Lady-Bird. But it is not little I mean." 
 
 " I believe you often do mean much more than you say, 
 you little quiet mouse, and that if one went deep enough into 
 your thoughts, one would find in them " 
 
 " nothing. I assure you, that would reward the trouble of 
 • living. But, tell me, who was it who rode just now across the 
 lane to the common ? " 
 
 - .Mr. Mark Apley, the son of Mr. Apley of Woodlands. 
 Had you never seen him before 1 He rides so well, and has 
 such beautiful horses ! I have often met him when I have 
 been walking with Jane. One day that I was gathering some 
 honeysuckles, and was trying to reach a branch that was too 
 high for me, he caught it with his stick, and held it close to 
 my hand." 
 
LADY-BIRD. 25 
 
 "Did you thank him?" 
 
 " Only by a low curtsey, and I have not bowed to him since. 
 But it would be very amusing to know a few people. Even 
 iuch a little thing as that gives one something to think about." 
 
 If Gertrude had at that moment dived into the thoughts 
 3f the little mouse by her side, she would have seen her iuno- 
 3ent astonishment that her dear Lady-Bird, whose mind was 
 is active as her spirit was restless, whose love of reading was 
 i passion, whose conversation — young as she was — was full of 
 )riginality, should want " something to think about," but she 
 ;yas not right to be astonished. A tendency to ennui, joined 
 ,o a craving for excitement even of the most trivial descrip- 
 tion, is the disease of certain minds, and there is but one cure 
 :br it. Call it what you will : self-education, not for this 
 vorld but for the next ; the work of life understood ; perfec- 
 tion conceived and resolutely aimed at ; the dream of human 
 lappiness resigned, and in the same hour its substance re- 
 gained ; the capital paid into the next world, and the daily 
 inlooked-for interest received in this ; — such is the strange 
 ilchymy in which God deals, and the secret of so many desti- 
 nes which the world wonders over, and never learns to under- 
 stand. 
 
 " Oh. how beautiful the view is at this moment ! " Mary 
 ^claimed, as they came in sight of the common, which shone 
 ike burnished gold in the rays of the setting sun. while the 
 peculiar perfume of the gorse in full flower was wafted to them 
 )y the evening breeze. Clumps of dark fir-trees rose out of 
 -hat sea of yellow blossoms, and views of distant country and 
 nasses of forest trees were visible in the distance. 
 
 " You have wings to your feet," Gertrude cried out as her 
 jompanion preceded her, while she stopped to gather the 
 eathery balls of a full-blown dandelion. 
 
 " What are you about, Lady-Bird ? — what a strange nose- 
 gay you are making ! " 
 
 She was breathing upon the downy globe, and the light 
 itamens were flying away in every direction. 
 
 " I am telling myself my own fortune. Wait a minute, — 
 [ see them still." 
 
 " What do you see ? " 
 
 " My airy messengers." 
 
 " Oh, baby of sixteen, to play at such nonsense ! " 
 
 ' ; Ha^e you never read about the Indian women on the 
 )anks of the Ganges ? " 
 
26 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " What, the widows who burn themselves ? " 
 
 " No, the babies of sixteen who kneel by the broad rivei 
 and send their leafy lamps floating down the stream ; and ri 
 the light they carry is still burning when it vanishes fron 
 their sight, then they think that their hearts' desire will bi 
 accomplished. Cannot you fancy how they must bend ove: 
 the brink of those deep waters, with their hearts beating, anc 
 their eyes straining after the little fiery bark that follows th< 
 current ? — how they must tremble when it gets entangled ii 
 the leaves of the lotus ; how they must shout for joy when i 
 turns with the bend of the river 1 " 
 
 " It is a fanciful notion and a pretty one, I own : but wha: 
 made you think of it just now ? " 
 
 " I have my superstition, too ; but I am a votary of the ah 
 — not of the water. I send my messengers aloft. They caril 
 my thoughts with them on the wings of the wind , they tell m\ 
 secrets to the clouds and my hopes to the breeze. There, fh 
 where I send you ! " and another downy ball was launchec 
 into the air, and the wind bore away the light atoms. Onc< 
 a sudden gust blew them back into her face ; she brushed then 
 away and said, " That means disappointment." A sliglr 
 cloud gathered on her brow, and she walked on in silence t( 
 the gate of her own home, the old Manor House of LifForc 
 Grange. There she parted with Mary, and sauntered up th( 
 avenue. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " O absence ! what a torment would'st thon prove, 
 Wer't not that thy sour leisure gives sweet leave 
 To entertain the time with thoughts of love." 
 
 Shakespeake. 
 
 Mary hurried home with a quicker step than usual, and 
 hastily mounting the narrow stairs of the cottage, she looked 
 into the room where Maurice was to sleep that night. She 
 smelt the violets which she had put there an hour before, and 
 fancied they had lost something of their sweetness. The, 
 books he had left in her care were neatly arranged on the 
 shelves. A little picture of St. Maurice, and a black profile 
 of herself — a birthday present of a few years back — hung on 
 
LADY-BIRD. , 27 
 
 each side of the chimney. She wiped some grains of dust off 
 the deal table where he used to write when a boy, and in her 
 heart there was a joy that made it flutter a little, and in her 
 eyes a shade of unwonted excitement. 
 
 For a few minutes she stood at the open window, gazing 
 on the London road as far as her eye could reach. Then it 
 | rested on the one tree of their garden, the old thorn "just 
 . flushing into green," on the narrow gravel walk and the gate 
 i beyond it, on each familiar object and then on the sky above 
 them, so familiar also with its fleecy clouds and sunset colour- 
 ing, and yet so full of novelty, in its ever varying combina- 
 ; tions of beauty. Now the bright hues were fading away, and 
 ' the twilight hour was arrived, that charm of northern climes, 
 - that lingering adieu of the parting day, which is so sad or 
 r soothing, according to the temper of our minds. 
 t Every noise gradually hushed into silence, the faint rustle 
 of the leaves as the night wind stirs them, the low twitter of 
 i/the birds amongst the branches that conceal them, the occa- 
 sional distant bark of a dog. the fall of a footstep, or the 
 i rumbling of a carriage far away on the high road, all is in 
 'iharmony — all is subdued, as in the quiet landscapes of Paul 
 •, Potter, or in the poetry of Cowper. The mind that appreciates 
 the beauty of an English twilight hour must be at once calm and 
 1 imaginative. It is neither vivid enough to excite nor powerful 
 enough to captivate, where the mental faculties are stagnant 
 or the action of the soul precipitate. It came home to Mary 'a 
 i feelings with peculiar force, and had she ever dreamed life's 
 i moments away, she would have done so then ; but she had 
 I quite a morbid horror of idleness, and turned away from tin? 
 [indulgence of a few minutes reverie, as others less scrupulous 
 [might have done from a sin. When she went down to the 
 ■sitting-room her mother was at the tea-table. 
 I "I have been thinking and thinking. Mary dear, what we 
 I had better do about a fire. He might like one after his jour- 
 ney, though certainly it is not cold to-day." 
 
 " yes. mother ! one of your French wood-fires. We will 
 ■light it with the cones that we picked up in the Chase. We 
 fcan make it burn directly." 
 
 In a moment she was on her knees before the grate, and a 
 fcright flame threw a glow on her cheeks which the night, air 
 Intel bleached. Then she turned round while still on her 
 knees to her mother, who took her head between her hands 
 Lnd looked fondly into her eyes. 
 
e 
 
 28 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " 0, mother, how foolish it is of people to surprise their 
 friends/ It takes away so many happy hours of expectation." 
 Then starting up, she exclaimed, "There are the wheels ! 0, 
 listen, it is the coach !" 
 
 There was a moment's silence, the sound grew more dis- 
 tinct, and then the coach itself stopped at the gate, the maid 
 opened the door, and Mary rushed into the passage, and held 
 in her breath, not to lose the first sound of a step— the first 
 accent of a voice that had been music to her ears ever sine 
 she could remember. 
 
 " It is a letter, Miss Mary, not Mr. Maurice." 
 
 Numerous were the thoughts that had time to shoot across 
 her mind during the seconds that intervened between the ut- 
 terance of these words by the maid, and her return to the 
 fireside. There was room for the recollection of Gertrude's 
 exclaiming, ''That means disappointment!" — her heart in- 
 wardly re-echoed the ejaculation, but added, as if to re-assure 
 herself, " He must be coming to-morrow." Sitting down at her 
 mother's side, she opened the letter, and made a sign to her 
 to read at the same time as herself, but she had got to the 
 end before Mrs. Redmond had found her spectacles. "Take; 
 it, mother," she said in a faint voice, " I think we ought to be 
 very glad ; " and she went to the window and leant her fore- 
 head against the glass and squeezed her hands together, trying 
 very hard to feel glad. 
 
 When her mother had finished reading and called to her to 
 say so, the struggle was over, and in answer to the anxious 
 look with which Mrs. Redmond was awaiting her comments,' 
 ready to grieve or to rejoice as she led the way. she was 
 able to say: '"It is all right, dearest mother. We must- 
 rejoice at his good fortune, we must prefer it to the selfish 
 pleasure of seeing him here ; but perhaps I understand now! 
 why people should come as a surprise." She tried to sniileJ 
 but the attempt was a failure ; one little sob escaped her, but' 
 after that she went about her business as if nothing was the! 
 .matter. On her way to her own room, she walked softly into} 
 the one she had that morning prepared with such care, and] 
 •carried back the books and pictures to her own : there she; 
 read again the letter which she had so rapidly perused at first.; 
 It was as follows : — 
 
 " My dearest Mary. I had hoped as you know to have been* 
 with you to-night, to have been sitting this evening betweeii) 
 you and dear mother, to have heard your loved voices, and| 
 
LADY-BIRD. 29 
 
 looked on your dear faces, and can hardly believe that it is 
 not to be so. that these summer months which we had so reck- 
 oned on spending together will see us further apart than we 
 have ever yet been, and that by my own doing. But when I 
 tell you what has occurred, I am sure you will think I was 
 right in taking advantage of an offer at once so unexpected 
 and so advantageous to my future career, and to the destiny 
 which you are to share with me. 
 
 "You know, my Mary, that you have made up your mind 
 long ago to be an artist's true wife, and to allow me to love 
 my art with a passion which you have promised never to be 
 jealous of. If some post of profit alone had been offered to 
 me, some means of making money which would have separated 
 me from you for some years, I should have either rejected it, 
 or at least not accepted it without consulting you ; but in the 
 present instance what is proposed to me is an extraordinary 
 opportunity for the cultivation of talents which may one day 
 make me eminent, for the development of a gift which, if it 
 exists, I must answer for to the Giver, not let it lie dormant 
 in the mere exercise of an almost mechanical employment. 
 
 " I believe I possess it, that precious gift of genius, be- 
 cause my sufferings and my enjoyments are of a peculiar nature, 
 and ally themselves with a high wrought enthusiasm or an 
 unaccountable depression, which are both unknown to those in 
 whom that electric spark has never vibrated. 
 
 " Once it seemed to me. dearest Mary, that to go to Italy, 
 to that land of art, of music, and of inspiration, was a dream 
 that never could be realised. I have heard others talk of 
 what Nature is in those southern climes, of the harmony it 
 breathes into the soul, of the influence of its skies on the 
 imagination, of its very air on the spirits, and I have longed 
 with a vain and ardent longing to carry there my dreamy 
 conceptions, my imperfect but as I fondly hope not worthless 
 imaginings. Now all is offered to me : sunshine and leisure, 
 variety and stimulus, emotions to experience and liberty to 
 enjoy them. In accepting it I feel that you will accompany 
 me in spirit to the bright scenes I am about to visit, that the 
 image of your sweet face and the sound of your gentle voice, 
 which has cheered me so often amidst the drudgery of many 
 years, will accompany me henceforward amidst all the wondera 
 of Nature and art. - 
 
 " As usual. I have allowed my thoughts and my pen to run 
 away with me, and have not yet told you the simple state of 
 
30 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 the case. It is this — a few weeks ago young Dee, the painter in 
 whose studio I was lingering in admiration of a fine painting that 
 he was copying, introduced me to its possessor, who happened 
 to enter the room at that moment. His name is M. D'Arberg. 
 He is half French and half German by birth, though his 
 mother was English. He speaks exactly like an Englishman. 
 He seemed pleased with my enthusiasm about his picture, en- 
 tered into conversation with me, and I often met him after- 
 wards at Dee's. He is one of the most peculiar persons you 
 can conceive, and at the same time you cannot point out any 
 peculiarities in him He is handsomer than any one I have 
 ever seen, and yet if you ask me what is most remarkable in 
 his appearance, I should say it was the look of repose, and 
 that the most striking charm of his manner is that he has no 
 manner at all. I never saw such perfect simplicity. He does 
 all sorts of kind and extraordinary things as if they were the 
 commonest in the world, and in such an unpretending man- 
 ner, that you forget to thing them strange, till you think over 
 them afterwards. 
 
 u He was speaking yesterday to Dee about me, and what 
 they were both pleased to call my genius : and Dee happened 
 to say how ardently I longed to go to Italy, and what an ad- 
 vantage it would be to me, but that I was too poor to afford 
 it. He pulled his memorandum book out of his pocket, made 
 a few calculations with a pencil, and then told him that he 
 was going to Rome for two years, and that if I could arrange 
 to set off with him at once, he would take me there to assist 
 him in some literary pursuits he was engaged in, and at the 
 same time, that he would allow me leisure and afford me op- 
 portunities for prosecuting my musical studies. Dee said he 
 spoke of it as simply as if he had been proposing to take me 
 for the day to Richmond or Brighton. You can easily ima- 
 gine my agitation when the offer was made, and what a mixture 
 of pain and pleasure was involved in it. I felt I could not 
 hesitate, and yet to go without seeing you, without hearing 
 from you ! but I knew what you would say, what you and 
 dearest mother would feel, and I accepted — and rapidly 
 achieved the necessary preparations. 
 
 " They were very kind to me at the Chapel about resign- 
 ing my post so suddenly. I feel shy at the idea of such long 
 tele-cl tUe hours with M. D'Arberg. I hope he will not weary 
 of my society. I have so little to say for myself, except to 
 those with whom I think aloud, like you and Dee. This eve- 
 
 
LADY-BIRD. 31 
 
 ning, when you will be expecting me at the green gate, I shall 
 be on my way to Italy. 0, Mary, that thought makes me 
 wretched ! I hope you will not think me unkind. You would 
 not think me indifferent, if you were to see the kisses I im- 
 print on this paper, and the tears that fall upon it. I shall 
 always wear round my neck what you gave me when we last 
 parted. Give mother one of your gentle kisses for me. 
 that I could clasp you both to my heart ! 
 
 " Does Lady-Bird ever embrace you know? She was not 
 proud when we used to act together. But now, if we were to 
 meet, I should have to call her Miss Lifford, and to kiss even 
 her hand would be too much boldness. Will you tell Father 
 Lifford how much I regret not to have had his blessing before 
 my departure. Write to me often — pray for me, think of me, 
 love me, and believe me, your ever affectionate and devoted 
 
 " Maurice." 
 
 Was it very unreasonable of Mary not to feel satisfied 
 with this letter? — to have wished that there had not been so 
 many fine words in it ? — to be as jealous of Italy as if it were 
 an enemy ? — to go to sleep with an aching at her heart deeper 
 than the pain of separation, and which re-produced itself in a 
 variety of dreams, all relating to Maurice ? She was always 
 going to him, and getting near him without being able to over- 
 take him, or to make him listen to her. Sometimes the form 
 of a woman, whose features she could not discern, was hovering 
 round him and keeping her at a distance. When she disap- 
 peared, another took her place and sang a beautiful song, in 
 which Maurice joined while she could not, and. the spot where 
 she was standing — and where she felt herself rooted — was 
 growing darker and darker, while he and the bright vision 
 were disappearing along a road of light such as the sunbeams 
 form on the flashing foam of the billows. She made a great 
 effort to follow them, and awoke 'with her pillow wet with 
 tears, and his letter in her hand. He the while was crossing 
 the sea with a fair wind and a careless heart, over which 
 thoughts of tenderness and of regret careered swiftly and 
 lightly as the fleecy clouds which scud before the breeze, and 
 throw no shade on the glad waves of the ocean. 
 
 "Come now, Mary," tell me the truth—Maurice is your 
 lover — I am sure of it." 
 
 " He loves me very much, and I love him dearly." 
 
32 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " But I mean that you are engaged to marry him."' 
 
 " 0, no ! " 
 
 " No ! but in this letter he says as much ? " 
 
 ' ; We are both perfectly free." 
 
 " He does not seem to have any doubt of your affection." 
 
 " No. He never could doubt of that." 
 
 " I am not talking of sisterly affection, What I mean is 
 that he reckons on your sharing his fate, whatever it may be." 
 
 " We have always been accustomed to talk and to think in 
 that way. But it does not mean all you suppose. We have 
 never made any promises." 
 
 The interest that Gertrude had shown in Mary's disap- 
 pointment, the numerous questions she had asked on the 
 subject, her evident desire to see the letter he had written, 
 and which Mary readily enough had yielded to, had occasioned 
 the foregoing conversation. Perhaps she was not sorry to 
 see what impression it would make on one not keenly inte- 
 rested like herself in its contents. Gertrude's curiosity was 
 roused by the little romance it disclosed, and Maurice's way 
 of writing, his account of M. D'Arberg. his longings after 
 change and novelty, with which she could so entirely sympa- 
 thise, formed a glimpse into the world which captivated her 
 fancy. She entered into the subject with a zest and an intel- 
 ligence which became irresistibly agreeable to Mary. How- 
 ever well regulated the mind may be — however disciplined 
 the feelings — it is scarcely possible that a girl of her age 
 should keep locked up in her own breast the one thought 
 that fills her existence ; and the more matter-of-fact are her 
 habits of life and of mind, the less acquaintance she has with 
 novels and poems and the romantic experience of others, the 
 more perhaps is felt the need of such sympathy. Not that 
 Mary abandoned her accustomed reserve, and made what is 
 called a confidante of Gertrude. On the contrary, she never 
 admitted that she was engaged to Maurice, or that she con 
 ^idered any of his affectionate expressions as assurances that 
 he loved her more than he had always done since earliest 
 childhood, or than she would and might love him to her dying 
 day, even should they never be more to each other than in the 
 past or the present time. It was an odd instinct that made 
 her at once so reserved and so communicative. She had her 
 secret, with which no one was to intermeddle ; but to talk of 
 him to somebody besides her mother (who was a sort of 
 second self) was an unspeakable satisfaction. 
 
LADY-BIRD. 33 
 
 And Gertrude had also a singular power of extorting more 
 than winning confidence. She questioned with a sagacity — 
 investigated a subject with a perseverance which it was almost 
 impossible to evade. She was unconsciously artful with all 
 her playful brusquerie, and always on the watch where her 
 interest was excited. Maurice's allusion to herself and the 
 sort of homage it implied had amused her imagination. It 
 reminded her of their former intimacy, and she did not dis- 
 like the thought that he preserved a sort of respectful remem- 
 brance of it, tinged with a shade of romance that did not in 
 the least interfere with what appeared to be his attachment 
 to the companion of his childhood. It became an established 
 thing that she should read his letters — and to become ac- 
 quainted with a person in that manner had a peculiarity in it 
 which amused her fancy. Her comments upon them furnished 
 Mary with more piquant materials for her answers than she 
 would otherwise have found. But, always scrupulous, she 
 carefully prefaced such remarks with " Lady-Bird thinks" or 
 f Lady-Bird says." It seemed to her as if thus she could 
 keep more on a level with his present state of mind, and as 
 if the intelligent comments on his descriptions of Italy and 
 of society — which Gertrude dictated — kept up between them 
 a more animated intercourse than she could otherwise have 
 sustained, and it was strange how these two girls during that 
 time lived in thought amidst the scenes, the persons, and the 
 objects which the young artist described ; but it was in a 
 totally different way. His presence amongst them — his image 
 ever present before her mental sight was what gave them 
 interest in Mary's eyes ; whereas in Gertrude's it was his 
 connection with a world which she pined to be acquainted with 
 which gave him importance. 
 
 He wrote well ; he lived with artists and literary men. 
 He spoke of Italy with an enthusiasm that kindled hers. The 
 very names of the places which he mentioned were music to 
 her ears : it was like the sound of the trumpet to the war- 
 horse, or the cry of the hounds to the hunter, for the self- 
 taught but deeply read and excitable girl, to hear of poetry in 
 real life, of history in visible monuments, of religion in its 
 grandest and most majestic symbols. The wild Italian 
 dreams of liberty and independence which were stirring many 
 hearts at that period were reflected in his eloquent words, and 
 added another element to the fervour of his effusions. He 
 had become intimate with artists of all sorts, and several emi- 
 2* 
 
34 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 nent persons had shown him great kindness. His efforts, his 
 studies, his occasional successes, his hopes and his fears, his 
 friendships, his gratitude, his hatreds, his sympathies were all 
 uncertain, ardent, wayward and fanciful, as also were the com- 
 positions which from time to time he put forth, and which 
 were applauded by some and criticised by others. 
 
 There was genius in everything he composed, but not 
 enough unity of purpose, or concentration of mind for excel- 
 lence ; but he was perhaps too young yet to excel, and his 
 good looks, his intelligence, his admiration for Italy, and pas- 
 sion for his art won him favour with all his associates. 
 
 Mary always showed Gertrude his letters ; whether they 
 contained expressions of affection for herself, or projects for 
 the future, or allusions to his childish rocollections of her 
 whom he always called " Lady-Bird." But, as was said before, 
 into the secrets of her own heart she did not admit her. 
 With all her ingenuity and penetration, Gertrude could not 
 satisfy herself as to the precise nature of Mary's feelings for 
 Maurice, or as to the seriousness of his attachment to her. and 
 this doubt was a perpetual stimulus to her curiosity. The 
 passages about herself in his letters pleased her imagination, 
 and she felt slightly disappointed if in two or three succes- 
 sively there was no allusion of the sort. 
 
 Once he wrote from Florence : ' ; I was sitting this morn- 
 ing on one of the benches of the Cascino, enjoying the fresh air 
 after a night of intense study, listening to the murmurs of the 
 Arno, and the distant sounds of the gay city. A flower girl 
 passed me, and threw into my lap a hyacinth and a sprig of 
 jessamine. She laughed and told me they would help me to 
 dream of my absent mistress. The gift and the smile were both 
 charming, and, strange to say, both flowers were associated in 
 my mind with recollections of home and of the past : — you, my 
 Mary, with the pure white little flower that you were always 
 so fond of, and our Lady-Bird with the sweet perfume and 
 glorious colour of hyacinth. It was the sceptre she always 
 chose when she acted Titania. The Italian girl had indeed 
 thrown a spell over my dreams, and I remained long in that 
 spot, treading again in fancy the alleys of the Chase, and 
 living over in imagination the happy days of our childhood." 
 
 After a long interval 'he wrote thus from Rome : 
 
 " Have you ever been pursued by a consciousness that 
 certain objects, certain faces, certain appearances, have a re- 
 lation to your fate, a deeper meaning, a different sense for you 
 
LADY-BIRD. 35 
 
 than for the rest of the world — an influence over you which 
 you feel without being able to analyse it ? Some eyes have 
 had that effect upon me. Whenever I have seen the peculiar 
 expression I mean, it has always caused me an unaccountable 
 emotion ; and I have an intimate conviction that such eyes as 
 those must have, at some time or other of my life, some strange 
 connection with my destiny — whether for good or for evil I 
 know not. It is not often that I have met with the eyes I mean 
 and when I have done so, it has been in faces as different as 
 possible in every other respect ; in the old and in the young, 
 in men and in women. Other eyes look at you, these look 
 into you. I can only compare the glance I mean to a ray of 
 light shining through the darkest leaf of a purple heartsease. 
 Before I left England I never met with it but in one person. 
 Look well at Lady-Bird the next time you see her, and then 
 tell me if you perceive what I mean. Since I have been abroad 
 I have observed it once in an old monk who was praying in 
 one of the side chapels of the Cathedral of Padua, another 
 time in an actress I saw performing the part of Francesca di 
 Rimini at Naples, and once again very lately in one of the 
 handsome boys who were begging on the steps of the Pincio. 
 Was there a likeness in the soul that spoke through these 
 eyes — else why that strange resemblance, when all else was 
 dissimilar? I have mused upon this for hours, and almost 
 lost myself in thought. But what I cannot lose is the habit 
 of talking aloud to you, dear Mary ; though I can fancy that 
 your eyes, which have never looked anything but peace into 
 my soul, are now gently smiling at my fanciful folly." 
 Again, some months later, he wrote thus from Naples : 
 " Countries, like names, like flowers, like sounds, have a 
 likeness to particular people, independently, I think, of all 
 association. That the calm beauty of an English landscape 
 should always put me in mind of you is not extraordinary — 
 for we have lived and grown up together amidst its quiet 
 scenery : but why does this country so often bring to my 
 recollection the image of Lady-Bird, as I remember her in our 
 days of forest games and fireside stories ? The other day at 
 Sorrento one of my Italian friends was repeating to me, as we 
 sat by the sea-shore, almost intoxicated by the perfume of the 
 orange-blossoms, Filicaja's well-known address to Italy. When 
 he pronounced the words, ' Fatal gift of beauty,' I instantly 
 saw before me her face, with that eager, wistful, and sorrow- 
 fully-indignant expression it always had when listening to 
 
36 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 some talc of pity or of crime. O God forbid that to her the 
 gift of beauty should be fatal ! Let her resemble Italy iu its 
 charm, but never in its woe ! " 
 
 At another time he reminded them of some rude verses he 
 had addressed as a boy to Gertrude, and which ran thus : — 
 
 " Come, Lady-Bird ; come, rest you here ; do not fly away, 
 See, we have made a throne for you ; come, fold your wings and stay. 
 We do not love the dragon-fly that darts about the lea, 
 We care not for gay butterflies, all gorgeous though they be;. 
 We do not love the birds that soar so freely up on high, 
 We do not care for those that sing their matins in the sky ; 
 We do not love the red rose wild, all bright with early dew, 
 But we love you, the ' Lady-Bird,' and weave a crown for you. 
 We read of humming-birds whose wings like living jewels glow, 
 We ween the Lady-Bird has eyes that still more brightly show ; 
 We see the fire-flies shine at night, in countries far away, 
 We care not for their light if she will fold her wings and stay." 
 
 And he said that he had translated, or rather imitated it in 
 French, and set it to music ; that it had had great success, and 
 was sung at all the concerts during that winter. " C'est la 
 fille des cieux, c'est l'oiseau du bon Dieu" was the favourite 
 romance of the season. Once he had heard a peasant girl on 
 the shore at Amalfi warble a few notes in a voice that re- 
 minded him of hers, or in a picture'gallery he had seen a face 
 that was like her. or some famous actress had, by a look or a 
 gesture, made him think of " O'Connor's child " in the green 
 bowers of Oakland Chase. 
 
 In the course of the time that he remained in Italy Mary 
 was once very ill, and Mrs. Redmond, who was wholly em- 
 ployed in nursing her, asked Gertrude to write to him and 
 explain the reason of their silence. The task was not un- 
 pleasing, and she called him Ci dear Maurice," as she had done 
 when they were children. And when Mary was recovering, 
 she wrote under her dictation, and mingled playful comments 
 of her own with the more grave communications she was 
 charged to make, and in this way a sort of correspondence 
 was established which amused them all. Nobody knew of it 
 at the Grange, and no one thought it odd at the cottage. 
 Time went on, and no events marked its course. In gloom 
 and in sunshine, through the winter and the summer, it sped 
 its onward way. unmarked by any vicissitudes, unenlivened by 
 any change, except those modifications which it wrought in the 
 character of one who was passing from girlhood into woman- 
 
LADY-BIRD. 57 
 
 hood in constant struggles with herself, in warfare with her 
 own thoughts and feelings, but with hardly any contact with 
 the world without. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Now bank and brae are clothed in green, 
 An' scattered cowslips Bweetly spring, 
 An* birdies flit on wanton wing. 
 There wi' my Mary let me flee, 
 There catch her ilka glance o" love, 
 The bonny blink o' Mary's ee ! ' 
 
 Bit uns. 
 
 " With goddess-liko demeanour forth she went, 
 Not unattended, for on her as queen 
 A pomp of winning graces waited still ; 
 And from about her shot darts of desire 
 Into all eyes, to wish her still in sight." 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 Three years had elapsed since the time when this story be- 
 gan, and Maurice Redmond had returned from Italy with 
 stronger health, keen aspirations after success and distinction, 
 a mind stored with images of beauty and dreams of harmony, 
 and to all appearance a heart unchanged in its w r arm affection 
 for the mother and the companion of his childhood. On a 
 sultry evening in August, not many days after his arrival, he 
 sauntered with Mary Grey towards an old stone bridge over 
 the Leigh, about a mile from the village. The river at that 
 spot was bright and clear ; the alders, with their dark foliage, 
 were reflected in its waters as in a mirror ; water-cresses and 
 forget-me-nots floated near its shores ; the stately mullein 
 grew on its banks ; the king-fisher dipped his beak in the 
 stream, and the dragon-fly darted to and fro on its surface. 
 On the mossy stones of the bridge they sat down together — 
 Maurice with his foreign-looking straw hat in his hand, a rib- 
 bon tied loosely round his neck instead of a cravat, and his 
 dark eyes looking as if they were almost too large for his pale 
 and thin face ; and Mary with her neat brown dress, her white 
 shawl carefully pinned, her bonnet tied under her chin with the 
 most English precision, and projecting over a face that happi- 
 ness was making almost beautiful. 
 
 So he seemed to think ; for he untied the strings and 
 pushed back that close bonnet, and gazed upon her with a 
 
38 LADY-BIRD. ' 
 
 smile that brought a blush into her cheek, which, though no 
 longer sallow as in her childhood, had scarcely more colour 
 than a white cornelian. That gentle Mary Grey had a most 
 loving nature, but a timid one also, that is, in all that con- 
 cerned her affections, for otherwise there was in her a store 
 
 " Of hardy virtue*, which like spirits start 
 From some unknown abyss within the heart." 
 
 But she had no confidence in her own powers of pleasing ; her 
 qualities were of the sort that every one else could appreciate 
 better than their possessor. Maurice's affection, or rather her 
 own love for him, was part and parcel of her being. He had 
 returned from Italy essentially improved in health, and far 
 handsomer — at least in her eyes — than she had expected. 
 His was certainly not the ideal of manly beauty, but there 
 was something ideal in it. His complexion was transparent ; 
 there was a pensive expression in his face when he was grave, 
 and a joyousness when he was pleased, that were very attrac- 
 tive. His forehead was like marble, except when a sudden 
 flush suffused his temples. His figure was slight, his voice 
 low and gentle ; but now and then a sudden transport of an- 
 ger or of emotion would convulse the almost feminine beauty 
 of his features. It was like a storm on the Mediterranean, — 
 rising in an instant and subsiding again with inconceivable 
 rapidity. 
 
 Mary's presence was singularly soothing to this nervous 
 irritability, which might be the effect of his passion for music, 
 or more probably its cause. In her society he felt a repose, a 
 "bien-etre," which he hailed with rapture, and expressed — as 
 he did whatever he felt — with enthusiasm. It came as a sur- 
 prise to her, this apparently unchanged affection of his, for 
 during the years of his absence she had taught herself not to 
 expect it, had never thought of the possibility of loving him 
 less, but always of the probabilit^that he might be changed, 
 and had schooled herself into the belief that if it were so she 
 would have nothing to complain of, although much to suffer. 
 "When first she saw him again, her heart involuntarily sank 
 within her ; he was too handsome — as she thought — too cle- 
 ver, and too happy for her to influence his destiny, or to have 
 any hold on his affections. She mentally exclaimed, 
 
 " I am not fair like thee, 
 The very glance of whose clear eye 
 
LADY-BIRD. 39 
 
 But when she disc, rned the germs of suffering in his highly 
 wrought imagination, in his febrile organisation, and perceived 
 that he" was often tormented by anxiety and nervous depression 
 of spirits, then she saw in his life her place, in his destiny her 
 part, and putting her hand to the plough, counted the cost that 
 day. aud never looked back. 
 
 That evening hour ! How soothing it was to both ! How 
 fall of sweet memories, and pleasant thoughts of the future ! 
 Maurice had been at home for some days, but they had not 
 yet taken a walk alone together — Mary, the most industrious 
 of bees, had not much time for strolling ; she had considered 
 it her first duty on his return to look over his wardrobe as she 
 used to do, and mend whatever was amiss in it. He tried to 
 laugh or tease her out of her housewifely ways, but without 
 success — she was much too notable a little person to be influ- 
 enced by his reckless remarks on the subject, and often assured 
 him that, though he was a great deal more famous, he was not 
 much richer than when he went away, and that he should al- 
 ways remember that one stitch in time saves nine, with vari- 
 ous other proverbial aphorisms and apposite sayings besides ; 
 so he was obliged to content himself with walking about the 
 miniature garden, gathering now one flower, now another, 
 while she sat under the thorn-tree, working and singing, and 
 now and then giving utterance to certain little indignant com- 
 ments on the iniquities of foreign laundresses and semp- 
 stresses. 
 
 But Sunday was come, and after vespers they walked (an 
 old habit of theirs) to the bridge over the Leigh. She gathered 
 a wall-flower that grew in the crevices of the arch, and fastened 
 it in his hat. He smiled and said : " How sweet it smells ! 
 An Italian lady would faint with its perfume. What com- 
 pensation for us in our chilly climes, though not flowerless 
 fields, as Cowper unjustly calls them, that we need not be 
 afraid of the breath of these 
 
 ' Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies, 
 Bathed in soft airs and fed with dew. 
 
 A.nd what a blessing it is that home is all it is to us in spite 
 of drawbacks in it, and of attractions elsewhere ; that those 
 rude voices that were singing just now the litany we were so 
 fond of as children, have a charm for me which the most sub- 
 lime strains of the Sistine Chapel cannot match ; that these 
 alders speak more to my heart than the chestnut groves of 
 
40 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 Subiaco, or the pines of Vallombrosa ; and that my English 
 Mary has more beauty in my eyes than the proudest Roman 
 lady, or the prettiest girl of Albano. But you must see those 
 sunny climes, my Mary ; you must stand with me one day, 
 and look from the deserted gardens of the Villa Mattei at the 
 dream-like Campagna — you must kneel with me in St. Peter's, 
 and feel the Miserere wringing your soul with unearthly mel- 
 ody — you must receive on that gentle little head of yours the 
 wonderful blessing which on the day of the Resurrection falls 
 on Rome and on the world. Oh, you must come with me to 
 that land of poetry and of religion, and learn to love it with 
 the twofold love of the Christian and the artist." 
 
 " Maurice, I have never, even as a child, heard the name 
 of Rome without emotion, and to go there with you, to visit 
 the tombs of the Apostles and the relics of martyrs, to receive 
 the blessing you speak of by your side, kneeling in some cor- 
 ner of that great prostrate city, to see what you admire, to 
 feel what you have felt, would be indeed a dream of happi- 
 ness ; but would it not be like digging up this daisy here, and 
 planting it in the middle of the camellias and the cactuses of 
 the Woodlands conservatory, to take me amongst the people 
 and to the places where you have been lately living ? " 
 
 ' ; I know one person who would appreciate you, Mary. 
 Guess who 1 " 
 
 " Somebody who would like me, Maurice 1 Not Emilia 
 Orlandini % " 
 
 " 0, you spiteful little girl. I did not think you had as 
 much malice in your composition — so to take advantage of 
 my confessions. I hope you did not show that letter to 
 Lady-Bird 1 " 
 
 " No, I contrived not to do so, but it was difficult. It is 
 always difficult not to do what sJie wishes." 
 
 " So I remember of old — how she used to govern us by 
 her smiles and her tears ; but I, at least, am made of sterner 
 stuff now-a-days." 
 
 " Do not boast," said Mary, gaily. 
 
 " But to return to what I was saying," he continued, ' it 
 is M. d'Arberg who would like you." 
 
 " Indeed ! I thought he was such a superior person — so 
 clever and literary, and all that sort of thing." 
 
 " Yes, he is that, but what he is most particularly, is a 
 man of one purpose, and he likes simplicity and earnestness 
 better than anything else in life. I cannot explain it exactly, 
 
LADY-BIRD. 4 J 
 
 but there is a likeness between you : I suppose you are both 
 very religious. But I have seen other people who were so 
 too. but not just in the same way." 
 
 " Maurice. I liked so much what you said just now about 
 loving Rome. 'As a Christian and an artist.'" 
 
 He coloured deeply, and with his eyes turned away from 
 Mary's and fixed on a leaf which was floating down the stream. 
 he hurriedly exclaimed : 
 
 '•You must not think me better than I am. Mary, my faith 
 has, thank God. never wavered ; I admire goodness and truth 
 and piety as much as ever, and my soul — with all its powers 
 of reason, intelligence and imagination — worships in our divine 
 religion the union of whatever is beautiful to the eye and ex- 
 alting to the mind ; and in Oberbeck's studio to-day — as in 
 the treasures of the Vatican of yore — the close connexion of 
 the Catholic religion with the highest development of man's 
 genius is so clear, that he who runs may read. But to feel all 
 this."' he paused and she added — 
 
 " Is something, but not all." 
 
 '•' The requirements of our religion," he continued. : ' are 
 as stern as her forms are attractive. Oh ! if enthusiasm 
 might be accepted instead of sacrifice — if homage and senti- 
 ment sufficed — if the bowed knee and the enraptured heart 
 were enough — who with the soul of an artist would not be at 
 the same time the most religious of men ? But to bow the knee, 
 not in rapture, but in humiliation — in penance, not in ecstacy 
 
 — to turn away from the cup of pleasure -But I shall be 
 
 making my confession to you. Mary, if I go on." 
 
 He took her hand and drew her to himself, then, pointing 
 to the river, he earnestly said : " Unstable as water, I cannot 
 excel. It is the same in every respect. Wishes, hopes, reso- 
 lutions, projects, written in fair characters enough on the sand, 
 but the first wave washes them away, and no token is left on 
 the shore." 
 
 " 0, but there is a token left, though you know it not your- 
 self. To try and to fail, to fall and to rise again, is not like 
 the stagnant depth of an immoveable indifference. Maurice, 
 there is one thing I am firmly convinced of, and I bless God 
 for it : you will be good, or you will be miserable." 
 
 ■• Then, indeed you must take care of my happiness, my 
 stern little prophet, or I shall hardly thank you for your 
 prediction." 
 
 At that moment, there was a splash of oars in the distance 
 
42 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 and in a short time a small boat came in sight, which Ger- 
 trude and her brother often used when he was at home, but 
 in which, for the first time, she had ventured alone. Her 
 straw hat had fallen back on her shoulders, and the dark blue 
 ribbons with which it was tied hung loosely round her neck. 
 The exercise had flushed her cheeks with the brightest crim- 
 son, and as she looked up towards the bridge, a smile illumined 
 her face, like a ray of sunshine on a damask rose. Ceasing to 
 row, she allowed the boat to float at pleasure, and it soon got 
 entangled amongst the weeds and the water-cresses. 
 
 She bowed graciously and gaily to Maurice ; and throwing 
 to Mary, a handful of forget-me-nots, cried out : " There, you 
 shall have them all. except this white lotus, which I must 
 keep to astonish Father Lifford with it this evening. But 
 how am I ever to get out of this boat 1 I feel like the man 
 in Moliere's play : — ' Que diahle suis-je venue faire dans cette 
 galereJ " In an instant Maurice was on the edge of the bank, 
 and swinging himself forward by the help of a branch, he 
 stepped into the boat, and seizing the oars, soon disentangled 
 it from the weeds and set it afloat again, Then with a smile 
 he said, 
 
 •• Where does the Lady of the Lake, or the river rather, 
 please to be taken ? " 
 
 " By all means to the shore. I have collected treasures 
 enough for to-day, and will not dare my fate any longer." 
 
 He pushed to the shore and threw the rope to Mary, who 
 had come down to meet them ; and jumping out of the boat, 
 held his hand out to Gertrude, who, touching it lightly, with 
 one bound sprang on to the bank. She stood there in the shade 
 of the dark alder trees with her red Indian shawl carelessly 
 thrown round her shoulders, and in her hand the broad leaves 
 of the lotus, which she used as a fan. Her attitude and her 
 figure were as graceful as possible. There was something so 
 free and yet so reserved in each gesture and in each glance. 
 She had a way that was peculiar to herself, of drawing back 
 her head while she raised her eyes, and of looking as it were 
 from under her long eye-lashes ; and the modulations of her 
 voice, her distinct and musical articulation, were equally un- 
 common. 
 
 •• I wish you joy of your return, Maurice, and I hope you 
 are as happy to find yourself in this country again as I should 
 be to leave it. Mary and I have often talked about you." 
 
 " And you once had the kindness to write to me ; I shall 
 never forget it." 
 
LADY-BIRD. 43 
 
 " Shall you stay here some time 1 " 
 
 " Yes. I hope so." 
 
 " Then we may often meet again — good bye, dear Mary 
 
 good bye, Maurice !" 
 
 She drew her shawl over her breast, hastily tied the ribbons 
 of her hat, and disappeared along one of the green alleys that 
 ted straight to the Grange. Maurice drew Mary's arm in his, 
 md they turned towards the village. 
 
 " Well, now you have seen Lady-Bird again, what do you 
 ■ninkof her?" 
 
 " I don't know exactly, — she does not seem proud." 
 
 " 0, no ! not at all in some ways." 
 
 " She is like a picture I once saw." 
 
 "In Italy?" 
 
 "Yes, in Venice. It had that same eager wistful look 
 iaat she has. Is she happy, Mary 1 " 
 
 " I think not ; her home is rather a gloomy one for a young 
 grri, and she is painfully anxious to leave it." 
 
 " I suppose she is very clever? " 
 
 " She is very amusing — very droll at times, and strangely 
 eloquent at others. She reads an immense deal, I believe." 
 
 " Does she care for music ? " 
 
 <l She has a most beautiful voice, — quite a wonderful voice; 
 but never having been taught, I don't suppose she sings well 
 — what you would call well." 
 
 " She must be dreadfully bored in that old house. I re- 
 member how stiff her father used to look, and her mother 
 always ill, ana the dear old priest so absent, and a little cross, 
 too, sometimes.' 1 
 
 " Wot really cross, I think, but Lady-Bird tries him by the 
 odd things she says and does ; and he does not perhaps quite 
 understand how cored she is, and that even to make any one 
 angry witn her is a sort of relief to the dulness of her life." 
 
 " Does she come to see you often ? " 
 
 " Yes, pretty often ; by fits and starts. Sometimes she 
 comes every day, and then perhaps we are weeks without 
 seeing her/' 
 
 " Does she never go out into society, I mean ? " 
 
 " No. I do not believe she has made a single acquaintance 
 in the neighbourhood. Nobody ever dines at Lifford Grange, 
 I hear, except tJQe agent or the doctor, and that very seldom." 
 
 ' ; Then she Mv> no admirers, I suppose." 
 
 " dear no, 1 mould think not, unless " 
 
44 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 "Unless what?" 
 
 " Unless Mr. Mark Apley was one. He is often riding 
 about here, and going backwards and forwards on the road 
 between the Grange and Stonehouseleigh, that is. when he is 
 at home, which is only at one time of the year. When we 
 meet him he looks at her as if he thought her very pretty, 
 but he lias never been introduced to her." 
 
 " And how does she look on those occasions? " 
 
 :: Half proudly and half shyly, as if not sorry to be admir- 
 ed, and yet impatient at being watched." 
 
 •■ II ire are her flowers," Maurice said, as they entered the 
 little sitting-room of the cottage, "shall I put them into this 
 vase ? " and without waiting for an answer, he arranged them 
 in such a graceful way that Mary stopped to admire it. 
 
 " Here is your pianoforte arrived at last," she said. " Now 
 I shall hear some of the things that fine ladies and great mu- 
 sicians have admired." 
 
 " The fine ladies more than the great musicians, I am 
 afraid. I was the fashion amongst them, and they made much 
 of me and of my songs, but even in my art — which I love 
 with passion — I am too unstable to excel." 
 
 He ran his hand over the keys, and hummed a tune which 
 had something of the wildness of a Neapolitan air, with the 
 tenderness of a German melody. 
 
 " How pretty that is ! " Mary exclaimed. 
 
 " It is my ' Lady-bird,' " he said, " the song I wrote to you 
 about, which I composed last year at Naples. They used to 
 encore it every night." 
 
 " No wonder, for it is gay, and yet there is something that 
 touches one in it, something of sadness, which I suppose must 
 be the perfection of music." 
 
 " Mary," he said in a moment, as they still sat together at 
 the pianoforte, " I have thought of a plan which, if I can car- 
 ry it into effect, will enable me to remain here several months 
 without being a burthen on dear mother, and which may also 
 be of use to me when I settle in London. I think I might 
 give lessons in the neighbourhood. Don't you think it would 
 answer ? I did so at Florence one year." Mary smiled her 
 assent, and Mrs. Redmond was consulted. She produced a 
 bit of paper, and had soon written in pencil the names of sev- 
 eral young ladies and gentlemen whom she sanguinely supposed 
 would be sure to take lessons. The fact was, that there was 
 no music-master in that part of the country, and the deficiency 
 
LADY-BIRD. 45 
 
 had often been regretted by Miss Apley, who was' on all occa- 
 sions Mrs. Redmond's oracle. 
 
 '•Don't you think, mother, that you might call on Miss 
 Apley to-morrow, and tell her that Maurice means to give 
 lessons ? She wished particularly to see you. I know, about 
 the work at the school, and you know you don't dislike paying 
 her a visit." 
 
 " Yes, Mary darling, but I am a little foolish about asking 
 a favour." 
 
 Maurice coloured, and Mary with her quick perception 
 keenly felt that he was annoyed at the expression her mother 
 had used, and instantly exclaimed, 
 
 ' ; But, dearest mother, do you know that I can hardly con- 
 sider it as a favour. Maurice's talent is not a common one, 
 and the advantage of taking lessons from him in this out-of- 
 the-way place, is a benefit received more than a favour con- 
 ferred." 
 
 " But perhaps she does not know that he has so much 
 talent, dear, and if I say so she will think it is all my par- 
 tiality." 
 
 " for Heaven's sake, mother," Maurice impatiently ex- 
 claimed, " say nothing at all about me. I will speak myself 
 to Father Lifford. But whatever you do, don't puff me ; I 
 can't endure that." 
 
 He played a noisy bravura, which put a stop to further 
 conversation ; and thoughts of Italy, of the women who had 
 flattered him, of the friends who had applauded him, of the 
 way in which genius was considered there as superior to any 
 other distinctions, and the footing of intimacy on which he 
 had been with persons of the highest rank rose to his mind, 
 and made him silent and abstracted during the rest of the 
 evening. 
 
 He compared these recollections with the aspect of the 
 little room in which "they were sitting, and for the first time 
 disadvantageously ; for, whether from the love of change and 
 contrast, which have great charms for persons of his disposi- 
 tion, or from affection for Mary, the very soberness and tho- 
 roughly English character of his childhood's home had been 
 agreeable to him. But now he thought again of the palaces, 
 the villas, the ilex avenues, the orange-gardens of Italy : and, 
 as he looked at Mary quietly working at the table by the light 
 of a single tallow candle, she did not seem to him less pleas- 
 ing than before, but he said to himself, " Yes, I shall trans- 
 
46 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 plant you, my English daisy, to that bright land. Its fervid 
 sunshine will animate that somewhat too calm expression. Its 
 influences will call forth all the feeling and the intelligence 
 which this passionless existence would end by stifling. When 
 I produce my first opera at the Scala or the Fenice, how that 
 pale face will flush with excitement, how that breast — which 
 is now breathing so calmly — will throb with emotion, when she 
 will have to witness the failure or hail the success of what 
 costs me almost more than my life's blood ! — and those eyes, 
 that always seem to turn more readily to Heaven than to 
 earth, will they not flash with triumph and sparkle with de- 
 light, if the enthusiastic cries and the wild applause of an 
 Italian audience call on the successful maestro to come and 
 receive the meed of praise which they so well know how to 
 bestow? 0, my quiet, gentle Mary, you must drink with me 
 of that bewildering cup — even though you should have to 
 share my sufferings too." 
 
 Ten o'clock struck, and Mrs. Redmond and Mary folded 
 up their work and prepared to go to bed. As Maurice fol- 
 lowed them into the passage, he called Mary to the garden 
 door, and putting his hand on her arm, he said in a whisper, 
 ••Which had you rather be, intensely happy at times, and 
 very miserable at others, or never know the extremes of hu- 
 man bliss and woe?" She looked surprised and almost pained 
 at the question, but after an instant's hesitation answered, 
 timidly raising her eyes to his, " I suppose that I have already 
 been too happy not to have to suffer in proportion ; but come 
 what may — a higher joy or a deeper grief, I care not if the 
 last reach me alone, and the first is shared with you." 
 
 " Angel of goodness ! " he fervently exclaimed, " and I, 
 on the contrary, was wishing just now to force thee to partake 
 the torments of my feverish existence, Keep thy divine peace 
 of heart, my Mary, and Heaven forbid that in my wayward 
 folly I should ever seek to disturb it," " Why should you, in 
 deed ? " she ejaculated with unaffected surprise. He smiled., 
 but felt a little disappointed. Why, he could scarcely tell. 
 She did not guess his thoughts ; how could she 1 But others 
 had done so. and life becomes flat and stale when everything 
 has to be explained, and he could not always explain himself 
 even to himself; and a cloud was on his brow as he shut him- 
 ' : s room and — flinging open the window — he threw 
 himself on his bed, and snatching up a pencil and paper he 
 began to compose, but not music. His mind was not tuned to 
 
LADY-BIRD. 47 
 
 harmony just then, but lie wrote rambling verses, and went to 
 sleep with some unfinished lines in his hand. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 ' Noble et legere elle folatre, 
 Et rherbe que foulent ses pas, 
 Sous le poids de son pied d'albAtre, 
 Se courbe et ne se brise pas. 
 Sur ses traits, dont le doux ovale 
 Borne l'ensemble gracieux, 
 Les eouleurs que la nue etale 
 Se fondeut pour cliarmer les yeux. 
 Ala pourpre qui teintsajoue, 
 On dirait que l'aube s'yjone; 
 Son front leger s'eleve et plane 
 Sur un con flexible, elance, 
 Comme sur le not diaphane 
 Un cygne inollement berce.' 
 
 " Music is the food of love." 
 
 Lamaetink. 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 How strange it is that people think it worth while to make 
 the best of themselves to themselves, to equivocate with their 
 own hearts, while all the time they know it is of no use — that 
 it is the shallowest of deceptions — that even a Queen's speech, 
 or a ministerial harangue are not more devoid of any preten- 
 sions to sincerity, than their special pleadings at the bar of 
 their own understandings. But still the inward and intimate 
 sham is carried on, and doubtless, the thief and the assassin 
 have an internal advocate who presses for an acquittal, even 
 while the dagger is sharpening and the booty secured. There 
 are some, indeed, who never appear to commune with them- 
 selves, whose minds are like railway travelling, never stopping 
 but at certain stations, never looking beyond a certain ter- 
 minus. 
 
 Mr. Lifford might have been of this number, and if so, his 
 mental line of road must have lain through the dullest and 
 dreariest of intellectual regions. It had gone on its way crush- 
 ing and extinguishing in himself and in others everything that 
 gives light and joy to existence. Whether, in the language 
 of St Paul, his thoughts ever accused and excused one another 
 was doubtful. Perhaps he was too essentially despotic to 
 allow even of inward remonstrance, and the rebellion of his 
 
4 8 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 own conscience, if it ever broke out, was put down by the iron 
 rigidity of his will. 
 
 But in his daughter's character there were other elements 
 at work besides that same will, which she had inherited from 
 him. Some of the tenderness of her mother's character was 
 mixed with it. This had seldom been called forth, but a 
 gleam of it was now and then visible which took by surprise 
 those who were accustomed to her reckless moods, and her 
 stubborn resolution. She had one of those natures that could 
 not be governed by ordinary means, and — like the Spartan 
 00 y — s he would have suffered a thousand tortures before she 
 yielded to threats or submitted to violence. Two or three 
 times, between the age of childhood and that at which she 
 had now arrived, she had come into open collision wi4li her 
 father. Once, in a paroxysm of passion, an imprecation 
 escaped her lips, which the instant it was uttered terrified her 
 to that degree, that she gave a scream of horror, and fell on 
 her knees before him. If he had opened his arms, she would 
 probably have loved him from that moment with all the energy 
 of her strange character. Had he been moved to anger or to 
 indignation, she would have continued to sue for pardon and 
 reconciliation ; but he left her with a sneer, and she remained 
 alone with her remorse and her anger, and neither could master 
 the other, till some days afterwards in confession — that secret 
 arena where so many fierce battles with self are fought — the 
 proud spirit yielded ; and, after shedding torrents of tears, 
 pale with emotion, she went straight from the chapel to her 
 father's room, implored a forgiveness which was coldly granted, 
 returned to the feet of one who as his Lord's representative 
 was always kind though at other times stern, and who, after 
 absolving and blessing her, dismissed her in peace. 
 
 Good was it for Gertrude that she should have known 
 what such a conquest effects, what such a moment is. She 
 never forgot it. There are seeds sometimes sown that lie for 
 long years under a hardened surface, but the rain may some 
 day fall, the sun may one day shine, and the harvest may be 
 reaped. 
 
 There was one element in Gertrude's character which re- 
 sembled neither father nor mother, and that was a wild gaiety 
 — which was particularly attractive in one as beautiful, as 
 naturally clever, and as original as she was. It was almost 
 impossible for any one to resist its fascination. Even Father 
 Lifford — who thought it bordered on levity, and conceived it 
 
LADY-BIRD. 49 
 
 to be rather a point of duty to snub her — could not help at 
 times feeling its influence, and when she succeeded in making 
 him smile it put her in good humour for the rest of the day 
 as she used to tell Mary Gre}*. 
 
 It would have been impossible in so dull an existence, 
 and with such a craving for change and amusement of any 
 sort, that the return of an old playfellow who formerly con- 
 tributed so much to her enjoyment should have been indiifer- 
 2nt to her, or that she should not have been ready to renew 
 an acquaintance which had once given her so much pleasure. 
 His letters to Mary had interested her imagination ; she felt 
 curious to see how far he was in love with her quiet friend, 
 and whether her feelings for him had any tinge of romance, 
 or partook of what Gertrude considered the common-place 
 nature of her character, for thus she estimated one of the 
 most ?^common-place persons in the world, one of those rare 
 self-forgetting natures that have more feeling than passion, 
 more heroism than courage, and more tenderness than sensi- 
 bility. 
 
 A day or two after the meeting at the bridge she sent her 
 maid to tell Mary that she meant to sketch that afternoon in 
 Oakland Chase, and that if she had nothing else to do it 
 >vould be very kind of her to meet her there, as it was some 
 time since they had seen each other in comfort. The message 
 ,vas delivered, and the expected assent given, and at the same 
 spot where, about three years before, this story opened, Ger- 
 ;rude and Mary were again sitting — the first drawing with 
 mtaught skill the old trees which had been the favourite 
 launts of their childhood, and the other busy with some plain 
 ivork which she had brought with her. 
 
 The summer was far advanced — there were no flowers on 
 ;he grass around them, and the birds had ceased their songs, 
 3ut the rich foliage and deep shade of the forests were in all 
 ;he glory of maturity. Gertrude had expected that Maurice 
 svould join them ; but he did not do so, and she felt disap- 
 Dointed. Mary's conversation seemed to her more uninter- 
 3sting than usual, and at last she abruptly asked, 
 
 ' ; Where is Maurice? What does he do with himself du- 
 ring these long summer days ? " 
 
 - He is reading out there by the stile," Mary said. " He 
 talked with me as far, and then said he should be in our way, 
 xnd that he would amuse himself with his book till I came 
 back." 
 
LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " But what nonsense that was to think he should be in oui; 
 way. I hope he does not mean to avoid me, Mary. Docs he 
 remember what good friends we used to be ?" 
 
 - I believe, dear Lady-Bird, that is one of the reasons thai 
 he feels shy with you now. He says he cannot expect that 
 you will consider him as an old friend." 
 
 u And why not — I should like to know ? Have I so many 
 friends that I am likely to be ungracious to the only ones I 
 have known in childhood ? I have observed, Mary, that you 
 are sometimes inclined to be formal and ceremonious with 
 me, and it bores me to death. O yes. to death," she repeated, 
 with her pencil on her lips, and peeping into Mary's bonnet, 
 who was shaking her head and smiling. " What a pity it is, ,: 
 she exclaimed, " that we cannot make an exchange ! " 
 
 " What exchange, Lady-Bird % " 
 
 u Of our homes, I mean — I should have been very happy | 
 at the cottage, and you would have been a sort of model ' 
 young lady at Lifford Grange. You would never have said 
 or done a foolish thing, and have looked as steady and demure 
 as any of the family pictures. As it is, my uncle says that 
 you are a pattern of perfection, and then sighs and shrugs hid 
 shoulders as he looks at me. Don't you wish that you were 
 Miss Lifford ? Is it not a very enviable destiny to spend 
 one's life at Lifford Grange — a sort of secular cloister, of th 
 Carthusian order, for we never talk without necessity." 
 
 " You are not following the rule noiv, I suppose," Maryij 
 said. '• But. dear Lady-Bird, I am not sure that you would j 
 find my life very gay, though /feel it to be happy." 
 
 "Why. it must be a little amusing to have a lover, which | 
 will never happen to me. You would never have thought of I 
 it, if it had not come in your way, but be candid — is it not| 
 
 t 
 
 amusing 
 
 •2" 
 
 Mary coloured, and shook her head again — " Now. mind 
 your drawing. Lady-Bird, and do not talk in that manner." 
 
 " Well, I will not. if you will go and tell Maurice that he 
 is not to keep out of my way. and fancy that ve are not to be 
 friends as we used to be." 
 
 li I will go, if you will promise not to talk as you did just 
 now, especially before him." 
 
 k " no, I won't — go your ways, Mary Grey. Is it not a 
 '"douce violence] to send you on such an errand? In the 
 meantime I will finish this old oak, and you shall have it as 
 reward." 
 
J.ADY-BIR1). 51 
 
 Mary walked quietly away clown one of the avenues of the 
 Chase, and Gertrude, watching her as she disappeared anion o-st 
 the trees, said to herself — " She is like the ' Bonny Kilmeny 
 who ga'ed up the glen,' pure as pure could be. There is no 
 one so good as Mary, I do believe. She does not seem to 
 care much about Maurice, but I shall know more of that 
 when I have seen them together." And this last word put- 
 ting her in mind of a pretty song that she had once learnt, 
 fand that began — u We have been friends together, in sunshine 
 j and in shade," — she warbled it at intervals, when not too 
 ilmuch engrossed by her drawing. 
 
 When Mary returned, and Maurice with her, she greeted 
 him with a playful kindness that made him at once feel at his 
 ease ; and sitting down on the stump of a tree opposite to the 
 one she occupied, his heightened colour subsided, and his man- 
 ner, which had been a little stiff at first, became natural and 
 animated. She asked him questions which drew from him 
 some lively descriptions of places and of persons abroad, and 
 the bright smile with which she responded to anything that 
 amused her, carried him back to the days when to relate a 
 story that would make Lady-Bird laugh or cry was the height 
 of his ambition. He was surprised to find how much she knew 
 about pictures and statues, poets and musicians, — how well ac- 
 quainted she was with the history and the literature of Italy, 
 and with what rapid changes of manner she seemed transform- 
 ed in an instant from a wayward child into an eloquent wo- 
 man ; and then again, when apparently most in earnest, would 
 break suddenly off into some strain of fun and nonsense. 
 
 The sort of conversation that established itself between 
 them was entirely new to Mary ; it interested but puzzled 
 her. Maurice had been living a great deal in society abroad, 
 and had acquired a readiness and fluency of language which 
 nothing but the habit of conversation can give, except in one 
 as naturally gifted as Gertrude was. Her singular intelligence 
 made her instinctively guess what others learnt by degrees. 
 "She would have made a speech in Parliament, or preached a 
 sermon, or acted a play, or harangued a mob if called upon to 
 do so ; nothing came amiss to her, but solitude and constraint. 
 She was very quick also in discerning the characters of others, 
 fexcept when baffled by one of such extraordinary simplicity 
 as Mary's. Maurice she judged at once. '-More talent than 
 'ability ; more ardour than vigour; more imagination than 
 sense, and sensibility than feeling : an abundance of words at 
 
b2 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 Ins command, and a sufficient amount of thought to turn that 
 abundance to account." This view of the young artist was 1 
 rapidly sketched in her mind, as she sat conversing with him, 
 with all the laisser-aUer that was habitual to her, and the ani- 
 mation which a new amusement called forth. 
 
 The drawing was not finished till the sun was setting, and 
 Jane had appeared to escort G-ertrude home. She gave it to 
 Mary, as she had promised. It was the old hollow tree in 
 which they used to act " O'Connor's child." That evening 
 Mary spoke twice to Maurice without attracting his notice. 
 His eyes were fixed on the sketch. 
 
 " I do not think M. d'Arberg would like her as much as 
 you," he said at last, as if he were answering a question. 
 
 She laughed, and said " Who ? " 
 " Lady-Bird. She would not suit him, I think. She is too 
 like Undine." 
 
 " Who is Undine — an Italian you know 1 " 
 
 ' : no, dear Mary ; she only lives in Fairy-land. Lady- 
 Bird knows all about her, I am sure." 
 
 " She knows a great deal," Mary said with a sigh. Her 
 gravity made Maurice laugh. 
 
 ' ; Not how to make a home as happy as you would, my dar- 
 ling Mary." 
 
 " She might if she loved her home. It is so easy to make 
 those we love happy — that is, if they love us," she timidly 
 added. He pushed aside the oak-tree, and drew his chair 
 close to hers, and told her the story of his opera — the great 
 work he was meditating ; and she listened to it for the tenth 
 time, as if it had been the first. 
 
 When that evening the clock struck ten, and with a Cin- 
 derella-like punctuality she got up and folded her work, he said 
 to her, gaily, " You are worth a hundred Lady-Birds, Mary !" 
 She put her hand on his mouth ; he kissed it, and whispered, 
 " You will not mind, will you, if I play for an hour or two 
 longer % Dear mother does not, I know ; she is too deaf to 
 hear it upstairs." 
 
 " I do mind, — you ought to go to bed and rest ; you will 
 wake like a ghost to-morrow. Like the ghost in the last scene 
 of the opera." 
 
 The opera had now become a conspicuous point in hen 
 thoughts. He did not rehearse it oftener in imagination than 
 she did. Never having been in her life in a theatre, she had 
 a very vague idea of a dramatic performance ; but it was 
 
LADY-BIRD. 53 
 
 enough for her that it was his dream, his work, his object ; the 
 story was founded on their favourite ballad of " O'Connor's 
 child." and she could fancy, she said, how beautiful it would be 
 to see it all acted, as they used to act it, and at the same time 
 to hear his music telling in another way all they used to feel 
 about it. 
 
 As she lay awake in her room that night, listening to the 
 sounds of his playing below, and watching the light clouds 
 quickly passing over the heavens, she felt angry with herself 
 that the words, " You are worth a hundred Lady-Birds." 
 seemed to mix with the music, and to be written in the skies. 
 In about a fortnight's time, Maurice had obtained two or 
 three pupils in the neighbourhood, and by degrees he became 
 known ; his reputation established itself, and he grew to be 
 somewhat of a lion in Lancashire. He was sometimes invited 
 to some of the country-houses where he gave lessons. His per- 
 fectly gentleman-like manners, his good looks, his knowledge of 
 French and Italian, and his really beautiful playing, made him 
 a general favourite wherever he went. On Sunday he always 
 played the organ at the Catholic chapel at Stonehouseleigh ; 
 and strangers used often to come there to hear the exquisite 
 music with which he accompanied the different parts, and filled 
 up the pauses of the service. To Mary it sounded like the 
 strains of Heaven itself, and her heart and her love were both 
 so pure, that there was nothing unworthy of the place or of 
 the hour in the joy that overflowed that heart, as, with her face 
 buried in her hands, she felt as if he were translating into 
 melody the speechless adoration which was rising from her 
 own soul. 
 
 Gertrude always came there for vespers, — sometimes with 
 
 ! Father Lifford, or else with her maid ; and at the conclusion 
 
 of the service, as the congregation dispersed, she usually 
 
 ; waited in the churchyard while he was in the sacristy, or Jane 
 
 ; was lingering with her friends from the village. Her seat 
 
 .' was a tombstone near the gate, and the simple inscription 
 
 upon it, ' : Requlescat in pace," contrasted with the expression 
 
 of her face. Strangers sometimes remarked how beautiful, 
 
 but how restless it was. They would have wished to say to 
 
 her, " Rest in peace," but that time was not come. Whatever 
 
 power religion exerted over her tended to a struggle.and interior 
 
 strife was the result of salutary impressions. Better for her 
 
 ! that it was so ; the best of of such characters and intellects 
 
 as hers is the difficulty they find in self-deception. They err, 
 
54 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 they offend, the will is stubborn, and the heart undisciplined 
 — but they were gone too deep into themselves, and too far be- 
 yond themselves to act the part of the false prophet to their 
 own souls, and to cry out " Peace where there is no peace." 
 
 One day as they were walking back from the chapel, Ger- 
 trude asked Mary with a look of great interest, if it was true 
 that Maurice had been giving lessons in the neighbourhood 
 and on Mary's answering in the affirmative exclaimed, " Then 
 I shall take some, that is," — turning to him, for he just over- 
 took them at that moment, — " that is, if you will be kind 
 enough to undertake a beginner who has never had any regu- 
 lar instruction, whose fingers are as stiff as her voice is un- 
 manageable. I shall try your patience dreadfully, but will 
 you?" 
 
 He coloured, bowed, but did not look pleased. She re- 
 marked it, and with her usual impetuosity, turned to Mary 
 and said — 
 
 " Why is he so cross about it ? Don't you like to teach 
 me, Maurice? " 
 
 " Yes," he answered, colouring still more deeply, " but I 
 cannot bear— — " He broke off suddenly, and added, " I 
 mean that I do not know if I have an hour to spare that will 
 suit you. When would you wish me to come % " 
 
 Ci When could you 1 " 
 
 " At five o'clock." 
 
 " Yes — at five o'clock — three times a week — that will be 
 delightful ! That hour is just the one that will suit mamma. 
 Do you know, Mary, that music is, I find, one of the few things 
 that mamma cares about. When I asked her about taking 
 lessons, and told her that Maurice was giving them, she 
 seemed quite pleased, and said that the pianoforte should be 
 put in the room next to hers ; and that when she was well 
 enough, the folding-doors should be opened, and she would 
 like to listen. She thinks it will do her good to hear a little 
 music. She has never heard any since she left Spain 
 ■ — ^xcept the little songs you used to come sometimes and sing 
 to her when you were a boy," she added, turning to him. 
 
 Maurice smiled in a constrained manner, and asked which 
 day he should come. It was settled for the next Tuesday, 
 and he took his leave with a cloud on his brow. 
 
 When Mary asked him afterwards — with an unconscious 
 uneasiness which she could hardly define, and which she would 
 not perhaps have felt had he gladly accepted Gertrude as a 
 
LADY-BIKD. 55 
 
 pupil — whether it annoyed him to give lessons at the Grange, 
 he answered impatiently : " You do not suppose, do you. that it 
 is pleasant to be treated as a friend, and to be considered and 
 paid as a music-master?" She felt depressed, but said it 
 gave her much pleasure to think that his playing might be an 
 enjoyment to Mrs. Lifford who had so few pleasant moments 
 in her life, and that it would bring Gertrude into frequent 
 companionship with her mother, which might prove an inesti- 
 mable comfort to both. He assented, but remained restless 
 and disturbed during the remainder of the day. 
 
 But after the first lesson had been given, his annoyance 
 seemed to have passed away, and he told Mrs. Redmond and 
 Mary, how strange it had seemed to him to find Mrs. Lifford 
 again on that same couch where he used to see her when a 
 boy — only still paler and thinner than he remembered her 
 then. •" There she lies wrapped up in shawls, and propped up 
 by pillows — her face so white and wan that it looks as if one 
 could see through it, and her eyes appearing unnaturally large 
 and bright. After I had given Lady-Bird some instructions, 
 she asked me to play something very gently, as she thought 
 her mother would like it. I thought, at that minute, of Mo- 
 zart's Agnus Dei, and I played it very softly, but with a great 
 deal of expression. I never in my life tried so much to play 
 ■well — not when I was most anxious to make an effect at a 
 concert as I did then to please that pale woman who had not 
 heard any music for sixteen years. When I had gone on for 
 about twenty minutes, varying the air with a few simple chords, 
 I left off. and looking through the door towards her couch I 
 saw that she had covered her face with her thin transparent 
 hands, and that large tears were rolling through her fingers. 
 She called Lady-Bird in a faint voice, and told her to go on 
 with the lesson — that she Lad heard enough of the soul of 
 music for one day. This was said in broken English, but I 
 liked the expression so much. There is something very quiet 
 and solemn about those two rooms. Hers is so full of 
 pictures and silk hangings, and all sorts of foreign looking 
 things, it looks quite like a chapel ; and the next is a library, 
 and "opens on the garden. Lady-Bird has a beautiful voice, 
 but it bores her to practise much, and what bores her I 
 suspect she never does ; as to playing she will not even at- 
 tempt it. But she is coming here to-morrow at three o'clock 
 to look over the music I brought you. and to choose the songs 
 she will learn." 
 
56 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " then, it is singing lessons you give her, Maurice 
 dear?" Mrs. Redmond asked, as he began to turn over a 
 heap of books by the pianoforte. 
 
 '•' I suppose so, mother," he answered with a smile. ' : Any- 
 thing she chooses to learn : but one might as well try to teach 
 the lark to sit still on a bush, and practise her trills, as make 
 Lady-Bird apply herself to anything but what she fancies at 
 the moment." 
 
 " She will try your patience very much, dear Maurice." 
 
 "01 shall play and sing to her, she will learn in that 
 Way ; she has so much genius." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "■'Tjs amazement, more than love, 
 Which her radiant eyes do move ; 
 If less splendour wait on thine, 
 Yet they so benignly shine, 
 I would turn my dazzled sight 
 To behold their milder light. 
 But as hard 'tis to destroy 
 That high flame as to enjoy; 
 Which how eas'ly I may da, 
 Heav'n (as eas'ly" scaled) does know. 
 
 Wallee. 
 
 The next day Gertrude was true to her appointment. She 
 was in high spirits. — sung a roulade as she arrived at the 
 green gate, better than any she had accomplished the day 
 before ; told Jane to call again in an hour ; and, asking leave 
 to gather some of the honeysuckles and jasmine on the wall 
 which felt hot with the sun, she stood some time outside the 
 house, playing with Mrs. Redmond's cat who was purring on 
 the window-seat. She kept gently pinching its paw, and then 
 kissing it to make up for it. 
 
 " I am sure Mary never teased anything in her life ; did 
 she, Mrs. Redmond? But it is a bad plan to make people too 
 happy, Mary. — they say it never answers ; and though ' they 
 say ' is a very spiteful, odious, and tiresome imp. I believe he 
 is right sometimes. Puss will be much more glad to see me 
 the next time I come, because I have plagued her a little, and 
 then been very kind. Does Mary ever tease you. Maurice?" 
 
 " Only I believe by never giving me an opportunity of 
 
LADY-BIRD. 57 
 
 finding fault with her," he answered from within tlio room, 
 where he was writing out some music. 
 
 " 0, but that is a very great fault, indeed.— perhaps the 
 most provoking one a womau can have. Won't you reform. 
 Mary ? It is very hard on poor Maurice. Men do so like to 
 scold and lecture, one should not deprive them of their little 
 amusements. It is selfish to be always so good. Father 
 Lifford, for instance, how bored he would be if I was as good 
 as you and mamma. Othello's occupation would be gone." 
 
 After going on for some time in this way, she came into 
 the room and began to examine the music. Opening a volume 
 of manuscript songs, her attention was arrested by one, entitled, 
 I The Blind Man to his Mistress." 
 
 " Is this your own composition ? " she asked of Maurice, as 
 sitting down at the pianoforte she tried the notes. 
 
 " Yes," he answered ; " I wrote both the words and the 
 music after seeing, at a ball, a blind man who was engaged to 
 be married to a young girl, — he seemed to listen to the "sound 
 of her footsteps while she was dancing with others." 
 
 The poetry ran thus : — 
 
 " Yes, others say they love, but is the love of those who see 
 
 The same deep undivided love my blindness gives to thee ? 
 
 O do those who can gaze each day on the fair earth and sky, — 
 
 Do they watch as / do for each faint whispered word or sigh ? 
 
 And do they count it joy to hear thy footstep and thy voice, 
 
 And in thy slightest touch, as in the greatest bliss, rejoice ? 
 
 And do they breathe more freely when the free and blessed air 
 
 That fans their aching brow has played through thy long floating hair? 
 
 And does a sense of gloom oppress their heavy heart with weight 
 
 Unspeakable if e'er in vain thy coming they await ? 
 
 O, if they love and see, can they e'er gaze on aught but thee ? 
 
 If so, their love is not such love as my blind dreams of thee ! " 
 
 G-ertrude read these lines, and seemed thoughtful for a 
 moment. 
 
 u I envy," she exclaimed, " the power of rendering into 
 verse the passing impressions of the hour, — of fixing, as it 
 were, into shape that floating poetry which haunts the mind, 
 and makes us what wise people call romantic. I imagine that 
 poets are much less so than those who do not spend their 
 capital of imagination upon paper ; and, judging from the 
 lives of poets and nersons of genius, it seems to me that in 
 general they have less deep feeling than silent people, — I do 
 3* 
 
58 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 not mean people who are not talkative, but those who cannot 
 tell themselves their own story." 
 
 " But. my dear, everybody must know their own story," 
 Mrs. Redmond put in, '• and if so, they can tell it I suppose, 
 though not. I dare say, pleasantly for other people to hear : 
 indeed. I forget a great many things that have happened to 
 me. and I supposo that is what you mean." 
 
 " I believe," Maurice said, " that imagination makes peo 
 pie suffer with tenfold power from all the afflictions that com 
 in their way. It awakens presentiments of evil, recalls past 
 sufferings, multiplies causes of annoyance, and wears out the 
 spirits almost as much by the stimulus of fictitious and fever- 
 ish enjoyment, as by its fanciful miseries." 
 
 " And yet you would not be without it, would you ? " she 
 said, turning suddenly round, and fixing her eyes upon him. 
 He looked at her for a second, and then hastily said, " No ; 
 we sometimes cherish the cause of our sufferings ;" and then, 
 snatching up another heap of music, he carried it to the piano- 
 forte, and turned it over in a hurried manner. 
 
 She repeated his last words, " ' Cherish the cause of our 
 sufferings ! ' — difficult, I should think, if not impossible. But, 
 if so, it confirms what I was saying just now. You see, Mary, 
 one must make people suffer sometimes, that they may appre- 
 ciate their happiness on the whole." 
 
 Mary's colour rose, and she looked graver than the occa- 
 sion required. There was some emotion in her voice as she 
 answered, ' : A worthless happiness it would be, given by such 
 means, and bought at such a price." 
 
 A serious reply to a gay remark always throws a degree 
 of embarrassment into the conversation where it occurs ; and 
 it was the case in this instance. The impression was not dis- 
 sipated till after Maurice had played two or three things, out 
 of which Gertrude chose what she wished to learn. She then 
 put on her bonnet and shawl, and stood a few minutes talking 
 to Mrs. Redmond, and admiring her knitting. As she was 
 preparing to go she said to Maurice, 
 
 " Then to-morrow, at five 1 " 
 
 " Yes," he answered ; ' : but perhaps I may not be quite 
 exact, as it is a long way from here to Woodlands, and my 
 horse is not over brisk. Perhaps you will not mind if I am a 
 few minutes late." 
 
 •• No : I shall practise this song in the meantime. You 
 give lessons at Woodlands, then 1 " 
 
LADY-BIRD. 59 
 
 iC Yes, to Miss Harriet and Miss Fanny." 
 
 " Are they promising pupils ? " 
 
 " Diligent ones," be said with a smile. " They asked me a 
 great deal about you the other day." 
 
 " Did they? I hope you will not give me a bad character 
 the next time they do so. Is Harriet Apley the one with a 
 plump figure and rosy cheeks ? " 
 
 " Just so ; and Fanny has dark eyes and a pale com- 
 plexion." 
 
 '• Is there a governess in the house ? " 
 
 " Yes, for the youngest daughter. She must be about your 
 brother's age." 
 
 " By the way, Mary," Gertrude exclaimed, " I had a letter 
 from Edgar the other day. He is growing so priggish, poor 
 dear boy, it is quite ridiculous. He talks of quarterings, and 
 heraldry, and old families, and of all that sort of trash to 
 papa's heart's content, and my particular discontent. I shall 
 have no patience with him if he bores me with any of that 
 nonsense when he comes home." 
 
 " But is it not rather nice of him to care about what inter- 
 ests his father so much ? " 
 
 Grertrude sat down again at the table opposite Mary and 
 said — ' ; Now that is the sort of thing about which we shall 
 never agree. I think your notions about always trying to please 
 people, and making oneself agreeable to them, and accommo- 
 dating oneself to all their fancies, are next door to hypocrisy. 
 If I was to sit smiling benignantly- for instance, and looking 
 all delight when papa and Father Lififord talk politics, whereas 
 I feel ready to bite my lips through with vexation at having 
 to be silent and not argue against what seems to me such 
 absurd prejudice, I should really feel ashamed of myself." 
 
 ' ; But does it never occur to you that they may be right 
 and you may be wrong 1 There is so much to be said on both 
 sides of every question which does not involve points of faith 
 and morality, and should you not give those to whom you 
 owe so much deference at least the benefit of a doubt 1 " 
 
 " To hear a mesalliance spoken of as a crime ! It makes 
 me so indignant ; and that Father Lifford especially should 
 talk in that way ! It is so against the spirit of religion." 
 
 " I am not so sure of that," Mary exclaimed with some 
 warmth. " We cannot judge these points, or estimate the 
 evil of such things. I cannot but think, Lady-Bird, that you 
 are too positive in your opinion." 
 
60 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " I am astonished, Mary," Maurice rejoined, " that you 
 should object to that. I do not know any one so obstinately 
 resolved as you are on certain points." 
 
 " Is not she. Maurice ? " Gertrude cried with exultation. 
 " I know so well the expression of her face when anybody 
 approaches one of her strongholds. Half defying, half depre- 
 cating, she guards her opinions like an angry dove her nest." 
 
 Maurice laughed and looked fondly at Mary, who, with a 
 little reluctant smile, gently said — 
 
 " Principles — not opinions." 
 
 '• come, Mary, that won't do. And why can't I have 
 my political opinions ? " 
 
 " Nonsense. Lady-Bird, you know very well that you have no 
 such thing. It is all from the spirit of contradiction that you 
 dislike kings and heraldry and all that sort of thing. I dare 
 say that if you had had to sit without speaking and to hear 
 republics and radicals and democracy praised, you would have 
 been by this time a determined aristocrat." 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " Maurice ejaculated. Mrs. Redmond 
 looked up from her work with alarm. 
 
 " Why. you are not a Radical, Maurice, I hope ! " 
 " No," he answered. " but I hate all distinctions of class and 
 artificial divisions. What I do like is a spirit above preju- 
 dice, and the disposition to'estimate things according to what 
 they are, not according to what they are called." 
 
 This lucid explanation satisfied Mrs. Redmond, and she 
 finished putting up a small parcel of dried violets, which Ger- 
 trude had promised to employ that evening as a remedy 
 against a slight cough which she complained of. It so hap- 
 pened that the sheet of paper which she used for the purpose, 
 was one on the inside of which Maurice had been scribbling 
 the day before, and had forgotten to destroy, so that when 
 Gertrude undid the packet that evening, her attention was at- 
 tracted by the writing within the sheet, which had escaped 
 Mrs. Redmond's observation, and the following lines met her 
 eyes — 
 
 " Do I not love thee ? No, I feel for earth and sky and sea 
 And all things beautiful in life, all that I feel for thee. 
 Do I not love thee ? No, I gaze on rose or lily bright 
 With the same' look I fix on thee, of wonder and delight. 
 Do I not love thee ? No, my ears in the spring-time rejoice 
 As much in the birds' songs as in the music of thy voice. 
 Do I not love thee \ No, the stars, the whispering winds, the flowers, 
 The murmur of the waves at night, and the sweet citron bowers, 
 
LADY-BIRD. 61 
 
 Hare breathed into my soul a sense of beauty and of love 
 As keen as thy bewitching eyes have ever made me prove. ' 
 
 " Are these Maurice's own writing. I wonder ? " Gertrude 
 said to herself, as she put down the paper. "And are the 
 bewitching eyes he alludes to mine? " She was sitting at her 
 dro>sing-table, and looked into the glass, as the doubt — if 
 doubt it was — suggested itself. What she saw there did not 
 tend to do away with the supposition — and it was nut an un- 
 pleasant one, especially as it was an expression of intense ad- 
 miration, and not of love that the verses contained. For 
 Maurice to have been in love with her would have been ex- 
 ceedingly inconvenient and tiresome. It would have raised 
 all sorts of questions and discussions between herself and her 
 conscience, and interfered with an intercourse which was be- 
 ginning to amuse her ; but to be worshipped as a star, a bird, 
 a wave, or a flower, was perfectly safe, right, entertaining and 
 agreeable, and with this conviction she retired to rest, and the 
 next day looked forward with pleasure to her music lesson. 
 
 These music lessons became quite a new. strange enjoy- 
 ment to Mrs. Lifford. When she was well enough, the doors 
 between her rooms were opened, and Jane was released from 
 her post of chaperon. During that whole hour her eyes were 
 fixed on her daughter. She gazed on her as at a living pic- 
 ture — each lovely contour of feature, each dimple, each glance 
 she learnt as it were by heart, and the full tones of her deep, 
 sweet voice vibrated in her soul with almost painful power. 
 In her mind, so long accustomed to silence and meditation, 
 every impression took that form, each pleasurable feeling be- 
 came an aspiration, and every emotion turned into a prayer. 
 Quite different was the way in which that hour was spent by 
 the pupil and the master. It was one of much enjoyment to 
 both, nor did either of them think that enjoyment wrong. 
 The love of music, the desire of improvement on the one 
 hand, the interest of imparting instruction to one as highly 
 endowed as his scholar on the other, were legitimate sources 
 of pleasure and excitement. Sometimes there were pauses in 
 the lesson, occasioned by questions and answers, suggested by 
 the music they studied, or the recollections it called up. Ger- 
 trude liked to hear of Italy, and when tired of practising, she 
 asked for descriptions, w T hich Maurice was ready enough to 
 give. He often talked of his friend and patron. M. d'Arberg, 
 for whom he had an enthusiastic admiration, and quoted 
 
62 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 his thoughts and his sayings. . The glimpses of the world 
 which she thus obtained greatly piqued her curiosity. No 
 one else had ever talked to her of what she was only acquainted 
 with through books, and though she was and felt herself to 
 be much cleverer than Maurice, still he had wherewith to 
 amuse and to interest her exceedingly. 
 
 It would have been impossible for him not to delight in 
 giving her pleasure, and the pauses between the songs were 
 sometimes so long that Mrs. Lifford would inquire if the les- 
 son was finished — which reminded them that it was a lesson 
 and not a conversation which they had to carry on. At the 
 end of the hour Gertrude often desired him to play or to sing 
 some of her favourite airs, some of Shubert's melodies, or a \ 
 Spanish Guerilla song, or a symphony of Beethoven ; and 
 then, sitting by her mother's couch — with her hand locked in 
 hers — she dreamed of scenes and of places which her fancy 
 conjured up. It was quite a new feeling to the mother and 
 the daughter to enjoy anything together, and Mrs. Lifford 
 never perceived that there was anything objectionable in these 
 lessons. She knew nothing of the world, or of any heart but 
 her own — so pure a one that it had never taught her to sus- 
 pect evil or clanger, and indeed in this instance there was no 
 evil to be discerned, and if there was danger it was remote. 
 Had she been more experienced and keen- sighted, she might 
 have observed both admiration and — at times — emotion in 
 Maurice's countenance, and in Gertrude's a consciousness of 
 that admiration, and a certain pleasure in it, albeit not the 
 slightest approach to anything beyond a momentary gratifica- 
 tion at its existence. She might, indeed, have felt, when they 
 practised together the beautiful music of Anna Bolena, and 
 sang with great expression, the air, u Fin dell eta piu tenera" 
 like Madame de Maintenon when she wrote to Racine after 
 the pupils of St. Cyr had acted Andromaque. u Nos petites 
 filles out si Men jone votre tragedie gu'elles ne la rejoueront 
 de leur vie ;" she might have said. "lis Pont si bien chante 
 quHls ne le rechanteront de leur vie." But gentle, kind, and 
 pure-hearted as she was — and intelligent, too, in some ways — 
 very eloquent in her native tongue, to a degree that would 
 have surprised those who never heard her speak but in broken 
 English, she was not endowed with Madame de Maintenon's 
 talent for government, and would never have ruled St. Cyr, or 
 swayed the heart of the Grand Monarque. 
 
 And so these lessons went on for several weeks. Maurice 
 
LADY-BIRD. G3 
 
 Framed his engagements so as not to omit them. He was 
 ery busy and in good spirits, his health improved daily, and 
 e was as fond of Mary as ever. He always talked to her a 
 wreat deal of Gertrude. He explained to her that he admired 
 ber as a master-piece of creation, as a type of loveliness, an 
 artist in soul, an ideal of beauty and of genius ; but that it 
 would be as unreasonable to suppose that his admiration of 
 her had anything to do with love, as to have accused him of 
 being in love with Titian's Flora, or the portrait of the Cenci, 
 because he had spent hours in contemplation before them, or 
 because he worshipped intellect, talent, and beauty in art and 
 in Nature. 
 
 Mary listened rather gravely to all this, and said she thought 
 he worshipped beauty a great deal too much in everything — 
 that it was a sort of idolatry. ' ; What did it signify," he an- 
 swered, " if he loved her better than anything else in the 
 world?" There was no answering that, but her brow had 
 often now an anxious expression, and the thought of " deep 
 violet eyes with a light shining in them, like a ray of sunshine 
 through a dark heart's-ease," was apt to " come painfully often 
 between her and the midnight skies." 
 
 One is rather prone — especially in a novel — to be unjust 
 towards those who do right things in a disagreeable manner, 
 and to blame the conduct of disagreeable people without suffi- 
 i ciently considering their actions in themselves. Some very 
 sensible proceeding may meet with general condemnation if it 
 is the act of the author's bete noire, and if he has been fortu- 
 j nate enough to inspire his reader with a sympathetic aversion. 
 Mrs. Lifford # was amiable and interesting both from her char- 
 acter and her sufferings, and scarcely to blame for an igno- 
 rance which in her position was very natural, but her blindness 
 and her imprudence were undeniable ; and an event soon took 
 place which roused painful feelings in more hearts than one, and 
 deepened Gertrude's resentment against her father. Tet in 
 this instance, though his mode of acting was neither kind nor 
 judicious, he was undoubtedly perfectly right in the main. 
 
 He came one day into the library next to his wife's room, 
 at an unusual hour, and whilst Gertrude was taking her music 
 lesson. He stood at the door for five minutes like the statue 
 of the Commendatore. His cold glassy eyes fixed on the 
 flushed and animated countenance of his daughter, who was 
 singing with considerable animation an Italian bravura : he 
 then turned them on the pale but not less excited face of the 
 
64 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 young musician, who seemed to watch her lips as if " the airs 
 of heaven were playing on her tongue," and thrilling through 
 his soul, and then on the maid busily absorbed in her work at 
 some distance, and without saying a word, he turned on his 
 heel and left the room unobserved by any of the three. 
 
 That evening, when Mrs. Redmond, Mary, and Maurice 
 were at tea, the maid came in and gave him a letter which 
 had just been brought from Lifford Grange. He supposed it 
 to be a message about some music which he was to have writ- 
 ten for to London, and hastily opened it. Mary — who was 
 watching him — started at the expression which suddenly over- 
 spread his face. It was the paleness of anger that blenched 
 his cheek, and made his mouth quiver. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked in an almost inaudible whisper. 
 
 " There !" he said, " take and read that. This is the sort 
 of treatment one is exposed to in England — the only country 
 where it would be tolerated. Oh, the vulgar pride of rank, 
 the insolence of fancied superiority !" 
 
 He dashed the note on the ground, and walked up and 
 down the room with a scowl on his brow, and a burning spot 
 on his cheek. Mary picked up the paper which he had crum- 
 pled and torn, and smoothing it again, read its contents, 
 which were as follows : — 
 
 " Mr. Lifford presents his compliments to Mr. Redmond, 
 and begs to inform him that Miss Lifford will not continue 
 her music lessons, and at the same time he requests him to 
 have the goodness to send his account." 
 
 Maurice stopped opposite to Mary, and with au impatient 
 " Well ! " awaited her comments on this note. She felt embar- 
 rassed, for it did not appear to her insolent, as he called it, 
 though ungracious it certainly was. and there was an instinct 
 in her woman's heart which whispered the cause of this 
 abrupt dismissal. She kept her eyes fixed on the paper for 
 some seconds, and then said in a hesitating manner, 
 
 " It is annoying, but — " 
 
 " It is insulting ! " he rejoined. " I shall send him neither 
 answer nor account." 
 
 " Maurice, if you are so proud, how will you ever make 
 your fortune, and how shall we realize our hopes, and provide 
 for mother in her old age ? " 
 
 He clenched his hand and cried, " I would rather die than 
 touch his money." 
 
 She sighed and said nothing more, and two hours passed 
 
LADY-BIRD. 66 
 
 gloomily away. Then a knock was heard at the door, and the 
 maid announced Miss Lifford. Maurice and Mary both g 
 a start. Mrs. Redmond. who had been dozing in her arm- 
 chair, rubbed her eyes and said. " Dear me. how d'ye do, my 
 dear young lady." Gertrude shook hands with her. and she 
 thought her hand cold and nervous, but before there was time 
 to remark upon it, she had turned away, and was standing 
 before Maurice. " I am come,''' she said, " to thank you for 
 the lessons you have given me, and the trouble you have 
 taken with me. You must not be shocked or annoyed 
 at the letter that I hear my father has sent you. There 
 is nothing offensive to you in this proceeding. It is only 
 that anything that gives me pleasure, anything that re- 
 lieves the monotony of my life, and affords me interest or 
 occupation is immediately forbidden. I suppose that my books 
 will soon be taken away from me, and if I could be commanded 
 not to thinks it would doubtless be done, and my mind would 
 become as stagnant as my existence, as dull as that hateful 
 canal that flows under our windows. But, thank God. that is 
 impossible — and I will neither be an idiot out of obedience, 
 or ungrateful out of submission ; and so I once more thank 
 you for the instruction you have given me, for the first enjoy- 
 ment I have shared with my mother, for the happy moments 
 I have had while you played to me and talked to me of other 
 lands which it will never be my fate to see. That is all I 
 had to say : it is late and Jane is in a hurry. Good bye, I 
 am glad that I was able to say this to you all." 
 
 She was gone in an instant, and Mrs. Redmond asked what 
 it all meant. Mary explained it to her in a few words, and then 
 turning to Maurice with some emotion said : " Now, Maurice, 
 you cannot feel proud or angry any more — she is a dear beautiful 
 Lady-Bird, and I wish she'was not shut up in such a dull cage ; 
 it would be better for her " (and for us too, she inwardly added). 
 
 " True, my little dove," he answered, " and what would you 
 do with her if you could 1 " 
 
 " Open her prison-door, and let her fly away to a happy 
 home of her own." 
 
 He smiled, and putting a sheet of paper before her said, 
 '• Come now, make out an account for me for this Blue-Beard 
 at Lifford Grange." 
 
 She laughed and began casting up figures, while— leaning 
 on his hands— he sat looking at her, feeling the repose of that 
 sweet face, and glad to find how very dear she was to him. 
 
66 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " Twenty guineas I make it out to be ! " she triumphantly 
 exclaimed. " Indeed ! What a fortune ! " he answered gaily, 
 imitating her manner : and they talked nonsense, and built 
 castles in the air. and were as happy and as merry as possible 
 during all the rest of the evening. 
 
 A few weeks elapsed, during which Gertrude called two or 
 three times on Mary, once to lend her a book she had wished 
 to read, then to return some music which Maurice had left at 
 the Grange, and began to beg for some of Mrs. Redmond's 
 Pot-pourri. It was natural enough that she should find 
 pleasure in these visits. That cottage was, in every way. a 
 pleasant spot. Its garden was bright with autumnal flowers ; 
 there was a perfume of domestic happiness within and about 
 it Mrs. Redmond's gentle manner, Mary's affectionate wel- 
 come, Maurice's respectful homage were as soothing to her 
 feelings as the fragrance of the flowers was agreeable to her 
 senses. Then she had also an odd kind of curiosity in watch- 
 ing Mary and Maurice together. She had read as many 
 novels as she could possibly lay her hand upon, and had 
 studied them till she knew them almost by heart, but of love 
 in real life she had never seen anything, and, concluding that 
 these two young persons were engaged to one another, it 
 amused her to observe how far they realised the notions she 
 had formed of lovers. 
 
 " I believe." she said to herself one day, " that she would 
 follow him to the end of the world, to prison and to death 
 also, and give her life for him or burn her right hand and not 
 wince as she did so, if it could be of use to him ; but, somehow 
 or other, her love seems to be more a religion than a passion, 
 more of devotion in it than of fervour, rather drawn from the 
 depths of her own heart, and freely bestowed upon him. than 
 irresistibly attracted towards him. As to Maurice, I do not 
 know if he is capable of loving deeply — I think he has more 
 dependence upon her, more selfish attachment to the happiness 
 she creates for him than any more devoted feeling." While 
 she was thus musing, her eyes had unconsciously fixed them- 
 selves on Maurice, and — abstracted in her own thoughts — she 
 was not aware of it. 
 
 Mary, in a somewhat constrained voice, said to her : " You 
 are very silent, Lady-Bird ; what are you thinking of?" And 
 Gertrude, turning to her with a smile, answered. " I believe 
 that instead of buying my thoughts you would rather buy my 
 silence, for I was thinking of something you always forbid me 
 
LADY-BIRD. 
 
 to speak about." Mary coloured, and said : " Then, indeed^ 
 Miss Lifford, I will not repeat my question." Gertrude 
 shrugged her shoulders impatiently. 
 
 '• vVhy will you call me Miss Lifford, when I call you Mary ? 
 It is so stiff and nonsensical." 
 
 " I think your father would be surprised if he was to hear 
 Mary call you Gertrude," Mrs. Redmond said. 
 
 u I don't care what he thinks — his notions about rank are 
 absurd. If people have been equally well educated, surely 
 they are equals to all intents and purposes." 
 
 " No ! not in every sense, dear Lady-Bird." 
 
 " That is one of those convenient answers that sound well," 
 Gertrude rejoined, " and in reality mean nothing. In what 
 sense are you not my equal, I should like to know? " 
 
 " I am not in the same worldly position as you are ; I do 
 not live in the same society." 
 
 Maurice's brow clouded over, and, hastily snatching up a 
 newspaper, he sat clown with his back to the table. 
 
 '•What society do I live in?" Gertrude impetuously ex- 
 claimed. " I never see any one beyond the walls of Lifford 
 Grange, except here, and at home I sometimes make the maids 
 my companions from sheer ennui at being so much alone." 
 
 " That is a peculiarity in your case," Mary answered ; " but 
 if your father did not shun all society, you would live with 
 people whom we should not associate with." 
 
 " Yes, my fate is a very peculiar one. I begin to be fully- 
 aware of that, and therefore if I should ever act in a very 
 peculiar manner, who is to blame me ? Not my father, sure- 
 ty ^' 
 
 " You are accountable to One of still higher authority." 
 
 " Aye ! but He is no respecter of persons, Mary ! He does 
 not care for quarterings and old parchments." 
 
 " But He has bid us honour our parents, and not set up 
 our own judgment against theirs." 
 
 " Well, but answer me truly. In the sight of God are 
 we not all," and she glanced round the room, ''perfectly 
 equal?" 
 
 "I should think not," Mary said with a smile, as she 
 glanced at her deaf patient mother, intently busy over 
 Maurice's shirt, which she was mending. 
 
 " Ah ! you may be right there," Gertrude quickly rejoined, 
 u but then grant at least that if there is superiority amongst 
 us, it is not with me it lies. Your mother is my superior ; so 
 
68 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 are you ! — Do not dispute it. Let it be for argument's sake, 
 and my point is established." 
 
 " The blacksmith may be your superior in one sense, for 
 aught you know ; and yet I suppose you will hardly consider 
 him as altogether your equal % " 
 
 " Indeed I should, if instead of being coarse, vulgar and 
 ignorant, he was good-looking, clever, and better informed than 
 myself. If I saw him employ every moment not engaged by 
 his labours in cultivating his mind, and improving the talents 
 that Heaven had bestowed upon him, if his sentiments were 
 refined, and his character elevated, can you imagine for a mo- 
 ment that I should not think that man my equal — nay, my 
 superior, and feel humbled to the dust in comparing his great- 
 ness and my littleness? " 
 
 Her features were glowing with enthusiasm, and she spoke 
 so loud, that Mrs. Redmond looked up from her work with an 
 inquiring smile, and seemed a little anxious when she saw 
 Gertrude's flushed cheek and Mary's grave countenance. The 
 latter answered calmly : — 
 
 " You would be quite right in admiring such a man, and 
 in considering him as your superior in all essential respects ; 
 but all this would not make him your equal in a social point 
 of view, or break down the barrier which a difference of rank 
 would place between you." 
 
 " I hate and despise conventionalities," Gertrude replied, 
 " and especially cant, which is the worse form of convention- 
 ality. I am tired of hearing what should be, and want to hear 
 of what is." 
 
 " I will tell you, dear Lady-Bird, what invariably is the 
 case when women begin to talk of hating and despising what 
 others respect. The love of independence is the first step to- 
 wards evil — " i: Or towards virtue and happiness," Maurice 
 murmured in a low voice, "and not the virtue of mere habit 
 —not a common-place happiness." 
 
 The colour in Mary's cheek now rivalled that in Gertrude's, 
 and she fixed her calm clear eyes steadily upon her, which 
 seemed to make her uneasy ; but proudly throwing back her 
 head, she exclaimed : — 
 
 " I am not ashamed of anything I say ! " 
 
 •■ And not of anything you do ? " Mary said in a very low 
 whisper — so low that no one else heard it but her to whom it 
 was addressed — and then bent her eyes on the work she was 
 employed upon. Gertrude moved hastily away, and sitting 
 
LADY-BIRD. G9 
 
 down by Mrs. Kedmond, she took up a faded Cape jessamine 
 that was lying on the table, and said to her, 
 
 " I am sure this comes from Woodlands ! Does it not?" 
 
 " Yes, Miss Apley gave it me yesterday, when I went to 
 her about the geranium cuttings she wanted from our little 
 garden. She was speaking of you, Miss Lifford ! " 
 
 " Was she 1 " Gertrude exclaimed with sudden animation ; 
 " what did she say about me ? " 
 
 " It was in talking of this great breakfast that is going to 
 take place there ; a ball, I believe, and a concert, all in one, 
 for Mr. Apley's coming of age. Maurice is going to play 
 there, at least they want him to do so ; all sorts of great 
 London performers and singers are to be there, and company 
 from a great distance." (Maurice at this moment left the 
 room, and threw himself on the bench in the garden.) " Miss 
 Apley was saying how much she admired you : that it was 
 quite a pleasure to them all to meet you in their drives, and 
 that they had so long been wishing to make your acquaint- 
 ance. She asked me if you were out. I said that you were 
 grown up, but had not yet been presented, I thought." 
 
 " No, indeed ; and if I do not some day present myself 
 to the world, I do not suppose that any one else will do it 
 for me ! " 
 
 " Miss Apley said that they had sent an invitation to the 
 Grange, and they did so hope you would be allowed to come, 
 but were sadly afraid it would be refused." 
 
 " It will be refused," Gertrude gloomily ejaculated ; and 
 her eyes — so bright a moment before — were suddenly over- 
 cast like a summer sky by a thunder-cloud. 
 
 " She said that if you had any friends in the neighbourhood 
 you would like to go with, they would ask them directly." 
 
 " I have no friends," Gertrude said in the same gloomy 
 manner. " I know nobody — nobody but you." 
 
 Maurice came and leant against the window, and hastily 
 gathering a nosegay of jessamine and roses, he held it out to 
 her. She took it, and smelt at it in an absent listless man- 
 ner, and soon went away. As she walked through the garden 
 with her maid, who had been waiting for her at the gate, she 
 unconsciously dropped it. He picked it up and pulled it to 
 pieces. Mrs. Redmond said to her daughter, " There is an 
 orphan-like look about that young creature, though she has n 
 father and mother." Maurice came in and practised scire 
 difficult passages, playing with great brilliancy and effect. 
 
/ 1 ) LADY-BIBS). 
 
 " You must play that at Woodlands," Mary said, when he 
 
 had finished some variations on a beautiful air of Mendelssohn's 
 
 " Oh, I can play in that way to you, my little Mary, but 
 
 there " 
 
 " What ! Has the English air turned you shy, Maurice — 
 you who have been so used to public performances — who have 
 played in Italy before artists and fine ladies ? " 
 
 " I suppose it is English air, and English coldness that 
 makes me faint-hearted. It is so seldom that an English au- 
 dience show any pleasure or feeling, especially at a private 
 concert ; and weak applause paralyzes the spirit and the 
 fingers." 
 
 " But you will win fame, Maurice dear ! " the widow ejac- 
 ulated. 
 
 " Fame is a big word, mother," he answered, with a half 
 smile. 
 
 " Praise," Mary said, " the forerunner of Fame." 
 " Cleverly said, little Mary ! but I will own to you that 
 there is one sort of praise than which hisses would be more 
 acceptable. You are conscious, perhaps, of having played 
 very ill, and these people come up to you with a smile on 
 their faces, and exclaim, ' Oh, how beautiful that was ! What 
 a charming thing ! You never played so well in your life ! ' 
 and you wax sick, or wroth with their nonsense. And worse still 
 than that, perhaps you have played well, and that you also 
 know — by the throbbing head, the aching nerves, the icy 
 hands which bear witness to it, — you have poured out your 
 soul in an improvisation, and then somebody asks you for 
 that pretty thing over again ! They might as well encore a 
 flash of lightning, or cry ' Bis ' at the fall of an avalanche." 
 
 "You must forget -these troublesome people, and think 
 only of those whose hearts beat in unison with yours," and 
 she laid her head on the pianoforte, in an attitude that pleased 
 his eye and amused his fancy. 
 
 He stroked her fair hair and said, " You are my good 
 genius — no, that is not the word, my good angel rather. How 
 is it that you always understand me ? " 
 
 " I have an echo here, 11 she said, with her hand on her 
 
 heart, " which responds to what you feel. Do you remember 
 
 how fond we were as children of the echo in the ruins of the 
 
 abbey, and how we used to make it repeat, word after word, 
 
 ' our favourite verses ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do ; but how vexed we were, also, when noisy chil- 
 
LADY-BIRO. 71 
 
 dren or fine ladies came there, and made our dear echo repeat 
 harsh sounds or silly words. So in the world, the folly and 
 the heartlessness of others disturb the harmony you speak of." 
 
 " I should have thought it would only have deepened it," 
 she said. 
 
 " The truth is, Mary, that you do not quite know what an 
 artist is, and on what kind of stimulus he lives. You are al- 
 ways talking of genius as of something very holy, very exalted, 
 very pure, and you seem to forget in what a rank soil it often 
 thrives, and how little of a religious spirit has accompanied 
 some of its highest manifestations. It is a fire, but not always 
 from Heaven." 
 
 M Oh, yes ! from Heaven ! " she exclaimed with fervour, 
 * surely from Heaven it comes, pure, bright and undefiled ; 
 like all that God creates, it is good ; and, like all that man 
 misuses, dangerous. The flame that burns amidst foulness 
 and corruption does not lose its purity, and geuius, inhabiting 
 a mean and vicious soul, is a spark of heavenly fire shining 
 through the mist of human depravity." 
 
 '•Then genius may atone for moral perversity?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! for what sin, what disgrace can be greater than 
 to use for vile purposes so glorious a gift of God — to drag 
 through the mire what was meant to raise us to Heaven ! " 
 
 "Why. Mary, you surprise me! Have you, after all. a 
 poet's spirit within you?" 
 
 "No, indeed," she answered, "it is only the echo I was 
 speaking of just now. I cannot say things of this sort out of 
 my own head, but I remember what you say and what you 
 read to me, and, like the bird in the fable, make myself smart 
 with borrowed feathers. " 
 
 " No, indeed. Mary darling." her mother called out, " I am 
 sure you are not like a bird in a fable. You always were a 
 good child — is it not true, Maurice ? " 
 
 "She is, indeed," he answered ; " and the only bird she is 
 like is a true dove, a messenger of peace, the type of heaven's 
 love. And now let us think of this fete at Woodlands. You 
 are to go there with me, Mary — Miss Apley said so. How 
 shall you be dressed?" 
 
 "I have not thought of that yet. I suppose that I shall 
 put on my white muslin gown, and the blue and white chain 
 that you brought me from Venice, and I am afraid I must 
 buy a new ribbon for my bonnet, and perhaps a new shawl. It 
 is very expensive indeed, to be an artist's- " She hesitated, 
 
LADY-BIRR. 
 
 and he said, " An artist's bride ? " She shook her head and 
 laughed. 
 
 "How will Lady-Bird be dressed?" he asked. 
 
 " I don't know, indeed, but I am afraid she will not go." 
 
 " but I hope she will — it will make a great difference to 
 you if she does." 
 
 " I hope so, too ; for it would be a very good thing for her 
 to become acquainted with, persons in her own rank of life." 
 
 " She does not care for all that — she has no mean preju- 
 dices, and never uses cant phrases. She is as guileless as a 
 child—" 
 
 " Maurice, do you think she is so perfectly artless as 
 that?" 
 
 " You do not, I see. Ah, Mary, what woman was ever a 
 true friend to another? I should have thought you might 
 have been an exception to the rule, but it is always the same, I 
 suppose ; a woman never likes to hear her best friend 
 praised." 
 
 Mary had a little struggle w^th herself, and then said : " I 
 think she has very fine qualities, and it is impossible not to 
 admire, to pity " 
 
 '• And to love her," he quickly added, " and the fewer 
 friends she has, the more we ought to cling to her. To love 
 her only next to what we love best. You will love her next 
 to me, and I will love her next to you." 
 
 '* Indeed, Maurice, we must not look forward to that, or 
 expect that our intimacy will continue ; we cannot be of 
 use to Jier, and she may do us harm." 
 
 "What nonsense that is, and how selfish, too ! I never 
 should have suspected you of such narrow-minded folly." 
 
 He turned away with an expression of deep annoyance, 
 and did not recover his tranquillity for some time. It was the 
 first time since his return that he had spoken harshly to Mary. 
 Perhaps she had been unwise in what she had said, and she 
 reproached herself for it as for a fault ; but she had seen a 
 rising cloud in the horizon, which threatened his peace as well 
 as her own, and for one instant had betrayed what it would 
 have been more prudent to conceal. She did penance for it 
 with secret tears and aching reviewals of every word that she 
 had uttered. He did no penance, he shed no tears, he ques- 
 tioned not his heart ; but when she received him with a smile, 
 and made his breakfast for him as usual the next morning, 
 and showed no consciousness of offence, he was perfectly sat- 
 
LADY-BIRD. 73 
 
 ified, and thought how comfortable it would be to have such 
 sweet-tempered wife. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 *' Et de ma vie obscure, helas ! qu'aurais-je a dire? 
 Elle fut — ce qu'elle est pour tout ce qui respire — — 
 Sur les mers de ce monde il iTest jamais de port, 
 Et le naufraire seul nous jette sur le bord ! 
 Jeune encore ,i'ai sonde ces tent-bres proibndes, 
 La vie est un degre de l'ecliclk; des mondes, 
 Que nous devons francliir pour arriver ailleurs." 
 
 Lamabtine. 
 
 * But what are these grave thoughts to thee? 
 For restlessly, impatiently 
 Thou strivest, strugglest to be free. 
 The only dream is liberty, 
 Thou carest little how or where.'' 1 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 J-ertrude stood at her window on one of those drizzling me- 
 mcholy mornings that impart a degree of gloom even to the 
 aost cheerful landscape ; and never had the scene she looked 
 ipon appeared so utterly uninviting to her eyes. An English 
 ark — beautiful as it often is — dees not always present a very 
 xhilarating appearance. The large solitary trees with their 
 weeping branches and wide-spread shade, the green secluded 
 lades, the absence of any token of human life, the timid herds 
 f deer gliding about amongst the fern and through the dis- 
 ant vistas like graceful and noiseless apparitions, have a 
 >eculiar charm of their own, but it is more akin to a pleasing 
 nelancholy than to anything like gaiety. 
 
 The musing philosophy of Jaques would seem the natural 
 rame of mind which the sylvan and majestic scenery of an 
 English park would inspire ; but there was neither beauty nor 
 lignity attached to the flat stateliness of such a park as that 
 )f Lifford Grange. Avenues of not fine trees, clumps of small 
 igly ones, the flat unbroken extent on every side, the canal- 
 .ooking river creeping sullenly through it, stamped the whole 
 scene with indescribable gloom, and, seen through the medium 
 H fog and rain, would have presented a cheerless aspect to eyes 
 more favourably inclined towards it than Gertrude's. 
 
 If the view had seemed to her ugly from her bedroom 
 4 
 
74 LADY-BIRD 
 
 window it seemed uglier still from the breakfast room, wlier 
 she waited for the appearance of her father and of his uncle- 
 her usual companions at that meal. She looked at the taj 
 windows with a sort of aversion, at the family pictures wit 
 resentment, at the two sofas facing one another on each side c 
 the chimney as if they had been her enemies, and at the hugl 
 clock which recorded the passage of so many uninterestin 
 hours as if it had done her an injury. " I had much rather g| 
 into a convent at once," she mentally exclaimed, " than spen 
 my life in this way. I wish Father Lifford would not laugh aj 
 me when I talk of it. La Trappe itself would be gay coir| 
 pared to this place." 
 
 At that moment the said Father came into the room witl| 
 his snuff-box in his hand, his stiff hair — half black and ha] 
 g re j — bristling fiercely round his head, and the lines in hi 
 forehead more indented than ever. His slouching gait, hi 
 heavy figure, and ill-made cassock made him appear older tha 
 he really was. The keen expression of his eyes and th 
 strength of his frame often surprised those who would hav 
 deemed him at first sight a feeble old man. There was nc 
 apparently any love lost (to use a common expression) betwee: 
 him and Gertrude. If there was any reciprocal affection i 
 certainly did not appear on the surface of their intercourse 
 He was devotedly attached to her mother, whom he had know 1 
 in Spain from the days of her childhood. To her he wa 
 always perfectly kind and gentle : but towards others hi 
 temper — without being bad — was stiff, and his modes of judg 
 ing and of dealing with people naturally severe. Betweei 
 him and his nephew there was a strange mutual forbearance 
 and an odd kind of regard. That he must have secretly dis 
 approved and lamented his indifference to religion, his want c 
 practical charity to the poor, his omission of many duties an 
 merely decent observance of others, none could have doubte 
 who were acquainted with his own fervent piety, his untirin 
 devotion to the spiritual and temporal welfare of his neigt 
 bours. and — under a rough exterior — the real kindness of hi 
 heart ; but, however much or little he might at any time hav 
 remonstrated with him in private, he never showed his disajj 
 probation at other times, or spoke of him and of his faults t 
 others. On his children he inculcated a profound respect fo 
 their father, and as his notions of passive obedience were stric 
 he was always much annoyed at Gertrude's independent tur 
 of mind, and at her untameable determination to have h 
 
LADY-BIRD. ,., 
 
 3wn opinion, at least — if she could not have her own way — on 
 3very subject. 
 
 He did not attempt to exercise any direct authority over 
 ler ; " he was neither her father nor her tutor," he said, and 
 lid not wish to interfere with what was the business of her 
 parents. As her confessor and spiritual guide, his province was 
 listinct ; and though his natural austerity inclined him, per- 
 haps, to exhibit to her more of the stern than of the attractive 
 ispect of religion — its restraints rather than its joys, — there 
 ivas greater kindness and indulgence on his part, and respect 
 md submission on hers than would have been easily imagined 
 oy those who witnessed the general tenor of their intercourse 
 it other times, when he freely and sarcastically commented on 
 her conduct, and she was barely restrained by a sense of duty 
 Tom returning flippant answers to his remarks. It belonged 
 co her character to be in awe of him there where he was 
 ilways just and gentle, whereas she set him at defiance when 
 ae was, or appeared to her, harsh and despotic. 
 
 On the morning in question he stood before the chimney, 
 .vanning his hands at the fire, and turning round occasionally 
 :o look at Gertrude, who was impatiently knocking two spoons 
 together, and now and then pushing back her chair an inch or 
 two from the table, and then back again towards it with a 
 brusquerie that made the cups rattle and the urn tremble. 
 'How late my father is this morning!" she exclaimed at 
 last ; it makes one lose half the day, to be kept waiting in this 
 toanner." 
 
 " What a loss to the world one of your half days must 
 be ! " remarked Father Lifford, looking at her full in the face 
 ifrom under his bushy grey eyebrows. 
 
 ! " Not to the world, perhaps, but to myself," she answered, 
 in a voice of suppressed indignation. 
 
 " Why now, how would you have employed the last half- 
 hour had you breakfasted at the usual time ? " 
 
 " In reading, I suppose." 
 
 " Hum— in reading ! Oh, very good. In reading what ? " 
 i " My French books," she quickly replied. 
 
 It happened that Father Lifford had an inveterate dislike 
 to French literature, and the sight of Moliere's plays, which 
 Gertrude was everlastingly poring over, tried his patience 
 teorely. 
 
 < : Your French books !— ay, it is a pity, indeed, that you 
 tfiave not had time to study this morning ' Les Fourberies de 
 
1G LADY-BIRD. 
 
 Scapin,' the last thing I saw you reading. Excellent moral 
 lessons you must draw from your studies, and great profit you 
 derive from them, doubtless." 
 
 Gertrude coloured, bit her lip, and looked as if she would; 
 have liked to make a violent answer ; but she only abruptly 
 got up and walked to the window, where she rapidly played 
 with her fingers on the glass, as if beating time to her agitated 
 thoughts. 
 
 " What weather ! " she ejaculated, after a few moments 
 silence ; " what torrents of rain ! It looks more like the end 
 of November than the beginning of September. How can 
 mamma keep up her spirits on such a day as this ? — always 
 nailed to her couch, — always looking on that one view. I 
 wonder she does not turn to stone." 
 
 " Do you, indeed ? Much you understand about that. 
 Take care you do not get hardened quite in another way." 
 
 " O, as to being hardened, I feel myself stiffening every 
 day. I shall soon be a sort of moving statue. Are you not 
 sometimes afraid of being petrified here ? " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, and betook himself to the 
 newspaper. Mr. Lifford walked into the room a few minutes 
 afterwards, and Gertrude poured out tea and interchanged a 
 few words with him, such as pass between people who must 
 speak to one another for form's sake, but who have not a 
 single thought or interest in common. When breakfast was 
 finished, Mr. Lifford got up, and assembling together the letters 
 and newspapers which lay on the table, took a large card from 
 among them, and pointing to it, said, " You must write an 
 excuse in answer to that. Gertrude. I told you what to say 
 the last time they sent one ; you have only to repeat the same \ 
 thing now." 
 
 Gertrude looked at the card and saw it was the invitation I 
 that Mrs. Redmond had spoken of. She took it up, and her 
 strong wish on the subject overcoming not so much her timid- 
 ity as her reluctance to express such a wish to her father, she 
 looked him in the face and said, " I should like very much to 
 go to this breakfast, I wish very much to accept this invitation 
 — pray let me go." He seemed surprised, and hardly prepared 
 for such a request. Not that he had the least thought of 
 granting it, but he had never thought of a reason to give on 
 the subject, and he only said, " Are you joking ? " There was 
 so little that looked like a joke in Gertrude's face or in his, 
 that the question seemed unnecessary. " No, I am asking you 
 
LADY-BIRD. V? 
 
 favour," she replied, but there was not anything supplicating 
 in her manner. c: Did you think of going alone ? " he coldly 
 inquired. She made no answer, and he added, " You must 
 know that it is out of the question," and he left the room. 
 iShe remained for a moment standing near the chimney with 
 l-the card in her hand. As if speaking to herself she said, 
 
 " I will ask mamma about it." 
 
 " Your mother is very buffering to-day," Father Lififord 
 observed, " you had better not trouble her about such a 
 fcthing." 
 
 " Very well, I will not. but will you do so when she is 
 better?" 
 
 <•' I !_why should I ? What is this all about ? " 
 
 " It is about my going to this breakfast at Woodlands, and 
 [ assure you that it would be a good work, if you could help 
 lie about it." 
 
 " A good work to get you to a ball ! Is the child mad ? " 
 
 " No, she is not mad — but she may go mad, if people don't 
 bake care. She is tired to death of " 
 
 " Of herself, I suppose," he interrupted, " and no wonder." 
 I " Do you think my life amusing ? " 
 
 "Were you sent into the world on purpose to amuse 
 lyourself?" 
 
 " Certainly not, as far as I can see. Don't be angry with 
 me, Father Lifford, do you know that for once I do not want 
 to quarrel with you? " 
 
 u That is extraordinary. What has caused this change? " 
 
 " Why, sometimes I get a little frightened about myself. 
 [ am afraid of getting to hate everybody." 
 
 " It is on your knees you should get rid of that feeling, 
 my child." 
 
 " I think I had better be a nun, Father." 
 " What ? you a nun ! Alas for the convent that received 
 you ! " 
 
 " What is that other card there near the sugar-basin ? " 
 
 " This ? It is the same piece of nonsense as the other. 
 These good foolish people have invited we." 
 
 u How civil they are ; how I wish we were all more 
 like other people." 
 
 " Like what people 1 " 
 
 " I will not tell you, you would be shocked." 
 
 '• You are not generally afraid of shocking me." 
 
 " But what I mean to say is this. Mamma is so good that 
 %hc is not like other people." 
 
76 
 
 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 u Do you wish she were less good % " 
 
 " No, but I wish she were not always ill and in pain." He 
 sighed and said in a low voice, " It is God's will." 
 
 " But it is not His will that papa should be so proud, and 
 so harsh." 
 
 " How dare you speak in that way of your father ? You 
 deserve to be treated harshly, you are a rebellious and undu- 
 tiful child." ' • 
 
 " There is an end of it ! Always met with that. Always 
 told that I am wrong and others right. Well — this cannot 
 last for ever. Some day or other I must take my own fate in 
 my own hands, and then — " This was said to herself, but 
 even mentally she did not finish her sentence, but hurried 
 away to her usual refuge, a large deserted library, which she 
 called her den. 
 
 It was a lofty room, in bad repair ; cobwebs lay undis- 
 turbed against the angles of the ceiling, and the panels of the 
 door : dead flies and torpid butterflies were strewn on the 
 broad window-seats, two immense globes stood between the 
 windows, and books covered with dust lined the shelves of the 
 tarnished gold and white bookcases ; a gigantic map of the 
 country hung over the chimney. It was a dull, desolate- 
 looking room, but yet Gertrude liked it, and had spent in it 
 some of the pleasantest hours of her life. There were neither 
 chairs nor tables in it, but plenty of space and light. She 
 could walk there with that rapid pace which relieves the mind 
 when over-excited. She could take down a volume from the 
 aforesaid bookcase, and sit for hours on one of the window- 
 seats, alternately reading and gazing on the sky and the ca- 
 reering clouds ; or watching with interest the struggles of a 
 fly in some spider's web, or the resuscitation of a paralysed 
 moth, on which a ray of sunshine might have accidentally 
 fallen. 
 
 They are strange things — those long solitary hours in 
 early youth — nothing like them exists later in life. There is 
 such ceaseless thought about self, with such small self-know- 
 ledge ; such intense thinking, with so little reflection ; such 
 abstraction of mind, with such sensibility to outward impres- 
 sions ; such worldliness in the visions which the mind frames 
 for itself, such utter disinterestedness in the sacrifices it con- 
 templates. Time is wasted with spendthrift prodigality; 
 hopes erected on the most flimsy foundations; and in the 
 magic glass in which these imaginary shapes are reflected, 
 
LADY-BIRD. *J§ 
 
 everything assumes a form and a colouring widely differing 
 from reality. 
 
 There was a store of unemployed energy in Gertrude's 
 character which should have spent itself in action. Unfortu- 
 nately, her present duties were all of a passive nature. No 
 labour or exertions were called forth, only the silent endur- 
 ance of privation. Father Lifford Lad once attempted to 
 make her visit the poor, and teach in the school which he had 
 established, and she had entered on these occupations with 
 eagerness and delight. They were beginning to tell benefi- 
 cially on her character, when, suddenly, on some frivolous pre- 
 text of a fever in the neighbourhood, but really from a way- 
 ward and inconsistent exercise of power, her father interfered, 
 and desired that she should no more visit the school and the 
 cottages, though he neither knew nor cared that she wandered 
 about the lanes, and in and out of Stonehouseleigh, only ac- 
 companied by her maid. Father Lifford told her, indeed, 
 that there was more merit in obedience than in exertion, — in 
 sacrifice than in labour : but the vent which would have been 
 afforded for the flame which was smouldering under a heavy 
 load of ennui was thus at once stopped up, and Gertrude fell 
 back on her own thoughts, her desultory reading, and her 
 dangerous habit of dreaming life away. She spent it in re- 
 pinings at her fate, and murmurs against her father. These 
 feelings fermented, as it were, in her heart during long soli- 
 tary hours, and when she appeared at meals, there was a dark, 
 resentful expression in her eyes, and a heavy cloud on her 
 brow. The next day her mother sent for her. She was bet- 
 ter than usual. The weather had changed, a south-westerly 
 wind was breathing its sweet influence over the face of Na- 
 ture, and through the open window there came a smell of 
 flowers. The couch of the invalid had been moved near to 
 that window, and — propped up by pillows — she lay with 
 elosed eyes, and hands joined together, enjoying the perfumed 
 lair that played on her pale cheek. She did not hear her 
 daughter come in, and remained motionless and abstracted, 
 while Gertrude took a low stool, and, placing it between the 
 couch and the window, sat down, with her face buried in her 
 hands, and feeling the singular repose of that scene operating 
 strangely on her mind. Not that it soothed her : on the con- 
 fcrary, she felt excited ; but for the first time began to wonder 
 over her mother's fate, and to ask herself if she had ever had 
 any of the thoughts that worked in her own brain, — any of 
 the feelings that stirred her own heart so often. 
 
80 LABY-BIRB. 
 
 She raised her head and gazed on that mother's face, and 
 for the first time saw that it was beautiful, and like her own. 
 And she knew her own was so — too well she knew it. She 
 thought, as if it were for the first time, that she was that 
 mother's child, — that the same blood ran in their veins — that 
 their features were formed in the same mould. Were their 
 hearts so unlike? — were their minds so dissimilar? — had the 
 iron hand of suffering crushed the power of emotion where once 
 it might have existed ? — or were other hearts unlike her own ? 
 — had her mother never felt a wish beyond that couch, to 
 which since she could first remember her she had been nailed? 
 — had her eyes never sparkled with anger or with joy, or her 
 lips never uttered any but the short broken sentences that 
 fell from them now? "0 mother, mother, were you ever 
 young, ever thoughtless, ever rebellious like me? — had you 
 ever longings for earth's happiness as you now have for 
 Heaven's bliss?" 
 
 These words were uttered in the faintest whisper, but the 
 last words reached Mrs. Lifford's ear, and she opened her eyes 
 and smiled, which was a rare thing for her to do. " Heaven ! " 
 she said slowly, " Heaven is a long time coming." Then 
 rousing herself as from a dream, she put out her hand, and 
 made Gertrude a sign to come nearer to her. She gazed on 
 her face, and it seemed as if she also was reading new things 
 in her child's countenance and was startled at what she saw 
 there, for she looked at her with a kind of anxious question- 
 ing expression. Gertrude turned away and said, " You are 
 much better to-day, mamma ; I never saw you look so well, — 
 you have quite a colour." Her mother smiled mournfully ; 
 she felt the red spots glowing in her cheek, and knew that 
 they were burning with disease, not with health. But in- 
 creasing fever gave her more strength than usual, and for once 
 she seemed inclined to speak, but was so unused to hold any 
 conversation with her daughter beyond a few words of en- 
 dearment, that she did nothing but press her hand and call 
 her names of fondness in Spanish, — till, suddenly rousing her- 
 self, and leaning on her elbow, she said, ' : Gertrude, you are 
 very happy, I hope ? " 
 
 Gertrude grew crimson, hid her face in her hands, and hot 
 tears came struggling through her fingers. Now was the mo- 
 ment to speak and enlist her mother on her side, but there was 
 that in her nature which made her prone to resist and slow to 
 complain. However, after an instant's struggle with herself 
 
LADY-BIRD. 81 
 
 she said, " Mamma, I remember that twelve years ago I had 
 such a wish for a wax-doll, that I lay awake at nights 
 thinking of it, and cried whenever I passed the shop where it 
 stood. But I would not ask to have it, from a proud angry 
 feeling that no one had ever thought of making me a present 
 of a doll. I told Father Lifford of this feeling of anger, and 
 he bade me go directly to you and ask for the doll. I did not 
 like to do so, but was obliged to obey. Just now I felt vexed 
 that you could ask if I was happy, and I could not bear to 
 speak and say that I am not. But I will speak the truth — I 
 am not at all happy." 
 
 " No ! " ejaculated the mother, "not happy with youth and 
 health, and life before thee ? my child, that I could teach 
 thee to be happy ! " After a pause she added with touching 
 earnestness, and with her hand on her forehead, " But there is 
 so much confusion there — here in my heart I feel it all. God 
 knows what I would say — my God, teach my child what is 
 happiness." Again she paused, and then with a faint smile 
 said, •' What would make thee happ} T , Gertrude ? — not a wax 
 doll now? " Gertrude put her mouth close to her mother's ear, 
 as if afraid of being overheard, and whispered, il To go to the 
 breakfast at Woodlands would make me happy ; I have set my 
 heart upon it, as much as ever I did as a child on a wax-doll." 
 Mrs. Lifford looked surprised and puzzled ; she held her 
 temples in her hands as if collecting her thoughts. 
 
 " A breakfast, darling ! But who could take thee there ? 
 My Gertrude, it is impossible." 
 
 " Mamma, they have asked Father Lifford — persuade him 
 to go and to take me." The boldness of this scheme struck 
 her mother silent with astonishment : she shook her head, but 
 Gertrude went on. 
 
 ' : Mamma, I must have some change — some amusement. 
 I cannot bear the life I lead any longer ; I am sure that papa 
 hates me." 
 
 " child, child, down upon thy knees, and ask to be for- 
 given for such a thought ! Pray, pray, there is no safety 
 against such thoughts except in prayer But what has thy 
 father done to thee ? How dreadful ! " She made the sign of 
 the cross on her daughter's forehead, and sighed deeply. 
 
 " Do not look so frightened, mamma. I did not say I hated 
 
 him. Heaven forbid ! and perhaps I am wrong, and he does 
 
 aot hate me ; but that he does not care for me is certain — 
 
 Qobody does but you, mamma — you do, perhaps. I have not 
 
 4* 
 
82 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 always thought so, but somehow or other I have felt to-day a8 
 if you did." 
 
 " Hast thou then really supposed that thy mother ? . . , . 
 my long and bitter sufferings, my palsied limbs, my dim and 
 confused memory, my faltering tongue, have you indeed done 
 this 1 It was just, — it was right ; but now I thank thee, my 
 God, that the veil has been lifted, — that she has had a glimpse 
 into the heart that beats under the load that it must bear, aye, 
 and loves to bear ! " she exclaimed with increasing energy, and 
 talking in Spanish, which she always did when strongly ex- 
 cited. She fell back exhausted, and a paroxysm of pain en- 
 suing, Gertrude was obliged to call the maid who usually at- 
 tended her mother, and to leave her to her care. 
 
 The next day Mrs. LifFord was somewhat better again, but 
 she did not send for her daughter. She employed that inter- 
 val of ease in two conversations, the first of which was with 
 Father Lifford. When he sat down by her couch, and was 
 preparing as usual to read to her out of a Spanish book of de- 
 votion, she put her hand on his arm and said, - I have some- 
 thing to say to you, Father." He removed his spectacles, took 
 a pinch of snuff, and put himself in a listening attitude. 
 ; ' There is something I have to ask you, that I have some hope 
 that you will do for me, even though you may dislike it very 
 much." He looked up quickly, and she continued, " I am 
 anxious about Gertrude." 
 
 " So am I," he gruffly ejaculated. 
 
 " She is not happy. The life she leads is a dull one for a 
 young girl — you know it is, Father," she added earnestly, as 
 he knit his brows and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " I don't say it is gay, but what's the use of talking ? There 
 is nothing to be done. It will be better, I suppose, when Ed- 
 gar comes home." 
 
 li She has set her heart upon going to this fete, this break- 
 fast at Woodlands. That young heart of hers will overflow 
 with bitterness, if she is always refused every amusement, 
 every pleasure which her imagination paints to her in glowing 
 colours, and mine aches, dear Father, when I think of my help- 
 less state, — my utter incapacity " 
 
 • Come, come; don't complain. You have borne your suf- ( 
 ferings well hitherto. Do not let this foolish girl's fancies 
 make you repine at God's will." 
 
 " Heaven forbid that I should murmur ! But when I am 
 able to think, — when an interval in my sufferings gives me 
 
.. 
 
 LADY-BIRD. 33 
 
 time for reflection, then I become anxious about the future 
 character, and the probable fate of my child, and I tremble 
 as I muse on it. Authority will do nothing with her ; cold- 
 ness and indifference still less ; her heart must be softened 
 
 worked upon — and won, — and you must do this." 
 
 ' ; I must do it ! — A right proper instrument you have fixed 
 upon, indeed, for the purpose: a cross and crabbed old man 
 like me !" 
 
 ' O Father. Father, belie not your own heart." 
 
 ' Don't talk to me of my heart. I have a conscience, I 
 hope, and a soul to save,— ;but a heart that is to win hearts, 
 phoo. plioo, that is all nonsense ! Send for the child yourself 
 — give her now and then a mother's kiss, and leave me to 
 teach her her duty, — that is my business, and I will attend to 
 it." 
 
 " Are you going to refuse me the first favour I have ever 
 asked of you?" 
 
 " But in the name of patience what is it? " 
 
 " Something that you will at first protest you will never 
 do ; that you will think ridiculous, and even wrong per- 
 haps " 
 
 You are going to ask me to do something wrong ! What 
 has come over you? " 
 
 " It may seem wrong at first sight ; but depend upon it, 
 dear Father, there may be more merit in it than in your no- 
 blest actions, — in your greatest austerities." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by austerities — I never do 
 boble actions. I don't know what you are talking about. I 
 never knew you so foolish before ! " 
 
 Listen to me, I entreat you, and do not be too much 
 startled. You must go to this breakfast at Woodlands, and 
 take Gertrude there." 
 
 " now I must send for the doctor. You had better 
 ring for a composing draught, my dear child. You are not 
 yourself." 
 
 " I never was so much myself; my thoughts and my mind 
 are clearer than usual. I have reflected deeply ; something 
 must be done to change the current of that child's feelings, — 
 to soften her heart, — to make her see that we understand her." 
 
 " It is very easy to understand her. She is a headstrong 
 girl, who has set her foolish heart on a piece of worldly dissi- 
 pation and vanity, and you are a foolish mother, bent on in- 
 dulging her." 
 
g4 LADY-BIRir. 
 
 " Father, you know me, — you know where, with all its 
 faults, its weakness, its past infidelities, its present unfaithful- 
 ness to grace, — you know where my heart, and its hopes and 
 its affections are set. He whom I should have loved alone, — 
 He who had claimed me from my infancy, and whose conse- 
 crated spouse I should have been, — He whom I forsook in an 
 instant of infatuation, but who mercifully appointed me a fate 
 which has been a continual safeguard from the world I had 
 rashly sought, and a school in which to learn the lesson he as- 
 signs me, — He knows that could I place my child in His 
 everlasting arms at once and forever, safe upon earth and on 
 her way to heaven, my soul would be at peace. Or if that 
 high vocation was denied, could I see her useful and contented 
 in a home of her own, no worldly pleasures or advantages 
 would I covet for her. I care not that the eyes of men should 
 look on her rare beauty, that jewels should gleam on her brow, 
 or her eyes win the love and admiration of crowds. I want 
 no riches for her — no greatness — no splendour, but peace of 
 heart and gentleness of spirit, — the love of God, and of 
 man." 
 
 " And is this — what do you call this thing ? — this break- 
 fast at Woodlands to bring her to this blessed state of mind 1 " 
 : ' You must think me absurd ; but have patience with m&, 
 Dear with me, I am so helpless — so weak ; but I have thought 
 much about this, — I have asked myself if to send her for once 
 into a new and exciting scene, which might make her home ap- 
 pear to her even more dull than before, and increase her de- 
 sire to visit such again, was either wise or prudent, and the 
 answer my conscience has given me is this : — ; Did she not 
 long for the pleasures which have hitherto been denied her? 
 Did not she picture to herself in glowing colours the enjoy- 
 ments she is debarred from ? Heaven forbid that I should 
 thrust them upon her ! But I know that she does long for 
 them, and that her spirit rebels against the forced seclusion of 
 her life. The light of worldly amusements cannot be so in- 
 jurious to a young mind, as the exaggerated pictures which it 
 dreams of them. We cannoi make her existence agreeable 
 at home, you know it but too well. Sickness and suffering are 
 bad companions for a child, and though God in nis boundless- 
 mercy has opened to me sources of bliss which make 
 me sometimes exclaim in the words of a French writer, u Je 
 souffre a en mourir, et cependant ma vie est un Paradis an- 
 ticipe" I cannot expect that young heart at once to under- 
 
LADY-BIRD. g,5 
 
 stand what the experience of life — ana a life of singular trials 
 — has by slow degrees led me to feel." 
 
 Mrs Lifford threw herself back on her pillow exhausted, but 
 soon rousing herself again, continued : " If I obtain for Ger- 
 trude the fulfilment of her wish, she will see a mark of affection 
 in this effort ; but she does not know what it costs me, for I 
 must obtain it from one Father, not yet entirely sub- 
 dued is this proud heart of mine. It is so painful to ask him 
 anything ! " 
 
 " Like mother, like child,' the old man gravely said. 
 
 " do not say that — do not say that ! " she cried. c; Let 
 me not think that she too will have to pass through a fiery 
 trial on her way to peace and joy. That grace must force its 
 way into Iter heart through the breach anguish opens, and over 
 the scattered ruins of every earthly affection. But you will 
 grant my prayer — you will go to Woodlands." 
 
 Father Lifford moved uneasily in his chair, again took 
 snuff, and then — like a man who brings out his words under 
 the influence of the rack or the thum-screw — he said, " My 
 dear child, I am not come to my present age. or have read good 
 books all my life, without learning that to do what one hates 
 is better than to please oneself. I also know that a good sort 
 of woman like you may better understand foolish young girls 
 than an old man like me ; so that, for aught I know, you may 
 be right and I may be wrong. I also hope that I have no fear 
 of ridicule, and if you like to expose yourself to it by sending 
 a young lady into the world in the charge of an old priest,, it 
 may be a wholesome mortification for the young lady and for 
 the old priest : so you may please yourself about it. If her 
 father gives his permission, I will drive to this place with your 
 daughter. I will sit like an -old bear in a corner of the 
 grounds ; and when she has derived from the entertainment 
 all the benefits you anticipate, or when it comes to a natural 
 end — which I presume such things do — I will bring her home 
 again ; but only be prepared for the impression it will create 
 that the girl's parents are fools, and the old man a greater fool 
 than them : but, as I said before, I don't care — it will be as 
 good a mortification as any other." 
 
 " I know that it will be a mortification to you ; but as to 
 its being ridiculous I cannot agree with you You are Mr. 
 Lifford's uncle— Gertrude's nearest relation There is nothing 
 unbecoming in an ecclesiastic going occasionally into society, 
 and who would watch over my child with so paternal an eye ? " 
 
86 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 ' ; Tush, tush ! Don't talk to me of paternal eyes, or any of 
 that nonsense. I shall not watch her at all. I will see she 
 gets there — and if I can, that she comes back ; but nothing 
 else will I undertake — and this, remember, I will only do 
 once." 
 
 '•She will make acquaintances, and may have hereafter op- 
 portunities of going out with others." 
 
 " Much good it will do her," he murmured between his 
 teeth. 
 
 ■• You do see something true in what I have said ? " 
 
 ' : I see you mean well, and I am not sure enough that you 
 are wrong to oppose you ; it may be for the best, and so let 
 nothing more be said about it. It's of no use to hold under a 
 man's nose the physic he is to take." 
 
 Late that day. when Mr. Lifford paid his accustomed visit 
 to his wife, instead of the few common-place sentences which 
 were habitually exchanged between them, a scene took place 
 such as had not occurred for years. The pent-up sufferings of 
 a woman's heart found vent in that hour. Strange, that the 
 question of a girl's going to a breakfast or not should have 
 called up the expression of a sorrow, of a passionate emotion, 
 of something bordering on resentment, which had remained 
 silent for years. Mrs. Lifford, soon after her marriage, had 
 understood her fate, and quietly accepted it — at times almost 
 rejoiced in it. She had done violence to her conscience by 
 marrying. Her will had first been over-ruled by that of her 
 relations. The heart, which had clearly recognised its voca- 
 tion to a different and higher destiny, had — half in weakness, 
 half under a transient impression wrought on her fancy — sur- 
 rendered itself to an earthly love ; and when, after a few 
 months of something which she supposed must be happiness — 
 but scarcely felt to be so — she suddenly awoke to the convic- 
 tion of her husband's utter indifference, and accidentally dis- 
 covered that the little affection his nature was susceptible of 
 had been previously expended on another, that it was out of 
 vanity alone that he had married her. that the memory of his 
 first love occupied the only spot in his heart which was open 
 to anything like feeling, and that indifference to herself was 
 gradually changing into aversion — she experienced a strange 
 sensation, in which something like satisfaction was combined 
 with grief and shame. Perhaps it had a kind of affinity with 
 the sort of relief which a criminal feels when his guilt is dis- 
 covered, and the necessity for concealment is at an end. She 
 
LADY-BIRD. 87 
 
 had not gained the earthly happiness she had sought by doing 
 violence to her convictions, and it was a kind of relief to her 
 to find the hand of God upon her still, even in the form of 
 chastisement. When its weight grew heavier, and pain and 
 solitude became her portion, still more distinctly did this feel- 
 ing rise in her mind. Hers was no common destiny, and no 
 common love had ordained it. Deep, fervent, intense expres- 
 sions of gratitude had been poured forth from that lonely couch 
 during long vigils of pain, and days of incessant suffering, for 
 a fate which had in some sense restored to her the vocation 
 she had lost ; but in a woman's heart — although grace may 
 master, sway, rule, and direct it, though it opens to her a 
 world of bliss which throws human happiness at an immeasur- 
 able distance — there remains (except in the case of saints) 
 something of infirmity, something of self-pity, something which 
 is neither a wish nor regret, but which looks like them at mo- 
 ments, and would appear so to those who do not readily com- 
 prehend the mysteries of the human heart. 
 
 And so it was in that hour ; that pale dying woman (for 
 dying she was, although months and even years might yet 
 elapse before her death) could look upon the cold, handsome, 
 unexpressive face of her husband, and think how he had slight- 
 ed, neglected and injured her, and not feel one touch of re- 
 sentment or of regret — clay after day she had done so. It was 
 her daily meditation, after his short, formal visits to her, how 
 wonderful God's ways had been with her, how, by His divine 
 art, He had turned the transient joys she had snatched at into 
 pangs, which had proved so many stepping-stones from the 
 earth which they obscured, to the Heaven which they disclosed. 
 But this day, when she endeavoured to find the way to his 
 heart in behalf of her daughter, and found its avenues impene 
 trably closed — when, in answer to her pleadings for a permis- 
 sion, which was all she wanted, that Gertrude should occasion- 
 ally have some little change and variety in her life, and, in 
 particular, that he would allow the carriage to take her and 
 Father Lifford to Woodlands on the day of the breakfast, he 
 returned a short negative, and even sneered at the consent 
 which his uncle had given to the mother's request, then that 
 mother did not look at him calmly. There was no anger in 
 her face, but an intense feeling of some kind. With her hands 
 clasped and her cheek burning with excitement, she reiterated 
 her request. When he turned away as if weary of the subject, and 
 prepared to leave the room, she spoke to him with a voice and 
 
88 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 in a manner that obliged him to turn back and to listen. 
 What she said cannot easily be written ; what she felt not 
 many could understand. That she gained her point some 
 might wonder at, who do not know what an unexpected burst 
 of passionate emotion can effect on the coldest and hardest 
 hearts, when it takes them by surprise. Her sentences were 
 broken, her words strange and abrupt, her countenance some- 
 what wild ; for such excitement was too powerful for so feeble 
 a frame. When her husband — half afraid, perhaps, of making 
 her dangerously ill by opposition, disturbed, if not touched by 
 her allusions to the past, with not enough affection for his 
 daughter to make him consider the subject as it concerned her 
 welfare — gave the desired permission as he would have un- 
 graciously granted a holiday to his groom — she sighed deeply, 
 and when the door was shut upon him, turned her face towards 
 the wall and wept bitterly. 
 
 How little persons know, and especially young persons, of 
 the trials of others ! How they will exact, and then not 
 appreciate what has, perhaps, been effected at an amount of 
 anxiety and of pain which they do not dream of. Balzac, in 
 his powerful tale " Eugenie Grandet," shows one the struggles, 
 the anxieties, the art, the passionate solicitude with which the 
 miser's daughter procures the few little common-place comforts 
 with which she supplies the orphan cousin, who has come to 
 reside under her father's roof — the spoilt and now forsaken 
 child of fortune, who uses without noticing, or squanders with- 
 out enjoying what she has purchased or begged in fear and 
 trembling, what she has obtained at the price of scenes which 
 have made her heart quail and her cheek blanch. And the 
 picture is true to the life ; every day it is exemplified in 
 domestic life. Secret acts of heroism are performed, which 
 look so easy and common-place, that no one would guess the 
 secret prayers, the previous struggles, the amount of resolution 
 they have required ; and they pass by without comment and 
 without praise. 
 
 When Mrs. Lifford told her daughter that she was to go to 
 the Woodlands' breakfast, the girl's eyes sparkled with de- 
 light, and she fondly kissed her mother ; but if she had guessed 
 what that mother had suffered the day before to open to her 
 that prospect of amusement, there would doubtless have been 
 something more gentle in her voice and more tender in her 
 kiss ; but, to know it, she must have learnt what it was better 
 for her not to learn, and have understood what she will one day, 
 
LADY-BIRD. 
 
 perhaps, too well understand, — her inotner's fate and her 
 father's character. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 "■And then I met with one 
 Who was my fate ; he saw me and I knew 
 Twas love that like swift lightning darted through 
 My spirit; ere I thought, my heart was won 
 Spell-bound to his, for ever and for ever." 
 
 So many chapters in novels begin with descriptions of 
 beautiful days, that it seems useless to add another to those 
 already written by abler painters in words ; but to speak of 
 flowers, of birds, of blue sky, and of sunshine — of fleecy clouds 
 and soft breezes, at certain times and on certain occasions, has 
 its use, however hackneyed these expressions may be. It is to 
 the mind what the recitative in an Italian opera is to the ear, 
 or a frame to a painting. It brings the thoughts into tune ; it 
 calls up a variety of pictures, differing according to the im- 
 agination of the reader — to the scenes with which his memory 
 is stored — to the impressions of which he is susceptible. " The 
 day wSs beautiful." — Has not every one at once, before his 
 eyes, some picture that appeals to his feelings or his fancy, 
 that suggests a train of remembrances, that brings tears into 
 his eyes, or a smile on his lips ? 
 
 The day was beautiful on which Gertrude Lifford opened 
 her window to examine the aspect of the sky, and ascertain 
 that it did not threaten to interfere with what she called her 
 first day of pleasure. No such shade marred the face of the 
 heaven. It was fair and bright, and hazy in the distance — an 
 autumnal English sky — and even the flat extent of the park 
 looked less ugly than usual, as it showed its green surface in 
 the light of the early morning. Gertrude was satisfied, but 
 her excited spirits would not suffer her to sit still. The hours 
 seemed interminably long till she could reasonably begin to 
 dress. Her. dress had been a source of great anxiety to her ; 
 and as Madame de Stael was heard to say that she would 
 have been willing to barter all her literary successes for the 
 gratification of experiencing for a single day the pleasure of 
 being beautiful, so Gertrude would almost have given up her 
 
90 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 beauty for the sake of knowing that she would be dressed like 
 other people — for the assurance of not appearing old-fashioned 
 and ridiculous ; for, between her mother, who had not been 
 out anywhere for years, and never but in Spain, and the 
 milliner at Stonehouseleigh, whose knowledge of the fashions 
 was limited, she felt great apprehensions as to the result. 
 
 But she need not have done so ; she was not dressed like 
 other people certainly, but if vanity were the cause of her un- 
 easiness she might have been content. A piece of fine raro 
 Indian muslin delicately embroidered in white — which had 
 made part of her mother's trousseau, and had never been made 
 up— was now turned into a gown for her. A magnificent man- 
 tilla of old Spanish lace was her shawl. A Leghorn straw-hat 
 with a wreath of poppies and corn-flowers, which, with the skill 
 in such handiwork acquired in a convent, Mrs. Lifford had 
 made for her, and a chain of elaborately carved coral going 
 twice round her neck, completed her attire. When she went 
 into her mother's room she found her sitting up on her couch, 
 with various cases of antique workmanship smelling of foreign 
 perfumes by her side. From one she took out some diamond 
 rings, from another a pair of bracelets of a curious Moorish 
 shape, which she put on her fingers and her wrists. Then she 
 gave her a fan with highly finished paintings and richly orna- 
 mented handle, and showed her how to hold it. Then she 
 bade her go to the foot of the couch that she might look at 
 her ; and as she stood there in all her picturesque beauty, 
 with her youth and her brilliant dress, and the exultation in 
 her eyes, she seemed a strange vision in that chapel-like room 
 so full of holy pictures and religious ornaments, so dark for 
 the sake of its suffering inmate, so silent and so still, that those 
 who entered it instinctively lowered their voices, and trod 
 lightly on the soft carpet. 
 
 " Gertrude," said her mother, fixing her eyes on her daugh- 
 ter's face, u The world is not happiness." 
 
 ' : Perhaps not, mamma, but it is pleasure." 
 
 ' ; I too went to a ball once, and I carried that fan in my 
 hand. It is a long time ago. It was at the time of my sis- 
 ter's marriage. She has died since. Her name was Assunta. 
 Strange, was it not? Mine is Angustia. I am glad they did 
 not call you so, Gertrude." 
 
 " Yes, dearest mamma ; see how well I use my fan. May 
 I dance, mamma? " 
 
 ' : Dearest, you have never learnt ; you do not know how." 
 
LADY-BIRD. 9 J 
 
 " I did not know how to do this a moment ago," she an- 
 swered, playing again with the fan in the true Spanish fashion, 
 and then coming round to her mother's side she bent over her 
 fondly, and said, ' : To-morrow I shall tell you if the world has 
 been pleasure to me. Do be well to-morrow, mamma ; you 
 are much better than you were. There was a time when you 
 could not have exerted yourself as much as you have done 
 lately." 
 
 " Heaven bless thee ! " was her mother's only answer. 
 
 " The carriage is at the door," the maid whispered. 
 
 " Mamma, must I say good-bye to papa ? " 
 
 Mrs. Liffbrd winced, as it were, at the question, looked at 
 her daughter, and seemed to hesitate. i; Yes." she said at 
 last. " Yes ; come this way first ; let me arrange those two 
 curls that are straying on thy neck. Throw thy head a little 
 back, and take these orange-blossoms with thee. That will 
 do ; go to him. — he may remember the bull-fight at Seville." 
 
 "Shall I ask him if he does?" 
 
 " no, no ! " the mother answered, with a shudder, and 
 with another kiss dismissed her child. 
 
 Into a room nearly as sombre as the one she had left, but 
 with nothing in it to please the eye or the feelings, that vision 
 of youth and beauty walked. In the attitude her mother had 
 placed her in, with the weapons she had armed her with, into 
 her father's presence she went, with a lighter step and a more 
 confiding spirit than usual. He looked up from the table 
 where he was examining some accounts, and said in a tone of 
 annoyance. 
 
 " What do you want ? " 
 
 " Nothing," she answered, in a faint voice. 
 
 " Then why do you come here 1 " 
 
 " I really don't know." 
 
 " It would be better, in that case, not to interrupt me." 
 
 " I will not do so again," she said, and left the room. 
 A servant met her at the door, and told her that her uncle 
 was in the carriage. She hastened after him, jumped into the 
 heavy, old-fashioned coach, and slowly and steadily they pro- 
 ceeded to Woodlands. 
 
 Father Lifford was making a great effort — a real sacrifice 
 — in thus putting himself out of the way, in going out of all 
 his usual habits, and amongst strangers. It was an act of true 
 kindness ; but his nature was too stiff to mould itself easily to 
 such an effort. He could do such a thing because on the 
 
92 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 whole he thought it right, though at the same time he did not 
 feel quite sure of it. "That uncertainty, not as to his good in- 
 tentions, but as to the wisdom of his unselfishness, gave him a 
 certain degree of uneasiness which added to his intense dislike 
 of the whole affair. He had ensconced himself in the corner 
 of the coach, and fenced himself round with newspapers and 
 books, as if he were about to take a long journey. First he 
 said his office, which lasted a quarter of an hour, and then took 
 up a newspaper, and then another, without turning round or 
 speaking. He did not like a draught, and only one of the 
 windows was let down. Gertrude, who found it hot, changed 
 her place to the one opposite, so as to get the air which blew 
 from the south-west. It fanned her cheek, and disarranged 
 her hair, which did not signify, for it curled of itself; and 
 taking off her bonnet, she drew over her head the hood of her 
 mantilla. Father Lifford accidentally looked up from his 
 newspaper, and the frown on his brow at that moment relaxed 
 a little. For some time she was not conscious that he was 
 looking at her, but was busily employed in twisting her coral 
 chain into twenty different shapes. The old man seemed to 
 dwell on thoughts which her face and her dress had suggested 
 to him ; and when she observed that he was watching her. and 
 said gently, " I am so much obliged to you, Father Lifford," 
 and he answered " Poor little fool ! " there was in his manner 
 what she felt to be kindness. 
 
 When they arrived at the lodge, and drove through the 
 park, the sight of tents decorated with flags and streamers 
 met their eyes, and the sound of a band of music was heard 
 in the distance. Other carriages — less heavy and stately than 
 theirs — rapidly passed them, and the whole scene was bright 
 and animated in the extreme. Woodlands was not a very fine 
 place, there was nothing particularly picturesque about its 
 scenery, but on a fine sunny day like the present one, it had 
 enough of the beauty which belongs to most English country 
 places to appear to advantage, especially as art and decoration 
 had been profusely employed to give brilliancy to the aspect 
 of the well laid out gardens, and the large cheerful rooms, 
 which were almost as gay with flowers as the parterre. 
 
 Neither Father Lifford nor Gertrude were shy, but both 
 were doubtless uncomfortable when (their names having been 
 shouted from the bottom of the staircase) they entered the 
 drawing-room where Mrs. Apley was receiving her guests — 
 he from an intense aversion to the whole proceeding, and she 
 
 
LADY-BIRD. JIM 
 
 from a consciousness that their appearance might excite sur- 
 prise. She did not feel sure that her dress was not very 
 peculiar. She had cast a quick glance at some of the women 
 who had arrived at the same time as herself, and it seemed to 
 her that somehow they looked very different, and so they cer- 
 tainly did. A young antelope turned into the midst of a herd 
 of English cows would not have presented a greater contrast 
 than did the Spanish-looking girl amongst 'the tribe of fair- 
 haired and pink-cheeked young ladies that filled the room. 
 Father Lifford was too well bred not to be civil, however cross 
 he might feel, and he said a few words to Mrs. Apley in a tone 
 that did not betray how much he wished himself anywhere 
 but where he was, and said something about his niece's ill 
 health, but nothing about her husband's non-appearance ; 
 which all did equally well, for Mrs. Apley was rather deaf and 
 very absent, and so replied with a sweet smile that she was 
 truly glad to hear it, and as this was evidently kindly meant, 
 it also perfectly answered its purpose. 
 
 As soon as she could, Gertrude passed into the next room 
 and stood leaning against the wall, looking about her. The 
 noise as well as the sight of a crowded room was new and 
 strange to her. It surprises people who notice it for the first 
 time to observe what a business talking is. Young people 
 who have never been in society as children, and only heard of 
 the amusements of grown up people, can imagine what is the 
 pleasure of a ball, a concert, or a play, but to stand for hours 
 talking as fast or listening as patiently as possible to persons, 
 many if not most of them neither agreeable nor amusing (for so 
 they hear the great majority of the human race deemed by 
 those who make society the business of their lives) should be 
 either a great pleasure or a great duty strikes them as incom- 
 prehensible, or that it should be done at all, if it is neither thfe 
 one nor the other, still more so. It is even strange to those who 
 have been used to it all their lives, when they begin to analyse 
 the subject ; just as when we meditate on the intellectual pro- 
 cess through which we read, write, or play on an instrument. 
 We wonder over and could almost admire ourselves for it, if 
 we did not remember in time that a child at a village school 
 can do the same. No, society is sometimes a duty, sometimes 
 a pleasure, but more generally the gratification of an instinct 
 which requires it even when it has ceased to afford enjoyment. 
 It is almost indispensable to those who are not exclusively 
 engrossed by other objects ; it takes us out of ourselves, and 
 
94 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 that is an excursion which we all more or less like, till we 
 have learnt to live on such terms with that odd creature Self, 
 as not to require a frequent leave of absence from its torment- 
 ing companionship. 
 
 Perhaps no one will so soon thoroughly understand as 
 Gertrude the nature of that relief, no one may so soon appre- 
 ciate as much that artificial means of killing time, but as yet 
 she is only a loo*ker on, and it seems unprofitable enough to 
 watch the civil or rude behaviour, the eager or listless manner, 
 the too light or too heavy talk of the old young people or the 
 young old people who congregate together in what by courtesy 
 is called the world. By degrees she distinguished two or 
 three persons whose appearance interested her. and soon Mrs. 
 Apley came into the room where she was standing in patient 
 contemplation of her fellow-creatures, and introduced some 
 of them to her. Amongst others her son. the hero of the 
 day. For several years Gertrude had known him by sight, 
 and had been conscious that he admired her. There had even 
 been a sort of approach to acquaintance between them. He 
 had held a gate open for her, and once picked up something 
 she had dropped and rode after her to restore it. He alluded 
 to this in an agreeable manner, and entered into conversation 
 with her in a way that made her feel herself immediately at 
 her ease with him. She was not the least shy, although her 
 eyes were so, and this contrast was piquant. Young Apley 
 was amused by her remarks, and fascinated by her counte- 
 nance. He had heard something of the peculiarities of her 
 home, and knew how secluded had been her life. This excited 
 his curiosity, and that — as well as his admiration of her 
 beauty — made him long to know more of her, and when he 
 was called away and obliged to attend to other people, he sent 
 one of his sisters to make the civil to that pretty girl with the 
 corn-flowers in her hat. " She is such a duck," he whispered 
 to Harriet Apley, who looked herself much more like that 
 bird (not a popular one in his own character, but who stands 
 in fashionable slang as the synonyme of charm) than the tall 
 slim Gertrude, who would have looked somewhat contemptuous 
 had she overheard this expression of praise from her admirer's 
 lips. 
 
 She was a round, pretty, plump little creature, who had 
 been out ever since she could speak. When asked at sixteen, 
 if she was soon coming out, she laughed and said she had never 
 been in. There was something in her pretty round mouth 
 
I u.l BIRD 
 
 and her merry round eyes that had gained her the name of 
 Cherry, when she used to appear at dessert as " the picture 
 of a child," and, now that she was grown up, Cherry was still 
 rather attractive, though no longer reckoned the picture or 
 the "beau ideal" of anything. She was as civil as she could 
 be to Gertrude, but soon got tired, for she thought talking to 
 girls was very dull work. She was one of the people who 
 speak of talking to women, or talking to men, quite irrespec- 
 tively of the merits or peculiarities of the individuals of each 
 sex. The dullest man was (at a party at least) a more agree- 
 able companion than the cleverest woman of her acquaintance, 
 and that not merely from a spirit of coquetry, though perhaps 
 she was a coquette, nor from the wish to be married, though 
 perhaps she did wish it, but simply because — as she often 
 said — one did not go into society to talk to women. 
 
 Perhaps, if she had been into herself at any time of her 
 life, she would have discovered the reason of this, but she was 
 one of those whose self was always out of doors : not that she 
 disagreed with it at home, but she had never attempted to 
 commune with it there. Cherry had been watching for an 
 opportunity of escaping from her present position, and was 
 making inward comments on the impropriety of girls going 
 out without a regular chaperon, or at least some acquaintances 
 that they could join, when the sound of music from the gallery 
 relieved her from her difficulty. 
 
 " I am sure you would like to hear the singing," she eagerly 
 said, and naming the most famous singer of that time — one 
 who joined to a wonderful voice the charm of a beautiful face 
 and of an extraordinary genius — she led the way to a row of 
 chairs not far from the pianoforte, and, after placing Gertrude 
 there, in a few minutes slipped away with an easy conscience ; 
 and so she might as far as her new acquaintance was con- 
 cerned, for the duet in the second act of Seniiramicle had 
 begun. Both singers were perfect in their way, and Gertrude 
 was soon wholly absorbed in the performance. 
 
 Some kinds of music require an experienced ear to enjoy 
 them, and are not appreciated at the first hearing ; but. in 
 instance, it was not so. It had an electric effect on one 
 who had not been used to the magical charm of such singing ; 
 her cheeks flushed, her heart beat, and her eyes sparkled. The 
 scene was altogether so novel; the crowd of faces surrounding 
 her, — before her the great singer, in whose countenance and 
 gestures the inspiration of genius and of passion was visible ; 
 
96 LADY-BIKD. 
 
 whose slight frame quivered under that powerful emotion. — 
 the words of defiance and of revenge hurled from one proud 
 spirit to another, distinctly uttered and often reiterated, — the 
 glorious harmony that embodied and accompanied them, all 
 combined to work her up into a state of silent but oppressive 
 excitement, which almost seemed to take away her breath. 
 
 While she drank in the sounds that thrilled through her 
 being, she thought of her own destiny, and asked herself what 
 it would be. She successively wished to be a Queen or an 
 Amazon, a singer or an actress, anything but what she was, 
 anything that would give vent to the longing for power and 
 for action which that spirited music awoke in her soul. Had 
 she a voice that could win its way to a thousand hearts 1 Had 
 she a mind wherewith to conceive, a pen wherewith to trace 
 what might sway the impulse of minds without number ? No, 
 her spirit answered, no, it could not be. She was too young 
 and too ignorant, too rash and too unstable for such hopes, 
 for such tasks, for such stimulants as these. She must 
 reign through other means, if reign she ever could. She 
 must sway hearts in another mode, if to sway them she desired. 
 How little did those placed at her side on that day guess the 
 thoughts and the wishes, the projects and the hopes, which 
 were at work in her mind as she sat there in that concert-room, 
 looking beautiful and shy, and hiding her mouth with her 
 enamelled fan. 
 
 In the midst of her reverie she looked towards the door, 
 and her eyes met those of Mark Apley fixed upon her in evi- 
 dent admiration. " Is not beauty poiver ? " she inwardly ex- 
 claimed ; and felt it was, as his blue eyes paid homage to the 
 shadowy beauty of her own. She felt it when he forced his 
 way through the rows of chairs that stood between them, 
 drawn on by the magnetism of her now downcast glance, and 
 when he put into her hand a rose of great value, the only one 
 of its kind that the conservatory contained. She felt it once 
 again when the duet was over, and loud bursts of applause 
 rose from the audience. " 0, how I like that sound," she 
 exclaimed, " I had never heard it before ; why don't you ap- 
 plaud, you who can ? " she added, in a low voice, and with a 
 smile that made Mark Apley clap his hands with an energy 
 that the pure love of music had never before prompted. 
 " Now," she said, " I must hear that again. You must get it 
 repeated, that beautiful music which says, ' I will subdue you,' 
 and which, with the same notes answers, ' I will not be sub- 
 dued.' Go, make them sing it again." 
 
LADY-BIRD. ft'/ 
 
 She laid her fan, with a pretty gesture of command, not 
 )n but near his hand, and gave him a frown which enchanted 
 aim. A frown is a charming thing on a pretty face ; it is 
 seldom on any face an awful one. Look at the lines about 
 ;he mouth : there will the young wife, or the husband who 
 nay have often frowned at each other in loving hours and 
 overs' quarrels, see the first expression of displeasure in the 
 :ace whose frowns they have smilingly defied. Mark Apley 
 rushed to the pianoforte, and obtained the repetition of the 
 luet. Again Gertrude listened to it with delight, but now 
 here was something perhaps more definite in her thoughts, 
 (ind as she pulled to pieces the rare flower in her hand, she 
 Duilt up a vision as bright as its petals. 
 
 " See. you have destroyed it," he said, gathering up one 
 Df the rosy fragments from the floor. She put her little 
 root on the others, and said with a smile, " Regina e guer- 
 rierra." 
 
 " But you should be queen of flowers, and not war with 
 pour subjects." 
 
 " I would not if they swore allegiance to me ; but this one 
 was rebellious ; it would not bend without breaking." 
 
 " You are inclined to be a tyrant. I think." 
 
 A cloud passed over the beautiful face on which he was 
 gazing, and she answered quickly, " No, I love not tyrants ; — 
 but listen to what they are singing now. what is it ?" 
 
 But she would not let him answer, her finger was on her 
 ilip, and her soul was on the wing. " Suivez moi," the wild 
 appeal to liberty in Guillaume Tell was drawing her on, as it 
 were, into a world she knew not yet. It seemed a summons 
 to something new and free, into which her spirit had not yet 
 soared ; and when it ended she murmured, " Oui, que je toi 
 suive ;" and Mark, who was very pleasing, but not very wise, 
 asked, "Who?" and she answered, "The inspiration of the 
 moment," which he did not understand, but he thought her 
 very clever as well as very lovely, and never had felt so fas- 
 cinated by any one before. 
 
 At that moment there was a movement amongst the 
 singers and the audience. The principal performers left the 
 immediate vicinity of the pianoforte, and Mrs. Apley went up 
 to them, and said a few words, which were received with a 
 gracious smile, and they placed themselves on a sofa, while 
 through the door behind the pianoforte Maurice Redmond 
 came in. He and Mary had been standing in that door-way 
 5 
 
98 LADT-BIl 
 
 ever since the concert had begun, and he had not for a momen 
 taken off his eyes from the spot where Gertrude had been sit 
 ting with Mark Apley. All eyes were now turned upon him 
 and hers amongst the number. She saw that he was ver] 
 pale, and with a rapid glance, perceived that Mary saw it also 
 and was looking as white as a sheet. He sat down at th- 
 pianoforte — there was an empty space between it and row 
 of people on every side They were unusually silent at tha 
 moment ; nobody was near him — his nervousness increased— 
 he was evidently not well Drops of sweat were starting oi 
 his forehead. Mary's color went and came ; she could not g< 
 to him, of course, or stir from her place, but she grew pale 
 every second, and pressed her hand tightly on her heart. Hi 
 nervousness was becoming insurmountable, and the silence o 
 the audience increased with their wonder that he did not Lc 
 gin. Both felt dreadfully alone in that crowd, and when h 
 said in a low husky voice, " It is of no use, I cannot play, 
 she heard it and leant back against the wall with a faint giddi 
 sensation at her heart. 
 
 But a light step at that moment crossed the room, and ii 
 an instant Gertrude was by his side. She put an open music 
 book on the desk to stand as it were between him and the an 
 dience : she gave him her smelling-bottle, and with a few of lie 
 gay words, and with a glance of her beautiful eyes, she revive 
 him more than fresh air or a cordial could have done. It wa 
 what he wanted : she had done what she meant, and cared no 
 then a straw that there were looks of astonishment and whij 
 pered remarks going on in the room. The colour returned t 
 his cheek ; one look of ardent gratitude he turned upon her an 
 said. " I can play now, Lady-Bird." She then went to Marl 
 stood by her in the door-way, and held her cold hand in her; 
 while he sounded a few preluding chords with an uncertai 
 hand. They were both still afraid that he would fail, but th 
 fear was soon dissipated. It had been but a moment's deprej 
 sion — now he was more powerfully stimulated than he ha 
 ever been yet. and played far better than usual. He straine 
 every nerve, and his frame now quivered with excitement, a 
 it had done before with agitation. But he did wonders unde 
 this influence, and the fastidious artists who were listening t 
 him were astonished at the performance of one. who had neve 
 yet appeared in London or in Paris, and whose name was no 
 yet much known, except in the towns of Italy where he ha 
 gained some reputation. They warmly applauded, and as the 
 led the way the rest of the society joined in it. # 
 
LADYBIRD. (|.| 
 
 I The delicate touch and profound sensibility with which he 
 rung some changes on a German air, completed his success. 
 The beautiful Prima Donna's eyes filled with tears, and she 
 praised him when he had finished, as artists love to be praised. 
 Mark Apley and his sisters and other acquaintances also ga- 
 thered around him ; kind flattering words, and warm expres- 
 sions of pleasure were buzzed about his ears, and his soul was 
 Satisfied. Yes, his soul, not his vanity. There is a joy in 
 praise which has nothing to do with vanity. It is a species of 
 sympathy which those who possess genius in any line almost 
 imperatively require. It is the breeze that fans the flame, the 
 oil that feeds the lamp. Praise, when it is sincerely bestowed, 
 ind gratefully received, often produces a kind of timid and 
 humble happiness, as remote from vanity as a mother's exulta- 
 tion at her infant's beauty is different from a haughty con- 
 sciousness of her own. 
 
 ' : Do you not feel proud of him, Mary?" Gertrude whis- 
 )ered as they too joined the group. 
 
 " Too happy to be proud," and she looked at her with 
 grateful eyes. " that those kind people," she continued, 
 glancing at the Italian artists, " would now sing again. My 
 elfish heart was so tight when they did so befoe, that it could 
 tot enjoy what would be now so delightful." 
 
 " Your selfish heart!" Gertrude exclaimed with a smile. 
 
 " Yes, selfish indeed ; why think so exclusively of oneself?" 
 Ind she looked at Maurice as if there was but one self be- 
 hiveen them. 
 
 At that moment Mrs. Apley came up to Gertrude, and 
 ave her a little note hastily written in pencil ; it was from 
 father Lifford. Just after she had been placed in an unap- 
 roachable position in the music-room, he had received a mes- 
 lage to the purport that a dying person had sent for him soon 
 jfter he had left home, and not a moment's time was to be 
 bst in attending to it. He hastily requested Mrs. Apley 
 tinclly to take charge of Gertrude during the remainder of the 
 lay, — the only expedient he could think of, as the carriage 
 ad not been ordered till some hours later, and he himself 
 rent off on foot to the cottage where he was wanted. Nothing 
 buld be more agreeable to Gertrude than this incident, as far 
 is regarded her own prospect of amusement; the few hours 
 jefore her appeared like a whole life of pleasure to be enjoyed 
 i*e the moment of departure should arrive. 
 
 The concert was at an end, and it was now rumoured that 
 
100 LAD V -BIRD. 
 
 dancing was soon to begin. Several young men were intro- 
 duced to Gertrude by Miss Apley. and she was soon surrounded 
 by a number of persons, bent on making themselves agreeable 
 to her. She grew very animated and talked a great deal. 
 Very amusing she was. though many of the things she said 
 would not bear repetition ; but they were lively, original, 
 quaint, and withal natural, for there was not a grain of affec- 
 tation about her. Mark Apley hovered near her, and drank 
 in the sweet poison of love, as if he had been a bee diving into 
 a honeysuckle. How every moment her spirits rose, as she 
 perceived that a glance of her eye could bring him back to her 
 side, if for an instant he made an effort to attend to others ! 
 The music struck up. " Will you waltz with me, Miss 
 Lifford ? " 
 
 The colour rushed into the rich olive tints of the Spanish 
 girl's cheek. 
 
 " I cannot waltz. I do not know how." 
 
 " What ! — have you never tried?" 
 
 " No, indeed. Do you think people dance at Lifford 
 Grange?" 
 
 " Oh, but you will dance naturally, — I know you will. — 
 just as your hair curls naturally. I see it does, for the wind, 
 as it blows it about, only makes it curl the more. Those 
 locks at the back of your head that have escaped from the 
 plaits, — they were not meant to curl ; confess it." 
 
 " nothing does what it ought with me," she answered ; 
 and seizing the two rebellious locks, she straightened them 
 down as if to punish their wilfulness, and then threw them 
 back to wave and curl on her neck. " Go and dance, Mr. 
 Apley; I will look on, and perhaps learn." 
 
 " Come with me," he eagerly exclaimed; "there is no one 
 in the gallery. I will teach you ; it will be the work of a 
 minute." 
 
 He gave her his arm, and they flew, rather than walked, 
 through the rooms into the one where the concert had taken 
 place. On one of the window-seats Maurice was sitting in a 
 lounging attitude. He gave a start when they entered the 
 room, and sprung to his feet. Gertrude let go Mr. Apley's 
 arm, and cried out, 
 
 "'Ah, there you are, — resting after your successes; enjoy- 
 ing your triumph." 
 
 "Do you think he would play us a waltz?" Mark said to 
 her in a low voice. " It would make you learn twice as 
 soon." 
 
LADY-BIRD. 101 
 
 u Maurice," she eagerly cried, " do play that German waltz 
 that I used to like so much : Mr. Apley is going to teach me 
 io waltz." 
 
 " Is he?" Maurice coldly answered. " I do not know that 
 [ can remember what you want." 
 
 " 0, but anything will do, — only make haste, because we 
 iave no time to lose." 
 
 If there was anything imperious in her manner of saying 
 Dhis. it was only the wilfulness of a child that would not be 
 3ontradicted by one who had always yielded to her slightest 
 wishes : but susceptible as he was, it wounded him to the 
 pick. He felt as if the world had already done its work with 
 tier, and that she spoke to him in a tone of offensive dictation. 
 He flushed to the very temples as he sat down at the piano- 
 forte, and began playing in a rapid and abrupt manner. It 
 ivas not a gay tune, or else he played it strangely. She kept 
 3alling out to him now and then, li Not so fast," — or, ' : You 
 ire not playing so well as usual, Maurice!" — and he bit his 
 lips almost through with vexation. 
 
 And the truth was, he did not play well. There was an 
 iccompaniment that put him out singularly, — the noise of swift 
 steps ; the rustle of a muslin dress ; the tone of a joyous 
 [augh ; the sound of two voices interchanging gay reproofs 
 ind instructions. Once an exclamation — " stop, I am so 
 giddy;" and the answer, "0 no, no, don't stop." But the 
 imusic ceased at once, and the musician darted up from his 
 place, and rushed forward. What business had he to do so? 
 [He felt it, and turning back as suddenly, played a wild air of 
 Strauss's with feverish vehemence, and then the waltz in Rob- 
 2rt le Diable, which intermingles notes of despairing sweet- 
 ness with the discords of hell. " That will do, Maurice — I 
 ithank you so much. I have learnt all I wanted." And away 
 she went, with her light step, her beautiful figure, her flashing 
 eyes, and her unconsciousness of the pain she left behind her. 
 
 "Conie, Mary, have you had enough of this 2^ easure f° r 
 to-day ? Shall we steal away by the back door, find the pony 
 chaise, and go home?" "Yes," she said, and put her arm in 
 his, and soon they were driving through fragrant fir woods, in 
 the refreshing coolness of the evening. They did not talk of 
 Woodlands, but he said he should like to go and shut himself 
 up with her in some quiet retreat, where the sounds of the 
 world would never reach them, where only Mary's voice would 
 be heard — only Mary's love would be known. 
 
102 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " Still your Italian plans," she answered with a smile. 
 
 " no, not Italy — some quiet English spot. I am tired] 
 of beauty — weary of admiring— sick of efforts and struggles. 
 Let me float down the stream hand in hand with you, Mary."| 
 
 ' : No, no ! it is up, not down the stream that we must row. | 
 What has made you so faint-hearted, Maurice? Do you not| 
 remember those lines you used to repeat to me in London, 
 when I pined much for the cottage and the country ? " 
 
 " Time, life, ye were not made 
 For languid dreaming in the shade, 
 Nor sinful hearts to moor all day 
 By lily isle or grassy bay, 
 Nor drink at noontide's balmy hours 
 Sweet opiates from the meadow flowers." 
 
 " for a lily isle," he exclaimed, " or grassy bay ; if such 
 there are in life's river ! Or an opiate that will send one to 
 sleep on its shore ! " 
 
 " No, no, my dearest child, you must ply your oars with 
 courage, even though it be against the tide ; you must not lay 
 them down while there is work to do." 
 
 " Why do you call me child^ Mary? " 
 
 " It is my fancy. I think there is something of a mother's 
 love in my affection for j-ou, and then it seems to give me a 
 right to scold you sometimes." 
 
 " You are an angel, Mary. How calm and sweet every 
 thing is now ! There was something oppressive in the air at 
 Woodlands." 
 
 After a pause, he said, "Mary, we must not be ungrateful- 
 she was very kind." She turned to him surprised. Was he 
 speaking of Gertrude ? She had not felt ungrateful to her ; 
 on the contrary — what did he mean ? 
 
 " O, nothing, nothing," he answered, and sighed. 
 
 The light died away before they reached their home. The 
 moon threw its rays on the quiet waters of the Leigh. The 
 mignonette and the carnation smelt sweetly in the widow's 
 garden, and Mary — as she sat at the window of her little bed- 
 room — felt glad that the day was come to an end, and that not 
 many such were likely to recur in her life. 
 
 Gertrude, in the mean time, was in the midst of the ball 
 which had succeeded the other amusements of the day at 
 Woodlands. The carriage came for her at six, but she was 
 persuaded to keep it waiting till twelve. In Miss Apley's 
 
LADY-BIRD. 103 
 
 room she made such alterations in her dress as could be con- 
 trived at a moment's notice ; her mantle and straw hat were 
 put aside, some white and red camellias were arranged in her 
 hair. A nosegay of hot-house flowers, which had filled a vase 
 on the dressing-table, was fastened on her breast, and relieved 
 the plainness of her simple muslin corsage. As she stood at 
 the end of the room 'by the side of Mark Apley, waiting for 
 the music to strike up, and with true Spanish grace playing 
 with her large fan, many eyes were turned upon her, and 
 many inquiries mado about her. She had learnt to waltz 
 during her brief lesson in the gallery ; soon she was flying 
 round the room, her feet — her almost incredibly small feet — 
 scarcely touching the ground, her cheeks flushed with exercise 
 and animation, and her partners every moment increasing, 
 and undisguised admiration raising her spirits to the highest 
 pitch. 
 
 If she had been plain or only ordinarily good-looking, it 
 might have been wise to send her for once into that world 
 which she had so longed to be acquainted with. She might 
 have been disenchanted with what she had pictured to herself 
 as so delightful, and mortification might have changed the 
 bias of her excitable temper into some other channel ; but 
 her beauty, her originality, and the peculiarity of her man- 
 ners — which were refined without being conventional and 
 strange, but at the same time graceful — obtained her that 
 kind of success which she but too well appreciated, but too 
 much enjoyed. 
 
 In the course of the evening the heat of the ball-room 
 grew intense, and through one of the open windows several 
 persons went into the shrubbery to breathe the fresh air, and 
 walked towards a grotto which stood at the end of one of the 
 alleys. Gertrude had just done waltzing for the third or 
 fourth time, and followed some young girls, whose acquaint- 
 ance she had made, out of the stifling room into the garden. 
 They loitered near the house, but out of curiosity she went 
 further and arrived at the grotto, which looked invitingly cool. 
 She was just going to step into it. attracted by the refreshing 
 sound of the water which trickled down its walls, when some- 
 body said to her, " Pray forgive me for speaking to you, but 
 you should not go into that place, heated as you are. It is 
 dangerous." 
 
 Few and simple as were the words of the speaker, they 
 affected her in a singular manner. She felt touched without 
 
104 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 knowing why, and turned round to look at the person who had 
 given her this warning. He was unlike any one she had ever 
 seen, except a picture in her mother's room of the Due de 
 Gandia, by Velasquez, which had been since her childhood her 
 ideal of manly beauty. That face alone had borne any resem- 
 blance to the one which was now before her. So perfectly 
 symmetrical, so majestically good, so expressive, and yet so 
 calm. A tall slim figure, a well-shaped head with a most 
 thoughtful brow, a smile of strange beauty, an attitude at 
 once dignified and easy — the head a little thrown back, and 
 the hand resting on the left hip. 
 
 She had not felt shy at any time that day, nor was she 
 given to be shy ; but now a sensation of that kind stole over 
 her, and she said " Thank you" with an unusual timidity, and 
 bowed her head as she did so, with something of submission 
 as well as of acknowledgment. " I hope you have not thought 
 me impertinent," he said, as she turned back towards the 
 house. This time she smiled as she answered, " 0, no ! " and 
 hoped he would speak again ; but he did not, and she returned 
 to the ball-room, and sat down in a corner, far from any one 
 she knew. 
 
 The first sight of the Apollo Belvedere has made a person 
 burst into tears — a beautiful landscape has affected others in 
 the same way — the sight of the Alps or of the sea has awak- 
 ened strong emotion — eloquence, even when not on a pathetic 
 subject, has stirred the deep well-springs of feeling — and who 
 has not known the impression which a procession, the hurrahs 
 of a crowd, or a sudden burst of musie has made upon them % 
 Why should it, then, be strange that the sight of physical and 
 intellectual beauty, of a commanding form, visibly inhabited 
 by a superior spirit, should have had something of the same 
 effect on Gertrude, and that she should have felt her eyes fill- 
 ing with tears — a very rare thing with her. 
 
 But there might be something else in this emotion. She 
 had been very happy that day — so she told herself and so she 
 believed — but had she not felt in the very depth of her young 
 heart, that it had been a lonely sort of happiness, that she had 
 been praised and admired and made much of, but no father's 
 or mother's eyes had been upon her, and no one had led her 
 by the hand before all those strangers and said : " She is mine y 
 look at her if you will, love her even if you choose, but your 
 new love is nothing to the love with which we have cherished 
 her in our bosoms, and enshrined her in our heart." No one 
 
LADY-BIKD. 105 
 
 had watched her success with pleasure — no one as she left the 
 heated ball-room had thrown a shawl over her shoulders, as 
 all the careful mothers were doing to their children — no one 
 had checked or reproved or caressed her that day. Singular 
 waywardness of the human heart — unconscious yearnings after 
 sympathy ! A word of kindness from a stranger had touched 
 a spring almost unknown to herself. There she sat watching 
 or seeming to watch the dancers, and new thoughts were in 
 her mind, or rather a new picture in her mind's eye, which 
 was never to leave it again. There it was to remain, perhaps 
 only as a dream that has been dreamt, and haunts us more or 
 less through life, and embodies our imaginings when in ro- 
 mances or in poetry we read of beauty and of love, or when 
 at other times we try to realize the presence of an angel or a 
 hero, of the conquering archangel or the glorious Maccabee. 
 For the first time in her life Gertrude had found it pleasant 
 to submit, and she found pleasure in dwelling on that thought, 
 in rehearsing again in her mind that little act of submission 
 to a perfect stranger, and she made castles in the air about 
 future opportunities of showing the same docility again. 
 
 u Do come and dance the cotillon with me, Miss Lifford," 
 Mark Apley exclaimed, as he swiftly crossed the room and 
 stood smiling before her. She sprung eagerly to her feet. 
 She was impatient to fly again over the smooth floor. The 
 music again was resounding, exciting and delighting every 
 sense, and making her heart bound in time with its quick and 
 wild measure. Mark Apley's voice was also pleasant in her 
 ears, for he said he should never lose sight of her again. That 
 he would sit for hours on the bridge of Stonehouseleigh. be- 
 cause she must sometimes drive or walk into the town. That 
 he would go and hear Vespers at the Catholic chapel, for 
 there he should see her — the saint of his devotion. That he 
 was not to be baffled when he had set his heart on anything, 
 and that after spending the happiest day of his life in her so- 
 ciety, he should certainly never submit not to see her again. 
 
 All this was said in joke, but there was something earnest 
 in it too. She saw perfectly how much he admired her ; and 
 music, and admiration, and dancing, and flattery, and non- 
 sense, and liberty were pleasant things enough, but in the 
 midst of them all castle-building went on. " If that voice," 
 she said to herself, " that spoke to me at the grotto were 
 again to address me now, — if it were to say : : Do not dance 
 so wildly — do not flirt so rashly — it is dangerous ! ' I should 
 5* 
 
106 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 stop at once, like a chidden child, and feel glad to be thus re- j 
 buked." But she neither heard that voice again, nor did she! 
 see the face which in and out of the ball-room her eyes were j 
 ever searching for. She asked Miss Apley, and then Mark, | 
 and one or two other persons, who was a tall dark gentleman I 
 whom she had seen in the shrubbery. One told her it must 
 have been Mr. Luxmoor, the member for the county, another 
 did not know — could not imagine who she meant, a third 
 thought it might have been one of the Italian singers, but this 
 she knew could not be, because of the good English which the 
 stranger spoke ; and nothing else could she learn. 
 
 At past twelve o'clock Gertrude's cloak was put on, her 
 hands affectionately pressed by Mrs. Apley and her daugh- 
 ters, with many entreaties not to let their acquaintance drop, 
 but to come and see them as often as she could. Mark took 
 her to the carriage. She saw him watching her from the 
 colonnade, as long as she was in sight, and she drove home 
 with a confusion of ideas in her head, and fatigue and excite- 
 ment bewildering her thoughts. It seemed to her as if she 
 had lived through a whole life since she left home that morn- 
 ing with Father Lifford. But one thought was uppermost — 
 one image was prominent — one impression supreme, and as 
 she laid her tired, but not sleepy head on the pillow, the idea 
 that passed through her mind was this : " To-morrow I shall 
 look at the Duke of Gandia's picture." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 "The eloquence of goodness 
 Scatters not words in the ear, but grafteth them 
 To grow there and to bear." 
 
 Shaeespeaez. 
 
 " Love is a great transformer." 
 
 On the morrow Mrs. Lifford was too ill to speak. Tho 
 exertions of the last few days had been too much for her, and 
 the doctor desired that none but her maid should go near her. 
 When Gertrude came down later than usual to the breakfast- 
 room, she found that her two usual companions had left it, — 
 her uncle had gone to the same cottage where he had been 
 
LADY-BIRD. 107 
 
 summoned the day before, and her father had already shut 
 himself up in his study. She threw the windows wide open, 
 and sat down to her solitary meal, which was quickly finished. 
 Then she took a camp-stool, and Luigi da Porto's romance of 
 Romeo and Giulet, which Maurice had brought with him from 
 Italy. She took them into the shade, underneath one of the 
 largest trees of the park, and there remained for several hours 
 reading and dreaming alternately. She had never felt to 
 dislike Lifford Grange so little. She wanted time for think- 
 ing or rather musing, and the profound stillness of that wide 
 solitary park was not irksome then. • 
 
 It was one of those sultry days in September when not a 
 leaf stirs, when scarcely an insect buzzes in the sunshine ; 
 when Nature seems asleep in the plenitude of her power — she 
 has yielded up her harvest, and reposes from her labour. 
 Gertrude had read the words which the enamoured girl 
 addresses to young Montague when he takes her hand in 
 the dance, at that ball which decides her fate, " Benedetta sia 
 la vostra venuta qui presso me. Messer Romeo," and then the 
 book dropped from her hand upon her knee, and she wondered 
 if such a sudden love as that were indeed possible ; and on 
 this theme she meditated long. She thought of Jacob and 
 Rachel, of James of Scotland and Madeleine of France, and 
 then again of Romeo and Juliet, — and believed in love at 
 first sight. 
 
 Her eyes fixed on the green grass ; her head resting on 
 her breast, so motionless that she heard the sound of her own 
 breathing ; her hands joined together on the book, she men- 
 tally made as it were her profession of that faith, — and seldom 
 as it occurs, who can deny that such love there is % It is not 
 common, perhaps it is undesirable-— perhaps unreasonable — - 
 but, if it is real, there may be in it as much truth and strength 
 and purity, as in the affections which are excited by a few 
 weeks' flirting, stimulated on the one side by coquetry and on 
 the other by vanity. If at the end of three months' flirtation, 
 and of such conversations as passed the day before between 
 her and Mark Apley, Gertrude had thought herself in love 
 with him, would she or ought she to have stood higher in her 
 own esteem, or in ours, than she does now, when she is con- 
 scious of having yielded up her heart at first sight to one 
 whose countenance indeed may be deceitful, whose soul and 
 whose intellect may be unequal to the stamp affixed on his 
 brow 3 to the promise of his face ; but in whom, even if such 
 
108 LADY-BIRF/. 
 
 were the case, she would only have been misled to pay fron? 
 age to the semblance of all that is admirable in man ? 
 
 Who he was, whence he came, she knew not ; what he was 7 
 still less : but this very ignorance reassured her, and gave her ! 
 confidence in the nature of the impression he had made upon 
 her. That he could be anything but exalted in character and 
 intellect she felt to be impossible, and would have staked her 
 life on his excellence, without an instant's hesitation. " Poor 
 little fool," some people will say — ay, it was folly, but not of 
 the meanest sort, and we pity those who- have never seen the 
 man on the faith of whose eyes they would have done the 
 saine. 
 
 While she was thus contemplating, a footstep roused her 
 from her abstraction. It was Father Lifford walking slowly 
 along on his way back to the house. He looked hot and 
 fatigued. Gertrude sprang up from her hiding-place under 
 the spreading boughs, and called to him eagerly : 
 
 " Here is a stool, Father Lifford ; do come and rest. The 
 sir is so sultry." 
 
 " Nonsense, child, I am not tired." 
 
 11 Do sit down a moment," she said in a tone so unusual 
 that he looked surprised, and perhaps something her mother 
 had said to him, in their last long conversation, came into his- 
 mind ; for his manner changed, and, sitting down as she 
 wished, he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and 
 asked her how she felt after a day of such unaccustomed 
 fatigue and excitement. 
 
 She had taken her seat opposite to him, on one of the low 
 branches of the elm, her arm twisted round another, and her 
 feet scarcely reaching the ground. 
 
 " I am very well, Father Lifford." 
 
 " That is more than you look. You have not a bit of 
 colour in your cheeks." 
 
 " It is the heat." 
 
 " It is sitting up late." 
 
 " no, I never slept better in my life." 
 
 " What are you doing here ? " She pulled some leaves off 
 the branch and let them fall on the book which was lying on 
 the grass. He pushed them aside with his stick and turned 
 over the pages with it. 
 
 " An Italian novel. How very useful ! Ah, Gertrude, it 
 is not in this way that you will prepare for yourself such st 
 close to your life as the one I have witnessed to-day." 
 
LADY-BIKD. 109 
 
 * To-day — have you seen any one die to-day? " 
 
 " Indeed I have, and a girl scarcely older than yourself," 
 
 " Was it to her that you were called yesterday ? " 
 
 "It was ; and she died this morning." 
 
 " Resigned ? " 
 
 " Ay. more than resigned — very happy." 
 
 " Had she been happy on earth ? " 
 
 tt Yes, nobody in her station could have been more so." 
 
 " Did any one love her ? " 
 
 " Her parents, her brothers and sisters, and she was en- 
 gaged to be married to a young man who was also very fond 
 of her." 
 
 " Then, I am not surprised that she died happy." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? " 
 
 " I mean that she had had her share of happiness, and it 
 made her good, and so she was fit for death. Bo you know. 
 Father, a strange thing ? I believe I should be more resigned 
 to die to-day than I could have been a few days ago." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it, and pray why so? " 
 
 "If you cannot guess, I don't think I can tell you." 
 
 " I am not going to guess, but I wish to put to you a ques- 
 tion, — do you think you deserve to be happy ? " 
 
 " I am afraid not," she answered seriously. " I am more 
 afraid not than ever. But let me ask you a question, and do 
 not snub me, dear Father Lifford, because really I want you 
 to answer it, — do not you think I should have been better if I 
 had been happier ? " 
 
 " I have always told you, child, that you might have been 
 happy if you had chosen it. Why, I have known a poor 
 creature in a hospital, who had never had a moment's ease since 
 her birth, as happy as the day was long. It is your stubborn- 
 ness that makes you unhappy, and this is an answer to your 
 question." 
 
 ' ; No, I do not think it is. Which is the cause and which 
 is the effect? That is the question. Tenderness might have 
 made me less stubborn." 
 
 " There is a tenderness, my child, which should have sub- 
 dued your heart long ago. I greatly fear that it is sorrow 
 which will have to do that work for you. If small trials, if 
 the sufferings of a wayward spirit are not enough to bring you 
 to His feet, God may in mercy send you some of those strange 
 afflictions which break the heart which would not bend, and 
 destroy the spirit that would not yield." 
 
110 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 She joined her hands, and said in a low voice : " Pray for 
 me that it may not be so." 
 
 He was pleased at her answer, and looked at her kindly. 
 Then, taking up her book from the ground, and having turned 
 over its pages, he said in a milder tone of expostulation than 
 usual : '■ Now what teaching is this % Nothing but praise of 
 that poor creature for killing herself on the body of her lover. 
 Can anything be more dreadful. If the story be a true one, 
 as it is said, one may charitably hope that she went mad in 
 that horrible place, and did it in a fit of insanity ; but here 
 the author coolly laments that such an example of real love 
 does not occur more frequently, and, I dare say, so besotted 
 was he with this absurd nonsense, that he was not even con- 
 scious that he was saying something very wicked." 
 
 " I had not thought of that. But do you think Juliet 
 could have helped being in love with Romeo 1 " 
 
 " Of course she could. Why, if Romeo had been a mar- 
 ried man — and so he might have been for aught she knew at 
 first — what would she have done ? Put him out of her head, 
 of course, or been a great sinner. Nothing is impossible with 
 a good will, and the grace of God." 
 
 Strange to say, it had not yet occurred to Gertrude that 
 the stranger who had made so singular an impression upon 
 her, the day before, might be married ; and Juliet's words 
 passed through her mind : " If he be married, my grave is 
 like to be my wedding-bed." She smiled at her own folly, for 
 she had formed no definite hopes or ideas connected with that 
 person, but wished to indulge to the uttermost the recollection 
 of that brief interview, and to build upon it certain romantic 
 dreams incompatible with such a possibility. However, 
 making an effort over herself, she recurred to the subject of 
 the girl who had died that day. 
 
 " Had she during her illness all the comforts that she could 
 want 1 " she asked. 
 
 ' : Yes. — she did not care much for anything of the kind, but 
 what was needful she had. What she seemed most anxious 
 about were her funeral expenses, that they should not be a 
 burthen to her parents." 
 
 '• And what has been done about that? " 
 
 " M. d'Arberg pays for them ? " 
 
 < ; Who?" 
 
 " M. d'Arberg, that foreigner who is staying at Wood, 
 land's." 
 
LADY-BIRD. Ill 
 
 " What M. d'Arberg 2 Not Maurice Redmond's friend 9 " 
 " Yes, the same. Did not you see him yesterday ? I just 
 caught sight of him as I was leaving the house. He came to 
 me the other day to speak about the poor Thorns, and I have 
 met him two or three times at their cottage." 
 " How did he find them out, I wonder % " 
 '• One of Thorn's sons had been his groom, I believe. 
 He is not quite a stranger in this neighbourhood. There is 
 some connection between him and the Apleys." 
 
 " Is he tall and dark, and like the picture of St. Francis 
 Borgia in mamma's room ? " 
 
 k - Ay, well perhaps he is. I felt as if I had seen his face 
 before. He is more like a Spaniard than a Frenchman." 
 "But is he French?" 
 
 ' ; Partly so ; his father was a German, I believe, natural- 
 ised in France ; his mother was English or Irish, I don't know 
 which. Have you never heard of his books ? — But I forget, 
 you only read this sort of thing," and with his stick he 
 pointed contemptuously at the prostrate novel. 
 
 " You know you do not recommend French books to me, 
 Father Lifford," Gertrude meekly answered, with a merry 
 look in her eyes, for her heart was bounding with delight. 
 
 " That is because you love poison, and French poison is 
 the worst of all. Well, I must go home now ; it is getting 
 late." 
 
 " do stop a minute longer, or let me walk back with 
 you : I don't mind the sun. But tell me about M. d'Arberg 
 and his books." 
 
 t: Why, most Frenchmen are humbugs, but I believe he is 
 a good man." 
 
 " Most Frenchmen humbugs ! Now, Father Lifford, that 
 is the sort of thing you say, but I am sure you don't mean, 
 and it vexes me so ! " 
 
 " Well, put many for most, and then the phrase will 
 do." 
 
 " Strike out French also, and it will do still better." 
 "No, no, I don't assent to that omission. Come, open 
 the umbrella,— the sun will make your silly head ache." 
 " What has M. d'Arberg written ? " 
 
 " Philosophical Essays on Christianity. I hate that word 
 Philosophy ; but he means well." 
 " And do you like the book % " 
 " Very well ; as much as I can like any French book. He 
 
112 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 has some peculiar notions ; but on the whole it is well enough, 
 But nothing of that sort suits you, you know. Verse-books. 
 and story-books, and trash are your delight." 
 
 " "What is M. d' Arberg doing here ? " 
 
 " Why, visiting his friends, I suppose. Somebody said he 
 had property hereabouts that his mother left him. He is 
 poking about amongst the Irish poor in the manufacturing 
 towns, they say. I hope he has not got a bee in his 
 bonnet." 
 
 "Have you that book here, Father Lifford?" Gertrude 
 asked, as they reached the house. 
 
 " It belongs to Maurice Redmond ; but I believe I have 
 it in my room." . 
 
 '• Will you lend it me % " 
 
 " You will not read it." 
 
 " Shall I promise to do so ? " she asked, with a smile. 
 
 " No, but if I let you have it, you must leave off poring 
 over those trashy novels that are always lying on your 
 table." 
 
 " Do you call ' Delphine' trash ? " 
 
 " Ay, and the worst species of it, — all the more mis- 
 chievous for its cleverness." 
 
 " Have you read it, Father Lifford ? " 
 
 " No, I never read such things ; but I know enough of its 
 tendency to warn you against it." 
 
 " Then I will bring you all the volumes, though I am 
 dying to know the end of the story, and you shall give me M. 
 d'Arberg's book instead. That will be an exchange that will 
 suit us both." 
 
 With these words she left him, and in a moment appeared 
 at the door of his room with the novel in her hand, and carried 
 off, as a miser bears away a load of sterling gold, the books 
 which had now become so full of interest to her. 
 
 She went into the library on the first floor, and to her ac- 
 customed couch, the window-seat. 
 
 The huge spider was, as usual, laying in wait in his web, 
 and the dying flies strewed about the floor; her favourite 
 books were in their places, but she passed them with an indif- 
 ferent eye, for all her interest was absorbed by the volumes in 
 her hand. The name of Adrien d' Arberg was on the title- 
 page, and it was his thoughts that she was going to read. 
 Silently, he would speak to her again, in her solitude, and she 
 would learn to know him, even without meeting him again. 
 
LADY-BIRD. II J? 
 
 But now that she knew his name, how many recollections of 
 what Maurice had related to her about him, crowded on her 
 memory, and how well they suited with his face, with his 
 voice, and with his attitude ! Even then he was no stranger 
 to her, and what would it be when she should have read 
 through those volumes, into which so much of his soul and 
 his mind must have passed 1 
 
 She began to read ; the style was entirely new to her. 
 She was not well acquainted with that species of modern 
 literature to which this book belonged, though well versed in 
 the writings of past times, both in French and in English ; 
 she had never before met with a work which employed against 
 vice and impiety all the fascinations of style, the sarcastic in- 
 genuity, and the impassioned sensibility, that are so often dis- 
 played in their service. It took her by surprise. Almost 
 every one has known, at least once in their lives, what it is 
 to meet with a book in which, as if for the first time, another 
 mind answers their own mind ; and the vague sketches which 
 were lying on the surface of the soul are filled up, as it were, 
 by a master's hand. We then almost worship the spirit that 
 speaks to us through its pages. 
 
 There are various magicians of this description — evil 
 spirits and good — ever at work in that line : much is dormant 
 in human hearts which their spells can awaken into exist- 
 ence. Have you ever gazed in a sculptor's studio on the 
 rough block of marble out of which is to come forth the con- 
 ception of his genius ? Perhaps the likeness of some beauti- 
 ful child of earth, or the fanciful image of a Pagan divinity, — 
 the triumph of form, the dream of sensuality ; or else the sub- 
 lime result of a Christian's meditation, or a poet's inspiration 
 There it lies — ready to appear at the command, and beneath 
 the hand of its master. Has not the author with his pen 
 sometimes the same power as the sculptor with his chisel? 
 May he not call into life, and mould into form those vague 
 and floating tendencies which haunt the human soul? May 
 he not breathe passions yet unknown into its secret recesses, 
 and arouse vices into play which were passively awaiting his 
 foul touch ? — or, on the other hand, may he not awaken the 
 love of virtue by the intense homage he pays her ; kindle de- 
 votion by the flame that flies from his bosom to his pen, and 
 sound the call to perfection by the clarion-cry of his own 
 faith 1 
 
 These things have been done, and are doing every day. 
 
114 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 Life and death are handed down from generation to genera- 
 tion, in the phoenix-like immortality of those works which, in 
 edition after edition, transmit their poison or their balm from 
 one age to another. The hand of Voltaire ! — the hand of St, 
 Francis of Sales ! — helpless, lifeless, and motionless they lie, 
 in the shrine of the Pantheon, and in the humble church of 
 Annecy. till the day of the Resurrection ! — their works, in the 
 words of the Bible, " are gone before them." ay, before them 
 in one sense, but have tarried behind them in another. 
 
 Gertrude read, and thought, and read again, and the hours 
 flew by unheeded. As certain perfumes have more power 
 when the frame is peculiarly susceptible, — as certain sounds 
 vibrate on the ear with more force at one moment than at an- 
 other, according to the bodily state, so books impress the 
 mind at certain times in a way which, earlier or later, they 
 might not have done. And it is probable that the strong 
 impression which Adrien had made upon her, during that 
 brief instant when a few words had passed between them, 
 paved the way for the effect which his writings were to have 
 upon her. They did not treat exclusively of religion or of 
 morality : — they were not wholly ascetic or imaginative, argu- 
 mentative or illustrative. They had been originally written 
 with a limited purpose, but an unlimited scope. — to convince 
 a dear friend of the truth of Religion, not by evidences alone, 
 not by sentiments merely, but by every appeal to reason — 
 every illustration from analogy — every weapon offensive and 
 defensive which Truth and Intellect, can furnish, and Faith 
 and Genius can wield. 
 
 Gertrude had never had even an intellectual doubt of the 
 truth of her religion, and imperfect as her conduct often was, 
 it would have been often more blamable but for the restrain- 
 ing power which that religion exercised over her : at certain 
 times of her life she had known the joys of devotion, but her 
 intellect had not been sufficiently appealed to. Her under- 
 standing had not yet grasped the extraordinary relation that 
 exists between Faith in its full Catholic sense and everything 
 great, good, and beautiful in the domain of reason and of feel- 
 ing — of science and of art. Adrien's writings seemed to open 
 before her new vistas in every direction, and to display the 
 whole marvellous connection between the highest intellectual 
 aspirations of the human mind, and the smallest point of re- 
 vealed doctrine. Religion no longer appeared as something 
 true and sacred indeed, but as concerned only with one por- 
 
LADY-BIRD. 115 
 
 tion of man's heart — one region of his soul — one aspect of Ills 
 life ; but as tbe point on which his whole existence revolves, 
 on which his public as well as his private actions must turn, 
 the only principle, the ruling power, the absolute master of 
 every impulse, the disposer of every hour. 
 
 She saw the visible world not merely moving alongside but 
 encompassed on every side by a supernatural one, the contact 
 of which becomes every day more startlingly plain. It alluded 
 to the modern discoveries of science, so extraordinarily illus- 
 trative of the faith of the Church : it spoke of the sublime 
 aspirations through which the old philosophers felt their way 
 after truth, and how Plato dared to guess what the first Cate- 
 chism teaches. The perfectibility of man in its Christian 
 sense, the mystery of his vocation, the depths to which he falls, 
 the heights to which he rises, were dwelt on each in turn. 
 Through the confessions of sceptics, the admissions of enemies, 
 the homage of antagonists, through history and science, through 
 the mind to the soul, the chain of evidence made its way. 
 The reasoning was close and as calm as truth, but the feeling 
 was intense, and fervent as love. It was as clever as if the 
 intellect alone had been employed upon it ; it was as persua- 
 sive as if the heart had alone been engaged in it. Was it 
 strange that it absorbed her % — then roused and then strength- 
 ened her ? That new thoughts, new interests, new resolutions, 
 were formed? — that her studies were changed? — that her 
 hours were spent differently? — that to get a book alluded to 
 in that book, and they were many, became one of her greatest 
 pleasures ? — that to learn some of its eloquent pages by heart 
 was her recreation ? — that stealing to her mother's side when- 
 ever her health allowed of it, she read to her those passages 
 which were most calculated to please her, and then kissing 
 away the tears that sometimes stole down her face, she would 
 lay her cheek against hers and whisper, " I knew you would 
 like it ! " 
 
 This was all well, but it was better still that in many 
 practical ways she, day by day, improved, — that she was more 
 assiduous in her devotions, more patient in little trials, less 
 bitter towards her father, more tender to her mother. — that 
 she appreciated Father Lifford's qualities more, and cared less 
 for his peculiarities. But it was not so well that a strong hu- 
 man feeling was mixed up with all this, though it may be that 
 Heaven's mercy may work good through its means. The sand 
 on which this promising edifice is rising may indeed harden 
 
116 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 into stone, and the winds blow, and the rain fall, and its fair 
 proportions stand, — for in that case it will be founded on the' 
 rock. But if it rests on nothing but the shifting ground of 
 passion or of fancy — what then will be its fate ? 
 
 She is always copying the Due de Gandia's picture, and 
 she has written under it these lines from her old favourite 
 Metastasio, though she seldom reads him now — 
 
 " E proviamo al mondo 
 Che nato in nobil core 
 Sol frutti di virtu 
 Produce amore." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "A prince can make a belted kuight, 
 A marquis, duke, and a' that, 
 But an honest man's aboon his might, 
 G-uid faith ! he mauna' fa' that, 
 For a' that and a' that, 
 Their dignities and a 1 that, 
 The pith o 1 sense, and pride o 1 worth 
 Are higher ranks than a 1 that.'" 
 
 Burns. 
 "Virtue and knowledge are endowments greater 
 Than nobleness and riches; careless heirs 
 May the two latter darken and expand; 
 But immortality attends the former, 
 Making man a god. 1 ' 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Weeks and months passed away, and nothing worthy of re- 
 mark disturbed the even tenor of Gertrude's life. She went 
 once or twice to Woodlands, but the Apleys were often away, 
 and none of them except Mark seemed particularly anxious to 
 keep up the acquaintance. Perhaps they had been alarmed 
 at his evident admiration of her, and did not wish to encour- 
 age any further intimacy between them. Whenever he was at 
 home he contrived to meet her in her walks, and to inter- 
 change a few words with her. Sometimes, when his manner 
 was particularly eager, it occurred to her how easily, by a lit- 
 tle encouragement, she might bring him to propose to her, and 
 what a change would thus be brought about in her destiny : 
 but it was never more than a passing thought. Her romantic 
 admiration for Adrien d'Arberg forbade her entertaining it ; 
 
LADYBinn. 1 IV 
 
 and though she liked these brief interviews, and her manner 
 did not by any means deter Mark from seeking them, yet one 
 of the " fruits of virtue," which grew out of that sentiment was 
 a reserve in encouraging attentions, which doubtless, as far as 
 they went, were by no means disagreeable to her. 
 
 But this very reserve increased Mark's admiration. At the 
 breakfast he had been fascinated by her beauty, and amused 
 by her cleverness, which he did not quite understand, though 
 it charmed him like a firework or a French play ; but when 
 he met her now, there was something more thoughtful in her 
 face, more gentle in her manner ; and this became her so well, 
 and gave him such an interest about her, that he would some- 
 times sit on his horse at the gate of Lifford Grange, gazing 
 with a wistful look at her retreating figure, as she walked up 
 the seDulchral avenue of yew trees towards that house into 
 which no strangers ever entered, and which appeared to him 
 almost like an enchanted palace. 
 
 Gertrude had amused herself one day by telling him a 
 wonderful ghost-story about it, which made his hair stand on 
 end, but which he liked so much to hear her relate, that almost 
 every time he met her, he used to begin again with, ' ; Now you 
 know I don't believe that story you told me the other day ;" 
 and each time she added some new detail, which made him 
 exclaim, " now come, that is too bad — you don't expect me 
 to believe that?" But he went away for a long time that 
 winter, and Gertrude missed him much, for it was impossible 
 not to like to have her path crossed by such a kind smile, and 
 such cheerful words. His good humour was like sunshine, 
 and his merry laugh had grown familiar to her as something 
 that belonged to those lanes and commons where she so 
 often met him — as the smell of the gorse, or the song of the 
 birds. 
 
 She still went often to the cottage at Stonehouseleigh, 
 and now had a new and powerful interest in talking to Mau- 
 rice. She asked him a thousand questions about the places 
 where he had been with M. d'Arberg. During the years that 
 he had spent with him in Rome, he had been engaged in writ- 
 ing that work which had so deeply interested her, and every 
 minute detail concerning it she listened to with avidity. 
 
 " We lived at that time," Maurice told her, " in an apart- 
 ment near the qiiattre Fontane, and M. d'Arberg used to 
 write in a little garden full of violets, with a trellis of lemon- 
 trees on one side, and a view over Borne on the other. I 
 
118 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 often looked at him as he sat at work, and thought what a 
 good model he would have afforded a painter for a St. John 
 writing his Gospel, or a St. Thomas Aquinas his Summa : he 
 never looked impatient or anxious, but used to write those 
 eloquent pages so composedly and fluently that I could almost 
 have fancied I saw his guardian angel by his side dictating to 
 him ; and if anybody interrupted him — some tiresome ac- 
 quaintance, or some begging friar — he would put down his 
 pen. and listen to them with a countenance as undisturbed as 
 if he had nothing else in the world to occupy or engross him. 
 When I look back to the time I spent with that man, I can 
 hardly believe in the perfection of his character, — so perfect, 
 just because it had so little pretension." 
 
 ' ; He must be, however, a person to be afraid of," Ger- 
 trude said ; " goodness and cleverness combined would always 
 be somewhat awful, I should think." 
 
 " Well, I never felt that with him. He is so very indul- 
 gent, — not merely that he will not say severe things, but one 
 feels sure he does not think them." 
 
 " Yet in his writings he lashes with merciless severity cer- 
 tain modes of action and of thought." 
 
 " Ay, but no one ever made a wider distinction between 
 the sin and the sinner, the error that blinds a man, and the 
 man whom error blinds: he made a brilliant campaign in Al- 
 geria some years ago, and was as distinguished by his valour 
 at that time as he has been since by his literary labours." 
 
 " And what made him leave the army ? " 
 
 " He had only entered it for a particular purpose. The 
 first year that he went into society at Paris he happened to 
 defend the character of one of his friends with so much 
 warmth, that the person who had slandered that friend con- 
 ceived himself insulted, and called him out. He refused to 
 fight, but the very next day proceeded to join the African 
 army, where he established a reputation which raised him 
 above the suspicion of cowardice. A splendid career was 
 open to him, but he had no vocation for a military life, and 
 retired from it as soon as a peace was concluded. He was 
 adored by the troop he commanded — indeed I have never 
 met with any one who has had any intercourse with him, who 
 could resist the influence of his character and of his manners. 
 Have you read the life he wrote of Queen Christina, oi 
 Sweden?" 
 
 " O no ; have you got it 1 " 
 
LADY-BIRD. 11 U 
 
 " I am afraid not. I went with him into the Tyrol, just 
 at the time he was busy with it. He wished to see the Fran- 
 ciscan Church at Inspruck, which is connected with her his- 
 tory. I shall never forget his admiration of the wonderful 
 tomb of the Emperor Maximilian, in that glorious church. 
 Those twenty-eight colossal bronze figures keeping their silent 
 unremitting watch over the monument of the great warrior. 
 How he liked the Tyrol ! There was something so congenial 
 to his feelings, so akin to his own character, in the strength 
 and simplicity of its people ; in the intimate connection be- 
 tween the highest beauties of nature, the devotional spirit of 
 the inhabitants, and the pervading influence of religion, which 
 seems there to impregnate the very air — to turn every hill into 
 a Calvary, every valley into an oratory, and every church-yard 
 into a garden. We had been staying at Venice, the city of 
 my idolatry, the enchantress of the earth, the goddess of the 
 sea ; beauty bewildering every sense, music floating on the 
 breeze, romance hovering over each stone of its palaces, each 
 ripple of its wave, every stroke of the oar, every turn of the 
 lagoons. I still remembered its moonlight nights, its noonday 
 breezes ; the Byzantine churches with their eastern cupolas, 
 their mosaic pavements, their marble landing-places ; the 
 gentle splash of the water as we neared them in the gondolas ; 
 the musical cry of the gondoliers, as we shot swiftly round the 
 corners ; the soft sweet accents of the Venetian tongue ; the 
 luxurious repose of the body ; the dreaming activity of the 
 excited imagination, — it was all vivid in my mind as an 
 Eastern story just perused, as a fairy tale realised ; and when 
 M. d'Arberg pointed out to me one night the moon shining 
 coldly and sternly on one of the snowy peaks of the Alps, 
 while the forests of fir beneath were lying in darkness, except 
 where a solitary lamp (an earthly star as he called it) was 
 burning before a way-side sanctuary, half way down the 
 mountain, I could not forbear exclaiming, ' Give me back 
 St. Mark and its piazza, the sky of Italy and the moon of 
 Venice.' He smiled and said, ' I am afraid. Maurice, that 
 you would have preferred the enchantress, Armida, to the 
 lady in Comus.' " 
 
 Gertrude's eyes were riveted on Maurice, and she longed 
 for him to talk on. He saw those eyes and their expression ; 
 at that moment there flashed across him something that was at 
 once like a fear and a hope. How many ideas the brain can 
 hold in one instant, and what different emotions agitate the 
 
129 LADY BIRD. 
 
 
 heart at the same time ! He thought of their childish sports 
 in the forest ; he thought of the lessons he had given her — of 
 her appearance at the cottage the day that her father had dis- 
 missed him— of the way in which she had come and stood by 
 his side, when he was taken ill at the Woodlands' breakfast; 
 and now how often she took occasion to stop at the cottage, 
 and to linger there in conversation with him: and the ex- 
 pression of her eyes just then ! There was a light in them he 
 had never seen before, and which seemed to put him beside 
 himself. Was it possible that she loved him % It was a 
 sensation of rapture mixed with a thousand misgivings and 
 apprehensions. 
 
 His safety, his peace,' had consisted hitherto in the utter 
 hoplessness of the sentiment, the dream, the passion — which- 
 ever it was — that he had conceived : but in the light of that 
 moment's wild hope he saw his own poverty, he saw duty, 
 honour, and Mary arrayed before him in despairing distinct- 
 ness.. He was one of those men who have the love but not the 
 courage of virtue. That he had hitherto felt her to be utterly 
 out of his reach had been almost a satisfaction to him, for he 
 fancied there was neither danger nor guilt in worshipping her 
 at a distance. That could be no injury to her, and no 
 treachery to Mary. But this new hope, this sudden suspicion 
 that she was not indifferent to the homage which his eyes and 
 voice and actions had involuntarily paid her — was it bliss or 
 was it pain 1 There she was with that fatal beauty which had 
 so long enthralled him. Ay, he had often before compared 
 her to Italy, and applied to her loveliness that startling 
 epithet. There she was, resting her face on her hand, and 
 bidding him tell her more about his travels, more about 
 M. d'Arberg and himself, and their life at Rome and Venice, 
 their walks on the sea-shore, and their communings by the 
 way, and each time there was a pause recurring to the same 
 subject. 
 
 Another person in that room was listening and watching 
 
 also, — 
 
 " One who had poured her heart's rich treasure forth, 
 And been unrepaid for its priceless worth." 
 
 Whether Gertrude was consciously or unconsciously stealing 
 away from her the love which had been the sunshine of her 
 life she knew not, and had the virtue not to decide; but the 
 effect was the same. " She is breaking my happiness to pieces," 
 
LADY-BIKD. 121 
 
 was Mary's feeling ; " perhaps only as a child might destroy a 
 flower of great price which had fallen in its way. My all can 
 be to her but the plaything of the hour, and yet she uses it as 
 such, and seems not to know what she is doing. Maurice, 
 my beloved one! You are not made for trials; you are not 
 fitted for conflicts with the world and your own heart. I 
 might have stood between you and many dangers ; but this 
 one nothing that I can do may avert. It is as if you were 
 sinking into a gulf or falling over a precipice, and I was forced 
 to stand by and see you perish, with my hands tied and my 
 mouth gagged. Could I but make you feel that if you love 
 her she will break your heart ! " 
 
 Always after Gertrude's visits Maurice was more affection- 
 ate than usual to Mary, and there was a refinement in the pain 
 that this gave her. It seemed as if the very source of her 
 happiness was poisoned, for these mute apologies were more 
 grievous to her than unkindness would have been. Yet her 
 manner never betrayed the least irritation ; only there was a 
 brave tenderness in her countenance quite different from the 
 beaming look and playful shake of the head with which she 
 had hitherto received his assurances of affection. 
 
 The winter passed by, and the spring also. Maurice went 
 to London for some months, where he gave lessons and played 
 at concerts with considerable success, but the tone of his 
 letters to Mary was restless and dissatisfied. It seemed as if 
 he could neither stay at nor away from Stonehouseleigh with 
 any comfort. He complained sometimes that she did not 
 urge him to come back, that she did not write to him often 
 enough. He spoke of his own health in a tone of depression, 
 and of London with abhorrence. Mary's trial increased, for 
 now she hardly knew what was her duty, what was best for 
 him. Any sacrifice she was ready to make, but feared to take 
 any step either backwards or forwards. It seemed to her best 
 to wait and to watch, and Heaven knows there is often more 
 suffering in this than in any decision, but of that she never 
 thought. 
 
 In the course of the summer Edgar Lifford came home ; he 
 was a handsome and amiable youth, with a great deal of infor- 
 mation and a little pedantry. Gertrude — who was very glad 
 of his return — laughed at him, and he did not resent it, but 
 treated her with great condescension, and explained to her 
 many things which he supposed she did not understand. 
 Great pains had been taken with him, and he had had admi- 
 6 
 
222 LADY-BIRD, 
 
 rable instructors, but the essential part of the intellect was 
 wanting, although he might have been said to have goof 
 parts, according to the strict letter of that phrase, for his 
 memory and his aptitude for learning were remarkable. There; 
 was nothing he could not, and I had almost said, did not com- 
 mit to memory. He was almost too young to be prosy, but he 
 promised much in that line, especially if that shocking opinion 
 be correct, that it is not possible to be a thorough-paced bore, 
 without possessing a great deal of information. 
 
 Mrs. Lifford loved her son's goodness, his honesty face, his 
 civility to every one, and she imagined that his residence at 
 home would be a great advantage and comfort to Gertrude. 
 Mr. Lifford was as fond of his son as he could be of anything, 
 but as he was himself clever in his way — though no one could - 
 make less use of his natural gifts — he quickly perceived hisj 
 son's intellectual deficiencies, and felt an additional irritation 
 at Gertrude's superiority. When, with a few words of lively 
 sarcasm, hitting exactly the nail on the head, she overturned! 
 the well-set, ponderous array of her brother's reasonings, or, 
 when he was really in the right, managed to make his argu-j 
 ments appear ridiculous, his brow grew darker still than usual 
 and there was something painful in the looks he cast upon 
 her. 
 
 Now that Edgar was old enough to dine with them, there; 
 was a great deal more conversation at Lifford Grange than 
 was usually the case. That it was lively could scarcely be 
 said, for the two, who, in different ways, might have made itj 
 so — that is, Gertrude and her uncle — were the most silent. 
 and Mr. Lifford and his son had it a good deal to themselves. 
 One day a little scene occurred, which was animated, at least.! 
 if not lively. Mr. Lifford had been pronouncing himself very 
 strongly against all modern innovations, in which he included 
 the diffusion of education amongst the poor, lodging-houses, 
 wash-houses, and emigration, all of which he declared to havj 
 a Socialist and revolutionary tendency. " All this fuss 
 about the poor at this time is only a species of cant which 
 belongs to the age, and h is not an atom of real charity in it." 
 
 " True charity," Edgar observed, " consists, in my opinion, 
 in individual exertions, not in combined action. Thus grati- 
 tude is awakened in the breasts of the poor, and kindness in 
 those of their superiors." 
 
 '* But, my dear Edgar, you cannot individually wash the 
 poor, nor can you swim with them on your back to Australia, 
 80 that some combined action may be useful." 
 
LADY-BIRD. 123 
 
 "I own to a great dislike to prospectuses, and lists, 
 an d -» 
 
 " Bills of fare," Gertrude maliciously suggested, having 
 observed that her brother studied that prospectus every morn- 
 ing with considerable interest. 
 
 Mr. Lifford frowned and said, " Printed papers have as 
 seldom any real connexion with good works as pertness has 
 with wit." 
 
 " I met the other day in the railway," Edgar said, " a gen- 
 tleman with whom I had a great deal of conversation on phi- 
 lanthrojncal subjects. I should almost have been inclined to 
 think him a Socialist from some things he said, only that it 
 seemed afterwards that he was quite the reverse. As long as 
 he talked of what the higher classes should do, he seemed to 
 stop at nothing in his requirements ; but, on the other hand, 
 he held temporal prosperity for all sorts of persons cheaper 
 than I should be inclined to do, though of course I know that 
 there are things of greater importance. He was a Frenchman, 
 I found, though he spoke English extremely well." 
 
 " It was not Adrien d'Arberg, by chance % " Father Lif- 
 ford inquired. 
 
 " That was the name on his portmanteau. He was just 
 come from France." 
 
 Gertrude's colour had risen at the sound of the name that 
 interested her so much, and she said quickly, " Did he know 
 who you were % " 
 
 " I found he did, and that he had heard of my family and 
 knew how ancient it was, and that we counted kings and cru- 
 saders amongst our ancestors." 
 
 '• How you must have purred when he said that," Gertrude 
 murmured, but not loud enough for her father to hear. 
 
 - 1 did not quite approve of his tone on the subject ; he 
 liked old recollections of that kind, he said, and the romance 
 ittached to them. It was like the armour that we hang upon 
 :>ur walls, of no real value in these days, but having a certain 
 charm from association." 
 
 " A manufacturer's son, no doubt, a Jeune-France !" Mr. 
 Lifford ejaculated with unspeakable contempt. 
 
 " No, he does not belong to that school, and he is a far 
 better man than you would suppose." Father Lifford answered. 
 
 " And why in Heaven's name," Gertrude exclaimed to her- 
 self. •• should one not suppose him to be so 1 But, patience. 
 Wisdom is justified of her children.' " 
 
; 
 
 124 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 '•' He lias written a clever book enough, which has made a 
 great sensation in France." 
 
 " 0, an author too ! a Frenchman, and an author ! From 
 all such Heaven deliver us ! I hope, Edgar, that you wer 
 not by way of making more than a momentary acquaintanc 
 with him. That is the worst of those infernal railways : the 
 expose one to come in contact with all sorts of people." 
 
 " 0, I took care not to commit myself in any way to his 
 acquaintance, for I could not tell, you know, what his birth or 
 position in society might be. Dear me. Gertrude, how red 
 you are ! Are you very hot, dear sister ? — Shall I open the 
 window ? " 
 
 All the open windows in the world would not have cooled 
 Gertrude's cheeks at that moment, or restrained her from 
 breaking forth. " I pity you, brother, if you could not dis- 
 cern in that man's appearance a surer patent of true nobility 
 than lies in parchments and escutcheons, and a greater honour 
 in having had an hour's conversation with him, than in de- 
 scending from crusaders and Spanish grandees." 
 
 There was an awful pause after this sentence. The sneer 
 at the " Grands d'Espagne" had particularly nettled Father 
 Lifford, who was more than half a Spaniard in his feelings. 
 Edgar was exceedingly puzzled — both at the extreme impro- 
 priety of his sister's sentiments, and at her warmth on the sub- 
 ject — as well he might be, not knowing that she had ever seen! 
 d'Arberg. or that she was acquainted with his works. 
 
 '- Really, sister," he began, but his father interrupted him. j 
 " Pray do not attempt to reason with Gertrude ; since her love 
 of contradiction and perversity of feeling is getting to the 
 point of putting herself in a passion, and insulting us all about 
 a perfect stranger in whom she can take no interest, but on 
 account of his probable low birth and his sneers at what we 
 value and respect, the more we leave her to herself the better ; 
 only I do not choose to hear such words uttered again before 
 me ; and therefore, Miss LifiFord, whatever your degrading 
 sentiments may be, take care that you never let me hear them 
 again." 
 
 Gertrude had been much to blame, she knew and she felt 
 it, and her irritation had vanished ; but a dull aching at her 
 heart succeeded it. When they all left the table she went to. 
 the window, and laid her forehead against the glass. Her 
 father and her brother had left the room, and her uncle was 
 following them ; but when he got near the door he turned 
 
 
LADY-BIRD. 125 
 
 'ound to look at her. She also turned at that moment, and 
 •ushiiig to him with impetuosity, threw herself into his arms. 
 He did not repulse her. but said, " Pshaw, don't make a scene; 
 rou are a bad incorrigible girl." But the manner was not 
 larsh as the words. 
 
 " Father Lifford," she exclaimed, " I have been so 
 vrong. I have behaved ill to you, — you who have been so 
 dnd to me ! " 
 
 " Never mind that ; you should grieve at having displeased 
 rour father." 
 
 " I cannot. You — you I am sorry to have offended, and 
 f you would let me, I would kneel to ask your pardon." 
 
 " No, no, Gertrude, not here. It is not thus or here that 
 70U must sue for pardon ; remember your father's must be 
 isked, and that not in outward form alone, but with a hum- 
 med heart and a penitent spirit. God bless you, my child ! " 
 le added, for he saw the resolution was made, and the proud 
 spirit conquered. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 "I looked, and looked, and still with new delight 
 Such joy my soul, such pleasure filled my sight; 
 Nor sullen discontent, nor anxious care. 
 Even though brought hither could inhabit there, 
 But thence they fled as from their mortal foe, 
 For this sweet place could only pleasure know." 
 
 Drtden, 
 
 "About me round 1 saw 
 Hill, dale, and shady woods, and sunny places, 
 And liquid lapse of murm'ring streams : by these 
 Creatures that lived and moved, and walked or flew, 
 Birds on the branches warbling; all things smiled; 
 With fragrance and with jov my heart o'erflowed." 
 
 Fayrye Queen. 
 
 Edgar observed that his sister was looking somewhat pale 
 md out of spirits, and his good-natured disposition attribu- 
 ting it partly to the scene which had taken place, and of which 
 le had unintentionally been the cause, he set about thinking 
 m some mode of pleasing and amusing her. Having heard 
 ler express one day a great wish to ride, he now endeavoured 
 o find out some means of giving her this pleasure. 
 
 ' ; Would you not like to ride, Gertrude," he said to her.one 
 
126 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 morning. "Would not the exercise be beneficial to your 
 health?" 
 
 " I don't know what it would do to my health, dear old boy, 
 but I know it would be of use to my temper, — it would shake 
 a great deal of malice out of me." 
 
 11 Would you be afraid to ride my horse? " 
 
 " I would ride anything, a cow, a stag, a crow, or an 
 eagle." 
 
 " If so, I will borrow the gamekeeper's pony for myself, 
 and you can ride Conqueror. I must see about the side-sad- 
 dle, and you must get something of a habit." 
 
 " I don't know what I can do about that. Perhaps I might 
 wear mamma's, which has been put by for so many years. Do 
 you think its old-fashioned shape and embroidered facings will 
 signify ? " 
 
 " dear no. I have no doubt it will look very well, and 
 we will go towards the open country, where we shall probably 
 not meet any one. You will like, perhaps, to see a large 
 encampment of gipseys on Oakley Common ? " 
 
 " 0, of all things ; I delight in their picturesque faces. 
 What a dear boy you are, Edgar, to have thought of my 
 riding. I will copy the tree for you this evening, and not say 
 anything disrespectful about it." 
 
 " I hope you will not for your own sake, Gertrude, and I 
 am much obliged to you for the promise." 
 
 Then they parted, and both were successful in their 
 researches. 
 
 At five o'clock, for the day had been very warm and they 
 did not start till then, Gertrude appeared on the steps in her 
 picturesque attire, and sprang lightly on the horse, which ap- 
 peared at first rather uneasy at the flapping of her riding- 
 habit, but went pretty quietly after a few minutes. She was 
 delighted at finding herself on horseback, and when they got 
 into a green valley, a little beyond the park, she set off at a 
 quick canter till the ground grew broken and uneven, and then 
 they proceeded at a foot-pace through a narrow ravine, and 
 by the side of a rapid stream. She was silent, for her enjoy- 
 ment lay in thoughts that it would never have occurred to her | 
 to communicate to Edgar ; only now and then she said, " How 
 pleasant this is ! " or, " How fine it is ^to-day ! " He stopped 
 sometimes to gather branches of honyesuckle or white convol- 
 vuluses, and handed them to her, discoursing the while on bot 
 any, geology, and various branches of natural history, and 
 
 
LADY-BIRD. 127 
 
 telling her the names of every bird and insect they saw on 
 bush or hedgerow. She thanked him for the flowers, and 
 listened with apparent interest to the comments, but her 
 thoughts were often far awa}^. 
 
 " There is a lady-bird," he said, as one of those little 
 creatures settled on his horse's mane. 
 
 " Ay, a lady-bird," she exclaimed, roused from her abstrac- 
 tion ; " my namesake ! Do not you remember ? — it is the 
 name that Maurice Redmond and Mary Grey have always 
 given me." 
 
 " But I hope they don't do so now, Gertrude ; it would be 
 very familiar." 
 
 :i I wonder." she said to herself, " that he does not add — 
 * and familiarity breeds contempt.'" But without answering 
 him, she held out her hand and made the little insect come 
 upon it, and gazed upon it earnestly, while she murmured to 
 herself in a low voice the pretty nursery rhyme — 
 
 " lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home, 
 
 The squirrel and field-mouse have gone to their rest, 
 The daisies have shut up their sleepy red eyes, 
 
 The bees and'the insects aud birds are at rest. 
 O lady- bird, lady-bird fly away home, 
 
 The glow-worm is lighting his glittering lamp, 
 The dew's falling fast, and your tine speckled wings 
 
 Will be moistened and wet with the close clinging damp. 
 O lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home, 
 
 The sweet little fairy bells tinkle afar ; 
 Make haste, or they'll catch you and harness you fast 
 
 With a gossamer cobweb to Oberon's car." 
 
 As she ended her song the little creature, that had been 
 for a while so motionless that it scarce seemed alive, suddenly 
 expanded its hitherto invisible wings, and flew away in an 
 instant. 
 
 " Ah, so I too shall fly away some day, to your great sur- 
 prise," she said, turning to Edgar; "I must see something of 
 the world before I die." 
 
 "' I hope you will be well married in a year or two, sister. 
 and then I dare say you will persuade your husband to take 
 you a tour abroad." 
 
 u Unless I am married by proxy — like some of the great 
 people we descend from — I do not see the individual who is to 
 have the honour of my hand." 
 
 " My father will look to that." 
 
228 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " He may look, but he will not see. Besides, it is my 
 business — not his." 
 
 " I cannot admit that, Gertrude ; nothing concerns a father 
 more than the marriage of his children, and the alliances of 
 his family." 
 
 " Of his sons, certainly," she answered, with an affected 
 grayity ; " I would not have you, my dear brother, swerve an 
 inch from that conviction or think of choosing a wife for your- 
 self — n ot even if you were to meet with an angel from Heaven 
 — if she could not prove sixteen quarterings, or had not had well- 
 attested grandfathers on grandfathers. I feel that on you will 
 rest all the responsibility of the family greatness, and I am 
 sure you will not shrink from any choice that will be made for 
 you, be she ever so ugly, if her ancestors are all right." 
 
 " I think virtue is the first thing in a wife, but next to that, 
 I own that I attach more importance to family descent than to 
 personal beauty." 
 
 " my dear Edgar, how absurd you are ! Do not be 
 angry." But there was no occasion for this appeal, for Edgar 
 had the best of tempers, and the happiest conviction that he 
 was always right ; so that nothing ever ruffled or disturbed 
 him. 
 
 After a ride of some length, and mounting a while, they 
 arrived at a wooden eminence near the downs, which com- 
 manded a magnificent view. The stream, which had been 
 compressed within its banks in the narrow valley, expanded 
 into a river in the plain ; the hills, overhung with wood, threw 
 broad shadows on the waving corn-fields. The declining sun 
 gilded the rich foliage with its evening light, and odours rose 
 in balmy sweetness from the clover on the one side, and the 
 wild thyme on the other. Edgar, who always was more intent 
 on little matters of detail than on the general beauty of a 
 scene, and whose favourite pursuit just then was entomology, 
 espied a singular insect flying under some trees a little way 
 beneath them. He got off his horse, and tying the bridle to 
 a tree, ran after it amongst the bushes where he had seen it 
 disappear. Gertrude sat negligently on her saddle in delighted 
 contemplation of the scene before her. She let the reins hang 
 on her horse's neck, and allowed him to crop the short grass 
 at his feet. 
 
 At that moment a gun went off in a neighbouring field 
 startling a covey of partridges, and frightening both the horses, 
 which set off at full gallop. Edgar's broke away from the 
 
LADY-BIRD. 129 
 
 bush where it was loosely fastened, and rushed past the spot 
 : where he was still looking for his insect. He ran after it down 
 Ithe hill, and it was some time before he caught it. When he 
 returned to the spot where he had left Gertrude she had disap- 
 peared. He called to her as loudly as he could, but no an- 
 swer came. Then pushing on his horse, he looked about the 
 downs in every direction and could not see her. In serious 
 alarm he rode on, but unfortunately in the opposite direction 
 to that which her horse had taken. It had started off at the 
 same moment as his ; she kept her seat and seized the reins, 
 but beginning to pull at its mouth with all her might, it stuck 
 its head down, and got entirely beyond her control. She was 
 soon out of sight of the spot from whence she had started, and 
 began to feel sick and giddy with the pace at which they were 
 going. She felt herself rushing up and down hill, and over 
 some ditches and through some fences, and then across a road, 
 and again for what appeared to her an interminable time along 
 the open downs, and at last through a gate into what seemed 
 ;to be a park : there the horse came suddenly to a stop : this 
 threw her off her balance and she fell on the grass. It was 
 soft and she would not have been much hurt if her foot had 
 not been under her, and in this way severely sprained her 
 ankle. She felt a little stunned, but endeavoured to get up 
 land to walk a few steps, but pain compelled her to sit down 
 again, with her back against a hay-stack, which she now saw 
 was the obstacle that had checked the speed of her horse. 
 
 It was getting late, and the night was waning fast ; she 
 'could discern nothing but trees, and heard no sounds but the 
 cawing of rooks. All sorts of ideas began to pass through her 
 mind, — if nobody passed that way what would become of her 
 that night ? Once more she tried to walk, but now she could not 
 even put her foot to the ground. Then she called out as loud as 
 she could, and the rooks seemed to caw louder in answer, but 
 nothing else responded. Then something rattled in the hedge 
 behind her, and she held in her breath with affright. Her foot 
 began to swell very much, and she grew faint with the pain. 
 By degrees her thoughts became less clear, and almost as- 
 sumed the character of dreams; but still they turned upon her 
 present position, and the vague fears it inspired. 
 
 Would she die if she remained there all the night ? It 
 
 was a summer evening, and the sky over her head was clear, 
 
 and the stars beginning to shine one by one ; but the air felt 
 
 very cold, and the grass was damp. If she should have a 
 
 6* 
 
130 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 dangerous illness, would her father grieve for her, and would 
 her mother have strength to come to her bedside, and give 
 her a kiss as she used to do when she was a little child ? 
 Would Father Lifford weep if her life were despaired of, or 
 was he a man who never shed tears 1 She kept asking herself 
 these questions over and over again, and fancying how every- 
 body would look and what they would say at Lifford Grange, 
 if she were brought back dead. How strange it would be! 
 The chapel would be hung with black, and candles would be 
 lit on the altar, and the " De profundis " would be sung. 
 Then she mechanically repeated over and over again, 
 
 " Eternal rest give unto her, O Lord, 
 And let perpetual light shine upon her, 
 May she rest in peace ! " 
 
 Then she ceased to think, but dreamed that she was in her 
 coffin, and that it was being slowly lifted up and carried along 
 Was she going to Heaven ? No, it could not be Heaven, for 
 she was so sensible of suffering great pain. It was purga- 
 tory, perhaps. Then everything grew indistinct and confused, 
 and a sense of repose stole over her. But she could not 
 move nor speak. 
 
 Then she heard the sound of voices and of footsteps 
 about her, and she felt herself talking at random, and heard 
 some one say that she was light-headed. Then later some- 
 body came in and felt her pulse and her forehead, and a glass 
 was held to her lips. Some hours afterwards she awoke, and 
 looked about her with astonishment. She saw nothing but 
 snowy white muslin curtains, and opposite to her a marble 
 chimney-piece, and upon it a transparent night-lamp, with a 
 kneeling figure of a woman in a church, the light shining 
 through the mimic Gothic windows. Her feverish hands were 
 resting on a pink silk eiderdown quilt, and her flushed cheek 
 on a pillow fringed with lace. She saw all this, but felt too 
 weak to wonder at it, and closed her eyes and went to sleep 
 again. The next time she opened them daylight was shining 
 through the chinks of the shutters. She heard some one 
 talking in the next room, and supposed she was still dream- 
 ing ; but soon the speaker came in, a pretty, well-dressed per- 
 son, and bending over her she said, " Do not be frightened; 
 Miss Lifford, at finding yourself in a strange place. This is 
 Mr. and Lady Clara Audley's house. You were brought here 
 last night after your fall from your horse. For some time 
 
Lady-bird. 131 
 
 we did not know who you were ; but the doctor, when he 
 came, recognised you immediately. A message was sent to 
 your parents to let them know that you were safe, and Lady 
 Clara is anxious that you should feel yourself quite comfort- 
 able. I am her maid. Miss Lifford. I hope you find your- 
 self pretty well this morning." 
 
 ' ; Yes. thank you,"' Gertrude answered, and without quite 
 knowing why, could scarcely keep the tears from rolling down 
 her cheeks. ''How came I here?" she asked with a bewil- 
 dered expression. li What happened to me last night? You 
 said I fell from my horse. Where was I found ? I was 
 stunned, I suppose ? " 
 
 '' You were found lying near a haj^stack in the park, Miss 
 Lifford ; you had fainted right away, and one of the gentle- 
 men carried you here ; it was some time before you came to 
 yourself." 
 
 " I scarcely feel even now, as if I had," she ejaculated. 
 " Everything seems so strange. Will you thank Lady Clara 
 for her kindness ? I suppose somebody will soon come from 
 my home." 
 
 There was a nervous sensation in her throat as she said 
 those last words. She felt very lonely, and partly from phys- 
 ical weakness, partly from the strangeness of her position, she 
 found it difficult not to give way to her emotion. 
 
 When the maid left the room she clasped her bands to- 
 gether, and hiding her face in the pillow, murmured, "Nobody 
 loves me — nobody cares for me — I might have died last 
 night, and nobody would have been sorry except poor mamma," 
 Such were her thoughts, not very logical or reasonable ones, 
 certainly, but springing nevertheless from a sense that she 
 had never been watched over or cherished in her home ; and 
 how often it happens that in illness or loneliness the long 
 kept-down emotion, the long standing heart-ache, the sense of 
 an injury long forgiven and all but forgotten, will sometimes 
 start up with all the vehemence of former days, and the trine 
 as light as air — which at other moments might only have 
 excited a smile — will in those hours of weakness call forth a 
 burst of feeling which shakes to pieces the barrier with which 
 the soul had fenced itself round, and imprisoned till it had 
 subdued its own impetuosity. Sometimes that calmness is 
 the result of heroic virtue, sometimes of the force of habit- 
 ual endurance, and sometimes again of an odd sort of levity, 
 a recklessness of the same nature as that which will make 
 
132 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 some children (boys especially) utterly heedless of physical 
 pain, and will let them play and exert themselves as usual 
 with a dislocated limb or a festering wound ; in any of these 
 eases momentary reactions may take place, but the effects will 
 often be different. Through them the spirit may descend a 
 step towards evil, or it may but grasp more firmly the hand 
 held out to it from heaven. 
 
 The next time that Mrs. Martin, the good-natured ladies' 
 maid, came in, it was to bring Gertrude her breakfast, served 
 in beautiful Sevres china, on a small silver tray. She opened 
 the shutters, to let light into the room. Gertrude asked her 
 to throw open the window also ; and, rising in bed, she looked 
 upon such an enchanting scene as had never yet met her sight. 
 The place was one well known to her by name, for it was fa- 
 mous for its natural beauties, and for all that art had done 
 for it. The house stood in a commanding position on the 
 brow of a hill, backed by a magnificent bank of wood, and 
 from it the eye rested on a succession of terraces, each form- 
 ing a gorgeous flower-garden, now in all the glory of summer 
 just verging upon autumn. Large, dazzling masses of the 
 scarlet geranium faced the deep blue beds of the salvia or the 
 gentian. The heliotrope and the variegated verbenas, the 
 stately hollyhocks and the graceful fuchsias, the dahlias like 
 court beauties in their pompous array, the tall white lilies,, 
 standing alone in their majestic purity, were all there in clus- 
 ters, or in rows. The passion flower, the jessamine, and the 
 convolvulus covered the walls, which stretched from one end 
 of each terrace to the other. Red roses in marble vases 
 adorned every flight of steps, and in the centre of each divi- 
 sion of this flowery mosaic, on every story of this sloping gar- 
 den, a fountain played, which high and clear into the morning 
 air shot up sheets of pure water, or clouds of glittering spray, 
 through which the sun shed its rays on this scene of enchant- 
 ment. 
 
 The last of these terraces overhung the river Leigh, which, 
 broadening into a lake at this period of its course, reflected 
 on that morning the azure of a cloudless sky, and then imme- 
 diately narrowed again, as if on purpose to show off its silvery 
 windings through the green valley of Arkleigh. A little skiff 
 was lying at anchor, near the stone steps of the landing-place, 
 its white sail gleaming in the sunlight, and its streamers gen- 
 tly fluttering in the breeze. The banks of wood, which reached 
 to the edge of the water, on the other side of the stream, were 
 
LADY-BIRD. 133 
 
 just "beginning to display their rich autumnal hues. The foli- 
 age of the copper beech, the coral berries of the mountain ash, 
 and the red leaves of the Virginian creeper, stood out in con- 
 trast with the masses of summer's richest green. There was 
 a brightness, a brilliancy, a gaiety in this view which no de- 
 scription can convey. The statues placed amongst the flow- 
 ers, or presiding over the fountains, were all in some graceful 
 or joyous attitude. Either they seemed to play with the large 
 leaves of the lotus, or to throw up into the air. in mimic sport, 
 the water that fell back in sparkling showers on their marble 
 shoulders, or they seemed to bow their graceful heads under 
 the rays of the sun, and to inhale sweet odours from the glow- 
 ing masses of flowers which surrounded them. 
 
 A part of the park was also visible from the window : — 
 the deer starting from the midst of the tall fern, the cattle 
 standing contemplatively by the brink of the river, the Gothic 
 towers of an old church appearing in the distance, and the 
 blue hills of Westmoreland forming a back-ground to the pic- 
 ture. It was a view not to be weary of, and the inside of 
 Gertrude's room corresponded with the beauty without. It 
 was furnished with a magnificence that would hardly perhaps 
 have been in good taste, if there had not been something po- 
 etical in its smallest details. Each piece of furniture, each 
 picture, each bit of carving, the mirrors, the carpet, the writ- 
 ing-table, the stools, the luxurious arm-chairs, the patterns of 
 the curtains, the mouldings of the cornice, all suggested to the 
 mind something pleasing in Nature or in art. Flowers, birds, 
 children's laughing faces, ivy wreaths and clustering grapes, 
 sunny landscapes and graceful figures, appeared at every turn, 
 and as Gertrude closed her eyes for a moment and thought of 
 Lifford Grange, it seemed to her that she must have dreamed 
 of the scenes just described, or else been transported to one 
 of those fairy abodes which she had so often pictured to her- 
 self in her childhood. 
 
 At that moment she caught sight of a well-known figure 
 on a rough, stout pony, making its way towards the house, 
 looking ill suited to the brilliant scene around him, but more 
 welcome to her just then, than all its beauties put together. 
 Father Lifford — for it was he — was looking paler than usual ; 
 not one glance did he bestow on the fine scenery he was pass- 
 ing through. His black coat was wet with the morning dew, 
 and his hair seemed more grey than the day before. He had 
 suffered very much, from the time when Edgar had returned 
 
134 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 borne without his sister, and alarmed the house for her safety* 
 At first, he did not think so much of an accident, as that the 
 child had done something strange. He loved her more than 
 he was aware of. but had never felt easy about her, and he now 
 shuddered as he remembered her weariness of home — her pin- 
 ing for change — her strange questions and her odd fancies. 
 
 When her horse was brought home late at night, having 
 been found in a field by some labourers, his anxiety grew in* 
 tense, and he had never found it so difficult to be calm. Men 
 were sent to seek for her in every direction, and it was only 
 with his head buried in his hands, in incessant prayer before 
 the altar, that he could command his feelings. When the 
 news of her safety arrived, his only thought was to go to her. 
 There were reasons that made him hate entering the walls 01 
 Audley House, but they were all swallowed up in the deter- 
 mination to see the child, and ascertain for himself that she 
 was not seriously hurt ; and. leaving orders for her maid to 
 follow him. he never rested till he stood by her bedside. 
 
 She held out her hands to him. while the tears chased each 
 other down her cheek. " A pretty business this," he growled 
 out. " a mighty pretty business, to have you laid up here in 
 this new-fangled place, with nothing and nobody that is not 
 strange to us about you ; " and he held her hand and stroked 
 it gently, while she could hardly forbear a smile at his entire 
 want of appreciation of the beauty and the comfort which were 
 apparent in the smallest details, as well as in the general 
 aspect of her present abode. 
 
 " And what is to happen, child ? They tell me that you 
 cannot walk, and that the doctor will not let you be moved, 
 This is sad work indeed !" 
 
 u Lady Clara says that I must stay here, and " 
 
 '■'And what business has she to say anything about it? ,: 
 
 ' ; I mean that she says I may stay here, and indeed my 
 foot hurts me so much at the least motion that I do not think 
 I could stir." 
 
 '• Then you shall not stir. Why do you move about? 
 Can't you be quiet? So you must stay here, I suppose." 
 
 " Is papa angry with me ? Was he at all anxious last 
 night ? " 
 
 " Why, you don't suppose we were any of us very com- 
 fortable, do you? " 
 
 ' : Poor mamma ! I thought of her, as long as I could think 
 of anything ' 
 
LADY-BIRD. 135 
 
 " Well, there was some grace in that. But we did not tell 
 her anything till we knew where you were." 
 
 "And Edgar?" 
 
 " the boy ! He cried, but he ate some supper." Ger- 
 trude smiled, and laid her hand on the old man's sleeve. 
 
 t; Father Lifford, I believe you love me, though you never 
 say so." 
 
 " Nonsense, I love everybody, it is my duty." 
 
 " Well, I don't think you love Lady Clara Audley," she 
 maliciously replied, for with her needle-like penetration she 
 had long ago perceived that the mistress of Audley House for 
 some unknown reason was his favourite aversion. She had 
 not indeed seen them together, but the mere sound of her 
 name was at any time sufficient to discompose him. 
 
 " Lady Fiddlestick ! " he answered impatiently, (; I wish 
 
 her well, but " at that moment there was a gentle knock 
 
 at the door. 
 
 " Here she is, I am sure," Gertrude whispered. 
 
 " Ah well, I'll go now, child, and come back again another 
 time. Is there another door?" he ejaculated with a look of 
 real distress, but while he was desperately endeavouring to 
 get out at one door and entangling himself in the embroidered 
 curtains of its portieres, the enemy entered through the other, 
 and cut off his retreat. 
 
 This enemy was about thirty-eight, but looked younger — 
 at least not many women of thirty-eight retain as much 
 beauty — such a smooth fair skin, such glossy hair, and such 
 youthful delicacy of feature. There was something that re- 
 minded one of feudal times in her appearance. Something 
 grave, dignified, and almost majestic, though combined with a 
 particularly feminine grace. Her eyes were hazel and rather 
 prominent, her hair auburn, and her lips somewhat thick, 
 though not too much so for beauty. She was dressed in a 
 black velvet gown with wide hanging sleeves, a guipure shawl 
 hung over her shoulders, and a lace cap was fastened by two 
 diamond pins to the thick tresses of her hair. She bent over 
 Gertrude, rapidly said some kind things to her, and then 
 turning to Father Lifford bowed to him most graciously, and 
 murmured something about not having met for a long time. 
 He bowed in return, gravely and coldly, but with perfect 
 civility ; for with all his bluntness he was invariably well 
 bred. She then inquired after Gertrude's parents in a kind 
 of half compassionate half mysterious tone, which seemed to 
 
136 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 annoy him, and he answered the question briefly and abruptly. 
 To her expressions of delight at having the opportunity of 
 seeing Gertrude in her house, and her hopes that she would 
 remain till perfectly recovered from her accident " that they 
 would not deprive her of the wounded bird that had nestled un- 
 der her wing." he responded as if poisoned honey had been 
 distilled into his ears, and said that his nephew and Mrs. 
 Lifford would doubtless much regret the trouble which their 
 daughter's accident had occasioned ; but though the words 
 were civil, there was something so chilling and formal in the 
 tone which accompanied them, that Lady Clara, who observed 
 it, said : 
 
 " Time often perpetuates estrangements between those 
 who once were friends, but I entreat you to tell Mr. Lifford that 
 his daughter cannot be a stranger here, and that if he will 
 trust me with his treasure, I will cherish it as I would my 
 own, had Heaven granted me one." 
 
 A still graver and colder bow was the Father's only reply, 
 and he withdrew after giving Gertrude his blessing and pro- 
 mising to send over some things which she wanted from home. 
 
 And now the lady of the enchanted castle and her young 
 guest remained alone together. Lady Clara fitted well that 
 abode. She had created it chiefly herself, and it seemed in 
 9very part of it to bear the impress of her mind and tastes. 
 She had been, from the day of her birth, " a lady nursed in 
 pomp and pleasure ; " but not in vulgar pomp or senseless 
 pleasure. Nature had given her a sweet temper, a love of the 
 beautiful, and a kind and noble spirit. Education had added 
 delicacy, grace, and refinement of manners. Nothing mean 
 or vicious had approached her. She had neither suffered, 
 struggled, nor sinned, as the world considers it, and she was 
 the chef (Vceuvre of what a happy disposition, the best kind 
 of worldly education, and earthly safeguards from temptation 
 can effect. With a slight alteration she could be well described 
 in the words of a living poet : 
 
 " She floated o'er life like a noontide breeze 
 Or cradled vapour on sunny seas, 
 Or an exquisite cloud in light arrayed, 
 Which sails through the sky, and can throw no shade 
 She cared for no sympathy — living in throngs 
 Of her own sunny thoughts and her mute inward 
 She was chaste as the white lily's dew-beaded cup, 
 Which bold — because stainless — to heaven looks up 
 Her mind was a fair desert temple of beauty, 
 Unshaded by sorrow, unhallowed by duty." 
 
LADY-BIRD. 137 
 
 When just passing from early girlhood into womanhood, 
 beautiful as a poet's dream, as a painter's ideal, she had ap- 
 peared to the young owner of Lifford Grange. He saw her 
 at a county ball : he was invited to meet her at a neighbour- 
 ing country-house, and then to her father's house : he fell des- 
 perately in love with her. It was one of those violent absorb- 
 ing passions that make wild havoc in a man's heart. He was 
 handsome and clever : she was pleased with him, and without 
 hesitation accepted him when he proposed to her. Her pa- 
 rents, though they disliked the marriage, never thwarted their 
 idol, and all of them went to London together, and Lady Clara 
 was engaged to Henry Lifford. But jealous, tyrannical, and 
 proud — he soon alienated from him the inclination which the 
 beautiful spoilt child had felt for him. The outbreaks of his 
 fierce passion disquieted and alarmed her. Gentle, refined, 
 and pure, caring more for the charm and the sentiment of a 
 mutual affection than for the kind of love which made him at 
 one moment adore and at another reproach her, she broke off 
 her engagement as unhesitatingly as she had entered into it, 
 and without a struggle or a regret — as she would have thrown 
 aside a nosegay in which a thorn had stung her — she dismissed 
 him at once, and went on her way as free, as happy, and as 
 calm as if he had never crossed her path. 
 
 He went almost mad with anger and despair ; and then 
 the pride which was in him as strong as life itself, enabled 
 him to subdue at once all outward expression of love, or of 
 regret : but, like an extinguished volcano, which has consumed 
 every trace of vegetation, and leaves behind it barren and un- 
 sightly ruins, the flame thus suddenly extinguished seemed to 
 have burned out of his heart every trace of gentle feeling and 
 affection. He went almost immediately to Spain, and there 
 married the beautiful Angustia. but no sooner was the cere- 
 mony performed than he felt himself undone ; and the cold 
 admiration — if even such a term as that be not too strong — or 
 rather the assent he had given to the general opinion of her 
 beauty, changed into a feeling of aversion, which he took lit- 
 tle pains to conceal. 
 
 When they returned to England, Lady Clara had married 
 Mr. Audley, the owner of a large property about twelve miles 
 distant from Mr. Lifford's place, and they generally stayed 
 there during a part of the year. ' He neither would see nor 
 appear to avoid her — and a total seclusion from the world was 
 the alternative he chose. He would hardly ride out of his 
 
138 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 own grounds for fear of meeting her. Once in the course of 
 sixteen years he did so, and then the deadly paleness of his 
 cheek, and the expression of his eyes, left it in doubt by which 
 of the two aforesaid passions his spirit was swayed. She. the 
 while, went along the stream of life with " youth at the prow 
 and pleasure at the helm " The person she had married was 
 young, good-looking and amiable. She loved him enough, 
 and not too much for her happiness— enough to make life 
 agreeable in his society, not too much to give her any of the 
 heartaches which are almost invariably attached to an absorb- 
 ing affection. 
 
 It was impossible to see her and hear her talk, at times, 
 without feeling that there was in her nature a power of loving 
 which had not been called into full exercise. She had never 
 had any children, and had not felt the want of them : to those 
 who surrounded her she stood almost in the light of a child 
 herself, although her disposition was not in reality childish ; 
 but she lived in an atmosphere of beauty and luxury, of re- 
 finement and amusement, which supplied the place of the 
 graver cares and duties of life. In the love of Nature and of 
 art, in transient but not contemptible attempts at literary com- 
 position, in intercourse with men of genius, in the creation of 
 the earthly, intellectual, and poetical paradise which surround- 
 ed her — she expended the sensibility and the energy which 
 had not been otherwise called into play. Study, reading, and 
 society furnished her with occupation, and a succession of pur- 
 suits and of fancies — generally harmless, and discarded as 
 soon as they became wearisome — filled up her time. Such 
 was Lady Clara Audley's existence ; it had transcended the 
 ordinary course of human prosperity. That she was a happy 
 person some will not need to be told, while others may remain 
 in doubt, according to the view they may take or the theories 
 they may have on the subject of happiness. It had been a 
 matter of curious speculation to her to wonder over the strange 
 mode of life which had been adopted by her first lover and his 
 Spanish wife. She sometimes reflected — now that it was long 
 past, and had become merely a page in the history of her 
 youth — on the sort of passion he had felt for her ; and though 
 she fervently rejoiced at having escaped such a marriage, yet 
 she seldom looked on the gates of Lifford Grange without an 
 odd sensation of curiosity and interest. It was therefore no 
 common excitement to her when chance brought into her house 
 Henry Lifford's daughter, of whose beauty she had often heard 
 from Mark Apley and others. 
 
LADY-BIRD. 15<y 
 
 After a few preliminary sentences of thanks on the one 
 side, and kind answers on the other. Lady Clara looked fixedly 
 
 at Gertrude, and said: " You are like your father, I think 
 
 but I suppose you have your mother's Spanish eyes." 
 
 " You have seen him, then ? " 
 
 " Years ago, when we were both young." 
 
 " Was he ever young ? I cannot fancy him different from 
 what I have always known him ; but I can well imagine I may 
 be like him : I feel it sometimes." 
 
 Lady Clara laughed. ''What an odd thing to feel." 
 Then, seeing her eyes turned towards the window, she said : 
 
 " You seem to like my garden. Have you a passion for 
 flowers, as I have ?" 
 
 " For some, but I hate others : a tiger-lily, for instance, 
 and every sort of calceolaria." 
 
 " I believe you are right, and that it is as foolish to 
 ask that general question as those other ones — do you like 
 children, or do you like dogs ? Somebody said one might 
 just as well say : ' Do you like people ? ' What can be more 
 different than a pa3ony and a rose ? " 
 
 "Nothing," Gertrude answered with a slow smile, "except 
 some faces I have seen, and " she hesitated. 
 
 " What were you going to say ? " 
 
 " Oh, I was thinking of Mrs. Apley's and of yours." Lady 
 Clara laughed, for the comparison was very apposite. 
 
 " Yes, you put me in mind the first instant I saw you of 
 the moss-rose, the fairest and most richly-dressed of flowers." 
 
 " Ah, you have read the pretty German fable on that 
 subject? " 
 
 " Not in German, but Maurice Redmond translated it for 
 me, and set it to music." 
 
 " What, my handsome young music-master ? Is he a poet 
 also? Can you repeat to me the English lines? " 
 
 " I hardly know if I can remember them ; but I think they 
 run thus : 
 
 ' "Weary of pleasure, 
 And laden with treasure, 
 The Angel of flowers 
 Had wandered for hours, 
 "When he suuk to his rest 
 With his wings on his breast, 
 And the rose of the glade 
 Lent her beautiful shade 
 To guard and to cover 
 The flower-king's slumber. 
 
1 40 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 When the angel awoke, 
 
 Then in rapture he spoke : 
 " Thou queen of my bowers, 
 
 Thou fairest of flowers 
 
 What gift shall be mine, 
 
 And what guerdon be thine ? " 
 " In guerdon of duty 
 
 Bestow some new beauty," 
 
 She said, and then smiled 
 
 Like a mischievous child. 
 
 In* anger he started, 
 
 But ere he departed, 
 
 To rebuke the vain flower 
 
 In the pride of her power, 
 
 He flung some rude moss 
 
 Her fair bosom across; 
 
 But her new robes of green 
 
 So became the fair queen, 
 
 That the Angel of flowers 
 
 Mistrusted his powers, 
 
 And was heard to declare 
 
 He had granted her prayer.' " * 
 
 " I should like to have a statue made on that subject," 
 Lady Clara observed " The angel of flowers hurling the moss 
 at the vain rose ; and then, we might place it in the centre of 
 a bower of pink and white moss-roses ; — Would it not be 
 charming ? I will not ask you if you like statues, for I sup- 
 pose you have not seen many yet, but I feel sure that you like 
 everything beautiful and poetical, or else your eyes belie you. 
 Tell me, is it true that you are called Lady-Bird in the village 
 of Stonehouseleigh 1 " 
 
 " Yes ; I believe I am well known there by that name. 1 ' 
 
 " then it is so ; I was once waiting in the ponychaise, at 
 the door of a cottage, and some little brat called out — ' there 
 goes Lady-Bird.' I called him, and asked who he meant ; he 
 would only repeat ' Lady-Bird' — then his mother came forward, 
 and said he meant Miss Lifford. I was so provoked at not hav 
 ing seen you, for I had long wished to do so. But that name 
 takes my fancy strangely. There is something old-fashioned 
 in it, and I like everything quaint and original, — old books, 
 old names, old curtains, and old houses. The present is so dull, 
 compared with the past." 
 
 G-ertrude looked round the room, then pointed to the win- 
 dow and said, " If Audley Park is the present and Lifford 
 Grange the past, I cannot agree with you, Lady Clara." 
 
 * From the German of Krummacher. 
 
LADY-BIRD. I J < 
 
 The latter smiled at the unconscious allusion contained in 
 Gertrude's words, and said, " I have erected this place myself, 
 schemed, planned it, and seen it rise before my eyes. It has 
 been like writing a poem, but now that it is finished it wearies 
 me to be always reading it over again/' 
 
 ;i I should like one clay to hold such a pen as that in my 
 hand, but to read your poem is for the present enough pleasure. 
 Speaking to a stranger is an event in my life." 
 
 " And yet you to me are not shy, my pretty Lady-Bird." 
 
 " I have no idea how to converse. I wonder that I learnt 
 to talk at all." 
 
 " I imagine that that talent is intuitive, my love, and that 
 the less art there is in it the better." 
 
 " Do you think I am artless, Lady Clara 1 " 
 
 " Why I can hardly judge of that yet. The perfection of 
 art is to appear not to have any." 
 
 " then I think you must be very artful." 
 
 " A compliment, Lady-Bird ! " 
 
 " no ; I talk of you just as I would of the flowers in the 
 garden. I say what comes into my head, and if it is flattering, 
 it is more fortunate for me than for you." 
 
 " Do you know that you amuse me very much. I hope 
 they will let you stay with me some time. I could not gather 
 anything from Father Lifford's manner ; does he always seem 
 so stern ? " 
 
 " He is not given to the smiling mood, certainly ; but I 
 cannot disguise from you, Lady Clara, that he looks less be- 
 nignantly upon you than on the rest of man or womankind. 
 Did you know him in his youth also ? " 
 
 " My dear child, he must have been near forty when I was 
 born ! " 
 
 " Then why does he look as black as thunder when you are 
 mentioned ? What can you have done to him? " 
 
 Lady Clara looked pensive an instant, then said, " If we 
 can but keep you here, your convalescence will be the pleasant- 
 est thing in the world. We shall carry you gently down stairs, 
 and make you lie on the sofa in the conservatory, amongst 
 the camellias and orange-trees ; then you shall drive slowly 
 through the rosery in a garden-chair, and a little later sail on 
 the river in our little skiff, and everybody here shall pay you 
 their court. There are numbers of people in the house long- 
 ing to see you : my cousin, Lady Roslyn, all the Apleys, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Crofton, and Adrien d'Arberg, — and Maurice, as you 
 call our young musician, is coming on Thursday." 
 
142 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " Is M. d' Arberg here ? " Gertrude asked, with a look of 
 sudden interest, which did not escape Lady Clara's attention. 
 " Yes. Are you acquainted with him ? " 
 
 " I can hardly say I am ; and yet, I feel to know him well, 
 for I have read his books." 
 
 "'I think you will be as much struck with his appearance 
 as with his writings. I have met with but few men as hand- 
 some, and with none who possessed the same charm of counte- 
 nance and manner." 
 
 " I have seen him once," Gertrude quietly remarked, and 
 then changed the conversation by asking some questions about 
 a view of Tivoli, which hung over the chimney. 
 
 It was enough for her to hear that she would see him 
 again. She was secreting that happiness in her heart, and 
 did not feel inclined to talk about it then. Lady Clara explain- 
 ed the position of the waterfalls, and said, as she rose to go, 
 
 " To-day, the doctor enjoins perfect repose ; nothing but 
 short dull visits from me, but to-morrow, I trust, his rigour 
 will be abated ; and that my Lady-Bird's receptions will com- 
 mence. Somebody said that an invalid to visit was an indis- 
 pensable addition to the enjoyment of a party in a country- 
 house. Imagine what a resource you will be to my guests, 
 who having been here a week, were actually beginning to talk 
 of charades and tableaux, and worst of all, of jeux cVesprit ; " 
 and with a kiss, Lady Clara took leave of Gertrude for the 
 moment. 
 
 She remained with her cheek on the embroidered pillow, 
 her eyes sparkling with excitement, her hands playing with 
 her rings, and only one fear standing between her and the 
 rapture of anticipation that was beating in her heart. She 
 had misgivings that her father would at almost any risk order 
 her home, as. soon as she could leave her bed; and had she 
 known his feelings about Audley Park and its mistress, she 
 might have feared it still more. She saw herself carried away 
 from this scene of enchantment, and now of deep interest, re- 
 stored to the dull room which she had so often wished to leave, 
 and which no agreeable associations endeared to her. It was 
 an alternative between so much enjoyment, and so much dis- 
 appointment that she could hardly remain quiet in that state 
 of suspense, and would have probably grown very feverish in 
 the course of the day, if her maid had not arrived with the 
 things she had sent for, and news from home. 
 
 It appeared that by that morning's post there had arrived 
 
LAD IT-BIRD. 143 
 
 some intelligence from Spain which imperatively called for 
 Mr. Lifford's presence there to assert his wife's right to an in- 
 heritance which had unexpectedly devolved on her. He had 
 made instant preparations for departure, and was to set off in 
 the evening, and to take Edgar with him. 
 
 " And what did he say about me, Jane 1 Did you hear 
 anything from mamma, or Father Lifford 1 " 
 
 " Only Isabella told me while I was packing up the things, 
 that your mamma was surprised your papa had not said one 
 word on the subject, and that she had not mentioned it to 
 him. But of course. Miss, you are not to move till the doctor 
 says you may, and Father Lifford, no doubt, will send the 
 carriage to fetch you when the time comes : so you need not 
 fret about it." 
 
 " I suppose papa will be absent for some time? " 
 
 " Two months, I heard it said, at the least." Then Ger- 
 trude was silent, and tolerably contented. She should proba- 
 bly stay where she was for a few days at least, and she did 
 not despair of obtaining her mother's permission to pay another 
 visit to Audley Park before her father's return. 
 
 In the afternoon Edgar came to see her, and made Mr. 
 Lifford's excuses to Mr. Audley, not to Lady Clara, for the 
 trouble that Gertrude occasioned in his house, and his apologies 
 that his own sudden departure for Spain prevented him from 
 calling to acknowledge in person their kindness to her. Mr. 
 Dudley, who had taken very little cognizance of the whole 
 affair, was quite puzzled to find himself made so prominent 
 in it, but he was very gracious and civil, and was sure it was 
 a great pleasure to Lady Clara, and hoped Miss Lifford would 
 stay with them as long as possible, and all sorts of kind ex- 
 pressions ; and then Edgar met his father at the station, and 
 nothing passed between them beyond a brief question whether 
 Gertrude was going on well, with the affirmative answer, — 
 which was ^received without comment : and both were that 
 night in London, and embarked the next day for Spain. It 
 was Mr. Lifford's pride that had forced him to a piece of 
 civility which cost him a great deal, but which he was too 
 well-bred to omit ; but it seemed to him as if Gertrude was 
 destined to be a perpetual source of annoyance, and that 
 chance had now connected her with the plague spot which had 
 been so long festering in his heart. 
 
 Gertrude wrote little gay affectionate notes to her mother, 
 in which she spoke of her enjoyment of the change of scene 
 
144 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 which her accident had so unexpectedly procured her — of 
 Lady Clara's great kindness, and wish to keep her as long as 
 possible ; but she added that as soon as she could, she must 
 go home, and show her that she was well again — and that in 
 the meantime, she would write every day. With something 
 between a smile and a sigh, Mrs. Lifford gave these notes to 
 her uncle, who took snuff, " pshawed," and said, "Foolish people, 
 all of you." Whom he exactly included in that general con- 
 demnation was not quite apparent, but Mrs. Lifford found 
 safety in the number, and satisfied herself that at all events 
 he did not blame her more severely than the rest, whoever 
 they might be whom he so vaguely designated. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " Whence and what arc we, to what end ordained ? 
 What means the drama by this world sustained ? 
 Business or vain amusements, care or mirth, 
 Divide the frail inhabitants of earth. 
 Is duty a mere sport, or an employ ? 
 Life an entrusted talent, or a toy ? " 
 
 COWPEE. 
 
 On the third day after Gertrude's accident, Lady Clara was 
 sitting writing letters in her morning-room, which opened on 
 one side on a conservatory which formed a kind of drawing- 
 room, and on the other on a library where several of her 
 guests were assembled. The three Miss Apleys were sitting 
 round a table, one of them occupied with some abstruse em- 
 broidery, another with a design for a flower-garden, and the 
 third, Harriet, alias Cherry, with a music-book, into which she 
 was copying German waltzes. Mrs. Crofton and Mrs. Apley 
 were reading the newspapers near the window, several men 
 were lounging about the room, and the sound of billiard-balls 
 in the one beyond it indicated that others were killing time in 
 a somewhat more active manner. 
 
 " Harriet," said Mrs. Crofton, " have you been to Miss 
 Lifford yet?" 
 
 " yes, I went up to her room last night, after dinner ; 
 she is looking prettier than ever." 
 
 " 0, do you think so, Harriet % " exclaimed Fanny, the 
 
LADY-BIRD. 145 
 
 next sister, " I was disappointed with her. Have you nevei 
 observed that her teeth are not quite even? " 
 
 "I never knew any one like you, Fanny, for detecting 
 faults," said Mark Apley. who was picking off the leaves of a 
 tall geranium that was apparently growing out of the middle 
 of an ottoman, on which he was stretched out nearly at full 
 length. " If there is a spot, a blot, a flaw in anything, you 
 are sure to pounce upon it. Now, Cherry likes to admire, and 
 I think she is right." 
 
 Fanny put down her pen, for she was the copier of music ; 
 and going up to him. said something in a low voice which 
 made him laugh and colour, and say, but not angrily, " Leave 
 me alone, don't spoil the button of my coat. Come and look 
 at them playing at billiards." 
 
 " No, I will not ! your friend Adrien is conceited enough 
 already, without our going to stare at him." 
 
 " Miss Fanny, it would be lucky for you if you had 
 but half as little conceit in your foolish little head as there is 
 in his wise one." 
 
 " You are so entiche with him.". 
 
 " Don't use French words, like Lady Roslyn — it is so 
 ffected." 
 
 " You do not call her affected, do you ? " 
 
 " Why no, but then " 
 
 " If she is affected," Mrs. Crofton said, " I think she must 
 have been born so. I have no doubt that in the nursery she 
 sried out for a tartine instead of for bread and butter, like 
 bther children." 
 
 Mr. Latimer, one of the men who had been reading before 
 :he fire-place, put down his book and said, " There are some 
 people whom nature has provided with stilts, and they may be 
 rery charming in their way, but it never answers to provide 
 ihem for oneself." 
 
 " There, now," Mark said, ' : don't you attempt to get upon 
 uhem. little Fanny ; you are a great love in your way, but in 
 10 other way, and certainly not in Lady Roslyn's, whom you 
 is little resemble as your pretty Fido, Lady Clara's greyhound. 
 A.re you angry, little woman ? " 
 
 " Tout autre que mon [frere] Veiit eprouve sitr Vheure? 
 he answered with a smile. " There is a bit of downright 
 French; you don't object to that, do you? And now," she 
 idded, in a low voice, " let us go to the billiard-room, and 
 1 
 
146 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 
 learn grace from Mr. Crofton, dignity from Mr. Ashton, and 
 every earthly perfection from M. Aclrien d'Arberg." 
 
 The last person whom she alluded to was standing near 
 the window when they entered the room, absorbed at that 
 minute in his own thoughts, which Fanny somewhat unreason- 
 ably always ascribed to conceit. Not to be occupied with 
 her presupposed, in her opinion, too great a preoccupation with 
 self. 
 
 Few people would have had a better right to be conceited, 
 if advantages of every kind, of looks, of mind, and of fortune! 
 could justify such a feeling : a regular beauty of features, such 
 as is seldom seen in real life ; eyes which without being very 
 large were perfectly shaped, and so shaded by thick eyelashes 
 that they appeared dark, whereas they were blue ; so earnest 
 an expression, that it might have been thought almost melan- 
 choly, if serenity had not reigned in their inmost depths ; a 
 mixture of repose and of mobility was a singular characteris- 
 tic of that remarkable countenance. He seemed as if his own 
 rapid thoughts were passing before him in luminous array, 
 suggesting every instant some new train of contemplation to 
 an ever eager spirit, and an intellect that seemed almost to 
 spiritualise his face. Many, like Fanny Apley, were apt to 
 misunderstand him, because he was so often absorbed in hiat 
 own meditations that the remarks of others were unattended! 
 to, and their attentions to himself unperceived. His own 
 ideas were sometimes followed up by him in a manner that |i 
 might look like egotism to superficial observers, who did not 
 understand the deep simplicity of his uncommon character. 
 No one ever forgot himself so completely as x\drien d'Arberg 
 did. He was profoundly religious, and there was in his nal 
 ture a tendency to mysticism that might have led him to a towf 
 intense and metaphysical contemplation of the God he adored 
 if the strong hand of the Catholic religion had not been over jg 
 him, restraining every exaggerated tendency or fanciful biaal 
 and saying to a naturally ardent imagination and investiga- 
 ting understanding, " So far shalt thou go and no farther." 
 
 He was by descent a German, by birth and also positioij 
 a Frenchman, and had been partly educated in England 
 These circumstances seemed all to have contributed more or 
 less to the formation of his character and to the tone of his )r 
 mind. He would have been perhaps a dreamer, had not his 
 life been from his earliest youth devoted to useful objects, aud 
 a passionate wish to serve his fellow-creatures been at once [, 
 
 - 
 
LADY-BIRD. 147 
 
 the subject of his dreams, and the incentive to incessant la- 
 bours towards that end. He had something of the insou- 
 fiance of the French character ; but his zeal for the honour of 
 Grod and the happiness of men had prevented its degenerating 
 into levity. — had given seriousness to his views of life, and 
 importance in his sight to his own actions, as well as to the 
 events that passed around him. It had only left him careless 
 )f worldly advantages, which sat so lightly upon him that at 
 nines he scarcely seemed conscious of possessing them. His 
 English education had imparted to him that keen sense of 
 lonour and that gentlemanlike regard for truth which most 
 jven worldly-minded Englishmen possess, or at least appre- 
 ciate. Even in manner there was something which made 
 English people feel at home with him. He spoke our lan- 
 guage with the utmost correctness, and a good accent ; it was 
 •nly by its resembling a little more the English of books than 
 he careless routine of common conversation that he would 
 iave been detected as a foreigner, or else by his abruptly 
 hanging it into French, if any strong interest or emotion im- 
 •elled him to the use of his native tongue. 
 
 He was distantly connected with the Apleys, and when a 
 oy had sometimes spent his holidays at their house. Mark 
 Lpley and he had thus been friends from childhood, and their 
 itimacy continued from habit rather than from any congeni- 
 lity of minds or of character. On Adrien's side there was 
 affectionate regard for one whose amiable qualities, but 
 eak understanding, commanded more love than respect ; on 
 ae other, there was all the reverence and admiration which 
 inferior intellect yields to a superior one, when, as in this 
 ase, the acknowledgment is unmixed with the slightest amount 
 F jealousy or of envy. 
 
 "Who is winning?" Mark asked, as he came into the bil- 
 •ard-room with his sister, and joined Lady Roslyn, who was 
 aning against the corner of the chimney, while Mr. Ashton 
 tood on one leg at the end of the billiard-table, with his body 
 retched across it, and his face screwed up into a shape of 
 tense and ugly earnestness, which contrasted with Adrien's 
 tsy attitude. 
 
 0, d'Arberg is beating me hollow, and it is a great shame, 
 |r I practised five hours yesterday, and took lessons all last 
 i 5ar in London." 
 
 " Well, I am sure that is more than Adrien has done," 
 ark rejoined, with a loud laugh. 
 
148 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " How do you know," Adrien said, turning suddenly round, 
 with a smile ; " bow do you know that I do not get up before 
 breakfast to practise V 
 
 " To judge by the books in your room." Mark said, with 
 another burst of laughter, " I should say that you studied 
 canon-law more than such cannons as those." 
 
 " You do not suppose that I read all those folios, do 
 you ? " 
 
 " Then why have them on your table ? " Fanny observed. 
 
 " To press flowers in," he answered ; " or to make people 
 think me wise. There, Mr. Ashton, that is game, I think," 
 and, as the red ball flew into one pocket, and the white one 
 into the other, he put down his cue and left the room. 
 
 u By Jove, I'll practise till dinner-time ! " exclaimed thej 
 defeated man, with the energy of a Haydn determined to 
 learn counterpoint, or an Austrian general returning to theJ 
 charge after twenty defeats. 
 
 Adrien meanwhile had joined Lady Clara in her morning- 
 room. There were some of her guests who had acquired a 
 sort of tacit right to invade it, and he was amongst the 
 number. 
 
 " How is your Lady-Bird?" he said, as he sat down h 
 her. 
 
 " 0, much better ; and she is coming down this afternoon,, 
 so mind you come in here after luncheon. I am longing to 
 show her to you. It is the very prettiest bird you ever saw ; 
 and, now that I have caught her, I mean to make an immense 
 deal of her ; and " 
 
 "Spoil her," he suggested. 
 
 " No, no ; it will improve her to see something of us." 
 
 " Who are tis ? " 
 
 " You and I, if you will not be affronted at the comJ 
 panionship. She is not at all aware of her own cleverness." 
 
 " And we are to open her eyes to it 1 " 
 
 " Certainly ; I am always against keeping people in thd 
 dark about their own merits, as well as about anything elsej 
 Truth. M. d'Arberg. never does any harm." 
 
 " Why ; is not there an ignorance which may be not only la 
 a bliss but a blessing ? — and is not the one you speak off 
 such % To destroy it seems like brushing away the bloom of I 
 a fruit." 
 
 " 0, but you must not suppose that this charming Lady. 
 Bird is all naivete and humility. She does not know how 
 
 .e 
 
 
LADY-BIRD. 149 
 
 jlever she is, but is not without some notions of her own 
 Abilities, and has rather a restless wish to put them to the 
 est. And, for my own part. I believe that people are twenty 
 imes more likely to be really modest, who have satisfied thein- 
 elves and others that they have something to be modest 
 ibout, than if they remain all their lives beating about the 
 irash, instead of ascertaining once for all the capabilities of 
 heir own understandings." 
 
 " There is truth in that, perhaps, but not the ivhole truth." 
 Idrien said. 
 
 ' ; What is your arricre-pciisee ? " Lady Clara asked. " You 
 dways have one, I know, when you are talking to me." 
 
 ■■ None about this that I wish to keep back. You have 
 aken a great fancy to this girl, who must be, by all accounts, 
 very peculiar person ; and, if you lavish praises upon her, 
 nd turn her head, you will be amusing yourself in a less safe 
 manner than by writing pretty poems or inventing new conser- 
 atories." 
 
 " Well. I will confess to you that she does interest me as 
 poem : that she does charm me as a flower. There is an 
 nconventionality about her which is quite refreshing, and a 
 eadiness of repartee which amuses me beyond description. 
 * very new idea you put before her, every new subject you 
 tart, seems to be immediately laid hold of, and viewed in the 
 ght of her fanciful imagination. I long to see her in society, 
 ux 2^'ises with Mrs. Crofton, cross-questioned by Edward 
 atimer, made love to by Mark Apley." 
 
 " Now I have an arriere-pensee — will you ask me for it?" 
 
 " Yes, if it be not severe." 
 
 " Would it be severe to say that you are making a play- 
 aing of something too valuable to be played with % " 
 
 He looked at her in the earnest, calm way which was pe- 
 aliar to him, and she said quickly, " You take things too 
 riously. M. d' Arberg. I have passed through life gathering 
 oscs. and have found no thorns, and I will teach my Lady- 
 iird to do so too. I have often talked to you of her father, 
 he sometimes puts me in mind of him. But if he had been 
 alf as charming as she is, I should not be now the happy 
 erson that I am." 
 
 ' ; Ay," said Adrien, with a smile, " did not you then gather 
 rose and find a thorn ? " 
 
 " Ay, but I flung away both the rose and the thorn." 
 
 11 No, I think you gathered the rose and left the thorn be- 
 
150 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 hind. But to return to what we were saying just now. It is 
 from my own experience that I dread even kind interferences 
 in what may vitally influence the destinies of others." 
 
 " How so. M. d'Arberg? Are you not the most cautious 
 of men ! " 
 
 " Not always. For instance, when I took Maurice Red- 
 mond to Italy I was giving myself the immense pleasure of an 
 engoument acted upon, of seeing enjoyment and apparently 
 showing kindness ; but I have often felt since that it would 
 have been truer kindness not to have forced open a bud which, 
 if destined to blow, would have been more surely developed 
 by a slower process. To resist good impulses is one of the 
 most difficult lessons to learn." 
 
 " And one I never intend to learn ; I think it quite suffi- 
 cient to resist bad ones, dear M. d'Arberg, and to make this 
 hitherto imprisoned Lady-Bird try her wings, and enjoy her 
 liberty, is, I am convinced, a good one. So the moral of your 
 story is lost upon me, especially as I like you ten times better 
 for having done an imprudent kind thing than for all the pru- 
 dent good ones you have ever accomplished. But then you 
 will not help me to turn the pretty head I shall show you after 
 luncheon ? " 
 
 " No, but I shall come and watch the working of your 
 system." 
 
 After luncheon Gertrude was carried down to the drawing- 
 room, and thence conveyed in a garden-chair to the conser- 
 vatory on the other side of the parterre. It was fitted up 
 also as a drawing-room, and Lady Clara often spent there 
 several hours of the day. She placed her on a couch in the 
 midst of a kind of bower of American shrubs, through which 
 the sun was shining and forming with its rays a fanciful pat- 
 tern on the tesselated pavement. The smell was sweet but 
 not too powerful, the breeze from without gently shook the 
 blossoms of the pink azalias which now and then fell on the 
 silk coverlet which had been thrown over her feet : on the 
 table by her side were poems, new novels French and English, 
 prints and drawings without end. Lady Clara sat opposite to 
 her. arranging cut flowers in fanciful vases of Venetian glass 
 and Bohemian crystal. 
 
 " I have sent everybody out this afternoon in the caleche 
 and the pony-chaise — that is, everybody that I did not want 
 to join us here. I shall only let them see you by degrees, 
 Lady-Bird. My favourites shall be first admitted." 
 
LADY-BIRD. 151 
 
 K And who are they, Lady Clara % " 
 
 ' : My cousin, Ellen Roslyn, Adrien d'Arberg, and Mark 
 Apley : — that is my beauty, my hero, and my Newfoundland. 
 Here comes the last." And Mark rushed up to Gertrude 
 with a beaming face, and a thousand expressions of delight at 
 seeing her again. u I hope Harriet told you, Miss Lifford, 
 how overjoyed we were at your accident — I mean how sorry 
 we felt about that, but how glad that it brought you here." 
 
 " It has been, indeed, a pleasant accident to me," she said. 
 " Had my horse chosen to deposit me under one of my native 
 oaks I should have been less obliged to him." 
 
 " I only wish I had had the luck to find you that night, 
 Miss Lifford. I should have been frightened to death, but 
 still so happy." 
 
 ' ; By the way," she said, c; who did find me ! How strange 
 it is that I have not yet asked the name of the person who dis- 
 covered me that night." 
 
 " It was Adrien d'Arberg — lucky fellow, and he carried 
 you to the house. I have done nothing but envy him ever 
 since." 
 
 Gertrude remained silent, and opened a book as if in ab- 
 sence. " Did I not dream of Heaven that night ? " she in- 
 wardly ejaculated. 
 
 Then she looked up, and the form and the face which for 
 nearly a whole year had haunted her incessantly were once 
 more before her. It was not exactly emotion that she expe- 
 rienced in seeing them again — her heart did not beat quicker, 
 and no deeper colour rose in her cheek. On the contrary a 
 great calm seemed to come over her, a sensation of indescrib- 
 able repose ; it was like a void filled up, a hope accomplished, 
 a prayer granted. " God be praised ! " she said to herself, 
 and then marvelled at the solemnity o'f that mute thanks- 
 giving. 
 
 " M. d'Arberg, let me introduce you to Miss Lifford." 
 That insignificant commonplace sentence, so carelessly pro- 
 nounced, and yet containing in itself the germ of so many 
 happy and so many miserable destinies ! 
 
 Adrien bowed and said, " I once impertinently introduced 
 myself to Miss Lifford. I hope she has forgiven it." 
 
 Gertrude made some scarcely audible answer, but her eyes 
 looked all that such eyes as hers can look. From that instant 
 a new era in her life began. What arose in her mind was 
 neither a hope nor a project nor a design, but a conviction 
 
152 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 that there was for her but one destiny, one future, one possible 
 fate. It was to love Adrien d'Arberg, and to walk this 
 world with a spell on her soul, a secret in her heart, which 
 might either exalt, transform, or annihilate her, but which 
 would never leave as it had found her, which must be the 
 source or the ruin of her happiness. 
 
 This kind of sentiment is either so deep and so intense 
 that from its very excess it commands respect, or else it is 
 degrading. There is no medium. Gertrude instinctively felt 
 this, and it was this consciousness that preserved her self- 
 respect, and gave her face such a beautiful expression at that 
 moment. Mark Apley said to himself, "If I could think tnat 
 that girl was in love with me I would propose to her directly." 
 Adrien did not seem to think much of anything just then, ex- 
 cept of a print from Landseer, which he had taken up and 
 was examining. She felt glad that he did not speak to her at 
 first, that she had time to get accustomed to his presence be- 
 fore he directly addressed himself to her, and she began an 
 insignificant conversation with Mark Apley. 
 
 " How well you are working those carnations, Miss Lif- 
 ford ! They seem to grow under your fingers. I wish men 
 could work. Don't you think it would make them much 
 pleasanter 7 " 
 
 " Perhaps it would, but there are only some men who 
 ought to work." 
 
 " What sort of men 1 " 
 
 " Awkward clumsy ones. It would never do for a man to 
 work well." 
 
 "Then," said Lady Clara, "they should not work at all, 
 on Dr. Johnson's principle." 
 
 " Oh, but I quite disagree with the old Doctor." 
 
 " Do you really? " Mark exclaimed with a broad grin. 
 
 " A woman, for instance, might shoot, if only she did not 
 know how to load her gun and held it as a parasol, and people 
 may sing and act, but they must take care not to do so as well 
 as professional singers and actors. Then, a woman may know 
 Latin, if she does not know it too well." 
 
 " You seem very much afraid of perfection," Adrien said, 
 raising his head with a smile. 
 
 " Yes, I am," she answered, turning her eyes slowly upon 
 him. 
 
 " And I worship it," Lady Clara exclaimed, " wherever I 
 find it." 
 
LADY-BIRD. 153 
 
 " And where do you find it ? " Adrien asked. 
 
 " There," she answered, as her favourite cousin appeared 
 at the door of the conservatory, and certainly, if not in every 
 respect, in outward appearance at least she seemed quite right. 
 
 Lady Roslyn was tall and beautiful, and her manner, which 
 was exceedingly peculiar, was in harmony with her looks. It 
 was pretty to see her and Lady Clara together. They were 
 very fond of each other, and family likeness gave a kind of 
 resemblance to two faces and manners, which were yet essen- 
 tially very different. 
 
 " We were talking of perfection. Ellen, and you appeared 
 at that moment — the living proof of an assertion I have just 
 made." 
 
 "What assertion, I wonder?" Lady Roslyn said with a 
 smile, as she sat down by Gertrude, whose hand she had affec- 
 tionately pressed. 
 
 " That I adore it. There is a riddle which your modesty 
 will not guess. But tell us, Ellen, whether you worship per- 
 fection as I do, or are as afraid of it as this Lady-Bird is." 
 
 ' : You must first define what vo-'u mean bv perfection, 
 Clara:" 
 
 " Ay." Adrien said, looking up from the prints he was ex- 
 amining, " that is the question. No two of us would agree, 
 perhaps, on that point. Our heroes, I suspect, would be as 
 various as our notions of heroism." Gertrude thought two 
 might perhaps agree, if one would explain his own ideas on the 
 subject. 
 
 " Well, I am like Miss Lifford," Mark Apley exclaimed ;/- 
 I am afraid of heroes." 
 
 " What is your ideal of a hero, Lady Clara ? 'I Gertrude 
 asked, somewhat timidly, thus hoping that afterwards Adrien 
 would describe his. 
 
 u Oh, mine is a polytheism, — a general hero-worship ; I 
 have hundreds of favourites in every age and clime, who would 
 have fought like cat and dog had they met upon earth, as their 
 works or their histories meet on my table. Adrien would 
 consign to perdition some of my idols." 
 
 " No, I will hope the best for them all ; so do not tell me 
 their names." 
 
 " Severely charitable !" she exclaimed : " Mark Apley, 
 who is your hero % " 
 
 " The Duke of Wellington, of course," Gertrude said, for 
 
 she already knew her admirer well enough to be sure that his 
 
 7* 
 
154 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 imagination would not cross the sea in search of one ; bul 
 when he re-echoed, ' ; The Duke of Wellington, of course !" she 
 coloured violently, suddenly remembering that Adrien was a 
 Frenchman, and fancying she had shown a want of tact in sug- 
 gesting to Mark his choice of a hero. Adrien perceived it, 
 and relieved her distress by laughing at her about it. She 
 looked at Lady Clara, and said, 
 
 " I often speak without thinking, perhaps because I have 
 so often been obliged to think without speaking." 
 
 " That must be very disagreeable," Mark observed, " it 
 never happened to me. Whatever I think, I always say." 
 
 " Your thoughts, I am afraid, do not soar very high, dear 
 Mr. Apley," Lady Clara observed in too low a voice for him 
 to hear. 
 
 " But perhaps they run very straight, which may be bet- 
 ter," Adrien whispered. 
 
 Mark was a great favourite with his friends. He was so 
 spirited, generous, and kind, and there was an ingenuousness 
 in his simplicity that made it quite loveable. Whenever he 
 said anything foolish, they did not say ' : poor Mark," but 
 ' : dear Mark." He was too good to be pitied. 
 
 " Guess who I expect to-day," Lady Clara said, " but not 
 apropos of heroes ; by the way, we have none of us produced 
 ours, except Mr. Apley." 
 
 " Let us leave them alone, then." Lady Roslyn said, ' : and 
 tell us who you expect." 
 
 ' ; Sir William Marlow, and my brother Henry." 
 
 " Oh, is Egerton coming ? I shall be delighted to see 
 him," Adrien exclaimed. 
 
 " Shall you really, M. d'Arberg ? That pleases but sur- 
 prises me ; of all human beings, I should have thought he 
 would have suited you the least." 
 
 " And why so, Lady Clara % " 
 
 " You differ so entirely on almost every subject." 
 
 " But sympathy and liking are quite separate things." 
 
 " And there can be sympathy without agreement." 
 
 " Of that I am not so sure, except in the case of a predom- 
 inant affection, which has struck such profound roots in two 
 hearts originally cast by Nature in the same mould that no- 
 thing can ever go deep enough to reach the electric bond of 
 their union ; except in such rare cases where love is stronger 
 than death, or life also. I can hardly allow that there can be 
 much sympathy where hopes, fears, wishes, and interests are 
 
LADY-BIRD. 155 
 
 all dissimilar. Do I make you understand what I mean, Lady 
 Clara ? The affection that creates sympathy under such cir- 
 cumstances is of the highest and most intense kind ; but short 
 ©f it, there may be regard and liking, but not sympathy : that 
 is at least my view of the subject." 
 
 " Then, do you mean, for instance, that there is no sympa- 
 thy between us % " 
 
 - Not the least, I should say." She laughed, but did not 
 seem quite pleased. 
 
 '• I should have thought that in our tastes and our feel- 
 ings, our love of beauty in Nature and in art, our interest in 
 literature, there were sufficient grounds of sympathy." 
 
 " No. there is matter for agreeable conversation, for very 
 pleasant intercourse, for great kindness on the one side, and a 
 grateful and admiriug regard on the other ; but sympathy, 
 dear Lady Clara, does not consist in reading the same books, 
 admiring the same views, liking some of the same occupa- 
 tions." 
 
 " What dees it consist in then '? " she asked somewhat im- 
 patiently. 
 
 " In what would make you understand at this moment all 
 I dare not say on the subject. In what would make you feel 
 that we might not have one taste in common, and yet the most 
 perfect sympathy. But after all I may be quite wrong : as 
 in the case of heroes, we may apply a different meaning to 
 the same word." 
 
 " As different," Gertrude said in a low voice, " as when we 
 speak of admiring the Duke of Wellington or St. Vineent of 
 Paul." 
 
 Who could have doubted what sympathy meant who saw 
 their eyes meet at that moment? 
 
 *' Do you and Henry dispute much, M. d' Arberg ? " 
 
 " No ; I believe we disagree too much to dispute." 
 
 ft You are afraid of quarrelling'? " 
 
 " No ; your brother has an excellent temper, and I am too 
 phlegmatic to lose mine easily, but to argue one ought to have 
 certain points of agreement to start from, and that is just 
 what we have not. Egerton has no chance of convincing me, 
 or I him, because, like Archimedes, we can find no world to 
 pest our levers on ; our point d'appui is not the same, and so 
 we cannot bring our argument to bear." 
 
 " For my part," Mark said, " I hate arguing, — it is such 
 provoking work, — and especially with Lady Clara, who always 
 manages to be in the right." 
 
156 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " Or to seem so," Adrien added. " which, perhaps, she 
 will think as great a compliment." 
 
 u It is an equivocal one, but I will take it in the best sense. 
 My quarrel with you, M. d'Arberg, is, that you never will let 
 one penetrate to the bottom of your thoughts." 
 
 " What is it you wish to see there 1 " 
 
 " Your opinion of me." 
 
 " Then it is yourself and not me, that you wish to get ac- 
 quainted' with? " 
 
 " you ! I despair of ever finding you out. I do not 
 know if you are the deepest of enthusiasts or the calmest of 
 reasoners, the most enlightened philosopher or the most bigot- 
 ed Papist." 
 
 " But what if the calmest reasoning awoke the deepest en- 
 thusiasm ? If what you call the most bigoted, and I call the 
 most earnest Popery, were to turn out after all to be the most 
 enlightened philosophy — as many of the deep thinkers of our 
 age are beginning to suspect ? " 
 
 " It would require a miracle to convince me of it, and 
 more than one of your modern miracles." 
 
 " That is hard upon him, Clara," Lady Roslyn said. 
 " You insist on a miracle, and will not have a modern one. 
 But the thinkers you were speaking of, M. d'Arberg ; they 
 may be deep, perhaps, but not free." 
 
 " And do you like free thinkers, Lady Roslyn ? " 
 
 " I like freedom of thought." 
 
 c: And is not that free thinking 1 " 
 
 " You are playing upon words. I do not like the fre© 
 thinking that ends in infidelity." 
 
 " Then the freedom you advocate must walk in leading- 
 strings of j^our own selecting." 
 
 " Not of my selecting. M. d'Arberg." 
 
 " Of whose choosing then ? " 
 
 " Oh, if Ellen once begins an argument, we never shall 
 get out of it again," Lady Clara exclaimed, " and it is not 
 your religion but yourself I want to understand. At times I 
 have supposed you to be a devoted supporter of legitimacy, a 
 chivalrous admirer of the exploded theories of divine right 
 and at others, almost found you out to be a thorough-going 
 democrat, with a lurking tenderness for Socialist opinions." 
 
 Adrien laughed, and said, " If you will not use the key, 
 Lady Clara, iibw can you expect to unlock a door ? " 
 
 u You have never yet given me the ' Open Sesame inta 
 the secret chambers of your opinions." 
 
LADY-BIRD. 157 
 
 "Has she ever asked you for it?" Lady Roslyn said, 
 with a smile, " Oest ^obstacle qiCdle crime — elle ne vcut que 
 cherclicr" 
 
 u You do not know him yet, Ellen ; he has at once the 
 most audacious and the most humble, the most impetuous and 
 the most imperturbable spirit imaginable, and while I am say- 
 ing all this to him he sits looking at me as if I were neither 
 praising nor insulting him. 7 ' 
 
 " Because I suppose you do not intend to do either,." 
 
 " I believe you like to be a. riddle, and to baffle all my 
 penetration. Is not this trying. Gertrude ? " 
 
 ' : To which of you, Lady Clara? " 
 
 " To me, you most impertinent child," Lady Clara an- 
 swered with a smile. " I read his books, and fancy that 
 through them I learn to know him ; but when I see him again 
 he puzzles me afresh. He writes pages of the most exciting 
 eloquence ; he carries you on by the might of his enthusiasm 
 till you almost lose your footing, and feel, at least, if you do 
 not always think with him ; but when you meet him face to face 
 he changes his tactics and draws you out instead of on. listens to 
 you patiently, hopes the best for you, as he said just now of 
 my heroes, but leaves you in doubt what is the sentence passed 
 in the secret tribunal of his thoughts." 
 
 " If I thought you in earnest I would defend myself, but 
 you must not misconstrue my silence. I do not plead guilty." 
 
 " Gertrude shall judge between us in a few days. "If^she 
 finds you less impenetrable than I have done, I will give in.'" 
 
 He smiled and said, " But perhaps she will use the key I 
 was speaking of." Again Gertrude's eyes met his, but 
 hastily turned hers away, for she felt that they might exp 
 more than she wished. 
 
 " But it is very provoking," Lady Clara continued, " that 
 you should be too modest or too proud to talk up to your 
 books." 
 
 He looked at her with an amusingly imploring countenance 
 and said, " Dear Lady Clara, I will call on your f&vourite 
 phrenologist the next time I go to London, and get him to 
 write my character for you ; I will talk like a book if you 
 wish it, and hold forth every evening on any subject you may 
 select, if only you will not discuss me any more." ^ 
 
 At that moment the sound of a carriage driving up the 
 avenue was heard, and Lady Clara exclaimed, " That must be 
 Henry ! " 
 
 •>*' 
 
158 LADY-BIRD, 
 
 " Does Sir William Marlow come with him ? " Mark 
 inquired. 
 
 " Yes. I believe so ; I hope they will tell them we are 
 here." 
 
 ' ; I will let them know," Adrien said, i: I am going to the 
 house." 
 
 As he left the conservatory Gertrude watched his tall 
 figure as it disappeared amongst the trees. Mark observed the 
 direction of her eyes and said, " You had never seen d'Arberg 
 before, had v ou ? " 
 
 ; * Yes. once at your house, the day of the breakfast." 
 u Did you ever see anybody half so handsome ? " 
 " Half perhaps, but certainly not more than half." 
 " He is a capital fellow. Fanny says he is conceited, but 
 it is not true, nobody thinks so little of himself. How differ- 
 ent he is from Sir William Marlow." 
 
 Just then Lady Clara's brother Mr. Egerton, and tho 
 identical Sir William Marlow were seen at a distance walking 
 from the house, and in a few minutes they had joined them. 
 Mr. Egerton was good looking without being handsome. He 
 seemed pleasing and intelligent. His companion was short 
 and slight, with delicate features and a remarkable forehead. 
 His dark hair was brought back in a way that gave him a 
 rather wild expression. Mr. Egerton had just sufficient shy- 
 ness in his manner to make apparent his friend's singular 
 want of it. In his way of standing, sitting, shaking hands, or 
 performing any of the ordinary actions of life, there was the 
 stamp of a most profound conceit. His self-complacency 
 hung about him as a garment, or rather it seemed as much his 
 natural attribute as the strut, the hop, or the twitter of certain 
 .Hirds belongs to them. The very sound of his voice was con- 
 ceited. His calmness was irritating, the way he crossed his 
 legs and caressed his foot exasperating, and the clearness of 
 his articulation despairing. He united in his own person the 
 active and the passive moods of vanity. Soon after the revo- 
 lution of February, M. de Lamartine declared that a French- 
 man's proper occupation is the contemplation of his own 
 magnanimity, and at the same time an English journalist de- 
 scribed England as sitting in unapproachable greatness. Now, 
 Sir William Marlow seemed to unite in himself both the 
 characteristics of these two very different nations. From the 
 height of his unapproachable self-satisfaction, he seemed eter- 
 nally to contemplate his own perfections. That he had good 
 
LADY-BIRD. ] 50 
 
 qualities, that he was clever, and that he had a considerable 
 command of language could not be denied. Lady Clara liked 
 him, and perhaps she was right. It certainly is not right to 
 dislike conceit as much as people in general do. It is better 
 to be conceited than to be vicious or cruel, but the strut of a 
 peacock and the impudence of a sparrow are often more irri- 
 tating than the fierceness of a vulture or a hawk ; it is not 
 easy to be just when we are affronted, and such people as Sir 
 William are a walking affront that our own conceit, however 
 kept in order, can with difficulty endure. 
 
 Mr. Egerton was evidently struck with Gertrude's beauty. 
 Sir William was never struck with anything. For a few 
 moments Lady Clara kept up an animated conversation with 
 the new comers, in which Lady Roslyn and Gertrude occa- 
 sionally joined ; and then, looking tired with that kind of 
 fatigue peculiar to those who make society the business of 
 their lives, she said she must lie down for an hour before din- 
 ner and proposed to go home. Mark Apley drew Gertrude in 
 the garden-chair across the parterre. Mr. Egerton talked to 
 her as they went along. Sir William gave his arm to Lady 
 Clara, and made clever answers to her brilliant remarks ; and 
 the sun went down behind the hills, and the dew was thick 
 upon the grass, the flowers gave out their sweetest odours, — 
 the air blew freshly on Gertrude's cheek, and an animated 
 sense of enjoyment excited her spirits. Life appeared to her 
 under a very different aspect than it had ever presented before; 
 she thought it pleasant to be young and pretty, admired and 
 amuned. She felt as if her tastes and inclinations were in 
 harmony with the refined beauty of the objects that sur- 
 rounded her, while a romantic sentiment of admiration for one 
 well calculated to inspire it, imparted a meditative character 
 to her enjoyment, which increased and exalted it. 
 
 When she reached her room, she sat down in a luxurious 
 arm-chair, before a small wood fire that burned brightly in 
 the grate, and opened a volume which she had carried off from 
 the drawing-room table. It was the Life of Christina of 
 Sweden, which Maurice had once mentioned to her. Adrien's 
 name was on the title page. " I understand him," she said 
 to herself, u but will he ever understand me ? I dare not give 
 him the key to my inmost thoughts, which he so fearlessly 
 holds out to me of his own ; " and taking a pencil she sketched 
 in the faintest manner a key on the blank page of the book 
 before her, and wrote under it these lines: 
 
160 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " Da me posso nullo 
 Con Dio posso tutto. 
 A Dio l'onore 
 A me il disprezzo." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " Di gelosia mi moro 
 E non lo posso dire ! 
 Chi mai provo di questo, 
 Affanno piu funesto 
 Piii barbaro dolor." 
 
 Metastasio. 
 
 Maurice Redmond had been for some time past engaged to 
 spend a few weeks at Audley Park. He had given lessons 
 the year before to Lady Clara, or rather played with her and 
 to her ; and she soon perceived that his education and his 
 manners fitted him for any society, and that he was an addi- 
 tion to hers. She had accordingly invited him to spend part 
 of the autumn with them ; and as he travelled from London 
 to Stonehouseleigh, on his way to Audley Park, he had often 
 turned over in his mind the probable chances of meeting Ger- 
 trude at his mother's house, or in some other chance manner, 
 without dreaming that he should soon find her established 
 under the same roof with himself. It was Mary who an- 
 nounced it to him, soon after his arrival. He had devoted 
 two or three days to his home and to her ; and one of the first 
 things he heard was the account of Gertrude's accident, of her 
 residence at Audley Park, and of Mr. Lifford's departure for 
 Spain. He had left London with the firmest resolution of 
 banishing from his mind all vague hopes with regard to Ger- 
 trude. He had latterly wondered how such ideas could ever 
 have occurred to him : it had, indeed, been but a transient 
 
 dream called forth by her presence and her unconscious glan- 
 ces, and dissolved in absence ; he had now resolved to press 
 Mary at once to fix a period for their marriage, and this sat- 
 isfied his conscience. It seemed as if he had given up some- 
 thing, whereas it was only that calmer thoughts had shown 
 him the utter impossibility of another destiny, and what he 
 did not give up was the passion which he still nourished in 
 the secrecy of his heart. 
 
LADY-BIRD. 16i 
 
 Mary thought him looking ill, and hoped the country would 
 do him good. He had worked hard in London, and made a 
 little money. He smiled as he told her so, and asked her if 
 she could begin housekeeping on such slender means as they 
 could command. She made an evasive answer, and looked at 
 him very earnestly. There was evidently something that dis- 
 quieted her in his appearance : " Why do you look so wistfully 
 at me, Mary ? — Are you trying to read something in my eyes ? " 
 She gave a quick suppressed sigh, and shook her head. 
 
 " Then, Mary, will you agree to it 1 Shall we be married 
 next spring 1 " She was silent, and seemed to be struggling 
 with herself. 
 
 " Are you afraid of making me too happy by such a pro- 
 mise ? " he said, and putting his arm round her waist, he tried 
 to look in her face. 
 
 " Too happy," she slowly repeated. " No, my only wish is 
 to make .you happy. 
 
 " Then you will consent to become my wife ? " She looked 
 as pale as the white roses of the porch where they were sit- 
 ting, but assented gently to his proposal, and in a few minutes 
 left him and went up to her room. 
 
 There kneeling by the bedside she burst into tears. In a 
 few minutes she got up and bathed her eyes with cold water. 
 | His eyes must not shed tears," she said to herself. " They 
 must not burn with hot drops like these. my God, let him 
 not weep. Let me stand between him and sorrow — and never 
 in the way of his happiness. But that never, never could be 
 happiness, and I will stand, so Heaven help me, between him 
 and her. She shall not break his heart. these blinding 
 tears!" she exclaimed, "how they burn the eyes." There 
 was a strange anxiety about her as she made these exclama- 
 tions and walked quickly up and down her room : but when 
 she went down stairs again she was more cheerful than usual, 
 and even encouraged him to talk of future plans inra arrange- 
 ments. 
 
 When under the influence of her society. Maurice believed 
 all that he desired to persuade himself. There was something 
 o tender and unobtrusive in her manner, she was so indis- 
 pensable to him in various ways, he was so accustomed to the 
 perfume of sympathy and of affection with which she sur- 
 ounded him, that it would have been difficult for him to call 
 ffhat he felt for her by another name than love, or to give that 
 aame to the tormenting and wayward emotions which he ex' 
 
162 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 perienced in Gertrude's presence. He would certainly have 
 been very unhappy that day if Mary had refused to become 
 his wife. He was satisfied with this consciousness, and did 
 not trouble himself to reflect what his feelings would have 
 been if. at the moment she had accepted him. he was suddenly 
 to have heard that Gertrude was about to marry, or that he 
 was never to see her again. He asked himself no such prob- 
 ing questions either then or the next day on his way to Aud- 
 ley Park, but only mentally protested, as if to silence some 
 troublesome self-suggestions, that he loved Mary firmly and 
 truly, and that he looked to her for his future happiness, — 
 that in sorrow or in joy, in health or in sickness, she would be 
 to him a shield, a comfort, a friend and a support, — that to- 
 gether they had begun life, and together they would pass 
 through it, and together end it. What injury was it to her 
 if, as artists place before them beautiful pictures to inspire 
 their conceptions, as others listen to the most exciting music 
 they can procure, or revel in the most romantic scenery they 
 can find, and thus influence their imaginations and kindle their 
 enthusiasm ?• — why should not Lady-Bird be his picture to 
 gaze upon — the muse from which he should draw his inspira- 
 tions — the " dame de ses pensees," in the domain of art and of 
 romance ? It was his scruples that made him untrue to Mary — 
 Mary his gentle sister in his childhood — now his betrothed, 
 soon to be his wife. That was an earnest tie, a serious affec- 
 tion, beyond the nonsense of romance, the trifling of imagina- 
 tion. Did he, could he ever have thought of Lady-Bird as 
 his wife ? no, she was not made for the common-place cares 
 and duties of life ; and Shakespeare's often repeated lines 
 about " a bright particular star " came into his head as he 
 was riding up the avenue. 
 
 About ten days had elapsed since Gertrude's first appear- 
 ance in tjfodrawing-room of Audley Park. During that in- 
 terval the^nirious ingredients of which its society was com- 
 posed had been shaken together, and the process of assimila- 
 tion had begun to take place. People had found out whom 
 they liked, or disliked : who amused and who bored them ; 
 who made useful butts; who talked and who listened well; 
 who was always in a -good humour, and who could not endure 
 a joke ; at what hour the library and the newspapers were 
 unoccupied ; when the Miss Apleys got somebody to play and 
 sing, and talked all the time themselves, or Mr. Egerton and 
 Mark Apley argued about Protection and Free-trade, or 
 
LADY-BIRD. 163 
 
 General Burnwood gave, " in a few words," the history of his 
 campaigns. Some friendships were dawning, some flirtations 
 budding, some aversions growing up, — silent ones which were 
 the deepest, busy ones which were tiresome, quarrelsome ones 
 which were amusing. Lady Clara was the perfection of an 
 hostess; she paid enough attention to her guests to make 
 them feel quite at home, and not too much to infringe on the 
 charm of complete independence. She left well alone : never 
 insisted on those who seemed happy in one way that they 
 should amuse themselves in another, but if the most insigni- 
 ficant person in the society looked bored or neglected, the 
 found them some occupation or amusement. She adapted 
 herself in turn to every one ; not so much out of amiability, 
 though she was amiable, but from a wish to see n<$ie but 
 happy faces about her, and a dislike to sad ones. " Life. 5 ' %e 
 said one day, ' : was too short for gloom." " True," Adrien 
 answered. They agreed, but did not sympathise. 
 
 Lady Roslyn showed her Mrs. Hemans' beautiful poem of 
 the Revellers, and said, 
 
 " You too, Clara, would banish all but the gay in heart 
 from your festive hall." 
 
 " No," she said, ' ; but I would try to force happiness upon 
 them, and only allow them that shade of melancholy — not 
 without something of enjoyment in it — which makes us enter 
 into the feelings of poetry, and the charm of emotion. I 
 would not banish her, for instance," pointing to Gertrude, 
 I "though in Mrs. Hemans' words, 'Her eyes' quick flash 
 through their troubled shroud ' does not always indicate a 
 heart at ease ; but I try to teach her not to look at things 
 too seriously, not to ' prendre la vie au tragiquej and I hope 
 I shall succeed." 
 
 Mrs. Crofton, who had been listening, smiled and said, 
 " Example can do much, my dear Lady Clara, k^ Nature is 
 stronger still, and I do not expect that you wilfsucceed in 
 teaching the soul of fire that shines out of those dark eyes to 
 glide along life's stream in the rose-leaf fashion that becomes 
 you so well." 
 
 Mrs. Crofton and Lady Clara did not suit. They were a 
 little too alike, and a great deal too unlike. Both lived in 
 and for society ; both were irreproachable in their moral 
 characters ; but Mrs. Crofton was as plain as Lady Clara was 
 beautiful, and so she had to work harder in her vocation, 
 though she succeeded nearly as well. She was not as eloquent. 
 
164 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 as graceful, or as amiable ; but she was sharper, cleverer, and 
 droller. No one was ever tired of her, and some fastidious 
 people did think Lady Clara was a little too pictorial in her 
 language, and high-flown in her ideas. She was too much en- 
 •grossed in her own impressions to watch the effect she made on 
 others ; but Mrs. Crofton had a lynx eye which always detect- 
 ed the fluctuating symptoms of interest and ennui in those 
 she spoke to. In everything she said there was more power 
 and less charm than in the other, as was once said by a witty 
 Frenchman of two ladies, " Elle etait le male de Pespice, dqnt 
 I ) autre etait la femelle." 
 
 Mr. Latimer was very happy at Audley Park, for he had 
 one ruling passion — the investigation of characters, and there 
 was a fine field for it in the present party. He wrote to a 
 friend : 
 
 " It is the most amusing thing in the world to live in this 
 menagerie, — this ' happy family,' in which I feel myself like 
 the owl with whom nobody meddles, and who sleeps with his 
 eyes open. There is our hostess, a lovely bird with the most 
 stainless plumage and the sweetest voice, warbling melliflu- 
 ously on her golden perch, but keeping at a respectful distance 
 from that clever little mocking-bird, Mrs. Crofton, whose sharp 
 beak pecks rather harder than is always agreeable. There is 
 that stately Bird-of-Paradise, Lady Roslyn, and a family of 
 canary-birds, the Miss Apleys, pleasant enough if they did not 
 chirp so incessantly. Then they have got another young creature 
 whom I hardly know how to describe. It is half foreign and 
 half English, a young eaglet perhaps, born in the Pyrenees, but 
 bred in an old house in this old-fashioned county. Such eyes 
 it has, I have no doubt they could stare at the sun if they 
 tried. You know I am not often in the humour in which it 
 would be safe for a child to play with me, but this young 
 eaglet is not afraid of my snarling. Then we have all sorts of 
 other creatures besides, gentlemanlike young birds like 
 Egerton, cock-sparrow geniuses, and would-be statesmen like 
 Marlow, good-humoured, honest geese like Apley, and a very 
 tall French bird whom I cannot make head or tail of; besides 
 many others, for the cage can hardly hold us all. We have 
 not fought much yet. There is only a little beating of wings 
 and hissing now and then. The cock-sparrow has a violent 
 dislike to the tall French bird, but they have not come to 
 blows yet. The canary-birds look with a jaundiced eye at the 
 eaglet, perhaps because they think it will take their goose for 
 
LADY-BIRD. 1(55 
 
 a swan. But I think it would come to my perch sooner — and 
 I almost wish it would. It goes by the name of Lady-Bird. 
 By the way, don't you remember a certain Henry Lifford to 
 whom Lady Clara was engaged some twenty-two years ago, 
 when just emerging from the school-room ? This is his daughter 
 by a Spanish wife. I hope I shall not make a fool of myself 
 about her." 
 
 Gertrude might have made fools of almost all the men 
 who saw her, had she chosen it ; and sometimes a wicked wish 
 crossed her mind, that she had known something of society 
 before Adrien had taken from her all *desire for the admira- 
 tion of others. She tried to shake off the impression he had 
 made upon her, but the effort proved utterly vain : a look, a 
 word, or a smile from him were more to her than the homage 
 or adoration of the whole world besides. His unconscious 
 power over her was unbounded. She did not conceive the 
 possibility of differing with him in opinion, of ever acting 
 again in any way that she might have heard him casually 
 condemn. His slightest word was law, his books her daily 
 meditation, his presence or his absence the regulating cause 
 of her cheerfulness or depression. He was on very friendly 
 terms with her, but nothing more. There was great kindness, 
 but no devotion in his manner, and she never wished to see 
 him at her feet : could she ever inspire him with an interest 
 in her fate, which would justify to herself her ever-increasing 
 regard for him — it seemed that that would be the highest 
 bliss earth could offer. When they talked together, she was 
 most innocently hypocritical ; for she so identified herself with 
 his thoughts and his feelings that they seemed naturally to 
 become hers, and his convictions and opinions to transfer 
 themselves into her mind by an unconscious process of assi- 
 milation. She talked to him of her childhood, of her home, 
 of her mother, but in a different way from that which was 
 usual to her. This was not dissimulation ; it was a change 
 wrought by the influence he exercised over her. Hardness 
 melted in the light of his eyes ; levity disappeared before his 
 earnestness, and pride vanished in the presence of his perfect 
 simplicity. 
 
 She happened to be alone in the drawing-room when Mau- 
 rice arrived. The day was cold, and everybody taking exer- 
 cise, which she could not yet do; and with a book in her hand, 
 and her eyes as often fixed on the fire as on its pages, she had 
 spent the hours since luncheon. She was taking a resolution 
 
LADY-BIRD. 
 
 which cost her a great effort, but in which she was swayed by 
 the one ruling influence which now governed all her thoughts 
 and actions. She must return to Lifford Grange the next 
 day. It could not be right to stay away from her mother any 
 longer ; and if she could drive in the pony-chaise at Audley 
 Park, she was well enough, it was clear, to go home in a car- 
 riage. She was not without hope that Lady Clara would in- 
 vite, and her mother allow her to come back to the Paradise 
 she was about to leave ; but she must go and see her mother. 
 Adrien had said something the day before — had asked a cas- 
 ual question — which had fixed her wavering thoughts on the 
 subject: but it was an immense effort to go without being sure 
 sof coming back — sure of finding him there again. For the first 
 time she thought of the future as connected with him. — recol- 
 lected that though he had relations and interests in England 
 and in Ireland, his country was France, and the chances of 
 life might never bring them together again. " Was this pos- 
 sible ? " she asked herself. " Possible to embark one's all of 
 happiness in a bark that casually floats alongside of ours on 
 the stream of life, and then see it drift away in another direc- 
 tion, without the power of remonstrance or complaint?" It 
 seemed like signing her own death-warrant to propose to go 
 away. " But would I not die if he thought it right ? " she 
 mentally exclaimed, — smiled at her own extravagance, and 
 then sighed ; for her conscience protested against the rank 
 idolatry of her heart. 
 
 At that moment the door opened, and Maurice Redmond 
 was ushered in. He started when he saw her, but quickly 
 recovering himself he came up to her, and was received most 
 kindly. She was very glad to see him, and they spent some 
 time together before any one came in. " How strange it seems, 
 Maurice, to meet here" she said. " Hitherto when we have 
 conversed, i^has always been either in the open air. or on the 
 clowns or the woods where we used to play in former times, or 
 in Mrs. Redmond's cottage, or mamma's dark room. It seems 
 to me a whole year since my accident. Don't you think there 
 are weeks in which one lives a life ? " 
 
 " There are moments," he answered, " in which I suppose 
 the happiness or the misery of a whole life can be concen- 
 trated." 
 
 " Yes." she thoughtfully answered. " I can imagine that it 
 might be so. What has been the happiest moment of your 
 life, Maurice ? " 
 
 J 
 
LADY-BIRD. 167 
 
 She was thinking very little of the person she addressed. 
 She had forgotten that it had ever crossed her mind that he 
 admired her even in the distant respectful manner which it 
 had once amused her to observe. It was absently she had 
 asked that question, as she might have inquired what was the 
 most beautiful view he had ever seen, and she did not remark 
 that his face flushed as he answered. " The one when I nearly 
 fainted at the Woodlands' breakfast." She smiled and said, 
 r You like extremes. I see. The pleasure of success, preceded 
 by an instant's suffering to make it keener, is your favourite 
 idea of happiness. Well, again I say it may be so, but I 
 don't quite like the receipt. I feel with regard to happiness 
 as children do about a promised toy. 'Give it me now? — 
 How is Mary?" 
 
 ' : Well, quite well," he answered in a tone of dejection ; 
 but rousing himself, added, ' ; you know she is so unselfish that 
 she would never tell us if she was not so ; that is, as long as 
 she could exert herself as usual." 
 
 <: She is good," Gertrude exclaimed. 
 
 ' : she is good," he retorted. " good beyond what any one 
 can know or imagine. There are dej)ths of tenderness and of 
 patience in her heart which cannot be fathomed. Even I — 
 who have known her from childhood, and revered her almost 
 as a saint — I am sometimes astonished at her goodness." 
 
 l - Do you think her as good as one person whom you used 
 to talk to me about — as M. d'Arberg ? " 
 
 ' ; Yes, I believe so. They are both as near perfection as 
 I can fancy human beings can be, but Mary has none of the 
 stimulants and rewards which a man's career holds out to vir- 
 tue. She has no earthly reward." 
 
 " Except your affection," Gertrude said, for the first time 
 alluding in speaking to him to the attachment existing be- 
 tween them. 
 
 '• Ay, I love her," he answered, in a tone of unaccounta- 
 ble emotion and irritation ; ' ; God help her, I love her very 
 much." 
 
 This sentence seemed strange to Gertrude, and she looked 
 at him inquiringly. He did not notice it, but said — " And 
 you have made acquaintance with Adrien d'Arberg. Had 
 I said too much about him, Lady-Bird, — Miss Lifford, I 
 mean 1 " 
 
 u Never mind, Maurice, everybody here calls me so, and 
 you who gave me the name have a better right than any one 
 to do so." 
 
168 LADY-BIRD, 
 
 " Lady-Bird, thank you," he exclaimed, and seizing her 
 hand, kissed it. " Forgive me ; in Italy the very beggars kiss 
 the hand that relieves them. It is only in England that it is 
 thought presumptuous." She felt his manner odd, and ab- 
 ruptly changed the subject. " I am going back to Lifford 
 Grange to-morrow." " To-morrow ! for how long ? " "0 
 probably for good and all." 
 
 At that moment Mr. Latimer came into the room, nodded 
 to Maurice, and sat down between him and Gertrude, opposite 
 to the fire. " Well, Lady-Bird, you have not been out to- 
 day. What have you been doing with yourself? What are 
 your studies 1 I should like to know how you spend your 
 time when we are all out of the way. You are one of the few 
 women I have ever met with who seems to like to be alone. 
 You think a great deal ? " 
 
 She put her fingers to her temples, and said, " It is a mill, 
 always at work, but it grinds more chaff than corn." 
 
 "I believe it would grind anything you chose to put into 
 it. What has it been busy upon to-day ? " 
 
 " A point of duty, Mr. Latimer." 
 
 " what a dry bone." 
 
 " But with marrow in it, too." 
 
 " Who threw it in — yourself, or somebody else % " 
 
 " Conscience picked it up, threw it in " 
 
 " And it has been ground into nothing." 
 
 " No, into something — and something disagreeable, too." 
 
 " What is that ? " 
 
 " The unpleasant circumstance for myself that I am going 
 away to-morrow." 
 
 " stuff and nonsense ; you can't go away." 
 
 " I wish I could not ; but I can, and shall." 
 
 " But you will come back here soon ? " 
 
 " I don't know : one never knows anything in this world, 
 I find. It is all a living i aujour lajourneeJ" 
 
 " but we won't live without seeing you again. We shall 
 all die." 
 
 " I will come at all events to your funeral, Mr. Latimer." 
 
 " And not to Mark Apley's ? Poor fellow ! he will die 
 first. / shall make a struggle, and pine away by degrees. 
 But what do you do with yourself in that enchanted abode 
 where nobody penetrates ? Has anybody ever got in? Have 
 you, Mr. Redmond ? " 
 
 " yes, he has," she answered quickly, ' ; often enough. 
 He is ' mon pays,' as the French peasants say." 
 
LADY-BIRD. 
 
 169 
 
 " They tell me you read immensely." 
 
 " How do they know anything about it ? " 
 
 " Here is Lady Clara, and the about-to-be-annihilated 
 Mark. She says she must go away to-morrow." 
 
 '• So she told me this morning, but I would not believe her. 
 Besides, she ought not to go before the doctor has given his 
 permission." 
 
 " I must, dear Lady Clara. I have told mamma to send 
 the carriage for me tc-morrow." 
 
 " Then you must come back as soon as you can, dear child. 
 We cannot do without you." 
 
 " So I told her. She will find us lying about like dead 
 flies, if she stays away too long. Perhaps Sir William Mar- 
 low may survive, and wander about the house like the last 
 man." 
 
 Mark's usually radiant face was overcast. He was pro- 
 voked at Mr. Latimer's manner to Gertrude. He felt he had 
 not made any way with her since she had been at Audley 
 Park ; he was not quick enough to discover where was the 
 danger he had to fear, and was jealous of the sort of easy foot- 
 ing on which Mr. Latimer was with her, although he was quite 
 Did enough to be her father. Maurice was disappointed at 
 ber departure, and yet relieved in one sense by the reflection 
 that she was to be replaced in the solitary position where none 
 ipproached her. He felt frightened at his own agitation 
 adien any other man spoke to her ; Mr. Latimer's manner, his 
 jokes about Mark, were intolerable to him. If he felt that 
 already, what would it be to live in the same house with her, 
 n the midst of such a society 1 He should never be able to 
 iontrol his nervous irritation. It was better she should go. 
 He would have wished to hurry her away. Once within 
 ihose old walls of Lifford Grange, he could think of her, 
 iream of her, get a glimpse of her now and then, and no one 
 ilse would gaze on her beauty, — no one else would call her 
 Lady-Bird, or talk in joke of dying for her. What business 
 lad they to joke with such a thought ? Poor Maurice, it was 
 10 laughing matter to him. While he was dressing for din- 
 ler, he embodied these thoughts in verse, according to his 
 isual practice, and set them to an impassioned German air. 
 
 Return, return where careless eyes may never rest on thee, 
 Where none, not even once by chance, may see thy face but me. 
 Go back to those old yew-trees' shade, where often from afar 
 I've watched thee as the learned watch in the deep sky a star. 
 
170 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 Go back where birds and whisp'ring winds alone will haunt thine ears' 
 Go back to those deserted walks, the haunts of former years. 
 The jests, the smiles of thoughtless men, were never meant for one 
 Who in those silent solemn halls has lived and bloomed alone : — 
 Let them not praise thee, hold thy hand, and call thee by a name 
 Which time has stamped upon my brain in characters of flame. 
 Go, for the sake of pity, go. Thy every word and look, 
 Here, amidst those who laugh or sigh, my spirit cannot brook " 
 
 There were sincere and insincere regrets uttered for Ger- 
 trude's departure, and sincere and insincere wishes for her re 
 turn. She did not care much for any of them. Lady Clara, 
 whom she was really fond of, she knew was sorry to lose her. 
 Though worldly in some respects, or rather of the world, there 
 was an openness in her clear eyes and smooth brow which was 
 unmistakeable. The truth was in her : and her smile was a 
 pledge. Adrien had not approached her that day; and it 
 was rather late in the evening before he did so. He had been 
 engaged in a long conversation with Mrs. Crofton and Sir 
 William Marlow. The latter had treated him " Du haut de 
 sa petite grandeur' 1 at first ; but, finding what an adversary 
 he had to deal with, had become eager, and put forth all the 
 strength of his understanding, and a close encounter had taken 
 place between them on some of the leading questions of the 
 day. Mrs. Crofton, with that admirable art of listening which 
 she possessed to an eminent degree, had stimulated the sharp 
 encounter, and given an amusing turn to it, when Sir William 
 was growing bitter. Nearly opposite to them sat Gertrude, 
 with one of the Miss Apleys, and several men around them. 
 Maurice was sitting on a chair a little behind her, and she 
 now and then turned round to speak to him. 
 
 " I wonder," he said, in a low voice, " if they would think 
 M. d'Arberg quite sane here, if they knew some of the things 
 he does. To me, who know how a great deal of his time is 
 employed and the use he makes of his fortune, it seems so odd 
 to see him in this sort of society making himself agreeable like 
 any ordinary man of the world." 
 
 " He is very rich, is not he ? " 
 
 " Very rich, I believe his mother was an heiress, his father 
 married her when he was an emigre. His good works are; 
 prodigious, also ; but they are done so secretly that few peo > 
 pie know anything of them. I am convinced he will end by 
 being a priest." Gertrude turned pale ; Maurice saw it and 
 a jealous pang shot through his heart. Thank Heaven, she 
 
LADY-BIRD. If] 
 
 'was going the next day, and d'Arberg would not, probably, stay 
 Jong in England. They might never meet again. Why had 
 jhe not dreaded their becoming acquainted ? Why, fool that 
 he was, had he talked to her so much about him 1 He went 
 ;on in an odd abrupt manner to say that he hurt his fortune by 
 jhis extravagant charities, that this was probably the reasor 
 why he had never married 
 
 " 0, no," she said in a quiet manner, " Mr. Audley, who 
 iknows him well, says he has large property both in France and 
 n Ireland." 
 
 " You have ascertained that he is rich ? " he answered in a 
 one of ill-disguised agitation. 
 
 " I have heard it," she said, and then became absent, for 
 he hand of the French clock was travelling fast, and her impa- 
 tience was becoming almost intolerable. At last the conver- 
 sation at the opposite side of the table came to an end, and 
 Idrien, as if he had perceived her for the first time that eve- 
 jing, came and sat in the chair opposite to her. Miss Apley 
 ras talking eagerly to some one on the other side of the 
 ouch. .Maurice had seized a newspaper, and seemed engross- 
 d with it, but was still near enough to hear every word that 
 assed. " I hear you are going home to-morrow," Adrien said, 
 ,nd looked at her with an expression of interest. " Yes " she 
 f nswered, without raising her eyes from the nosegay she held 
 n her hand, " life cannot be spent amongst flowers : not mine 
 It least." 
 
 " You have enjoyed yourself here 1 " 
 
 " Almost too much. I wish I had not been thrown on this 
 ed of roses, for I am afraid it has unfitted me for another 
 ouch." 
 
 "Well, it certainly is not a very bracing atmosphere that 
 ■je live in here. It is floating down the stream, instead of 
 ■Tilling against it." 
 
 " And yet," she said, " what fault can be found with such 
 n existence as Lady Clara's ? How innocent it is ! how affec- 
 ionate she is ! Loving and beloved, giving pleasure and re- 
 eiving it. I think it is a delightful sight to see her, so 
 eautiful herself, in the midst of beauty of every kind. By 
 banging a single word one could apply to her that beautiful 
 'rench line, 
 
 ' Et rose elle a vecu, comme vivent les rose.-' ; 
 
172 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " True," he answered, with one of his slow smiles, " bir 
 was she sent into the world to live the life of a rose, or t< 
 bear her part in the great battle-field of life 1 Her existence 
 always seems to me too much like Eve's in Paradise — Ev< 
 before not after the Fall." 
 
 "* * Gertrude pulled off all the pink petals of one of the floweri 
 in her hand and showed him the green calyx which formed j 
 sort of cross. " Aye ! " he exclaimed, " it will be found ii 
 the end, but ought it not to have been taken up sooner 1 " 
 
 " I should like the battle-field of life," she said, "but 
 sit still is what I dread." 
 
 " We must each of us fight at our post," he answered 
 " The order of the day is all that concerns us. Do you g« 
 early to-morrow 1 " 
 
 " Not very early," she replied, with a faltering voice. 
 " I wanted to ask you if on Sunday I might hear mass a 
 the chapel at Lifford Grange, — it is nearer than Stonehouse 
 leigh, and I should be glad to see Father Lifford at the sam 
 time." Her eyes flashed with a joy that she could not dif 
 guise, and she assented briefly, but in a manner that showi 
 the delight she felt. 
 
 " Mamma will see you, perhaps, if she is pretty well." 
 " Would she? I should be so glad to know her." 
 
 " She never receives strangers, but " 
 
 " But you think she would see me 1 " 
 " I have read to her your books ; and you have been 8 
 kind to me." 
 
 " Kind ! " he said with a smile. 
 
 a Yes, you carried me here the day of my accident, 
 am sure she will wish to thank you. Can you S] 
 Spanish % " 
 " Yes." 
 
 " That will do, it is all right," — and with a movement o 
 irresistible delight she threw up her nosegay into the air, an 
 caught it back again as it fell. He looked a little thoughtfu 
 and did not talk to her any more that evening, but sat on 
 the same place. Maurice had been asked to sing a new : 
 mance which Mrs. Crofton had just received from Paris, t 
 words by Victor Hugo ; it was called the " Fou de Toled 
 He complied : when he came to the following stanza his ej 
 fixed themselves on Gertrude : 
 
 Un jour Sabine a tout donne — 
 Sa beaute de Colombe 
 
LADY-BIRD. 173 
 
 Et son amour, 
 Tour l'anneau d'or du Compte de Saldagne 
 
 Pour un bijou — 
 Le vent qui vient a travers la raontagne 
 
 Me rendra fou. 
 
 She did not observe his emotion, but the music of this song 
 —which was wild like a dream of passion — seemed to suit her 
 noughts also. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, 
 
 Being of different tongues and nations, 
 
 But the endeavour for the self-same ends, 
 
 With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations." 
 
 I SnAKSPEAEE. 
 
 n her mother's arms — at her mothers feet — Gertrude 
 Ipent the next few days. That dark room had grown very 
 ear to her. Her feelings were now more in unison with its 
 spect. The picture of the Duke of Gandia seemed to look 
 pprovingly upon her, as by every little exertion in her power 
 be endeavoured to contribute to her mother's comfort. She 
 bid her again and again all the particulars of her stay at 
 ludley Park, amused her with descriptions of the people she 
 ad seen, made her smile sometimes and sigh at others, and 
 Understood her smiles but not her sighs. Then she talked to 
 ler of Adrien, gave a minute account of his looks, of his man- 
 er, repeated every word he had said to her, and announced 
 hat he would come to Lifford Grange on the following 
 .Sunday. 
 
 ' ; You must tell Father Lifford, love. I wonder what your 
 ithcr would feel about it •" 
 
 " About what, mamma? About M. d'Arberg's coming to 
 hurch ? You know the chapel is open to every one on Sun- 
 ay.' 1 
 
 ' ; Yes. dearest, but if he comes I think you must ask him 
 o have some luncheon." 
 
 " Yes, to be sure," Gertrude said, with her brightest smile, 
 we must not let him starve, and then you must see him." 
 
 " no, my dearest child, I cannot do that." 
 
174 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " Oh, you must, dearest mamma, it will do you a world of 
 good. How I wish I had taken to managing you long ago. 
 You would be so much better by this time. I am beginning 
 to manage Father Lifford too. By going a little lame, I make 
 him do whatever I like now." 
 
 " 0, but Gertrude, that is very naughty." 
 
 " No, no, I don't 'pretend to limp, I only show it off. Oh, 
 
 we could be so happy here if " Here she stopped, and^ a 
 
 dark cloud passed over her face. In a moment she said, 
 " Lady Clara would come and see you if you liked, mamma." 
 
 Mrs. Lifford became agitated. " My child, don't let her 
 come. I could not bear it. I am very, very grateful to her 
 for her kindness to you, but indeed I cannot see her. I can 
 see nobody. I am not fit for it." 
 
 " Not Lady Clara, then, not anybody but M. d'Arberg. 
 He will talk Spanish to you, tind you will understand each 
 other so well. Dearest, when I talk to him, it gives me such 
 a wish to be good like him." 
 
 Mrs. Lifford looked tenderly at her child, and said, " Gel- 
 truclina, don't give away that little heart of thine to a French- 
 man." She put her hand on her heart with a smile, and said 
 to herself, " I have none left to give away. But he is just as 
 much English as French, or Spanish, or anything else, mamma. 
 He is only like himself." 
 
 " Do you think he likes you, Gertrude ? " 
 
 " He does not dislike me, and sometimes I have thought 
 he appeared a little interested about me. But I am no more 
 worthy of him — than Muff," she said, hiding her face with the 
 little dog's flossy head. 
 
 "And then, dearest, you should not think of anything of I 
 the sort without knowing more about him." 
 
 " I do know all about him ; I know that he is the best, the 
 cleverest, the noblest of human beings." 
 
 " That may be, dear child. Father Lifford says he is very 
 good ; but that is not all that your father would think of." 
 
 " But, dearest mamma, M. d'Arberg is not thinking of me 
 in the way you mean ; other people paid me attentions at 
 Audley Park. He did not. Maurice Redmond says he willl 
 be a priest ; so you need have no apprehensions on that sub- 
 ject. If he ever should think of me, I have no fear that his 
 family could be objected to. Mr. Audley said it was very 
 ancient, and he is very rich and everything people care about — • 
 but he will never dream of marrying me. To be his wife 
 would be too great a blessing." 
 
LADY-BIRD. 1^5 
 
 « Gertrude, Gertrude." 
 
 " You will see him on Sunday, mamma ; don't think me 
 too foolish till then. Now I shall go down stairs, and play at 
 chess with Father Lifford. It always puts him in a good hu- 
 mour to beat me, and I want him to be in a very good humour 
 just now." 
 
 In spite of her remaining lameness, she walked briskly 
 towards the drawing-room. Her manner was altogether 
 changed — its restless listlessness had disappeared, and her 
 mother was confirmed in the belief that a little change was a 
 good thing for her. She did not yet understand the great 
 change that had almost transformed her into another crea- 
 ture, — the awakening of that deep power of loving which had 
 hitherto lain in her heart ''like an unopened flower." 
 
 Adrien d'Arberg had been much attached in his early 
 youth to a cousin of his who had died of consumption at the 
 age of eighteen. Her virtues, her ardent piety, and her saint- 
 ly death, had made an impression upon him which nothing 
 had effaced, and her memory had been associated with every 
 interest and exertion of his life. She was a German, — one of 
 those fair, pale girls, whose eyes have a natural sentimentality 
 : bordering on melancholy. Her temper was serene and seri- 
 ous. There had been something at once romantic and re- 
 ligious in her affection for him. She had had a presentiment 
 of her early death, and had never looked forward to earthly 
 happiness. Whenever he talked of the future, and of their 
 marriage, she shook her head without sadness, but with a pro- 
 found conviction that she should not live to be his wife. 
 There was something holy in her face ; she was like one of 
 Francia's or Perugino's saints, or like the picture which old 
 chroniclers draw of " the dear St. Elizabeth of Hungary." 
 
 A very short time before her death she called him to her, 
 and told him that this might be the last time she should see 
 him, and that she wished to take leave of him then. She 
 enjoined him to do in the world all the good she would have 
 wished to do, and add daily to the treasure they had begun to 
 lay up together in heaven. c: She had made her meditation 
 that morning," she said, ' : on the history of Martha aud Mary, 
 and felt as if he would say that she left him to do all the 
 ; serving alone ; but you will not grudge me, Adrien," she 
 added, ' : that better part which I indeed have not chosen, but 
 which has been chosen for me." She gave him much advice, — ■ 
 amongst other things asked him to write the long work which 
 
176 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 he had since accomplished. She had a brother whom she 
 dearly loved, and who had lost his faith. His conversion had 
 been the object of her prayers and of her hopes, and now of 
 her request to Adrien. She told him that she had never 
 prayed for health or for any temporal blessing, but for one 
 thing alone, and that she had even offered up her life to obtain 
 it, that was, that he might lead a perfect life on earth, and do 
 much for God and for the Church. " I know not," she added, 
 " if He has accepted the sacrifice ; it is delightful to me to 
 hope it. and do you, Aclrien, always act as if it were so 
 accepted. In every temptation — not to sin only, but to falter- 
 ing in the upward path — think of my early death, and remem- 
 ber that you have double work to do." 
 
 Still deeper thoughts and tenderer words she spoke, too 
 solemn to be here repeated, and hitherto he had carried them 
 in his heart, and they had borne fruit in his life. She 
 remained his beau ideal of woman, and it was with almost a 
 religious worship that he honoured her memory. He had not 
 thought of love, or of marriage since. Sometimes he had felt 
 yearnings for the religious life, but had not yet found in him- 
 self the vocation to it. He had not lived much in society, 
 and no woman but Ida had ever made any impression upon 
 him. Once, in compliance with the wishes of his family, he 
 had tried to like a young person whom they recommended him 
 to marry. They thought she resembled his early love, and 
 fancied she would captivate him, but she had only Ida's 
 features without her soul, and he shrunk from the likeness as 
 from a deception and a snare. On the night that in the 
 course of a stroll through the park at Audley Place he had 
 found Gertrude insensible and carried her home in his strong 
 arms, he had only just seen that she was beautiful, or would 
 be so when animation returned ; when he heard from Lady 
 Clara her name, and her family and home were described to 
 him, he felt interested about her. 
 
 There were several reasons for his being so, and though it 
 was as yet but a transient feeling, it was more than he had 
 felt for any woman, except Ida. He remembered how, in 
 Italy, Maurice Redmond used to talk to him about her, and 
 his having once shown him a very odd clever letter she had 
 written to him. When he began talking to her. he was a little 
 startled sometimes, but on the whole attracted. As it was 
 said before, from the first moment of their acquaintance he 
 had so much unconscious influence over her, that her some- 
 
LADY-BIRD. 177 
 
 what strange opinions and the peculiarities of her impetuous 
 and yet reserved character were so much softened as only to 
 make her original and amusing. She was as quick as light- 
 ning, understood in an instant anything he said to her. and 
 astonished him by the vivacity of her intelligence. Perhaps 
 he thought her rather more genuine than she was. Perhaps 
 there was a little more of self-knowledge than appeared on the 
 surface of her captivating laisser -oiler, but her feelings were 
 genuine even if there was a little art sometimes in her way of 
 conducting herself. 
 
 It is difficult to have strong volitions, to be excessively 
 clever, to have great powers of self-command, and yet to be 
 open as the day. Shallow waters are easily transparent — but 
 it is rare to find a very deep and very transparent stream. 
 His own character was such, but in both cases the exception 
 is rare. Lady Clara had often spoken to him of Mr. Lifford, 
 and that man's destiny had always been to him a subject of 
 regret. It was positive pain to a nature like his to see bless- 
 ings wasted, intellect thrown away, means of usefulness dis- 
 regarded, and by one who could have done so much for all the 
 objects he had most at heart. When he looked at the 
 beautiful animated girl who seemed so ready to adopt all 
 high views and aims, and to sympathise so warmly in every- 
 thing great, useful, and noble, he wondered if she could not 
 rouse her father from the torpid indifference in which he was 
 sunk, and stimulate him to adopt another course ; and this 
 idea had induced him also to become well acquainted with her, 
 and to endeavour to inspire her with such an ambition. By 
 degrees he perceived or guessed what was the case : — that she 
 had no belief in her father's affection, and that if there had 
 not been bitter passages in her life, at least there were sore 
 corners in her heart. Those who have felt themselves how 
 suffering can be turned, I had almost said into happiness and 
 I will not unsay it, but at all events into a blessing, have a 
 sort of yearning desire to make others and especially young 
 people understand it. Bitterness is the worst sort of suffering, 
 but perhaps when the right remedy is applied it is the most 
 certainly to be cured. And by a few unpretending words, 
 some instances quoted here and there from real life, he con- 
 veyed to her his own receipt for happiness ; but in mixing up 
 the draught he unconsciously put in an ingredient he had not 
 intended. It was an intoxicating addition, and might nullify 
 what in appearance it seemed to second. 
 
178 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 As he was waiting in the drawing-room, on the Sunday I 
 morning after her departure, for the post-chaise that was to ' 
 take him to Lifford Grange, he took up accidentally his own 
 book which was lying on the table, and opened on the page 
 where, in faint pencil-marks, she had drawn a key; and he read 
 the Italian lines underneath it. " True," he said to himself, 
 " that is the key to what seems at times such a problem to 
 one's self — one's strength, and one's weakness." As he drove 
 through the sombre avenue of Lifford Grange, and caught 
 sight of the melancholy old mansion at the end of it, which, 
 with the sullen-looking view beyond, formed a striking contrast 
 with the scenery between it and Audley Park, he thought 
 what a strange flower had blossomed in that dull spot. As the 
 post-chaise stopped, a servant came up to the door and showed 
 him the way to the chapel, which was at the end of the wing 
 which contained Mrs. Lifford's apartments. It was very 
 small, but well arranged, and the candles on the altar were 
 lighting at that moment. Gertrude was kneeling by the side 
 of her mother's arm-chair, who, when she was well enough to 
 leave her bed, heard mass from a kind of tribune on one side 
 of the altar. One look she cast at the body of the chapel, and 
 saw, with the emotion which a great joy after a moment's 
 anxiety produces, Adrien kneeling and absorbed' in prayer. 
 
 There is something more touching in a man's devotion 
 than in a woman's ; when it is earnest it is so real, so humble, 
 and so deep. It seemed to her as if the light of heaven played 
 round that noble head bowed down in intense adoration. 
 Though she was looking at him. she knew that he would not 
 look at her. His spirit was soaring far above earthly thoughts, 
 and she was glad of it ; she had understood at once in knowing 
 him what theologians mean by perfection — a comparative term 
 after all — but a necessary one to describe the angelic life which 
 some of God's creatures are enabled to live on earth ; and a 
 glance from him at that moment would have disappointed her. 
 !She turned away, and prayed earnestly herself, nor once looked 
 again from the altar. After mass, she saw her mother com- 
 fortably established on her couch, and propped up by pillows. 
 
 " Now, mamma, I will bring M. d'Arberg to see you. We 
 will come in by the garden-door in the next room." 
 
 " You must let me rest for an hour, dear child, and then 
 you may come." 
 
 " Very well, dearest, then I shall take him to see the house, 
 if he wishes it, for Father Lifford will not be in the library for 
 
 
LADY-BIRD. 179 
 
 some time, I know. — Yes," she said to herself, as she went 
 slowly across the hall, " I should like to take him to every 
 part of this old house of mine " (for the first time she compla- 
 cently called it her house), " so that the perfume of pleasant 
 memories might attach itself to every corner of it." 
 
 When she opened the door of the drawing-room — that 
 formal square room with its heavy furniture and cheerless as- 
 pect — it seemed too like a dream to see Adrien there. But 
 there he was, and the window where he was standing was the 
 first of the stations which her fancy meant to cherish. " Are 
 you well, Lady-Bird?" he asked her kindly and warmly. " You 
 have not been walking too much in the day, or reading too late 
 at night?" 
 
 ' ; I shut up my book every night as the clock strikes twelve." 
 she said. " I am trying to keep rules ; it is hard work, but I 
 hope there will be method in my madness at last." 
 
 ' : It is madness to waste health," he said with a smile, " at 
 least without making a good bargain with it, — getting some- 
 thing more valuable in return." 
 
 " And information is not that, I suppose ? " 
 
 "0 no — not for its own sake. What a very peculiar place 
 this is." 
 
 " What do you think of it ? " she said, throwing open the 
 window out of which they both leaned. 
 
 " I don't dislike it, but I cannot flatter you either by 
 praising or abusing it. But tell me, is the chapel as old as the 
 house?" 
 
 " Not the one that is used now, but the one upstairs under 
 the roof, which is now out of repair. There is near it one of 
 the hiding-places for the priests which were used in the days 
 of persecution." 
 
 " Will you show it me, in return for the stories of the cata- 
 combs which I told you the other day ? " 
 
 " Yes, I will ! " she eagerly exclaimed ; and leading the 
 way through long passages and winding staircases, continued, 
 " I had no notion till I met the other day with a little book 
 called 'Records of Missionary Priests' of the heroie lives and 
 deaths of these men, of whom some may have taken refuge in 
 the very place I am going to show you. These accounts are 
 quite sublime, although — or rather perhaps because — they are 
 so simply given. But, M. d'Arberg, I cannot endure their 
 loyaltyjto Queen Elizabeth : it may have been fine, but it pro- 
 vokes me to death." 
 
180 J.ADY-BIHD. 
 
 " You are given to rebellion. I have perceived that 
 before." 
 
 " But you are not surely for passive obedience % " 
 
 " You must not make me talk politics here. I am afraid 
 of the ghosts of your ancestors. But I do admire from my 
 heart the absence of party-spirit in men who died for their 
 faith, with less of earthly stimulus and sympathy than any 
 other martyrs were ever cheered and supported by before. It 
 was done in the discharge of an ordinary duty, all in their 
 day's work ; and their dying prayers for the Queen and the 
 country appear less like great efforts of Christian virtue, than 
 an absence of bitterness more surprising still. They were 
 strangers and pilgrims; and to be tbrust aside from the world,, 
 and hurried on to eternity, was an injury which hardly excited 
 their resentment." 
 
 " But they gave up the out-posts too readily. They stip- 
 ulated for nothing but the very citadel, and defended it only 
 by dying." 
 
 " True," he answered, " it was an error, perhaps, but a 
 noble and not an unchristian one. Is thi3 the place % " 
 
 " It is," she exclaimed, " and we may well call it holy 
 ground, for martyrs here, in Mrs. Hemans' words, 
 
 ' Uncbeer'd by praise 
 Have made the offering of their days, 
 And silently in fearless faith 
 Prepared their noble souls for death.'" 
 
 Adrien gazed with emotion into the dark recess, whicfo 
 was usually concealed by a sliding panel, which gave no out- 
 ward sign of the existence of a hiding-place within. After 
 an instant he turned to her and said, u I had often heard of 
 these places of refuge, but had never seen one before. Your 
 old house may be gloomy at first sight, but it speaks more to 
 the soul than Audley Park." They went down stairs again, 
 and sat upon the terrace. ' ; Will you sit on this bench while 
 I go and see if mamma is ready to receive you? " 
 
 ' : No ; but I will walk up and down here till you come 
 back." In five minutes she returned again, and led him 
 through the little library into Mrs. Liflbrd's room. 
 
 It was long since her mother had seen a stranger ; and her 
 cheek was flushed, and her voice a little tremulous as she 
 spoke to him in Spanish, which was familiar to him as his own 
 tongue. His manner was gentle to every one, but to thaS 
 
LADY-BIRD. l&l 
 
 biuised and suffering being (and who could look upon her, and 
 not feel that such she was) it was gentleness and tenderness 
 itself. That manner, the tones of his voice, the expression in 
 his eyes, were inexpressibly soothing to her. She had not 
 been so addressed for years and years. Father Lifford was 
 very kind, but he was rough and abrupt. Gertrude had lat- 
 terly been affectionate and attentive, but her high spirits and 
 impetuous nature gave something startling to her very tender- 
 ness ; while her husband's coldness and her son's formality 
 were in another way depressing. She had been used to some 
 thing so different in her childhood and early youth. There 
 was a sound in Adrien's voice that reminded her of Assunta, 
 the sister she had lost. She listened to him with a pleasure 
 she could hardly account for, and he at once won her heart. 
 " No wonder," she thought, " that Gertrude had found him 
 charming, that he had made her long to be like him. "Who 
 would not admire that face? — who would not be fascinated 
 by that voice, won by that perfect kindness, swayed by those 
 speaking eyes, subdued by that matchless nobleness of counte- 
 nance and manner 1 " Such were her thoughts as she sat 
 listening to him, and now and then addressing to him a few 
 earnest words. They understood each other so well. He in 
 the busy walks of life — she at her silent watch — had served 
 the same master, and learned the same secrets. In her heart 
 there rose a hope, a wish, at the strength of which she was 
 alarmed ; for she thought that she had learnt that great lesson — 
 not to wish anything too intensely. But that he should like 
 Gertrude, — that he should in time wish to marry her, — was a 
 vision of happiness for that beloved child that rose irrepressi- 
 bly before her. Such a haven of bliss and of safety, such a 
 shelter through the storms of life, such an escape from dangers 
 that would thicken on her path, in or out of her home ! 
 
 When Adrien asked if he might come and see her again, 
 she pressed his hand, and smiled assent. Never had he felt 
 more sympathy for any one than for this pale suffering woman. 
 Her eyes haunted him, and as Gertrude led the way back to 
 the library he was silent and thoughtful. He turned to her 
 half absently, and said something in Spanish. " I don't un- 
 derstand Spanish," she said, hastily. " Not your mother's 
 tongue, Lady-Bird ! Not that beautiful language which she 
 speaks so eloquently ! How is it possible that you have never 
 learnt it." "It does seem strange to me now," she answered, 
 colouring — and a resolution was taken at that moment Not 
 
182 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 another day passed without her applying herself with a kind 
 of passionate application to that study. 
 
 Father Lifford now joined them. He was not fond of 
 Frenchmen, but he had made up his mind that Adrien was as lit- 
 tle of one as possible, and he could not, in spite of himself, 
 help liking him. They walked up and down the avenue dis- 
 cussing English politics, on which they agreed more than about 
 those of the Continent. Gertrude slipped into her mother's 
 room to hear her say that Adrien was charming ; and then . 
 from/her bed-room window she gazed on the yew-trees, as if 
 they had suddenly been illuminated by the most radiant sun- 
 shine. She wished the day not to advance — she dreaded to 
 hear the luncheon-bell ring — every minute seemed a whole 
 day of enjoyment. There was not a gesture of Adrien's that 
 she did not watch ; she knew from which tree he had plucked 
 a branch, where he had let it fall from his hand, on what bench 
 he had sat for a moment and traced a pattern on the sand, 
 which of the gamekeeper's dogs he had caressed as it passed 
 him, and where he had shaded his eyes with his hand to gaze 
 on some distant point which Father Lifford was pointing out 
 to him. At last the bell rang, and she went down to the 
 dining-room. That table laid for three, how often she had sat 
 down to it with a heart that felt as hard and dull as a stone ! 
 When Father Lifford said grace, she silently returned thanks 
 that life was no longer what it had been to her, — thanks 
 that a ray had shone upon it, and melted away the ice that 
 had gathered round her heart. She was amused at observing 
 how skilfully Adrien avoided those subjects on which he and 
 Father Lifford would have been likely to disagree, and with 
 what " Christian art" he sought to please the old man whom 
 he respected. 
 
 " We arc going to vespers at Stonehouseleigh," Father 
 Lifford said to her, as they left the dining-room, ' ; will you 
 have the gamekeeper's pony and ride there 1 " She had done 
 this once or twice before, and felt very grateful to him for 
 proposing it now. When she was lifted on the saddle, and, 
 gathering up the reins, slowly moved from the door, Adrien 
 walking by her side and now and then laying his hand on the 
 pony's mane, or brushing away with a branch the flies that 
 were teasing him, she thought of the day when, with Edgar, 
 she had left that door for another ride, and one which led to con- 
 sequences that made it an epoch in her life. " Don't you go 
 and play us tricks again, Miss Gertrude," Father Lifford said 
 
LADY-BIRD. 183 
 
 to her ; " mind your reins. "Who knows but this old creature 
 may take it into its head to rush off with you somewhere or 
 other, if you leave it entirely to its own inventions." She 
 looked back with a . smile of such sweetness that her whole 
 countenance seemed changed, and the old man muttered to 
 himself, " I believe the foolish mother was right after all, and 
 that what the child wanted was a little happiness." 
 
 "I had forgotten to give you this note from Lady Clara," 
 Adrien suddenly said, and drew it from his pocket. She read 
 it, and turning to him her expressive eyes, she put it into his 
 hand. ' ; Am I to read it? " " Yes," she said, " you see she 
 wants me to go back to Auclley Park. I think mamma would 
 
 let me go, but " " But don't you wish to go ? " She 
 
 looked at him without answering, as if she were inwardly 
 deliberating. She wished to guess his thoughts, she would 
 have given anything to abide by his decision. But she did not 
 venture to ask for his opinion. She had not yet any hope 
 that he cared for her. The very kindness of his manner, 
 though she felt happy in it, was discouraging. The love she 
 felt for him — for she could not disguise from herself that she 
 loved him — was at that stage of its progress singularly un- 
 mixed with hope or fear. Its existence alone seemed enough 
 for her happiness. With a strange humility, she scarcely 
 dared to look for a reciprocal affection from one whom she 
 almost deified by the silent worship of her heart. To be 
 something to him, to have reason to hope she should some- 
 times see him, that he would not altogether forget her, and 
 that he might some day or other know how transformed she 
 had been in thoughts, in feelings and in conduct, since she 
 had known him, since his mind had spoken to hers, since a. 
 spark of that fire which burnt in his soul had animated hers : — 
 this seemed enough for her ; at least she thought so, but it was 
 under a sort of infatuated belief that he would always be what 
 he then was. The least touch of jealousy, the supposition or 
 the report that he was turning his thoughts to marriage, that 
 he was interested in any other woman more than in her, or 
 that he might dedicate himself to the religious life, would all 
 at once have opened her eyes and raised a storm in her soul. 
 
 But there is a lethargy as well as a fever in happiness ; 
 one often precedes the other, and on this day it seemed that as 
 long as she could see him and hear his voice, the future was 
 nothing, the present all in all. Submission to him seemed her 
 ruling desire. In a nature so rebellious and proud, this was 
 
184 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 the result of a mastering passion. But with that artles9 
 artfulness which characterised her, she did what perhaps served 
 her purpose better than anything else. She answered after a 
 pause : " I should like to go, but I will ask Father Lifford's 
 advice. He will know what mamma would really wish." 
 Adrien looked at her more than kindly — almost tenderly — and 
 said, with his usual simplicity of manner : " I hope she will 
 really wish you to go." Her heart bounded with delight. 
 How lovely the lane through which they were passing at that 
 moment seemed to her ; — how blue the sky overhead, how 
 sweet the clematis or the branch of honey-suckle which, here 
 and there, still remained in the hedges ; — how fresh and balmy 
 the air that caressed her cheek. 
 
 At one point of the road there was a fine view of distant 
 country, and they stopped an instant to look at it. He said 
 it was like one near his chateau in Normandy, and, for the 
 first time, he spoke a little about his home. He had not been 
 educated there, and it was more like a home to his brother, 
 who was married, and lived in it with his wife and children ; — 
 every year he spent some time with them. 
 
 " And shall you never fix yourself there 1 " she asked, un- 
 consciously blushing as she did so. 
 
 " Perhaps," he said, " but I never make projects for the 
 future — not that I think it wrong — but it does not occur to me 
 to look beyond the work of the moment. I like that line in a 
 little book I saw on Lady Clara's table the other day ; ' I do 
 not ask to see the distant scene, one step enough for me." 
 
 " And I," G-ertrude said, " am always, or at least always 
 was thinking of the distant scene, and during many years 
 would have liked to ' sauter a pieds joints' 1 the steps between 
 me and it." 
 
 " But not now? " he said inquiringly. 
 
 " Oh, not so much now," she answered hastily, ''• I am 
 very willing to let time go as slowly as it pleases just at 
 present. But it is apt to hurry when we least wish it, and to 
 creep when we would hasten it. Like this old pony, who 
 would not go out of a foot's pace last Sunday, when I was 
 late, and today seems bent on walking fast, as if on purpose 
 to tire you." After a pause she said, "I am almost surprised 
 that your present existence suits you." 
 
 " And how do you know it does ?" 
 
 " Because I do not understand why you should stay at 
 Audley Park if you did not like it." 
 
LADY-BIRD. 18S 
 
 u But why should you think I do not ? It is very pleasant 
 to leave for a while one's own particular way and habits, and 
 see people who have not looked upon things through the same 
 glasses as one's self. They may be better or worse spectacles ; 
 but a peep through them always shows one something new or 
 useful." 
 
 " Ay," she said eagerly, " that is the reason, I suppose, that 
 some very good people are provoking. I suppose it is those 
 who have never used but one pair of spectacles," and her eyes, 
 perhaps unconsciously, glanced at those which Father Lifford 
 was at that moment wiping. 
 
 Adrien smiled and said, " Oh, but for use one pair is 
 enough, if the glasses be good." 
 
 ' ; I should have thought that the very thing I like so much 
 at Audley Park would have bored you, — its busy idleness." 
 
 "I think idle business worse." 
 
 " But you are neither idly busy, nor busily idle." 
 
 " I hope not always ; but you know the old saying, ' All 
 work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." 
 
 " Ay, but I think your play would be of a different kind. 
 I can understand your liking to travel, or to " 
 
 " Well, I am not sure that I had not rather spend a week 
 amongst new people — if they are at all out of the common 
 way — than see new places, though that is amusing in its way, 
 too." 
 
 •■' But beautiful scenery you delight in, I am sure." 
 
 " That," he answered, " is like fine music in a church. 
 When you get it, and your mind is in harmony, it almost 
 amounts to ecstacy, but there are few places where a similar 
 effect is not within your reach. I doubt whether the Alps or 
 the Italian lakes have awakened higher feelings of enjoyment 
 than the nearest meadow, with buttercups and daisies, near 
 London or Manchester, and I am sure that a flower-pot in a 
 window has given as much pleasure as the parterre at Audley 
 Park." 
 
 " Then I suppose," she said in a very low voice, " that you 
 think a person might be happy at Lifford Grange ? " 
 
 They were just stopping at the gate of the little, church- 
 yard. He took the pony's mane in his hand and did nofc 
 answer for an instant or two. a>nd then said, with a shade of 
 emotion in his voice, ' : Yes, I think so." She was startled, 
 not by the words, but by something in his manner. Was it 
 possible that he was not so calmly and so merely kind to her 
 
186 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 as she had fancied, or was it that he was longing to tell hei 
 something of his thoughts on happiness, such as he understood 
 it ? She knew that there was often that kind of emotion in 
 Lis countenance, when the subject nearest to his heart was 
 alluded to. and his eyes — not his lips — bore witness to his 
 deepest feelings. It might have been one or the other of 
 these causes, she knew not which, and now their walk was at 
 an end, and she could not investigate this point any farther. 
 While she knelt at church by his side, she once thought if 
 ever she became his wife, how easy a thing it would be to be 
 good, — how every duty would be a pleasure, and life a fore- 
 taste of Heaven ; and for the first time she poured forth pas- 
 sionate supplications that this blessing might be vouchsafed 
 to her, but they too much resembled in their spirit the prayer 
 of Rachel, when she exclaimed, " Give me children or else 1 
 die ! " There is something fearful in such prayers, and when 
 they are heard, and the hand grasps what it has wildly sought, 
 then is the time to tremble. 
 
 When they came out of the chapel, and Father Lifford 
 was still in the sacristy, Gertrude sat down on her old favourite 
 seat near the gate, and Adrien took leave of her ; the post- 
 chaise had been sent to meet him there. " Then I shall tell 
 Lady Clara that you will send an answer. I hope it will be 
 to say that you will come ; but anyhow I shall see you again 
 before I go to Ireland, — that is, if I may do next Sunday as 
 to-day." She was looking her assent to those last words, when 
 the organist passed them. He hurried by without speaking, 
 but Adrien called out, " Halloa, Maurice, are you here 1 I 
 might have guessed that nobody but you would have played 
 that voluntary just now in this small place. Are you going 
 back to Audley Park 1 I can give you a lift." " Thank you," 
 said Maurice, with a singular smile. " You have given me 
 many through life ;" and then he muttered to himself, " and 
 much good they have done me." Then passing his hand over 
 his forehead, he approached Gertrude, who shook hands with 
 him. The coldness of his hands struck her, and the dim look 
 of his eyes. 
 
 " I am going to sleep at home to-night," he said, " but to- 
 morrow I return to Lifford Grange — I mean to Audley Park." 
 
 " Here is Mary !" Gertrude exclaimed. " M. d'Arberg, 
 you ought to know her, and her mother, Mrs. Redmond." 
 She went up to them, and Adrien followed her. Maurice 
 stood at a little distance whilst they spoke together. 
 
 
LADY-BIRD. 187 
 
 8 Yes," he said to himself, " it must be so, and fool that 1 
 am to mind it. Did I ever think she could be mine ? Would 
 I, if I could, give up Mary ? Would I be false to the dearest 
 and holiest affections of my childhood aud my youth? Did 1 
 not snatch her hand last night, and imprint a thousand kisses 
 upon it ? Did I not again speak of our marriage? What a 
 brute I am not to feel always as I did then ! Is my hand 
 such a rich gift that I should give it her without my heart ? 
 But my heart is hers. Yes, all that deserves to be called 
 heart ! 0, Lady-Bird, Lady-Bird ! I could almost curse you 
 for standing between me and duty, and happiness, and Heaven 
 also. For but now, in church, to see her kneeling by d'Ar- 
 berg's side drove devotion away, and awoke the worst feelings 
 in my breast. Curse her ! Do men curse what they adore ? 
 I don't know ; all I know is, that if she ever speaks to me 
 again with that smile of hers, — if she expects me to talk to 
 her of Mary as if she were not Mary's worst enemy, I may tell 
 her something of my sufferings, and if that is to insult her, 
 let her complain to d'Arberg, and make him turn my enemy 
 too. Fool — idiot — that I was to be always talking to her 
 about him ! Could I suppose she would see him, and not love 
 him ? Oh, that he may make her suffer what I suffer !" 
 
 As he mentally expressed this wish, his eyes accidentally 
 fixed themselves on the cross, near which he was standing, 
 and he was struck to the heart with that silent lesson. He 
 went into the church, and burying his face in his hands, re- 
 mained there a while. Perhaps, during those few moments 
 of silence and of meditation, he had a glimpse into his own 
 real feelings ; he saw for an instant the utter selfishness, the 
 heartless ingratitude of his conduct ; a transient repentance 
 passed over the surface of his mind, and when Mary softly went 
 up to him and whispered : " Mother is waiting," he raised 
 his head, and his eyes were full of tears. She saw that he 
 had been weeping, and he was surprised at her suddenly stop- 
 ping and wringing her hands, as if she could hardly struggle 
 any longer with some intense anxiety. ' ; Mary?" he said, 
 with a kind of inquiring expostulation. " I cannot endure 
 that" she said hurriedly, " anything but that, when I know 
 
 ." She stopped, and her manner changed. "Come. 
 
 make haste, dear boy — we shall be late for tea, and I can en- 
 dure anything but that.'' 1 she repeated gaily, putting her arm 
 in his, and holding out the other to her mother. They went 
 home together, and he appeared calmer and happier that 
 evening than he had done for a long time. 
 
188 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 # 
 
 " He that but fears the thing he would not know 
 Hath by instinct knowledge from other's eyes 
 That what he feared is chanced." 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 " The love that follows ns sometimes is our trouble, 
 "Which still we praise as love," 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 " Happy and worthy of esteem are those 
 Whose words are bonds, whose oaths are oracles, 
 Whose love sincere, whose thoughts immaculate ; 
 Whose tears pure, messengers sent from the heart, 
 "Whose heart as far from fraud as Heaven from earth.' 1 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 In the course of the next week, Gertrude returned to Audley 
 Park. Her mother had readily yielded her assent to the re- 
 quest contained in Lady Clara's note ; and although Father 
 Lifford had growled a little about it, he did not on the whole 
 object. He said that he supposed foolish people must please 
 themselves, which they well knew was his way of withdrawing 
 from active opposition. It was therefore with a light heart 
 and a radiant countenance that Gertrude set out for Audley 
 Park, looked again upon its brightness, and entered the draw- 
 ing-room which had been the scene of so much enjoyment, and 
 where she was now most affectionately received. 
 
 Lady Clara kissed her, Lady Roslyn smiled, and Mr. 
 Latimer exclaimed, in the words of Maurice's song : 
 
 " Come, Lady-Bird, come rest you here, 
 O do not fly away." 
 
 " We caught her the first time," Lady Clara said ; " now 
 she has returned of her own accord." 
 
 " D'Arberg." said Mr. Latimer, " could not tell us whether 
 you were coming or not. We all longed to fly to Lifford 
 Grange yesterday in that yellow post-chaise, which bore him 
 off at an early hour. You cannot think how we have missed 
 you. Lady Clara has been quite depressed, Lady Roslyn 
 cross. Mrs. Crofton melancholy, poor Mark on the point of 
 hanging himself, and " 
 
 " You, Mr. Latimer ?" 
 
 " I, — I sent for arsenic yesterday, and had you not re- 
 turned to-day there would have been a coroner's inquest 
 
LADY-BIRD. 189 
 
 to-morrow, I can't eat at dinner, the Miss Apleys talk to me 
 so much." 
 
 " That is a hint." 
 
 '• No, Lady-Bird, your warblings help digestion. By the 
 way, Lady Clara, I hope the magnetiser is coming here again. 
 She ought to know him." 
 
 " He said he would dine here on Wednesday." 
 
 u We had great fun the other night. He sent Miss Apley 
 fast asleep, and put Fanny, on the contrary, in such a state of 
 excitement that she talked the most charming nonsense. He' 
 is to tell us a great deal about clairvoyance the next time he 
 comes." 
 
 " I have often heard Mesmerism spoken of," Gertrude said, 
 "but have never seen it practised." 
 
 " then, Mr. Edwards shall devote himself to you on 
 Wednesday." 
 
 " What nonsense d'Arberg talked about it. Not safe to 
 have any thing to do with it ! I should have thought him a 
 more sensible man. I really think he believes in witch- 
 craft." 
 
 " no, he does not." 
 
 " I beg your pardon — he said he could not see how one 
 could explain away what was said in the Bible about it." 
 
 " And do you % " Gertrude asked. 
 
 " I don ; t know, I never tried." 
 
 " Then you disbelieve without examining," Lady Clara 
 said ; " that is hardly philosophical. M. d'Arberg was not at 
 all dogmatical about it." 
 
 " You always stand up for him, Lady Clara." 
 
 " But I do not set down any one else — not even you, 
 which I own would be difficult." He laughed -. and : said : 
 "And I own that you are the best natured person in, the 
 world ; — I never heard you run down any one." 
 
 u It is so fatiguing," she said with a pretty little yawn (if 
 such a thing can be pretty). u I have not Mrs. Crofton's 
 energy." 
 
 " Malicious humility !" he exclaimed, — " Admirable lazi- 
 ness ! — the merit of virtue and the charm of vice. I like to 
 see you idly reclining in your arm-chair, letting the stitches drop 
 from your work, with the same charming indolence with which 
 you spare the reputations of your neighbours. And have you 
 missed us, Lady-Bird?" he continued, "have you in the 
 shades of Lifford Grange given one thought to those you left 
 
190 LADYBIRD. 
 
 behind? I had some thoughts of disguising myself as a 
 sailor, or a tramper, and laying wait for you in some of those 
 dark thickets near the Leigh ; but there is a story in the 
 neighbourhood that your father keeps bulls in his park, and I 
 was afraid of being tossed in your presence. — not by conflict- 
 ing feelings alone, but by the horns of one of those domestic 
 favourites." She laughed and denied the report, and soon 
 after went to dress. 
 
 She found herself sitting at dinner that day between Sir 
 William Marlow, and Mr. Egerton, Lady Clara's brother. 
 The former did not like her at all. In the first place, he had 
 rather an instinctive dislike of clever people ; though very 
 clever himself in some ways, he was slow at entering into any- 
 thing like humour ; and was provoked to death that Ger- 
 trude's pointless remarks, as he considered them, made people 
 laugh, and turned away their attention from himself. Her 
 other neighbour had not yet made much acquaintance with 
 her, but this time they got on very well. It would have been 
 difficult not to like him, he was so pleasing, intelligent, and 
 agreeable. That day, in the course of conversation they happen- 
 ed to talk of emigration ; and amongst other things he informed 
 her that Adrien was deeply interested in the subject, and had 
 organized the plan of a settlement in America, to which he 
 had sent a great number of the poor Irish in London, and 
 which promised to succeed very well. 
 
 " I admire him so much," he said, ' : and could like him 
 better than almost anybody. But I ' can never get on quite 
 satisfactorily with him, and I think he has some very overstrained 
 notions. I like people to be as happy as possible, and I have 
 almost as much horror of their tormenting themselves, as of 
 their tormenting others." 
 
 ' : But you do not think him a self-tormentor, do you ? He 
 seems to me a particularly happy person." 
 
 " But I do not like his way of being happy. Perhaps be- 
 cause I could not find pleasure in it myself. I think him too in- 
 different to some things, and too much engrossed by others. 
 He is not practical enough." 
 
 " That is a word I do not quite understand. Do you mean 
 that he does not himself act up to his theories'? " 
 
 " Xo : but that his theories are not generally reducible to 
 practice, and are therefore unsuited to the world we live in." 
 
 •■ But is not the very condition of the world a struggle ? 
 Virtue will never altogether prevail in it,, and vet you would 
 
LADY-BIRD. 191 
 
 not on that account cease from the contest which it carries on 
 against vice ? " 
 
 " I would act as well as I could myself, but not aim at a 
 visionary perfection." 
 
 " No, not at a visionary one ; but would you not, or at 
 least can you not understand that a person should aim at the 
 highest perfection possible ? " 
 
 ;: I think that in aiming too high, people often fall lower 
 than they would otherwise have done." 
 
 " Do you think he does ? " 
 
 " No ; I said before that I admire him very much, but I 
 fancy he could be much more useful in his generation if he 
 were more like other people." 
 
 " But he neither lays down the law, nor dictates to others ; 
 nor is there an assumption of superiority in his manner. I 
 thought I heard you say the other day that his manner was 
 singularly unpretending." 
 
 " So it is ; and I know nobody who, in proportion to his 
 talents, has so humble an opinion of himself; but what I 
 mean is, that one is always conscious that he measures every- 
 thing by a standard not adapted to the world in its present 
 state, and thus his efforts overshoot the mark, and so he 
 misses his aim." 
 
 " But perhaps you do not quite know what his aim is ? " 
 
 Mr. Egerton smiled, and Sir William Marlow said, " I 
 always regret to see so remarkable an intellect hemmed in by 
 such narrow boundaries." 
 
 " Are you sure that what you take for boundaries are 
 not roads," she said, " leading to regions you have never ex- 
 plored'? " He looked at her in a manner that seemed to say 
 he had explored everything. " Besides," she continued, " a 
 fortress has boundaries, a fruitful garden has walls ; it is de- 
 serts and swamps that have no defined limits." 
 
 " ; J prefer the Alps," he ejaculated, " to a French garden ! " 
 and then turned away with a lofty contempt — himself a little 
 Alp in his own esteem. 
 
 " I think d'Arberg has bit you with some of his notions," 
 ^Ir. Egerton said good-humouredly. 
 
 "Perhaps," she answered, and thought of Wilberforce's 
 answer to a lady who told him that Whitfield was mad : — " In 
 that case,-' he said, ' : I only wish he may bite us all," — and 
 then went on to reflect on the extraordinary manner in which 
 persons who view certain subjects through different mediums 
 
192 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 are impressed in a totally opposite way by the actions and the 
 conduct of others. The very same line of conduct which ex- 
 cites admiration in one case, inspiring only astonishment, if 
 not aversion in another. Perhaps a short time ago the want 
 of sympathy between herself and her two neighbours would 
 not have struck her in the same degree, and the absence of 
 worldliness, which she so well appreciated in d' Arberg, in Mary 
 Grey for instance might have appeared to her unreasonable ; 
 but she did not analyse her own sentiments narrowly, and was 
 well satisfied with the consciousness that she alone out of that 
 numerous society understood the principles as well as shared 
 the feelings of Adrien. 
 
 That day and the next, she had but little conversation 
 with him, but she thought he watched her, and on one or two 
 occasions she asked his advice about little things that she was 
 in doubt whether to do or not : there was not the least coquetry 
 in this. -She showed him, as plainly as a woman's dignity 
 would permit, that she had but one wish, and that was not so 
 much to captivate him, as to make herself what he would ap- 
 prove. It would have been impossible for any man not to be 
 touched by this tacit homage. This singleness of purpose 
 and simplicity of action did not naturally belong to her char- 
 acter, but to the intensity of the passion which had taken pos- 
 session of her heart. She was like Juliet in her love, and the 
 contrast between her utter artlessness with respect to it and 
 her general subtlety of intellect and reserve of character was 
 singular and attractive. He began to ask himself if he loved 
 her? — if he ought to marry? — if she were in reality all she 
 seemed to him to be ? — and though he talked to her less than 
 during her first visit to Audley Park, his manner began to 
 show an interest which he struggled not to mark too plainly. 
 Gertrude felt it, and with a sort of instinct seemed anxious 
 not to hurry into premature development, or draw the attention 
 of others to that delicate blossom of happiness which she 
 watched day by day unfolding, and on which she fearfully 
 staked every hope for her life, for her mind — I had almost said 
 for her soul, whose new-born virtues were only the reflection of 
 his. She had not gone with him to the source whence he 
 drank, she had only caught the drops as they fell from his 
 cup : he did not see this, and in his admiration of the fruit, he 
 saw not or could not see that the roots had not struck deep 
 into the soil. Her rare intelligence and noble sentiments 
 answered to his aspirations, and he began to think her beauty 
 
LADY-BIRD. 193 
 
 was the least of her merits, and to find a fresh stimulus in her 
 society towards everything great and good. It was a beautiful 
 thing, the love of those two beings, both so handsome and so 
 highly-gifted, and looking formed — * 
 
 " He for God only ; she for God in him." 
 
 Others began to take notice of this growing attachment. 
 Mark was disappointed, but — amiable as he always was — only 
 congratulated himself on not having proposed to Gertrude, 
 and consoled himself with the reflection that she was, perhaps, 
 too clever for the ordinary purposes of life, and that 
 
 "There were maidens in [England] more lovely by far" 
 
 that would gladly wed the heir to so many acres and the future 
 possessor of Woodlands Hall. Maurice was not the last to 
 become conscious of the interest with which Adrien had in- 
 spired her whom he watched with unremitting though hopeless 
 anxiety ; but his calm and self-collected manner of addressing her, 
 the caution with which he avoided any appearance of exclusive 
 devotion to one whom he had not yet resolved to marry, were 
 so different from what Maurice's own conduct would have 
 been in his position, that it kept up in him the hope that 
 d'Arberg had no such intentions, and that in her undisguised 
 admiration for him there was more enthusiasm for his charac- 
 ter and talents than affection for his person. And yet, when 
 he saw her eyes turned upon him with that bewitching expres- 
 sion which he had once described as so fearfully attractive to 
 him, the sudden pain that shot through his heart was almost 
 greater than he could bear. He often made resolutions to de- 
 part the next day, but when the morrow came he found some 
 excuse for remaining, and indulging the fatal pleasure of see- 
 ing her, embittered as it was by torments of jealousy. 
 
 One day she was sitting in the conservatory drawing an 
 American flower, and intently busy upon it, when he came 
 in with a letter in his hand, and sat down at a little distance 
 from her. She made some trifling remark about the weather, 
 without raising her head, and after an instant's silence he be- 
 gan, 
 
 " I wish to ask your advice. Lady-Bird : I have had a let- 
 ter from Mary, which disturbs me much, and I think you, 
 better than anybody, would understand my feelings and counsel 
 me how to act." Gertrude was struck by the hollow nervous tone 
 9 
 
1<J4 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 of his voice, and said kindly—" I will do my best, my dear 
 Maurice, but' how should I know how to advise others, I who 
 am hardly vise enough to guide myself? " " First read that 
 letter," he said. She took it, and it was as follows : — 
 
 "Dearest Maurice — I have been often wishing to say 
 what I now write, but lately courage has failed me to do so, 
 and during the short moments we have occasionally spent to- 
 gether, you have looked so ill and unhappy that I did not 
 know how to begin talking of anything that might distress 
 you. But now my mind is made up, and writing will be easier 
 than speaking. I think you must guess what I am about to 
 sa y — you must give up the idea of marrying me. It has all 
 been a mistake from the beginning. We have loved each 
 other dearly — how dearly God only knows, and I love you. if 
 possible, more than ever. But I feel now that it does not an- 
 swer for two persons who have been brought up together from 
 infancy and lived like brother and sister to fancy, when grown 
 up, that they love each other in a different way. I believe 
 it is the mistake we made upon this point that has caused your 
 misery. I saw this a good while ago, but I had many reasons 
 for not saying so, some selfish ones doubtless, but also others 
 for your sake. I hoped to save you from giving yourself up 
 to a feeling that will make you miserable if you indulge it. 
 It is so dreadful to love and not to be loved. It is so bad for 
 a man to spend his time in sighs and tears ; it does not signify 
 so much for a woman ; and if you could have loved me — I mean 
 if I could have kept you from loving that other one I was 
 speaking of, it would have been for yonr happiness. With 
 that hope I stood between you and her till my heart was 
 ready to break, but I can see that your suffering is greater 
 than ever, though you struggle to hide it. This is worse than 
 anything else. If the conscience is at rest the heart can bear 
 its burden, however heavy it may be. But if not, strength 
 and patience fail. Now, I will make your conscience easy — 
 I release you from your engagement to me ; your love shall 
 be as free as air, but, if it be still possible, abstain from lov- 
 ing her. If that is beyond your power, then love her silently, 
 hopelessly, but without remorse, that is, till she marries ano- 
 ther. I can fancy that you will be much happier, at least for 
 a while after getting this letter. I am, I assure you, after 
 writing it. Ever, dearest Maurice, your affectionate 
 
 " Mary." 
 
LADY-BIRD. 195 
 
 Gertrude felt considerably embarrassed and annoyed as 
 she read this letter. She had almost forgotten till then that 
 at one moment she had amused herself with the idea that 
 Maurice admired her, and even now — probably because she 
 did not wish it — she would not admit to herself that Mary 
 alluded to her. If it were so he would be acting most 
 strangely in asking her advice, and she determined not to 
 allow him to suppose that she thought that possible. Her 
 manner was cold, however, as she returned the letter to him, 
 and said : " It is a very touching letter. I am sorry for her, 
 and still more for you, that she had occasion to write it." 
 
 "What can I do?" he said, with his eyes fixed on the 
 ground. " I love Mary with all the strength of my will. I 
 would die for her, but ought I to deceive her — if even I could 
 — and when she has read my heart, try to persuade her she is 
 wrong ? " 
 
 " Is she right, then ? " Gertrude asked still in the same 
 cold manner. 
 
 " There is a passion in my heart," he said between his 
 teeth, " that is killing me by inches, that leaves me no repose 
 either by day or by night, that is merciless like revenge and 
 tenacious as life, that robs me of Mary and gives me nothing 
 but despair instead. Is a man guilty for suffering? Would 
 he choose to be wretched? Is he to be broken on the wheel, 
 and then reproached for his agonies ! " His voice quivered, 
 and she looked up. He could not meet her eyes, but hid his 
 face in his hands. He felt as' if she would never speak to 
 him again if he gave her too clear an insight into his heart. 
 With the courage of despair he looked at her, and murmured : 
 | In Italy I loved her ! " 
 
 In Italy ! " she exclaimed, and then thought of the 
 verses that she had once imagined must have been addressed 
 to herself, and now felt greatly relieved that it was otherwise. 
 " But, Maurice, then why renew your engagement with Mary 
 when you returned to England, if you loved another ? " 
 
 " I did not know my own feelings then. Mary is right ; I 
 have struggled with my conscience till I am almost worn out, 
 and her letter has aggravated instead of relieving my doubts. 
 Tell me how to act — your words shall rule, my destiny." 
 
 But I do not quite understand how the case stands," she 
 " This Italian whom you love- 
 
 " Not an Italian," he abruptly interrupted. 
 ' ; Well, but her whom you loved in Italy — in what position 
 of life is she ? " 
 
19H LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " Far. far above me." 
 
 
 Too much so for the possibility of a marriage between 
 you?" 
 
 " Who can say what is possible or impossible, in that 
 respect? " 
 
 "True," she answered thoughtfully, "but have you any 
 reason to think that she likes you? " 
 
 « No — on ly the belief that there is a love so ardent and so 
 patient as to win back love at last." 
 
 " And when you are with Mary, the image of this person 
 haunts you, and stands like a cloud between you and her, 
 turning what should be happiness into grief? " 
 
 " Like the form of an angel it stands between us, but like 
 the angel that stood at the gate of Paradise with a flaming 
 sword in his hand." 
 
 " Could you not by a strong resolution tear this passion 
 from your heart ? Could you not drive it away by an act of 
 your will? and is not your affection for Mary — your affianced 
 ■wife — strong enough to banish that dangerous vision, till, with 
 time, in the sunshine of home and the atmosphere of duty, it 
 shall no longer haunt you, and shall become not a dream but 
 the mere shadow of a dream ? Count the cost of such a sacri- 
 fice, and throw into the scale its reward. Have you strength 
 for this?" 
 
 " I have strength to shut up in my heart the secret of my 
 misery, to hide it from every eye but Mary's, which has read 
 into its inmost recess, to look upon the face that has been ' the 
 bane of my life, the ruin of my glory,' and not by a glance or 
 a sigh to betray what I suffer. All this I can do, for I have 
 done it already ; and I can stand at the altar by Mary's side, 
 and pledge my faith to her, and never, so help me God, injure 
 or desert her, but I dare not say — I dare not hope — that in 
 my home and in my walks, by our bed and at our table, that 
 same vision will not stand, then no more as a stern angel 
 shutting up the path to happiness, but as a fiend that will 
 tempt to sin and to despair. Can you understand such a love 
 or such madness as this ? One only favour I implore, — that 
 you will direct my course. Do not refuse it to one whose 
 wretchedness deserves pity at your hands !" 
 
 "It is a dreadful thing, Maurice, to love as you love, and 
 to love hopelessly. Heaven help all those who may ever love 
 thus ! I believe Mary is right ; even more right than she 
 knows. You must not marry her. You must not place the 
 
LADY-BIRD. 19*7 
 
 sacred barrier of duty between yourself and the passion, which, 
 tremendous as it is. is not yet guilty. That barrier must not 
 be rashly exposed to so powerful a torrent. Better that it 
 should sever you from her now than sweep you both into an 
 abyss hereafter. I ask myself what I should do in your place? 
 Is the object of your love worthy of such a passion ? Do you 
 respect her, Maurice, as much as you adore "her ? " 
 
 " I do ! " he fervently exclaimed, putting his hand to his 
 heart, as if to still its beating. 
 
 " Then," she continued, with excitement. — a then continue 
 to love her, as Mary bids you, without remorse and without 
 fear. Practise every virtue for the love of her, exert every 
 talent you possess for her sake, and bide your time with as 
 much courage as you can find in yourself. Nothing is hope- 
 less, nothing is impossible, as you said just now. There is a 
 strange power in a noble affection ; there is a mighty strength 
 in an unselfish devotion. Never put a voluntary obstacle be- 
 tween yourself and her you love ; and, as I said before, Heaven 
 help all who want help and strength ! — and who do not, Mau- 
 rice?" 
 
 He stood silent an instant, looking very pale and nervous, 
 then suddenly threw himself at her feet, kissed the hem of 
 her dress with passionate fervour, and rushed out of the con- 
 servatory. He, as he stood alone under a tree in the shrub- 
 bery, where he had taken refuge in the height of his emotion, 
 she at the place where he had left her, were both asking them- 
 selves a similar question : had they understood or misunder- 
 stood one another 1 " Had she believed his evasive statement 1 " 
 he said to himself, " and really thought he loved a stranger ? " 
 Did she not rather read at once the secret of his heart, and 
 had not those exciting words she had addressed to him been the 
 only encouragement she could venture to give to his almost 
 explicit avowal of passionate affection 1 And Gertrude, who, 
 •ange as it may appear, had been deceived at first by his 
 subterfuge, could she doubt, after the strange revelation of 
 that scene, that she was herself the object of that wild adora- 
 tion which had so lung been struggled with and never sub- 
 dued ? And if so, what encouragement her words must have 
 seemed to give him, and yet how could she recur to the sub- 
 ject and retract her advice ? This harassed her a little, but 
 at the bottom of her heart she was touched at having inspired 
 such a feeling, and thought kindly of Maurice as of one who 
 loved not wisely but too well. She was sorry for Mary also, 
 
198 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 but it was not perhaps in her nature to sympathise with the 
 trials of a character so different from her own. She pitied 
 him much— the most of the two. ' : Adrien," she said to her- 
 self. " would never love her in that way ; he never would adore 
 her.'" But one kind glance of his eye, one of those calm, earn- 
 est words of his, which implied an interest in her fate, were 
 more precious to her than the homage and devotion of all the 
 world besides. And that he loved her she could no longer 
 doubt ; and that evening few of the people at Audley Park 
 doubted it either. 
 
 It might have been better for Maurice had he been there 
 also and "seen what must have opened his eyes to the miser- 
 able' delusion which he was madly cherishing since he had 
 parted from Gertrude ; but he left Audley Park immediately 
 afterwards, and carried away with him a dangerous hope, 
 
 w hich traversed by many a doubt, shaken by ever renewed 
 
 misgivings — was to be nursed in solitude and cherished into 
 life. His interview with Mary on the afternoon of that day 
 was strictly characteristic of both : he was much affected, and 
 ill with excitement and agitation ; he spoke of his affection 
 for her, of all she had been to him, of his misery at being 
 obliged by his conscience to acquiesce in the resolution she 
 had°formed, until he would have seemed to others, and, indeed, 
 felt himself to be the greater sufferer of the two in the parting 
 of that day. In truth, he could not but be aware of all he 
 was relinquishing for the sake of a passionate dream, in all 
 human probability never to be fulfilled ; and when on his way 
 to London, with his burning head in his hands, he analysed 
 his feelings with an indignant impatience at his own weakness, 
 he was in reality more to be pitied than she who — with 
 
 " Her gentle dreamings gone forever, 
 Her innocent hopes and wishes gone, — all gone ; 
 A rainbow imaged on a crystal river, 
 Was not more frail — it shines — and now has shone " — 
 
 turned to her household duties, and all the gentle charities of 
 life, without one murmur or one bitter thought. The load | 
 she had to bear in those first days of sorrow was doubtless 
 heavy, but it had none of those sharp edges which run into 
 the heart, and fester there. 
 
 Mr. Edwards, the amateur magnetiser, who had been at 
 Audley Park the week before, came there again on the evening 
 after Maurice's departure. He was introduced to Gertrude, 
 
LADY-BIRD. 199 
 
 and sat by her at dinner. He was an agreeable man, and she 
 was much interested by all he told her about Mesmerism — 
 that mysterious subject which can no longer be treated with 
 ridicule, but is still as far as ever from any satisfactory solu- 
 tion ; which baffles so many theories, opens a door as it were 
 into another kind of existence ; shows glimpses of a mode of 
 being, an agency of the senses, and a whole order of natural 
 laws or supernatural effects which are well calculated to con- 
 found man's reason, to humble his presumption, to alarm his 
 scruples, and to suggest the exclamation of Hamlet, " There 
 are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our 
 philosophy." Mr. Edwards was, like most other people, much 
 charmed with Gertrude ; and perhaps Adrien, for the first 
 time, felt how much he cared for her by his involuntary an- 
 noyance at the interest with which she listened to him. He 
 had a strong instinctive dislike to Mesmerism, and avoided as 
 much as possible talking on the subject ; but could not con- 
 quer his misgivings, his repugnance to its use, his horror of 
 its abuse. — and struggled with himself not to dislike Mr. Ed- 
 wards, who certainly did not practise it with any idea that it 
 was wrong. 
 
 When the men came out of the dining-room Mr. Edwards 
 was surrounded by the women, who eagerly listened to his ac- 
 counts, and were very anxious to know which of them he 
 thought most likely to be susceptible of magnetic influence. 
 He said that Gertrude was the one he fancied he could most 
 easily mesmerise, and he asked her if she would let him try 
 Fanny and Harriet Apley pressed her to do so ; both said it 
 was very curious and very pleasant, that they had submitted 
 to the experiment the week before ; that they were ready to 
 do so again ; and Lady Clara exclaimed, " I am sure you will 
 fail. Gertrude will set that firm will of hers, which I often 
 envy, against your mesmeric influence, and baffle all your ef- 
 forts." " Do sit down in that arm-chair, Miss Lifford," Mr. 
 Edwards said, " and let me try." 
 
 Half reluctant and half persuaded, she was just comply- 
 ing, when Adrien entered the room. He came up instantly 
 to her side, and said in an authoritative manner, " You must 
 not do that, Miss Lifford." She started up immediately, and 
 stood behind Lady Clara's chair, who was surprised at Adrien's 
 unusual impetuosity. Mr. Edwards seemed annoyed, and 
 turning to Mrs. Crofton, asked her in a low voice if it was 
 Miss Lifford's brother who had thus peremptorily interrupted 
 
200 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 the essay? This question made Gertrude colour; and Adrien 
 who was generally so calm, appeared a little disturbed, and 
 went to join a group of men in the next room. As there was 
 some embarrassment in consequence of this abrupt little inci- 
 dent, Lady Clara said, " Come, Mr. Edwards-, try if you can 
 succeed in sending me to sleep better than last week. You 
 know I consider myself proof against your passes." He pla- 
 ced himself before her, and began to make the usual gestures ; 
 after a few minutes she closed her eyes, and pretended to fall 
 asleep ; then suddenly starting up with a gay laugh, shook 
 her head triumphantly. ' : Come, Lady-Bird/' she exclaimed^ 
 " you would not go through the ordeal, and do not merit the 
 same honours as I do. Let us go to the music-room." 
 
 She turned round as she said this, and saw Gertrude stand- 
 ing immovable near the chimney — her countenance fixed, and 
 her eyes with that vacant expression which indicates a state 
 of natural or mesmeric somnambulism. " You have mesmer- 
 ised her /" she exclaimed, with an uneasy feeling, for she had 
 a sort of instinctive dread of Adrien's displeasure ; and felt 
 at once that Gertrude was dearer to him than she would have 
 supposed a few moments before. " Undo what you have done,' 7 
 she hastily said ; ' : it makes me nervous to see her in that 
 state." Mr. Edwards attempted it, but, as it seemed, in vain, 
 and he grew anxious himself. " I did not direct the magnetic: 
 influence directly towards her," he hurriedly exclaimed, " and 
 I do not know how to deal with her present state. Perhaps 
 I can make her follow me ;" and he walked a few steps back- 
 wards. They anxiously watched his movements and hers. 
 She mechanically advanced, and followed him with that pain- 
 ful and apparently irresistible sort of movement in which the 
 will seems unconcerned, and the soul absent. At that mo- 
 ment Adrien returned towards the door of the room, having 
 felt an unaccountable uneasiness while he stayed away. He 
 turned pale, and his eyes flashed fire when he saw what was 
 goiug on. Lady Clara, who was already very nervous, actual- 
 ly trembled when he said to her in a voice of inexpressible 
 indiguation, 
 
 " What have you been doing with her ? " 
 
 " It was all involuntary," she said, " on her part and ours." 
 
 " It was, was it? " he exclaimed with a mixture of anxiety, 
 of anger, and of agitation, which he could hardly control. 
 " Mr. Edwards," he said, commanding himself with a violent 
 eifort to speak calmly, " what are you doing now 1 What can 
 you do 1 " 
 
LADY-BI1.D. . 201 
 
 " I can draw her on, you see — I could lead her wherever 
 I choose ; " and as ho moved more rapidly she precipitately 
 followed. 
 
 " Gertrude, Gertrude ! " Adrien exclaimed in a voice of 
 such excessive vehemence that it startled the society in the 
 next room. 
 
 Whether she was then partly awaking from the trance, or 
 whether his voice had power to reach her even through that 
 sleep of the soul, so it was that at its sound she turned to- 
 wards him with an uncertain but different kind of step ; he 
 met her, drew her arm in his : she clung to it instinctively, and 
 laid her face on his shoulder. He felt an inexpressible mixture 
 of emotion, of uneasiness, and of tenderness, saw how she 
 was unconsciously betraying her feelings — and in that instant 
 his mind was made up. He looked proudly and fondly upon 
 her, and made a sign to Lady Clara to join them. They left 
 the room together, and still supporting her he led her to her 
 room; there before leaving her, and in Lady Clara's presence, 
 he respectfully and tenderly kissed her hand, and then left her 
 to the care of others. She slept a few hours, and in the morn- 
 ing had only a dreamlike remembrance of that scene. Lady 
 Clara went to her early to see how she was, and explained to 
 her what had happened. Gertrude asked if she was mistaken 
 in fancying that Adrien had objected to her being mesmerised 1 
 
 " Certainly he did, Lady-Bird, and you were as docile as 
 possible," Lady Clara answered with a smile, " and I was kind 
 enough to assure him in the midst of our agitation that you 
 had not disobeyed his command. Perhaps it was out of grat- 
 itude for that submission that he kissed your hand most rev- 
 erently when he consigned you to my care last night." 
 
 Gertrude coloured and said, " That, too, I remember, but 
 exactly like a dream, and only fancied that I had had an 
 uneasy restless night. Dearest Lady Clara, I hope I did not 
 do anything odd when I was in that strange state." 
 
 " No, dear child, I do not think you did anything odd" 
 she answered, with a kind of smile that did not satisfy Ger- 
 trude, and the tears came into her eyes. 
 
 " Tears, my Lady-Bird ! What vexes you, dear Gertrude? " 
 
 u Did I say, or do, or " 
 
 "Well, my Lady-Bird, I will tell you the truth. You 
 showed, perhaps, a little, that you cared for Adrien d'Arberg, 
 but I think you need not torment yourself about that, for he 
 showed quite as plainly how much he cared for you." 
 9* 
 
202 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 The embarrassment, the nervousness, and the joy of that 
 moment quite overcame Gertrude ; she turned abruptly away 
 and burst into tears. Lady Clara sat down by her, and held 
 her hand while her head was still averted. " I should be glad 
 to think you liked one another. There would be such happi- 
 ness in store for you both." 
 
 " It is impossible ! " Gertrude exclaimed. " How foolish I 
 have been to let you see my weakness." 
 
 " I love . you all the better for it, Lady -Bird. I always 
 told you that Adrien cVArberg was one of my heroes, and if 
 you had been insensible to the interest that such a man has 
 shown you, I really think I should have loved you no more." 
 She kissed her affectionately, and later came to fetch her down 
 to breakfast. 
 
 Gertrude felt keenly annoyed at the looks of curiosity that 
 were, or that she fancied were directed upon her ; but Mr. 
 Latimer relieved her embarrassment by beginning at once to 
 joke about the alarm they had all experienced at her trance, 
 and asked if the enchanter had not begged her pardon yet ? 
 Mr. Edwards, upon this, approached, and sitting down at her 
 other side, expressed his regret at what had occurred, and she 
 gradually recovered her self-possession, though not quite her 
 usual spirits. After breakfast. Adrien spoke to her some 
 time ; and he, too, asked her to forgive him for his interference 
 the night before. 
 
 " It was more than I could endure," he said, " to see you 
 thus playing with edged tools. If you had held a glass of 
 poison in your hand, I should have hardly felt more compelled 
 to snatch it from you." 
 
 " I feel too nervous to speak much about it," she said ; "but 
 I hope you know that it was not wilfully that I disregarded 
 your warning. By the way," she added with a smile, "our 
 acquaintance began with a warning." 
 
 " It is not perhaps the last I shall give you, Lady-Bird, if 
 you receive them so well." 
 
 She felt that there was more in those words than met the 
 ear. She ceased to care for what others had thought or seen 
 — he was not displeased with her; that was enough. All 
 that day and the next, his manner to her was too devoted to 
 leave any doubt in her mind, or in that of others, that he 
 liked her ; but there was in it at the same time a reserve, a 
 diffidence, that banished all idea that he had drawn encourage- 
 ment from the involuntary expression of her feelings which he 
 and others had witnessed. 
 
LADY-BIRD. 203 
 
 A few days later the carriage was sent to fetch her home. 
 A letter from her father had arrived that morning, stating 
 that Edgar had met with a serious, though not alarming 
 accident. 
 
 His horse had stumbled, and fallen with him, as he was 
 making an excursion in the neighbourhood of Seville. Though 
 he was doing well, the process of recovery would be likely to 
 prove tedious, and as he was himself obliged to return to 
 England for unavoidable business before his son could travel, 
 he earnestly requested Father Lifford to set off immediately 
 for Spain, to take charge of him during his absence, and at 
 the same time to superintend those affairs which he had put in 
 train, but which required the presence of some member of the 
 family to carry them on. This letter had much agitated Mrs. 
 Lifford ; her anxiety about her son overcame her regret at the 
 Father's departure ; but the absence of such a friend in her 
 state of health, and under all the circumstances, was trying in 
 the extreme, and she felt alarmed at the idea that her husband 
 and her daughter would be thrown together on their own 
 resources, without the safeguard of his rough but genuine 
 kindness. She felt very miserable, but never doubted that he 
 must go, and she sent for Gertrude to come and take leave of 
 him. Some time ago it would have been little sorrow to her 
 to part with him ; but during the last year she had learned to 
 appreciate his excellence ; and her affection for him now was 
 as great as her respect. Like her mother, she trembled at the 
 idea of finding herself alone with her father, and she had 
 hardly been aware how much she had looked to Father Lif- 
 ford's guidance and support, in the future which was vaguely 
 sketched out in her imagination. He had written her a short 
 note, and she sat with it in her hand, absorbed in these 
 thoughts, when Lady Roslyn, who was the only person in the 
 drawing-room with her, asked her kindly if she had received 
 bad news. She roused herself, and answered " That her 
 brother had met with an accident in Spain, but not a danger- 
 ous one, and that, in consequence, her uncle Lifford was about 
 to leave England to join him, and that she must instantly go 
 home to wish him good-bye." 
 
 " But you will come back ? " 
 
 " No," Gertrude answered decidedly, " no, not at present, 
 and a long l at present ' it must be ; I cannot leave my mother 
 during Father Lifford's absence. Do you know where Lady- 
 Clara is?" 
 
204 LABT-BiRD. 
 
 u Look for her in the morning-room. She was there just 
 now." 
 
 Lady Roslyn knew that Lady Clara was walking in the gar- 
 den gathering some roses, and that Adricn was writing a letter 
 in the room she had pointed out, and it amused her to bring- 
 about an interview which she fancied might be a decisive one. 
 More than any one else she had watched the course of that 
 " true love," and it pleased her fancy just then to remove a 
 pebble from its course. When Adrien raised his head from 
 his writing, and saw Gertrude looking into the room, he started 
 up and went to her. " Come in here a moment, will you?" 
 he said to her with some emotion in his voice. She did so ; 
 and gave him Father Lifford's note. He read it twice over, 
 and then said: ' ; I am very glad that your father is coming 
 back so soon." 
 
 "Are you?" she answered in a dejected manner. "You 
 are not 1 " he said in a tone of inquiry. She made no answer 
 at first, but fixed her eyes on the ground. In an instant she 
 murmured in a low voice : " I am very sorry to part with Fa- 
 ther Lifford." " Partings are sad things," he said, and seem- 
 ed to read again the note he held, as if to gain time and pre- 
 vent her moving. " Gertrude ! " he began at last, and sat 
 down by her side while she trembled visibly, " Gertrude, as- 
 soon as your father returns, I shall ask to see him, and then 
 my fate will be in his hands and in yours." She turned as 
 pale as death. There was at once too much joy and too much 
 fear in her heart. It made her shudder to hear of her fate 
 left in her father's hands, — but she did not venture to express 
 this feeling, and made no answer. He became uneasy at her 
 paleness and her silence. 
 
 " Gertrude," he exclaimed, " have I been wrong ? Have I 
 hoped too much ? " 
 
 She raised her eyes slowly to his. Those eyes which 
 spoke more than the most eloquent tongue. 
 
 " How could you," she faintly said, " be wrong % Oh 
 Adrien d'Arberg, do you indeed love me ? " 
 
 " Dearly — tenderly — devotedly," he murmured, and press- 
 ed her hand to his lips. 
 
 " Then," she exclaimed, with a mixture of excitement and 
 of emotion, " then life has no greater happiness to give. 
 Adrien, I do not deserve to be your wife. I wish I might die 
 now. Is it not enough for me to have heard you say what 
 you did just now ? I have been happy. Adrien, — my soul m 
 satisfied, — I dare not hope much for the future," 
 
LADY-BIRD. 205 
 
 {: Is this misgiving, dearest, a nervous fancy, or do you 
 foresee obstacles to my wishes? n 
 
 "No.no, — why should there be obstacles? There ought 
 not to be. ; 
 
 " I think that in a worldly point of view they are not 
 likely to arise. That with regard to what you and I should 
 neither think of nor care about. I may be able to satisfy your 
 father. Gertrude, dearest Gertrude, you do not look happy, 
 Tell me what you feel, and what you fear." 
 
 " I don't know what I feel ; I don't know what I fear, ex- 
 cept that I feel that I love you, and that I fear to part with 
 you — more than I ought to do or at least to say" she added, 
 with a tone of such inexpressible tenderness, tinged with that 
 nervous anxiety which she could not repress, that Adrien was 
 deeply affected. She saw it and exclaimed, " There are tears 
 in your eyes, Adrien ! Arc you sorry for me that I love you 
 so much? Do you pity me in your heart ? Well you may, if 
 this is only to be a dream of happiness. If you were not 
 what you are, I should be ashamed of having been so easily 
 won ; but I am not ashamed. — I am proud of loving you, 
 proud that your eyes are looking kindly upon me, proud of 
 being something to you, who are everything to me. Heaven 
 forgive me if I love you too much ! " 
 
 Adrien seized her hands and pressed them fervently to his 
 lips. She did not draw them away, but turned her eyes towards 
 the sky, and for an instant scarcely seemed to hear him, while 
 he spoke to her of his love in words which nevertheless vibrat- 
 ed in her heart, but which she listened to in silence, as if "the 
 harps of the skies had rung, and the airs of Heaven played 
 round his tongue." Never had he thought her so beautiful, 
 never had he felt so strong, so absorbing, so painful an interest 
 in any human being. Perhaps in that instant a doubt, faint 
 as the shadow of a cloud on a lake, passed through his mind, 
 — a doubt of her being the woman whom he had once pictured 
 to himself as the ideal of her sex, as the model of a wife ; 
 and the remembrance of Ida's calm and serene face rose for 
 an instant before him. But it was not disenchantment, or 
 coldness, or regret that he felt ; on the contrary, having loved 
 her enough to assume the responsibility of her destiny, touch- 
 ed to the heart by her tenderness, transported by her beauty, 
 he looked upon her as from that hour his own, his treasure, 
 his precious and fearful charge. 
 
 The very strangeness of her character endeared her to 
 
20G LADY-BIRD, 
 
 him ; and there was something of respect as well as of gentle- 
 ness in his mode of addressing her. He instinctively felt that 
 in such a nature there were great lurking virtues, and deep 
 unknown dangers ; whether he had done well and wisely for 
 his own happiness in winning that heart of fire, and in gaining 
 such mastery over that wayward spirit, he did not ask himself. 
 His own happiness was always the last of his thoughts ; a 
 new duty was in his life and a new object in his hopes. 
 
 " I must go," she said, " and vanquish this foolish feeling 
 of dread for the future." 
 
 " You must indeed," he said, "you must trust, my Ger- 
 trude ; you must learn the full meaning of that beautiful 
 English word." 
 
 " I trust you," she said. " If you deceived me I should 
 
 never trust anything again on earth or in " she stopped 
 
 short, and did not end her sentence. 
 
 " May I," he asked, " spend another Sunday at Lifford 
 Grange and see your mother once more % After that I would 
 go to Ireland, and return by the time your father arrived." 
 
 " Yes, oh yes, another Sunday. Another little life of 
 eight hours. Now I must go ; I see Lady Clara is in the 
 garden." 
 
 When Lady Clara met her she was struck by her paleness 
 and nervousness, but which the note she showed her sufficient- 
 ly accounted for, and at that moment she did not suspect any 
 other cause of that emotion ; but after she was gone Adrien 
 told her what had passed between them, and that he intended 
 to propose for her when Mr. Lifford returned to England. 
 She took the greatest interest in the subject, and made him 
 promise to write to her to Paris, where she was going to spend 
 the winter, to acquaint her with the result. " Not that I feel 
 any doubt about it," she said ; " a name and a fortune, such 
 as yours, are not likely to be refused by the most fanciful 
 father in the world. But I shall be curious to hear how you 
 are received, when you ' beard the lion in his den, the Lifford 
 in his hall.' I am quite jealous of your having seen Lady- 
 Bird's mother, though now I have no right to be so. Is she 
 like her?" 
 
 " Fancy Lady-Bird — as I fervently hope you may never 
 see her — with all the colour washed out of her cheeks, the fire 
 extinguished in her eyes, but not the tenderness and the 
 beauty ; like the shadow of herself; like the rose after, not a 
 shower but a storm, its bloom and its life almost fled — all but 
 its sweetness: so she seemed to me." 
 
LADY-BIRD. 207 
 
 " How I should like to see her ! I spoke to Lady-Bird 
 
 about it, but she was not encouraging." 
 
 " Dear Lady Clara, there are many drooping flowers in 
 the world that you can revive by your presence, but this one is 
 trembling on its stem, and even a breath might be fatal." 
 
 " But I would breathe so gently 1 " 
 
 " Do not try experiments, especially where you know not 
 how sore memory may be." 
 
 " I think I might do good." 
 
 He smiled and said, " Our old dispute, more anxious to do 
 good than afraid of doing harm." 
 
 " Yes, I adhere to my opinion. — By the way have I spoiled 
 Lady-Bird as you predicted ? Is she not more charming than 
 ever % " 
 
 " Quite charming enough, Heaven knows ! What is there 
 about that girl that enchants one so much ? I feel it too much 
 to define it." 
 
 " she is Lady-Bird, that is all I know, — she is the most 
 high bred of untamed creatures, — the most gently wild, the 
 most femininely bold, the most innocently mischievous of 
 human beings. What a bird to have caught M. d'Arberg ! 
 What a prize to have found under a tree in the park " 
 
 At that moment, Mrs. Crofton and Mr. Latimer joined 
 them, and scolding in his usual manner, he exclaimed, " Why 
 have you let Lady-Bird go % I can't do without her. What 
 do you mean by letting her go 1 " 
 
 " It is like the story of the House that Jack built," Lady 
 Clara answered. " She must go to her mother, whose uncle is 
 going to Spain, whose nephew has broken his leg, whose father 
 is coming home " 
 
 " What, what's all that ? Who has broken his leg ? " 
 
 ' : Lady-Bird's brother, the heir of all the Liffords." 
 
 " Confound the boy ! he is always breaking his leg." 
 
 Lady Clara and Aclrien laughed, but Mr. Latimer was 
 really cross, and walked away repeating : " It is quite true — 
 she is always going away ; they never keep a pleasant person 
 here two days together. Those Miss Apleys, I dare say, will 
 stay us all out." Mrs. Crofton smiled as she looked at him 
 with her spying-glass, and cried, 
 
 " blest with temper whose unclouded ray 
 Still makes to-morrow cheerful as to-day." 
 
208 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " Ours was love indeed, 
 No childish day-dream, but a life intense 
 Within our hearts ; we spoke not of our love, 
 But in our mutual silence it was felt, — 
 In the intense absorbing happiness 
 Of mutual long, long looks, as if our souls 
 Ileld sweet communion through our passionate eyes." 
 
 And is he gone? On sudden solitude 
 How oft that fearful question will intrude ! 
 'Twas but an instant passed ! and here he stood, 
 And now! — Without the portal's porch she rushed; 
 And then her tears at length in freedom gushed, 
 Big, bright, and fast, unknown to her they fell, 
 But still her lips refused to say ' Farewell.' 
 For in that word, that fatal word, howe"er 
 We promise," hope, believe, there breathes despair.*' 
 
 Bteox. 
 
 Gertrude arrived in time to take leave of Father Lifford. 
 and had a long conversation with him before he went. In 
 the evening she took her work, and sat down by the sofa 
 where her mother was dozing ; it had been a great emotion 
 to her to part with her best and only friend, and as she slept 
 Gertrude could see by her swollen eyelids that she had been 
 weeping. She longed for her to wake, for she had that to tell 
 her that would make her weep again, perhaps, but" from a dif- 
 ferent feeling. Her own heart was fluttering with happiness ; 
 the sort of nervous misgiving which had troubled her^.jdy, at 
 the moment of the realisation of her hopes, had passed away. 
 Her confidence in the future was now as great as.-her diffidence 
 had been. She thought of herself as Adrien's wife. She 
 wrote on a paper, in her work-box, the signature that would 
 be one day hers, " Gertrude d'Arberg," and then tore up the 
 paper hastily, as if she had been doing something wrong. 5 
 Instead of going on with the lily she was embroidering, she 
 worked Adrien's name on her canvass, and then unpicked it. 
 She pictured to herself his chateau in Brittany ; her arrival 
 in the " plaisant pays de France ; " the share she would take 
 in all his labours of love and of genius. There were no 
 heights of virtue, no intellectual improvement which her im- 
 agination did not aim at and compass in anticipation. 
 
 Her mother murmured in her sleep, and then awoke with 
 a frightened look. " Gertrude, is it you, my child 1 I have 
 had a painful dream, and am glad to be awake. It was only 
 
LADY-BIRD. 209 
 
 a dream. How pleasant it is to find thee there by my side. 
 Hast thon been there long 1 " 
 
 " For an hour, I think, clearest, but it has seemed like a, 
 minute. My waking dreams have been sweeter than your 
 sleeping ones. Shall I tell you, mamma, what they have 
 been about ? " 
 
 " Yes — put thyself here, close to me, with thy face near 
 to mine, that I may look at thee while thou speakest. What 
 hast thou been dreaming of ? " 
 
 " Happiness — happiness ! — immense, deep, and wide as the 
 mind can reach to, and the heart contain. He loves me, nia- 
 dre mia, — he loves me ! Is not that the greatest bliss that 
 earth can give ? " 
 
 Mrs. Lifford clasped her hands, and pressed them on her 
 eyes. Gertrude saw the quivering of her mother's mouth, 
 and threw herself into her arms. She felt her heart throb 
 against her own ; and then throwing back her head, and seat- 
 ing herself on the edge of the couch, she said, ' ; Now don't 
 weep, mamma, but smile and wish me joy." 
 
 " I am glad he loves thee — glad of that, anyhow, and I 
 hope, fervently I hope, that thy father will let thee marry 
 him." 
 
 A resolute and singular expression passed over Gertrude's 
 countenance as she said, " On that point my mind is made up. 
 I am almost of age, and my father's will shall not stand be- 
 tween me and virtue, happiness, and peace of mind. Adri- 
 en possesses every one of the worldly advantages which my 
 father cares about, and which I only value, as belonging to 
 him, who ennobles everything that even remotely appertains 
 to him. Should my father, without the shadow of a reason 
 or excuse, refuse his consent, nothing on earth will ever per- 
 suade me that conscience requires the moral suicide which 
 would be imposed upon me. I would as soon throw myself 
 into the river at his will, as give him up to whom my soul is 
 bound by ties which never can be severed. But it is impos- 
 sible that he can refuse his consent, unless he hates me with 
 an unnatural hatred, and that I will not and cannot believe, 
 till I see it." 
 
 "Be calm, Gertrude. Be calm. I implore thee." 
 
 " I am perfectly calm, dearest, because my mind is made 
 up. I am my father's daughter in one respect, and have a will 
 that may break but which will not bend." 
 
 " But he may break it," Mrs. Lifford murmured in a tone 
 of anguish. " He may break both will and heart." 
 
210 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " No, both are beyond his reach. There are no lettres-de- 
 cachet in this age and country, thank Heaven ! Mamma, do 
 not look so frightened. I am calm and happy. The future is 
 bright, plain and clear before me ; like to the sky at this mo- 
 ment. See, the clouds have rolled away, and in front of us 
 there is nothing but the pure soft blue expanse, with the first 
 stars glimmeriDg here and there in their beauty, — 
 
 W ' The pale stars watching to behold the might of earthly love,' 
 
 as one of my favourite poems has it." 
 
 " Did you speak about this to Father Lifford, Gertrude ? " 
 " I did, mamma ; we talked about it a long time. He 
 would not commit himself, or seem to approve of it till he 
 knew whether my father would consent, but I could see that 
 he wished that it should be so, — I am sure he does. How 
 could it be otherwise? He is good, and he admires goodness. 
 He is kind, and he has seen me surfer. He knows me better 
 than any one else in the world, and he must feel that every- 
 thing is at stake for me at this crisis in my life. Happiness 
 and virtue on the one side — on the other, nothing short of 
 despair." 
 
 " Gertrude, Gertrude, did he not reason with thee ? " 
 " Yes ; and I reasoned with him. He said it would be 
 my duty to submit to my father, whatever his will might be 
 in this matter ; and I then asked him solemnly, not as my 
 uncle — not as Mr. Lifford — but as a priest, and in confession, 
 whether it would be a sin, in a case likb this, where not a 
 word could be said against him I love, even by worldly 
 wisdom, when nothing but arbitrary caprice coulcr withhold 
 consent, — whether it would be a sin, after patient entreaties 
 and humble remonstrances had been tried, and tried in vain, 
 to act as the law would permit, and marry without that 
 consent ? He said it would be undutiful ; but then I pressed 
 him again to say, if no length of time, if no circumstances of 
 character, no peculiarities of position Would ever giW a sanc- 
 tion to such a course ? He said that would be a quf stion for 
 consideration when the time arrived, — I saw he could not 
 pronounce against it, — I saw. thai^.in his mind there was a* 1 
 doubt, and that was enough for mev- I feel strong againsi the 
 future, — strong in my confidence", — strong in my resolution. 
 The waves of life may toss me yet to and fro, but my anchor 
 is cast, and my helm is pointed." 
 
 u Gertrude, dearest, my feeble reasonings I will not urge 
 
LADY-BIRD. 211 
 
 upon thee. Indeed I know not what I could, or ought to say. 
 Pray for thee I will ardently, unceasingly. Thou hast com- 
 pared thyself to a ship, dear child. Shall I tell thee what I 
 think? Thou art going too fast before the wind. The sails 
 of thy bark are too boldly unfurled." m 
 
 " My anchor is cast, I cannot drift away." 
 
 " Gertrude, my child ! Chains have snapped ere now. 
 Trust in none but God." 
 
 " I trust in Adrien, as I trust in God." 
 
 " That is what I fear. Thou hast made him an idol." 
 
 " And a noble worship it is." 
 
 " Tremble, Gertrude ! — tremble at what thou sayest, or I 
 must tremble for thee, and for him thou so much lovest." 
 
 " Yes, mother mine," Gertrude exclaimed, falling on her 
 knees, and throwing her arms around her neck. " Yes, I 
 tremble for myself, but I will hide me in thy bosom ; on that 
 breast which has suffered so much, which has endured so 
 nobly, I will lay my throbbing head. Plead for me, mother, 
 with Him whom thou hast loved and served from thy youth 
 up. Call down His blessing on thy wayward child. Ask for 
 her all she dares not ask for herself. I once read of a sinful 
 woman who, when frightened by a thunder-storm, made an 
 innocent child lie over her, to shield her from the lightning.* 
 So mother mine, I would place you and your suiferings and 
 your patience between me and the punishment that my undis- 
 ciplined heart deserves. There is but one that it fears, to 
 lose Adrien ; and that would indeed be greater than it could 
 bear." 
 
 The fallowing Sunday was the happiest day that Gertrude 
 had yet known. Adrien's presence imparted to her a sense 
 of security in her present happiness, and of calm anticipation 
 of the future which she had not yet experienced. He had a 
 long interview with her mother, in which he unfolded to her 
 his feelings, his hopes, and his projects. As much as was 
 possible he imparted to her the conditions of fortune and of 
 family which he would have to submit to her husband ; and 
 looked in her eyes for the approval he solicited. She held out 
 Jier hand to him, and in a few words of heartfelt emotion told 
 him that to confide Gertrude to his love and care, to see her 
 his wife, would be the clearest of her wishes, the greatest 
 source of joy to her during the time she might yet live ; and 
 at the moment of death. 
 
 * Madame dc Montespan. 
 
212 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 u Yes," she said, still holding his hand, " you must think 
 cf m}' words, if I should die without seeing you again. You 
 must remember that a mother has trusted you, more than she 
 ought perhaps, but not more than you deserve. I have let 
 you come here to-day, God only knows if I have acted rightly; 
 but I know you. and if I have done imprudently you will not 
 make me repent of it. Never at any time, never under any 
 circumstances, will you belie what I now read in your eyes, 
 what the pressure of your hand confirms ; her happiness, but 
 above all her virtue, her honour will be safe in your keeping. 
 Even to your own loss, to your own bitter grief if needs be, 
 you will never tempt her to offend her God, or to swerve from 
 duty. She loves you too much perhaps for her own peace of 
 mind ; but it must be safe to love you, such an affection will 
 not mislead her. You understand all I would but cannot say. 
 My tongue falters, but your tears reply." 
 
 " I carried her once in my arms," he answered, "pale and 
 motionless as death, and looked upon her with respect and ad- 
 miration. That day I began to love her, and I have loved 
 her more and more ever since. To protect and to cherish her 
 through life and till death is my hope and my prayer. If her 
 father refuse to give her to me, I will wait, and watch, and 
 pray for her at a distance : and if ever I tempt her to aught 
 approaching to a sin, may the blessing you now give me turn 
 into the curse I shall merit." 
 
 She pressed his hand, and drawing from her finger a small 
 ring which bore the image of a cross, she put it upon his, and 
 once more fervently blessed him. 
 
 ' ; You will plead for me with your husband the next time 
 I come 1 " 
 
 Tears came into her eyes. " I will pray to God," she an- 
 swered ; " He will hear me." Adrien sighed deeply. Mr. 
 Lifford's character was rising before him every moment more 
 clearly. In his wife's meekness, in his daughter's impetuosity, 
 in his uncle's silence, it stood revealed. No one had said he 
 was hard, but all shrunk from his name. 
 
 Adrien and Gertrude, on that October afternoon, sat to- 
 gether in that solemn garden by the deep still stream, oppo-- 
 site to the chapel where they had knelt together, and to the 
 room where her mother had blessed him. The silence of Na- 
 ture in its decaying beauty, the withered leaves falling near 
 them, or trembling on the boughs, would have beseemed a 
 Ecene of sorrow more than one of such intense happiness. It 
 
LADY-BIRD. 213 
 
 was a strange visitant in the old silent garden, that joy vvhich 
 filled their hearts, and which beamed in their eyes. The 
 stone bench on which they sat, the straight alley through 
 which they walked, the cold statues near which they stood, 
 seemed to wonder at the sight. There was a pale, sickly- 
 looking rose-tree near the bench where they rested ; he gath- 
 ered some of the flowers, and said, 
 
 " This is the same species which grows in brilliant masses 
 in the court of our Norman chateau." 
 
 " Ay," she said, ' ; flowers and people are modified when 
 transplanted." 
 
 " You would like that old place, I think, though it is very 
 unlike Audley Park " 
 
 " And Lifford Grange % " 
 
 " And Lifford Grange also. Picture to yourself four grey 
 turrets overgrown with ivy ; a portal covered with wallflowers 
 and blue larkspurs, a paved court with a well, and a seat 
 which the moss has invaded ; the rose-trees I was speaking of 
 clustering up to the windows, and a flight of stone steps out- 
 side the wall on one side. But you must not judge it 
 hastily." 
 
 " l)o I ever judge thus, M. d'Arberg ? One rash judg- 
 ment I made near the grotto of Woodlands, but I have not re- 
 pented of it." 
 
 *'• Well, only be as indulgent to the old castle as to its 
 owner, and I shall be satisfied ; live in it, and by degrees I 
 thinK you will love it. Its picturesque exterior, its wild 
 flowers in every crevice, its magnificent view over oceans of 
 cornfields, and forests of fruit-trees, its sunny little terrace 
 where lizards run in and out of the low grey wall, and the 
 Norman church, half way between it and the village, — my 
 brother, and his wife, and the old cure, who always used at 
 every visit to exhort me to marry, how happy they will be 
 when I take home to them my English bride. The children, 
 too, I sent them a message in my last letter to Henri. I re- 
 minded them of a hunt we had last year for their favourite 
 Lady- Birds, and said that if they were good I would try to 
 bring them an English ; oiseau du bon Dieu,' more beautiful 
 than the little living toys they were so fond of then. Ger- 
 trude, my own Gertrude, am I wrong to talk with such confi- 
 dence of the future — to draw such pictures of happiness, till 
 that happiness is actually mine ? If your father were not to 
 consent to our marriage, how I should reproach myself for 
 
214 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 having dared to speak to yon of my love as I have done, at 
 the selfish joy it has been to hear from your lips that you love 
 me. Gertrude. I sometimes reproach myself very much for 
 having " 
 
 ' : Made me happy," she said, with one of her own smiles. 
 ' ; Adrien, I am afraid you are too good." 
 
 " If you have no other fear than that, petit oiseau du bon 
 Dieu » 
 
 " It is a great fear," she answered seriously, " but not my 
 only one. I think it is very likely my father will refuse his 
 consent to our marriage." 
 
 " G-ertrude, you speak with a strange calmness. You do 
 not really mean that you expect this % on what grounds do 
 you suppose that he will object to it? — have you any reason to 
 imagine that he has other views for you % " 
 
 " No, not the slightest ; but it has ever been his practice 
 to oppose my wishes on every subject, and why should he act 
 differently on this occasion ? Adrien, you do not know my 
 father." 
 
 A cloud passed over d'Arberg's face, and he sighed deeply 
 She waited anxiously for the next words he would utter. 
 
 ' : If indeed he does not love you," he exclaimed, " which I 
 can hardly conceive, will he not the less object to your marry- 
 ing a foreigner? If he does not value the treasure he pos- 
 sesses, will he refuse to bestow it upon me ? But you are right, 
 we cannot foresee the nature of the obstacles he may oppose to 
 our wishes and our prayers. We cannot reckon upon the fu- 
 ture, — I have been too sanguine. Gertrude, how could I 
 bear to lose you now?" 
 
 " yes, you would bear it," she exclaimed, " you are not 
 weak against suffering. You walk the earth with a charmed 
 life, and despair never showed its wild visage in your path." 
 
 There was a mixture of tenderness and of irritation in her 
 manner that he scarcely understood. She dared not speak 
 the words that were trembling on her lips, and break through 
 the barrier that he seemed to regard as sacred. If he had 
 guessed her thoughts he might have soothed her feelings, not 
 by tempting her to defy her father's authority, but by assur- 
 ances of his unalterable fidelity to her, as long as she re- 
 mained unshackled by other ties ; but the necessity of such 
 protestations did not occur to him, and perhaps he felt also 
 some scruples, all the stronger since his conversation with her 
 mother, in binding her more stringently to himself, before her 
 
LADY-BIRD. 215 
 
 father's will was ascertained. He knew she loved him, but not 
 how fearfully strong was the passion which was lying in her 
 heart, smoothed at present into repose by hope and by his 
 presence. It was not feebly that he loved her, it was not 
 coldly that he contemplated the probability of losing her. 
 She had become to him inexpressibly dear, and to have given 
 her up would almost have broken his heart, but he thought 
 more of her than of himself; his own happiness was a second- 
 ary consideration : but it was that very unselfishness, that very 
 unconsciousness of the unbounded affection he had inspired, 
 that made him abstain from speaking the words which she 
 was passionately anxious to hear : and deep and fervent as 
 was his love, there was that in him which kept down with a 
 strong hand the vehemence of the flame. His heart might 
 break, but the breaker would be one whom he loved more than 
 the object of an earthly passion, and at whose hands he would 
 accept the keenest blow life could inflict. 
 
 It was but a transient cloud, however, that passed over 
 that day's joy. Again they returned to their projects. He 
 could not believe in tyranny or unkindness — she could not 
 now believe in existence without him, and again they talked 
 together of the future. Normandy would be their holiday ; 
 every year they would go there ; but his large estate in one 
 of the most distressed parts of Ireland, which he had inherited 
 from his mother, would be their post and their work, their in- 
 terest and their duty. Together they would toil — together 
 one day reap on earth or in Heaven. Then he would take 
 her to Paris — that city of great crimes and great virtues — 
 that strange battle-field of life with its armies in presence ; 
 the worst of Satan's crew, and God's elect soldiers. They 
 talked of various parts of the world which thence they might 
 visit together. He spoke of Italy, also, but with less enthu- 
 siasm than Maurice had done. Rome he deeply loved ; but 
 the luxurious charms of the Mediterranean shores, the ener- 
 vating nature of its brilliant climate, the versatile character 
 of its people, was not to him as attractive as it had been to the 
 young artist's somewhat congenial disposition. 
 
 They wandered together through every alley of the garden, 
 and into the park till late that afternoon. Adrien liked the 
 old Grange. He had been there but twice, and had been very 
 happy in its quiet and solemn rooms, its stately formal gar- 
 dens. He had gathered there the flower which had charmed 
 his fancy. He had found there the woman who had touched 
 
216 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 his heart. It had, also, a prestige in his eyes' from its histori- 
 cal associations, and Gertrude had never told him how she 
 hated it ; indeed, she did not feel to hate it then ; perhaps one 
 day she might have loved it. The hours went by, and Adrien 
 was to go. They stood together on the stone steps of the en- 
 trance-door. ' : In about six weeks," he said, ' ; I shall return 
 from Ireland, and your father will be at home. Then, dearest 
 Lady-Bird, I shall be here again. I shall see you ; for what- 
 ever be his decision he cannot refuse me the permission to see 
 you once more. It may be a most painful hour for us both, 
 but meet again we must, so this is no farewell. I go with a 
 heart full of hope in the future, full of trust in you. I might 
 have written this very day to your father, and awaited his an- 
 swer at a distance ; but I think my words may plead more 
 effectually than a letter. The chief objection he would make 
 to our marriage would probably be the country of my birth ; 
 and when he hears me speak your language that prejudice 
 might vanish ; and then again, should he refuse his consent, 
 he might forbid my coming here, but if I am here he cannot 
 deny me that parting interview which would be necessary to 
 my peace and to yours." 
 
 " You are right, you are quite right," she hurriedly ex- 
 claimed ; " remember, Adrien, these must not be the last 
 words that we speak to each other. There is that in my heart 
 
 which must not be trifled with." She put her hand on 
 
 her forehead, and pressed her temples tightly. He looked at 
 her anxiously, kissed her hand, and went away. 
 
 For a fortnight Gertrude saw no one but her mother, 
 whose strength was every day diminishing. She began to feel 
 very uneasy about her, and nursed her now with devoted ten- 
 derness. The doctor and Mr. Irving, the priest of Stone 
 houseleigh, who often visited them, did not reassure her. 
 There was no immediate danger, but her state was very pre- 
 carious, they said, and all agitation must be carefully avoided. 
 Mary Grey about that time came one day to see her. This 
 painfully recalled to her mind what she had almost forgotten, 
 — the conversation, or rather the scene with Maurice in the 
 conservatory at Audley Park. She looked half-anxiously, 
 half-curiously at Mary to see if she could read in her face any 
 expression indicating a knowledge of what had passed : but 
 could not satisfy herself on that point. Mary looked pale and 
 thin, but not unhappy. Gertrude inquired after Maurice, and 
 she answered quietly that he was better in health, and had a 
 
LADY-BIRD. 21 V 
 
 professional engagement in London that kept liini there al- 
 most entirely, and answered very well. 
 
 " He is anxious that my mother and I should establish 
 ourselves in town, and at his age it is such an object that he 
 should have a home, that we are thinking of doing so." 
 
 •■ What, leave the cottage and Stonehouseleigh ! " 
 
 Mary's lips quivered, but she said cheerfully, " Yes, it will 
 be an effort ; but as my mother is willing to make it for her 
 son, it is clearly right I should not object." 
 
 She did not usually call Maurice her mother's son ; and 
 Gertrude understood that her doing so now was meant to 
 convey to her that this change of plans had nothing to do 
 with any project of marriage. The recollection of her own 
 last interview with him made her shy with Mary : she could 
 not but feel that kind and friendly as her manner was, she 
 must consider her as a person who had done her an 
 injury, however involuntary that injury might have been ; 
 and her conscience did not altogether acquit her in that re- 
 spect, when it brought to her recollection the many occa- 
 sions in which she might have checked, instead of encouraged, 
 the kind of romantic homage which, since his return from Italy, 
 he had been in the habit of paying her. This consciousness 
 gave an appearancee of constraint to her manner, and she was 
 more grave and silent than usual. 
 
 " Is it soon that you will move 1 " she asked. 
 
 ' ; The time is not yet fixed," Mary replied, " but it will 
 not be for some weeks at all events : not till the lease of the 
 cottage is up." 
 
 " I am sure this is a great trial to you." 
 
 " A great trial, dear Miss Lifford ! No, indeed ; if any, 
 a very little one. I should be more sorry to think that Mau- 
 rice wanted us, and that we could not be with him. When 
 he marries, we may, perhaps, return to Stonehouseleigh." 
 
 She had said this last phrase with a steady voice, but she 
 could not help the colour rising a little in her cheek. She 
 was afraid that Gertrude would ask for an explanation. But 
 the latter only kissed her, and said, ' ; Mary, would that I were 
 as good as you. The next time I sit near the wishing-well, 
 that shall be my wish." 
 
 "A niggardly one. indeed. But tell me, dear Miss Lifford, 
 is it true that your faithful Jane leaves you. I was so sorry to 
 hear it, for a friend of that kind who has been with you so many 
 years, and is so very much attached to you. must be a loss," 
 10 
 
218 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 ' : It is indeed a great loss ; but she is going to be married, 
 and must settle in London with her husband. Her parents 
 will live near them also, and I hope she will be comfortable ; 
 but I shall miss her sadly. She is one of the few persons in 
 the world who cares for me, and I think everybody is leaving 
 
 me. Father Lifford is gone, and mamma " She turned 
 
 away for an instant, and then said quickly : " But I will not 
 talk sadly. There may be great happiness in store for us alL 
 I think I am growing very sensible, Mary. I dare say you 
 think it is high time I should. So do I." 
 
 " Now, you are Lady-Bird again," Mary said, with a smile ; 
 " I hardly know you again when you have not your old frowns 
 nor your old smiles." 
 
 " I have learnt and unlearnt a great deal lately — ' metis 
 chassez le naturel il revient au galop, 1 and the sight of your 
 dear little demure face provokes me, I believe, to talk nonsense 
 again." 
 
 They conversed together for some time in that strain, and 
 then parted as good friends as they had ever been in their lives. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " All day within the dreamy house 
 
 The doors upon their hinges creaked, 
 The hlue fly sung i' the pane ; the mouse 
 
 Behind the mouldering wainscoat shrieked, 
 Or from the crevice peer'd about. 
 Old faces glimmer'd through the doors, 
 Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 
 Old voices called her from without. 
 She only said ' My life is dreary : 
 
 He cometh not,' she said ; 
 She said, ' I am aweary, aweary. 
 I would that I were dead.' " 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 At the end of about three weeks, Gertrude's father re- 
 turned. She could not see him again without emotion ; not, 
 alas ! that she felt the least affection for him, but that she con- 
 nected his arrival with so much that* was important to her, 
 that the first sight of his face was a kind of signal to her of 
 the consequences that were to follow, and her heart beat when 
 she went to meet him on the stairs. He received her as gra- 
 ciously as he ever did. and that is not saying much. There 
 
LADY-BIRD. 219 
 
 was neither pleasure nor displeasure in his face. " How do 
 you do, Gertrude ; is your mother pretty well to-day ? " was 
 his salutation. And when they met at dinner, the conversa- 
 tion between them was as civil and as proper as possible. He 
 looked at her once or twice more attentively than usual. It 
 did not seem to escape him that she was more beautiful than 
 ever ; that since she had been at Auclley Park, she dressed 
 more becomingly than she used to do, and that her manner, 
 while it was as graceful as usual, had more cqjlomb. 
 
 A day or two after his arrival, he made her for the first 
 time a present. It was a diamond necklace in a case, on 
 which the arms of the family were engraved. She thanked 
 him. but neither did his manner of giving it, or the nature of 
 the gift afford her any particular pleasure. Her mother was 
 so feeble now that she did not venture to speak to her often of 
 the subject nearest to her heart, for she perceived that it 
 always called up a flush in her cheek, and a look of too 
 much excitement in her eyes. Mrs. Lifford was agitated by 
 the doubt whether she would be furthering or hindering the 
 object of her most intense wishes by mentioning it to her 
 husband. Her natural timidity inclined her to silence ; but 
 her anxiety about Gertrude made the suspense painfully try- 
 ing. The time of Adrien's return was approaching. Twice 
 she had forced herself to speak of his visits to Lifford Grange, 
 and to say that she had seen him. The first time she did so 
 her husband made no comment on the subject ; but on the 
 next occasion, he observed in a sneering tone, " I thought you 
 were never well enough to receive strangers. I am glad you 
 are so much stronger ; or, perhaps your curiosity to see this 
 French author was irresistible ! " 
 
 " He is a man of very good family," the poor woman mur- 
 mured faintly, with her fearfully bright eyes fixed on his 
 countenance, or rather face : for countenance he had none, ex- 
 cept when unusually excited. 
 
 "Indeed!" he ejaculated, lifting up his eyebrows, in a 
 manner that implied neither assent nor dissent. 
 
 " Yes," she persisted, " your uncle says the d'Arbergs were 
 a very old German family. His father was naturalized in 
 France." 
 
 He got up and walked to the window. She felt that the 
 opportunity of speaking was lost, and yet how difficult again 
 to recur to the subject. Then she also feared that if he were 
 averse to Adrien's proposals he would refuse to see him when 
 
220 LADY-EIRD. 
 
 he came, and she could not believe that even Mr. Lifford could 
 be wholly insensible to the influence of his manner, and of his 
 ■words. Once she said something vague about Gertrude's 
 future destiny. He briefly answered, " When the time comes 
 for a decision, I shall inform you of my views upon that point." 
 Gertrude, meanwhile, passed the days by her mother's bed. for 
 she seldom left it now ; and during those silent hours of 
 watching, one only thought incessantly occupied her. She 
 looked alternately from that dying form to the Duke of 
 Gandia's picture. It was so strikingly like Adrien, that she 
 forgot it was not really his portrait. These two images filled 
 her mind ; they were connected together in her heart : fear 
 and hope, the past and the future, were blended in those long 
 meditations. Day followed day, Mrs. Lifford spoke less, but 
 looked with more intense affection at her child. Six weeks 
 had elapsed, and there was in her face each time that Ger- 
 trude entered her room a mute inquiry, to which no answer 
 was returned but a forced and painful smile, and nothing 
 changed around them. 
 
 It was getting late in November ; and no one had been at 
 Lifford Grange, — not a single letter had been received by 
 Gertrude or her mother, except one or two from Father Lifford 
 and from Edgar. They were still detained in Spain by 
 protracted business, but Edgar was quite recovered. Once 
 Gertrude had heard the sound of wheels in the avenue. Her 
 mother was asleep with her hand locked in hers, after a night 
 and day of suffering and unrest. It was towards dusk ; she 
 did not venture to disturb her, though every nerve was trem- 
 bling with excitement, and she feared that the beating of her 
 heart must awaken her, so loud did it appear to herself. After 
 a little less than an hour the same sound was heard, and Mrs. 
 Lifford moved, and murmured something in her sleep. Ger- 
 trude disengaged her hand, and walked softly to the window. 
 She drew the curtain, and looked out. It was a cold clear 
 night. The moon was shining amongst the trees ; she saw a 
 carriage passing. A faint feeling came over her, and yet she 
 could almost have smiled at her own folly. Solitary as was 
 the life at Lifford Grange, it was not, however, such a very 
 unusual event that a carriage should come to its door. The 
 doctor, the priest, the clergyman, the agent, occasionally drove 
 up to it. At dinner, she asked her father if Dr. Redington 
 had called upon him that afternoon. 
 
 "Why?" he asked, "has he not been to your mother to- 
 day?" 
 
LADY-BIRD. 221 
 
 " Yes, this morning, but as I heard a carriage in the park 
 two hours ago, I thought he might have come a second time." 
 
 " Not that I know of," was the answer. 
 
 Jane was gone, and she had a foreign maid who had only 
 been with her a few days ; it was of no use to ask her. Late 
 that evening, as she was going to bed, she met on the stairs 
 an old butler who had been a long time in the family. 
 
 With a trembling voice she inquired who had come to the 
 house in a carriage, that afternoon. "I don't know, Miss," 
 was his answer, " I took up a card to Mr. Lifford, and I 
 showed the gentleman up, but I did not see the name." Ger- 
 trude turned very pale, and leant against the banister. 
 
 " Did he stay long, Marston? " she asked in a faint voice. 
 
 "Some time, Miss." 
 
 With cheeks that burned like hot coals with shame and 
 pride, she asked, " Was this gentleman tall and dark 1 " 
 
 The old man looked at her with surprise. "I did not ob- 
 serve particularly, but I think the gentleman was tall." 
 
 :; She darted away, and went into the library — her old 
 haunt. She put her candlestick on the chimney-piece, and 
 walked up and down the room with hurried steps. She could 
 not rest ; she could not enter her mother's room, — she could 
 not breathe in this state of suspense. It was like a nightmare. 
 She heard her father's voice on the stairs giving some orders 
 to the servants, and then the noise of the door of his study, as 
 he closed it. With a feverish courage she snatched her candle, 
 and went down stairs ; she paused a minute before the door, 
 and then with a desperate effort knocked. 
 
 Her father was standing with his back to the fire, and his 
 eyes fixed on the ground. He said " Come in," but gave a 
 start when he saw his daughter standing before him, and looked, 
 at her with astonishment. " Forgive me," she said, " for inter- 
 rupting you; and still more, forgive me for asking what it 
 concerns my peace to know. It must seem very strange to 
 you ; but by my mother's sick bed I must be calm, and there- 
 fore forgive me if I ask who called upon you to-day?" 
 Shu joined together her hands, and clasped them tightly — her 
 eyes were fixed on the ground. She did not see that her 
 father's face flushed in that moment. He took a card from 
 the chimney, and threw it on the table before her. She saw a 
 name that was not Adrien's, and all her courage vanished. 
 She knew not exactly what she had hoped or feared. She felt 
 at once relieved and disappointed and unable to utter another 
 
222 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 word, but murmured something unintelligible, and left the | 
 room. 
 
 The next day came, and the next, each like the last, except 
 that both the mother's and the daughter's cheeks grew paler, 
 though with a different paleness ; that the mother's mute inqui- 
 ries were accompanied with dejection, and the daughter's smiles 
 — when she smiled — were painful to behold. Another month 
 passed by, and Adrien had neither come nor written. That he 
 was ill was possible ; that he was dead was possible, too, Ger- 
 trude felt with a pang of terror, — for how would the news 
 reach her in that living tomb where she was languishing? She 
 sent for Mary, and asked her, in the course of conversation, if 
 she had heard anything from Maurice of M. d'Arberg. She 
 had not ; and there the question dropped. 
 
 ' : Maurice," she said a moment after, — " Maurice would 
 have been sure to tell you if anything had happened to M. 
 d'Arberg." 
 
 Mary started. ' ; Happened to him ! Have you heard that 
 anything has ? " 
 
 G-ertrude forced a smile, and said, " I dreamed the other 
 day that he was dead. For the curiosity of the thing, write 
 and ask Maurice if he knows anything of him." 
 
 Mary did so. The answer did not come quickly ; such 
 answers never do : but several days after, she showed Ger- 
 trude the letter she had received. It contained these words : 
 " I have not heard from M. d'Arberg for some time; but he is 
 certainly not dead, for a letter I had from Paris a week ago, 
 speaks of his being there, and in such a frame of mind that I 
 have little doubt my old prophecy will come true, and that he 
 will end by becoming a priest." Gertrude's heart died within 
 Jier ; but her spirit soon rose with indignation. " God will not 
 accept a traitor's devotion," she inwardly exclaimed, " nor the 
 Church receive the vows of a heartless deceiver." But with 
 that burst of passion, her fears subsided. It could not be ; she 
 Lad wronged him by the doubt. Forsake her without a word 
 — it was impossible ! — it was monstrous ! She went home 
 and when her mother took her hand and pressed it to her lips, 
 she whispered, " He is at Paris ; affairs may have obliged him 
 to go there from Ireland. It is strange; but hope is strong in 
 my heart. Madrc mia. did you not say after seeing him, ' I 
 would trust him, on the faith of his eyes, not with my life only, 
 but with the child of my soul ' ' " 
 
 " Yes," murmured the mother " I have trusted him. God 
 
LADY-BIRD. 223 
 
 knows ! But too much, perhaps. Gertrude, I am very ill. I 
 have not been much to thee, my child ; but yet, what wilt thou 
 do without me? " 
 
 ' ; Fear not for me, my mother. There is in a deep love a 
 strange independence. Paradise on earth with him, or without 
 him death, — preceded by the more or less long agony, called 
 life." 
 
 These were not soothing conversations for a sick room. To 
 do Gertrude justice, it was seldom that such vehement expres- 
 sions escaped her in her mother's presence. She generally 
 kept down her feelings with the iron rigidity of her strong 
 will, but these emotions and this continual constraint were 
 | wearing her out. If the society at Audley Park could have 
 seen her they would have been astonished at the change ; and 
 Mary Grey on Sundays, when she sometimes had a glimpse of 
 her, was startled at her appearance. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 "Joy for the freed one, she might not stay 
 When the crown had fallen from her life away, 
 She might not linger, a weary thing. 
 A dove with no home for its broken wing, 
 Thrown on the harshness of alien skies 
 That know not its own land's melodies, 
 From the long heart withering early gone; 
 Her task is done.'" 
 
 Mrs. Hkmans. 
 
 " There stands a spectre in your hall; 
 The guilt of blood is at your door; 
 You changed a wdiolesome heart to gall; 
 You held your course without remorse." 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 A day came on which Mrs. Lifford felt herself still weaker than 
 usual. She sent for Mr. Erving, the priest of Stonehouseleigh, 
 and he stayed with her some time. Afterwards she asked to 
 see her husband. Gertrude was sitting in the dressing-room 
 when he went in. She could hear their voices, though the door 
 was closed. A word here and there reached her ear. Once she 
 heard her mother exclaim, " No, it is not possible, — say you 
 I did not do so." Another time. " I tell you Henry, that you 
 have done wrong, very wrong. You do not know what you 
 have done." Then there was a low moaning like the cry of 
 
224 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 physical pain, or of an intense inward suffering. An instant 
 afterwards the door was thrown open, and Mr. Lifford, with a 
 face as pale as death, said, " Gertrude, go to your mother, — 
 she is dying." He rang the beli with violence, and rushed 
 down stairs. 
 
 When Gertrude saw her mother's face she felt at once it 
 was no vain alarm. He was not likely to have been startled 
 too soon. Mrs. Lifford was gasping for breath, and could only 
 hold out her arms to her child. She spoke only two words 
 during the few minutes that life was trembling on the verge 
 of death. Once she looked up to Heaven, as she pressed Ger- 
 trude's head closer to her breast, and murmured the word 
 
 ' ; Father ; " and then in her ear she whispered " Try " 
 
 More she could not utter, but gazed into her eyes for a mo- 
 ment with an unutterable expression of tenderness, fear, and 
 supplication, — and then she died. That heart which had 
 throbbed so long ceased to beat, and the spirit returned to the 
 God who had given, tried, and exalted it, in the fiery furnace 
 of suffering. 
 
 When Mr. Lifford returned to that room, followed by 
 others, he stood an instant at the door, and a cold shudder 
 passed through his frame. His daughter turned her face for 
 one second towards him, pointed to the form of her whom she 
 still held in her arms, and in a tone of unnatural calmness ut- 
 tered the word, '-' Dead." She did not add, but in that dread- 
 ful moment her eyes said, " You have killed her ! " With a 
 wild and piercing cry she turned from him, and, as he slowly 
 approached she stretched out her arm behind her, as if to 
 keep him away. It is possible that at such a moment even, 
 his heart might have been touched and softened; but to be 
 thus repulsed, and in the presence of others, awakened the 
 bitterest and most vindictive feelings in his mind. He went 
 away, and she remained alone with her misery — alone though 
 fathers spoke to her. Alone, then, and for days afterwards. 
 If her grief had been simple in its nature it would have been 
 less dreadful ; but fear, suspense, resent ment against the 
 father whom she ought to have loved, and against one whom 
 she did love with all the strength of her soul, were mixed 
 with her sorrow, and embittered every tear that fell in that 
 dark room. She would not move from the foot of that bed, 
 from that spot where her father never came again. She would 
 not look at the picture opposite to it, on which she had so 
 often gazed ; her eyes were fixed on the ground, and they 
 seldom shed tears. 
 
LADY-BIRD. 225 
 
 The priest came and prayed by the bed-side ; and for her 
 mother's soul she prayed with intense fervour, but not for 
 herself. It seemed as if all her feelings were suspended 
 within her till she could learn her fate, and the rigid endur- 
 ance of that suspense was offered up as a sacrifice in that 
 chamber of mourning. "When the priest addressed to her 
 words of consolation, she raised her eyes for an instant, and 
 said, " Yes — soon, perhaps, I may feel that." And he saw 
 that the seed did not penetrate the surface, and he spoke 
 oftener to God of that poor child, and less for the present of 
 God to her. Then came the day of the funeral, with all its 
 gloomy grandeur and solemn pomp. So the pride of the 
 living had willed it. The ruling passion strong even in the 
 face of death. The prayers and sacrifices of the Church, — 
 the same for the rich and for the poor, — were offered up for 
 that humble spirit which had been indeed poor in the midst 
 of riches, but the husband who had not loved her, and 
 scarcely wept over her corpse, had it consigned to the grave 
 with all the pomp and circumstance of human pride. Ger- 
 trude's soul sickened within her at the sight of banners and 
 escutcheons by the side of the shrine which held the mortal 
 remains of her mother. During the service for the dead (at 
 which they both assisted), she once looked towards her father, 
 with eyes almost blinded by tears. His were dry, and it 
 might be accident, but they seemed complacently fixed on the 
 shield on which were quartered her arms and his. She turned 
 away, and hid her face in her hands. Perhaps she prayed 
 that she might not hate him. The funeral was over, with all 
 its soothing religious duties, with all its stately worldly 
 pomp. Once there came into her mind lines which she used 
 to repeat years ago — not applicable, but akin to what she felt 
 that day : 
 
 " And they bore away the royal dead 
 "With requiems to his rest, 
 With knightly plumes and banners, 
 All waving in the wind ; 
 But a woman's broken heart was left 
 In its lone despair behind." 
 
 The next day Gertrude went for the first time into the 
 
 drawing-room. She was in deep mourning. There was not 
 
 the least trace of colour in her cheeks ; the stern expression 
 
 of her features was unrelieved by any of those soft shades or 
 
 10* 
 
226 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 playful lights which used to flit over her face with such 
 indescribable charm. Whatever light there was in it now 
 came from the excessive brightness of her eyes. She had not 
 shed tears enough to dim their brilliancy, and there was a fire 
 burning in them which had been fed, not quenched by sorrow. 
 She was resolved to have an explanation with her father ; she 
 must know if Adrien had abandoned her — with or without 
 reason. She must know if there was any hope left for her of 
 happiness on this side the grave. She felt the most profound 
 conviction that the scene which had been fatal to her mother 
 had had reference to her destiny. In some way or other he 
 had laid his cold hand upon it, and blasted it by his touch. 
 
 When the post came in, he received a letter, which seemed 
 to pre-occupy him considerably. As he left the room he said, 
 '• I wish you would come to my study in about an hour, as I 
 have something of importance to communicate to you." A 
 sudden revulsion of feeling came over Gertrude at that 
 moment ; he had perhaps heard from Adrien, — her suspicions, 
 her fears, her misery might have been groundless. She tried 
 to be calm ; she sat opposite the clock, watching the minute- 
 hand as it went round, — too slowly as she felt at one moment, — 
 too fast as the hour was nearly elapsed. When it struck the 
 appointed time she slowly walked to the study. 
 
 Mr. Lifford was sitting at his table. There was a shade 
 of embarrassment in his manner, and he cleared his throat 
 two or three times before beginning to speak. ' ; I have 
 received a letter this morning," he said, ; ' which has somewhat 
 embarrassed me, as it may be disagreeable to you, as well as 
 to myself, to have any exertion to make so soon after your 
 poor mother's death ; but it is inevitable, and as the circum- 
 stance I allude to is of paramount importance to you, I must 
 at once speak on a subject which I had intended some time 
 longer to defer. You may have heard of the family of 
 Mirasole, with whom we have had many family affairs to 
 discuss. I saw the Marquis de Mirasole in Spain, and came 
 to an understanding with him on several points of great 
 importance to your brother's fortune. Amongst others it was 
 agreed upon between us that a marriage between you and his 
 son would be highly desirable, and having assured myself that 
 the young man would in every respect be a suitable husband 
 for you, I gave my consent to the proposal, and nothing can be 
 more satisfactory than all the conditions of fortune and posi- 
 tion that it affords. Besides the advantages to yourself there 
 
 
LADY-BIRD. 227 
 
 are others, as I said before, of vast consequence to your 
 brother, and I rejoice that the interests of both thus coincide. 
 But what I scarcely rejoice at is, that M. de Mirasole, whom 
 I expected here but not quite so soon, has in this letter 
 announced his arrival, and that he will be here to-rnorrow 
 morning. However, as he cannot be considered henceforward 
 as a stranger by us, it will not be thought extraordinary that 
 we should receive him even at this early period of our mourn- 
 ing, and I hope that his attentions and the new duties you 
 will enter upon before long will prevent your giving way to an 
 excessive depression of spirits." 
 
 Mr. LifFord had said all this without once looking at his 
 daughter, a mode of proceeding which was rather habitual to 
 him, especially when addressing her. As he did not now 
 receive any answer he was obliged to raise his eyes towards 
 her. 
 
 " Will you be kind enough," she then said, fixing hers 
 steadily upon him, " to answer me one question 1 Have you 
 received no other proposal of this kind but the one you 
 speak of 1 " 
 
 He seemed to hesitate for an instant, and then answered, 
 " None that deserved consideration." 
 
 " Then you have received proposals," she said in the same 
 calm manner, " from Adrien d'Arberg? " 
 
 " The gentleman you mention did me that honour," he 
 answered with a sneer. 
 
 " And you refused those proposals without consulting my 
 mother or me % " 
 
 " I did so, Miss Lifford. Pray what is the drift of these 
 questions % " 
 
 " Bear with me a moment. How long ago did this 
 happen 1 " 
 
 " It may be four or five weeks ago." 
 
 " M. d'Arbers; was here then? " 
 
 "H 
 
 e was 
 
 o 
 
 " And you denied it ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 Mr. Lifford turned pale with anger and said, " If I evaded 
 your inquiries on that occasion it was from the wish to spare 
 your mother unnecessary agitation." 
 
 ; ' And you refused him, then, without consulting her or 
 me ? What did you say to him ? " She uttered these last 
 words with her eyes bent on the ground, and her lips tightly 
 compressed. 
 
228 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " That he did me much honour, but that I had other views 
 and intentions." 
 
 "Did he ask to see me, or her?" she said, clasping a 
 small picture of her mother, which she wore round her neck. 
 
 " These questions are unnecessary. Pray dismiss that 
 subject from your thoughts at once." 
 
 " Dismiss it ! " she slowly repeated. " Dismiss it ! Has 
 it ever occurred to you that there are thoughts which will not 
 be dismissed 1 " 
 
 " I have not patience to listen to any folly of this nature. 
 From your birth you have irritated me. Abstain from doing 
 so now. There are points on which I cannot be thwarted with 
 impunity." 
 
 "And you imagine that I shall accept a husband at your 
 hands. You think that I shall submit to you in a matter, not 
 merely of life or death, but of honour and of dishonour. That 
 I shall smile on the stranger you have brought here to woo 
 me over my mother's grave, and stand with him at the altar 
 with a lie on my lips and despair in my heart ? You have 
 embittered my childhood, you have clouded my youth, you 
 
 have " Here she stopped short ; even in the passion of 
 
 that moment she trembled at the dreadful words she was 
 about to utter, and clasping her throat, went on : " You have 
 endangered the happiness, the peace, the virtue of your child, 
 but I tell you, father, that you have not the power to break 
 my heart. I shall be true to him on whom my mother's 
 dying blessing rests, to him whose image at this moment 
 stands between me and despair. If I were never to see him 
 again — if I had not the strength of that hope I should tremble 
 for myself " 
 
 " You may tremble, then, for there is little prospect that 
 you will ever behold again the presumptuous suitor who dared 
 to thrust himself into my house in my absence, and even into 
 your mother's presence. Her deplorable weakness— — " 
 
 " 0, for Heaven's sake, do not speak of her," Gertrude 
 cried as she wrung her hands in almost intolerable emotion. 
 " I dare not think of her, for I would forget that scene — that 
 cry " 
 
 " And who but you," he exclaimed, " hurried your mother 
 to the grave ? — you and this wretched man whom I forbid you 
 ever to name again 1 " 
 
 She stood opposite to him, drawn up to her full height, 
 her lips as white as a sheet and each muscle of her frame- 
 rigid. 
 
LADY-BIR0. 220 
 
 11 You were right in saying that you were not to be thwart- 
 ed with impunity. The words you have uttered will haunt me 
 continually. You are sufficiently revenged : but listen to me 
 now. I will not marry M. de Mirasole. I will not be made 
 a sacrifice to the furtherance of your views for Edgar. I will 
 not break the promises I have made." 
 
 " Ah, this honourable man has prevaricated then. He told 
 meyou were bound by no promise." 
 
 " He gave me up then ! " she exclaimed, in a tone of such 
 anguish that even Mr. Lifford started at the sound. But he 
 thought the moment favourable, and drawing a French news- 
 paper from a heap on his table, he put it under her eyes, and 
 pointed to a passage. She read the following words : — 
 
 " Nons apprenons avec ten vif interet que le Comtc 
 Adrien d'Arberg, auteur des " Essais Philosopltiqucs sur le 
 Christianisme" apres avoir ctde, par un acts forniel, ses 
 propriety en Bret ague an Comte Henri d? Arbcrg : sonfrere : 
 s'est rendu au seminaire d 1 Orleans, decide a suivre la voca- 
 tion qici]jaraU depuis longtemps lui etre reservee, et a entrer 
 dans le sacerdoce dont ilformera, sans ancun doute, un des 
 plus beaux ornements." * 
 
 After reading these words Gertrude remained silent ; her 
 father watched her for a moment, and thought he had attained 
 his purpose, for the vehemence of her excitement seemed at an 
 end. She looked almost as calm and as stern as himself, and 
 in an instant left the room. Perhaps if he had remembered 
 at that moment what he had felt himself on the day that Lady 
 Clara dismissed him, and while he went to the opera as usual, 
 and sat in a box opposite to her without flinching, or betray- 
 ing a symptom of what he was enduring, he might have guessed 
 at what was passing in his daughter's heart. Her anger was 
 calm, but it was fearful. The cup was full, and that day it had 
 overflowed. Duty, principle, conscience were silenced by a 
 resentment deep and strong as the nature that it swayed. She 
 was his victim. Her will had been vain against his. He had 
 
 * " We have been much interested in learning that the Count Adrien 
 d'Arberg, the author of " Philosophical Essays on Christianity," after hav- 
 ing concluded the arrangement of his affairs by the formal surrender of his 
 property in Brittany to his brother, the Count Henri d'Arberg, has proceed- 
 ed to the seminary "of Orleans, with the intention of following the vocation 
 which has long appeared to be marked out for him, and to enter the priest- 
 hood, which will doubtless reckon him hereafter amongst its brightest 
 ornaments." 
 
LADY-BIRD. 
 
 shivered to pieces the fabric of her happiness, and hah stolen 
 away the light of her existence. And she had been feebly 
 loved by him whom even now she adored with an idolatrous 
 worship. He had forsaken her, and his conscience was doubt- 
 less at rest. He would^toil for others, he would save other 
 souls perhaps, but of hers he had made sad havoc. He ought 
 never to have loved, or never to have abandoned her. She was 
 alone, completely alone in the world. She had told him there 
 was that in her heart which must not be trifled with. She had 
 lately at times felt a strange incoherence in her thoughts. She 
 felt as if her father was pursuing her, and this sensation be- 
 came a waking nightmare. He might drag her to the altar, 
 and she would have no strength to resist. He had sent Adrien 
 away, and she had not had power to prevent him. Was she a 
 slave ? Could not she escape ? She was under the influence 
 of this strange oppression — half feverish and half real, — when 
 the sound of a carriage startled her. " It is that man," she 
 wildly exclaimed ; " it must be that man he has sent for ! " 
 
 She snatched her bonnet and her shawl, and rushed down 
 the back-stairs into the garden without meeting any one. 
 When she passed the stone bench near her mother's window, 
 where she had sat with Adrien the day he went away, her steps 
 faltered : at the chapel-door she knelt an instant ; but when 
 she tried to pray, though her lips moved, passion and anger 
 rose like a mist between her and Heaven. Once she exclaim- 
 ed : " Father Lifford, Father Lifford, would to God you were 
 here ! Why have you forsaken me too 1 " 
 
 There were steps on the gravel walk, and she fancied once 
 more that she heard the sound of wheels in the distance ; and 
 without knowing what she was doing, she hurried on through 
 the park. It was a false alarm, but she did not stop to listen. 
 " I cannot go back to that house," she said to herself, " I can- 
 not see that man. I cannot meet my father again. I will 
 leave his roof. His face, his voice, stand between me and 
 peace. My mother's death I cannot forget. Her last cry is 
 
 in my ears. He hated me before, and now 0, there is an 
 
 abyss between us which never can be filled up. I will go to 
 Mary Grey, and to her mother. They will protect me ; they 
 are the only friends I ever had. Why have they not been to 
 me in my sorrow ? But I forget, I would neither see any one, 
 nor read any letters. I will go to them now. I cannot think 
 for myself, they will think for me. 0, for a kind hand to hold 
 mine, but for an instant now, for a drop of cold water to slake 
 this burning thirst." 
 
LADY-BIRD. 231 
 
 " She opened the gate of the park, and hurried on towards 
 Stonehousleigh. It was a clear frosty night, and in the dis- 
 tance she saw the roof of the cottage with the icicles hanging 
 from the straw : a light was burning in the window. She hur- 
 ried on, for she felt faint and ill. Unclosing the latch with a 
 trembling hand, she passed through the little gate and knock- 
 ed at the door. It opened. ' ; Mary," she said in a hoarse 
 whisper. It was not Mary's voice that said, " Good Heavens, 
 Miss Lifforcl ! " " Maurice, where is Mary ? Call Mary direct- 
 ly — call your mother ; I am ill." She staggered, and he threw 
 open the door of the little parlour, and closed the outer one. 
 She sank on a chair. " Call them, Maurice," she repeated, " I 
 want Mary." He looked at her with a mixture of fear and 
 embarrassment. He scarcely knew what to say, — he was 
 afraid to tell her that they were not there, — that they had 
 gone to London that morning. He had remained behind to 
 conclude all the arrangements. His heart was beating violent- 
 ly : — what could he do ? She was looking fearfully pale. He 
 left the room for some water, and held it to her lips. ' : Where 
 are they? are they not here?" " No, my Lady-Bird, no." 
 She fainted away; he carried her to the couch and knelt by her 
 side, chafing her brow with cold water — he had nothing else at 
 hand — and looking at her with eyes which would have recalled 
 life in the dead, if eyes could ever do so. 
 
 It was some time before she opened hers, and then her 
 marble cheek was resting on a cushion, and her hair had fallen 
 on her shoulders. Her face was wet with the water with 
 which he had bathed her temples, and her hands with the hot 
 tears he had shed upon them. She started up affrighted. 
 
 " Where am I? What am I doing here, Maurice?" 
 
 " You are in the cottage, Lady-Bird, where you have often 
 spent happy hours, where from your childhood you have been 
 welcomed by true affection. You came to Mary, — Mary is 
 not here." 
 
 " Nor your, mother ? alas ! " 
 
 " No, but you are as safe as if the whole world were 
 around you." 
 
 " I never doubted it," she coldly and proudly renlied. " I 
 must go." 
 
 " Where, where ?" he anxiously asked. 
 
 " Where, indeed !" she ejaculated, and tried to rise, but 
 fell back exhausted. w I am undone," she murmured to her- 
 self, " I may die here ; but if I did — shame ! terror I 
 
232 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 Maurice, go for Mr. Erving this minute, go ; he will help me 
 and guide me." 
 
 " But I cannot leave you alone — I cannot, indeed." 
 
 " You must : go this instant. Go, Maurice, as you value 
 my blessing or my curse." 
 
 '• But, Lady-Bird, for God's sake listen to me ; I am ex- 
 pecting a man here to carry these trunks away to the station. 
 If he does not find me he will come in ; if I lock the door he 
 may call the neighbours." She made a strong effort to get 
 up. but became giddy after a step or two, and was forced to 
 sit down again. 
 
 " Miss Lifford, you can trust me ; be calm, and listen to 
 what I say to you. Let me get you a bit of bread and a glass 
 of wine from the kitchen. Try and eat, and then lie down on 
 that couch for an hour ; you are exhausted with grief ; you 
 cannot walk now, that is clear." 
 
 Tears for the first time fell from her eyes in abundance, 
 and turning to Maurice, she said, in a tone of touching help- 
 lessness, " I will do what you advise ; I cannot think for 
 myself." 
 
 He brought her the food, and she swallowed a little. He 
 watched her as a mother does a sick child, and then said in a 
 low voice, " You are suffering intensely. In the name of the 
 friendship that has united you and Mary, will you not tell 
 Mary's brother what has made your cup of sorrow overflow 1 
 We have been friends since the days of childhood. 0, Lady- 
 Bird, will you not open your heart to one who would give his 
 life to spare you a tear % If others have been unkind to you, 
 will you not confide in an affection that never can fail you ? " 
 
 "Affection ! " she bitterly answered : " there is no such thing 
 on earth. Where I should have been loved, I have been 
 hated : there is no happiness for me, and I must now return,' 
 for I am a little stronger now, to that detested house where 
 my mother consumed away her life, where my youth has been 
 saddened and my soul for ever blighted." 
 
 Maurice's eyes suddenly sparkled with excitement, and a 
 deep colour rushed into his face. " I understand it all," he 
 cried; "you are going to marry the Count de Mirasole. I 
 have seen him, Gertrude, a miserable being, utterly unworthy 
 of you. I was told in London that he was your destined hus- 
 band, and shuddered at the thought. But he has rank and 
 wealth, and pride like yqjur father's." 
 
 " So help me Heaven, they may kill me, but I will not 
 
LADY-BIRD. 233 
 
 marry him. And yet to dwell at Lifford Grange, — my moth- 
 er's living grave " 
 
 There was a pause ; neither of them spoke, but a tumultu- 
 ous rush of feelings was invading his heart as he looked upon 
 her, bowed down with sorrow, and shuddering at the thought 
 of the home she had left. He knelt by her side, and with 
 those eyes which had sought to recall her to life a moment be- 
 fore by the impassioned tenderness of their gaze, he tried, as 
 it were, to speak the thought which was struggling in his 
 mind. She partly understood him, for she held out her hand 
 to him, and murmured, " I am not ungrateful for your sympa- 
 thy,'' and burst into tears. Then trembling with agitation, he 
 said, 
 
 " Gertrude, listen to me. " We are alone, but never were 
 my feelings so deeply respectful ; for the sake of Heaven do 
 not start at what I am going to say. You will die if you re- 
 main at Lifford Grange ; your life will waste away in that 
 gloom and solitude. A slow persecution will establish itself 
 against you if you refuse to marry the husband of your fa- 
 ther's choice. My heart beats so that I can hardly speak. Ger- 
 trude, as you once told me to do, I have loved in silence, — I 
 have adored you in hopelessness. I shall love you whether 
 you become the wife of Mirasole, or pine away your life in 
 the dungeon called your home. Pure, as it is ardent — hum- 
 ble, as it is passionate — I dare speak of my love, even here, 
 alone with you ; for you could never mistake a heart that at 
 all times has been yours. If some have hated, I have wor- 
 shipped you. If some have feebly loved, I have adored you. 
 If others have forsaken, I have clung to you ; and with my 
 soul, and my pen, and my toil, and with what talent Heaven 
 has given me, and with my life, I will serve you, and ask noth- 
 ing in return but that you will accept that devotion, — that 
 , you will let me take you to my mother and to Mary, who will 
 be a mother and a sister to you ; and then ask yourself there, 
 if without repugnance you can give me the right to live for 
 you. You do not care for rank, thank God, — you have suf- 
 fered from the pride and the coldness of others. 0. Gertrude, 
 will you not try the ardent love of an artist's heart, — of a 
 spirit untrammelled by the barriers that men, and not God, 
 have placed between loving hearts ? Will you be my wife, — 
 and fight our way through the world amidst the frowns of its 
 votaries and the sneers of its slaves ? Will you see life as it 
 is, or will you return to the cold shadows of existence in which 
 
234 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 your youtliVas spent, or be the tool and the victim of your 
 father's pride ? " 
 
 "Hush, Maurice, hush ! " she wildly exclaimed : '-you do 
 not know what you are saying." 
 
 " I know that I love you as woman has seldom been loTed, 
 — that is enough for me. can it not be enough for you? 
 My Gertrude. — my Lady-Bird, come with me to a home where 
 none but loving eyes will look upon you, none but loving words 
 be addressed to you. Let me rescue you from the tyranny 
 that has embittered all your life. I do not ask you to love 
 me as I love you Few love thus ; but let me be your hus- 
 band " 
 
 "My husband!" she exclaimed. u You! leave me, — 
 leave me. What are you talking of, Maurice 1 Do you not 
 
 know " She got up and went towards the door ; he turned 
 
 so deadly pale that she thought he was about to faint. De- 
 spair was in his face. "God help me!" she said, "am I 
 breaking his heart as mine is breaking !" He heard her, and 
 tlio expression of his eyes changed, — a sudden hope shot 
 through them ; again he pleaded, again implored, and a 
 strange conflict arose in her whom he addressed as she listened 
 to his feverish words of tenderness — a passion which soothed 
 her bruised and aching heart. The idea of revenge, too, 
 arose in that proud spirit. To reward a love which had been 
 long as time and patient as faith, to fly from scenes which 
 seemed to wither her soul as she looked upon them, to brave 
 the prejudices that had been fatal to her peace, and the father 
 who had shivered to atoms her happiness, to show Adrien in 
 his serene indifference — his virtuous abstraction — that she too 
 could take a decisive step ; — and instead of weeping in soli- 
 tude over the fate to which he had left her, all this conspired 
 at that moment to bewilder and confuse her. She felt a pin- 
 ing desire to be loved and protected. She felt utterly une- 
 qual to meet the struggle that awaited her at Lifford Grange ; 
 and the difficulty of returning there at that time of the night, 
 or to account for her long absence, the chance of being obliged 
 to explain it to her father, her horror of the husband he would 
 force upon her, — all this threw weight into the scale in that 
 hour of weakness, of infatuation, and of despair. 
 
 Maurice was not designedly artful ; he loved her passion 
 ately, and to show it was the highest art he could employ ; he 
 pleaded with his whole soul, with his eyes, and with his words ; 
 he combated the scruples of her conscience, the misgivings of 
 
LADY-BIRD. 235 
 
 her heart, with all the arguments which sophistry could furnish 
 and eloquence employ, — blinded all the while by the delirium 
 of passion to the fearful sin he was committing against Heaven 
 and against her. He privately ordered the person who called 
 for the luggage to be in readiness at four with a carriage to 
 take him to the railway. She was fatigued, over-excited, 
 jaded with emotions ; she scarcely realised what she was about. 
 She began to fear with a terrible fear that she would be missed 
 at Lifford Grange, and be discovered where she was. Once 
 she had a good inspiration ; she insisted for a moment that 
 Maurice should take her to Mr. Erving's house, should show 
 her the way to it at least. But then he might be absent, and 
 what would his servant think? And if she did find him, what 
 could he do but insist on her returning to her father ; and 
 that seemed to have grown beyond her power. At mo- 
 ments she trembled like a leaf. Then again a fierce irrita- 
 tion supported her. She had been sacrificed to the cold 
 heartless pride that had counted her happiness and her misery 
 for nothing ; she had been refused to the man she adored, and 
 promised to a stranger, as if she had been a slave, a machine, 
 or a piece of merchandise. But now, when the proud Spaniard 
 would arrive and claim his bride, what would her still prouder 
 father answer ? She had fled from his house like a galley- 
 slave from his chain. He had refused Adrien, with his title, 
 his noble blood, and his riches ; and she would marry the son 
 of a poor fiddler and of an Italian singer ! There would be a 
 blot for ever on that hateful escutcheon, which had been her 
 foe and her bane. A morbid gratitude, a feverish terror, a 
 boundless resentment blinded her. She scarcely looked be- 
 yond the present moment, and was conveyed away towards the 
 railway-station, with no definite thought but the fear of being 
 overtaken. But no one had missed her, — her father had not 
 asked for her. Her maid never attended her in the evening : 
 the tea, which she had lately taken instead of dinner, was 
 carried up to her room and left there. ' Those who did not see 
 her in her apartments concluded she was in the drawing-room, 
 and those who did not see her there, imagined she was up- 
 stairs. It was only in the morning that the truth flashed 
 upon the bewildered servants, — Miss Lifford had not slept in 
 her bed that night. They were informing her father of the 
 fact at the moment when the carriage of the Count of Mirasole 
 was driving up to the door. 
 
236 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " The real hardened wicked 
 That know no check but human law, 
 Are to a few restricted. 
 But, ah ! mankind is unco weak. 
 And little to be trusted; 
 When self the wavering balance shakes, 
 It*s rarely right adjusted." 
 
 BtTRNR. 
 
 " The frowaraness of rashness is no better 
 Than a wild dedication of ourselves 
 To unpath'd waters, undreamt shores ; most certain 
 To miseries enough ; no hope to help us, 
 But as we shake off one, to take another." 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 It was eight o'clock in the morning when the sun was just be« 
 ginning to make his way through the lingering darkness of a 
 London atmosphere ; when the air felt as raw and chilly as if 
 it had not been shone upon for months ; when the smell and 
 the taste of fog were pervading every sense, and the hard, dull 
 part of life's business was beginning to stir in the streets, that 
 a hack-cab stopped at a house in one of the streets near Man- 
 chester Square. Maurice, who was on the box, jumped down 
 and rang the bell. When a maid opened the door, he sprung 
 up the narrow stairs, and found Mary in the sitting-room. 
 Her bonnet was on, and she was just going out. His sudden 
 appearance did not startle her much, for she expected him 
 that day ; but she said, 
 
 l - So early, Maurice ! I did not know you were coming by 
 this train." 
 
 He seized both her hands, and looked at her so strangely 
 that she felt frightened. " What has happened ? — What can 
 have happened ? " 
 
 " Something so extraordinary that at this very moment I 
 am not sure that I am not dreaming. But it is all true — true 
 as I am here ; you will hardly believe it. How it has all hap- 
 pened I scarcely understand myself; but Lady-Bird is with 
 me, — she is in the carriage. She has left her home for ever, 
 and with me ! " 
 
 Mary turned very pale, and clasped her hands together. 
 u Are you married, Maurice ? " 
 
 " No, but we must be married immediately. Come, dear- 
 
LADY-BIRD. 23*7 
 
 est Mary, and bring her up-stairs and take care of her, while 
 I go to get a license, and speak to a priest." 
 
 Mary went down to the carriage-door, feeling bewildered. 
 It passed through her head that Maurice had gone out of his 
 mind, and that she should not find Gertrude in the carriage. 
 But she was there, — pale and motionless as a marble statue, — 
 looking more like a corpse than a bride. " Miss Lifford ! dear 
 Miss Lifford !" was all she could ejaculate, as she led her up- 
 stairs. She made her sit down on the sofa near the fire, and 
 then looked at Maurice with an expression that seemed to ask 
 for an explanation. He knelt by Gertrude, and whispered in 
 a low voice, " She is ill and cold, — she has suffered so much ! " 
 Gertrude opened her arms, and said, a Mary ! " in a tone of 
 such intense misery, that though she shed no tears Mary's 
 streamed down her face while pressing her to her heart. Then 
 Maurice went away, and left them together. 
 
 It was a strange interview. Neither was disposed to en- 
 ter upon explanations. They seemed almost equally miser- 
 able. Gertrude, from the moment that she had entered the 
 railway-carriage and had been relieved from the immediate 
 fear of pursuit, had fallen into a sort of stupor that had pre- 
 vented her thinking over what she had done, or what she was 
 about to do. To draw back was impossible ; and this made 
 her impatient for the moment when all would have been gone 
 through, and her fate irrevocably fixed. What could she say 
 to Mary 1 Nothing. It was useless to explain. What had 
 she to explain'? Driven almost wild, and from the impulse of 
 the moment seeking a refuge where she alone hoped to find 
 one, step by step she had been drawn on to the point where 
 she now was, scarcely knowing if she had injured Maurice, or 
 he had wronged her — whether he was the betrayer or the be- 
 trayed, and herself saved or undone. 
 
 Tired to death she fell asleep on the hard couch, and 
 Mary stood looking at her with a mixture of pity and of grief. 
 * Then she loved him," she said to herself. " Poor Lady-Bird, 
 she has always loved him ! But how have they met 1 
 How has this been brought about ? So soon after her mo- 
 ther's death ! How will he support her, used as she has been 
 to so many comforts ? But perhaps her father may forgive 
 her ; though I am afraid he will not. Good Heavens ! who 
 would ever have thought this possible ? Gertrude Lifford — • 
 Lady-Bird — Maurice's wife ! She must have loved him very 
 much to have acted thus. But how could she make up her 
 
238 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 mind to it ? I hope he did not over-persuade her. Will he 
 want me to go to church with them 1 Perhaps he will not 
 like to ask me, but I will, and my mother shall go too. It will 
 be a sad wedding." 
 
 She put some wood on the fire, and lit a candle, for the 
 fog was getting more yellow and dense every moment. Ger- 
 trude's bonnet had fallen on the ground. She picked it up 
 and hung it on the screen, laid her own shawl on her feet ; 
 then softly slipped out of the room to go and prepare her mo- 
 ther for this strange arrival. Mrs. Redmond was quite be- 
 wildered at the news, and gazed at her daughter in silent 
 astonishment. " Bless my soul ! " she ejaculated in a moment ; 
 "what odd things do happen, Mary !" This was her resource 
 in all embarrassing moments in life, from a dropped stitch in 
 her work to the greatest event that ever came across her quiet 
 path — ' : Mary ! " — a look at that kind serene face, an appeal 
 to that invariable goodness and sense which she almost super- 
 stitiously trusted in. " Mary says it must be done," or 
 " Mary says there is nothing to fret about," were oracles 
 which had never found her rebellious or incredulous. " Mary !" 
 Mary knew what that meant, and said gently, 
 
 " We feel, dearest mother, that it would have been much 
 better that this had never happened, — that Maurice must have 
 been wrong, and poor Lady-Bird very wrong in acting in this 
 way. I don't know how it has come about. But though they 
 have committed a great fault, it is no crime, mother, and God 
 only knows what excuses they have had. She has been so un- 
 happy at home, and her love for him must be very great to have 
 led her to this ; now she must become his wife directly." 
 
 " His wife, Mary ! I had once thought you would be his 
 wife." 
 
 A painful expression for one instant passed over her 
 daughter's face, but it quickly disappeared, and she said : 
 " That was a great mistake, dear mother. Maurice is coming 
 back," she added in a moment, " with the licence. We must 
 go to church with them, and you must give her your blessing ; 
 poor motherless Lady-Bird — no father will give her away — 
 no mother will stand near her. 0, she has done very wrong ; 
 but had I been in her place, who knows that I should have had 
 strength to act differently 1 " Her voice faltered as she said 
 the last words, but Mrs. Redmond was satisfied. Mary had 
 Fa-id it was all a mistake her fancying that Maurice had ever 
 loved her. Mary had said that Maurice and Gertrude had 
 
LADY-BIRD. 239 
 
 been very wrong in running away together, but that there 
 were probably what the French tribunal would call des circon- 
 stanccs attcnucuites, and that she, Mrs. Redmund, was to give 
 them her blessing and be kind to them ; and that was quite 
 enough for her, — Mary must be right. 
 
 Poor Mary did not feel so sure of being right. She asked 
 herself if she ought not to put more questions, to learn more 
 of what had happened, to advise Gertrude to pause and to re- 
 flect before she irrevocably bound herself" to one whose worldly 
 position was so inferior to hers, and set at defiance her father, 
 who, cold and heartless as he had been, was still her father. 
 She thought of her aged uncle also, and the sorrow and indig- 
 nation he would feel at the news of this strange marriage. 
 She had an instinctive feeling that after such a flight, and 
 such a journey, a return to her home would be impossible ; but 
 could not she pause for a while, and take advice before this 
 rash act was completed ? But again, how could she stand be- 
 tween Maurice and the happiness he was on the point of attain- 
 ing 1 If by her advice she induced Gertrude to retrace her 
 steps, and give time to her father to claim her. — if she and 
 Maurice were forcibly separated, and made quite miserable, — 
 would not she have incurred a great responsibility ? She was 
 well acquainted with Mr. Lifford's character. He would never 
 forgive his daughter, but would move heaven and earth to pre- 
 vent what he must consider a disgraceful marriage. What a 
 destiny her interference might be preparing for Gertrude ! — 
 "What misery, what despair for Maurice ! And was she sure 
 enough of her own heart, not to mistrust its motives in this 
 hour of trial ? Maurice adored Gertrude, and she also most 
 dearly loved him. They would have to toil and to struggle, 
 but their devotion to each other would sweeten those toils and 
 struggles. What business had she to interfere ? Faint, tireol, 
 and agitated as she was, a word might sway Gertrude, and the 
 consequences might be important beyond what she knew. No, 
 there was no time for advice, for anything but endurance and 
 prayer. She would stand by that suffering, pale bride, and 
 leave the future in the hands of God. 
 
 With that resolution she returned to the room where she 
 had left her. Gertrude awoke and shivered a little. Then 
 got up and walked up and down the room, and as she looked 
 out of the window said in an absent manner, Ci And this is 
 London?" Then returning to her place on the sofa, she sat 
 silently contemplating the fire. Some tea was brought, of 
 
240 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 which she took a little, and then said to Mary, "Bid you ever 1 
 hear of a daughter marrying a fortnight after her mother's 
 death?" The colour rushed into Mary's face ; she knew not j 
 what to answer. " Yours is not an ordinary marriage," she ! 
 hesitatingly said. Her heart was aching dreadfully. She felt i 
 much that she dare not utter. There were religious duties \ 
 which both ought to have accomplished before receiving the 
 marriage blessing. Did they know this? Had they forgot- 
 ten it? She was just about to speak, when a rap at the door I 
 made them both start. " Remember," Gertrude exclaimed, ! 
 with a wild expression, "that I am of age, and that no power I 
 on earth shall induce me to return to Lififord Grange." 
 
 " It is only the postman's knock," Mary said, and an in- 
 stant afterwards she heard Maurice's voice in the passage. 
 " He is come back, is he !" Gertrude ejaculated. It was some 
 minutes before he came upstairs. He had gone into the room 
 below. When he entered the one where Gertrude and Mary 
 were sitting, he was as pale as death. The expression of his 
 face — his whole manner — were changed from what they had 
 been, when he had arrived that morning. Then, in the midst 
 of agitation and emotion, there was joy and hope ; but now 
 his eyes had a dark and troubled expression, and he seemed in 
 a kind of agony of irresolution. Passion and conscience were 
 at that moment waging war in his soul. The one was fierce 
 and the other weak, and the combat was unequal. He ap- 
 proached Gertrude and twice he tried to speak, but his voice 
 failed him. She did not observe it, and it was she who said 
 at last, "Is all ready?" perhaps with a sensation akin to that 
 with which that question has been asked at the foot of the 
 scaffold. He had an instinctive knowledge that at that mo- 
 ment the words of passion and of tenderness, which had 
 wrought so powerfully on her feelings the day before, would 
 be displeasing to her. Nor could he now pour them forth out 
 of the fulness of a heart which, weak and guilty as it had been, 
 till this hour had been true in its devotion to her. He could 
 only seize her hand, and articulate the word " Come." Mary 
 whispered to him, " I will call my mother ; we are both going 
 with you." When she returned with Mrs. Redmond, Gertrude 
 turned away with her cheeks burning, and her lips quivering. 
 The old woman went to her, took her hand in both hers and 
 murmured, " My dear young lady — my clear child." " My 
 mother /" Gertrude exclaimed, as if her heart was breaking, 
 " O my mother ! " then suddenly became calm and said — 
 
LADY-BIRD. 241 
 
 r Now I am ready, let us go." They all went in one carriage, 
 and through the foggy streets to the chapel. Mary said to 
 herself, " And this is Maurice's wedding-day ? " 
 
 And what did he feel during that time 1 Like the gam- 
 bler, when the decisive card is about to be played, — when the 
 winning horse is nearing the goal. In another moment Ger- 
 trude would be his, and no earthly power might put asunder 
 tlnse who would then have been joined together. When the 
 ceremony was over, and they were returned to the house in 
 King Street, she suffered from such a violent headache, and 
 appeared so ill, that Mrs. Redmond insisted on making her 
 rest on the sofa, and giving her some draught of her own pre- 
 paration to drink ; desiring Maurice and Mary not to disturb 
 her for a while, for that her pulse was so quick and her hands 
 so burning, that unless great care were taken of her she might 
 be seriously ill. Maurice knelt by the sofa, kissed both her 
 hands, and then her forehead. He could hardly realise that 
 she was indeed his wife. It was like a feverish dream, from 
 which he fancied every moment he must awake. She neither 
 stirred nor spoke a word, — till hearing him sigh deeply as he 
 rose from his knees, she opened her eyes and held out her hand 
 to him. He passionately kissed it again and again. She said, 
 " I will try to make a good wife to you, Maurice," " Idol of 
 my heart ! " he exclaimed. " No, no," she murmured ; " it is 
 wrong to have idols." Then, oppressed with fatigue and heavi- 
 ness, she fell asleep. He went clown to the little parlour be- 
 low, where Mary was sitting with her work in her hands — 
 hands that were never idle, however busy her thoughts. 
 
 " You, too, must be very tired, brother," she said as he 
 came in. When they were children it had been her habit to 
 call him so, and during the last few months she had gradually 
 resumed it. " But I suppose you are too much agitated, too 
 happy, to sleep. Sit down in that arm-chair, and tell me the 
 history of this strange event. I long to know, Maurice, what 
 I feel persuaded of beforehand — that you have been both as 
 little to blame as possible." 
 
 " 0, Mary, she came to the cottage last night, in all her 
 beauty, and in the deepest grief. Her mother's grave was 
 scarcely closed, and her own tears undried, when her father 
 attempted to force upon her acceptance the hand of a total 
 stranger, who was to arrive this very day. She had gone 
 through a dreadful scene with him ; and distracted by his 
 unkindness, she fled like a wounded bird to the only friends 
 11 
 
242 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 who had always loved her. She expected to find you and 
 mother, and fainted away with fatigue and the anguish of dis- 
 appointment, when I was forced to tell her you were gone. 
 What could I do then ? I dared not leave her, nor summon 
 any one to her assistance. We remained there together, and 
 the time passed by. When she came to herself, her tears 
 flowed bitterly, and I implored her to confide in me. She 
 trembled, and spoke of her grief and loneliness, and I saw her 
 shudder when she thought of returning to Lifford Grange ; and 
 then it was not in man's nature to refrain from offering her a 
 refuge, from making the confession of a love " He hesi- 
 tated; he could not but remember how often he had told 
 Mary that he loved ke?-, that he would never love any but her ; 
 and the sense of his ingratitude, and of the angelic patience 
 with which she had met it, almost overcame him at that mo- 
 ment. But she looked at him calmly, and taking up his words, 
 she said, 
 
 "And you forgot everything but that love which you had 
 so long struggled to repress. You forgot that you ought not 
 to have revealed it at such a moment. You were tempted, 
 Maurice, and you yielded to the temptation. It seemed to 
 you, perhaps, in that moment of agitation, that it was right to 
 offer her your heart as a refuge, and this poor home as a 
 shelter ; and when you found that she loved you, in the jqy of 
 that discovery " 
 
 An ashy paleness overspread Maurice's face as Mary pro- 
 nounced these words, and he murmured in hesitating accents 
 " I hope she loves me." 
 
 Like a flash of lightning the thought passed through hei 
 mind, that perhaps he was not certain of it, and had too read- 
 ily taken advantage of her distress of mind, her dread of 
 returning home, — of her sufferings, in short, — to persuade her 
 to a step, that nothing but a strong affection on both sides 
 could palliate or excuse. This was a dreadful moment for 
 Mary. She started at the vision of past sin and future misery 
 which was suggesting itself to her mind, and she exclaimed : 
 
 " But you did not over-persuade her, Maurice ? You gave 
 her time to reflect — to pause 1 0, for Heaven's sake tell me 
 you did so ! " 
 
 " There was no time for deliberation," he rejoined with in- 
 creasing vehemence, as he saw her emotion. " Do you think 
 that at such a moment a man is in the full possession of his 
 senses ? I described my love and my despair till she allowed 
 

 LADY-BIRD. 243 
 
 me to speak of her future fate also — I told her what it would 
 be if she remained at Lifford Grange. I argued away her 
 scruples, — Heaven knows my own reasonings seemed just to 
 me at the time. She had once told me to love her on, and to 
 bide my time — and the time seemed to be come. I believe 
 she loves me, I am sure she does." 
 
 He got up and walked about the room with impetuosity. 
 Mary remained silent ; her misgivings were not removed ; but 
 she felt it was done, it was over, it was irrevocable, — and no- 
 thing remained but the hope that God, in his infinite mercy 
 would bring good out of evil, should her worst fears be real- 
 ised ; but she also knew there was such a thing as retribution, 
 and her heart sunk within her. She kept her eyes fixed on 
 the ground, scarcely venturing to look in his face. 
 
 " If I have done wrong," he began. 
 
 " If ! Maurice," she rejoined, in a tone that pierced 
 him to the soul ; for, if she condemned him already, what 
 would she have felt and said if she had known what no other 
 creature but himself did know, — a secret that was lodged in 
 his breast, never to be revealed to her, or to any one ; but 
 which, like a thorn, was to dwell there, while his writhings 
 would only serve to drive it in more deeply. 
 
 Both feared to say more about the past. Each had un- 
 derstood more than the other had expressed in words, and a 
 painful silence ensued. She communed with herself; and, 
 knowing his character, felt it necessary to encourage him to 
 look forward with resolution to the future. " Speak to them 
 that they go forward '." This sentence of the Bible had fixed 
 itself in Mary's mind when she was very young, as a sort of 
 spell that carried her along through discouragements and 
 trial, as if borne upon an angel's wing. It stifled regrets, 
 self-pity, self-indulgence, and braced every nerve for the duty 
 or the struggle of the hour ; and now she felt it to be a greater 
 duty to urge him to future efforts, and atoning virtues, than 
 to reproach him for the past. 
 
 " You are now," she said, " Gertrude's husband, her pro- 
 tector, her sole support ; for the world will be against her, 
 and not much mercy will it show to either of you. I do not 
 say this to discourage you, God knows, but to excite you to 
 be all to her that a husband can be to a wife who has given 
 up everything for him. Hers is not a common claim on your 
 love. Maurice, dearest brother, begin well this new life of 
 yours. You will need God's blessing upon it, — seek it day 
 
244 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 by day*at his feet, and then work hard for Gertrude; dear 
 Lady-Bird must not want a single comfort which our labour 
 can obtain." He pressed her hand, and both were again for 
 a few minutes absorbed in thought. Then (for there are a 
 thousand little necessary details of life which assert their 
 claims even in the most exciting moments) she said to him, 
 " Where shall you live, Maurice 1 Here, I hope ; at least, 
 just now." 
 
 " Will it be possible, Mary ? " 
 
 " Quite possible. There are two rooms upstairs which you 
 can have ; and I should think, just at first, that as you know 
 little, and Lady-Bird nothing, about housekeeping, it will be 
 a good thing for her to have somebody to manage little ar- 
 rangements, and to supply the place of her maid ; I can lend 
 her some clothes, also until " 
 
 " Mary, here is my purse, for Heaven's sake, buy what- 
 ever she may want." 
 
 " No indeed, my dear Maurice, you have been tolerably 
 well off as a single man during the last two years, but 
 as a married man you must be very prudent. It is likely, 
 that even should Mr. Lifford cast off his daughter, he 
 will send her what was her own until now. Then, again, 
 there is something which I think you should carefully 
 avoid, and that is proposing any change in your wife's 
 habits of life. Any such alteration should come from her- 
 self alone, and not be suggested by you, or by us. Most 
 likely she will wish to dress less expensively — indeed it will 
 be inevitable if her father does not contribute to your sup- 
 port — but it would not be desirable that you should procure 
 for her less costly things than she has been used to. If hers 
 are not sent to her, it will be time enough then for you to 
 explain to her candidly the amount of your resources, and to 
 let her decide on the line she will adopt in these respects." 
 
 " Mary, you are a little Solomon," Maurice said, with a 
 smile, but it was one which was soon followed by a deep sigh. 
 For what would he not have given to have been able to sur- 
 round his wife with all the comforts and pleasures and luxu- 
 ries of life 1 and he looked with loathing at the narrow dull 
 rooms, the dingy walls and comfortless furniture of that poor 
 lodging-house. If, indeed, he had been convinced that she 
 loved him, all would have been well. On that day. at least, 
 he would have given care to the winds, and have bade defiance 
 to the frowns of fortune ; but such love as his was too clear- 
 
B LADY-BIRD. 245 
 
 sighted long to deceive itself; although he strove to persuade 
 himself. — in spite of former jealous suspicions, and of a start- 
 ling confirmation which they had received that very da}' — that 
 she did love him, and that her heart had prompted the rash 
 act she had committed : still, as he repassed in his mind the 
 scenes of that eventful day, he could not recall one glance of 
 real love, one word that set at rest the terrible misgivings of 
 an awakening conscience and a torturing jealousy. 
 
 Mary, meanwhile, was as busy as a bee. She concluded 
 with the mistress of the house the bargain for the rooms up- 
 stairs, and set about helping the maid to give them a thorough 
 cleaning. The pale sun was beginning to conquer the fog, and 
 she threw open the window to let in that transient ray. Every 
 bit of furniture that could be considered ornamental was trans- 
 ferred from her mother's room and her own to Gertrude's. 
 Every picture and print she possessed was hung on the walls. 
 There were some that Maurice had brought her from Italy, 
 and which used to be her treasures. One in particular, a 
 pretty engraving of the Madonna di Foligno, before which she 
 had ever since said her prayers. She hesitated an instant, but 
 then thought that those prayers would have been poured forth 
 to little purpose if they had not prepared her to part with 
 everything that referred to a time she must now never remem- 
 ber. One fervent kiss was pressed on the sacred feet of the 
 Virgin's child, and then the picture was placed where the light 
 would best fall upon it. Her prettiest looking books were 
 ranged on the shelves — several little knick-knacks were laid 
 on the table. When the fire was lit and the flame burned 
 brightly, she thought the room looked cheerful ; and cheerfully 
 she had worked, in spite of the aching of her heart — for it was 
 aching, notwithstanding every effort — it was aching more than 
 any one could have conceived. Many a woman, with such a 
 suffering heart, would have been drowned in tears. Many 
 another, who had loved, and did still love, like her, would have 
 turned from Maurice with bitter resentment, and from Ger- 
 trude with cold severity : but people are very different, and 
 there are different ways of showing feeling. Mary's was to 
 work very hard for the runaway pair all that day, and for a 
 few minutes in the afternoon to pray fervently for them before 
 the altar where they had been married. 
 
 " To be left alone for ten minutes," this, it was said, was 
 the first request of a young Queen upon coming to the throne. 
 In the most different situations under the most different emo 
 
246 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 tions, that wish, that aspiration has been felt. It was Ger 
 trade's passionate desire on the day after her marriage to be 
 left alone for a while, and to reflect on all she had not ven- 
 tured to think of while her fate was not yet irrevocably fixed. 
 She had been used all her life to the vast lofty rooms of Lif- 
 ford Grange, to its parks and its gardens ; and whenever 
 either sorrow or excitement oppressed her, she seemed to find 
 relief in the space that she could range in, and in the power 
 of rapid movement which it afforded her. She was absolutely 
 stifled by the atmosphere of London, by the closeness of the 
 small house in which she found herself. Even when the door 
 of her own room was shut, she could hear voices and steps, 
 below and above her. And if a louder sigh than usual 
 escaped her, if after an instant's silent weeping a sob burst 
 from her breast, Maurice rushed anxiously back to her side 
 and asked if she was grieving at having made him happy : 
 and she was obliged to give him her hand, and to endeavour to 
 reassure him by a smile. She felt the scrutiny of his eyes 
 upon her every moment, and asked herself if people had ever 
 been driven mad by being watched % In the afternoon of that 
 day she told him she had a task to perforin which would 
 cost her much suffering, and for which she wished to be alone. 
 It was to write to her father, and to inform him of her mar- 
 riage. She did not say she would show him her letter. He 
 had thought they might have written it together ; but this 
 seemed never to have occurred to her. He went out to walk 
 a little with Mary. Gertrude looked from the window, and 
 saw them turning the corner of the street. Then, for the first 
 time since her mother's death, she gave way to an uncontrolled 
 and vehement burst of crying, and murmured in a choking 
 voice, "What have I done? — what have I done? my 
 God ! what have I done ? " After a few moments she felt 
 calmer, and sat down to write. This was her letter : — 
 
 "King Street, Manchester Square. 
 " I do not write to ask your forgiveness, for I well know 
 you never will forgive me, nor to relieve you from any anxiety 
 about my life, for I know you would rather hear of my death 
 than of the marriage I have made, but only to save you the 
 trouble of making inquiries which would give you needless 
 trouble. That I was born to be a curse to you I cannot but, 
 feel. That you have made my life a curse to me may be no 
 more than I deserve. I do not reproach vou now. Two days 
 
LADY-BIRD. 24*7 
 
 ago I had, perhaps, a right to complain. Now I have none. 
 It would be impertinent in me to say I forgive you, and yet as 
 I do not expect you will ever choose to see or to hear from me 
 again, I should like to say it as if on my deathbed. I forgive 
 you for never having loved me or looked kindly upon me in 
 my youth. I forgive you for having driven me to offend you 
 beyond the possibility of forgiveness, for having tempted me 
 to take my fate into my own hands, and incur the sin and 
 misery of disobedience without the excuse of passion. Your 
 anger will be great : I do not say it will not be just. For the 
 sake of my mother, of her long sufferings, of her recent 
 death, one only favour I ask of you. Do not curse me, my 
 father, when I tell you that I am Maurice Redmond's wife." 
 
 She did not sign this letter, but hurriedly sealed and 
 directed it. Two days after, as Mary had expected, several 
 trunks arrived containing everything that had belonged to 
 Gertrude at Lifford Grange. It was the only sign that her 
 letter had been received. As Mary was unpacking her clothes 
 and ranging them in the drawers, while she sat watching her 
 with a kind of mechanical attention, the latter held out to her 
 a sheet of paper which had been laid at the bottom of the 
 trunk ; as she did so, some drawings which it contained fell to 
 the ground. She saw her copy of the Duke of Gandia's 
 picture, with the words written under it, and gave a sort of 
 scream which startled Mary, who on turning round saw her 
 standing over the fire while the flame was consuming that 
 drawing, and she was murmuring to herself the Latin words, 
 
 " Dies irce, dies ilia, 
 Solvet sceclum infavilld." 
 
 When the last blackened remnant of the sheet of paper turned 
 to ashes, she said in a louder voice, " That always reminds me 
 of the hymn on the Day of Judgment, 
 
 ' When shrivelling like a parched scroll, 
 The flaming heavens together roll.' " 
 
 Mary resumed her labours, and laid on the table a gorgeous 
 case with an embossed crest, containing the necklace which 
 Gertrude's father had given her. She gazed upon it for a 
 moment in silence and then asked, 
 
 " Did you ever read a novel called ' Love and Pride, 
 Mary?" 
 
248 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 "No, what made you think of it now? " 
 " I don't know — that diamond necklace perhaps." 
 " You had to choose between them," Mary kindly said) 
 u and you chose love, not pride." 
 
 Gertrude turned to the window and made no answer. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " O could'st thou but know, 
 With what a deep devotedness of woe, 
 I wept [his] absence o'er and o'er again, 
 Thinking of [him], still him, till thought grew pain; 
 Did'st thou but know how pale I sat at home, 
 My eyes still turned the way [he] was to come, 
 And all the long long nights of hope and fear, 
 [His] voice and step still sounding in my ear. 
 Oh God! thou would' st not wonder that at last, 
 When every hope was all at once o'ercast, 
 This wretched brain gave way. .... 
 
 " Our God, the all just, 
 Unto himself reserves this royalty ; 
 
 The secret chastening of the guilty soul, 
 The fiery touch, the scourge that purifies, 
 
 Leave it with him." 
 
 Mookk. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 The first time that Gertrude walked out with her husband 
 the dreamlike feeling that had haunted her since her marriage 
 was stronger than ever. It seemed as if a sponge had been 
 passed over the whole of her previous life. Lifford Grange, 
 her parents, Audley Park and Woodlands, Lady Clara, Mark 
 Aplcy, Mr. Latimer, and even Adrien himself, appeared like 
 recollections of some other state of existence, totally uncon- 
 nected with what now surrounded her ; exhausted by recent 
 excitement the power of suffering seemed dulled within her. 
 She did not feel just then any poignant regrets — Adrien was 
 lost to her ; that was not so much a regret as the destruction 
 of one part of her being. The spring was broken, at least she 
 fancied so, and perhaps suffered less where she was than she 
 would have done at home or elsewhere. London appeared to her 
 like a great hive in which millions of creatures buzzed about 
 without disturbing her. It was better to gaze at people 
 moving along the streets than to have nothing to look at. 
 She sat a great deal at the window, and Mary fancied that 
 
LADY-BIRD. ' 249 
 
 when Maurice was out she was watching for his return. Now 
 and then she said something in her old way — something droll 
 that made them all laugh ; but the sound of their laughter 
 always seemed to make her grave again. 
 
 Maurice — like her — was in a strange state of mind. There 
 were moments when he looked upon her with transport, and 
 almost went wild with joy at knowing she was his wife. But 
 his happiness was far from being perfect. She was not exact- 
 ly cold to him ; but yet there was something in her that pre- 
 vented his feeling at his ease, and this was a most irritating 
 consciousness to a husband. She never consulted him about 
 anything — never gave or asked advice on any point. She had 
 never evinced in her manner any sense of a disparity of rank 
 bet«|n them at any time, but he thought her manner might 
 have^oeen different now from what it was. Had she been 
 proud, or, petulant, or unkind to him he would almost have 
 felt relieved. To a man who adored her nothing was so try- 
 ing as her calm self-possession. He never ventured to talk to 
 her about affairs -or business. She never made a single re- 
 mark or asked a question about their future plans or the ex- 
 tant of his resources. Mary told him once or twice that he 
 must leave off sending excuses to his pupils, and begin again 
 giving lessons, — that his avocations as an organist and a com- 
 poser were not sufficient to rely upon, — that he was to make 
 hay while the sun shone, and not allow the grass to grow un- 
 der hiwfeet. Little Mary had a lurking Sancho-like love of 
 proverbial sayings, and they often made part of her exhorta- 
 tions to Maurice. 
 
 " You must also go on with your opera," she said. " You 
 must make yourself a name in the world by your talents. 
 Lady-Bird in marrying you gave up all worldly considera- 
 tions ; but a day may come when even in that way she may 
 feel proud of her husband. Depend upon it, Maurice, it will 
 not do to cross your hands, and sit for hours looking at her 
 beautiful eyes. Your love must be a spur — not an opiate. 13 
 
 " Why does not she talk to me as you do, Mary? I could 
 do wonders if she took an interest in what I did." 
 
 " She does not know you yet as I do, nor how you require 
 to be kept up to the mark, how fond you are of going to 
 sleep on your oars." 
 
 u Mary, do you think she loves me 7 " 
 
 li I think that is a wicked question, Maurice. When a 
 woman has given up everything for you and broken through 
 11* 
 
250 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 every obstacle to become your wife, it is unpardonable to 
 doubt that she loves you." 
 
 ' : Given up everything for me — for me ! that I could 
 think so ! " 
 
 " Maurice," Mary exclaimed, almost angrily, " if you be- 
 gin self-tormenting in that way, and so soon, you will make 
 yourself wretched and your wife also." 
 
 " Did you see how pale she turned yesterday, when some 
 body called her Mrs. Redmond? " 
 
 " That was perfectly natural. The sort of way in which 
 she married cannot be always pleasant for her to think of, 
 however she may love you." 
 
 " Do you think she looks as if she loved me ? Have you 
 ever seen a woman, married to a man she loved, so pal^and 
 so silent?" W 
 
 ' : But, Maurice, remember her deep mourning, her mother's 
 death, her father's anger, the thoughts she must have about 
 her brother and Father Lifford's return. Do you think all 
 that likely to make her gay?"' 
 
 " If she loved me as I adore her, the whole world might 
 hate and abuse me, every human being perish around us, and 
 I would clasp her to my heart, and be the happiest of men." 
 
 " No," Mary said in a tone in which there was a little in- 
 dignation. " No, I do not think she loves you in that way." 
 
 " I think she could love in that way," he murmured to 
 himself, and then muttered still more indistinctly, " 1§e vent 
 qui vient a tr avers la montagne me renclra fou." 
 
 About ten days after Gertrude's marriage, Maurice had 
 gone to give some lessons. He had told her the day before of 
 his intention of doing so, in a hesitating manner, fancying it 
 might annoy her to be reminded that he must thus gain his 
 livelihood. He was half relieved and half disappointed at 
 the way in which she took it, as a matter of total indifference 
 to her. At dinner she reverted to the subject, and asked 
 some joking questions about his pupils. There was not a 
 grain of one kind of pride in her composition. If he had told 
 her he was going to turn shoemaker, she would not have cared 
 much. On the morning in question she and Mary went and 
 took a long walk in Hyde Park. Her spirits were a little better 
 than usual, and walking fast seemed to exhilarate her. Mean- 
 while Mrs. Redmond was at home working at a carpet rug, and 
 thinking of her flowers at the cottage, of her tisanes, her rose- 
 water, and her elder wine, and wondering if the present occu- 
 
LADY-BIRD. 251 
 
 pant of the garden was as fond of it as she used to be, and 
 then why everybody became so pale in London. Mary and 
 Maurice and Gertrude all looked wan and thin since they had 
 been in town ; it was a great pity they could not live in the 
 country. It was of no use to think of that now, and yet she 
 made certain matter-of-fact castles or rather cottages in the 
 air, which amused her and made the time pass quickly. 
 
 About an hour after Gertrude and Mary had left the house, 
 and when she was beginning to expect their return, the door 
 was thrown open, and to her amazement, Father Lifford and 
 Edgar walked into the room. A pair of ghosts could not have 
 startled Mrs. Redmond more. Her knitting and her specta- 
 cles fell on her knees, and she looked the very picture of con- 
 sternation. Not having foreseen such a casualty, it had never 
 occurred to her to inquire if Gertrude's marriage was a se- 
 cret ; she was sensible that a great fault had been committed, 
 and that an agitating discovery was at hand ; and her tender 
 heart and illogical understanding led her to feel herself, by some 
 means or other, implicated in the offence ; and she would have 
 been capable of accusing herself of it, and imploring Father 
 Lifford's pardon, just as if she had not been as guiltless of 
 the whole affair as the babe unborn, an individual whom she 
 was often in the habit of alluding to. She remained gazing 
 at her visitors, as if the floor and not the door had opened to 
 introduce him. He put a chair for himself next to hers, 
 which obliged her to sit down, while Edgar, — who always look- 
 ed stiff, — placed himself opposite. They had arrived that 
 morning from Spain by a different ship than the one they had 
 intended to sail in, and finding no letters in town, Father Lif- 
 ford had proposed to call at Maurice's lodgings, with the hope 
 of hearing from him what were the last accounts from the 
 Grange. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Redmond," he began, " I hardly expected to 
 find you in London, though we knew of your intended removal. 
 How are you ? — and how is Mary % — and Maurice, is he get- 
 ting on well ? " 
 
 " As well as can be expected, dear sir," she answered, not 
 feeling certain that he was ignorant of the late event, and 
 adopting that useful phrase, as a safe one in any case. 
 
 " You have a nice house, I see," Edgar remarked, a thing 
 which people often say of houses where they would hate to live 
 themselves. 
 
 " There is not quite room enough for us " she began, 
 
252 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 and then trembled as if they knew exactly how many rooms 
 there were, and that it would have been large enough if Mau- 
 rice had not married. 
 
 "Where is Mary?" Father Lifford asked; "I have 
 brought her a little present from Spain." 
 
 " Oh, you are too good," Mrs. Redmond ejaculated, and was 
 going to add, " she does not deserve it," so strong was her im- 
 pression of their being all involved in Maurice's delinquency. 
 
 She took to praying mentally that they might go before 
 Gertrude and Mary returned ; and, what with these mental 
 prayers and her deafness, the conversation did not go on 
 briskly. 
 
 Father Lifford said, a We are only just landed, and were 
 glad enough to arrive after our wretched passage. We started 
 several days before our appointed time, and must have missed 
 our letters. I hope we shall find his poor mother pretty well, 
 but I did not quite like the last accounts of her." 
 
 Now poor Mrs. Redmond's agitation increased. They did 
 not know of Mrs Lifford's death. Then they knew nothing. 
 Then everybody must give themselves up for lost. This was 
 her only impression, and she looked so perturbed that Father 
 Lifford perceived it, and a sudden fear shot through his heart, 
 A presentiment of sorrow had haunted him during the journey ; 
 it was doubtless mercifully sent to prepare him for the evil of 
 that day, which indeed was to be abundantly sufficient 
 for it. 
 
 He was looking from Edgar to Mrs. Redmond, afraid of 
 questioning her, and receiving an answer which might be too 
 sudden a blow for the dull but affectionate boy, who had no 
 fear or misgiving on the subject. He took snuff: he got up 
 and examined a print on the chimney ; and then said, " Edgar, 
 is our cab waiting for us? Just open the window and see." 
 The boy got up to do so, but before he reached it the door 
 opened, and Gertrude, in her deep mourning, entered. 
 
 There are moments in life which no pen can describe, as 
 there are effects of light in the heavens which no pencil can 
 render. She came in ; her eyes met the eyes of the old man 
 who had been her mother's only friend. She neither fainted 
 nor screamed, but a sort of convulsion passed over her face, 
 and throwing open the door of the back room, she cried, 
 " Here, here, and with you alone." He followed her mechani- 
 cally, and sat down, for his limbs could hardly support him. 
 She hid her face on the side of the arm-chair into which he 
 
LADY-BIRD. 
 
 had fallen, and murmured, " For her sake who died in my 
 arms and who prayed for me with her last breath, do not 
 spurn me now ! " The old man tried to raise her head with 
 his trembling hand, but not succeeding, he laid it upon her 
 forehead, and said, " God's will be done, my child. She is 
 dead, then, your poor mother.' 7 Surprised, she raised her 
 head for a moment, and, in her paleness and her suffering, 
 looked so like her whom he spoke of. that his stout heart gave 
 way, and turning away from her, he wept, but held out his 
 hand, which she seized and covered with kisses. 
 
 " Perhaps for the last time," she again murmured, for she 
 felt he knew nothing ; and then suddenly letting it go, she 
 stood before him pale, resolute and stern : — " You are weep- 
 ing, but there is greater suffering in store for you than you are 
 now enduring." 
 
 " What do you mean, Gertrude % Has anything happened 
 to your father % Good heavens ! why are you here ? Have 
 you lost him too ? For God's sake, speak ! " 
 
 " He is alive," she said hurriedly ; " he is alive ; nothing 
 has happened to him, but " 
 
 " But what, but what, Gertrude 1 You terrify me ! " 
 
 " I have left him for ever, and have married Maurice 
 
 Redmond, not from love, but from despair." She added 
 
 the last words in a whisper that to the ears of the listener 
 sounded fearfully distinct ; and then she stood again silent 
 and motionless, as if awaiting her sentence. He was silent, 
 too ; but the veins in his forehead were swelled to bursting, 
 and his eyes glared from beneath his bushy eyebrows ; his 
 hands trembled; he tried to get up, but, unable to stand, fell 
 back on the chair and groaned deeply. 
 
 " Gertrude," he hoarsely ejaculated, " did you abandon 
 your mother 1 Bid you kill her, unhappy child 1 " 
 
 " Abandon her ! I have told you she died in my arms. 
 Her last words were a blessing ; her last embrace, her last 
 look were mine. I have nothing left but that recollection ; 
 nothing but the memory of that hour. She was left to me — • 
 to my love, to my tears, to my solitary watchings, till she was 
 borne to her grave ; and then I was alone ; and grief, passion, 
 and despair wrought like madness in my brain. He robbed 
 me of all earthly hope ; he forced a husband upon me on the 
 very morrow of my mother's funeral ; he drove me wild, and 
 accidentally — yes, I swear it, accidentally — I met with one 
 ,- who has always loved me. It is too long to tell how I was 
 
254 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 tempted — drawn on by the power of that love which had been 
 true and constant, when every other had failed me, and which 
 at that moment offered me a refuge. I fled with him, I 
 married him, and I am cast off — even by you ! " she exclaim- 
 ed ; for Father Lifford had risen, and seemed about to leave 
 the room without a glance or a word. 
 
 There was a terrible struggle in his heart. His naturally 
 proud and violent character was asserting itself at that 
 moment. She had degraded her family and her name ; she 
 had dishonoured her mother's memory ; thrown a slur on her 
 father's character, and had been true and just to none ; for he 
 knew she had married one man while she loved another, and 
 he was at that moment aware that the noblest and truest 
 heart in the world was hers ; he possessed the proofs of that 
 devoted affection, and his very compassion for her miserable 
 destiny augmented at first the bitterness of his wrath. He 
 could have cursed her for the rash self-destruction she had 
 wrought, and for an instant he felt it impossible to look at or 
 to speak to her. But he was a priest ; and what to him, as 
 such, were family ties, and honour, and reputation % What 
 was her own earthly happiness, or that of others, that it should 
 move him thus ? What concern had he with aught in com- 
 parison with her soul — her immortal soul ? Would violence 
 awaken contrition for the past % Would contempt soften a 
 hardened heart, or awake from despondency a prostrate 
 courage ? He prayed for calmness, for patience, for meek- 
 ness. He bade himself forget that it was Gertrude Lifford 
 that was standing before him. He forced himself to look upon 
 her as he would have done on any suffering and penitent 
 woman whom it was his duty to exhort, advise and console. 
 Gravely and calmly he turned towards her, and said : 
 
 " Gertrude, my child, you repent of your sin ? of having 
 forsaken your home ? of having abandoned your father ? " 
 
 " No, Father Lifford — no. I will speak the truth. I can- 
 not deceive you — not even to obtain kind looks or words 
 which I long for : more than I can express. I do repent of 
 having married poor Maurice " — here she again dropped her 
 voice, and spoke in that painful whispering tone — "of having 
 married him without any sentiment but gratitude. And I do not 
 even always feel that. He might have seen how distracted I 
 was ; he ought not to have married me without asking me if I 
 loved him. But it is wrong and ungenerous to say this. 
 Mine has been the fault ; let mine alone be the penalty, if 
 
LADY-BIRD. 255 
 
 possible. I repent of having wronged him, I repent of having 
 grieved and offended you, but as to niy father, he has more 
 need of my forgiveness than I of his ; he has broken my 
 heart — I have only wounded his pride." 
 
 He gazed upon her, and she trembled under that silent 
 reproach. " Poor child ! " he said at last, " God deals with 
 you in His secret way ; through much sorrow He will bring 
 you to His feet. You will not know one instant's peace, till 
 you have forgotten, in the depths of self-abasement, that 
 others have sinned against you. The day when you will im- 
 plore from your father a pardon you perhaps never will 
 receive, may be the turning point in your destiny — not for 
 time but for eternity." 
 
 " Do you forgive me ? " she said. 
 
 " There is no question of my forgiveness, my child : as 
 your father's uncle I dare not say I forgive you, and your 
 brother shall leave this house without speaking to one who 
 has brought shame and sorrow upon his home. He must ob- 
 tain his father's permission before he sees you, G-ertrude. 
 But. my child, what have I to do but to call thee, not to 
 my feet, but to my arms ; to hold thee for an instant to my 
 heart, while I implore that merciful God whom I have served 
 from my youth up to bless thee. My life will not be 
 long " 
 
 " Do not die, Father Lifford, do not die," she convulsively 
 ejaculated, while she hid her face oft his arm. 
 
 " If I am never to see you again, my child — " 
 
 " 0, but you will see me. You said you would not dis- 
 card me. I will not let you go if you do not promise to see 
 me again." 
 
 " As much as man can promise it, Gertrude, I do ; be 
 calm, and listen to me. I fear for you other reckless mo- 
 ments of what you may call despair, or a weak sinking under 
 the weight you have chosen to carry. It is a heavy cross 
 you have taken up, my child, but it may be a school for the 
 highest virtues : you were rich, and you have embraced pov- 
 erty ; you were proud, and you have disgraced yourself for 
 ever ; you loved, and you have put an eternal barrier between 
 yourself and " 
 
 11 He did, lie did," she murmured ; " I cannot think of that 
 now. There, there was the feeling that maddened me. He 
 did it, not I." 
 
 Father Lifford saw that she had fancied herself forsaken by 
 
25G LADY-BIRD. 
 
 Adrien, and felt he must not at that moment undeceive her 
 ' : You have entered," he went on, " on the most thorny and 
 difficult path that a woman can tread, but in proportion to your 
 trials let your courage rise. From heroic virtue such a life ot 
 privation and obscurity might have been adopted. Act as if 
 you, out of virtue, had sought it. Accept the destiny you 
 have chosen, and devote yourself to your husband as if you 
 loved him : and forgive him, Gertrude, all that I can scarcely 
 forgive. Remember that his excuse — and in your eyes at 
 least it should now be one — is the love which blinded him to 
 the fearful sin he was committing. Henceforward, my child, 
 fulfil every duty with patient humility ; toil with your hands 
 and with your whole heart, and if needs be, endure hunger and 
 fatigue. Expiate the past, and at each trial you may encoun- 
 ter, look down, and feel that yours is the fault, but also look 
 upward, and believe that the lesson comes from God." 
 
 In this stern advice there was something suitable to Ger- 
 trude's present state of mind. It wanted softening on the one 
 hand, and bracing on the other. This interview had. for a 
 time, that double effect upon her. Once more Father Lifford 
 blessed her, and allowed her this time to kneel to receive his 
 blessing : then he left her, and called Edgar as he passed 
 through the other room. He took his arm as they walked 
 down stairs, and refused to let him speak. Mrs. Redmond 
 had abruptly left him alone when Gertrude had drawn Father 
 Lifford away, and the poo* boy's eyes were red with weeping ; 
 for he had guessed, from her mourning, that his mother was 
 dead. He could not conceive why he was hurried away in 
 this manner. When he got into the carriage his forebodings 
 were realised, and the cause of that abrupt departure ex- 
 plained. The grief, the horror, the amazement which suc- 
 ceeded one another on his usually tranquil face were remark- 
 able. He spoke with such severity of his sister's conduct 
 that his uncle was obliged to say, " Come, Edgar, you could 
 not say more if she had committed a crime." And when he 
 wept over his father's fate, and the dreadful blow which had 
 fallen upon him, speaking of him as if he had been the kindest 
 of parents, and in the strongest terms of his sister's ingrati- 
 tude, again Father Lifford coughed and moved uneasily in his 
 place. 
 
 ' ; He is much to be pitied, and you must do all in your 
 power to comfort him. and to soften him towards Gertrude. 
 And remember, Edgar, when you marry and have children, be 
 
LADY-BIRD. 25*7 
 
 always kind and affectionate to them, and do not fancy that 
 all the faults are on one side, when such sad events occur in 
 families. Edgar, my boy, when I was teaching you the Cate- 
 chism, I do not think I spoke to you enough about the dread- 
 ful sin of pride. If we all had been less proud, this might 
 not have happened. Alas ! when we draw near to the grave, 
 we see things in a different light, even when we have tried to 
 act rightly during life. Let us try never to mistake our vices 
 for virtues." 
 
 When they arrived at home, Mr. Lifford met them with 
 his usual manner. He embraced his son, and shook hands 
 with his uncle ; and saying a few words about his wife's death, 
 which made Edgar weep, he gave each of them some things 
 she had bequeathed to them. Not a single allusion did he 
 make to Gertrude. Her picture had been removed from the 
 drawing-room, and the old butler had taken possession of it. 
 He silently pointed it out one day to Father Lifford, who 
 sighed deeply, and said, " Will you lend it me for a little 
 while V and had it hung up in his room. He was not well, 
 and seldom left it now. Edgar often came to sit with him, 
 and he showed him much affection, but the old man's heart was 
 sad and heavy. The patient suffering mother, where was she ? 
 In Heaven, he trusted, and felt consoled. The reckless and 
 beautiful child, where was she 1 Tossed by the roughest waves 
 of life ; drifting along on the world's wide sea. But she was. 
 breasting the billows and might yet reach the haven, and that 
 thought gave him comfort. But where was the man whom ho 
 had loved in his youth, — the son of his brother, whom he had 
 nursed on his knees 1 He was near him, but on what road ? 
 A traitor to his God, for he was called a Catholic, and was one 
 only in name. — the destroyer of his wife, for he had blighted 
 her life, and embittered her death, — the author of his daugh- 
 ter's misery, for he had driven her to despair, and goaded her 
 to sin. On what road was he then? The road to destruction. 
 The old man prayed for him ; for the faith that sleeps may yet 
 live again, and the love that is cold may yet warm again, and 
 the heart that is hard may soften or break. 
 
 He prayed a great deal in the chapel and elsewhere. Ho 
 sometimes went to sit alone in the room which had been Mys 
 Lifford's. Once he raised his eyes to a picture, which re- 
 minded him of something in the past, and groaning in spirit, 
 
 ne exclaimed, t; child, child ! if thou hadst known ," 
 
 and then stopped short. He missed her at meals ; he missed 
 
258 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 her in the drawing-room, in the chapel, in the gardens. He* 
 voice, her smile, her faults, her follies — he missed them all. 
 He grew very ill, and knew that he was dying. Then he sent 
 for his nephew, and talked to him a long time ; and when 
 Mr. Lifford left the room, he was paler than when his wife 
 expired — paler than when his daughter fled. The old priest 
 died, and his grave was made near to Mrs. Liflbrd's. He be- 
 queathed the little he possessed to Gertrude, and sent her his 
 blessing, through Mr. Erving, who had attended him in his 
 last moments. Soon after his death, the establishment at the 
 Grange was broken up, and Mr. Lifford and his son went to 
 travel abroad. 
 
 When Gertrude received the news of her uncle's death, 
 she experienced a sensation of such utter desolation that it 
 prostrated for a while all her powers of exertion. Uut the 
 resolutions she had made after her last interview with him 
 were confirmed ; and when she recovered from the indisposi- 
 tion which had followed that severe shock, all the listlessness 
 of her manner had disappeared, and an expression of stern 
 endurance and energetic self-reliance had taken its place. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 "No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels ; 
 No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals. 
 And thou, sad sufferer, under nameless ill. 
 That yields not to the touch of human skill, 
 To thee the dayspring, and the blaze of noon, 
 The purple evening, and resplendent moon, 
 Shine not ; or undesired, or hated, shine, 
 Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine. 
 Yet seek Him, in His favour life is found ; 
 All bliss beside a shadow or a cloud ; 
 Then Heaven eclipsed so long, and this dull earth, 
 Shall soem to start into a second birth." 
 
 COWPEB. 
 
 "Never did thine eye 
 Look on me but in glistening tenderness ; 
 
 Never did thy voice 
 But in affection's deepest music speak ; 
 
 Never was thine heart 
 Aught but the kindliest sheltering home to mine." 
 
 Mks. Hemans. 
 
 What is called the season was beginning again ; and spring 
 was showing its sickly and premature verdure in the squares 
 and the gardens of London. On a warm April day — a rare 
 
LADY-BIRD. 259 
 
 thing and a beautiful — when a few soft showers had washed 
 off the bouses and the trees some of the accumulated dust of 
 March, Maurice was slowly walking back from the railway 
 station, where he had accompanied his step-mother and Mary, 
 who were returning to the country. Mrs. Redmond's health 
 had suffered so much from the winter spent in London, that 
 the change had been considered absolutely necessary for her ; 
 and now that Maurice was married, there seemed no reason 
 for their remaining in town. Gertrude had applied herself 
 with unwearied patience to learn the details of their simple 
 housekeeping. She worked indefatigably from morning to 
 night. Never once since the day of her last interview with 
 Father Lifford, had she complained of anything, or omitted 
 any one of the duties of an active and devoted wife. She 
 worked at her needle for several hours in the day ; she went 
 into the kitchen, and with that rare intelligence which charac- 
 terized her, she mastered all the details of domestic economy, 
 and spent less money, and made her husband as comfortable 
 as the most experienced housewife could have done. She 
 never had spoken harshly or unkindly to him. Her submis- 
 sion was implicit. She obeyed him as a nun obeys her supe- 
 rior, or a soldier his captain. Without him she never went 
 out, except early in the morning to church or on business. 
 With him she went wherever he asked her — into Hyde Park, 
 by the side of the Serpentine, when the full tide of society 
 was swarming along its shore, — still in her mourning, with 
 her majestic beauty — for it was majestic from grace and dig- 
 nity — however slight her form and delicate her features. Some 
 have walked on hot ploughshares, and not winced as they did 
 so, weak women as they were, when their honour was at stake. 
 Perhaps even they did not suffer more than she did during 
 these summer walks by the cool river, under the old trees that 
 have shaded so much misery and joy. Numberless eyes were 
 turned upon her in curiosity and admiration ; never once did 
 they obtain a glance from those dark orbs, which, veiled by 
 their thick lashes, seemed turned inward, as it were, so little 
 notice did they bestow on any outward object. She toiled all 
 day long. She copied out music for him till her head throb- 
 bed, and he snatched the pen from her aching fingers ; but 
 she never asked him to play. 
 
 Once he began the first notes of the Lady-Bird song. She 
 turned pale, and he saw it. He then sang the " Fou de To- 
 lede," and her lips became white. He snatched his hat, and 
 
260 LADY BIRD, 
 
 rushed out of the room with a feeling of rage in his heart. 
 AVh at could he do,. and what more could she do? She ful- 
 filled her duty to the uttermost ; did not even show depres- 
 sion, or give way to lowness of spirits. What had he to com- 
 plain of? — That she did not love him. Do women devote 
 themselves so patiently and unweariedly to husbands they do 
 not love ? Mary, still the only person to whom he opened his 
 heart, had reproached him almost severely for his misgivings. 
 She had become enthusiastic about Gertrude. She called her 
 an angel, — thought her conduct most touching and admirable 
 No one pitied him, and yet his heart was breaking. At that 
 time he suffered probably more than she did. Her strong will 
 and independent judgment had adopted a line on which every 
 energy of her soul was bent. She had taken hold of those 
 words of Father Lifford in their last interview, " Devote your- 
 self to your husband as though you loved him," and acted 
 upon them to the letter, but not in the spirit — for that devo- 
 tion hardened instead of softening her heart. She joined to 
 that recollection one of her old and inveterate errors, — that 
 the will can influence actions, but not feelings. She found 
 a sort of stern pleasure in making every sacrifice, and even 
 that of her own will, on a thousand occasions, because it was 
 her will to give up everything but the one proud sense of 
 having paid her debt of duty to the uttermost farthing, in a 
 coin which the debtor could not question, but which was 
 worthless to his aching soul. She did not wrong him even in 
 thought — she never wilfully directed her thoughts to Adrien. 
 Not one of the many little objects associated with the mem- 
 ory of her happier days did she preserve. She never opened 
 his books, or dwelt upon the past, but the heart from which 
 she shut him out was henceforward to remain a desert. Mau- 
 rice had not ventured to read it before he availed himself of 
 her distracted state of mind to hurry her into marrying him, 
 and he had no right to insist on reading it now. 
 
 It was a subtle error under which she was acting. She 
 never tried to love or prayed for the power of loving her hus- 
 ; and who could have supposed this to be the case that 
 had seen her anticipating his slightest wish — bearing his irrita- 
 bility (for he was becoming very irritable) with a patience 
 which he was sometimes tempted in moments of exasperation 
 to curse, while to all others, and even to herself, it must have 
 seemed the highest virtue. When he was ill she sat up with 
 him all night ; she wrote his notes of excuse to his pupils. 
 
LADY-BIRD. 261 
 
 She went herself to his patrons to apologise for his absence 
 from thoir concerts. She seemed to have quelled her pride^ 
 mastered her temper, and shaken off her indolence. But to 
 have looked at him in a manner that he might have mistaken 
 for love, to have used a single word of endearment that might 
 have implied more tenderness than she felt, that she was 
 firmly resolved never to do ; and with the characteristic pecu- 
 liarity of her race, was all the time, as Father Lifford had said, 
 mistaking a vice for a virtue. He was supported in his trials 
 neither by the proud consciousness nor the illusion of virtue. 
 He knew well that he had not the courage or the justice to 
 test her feelings previous to the decisive hour, by the fulfilment 
 of a solemn duty, the accomplishment of a sacred trust ; the 
 sin had been great, but it had not been deliberate. The atone- 
 ment was long and severe. Through the stern calmness of her 
 face he was continually striving to discern what its serenity 
 concealed. It was like the veil on the face of the Prophet 
 of Khorassan ; he dreaded and he wished to tear away that 
 smooth impenetrable barrier between himself and the object 
 of his continual misgivings, his still passionate affection, and 
 his perpetual scrutiny. He tried every means to pierce 
 through it. He proposed to read out loud to her, and she 
 agreed to it as to everything else he suggested. This was 
 perhaps the hardest trial to her equanimity. He chose what- 
 ever was most likely to move her feelings, and by awakening 
 emotion to bring to light the secret sufferings of her soul. 
 He was ingenious in the art of tormenting himself and her. 
 He knew how to select the poem, the tragedy, or the novel 
 that would probe deepest the wound which she concealed with 
 such stoical courage. He used suddenly to raise his eyes 
 from the book when affecting or startling passages occurred in 
 these experimental readings, and see with mingled sensations 
 of pity and of rage the tear gathering on the eyelid, but for- 
 bidden to flow ; the deepening flush of the cheek, the momen- 
 tary abstraction, the upward gaze, or the trembling of the 
 hand when each muscle of the face was compelled to be mo- 
 tionless. 
 
 Who that had taken a cursory survey of that little room 
 on such evenings as these would have guessed the misery that 
 was dwelling in those two young hearts ? The beautiful wife, 
 in all her stately loveliness, sitting by the round table with 
 her work before her, diligently employed in mending the clothes, 
 or sewing the linen required in the house, never relaxing one 
 
262 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 instant from her toil, and listening in silence to the accents of 
 love or sorrow, of passion or regret, by the ablest readers, 
 masters, and spokesmen of the human heart : and he, the 
 artist, the husband, the lover, the gainer of the treasure which 
 has turned to stone in his grasp, pale with suspense, with eyes 
 that flash fire through gathering tears, and a voice that trem- 
 bles with emotion, reading what feeds perhaps the flame which 
 burns under that ice without thawing the suface that hardens 
 as he gazes, — how like happiness was the outward aspect of 
 that home, how deep a current of suffering was flowing under- 
 neath ! 
 
 While she every day grew more proudly and harshly vir- 
 tuous, he became more waywardly and deeply miserable. Fits 
 of ill-humour succeeded one another, bursts of anger imme- 
 diately repented of. but recurring again at frequent intervals ; 
 days of dejection, in which all labour was irksome, and con- 
 straint insupportable. His talents were paralyzed in that 
 mental conflict. He lost all energy for study and composition, 
 and gradually most of his pupils discontinued taking lessons. 
 Then he felt an intense wish for any change, and he pressed 
 her to go into such society as was open to them, and to accept 
 any invitations that were sent her. At first they were few, and 
 from persons of obscure station. She did not seem much to 
 care where she went, and dressed and talked and sat up as 
 long as he chose, and listened to those who spoke to her, as if 
 she were neither more nor less unhappy in one place than in 
 another. She could hardly fail to be agreeable, when she ex- 
 erted herself at all : her conversation was irresistibly interest- 
 ing to those who surrounded her, attracted by her singular 
 beauty and the circumstances of her marriage. She never 
 wore anything but a black velvet gown : one day he asked her 
 why she did not put on her diamond necklace, when they were 
 going to some concert where he was to play. She did so im- 
 mediately : and no hair shirt ever felt so irksome to its 
 wearer ; but she bore these little trials, like the great ones, 
 with unflinching fortitude. 
 
 At a party one night at the house of a painter of eminence, 
 who had been many years a friend of Maurice's, she met Mr. 
 Egerton. He did not know her again at first ; — but after a 
 moment's hesitation he felt sure he was not mistaken, and 
 claimed acquaintance with her. With the extraordinary self- 
 control she possessed, she did not betray the least agitation 
 but conversed with him for a long time — not playfully, as of 
 
T.A.DY-BIRD. 263 
 
 old, but with more cleverness still than in former days — 
 talked about politics, and literature, and a variety of subjects, 
 as if her heart were not aching to a degree which would have 
 made her groan aloud had she, for an instant, given way. 
 He told her Lady Clara Audley was still abroad, and was, he 
 knew, anxious to learn her direction that she might write to 
 her. In her last letter she had said : " Mind you find out 
 something about my Lady-Bird? I will not lose sight of 
 her." A name, a phrase, the tone of voice in which a word is 
 uttered, how sharp is the pang they can inflict ! but after a 
 long dull aching pain there is sometimes a sensation of relief 
 in a change of suffering, and she went on talking of Lady 
 Clara, and asking questions about her. 
 
 " How does she like Paris? How does Paris like her?" 
 
 " The liking is mutual. She is excessively admired, and 
 she amuses herself from morning to night with every gay and 
 serious thing that comes in her way. She has friends of all 
 sorts and kinds, and they take her to the most different places. 
 She sees people of the most opposite politics, and there are cu- 
 rious meetings in her drawing-room. During the short time that 
 I was with her, she gave me a specimen of the various interests 
 to be found in this new page of her life. It was high time that 
 she should go abroad ; she had exhausted novelty in England, 
 and wanted some new canvas to work upon. It would amuse 
 you to hear all the different things that she does in succession. 
 How she goes from a creche, or an hospice, to the morning re- 
 hearsal of an opera ; from a sermon at St. Roch to a dinner at 
 a cafe ; how she begins the day with a messe en musique at the 
 Madeleine, and ends with the theatre of the Palais-Royal. 
 Her Paris Sundays are curious : she rushes from one church 
 to another, from the discourses of an Unitarian preacher to the 
 conferences of Father Lacordaire ; from the Swedenborgian 
 meeting, or perhaps from the synagogue, to Notre-Dame-des- 
 Victoires, where she braves the heat and pushes through the 
 crowd, for the sake of the thousand voices that strike up at 
 once their enthusiastic cantiques. I was nearly dead after fol- 
 owing her through her successive religious amusements last 
 Sunday." 
 
 " She must be very good not to be afraid of thus playing 
 with the most tremendous subjects on earth and beyond it." 
 
 " Why, never having hurt a fly in her life, or spoken an 
 unkind word — though she may have uttered many thoughtless 
 ones — I suppose her conscience has no need to give her unea- 
 
264 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 siness. Time has as little ruffled her soul as wrinkled her 
 face ; — she is nearly as pretty as ever." 
 
 ' : At that moment Mr. Egerton was struck with the ex- 
 pression of Gertrude's face, on which twenty-two years of life 
 had left traces which nearly forty had failed to impress on his 
 sister's. It was not age, it was not even sorrow that had 
 marked it thus. It was something that he could not under- 
 stand, something that made him write to Lady Clara the next 
 day : " Your Lady-Bird is, if possible, more beautiful than 
 ever ; but, if I am not much mistaken, the iron has entered 
 into her soul. I never quite understood that expression be- 
 fore, but it came spontaneously into my head as I looked at 
 her last night." 
 
 Whether from curiosity to see the effect which would be 
 produced upon her by the mention of the name of a person 
 whom, at one time, she had been supposed to like, or from 
 thoughtlessness, he went on to tell her that he had seen Adrien 
 at Paris, and related on what occasion. How he had gone one 
 day with his sister to the subterranean chapel of St. Sulpice, 
 where what is called the Associations of the Sainte Famille 
 hold their assemblies. Six or eight hundred workmen, with 
 their wives and children, attend conferences, which create a 
 singular bond of union between them and those who devote 
 themselves to their instruction: the humanising effect of this 
 intercourse, and the strange interest which is attached to a 
 great school for men, makes it one of the most exciting 
 and touching scenes imaginable. Laymen in great numbers, 
 and some of them eminent in various ways, second the clergy, 
 and often address familiar discourses to those rough children 
 of St. Francis Xavier ; for it is under that wonder-working 
 name that these men in blouses enroll themselves. Mr. Egerton 
 had briefly described this curious scene to Gertrude, and then 
 said, "We were taken by surprise, when after a few words full 
 of liveliness and fun from Father Milleriot, another person 
 came up to the table in the centre, and began talking to that 
 singular audience. Guess who it was? Clara gave such a 
 start that it made our neighbours look round." 
 
 " I suppose it was Monsieur d'Arberg," Gertrude calmly 
 said. It was the first time she had pronounced his name since 
 she had done so in her father's study a year ago. " Did you 
 see him only that once ? " 
 
 " Only that once," he answered. u Clara had a long visit from 
 him afterwards. He never goes out anywhere, I believe. 
 
LADY-BIRD. 265 
 
 People cannot understand why he does not become a priest, for 
 he lives a strange life for a man of the world, and seems to 
 have lost all interest in politics and literature, or anything but 
 hard work amongst the poorest people." 
 
 u Is he not going to be a priest 1 " she asked, fastening on 
 that idea, but as if afraid to grasp it. 
 
 " There does not seem to have ever been any question 
 of it, Clara told me. I never saw any one so altered. He 
 is handsomer than ever — but looks very ill. You are not 
 going yet, Mrs. Redmond, are you? Malibran is just about 
 to sing." 
 
 She sat down again, simply because she could not stand. 
 Thoughts and feelings were rushing too violently upon her. 
 With all her might she was shutting out of her soul that de- 
 solating torrent. People go through a great deal sometimes ; 
 and in that moment the singer and the song brought before 
 her the past in bitter contrast with the present. " To the 
 dregs," she said to herself. " To the dregs," and sat resolutely 
 draining the sufferings of that hour. 
 
 When she went home something seemed altered in the 
 part she had assigned to herself. She was not so calm or so 
 stern as before. Maurice was startled at the expression of 
 her countenance. He felt an imperative desire to question 
 her, to probe her feelings more directly than he had ever yet 
 done. He felt as if for a time he would suffer less, if he had 
 something definite to complain of. He longed to be able to 
 reproach her or himself. A terrible temptation beset him that 
 night. He had remained alone in the sitting-room after his 
 wife had left it ; and he went to his desk and took out of it a 
 sealed letter, which he gazed on for some time in silence, as if 
 he would have pierced with his eyes through the folded paper, 
 — as if the seal was the barrier between him and something 
 which he at once feared and longed to look into. 
 
 The letter was not directed to him, " If I were to leave it 
 in her way," he said to himself, " and could watch her while 
 she read it, I should see by her eyes, by her colour, by her at- 
 titude, what interest it excited, what emotion it awakened. 
 But to give it to her without knowing its contents — I cannot 
 do it. that this detested letter had never reached me ! 
 One quarter of an hour later, and my conscience would have 
 been free from the horrid self-reproach that comes between me 
 and peace every moment of the day. Nothing but this seal 
 to break, and I should learn all. Has not a husband the 
 12 
 
266 • LADY-BIRD. 
 
 right to know his wife's secrets ? Yet in this way, entrusted 
 to me, and by him too who never knew what it was to suspect 
 or to betray. ' I know } t ou to be an honourable man.' Why 
 did he say that in his accursed note ? I ought to have des- 
 troyed or returned this letter the day of my marriage. It 
 haunts me as if it was a living thing. I think of it the last 
 thing at night, and the first thing in the morning, when I walk 
 about the streets ; I see it there in its place in my desk, as if 
 it was defying me to read or to destroy it. livi/1 destroy it.' : 
 He started up from his chair and went towards the fire, and held 
 the letter over it, but could not unclose his fingers to drop it. 
 " Never to know what that man had to say to her ; never to 
 ascertain if the phantom that pursues me, and stands between 
 her and me, is a delusion or a reality ! What an absurd 
 weakness, not to break this seal ! It was to the honour of 
 one who had no claim upon her that he trusted — not to mine, 
 who am her husband, and who ought to have her love." 
 
 He put down on the chimney the letter that was causing 
 him such a terrible struggle. It was a strange inconsistency, 
 perhaps, that a man who had not fulfilled a trust by delivering 
 it, when he ought, to her to whom it was directed, should now 
 so hesitate to make himself master of its contents — should 
 tremble at this sin, when he had committed a greater one. 
 His head was buried in his hands, and he was sunk in deep 
 thought. In an instant he felt, more than perceived, that 
 there was some one standing by his side, and he turned as 
 pale as death when he saw that it was Gertrude. Mechani- 
 cally he put out his hand to snatch up the letter, but she had 
 seen it, and said in her calm stern manner, " That letter is for 
 me — my name is upon it." His hand trembled ; for one 
 second he thought again of destroying it, but felt giddy and 
 did not do so. She took it from him, and he did not resist : 
 she looked at it again, and recognised the handwriting. A 
 slight trembling came over her, and she turned towards the 
 door. 
 
 " No, read it here," he abruptly ejaculated. She had used 
 herself to obey him, and sat down at the table. He remained 
 leaning at the chimney. There was a profound silence in the 
 room. He heard the sound of the breaking of the seal, and 
 the unfolding of the paper. She read it through, and he 
 watched her. He had often watched her before, but never as 
 then. The hectic spot rose on her marble cheek, and deepened 
 into intensity, till it grew into a burning flush : the blue veins 
 
LADY-BIRD. 267 
 
 on her forehead swelled, and swelled, till they seemed unnat- 
 urally distended ; her month quivered, and she began again to 
 tremble. It was dreadful to see her thus motionless, except 
 for that trembling : it was like the silence of nature before a 
 storm — the rustle of the leaves before the crash of thunder. 
 Then came the cry of despair, the burst of grief, which nothing 
 could repress. Long held down, it broke forth in that hour. 
 All was forgotten for an instant ; and with her hands on her 
 temples, and torrents of tears streaming down her face, she 
 murmured Adrien's name, and groaned in spirit. 
 
 The fiery element, which from his Italian mother had 
 passed into the veins of Maurice, inflamed his soul at that in- 
 stant, and he sprang from the place where he was standing with 
 fierce impetuosity that would have frightened any but a 
 profoundly miserable woman. It was nothing to her at that 
 moment that he looked as if he could kill her, but it was 
 dreadful to him that he felt it. The reaction was so strono- 
 that he staggered and would have fallen, if he had not caught 
 hold of the handle of the door. She saw his deadly paleness, 
 and her heart smote her. " Maurice ! poor Maurice ! " she 
 said, and held out both her hands to him. He had sat down, 
 md murmured, " Give it me." She obeyed, put it into his 
 aands ; and now in her turn sorrowfully, silently, with some- 
 hing between compassion and reproach, she watched him read 
 :his letter that had remained so long unread, and which, 
 3arlier seen, would have changed the fate of three persons. It 
 aad been enclosed in one to Maurice, and had reached him 
 mly the very morning of his marriage, when at the point of 
 gaining that end he had so recklessly pursued. Adrien had 
 dmply requested him to take an opportunity of giving it to 
 jrertrude, either himself or through Mary, or in any way that 
 vould ensure her receiving it. He had added, that he could 
 rust him, knowing he had to deal with an honourable man, 
 md one who knew him (Adrien) well enough to rely on the 
 ntegrity of his motives in desiring such secrecy. 
 
 If Maurice had known that an engagement had previously 
 existed between Adrien and Gertrude, he would not in all 
 probability have kept back that letter, even at that moment 
 )f distraction ; but he supposed it contained his first avowal 
 )f affection, and a proposal of marriage, which his misgivings 
 vhispered to him might endanger her peace if she married 
 lim, or overthrow the whole fabric of his happiness, if it in- 
 luced her to change her mind. She would then appeal to his 
 
268 tADY-BIRD. 
 
 generosity ; and no alternative would remain to him, but the 
 almost insupportable misery of losing her. To steel his con- 
 science against the voice of duty, to drown the sense of right 
 by specious and rapid reasonings, to say to himself that what- 
 ever that letter contained it came too late to give it to her, 
 that it would not even be fair to Adrien, who was ignorant of 
 the strange circumstances under which it would be received, 
 and of the position in which she stood with regard to himself 
 — was the work of a moment. This miserable sophistry was 
 like laudanum taken in raging pain, which stills without drown- 
 ing the sense of suffering : and the fatal letter was thrust into 
 his breast, and lay next his heart while he pronounced the mar- 
 riage vow. Great was his sin, but great also was the penalty 
 that followed it : for this was the letter he had seen her read, 
 and which she now placed in his hands : — 
 
 " Dearest Gertrude. We were to have met again — we had 
 reckoned upon it, in that hour of sorrow and of joy, when we 
 parted for a while with hope in our hearts, and a strong trust 
 in each other. You know, or alas ! you may not know, that I 
 have been refused by your father. I was denied that short 
 interview for which I pleaded with an earnestness that could 
 have scarcely been withstood, if arguments had not been used 
 which struck me dumb in that moment of suffering and of agi- 
 tation. I was charged not to disturb your mother's peace, and 
 thrust myself into your presence while you were watching her 
 dying bed. I prayed to be allowed to write to you, even though 
 my letter should be read by your father, and offered to pledge 
 myself not to write again, if thus far he would condescend to 
 my prayer. He refused even this ; he told me that you were 
 promised in marriage to another person, and that all attempts 
 to correspond with you would be useless, as he would take 
 measures to prevent any letter reaching you, and literally drove 
 me from his house. Gertrude, I knew you would suffer, but I 
 knew also you would trust me — that no false appearances, no 
 calumnies, no assertions of friends or of enemies, if we have 
 any, would make you doubt me, and this alone enabled me to 
 be calm at first. 
 
 " I have written to Father Lifford, and implored him to 
 convey to you the assurance, not of anything that could offend 
 your father, but only of what it might concern your peace to 
 know — that one whom you had trusted had not deceived you ; 
 but I feel compelled, by a vague and increasing anxiety, to 
 seek some more direct way of conveying to you an assurances 
 
LADY-BIRD. 269 
 
 without which I feel it myself every day more difficult to bear 
 without flinching the burthen of the hour. 
 
 " I do not ask anything of you. Gertrude. You are free : 
 no promise, no duty binds you. But, remember not to be 
 weak : whatever is right, that do. God forbid I should ever 
 stand between you and your father ; but it cannot be right to 
 love one man and to marry another : and you have loved me, 
 you do love me ; deep in my heart's core I feel it, and never, 
 in the days we were together, never, during the brief sunshine 
 of our love, have I felt for you what I do now. This is all I 
 cail — a Il I w iH say. I am bound to you by a tie as strong as 
 if you were already my wife ; not the less strong because I 
 hold you to be free, and have no right to reproach you if you 
 obey your father. 
 
 " I am going about the work of life again. The dangerous 
 illness of one of my oldest and dearest friends, at the seminary 
 of Orleans, calls me to his side, and afterwards matters of 
 business, to my brother, in Brittany ; but there, and here, and 
 everywhere, one only effort, and one only prayer shall be mine 
 — to become worthier of possessing you one day, or to prepare 
 myself to resign you ; and, in so doing, every hope of earthly 
 happiness, if such should be God's will. 
 
 " I shall not write again, my beloved Gertrude, but when I 
 once know that you have received this letter I shall have no 
 fears for you or for myself. 
 
 " Your most affectionate 
 
 " Admen." 
 
 The letter dropped from Maurice's hands, and he hid his 
 face with them. She knelt by the side of his chair ; she felt 
 very sorry for him, more than she had ever done before. 
 " Forgive me," she said, gently, " forgive me, that I married 
 you." He turned suddenly round, and his eyes flashed fire 
 through their tears. " Forgive you, while you love that man ! 
 No, by all I have suffered, no ! I do not forgive you. Burn 
 that letter before me, I cannot touch it again. — Burn it this 
 instant." She stooped to pick it up, and looked so pale, so 
 unspeakably wretched, as she dropped it into the fire, and 
 watched the flames consuming it, that a sudden reaction oc- 
 curred in his feelings; he threw himself at her feet, and with 
 startling vehemence exclaimed. 
 
 " I received that letter. Gertrude on the morning of our 
 marriage, and / w; s trusted with it. I might have given it to 
 
2*70 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 you before you had sealed your misery. 0, can you not hate 
 and despise me 1 " 
 
 " You had it ! " she said. ci That letter was in your ; 
 hands ! It would have saved me, and you did not give it me!j 
 Did you do this, Maurice ? then you deserve the fate you 
 have found. God help us both ; we are doomed to a life of 
 sorrow." 
 
 " You never told me you had loved that man ; you never 
 told me that you had been engaged to him." 
 
 " You saw my heart was breaking. Did you ever ask me 
 if I loved you?" 
 
 " 0, cannot you love me ? At the altar you swore to love 
 me. Have you no pity, no conscience 1 " 
 
 " What do you care for my pity? What have you to do 
 with my conscience 1 I am your wife ; you would have it so. 
 Adrien trusted you. fool that he was to trust you or me ! " 
 
 The deep flush of resentment overcame, at that instant, 
 the ashy paleness in Maurice's cheek, and he left the room 
 without uttering another word. For the second time in her 
 life it seemed to Gertrude as if the fair edifice of virtue, which 
 she had been so sternly and sedulously raising, had crumbled 
 to the ground. Once again it had been built on the sand ; 
 though it had looked firmer than the first, it had given way 
 under this new blast of agitating grief. She was deeply dis- 
 turbed in spirit by this scene with her husband. She felt as if 
 she could not now forgive him, or resume that life of practical 
 devotion to him which had been her support during the last year. 
 
 When Maurice returned to his home, a look of settled 
 gloom had fixed itself on his face. There was something reck- 
 less and wild in his manner. He no longer asked her to walk 
 with him, or to go into society. He never read, and talked to 
 her but little. She was alone for hours ; and now the barrier 
 which she had called virtue, but which was partly made up of 
 pride and resentment, was too feeble to keep back, at all times, 
 the torrent of regrets, of unmastered passion, and intense feel- 
 ings which were overflowing her soul like a desolating flood. 
 She ceased to deny herself the fatal indulgence of her old 
 habits of dreaming, and no longer banished Adrien's image 
 from her mind. It pursued her everywhere. To confession 
 she dared not go, for she would not renounce the sin of that 
 thought : to mass she still went, but it hardened her heart, for 
 she would not have it softened, but only dared not stay 
 away. She had a wild strange feeling of resentment, that not 
 
LADY-BIRD. 271 
 
 even in prayer could she meet Adrien in spirit ; she was with- 
 out that region where his soul doubtless found peace ; and yet 
 she would not break the chain with which passion bound hers. 
 Once more she read his works, secretly as an act of guilt is 
 performed ; it was his voice once more in her ears ; it was his 
 mind once again speaking to hers ; and her cheek burned, and 
 her heart throbbed, but not with the bright enthusiasm of 
 former days — not with the spirit which then roused her to the 
 knowledge and to the love of virtue. The more fervid was 
 his eloquence, the more noble his sentiments, the more she 
 writhed with the anguish of their irrevocable separation. His 
 earnest words brought back to her memory the voice she 
 was never to hear again ; and when he spoke of God, of 
 Heaven, and of goodness, it seemed but the echoes of a music 
 which once had been familiar, but to which her blighted but 
 unsubdued heart no longer responded. 
 
 It was a great relief to her now that Maurice stayed so 
 much away from home, that he no longer seemed to require 
 her society ; and she did not observe how haggard was the 
 expression of his face at times, or how moody were his long 
 fits of abstraction at others. He was enduring at once the 
 double pangs of jealousy and remorse. There were moments 
 when anger and resentment prevailed : but others again, when 
 he pitied Gertrude, and would have intensely longed to re- 
 place her in peace and in freedom, unscathed by the misery 
 he had so recklessly drawn her into. Trials of every kind 
 w ere staring him in the face ; poverty was becoming every day 
 more imminent, and its prospects more galling. His want of 
 power to strive with his own sufferings deprived him gradu- 
 ally of all the resources from whence he had drawn an income. 
 They were soon reduced to live on the small amount of fortune 
 which Father Lifford had bequeathed to Gertrude. It was a 
 perpetual torment to him thus to owe his support to her, and 
 he made imprudent and desperate efforts to ameliorate the 
 state of his affairs. 
 
 Mary had been right. He could not steer alone his bark 
 through a rough sea ; the burthen on his heart and that on 
 his conscience were too much for his strength. Gertrude's 
 coldness, which had now deepened into unkindness, paralysed 
 every nerve, and checked every effort. Before that terrible 
 day when both had read Adrien's letter he had had the stimu- 
 lus of hope and of fear : now he neither feared nor hoped, and 
 his mental energies seemed to die away within him. He used 
 
272 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 to absent himself as much as possible ; and unable to pursue 
 his former occupations, all his anxiety was to spend nothing 
 upon himself that he could possibly avoid, and to devise 
 schemes for improving his worldly position. Their solitary 
 meals were generally silent. She was the least depressed of 
 the two : but there was a gloomy abyss between them and an 
 image ever present before the mental sight of both. Once or 
 twice during that time old friends sought them out — he got 
 out of the way to avoid them. He shrank from the eyes of 
 others with a morbid sensitiveness. He felt as if Gertrude 
 hated him, and to be hated by one whom he passionately loved, 
 seemed to stamp upon him a brand which made everything 
 odious to him. 
 
 And he never had loved her more than now. Sometimes 
 when he came in late in the evening after wandering through 
 the streets for hours he would find her asleep in her chair, 
 worn out with a long day's toil (for work she would with a 
 feverish assiduity): and he would gaze at her with a tender- 
 ness which matured for a while both jealousy and resentment : 
 and by degrees the bitter trial he was going through was break- 
 ing up the soil where once good seed had been sown. It was 
 as if scales had fallen from his eyes, as if he had perceived 
 for the first time, almost, the extent of his guilt, — the reck- 
 less selfishness of his course, — the miserable amount of his 
 offences in God's sight, — the dreadful injury he had inflicted 
 on the woman he so passionately loved, and the man whom his 
 lower nature hated, while his better self recalled his virtues 
 and the long arrears of gratitude he owed him. Things that 
 Mary used to say to him, now often came to his mind again. 
 He began to look upon the future in a different way from here- 
 tofore ; to feel that he might never be, nor deserved ever to 
 be happy again. At moments he struggled against that con- 
 viction — he felt to want " du bonheur a tout prion" He tried 
 to persuade himself that his punishment was greater than his 
 sin ; but once awakened, the conscience of a man who is not 
 wholly perverted is too strong for him, and its logic too pow- 
 erful. Every succeeding day he reproached himself more, 
 and others less ; and saw in a clearer light his treachery to 
 Mary, his ingratitude to Adrien, and his cruelty to Gertrude. 
 A deep discouragement took possession of him, and his useless 
 passionate efforts to redeem the past, to procure her happiness 
 of some sort, to change something in a fate which appeared 
 to him more and more hopeless, only enhanced the misery of 
 his life. 
 
LADY-BiRD. 273 
 
 He vainly tried to compose as he used to do. His genius 
 Seemed to have forsaken him. Once only a faint gleam of it 
 returned. He was walking one day in a meadow some way 
 out of London, and as he was strolling listlessly along he saw 
 a troop of children pursuing with eager delight a richly-painted 
 butterfly. Still it eluded their grasp, and flew from flower to 
 flower, its purple and gold wings shining in the sunlight ; but 
 one eager hand caught it at last, and the curious children 
 pressed around the fortunate possessor. He opened his hand, 
 and there lay the crushed insect, with the bright colours rub- 
 bed off its light wings, with its life nearly extinct, and its form 
 almost motionless. Maurice turned away, and he murmured 
 as he went, " my Lady-Bird — my Lady-Bird — thus have I 
 dealt with thee ! " When he went home that evening he told 
 her the story ; but without any comment. She looked up from 
 her work and said, ' : Poor butterfly." He wrote a song that 
 night, and called it " The Child and the Butterfly." It was 
 the only good thing he had composed since his marriage. If 
 he had been always able like that day to turn his sufferings 
 into music, he might have marched rapidly towards fame, for 
 he had an ample store to draw from. 
 
 There came a day when Gertrude was struck with the per- 
 turbed expression of his countenance, — and it would have been 
 strange if she had not, for in addition to the usual care-worn 
 look which his features had lately worn, there was something 
 quite new in their aspect. He was suffering the keenest anx- 
 iety regarding money matters. The mania for speculation was 
 then at its height ; and tempted by the ardent desire to im- 
 prove, not so much his own as Gertrude's destiny, he had em- 
 barked in an undertaking which promised fairly, and the risks 
 of which he had not sufficiently considered. The result was 
 unfortunate, and his liabilities surpassed by far his slender 
 means of meeting them. He had only one intimate friend, 
 the young painter, Dee, who in former years had introduced 
 him to Adrien d'Arberg. He was one of the few persons who 
 was often with him and with Gertrude, for whom he had a 
 great admiration ; he admired her beauty, but still more her 
 conduct. He saw they were not happy, and wondered why 
 they were not so ; but her patience, and her indefatigable in- 
 dustry astonished and charmed him. One day, the same on 
 which Gertrude had been struck by the extreme misery that 
 she saw in his face, Maurice went to William Dee, and dis- 
 closed to him the desperate position in which he found him- 
 12* 
 
274 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 self. He knew the young painter could not assist him, and 
 in the midst of his distress there was a calmness that per- 
 plexed his friend. He offered to persuade others to go secu- 
 rity for him,— he endeavoured to find some remedy for the 
 evil, but Maurice stopped him, and said, 
 
 " I have no means of retrieving myself ; I have been im- 
 prudent, and must bear the penalty. My folly has been im- 
 mense ; I have risked more than I shall ever be able to pay. 
 If I had not been deceived my conduct would have been dis- 
 honourable. But I had no notion that I was committed to 
 such an extent. There is one thing I am deeply thankful 
 for ; Gertrude has a small income settled on herself, which 
 will keep her from absolute destitution. I am liable to be 
 any day arrested, and I care not now how soon it happens. 
 Anything is better than the state of miserable suspense in 
 which I live : I would not have troubled you about this, clear 
 William, but for one reason,— you will, I know, be kind to 
 her when the blow falls on me. She will want advice, per- 
 haps " 
 
 "And comfort," the other ejaculated, with glistening 
 eyes. 
 
 " None, that you or any one in this wide world can ever 
 give her," Maurice exclaimed, as if suddenly unable to con- 
 trol his feelings. 
 
 He hastily moved to a different part of the room, and 
 struggled with himself for a moment ; then wringing his 
 friend's hand, he left him. 
 
 A few days after this Gertrude was sitting by the fire, at 
 the usual dinner hour, wondering that Maurice did not come 
 home. The hours went by, and he did not return. All sorts 
 of thoughts came into her mind, of a most contradictory na- 
 ture ; a nervousness, an anxiety to see him return — not very 
 consistent, perhaps, with her habitual indifference ; and then 
 a vague idea that perhaps he might never return passed 
 through her mind. The night wore on, and he did not come ; 
 she did not go to bed, nor close her eyes ; but sat on by the 
 fire, gazing into herself as it were, and pondering over her 
 strange feelings. She longed to hear his footstep on the 
 stairs, but it was more because her anxiety was irksome than 
 because her heart was softened towards him. If he should 
 desert her entirely she would not care, she said to herself, 
 and then she thought of her utter loneliness, and of his melan- 
 choly impassioned eyes, and wondered if it would make her 
 sad never to see them a»-ain. 
 
LADY-BIRD. 2*75 
 
 The daylight came, and her restlessness increased. To- 
 wards nine o'clock William Dee arrived, and when they told 
 her he wished to speak to her. she had a faint sensation at her 
 heart. " Something has happened," that vague sentence 
 which embodies so much vague apprehension ! He broke to 
 her, with more caution than was necessary, the fact that Mau- 
 rice had been arrested ; for the instant she heard the nature 
 of the event which had detained him, she was perfectly calm 
 and very cold. He was provoked at her apparent insensi- 
 bility, and owned his fears that Maurice was plunged into in- 
 extricable difficulties, but that he bore them with resignation, 
 supported by the knowledge that she was not reduced to po- 
 verty by his imprudence ; that he was anxious to know if she 
 
 would come and see him in- prison ; and then that he 
 
 hoped that she would send for his mother and Mary, and try 
 to arrange living somewhere with them for a while. He sup- 
 posed she would not like to go to Stonehouseleigh. 
 
 " no," she said with a shudder, " there I never can go. 
 But what does Maurice mean by these plans % To what ex- 
 tent is he involved — what are his liabilities? " 
 
 " It would be useless to explain them to you, Mrs. Red- 
 mond. They are greater than he can meet." 
 
 " But not than Jean meet." 
 
 " That he would not hear of. His only comfort is, that 
 your small fortune is safe from his creditors." 
 
 " Not safe from them for one hour longer than I can help. 
 Mr. Dee, if you will not assist me about this, I will instantly 
 apply to some one who will do for money what you might out 
 of friendship." 
 
 " I must implore you for Maurice's sake not to think of 
 this," — (her lip curled) — " it would make him miserable." 
 
 " It is not a matter of feeling," she said sternly. " More 
 or less misery to either of us signifies but little. His debts 
 must be paid immediately. He must be free this very night. 
 I would rather not go to see him where he is, but I will if 
 you think he wishes it, even though he should return here to- 
 night," 
 
 " But, Mrs. Redmond, you will not do this without his 
 consent ? " 
 
 " I will, and in a way that may ruin me and not serve 
 him, if you do not help me. Come with me instantly to a 
 lawyer's. I have a will, Mr. Dee, that has often asserted it- 
 self where it ought to have given way. It will not give way 
 
276 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 now. Be sure of it. Maurice has done nothing dishonour- 
 able, has he ?" 
 
 " Not in the least — he has been imprudent, but more sin 
 ned against than sinning." 
 
 " Ay, he has indeed," she exclaimed ; and, weak with the 
 long sleepless night and the agitation she had undergone, she 
 burst into tears, but in an instant conquered her emotion. 
 
 She acted all that day with an intelligence and an energy 
 that astonished her companion. In spite of his remonstrances, 
 which grew more feeble as he witnessed her firm resolve, her 
 perfect consciousness of the sacrifices she was making, with at 
 the same time her calm indifference about them, she achieved 
 all the necessary arrangements ; and by parting with all but 
 one thousand pounds of Father Lifford's legacy, she met all 
 Maurice's difficulties, and placed him again in an honourable 
 position in the eyes of the world. His friend went to com- 
 municate to him what had been done, and was quite alarmed 
 at his grief and indignation when he heard of it. William 
 Dee was good-hearted and very simple-minded. He did not 
 set much value upon money. It came into his hands and went 
 out of them in a way that did not make him rate as highly as 
 many other people would have done Gertrude's sacrifice of 
 her fortune, and not acquainted with the secret of his friend's 
 heart and destiny, it seemed to him natural enough that his 
 young wife, who had already given up so much for him. should 
 act in this manner. He was not prepared to witness the burst 
 of bitter sorrow mixed with anger against him, with which 
 Maurice received the intelligence, and he kept urging him to 
 go home, as if there he was likely to find consolation and 
 repose. 
 
 When Maurice did return, Gertrude received him with 
 more of her old manner than she had ever shown since their 
 marriage. She smiled a smile he had not seen for many a 
 long day. It went through his heart like a dagger. She 
 made a playful remark upon his absence. His lip quivered : 
 
 " I cannot thank you, Gertrude, for what you have done. 
 Ic has been no kindness to me." 
 
 " No? and I did not mean it as such," she answered. " I 
 have pleased myself, and I like our present prospects better 
 than I have done anything for a long time." 
 
 ■• What do you mean ? " he said. 
 
 " I mean that of course we must emigrate now. J'ai brule 
 aies vaisseaux. The world is a wide one, and a new one will 
 
LADY-BIRD. 277 
 
 suit you and me, Maurice. Let us go, — let us leave every- 
 thing behind, and see if the Yankees will not give you work 
 in your profession ; and if not, we will to the backwoods, and 
 lead a savage life. I yearn for the forests and the falls of 
 the New World. What do you say to a log cabin ? Shall 
 we not breathe there more freely than here ? " 
 
 His heart beat as she spoke, and he tried to catch her eyes 
 to read their expression, but they were fixed on the fire, which 
 she was stirring while she spoke. 
 
 " Thank God," he ejaculated, " that you have a wish. I 
 can say no more." 
 
 " Say nothing, and see to-morrow about a passage," she 
 answered. 
 
 He thought of Mary and her mother, but did not speak of 
 them. The next day, and the next, Gertrude was kinder to 
 him than usual, and she talked with pleasure of the plan of 
 emigrating. But when it was really settled, she could hardly 
 speak of it in the same tone. The past rose again before her. 
 This was indeed cutting the cable, and going adrift. Never 
 to liear again of Adrien, — never, even by chance in the course 
 of long years, once to see his face ; for she had thought of that 
 chance, till it had grown into an expectation, and her heart 
 sank within her at the very thought of new scenes which she 
 had for an instant imagined would relieve the restless pain of 
 an incessant looking back without peace, and forward without 
 hope. Her fits of abstraction were longer and deeper than 
 ever, till the work of preparation began. Then she worked 
 as if a slave-driver had been near her. He sold the copyright 
 of his opera for a trifling sum, and bought a travelling case 
 for her. He put it in her way, but did not give it her as a 
 present. He wanted no thanks — not even a smile. 
 
 He went into the country to take leave of Mary and Mrs. 
 Redmond. Once more he sat in the little garden under the 
 thorn-tree, and looked on the familiar scenes amidst which 
 his childhood had passed, and he had a great deal of conver- 
 sation with Mary. He confided to her the story of his sin, 
 his sorrow, and his remorse. They strolled together to the 
 bridge over the Leigh, and sat under the shade of the dark 
 alders ; they visited the graves of Mrs. Lifford and of the old 
 priest they had loved, and the church where Maurice used to 
 play the organ. He spent an hour with Mr. Erving at Stone- 
 houseleigh, and Mary waited for him, kneeling before the 
 altar, with her face buried in her hands, and walked with him 
 
278 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 afterwards to the station. Up and down the platform they 
 paced for a few minutes, and then the train came in sight, 
 and they stood still. " Now, good-bye, Mary ; I will never 
 forget what you have done for me to-day. The way may yet 
 be long and difficult, but the crushing weight is removed." 
 She could not speak, but wrung his hand, and he bent down 
 to kiss her. The train was soon out of sight. She stood 
 where he had left her till it disappeared, and then walked 
 home ; and her mother thought her very pale, but there was 
 a deep thankfulness in her heart, a gratitude in the midst 
 of her grief, which gave a heavenly expression to her face. 
 
 Maurice had gathered a nosegay of flowers in the cottage 
 garden. When he arrived in London he laid them in a corner 
 of the room without speaking. Gertrude saw them when she 
 came in, and began to arrange and tie them up. Everything 
 in their room was packed up. There was nothing else to do 
 that evening. She seemed to like those flowers, — she gazed 
 on each of them and smelt at them repeatedly, but they did 
 not trust themselves to speak of the visit he had made. It 
 was their last evening in England. William Dee called upon 
 them, and they all tried to talk cheerfully. The next day 
 they embarked. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 'Deja ma barque fugitive 
 S'eloigne a regret de la rive. 
 J'am-onte de nouveaux orages ; 
 Sans doute a de nouveaux naufrages 
 Mon frele esquif est devoue; 
 Et pourtant a la fleur de l'age 
 Sur quels ecueils, sur quel rivage, 
 Deja n'ai-je pas echoue ? " 
 
 Lamaetine. 
 
 "Oh vista inaspettala! oh vista 
 Cara non men che dolorosa ! " 
 
 Alfieki. 
 
 One of those vast receptacles of human beings, one of those 
 floating worlds, those temporary homes, which carry away from 
 our old worn out time-honoured country — our old England — 
 which we all love with a love that some of us can hardly un 
 derstand, but which asserts itself in ways at times, and in 
 
LADY-BIRD. 
 
 279 
 
 hearts where it would be least expected, compelling them to 
 exclaim, " England, dear England ! " something in the same 
 spirit which made James II. cry out, when from the coast he 
 saw his French allies dispersed by the British fleet, u Ah, my 
 brave English ! " — the patriot's, not the politician's cry. One 
 of those great refuge-houses of the poor and of the homeless, 
 — one of those ocean caravans that bear away so many youth- 
 ful energies, and so much life, and spirit, and hope, and sor- 
 row from our shores to those of the New World, was lying at 
 anchor at Blackwall. The part of the vessel allotted to the 
 steerage passengers had been gradually filling with persons, 
 who seemed almost more numerous than the huge ship could 
 contain ; but still they came, and found their places, and 
 looked about them with excitement or with listlessness, with 
 pleasure or with pain, with hope or with fear, according to 
 their ages, their characters, or their prospects. Some were 
 leaving their hearts' treasures behind them : some were going 
 to find them again on the other side of the Atlantic ; some 
 few, perhaps, had laid up theirs in Heaven, and ceased to care 
 for anything but the interests of the Kingdom which is not 
 of this world ; to others, again, the past was a dream, and the 
 future a blank. Some came well provided with comforts for 
 the passage ; others had nothing but the scanty outfit of an 
 emigrant. Some wept because one they loved had hung about 
 their neck, and had given them a last kiss that day : others 
 wept because no hand had pressed theirs, and no kind voice 
 had said "farewell," or " Grod bless you." 
 
 What an epitome of life, with its various griefs, its grada- 
 tions of outward prosperity, its inward and unsuspected 
 trials ! One poor Irish woman was crying because six little 
 children were crowding around her. 
 
 " And what will I do with them, the craturs 1 " she ejacu- 
 lated, as they began to shiver and complain. 
 
 " And what will I do without my baby % " murmured an- 
 other younger woman, who had buried her only child the day 
 before. " Nobody shall comfort me now, and it's myself will 
 die of grief." But one there was who did comfort her, and 
 she died not of grief; for He put it into her heart to nurse 
 the baby of the woman who had too many little ones to care 
 for, and she learnt during that voyage that it was ''more- 
 blessed to give than to receive." 
 
 It was a strange subject for study and for thought — that 
 crowded deck. The thrifty, neat, and well-dressed group, — 
 
280 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 the squalid, dirty, poverty-stricken families, — side by side; the 
 vicious degraded countenances of some poor wretches, who 
 were escaping perhaps from detection and punishment ; the 
 daring impudence of one. the stolid stupidity of another ; the 
 mischievous quickness of a third ; the contrast between the 
 few English and the numerous Irish passengers, — none 
 amongst the first so degraded in men's eyes ; but not any of 
 them perhaps so near to Heaven as some of the last, — famine- 
 stricken creatures who had patiently borne an incredible 
 amount of suffering, and had passed spotless through the or- 
 deal of London, that fearful abyss in which so much purity 
 and virtue sink to rise no more. It is a strange and a moving 
 sight, that great assemblage of human creatures, about to seek 
 a new existence in that strange country, which has all the hope, 
 the freshness, and the faults of childhood ; which opens its 
 wide arms to the wanderers of the earth, its boundless soil to 
 every hand that will plough it — its deep vitality to every mind 
 that will stir it. 
 
 The cabin passengers had also arrived. They were seek- 
 ing their berths, and stowing away their luggage. In one 
 very small cabin, Gertrude was sitting, feeling at that moment 
 more bewildered than unhappy. She had been for some hours 
 on board, and hardly having slept for the last two or three 
 nights, had dozed a little that morning, in spite of the strange- 
 ness of the scene. Maurice came to ask her if she wished for 
 anything. " Yes," she said, " to go awhile on deck, and fix in 
 my memory the last impression of the country we are leaving." 
 How she had once longed to leave it, she thought to herself, 
 as she mounted the narrow stairs up to the deck. How, as a 
 girl, she had often repeated to herself the lines that begin — 
 
 " O'er the glad waters of the deep blue sea ; " 
 
 and longed to fly away, not to be at rest, but in the very midst 
 of the strife and excitement of life. 
 
 It is so singular to go calmly and coldly through times 
 and scenes which would once have made our hearts bound, and 
 our eyes sparkle with delight. She stood on deck, and gazed 
 more curiously than sadly on the shore, on the forests of masts, 
 on the boats going to and fro, on the mass of human beings 
 on the other end of the deck, and on the numerous passengers 
 on theirs. ''Maurice stood by her side, and was surprised and 
 glad that she did not seen more deeply moved as the moment 
 
LADY-BIRD. 28 J 
 
 of departure approached. He felt it very much — far more 
 than she did, in one sense ; but he seemed hardly to care for 
 anything now, but the varying expression of her face. She 
 said in a low voice, " There lies that great city which we 
 shall never perhaps see again, that country which we are 
 probably leaving for ever. I suppose that to some people, 
 death is very like such a departure as this." Whether they 
 went down to the bottom or landed in America, the change 
 could hardly be greater. 
 
 ' : Are you afraid of the sea, Gertrude % " 
 
 " Afraid ? no. I am afraid of nothing." He sighed. 
 
 " It is very cold," she said, and drew her shawl round 
 her. 
 
 " Will you go down again 1 It will be long yet before we 
 move." 
 
 • '• No. I would rather stay here. It amuses me to watch 
 the boats going to and fro, to look at this busy scene, and 
 fancy it some great human ants' nest ; and wonder what the 
 angels think of us when we trouble our heads about the grain 
 of sand that falls upon our heads, and deem it a mountain, and 
 strive and struggle to free ourselves. How strange it is to 
 see that immense concourse of human beings, and feel that 
 amongst them there is probably not one that we have ever seen 
 before, or ever will see again. I cannot go down to the cabin, 
 but it is very cold. Will you fetch me my cloak % " 
 
 Maurice went to look for it, and she remained gazing on 
 the water with a kind of vague and vacant interest. A boat 
 had put off from the shore, and was nearing the steamer. It 
 was full of ladies, and one or two men also, besides the rowers. 
 Gertrude was short-sighted, and did not discern their faces. 
 They came 4 alongside the ship, on the other side from that 
 where she was sitting. In a few minutes she heard a persor 
 who was standing near her say to another, " There is a party 
 of smart folks arrived to see the ship before she starts, and 
 stare at the emigrants. They are walking about with the 
 captain. I suppose we shan't be off for another hour, at soon- 
 est." A moment afterwards, Maurice came with the cloak 
 and said to her hurriedly, 
 
 "Had you not better come downstairs again, G ex- 
 trude?" 
 
 " Why ?" she said. " Let me look upon land as long as i 
 may. I shall have enough of the close cabin soon." 
 
 - There are people on board whom you used to know.' 
 
282 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 k ' Who — who do you mean ? " 
 
 " The Audleys, and some others." 
 
 " Lady Clara ! is she here ? " Gertrude ejaculated, and 
 pressed her hand on her forehead. One moment she remained 
 silent, and seemed to be communing with herself, and to be 
 agitated by conflicting impulses. 
 
 " I will go down to the cabin," she said hurriedly, " and 
 there, if possible, I should wish to see Lady Clara for one in- 
 stant. Will you have this note conveyed to her? " 
 
 She hastily wrote a few lines in pencil, and drawing down 
 her veil, hastened across the deck, and down through the 
 labyrinth below to the hiding-place she sought. " Dying 
 people," she said to herself, as she sat down on the edge of 
 the narrow couch — " dying people may often do what would 
 be wrong in others ; and is not an eternal absence a kind of 
 death ? If T can speak to her, perhaps this throbbing heart 
 will beat more calmly, through its remaining years. how 
 strange, that out of that great city I was gazing upon, should 
 have come at this time one of the very few I have known, who 
 has ever shed a brightness over my path, and never looked 
 upon me but with kindness ! Perhaps she will not come ; she 
 may be afraid of a scene. 0, if she knew how calm misery 
 can be when it reaches its height ! " She waited some time, 
 and then the cabin-door opened. " How do you do, Lady 
 Clara ? " she said with that coldness which suppressed emotion 
 gives. "How are you? Well, I hope? I am so sorry to 
 have given you this trouble." 
 
 Lady Clara had an anxious perturbed look. She pressed 
 Gertrude to her heart, and struggled not to shed tears. They 
 sat down side by side, each scarcely venturing to look at the 
 other ; but Gertrude was infinitely the more composed of the 
 two, and able to keep down her agitation, and to speak in her 
 usual tone of voice, while the other could hardly command 
 herself. 
 
 " How little I could have thought to see you again here," 
 she falteringly said ; u I dare not ask you all I wish to know. 
 What are your plans — your intentions ? If it is as well with 
 you, as with all my heart I wish it to be, I hope, dearest 
 Gertrude, that you are only leaving England for a short time." 
 
 " I am leaving it for ever, and therefore I have wished to 
 see you, to thank you for the kind interest you have always 
 shown me." 
 
 ' ; Does your father know ? has he suffered that you " 
 
LADY-BIRD. 283 
 
 " There is a deeper gulf between us than the ocean. I do 
 not complain of him. no ! It is better that I should go 
 far from him — from you — from every one. I wished to go. 
 It is my own will, my own doing. But I have asked to see 
 you, not only once more to look upon a face that I loved in 
 
 other days " She fixed her eyes steadily on Lady Clara, 
 
 and saw that she was striving to master her emotion, and went 
 on in the same calm manner — " but also that I must ask you 
 to do for me what you only can. If I were not going away 
 for ever, I could not do this ; but as I shall never see M. 
 
 d'Arberg again " A strange expression passed over 
 
 Lady Clara's face, but Gertrude did not see it, and went on, 
 " As I never shall see him again, I think I may ask you to 
 tell him or to write to him, that I never heard from him before 
 my marriage ; that I have been reckless, rash, and much to 
 blame, but not false ; that I was deceived into believing he 
 had forsaken me, and, till a short while ago, never knew that 
 he had not. I wish him to know this, and I hope he will re- 
 member me in his prayers. Will you tell him so, Lady Clara 1 
 Kind friend of my happy clays, you only know what I had 
 gained, and what I have lost. Will you do what I have asked 
 you?" 
 
 Lady Clara was looking painfully embarrassed, her colour 
 went and came. " When I can do this, dearest Gertrude, I 
 do not exactly know, for M. d'Arberg is going — I suppose I 
 had better tell you — It is so strange, so extraordinary ! 
 Did you indeed never expect to see him again ? " Gertrude's 
 eyes were fixed on hers but she did not speak. " He too is 
 going to America — I — I have just seen him." She turned 
 very pale and murmured, " Where ? " " I had better prepare 
 you for it ; I don't know how much or how little you will 
 mind meeting him again, but at all events you ought to know 
 that at any moment — In short, the fact is, he is on board 
 this very vessel — " 
 
 Gertrude stood up and put her hand on Lady Clara's arm. 
 " Then," she said, " take me with you. Take me to see him 
 once more — and then all will be over. He will go away with 
 you, but once before my death I shall have seen his face again. 
 I have longed for it till I almost expected it, up to the last 
 few weeks. That moment is now come. Take me where I 
 can see him, Lady Clara. If I wait much longer I shall not 
 have strength to go through it calmly. Now I can. Do not 
 be afraid. Let us go." 
 
284 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 Lady Clara was much agitated : she did not know how to 
 ac t — she had never been in any difficulty — had never encoun- 
 tered a trying scene before : she was nervous, and afraid to 
 speak or to explain. But she felt it was necessary, and taking 
 both Gertrude's hands in hers, she said, " Dear unhappy child, 
 you will have, I fear, but too many opportunities of seeing 
 him. It is a sad position for you and for him ; at least I fear 
 from your looks, from your words, that it will be a trial to 
 you, as it must be a great one to him, but he is going in this 
 very steamer, — going with a party of emigrants. It was to 
 see him off that we came here ' 
 
 Gertrude leant an instant against the door of the cabin, 
 and hid her face in her hands. When she raised it again, it 
 would have been difficult for any one to read its expression. 
 There was a tumultuous sensation in her brain and in her 
 heart. She could not speak. At that moment some one 
 knocked, and she heard Mr. Audley's voice calling Lady 
 Clara. ' : We must go, my love. They want us away — the 
 boat is ready." One long kiss Lady Clara gave Gertrude, and 
 burst into tears. " Come, make haste," her husband said, as 
 she came out. She looked at him through her tears, and said, 
 '' Say good-bye to her." He looked into the room, but Ger- 
 trude had turned away, and he followed his wife upstairs. 
 
 It had been a false alarm that the vessel had been about 
 to start. There was yet a further delay. " I have seen her 
 husband," he whispered, as the}' stood again on the deck. 
 " We met face to face, and shook hands. Does d' Arberg know 
 they are on board % " 
 
 " No, I am sure he does not ; where is he ? " 
 
 " Looking after some of his people, I believe — stowing 
 them away under proper protection, and comforting those who 
 take on, as they call it, at bidding farewell to this old land of 
 workhouses and parochial relief. Well, well, this 'Ainor pa- 
 triae' is a funny sort of thing, and lurks in strange corners of 
 the human heart. Let us look for him amongst the steerage 
 passengers. Do you mean to tell him that that Lady-Bird of 
 yours is here % " 
 
 b - 1 don't know what to do. It will be kinder, I think. In 
 such cases nothing is so bad as meeting unprepared." 
 
 They joined some of the other people who had come on 
 board to see the emigrants off, and looked for Adrien in every 
 direction. They could not find him, till just when the last 
 bell rang, and they were hurrying into their boat, he joined 
 
 
 
LADY-BIRD. 285 
 
 them for an instant ; but there was only time for her to shake 
 hands with him, and she looked upon that ship with a strange 
 interest, as they rowed away from it. She thought of all that 
 it contained, wondered over the extraordinary coincidence that 
 had brought together two persons who had been everything to 
 each other once, who had been so abruptly, so irrevocably 
 parted as it had seemed until this day, and now he was near 
 her, and he did not know it, and she was near him. and she 
 knew it. How soon would chance bring them together % 
 What would their meeting be? What would their parting 
 be? What a strange episode of life to both that Atlantic 
 passage might prove. Would it be the end of the romance of 
 their existence, or the beginning of sin and of sorrow? Lady 
 Clara was thoughtful ; she felt glad that her path had never 
 led through briars and precipices, — that it had been so smooth 
 and so straight. Perhaps she did not thank God enough, for 
 it is a great blessing not to have been exposed to temptation : 
 it is a greater one, however, to have passed through the fur- 
 nace unscathed. 
 
 The voyage has begun. The vessel is gliding along the 
 yet smooth waters, but the wind is whistling, and the rain is 
 beginning to fall. Gertrude is lying on her narrow couch, 
 and with closed eyes listening to the beating of her own heart ; 
 he is near her — he whom she has loved as few women love ; 
 he is near her, here, where for awhile nothing can part them. 
 They may avoid each other, but far apart they cannot be. 
 The same ship holds them, — the same waves carry them,^-the 
 same wind drives them on, and they breathe the same air. 
 She opened the little window of her cabin, and gazed upon the 
 water so near to her head. It gave her a dizzy vague feeling 
 of trust and of fear. She was carried on she knew not whith- 
 er. She was safe, and yet very near destruction. There was 
 a plank between her and the deep sea. What was there be- 
 tween her and sin ; not even in that hour a good resolution. 
 She was very tired of suffering — that was all she knew. 
 how busy the tempter was in that hour with that weary spirit, 
 how he whispered in that watching ear, how he hung over 
 that silent form. No thought of guilt did he send to pass 
 before those closed eyes. He only said, " Eest a little. Do 
 not fight so incessantly with what no human strength can 
 conquer, — the might of a love, which is a part of yourself. 
 Look once more upon that face, which you had thought never 
 to see again. It will calm, not disturb you, — it will strength- 
 
286 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 en, not weaken you. Was it not from him yon once learned 
 what since you have forgotten? Go and learn again from 
 him to be good, to be strong." 
 
 Thus spoke the tempter, and she listened, but he was only 
 sowing seed : she did not act upon those thoughts, — not one 
 step would she have stirred to advance the moment on which 
 her soul was set, but at the approach of which, at the very 
 idea of which, she trembled like a leaf. Maurice came and 
 sat by her some time. He thought she was asleep. A bell 
 rang, and he — as he fancied — awoke her, and asked if she 
 would come to dinner ; she refused, and begged him to go 
 without her. She could not bear that together they should 
 see Adrien for the first time. She felt they would now meet, 
 and the hour that he was absent appeared to her a whole day. 
 When he returned she looked at him, and drew a deep, quick 
 sigh, but there was no agitation or difference in his manner. 
 He began talking of insignificant things, and giving her some 
 account of their fellow-passengers. Was he dissembling, was 
 it possible he did not feel all it was to her to see Adrien 
 again? Had he forgotten the letter, the scene? It was im- 
 possible he could have seen him, or he would not be so un- 
 moved. Was it a mistake or a dream ? — Was Adrien not on 
 board ? Then, by the cold, heavy feeling at her heart, she 
 almost thought she must have been happy during the last few 
 hours. 
 
 Towards evening her head was aching intensely, and she 
 longed to breathe the fresh air. She went to the deck, and 
 sat some time watching the waves and the sunset clouds, or 
 gazing on the persons who were passing and repassing before 
 her. He was not amongst them. She began to think that 
 she had dreamt that Lady Clara had ever told her he was on 
 board. She went into the principal cabin, and still he was 
 not there ; she became almost convinced that her ears, her 
 fancy, her senses, had deceived her. Thus did the next 
 day also pass, and the next also — till towards night she 
 overheard two persons, who were sitting near her, talking of 
 something that arrested her attention. 
 
 " Did you say he was a Frenchman ?" one said to the 
 other. 
 
 "So I was told; it's queer, isn't it? Lives with them 
 entirely : eats, and sleeps, and sits where they do ; — talks to 
 them at nights too, and in English, which is curious. Those 
 Irish crowd about him, as if he were St. Patrick himself. I 
 
 
LADY-BIRD. 287 
 
 went on the deck on purpose to hear him last evening. It is 
 amusing enough ; he tells them stories, and they groan, and 
 laugh, and ejaculate, and cross themselves all in one time. 
 They're a strange set, those Irish." 
 
 " But what does this French count do it for?" 
 
 " He is half English, they say, and has property in Ire- 
 land, and some of that set are his own people, and he has 
 come out with them to set them going on the other side, and 
 he lives with them to learn how they are treated, and give the 
 government an acccount of their hardships, which are many, 
 I fear, poor souls. It's a Quixotic sort of thing. Might have 
 learned it all, I dare say, without so much to do about it." 
 
 " The wind's getting up ; we shall have a rough night of 
 it, I expect." 
 
 " It's cold sitting here. Let's walk." 
 
 That night Gertrude laid her head on the pillow, and the 
 noiee of the wind and the waves seemed again, as on the first 
 day, to speak of one who was lying not far off on a hard and 
 narrow couch, whose thoughtful eyes were raised to Heaven 
 in prayer, as the ship bounded along, and who little weened 
 that she whose image still haunted him, amidst his days' long 
 labours and his nights' short rest, was also watching and 
 listening to the same melodies, and gazing at the same 
 stormy sky. 
 
 " Mrs. Redmond, ain't you bored to death 1 " said to Ger- 
 trude a pretty little woman whom she had sat by at meals, 
 and who had been civil and kind to her during the last three 
 days, 
 
 '■ No." she answered quickly, " that is one of the sufferings 
 I have ceased to experience. I am never bored. I envy 
 those who are," she added in a low voice. 
 
 " Well, I think you are a very happy person. Wh,en I am 
 at home and have plenty of things to attend to, it does very 
 well, but I am too sick to read or work, and my husband likes 
 to be on deck all day, and I don't know really what to do 
 with myself. If it is not very rough this evening, would you 
 mind coming with me to look at the steerage people, and listen 
 to what that strange gentleman that's always with them reads 
 and says to them? Somebody told me it was very curious." 
 
 " I should like it," Gertrude answered in a low voice, " if 
 we do not go too near them." 
 
 " you don't fancy going amongst those low people, 
 neither do I ; but we need not be close to them, you know." 
 
288 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 That was little in Gertrude's thoughts. Would she have 
 shrunk from the poorest and the roughest of those creatures 
 amongst whom Adrien sat 1 — of whom he took such careful 
 heed ? Did she not envy the child who sat at his feet — the 
 poor orphan girl who told him her tale of sorrow, and heard 
 words of comfort from his lips — the old man whom he support- 
 ed up the narrow stairs, and placed by his side when they all 
 gathered together after their evening meal, to forget awhile 
 the common hardships of their lot 1 ? And the sufferings of 
 the steerage were, for passengers in an emigrant vessel, 
 greater then than they are now. The ordinary comforts of life 
 were scarce ; age and infancy had much to endure ; and even 
 those who had been used to the wild roughness of their Irish, 
 homes, or the wretched dens of their London abodes, had 
 trouble to bear up against the varied annoyances of this pas- 
 sage in their poor lives, this, in a twofold sense, their passage 
 to the New World. 
 
 The two women whom chance had thrown together that 
 day sat down in a corner of the ship, sheltered by some bales 
 of goods, with their cloaks on, and their veils down. They 
 
 came there, the one to seek amusement, the other What ! 
 
 what are you going to do there, Gertrude ? What business 
 have you to look on that face again % What right have you to 
 listen to that voice which thrills to your very heart ? — Yes, 
 hide yourself from his sight ; pull the veil closer round your 
 head. The wind is blowing about you, but there is some- 
 thing wilder than the wind in your heart and in your brain. 
 He speaks, and you tremble. Are you sure it is he ? For 
 one instant look up — there he is opposite to you — not very far 
 from you ; he is looking pale and very thin, but the light in 
 his eyes is not dimmed. The soul shine's out of them as 
 brightly as ever, and the smile that illumines that face was 
 never more beautiful than now. All those expressive counte- 
 nances are turned to him; they crowd about him, his poor 
 emigrants ; most of them he personally knows, and if they 
 were his children, his manner — when he speaks to them — 
 could not be more gentle. What if in that instant his eye 
 should fix itself upon you, Gertrude — would it be gentle or 
 stern % You know not, but one thing you feel ; once before 
 you leave that ship you must speak to him, you must carry 
 away with you the remembrance of one kind word from his 
 lips. 
 
 Now the groups of listeners are hushed into silence, for he 
 
LADY-BIRD. 289 
 
 is reading to them. It was the account of the shipwreck of 
 St. Paul. When he came to the verse " For an angel of God, 
 whose I am, and whom I serve, stood by me this night/' there 
 was one in that audience who forgot that he was not speaking 
 of himself. She felt as if God's angel were indeed standing 
 by him: she felt as if God's claim upon him had been too 
 strong for an earthly love to dispute it, and she hung on each 
 word that fell from his lips as if it contained a message from 
 Heaven. Then he spoke to those Irish hearts, as one who knew 
 them well — their strength and their weakness, — their childlike 
 faith, mighty in life and in death, and fervent as their passions. 
 He set before them vivid pictures of vice and of virtue, of Hea- 
 ven and of hell, clothed in familiar words and illustrated by 
 fanciful similes. It was strange to observe how his genius and 
 his eloquence, which had often commanded the applause of lis- 
 tening assemblies, knew how to assume a form that captivated 
 the attention of that restless group. How their eyes glared 
 and flashed when he bade them fight with the devil, and snatch 
 from him his victims ; how they laughed a wild laugh of de- 
 light when he told them how to cheat him of the souls he had 
 made sure of, by turning their back upon him when he least 
 expected it, and beginning, even the very worst among them, 
 to serve God that night. He drew pictures of good and bad 
 Irishmen ; all good servants, however, — all zealous of their 
 work, and intelligent at their business — sure of high wages at 
 last and a high place somewhere ; they would do nothing by 
 halves. When they served Almighty God it was with all 
 their hearts ; when they bound themselves to Satan they were 
 clever at his work and very like him in his ways, for they 
 never ceased believing while they blasphemed, and trembling 
 while they cursed. 
 
 Once in the midst of his discourse, he pointed to the sky, 
 to a bright star that shone amidst the clouds, and asked them 
 who it was like, and simultaneously there rose from the whole 
 group the ' ; Ave Maris Stella," that hymn which has cheered 
 so many mariners through the surges of life, as well as on the 
 billows of the ocean. When the singing died away he told 
 them tales of other times, or gave them descriptions of the 
 land they were going to, or set before them some high example 
 of patient suffering, or heroic exertion. Before parting they 
 all knelt together and said the night prayers, which most of 
 them had been used to. In the course of them there is a 
 short and impressive pause for the examination of conscience 
 13 
 
290 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 When many are joined together in this, there is something 
 solemn and touching in the sudden hush of many voices — the 
 profound silence of those few moments during which each sepa- 
 rate heart is questioning itself and laying before God its various 
 and widely different amount of guilt and of temptation. It was 
 so in this case, and deep to her heart's core did Gertrude feel 
 it. It seemed as if Adrien must be reading there the sin that 
 she had ceased to struggle with ; perhaps she then felt also 
 that we are sure of God's mercy, but never of man's, for she 
 shuddered at the thought of Adrien's knowing how she, the 
 wife of another, gave way to a guilty though secret affection, 
 even though he himself were its object. 
 
 "When the prayers were ended, and her companion who 
 was somewhat weary rose to go, she followed her, and found 
 Maurice waiting for her in their cabin. He was sitting at 
 the small table against the wall with his head leaning on his 
 hands. She put hers on his shoulder, and asked him if he 
 were asleep. 
 
 " Where have you been? " he said, without turning towards 
 her. 
 
 " On deck," she answered, while a sudden flush suffused 
 her cheek. He looked at her attentively, as if to scan the 
 expression of her face. She turned away, and he murmured, 
 
 " Well, everything must come to an end, I suppose." 
 
 " Are you already weary of the voyage % " she said. 
 
 ' : I am weary of my life." 
 
 He went away, and came back again. He moved im- 
 patiently about the narrow little slip of a room, and then stop- 
 ping opposite to her, said with bitterness, " It is a pity that 
 we are not steerage passengers. It would have made you 
 happier. I suppose." The colour left her cheek, and she bit 
 her pale lips almost through. " I do not mean to be unkind 
 to you, Gertrude, but you know, oh you must know that a 
 man's heart can be tried almost beyond endurance." Neither 
 of them mentioned the name of Adrien ; and the next few 
 days passed like the preceding ones. 
 
 M. d'Arberg never left the part of the vessel where he had 
 cast his lot ; the cabin passengers often spoke of him. Some 
 thought he must be a little deranged ; some admired his con- 
 duct, and wondered at his self-devotion ; many went of an 
 evening to listen when he read or conversed with his people 
 Gertrude always sought that same place where she had sat the 
 first night. There, with her face concealed by her veil, she 
 
LADY-BIRD. 291 
 
 remained in all weathers. Her little companion grew tired of 
 sitting with her. It amused her well enough at first, but she 
 became weary of Gertrude's abstraction, who was too much 
 absorbed in the scene to converse with her. She did not seem 
 to hear when she whispered remarks about the queer faces 
 that appeared amongst the listeners. Mrs. Darton, for that was 
 her name, came to the conclusion that Mrs. Redmond was 
 after all very stupid, and she left off going to the same seat, 
 and nobody else found their way to it. That one figure in 
 black was always there. Adrien's eye now and then rested 
 upon it. There was something in its attitude which he fan 
 cied was familiar to him, though he did not discern what it was 
 that it recalled to his mind. 
 
 One evening, when he came as usual to his post, he looked 
 worn and fatigued. Disease was beginning to spread on the 
 lower deck. The sleeping rooms were dreadfully close — the 
 food was bad — the weather had been heavy and disagreeable 
 during the last few days — the winds contrary. The passage 
 promised to be long and tedious ; murmurs and complaints 
 had been loud in the passengers' cabin that day on the 
 subject. Maurice had said nothing ; but his heart had sunk 
 within him as he heard it. He loathed that ship with inex- 
 pressible disgust. He looked sometimes at the waves with 
 an expression that would have pierced through Mary's soul, 
 had she seen it. But what did Gertrude feel % She felt like 
 a criminal reprieved — like one respited on the very verge of 
 the grave. On the evening we are speaking of, Adrien had 
 seen much sorrow and suffering amongst the emigrants, espe- 
 cially amongst those who were not his own people. For them he 
 had managed before starting to ensure a certain degree of com- 
 fort. But he was no longer the rich man that he used to be. 
 He had taken some time ago the gospel advice, the evangeli- 
 cal counsel, and had sold all or almost all, had given to the 
 poor, and was now following his Lord's footsteps, but with a 
 thorn in his heart which he endured without wincing, but which 
 was sharper than toil, or abstinence, or bodily pain. 
 
 He felt on this day that it was difficult to meet the usual 
 exertion of that hour. He was anxious about a poor child 
 below who had sickened with the fever. He was not contented 
 with the care that the surgeon on board bestowed upon it — . 
 he had seen the mother's wistful countenance, and it haunted 
 him. But he roused himself, and perhaps more than ever 
 reached the hearts of his audience, when after reading to them 
 
290 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 When many are joined together in this, there is something 
 solemn and touching in the sudden hush of many voices — the 
 profound silence of those few moments during which each sepa- 
 rate heart is questioning itself and laying before God its various 
 and widely different amount of guilt and of temptation. It was 
 so in this case, and deep to her heart's core did Gertrude feel 
 it. It seemed as if Adrien must be reading there the sin that 
 she had ceased to struggle with ; perhaps she then felt also 
 that we are sure of God's mercy, but never of man's, for she 
 shuddered at the thought of Adrien's knowing how she, the 
 wife of another, gave way to a guilty though secret affection, 
 even though he himself were its object. 
 
 When the prayers were ended, and her companion who 
 was somewhat weary rose to go, she followed her, and found 
 Maurice waiting for her in their cabin. He was sitting at 
 the small table against the wall with his head leaning on his 
 hands. She put hers on his shoulder, and asked him if he 
 were asleep. 
 
 " Where have you been? " he said, without turning towards 
 her. 
 
 ' ; On deck," she answered, while a sudden flush suffused 
 her cheek. He looked at her attentively, as if to scan the 
 expression of her face. She turned away, and he murmured, 
 
 " Well, everything must come to an end, I suppose." 
 
 " Are you already weary of the voyage ? " she said. 
 
 " I am weary of my life." 
 
 He went away, and came back again. He moved im- 
 patiently about the narrow little slip of a room, and then stop- 
 ping opposite to her, said with bitterness, " It is a pity that 
 we are not steerage passengers. It would have made you 
 happier, I suppose." The colour left her cheek, and she bit 
 her pale lips almost through. " I do not mean to be unkind 
 to you, Gertrude, but you know, oh you must know that a 
 man's heart can be tried almost beyond endurance." Neither 
 of them mentioned the name of Adrien ; and the next few 
 days passed like the preceding ones. 
 
 M. d'Arberg never left the part of the vessel where he had 
 cast his lot ; the cabin passengers often spoke of him. Some 
 thought he must be a little deranged ; some admired his con- 
 duct, and wondered at his self-devotion ; many went of an 
 evening to listen when he read or conversed with his people 
 Gertrude always sought that same place where she had sat the 
 first night. There, with her face concealed by her veil, she 
 
LADY-BIRD. 291 
 
 remain 3d in all weathers. Her little companion grew tired of 
 sitting with her. It amused her well enough at first, but she 
 became weary of Gertrude's abstraction, who was too much 
 absorbed in the scene to converse with her. She did not seem 
 to hear when she whispered remarks about the queer faces 
 that appeared amongst the listeners. Mrs. Darton, for that was 
 her name, came to the conclusion that Mrs. Redmond was 
 after all very stupid, and she left off going to the same seat, 
 and nobody else found their way to it. That one figure in 
 black was always there. Adrien's eye now and then rested 
 upon it. There was something in its attitude which he fan 
 cied was familiar to him, though he did not discern what it was 
 that it recalled to his mind. 
 
 One evening, when he came as usual to his post, he looked 
 worn and fatigued. Disease was beginning to spread on the 
 lower deck. The sleeping rooms were dreadfully close — the 
 food was bad — the weather had been heavy and disagreeable 
 during the last few days — the winds contrary. The passage 
 promised to be long and tedious ; murmurs and complaints 
 had been loud in the passengers' cabin that day on the 
 subject. Maurice had said nothing ; but his heart had sunk 
 within him as he heard it. He loathed that ship with inex- 
 pressible disgust. He looked sometimes at the waves with 
 an expression that would have pierced through Mary's soul, 
 had she seen it. But what did Gertrude feel 1 She felt like 
 a criminal reprieved — like one respited on the very verge of 
 the grave. On the evening we are speaking of, Adrien had 
 seen much sorrow and suffering amongst the emigrants, espe- 
 cially amongst those who were not his own people. For them he 
 had managed before starting to ensure a certain degree of com- 
 fort. But he was no longer the rich man that he used to be. 
 He had taken some time ago the gospel advice, the evangeli- 
 cal counsel, and had sold all or almost all, had given to the 
 poor, and was now following his Lord's footsteps, but with a 
 thorn in his heart which he endured without wincing, but which 
 was sharper than toil, or abstinence, or bodily pain. 
 
 He felt on this day that it was difficult to meet the usual 
 exertion of that hour. He was anxious about a poor child 
 below who had sickened with the fever. He was not contented 
 with the care that the surgeon on board bestowed upon it — . 
 he had seen the mother's wistful countenance, and it haunted 
 him. But he roused himself, and perhaps more than ever 
 reached the hearts of his audience, when after reading to them 
 
294 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 which that face was ever present, and would start up under 
 the impression that she was near him — she whom he had 
 never expected to see again. 
 
 Sleep fled from his eyelids; he mused on her fate, — he 
 wondered whether she had preferred Maurice to him, or if 
 not, what had induced her to marry him ? Against his will 
 his thoughts recurred to the period of their love and their 
 parting. Emotions which he had mastered, regrets he had, as 
 it were, trodden down, seemed to rise again ; and it was only 
 in hard work the next day, in practical devotion to the objects 
 of his interest, that he recovered that inward, as well as out- 
 ward self-possession which he had long struggled for, and 
 lately had attained. When the evening hour of converse 
 with his people approached, he had some trouble to preserve 
 that composure ; and while preparing his subjects of reading 
 and discourse, he felt as if each word that night had a double 
 meaning, and might convey to Gertrude a reproach, an appeal, 
 or a regret. He intended to seek her and Maurice that eve- 
 ning. He had not injured them, though they had injured 
 him ; and both might be happier for his forgiveness. It was 
 not in his nature to stand coldly aloof. He could understand 
 their shrinking from his presence, but why should he turn 
 away from them 1 Perhaps it was poverty that was driving 
 them from England. There was a world of misery in that 
 one glance, that one rapid vision of her face he had had the 
 previous night. He longed to see it once more, and drive 
 away the memory of that look that had given a mute but too 
 expressive answer to the allusion he had made to his own sub- 
 dued sufferings, — his own mastered grief. He talked to his 
 people of the patient endurance of bodily pain ; he could not 
 trust himself to speak of the trials of the soul. He told them 
 stories of the first discovery of America, the land they were 
 bound to. Some might have thought that the tone of his 
 mind was more cheerful than the day before. Much that he 
 said was in rather a gay strain, and there was more laughing 
 amongst his hearers than usual. He steered clear of any of 
 those topics that move men deeply. 
 
 After the assemblage broke up, he stood irresolute for an 
 instant. One by one they disappeared, and he was left alone, 
 or nearly so. But he felt he must speak to her ; she had has- 
 tily risen from her usual seat, and was going away in another 
 direction. He overtook her, and said in a low voice, " Will 
 you not shake hands with me ? " She stopped ; the moment 
 
LADY-BIRD. 295 
 
 so loDged for, so dreaded, was come, and she had to meet it 
 as best she might. With eyes averted, she placed her trem- 
 bling hand in his, and then stood still, as if unable to move or 
 to speak. 
 
 " "Will you not sit down one instant," he said, " and tell 
 me something about yourself, and about Maurice ? Believe 
 me, I care for your happiness as much as ever. I have prayed 
 for it every day of my life." 
 
 " Then you have prayed in vain," she passionately ex- 
 claimed. " Cease to weary Heaven with such prayers, — they 
 are a mockery." 
 
 He was silent. This answer struck a chill into his heart, 
 and a sort of cloud passed before his eyes. " It had been 
 better that we had never met again," she said, in a low voice, 
 as if speaking more to herself than to him ; " better for you, 
 at least, if indeed you had supposed I was happy, for I be- 
 lieve you wish me so, and I cannot deceive you. It would 
 have been right, I know, to shake hands with you kindly, and 
 .then talk of our respective plans and projects, and speak, and 
 look, and seem as if we had never spoken, or looked, or felt 
 differently. This would have been right, perhaps, but there 
 are things that some people can do, and that others cannot." 
 
 There was something reproachful in her manner of saying 
 this ; and greatly moved, he exclaimed, " God help me ! Ger- 
 trude, do you imagine 2" have not suffered 1 " 
 
 She looked at him, and in his pale, calm face she saw an 
 expression of such deep and painful anxiety, as he gazed into 
 hers, that she knew at once that he felt for her even more 
 than she felt for herself. 
 
 " It is of no use," she hurriedly continued. " Why should 
 we talk together? Why have we met again'? I have nothing 
 to reproach you with, and you will not, I know, reproach me : 
 though you might, and perhaps you ought." 
 
 •• You have said too much already thus to leave me, Ger- 
 trude. It will be better for both of us now to clear up the 
 mystery of the past, and understand how it came to pass that 
 we, who parted as we did, should meet again as we do now. 
 Did you receive a letter from me before you married ? " 
 
 " No," she answered, with her eyes fixed on the ground, 
 a But I have seen it since.'''' 
 
 " It #rived, then, too late ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 " Too late for me," she was about to say, but the words 
 died on her lips, and she left him in his error ; but when he 
 
296 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 said, with, emotion, "/would have trusted you through years 
 of silence and suspense," she exclaimed, " do not speak to 
 me in that way, Adrien, remember, there are sufferings that 
 lie dormant, there are thoughts that sleep and must not be 
 awakened. There is a calmness that lasts as long as memory 
 can be kept at bay. that I should be thus speaking to 
 you!" 
 
 " Gertrude, there can be no peace in " 
 
 " Who spoke of peace 1 Did I not say calmness? Do you 
 think I ever dream of peace ? " 
 
 " 0, my God ! " Adrien ejaculated, in a tone of the deepest 
 feeling. " This is worse than I feared. Gertrude, now we 
 must speak the whole truth to each other, I must know how 
 you came to marry as you did." In a low but firm voice, she 
 answered, " Despairing of ever seeing you again, believing that 
 you had abandoned me, bewildered by the fear of a marriage 
 I abhorred, grateful for a love which on that very day was 
 revealed to me — when my mind was almost distracted — I was 
 
 wrought upon — persuaded " Adrien turned pale ; and 
 
 clenching his hand, uttered a word which did not reach her 
 ears, and she continued, " I have suffered not more, perhaps, 
 than I deserve, but more than you can understand. I should 
 not have dared to speak the truth. I should not have shown 
 you the real state of my mind, and of my heart, if I had not 
 felt that in you, and in myself — in our past history — in our 
 present strange meeting, there was that which would forbid 
 us from seeking, in this brief intercourse, anything but the 
 consolation of knowing that we have not wilfully been untrue 
 to each other. That I have been false to myself, unjust to> 
 one whose great sin it has been to love me too much, God 
 knows I confess ; but you I have not injured. no. Each 
 day I live I feel more deeply, perhaps, that ' He whose you 
 are, and whom you serve,' — ay, I heard you say those words 
 not long ago, — He has dealt mercifully with you, and broken 
 to pieces, for your sake, the worthless object of your ill-direct- 
 ed love." 
 
 " Gertrude, you must not say, you must not feel this. 
 With both of us He has dealt with the severe kindness of a 
 father ; our hearts may break, but we must submit and adore." 
 
 " Teach me, then, to submit ; teach me to adore : you have 
 been the angel with the drawn sword in my path ; sheath it 
 if you can, and show me the way. Once before you pointed 
 to it ; it lay then in a smooth and flowery road; now it must 
 
LADY-BIRD. 297 
 
 be through a narrow and thorny one ; but perhaps a light may 
 rise upon it. You toil enough amongst the poor outcasts of 
 this world's making, and may have a more arduous task to 
 perform now." 
 
 Adrien's eyes flashed with a bright expression of love and 
 of hope. " Gertrude, I have felt, ever since I first set eyes on 
 you — do not be afraid of looking back, dearest ; do not 
 shudder at the thoughts of what might have been, but which 
 now can never be. There, in that first meeting, in our love, in 
 our parting, with misgivings but with hope, in our irrevocable 
 separation, — ay, I can speak of it without faltering, though 
 G-od only knows how hard a struggle it has been to submit, — 
 in this our strange reunion, I see, I feel, I bless His guiding 
 hand. Gertrude, we shall not have met, we shall not have 
 loved, we shall not have suffered in vain ; and not in vain have 
 gone through this trying hour, if He deigns to use me as His 
 instrument to re-awaken in you, in your strong will and ardent 
 spirit, the deep enthusiasm of a real vocation, the one resolu- 
 tion which masters every passion, and treads under its feet 
 every sorrow, every anguish, every discouragement. He had a 
 purpose for both of us ; I know it, I feel it. Never let us say, 
 even when we suffer most acutely, ' Would we had never met.' 
 / have never done so, Gertrude ! " 
 
 " Nor I," she faintly murmured. 
 
 " My dearest — I may call you so, for nothing on earth is 
 so dear to me as you — my dearest, let us so live, let us so die, 
 that to all eternity we may say, ' Thank God that we met.' 
 Thank God that we understood the meaning of our love, the 
 meaning of our sufferings, and recognised in them the source 
 of higher fruits of virtue and of love than happiness could 
 ever have yielded. Since the first day I saw you something 
 impelled me to watch you, to pray for you, to feel that I was 
 
 to influence your destiny. Once, for a while " he paused, 
 
 there was a swelling in his heart which he could hardly sub- 
 due, but mastering his emotion he went on, " That dream 
 passed away ; I saw not that I had mistaken God's purpose, 
 but the way in which it was to work, and I hoped that in the 
 end we should not have met in vain. Now I am sure of it. 
 Now a light has flashed through the gloom ; now you too will 
 draw courage and strength from past and from present sorrow. 
 Oh, Gertrude, our two hearts are bruised in the fierce trial 
 we have past and are now passing through. Let each pang 
 that we endure prove a blessing to others. Let innumerable 
 13* 
 
298 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 good deeds and earnest efforts be the fruit of our sufferings ; 
 and then on the day when every tear, every sigh, every cup of 
 cold water is counted, shall we not say, if by His infinite 
 mercy we both stand on His right hand, ' Thank God that we 
 met!'" 
 
 Both were silent, — both were overcome. Their hands 
 were joined in silence, and they withdrew. Another had been 
 near them, and every word of that conversation had been 
 heard. " It is easy for them to be resigned," Maurice said to 
 himself, as he tossed to and fro on his narrow couch that night; 
 " but for me, for me, who stand between them and happiness, 
 it is too hard a task, — too dreadful a fate. Well, it may be 
 simplified one of these clays,— my life may be cut short." 
 
 The pain in his head and in his heart seldom left him now ; 
 but still it is wonderful how people suffer and live on. He saw 
 Adrien the next day, and they spoke kindly to each other. 
 Both subdued the feelings which would have led them to turn 
 away from the other ; for Maurice could not look calmly upon 
 the man whom Gertrude not only had, but still, loved, nor 
 Adrien on him who had betrayed his confidence, and hurried 
 her into a sinful and miserable marriage. It had been an act 
 of heroic virtue on his part to forbear from expressing to Ger- 
 trude his indignation at her husband's conduct ; and the 
 friendly though grave manner with which he addressed him was 
 one of the greatest conquests over himself which he had ever 
 achieved. 
 
 At the hour when the emigrants met on the deck, Maurice 
 said to Gertrude, " You had better not stay in this close cabin, 
 Lady-Bird. It is a beautiful day, I believe. The sea is quite 
 calm ; there are not many more evenings to come before we 
 reach New York. Go and breathe the fresh sea air." 
 
 " Will you come 1 " she said timidly. 
 
 " No ; I do not feel inclined to move. Leave me that book 
 you were reading this morning." She did so, and arranged 
 the cushions of the couch for him. He took her hand and 
 kissed it. She lingered a moment near the door ; he opened 
 the book and read ; she went away, and he closed it. Deep 
 and sad were his musings that night, and once or twice he 
 murmured Mary's name ; and the stillness of the sea was irk- 
 some, and he now dreaded as much as he had wished that this 
 hated passage should end. His manner to Gertrude was very 
 kind now ; those bursts of irritability which used to recur so 
 frequently ceased altogether. He wrapped her tenderly in his 
 
LADY-BIRD. 299 
 
 own cloak when the wind was cold ; he borrowed books for her ; 
 and if she was not well, he thought of a variety of little things 
 to relieve her ; but he could not bear now a smile from her. 
 Truly her smiles were very unlike what they used to be. Per- 
 haps he felt this. He had ceased to be jealous ; he knew 
 everything now, and he feared nothing more. Hatred and re- 
 sentment had all given way to self-reproach and profound 
 dejection. 
 
 One night, at that time, he composed the following rambling 
 lines, and set them as it were in his own mind to the murmur 
 of the waves : 
 
 I knew a noble goodly tree that lent my youth its shade, 
 
 To blight it with insidious art was the return I made. 
 
 I knew an Ivy branch that clung with shelt 'ring love to me, 
 
 I little thought that faithful bough would once forsaken be. 
 
 I knew a bright, a blooming flower, and gazed on it too long, 
 
 I snatched it rudely from its stem and did it grievous wrong. 
 
 I loved them all, I wronged them all ; I bear a heavy load, 
 
 I see no gleam of light to cheer my sad and lonely road. 
 
 If I could die ! but death comes not to those who want it most ; 
 
 L snatched a moment's joy, — alas ! I counted not the cost. 
 
 The waves are whisp'ring Mary's name — once, once, I loved her well. 
 
 O Lady-Bird ! my broken flower 
 
 There the pencil fell from his hand, and the unfinished verses 
 on the floor near the couch. 
 
 That night and the following ones, Adrien spoke to his 
 poor people, and Gertrude listened, and for a while afterwards 
 they talked together. As once before, the fire that burned in 
 his fervent soul kindled a spark in hers. When he spoke of a 
 life of effort and of virtue she felt capable of anything ; as 
 long as he stood by her side she understood how short was 
 this life, how worthless was everything but the prospect of 
 another. She learnt more and more of the meaning of those 
 high spiritual truths which he sought to impart to her ; but to 
 learn is not to feel, and knowledge and grace are as distinct 
 as the shadow and the substance, as a dream and an action. 
 She could not acquiesce in the sacrifice of a final separation. 
 She struggled against the acknowledgment of its necessity. 
 Her tongue never uttered a word, but the deep impassioned 
 language of her eyes protested against it, when with faltering 
 accents he spoke of it. Yes, with faltering accents, for in his 
 heart also a fearful combat had arisen. 
 
 There is no height of virtue, no strength of faith, no length 
 
gOO LADY-BIRD. 
 
 of time spent in continual advances in holiness and in good- 
 ness, that secure a man against temptation, that place him 
 beyond the reach of startling impulses to evil. Adrien was 
 in danger during those days, in which everything seemed to 
 combine against him. In danger of self-deceit, in danger of 
 mistaking the cause of that deep interest which would have 
 made him ready to lay down his life for the sake of her virtue 
 and her happiness, — he saw, he felt his influence over her ; a 
 long, if not a final separation awaited them. He feared to lose 
 time — he returned too often to her side. Every moment that 
 could be snatched from duties of religion and of charity, which 
 he never neglected, he devoted to her ; but did it make him 
 less eloquent that the subjects which he spoke of were those 
 which lend the deepest pathos, and inspire the most ardent 
 enthusiasm in those who have ever felt their influence and 
 understood their scope % Did it make his pale face less beau- 
 tiful in her eyes that it had gained that paleness in long night- 
 watches by the bed of poverty and of suffering? Did the 
 blessings that were poured upon him every day and every hour 
 by the poor creatures that surrounded him make her admire 
 or love him less ? 
 
 They stood on the brink of a precipice and knew it not ; 
 perhaps while he was lending her his aid to scale the rocks, 
 and mount to the heights where he longed to lead her, he was 
 unconsciously losing his own footing. Perhaps she knew more 
 of the secret perils of her own heart — she had had more cause 
 to mistrust it — but perhaps also she feared less the first 
 approaches of evil. She had but one care, but one thought, 
 but one object, and she knew what it was. There was no self- 
 deception in her ; she gave way to the unresisted influence of 
 feelings that seemed too powerful to be withstood, that made 
 her cling to his presence as to a safeguard against the long 
 anguish she had endured, and shrank from enduring again. 
 
 They had sat together in the same spot where they first 
 had met, on a calm and lovely evening which had succeeded a 
 stormy day ; the wind had been violeutly contrary till then, 
 now it seemed to second man's wonderful agent, and to impel 
 them along the ocean with a rapidity that carried joy to the 
 hearts of many weary and worn-out passengers. Glad voices 
 had said that day. •• Now we shall soon arrive ; a very few 
 days more, and we shall be at the end of this tedious voyage.'' 
 " The end of this voyage ! " Gertrude had said to herself, and 
 it was like the announcement of the sentence of death to the 
 
LADY-BIRD. 301 
 
 condemned criminal. They had sat together a long time ; the 
 sky was pure and bright with its thousand stars, and the moon 
 made its road of light on the waves, which were gently rising 
 and falling after their recent agitation, like the sobs of a child 
 whose passion is subsiding. They had spoken of their arri- 
 val ; she had asked if she should see him again when he 
 returned from the settlement he was to visit. She asked it 
 with a look that thrilled through his heart ; she had turned 
 pale when he hesitated ; when he had assented there was a 
 flash of joy in her eyes which carried him back to the day 
 when he first promised to go to Lifford Grange. Ail the past 
 rushed upon him at that moment, with a startling power. He 
 felt she loved him as then, more than then ; a wild involun- 
 tary joy, mingled with a sensation of terror and remorse, shot 
 through his heart. He had meant never to see her again 
 after these days of constrained intercourse — now he had 
 agreed to do so. He had done wrong. 
 
 Few people know what is the awakening of that conscious- 
 ness in those who have in earnest lived a life of continual self- 
 discipline, who have walked under the Almighty eye, till they 
 have learned to shudder at the first approaches of sin. In that 
 instant he was called to the bedside of one of the emigrants 
 who was dying, and to that scene he carried his wounded con- 
 science, and his intense agitation ; but there is that great bless 
 ing attending a course such as his had been, that in the first 
 instance no agitation interferes with practical duty, so habit- 
 ual has self-control become ; and secondly, that agitation never 
 can last long, even though grief and fear, or self-reproach, may 
 prevail. He soothed the mental agony of his poor patient, 
 even as if he had not been suffering himself. He suggested to 
 him every thought that could awaken contrition, and supply in 
 a case of absolute impossibility those spiritual supports which 
 were far out of his reach. He saw him grow calm, and sink 
 by degrees into a kind of sleep, and he remained by his side, 
 praying ardently. 
 
 How strange it is, how marvellous it seems sometimes, that 
 there are human beings who never yr&y, whjo do not know what 
 it is to send up those cries for strength, for guidance, for res- 
 cue, — which burst from other hearts with such vehemence, that 
 they never wield an instrument which effects so much in this 
 world, and beyond it ! — which, like the trumpets that overthrew 
 the walls of Jericho, can break down with its feeble strength 
 the might of every obstacle, and the arms of every foe. Ho 
 
302 LADY-BIRD, 
 
 knew, he now saw the extent of the abyss he had neared ; there 
 was that which he could lay hold of. — there was a staff he 
 could grasp, and which has never yet failed under the heaviest 
 weight that has been trusted to it. Strong in Him who is 
 mighty to save, all his fears were for her, — her to whom 
 he had once hoped to be a guide and a blessing. She, in whom 
 he had first awakened the energy of an hitherto dormant faith ; 
 she whom he had loved and prayed for so long, so unceasing- 
 ly — was she to be abandoned to a sullen despair, an aimless 
 life, and a hopeless heart 1 He prayed it might not be so. 
 He accepted everything, offered up everything ; but asked that, 
 if possible, although he saw no way to it, they might part, not 
 as they had parted that day, — not as they would part, unless 
 she learnt what he could not, and what none but God could 
 teach her. 
 
 It did not seem at that moment as if the prayer were heard. 
 She was musing on that last hour they had spent together, 
 with no misgivings then, nor with any self-reproach. She felt 
 that she could struggle no longer, that it was in vain to strive 
 with destiny. She impiously murmured, " 0, if I must not 
 love him, why did Heaven thus bring us together ! " and then 
 a sudden intense wish for freedom rushed like a hurricane over 
 her soul. It seemed to suggest thoughts which she dared not 
 frame in words. Why was she bound by an irrevocable chain ? 
 Why must she be miserable ? Why had one rash act, one 
 fatal impulse, sealed her doom for ever ? " Until death us do 
 part," floated in her ears. Death — death alone could break 
 that chain. Then for an instant, then as once before, a vision 
 of freedom passed before her, not as a deliberate thought, — far, 
 far less a hope. But she could not escape the consciousness 
 that this dreadful idea had shot through her mind like a dark 
 phantom. — ' : If he were to die, I should be free." It found no 
 verbal utterance ; but the rapid mental protest against it at- 
 tested its existence. 
 
 She remained on the deck that night, and then slowly sought 
 the cabin, where her husband was asleep. She sat down with 
 a book in her hand, the same book out of which he had been 
 reading by the lamp he had left burning. His sleep was dis- 
 turbed ; he spoke incoherent words, and moved restlessly about. 
 It was late before she lay down in her berth. Every now and 
 then she woke up, as he moaned and murmured, and once she 
 asked him if he was suffering % He was asleep again, and she 
 closed her eyes and the ship went on its way, and the hours 
 
LADY-BIRD. 303 
 
 elated, and the morning dawned, and every one was stirring 
 within those wooden walls. Who knows what a day may bring 
 forth ? The sun shines on the evil and on the good, and the 
 morning of one day is like the morning of another ; but the 
 lays themselves ! 0, they are as different sometimes from those 
 .hat precede and that follow them, as Earth is from Purgatory, 
 nd Purgatory from Heaven. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 1 Forgive me that thou couldst not love ! it may be that a tone 
 Yet from my burning heart may pierce through thine when I am gone, 
 And thou perchance mayst weep for him, on whom thou ne'er hast smiled." 
 
 Mrs. Hemaks. 
 
 " In her chastened soul, 
 The passion-coloured images of life, 
 Which with their sudden startling flush awoke 
 So oft those burning tears, have passed away.'" 
 
 " Y"et I was calm ; I knew the time 
 
 My breast would thrill before thy look, 
 But now to tremble were a crime ; 
 We met, and not a nerve was shook. 1 ' 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 When Maurice awoke from a troubled sleep the next day, the 
 pain in his head which had been more or less troubling him 
 since he had embarked was more violent than ever ; his limbs 
 ached, and a feverish thirst parched his lips. He called Ger- 
 trude and asked for some water. In taking back the glass 
 from him she felt that his hand was burning ; and laying her 
 cold one on his forehead started almost at the scorching heat 
 it found there. " Maurice," she gently said, " do you feel ill 1 
 I am sure you are not well." He raised his eyes slowly to hers 
 and shook his head. She made some little arrangements for 
 his comfort, and went to get him some tea. When she 
 brought it back he tried to eat a piece of biscuit, but could 
 not. 
 
 " Maurice," she again repeated, with a kind of nervous 
 anxiety, " I am sure you are ill. You must see the doctor." 
 
 " The doctor ! No ; he will do me no good, and his rough, 
 disagreeable manner will drive me wild. I will not see him ; 
 open the window, and let me breathe the fresh air, and then 
 •jome and sit by me," 
 
304 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 She did so. There was something peculiar in his mannei , 
 he had not looked at her in that way for a long time, perhaps 
 never before, with a sort of calm tenderness, ''Will you read 
 something to me, Gertrude, out of this book 1 " He drew from 
 his bosom a little book of poetry which Mary had written out 
 for him. " I should like to hear you read what she wrote." 
 The book opened at a passage out of Longfellow's " Psalm of 
 Life." Her voice trembled as it uttered the words — 
 
 " And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
 Still like muffled drums are beating 
 Funeral marches to the grave." 
 
 Looking up she saw that his hand was pressed on his 
 heart as if it counted its pulsations. 
 
 " Why do you make me read to you these things ? " she 
 hastily exclaimed, and rapidly turned over the pages of the 
 manuscript. 
 
 " Your voice does me good ; read on, Gertrude, read on. 
 It is the only music I can hear now. It sounds like an echo 
 of the strains I once heard. Last night I dreamed that I was 
 broken on the wheel, and that you were singing to me all the 
 time in a low, soft voice that hushed my groans into silence. 
 Read on ; you do not know what your reading of these verses 
 is to me. ' Whose touch upon the lute chords low, had stilled 
 his heart so oft.' Were not those lines in a poem that you 
 used to repeat years ago, in the Chase — something about the 
 might of earthly love. Have you forgotten them ? " 
 
 " No ; but I will not repeat them now ; they are too 
 exciting, and you must try to sleep, you are feverish." "Fever- 
 ish ! " he re-echoed, and a strange smile flitted over his lips. 
 There was a burning fever in his veins. She , read in a low 
 voice some time, and then she stopped, thinking he was asleep. 
 She remembered, at that moment, how from a boy he had 
 loved her. She thought how changed he was, since the time 
 that with a cloudless brow, and a glowing cheek, and a 
 sparkling eye, he used to make plans for the future, and speak 
 of art and fame with so much feeling and fire. She looked at 
 his sunken cheek, his thin hand, the grey hairs that were 
 visible here and there amongst his dark locks, and yet he was 
 scarcely twenty-five years old. What had blighted his youth ? 
 What had checked his promising career 1 What had drawn 
 him away from the tender and watchful love that had been given 
 to him in childhood, and confirmed in youth ? — what, but that 
 
LADY-BIRD. 305 
 
 fatal passion which had outweighed even conscience and duty, 
 and survived even jealousy and despair ? 
 
 He opened his e} 7 es, and looked uneasily about him. 
 " Lady-Bird," he whispered, "you will not hate me when I am 
 dead ? " She started, and laying her hand upon his mouth, 
 answered in a hurried manner : a 0, for God's sake, do not 
 talk in that way, Maurice ! " 
 
 " Why not 1 If you know what a comfort it is to me to 
 think that I shall not always stand between you and happi- 
 ness." The colour left her cheek. What could she say ? Did 
 she not deserve that he should say this ? but it was dreadful. 
 There are ideas that pass through the mind calmly, but w r hich 
 appear too shocking when suggested by another. 
 
 " You make me very miserable, Maurice, speaking to me 
 thus." He raised himself in his bed, and leaning upon his 
 arm, with his other hand he clasped hers, and looked into her 
 eyes with those eyes which she had once wondered if she 
 could wish never to see again. 
 
 '• Do I make you miserable, Lady-Bird % Yes, I know I 
 do — I know I have done so. The consciousness of it has been 
 my long agony. I wish you could sympathise with me for 
 once before I die — that once you could hear without turning 
 away the outpouring of my heart. That is why I spoke, just 
 now, of what gives me consolation." 
 
 " Not to me, not to me ! This is dreadful. Maurice [ 
 Maurice ! " She hid her head in the bed-clothes, and he fell 
 back exhausted. In a moment he said, " I have not been 
 trying to work on your feelings, Gertrude. I believe what I 
 say, or I should not have said it. I know too well all your 
 
 kindness, your pity, and what must be your " The word 
 
 was unuttered ; ife was hope he was going to say, but he felt it 
 conveyed a too cruel reproach to himself and to her ; but he 
 continued with agitation : " Your kindness, I accept. I thank 
 you for these tears ; but, keep your pity — you should have 
 pitied me before, but not now." 
 
 " Maurice ! " she exclaimed impetuously, raising her head, 
 " you must not — you shall not feel thus. I am sure you are 
 not as ill as you think ; if you were you ought to have seen 
 the doctor long ago. You must see him instantly." 
 
 A wretched recollection crossed her mind then how she had 
 heard from Adrien, that this man was unskilful and negligent, 
 but there was no help for it now, and she sent for him. It was 
 a long while before he came. There was a great deal of illness 
 
306 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 in the sliip, and Adrien was accompanying him through the 
 infirmary of the lower deck, compelling his attention to every 
 case in succession, and refusing to let him leave the most 
 wretched amongst them, to go and attend the sick passenger 
 who had sent for him. He little thought who it was that was 
 counting the minutes, and watching every sound. When he 
 came there was little comfort to be found in his presence. He 
 was one of the worst specimens of that class of men that used 
 to be, and still sometimes are sent out in emigrant ships — 
 men who accept the insufficient and miserable pittance thus 
 afforded them, because they have neither the skill nor charac- 
 ter with which to succeed elsewhere. He shook his head, and 
 said that Maurice was very ill, but not dangerously so, as far 
 as he could see. He had a great deal of fever, and there had 
 been evidently previous depression of the nervous system 
 which aggravated the case. There was acute pain in the 
 limbs, and continual thirst. He sent some medicine, and 
 promised, if possible, to see him again in the evening. His 
 abrupt and familiar .manner had been painful to them both. 
 He joked by the bed-side. If a sick-room is sometimes a 
 fitting place for jests, it certainly was not so in this case. 
 When he closed the door, Gertrude bent over the bed and 
 said. " You see. dear Maurice, you are not so very ill." She 
 had never, since their marriage, called him " dear Maurice." 
 He knew it, and the blood rushed with violence to his very 
 temples. 
 
 At the time when she usually went upon the deck he 
 showed her the watch, and pointed to the hour. ' : No, no, not 
 to-night," she said, " I would not on any account leave you, 
 Maurice. I won't," she added, with one of her old smiles, as 
 he murmured that he wished her to go. " Well, I will let you 
 stay — you are right, I think, not to leave me. I feel very 
 strangely at times, and I fancy the fever is increasing. There, 
 sit down opposite to me, and put the lamp on that side, so that 
 the light may fall upon you. Is the sea very rough to-night % " 
 
 " No ; it is quite calm. I see from here the moon shining 
 on the waves." 
 
 " Full many a fathom deep." 
 
 " What are you saying ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; I was thinking ©f a funeral at sea which 
 I once saw a long time ago. But there was a priest on board. 
 I am glad I went to see Mary before I came away. You will 
 be always kind to Mary, won't you, Gertrude?" His eyes 
 
LADY-BIRD. 307 
 
 closed, and she felt a great difficulty in sitting quietly on, lis- 
 tening to the broken sentences that dropped from his lips. 
 
 He was in that state between waking and dreaming in 
 which the thoughts seem more busy with the past than with the 
 present. There is always something awful in the ramblings 
 of the mind, even when no secret sufferings are disclosed ; but 
 when there are, and when the listener is and has been the 
 cause or the sharer of such griefs, those long and silent watches 
 are hard to bear. Gertrude tried to read, tried not to think. 
 She sought' to stifle memory, to look neither backward nor 
 forward, to banish from her mind all thought but of the pres- 
 ent moment ; the relief that could be given, the kind word 
 that could be spoken. But it would not do. Back came upon 
 her the recollections of her mother's death, of all that had ac- 
 companied and followed it. Her dying form seemed stretched 
 before her on that bed where Maurice was lying, and she 
 gazed on his pale face with mingled sensations of grief and 
 fear. 
 
 The hours went by, and still the doctor came not. It 
 grew very late, and he became gradually worse. He was not 
 light-headed now ; but the pain was increasing, and his breath- 
 ing was oppressed. She felt alarmed, but was afraid of leaving 
 him to call for assistance. Hurrying out for an instant she 
 caught sight of one of the stewards and begged he would find 
 the doctor, and entreat him to come directly. When she re- 
 turned, Maurice called her in a low voice and made her sit 
 down close to his pillow. " Now listen to me, Lady-Bird, for 
 I can speak now, and perhaps for the last time I call you by 
 that name. Forgive me all I have ever made you suffer. It 
 would have been better for you that I had never been born ; 
 but if I die now, then my life will not have done you much 
 harm : will it, Gertrude % You are very young still, and you 
 may be happy a long time. You will forgive me, when you 
 are happy, for having loved too much during my short life, — 
 and that my love made me selfish, and wicked, and mad. Do 
 not weep, Lady-Bird — do not hide your face from me. Will 
 you kisff me once? " She passed her arm round his neck, and 
 pressed upon his fevered lips a kiss such as he had dreamt of, 
 but never felt before. A sudden faintness came over him, he 
 gasped for breath — " One of the draughts— give' it me quick 
 — I am choking." Her eyes blinded with tears, a mist before 
 her sight, she poured out the medicine into a glass, and gave 
 it him. He swallowed it, and exclaimed, " How strangely it 
 tastes ! " 
 
308 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 What horrible -vision has passed before her? What sud- 
 den terror has made her cheek livid, as she kneels by the lamp 
 and reads the label on that empty bottle. " Laudanum, Poison." 
 There is a miraculous strength in fear and in anguish, for she 
 neither staggered nor fainted, but rushing wildly to the door, 
 she called out in a tone of such agony for the doctor, that two 
 or three persons started up at once out of their beds and ran 
 for him. It was at the dead of night, and some awoke in 
 their cabins and heard that scream, and thought it was the cry 
 of a drowning wretch. She sat by the narrow bed, and put 
 his head on her breast, and gazed upon it, as if her eyes had 
 turned to stone and her brain to fire. " If he were to die I 
 should be free." Is there a fiend in hell cruel enough to 
 remind her in that hour of those words, which she had trem- 
 bled at yesterday, and which to-day resemble the despairing 
 cry of the condemned when their sentence is pronounced. It 
 was an appalling sight, that visage of hers bent over his, but 
 so placed that he could not see it. He complains of strange 
 sensations, and her heart dies within her, but she speaks 
 calmly, for she possesses a power of endurance which has 
 never yet been called forth. She feels that if he should die, 
 the ceaseless anguish of remorse on earth at least will be her 
 portion ; but while there is life there is hope, and God's mercy 
 is immense, as boundless as her despair. 
 
 The doctor came, disturbed, angry ; many are ill and 
 dying at once in that miserable ship, and they have been 
 clamouring for him all night. " Mr. Redmond can't be much 
 worse than when he saw him last." She has taken the bottle 
 and placed herself between him and the bed, and she whispers 
 in his ear, " I gave him that? He starts back and mutters 
 
 an oath, " Then, by Gr , it's all over with him." She does 
 
 not faint, but wrings her hands and says, " Try, try to save 
 him, do what you can ; " and then she stands by his side 
 while he employs all the means common in such cases, all the 
 expedients which can be resorted to at such a moment, and in 
 breathless silence watches his every movement with agonizing 
 anxiety. " I can do no more," he said at last, " and I cannot 
 stay any longer ; I am wanted elsewhere. You must keep 
 him awake if you can. it all depends upon that: any way you 
 can. talk to him. rouse him. I must go." She seized his arm, 
 and with a look that startled even his stolid nature, she said, 
 
 ' ; Tell Adrien d'Arberg to come here this instant. Tell 
 him Maurice Redmond is dying, and that it is hs wife that 
 
 
LADY-BIRD. 309 
 
 lias killed him." She knelt before her husband, she did not 
 now hide her face from him, she spoke to him with a voice, she 
 looked at him with eyes, which seemed to rouse him from the 
 growing stupor that was invading his senses. She called to 
 him aloud, and raised his hands in hers and convulsively pressed 
 them. 
 
 The door opened, and Adrien was by her side, pale, firm, 
 and composed. She murmured without looking towards him. 
 " What will become of me, if he dies ! " Maurice's eyes closed, 
 and he no longer seemed to hear or to feel. She turned then 
 and gave Adrien a look of such dreadful despair, that he turn- 
 ed still paler than before. He laid his hand on her shoulder, 
 and said. " Gertrude, pray, pray with all the strength of your 
 despair, and let me watch by his side. This night we shall 
 spend together, and then whatever God ordains. Whatever 
 happens " • 
 
 " We part forever," she slowly uttered, and he said, 
 " Amen?' 
 
 " Tbis is a vow," she exclaimed. 
 
 " As solemn as this hour," he replied. " Now go and pray, 
 that God may have mercy on you and on me." 
 
 Then, Adrien strove with all his strength, with all his skill, 
 with all the resources of intelligence and experience. He sup- 
 plied the doctor's place, and with all the energy of his calm but 
 intense volition sought to recall animation in that sinking fram«. 
 to struggle with the fatal sleej) that was invading it. He felt 
 strong with an almost supernatural strength ; he felt that the 
 safety of an immortal soul might be, that the future peace or 
 the unspeakable misery of another was at stake ; and he wres- 
 tled there with the mortal enemy, as Jacob wrestled with the 
 Angel in the mysterious hour of mystical strife and clearly 
 won victory. He offered up his whole existence on that day, 
 in exchange for the boon he passionately implored. Life for 
 him, grace for her, was the cry of his deep soul ; for himself, 
 the cross, the desert's scorching air, the missionary's path, or 
 the martyr's grave. 
 
 Human efforts, at times, are extraordinarily blessed. 
 There is a force in prayer, — there is a strength in sacrifice, 
 — there are mysteries in grace, — there are strange dealings 
 with men's souls, — marvellous changes in destinies, and won- 
 derful triumphs of faith. Maurice's life hung on a thread that 
 night and all the while Gertrude prayed some of those wordless 
 prayers, — those cries of the .heart which none but God can 
 
310 LADY-BIKD. 
 
 hear ; confessed her sins with agonizing contrition, and, when 
 her brain grew sick with terror and her soul waxed faint with> 
 in her, convulsively called upon her who prays for us to Jesus, 
 when we can no longer pray for ourselves. He who had ever 
 been in his father's house, and she who was returning to it in 
 that hour, both knelt by that bedside. Each made a promise, 
 each recorded a vow, and in the fiery trial of that night a new 
 heart was given her. 0, if in His mercy God would cancel 
 the sentence of death which was writing upon that face its un- 
 mistakeable character, — if He would give back to her keeping 
 that loving heart which had well nigh ceased to teat, and 
 open again those eyes which else would haunt her to the 
 grave, — would not life be too short for gratitude, and earth not 
 wide enough for her zeal? What were now past suffer- 
 ings in her sight 1 Nothing to the pangs she was now en- 
 during. — like the tears of childhood by the anguish of manhood ! 
 She vowed to love her husband. 0, she loved him already. 
 A single hair of his head had grown precious to her heart, and 
 her burning lips were pressed to his cold hands with feelings 
 that hope and joy could never give. Truly as Adrien was 
 striving and watching by her side that livelong night, sharing 
 and mastering its terrors and its anguish, she felt that an 
 angel had come to her aid ; but earthly passion passed away, 
 even then, from her soul, and never from that day forth did 
 she think of him but as one of those ministering spirits who 
 lead the way to Heaven, but are not destined to walk the com- 
 mon paths of life by our side. Maurice opened his eyes and 
 saw them both kneeling by him. His brain was dizzy, and he 
 gazed strangely upon them. Nothing perhaps could have 
 roused him from that deadly stupor so powerfully as their pre- 
 sence, and they spoke to him in words that recalled his soul 
 from the confines of death. She threw her arms round his 
 neck, she pressed him to her heart, she called him her husband, 
 and told him she loved him. He sat up in his bed and point- 
 ed to Adrien. " Once, but not now," she said in a low voice. 
 " Believe me, dear Maurice, by all I have endured this night, 
 ■ — by all we have suffered since our marriage, you may believe 
 me now. My love is yours henceforward — yours alone. I 
 gave it you, Maurice, in an awful hour, and one of the most 
 dreadful trials that ever was sent to crush a stubborn spirit 
 has not been sent in vain." He read in her eyes the truth of 
 those words and the rush of conflicting feelings they aw T akened 
 was almost too much for his .enfeebled frame. There were 
 
LADY-BIRD. 311 
 
 still alternations of hope and of fear with regard to his health, 
 but from that hour he rallied. The fever had been subdued 
 through the very means which had brought him to the verge 
 of death, but from which he had so miraculously recovered. 
 
 When he became strong enough to converse he sent for 
 Adrien, and wished to see him alone. He told him all that 
 he had only suspected before. He spoke with detestation of 
 his own conduct, and implored his forgiveness for the breach 
 of trust he had been guilty of in his regard ; and he whom he 
 had so much injured heard that humble confession, and sooth- 
 ed the bitterness of self-accusation with all the tender charity 
 of one who had ceased to feel anything as keenly as the offence 
 which that sin had been against the majesty of the Most High. 
 Maurice was soon able to rise from the bed of suffering, of 
 death, and of deliverance. The day before the vessel reached 
 New York, he earnestly entreated to be carried on deck, and 
 pointed to the place where he had once suffered so much, and 
 he asked Gertrude to sit there with him. She came, look- 
 ing pale and worn, but serene as a summer evening after a 
 violent storm. The brightness of her eyes was not quenched ; 
 but it was a different light shining through them than had 
 ever beamed in them before. An unspeakable peace was 
 reigning in her soul, and hovering over her every moment. 
 She looked like one who " Had been she knew not where, and 
 seen what she could not declare." She had verily gazed into 
 the abyss, and stood on the brink of an awful chasm, and now 
 her feet were on the rock. She looked up to Heaven with un- 
 utterable thankfulness, and the eyes that were raised in ador- 
 ing gratitude fell tenderly on him who from the very jaws of 
 death had been won back " by the force of prayer." 
 
 She had not much to learn in the way she was now begin- 
 ning to tread. She had seen it, that way, from her childhood 
 up. The seed had been sown long ago, but it had withered 
 away for lack of moisture. No gentle showers could have 
 pierced the hard surface, no light wind could bow clown that 
 indomitable will ; therefore it was that God, who had marked 
 her for his own, had made all his waves pass over her ; and 
 not in vain had this last and tremendous storm well-nigh over- 
 whelmed her. She knew it — she felt it ; her past life now rose 
 before her as a miracle of mercy, a prodigy of love. She re- 
 membered her kind and stern old instructor's words — " If light 
 sufferings are not enough to bring you to His feet. God will 
 in His mercy send you some of those strange trials which break 
 
312 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 what would not bend, and crush what would not yield." But 
 He had not crushed her — no ; He had bowed her down under 
 His Almighty hand, and showed her in one horrible hour what 
 His wrath can do j and then His saving hand was stretched 
 out, and she stood on the shore, strong and erect with the 
 strength He had given her, with the energy He had implanted 
 in her. 
 
 When the hour approached for the last meeting of the 
 emigrants on deck, for the last words that Adrien was to ad- 
 dress to them, Maurice turned to her and said with emotion, 
 
 " Will you stay or go?" 
 
 " Stay, if you like it," she answered, with perfect serenity. 
 
 " He saved my life, Gertrude, that night, did he not ? " 
 
 "And more, far more than my life," she answered, and 
 drew closer to his side ; but he murmured as she did so, 
 "Would to God I had died." 
 
 Steadily Gertrude gazed on Adrien, as he advanced to his 
 accustomed place. She breathed an inward thanksgiving 
 that her heart did not throb wildly as it used to do at his ap- 
 proach. She felt astonished at what is granted to those who 
 surrender themselves wholly into His care who can rule the 
 waves and subdue the storm. She pressed her husband's 
 hand in hers and said, " May God bless and reward him, 
 Maurice," and he fervently uttered, "Amen." That Amen re- 
 called to her the solemn one pronounced not long ago by 
 those lips on which she had once hung with all but idolatrous 
 worship. He spoke, and she listened calmly. He gave a few 
 plain practical instructions, a few kind words of advice to his 
 poor fellow-passengers — to those especially whom he was to 
 lose sight of the next day, perhaps never to meet on earth 
 again. But his voice did not falter, nor did her cheek blanch. 
 When the words " Farewell, and God Almighty be with you, 
 and bless you, and guide you wherever you go, and send his 
 angels to bring you on your way," were pronounced, she bent her 
 head as if to receive his blessing. When he said, " Pray for 
 me, my friends ; pray for one to whom great mercy has been 
 shown ; pray that his long delays in the upward path may be 
 forgiven, and that while striving for other men's souls he may 
 save his own," she joined her hands and prayed that in Heaven 
 they might meet ; and the few tears she shed, and which fell 
 on Maurice's hand, were as pure as the source from which they 
 flowed. There was no passion in that grief, no bitterness in 
 that parting. 
 
LADY-BIRD, 313 
 
 When the crowd dispersed, Adrien came up to them and 
 held out a hand to each. Maurice was dreadfully overcome. 
 She wept softly and silently. " I leave in a boat early to- 
 morrow," he said. u So now we part, and I know I carry 
 away with me your kind wishes ; I reckon on your prayers." 
 
 . " Adrien ! Adrien ! " Maurice exclaimed. " Would 
 you had ever reproached me." 
 
 " Hush, hush, dear Maurice," he rejoined ; " we have all 
 three learned a deep lesson — the one lesson of life ; hencefor- 
 ward we have to practise it. By Heaven's immense and un- 
 deserved mercy we have done no fatal injury to each other, 
 though we have all more or less sinned and been near to great 
 dangers ; we have not any of us ruined or perverted a human 
 soul, and that is a priceless blessing — we feel it in this part- 
 ing hour : we have all suffered, and it has wrought good in us 
 all ; has it not, dear friend 1 You, who have been on the 
 brink of the grave, and you," — his voice faltered a little as he 
 addressed himself to Gertrude — " who won back his life by 
 your prayers, are bound by a double tie ; and God's claims 
 upon you both are twofold since that day." 
 
 " Do not take leave of us thus, dear, dear Adrien," Maurice 
 exclaimed. " Do not speak as if we were not to meet again 
 for years." 
 
 " God bless you both for ever ! " he answered, and hastily 
 moved away. 
 
 Gertrude hid her face on her husband's shoulder, and both 
 for a few minutes wept together. She was the first to dry her 
 tears, and when he raised his eyes to hers there was not a 
 cloud on her brow. 
 
 U 
 
314 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 " Be it enough 
 At once to gladden and to solemnise 
 My lonely life, if for thine altar here, 
 In the dread temple of the wilderness, 
 By prayer and toil and watching I may win 
 The offering of one heart, one human heart- 
 Bleeding, repenting, loving." 
 
 Mrs. IIemans, 
 
 " I stand upon the threshold stone 
 
 Of my ancestral hall ; 
 I hear my native river moan, 
 
 I see the night o 1 er my old forest fall. 
 I look round on the darkening vale 
 
 That saw my childhood's plays; 
 The lone wind in its rising wail 
 
 Has a strange tone ; a voice of other days— 
 But I must rule my swelling breath." 
 
 Hid. 
 
 The shades of evening had fallen, and there was silence in 
 the ship ; Maurice and Gertrude had retired into their cabin. 
 Adrien was, for the last time, sleeping alongside those towards 
 whom his labour of love was now accomplished. The moon 
 was just rising in a cloudless sky, and the vessel was steadily 
 and rapidly advancing on its course. Most of the passengers 
 had been rejoicing that on the morrow they were to land, and 
 begin a new existence in the New World they had sought. 
 There had been much merriment at the evening meal, where, 
 for the last time, the same company had met. They were 
 looking forward to the future with eagerness ; but some few 
 of them felt a regret at leaving the semblance of a home which 
 that huge ship had presented. Many kind words had been 
 spoken, and farewells exchanged. Land would soon be in 
 sight ; by the time of sunrise next day their eyes would be- 
 hold it. This was probably the last thought of those who 
 went to sleep on board the brave ship that night. 
 
 It glided along, and the wind was in its favour. The 
 watchers saw the lights gleaming along the coast. The sleep- 
 ers dreamt of the past — the sleepless of the future. No un- 
 wonted sounds stirred the silent air — no presentiment of evil 
 disturbed that repose. But suddenly through the vast ship 
 there ran a word, at which the watchers started as one man, 
 the sleepers awoke, the boldest trembled, and the reckless 
 shuddered. " At midnight a cry arose — " " The ship is on 
 fire ! " and from each one that heard it there came a cry, a 
 
LADY-BIRD. 31r 
 
 groan, or a sigh, such as the hearts of men send forth when 
 death is at their door. Then it was that they showed of what 
 metal they were made. There was no time for thought, or 
 for prayer, save a short, hurried one for mercy and aid. The 
 word of command was given, the boats lowered, the passengers 
 marshalled ; the sea was calm, and the heavens serene. The 
 sailors were brave, and the captain firm ; but from the upper 
 and lower decks there arose a sound more awful than the rag- 
 ing of the waves, more appalling than the crash of thunder ; 
 the confusion, the strife, the rushing to and fro, the shouts 
 and the prayers, the curses and the groans, grew with the ad- 
 vancing flames, and rose with the clouds of enveloping smoke. 
 
 There was one in that moment whose only thought was his 
 wife, who, pale and motionless, was standing by his side, in 
 silence preparing her soul to meet its Judge. But that hour 
 was not come ; for their turn is arrived, and she is placed in 
 the first boat, and her husband is in it too. The land is near, 
 and will soon be gained. There is a mist before her sight ; 
 but her eyes are fixed in one direction, her hands clasped to- 
 gether, and her lips moving in prayer. They stand on ihe 
 shore, and a crowd gathers round them. The boats are put- 
 ting out again ; women and children are weeping and wailing, 
 and there are breathless supplications and loud cries from some, 
 and a silence deeper than death in others, as they watch the 
 blazing vessel, and by the lurid light it throws on the water 
 are striving to discern the forms which the boats are conveying. 
 
 Gertrude is leaning on the edge of a narrow pier, and Mau- 
 rice is by her side. They do not speak to each other, but 
 their eyes and their thoughts and their fears are in unison ; 
 for they know that Adrien will be the last to leave that burn- 
 ing wreck while one human soul is in danger of perishing 
 there. Once more the boats are gone back for those who tar- 
 ried behind, and there runs a murmur through the crowd, as 
 they rush forward to the brink of the waves — " This is the 
 last time they can approach it ; they cannot save them all." 
 Gertrude shuddered, and ceased to look. She laid her head 
 upon the stone wall on which she was leaning, and a trembling 
 came over her ; for the hands were few, and the ship burning 
 now with uncontrollable rapidity, the flames were mounting to 
 the sky, and a faint distant shout of despair — the dying cry 
 of expiring hope — was wafted by the wind to those listening 
 straining ears. She turned round and looked wildly around 
 her, as if to ask for help, where no help could .be given. Mau- 
 
316 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 rice was gone. He could brook it no longer. Adrien must 
 not die. and he live to see it. 
 
 There was a small shattered boat, which had been left 
 aside until then, as too unsafe for use. He has commended 
 himself to God, and called upon Mary ; and in that little bark 
 he makes for the scene of danger and death. He rows for the 
 life of his friend ; he nears the vessel ; he reaches it at last. 
 He pushes alongside the last boat that is leaving it, and with 
 his whole remaining strength he calls on Adrien. He is there ; 
 his tall form conspicuous in the light that illumines the ter- 
 rific scene, — a child in his arms, and another in his hand. The 
 mother had been thrust into the boat that was departing, and 
 with wild gestures was imploring him, whom in her distrac- 
 tion she fancied was an angel, to restore them to her arms. 
 In an instant he perceived the little bark beneath ; and spring- 
 ing into it at once, with the children he had saved from the 
 flames, he took the oars from Maurice, who fell back exhaust- 
 ed. The boat was leaking, the surge was dangerous, the chil- 
 dren scared ; not a word was spoken ; there was no sound but 
 the stroke of the oars, now wielded by a powerful arm. 
 
 The sun was just rising on that scene of horror and of 
 mercy. When Gertrude at the edge of the waves met that 
 bark as it landed, Maurice stept on to the shore, went towards 
 her, and murmured, " He is saved ;" then leaning upon her 
 arm, he fainted. She uttered a short cry, and in an instant 
 Adrien was by her side, and both saw at once what had hap- 
 pened. Maurice had broken a blood-vessel. 
 
 In the small inn of an American village Gertrude sat by 
 the bedside of one who had greatly sinned and deeply suffer- 
 ed, — her dying and repenting husband. A priest from a 
 neighbouring mission has been with him, received his confes- 
 sion, and administered the last sacraments of the Church. 
 Adrien was watching in the next room. There was a calm 
 and beautiful expression on Maurice's face ; he was not merely 
 resigned, but willing to die. That God should have granted 
 him such a blessing as to give his life for the friend he had 
 injured, and at one time hated, struck him with a sense of 
 grateful astonishment. Gertrude's kindness, the tenderness 
 of her voice and of her looks, which were inexpressibly sooth- 
 ing to him now, would not have been sufficient to allay the 
 torments of self-reproach under different circumstances. They 
 might even have awakened it more keenly than indifference. 
 During the last few days he had reviewed the past with the 
 
LADY-BIRD 317 
 
 most intense contrition, and, though he had resigned himself 
 to live as a just expiation and a continual atonement, death 
 was to him the highest boon that could have been granted to 
 his weary and repentant spirit. He distrusted his own 
 strength for the long journey of life, and blessed the merciful 
 God that was withdrawing him from its snares and its perils. 
 
 He was capable of an heroic action, and it had been given 
 to him to perform it. In deep humility he felt, " Lord, now 
 let thy servant depart in peace," for the peace of the absolved, 
 of the pardoned, was his. The faith which had never been 
 effaced from his soul was now again as bright and fervent as 
 ever. His mind — long stored with images of beauty and 
 dreams of harmony — readily turned to the vision of Heaven. 
 He sent for Adrien, and gazed upon him with an unutterable 
 expression, which was answered by these words, " But for you, 
 dear friend, my earthly task would be over ; you leave me to 
 labour, and are going home early." A change came over his 
 face, and detaining him by the hand he called Gertrude, who 
 had withdrawn when Adrien came in. They never stayed with 
 him together, but while one was watching him the other knelt 
 in the next room. But now, he wished them both to remain. 
 He made her stand on one side of the bed, and him on the 
 other* and gave a hand to each. Then he fixed his eyes upon 
 her and said, 
 
 " Once more say that you forgive me, Gertrude." 
 
 She bent over him and answered, ' : Rather forgive me, 
 my husband. Maurice, God once gave you back to my 
 prayers " 
 
 " Ay," he exclaimed, " and priceless was the boon then of 
 the life restored, and lent for a few days. To die then, my 
 beloved, would have been a deserved but a sad fate ; whereas 
 now, here, thus, my wife, my friend, it is a blessing as great 
 
 as his mercy Hush, do not interrupt me now. The 
 
 time is short, and I have something to say to you both. First. 
 dearest Gertrude, tell her whom I loved before, and only less 
 than you, that in my dying hour I have blessed her. That 
 here, round my neck, I have always worn the little medai 
 which she placed there the first time that we parted. Toft 
 her that through all my sins and my sufferings, I have nevei 
 omitted to say every day the short prayer she then gave me 
 Take it, Gertrude, and let Mary have it. And now listen 
 both of you, to my last words, my last wish, my last request 
 There is a thought that would give me inexpressible consola 
 
 
318 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 tion in these my last moments. Adrien ! Gertrude ! I have 
 stood between you and happiness during my life. let it 
 not be so after my death. Give me your hands — let me join 
 them together — let me feel that you will both be happy when 
 I am dead, that the memory of all I have made you suffer 
 will only unite you more closely to each other, and that 
 thoughts of tenderness and pity for one who sinned against 
 you so deeply will be mixed with every recollection of the 
 past." 
 
 " Do you think I could ever feel anything but love and 
 gratitude for you, Maurice ? " she murmured almost inaudi- 
 bly, and Adrien grasped more tightly the hand he was 
 holding. 
 
 Maurice made a faint attempt to unite theirs, and articu- 
 lated with effort, but with an imploring expression, " Promise 
 me that you will marry." She shook her head, and passed 
 her arm round his neck. " For my peace, for my sake," he 
 ejaculated; simultaneously she and Adrien joined their hands 
 for one instant, and then bent over him in speechless emotion, 
 for life was ebbing fast, and death approaching. A look of 
 repose settled on his face, a faint smile played on his lips, and 
 his spirit passed away. Adrien and Gertrude repeated the 
 " De Profundis " before they rose from their knees, and* then 
 separated, only once to meet again, — by the side of Maurice's 
 grave in the cemetery of New York. There they parted, with 
 silent blessings and a mute farewell, their tears falling less in 
 sorrow for the dead or their own parting, than in memory of 
 the past, with its buried affections and its chastened griefs. 
 From that spot where for the last time they knelt together 
 each went on his way, 
 
 " With heart subdued, but courage high." 
 
 On her arrival at New York Gertrude had sought an 
 abode in a convent, where for a short time she remained, and 
 from thence wrote to Mary Grey, sending her Maurice's medal, 
 and briefly stating the circumstances of his death, and her own 
 intention to devote the rest of her life to the service of God, 
 in whatever way it would seem His will to lead her. 
 
 In the first days of her widowhood she had entertained 
 the hope that the religious life might be the lot that He had 
 appointed her, but another duty, another consolation, a great 
 and unexpected blessing was granted to one who felt alone in 
 
LADY-BIRD. 319 
 
 the world, and to whom it seemed as a token of forgiveness, 
 and a direct gift from Heaven. A few months elapsed and 
 Gertrude had a child. She loved it with all the tenderness 
 which she had so long refused to its father ; and when in her 
 infant's face she saw again the eyes that had been so often bent 
 upon her with unrequited affection, its tears fell fast on the 
 little cheek that was closely pressed to her own. 
 
 She did not write to her own family, but Edgar Lifford, 
 as soon as the news of her husband's death and afterwards of 
 her son's birth had reach him, sent letters which, although 
 couched in his usual formal style, were full of kindness and 
 good feeling. He inquired after her worldly circumstances, 
 and made her offers of assistance : she wanted but little, and 
 that only for her child ; poverty was her choice, and labour 
 her happiness. Amongst the poor Irish who are continually 
 landing in America she found every kind of suffering to alle- 
 viate, of sorrow to console. It was her delight to watch for 
 the arrival of the emigrant ships, and to give a welcome to 
 the lonely heart, a helping hand to the helpless. Children 
 who had lost their parents during the passage, widows who 
 had seen their husbands die in their arms, the girl who had 
 sinned and longed to repent, the father who had babes, and no 
 wife to care for them, — found a friend in the pale woman in 
 deep mourning who never turned away from their tale of woe, 
 — and who with her child in her arms, and later in her hand, 
 knew the road to their poor homes, and the way to their warm 
 hearts. She was known in that foreign land by her old 
 familiar name, and it became a byword of love in the mouths 
 of the poor. 
 
 It was little Maurice that had taught it them. One day 
 that he had brought in childish glee a " Lady-bird " home, 
 he wondered at the tears that started in her eyes, even though 
 she smiled at the same time. But she whispered, " That was 
 mother's name once," and he lisped it often afterwards, and 
 others learnt it of him. The sufferers in the hospitals asked 
 for her. The poor in their hovels welcomed her. The chil- 
 dren hung on the skirts of her black faded dress, and all who 
 knew her face with its beauty, and her voice with its melody, 
 and her smile with its sweetness, would murmur as she passed 
 along the crowded streets on her errands of mercy, " Heaven 
 bless that fair Lady-Bird, who goes about doing good." 
 
 Some years elapsed, and then one day Gertrude received 
 from her brother the following letter : 
 
320 LADY-BIRD". 
 
 " My dear Gertrude, — At last, after our long travels, we 
 Lave returned to Lifford Grange, and I grieve to tell you that 
 my father's health is in a very unsatisfactory state. He is 
 much altered in every way, — both in body and mind. His 
 memory is much impaired ; at least it is so in many respects, 
 though in one instance alone it seems more lively than it was. 
 I had imagined, my dear sister, that he had entirely forgotten 
 you, for until quite lately he never made any allusion to you, 
 or seemed to recollect your existence. But since we have re- 
 turned to this place he has often spoken of you. He does not 
 know that I am writing, but I have been consulting with Mr. 
 Erving, and we both think that if you could come to England, 
 he would see you, and that it might work in him a favourable 
 change. 
 
 " Indeed, my dear sister, he is in a very sad state. The 
 extraordinary part of it is, that he seems to think himself — 
 somehow or other — to blame about our poor mother's death. It 
 is a nervous fancy, but it preys much on his mind. He has 
 chosen now to occupy the apartment in which she lived, and 
 can seldom be persuaded to leave it, and when he does go out 
 it is not beyond the park. I hear from Mary Grey that you 
 have no intention of becoming a nun, though you lead the life 
 of a Sister of Charity. There are good works to be done 
 everywhere, and a very good one here, I am convinced. I 
 wish I could write to you a persuasive letter, but it is not in 
 my line. You would hardly know your father again, — his hair 
 is quite white, — no one would think he was only fifty years 
 old. 
 
 " I am afraid you will not understand from this letter how 
 much I wish you to come. I cannot be quite certain that my 
 father will receive you, or that he will be willing to see your 
 little boy, but Mrs. Redmond can give you a room at the cot- 
 tage, if he does not invite you to remain here. I think very 
 differently about many things from what I used to do. Per- 
 haps it is the same with you, and that we may be surprised to 
 find how much better we agree than formerly. I often go to 
 Mrs. Redmond's cottage, and talk about you with Mary Grey. 
 Pray write soon at all events, and believe me, your affectionate 
 brother, 
 
 " Edgar." 
 
 Gertrude sat an instant absorbed in thought. It was a 
 great emotion that was stirring her heart. Old thoughts, old 
 
ladf-bird. 321 
 
 places, the faint shadows of long departed dreams, the names 
 of her father, her brother, Mary, Lifford Grange, and Stone- 
 houseleigh, the living and the dead all rose before her, and for 
 an instant her bosom heaved, and the old troubled look passed 
 through the depths of her eyes. She could not be glad to go 
 home. For her the familiar scenes which exiles have sighed 
 for, as a thirsty man longs for a cup of cold water, had no 
 soothing charm. Hers were not griefs which could enter into 
 the feeling of tenderness, "your cc hon vieux temps ou fetais 
 si malheureiiseV Old things had passed away, — new and 
 blessed ones had arisen ; and she loved the New World, where 
 her child was born, where she had begun a life of virtue and 
 of peace ; but there hung too deep shadows on the path she 
 had trodden — there was something too awful in her recollec- 
 tions of what she had once felt and had been — to allow of the 
 fond and softening enjoyments of sympathetic association. 
 But she was not the less grateful that her brother had sent for 
 her ; she did not the less readily prepare to go to that father, 
 whose character she understood better than formerly, perhaps 
 through the continual and deep examination she had made of 
 
 her own. 
 
 ########## 
 
 The room which for so many years his wife had occupied, 
 Mr. Lifford now inhabited. There was not a single thing re- 
 moved, or altered in it, since the day of her death. He was 
 an old man in appearance, though not in reality, — not more 
 amiable in manner, but yet very different from what he used 
 to be. There is a great power in the words of a dying per- 
 son ; the heart must be hopelessly hardened that can withstand 
 truth when uttered at such a time. 
 
 Mr. Lifford had been a self-deceiver from his youth up- 
 wards. He had shut out the voice of conscience with the 
 same strength of volition with which he had resisted every 
 will but his own. Father Lifford had spoken to him on his 
 death-bed some of those words that camwt be shut out. He 
 kept them at bay for a long while ; but in a dangerous illness 
 he had had abroad, and in the protracted weakness that fol- 
 lowed it. they pursued him incessantly, and obliged him to 
 hearken. But it was terror not repentance, remorse not peni- 
 tence that overcame him ; his wife's last gasping sigh, — his 
 daughter's look when he approached her that day, were ever 
 present before him. Did Gertrude think he had killed her 
 mother by that scene which had been fatal to her ? This was 
 14* 
 
^22 lady-bird. 
 
 the question he was perpetually asking himself; and his mem- 
 ory became confused, and he felt as if that stern and beautiful 
 face which he had never looked on with pleasure, and which 
 he now longed to behold again, was haunting him contin- 
 ually, and would haunt him to all eternity with its silent re- 
 proaches. 
 
 When he returned to Lifford Grange, the impression be- 
 came stronger than ever. He shut himself up in what had 
 been his wife's apartment, and refused to see any one. Once 
 Mr. Erving was admitted to him, and probed the wounds 
 which had so long been concealed by an icy surface. He did 
 not measure their depth, but guessed they were profound. 
 Mr. Lifford had long neglected all religious duties, and he 
 now apparently gave himself up to a settled despair. Nothing 
 roused him from this sullen dejection and silent apathy, ex- 
 cept accidentally awakened recollections of the death-bed of 
 his wife. He seemed to have forgotten everything about 
 Gertrude's marriage, her widowhood, and the birth of her 
 child ; or at least he never alluded to these facts ; but, as 
 Edgar had said, named her sometimes, but as if he was speak- 
 ing of somebody who was dead. Why he chose to live in his 
 wife's rooms, nobody could understand, except those who 
 know that remorse has sometimes the same instincts as affec- 
 tion. It was then that his son wrote to Gertrude, and counted 
 the days till he received her answer. 
 
 She came on a summer evening back to the home of her 
 youth, after years of absence. She came to it as people in a 
 dream arrive in well-known places, and without surprise find 
 everything different and yet nothing altered. Edgar had met 
 her at the station, and in his heavy and calm features an ap- 
 pearance of emotion was perceptible. He took her child in 
 his arms and kissed him. There was another person also 
 waiting at the station, whose long-disciplined heart was beat- 
 ing less calmly than usual, as she caught sight of Gertrude 
 and her child ; and, falling on her knees, threw her arms round 
 the boy. " Maurice !" was all she said ; but when he asked 
 in childish surprise, " Are you another mother 1 ?" she whispered 
 " No, I am only Mary ;" but she felt, and he seemed also to 
 feel that his own mother did not love him more than Mary. 
 He was consigned to her care, while the long-parted brother 
 and sister drove away together along the well-known lanes, 
 towards that house she had hated and fled from. 
 
 They spoke but little till they reached its gate. The wo- 
 
LADY-BIRD. 323 
 
 man at the lodge courtesied to her, and the rooks made their 
 accustomed noise in the branches over-head, as they drove 
 through the avenue. " Gertrude," he suddenly said, " his 
 mind is not right ; he talks very strangely at times about you 
 and my mother. We think you had better go to him at once. 
 Have you the courage to do so ? — He might be angry." 
 
 " I braved his anger too often in my wilfulness," she re- 
 plied, " to shrink from it now, when I would give my life to 
 comfort him." 
 
 For one moment she looked about her with a bewildered 
 feeling as she entered the house. There was the same look, 
 the same sound of the great clock, the same indefinable smell, 
 the same sensation she knew so well. Was she dreaming of 
 being Gertrude Lifford returning to Lifford Grange, or had the 
 last years been a long dream compressed in the second of time 
 between sleeping and waking ? The old butler came up to 
 her ; she seized his hand, and then the floodgates were let 
 loose for a moment. She gave a kind of cry, but soon was 
 quite calm again. " Now," she said to Edgar, " now at once ; 
 let me go to him, but be near us in case he should be too much 
 agitated." 
 
 She walked through the narrow passage out of the , hall, 
 and up to the door of the room where he was, — that room 
 with the pictures, the crucifix, and the couch ! She knocked, 
 and then went in. He looked up — what would she have done 
 if he had not opened his arms, and cried " Gertrude ! " she 
 knew not, but he did so ; and for the first time in their lives 
 the father's and the daughter's lips met in one long embrace. 
 " Gertrude," he whispered tremulously without letting her go 
 — " Gertrude, I wanted you." He did not ask any questions ; 
 he spoke not of the past ; perhaps he felt sufficiently absolved 
 by that embrace from his worst fears. He did not show her 
 any tenderness ; it was not in his nature ; but both felt that 
 henceforward she was to be the only possible comfort of that 
 cold and silent man, who sighed when she went away, but did 
 not ask her to remain. He hated the thought of the marriage 
 she had made as much as ever, and could not bring himself 
 to speak of her child ; but he was restless the next day till 
 she returned, and her daily visits became to him what music 
 is to the blind, or repose to the weary. 
 
 She took up her residence in Mrs. Redmond's cottage, and 
 occupied what used to be Maurice's room. Every day she 
 left that little cheerful abode, which was as full as ever of 
 
324 LADT-BIRD. 
 
 flowers and of sunshine, and where her boy played with her 
 under the old tree, or sat on Mary's knee, listening to nursery 
 tales ; and through that same path which she had once trod 
 in misery and despair, she walked to the gate of the Grange, 
 and up the long avenue of yews, to the well-known room where 
 her father always sat, and spent some hours with him. She 
 used to bring her work, and sit opposite to him while he 
 wrote ; and sometimes she read out loud, or walked with him 
 on the terrace. He never appeared so tranquil as when she 
 was present. 
 
 This strange mode of life was a trial to one whose character, 
 although disciplined and exalted, was eager and enthusiastic 
 still, and had been used to spend its fervour in toils and pur- 
 suits which were less hardships than enjoyments ; but she had 
 now but one object, one guiding principle, and duty had be- 
 come the passion of her soul. The forms which memory re- 
 called, the images of the dead and of the past which haunted 
 those scenes, only strengthened her resolutions and confirmed 
 her patience. It had its reward, though it seemed long de- 
 ferred. 
 
 One day that she was reading to him the French news- 
 paper, which he had taken in for years, and the sight of which 
 had turned her pale the first time it met her sight, she came 
 to an account of the martyrdom of some of the Jesuit mis- 
 sionaries in China, and of the hair-breadth escape of others,, 
 who were still labouring in the same regions. Her eye glanced 
 down the page, and faltered a little. " Why do you stop?" 
 her father asked, and, subduing her emotion, she went on to 
 read the following sentence : — 
 
 " Uitn de ccs genereux apotres, qui ont echappe' presque 
 par miracle a une mort efroyable, portait autrefois clans Ic 
 monde un nom assez cdebre. Lc Comte, maintenant le Perc 
 d^Arbcrg, dont les ecrits ont si 2^uissamment contribue au 
 reveil religieux de la France, brave le trepas dans les contrees 
 ou son zele Va conduit, et la voix que jaclis nous avons con- 
 nue et admire'e, annonce VEvangile aux enfants de I'Asie"* 
 
 Mr. Lifford looked at his daughter, and her eyes met his. 
 
 * Amongst the generous missionaries who thus narrowly escaped 
 the horrors of a lingering death was the Father, once the Count, d'Ar- 
 berg, whose works so powerfully contributed to the religious reaction 
 in France. He is braying the danger of martyrdom in the remote coun- 
 tries where his zeal has led him ; and the voice we knew so well and 
 admired so much is preaching the Gospel to the children of Asia. 
 
LADY-BIRD. 325 
 
 Another father and daughter might perhaps have spoken then, 
 and a reciprocal pardon been sought and obtained ; but this 
 was not in their characters. She glanced once at the picture 
 that hung near the couch, then at the crucifix that stood at 
 its foot, and proceeded to read the " Foreign Intelligence," a 
 literary review, and whatever else the newspaper contained. 
 Yet in that short instant much had passed in the minds of 
 both, and a tacit understanding arrived at between them. 
 They knew from that day forward that not one shade of re- 
 sentment existed in either, and that the silence they main- 
 tained was not that of indifference. 
 
 A short time afterwards Mr. Lifford sent for his grandson, 
 and Gertrude soon removed to his house not to leave it again. 
 The sight of that child was doubtless a trial to the repentant 
 but not yet altered man. Men's prejudices may be overcome 
 to a certain degree, but, especially at that age, not altogether 
 removed. The boy had the run of that large house and those 
 wide solemn gardens, and filled them with childish glee and 
 laughter. He was a great favourite with his uncle, who in- 
 structed him in languages and natural history, and had visions 
 of a change of name for him hereafter, which honour his mo- 
 ther never meant to consent to ; but into the terrace-rooms, 
 as they were called, he seldom went, but used now and then, 
 from the corner of the walk, to peep at his grandfather's 
 stately form and melancholy face — wondering in his childish 
 cogitations if he were doing penance in that room ; and he 
 guessed rightly. 
 
 It was a long and bitter penance, and it bore fruit in the 
 end. That room and his daughter, — its aspect and her pre- 
 sence — wrought a final change in him, and grace found its way 
 to his soul. The sources of past and recent sufferings became, 
 as it were, sacraments of reconciliation and symbols of pardon. 
 He made his peace with God, and returned to his religious 
 duties. He atoned for past neglect by many kind and chari- 
 table actions ; and the curse of a hardened heart and an un- 
 forgiving spirit passed away from him for ever. 
 
 With duties showered on her path ; with a father to con- 
 sole, a child to cherish, and a brother to love ; with the poor 
 (that inexhaustible mine of bliss to those who have once 
 worked it) to serve, Gertrude was happy with a subdued and 
 quiet happiness. In repentance, in affection, in admiration, 
 they all gathered around her and called her blessed. Those 
 who, like Lady Clara Audley, knew the history of her life. 
 
326 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 wondered at her cheerfulness, and others, who did not, some- 
 times thought they saw 
 
 "A story in her face," 
 
 especially on the day when Mary Grey accomplished the de- 
 sire of her heart and became a Sister of Mercy, giving hence- 
 forward to Jesus, in his suffering ones, that deep store of love 
 which had once been lavished on one only of his creatures. In 
 the words of the American poet, 
 
 " Other hope had she none, nor wish in life but to follow, 
 Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour ; 
 Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others, 
 This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her." 
 
 She in her holy vocation, and Adrien d'Arberg — in the 
 first instance in a foreign land, and then in his own country — 
 labouring with one end, living but for one object, expending 
 all the best powers of intellect, all the rich treasures of the 
 heart with which Heaven had endowed him in the furtherance 
 of God's kingdom upon earth, were both happy indeed, with 
 the happiness of angels — happier than earth's most happy 
 children. Who could doubt it ? Who would pity them, who 
 do not pity Elias in his exile, John the Baptist in the desert, 
 or the widow of fourscore, who departed not from the temple 
 day or night % 
 
 " there are various paths and ways, the rough ones and the sweet, 
 Through which God's guiding hand conducts his children's wandering 
 
 feet. 
 Thorns are in all, but some have few to tread down as they go, 
 And every tree and bush they pass its blossoms o'er them throw ; 
 The bleeding feet, the aching brow, the desert's scorching air, 
 The tempter's voice, the inward strife, of others are the share. 
 Which are most blest ? We dare not say ; He has a work for each, 
 An aim, a purpose, and an end, that to his feet will reach." 
 
 Lady Clara Audley and Mr. Lifford met again. The 
 wound, which had so long remained open, was closed at last, 
 and to forgive her — the first and the only person he had really 
 loved — was one of the results of the change which sorrow, re- 
 morse, and the influence of his children had gradually wrought 
 upon him. It was not without agitation, however, that he 
 beheld her again the first time she drove up to that house 
 where he had once hoped to bring her as a bride ; and it was 
 
LADY-BIRD. 32? 
 
 with a strange mixture of pain and emotion that he looked at 
 her, as she stood on the terrace by the side of his daughter, 
 and that he heard the sound of that laugh which had once 
 awoke in his breast such alternations of joy and despair. 
 
 As he gazed on her still radiant beauty, he could hardly 
 believe that they had indeed been young together, that not 
 many more years had passed over his head than over hers. 
 Time, which had laid so heavy a hand upon him, had dealt 
 very mercifully with her ; and he could now reflect without 
 bitterness, and even acknowledge with gratitude, that it had 
 been better for both of them to part as they had done, than 
 to have lived, she to suffer at his hands, and he to see her 
 beautiful face shaded by sorrow or hardening into indifference. 
 He knew, himself now well enough to rejoice that she at least 
 had escaped the blighting influence of his remorseless tyranny, 
 that at least that fair flower had been spared the withering 
 touch of his hand. 
 
 Lady Clara did not muse so pensively, or meditate so 
 deeply upon the past, on her first visit to Lifford Grange ; but, 
 weary as she was growing of the same round of amusements, the 
 same society, however agreeable, and the endless source of varied 
 and yet monotonous amusements in which her days were spent, 
 she found it pleasant to add a new interest to those which were 
 beginning to pall upon her, and soon became as fond of Lady- 
 Bird as at the time of their first acquaintance. She learnt from 
 her some valuable secrets about killing time in a better manner 
 than she had hitherto practised, of turning her love of giving 
 pleasure into that of promoting happiness, and expanding her 
 taste for the beautiful into a higher development of the same 
 faculty in more exalted directions. Their intercourse was 
 productive of mutual improvements. At Lady Clara's sug- 
 gestion, new beds of flowers ornamented the gardens of the 
 Grange ; clear water flowed through its ruined fountains ; 
 clematis adorned the porch of its schools, and China roses 
 clustered on the walls of its almshouses ; but, on the other 
 hand, in her home and in the neighbourhood, amidst the profu- 
 sion of ornament and the luxury of refinement, seeds of use- 
 fulness were sown that produced blossoms in time, and fruit in 
 the end. 
 
 Two years after Gertrude's arrival at Lifford Grange, 
 Edgar met at Audley Park a young girl for whom he con- 
 ceived an attachment, and who reciprocated his affection. She 
 was of a good but not an ancient family ; he feared to ask his fa 
 
328 LADY-BIRD. 
 
 ther's consent to their marriage, and Gertrude felt that to be 
 ground on which she did not venture to tread. But Lady 
 Clara asked for an interview with the man who had once so 
 much loved her, and pleaded the cause of the young people. 
 She tried to smile as she did so, but there was something in 
 his face and manner that checked that smile. She thought he 
 was about abruptly to refuse his consent, but he looked at her 
 steadily, and pointing to his wife's picture and to his daugh- 
 ter's, which had been restored to its place, he said in a slow 
 impressive manner — 
 
 " You speak to one whose Pride was their misery. Send 
 Edgar to me at once : does he think I still worship the idol 
 that destroyed them ? " 
 
 When Gertrude threw her arms round his neck and thank- 
 ed him for the consent he had given to her brother's marriage, 
 he held her at a distance from him for an instant, and gazed 
 at her with an indescribable expression. " Do you think I am 
 not happy ? " she asked with one of those smiles which leave 
 no doubt as to the source from whence they spring, — a heart 
 full of the peace and joy which the world cannot give nor the 
 world take away. Then he pressed her to his heart, and gave 
 her one of those blessings which, though uttered by human 
 lips, seem to descend straight from Heaven ; and since that 
 time there have been flowers in the gardens, and happiness 
 within the walls of the old house of Lifford Grange. 
 
 THE END. 
 

 D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 MKS. COWDEN CLARKE'S NEW ENGLISH NOVEL. 
 
 The Iron Coufin, or Mutual Influence. 
 
 BY MAEY COWDEN CLAKKE, 
 
 Author of "The Girlhood of Shakspeare's Heroines;" the "Complete 
 Concordance to Shakspeare," &c. 
 
 One handsomely printed volume, large 12mo. over 500 pages. Price $1.25-cloth, 
 
 " Mrs. Clarke lias given us one of the most delightful novels we have read for many 
 s day, and one which is destined, we doubt not, to be much longer lived than the majority 
 of books of its class. Its chief beauties are a certain freshness in the style in which the in- 
 Icidents are presented to us— a healthful tone pervading it— a completeness in most of the 
 ^characters — and a truthful power in the descriptions." — London Times. 
 
 " We have found the volume deeply interesting — its characters are well drawn, while 
 Its tone and sentiments are well calculated to exert a purifying and ennobling influence 
 [upon all who read it." — Savannah Republican. 
 
 " The scene of the book is village life amongst the upper class, with village episodes, 
 i which seem to have been sketched from the life— there is a primitive simplicity and great- 
 ness of heart about some of the characters which keep up the sympathy and interest to 
 the end." — London Globe. 
 
 " The reader cannot fail of being both charmed and instructed by the book, and of 
 hoping that a pen so able will not lie idle." — Pennsylvanian. 
 
 " We fearlessly recommend it as a work of more than ordinary merit." — Binghampton 
 Daily Republic. 
 
 " The great moral lesson indicated by the title-page of this book runs, as a golden thread, 
 through every part of it, while the reader is constantly kept in contact with the workings 
 of an inventive and brilliant mind." — Albany Argus. 
 
 " We have read this fascinating story with a good deal of interest Human nature is 
 well and faithfully portrayed, and we see the counterpart of our story in character and 
 disposition, in every village and district. The book cannot fail of popular reception."— 
 Albany and Rochester Courier. 
 
 "A work of deep and powerful influence." — Herald. 
 
 " Mrs. Cowden Clarke, with the delicacy and artistic taste of refined womanhood, has in 
 this work shown great versatility of talent." 
 
 " The story is too deeply interesting to allow the reader to lay it down till he has read 
 It to the end." 
 
 "The work is skilful in plan, graphic in style, diveffiified in incident and true to nature." 
 
 " The tale is charmingly imagined. The incidents never exceed probability but seem 
 perfectly natural. In the style there is much quaintness, in the sentiment much tenderness.'' 
 
 "It is a spirited, charming story, full of adventure* friendship and love, with characters 
 nicely drawn and carefully discriminated. The clear style and spirit with which the story 
 \s presented and the characters developed, will attract a large constituency to the perusal." 
 
 " Mrs. Cowden Clarke's story has one of the highest qualities of fiction— it is no flickering 
 ■hadow, but seems of real growth. It is full of lively truth, and shows nice perception of 
 the early elements of character with which we become acquainted in its wholeness, and in 
 the ripeness of years. The incident is well woven ; the color is blood-warm ; and there ia 
 the presence of a sweet grace and gentle power." 
 
D. APPLETON & CO^S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 -A. Choice :N"©1*7" EnglaELd "X^lo. 
 
 FARMINGDALE, 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 BY CAROLINE THOMAS. 
 Two volumes, 12mo., paper covers, 75 cents, or 2 volumes in 1, cloth, $L 
 
 " It is a story of New England life, skilfully told, full of tender interest, healthy in it* 
 sentiments and remarkably graphic in its sketches of character. « Aunt Betsy ' is drawn 
 to the life." — Rome Gazette. 
 
 " Farmingdale is the best novel of the season."— Eve. Post. 
 
 " It will compare favorably with the ' Lamplighter,' by Miss Cummings, and the 
 ' Wide, Wido World,' by Miss Warner, and in interest it is quite equal to either." — Boston 
 Transcript. 
 
 " ' Farmingdale,' the work to which we allude, in every page and paragraph, is redolent 
 of its native sky. It is a tale of New England domestic life, in its incidents and manners 
 so true to nature and so free from exaggeration, and in its impulses and motives throughout 
 so throbbing with the real American heart, that we shall not bo surprised to hear of as 
 many New England villages claiming to be the scene of its story, as were the cities of 
 Greece that claimed to be the birth-place of Homer."— Philadelphia Courier. 
 
 " The story abounds in scenes of absorbing interest. The narration is every where de- 
 lightfully clear and straightforward, flowing forth towards its conclusion, like a gentle and 
 limpid stream, between graceful hillsides and verdant meadows." — Home Journal. 
 
 "This is a story of country life, written by a hand whose guiding power was a living 
 soul. The pictures of life are speaking and effective. The story is interestingly told and its 
 high moral aim well sustained." — Syracuse Chronicle. 
 
 " 'Farmingdale,' while it has many points in common with some recent works of fic- 
 tion, is yet highly original. The author has had the boldness to attempt a novel, the main 
 interest of which does not hinge either upon love or matrimony, nor upon complicated and 
 entangled machinery, but upon a simple and apparently artless narrative of a friendless 
 girl." — Philadelphia Eve. 3Iail. 
 
 "The author studiously avoids all forced and unnatural incidents, and the equally 
 fashionable affectation of extravagant language. Her style and diction are remarkable for 
 their purity and ease. In the conception and delineation of character she has shown her- 
 self possessed of the true creative power." — Com. Adv. 
 
 " A simple yet beautiful story, told in a simple and beautiful manner. The object is to 
 show the devoted affection of a sister to a young brother, and the sacrifices which she made 
 for him from childhood. There is a touching simplicity in the character of this interesting 
 female that will please all readers, and benefit many of her sex." — Hartford Courant. 
 
 ** The talc is prettily written, and breathes throughout an excellent moral tone." — Boston 
 Daily Journal. 
 
 '* We have read this book ; it is lively, spirited, and in some parts pathetic. Its sketches 
 of life seem to us at once graceful and vivid." — Albany Argus. 
 
 "The book is well written, in a simple, unpretending style, and the dialogue is natural 
 and easy. It i»*festined to great popularity among all classes of readers. Parents who 
 object placing 'Sieve tales ' in the hands of their children, may purchase this volume with- 
 out fear. The oldest and the youngest will become interested in its fascinating pages, and 
 close it with the impression that it is a good book, and deserving of th e greatest popularity." 
 — Worcester Palladium. 
 
Dumas's last and best Book. 
 
 D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 
 
 HAVE JUST READY THE FIFTH THOUSAND 0» 
 
 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 BY ALEX. DUMAS. 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE AUTHOR 's ORIGINAL If « 8. 
 
 1 neat vol. 12mo. In paper, 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 
 
 CONTENTS. — To my Daughter. — The New House on the Road to Soiasoni. 
 — Mathieu Goguelue. — A Bird of Evil Omen. — Catherine Blun, — The 
 Parisian. — Jealousy. — Father and Mother. — The Return. — Mademoiselle 
 Euphrosine Raisin. — Love's Young Dream. — The Abbe Gregoire. — 
 Father and Son. — The Village Fete. — A Snake in the Grass. — Tempta- 
 tion and Crime. — The Ranger's Home. — Apprehension. — The Book of 
 the Innocent. — Mathieu's Trial. 
 
 Notices of the Press. 
 
 "A lively story of love, jealousy, and intrigue."— W. Y. Com. Advertiser. 
 
 " Another proof of Dumas's unrivalled talent."— Middletoxcn Sentinel. 
 
 "The talc is a simple one, but exciting and interesting. The scene is laid in Yillere- 
 Ofc.erets in France. The reputation of the author is so firmly established, that in our 
 Bti lng that the translation is a faithful one, our readers who are novel readers will have 
 heard sufficient. " — Phila. Register. 
 
 "A capital story. The reader will find the interest increase to the end. 1 '— Phila. Gas. 
 
 "The present volume fully sustains the high reputation of its author; it shows a very- 
 high order of genius. The translation is such perfectly good English, that we easily forget 
 that we are not reading the work in the language in which it was originally written."— 
 Albany Argus. 
 
 " A short, but stirring romance." — Boston Atlas. 
 
 "This work of Dumas's is an interesting one. The plot is well laid, and the incidents 
 hurry on, one after another, so rapidly that the interest is kept up to the close."— Hartford 
 Courant. 
 
 " It is a capital story, and an unmistakable Dumas's work. To say this, is to bestow upon 
 It sufficient praise." — Troy Times. 
 
 "This new story of Dumas will afford a delightful resource for a leisuro hour." — ThA 
 Bizarre. 
 
 "This very entertaining novel is indubitably one of Dumas's best efforts: it cannot fail to 
 become widely popular."— iV. Y. Courier. 
 
 " A pleasing, romantic love story, written with the author's usual vigor."— NexoarTc Adv. 
 
 " A quiet domestic tale that must charm all readers."— Syracuse Daily. 
 
 " This is a lively story of love, jealousy and intrigue, in a French village."— Phila. Daily 
 Times. 
 
 "The fame of the author will alone secure a wide circulation for this book. He is on« 
 of the best novel writers living. 'The Foresters' fully sustains his great reputation "- 
 Troy Daily Times. 
 
 " This exceedingly entertaining novel is from the pen of one of the most eminent and 
 celebrated of Modern French novelists— Alexander Dumas."— Binghampton Republican. 
 
 " This production of the celebrated author, is written in the same masterly style for 
 which all his works are noted." — Hartford* Times. 
 
 "The Foresters, as a work by itself, is one of many charms. That the book will b« 
 eagerly sought after, there can be no doubt. That every reader will admire it is none ih« 
 less certain.' - — Buffalo Morning Express. 
 
 "It will be found an interesting story."— Arthur's Home Gazette. 
 
 "Tne plot is extremely pleasing, and tho book must meet with a ready and extensive 
 Bale."— Syracuse Daily. 
 
D. APPLETON & COMPANTS PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 
 The Great Work on Russia, 
 
 Fifth Edition now ready. 
 
 RUSSIA AS IT IS. 
 
 By Count A. de Gurowski. 
 
 One neat volume 12mo., pp. 328, well printed. Price $1, cloth. 
 
 CONTENTS. — Preface. — Introduction. — Czarism : its historical origin — The 
 Czar Nicholas. — The Organization of the Government. — The Army and 
 Kavy. — The Nobility. — The Clergy. — The Bourgeoisie — The Cossacks. - 
 The Real People, the Peasantry. — The Rights of Aliens and Strangers. 
 — The Commoner. — Emancipation. — Manifest Destiny. — Appendix. — 
 The Amazons. — The Fourteen Classes of the Russian Public Service ; or, 
 the Tschins. — The Political Testament of Peter the Great. — Extract 
 from an Old Chronicle. 
 
 Notices of the Press. 
 
 "The author takes no superficial, empirical view of his subject, but collecting a rich 
 variety of facts, brings the lights of a profound philosophy to their explanation. His work, 
 indeed, neglects no essential detail — it is minute and accurate in its statistics — it abounds 
 in lively pictures of society, manners and character. * * Whoever wishes to obtain an 
 accurate notion of the internal condition of Russia, the nature and extent of her resources, 
 and the practical influence of her institutions, -will here rind better materials for his pur- 
 pose than in any single volume now extant." — N. Y. Tribune. 
 
 " This is a powerfully-written book, and will prove of vast service to every one who 
 desires to comprehend the real nature and bearings of the great contest in which Eussia is 
 now engaged. 1 ' — N. Y. Courier. 
 
 " It is original in its conclusions ; it is striking in its revelations. Numerous as are the 
 volumes that have been written about Eussia, we really hitherto have known little of that 
 Immense territory— of that numerous people. Count Gurowski"s work shods a light which 
 at this time is most welcome and satisfactory." — N. Y. Times. 
 
 "The book is well written, and as might be expected in a work by a writer so unu- 
 sually conversant with all sides of Russian affairs, it contains so much important information 
 respecting the Russian people, their government and religion.'' — Com. Advertiser. 
 
 "This is a valuable work, explaining in a very satisfactory manner the internal conditions 
 of the Eussian people, and the construction of their political society. The institutions of 
 Eussia are presented as they exist in reality, and as they are determined by existing and 
 obligatory laws."— N. Y. Herald. 
 
 " A hasty glance over this handsome volume has satisfied us that it is one worthy of 
 general perusal. * * * It is full of valuable historical information, with very interest- 
 ing accounts of the various classes among the Eussian people, their condition and aspi- 
 rations." — K Y. Sun. 
 
 "This is a volume that can hardly fail to attract very general attention, and command a 
 wide sale in view of the present juncture of European affairs, and the prominent part 
 therein which Russia is to play." — Utica Gazette. 
 
 " A timely book. It will be found all that it professes to be, though some may be start 
 led at some of its conclusions." — Boston Atlas. 
 
 "This i< one of the best of all the books caused-by the present excitement in relation to 
 Russia It is a very able publication— one that will do much to destroy the general belief 
 In the infallibility of Russia The writer shows himself master of his subiect, and treats of 
 the internal condition of Eussia, her institutions and custoLccs, society, laws, &c, in an en- 
 lightened and Bcholarly raann»,r."— City Item. 
 
D APPLETON <£• CO.' 8 PUBLICATION b. 
 
 A BOOK FOR EVERY CHRISTIAN FAMILY. 
 
 The Hearth-Stone ; 
 
 THOUGHTS UPON HOME LIFE IN OUR CITIES 
 
 BY 
 
 SAMUEL OSGOOD, 
 
 Author of " Studies in Christian Biography," " God with Men, 1 ' etc 
 1 vol. 12mo. cloth. Price $1. 
 
 CEITICISMS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 "This is a volume of eloquent and impressive essays on the domestic relations a»d the 
 religious duties of the household. Mr. Osgood writes on these interesting themes in the 
 most charming and animated style, winning the reader's judgment rather than coercing 
 it to the author's conclusions. The predominant sentiments in the book are purity, sin- 
 cerity, and love. A more delightful volume has rarely been published, and we trust it will 
 have a wide circulation, for its influence must be salutary upon both old and young." — Com- 
 mercial Advertise?'. 
 
 " The ' Hearth-Stone' is the symbol of all those delightful truths which Mr. Osgood 
 here connects with it. In a free and graceful style, varying from deep solemnity to the most 
 genial and lively tone, as befits his range of subjects, he gives attention to wise thoughts on 
 holy things, and homely truths. His volume will find many warm hearts to which it will 
 address itself."'— Christian Examiner. 
 
 "The author of this volume passes through a large circle of subjects, all of them con- 
 nected with domestic life as it exists in large towns. The ties of relationship— the female 
 character as developed in the true province and empire of woman, domestic life, the edu- 
 cation of children, and the training them to habits of reverence— the treatment of those 
 of our households whose lot in life is humbler than ours— the cultivation of a contented 
 mind — the habitual practice of devotion — these and various kindred topics furnish ample 
 matter for touching reflections and wholesome counsels. The spirit of the book is fervently 
 religious, and though no special pains are taken to avoid topics on which religious men 
 differ, it ' breathes a kindly spirit above the reach of sect or party.' The author is now 
 numbered among the popular preachers of the metropolis, and those who have listened 
 to his spoken, will not be disappointed with his written, eloquence." — Evening Post. 
 
 " A household book, treating of the domestic relations, the deportment, affections, and 
 duties which belong to the well ordered Christian family. Manly advice and good sense 
 are exhibited in an earnest and affectionate tone, and not without tenderness and truthful 
 sentiment; while withal a Christian view is taken of the serious responsibility which attends 
 the performance of the duties of husband and wife, parent and child, sister and brother. 
 We are particularly pleased with the real practical wisdom, combined with the knowledge 
 of human nature, which renders this volume deserving of careful study by those who de- 
 sire to make their homes happy "—Keic York Churchman. 
 
D. APPLFTON $ CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 THE GREAT KENTUCKY NOVEL. 
 
 D. APPLETM & COMPANY 
 
 HAVE JUST PUBLISHED 
 
 Tempest and Simfhine ; or, Life in 
 Kentucky. 
 
 BY MRS. MARY J. HOLMES. 
 
 One Volume, 12mo. Paper covers, 75 cents; cloth, $1. 
 
 These are the most striking and original sketches of American 
 character in the South-western States which have ever been pub- 
 lished. The character of Tempest is drawn with all that spirit and 
 energy which characterize the high toned female spirit of the 
 South, while Sunshine possesses the loveliness and gentleness of 
 the sweetest of her sex. The Planter is sketched to the life, and 
 in his strongly marked, passionate, and generous nature, the reader 
 will recognize one of the truest sons of the south-west. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " The book is -well written, and its fame "will be more than ephemeral."— Buffalo 
 
 " The story is interesting and finely developed." — Daily Times. 
 
 " A lively romance of western life— the style of the writer is smart, intelligent, and 
 winniag, and her story is told with spirit and skill.*' — V. S. Gazette. 
 
 "An excellent work, and its sale must be extensive." — Stamford Advocate. 
 
 "The whole is relieved by a generous introduction of incident as well as by an am- 
 plitude of love and mystery." — Express. 
 
 "A delightful, well written book, portraying western life to the letter. The book 
 abounds in an easy humor, with touching sentences of tenderness and pathos scattered 
 through it, and from first to last keeps up a humane interest that very many authors 
 strive in vain to achieve. 'Tempest' and ' Sunshine,' two sisters, are an exemplifica- 
 tion of the good that to some comes by nature, and to others is found only throu gb 
 trials, temptation, and tribulation. Mr. Middleton, the father of 'Tempest' and 'Sun- 
 Bhine,' is the very soul and spirit of ' Old Kaintuck," abridged into one map. The b~ok 
 is worth reading. There is a heaithy tone of morality pervading it that will make H i 
 suitable work to be placed in the hands of our daughters and sisters."— JTeie Tori- Dag 
 Book. 
 
I 
 
 New Copyright Works, Adapted for Popular Reading 
 
 JUST PUBLISHED. 
 BY D. APPLETON & CO. 
 
 PERSONAL NARRATIVE OF EXPLORA- 
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