LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 TO ESTHER, 
 
 AND OTHER SKETCHES.
 
 i±<.'}s,ii.\'s I-"iRsi V:^:
 
 TO ESTHER, 
 
 AND OTHER SKETCHES. 
 
 ("miss THACKERAY,) 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE STOfiY Oi ELIZABETH," "THE VILLAGE ON THE CLIFF," 
 "FIVE OLD FRIENDS," ETC. 
 
 WITH A FRONTISPIECE. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 Si\n TH, ELDER & CO., 15, WATERLOO PLACE. 
 1869. 
 
 [The right of Translation is reserved.^

 
 TO 
 
 C. de fR. E. M. S. 
 
 -^- de (k. and A. L. 
 
 A EE ME MB RANGE. 
 
 March, 1869.
 
 CON TE NTS, 
 
 To Esther i 
 
 Out of the World 89 
 
 Merry Making 175 
 
 Sola 197 
 
 Moretti's Campanula 307
 
 TO ESTHER, 
 
 1 859 60. 
 
 " 'Tis Rome-work, made to match." 
 
 The first time that I ever knew you was at Rome one 
 winter's evening. I had walked through the silent 
 streets — I see them now — dark with black shadows, 
 lighted by the blazing stars overhead and by the lamps 
 dimly flickering before the shrines at street corners. 
 After crossing the Spanish-place I remember turning 
 into a narrow alley and coming presently to a great 
 black archway, which led to a glimmering court. A 
 figure of the Virgin stood with outstretched arms above 
 the door of your house, and the light burning at her 
 feet dimly played upon the stone, worn and stained, 
 
 I
 
 2 TO ESTHER. 
 
 of which the walls were built. Through the archway 
 came a glimpse of the night sky above the court-yard, 
 shining wonderfully with splendid stars ; and I also 
 caught the plashing sound of a fountain flowing in the 
 darkness. I groped my way up the broad stone stair- 
 case, only lighted by the friendly star-shine, stumbling 
 and knocking my shins against those ancient steps, up 
 which two centuries of men and women had clambered ; 
 and at last, ringing at a curtained door, I found myself 
 in a hall, and presently ushered through a dining-room, 
 where the cloth was laid, and announced at the drawing- 
 room door as Smith. 
 
 It w'as a long room with many windows, and cabinets 
 and tables along the walls, with a tall carved mantel- 
 piece, at which you were standing, and a Pompeian 
 lamp burning on a table near you. Would you care 
 to hear what manner of woman I saw ; what impression 
 I got from you as we met for the first time together .'' 
 In after days, light, mood, circumstance, may modify 
 this first image more or less, but the germ of life is in 
 it — the identical presence — and I fancy it is rarely im- 
 proved by keeping, by painting up, with love, or dis- 
 like, or long use, or weariness, as the case may be. 
 Be this as it may, I think I knew you as well after the 
 first five minutes' acquaintance as I do now. I saw 
 an ugly woman, whose looks I liked somehow ; thick
 
 TO ESTHER. 3 
 
 brows, sallow face, a tall and straight-made figure, 
 honest eyes that had no particular merit besides, dark 
 hair, and a pleasant, cordial smile. And somehow, as 
 I looked at you and heard you talk, I seemed to be 
 aware of a frank spirit, uncertain, blind, wayward, 
 tender, under this somewhat stern exterior ; and so, I 
 repeat, I liked you, and, making a bow, I said I was 
 afraid I was before my time. 
 
 " I'm afraid it is my father who is after his," you 
 said. " Mr. H albert is coming, and he, too, is often 
 late ; " and so we went on talking for about ten minutes. 
 
 Yours is a kindly manner, a sad-toned voice ; I know 
 not if your life has been a happy one ; you are well 
 disposed towards ev^ery soul you come across ; you love 
 to be loved, and try with a sweet artless art to win and 
 charm over each man or woman that you meet. I saw 
 that you liked me, that you felt at your ease with me, 
 that you held me not quite your equal, and might 
 perhaps laugh at, as well as with me. But I did not 
 care. My aim in life, heaven knows, has not been to 
 domineer, to lay down the law, and triumph over others, 
 least of all over those I like. 
 
 The Colonel arrived presently, with his white hair 
 trimly brushed and his white neckcloth neatly tied. He 
 greeted me with great friendliness and cordiality. You 
 have got his charm of manner ; but with you, my dear.
 
 4 TO ESTHER. 
 
 it is not manner only, for there is loyalty and heartiness 
 shining in your face, and sincerity ringing in every tone 
 of your voice. As for the Colonel, your father, if I 
 mistake not, he is a little shrivelled-up old gentleman, 
 with a machine inside to keep him going, and outside 
 a well-cut coat and a well-bred air and a certain know- 
 ledge of the world, to get on through life with. How- 
 ever, this is not the way to speak to a young lady about 
 her father ; and besides it is you, and not he, in whom I 
 take the interest which prompts these maudlin pages. 
 
 Mr. Halbert and little Latham, the artist, were the 
 only other guests. You did not look round when 
 Halbert was announced, but went on speaking to 
 Latham, with a strange flush in your face ; until Hal- 
 bert had, with great cviprcsscnicnt, made his way through 
 the chairs and tables, and had greeted, rather than been 
 greeted by, you. 
 
 So thinks I to myself, concerning certain vague 
 notions I had already begun to entertain, I am rather 
 late in the field, and the city is taken and has already 
 hoisted the conqueror's colours. Perhaps those red 
 flags might have been mine had I come a little sooner ; 
 \\\\o knows } " De tout lanricr tin poison est F essence" 
 says the Frenchman ; and my brows may be as well 
 unwreathed. 
 
 "I came upstairs with the dinner," Mr. Halbert was
 
 TO ESTHER. 5 
 
 saying. " It reassured me as to my punctuality. I 
 rather pique myself on my punctuality, Colonel." 
 
 " And I'm afraid I have been accusing you of being 
 always late," you said, as if it were a confession. 
 
 " Have you thought so. Miss Olliver } " cried Halbert. 
 
 " Dinner, sir," said Baker, opening the door. 
 
 All dinner-time Halbert, who has very high spirits, 
 talked and laughed without ceasing. You, too, laughed, 
 listened, looked very happy, and got up with a smile 
 at last, leaving us to drink our wine. The Colonel 
 presently proposed cigars. 
 
 " In that case I shall go and talk to your daughter 
 in the drawing-room," Halbert said. " I'm promised 
 to Lady Parker's to-night ; it would never do to go 
 there smelling all over of smoke. I must be off in 
 half-an-hour," he added, looking at his watch. 
 
 I, too, had been asked to the tea-party, and I 
 was rather surprised that Halbert should be in such 
 a desperate hurry to get there. Talking to Miss 
 Olliver in the next room, I could very well under- 
 stand ; but leaving her to rush off to Lady Parker's 
 immediately, did not accord with the little theories 
 I had been laying down. Could I have been mis- 
 taken ? In this case it seemed to me this would be 
 the very woman to suit me — (you see I am speaking 
 without any reserve, and simply describing the abrupt
 
 6 TO ESTHER. 
 
 little events as they occurred) — and I thought, who 
 knows that there may not be a chance for me yet ? 
 But, by the time my cigar had crumbled into smoke 
 and ashes, it struck me that my little castle had also 
 wreathed away and vanished. Going into the drawing- 
 room, where the lamps were swinging in the dimness, 
 and the night without streaming in through the un- 
 curtained windows, we found you in your white dress, 
 sitting alone at one of them. Mr. Halbert was gone, 
 you said ; he went out by the other door. And then 
 you were silent again, staring out at the stars with 
 dreamy eyes. The Colonel rang for tea, and chirped 
 aw^ay very pleasantly to Latham by the fire. I looked 
 at you now and then, and could not help surprising 
 your thoughts somehow, and knowing that I had not 
 been mistaken after all. There you sat, making simple 
 schemes of future happiness ; you could not, would not, 
 look beyond the present. You W'ere very calm, happy, 
 full of peaceful reliance. Your world was alight with 
 shining stars, great big shining meteors, all flaring up 
 as they usually do before going out with a splutter at 
 the end of the entertainment. People who are in love 
 I have always found very much alike ; and now, having 
 settled that \-ou belonged to that crack-brained com- 
 munity, it Avas not difficult to guess at what was going 
 on in vour mind.
 
 TO ESTHER. 7 
 
 I, too, as I have said, had been favoured with a card 
 for Lady Parker's rout ; and as you were so absent and 
 ill-inchned to talk, and the Colonel was anxious to go off 
 and play whist at his club, I thought I might as well 
 follow in Halbert's traces, and gratify any little curiosity 
 I might feel as to his behaviour and way of going on in 
 your absence. I found that Latham was also going to 
 her ladyship's. As we went downstairs together Latham 
 said, " It was too bad of Halbert to break up the party 
 and go off at that absurd hour. I didn't say I was going, 
 because I thought his rudeness might strike them." 
 
 " But surely," said I, " Mr. Halbert seems at home 
 there, and may come and go as he likes .'' " Latham 
 shrugged his shoulders. " I like the girl ; I hope she is 
 not taken in by him. He has been very thick all the 
 winter in other quarters. Lady Parker's niece. Lady 
 Fanny Fareham, was going to marry him, they said ; 
 but I know very little of him. He is much too great a 
 swell to be on intimate terms with a disreputable little 
 painter like myself. What a night it is ! " As he spoke 
 we came out into the street again, our shadows falling on 
 the stones ; the Virgin overhead still watching, the lamp 
 burning faithfully, the solemn night waning on. Lady 
 Parker had lodgings in the Corso. I felt almost ashamed 
 of stepping from the great entertainment without into 
 the close racketing little tea-party that was clattering on
 
 8 TO ESTHER. 
 
 within. We came in, in the middle of a jangHng tune, 
 the company spinning round and round. Halbert, 
 twirhng like a Dervish, was almost the first person I 
 saw ; he was flushed, and looked exceedingly handsome, 
 and his tall shoulders overtopped most of the other 
 heads. As I watched him I thought with great com- 
 placency that if any woman cared for me, it would not 
 be for my looks. No ! no ! what are mere good looks 
 compared to those mental qualities which, &c. &c. 
 Presently, not feeling quite easy in my mind about these 
 said mental qualities, I again observed that it was still 
 better to be liked for one's self than for one's mental 
 qualities ; by which time I turned my attention once 
 more to Mr. Halbert. The youth was devoting himself 
 most assiduously to a very beautiful, oldish young lady, 
 in a green gauzy dress ; and I now, with a mixture of 
 satisfaction and vexation, recognized the very same 
 looks and tones which had misled me at dinner. 
 
 I left him still at it and walked home, wondering at 
 the great law of natural equality which seems to level 
 all mankind to one standard, notwithstanding all those 
 artificial ones which we ourselves have raised. Here 
 was a successful youth, with good looks and good wits 
 and position and fortune ; and here was I, certainly no 
 wonder, insignificant, and plain and poor, and of 
 commonplace intelligence, and as well satisfied with
 
 TO ESTHER. 9 
 
 my own possessions, such as they were, as he, Halbert, 
 could be with the treasures a prodigal fortune had 
 showered upon him. Here was I, judging him, and 
 taking his measure as accurately as he could take mine, 
 were it worth his while to do so. Here was I, walking 
 home under the stars, while he was flirting and whisper- 
 ing with Lady Fanny, and both our nights sped on. 
 Constellations sinking slowly, the day approaching 
 through the awful realms of space, hours waning, life 
 going by for us both alike : both of us men waiting 
 together amidst these awful surroundings. 
 
 You and I met often after this first meeting — in 
 churches where tapers were lighting and heavy censers 
 swinging — on the Pincio, in the narrow, deep-coloured 
 streets : it was not always chance only which brought 
 me so constantly into your presence. You yourself 
 were the chance, at least, and I the blind follower of 
 fortune. 
 
 All round about Rome there are ancient gardens 
 lying basking in the sun. Gardens and villas built long 
 since by dead cardinals and popes ; terraces, with glint- 
 ing shadows, with honeysuckle clambering in desolate 
 luxuriance ; roses flowering and fading and falling in 
 showers on the pathways ; and terraces and marble 
 steps yellow with age. Lonely fountains plash in their
 
 lo TO ESTHER. 
 
 basins, statues of fawns and slender nymphs stand out 
 against the solemn horizon of blue hills and crimson- 
 streaked sky ; of cypress-trees and cedars, with the 
 sunset showing through their stems. At home, I lead a 
 very busy, anxious life : the beauty and peace of these 
 Italian villas fill me with inexpressible satisfaction and 
 gratitude towards those mouldering pontiffs, whose 
 magnificent liberality has secured such placid resting- 
 places for generations of weary men. Taking a long 
 walk out of Rome one day in the early spring, I came 
 to the gates of one of these gardens. I remember 
 seeing a carriage waiting in the shade of some cedar- 
 trees ; hard by horses with drooping heads, and servants 
 smoking as they waited. This was no uncommon sight ; 
 the English are for ever on their rounds ; but somehow, 
 on this occasion, I thought I recognized one of the men, 
 and instead of passing by, as had been my intention, 
 I turned in at the half-opened gate, which the angels 
 with the flaming swords had left unguarded and 
 unlocked for once, and, after a few minutes' walk, 
 I came upon the Eve I looked for. 
 
 You were sitting on some time-worn steps ; you wore 
 a green silk dress, and your brown hair, with the red 
 tints in it, was all ablaze with the light. You looked 
 very unhappy, I thought : got up with an effort, and 
 smiled a pitiful smile.
 
 TO ESTHER. n 
 
 " Are you come here for a little quiet ? " I asked. 
 " I am not going to disturb you." 
 
 " I came here for pleasure, not quiet," you said, 
 " with papa and some friends. I was tired, so they 
 walked on and left me." 
 
 " That is the way with one's friends," said I. " Who 
 are the culprits, Miss Olliver.''" 
 
 " I am the only culprit," you said, grimly. " Lady 
 Fanny and Mr. Halbert came with us to-day. Look, 
 there they are at the end of that alley." 
 
 And as you spoke, you raised one hand and pointed, 
 and I made up my mind. It was a very long alley. 
 The figures in the distance were advancing very slowly. 
 When they reach that little temple, thought I, I will tell 
 her what I think. 
 
 This was by no means so sudden a determination as 
 it may appear to you, reading over these pages. It 
 seems a singular reason to give ; but I really think it 
 was your hopeless fancy for that rosy youth which 
 touched me and interested me so. I know I used to 
 carry home sad words, spoken not to me, and glances 
 that thrilled me wath love, pity, and sympathy. What 
 I said was, as you know, very simple and to the purpose. 
 I knew quite well your fancy was elsewhere ; mine was 
 with you, perhaps as hopelessly placed. I didn't exactly 
 see what good this confession was to do either of us,
 
 12 TO ESTHER. 
 
 only there I was, ready to spend my life at your 
 service. 
 
 When I had spoken there was a silent moment, and 
 then you glowed up — your eyes melted, your mouth 
 quivered. " Oh, what can I say ? Oh, I am so lonely. 
 Oh, I have not one friend in the world ; and now, 
 suddenly, a helping hand is held out, and I can't — I 
 cant push it away. Oh, don't despise. Oh, forgive 
 me." 
 
 Despise ! scorn ! . . . Poor child ! I only liked 
 you the more for your plaintive appeal ; though I 
 wondered at it. 
 
 " Take your time," I said ; " I can wait, and I shall 
 not fly away. Call me when you want me ; send me 
 away when I weary you. Here is your father ; shall I 
 speak to him .'' But no. Remember there is no single 
 link between us, except what you yourself hold in your 
 own hands." 
 
 Here your father and Halbert and Lady Fanny 
 came up. " Well, Esther, are you rested } " says the 
 Colonel cheerfully. "Why, how do you do .-'" (to me). 
 " What have you been talking about so busily .'' " 
 
 You did not answer, but fixed your eyes on your 
 father's face. I said something ; I forget what. Halbert, 
 looking interested, turned from one to the other. Lady 
 Fanny, who held a fragrant heap of roses, shook a few
 
 TO ESTHER. 13 
 
 petals to the ground, where they lay scattered after we 
 had all walked away. 
 
 If you remember, I did not go near you for a day or 
 two after this. But I wrote you a letter, in which I 
 repeated that you were entirely free to use me as you 
 liked : marry me — make a friend of me — I was in your 
 hands. One day, at last, I called ; and I shall never 
 forget the sweetness and friendly gratefulness with which 
 you received me. A solitary man, dying of lonely thirst, 
 you meet me smiling with a cup of sparkling water : a 
 weary watcher through the night — suddenly I see the 
 dawn streaking the bright horizon. Those were very 
 pleasant times. I remember now, one afternoon in 
 early spring, open windows, sounds coming in from the 
 city, the drone of the pijferari buzzing drowsily in the 
 sultry streets. You sat at your window in some light- 
 coloured dress, laughing now and then, and talking your 
 tender little talk. The Colonel, from behind TJie Times, 
 joined in now and again: the pleasant half-hours slid by. 
 We were still basking there, when Halbert was announced, 
 and came in, looking very tall and handsome. The bag- 
 pipes droned on, the flies sailed in and out on the sun- 
 shine : you still sat tranquilly at the open casement ; but 
 somehow the golden atmosphere of the hour was gone. 
 Your smiles were gone ; your words were silenced ; and 
 that happy little hour was over for ever.
 
 14 TO ESTHER. 
 
 When I got up to come away H albert rose too : he 
 came downstairs with me, and suddenly looking me 
 full in the face said, " When is it to be ? " 
 
 " You know much more about it than I do," I 
 answered. 
 
 " You don't mean to say that you are not very much 
 smitten with our hostess ? " said he, 
 
 " Certainly I am," said I ; " I should be ready 
 enough to marry her, if that is what you mean. I 
 daresay I shan't get her. She is to me the most 
 sympathetic woman I have ever known. You are too 
 young, Mr. Halbert, to understand and feel her worth. 
 Don't be offended," I added, seeing him flush up. " You 
 young fellows can't be expected to see with the same 
 eyes as we old ones. You will think as I do in another 
 ten years." 
 
 " How do you mean V he asked. 
 
 " Isn't it the way with all of us } " said I : " we begin 
 by liking universally ; as we go on we pick and choose, 
 and weary of things which had only the charm of 
 novelty to recommend them ; only as our life narrows 
 we cling more and more to the good things which 
 remain, and feel their value ten times more keenly. 
 And surely a sweet, honest-hearted young woman like 
 Esther Olliver is a good thing." 
 
 " She is very nice," Halbert said. " She has such
 
 TO ESTHER. 15 
 
 good manners. I have had more experience than you 
 give me credit for, and I am very much of your way of 
 thinking. They say that old courtly Colonel is dread- 
 fully harsh to her — wants to marry her off his hands. 
 I assure you you have a very good chance." 
 
 " I mistrust that old Colonel," said I, dictatorially ; 
 " as I trust his daughter. Somehow she and I chime 
 in tune together ; " and, as I spoke, I began to under- 
 stand why you once said wofully, that you had not one 
 friend in the world ; and my thoughts wandered away 
 to the garden where I had found you waiting on the 
 steps of the terrace. 
 
 " What do you say to the serenade Lady Fanny 
 and I have been performing lately .-*" Halbert was 
 saying meanwhile, very confidentially. " Sometimes 
 I cannot help fancying that the Colonel wants to take 
 a part in the performance, and a cracked old tenor 
 part, too. In that case I shall cry off, and give up 
 my engagements." And then, nodding good-by, he 
 left me. 
 
 I remember the evening of that day, a sudden wind 
 had risen driving the clouds across the city ; the soft 
 wild gust came with a wail and a splashing of rain 
 dashing against my uncurtained window. The city 
 lights were flaring and extinguished. The woman of the 
 house had piled up a wood fire on the stone hearth, and
 
 1 6 TO ESTHER. 
 
 the logs were smouldering in a bed of white ashes. I 
 had not gone out as usual, but I had stayed at home 
 reading a book which had been sent out to me from 
 England, It was the Idylls of the King, I remember, 
 which had lately come out. About nine o'clock some one 
 came ringing at the door, and old Octavia brought me a 
 note in a writing I recognized. " The Signorina's cook 
 had left it on his way home," said Octavia. " He lodges 
 close by." 
 
 Poor little note ! it was wet with rain-drops. I have 
 it now. 
 
 " Via dell a Croce, Friday. 
 
 *' Dear Mr. Smith " (I read) — " I have just seen my 
 father and heard some news which has surprised and 
 bewildered me. He is engaged to be married to Lady 
 Fanny Fareham. Will you come and see me to- 
 morrow .'' Good-night, dear kind friend. 
 
 " Esther." 
 
 That was all. Poor little Esther. 
 
 I met Halbert in the Babuino the very next day. 
 He came straight up to me, saying, " Going to the 
 Ollivers', eh } Will you take a message for me, and 
 tell the Colonel I mean to look in there this evening } 
 That old fox the Colonel — you have heard that he is
 
 TO ESTHER. 17 
 
 actually going to marry Lady Fanny. She told me so 
 herself, yesterday." 
 
 " I think her choice is a prudent one," I answered. 
 " I suppose Colonel Olliver is three times as rich as 
 yourself.'' You must expect a woman of thirty to be 
 prudent. I am not fond of that virtue in very young 
 people, but it is not unbecoming with years." 
 
 Halbert flushed up. " I suppose from that you 
 mean she was very near marrying me .'' I'm not sorry 
 she has taken up with the Colonel after all. You see, 
 my mother was always writing, and my sisters at home ; 
 and they used to tell me . . . and I myself thought 
 
 she , you know what I mean. But, of course, they 
 
 have been reassured on that point." 
 
 " Do you mean to say," I asked, in a great panic, 
 " that you would marry any woman who happened to 
 fall in love with you .-' " 
 
 " I don't know what I might have done a year ago," 
 said he, laughing ; " but just now, you see, I have had 
 a warning, and, besides, it is my turn to make the 
 advances." 
 
 I was immensely relieved at this, for I didn't know 
 what I was not going to say. 
 
 Here, as we turned a street-corner, we came upon 
 a black-robed monk, standing, veiled and rnotionless, 
 with a skull in one bony hand. This cheerful object 
 
 2
 
 i8 . TO ESTHER. 
 
 changed the current of our talk, and we parted presently 
 at a fountain. Women with black twists of hair were 
 standing round about, waiting in careless attitudes, while 
 the limpid water flowed. 
 
 When I reached your door, I found the carriage 
 waiting, and you and your father under the archway. 
 " Come with us," said he, and I gladly accepted. And 
 so we drove out at one of the gates of the city, out into 
 the Campagna, over which melting waves of colour were 
 rolling. Here and there we passed ancient ruins 
 crumbling in the sun ; the roadsides streamed with 
 colour and fragrance from violets and wild hyacinths 
 and sweet-smelling flowers. After some time we came 
 suddenly to some green hills, and leaving the carriage 
 climbed up the slopes. Then we found ourselves looking 
 down into a green glowing valley, with an intense 
 heaven above, all melting into light. You, with a little 
 transient gasp of happiness, fell down kneeling in the 
 grass. I shall always see the picture I had before me 
 then — the light figure against the bright green, the black 
 hat, and long falling feather ; the eager face looking out 
 at the world. May it be for ever green and pleasant 
 to you as it was then, O eager face ! 
 
 As we were parting in the twilight, I at last 
 remembered to give Halbert's message. It did not 
 greatly affect your father ; but how was it .-* Was it
 
 TO ESTHER. 19 
 
 because I knew you so well that I instinctively guessed 
 you were moved by it ? When I shook hands with 
 you and said good-night, your hand trembled in mine. 
 
 "Won't you look in too ? " said the Colonel. 
 
 But I shook my head. " Not to-night— no, thank 
 you." And so we parted. 
 
 My lodgings were in the Gregoriana ; the windows 
 looked out over gardens and cupolas ; from one of 
 them I could see the Pincio. From that window, next 
 morning, as I sat drinking my coffee, I suddenly saw 
 you, walking slowly along by the parapet, with your 
 dog running by your side. You went to one of those 
 outlying terraces which flank the road, and, leaning over 
 the stone-work, looked out at the great panorama lying 
 at your feet : — Rome, with her purple mantle of mist, 
 regally spreading, her towers, her domes, and great 
 St. Peter's rising over the house-tops, her seven hills 
 changing and deepening with noblest colour, her golden 
 crown of sunlight streaming and melting with the mist. 
 Somehow I, too, saw all this presently when I reached 
 the place where you were still standing. 
 
 And now I have almost come to the end of my 
 story, that is, of those few days of my life of which you, 
 Esther, were the story. You stood there waiting, and 
 I hastened towards you, and fate {I fancied you were 
 my Fate) went on its course quite unmoved by my
 
 20 TO ESTHER. 
 
 hopes or your fears. I thought that you looked almost 
 handsome for once. You certainly seemed more happy. 
 Your face flushed and faded, your eyes brightened and 
 darkened. As you turned and saw me, a radiant quiver, 
 a piteous smile came to greet me somewhat strangely. 
 You seemed trying to speak, but the words died away 
 on your lips — to keep silence, at least, but the faltering 
 accents broke forth. 
 
 " What is it, my dear .'' " said I at last, with a queer 
 sinking of the heart, and I held out my hand. 
 
 You caught it softly between both yours. " Oh ! " 
 you said, with sparkling eyes, " I am a mean, wretched 
 girl — oh ! don't think too ill of me. He, Mr. Halbert, 
 came to see me last night, and — and, he says . . . 
 Oh ! I don't deserve it. Oh ! forgive me, for I am so 
 happy ; " and you burst into tears. " You have been 
 so good to me," you whispered on. " I hardly know 
 how good. He says he only thought of me when you 
 spoke of me to him, when — when he saw you did not 
 dislike me. I am behaving shamefully — yes, shamefully, 
 but it is because I know you are too kind not to forgive 
 — not to forgive. What can I do .-' You know how 
 it has always been. You don't know what it would be 
 to marry one person, caring for another. Ah ! you don't 
 know what it would be to have it otherwise than as it 
 is " (this clasping your hands). " But you don't ask it.
 
 TO ESTHER. 21 
 
 Ah ! forgive me, and say you don't ask it." Then 
 standing straight and looking down with a certain sweet 
 dignity, you went on — " Heaven has sent me a great 
 and unexpected happiness, but there is, indeed, a bitter, 
 bitter cup to drink as well. Though I throw you over, 
 though I behave so selfishly, don't think that I am 
 utterly conscienceless, that I do not suffer a cruel pang 
 indeed. When I think how you must look at me, when 
 I remember what return I am making for all your 
 forbearance and generosity, when I think of myself, I 
 
 am ashamed and humiliated ; when I think of him " 
 
 Here you suddenly broke off, and turned away your face. 
 
 Ah me ! turned away your face for ever from me. 
 The morning mists faded away ; the mid-day sun 
 streamed over hills and towers and valley. The bell 
 of the Trinita hard by began to toll. 
 
 I said, " Good-by, and Heaven keep you, my dear. 
 I would not have had you do otherwise." And so 
 I went back to my lodging.
 
 22 TO ESTHER. 
 
 1866. 
 
 {After seven years?} 
 
 " I leaned a little and overlooked my prize, 
 By the low railing round the fountain-source 
 Close to the statue, where a step descends. " 
 
 Bosost, Attgitst 20. 
 
 "Do you remember the story I wrote you in i860, when 
 I came back from Rome .-' To complain was a con- 
 solation, when it was to you I complained. I was lonely 
 enough and disappointed, and yet I have been more 
 unhappy since. Then I thought that at least you were 
 happy, but later they said it was not so, and bitterness 
 and regret overpowered me for a time. But this was 
 after I had written to you. 
 
 " I scarcely remember what I said now, it is so long 
 ago, but I know every word had a meaning since you 
 were to see it, and the Esther I wrote to, the Esther 
 whose image was for ever before me, seemed mine some- 
 times though we were for ever parted. I have often 
 thought that the Esther I loved loved me though the 
 other one married Halbcrt. Perhaps you were only her 
 semblance, and she was waiting for me elsewhere in a
 
 TO ESTHER. 
 
 23 
 
 different form. But the familiar face with the sallow 
 cheeks and dark brows, and all the sudden light in it, 
 comes before me as I write even now. I have seen it a 
 thousand thousand times since we parted by the Trinita ; 
 do you remember when the bell was ringing for matins .'' 
 Only as years have gone by the lines have faded a little, 
 the eyes look deep and tender, but they have lost their 
 colour ; though I know how the lights and the smiles 
 still come and still go, I cannot see them so plainly. 
 The woman herself I can conjure across the years and 
 the distance, but the face does not start clear-set before 
 me as in those days when I only lived to follow your 
 footsteps, to loiter among the shadows in your way, and 
 in the sunshine through which you seemed to move ; to 
 drink up the sweet tones of your voice, to watch you 
 when you sat at your window, when you lingered in the 
 silent Italian gardens, or moved with a gentle footfall 
 along echoing galleries, with dim golden pictures, and 
 harmonies of glowing colour all about you. 
 
 " What sea-miles and land-miles, what flying years 
 and lagging hours, what sorrows and joys lie between 
 us — and joys separate more surely than sorrows do. 
 People scale prison walls, they wade through rivers, 
 they climb over arid mountains, to rejoin those whom 
 they love, but the great barriers of happiness and con- 
 tent, who has surmounted them 1
 
 24 TO ESTHER. 
 
 " I say this, and yet success has been mine since I 
 saw you. Many good things have come to me for 
 which I did not greatly care, but though the spring 
 tides and bright summers and the bitter winter winds 
 and autumnal mists were fated to part us year after 
 year, yet it also seemed destined that I should love you 
 faithfully through all — that even forgetfulness should 
 not prevent it, that disappointment should not embitter, 
 that indifference should not chill. What I have borne 
 from you I could not have endured from any other. 
 Once, long before I knew you, a woman spoke to me 
 hastily, ' and I left her, and could not forgive her for 
 years, and sometimes I ask myself is my ill-luck a 
 judgment upon me .'' 
 
 " I, who was so impatient once and hard of heart, 
 make no merit of my long affection for you, Esther : it 
 was simply fate, and I could not resist it. Changing, 
 unchanging, faithful, unfaithful, who can account for his 
 experiences t Does mistrust bring about of itself that 
 which it imagines } is everything there that we fancy we 
 see in people .■* Often I think that fallen as we are, and 
 weary and soiled by the wayside dust and mud, and the 
 many cares of life, some gleam of the divine radiance is 
 ours still, and to those who love us best it is given to 
 see it. That the sweetness and goodness and brightness 
 we had fancied are no fancies, but truth. True though
 
 TO ESTHER. 25 
 
 clouds and darkness come between us, and the mortal 
 parts cannot always apprehend the divine. 
 
 " Love is blind ; indifference sees more clearly, people 
 say, and I wonder if this can be true ; for my part I 
 think it is the other way. I have sometimes asked about 
 you from one and from another, and people have spoken 
 of you as if you were to me only what they are, what I 
 am to them, or they to you. I seem to be writing 
 riddles and ringing the changes upon the words which 
 you will not see. Whether you see them or not what 
 does it matter } you would not understand their meaning, 
 their sorrowful fidelity, nor do I wish that you should. 
 
 " For, as I have said, years have passed, other 
 thoughts and ties and interests have come to me ; I am 
 sometimes even vexed and wearied by my own un- 
 changing nature, and I am tired of the very things from 
 which I cannot tear myself away. I don't think I care 
 for you now, though I still love the woman who jilted 
 me years ago upon the Pincio. It might be that, seeing 
 you again, all the old tender emotion of feeling would 
 revive towards you. It might be that you would wound 
 me a second time by destroying my dreams, my ideal 
 remembrance. Very sad, very sweet, very womanly and 
 trustful my remembrance is. I should imagine you 
 must have hardened — improved as people call it — since 
 then, and been moulded into some different person. Six
 
 26 TO ESTHER. 
 
 years spent with Halbert must have altered you, I 
 think, and marred the sweet imperfections of your 
 nature. At any rate you are as far removed from me 
 as if poor Halbert were alive still to torment you. 
 
 " This morning at Luchon my courier brought me a 
 letter which interested me oddly enough, and brought 
 back all the old fancies and associations. It came from 
 my cousin's wife, Lady Mary, There were but a few 
 lines, but your name was written thrice in it ; and like an 
 old half-remembered tune, all the way riding along the 
 rough road I have been haunted by a refrain — ' Meet 
 Esther again, shall it be, can it be } ' — fitting to a sort 
 of rhythm, which is sing-songing in my head at this 
 instant. 
 
 " For want of a companion to speak to, I have 
 written this nonsense at length. I cannot talk to my 
 courier except to swear at the roads. They narrowed 
 and roughened as we got into Spain, after we had 
 crossed a bridge with a black river rushing beneath it. 
 High up in the mountains, the villages perched like eagles' 
 nests ; the streams were dashing over the rocks in the 
 clefts below. This is not a golden and sun-painted 
 land like the country we have been used to, Italy seems 
 like summer as I think of it, and this is like autumn to 
 me. The colours have sombre tints ; there are strange 
 browns and yellows, faded greens with deep blue shades
 
 TO ESTHER. 27 
 
 in them. Stones roll from the pathway and fall crashing 
 into the ravines below. No roads lead to the villages 
 where the people live for a lifetime, tilling their land, 
 weaving their clothes, tending their cattle ; many of 
 them never coming down into the valley all their lives 
 long, sufficing to themselves and ignoring the world at 
 their feet. So my guides have told me, at least, and it 
 was their business to know. . . ." 
 
 ***** 
 All this had been written on the rail of a balcony to 
 the jangling of a church-bell and the sympathetic droning 
 of a guitar with one note. It was played by a doleful- 
 looking soldier in tight regimentals, sitting upright on a 
 chair on the landing-place, and never moving a muscle, 
 while the flies buzzed about his head. A motionless 
 companion sat near listening to the melody. Presently, 
 in the midst of his writing, Geofifry Smith, who had 
 scarcely heeded the guitar or the bell, suddenly heard a 
 great chattering and commotion in the street below, 
 and looking over the rail, he saw a crowd of little gipsy 
 children swarming in front of the house. They were 
 trying to climb up into the balcony, getting on one 
 another's backs, clapping their hands, screaming and 
 beckoning to him : — "Mossoo ! Mossoo ! — tit sou — allons 
 done!" with an encouraging gesture. "Tit sou — 'Ions 
 done — vite, Mossoo ! " and the brown faces grinned
 
 28 TO ESTHER. 
 
 beneath their Httle Moorish-looking turbans — yellow 
 green, scarlet handkerchiefs ; and all the brown bare 
 legs went capering. The narrow street was crowded 
 with people hurrying to the call of the church-bell. 
 Women came out of the low doorways of their houses, 
 adjusting their mantillas. Rosina tripped by with the 
 duenna. Don Basilio strode past with flapping skirts, 
 pantomime-like cocked hat, cotton umbrella and all. 
 Smith looked at them all from over his balcony, like 
 from a box at the opera. At the other end of the Place 
 — Plaza de la Constitucion its name was — the French 
 Consul, leaning over his eagle, was sleepily smoking a 
 cigar and watching the church-goers pass by. Strum- 
 tumty, strum-tumty — tumty-strum, went the guitar, and 
 presently — still like a scene at the play — the light 
 darkened, the people looked up at the sky, and there 
 came an artificial clap of thunder from the hill-top over 
 the town, with a sudden storm of hail and lightning. 
 Rosina set off scampering with her duenna. So did the 
 priests ; the young men with their bright red caps, 
 lounging at the corner of the street ; the old man with 
 his donkey ; and the little grinning beggar-children. 
 
 Smith thought he, too, should like to see the inside 
 of the church, which seemed to be looked upon as a 
 safe refuge : everybody was rushing in the same direction. 
 He had not very far to go : up a short street, and along
 
 TO ESTHER. 29 
 
 the Plaza, and then, after crossing a little wooden 
 drawbridge. Smith found himself at the church-door. 
 He stooped and went in through a low Moorish-looking 
 arch, and descended a short flight of black-marble steps 
 which led down into the aisle. 
 
 It seemed quite dark at first, except that the tapers 
 were flaring at the altar, where three unprepossessing- 
 looking priests were ofiiciating. By degrees Smith found 
 that he was standing in a beautiful old Templar church, 
 with arches, with red silk hangings, and a chequered 
 marble floor, and a dark carved gallery from which some 
 heads were peeping. The women were sitting and 
 squatting on the floor with their shoes neatly ranged at 
 their sides, and their babies dandling in their arms. 
 The men were behind, nearer the door ; and in the front 
 row of all, grinning, showing their teeth, and plucking 
 at his legs as he went by. Smith discovered the little 
 company of persecuting boys and girls, pretending to 
 bury their faces in their hands when he looked at them, 
 and peeping at him through their wiry little fingers 
 with shining malicious eyes. 
 
 The service came to an end ; the storm passed 
 away. Smith left the church with the children swarm- 
 ing at his heels, and found his guide waiting with the 
 horses ready harnessed. They had no time to lose, 
 the man said — the bill was paid. Smith sprang into
 
 30 TO ESTHER. 
 
 the saddle, flung a handful of halfpence to the Moorish 
 little bandits, and rode off as hard as he could go along 
 the rough bridle-path. 
 
 It was very late before he got back. He dined by 
 himself about ten o'clock, with a tired, shirt-sleeved 
 waiter to attend upon him, and then he went and sat 
 under the trees on the Cours, listening to the music 
 and trying to make up his mind. Should he go to 
 Bigorre .-' Yes ; no ; iin pat ; bcaiicoup ; pas dii tout. 
 He changed his plans over and over again. About 
 midnight, when the music and the lights were still 
 alive, the people still drinking their coffee and lemonade 
 in the soft starlit night, and chatting and humming all 
 round about. Smith determined at last that he would 
 stay for a day or two longer, and then go to Tarbes 
 and on to Marseilles and to Italy. Having made out 
 this scheme, he called a voiturier with a whip and jack- 
 boots who happened to be passing, and asked him if 
 he was engaged and what was his fare to St. Bertrand. 
 Smith had a fancy to see the old place, which lies on 
 the road to Tarbes. It also lies on the road to Bigorre, 
 but Smith thought that he did not remember this. 
 The guide was a Bigorre man and anxious to get there. 
 He was willing enough to go to St. Bertrand. After 
 that he should like to get home, he said. His horses 
 wanted a rest. Smith came to a compromise with him
 
 TO ESTHER. %\ 
 
 at last. The tired horses were to take him to St. 
 Bertrand, and then they were to make further arrange- 
 ments. 
 
 Two roads cross the country which divides Luchon 
 from Bigorre. One runs direct in noble undulations 
 over hill-tops and mountain ranges. It goes bursting 
 over the great Col d'Aspin, from whence you may see 
 the world like a sea, tossing and heaving at your feet, 
 and trembling with the light upon a thousand hills ; 
 and then the highway plunges down into deep valleys, 
 where the air is scented with pine-wood. 
 
 The other road winds by the plain and follows the 
 course of a flowing river, past villages sun-decked and 
 vine-wreathed, but silent and deserted in their white- 
 ness. A sad-faced woman looks from her cottage-door ; 
 a dark-headed boy comes skimming over the stones 
 with his naked feet, and holds up his hand for alms ; 
 a traveller, resting on a heap by the dusty roadside, 
 nods his head in token of weary fellowship. At last, 
 as you still follow the road in the valley, with the low 
 range on either side, you suddenly reach a great hill 
 with the towers of a strong city rising from its summit. 
 It dominates the land-waves, which seem flowing down 
 from the mountains, and the great flat marshes which 
 stretch away to the sea. 
 
 Smith chose the plain to return by, wishing, as^
 
 32 TO ESTHER. 
 
 I have said, to see St. Bertrand : he had crossed the 
 mountain before, in the course of his travels. He went 
 rolHng along through the fresh morning air, with his 
 head full of old sights and thoughts — very far away, 
 hankerings and fancies which he had imagined safely 
 buried in the Campagna or mouldering with the relics 
 of his old Italian sight-seeing times. Along the 
 banks of the river, crossing and recrossing many times 
 from one side to another, through plains and sunny 
 villages, they had come at last to St. Bertrand, the 
 city on the hill. The driver, a surly fellow, hissed and 
 cursed as the horses went stumbling up the steep 
 ascent, straining and slipping in the blazing sun over 
 bleached white stones. There were four bony horses, 
 ornamented with bells and loaded with heavy harness. 
 Smith reclined at his ease among the fusty cushions 
 of the carriage ; his courier clung nervously to the 
 narrow railing on the box ; Pierre, the driver, cracked 
 his long whip, muttered horrible oaths between his 
 teeth, gulped, choked, shrieked, with hideous jerks and 
 sounds. They slowly climb the hill of St. Bertrand. 
 Everything seems to grow whiter and brighter as they 
 mount. They reach the town at last : there is an 
 utter silence and look of abandonment ; flowers are 
 hanging over the walls and gables and postern-gates. 
 They pass fountains of marble, stone casements, and
 
 TO ESTHER. 33 
 
 turrets and balconies, all white, blazing, deserted, with 
 geraniums hanging and flowering. They pass under 
 an archway with carvings and emblazonments throwing 
 deep shadows, by strange gables and corners and turrets, 
 up a fantastic street. It was like a goblin city, so 
 dreary, silent, deserted, with such strange conceits and 
 ornaments at every corner. 
 
 The hotel was empty, too ; one demure, sour visage 
 came to the door to receive them. Yes, there was food 
 prepared ; the horses could be put up in the stables. 
 A human voice seemed to break the enchantment, for 
 I think until then Smith had almost expected to find 
 a sleeping princess upon a bed, a king, a queen, a court, 
 all dreaming and dozing inside this ancient palace : for 
 the inn had been a palace, at some time or other per- 
 haps inhabited by the ancient Bishops of St. Bertrand, 
 or by some of the nobles whose escutcheons still hang 
 on the gates of the city. There were two tables, both 
 laid and spread in readiness, in the solemn old dining- 
 room, with its white painted panels and carved chimney. 
 Smith was amused to see a Murray lying on the white 
 cloth nearest the window. Even here, in this forgotten 
 end of the world, the wandering tribes of Britain had 
 hoisted the national standard and hastened to secure 
 the best place at the feast. There were three plates, 
 three forks, three knives. Smith, dimly pursuing his 
 
 3
 
 34 TO ESTHER. 
 
 morning fancy, and bewitched by the unreality and 
 silence of all about him, thought that this was the place 
 in which he should like to meet Esther again — if he 
 was ever to meet her. Here, in this white, blinding 
 silence, she might come like an apparition out of his 
 dreams — come up the steep mediaeval street, past the 
 fountain — with her long dress, — how well he remem- 
 bered it, rippling over the stones, her slim straight 
 figure standing in relief against the blazing sky. . . , 
 " Cutlets — yes ; and a chicken ; and a bottle of St. 
 Julien." . . . This was to the waiting-woman, who 
 asked him what he would like. 
 
 Geoffry walked out into the garden to wait until his 
 cutlets should be ready, and he found an unkept wilder- 
 ness, tangled and sweet with autumnal roses, and a 
 carved stone terrace or loggia, facing a great beautiful 
 landscape. As he leaned against the marble parapet. 
 Smith, who still thought he was only admiring the view, 
 imagined Esther walking up the street, coming nearer 
 and nearer, approaching along the tangled walk through 
 the rose-trees, and standing beside him at last on the 
 terrace. It was a fancy, nothing more ; it was not even 
 a presentiment ; all the beautiful world below shimmered 
 and melted into greater and greater loveliness ; an insect 
 went flying and buzzing over the parapet and out into 
 the clear atmosphere ; a rose fell to pieces, and as the
 
 TO ESTHER. 35 
 
 leaves tumbled to the ground one or two floated on to 
 the yellow time-worn ledge against which Smith was 
 leaning. No, he would not go to Bigorre ; he said to 
 himself he would turn his horses' heads, or travel 
 beyond Bigorre, to some one of the other mountains — 
 to Luz or St. Sauveur, or farther still, to Eaux Bonnes, 
 in the heart of the Pyrenees. He pulled out his letter 
 and read it again ; this was all it said, in Lady Mary's 
 cramped little hand : — 
 
 '■^ B. de Bigorre. 
 
 " Dear Geoffry — Some one has seen you somewhere 
 in the Pyrenees ; will you not take Bigorre on your way, 
 and come and spend a few days with us .-" It would 
 cheer my husband up to see you ; his cough is trouble- 
 some still, though he is greatly better than when we left 
 the rectory. There are one or two nice people in the 
 place. I am sure you would spend a few pleasant days. 
 We have the three Vulliameys, Mr. and Mrs. Penton, and 
 Olga Halbert ; — that poor Mrs. Halbert, too, is with 
 them ; her children make great friends with ours. 
 Mrs. Halbert tells us she knows you. She is very much 
 altered and shaken by her husband's death, though one 
 cannot but feel that it must be more a shock than a 
 sorrow to her, poor woman. The Pentons and Mrs. 
 Halbert are at the hotel. She says they find it comfort-
 
 36 TO ESTHER. 
 
 able. I know you like being independent best, otherwise 
 we have a nice little room for you, and should much 
 prefer having you with us while you stay. The children 
 are flourishing, and I expect my sister Lucy to join us 
 in a few days. Do try and come, and give us all a great 
 deal of pleasure. 
 
 " Affectionately yours, 
 
 " Mary Smith. 
 
 "P.S. — I shall send this to St. James's Place on the 
 chance that it maybe forwarded back again to you with 
 your other letters." 
 
 Smith read the letter and tore it up absently, and 
 threw it on the ground. He would not go to Bigorre ; 
 he was past the age of sentiment ; he would never 
 marry ; he did not want to see Esther again and destroy 
 his remembrance of her, or make a fool of himself 
 perhaps, and be bound to a woman hardened by mis- 
 fortune, by long contact with worldly minds, by devotion 
 to an unworthy object. " How could she prefer Halbert 
 to me ? " Smith thought, with an amused self-conscious- 
 ness. Esther was a clever woman : she had thought for 
 herself: she needed a certain intellectual calibre of com- 
 panionship. Halbert cultivated his whiskers : his best 
 aspirations were after Lady X and Y and Z and their 
 tea-parties ; and then Smith wandered away from poor
 
 TO ESTHER. 37 
 
 H albert, who was gone now, to the lovely sight be- 
 fore him. 
 
 It was not so much the view as the beautiful fires 
 which were lighting it up. If colour were like music — if 
 one could write it down, and possess for good — the 
 gleams of sudden sweetness, the modulation, the great 
 bursting symphonies of light thrilling from a million 
 notes at once into one great triumphal harmony : if the 
 passion of loveliness — I know no better word — which 
 seems all about us at times, could be written down, one 
 would need words that should change and deejDen and 
 sweeten with the reader's mood, and shift for ever into 
 combinations lovely and yet more lovely. 
 
 Smith was looking still with a heart full of gratitude 
 and admiration, when he heard a step upon the gravel 
 walk. He turned round to see who was coming. Was 
 this an enchanted city he had come to } A tall slim 
 figure of a woman in black robes was advancing along the 
 gravel walk and coming to the overhanging terrace where 
 he was standing. Alas ! it was no enchantment. The 
 genii had not brought his princess on their wings. It 
 was no one he had ever seen before — no sallow face with 
 the sweet bright look in it ; it was only a handsome- 
 looking young woman, one of the thousands there are 
 in the world, with peach-red cheeks and bright keen 
 eyes, who glanced at him suspiciously. Two great black
 
 38 TO ESTHER. 
 
 feathers were hanging from her hat ; her long silk gown 
 rippled in the sunshine and her black silk cloak was 
 fastened round her neck by a silver clasp. 
 
 It was a very charming apparition, Smith thought, 
 though it was not the one he had hoped for — there was 
 nothing gracious about this well-grown young lady. 
 This was no Esther — this was not a woman who would 
 change her mind a dozen times a day, who would be 
 weak and foolish and trustful always. Geoffry was half 
 repelled, half attracted by the keen determined face, the 
 firm-moulded lines. He might not have thought twice 
 about her at another time ; but in this golden solitude 
 and Garden of Eden it almost seemed as if a companion 
 was wanted. He had been contented enough until now 
 with a shadowy friend of his own exorcising. The lady 
 in black, after looking at the view for a second, turned 
 round and walked away again as deliberately as she had 
 come, and he presently followed her example for want 
 of something better to do. The hills were still melting, 
 roses were flushing and scenting the air, insects floating 
 as before ; but Smith, whose train of thought had been 
 disturbed, turned his back upon all their loveliness 
 and strolled into the house to ask if his breakfast was 
 ready. 
 
 Prim-face, who was busy at a great carved cupboard, 
 seemed amazed at the question. "You have not seen
 
 TO ESTHER. 
 
 39 
 
 the cathedral yet : travellers always go over the cathe- 
 dral before the dcjeiiner. We have had to catch and 
 kill the fowl," in an aggrieved tone. "Encore vingt 
 minutes n'est-ce pas, Auguste ! " shrieks the woman 
 suddenly, without budging from her place. 
 
 "Vingt minutes," repeats a deep voice from some- 
 where or other behind the great cupboard, and there 
 w^as no more to be said on the subject. 
 
 Smith spent the twenty minutes during which his 
 chicken was grilling and his potatoes frizzling, in a great 
 lofty cathedral. It stands on the very summit of the 
 hill, high above the town and the surrounding plains : 
 wide flights lead to the great entrance, the walls and 
 roof are bare, but of beautiful and generous proportions : 
 lofty arches vault high overhead. The sunshine, which 
 seems weird and goblin in the city, falls here with a 
 more solemn light : slant gleams flit across the marble 
 pavement as the great door swings on its hinges and 
 footfalls echo in the distance. Smith seemed to recog- 
 nize the place somehow — it looked familiar : the rough 
 beautiful arches, the vastness, the desertion ; no priests, 
 no one praying, no glimmer of shrines and candles ; 
 only space, silence, light from the large window, only a 
 solemn figure of an abbot lying upon his marble bed 
 wdth a date of three hundred years ago. 
 
 Smith remembered dreaming of such a place in his
 
 40 TO ESTHER. 
 
 old home years and years before, when he was a boy, 
 and had never even heard Esther's name. The abbot 
 on his marble bed seemed familiar, the placid face, the 
 patient hands, the dog crouching at his feet. A great 
 gleam of sun from a window overhead streaked and 
 lighted the marble. Smith sat down on the step of the 
 tomb and looked up at the great window, A white 
 pigeon with a beautiful breast shining in the sun was 
 sitting upon the mullion. It sat for a time, and then it 
 flew away with a sudden rush across the violet blue sky. 
 Smith did not move, but waited in a tranquil, gentle 
 frame of mind, like that of a person who is dreaming 
 beautiful dreams, nor had waited very long when he 
 seemed to be conscious of people approaching, voices 
 and footsteps coming nearer and nearer, until at last 
 they were somewhere close at hand, and he overheard 
 the following uninteresting conversation between two 
 voices : 
 
 " Why don't they do it up with chintz if they are so 
 poor ? chintz costs next to nothing. I am sure that lily 
 of. the valley and ribbon pattern in my dressing-room 
 seems as if it never would wear out. I was saying to 
 Hudson only the other day, ' Really, Hudson, I think 
 while we are away you must get some new covers for 
 my dressing-room.' " 
 
 Here a second voice interrupted with — "Charles, do
 
 TO ESTHER. 41 
 
 you remember any allusion to St. Bertrand in jfaviicson's 
 Lives of the Saints ? I read the book very carefully, 
 but I cannot feel quite certain." 
 
 To which the first voice rejoined — " Why, Olga, I do 
 wonder you don't remember. I think Charles has a very 
 bad memory indeed. And so have I ; but yo?c read so 
 much." 
 
 Charles now spoke. " Here, Mira, look at this a-hm 
 — a-interesting monument. — To the right, Mira, to the 
 right. You are walking away from it." 
 
 " Dear me, Charles ! what a droll creature. He puts 
 me in mind of uncle John." 
 
 " I cannot help thinking," Charles said impressively, 
 " that this is the place Lady Kidderminster was describ- 
 ing at Axminster House. I am almost convinced 
 of it." 
 
 Then Smith heard Charles saying rapidly and 
 speaking his words all in a string as it were — 
 
 " Lady-Kidderminster - a-ete-beaucoup - frappee - par- 
 une - Cathedrale - dans-les-Pyrenees. Est-ce - qu'elle-a- 
 passe-par-ici .' ... I am sure — I — a-beg your pardon. 
 — I had not perceived — " and a stout consequential- 
 looking gentleman, who was in the middle of his sen- 
 tence, stumbled over Smith's umbrella, while Smith, 
 half amused, half provoked, rose from his seat and 
 seemed to the speaker to emerge suddenly, red beard
 
 42 TO ESTHER. 
 
 and all, from the tomb. Mira gave a little scream, 
 Olga looked amused. 
 
 " I trust I have not seriously injured — a-hm ! — any- 
 thing," said the gentleman ; " we were examining this — 
 a — relic, and had not observed — " Smith made a little 
 bow, and another to the beautiful apparition on the 
 terrace, whom he recognized. Next to her stood 
 another very handsome youngish lady, stout, fair, and 
 grandly dressed, who graciously acknowledged his 
 greeting, while Olga slightly tossed her head, as was her 
 way when she thought herself particularly irresistible. 
 Behind them the cure was waiting — a sad, heavy- 
 featured man, in thick country shoes, whose shabby 
 gown flapped against his legs as he walked with his 
 head wearily bent. He only shrugged his shoulders at 
 the many questions which were put to him. Such as. 
 Why didn't they put in stained-glass windows .-' wasn't 
 it very cold in winter .'' was he sure he didn't remember 
 Lady Kidderminster .-' Leading the way, he opened a 
 side-door, through which Smith saw a beautiful old 
 cloister, with a range of violet hills gleaming through 
 the arches. It was unexpected, and gave him a sudden 
 thrill of pleasure. 
 
 "What a delightful place you have here," he said 
 to the guide. " I think I should like to stay alto- 
 gether."
 
 TO ESTHER. 43 
 
 " Not many people care to pass by this way now," 
 said the cure. " It is out of the road ; they do not like 
 to bring their horses up the steep ascent. Yes, it is a 
 pretty point de vue. I come here of an evening some- 
 times." 
 
 " Extremely so," said Mira. " Olga, do you know I 
 am so tired .-' I am convinced that I want bracing. I 
 wish we had gone to Brighton instead of coming to this 
 hot place. — Charles, do you think the 'dejeuner' is 
 ready .-* I am quite exhausted," she went on, in the 
 same breath. 
 
 "Would CCS dames care to see the vestments .-*" the 
 curate asked, a little wistfully, seing them prepare 
 to go. 
 
 " Oh-a-merci, we are rather pressed for time," Charles 
 was beginning, when Smith saw that the man looked 
 disappointed, and said he should like to see them. 
 Olga, as they called her, shook out her draperies, and 
 told Charles they might as well go through with the 
 farce, and Mira meekly towered after her husband and 
 sister. These are odious people, poor Smith thought 
 The ladies are handsome enough, but they are like 
 About's description of his two heroines : " L'une etait 
 une statue, I'autre une poupee." This statue seemed 
 always complacently contemplating its own pedestal. 
 In the sacristic there were only one or two relics and
 
 44 TO ESTHER. 
 
 vestments to be seen, and a large book open upon a 
 desk. 
 
 " People sometimes," said the cure, humbly shuffling 
 and looking shyly up, " inscribe their names in this book, 
 with some slight donation towards the repairs of the 
 church." 
 
 " I thought as much," said Olga, while Charles 
 pompously produced his purse and began fumbling 
 about. Smith was touched by the wistful looks of the 
 guide. This church was his child, his companion, and it 
 was starving for want of food. He wrote his name — 
 " Mr. Geofifry Smith " — and put down a couple of napo- 
 leons on the book, where the last entry was three months 
 old, of two francs which some one had contributed. The 
 others opened their eyes as they saw what had happened. 
 The cure's gratitude and delight amply repaid Geofifry, 
 who had more napoleons to spend than he could well get 
 through. The pompous gentleman now advanced, and 
 in a large, aristocratic hand inscribed, — " Mr. and Mrs. 
 Penton, of Penton ; " "Miss Halbert." And at the 
 same time Mr. Penton glanced at the name over his 
 own, and suddenly gleamed into life, in that way which 
 is peculiar to people who unexpectedly recognize a 
 desirable acquaintance. 
 
 " Mr. Smith ! I have often heard your name. You 
 — a — knew my poor brother-in-law, Frank Halbert,
 
 TO ESTHER. 45 
 
 I believe. — Mrs. Penton — Miss Halbert. — A most 
 curious and fortunate chance — hm-a ! — falling in with 
 one another in this out-of-the-way portion of the globe. 
 Perhaps we may be travelling in the same direction .'' we 
 are on our way to Bigorre, where we rejoin our sister- 
 in-law, Mrs. Frank Halbert." 
 
 Geofifry felt as if it was the finger of Fate interfering. 
 He followed them mechanically out into the street. 
 
 " How hot the sun strikes upon one's head. Do you 
 dislike it .-' — I do," said Mrs. Penton, graciously, as they 
 walked back to the hotel together. . . . 
 
 People say that as they live on, they find answers in 
 life to the problems and secrets which have haunted and 
 vexed their youth. Is it so .'' It seems as if some 
 questions were never to be answered, some doubts never 
 to be solved. Right and wrong seem to change and 
 blend as life goes on, as do the alternate hours of light 
 and darkness. Perhaps some folks know right from 
 wrong always and at all times. But there are others weak 
 and inconsistent, who seem to live only to regret. They 
 ask themselves with dismay, looking back at the past 
 — Was that me myself.'' Could that have been me? 
 That person going about with the hard and angry 
 heart ; that person uttering cruel and unforgiving words ; 
 that person thinking thoughts that my soul abhors t 
 Poor Esther ! Often and often of late her own ghost
 
 46 TO ESTHER. 
 
 had come to haunt her, as it had haunted Smith — some- 
 times in a girhsh guise, tender, impetuous, unworn and 
 unsoiled, by the wayside wear, the thorns and the 
 dust of Hfe. At other times — so she could remember 
 herself at one time of her life — foolish, infatuated, 
 mad, and blind — oh, how blind ! Her dream had not 
 lasted very long ; she awoke from it soon. It was not 
 much of a story. She was a woman now. She was 
 a girl when she first knew her husband, and another 
 who she once thought would have been her husband. 
 She had but to choose between them. That was all her 
 story ; and she took in her hand and then put away the 
 leaden casket with the treasure inside, while she kept 
 the glittering silver and gold for her portion. 
 
 " Some there be that shadows kiss ; 
 Some have but a shadow's bliss." 
 
 Poor Esther ! her shadows soon fled, parted, deepened 
 into night ; and long sad years succeeded one another : 
 trouble and pain and hardness of heart, and bitter, 
 bitter pangs of regret ; remorse of passionate effort after 
 right, after peace, and cruel failures and humiliations. 
 No one ever knew the life that Esther Halbert led for 
 the six years after she married. Once in an agony of 
 grief and humiliation she escaped to her stepmother with 
 her little girl. Lady Fanny pitied her, gave her some 
 luncheon, talked good sense. Old Colonel Olliver
 
 TO ESTHER. 47 
 
 sneered, as was his way, and told his daughter to go 
 home in a cab. He could not advise her remaining- with 
 him, and, in short, it was impossible. 
 
 " You married Frank with your eyes open," he said. 
 " You knew well enough what you were about when you 
 threw over that poor fellow Smith, as if he had been an 
 old shoe ; and now you must make the best of what you 
 have. I am not going to have a scandal in the family, 
 and a daughter without a husband constantly about the 
 house. I'll talk to Halbert and see if matters can't be 
 mended ; but you will be disgraced if you leave him, and 
 you are in a very good position as you are. Injured wife, 
 patient endurance — that sort of thing — nothing could be 
 better." 
 
 Esther, with steady eyes and quivering lips, slowly 
 turned away as her father spoke. Lady Fanny, her 
 stepmother, was the kindest of the two, and talked to 
 her about her children's welfare, and said she would 
 drive her back in her brougham. Poor Esther dazed, 
 sick at heart ; she thought that if it were not for her 
 Jack and her Prissa she would go away and never come 
 back again. Ah ! what a life it was ; what a weary 
 delusion, even for the happiest — even for those who 
 obtained their heart's desire ! She had a great burst of 
 crying, and then she was better, and said meekly, Yes, 
 she would go home, and devote herself to her little ones,
 
 48 TO ESTHER. 
 
 and try to bear with Frank. And she made a vow that 
 she would complain no more, since this was all that 
 came to her when she told her troubles to those who 
 might have been a little sorry. Esther kept her vow. 
 Was it her good angel that prompted her to make it 1 
 Halbert fell, out hunting, and was brought home sense- 
 less only a few days after, and Esther nursed him 
 tenderly and faithfully : when he moaned, she forgave 
 and forgot every pain he had ever inflicted upon her, 
 every cruel word or doubt or suspicion. He never 
 rallied ; and the doctors looked graver and graver, until 
 at last Frank Halbert died, holding his wife's hand 
 in his. 
 
 The few first weeks of their married life, these last 
 sad days of pain and suffering, seemed to her all that 
 she had left to her ; all the terrible time between she 
 blotted out and forgot as best she could, for she would 
 clutch her children suddenly in her arms when sickening 
 memories overpowered her, and so forget and forgive at 
 once. For some time Esther was shocked, shaken, 
 nervous, starting at every word and every sound, but by 
 degrees she gained strength and new courage. When 
 she came to Bigorre she was looking better than she 
 had done for years ; and no wonder : her life was 
 peaceful now, and silent ; cruel sneers and utterances 
 had passed out of it. The indignities, all the miseries
 
 TO ESTHER. 49 
 
 of her past years, were over for ever ; only their best 
 blessings, Jack and Prissa, remained to her ; and she 
 prayed with all her tender mother's heart that they 
 might grow up different from either of their parents, 
 good and strong and wise and upright — unlike her, 
 unlike their father. 
 
 The Pentons, who were good-natured people in their 
 way, had asked her to come ; and Esther, who was too 
 lazy to say no, had agreed, and was grateful to them 
 for persuading her to accompany them. She liked the 
 place. The bells sounding at all the hours with their 
 sudden musical cadence, the cheery stir, the cavalcades 
 arriving from the mountains, the harnesses jingling, the 
 country-folks passing and repassing, the convents 
 tinkling, Carmes close at hand, Carmelites a little 
 farther down the street, — the streams, the pretty shady 
 walks among the hills, the pastoral valley w^here the 
 goats and the cattle were browsing, — it was all bright 
 and sunshine and charming. Little Prissa in her big 
 sun-bonnet, and Jack helping to push the perambulator, 
 went up every morning to the Salut, along a road with 
 shady trees growing on either side, which led to some 
 baths in the mountain. One day the children came 
 home in much excitement, to say they had seen a horse 
 in a chequed cotton dressing-gown, and with two pair 
 of trowsers on. But their greatest delight of all was 
 
 4
 
 50 TO ESTHER. 
 
 the Spaniard of Bigorre with his pack. Esther soon 
 grew very tired of seeing him parading about in a 
 dress something between a brigand and a circus-rider ; 
 but Prissa and Jack never wearied, and the dream of 
 their outgoing and incoming was to meet him. Prissa's 
 other dream of perfect happiness was drinking tea on 
 the terrace at the Chalet with httle Geoffry and Lucy 
 and Lena Smith, where they all worshipped the Spaniard 
 together, and told one another stories about the funny 
 horse and the little pig that tried to eat out of Lena's 
 hand. Their one trouble was that Mademoiselle Bouchon 
 made them tell their adventures in French. At all 
 events they could laugh in English, and she never found 
 it out. Lady Mary would come out smiling while the 
 tea was going on, and nod her kind cap- ribbons at them 
 all. She was a portly and good-humoured person, who 
 did foolish things sometimes, and was fond of interfering 
 and trying to make people happy her own way. She 
 had taken a fancy to Esther, and one day — ingenious 
 Lady Mary — she said to herself, " I am sure this would 
 do for poor Geoffry : he ought to marry. This is the 
 very thing. Dear me, I wish he would come here for a 
 day or two," and she went back into her room and 
 actually wrote to him to come. 
 
 The two ladies went to the service of the Carmes 
 that evening. It was the fashion to go and listen for
 
 TO ESTHER. 51 
 
 the voice of one of the monks. There was a bustle of 
 company rustling in ; smart people were coming up 
 through the darkening streets ; old French ladies pro- 
 tected by their little maids, arriving with their " Heures " 
 in their hands ; lights gleamed in the windows here and 
 there, and in the chapel of the convent a blaze of wax 
 and wick, and artificial flowers, and triumphant music. 
 It was a lovely voice, thrilling beyond the others, 
 pathetic, with beautiful tones of subdued passionate 
 expression. The Carme who sang to them was a hand- 
 some young man, very pale, with a black crisp beard : 
 his head overlooked the others as they came and 
 went with their flaming tapers in mystic processions. 
 Was it something in the man's voice, some pathetic 
 cadence which recalled other tones to which Esther had 
 listened once in her life, and that of late years she had 
 scarcely dared to remember .'* Was it chance, was it 
 fate, was it some strange presentiment of his approach, 
 which made Esther begin to think of Rome, and of 
 Geofifry, and of the days when she first knew him, and 
 of the time before she married } As she thought of old 
 days she seemed to see Smith's kind blue eyes looking 
 at her, and to hear his voice sounding through the music. 
 How often she had longed to see him — how well she 
 remembered him — the true heart, the good friend of her 
 youth.
 
 52 TO ESTHER. 
 
 Esther's heart stirred with remembrances of things 
 far far away from the convent and its prayers and 
 fastings and penances. Penance and fastings and vigils 
 — such things should be her portion, she thought, by 
 rights ; and it was with a pang of shame, of remorse, 
 of bitter regret, and of fresh remorse for the pang itself, 
 that she rose from her knees — the service over, the 
 music silent, and wax-lights extinguished — and came 
 out into the night with her friend. As they were walk- 
 ing up the street Lady Mary said quietly and uncon- 
 sciously enough, though Esther started guiltily, and 
 asked herself if she had been speaking her thoughts 
 aloud — 
 
 " Mrs. Halbert, did you ever meet my husband's 
 cousin, Jeff Smith } I hear he is in the Pyrenees ; I 
 am writing to him to come and stay with us, he is such 
 a good fellow." 
 
 Esther, if she had learnt nothing else since the old 
 Roman days, had learnt at least to control herself and 
 to speak quietly and indifferently, though her eyes 
 suddenly filled with tears and there came a strange 
 choking in her throat. Her companions noticed 
 nothing as Mrs. Halbert said, "Yes, she had known 
 him at Rome, but that she had not seen him for 
 years." 
 
 "Ah, then, you must renew your acquaintance,"
 
 TO ESTHER. S3 
 
 Lady Mary said ; adding, abruptly, " Do you know, 
 I hear a Carmelite is going to make her profession next 
 week ? — we must go. These things are horrible, and 
 yet they fascinate me somehow." 
 
 " What a touching voice that was," said Esther. 
 " It affected me quite curiously." To which Lady 
 Mary replied, — 
 
 " I remember that man last year : he has not had 
 time to emaciate himself to a mummy. He sat next 
 me at the table-d'hote, and we all remarked him for 
 being so handsome and pleasant, and for the quantities 
 of champagne he drank. There was a little quiet dark 
 man, his companion. They used to go out riding 
 together, and sit listening to the music at the Thermes. 
 There was a ball there one night, and I remember 
 seeing the young fellow dancing with a beautiful 
 Russian princess." 
 
 " Well } " said Esther, listening and not listening. 
 
 "Well, one day he didn't come to dinner, and the 
 little dark man sat next me alone. I asked after my 
 neighbour ; heard he had left the place, but Marguerite 
 — you know the handsome chamber-maid — told me, 
 under breath, that Jean had been desired to take the 
 handsome gentleman's portmanteau down on a truck 
 to the convent of the Carmes ; a monk had received it 
 at the garden-door, and that was all she knew. I am
 
 5+ TO ESTHER. 
 
 sure I recognized my friend to-night. He looked as if 
 he knew me when he came round with the purse." 
 
 " Poor thing," said Mrs. Halbert, sighing. Esther 
 came home to the hotel, flushed, with shining eyes, 
 looking like she used to look ten years ago. She found 
 Mrs. Penton asleep in the sitting-room, resting her 
 portly person upon the sofa. Olga was nodding 
 solemnly over a dubious French novel. Mr. Penton 
 was taking a nap behind his Galignani — the lamp was 
 low. It all looked inexpressibly dull and common- 
 place after the glimpses of other lives which she had 
 had that night. She seemed lifted above herself some- 
 how by the strains of solemn music, by memories of 
 tenderest love and hopeless separation, by dreams of 
 what might have been, what had been before now, 
 of the devotion which had triumphed over all the 
 natural longings and aspirations of life. Could it be 
 that these placid sleepy people were of the same 
 race and make as herself and others of whom she 
 had heard .' Esther crept away to the room where 
 her children were sleeping in their little cots with 
 faithful old Spicer stitching by the light of a candle. 
 As the mother knelt down by the girl's little bed, 
 a great burst of silent tears seemed to relieve her 
 heart, and she cried and cried, she scarcely dared 
 tell herself why.
 
 TO ESTHER. 55 
 
 Have you ever seen a picture painted in black and 
 in gold ? Black-robed saints, St. Dominic and others, 
 on a golden glory, are the only instances I can call to 
 mind, except an Italian painter's fancy of a golden- 
 haired woman in her yellow damask robe, with a mys- 
 terious black background behind her. She had a look 
 of my heroine, though Esther Halbert is an ugly 
 woman, and the picture is the likeness of one of those 
 beautiful fair-haired Venetians whose beauty (while 
 people are still saying that beauty fades away and 
 perishes) is ours after all the centuries, and has been 
 the munificent gift of Titian and his compeers, who 
 first discerned it, to the unknown generations that were 
 yet to be born and to admire. As one looks at the 
 tender face, it seems alive, even now, and one wonders 
 if there is light anywhere for the yellow lady. Can she 
 see into that gloom of paint more clearly than into the 
 long gallery where the people are pacing and the painters 
 are working at their easels .' — or is she as blind as the 
 rest of us } Does she gaze unconscious of all that 
 surrounds her? Does she fancy herself only minute 
 particles of oil and yellow ochre and colouring matter, 
 never guessing that she is a whole, beautiful \\\\\\ senti- 
 ment, alive with feeling and harmony } 
 
 I daresay she is blind like the rest of us, as Esther 
 was that Friday in July when she came hurrying
 
 56 TO ESTHER. 
 
 through the midday sunshine, with her little son 
 scampering beside her, hiding his head from the burn- 
 ing rays among the long folds of her black widow's 
 dress. 
 
 At Bigorre, in the Pyrenees, there is one little spot 
 where the sun's rays seem to burn with intenser heat — 
 a yellow blaze of light amid black and sudden shade. 
 It is a little Place leading to the Thermes. In it a 
 black marble fountain flows, with a clear limpid stream, 
 and a Roman inscription still renders grace for benefits 
 received to the nymph of the healing waters. Arched 
 gates with marble corner-stones, windows closed and 
 shuttered, form three sides of the little square ; on the 
 fourth there is a garden behind an iron railing, where 
 tall hollyhocks nod their heads, catalpas flower and 
 scent the air, and great beds of marguerites and sad 
 autumnal flowers lead to the flight of black-marble 
 steps in front of the house. 
 
 Esther, hurrying along, did not stop to look or to 
 notice. She was too busy shielding and helping little 
 blinded Jack to skurry across the burning desert, as he 
 called it. They reached the shady street at last. Jack 
 emerged from his mother's skirts, and Esther stopped, 
 hesitated, and looked back across the place from which 
 they had just come. The sun was blinding and burn- 
 ing, great dazzling patches were in her eyes, and yet •
 
 TO ESTHER. 57 
 
 It was absurd ; but she could not help thinking that 
 she had seen some one as she crossed : a figure that 
 she now seemed to remember seeing coming down the 
 black- marble steps of the house in the garden — a 
 figure under an umbrella, which put her in mind of 
 some one she had known. It was absurd : it was a 
 fancy, an imagination ; it came to her from the foolish 
 thoughts she had indulged in of late. And yet she 
 looked to make sure that such was the case ; and, 
 turning her head, she perceived in the distance a man 
 dressed in white, as people dress in the Pyrenees, walk- 
 ing under a big umbrella down the opposite street, 
 which leads to the Baths. Esther smiled at her own 
 fancies. An umbrella ! why should not an umbrella 
 awaken associations 1 
 
 " Come along, mamma," said Jack, who had seen 
 nothing but the folds of his mother's dress, and who was 
 not haunted by associations as yet. " Come along, 
 mamma ; don't stop and think." 
 
 Esther took Jack's little outstretched paw into her 
 long slim fingers, but as she walked along the shady side 
 of the street — past the Moorish shop-fronts arched with 
 black marble, with old women gossiping in the interiors, 
 and while Jack stared at the passers-by, at a monk 
 plodding by with sandalled feet, at a bath-woman 
 balancing an enormous machine on her head, or longed
 
 58 TO ESTHER. 
 
 as he gazed at the beautiful peaches and knitted wool- 
 work piled on the shop-ledges, Esther went dreaming 
 back to ten years before, wishing, as grown-up people 
 wish, not for the good things spread before them, but for 
 those of years long gone by — for the fruit long since 
 eaten, or rotten, or planted in the ground. 
 
 " Mammy, there's the Spaniard. Oh ! look at his 
 legs," said Jack, "they are all over ribbons." And 
 Esther, to please him, smiled and glanced at a bandy- 
 legged mountebank disposing of bargains to two credulous 
 Britons. 
 
 " Why, there's uncle Penton come back," Jack cried 
 in great excitement ; " he is buying muffetees. Mammy, 
 come and see what he has got," cried Jack, trying to tug 
 away his hand. 
 
 " Not now, dear," said Esther. The slim fingers 
 closed upon Jack's little hand with too firm a grasp for 
 him to escape, and he trudges on perforce. 
 
 They had almost reached the hotel where they lived 
 by this time. The great clock-tower round which it is 
 built serves as a landmark and beacon. The place was 
 all alive — ^jangling and jingling ; voices were calling to 
 one another, people passing and repassing along the 
 wooden galleries, horses clamping in the courtyard. A 
 riding-party had just arrived ; yellow, pink, red-capped 
 serving-women were hurrying about, showing guests to
 
 TO ESTHER. 59 
 
 their chambers or escorting them across the road to the 
 dependencies of the house. 
 
 As Esther and her little boy were walking along the 
 wooden gallery which led to her rooms, they met Hudson, 
 Mrs. Penton's maid, who told them with a sniff that her 
 mistress was in the drawing-room. 
 
 " Was Mrs, Penton tired after her journey last night.' " 
 Esther asked. " I was sorry not to be at home to receive 
 her, but I did not expect you till to-day." 
 
 " No wonder she's exhausted," said Hudson ; " not a 
 cup of tea have we 'ad since we left on Tuesday-week. 
 They wanted me to take some of their siroppy things. / 
 shan't be sorry to see Heaton Place again." 
 
 Hudson was evidently much put out, and Esther 
 hurried to the sitting - room, where she found Mrs. 
 Penton lying down as usual, and Olga, in a state of 
 excitement, altering the feathers in her hat. 
 
 " How d'ye do, dear .'' " said Mrs. Penton. " We are 
 come back again." 
 
 " We have had a most interesting excursion," said 
 Olga, coming up to kiss her sister-in-law. " I wish }-ou 
 had cared to leave the children, Esther. You might have 
 visited the Lac d'Oo, and that most remarkable ruin, 
 St. Bertrand de Comminges. In Jainicsoiis Lives 
 of " 
 
 " We met such a nice person," interrupted Mrs.
 
 6d to ESTHER. 
 
 Penton. " He came to Bigorre with us in another 
 carriage, but by the same road. He knows you, Esther, 
 and he and Olga made great friends. They got on 
 capitally over the cathedral, and he kindly fetched the 
 Murray for us. We had left it on the table in the salle- 
 d-majigcr, and were really afraid we had lost it." And 
 Mrs. Penton rambled on for a whole half hour, uncon- 
 scious that no one was listening to her. 
 
 Esther had turned quickly to Olga, and asked who 
 this was who knew her. 
 
 " Oh, I daresay you don't remember the name," said 
 Olga, rather consciously. " Smith — Mr. Smith of 
 Garstein. He told me he had known you at Rome, 
 before he came into his property." 
 
 " Did he say that .-* " said Esther, flushing a little. 
 
 " Or before you married, I really don't remember," 
 said Olga. " We had a great deal of conversation, and 
 persuaded him to come back to Bigorre." , 
 
 " It's so hot at twelve o'clock," Mrs. Penton was 
 going on ; "and parasols are quite insufficient. Are you 
 fond of extreme heat, Esther } Charles says that Lady 
 Kidderminster, summer and winter, always carries a fan 
 in her pocket. They are very convenient when they 
 double up, and take less " 
 
 " What sort of looking person is Mr. Smith ? " Esther 
 asked, with a little effort.
 
 TO ESTHER. 6i 
 
 " Distinguished-looking, certainly : a long red beard, 
 not v^ery tall, but' broadly built, and a very pleasant 
 gentlemanlike manner. You shall see him at the table- 
 d'hote to-day ; he promised to join us. In fact," said 
 Olga, " he proposed it himself." 
 
 " I heard him," said Mrs. Penton, placidly. " Olga, I 
 think you have made anotherconquest. I remember," &c. 
 
 Poor Esther could not wait any longer to hear Mrs. 
 Penton's reminiscences, or Olga's self-congratulations ; 
 she went away quickly with Jack to her own room, and 
 got her little Prissa into her lap, and made her put her 
 two soft arms round her neck and love her. " Mamma, 
 why are you crying.''" said Jack ; "we are both quite 
 well, and we have been very good indeed, lately. Madame 
 Bouchon says I am her petty marry. I shan't marry her 
 though. I shall marry Lena when I am a man." 
 
 Esther dressed for dinner in her black crauze eown, 
 and followed the others to her usual place at the long, 
 crowded table. Her hands were cold, and she clasped 
 them together, reminding herself by a gentle pressure 
 that she must be quiet and composed, and give no sign 
 that she remembered the past. She no longer wore her 
 widow's cap, only a little piece of lace in her hair, in 
 which good old Spicer took a pride as she pinned up the 
 thick braids. Esther's grey eyes were looking up and 
 down a little frightened and anxiously : but there was
 
 62 TO ESTHER. 
 
 no one she had ever seen before, and she sat down with 
 a sigh of reHef ; only in another minute, somehow, there 
 was a Httle stir, and Olga said, — " Esther, would you 
 make room?" and popped down beside her ; and then 
 Mrs. Halbert saw that her sister-in-law was signing to 
 some one to come into the seat next beyond her. 
 
 Esther had been nervous and excited, but she was 
 suddenly quite herself again. And as Smith took his 
 place, he bent forward, and their eyes met, and then 
 he put out his hand. — " Is it my old Esther .'' " he 
 thought, with a thrill of secret delight ; while Esther, 
 as she gave him her slim fingers, said to herself, — " Is 
 this my old friend .'' " — and she looked wistfully to see 
 whether she could read his kind, loyal heart, stamped 
 in his face as of yore. They were both quite young 
 people again for five minutes ; Olga attributed the 
 laughter and high spirits of her neighbour to the charms 
 of her own conversation. Esther said not one word, did 
 not eat, did not drink, but was in a sort of dream. 
 
 After dinner they all got up, and went and stood in 
 one of the wooden galleries, watching the lilac and 
 gold as it rippled over the mountains, the Bedat, the 
 Pic du Midi. 
 
 And so this was all, and the long-looked-for meeting 
 was over. Esther thought it was so simple, so natural, 
 she could hardly believe that this was what she had
 
 TO ESTHER. 63 
 
 hoped for and dreaded so long. There was Smith, 
 scarcely changed, — a little altered in manner perhaps, 
 with a beard which improved him, but that was all. All 
 the little tricks of voice and of manner, so familiar once, 
 were there ; it was himself. She was glad, and yet it 
 was not all gladness. Why did he not come up to his 
 old friend .-' Why did he not notice or speak to her .-' 
 Why did he seem so indifferent .■' Why did he talk so 
 much to the others, so little to her .'' Mrs. Halbert was 
 confused, disappointed, and grieved. And yet it was no 
 wonder. She thought that of all people she had least 
 right to expect much from him. She was leaning over 
 the side of the gallery, Olga stood next to her in her 
 white dress, with the light of the sunset in her raven black 
 hair, and Smith was leaning against one of the wooden 
 pillars and talking to Olga. He glanced from the raven 
 black hair to the gentle bent head beyond. But he went 
 on talking to Olga. Esther felt a little lonely, a little 
 deserted. She was used to the feeling, but she sighed, 
 and turned away with a suppressed yet impatient move- 
 ment from the beautiful lilac glow, A noisy, welcome 
 comfort was in store for her. With a burst of childish 
 noise and laughter, Prissa and Jacky came rushing up 
 the gallery, and jumped upon her with their little eager 
 arms wide open, 
 
 " Come for a walk, a little, little short walk, please,
 
 64 TO ESTHER. 
 
 mammy," said Jack. And Esther kissed him, and said 
 yes, if he would fetch her hat and her gloves, and her 
 shawl. 
 
 As she was going, Smith came up hesitating, and 
 said, not looking her full in the face, — 
 
 " I had a message from my cousin, to beg you to 
 look in there this evening. Miss Halbert has kindly 
 promised to come." And Esther, looking up with a 
 reproachful glance (so he thought), answered very quietly 
 she would try to come after her walk. He watched her 
 as she walked away down the long gallery with her 
 children clinging to her side ; with all the sunset lights 
 and shadows falling upon them as they went. " What 
 a pretty picture it makes," he said to Miss Halbert. 
 
 " I'm so glad you think Esther nice-looking," said 
 Olga. " It is not everybody who does. Shall we take 
 a stroll towards the music, Mr. Smith .-'... ." 
 
 Esther had no heart for the music and company, 
 and wandered away into a country road. All the fields 
 of broad Indian-corn leaves were glowing as the three 
 passed along : low bright streaks lay beyond the western 
 plains, and a still evening breeze came blowing and 
 gently stirring the flat green leaves. Jacky and Prissa 
 were chattering to one another. Esther could not speak 
 very much ; her heart was too full. Was she glad— was 
 she sad } What had she expected } Was this the
 
 TO ESTHER. 65 
 
 meeting she had looked for so long ? " He might have 
 spoken one word of kindness, he might have said some- 
 thing more than that mere How do you do ? Of 
 course he was indifferent — how could it be other- 
 wise ? but he might have shammed a little interest," 
 poor Esther thought ; " only a very little would have 
 satisfied me." 
 
 It was quite dark when she reached Lady Mary's, 
 after seeing her children to bed. Olga, and Mr. Penton, 
 and Smith were there already, and Lady Lucy was 
 singing, when Esther came into the great, bare, dark 
 room. The young lady was singing a little French 
 song in the dimness, with a pathetic, pleasant tune, — 
 " Si tu savais," its name was. She gave it with charming 
 expression, and when she had finished, they were all 
 silent for a moment or two, until Lady Mary began to 
 bustle about and to pour out the tea. 
 
 " Take this to Mrs. Halbert, Geoffry," she said, "and 
 tell her about my scheme for to-morrow, and persuade 
 her to come." 
 
 Smith brought the tea as he was bid. 
 
 " We all want to go over to Grippe, if you will come 
 too," he said. 
 
 He looked down kindly at her as he spoke, and the 
 poor foolish woman flushed up with pleasure as she 
 agreed to join them. She was sorry afterwards when 
 
 5
 
 66 TO ESTHER. 
 
 she, and Olga, and Mr. Penton walked home together 
 through the dark streets. 
 
 " I wonder whether Mr. Smith means to join all our 
 excursions," said Miss Halbert. " I just mentioned my 
 wish to see Grippe, and he jumped at it directly," 
 
 Esther felt a chill somehow as Mr. Penton answered, — 
 " Certainly, I — a — remarked it, Olga ; you-a are not 
 — perhaps aware that you have attractions — to a — no 
 common degree. Mr. Smith has certainly — a — dis- 
 covered them." 
 
 Poor Esther ! it seemed hard to meet her old friend 
 at last, only to see how little he remembered her ; and 
 yet she thought, " All is as it should be ; and with my 
 Jacky and my Prissa to love, I am not to be pitied." 
 Only, there was a strange new ache in her heart next 
 morning, when they all assembled after the early break- 
 fast ; she could not feel cheery and unconscious like Lady 
 Mary, or conscious and flattered like Olga. The children 
 in their clean cotton frocks were in raptures, and so far 
 Esther was happy. 
 
 The road to Grippe is along a beautiful mossy valley, 
 with a dashing stream foaming over the pebbles, and with 
 little farms and homesteads dotting the smooth green 
 slopes. Olga and Smith were on horseback ; Penton 
 was also bumping majestically along upon a huge bay 
 mare ; Esther and Lady Mary, and the Smith children
 
 TO ESTHER. 67 
 
 and her own, were packed away into a big carriage with 
 Mdlle. Bouchon, and Httle Geofifry Smith on the box. 
 The children were in a state of friskiness which seriously 
 alarmed the two mammas. They seemed to have at 
 least a dozen little legs apiece. Their screams of 
 laughter reached the equestrians, who were keeping up 
 a somewhat solemn conversation upon the beauties of 
 nature, and the cultivation of Indian corn : Geoffry 
 w^ondered what all the fun might be, and Olga remarked 
 that the children were very noisy, and that Esther 
 certainly spoilt little Jack. 
 
 " Lady Kidderminster strongly advises his being sent 
 to a preparatory school," said Penton, with a jog between 
 each word ; while Smith looked up at the blue sky, then 
 down into the green valley, and forgot all about his two 
 companions, trying to catch the tones of the woman he 
 had loved. 
 
 The chalet was a little rough unfinished place at the 
 foot of the Pic, where people come to drink milk out of 
 clean wooden bowl§ : the excursionists got down, and 
 the horses were put up. The whole party crowded 
 round the wood fire, and peeped at the rough workmen 
 and shepherds who were playing cards in the next 
 compartment — room it could not be called, for the 
 walls were only made of bars of wood at a certain 
 distance from each other. The children's delight at
 
 68 TO ESTHER. 
 
 seeing all over the house at once was unbounded. 
 Jacky slipped his hand between the wooden bars, and 
 insisted on shaking hands with a great rough road- 
 maker in a sheepskin, who smiled kindly at the little 
 fellow's advances. 
 
 Lady Mary was very much disappointed and per- 
 plexed to see the small result of her kindly schemes. 
 It was unbelievable that Geofifrj^ should prefer that 
 great, uninteresting, self-conscious Miss Halbert, to her 
 gentle and tender little widow ; and yet it w-as only too 
 evident. What could be the reason of it .-' She looked 
 from one to the other. Esther was sitting by the fire on 
 a low wooden stool. She seemed a little sad, a little 
 drooping. The children were laughing about her as 
 usual ; and she was holding a big wooden bowl full of 
 milk, from which they sipped when they felt inclined. 
 The firelight just caught the golden tints in her brown 
 thick hair ; her hat was on the floor at her feet ; little 
 Prissa — like her, and not like her — was peeping over her 
 shoulder. It was a pretty picture : the flame, the rough 
 and quaint simplicity of the place, seemed to give it a 
 sort of idyllic grace. As for Smith, he was standing at 
 the paneless window looking out at the view : all the 
 light was streaming through his red beard. It was a 
 straight and well-set figure, Lady Mary thought ; he 
 looked well able to take care of himself, and of her poor
 
 TO ESTHER. 69 
 
 gentle Esther too. He was abstracted — evidently think- 
 ing of something besides the green valleys and pastures 
 — could it, could it be that odious affected woman stuck 
 up in an attitude in the middle of the room who was 
 the object of his dreams ? 
 
 An odd jumble of past, present, and future was 
 running through Geoffry's mind, as he looked out of the 
 hole in the wall, and speculated upon what was going to 
 happen to him here in this green pasture-land by the 
 side of the cool waters. Were they waters of comfort — 
 was happiness his own at last ? somewhat sadly he thought 
 to himself that it was not now what it would have been 
 ten years ago. He could look at the happiest future 
 with calmness. It did not dazzle and transport him as 
 it would have done in former times — he was older, more 
 indifferent : he had seen so many things cease and finish, 
 so many fancies change, he had awakened from so many 
 vivid dreams, that now perhaps he was still dreaming ; life 
 had only become a light sleep, as it were, from which he 
 often started and seemed to awaken. Even Esther 
 .... what did it all mean ? did he love her less now 
 that he had seen her, and found her unchanged, sweeter 
 if possible — and he could not help thinking it — not 
 indifferent .-' Would the charm vanish with the diffi- 
 culties, as the beauty of a landscape ends where the flat 
 and prosperous plains begin ? He did not think so — he
 
 lo TO ESTHER. 
 
 thought so — he loved her — he mistrusted her ; he talked 
 to Olga, and yet he could not keep his eyes from follow- 
 ing Esther as she came and went. All she said, all she 
 did, seemed to him like some sort of music which modu- 
 lates and changes from one harmonious thing to another. 
 A solemn serenity, a sentiment of wordless emotion was 
 hers, and withal, the tender waywardness and gentle 
 womanliness which had always seemed to be part of her. 
 She was not handsome now, any more than she had 
 ever been — the plain lines — the heavy hair — the deep- 
 set eyes were the same — the same as those eyes Smith 
 could remember in Roman gardens, in palaces with long 
 echoing galleries, looking at him through imploring tears 
 on the Pincian Hill. They had haunted him for seven 
 years since he first caught the trick of watching to see 
 them brighten. Now, they brightened when the two 
 little dark-headed children came running to her knee. 
 Raphael could find no subject that pleased him better. 
 Smith was no Raphael, but he, too, thought that among 
 all the beautiful pictures of daily life there is no combi- 
 nation so simple, so touching as that of children who are 
 clinging about their mother. And these pictures are to 
 be seen everywhere and in every clime and place ; no 
 galleries are needed, no price need be paid ; the back- 
 ground is of endless variety, the sun shines, and the 
 mother's face brightens, and all over the world, perhaps.
 
 TO ESTHER. 71 
 
 the children come running into her arms. White arms 
 or dusky, bangled or braceleted, or scarred with labour, 
 they open, and the little ones, clasped within loving 
 walls, feel they are safe. 
 
 Quite oblivious of some observation of Miss Halbert's, 
 Smith suddenly left his window and walked across to 
 the fire, and warmed his hands, and said some little 
 word to Esther, who was still sitting on her low seat. 
 She was hurt and annoyed by his strange constraint 
 and distance of manner. She answered coldly, and got 
 up by a sudden impulse, and walked away to where 
 Lady Mary was standing cutting bread-and-butter for 
 the children. " Decidedly," thought the elder lady, 
 " things are going wrong. I will ask Geoffry to-night 
 what he thinks of my widow." " I am a fool for my 
 pains," Geoffry thought, standing by the fire, " and she 
 
 s only a hard-hearted flirt after all." 
 
 He was sulky and out of temper all the way back. 
 In vain did Olga ransack her brain, and produce all 
 her choicest platitudes for his entertainment. In vain 
 Penton recalled his genteelest reminiscences. Smith 
 answered civilly, it is true, but briefly and constrainedly- 
 
 He was a fool to have come, to have fancied that such 
 devotion as his could be appreciated or understood by 
 a woman who had shown herself once already faithless, 
 fickle, unworthy. Smith forgot, in his odd humility and
 
 72 TO ESTHER. 
 
 mistrust of himself, that he, too, had held back, made 
 no advance, kept aloof, and waited to be summoned. 
 
 Geofifry had the good habit of rising early, and 
 setting out for long walks across the hills before the 
 great heat came to scorch up all activity. The water 
 seemed to sparkle more brightly than later in the day. 
 The flowers glistened with fresh dew. Opal morning 
 lights, with refractions of loveliest colour, painted the 
 hills and brooks, the water-plants, the fields where the 
 women were working already, and the slippery moun- 
 tain-sides where the pine-trees grew, and the flocks 
 and goats with their tinkling bells were grazing. It was 
 a charming medley of pastoral sights and scent and 
 fresh air : shadows trembling and quivering, birds flut- 
 tering among green, the clear-cut ridges of the hills, 
 the waters bubbling am.ong reeds and creeping plants 
 and hanging ferns, among which beautiful dragon-flies 
 were darting. Smith had been up to the top of the 
 Bedat, and was coming down into civilized life again, 
 v;hen he stopped for an instant to look at the bubbling 
 brook which was rushing along its self-made ravine, 
 some four or five feet below the winding path ; a field 
 lay beyond it, and farther still, skirting the side of a 
 hill, the pretty lime-tree walk which leads to the baths 
 in the mountain. Smith, who had been thinking 
 matters over as he stumbled down the steep pathway,
 
 TO ESTHER. 73 
 
 and settling that it was too late — she did not care for 
 him — he had ceased caring for her — best go, and leave 
 things as they were — suddenly came upon a group 
 which touched and interested him, and made him 
 wonder whether, after all, prudence and good sense 
 were always the wisest and the most prudent of things. 
 In the middle of the stream, some thousand years ago, 
 a great rock had rolled down from the heights above, 
 and sunk into the bed of the stream, with the water 
 rushing and bubbling all round it, and the water-lilies 
 floating among the ripples. . . . Perched on the rock, 
 like the naiad of the stream, was Esther, with Jacky 
 and Prissa clinging close to her, and sticking long reeds 
 and water-leaves into her hair. The riverkin rushed 
 away, twisting and twirling and disappearing into green. 
 The leaves and water-plants swayed with the ripples, 
 the children wriggled on their narrow perch, while 
 Esther, with a book in her hand, and a great green 
 umbrella, looked bright, and kind, and happy. 
 
 " Cousin Jeff, cousin Jeff ! " cried little Jack, in 
 imitation of the little Smiths, " come into the steamer, 
 there's lots of room." 
 
 " How d'ye do ? " said his mother, still laughing. 
 
 " How d'ye do, Mrs. Undine } " said Smith, brighten- 
 ing and coming to the water's edge. 
 
 As Smith walked back to his breakfast, he thought
 
 74 TO ESTHER. 
 
 to himself — " If she would but give me one little sign 
 that she liked me, I think — I think I could not help 
 speaking." 
 
 And Lady Mary, who had her little talk out with 
 her cousin after breakfast, discovered, to her great 
 surprise, that what she had thought of as a vague 
 possibility some day, very far off, was not impossible, 
 and might be near at hand after all. She did not say 
 much to Smith, and he did not guess how much she 
 knew of all that was passing in his mind. " He will 
 go away, he will never come forward unless Esther 
 meets him half-way," the elder lady thought to herself, 
 as he left the room ; and she longed to speak to Esther, 
 but she could not summon courage, though opportunity 
 was not wanting. 
 
 They were all standing in the balcony of the chalet 
 that very afternoon, watching the people go by : but first 
 one child went away, then another, and at last Lady 
 Mary and Esther were left alone. " Look at that team 
 of oxen dragging the great trunks of the trees," said 
 Lady Mary ; " how picturesque the peasant people are 
 in their mountain dress ! " 
 
 " The men look so well in their berets," Esther said ; 
 " that is a fine-looking young fellow who is leading the 
 cart. There is Mr. Smith crossing the street — he would 
 look very well in a beret, with his long red beard."
 
 70 ESTHER. 75 
 
 " Certainly he would," said Lady Mary ; and then 
 she suddenly added, " Esther, would you do me a 
 favour ? You have been talking of going to the fair 
 at Tarbes to-morrow. I shall be obliged to stay at 
 home with my husband and Lucy. Would you bring 
 Geoffry a beret, and give it to him, and make him wear 
 it .'' I know you will if I ask you." 
 
 " A red, or a blue one } " said Esther, smiling. 
 
 " The nicest you can get," said Lady Mary. " Thank 
 you very much indeed." 
 
 Lady Kidderminster, who must have employed her 
 time well while she was in the Pyrenees, " had been 
 very much struck by Tarbes," Mr. Penton declared. 
 " It is pleasantly situated," Murray says, " on the clear 
 Adour, in the midst of a fertile plain in full view of the 
 Pyrenees. Public walks contribute to the public health 
 and recreation. The market-people, in their various 
 costumes, are worth seeing." 
 
 Geoffry Smith received a short note from Mrs. Penton 
 two mornings after the Grippe expedition. It ran as 
 follows : — 
 
 " Dear Mr. Smith, — Mr. Penton is planning an ex- 
 cursion to Tarbes to-day. We start at two, so that we 
 may not miss our lunch, as it is not safe to trust to 
 chance for it, and we should be much pleased for you to
 
 76 TO ESTHER. 
 
 join us after, but in case of rain we should give it up. 
 Unfortunately, there appears no chance of anything so 
 refreshing. 
 
 " Sincerely yours, 
 
 " MiRA Penton." 
 
 To which Smith, who was rather bewildered, briefly 
 answered that he should be delighted to join them at 
 the station at two. The station was all alive with country- 
 folks, in their quaint pretty dresses, berets, red caps and 
 blue brown hoods, and snooded gay-coloured kerchiefs, 
 and red cloaks like ladies' opera-cloaks. The faces un- 
 derneath all these bright trappings were sad enough, with 
 brown wistful eyes, and pinched worn cheeks. Ruskin 
 has written of mountain gloom and mountain glory, and 
 in truth the dwellers among the hills seem to us, who 
 live upon the plain, sad and somewhat oppressed. 
 
 Smith looked here and there for his party, and dis- 
 covered, rather to his dismay, only Olga, her sister and 
 her brother-in-law, sitting on a bench together. Then 
 Esther had not come after all } He felt inclined to 
 escape and go back to the tov/n, but Olga caught sight 
 of him, and graciously beckoned. 
 
 " Mrs. Halbert is not coming, I am afraid ? " said 
 Smith, shaking hands. 
 
 " Esther, do you mean .'' " asked Mrs. Penton. " She
 
 TO ESTHER. 77 
 
 was here a minute ago. Jacky took her to look at a 
 pig. — Was it a pig or a goat, Olga .-* I didn't notice." 
 
 Mrs. Penton's naive remarks gave Smith a httle 
 trouble sometimes, and he could not always suppress 
 a faint amusement. Fortunately Esther came up at 
 this moment, and he could smile without giving offence. 
 
 Esther at one time had not meant to come, but she 
 could not resist the children's entreaties, or trust them 
 to the Pentons alone. She was weary and dispirited ; 
 she had passed a wakeful, feverish night. How or when 
 or where it began, she did not know, but she was 
 conscious now that in her heart of hearts she had looked 
 to meet Geoffry again some day, and hoped and believed 
 that he would be unchanged. But she now saw that it 
 was not so — he liked her only as he liked other people, 
 with that kindly heart of his — no thought of what had 
 been, occurred to him. He might be a friend, a pleasant 
 acquaintance, but the friend of old, never, never again. 
 How foolish she had been, how unwomanly, how for- 
 ward. Even at seven-and-twenty Esther could blush 
 like a girl to think how she had thought of Geoffry. She 
 whose heart should be her children's only ; she who had 
 rejected his affection when it might have been hers ; she 
 who had been faithless and selfish and remorseful so long 
 — she was glad almost to suffer now, in her self-anger and 
 vexation. In future she thought she would try to be
 
 78 TO ESTHER. 
 
 brave and more simple ; she would love her darlings and 
 live for them only ; and perhaps some day it might be in 
 her power to do something for him — to do him some ser- 
 vice — and when they were very old people she might tell 
 him one day how truly she had been his friend all her life. 
 The sun was blazing and burning up everything. 
 The train stopped at a bridge, and they all got down 
 from their carriages, and set off walking towards the 
 market. Squeak, chatter, jingle of bells, screaming of 
 babies, pigs and pigs and pigs- ; pretty grey oxen, with 
 carts yoked to their horns, priests, a crowd assembled 
 round an old woman with a sort of tripod, upon which 
 you placed your foot for her to blacken and smarten 
 your shoes ; mantillas, green and red umbrellas, rows of 
 patient-looking women, with sad eyes, holding their 
 wares in their hands, scraggy fowls, small little pears, a 
 cabbage, perhaps brought from over the mountain, a 
 few potatoes in a shabby basket ; — the scarcity and 
 barrenness struck Smith very sadly, Esther was quite 
 affected ; she was emptying her purse and putting little 
 pieces right and left into the small thin hands of the 
 children. They passed one stall where a more pros- 
 perous-looking couple — commergants from Toulouse — 
 were disposing of piles of blue and red Pyrenean caps. 
 Esther stopped and called Jack to her, and tried a small 
 red bcrct on his dark curly head, and kissed her little
 
 TO ESTHER. 79 
 
 son as she did so. She had not seen Smith, who was 
 close behind her with Olga, and who smiled as he watched 
 her performance. Miss Halbert, soon after leaving the 
 railway-carriage, had complained of fatigue, and taken 
 poor Geoffry firmly but gently by the arm, with a 
 grasp that it was impossible to elude. Esther scarcely 
 noticed them : she walked on with her children as usual, 
 and her motherly heart was melting over the little wan 
 babies, whose own mothers found it so hard a struggle 
 to support them. They were lying in the vegetable- 
 baskets on the ground, or slung on to their mothers' backs, 
 and staring with their dark round eyes. Some of the 
 most flourishing among them had little smart caps, with 
 artificial flowers, tied under their chins. After buying 
 Jack's bcrct, Mrs. Halbert seemed to hesitate, and then 
 making up her mind she asked for another somewhat 
 larger, which she paid for, and she turned to Smith with 
 one of her old bright looks and gave it him, saying, — 
 
 " I think you would look very well in a beret, 
 Mr. Smith — don't you like a blue one best } " 
 
 Smith wore his dc9et all day ; but Olga the inevitable 
 held him, and would not let him go. Esther thought 
 it a little hard, only she was determined 7iot to think 
 about it. They wandered for hours through the bare 
 burning streets. There seemed to be no shade : the 
 brooks sparkled, bright blazing flowers grew in gardens,
 
 8o TO ESTHER. 
 
 the houses were close shuttered, scarcely any one was 
 to be seen ; little bright-plumaged birds came and 
 drank at the streams, and flew away stirring the dust. 
 The children got tired and cross, and weary ; the elders' 
 spirits sank. Some one, standing at a doorway, told 
 them of a park, which sounded shady and refreshing, 
 and where they thought they would wait for their 
 train. The road lay along a white lane with a white 
 wall on either side, and dusty poplars planted at 
 regular intervals. Esther tried to cheer the children, 
 and to tell them stories as well as she could in the 
 clouds of dust. Mrs. Penton clung to her husband, 
 Olga hung heavily upon Geoffry's aching arm. . . . 
 They reached the gates of the park at last. It was an 
 utter desolation enclosed behind iron railings — so it 
 seemed, at least, to the poor mother: ragged shrubs, 
 burning sun, weeds and rank grass growing along the 
 neglected gravel walks. There was a great white museum 
 or observatory in the middle to which all these gravel 
 paths converged ; and there was — yes, at last ! there 
 was a gloomy-looking clump of laurel and fir trees, 
 where she thought she might perhaps find some shade 
 for Jack and for Prissa. As she reached the place, it was 
 all she could do not to burst outcrying, she was so tired, 
 so troubled, and every minute the dull aching at her 
 heart seemed to grow worse and worse. Poor Esther !
 
 TO ESTHER. 8i 
 
 The others came up and asked her if she would not hke 
 to see the view from the observatory ; but she shook her 
 head, and said she was tired, and should stay where she 
 was with Prissa, and they all went away and left her. 
 One French lady went by in her slippers, with a faded 
 Indian scarf and an old Leghorn hat, discoursing as she 
 went to some neglected-looking children, — 
 
 " Savez-vous, ma fille, que vous faites des grimaces ; 
 ce n'est pas joli, mon enfant, il faut vous surveiller, mon 
 Helene. Les grimaces ne se font pas dans la bonne 
 societe. . . . Le pare est vaste," she continued, changing 
 the subject ; her voice dwindled away into the arid, 
 burning distance, and the desolation seemed greater than 
 ever. ... It seemed to Esther as if hours and hours 
 had passed since the others had left her. . . . Prissa 
 was languidly listening to the story poor Esther was 
 still trying to tell. 
 
 " Why don't you make it more funny, mamma } 
 You say the same things over and over. I don't like 
 this story at all," said Prissa. 
 
 " I have some good news for you," said Smith, cheer- 
 fully, appearing from behind the laurels. " Mrs. Halbert, 
 we have only just time to catch the train. Come, Jack, 
 I'm going to be your horse ; get up on my back," and 
 Geofifry set off running with the delighted Jack, just as 
 Olga appeared in search of him. 
 
 6
 
 82 TO ESTHER. 
 
 Esther and Prissa set off running too, and the Pentons 
 followed as best they could. 
 
 The little station was again all alive and crowded by- 
 peasants and countrywomen, S]3anish bandits with their 
 packs, three English tourists in knickerbockers. Smith 
 met them with Jack capering at his side, and swinging 
 by his new friend's hand, — 
 
 " I have taken the tickets," he said. " Thank good- 
 ness, we have done with Tarbes. What a horrible hole 
 it is." 
 
 " I am surprised," Penton remarked, " that Lady 
 Kidderminster should have had such a high opinion of 
 this — a — position. She particularly mentioned an 
 amphitheatre of which I can gain no information." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! we shall never get in in time for the 
 table-d'hote," faintly gasped Mrs. Penton, sinking into a 
 seat, " and the dinner will be over." 
 
 The benches were full, and they were all obliged to 
 disperse here and there as they could find places. Esther 
 perched herself upon a packing-case once more, with 
 little Prissa half asleep on her knee. What a dreary 
 day she had spent — she gave a sigh of relief to think 
 it was over. 
 
 " Have you room here for Jack .''" said Geoffry, coming 
 up. " He won't own he is tired " 
 
 " Come, my son," said Esther, putting her arm round
 
 TO ESTHER. 83 
 
 the boy, and pulling him up beside her, " You have 
 been very good to Jack, Mr. Smith," she said, with an 
 upward look of her clear eyes. 
 
 Smith looked at her. 
 
 " It seems very strange," he said, with a sudden 
 emotion, " to meet you again like this. I sometimes 
 wonder whether we are indeed you and me, or quite 
 different people." 
 
 " I thought," said Esther, " you had forgotten that 
 we had ever been friends, Mr. Smith." 
 
 " I thought yoiL had forgotten it," said Smith, very 
 crossly. There was a jar in his voice — there was a mist 
 before her eyes. She was tired, vexed, over-done. Poor 
 Esther suddenly burst into tears. 
 
 " My dear, my dear, don't cry," said Smith. " What 
 can I say to beg your pardon } you should have known 
 me better — you . . ." 
 
 " I cannot understand about that amphitheatre," said 
 Mr, Penton, coming up. " Murray, you see, does not 
 allude to it," 
 
 " Why don't you go and ask the man at the ticket- 
 office .-* " said Smith authoritatively, and Penton, rather 
 bewildered, obeyed. 
 
 " I was a little afraid of you," said Smith, " when I 
 first saw you. I tried to keep away, but I could not 
 help myself and came. I should have gone to the end
 
 84 TO ESTHER. 
 
 of the world if you had been there. I have never changed 
 — never forgotten. I love you as I have always loved 
 you. Dear Esther, say something to me ; put me out 
 of this horrible suspense " 
 
 " What a fearful crowd ; how it does crush one," said 
 Mrs. Penton, suddenly appearing. " Can you tell me 
 where Charles has hidden himself.^ He put my eau-de- 
 Cologne in his pocket, and really in this crowd . . . ." 
 
 Esther could not answer. She was bending over 
 Prissa, and trying to hide her tears. Smith politely 
 pointed out the ticket-office to Mrs. Penton, and then, 
 with great gravity, turned his back upon the lady, and 
 took Esther's hand, and said with his kind voice, " Dear 
 Esther, once you used not to be afraid of telling me what 
 you thought. Won't you speak to me now .'' Indeed I 
 am the same as I was then." 
 
 " And I am not the same .'' " said Esther, smiling, 
 with her sweet face still wet with tears ; and with a 
 tender Esther-like impulse she took her children's two 
 little hands and put them into Geoffry's broad palm. 
 
 Geoffry understood her, though he did not know all 
 she meant. The Pentons joined them again, and the 
 train came up, and the others wearily sank into their 
 places, but Mrs. Halbcrt's fatigue was gone. All the 
 way back neither Smith nor Ivsthcr spoke one word to 
 each other. The sun was setting : all the land was
 
 TO ESTHER. 85 
 
 streaming with light ; the stars were beginning to shine 
 behind the hills when they got back to Bigorre. 
 
 " Shall you be too tired to come for a walk after 
 dinner ? " said Smith, as he left Esther at the door of 
 the inn ; and in the evening he came for her ; and, 
 though Olga looked puzzled and not over-pleased, 
 Esther put on her hat, and said, — 
 
 " I am ready, Mr. Smith." And they went out 
 together without any explanation. 
 
 They went up the pretty lime-tree walk which leads 
 to the baths of the Salut. People were sitting in the 
 dark on the benches talking in low evening whispers. 
 Priests were taking their recreation, and pacing up and 
 down in groups. From the valley below came an 
 occasional tinkle of goats' bells, a fresh smell of wild 
 thyme, a quizzing of crickets. The wain was moving 
 over the hillside, the lights twinkled from the houses in 
 the town ; and Smith and Esther talked and talked, 
 counting over the fears, the doubts, and the perplexities 
 of the last few days. Now, for the first time, Esther felt 
 a comfort and security which had never been hers before, 
 — not even in the first early days of her marriage ; not 
 since the time when she bade Smith farewell on the 
 Pincio. It seemed to her now as if all care for the 
 future, all bewilderment and uncertainty, were over. 
 It was all real to her,— vivid, overwhelming. Here was
 
 86 TO ESTHER. 
 
 the faithful friend once more ready to do battle for 
 her with the difficulties of life : ready to shield, 
 and to serve, and encourage to decide, — to tell her 
 what was right ; and poor Esther had long felt that to 
 her decision was like a great pain and impossibility. 
 But here was Smith to advise, and it seemed to her as 
 if troubles and difficulties became like strong places now 
 that he was there. His manner of looking at life was 
 unlike that of the people among whom she had been 
 living : he seemed to see things from a different level, 
 and yet she felt as if he only saw clearly, and that every- 
 thing he said was right and true. Some people, as I 
 have said, seem by intuition to see only truth and right ; 
 others must needs work out their faith by failing and 
 sorrow. They realize truth by the pain of what is false, 
 honour through dishonour, right by wrongs repented of 
 with bitter pangs. And Esther had long felt that this 
 was her fate. She did not realize all that she understood 
 later, — only she felt it somehow ; she drifted into a 
 peaceful calm ; she seemed suddenly and unawares to 
 be gliding through still waters after the tempest, and a 
 thankful song of praise went up from her heart. 
 
 When she awoke in the morning she knew that he 
 was near at hand ; she heard his kind voice, and the 
 children's prattle down in the courtyard below. Later 
 in the day he would come up to see her, and they
 
 TO ESTHER. 87 
 
 talked over old days, and the new days seemed to shine 
 with a sudden gleam now that he had come into them ; 
 the dull hours went more swiftly, the sky seemed 
 brighter ; evening came full of sweet tones, mysterious 
 lights, and peace and perfume ; people passing by 
 seemed strolling, too, in a golden beatitude. They 
 too, Esther fancied, surely must feel the sweetness and 
 depth of the twilight. The morning came with a bright 
 flash, not dawning with a great weight of pain and 
 listlessness as before. In the hot blaze of the mid-day 
 sun Geoffry would enter the shaded room where the 
 women were sitting at work by the window. 
 
 To Esther it was very real — to Geoffry it was still 
 like a memory of old times, to be sitting with Esther 
 at an open window, with the shadows of the orange- 
 trees lying on the floor where the shade of the awning 
 did not reach. Jack liked playing with the shadows, 
 putting his little leg out into the sunshine, and pulling 
 it back, to try and cheat the light and carry some 
 away ; but Prissa (her grown-up name was to be 
 Priscilla) liked best sitting quietly on her mother's knee, 
 and, as it were, staring at the stones she told her 
 with great round eyes. The story broke off abruptly 
 when Smith came in, and another tale began. It seemed 
 like a dream to Geoffry to find himself sitting there, 
 Avith Esther, at an open window, with the sounds and
 
 88 TO ESTHER. 
 
 the sunshine without, sounds of horses at the water, 
 of the water rushing, of voices calhng to each other, of 
 sudden bursts of bells from the steeples of Bagneres de 
 Bigorre. It was as if all the years were not, and he 
 was his old self again. Can you fancy what it was to 
 him after his long waiting, long resignation, long hope- 
 lessness, to find himself with his heart's desire there 
 before him and within his grasp ? Can you wonder that 
 for a little while he almost doubted his own happiness, 
 and lived on in the past instead of the present. Death, 
 indifference, distance, other men and women, years, 
 forgetfulness, chance, and human frailty, had all come 
 between them and divided them, and now, all these 
 things surmounted, like a miracle these two seemed to 
 be brought together again, only divided by a remem- 
 brance. 
 
 Some things are so familiar, so natural, that 
 while they last they seem almost eternal, and as if 
 they had been and would be for ever. They suit us, 
 and harmonize and form part of ourselves and of our 
 nature, and so far in truth they are eternal if we our- 
 selves are eternal, Avith our wondering and hopes and 
 faithful love.
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD.
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 I. 
 
 " Why sliould we faint and fear to live alone, 
 Since all alone so Heaven has willed we die ? 
 Not e'en the tenderest heart and next our own 
 Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh. " 
 
 One afternoon Dr, Rich rode up as usual to the door of 
 Dumbleton House ; he passed in through the iron gates, 
 came up the sweep along which the lilac-trees were 
 beginning to scatter their leaves, and then he dismounted 
 at the stone steps under the portico (it was a red brick 
 house with a Grecian portico), rang at the bell, and 
 asked if Miss Berners was at home. 
 
 He was shown into the drawing-room — a pleasant, 
 long, ground-floor room, full of comfortable chairs and
 
 92 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 sofas, with windows through which you saw the garden, 
 the autumn flowers all a-glow, the sun setting behind 
 the trees. One or two tall pictures of Dumbletons who 
 had once lived in the long drawing-room, and walked 
 in the garden, hung upon the walls. There was a 
 pleasant perfume of hot-house flowers and burning 
 wood. The room was hot, be-chintzed, be-perfumed ; 
 Horatia, dressed in a black velvet gown, was sitting by 
 the fire. 
 
 She got up to welcome the doctor. He thought that 
 this black-velvet lady, with the glowing window behind 
 her, was like a picture he had seen somewhere ; or had 
 he read about it } or had he dreamt it .'' Somehow, he 
 knew she was going to say, " We are going away ; 
 good-by ! " And Horatia gave him her hand, and 
 said, — 
 
 " Oh, Doctor Rich ! — I am so sorry — my aunt tells 
 me we are going away ! " 
 
 "Well," he said, wondering a little at this odd 
 realization, " I am sorry to lose my patient. Though, in 
 truth, I had meant to tell you to-day that you yourself 
 can best cure yourself All you want is regular exercise 
 and living, and occupation. And this is physic I cannot 
 tell the chemist to put up in a bottle and send you." 
 
 " What makes you think I want occupation } " said 
 Horatia, a little angry, and not over-pleased.
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 93 
 
 " Don't most women ? " said the doctor, smiling. 
 " Don't I find you all like prisoners locked up between 
 four walls, with all sorts of wretched make-shift employ- 
 ments, to pass away time ? Why, this room is a very 
 pretty prison, but a great deal too hot to be a whole- 
 some one." 
 
 "You are right ; I am a prisoner," said Horatia, in 
 her velvet gown ; " but I. assure you I work very hard." 
 The doctor looked doubtful. " Shall I tell you what I 
 do .'' " she went on. " This is not the first time you 
 speak in this way." 
 
 " It is an old observation of mine," Doctor Rich 
 said, " and I cannot help repeating, that women in 
 your class of life have not enough to do." 
 
 " That is because you do not know : take ni}' life, 
 for instance ; I never have a moment to myself. I 
 have to keep up, correspond, make appointments, dine, 
 drive, drink tea, with three or four hundred people all 
 as busy and over-tired as I am. I go out to dinner, 
 to a party, to a ball almost every night in the season. 
 All the morning I shop and write letters ; all the after- 
 noon I drive about here and there, and drink five-o'clock 
 tea. I am never alone ; I must for ever be talking, doing, 
 attending, coming, going. Is not this work for ten 
 women instead of one poor, unhappy, tired-out creature 
 like myself t " cried she, strangely excited.
 
 94 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Dr. Rich was a soft-hearted man, especially so when 
 he thought of Horatia, and he said kindly, " That does, 
 indeed, seem a dreadful life to me. Can't I help you .-' 
 Can't I prescribe some more rational scheme of exist- 
 ence .'' " 
 
 " No, no ; nobody, nothing can save me," said Miss 
 Berners. " I am utterly jaded, battered, wearied out 
 I owe everything to my aunt. I must go her ways and 
 lead her life ; there is no help for me." 
 
 " But you might, perhaps," said the doctor, hesitat- 
 ing — " perhaps " 
 
 " No ! " cried Horatia, with some emotion, " I shall 
 never marry ! if that is what you mean. Ten or fifteen 
 years ago it might have been ; but now — now I am 
 ashamed to look people in the face when she tries 
 .... What dreadful things I am saying ! — but, all the 
 same, I must go on, and on, and on. There is no rest 
 for me except where the weary go in time. Where — 
 
 where " She finished her sentence by bursting out 
 
 crying. 
 
 Dr. Rich thought there was some excuse for her. 
 He went up to one of the windows, and, pushing aside 
 the flower-stand, opened it wide, and looked out into 
 the garden. Then he walked up and down the room 
 once or twice, and then he came back to the fire. It was 
 a tall old chimney-piece, round which the Dumbletons
 
 our OF THE WORLD. 95 
 
 (the masters of the house) had assembled for two cen- 
 turies and more. A lady let into the wall, with a pearl 
 necklace and powdered hair, seemed to look him full in 
 the face, and nod her head once or twice. 
 
 Horatia had sunk down on a low sort of couch, and 
 was wiping her tears away. The fresh gust of air which 
 had blown in through the open window cheered and 
 revived her more than any consoling remarks or talking. 
 When she had wiped her tears, she looked up, and he 
 saw all the lines that care had written under those 
 dark eyes, and he was suddenly filled with immense 
 sympathy, pity, liking. For a moment he was silent, 
 and then he made a great resolve, and he said, in a 
 low voice — 
 
 " I think I could help you, if you would let me. 
 Instead of being a straw in a whirlpool, how would you 
 like to come and stagnate in a pond .^ How would 
 you like to be a country doctor's wife .-' " 
 
 Horatia blushed up, started with amazement, and 
 then leant back among her cushions to hide her agitation, 
 while Dr. Rich went on to say, with extra deliberation, 
 that social differences had never impressed him greatly 
 — that he could not see why a fine lady should not take 
 a turn at everyday life ; " for it is at best only a very 
 commonplace, every-day life that I have to offer you," 
 he said smiling'.
 
 96 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 He was apt to be a little didactic ; but he had soon 
 finished his speech, and he waited for Horatia to begin 
 hers. 
 
 " I am so surprised," she said, trying to speak 
 steadily. " I — I don't — you don't know mc, Dr. Rich." 
 
 The doctor answered, still at his ease, that he had 
 wished to marry for some time past, that he did not 
 expect his sister, who had been his housekeeper, to 
 remain with him always, that he had never fancied 
 anybody in the neighbourhood, and it seemed to him 
 that this arrangement might make them both more 
 happy than they had either of them been hitherto. He 
 spoke so quietly and deliberately (it was his way when 
 he was excited) that Horatia never guessed that this was 
 an ardent, loving heart, full of chivalrous impulse, of 
 passionate feeling ; a treasure which he was offering her 
 — that this homely country doctor was as much her 
 superior in every tender, feminine quality as in manly 
 strength, and power, and vigour. 
 
 She was looking at him intently with flushed cheeks. 
 She saw a middle-sized, thick-set man, with a kind face, 
 with what seemed to her trustworthy and keen eyes, 
 instead of sleepy ones like her own, with a very sweet 
 voice, whose tones she seemed to hear after he had ceased 
 speaking. 
 
 She pictured to herself his ivy-grown house. She
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 97 
 
 had once driven past it with her cousin, Mrs. Dumbleton. 
 She tried to imagine the daily round of Hfe, the quiet 
 Httle haven, the silence after all these years of noise and 
 racket, the stillness after all this coming and going — one 
 good friend instead of a hundred more or less indifferent. 
 A man with every worldly advantage would not have 
 tempted her so greatly just at that moment. She 
 thought to herself that she wished she had the courage 
 to say "yes." 
 
 When she found courage at last to speak at all, she 
 said — not the "no" she imagined she was going to say — 
 but, " I can't — I can't give you any answer now. I will 
 send — I will write. I will talk to them. Please go, 
 before they come in." 
 
 So Dr. Rich made her a little grave bow, and walked 
 away. His plebeian breeding stood him in good service. 
 He was quite composed and quiet, and at his ease, and 
 here she was trembling, and agitated, and scarcely able 
 to control herself When he was gone she went upstairs, 
 slowly crossing the hall, and passing along the gallery 
 which led to her room. There was nobody else coming 
 or going, there were only gathering shadows and shut 
 oaken doors, and more Dumbletons hanging from the 
 walls, and windows set with carved panels, looking out 
 over the country and the tree-tops, and the sunset. 
 
 She stopped and looked out. She saw the high-road 
 
 7
 
 98 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 gleaming white between the dark woods on either side ; 
 she saw a horseman riding away ; past the gate, and the 
 haycock, and the little row of cottages ; past the break 
 in the trees, and then the road turned, and she could see 
 him no longer. She looked out for some ten minutes, 
 without much heeding all that was going on. Great 
 purple clouds heaving out of the horizon, blending and 
 breaking ; winds rising ; leaves fluttering in the evening 
 breeze ; birds wheeling in the air, and rooks cawing from 
 their nests ; the great Day removing in glory, and 
 speeding in solemn state to other countries ; the Night 
 arriving, with her pompous, shining train — all these great 
 changes of dynasties and states of living did not affect 
 her ; only as she watched the sun disappear behind the 
 trees, Horatia found, to her great surprise, that she had 
 almost made up her mind — that what had seemed at 
 first so impossible, and so little to be thought of ; that 
 what had appeared to her only a day ago unattainable, 
 and far beyond her reach, was hers now, if she had but 
 the resolution to open her hand and to take it — to accept 
 that tranquil existence, that calm happiness, which she 
 had told herself a thousand thousand times was never to 
 be hers. Suddenly the poor battered barque had drifted 
 into a calm little haven : the ocean was roaring still ; the 
 winds and the waves beating and tossing all about ; but 
 here, sheltered, protected, safely anchored, she might
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 99 
 
 stay if she would. And yes, she would stay. If she had 
 scarcely the courage to remain, she had still less to face 
 the ocean again. She would stay, come what might. 
 Perhaps Horatia exaggerated to herself the past storms 
 and troubles of her life, but it is certain (and so she kept 
 saying to herself) that at two-and-thirty she was old 
 enough to be her own mistress. She was not ungrateful 
 to her aunt for years of kindness, but she could surely 
 best judge for herself And so, telling herself that she 
 was not ungrateful, she began to wonder how she could 
 send a note to the doctor ; how she could best break the 
 dreadful news to Lady Whiston, who was her aunt, to 
 Mrs. Dumbleton, who was her cousin and Lady Whis- 
 ton's daughter. It is a way that people have : they 
 tell themselves that they are not ungrateful, and they 
 go and do the very thing which does not prove their 
 gratitude. 
 
 II. 
 
 The ladies came in very late, and went to their rooms 
 at once to make ready for dinner. Horatia, who had 
 dressed with nervous haste, and who was too much 
 excited to be still, went wandering up and down the
 
 loo OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 drawing-room in her white dinner-dress, trying to find 
 words and courage to tell them of what had occurred. 
 
 The housemaids came in to put the room to rights, 
 to straighten cushions and chairs, to sweep the hearth, 
 and make up the lire. The Dumbletons were chilly 
 people, and fires burned on their hearth almost all the 
 year round. The housemaids departed, leaving a cheerful 
 blaze behind them, comfortable furniture in orderly array, 
 lights with green shades, evening papers folded on the 
 table. The place might have looked tranquil and home- 
 like enough but for the restless Horatia pacing back- 
 wards and forwards. She hardly noticed Mr. Dumble- 
 ton, the master of the house, who came in quietly and 
 sank down in a big chair, and watched her as she flitted 
 to and fro. This constant coming and going worried 
 him. He was a good-looking, kindly, shrewd, reserved 
 young man. He was usually silent, but he would answer 
 if he was spoken to. Sometimes he spoke of his own 
 accord. 
 
 To-night he spoke, and said, " What is the matter, 
 Horatia .'' What are you going into training for .'' " 
 and Horatia stopped suddenly, and turned round, and 
 looked at him for a minute without speaking. An hour 
 ago her mind had been made up, and now again she was 
 hesitating, shrinking, and thinking that she had almost 
 rather change her mind than tell it, it seemed so terrible
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. loi 
 
 a task. But here was an opening. Henry Dumbleton 
 was good-natured, perhaps he might help her ; at all 
 events, he would give her good advice. She stopped 
 short in her walk, stood straight and still in her white 
 dress, with a drooping head. " You can help me," she 
 said, at last looking up ; " I am trying to decide for 
 myself for once, and I do not know how to do it." 
 
 " You surprise me — and so you actually don't know 
 your own mind .'' " said Dumbleton, smiling. 
 
 " Tell me," said Horatia suddenly, " would you think 
 a woman foolish who — suppose you were a woman over 
 thirty, Henry .'' " — 
 
 "I shouldn't own to it," says Mr. Dumbleton. 
 
 " Henry, listen to me," said Horatia. " Suppose the 
 case of some one whose life is passing on, who has no 
 settled home, who has not known for years and years 
 the blessing and privilege of being much considered, or 
 much loved. Don't think me heartless— aunt Car has 
 been kindness itself — I shall always, always be grateful ; 
 but " 
 
 "All the gratitude in the world would not induce 
 me to live with her, if that is what you mean," said 
 Dumbleton. 
 
 " Oh, Henry ! " said Horatia, coming and standing in 
 front of him : " should you think very badly of me if, 
 if — can anything be a mesalliance for a woman in my
 
 I02 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 position ? " The tears came into her eyes as she spoke, 
 and Dumbleton saw that her hands were trembhng. 
 I think it was for this fooh'sh reason, as much as for 
 any she could give him, that he determined to help her 
 through the ordeal if he could. 
 
 "Who is it?" he asked, a little alarmed as to what 
 the answer might be. 
 
 The answer came, and Horatia, blushing, and looking 
 twenty again, said — " Dr. Rich." 
 
 " So that is what he came for .'' " says Henry, opening 
 his eyes. 
 
 "Don't you like him .'' " implored Horatia. 
 
 " I think Rich is a capital good fellow," said 
 Dumbleton, hesitating. " I don't think he is doing a 
 very wise thing. You will have to turn over a new leaf, 
 Ratia, and tuck up your sleeves, and all that sort of 
 thing ; but I suppose you are prepared .'' " 
 
 "You do like him .''" said Horatia. "Oh, Henry, I 
 think you are very, very kind ! I did not expect to find 
 one single person to listen to me so patiently." And 
 Horatia was, in truth, a little surprised that Henry did 
 not insist more upon the inequality of the match. To 
 her, brought up as she had been, in the semi-fashionable 
 world, the difference seemed greater than it really was. 
 She seemed to be performing some heroic feat ; she had 
 a sort of feeling that she was a princess stepping down
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 103 
 
 from her throne ; that her resokition did her extra- 
 ordinary credit ; that the favour she Avas conferring was 
 immense ; that Dr. Rich's gratitude must be at least 
 
 equal to her condescension 
 
 And now I must confess that the doctor only spoke 
 a truth when he had said that social differences did not 
 greatly impress him. For Horatia herself he had the 
 tenderest regard and admiration ; for her position as 
 the niece of a baroness, and the cousin of one or two 
 Honourables, he did not greatly care ; he might have 
 thought more of it if he had been more in the world. 
 As it was, the subject scarcely occurred to him. He 
 was at that moment close at home, riding along a dark 
 lane, hedged with black-looking trees, with the stars 
 coming out overhead in a sky swept by drifting clouds. 
 The wind was rising and shaking the branches, but the 
 doctor was absorbed as he rode along, and as he 
 thought with tenderest affection of the gracious and 
 beautiful woman whom he had enshrined in the temple 
 of his honest heart. It was for herself that he loved 
 her, and not for her surroundings. He would have 
 married her out of a hovel, if she had happened to 
 be born there ; whereas she, I fear, took him more for 
 what he had to give her than for what he was. She 
 wanted to marry him, not because he was upright and 
 tender and wise ; not because she could hope to make
 
 I04 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 liiin happy and be a good wife to him — but because she 
 told herself he could make Jicr happy. She was by way 
 of gix'ing up ever}'thing for him, but in truth, if she gave 
 anything up, it was for her own sake, and because she 
 was tired of it. 
 
 Lady Whiston and her daughter came down as the 
 dinner was announced, Mr. Dumbleton offered his arm 
 to his mother-in-law, the other two followed across the 
 hall. The dinner-table dazzled them for a moment 
 with its lights and shining silver and flowers, but their 
 eyes soon became accustomed, and they sat down 
 and took their places. Lady Whiston was a shrivelled 
 and rather flighty old lady ; Mrs. Dumbleton, a kind 
 little fat woman, who chirped and chattered and re- 
 sponded to her mother's constant flow of talk. Mr. 
 Dumbleton, as usual, carved, and did not mix much in 
 the conversation. Horatia could hardl}' rouse herself 
 to attend to what was going on. Why are people always 
 expected to rouse themselves and to talk of the things 
 they are not thinking about } 
 
 " I am quite worn out," Lady Whiston was saying. 
 " Henry, you know how far from strong I am. I dro\'e 
 to town this morning. I was shopping for two hours. 
 I lunched at the De Beauvilles'. There I met Jane 
 Beverley, who insisted upon taking me all over the 
 South Kensington Museum, and from there to Maro-
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 105 
 
 chctti's studio. We then went back to Chapel Street, 
 and paid a number of visits. We got to Lady Ferrars' 
 about half-past five, and had only time to drink a cup 
 of tea. I found the carriage with Augusta in it waiting 
 at the door. Henry, you ought to get Lady Jane to 
 come down and stay with you. There is no one like 
 her." 
 
 Mr. Dumbleton smiled rather grimly, and Mrs. 
 Dumbleton hastily changed the conversation, and 
 said, — 
 
 " Well, dear Ratia, what have you been about all 
 day } " 
 
 Horatia looked at her plate, Mr. Dumbleton looked 
 at Horatia. 
 
 " Did Dr. Rich call again 1 " said Lady Whiston. 
 
 " Yes," Horatia said. 
 
 '' Those people are really unconscionable," cried the 
 old lad}-. " Horatia, I hope you made him understand 
 that we are going away, and all that, and shall not 
 require his attendance any more. I don't know what 
 he will not charge. He is not an M.D. though he calls 
 himself a doctor. Now, Mr. Bonsey, a married man 
 with a large family, never asked more than 35'. 6d. a 
 visit. Those sort of people must be kept down." 
 
 Horatia was blushing pinker and pinker, Henr}- 
 Dumbleton was more and more amused, and so the
 
 io6 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 desultory conversation went on, all at cross purposes. 
 There seemed to be some fatality in the way in which 
 doctors kept popping up with every course, and from 
 under every dish-cover. Dr. Rich, and Mr. Caton his 
 partner, went round with the entrees ; with the roast 
 Mr. Bonsey was served over again, and all the London 
 physicians. And then, with the dessert, arrived a series 
 of horrible illnesses, which had attacked various ladies 
 of high rank, symptoms following each other in alarming 
 succession. Horatia heard nothing. She was sitting in 
 a sort of dream, only she listened when they spoke of 
 Dr. Rich. Was it indeed fated t Was this new distant 
 country awaiting her } Was she an alien already 
 doomed to go away and leave them all, and live the 
 unknown life he had offered her .'' It seemed unreal 
 and shadowy, like the night all round about. When 
 the ladies got up from table, Horatia followed. But 
 Dumbleton got up, too, contrary to his usual custom, 
 and said, " / will tell my lady," in an undertone, as she 
 passed him. 
 
 So Horatia, with a beating heart, stayed in the hall, 
 and went and gazed out through the glass door at the 
 black landscape, at the murky, wind-blown sky. It had 
 been raining, but the clouds were breaking ; the crescent 
 moon rose palely and faintly from behind the black 
 trees, the veils of vapour wreathed and curled in the
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 107 
 
 sky, the wind blew in soft sudden gusts over the 
 country, and across the grass and the fields. A lamp 
 was burning, hanging from the pillars in the hall. It 
 looked like a sort of temple, and Horatia in her white 
 robes might have passed for a priestess, looking out at 
 the heavens and trying to read her fate — her fate, which 
 other people after all were settling and arranging at 
 their fancy : for Lady Whiston, discomposed, astonished, 
 indignant, on the drawing-room sofa, was condemning 
 her to live her present life to the very end of her days. 
 Mr. Dumbleton, in the arm-chair, was mildly but firmly 
 marrying her to the doctor. Mrs. Dumbleton was 
 sympathizing with her mother and husband alternately, 
 and Horatia herself, who had most at stake, waiting 
 outside, was watching the clouds and the moon. At 
 last Mr. Dumbleton got up with a yawn, and sauntered 
 out of the room. He came out into the hall with the 
 lamp and the flowers and the white-robed lady staring 
 out at the sky. She started as he called her. 
 
 " I am going to send down to the station," he said. 
 " The man can take a note if you like to put poor Rich 
 out of suspense. There is a pen and ink in my room." 
 He lit a cigar as he spoke, and went out and stood on 
 the wet steps under the portico. And Horatia, doing 
 as he told her, went into the study. It was all lighted 
 up, for Dumbleton often sat there of an evening. She
 
 io8 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 sat down at his table, and slowly took up a pen, and 
 then hid her face in her hands for a moment, and then 
 wrote, hardly seeing the words as she formed them : — 
 
 "You must help me to bear my aunt's displeasure. 
 I have determined to come to you — I know I can rely 
 upon you. 
 
 " HORATIA." 
 
 She folded up the piece of paper and sealed it, and 
 came out again, carrying it in her hand. Dumbleton, 
 who was still waiting outside talking to one of his 
 grooms, took it without asking any questions. He 
 merely nodded " Thank you," and gave it to the man, 
 saying, " You can leave this at the doctor's on your 
 way, and call and see if there is any answer coming 
 back." 
 
 And then Horatia knew that the die was cast, 
 and with her own hand she had signed and sealed 
 her fate.
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 109 
 
 III. 
 
 It is very puzzling to define the extraordinary differ- 
 ence, so small and yet so great, which exists between a 
 number of people living in the same place, talking the 
 same tongue, feeling the same emotions. There are, let 
 us say, first, the great people, a number of whom make 
 up what is called the great world. Then, people of the 
 world ; then, people out of the world ; and, lastly, the 
 people — le paiple, properly speaking. Dr. Rich and his 
 sister Roberta, and Mr. Caton, his partner, were people 
 out of the world, who had been very happy notwith- 
 standing. Horatia was a small person of the world, who 
 had been very unhappy in it, and yet who had learned 
 unconsciously certain ways and habits there which made 
 her unlike Roberta Rich, and superior to her as far as 
 mere outward manner was concerned. As for the doctor, 
 he was forty years old and more. He had been a surgeon 
 on board ship, he had been to India and back, he had 
 knocked about for fifteen years, he had been at death's 
 door once or twice (the last time was when he nearly 
 died of small-pox, before Roberta came to live with him 
 — some one, to whom she was not as grateful as she 
 might have been, had nursed him through it all). If 
 years and experience ; if rubbing up against people of
 
 no OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 every degree, from savages without any clothes at all, 
 to lords and ladies in silken gear ; if a good heart, if 
 good wit, and good education do not make a gentleman 
 after twoscore years, it is hard to say what will. Poor 
 Mr. Caton had not enjoyed all these advantages — only 
 the good heart was his. That very morning the doctor 
 and his sister had had a little discussion out in the 
 garden about the young surgeon's merits. Roberta 
 liked him and she didn't like him ; she almost loved 
 him when he was sad, silent, subdued ; she almost hated 
 him if, finding her perchance more kind, he became gay, 
 confident, talkative, and funny. Even George owned 
 sometimes it was a pity that Caton had so noisy a scorn 
 for social observance. 
 
 If Berta had declared that she fancied him, very 
 likely her brother might have regretted her fancy, and 
 thought she was throwing herself away ; as she seemed 
 to care little for him — shook her head, laughed, blushed, 
 would have nothing to say when she saw him — George, 
 out of some strange contradiction, had all the more 
 sympathy for Caton because his sister showed so little ; 
 asked him to the house, praised him continually, and 
 told Berta at last that she was fine and foolish not to 
 be able to appreciate a kind and honourable man when 
 he came in her way. 
 
 " T may be foolish, George ; you know I am not
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. in 
 
 fine — I hate fine ladies," said Berta, with whom it was 
 a sore subject. 
 
 They had just done breakfast on the morning of 
 this eventful day, the doctor had come out for a 
 stroll with T]ic Times and his cigar, Berta walked 
 beside him with a basketful of roses. The garden 
 was on a slope — a long, narrow, and somewhat 
 neglected strip, with grass, with rose-beds, with elm- 
 trees, with all London and its domes and spires for a 
 background. There lay the city in the valley stretch- 
 ing farther and farther away beyond the morning 
 mist. Long lines of railway viaducts and arches, 
 lonely church towers, domiciles nestling amidst trees, 
 chinking workshops, fields, roads, and gardens, children's 
 voices shouting, cattle lowing, sheep, and the sound of 
 cocks and hens — all this life lay between the doctor's 
 quiet garden and the great misty city. A great silent 
 city it seemed to be as it glistened in the gentle morn- 
 ing rays ; for its roar could scarcely reach the two 
 standing on their distant hill-top. Every now and 
 then came the shrill whistle of a train dashing across 
 the landscape and gone in a moment, only a little 
 smoke remained curling, drifting, breaking, shining 
 with sunlight, vanishing away. All the late summer 
 roses were smelling sweet and were heavy with drops 
 of dew, all the birds in the trees were chirping and
 
 112 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 fluttering, and Berta, in her pink cotton dress, fresh, 
 slim, and smiling, looked up into her brother's face and 
 said, — 
 
 " You know I am not fine — I hate fine ladies." 
 
 Dr. George winced, and puffed his cigar. 
 
 " They have never done you any harm. Why 
 should you hate people you know nothing about .'' " 
 said her brother. 
 
 Roberta looked up a little surprised, a little hurt ; 
 she could not understand how it was possible that 
 George should speak in such a tone. " They have 
 never done me any real harm," she said, in a voice 
 not quite her own. "They have made me feel very 
 uncomfortable." 
 
 " Nonsense, my dear Berta," said George, hastily 
 turning away ; " that was your fault, not theirs. I 
 can't talk to you now ; order a good dinner at all 
 events, for poor Caton is coming, and don't starve him 
 and snub him too." And he walked across the lawn, 
 at the glass door, and Berta heard the hall-door shut 
 a bang as he rode off to his fate. 
 
 Roberta was a born housewife, a domestic woman 
 — she was gentle and deliberate — she was placid and 
 happy — she was contented with small interests. A 
 calm summer's evening, a kind word from George, a 
 novel sometimes, a friend to talk to, an occasional jaunt
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 113 
 
 to London — these were her chiefest pleasures. Her 
 troubles lay in her store-room, her kitchen, in the 
 meshes of her needlework, in the cottages of the poor 
 people round about, and now and then, it must be 
 confessed, in occasional and frightful ordeals gone 
 through at her brother's desire, when she called at 
 Dumbleton House, and such like ogres' castles, once 
 in six months. Berta's thoughts were all of objects, 
 of things almost always the most pleasant and the most 
 simple. She had no mental experience in particular : 
 crises of morbid dissatisfaction were undreamt of by 
 her ; hankerings after what she could not get, aspira- 
 tions after other duties than the simple one which fell 
 to her share, passionate self-reproach and abasement, 
 fervent resolutions, presently to be forgotten — all these 
 things were unknown, unrealized, unimagined by the 
 girl as she came and went about her little busy domain, 
 while Horatia was fuming, fussing, railing at herself 
 and her cruel fate elsewhere. 
 
 Berta was not clever. She had not half Miss 
 Berners' powers ; she performed her simple duties 
 simply, and without an effort. Horatia did not always 
 do her duty, but sometimes she went through prodigies 
 of self-reproach, control, denial, culture, inspection, 
 condemnation, or whatever it might happen to be. 
 
 Roberta's life was a tranquil progress from one day 
 
 8
 
 114 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 to another. Her steps paced across the grass-plot, 
 tarried at every rose-tree in turn, led her along the 
 walks to her favourite seat in the arbour, into the house 
 again, moving from one room to another, arranging, 
 straightening, ordering. 
 
 And so at six o'clock Berta had put out some of 
 her roses upon the dinner-table, dressed herself in her 
 muslin dress, looked into the kitchen to see that all 
 was satisfactory. At five minutes past six Mr. Caton 
 arrived, and found Berta sitting in the window at 
 work. 
 
 As the time went by they both began to think that 
 George would never come back. Caton did not like to 
 say what was in his mind when she told him that the 
 doctor was at Dumbleton House, she was so perfectly 
 unconscious. What was the use of setting her against 
 the inevitable fate .'' Her brother could best tell her 
 if anything was to be told. 
 
 Only that morning, with the strange knowledge of 
 another person's feelings which we all possess, Caton 
 had known more than Berta, or Dr. Rich, or Horatia ; 
 but meanwhile the day had sped on its course, causes 
 had produced effects, one destiny had evolved out of 
 another, the world rolled into the appointed space in 
 the firmament, and, after ceaselessly travelling hither 
 and thither upon its face for forty years and more.
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 115 
 
 Dr. Rich rode up that afternoon as usual to the door 
 of Dumbleton House, came up the sweep along which 
 the lilacs were beginning to scatter their leaves, and 
 asked if Miss Berners was at home ? . . . . 
 
 When the tramp of a horse's hoofs came, some two 
 hours later, thudding along the quiet glimmering lane 
 which led back to the doctor's own house, the doctor's 
 sister, who had grown very weary of a long tete-a-tetc, 
 ran out to the door to meet her brother, and Mr. Caton 
 followed more leisurely. As George dismounted, agi- 
 tated, wearied, excited, the kindly welcome seemed 
 inexpressibly soothing and pleasant. 
 
 For home opened its wide door to him, he thought, 
 and seemed to say, " Come in ; here you have a right 
 to enter, a right to be loved ; whatever befalls you 
 without, come in ; forget your anxiety, your suspense, 
 put away your fears for to-night. Welcome, welcome ! " 
 Home said all this as Berta kissed him, and Caton 
 his partner cried, — 
 
 " I say, George Rich, you ask me to dinner at six, 
 and it is near eight before you come in." 
 
 "I — I couldn't come; I was detained," said Dr. 
 Rich; "order dinner, Berta." 
 
 And in a few minutes they also were sitting down 
 to dinner, at a table with roses, with candles, and over- 
 roasted mutton ; with Betty in desultory attendance :
 
 Ii6 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 it was a silent repast, chill, belated, and yet pleasant 
 and friendly enough. 
 
 After the sun had set, as I have said, the purple 
 clouds turned to grey, and to black, and the wreathing 
 mist began to fall down in occasional showers pattering 
 against the window. Berta could not go out into the 
 garden for her evening stroll, and she had to return 
 into the darkling little sitting-room after dinner, while 
 the gentlemen sat over their wine. 
 
 She got out one of her long seams to sew, and as she 
 stitched she faintly wondered what was to be the end of 
 these silent tctc-d-tetcs and long seams. She heard the 
 voices rising and mumbling in the dining-room ; she 
 could distinguish George's soft tones from Caton's harsh 
 treble ; she asked herself whether it was possible that 
 she could one day like the harsh voice as well as she 
 loved the other ; she broke her thread, and stitched — no, 
 never, never ; nobody could be to her what her brother 
 was — whom else did she want .' she would live for him 
 always. 
 
 And now while Berta is still sewing at her seam 
 some one passes the window through the rain ; there is 
 a ring at the bell, a brief colloquy, and Betty comes 
 in with a letter which she puts upon the table. Berta, 
 busy speculating, wondering to find herself so silly — 
 she always counted silliness and sentiment together —
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 117 
 
 with .an effort turns her well-regulated little mind from 
 a dim involuntary mystic dream, and wakes up to 
 every day. 
 
 It was time to make the tea, to fold up her work. 
 Should she be able to find her way in the dark to the 
 cupboard upon the landing } Poor little Roberta, she 
 did not guess what was at hand, and in what manner 
 she would find her way there. For she looked up with 
 a smile when the door opened, and George and Caton 
 came in. 
 
 Caton glanced at the table and the letter lying there, 
 and then walked across and sat down beside Berta, and 
 began to tell her that he and her brother had been 
 having a discussion ; and meanwhile George took up the 
 letter, a candle, and walked away out of the room. 
 
 About five minutes passed, and then Berta heard 
 his voice calling — " Roberta ! " She ran out to him. 
 
 He was standing in the study, with the letter still in 
 his hand ; he looked bright, round-eyed, strange, unlike 
 himself. "Berta," he said, "something has made me 
 very happy," and he put out his hand. 
 
 She looked up, with her sweet anxious face wonder- 
 ing, as she took it. " Some one has promised to be 
 your sister, whom you must love for my sake," he went 
 on, smiling. He did not see that Berta was trembling 
 and quaking, as she gasped, "Who is it, George .-'"
 
 Ji8 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 "You know her, dear. You have seen her at Mrs. 
 Dumbleton's," the doctor went on. "You must love 
 her, and help me to make her happy." 
 
 Berta's grasp loosened, and her heart sank with 
 dismay. She had seen a beautiful fashionable lady at 
 Mrs. Dumbleton's, who had made her feel all elbows 
 when she talked to her ; a fine lady — did not she hate 
 fine ladies .'' — a terrible alarming London beauty. What 
 had he done — what foolish thing had he done .' She 
 was clinging to her brother again, with her arms round 
 his neck. 
 
 "Oh, how I hope you will be happy! oh, how I 
 hope she will make you happ}' ! Why didn't you tell 
 me .-* Why have you never said a Avord .' " 
 
 " I only made up my mind and spoke to her this 
 afternoon," said her brother, pulling her gently away. 
 " I have only had her answer this moment." 
 
 Berta looked at him once again, with her fond 
 doubting eyes. She felt somehow as if it was the last 
 time, and as if Horatia's husband would not be the same 
 man as her brother George. And then she went gently 
 out of the room, still carr}-ing her work, for she felt 
 that tears were coming into her eyes, and she did not 
 want him to see them. She turned and went upstairs, 
 and then, walking along the familiar dark passage, she 
 felt for the key, and opened the great cupboard door,
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 119 
 
 and put down her work upon the shelf with the lavender. 
 Only as she did so, suddenly a great sorrowful pang 
 came over her, and, with a choking sob, she laid her 
 head upon the shelf, feeling all alone in the dark, with 
 her bitter bitter grief She had not thought, as she sat 
 below sewing her seam, in what a sad fashion it was 
 fated she should put it away. After this night, Roberta 
 could never smell lavender without thinking of darkness 
 and trouble. The rain had ceased by this time, and, as 
 the clouds broke, a faint pale moonlight came creeping 
 coldly along the passage. 
 
 IV. 
 
 While Berta was crying in the cupboard, Horatia 
 was sitting with her cousin, Mrs. Dumbleton, and saying, 
 " Augusta, you must stand by me and help me. I 
 assure you I shall be happy. You know I have always 
 wished for a quiet country life, and hoped to marry a 
 clergyman." 
 
 " But you have not always wished to marry a country 
 doctor," said Mrs. Dumbleton. 
 
 " He will do quite as well," said Horatia, eagerly. 
 " I shall occupy myself with the poor people, with the
 
 I20 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 schools. I shall escape from the hateful monotonous 
 round of dismal gaiety." 
 
 " But this will be still more dull in a little while," 
 said Mrs. Dumbleton. 
 
 "No," said Miss Berners, decisively; "because it is 
 a natural and wholesome existence ; the other is un- 
 natural, and morbid, and exhausting. Augusta, you 
 must help me, and persuade aunt Car to forgive me. 
 For it is too late to prevent it any more, and — and — 
 Henry sent off a note when the groom went to the 
 station." 
 
 " Is it all settled .'' " cried IMrs. Dumbleton, very 
 much relieved. She was always delighted when people 
 decided things without her. "Then, of course, mamma 
 must forgive you ; " and the good-natured little woman 
 went ofif, and knocked at Lady Whiston's door, and 
 there was a great long long conference, and at last 
 Horatia was summoned. And when she came out she 
 was pale and exhausted, but triumphant. She and 
 Mrs. Dumbleton had talked over the old lady between 
 them. " Of course, you are going to do exactly as you 
 like," says Lady Whiston, "but I suppose you know 
 you have forfeited your place in society. I shall come 
 and see you now and then, when I am not too busy. 
 My consent is all nonsense. I must say I had hoped 
 differently."
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 121 
 
 " But you will forgive her in time, mamma ? " pleaded 
 Augusta. 
 
 " I cannot discharge Mr. Bonsey, if that is what she 
 wants. Horatia ! what could you want when you made 
 this ridiculous arrangement 1 " 
 
 "Good-night, dearest, kindest aunt Car," said Horatia, 
 suddenly clasping the little old woman in her arms. " I 
 can't tell you what I wanted, but I must keep to my 
 decision. Good-night, Augusta." 
 
 What had she desired } Happiness, rest, quiet, a 
 tranquil home, sympathy : and now all this was hers at 
 last. She caught a glimpse of her glowing cheeks in 
 the glass. She could hardly believe that bright and 
 brilliant face was her own — her own old face, whose wan 
 glances had met her for so many years. . . . 
 
 One day, not long after the day I have been describ- 
 ing, Mrs. Dumbleton's little carriage was travelling along 
 the road which leads from Dumbleton to Wandsworth ; 
 Augusta was driving the ponies, and Horatia was going 
 in state to visit her new dominions. They roll on across 
 the country roads, and lanes, and commons ; through the 
 western sunshine, through the warm sweet September air, 
 with a great dazzling vault overhead, a shining world 
 all round about them. Horatia leans back too languid, 
 too happy, too excited to talk. She lazily watches the
 
 123 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 crisp shadows that advance alongside — the nodding 
 heads of the ponies, the trees and houses in the distance, 
 the children and wayfarers who look up to see them 
 pass. It is like a fairy tale, Horatia thinks — a princess 
 driving along the road. And what will be the end of 
 the story .'' They come to a cross-road at last, and then 
 Augusta turns the ponies' heads, and they trot up a 
 lane full of flickering shadow and sunshine. They stop 
 suddenly at an iron gate in front of a Queen Anne brick 
 house, with all the windows open, and growing ivy 
 wreaths. And Horatia, with a start, says to herself, 
 " So this is my home ? " while Augusta points and says, 
 " Here we are ; doesn't it look nice 1 " 
 
 Behind the iron gate is a little garden, full of red 
 and blue, margarites and geraniums ; then three worn 
 steps lead to the door with the old-fashioned cornice, 
 over which a rose-tree is nailed. When Betty opened 
 the door, they could see into the passage, and into the 
 garden beyond, green and sunlight there as here in 
 the lane. 
 
 Dr. Rich was not at home ; Miss Rich was in the 
 garden : Betty proposed to go and tell her ; but Horatia 
 quickly said, " No, we will go to her." 
 
 So the ladies got down. As Horatia crossed the 
 threshold, she suddenly thought, with a thrill, how this 
 was her new life, her future into which she was stepping.
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 123 
 
 It had all lain concealed behind the door but a moment 
 ago, and now it was revealed to her. It had begun 
 from that minute when Betty admitted the strangers. 
 The ladies swept through the little hall in their silk 
 gowns, glanced with interest at the doctor's hats hanging 
 upon their hooks, peeped into the little sitting-rooms on 
 either side : the draAving-room with the horsehair sofa 
 and mahogany chairs, the cottage piano, the worsted 
 works of art, the three choristers hanging up on the 
 wall, the funny old china cups and bowls on the chimney, 
 the check tablecloth, some flowers in a vulgar little vase 
 on the table, a folding-door half open into an inner room. 
 
 " Is that another drawing-room 1 " Horatia asked. 
 
 "It ain't used much," says Betty. "It 'ave been 
 Miss Rich's play-room. She does the lining there now, 
 and keeps the preserves and groceries." 
 
 Horatia peeped in. There was no carpet ; there 
 was a wooden press, there was a glass door leading into 
 the garden. It was not much of a place ; but she 
 thought how she would have chintz curtains, tripod 
 tables, gilt gimcracks ; and how pretty she could make 
 it ! Mrs. Dumbleton was quite enthusiastic. 
 
 " These are very nice rooms, Horatia, all except 
 the furniture ; with a few alterations they might be made 
 quite pretty." 
 
 But she was so used to her own trim lawns and hot-
 
 124 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 houses that she could find no praise for the garden. 
 However, there was all Fulham beyond for her to 
 expatiate on. " The view is too lovel}^," said Augusta ; 
 " it would be too, too beautiful, if )-ou could only help 
 looking at the railways and the houses. ... I should 
 advise you to build a high wall, Ratia." 
 
 " It will do very well when the garden is put in 
 order," said Horatia, drawing a deep breath. 
 
 " It is a pity the garden is so neglected," Augusta 
 went on, looking up and down, and round about. 
 Cabbages and roses Avere growing in friendly confusion, 
 honeysuckle straggled up the old brick walls ; parsley, 
 mint, saffron, herbs of every sort, grew along the beds. 
 Joe, the odd man, kept it in a certain trim ; and the 
 doctor sometimes ordered in a barrowful of flowers. It 
 was not much of a place. Three straight walks led up 
 to the low ivy wall at the end, where a little arbour had 
 been put up, and where the ivy, and spiders'-webs, and 
 honeysuckle, and various pretty creeping plants, tangled, 
 and sprouted, and hung luxuriantly, as you see them at 
 the end of a long summer. The entertainment is nearly 
 over, and they lavishly fling out all their treasures, their 
 garlands, their sweetness. 
 
 Under this pleasant, triumphal, autumnal arch, 
 Berta, in a broad hat and blue ribbons, was sitting with 
 a novel ; and looking up as she heard steps, she saw a
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 125 
 
 tall woman coming towards her with a long silk trailing 
 gown which swept the mint and parsley borders ; and 
 then she guessed in a moment that this was the future 
 mistress of the little domain. What a beautiful 
 lady ! the heroine of the novel she had just been 
 reading was not to be compared to her. What dark 
 eyes! what bright glowing cheeks! What a charming 
 smile ! 
 
 Roberta, who had only seen her once before and who 
 had thought her very alarming, and said herself that she' 
 hated fine ladies, was vanquished utterly for a moment. 
 No wonder George was in love with this gracious creature, 
 who was ready to give up all her state for him. She 
 jumped up to meet her. 
 
 " I have come to see my new home," said Horatia, 
 holding out her hand in a royal sort of way. 
 
 And Berta, blushing, took it timidly, and said, — 
 
 " George told me. How I hope you will both be 
 happy. Isn't it a dear old house } " 
 
 The old cistern at the back, the familiar chimney- 
 stacks, the odd windows, the water-spout with the bird's 
 nest, the worn steps where she had played when she 
 was a child, the mouldy little arbour, had all dear old 
 charms for Roberta, which naturally enough Horatia 
 could not appreciate. 
 
 " I am afraid it is more for the sake of your brother,
 
 126- OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 than for the merits of the house, that I mean to come 
 and live here," said Horatia, smihng. " I want you to 
 show me over the house, and to give us some tea. We 
 came on purpose, when we thought he would be out. I 
 think you know Mrs. Dumbleton." 
 
 "We peeped into your store-room as we came 
 along," said Mrs. Dumbleton, shaking hands, " and we 
 want to see some more. I see you do not care much 
 for your garden." 
 
 " I am so glad to have found you," continued 
 Horatia ; " but we meant to come in anyhow." 
 
 Roberta was rather bewildered by all this conversa- 
 tion, but most of all by the demand for tea. Betty was 
 apt to be ill-tempered if anything was expected that 
 did not come naturally in the course of eveiy twenty- 
 four hours. She began to feel as if her future sister-in- 
 law was a fine lady again. Her heart sank within her. 
 What had George done .'' What foolish thing had he 
 done } However, she put the doubt away, and said, 
 smiling, that she would be delighted to show them 
 everything. There was not much to see. She pointed 
 out St. Paul's, and the Abbey, and the Tower, and the 
 new railway bridge close at hand ; and then tripped 
 back into the house before them, opened doors, showed 
 them the surgery, the study, the drawing-room over 
 again, the dining-room (^thcre were some old carved
 
 . OUT OF THE WORLD. 127 
 
 chairs in the dining-room the ladies were pleased to 
 approve of) ; she pointed out the convenient cupboards, 
 but she felt a little awkward and sad as she led them 
 here and there ; she could not help feeling that their 
 praises and dispraises were alike distasteful to her. 
 
 " What an old-fashioned paper ! " said Mrs. Dumble- 
 ton. " Horatia, you ought to have white and gold, and 
 matting on the floor, with Persian rugs. Yes ; and we 
 must do up this room." 
 
 " What a funny, dismal little room," said Horatia, 
 stepping in, and indeed almost entirely filling it with 
 her voluminous skirts. 
 
 They had turned poor Roberta's store-room into a 
 boudoir ; they had built a bow-window, they had sacri- 
 ficed all the dear old chairs and tables, and now this 
 was George's study that they were invading. It was 
 very hard to bear. Berta only came in on great occa- 
 sions — when she wanted money, \\hen she said good-by, 
 and when she dusted his books. It seemed almost 
 sacred to her, and Betty the clumsy was never allowed 
 to dust or to touch George's possessions. There was a 
 little inner closet vdth a window, where her brother 
 used to let her sit when she was a child, as a great great 
 treat, while he was at work. In the looking-glass over 
 the chimney, she had, in former years, standing on tip- 
 toe, looked at herself with a sort of guilty feeling of
 
 128 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 profanation ; and now, instead of Roberta's demure, 
 respectftd peeping face, it reflected two flounced ladies 
 poking about, staring at the shabby old furniture, turn- 
 ing over the books, talking and laughing. 
 
 " What a bachelor's house it is ! " said Horatia to 
 Berta, without a notion of the wounds she and good- 
 natured little Mrs. Dumbleton, who would not wilfully 
 have pained any living creature, were inflicting ; but 
 women of thirty and upwards have a knack of snubbing 
 and ruffling very young girls, and Berta was very young 
 for twenty summers. She slipped away to the kitchen 
 to order the tea, and to recover her temper. 
 
 " Please, Betty, put it out in the dining-room ; Dr. 
 Rich would particularly wish it if he were at home," 
 Berta said. 
 
 " Well, this is the fust time / ever heard of tea 
 before dinner ! " says Betty, with a bang of the tray 
 upon the table ; and Berta fled at the sound, and came 
 back to find her guests upstairs on the bedroom landing, 
 opening doors, and talking and laughing still. 
 
 "That is my brother's room — that is the spare 
 room," Berta said. 
 
 '' This one would make a nice boudoir," chirped 
 Mrs. Dumbleton, thoughtlessly, looking into a pleasant 
 chamber full of western sun-rays, with a window full of 
 flowers.
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 129 
 
 " That is my room," said Berta, shortly, blushing up ; 
 "it has always been mine ever since I came to live with 
 George." 
 
 " How pretty you have made it," said Horatia, 
 who saw that she was vexed. " Shall w^e go down 
 again } " 
 
 Berta made way for them to pass, and they sallied 
 down into the drawing-room again. 
 
 But no tea was to be seen ; so, at Berta's request, 
 they went across the passage once more into the dining- 
 room, and sure enough there it was. Betty had not 
 vouchsafed a cloth, but had put out three cups on the 
 red table-cover, three very small old-fashioned willow- 
 patterned plates, knives and forks, a dish of thick bread 
 and scraped butter, a plate of hard biscuits, a teapot, 
 and a glass milk-jug. Three chairs were set, at which 
 they took their places ; and while Berta was busy 
 pouring out the tea, Betty arrived with a huge black 
 kitchen kettle to fill up the pot. 
 
 " Shall you want any more bread and butter cut. 
 Miss Roberta t " she said ; and poor Berta could not 
 help seeing that Mrs. Dumbleton and Horatia glanced 
 at each other, somewhat amused. They did not hear 
 Berta's sigh as she sent Betty away. Berta sighed 
 indeed, but then she forced herself to smile ; and when 
 George Rich rode up, a minute or two later, he came in 
 
 9
 
 I30 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 to find a dream of old old days realized at last — a little 
 happy family group in the old house, a beautiful woman 
 looking up with bright gladness to greet him ; Berta, 
 evidently happy too, already adopted as a sister. He 
 had not thought as he came slowly along the lane that it 
 was to this that he was coming. He was touched to be 
 able at last to welcome Horatia under his roof; and as 
 he glanced at her beautiful face, as he realized the charm 
 of her refinement, her soft breeding, he asked himself 
 more than once if that was indeed his wife .'' His 
 welcome was charming, his tender kindness melted and 
 delighted Horatia, who had not experienced over-much 
 in her life. She was grateful, gentle, and happy, and 
 cordial. When they drove off, the doctor was standing 
 at the gate, as happy and as certain of coming happiness 
 as she was herself. 
 
 I wonder would it have been different if Dr. Rich 
 could have known that evening what was to come as 
 days went by } It was yet time. If he could have 
 been told the story of the next two years, would he 
 have hesitated — have held back } I think not. He 
 was a man so brave and so incautious that I imagine he 
 would not have heeded the warning. I am sure he 
 could have borne to know the end of it all — and could 
 have heard of trouble to come, with that same courage 
 with which he endured it when it fell upon him.
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 131 
 
 V. 
 
 Horatia had determined to marry her husband 
 against all warnings : except Mr. and Mrs. Dumbleton 
 there was no one in favour of the match. But she 
 would not listen to any objections. Her aunt's laments, 
 angry retractions, exclamations of horror, shakes of the 
 head, nods, groans, sighs, grand and agitated relations 
 who drove up from town to put a stop to the match, 
 and to crush the presumptuous doctor under their 
 horses' hoofs, if need be — nothing could prevent her 
 from doing as she liked. 
 
 " I am beginning to see that this is not at all a good 
 match for you," the doctor said one day, " Horatia, do 
 you understand that you will have to be really a woman 
 of the working classes .-* You will have to do as Berta 
 does — for instance, sew and stitch, and make a pudding 
 on occasions, and I don't know what else." 
 
 " I am older than Berta, and have been brought up 
 differently," said Horatia, smiling. " I assure you it is 
 a popular fallacy to think that households do not go 
 on very well with a little judicious supervision. The 
 mistress is not necessarily always in and out of the 
 kitchen. — Where are you going to V — she went on, glad 
 to change the subject, which was one she hated.
 
 132 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 " I am 'going to see a very sick man, who lives three 
 miles off. Caton is attending him, and he has sent for me." 
 
 " I do not much fancy that Mr. Caton," said Horatia. 
 " I wish you would beg your friends not to congratulate 
 me without knowing me." 
 
 " Caton is a very good young fellow — he is a rough 
 diamond," said the doctor. " He saved my life once 
 when I had the small-pox, so you must forgive him for 
 that and other reasons, Horatia." And he nodded, and 
 went aw^ay more in love than ever. 
 
 When Mr. Caton, whom he met presently, began 
 talking over the marriage, with as many misgivings 
 as the grandest of Horatia's great aunts, George Rich 
 stopped him almost angrily. 
 
 "What do you mean about keeping in one's own 
 class of life ? I suppose a gentleman is the equal of 
 any lady ; and if she does not object to marry me, I 
 cannot see what concern it is of yours. Men or women 
 are none the worse in any station of life for a good 
 education, and for having some idea of what is happen- 
 ing out of one particular narrow sphere." 
 
 " Look at your sister," began Mr. Caton. 
 
 " My sister will be all the better for learning a little 
 more of the world," said Dr. Rich ; " she is too fond of 
 housekeeping." But he knew very well what Mr. Caton 
 thought of Roberta.
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 133 
 
 Six weeks went by — very happily for George and 
 Horatia, very slowly for poor Berta, who all the while 
 fought an heroic little battle which nobody suspected : 
 she was fighting with herself, poor child ! and got all 
 the blows. 
 
 Andrew Caton, indeed, may have guessed that she 
 was not happy ; and one day he came up to condole 
 with her, but he had put on such a very long sym- 
 pathetic face for the occasion that Berta burst out 
 laughing, and would not say a word on the subject. 
 Much less would she understand when he tried to speak 
 of what was much nearer his heart. The little maiden 
 gently parried and avoided all sentiment. At the very 
 bottom of Jicr heart I think she liked him, and meant 
 5ome day to make him happy ; but at twenty life is 
 long, the horizon stretches away far, far into the distance. 
 There is plenty of time to love, to live, to hate, to come, 
 to go. Older people are more impatient, and hurry 
 things on. Young folks don't mind waiting ; at least, 
 so it has seemed to me. Roberta did not mind much, 
 only sometimes, when a sort of jealous loneliness came 
 wearily weighing upon her. She could not help feeling 
 that she was changed somehow, that life was not the 
 placid progress she had always imagined ; wishes, 
 terrors, fancies, were crowding round her more and more 
 -thickly every day. She began to see what was going
 
 134 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 on all about her, to understand what was passing in other 
 people's minds, as she had never done in her life before. 
 
 As the day approached which was settled for George's 
 marriage, Berta became more sad. Her wistful eyes 
 constantly crossed his, she took to following him about ; 
 she would come out to meet him on his return, and creep 
 gently into his room when he was smoking, or at work. 
 The night before his marriage she whispered a little 
 sobbing blessing in his ear. 
 
 " My dearest Berta," he said, " let us pray that we 
 may all be happy — don't cry, you silly child, — you do 
 not think that any one or anything can ever change 
 my love for you." 
 
 George was not demonstrative ; he had never said so 
 much before, and Berta slept sounder than she had slept 
 for weeks. 
 
 Dr. Rich and Miss Berners were married at Putney 
 Church early one wintry morning. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Dumbleton went to the wedding, and Roberta, in a 
 pretty white bonnet. There was scarcely any one else. 
 After it was all over, Roberta walked home, packed up 
 her things, and went back by the train to the country 
 village where her stepfather was vicar, and where her 
 mother, who was not George's mother, but his late 
 father's wife, was busy from morning to night with little
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 135 
 
 boys and girls at home and abroad ; with soup-kitchens, 
 training-schools ; with a very tiresome, fidgety second 
 husband, who could do nothing himself, but was very 
 particular about everybody else's doings. He loved his 
 own children, but was not over fond of his stepdaughter ; 
 and I think that is why Mrs. Baron was glad that Berta, 
 her dearest and favourite child, should be almost con- 
 stantly away. But, all the same, it was a delight to 
 have her at home, and Roberta came to the garden-gate 
 to be clasped in kind motherly arms, while all the step- 
 brothers and sisters streamed out in a little procession 
 to welcome her. It was Christmas holiday time — the 
 boys were at home. Ricarda (Mrs. Baron had a fancy 
 for inventing names) was grown up quite a young woman ; 
 Tina had broken her front tooth f Stephana was naughty, 
 but she should come down from her room after tea ; 
 Will, and Nick, and Harry, were hovering about, long- 
 legged, and kindly, and glad. It seemed impossible to 
 Berta that she was only an hour or two away from the 
 struggle of love and jealousy, of tenderness and anxiety, 
 she had been going through for the last few weeks — only 
 two hours distant from the last tears she had dropped, 
 as with Betty's assistance she packed up her boxes and 
 came away ; only an hour away from George's last kind 
 words and thoughtful care. And so she settled down 
 quietly in this other home.
 
 136 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 She cut out frocks for the children, set to work at the 
 choir, and for three whole days she and her sisters were 
 busy dressing up the old church with i\^}-, and holly, and 
 red berries. 
 
 Months went by. She heard from George ; she had 
 one or two letters from Horatia, in the beautiful hand- 
 writing. They were back long ago, and settled down 
 quite comfortably, Darby and Joan-wise. They hoped 
 she would come soon, and stay as long as ever slie liked 
 one day. George added, " Caton says he would like to 
 come down and pay you a visit. I daresay you may see 
 him before long." Poor Mrs. Baron was very much 
 excited, but also rather alarmed by this piece of intelli- 
 gence. She did not know how her husband might take 
 this attention of the young doctor's. I think, as a rule, 
 women are more hospitable than men, and more glad to 
 see their friends at more hours of the day, but I must 
 confess that it was not only hospitality which made her so 
 anxious on this occasion to play hostess. Mr. Caton was 
 ten years younger than George, was very well to do, and 
 certainly was not coming all this way to see her and the 
 ungracious vicar only. She was right. When Mr. Caton 
 arrived, he asked for Berta eagerly, and Berta appeared. 
 But so unwilling, so little glad to see him, so silent, so 
 anxious to get out of his way, that he determined to go 
 back again without saying anything of what he had
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 137 
 
 meant to say, and had come all this long way to 
 tell her. 
 
 " How is George getting on ? " Mrs.Baron asked, by 
 way of making some sort of talk. 
 
 Mr. Caton shrugged his broad shoulders. " I hardly 
 ever go there now. Mrs. Rich gives herself no end of 
 airs, but I cannot drop him altogether ; he looks ill 
 enough, poor fellow, and I think he begins already to 
 repent of his bargain." 
 
 "These unsuitable marriages rarely answer," said 
 Mrs. Baron, with a sigh. 
 
 "That is just what he was so angry with me for 
 saying," said the young man. " / like a woman who is 
 not above her station, who minds her house, and takes 
 care of her husband, and that Is what Mrs. R. doesn't do. 
 Why, it was as different in Miss Berta's time. . . . Now, 
 the house is all topsy-turvy. She's got a lady's-maid, 
 they tell me, but the dinner is disgraceful. I assure you, 
 I am not particular — you know I'm not, Miss Berta — • 
 but I couldn't eat what was on my plate. I give you 
 my honour I couldn't." 
 
 Berta hoped that this might be a prejudiced report, 
 but she could not help feeling sad and anxious as the 
 time came near for her to go back to them again, 
 
 Alas ! the prejudiced report happened to be the 
 true one.
 
 138 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 If Horatia had married younger it might have been 
 different, but it is almost impossible suddenly, in middle 
 life, to become a new woman altogether ; and from being 
 lazy, nervous, languid, and unhandy, suddenly to grow 
 brisk, orderly, thoughtful, and hard-working. 
 
 Berta paid them one very short visit, during which 
 all went smoothly, and yet she went home for another 
 six months, very doubtful as to how things might turn. 
 Her brother was not repenting, as Mr. Caton had told 
 them, but it seemed to her that Horatia might begin to 
 get tired of this new life, as she had wearied of the 
 old one. 
 
 When George and Horatia married, they both pictured 
 to themselves the lives they were going to lead ; and the 
 two pictures were not in the least like one another, or 
 like the reality even. George's picture was of Horatia, 
 a happy woman, a good wife, beautiful, sympathetic, 
 interested in his schemes, contented with her destiny, 
 cheerful, and devoted. He saw her busy in a thousand 
 ways, working among the poor with more energy than 
 Roberta had ever shown, understanding his plans far 
 better, better able to advise, helping him, encouraging 
 him in all good, the best friend, the most faithful com- 
 panion. "These instincts are unfailing," he said to him- 
 self ; " I know her as well as I know myself ; by what 
 strange, happy intuition is one led to these discoveries .'"'
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 139 
 
 Horatia's picture was also of herself. Elegantly 
 but simply dressed, gracefully entertaining her relations, 
 leading a sort of Petit Trianon existence. Giving 
 delicious but inexpensive little dinners, with croquet 
 on the lawn, perhaps ; afterwards returning among her 
 old companions ; gracious, unpresuming, independent, 
 much made of; she was, especially at first, well satisfied 
 with herself and Avith what she had done, and with her 
 husband. He might be a little rough and abrupt, but 
 that she should be able to change. He was kind and 
 clever and full of consideration ; and, with her con- 
 nections, it would be indeed strange if he did not get 
 on, and become — who knows } — a prosperous man in 
 time. Then, of course, he would have to make some 
 radical change in his way of life. I do not know when 
 it began, but by degrees she began to think the calm 
 haven was perhaps a little too calm after all — if it was 
 to continue only broken by the vagaries of Betty and 
 the cook. Horatia had now and then lost all patience 
 with them, as well as with other peculiarities of her 
 husband's house. She detested a racket, but she was 
 not accustomed to this utter seclusion, or, what Avas 
 even worse, this strange company : — young ladies who 
 called her dear, and who were surprised at everything ; 
 homely matrons, with funny husbands ; and that in- 
 tolerable young man, Mr. Caton, who was worst of
 
 I40 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 all Fortunately she had still her own relations to 
 go to. 
 
 And meanwhile George went on prosing to him- 
 self — nearly a year since he married ! Long happy 
 evenings, Horatia playing on the piano while he sat 
 and smoked (z.s> he was doing now) on the lawn. The 
 whole house brightened by her coming — a stir of 
 life, pleasant talk, where there had only been silence 
 before, or poor Roberta's gentle commonplaces. Dear 
 Berta ! It would be as happy a change for her as for 
 himself. He could hardly believe that all this treasure 
 of happiness was his, that he had a wife in the drawing- 
 room, and that wife Horatia ; and he put down his 
 cigar, and went and looked in at the window to assure 
 himself that it was not all a fancy brought about by the 
 smoke, the faint perfume of roses, the sweet bewildering 
 air of a summer's day. And in a minute he came back, 
 and began to puff tobacco, not castles in the air any 
 more. For Horatia was there certainly, but so was 
 Lady Whiston ; so was Mrs. Dumbleton, Voices, 
 flounces, big carriage at the garden-gate. It was no 
 fancy ; and as he did not want to face them all, he went 
 back to his seat in the arbour. 
 
 " George ! " Horatia calls, opening the window and 
 looking out 
 
 George looks round and shakes his head.
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 141 
 
 \{QX2i,\j^f surprised, comes out across the grass. 
 " Won't you come and see aunt Car ? " 
 
 " J am bu ,7, ' says the doctor. 
 
 " 'Y\\<:-j v.ant u'. to dirr-: there," says Horatia, 
 putting' li'.T hair-] on his shoulder. "They expect 
 Lord 1 1 olio way." 
 
 " We dined there yesterday — there is that breakfast 
 next week ; make some excuse." 
 
 " iiut in your profession it is of great consequence 
 that you should improve your acquaintance," says 
 Horatia, blushing up, " They were ju.st saying so. 
 Lord HoUoway has dreadful attacks of the gout." 
 
 " That is what I .shall have if I dine there any more. 
 You can go, you know. You can make up to Lord 
 HoUoway all the better if I am not there." 
 
 " How can you say such disagreeable things .•• Of 
 course I must go without you, if you will not come. It 
 will look very odd ; I don't like it at all." 
 
 "Then v/hy don't you :>tay .•• " says the doctor in hi. 
 kind \'oicc^ .'.milin^' a', :.lio frowns. 
 
 "Aunt Car v/iil b': hurt a', it is," says Iloratia, 
 lookin'- round. " I :.\\\,\,'y..<: \ liad bsttor r{o back and 
 tell lisr. It is most unpleasant." 
 
 George glanced a quick, doubtful look as she walked 
 away unconsciou.s, .slim, tall, graceful, with her violet 
 dress trailing over the grass and the daisies. She stoops
 
 142 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 her head at the window, and passes in under the cluster- 
 ing roses. After all why should not she like to go ? 
 George asks himself, and though he might have answered 
 the question, perhaps he took care not to do so. How 
 many such questions are there which are best unasked 
 and unanswered .-' Truth, indeed, is greater than silence, 
 and if we could always tell what was true, it would be 
 well to speak always. But silence is often better than 
 the half-truths we utter ; silence to ourselves and of 
 ourselves, as well as to others. 
 
 Horatia came home about one o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, and found her husband still up, sitting in the little 
 study, and Mr. Caton with him. The window was open, 
 a candle was flaring on the table, and she thought there 
 was a strange aromatic smell in the room. But it was 
 hard to find Mr. Caton always there, even at that hour 
 of the night. She was not safe and she looked her dis- 
 pleasure. 
 
 He got up with such a grave face as he made 
 her a little stiff bow, that she was still more indignant. 
 George too was grave, though he smiled and put out his 
 hand. 
 
 Horatia wrapped her white cloak round her, and 
 turned her back upon Caton. 
 
 " What have you been concocting, George .'' why 
 do you sit with the Avindow open .'' I wish you had
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 143 
 
 been with me. Lord Holloway is perfectly charming, 
 and " 
 
 " Well, good-night," said Caton, suddenly. '' Good- 
 evening, Mrs. Rich," and he walked off. As the door 
 shut Horatia began indignantly, "That man is in- 
 
 sup " but her husband stopped her languidly, and 
 
 said he was not up to fighting his friend's battles that 
 night. He was tired. " Is this the w'ay he speaks to 
 me .'' " Horatia thought. 
 
 The next day the doctor went up to town and came 
 back to dinner very silent and much out of spirits. And 
 Mr. Caton, as usual, looked in in the evening, and they 
 were closeted together for some time. Horatia had 
 taken a nervous dislike to the poor young man ; his 
 presence was almost unendurable to her. Rich looked 
 hurt and vexed when she said so one day. 
 
 " Why have you taken this aversion to my old 
 companion t " he asked. 
 
 " Because he is familiar and interfering," cries 
 Horatia. 
 
 " What do you say to Lady Whiston, then } " says 
 the doctor, provoked. 
 
 Horatia was still more provoked, and the little 
 discussion ended in her going off alone, as usual, to 
 the Dumbleton fete. 
 
 But she looked so bright and so handsome in her
 
 144 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 white dress, as she wished him good-by, that George 
 secretly relented, and thought he should like to see her 
 admired, and determined, if he could, to come for her 
 after all. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Horatia was not sorry to go by herself. She felt 
 more at her ease when her husband was not there. Old 
 friends came up to greet her. Two old adorers asked 
 her to dance. Mr. Dumbleton gave her his arm, and 
 took her into the conservatory for an ice. Here they 
 all were, making much of her, welcoming her. Horatia 
 could not help contrasting all this with her husband's 
 grave looks and unconcerned manner. 
 
 " How does the housekeeping go on .-* " said Mr. 
 Dumbleton. 
 
 " Don't talk about it," cried Horatia. " Everything 
 is so different. My genius does not lie in that direction ; 
 and yet — would you believe it 1 my doctor grumbles 
 at times. What a pretty effect." 
 
 They were in a long conservatory, full of trees and 
 shrubs, and flowers and Chinese lanterns. The sound 
 of distant music, the perfume of the plants, the soft
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 145 
 
 glimmer of the lights, filled the whole place, and the 
 stars came twinkling through the glass domes. Horatia 
 was enchanted instead of being [bored as in old times. 
 It was an Arabian Night's Entertainment. One of 
 her cousins, who had been an old admirer of hers, 
 came up and scarcely recognized her, she looked so 
 wonderfully handsome and happy ; he asked her to 
 dance, and Horatia consented, and went off laughing 
 and radiant, but Henry Dumbleton looked after her a 
 little doubtful as to the entire success of his match- 
 making. 
 
 Horatia, meanwhile, twirled and twisted, the mu- 
 sicians played one of those charming waltzes that 
 seem to be singing and sighing with one breath. The 
 music surged and sank again ; it was like the sea flow- 
 ing upon a shore ; breathless, excited, Horatia danced 
 on in cadence to the tune, and thought this moment 
 ought to last for ever ; she and her partner went to one 
 of the windows to refresh themselves, and stood out 
 upon a low balcony, close to the ground, and began to 
 talk of old days, as people do when they suddenly grow 
 confidential with time and place, and then they talked 
 down to later days, and the cousin, whose name was 
 Charles Whiston, reproached her for having left them 
 as she had done : " Did she never regret it } Had she 
 quite given up old friends for new ? " 
 
 10
 
 146 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 "No, no, no!" cried Horatia ; "unequal marriages 
 are foolish things, Charles. It is not until you find 
 yourself lonely and misunderstood in the midst of 
 people who have been brought up to see things cn- 
 dessous, instead of cn-dcssus, that you begin to discover 
 how real and how insurmountable certain differences 
 are. Things with wliich I have been familiar all my 
 life seem strange and unfamiliar to them. There is a 
 sort of suspicious defiance I cannot describe — a sort of 
 meanness, of familiarity, of low jocularity." 
 
 "But how could you ever marry him ?" cried Charles 
 Whiston, much concerned. " This is terrible. You must 
 come away ; you must come to us, we are always " 
 
 Some one who had been sitting under the window 
 started up at that moment, and got up and walked 
 away. 
 
 " I am not speaking of my husband," said Horatia, 
 blushing, and starting, and a little ashamed of herself. 
 " I was thinking of — of friends — persons who come to 
 the house whom I cannot be rid of There is his step- 
 mother, for instance — who came a short time ago, and 
 interfered in the most unwarrantable manner. There 
 is a certain dreadful Dr. Caton whom George is for ever 
 asking. Can you fancy that man daring to call me 
 Mrs. Gallipots .'' — don't laugh — such vulgar insults are 
 no laughing matter."
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 147 
 
 "Poor Horatia," said her companion, sentimentally. 
 " I assure you I do not feel inclined to laugh." 
 
 The musicians began to play a new measure, and 
 the dancers set off with fresh spirit. The people outside 
 were still pacing and talking in low voices, the trees 
 were hung with brilliant jewels of fire, no breath stirred 
 the branches, the white dresses gleamed mysteriously 
 through the darkness, the light steps loitered, the low 
 voices sank. Horatia stood immovable, with her head 
 against her hand : her companion was sitting on the 
 low stone parapet, and leaning lazily over the side of 
 the balcony, when suddenly he started up, and stood 
 listening. 
 
 " Did you hear that t " he said. And once more 
 distinctly sounding through the still night came a 
 plaintive cry out of the wood. 
 
 "Oh! go and see," said Horatia; "what can 
 it be?" 
 
 In a moment all the silent enchantment of the hour 
 seemed broken and dispelled. That forlorn cry had 
 shaken and dispersed the dreams, the illusions, the 
 harmonies of the summer's night. It was like a pebble 
 falling into still waters. But it was only for a moment : 
 by degrees the silence, the music, the starlight, reassured 
 the startled people ; they forgot once more that pain 
 existed in the world, that trouble could approach them.
 
 148 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Horatia had almost forgotten her alarm when her cousin 
 rejoined her. 
 
 " It was nothing," he said. *' Some one fainted — a 
 woman was frightened, and screamed. Dr. Rich was 
 there, and another doctor." 
 
 "My husband !" said Horatia, surprised. 
 " Some one told me he had gone home with the 
 patient," said Charles Whiston. " Shall we have another 
 waltz } " Tum — tum-te-tum, te-tum — the music plays, 
 and off they go. 
 
 When Horatia got home she found a little note 
 hurriedly scrawled. " Don't expect me to-night, I am 
 detained. — Yours, G. R." 
 
 He came home next day, looking pale and exhausted, 
 as if he had been up all night. 
 
 " Who was ill ? " Horatia asked. " Who fainted ? " 
 " I cannot tell you who it was," said the doctor. 
 " Caton attended him. I have been very busy, and I 
 am not well myself, Horatia. I shall go and lie down." 
 " You went up to the hall last night, then ? " persisted 
 Horatia. 
 
 George did not answer, but looked at her once in 
 
 an odd sort of way, and then went out of the room. 
 
 Horatia never knew exactly what had happened that 
 
 * night. It seemed to her somehow that her husband 
 
 was never quite the same again after this unlucky
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 149 
 
 fete. She actually began to wish for Berta to come 
 back again. 
 
 Roberta's mother had brought her the first time, 
 and left her and gone away, after managing to give 
 great offence to George, as well as to his wife, by one or 
 two awkward speeches. And when Berta came back to 
 the old trouble once more — the old battle and disap- 
 pointment — she determined to be warned by her mother's 
 example. She would gladly have stayed on at home, 
 but George kept writing for her to come, and the bugbear 
 of a stepfather growled out, "Why didn't she go, since 
 they were so anxious to have her } " and besides, there 
 was a natural yearning after George in her heart, which 
 would have brought her from the end of the world, if he 
 wished it. 
 
 So now that Horatia was mistress of his house, Berta 
 did not like to interfere in the household disarrangements 
 — for it was nothing else : she found Horatia evidently 
 discontented and unsatisfied — George looking worn and 
 out of spirits — the dinner unsatisfactory, the furniture 
 dim and neglected, maids careless and unpunctuaL 
 Horatia had theories about everything, but did not 
 possess the gift of putting them in practice. Every 
 human being had its rights, she used to say, and those 
 of servants were constantly infringed. The consequence 
 was, that though Betty had time to read the paper and a
 
 I50 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 course of history judiciously selected by her mistress, 
 she had not time to dust and scrub and scour, as in 
 days of yore, when the poor doctor's rights only were 
 considered. 
 
 Roberta found that it was almost more than she 
 could do, not to speak, not to interfere. She was ready 
 to cry sometimes when her brother came in, tired and 
 exhausted, and had to wait an hour for his dinner. She 
 thought him looking ill, indeed, and changed. Bydegrees 
 she almost got to hate Horatia, and did not do her 
 justice for those good qualities she certainly possessed. 
 Horatia's temper was perfect ; she bore Berta's irrepress- 
 ible glances and loud reproaches admirably. She saw 
 that her husband loved his sister ; she would not pain 
 him by blaming her. She often wondered that he should 
 seem more at home with Roberta than with herself. She 
 thought herself infinitely superior, cleverer, handsomer, 
 better bred ; but she had not Berta's rare gift of home- 
 making, her sweet repose of manner, her unselfish 
 devotion to those for whom she cared. Horatia rarely 
 forgot herself Berta was like her brother, and almost 
 lived in the people she loved. 
 
 And so Horatia's beautiful black eyes did not see 
 all the many things that were amiss ; her soft white 
 hands did not work for her husband's comfort; days 
 went by ; little estrangements went by ; the geese
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 151 
 
 cackled on the common ; sick people died or got well ; 
 well people fell sick ; George Rich went his rounds, and 
 sighed sometimes as he looked at his beautiful wife. It 
 had not answered, somehow. 
 
 Every day little stories are told : sometimes about 
 great things, sometimes about nothing at all. This one 
 was about nothing at all, and yet the story was there to 
 read, and I am trying to write it down. 
 
 The people who tell the stories are generally too 
 interested and unhappy, or happy, or anxious, or vexed, 
 to look at their daily lives from another person's point 
 of view ; and sometimes even other people standing by 
 have not the gift of seeing what is passing before their 
 eyes. Horatia, who was quick about other people, was 
 blind to her own faults. Dr. Rich was the person in that 
 household who could best read the disappointing little 
 history that was telling out, day by day, under his roof, 
 and the struggle of his daily life was to be blind, and not 
 to read the open page. Horatia had no such scruples, 
 and always said what she thought, and thought what 
 she liked, and spoke openly to George, to the Dumble- 
 tons, of her fancies, disappointments, dislikes, particularly 
 of her dislike to Mr. Caton. Now that Berta was there, 
 he was always coming, and Horatia did not at all fancy 
 such a brother-in-law ; and so she told the girl, who 
 laughed, and blushed, and acquiesced. Horatia said
 
 152 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 as much to George one day : he answered, somewhat 
 absently, " Caton is a very clever, good fellow. I am 
 afraid Roberta will have nothing to say to him ; but he 
 comes to see me, Horatia." And that evening, after 
 dinner, coming out into the garden, she saw, much to 
 her disgust, Mr, Caton's red whiskers and a cloud of 
 tobacco under the ^arbour, where her husband was also 
 sitting, apparently deep in conversation with his 
 friend. 
 
 Another grievance she had, which was this : she 
 inherited a few hundred pounds unexpectedly about 
 this time, which she wanted to lay out in doing up the 
 house and the garden, and in more Persian mats, and a 
 brougham. Dr. Rich insisted on her leaving the whole 
 sum untouched at the banker's. " You shall have it in 
 due time," he said. "Horatia, can't you believe that I 
 have some good reason for not spending money just 
 now ? " She could not understand this strange fancy 
 for saving. He would go nowhere ; he would insist on 
 economizing in every way ; he would not willingly ask 
 even her cousins to dinner. Wearied, disappointed^ 
 provoked, she began to tell herself that her marriage had 
 been a mistake — she began to long to get away, to sigh 
 for and to dream of liberty. She did not know how 
 far these dreams had carried her, once she had given way 
 to them. She had wished for Berta, but when Berta
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. ' 153 
 
 came she grew jealous of her. Life was a miserable 
 delusion, Horatia often thought. 
 
 Berta could not help seeing there was something 
 wrong, and put it all to poor Horatia's score. It 
 seemed to her that Mr. Caton knew more than he chose 
 to tell ; for sometimes she would catch a half-pitying, 
 hesitating glance ; and once, when she met him on 
 the common, he stopped short and said, " Miss Roberta, 
 I want to speak to you ; " but she walked on rapidly 
 and pretended not to hear, and then he changed his 
 mind and turned away abruptly. She did not dare to 
 ask what it was, for she thought that after all it 
 might only be the old story that she did not want to 
 listen to. It had been settled that she was to go home 
 that day for a Sunday to see her mother. She was glad 
 to go, for she felt as if she could keep silence no longer, 
 and might say something to George or to Horatia which 
 she would afterwards regret. She felt that her mother's 
 sympathy could help her to silence and toleration. She 
 had but an hour more to be silent. Who can tell what 
 an hour may do .''
 
 154 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 VII. 
 
 She had made her preparations and she was sitting 
 that afternoon sewing in the window, until it should be 
 time to go. Horatia was lying on the sofa, the sun was 
 pouring in. It looked a peaceful little scene enough 
 — flowers and young women, novels, needlework, silence, 
 sunlight — when presently Horatia put down her novel, 
 and began to talk ; and as she talked, Berta began to 
 sew very fiercely, and to blush up angrily. 
 
 " It is a shame," Horatia was saying, " that I may 
 not choose my own company ; that I am to be forced 
 to receive a person so distasteful to me as Mr. Caton. 
 His familiarity is really unbearable. Until your return, 
 Roberta, I hope we shall see less of him. To-day he came 
 up to me, and told me that I ought to take more care 
 of George. You and your brother cannot understand 
 how distasteful this sort of thing is — what a real want 
 this want of congenial society is to me." 
 
 " You have George," said Berta, stitching away. 
 
 " George is a dear, good George," said Horatia, pass- 
 ing her hand wearily over her eyes ; " but he has not 
 been brought up to many things that I have been 
 accustomed to. I feel a little want of sympathy, a little 
 lonely sometimes."
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 155 
 
 A cleverer person than Roberta might have under- 
 stood her better ; but the girl was thoroughly provoked 
 and offended: All her pent-up passion burst out : after 
 all her days of silence she spoke, scarcely knowing what 
 she said : 
 
 " Do you dare to complain — you who have made 
 George sad and lonely by coming to live with him — you 
 who don't appreciate him, who can't understand his 
 goodness ? He is the best, wisest, and dearest of men ; 
 his gentleness and forbearance are wonderful. You 
 neglect him as no wife ever neglected her husband: 
 You do nothing to help him. When he is worn out you 
 complain to him about yourself — you are so used to 
 think of yourself, Horatia. I must speak. I may 
 never come into your house again ; but it breaks my 
 heart to see it all. And when he comes home sad and 
 out of spirits, you don't look up — you scarcely heed 
 him : you say, ' George, shut the door,' or ' poke the fire,' 
 or whatever it may be. I always used to think George's 
 wife would be the happiest, proudest woman in the 
 whole world, until you came to undeceive me." 
 
 Even Horatia could not bear this : she, too, got 
 angry and started up upon her sofa. 
 
 " You certainly shall never come here again, Roberta, 
 unless I am away. You speak of things which are not 
 your concern ; and you should have been silent. I am
 
 156 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 quite able to appreciate my husband without anybody 
 to point out his merits. But sometimes I think, Roberta, 
 that either you or I had better go. Stay," she said : " I 
 am not at all certain that it is I who should remain." 
 And she gathered up her papers and books, and drew 
 herself up to her full height, and sailed out of the 
 room. 
 
 And so poor tired George, coming home earlier 
 than usual to see his sister before she left, found only 
 Roberta crying and sobbing in the drawing-room. 
 Horatia was upstairs with a nervous attack. A strong 
 smell of burning and a black smoke came in whiffs 
 out of the kitchen. The maids were in her room 
 sympathizing with the mistress ; and the dinner was 
 spoiling unheeded. The penitent Roberta tried in vain 
 to stop crying. 
 
 "I am going away," she said; "and oh, George, 
 I don't know when I may come back again. It is too 
 disagreeable for Horatia to have me in the house. I 
 have behaved so dreadfully. I only wonder she did 
 not turn me out on the common. I am very sorry, 
 dear George. I will do anything. I wall beg her 
 pardon, if she will be only kind enough to forgive 
 what has passed, and let me come and see you again. 
 Because I do love you almost more than anybody in the 
 world. Please don't hate me for behaving so badly."
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 157 
 
 Then he had to go upstairs to Horatia. When he 
 came down he was looking very pale and biting his lips. 
 His wife had gasped out things about "your relations ; " 
 about the way in which he preferred them and their 
 ways to hers ; about his being more happy before she 
 
 came ; about her loneliness ; about But there is 
 
 no use in recapitulating all her nervous griefs. " Are 
 you packed up, Roberta } " said the doctor, with one 
 more sigh. " I will drive you down to the station. I 
 must see you off. It is only four o'clock now ; if we 
 catch the five-o'clock train it will still be light by the 
 time you get home. I think your sister will get over it 
 sooner if you are not here. Don't cry, dearest ; it will 
 be all right in a little. I can quite understand her 
 annoyance. Don't cry any more, Berta ; that won't 
 mend matters," he said, cheerfully: Then he went into 
 his study, and shut the door, and fell down into his big 
 chair, and let his head fall heavily on his breast. His 
 pulses were throbbing with grief ; it was all he could do 
 to subdue his agitation. His wife's passionate indigna- 
 tion and reproaches had upset him ; and that Berta, 
 whom he looked upon almost as a daughter, should be 
 estranged, and that he should be left quite alone — more 
 lonely than he had ever been — was a cruel stab to this 
 tender and sensitive heart. When it was time for Berta 
 to go, he came out of his room, looking exactly as
 
 158 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 usual. He went to his wife's bedside, and said good-by, 
 but she would not answer him ; and then he came down 
 again, and helped his sister into the little carriage, and 
 took his place leisurely beside her, and they drove away. 
 
 The trees seemed to fly past them, the birds went 
 wheeling over the fields, a blue-grey mist hung over 
 the distant hedgerows and the haystacks, over the farm- 
 steads and cottages nestling in the little hollows. 
 
 The landscape was painted in black and grey, with 
 clouds and rain-water. Now and then a rain-laden 
 Avind would come blowing freshly into Roberta's face. 
 
 As they were nearing the station, somebody came 
 up alongside upon a tired horse. It was Mr. Caton. 
 
 " I was going to look for you," said Dr. Rich, 
 pulling up. " Will you come in this evening, about nine 
 o'clock .'' We can't wait now, we shall miss the train." 
 And then he bent forward and said a few words, in a 
 low voice. Berta wondered what it was all about, as 
 she nodded a grave good-by. Mr. Caton looked up 
 with a strange expression. She wondered whether it 
 was because she was going away ; and then she won- 
 dered whether she should ever forgive herself, and 
 thought what a comfort it would be to tell her mother 
 everything, and to be well scolded as she deserved, and 
 then kissed and forgiven like a child. She gave such a 
 tremendous sigh once, that her brother began to laugh.
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 159 
 
 " You silly child ! " he said ; " forget all about it. I will 
 undertake that Horatia shall bear no malice. A little 
 change will make all smooth again, and you must 
 come back directly." Then he drove on silently for 
 a minute, and then he said, " Berta, do you think you 
 could ever fancy Caton i* — he is a little rough, but he 
 is a thorough good fellow, and very fond of you." 
 
 " I am very fond of him," said Berta, smiling, " but 
 I don't want to marry him. Perhaps, if you praise him 
 
 very much, George, in time Ah, here we are ! " 
 
 And presently Berta had kissed him, and said good-by, 
 and watched him until the train had carried her away, 
 and he disappeared. By leaning out she just saw him 
 for one instant more, looking after her with his kind, 
 smiling face ; and then the train went suddenly on 
 through the quiet country, carrying aAvay Roberta, with 
 her troubles and puzzles. The doctor travels home- 
 ward, strangely abstracted ; and Horatia has risen from 
 her bed, where she had been lying, and is making 
 desperate and angry resolutions. 
 
 " Was he indeed more happy before I came .'' He 
 did not deny it. When I gave up everything for him, 
 I thought, at least, that he would love me." She 
 smoothed her tumbled hair, put on a shawl, and went 
 downstairs and out into the open air. " It will do me 
 good," she thought, as she opened the garden-door, and
 
 i6o OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 walked along the gravel walk towards the arbour. A 
 book was lying on the seat ; George or Roberta must 
 have left it. He sometimes smoked under the honey- 
 suckles after dinner. Roberta used to take her work 
 there of a morning. Horatia hated the place, and never 
 went near it. The faded summer green looked almost 
 fresh again in the grey, damp atmosphere ; the birds 
 flew over her head ; and across the common the dahlias 
 were beginning to come out. 
 
 It was chilly and dismal enough, and Horatia went 
 back presently into the house. She was shocked, and 
 hurt, and wounded. She was not angry exactly ; she 
 did not like her husband less, but she was astonished to 
 find she had not made him happy. He had not denied 
 it when she accused him of unhappiness. She was telling 
 herself, with some quiet scorn, that he wanted a house- 
 keeper, like Roberta, and not a wife ; that if he had 
 been really happier before she came to him, it would be 
 perhaps as well that she should leave him now. She 
 was in a hard and cruel frame of mind. She began to 
 ask herself the old question, if it had not been better 
 for them both if they had never married } She began to 
 wonder how she had ever been so infatuated as to give 
 up everything for this commonplace man. She was 
 sitting on the sofa, with her head against her hand when 
 he came in.
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. i6i 
 
 " You saw her off ? " said Horatia, by way of saying 
 something. 
 
 "Yes, we just caught the train," her husband an- 
 swered, " or I should have had to bring her back." 
 
 " I am glad you were in time," said Horatia, coldly. 
 " George, you must make Roberta understand that she 
 is never to speak to me in such a way again." 
 
 " She was over-excited : she is very sorry for what 
 has happened ; she told me to tell you so." 
 
 " She may well be sorry," said the wife. " I am 
 very sorry that all this has happened ; it has made me 
 
 know made me understand " and she burst 
 
 into tears. 
 
 Poor George sank back wearily into his chair. " Go 
 on," he said. " Tell me all your troubles, you poor 
 woman. What has it made you understand .'' " 
 
 " That we have failed to make one another happy," 
 said Horatia, in her wilfulness. " I could have borne to 
 be miserable myself, but I confess I cannot bear to hear 
 that you — that you were happier before I came." 
 
 " But it is not so. I have been more happy since 
 you came, Horatia," said the doctor, w^ith kind and 
 wonderful forbearance. " I have been more happy and 
 more unhappy. I have had you as well as myself to 
 care for." 
 
 " Ah, no ! " cried the woman, foolishly and madly ; 
 
 II
 
 i62 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 " it isn't so. I sec it in your face, George ; I have made 
 up my mind. We shall be friends always, whatever 
 happens, but I will go back to my aunt. Roberta, who 
 is a drudge at heart, can come and keep your house 
 and satisfy you better than your wife could ever hope 
 to do. Do you hear me ? " she said, shrilly, for he did 
 not answer. " It is because I w'ish to be your friend, 
 and not your housekeeper, that I am going ; it is 
 because people who do not agree arc best apart." 
 
 " I don't think so," the doctor said, slowl}-, and 
 looking at her in a strange, odd sort of way. *' Long 
 habit brings folks together at last ; forbearance is a 
 wholesome discipline for one and for the other ; a man 
 and a woman who are both sincerely trying to do their 
 duty can't fail one day to find their best happiness in 
 it, and together. Suppose we part — it may be for ever : 
 the ways of Providence are inscrutable — what do we 
 gain .' — a life-long, maybe an eternal, loneliness and 
 estrangement and indifference ; or suppose we struggle 
 on together for a little time, Horatia, and learn at last 
 to love one another, at any rate to forgive, to sym- 
 pathize, to endure .'' Can you hesitate one moment ? " 
 he said, in his sad voice. 
 
 " I should not hesitate," said Horatia, sobbing still, 
 " if it were not for Roberta, If she comes here, I cannot 
 and will not stay ; my duty does not extend to her.
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 163 
 
 George, we might love one another, even if we did not 
 live together — I might still be your best friend." 
 
 The poor doctor, hurt, wounded beyond expression, 
 could listen no longer, and he got up with a great sigh, 
 and walked away out of the room. Horatia flung herself 
 down on the floor, and buried her face in her hands. 
 " He doesn't mean it," she kept saying to herself " I 
 know he would be more happy without me. He is too 
 good for me. I own he is too good for me. I can't love 
 him ; I can't understand him ; I make him miserable. 
 He looks wretched, and ill, and unhappy, and it is all 
 my doing ; and it is his doing that I am wretched. Why 
 did he bring me here } I must go ; it will be better for 
 each of us. Yes, I must — I will go." 
 
 George was walking up and down outside in the 
 garden. He once looked up through the uncurtained 
 window, and saw her prostrate in her trouble. How 
 could he make her more happy } — it was indeed a strange 
 puzzle and bewilderment. He felt that she scarcely 
 deserved kindness, and then he said to himself, kindness 
 deserved was no kindness. " What merit have ye ? " he 
 muttered, and something more about publicans and 
 sinners, and so once more he went back into the warm 
 little fire-lighted room. He went up to her, but she did 
 not heed him ; he stooped over her ; he picked her up 
 off the floor. " Horatia," he said, "don't you care for
 
 i64 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 me in the least ; do you want to make me very lonely, 
 very wretched ? Go, if you like, but I tell you you will 
 be more miserable than you are now. Look at me, and 
 tell me what you mean to do." 
 
 How sad he looked, how kind, how enduring. 
 Horatia could not help it. She Avas forced to give in. 
 She still wanted to go, to turn back to her old easy life ; 
 but she had not the heart or the courage to say so. She 
 was silent ; and she left her hand in his. He accepted 
 her silence. 
 
 " We will never talk about it again," he said. 
 "And you must try and be more happy, my poor 
 woman." 
 
 Then he took a cigar, and went and lit it at the fire, 
 and took up his hat, and said he would be in directly. 
 
 " I should like a cup of tea," he said. " I am only 
 going to smoke my cigar in the garden. Call me when 
 it is ready." 
 
 Horatia watched him as he passed the window ; and 
 she then rang the bell and ordered some tea ; and then 
 once more sat down by the fire, staring at the embers. 
 It was useless trying to get away. He would not let her 
 go. By this fireside she must remain to the end. How 
 inconceivably forbearing he was, how kind, how patient, 
 how forgiving. Was it indeed impossible to love him } 
 She heard his steps pacing the gravel outside. Why
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 165 
 
 would he not let her go ? What could make him wish 
 that she should remain ? What, indeed ! Then, at last, 
 she began suddenly to blame herself. 
 
 " I don't think I know how to appreciate his good- 
 ness," she said. " Heigho ! I wish he had married a 
 model wife, who would have known how to make him 
 happy, and at home." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Betsy brought in the tea and the candles. Horatia 
 started from her low chair, where she had been sitting in 
 a sort of dream of remorse, reproach, regret, indecision, 
 and proceeded to make it ; and then she poked the 
 fire, and straightened her somewhat untidy locks, and 
 then she went and tapped at the window for George to 
 come in. 
 
 When she looked out at the end of five minutes, she 
 was surprised to see that a shower of rain was falling. 
 She opened the casement, and all the wet drops came 
 plashing into her face. She said to herself that he must 
 have come in at the garden-door, and gone up to his 
 room. She went out into the passage, his hat was not 
 there ; she ran up the narrow staircase, and went and
 
 i66 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 knocked at his door. Then she looked in. The room 
 was dark and empty. No, he was not there ; for she 
 spoke his name and no one answered. Horatia Avent 
 down into the drawing-room to wait once more. The 
 .kettle was boiling over on the hearth, the candles were 
 flaring, for she had forgotten to shut the window. As 
 she went to close it, a great gust of wet-laden wind 
 surged into the room, and one of the candles went out, 
 and the door banged. 
 
 It was dismal and cheerless enough. She began to 
 wish that George would come in. Had he gone across 
 the common } No ; she would have seen him pass. 
 She went to the window once more ; the trees were 
 waving a little in the darkness. The rain was falling 
 still when she went to the garden-door and called out, 
 " George ! come to tea ! '' Do you not know the dreary 
 sound of a voice calling in the darkness .' She came 
 back into the sitting-room, took up a book, and tried to 
 read, glancing at the window every instant. Once she 
 almost thought she saw her husband looking in, but it 
 was only fancy. The book she had taken was the second 
 volume of some novel. She looked on the table for the 
 first, and then remembered that she had seen it lying, 
 not on the tabic, but on the scat in the arbour at the 
 end of the garden. And then suddenly she said to her- 
 self, " That is where George has taken shelter from the
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 167 
 
 rain ; how foolish of him not to come home ! I think I 
 will go and fetch him." 
 
 She went into the hall and tied on a waterproof; she 
 pulled the hood over her head ; she went to the garden- 
 door a second time, hesitated a moment, and then passed 
 out. It was darker and wetter than she had expected, 
 and she thought of turning back ; but while she was 
 thinking of it she was going quickly along the gravel- 
 walk towards the arbour, brushing the wet gooseberry- 
 bushes and box borders, a little afraid of the blackness, 
 a little provoked with herself for her foolishness in 
 coming. She could just make out the arbour looking 
 very black in the night ; as she came nearer, a sort of 
 terror thrilled over her, for she thought she saw some- 
 thing within the darkness. " George ! " she said, in a sort 
 of frightened way, springing forward. "Why are you 
 there, George ? " she almost screamed as she came close 
 up. She saw — yes, surely she saw — his white face 
 gleaming through the blackness. She began to 
 tremble with terror, for he did not move or seem to 
 notice her, though she came quite close up, and stood 
 before him, gasping. With a desperate fear, she put out 
 her hand and touched the white face. And still George 
 did not move or speak. 
 
 A few minutes ago he had been a man with a tender 
 heart sorely tried, with a voice to speak, with eyes to
 
 i68 OUT OF THE WORLD 
 
 watch her reproachfully as she thrust him away, with 
 a kindly, forgiving hand always read}-, and willingly 
 outstretched. And now, what was he ? — who was he ? 
 What distance lay between them ! Could he hear 
 her feeble wails and outcries across the awful gulf? 
 " George — George ! — Oh ! George ! " the poor woman 
 screamed out, hardly conscious. She did not faint ; she 
 did not quite realize the awful truth — she could not. 
 
 In a minute, with hurried voices and footsteps, the 
 maids came up the garden, and with them the boy, who 
 had brought a lantern. And suddenly flashing through 
 the darkness the light fell upon the dead man's face. 
 It lit up the arbour, the dripping creepers, the wooden 
 walls, the awful figure that was sitting there unmoved ; 
 and then Horatia fell with a sort of choking cry to the 
 ground, prostrate in the wet, crushing the borders, the 
 green plants that were drinking in the rain which still 
 fell heavily. 
 
 The day had begun to dawn when Horatia came to 
 herself, and opened her eyes in a dazed, wide, strange 
 way. For a minute she hardly understood where she 
 was, and then somehow she knew that she was lying on 
 the sofa in the disordered drawing-room. A maid was 
 kneeling beside her, the garden-door was open, the keen 
 morning air was blowing in in gusts — so grey, so chill,
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 169 
 
 so silent was it, that for a moment Horatia almost 
 fancied that it was she who had died in the night ; not 
 George, surely not George. A man's low voice at her 
 head, saying, " She is coming to herself," thrilled through 
 her as she thought for a moment that it might be her 
 husband. What she seemed to remember was too 
 horrible to be thought of — too horrible to be true. It 
 was not true. The w^ild hope brought the blood into 
 her cheeks. She moved a little in an agony of suspense, 
 and faltered his name. Only as she spoke, somehow 
 there was no response. The half-uttered words died 
 away, the hands that were bathing her head ceased 
 their toil. By the silence — by the sudden quiet — she 
 knew that she had spoken to the empty air ; that though 
 he might hear her, he would never, never answer any 
 more, never come, never heed her call again ; and then, 
 suddenly, with a swift pang of despair, hopeless, despe- 
 rate, she realized it all. 
 
 Caton, who had almost hated her, who had said to 
 himself that he would be her judge — she had killed her 
 husband, she had wearied and embittered the last few- 
 hours of his life, and he, Caton, would tell her the truth, 
 if there was no one else to speak it — Caton, who, in his 
 indignation, had thought all this, could not find it in his 
 heart now to utter one harsh word. He came round, 
 and stood looking compassionately at her white wan
 
 I70 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 face lying back, with all the black rippling hair pushed 
 away ; and as he stood there, she put up her hands and 
 covered her eyes, and shivered. How could he judge 
 one so forlorn ? Instead of the hard Avords he had 
 meant to use, he only said, " He had feared it all along, 
 Mrs. Rich. He was not afraid for himself, but for those 
 he loved. It was a heart disease. It was hopeless from 
 the first ; he knew it, but he Avould not let me tell you. 
 
 He was the best, the dearest " the young man's 
 
 voice broke as he spoke ; he turned away, and went and 
 stood at the window. 
 
 There was a long silence. At last, Horatia, speak- 
 ing in her faint voice, said — 
 
 " I want you to send for Roberta. Can you send 
 now, at once .'' " 
 
 " I telegraphed last night," Caton answered, " when 
 I thought there might be hope. She will be here 
 in the morning. I \\\\\ meet her and bring her to 
 you." 
 
 Once more Horatia moved ; she got up from the 
 couch where she had been lying, and she tottered for- 
 ward a few steps towards the door. 
 
 Caton sprang after her. " Arc you going upstairs 
 to lie down .'* Where arc you going .'* " 
 
 " Where, oh, where, indeed, am I going } " cried 
 poor Horatia. " Oh, my George, my George ! " and
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 171 
 
 with a sort of cry, she flung herself back into a great 
 arm-chair, which was near. " Go — pray, go away," she 
 sobbed to them ; " only tell me Avhen Roberta comes." 
 And so, scared, reluctant, they went away and left 
 her. 
 
 Caton never forgot that terrible dawning. The black 
 garden, the white mist creeping along the ground, the 
 chill light spreading, the widow's sobs and sorrowful 
 outcries breaking the silence of the night. 
 
 It was Roberta who roused poor Horatia from a sort 
 of swoon of grief and remorse — Roberta, white, trem- 
 bling, silent, who led her into the next room, where all 
 was so peaceful that their sobs Avere hushed ; so sacred, 
 that it seemed to them as if it was a profanity to even 
 complain. Only once more Horatia burst out. "Forgive 
 me, George ! " she suddenly cried, falling on her knees, 
 and then she wildly and imploringly looked up at 
 Roberta's set white face. The girl changed, melted, 
 faintly smiled, and stooped and kissed her sister. 
 
 " Oh, Horatia, what has he to do with trouble and 
 injury and sorrow now .^ Forgiveness belongs to this 
 world ; only peace, only love to the next." 
 
 Horatia was very ill for a long time after this. 
 Roberta was able to stay with George's wife, and to 
 nurse her very faithfully and tenderly in her sorrows.
 
 172 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 In time Horatia got well, and prepared to live her old 
 life again. It was the old life, but the woman was not 
 the same woman. And George was carried away from 
 his sister, from his wife, from his home, from his daily 
 work. He was still alive somehow when Roberta thought 
 of him. She could see his face, hear his voice, love him 
 more tenderly even than in his life. 
 
 One day Caton told Berta, as he had told Horatia, 
 that George had thought himself seriously ill for some 
 short time, and though he did not consider the danger 
 imminent, he had taken pains to put his affairs in order, 
 and to leave enough behind for the provision of those 
 he loved. 
 
 " When did he first know " 
 
 Roberta hesitated, and her eyes filled with tears, and 
 Caton said that his first attack was one night when they 
 were sitting together in the study. Mrs. Rich had gone 
 off to her grand relations. " I remember she came back 
 and talked about her partners," he said. 
 
 " She did not know 1 " Berta said. 
 
 " Perhaps }-ou never heard that he fainted away at 
 that party at Mrs. Dumbleton's ? " Caton went on, 
 sighing. " He went up to town next day to see a 
 doctor. I am not sure that he was right to keep it 
 secret. He would not let me speak. I very nearly 
 told you once, only you stopped me."
 
 OUT OF THE WORLD. 173 
 
 And Berta remembered the day she had met Caton 
 on the road, and when she would not stop to speak 
 to him. Things were changed now, for they had met 
 in the lane by chance, and were walking on side by side 
 towards the common. The common rippled westward, 
 scattered with stones, and clumps of furze, and dells 
 and hollows ; geese cackled ; sunsets streamed across 
 it ; roads branched here and there leading to other 
 green lanes, or to distant villages, or to London, whose 
 neighbouring noise and rush seemed to make this 
 quiet country suburb seem more quiet. The river 
 runs between these furze-grown commons and London. 
 People coming from the city, as they cross the bridge, 
 seem to leave their cares and busy concerns behind 
 them, and to breathe more freely as they come out 
 upon the fresh, wind-blown plains. 
 
 Caton and Roberta walked along one of these 
 straight roads, talking sadly enough ; her eyes were full 
 of tears. Caton's voice was broken as he spoke of 
 what was past ; to walk along with Roberta, even in 
 this sorrowful companionship, was a sort of happiness : 
 but even this was not to last for long ; she was going ; 
 Horatia was going ; and Caton was to succeed to the 
 old place, with all its sad memories, and he thought 
 to himself that he had lost his friend, and that Roberta 
 would never care for him, and that life was a dismal
 
 174 OUT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 thing, and he ahnost wished it was over. And he said 
 ahnost as much. They had come to the place where 
 their two roads parted ; Roberta said good-by, and 
 looked up shy and gentle, blushing under her black 
 hat. Caton put out his hand, and said: "This has 
 been our last walk. You will go that way by the 
 gate, and I shall walk straight on across the common, 
 and we may perhaps never even meet again." His 
 voice sounded sad and reproachful, though he did not 
 know it ; and Berta's blushes suddenly faded, and she 
 looked away, and did not speak. 
 
 A number of birds flew over their heads as they 
 stood there, parting. There was nobody near to heed 
 them, only an old grey horse browsing the turf, a little 
 flock of geese clustering round a pool hard by. Berta 
 saw it all in a strange vivid way. She stood there, 
 reluctant to wait, and yet still more reluctant to go. 
 The roads gleamed farther and farther asunder ; she 
 hesitated, wondered, waited still ; but she did not know 
 all that she had tacitly decided until she looked up at 
 last, and met Caton's honest bright eyes with her gentle 
 glance. And so at last he was made happy, and the 
 woman he had loved so well had learnt to care for him, 
 touched by his faithful friendship for her brother, his 
 faithful devotion to herself.
 
 MAKING MERRY.
 
 MAKING MERRY. 
 
 " Such as the jocund flute or gamesome pipe." 
 
 We were all upon the terrace one morning, in front of 
 the old chateau. The diyciaicr was just over, the sun- 
 shine had not reached us yet, and we were sitting under 
 the old grey towers, watching a river, and some wooded 
 slopes, all changing in the morning light. This September 
 sunshine had turned the whole country to gold and 
 lovely red and russet. The rising grounds upon which 
 the old towers stand, the valley, the far-away hills, 
 were painted and chequered and shaded with bright 
 crisp autumnal colour. The trees were like the trees 
 in Aladdin's gardens, with gold pieces and jewels hang- 
 ing from the branches, or sparkling in the brown turf. 
 The morning seemed to come to us across fields and 
 
 12
 
 178 MAKING MERRY. 
 
 villages, over the river which went shining and wending 
 away beyond the arches of the bridge at Meulan into 
 that dim and unknown country which seems to bound 
 all that is most beautiful. M. dc V. had lighted his 
 cigar, the ladies were working, the gentlemen were 
 making their plans for the day, and the turkey-cocks 
 came ambling down the hill, to be fed by little Mary. 
 " Tiens, voild ta St. Come',' said she, giving one of them 
 a big piece of bread, with which it instantly scrambled 
 off in a fluster, shaking all its red bags and tassels as 
 it went. Winifred asked what was a " St. Come." 
 Madame de V. smiled, and said it was something that 
 she must see. It was a fete at Meulan, beyond the 
 bridge on the little island in the river, and they called 
 the fairings " St. Comes " in that part of the world. In 
 the meantime the kind host was making arrangements 
 for every one of us to be driven there and back in 
 various open carriages, which were to be in waiting at 
 the very moment, at which each of us wished to go and 
 to return. Some begged to go twice, others, less 
 enthusiastic, said once would content them. 
 
 St. Come was a martyr : it is his memory which is 
 held sacred, and to which all these small altars are 
 erected, with their offerings of ginger-bread, sugar-stick 
 toys and crockery, bobbins, cotton laces, and nightcaps. 
 Popguns arc fired off, a dentist with a drum comes all
 
 MAKING MERRY. 179 
 
 the way from Paris, the celebrated two-headed child 
 arrives in its bottle of spirits-of-wine, pleasures succeed 
 one another, and all this cheerful clatter, all the little 
 flags, all the games and lotteries, which are going on, 
 are to do the saint honour. He was, while in the flesh, 
 a wise Arabian physician, who seems to have given his 
 advice gratis, and to have practised in partnership with 
 his brother, St. Damien. They were aftenvards both 
 martyred towards the close of the thirteenth century ; 
 but the 27th of September ever since has been con- 
 secrated to the memory of the good St. Come, and the 
 inhabitants of Meulan and its surrounding villages have 
 elected themselves his especial votaries. 
 
 All the carts from all the neighbourhood seemed to 
 be jogging along the white dusty road which leads from 
 v., with its white walls and vines and trellises, and 
 glimpses of the river, to Meulan. The country carts 
 were heaped up with delightful primitive-looking people, 
 with kind smiling faces, and caps and satin-bows, and 
 bran-new blouses. In one jolting conveyance I noticed 
 seven happy-looking girls, packed closely away, all in 
 smart white caps, with satin ribbons, and loops and 
 ruffles quite crisp and standing on end. They jogged on 
 laughing, while the young men of the Jparty walked 
 along the road by their side. Other vehicles there were, 
 with nice nutcracker old women in the old-fashioned
 
 i8o MAKING MERRY. 
 
 cap and red cotton dress of the last century. They 
 looked like the figures out of Noah's arks, like chimney 
 ornaments, or water-colour sketches, or descriptions in 
 books of travels. They danced fat white doll-babies ; 
 they held little girls upon their knees, tied up into 
 pinafores, and with funny frill caps fitting close to their 
 round little bullet heads. There were expectant little 
 boys in pinafores too, and old fellows in snuff-brown 
 coats and wonderful waistcoats, with patterns like maps 
 and leopard-skins. There were also donkeys, with tall 
 wooden erections upon their backs, containing their 
 mistresses, whose feet dangled into baskets. 
 
 All the people along the road came to their doors 
 to see us go by, and presently we drove into the old- 
 fashioned market-place, with the bridge spanning the 
 river, and with the great town-hall, whose spire dominates 
 the town, and strikes the hours. It was an abbey once, 
 and stands on the hill : the town clusters round it : the 
 narrow streets climb the hillside, and wind corners 
 and disappear. The river flows down below between 
 glittering banks. Broad white roads lead to Vaux, to 
 Poissy, and along them the carts come rolling through 
 the dust. 
 
 We already begin to hear the distant booming of 
 the fair, to the accompaniment of the screaming of a 
 thousand pigs. If the old men had put one in mind of
 
 MAKING MERRY. i8i 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Noah and Shem and Ham (or Cham as he 
 is called in France), it would seem as if all these animals 
 had been emptied out of a gigantic Noah's ark into the 
 market-place. They are lying about, on their backs, on 
 their heads, on their fat sides, grunting, squalling, squeak- 
 ing in the most distracting manner : whereas the little 
 donkeys are quiet and well-behaved, and stand in rows 
 under the cathedral walls, waiting to be bought. There 
 is such a noise and chatter and confusion that one 
 scarcely knows at last which are pigs and which are old 
 women ; for they are all talking together, remonstrating 
 violently, and tumbling about over one another in the 
 straw. The little children stand at safe distances 
 absorbed in the bargains which are going on. The 
 poor little pigs are poked and pinched, and caught up 
 by the leg and the ear, and flung anywhere and anyhow. 
 They are small and lively, not horrible contemplative 
 obesities like those one sees in England. Of all the 
 interesting animals I remarked on this occasion, I will 
 only particularize one little tortoiseshell pig with brown 
 and red spots, for I was struck by the wistful glances a 
 pretty peasant-woman was directing towards it. " That 
 is the one I should have liked ! " she said with a sigh 
 to a sympathizing friend ; and, indeed, who has not a 
 little tortoiseshell pig somewhere or other out of reach 
 — unattainable .'* If the pretty peasant-woman were to
 
 1 82 MAKING MERRY. 
 
 obtain her little pig, she would pop it into one of those 
 great earthenware pots that are being sold by the 
 bridge — they are something the shape of the Roman 
 amphorse, very gracefully designed and prettily orna- 
 mented — the pretty peasant-woman would then salt 
 down the object of her desires, and eat it up by degrees 
 during the winter. 
 
 But all this squeaking and moralizing is only a 
 flourish of trumpets at the opening of the entertainment. 
 We hurry across the bridge to the little island where the 
 fair is held : country blouses, babies, amiable papas in 
 white linen with their families, elegant mammas in the 
 last Meulan fashions. Here is one street of stalls for 
 the sale of gingerbread and gimcracks, with a cross- 
 street for entertaining games and shows. The great 
 time for the shows is at night ; in the daytime we 
 content ourselves with munching gingerbread and play- 
 ing at rotigc ct noir. The fortunate may win seven 
 dozen of macaroons stuck at equal distances upon 
 dubious sheets of white paper, with very little trouble, 
 or exchange them for elegant chimney-ornaments, or 
 water-colour sketches of dragoons, and ladies, and roses. 
 It is a pretty sight, blue sky overhead, shining and 
 twinkling through the branches of the avenue ; people 
 singing, talking, and staring at the gingerbread, of which 
 perhaps the most delicious sort is called scvicUe, from
 
 MAKING MERRY. 183 
 
 its appetizing likeness to the sole of a shoe. The grand 
 ladies from the town are walking up and down between 
 the stalls, gracefully curtseying and dipping to each 
 other. One elegante affects a blue Scotch cap, with a 
 tuft of blue ostrich feathers ; all the ladies are neatly 
 finished off with beautiful little frills, and many of them 
 lean on the arms of gaitered husbands with broad- 
 brimmed hats, evidently prepared to initiate their fami- 
 lies into all the amusements of the show. 
 
 The Celebrated Two-headed Child invites us 
 to enter and examine. He is represented alive and 
 crowned with roses, and surrounded by an admiring- 
 throng. We are satisfied with the picture outside, for 
 M. de v., who good-naturedly goes in to reconnoitre, 
 assured us that the sight is not only revolting, but in a 
 bottle. Next door, MADEMOISELLE Rachel gives her 
 interesting exhibition. Mademoiselle Rachel is a bright- 
 eyed little bird, who hops out of a cage, and presents 
 you with the card you selected at hazard from her 
 master's well-worn pack. Her discrimination would be 
 more extraordinary still if the cards in the pack were 
 not all kings of spades ; but Mademoiselle Rachel is 
 unconscious of the deception : she hops from her little 
 perch with a clear conscience, neatly digs up the card 
 with her bill, and takes a single grain of millet from her 
 keeper's hand, as a reward, before she goes back into
 
 184 MAKING MERRY. 
 
 her prison. She has a rival ; it is like Andersen's fairy- 
 tale of the ** Princess and the Potsherd." Mademoiselle 
 Rachel is all very well in her way, but not to be com- 
 pared to the wonderful singing-bird out of the snuff-box, 
 who is to be seen next door for twenty centimes, 
 together with the port of Niagara, the sultan of Turkey 
 and his favourite sultana, and Robert Houdin at home 
 cnfamille. Here at least is no deception. The singing- 
 bird comes out of its snuff-box and squeaks and wags 
 its tail, and wrings its own neck in the most alarming 
 fashion. The sultan of Turkey carefully rolls his eyes 
 with a repugnant stare, which now rests upon his 
 favourite sultana, now upon the alarmed spectators. 
 All the ladies of the harem squat muslin-legged upon 
 cushions round about him. The favourite fans herself 
 spasmodically ; while in the next compartment Robert 
 Houdin, in majestic robes of black velvet and a sugar- 
 cone hat, is playing thimblerig, surrounded by his 
 numerous family. One spectatrix of about six years 
 old, who is not afraid of turkey-cocks, is yet not quite 
 certain that she derives pleasure from the entertainment ; 
 for, besides the glance of the sultan's eye, and the magic 
 flow of Houdin's mystic robes, the terrific waves of 
 green calico in the port of Niagara have to be encoun- 
 tered. There are but three, but then they appear to be 
 of enormous size and fury. A ship rests upon the crest
 
 MAKING MERRY. 185 
 
 of each one of them, and remains in that precarious 
 position notwithstanding the stress of weather and the 
 imminent dangers to which navigation must be exposed 
 in that little-known part of the world. 
 
 The raging of the storm had not abated when we 
 left the tent. As we escaped, we heard the exhibitor 
 loudly calling upon the crowds outside to seize the 
 auspicious moment, and not to forego their chance of 
 admission. The mechanician has a rival opposite, who 
 exhibits attractive sketches of all the celebrated crimes 
 of the last fifty years. To judge from a hasty glance, 
 murderers are invariably dressed in tights, top-boots, 
 velvet caps, and elegantly floating feathers. This is a 
 thing to be remembered, that such persons may be 
 avoided in future. All this time the merry-go-rounds 
 are twirling round and round, and we tear ourselves 
 away from the dark exciting scenes of bloodshed to 
 watch a little fat baby sitting quite happy and alone in 
 its little flying carriage, a small ragged boy clinging to 
 a horse, and some young amazons, who cast triumphant 
 glances in our direction ; the organ strikes up a military 
 tune, and away they all go flying, men, women, children, 
 one after another in the race. 
 
 There is something very cheering and inspiriting in 
 all this. The people are lively, but not too loud ; there 
 is more vivacity, but more gentleness too, than there
 
 1 86 MAKING MERRY. 
 
 would be among our people at home. One's heart 
 aches a little as one thinks of one's own fellow-country- 
 men, patient and dull, and strong and clumsy, and 
 weary, not able to rest content with light passing inte- 
 rests, with half-happiness with small things, but hurrying 
 up in wistful crowds with a violence of effort, an 
 earnestness in their amusements even, that seems to 
 carry them almost beyond bounds when they are once 
 let free. One is always being told that nations are like 
 individuals, and we all have to learn in our lives how to 
 be happy with trifles, how to put away care in the 
 passing sunshine of the moment, and to find pleasure 
 even in the bright colours of a bubble. 
 
 If the sight Avas pretty in the daytime, it was 
 prettier still at night. Madame de V. and her husband 
 M. de v., Winifred and I, left the old castle about nine 
 o'clock. It was all lighted up, turret windows and 
 arched gateways ; and from outside we could see the 
 elders of the party sitting in the gallery in their quiet 
 lampshine. It was pleasant to hurry down through the 
 rustling woods and dark avenues, with the crisp leaves 
 under foot, and the great stars blazing over the wide 
 country. At the foot of the steep ascent and the avenue 
 are great iron gates where the carriage was standing. 
 All along the road we passed dusky forms hastening in 
 one direction. The moon looked as if it was going to
 
 MAKING MERRY. 187 
 
 fall into the river and be extinguished with a great 
 splutter ; the wain travelled over the hills, the familiar 
 triangles and figures blazed and hung in the sky. When 
 we reached the island we found other illuminations : 
 bright little arcades of fire were shining among the dark 
 trees, and reflected in the water ; and all the little 
 gambling booths were lighted up in a simple fashion 
 with candle-ends. 
 
 These games of skill are not very complicated. 
 One energetic little man's whole stock-in-trade was an 
 india-rubber tube, a halfpenny, and a soup-plate. The 
 object of the game was to try and knock the tube and 
 the sou together out of the soup-plate. He could do it, 
 because he passed his life in practising his art ; but none 
 of the bystanders succeeded, and the professor always 
 pocketed the halfpenny. Another exciting game was 
 throwing a ball through a round hole lighted up by a 
 candle. 
 
 The lady to whom the establishment belonged 
 counted up the failures and payments with great 
 rapidity : " Un et deux et quatre font onze ; et trois et 
 deux font vingt-deux, et six et trois, trente-cinq," and 
 so on with surprising aplomb and inaccuracy. Instead 
 of scolding her, M. de V. good-naturedly nodded his 
 head and said, "Allez toujours, madame, ne vous 
 genez pas ; " at which madame herself begins to scold.
 
 iS8 MAKING MERRY. 
 
 and gets very red in the face, and vehement and angry. 
 So we leave her to her arithmetic, and go on past the 
 httle brawling shops \\here customers are chaffering — 
 (we saw one priest buying quantities of gingerbread) — 
 and people with white caps and bright dark eyes keep- 
 ing watch over their wares. Crockery twinkles, little 
 gilt ornaments shine and flicker in abundance, lotteries 
 whizz and whirl, some of the prizes are of the most 
 remarkable description, but the trumpet calls and the 
 rappel is sounded, and we all hasten with the crowd to 
 the central Place, where some one is alternately dis- 
 coursing and playing on the drum. 
 
 "Venez, venez, messieurs et dames, venez voir la 
 Jeune Sauvage, qui mange de la viande TOUTE 
 CRUE," roars the proprietor of the booth. She is a 
 native of those distant countries where the inhabitants 
 nourish themselves upon the unfortunate crews of the 
 vessels which are wrecked upon their coast. This 
 woman is in noways related to the man you beheld last 
 year. He was dangerous and was destroyed by order 
 of the Government. She can only speak her own 
 language. Walk in, walk in, " et vous serez-z r-r-recom- 
 pense de votre peine." 
 
 So we walk in, much interested by the description, 
 and behold the appalling spectacle of a being whose 
 name appears to be Juana, gambading behind the bars
 
 MAKING MERRY. 189 
 
 of a dark cage, grinning at us, and gnashing its teeth. 
 Its face is painted of the approved cannibal brown ; it 
 occasionally shakes a great black woolly wig, which fills 
 us with horror. 
 
 "Abawaba!" Juana bounds with delight, recogniz- 
 ing the melodious language of her native isles; suddenly 
 she stops, stares, with both hands eagerly outstretched. 
 An extremely small and dirty-looking piece of meat 
 is now produced out of the exhibitor's pocket. He 
 carefully cuts off a minute portion with a pair of scissors. 
 Juana glares at the delicious morsel, and then suddenly 
 seizes it through the bars, and thrusts it into her mouth. 
 " Ah, see how savage she is," says the man in the blouse. 
 " Nous allons maintenant lui preparer de la salade a la 
 mode de son pays." Some black stuff is then set fire 
 to with a candle, which also goes into Juana's mouth. 
 It seems that in her country the savages instantly 
 expectorate their nourishment ; and Juana accordingly 
 deposits hers in a corner of the cage, dancing with 
 rapture the whole time. 
 
 A demoiselle de vingt-deiix ans now comes forward. 
 The " administration," as the exhibitor calls himself, 
 selects M. de V. and requests him to weigh the little 
 dwarf, and to observe that she does not exceed two feet 
 in stature nor ten pounds avoirdupois in weight. He 
 then announces that the young lady will dance a little
 
 igo MAKING MERRY. 
 
 waltz sans inusiqnc, upon which she instantly twirls 
 rapidly round two or three times. Her friend then 
 begs to remark that she depends entirely upon the 
 generosity of the public, " lictant ludlenicnt payee par 
 r administration ! " 
 
 Poor little dwarf! There was something affecting 
 In the small, melancholy company. The administration 
 looked very pale and hungry. Juana's life in the cage 
 must have been somewhat monotonous. It seemed a 
 weary way of gaining a livelihood. We hoped that 
 their daily bread was not raw meat only, nor such very 
 uninviting salad. 
 
 A great booth had been erected next door. All the 
 simple country-folks had been gazing with delight at the 
 glare and the tinsel on the coats of the pages and actors. 
 We went up with the crowd. " Ouand on est marie on 
 fmit toujours par ceder," one man cried, appealing to us, 
 when his wife insisted upon taking a place he had 
 objected to, A melancholy, well-bred actor, in red 
 silk, with a quiet humourous manner, now came on 
 before the curtain, and said things which made the 
 audience laugh, but which it was impossible for our 
 stranger ears to follow. Everything he said was witty, 
 M. dc V. told me ; and all he did was well done. He 
 had a quiet nonchalant way : he put one in mind of 
 Maricllc, in George Sand's charming Theatre de NoJiant,
 
 MAKING MERRY. 191 
 
 of Wilhelm Meister among the players. The enter- 
 tainment turned out to be tablcaiix-vivants, behind 
 a gauze curtain, on a revolving stage. It put one in 
 mind of the " Pilgrim's Progress " and the sights that 
 Christian saw. There was the story of Cain and Abel ; 
 there was the history of Joan of Arc ; and besides these 
 there were things which seemed so terrible to English 
 eyes that I cannot write of them at length. And yet it 
 is not so long ago since miracle-plays were performed. 
 Every day we look unmoved upon pictures and paint- 
 ings of sacred subjects ; we listen to descriptions and 
 allusions which seem to approach with far less effort, 
 with far more familiarity, towards awful mysteries. To 
 me there did not even seem any great want of reverence, 
 though I was frightened and taken by surprise. They 
 had chosen two of Rubens' well-known pictures for 
 imitation ; there was not a sound in the crowded booth 
 when the curtain drew up for an instant, and then fell 
 again almost immediately. The figures in this miracle- 
 play were quite motionless. I have rarely seen nobler- 
 looking people than the two chief performers. They 
 enacted their parts with perfect gravity and harmony 
 of sentiment. Both the man and the woman were tall, 
 majestic, fair-haired, with a noble outline of form and 
 feature, and a simpleness which was really grand and 
 remarkable.
 
 192 MAKING MERRY. 
 
 As Joan of Arc, this tall, straight, sorrowful-looking 
 young woman, with all her fair hair falling about her 
 shoulders, and her beautiful up-turned face, seemed the 
 very personification of sweetness and valiance and mis- 
 fortune. 
 
 It is only in Brittany that such noble types are 
 found, our friends told us ; but they also added, that 
 though nothing could have been better and more 
 decorous than the performance of these principal actors, 
 yet before the curtain drew up, allusions were made 
 which would have been far better avoided. Baroness 
 Tautphceus has admirably described these miracle- 
 plays in the Tyrol, which are looked upon in the light 
 of religious ceremonies almost, and which must be less 
 objectionable than these representations so near home. 
 And yet, where no harm is intended, where none is 
 understood, where, like children, the troops of simple 
 country-folks come pouring in, quiet their laughter in 
 a moment, say it is la religion, sit silent and hushed 
 for a minute, until the curtain falls, and then pour out 
 into the night, where the stars are shining, and the 
 lamps flaring, and where, like children, they begin to 
 laugh and talk again in the sudden glare and glitter- — 
 one cannot say how far all this is wrong or right. It 
 does not strike one as it would in England, where 
 feelings are more complex, faith less simple and un-
 
 MAKING MERRY. 193 
 
 reasoning, and the natures of men more intricate and 
 rough and dangerous to deal with. 
 
 The ball was a very pretty sight. There were 
 quantities of lamps and festoons hanging round, a great 
 boarded dancing-place, with an arched colonnade out- 
 side it for the spectators who walked about upon the 
 dried turf. Then came an inner row of benches for the 
 chaperons, who sat round like real ones at a London 
 ball, only they were little old peasant-women in their 
 tight white caps, with their little shawls pinned across 
 their shoulders, and they were holding other little shawls 
 for their daughters when they should return to them. 
 The middle part was crowded with dancers. The 
 musicians were scraping away from a flowery bower. 
 It was a pretty, pleasant, funny sight : glissades, 
 galopades, gambades, like Juana's. Sometimes a good 
 old couple would stand up and foot it with great in- 
 trepidity. One little wiry brown old woman with her 
 husband in his high-shouldered coat, were hopping 
 opposite to one another like a pair of lively old 
 sparrows. As the night wears on, the excitement 
 grows : the music plays faster and more gaily, the 
 steps increase in rapidity, and they begin to skip and 
 to bound, with immense sprightliness and variety. The 
 ladies grin reprovingly at their partners, but at their 
 smiles the gentlemen's spirits only seem to leap like 
 
 13
 
 194 MAKING MERRY. 
 
 fire when a little water is thrown upon it. There is 
 one delightful little man with an immense tall partner, 
 and a very tall hat with a curly rim ; either of them 
 would have seemed quite sufficient to weigh him down, 
 but he is equal to the occasion. His evolutions and 
 revolutions, his inflections and ascensions, and flights 
 and inspirations, are something quite wonderful. Re- 
 treats, advances, salutations, clapping of hands — one 
 does not know which to admire most. His lady joins in 
 with great spirit. Their vis-a-vis try in vain to surpass 
 them. The gay refrain of the waltz echoes, and the 
 dancers seem to sway with the tune : the chaperons 
 nod their heads, and look on with smiling approbation. 
 At last the dance comes to an end, the young ladies 
 return to their mammas, but carefully lift up their 
 dresses before they sit down. 
 
 We see the little man with the tall hat walking off 
 with his partner to treat her to gingerbread outside ; 
 they seem conscious of a triumph, and some of the 
 lookers-on shake their heads, laughing as they march 
 past. One or two ladies who have the gift of the dance 
 jerk with peculiar adcptness ; but these are far less 
 interesting and more sophisticated than the simple 
 peasant-women delightedly jumping, and bobbing, and 
 flouncing, or rolling like the friendly teetotums of one's 
 youth. There is scarcely a pretty face in the whole
 
 MAKING MERRY. 195 
 
 room. They are " gentilles," that is the most that can 
 be said for them. Their hair is smartly dressed, parted, 
 and twisted up tight and spruce. Most of them have 
 their petticoats neatly looped up over tidy brodequins, — 
 quite different from the splay, web-shaped chaussure 
 of the inhabitants of our native isles. 
 
 The lamps were beginning to go out and to splutter 
 when we came away, only the stars seemed brighter 
 than ever in the dark sky, and almost starting from 
 their places. The moon had not set, and we climbed 
 the hill and came out from the avenue of lime-trees 
 and nut-trees into a great calm sea of moonshine 
 rippling over the old towers and pointed roofs. It was 
 late, and every one was gone to bed. Only one red 
 lamp was left burning for us Avhen we returned. But 
 until the early morning I heard the carts rolling home- 
 ward with their weary, happy burdens, and the distant 
 voices chaunting cheerily through the silence of the 
 night. They rolled through the darkness to their 
 peaceful villages all round in the valleys and among 
 the hills ; and this distant, odd, pleasant music only 
 ceased with the dawn.
 
 SOLA.
 
 SOLA. 
 
 ' ' Where are the gi^eat whom thou would'st wish to praise thee ? 
 Where are the pufe whom thou would'st choose to love thee ? 
 Where are the brave to stand supreme above thee, 
 Whose high commands would cheer, whose chiding raise thee ? 
 Seek, seeker, in thyself, submit to find 
 In the stones bread, and life in the blank mind." 
 
 I. 
 
 Once two hundred years ago, or more, in an old Italian 
 city where the workers still knead their clay in the 
 sun and set it drying along the walls of the deserted 
 streets, some workman designed an open dish. It may 
 have been meant as a gift for a betrothed maiden ; it 
 may have been ordered by a fanciful customer. There 
 was a rough garland of citrons and green leaves all 
 round about the edge, and then came a circlet of
 
 200 SOLA. 
 
 oranges, and then, in the centre of the platter, two 
 clasped right hands and a scroll upon which " sola " w^as 
 written. The dish was old and chipped, the varnish 
 was covered with a fine network of hair-like cracks ; 
 but neither time, nor cracks, nor infidelity could unclasp 
 the two hands in the centre, firmly grasping each other 
 through the long ages. Strangers speaking a different 
 tongue still guessed that " Sola " meant the only one — 
 a life's fidelity : for there is a silent language belonging 
 to no particular time, or age, or place, which all sorts 
 of people can understand. 
 
 I do not know how the plate had come to be one 
 of the ornaments of the china cupboard in the morning- 
 room at Harpington Hall. There it stood on the 
 faded old shelf in the old grey room, looking east- 
 ward ; with the spindle-legged chairs standing against 
 the panels, the faded Turkey rug before the fireplace, 
 the two deep window-sills where Felicia used to sit 
 a blooming little girl in the midst of these ancient 
 appurtenances. One almost wondered where the child 
 found her youth, her bright colours, her gay spirits ; 
 she was like a little Phosnix rising out of the ashes 
 at Harpington. The old Hall was haunted by ashes 
 and dust and rats ; by all sorts of ghosts, and sad 
 memories of the past. The poor old owner's dead 
 children's pictures hung in the mother's dressing-room ;
 
 SOLA. 201 
 
 Mr. Marlow's gun was slung up in the dining-room ; 
 the stables were empty ; the state-rooms were closed. 
 Sometimes if people asked her to show them over the 
 house, Mrs. Marlow would take them quickly round 
 from one great wooden room to another, and perhaps 
 stop for an instant at the china cupboard, and point 
 out the plate as a quaint old piece of Italian ware, 
 and then shut the glass doors quickly. She had a 
 nervous, hasty manner, and never seemed to be quite 
 in the same mind as other people ; but in a world of 
 her own and her husband's. And Mr. Marlow did not 
 certainly care either for cracked china or sentiment ; 
 it was only Felicia, the grand-daughter, who had some- 
 times wondered what it all meant as she looked at the 
 lemon wreath and the grasping fingers. " Sola," clasped 
 hands — it all seemed very meaningless to her until one 
 day, when her eyes were opened, and she understood 
 once for all. 
 
 When Felicia was fifteen she was told by her grand- 
 parents that she was engaged to her cousin, James 
 Marlow, a gentle, good-humoured little fellow, who was 
 to be master after the old Squire's death. The old 
 Squire made some broad jokes on the occasion ; Mrs. 
 Marlow treated the business in a very dry, off-hand way. 
 James took it as a matter of course, and went back to 
 college, and Felicia remained at the Hall.
 
 202 SOLA. 
 
 The way of life in the old house was a close and 
 narrow way, not leading to salvation, though year by 
 year Mr. Marlow added more and more to his store, 
 and counted up with satisfaction various items of moth 
 and dust. 
 
 These were largely eked out by his own and his 
 household's discomfort ; Felicia's little shoes were 
 rubbed out at the toes. Mrs. Marlow's Sunday dress 
 was shining with age, but the five guineas a new one 
 might cost were safe in the bank. Loneliness, stingi- 
 ness, self-denial, and denials of every sort, had added to 
 a moderate fortune until it was now a large one. That 
 trembling, bandy-legged old fellow, with his gaiters and 
 his felt hat, did not look much like a speculator, but such 
 he had been, in fact. He was sly, he was dull, he had 
 been lucky. His wife had sympathized in his ventures, 
 and the narrow economies of the household had been 
 begun by her years ago. Now Mr. Marlow was old and 
 timid, and afraid of loss. He speculated no more, but 
 still, from habit, the two ground down life to its narrowest 
 compass. Such people would like to prevent the sun 
 from rising so early for fear of wasting its heat ; they 
 would only have leaves on the alternate branches of the 
 trees, or keep the autumnal sprays over for another 
 year. But they could not prevent nature from being 
 bountiful, and lovely, and wasteful, and from flooding
 
 SOLA. 203 
 
 Felicia's life with youth and wild girlish spirits, with 
 sunshine, with full fresh country winds and sweet rural 
 sights, to all of which she turned more readily than to 
 the house-stinting and keeping her grandmother tried 
 to teach her. All the summer-time she was happy, 
 wandering about the deserted gardens, where the 
 straggling flower-beds travelled over the ill-kept lawns ; 
 and the great trees gave shade upon the grasses and 
 the laurels. The little chestnut trees in the wood, where 
 the birds hid their nests, rustled and trembled ; now and 
 then dividing their close branches to give a sight of 
 the tranquil furrows in the spreading fields beyond, 
 where the great elms were sailing like ships at sea. . . . 
 The house, with its high sloping roof, stood on a 
 hill, and might be seen for miles. From the front blis- 
 tered door, with its broken steps, an avenue ran down to 
 the road. There was an old gateway, of which the iron 
 doors stood always open. The ivy had crept up in 
 slender sprays, covering the hinges, and hiding the 
 brickwork, and wreathing over the stone balls at either 
 side of the entrance. One day, Felicia, picking peri- 
 winkles in the avenue, tried to imagine a vision of 
 herself at some future day, as a bride, passing through 
 the gate, on her way to the little church close by. 
 Somehow, in this fancy of Felicia's, she was the bride, 
 scarcely changed, except that her stuff gown was
 
 204 SOLA. 
 
 altered to shining satin ; but poor James was strangely 
 transformed and metamorphosed. He was a great deal 
 older, taller ; he had broad shoulders, and a set straight 
 figure in this representation ; he had a fiery, quick, 
 scornful sort of way, quite unlike his usual gentle 
 manner. The fiery manner softened in the vision when 
 the bridegroom turned to his bride. He was holding 
 her hand close in his. What was it he whispered .'' 
 something out of the marriage service : " To thee only," 
 " Sola ! " Was it James's voice .'' It was certainly 
 James's voice that Felicia heard in the avenue calling 
 her, " Felicia ! Felicia ! " 
 
 Felicia was seventeen by this time. She had been 
 engaged two years. She started and blushed. She 
 knew she ought not to wish James to be different from 
 what he was. She jumped up hastily from the pile of 
 stones and periwinkles upon which she had been kneel- 
 ing, dreaming her little love-dream, with her head bent 
 over the flowers. She heard voices. A great dog came 
 running down the avenue, and jumped upon her faded 
 gown ; and James, no taller, no more mysterious or 
 romantic-looking than usual, followed with his grand- 
 mother, looking for her down the avenue, to say 
 good-by. " Felicia," said the young fellow, " why did 
 you run away .-' It is time for me to be off. Good-by, 
 dear ; take care of yourself"
 
 SOLA. 205 
 
 " Good-by, dear James," said Felicia, kissing his 
 cheek. "It is you who must take care of yourself; and 
 mind you wear the comforter I knitted you." 
 
 "James," — this was the old grandfather on the house- 
 step, — "you will miss the train." 
 
 " Here I am," cried James, kissing both his grand- 
 mother and Felicia, and hurrying off. Only he stopped 
 at the foot of the steps to look a good-by and to take 
 breath. " London — loth — don't forget," he cried. 
 
 Some people said that James, who was of a delicate 
 stock, was ailing for want of care and of necessary 
 comforts beyond the bare allowance his grandfather 
 made him. He never complained, and I am sure it 
 never occurred to Felicia to complain for him. She 
 believed her grandmother, who assured her that the 
 doctor was mistaken in ordering another climate — 
 what air was so good as Harplngton .'' Felicia had 
 thriven upon it, and James could come home from 
 college whenever he felt inclined. He was making 
 but a poor thing of his career there. The old lady 
 spoke a little bitterly. Felicia was sorry. She herself 
 sometimes felt angry with her cousin for the way in 
 which he submitted to the tyrannical rule of the old 
 people. Felicia had been so little away from home 
 that she had no standard by which to measure its ways. 
 She did not care about a brilliant career in the world.
 
 2o6 SOLA. 
 
 She scarcely knew what it meant ; but she could not but 
 feel a secret vexation when she saw how poor Jim was 
 a cypher in the determined old hands that ruled both 
 their destinies. Felicia, who was wayward and im- 
 petuous, sometimes revolted against the discipline in 
 which she was kept ; the young fellow never did. It 
 did not much matter whether the children revolted or 
 not, for the grim old couple were not to be stirred from 
 their strange fixed ways by all Felicia's reproaches and 
 girlish demands. The old lady was not even angry ; 
 she had taken her as a child, and brought her up with a 
 vigorous rule, and it was not a quick passionate creature 
 like Felicia who could move that rugged rock. 
 
 In summer Felicia laid up her store of youth and 
 brightness ; but the winters were long and dreary. 
 Poor Felicia ! How the cold blasts used to pinch and 
 bite her. Her somewhat languid circulation seemed 
 stopped and frozen by the wooden echoes of those 
 long bare passages at Harpington. There was a 
 window looking into a court past which she used 
 to run, giving a wistful glance at the warm-lighted 
 kitchen-window, looking out upon moonlight in winter. 
 The kitchen was the only really comfortable corner 
 in the house, — long wooden passages, stone stairs, 
 up which winds blew shrilly. Some old people do 
 not feel the cold, and Mrs. Marlow was one of them.
 
 SOLA. 207 
 
 " Shivering again, Fay ? " It was absurd that Felicia 
 should shiver when there was a fire in the dining-room. 
 
 This old house seemed, like its owners, in some 
 fashion dreary, yet capable of better things — of warmth, 
 and comfort, and brightness, too ; a stately old place, 
 with all that was wanting for a generous life, and yet, 
 through some curious whim of chance, all shabby, and 
 closed, and narrow. Jim and Felicia in some measure 
 belonged to the sad past and were expected to keep up 
 its traditions. He was a son's son, and she a younger 
 daughter's daughter. The pictures of the dead children 
 were hanging carefully guarded in an inner closet ; no 
 new interests were admitted. The doors opened not to 
 the living joys or interests of others, but to calcu- 
 lations of interest, and money-getting, and money- 
 saving, and to the remembrances of a few dead people. 
 It was for this reason Felicia was to marry Jim ; for 
 this, and also because old Marlow hated strangers, and 
 liked his own way. One of the young people was 
 indifferent on the subject. This was Felicia, who told 
 James what her grandmother had told her. James, 
 who had seen more of the world, looked at her earnestly 
 and curiously for a minute. 
 
 " You must think of it, dear," he said.
 
 2o8 SOLA. 
 
 II. 
 
 Felicia, being now solemnly engaged to be married, 
 had settled that it was time that they should give up 
 keeping rabbits. It seemed a pursuit scarcely consistent 
 with the dignity of a young betrothed couple ; and yet 
 from day to day she put off the execution of this stern 
 decree. It was not to be any very tragical transaction, 
 for rabbit-pie, which the Squire affectioned, was a horror 
 and an abomination in Felicia's eyes. Jim had made a 
 private arrangement with a little gardener's boy, who 
 consented, after some bargaining, to accept the uncon- 
 scious creatures, upon payment of twopence apiece from 
 James. The gardener's boy did not make an unfair 
 bargain : it is the usual charge for giving away rabbits. 
 But besides the twopences, there was also the pang of 
 separation. It must be confessed that Felicia was the 
 most to be pitied on this occasion. The rabbits went on 
 nibbling their salad-leaves to the last moment, nibbling 
 and relishing up to the very edge of the stalk. 
 
 "Why don't you keep them.'" said James, seeing 
 the girl's eyes full of tears. 
 
 " No, I don't want them any more," says Felicia. 
 " Good-by, Puck ; good-by, Cobweb ; good-by, Mus- 
 tard ; " and she stroked the stupid sleek ears, and laid
 
 SOLA. 209 
 
 her soft cheek upon them, and kissed them with an 
 affection that was scarcely requited. 
 
 It was some joke of her grandfather's which had 
 determined FeHcia to part from her favourites. She had 
 a morbid horror of being laughed at. I think she was 
 deficient in humour, and people who are wanting in fun, 
 as a rule, are those who can least bear being laughed 
 at. James's was a different nature. He used to smile 
 at life. It had been a hard one for him on the whole. 
 Weak health, small powers of application, failure, a 
 generous and tender heart, and a narrow meed of love 
 in return. All this did not go to make his fate a very- 
 bright one. Little Jim Marlow was a fatalist in his 
 way : he resigned himself to his narrow destiny. As 
 for Felicia, that was a hope too bright for him to reckon 
 on ; he never expected to win his cousin's affections, 
 though he did not say no when Felicia came to him that 
 day, saying, " Jim, is it true we are to be engaged ? " 
 He loved her so truly that he would have almost con- 
 sented to give her up if he had felt convinced it would 
 be for her welfare. His nature was so gentle and 
 peaceful, that no thought of himself or of his rights ever 
 seemed to trouble him. Some people worry over their 
 own interests, but he let them alone. Perhaps he had a 
 secret presentiment that there were not many more for 
 him. Reproofs which would have been an indignity 
 
 14
 
 2IO SOLA. 
 
 almost if they had carried any bitterness with them, he 
 scarcely noticed. He went his own w-ay : he dreamt 
 over his books : Felicia was the one person he loved best 
 in the world, and in her service he would wake up from 
 his dream of peace to face the troubled realities of life ; 
 or perhaps I should say from his realities of peace to face 
 the troubled dreams of life ; but that is the problem. 
 
 " I don't know what you will do without your rabbits, 
 Felicia," said Jim, feeling that this moment had now 
 come for a little good advice. " You will have to take 
 to reading, or music." 
 
 " Jim," said Felicia, suddenly turning round, and 
 opening her grey penetrating eyes, " do you know any 
 other young ladies besides me } " 
 
 Her cousin blushed up. " I know one or two," he said. 
 
 " What arc they like .-* " says Felicia, looking quickly 
 at him, and then again stroking her rabbit. " I suppose 
 they all talk French and play the piano .-' " 
 
 "Some of them do," said Jim. " Felicia, I wish you 
 knew something of music." 
 
 " I am very glad I don't," says Felicia, changing 
 colour. " It's too much trouble." 
 
 " I know a Miss Flower who plays all sorts of 
 charming old tunes," said James. " I should like you to 
 know her ; she does not live very far from this : though, 
 after all, perhaps you would not like her."
 
 SOLA. 211 
 
 " I hate young ladies," said Felicia. " They are all 
 so silly." 
 
 " Only now and then," said James, smiling. 
 
 " Is Miss Flower silly ? " says Felicia. " I think 
 you are very unkind ;" and her grey eyes circled deeper, 
 and she drew herself up slight, white, against the old 
 stable-door. 
 
 " Miss Flower may be silly for all I know," said 
 James. " I hope not, for I think some day she will 
 marry a friend of mine — Baxter — you know. She is 
 his cousin, she lives with his aunt and his little girl, and 
 he seems very " 
 
 " Shut the door," says Felicia, still very cross. "I 
 hear grandpapa's voice ; he will be laughing at my 
 rabbits again." 
 
 So James shut the door as he was bid, and the two 
 stood waiting silent in the stable darkness, with the 
 great lines of brightness shining through the joints of 
 the planking, and red lights where the knots were in the 
 rough boards against the windows, while the rabbits 
 went on nibbling and crunching. The empty stalls 
 gloomed dark and mysterious. The two stood silent, 
 waiting for the voices to pass. 
 
 " There, you can see the boundary from here," old 
 Marlow was saying, outside. " You can think my offer 
 over. Captain, and let me hear from you in a day or
 
 212 SOLA. 
 
 two. It will make a pretty addition to the farm, who- 
 ever buys it." 
 
 " I have almost determined upon buying the farm," 
 said the other. 
 
 '' It's Baxter," whispered James. 
 
 " Hush ! " said Felicia. 
 
 The voice went on. " This is rather a fancy price for 
 the field, Mr. Marlow, and I am afraid I must give up 
 thinking of it. I will speak to my lawyer, and " 
 
 " Why did you come to me if you didn't know your 
 own mind .-' " growled old Marlow. " I thought you 
 wanted the field as a favour. Who told you I wanted 
 to sell it } " 
 
 " I was told you were thinking of selling it," said 
 Baxter ; " and I asked your grandson if you would give 
 a neighbour the refusal." 
 
 " I thought so," says the old man, more and more 
 angry. " James is a meddlesome blockhead, and it is all 
 along of such chattering fools as him people think my 
 
 land is going about begging, d him ; I believe he 
 
 docs it on purpose." 
 
 James turned away, as this growl reached the two 
 young folks in the stable. There was a sort of low 
 angry sound from Felicia, then a silence, then — " Why, 
 why don't you go and contradict him } " cried the girl, 
 giving her cousin a push. " Go."
 
 SOLA, 213 
 
 James hung back. " What is the good ? " he said 
 with a sigh. " He is an old man. I hate a scene." 
 
 But if James hated a scene, it was not so w^ith 
 FeHcia, There was something new stirring in her nature 
 that seemed to cry out for a vent for action, for 
 spectators. Baxter should not hear James insulted. 
 "I am not afraid," said Miss Marlow magnificently; 
 and before James could stop her, she had sprung to the 
 great stable-door, flung it wide open, and was standing 
 outside in a blaze of sunshine, confronting the two — the 
 old grandfather and Captain Baxter, whose dark face 
 didn't show much of the surprise he felt. For that the 
 old stable-door should fly open before them, and an 
 avenging goddess should appear sudden, overwhelming, 
 breathing vengeance and retribution, was certainly the 
 last thing the angry old schemer, or the disappointed 
 neighbour, had in their minds. Felicia's eyes were 
 radiating, her lips pouting, her cheeks brilliantly flushed. 
 She had never looked more beautiful, — certainly never 
 so angry. " How dare you say such things of poor Jim, 
 grandpapa .■' It is cruel of you and unjust ; yes, and 
 you know it. I told Captain Baxter about the field." 
 
 " Oh, listening ! " says grandpapa, quite unmoved ; 
 "and James too. Come out of your hiding, James, and 
 you " (to Felicia) "go back to your grandmamma." 
 
 "You know it is not James who chatters," persists
 
 214 SOLA 
 
 Felicia, stamping ; but her courage begins to fail a little 
 at the two steady shaggy old eyes fixed upon her. As 
 for the stranger, she indefinitely feels that there is pro- 
 tection in that straight, dark-looking figure now greeting 
 her cousin. But she scarcely realizes this. Some sudden 
 storm had been stirred ; some sudden flame had burnt 
 up fiercely, only to go out as such flames do after a 
 minute's flashing and flaring. 
 
 " Do you hear me, Fay } " says Mr. Marlow ; " go up 
 to your grandmother. I'm busy with the Captain, and 
 don't want you here." 
 
 " But you have been unjust," cries Felicia, worked 
 up, more and more passionately. " I will not have 
 James spoken of as you have done." 
 
 " Do you hear me or not .'' " roars old Marlow ; and 
 then James came forward and pulled Felicia's arm 
 through his and led her off without a look or a word at 
 the angry old man. Baxter looked after the two as 
 they walked away. At first Felicia clung to her cousin, 
 trembling and sobbing; then in a moment she pushed 
 him violently away, then she set off running ; and when 
 she ran poor James could not follow her, for his breath 
 failed, his heart beat so that he could not hear or see ; he 
 sat down upon the steps of the house, and there Baxter 
 found him a few minutes after, almost fainting and utterly 
 exhausted by the morning's work.
 
 SOLA. 215 
 
 III. 
 
 Felicia, having pulled her arm away from her cousin, 
 ran back to the house in a troubled, furious, tearful 
 mood. She was indignant with her grandfather, angry 
 with herself; for James she was feeling something almost 
 like scornful pity. Why had he been so silent .'* — why 
 did he allow that intemperate old man to speak of him 
 in such a way .'' She had seen Captain Baxter give one 
 glance at James and then at her grandfather. Why 
 did not Jim do something instead of putting down a 
 basket of lettuces, and offering her his arm .■* He was 
 more like a rabbit himself than a man. Oh, why was 
 she not a man herself .-* as she stamped in a fury. 
 
 " Where is James .'' " said her grandmother, meeting 
 the girl in the hall. 
 
 " I don't know ; how should I ? " said Felicia, and 
 she passed on, flitting from room to room, till she found 
 herself at the end of the house in a certain play-room 
 which she considered her own. Here she began to zry 
 afresh ; then she dried her tears ; then Felicia, defiant, 
 ran to an old piano, and began strumming noisily on 
 the keys. " Miss Flower, Miss Flower," she sang, banging 
 with all her might, and thumping. 
 
 And meanwhile, outside in the hot garden, poor Jim
 
 2i6 SOLA. 
 
 was still struggling and panting for breath. When he 
 heard a quick foot upon the gravel, the sound turned 
 him faint and sick with apprehension. He thought it 
 was his grandfather, and, in his present state, every- 
 thing seemed to him terrible. But it was only Baxter 
 who, black as his face was, and fierce of aspect sym- 
 pathized with anything that was in want of help, or 
 that was weak, or in pain. He stopped short, sat down 
 on the stone step beside his friend, and asked him if he 
 was ill .'* 
 
 " 111 ! " gasped Jim, "no — that is — I — I'm used to it. 
 Is Felicia " 
 
 " Felicia ! — is your cousin coming back ? " said Baxter, 
 guessing more than poor Jim meant to reveal. 
 
 " If she would come — she would know — " said the 
 young man, panting still. 
 
 " I will fetch some one," said Baxter, really frightened ; 
 and he hurried up the steps and along the stone terraces, 
 and hearing a sound of noisy music coming through an 
 open window, he stooped under the creepers that were 
 hanging over it and went in. He only came into an 
 empty little passage room ; but from a door he heard 
 loudly now the jangle of some old cracked piano, and 
 he knocked impatiently, and entered without waiting 
 for an answer. 
 
 Felicia was still playing ; for, notwithstanding her
 
 SOLA. 217 
 
 protest, she could play a little, and she was strumming 
 at some old-fashioned jig, I think she called it, which 
 had grown out of the noise. She was standing, and 
 playing, and bending over the music. The room was 
 not a sitting-room, but some sort of lumber-place such 
 as people, who live in big old houses, can afford to spare 
 to old boxes and scraps and odds and ends of furniture, 
 and the discarded piano had been put away there among 
 the lumber. The room was dark : great green wreaths 
 were hanging before the windows. There were no other 
 blinds, and none others were wanted. There was nothing 
 to shade except old boxes and fishing-rods, some broken 
 chairs, a great cracked looking-glass, leaning against the 
 wall, reflected the chequered light and the whole slim 
 length of the musician. She stood in her green faded 
 dress among the rakes and geranium-pots, where feeble 
 sprigs were sprouting ; and, close by, was an old chest, 
 upon which stood a ship full sail, and three bald-headed 
 goggling dolls. Any other time Aurelius might have 
 paid some martial compliment, and admired the pretty 
 girl making merry among the rubbish ; but he scarcely 
 noticed her. It was only after he got home, in reply to 
 the questions they asked him, that he seemed to see it 
 all again, and remembered how she had looked, and 
 where he had found her. Tum-tum-te-tumty ! clattered 
 Felicia, stopping short as the door opened. She was
 
 2i8 SOLA. 
 
 somewhat taken aback when the dark lean figure came 
 marching up to her straight and grim-looking. 
 
 " Will you come to your cousin ? " said the Captain, 
 without any preamble. Her feelings did not require 
 much tender handling in his estimation. " He seems 
 to me very ill. Perhaps you may know what to do 
 for him." 
 
 " 111 ! " exclaimed Felicia, starting away from the 
 piano, with a slight crash among the geranium-pots. 
 " Have you seen grandmamma .'' she always nurses him 
 when he is ill." And she stooped to pick up the flower- 
 pots, and to stick back the sprigs and cuttings that had 
 fallen out of them. Felicia did not appear to think much 
 of James's illness. 
 
 Baxter was more and more indignant. 
 
 " Poor fellow," said Aurelius ; " he does not seem 
 to get much nursing from anybody." The Captain was 
 downright angry, and did not care who he offended. 
 At home, if his little finger ached, aunt and cousin and 
 attendant maids were in tears almost, his little daughter 
 would turn pale. It was foolish, and Aurelius made 
 fun of their solicitude, but how infinitely better than 
 this cold-bloodedness. 
 
 " He must have some wine," cried Felicia, carelessly. 
 She did not choose to let Baxter see she had noticed 
 his taunt, and she went on before him leading the way
 
 SOLA. 219 
 
 with a little careless dancing step. '' Oh dear me, who 
 has got the keys ? Scruby, Scrtiby," sang the girl, and 
 at her call a dilapidated-looking man put his bald head 
 out of the dining-room door. " Scruby, Master James 
 isn't well ; have you got any wine out .'' " 
 
 The three-o'clock dinner-table was set, and a bottle 
 with a little wine in it was put ready by the old Squire's 
 seat. 
 
 "Not that," said Scruby, feebly proceeding to ex- 
 plore various drawers and cupboards. But Baxter 
 impatiently seized the bottle and poured its contents 
 into a tumbler. 
 
 "That's grandpapa's wine," said Felicia, a little 
 awe-stricken, and Scruby made a toothless exclama- 
 tion. 
 
 Baxter did not say a word in reply, but walked off 
 quickl}\ As he hurried along Felicia followed him. " I 
 thought you cared for your cousin," said the Captain 
 to the girl as she came up a little timidly to the place 
 where poor James was lying. He was better ; the 
 colour had come back into his cheeks, and he was 
 drinking the wine which Baxter had brought him. He 
 looked up, smiled, and held out his hand to Felicia, 
 and she, without speaking, held it between her own 
 two soft palms as she knelt leaning against the stone 
 banister of the terrace.
 
 220 SOLA. 
 
 So the Captain left them. He met Mrs. Marlow 
 coming out of the house with a reproof on her Hps. 
 
 " He should not excite himself over trifles," said the 
 old lady, briskly. " I have never had a day's illness 
 in my life." Mrs. Marlow seemed to think that it was 
 her own good sense which had kept her well all these 
 years. She did not mean to be unkind, but she never 
 pretended to anytliing she did not feel. It was her 
 way ; she had no morbid terrors, no hidden pains and 
 shrinking nerves, wherewith to sympathize with others. 
 All this had died out in her ; now-a-days no impressions 
 reached her, though the old ones of fifty years before 
 sometimes came to life again. She loved her husband 
 and she loved Felicia. She tolerated James. When 
 her children had died, in her despair she had almost 
 blamed them for their weakness — she had mourned 
 them after her own fashion. The whole generation of 
 sons and daughters and sons and daughters in law had 
 passed away, but the tough old folks lived on tending 
 the two little orphan grandchildren. 
 
 Here is one of them dragging himself up the steps 
 with the help of the other, Felicia at least bears no sign 
 of illness or premature decay. How blooming she looks 
 as she drags Jim up with her arms. Mrs. Marlow thinks 
 in her heart there never was a sweeter, brighter face, and 
 half pities the girl linked to poor little Jim for life.
 
 SOLA. 221 
 
 As Aurelius rode off he thanked heaven that all 
 women were not like those two. He had found it very 
 sweet to have come back after years of hard work and 
 loneliness to the tender solicitude of a gentle old aunt, 
 and Lucy his little daughter. They were of a different 
 type and order to those two women he had just left. 
 Good and tender and unselfish, and living for others 
 instead of existing scarce alive in that strange silence 
 and exhausted atmosphere which oppressed him and 
 every one else at Harpington. 
 
 Baxter had often heard James Marlow speak of 
 Felicia ; this was only the second time he had ever seen 
 her. His first impression was of something that he 
 never forgot — a wild, bright, sudden gleam. In later 
 days he sometimes thought of the beautiful angry face 
 that had flashed out upon them from the darkness. 
 When he thought of this he melted and softened, and 
 by some contradiction he told himself that it was a pity 
 that such a bright brilliant flame of youth and unreserve 
 ' should be dimmed and chilled down by rough cold 
 blasts, and by time, and by indifference. But that is 
 the story of many and many a beautiful flame. Just 
 now, however, it was Felicia's indifference and not her 
 beauty that was paramount in Baxter's mind : her in- 
 difference shocked him. He thought of her more than 
 once that day.
 
 222 SOLA. 
 
 " Is she pretty ? " asked his aunt, and Aurclius 
 paused for a minute before he answered. 
 
 " I forget — yes, she is wonderfully pretty. Those 
 may admire her who like." Poor James had got a bad 
 bargain for all her brilliant loveliness. Sometimes the 
 Captain relented a little, and then he thought of Felicia 
 as a thoughtless child ; but again he would tell himself 
 that she was at best but a hard-hearted little siren 
 playing jigs in her beautiful golden hair, while her 
 victims drowned round about her. That hateful tune 
 he had heard her play, kept nagging in his ears : he 
 found himself humming it at night as he paced the 
 quiet lane in front of the house, smoking his midnight 
 pipe before going to bed, long after the other members 
 of the peaceful little household retired. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The poor siren was also sitting up in the dark in 
 her little room at that minute. The great hall clock 
 had struck one, but the child had not gone to bed ; and 
 yet midnight was a much more terrible affair at Har- 
 pington than in the cottage where Captain Baxter was 
 staying, and where you could hear the cat purring in
 
 SOLA. 223 
 
 the kitchen all over the house. At Harpington far-off 
 rats raced down the long passages. Far-off creaks and 
 starts sounded in the ears of startled watchers. Felicia 
 was frightened, but she was used to being frightened. 
 If anything terrible came out of the barred door which 
 led to the empty rooms she could run down the passage 
 screaming, and her grandmother, who rarely slept, would 
 hear her. Room after room, dark and gloomy and 
 ghostlike, dim passages, staircases winding into black- 
 ness — all this was round about. Jim was under the 
 roof at the other end of the wing, and the old people 
 were sleeping in state in the great front rooms. Felicia 
 had opened her window. She had heard a dog bay 
 somewhere across the dark fields, and seen a star or 
 two shine out through the dim veil of clouds over head. 
 She could not see, though she peered out ever so far 
 with her two bright grey eyes, Avhere the line of the 
 fields met the heavens. It was all dark, and sweet, and 
 dim, and fresh with that indescribable calm of sleeping 
 night. The air was touched by the scent of the fresh 
 green blades, and of the pinks in the kitchen-garden. 
 Some young owls began to hoot and whistle, but only 
 for a little. Then everything was silent again. And 
 when everything was quite silent, Felicia once more sat 
 listening to a voice that began telling her the events of 
 the day over and over again. These voices are apt to
 
 224 SOLA. 
 
 speak in the silence of the night, and to keep people 
 awake. 
 
 " I thought yoH might have cared a little more," the 
 voice said to Felicia. 
 
 " He thought me hard, cold, cruel," said Felicia to 
 herself; and she began to remember how Baxter had 
 looked at her — ^just as he had looked at her grand- 
 father — with a curious hard, indifferent look, such 
 as no one had ever given her before. Then she went 
 over it all again and saw James lying straight out on the 
 stone-step, and the broad shoulders of Aurelius bending 
 over him. She saw the orange-trees on the terrace, and 
 her grandfather crossing by the side -walk to avoid 
 them, and her grandmother coming out of the house. 
 There was the little scene bright painted on the 
 darkness before her. She was sick of it, but there 
 it was. 
 
 " Poor fellow, he does not seem to get much nursing 
 from any one," said the voice again ; and then again, 
 " I thought you might have cared for your cousin." 
 
 This time the voice sounded more forgiving ; but 
 no, there was the vision of the tall unrelenting figure 
 walking away without another word. Why was she not 
 angry ? Oh, he was right, — he was right, — that was 
 why. She should have been more gentle with her 
 cousin. She should not have pushed him from her.
 
 SOLA. 225 
 
 How kind he had been : yes, he was right to take her 
 away when her grandfather stormed. He (Jim) had no 
 strength for scenes and fights, and she had no strength. 
 She only stormed and failed. She had never loved Jim 
 so well as at that moment. Even though she had been so 
 angry with him, she never before understood his goodness 
 and gentleness as she did now. And then no one had 
 ever told her before what was right : what she ought to 
 feel and to do. Oh, if she had but one friend in the 
 world whom she could trust, who would help her a little ; 
 then she would know how to be good, and how to take 
 care of Jim, and how to make him happy. Captain 
 Baxter should see that she did care — that she was not 
 utterly heartless. ... So Felicia, sitting there, dreamt 
 her waking dreams through the night. 
 
 Poor little Jim, tossing on his bed in the garret under 
 the roof, did not know of Felicia's remorse and love, as 
 she sat wakeful at the foot of her little iron couch, and 
 yet — this is a theory which people may scout if they 
 will — the unconscious magnetism of her good -will 
 reached him in some mysterious fashion, and by degrees 
 the fever left him, and he was soothed and quieted and 
 fell asleep. Felicia longed for the morning to come 
 that she might go to him, comfort him, make him 
 forgive her. Jim was peacefully dreaming : he thought 
 he was eating his dinner off the old china plate in the 
 
 15
 
 226 SOLA. 
 
 morning-room, and that Felicia came in and tossed it 
 up in the air. 
 
 He came down late, and breakfast was over. The 
 old couple were already on their rounds ; but Felicia, 
 who was sitting on the window-sill waiting, jumped up 
 and ran to meet him. As she came up, Jim, looking 
 into her face, saw a sweet troubled tender look that he 
 had nev^er seen before ; grey eyes half tearful, a trembling 
 colour, a quivering mouth. 
 
 " Dearest Jim," she said, with both hands put out to 
 meet his ; " forgive me, I was so cruel yesterday ; I 
 have been so unhappy about it ; " and she held up her 
 sweet face to be kissed. Never in all his life before had 
 he seen her look like this. It was almost more than he 
 could bear. 
 
 " Forgive, dearest Fay ! Don't talk of forgive," he 
 said, putting his arm round about her, and leaning his 
 head for a moment on her shoulder. 
 
 "You are still quite tired and weak ; here is your 
 tea and your egg" she said, jumping away. And all 
 breakfast-time Felicia waited on him, bringing him at 
 last a bunch of ripe grapes she had stolen {though she did 
 not tell him so), by breaking a pane of the grape-house. 
 
 " If Captain Baxter could see us now," thought 
 Felicia, " he would see I am sorry to have been heartless." 
 
 Poor Jim ! How delicious the grapes tasted, how
 
 SOLA. 227 
 
 happy it made him to be a Httle comforted and loved ! 
 He could hardly realize his own happiness, or believe 
 that this was in truth his own Felicia. 
 
 When Aurelius rode over that afternoon to see 
 his friend he found him quite restored, reading in 
 the window of the old lumber-room. Felicia, in her 
 green dress, was still strumming on the piano. La ci 
 darem : she was playing, with a great many false notes, 
 out of an old music-book she had discovered in a corner. 
 She shut up the piano with a bang, however, when 
 Aurelius came into the room, and soon after disappeared, 
 leaving the two young men together. 
 
 Baxter sat' on for some time talking to Jim. He 
 tried to give him good advice, and tell him to hold his 
 own. James, as usual, shrugged his shoulders, and 
 smiled, and sighed : so long as he had Felicia he did 
 not care what others said or did or thought of him, and 
 so he said. Baxter did not answer, but soon after got 
 up and went away. 
 
 He was very sorry for his friend. It did not seem to 
 him, for all James told him, that Felicia cared for him 
 in the least. Once more he told himself that she was a 
 hard-hearted, ill-tempered little creature ; and so think- 
 ing, he walked away, and down the old stone steps 
 along the periwinkle walk leading to the road. And 
 then he looked up, and saw that there was a figure at
 
 228 SOLA. 
 
 the gate sitting ^vaiting on the grass-grown step. The 
 figure jumped up quickly, and came to meet him. A 
 wild, nymph-like little figure, in her quaint green dress, 
 with her hair flying. It was Felicia who had taken a 
 great resolution. 
 
 " I was waiting for you," she said, opening her grey 
 eyes wider and wider. " I have something to say to 
 you. I want you to listen." And she stood before him 
 so that he could not pass. " You think me heartless," 
 she said. " You think I do not care for James. You 
 think I am not good enough for him. Oh, Captain 
 Baxter, you are right ; that is what I wanted to say to 
 you ; but, indeed, indeed I know how good he is, and I 
 do love him, and do try to take care of him, and I can't 
 bear that you should think me quite wicked and heart- 
 less." And the tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 " Wicked ! heartless ! " said Aurelius, feeling in his 
 turn ashamed. " It is I who am wricked and heartless, 
 ever to think anything of the sort, and I thank you for 
 making me know you as you are." And he held out 
 his hand, and went away touched and melted by the 
 girl's confidence. 
 
 James, who had seen the two from his window, came 
 down the walk a minute later, and found Felicia stand- 
 ing quite still in the middle of the path where Aurelius 
 had left her.
 
 SOLA. 229 
 
 " What have you two been talking about?" Jim said. 
 
 " Never mind," said Felicia. " Do you want to 
 knov/ .'' He told me I was heartless that day you were 
 so ill, and I wanted to say to him that I do love my 
 friends, and am not quite without a heart." She said 
 it so prettily, so shyly, so quickly, that Jim's vague 
 jealousy melted away, and he looked down admiringly 
 at the sweet bright face beside him. 
 
 This was only a very little while before Jim went 
 back to college for his last term. Baxter came once or 
 twice to see him, and then, when he was gone, the 
 Captain's visits ceased. Mrs. Marlow gave him very 
 plainly to understand she did not care for him to come, 
 and there was nothing at the Hall that Baxter cared to 
 come for ; not even Felicia, although he often thought 
 of her in her slim green dress. 
 
 Once or twice he met her in the lanes ; once, the 
 very day he left for town, in a buttercup field with a 
 great golden ball of flowers in her hand. That day 
 little Lucy w^as with him, and Felicia gave the child the 
 flowers. Little Lucy, who had read of princesses in 
 fairy tales, firmly believed Fehcia to be one of them, 
 and talked of her all the way home. Felicia was a very 
 silent princess, and never spoke, but always ran away.
 
 230 SOLA. 
 
 V. 
 
 My story, as I am telling it, seems to be a sad one, 
 of which the actors themselves scarcely know the mean- 
 ing. What does it take to make a tragedy ? Youth, 
 summer days, beauty, kind hearts, a garden to stroll 
 in ; on one side an impulsive word, perhaps a look, 
 in which an unconscious truth shines out of steadfast 
 eyes, perhaps a pang of jealousy; and then a pause 
 or two, a word, a rose off a tree — that is material 
 enough for Tragedy. She lays her cold hand upon 
 the best, the fairest, and sweetest, and most innocent. 
 For my own part. Tragedy seems less terrible, with her 
 dark veil and cold, stern face, than Comedy in her tinsel 
 and mask. Tragedy is terrible ; and as she passes tears 
 flow and cries of pain are uttered ; but along with these 
 are heroic endurance, faithfulness, self-denial, and tender, 
 unflinching love, that her dark veil cannot hide nor her 
 terrors dismay, and she passes by, leaving a benediction 
 behind her. Flowers spring up along the road, her arid 
 wastes arc repeoplcd, the plough travels over the battle- 
 fields, and the living stand faithful by the sacred 
 memories of the past. 
 
 But Comedy seems to scorn her victims. How can 
 they rise again from her jibes and jeers .-' For Comedy 
 take middle age, take false sentiment, and weakness,
 
 SOLA. 231 
 
 and infidelity ; take small passions, unworthy objects, 
 affectations, rouge-pots, calculations, the blunting influ- 
 ence of time. It makes one's heart ache to think of the 
 cruel, cruel comedies of life, into which good people are 
 drawn, and gentle natures, only to be cast out again, 
 sullied and mortified, and broken-spirited and defiled. 
 When the crisis comes, Comedy grinds her mad teeth 
 and tears her false hair and cries and writhes, and the 
 spectators laugh and shrug their shoulders ; but they 
 love and pity Tragedy, as she passes along despairing, 
 but simple and beautiful even in her woe. We pass 
 through all these phases, youth and tragedy and the 
 comedy of middle life, and then, I suppose, if we are 
 sensible and honest-minded people, comes the peace of 
 age, and, at all events, the silence that follows all youth 
 and life and age ; when at last Comedy shrinks away 
 abashed and powerless. 
 
 This silence was hanging over the old house at 
 Harpington : its unconscious inmates came and went as 
 usual, sitting out in the lovely summer sunshine, living 
 the same still life. For the last time, — it was all for the 
 last time, — and yet it seemed like any of the other 
 summers that had flooded through the old place, across 
 the fields, into the remotest nooks and corners of the 
 neglected gardens, shining on the high tiled roofs and 
 the ancient elms and rooks. Even old Marlow would
 
 232 SOLA. 
 
 come out and bask in the lovely summer weather, 
 conning his account-books, and making his calculations 
 under the trees to the singing of the birds. One day 
 two butterflies came flitting and bobbing about his head. 
 Felicia burst out laughing at the sight. 
 
 Jim had gone off", telling them to remember the 
 loth. He was to come back from Oxford in the be- 
 ginning of July, and it had long been settled that Felicia 
 and her grandmother were to accept an invitation they 
 had received, and meet him in London, and spend ten 
 days there, and buy Felicia's wedding-clothes. Mrs. 
 Marlow was to sec her doctor and the lawyer at the 
 same time ; old Marlow had desired this arrangement — 
 I don't know in what fit of generosity — it was a whim : 
 a sort of remembrance of the week he had spent in 
 London before his marriage. The clothes were un- 
 necessary, but he would not have to pay for them ; so 
 he chose to do the thing handsomely for once ; and all 
 this being accomplished, there would be no further reason 
 for dela}'. Jim and Fay should come back and be 
 married out of hand. It was also a sort of intended 
 encouragement to Felicia, who certainly showed no eager- 
 ness to enter into matrimonial bonds ; but, if going to 
 London depended upon being married, here was Felicia 
 as eager as any one to be married, for London was her 
 dream, her heaven upon earth, her soul's aspiration.
 
 SOLA. 233 
 
 Why she should have sighed and longed after all these 
 millions of brown half-baked bricks, piled one on the top 
 of the other, I cannot tell. Jim had sometimes told her 
 stories of London streets and parks, and promised that 
 he would take her to see the sights. They were to 
 stay with an opportune old sister of Mr. Marlow's, 
 from whom a letter had come one morning to every- 
 body's surprise : 
 
 "Queen Square, June 27. 
 
 " My dear Brother," wrote the old lady — " When I 
 think how many years we have both lived, and how 
 many have passed since we last met, and how very few 
 more we can expect to be together in the world, it occurs 
 to me to write to you and ask you if it is not time to let 
 past things be past. This is our mother's birthday, and 
 I have been thinking over old times, and I feel that I 
 should much like to see you once more. Are you 
 coming to town .'' and if so, will you give me the 
 great pleasure of receiving you, and come to me with 
 your wife and your granddaughter.? I hear Felicia's 
 marriage is to take place before very long ; and she 
 must be doubtless thinking about her trousseau. I 
 should like to contribute a hundred pounds towards it, 
 in token of the goodwill of an old maiden aunt who has 
 not quite forgotten her earlier days. She can expend it 
 to the best advantage during her stay with me.
 
 234 SOLA. 
 
 " I am thinking of going abroad, so that I would 
 only beg that I may soon have the pleasure of wel- 
 coming you in my house. With love to your wife, 
 " Your affectionate sister, 
 
 "Mary Anne Marlow." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Marlow, as she finished, "Mary 
 Anne seems to be flourishing — going abroad." 
 
 " I shall answer that letter," said the Squire, in a 
 determined voice. " You had better go, and take Fay 
 with you." 
 
 " Mc ! " cried Mrs. Marlow. " I am not going to 
 leave home, Robert. I am just making my jam." 
 
 " Jam ! " said the Squire, " who wants jam } But I 
 tell you what, Mary Anne seems disposed to be 
 liberal, and I don't see why we shouldn't get the 
 benefit of our own as well as anybody else. That 
 house in Queen Square ought to have been mine at 
 this minute." 
 
 "Nothing will induce me to set foot in it," cried 
 Mrs. Marlow, " after all that has passed. You can take 
 Felicia yourself, Robert, if you choose to go." 
 
 " Go ! It is out of the question," said old Marlow. 
 " I must look after my crops. What should I do in 
 London .-'" said the Squire. 
 
 As usual, the old fellow had his way in the end.
 
 SOLA. 235 
 
 He frowned and insisted, being determined not to lose 
 that chance 100/. 
 
 " Harpington, June 29. 
 
 "My dear Sister, — I thank you for your letter, 
 inviting us to your house, and alluding to old times. 
 Although I am unfortunately prevented from accepting 
 your invitation, my wife and granddaughter will avail 
 themselves of your kindness, and Felicia will be glad to 
 do her shopping under your auspices. 
 
 " It is many years, as you say, since we met, and we 
 are both, doubtless, very much changed. Believe me 
 "Your affectionate brother, 
 
 " R. Marlow." 
 
 Felicia felt as if they were really going when she 
 went into her grandmother's room one morning to find 
 doors and cupboards wide open, and strange garments 
 and relics piled on the floor, and on the bed, and on 
 the window-sill, and Hannah Morton, the housekeeper, 
 dragging in a great hair-trunk and a rope. The old 
 lady was selecting from a curious store of wimples, and 
 pockets, and mittens, and furbelows, and out of numbers 
 of faded reticules and bags, the articles which she 
 thought necessary for her journey. Felicia's experience 
 was small ; but she asked her grandmother if she
 
 236 iiOLA. 
 
 thought so many things would be wanted for a ten- 
 days' excursion. 
 
 "Who is this, grandmamma ?" cried the girl, holding 
 up a black plaster silhouette. 
 
 " Put it down, child," said Mrs. Marlow. 
 
 She could not bear her treasures to be inspected. 
 Few old ladies like it. They store their keepsakes and 
 mementoes away in drawers and dark cupboards — cup- 
 boards fifty years old, drawers a lifetime deep. 
 
 And so even these slow, still, wall-enclosed days at 
 Harpington came to an end at last. They ended as the 
 old trap, with its leather straps and chains, drove up to 
 the door with George, the gardener, on the box, and the 
 drag swinging. The carriage was at the door ; the sand- 
 wiches were cut ; the old hair-box was corded. Felicia, 
 who even now, within ten minutes of her going, expected 
 that an earthquake would come to engulph London be- 
 fore she should see it, that her grandfather would change 
 his mind, or, at least, that the white horse would take to 
 his heels and run away down hill, began at last to believe 
 in their going. 
 
 The thought of it all had been so delightful that 
 the delight was almost an agony, as very vivid feelings 
 must be. Felicia had been wide-awake all night, start- 
 ing and jumping in her little bed, and watching the 
 dawn spread dull beyond the trees (as it was spreading
 
 SOLA. 237 
 
 behind the chimney-pots in the dream-city to which 
 she was going). Now she stood, with her Httle brown 
 hat tied over her hair, watching the proceedings with 
 incredulous eyes. The old gig, with its bony horse, 
 was no miraculous apparition ; but miracles take 
 homely shapes at times, and we don't always recog- 
 nize them when we see them. The grey hair-trunk 
 was hoisted up by Hannah and George, the bags were 
 brought down, and then Mrs. Marlow, walking brisk 
 and decided, equipped for the journey, with strange 
 loopings and pinnings, with a bag and a country 
 bonnet, appeared arm in arm with her husband. The 
 grandfather had sometimes driven off for a day or two, 
 but the grandmother's departure was a much more 
 seldom and special occurrence. So Felicia felt, as well 
 as Mrs. Marlow, as she stood on the threshold, with her 
 arm still in the old Squire's. It is affecting to see some 
 leave-takings : outstretched hands that have lost strength 
 in each other's service ; eyes meeting that have seen 
 each other's brightness fade. I don't know if the end 
 of love is a triumph or a requiem : the young man and 
 woman are gone, but their two souls are there still in 
 their changed garments ; the throb of the full flooding 
 current is over, but it has carried them on so far on 
 their way. Here were two whose aims had not been 
 very great, nor could you see in their faces the trace
 
 238 SOLA. 
 
 of past aspirations and high endeavour. Two mean 
 worn faces looking at each other for the last time with 
 faithful eyes.* 
 
 " Good-by, Robert," said Mrs. Marlow, wistfully. 
 " Take care of yourself. You will find the cellar-key 
 on the hook in my cupboard." 
 
 " Good-by, my dear. Give my love to Mary Anne," 
 says the Squire, signing to the man to help his mistress 
 up. When the old lady was safe hoisted on the seat 
 of the little carriage, once more she put out her thin 
 hand, and he took it in his. "There," said he, "be off; 
 don't stay beyond your time." 
 
 " You will have to come for me," said Mrs. Marlow, 
 smiling ; and then Felicia jumped up and they drove 
 away. Then the Squire tramped back into the house 
 again. How dull and lonely it seemed, all of a sudden. 
 Empty rooms ; silence. Why did he let them go ? 
 Confound Mary Anne and her money ! It was all his 
 own doing, and he loved his own way, but it was dismal 
 all the same. What was this } his wife come back for 
 something. For an instant he had fancied her in the 
 
 * " Tous les hommes sont menteurs, inconstanls, faux, bavards, 
 hypocrites, orgueilleux ou laches, meprisables et sensuels ; toutes les 
 femmes sont perfides, artificieuses, vaniteuses ; le monde n'est qu'un egout 
 sans fond ou les phoques les plus informes rampent et se tordent sur des 
 montagnes de fange : mais il y a au monde une chose sainte et sublime ; 
 c'est I'union de deux de ces etres si imparfaits et si affreux. . . ."
 
 SOLA. 239 
 
 room. Marlow pulled down the blind noisily, making 
 his study still darker than it was before ; then he pulled 
 on his wide-awake, and trudged out through the stable- 
 yard into the fields, where he stayed till dinner-time, 
 finding fault with the men for company's sake. Mrs. 
 Marlow had not yet left home in spirit, though she 
 was driving away through the lanes ; she was roaming 
 through the house, and pondering on this plan and that 
 for the Squire's comfort : and Felicia was flying ahead 
 of gigs and raihvays, through a sort of dream landscape, 
 all living and indistinct, like one of Turner's pictures. 
 That was London — that dim, harmonious city ; and 
 Jim was there ; and Captain Baxter, would he come 
 and see them, she wondered .^ Perhaps they might 
 meet one day suddenly ; and then her London heart, 
 as she called it, began to throb. 
 
 VL 
 
 The old house in Queen Square stood hospitably 
 waiting for the travellers. An old butler came to the 
 door ; an old lady, looking something like the Squire 
 in a bonnet, beamed down to meet them. Two old 
 four-post beds wxre prepared for Felicia and her grand-
 
 240 SOLA. 
 
 mother. There was some indescribable family likeness 
 to Harpington in the quiet old house, with its potpourri 
 pots, and Chinese junks, and faded carpets, and narrow 
 slit windows. But the welcome was warmer ; for 
 Miss Marlow nodded, and brightened, and twinkled 
 more often in five minutes than the Squire in his whole 
 lifetime. 
 
 " How do you do ? Welcome, my dear. Well ! " — 
 taking both her hands — "are you very much in love .-^ 
 Pretty thing, isn't she .'' Eliza, I wish you had brought 
 my brother with you. Come up, come up. There, this 
 is the drawing-room, and this is the balcony, with a 
 nice little iron table for lovers to sit at. Now come 
 upstairs. There is some one to dinner. Matthew, send 
 my maid. We must make the bride look prettier still 
 for dinner; mustn't we, Jim.^" 
 
 Miss Marlow enjoyed nothing so much as a romance, 
 for she had been in love many many times herself 
 
 " And so you say Robert is not a bit changed since 
 he was last here .'' why, that is a century ago at least ; 
 we are a good wearing family, and as for Felicia, I 
 hope she will look just as she does now for twenty 
 years to come." 
 
 They all had some tea very sociably together. 
 Miss Marlow poured it out, with her bonnet very much 
 on one side. Mrs. Marlow, imagined it to be London
 
 SOLA. 241 
 
 fashion, and mentally railed at new-fangled London 
 ways ; as for Felicia, — breathless, excited, with radiating 
 grey eyes, — she took in all that was round about her 
 — the aunt, the old servants, the potpourri, the fusty 
 cushions and gilt tables, the winding Westminster streets 
 outside, the Park, the distant roar of the town, the tops 
 of statues, and turrets, the Horse Guards, — and ah ! the 
 Prince of Wales actually in person, riding down Birdcage 
 Walk. She went upstairs to dress for dinner, and pre- 
 sently Mrs. Marlow came in with some ancient amethyst 
 ornaments. 
 
 " Here, Felicia, I shall not wear them myself You 
 may have them," she said. 
 
 Felicia, who had been looking disconsolately in the 
 glass at a pretty face and shining hair, was charmed, 
 and instantly fastened the bygone elegance round her 
 slim white neck, and felt herself beautiful. 
 
 " Oh, thank you, grandmamma. Shall you wear 
 your jaspers .'' " Felicia asked. 
 
 But Mrs. Marlow answered abruptly, she was tired, 
 and she should not come down at all. She looked 
 black and rigid, and it was in vain Felicia implored her 
 to relent in her determination. 
 
 " Your great-grandfather's will was iniquitous," said 
 Mrs. Marlow, absently. " Mary Anne has no possible 
 right to this house. Yes, I shall remain in my room. 
 
 16
 
 242 SOLA. 
 
 You may stay with me, Felicia, if you feel as I do on 
 the subject." 
 • " Oh, grandmamma ! " gasped poor Fay. " It hap- 
 pened such a very long time ago. I think I will go 
 down." 
 
 " You can do as you like in the matter, and judge 
 for yourself," said Mrs. Marlow, coldly. " Send me 
 that volume I gave you to read on the way." 
 
 And so Felicia left her grandmother reading a 
 volume of Porteous's sermons, and escaped much re- 
 lieved, and went and knocked at her aunt's door to tell 
 her of the change. Miss Marlow popped her head, still 
 in her bonnet, out of her bedroom. 
 
 "Not coming! Dear me, what a pity. Ready.'' — 
 
 that is right, my dear : make yourself pretty, for Captain 
 
 Baxter is come." 
 
 ***** 
 
 A kind fate sometimes gives people what they wish 
 for long long before they have ventured even to expect 
 it ; Felicia had hoped to see Baxter once perhaps, or 
 twice, — meeting in a street just before she left, — and 
 now, the very first evening of her arrival, she was told 
 he was come — downstairs, actually in the house ! Make 
 herself pretty ! Her checks brightened up of their own 
 accord, her lips began to smile, and such sweet, gay, 
 childish happiness beamed from her grey eyes, that
 
 SOLA 243 
 
 Miss Marlow was obliged to come out of her room and 
 embrace her on the spot then and there. 
 
 Felicia lingered a little as she went, and as she 
 lingered it was with an odd feeling that she recognized 
 the twins of some of the old home things, some chairs 
 like those at Harpington, and some old Italian china, 
 and a plate not unlike the Sola plate at home, with 
 arabesques and ornaments, but no clasped hands were 
 there. Felicia came to the drawing-room door, at last, 
 hesitated and went in very slowly. James had not come 
 down. Felicia in her amethysts turned pale, as Baxter, 
 who was standing alone in the room, came up to greet 
 the young lady. 
 
 At a first glance Aurelius thought Felicia very much 
 changed. She looked older, graver ; perhaps the dusty 
 damask, and gorgeous picture-frames, and gilt tables 
 made a less becoming background than the ivy walls 
 and periwinkles at Harpington. 
 
 " I am so glad to see you again," he said. " It was 
 very kind of Miss Marlow to let me come and meet you." 
 
 As Aurelius finished this little speech, he looked 
 at her again. What had he been dreaming of.-* she 
 was prettier, far far prettier than he remembered her 
 even. A sort of curious bright look, half conscious, 
 half doubting, was in her eyes ; she blushed and 
 smiled.
 
 244 SOLA. 
 
 " I am so glad you have come. I was afraid I 
 should only see you by chance," said she. 
 
 " We have not had a talk since that last time we 
 parted," said Aurelius, stupidly ; " but little Lucy 
 treasured up her flowers." 
 
 "And you believed me.''" Felicia cried earnestly, 
 flushing as she spoke. 
 
 " I never doubted you," said Aurelius ; and he 
 believed he was speaking the truth. Beauty is the 
 most positive of all convictions. 
 
 The others presently came into the room. Miss 
 Marlow resplendent and ushered in by gongs. 
 
 " James, take your bride in to dinner," she cried, with 
 a nod and an intelligent look at Baxter, who glanced 
 at the two and then stifily offered his arm to the old 
 lady. The Captain was a favourite with Miss Marlow, 
 who liked good looks, and had not yet got over an 
 early penchant for the army. She had asked him first 
 at James's suggestion, and now counted on him as an 
 agreeable escort on the many occasions she had already 
 devised for taking herself and Felicia to see sights, 
 theatres, parties, toilettes. There was no end to the 
 things Miss Marlow wanted to take Felicia to see. 
 
 Mrs. Marlow let her sister-in-law go her own way. 
 She could not forgive her, and would not join many 
 of the schemes and expeditions. She was envious,
 
 SOLA. 245 
 
 lonely, and home-sick : after that first day she would 
 come down and set dismally in a corner ; but, in her 
 way, she was touched by Felicia's delight, and, perhaps, 
 she wondered if she had always done enough for the 
 happiness of the two children she had reared. Felicia 
 and her betrothed behaved exactly as usual. Jim 
 tried to find a proof of Fay's affection for him in the 
 long hours she spent among the ribbons and gauzes of 
 her trousseau. The girl brightened, chattered, ruled 
 her kind and patient little lover with an iron rod, and 
 then rewarded him by one word of happiness. If she 
 was happy it was all he asked. Poor Jim ! his was but 
 a small share of all this excitement and pleasure. Fay 
 wounded him one day by saying before Baxter, "You 
 don't look at all like a husband, Jim ; you are much 
 more like an uncle." This was the first time she had 
 ever talked about their approaching marriage. In vain 
 Jim spoke of coming times, and tried to find out what 
 was in her mind. She shifted, parried, doubled, and 
 finally would run away altogether ; she was too happy 
 in the present to face the future, and all Felicia's present, 
 like a dissolving view, had opened and revealed delights 
 more endless even, than any she had imagined for herself. 
 Many people seeing her sitting in the Park one 
 morning between Jim and Captain Baxter looked a 
 second time and smiled at the dazzling young creature.
 
 246 SOLA. 
 
 There was a great flower-becl of red rhododendrons just 
 behind her chair. She had put on one of her pretty 
 new trousseau dresses ; she was gay, glad, happy, 
 beyond any happiness she had ever conceived before. 
 As for her approaching marriage, I do not honestly 
 believe she had ever given it a single thought ; all she 
 knew was that she was sitting there with Jim to take 
 care of her, and to wait as long as ever she liked, with 
 Baxter — who was kind now, and who no longer thought 
 her heartless — with a sight so glittering and cheerful 
 that that alone would have been enough for her. The 
 horses went by with their beautiful shining necks and 
 smooth clean-cut limbs ; the amazons rode along, laugh- 
 ing and talking as they passed ; the young men, mag- 
 nificent and self-conscious, were squaring their elbows 
 and swooping by on their big horses ; the grand 
 dresses and ladies went rustling along the footpath ; the 
 pleasant green park spread and gleamed ; a sort of song 
 of talk, and footsteps and sunshine was in the air. 
 High over head the little pinkish grey London clouds 
 were sailing across the blue sky, and the long distant 
 lines of white houses, were twinkling with light. And 
 yet nothing is quite perfect ; why did Aurelius ask 
 her just then when the marriage was to take place 1 
 
 " Marriage ! " said Felicia, " what marriage ? Ours 
 do you mean .'' Oh, any time."
 
 SOLA. 247 
 
 " My grandfather talks of August," said James 
 gravely. 
 
 " August ! when is August ? " said Felicia, looking 
 a little strangely. For the first time a swift quick pang 
 of certainty seemed to come over her. It was like 
 nothing that she had ever felt before. But she was 
 brave, young, and confident ; she wanted to be happy, 
 and so in a moment her dancing grey eyes were raised 
 to Baxter's. 
 
 " You must never talk about our wedding again," 
 she said ; " we don't like it. We mean to be happy 
 while we can, without troubling ourselves about the 
 future; don't we, Jim?" 
 
 "I hope we shall be happy any way, dear," said 
 Jim, gravely. 
 
 Aurelius looked from one to the other and thought 
 this was the strangest love-making he had ever witnessed. 
 The next time he came he brought a little parcel in his 
 hand, which he asked her, in an ashamed sort of voice, 
 to accept as a token of sympathy on an occasion he was 
 not permitted to name. Felicia had heard of wedding- 
 presents, but had not thought they would come to her. 
 She screamed with delight, seeing a beautiful little gold- 
 glittering ring for her arm, from which a crystal locket 
 was hanging. 
 
 " Oh, how pretty ! " she cried. " Is it for me — really
 
 248 SOLA. 
 
 for me ? Oh, thank you. Look, Jim ; look grand- 
 mamma." 
 
 Mrs. Marlow looked, and dryly said it must have 
 cost a good deal of money. As for Felicia, she was 
 radiant. The loan of her grandmother's amethysts had 
 charmed her ; how much more this lovely thing, glitter- 
 ing, twinkling, her very own. It was a link, poor little 
 soul, in her future destiny. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Days went on, and the time was drawing near for 
 their return. Felicia's pretty gowns were bought, and 
 Miss Marlow's hundred pounds expended. The old 
 Squire wrote to his wife bidding her come home and 
 bring the girl. Our poor little Proserpine, whose creed 
 it was to live in the present, and to pick the flowers, and 
 not to trouble herself with what she did not see, woke 
 one day to find that the present was nearly over, and 
 the past was beginning again. The past ! — was she to 
 go back to it, to leave life and light for that tomb in 
 which she had been bred, to see Aurclius no more, 
 London no more, living men and women no more ; live 
 with only sheep, only silence, onl}- shadows, and the 
 drone of insects to fill up the rest of her life ; only Jim, 
 Jim whose every thought and word and look she knew 
 by heart .-' " Oh ! it was horrible ; it was a shame. 
 It shouldn't be. She couldn't go," said Felicia to her-
 
 SOLA. 249 
 
 self. " She would stay on with her aunt. She would 
 ask her. She would not go." She began walking 
 up and down her little bedroom, like a young tigress 
 pacing a narrow cage. Her grandmother looked in, 
 hearing a hasty rush of footsteps, and Felicia stopped 
 short in her walk. 
 
 " Is anything the matter 1 " said ]\Irs. Marlow. 
 
 " Nothing, grandmamma," said Felicia. And then 
 when the door was shut again, once more she began 
 her fierce gymnastics. A few minutes before James 
 had said, " We must come again when we are 
 married, Felicia, and see all the sights we leave unseen 
 now." 
 
 " There is plenty of time," says Felicia. 
 
 " Three days," says James. 
 
 "Three days," cries the girl ; "but I don't mean to 
 go, I don't want to go, I shall stay, James, do you hear ? 
 Aunt Mary Anne will ask me. How imkind you are." 
 
 " I am afraid Aunt Mary Anne is packing up to go, 
 too," said poor stupid James. "Dear, some day when 
 I have the right to bring you, you shall come for as 
 long as you like." 
 
 " Some day ! I want it now," cries Felicia. " I 
 haven't seen the waxworks or the lions. I — I zci// 
 stay," she flashed at him in a passion. And then, as 
 usual, she ran away, realizing that she was talking
 
 250 SOLA. 
 
 nonsense, that she was powerless, that she was only 
 a girl, and that here was happiness, delight, interest, 
 a world where every hour meant its own special delight, 
 sympathy, friendship ; and friendship was more than love, 
 thought Felicia, a thousand times, and she might not 
 taste it. To be her own self, that was what Felicia 
 longed for. Here in London life seemed made for her ; 
 there at Harpington it seemed to her, looking back, 
 that she was like one of the periwinkles growing round 
 the garden-gate. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Baxter was, as I have said, a widower ; he looked back 
 to his early married days now from the heights of thirty- 
 five. Life was not to him the wonderful strange new 
 thing it seemed to Felicia, coming from her periwinkle 
 haunts, from the still lichen-grown walls of brick, which 
 so effectually keep out many spiritual things, and within 
 which all her existence had been enclosed. When 
 Baxter found himself gratefully accepting Miss Marlow's 
 invitations to dinner, coming day after day to the old 
 dark house, patiently waiting among the needlework, 
 chairs, and cushions in the gorgeous drawing-room ; 
 planning one scheme and another to give pleasure to
 
 SOLA. 251 
 
 little Felicia, who was so happy, and in such delight 
 at his coming, — when he found himself thinking of her 
 constantly, and living perpetually in her company, he 
 said to himself — for he was a loyal gentleman — that this 
 must not be. It was a pity, but it must not be. He 
 had respected his wife, but she had never charmed him. 
 People generally destined him for her cousin, Miss 
 Flower ; but now he began to tell himself that this also 
 was impossible. There had been one real story in his life, 
 of which people knew nothing, which was told now, and 
 to which (for it was there written and finished) there 
 were no new chapters to add, for the dictating spirit was 
 gone for ever. As for Emily Flower, she and Aurelius 
 understood each other very well : they were sincere 
 friends, nothing more, and they let people talk as they 
 perhaps talked of others in turn, without caring or 
 knowing very much of concerns that were not their own. 
 If Felicia had not been going back so soon, and her 
 fate decided, and if James himself had not asked him 
 again and again to come home, to join them in one 
 excursion and another, Baxter might have kept to his 
 good resolves, and avoided the bright sweet young 
 sylph who had beguiled him. But it was for such a 
 little while, surely there was no harm in it, he told 
 himself. She would not guess his secret, poor little 
 thing — sacrificed to the old people's convenience and
 
 252 SOLA. 
 
 cupidity. Suddenly, thinking of it all, of Felicia's 
 unconsciousness, a sort of indignation seized the young 
 man at the thought of this marriage. Some one should 
 save her ; some one should hold her back — say a 
 Avarning word before it was too late. He would inter- 
 fere ; he would go to Mrs. Marlow and protest. But then 
 came a thought of Jim, generous, gentle, unselfish, full 
 of heart and affection, — worth a dozen Felicias, thought 
 Baxter, who was not blind to her faults — only he loved 
 her all the same — and Jim also loved her, and Felicia 
 was indifferent ; that was the cruel part of the bargain. 
 
 Who are we, to judge for others } In after days, 
 Baxter remembered his indignation, remembered it in 
 shame and in remorse. It was too late then to change 
 the past ; but not too late to regret it. 
 
 Felicia cried herself to sleep that night, and again 
 Mrs. Marlow came into the child's room, and stood by 
 the great four-post bed, Avhere the little creature was 
 writhing and starting. 
 
 " Fay, my dear," said the old lady, " you forget 
 yourself. Wake up. What is it .' " 
 
 Felicia woke up, with her great sleepy eyes full of 
 tears, stared about her vaguely, and then fell asleep 
 again, as girls do. 
 
 I think, if she had spoken then, the old lady would 
 have helped her ; but she slept quietly, and Mrs.
 
 SOLA. 253 
 
 Marlow, who had been frightened, left her. Fehcia was 
 so little used to talk to her grandmother, that she did 
 not know how to do it. She would as soon have 
 thought of telling the marble washstand that she was 
 unhappy. 
 
 But, nevertheless, Jim had spoken, and Felicia's 
 looks had implored, and Mrs. Marlow, with heroic self- 
 sacrifice, had written to ask for leave to stay another 
 week. Felicia, hearing the great news, never for an 
 instant doubted that all was right, and once more she 
 embarked in her golden seas of contentment. 
 
 There was a little expedition she looked forward to 
 with some excitement. It should be the last, Baxter 
 had mentally decided. There was to be a river, a row, 
 a tea-making in the woods. Little Lucy and her 
 cousin, Miss Flower, were to come to it, and James, and 
 Fay, and Miss Marlow, who was always ready to enjoy 
 herself Mrs. Marlow, according to her wont, said she 
 should not be able to go. 
 
 Felicia came down early that morning to breakfast, 
 and flung open a window to let in a fresh gust of early 
 London soot. Some distant cries reached her ears. 
 A morning sight of busy park and passing people 
 spread before her. Some far-away bells were ringing. 
 All was wide, bright, and misty. She tried to realize 
 her own happiness for a minute ; but couldn't. A
 
 254 SOLA. 
 
 Avhole day's pleasuring — a whole week's respite. Her 
 grandmother had written, and all was well. Another 
 week ! Another week was another lifetime ; and she 
 need not trouble herself about what would come 
 after. 
 
 " Oh, Jim, I am so happy," she said, going up to 
 him, as he came into the room. 
 
 And then came post, tea-urns, old ladies, and funny 
 old mahogany tea-caddies ; and then came, once more, 
 swift, and sharp, and overAvhelming, a pang of disap- 
 pointment more cruel than any that had gone before. 
 
 " I have heard from your grandfather," said Mrs. 
 Marlow, quite cheerfully (as if it did not seem a matter 
 of life and death to poor Fay), " and he says, my dear, 
 that we have been away quite long enough, and that wc 
 must start to-morrow, as we first arranged." 
 
 "To-morrow 1 " gasped the girl, in a strange numb 
 horror. 
 
 " I suppose you have got your finery, and I hope 
 '•'James has bought the gold ring," (reading). "There 
 " is nothing to wait for now, and the wedding may as 
 " well take place on your return. The banns shall be 
 " put up next Sunday, and there need be no more talk 
 " about the matter. As for Parsons, the way he has 
 " behaved about that horse was only what might have 
 " been expected. I shall have him up at the next
 
 SOLA. 255 
 
 " assizes, and let the county see that I am not the man 
 " to be put upon. Remember me to Mary Anne. . . ." 
 So read the old lady. 
 
 Felicia heard no more : she listened, turning white 
 and red over her teacup : she looked up once imploringly 
 at James, and met a shy adoring glance that made her 
 hate him. Mrs. Marlow nodded relief. Miss Marlow 
 was beaming and kissing her hand ; the old butler, who 
 had come in with some boiling water, seemed to guess 
 what was passing, and he too smiled. And Felicia, was 
 cold, pale, furious, in a strange desperate state of mind — 
 desperate, and yet determined, and sure even in her 
 despair of some secret help somewhere — she did not tell 
 herself whence it was to come. — She could bear it no 
 longer, and jumping up, white as a ghost, she ran out 
 of the room. 
 
 Felicia never forgot that day in its strange jumble of 
 happiness and misery. Baxter was right when he 
 called her cold-hearted. She no more cared for Jim, no 
 more thought of his possible pain, than she thought of 
 the feelings of the footman who opened the door, or 
 the stoker who drove the engine. 
 
 The sun shone, the engine was whistling ; Aurelius, 
 holding little Lucy by the hand, and accompanied by a 
 smiling young lady in a hat and long blue veil, met 
 them at the station. Jim, still unconscious of his com-
 
 256 SOLA. 
 
 panion's silence and preoccupation, pulled her arm 
 through his and carried her along the long line of 
 carriages, leaving his aunt to Aurelius' care. All the 
 way Jim had talked and asked questions in his unusual 
 elation ; every word he said worried and jarred upon 
 the girl. Now, in his happiness, he went on talking and 
 chirping, but Felicia was in a cloud, and did not listen : 
 sometimes waking up, she thought of appealing to him 
 then and there, in the carriage, with all the others to 
 take her part, and of imploring him to help her — to 
 what .'' to escape from him. Sometimes she felt that 
 her one chance would be to run away, and never be 
 heard of again ; sometimes, with a start, she asked her- 
 self what was this new terrible thing hanging over her — 
 this close-at-hand horrible fate — made for her, such as 
 no one before had ever experienced. Then for some 
 minutes, as was her nature, she put it all away, and 
 began to play cat's-cradle with little Lucy Baxter, who 
 was sitting beside her. 
 
 They reached Henley at last, scudding through 
 broad sunny meadows, with a sight of blue summer 
 woods, and of the hills overhanging the flooding river ; 
 they lunched at the old red brick house, with the great 
 lilac westerias hanging and flowering, and then they 
 took a boat and rowed against the stream to Wargrave. 
 Sliding, gliding along, against the rush of the clear
 
 SOLA. 257 
 
 Avater, past the swirls of the wavelets, and the rat-holes, 
 and the pools ; among the red reeds and white flowers, 
 along damp, sweet banks of tangle and grass. It 
 soothed and quieted poor Felicia's fever ; by degrees a 
 feeling came to her of a whole Avorld passing away in 
 remorseless motion and of a fate against which it was 
 vain to struggle. This was life and fate to be travelling 
 along between green banks, with summer sights, and 
 flying birds, and woods and wreathing green things all 
 about, while the stream of life and feeling flowed away 
 quick in a contrary direction, with a rapid rush, carrying 
 the sticks and leaves and mementoes, and passing lights 
 along with it. And so at last she was soothed and 
 calmed a little as the boat swung on. Perhaps there is 
 happiness even in travelling against one's fate, thought 
 poor Felicia, despairing. The happiest person in that 
 boat-load was little Luc}', who had not yet reached her 
 life, and next to her the old lady, who was well nigh 
 over it, who sat talking and chirping to Miss Flower. 
 James was silent, for he had at last discovered Felicia's 
 abstraction, and he had seen that she did not hear him 
 when he spoke to her. But when Aurelius once made 
 a little joke, Felicia brightened up again, and suddenly 
 seemed to throw off the cloud which oppressed her. 
 
 As the boats touched the shore they saw a fire 
 burning in the little wood ; the smoke was rising blue 
 
 17
 
 258 SOLA. 
 
 and curling, and the flames sparkling among the sticks. 
 All the summcr-grccn slopes of the wood were bright 
 with leaves, twigs, buds, fragrant points ; faint showers 
 of light, and blossom, and perfume seemed falling upon 
 the branches ; it may have been the effect of the sun- 
 beams shining on the woods lighting the waters. The 
 lodge-keeper's wife had lighted the fire, which smoked 
 and sparkled, and Emily Flower made tea. Aurelius 
 laughed and shook his head when she offered him some, 
 — tea was not much in his line, he said ; nor was Felicia 
 yet of an age much given to tea-drinking : that is a 
 consolation which is reserved for her elders, who are 
 more in need of such mild stimulation ; but she stirred 
 her cup, and set it down upon the grass, and waved 
 away the flies with the stem of a wild rose that James 
 had picked for her. 
 
 Every now and then Felicia stole a glance at Miss 
 Flower. She could not understand that demure young 
 lady, who looked so little, spoke so rarel}-. She seemed 
 so unlike any of Felicia's experiences (experiences, by 
 the \\ay, which were chiefly confined to herself, for she 
 had never had a companion), that Felicia could not 
 understand her. Emily Flower, however, understood 
 Felicia ver}' well, and the two did not somehow seem to 
 amalgamate. h'elicia A\ished that she could be sure 
 Miss Flower and Aurelius were nothing to each
 
 SOLA. 259 
 
 other. She looked from one to the other more than 
 once. 
 
 "Are you still happy, Felicia.''" said Jim, sadly, 
 coming up to her as she stood there waving her rose- 
 branch. 
 
 " Happy .'' " said Felicia. " No ; I am miserable." 
 
 " What makes you miserable 1 " James asked. 
 
 For a moment she had a mind to tell him ; then her 
 courage failed. 
 
 " I can't go back," she cried, evading the truth, with 
 a sudden impetuous burst of emotion. "Oh, Jim, if you 
 loved me yoLi would help me ; but you don't, and I 
 hate you!" Then a minute after she was suddenly 
 sorry for him for the first time that day, and as he 
 stood silent and hurt, she put her hand on his arm. 
 " You know I don't hate you, Jim," she said, piteously. 
 " How silly you are to mind." And she dashed the 
 rose-branch across her face to wipe away her tears. 
 
 Nobody noticed this little scene, except perhaps 
 Aurelius, who had been standing near, and who walked 
 away with little Lucy and began pulling down ivy- 
 wreaths for the child. 
 
 I don't know how he knew, but at that minute Jim, 
 in his turn looking from one to the other, seemed to 
 understand it all. He left Felicia for a minute, and 
 then came back, wistfully.
 
 26o SOLA. 
 
 " Can't you trust me, Felicia ? " he said, in odd, 
 doubtful voice. 
 
 But poor Fay had not even trust to give him as yet. 
 She did not understand, and stared with beautiful list- 
 less grey eyes. Then she went and flung herself down 
 by the fire, and watched the flame crackling and drifting 
 among the glowing twigs, and listened to her aunt 
 talking on and on to Miss Flower, and to the sound of 
 the river running by the bank, and washing against the 
 leaves and the grasses. . . . 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The tea-party was over — they were floating with the 
 stream again, and travelling back at a rapid pace past 
 the trim green rustic lawns at Wargrave towards Henley 
 — past a desolate-looking island, where a barge was 
 floating ; past banks of wild roses, flowering and hanging 
 in fanciful garlands : golden flags were springing, and 
 lilies opening their chalices, and stars, white and violet, 
 were studding the banks of this lovely summer-w'orld. 
 Then they left it all, and passed into a dark cavernous 
 dungeon of waters, shut in by great wooden doors. 
 Felicia was not yet used to locks, and she and little
 
 SOLA. 261 
 
 Lucy grasped each other's hands as the boat began 
 sinking into the depths, sinking to the roar of the weir 
 and the mill, into slimy green profundities, hollowed and 
 destroyed by the discoloured tides. The little rose- 
 cottage where the keeper lived went right up into the 
 air — so did his little children, who had rushed out to 
 help to open the sluices. 
 
 Down went the boat to the very depths : the great 
 green dripping walls were covered with slime and weeds ; 
 up above roses were flowering on the surface of the earth ; 
 down here the sunlight scarcely touched the gloom, and 
 dank dripping mould and creeping vegetation. Little 
 waterfalls burst through the rotten gates and fell roaring 
 and rushing into the dark waters. 
 
 " Oh, what a terrible place," said Felicia. 
 
 Miss Marlow gave a little .shriek as the boat bumped 
 suddenly against the side of the lock. 
 
 "Are you frightened .'' " said Baxter to Felicia. 
 
 " Yes," said Felicia ; and then she looked up and 
 
 smiled. " I mean no," she said, " not if you " Then, 
 
 seeing that James was looking at her, she stopped short. 
 
 Jim, who was standing up wnth the boat-hook in his 
 hand, turned away ; and, stooping over the edge of the 
 boat, looked at something deep down in the river. Per- 
 haps a minute may have passed — it seemed a very long 
 while to him. When he looked up again, Felicia was
 
 262 SOLA. 
 
 blushing still, the great gates were opening, the water was 
 pouring through, and a glimpse of the sweet flowing river 
 shone once more between the great portals : it all looked 
 more lovely if possible for the gloom in which they had 
 been waiting. 
 
 Then Jim and Baxter pushed with their long boat- 
 hooks, and the boat began to slide out from the dark 
 jaws in which it had been enclosed. The gates creaked 
 as they opened wide : the boat was almost between 
 them, — when something happened. I cannot exactly 
 tell how, a great barge that A\as waiting outside began 
 to move, and struck against the gate. The lock-man 
 had been called away, one of the two boys turning the 
 pulley tripped and fell, the other boy's hand slipped ; 
 the windlass began to untwist rapidly, and the great 
 gates to close fast upon the little boat. 
 
 " Pull ! pull ! " shouted Baxter, who was at the bow, 
 to James, who had instinctively begun to back. 
 
 Their two contrary efforts delayed them for. an 
 instant ; James, seeing the danger, with a great effort 
 caught at the gate with his boat-hook, and, with an 
 impetus from his whole body, urged the boat through. 
 It was just in time, the boat was safe, the barge was 
 stopped ; but the boat-hook stuck in the wood, and 
 before any one could help him, Jim was over and 
 splashing in the water.
 
 SOLA. 263 
 
 It was no very great matter : a punt close at hand 
 came to his help, and the httle boat's crew landed, and 
 waited in the garden while the lock-keeper dried Jim's 
 clothes. The man lent him some of his own while the 
 others were drying, and Jim, coming out of the little 
 rose-cottage in a fustian jacket, top-boots, and a fur cap, 
 found Miss Flower sitting on a little green wooden bench 
 under a rose-tree. He saw old Miss Marlow's broad 
 back as she stood placid, gazing at the river, and 
 Aurelius and Felicia and little Lucy were wandering 
 along the banks under the little row of willow-trees in 
 the meadow, where the co^\'S Avere crunching the butter- 
 cups. There was a bird singing somewhere, and a dog 
 leaping in the grass, and a sweet flood of peaceful light. 
 
 Miss Marlow turned round from her contemplation 
 of the river, hearing Jim's voice. She came up and took 
 his arm, and leaning heavily, proposed that they should 
 follow the others. 
 
 " Come, Miss Flower, you are not doing your duty," 
 said the old lady, "allowing your cousin to flirt as he 
 does with engaged young ladies." 
 
 But Emily said gravely, " No, thank you. I am 
 tired, and I will wait for you here." 
 
 Felicia and Lucy had found great bunches of forget- 
 me-nots growing down by the river. They were trying 
 to tempt the cows to come and eat them.
 
 264 SOLA. 
 
 It was about eight o'clock when they reached the 
 station. Little Lucy was to go home immediately, and 
 to bed. She and Emily Flower had come up for a 
 two-days' visit to a friend. Miss Marlow, like an old 
 goose, instead of saying good-by, cordially invited 
 Captain Baxter to come back to supper with them. 
 Wouldn't Miss Flower come, too, if they dropped little 
 Lucy on their way .-' But again Miss Flower refused 
 very decidedly. 
 
 " I think Lady Mary expected you, Aurelius," she 
 said. 
 
 " Then I will go with you," said Aurelius. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Flower, our last night ! " cried Miss 
 Marlow, reproachfully. 
 
 And then poor Emily, who could not bear to seem 
 grasping and unreasonable, said, blushing, that she could 
 easily explain to Lady Mary, and she begged Aurelius to 
 call a hansom for her and Lucy, and the two drove off 
 to the house in Chesham Place, where they were staying. 
 They were to go home the next morning. 
 
 Felicia and her aunt went off together in a brougham 
 which had been waiting, and reached Queen Square 
 some little time before the two gentlemen arrived. 
 P'elicia's first question was for her grandmother. The 
 old butler said that Mrs. IMarlow was in her room. 
 She had been out that afternoon, and came home about
 
 SOLA. 265 
 
 four o'clock complaining of faintness. Felicia thought 
 her looking ill, when she ran in in the glad way that 
 girls burst in after a pleasant day. 
 
 " Are you ill, dear grandmamma ? We have had 
 such a day," said the girl. " Oh dear me, why is it 
 over .'' I wish you had been with us. Oh, how I wish we 
 were not going to-morrow. What has been the matter } " 
 
 " I don't know," said Mrs. Marlow a little strangel}'. 
 " I have been ill and out of spirits. I could not have 
 stayed away longer from home, Felicia. I have suffered 
 too much for your pleasure as it is." 
 
 Felicia flushed up, hurt. " My pleasure, dear grand- 
 mamma ! I don't have so very much." 
 
 " You never think of anything else," said Mrs. 
 Marlow. " Girls are always thinking of their pleasure : 
 they don't mind what pain they give others," the old 
 lady went on, still in this strange excited way. " There 
 is your grandfather alone ; here am I quite ill and over- 
 done. I shall be thankful when this marriage is over." 
 
 " You need not tell me that," cried the girl, indignant. 
 " I know it." 
 
 " When a thing is settled and determined, the sooner 
 it is done with the better," said Mrs. Marlow. 
 
 Fay's heart began to beat. 
 
 " Determined and settled, grandmamma ! " she cried. 
 " I think it is cruel the way in which you and grandpapa
 
 266 SOLA. 
 
 talk : you have settled everything for us, and it is cruel 
 yes, cruel ! I can do nothing, and no one will help me, 
 and you care for nothing, so long as grandpapa has his 
 own selfish way," said the girl. 
 
 " Hush ! " said Mrs. Marlow, white and angry. 
 " This is not the way for you to speak of }'our grand- 
 father. I am frightened by your impertinence." 
 
 The poor lady was ill, nervous, thoroughly unstrung, 
 almost for the first time since Felicia had known her. 
 She had never before taken any of the girl's outbursts 
 seriously. Fay, too, was excited, unreasonable. The 
 idea of breaking off had never occurred to her till that 
 day ; she was in an agitated state of mind, impression- 
 able, easily upset. 
 
 It all happened in a moment. Miss Marlow had 
 barely time to pant upstairs to find the two in high 
 controversy — Felicia in tears, Mrs. Marlow flushed and 
 agitated. 
 
 " What is the matter .' My dear Eliza, I am so 
 .sorry to hear of your indisposition. Fay, go and get 
 ready for dinner," cried Miss Marlow. 
 
 It would have been better, far better for Felicia, if 
 they had ended their little quarrel ; fought it out, and 
 made it up with tears. As it was. Miss Marlow sepa- 
 rated them, and when the gong sounded Felicia, still 
 indignant, came into her grandmother's room.
 
 SOLA. 267 
 
 '* I am going down, grandmamma ; are you ready ? " 
 
 The old lady was busy packing in the hair-box. 
 
 " You had better go, Felicia ; " said Mrs. Marlow, 
 without looking up. " I will follow. Pray remember 
 never again to speak to me of your grandfather as you 
 did just now. It is what I cannot listen to." 
 
 She spoke so coldly, that once more Felicia felt a 
 thrill of injured indignation ; and she swept downstairs 
 with a heart aching sorely, notwithstanding all the 
 pleasures of the day. 
 
 IX. 
 
 It was in the evening. They had all finished dinner. 
 Mrs. Marlow had gone up again to see to her packing ; 
 Miss Marlow had got up from table and come away into 
 the after-dinner drawing-room, holding Felicia's hand in 
 hers. Baxter — (Miss Marlow, as I have said, had insisted 
 on his coming. I cannot imagine how a woman of her 
 sentimental experience can have been so silly. Is it 
 possible that a, thought of thwarting her brother may 
 have added a little malice to her hospitality .'') — Baxter, 
 who had come back at the old lady's request to say 
 good-by, was sitting with James in the dining-room.
 
 268 SOLA. 
 
 The great windows were wide open upon the balcony, 
 and the dusky park gloomed without, at once hot and 
 cool and mysterious. P^elicia, who had scarcely spoken 
 all dinner-time, who was angry still, was summoning up 
 her courage to speak now — to say what was in her heart 
 — to implore Miss Marlow to help her. She loved Jim 
 dearly, dearly. Some day, years and years hence, she 
 would marry him if he wished it ; but now, ah, no ! it 
 was impossible. She fell down upon her two knees by 
 her aunt's low chair, then for a minute was silent, looking 
 out across the grey evening, watching the distant lights, 
 the bright stars shining clear in the faint summer sk}'. 
 She thought of the river flowing on — of Jim and his 
 faithful kindness, with more affection and remorse, I 
 think, at this minute, than in all her life before ; and 
 then suddenly she burst out, in her childish, plaintive 
 voice, seizing Miss Marlow's hand tight in her two eager 
 little palms — " Oh, tell me what is to happen — what is 
 to happen ! Oh, aunt Mary Anne, what shall I do } " 
 
 Aunt Mary Anne was a co\\ard at heart. She turned 
 round and stared at the imploring face upturned to her ; 
 she had not realized the edged tools with which she had 
 been playing when she brought two impulsive young 
 people together. There had been, as I have said, a little 
 quiet spite in her doings ; a little selfishness, for she 
 liked the Captain's company ; a little common-sense and
 
 SOLA. 269 
 
 good-will and a feeling that Felicia should see some other 
 man in all the world beside Jim, before she retired with 
 him for ever to the solitudes of Harpington. But Miss 
 Marlow had judged by her own vague and manifold 
 sentimental experiences. Felicia's strange looks that 
 afternoon, her sudden cry of pain, frightened the elder 
 lady. 
 
 Miss Marlow felt for a moment afraid of poor eager 
 Felicia, and started up all flustered. " Do just what you 
 like, my dear," said the old lady very nervously. " No- 
 body can force you to do anything you don't like. I — I 
 must go and see how your grandmother is getting 
 on." And so saying the old maid trotted out of the 
 room. 
 
 She was gone in a minute, and poor Fay was left 
 frightened and disappointed, - — bitterly, bitterly dis- 
 appointed. "What was the good of being old, of having 
 lived all those years, if she had no help, no kind word to 
 spare for a poor little thing in trouble .-* " thought Felicia. 
 There was a something wild and self-reliant in the girl's 
 nature that would not be daunted. She set her teeth. '' I 
 will make her hear me," she said to herself : she would 
 speak again when this evening was over, when Aurelius 
 was gone, and the last happy hour of her life ended for 
 ever. Presently, sitting there still, she found that Baxter 
 had come in and was talking to her ; she had hardly
 
 ■2.1 o SOLA. 
 
 noticed him at first, so busy was she thinking about him. 
 She jumped up confused, and then they both with the 
 same impulse went out upon the terrace. "James is gone 
 off for a smoke," the Captain was saying, as he followed 
 her. "There he is under the trees." Felicia looked and 
 saw that it was not James, but she did not speak. 
 
 A sort of sleepy apathy had come over Felicia after 
 her day's excitement. She did not care what happened 
 just at that minute. It was like one of her many visions 
 to be sitting there with Baxter, to hear him speak — to 
 listen to his voice in the dusk. What was he saying } He 
 had been praising Jim for the last five minutes. He felt 
 as if by praising the poor boy he made amends somehow 
 for the unowned treachery in his heart against him. 
 
 It was some such feeling which irritated Felicia ; .she 
 was not going to sham and pretend what she did not 
 feel. Ill all her life this faculty had been hers of speaking 
 the truth boldly. Some people have loved her for it ; 
 others have hated her. All this day the poor child had 
 been driven to the very utmost end of her powers by in- 
 ward assaults, and doubts, and terrors, born of the very 
 excitements and happiness of the last few weeks. When 
 Baxter spoke, she said quickly that " it was not Jim's 
 goodness she cared about, and yet he was a hundred 
 times too good for her."
 
 SOLA. 271 
 
 " Too good for you ! " Baxter said, speaking his 
 thought inadvertently. " Ask him. He does not think 
 so : why, it would break his heart to part from you." 
 
 " Do you think so .^ " cried Felicia, desperate. 
 " Do you think people mind very much, when others 
 break their hearts — when these sort of things are 
 broken off.-* Don't you see how unhappy I am.^" she 
 went on. 
 
 Was she false to Jim, poor child, in being true 1 
 She trusted Baxter so utterly ; she was so young, she 
 felt so convinced that she might trust him ; she had 
 begun the talk just now with her aunt — it was but going 
 on with it now, leaning forward with her piteous little 
 face upturned, and waiting for an answer. But no answer 
 came ; no one would help her. Baxter was too loyal to 
 want her confidence. 
 
 ''Come and let us talk to Miss Marlow," he said, 
 very gravely ; " she will want you to come in." 
 
 " No one — no one will help ! " cried Felicia, des- 
 perately. " She won't help me. You won't listen to 
 me, you won't help me," she said, as he turned to go ; 
 it was all over, there was no hope anywhere. 
 
 " Poor child ! " he said. 
 
 " Are you sorry for me } " said Felicia, simply. 
 " Then I don't mind so much." 
 
 " Sorry ! " cried poor Baxter, at an end of his courage.
 
 272 SOLA. 
 
 " Don't you sec how it is, Felicia — that I am trying to 
 be an honest man ? " 
 
 "Oh, what am I to do? Tell mc what I ought to 
 do?" said Felicia, breaking into tears. 
 
 Poor little thing ! Her heart beat, her tears flowed. 
 She trembled so she could not stand, and she put out 
 her hands wildly to grasp some support. She had no 
 strong sense of duty. When had she ev^er seen duty 
 practised in that dreary self-seeking household ? She 
 did not love Jim as she loved Aurelius. She could not 
 understand that, loving and trusting him, she should not 
 appeal to him. 
 
 " Oh, help me ! " she said, once more, wringing her 
 hands. " Oh, I cannot, cannot go back." 
 
 You blame him, and so do I, that he was weak ; that 
 he did not turn away and leave her ; that he caught her 
 two poor little outstretched hands. 
 
 " Oh, Felicia," he said again, " do }'ou think it is you 
 
 only who are unhappy ? Don't you see that I that 
 
 some debts are almost more than we can pay." 
 
 And then he stopped short. What was he saying ? 
 What could he say or do that was not a treachery to his 
 friend ? And yet these two loved each other ; and was 
 it fair that their whole love and life should be marred so 
 that one person should be made half happy, half content ? 
 Only, somehow, Aurelius could not reason thus.
 
 SOLA. 273 
 
 " James trusts us ; and he is right," said he, in an 
 altered voice. 
 
 Poor Aurelius ! If Felicia had been older, different, 
 more able to decide ; but, as it was, he felt that it was 
 for him to take a part. Felicia, heaven bless her ! was 
 ready to give up her faith, her word, if he had desired it. 
 He had dropped her two hands. She stood crying still, 
 and leaning against a chair. 
 
 " I will do what you think I ought," she said. 
 
 It was at that minute that a light from the room fell 
 upon the two, and that some one came and stood in the 
 window, — some one with a pale face, who did not speak 
 for a minute ; then Miss Marlow, following quick and 
 bustling out — 
 
 " Why, James, where have you been .-' " she said. " I 
 have been looking for you. There is a telegram for you. 
 Dear me, it is getting quite chilly, and they have not 
 brought the tea. Would you ring, Captain Baxter "i " 
 
 " I am afraid I must be going," said Baxter, in a 
 steady voice. No one would have guessed from his 
 voice that anything unusual had happened, though his 
 face might have told the story, had the light been upon 
 it. He nodded to James, shook hands with Miss Marlow. 
 Felicia never moved or looked up, nor did he look at 
 her again. Aurelius went down the stairs and passed 
 out by the narrow iron wicket into the Park, and then 
 
 18
 
 274 SOLA. 
 
 all his strength left him. He went and leant against 
 the railings, resting his arm upon the iron, and covering 
 his eyes with his hand. Shut eyes or open, he saw that 
 trembling, wildly-appealing face. It was no use, — it 
 was in vain he had known Felicia. He would do his 
 duty, heaven help them both. His part was clear for 
 the present ; he must go, and see Felicia no more. 
 
 When Aurelius had said good-night to James, the 
 young man had scarcely responded. Baxter did not 
 know how long he had been standing in the window or 
 how much he had heard of what had passed. Aurelius, 
 sorry as he was, vexed, troubled, unhappy, could not but 
 feel that he had acted as an honest man as far as James 
 was concerned. Towards poor little Felicia his conduct 
 had been less praiseworthy. Leaving her, he felt like a 
 traitor, poor fellow ; and yet what could he do but leave 
 her ? Where it was all to end, Aurelius could not tell. 
 He was a man not greatly given to self-dissection and 
 examination. His life had been too active for more than 
 a sort o{ jour Ic jour conscience. He knew that on the 
 whole he hoped to do his duty as a gentleman and a 
 soldier : to wrong no man or woman, to speak the truth, 
 to take a fair advantage of the enemy when he saw a 
 chance. For all his thirty-five years there was a certain 
 boyish rigidity about him ; and having said that black was 
 blue, or discovered that he intended to leap a five-barred
 
 SOLA. 275 
 
 gate, or be in such a place by such a day, black was blue 
 in his eyes, he leaped the gate, he went through any in- 
 convenience to keep his word. I do not know that there 
 is any particular advantage in playing this sort of game 
 of skill with fate and inclination. But it is a way some 
 people have, and they are honest people for the most 
 part. 
 
 Aurelius, contrary to his wont, had allowed himself 
 to drift a little along the stream in the pleasant company 
 he had been keeping of late. Now he stopped short, 
 and as he stood for a minute by the iron railing, he 
 made up his mind. No ; he would not go any more to 
 the house. He would not say good-by to Felicia. He 
 would not meddle in the business. He could not help 
 it if the girl was to be sacrificed. She was not the first 
 or the last woman to make a mistaken marriage, and it 
 was no affair of his. So Baxter walked away angry 
 through the twilight of the summer's night, quick, 
 straight, rigid, disappearing rapidly into the gloom. As 
 he went along he saw Felicia's sad eyes appealing every- 
 where, through the glimmering twigs on the trees, shining 
 from the stars, and once in the gas-lit windows of a shop- 
 front. He did not care, he hardened himself and walked 
 on quicker. Poor Aurelius ! he thought it was a shame 
 to leave her. He told himself again that it was a crime 
 that two people should be sacrificed for so little cause.
 
 276 SOLA. 
 
 He knew James well enough — that scrupulous soul — to 
 be sure that a word would set his conscience swaying 
 and whirling, and secure Felicia's liberty. He knew all 
 this, he knew it would be right. He felt that he was 
 acting wrongly and cruelly, and inflicting unnecessary 
 pain ; and yet, somehow, right as it might be to interfere, 
 he (Baxter) was determined that the deed should not be 
 of his doing. He should not be the one to hand his friend 
 the weapon with which to destroy his happiness, nor to 
 suggest to Felicia the possibility of inflicting upon her 
 lover a deadly wound. And so he walked away with 
 brisk steps farther and farther from the dim balcony 
 where the passionate cry had so nearly touched him, 
 where the poor, pale, trembling little creature was still 
 crouching in the dark. 
 
 Poor little Felicia ! Baxter was gone, and the child, 
 shrinking out of sight, sat down upon one of the low 
 window-steps. James went to find his telegram. The 
 tea-tray was brought up, then Miss Marlow came and 
 called her, and went away. Fay gave no answer. She 
 only wanted to be alone — to be left to hide herself there 
 in the grey darkness and melancholy of the night. 
 There was a black corner behind a little laurel-tree in a 
 box. Felicia — poor little Daphne that she was — longed 
 to creep into the narrow dark hole and stay there. 
 Never come out again, never hear her own voice speak
 
 SOLA. 277 
 
 again, never ask people for help and be refused any 
 more. No one helped — no one cared for her. She 
 covered her face with her hands at the thought — 
 abandoned and despised. Ah ! if she could only be 
 nowhere ; but wherever she was she cumbered the earth, 
 thought poor little Fay in her despair. Would there be 
 vast groves of laurel, I sometimes wonder, if men and 
 women possessed the power of changing themselves at 
 will into inanimate trees in moments of shame and be- 
 wilderment .^ What a terrible boon it would be to 
 humanity ! One can imagine the fatal wish granted — 
 leaves springing from the slender finger-ends, the wreath 
 of laurel creeping round their heads, the narrow choking 
 bark enclosing them in its rapid growth. And then the 
 faint aromatic breath of the prussic acid, and then the 
 wind shivering among human leaves. Poor Fay would 
 have wildly grasped at the power if it had been hers at 
 that minute ; but now-a-days, little girls in trouble can 
 only cry and sit ^\•ith their faces hidden in their hands, 
 instead of becoming stars and streams and plants. She 
 had spoken in an impulse, and now that the impulse 
 was over, what would she not give to have been silent — 
 her life, her right hand, anything, everything. So the 
 night wore on, the black leaves rustled close to her 
 shining head, London was rolling itself asleep and quiet 
 by degrees.
 
 278 SOLA. 
 
 Felica at last hearing some clock strike eleven across 
 the house-tops, pulled herself wearily up, and came out 
 of her hiding. Very pale she looked, with a black 
 smudge upon her white muslin dress, and wild, sad eyes, 
 with great pupils. She could not see, coming into the 
 dazzle of the drawing-room lamps, but she heard voices 
 calling her, " Felicia, Felicia ! " They seemed to be 
 everywhere ; and then James, who had come into 
 the room, rushed up to her. " Oh, Felicia," he said, 
 " I have been looking for you. Go — go to grandmother 
 — there is terrible news from home. ..." 
 
 While Felicia had been absorbed in her own griefs 
 and pre-occupations the great laws of life and death and 
 fate had not been suspended, and the news had come 
 that the Squire was dead. 
 
 He had been seized with some fatal attack in a field, 
 and carried to a cottage close by, where he died. He 
 had been found by some labourers. 
 
 X. 
 
 James and Felicia never forgot that terrible night. 
 When the morning came, lier despair of a few hours 
 before seemed like a remembrance of some old tune 
 played out and come to an end abruptly in the midst
 
 SOLA. 279 
 
 of its most passionate cadence. The tunes of life stop 
 short just in the middle, and that is the most curious 
 part of our history. Another music sounds, mighty, 
 sudden, and unexpected, and we leave off our song to 
 listen to it, and when it is over some of us have forgotten 
 the song we were singing. Perhaps in another world 
 it may come to us again. 
 
 This death-music was now sounding through the 
 old house in Queen Square. The poor grandmother 
 lay crushed and stunned by its awful thunder ; the old 
 aunt, to whom it was familiar enough, came and went 
 with a troubled and yet accustomed face. 
 
 " You had better not go to your grandmother, child," 
 she said, looking into the room ; " she is best alone." 
 
 Fay appealed to Jim, who looked distressed and 
 took her hand in his, and to comfort her he said they 
 would go together, when aunt Mary Anne was below. 
 
 And so about midnight there was an opportunity, 
 and the two went upstairs together. The unshuttered 
 windows let in the gleam of a starry sky, for the vapours 
 had drifted away. They came along the passage to the 
 door of the dim front bedroom, where Felicia had left 
 her angry grandmother a little while before, and where 
 she was now lying stricken, cold, and motionless, and 
 stretched at full length upon the great bed. There 
 was a dim night-light in the room, and they seemed to
 
 28o SOLA. 
 
 feel the hard, stony grief as they came in ; to meet it, — 
 a presence with a vague intangible form. Felicia, with 
 a beating heart, stood by the bedside. Mrs. Marlow 
 neither moved nor spoke. At last the girl knelt down, 
 and softly and imploringly kissed the old brown hand. 
 It was moved away. " Grandmamma, dear grand- 
 mamma ! " sobbed Felicia ; but her grandmother, in an 
 odd, harsh, hissing voice said, " Is James there .-* " and 
 when he came said, still in this quick strange way, " I 
 want to be alone, James. Take her away." 
 
 Poor Fay ! she was trembling like a little aspen, 
 and as she got up from her knees she held to the chair 
 by the bedside. She was hurt and wounded almost 
 beyond bearing. She put her hand to her heart : " Oh, 
 grandmamma," she faltered, " I who love you so " 
 
 But Mrs. Marlow never moved, or looked, or answered, 
 and James putting his arm round Felicia, brought her 
 away gently and closed the door. Once outside in the 
 passage, Felicia cried and cried as if her heart would 
 break. Miss Marlow came upstairs, and finding Fay 
 there tried to scold her. 
 
 "You should not have gone to her when I told you 
 not. She is not quite in her right mind," said the old 
 lady ; " and people in her state often turn against those 
 they love best. You must be good and patient, and 
 James shall come and fetch you. I think — Jim, don't
 
 SOLA. 281 
 
 you think — Fay had better stay here and pack up ? after 
 we are gone and then you can come back for her 
 to-morrow." 
 
 And poor Fay meekly assented, crying still, and 
 utterly crushed and worn out. But she would not go 
 to bed : nobody went to bed that night. There was 
 an early morning train at six o'clock, by which the 
 travellers were to go. A conveyance had to be found, 
 preparations had to be made, packing done, and notes 
 written. Felicia fluttered about, trying to help, utterly 
 weary. Then at last she lay down, about two in the 
 morning, on the golden sofa in the drawing-room, and 
 slept till a cab driving up through the silence awoke 
 her. She knew it was the cab which had come to take 
 the others away, and she jumped up from the sofa and 
 went out on the stairs : she was afraid to go to Mrs. 
 Marlow's room. 
 
 Felicia stood with a wistful face waiting to see them 
 off, but her grandmother passed her without a word 
 or a look. The women came down together, followed 
 by James, with bundles and cloaks upon his arm. Miss 
 Marlow stopped to kiss Fay and bid her go to bed and 
 try to sleep. Jim said with his kind face that he would 
 come back ; and then they were gone, haggard mourners, 
 in the light of the clear early dawn. The cab-wheels 
 rolled and echoed through the silent streets. Fay stood
 
 282 SOLA. 
 
 where they had left her, Hstening to the sound, but 
 presently a kind housemaid came and begged her to 
 come to bed, and helped Felicia to undress, and brought 
 her a cup of tea, and sat by her bedside till she had 
 fallen asleep. 
 
 When Felicia awoke it was ten o'clock, and a misty 
 morning sun was streaming into the room. The house- 
 maid had been opening and shutting the door and 
 peeping in many times, and she now appeared to ask 
 Miss Marlow if she would come down to breakfast, or 
 if the butler should clear away. 
 
 Felicia said she would come down, and dressed in 
 a hurry and ran downstairs, with an indefinite impres- 
 sion of a scolding from some one. But there was no 
 scolding : only the teapot. The Times all to herself, 
 a little dish of cold buttered toast, a new pot of straw- 
 berry jam sent up by the sympathizing housekeeper. 
 Felicia liked the jam, but she had no great appetite, 
 and presently she forgot to eat, and sat looking at her 
 own reflection in the teapot, and conjuring up one 
 last scene at home after another, and picturing the sad 
 home-coming. 
 
 There was her grandfather standing before her, as 
 she had seen him that last time, stooping to button the 
 leather apron of the gig. She seemed to see him riding 
 off on the white horse, with his grey wideawake pulled
 
 SOLA. 283 
 
 tight over his grey head ; or coming home and walking 
 into the morning-room where she and her grandmother 
 were sitting : then she saw him under the tree that 
 sunshiny day busy over his accounts. Poor grand- 
 father ! he had mended her wheel-barrow for her when 
 she was a little girl ; and one delightful day she 
 remembered he had taken her in the gig to a farm- 
 house, and given her a cup of milk with his own 
 hands. A crowd of thoughts and remembrances came, 
 and were driven away by a crowd of fancies of what 
 was now, of Harpington all gloomy and shut up. 
 Felicia was so frightened at last that she rang the bell 
 for old Matthew to clear away (Matthew was a portly 
 and prosperous old butler, very different from the poor 
 drudge at Harpington). Matthew stopped a long time, 
 but at last Felicia saw him carry off the last plate and 
 knife, and then she found herself alone once more with 
 the bare dining-room table before her : the mahogany 
 sideboard, the mahogany wine-cases, and the print of 
 Queen Adelaide over the chimney. She tried the 
 drawing-room for a change. When animate things 
 are away, inanimate things attain to a strange life 
 and importance of their own. All the gold tables and 
 couches seemed to spread themselves out to receive 
 her. Felicia sank down in a corner of the sofa and took 
 the first book that came to her hand ; but somehow she
 
 2S4 SOLA. 
 
 could only see the legs of the chairs and the tables, the 
 stuffed birds, and the bust of Miss Marlow in her youth 
 nodding. When she had tried to read for ten minutes, 
 she thought she had been sitting there for hours and 
 hours, with Roger's Itafy open before her, and the prints 
 of the mountains, and the reflection of the little boat 
 sailing in the finely-etched lake. Was that horrible 
 little boat never going to reach the shore .■* Felicia shut 
 up the book and threw it down on the cushion beside 
 her. She was accustomed to being alone ; but alone 
 was different at home, where she knew every corner of 
 the house, with the garden, and the farm, and the village 
 children to play with. This was hateful. How could 
 Miss Marlow bear such a life, so strange and still, and 
 crowded with chairs and tables .'' Felicia did not feel 
 that she might run from the top of the house to the 
 bottom, dive into outhouses and cupboards, — as she 
 did at home : here to gaze through glass-doors at the 
 shells and Japanese gods, and through glass-windows 
 at the silent old houses opposite in Queen Square was 
 all that she dared to do. Felicia had taken a horror 
 of the balcony. She went into the passage, and looked 
 for a long while at the old brown house opposite, with 
 the dim slit windows ; at the statue of Queen Anne 
 standing calm in all her ruffles and frills. It must 
 be very dull to be a statue, Felicia thought. She
 
 SOLA. 285 
 
 wandered up to her own room, but the grandmother's 
 door was open, and through that open door passed a 
 troop of sad hobgobhns : all the grandmother's stern 
 looks, all the miseries of the night before, coming with 
 a rush, and surrounding her. 
 
 Felicia fled into the passage again. She looked at 
 the pasteboard Qihgy, painted and glazed, of a little 
 page in the corner. In one of the glass cupboards on 
 the stairs was a plate which put her in mind of the old 
 dish at Harpington. There was a garland and some 
 scroll-work. But it was not the same, for the clasped 
 hands were missing, nor was Sola written on the scroll. 
 What a horrid thing it was to be alone. Sola — Sola 
 meant alone as well as the only one. Fay made up 
 a little story of some Portia asking her knights to 
 choose off which of the two plates they would dine ; 
 and one knight said, — " I will dine alone, lady, for I have 
 a good appetite, and don't care to share my meal." And 
 the other knight said he would never touch food again 
 unless one only lady would consent to break bread with 
 him. And then Felicia began to wonder what the lady 
 would say, suppose she liked the greedy knight best. 
 That was a difficult question to answer, and as she was 
 debating it she heard a ring at the bell, and she leant 
 over the banisters to see who it could be. 
 
 One of her tv/o kni[?hts was at that minute standing
 
 286 SOLA. 
 
 outside the door, and she knew his voice when he asked 
 if Miss Marlow was at home, and if Mrs. Marlow was 
 gone back to Harpington. 
 
 Then Matthew began a long long story, and when 
 finally he made way for Captain Baxter to come into 
 the hall, it seemed to Felicia that it was like the stream 
 of life rushing into the hushed house again, and that 
 the door of the lock had opened, and that her boat was 
 rising upon the rising waters ; but she started away as 
 usual, and ran and hid herself in the little dressing- 
 room out of Miss Marlow's bedroom, where, after a 
 long search, the housemaid found her. 
 
 XL 
 
 Meanwhile poor Baxter was waiting in the dining- 
 room and looking forward with some perturbation to 
 his interview. He had had two lines from James that 
 morning begging him to call in Oucen Square, and 
 telling him what had happened. " If I cannot get back 
 to-morrow, I am going to ask you to bring Felicia 
 to us," James wrote. Aurclius confounded James's 
 stupidity. Why was Felicia left behind .'' Why was 
 he, of all people in the world, chosen to escort her to 
 Harpington .^
 
 SOLA. 287 
 
 Baxter could not pretend to any great personal 
 regret for the old Squire, but for the poor widow he 
 felt a great compassion, and as for Felicia, well, it would 
 delay her marriage, poor little thing, and so far at 
 least she was the gainer. It was not in human nature 
 not to be glad of the excuse to see her again, although 
 all the way Aurelius railed at his friend, and said to 
 himself he deserved his fate for his dulness and want 
 of comprehension. 
 
 Was Jim so dull .? He knew Baxter better than 
 Baxter knew himself, and by the light of his own honest 
 heart he judged his friend. Baxter need not have been 
 afraid of the meeting. The long sad night had come 
 like a year between Fay and the indignant tears she had 
 shed for herself the night before. They were wiped out. 
 Baxter's first word brought other tears into her eyes, 
 tears of regret and of feeling for others. Felicia was a 
 whole year older in experience than she had been when 
 he last saw her. As she came into the room with half 
 flashing eyes, Baxter felt ashamed of his alarms, and 
 met her quite humbly, saying something about the 
 shock that they had had and his note from James. " I 
 came to see if I could do anything for you ?" he said. 
 
 Felicia shook her head and sat down listlessly in the 
 big chair by the empty fireplace. 
 
 " I am alone here," she answered, looking away.
 
 288 SOLA. 
 
 " There is nothing wanted. Poor grandmamma went 
 away before six o'clock this morning. She could not 
 bear to have me with her, and so they left me here to 
 wait. I want nothing, thank you." 
 
 " Poor child !" Aurelius said. He was more sorry for 
 Felicia, left alone for a day with these gloomy fancies, 
 than for the whole life-agony of the widowed woman. 
 He was, poor fellow, in a state of indescribable pity, 
 vexation, that he could do nothing to help this poor 
 little stricken creature. This time it was not Felicia 
 who appealed to him ; it was Baxter appealing to 
 Felicia. " I wish you would let me do anything for 
 you," he said. Something in his sympathizing looks 
 roused the girl's indignation. It was too late ; she 
 did not want his kindness now. For Felicia was used 
 to be adored, and to command poor Jim, and to 
 speak her mind plainly enough. Her almost childish 
 admiration and confidence in Baxter had received a 
 shock. She had discovered that their friendship meant 
 very little after all ; that to count upon people outside 
 is of little use in home affairs. To think of her own 
 feelings seemed a sort of sacrilege now at this time. 
 Last night, when she asked him to help her, he left her ; 
 to-day, when she did not want him, he came with offers 
 of help that meant nothing at all. There was a certain 
 combativeness, a certain determination in Felicia's cha-
 
 SOLA. 289 
 
 racter — a horror of ridicule, a want of breadth and 
 patience of nature, all of which feelings kindling 
 suddenly brought a bright flush of angry colour into 
 her pale cheeks. "Jim will be here before long," she 
 said. " He will take care of me. Noiu I want nothing 
 from any one else." 
 
 " Good-by," said Aurelius. " Please remember, how- 
 ever, that if you want me ever at any time anywhere 
 I will come." He spoke so humbly that it was im- 
 possible to be angry. Felicia looked at him steadily 
 with her curious grey eyes ; her mouth quivered, the 
 colour died out of her cheeks. 
 
 Felicia's heart began to sink as soon as Baxter had 
 left the room. She sat quite still, and the minutes 
 became hours again, and time appeared interminable, 
 and release so far, far off, that it seemed to this im- 
 patient little creature as if in that one instant she had 
 waited for an eternity — an eternity with James at the 
 end of it ! Felicia had said good-by, the door was 
 closed, the parting was over, time had passed, and now, 
 with a very simple impulse, she sprang up and ran out 
 into the hall. Aurelius was still there, turning at the 
 many complicated locks and chain-works that Miss 
 Marlow considered necessary for her security and old 
 Matthew's. They had done Felicia good service on 
 this occasion, 
 
 19
 
 290 SOLA. 
 
 Baxter turned, hearing his name called, and saw Fay- 
 in the doorway. " Will you do me a kindness now 
 directly ? " she said impetuousl}-. " Will you take me 
 home ? I want to go. I can't bear to stay here any 
 longer." 
 
 " Had not you better wait till you hear from Jim ? " 
 said Baxter, coming back, and not much surprised. " I 
 am ready at any time, but he may be on his way." 
 
 " I have been thinking of it. He will not come till 
 to-morrow," said Felicia, sharply. " Will you do this 
 for me or not ? Please do," said the girl. " I do so 
 want to get away. They must want me ; they can't 
 be so cruel as not to want me. Don't you think so ? " 
 
 " They only want to spare you," said Baxter, but 
 when she begged again he could not resist her any longer. 
 " Will you like to go by the five o'clock train .'' " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes," said Felicia, eagerly. " Is that the soonest ? 
 Please come and fetch me." And Baxter said he would 
 come, and then went to put off half-a-dozen engage- 
 ments. He thought the girl would be better off in a 
 home, no matter how sad, than vexing and chafing in 
 the solitudes of Queen Square. 
 
 And so it happened that Felicia came back to 
 Harpington all of a sudden. She and Baxter scarcely 
 .spoke to each other during the three hours they were
 
 SOLA. 291 
 
 on the road. He had come to take care of her, and 
 not to make himself agreeable ; and he conscientiously 
 read the paper in a corner of the railway carriage. Fay 
 looked at him once or twice, surprised at first by 
 this silence, and then she watched the fields flit by 
 the telegraph-posts, the cows, the cottages with their 
 smoking chimneys and all their inhabitants ; and so 
 they sped along from one county to another ; here and 
 there came a shining hamlet, now a gig passing a bridge, 
 now a woman carrying a bundle. Felicia tried to follow 
 some of the people with her mind, but another cow, 
 another gig, another tree-stump, would come and drive 
 out the remembrance of the last. Fay, as I have said, 
 had almost put away the remembrance of the night 
 before. She had thought she should never be able to 
 look at Baxter again to speak to him, but now she felt 
 that they might be friends once more. He was changed, 
 but Felicia was too full of her own thoughts to perceive 
 this. What a strange progression of new feelings and 
 realizations had hold of her — visions of home — visions 
 of London delights — visions of the sorrowful, terrible 
 present, and of the happy past, and of the future of 
 marriage, of loneliness, of doubtful hope. 
 
 And so, if Baxter was changed and silent, Felicia, 
 too, was changed and silenced. There were some other 
 people in the carriage who did not find out the two
 
 292 SOLA. 
 
 were travelling together. One old gentleman, interested 
 by the pair of innocent, penetrating grey eyes that he 
 caught scanning him, asked the young lady if she was 
 travelling alone, and if there was anything he could do 
 for her. Then for the first time Baxter looked up 
 from his paper, and said in his blackest and stififest 
 manner that the lady was under his care. 
 
 It was nearly eight o'clock when they got to the 
 station. Baxter had telegraphed from London, and he 
 expected to find Jim upon the platform ; but there was 
 no Jim, no sign, and the only thing to do was to walk to 
 the inn and order a fly. They waited under the rose- 
 grown porch in the twilight. Everything seemed sweet, 
 and still, and peaceful. A gardener belonging to the 
 inn was pumping water for the pretty old garden flowers 
 — lilies, and lupins, and marigolds, and white honey- 
 suckles ; the sky was sweet with sunset, and the air 
 with perfume. A couple of dusky figures stood in 
 the middle of the street talking quietly ; an old woman 
 came to the door of her cottage. This purple dusk 
 was making everything beautiful, and how fragrant the 
 air was after the vapid London breath they had been 
 living in ! 
 
 They had a long, sweet, silent drive across the fields, 
 and between dim horizons and wooded fringes. The 
 evening; star came and shone over the twilight silver and
 
 SOLA. 293 
 
 purple world before they got to their journey's end. 
 Baxter was silently happy and so was Felicia, who, for a 
 mile or two, had almost forgotten the sorrow to which 
 she was travelling, in the peace and sweetness of the 
 journey. But when the house appeared above the hedge 
 at the turn of the road, her heart began to beat and 
 everything came back to her. 
 
 " The gates are closed," said the girl, startled, as they 
 passed the front of the house. 
 
 The gates were closed for the first time since Felicia 
 could remember, and the ivy and wild creepers had been 
 crushed and torn in the process. 
 
 This one little incident, perhaps, brought all thai 
 happened more vividly to Felicia's mind than anything 
 else that had gone before. They stopped at the back 
 door, the front gate being locked, and Aurelius desired 
 the fly-man to wait, and came with Felicia to see her 
 safe into the house before he drove away. They crossed 
 the stable-yard and the end of the garden, and so 
 reached the terrace along which were the windows, barred 
 and fast, except one looking more black than the rest. 
 And suddenly came a cruel minute for Felicia, in which 
 all the pain of parting, all the sadness into which she 
 was going, all the gloom of that great shut house and of 
 her hopeless future, seemed realized and concentrated. 
 Baxter, too, looked up at the gloomy walls behind which
 
 294 SOLA. 
 
 little Fay was about to disappear : there stood the hall, 
 closed and black, and he thought of the poor raving 
 widowed heart aching within, and with a pang he thought 
 of the little white victim standing beside him. 
 
 " Good-by," he said, putting out his hand quickly. 
 
 " Oh, I am frightened," said Felicia, not taking it, 
 not looking, and trembling and standing irresolute. 
 "Oh, what shall I do.?" 
 
 " There is nothing to be afraid of," said Baxter, 
 kindly. " I have seen a great many people die. It is 
 a much more peaceful process than living. I don't think 
 you need be afraid." Felicia sighed, but did not answer. 
 
 " Look, is not that study window open .-* " Baxter 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, but — but I could not go in there alone," said 
 the girl, as with a shaking hand she tried to unfasten 
 the door. " Don't go yet, please don't go," she said. 
 
 " I will wait here as long as you like," said Baxter. 
 " Perhaps James will see me for a minute. You can 
 send me Avord." 
 
 " Yes," said Felicia. She had got the door open at 
 last. " Once more she said — please wait, please don't 
 leave me yet. I will come back to you." She spoke in a 
 shrill, nervous voice, and the words travelling through 
 the silence, woke up James, who had fallen asleep on the 
 study sofa, utterly worn out and tired after his journey,
 
 SOLA. 295 
 
 his sleepless day and night of agitation and excitement. 
 Had he dreamt them ? had he heard them ? He did 
 not know — he started from his sleep, from a vague 
 dream of Baxter and Felicia in the garden outside. He 
 sat up and listened, — " Don't leave me yet ! I will come 
 back to you ! " He heard her voice plainly ringing in 
 his ears, — was it to him she was speaking .'' Was it 
 Felicia come to make him well and happy by her 
 presence .-* or was it Felicia speaking to some one else .-* 
 Felicia false, Felicia lost to him for ever ! 
 
 XH. 
 
 Poor Jim ! It was when they were going down into 
 the lock the day before that he had made up his mind 
 to it, and told himself that cost what it might he must 
 give up his darling. Felicia was not for such as him. 
 She was too bright and brilliant a creature to mate with 
 any but her own kind. 
 
 Little Jim was a hero in his way. His whole life had 
 been a forlorn hope. He had made up his mind, but in 
 this feverish dream from which he \\'as waking, he had for- 
 gotten his calmer self-decision and courage — only the 
 natural pain was there, the jealousy, the humiliation, the
 
 296 SOLA. 
 
 heart-burning. Aurclius' telegram had come, and he had 
 meant to go and meet them, but as he was waithig, turning 
 over papers in the study, till the time should come to start, 
 he had fallen asleep. Miss Marlow was upstairs with her 
 sister-in-law ; the whole house was silent, and no one had 
 come near the study, and Jim for the last hour or two 
 had been lying in a fever, dreaming uneasy dreams and 
 moaning in the deserted room. And now when he 
 started wide awake from his sleep, he was wide awake, 
 but dreaming still in a sort of way, forgetting all 
 his resolutions, remembering only the fancies that 
 had haunted his sleep. Felicia outside with Baxter ! 
 Ah false ! ah faithless ! As the door opened, and she 
 came in, Jim had groped his way to the table, and 
 struck a light. 
 
 " I knew you were there," he said, turning his 
 haggard face to greet her. " Oh, Felicia, I was dreaming. 
 Are you going to leave me, quick, tell me .'' How could 
 I bear it .' How can I bear it } It will kill me. I ha\e 
 little enough life ; you will take it all if you go." 
 
 He looked so strange and so excited that his cousin 
 was frightened. 
 
 " Going, Jim .^ What do you mean .'" 
 
 " I heard you say so to some one outside," he went 
 on, in his strange agitation. 
 
 "Dear Jim," said Felicia, trembling still, "be quiet.
 
 SOLA. 297 
 
 Hush ! pray hush ! See, lie down here. I — I won't 
 leave you," she said ; and a faint glow came into her 
 pale cheeks. " Lie still. Don't be afraid. You have 
 had some nightmare," faltered the girl, knowing full well 
 that it had been no nightmare, but her own words, which 
 he had overheard. 
 
 " I thought I heard you say you were going," Jim 
 said, still half distraught. " It was a dream then — I 
 had fallen asleep. Oh, thank heaven ! Oh, my 
 Felicia ! " 
 
 She soothed him, she quieted him with a hundred 
 kind words and looks, and all the while her heart smote 
 her. She was ashamed' to meet his honest upturned 
 loving glance. 
 
 " Poor boy," said Felicia, passing her cool hand 
 across his forehead. " Lie still, dear," she said. " I am 
 going for one minute. I shall come back to you." 
 
 He sprang up with a frightened sort of cry. 
 
 " Ah ! now I know it was true," he said. " Felicia, 
 Felicia ! You are going. I shall wait and wait, and 
 you will never come back." 
 
 " I swear I will come back," said Felicia, earnestly, 
 fixing her great grey eyes upon her cousin. 
 
 A minute after, as Baxter stood waiting, listening for 
 the voices, Felicia appeared for one moment in the dark- 
 ness of the doorway. " Good-night, good-by, and thank
 
 2 98 SOLA. 
 
 you," she said. " I am not afraid any more, and I am thank- 
 ful I came," and she gave him her hand and was gone. 
 
 " Did Baxter come back with you ? " James asked, 
 as Felicia came back to him. He seemed like him- 
 self again, calm and different, and with his own 
 natural expression. " Have you sent him away ? It 
 was a pity," he said. " A pity, a pity," he repeated, 
 thinking, poor fellow, of himself as he spoke. "Dear," 
 he said. " I think I Avas half asleep just now. I don't 
 know what nonsense I talked. Forgive me." 
 
 " You are quite tired and worn out," said Felicia. 
 " You must go to bed, Jim, directly. May I go to 
 grandmamma .'' " But James begged her to wait, and 
 he went and found Miss Marlow, and then he went to 
 bed as he was bid. 
 
 Miss Marlow was surprised to see the girl, but 
 welcomed her kindly. " So Captain Baxter brought 
 you } Well, I am glad you are come," and then she 
 told Felicia a long long history of their coming home. 
 
 The old lady was very gentle, and cried a little, and 
 she came with the girl to her own little room, past the 
 door of the state apartment where the poor old grand- 
 father was lying. And Fay followed her about meekly, 
 seeing all with her startled grey eyes. Aurelius was 
 gone, but she did not mind. When everybody else 
 was so unhappy, Felicia accepted her own share with
 
 SOLA. 299 
 
 more resignation. Her grandmother would not see her 
 — that was the thing which most troubled her. Jim was 
 very ill — that was evident — she must do what she could 
 to help him. And then, utterly wearied out, Felicia fell 
 fast asleep, with all the trouble and doubt round about 
 her, and the darkness and gloom of the night, and dreamt 
 the hours peacefully away till the morning light came to 
 awaken her. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Two days more, and the closed gates were opened to 
 let the old Squire's funeral pass through, travelling down 
 the periwinkle walk, and followed by the steps of a few 
 old neighbours. Baxter came to the churchyard, but 
 did not come back to the house ; and then the blinds 
 were drawn up, and the business of life began once 
 more ; only Mrs. Marlow remained still in her room, 
 and scarcely ever left it. The lawyers came to read 
 the will. It Avas dated many years back. The house 
 and the chief part of the estate had been left to Jim's 
 father, and now consequently fell to the share of 
 the young man himself There was a jointure settled 
 upon Mrs. Marlow, which (under a stringent clause) she 
 was to forfeit if she married again. Felicia (whose mother
 
 300 SOLA. 
 
 had married an offending cousin) was only to have 
 a hundred a year. Another later will had been pre- 
 pared, but never signed ; it was much to the same effect 
 as the first, only that the jointure was increased and 
 more in proportion to the bulk of the old man's pro- 
 perty. He had left nearly 6,ooo/. a year behind him, 
 and Jim, who had never until now possessed a spare 
 sovereign to do as he liked with, had money in stocks 
 and land, and cheque-books, and credit without stint. . . . 
 
 James was closeted all day with different people, 
 lawyers, and agents, and tenants ; and one day a doctor 
 came over from the neighbouring town, and Jim 
 declared next day that he had business in London. 
 Little Lucy, who happened to meet Felicia that day 
 told her her papa had gone to town with Mr. Marlow. 
 
 James came back, and Felicia tried to think that he 
 was the same, but she felt a difference. He was busy 
 arranging, docketing, putting away. People came and 
 went ; Felicia scarcely spoke to him. She dined with 
 him (Felicia was surprised to see that Jim could carve), 
 but immediately after dinner James would go away into 
 the study. 
 
 As for Aunt Mary Anne, being naturally of cheerful 
 and gregarious disposition, she found it all very dull, 
 and packed up at the end of a week and went off to 
 Cheltenham for a change.
 
 SOLA. 301 
 
 The day Miss Marlow left Felicia begged her grand- 
 mother timidly to let her be with her a little more. 
 
 "No, no," said Mrs. Marlow, with a little shiver. 
 " Pray don't ask it ; go — you agitate me." 
 
 So Felicia went away, pained and forlorn, flitting 
 about with a feeling of disgrace, and the strange uneasy 
 sense of being some tamed animal that had lost its 
 master and was suddenly set free. 
 
 One day — it was a little thing, but she took it 
 foolishly to heart — her crystal bracelet, that she liked 
 to wear, came unclasped and fell off her arm. She 
 went roaming about a whole morning looking for it 
 in the empty rabbit-house, in the kitchen-garden, on 
 the terrace walk. 
 
 James, coming out of the study for a little turn on the 
 terrace, was struck by Felicia's scared, wobegone face. 
 
 She had been sitting on the step for half-an-hour 
 in the sun. 
 
 " Fay, what is the matter .-* " said Marlow, in his 
 old familiar voice, as he came up to her. 
 " Nothing," said Felicia, looking up. 
 Nothing ! That was just the answer to his question. 
 Nothing to hope, to fear, to love, to try for. She did 
 not think that James loved her now : she knew her 
 grandmother had taken a strange hatred and aversion 
 to her presence.
 
 302 SOLA. 
 
 " Nothing ? " said James, looking gravely at her 
 troubled face. 
 
 "I have lost my pretty bracelet," said Felicia ; "but 
 that is nothing, of course. And everything is horrid, 
 but it does not matter." 
 
 " But is everything horrid .^ " said James, sighing. 
 " You have lost a bracelet," he continued, absently, 
 feeling in his pockets. " I picked one up this morning 
 on the landing." And he pulled out Felicia's beloved 
 gold and crystal ring. 
 
 She seized it with a little cry of delight. "Oh, 
 how glad I am ! " she said. " Thank you, James ; 
 how clever of you to find it." And she began fastening- 
 it on her slim wrist again. 
 
 " How clever of you to let it fall upon the landing," 
 he said, smiling. " And now I want to talk to you, 
 Fay," James went on, sitting down beside her on the 
 step. Then he was silent for a little, then he began very 
 nervously : " I have been thinking about a good many 
 things these last few days," he said, " and happiness 
 has been one of the things. Don't you think, dear, we 
 must not care about it too much } " 
 
 "Not care!" his cousin said. "How can we not 
 care when we do .-* " 
 
 James looked more and more nervous. 
 
 " ' We bow to heaven that ruled it so,' " he said.
 
 SOLA. 303 
 
 hesitating, quoting from a lay preacher. " I saw 
 
 Dr. when I was in London, and he told me that 
 
 matters were more serious with me than I had imagined. 
 I don't know how much more, or what may be in 
 store for us ; but, Fay, you and I — our two lives, I 
 mean — belong to something greater than our own 
 happiness, at least one hopes so ; for one's own hap- 
 piness seems a stupid thing to live for altogether, 
 doesn't it, dear .-• " 
 
 Felicia's circling eyes were fixed upon him. She 
 was twisting her gold bracelet round and round. Jim 
 looked paler and paler as he spoke. 
 
 " I think," he said, " our duty in life, Felicia — yours 
 and mine — is not to think whether we are very happy 
 or not, or satisfied " — and the poor fellow's voice ached 
 a little as he spoke — " and, perhaps, the mistake we 
 have both made has been that we have thought a little 
 too much of ourselves and our own feelings, and not 
 enough of something beyond them . . . ." 
 
 " Dear, dear James ! " said Felicia, and her eyes 
 filled up with tears. 
 
 James went on steadily, holding her hand in his, — 
 
 " And I have been thinking that we have both other 
 things to do just now than marrying and giving in 
 marriage. I must go away and try and get well, to 
 live to do a few of these things ; and you must — darling
 
 30+ SOLA. 
 
 Fay, don't cry — take care of grandmother, and be 
 patient with her, and wait here, and love me a Httle. 
 And then," resolved to finish what he had to say, he 
 vrent on hastily, " There is poor Baxter, who wants to 
 come with me ; and some day, if he comes back to you. 
 Fay, I think you would be doing wisely to try and 
 make him happy. Perhaps you may not like to think 
 
 of it just now, but in a little time " Jim's voice 
 
 faltered — " One cannot foretell the future " 
 
 " Oh, Jim, what a hateful, hateful creature I am ! " 
 burst out Felicia, covering her face with her hands. 
 I have not deserved anything, and you want me to have 
 everything ; but I will never — never " 
 
 "Hush, hush!" said Jim, gravely; "take care of 
 grandmother, and don't make any vows, and — and — 
 trust me a little, Felicia," he added, smiling a little 
 sadly himself as he got up to go away. 
 
 And so Jim cut the knot that bound him — cut it, 
 and all the difficulties that had beset him of late were 
 vanquished. No one had guessed at the depth of his 
 secret grief, and the pain of the parting — not Aurelius, 
 not Felicia, looking up into his calm face, not Jim 
 himself, who thought himself a foolish stupid fellow, 
 but no hero ; only it was all over now. 
 
 It was the last of the late summer days. As he 
 stood, he heard the distant thrill of the birds, the drone
 
 SOLA. 305 
 
 of buzzing insects : the warm touch of the sun came 
 falHng upon them both. A feeling came to Jim as 
 if he was looking at Fay, with her sweet upturned 
 face, for the last time ; and it was in truth their real 
 parting, though he did not sail for some days later. 
 And yet, of the two at that minute, it was not Jim 
 who was most unhappy. The light of his true heart 
 was shining in his eyes. Felicia never forgot his look : 
 a man of gentle will, standing there, that summer's day, 
 with a gift in his hand, priceless, a life's gift, a true 
 heart's love. And Jim, as he left her, felt that he loved 
 her as she ought to be loved. Loved her enough to leave 
 her with a benediction. He was a sick, and dull, and 
 stupid fellow ; but he had played his part like an honest 
 man. Felicia was the only woman he ever loved, hers 
 the only hand he ever cared to grasp ; but while he held 
 it, he had held it by force, and when he loosened his 
 hold, the fair hand fell away. And he was content that 
 it should be so, and he wisely accepted the very pain as 
 part of his love. 
 
 There is something in life which seems to tell us that 
 no failures, no mistakes, no helplessnesses make failure ; 
 no successes, no triumphs make success. And so James 
 walked away victorious, leaving the poor vanquished 
 victress alone upon the sunny steps. Was it Felicia's wish 
 to be the only one } It was granted, and she did not care 
 
 20
 
 3o6 SOLA. 
 
 for it. She was alone now, but free. She stood watching 
 the young fellow as he walked away. Jim's heart was 
 sad enough, but at rest. Felicia's was beating with 
 passionate gratitude, with anger against herself, with a 
 dim new hope for the future, and, at the same time, with 
 a great new love and regret for the past, for the tie that 
 was now broken for ever. It was a pang that lasted her 
 for all her life. 
 
 Later that day, as she was passing through the 
 morning-room, she happened to catch sight of the old 
 Sola plate through the glass of the china cupboard, and 
 with one of her quick impulses, Felicia opened the glass- 
 doors, took it quickly off the shelf, and flung it to the 
 ground, where it lay broken in many pieces at her feet. 
 .... Is this the end of the story .-* Does any story 
 finish while the flame of life is alight, burning up, and 
 reviving and changing from day to day. Fay's story 
 was a blank for a time after Jim left her in charge at 
 Harpington ; a blank from all those things which had 
 seemed to her so all-important. In after life her love- 
 story may have begun again. But that was when she 
 was alone in the world ; when those who loved her best 
 were gone ; and Baxter, coming back after years of 
 absence, met her as of old — lonely, sad, glad, eager, and 
 unchanged, flitting between the grey walls of the old 
 Harpington House.
 
 MORETTI'S CAMPANULA.
 
 MORETTFS CAMPANULA. 
 
 I. 
 
 " That very time I saw, (but thou could'st not,) 
 Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 
 Cupid all arm'd : a certain aim he took 
 At a fair vestal, throned by the west ; 
 And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow. 
 As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts : 
 But I might see young Cupid's fieiy shaft 
 Quench'd in the chaste beams of the wat'ry moon ; 
 And the imperial vot'ress passed on, 
 In maiden meditation, fancy-free. 
 Vet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell : 
 It fell upon a little western flower, — 
 Before, milk-white ; now purple with love's wound, — 
 And maidens call it, love-in-idleness. 
 Fetch me that flower. ..." 
 
 A Miihiiiniiicr-Xig/it^s Dream. 
 
 If you could see Dorchester House, age-worn, sun-burnt, 
 
 and wind-beaten, with many wooden shutters flapping 
 
 in the sun, with strange sweet southern tufts of weed 
 
 * Moretti's Campanula is a flower that grows among the Alps on pre- 
 cipitous rocks.
 
 3IO MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 springing along its cornices, and from one and another 
 marble window-ledge, house-leeks with soft pink heads, 
 delicate feathery grasses ; here and there a trailing 
 nasturtium hanging like a fringe and swinging against 
 the wall, and in the courtyard an orange-tree and a 
 cactus or two, and a mountain-ash with its burning flame 
 of scarlet berries — you would see the palace of the family 
 of Pavis, one of the oldest in South Tyrol. It stands in 
 a little sun-baked town, half-way between Italy and 
 Germany, among the Venetian Alps, and its many 
 shutters open out upon a green and deserted-looking 
 piazza, where a donkey feeds, and women spread their 
 linen strips to bleach. . . . There is an hotel upon the 
 piazza, and a coppersmith's shop, from whence comes a 
 monotonous sound from the blows of the great hammer ; 
 and then on the opposite side of the green stands a 
 church, vast, and empty, and tawdry, as many of these 
 North of Italy churches are, of which the silent dusty 
 gloom and emptiness suggest a curious contrast to the 
 fervour of North Tyrol. Here the vast wide open doors 
 show fading deceptions of pasteboard and tinsel orna- 
 ment, and admit a dazzle of dust-flickered light into the 
 gloom. Worshippers are scarce now, but in the time of 
 the father of the present Count de Pavis they were more 
 numerous. The Countess and her daughters were often 
 to be seen in their places. In these churches brazen
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 3" 
 
 plates are affixed to the benches with names engraved 
 thereupon : those of Claudia, Irminia, Valeria de Pavis, 
 are still to be deciphered upon the worn brass plate that 
 marks the seat of the Pavis family, though Claudia, the 
 mother, is long since dead, and Irminia and Valeria have 
 married and left their old home in the mountain city. 
 Another name, that of Saverio de Pavis, is also inscribed 
 upon the family plate. He is the owner of the palazzo, 
 but it is said that he does not keep up his mother's pious 
 practices. 
 
 One day I wandered into the church : the only 
 worshippers were two girls kneeling near a small open 
 side-door. The light fell upon their youthful heads, 
 upon an altar ornamented with cotton laces and paste- 
 board vases : outside the door was a bright white wall, 
 a creeping pumpkin with great starry golden flower and 
 pantomime-like fruit, and the lizards darting from stone 
 to stone. The girls came away presently, passing out 
 by this white wall to the piazza again, where they had 
 tied up their donkey at the copperman's shop. 
 
 The coppersmith, with whom I had had some dealing 
 was a kind old fellow. He seemed to love his great 
 saucepans, over which he might now see the two pretty 
 girls' faces, and the donkey's head, and the Palazzo 
 Pavis, and the mountain beyond ; and he nodded a 
 friendly greeting as we all passed together.
 
 312 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 How delicately lovely the mountains looked, in fair 
 ridges round about the little town : strange peaks of 
 dolomite, crushed, shivered, splintered sharp, with a net- 
 work of lines and modellings, of light and passing 
 shadows : now a cleft, now a pinnacle standing out sharp, 
 now a shadowy black veil hanging from some topmost 
 point ; and then see it melt away, and the shining 
 crystallized peaks flash quivering and clear. ... It was 
 a wonderful fairy country through which we had been 
 wandering for ten days past — among alps and rocky 
 passes — wild fairies they surely are who inhabit them : 
 mossy trunks hang over precipices ; thousands of flowers 
 shine, sweet autumn cyclamen, starry parnassus ; above 
 and below, the waters dash, filtering through rocky cups, 
 and foaming crystal among the fringing leaves and 
 mosses. Green alps, too, flow from rock to rock along 
 the mountain-side, where the grey cows are feeding ; 
 tranquil little villages perch along the wandering track, 
 whence dark eyes watch you as you j^ass on your way 
 to the smiling valley below. Strangers are strangers 
 still, and not yet tourists on the road. The host greets 
 you with friendly gladness ; the fresh straw beds are 
 covered with the winter-spun linen. The fare is scant 
 sometimes, but quaint and good. For the chamois- 
 hunters are out upon their raids, the valleys are spread 
 with waving fields of Indian corn ; there are trout in the
 
 MORETTFS CAMPANULA. 313 
 
 lakes and streams. Along the road the pumpkins are 
 swelling in the sun, and the flax grows with its fringed 
 plumes, or hangs drying in yellow bundles from the 
 eaves of the cottages. 
 
 All this smiling land lies along the frontier between 
 Austria and Italy. We had crossed the line a dozen 
 titnes on our way to the little sun-baked town, which 
 seemed to us dreary, and tattered, and saddening, after 
 the prosperous villages. We were going on again that 
 day to the neighbourhood of the Marmolata, the noblest 
 mountain of the Rhaetian range, and thence home by 
 Botzen, where civilization begins. 
 
 I, for one, do not wish to cry out against it. The 
 jolts and difficulties in the world of civilized life are 
 mental, instead of physical. The problems are human. 
 There are byways and bold ascents, precipices to skirt, 
 deep and distracting as any of these. Opinions grow 
 instead of crops of Indian corn ; sympathies and aspira- 
 tions dazzle us and thrill us, in the loneliness of our 
 souls, as do still mountain ranges or wide-spreading 
 horizons. The music of civilized life is not in the song 
 of birds, or the flow of streams, or the tinkling of flocks. 
 Alas !.it is a music sadder and more boisterous and more 
 incomplete ; but it may be there is a deeper tone in it 
 than in the calm self-satisfaction of pastoral complete- 
 ness. Because the cries are loud, the instruments unequal
 
 314 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 to the tunes they should play, shall people decry it ? Is 
 Nature divine ? Perhaps in the darkest London slum, 
 where dirt and sorrow and filth are massed together, 
 there may be a deeper divinity than in the widest, 
 sweetest valley where sheep are browsing, evening lights 
 shining on the hills, hamlets sprinkling in still nooks, 
 crops ripening in their season, and wayside crosses casting" 
 their shade across the precipitous road. 
 
 II. 
 
 Under the dark entrance-porch of the hotel our 
 luggage was piled, and H. and my nephew Tom were 
 looking out for me. The carriage had not come, and 
 all my Italian, 'such as it was, was wanted to urge the 
 stout old padrona with the garnet necklace to wake up 
 from a sort of trance, and send for it. "When we 
 pleased ; when we pleased. Ah, we were going on to 
 
 C . The Count had ordered the carriage. It 
 
 should come back for us. There was no hurry — no 
 hurry." But here a tall, pale-faced young man, with 
 spectacles, with a straw-hat, and a green case for plants 
 slung across his .shoulders, came striding hastily into 
 the hotel. lie nearly tripped up over the strap of my
 
 MORETTFS CAMPANULA. 315 
 
 nephew's knapsack : he flushed up impatiently, and 
 kicked it away. " I have come to say I shall not 
 want the carriage," he cried, in a harsh, quick voice. 
 " Supper } No. I shall not sup here to-night." 
 
 " Then Beppo can conduct these gentry by the 
 equipage," cried the old padrona, brightening up for 
 a single moment to a gleam of intelligence. "Your 
 servant, Signor Conte." 
 
 The young Count, still impatient, shrugged his 
 shoulders ; then, recollecting himself, raised his straw- 
 hat to us, as if to make up for the shrug, and began 
 striding off as quick as he could go, flying along with 
 an odd, swinging walk. 
 
 " He is an original," said the hostess, speaking in 
 her sleep. " He only thinks of herbs — always herbs — 
 he studies them from one season's end to another. Ah, 
 his father was not of that sort." 
 
 In a few minutes more a little old trembling convey- 
 ance, with swinging handles, bits of string and broken 
 straps, and a youthful but incompetent driver, shivered 
 and ambled up to the door. Our way led through a 
 melancholy defile, where the white road wound in long 
 zigzags, overhanging the depths below ; while the peaks 
 seemed to crowd higher and closer with a wild melan- 
 choly monotony, to which the moan of the torrent 
 flowing in its white stony bed, and straggling between
 
 3i6 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 arid flats, seemed to respond. In the distance, far, 
 far a-head of us, down in a dip of the valley, we could 
 see a donkey and some one following, and at a turn of 
 the road we met a little calf, driven along the pass by 
 a peasant-woman. It looked at us and at the horse 
 with lively and suspicious interest ; but the calf and the 
 poor old horse were respectively urged on by their 
 drivers, who nodded as they passed. The calf-woman 
 was worn-faced, brown, and kind-eyed. She wore a 
 bead necklace and took off her hat. I don't know why 
 it all seemed so dreary to me, like a presentiment of 
 impending ill. It was but a fancy, for no harm came 
 beyond a variety of bumps, and jerks, and lurches over 
 into the abyss by which we were travelling, so numerous 
 and alarming, that H. exclaimed in horror, and Tom, 
 indignant, jumped down at last and led the horse down 
 the steeper places ; while the vivacious young driver 
 amused himself by winding and unwinding the drag at 
 the wrong minute, with immense energy and many 
 exclamations. 
 
 Our advance was not very quick, but by degrees 
 we gained upon the donkey, and as we got nearer 
 we saw that there was a young soldier with the two 
 girls, whom I recognized as those I had seen in the 
 church. One girl was sitting on the donkey's back, 
 the other walking a-head, with a free, striding peasant
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 317 
 
 step. Both had their great fair plaits pinned round 
 with many long pins like little arrows. The pedestrian 
 wore a conical hat on the top of her plaits ; she 
 had white sleeves, a black bodice and a shirt, and 
 a coral necklace, and her dress was a little above 
 that of the peasants. As she walked she looked up and 
 around in a free yet dreaming way. Her companion 
 on the donkey had discarded the white country sleeves 
 altogether. She was small and delicate-looking, with 
 beautiful red hair and brown eyes ; her dress was only 
 black alpaca : she, too, wore a coral necklace. The 
 young soldier spoke to her now and then, but she 
 scarcely answered him : they were evidently brother 
 and sister, from their likeness and peculiar red locks. 
 The donkey tripped along lively and careful ; every 
 now and then the young people called it by name : 
 " Hu, Bruno ! Ehu, Bruno ! " Bruno seemed to be an 
 independent little fellow, with a very decided will of his 
 own. At one place, in the descent, we all came together 
 to a stream that flows across the road into the torrent 
 below. Bruno and the soldier seemed to have some 
 difference as to the place where it should be forded. 
 The girl jumped off in a fright ; the soldier tugged ; 
 Bruno pulled, and set his forepaws. Some one cried out 
 from above ; the soldier looked round ; Bruno seized 
 the moment, jerked the reins out of his leader's hand,
 
 3i8 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 and was over before his master could come near him. 
 " Look, Mary," said my sister-in-law, " there is that 
 young man from the Hotel." He was coming scrambling 
 down the side of the pass, leaping with wonderful agility 
 from one splintered rock to another. Every movement 
 looked wild and clumsy and unpremeditated, and yet 
 his progress was secure and unfailing. It .seemed a 
 horrible-looking place and impossible to get over ; but 
 there he was in a minute, safe on the road, and hurrying 
 after the little party, with his swinging green canteen 
 behind him. 
 
 " Well," said Tom, my nephew, " I couldn't have 
 done that better myself" (Tom was a .sailor for some 
 years, but he came into a fortune and is a country gentle- 
 man now, and only exerts himself once in a hundred 
 years or so, when my sister-in-law drags him abroad.) 
 
 The athlete joined the little party and after walking 
 with them a short way, suddenly left them, flying off 
 at a .sharp ridge of rock and disappearing by degrees. 
 We had got to take an interest in them all by this time. 
 Bruno completely won our hearts by a last sudden dash 
 he made at a haystack that was coming walking along 
 on two blue worsted legs and brown kneebreeches : he 
 overpowered his conductor and got a good bite of sweet 
 dry hay before any one could prevent him. The hay 
 was going to a little stony lodge on the way-side, from
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 319 
 
 whence a raven and flamingo maiden stepped out to see 
 us pass. Then we began to ascend, and left our fellow- 
 travellers and Bruno behind us, conversing with the 
 apparition ; and the dismal gorge came to an end at last 
 in fields of Indian corn, in a tattered village with falling 
 balconies and blackened gables, and fences, and children 
 with wistful faces swarming out to see us pass. 
 
 We all breathed more freely as the road climbed up 
 again by the mountain-side into a wider fresher world, 
 while a lovely green valley opened, and high cliffs came 
 rising from still green alps, with evening clouds like 
 bubbles trembling along their ridges ; and then, still 
 passing on, we presently reach a terrible valley, where a 
 hundred years ago the crest of a mountain thundered 
 from its height, crushing houses and people and flocks 
 in its fall — crashing up the river, and creating a calm 
 blue lake. Great masses lie scattered as they fell, for 
 who can raise prostrate mountains .'' But they are 
 wreathed and pine-crowned, and their fierce edges are 
 softened by the sweet-spreading green veil which hangs 
 over all this Alpine country : a veil which only seems 
 rent here and there by the sharp rocky points that burst 
 through it.
 
 320 MORETTrS CAMPANULA. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Presently a maid 
 
 Enters with the li([Uor, 
 (Haifa pint of ale 
 
 Frothing in a beaker). 
 Gads ! I didn't know 
 
 What my beating heart meant : 
 Hebe's self I thought 
 
 Entered the apartment. 
 As she came she smiled, 
 
 And the smile bewitching, 
 On my word and honour. 
 
 Lighted all the kitchen ! " 
 
 We were only going a short day's journey to C , 
 
 at the other end of the blue lake, and it was still light 
 when we reached the village. There was a cheerful 
 sound of music as we came down into the street, and an 
 echo of one of the Alpine chants that the young men 
 catch up and troll out with great skill, spirit, and good 
 tune, and presently we met a row of five young fellows 
 walking arm-in-arm towards the town, with plumes and 
 flowers in their Tyrolese hats, short sleeves, and long 
 flowered waistcoats, loudly chanting their evening song. 
 It was a feast day, our driver told us, a feast day as far 
 as the bridge ; (where, by the way, he sent us over, 
 fortunately, in a place where the earth was heaped up to
 
 MORETTFS CAMPANULA. 321 
 
 support the planks, so that the horse was able to pull 
 us safe back again). All the white shirts had turned 
 out in honour of St. Bartholomew, the little children had 
 their best clean faces on, the mothers sat in their door- 
 ways resting from their heavy burdens, the fathers 
 smoked silver-topped pipes, the young men walked 
 about arm-in-arm, as I have said, and a grand game of 
 pallonc was going on in the village street. Our arrival 
 distracted some triflers, but not so the real players of 
 the game. The marker stood under an old arch with 
 his two strange little wooden implements. The balls 
 flew high over the house-tops, rolling down and dropping 
 from the wide-eaved roofs, sometimes flying in at a 
 window and violently thrown out again — the young men 
 leapt after them, and the people shouted in excitement. 
 
 These Tyrolese houses are stables to enter by, with 
 horses and carriages and cows stowed away ; but as you 
 mount the stairs each floor improves. The first floor is 
 the kitchen and the public room, where you catch a 
 glimpse of peaked hats, of gaiters, of bottles of wine and 
 shirt-sleeves. The hostess comes out of her kitchen to 
 greet you, and takes you up to the second floor, which is 
 quieter, fresher, and with flowers in the balcony at the 
 end of the passage, where you dine. At Signora Sarti's 
 " Black Eagle," the flowers were brighter, the bedrooms 
 lighter and more comfortable than any we had yet seen. 
 
 21
 
 322 MORETTFS CAMPANULA. 
 
 The rooms were clean, great pots of carnation stood 
 promiscuously on the stove, and in the corner and in the 
 window of the sitting-room ; we saw wooden benches 
 against the wall, wooden floors, some odds and ends 
 of poles, and then in the bedrooms huge beds, so 
 high that you had to leap from ledge to ledge to reach 
 them. A back-door from our bedrooms opened upon 
 the outer wooden balcony running along the back of the 
 house. The balcony looked out upon what they call 
 the piazzetina — a little grimy back-yard sort of place, 
 with six dozen arched doors and windows at all possible 
 angles, looking over and under one another. Here, too, 
 were more carnation-pots and dried wisps of flax under 
 the roof hanging out to dry. 
 
 Before and behind us were casements with wide open 
 wooden shutters through which we could see into the 
 lives of the people. Strange little framed pictures of 
 unknown existences. How much can four feet by three 
 of one's daily habits disclose ? Not much, perhaps, in a 
 world where everything is changing and flitting ; but 
 here, where day by day the sun .shines upon the same 
 peaceful sights and customs, it may be enough to give a 
 hint of them. There was the old tailor sitting on his 
 bed on the second floor — there was a daily dinner laid 
 at a certain window at twelve o'clock — there were the 
 three wa.sherwomen living on the first floor. They looked
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 323 
 
 out of window, stretching their long brown necks with 
 the bead necklaces, their wisps of hair were pinned 
 up like the plaits we had admired on the road, with 
 aureoles of silver pins. (As their brown necks were 
 constantly stretching through the window, the aureoles 
 beamed down not unfrequently upon the passers-by in 
 the street below). Now comes music again. An air out 
 of the " Trovatore," an air out of the " Dame Blanche." 
 The musicians are two soldiers in the Austrian uniform : 
 they are singing as they sit at a little table, and we see 
 their glasses filling among the red and yellow cloves that 
 are falling from the window-sill. 
 
 Clatter — clatter ! " Here is the donkey," says Tom, 
 looking out of window, and we heard a sound of little 
 hoofs, exclamations, embraces, cheerful girls' voices, and 
 presently the padrona comes in with flushed happy 
 cheeks to ask us what we would have for our meal. 
 
 " I should have come sooner, but my son is just 
 arrived," she said. My daughter Fortunata, and Joanna 
 my servant, went into Agordo to meet him." 
 
 " Is he a soldier .'' " said H., smiling. " Was there a 
 donkey ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the beaming signora. " The gentry 
 must have passed them. It is two years since I had 
 
 seen him ; now he comes home because I on 
 
 business." And here her face fell. "A mother's heart
 
 324 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 is in many places," says the padrona, with a sort of 
 little chronic sigh. 
 
 Tom, who was very hungry, and not so much inte- 
 rested as we were in these family details, now asked 
 somewhat inconsequently if there was any fish to be 
 had for dinner. 
 
 " Fish } No. The fisherman had to be told the day 
 before, and then he went out at sunrise and caught it ; 
 but " (hesitating) " a friend had sent some wild partridges, 
 and if we liked she would roast a couple. Would we 
 choose white wine or black .-' " 
 
 With the white wine came our dinner : 
 
 1st. A rice soup with little sausages floating in it. 
 
 2nd. Slices of a sort of fried plum-pudding. 
 
 3rd. Biftek. This is a mince with a sweet garlicky 
 batter, and polenta to eat with it. 
 
 4th. The partridges, with prunes, 
 
 5th. A sort of white cream - cheese eaten with 
 cinnamon. 
 
 Tom complained that it was all puddings, but he 
 eat them with good appetite ; and then we went and 
 drank our coffee in the window, watching the lights 
 gleam away on the mountain - tops above the roofs. 
 I could see some one down below also supping off wild 
 partridges at a sort of little terrace where his table was 
 set. From the number before him, and the way he cut
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 325 
 
 them up, I guessed that he was the sportsman who 
 had brought them down. It seemed to me that I 
 knew the green box lying on the table, and I also 
 recognized in the sportsman our wandering Count. 
 
 IV. 
 
 We had, strange to say, an acquaintance living at 
 
 C , an old lady whom we had met a year before 
 
 drinking the waters at a watering-place in the Alps, 
 where H. had been sent by a German doctor. She was 
 only a humble sort of companion, she told us, to another 
 old lady, who owned the country-house in which they 
 spent their summer months. She seemed to be loved 
 and trusted by her employer ; and able to do as she 
 liked, and she had begged us to come and see her if 
 we passed her way. She assured us that their garden 
 was well worth a visit. We had taken a liking to 
 the gentle, intelligent, somewhat melancholy woman, 
 with her simple Italian ways and ready sympathies. 
 Signora Elizabetta della Santa was tall, with many 
 bones and wrinkles, and a few black and grey hairs. 
 She spoke slowly in a deep guttural voice; she was 
 dressed like an old wall-flower, in dingy yellows and
 
 326 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 greens for the most part. This evening, strolHng out 
 along the street, it occurred to me to look her up, and 
 when I came back to the hotel I thought I would ask 
 for news of my old acquaintance. I went upstairs in 
 the twilight to the landing beneath ours ; it lead to 
 the terrace, where Fortunata and Joanna were both 
 standing talking to the Count. He seemed to be empty- 
 ing his vasculum of all sorts of plants, ferns, roots, and 
 flowers, and I did not like to disturb them. Tonina, 
 the padrona's eldest daughter, was very busy in the 
 general room, coming and going from one table to 
 another, with her leathern bag of office strapped to her 
 waist. T looked into the kitchen to see if the mother 
 was there. Yes, the padrona was standing in the last 
 sunlit window with her son. I noticed that Mario, as 
 they called him, was looking odd and flushed, and that 
 his honest face was as red as his hair, but I put it all 
 down to the evening glow, and asked my question 
 without any thought of trouble. 
 
 "What docs the Signora ask.''" said the padrona, 
 hastily. " Signora della Santa and the Marchesa are 
 here ; they live close by. Mario will — no, Fortunata 
 
 will — you turn to the right by the bridge ; you " 
 
 but here suddenly her voice failed, and the poor thing 
 burst out crying. " It's nothing, nothing," she went on, 
 volubly. "Don't ask; don't ask; and oh! do not tell
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 327 
 
 the girls that I am troubled ; they at least shall never 
 
 know what a cruel " Mario, who was hissing and 
 
 spluttering between his teeth, stopped her with a kind 
 impatience.—" He is here," said the poor thing, recover- 
 ing herself, and wiping her eyes. " He will take care 
 of us, and all will be well now." And she laid her hand 
 on her son's arm and looked at me, and then at his 
 carrot-face, with wistful tender eyes. 
 
 I went away sorry to have come in, and left them 
 in their window. There was a roar of laughter from the 
 tap-room as I passed. The Count seemed to have 
 done with his botanizing, and to be beginning a course 
 of astronomy from the little terrace. Upstairs I found 
 Tom with a pipe, and H., who was much interested 
 when I told her of the padrona's unknown trouble. " I 
 am afraid money matters must be wrong," said H. 
 But there was no sign of any want of prosperity in the 
 little household. Fresh piles of linen were carried in 
 from the bleaching-field, cows came dragging stores of 
 hay for the stable, bare-legged assistants brought fruit 
 and corn and wine, like people in the Bible. The 
 padrona was walking about with a carpenter early next 
 morning devising alterations, and I found Fortunata 
 displaying a perfect store of ribbons and laces she had 
 bought for Tonina in Agordo the day before. Tonina, 
 the eldest daughter, wore a gold brooch and earrings.
 
 328 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 and two horns of black hair ; she was engaged to be 
 married, and was shortly to depart, earrings and all, 
 for the town where her intended was employed. Tonina 
 was a big handsome young woman, with a perfect 
 passion for dress. I never heard her speak with interest 
 on any other subject. She would waylay us, feel our 
 gowns, settle our bonnet -strings ; she was for ever 
 straggling into our rooms and trying on our clothes. 
 
 I did not care for Antonina at all, but little Fortunata 
 with her sweet, quick, gentle ways, was irresistible. She 
 *vas spoiled by them all, and she seemed to me like 
 a little brownie at work, sparing her mother, helping 
 Joanna, and stirring about us with a kind energy. She 
 could sing all sorts of songs, mountain catches, and 
 opera tunes too. She had brown startled eyes and red 
 hair, plaits upon plaits that Joanna used to put up with 
 the silver pins in a sort of true -lover's knot every 
 morning. She used to be up quite late, till midnight 
 and even later, and again at six in the morning this 
 young woman was about — often at four if any early 
 traveller was starting. "Tonina would never get up," 
 Joanna said, shrugging her shoulders. 
 
 But the person who most interested me in the house- 
 hold was the padrona, with her dark sweet anxious face 
 and her tender care for her children. The woman was 
 a born lady, whatever her station in life might be. I
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 329 
 
 liked to see her receiving her guests, with a gracious 
 courtesy that was shyly returned by funny red-faced, 
 blear-eyed men with kneebreeches and conical hats, 
 coming to drink vino ncro ; and slouching young con- 
 scripts, half -shy, half- proud, with their flowers and 
 numbers stuck into their caps. If there was any dis- 
 turbance the padrona would walk boldly in and quell 
 it with instant measures. The gentle decision with 
 which, on one occasion, Beppo was summoned to assist 
 one of these young fellows out of the house amused me. 
 It was a handsome fair-haired boy, dressed in green, 
 with a great bunch of pink roses, and neat white knitted 
 hose. With a sudden yell, he tore off his gay hat and 
 flung it on the ground, trolling out something between 
 a hymn and a drinking-song in a hoarse tipsy voice. 
 The padrona laid her hand on his shoulder. Her grave 
 look seemed to steady him. " Angelo Soya," she said, 
 " enough of this ; go home, my boy." And Angelo 
 actually got up and disappeared without a word. 
 
 Italians, if they trust you, will speak of themselves 
 and their feelings with an openness that is touching to 
 people of a more reserved habit. Very soon the signora 
 spoke to me of impending anxiety, of Fortunata, and 
 her eyes would fill with tears of love and care. Some- 
 thing was amiss in the little household ; good and affec- 
 tionate as they all were, and tenderly devoted as was
 
 33° MORETTrS CAMPANULA. 
 
 the mother, she had not been able, even in that lonely 
 mountain-enclosed village, to keep her young ones safe 
 and away from harm and evil speaking. Joanna's in- 
 dignant fealty, Mario's manly protection, what is of 
 avail against spying eyes and spiteful tongues, and three 
 long brown necks stretched out ? I could have wrung 
 them vv'ith pleasure M'hcn I knew the harm they had 
 done. The rest of the household consisted of a wild 
 undermaid called Jacoma, of Bcppo the old man, and 
 numberless assistants, with bare legs and short petti- 
 coats, appearing and disappearing, carrying tubs, gourds, 
 great baskets of Indian corn, inflated pigskins, and what 
 not. Labour is cheap in these parts, and garments are 
 dear. This was hard upon Tonina. In houses where 
 everything is made at home, — soap, bread, wine, linen, 
 cheese, &c., there is, of course, an infinity to see to. 
 They had a farm from whence provisions came ; they 
 had granaries, fruit-stores. I could see sacks heaped and 
 heaped in the store-rooms on the ground-floor, and often 
 there, too, was Joanna at work among them with an 
 assistant barelegs.
 
 MORETTrS CAMPANULA. 331 
 
 V. 
 
 Joanna seemed to have a temper of her own. I was 
 passing the open door of one of those ground store- 
 rooms next morning on my way to join H. on the hill- 
 side, when I heard Joanna rating her unlucky assistant 
 at the pitch of her voice. Barelegs answered, tossing 
 her head. Joanna, with a sort of shrill contemptuous 
 whistling noise, orders barelegs off ; and finally the poor 
 creature slinks away with a basket full of polenta meal 
 on her head, leaving Joanna triumphant. 
 
 " What was it .-' " said Mario, who had been standing 
 in the door with his usual long weedy cigar in his mouth. 
 "Joanna, don't scold poor Jacoma." 
 
 " Ah ! you pity La Jacoma," said Joanna, sharply. 
 " Now Mario has come back he is to set everything 
 right. Go and console her, and ask her if she does not 
 deserve my indignation." 
 
 " What the devil is it all about } " says Mario. 
 
 " It is the work of devils," she repeated. " Something 
 that she ought never to have listened to," cried Joanna, 
 still in a fury. " I will not have her trouble the mistress. 
 Do you hear .-' " 
 
 Mario's face changed ; he seemed to understand her 
 as he too marched off. Joanna, who was in a downright
 
 332 MORETTFS CAMPANULA. 
 
 passion, went on violently tying and shaking the big 
 sacks, but more than once she stopped to stamp off her 
 fury, and to shake her conical hat in anger at some one 
 outside in the street. 
 
 Joanna was a character — a loyal rebel belonging to 
 the dynasty of Sarti. Fortunata seemed to be the 
 object of her blind devotion, the others the victims of 
 it. She was a handsome girl ; her teeth were like milk, 
 her fair hair was pinned up like her mistress's, but she 
 wore three or four little short sprays or frizzes over her 
 forehead and cheeks, and I hardly ever saw her without 
 her hat. There was a melancholy look in her blue eyes, 
 which contrasted oddly with her broad smiles and 
 childish gapes. She was curious and clumsy. She 
 asked me endless questions about myself, my family. 
 She would give a certain solemn shake of the head 
 when she was puzzled, as if there were profundities 
 unexplored into which she did not choose to inquire : 
 such as the countries beyond Germany, the railways, the 
 strangers who were beginning to come over the moun- 
 tains to the valleys, where they came from, and their 
 watches, what was to be done to procure them butcher's 
 meat. Joanna looked stupid, but she was really full of 
 cleverness. She could have thought and reasoned if she 
 had chosen, and she had real flashes of genius at times, 
 when anything came to stir her from her usual clumsy
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 333 
 
 apathy. But as she was also extremely pig-headed and 
 superstitious, her flashes of genius used to die out very 
 often without making much impression upon herself or 
 any one else. 
 
 " Ah ! " said she, calming down at last, preparing to 
 shoulder her sack, and wiping some tears out of her 
 eyes, " it's a cruel world, that poisons the sweetest and 
 dearest, that respects neither innocence nor youth." 
 
 There was a pathetic emotion in her voice that 
 surprised and touched me. 
 
 " What is it } " I asked. 
 
 " Eh ! who can tell .'' " said the girl. " There are 
 three devils, three washerwomen, opposite, who say 
 wicked things of us, and La Jacoma repeats them to 
 me. But I think she will not dare to do so again," 
 cried Joanna, " or to disquiet the padrona any more 
 with her tales." 
 
 " But can't it be stopped .'' " said I. 
 
 " What can one say ">. what can one do 1 " cried 
 Joanna. " I am only a servant. Mario he is the master, 
 he is. And he comes to put all right, — He ! I know 
 that he will make it all wrong. But who is to keep clear 
 of error 1 Not masters, any more than servants. Mine 
 will not listen to reason, and they will sacrifice a dove 
 to their pride." 
 
 Italian women are eloquent when they are excited.
 
 334 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 This girl whisked up the sacks, her bkie eyes sparkled, 
 then dimmed, and there, like enchantment, was a gaping, 
 wide-mouthed stupid Joanna again standing before me 
 with her load. I remember the look of the queer cellar- 
 like place, with its bars, and the round iron scrolled 
 windows, and green vine-stems outside. 
 
 Madama Sarti's voice was heard calling overhead, 
 *' Beppo ! Beppo ! " 
 
 " She wants him to stir the polenta," said Joanna. 
 " It is no good to dwell upon evil. We know how to 
 make good polenta in our house. Will you come and 
 taste .' " 
 
 VI. 
 
 Joanna walked carefully upstairs into the kitchen, 
 where a great wood flame was leaping on the high stone 
 hearth, and a comfortable incantation in a huge cauldron 
 already begun — water and Indian corn meal, which the 
 padrona shook in, while Beppo, in his shirt-sleeves, stood 
 by with a wonderful serious face. Then he began 
 working the mass round and round with a stick ; then 
 he got excited, and worked harder and harder as the 
 difficulty increased ; then he finally leapt on the fire- 
 place, and stood above them all, pounding and pushing
 
 MORETTFS CAMPANULA. 335 
 
 and poking away with all his might. At last, after some 
 five minutes, when the steam has carried away the water 
 and the mass is hardened enough, the fire begins to 
 fail : just when Beppo seems exhausted, Joanna brings 
 a great wooden platter, and on to this board they 
 cleverly roll out a polenta, — an avalanche, — a huge 
 smoking, steaming mass. Then Tonina rushes forward 
 and cuts the mass into two halves with a string, one for 
 the servants — one for the master's table — and Beppo 
 wipes his brow as he leaps down triumphantly from 
 the stone hearth. 
 
 The widow still stood in the fireplace, making up the 
 fire. Joanna was bearing off one of the great smoking 
 hemispheres on its platter ; and Jacoma, the maid, was 
 yawning in a chair, and resting from her morning's 
 labour. It was a common enough scene of family life. 
 A woman peeping in through the doorway, with a 
 great pile of flax upon her head ; for colour, take a blue 
 gleam of sky, black beams and rafters, shining coppers, 
 and white walls, against one of which stands the tall 
 black crucifix ; and just beside it Fortunata in her 
 coral necklace and auburn locks. At this moment, as 
 if he had been conjured up somewhere out of the 
 great boiling copper, the Count's tall figure suddenly 
 appeared. There was a hush and silence as he looked in. 
 
 " I shall want a room to-night," he said, abruptly,
 
 336 MORETTFS CAMPAA'ULA. 
 
 " and supper at eight. Here is some game ; more than 
 I shall want." Little Fortunata, with her face all alight, 
 seemed to awake first, and she sprang forward and took 
 it from him. " Thank you," said he, smiling, and then 
 he was gone. He was running upstairs, four steps at a 
 time. Madame Sarti had turned pale, and looked at 
 her son. Antonina drew herself up very primly. 
 Joanna flushed, and gave one quick glance at Fortunata. 
 I began to guess the state of the case when, as I 
 walked out into the street to join my sister-in-law, I 
 saw the three heads nodding and straining from the 
 opposite window. 
 
 In these friendly villages the people come crowding 
 round the strangers, and staring with wondering brown 
 eyes, like the little calves do on the mountains. H., — 
 whom I had left alone safe installed in the shade of a 
 hay cJialct, with a penknife, a pencil, a church spire, a 
 range of low mountains, india-rubbber, and all the 
 materials for a sketch, — I now found surrounded by a 
 large family, on its way to the fields after the midday 
 meal : there was a bald, good-humoured woman, with 
 false plaits ; a row of little boys and girls, pretty, as all 
 the children are in these parts. Poor H. was finishing 
 her sketch to the usual catechism. " Married .'' Where 
 is the husband .'' How many boys and how many girls } 
 Docs our country please you .'' " (Pause for a compli-
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 337 
 
 ment.) " Are you Germans or Italians ? English ? 
 Under what rule is England? — Across the sea?" — a 
 whistle. Then a hurried dialogue among one another. 
 " They are not Christians." " No." " Yes : look at 
 their rings." Then a kind smile, and a genuine friendly 
 " Happy journey " at parting. The bald woman was 
 unusually cheerful and talkative. She too was married, 
 and these were five of her children. " Were we staying 
 at the inn ? So the soldier had returned ? It was as 
 well, perhaps. Eh ? It is always well to have a man in 
 a family ; women are apt to be silly and indiscreet. Of 
 course Madama Sarti and her daughters were far above 
 her, but she loved them (our friend did) ; only there were 
 enemies in the valley. He, they say terrible things. 
 They say Fortunata looks too high, and are jealous, in 
 short ; but she is a pretty creature, and has no malice in 
 her ways," says our informant, preparing to resume her 
 trudge. " Deh ! come along, little ones," and off she 
 goes, with her brood scrambling after her up the steep 
 rocky pass. 
 
 " So that is the key to the poor mother's anxieties," 
 said I. " That dear pretty little creature — can any 
 one be so cruel as to talk spitefully of her ? It is too 
 sad, H." 
 
 " The padrona should be careful of appearances," said 
 H., gravely, " for the girl's own sake."
 
 338 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 Then, as we had ah'eady agreed, we walked on a 
 Httle way to call upon our friend. It was a curious 
 lovely old garden, at the back of the low white house 
 in the village street, with great closed gates, and 
 balconies, and little buttresses, and clothes hanging to 
 dry upon the terrace. Here the two old ladies had lived 
 for I don't know how many tranquil years. The grass 
 was green, but long and straggling, and the paths were 
 rough, so that, to our English eyes, there was a certain 
 sadness about the place. But there was a real wealth of 
 wonders ; and precious plants and trees and shrubs for 
 those like H. who know something of such things. 
 Under a little wooden umbrella, darting up, green, 
 and with delicate lace-work branches, was a slender 
 Norfolk pine-tree ; there an aloe in flower ; here one or 
 another learned fragrant shrub, and great oleander-trees 
 with the flames bursting through the green, and pump- 
 kins, common enough, but always splendid, along the 
 wall, and strange, deep-coloured scentless flowers in close 
 serried rows along the beds, and trees, with unknown 
 fragrant blossoms tossing. It was under one of these 
 that Signora della Santa met us with a friendly welcome. 
 "Will you come in, or .stay here .' " she asked. "The 
 Marchesa desires her best compliments. She is not 
 yet up, or she would have the pleasure of receiving 
 you." Then, after our usual little talk of journey and
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 339 
 
 recollections, &c., H. began to praise the garden, and 
 exclaim in admiration at the treasures she had seen 
 there. 
 
 " To tell the truth, we deserve small credit," said 
 Signora della Santa, much gratified. Saverio de Pavis, 
 who is a botanist, a nephew of my Marchesa, has the 
 garden planted, and conspires with the gardener to 
 carry out his experiments. He lives at Agordo, but 
 often comes over to see his aunt and his trees here. 
 He is away just now." (H. and I looked at each other.) 
 " I am glad he is keeping away," the signora said : " for, 
 to tell the truth, there has been some gossip in the 
 town, and people said he was paying great attention 
 to your hostess's little daughter. I happen to know 
 that no such thought has ever crossed his mind ; he 
 thinks of his plants only, and doesn't live in the world 
 around him." 
 
 Our friend was clever and reasonable, and I thought 
 it better to confess that I had seen her hero that very 
 morning. 
 
 " I am sorry to hear it," said she. " It was but the 
 last time I saw him that he was complaining of the inn, 
 • the bad attendance, and indifferent cooking there. I 
 regret that people should make remarks. The Sartis 
 are too good and respectable to allow themselves to be 
 attacked by evil tongues."
 
 340 MORETXrS CAMPANULA. 
 
 I could quite imagine her to be right. We had a 
 little more talk, and from what she told us it seemed 
 indeed as if the Count lived in a world different from 
 that which we inhabited. A world in which there were 
 changes, but they took thousands and thousands of 
 years to effect ; in which there were kingdoms, and 
 dynasties, and conquests perhaps, but silent conquests 
 undisputed. If one flower perished, another succeeded 
 in its turn. Laws could not be broken in this tranquil 
 realm, its state secrets might be disclosed without fear 
 of ill. For this mystic silent existence Saverio had 
 given up the cares and turmoils of quick daily life. At 
 one time the philosopher had been ambitious and keen 
 enough for the cause he loved, and had been heart and 
 soul on the Italian side, although a captain in the 
 Austrian army. This was in his youth, and he had 
 been remarked and called to account. He had been 
 taxed by the Austrians until his fortune was completely 
 ruined, and now Saverio was a poor man. He had 
 worked, waited, and hoped, but when the Italian rule 
 was established, the recognition he had expected never 
 came. And then it was that, indignant and disap- 
 pointed, he turned his back upon Europe, upon kings, 
 and court intrigue, and favour. He felt that he was 
 by nature too hasty, too nervous a man to keep pace 
 with the rest of the rout. And so he shut himself up
 
 MORETTFS CAMPANULA. 341 
 
 In his old palace, and watched the growth of the dan- 
 delions, and speculated upon the formation of the rocks 
 about his home {his theory was that they were coral 
 rocks), and he wandered from peak to peak and from 
 pass to pass, and came home and wrote philosophical 
 treatises. " His sisters are in despair, and think he 
 has gone mad, to shut himself up with his books and 
 avoid all human society," said the old companion, 
 " but he is not mad. He is moderately happy in his 
 own way." 
 
 vn. 
 
 We did not think, when we left her waving farewells 
 at the great gate, how soon matters were to come to 
 a crisis. We were to go on the next day ; and talking 
 over our plans and schemes, we had almost forgotten 
 the existence of the Sartis. I walked up by the back 
 way. As I opened my door I found, as usual, some 
 one in my room (the whole family used to invade it 
 unscrupulously), — a pile of linen on the floor, two great 
 copper pots full of water, Joanna standing by a huge 
 open press, with her back turned. As I entered in 
 there came from the sitting-room beyond a great burst
 
 342 MORETTFS CAMPANULA. 
 
 of voices. The girl turned round quick, and then I 
 saw that her face was all working, flushed and agitated. 
 
 " It is my fault, all m}^ fault ! " .she said, wringing 
 her hands in an agony of despair. " Ah, signora, go 
 in. You may stop Mario. He is trying to make a 
 quarrel with the Count." 
 
 Mario had most certainly succeeded in his endeavour. 
 I opened the door. There they all .stood round the 
 table, where the well-known green vasculum was lying 
 — Mario flaming, Tonina smoothing her apron, For- 
 tunata crying bitterly. 
 
 " Why do you stay here to be insulted } Why don't 
 you go .'' " cried Mario to his sisters. " What can you 
 want with the Count's dried herbs } What does his 
 Excellency mean by speaking to you in such an im- 
 patient and insolent fashion, and suspecting you honest 
 girls of stealing them .' " Then, turning round upon 
 the Count again, who was looking very haughty and 
 puzzled, — " I tell you that my sisters are not the 
 common drudges that you seem to imagine. My 
 sisters are not to be spoken to as if they were servants. 
 They were well born, and respected by all." 
 
 " Who ever doubted it .' " said the Count, contain- 
 ing himself with difficult)^, seizing his hat and his stick, 
 and hastily crushing and doubling up a map, which he 
 twisted round and round, and stuffed into the vasculum.
 
 MORETTFS CAMPANULA. 343 
 
 " I asked for a missing specimen and was vexed that 
 it should have been destroyed. Who talks of stealing ? " 
 
 " They are well born," persisted Mario, who was in 
 a tremendous passion, and evidently anxious to impress 
 the fact of a quarrel ; " and I, too, although your Excel- 
 lency may not choose to acknowledge it, am not of 
 those who will endure the insults of the rich." 
 
 " I have never given your existence one moment's 
 consideration," said his Excellency, now fairly in a 
 passion too. Then seeing my door open, he hurried 
 past me into the bedroom, where he stopped short with 
 all his paraphernalia, while Joanna sprang forward. 
 
 " I — I only am to blame," .she cried, and would have 
 caught his arm. 
 
 " Silence," roared Mario from the next room, while 
 the Count shook her off. 
 
 I thought it as well Saverio .should not encounter 
 the fierce champion Mario any more, and I silently 
 pointed to the second door upon the balcony, which 
 was open, and through which, with a haughty saluta- 
 tion, the Count strode away. I saw him marching 
 down the village street, and disappearing in the dis- 
 tance — a grey-linen, grey-hatted figure. The peasants 
 saluted him respectfully as he went along, but he, flying 
 by at his usual pace, paid no attention to any of their 
 greetings : on he went past the wine-shop — past the
 
 344 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 black arched entrance to the old brown house. He 
 was gone. 
 
 But the scene was not ov^cr yet. A cry from Tonina 
 called us hastily into the next room. Poor little For- 
 tunata had fallen back fainting into her sister's arms. 
 Dead, pale, dishevelled, with the silver pins falling loose 
 from her hair, Tonina had dragged her to the carnation 
 window. Mario, looking at once sulky, sorry and pacified, 
 was pouring himself out a glass of black wine. Joanna 
 had run for one of the great copper pails of water, and 
 with angry, blue glances at the corporal, for all his 
 uniform and moustaches, began dashing the water with 
 both hands into Fortunata's face. " Go and fetch 
 mamma, Mario," said Tonina, severely ; and then 
 mamma came back, followed by the irrepressible Mario. 
 He had evidently given his own version of the story. 
 Poor mamma ! troubled, puzzled, she alternated from 
 the tenderest expressions of pity and sympathy to 
 no less affectionate, but less sympathetic, maternal 
 snubbings. " For shame, Fortunata ! Here is the lady. 
 They will all see you down the street. Would Tonina 
 do such a thing as faint for a caprice "^ Mario is right. 
 Let the Count go his way. He is an original ; nobody 
 can predict from one day to another what he may do or 
 say. His Excellency's state is too high for us. Thou 
 art not born to be a countess, my little Fortunata — my
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 345 
 
 dearest." (Very sharp :) " Mario, go, for the love of 
 heaven ! It will vex her to see thee when she recovers 
 herself." 
 
 Mario, doggedly, and calming down, with both hands 
 up in the air and his fingers together, — " I am her true 
 friend for all that ; you women are ignorant, short-sighted, 
 talkative, ambitious. You care not for the censure of the 
 neighbours — for the insults that nobleman heaps upon 
 the family of Sarti. But I — I tell you that I have saved 
 you from the most imminent peril, and that you are 
 ingrate all of you." 
 
 So saying, Mario marched off, opening wide his ten 
 fingers, clanking downstairs, and the padrona, who was 
 evidently struck by his eloquence, again snubbed little 
 Fortunata, who had quietly come round with her head 
 on her sister's shoulder, and who was staring through the 
 window and between the straggling branches of the car- 
 nations, with a sad far-away look, inexpressibly sorrowful 
 and affecting. 
 
 " Eh ! it is a bad day's work," said Joanna, shrugging 
 her shoulders. " Mario has made an uproar and sacrificed 
 his sister's happiness. She might have been a countess 
 but for his stupidity." 
 
 " I never thought he would have said so much," 
 sighed Tonina. 
 
 " Be quiet," said Signora Sarti. " Joanna, go to thy
 
 346 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 linen. Mario is justified. The Count has retired, and it 
 would never do to allow the neighbours to talk with dis- 
 respect of Fortunata, and to look upon us with evil eyes. 
 Mario says that the Count is sporting with the affections 
 of an innocent. He is an original, and no one, not Mario 
 nor any other, shall understand him." 
 
 Fortunata was led off by Tonina, Avho was very kind 
 and, as I thought, compunctious. Joanna began storing 
 away the linen in the great closet in my room, but her 
 tears dribbled on the pillow-cases with the frills, and the 
 folded linen. " To think it was all for that bit of grass, 
 that little nasty flower," poor sobbing Joanna burst out 
 at last. " To think that I — I, who would give my life 
 for Fortunata, should have been the one to bring all this 
 upon her. It was a little lilac flower of nothing at all. 
 I have never seen any like it," said the girl. This plant, 
 it seemed, the Count had brought out of his tin case and 
 examined during supper the night before, and then 
 Fortunata had come in and talked to him and asked 
 him to tell her the names of the stars (for the Count 
 could tell everything by name — stars, flowers, animals, 
 languages, medicines, printed books, it was all the .same 
 to him), and while they were out on the balcony, Joanna 
 had cleared away the supper and found the flower lying 
 on the lid of the green case. For a little joke, after the 
 Count had gone to bed, .she [had given it to Fortunata,
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 347 
 
 saying it was a flower of good luck his Excellency had 
 sent her. Fortunata teased Joanna half the night to 
 know if this were true. It was a foolish joke, and when 
 Joanna saw how deeply her young mistress took it to 
 heart, she had confessed that it was but a joke. And 
 then Fortunata, half laughing half weeping, said all the 
 same she should keep it, and next morning she showed 
 Joanna a tiny crystal locket, into which she had put the 
 lilac bell. It would not hold the leaves, so she had cut 
 them away. And then came the Count, hunting every- 
 where and in a state of excitement about his lost flower, 
 and Joanna, laughing, asked him if it was a magical 
 charm, and said it was safe, and when he exclaimed 
 eagerly, at last showed him the crystal locket shyly, not 
 knowing if he would be angry. And then the Count 
 said they had undone him, that he had picked it at the risk 
 of his life, that there was no other like it. And while 
 he was scolding, and Fortunata crying, Mario came in. 
 
 " He meant to quarrel," said Joanna, " at the first 
 opportunity, and now they have quarrelled, and our poor 
 Fortunata is the victim ! " 
 
 " But, Joanna," I said, " the Count never has been 
 serious in his intentions." 
 
 " That is it. They will not believe it ; but Fortunata 
 felt, and I, too, felt, that at one time he meant to marry 
 her, and she would have been his countess. He is hasty
 
 348 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 in temper, but true in heart. Now all is over. That 
 flower has done it. I, too, am to blame. Who is not } 
 Eh!" 
 
 A shake of the head — clink, clank— a great sob — exit 
 Joanna, swinging her brazen pails. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The result of this painful little scene could not yet 
 be known, as far as the Count was concerned. It seemed 
 not unlikely that he would come no more. " Perbacco ! 
 That is exactly what I wish," said Mario. " If it were an 
 honest fellow who loved our Nata, and wished to make 
 her his wife, that would be another matter ; but the 
 Count only amuses himself, and the neighbours laugh 
 in their sleeves." 
 
 " It is to be hoped he will come no more," said 
 Tonina, placidly. " Fortunata will forget him. She is 
 young and has been silly. She must marry in her own 
 station, to her credit, like mc, and then she can continue 
 the business of the inn." 
 
 H. said she felt inclined to box Tonina's cars, she 
 sj)oke so complacently. 
 
 " Wait, wait, only wait," cried Joanna, with a sapient
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 349 
 
 shrug. " Do you think our misfortunes are completed ? 
 No ; Nata will die before long, and that will break my 
 heart and the padrona's. She will die, I tell you, if the 
 Count abandons her." (Then a shake of the hat, then 
 a mysterious mutter.) " I think he might return when 
 that blockhead of a Mario is gone. . . ." 
 
 Mario, whose leave was almost up, seemed to have 
 some notion of the sort. He decreed in his decided 
 way that Nata was to depart immediately, the farther 
 the better. There was their cousin Hofer who would 
 
 receive her at R , in German Tyrol, and he would 
 
 pass that way and see her on his return to Innspriick, 
 where his regiment was quartered. Mario was in the 
 Austrian service. That young man was a born autocrat. 
 He would allow no excuse, grant no delay. I think, 
 perhaps, under the circumstances, he was right, for he 
 heard more of the universal gossip of the place than the 
 poor women had dreamt of So Mario declared that 
 Nata wanted no new clothes for her journey. Escort ! 
 Joanna could take her ; or, if she cared for company, 
 there were the English ladies going that very way. 
 
 " But, Mario, it is such a long way," said poor 
 Signora Sarti, who was not herself without a lingering 
 hope that all might yet come right. 
 
 " All the better," cries Mario, magniloquent. " I 
 myself will tell those who dare speak of us that she is
 
 350 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 gone. Then let them say what they choose. They 
 will see that our family is uncompromising in its self- 
 respect, and will allow no interference where its honour 
 is concerned. I had rather you put a poniard into 
 my heart than allowed my sister's name to be lightly 
 .spoken of" 
 
 " My poor little Nata," sighed the poor mother, 
 taking the girl's hand and stroking it. " My poor, poor 
 child ! " 
 
 " If it were I," cries Joanna, cocking her hat fiercely, 
 " do you think I would go .'' No, not for empires. Hi ! 
 you might offer me gold and diamonds in vain ; if I 
 loved truly, it is not I who would conceal my passion. 
 Struggle not against thy nature, my Nata, or thou wilt 
 die. I know thy delicacy and tenderness of heart. 
 How can Mario, who has no more sentiment than an 
 ox, understand .' " 
 
 "Will you be silent, you girl of nothing at all .-'" in 
 a shriek of indignation from Tonina. 
 
 " I have a heart impassioned, but noble and self- 
 sacrificing," exclaims Mario, very angry, and looking as 
 red as a turkey-cock. " Why am I accused } I am 
 acting for mamma, and upholding her wishes. Is it not 
 so .-^ " cries the young man. And he turned round upon 
 the poor padrona, who only began to cry, so worried and 
 troubled was she.
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 351 
 
 Little Nata was kissing her mother's withered cheeks 
 again and again. " Don't beheve La Joanna. I am not 
 going to die, my mamma," she said. " I suffer a httle, 
 but only a little. Mario is right. It is fitter that I 
 should go, for how can I venture to believe the Count 
 when he tells me he prefers me to all others .'' Yes, I 
 will go, if it will stop people from blaming us." And 
 then she ran out of the kitchen, and went and sat on 
 her little low chair in the corner by the window, at the 
 far end of the passage, with her face hidden in her 
 hands. There she sat, poor little soul. Over her head 
 the great brown carnations were hanging ; outside all 
 the busy voices were echoing ; the squares of light were 
 travelling along the wooden floor. She never moved 
 till she heard her mother's step upon the stairs ; then 
 .she pulled out her work from her pocket, and began to 
 sing a little song as she stuck the stitches. 
 
 When dinner was over, H. and I, and Tom and his 
 pipe, generally went out together for a sociable little 
 quartet upon the bridge. That evening, seeing Nata in 
 the doorway, I called her to come with us. I thought it 
 as well she should be seen with us ; we two followed, 
 and H. walked slowly a-head, leaning upon her son's 
 arm. We left the pallonc-^Xz.y^x's, beginning their game ; 
 we went along the narrow street. In every doorway the 
 little white children were clustering on the step nibbling
 
 352 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 their suppers, — lumps of polenta, little bowls of milk ; 
 the parents eat within, or stood leaning over the little 
 balconies where the flax was hanging to dry. We 
 caught glimpses of copper and wood and fire interiors ; 
 in the air was a tinkling of coming flocks, a murmuring 
 chorus of voices, and then the thud of some late carding- 
 pin, still falling upon the flax. Old women past other 
 work were sitting spinning at the doors and nodding 
 their white locks at us as we passed. The attention we 
 generally excited was rather diverted on this occasion 
 by the passage of two pedlars with huge green umbrellas 
 slipped down into the little rings along the side of the 
 packs. I saw a group as we passed standing round 
 some drawers opened out to display the glittering tinsel 
 treasures that dazzle the peasant-girls in wonder ; and 
 then, beyond the village, we came to the little bridge 
 across the stream, and we sat down upon a log that 
 happened to be felled and lying on the bank. 
 
 So Tom smoked his pipe in the glow of the evening ; 
 the stream washing by reflected yellow and crimson, and 
 the emerald lights from the broad leaves of Indian corn, 
 among which the country people were strolling. Pre- 
 sently another echo reached us, an Alpine chaunt, at 
 once cheerful and melancholy ; then came a hurried 
 procession of little goats, followed by the deliberate 
 steps of the grey cows coming down from the moun-
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 353 
 
 tains ; then more women plodding home with their 
 loads of flax, and little children running bare-legged, 
 and dragging implements of labour bigger than them- 
 selves, or carrying small heaps in little baskets fitted to 
 their backs. Then came the cheerful company of gallant 
 country youths, walking six of a row, shirt-sleeves 
 gleaming, arm-in-arm, hats well cocked, like Joanna's ; 
 they struck up again with all their lungs as they entered 
 the village. After a little while we saw another group 
 of people advancing, with a hum of voices that sounded 
 both softer and shriller than the peasants' queer falsettos. 
 "It is all the gentry of the town," Nata said ; "a great 
 party went out this morning to camp in the woods." 
 
 The gentry seemed to have been enjoying their 
 picnic thoroughly ; they advanced in a long line, two 
 and two, young men and pretty young women with 
 dark heads all uncovered, except one, who, I think, 
 wore a black veil flung over her white dress and glossy 
 black locks. They, too, were walking arm-in-arm, 
 laughing, and whispering, and talking gaily, and coming 
 in a sort of step. 
 
 "That first lady is to be married on Monday," said 
 Nata. " That is her * sposo ' she is walking with : he is 
 engaged in the mines at Agordo." They swept by quite 
 close, their garments touching ours as they passed. One 
 young girl nodded gravely to Fortunata, the others were 
 
 23
 
 354 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 too happy or too absorbed to notice her. There was 
 something almost bacchanaUan in the Httle procession : 
 the white dresses, the garlands and flowers they were 
 bringing back, the subdued happy excitement as they 
 swept on through the calm of the evening. As the last of 
 the file went by, I saw Fortunata flush and start : There 
 was the Count with a lady on his arm walking on with 
 the rest. I thought he saw us, for he stopped, imper- 
 ceptibly almost, never looking, but he passed on without 
 a sign, and disappeared with the rest down the village 
 street. 
 
 A minute after, Nata quietly said she must go home 
 and see to the supper ; would I please not disturb myself 
 to come with her ? And she got up and walked very 
 quickly, in a sort of zigzag way at first, but afterwards 
 straightly as usual. 
 
 Later in the evening we also got up to go. Tom's 
 pipe was smoked out. It was getting chilly, and H. was 
 wrapping her Indian shawl more and more closely round 
 her shoulders. On our way wc met the padrona, standing 
 with the little group that was still gazing at the pedlar's 
 wondrous wares. 
 
 " Why, Signora, have you been buying some of those 
 little saints," said Tom. 
 
 "These are silver pins for Nata," said the padrona, 
 joining us, showing us her little parcel. " I ran after the
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 355 
 
 pedlar," she explained, coming along. " My little Nata 
 came home so pale, so sad, that I thought I would try 
 and give her one moment's pleasure. Mario is right. 
 I have been foolish and ambitious ; but Fortunata is so 
 good, so dear, that is my excuse," said the poor, proud 
 mother. " I thought my child was deserving of any 
 fate, or never would I have encouraged the Count ; but 
 oh ; they must not dare to say things against her fair 
 fame. It is as if one of these sharp pins was piercing 
 my breast when I think of it all. But when she is gone, 
 people will see that we are proud and will not suffer a 
 breath against our honour." Then she began to tell me 
 that " Cousin Hofer " was a lady like herself, a widow 
 in German Tyrol, keeping, as she did, an inn partly for 
 pleasure — for the advantage of society. The Hofer's 
 house was only habitable in the summer. If we really 
 intended crossing the Seisser Alp on our way to Bolsano, 
 we should pass very near it, " and," said Signora Sarti, 
 " I know not how to thank the gentry for their offer to 
 look after the girls. I shall keep Mario three days 
 longer, and it will be better," she said, " for us all ; and 
 Joanna will be a companion to Nata. The two are 
 faithful friends." 
 
 Fortunata met us pale but smiling when we came in. 
 She had laid out the supper, she had brought a lamp to 
 light us. All that evening she was coming and going,
 
 356 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 nervously busy, and more than once I heard her laugh. 
 It was a sad musical laugh, very near to tears, but not 
 bitter. There was nothing bitter in her nature. My 
 nephew, Tom, who had had a sentiment early crushed 
 in the bud, he told us, was much interested when we 
 spoke to him. He willingly agreed, at his mother's 
 request, to the extra infliction of two more women to 
 escort. " Four was no worse than two," Tom remarked ; 
 " and it was not for long." 
 
 IX. 
 
 That evening I went to bed to toss and turn, and 
 hear voices and see lights and faces suddenly flashed 
 upon the darkness. Long after midnight I heard the 
 padrona silently creeping upstairs. I lay starting at the 
 striking of shrill clocks, at the melancholy cry of the 
 watchman. " The hour is one," he said ; " The hour is 
 two ; " and his voice echoed all along the silent village. 
 At last I got up, and, putting on a dressing-gown, I 
 opened the door upon tlic wooden gallery, and I saw 
 that I was not alone to watch and wake ; another figure 
 was standing leaning against the banister. I guessed 
 who it was when I saw the dark shade of a conical 
 hat.
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 357 
 
 " Who is it ? " whispered Joanna ; " ah, the Signora 
 frightened me ! " Then, for a minute, we stood together 
 looking at the burning sky above the black roofs of the 
 houses. " Look at the stars how they shine ! Is it not 
 a beautiful silence ? " said Joanna. " The Count can tell 
 the name of every one, big and little. He is learned, 
 too learned," said Joanna, bitterly, with a shrug. " He 
 has bewitched her. Ah, Signora ! Fortunata is asleep 
 at last ! She restrains her complaints not to vex her 
 mother ; but when we are alone it is as if she would 
 be broken by her sorrow. She has told me how he 
 passed her without a look. I suffered so in her sorrow 
 I could not rest, and I thought the stars would do 
 me good." 
 
 Joanna had something of her great namesake's 
 nature — a simple enthusiasm and courage, and deep- 
 hearted devotion. To her, the kingdom to be con- 
 quered was Fortunata's happiness ; her dear Fortunata 
 who lay crying herself to sleep upon her straw mattress 
 with all her gleaming hair twisted over the pillow, and 
 her white beautiful face hidden. The padrona's Avhite 
 linen was not whiter than Fortunata's skin. A lady ! 
 she was sweet enough to be a lady all the rest of 
 her life if it so pleased her, and sit with her hands 
 before her for ever and ever. Tonina, so Joanna thought.
 
 358 MORETTFS CAMPANULA. 
 
 was no better than herself, except in being the padrona's 
 daughter and wearing an alpaca dress ; but Nata ! It 
 was to Nata that all Joanna's gratitude and love for the 
 shelter and home-love the widow had given her was 
 bestowed. So she whispered on in the darkness. It 
 was then, as she looked up over the housetops at the 
 clear burning night, that she vowed a vow to the bright 
 stars that if she could do anything, anything in the whole 
 world to make Nata happy she would do it, and sud- 
 denly the thought came to her of replacing the flower. 
 Nata's mother was asleep after her long day's work ; for 
 a time, poor soul, her anxieties were calmed. Nata's sister 
 was dreaming warm and placid in her bed by the window. 
 What would I not have given afterwards to have 
 been quietly asleep in my bed, instead of waking, and 
 making cruel mischief by my thoughtless words ! Is it 
 an excuse that, at that minute, dreams seemed so vivid, 
 commonplace and realities so far away .-• " Signora," 
 Joanna said to me in mysterious whispers, " shall I tell 
 you what I think ? I tiiink the Count makes magic 
 with his flowers, and that the purple bell-flower poor 
 Nata destroyed was a magic herb, and has worked all 
 this ill. He spoke strangely. He said that alone was 
 wanting to complete his work, and he could find no 
 other in its place. He was angry, so angry ! Signora, 
 do the English believe in magic } "
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 359 
 
 " No one believes in charms, Joanna," I said ; " only 
 poets, not practical people. My nephew burns a magic 
 leaf, and a smoke rises and rises, and those who practise 
 the incantation say that it cures ill-humour. And I, 
 too, have a precious little herb in a tin box in my port- 
 manteau. It looks brown and dry ; but, if I pour 
 water on it, a delicious fragrance comes, and if I am tired 
 and sad it cheers me. Some people might call these 
 wonderful things tea-leaves and tobacco. ..." 
 
 " Eh ! " says Joanna, " who can tell ! If the Signora 
 only knew of precious herbs that would bring honourable 
 love as well as peace of mind, ///«/ would be well for all." 
 
 I thought she was laughing, that she understood me. 
 It was so dark I could not see her face ; but I make no 
 excuses, for I was punished after, and blamed myself 
 when it was too late. 
 
 " There was a great enchanter once in England, 
 Joanna. His name was Gulielmo. He could summon 
 fairies at his will, and once he sent his messengers flying, 
 and bade them bring a purple flower, of which the juice 
 divided lovers strangely, and made much mischief; and 
 then, when all seemed hopeless," I said, getting sleepy 
 by degrees, "the fairies flew at his command, and 
 upon the wild thymy bank another flower was growing, 
 and all was well again, and the lovers united. But 
 that was hundreds of years ago, and the great enchanter
 
 36o MORETTrS CAMPANULA. 
 
 is dead. Good-night, Joanna. It is time for you to 
 go to sleep, instead of looking at the stars." And so 
 I went back to peaceful dreams, all unconscious of 
 the ill I had done. 
 
 X. 
 
 The village turned out to see our start on the morn- 
 ing of our departure for C . The Austrian soldiers 
 
 lent a hand, knots were tied with immense exertion, 
 chairs and steps placed in convenient positions for 
 the ascent of gigantic mules. Windows were noisily 
 opened, advice was given, pieces of string were freely 
 distributed ; an hour must have passed in tying and 
 untying every part of the apparatus of four bags and 
 a knapsack and three sheepskin saddles : the very tails 
 of the mules seemed to me fastened on with string. 
 At last we clattered off cheerfully through the village 
 street with our heads over our shoulders responding to the 
 signora's farewell wavings and blessings. I can see the 
 slim anxious figure before me now standing by the 
 fountain and watching us go. Mario cried out that 
 he should follow on Monday, and flourished his cap. 
 The three hateful washerwomen burst out into shrill
 
 MORETTFS CAMPANULA. 361 
 
 laughter. Then we passed Signora della Santa's door ; 
 then 'the house of our talkative friend with all the 
 children. Five or six of them rushed out frantic into 
 the street. Tom trudged ahead with his great axe, 
 then came Bruno, who had bustled to the front with 
 his panniers full of hand-bags ; then H. and I on 
 our sheepskins highly perched ; and Nata last with 
 Joanna walking by the side of her mule. She was very 
 pale and silent, and Joanna spoke not a word at starting. 
 More than once I saw her looking back at the familiar 
 sight. The ridges of the mountains, with the well- 
 known dents and clefts, the piled roofs of the village, 
 the steeple. There was Signora della Santa's gate, 
 looking now quite small, like a doll's house ; there was 
 the chimney of the " Black Eagle," and the smoke from 
 the kitchen where the pot was boiling. I could imagine 
 how those lines and shadows must look to Joanna, like 
 the lines and marks on a familiar face. Nata never 
 turned her head, but rode on drooping and thoughtful 
 all through the golden hours of that great day. 
 
 How can one write it down .? A flowing melody of 
 mountain, and valley, and rushing water, and green 
 things drifting and creeping everywhere ; flowers white, 
 and gold, and violet, as it were, striking sweet notes. 
 High and solemn ridges dominating green valleys, and 
 limpid streams rippling with a sweet impetuous dash.
 
 362 MO RETT rS CAMPANULA. 
 
 Now we follow Bruno along a narrow gorge of dazzling 
 shadow and solemn lights. They come flowing from the 
 towering heights overhead. We ride through a dell of 
 moss and of lawn folded against the rocks, and round 
 the tall stems of the cedar-trees. They stand keeping- 
 watch like sentinels at the gate of the pass. Then higher 
 still the open world shines round us, snow-peaks heave, 
 the blue heaven comes down, the mules climb step by 
 step, the sun begins to burn : we pass crosses casting a 
 slender line of shade across the rocks that pave our 
 way ; we scale smooth fragrant alps, where the goats 
 and cows come from over the horizon tinkling down 
 to meet us, and to gaze at us with wild brown eyes. 
 The people at work up in the faint green heights seem 
 to look down at us too. Time passes : the lights grow 
 more clear, the colours more light. We cross a wide 
 green alp, where a few satyrs, and shepherds in goat- 
 skins, and brown-faced children are keeping the flocks ; 
 and then at last we stop in a scooped, green, silent 
 valley, where the procession comes to a halt, and 
 Bruno quietly begins to browse, and the mules, seeing 
 Bruno stop, stop too, and Peter and Luigi, the mule- 
 men light their pipes afresh. We are at the summit 
 of the pass. 
 
 Peter was a great big fellow, a German Tyrolese, 
 with this constant pipe in his mouth (it was painted
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 363 
 
 with a cottage and a rural view). He seemed much 
 taken by Joanna, and tried to make conversation all 
 along the road. He now came to offer assistance ; 
 but she treated his advances in a very lofty fashion, 
 and turning her back, began unpacking for herself the 
 basket of provisions we had brought — ripe figs, hard 
 eggs, and rolls, and a little wine. The guides went to 
 a wooden chalet close by, and came back w^ith a pail 
 of milk. They were followed by some children, and a 
 girl of about fifteen, and a calf that instantly trotted 
 up to Bruno and moo'd. High up the father and 
 mother were at work reaping the grass, and one little 
 girl was toiling up the long burning slope with their 
 mid-day meal. I was going to begin my lunch when 
 H. called me. 
 
 " Come here for one minute," she said. She was 
 standing on a little eminence. I hardly know now what 
 we saw at that hour as we stood there together. Our 
 hearts and eyes were opened suddenly, for the sky was 
 so purple blue, the rocks at hand tinted, dented, modelled 
 with tender inscrutable transitions, beautiful, tremulous, 
 with blue and brown ; the world beyond was snow and 
 light and rocky ridge. The ice-bound Marmolata rose 
 before us : we saw peak beyond peak, an infinity not 
 too infinite. At our feet the soft brushwood all 
 flowered and tangled with tendrils and leaves. There
 
 364 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 were great soft grey star - thistles, blue - bells, leaves 
 tongue-shaped, streaked with red veins, argentine, and 
 bronze, and silver. ... 
 
 When we came back I was surprised to find Joanna 
 talking very confidentially to the tall guide, Peter of the 
 shirt-sleeves. Her haughty reserve seemed to have 
 melted, and she was asking him questions, one after 
 another, about the country, the ways, the guides, the 
 travellers, and the rocks. Had he ever been up the 
 Marmolata .-' What was it like up there 1 And the 
 Schlern — that was where we were going : was it green } 
 were there any flowers .-' was it very difficult to ascend .'' 
 
 " It was not easy for women," the guide said. " The 
 Count de Pavis had been up last year, and this year 
 again ; but he had alert legs, they said." 
 
 " I should like to go," said Joanna, thoughtfully. 
 
 " Shall I take you .' " said the guide, gallantly. 
 
 Joanna looked at me, and did not answer. 
 
 That night we slept at a little inn in a lonely, desolate, 
 place, with ragged, gentle people, wooden houses falling 
 to decay, and foaming waters rushing through many 
 streams and troughs. Fortunata dined with us in a 
 great bedroom, where our dinner was served, by a 
 crucifix. Joanna waited, — nothing would induce her to 
 sit down. 
 
 On the second day's journey we came to a desolate
 
 MORETTFS CAMPANULA. 365 
 
 pass, where rocks, rounded and massed in strange 
 unnatural shapes, were piled along the road. There was 
 something Jinvian, and, to me, most horrible about 
 them : they were not ragged, and rugged, and wild^ 
 like those we had passed before ; but they looked as if 
 they had been modelled by some terrible hands, rounded, 
 smoothed, and kneaded for some strange purpose, and 
 poised one on the other in awful-looking heaps of lumps 
 and balls and columns, upon which no flowers could 
 spring, no green things could grow. 
 
 " There ! Nata is crushed by a load like one of 
 those," said Joanna ; " and I, too, have one upon my 
 heart." 
 
 For some time past the clouds had been gathering, 
 and a damp mist enclosed us closer and closer, parting 
 to show black tossing waves of cloud beyond : there was 
 an echo of thunder in the air. 
 
 Nata still rode on in her sad, listless way ; she did 
 not seem to care whether storm or sunshine fell upon 
 her head. 
 
 " There is a storm coming," said Tom, cheerfully. 
 " Don't be afraid," cried the guide. " We are close 
 to a shelter." 
 
 We pushed on, and, as he promised, we were able to 
 reach a little lonely hut, standing at the edge of the great 
 Seisser Alp, just before the storm broke. The old land-
 
 366 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 lord came out to shake us by the hand and make us 
 welcome. He was a strange old man, with leather- 
 breeches and grey stockings, and a hook nose and a lean 
 brown face. He brought us into his room, smoke-stained 
 and wood-panelled, and bidding us be seated, he left us 
 hastily, to hurry down and put the animals under 
 shelter ; and then the shadowy armies came rolHng 
 across the mighty Alp, echoing, deafening, and breaking 
 into falling streams of water. 
 
 " It will soon be over," the landlord .said, coming up 
 with the guides, and putting places for us all at his 
 tripod table. " I have got bread," he said, " and cheese, 
 and wine ; plenty to make merry with for married and 
 single. Are you married .'' " he asked Fortunata, who 
 blushed up and .shook her head smihng. 
 
 " Then," said the old fellow, " you have no sorrows 
 and no joys. The single have neither sorrows nor joys. 
 Will you stay with me and be my sennerinn .^ You 
 shall milk the cows, and learn to call my pigs by their 
 names." 
 
 "That is more suitable for me," said Joanna, laughing. 
 " I will stay and be your sennerinn." 
 
 So we sat breaking the hard wooden biscuits, and 
 listening to the .storms all trouping round the lonely 
 chalet. Tom stood outside the door, on the wooden 
 balcony, watching for a break in the clouds. The old
 
 MORETTFS CAMPANULA. 367 
 
 fellow busied himself waiting on us, talking, and serving 
 us. He made his own cheese, he told us, and his 
 butter ; he did everything himself, and lived alone, 
 except when travellers came, like ourselves, to visit him. 
 He had various ingenious devices for lessening his 
 labours. I remember, among other things, noticing a 
 wooden pipe for pigs'-wash from the balcony straight 
 into the trough below. The tall guide, who was used 
 to storms, sat with his two arms on the table, gaping 
 at Joanna, and philosophically smoking his great pipe. 
 His companion went down to have a look at the beasts. 
 Our old host, in his turn, produced a handsome silver 
 pipe, with a top such as they use in those parts ; and 
 when H. said, smiling, that it was pretty, he pulled it 
 out of his mouth and begged her to smoke it for him. 
 Tom went off into convulsive chuckles at the notion of 
 his mother smoking a pipe. The old fellow laughed, 
 seeing us laugh, and then skipped off quickly to see to 
 some household arrangement. 
 
 " The last visitors I had," said he, clattering about 
 among his pans, " were English, like yourselves — two 
 ladies and two gentlemen. The gentlemen had been up 
 the Schlern. One of them was a botanist, and he told 
 me that there was no such place, not in all his country, 
 for flowers and grasses. He had white and blue, and 
 red and violet — a box full. See, he left me some
 
 368 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 edelweiss," said the old fellow, pointing to a great 
 bunch stuck into his hat that was hanging on a peg. 
 
 " And this is the way to the Schlern ? " said Joanna. 
 
 " This is one of the ways," said the host. " You 
 cross the Alp by the Horses' Teeth — oh, it is nothing ; 
 and if I had my young legs — " here he slapped his 
 leather gaiters. " People sometimes sleep here before 
 they start ; look, I have a handsome guest-chamber." 
 And as he spoke he opened a door and showed us a 
 wooden chamber with three beds in it. " You ladies 
 will be comfortable in there if you have to stay all 
 night." 
 
 " Confound the weather ! " said Tom, coming in from 
 the gallery, and shaking himself 
 
 There were three rooms to the chalet : the dairy, the 
 kitchen, and the guest-chamber, all opening into one 
 another ; underneath was the pigs' house and the hay 
 stable. In another stable, separate from the house, the 
 mules were safely housed, dry and warm, out of the 
 pouring rain. It was falling in sheets of water, and hail 
 came, we could scarcely tell from whence, so thick 
 were the clouds and the vapours rolling along the 
 ground. But the guides went on predicting fine weather, 
 and about three o'clock the clouds broke and the vapours 
 drifted away : a bright sun came out suddenly, a world 
 was created out of the chaos, and once more we started
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 369 
 
 on our journey. The old fellow bade us farewell, and 
 then let us go our way. He stood in his gallery as we 
 rode away ; he never looked after us. I can hear him 
 now calling his pigs by their names. They were his 
 real friends and companions in his lonely chalet in the 
 midst of that great Alp. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The baths of R lie deep hidden among cool 
 
 green woods, where the waters ripple through mosses. 
 From the crest of the opposite mountain we could see 
 the shining summits of fir-trees and a golden gloom 
 among their stems. An old ruined castle on the hill 
 stood solitary and radiant. Some black rooks were 
 floating over it in a crescent, but I could see no sign of 
 a dwelling-place for human people. As we stumbled 
 along we passed some peasants, who stared, and smiled, 
 and marched on. One woman looked earnestly at 
 Fortunata riding by, and suddenly emptied half the 
 pears in her basket into the girl's lap. But it was 
 Joanna who nodded " Thank you," and begun to crunch 
 the ripe fruit. All day long she had come with even 
 steps, never hurrying, rarely lagging behind ; and yet 
 
 24
 
 370 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 she talked to every passer-by, told them with pride that 
 we were travelling together, asked questions all along 
 the road, shook hands freely, and made the holy sign by 
 every wayside cross. As for Nata, she hardly looked 
 up or spoke, but jogged on quietly, drooping a little 
 with sad eyes that scarcely brightened. She did not 
 care for the beauty of sights we passed. People in far 
 worse trouble than Nata's can perhaps feel with living 
 people and animate happiness, and find comfort in it ; 
 but it is in vain to ask them to be glad because we have 
 taken them to a high pass, and because the sun is 
 shining on a heap of earth and trees, and the flowers are 
 luxuriant. It is only when the first bitterness of the 
 spirit is past that the voice of nature can reach sad ears. 
 Her call is too still, too gentle, to be heard when a 
 tumult is in the heart. 
 
 " This is now the last ascent," said the guide, as 
 we reached the woods : " this path leads straight to the 
 baths." 
 
 Where had we come to .' Did gods bathe in the 
 waters above .^ had they passed before us, leaving the 
 radiance of their footsteps behind them } Now that we 
 had entered the gloom we found it changed to a delight, 
 a mystery, a .shimmer. Golden twigs and stems, and 
 creeping sprays hid the radiating sky : everywhere hung 
 veils of moss, so wild, so soft, that it seemed as if they
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 371 
 
 must have come gently blown by the wind ; we passed 
 a crystal pool reflecting these sweet wonders ; there was 
 a faint fragrant essence in the air, glistering pine-cones 
 were piled along the grass, and flowers and wild straw- 
 berries sparkled like rubies. It was the last golden 
 minute of this long day : suddenly the evening came 
 upon us, and the enchantment was over. 
 
 We were not yet at our journey's end, for Peter 
 lighted a fresh pipe. When we asked where the house 
 could be, the men nodded and pointed, and strode on by 
 the stumbling mules. We were utterly tired out, and 
 the w^ay seemed very long ; but at last the path opened 
 wider, and a woman came strolling along knitting in the 
 twilight. She signed to the men and passed on ; then 
 we saw four people walking arm-in-arm, who stood to 
 let us pass, but said nothing ; and at last, at a turn, we 
 came upon an open space, in the midst of which were 
 two dusky wooden houses. Shadowy groups were stand- 
 ing round about in the twilight, and overhead silent 
 dusky figures were watching from a wooden gallery. 
 
 So here, in the very heart of this fairy land, the 
 country people had built their little bath-house, and 
 would come to drink the waters. They were big, gentle, 
 ox-eyed people, with solemn ways and calm faces. 
 Even the children played in a sober fashion in their 
 little conical hats. Frau Hofer came halfway down
 
 372 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 the wooden stairs to meet us, and gravely kissed her 
 cousin ; she was followed by a sort of Audrey, — a big 
 peasant-woman, — who strode before us along the 
 gallery, and silently flung wide open the doors of our 
 room. The gallery crossed one great window dimly 
 lighted, and as I passed I saw that this was the altar 
 Avindow of a little chapel, and the lights were burning 
 on the altar. At the end of the gallery was an 
 open balcony, where two old men were sitting on 
 a bench close to my door, smoking their silver-topped 
 pipes and listening to the chorus coming from the dusk 
 below. It was a quaint mystical place that we had 
 come to. I thought of the woods through which we had 
 passed rustling in the twilight, now that the tide of light 
 had ebbed away ; of sleeping birds, of torpid insects, 
 and closed chalices of flowers, of the little snakes lying 
 drowsy in the mossy rocks, and squirrels, and all the 
 harmless woodland life, while here was this strange 
 silent company, wakeful still, and assembled round the 
 little chapel. Was it all fairy work } were these stately 
 people courtiers in disguise .'' was Ro.salind among them, 
 and melancholy Jaqucs .-* or was this the wood in which 
 poor Hermia wandered, and Titania hid her Indian 
 boy "i Had Shakspeare been here in a dream one night .'' 
 The bed-rooms were little rooms with wooden doors 
 and floors, and windows, and little straw beds ; Joanna
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 373 
 
 and Nata had one together, and my room came next. 
 " Come quick and rest, Nata," I heard the sturdy 
 Joanna saying. She had speedily made friends with 
 the landlady, and I presently met her hurrying along 
 the passage carrying some supper for herself and Nata 
 on a little tray : some fish, two glasses of sparkling 
 water, and a piece of bread. 
 
 " She is tired, poor little thing. I am taking this 
 to her," said Joanna. " The gentry are served in the 
 dining-room — they will find the priest there and our 
 guides." 
 
 There was a tall crucifix at the end of the long bare 
 dining-room, where the priest was supping with his 
 candle before him, and a table was set opposite with 
 another that was lighted for us. Peter and the other 
 man were also sitting drinking and munching the hard 
 seed-biscuit of the country with their enormous mouths, 
 a few peasants looked in at us and went away, the little 
 waitress came and went, like Nata and her sister used 
 to do, with her pouch of office hanging from her waist. 
 In the middle of his supper the old priest rose from 
 table, and stood with folded hands and reverently said 
 a prayer, and then sat down again. Joanna, who had 
 come in, crossed herself devoutly, and then went up 
 and entered into conversation with him. He listened 
 and ate, and responded with benevolent nods. Did
 
 374 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 many gentry come to the place ? Not many, Joanna 
 imagined ; it was not to compare for furniture to their 
 own " Black Eagle " at C . 
 
 " But it is pretty here in the forest in summer-time," 
 said the old priest. 
 
 " Eh ! summer is better than winter," says Joanna ; 
 " everything looks so green, and there is plenty of food 
 for the cattle, and flowers grow by the cart-full." 
 
 The old priest told her, as he helped himself to 
 prunes, that this was the country for flowers. " Collectors 
 came from every part of Europe ; up on the Schlern," 
 he said, " there are many rare species I myself have 
 gathered there." We left her still plying him with 
 questions, to go and sit out in the dusk of the wooden 
 gallery until it was time to go to bed. Fragrant and 
 cool came the air blowing in our faces, softly shone the 
 stars and the great crescent moon beyond the ruined 
 castle. One or two of the people spoke to us, as they, 
 too, stood admiring and leaning against the wooden 
 balustrade. One funny little girl, called Urse, came up 
 and sat upon the bench beside me, and asked as usual 
 if we were married, and showed H. her silver ring that 
 her father had given her, only it was too dark to see 
 the little cross upon it and the letters beneath.
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 375 
 
 XII. 
 
 Fortunata came knocking at my door early next 
 morning before I was quite ready. I had been listening 
 for some time to the waking sounds, the voices in the 
 chapel, the children calling to one another, the pump, 
 the footsteps on the wooden gallery. I had heard little 
 Urse chattering outside my door, and Fortunata and 
 Madame Hofer calling Joanna once or twice. 
 
 " Is Joanna with you } " Fortunata said. 
 
 I answered through my door : " I have not seen 
 her ; tell them to prepare our breakfast with buttered 
 eggs." 
 
 " Yes," said Fortunata, going away. 
 
 Our breakfast was ready spread in the long room. 
 There were three glasses, very brightly polished, to 
 drink the coffee, three dry twisted horns of bread, and 
 a great dish of eggs broken up, and smoking and cooked 
 with pepper. We felt a little ashamed of our luxurious 
 habits when we saw the peasant-women coming shyly 
 to ask for their modest glasses of fresh water and dry 
 half horns of bread. I was pouring H.'s coffee into her 
 glass when Fortunata came again. 
 
 " Had we all we wished .'' could she get us anything 1 " 
 " Signora } " Fortunata said. " I cannot imagine where 
 Joanna can be. She was gone when I avv^oke this
 
 3/6 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 morning ; she has not been to mass ; she has had no 
 breakfast ; I cannot find her anywhere." 
 
 " She has gone off for a ramble this lovely morning," 
 said H. " My dear, ask Madame Hofer for some more 
 hot milk." 
 
 " Cousin Hofer says she may have gone up to the 
 castle," Fortunata cried, coming back with the milk ; 
 and then H. proposed we should all go there after 
 breakfast. 
 
 Many of the women were only now coming out of 
 the chapel and crowding through the doorway. The 
 old fellows, whose devotions were shorter — naturally, 
 at their age, they could not have so much to pray for 
 — were already established on their wooden benches, 
 and stiffly stretching their kneebreeches along the 
 gallery and in front of the baths ; they gravely nodded 
 good mornings over their pipes. Urse and her little 
 brother w^ere standing swinging two great baskets 
 on the green in front of the houses, and we asked 
 them to come with us. But they said no, they were 
 going to pick strawberries with Peter ; he had desired 
 them to wait. 
 
 Peter came up at this minute, and I asked him if 
 he had seen nothing of Joanna. We had missed her, 
 and were a little anxious. The giant chuckled, as if 
 it was a capital joke. " Had she run away .' She was
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 377 
 
 a strong one, she had no timidity, and would come to 
 no harm. She wishes to outrun you all," Peter said. 
 " There are plenty on the Alp to help her if she loses 
 her way ; besides, I told her many things as we came 
 along ; and now she will see the world for herself" 
 
 I could not help a disagreeable feeling that this 
 great fellow knew more than he chose to tell. How- 
 ever, my suspicions were too vague to put into other 
 people's heads. I watched him march off with swinging 
 shirt-sleeves, and the two children scampering after with 
 their baskets. 
 
 We had a charming stroll to the old castle, climbing 
 step by step between the circling stems of the fir-trees, 
 among grey stones and mosses, and under bright 
 changing shadows. Fortunata cheered up a little, and 
 told us a story on the way. 
 
 " Once," she said, " there was another castle belonging 
 to a cruel knight, who ravaged all the country round, 
 and when the owner of this castle had to go away for a 
 long journey, he desired his lady if she loved him not to 
 pass beyond the walls till his return, and he collected 
 provisions for a year, and he left her with her maid to 
 wait his return. And some time after he had left, a 
 little baby was born to the lady, and she and the maid 
 tended it and nursed it. But when the year was nearly 
 at an end, the provisions began to fail.
 
 378 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 " The knight did not return till a year and a day 
 after he had left his home. Then he came hurrying up 
 the hill, and he saw some one watching for him from the 
 tower-window, and he spurred his horse and waved his 
 hand. But when he entered the castle all was silent, 
 and no one came to meet him. The lady was dead," 
 said Nata ; " she had died watching from the window, 
 with her little baby in her arms. The provisions were 
 all gone and they had starved to death ; and the poor 
 maid was dead, too," said Nata, and as she said it .she 
 turned a little pale and stumbled over a stone. "The 
 villagers say the white lady sometimes watches still from 
 the old tower-window with her infant in her arms," she 
 added. " Look ! was that any one t can Joanna be up 
 there t " 
 
 We reached the mossy old castle, with its sweet wild 
 woodland view, but we found no Joanna, only some 
 goats browsing the grass among the ruins. I could sec 
 that Fortunata was getting very anxious, though .she 
 said little ; she was weak and impressionable, and her 
 languor seemed to have changed into a sort of fever ; 
 her cheeks burned. I scolded her for it and for being so 
 silly as to be frightened, but in truth we too thought it 
 strange when we got down to find no news of the girl. 
 Our Audrey was cleaning her pails, and knew nothing of 
 Joanna, except that ^he had not come back. And then
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 379 
 
 Nata went away into the little chapel. I saw her kneelin<^ 
 there, poor little thing, with her face buried in her hands, 
 as I passed the gallery window. 
 
 Joanna was a stout, hearty girl. Madame Hofer 
 said, as Peter had done, that she had gone out for a 
 walk and probably lost her way ; but there were people 
 at work on the Alps all about who would put her in the 
 right road again. To quiet Fortunata, we determined 
 to send round to the neighbouring chalets and ask if she 
 had been seen, and this being settled, Madame Hofer 
 went on with her cooking. All the peasant people were 
 very kind and reassuring ; one or two of them volunteered 
 to go off and look for her. The old fellows took their 
 silver pipes out of their mouths to recount their own 
 early exploits. " Perhaps she has gone up the Schlern," 
 said one of the boys, open-mouthed ; but he was per- 
 emptorily snubbed for the suggestion by his grandfather. 
 " The Schlern was not for little boys or women." And 
 so the time passed slowly as the shadows shifted, to the 
 hum of the voices tranquilly discoursing, to the measured 
 footsteps of the people crossing the little gallery. The 
 old men, who seemed permanently established on the 
 bench outside my door, made their jokes as the younger 
 women passed by ; the housemaid, followed by her tame 
 goat, clumped from the well to the kitchen and back to 
 the well again with her tubs. It was all sunny and
 
 38o MORETTrS CAMPANULA. 
 
 warm and sweet, and would have been utterly peaceful 
 to me if it had not been for the thought of poor little 
 Nata with her burning cheeks. Seeing her flit past my 
 window, I thought it best to lay hands upon her. 
 
 "Come in here, Nata," I said, "and keep still, my 
 dear. You will flurry yourself into a fever if you come 
 and go in the sun. We have sent some messengers to 
 ask for news of Joanna. Madame Hofer will send us 
 word when they return." 
 
 " Cousin Hofer only laughs," Fortunata said, trying 
 not to cry. The troubles and agitations of the last few 
 days had told upon her nerves. I guessed that they had 
 been strained to the uttermost before. For herself, the 
 girl had plenty of spirit, and had done her best to bear 
 the doubt, vexation, and wretchedness from which she 
 had suffered so cruelly of late. She had been good, and 
 uttered no word of complaint ; but who can say what 
 cruel pangs that poor little heart had endured. She had 
 been foolish, perhaps, and romantic ; but Nata's was a 
 deep sweet nature, and her heart beat truly ; and though 
 she could struggle for herself, she broke down in nervous 
 terror for Joanna. 
 
 "Oh, Signora," .she said, a little wildly, "all this time 
 I have tried not to feel, and to-day I am all like one 
 who is dead. I don't feel, and yet I know that I am 
 suffering. Yesterday was a terrible day, so beautiful,
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 381 
 
 and yet so sad ; all I saw only seemed like beautiful 
 pain, and Joanna walked beside me, saying, ' Courage 
 courage ; ' and now, if harm has come to her, if wild 
 
 beasts — if " Nata broke out into sobs. 
 
 " Listen, my dear," I said. " This is all nonsense ; 
 there are no wild beasts in these woods except little 
 squirrels and rabbits, and when Joanna comes home we 
 will give her the scolding she deserves for frightening us 
 all. Now you must lie down and wait patiently till the 
 messengers return. Don't, my child." She was kissing 
 my hand just like a child. She did not lie down, but 
 sat on the straw chair beside the bed, resting her aching 
 head on the dark cotton counterpane. The tears and 
 the silence soothed her, and now that she had ceased to 
 struggle against her terrors they seemed to harass her 
 less. At last she was quiet, and I, sitting in the window, 
 took up a book and tried to read. It was a pretty story 
 but I could not fix my mind upon it. I looked at 
 Madame Hofer standing in the gallery and resting after 
 her morning's work, and then at the fir-trees, and at the 
 bright azure beyond them ; and then I watched little 
 Urse and her brother running across the green. They 
 ran straight towards a peasant-woman who was knitting 
 a stocking in the sun. At first I thought they were at 
 play, for they clung to her skirt and the woman bent 
 over them. I fancied she might be their mother. She
 
 382 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 dropped her knitting and caught Httle Urse's hand. 
 Something in her action disturbed me, and at the same 
 time I saw Madame Hofer lean forward over the low 
 wooden gallery. It might be a fancy, but my heart 
 began to beat with a nervous apprehension as I put 
 down my book and went out quickly. When I came 
 out on the balcony I found that it was indeed no play 
 that was going on : the children were sobbing, and their 
 mother, with a scared face, was hurrying towards the 
 house. 
 
 " Frau Hofer!" she said, "come you quick — here is 
 something happened in the wood ! " We ran down the 
 steps together. I had left the door of my room open, 
 and at the cry the woman gave Nata came running out 
 too. She seemed to guess what had happened almost 
 before the children spoke. 
 
 " Joanna was lying at the foot of the Schlern," they 
 said. " The gentleman found her, and he called Hans," 
 sobbed little Ursc, " when he was climbing for straw- 
 berries, and I called Peter, and when Peter came he 
 told us to stop, and ran awa}', and he did not come 
 back, and she was lying quite still in her hat." 
 
 " And there was blood upon it," said Hans, " and 
 Urse said she was dead, and the gentleman got angry, 
 and said, ' Why did no one come.^' and I was frightened. 
 And Urse came too."
 
 MORETTFS CAMPANULA. 383 
 
 " I could not stay alone with the stranger, he frightened 
 me," sobbed little Urse. 
 
 " You heartless children, to leave her ! " cried Frau 
 Hofer, striking at Hans. Nata caught her hand. " It 
 is well that they came to tell us ; now we can go to 
 her," she said, quite calmly, and in a faint shrill voice. 
 " Hans will show the way. Will you tell some one to 
 follow us. Cousin Hofer, with wine and a blanket to 
 carry her home." Nata was the calmest and most 
 collected of us all. 
 
 The children led the way along the winding path, 
 under the trees ; on our way we met Peter, the carter, 
 flying through the brushwood. He had been, I don't 
 know where, to leave a message for the doctor. " He is 
 in these parts to-day," he said breathless ; " he is curing 
 Anton Burlis' mother of her fever. Courage," said he, 
 kindly, " I guessed where she was gone. Joanna is not 
 dead, don't fear. So I said to the man who found her, 
 ' Ho ! she will live. I gave myself just such another 
 crack on the head, and I am none the worse.' " Madame 
 Hofer shrugged her shoulders. " Your head ! " she said, 
 expressively. 
 
 " The stranger is gone," said Peter. " Here she is 
 by this great rock." 
 
 She was not dead, poor dear child. She was lying 
 senseless, alone, in her hat, as the children described her.
 
 384 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 in a still green nook, at the foot of the great Schlern 
 mountain. Everywhere hung green veils of light, and of 
 soft mosses spreading over every stone and path-way, 
 and green misty depths showed beyond the stems of 
 the fir-trees. Was this sweet silent valley the valley 
 of the shadow of death .^ I wondered. Was this a 
 death-bed .'' — this carpet, where gentians and harebells 
 were shining and white petals blown by the wind, 
 and insects gathering sweet juices out of silver stars. 
 Even from the rocks green creepers were hanging ; 
 those cruel massed rocks from which she must have 
 fallen ! 
 
 At the time I hardly saw anything but her pale lips. 
 Now the whole scene rises up before me in its intense 
 sadness and beauty. That still green dell with the sound 
 of the crickets whistling, Madame Hofer's scared face, 
 the children hanging back behind their mother's .skirt, 
 and Nata, tender and passionate, kneeling by the poor 
 senseless body, raising the pale head in her arms, gently 
 loosening the hat from the clotted plaits to which it had 
 been fastened. If Joanna lived, this absurd hat had 
 probably saved her life. Dear honest Joanna, surely 
 there was no life so precious among us all ; so useful, so 
 kindly, so cheerful and contented. Soon some of the 
 good people came from the bath-house, bringing a hay- 
 cloth to carry her home. They laid her gently down
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 385 
 
 upon it ; they were all subdued by that mystery of 
 inanition, and spoke below their breaths. Only Peter 
 talked out as usual, and described " his crack " to each 
 new comer. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Something now happened which seemed to add to 
 the strangeness and unreality of this sad moment. For 
 some minutes past a murmuring sound had reached us 
 from the heights above, and we now saw a quaint 
 procession — men and women — passing along the edge of 
 the cliff overhead, in conical hats like poor Joanna's ; 
 the men wore flapping waistcoats like Peter's ; they all 
 held rosaries in their hands, and were praying aloud as 
 they went. They did not see us, nor did they hear 
 Peter when he called ; their prayers drowned his voice. 
 It is not the first time that such a thing has happened 
 As he cried " Hola ! " they walked on, and disappeared, 
 but another voice, nearer at hand, and from a different 
 direction, answered, and in a minute more a figure came 
 leaping from rock to rock with quick awkward haste, 
 and hurried towards us. . . . Did I not recognize it .-' 
 Those long loose limbs, that nervous haste, that green 
 
 25
 
 386 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 vasculum swinging from its strap ! I looked once, and 
 then again bewildered, and then at Nata, who was gazing 
 with a changing face. . . . Yes, she too recognized 
 him : it was the Count, he was unmistakable. " Ah, 
 there he is come back," said Peter, in a satisfied tone. 
 " He found her, but he did not know what to do till I 
 came up." Even at this moment, to my shame I confess, 
 a thought of what the future might have in store came 
 to me. Dear honest Joanna herself, would she not have 
 been the first to share it. The load seemed lightened. 
 All must be well for Nata, since Count Saverio had come 
 to her. All well ! Of what was I thinking .■' Here was 
 De Pavis trembling and scared, Nata crying, and our 
 poor Joanna lying senseless, still in her bearer's arms, 
 with her fair hair clotted with blood. 
 
 " Thank heaven you are here ! I thought you were 
 never coming," said the Count, coming straight towards 
 us and not looking surprised to see us. " I had gone a 
 little way to look for you. We must get her home. I 
 found her by the strangest, saddest chance. Don't cry, 
 Nata ; she must get well." He was trembling. He 
 seemed quite unnerved, and unlike himself ; perhaps for 
 the first time in his life he had come in contact with a 
 real sorrow. 
 
 And so they carried her home, quickly and carefully, 
 along the little winding paths, crossing the h'ttle brooks,
 
 MORETTrs CAMPANULA. 387 
 
 stooping beneath the branches of the fir-trees. Peter 
 was at Joanna's head, two stout peasant-women held the 
 cloth at her feet, and Nata walked at her side. The 
 first great burst of summer was over, and the life of this 
 sylvan world seemed subdued to a gentler radiance. 
 The year was ending in peaceful dissolution. But our 
 Joanna's life was not yet at its end ; nor had her warm 
 heart ceased to beat for ever for those she loved. Many 
 of the peasants from the bath-house had joined us, and 
 came quietly along. More than one of these com- 
 passionate people fell down on their knees by the way- 
 side cross to pray for Joanna's life, as she was carried by, 
 with that silent face, and the heavy hand hanging over 
 the side of the cloth. 
 
 All the way back Saverio never spoke, nor did Nata 
 seem to heed his presence : her whole wistful heart 
 seemed given to Joanna. But as they walked along, I 
 saw him looking at her with a humble pitiful look that 
 touched me and made me like him better than I had 
 ever done. She was so changed, so thin, so sad. Even 
 his return could not bring back her bloom all in one 
 moment. What a mystery it is that the happiness, the 
 light of one life, should be so often in the gift of 
 another's will ! Which of us is there that does not 
 hold chords that may vibrate from the very hearts of 
 those about us .'' Let us pray that with reverent and
 
 388 MORETTFS CAMPANULA. 
 
 loving care we may use our power, half-unconscious as 
 it is. . . . 
 
 I hurried on before them to make ready a room, and 
 I had hardly prepared everything, with Audrey's help, 
 when she said, looking from the gallery, *' Here they 
 come, and there is the doctor." The doctor came 
 walking through the wood, and met the little procession 
 as it reached the foot of the wooden stairs. Many 
 brown hands were held out to greet him, and he nodded 
 right and left as he followed Joanna's bearers up the 
 creaking wooden flight. He was an old man with long 
 white hair and a staff and silver pipe, which he gave me 
 to hold while he helped to lay Joanna on the straw bed 
 which had been made ready. 
 
 " There are too many here," he said, motioning 
 the people gently out of the room. " She will soon 
 revive." 
 
 " That is as I told you," said Peter, with a slap upon 
 his knee. Then he jerked his chin. "What is that she 
 is holding in her hand "^ " he said. 
 
 Madame Hofcr gently unclasped the poor fingers and 
 took a tuft of crushed purple flowers from between them. 
 " It is only a flower ! " she said. 
 
 " It is Moretti's Campanula," said the doctor, taking 
 it into his own hand. " She must have caught it as she 
 fell, poor child. It grows high up on the rock."
 
 MORErrrs campanula. 389 
 
 There was a moment's silence, then a sudden burst 
 of new tears. 
 
 " Oh, my dear, my poor dear," sobbed Nata, as she 
 fell on her knees, and hiding her face in her hands. 
 "The flower, the lilac flower! Oh, Signora, do you 
 remember } " 
 
 Did I remember ! — my foolish words and nonsense, — 
 talk of charms and magic, Joanna's wistful eyes and 
 self-reproach that night upon the terrace. Only too 
 well I remembered it all. Could it be that / had done 
 all this mischief by my idle words .'' Ah me, the reproach 
 was mine now, and I was too old to cry it away like 
 Fortunata. 
 
 The Count seemed uneasy too ; he turned very red, 
 and I think he muttered something about the " Devil 
 take that infernal flower ! " as he left the room ; but he 
 came back wistfully the next instant to say, " Courage, 
 Nata : don't cry ! " And he put his arm round her and 
 raised her up. She looked at him through her tears 
 with a half-doubting trustful look, like some little wild 
 animal that trembles yet knows no fear. 
 
 Then they all went away, and we undressed Joanna 
 as well as we could. It seemed an age while the doctor 
 examined her. She was cruelly bruised and cut and 
 sprained on the side on which she had fallen ; and 
 there, besides, was the one deep cruel wound beneath
 
 390 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 her hair ; but the skull was uninjured ; the high hat 
 had truly saved her life. Peter stood outside ready to 
 go off again for medicine and bandages to the Alp where 
 the doctor was staying ; Nata's tears kept dropping — 
 dropping on the counterpane, on the straw mattress, 
 on the dear pale face. They were softer, happier tears, 
 as Joanna's colour revived a little beneath this gentle 
 rain ; light came into her dim eyes, she stirred and 
 whispered, " Nata, here ! " then she opened her soft 
 lids wide and looked a little wildly from one to the 
 other. The doctor nodded. " All goes well," he said ; 
 and then he wrote something against the wall, and he 
 went to the door and gave it to Peter, who bounded 
 down the gallery in two steps. There was a whisper 
 outside amongst the peasants, while here inside Madame 
 Hofer stood with a candle and a pair of scissors ; 
 and Nata was hanging over Joanna's bed silently, and 
 yet with all her tenderest heart's signs and unspoken 
 language welcoming her back to life after that awful 
 journey from which she was returning. 
 
 " The Signora ! " Joanna said, recognizing me ; then 
 .she began feeling about the bedclothes and faltered 
 something about a flower. 
 
 " Hush — hu.sh ! It is safe, you are .safe ; all, all is 
 well," said Nata, clasping her hands. " Lie still while 
 \\c thank God for your deliverance from peril."
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 391 
 
 Some minutes afterwards I saw the doctor looking 
 about uneasily from one side to the other. " Is anything 
 amiss ? " I asked, anxiously. " I have mislaid my pipe," 
 he said, and then I discovered that I had been holding 
 the pipe all the while in my hand. 
 
 The doctor had done his work, and sat chattering 
 with the old oracles down below. Joanna was uncon- 
 scious again, but this time it was only a quiet sleep 
 after the pain and fatigue of having her hurts dressed 
 and attended to. H., with her kind face beaming with 
 sympathy, came gently stirring the door-handle to call 
 me to supper. 
 
 " This morning it was Joanna. Now it is Fortunata 
 who is lost, just when supper is ready too," said Madame 
 Hofer, meeting us, and speaking with some asperity. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 H. waited till she was gone, then she laid her hand 
 on my arm and pointed to two dim figures on a seat 
 beneath a tree. As we were looking at them they got 
 up and came strolling towards the house. A minute or 
 two after they came into the dining-room. They stood
 
 392 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 at the door, blinking their eyes in the dazzle of two 
 candles and the soup-tureen. Perhaps I ought to have 
 had more apprehensions, but somehow since Saverio's 
 return I had felt none, and I went to meet them, 
 saying, " Come, here is the soup. Joanna is asleep, 
 and Urse's mother is with her, and we are only waiting 
 for you." 
 
 " I am sorry to have detained you," said the Count, 
 standing quite erect, with a look of such real happiness 
 in his face that it was not difficult to foresee what was 
 coming, while Nata took my hand and pressed it, with 
 a long soft thrill that told me all I wanted to know. 
 However, they said no more just then, and all supper- 
 time the Count was much as usual. Nata eat nothing, 
 but sat with innocent happy eyes, looking as I had 
 never seen her look before. I was struck, for the first 
 time, by her extreme beauty and dazzling brilliancy of 
 colour. It w^as like sunlight shining after a cloud had 
 passed away. During supper the Count told us that 
 he had been busy of late completing a collection, and 
 writing the last chapters of his work upon mountain 
 campanulas. There arc no less than sixty different 
 species of these charming flowers, he informed us, of 
 which forty are to be found in the Alps alone. " I 
 wished to give my whole mind to my work," he said, 
 with an odd look as he eat his chicken. " Mv book has
 
 MORETTPS CAMPANULA 393 
 
 given me a great deal of trouble, and taken a long time 
 to write," he added. 
 
 Almost too long a time for his happiness, I thought. 
 After supper I went out into the gallery again. Seeing 
 me standing a little apart, Nata came up, flung her 
 arms round me, and began whispering her happiness 
 in the twilight. 
 
 " Oh, Signora, he loves me — he loves me — he is my 
 betrothed." 
 
 Afterwards I heard more, not from Nata nor from 
 the Count, but from my old friend Delia Santa ; she 
 it was who had warned him of the cruel gossip of the 
 place. He was greatly disturbed and shocked, and 
 very indignant. He had never faced the matter fairly 
 until then. In spite of his aunt's horrified warnings he 
 started at once to follow Nata, and only once (so he 
 confessed long afterwards) did he hesitate at the thought 
 of the storm he should bring about his head by such 
 a marriage. This was a minute before chance, or Provi- 
 dence, brought him to the rock where poor Joanna was 
 lying. 
 
 How sweet the evening fell after that long toilsome 
 day. The full moon came sliding up from behind the 
 roof, the lights gleamed, the dark figures passed, and 
 very very far away the echo of an evening hymn
 
 394 MORETTPS CAMPANULA. 
 
 reached us from one of the Alps. The doctor and the 
 priest passed us smoking their pipes. " You may be 
 quite at ease about your patient," said the doctor, 
 nodding as he went by. 
 
 It seemed too much almost. "You will never be 
 able to persuade Joanna that the purple flower is not 
 a charm," said H. 
 
 " I will try," I said, feeling very much ashamed. 
 " I shall tell her that charms are not the things them- 
 selves, but are signs of the facts they represent. When 
 I put my hand in yours, it is a sign that I love you, 
 that I am thinking of you. When people love each 
 other truly, anything, everything becomes a charm ; 
 and flowers, and bits of hair, and old ribbons, and rings, 
 and all sorts of rubbish, become priceless." 
 
 " I think I understand you," said H. smiling ; " but 
 I don't think Joanna will." And I am afraid H. was 
 right. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 London : I'rinted by S.Miiii, Elder and Co., Old Bailey, E.G.
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 I. 
 
 With Four Illustrations by Frederick Walker. 
 Detny Zvo. \2s. 
 
 FIVE OLD FRI ENDS 
 
 AND A YOUNG PRINCE. 
 
 Selection from Notices by the Press. 
 
 " Miss Thackeray can cast that atmosphere of wonder and delight which 
 children find in the spells and transformations of their fairy tales round events of 
 real life, and make us feel that rationalism is not, after all, the presiding genius of 
 modern society. . . . Perhaps the tale with most of depth and beauty of its own, 
 is the story of the modem 'Jack the Giant Killer.' . . . Our authoress avails her- 
 self of every touch of poetry in the old legend, and yet has a broad and solid 
 humour, ready to interpret the great crowning feat of the celebrated 'hasty 
 pudding ' too. . . . But we might go on extracting effects full of the marvels of 
 action, of the mirage of fancy, and of the true light of imagination, till we had 
 extracted half the book. None of Miss Thackeray's literary productions have been 
 so novel, if any as perfect after their kind, as this." — The Spectatm: 
 
 " A pleasing, popular volume, which the young will accept with pleasure, and 
 in which the old will recall the days when 'Beauty and the Beast,' and 'The 
 vSleeping Beauty of the Wood ' were realities. . . . Though it adds little to the 
 value of the book, yet it is but due to note the goodness of the illustrations, and 
 the beauty of the covers. A gift-book should, in its outer presentment, proclaim 
 its character, and this has been kept in view by the publishers of ' Five Old 
 Friends.' " — John Bull. 
 
 " As charming a book as we have read for many a day, one which cannot fail 
 to delight readers of every bodily and mental age, as well those who can appreciate 
 its high artistic merit as those who will enjoy, wthout criticising, its unforced 
 humour and genuine pathos." — The Saturday Rez'iew. 
 
 " The ' Five Old Friends ' of this fresh and delightful book are the stories of 
 * The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood,' ' Cinderella, ' Beauty and the Beast,' ' Little 
 Red Riding Hood,' and 'Jack the Giant Killer;" but original thought and 
 delicate literary manipulation have so completely changed the faces of these ancient 
 friends, and have imbued them with so many qualities of fancy and feeling, of head 
 and heart, that whilst it is sometimes difficult to recognize in their actors the 
 favourite heroes and heroines of childhood's romance, it is still more difficult to 
 state precisely in a few words how far they resemble, and in what respects they 
 differ, from the narratives of which they are transformations." — The Athenesum.
 
 II. 
 
 Third Edition. With Six Illustrations by Fred. Walker. Demy %vo, \2s. 6d. 
 
 THE VILLAGE ON THE CLIFF. 
 
 " Compared with the ordinary run of three volume novels, the brief history 
 now before us is as a highly-finished cabinet picture by the side of a dozen square 
 yards of stage scenery. . . . We may venture to congratulate the Authoress on 
 having inherited some of the most precious literary excellences of her distinguished 
 father. . . . But, besides this, the writer possesses original gifts of her own, a 
 capability of minutely analyzing mental struggles, and a peculiar faculty for depicting 
 the landscape in which her characters move. So powerful is her rendering, that 
 we do not merely say coldly, ' This is a vivid and truthful picture ; ' we insensibly 
 breathe, as we read, the very atmosphere of the place described." — The Times. 
 
 "The story not only gratifies the taste by its artistic merit, but also speaks 
 straight to the heart with a sweetness and a pathos which none can fail to appre- 
 ciate. The author depicts, with a tenderness of feeling and a delicacy of touch 
 worthy of the highest praise, the cheerlessness of a life upon which but little 
 sunlight falls — the yearning of a loving nature for the happiness which it feels it 
 could not merely appreciate, but revel in, and which is to it just everything that 
 makes life worth having." — The Saturday Review. 
 
 III. 
 
 Crowfi ?>vo, y. 6d. With Four Illustrations. 
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 " A story unique among the novels of the day ; a fresh bouquet all dewed and 
 thomed with real prickle upon the rose-stalks, and great blobs of morning tears 
 
 upon the leaves But if there are thorns there is fragrance, and promise 
 
 not to be mistaken ; and so vivid a picture of a girl's heart, made by the fittest of 
 all painters, an artist on the spot and behind the scenes, has an interest still greater 
 than that of a story to all who may be concerned in the caprices or peculiarities of 
 that generally interesting species of humanity." — Blackivood^s Magazine. 
 
 "'The Story of Elizabeth' affords an almost solitary instance of a simple, 
 touching, life-like tale, which possesses interest without any physical horrors, and 
 amusement without the aid of melo-drama." — Fraser''s Magazine. 
 
 "The English, no less than the substance of this little tale, indicates real 
 genius. It is rare, indeed, to find a style which is steeped in the colours of many 
 literary generations, and yet so full of vivacity and youth as this." — Spectator, 
 
 LONDON: SMITH, ELDER & CO., 15, WATERLOO PLACE.
 
 
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