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 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 IN ONE VOLUME.
 
 TAUCHNITZ EDITION. 
 By the same Author, 
 
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 ^\We.. ^^^WUaU^* 
 
 THE 
 
 STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 copyright edition: 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 
 BEENHAED TAUCHNITZ 
 
 18 63. 
 
 The Right nf Translation is reserved.
 
 PV - 7 
 IS
 
 TO 
 
 J. M. C.
 
 THE 
 
 STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 # * * # 
 
 If singing breath, or echoing chord, 
 
 To every hidden pang were given, 
 What endless melodies were poured 
 
 As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven 1 
 
 This is the story of a foolish woman, who, 
 through her own folly, learnt wisdom at last; whose 
 troubles — they were not very great, they might 
 have made the happiness of some less eager spirit 
 — were more than she knew how to bear. The 
 lesson of life was a hard lesson to her. She would 
 not learn, she revolted against the wholesome 
 doctrine. And while she was crying out that she 
 would not learn, and turning away and railing 
 and complaining against her fate; days, hours, 
 fate, went on their course. And they passed un- 
 
 The Story of Elizabeth. I
 
 2 l m sroRY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 moved; and it was she who gave way, she who 
 was altered, she who was touched and torn by her 
 own complaints and regrets. 
 
 Elizabeth had great soft eyes and pretty yellow 
 hair, and a sweet flitting smile, which came out 
 like sunlight over her face, and lit up yours and 
 mine, and any other it might chance to fall upon. 
 She used to smile at herself in the glass, as many 
 a girl has done before her; she used to dance 
 about the room, and think, "Come life, come life, 
 mine is going to be a happy one. Here I am 
 awaiting, and I was made handsome to be admired, 
 and to be loved, and to be hated by a few, and 
 worshipped by a few, and envied by all. I am 
 handsomer than Laetitia a thousand times. I am 
 glad I have no money as she has, and that I shall 
 be loved for myself, for my beaux yeux. One 
 person turns pale when they look at him. Tra 
 la la, tra la la!" and she danced along the room 
 singing. There was no carpet, only a smooth 
 polished floor. Three tall windows looked out 
 into a busy Paris street paved with stones, over 
 which carriages, and cabs, and hand-trucks were
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 3 
 
 jolting. There was a clock, and artificial flowers 
 in china vases on the chimney, a red velvet sofa, 
 a sort of etaglre with ornaments, and a great 
 double-door wide open, through which you could 
 see a dining-room, also bare, polished, with a round 
 table and an oilcloth cover, and a white china 
 stove, and some waxwork fruit on the sideboard, 
 and a maid in a white cap at work in the 
 window. 
 
 Presently there came a ring at the bell. Eliza- 
 beth stopped short in her dance, and the maid 
 rose, put down her work, and went to open the 
 door; and then a voice, which made Elizabeth 
 smile and look handsomer than ever, asked if 
 Mrs. and Miss Gilmour were at home? 
 
 Elizabeth stood listening, with her fair head a 
 little bent, while the maid said, "No, sare" and 
 then Miss Gilmour flushed up quite angrily in 
 the inner room, and would have run out. She 
 hesitated only for a minute, and then it was too 
 late; the door was shut, and Clementine sat down 
 again to her work. 
 
 "Clementine ; how dare you say I was not at
 
 11IK STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 home?" cried Elizabeth, suddenly standing before 
 her. 
 
 "Madame desired me to let no one in in her 
 absence," said Clementine, primly. "I only obeyed 
 my orders. There is the gentleman's card." 
 
 "Sir John Dampier" was on the card, and 
 then, in pencil, "I hope you will be at home in 
 Chester Street next week. Can I be your avant- 
 courier in any way? I cross to-night." 
 
 Elizabeth smiled again, shrugged her shoulders, 
 and said to herself, "Next week; I can afford to 
 wait better than he can, perhaps. Poor man! 
 After all, il y en a lien d'autres;" and she went to 
 the window, and, by leaning out, she just caught 
 a glimpse of the Madeleine and of Sir John Dam- 
 pier walking away; and then presently she saw 
 her mother on the opposite side of the street, 
 passing the stall of the old apple-woman, turning 
 in under the archway of the house. 
 
 Elizabeth's mother was like her daughter, only 
 she had black eyes and black hair, and where her 
 daughter was wayward and yielding, the elder 
 woman was wayward and determined. They did
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 5 
 
 not care much for one another, these two. They 
 had not lived together all their lives, or learnt to 
 love one another, as a matter of course; they were 
 too much alike, too much of an age: Elizabeth 
 was eighteen, and her mother thirty-six. If Eliza- 
 beth looked twenty, the mother looked thirty, and 
 she was as vain, as foolish, as fond of admiration 
 as her daughter. Mrs. Gilmour did not own it to 
 herself, but she had been used to it all her life — 
 to be first, to be much made of; and here was a 
 little girl who had sprung up somehow, and learnt 
 of herself to be charming — more charming than 
 she had ever been in her best days; and now 
 that they had slid away, those best days, the 
 elder woman had a dull, unconscious discontent 
 in her heart. People whom she had known, and 
 who had admired her but a year or two ago, 
 seemed to neglect her now and to pass her by, 
 in order to pay a certain homage to her daughter's 
 youth and brilliance: John Dampier, among 
 others, whom she had known as a boy, when she 
 was a young woman. Good mothers, tender- 
 hearted women, brighten again and grow young
 
 6 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 over their children's happiness and success. 
 Caroline Gilmour suddenly became old, somehow, 
 when she first witnessed her daughter's triumphs, 
 and she felt that the wrinkles were growing under 
 her wistful eyes, and that the colour was fading 
 from her cheeks, and she gasped a little sigh and 
 thought, "Ah! how I suffer! What is it? what 
 can have come to me?" As time passed on, the 
 widow's brows grew darker, her lips set ominously. 
 One day she suddenly declared that she was weary 
 of London and London ways, and that she should 
 go abroad; and Elizabeth, who liked everything 
 that was change, that was more life and more 
 experience — she had not taken into account that 
 there was any other than the experience of pleasure 
 in store for her — Elizabeth clapped her hands and 
 cried, "Yes, yes, mamma; I am quite tired of 
 London and all this excitement. Let us go to 
 Paris for the winter, and lead a quiet life." 
 
 "Paris is just the place to go to for quiet," 
 said Mrs. Gilmour, who was smoothing her shin- 
 ing locks in the glass, and looking intently into 
 her own dark gloomful eyes.
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. *} 
 
 "The Dampiers are going to Paris," Elizabeth 
 went on; "Lady Dampier and Sir John, and old 
 Miss Dampier and Laetitia. He was saying how 
 he wished you would go. We could have such 
 fun! Do go, dear, pretty mamma!" 
 
 As Elizabeth spoke, Mrs. Gilmour's dark eyes 
 brightened, and suddenly her hard face melted; 
 and, still looking at herself in the glass, she said, 
 "We will go if you wish it, Elly. I thought you 
 had had enough of balls." 
 
 But the end of the Paris winter came, and 
 even then Elly had not had enough: not enough 
 admiration, not enough happiness, not enough 
 new dresses, not enough of herself, not enough 
 time to suffice her eager, longing desires, not 
 enough delights to fill up the swift flying days. 
 I cannot tell you — she could not have told you 
 herself — what she wanted, what perfection of 
 happiness, what wonderful thing. She danced, she 
 wore beautiful dresses, she flirted, she chattered 
 nonsense and sentiment, she listened to music; her 
 pretty little head was in a whirl. John Dampier 
 followed her from place to place; and so, indeed,
 
 8 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 did one or two others. Though she was in love 
 with them all, I believe she would have married 
 this Dampier if he had asked her, but he never 
 did. He saw that she did not really care for 
 him; opportunity did not befriend him. His 
 mother was against it; and then, her mother was 
 there, looking at him with her dark, reproachful 
 eyes — those eyes which had once fascinated and 
 then repelled him, and that he mistrusted so and 
 almost hated now. And this is the secret of my 
 story; but for this it would never have been 
 written. He hated, and she did not hate, poor 
 woman! It would have been better, a thousand 
 times, for herself and for her daughter, had she 
 done so. Ah me! what cruel perversion was it, 
 that the best of all good gifts should have turned 
 to trouble, to jealousy and wicked rancour; that 
 this sacred power of faithful devotion, by which 
 she might have saved herself and ennobled a mean 
 and earthly spirit, should have turned to a curse 
 instead of a blessing! 
 
 There was a placid, pretty niece of Lady Dam- 
 pier, called Lretitia, who had been long destined
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 9 
 
 for Sir John. Lsetitia and Elizabeth had been at 
 school together for a good many dreary years, and 
 were very old friends. Elizabeth all her life used 
 to triumph over her friend, and to bewilder her 
 with her careless, gleeful ways, and yet win her 
 over to her own side, for she was irresistible, and 
 she knew it. Perhaps it was because she knew it 
 so well that she was so confident and so charming. 
 Laetitia, although she was sincerely fond of her 
 cousin, used to wonder that her aunt could be 
 against such a wife for her son. 
 
 "She is a sort of princess," the girl used to 
 say; "and John ought to have a beautiful wife 
 for the credit of the family." 
 
 "Your fifty thousand pounds would go a great 
 deal further to promote the credit of the family, 
 my dear," said old Miss Dampier, who was a fat, 
 plain-spoken, kindly old lady. "I like the girl, 
 though my sister-in-law does not; and I hope that 
 some day she will find a very good husband. I 
 confess that I had rather it were not John." 
 
 And so one day John was informed by his 
 mother, who was getting alarmed, that she was
 
 IO THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 going home, and that she could not think of 
 crossing without him. And Dampier, who was 
 careful, as men are mostly, and wanted to think 
 about his decision, and who was anxious to do the 
 very best for himself in every respect — as is the 
 way with just, and good, and respectable gentle- 
 men — was not at all loth to obey her summons. 
 
 Here was Laetitia, who was very fond of him 
 — there was no doubt of that — with a house in 
 the country and money at her bankers'; there was 
 a wayward, charming, beautiful girl, who didn't 
 care for him very much, who had little or no 
 money, but whom he certainly cared for. He 
 talked it all over dispassionately with his aunt 
 — so dispassionately that the old woman got 
 angry. 
 
 "You are a model young man, John. It quite 
 affects me, and makes me forget my years to see 
 the admirable way in which you young people 
 conduct yourselves. You have got such well- 
 regulated hearts, it's quite a marvel. You are 
 quite right; Tishy has got 50,000/., which will 
 all go into your pocket, and respectable connec-
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. II 
 
 tions, who will come to your wedding, and Elly 
 Gilmour has not a penny except what her mother 
 will leave her — a mother with a bad temper, and 
 who is sure to marry again; and though the girl 
 is the prettiest young creature I ever set eyes on, 
 and though you care for her as you never cared 
 for any other woman before, men don't marry 
 wives for such absurd reasons as that. You are 
 quite right to have nothing to do with her; and I 
 respect you for your noble self-denial." And the 
 old lady began to knit away at a great long red 
 comforter she had always on hand for her other 
 nephew the clergyman. 
 
 "But, my dear aunt Jean, what is it you want 
 me to do?" cried John. 
 
 "Drop one, knit two together," said the old 
 lady, cliquetting her needles. 
 
 She really wanted John to marry his cousin, 
 but she was a spinster still and sentimental; and 
 she could not help being sony for pretty Eliza- 
 beth; and now she was afraid that she had said 
 too much, for her nephew frowned, put his hands 
 in his pockets, and walked out of the room.
 
 12 IMF. STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 He walked downstairs, and out of the door 
 into the Rue Royale, the street where they were 
 lodging; then he strolled across the Place de la 
 Concorde, and in at the gates of the Tuileries, 
 where the soldiers were pacing, and so along the 
 broad path, to where he heard a sound of music, 
 and saw a glitter of people. Turn te turn, bom, 
 bom, bom, went the military music; twittering 
 busy little birds were chirping up in the branches; 
 buds were bursting; colours glimmering; tinted 
 sunshine flooding the garden, and the music, and 
 the people; old gentlemen were reading news- 
 papers on the benches; children were playing at 
 hide-and-seek behind the statues; nurses gossiping, 
 and nodding their white caps, and dandling their 
 white babies; and there on chairs, listening to the 
 music, the mammas were sitting in grand bonnets 
 and parasols, working, and gossiping too, and 
 ladies and gentlemen went walking up and down 
 before them. All the windows of the Tuileries 
 were ablaze with the sun; the terraces were be- 
 ginning to gleam with crocuses and spring 
 flowers.
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. I 3 
 
 As John Dampier was walking along, scarcely 
 noting all this, he heard his name softly called, 
 and turning round he saw two ladies sitting under 
 a budding horse-chestnut tree. One of them he 
 thought looked like a fresh spring flower herself 
 smiling pleasantly, all dressed in crisp light grey, 
 with a white bonnet, and a quantity of bright 
 yellow crocus hair. She held out a little grey 
 hand and said, 
 
 "Won't you come and talk to us! Mamma 
 and I are tired of listening to music. We want 
 to hear somebody talk." 
 
 And then mamma, who was Mrs. Gilmour, 
 held out a straw-coloured hand, and said, "Do 
 you think sensible people have nothing better to 
 do than to listen to your chatter, Elly? Here is 
 your particular friend, M. de Vaux, coming to us. 
 You can talk to him." 
 
 Elizabeth looked up quickly at her mother, 
 then glanzed at Dampier, then greeted M. de 
 Vaux as pleasantly almost as she had greeted him. 
 
 "I am afraid I cannot stay now," said Sir 
 John to Elizabeth. "I have several things to
 
 14 mi STORK 01 ii i. mi Mi- 
 
 do. I »<i \mii know that we are going away im- 
 mediately?" 
 
 Mrs. Gilmour's black eyes seemed to flash 
 into his face as he spoke. He felt them, though 
 he was looking at Elizabeth, and he could not 
 help turning away with an impatient movement 
 of dislike. 
 
 "Going away! Oh, how sorry I am," said 
 Elly. "But, mamma, I forgot — you said we 
 were going home, too, in a few days; so I don't 
 mind so much. You will come and say good-by, 
 won't you?" Elizabeth went on, while M. de Vaux, 
 who had been waiting to be spoken to, turned 
 away rather provoked, and made some remark to 
 Mrs. Gilmour. And then Elizabeth seeing her 
 opportunity, and looking up, frank, fair, and 
 smiling, said quickly, "To-morrow at three, mind 
 — and give my love to Lsetitia," she went on, 
 much more deliberately, "and my best love to 
 Miss Dampier! and oh, dear! why does one ever 
 have to say good-by to one's friends? Are you 
 sure you are all really going?" 
 
 "Alas!" said Dampier, looking down at the
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. I 5 
 
 kind young face with strange emotion and tender- 
 ness, and holding out his hand. He had not 
 meant it as good-by yet, but so Elly and her 
 mother understood it. 
 
 "Good-by, Sir John, we shall meet again in 
 London," said Mrs. Gilmour. 
 
 "Good-by," said Elly, wistfully raising her 
 sweet eyes. 
 
 As he walked away, he carried with him a 
 bright picture of the woman he loved, looking at 
 him kindly, happy, surrounded with sunshine and 
 budding green leaves, smiling and holding out 
 her hand; and so he saw her in his dreams some- 
 times; and so she would appear to him now and 
 then in the course of his life; so he sometimes 
 sees her now, in spring-time, generally when the 
 trees are coming out, and some little chirp of a 
 sparrow or some little glistening green bud con- 
 jures up all these old bygone days again. 
 
 Mrs. Gilmour did not sleep very sound all 
 that night. While Elizabeth lay dreaming in 
 her dark room, her mother, with wild-falling black
 
 1 6 1111 STOKY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 hair, and wrapped in a long red dressing-gown, 
 was wandering restlessly up and down, or flinging 
 herself on the bed or the sofa, and trying at her 
 bedside desperately to sleep, or falling on her 
 knees with clasped outstretched hands. Was she 
 asking for her own happiness at the expense of 
 poor Elly's? I don't like to think so — it seems 
 so cruel, so wicked, so unnatural. But remember, 
 here was a passionate selfish woman, who for 
 long years had had one dream, one idea; who 
 knew that she loved this man twenty times — 
 twenty years — more than did Elizabeth, who 
 was but a little child when this mad fancy 
 began. 
 
 "She does not care for him a bit," the poor 
 wretch said to herself over and over again. "He 
 likes her, and he would marry her if — if I 
 chose to give him the chance. She will be as 
 happy with anybody else. I could not bear this 
 — it would kill me. I never suffered such hor- 
 rible torture in all my life. He hates me. It is 
 hopeless; and I — I do not know whether I hate 
 him or I love him most. How dare she tell him
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. I 7 
 
 to come to-morrow, when she knew I would be 
 out. She shall not see him. We will neither of 
 us see him again; never — oh! never. But I 
 shall suffer, and she will forget. Oh! if I could 
 forget!" And then she would fall down on her 
 knees again; and because she prayed, she blinded 
 herself to her own wrong-doings, and thought that 
 heaven was on her side. 
 
 And so the night went on. John Dampier 
 was haunted with strange dreams, and saw Caro- 
 line Gilmour more than once coming and going 
 in a red gown and talking to him, though he 
 could not understand what she was saying; some- 
 times she was in his house at Guildford; some- 
 times in Paris; sometimes sitting with Elly up in 
 a chestnut-tree, and chattering like a monkey; 
 sometimes gliding down interminable rooms and 
 opening door after door. He disliked her worse 
 than ever when he woke in the morning. Is this 
 strange? It would have seemed to me stranger 
 had it not been so. We are not blocks of wax 
 and putty with glass eyes, like the people at 
 Madame Tussaud's; we have souls, and we feel 
 
 The Story of Elizabeth. 2
 
 I 8 II IK STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 and we guess at more than we see round about 
 us, and wc influence one another for good or for 
 evil from the moment we come into the world. 
 Let us be humbly thankful if the day comes for 
 us to leave it before we have done any great 
 harm to those who live their lives alongside with 
 ours. And so the next morning Caroline asked 
 her daughter if she would come with her to M. 
 le Pasteur Tourneur's at two. "I am sure you 
 would be the better for listening to a good man's 
 exhortation," said Mrs. Gilmour. 
 
 "I don't want to go, mamma. I hate exhor- 
 tations," said Elizabeth, pettishly; "and you 
 know how ill it made me last Tuesday. How 
 can you like it — such dreary, sleepy talk? It 
 gave me the most dreadful headache." 
 
 "Poor child," said Mrs. Gilmour, "perhaps the 
 day may come when you will find out that a 
 headache is not the most terrible calamity. But 
 you understand that if you do not choose to come 
 with me, you must stay at home. I will not have 
 you going about by yourself, or with any chance 
 friends — it is not respectable."
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 9 
 
 Elly shrugged her shoulders, but resigned 
 herself with wonderful good grace. Mrs. Gilmour 
 prepared herself for her expedition: she put on a 
 black silk gown, a plain bonnet, a black cloak. 
 I cannot exactly tell you what change came over 
 her. It was not the lady of the Tuileries the 
 day before; it was not the woman in the red 
 dressing-gown. It was a respectable, quiet per- 
 sonage enough, who went off primly with her 
 prayer-book in her hand, and who desired Cle- 
 mentine on no account to let anybody in until 
 her return. 
 
 "Miss Elizabeth is so little to be trusted," so 
 she explained quite unnecessarily to the maid, 
 "that I cannot allow her to receive visits when I 
 am from home." 
 
 And Clementine, who was a stiff, ill-humoured 
 woman, pinched her lips and said, "Bien, ma- 
 dame." 
 
 And so when Elizabeth's best chance for hap- 
 piness came to the door, Clementine closed it 
 again with great alacrity, and shut out the good 
 fortune, and sent it away. I am sure that if
 
 ["HE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 Dampier had come in that day and seen Elly 
 once more, lie could not have helped speaking 
 to her and making her and making himself 
 happy in so doing. I am sure that Elly, with 
 all her vanities and faults, would have made 
 him a good wife, and brightened his dismal old 
 house; but I am not sure that happiness is the 
 best portion after all, and that there is not some- 
 thing better to be found in life than mere wordly 
 prosperity. 
 
 Dampier walked away, almost relieved, and 
 yet disappointed too. "Well, they will be back 
 in town in ten days," he thought, "and we will 
 see then. But why the deuce did the girl tell 
 me three o'clock, and then not be at home to see 
 me?" And as ill-luck would have it, at this 
 moment, up came Mrs. Gilmour. "I have just 
 been to see you, to say good-by," said Dampier. 
 "I was very sorry to miss you and your 
 daughter." 
 
 "I have been attending a meeting at the 
 house of my friend the Pasteur Tourneur," said 
 Mrs. Gilmour; "but Elizabeth was at home —
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 2 1 
 
 would not she see you?" She blushed up 
 very red as she spoke, and so did John Dam- 
 pier; her face glowed with shame, and his with 
 vexation. 
 
 "No; she would not see me," cried he. 
 "Good-by, Mrs. Gilmour." 
 
 "Good-by," she said, and looked up with her 
 black eyes; but he was staring vacantly beyond 
 her, busy with his own reflections, and then she 
 felt it was good-by for ever. 
 
 He turned down a wide street, and she crossed 
 mechanically and came along the other side of 
 the road, as I have said; past the stall of the old 
 apple-woman; advancing demurely, turning in 
 under the archway of the house. 
 
 She had no time for remorse. "He does not 
 care for me," was all she could think; "he scorns 
 
 me he has behaved as no gentleman would 
 
 behave." (Poor John! — in justice to him I must 
 say that this was quite an assumption on her 
 part.) And at the same time John Dampier, at 
 the other end of the street, was walking away in 
 a huff, and saying to himself that "Elly is a little
 
 11 IK STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 heartless flirt; she cares for no one but herself. 
 1 will have no more to do with her. Lretitia 
 would not have served me so." 
 
 Klly met her mother at the door. "Mamma, 
 how could you be so horrid and disagreeable? — 
 why did you tell Clementine to let no one in?" 
 She shook back her curly locks, and stamped her 
 little foot, as she spoke, in her childish anger. 
 
 "You should not give people appointments 
 when I am out of the way," said Mrs. Gilmour, 
 primly. "Why did you not come with me? Dear 
 M. Tourneur's exposition was quite beautiful." 
 
 "I hate Monsieur Tourneur!" cried Elizabeth; 
 "and I should not do such things if you were 
 kind, mamma, and liked me to amuse myself and 
 to be happy; but you sit there, prim and frown- 
 ing, and thinking everything wrong that is harm- 
 less; and you spoil all my pleasure; and it is a 
 shame — and a shame — and you will make me 
 hate you too;" and she ran into her own room, 
 banged the door, and locked it. 
 
 I suppose it was by way of compensation to 
 Klly that Mrs. Gilmour sat down and wrote a
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 23 
 
 little note, asking Monsieur de Vaux to tea that 
 evening to meet M. le Pasteur Tourneur and 
 his son. 
 
 Elizabeth sat sulking in her room all the 
 afternoon, the door shut; the hum of a busy city 
 came in at her open window; then the glass 
 panes blazed with light, and she remembered how 
 the windows of the Tuileries had shone at that 
 time the day before, and she thought how kind 
 and how handsome Dampier looked, as he came 
 walking along, and how he was worth ten Mes- 
 sieurs de Vaux and twenty foolish boys like 
 Anthony Tourneur. The dusky shadows came 
 creeping round the room, dimming a pretty 
 picture. 
 
 It was a commonplace little tableau de genre 
 enough — that of a girl sitting at a window, with 
 clasped hands, dreaming dreams more or less 
 silly, with the light falling on her hair, and on 
 the folds of her dress, and on the blazing petals 
 of the flowers on the balcony outside, and then 
 overhead a quivering green summer sky. But it 
 is a little picture that nature is never tired of re-
 
 2 \ nil ST0R1 OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 iucing; and, besides nature, every year, in 
 the Royal Academy, I see half-a-dozen such re- 
 presentations. 
 
 In a quiet, unconscious sort of way, Elly made 
 up her mind, this summer afternoon — made up 
 her mind, knowing not that perhaps it was too 
 late, that the future she was accepting, half glad, 
 half reluctant, was, maybe, already hers no more, 
 to take or to leave. Only a little stream, ap- 
 parently easy to cross, lay, as yet, between her 
 and the figure she seemed to see advancing to- 
 wards her. She did not know that every day 
 this little stream would widen and widen, until 
 in time it would be a great ocean lying between 
 them. Ah! take care, my poor Elizabeth, that 
 you don't tumble into the waters, and go sinking 
 down, down, down, while the waves close over 
 your curly yellow locks. 
 
 "Will you come to dinner, mademoiselle?" 
 said Clementine, rapping at the door with the 
 finger of fate which had shut out Sir John Dam- 
 pier only a few hours ago. 
 
 "Go away!" cries Elizabeth.
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 25 
 
 "Elizabeth! dinner is ready," says her mother, 
 from outside, with unusual gentleness. 
 
 "I don't want any dinner," says Elly; and 
 then feels very sorry and very hungry the minute 
 she has spoken. The door was locked, but she 
 had forgotten the window, and Mrs. Gilmour, in 
 a minute, came along the balcony, with her silk 
 dress rustling against the iron bars. 
 
 "You silly girl! come and eat," said her mo- 
 ther, still strangely kind and forbearing. "The 
 Vicomte de Vaux is coming to tea, and Monsieur 
 Tourneur and Anthony; you must come and have 
 your dinner, and then let Clementine dress you; 
 you will catch cold if you sit here any longer;" 
 and she took the girl's hand gently and led her 
 away. 
 
 For the first time in her life, Elizabeth almost 
 felt as if she really loved her mother; and, 
 touched by her kindness, and with a sudden im- 
 pulse, and melting, and blushing, and all ashamed 
 of herself, she said, almost before she knew what 
 she had spoken, "Mamma, I am very silly, and
 
 26 THE STORV OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 I've behaved very badly, but I did so want to see 
 him again." 
 
 Mrs. Gilmour just dropped the girl's hand. 
 "Nonsense, Elizabeth: your head is full of silly 
 school-girl notions. I wish I had had you brought 
 up at home instead of at Mrs. Straightboard's." 
 
 "I wish you had, mamma," said Elly, speak- 
 ing coldly and quietly; "Laetitia and I were both 
 very miserable there." And then she sat down 
 at the round table to break bread with her mo- 
 ther, hurt, wounded, and angry. Her face looked 
 hard and stern, like Mrs. Gilmour's; her bread 
 choked her; she drank a glass of water, and it 
 tasted bitter, somehow. Was Caroline more happy? 
 did she eat with better appetite? She ate more, 
 she looked much as usual, she talked a good deal. 
 Clementine was secretly thinking what a good- 
 for-nothing, ill-tempered girl mademoiselle was; 
 what a good woman, what a good mother was 
 madame. Clementine revenged some of madame's 
 wrongs upon Elizabeth, by pulling her hair after 
 dinner, as she was plaiting and pinning it 
 up. Elly lost her temper, and violently pushed
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 2"] 
 
 Clementine away, and gave her warning to 
 leave. 
 
 Clementine, furious, and knowing that some 
 of the company had already arrived, rushed into 
 the drawing-room with her wrongs. "Mademoi- 
 selle m'a poussee, madame; mademoiselle m'a dit 
 
 des injures; mademoiselle m'a congediee " 
 
 But in the middle of her harangue, the door flew 
 open, and Elizabeth, looking like an empress, 
 bright cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, hair crisply 
 curling, and all dressed in shining pink silk, 
 stood before them.
 
 IIIK STi IR\ 01 11 I- vi.i.lll. 
 
 C II APTER II. 
 
 But for his funeral train which the bridegroom sees in the distance, 
 
 he so joyfully, think you, fall in with the marriage procession? 
 But for that final discharge, would he dare to enlist in that service? 
 But for that certain release, ever sign to that perilous contract? 
 
 I don't think they had ever seen anybody 
 like her before, those two MM. Tourneurs, who 
 had just arrived; they both rose, a little man and 
 a tall one, father and son; and besides these gen- 
 tlemen, there was an old lady in a poke bonnet 
 sitting there too, who opened her shrewd eyes 
 and held out her hand. Clementine was crushed, 
 eclipsed, forgotten. Elizabeth advanced, tall, slim, 
 stately, with wide-spread petticoats; but she began 
 to blush very much when she saw Miss Dampier. 
 For a few minutes there was a little confusion of 
 greeting, and voices, and chairs moved about, and 
 then — 
 
 "I came to say good-by to you," said the old 
 lady, "in case we should not meet again. I am
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 20, 
 
 going to Scotland in a month or two — perhaps 
 I may be gone by the time you get back to 
 town." 
 
 "Oh, no, no! I hope not," said Elizabeth. 
 She was very much excited, the tears almost 
 came into her eyes. 
 
 "We shall most likely follow you in a week 
 or ten days," said Mrs. Gilmour, with a sort of 
 laugh; "there is no necessity for any sentimental 
 leave-taking." 
 
 "Does that woman mean what she says?" 
 thought the old lady, looking at her; and then 
 turning to Elizabeth again she continued: "There 
 is no knowing what may happen to any one of 
 us, my dear. There is no harm in saying good- 
 by, is there? Have you any message for Laetitia 
 or Catherine?" 
 
 "Give Laetitia my very best love," said Elly, 
 grateful for the old lady's kindness; "and — and I 
 was very, very sorry that I could not see Sir John 
 when he came to-day so good-naturedly." 
 
 "He must come and see you in London," said
 
 30 mi STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 Miss Dampier, very kindly still. (She was think- 
 ing;. "She does care for him, poor child.") 
 
 "( Mb, yes! in London," repeated Mrs. Gilmoitr; 
 so that Elly looked quite pleased, and Miss Dam- 
 pier again said to herself, "She is decidedly not 
 coming to London. What can she mean? Can 
 there be anything with that Frenchman, De 
 Vaux? Impossible!" And then she got up, and 
 said aloud, "Well, good-by. I have all my old 
 gowns to pack up, and my knitting, Elly. Write 
 to me, child, sometimes!" 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes!" cried Elizabeth, flinging her 
 arms round the old lady's neck, kissing her, and 
 whispering, "Good-by, dear, dear Miss Dampier." 
 
 At the door of the apartment, Clementine was 
 waiting, hoping for a possible five-franc piece. 
 "Bon soir, madame," said she. 
 
 "Oh, indeed," said Miss Dampier, staring at 
 her, and she passed out with a sort of sniff, and 
 then she walked home quietly through the dark 
 back-streets, only, as she went along, she said to 
 herself every now and then, she hardly knew why, 
 "Poor Elly — poor child!"
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 3 I 
 
 Meanwhile, M. Tourneur was taking Elizabeth 
 gently to task. Elizabeth was pouting her red 
 lips and sulking, and looking at him defiantly 
 from under her drooped eyelids; and all the 
 time Anthony Tourneur sat admiring her, with 
 his eyes wide open, and his great mouth open 
 too. He was a big young man, with immense 
 hands and feet, without any manners to speak of, 
 and with thick hair growing violently upon end. 
 There was a certain distinction about his father 
 which he had not inherited. Young Frenchmen 
 of this class are often singularly rough and un- 
 polished in their early youth; they tone down 
 with time, however, as they see more of men and 
 of women. Anthony had never known much of 
 either till now; for his young companions at the 
 Protestant college were rough cubs like himself; 
 and as for women, his mother was dead (she had 
 been an Englishwoman, and died when he was 
 ten years old), and old Francoise, the cuisinilre, 
 at home, was almost the only woman he knew. 
 His father was more used to the world and its 
 ways: he fancied he scorned them all, and yet
 
 ) J THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 the pomps and vanities and the pride of life had 
 a horrible attraction for this quiet pasteur. He 
 was humble and ambitious: he was tender-hearted, 
 and hard-headed, and narrow-minded. Though 
 stern to himself, he was weak to others, and yet 
 feebly resolute when he met with opposition. He 
 was not a great man; his qualities neutralized 
 one another, but he had a great reputation. The 
 Oratoire was crowded on the days when he was 
 expected to preach, his classes were thronged, his 
 pamphlets went through three or four editions. 
 Popularity delighted him. His manner had a 
 great charm, his voice was sweet, his words well 
 chosen; his head was a fine melancholy head, 
 his dark eyes flashed when he was excited. 
 Women especially admired and respected Stephen 
 Tourneur. 
 
 Mrs. Gilmour was like another person when 
 she was in his presence. Look at her to-night, 
 with her smooth black hair, and her grey silk 
 gown, and her white hands busied pouring out 
 his tea. See how she is appealing to him, de- 
 ferentially listening to his talk. I cannot write his
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. ^3 
 
 talk down here. Certain allusions can have no 
 place in a little story like this one, and yet they 
 were allusions so frequently in his thoughts and 
 in his mouth that it was almost unconsciously 
 that he used them. He and his brethren like him 
 have learned to look at this life from a loftier 
 point of view than Elly Gilmour and worldlings 
 like her, who feel that to-day they are in the 
 world and of it, not of their own will, indeed — 
 though they are glad that they are here — but 
 waiting a further dispensation. Tourneur, and 
 those like him, look at this life only in comparison 
 with the next, as though they had already passed 
 beyond, and had but little concern with the things 
 of to-day. They speak chiefly of sacred subjects; 
 they have put aside our common talk, and thought, 
 and career. They have put them away, and yet 
 they are men and women after all. And Stephen 
 Tourneur, among the rest, was a soft-hearted man. 
 To-night, as indeed often before, he was full of 
 sympathy for the poor mother who had so often 
 spoken of her grief and care for her daughter, of 
 her loneliness. He understood her need; her 
 
 The Story 0/ Elizabeth. 3
 
 34 IHE STORY OK ELIZABETH. 
 
 want of an adviser, of a friend whom she could 
 reverence and defer to. How meekly she listened 
 to his words, with what kindling interest she 
 heard him speak of what was in his heart always, 
 with what gentleness she attended to his wants. 
 How womanly she was, how much more pleasant 
 than any of the English, Scotch, Irish old maids 
 who were in the habit of coming to consult him 
 in their various needs and troubles. He had 
 never known her so tender, so gentle, as to-night. 
 Even Elly, sulking, and beating the tattoo with 
 her satin shoes, thought that her mother's manner 
 was very strange. How could any one of the 
 people sitting round that little tea-table guess at 
 the passion of hopelessness, of rage, of despair, 
 of envy, that was gnawing at the elder woman's 
 heart? at the mad, desperate determination she 
 was making? And yet every now and then she 
 said odd, imploring things — she seemed to be 
 crying wildly for sympathy — she spoke of other 
 people's troubles with a startling earnestness. 
 
 De Vaux, who arrived about nine o'clock, and 
 asked for a soupoon de the, and put in six lumps
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 35 
 
 of sugar, and so managed to swallow the mix- 
 ture, went away at ten, without one idea of the 
 tragedy with which he had been spending his 
 evening — a tragical farce, a comedy — I know not 
 what to call it. 
 
 Elly was full of her own fancies; Monsieur 
 Tourneur was making up his mind; Anthony's 
 whole head was rustling with pink silk, or dizzy 
 with those downcast, bright, bewildering blue eyes 
 of Elly's, and he sat stupidly counting the little 
 bows on her skirt, or watching the glitter of the 
 rings on her finger, and wishing that she would 
 not look so cross when he spoke to her. She had 
 brightened up considerably while De Vaux was 
 there; but now, in truth, her mind was travelling 
 away, and she was picturing to herself the Dam- 
 piers at their tea-table — Tishy, pale and listless, 
 over her feeble cups; Lady Dampier, with her 
 fair hair ami her hook nose, lying on the sofa; 
 and John in the arm-chair by the fire, cutting dry 
 jokes at his aunt. Elly's spirits had travelled 
 away like a ghost, and it was only her body that 
 was left sitting in the little gaudy drawing-room; 
 
 3*
 
 36 [HE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 and, though she did not know it, there was an- 
 other ghost flitting alongside with hers. Strangely 
 enough, the people of whom she was thinking 
 were assembled together very much as she 
 imagined them to be. Did they guess at the two 
 pale phantoms that were hovering about them? 
 Somehow or other, Miss Dampier, over her knit- 
 ting, was still muttering, "Poor child!" to the 
 click of her needles; and John Dampier was 
 haunted by the woman in red, and by a certain 
 look in Elly's eyes, which he had seen yesterday 
 when he found her under the tree. 
 
 Meanwhile, at the other side of Paris, the 
 other little company was assembled round the fire; 
 and Mrs. Gilmour, with her two hands folded 
 tightly together, was looking at M. Tourneur with 
 her great soft eyes, and saying, "The woman was 
 never yet born who could stand alone, who did 
 not look for some earthly counsellor and friend 
 to point out the road to better things — to help 
 her along the narrow thorny way. Wounded, 
 and bruised, and weary, it is hard, hard for us 
 to follow our lonely path." She spoke with a
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 37 
 
 pathetic passion, so that Elizabeth could not think 
 what had come to her. Mrs. Gilmour was gener- 
 ally quite capable of standing, and going, and 
 coming, without any assistance whatever. In her 
 father's time, Elly could remember that there was 
 not the slightest need for his interference in any 
 of their arrangements. But the mother was 
 evidently in earnest to-night, and the daughter 
 quite bewildered. Later in the evening, after 
 Monsieur de Vaux was gone, Mrs. Gilmour got 
 up from her chair and flung open the window of 
 the balcony. All the stars of heaven shone 
 splendidly over the city. A great, silent, wonder- 
 ful night had gathered round about them un- 
 awares; a great calm had come after the noise 
 and business of the careful day. Caroline Gil- 
 mour stepped out with a gasping sigh, and stood 
 looking upwards; they could see her grey figure 
 dimly against the darkness. Monsieur Tourneur 
 remained sitting by the fire, with his eyes cast 
 down and his hands folded. Presently he too 
 rose and walked slowly across the room, and 
 stepped out upon the balcony; and Elizabeth
 
 38 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 and Anthony remained behind, staring vacantly 
 at one another. Elizabeth was yawning and 
 wondering when they would go. 
 
 "You are sleepy, miss," said young Tourneur, 
 in his French-English. 
 
 Elly yawned in a very unmistakable language, 
 and showed all her even white teeth: — "I always 
 get sleepy when I have been cross, Mr. Anthony, 
 1 have been cross ever since three o'clock to-day, 
 and now it is long past ten, and time for us all 
 to go to bed: don't you think so?" 
 
 "I am waiting for my father," said the young 
 man. "He watches late at night, but we are all 
 sent off at ten." 
 
 "'We!' — you and old Francoise?" 
 
 "I and the young Christians who live in our 
 house, and study with my father and read under 
 his direction. There are five, all from the south, 
 who are, like me, preparing to be ministers of 
 the gospel." 
 
 Another great wide yawn from Elly. 
 
 "Do you think your father will stop much 
 longer — if so, I shall go to bed. Oh, dear me!"
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 39 
 
 and with a sigh she let her head fall back upon 
 the soft cushioned chair, and then, somehow, her 
 eyes shut very softly, and her hands fell loosely, 
 and a little quiet dream came, something of a 
 garden and peace, and green trees, and Miss 
 Dampier knitting in the sunshine. Click, click, 
 click, she heard the needles, but it was only the 
 clock ticking on the mantel-piece. Anthony was 
 almost afraid to breathe, for fear he should wake 
 her. It seemed to him very strange to be sitting 
 by this smouldering fire, with the stars burning 
 outside, while through the open window the 
 voices of the two people talking on the balcony 
 came to him in a low murmuring sound. And 
 there opposite him Elly, asleep, breathing so 
 softly and looking so wonderfully pretty in her 
 slumbers. Do you not know the peculiar peaceful 
 feeling which comes to any one sitting alone by 
 a sleeping person? I cannot tell which of the 
 two was for a few minutes the most tranquil and 
 happy. 
 
 Elly was still dreaming her quiet, peaceful 
 dreams, still sitting with Miss Dampier in her
 
 nil STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 garden, under a chestnut-tree, with Dampier com- 
 ing towards them, when suddenly some voice 
 whispered "Elizabeth" in her ear, and she awoke 
 with a start of chill surprise. It was not Anthony 
 who had called her, it was only fancy; but as she 
 woke he said, — 
 
 "Ah! I was just going to wake you." 
 
 What had come to him. He seemed to have 
 awakened too — to have come to himself suddenly. 
 One word which had reached him — he had very 
 big sharp ears — one word distinctly uttered amid 
 the confused murmur on the balcony, brought 
 another word of old Francoise's to his mind. And 
 then in a minute — he could not tell how it was 
 — it was all clear to him. Already he was be- 
 ginning to learn the ways of the world. Elly saw 
 him blush up, saw his eyes light with intelligence, 
 and his ears grow very red; and then he sat up 
 straight in his chair, and looked at her in a quick, 
 uncertain sort of way. 
 
 "You would not allow it," said he, suddenly, 
 staring at her fixedly with his great flashing eyes,
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 4 1 
 
 "I never thought of such a thing till this minute. 
 Who ever would?" 
 
 "Thought of what?" What are you talking 
 about?" said Elly, startled. 
 
 "Ah! that is it." And then he turned his 
 head impatiently: "How stupid you must have 
 been. What can have put such a thing into his 
 head and hers. Ah, it is so strange, I don't 
 know what to think or to say;" and he sank back 
 in his chair. But, somehow or other, the idea 
 which had occurred to him was not nearly so 
 disagreeable as he would have expected it to be. 
 The notion of some other companionship besides 
 that of the five young men from the south, in- 
 stead of shocking him, filled him with a vague, 
 delightful excitement. "Ah! then she would come 
 and live with us in that pink dress," he thought. 
 And meanwhile Elizabeth turned very pale, and 
 she too began dimly to see what he was thinking 
 of, only she could not be quite sure. "Is it that 
 I am to marry him?" she thought; "they cannot 
 be plotting that." 
 
 "What is it, M. Anthony?" said she, very
 
 .12 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH' 
 
 fierce. "Is it — they do not think that I would 
 ever — ever dream or think of marrying you?" 
 She was quite pale now, and her eyes were glow- 
 in-. 
 
 Anthony shook his head again. "I know that," 
 said he; "it is not you or me." 
 
 "What do you dare to imply?" she cried, 
 more and more fiercely. "You can't mean — you 
 would never endure, never suffer that — that--" 
 The words failed on her lips. 
 
 "I should like to have you for a sister, Miss 
 Elizabeth," said he, looking down; "it is so triste 
 at home." 
 
 Elly half started from her chair, put up her 
 white hands, scarce knowing what she did, and 
 then suddenly cried out, "Mother! mother!" in 
 a loud, shrill, thrilling voice, which brought 
 Mrs. Gilmour back into the room. And Monsieur 
 Tourneur came too. Not one of them spoke for 
 a minute. Elizabeth's horror-stricken face fright- 
 ened the pasteur, who felt as if he was in a dream, 
 who had let himself drift along with the feeling of 
 the moment, who did not know even now if he
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 43 
 
 had done right or wrong, if he had been carried 
 away by mere earthly impulse and regard for his 
 own happiness, or if he had been led and directed 
 to a worthy helpmeet, to a Christian companion, 
 to one who had the means and the power to help 
 him in his labours. Ah, surely, surely he had 
 done well, he thought, for himself, and for those 
 who depended on him. It was not without a cer- 
 tain dignity at last, and nobleness of manner, that 
 he took Mrs. Gilmour's hand, and said, — 
 
 "You called your mother just now, Elizabeth; 
 here she is. Dear woman, she has consented to 
 be my best earthly friend and companion, to share 
 my hard labours; to share a life poor and arduous, 
 and full of care, and despised perhaps by the 
 world; but rich in eternal hope, blessed by prayer, 
 and consecrated by a Christian's faith." He was 
 a little man, but he seemed to grow tall as he 
 spoke. His eyes kindled, his face lightened with 
 enthusiasm. Elizabeth could not help seeing this, 
 even while she stood shivering with indignation 
 and sick at heart. As for Anthony, he got up, 
 and came to his father and took both his hands,
 
 j} IHF. STORY OK KI.I/ABETH. 
 
 and l hen suddenly flung his arms round his neck. 
 Elizabeth found words at last: 
 
 "You can suffer this?" she said to Anthony. 
 "You have no feelings, then, of decency, of fit- 
 ness of memory for the dead. You, mamma, 
 can degrade yourself by a second marriage? Oh! 
 for shame, for shame!" and she burst into pas- 
 sionate tears, and flung herself down on a chair. 
 Monsieur Tourneur was not used to be thwarted, 
 to be reproved; he got very pale, he pushed 
 Anthony gently aside, and went up to her. "Eli- 
 zabeth," said he, "is this the conduct of a de- 
 voted daughter; are these the words of good will 
 and of peace, with which your mother should be 
 greeted by her children? I had hoped that you 
 would look upon me as a friend. If you could 
 see my heart, you would know how ready I am; 
 how gladly I would love you as my own child," 
 and he held out his hand. Elly Gilmour dashed 
 it away. 
 
 "Go," she said; "you have made me wretched; 
 /hate your life and your ways, and your sermons, 
 and we shall all be miserable, ever)' one of us; I
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 45 
 
 know well enough it is for her money you marry 
 her. Oh, go away out of my sight." Tourneur 
 had felt doubts. Elizabeth's taunts and opposi- 
 tion reassured him and strengthened him in his 
 purpose. This is only human nature, as well as 
 pasteur nature in particular. If everything had 
 gone smoothly, very likely he would have found 
 out a snare of the devil in it, and broken it off, 
 not caring what grief and suffering he caused to 
 himself in so doing. Now that the girl's words 
 brought a flush into his pale face and made him 
 to wince with pain, he felt justified, nay, impelled 
 to go on — to be firm. And now he stood up like 
 a gentleman, and spoke: 
 
 "And if I want your mother's money, is it 
 hers, is it mine, was it given to me or to her to 
 spend for our own use? Was it not lent, will 
 not an account be demanded hereafter? Unhappy 
 child! where have you found already such sordid 
 thoughts, such unworthy suspicions? Where is 
 your Christian charity?" 
 
 "I never made any pretence of having any," 
 cried Elizabeth, stamping her foot and tossing her
 
 46 mi' STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 fair mane. "You talk and talk about it and about 
 the will of heaven, and suit yourselves, and break 
 my heart, and look up quite scandalized, and for- 
 give me for my wickedness. But I had rather be 
 as wicked as I am than as good as you." 
 
 "Allons, taisez-vous, Mademoiselle Elizabeth!" 
 said Anthony, who had taken his part; "or my 
 father will not marry your mother, and then you 
 will be in the wrong, and have made everybody 
 unhappy. It is very, very sad and melancholy in 
 our house; be kind and come and make us happy. 
 If I am not angry, why should you mind? but 
 see here, I will not give my consent unless you do, 
 and I know my father will do nothing against my 
 wishes and yours." 
 
 Poor Elizabeth looked up, and then she saw 
 that her mother was crying too; Caroline had had 
 a hard day's work. No wonder she was fairly 
 harassed and worn out. Elizabeth herself began 
 to be as bewildered, as puzzled, as the rest. She 
 put her hand wearily to her head. She did not 
 feel angry any more, but very tired and sad. 
 "How can I say I think it right when I think
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 47 
 
 it wrong? It is not me you want to marry, M. 
 Tourneur; mamma is old enough to decide. What 
 need you care for what a silly girl like me says 
 and thinks? Good-night, mamma; I am tired and 
 must go to bed. Good-night, Monsieur Tourneur. 
 Good-night, M. Anthony. Oh, dear!" sighed 
 Elizabeth, as she went out of the room with her 
 head hanging, and with pale cheeks and dim eyes. 
 You could hardly have believed it was the triumph- 
 ant young beauty of an hour ago. But it had 
 always been so with this impetuous, sensitive 
 Elizabeth; she suffered, as she enjoyed, more 
 keenly than anybody else I ever knew; she 
 put her whole heart into her life without any 
 reserve, and then, when failure and disappoint- 
 ment came, she had no more heart left to endure 
 with. 
 
 I am sure it was with a humble spirit that 
 Tourneur that night, before he left, implored a 
 benediction on himself and on those who were 
 about to belong to him. He went away at eleven 
 o'clock with Anthony, walking home through the 
 dark, long streets to his house, which was near
 
 48 nil. STORY OF KUZABETH. 
 
 one of the gates of the city. And Caroline sat 
 till the c.mdles went out, till the fire had smoul- 
 dered away, till the chill night breezes swept 
 round the room, and then went stupefied to bed, 
 saying to herself, "Now he will learn that others 
 do not despise me, and I — I will lead a good 
 life."
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 49 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Le temps emporte sur son aile 
 Et le printemps et l'hirondelle, 
 Et la vie et les jours perdus ; 
 Tout s'en va comme la fume'e, 
 L'esperance et la renommee, 
 Et moi qui vous ai tant aime'e, 
 Et toi qui ne t'en souviens plus ! 
 
 A low, one-storied house standing opposite a 
 hospital, built on a hilly street, with a great 
 white porte-cochere closed and barred, and then a 
 garden wall: nine or ten windows only a foot 
 from the ground, all blinded and shuttered in a 
 row; a brass plate on the door, with Stephen 
 Tourneur engraved thereon, and grass and chick- 
 weed growing between the stones and against the 
 white walls of the house. Passing under the arch- 
 way, you come into a grass-grown courtyard; 
 through an iron grating you see a little desolate 
 garden with wall-flowers and stocks, and tall 
 yellow weeds all flowering together, and fruit- 
 trees running wild against the wall. On one side 
 
 T/ie Story of Elizabeth. 4
 
 tjO mi STOW OF mi- VBETH. 
 
 there nrc some empty stables, with chickens 
 pecketting in the sun. The house is built in two 
 long low wings; it has a dreary moated-grange 
 sort of look; and see, standing at one of the 
 upper windows, is not that Elizabeth looking out? 
 An old woman in a blue gown and a white coif 
 is pumping water at the pump, some miserable 
 canaries are piping shrilly out of green cages, the 
 old woman clacks away with her sabots echoing 
 over the stones, the canaries cease their piping, 
 and then nobody else comes. There are two or 
 three tall poplar-trees growing along the wall, 
 which shiver plaintively; a few clouds drift by, 
 and a very distant faint sound of military music 
 comes borne on the wind. 
 
 "Ah, how dull it is to be here! Ah, how I 
 hate it, how I hate them all!" Elizabeth is saying 
 to herself: "There is some music, all the Champs 
 Elysees are crowded with people, the soldiers are 
 marching along with glistening bayonets and flags 
 flying. Not one of them thinks that in a dismal 
 house not very far away there is anybody so un- 
 happy as I am. This day year — it breaks my
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 5 I 
 
 heart to think of it — I was nineteen; to-day I 
 am twenty, and I feel a hundred. Oh, what a 
 sin and shame it is to condemn me to this hateful 
 life. Oh, what wicked people these good people 
 are. Oh, how dull, oh, how stupid, oh, how 
 prosy, oh, how I wish I was dead, and they were 
 dead, and it was all over!" 
 
 How many weary yawns, I wonder, had poor 
 Elizabeth yawned since that first night when M. 
 Tourneur came to tea? With what distaste she 
 set herself to live her new life I cannot attempt 
 to tell you. It bored her, and wearied and dis- 
 pleased her, and she made no secret of her dis- 
 pleasure, you may be certain. But what annoyed 
 her most of all, what seemed to her so incon- 
 ceivable that she could never understand or credit 
 it, was the extraordinary change which had come 
 over her mother. Mme. Tourneur was like Mrs. 
 Gilmour in many things, but so different in others 
 that Elly could hardly believe her to be the same 
 woman. The secret of it all was a love of power 
 and admiration, purchased no matter at what 
 sacrifice, which had always been the hidden mo- 
 
 4*
 
 ilii i . .1 \ 01 ii i. \i:i'.'l'II. 
 
 tive of Caroline's life. Now she found that by 
 dressing in black, by looking stiff, by attending 
 endless charitable meetings, prayer-meetings, re- 
 ligious meetings, by influencing M. Tourneur, 
 who was himself a man in authority, she could 
 cat of the food her soul longed for. "There was 
 a man once who did not care for me, he despised 
 mi," she used to think sometimes; "he liked that 
 silly child of mine better; he shall hear of me 
 one day." 
 
 Lady Dampier was a very strong partisan of 
 the French Protestant Church. Mme. Tourneur 
 used to hope that she would come to Paris again 
 and carry home with her the fame of her virtues, 
 and her influence, and her conversion; and in the 
 meanwhile the weary round of poor Elly's daily 
 existence went on. To-day, for two lonesome 
 hours, she stood leaning at that window with the 
 refrain of the distant music echoing in her ears 
 long after it had died away. It was like the 
 remembrance of the past pleasures of her short 
 life. Such a longing for sympathy, for congenial 
 spirits, for the pleasures she loved so dearly,
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 53 
 
 came over her, that the great hot tears welled 
 into her eyes, and the bitterest tears are those 
 which do not fall. The gate bell rang at last, 
 and Clementine walked across the yard to unbolt, 
 to unbar, and to let in Monsieur Tourneur, with 
 books under his arm, and a big stick. Then the 
 bell rang again, and Madame Tourneur followed, 
 dressed in prim scant clothes, accompanied by 
 another person even primmer and scantier than 
 herself; this was a widowed step-sister of M. 
 Tourneur's, who, unluckily, had no home of her 
 own, so the good man received her and her chil- 
 dren into his. Lastly, Elizabeth, from her window, 
 saw Anthony arrive with four of the young Pro- 
 testants, all swinging their legs and arms. (The 
 fifth was detained at home with a bad swelled 
 face.) All the others were now coming back to 
 dinner, after attending a class at the Pasteur 
 Boulot's. They clattered past the door of Elly's 
 room — a bare little chamber, with one white 
 curtain she had nailed up herself, and a straight 
 bed and a chair. A clock struck five. A melan- 
 choly bell presently sounded through the house,
 
 54 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 .iiul .i strong smell of cabbage came in at the open 
 window. Elly looked in the glass; her rough hair 
 was all standing on end curling, her hands were 
 streaked with chalk and brick from the window, 
 her washed-out blue cotton gown was creased and 
 tumbled. What did it matter? she shook her 
 head, as she had a way of doing, and went down- 
 stairs as she was. On the way she met two un- 
 tidy-looking little girls, and then clatter, clatter, 
 along the uncarpeted passage, came the great big 
 nailed boots of the pupils; and then at the dining- 
 room door there was Clementine in a yellow 
 gown — much smarter and trimmer than Elizabeth's 
 blue cotton — carrying a great long loaf of sour 
 bread. 
 
 Madame Tourneur was already at her post, 
 standing at the head of the table, ladleing out the 
 cabbage soup with the pieces of bread floating in 
 every plate. M. Tourneur was eating his dinner 
 quickly; he had to examine a class for confirma- 
 tion at six, and there was a prayer-meeting at 
 seven. The other prim lady sat opposite to him 
 with her portion before her. There was a small
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 55 
 
 table-cloth, streaked with blue, and not over 
 clean; hunches of bread by every plate, and 
 iron knives and forks. Each person said grace to 
 himself as he came and took his place. Only 
 Elizabeth flung herself down in a chair, looked 
 at the soup, made a face, and sent it away 
 untasted. 
 
 "Elizabeth, ma fille, vous ne mangez pas," 
 said M. Tourneur, kindly. 
 
 "I can't swallow it!" said Elizabeth. 
 
 "When there are so many poor people starving 
 in the streets, you do not, I suppose, expect us 
 to sympathize with such pampered fancies?" said 
 the prim lady. 
 
 Although the sisters-in-law were apparently 
 very good friends, there was a sort of race of 
 virtue always being run between them, and just 
 now Elly's shortcomings were a thorn in her 
 mother's side, so skilfully were they wielded by 
 Mrs. Jacob. Lou-Lou and Tou-Tou, otherwise 
 Louise and Therese, her daughters, were such 
 good, stupid, obedient, uninteresting little girls, 
 that there was really not a word to say against
 
 56 im STOW OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 them in retort; and all thai Lily's mother could 
 do, was to be even more severe, more uncom- 
 promising than Madame Jacob herself. And now 
 she said, — 
 
 "Nonsense, Elizabeth; you must really eat 
 your dinner. Clementine, bring back Miss Eliza- 
 beth's plate." 
 
 M. Tourneur looked up — he thought the soup 
 very good himself, but he could not bear to see 
 anybody distressed. "Go and fetch the bouillie 
 quickly, Clementine. Why should Elizabeth take 
 what she does not like? Rose," said he to his 
 sister, "do you remember how our poor mother 
 used to make us breakfast off — porridge I think 
 she called it — and what a bad taste it had, and 
 how we used to cry?" 
 
 "We never ungratefully objected to good 
 soup," said Rose. "I make a point of never 
 giving in to Lou-Lou and Tou-Tou when they 
 have their fancies. I care more for the welfare 
 of their souls than for pampering their bodies." 
 
 "And I only care for my body," Elly cried.
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 57 
 
 "Mamma, I like porridge, will you have some for 
 me?" 
 
 "Ah! hush! hush! Elizabeth. You do not think 
 what you say, my poor child," said Tourneur. 
 "What is mere eating and drinking, what is food, 
 what is raiment, but dust and rottenness? You 
 only care for your body! — for that mass of cor- 
 ruption. Ah, do not say such things, even in 
 jest. Remember, that for every idle word " 
 
 "And is there to be no account for spiteful 
 words?" interrupted Elizabeth, looking at Mrs. 
 Jacob. 
 
 Monsieur Tourneur put down the glass of wine 
 he was raising to his lips, and with sad, re- 
 proachful glances, looked at the unruly step- 
 daughter. Madame Jacob, shaking with indigna- 
 tion, cast her eyes up and opened her mouth, and 
 Elizabeth began to pout her red lips. One minute 
 and the storm would have burst, when Anthony 
 upset a jug of water at his elbow, and the stream 
 trickled down and down the table-cloth. These 
 troubled waters restored peace for the moment. 
 Poor Tourneur was able to finish his meal, in a
 
 5S I UK STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 puddle truly, but also in silence. Mrs. Jacob, 
 who had received a large portion of the water in 
 her lap, retired to change her dress, the young 
 Christians sniggered over their plates, and An- 
 thony went on eating his dinner. 
 
 I don't offer any excuse for Elizabeth. She 
 was worried, and vexed, and tried beyond her 
 powers of endurance, and she grew more way- 
 ward, more provoking every day. It is very easy 
 to be good-natured, good-tempered, thankful and 
 happy, when you are in the countiy you love, 
 among your own people, living your own life. 
 But if you are suddenly transplanted, made to 
 live some one else's life, expected to see with 
 another man's eyes, to forget your own identity 
 almost, all that happens is, that you do not do as 
 you were expected. Sometimes it is a sheer im- 
 possibility. What is that rare proverb about the 
 shoe? Cinderella slipped it on in an instant; 
 but you know her poor sisters cut off their toes 
 and heels, and could not screw their feet in, 
 though they tried ever so. Well, they did their 
 best; but Elly did not try at all, and that is why
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 59 
 
 she was to blame. She was a spoiled child, both 
 by good and ill fortune. Sometimes, when she 
 sat sulking, her mother used to look wondering 
 at her with her black eyes, without saying a 
 word. Did it ever occur to her that this was her 
 work, that Elizabeth might have been happy 
 now, honoured, prosperous, well loved, but for a 
 little lie which had been told — but for a little 
 barrier which had been thrown, one summer's 
 day, between her and John Dampier? Caroline 
 had long ceased to feel remorse — she used to 
 say to herself that it would be much better for 
 Elizabeth to marry Anthony, she would make 
 anybody else miserable with her wayward temper. 
 Anthony was so obtuse, that Elizabeth's fancies 
 would not try him in the least. Mrs. Gilmour 
 chose to term obtuseness a certain chivalrous 
 devotion which the young man felt for her 
 daughter. She thought him dull and slow, and 
 so he was; but at the same time there were 
 gleams of shrewdness which came quite unex- 
 pectedly, you knew not whence; there was a cer- 
 tain reticence and good sense of which people
 
 60 mi STOKi 01 ELIZABETH; 
 
 had no idea. Anthony knew much more about 
 her and about his father than they knew about 
 him. Every day he was learning to read the 
 world. Elly had taught, him a great deal, and 
 he in return was her friend always. 
 
 Elly went out into the courtyard after dinner, 
 and Anthony followed her — one little cousin had 
 hold of each of his hands. If the little girls had 
 not been little French Protestant girls, Elizabeth 
 would have been very fond of them, for she loved 
 children; but when they ran up to her, she mo- 
 tioned them away impatiently, and Anthony told 
 them to go and run round the garden. Elizabeth 
 was sitting on a tub which had been overturned, 
 and resting her pretty dishevelled head wearily 
 against the wall. Anthony looked at her for a 
 minute. 
 
 "Why do you never wear nice dresses now," 
 said he at last, "but this ugly old one al- 
 ways?" 
 
 "Is it not all vanity and corruption?" said 
 Elizabeth, with a sneer; "how can you ask such 
 a question? Everything that is pretty is vanity.
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 6 1 
 
 Your aunt and my mother only like ugly things. 
 They would like to put out my eyes because 
 they don't squint; to cut off my hair because it is 
 pretty." 
 
 "Your hair! It is not at all pretty like that," 
 said Anthony; "it is all rough, like mine." 
 
 Elizabeth laughed and blushed very sweetly. 
 "What is the use, who cares?" 
 
 "There are a good many people coming to- 
 night," said Anthony. "It is our turn to receive 
 the prayer-meeting. Why should you not smooth 
 your curls and change your dress?" 
 
 "And do you remember what happened once, 
 when I did dress, and make myself look nice?" 
 said Elizabeth, flashing up, and then beginning 
 to laugh. 
 
 Anthony looked grave and puzzled; for Eliza- 
 beth had caused quite a scandal in the com- 
 munity on that occasion. No wonder the old 
 ladies in their old dowdy bonnets, the young ones 
 in their ill-made woollen dresses, the preacher 
 preaching against the vanities of the world, had all 
 been shocked and outraged, when after the sermon
 
 62 [HE stoky OF ELIZABETH; 
 
 had begun, the door opened, and Elizabeth ap- 
 peared in the celebrated pink silk dress, with 
 flowers in her hair, white lace falling from her 
 shoulders, a bouquet, a gold fan, and glittering 
 bracelets. Mme. Jacob's head nearly shook off 
 with horror. The word was with the Pasteur 
 Boulot, who did not conceal his opinion, and 
 whose strictures introduced into the sermon were 
 enough to make a less hardened sinner quake in 
 her shoes. Many of the great leaders of the 
 Protestant world in Paris had been present on 
 that occasion. Some would not speak to her, 
 some did speak very plainly. Elizabeth took it 
 all as a sort of triumph, bent her head, smiled, 
 fanned herself, and when ordered out of the room 
 at last by her mother, left it with a splendid 
 curtsey to the Rev. M. Boulot, and thanked him 
 for his beautiful and improving discourse. And 
 then, when she was upstairs in her own room 
 again, where she had been decking herself for 
 the last hour — the tallow candle was still splutter- 
 ing on the table — her clothes all lying about 
 the room — she locked the door, tore off her
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 63 
 
 ornaments, her shining dress, and flung herself 
 down on the floor, crying and sobbing as if her 
 heart would break. "Oh, I want to go! I want 
 to go! Oh, take me away!" she prayed and 
 sobbed. "Oh, what harm is there in a pink gown 
 more than a black one! Oh, why does not John 
 Dampier come and fetch me? Oh, what dolts, 
 what idiots, those people are! What a heart- 
 broken girl I am! Poor Elly, poor Elly, poor, 
 poor girl!" said she, pitying herself, and stroking 
 her tear-stained cheeks. And so she went on, 
 until she had nearly worn herself out, poor child. 
 She really was almost heart-broken. This uncon- 
 genial atmosphere seemed to freeze and chill her 
 best impulses. I cannot help being sorry for 
 her, and sympathizing with her against that rigid 
 community down below, and yet, after all, there 
 was scarcely one of the people whom she so 
 scorned who was not a better Christian than poor 
 Elizabeth, more self-denying, more scrupulous, 
 more patient in effort, more diligent, — not one 
 of them that did not lead a more useful life than 
 hers. It was in vain that her mother had offered
 
 6 1 THK STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 her (hisses in the schools, humble neighbours to 
 visit, sick people to tend. "Leave me alone," the 
 girl would say. "You know how I hate all that 
 cant!" Mme. Tourneur herself spent her whole 
 days doing good, patronizing the poor, lecturing 
 the wicked, dosing the sick, superintending count- 
 less charitable communities. Her name was on 
 all the committees, her decisions were deferred to, 
 her wishes consulted. She did not once regret the 
 step she had taken; she was a clever, ambitious, 
 active-minded woman; she found herself busy, 
 virtuous, and respected; what more could she de- 
 sire? Her daughter's unhappiness did not give 
 her any very great concern. "It would go off in 
 time," she said. But days went by, and Elly was 
 only more hopeless, more heart-broken; black 
 lines came under the blue eyes; from being a 
 stout hearty girl, she grew thin and languid. See- 
 ing her day by day, they none of them noticed 
 that she was looking ill, except Anthony, who 
 often imagined a change would do her good; only 
 how was this to be managed? He could only 
 think of one way. He was thinking of it, as he
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 65 
 
 followed her out into the courtyard to-day. The 
 sun was low in the west, the long shadows of the 
 trees flickered across the stones. Say what he 
 would, the blue gown, the wall, the yellow hair, 
 made up a pretty little piece of colouring. With 
 all her faults, Anthony loved Elly better than any 
 other human being, and would have given his life 
 to make her happy. 
 
 "I cannot bear to see you so unhappy," said 
 he, in French, speaking very simply, in his usual 
 voice. "Elizabeth, why don't you do as your 
 mother has done, and marry a French pasteur, 
 who has loved you ever since the day he first 
 saw you? You should do as you liked, and leave 
 this house, where you are so miserable, and get 
 away from aunt Rose, who is so ill-natured. I 
 would not propose such a scheme if I saw a 
 chance for something better; but anything would 
 be an improvement on the life you are leading 
 here. It is wicked and profitless, and you are 
 killing yourself and wasting your best days. You 
 are not taking up your cross with joy and with 
 courage, dear Elizabeth. Perhaps by starting 
 
 The Story of Elizabeth. 5
 
 66 mi STOIU 01 ELIZABETH. 
 
 afresh His voice failed him, but his eyes 
 
 spoke and finished the sentence. 
 
 This was Anthony's scheme. Elly opened her 
 round eyes, and looked at him all amazed and 
 wondering. A year ago it would have been very 
 different, and so she thought as she scanned 
 him. A year ago she would have scorned the 
 poor fellow, laughed at him, tossed her head, and 
 turned away. But was this the Elly of a year 
 ago? This unhappy, broken-spirited girl, with 
 dimmed beauty, dulled spirits, in all her ways so 
 softened, saddened, silenced. It was almost an- 
 other person than the Elizabeth Gilmour of former 
 times, who spoke, and said, still looking at him 
 steadfastly, "Thank you, Anthony; I will think 
 about it, and tell you to-morrow what — what I 
 think." 
 
 Anthony blushed, and faltered a few unintel- 
 ligible words, and turned away abruptly, as he 
 saw Madame Jacob coming towards them. As 
 for Elly, she stood quite still, and perfectly cool, 
 and rather bewildered, only somewhat surprised 
 at herself. "Can this be me?" she was thinking.
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 67 
 
 " Can that kind fellow be the boy I used to laugh 
 at so often? Shall I take him at his word? Why 
 not ?" 
 
 But Madame Jacob's long nose came and put 
 an end to her wonderings. This lady did not at 
 all approve of gossiping; she stepped up with an 
 inquiring sniff, turned round to look after Anthony, 
 and then said, rather viciously, "Our Christian 
 brothers and sisters will assemble shortly for their 
 pious Wednesday meetings. It is not by ex- 
 changing idle words with my nephew that you 
 will best prepare your mind for the exercises of 
 this evening. Retire into your own room, and see 
 if it is possible to compose yourself to a fitter 
 frame of mind. Tou-Tou, Lou- Lou, my children, 
 what are you about?" 
 
 "I am gathering pretty flowers, mamma," 
 shouted Lou-Lou. 
 
 "I am picking up stones for my little basket," 
 I said Tou-Tou, coming to the railing. 
 
 "I will allow four minutes," said their mother, 
 looking at her watch. "Then you will come to 
 me, both of you, in my room, and apply your- 
 
 5*
 
 68 i"i TORY OF ELI UB1 I'll. 
 
 selves to something more profitable than filling 
 your little baskets. Elizabeth, do you mean to 
 obe) me?" 
 
 Very much to Madame Jacob's surprise, Eliza- 
 beth walked quietly before her into the house 
 without saying one word. The truth was, she 
 was preoccupied with other things, and forgot to 
 be rebellious. She was not even rebellious in 
 her heart when she was upstairs sitting by the 
 bedside, and puzzling her brains over Anthony's 
 scheme. It seemed a relief certainly to turn from 
 the horrible monotony of her daily life, and to 
 think of his kindness. He was very rough, very 
 uncouth, very young; but he was shrewd, and 
 kind, and faithful, more tolerant than his father, 
 — perhaps because he felt less keenly; — not 
 sensitive, like him, but more patient, dull over 
 things which are learnt by books, but quick at 
 learning other not less useful things which belong 
 to the experience of daily life. When Elly came 
 down into the refectoire where they were all 
 assembled, her mother Avas surprised to see that 
 she had dressed herself, not in the objectionable
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 69 
 
 pink silk, but in a soft grey stuff gown, all her 
 yellow hair was smooth and shining, and a little 
 locket hung round her neck tied with a blue 
 ribbon. The little bit of colour seemed reflected 
 somehow in her eyes. They looked blue to-night, 
 as they used to look once when she was happy. 
 Madame Tourneur was quite delighted, and came 
 up and kissed her, and said, "Elly, this is how I 
 like to see you." 
 
 Madame Jacob tossed her head, and gave a 
 rough pull at the ends of the ribbon. " This was 
 quite unnecessary," said she. 
 
 "Ah!" cried Elly, "you have hurt me." 
 "Is not that the locket Miss Dampier gave 
 you?" said Madame Tourneur. "You had" best 
 put such things away in your drawer another time. 
 But it is time for you to take your place."
 
 THE STORA "I ELIZABETH. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Unhappier arc they to whom a higher instinct has been given, who 
 struggle to be persons, not machines; to whom the universe is not a 
 warehouse, or at best a fancy bazaar, but a mystic temple ami hall of 
 doom. 
 
 A number of straw chairs were ranged along 
 the room, with a row of seats behind, for the 
 pasteurs who were to address the meeting. 
 
 The people began to arrive very punctually: 
 One or two grand-looking French ladies in 
 cashmeres, a good many limp ones, a stray man 
 or two, two English clergymen in white neck- 
 cloths, and five or six Englishwomen in old bonnets. 
 A little whispering and chattering went on among 
 the young French girls, who arrived guarded by 
 their mothers. The way in which French mothers 
 look after their daughters, tie their bonnet-strings, 
 pin their collars, carry their books and shawls, &c, 
 and sit beside them, and always answer for them 
 if they are spoken to, is very curious. Now and 

 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 7 I 
 
 then, however, they relax a little, and allow a 
 little whispering with young companions. There 
 was a low murmur and a slight bustle as four 
 pasteurs of unequal heights walked in and placed 
 themselves in the reserved seats. M. Stephen 
 Tourneur followed and took his place. With what 
 kind steadfast glances he greeted his audience! 
 Even Elizabeth could not resist the charm of his 
 manner, and she admired and respected him, 
 much as she disliked the exercise of the evening. 
 His face lit up with Christian fervour, his 
 eyes shone and gleamed with kindness, his voice, 
 when he began to speak, thrilled with earnestness 
 and sincerity. There was at times a wonderful 
 power about the frail little man, the power which 
 is won in many a desperate secret struggle, the 
 power which comes from a whole life of deep 
 feeling and honest endeavour. No wonder that 
 Stephen Tourneur, who had so often wrestled with 
 the angel and overcome his own passionate spirit, 
 should have influence over others less strong, less 
 impetuous than his own. Elly could not but 
 admire him and love him, many of his followers
 
 12 I! IK STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 worshipped him with the most affecting devotion; 
 Anthony, his son, loved him too, and would have 
 died for him in a quiet way, but he did not blindly 
 believe in his father. 
 
 But listen! What a host of eloquent words, 
 of tender thoughts come alive from his lips to- 
 night. What reverent faith, what charity, what 
 fervour! The people's eyes were fixed upon his 
 kind, eloquent face, and their hearts all beat in 
 sympathy with his own. 
 
 One or two of the Englishwomen began to 
 cry. One French lady was swaying herself back- 
 wards and forwards in rapt attention; the two 
 clergymen sat wondering in their white neckcloths. 
 What would they give to preach such sermons? 
 And the voice went on uttering, entreating, en- 
 couraging, rising and sinking, ringing with pas- 
 sionate cadence. It ceased at last, and the only 
 sounds in the room were a few sighs, and the 
 suppressed sobs of one or two women. Elizabeth 
 sighed among others, and sat very still with her 
 hands clasped in her lap. For the first time in 
 her life she was wondering whether she had not
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 73 
 
 perhaps been in the wrong hitherto, and Tourneur, 
 and Madame Jacob, and all the rest in the right 
 — and whether happiness was not the last thing 
 to search for, and those things of which he had 
 spoken, the first and best and only necessities. 
 Alas! what strange chance was it that at that 
 moment she raised her head and looked up with 
 her great blue eyes, and saw a strange familiar 
 face under one of the dowdy English bonnets — a 
 face, thin, pinched, with a hooked nose, and sandy 
 hair — that sent a little thrill to her heart, and 
 made her cry out to herself eagerly, as a rush of 
 old memories and hopes came over her, that hap- 
 piness was sent into the world for a gracious 
 purpose, and that love meant goodness and hap- 
 piness too sometimes. And, yes — no — yes — that 
 was Lady Dampier! and was John in Paris, per- 
 haps? and Miss Dampier? and were the dear, dear 
 
 old days come back? 
 
 After a few minutes the congregation began 
 to sing a hymn, the English ladies joining in 
 audibly with their queer accents. The melody 
 swayed on, horribly out of tune and out of time,
 
 74 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 in a wild sort of minor key. Tou-Tou and Lou- 
 Lou sang, one on each side of their mother, ex- 
 ceedingly loud and shrill, and one of the clergymen 
 attempted a second, after which the discordance 
 reached its climax. Elly had laughed on one or 
 two occasions, and indeed I do not wonder. To- 
 day she scarcely heard the sound of the voices. 
 Her heart was beating with hope, delight, wonder; 
 her head was in a whirl, her whole frame trembling 
 with excitement, that increased every instant. 
 Would Monsieur Boulot's sermon never come to 
 an end? Monsieur Bontemps' exposition, Monsieur 
 de Marveille's reports, go on for ever and 
 ever? 
 
 But at last it was over: a little rustling, a 
 little pause, and all the voices beginning to 
 murmur, and the chairs scraping; people rising, a 
 little group forming round each favourite pasteur, 
 hands outstretched, thanks uttered, people coming 
 and going. With one bound Elly found herself 
 standing by Lady Dampier, holding both her 
 hands, almost crying with delight. The apathetic 
 English lady was quite puzzled by the girl's
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 75 
 
 exaggerated expressions. She cared very little 
 for Elly Gilmour herself; she liked her very well, 
 but she could not understand her extraordinary 
 warmth of greeting. However, she was carried 
 away by her feelings to the extent of saying, 
 "You must come and see us to-morrow. We 
 are only passing through Paris on our way to 
 Schlangenbad for Laetitia; she has been sadly out 
 of health and spirits lately, poor dear. We are 
 at the Hotel du Louvre. You must come and 
 lunch with us. Ah! here is your mother. How 
 d'ye do, dear Madam Tourneur? What a privilege 
 it has been! What a treat Mossu Tourneur has 
 given us to-night. I have been quite delighted, 
 I assure you," said her ladyship, bent on being 
 gracious. 
 
 Mme. Tourneur made the most courteous of 
 salutations. "I am glad you came, since it was 
 so," said she. 
 
 "I want you to let Elly come and see me," 
 continued Lady Dampier; "she must come to 
 lunch; I should be so glad if you would accompany 
 her. I would offer to take her to the play, but I
 
 76 THE STORY OK ELIZABETH; 
 
 suppose you do not approve of such things any 
 more." 
 
 "My life is so taken up with other more 
 serious duties." said Mme. Tourneur, with a faint 
 superior smile, "that I have little time for mere 
 worldly amusements. I cannot say that I desire 
 them for my daughter." 
 
 "Oh, of course," said Lady Dampier. "I 
 myself — but it is only en passant, as we are all 
 going on to Schlangenbad in two days. It is 
 really quite delightful to find you settled here so 
 nicely. What a privilege it must be to be so 
 constantly in Mossu Tourneur's society!" 
 
 Madame Tourneur gave a bland assenting 
 smile, and turned to speak to several people who 
 were standing near. "Monsieur de Marveille, are 
 you going? Thanks, I will be at the committee 
 on Thursday without fail. Monsieur Boulot, you 
 must remain a few minutes; I want to consult you 
 about that case in which la Comtesse de Glaris 
 takes so deep an interest. Lady Macduff has also 
 written to me to ask my husband's interest for
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 77 
 
 her. Ah, Lady Sophia! how glad I am you have 
 returned; is Lady Matilda better?" 
 
 "Well, I'll wish you good-by, Madame Tour- 
 neur," said Lady Dampier, rather impressed, and 
 not much caring to stand by quite unnoticed 
 while all these greetings were going on. "You 
 will let Elly come to-morrow?" 
 
 "Certainly," said Mme. Tourneur. "You will 
 understand how it is that I do not call. My days 
 are much occupied. I have little time for mere 
 visits of pleasure and ceremony. Monsieur Bon- 
 temps, one word " 
 
 "Elly, which is the way out?" said Lady 
 Dampier, abruptly, less and less pleased, but 
 more and more impressed. 
 
 "I will show you," said Elly, who had been 
 standing by all this time, and she led the way 
 bare-headed into the court, over which the stars 
 were shining tranquilly. The trees looked dark 
 and rustled mysteriously along the wall, but all 
 heaven was alight. Elly looked up for an instant, 
 and then turned to her companion and asked her,
 
 78 mi 5T0R\ el ELIZABETH. 
 
 with a voice that faltered a little, if they were all 
 together in Paris? 
 
 "No; Miss Dampier is in Scotland still," said 
 my lady. 
 
 It was not Miss Dampier's name of which 
 Elizabeth Gilmour was longing to hear, she did 
 not dare ask any more; but it seemed as if a 
 great weight had suddenly fallen upon her heart, 
 as she thought that perhaps, after all, he was not 
 come; she should not hear of him; see him, who 
 knows, perhaps never again? 
 
 Elly tried to unbar the great front door to let 
 out her friend; but she could not do it, and 
 called to old Francoise, who was passing across 
 to the kitchen, to come and help her. And sud- 
 denly the bolt, which had stuck in some manner, 
 gave way, the gate opened wide, and as it opened 
 Elly saw that there was somebody standing just 
 outside under the lamp-post. The foolish child 
 did not guess who it was, but said "Good-night," 
 with a sigh, and held out her soft hand to Lady 
 Dampier. And then, all of a sudden the great 
 load Avent away, and in its place came a sort of
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 79 
 
 undreamt-of peace, happiness, and gratitude. All 
 the stars seemed suddenly to blaze more brightly; 
 all the summer's night to shine more wonderfully; 
 all trouble, all anxiousness to melt away; and 
 John Dampier turned round and said, — 
 
 "Is that you, Elizabeth?" 
 
 "And you?" cried Elly, springing forward 
 with both her hands outstretched. "Ah! I did not 
 think who was outside the door." 
 
 "How did you come here, John?" said my 
 lady, very much flustered. 
 
 "I came to fetch you," said her son. "I 
 wanted a walk, and Letty told me where you 
 were gone." Lady Dampier did not pay much 
 attention to his explanations; she was watching 
 Elly with a dissatisfied face; and glancing round 
 too, the young man saw that Elly was standing 
 quite still under the archway, with her hands 
 folded, and with a look of dazzled delight in her 
 blue eyes that there was no mistaking. 
 
 "You don't forget your old friends, Elly?" 
 said he. 
 
 "I! never, never," cried Elizabeth.
 
 80 THE STORY OF FXIZARETH. 
 
 "And 1, too, do not forget," said he, very 
 kindly, and held out his hand once more, and 
 took hers, and did not let it go. "I will 
 come and see you, and bring L?etitia," he 
 added, as his mother looked up rather severely. 
 "Good-night, dear Elly? I am glad you are un- 
 changed." 
 
 People, however slow they may be naturally, 
 are generally quick in discovering admiration, or 
 affection, or respectful devotion to themselves. 
 Lady Dampier only suspected, her son was quite 
 sure of poor Elly's feelings, as he said good- 
 night under the archway. Indeed he knew a 
 great deal more about them than did Elizabeth 
 herself. All she knew was that the great load 
 was gone; and she danced across the stones of 
 the yard, clapping her hands in her old happy 
 way. The windows of the salle were lighted up. 
 She could see the people within coming and 
 going, but she did not notice Anthony, who was 
 standing in one of them. He, for his part, was 
 watching the little dim figure dancing and flitting 
 about in the starlight. Had he, then, anything
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 51 
 
 to do with her happiness? Was he indeed so 
 blessed? His heart was overflowing with humble 
 gratitude, with kindness, with wonder. He was 
 happy at the moment, and was right to be grate- 
 ful. She was happy, too — as thoroughly happy 
 now, and carried away by her pleasure, as she 
 had been crushed and broken by her troubles. 
 "Ah! to think that the day has come at last, after 
 watching all this long, long, cruel time! I always 
 knew it would come. Everybody gets what they 
 wish for sooner or later. I don't think anybody 
 was ever so miserable as I have been all this 
 
 year, but at last — at last " No one saw 
 
 the bright, happy look that came into her face, 
 for she was standing in the dark outside the door 
 of the house. She wanted to dream, she did not 
 want to talk to anybody; she wanted to tell her- 
 self over and over again how happy she was; 
 how she had seen him again; how he had looked; 
 how kindly he had spoken to her. Ah! yes, he 
 had cared for her all the time; and now he had 
 come to fetch her away. She did not think much 
 of poor Anthony; if she did, it was to say to her- 
 
 T/ie Story oj Elizabeth.
 
 82 lin STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 self that somehow it would all come right, and 
 everybody would be as well contented as she was. 
 The door of the house opened while she still 
 stood looking up at the stars. This time it was 
 not John Dampier, but the Pasteur Tourneur 
 who came from behind it. He put out his hand 
 and took hold of hers. 
 
 "You there, Elizabeth! Come in, my child; 
 you will be cold." And he drew her into the 
 hall, where the Pasteurs Boulot and De Marveille 
 were pulling on their cloaks and hats, and bidding 
 everybody good-night. 
 
 The whole night Elizabeth lay starting and 
 waking — so happy that she could not bear to 
 go to sleep, to cease to exist for one instant. 
 Often it had been the other way, and she had 
 been thankful to lay her weary head on her pil- 
 low, and close her aching eyes, and forget her 
 troubles. But all this night she lay wondering 
 what the coming day was to bring forth. She had 
 better have gone to sleep. The coming day 
 brought forth nothing at all, except, indeed, a 
 little note from Lsetitia, written on a half-sheet of
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 83 
 
 paper, which was put into her hand about eleven 
 o'clock, just as she was sitting down to the de- 
 jeiiner a la fourchette. 
 
 " Hdteldu Rhin, Place Veudome, 
 
 " Wednesday Evening. 
 
 "My dear Elizabeth, 
 "I am so disappointed to think that I shall 
 not perhaps see you after all. Some friends of 
 ours have just arrived, who are going on to 
 Schlangenbad to-morrow, and aunt Catherine 
 thinks it will be better to set off a little sooner 
 than we had intended, so as to travel with them. 
 I wish you might be able to come and break- 
 fast with us about nine to-morrow; but I am 
 afraid this is asking almost too much, though I 
 should greatly enjoy seeing you again. Good-by. 
 If we do not meet now, I trust that on our return 
 in a couple of months we may be more fortunate, 
 and see much of each other. We start at ten, and 
 shall reach Strasbourg about eight. 
 "Ever, dear Elizabeth, 
 
 "Affectionately yours, 
 
 "L^etitia Malcolm." 
 6*
 
 84 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 "What has happened?" said Madame Tour- 
 neur, quite frightened, for she saw the girl's 
 face change and her eyes suddenly filling with 
 tears. 
 
 "Nothing has happened," said Elizabeth. "I 
 was only disappointed to think I should not see 
 them again." And she put out her hand and 
 gave her mother the note. 
 
 "But why care so much for people who do 
 not care for you?" said her mother. "Lady 
 Dampier is one of the coldest women I ever 
 knew; and as for Laetitia, if she loved you in 
 the least, would she write you such a note as 
 this?" 
 
 "Mamma! it is a very kind note," said Eliza- 
 beth. "I know she loves me." 
 
 "Do you think she cried over it, as you did?" 
 said her mother. "'So disappointed' — 'more for- 
 tunate on our return through Paris?'" 
 
 "Do not let us judge our neighbours so 
 hastily, my wife," said M. Tourneur. "Let 
 Elizabeth love her friend. What can she do 
 better?"
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 85 
 
 Caroline looked up with an odd expression, 
 shrugged her shoulders, and did not answer. 
 
 Until breakfast was over, Elly kept up pretty 
 well; but when M. Tourneur rose and went away 
 into his writing-room, when Anthony and the 
 young men filed off by an opposite door, and 
 Mme. Tourneur disappeared to look to her house- 
 hold duties — then, when the room was quiet 
 again, and only Madame Jacob remained sewing 
 in a window, and Lou-Lou and Tou-Tou whisper- 
 ing over their lessons, suddenly the canary burst 
 out into a shrill piping jubilant song, and the 
 sunshine poured in, and Elly's heart began to 
 sink. And then suddenly the horrible reality 
 seemed realized to her. . . . 
 
 They were gone — those who had come, as 
 she thought, to rescue her. Could it be true — 
 could it be really true? She had stood lonely on 
 the arid shore waving her signals of distress , and 
 they who should have seen them, never heeded, 
 but went sailing away to happier lands, disappear- 
 ing in the horizon, and leaving her to her fate. 
 That fate which — it was more than she could
 
 86 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 bear. It seemed more terrible than ever to her 
 to-day. . . . Ah, silly girl, was her life as 
 hard as the lives of thousands struggling along 
 with her in the world, tossed and broken against 
 the rocks, while she, at least, was safely landed 
 on the beach? She had no heart to think of 
 others. She sat sickening with disappointment, 
 and once more her eyes filled up with stinging 
 tears. 
 
 "Lou-Lou, Tou-Tou, come up to your lessons," 
 said Mrs. Jacob. "I do not wish you to see such 
 a wicked example of discontent." The little girls 
 went off on tip-toe; and when these people were 
 gone, Elizabeth was left quite alone.' 
 
 "I daresay I am very wicked," she was say- 
 ing to herself. "I was made wicked. But this is 
 more than I can bear — to live all day with the 
 people I hate, and then when I do love with my 
 whole heart, to be treated with such cruel in- 
 difference — such coldness. . He ought to know, 
 he must know that he has broken my heart. Why 
 does he look so kindly, and then forget so heart- 
 lessly? . . ."
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 87 
 
 She hid her face in her hands, and bent her 
 head over the wooden table. She did not care 
 who knew her to be unhappy — what pain her 
 unhappiness might give. The person who was 
 likely to be most wounded by her poignant grief 
 came into the room at the end of half-an-hour, 
 and found her sitting still in the same attitude, 
 with her head hanging, and her tears dribbling on 
 the deal table. This was enough answer for poor 
 Anthony. 
 
 "Elizabeth," he faltered, "I see you cannot 
 make up your mind." 
 
 "Ah! no, no, Anthony, not yet," said Eliza- 
 beth; "but you are the only person in the world 
 who cares for me; and indeed, indeed, I am 
 grateful." 
 
 And then the poor little head sank down 
 again overwhelmed with its load of grief. 
 
 "Tell me, Elizabeth, is there anything in the 
 world I can do to make you more happy?" said 
 Anthony. "My prayers, my best wishes are yours. 
 Is there nothing else?"
 
 rm. STORY 01 I I I UB] in. 
 
 "(>iil) not to notice me," said Elly; "only to 
 leave me alone." 
 
 And so Anthony, seeing that he could do 
 nothing, went away very sad at heart. He had 
 been so happy and confident the night before, and 
 now he began to fear that what he longed for 
 was never to be his. Poor boy, he buried his 
 trouble in his own heart, and did not say one 
 word of it to father, or mother, or young com- 
 panions. 
 
 Five or six weeks went by, and Elly heard no 
 more of the Dampiers. Every day she looked 
 more ill, more haggard; her temper did not mend, 
 her spirits did not improve. In June the five 
 young men went home to their families. M. and 
 Madame Tourneur went down to Fontainebleau 
 for a week. Anthony set off for the South of 
 France to visit an uncle. He was to be ordained 
 in the autumn, and was anxious to pay this visit 
 before his time should be quite taken up by his 
 duties. Clementine asked for a holiday, and went 
 off to her friends at Passy; and Elly remained at 
 home. It was her own fault: Monsieur Tourneur
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 89 
 
 had begged her to come with them; her mother 
 had scolded and remonstrated, all in vain. The 
 wayward girl declared that she wanted no change, 
 no company, that she was best where she was. 
 Only for a week? she would stay, and there was 
 an end of it. I think the secret was, that she 
 could not bear to quit Paris, and waited and 
 waited, hoping against hope. 
 
 "I am afraid you will quarrel with Madame 
 Jacob," said her mother, as she was setting off. 
 
 "I shall not speak to her," said Elly; and for 
 two days she was as good as her word. But on 
 the third day, this salutary silence was broken. 
 Madame Jacob, coming in with her bonnet on, 
 informed Elizabeth that she was going out for the 
 afternoon. 
 
 "I confess it is not without great apprehen- 
 sions, lest you should get into mischief," says 
 the lady. 
 
 "And pray," says Elly, "am I more likely to 
 get into mischief than you are? / am going 
 out."
 
 90 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 "You will do nothing of the sort," says Ma- 
 dame Jacob. 
 
 "I will do exactly as I choose," says Elizabeth. 
 
 In a few minutes, a battle royal was raging; 
 Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou look on, all eyes and ears; 
 old Francoise comes up from the kitchen, and 
 puts her head in at the door. 
 
 Madame Jacob was desiring her, on no ac- 
 count, to let Elizabeth out that afternoon, when 
 Lou-Lou said, ; 'There, that was the street-door 
 shutting;" and Tou-Tou said, "She is gone." And 
 so it was. 
 
 The wilful Elizabeth had brushed past old 
 Francoise, rushed up to her own room, pulled 
 out a shawl, tied on her bonnet, defiantly, run 
 downstairs and across the yard, and, in a minute, 
 was walking rapidly away without once looking 
 behind her. Down the hill, past the hospital — 
 they were carrying a wounded man in at the door 
 as she passed, and she just caught a glimpse of 
 his pale face, and turned shrinking away. Then 
 she got into the Faubourg St. Honore, with its 
 shops and its cab-stands, and busy people coming
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 9 1 
 
 and going; and then she turned up the Rue 
 d'Angouleme. In the Champs Elysees the after- 
 noon sun was streaming; there was a crowd, and, 
 as it happened, soldiers were marching along to 
 the sound of martial music. She saw an empty 
 bench, and sat down for a minute to regain breath 
 and equanimity. The music put her in mind of 
 the day when she had listened at her window — 
 of the day when her heart was so heavy and then 
 so light — of the day when Anthony had told her 
 his scheme, when John Dampier had waited at 
 the door: the day, the only one — she was not 
 likely to forget it — when she had been so happy, 
 just for a little. And now ? The bitter re- 
 membrance came rushing over her; and she 
 jumped up, and walked faster and faster, trying 
 to escape from it. 
 
 She got into the Tuileries, and on into the 
 Rue de Rivoli, but she thought that people 
 looked at her strangely, and she turned home- 
 wards at last. It was lonely, wandering about 
 this busy city by herself. As she passed by the 
 columns of St. Philip's Church, somebody came
 
 0,2 THE STORY OF I I I Alil'.TH. 
 
 out, and the curtain swung back, and Elly, look- 
 ing up, saw a dim, quiet interior, full of silent 
 rays of light falling from the yellow windows and 
 chequering the marble. She stopped, and went 
 in with a sudden impulse. One old woman was 
 kneeling on the threshold, and Elly felt as if she, 
 too, wanted to fall upon her knees. What tran- 
 quil gloom, and silence, and repose! Her own 
 church was only open at certain hours. Did it 
 always happen that precisely at eleven o'clock on 
 Sunday mornings she was in the exact frame of 
 mind in which she most longed for spiritual com- 
 munion and consolation? To be tightly wedged 
 in between two other devotees, plied with chauffe- 
 rettes by the pew- opener, forced to follow the 
 extempore supplications of the preacher — did all 
 this suffice to her wants? Here was silence, 
 coolness, a faint, half- forgotten smell of incense, 
 there were long, empty rows of chairs, one or two 
 people kneeling at the little altars, five or six 
 little pious candles burning in compliment to 
 the various saints and deities to whom they were 
 dedicated. The rays of the little candles glim-
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 93 
 
 mered in the darkness, and the foot- falls fell 
 quietly along the aisle. I, for my part, do not 
 blame this poor foolish heart, if it offered up a 
 humble supplication here in the shrine of the 
 stranger. Poor Elly was not very eloquent; she 
 only prayed to be made a good girl and to be 
 happy. But, after all, eloquence and long words 
 do not mean any more. 
 
 She walked home, looking up at the sunset 
 lines which were streaking the sky freshly and 
 delicately; she thought she saw Madame Jacob's 
 red nose up in a little pink cloud, and began to 
 speculate how she would be received. And she 
 had nearly reached her own door, and was toiling 
 wearily up the last hilly piece of road, when she 
 heard some quick steps behind; somebody passed, 
 turned round, said, "Why, Elly! I was going to 
 see you." 
 
 In an instant, Elly's blue eyes were all alight, 
 and her ready hand outstretched to John Dampier 
 — for it was he.
 
 ij4 nil lok\ OF I LIZABETtt. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 In looking backward, they may find that several things which were 
 not the charm have more reality to this groping memory than the ch.trra 
 itself which embalmed them. 
 
 He had time to think, as he greeted her, how 
 worn she looked, how shabbily she was dressed. 
 And yet what a charming, talking, brightening 
 face it was. When Elly smiled, her bonnet and 
 dress became quite new and becoming, somehow. 
 In two minutes he thought her handsomer than 
 ever. They walked on, side by side, up the hilly 
 street. She, trying to hide her agitation, asked 
 him about La^titia, about his mother, and dear 
 Miss Dampier. 
 
 "I think she does care for me still," said Elly; 
 "but you have all left off." 
 
 "My dear child," said he, "how can you think 
 anything so foolish?" 
 
 "I have nothing else to do," said Elly, plain- 
 tively; "all day long I think about those happy
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 95 
 
 times which are gone. I thought you had for- 
 gotten me when you did not come." 
 
 Dampier laughed a little uneasily. "I have 
 had to take them to their watering-place," said 
 he; "I could not help it. But tell me about your- 
 self. Are you not comfortable?" he asked. 
 
 "I am rather unhappy," said Elizabeth. "I 
 am not good, like they are, and oh! I get so 
 tired;" and then she went on and told him what 
 miserable days she spent, and how she hated 
 them, and she longed for a little pleasure, and 
 ease, and happiness. 
 
 He was very much touched, and very, very 
 sorry. "You don't look well," he said. "You 
 should have some amusement — some change. I 
 would take you anywhere you liked. Why not 
 come now, for a drive? See, here is a little open 
 carriage passing. Surely, with an old friend like 
 me, there can be no harm." And he signed to 
 the driver to stop. 
 
 Elizabeth was quite frightened at the idea, 
 and said, "Oh, no, no! indeed." Whereas, 
 Dampier only said, "Oh, yes! indeed, you must.
 
 96 [he s row 01 Elizabeth. 
 
 Why, I knew you when you were a baby — and 
 your father and your grandmother — and I am a 
 respectable middle-aged man, and it will do you 
 good, and it will soon be a great deal too dark 
 for any of your pasteurs to recognize you and 
 report. We have been out riding together before 
 now, — why not come for a little drive in the Bois? 
 Why not?" 
 
 So said Elly to herself, doubtfully; and she 
 got in, still hesitating, and in a minute they were 
 rolling away swiftly out at the gates of Paris, 
 out towards the sunset — so it seemed to Eliza- 
 beth — and she forgot all her fears. The 
 heavens glowed overhead; her heart beat with 
 intensest enjoyment. Presently, the twilight 
 came falling with a green glow, with stars, with 
 evening perfumes, with lights twinkling from the 
 carriages reflected on the lakes as they rolled 
 past. 
 
 And so at last she was happy, sometimes 
 silent from delight, sometimes talking in her 
 simple, foolish way, and telling him all about 
 herself, her regrets, her troubles— about An-
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 97 
 
 thony. She could not help it — indeed, she could 
 not. Dampier, for his part, cried out at the no- 
 tion of her marrying Anthony, made fun of him, 
 laughed at him, pitied him. The poor fellow, 
 now that she compared him to John Dampier, 
 did indeed seem dull, and strangely uncouth, and 
 commonplace. 
 
 "Marry that cub," said Sir John; "you mustn't 
 do it, my dear. You would be like the princess 
 in the fairy tale, who went off with the bear. It's 
 downright wicked to think of such a thing. Eli- 
 zabeth, promise me you won't. Does he ever 
 climb up and down a pole? is he fond of buns? 
 is he tame? If your father were alive, would he 
 suffer such a thing? Promise me, Elly, that you 
 will never become Mrs. Bruin." 
 
 "Yes; I promise," said Elly, with a sigh. 
 
 "But he is so kind. Nobody is as " And 
 
 then she stopped, and thought, "Yes; here was 
 some one who was a great deal kinder." Talking 
 to Dampier was so easy, so pleasant, that she 
 scarcely recognised her own words and sentences: 
 it was like music in tune after music out of tune: 
 
 TJie Story of Elizabeth. 7
 
 mi. STORY OF EUZ \ii i H 
 
 it was like running on smooth rails after rolling 
 along a stony road: it was like breathing fresh 
 air after a heated stifling atmosphere. Somehow, 
 he met her half-way; she need not explain, reca- 
 pitulate, stumble for words, as she was forced to 
 do with those practical, impracticable people at 
 home. He understood what she wanted to say 
 before she had half finished her sentence; he 
 laughed at her fine little jokes; he encouraged, 
 he cheered, he delighted her. If she had cared 
 for him before, it was now a mad adoration which 
 she felt for this man. He suited her; she felt 
 now that he was part of her life — the better, 
 nobler, wiser part; and if he was the other half 
 of her life, surely, somehow, she must be as ne- 
 cessary to him as he was to her. Why had he 
 come to see her else? Why had he cared for her, 
 and brought her here? Why was his voice so 
 gentle, his manner so kind and sympathetic? He 
 had cared for her once, she knew he had; and 
 he cared for her still, she knew he did. If the 
 whole world were to deceive her and fail her, she 
 would still trust him. And her instinct was not
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 99 
 
 wrong: he was sincerely and heartily her friend. 
 The carriage put them down a few doors from 
 M. Tourneur's house, and then Elly went boldly 
 up to the door and rang at the bell. 
 
 "I shall come at four o'clock to-morrow, and 
 take you for a drive," said John; "you look like 
 another woman already." 
 
 "It is no use asking Madame Jacob," said 
 Elly; "she would lock me up into my room. I 
 will come somehow. How shall I thank you?" 
 
 "By looking well and happy again. I shall be 
 so glad to have cured you." 
 
 "And it is so pleasant to meet with such a 
 kind doctor," said Elly, looking up and smiling. 
 
 "Good-by, Elly," repeated Sir John, quite 
 affected by her gentle looks. 
 
 Old Francoise opened the door. Elly turned 
 a little pale. 
 
 "Ah, ha! vous voila," says the old woman; 
 "mechante fille, you are going to get a pretty 
 scolding. Where have you been?" 
 
 "Ah, Francoise!" said Elly, "I have been so 
 happy. I met Sir John Dampier: he is an old, 
 
 r
 
 I0O Ti IK STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 old friend. He took me for a drive in the Bois. 
 Is Madame Jacob very, very angry?" 
 
 "Well, you are in luck," says the old woman, 
 who could never resist Elizabeth's pretty pleading 
 ways; "she came home an hour ago and fetched 
 the children, and went out to dine in town, and 
 I told her you were in your room." 
 
 "Ah, you dear kind old woman!" said Elly, 
 Hinging her arms round her neck, and giving her 
 a kiss. 
 
 "There, there!" said the unblushing Francoise; 
 "I will put your convert in the salle." 
 
 "Ah! I am very glad. I am so hungry, Fran- 
 coise," said Elly, pulling off her bonnet, and shak- 
 ing her loose hair as she followed the old woman 
 across the courtyard. 
 
 So Elizabeth sat down to dine off dry bread 
 and cold mutton. But though she said she was 
 hungry, she was too happy to eat much. The 
 tallow candle flickered on the table. She thought 
 of the candles in St. Philip's Church; then she 
 went over every word, every minute which she
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. IOI 
 
 had spent since she was kneeling there. Old 
 Fran^oise came in with a little cake she had 
 made her, and found Elizabeth sitting, smiling, 
 with her elbows on the table. "Allons, allons!" 
 thought the old cook. "Here, eat, mamzelle," 
 said she; "faut plus sortir sans permission — 
 hein?" 
 
 "Thank you, Francoise. How nice! how kind 
 of you!" said Elizabeth, in her bad French — she 
 never would learn to talk properly; and then she 
 ate her cake by the light of the candle, and this 
 little dim tallow wick seemed to cast light and 
 brilliance over the whole world, over her whole 
 life, which seemed to her as if it would go on for 
 ever and ever. Now and then a torturing doubt, 
 a misgiving, came over her, but these she put 
 quickly aside. 
 
 Madame Jacob was pouring out the coffee 
 when Elly came down to breakfast next morning, 
 conscious and ashamed, and almost disposed to 
 confess. "I am surprised," said Madame Jacob, 
 "that you have the impudence to sit down at 
 table with me;" and she said it in such an acid
 
 102 nil'. SToUY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 lone that all Elly's sweetness, and ashamedness, 
 and penitence turned to bitterness. 
 
 "I find it very disagreeable," says Elly; "but 
 I try and resign myself." 
 
 "I shall write to my brother about you," con- 
 tinued Madame Jacob. 
 
 "Indeed!" says Elizabeth. "Here is a letter 
 which he has written to me. What fun if it 
 should be about you!" It was like Tourneur's 
 handwriting, but it did not come from him. Elly 
 opened it carelessly enough, but Tou-Tou and 
 Lou-Lou exchanged looks of intelligence. Their 
 mother had examined the little missive, and made 
 her comments upon it: — 
 
 "Avignon, Rue de la Clochette, 
 "Chez le Pasteicr Ch. Toitrtieur. 
 
 "My dear Elly, 
 "I think of you so much and so constantly 
 that I cannot help wishing to make you think of 
 me, if only for one minute, while you read these 
 few words. I have been telling my uncle about 
 you; it is he who asks me why I do not write. 
 But there are some things which are not to be
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. IO3 
 
 spoken or to be written — it is only by one's life 
 that one can try to tell them; and you, alas! 
 do not care to hear the story of my life. I won- 
 der will the day ever come when you will listen 
 to it? 
 
 "I have been most kindly received by all my 
 old friends down in these parts. Yesterday I at- 
 tended the service in the Temple, and heard a 
 most soul-stirring and eloquent oration from the 
 mouth of M. le Pasteur David. I receive cheer- 
 ing accounts on every side. A new temple has 
 been opened at Beziers, thanks to the munificence 
 of one of our coreligionnaires. The temple was 
 solemnly opened on the Monday of the Pentecost. 
 The discourse of dedication was pronounced by 
 M. le Pasteur Borrel, of Nismes. Seven pasteurs 
 en robe attended the ceremony. They tell me 
 that the interdiction which had weighed for some 
 years upon the temple at Fouqueure (Charente) 
 has been taken off, and that the faithful were 
 able to re-open their temple on the first Sunday 
 in June. Need I say what vivid actions of grace 
 were uttered on this happy occasion. A Pro-
 
 104 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 testant school has also been established at Mon- 
 tauban, which seems to be well attended. I am 
 now going to visit two of my uncle's confrlres, 
 MM. Bertoul and Joseph Aubre. Of M. Bertoul I 
 have heard much good. 
 
 "Why do I tell you all this? Do you care 
 for what I care? Could you ever bring yourself 
 to lead the life which I propose to lead? Time 
 only will show, dear Elizabeth. It will also 
 show to you the faithfulness and depth of my 
 affection. 
 
 "A. T." 
 
 Elly put the letter down with a sigh, and went 
 on drinking her coffee and eating her bread. 
 Madame Jacob hemmed and tried to ask her a 
 question or two on the subject, but Elly would 
 not answer. Elly sometimes wondered at An- 
 thony's fancy for her, knowing how little suited 
 she was to the way of life she was leading; she 
 was surprised that his rigid notions should allow 
 him to entertain such an idea for an instant. But 
 the truth was that Anthony was head over ears
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. IO5 
 
 in love with her, and thought her perfection at 
 the bottom of his heart. 
 
 Poor Anthony! This is what he got in return 
 for his letter: — 
 
 "My dear Anthony, 
 "It cannot be — never — never. But I do care 
 for you, and I mean to always. For you are my 
 brother in a sort of way. 
 
 "I am your affectionate, grateful Elly. 
 
 "P. S. — Your father and my mother are 
 away at Fontainebleau. Madame Jacob is here, 
 and more disagreeable than anything you can 
 imagine." 
 
 And so it was settled; and Elly never once 
 asked herself if she had been foolish or wise; 
 but, after thinking compassionately about An- 
 thony for a minute or two, she began to think 
 about Dampier, and said to herself that she had 
 followed his advice, and he must know best; and 
 Dampier himself, comfortably breakfasting in the
 
 106 mi STORV OF ELteABETH. 
 
 coffee-room oi the hotel, was thinking of her, and, 
 as he thought, put away all unpleasant doubts or 
 suggestions. "Poor little thing! dear little thing!" 
 he was saying to himself. "I will not leave her 
 to the tender mercies of those fanatics. She will 
 die — I see it in her eyes — if she stays there! My 
 mother or aunt Jean must come to her help; we 
 must not desert her. Poor, poor little Elly, with 
 her wistful face! Why did not she make me 
 marry her a year ago? I was very near it." 
 
 He was faithful next day to his appointment, 
 and Elly arrived breathless. "Madame Jacob 
 had locked her up in her room," she said, only 
 she got out of window and clambered down by 
 the vine, and here she was. "But it is the last 
 time," she added. "Ah! let us make haste; is 
 not that Francoise?" He helped her in, and in 
 a minute they were driving away along the Fau- 
 bourg. Elly let down the veil. John saw that 
 her hand was trembling, and asked if she was 
 afraid? 
 
 "I am afraid, because I know I am doing 
 wrong," said Elly; "only I think I should have
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. IO7 
 
 died for want of fresh air in that hateful prison, 
 if I had not come." 
 
 "You used to like your little apartment near 
 the Madeleine better," said Dampier; "that was 
 not a prison." 
 
 " I grow sick with regret when I think of those 
 days," Elly said. "Do you know that day you 
 spoke to us in the Tuileries was the last happy 
 day of my life, except " 
 
 "Except?" said Dampier. 
 
 "Except yesterday," said Elly. "It is so de- 
 lightful to do something wrong again." 
 
 "Why should you think that this is doing 
 wrong?" said Dampier. "You know me, and can 
 trust me — can't you, Elly?" 
 
 "Have I shown much mistrust?" said Elly, 
 laughing; and then she added more seriously, "I 
 have been writing to Anthony this morning — I 
 have done as you told me. So you see whether 
 I trust you or not." 
 
 "You have refused him?" said Dampier. 
 
 "Yes; are you satisfied?" said Elly, looking 
 with her bright blue-eyed glance.
 
 I08 mi STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 "lie was unworthy of you," cried Dumpier, 
 secretly rather dismayed to find his advice so 
 quickly acted upon. What had he done? would 
 not that marriage, after all, have been the very 
 best thing for Elly perhaps? He was glad and 
 sorry, but I think he would rather have been 
 more sorry and less glad, and have heard that 
 Elly had found a solution to all her troubles. 
 He thought it necessary to be sentimental; it. was 
 the least he could do, after what she had done 
 for him. 
 
 "Why wouldn't you let me in when I came 
 to see you one day long ago, just before I left 
 Paris?" he asked, suddenly. "Do you know what 
 I wanted to say to you?" 
 
 Elly blushed up under her veil. "Mamma 
 had desired Clementine to let no one in. Did you 
 not know I would have seen you if I could?" 
 
 "I knew nothing of the sort," said Dampier, 
 rather sadly. "I wish — I wish — I had known 
 it." He forgot that, after all, that was not the 
 real reason of his going away without speaking. 
 He chose to imagine that this was the reason —
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. IO9 
 
 that he would have married Elly but for this. 
 He forgot his own careful scruples and hesita- 
 tions; his doubts and indecision; and now to-day 
 he forgot everything, except that he was very 
 sorry for Elly, and glad to give her a little plea- 
 sure. He did not trouble himself as to what 
 people would say of her — of a girl who was 
 going about with a man who was neither her 
 brother nor her husband. Nobody would know 
 her. The only people to fear were the people at 
 home, who should never hear anything about it. 
 He would give her and give himself a little hap- 
 piness, if he could; and he said to himself that 
 he was doing a good action in so doing; he would 
 write to his aunt about her, he would be her 
 friend and her doctor, and if he could bring a 
 little colour in those wasted cheeks and happiness 
 into those sad eyes, it would be wicked and cruel 
 not do so. 
 
 And so, like a quack doctor, as he was, he 
 administered his drug, which soothed and dulled 
 her pain for the moment, only to increase and 
 hasten the progress of the cruel malady which
 
 i IO mi-. McKN 01 ELIZABETH. 
 
 was destroying her. They drove along past the 
 
 Madeleine, along the broad glittering Boulevards, 
 with their crowds, their wares, people thronging 
 the pavements, horses and carriages travelling 
 alongside with them; the world, the flesh, and the 
 devil, jostling and pressing past. 
 
 "There is a theatre," cried Elly, as they came 
 to a sudden stop. "I wonder, shall I ever go 
 again? What fun it used to be." 
 
 "Will you come to-night?" asked Dampier 
 smiling. "I will take care of you." 
 
 Elly, who had found her good spirits again, 
 laughed and clasped her hands. "How I should 
 like it. Oh! how I wish it was possible, but it 
 would be quite, quite impossible." 
 
 "Have you come to think such vanities 
 wrong?" said Dampier. 
 
 "Not wrong. Where is the harm? Only un- 
 attainable. Imagine Madame Jacob; think of 
 the dragons, who would tear me to pieces if 
 they found me out — of Anthony — of my step- 
 father." 
 
 "You need not show them the play-bill," said
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. Ill 
 
 D ampier, laughing. "You will be quite sure of 
 not meeting any of the pasteurs there. Could not 
 you open one of those barred windows and jump 
 out. I would come with a ladder of ropes, if you 
 will let me." 
 
 "I should not want a ladder of ropes," said 
 Elly; "the windows are quite close to the ground. 
 What fun it would be! but it is quite, quite im- 
 possible, of course." 
 
 Dampier said no more. He told the driver 
 to turn back, and to stop at the Louvre; and he 
 made her get out, and took her upstairs into the 
 great golden hall with the tall windows, through 
 which you can see the Seine as it rushes under 
 the bridges, and the light as it falls on the ancient 
 stately quays and houses, on the cathedral, on the 
 towers of Paris. It was like enchantment to 
 Elly; all about the atmosphere was golden, was 
 bewitched. She was eagerly drinking her cup of 
 happiness to the dregs, she was in a sort of 
 glamour. She hardly could believe that this was 
 herself. 
 
 They went and sat down on the great round
 
 I 12 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 sofa in the first room, opposite the "Marriage of 
 Cana," with "St. Michael killing the Dragon" on 
 one side, and the green pale wicked woman 
 staring at them from behind: the pale woman 
 with the unfathomable face. Elly kept turning 
 round every now and then, fascinated by her 
 cold eyes. Dampier was a connoisseur, and fond 
 of pictures, and he told Elizabeth all about those 
 which he liked best; told her about the painters 
 — about their histories. She was very ignorant, 
 and scarcely knew the commonest stories. How 
 she listened, how she treasured up his words, how 
 she remembered, in after days, every tone as he 
 spoke, every look in his kind eyes! He talked 
 when he should have been silent, looked kind 
 when he should have turned his eyes away. What 
 cruel kindness ! what fatal friendship ! He imagined 
 she liked him; he knew it, indeed; but he fancied 
 that she liked him and loved him in the same 
 quiet way in which he loved her — hopelessly, 
 regretfully, resignedly. As he walked by her 
 side along these wonderful galleries, now and then 
 it occurred to him that, perhaps, after all, it was
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 113 
 
 scarcely wise; but he put the thought quickly 
 away, as I have said already, and blinded himself, 
 and said, surely it was right. They were stand- 
 ing before a kneeling abbess in white flannel, 
 painted by good old Philip of Champagne, and 
 laughing at her droll looks and her long nose, 
 when Sir John, happening to turn round, saw his 
 old acquaintance De Vaux coming directly to- 
 wards them, with his eye-glasses stuck over his 
 nose, and his nose in the air. He came up quite 
 close, stared at the abbess, and walked on with- 
 out apparently seeing or recognizing them. Elly 
 had not turned her head, but Dampier drew a 
 long breath when he was gone. Elly wondered 
 to see him looking so grave when she turned 
 round with a smile and made some little joke. "I 
 think we ought to go, Elly," said he. "Come; 
 this place will soon be shut." 
 
 They drove home through the busy street, 
 once more, through the golden sunset. They 
 stopped at the corner by the hospital, and Elly 
 said "Good-by," and jumped out. As Elly was 
 reluctantly turning to go away, Dampier felt that 
 
 The Story of Elizabeth. 8
 
 114 TIIE STORY 0F ELIZABETH. 
 
 he must see her once more; that he couldn't part 
 from her now. "Elly," he said, "I shall be here 
 at six o'clock on Friday. This is Tuesday, isn't 
 it? and we must go to the play just once together. 
 Won't you come? Do, please, come?" 
 
 "Shall I come? I will think about it all to- 
 morrow," said Elly, "and make up my mind." 
 And then Dampier watched the slim little figure 
 disappear under the door-way. 
 
 Fortune was befriending Elly to-day. Old 
 Francoise had left the great door open, and now 
 she slipped in and ran up to her own room, where 
 she found the key in the lock. She came down 
 quite demurely to dinner when Lou-Lou came to 
 summon her to the frugal repast. 
 
 All dinner-time she thought about her .scheme, 
 and hesitated, and determined, and hesitated, and 
 wished wistfully, and then suddenly said to her- 
 self that she would be happy her own way, come 
 what might. "We will eat, drink, and be merry," 
 said Elly to herself, with a little wry face at the 
 cabbage, "for to-morrow we die." 
 
 And so the silly girl almost enjoyed the notion
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. I I 5 
 
 of running wild in this reckless way. Her whole 
 life, which had been so dull and wearisome before, 
 glittered with strange happiness and bewildering 
 hope. She moved about the house like a person 
 in a dream. She was very silent, but that of late 
 had been her habit. Madame Jacob looked sur- 
 prised sometimes at her gentleness, but thought it 
 was all right, and did not trouble herself about 
 much else besides Tou-Tou's and Lou-Lou's 
 hymns and lessons. She had no suspicion. She 
 thought that Elizabeth's first escapade had been a 
 mere girlish freak; of the second she knew nothing; 
 of the third not one dim imagination entered her 
 head. She noticed that Elly did not eat, but she 
 looked well and came dancing into the room, and 
 she (Mme. Jacob) supposed it was all right. Was 
 it all right? The whole summer nights Elly used 
 to lie awake with wide-open eyes, or spring from 
 her bed, and stand for long hours leaning from 
 her window, staring at the stars and telling them 
 all her story. The life she was leading was one 
 of morbid excitement and feverish dreams.
 
 Il6 Uli. STORY OF ELIZABETH, 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 What are we sent on earth for? Say to toil, 
 V i seek to leave the tending of the vines, 
 For all the heat of day till it declines, 
 
 And death's mild curfew shall from work assoil. 
 
 Madame Jacob had a friend at Asnieres, an 
 old maiden lady, Tou-Tou's godmother, who was 
 well to do in the world, with her 200/. a year, it 
 was said, and who lived in a little Chinese pagoda 
 by the railway. Now and then this old lady used 
 to write and invite Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou and 
 their mother to come and see her, and you may 
 be sure her invitations were never disregarded. 
 
 Mme. Jacob did look at Elizabeth rather doubt- 
 fully when she found on Wednesday morning the 
 usual ill-spelt, ill-written little letter. But, after 
 all, Tou-Tou's prospects were not to be endangered 
 for the sake of looking after a young woman like 
 Elizabeth, were she ten times more wayward and 
 ill-behaved, and so the little girls were desired to
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 117 
 
 make up their paquets. It was a great event in 
 Mme. Jacob's eyes; the house echoed with her 
 directions; Francoise went out to request assist- 
 ance, and came back with a friend, who helped 
 her down with the box. The little girls stood at 
 the door to stop the omnibus, which was to take 
 them to the station. They were off at last. The 
 house door closed upon them with a satisfactory 
 bang, and Elly breathed freely and ran through 
 the deserted rooms, clapping and waving her 
 hands, and dancing her steps, and feeling at last 
 that she was free. And so the morning hours 
 went by. Old Francoise was not sorry either to 
 see everybody go. She was sitting in the kitchen 
 in the afternoon peeling onions and potatoes, when 
 Elly came wandering in in her restless way, with 
 her blue eyes shining and her curly hair pushed 
 back. What a tranquil little kitchen it was, with 
 a glimpse of the courtyard outside, and the cocks 
 and the hens, and the poplar-trees waving in the 
 sunshine, and the old woman sitting in her white 
 cap busy at her homely work. Elly did not think 
 how tranquil it was, but said to herself as she
 
 I 1 S THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 looked at Francoise, how old she was, and what a 
 si range fate hers, that she should be there quietly 
 peeling onions at the end of her life. What a 
 horrible fate, thought Elizabeth, to be sitting by 
 one's grave, as it were, paring vegetables and 
 cooking broth to the last day of one's existence. 
 Poor Francoise! And then she said out loud, 
 "Francoise, tell me, are cooks like ladies; do they 
 get to hate their lives sometimes? Are you not 
 tired to death of cooking pol-au-feu?" 
 
 "I am thankful to have pot-au-fen to cook," 
 said Francoise. "Mademoiselle, I should like to 
 see you iplucher vegetables sometimes, as I do, 
 instead of running about all day. It would be 
 much better for you." 
 
 "Ecoutez, Francoise," said Elly, imploringly; 
 "when I am old like you, I will sit still by the 
 fire; now that I am young I want to run about. I 
 am the only young person in this house. They 
 are all old here, and like dead people, for they 
 only think of heaven." 
 
 "That is because they are on the road," said 
 Francoise. "Ah! they are good folks — they are."
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 10, 
 
 "I see no merit in being good," Elizabeth 
 said, crossly, sitting down on the table and dab- 
 bling her fingers in a bowl of water, which stood 
 there; "they are good because they like it. It 
 amuses them, it is their way of thinking — they 
 like to be better than their neighbours." 
 
 "Ft done, Elizabeth!" said Francoise. "You 
 do not amuse them; but they are good to you. Is 
 it Anthony's way of thinking when he bears with 
 all your caprices? When my master comes home 
 quite worn out and exhausted, and trudges off 
 again without so much as waiting for his soup, if 
 he hears he is wanted by some poor person or 
 other, does he go because it pleases him, or be- 
 cause he is serving the Lord in this world, as he 
 hopes to serve him in the next?" 
 
 Elly was a little ashamed, and said, looking 
 down, "Have you always lived here with him, 
 Francoise?" 
 
 "Not I," said Franchise; "ten years, that is 
 all. But that is long enough to tell a good man 
 from a bad one. Good people live for others, 
 and don't care about themselves. I hope when I
 
 I JO MK STORY Of ELIZABETH. 
 
 have known you ten wars, that you too will be a 
 good woman, mademoiselle." 
 
 "Like Madame Jacob?" said Elly. 
 
 Francoise shrugged her shoulders rather doubt- 
 fully, and Elly sat quite still watching her. Was 
 it not strange to be sitting there in this quiet 
 everyday kitchen, with a great unknown world 
 throbbing in her heart. "How little Francoise 
 guesses," thought Elly; "Francoise, who is only 
 thinking of her marmite and her potatoes." Elly 
 did not know it, but Francoise had a very shrewd 
 suspicion of what was going on in the poor little 
 passionate heart. "The girl is not suited here," 
 thought the old woman. "If she has found some 
 one, so much the better; Clementine has told me 
 something about it. If madame were to drive him 
 off again, that would be a pity. But I saw them 
 quite plainly that day I went to Martin, the 
 chemist's, driving away in that little carriole, and 
 I saw him that night when he was waiting for his 
 mother." 
 
 So old Francoise peels potatoes, and Elly sits 
 wondering and saying over to herself, "Good
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 121 
 
 people live for others." Who had she ever lived 
 for but for herself? Ah! there was one person 
 whom she would live and die for now. Ah! at 
 last she would be good. "And about the play?" 
 thought Elly; "shall I go — shall I send him 
 word that I will not? There is no harm in a 
 play; why should I not please him and accept 
 his kindness? it is not the first time that we 
 have been there together. I know that plays are 
 not wrong, whatever these stupid people say. Ah! 
 surely if happiness is sent to me, it would be 
 wicked to turn away, instead of being always — 
 always grateful all my life." And so, though she 
 told herself that it could not be wrong to go, she 
 forgot to tell herself that it was wrong to go with 
 him; her scruples died away one by one; once 
 or twice she thought of being brave and staying 
 away, and sending a message by old Francoise 
 but she only thought of it. 
 
 All day long, on Friday, she wandered about 
 the empty house, coming and going, like a girl 
 bewitched. She went into the garden; she picked 
 flowers and pulled them to pieces, trying to spell
 
 122 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 out her fate; she tried to make a wreath of vine- 
 haves, but got tired, and flung it away. Old 
 Francoise, from her kitchen window, watched her 
 standing at the grating and pulling at the vine; 
 but the old woman's spectacles were somewhat 
 dim, and she did not see Elly's two bright feverish 
 eyes and her burning cheeks from the kitchen 
 window. As the evening drew near, Elly's cheeks 
 became pale, and her courage nearly failed her, 
 but she had been three days at home. Monsieur 
 and Madame Tourneur were expected the next 
 morning; she had not seen Dampier for a long, 
 long time— so it seemed to her. Yes, she would 
 go; she did not care. Wrong? Right? It was 
 neither wrong nor right, — it was simply impos- 
 sible to keep away. She could not think of one 
 reason in the world why she should stop. She 
 felt a thousand in her heart urging, ordering, com- 
 pelling her to go. She went up to her own room 
 after dinner, and began to dress, to plait, and to 
 smoothe her pretty curly hair. She put on a 
 white dress, a black lace shawl, and then she 
 found that she had no gloves. Some of her
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 23 
 
 ancient belongings she kept in a drawer, but they 
 were not replaced as they wore out. And Elly 
 possessed diamond rings and bracelets in abun- 
 dance; but neither gloves, nor money to buy them. 
 What did it matter? She did not think about it 
 twice; she put on her shabby bonnet and ran 
 downstairs. She was just going out, when she 
 remembered that Francoise would wonder what 
 had become of her, and so she went to the 
 kitchen-door, opened it a little way, and said, 
 "Good-night, Francoise! don't disturb me to-night, 
 I want to get up early to-morrow." 
 
 Francoise, who had invited a friend to spend 
 the evening, said, "Bon soir, mamzelle!" rather 
 crossly, — she did not like her kitchen invaded 
 at all times and hours, — and then Elly was free 
 to go. 
 
 She did not get out by the window, there was 
 no need for that, but she unfastened it, and 
 unbarred the shutter on the inside, so that, 
 though everything looked much as usual on the 
 outside, she had only to push, and it would fly 
 open.
 
 l 2 \ 1 1 IK STORV OF EXIZABETH. 
 
 As she got to the door, her heart began to 
 beat, and she stopped for an instant to think. In- 
 side, here, where she was standing, was dulness, 
 weariness, security, death; outside, wonderful 
 happiness, dangerous happiness, and life — so it 
 seemed to her. Inside were cocks and hens, and 
 sermons, weary exhortations, old Francoise peeling 
 her onions. Outside, John Dampier waiting, the 
 life she was created for, fresh air, congenial spirits 
 light and brightness, — and heaven there as well as 
 here, thought Elly, clasping her hands; heaven 
 spreading across the housetops as well as over 
 this narrow courtyard. "What shall I do? Oh! 
 shall I be forgiven? Oh! it will be forgiven me, 
 surely, surely!" the girl sighed, and, with trem- 
 bling hands, she undid the latch and went out 
 into the dusky street. 
 
 The little carriole, as Francoise called it, was 
 waiting, a short way down, at the corner of the 
 hospital; and Dampier came to meet her, looking 
 very tall and straight through the twilight. She 
 wondered at his grave, anxious face; but, in truth, 
 he too was exceedingly nervous, though he would
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. I 25 
 
 not let her know it. He was beginning to be afraid 
 for her, and had resolved that he would not take 
 her out again; it might, after all, be unpleasant 
 for them both; he had seen De Vaux, and found 
 out to his annoyance, that he had recognized 
 them in the Louvre the day before, and had 
 passed them by on purpose. There was no know- 
 ing" what trouble he might not get poor Elly into. 
 And, besides, his aunt Jean was on her way to 
 Paris. She had been keeping house for Will 
 Dampier, she wrote, and she was coming. Will 
 was on his way to Switzerland, and she should 
 cross with him. 
 
 That very day John had received a letter 
 from her, in answer to the one he had written 
 about Elly. He had written it three days ago; 
 but he was not the same man he had been three 
 days ago. He was puzzled, and restless, and 
 thoroughly wretched, that was the truth, and he 
 was not used to be unhappy, and he did not like 
 it. Elly's face haunted him day and night; he 
 thought of her continually; he tried, in vain, to 
 forget her, to put her out of his mind. Well, on
 
 126 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 the whole, he was glad that his aunt was coming, 
 and very glad that his mother and Lrctitia were 
 still away, and unconscious of what he was think- 
 ing about. 
 
 "So you did not lose courage?" he said, as 
 they were driving off. "How did you escape 
 Madame Jacob?" 
 
 "I have been all alone," said Elly, "these 
 two days. How I found courage to come I cannot 
 tell you. I don't quite believe that it is I myself 
 who am here. It seems impossible. I don't feel 
 like myself. I have not for some days past. All 
 I know is, that I am certain those horrible long 
 days have come to an end." John Dampier was 
 frightened — he hardly knew why — when he heard 
 her say this. 
 
 "I hope so, most sincerely," said he. "But, 
 after all, Elly, we men and women are rarely 
 contented; and there are plenty of days, more or 
 less tiresome, in store for me and for you, I hope. 
 We must pluck up our courage and go through 
 with them. You are such a sensitive, weak- 
 minded little girl that you will go on breaking
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. I 27 
 
 your heart a dozen times a day to the end of 
 your life." 
 
 Dampier looked very grave as he spoke, though 
 it was too dark for her to see him. He was angry 
 and provoked with himself, and an insane impulse 
 came over him to knock his head violently against 
 the sides of the cab. Insane, do I say? It would 
 have been the very best thing he could have done. 
 But they drove on all the same: Elly in rapture. 
 She was not a bit afraid now. Her spirits were 
 so high and so daring that they would carry her 
 through anything; and when she was with Dam- 
 pier she was content to be happy, and not to 
 trouble herself with vague apprehensions. And 
 she was happy now: her eyes danced with de- 
 light, her heart beat with expectation, she seemed 
 to have become a child again, she was not like a 
 woman any more. 
 
 "Have you not a veil?" said Dampier, as they 
 stopped before the theatre. There was a great 
 light, a crowd of people passing and repassing; 
 other carriages driving up.
 
 IJ8 mi. STORY 01 ELIZABETH. 
 
 "No," said Elly. "What dues it matter? 
 Who will know me?" 
 
 "Well, make haste. Here, take my arm," said 
 Sir John, hurriedly; and he hastily sprang down 
 and helped her out. 
 
 "Look at the new moon," said Elly, looking 
 up smiling. 
 
 "Never mind the new moon. Come, Elly," 
 said Dampier. And so they passed on into the 
 
 theatre. 
 
 Dampier was dreading recognition. He had a 
 feeling that they would be sure to come against 
 some one. Elly feared no one. When the play 
 began she sat entranced, thrilling with interest, 
 carried away. Faast was the piece which they 
 were representing; and as each scene was played 
 before her, as one change after another came over 
 the piece, she was lost more and more in wonder. 
 If she looked up for an instant it was to see John 
 Dampier's familiar face opposite; and then outside 
 the box, with its little curtain, great glittering 
 theatre-lights, crystals reflecting the glitter, gild-
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 12g 
 
 ing, and silken drapery; everywhere hundreds of 
 people, silent, and breathless too, with interest, 
 with excitement. The music plays, the scene 
 shifts and changes, melting into fresh combina- 
 tions. Here is Faust. Listen to him as he laments 
 his wasted life. Of what use is wisdom? What 
 does he care for knowledge? A lonely man with- 
 out one heart to love, one creature to cherish him. 
 Has he not wilfully wasted the best years of his 
 life? he cries, in a passion of rage and indignation 
 — wasted them in the pursuit of arid science, of 
 fruitless learning? Will these tend him in his old 
 age, soothe his last hours, be to him wife, and 
 children, and household, and holy home ties? 
 Will these stand by his bedside, and close his 
 weary, aching eyes, and follow him to his grave 
 in the churchyard? 
 
 Faust's sad complaint went straight to the 
 heart of his hearers. The church bell was ringing 
 up the street. Fathers, mothers, and children, 
 were wending their way obedient to its call. And 
 the poor desolate old man burst into passionate 
 and hopeless lamentation. 
 
 The Sto>y of Elizabeth. 9
 
 130 THE STORY OF El \2 VBETH 
 
 It was -ill so real to Elly that she almost began 
 to cry herself. She was so carried away by the 
 play, by this history of Faust and of Margaret, 
 that it was in vain Dampier begged her to be 
 careful, to sit back in the shade of the curtain, and 
 not to lean forward too eagerly. She would draw 
 back for a minute or two, and then by degrees 
 advance her pretty, breathless head, turning to 
 him every now and then. It was like a dream 
 to her. Like a face in a dream, too, did she 
 presently recognize the face of De Vaux, her 
 former admirer, opposite, in one of the boxes. 
 But Margaret was coming into the chapel with 
 her young companions, and Elly was too much 
 interested to think of what he would think of her. 
 Just at that moment it was Margaret who seemed 
 to her to be the important person in the world. 
 
 De Vaux was of a different opinion; he looked 
 towards them once or twice, and at the end of 
 the second act, Dampier saw him get up and 
 leave his seat. Sir John was provoked and an- 
 noyed beyond measure. He did not want him, 
 De Vaux least of all people in the world. Every
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 131 
 
 moment he felt as he had never felt before — how 
 wrong it was to have brought Elly, whom he was 
 so fond of, into such a situation. For a moment 
 he was undecided, and then he rose, biting his 
 lips, and opened the door of the box, hoping to 
 intercept him; but there was his Mephistopheles, 
 as ill-luck would have it, standing at the door 
 ready to come in. 
 
 "I thought I could not be mistaken," De 
 Vaux began, with a smirk, bowing, and looking 
 significantly from one to the other. "Did you see 
 me in the gallery of the Louvre the other day?" 
 
 Elly blushed up very red, and Dampier 
 muttered an oath as he caught sight of the other 
 man's face. He was smiling very disagreeably. 
 John glanced a second time, hesitated, and then 
 said, suddenly and abruptly, "No, you are not 
 mistaken. This is Miss Gilmour, my fia?icee, M. 
 de Vaux. I dare say you are surprised that I 
 should have brought her to the play. It is the 
 custom in our country." He did not dare look at 
 Elly as he spoke. Had he known what else to 
 say he would have said it. 
 
 9*
 
 I32 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 De Vaux was quite satisfied, and instantly 
 assumed a serious and important manner. The 
 English miss was to him the most extraordinary 
 being in creation, and he would believe anything 
 you liked to tell him of her. He was prepared 
 to sit down in the vacant chair by Elizabeth, and 
 make himself agreeable to her. 
 
 The English miss was scarcely aware of his 
 existence. Faust, Margaret, had been the whole 
 world to her a minute ago. Where was she now? 
 . . . where were they? . . . Was she the actress? 
 and were they the spectators looking on? . . . Was 
 that the Truth which he had spoken? Did he 
 mean it? Was there such wonderful, wonderful 
 happiness in store for a poor little wretch like 
 herself? Ah! could it be — could it be true? 
 Her whole soul shone in her trembling eyes, as 
 she looked up for one instant, and upturned her 
 flashing, speaking, beaming face. Dampier was 
 very pale, and was looking vacantly at the stage. 
 Margaret was weeping, for her troubles had be- 
 gun. Mephistopheles was laughing, and De Vaux 
 chatting on in an agreeable manner, with his hat
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 33 
 
 between his knees. After some time, he discovered 
 that they were not paying attention to one single 
 word he was saying; upon which he rose in an 
 enipresse manner, wished them good-by politely, 
 and went away, very well pleased with his own 
 good breeding. And then, when he was gone, 
 when the door was shut, when they were alone 
 together, there was a silence, and Elly leant her 
 head against the side of the box; she was trem- 
 bling so that she could not sit up. And Dampier, 
 looking white and grey in the face somehow, said, 
 in an odd, harsh voice, 
 
 "Elly, you must not mind what I was obliged 
 to say just now. You see, my dear child, that it 
 doesn't do. I ought never to have brought you, 
 and I could think of no better way to get out of 
 my scrape than to tell him that lie." 
 
 "It was — it was a lie?" repeated Elly, slowly 
 raising herself upright. 
 
 "What could I do?" Sir John continued, very 
 nervously and exceedingly agitated. "Elly, my 
 dear little girl, I could not let him think you were 
 out upon an unauthorized escapade. We all know
 
 I j i [HE STORY 01 ELI ' U'FTIT. 
 
 how it is, but lie does not. You must, you do 
 forgive me — only say you do." 
 
 "And it is not true?" said Elly, once more, in 
 a bewildered, piteous way. 
 
 "I — I belong to Lsetitia. It was settled be- 
 fore we came abroad," faltered Dampier; and he 
 just looked at her once, and then he turned away. 
 And the light was gone out of her face; all the 
 sparkle, the glitter, the amazement of happi- 
 ness. Just as this shining theatre, now full of 
 life, of light, of excitement, would be in a few 
 hours black, ghastly, and void. John Dampier 
 did not dare look at her again — he hesitated, he 
 was picking and choosing the words which should 
 be least cruel, least insulting; and while he was 
 still choking and fumbling, he heard a noise out- 
 side, a whispering, as the door flew open. Elly 
 looked up and gave a little low plaintive cry, and 
 two darkling, frowning men in black coats came 
 into the box. 
 
 They were the Pasteurs Boulot and Tourneur. 
 
 Who cares to witness, who cares to read, who 
 cares to describe scenes such as these? Reproach,
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. I 35 
 
 condemnation, righteous wrath, and indignation, 
 and then one crushed, bewildered, almost despe- 
 rate little heart. 
 
 She was hurried out into the night air. She 
 had time to say good-by, not one other word. He 
 had not stretched out a hand to save her. The 
 play was going on, all the people were sitting in 
 their places, one or two looked up as she passed 
 by the open doors. Then they came out into the 
 street; the stars were all gone, the night was 
 black with clouds, and a heavy rain was pouring 
 down upon the earth. The drops fell wet upon 
 her bare, uncovered head. "Go under shelter," 
 said the Pasteur Boulot; but she paid no heed, 
 and in a minute a cab came up, the two men 
 clasped each other's hands in the peculiar silent 
 way to which they were used. Boulot walked 
 away. And Elly found herself alone, inside the 
 damp vehicle, driving over the stones. Her step- 
 father had got upon the box: he was in a fury of 
 indignation, so that he could not trust himself to 
 be with her. 
 
 His indignation was not what she most feared.
 
 136 CHE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 Another torturing doubt filled her whole heart. 
 Her agony of hopelessness was almost unendur- 
 able: she was chilled through and through, but 
 she did not heed it — and faint, and sick, and 
 wearied, but too unhappy to care. Unhappy is 
 hardly the word — bewilderment, a sort of crushed 
 dull misery, would better describe her state. She 
 felt little remorse: she had done wrong, but not 
 very wrong, she thought. She sat motionless in 
 the corner of the jolting cab, with the rain beating 
 in at the open window, as they travelled through 
 the black night and the splashing streets. 
 
 By what unlucky chance had M. Boulot been 
 returning home along the Boulevards about half- 
 past seven, at the very moment when Elly, jump- 
 ing from the carriage, stopped to look up at the 
 little new moon? He, poor man, could hardly 
 believe his eyes. He did not believe them, and 
 went home wondering, and puzzling, and asking 
 himself if that audacious girl could be so utterly 
 lost as to set her foot in that horrible den of 
 iniquity. Ah! it was impossible; it was some one 
 strangely like her. She could not be so lost —
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 37 
 
 so perverted. But the chances were still against 
 Elly; for when he reached the modest little apart- 
 ment where he lived, his maid-servant told him 
 that M. Tourneur had been there some time, and 
 was waiting to see him. And there in the study, 
 reading by the light of the green lamp, sat 
 Tourneur, with his low-crowned hat lying on the 
 table. He had come up on some business con- 
 nected with an appointment he wanted to obtain 
 for Anthony. His wife was to follow him next 
 day, he said, and then he and Boulot fell to 
 talking over their affairs and Anthony's prospects 
 and chances. 
 
 "Poor Anthony, he has been sorely tried and 
 proved of late," said his father. "Elizabeth will 
 never make him happy." 
 
 "Never — never — never!" cried Boulot. "Eliza- 
 beth! — she! — the last person in the world a pastor 
 ought to think of as a wife ! " 
 
 "If she were more like her mother," sighed 
 Tourneur. 
 
 "Ah! that would be different," said Boulot; 
 "but the girl causes me deep anxiety, my friend.
 
 138 [HE MDi:v 01 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Hers is, I fear, an unconverted spirit. Her heart 
 is of this world; she requires much earnest 
 teaching. Did you take her to Fontainebleau 
 with you?" 
 
 "She would not come," said Tourneur; "she 
 is at home with my sister, Madame Jacob; or 
 rather by herself, for my sister went away a day 
 or two ago." 
 
 "Tourneur, you do not do wisely to leave that 
 girl alone; she is not to be trusted," said the 
 other, suddenly remembering all his former doubts. 
 And so, when Tourneur asked what he meant, he 
 told him what he had seen. The mere suspicion 
 was a blow for our simple-minded pasteur. He 
 loved Elly; with all her waywardness, there was 
 a look in her eyes which nobody could resist. In 
 his heart of hearts he liked her better for a 
 daughter-in-law than any one of the decorous 
 young women who were in the habit of coming 
 to be catechized by him. But to think that she 
 had deceived him, to think that she had forgotten 
 herself so far, forgotten his teaching, his wishes, 
 his firm convictions, sinned so outrageously! Ah,
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 39 
 
 it was too much; it was impossible, it was un- 
 pardonable. He fired up, and in an agitated 
 voice said that it could not be; that he knew 
 her to be incapable of such horrible conduct, and 
 then seizing his hat, he rushed downstairs and 
 called a carriage which happened to be pass- 
 ing by. 
 
 "Where are you going?" asked Boulot, who 
 had followed him, somewhat alarmed. 
 
 "I am going home, to see that she is there. 
 Safe in her room, and sheltered under her 
 parents' roof, I humbly pray. Far away from 
 the snares, and dangers, and temptations of the 
 world." 
 
 Alas! poor Elly was not at home, peacefully 
 resting or reading by the lamplight. Francoise, to 
 be sure, told them she was in bed, and Tourneur 
 went hopefully to her door and knocked — 
 
 "Elly," he cried, "mon enfant! etes-vous la, 
 ma fille? Repondez, Elizabeth!" and he shook 
 the door in his agitation. 
 
 Old Francoise was standing by, holding the 
 candle, Boulot was leaning against the wall. But
 
 I4O THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 there came no answer. The silence struck chill. 
 Tourneur's face was very pale, his lips were 
 drawn, and his eyes gleamed as he raised his 
 head. He went away for a minute and came 
 back with a little tool; it did not take long to 
 force back the lock — the door flew open, and 
 there was the empty room all in disorder! In 
 silence truly, but emptiness is not peace always, 
 silence is not tranquillity; a horrible dread and 
 terror came over poor Tourneur; Franchise's hand, 
 holding the light, began to tremble guiltily. 
 Boulot was dreadfully shocked — 
 
 "My poor friend! my poor friend!" he began. 
 
 Tourneur put his hand to his head — 
 
 "How has this come to pass — am I to blame?" 
 said he. "Oh! unhappy girl, what has she done? 
 — how has she brought this disgrace upon us?" 
 and he fell on his knees by the bedside, and 
 buried his head in the clothes — kneeling there 
 praying for Elly where she had often knelt and 
 poured out all her sad heart 
 
 Elly, at that minute — sitting in the little box, 
 wondering, delighted, thrilling with interest, with
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. I4I 
 
 pleasure — did not guess what a strange scene 
 was taking place in her own room at home; she 
 did not once think of what trouble, what grief, 
 she was causing to others, and to herself, poor 
 child, most of all. Only a few minutes more — 
 all the music would cease abruptly for her; all 
 the lights go out; all the sweetness turn to gall 
 and to bitterness. Nearer and nearer comes the 
 sad hour, the cruel awakening; dream on still for 
 a few happy minutes, poor Elly! — nearer and 
 nearer come these two angry silent men, in their 
 black, sombre clothes — nearer and nearer the 
 cruel spoken word which will chill, crush, and 
 destroy. Elizabeth's dreams lasted a little longer, 
 and then she awoke at last.
 
 K|2 mi' fOR> 01 EL] 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Not a (lower, not a flower sweet, 
 
 On my black coffin let there be strown; 
 Not a friend, not a friend greet 
 
 My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown. 
 A thousand, thousand sighs to save, 
 
 Lay me, oh! where 
 Sad true lover never find my grave, 
 
 To weep there. 
 
 It was on the evening of the Monday after 
 that Miss Dampier arrived in Paris, with her 
 bonnet-box, her knitting, her carpet-bag. She 
 drove to Meurice's, and hired a room, and then 
 she asked the servants there who knew him 
 whether Sir John Dampier was still staying in 
 the house. They said he had left the place some 
 time before, but that he had called twice that 
 day to ask if she had arrived. And then Miss 
 Dampier, who always liked to make herself com- 
 fortable and at home, went up to her room, had 
 the window opened, light brought, and ordered 
 some tea. She was sitting at the table in her
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 43 
 
 cap, in her comfortable black gown, with her 
 knitting, her writing-desk, her books, all set out 
 about the room. She was pouring out tea for her- 
 self, and looking as much at home as if she had 
 lived there for months, when the door opened, 
 and her nephew walked in. She was delighted 
 to see him. 
 
 "My dear Jack, how good of you to come," 
 said the old lady, looking up at him, and holding 
 out her hand. "But you don't look well. You 
 have been sitting up late and racketting. Will 
 you have some tea to refresh you? I will treat 
 you to anything you like." 
 
 "Ah, don't make jokes," said Dampier. "I 
 am very unhappy. Look here, I have got into the 
 most horrible scrape; and not myself only." And 
 the room shook, and the tea-table rattled, as he 
 went pacing up and down the room with heavy 
 footsteps. "I want to behave like a gentleman, 
 and I wake up one morning and find myself a 
 scoundrel. Do you see?" 
 
 "Tell me about it, my dear," said Miss 
 Dampier, quietly.
 
 144 THE ST RY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 And then poor John burst out and told all his 
 story, confounding himself, and stamping, flinging 
 himself about into one chair after another. "I 
 meant no harm," he said. "I wanted to give her 
 a little pleasure, and this is the end. I think I 
 have broken her heart, and those pasteurs have 
 murdered her by this time. They won't let me 
 see her; Tourneur almost ordered me out of the 
 house. Aunt Jean, do say something; do have 
 an opinion." 
 
 "I wish your cousin was here," said Miss 
 Dampier; "he is the parson of the family, and 
 bound to give us all good advice; let me write to 
 him, Jack. I have a certain reliance on Will's 
 good sense." 
 
 "I won't have Will interfering with my affairs," 
 cried the other, testily. "And you — you will not 
 help me, I see?" 
 
 "I will go and see Elizabeth," said Miss 
 Dampier, "to-night, if you like. I am very, very 
 sorry for her, and for you too, John. What more 
 can I say? Come again in an hour, and I will 
 tell you what I think."
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 45 
 
 So Miss Dampier was as good as her word, and 
 set off on her pilgrimage, and drove along the 
 lighted streets, and then past the cab-stand and 
 the hospital to the house with the shuttered 
 windows. Her own heart was very sad as she got 
 out of the carriage and rang at the bell. But 
 looking up by chance, she just saw a gleam of 
 light which came from one of the upper windows 
 and played upon the wall. She took this as a 
 good omen, and said to herself that all would be 
 well. Do you believe in omens? The light 
 came from a room where Elly was lying asleep, 
 and dreaming gently, — calm, satisfied, happy for 
 once, heedless of the troubles, and turmoils, and 
 anxieties of the waking people all round about 
 her. She looked very pale, her hands were 
 loosely clasped, the light was in the window, 
 flickering; and meanwhile, beneath the window, 
 in the street, Miss Dampier stood waiting under 
 the stars. She did not know that Elly saw her 
 in her dim dreams, and somehow fancied that she 
 was near. 
 
 The Slory of Elizabeth. IO
 
 I46 1 1 IK STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 The door opened at last. How black the 
 
 courtyard looked behind it! "What do you 
 
 want?" said Clementine, in a hiss. "Who is 
 it?" 
 
 "I want to know how Miss Gilmour is?" said 
 Miss Dampier, quite humbly, "and to see Monsieur 
 or Madame Tourneur." 
 
 "Vous etes Madame Dampierre," said Cle- 
 mentine. "Madame est occupee. Elle ne recoit 
 pas." 
 
 "When will she be disengaged," said the old 
 lady. 
 
 "Ma foil" said Clementine, shrugging her 
 shoulders, "that I cannot tell you. She has de- 
 sired me to say that she does not wish to see 
 anybody." And the door was shut with a bang. 
 Elly woke up, startled from her sleep; and old 
 Francoise, happening to come into the room, car- 
 ried the candle away. 
 
 Miss Dampier went home very sad and 
 alarmed, she scarcely knew why. She wrote 
 a tender little letter to Elly next day. It was: —
 
 the story of elizabeth. i 47 
 
 "Dear Child, 
 "You must let me come and see you. We 
 are very unhappy, John and I, to think that his 
 imprudence has caused you such trouble. He 
 does not know how to beg you to forgive him — 
 you and M. Tourneur and your mother. He 
 should have known better; he has been unpardon- 
 ably thoughtless, but he is nearly broken-hearted 
 about it. He has been engaged to Lsetitia for 
 three or four months, and you know how long 
 she has loved him. Dearest Elly, you must let 
 me come and see you, and perhaps one day you 
 may be trusted to the care of an old woman, and 
 you will come home with me for a time, and 
 brighten my lonely little house. Your affectionate 
 old friend, 
 
 "Jean Dampier." 
 
 But to this there came no answer. Miss 
 
 Dampier went again and could not get in. She 
 
 wrote to Madame Tourneur, who. sent back the 
 
 letter unopened. John Dampier walked about 
 
 pale and haggard, and remorseful. 
 
 10*
 
 I48 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 One evening he and his aunt were dining 
 in the public room of the hotel, and talking 
 over this affair, when the waiter came and told 
 them that a gentleman wanted to speak to Miss 
 Dampier, and the old lady got up and went out 
 of the room. She came back in an instant, look- 
 ing very agitated. "John!" she said — "oh, 
 John!" and then began to cry. She could not 
 speak for a minute, while he, quite frightened for 
 his part, hastily went to the door. A tall young 
 man was standing there, wrapped in a loose coat, 
 who looked into his face and said — 
 
 "Are you Sir John Dampier? My sister 
 Elizabeth would like to see you again. I have 
 come for you." 
 
 "Your sister Elizabeth!" said Dampier, look- 
 ing surprised. 
 
 The other man's face changed as he spoke 
 again. "I am Anthony Tourneur; I have come 
 to fetch you, because it is her wish, and she is 
 dying, we fear." 
 
 The two men stood looking at one another for 
 one horrible moment, then Dampier slowly turned
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 49 
 
 his face round to the wall. In that one instant, 
 all that cruel weight which had almost crushed 
 poor Elly to death came and fell upon his broad 
 shoulders, better able, in truth, to bear it, than 
 she had ever been. 
 
 He looked up at last. "Have I done this?" 
 said he to Tourneur, in a sort of hoarse whisper. 
 "I meant for the best." 
 
 "I don't know what you have done," said the 
 other, very sadly. "Life and death are not in 
 your hands or mine. Let us pray that our mistakes 
 may be forgiven us. Are you ready now?" 
 
 Elly's visions had come to an end. The hour 
 seemed to be very near when she should awake 
 from the dream of life. Dim figures of her 
 mother, her step-father, of old Francoise, came 
 and stood by her bedside. But how far-off they 
 appeared; how distant their voices sounded. Old 
 Francoise came into her room the morning after 
 Elly had been brought home, with some message 
 from Tourneur, desiring her to come downstairs 
 and speak to him: he had been lying awake all 
 night, thinking what he should say to her, praying
 
 150 mi" STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 for her, imploring grace, so that he should be al- 
 lowed to touch the rebellious spirit, to point out all 
 its errors, to bring it to the light. And, meanwhile, 
 Elly, the rebellious spirit, sat by her bedside in a 
 sort of bewildered misery. She scarcely told 
 herself why she was so unhappy. She wondered 
 a little that there was agony so great to be en- 
 dured; she had never conceived its existence 
 before. Was he gone for ever — was it Lsetitia 
 whom he cared for? "You know that I belong 
 to Lsetitia," he had said. How could it be? all 
 heaven and earth would cry out against it. 
 Lastitia's — Lsetitia who cared so little, who was 
 so pale, and so cold, and so indifferent? How 
 could he speak such cruel words? Oh, shame, 
 shame! that she should be so made to suffer. "A 
 poor little thing like me," said Elly, "lonely and 
 friendless and heart-broken." The pang was so 
 sharp that it seemed to her like physical pain, 
 and she moaned, and winced, and shivered under 
 it — was it she herself or another person that 
 was here in the darkness? She was cold too, 
 and yet burning with thirst; she groped her way
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 151 
 
 to the jug, and poured out a little water, and 
 drank with eager gulps. Then she began to take 
 off her damp clothes; but it tired her, and she 
 forgot to go on; she dropped her cloak upon the 
 floor and flung herself upon the bed, with a pas- 
 sionate outcry. Her mouth was dry and parched, 
 her throat was burning, her hands were burning 
 too. In the darkness she seemed to see his face, 
 and La^titia's glaring at her, and she turned sick 
 and giddy at the sight; presently, not theirs only, 
 but a hundred others — Tourneur's, Boulot's, 
 Faust's, and Mephistopheles' — crowding upon her 
 and glaring furiously. She fell into a short, 
 uneasy sleep once, and woke up with a moan as 
 the hospital clock struck three. The moon was 
 shining into her room, ineffably grey, chill, and 
 silent, and as she woke, a horror, a terror, came 
 over her — her heart scarcely beat; she seemed 
 to be sinking and dying away. She thought 
 with a thrill that her last hour was come; the 
 terror seemed to bear down upon her, nearer and 
 closer and irresistible — and then she must have 
 fallen back senseless upon her bed. And so when
 
 152 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 Francoise came with a message in the morning, 
 which was intended to frighten the rebellious 
 spirit into submission, she found it gone, safe, far 
 away from reproach, from angry chiding, and the 
 poor little body lying lifeless, burnt with fierce 
 fever, and racked with dull pain. All that day 
 Elly was scarcely sensible, lying in a sort of 
 stupor. Francoise, with tender hands, undressed 
 her and laid her within the sheets; Tourneur 
 came and stood by the poor child's bedside. 
 He had brought a doctor, who was bending 
 over her. 
 
 "It is a sort of nervous fever," said the doctor, 
 "and I fear that there is some inward inflamma- 
 tion as well; she is very ill. This must have been 
 impending for some time past." 
 
 Tourneur stood, with clasped hands and a 
 heavy heart, watching the changes as they passed 
 over the poor little face. Who was to blame in 
 this? He had not spoken one word to her the 
 night before. Was it grief? was it repentance? 
 Ah me! Elly was dumb now, and could not an- 
 swer. All his wrath was turned against Dampier;
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 53 
 
 for Elly he only felt the tenderest concern. But 
 he was too unhappy just now to think of his 
 anger. He went for Madame Tourneur, who came 
 back and set to work to nurse her daughter; but 
 she was frightened and agitated, and seemed 
 scarcely to know what she was about. On the 
 morning of the second day, contrary to the doctor's 
 expectations, Elly recovered her consciousness; on 
 the third day she was better. And when Tourneur 
 came into the room, she said to him, with one of 
 her old pretty, sad smiles, "You are very angry 
 with me, are you not? You think I ought not to 
 have gone to the play with John Dampier?" 
 
 "Ah, my child," said Tourneur, with a long- 
 drawn, shivering sigh, "I am too anxious to be 
 angry." 
 
 "Did he promise to marry you, Elly?" said 
 Madame Tourneur, who was sitting by her bedside. 
 She was looking so eagerly for an answer that she 
 did not see her husband's look of reproach. 
 
 "How could he?" said Elly, simply. "He is 
 going to marry Lsetitia." 
 
 "Tell me, my child," said Tourneur, gently
 
 154 TIIE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 taking her hand, "how often did you go with 
 him?" 
 
 "Three times," Elly answered, faintly. "Once 
 to the Bois, and once to the Louvre, and then 
 that last time," and she gasped for breath. Tour- 
 neur did not answer, but bent down gently, and 
 kissed her forehead. 
 
 It was on that very day that Dampier called. 
 Elly seemed somehow to know that he was in the 
 house. She got excited, and began to wander, 
 and to call him by his name. Tourneur heard 
 her, and turned pale, and set his teeth as he went 
 down to speak to Sir John. In the evening the 
 girl was better, and Anthony arrived from the 
 south. And I think it was on the fifth day that 
 Elly told Anthony that she wanted to see Dam- 
 pier once again. 
 
 "You can guess how it has been," she said, 
 "and I love him still, but not as I did. Anthony, 
 is it not strange? Perhaps one is selfish when 
 one is dying. But I want to see him — just 
 once again. Everything is so changed. I cannot 
 understand why I have been so unhappy all this
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. I 55 
 
 time. Anthony, I have wasted all my life; I have 
 made nobody happy — not even you." 
 
 "You have made me love you, and that has 
 been my happiness," said Anthony. "I have been 
 very unhappy too; but I thank heaven for having 
 known you, Elly." 
 
 Elly thought that she had but a little time 
 left. What was there in the solemn nearness of 
 death that had changed her so greatly? She had 
 no terror: she was ready to lie down and go to 
 sleep like a tired child in its mother's arms. 
 Worldly! we call some folks worldly, and truly 
 they have lived for to-day and cared for to-day; 
 but for them, as for us, the great to-morrow 
 comes, and then they cease to be worldly — is it 
 not so? Who shall say that such and such a life 
 is wasted, is purposeless? that such and such 
 minds are narrow, are mean, are earthly? The 
 day comes, dawning freshly and stilly, like any 
 other day in the year, when the secret of their 
 life is ended, and the great sanctification of Death 
 is theirs. 
 
 Boulot came to see Tourneur, over whom lie
 
 156 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 had great influence, and insisted upon being 
 shown to Elizabeth's bedside. She put out her 
 hand and said, "How-d'ye-do, Monsieur Boulot?" 
 very sweetly, but when he had talked to her for 
 some little time, she stopped him and said, — 
 "You cannot know how near these things seem, 
 and how much more great, and awful, and real 
 they are, when you are lying here like me, than 
 when you are standing by another person's sick 
 bed. Nobody can speak of them to me as they 
 themselves speak to me." She said it so simply, 
 with so little intention of offence, that Boulot 
 stopped in the midst of his little sermon, and said 
 farewell quite kindly and gently. And then, not 
 long after he was gone, Anthony came back with 
 the Dampiers. 
 
 They walked up the wooden stairs with hearts 
 that ached sorely enough. Miss Dampier was 
 calm and composed again; she had stood by many 
 a death-bed — she was expecting to go herself be- 
 fore very long — but John was quite unnerved. 
 Little Elly, whom he had pitied, and looked 
 down upon, and patronized, was she to be to him
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 57 
 
 from this minute a terror, a life-long regret and 
 remorse? — he could hardly summon courage to 
 walk into the room when the door was opened 
 and Anthony silently motioned him to pass 
 through it. 
 
 And yet there was nothing very dreadful. A 
 pale, sweet face lying on the little white bed; 
 the gentle eyes, whose look he knew so well, 
 turned expectantly towards him; a cup with some 
 flowers; a little water in a glass by the bedside; 
 an open window; the sun setting behind the poplar- 
 trees. 
 
 Old Francoise was sitting in the window, 
 sewing; the birds were twittering outside. John 
 Dampier thought it strange that death should 
 come in this familiar guise — tranquilly, with the 
 sunset, the rustling leaves of the trees, the scent 
 of the geraniums in the court below, the cackle 
 of the hens, the stitching of a needle — he almost 
 envied Elly, lying resting at the end of her 
 journey: Elly, no longer the silly little girl he 
 had laughed at, chided, and played with — she 
 was wise now, in his eyes.
 
 158 THF. STORV til ELIZ \r.K'in. 
 
 She could not talk much, but what she said 
 was in her own voice and in her old manner, — 
 "You kind people, to come and see me," she said, 
 and beckoned to them to approach nearer. 
 
 Miss Dampier gave her nephew a warning 
 touch, she saw how agitated he was, and was 
 afraid that he would disturb Elizabeth. But what 
 would he not have done for her? He controlled 
 himself, and spoke quietly, in a low voice — 
 
 "I am very grateful to you, dear Elly, for 
 sending for me. I was longing to hear about 
 you. I want to ask you to forgive me for the 
 ill I have done you. I want to tell you just 
 once that I meant no harm, only it was such a 
 pleasure to myself that I persuaded myself it 
 was right. I know you will forgive me. All my 
 life I will bless you." And his head fell as he 
 spoke. 
 
 "What have I to forgive?" faltered Elly. "It 
 seems so long ago! — Faust and Margaret, and 
 those pleasant drives. Am I to forgive you be- 
 cause I loved you? That was a sort of madness; 
 but it is gone. I love you still, dear John, but
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 59 
 
 differently. I am not mad now, but in my 
 senses. If I get well, how changed it will be— 
 if I die " 
 
 If she died? Dampier, hating himself all the 
 while, thought, with a chill pang, that here would 
 be a horrible solution to all his perplexities. Per- 
 haps Elly guessed something of what was passing 
 in his mind, for she gave him her hand once 
 more, and faltered, — 
 
 "My love to Lsetitia," and, as she spoke, she 
 raised her eyes, with the old familiar look in 
 them. 
 
 It was more than he could bear; he stooped 
 and kissed her frail, burning fingers, and then, 
 with scorched, quivering lips, turned aside and 
 went softly out of the room. Anthony and 
 Madame Tourneur were standing outside, and as 
 Dampier passed she looked at him piteously, and 
 her lips trembled too, but she did not speak. It 
 seemed to him somehow — only he was thinking 
 of other things — as if Elly's good and bad angels 
 were waiting there. He himself passed on with a 
 hanging head; what could he say to justify him-
 
 l6o Tim STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 self? — his sorrow was too real to be measured 
 out into words, his penitence greater almost than 
 the offence had been. Even Tourneur, whom he 
 met in the courtyard, almost forgave him as he 
 glanced at the stricken face that was passing out 
 of his house into the street. 
 
 After he was gone, Elly began to wander. 
 Francoise, who had never taken such a bad view 
 of Elly's condition as the others, and who strongly 
 disapproved of all this leave-taking, told Miss 
 Dampier that if they wanted to kill her outright, 
 they need only let in all Paris to stare at her, as 
 they had been doing for the last two days; and 
 Miss Dampier, meekly taking the hint, rose in 
 her turn to go. But Elly, from her bed, knew 
 that she was about to leave her, and cried out 
 piteously, and stretched out her hands, and 
 clutched at her gown. 
 
 "Faut rester," whispered Francoise. 
 
 "I mean to stay," said Miss Dampier, after a 
 moment's deliberation, sitting down at the beside 
 and untying her bonnet.
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. l6l 
 
 Under her bonnet she wore a little prim cap, 
 with loops of grey ribbon; out of her pocket she 
 pulled her knitting and a pair of mittens. She 
 folded up her mantlet and put it away; she 
 signed to Francoise to leave her in charge. When 
 Tourneur came in he found her installed, and as 
 much at home as if she were there by rights. 
 Elly wished it, she told him, and she would stay 
 were ten pasteurs opposed to it. 
 
 Tourneur reluctantly consented at last, much 
 against his will. It seemed to him that her 
 mother ought to be Elly's best nurse, but Ma- 
 dame Tourneur eagerly implored him to let Miss 
 Dampier remain; she seemed strangely scared 
 and helpless, and changed and odd. "Oh, if you 
 will only make her well!" said she to the old 
 Scotchwoman. 
 
 "How can I make her well?" Miss Dampier 
 answered. "I will try and keep her quiet, that 
 is the chief thing; and if M. Tourneur will let 
 me, I should like to send for my old friend, Dr. 
 Bertin." 
 
 And her persistency overcame Tourneur's be- 
 
 The Story of Elizabeth . I I
 
 1 62 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 wildered objections; her quiet good sense and 
 determination carried the day. Doctor Bertin 
 came, and the first doctor went off in a huff, and 
 Elly lay tossing on her bed. What a weary rack 
 it was to her, that little white bed. There she 
 lay, scorched and burning — consumed by a fierce 
 fire. There she lay through the long days and 
 the nights, as they followed one by one, waiting 
 to know the end. Not one of them dared think 
 what that end might be. Doctor Bertin himself 
 could not tell how this queer illness might turn; 
 such fevers were sometimes caused by mental dis- 
 quietude, he said. Of infection there was no fear; 
 he came day after day, and stood pitifully by the 
 bedside. He had seen her once before in her 
 brilliance and health; he had never cared for her 
 as he did now that she was lying prostrate and 
 helpless in their hands. 
 
 Madame Jacob had carried off her children at 
 the first alarm of fever; the house was kept 
 darkened and cool and quiet; and patient Miss 
 Dampier sat waiting in the big chair for good or 
 for ill fortune. Sometimes of an evening she
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 63 
 
 i 
 
 would creep downstairs and meet her nephew in 
 the street outside and bring him news. 
 
 And besides John, there was poor Anthony 
 
 I wandering about the house, wretched, anxious, 
 
 and yet resigned. Often, as a boy, he had feared 
 
 death; the stern tenets to which he belonged 
 
 I made him subject to its terrors, but now it seemed 
 
 J to him so simple a thing to die, that he wondered 
 
 at his own past fears. Elly thought it a simple 
 
 thing to die, but of this fever she was weary — 
 
 of this cruel pain and thirst and misery; she 
 
 would moan a little, utter a few complaining 
 
 .... 
 
 words, and wander off into delirium again. She 
 
 ! 
 
 had been worse than usual one evening, the fever 
 
 higher. It was a bad account that Miss Dampier 
 
 | had to give to the doctor when he came, to the 
 
 ' anxious people waiting for news. All night long 
 
 I Elly's kind nurse sat patiently in the big arm- 
 
 1 chair, knitting, as was her way, or sometimes 
 
 ji letting the needles fall into her lap, and sitting 
 
 I still with clasped hands and a wistful heart. The 
 
 1 clocks of the city struck the dark hours as they 
 
 passed — were these Elly's last upon earth? Jane 
 
 11*
 
 164 TIF. STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 Dampicr sadly wondered. The stars set behind 
 the poplar-trees, a night breeze came shivering 
 now and then through the open window. The 
 night did not appear so very long; it seemed 
 hastening by, dark and silent, relentless to the 
 wearied nurse; for presently, before she knew it 
 almost, it seemed as if the dawn had begun; and 
 somehow, as she was watching still, she fell asleep 
 for a little. While she slept the shadows began 
 to tremble and fade, and fly hither and thither in 
 the death-like silence of the early morning, and 
 when she awoke it was with a start and a chill 
 terror, coming, she knew not whence. She saw 
 that the room was grey, and black no longer. 
 Her heart began to beat, and with a terrified 
 glance she looked round at the bed where Elly 
 was lying. 
 
 She looked once, and then again, and then 
 suddenly her trembling hands were clasped in 
 humblest thanksgiving, and the grey head bent 
 lower and lower. 
 
 There was nothing to fear any more. Elly was 
 sleeping quietly on her pillow, the fiery spots had
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 65 
 
 faded out of her cheeks, her skin looked fresh 
 and moist, the fever had left her. Death had not 
 yet laid his cold hand on the poor little prey, 
 he had not come while the nurse was sleeping — 
 he had not called her as yet. I speak in this 
 way from long habit and foolishness. For in 
 truth, had he come, would it have been so sad, 
 would it have been so hard a fate — would it 
 have been death with his skeleton's head, and his 
 theatrical grave-clothes, and his scythe, and his 
 hour-glass? Would it have been this, or simply 
 the great law of Nature working peacefully in its 
 course — only the seed falling into the ground, 
 only the decree of that same merciful Power 
 which sent us into the world? — us men and 
 women, who are glad to exist, and grateful for 
 our own creation, into a world where we love to 
 tarry for a while? 
 
 Jean Dampier, sitting there in the dawning, 
 thought something of all this, and yet how could 
 she help acknowledging the mercy which spared 
 her and hers the pang of having fatally injured 
 this poor little Elly, whom she had learnt to love
 
 1 66 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 with all her tender old heart? It seemed a de- 
 liverance, a blessing a hundred times beyond 
 their deserts. 
 
 She had been prepared for the worst, and yet 
 she had shrunk with terror from the chastisement. 
 Now, in this first moment of relief — now that, 
 after all, Elly was, perhaps, given back to them, 
 to youth, to life — she felt as if she could have 
 borne the blow better than she had ever dared 
 to hope. The sun rose, the birds chirped freshly 
 among the branches, the chill morning spread 
 over the city. Sleepers began to stir, and to 
 awake to their daily cares, to their busy life. 
 Elizabeth's life, too, began anew from this 
 hour. 
 
 Some one said to me just now that we can 
 best make others happy by the mere fact of our 
 own existence; as she got well day by day, Elly 
 found that it was so. How had she deserved 
 so much of those about her? she often wondered 
 to herself. A hindrance, a trouble, a vexation to 
 them, was all she had ever been; and yet as 
 one by one they came to greet her, she felt that
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. I 67 
 
 they were glad. Anthony's eyes were full of 
 tears; Tourneur closed his for an instant, as he 
 uttered a silent thanksgiving — she herself did not 
 know how to thank them all. 
 
 And here, perhaps, my story ought to end, but 
 in truth it is not finished, though I should cease 
 to write it down, and it goes on and on as the 
 years go by.
 
 I 68 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Move eastward, happy earth, and leave 
 
 Yon orange sunset, waning slow 
 From fringes of the faded eve. 
 
 O happy planet, eastward go, 
 
 Till over thy dark shoulder glow 
 Thy silver sister-world, and rise 
 To glass herself in dewy eyes, 
 
 That watch me from the glen below. 
 
 And so she had left all behind, Elizabeth 
 thought. Paris, the old house, mother, step-father, 
 and pasteur, the courtyard, the familiar wearisome 
 life, the dull days breaking one by one, John 
 Dampier, her hopeless hopes, and her foolish 
 fancies — she had left them all on the other side 
 of the sea for a time, and come away with kind 
 Miss Dampier. 
 
 Here, in England, whither her good friend 
 had brought her to get well, the air is damp with 
 sea breezes; the atmosphere is not keen and ex- 
 citing as it is abroad; the sky is more often gray 
 than blue; it rarely dazzles and bewilders you
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 69 
 
 with its brilliance; there is humidity and vegeta- 
 tion, a certain placidity and denseness, and 
 moisture of which some people complain. To 
 Elizabeth — nervous, eager, excitable — this quiet 
 green country, these autumn mists, were new life. 
 Day by day she gained strength, and flesh, and 
 tone, and health, and good spirits. 
 
 But it was only by slow degrees that this 
 good change was effected; weaknesses, faintnesses, 
 relapses, — who does not know the wearisome 
 course of a long convalescence? 
 
 To-night, though she is by way of being a 
 strong woman again, she feels as if she was a 
 very very old one, somehow, as she sits at the 
 window of a great hotel looking out at the sunset. 
 It seems to her as if it was never to rise again. 
 There it goes sinking, glorying over the sea, 
 blazing yellow in the west. The place grows 
 dark; in the next room through the open door 
 her white bed gleams chilly; she shudders as she 
 looks at it, and thinks of the death-bed from 
 which she has scarce risen. There are hours, 
 especially when people are still weak and ex-
 
 I JO THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 hausted by sickness, when life seems unbearable, 
 when death appears terrible, and when the spirit 
 is so weary that it seems as if no sleep could be 
 deep enough to give it rest. "When I am dead," 
 thought Elizabeth; "ah me! my body will be at 
 rest, but I myself, shall I have forgotten — do I 
 want to forget . . . .?" 
 
 Meanwhile Miss Dampier, wrapped in her gray 
 cloak, is taking a brisk solitary little walk upon 
 the wooden pier which Elly sees reflected black 
 against the sea. Aunt Jean is serenely happy 
 about her charge; delighted to have carried her 
 off against all opposition; determined that some- 
 how or other she shall never go back; that she 
 shall be made happy one day. 
 
 It is late in the autumn. Tourists are flock- 
 ing home; a little procession of battered ladies 
 and gentlemen carrying all sorts of bundles, and 
 bags, and parcels, disembarks every day; and then 
 another procession of ladies and gentlemen goes 
 to see them land. Any moment you may chance 
 to encounter some wan sea-sick friend staggering 
 along with the rest of the sufferers, who are more
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. I 7 I 
 
 or less other people's friends. The waves wash 
 up and down, painted yellow by the sunset. There 
 is no wind, but it has been blowing hard for a 
 day or two, and the sea is not yet calm. How 
 pleasant it is, Miss Dampier thinks; chill, fresh, 
 wholesome. This good air is the very thing for 
 Elly. Along the cliffs the old lady can see the 
 people walking against the sky like little specks. 
 There are plenty of fishing-boats out and about. 
 There is the west still blazing yellow, and then 
 a long gray bank of clouds; and with a hiss and 
 a shrill clamour here comes the tossing, dark- 
 shadowed steamer across the black and golden 
 water. All the passengers are crowding on 
 deck and feebly gathering their belongings to- 
 gether; here the Frederick William comes close 
 alongside, and as everybody else rushes along 
 the pier to inspect the new comers, good old 
 Jean trots off too to see what is what. In a 
 few minutes the passengers appear, slowly rising 
 through a trap like the ghost in the Corsican 
 Brothers, 
 
 First, a lilac gentleman, then a mouldy green
 
 172 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 gentleman (evidently a foreigner), then an orange 
 lady. 
 
 Then a ghostly blue gentleman, then a deadly 
 white lady, then a pale lemon-coloured gentleman, 
 with a red nose. 
 
 Then a stout lady, black in the face, then a 
 faltering lady's-maid, with a band-box. 
 
 Then a gentleman with an umbrella. 
 
 Jean Dampier is in luck to-night, as, indeed, 
 she deserves to be: a more kindly, tender-hearted, 
 unselfish old woman does not exist — if that is 
 a reason for being lucky — however, she has 
 been my good friend for many a long year, and 
 it is not to-day that I am going to begin to pay 
 her compliments. 
 
 I was saying she is in luck, and she finds 
 a nephew among the passengers — it is the gen- 
 tleman with the umbrella; and there they are, 
 greeting one another in the most affectionate 
 manner. 
 
 The Nephew. — "Let me get my portmanteau, 
 and then I will come and talk to you as much as 
 you like,"
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 73 
 
 The Antit. — "Never mind your portmanteau, 
 the porter will look after it. Where have you 
 been, Will? Where do you come from? I am at 
 the 'Flag Hotel/ close by." 
 The Nephew.— "So I hear." 
 The Aunt.— "Who told you that?" 
 The Nephew. — "A sour- faced woman at Paris. 
 I asked for you at Meurice's, and they sent me 
 to this Madame Tourneur. She told me all about 
 you. What business is it of yours to go about 
 nursing mad girls?" 
 
 Aunt Jean. — "Elly is not mad. You have 
 heard me talk of her a hundred times. I do be- 
 lieve I saved her life, Will; it was my business, 
 if anybody's, to care for her. Her heart was 
 nearly broken." 
 
 The Nephew. — "John nearly broke her heart, 
 did he? I don't believe a word of it" (smiling 
 very sweetly). "You are always running away 
 with one idea after another, you silly old woman. 
 Young ladies' hearts are made of india-rubber, 
 and Lady Dampier says this one is an artful — 
 designing- — horrible — abominable "
 
 174 inE STORY 0F ELIZABETH. 
 
 Aunt Jean (sadly). — "Elly nearly died, that 
 is all. You are like all men, Will " 
 
 The Nephew (interrupting). — "Don't! Con- 
 sider, I'm just out of the hands of the steward. 
 Let me have something to eat before we enter 
 into any sentimental discussion. Here (to a 
 porter), bring my portmanteau to the hotel. — 
 Nonsense (to a flyman), what should I do with 
 your carriage?" 
 
 Will Dampier was a member of the Alpine 
 Club, and went year by year to scramble his 
 holiday away up and down mountain sides. He 
 was a clergyman, comfortably installed in a family 
 living. He was something like his cousin in 
 appearance, but, to my mind, better looking, 
 browner, broader, with bright blue eyes and a 
 charming smile. He looked like a gentleman. 
 He wore a clerical waistcoat. He had been very 
 much complimented upon his good sense; and 
 he liked giving advice, and took pains about it, 
 as he was anxious not to lose his reputation. 
 Now and then, however, he did foolish things, 
 but he did them sensibly, which is a very dif-
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. I 75 
 
 ferent thing from doing sensible things foolishly. 
 It seems to me that is just the difference between 
 men and women. 
 
 Will was Miss Dampier's ideal of what a 
 nephew should be. They walked back to the 
 hotel together, chattering away very comfortably. 
 He went into the coffee-room and ordered his 
 dinner, and then he came back to his aunt who 
 was walking on the lawn outside. Meanwhile the 
 sun went on setting, the windows lighted up one 
 by one. It was that comfortable hour when 
 people sit down in little friendly groups and 
 break bread, and take their ease, the business of 
 the day being over. Will Dampier and his aunt 
 took one or two turns along the gravel path facing 
 the sea; he had twenty minutes to wait, and he 
 thought they might be well employed in giving 
 good counsel. 
 
 "It seems to me a very wild scheme of yours, 
 carrying off this unruly young woman," he began ; 
 "she will have to go home sooner or later. What 
 good will you have done?" 
 
 "I don't know, I'm sure," says Miss Dampier,
 
 I76 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 meekly; "a holiday is good for us at all times. 
 Haven't you enjoyed yours, Will?" 
 
 "I should rather think I had. You never saw 
 anything so pretty as Berne the other morning 
 as I was coming away. I came home by the 
 Rhine, you know. I saw aunt Dampier and 
 Tishy for an hour or two." 
 
 "And did you see John at Paris?" 
 
 "No; he was down at V , staying with 
 
 the M s. And now tell me about the young 
 
 lady with the heart. Is she upstairs tearing her 
 hair? Aunt Dampier was furious." 
 
 "So she had heard of it?" said Miss Dampier, 
 thoughtfully. And then she added rather sharply, 
 "You can tell her that the young lady is quite 
 getting over her fancy. In fact, John doesn't 
 deserve that she should remember him. Now, 
 listen, Will, I am going to tell you a story." 
 And then, in her quiet, pleasant, old-fashioned 
 way, she told him her version of all that had been 
 happening. 
 
 Will listened and laughed, and said, "You will 
 think me a brute, but I agree with aunt Dampier,
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 77 
 
 Your young woman has behaved as badly as pos- 
 sible; she has made a dead set at poor John, who 
 is so vain that any woman can get him into her 
 clutches." 
 
 ""What do you mean?" cries the aunt, quite 
 angry. 
 
 "If she had really cared for him, would she 
 have forgotten all about him already? I warn 
 you, aunt Jenny; I don't approve of your 
 heroine." 
 
 "I must go and look after my heroine," says 
 Miss Dampier, dryly. "I dare say your dinner is 
 ready." 
 
 But Will Dampier, whose curiosity at all 
 events was excited, followed his aunt upstairs and 
 along the passage, and went in after her as she 
 opened a door; went into a dim chill room, with 
 two wide-set windows, through which the last 
 yellow streaks of the sunset were fading, and the 
 fresh evening blast blew in with a gust as they 
 entered. It was dark, and nothing could be seen 
 distinctly, only something white seemed crouching 
 in a chair, and as the door opened they heard a 
 
 The Story of Elizabeth. 12
 
 I] ii THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 low sobbing sigh, which seemed to come out of 
 the gloom; and then it was all very silent. 
 
 "Elly, my dear child," said Miss Dampier, 
 "what is the matter?" 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 "Why don't you speak?" said the kind old 
 lady, groping about, and running up against chairs 
 and tables. 
 
 "Because I can't speak without crying," 
 gasps Elly, beginning to cry. "And it's so un- 
 grateful — " 
 
 "You are tired, dear," says aunt Jean, "and 
 cold" — taking her hand; and then turning round 
 and seeing that her nephew had come in with 
 her, she said, "Ring the bell, Will, and go to your 
 dinner. If you will tell them downstairs to send 
 up some tea directly I shall be obliged to you." 
 William Dampier did as he was bid, and walked 
 away considerably mollified towards poor Elly. 
 " One is so apt to find fault with people," he was 
 thinking. "And there she was crying upstairs all 
 the time, poor wretch,"
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. I 79 
 
 He could never bear to see a woman cry. His 
 parishioners — the women, I mean — had found 
 this out, and used to shed a great many tears 
 when he came to see them. He had found them 
 out — he knew that they had found him out, and 
 yet as sure as the apron-corner went up, the half- 
 crown came out of the pocket. 
 
 9.30. — Reading Room, Flag Hotel, Boatstown. 
 — Mr. William Dampier writing at a side-table to 
 a married sister in India. Three old gentlemen 
 come creaking in; select limp newspapers, and 
 take their places. A young man who is going to 
 town by the 10. 30 train lies down on the sofa 
 and falls asleep, and snores gently. A soothing 
 silence. Mr. Dampier's blunt pen travels along 
 the thin paper. . . . "What a dear old woman 
 aunt Jenny is. How well she tells a story. Lady 
 Dampier was telling me the same story the other 
 day. I was very much bored. I thought each 
 one person more selfish and disagreeable than the 
 other. Now aunt Jenny takes up the tale. The 
 personages all brighten under her friendly old 
 spectacles, and become good, gentle-hearted, ro-
 
 l80 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 mantic, and heroic all at once — as she is her- 
 self. I was a good deal struck by her report of 
 poor John's sentimental imbroglio. I drank tea 
 with the imbroglio this evening, and I can't help 
 rather liking her. She has a sweet pretty face, 
 and her voice, when she talks, pipes and thrills 
 like a musical snuff-box. Aunt Jenny wants her 
 for a niece, that is certain, and says that a man 
 ought to marry the wife he likes best. You are 
 sure to agree to that; I wonder what Miles says? 
 But she's torn with sympathy, poor old dear, and 
 first cries over one girl, and then over the other. 
 She says John came to her one day at Paris in a 
 great state of mind, declared he was quite deter- 
 mined to finish with all his uncertainty, and that 
 he had made up his mind to break with Laetitia, 
 and to marry Elizabeth, if she was still in her 
 old way of thinking. Aunt Jean got frightened, 
 refused to interfere, carried off the young lady, 
 and has not spoken to her on the subject. John, 
 who is really behaving very foolishly , is still at 
 Paris, and has not followed them, as I know my 
 aunt hoped he would have done. I can't help
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 10 I 
 
 being very sorry for him. Lady Dampier has 
 heard of his goings on. A Frenchman told some 
 people, who told some people who— — you know 
 how things get about. Some day when I don't 
 wish it, you will hear all about me, and write me 
 a thundering letter all the way from Lucknow. 
 There is no doubt about the matter. It would be 
 a thousand pities if John were to break off with 
 La2titia, to speak nothing of the cruelty and the 
 insult to the poor child. 
 
 "And so Rosey and Posey are coming home. 
 I am right sorry for their poor papa and mamma. 
 I hope you have sometimes talked to my nieces 
 about their respectable uncle Will. They are 
 sure to be looked after and happy with aunt 
 Jenny, but how you will be breaking your hearts 
 after them ! A priest ought perhaps to talk to you 
 of one consolation very certain and efficacious. 
 But I have always found my dear Prue a better 
 Christian than myself, and I have no need to 
 preach to her." 
 
 Will Dampier wrote a close straight little 
 handwriting; only one side of his paper was full
 
 1 82 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 but he did not care to write any more that night: 
 he put up his letter in his case, and walked out 
 into the garden. 
 
 It was a great starlight night. The sea gloomed 
 vast and black on the horizon. A few other people 
 were walking in the garden, and they talked in 
 hushed yet distinct voices. Many of the windows 
 were open and alight. Will looked up at the 
 window of the room where he had been to see his 
 aunt. That was alight and open, too, and some 
 one was sitting with clasped hands, looking at the 
 sky. Dampier lit a cigar, and he, too, walked 
 along gazing at the stars, and thinking of Prue's 
 kind face as he went along. Other constellations 
 clustered above her head, he thought; between 
 them lay miles of land and sea, great countries, 
 oceans rushing, plains arid and unknown; vast 
 jungles, deserted cities, crumbling in a broiling 
 sun; it gave him a little vertigo to try and realize 
 what hundreds of miles of distance stretched be- 
 tween their two beating hearts. Distance so great, 
 and yet so little; for he could love his sister, and 
 think of her, and see her, and talk to her, as if
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 83 
 
 she was in the next room. What was that dis- 
 tance which could be measured by miles, com- 
 pared to the immeasurable gulf that separates 
 each one of us from the nearest and dearest 
 whose hands we may hold in our own? 
 
 Will walked on, his mind full of dim thoughts, 
 such as come to most people on starlit nights; 
 when constellations are blazing, and the living 
 soul gazes with awe-stricken wonder at the great 
 living universe, in the midst of which it waits, 
 and trembles, and adores. "The world all about 
 has faded away," he thought, "and lies dark and 
 dim, and indistinct. People are lying like dead 
 people stretched out, unconscious on their beds, 
 heedless, unknowing. Here and there in the houses, 
 a few dead people are lying like the sleepers. Are 
 they as unconscious as the living?" He goes to 
 the end of the garden, and stands looking up- 
 ward, until he cannot think longer of things so 
 far above him. It seems to him that his brain is 
 like the string of an instrument, which will break 
 under the passionate vibration of harmonies so far 
 beyond his powers to render. He goes back into
 
 184 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 the house. Everything suddenly grows strangely 
 real and familiar, and yet it seemed, but a mo- 
 ment ago, as if to-day and its cares had passed 
 away for ever.
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 85 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 To humbler functions, awful Power, 
 
 I call thee : I myself commend 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour. 
 
 Oh , let my weakness have an end. 
 Give unto me , made lowly wise, 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice — 
 The confidence of reason give, 
 And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live. 
 
 Ode to Duty. 
 
 Elly had a little Indian box that her father 
 had once given to her. It served her for a work- 
 box and a treasure casket. She kept her scissors 
 in it and her ruby ring; some lavender, a gold 
 thimble, and her father's picture. And then in a 
 lower tray were some cottons and tapes, one or 
 two letters, a pencil, and a broken silver chain. 
 She had a childish habit of playing with it still, 
 sometimes, and setting it to rights. It was lying 
 on the breakfast-table next morning when Will 
 Dampier came in to see his aunt. Miss Dampier, 
 who liked order, begged Elly to take it off, and
 
 1 86 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 Dampier politely, to save her the trouble, set it 
 down somewhere else, and then came to the table 
 and asked for some tea. The fishes had had no 
 luck that morning, he told them; he had been 
 out in a boat since seven o'clock, and brought 
 back a basketful. The sea air made them hungry, 
 no doubt, for they came by dozens — little feeble 
 whiting — and nibbled at the bait. "I wish you 
 would come," he said to his aunt; "the boat bobs 
 up and down in the sunshine, and the breeze is 
 delightfully fresh, and the people come down on 
 the beach and stare at you through telescopes." 
 As he talked to his aunt he glanced at Elly, who 
 was pouring out his tea; he said to himself that 
 she was certainly an uncommonly pretty girl; and 
 then he began to speculate about an odd soft look 
 in her eyes. "When I see people with that ex- 
 pression," he wrote to his sister, "I always ask 
 myself what it means? I have seen it in the 
 glass, sometimes, when I have been shaving. Miss 
 Gilmour was not looking at me, but at the muffins 
 and tea-cups. She was nicely dressed in blue 
 calico; she was smiling; her hair trim and shiny.
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 87 
 
 I could hardly believe it was my wailing banshee 
 of the previous night." (What follows is to the 
 purpose, so I may as well transcribe a little more 
 of Will's letter.) "When she had poured out my 
 tea, she took up her hat and said she should go 
 down to the station, and get The Times for my 
 aunt. I should have offered my services, but aunt 
 Jean made me a sign to stay. What for, do you 
 think? To show me a letter she had received in 
 the morning from that absurd John, who cannot 
 make up his mind. 'I do not,' he says, 'want you 
 to talk poor Elly into a grande passion. But if her 
 feelings are unchanged, I will marry her to morrow, 
 if she chooses; and I daresay Tishy will not break 
 her heart. Perhaps you will think me a fool for 
 my pains; but I shall not be alone in the world. 
 What was poor little Elly herself when she cried 
 for the moon?' This is all rodomontade; John is 
 not acting fairly by Lgetitia, to whom he is bound 
 by every possible promise. 
 
 "My aunt said just now that it would be hard 
 for Tishy if he married her, liking Elizabeth best: 
 and there is truth in that. But he mustn't like her
 
 I 88 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 best; Miss Gilmour will get over her fancy for 
 him, and he must get over his for her. If he had 
 only behaved like a man and married her right 
 off two years ago, and never hankered after the 
 flesh-pots of Egypt, or if he had only left her 
 alone to settle down with her French pasteur 
 
 '"If — if,' cried my aunt, impatiently, when 
 I said as much — (you know her way) — 'he has 
 done wrong and been sorry for it, Will, which of 
 us can do more? I doubt whether you would 
 have behaved a bit better in his place.' " 
 
 This portion of Mr. Will's letter was written 
 at his aunt's writing-book immediately after their 
 little talk. Elly came in rosy from her walk, and 
 Will went on diligently, looking up every now 
 and then with the sense of bien-etre which a 
 bachelor experiences when he suddenly finds him- 
 self domesticated and at home with kind women. 
 
 Miss Dampier was sitting in the window. She 
 had got The Times in her hand, and was trying 
 to read. Every now and then she looked up at 
 her nephew, with his curly head bent over his 
 writing, at Elly leaning lazily back in her chair,
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. l8Q 
 
 sewing idly at a little shred of work. Her hair 
 was clipped, the colour had faded out of her 
 cheeks, her eyes gleamed. Pretty as she was, 
 still she was changed — how — changed from the 
 Elizabeth of eighteen months ago whom Miss 
 Dampier could remember! The old lady went 
 on with her paper, trying to read. She turned 
 to the French correspondent, and saw something 
 about the Chamber, the Emperor, about Italy; 
 about M. X — , the rich banker, having resolved 
 to terminate his existence, when fortunately his 
 servant enters the room at the precise moment 
 when he was preparing to precipitate himself.... 
 
 "The servant to precipitate the window 
 
 the .... poor Tishy! At my age I did think 
 I should have done with sentimental troubles. 
 Heigho! heigho!" sighs Miss Dampier. 
 
 Elly wanted some thread, and rose with a 
 soft rustle, and got her box and came back to 
 her easy chair. Out of the window they could 
 see all the pleasant idle business of the little sea- 
 port going on, the people strolling in the garden, 
 or sitting in all sorts of queer corners, the boats,
 
 190 [HE STORY UF ELIZABETH. 
 
 the mariners (I do believe they are hired to stand 
 about in blue shirts, and shake their battered old 
 noses as they prose for hours together). The 
 waiter came and took away the breakfast, William 
 went on with his letter, and Miss Dampier, with 
 John's little note in her pocket, was, as I say, 
 reading the most extraordinary things in The 
 Times all about her own private concerns. Nobody 
 spoke for some ten minutes, when suddenly came 
 a little gasp, a little sigh from Elly's low chair 
 and the girl said, "Aunt Jean! look here," almost 
 crying, and held out something in her thin hand. 
 
 "What is it, my dear?" said Miss Dampier, 
 looking up hastily, and pulling off her spectacles: 
 they were dim somehow, and wanted wiping. 
 
 "Poor dear, dearest Tishy," cried Elly, in her 
 odd impetuous way. "Why does he not go to 
 her? Aunt Jean, look here, I found it in my 
 box — only look here;" and she put a little note 
 into Miss Dampier's hand. 
 
 A\ 'ill looked up curiously from his writing. 
 Elly had forgotten all about him. Miss Dampier 
 took the letter, and when she had read what was
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 191 
 
 written, and then turned over the page, she took 
 off her glasses again with a click, and said, "What 
 nonsense!" 
 
 And so it was nonsense, and yet the nonsense 
 touched Elizabeth, and brought tears into her 
 eyes. They came faster and faster, and then 
 suddenly remembering that she was not alone, 
 and ashamed that Dampier should see her cry 
 again, she jumped up with a shining, blushing 
 tear-dimmed tender face, and ran away out of the 
 room. Aunt Jean looked at Will doubtfully, then 
 hesitated, and gave him the little shabby letter 
 that had brought these bright tears into the girl's 
 eyes. Dear old soul! she made a sort of con- 
 fessor of her nephew. 
 
 The confessor saw a few foolish words which 
 Lsetitia must have written days ago, never think- 
 ing that her poor little words were to be scanned 
 by stranger eyes— written perhaps unconsciously 
 on a stray sheet of paper. There was "John. 
 
 Dear John! Dear, dearest! I am so hap 
 
 John and Laetitia. John my jo. Goose and 
 gander." And then, by some odd chance, she
 
 10,2 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 must have folded the blotted sheet together and 
 forgotten what she had written, and sent it off to 
 Elly Gilmour, with a little careless note about 
 Schlangenbad, and "more fortunate next time," 
 on the other side. 
 
 "Poor little Letty!" thought Dampier, and 
 he doubled the paper up, and put it back into 
 the lavender box as the door opened, and Miss 
 Gilmour came back into the room. She had dried 
 her eyes, she had fastened on her grey shawl. 
 She picked up her hat, which was lying on the 
 floor, and began pulling on two very formidable 
 looking gauntlets over her slim white hands. "I 
 am going for a little walk," she said to Miss 
 Dampier. "Will you" — hesitating and blushing 
 — "direct that little note of Lsetitia's to Sir John? 
 I am going along the cliff towards the pretty little 
 bay." 
 
 Will was quite melted and touched. Was this 
 the scheming young woman, against whom he had 
 been warned? — the woman who had entangled 
 his cousin with her wiles? 
 
 "Aunt Jenny," he says with a sudden glance,
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 93 
 
 "are you going to tell her why John Dampier 
 does not go to Lsetitia?" 
 
 "Why does he not go?" Elly repeats, losing 
 her colour a little. 
 
 "He says that if you would like him to stay, 
 he thinks he ought not to go," says Jean Dam- 
 pier, hesitating, and tearing corners off The Times 
 newspaper. 
 
 Will Dampier turned his broad back and 
 looked out of window. There was a moment's 
 silence. They could hear the tinkling of bells 
 the whistling of the sea, the voice of the men 
 calling to each other in the port: the sunshine 
 streamed in: Elly was standing in it, and seemed 
 gilt with a golden background. She ought to 
 have held a palm in her hand, poor little martyr! 
 
 It seemed a long time, it was only a minute, 
 and then she spoke; a sweet honest blush came 
 deepening into Elizabeth's pale cheeks: "I don't 
 want to marry him because I care for him," she 
 said, in a thrilling pathetic voice. "Why should 
 Laetitia, who is so fond of him, suffer because I 
 behaved so badly?" The tears once more came 
 
 The Story of Elizabeth. '3
 
 194 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 welling up into her eyes. "I shall think I ought 
 to have died instead of getting well," she said. 
 "Aunt Jean, send him the little note; make him 
 go, dear aunt Jean." 
 
 Miss Dampier gave Elly a kiss; she did not 
 know what to say; she could not influence her 
 one way or another. 
 
 She wrote to John that morning, taking good 
 care to look at the back of her paper first. 
 
 " Flag Hotel, BoatsUrwn, Nov. \$th. 
 
 "My dear Jack, 
 "I had great doubts about communicating 
 your letter to Elizabeth. It seemed to me that 
 the path you had determined upon was one full 
 of thorns and difficulties, for her, for you, and 
 for my niece Lsetitia. But although Elly is of 
 far too affectionate a nature ever to give up 
 caring for any of her friends, let me assure you 
 that her feelings are now only those of friendly 
 regard and deep interest in your welfare. When 
 I mentioned to her the contents of your letter (I 
 think it best to speak plainly), she said, with her
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 95 
 
 eyes full of tears, that she did not want to marry 
 you — that she felt you were bound to return to 
 Lsetitia. She had been much affected by dis- 
 covering the enclosed little note from your cousin. 
 I must say that the part which concerns you in- 
 terested me much, more so than her letter to her 
 old friend. But she was evidently preoccupied 
 at the time, and Elly, far from feeling neglected, 
 actually began to cry, she was so touched by 
 this somewhat singular discovery. Girls' tears are 
 easily dried. If it lies in my power she shall yet 
 be made happy. 
 
 "There is nothing now, as you see, that need 
 prevent your fulfilling your engagements. You 
 are all very good children, on the whole, and I 
 trust that your troubles are but fleeting clouds 
 that will soon pass away. That you and Lastitia 
 may enjoy all prosperity is the sincere hope and 
 desire of your 
 
 "Affectionate old aunt, 
 
 "J. M. Dampier." 
 
 Miss Dampier, having determined that she 
 
 '3*
 
 10,6 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 had written a perfectly impartial letter, put it up 
 in an envelope, rang the bell, and desired a waiter 
 to post it. 
 
 Number twenty-three's bell rang at the same 
 moment; so did number fifteen; immediately after 
 a quantity of people poured in by the eleven 
 o'clock train; the waiter flung the letter down on 
 his pantry table, and rushed off to attend to half- 
 a-dozen things at once, of which posting the note 
 was not one. 
 
 About three o'clock that afternoon Miss Dam- 
 pier in her close bonnet was standing in the pas- 
 sage talking to a tall young man with a black 
 waistcoat and wide-awake. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" he said. 
 "Couldn't we go for a drive somewhere?" 
 
 "I have ordered a carriage at three," said 
 Miss Dampier, smiling. "We are going up on 
 the hills. You might come, too, if you liked it." 
 And when the carriage drove up to the door there 
 he was, waiting to hand her in. 
 
 He had always, until he saw her, imagined 
 Elly a little flirting person, quite different from
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 1 97 
 
 the tall young lady in the broad hat, with the 
 long cloak falling from her shoulders, who was 
 prepared to accompany them. She had gone 
 away a little, and his aunt sent him to fetch her. 
 She was standing against the railing, looking out 
 at the sea with her sad eyes. There was the 
 lawn, there was the sea, there was Elly. A 
 pretty young lady always makes a pretty picture; 
 but out of doors in the sunshine she looks a 
 prettier young lady than anywhere else, thought 
 Mr. Will, as Elizabeth walked across the grass. 
 He was not alone in his opinion; more than one 
 person looked up as she passed. He began to 
 think that far from doing a foolish thing his aunt 
 had shown her usual good sense in taking such 
 good care of this sad, charming, beautiful young 
 woman. It was no use trying to think ill of her. 
 With such a face as hers, she has a right to fall 
 in love with anybody she pleases, he thought; 
 and so, as they were walking towards the car- 
 riage, Will Dampier, thinking that this was a 
 good opportunity for a little confidential com- 
 munication, said, somewhat in his professional
 
 10,8 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 manner, "You seem out of spirits, Miss Gilmour. 
 I hope that you do not regret your decision of 
 this morning." 
 
 "Yes, I do regret it," said poor Elly, and two 
 great tears came dribbling down her cheeks. "Do 
 you think that when a girl gives up what she 
 likes best in the world she is not sorry? I am 
 horribly sorry." 
 
 Will was very much puzzled how to answer 
 this unexpected confidence. He said, looking 
 rather foolish, "One is so apt to ask unnecessary 
 questions. But, take my word for it, you have 
 done quite right, and some day you will be more 
 glad than you are now." 
 
 I must confess that my heroine here got ex- 
 ceedingly cross. 
 
 "Ah, that is what people say who do not know 
 of what they are talking. What business of yours 
 is my poor unlucky bruised and broken fancy?" 
 she said. "Ah! Why were you ever told? What 
 am I? What is it to you?" 
 
 All the way she sat silent and dull, staring 
 out at the landscape as they went along; suffer-
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. I9Q 
 
 ing, in truth, poor child, more than either of her 
 companions could tell: saying good-by to the 
 dearest hope of her youth, tearing herself away 
 from the familiar and the well-loved dreams. 
 Dreams, do I say? They had been the Realities 
 to her, poor child! for many a day. And the 
 realities had seemed to be the dreams. 
 
 They drove along a straight road, and came 
 at last to some delightful fresh downs, with the 
 sea sparkling in the distance, and a sort of 
 autumnal glow on the hills all about. The breeze 
 came in fresh gusts, the carriage jogged on, 
 still up hill, and Will Dampier walked alongside, 
 well pleased with the entertainment, and making 
 endless jokes at his aunt. She rather liked being 
 laughed at; but Elly never looked up once, or 
 heeded what they said. They were going to- 
 wards a brown church, that was standing on the 
 top of a hill. It must have been built by the 
 Danes a thousand years ago. There it stood, 
 looking out at the sea, brown, grim, solitary, 
 with its graveyard on the hillside. Trees were 
 clustering down in a valley below; but here,
 
 200 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 up above, it was all bleak, bare, and solitary, 
 only tinted and painted by the brown and purple 
 sunshine. 
 
 They stopped the carriage a little way off, and 
 got out and passed through a gate, and walked 
 up the hill-top. Elly went first, Will followed, and 
 Miss Dampier came slowly after. As Elly reached 
 the top of the hill she turned round, and stood 
 against the landscape, like a picture with a back- 
 ground, and looked back and said — 
 
 "Do you hear?" 
 
 The organ inside the church was playing a 
 chauntj and presently some voices began chaunting 
 to the playing of the organ. Elly went across the 
 graveyard, and leant against the porch, listening. 
 Five minutes went by; her anger was melting 
 away. It was exquisitely clear, peaceful, and 
 tranquil here, up on this hill where the dead 
 people were lying among the grass and daisies. 
 All the bitterness went away out of her heart, 
 somehow, in the golden glow. She said to her- 
 self that she felt now, suddenly, for the first 
 time, as if she could bury her fancy and leave it
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 201 
 
 behind her in this quiet place. As the chaunt 
 went on, her whole heart uttered in harmony with 
 it, though her lips were silent. She did not say 
 to herself, what a small thing it was that had 
 troubled her: what vast combinations were here 
 to make her happy; hills, vales, light, with its 
 wondrous refractions, harmony, colour; the great 
 ocean, the great world, rolling on amid the greater 
 worlds beyond! 
 
 But she felt it somehow. The voices ceased, 
 and all was very silent. 
 
 "Oh, give thanks," the Psalm began again; 
 and Elly felt that she could indeed give thanks 
 for mercies that were more than she had ever 
 deserved. When she was at home with her 
 mother she thought — just now the thought of 
 returning there scarce gave her a pang — she 
 should remember to-day all the good hopes, good 
 prayers, and aspirations which had come to her 
 in this peaceful graveyard up among the hills. 
 She had been selfish, discontented, and ungrateful 
 all her life, angry and chafed but an hour ago, 
 and here was peace, hers for the moment; here
 
 202 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 was tranquil happiness. The mad, rash delight 
 she had felt when she had been with John 
 Dampier was nothing compared to this great 
 natural peace and calm. A sort of veil seemed 
 lifted from her eyes, and she felt for the first 
 time, that she could be happy though what she 
 had wished for most was never to be hers — that 
 there was other happiness than that which she 
 had once fancied part of life itself. Did she ever 
 regret the decision she had made? Did she ever 
 see occasion to think differently from this? If, in 
 after times, she may have felt a little sad, a little 
 lonely now and then — if she may have thought 
 with a moment's regret, of those days that were 
 now already past and over for ever — still she knew 
 she had done rightly when she determined to bury 
 the past, with all kindness, with reverent hands. 
 Somehow, in some strange and mysterious man- 
 ner, the bitterness of her silly troubles had left 
 her — left her a better girl than she had been ever 
 before. She was more good, more happy, more 
 old, more wise, now, and, in truth, there was 
 kindness in store for her, there were suns yet to
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 203 
 
 shine, friendly words to be spoken, troubles yet 
 to be endured, other than those sentimental griefs 
 which had racked her youth so fiercely. 
 
 While they were all on the hill-top the steamer 
 came into the port earlier than on the day when 
 Will Dampier arrived. One of the passengers 
 walked up to the hotel and desired a waiter to 
 show him to Miss Dampier's room. It was empty, 
 of course; chairs pushed about, windows open, 
 work and books on the table. The paper was 
 lying on the floor — the passenger noticed that a 
 corner had been torn off; a little box was open 
 on the table, a ruby ring glittering in the tray. 
 "How careless," he thought! and then went and 
 flung himself into a great arm-chair. 
 
 So! she had been here a minute ago. There 
 was a glove lying on a chair; there were writing 
 materials on a side-table — a blotting-book open, 
 pens with the ink scarcely dry; and in this room, 
 in this place, he was going to decide his fate — 
 rightly or wrongly he could not tell. LaHitia is 
 a cold-blooded little creature, he kept saying to 
 himself; this girl, with all her faults, with all her
 
 204 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 impulses, has a heart to break or to mend. My 
 mother will learn too late that I cannot submit to 
 such dictation. By Jove, what a letter it is! He 
 pulled it out of his pocket, read it once more, and 
 crumpled it up and threw it into the fire-place. It 
 was certainly not a very wise composition — long, 
 vicious, wiry tails and flourishes. "John, words 
 cannot," &c. &c. "What Lady Tomsey," &c. &c. 
 "How horror-struck Major Potterton," &c. &c; 
 and finally concluded with a command that he 
 should instantly return to Schlangenbad; or, fail- 
 ing this, an announcement that she should imme- 
 diately join him, wherever he might be! 
 
 So Sir John, in a rage, packed up and came 
 off to Boatstown — his mother can follow him or 
 not, as she chooses; and here is walking up and 
 down the room, while Elly, driving over the hills, 
 is saying farewell, farewell, good-by to her old 
 love for ever. 
 
 Could he have really cared for anybody? By 
 some strange contradiction, now that the die is 
 cast, now that, after all these long doubts and 
 mistrusts, he has made up his mind, somehow
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 205 
 
 new doubts arise. He wonders whether he and 
 Elly will be happy together? He pictures stormy 
 scenes; he intuitively shrinks from the idea of 
 her unconventionalities, her eagerness, her enthu- 
 siasm. He is a man who likes a quiet life, who 
 would appreciate a sober, happy home — a gentle, 
 equable companion, to greet him quietly, to care 
 for his tastes and his ways, to sympathize, to 
 befriend him. Whereas now it is he who will 
 have to study his companion all the rest of his 
 life; if he thwart her she will fall ill of sorrow, 
 if he satisfy her she will ask more and more; if 
 he neglect her — being busy, or weary, or what 
 not — she will die of grief; if he want sympathy 
 and common sense, she will only adore him. Poor 
 Elly! it is hard upon her that he should make 
 such a bugbear of her poor little love. His 
 courage is oozing out at his finger-ends. He is 
 in a rage with her, and with himself, and with 
 his mother, and with his aunt. He and everybody 
 else are in a league to behave as badly as pos- 
 sible. He will try and do his duty, he thinks, 
 for all that, for my hero is an honest-hearted man,
 
 206 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 though a weak one. It is not Lady Dampier's 
 letter that shall influence him one way or another; 
 if Elly is breaking her heart to have him, and if 
 Letty doesn't care one way or the other, as is 
 likely enough, well then he will marry Elizabeth, 
 he cries, with a stout desperation, and he dashes 
 up and down the room in a fury. 
 
 And just at this minute the waiter comes in, 
 and says Miss Dampier has gone out for a drive, 
 and will not be back for some time. Mr. Dampier 
 is staying in the house, but he has gone out with 
 her, and who shall he say? And Sir John, look- 
 ing up, gives his name and says he will wait. 
 
 Upon which the waiter suddenly remembers 
 the letter he left in his pantry, and, feeling 
 rather guilty, proposes to fetch it. And by this 
 time Elly, and Will, and Miss Dampier have 
 got into the carriage again and are driving home- 
 wards. 
 
 There was a certain humility about Elly, with 
 all her ill-humours and varieties, which seemed to 
 sweeten her whole nature. Will Dampier, who 
 was rather angry with her for her peevishness
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 20J 
 
 could not help forgiving her, when, as he helped 
 her out of the carriage in the courtyard, she 
 said, — 
 
 "I don't quite know how to say it — but I 
 was very rude just now. I was very unhappy 
 and I hope you will forgive me," and she looked 
 up. The light from the hills was still in her 
 face. 
 
 "It was I who was rude," says Will, good- 
 naturedly holding out his hand; and of course he 
 forgave her. 
 
 The band was playing, the garden was full of 
 people; but aunt Jenny was cold, and glad to 
 get home. The ladies went upstairs: Will re- 
 mained down below, strolling up and down in 
 the garden with the rest of the people; but at 
 five o'clock the indefatigable bell began to ring 
 once more; the afternoon boat was getting up its 
 steam, and making its preparations to cross over 
 to the other side. 
 
 Will met a friend of his, who was going over 
 in it, and he walked down with him to see him 
 off. He went on board with him, shook hands,
 
 2o8 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 and turned to come away. At that minute some 
 one happened to look round, and Will, to his im- 
 mense surprise, recognized his cousin. That was 
 John; those were his whiskers; there was no 
 doubt about it. 
 
 He sprang forward and called him by name. 
 "John," he said, "you here?" 
 
 "Well!" said John, smiling a little, "why not 
 me, as well as you? are you coming across?" 
 
 "Are you going across?" said Will, doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 "Yes," the other answered; "I came over on 
 business; don't say anything of my having been 
 here. Pray remember this. I have a particular 
 reason." 
 
 "I shall say nothing," said Will. "I am glad 
 you are going, John," he added, stupidly. "I 
 think I know your reason — a very nice, pretty 
 reason too." 
 
 "So those women have been telling you all 
 about my private affairs?" said Sir John, speak- 
 ing quick, and looking very black. 
 
 "Your mother told me first," Will said. "I
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 200, 
 
 saw her the other day. For all sakes, I am 
 glad you are giving up all thoughts of Elly Gil- 
 mour." 
 
 "Are you?" said John, dryly. They waited 
 for a minute in awkward silence, but as they 
 were shaking hands and saying "Good-by," sud- 
 denly John melted and said, "Look here, Will, 
 I should like to see her once more. Could you 
 manage this for me. I don't want her to know, 
 you know; but could you bring her to the end of 
 the pier? I am going back to Letty, as you see, 
 so I don't think she need object." 
 
 Will nodded, and went up the ladder and 
 turned towards the house without a word, walk- 
 ing quickly and hurrying along. The band in 
 the garden burst out into a pretty melancholy 
 dance tune. The sun went down peg by peg in- 
 to the sea; the steamer still whistled and puffed 
 as it got up its steam. 
 
 Elly was sitting alone. She had lighted a 
 candle, and was writing home. Her hat was 
 lying on a chair beside her. The music had set 
 her dreaming; her thoughts were far away, in 
 
 'Die Story of Elizabeth 1 4
 
 2IO THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 the dismal old home again, with Francoise, and 
 Anthony, and the rest of them. She was be- 
 ginning to live the new life she had been pictur- 
 ing to herself; trying to imagine herself good and 
 contented in the hateful old home; it seemed 
 almost endurable just at this minute, when sud- 
 denly the door burst open, and Will Dampier 
 came in with his hat on. 
 
 "I want you to come out a little way with 
 me," he said. "I want you to come and see the 
 boat off. There's no time to lose." 
 
 "Thank you," said Elly, "but I'm busy." 
 "It won't take you five minutes," he said. 
 She laughed. "I am lazy, and rather tired." 
 Will could not give up. He persisted: he 
 knew he had a knack of persuading his old 
 women at home; he tried it on Miss Gilmour. 
 
 "I see you have not forgiven me," he said; 
 "you won't trust yourself with me." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said Elly; "I am only lazy." 
 The time was going. He looked at his watch; 
 there were but five minutes — but five minutes 
 for John to take leave of his love of many a
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 211 
 
 year; but five minutes and it would be too late. 
 He grew impatient. 
 
 "Pray, come," he said. "I shall look upon it 
 as a sign that you have forgiven me. Will you 
 do me this favour — will you come? I assure you 
 I shall not be ungrateful." 
 
 Elly thought it odd, and still hesitated; but it 
 seemed unkind to refuse. She got up, fetched 
 her hat and cloak, and in a minute he was hurry- 
 ing her along across the lawn, along the side of 
 the dock, out to the pier's end. 
 
 They were only just in time. "You are very 
 mysterious," said Elly. "Why do you care so 
 much to see the boat go out? How chilly it is. 
 Are you not glad to be here on this side of the 
 water? Ah! how soon it will be time for me to 
 go back!" 
 
 Will did not answer, he was so busy watching 
 the people moving about on board. Puff! puff! 
 Cannot you imagine the great boat passing close 
 at their feet, going out in the night into the open 
 sea; the streaks of light in the west; Elly, with 
 flushed, rosy-red cheeks, like the sunset, standing 
 
 14*
 
 212 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 under the lighthouse, and talking in her gentle 
 voice, and looking out, saying it would be fine 
 to-morrow? 
 
 Can't you fancy poor Sir John leaning against 
 a pile of baggage, smoking a cigar, and looking 
 up wistfully? As he slid past he actually caught 
 the tone of her voice. Like a drowning man who 
 can see in one instant years of his past life flash- 
 ing before him, Sir John saw Elly — a woman 
 with lines of care in her face, — there, standing 
 in the light of the lamp, with the red streams of 
 sunset beyond, and the night closing in all round 
 about; and then he saw her as he had seen her 
 once — a happy, unconscious girl, brightening, 
 smiling at his coming: and as the picture travelled 
 on, a sad girl, meeting him in the street by chance 
 — a desperate, almost broken-hearted woman, 
 looking up greyly into his face in the theatre. 
 Puff! puff! — it was all over, she was still smiling 
 before his eyes. One last glimpse of the two, 
 and they had disappeared. He slipped away right 
 out of her existence, and she did not even guess 
 that he had been near. She stood unwitting for
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 21$ 
 
 an instant, watching the boat as it tossed out to 
 sea, and then said, "Now we will go home." A 
 sudden gloom and depression seemed to have 
 come over her. She walked along quite silently, 
 and did not seem to heed the presence of her 
 companion.
 
 214 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 CHPATER X. 
 
 Poor forsaken Flos ! 
 Not all her brightness , sportfulncss , and bloom, 
 Her sweetness and her wfldness , and her wit, 
 Could save her from desertion. No ; their loves 
 Were off the poise. Love competent 
 Makes better bargains than love affluent. 
 
 Before he went to bed that night Dampier 
 wrote the end of his letter to Prue. He described, 
 rather amusingly, the snubbing which Elly had 
 given him, the dry way in which Sir John had 
 received his advances, the glances of disfavour 
 with which aunt Jean listened to his advice. "So 
 this is all the gratitude one gets for interfering in 
 the most sensible manner. If you are as ungrateful, 
 Prue, for this immense long letter, I shall, indeed, 
 have laboured in vain. It is one o'clock. Bong! 
 there it went from the tower. Good-night, dear; 
 your beloved brother is going to bed. Love to 
 Miles, kiss the children all round for their and 
 your affectionate W. D." 
 
 Will Dampier was not in the least like his 
 letter. I know two or three men who are manly
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 215 
 
 enough, who write gentle, gossiping letters like 
 women. He was a big, commonplace young man, 
 straight-minded and tender-hearted, with immense 
 energy, and great good spirits. He believed in 
 himself; indeed, he tried so heartily and conscien- 
 tiously to do what was right, that he could not 
 help knowing more or less that he was a good 
 fellow. And then he had a happy knack of seeing 
 one side of a question, and having once deter- 
 mined that so and so was the thing to be done, 
 he could do so and so without one doubt or com- 
 punction. He belonged to the school of athletic 
 Christianity. I heard some one once say that there 
 are some of that sect who would almost make out 
 cock-fighting to be a religious ceremony. William 
 Dampier did not go so far as this; but he heartily 
 believed that nothing was wrong that was done 
 with a Christian and manly spirit. He rode across 
 country, he smoked pipes, he went out shooting, 
 he played billiards and cricket, he rowed up and 
 down the river in his boat, and he was charming 
 with all the grumbling old men and women in his 
 parish, he preached capital sermons — short, brisk,
 
 2l6 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 well-considered. He enjoyed life and all its good 
 things with a grateful temper, and made most 
 people happy about him. 
 
 One day, Elly began to think what a different 
 creed Will Dampier's was from her stepfather's, 
 only she did not put her thoughts into words. It 
 was not her way. 
 
 Tourneur, with a great heart, set on the greatest 
 truth, feeling the constant presence of those 
 mightier dispensations, cared but little for the 
 affairs of to-day: they seemed to him subordinate, 
 immaterial; they lost all importance from com- 
 parison to that awful reality that this man had so 
 vividly realized to himself. To Dampier, it was 
 through the simple language of his daily life that 
 he could best express what good was in him. He 
 saw wisdom and mercy, he saw order and pro- 
 gression, he saw infinite variety and wonder in all 
 natural things, in all life, at all places and hours. 
 By looking at this world, he could best under- 
 stand and adore the next. 
 
 And yet Tourneur's was the loftier spirit: to 
 him had come a certain knowledge and under-
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 217 
 
 standing, of which Dampier had scarce a concep- 
 tion. Dampier, who felt less keenly, could well be 
 more liberal, more forbearing. One of these two 
 told Elly that we were put into the world to live 
 in it, and to be thankful for our creation; to do 
 our duty, and to labour until the night should 
 come when no man can work. The other said, 
 sadly, you are born only to overcome the flesh, 
 to crush it under foot, to turn away from all that 
 you like most, innocent or not. What do I care? 
 Are you an immortal spirit, or are you a clod of 
 earth? Will you suffer that this all-wondrous, all- 
 precious gift should be clogged, and stifled, and 
 choked, and destroyed, may be, by despicable 
 daily concerns? Tourneur himself set an example 
 of what he preached by his devoted, humble, 
 holy, self-denying life. And yet Elly turned with 
 a sense of infinite relief to the other creed: she 
 could understand it, sympathize with it, try to do 
 good, though to be good was beyond her frail 
 powers. Already she was learning to be thankful, 
 to be cheerful, to be unselfish, to be keenly 
 penitent for her many shortcomings.
 
 2l8 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 As the time drew near when an answer to her 
 note might be expected, Miss Dampier grew 
 anxious and fidgety, dropped her stitches, looked 
 out for the post, and wondered why no letter 
 came. Elly was only a little silent, a little 
 thoughtful. She used to go out by herself and 
 take long walks. One day Will, returning from 
 one of his own peregrinations, came upon her 
 sitting on the edge of a cliff staring at the distant 
 coast of France. It lay blue, pale, like a dream- 
 country, and glimmered in the horizon. Who 
 would believe that there was reality, busy life 
 in all earnest going on beyond those calm, 
 heavenly-looking hills! Another time his aunt 
 sent him out to look for her, and he found her 
 at the end of the pier, leaning against the chain, 
 and still gazing towards France. 
 
 In his rough, friendly manner he said, "I 
 wish you would look another way sometimes, 
 Miss Gilmour, up or down, or in the glass even. 
 You make me feel very guilty, for to tell the 
 truth I — I advised John " 
 
 "I thought so," Elly cried, interrupting. "And 

 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 210, 
 
 you were quite right. I advised him too," she 
 said, with a smile. "Don't you think he has 
 taken your advice?" 
 
 Will looked down uncomfortably. "I think 
 so," he said in a low tone. 
 
 And, meanwhile, Miss Dampier was sitting 
 in the window and the sunshine, knitting castles 
 in the air. 
 
 "Suppose he does not take this as an answer? 
 Suppose Lffititia has found somebody else, suppose 
 the door opens and he comes in, and the sun 
 shines into the room, and then he seizes Elly's 
 hand, and says, 'Though you give me up I will 
 not give up the hope of calling you mine,' and 
 Elly glances up bright, blushing, happy . . . Suppose 
 Lady Dampier is furious, and dear Tishy makes 
 peace? I should like to see Elizabeth mistress of 
 the dear old house. I think my mother was like 
 
 her. I don't approve of cousins' marriages 
 
 How charming she would look coming along the 
 old oak gallery." Look at the old maid in the 
 window building castles in the air through her 
 spectacles. But it is a ridiculous sight; she is
 
 2 20 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 only a fat, foolish old woman. All her fancies 
 are but follies flying away with caps and jingling 
 bells — they vanish through the window as the 
 door opens and the young people come in. 
 
 "Here is a letter for you the porter gave 
 me in the hall," said Will, as carelessly as he 
 could; Jean saw Elly's eyes busy glancing at the 
 writing. 
 
 "My dear Aunt Jean, 
 "Many thanks for your note, and the en- 
 closure. My mother and Laetitia are with me, and 
 we shall all go back to Friar's Bush on Thursday. 
 Elly's decision is the wisest under the circum- 
 stances, and we had better abide by it. Give her 
 my love. Laetitia knows nothing, as my mother 
 has had the grace to be silent. 
 
 "Yours affectionately, 
 
 "J. C. D." 
 "P. S. — You will be good to her, won't 
 you?" 
 
 Miss Dampier read the note imperturbably,
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 221 
 
 but while she read there seemed to run through 
 her a cold thrill of disappointment, which was so 
 unendurable that after a minute she got up and 
 left the room. 
 
 When she came back, Elly said with a sigh, 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 "At Paris," said Miss Dampier. "They have 
 saved him all trouble and come to him. He 
 sends you his love, Elly, which is very hand- 
 some of him, considering how much it is 
 worth." 
 
 "It has been worth a great deal to me," said 
 Elly, in her sweet voice. "It is all over; but 
 I am grateful still and always shall be. I was 
 very rash; he was very kind. Let me be grate- 
 ful, dear aunt Jean, to those who are good to 
 me." And she kissed the old woman's shrivelled 
 hand. 
 
 Miss Gilmour cheered up wonderfully from 
 that time. I am sure that if she had been angry 
 with him, if she had thought herself hardly used 
 if she had had more of what people call self-
 
 222 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 respect, less of that sweet humility of nature, it 
 would not have been so. 
 
 As the short, happy, delightful six weeks 
 which she was to spend with Miss Dampier came 
 to an end, she began to use all her philosophy 
 and good resolves to reconcile herself to going 
 home. Will Dampier was gone. He had only 
 been able to stay a week. They missed him. 
 But still they managed to be very comfortable 
 together. Tea-talk, long walks, long hours on 
 the sands, novels and story-books, idleness and 
 contentment — why couldn't it go on for ever? 
 Elly said. Aunt Jean laughed and said they 
 might as well be a couple of jelly-fish at once. 
 And so the time went by, but one day just be- 
 fore she went away, Mr. Will appeared again un- 
 expectedly. 
 
 Elly was sitting in the sun on the beach, 
 throwing idle stones into the sea. She had put 
 down her novel on the shingle beside her. It 
 was Deerbrook, I think — an old favourite of 
 Jean Dampier's. Eveiybody knows what twelve 
 o'clock is like on a fine day at the sea-side.
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 223 
 
 It means little children, nurses in clean cotton 
 gowns, groups of young ladies scattered here and 
 there; it means a great cheerfulness and tran- 
 quillity, a delightful glitter, and life, and light: 
 happy folks plashing in the water, bathing-dresses 
 drying in the sun, all sorts of aches, pains, 
 troubles, vanishing like mist in its friendly 
 beams. Elly was thinking: "Yes, how pleasant 
 and nice it is, and how good, how dear aunt 
 Jean is! Only six months, and she says I am 
 to come to her in her cottage again." (Splash 
 a stone goes into the water.) "Only six months! 
 I will try and spend them better than I ever 
 spent six months before. Eugh! If it was not 
 for Mme. Jacob .... I really do love my 
 stepfather, and could live happily enough with 
 him." (Splash.) Suddenly an idea came to 
 Elly — the Pasteur Boulot was the idea. "Why 
 should not he marry Mme. Jacob? He admires 
 her immensely. Ah! what fun that would 
 be!" (Splash, splash, a couple of stones.) And 
 then, tramp, tramp, on the shingle behind her, 
 and a cheery man's voice says, "Here you are!"
 
 224 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 Elly stares up in some surprise, and looks 
 pleased, and attempts to get up, but Will Dam- 
 pier — he was the man — sits down beside her, 
 opens his umbrella, and looks very odd. "I only 
 came down for the day," he said, after a little 
 preliminary talk. "I have been with aunt Jean; 
 she tells me you are going home to-morrow." 
 
 "Yes," says Elly, with a sigh; "but I'm to 
 come back again and see her in a little time." 
 
 "I'm glad of that," says the clergyman. 
 "What sort of place do you live in at Paris?" 
 
 "It is rather a dull place," says Elly. "I'm 
 very fond of my stepfather; besides him, there 
 is Anthony, and five young pupils, there is an 
 old French cook, and a cross maid, and my 
 
 mother, and a horri a sister of Monsieur 
 
 Tourneur's, and Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou, and 
 me." 
 
 "Why, that is quite a little colony," said 
 Dampier. "And what will you do there when 
 you get back?" 
 
 "I must see," said the girl, smiling. "Till 
 now I have done nothing at all; but that is
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 225 
 
 stupid work. I shall teach Tou-Tou and Lou- 
 Lou a little, and mind the house if my mother 
 will let me, and learn to cook from Francoise. I 
 have a notion that it may be useful some day or 
 other." 
 
 "Do, by all means," said Will; "it is a capital 
 idea. But as years go on, what do you mean 
 to do? Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou will grow up, 
 and you will have mastered the art of French 
 cookery " 
 
 "How can you ask such things?" Elly said, 
 looking out at the sea. "I cannot tell, or make 
 schemes for the future." 
 
 "Pray forgive me," said Will, "for asking such 
 a question, but have you any idea of marrying 
 M. Anthony eventually?" 
 
 "He is a dear old fellow," said Elly, flushing 
 up. "I am not going to answer any such ques- 
 tions. I am not half good enough for him — that 
 is my answer." 
 
 "But suppose ?" 
 
 "Pray don't suppose. I am not going to marry 
 anybody, or to think much about such things ever 
 
 The Story of Elizabeth. 15
 
 226 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 again. Ho you imagine that I am not the wiser 
 for all my experience?" 
 
 "Are you wise now?" said Will, still in his 
 odd manner. 
 
 "Look at that pretty little fishing-smack," 
 Elly interrupted. 
 
 "Show it," he went on, never heeding, "by 
 curing yourself of your fancy for my cousin John; 
 by curing yourself, and becoming some day a 
 really useful personage and member of society." 
 
 Elly stared at him, as well she might. 
 
 "Come back to England some day," he con- 
 tinued, still looking away, "to your home, to 
 your best vocation in life, to be happy, and use- 
 ful, and well-loved," he said, with a sweet in- 
 flexion in his voice; "that is no very hard fate." 
 
 "What are you talking about?" said Elly. 
 "How can I cure myself? How can I ever forget 
 what is past? I am not going to be discontented, 
 or to be particularly happy at home. I am going 
 to try — to try and do my best." 
 
 "Well, then, do your best to get cured of this 
 hopeless nonsense," said Mr. William Dampier,
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 227 
 
 "and turn your thoughts to real good sense, to 
 the real business of life, and to making yourself 
 and others happy, instead of wasting and maudling 
 away the next few best years of your life, regret- 
 ting and hankering after what is past and un- 
 attainable. For some strong minds, who can defy 
 the world, and stand alone without the need of 
 sympathy and sustainment, it is a fine thing to 
 be faithful to a chimera," he said, with a pathetic 
 ring in his voice. "But I assure you infidelity 
 is better still sometimes, more human, more 
 natural, particularly for a confiding and uncertain 
 person like yourself." Was he thinking of to-day 
 as he spoke? Was he only thinking of Elly, and 
 preaching only to her? 
 
 "You mean I had better marry him?" said 
 Elly, while her eyes filled up with tears, and she 
 knocked one stone against another. "And yet 
 aunt Jean says, 'No!' — that I need not think of 
 it. It seems to me as if I — I had rather jump 
 into the sea at once," said the girl, dashing the 
 stones away, "though I love him dearly, dear old 
 fellow!" 
 
 i5*
 
 2 28 HIE STORY OF F.UZABETH. 
 
 "I did not exactly mean M. Anthony," said 
 Will, looking round for the first time and smiling 
 at her tears and his own talk. 
 
 Elizabeth was puzzled still. For, in truth, her 
 sad experience had taught her to put but little 
 faith in kindness and implications of kindness — 
 to attach little meaning to the good-nature and 
 admiration a beautiful young woman was certain 
 to meet with on every side. It had not occurred 
 to her that Will, who had done so little, seen 
 her so few times, could be in love with her; when 
 John, for whom she would have died, who said 
 and looked so much, had only been playing with 
 her, and pitying her as if she had been a child; 
 and she said, still with tears, but not caring 
 much — 
 
 "I shall never give a different answer. I be- 
 lieve you are right, but I have not the courage to 
 try. I think I could try and be good if I stay as 
 I am; but to be bound and chained to Anthony 
 all the rest of my life — once I thought it possible; 
 
 but now You who advise it do not know what 
 
 it is."
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 229 
 
 "But I never advised it," Will said; "you 
 won't understand me. Dear Elizabeth, why 
 won't you see that it is of myself that I am 
 speaking?" 
 
 Elly felt for a moment as if the sea had 
 rushed up suddenly, and caught her away on its 
 billows, and then the next moment she found 
 that she was only sitting crying in the sun, on 
 the sands. 
 
 "Look here: every day I live, I get worse 
 and worse," she sobbed. "I flirt with one person 
 after another — I don't deserve that you should 
 ever speak to me again — I can't try and talk 
 about myself — I do like you, and — and yet I 
 know that the only person I care for really is the 
 one who does not care for me; and if I married 
 you to-morrow, and I saw John coming along the 
 street I should rush away to meet him. I don't 
 want to marry him, and I don't know what 
 I want. But, indeed, I have tried to be good. 
 You are stronger than me, don't be hard upon 
 me."
 
 2$0 THE STORY OF ELIZADETH. 
 
 "My dear little girl," said Will, loyally and 
 kindly, "don't be unhappy, you have not flirted 
 with me. I couldn't be hard upon you if I tried: 
 you are a faithful little soul. Shall I tell you 
 about myself? Once not so very long ago I liked 
 Tishy almost as well as you like John. There, 
 now, you see that you have done no great harm, 
 and only helped to cheer me up again, and I am 
 sure that you and I will be just as good friends 
 as ever. As for John," he added, in quite a 
 different tone, "the sooner you forget all about 
 him the better." 
 
 Will took her hand, which was lying limp on 
 the shingle, said " Good-by," took up his umbrella, 
 and walked away. 
 
 And so, by some strange arrangement, Elly 
 put away from her a second time the love of a 
 good and honourable man, and turned back im- 
 potently to the memory — it was no more — of 
 a dead and buried passion. Was this madness 
 or wisdom? Was this the decree of fate or of 
 folly?
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 23 I 
 
 She sat all in a maze, staring at the sea and 
 the wavelets, and in half an hour rushed into the 
 sitting-room, flung her arms round Miss Dampier's 
 neck, and told her all that happened.
 
 232 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Of all the gifts of heaven to us below, that felicity is the sum and 
 the chief. I tremble as I hold it, lest I should lose it, and be left alone 
 in the blank world without it. Again, I feel humiliated to thinlc that I 
 possess it: as hastening home to a warm fireside, and a plentiful table, 
 I feel ashamed sometimes before the poor outcast beggar shivering in 
 the street. 
 
 Elly expected, she did not know why, that 
 there would be some great difference when she 
 got back to the old house at Paris. Her heart 
 sank as Clementine, looking just as usual, opened 
 the great door, and stepped forward to help with 
 the box. She went into the courtyard. Those 
 cocks and hens were pecketting between the 
 stones, the poplar-trees shivering, Francoise in 
 her blue gown came out of the kitchen: it was 
 like one of the dreams which used to haunt her 
 pillow. This sameness and monotony was terrible. 
 Already in one minute it seemed to her that she 
 had never been away. Her mother and father 
 were out. Mme. Jacob came downstairs with the
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 233 
 
 children to greet her and see her. Ah! they had 
 got new frocks, and were grown — that was some 
 relief. Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou were not more de- 
 lighted with their little check black-and-white 
 alpacas than Elly was. 
 
 Anthony was away — she was glad. After 
 the first shock the girl took heart and courage, 
 and set herself to practise the good resolutions 
 she had made when she was away. It was not 
 so hard as she had fancied to be a little less ill- 
 tempered and discontented, because you see she 
 had really behaved so very badly before. But it 
 was not so easy to lead the cheerful devoted life 
 she had pictured to herself. Her mother was very 
 kind, very indifferent, very unhappy, Elizabeth 
 feared. She was ill too, and out of health, but 
 she bore great suffering with wonderful patience 
 and constancy. Tourneur looked haggard and 
 worn. Had he begun to discover that he could 
 not understand his wife, that he had not married 
 the woman he fancied he knew so well, but some 
 quite different person? Ill-temper, discontent, he 
 could have endured and dealt with, but a terrible
 
 234 THE ST0RY 0F ELIZABETH. 
 
 mistrust and doubt had come into his heart, he 
 did not know how or when, and had nearly 
 broken it. 
 
 A gloom seemed hanging over this sad house; 
 a sort of hopeless dreariness. Do you remember 
 how cheerful and contented Caroline had been 
 at first? By degrees she began to get a little 
 tired now and then — a little weary. All these 
 things grew just a little insipid and distasteful. 
 Do you know that torture to which some poor 
 slaves have been subjected? I believe it is only 
 a drop of water failing at regular intervals upon 
 their heads. At first they scarcely heed it, and 
 talk and laugh; then they become silent; and still 
 the drop falls and drips. And then they moan 
 and beg for mercy, and still it falls; and then 
 scream out with horror, and cry out for death, for 
 this is more than they can bear — but still it 
 goes on falling. I have read this somewhere, 
 and it seems to me that this applies to Caroline 
 Tourneur, and to the terrible life which had be- 
 gun for her. 
 
 Her health failed, and she daily lost strength
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 235 
 
 and interest in the things by which she was 
 surrounded; then they became wearisome. Her 
 tired frame was not equal to the constant exer- 
 tions she had imposed upon herself: from being 
 wearisome, they grew hateful to her; and, one by 
 one, she gave them up. Then the terrible same- 
 ness of a life in which her heart was no longer 
 set, seemed to crush her down day by day: a life 
 never lived from high and honourable motives, 
 but for mean and despicable ends; a life lofty 
 and noble to those who, with great hearts and 
 good courage, knew how to look beyond it, and 
 not to care for the things of the world, but dull 
 and terrible beyond expression to a woman whose 
 whole soul was set amidst the thorns and thistles; 
 and who had only rushed by chance into this 
 narrow path blindfold with passion and despair. 
 
 Now she has torn the bandage off her eyes; 
 now she is struggling to get out of it, and beating 
 against the thorns, and wearily trying to trace 
 back her steps. Elly used to cry out in her 
 childish way. Caroline, who is a woman, is silent, 
 and utters not one word of complaint; only her
 
 236 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 cheeks fall away and her eyes glare out of great 
 black rings. 
 
 Elly came home blooming and well, and was 
 shocked and frightened at first to see the change 
 which had come over her mother. She did not 
 ask the reason of it, but, as we all do sometimes, 
 accepted without much speculation the course 
 of events. Things come about so simply and 
 naturally that people are often in the midst of 
 strangest histories without having once thought 
 so, or wondered that it should be. Very soon all 
 the gloomy house, though she did not know it, 
 seemed brightened and cheered by her coming 
 home. Even Mme. Jacob relented a little when 
 she heard Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou's shouts of 
 laughter one day coming through the open win- 
 dow. The three girls were at work in the garden. 
 I do not know that they were doing much good 
 except to themselves. It was a keen, clear, bril- 
 liant winter morning, and the sun out of doors 
 put out the smouldering fires within. 
 
 The little girls were laughing and working 
 with all their hearts. Elly was laughing too,
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 237 
 
 and tearing up dried old plants, and heaping 
 broken flower-pots together. Almost happy, almost 
 contented, almost good. . . . And there is many 
 a worse state of mind than this. She was sighing 
 as she laughed, for she was thinking of herself, 
 pacing round and round the neglected garden once 
 not so long ago; then she thought of the church on 
 the hill-top, then of Will Dampier, and then of 
 John, and then she came upon a long wriggling 
 worm, and she jumped away and forgot to be 
 sentimental. Besides working in the garden, she 
 set to teaching the children in her mother's school. 
 What this girl turned her hand to, she always 
 did well and thoroughly. She even went to visit 
 some of the sick people, and though she never 
 took kindly to these exercises, the children liked 
 to say their lessons to her, and the sick people 
 were glad when she came in. She was very 
 popular with them all; perhaps the reason was, 
 that she did not do these things from a sense of 
 duty, and did not look upon the poor and the 
 sick as so many of us do, as a selfish means for 
 self-advancement; she went to them because it
 
 238 ink STORY Hi 1 ELIZABETH. 
 
 was more convenient for her to go than for any- 
 body else — she only thought of their needs, 
 grumbled at the trouble she was taking, and it 
 never occurred to her that this unconsciousness 
 was as good as a good conscience. 
 
 My dear little Elizabeth! I am glad that at 
 last she is behaving pretty well. Tourneur strokes 
 her head sometimes, and holds out his kind hand 
 to her when she comes into his room. His eyes 
 follow her fondly as if he were her father. One 
 day she told him about William Dampier. He 
 sighed as he heard the story. It was all ordained 
 for the best, he said to himself. But he would 
 have been glad to know her happy, and he patted 
 her cheek and went into his study. 
 
 Miss Dampier's letters were Elly's best trea- 
 sures: how eagerly she took them from Clemen- 
 tine's hands, how she tore them open and read 
 them once, twice, thrice! No novels interest 
 people so much as their own — a story in which 
 you have ever so little a part to enact thrills, and 
 excites, and amuses to the very last. You don't 
 skip the reflections; the descriptions do not weary.
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 239 
 
 I can fancy Elly sitting in a heap on the floor, 
 and spelling out Miss Dampier's; Tou-Tou and 
 Lou-Lou looking on with respectful wonder. 
 
 But suddenly the letters seemed to her to 
 change. They became short and reserved; they 
 were not interesting any more. Looked for so 
 anxiously, they only brought disappointment when 
 they came, and no word of the people about 
 whom she longed to hear, no mention of their 
 doings. Even Lady Dampier's name would have 
 been welcome. But there was nothing. It was 
 in vain she read and re-read so eagerly, longing 
 and thirsting for news. 
 
 Things were best as they were, she told her- 
 self a hundred times; and so, though poor Elly 
 sighed and wearied, and though her heart sank, 
 she did not speak to any one of her trouble: it 
 was a wholesome one, she told herself, one that 
 must be surmounted and overcome by patience. 
 Sometimes her work seemed almost greater than 
 her strength, and then she would go upstairs and 
 cry a little bit and pity herself, and sop up all 
 her tears, and then run round and round the gar-
 
 24O THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 den once or twice, and come back, with bright 
 eyes and glowing cheeks, to chatter with Francoise, 
 to look after her mother and Stephen Tourneur, 
 to scold the pupils and make jokes at them, to 
 romp with the little girls. 
 
 One day she found her letter waiting on the 
 hall-table, and tore it open with a trembling hope. 
 . . . Aunt Jean described the weather, the pigsty, 
 made valuable remarks on the news contained in 
 the daily papers, signed herself, ever her affec- 
 tionate old friend. And that was all. Was not 
 that enough? Elly asked herself, with such a sigh. 
 She was reading it over in the doorway of the 
 salle-a-manger, bonneted and cloaked, with all the 
 remains of the mid-day meal congealing and dis- 
 ordered on the table. 
 
 "Es-tu prete, Elizabeth?" said Tou-Tou, com- 
 ing in with a little basket — there were no stones 
 in it this time. "Tiens, voila ce que ma tante 
 envoie a cette pauvre Madame Jonnes." 
 
 Madame Jonnes was only Mrs. Jones, only 
 an old woman dying in a melancholy room hard- 
 by — in a melancholy room in a deserted street,
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 24 1 
 
 where there were few houses, but long walls, 
 where the mould was feeding, and yellow placards 
 were pasted and defaced and flapping in shreds, 
 and where Elly, picking her little steps over the 
 stones, saw blades of grass growing between 
 them. There was a chantier — a great wood- 
 yard — on one side; now and then a dark door- 
 way leading into a black and filthy court, out of 
 which a gutter would come with evil smells, flow- 
 ing murkily into the street; in the distance, two 
 figures passing; a child in a nightcap, thumping 
 a doll upon a kerbstone; a dog snuffing at a 
 heap; at the end of the street the placarded backs 
 of tall houses built upon a rising ground; a man 
 in a blouse wheeling a truck, and singing out 
 dismally; and meanwhile, good old Mrs. Jones 
 was dying close at hand, under this black and 
 crumbling doorway, in a room opening with cracked 
 glass-doors upon the yard. 
 
 She was lying alone upon her bed; the nurse 
 they had sent to her was gossiping with the porter 
 in his lodge. Kindly and dimly her eyes opened 
 and smiled somehow at the girl, out of the 
 
 TJie Story of Elizabeth. 1 6
 
 242 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 faded bed, out of a mystery of pain, of grief, and 
 solitude. 
 
 It was a mystery indeed, which Elizabeth, 
 standing beside it, could not understand, though 
 she herself had lain so lately and so resignedly 
 upon a couch of sickness. Age, abandonment, 
 seventy years of life — how many of grief and 
 trouble? As she looked at the dying, indifferent 
 face, she saw that they were almost ended. And 
 in the midst of her pity and shrinking compassion 
 Elly thought to herself that she would change all 
 with the sick woman, at that minute, to have en- 
 dured, to have surmounted so much. 
 
 She sat with her till the dim twilight came 
 through the dirty and patched panes of the 
 windows. Even as she waited there her thoughts 
 went wandering, and she was trying to picture to 
 herself faces and scenes that she could not see. 
 She knew that the shadows were creeping round 
 about those whom she loved, as quietly as they 
 were rising here in this sordid room. It was their 
 evening as it was hers; and then she said to 
 herself that they who made up so large a part of
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 243 
 
 her life must, perforce, think of her sometimes: 
 
 she was part of their lives, even though they 
 
 should utterly neglect and forget and abandon 
 
 her; even though they should never meet again 
 
 from this day; though she should never hear their 
 
 names so much as mentioned; though their paths 
 
 should separate for ever. For a time they had 
 
 travelled the same road — ah! she was thankful 
 
 even for so much; and she unconsciously pressed 
 
 the wasted hand she was holding: and then her 
 
 heart thrilled with tender, unselfish gladness as 
 
 the feeble fingers tried to clasp hers, and the 
 
 faltering whisper tried to bless. 
 
 She came home sad and tired from her sick 
 
 woman's bedside, thinking of the last kind gleam 
 
 of the eyes as she left the room. She went 
 
 straight upstairs and took off her shabby dress, 
 
 and found another, and poured out water and 
 
 bathed her face. Her heart was beating, her 
 
 hands trembling. She was remembering and 
 
 regretting; she was despairing and longing, and 
 
 yet resigned, as she had learnt to be of late. She 
 
 leant against the wall for a minute before she 
 
 i6»
 
 244 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 went down; she was dressed in the blue dress, 
 with her favourite little locket hanging round her 
 neck. She put her hand tiredly to her head; and 
 so she stood, as she used to stand when she was 
 a child, in a sort of dream, and almost out of the 
 world. And as she was waiting a knock came 
 at the door. It was Clementine who knocked, 
 and who said, in the sing-song way in which 
 Frenchwomen speak — "Mademoiselle, voila pour 
 vous." 
 
 It was too dark to see anything, except that 
 it was another familiar-looking letter. Elly made 
 up her mind not to be disappointed any more, 
 and went downstairs leisurely to the study, where 
 she knew she should find Tourneur's lamp alight. 
 And she crossed the hall and turned the handle 
 of the door, and opened it and went in. 
 
 The lamp, with its green shade on the table, 
 lit up one part of the room, but in the duskiness, 
 standing by the stove and talking eagerly, were 
 two people whom she could not distinguish very 
 plainly. One of them was Tourneur, who looked
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 245 
 
 round and came to meet her, and took her hand; 
 and the other .... 
 
 Suddenly her heart began to beat so that her 
 breath was taken away. What was this? Who 
 
 was this ? What chance had she come upon? 
 
 Such mad hopes as hers, were they ever fulfilled? 
 Was this moment, so sudden, so unlooked for, the 
 one for which she had despaired and longed; for 
 which she had waited and lived through an 
 eternity of grief? Was it John Dampier into 
 whose hand Tourneur put hers? Was she still 
 asleep and dreaming one of those delighting but 
 terrible dreams, from which, ah me! she must 
 awake? In this dream she heard the pasteur 
 saying, "II a bien des choses a, vous dire, Eliza- 
 beth," and then he seemed to go away and to 
 leave them. 
 
 In this dream, bewildered and trembling, with 
 a desperate effort, she pulled her hand away, 
 and said, "What does it mean? Where is Tishy? 
 Why do you come, John? Why don't you leave 
 me in peace?" 
 
 And then it was a dream no longer, but a tnith
 
 246 TIIE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 and a reality, when John began to speak in his 
 familiar way, and she heard his voice, and saw 
 him before her, and — yes, it was he; and he said, 
 "Tishy and I have had a quarrel, Elly. We are 
 nothing to one another any more, and so I have 
 come to you — to — to — tell you that I have be- 
 haved like a fool all this time." And he turned 
 very red as he spoke, and then he was silent, and 
 then he took both her hands and spoke again: 
 "Tell me, dear," he said, looking up into her 
 sweet eyes, — "Elly, tell me, would you — won't 
 you — be content with a fool for a husband?" And 
 Elizabeth Gilmour only answered, "Oh, John, 
 John!" and burst into a great flood of happy 
 tears: tears which fell raining peace and calm 
 after this long drought and misery; tears which 
 seemed to speak to him, and made him sad, and 
 yet happier than he had ever dreamt of or 
 imagined; tears which quieted her, soothed her, 
 and healed all her troubles. 
 
 Before John went away that night, Elly read 
 Miss Dampier's letter, which explained his ex- 
 planations. The old lady wrote in a state of in-
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 247 
 
 coherent excitement. — It was some speech of 
 Will's which had brought the whole thing about. 
 
 "What did he say?" Elly asked, looking up 
 from the letter, with her shining eyes. 
 
 Sir John said, "He asked me if I did not 
 remember that church on the hill, at Boatstown? 
 We were all out in the garden, by the old statue 
 of the nymph. Tishy suddenly stopped, and 
 turned upon me, and cried out, when was I last 
 at Boatstown? And then I was obliged to confess, 
 and we had a disagreeable scene enough, and 
 she appealed to William — gave me my conge, and 
 I was not sorry, Elly." 
 
 "But had you never told her about ?" 
 
 "It was from sheer honesty that I was silent," 
 said Sir John; "a man who sincerely wishes to 
 keep his word doesn't say, 'Madam, I like some 
 one else, but I will marry you if you insist upon 
 it;' only the worst of it is, that we were both 
 uncomfortable, and I now find she suspected me 
 the whole time. She sent me a note in the even- 
 ing. Look here:" —
 
 248 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 The note said — 
 
 "I have been thinking about what I said just 
 now in the garden. I am more than ever decided 
 that it is best we two should part. But I do not 
 choose to say good-by to you in an angry spirit, 
 and so this is to tell you that I forgive you all 
 the injustice of your conduct to me. Everybody 
 seems to have been in a league to deceive me, 
 and I have not found out one true friend among 
 you all. How could you for one moment imagine 
 that I should wish to marry a man who preferred 
 another woman? You may have been influenced 
 and worked upon; but for all that I should never 
 be able to place confidence in you again, and I 
 feel it is best and happiest for us both that all 
 should be at an end between us. 
 
 "You will not wonder that, though I try to 
 forgive you, I cannot help feeling indignant at 
 the way in which I have been used. I could 
 never understand exactly what was going on in 
 your mind. You were silent, you equivocated; 
 and not you only, everybody seems to have been
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 249 
 
 thinking of themselves, and never once for me. 
 Even William, who professes to care for me still, 
 only spoke by chance, and revealed the whole 
 history. When he talked to you about Boatstown, 
 some former suspicions of mine were confirmed, 
 and by the most fortunate chance two people have 
 been saved from a whole lifetime of regret. 
 
 "I will not trust myself to think of the way 
 in which I should have been bartered had I only 
 discovered the truth when it was too late. If I 
 speak plainly, it is in justice to myself, and from 
 no unkindness to you; for though I bid you fare- 
 well, I can still sincerely sign myself, 
 
 "Yours affectionately, 
 
 "LjETITIA." 
 
 Elly read the letter, and gave it back to him, 
 and sighed, then smiled, then sighed again, and 
 then went on with Miss Dampier's epistle. 
 
 For some time past Jean Dampier wrote she 
 had noticed a growing suspicion and estrangement 
 between the engaged couple. John was brusque 
 and morose at times, Tishy cross and defiant. He
 
 25O THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 used to come over on his brown mare, and stop 
 at the cottage gate, and ask about Elly, and then 
 interrupt her before she could answer and change 
 the talk. He used to give her messages to send, 
 and then retract them. He was always philoso- 
 phizing and discoursing about first affections. 
 Lsetitia, too, used to come and ask about Elly. 
 
 Miss Dampier hoped that John himself would 
 put an end to this false situation. She did not 
 know how to write about either of them to Elly. 
 Her perplexities had seemed unending. 
 
 "But I also never heard that you came to 
 Boatstown," Elly said. 
 
 "And yet I saw you there," said John, " stand- 
 ing at the end of the pier." And then he went 
 on to tell her a great deal more, and to confess 
 all that he had thought while he was waiting 
 for her. 
 
 Elly passed her hand across her eyes with the 
 old familiar action. 
 
 "And you came to Boatstown, and you went 
 away when you read Tishy's writing, and
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 25 1 
 
 you had the heart to be angry with me?" she 
 said. 
 
 "I was worried, and out of temper," said John. 
 "I felt I was doing wrong when I ran away from 
 Tishy. I blamed you because I was in a rage 
 with myself. I can't bear to think of it. But I 
 was punished, Elly. Were you ever jealous?" 
 She laughed and nodded her head. "I daresay 
 not," he went on; "when I sailed away and saw 
 you standing so confidentially with Will Dampier, 
 I won't try and tell you what I suffered. I could 
 bear to give you up — but to see you another 
 
 man's wife Elly, I know you never were 
 
 jealous, or you would understand what I felt at 
 that moment." 
 
 When their tete-ct-tete was over they went 
 into the next room. All the family congratulated 
 them, Madame Tourneur among the rest; she 
 was ill and tired that evening, and lying on the 
 yellow Utrecht velvet sofa. But it was awkward 
 for them and uncomfortable, and John went 
 home early to his inn. As Elly went up to 
 bed that night Francoise brought her one other
 
 252 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 piece of news — Madame Jonnes was dead. They 
 had sent to acquaint the police. But Elly was 
 so happy, that, though she tried, she could not 
 be less happy because of this. All the night 
 she lay awake, giving thanks and praise, and 
 saying over to herself, a hundred times, "At last 
 —at last!" 
 
 At last! after all this long rigmarole. At 
 last! after all these despairing adjectives and 
 adverbs. At last! after all these thousands of 
 hours of grief and despair. Did not that one 
 minute almost repay her for them all? She 
 went on telling herself, as I have said, that this 
 was a dream — from which she need never awake. 
 And I, who am writing her story, wonder if it is 
 so — wonder if even to such dreams as these there 
 may not be a waking one day, when all the 
 visions that surround us shall vanish and dis- 
 appear for ever into eternal silence and oblivion. 
 Dear faces — voices whose tones speak to us even 
 more familiarly than the tender words which 
 they utter! It would, in truth, seem almost too 
 hard to bear, if we did not guess — if we were
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 253 
 
 not told — how the love which makes such things 
 so dear to us endures in the eternity out of which 
 they have passed. 
 
 Happiness like Elly's is so vague and so great 
 that it is impossible to try to describe it. To a 
 nature like hers, full of tenderness, faithful and 
 eager, it came like a sea, ebbing and flowing with 
 waves, and with the sun shining and sparkling 
 on the water, and lighting the fathoms below. 
 I do not mean to say that my poor little heroine 
 was such a tremendous creature that she could 
 compass the depths and wide extent of a sea 
 in her heart. Love is not a thing which belongs 
 to any one of us individually; it is everywhere, 
 here and all round about, and sometimes people's 
 hearts are opened, and they guess at it, and 
 realize that it is theirs. 
 
 Dampier came early next morning, looking 
 kind and happy and bright, to fetch her for a 
 walk; Elly was all blue ribbons and blue eyes; 
 her feet seemed dancing against her will, she 
 could hardly walk quietly along. Old Francoise 
 looked after them as they walked off towards
 
 254 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 the Bois de Boulogne; Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou 
 peeped from their bed-room window. The sun was 
 shining, the sky had mounted Elly's favourite 
 colours.
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 255 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 O blessed rest, O royal night ! 
 
 Wherefore seemeth the time so long 
 Till I see yon stars in their fullest light, 
 
 And list to their loudest song? 
 
 When I first saw Lady Dampier she had only 
 been married a day or two. I had been staying 
 at Guildford, and I drove over one day to see 
 my old friend Jean Dampier. I came across the 
 hills and by Coombe Bottom and along the lanes, 
 and through the little village street, and when I 
 reached the cottage I saw Elly, of whom I had 
 heard so much, standing at the gate. She was 
 a very beautiful young woman, tall and straight, 
 with the most charming blue eyes, a sweet frank 
 voice, and a taking manner, and an expression 
 on her face that I cannot describe. She had a 
 blue ribbon in her hair, which was curling in a 
 crop. She held her hat full of flowers; behind 
 her the lattices of the cottage were gleaming in
 
 256 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 the sun; the creepers were climbing and flowering 
 about the porch. 
 
 All about rose a spring incense of light, of 
 colour, of perfume. The country folks were at 
 work in the fields and on the hills. The light 
 shone beyond the church spire, beyond the cot- 
 tages and glowing trees. Inside the cottage, 
 through the lattice, I could see aunt Jean nod- 
 ding over her knitting. 
 
 She threw down her needles to welcome me. 
 Of course I was going to stay to tea — and I said 
 that was my intention in coming. As the sun set, 
 the clouds began to gather, coming quickly we 
 knew not from whence; but we were safe and 
 dry, sitting by the lattice and gossiping, and 
 meanwhile Miss Dampier went on with her work. 
 
 Elly had been spending the day with her, she 
 told me. Sir John was to come for her, and 
 presently he arrived, dripping wet, through the 
 April shower which was now pouring over the 
 fields. 
 
 The door of the porch opens into the little 
 dining-room, where the tea was laid: a wood fire
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 257 
 
 was crackling in the tall cottage chimney. Eliza- 
 beth was smiling by the hearth, toasting cakes 
 with one hand and holding a book in the other, 
 when the young man walked in. 
 
 He came into the room where we were sitting 
 and shook hands with us both, and then he 
 laughed and said he must go and dry himself by 
 the fire, and he went back. 
 
 So Jean Dampier and I sat mumbling con- 
 fidences in the inner room, and John and Elly 
 were chattering to one another by the burning 
 wood logs. 
 
 The door was open which led, with a step, 
 into the dining-room, where the wood fire was 
 burning. Darkness was setting in. The rain was 
 over, the clouds swiftly breaking and coursing 
 away, and such a bright, mild-eyed little star 
 peeped in through the lattice at us two old maids 
 in the window. It was a shame to hear, but 
 how could we help it? Out of the fire-lit room 
 the voices came to us, and when we ceased 
 chattering for an instant, we heard them so 
 plainly — 
 
 The Story of Elizabeth. I 7
 
 258 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 "I saw Will to-day," said a voice. "He was 
 talking about Laetitia. I think there will be some 
 news of them before long. Should you be glad?" 
 
 "Ah! so glad. I don't want to be the only 
 happy woman in the world." 
 
 "My dearest Elly!" said the kind voice. 
 
 "And you will never regrel^ And are you 
 
 happy?" 
 
 "Can you ask?" said Elly. "Come into the 
 porch, and I will tell you." And then there was 
 a gust of fresh rain-scented air, and a soft rustle, 
 and the closing click of a door. And then we 
 saw them pass the window, and Jean clasped my 
 hand very tightly, and flung her arms round my 
 neck, and gave me a delighted kiss. 
 
 "You dear, silly woman," said I, "how glad 
 I am they are so happy together." 
 
 "I hope she won't catch cold," said Jean, look- 
 ing at the damp walks. "Could not you take out 
 a shawl?" 
 
 "Let her catch cold!" said I; "and in the 
 meantime give me some tea, if you please. Re- 
 member, I have got to drive home in the dark."
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 259 
 
 So we went into the next room. Jean rang 
 for the candles. The old silver candlesticks were 
 brought in by Kitty on a tray. 
 
 "Don't shut the curtains," said Miss Dampier; 
 "and come here, Mary, and sit by the fire." 
 
 While Elizabeth and John Dampier were 
 wandering up and down in the dark damp garden, 
 Jenny and I were comfortably installed by the 
 fire drinking hot, sweet tea, and eating toasted 
 cakes, and preserves, and cream. I say we, but 
 that is out of modesty, for she had no appetite, 
 whereas I was very hungry. 
 
 "Heigho!" said Jean, looking at the fire. "It's 
 a good thing to be young, Mary. Tell me honestly : 
 what would you give " 
 
 "To be walking in the garden with young 
 Dampier," said I (and I burst out laughing), 
 "without a cloak, or an umbrella, or india-rub- 
 bers? My dear Jenny, where are your five 
 wits?" 
 
 "Where indeed?" said Jean, with another 
 sigh. "Yet I can remember when you used to 
 cry instead of laughing over such things, Mary." 
 
 17*
 
 260 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 Her sadness had made me sad. Whilst the 
 young folks were whispering outside, it seemed 
 as if we two old women were sitting by the fire 
 and croaking the elegy of all youth, and love, 
 and happiness. "The night is coming for you 
 and me, Jenny," I said. "Dear me, how quickly." 
 
 "The night is at hand," echoed she, softly, 
 and she passed her fingers across her eyes, and 
 then sighed, and got up slowly and went to the 
 door which opened into the porch. And then I 
 heard her call me. "Come here!" she said, 
 "Mary!" And then I, too, rose stiffly from my 
 chair, and went to her. The clouds had cleared 
 away. From the little porch, where the sweet- 
 briar was climbing, we could see all the myriad 
 worlds of heaven, alight and blazing, and circling 
 in their infinite tracks. An awful, silent harmony, 
 power and peace, and light and life eternal — a 
 shining benediction seemed to be there hanging 
 above our heads. "This is the night," she whis- 
 pered, and took my hand in hers. 
 
 And so this is the end of the story of Eliza- 
 beth Gilmour, whose troubles, as I have said,
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 26 t 
 
 were not very great; who is a better woman, I 
 fancy, than if her life had been the happy life 
 she prophesied to herself. Deeper tones and un- 
 derstandings must have come to her out of the 
 profoundness of her griefs, such as they were. For 
 when other troubles came, as they come to all as 
 years go by, she had learnt to endure and to care 
 for others, and to be valiant and to be brave. 
 And I do not like her the less because I have 
 spoken the truth about her, and written of her as 
 the woman she is. 
 
 I went to Paris a little time ago. I saw the 
 old grass-grown court; I saw Francoise and An- 
 thony, and Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou, who had grown 
 up two pretty and modest and smiling young 
 girls. The old lady at Asnieres had done what 
 was expected, and died and left her fortune to 
 Tou-Tou, her goddaughter. (The little Chinese 
 pagoda is still to let.) Poor Madame Jacob did 
 not, however, enjoy this good luck, for she died 
 suddenly one day, some months before it came to 
 them. But you may be sure that the little girls
 
 262 THE STORY OF ELTZARF.TH. 
 
 had still a father in Tourneur, and Caroline too 
 was very kind to them in her uncertain way. She 
 loved them because they were so unlike herself — 
 so gentle, and dull, and guileless. Anthony asked 
 me a great many questions about Elizabeth and 
 her home, and told me that he meant to marry 
 Lou-Lou eventually. He is thin and pale, with 
 a fine head like his father, and a quiet manner. 
 He works very hard, he earns very little — he 
 is one of the best men I ever knew in my life. 
 As I talked to him, I could not but compare him 
 to Will Dampier and to John, who are also good 
 men. But then they are prosperous and well-to- 
 do, with well-stored granaries, with vineyards and 
 fig-trees, with children growing up round them. 
 I was wondering if Elizabeth, who chose her hus- 
 band because she loved him, and for no better 
 reason, might not have been as wise if she could 
 have appreciated the gifts better than happiness, 
 than well-stored granaries, than vineyards, than 
 fig-trees, which Anthony held in his hand to offer? 
 Who shall say? Self-denial and holy living are 
 better than ease and prosperity? But for that
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 263 
 
 reason some people wilfully turn away from the 
 mercies of heaven, and call the angels devils, and 
 its gracious bounties temptation. 
 
 Anthony has answered this question to himself 
 as we all must do. His father looks old and 
 worn. I fear there is trouble still under his roof — 
 trouble, whatever it may be, which is borne with 
 Christian and courageous resignation by the master 
 of the house: he seems, somehow, in these later 
 years to have risen beyond it. A noble reliance 
 and peace are his; holy thoughts keep him com- 
 pany. The affection between him and his son is 
 very touching. 
 
 Madame Tourneur looks haggard and weary: 
 and one day, when I happened to tell her I was 
 going away, she gasped out suddenly — "Ah! 
 
 what would I not give " and then was silent 
 
 and turned aside. But she remains with her hus- 
 band, which is more than I should have given 
 her credit for. 
 
 And so when the appointed hour came, I drove 
 off, and all the personages of my story came out 
 to bid me farewell. I looked back for the last
 
 264 THE STORY OF ELIZAHKTH. 
 
 time at the courtyard with the hens pecketting 
 round about the kitchen door; at the garden with 
 the weeds and flowers tangling together in the 
 sun; at the shadows falling across the stones of 
 the yard. I could fancy Elizabeth a prisoner 
 within those walls, beating like a bird against the 
 bars of the cage, and revolting and struggling to 
 be free. 
 
 The old house is done away with and exists 
 no longer. It was pulled down by order of the 
 Government, and a grand new boulevard runs 
 right across the place where it stood. 
 
 THE END.
 
 


 
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 1884
 
 
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