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 THE STORY 
 
 OF 
 
 ELEANOR LAMBERT 
 
 THE " UNKNOWN" LIBRA R\
 
 THE 
 
 "UNKNOWN" I.IBKARY. 
 
 i. MLLE. IXE. By I 
 Falconer. 
 
 2. STORY OF ELEANOR 
 
 LAMBERT. By Magda- 
 len Bki '"ki . 
 
 3. MYSTERY OF THE 
 
 CAMPAGNA. By Von 
 
 J 11 si
 
 THE " UNKNOWN" LIBRARY 
 
 THE STORY 
 
 OF 
 
 Eleanor Lambert 
 
 MAGDALEN BROOKE 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 tCASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 104 & 106 Fourth Avenue 
 
 [
 
 1 IPYR1CHT, 1H91, nv 
 
 1 I I PUBL] -HIM, I OMPANY. 
 A 11 rights reserved. 
 
 THR MERSHON CriMI'ANV :'RESS, 
 RAH WAY, N. J. 
 
 i
 
 n< 
 
 THE STORY OF ELEANOR 
 LAMBERT. 
 
 I. 
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 " For kind 
 Calm years, exacting their accompl 
 Of pain, mature the mind." 
 
 — Robert Browning. 
 
 AR away in the depths 
 of the country, in the 
 very heart of England, 
 where green meadows 
 stretch their length 
 under the shade of 
 mighty trees, so far from the 
 strong sea-winds of the coast that 
 they have leisure to grow to their 
 full height and girth erect to the 
 i
 
 2 : ! 0R1 01 l l.i INOB I \mi:i i: i . 
 
 skies ; where the deep lanes ai 
 a glory of wild rose, honeysuckle, 
 traveler's joy, wild convolvulus 
 and briony in their season, and 
 where the wild strawberries, the 
 delight of children, run riot on 
 the banks ; — down in this land of 
 peace and gentle, homely beauty, 
 there stands a long, low, red- 
 brick house, called from time out 
 of mind High Trees, perhaps 
 because the great elms which are 
 the glory of its smiling fields and 
 pleasant gardens were famous 
 even before the ancestors of its 
 present owners built the long 
 irregular brick house which kept 
 their name. 
 
 The house consists of but two 
 stories, and the kitchens and 
 offices run back at one end apart, 
 cool and shady, and ending in 
 the dairy with its delicious 
 shadowed light and freshness, 
 scented with the rich yellow 
 cream as it rises in the broad 
 red pans ; — a place to dream of 
 under the fierce suns of the 
 tropics.
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 3 
 
 On the ground floor, the rooms, 
 unlike those of many houses 
 built at about the same period, 
 are large, though a little low- 
 pitched ; with wide, small-paned 
 windows fitted with seats on 
 which one may dream away a 
 happy hour as one gazes over 
 the old garden, with its soft, 
 mossy turf, its whispering larches 
 and firs, and its borders of damask 
 and Provence roses, mignonette, 
 candy-tuft, and all sweet, old- 
 fashioned flowers ; where the 
 bees hum at their much-belauded 
 industry, whiie the irresponsible 
 butterflies poise and hover over 
 each blossom in turn, to alight 
 at length, like some flattered 
 beauty, where they can best show 
 off the marvellous, dainty perfec- 
 tion of their form and color. 
 
 From the perfumed flower- 
 garden you pass by a short path 
 bordered with currant bushes — 
 thus making an easy descent into 
 a more prosaic world — to the 
 walled kitchen-garden with its 
 old-world iron gate.
 
 STORY OF I I 1 \\"K LAMBERT. 
 
 Prosaic, dfd I say ? 
 
 That old walled garden, with 
 its homely vegetables and its 
 fruit-trees, is a fairyland of beauty 
 ami color. 
 
 Not to speak of its border of 
 roses, carnations, poppies, orange 
 eschol/a'as, and purple and white 
 Michaelmas daisies, who could 
 paint properly the stately grove 
 of Jerusalem artichokes, the 
 feathery plumes of the asparagus, 
 the glorious tints of the carrot- 
 leaves as the year draws on, the 
 crimson and purple of the beet- 
 root — nay, even the magic tints 
 of the common cabbage ? 
 
 One might wander for days 
 in that warm and enchanted 
 paradise of household vegetables, 
 and ever discover new beauties. 
 
 Then the beds of sweet herbs ! 
 The sage with its soft-felted leaf 
 of cold gray-green ; the thyme 
 in flower — one mass of dim 
 purple, over which the bees and 
 flies sing unending paeans — the 
 mint with its strong, green shoots 
 and penetrating scent !
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 5 
 
 To be in that old garden on a 
 sweet summer day, while the soft 
 wind played in the trees, and the 
 little white clouds sailed miles 
 above in the blue sky, was to be 
 reconciled with life and to believe 
 in the restoration of all things to 
 their original destiny. 
 
 Round about the gardens lie 
 the meadows, divided by hedge- 
 rows, where large trees stand up 
 at intervals ; peaceful, happy 
 fields, in which the grass grew 
 to harvest and the hay was 
 mown by the mower's scythe, 
 and made and stacked by the 
 farm-servants and the house- 
 servants, while master and 
 mistress gave a willing helping 
 hand. 
 
 Some thirty-five years ago the 
 possessor of the old house was a 
 maiden lady of mature years, 
 the only remaining member of 
 the somewhat numerous family 
 of the late Mr. Escote of High 
 Trees, whose death, some five 
 years before, had left his daugh- 
 ter and dear companion his sole
 
 6 STORY 01 ELEANOR LAMBERT. 
 
 heiress; the property passing at 
 her death — since she was un- 
 married — to a distant cousin, an 
 Escote of another branch. 
 
 Mr. Escote of High Trees had 
 married, very early in life, a 
 beautiful girl, some years older 
 than himself, and of extremely 
 delicate constitution. 
 
 It had not been a very happy 
 marriage, for Mrs. Escote's 
 delicacy, which gave a fictitious 
 gentleness and softness to her 
 manner, was by no means a true 
 index of her character, while this 
 very delicacy of health was a 
 tremendous engine of power ; 
 for who but a brute — and Mr. 
 Escote was the most tender- 
 hearted of men — could insist on 
 having his own way, even in 
 matters of importance, to the 
 sound of a perpetual plaintive 
 moan over his cruelty to such a 
 sufferer as she ? 
 
 Moreover he loved the beautiful 
 sufferer, and felt so keenly her 
 goodness in marrying him — 
 although, as she had been a
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. J 
 
 penniless orphan living with an 
 extremely disagreeable uncle, it 
 was difficult for others to see 
 where the goodness lay — that he 
 could not be hard on her. Her 
 love for him, never very strong, 
 and consisting principally of 
 appreciation of his worship of 
 her and of his worldly advantages, 
 dwindled, as the years of peevish 
 invalidism on the one side and 
 of patient kindness on the other, 
 went on, into the merest thread 
 of remembered sentiment. 
 
 Of their five children, all 
 except Anne, the eldest-born, 
 inherited their mother's weak 
 constitution and died in infancy 
 or early childhood. In Mr. 
 Escote's great love for his ailing 
 wife, he hid deep down in his 
 ■ large heart the grief the succes- 
 sive loss of each little cherished 
 fair-haired lad or lass caused 
 him ; — for must not the mother's 
 grief be deeper far than his? 
 
 And yet it may be doubted, 
 for the "grief that does not 
 speak " wastes no power in out-
 
 8 STORV "i i ii \ No| . LAMB1 R i. 
 
 ward expression, but uses all its 
 weapons to rend its hiding-place. 
 
 Mrs. Escotc lamented her 
 losses loudly, and as if they were 
 but part and parcel of the con- 
 spiracy of tilings in general t<i 
 add to her sufferings; hut it 
 was noticeable that while her 
 husband's heart clung to their 
 sole remaining child with a 
 passion of love and tenderness 
 that he did not strive to conceal, 
 the mother seemed rather to 
 resent in her the health and 
 strength which had preserved 
 her from the fate of her four 
 little brothers and sisters, and as 
 she grew older and developed a 
 wholesome robustness and sturdy 
 will of her own, was often heard 
 to exclaim that she could not 
 imagine how she could ever have 
 had a great rough child like that 
 — it was unfortunate that Anne 
 took so entirely after her father! 
 This last accusation was un- 
 doubtedly true, for Anne, instead 
 of inheriting Mrs. Escot* 
 slender, swaying figure, her
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 9 
 
 beautiful features and fragile 
 bloom, was tall and large, and 
 formed for strength rather than 
 grace, like her father, from whom 
 
 ic had also inherited the clear, 
 true gray eyes, shaded by dark 
 
 urling lashes — the only beauty 
 of either face. 
 
 When Anne was about eighteen, 
 
 cr mother's fretful wail of life 
 wore itself slowly away into 
 
 ilence, and tended and com- 
 forted in the last dread days by 
 the same unchanging love of 
 her husband — which somehow 
 seemed to grow more precious 
 now that it could hold her so 
 little longer — and nursed by the 
 capable and willing hands of the 
 daughter, whose health and 
 strength seemed now to have 
 some virtue in them, the poor 
 woman sank quietly to rest. 
 
 Mr. Escote mourned his wife 
 with the sorrow of a faithful 
 heart which finds in itself all the 
 springs of loss. He forgot in 
 her all but his own love for the 
 beautiful wife of his youth and
 
 IO STORY "I I l.F.ANOR LAMBERT. 
 
 the bereaved mother of his dea< 
 babies ; while his tenderness fo 
 his daughter seemed, if possible, 
 to grow even greater now tha 
 she was the sole living rccipien 
 of it. 
 
 In the years that passed befon 
 his death — at which time hi 
 daughter was past middle lif< 
 the companionship between then 
 grew ever closer and closer 
 Their tastes were the same 
 their sympathies alike ; thci 
 opinions differing enough at 
 times to rouse discussion, whicl 
 their common basis of mora 
 nature kept from any touch of 
 bitterness or malice ; and whci 
 he died, she lost father, dearcs 
 friend, staunchest comrade, in 
 one. 
 
 Into Anne Escotc's peaceful 
 life but one great heart trouble 
 had come, and that wound had 
 so long healed over that now it 
 only ached at times with an in- 
 d< finite pain that was like the 
 ache of life itself. The wound 
 had been given so long ago, and
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. II 
 
 the giver had proved so unworthy, 
 that it was more a lament over 
 the dear lost sentiment than the 
 lost lover. 
 
 When Anne was in her twenty- 
 first year, a far-away cousin, 
 whom she had not seen since he 
 was a schoolboy, having returned 
 invalided from India, was invited 
 to spend part of his sick-leave 
 at High Trees, and the natural 
 result speedily followed. Anne, 
 with her vigorous health and 
 plain face, was attracted at once 
 by the handsome invalid, who 
 let her wait upon him hand and 
 foot, thanking her with honeyed 
 phrases, while he dawdled away 
 a pleasant summer in that de- 
 licious paradise of garden and 
 meadow. 
 
 They sat in the walled fruit- 
 garden, he reading poetry to her 
 when the fancy seized him — he 
 had a pretty taste for verse — 
 while she plucked for him the 
 ripest strawberries, or hanging 
 bunches of the beautiful pale 
 pink Champagne currants from
 
 12 STORV 01 I I I INOR I. AMI:! R I . 
 
 the bush which had been looked 
 upon as her especial property 
 since her babyhood. 
 
 How was she to know thai 
 Captain Dick Lambert had said 
 as pretty things to a score of 
 others before she ever set eyes 
 on him, or had looked with those 
 appealing blue eyes of his into 
 as many ladies' faces with much 
 the same expression, sure of ob- 
 taining an answering flutter in 
 the heart of each ? 
 
 However, in this case Captain 
 Lambert really meant business, 
 for Miss Escotc was an heiress 
 in her way; and an extravagant 
 and impecunious younger son, 
 with but a small allowance be- 
 yond his pay, must not be too 
 particular — though the girl cer- 
 tainly was plain and awkward. 
 
 Still, since he could not hope 
 to get High Trees without her, 
 he must make up his mind to it ; 
 so he proposed in form, and was 
 accepted with joy and tender 
 worship by the woman who 
 thought it wonderful that such a
 
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 13 
 
 resplendent hero should love her, 
 and who was worth a million of 
 such as she. 
 
 Then there came a season — 
 alas ! a short and fleeting season 
 — of happiness; and then — Mr. 
 Escote, in one of his rare vis- 
 its to London, heard rumors of 
 his intended son-in-law's doings 
 which aroused suspicions in his 
 mind, suspicions but too forcibly 
 proved to be correct ; and after 
 weeks of agonized revolt against 
 the horrible truth and wild 
 struggles to believe still in her 
 hero's tarnished fame, during 
 which even her father seemed to 
 be her enemy, Anne's brave mind 
 consented to face the hard facts, 
 and the unworthy lover was dis- 
 missed, and even his name passed 
 away into a silence as of the 
 grave. 
 
 After events proved the de- 
 cision to have been the only 
 right one, and as the years went 
 on, the thought of her lover's 
 unworthiness, although in one 
 way it poisoned the wound, in
 
 I i STORY OF 1 li \\"i: LAMBERT. 
 
 another helped the high-souled 
 woman to recover, and years be- 
 fore her father's death left her 
 desolate, the thought of Richard 
 Lambert had become but a rare 
 visitant.
 
 II. 
 
 love's legacy. 
 
 " Who made shall mend 
 In the higher sphere to -which yearnings tend. 1 
 — Robert Browning. 
 
 NE bright morning, early 
 in February, five years 
 after her father's death, 
 Miss Escote sat in her 
 cheerful morning-room, 
 an open letter in her 
 hand, and a very unusual expres- 
 sion of trouble on her kindly 
 countenance. 
 
 Time, which " delves the 
 parallels of beauty's brow," had 
 dealt gently with Anne Escote's 
 homely face. The passage of 
 years and a life's experience had 
 softened the somewhat hard out- 
 
 15
 
 1 1. »TOR\ OF ELEANOR LAMBERT, 
 
 lines of her youth, and tin. honest, 
 clear gray eyes looked out upon 
 the world as frankly as in her 
 girlhood, but with less disdain of 
 what in i 1 - lit fall short of her 
 
 O 
 
 approval, and more tenderness 
 for grief and pain and the thou- 
 sand natural shocks of life. 
 
 The room she sat in was up- 
 stairs, leading by one door into 
 her bedroom and by another 
 into the long polished oak corri- 
 dor which ran along the upper 
 story of the old house. It was a 
 comfortable, cosy retreat, dedi- 
 cated to her use for reading, 
 working, housekeeping duties, 
 and practising — for Miss Escote 
 was a fine performer on the 
 pianoforte — ever since her 
 mother's death had made her 
 mistress of the house. A bright 
 fire of wood and coal burned on 
 the low hearth, and the winter 
 sunshine fell with a clear, cheer- 
 ful radiance across the old oak 
 floor with its Turkey carpet. 
 Outside, the garden and country 
 were an enchanted winter Eden,
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 1 7 
 
 There had been a thick, white 
 mist in the night, followed by a 
 sharp frost, and now every branch 
 and twig of the great trees was 
 thickly rimmed with hoar-frost, 
 whose minute crystals sparkled 
 like diamonds in the sun; the 
 edge of each evergreen leaf wore 
 the same gleaming white circlet, 
 and every blade of grass on the 
 smooth lawn had turned into a 
 stiff and shining little white spear. 
 Against the pale blue sky, oppo- 
 site the sun, whose rays lighted 
 them into radiance, the high trees 
 stood up in the misty wintry at- 
 mosphere, with which their deli- 
 cate frost-laden tracery mingled 
 in a delicious haze of white and 
 palest, purest blue, as in an en- 
 chanted dream. 
 
 Some small domestic incident 
 had made Miss Escote late that 
 morning for her usually punctual 
 eight o'clock breakfast, and she 
 had left her letters for quiet 
 reading in her sitting-room. 
 
 There were two or three, and 
 of these it so happened that the
 
 iS 5T0W 01 ill \.\<>K LAMBERT. 
 
 last she opened was the only 
 one of any importance ; but just 
 that last letter was destined to 
 alter the whole course of her 
 solitary life. 
 
 The writing on its cover woke 
 some unformed hint of memory 
 in her mind, but still she failed 
 to recognize it, and opened it 
 without any thrill of sentiment. 
 
 Yet she had once prized, and 
 laughed, and wept over a slim 
 packet of love-letters in that very 
 handwriting — before dissipation 
 and degradation had altered its 
 character. 
 
 "Dear Cousin Nancy," the 
 letter began, and Anne's hand 
 dropped with it on to her knee, 
 and her eyes gazed blankly out 
 into the garden, while her heart 
 gave a throb that would have 
 become it in her youth. 
 
 " Nancy ! " She had not heard 
 the name — given to her by her 
 cousin and lover to modify what 
 he called the stiffness of her own 
 plain one — for nearly thirty years. 
 No one else had ever called her
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 19 
 
 Nancy, but the little word bridged 
 over the great gulf of grief and 
 loss and time that lay between 
 the present and that brief dream 
 of happiness, and brought girlish 
 :ears to her eyes. 
 
 Outside the window, high up 
 imong the bare branches of an 
 elm tree, a robin was singing the 
 blithe carol which rejoices the 
 heart of winter ; but Anne's ears 
 were deaf to her favorite song- 
 ster as her eyes were unwitting 
 of the pageant of white beauty 
 spread out before them. 
 
 Instead of the white world 
 around her, she saw a garden — a 
 kitchen garden, but the Garden 
 of Paradise all the same — full of 
 summer sunshine and the fra- 
 grance of flower and fruit, and 
 therein a man and a woman — 
 could it ever have been herself ? 
 — and instead of the robin's win- 
 ter song she heard the infinitely 
 sweeter music of her lover's 
 avowal of his love — to Nancy. 
 
 And she forgot all that had 
 come after — his worthlessness,
 
 20 STOl i "i I i i VNOF i \Mia RT. 
 
 his disloyalty everything ; and, 
 bowing her head, she laid her 
 pure lips to the paper and kissed 
 the dcai- old words for the old 
 love's sake. The foolish action 
 brought her to herself, and she- 
 wiped her eyes and went on with 
 the letter quietly. 
 
 " Dear Cousin Nancy : 
 
 Though you have not much 
 reason to remember me with 
 affection, I write to you because 
 you are — or were, anyhow — about 
 the best woman it has ever been 
 my luck to meet, and I am dead 
 beat at last. I am not quite 
 such a cur as to ask yon for help 
 for myself, but my wife is a good 
 girl, and if after I am gone you 
 would be a friend to her, it 
 would ease my last days on 
 earth. 
 
 " Richard Lambert." 
 
 His wife ! Dick Lambert's 
 wife ! I low strange it seemed ! 
 Miss Escote had heard rumors
 
 STO~RY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 2 1 
 
 of her cousin's doings at wide 
 intervals during the past years — 
 rumors but little to his credit — 
 reports of gambling, drinking, 
 and worse ; tales of debt, and 
 disgrace with his own people, 
 with no brighter side of the pict- 
 ure to justify her old belief in 
 the fascinating soldier. But of 
 a wife she had heard nothing, 
 and she concluded that the mar- 
 riage must have been a recent 
 one, since he spoke of his wife as 
 a girl. 
 
 Why, he must be a man of 
 five-and-fifty now ! Would she 
 know him if she saw him ? Had 
 all the light gone from the blue 
 eyes which stole her heart away 
 of old ? And he was ill, dying 
 perhaps, and in poverty. Dick 
 dying, and she so strong and 
 well, and full of life ! 
 
 She rose, a sudden determina- 
 tion of purpose shining in her 
 eyes, and rang the bell. Hannah 
 Print, her chief serving-maid, a 
 model of propriety and virtuous 
 self-importance, answered it.
 
 22 .- I <»K\ ()| III ANOR I. \MJ.| B I . 
 
 " Hannah," said Miss Escote, 
 " I am going to London by the 
 mi d-d ay train." 
 
 " To London, ma'am ! " echoed 
 Hannah, in a tone of respectful 
 but determined expostulation. 
 " You'll catch your death of cold 
 in them draughty trains this 
 freezing day." 
 
 " I hope not," said her mis- 
 tress, " but anyhow I must go. 
 Pack me a few necessaries as 
 quickly as possible, like a good 
 soul, while I speak to Clarke." 
 (Clarke was Miss Escote's fac- 
 totum.) 
 
 " Do you think of staying any 
 length of time, Miss Anne?" 
 went on the precise Hannah, 
 with a still stronger hint of dis- 
 approval in her thin voice ; for 
 Miss Escote's ways were, as a 
 rule, those of order and propriety, 
 and such an inversion of them as 
 a sudden and unprepared-for visit 
 to London was not to be passed 
 over without comment. On such 
 occasions Hannah, whose pre- 
 cision and prudishness concealed
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMDERT. 23 
 
 a deep love and respect for the 
 mistress she was growing old 
 with, expected to feel all the 
 importance of lady's-maid and 
 confidential attendant. It was 
 she who settled what garments 
 her mistress ought to take with , 
 her, who saw to her wraps and 
 luggage, and generally gave her- 
 self such airs as who would say, 
 " Keep in your places, you igno- 
 rant country wenches who are 
 not going to the gay metrop- 
 olis ; " as were wont to move 
 the younger and "less respectful 
 of the maids to speak tartly of 
 " that ridiculous old Hannah ! 
 there ain't no a-bearing of her ! 
 as if anybody in London would 
 look at her ! " 
 
 "Will you require me, ma'am, 
 to accompany you ? 
 
 Anne thought a moment, and 
 then said, gently, to soothe 
 her handmaiden's easily roused 
 pride : 
 
 " Not this time, I think, Han- 
 nah ; my stay is so uncertain. 
 It may be only for a night, or at
 
 -' 1 STOfcl 01 ill VNOR LAMB] i I . 
 
 most two, so I think it is scarcely 
 worth while." 
 
 Hannah sniffed. 
 
 " Oh, of course, Miss Anne, 
 you know best," she said, stiffly, 
 and was silent, and then set 
 about her preparations for her 
 mistress's journey with an air of 
 virtuous resignation that made 
 Anne smile in spite of a heavy 
 heart. 
 
 The early winter darkness had 
 fallen, and the morning of en- 
 chantment in the country ended 
 in a cold clinging fog in London, 
 when Miss Escote, having left 
 her light luggage at her hotel, 
 set forth in a four-wheeled cab 
 to seek the address in a small 
 street at Cambcrwcll which Cap- 
 tain Lambert had given in hi^ 
 letter. 
 
 Of all mocks of conveyance 
 there is perhaps none which lends 
 itself less to the comfortable jour- 
 neying of an afflicted spirit. To 
 a heart feasting on its own joy, 
 or a mind sunk in apathetic 
 indolence, there are perchance
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 25 
 
 alleviations in their own con- 
 ditions to the discomforts of the 
 vehicle ; but to the soul in grief 
 or suspense, filled with a sick 
 longing to reach the end of the 
 journey and its goal — if only a 
 terrible certainty — the slow jog- 
 trot, the ceaseless rattle of the 
 ill-constructed window-panes, the 
 perpetual slipping of small pack- 
 ages off the sloping back seat 
 — all form at last a madden- 
 ing weariness, which moralists 
 may condemn, while they suffer 
 from it. 
 
 At last, however, the sorry 
 steed drew up before a mean- 
 looking little house — number 20 
 in a row of fifty — each one so 
 exactly the facsimile of its 
 neighbor that it seemed won- 
 derful the owners should have 
 any definite idea of proprietorship, 
 and Anne, paying the cab-driver 
 about double his fare, which he 
 demanded from a shrewd convic- 
 tion that the lady was not a 
 Londoner, and would not know 
 the difference, went up the steep,
 
 lG STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 
 
 dirty steps, and knocked at the 
 door. 
 
 A dull pain was at her heart, 
 mingled with the nervous agi- 
 tation which the thought of the 
 nearness of the man whose 
 presence had once set her pulses 
 wildly beating, aroused within 
 her. 
 
 A longish interval passed be- 
 fore there came any response, 
 and she knocked again, still 
 without effect. 
 
 Then she heard a door open 
 and a woman's voice call pet- 
 tishly, "Mrs. Smith!' Mrs. 
 Smith ! there's somebody knocked 
 twice ! " 
 
 Mrs. Smith must apparently 
 have heard the second summons, 
 and, thinking it the first, made 
 no hurry to answer it, after the 
 manner of her hard-worked and 
 over-driven class. 
 
 Anne heard her voice as she 
 came along the passage grum- 
 bling at the unreasonableness of 
 visitors in general, and of this 
 one in particular, for thinking
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 27 
 
 that she had nothing to do all 
 lay but answer that " dratted 
 oor. 
 
 Her heart sank at the mean 
 urroundings, and a half hope 
 danced through her mind that 
 it might prove a wrong address, 
 md that she might be spared the 
 iight of her old love in such com- 
 pany. 
 
 The door opened, and a stout, 
 ill-dressed woman, with dark, 
 coarse hair waving on her 
 forehead in that stiff yet greasy 
 style which is affected by so 
 many women of the lodging- 
 house-keeping class, stood in 
 the narrow entry. She had 
 probably been prepared with a 
 not over polite inquiry as to 
 icr visitor's business ; but Anne's 
 appearance, very unlike any- 
 thing she had expected to see, 
 stayed her speech, and she only 
 stared aggressively. 
 
 " Does Captain Lambert live 
 here ? " asked Anne. 
 
 " Yes, he do," answered Mrs. 
 Smith, sharply. "And what
 
 fOm "I I II A.MiK I. AMII I I . 
 
 may you want of 'im, may I 
 hask?" 
 
 " I am his cousin," Anne 
 began. 
 
 "Oh, indeed!" interpolated 
 Ahs. Smith, apparently for the 
 sake of saying something un- 
 pleasant. 
 
 •• I heard he was ill," Anne 
 went on. 
 
 "Ill enough," said Mrs. Smith, 
 speaking volubly now, and raising 
 her voice as if to impress her 
 words on some unseen listener. 
 " But that ain't no reason why I 
 shouldn't be paid my rent as is 
 owing for six weeks or more 
 Hill or not hill, they'll 'avc to 
 pack before the week's out as 
 sure as my name's Jane Smith ! 
 Not that I've anything to say 
 against the ("apt in. 'E's a 
 pleasant spoken gentleman, 'e 
 is; but I'm not a-goin' to stand 
 any sauce from Vr, Mrs. Lam- 
 1)' it or no Mrs. Lambert, and so 
 I tell 'er." 
 
 " Your rent shall be paid," said 
 Anne, in her serious, full-toned
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 29 
 
 voice. " Take this card in to 
 Captain Lambert, and say his 
 cousin is here." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, ma'am, 
 I'm sure," said Mrs. Smith, in 
 a very different tone ; " any one 
 can see as the Captain is a real 
 gentleman. If I'd knowed you 
 
 was his cousin " 
 
 : ' Please go directly," inter- 
 rupted Miss Escote; and the 
 woman went. 
 
 From the small room opening 
 off the passage, so close to the 
 front door that Anne could catch 
 a glimpse of its mean and sordid 
 interior, came the sound of Mrs. 
 Smith's words, and then a man's 
 voice, thin and weak, saying, 
 "Ask her to come in here." 
 And Anne entered, and looked 
 once again upon the man who 
 had made her youth desolate 
 and taken away the glory of her 
 prime. 
 
 By the small fire he sat in a 
 shabby easy-chair — old before 
 his time, a gray-haired, bowed 
 figure; his face lined and blurred
 
 30 ■ i ■ 'i \ Ol mi VNOR LAMBERT. 
 
 by dissipation and vice; his thin 
 hands nerveless and powerless; 
 clothed he, the dandy of old! — 
 in a worn dressing-gown which but 
 ill kept out the cold, foggy air. 
 Only his eyes — the beautiful blue 
 eyes of Anne's remembrance — 
 kept something of their old color 
 and expression, and it was not 
 until he raised them half-shamedly 
 to his cousin's face that she 
 recognized in him any least like- 
 ness to the gay and gallant soldier 
 who had walked with her under 
 the trees in Eden. 
 
 She went toward him with 
 both hands outstretched. 
 
 " Dick ! " she said. 
 
 No other greeting would come ; 
 and. since there is but little to 
 record to the credit of Captain 
 Richard Lambert, let it be re- 
 membered to his account that he 
 found nothing to say in reply, 
 but that two large tears rose in 
 the blue eyes and fell clown the 
 worn cheeks while he held the 
 hands of the woman he had 
 wronged so deeply, and felt down
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 3 1 
 
 in what remained of his conscience 
 that he was a sorry scoundrel, 
 unworthy of a good woman's 
 faithful memory. 
 
 A slight movement behind her 
 made Anne turn, and, leaning 
 against the smoke - darkened 
 chimney-piece, stood a tall girl 
 gazing at the visitor with im- 
 mense dark eyes, which seemed 
 to burn with an inner fire of their 
 own, from out one of the most 
 beautiful faces that Miss Escote 
 had ever seen. The skin was of 
 clear olive paleness ; the nose 
 straight and fine; the beautiful 
 mouth curved into a perfect 
 outline ; while the shining eyes 
 were fringed and overhung with 
 blackest lashes and brows, and 
 the wealth of raven hair broke 
 all the restraints of that day of 
 smooth-combed locks, and waved 
 over the low forehead in enchant- 
 ing little twirls and tendrils. Tall 
 and finely-made, notwithstanding 
 her shabby gown, the girl kept 
 the air of neatness and grace 
 acquired by the "young lady"
 
 ja ■ I • 'I . "I ELEANOB LAMBERT, 
 
 of the modern shop, although 
 the dark fiery face told a tale of 
 inherited Spanish, or perhaps 
 
 gypsy, blood, very much out of 
 keeping with such a destiny. 
 
 It was a strong and good face, 
 too, in spite of a certain expres- 
 sion of half-jealous defiance now 
 visible on it. Not personal 
 jealousy of the cousin, an old 
 woman in her young eyes, of 
 whose youth's history she knew 
 nothing, and whose possible 
 rivalry with regard to her gentle- 
 man husband she was not likely 
 to fear, but a kind of uneasy 
 jealousy of her as a lady, one 
 of his own class and so out of 
 her own sphere (not that she 
 consciously used so fine a word), 
 mingled possibly with a proud 
 defiance of Mrs. Smith's inten- 
 tionally loud-spoken allusion to 
 her "sauce." 
 
 She was proud of her husband, 
 even loved him after a fashion, 
 partly because 'of this same 
 gentle-manhood - save the mark ! 
 — and his difference from the
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. $$ 
 
 other lodgers in the mean abode 
 whither drink and debt had led 
 him, and in a garret of which she 
 spent the time not devoted to her 
 daily work behind the counter 
 of a neighboring haberdasher's. 
 Partly, too, because on some 
 occasion, when the offensive 
 gallantry of another lodger had 
 roused her proud spirit to fury, 
 some ancient remnant of regard 
 for women's delicacy had moved 
 Captain Lambert to champion 
 the girl against her admirer, and 
 so to win the gratitude that is so 
 near to love in her sex. 
 
 She had known no education 
 in the true sense of that much- 
 abused* term. Except for the 
 acquired quickness at accounts 
 necessary for her calling, and 
 knowledge enough to read and 
 write passably, her mind was 
 fallow so far as learning went ; 
 and although she had acquired, 
 too, the habit of speaking with a 
 certain air of refinement and 
 grammatical precision, in mo- 
 ments of excitement and natural
 
 34 i ■ 'i \ "i iii \.m >K i. ■ 
 
 speech she was wont to relapse 
 into .1 stronger and more ex- 
 pressive vernacular, and even to 
 show a tendency to trip over 
 
 that perennial Stumbling-block, 
 the letter " II," which argued a 
 painfully-mastered use of it. 
 
 As Miss Escote turned to- 
 ward her and caught her burning 
 glance, Captain Lambert said : 
 
 "Come here, Nell, and speak- 
 to my cousin, Miss Escote." 
 
 Anne held out her hand and 
 took the girl's reluctant fingers. 
 
 "My dear," she said, in her 
 kind, true voice, " I am glad to 
 know you ; I hope we may be 
 friends." 
 
 Nell's great eyes looked »search- 
 ingly into her face, and then she 
 said, without any fierceness: 
 
 "Thank you, Miss Escote, I'm 
 sure." 
 
 Mrs. Smith received her rent 
 that night, and notice that the 
 visitor would return on the mor- 
 row and remove her lodgers 
 to larger and more airy rooms — 
 not far off ; for Captain Lam-
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 35 
 
 belt's days were numbered, and 
 anything but the shortest journey 
 was impossible to him until he 
 should start on the longest one 
 of all. 
 
 After all was settled, and Miss 
 Escote was parting with Nell in 
 the dirty little passage, Nell told 
 her how her husband had fallen 
 on the frozen pavement some 
 weeks ago, and how " he had been 
 hurt in his inside, and the doctor 
 had said he'd never get over it," 
 and how she thought, though she 
 had never " let on " to him, that 
 " he'd had a drop too much, poor 
 fellow ! " 
 
 She said it all quite simply, 
 seeing that it was matter quite 
 beyond discussion that he had 
 been " a bit wild," and with no 
 intention of wounding the kind 
 heart that was feeling keenly the 
 terrible inevitableness of this 
 ending of her sometime lover's 
 weak and wicked life. Anne's eyes, 
 looking away into the long-gone 
 years and their vanished Eden, 
 fell unconsciously on the girl's
 
 3<> 1*01 i i wini i i . 
 
 hand. The dark face flushed 
 hotly. 
 
 " < >h, we're marru d 
 enough," she said ; " I'm not 
 that sort." 
 
 Mi ote's fair skin showed 
 
 as hot .t flush of shame. 
 
 " I never imagined " — she 
 stammered, " I beg your par- 
 don -what can have made you 
 think I di\l " 
 
 " You were looking at me so 
 oddly," the girl began, and then 
 smiled a smile which glorified 
 her beautiful face. "He said 
 you were good," she said, " and 
 so you are ! " 
 
 Miss Escote bent and kissed 
 her. 
 
 "We shall be friends, I see, 
 my dear," she said, " and poor 
 Dick shall die in peace." 
 
 And so he did. Tended by 
 loving hands of wife and old 
 sweetheart; away from the mean 
 surroundings of the squalid lodg- 
 ing-house,and in ease and comfort: 
 penitent, let us hope— so far as 
 such a nature is capable of peni-
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 37 
 
 tence — in some small measure 
 for his ill-spent life, and with 
 perfect trust in his cousin's 
 promise that the young wife who 
 had somehow won the last flick- 
 ering affections of his light and 
 worn-out heart, and her unborn 
 child, should find a home with 
 her when he was gone, the 
 fascinating Dick Lambert drifted 
 peaceably away from a world 
 that had forgotten him and the 
 two women who had loved him. 
 
 One day, a little before the 
 end, while his wife rested in 
 another room, and Anne sat 
 working by his bedside as he lay 
 awake but silent, she felt his 
 eyes so persistently upon her, 
 that at last she raised her own to 
 find him gazing at her with an 
 expression of such intense and 
 sad appeal that she answered it 
 as if he had spoken. 
 
 "Dick!" she said, gently, "I 
 forgave everything long ago." 
 
 A feeble sob shook his weak 
 frame. 
 
 "Nancy," he whispered hoarsely,
 
 rOR\ "I ELEANOR i I'. 
 
 •I was a scoundrel — 1 am un- 
 worthy — and you arc an angel." 
 
 He paused, with his hollow 
 eyes still upon her face. Then: 
 
 " Nancy — will you kiss me once 
 before I die — and say again you 
 forgive me ? " 
 
 " I forgive you from my deepest 
 soul, Dick ;" and, bending over 
 him, she laid her lips to the dying 
 sinner's haggard cheek. 
 
 When, after laying Richard 
 Lambert in his grave, Miss 
 Escote returned to her own 
 home, there went with her 
 a dark', mournful-eyed young 
 widow, whose rebellious waves 
 of hair refused to keep in decent 
 hiding under her cap, and to- 
 ward whom the prim Hannah 
 manifested a virtuous but con- 
 descending and kindly disap- 
 proval. 
 
 The yellow stars of the leafless 
 jasmine were making the cottages 
 gay when Miss" Escote and her 
 charge arrived at High Trees, 
 and Anne's heart, sad with the
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 39 
 
 memory of the wasted life, and 
 tender with the thought of the 
 death-bed of her cousin, was im- 
 mensely cheered and comforted 
 by the sight of the dear and ac- 
 customed things of home. The 
 peace and order of her house — 
 the growing beauty of the spring 
 in her garden and meadows — re- 
 lieved the strain of feeling of the 
 last few weeks, and here, away 
 from the dull surroundings of his 
 inglorious end, she could think of 
 the dead man with nothing but 
 tender grief, and hope that the 
 other life might retrieve the 
 failures and sins of the one he 
 had spent so ill, and that here- 
 after she might perchance see 
 him what she had believed him 
 in their youth. 
 
 Meanwhile the poor young 
 widow took up the greater part 
 of her time and care. 
 
 Not that Nell was a weak or 
 poor-spirited woman who spent 
 her days in vain lamentations 
 over her dead husband. She 
 grieved for him, it is true ; and
 
 4° STORV 01 l l.i INOR l ' 
 
 although she spoke quite openly 
 and unreservedly to Miss Escote 
 
 of him and his failings, it was 
 always with affection and regret. 
 T< Anne herself she showed a 
 passion of love— for she was a 
 passionate creature at heart,— not 
 belyii her dark eyes and 
 south in aspect. Everything 
 Miss Escote did was right in her 
 eyes ; the gentlest hint from her 
 as to grammar or social behavior 
 six- treasured up and acted on to 
 her very best ability, and in these 
 and other matters she showed an 
 adaptability and a strength of 
 mind and brain which proved 
 her to be a women of a very 
 original and uncommon kind. 
 Education, as I have said, she 
 had none ; but since Anne loved 
 books, Nell read too, and many 
 a time the shrewd comments she 
 made with an utterly unbiased 
 criticism, struck Anne with ad- 
 miration for lier undeveloped 
 powers. Morally, she had .1 
 strong, straightforward code of 
 conduct ; what she thought wrong
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 41 
 
 nothing could induce her to do. 
 From training and association, 
 her code of morals would prob- 
 ably have seemed deficient to 
 more delicately nurtured women, 
 who cling to many things that 
 appeared of no importance to 
 her. But such as her code was, 
 she never swerved from it, which 
 is more than can be said of every 
 one. 
 
 Miss Escote grew to love her 
 dearly, and to feel that her 
 promise to her cousin to guard 
 the girl he had married was 
 likely to prove the beginning of 
 a great interest and happiness in 
 her lonely life ; and when the 
 two women talked their woman's 
 talk of the expected baby, for 
 whose coming their deft fingers 
 had sewn the dainty robes, and 
 shirts, and shawl, and what not, 
 and dressed the airy cradle — not 
 unassisted and sniffed at by the 
 virtuous Hannah, whose jealousy 
 of the dark-eyed stranger had 
 given way before her considera- 
 tion and gentleness toward her
 
 43 sums oi in INOB 1 \mi i 
 
 dear cousin Anne's trusted maid 
 
 many were their plans for the 
 future, and their joint care and 
 guardianship of the longed-for 
 darling. 
 
 Alas ! all human plans and pro- 
 jects come to nought. 
 
 One glorious summer day, 
 when the world was full of 
 beauty and fragrance, and the 
 bees were humming over the 
 roses, and time seemed to stand 
 still, and death to be impossible, 
 Nell Lambert's dark eyes closed 
 on all that brightness — on the 
 little dark-haired baby-daughter 
 so lovingly looked for — on Anne's 
 kind face and the steadfast truth 
 of it as she promised to be father 
 and mother both to the orphan — 
 on the life that seemed to be just 
 opening out to her its real scope 
 and significance. 
 
 When the sweet summer even- 
 ing fell, and the baby's feeble wail 
 seemed to awaken echoes in the 
 old house that had slept since the 
 last of Anne's weakly little sisters 
 had found it not worth while to
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 43 
 
 stay longer in so unsatisfactory 
 a world, the beautiful young 
 mother lay, like a glorious 
 marble effigy, at rest forever ; 
 roses on her cold breast, roses 
 scattered everywhere around her 
 — the sweet old garden roses the 
 town-bred girl had loved and 
 reveled in — once saying, half 
 playfully, half seriously, she 
 would like to be " smothered in 
 them " when she should lie in 
 her coffin.
 
 III. 
 
 A CONFIDENCE. 
 
 " For in companions 
 That do converse and -.caste' the time together, 
 Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, 
 There must be need' a Hie proportion 
 Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit." 
 — Merchant ok Venice. 
 
 N C E more it was 
 summer in the old 
 garden at High Trees. 
 Roses, ag many and as 
 sweet as had decked 
 the last resting-place 
 of dark-eyed Nell Lambert, were 
 sunning their beauty, and making 
 the warm air flagrant with the 
 lavish generosity of the most 
 beautifid and sweet of flowers in 
 her prime. The sun lay hot 
 upon the unsheltered parts of the 
 
 44
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 45 
 
 garden, shining on that July 
 afternoon from one of those 
 cloudless summer skies which 
 are wont, as evening falls, to 
 put on a magic and lucent depth 
 of clearness that lends a mystic 
 charm to the first twinkle of the 
 stars as " heaven's pale candles " 
 peep out one by one. When, in 
 the midst of that tender bright- 
 ness the sun's sinking leaves 
 behind on such a day, the evening 
 star hangs like a lamp, the dullest 
 spirit catches a hint of eternity, 
 and knows itself immortal. 
 
 On this particular afternoon, in 
 the shade of the fir-trees, whose 
 fragrance held its own, and was 
 an added delight even among 
 the roses, sat two girls, too deep 
 in talk to heed the gallant pea- 
 cock, who, accustomed to be fed 
 by them, trailed his glorious 
 train before their eyes, and shot 
 forth his prismatic neck and 
 crested head in vain, clucking 
 the while expectantly. Presently, 
 as if in despite, he departed, and 
 going to a bed of carnations
 
 ■\ (t STORY 01 I l.l \\(.k LAMB] i: I. 
 
 nearer the house, began deliber- 
 ately and skillfully to nip off the 
 unopened buds. At this, one of 
 the girls arose— she had been 
 sitting; on a low garden-chair, 
 while her companion reposed on 
 the grass, her head against her 
 friend's knee. 
 
 " Oh ! Cousin Nancy's beloved 
 carnations ! " cried the girl who 
 had risen, and with a swift rush 
 she pursued the regal bird, who 
 bustled off more hurriedly than 
 befitted his race, and took him- 
 self out of sight. 
 
 The girl came back to her com- 
 panion, and reseating herself, 
 plunged again into her talk- 
 girlish talk, mingled of question 
 and answer, light laughter, merry 
 exclamations, and the thousand 
 follies of youth and inexperience. 
 Twenty-one years had gone by 
 since Nell Lambert had been laid 
 among the dead Escotes in the 
 old churchyard — so near the 
 home that had sheltered her last 
 days, that she had been borne to 
 it up the climbing path that
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 47 
 
 mounted to the church from the 
 village by her cousin's servants, 
 as they had borne their master, 
 and as Anne intended they should 
 bear her. 
 
 Twenty-one years ago Nell's 
 dark eyes had closed upon the 
 face of the little daughter who 
 to-day stood— her living image— 
 among the roses. 
 
 At twenty-one years old 
 Eleanor Anne Lambert was a 
 well-nigh perfect specimen of 
 girlhood. Tall, straight, and 
 strong in her rounded slender- 
 ness, with all the dark and glow- 
 ing beauty of her mother, twenty- 
 one years of plenty and peace, 
 and refinement of surroundings, 
 had but added a finer charm to 
 the beautiful womanhood she 
 had inherited from the brave- 
 natured shop-girl with her many 
 potential qualities. 
 
 Twenty-one years of associa- 
 tion with Anne Escote's rare 
 nature, of education of mind and 
 heart and soul, under the care 
 and through the experience of
 
 I • fOR\ 01 Ml INOF I win i i 
 
 that noble spirit, had made the 
 girl strong against the assaults of 
 
 the weaker strain she derived 
 from her father. 
 
 Miss Escote's neighbors had 
 
 shaken their heads over her 
 theories of the orphan's educa- 
 tion—her discarding of rules and 
 methods, and her strong belief, 
 inherited from her father— that 
 education meant the bringing out 
 of the powers and the develop- 
 ment of the whole mind rather 
 than the learning of a multi- 
 plicity of things. The wise- 
 matrons had smiled the tolerant 
 smile of matronhood over the in- 
 comprehensible theories of the 
 childless spinster, while ladies in 
 the same unmarried condition as 
 herself had uttered the oft-re- 
 peated formula, " If / had had 
 the bringing up of that child ! "— 
 a formula so common that its 
 repetition tempts one to suppose 
 that the only really well brought- 
 up children are those that never 
 existed. 
 
 Hut in whatever way the re-
 
 STORY OK ELEANOR LAMBERT. 49 
 
 suit may have been brought 
 about — whether by the success 
 of Anne Escote's theories or in 
 spite of them — there were few 
 found to deny that the result 
 was very beautiful and charming; 
 or that, if Eleanor Lambert were 
 less frivolous — fonder of " read- 
 ing and all that," as the young 
 people round Allersley said — than 
 many girls, at least she was not 
 made at all "stuck up," or con- 
 ceited thereby, but was gentle 
 in word and deed, whatever 
 latent fires burned in her dark 
 eyes. 
 
 She was not accomplished in 
 the usual sense of the word. 
 Like her father, she had a fine 
 natural taste, cultivated by edu- 
 cation and the run of old Mr. 
 Escote's fine library. Moreover, 
 she had her mother's unreason- 
 ins and instinctive love for all 
 beautiful things, added to the 
 rarer love for Nature in all her 
 moods. Anne, whose long walks 
 with her father were among 
 the most cherished memories of
 
 5° *TOR\ 01 I i i \.\.,i; LAMB1 I I. 
 
 their days of companionship, 
 hailed this instinct in her small 
 ward with delight, and many 
 were the happy hours the elderly 
 woman and the bright-eyed child 
 spent in the lanes and fields- 
 hours of healthful exercise and 
 enjoyment wherein they stored 
 up interests for years. But as 
 to real accomplishments she had 
 but few. She had learned to 
 draw, and had a certain natural 
 facility, but felt no power of real 
 attainment. She had learned to 
 play, and could pass many a 
 happy half-hour softly fingering 
 the keys for her own amuse- 
 ment ; but she had no power of 
 brilliant execution, and her great 
 love and need for music found 
 satisfaction in Miss Escotc's, 
 which was very far above the- 
 average. 
 
 " Cousin Nancy"— so Anne 
 has taught the child to call her 
 — and echoes from the past when 
 Dick Lambert had been the only 
 one to use it, gave an added 
 sweetness to the name on the
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 5 1 
 
 baby lips — "Cousin Nancy, pay 
 me a pitty tune ! " had been little 
 Eleanor's cry often and often in 
 her childhood, and Cousin Nancy 
 never refused. 
 
 Between the woman and the 
 child there was a perfect love 
 and trust, that did but deepen 
 as the years went by, and Anne 
 drew nearer to old age as the 
 child blossomed into beautiful 
 girlhood and more beautiful 
 womanhood. Eleanor threw into 
 her love for the woman who had 
 been father, and mother, and 
 friend in one, who had tended, 
 and taught, and loved her from 
 the day of her birth, all the 
 ardor poor Nell had felt for 
 her husband's cousin ; while 
 Anne's for her had the force of 
 all that which her lavish heart 
 could have bestowed on husband 
 and children of her own, if Dick 
 — had not been Dick ! And this 
 was Dick's child. To such a 
 nature as Anne Escote's that 
 fact was the very essence of her 
 love for the orphan — would have
 
 -j 5T0R\ "i II I VNOR l ^MBl I i 
 
 n even though the child's 
 mother had not been as dear to 
 her as Nell became. For under 
 Anne's grave reasonableness — 
 hei power of seeing the many- 
 sidedness of life— her quiet ways 
 — there lay an immense capacity 
 for sentiment, a constant tender- 
 ness of heart that perhaps none 
 but her father ami Eleanor ever 
 fully appreciated. As to the 
 girl, there was an answering 
 note in herself which vibrated 
 in response to the elder woman's 
 touch at all times; for at the 
 bottom of her heart, too, under 
 all the joy and strength of her 
 youth, there lay the same yearn- 
 ing for the deeper things of life 
 — the mysterious, the incompre- 
 hensible; the same indefinite long- 
 ing for some good too great and 
 vague for words, that had made 
 and kept Anne Escote's heart 
 both young and sad. 
 
 On the July afternoon when 
 the girls talked under the fir- 
 trees, Miss Escote sat, as she 
 had sat on that wintry morning
 
 STOKY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 53 
 
 which had given to her later life 
 its greatest interest, in her cheer- 
 ful room up-stairs. A book was 
 by her side, her knitting in her 
 hand, and on her peaceful face 
 the beauty of a noble old age, 
 the history of a well-spent life 
 writ plain to see. From time to 
 time, as the echoes of a girlish 
 laugh floated in through the 
 open window on the warm- 
 scented air of the garden, a 
 quiet smile touched her features 
 like a ray of winter sunshine, 
 and once she rose and looked 
 out as if with a desire to rest 
 her eyes on her darling's visible 
 presence. 
 
 It was at the moment when 
 Eleanor made her swift rush at 
 the peacock, and Miss Escote's 
 smile grew brighter at the sight, 
 and she watched the girl until 
 she had returned to her seat, and 
 once more taken her friend's 
 head against her knee. 
 
 "God bless her!" murmured 
 the old woman, softly, and then 
 with a sigh : " God bless her,
 
 j j STOR\ OB ELBA NOK I. AMI I I I 
 
 and let me live to see her a few 
 years older ! " 
 
 Eleanor Lambert had returned 
 
 the day before from a month's 
 visit to London, and it was to 
 hear her news, and in return 
 give an account of her own 
 doings during a visit of the same 
 duration to relations in Scotland, 
 that Felicia Gray, the constant 
 friend of her childhood and girl- 
 hood, had come to spend a long 
 afternoon of mutual confidences. 
 
 Dr. Gray, Felicia's father, may 
 be said to have been, with the ex- 
 ception of Anne Escote, Eleanor 
 Lambert's earliest friend, since 
 he was present at her birth, 
 and had piloted her through the 
 dancers of her childish sicknesses. 
 His task had not been a hard 
 one, for Eleanor's health was as 
 perfect as her constitution, and 
 the doctor was accustomed to 
 point to her as an example of 
 what every healthily brought-up 
 child should be. 
 
 Dr. Gray, like many another 
 of his profession, had qualities
 
 STORY OF 1 ELEANOR LAMBERT. 55 
 
 which enabled the elderly woman, 
 thus suddenly called upon to act 
 the part of both parents to the 
 little orphan, to trust in him as 
 her most valued friend and coun- 
 sellor; and on his side not only 
 did he give an unfailing care and 
 affection to both guardian and 
 ward, but in all Miss Escote's 
 theories of education and de- 
 velopment he was her stanchest 
 ally and backer. 
 
 As to Eleanor, Dr. Gray was 
 so much part of her life that she 
 loved him with the instinctive 
 love that is generally associated 
 with ties of blood, and she could 
 not remember the time when he 
 had not seemed to her the best 
 and noblest man in the world, 
 while Felicia had been her chosen 
 friend from the time when Mrs. 
 Gray, a despondent, grumbling 
 woman, and one of the most 
 severe critics of Miss Escote's 
 " foolish, old-maidish theories," 
 used to lament over the way 
 "that dreadful child" led her 
 own pretty, sedate little daughter
 
 56 S'l'OlN 01 I II \N.)R I, AMI;! | I. 
 
 into wild escapades, until the 
 
 pn cnt time, when even Mrs. 
 
 Gray felt the influence of her 
 
 beauty and ardent gentleness, 
 
 and Felicia had grown into a 
 
 slim maiden, whose sweet pink 
 
 cheeks and demure blue eyes 
 
 were the outward graces of a 
 
 steadfast heart, loving and true 
 
 if less ardent than her friend's; 
 
 while the silky chestnut hair 
 
 covered a head that held a very 
 
 clear and bright little brain ;— to 
 
 some purpose, for Felicia was 
 
 the eldest of poor peevish Mrs. 
 
 Gray's large family of four sons 
 
 and four daughters, and the 
 
 burden of the woman's part of 
 
 the domestic life at VVestfields 
 
 fell upon her soft shoulders. 
 
 No wonder this maiden of one- 
 and-twenty had at times a grave 
 air and a look of anxious respon- 
 sibility unsuited to her years and 
 her soft young prettin< 
 
 From her earliest girlhood it 
 had been she who saved " poor 
 mamma" from the fatigue that 
 lad)- deprecated as feeling so
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 57 
 
 unfit for, as well as from every 
 other annoyance the child could 
 prevent. 
 
 "Come out into the spinney, 
 and I will swing you ; poor 
 mamma has got a headache," 
 she would say to the scrambling 
 brood of children, coming one 
 after the other so close that they 
 trod upon each other's heels, while 
 she herself, but for her accepted 
 motherhood, was but a child. 
 And the flock would tear out to 
 the swing, hung between two 
 tall trees in the spinney, and 
 after the elders had tumbled in 
 and out often enough, Felicia's 
 young arms would work for the 
 entertainment of Susie, and Bob, 
 and Baby, to cries of " Oh, 
 Felicia! it's my turn now!' 
 " Oh, Felicia ! Susie's been in 
 all the time!' until they 
 ached. 
 
 As years went on, Mrs. Gray 
 left more and more on the willing 
 hands of her eldest daughter. It 
 was she to whom the hard-work- 
 ing father turned for sympathy
 
 5<S STORY Ol I II ANOR LAMB1 I I. 
 
 and interest ; by a tacit consent 
 his wife's shortcomings in that 
 respect were never alluded to 
 between him and Felicia. 
 
 " Poor mamma's head aches," 
 poor mamma's ill-health and 
 general disabilities in the matter 
 of troublesome duties, were held 
 sufficient excuse for everything, 
 and Felicia cheerfully discussed 
 with her father not only ways 
 and means, and if he might 
 honestly allow himself another 
 horse, and so forth, but how best 
 to dispose of wild but warm- 
 hearted Tom, and to put a 
 stronger spirit into nervous 
 Hugh, not to speak of the little 
 girls' schooling and the wear and 
 tear of frocks and shoes and 
 jackets and trousers. 
 
 Much happiness came to the 
 overworked little daughter 
 through her comradeship with 
 the strong and tender-hearted 
 father; but at times life was a 
 little hard for her, and her well- 
 earned visit to Scotland, on which 
 her father had insisted in the face 
 

 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 59 
 
 of profuse lamentations and won- 
 derings as to what she should do 
 without her on Mrs. Gray's part, 
 had been almost the first real 
 holiday she had had since her 
 childhood. Her friendship with 
 Eleanor, and the welcome al- 
 ways ready for her coming at 
 High Trees had been the chief 
 joys of her life, and in despite 
 of all the well-worn jibes at the 
 frailty of women's friendships, 
 their small jealousies, and petty 
 quarrels, the two girls had not 
 only a strong and constant 
 mutual love, but an equally 
 sincere mutual admiration. 
 Eleanor's dark beauty, her grace, 
 her depths of feeling, the way she 
 wore her clothes, even, were as 
 much a source of admiration to 
 the doctor's pretty daughter as 
 were her own blue eyes and wild- 
 rose tints, her clear sense, and 
 her thousand virtues as daughter 
 and sister to Eleanor. 
 
 They were not alike in much, 
 save the sweet fragrance of youth 
 and goodness.
 
 6o STOR\ M| I,, \ N()k |. XM | ;I ,. , 
 
 The clear light of Felicia's life 
 burned steady and serene, like a 
 lamp brightening and illumina- 
 ting the household circle the 
 round of duty— smoothing away 
 obstacles and making dark things 
 plain. 
 
 Eleanor's spirit took a wider 
 range. Her light fell softly, like 
 the moon's, overall the landscape, 
 even to the dim distances where 
 only shadows are. Her fancy 
 lived in space, and was at home 
 among the stars, and when it 
 visited the lower earth brought 
 back immortal longings with it. 
 
 Who shall say which light 
 brought most of blessing? 
 
 If the moonlight is good to 
 love, to dream, to break one's 
 heart under, the men rest from 
 their labors, the women sew, 
 the children dance by the light 
 of the household lamp, and when 
 it goes out the room is too dark 
 for work or play, though the 
 moon be shining at its full. 
 
 However il may be, the two 
 girls loved one another with a
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 6l 
 
 love that was destined to be put 
 to proof — and conquer. 
 
 " Nell, dear," Felicia was say- 
 ing, " was Mrs. Graham as 
 funny as ever? " 
 
 Mrs. Graham, an old friend of 
 Anne Escote's, had been Eleanor's 
 hostess during her visit to Lon- 
 don. 
 
 "Funny! I don't know that 
 funny is exactly the word. She's 
 just one of those people that are 
 amusing to talk about ; but — well, 
 it's a shame to say so when she 
 is always so kind to me and so 
 anxious to have me — but — " she 
 paused. 
 
 " But not amusing to be with ? " 
 asked Felicia. 
 
 "No; it is horrid to say so; 
 but somehow, though I should 
 laugh quite good-naturedly if 
 some one were describing her to 
 me — supposing I did not know 
 her — when I am with her I 
 can't help feeling irritated with 
 all her countless ailments and 
 her elaborate descriptions of them 
 and their remedies. She was
 
 ( >- STORY 01 in \\ou LAMBERT. 
 
 going in for steel this time, and 
 took such doses of it that really 
 at last I began to expect to sec 
 her come out in a rash of 
 needles ! " 
 
 Felicia laughed, then sighed. 
 Fancied ailments had been such 
 
 common events in her experience 
 of her mother that she passed 
 them by as inevitable. Eleanor's 
 quick sympathy caught the mean- 
 ing of the little sigh. 
 
 " It's horrible of people in ' rude 
 health ' like me," she said, gently, 
 " to laugh at those who arc not 
 so strong. Of course, they natur- 
 ally grow a little fanciful. Do 
 you remember Mrs. Roper saying 
 to Cousin Nancy what a pleasure 
 it must be to have me with her 
 to cheer her with my 'animal 
 spirits?' As if I spent the day 
 in jumping over the chairs and 
 tables— when I was quite eigh- 
 teen, too ! " 
 
 ' Yes, I think your health was 
 rather too ' rude,' as you call it, 
 to please -her. She thought it a 
 little unladylike to be so well."
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 6$ 
 
 " Mrs. Graham has given up 
 art this year," Eleanor went on, 
 with a smile. " I am a little 
 sorry, because she hurried me 
 through the picture galleries 
 dreadfully. She says science is 
 the only subject worthy the atten- 
 tion of an intelligent being, and 
 we went to a great many lectures 
 by people — both men and women 
 — all in spectacles, and looking as 
 if they had mislaid their combs 
 and clothes-brushes." 
 
 " Why, I thought you and 
 Miss Escote went in for science 
 yourselves ! " exclaimed Felicia, 
 speaking of that vast subject as 
 if it had been lawn-tennis. 
 
 Eleanor laughed. 
 
 " My mighty mind likes it in 
 small doses, I suppose," she 
 said ; " Cousin Nancy's science- 
 powders in jam. Besides, the 
 lectures really were interesting 
 enough, only I wanted to be at 
 theaters or concerts instead, and 
 unfortunately those are below the 
 notice of an intelligent being — 
 anyhow of Mrs. Graham — just
 
 (, j 01 II I I \MU.KT. 
 
 at present. Never mind, they 
 
 will have .mother turn some clay 
 — next year, perhaps, when I am 
 with her. But she is SO good and 
 
 kind to me!" cried the girl ; 
 " it's a shame to laugh at her 
 ever so little. I am sure she 
 would do anything in the world 
 to serve Cousin Nancy or me. 
 She always talks as if we had 
 been girls together ! " 
 
 Both girls laughed, and then 
 there was a little pause. 
 
 " Nell," said Felicia presently, 
 " did you meet any one in town ? 
 I am sure lots of people must have 
 admired you " 
 
 " Hundreds — thousands, if it 
 pleases you," laughed Nell. 
 
 " No ; but, Nell — didn't anyone 
 fall in love with you ? " 
 
 " Not that I know of," an- 
 swered her friend ; " not enough 
 to tell me so, anyhow. You know 
 Mrs. Graham has not a very 
 large circle of friends, and now 
 that she has taken up science 
 the livelier ones have dropped off 
 a good deal. One old gentle-
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 65 
 
 man— with spectacles, of course 
 — who prides himself on always 
 using words of one syllable ex- 
 cept under great pressure, used 
 to come pretty often. Mrs. 
 Graham thinks him very in- 
 teresting; she says he is so 
 Anglo-Saxon. I snppose I can't 
 be, for it came to be a thrilling 
 excitement to me to try to in- 
 veigle him into sentences where 
 monosyllables were out of the 
 question." 
 
 "Didn't he get to hate you ? " 
 asked Felicia. 
 
 Eleanor's dark eyes lighted up 
 with mirth. 
 
 " Well, no, I don't think he 
 did. At least — you don't know 
 his name even, so there's no 
 . harm in telling you— one day he 
 wrote me a beautiful little letter, 
 asking me to be Mrs. So-and-so, 
 and, except our two names, I 
 really believe there wasn't a 
 single word of more than one 
 syllable in it." 
 
 " Have you kept it ? Oh, do 
 show it to me ! "
 
 66 STORY "l ELEA NOR l.AMIil K I'. 
 
 Eleanor shook her head. 
 
 " Some day, perhaps," she said. 
 " Somehow I could not take it 
 seriously — it seemed too much 
 like a composition written by a 
 child for a prize. I am afraid 
 my answer must have read very 
 tamely after it. I only hope his 
 pride in his own performance 
 more than compensated for any 
 small mortification my refusal 
 cost him. I half thought at first 
 of trying to emulate his letter 
 and write mine too in mono- 
 syllables ; I thought he might 
 perhaps take it as a compliment ; 
 but I abandoned the idea, for on 
 mature deliberation I feared, on 
 the other hand, he might take it 
 as an impertinence." 
 
 " He couldn't have done that if 
 he knew anything about you," 
 protested Felicia, stoutly. " I 
 wonder he had the impertinence 
 to dare to propose to you ! ' 
 
 " Oh, no ! it wasn't imperti- 
 nence ; and he really was a nice, 
 kindly old gentleman. I dare say 
 he thought I should prove an
 
 STORY OF KLKANOR LAMBERT. 6j 
 
 apt pupil, and we might institute 
 a school of pure Anglo-Saxon 
 monosyllabists. I wonder he 
 didn't ask Mrs. Graham instead. 
 Perhaps he thought her too 
 old to begin learning her own 
 language afresh, especially as she 
 has a natural love for words of 
 the longest and most elaborate 
 kind." 
 
 There was another pause, and 
 the magnetism that affects all 
 sensitive natures made Eleanor 
 aware that Felicia had some- 
 thing special to say that would 
 not come readily to her lips. 
 
 " I have been doing all the 
 talking," she exclaimed at last ; 
 " tell me some more about your- 
 self, dear. Your letters while 
 you were in Scotland were so 
 short — except that you were en- 
 joying yourself (how I used to 
 envy you sometimes among the 
 mountains !) they told me very 
 little." 
 
 " Nell ! " said Felicia, softly. 
 
 "Yes? Go on, dear; I do so 
 want to hear all about it."
 
 01 111 VNOR LAMBE1 I 
 
 " There was sonic one there — 
 .it my uncle's — a sort of cousin 
 of my aunt's — I don't know how- 
 to tell you; it may be nothing 
 — sometimes I don't dare to 
 think " 
 
 Eleanor put her arm round 
 her friend's neck, as Felicia laid 
 her burning cheek in her lap and 
 hid her eyes. 
 
 "Did the — some one — fall in 
 love with you, dear? " she asked, 
 tenderly. 
 
 Felicia took her hand and 
 softly pressed it against her hot 
 check. 
 
 " I think so — I — I — hope so," 
 she whispered, tremulously. 
 
 "Tell me all about it," said 
 Eleanor. 
 
 "He was staying there," began 
 Felicia ; " I did not like to write 
 it to you — there was so little to 
 say ; but we — liked each other 
 directly, and he said my singing 
 was like a bird's ('so it is,' put 
 in Eleanor), and he went for 
 walks and drives with us, and he 
 always tried to be with me — and
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 69 
 
 oh, Nell ! he is so dear and nice — 
 not really handsome, I suppose — 
 but better than handsome. And 
 the last day, when we were in 
 the garden, he asked me to 
 gather him a rose, and he told 
 me he knew some people near 
 here, the Blakes of Keston, 
 and they had asked him to stay 
 there this summer. He said he 
 had not made up his mind if he 
 should accept the invitation, 
 but that now it depended entirely 
 on me — if I said he might come 
 he would write that day and 
 
 accept " She stopped, out of 
 
 breath. 
 
 " And you said he mjght ? ,: 
 asked Eleanor, caressing the 
 chestnut head with her hand. 
 
 Felicia's voice failed her as she 
 whispered, "Yes;" and then in 
 accents of intense feeling, which 
 Eleanor had never yet heard 
 from her lips, she went on pas- 
 sionately, " Oh, Nell, dear ! it must 
 mean he loves me, mustn't it? 
 It can't have been all a mistake ? 
 I know it isn't ! I know he would
 
 70 STOR\ 01 I l I INOR I VMBE] I . 
 
 have asked me while I was there, 
 only that we were hardly ever 
 alone together. Nell, dear! say 
 
 you think it is really true ! If it is 
 not, I can't bear it — my heart 
 will break !" 
 
 "Don't cry, my dear darling, 
 don't cry!" said Eleanor in her 
 tenderest tones. "It is true; I 
 feel sure — certain — it is true. 
 lie will conic, and it will be all 
 right. He is a lucky man ! I 
 hope he knows it," she went on 
 more lightly, to help the girl to 
 recover from her excitement. 
 "Don't be unhappy about it, 
 dear. I am so glad you have told 
 me." 
 
 " I couldn't write it," said 
 Felicia, tremulously; "there was 
 nothing really to tell." 
 
 "Of course not. But now, is 
 he coming soon? Did he leave 
 Scotland before you ?" 
 
 " Yes, a fortnight ; I think he 
 was to be at Keston tin's week." 
 
 " This week ! " cried Eleanor 
 instantly, full of excited interest. 
 Oh ! I wish I knew when !
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 7 1 
 
 Felicia, promise to let me know 
 the minute — the very minute — it 
 is settled ! If you let a soul — 
 except your father — know before 
 me, I shall never forgive you ! " 
 
 Felicia's smile had come back, 
 a little tearful, but happy. 
 
 " I should think so ! — if 
 
 she said. 
 
 " I declare you have never told 
 me his name yet ! " cried Eleanor. 
 " Is it very ugly? " 
 
 Felicia turned her head away 
 shyly. 
 
 " His name is Will Egerton," 
 she said, softly, lingering lovingly 
 over the syllables. 
 
 There was an instant's pause 
 before Eleanor's answer came. 
 As her friend spoke the precious 
 name, she had given an almost 
 imperceptible start, and into her 
 face there had come that sud- 
 denly-arrested expression which 
 tells of a not wholly pleasant 
 surprise. 
 
 Felicia's eyes were on the 
 grass at which her slim fingers 
 were nervously plucking, or in
 
 - 2 ..iiii INOR I \Ml:l.UT. 
 
 the (lark ones above her she- 
 might have seen a sudden dfla- 
 
 tion, and on her friend's cheek a 
 slight access of color. 
 
 But whatever the emotion the 
 announcement of Felicia's lover's 
 nam.' aroused, the girl had mas- 
 tered it in a moment. B< fore 
 the other had had time to wonder 
 at the short pause, Eleanor was 
 speaking in her usual tone, or 
 one so nearly like it, that Felicia's 
 ears, filled with the echoes that 
 sacred name had awakened in 
 her maidenly heart, detected no 
 difference. 
 
 "Will Egerton!" she said, 
 gaily. "Well, Felicia, darling, 
 this is a coincidence ! Do you 
 know I must have ahead)' met 
 your Mr. Will Egerton." 
 
 " Oh, Nell, dear! where how 
 — where did you meet him ? " 
 
 "In the train yesterday," she 
 answered. "Of course, he must 
 have been on his way to the 
 Blakes'; he got out at the 
 Junction." 
 
 "Tell me all about him,
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 73 
 
 Nell!" implored Felicia; "tell 
 me what you thought of him. 
 Isn't he good-looking ? But how 
 do you know it was Will — Mr. 
 Egerton ? Did you see it on his 
 luggage — or what ? Oh, fancy 
 your coming across him like 
 that ! " 
 
 Eleanor laughed. 
 
 " Well, I must confess to 
 having tried very hard to get 
 a peep at the initials on his 
 portmanteau," she said ; " but I 
 didn't discover his name from 
 them — he told me. You see we 
 had been having a little conver- 
 sation before that. There 'were 
 two old ladies in the carriage 
 with us when we started from 
 London, and they were so afraid 
 of draughts, and accidents, and 
 concealed murderers, and all sorts 
 of horrors, that they talked to 
 us both — I mean Mr. Egerton 
 and me — all the first part of the 
 journey about them, and how 
 glad they were to find a carriage 
 with respectable young people in 
 it " She paused and smiled.
 
 ," ( fORV 01 1 II .AN. iK l.AMi:| I- i. 
 
 on ! 
 
 " Yes, yes ; go on, Nell, go 
 
 ■' Well, naturally we — we two 
 respectable young people — looked 
 at each other with a smile at 
 that. And then — well, it was 
 natural, too, that when the two 
 poor ohl ladies, who felt so safe 
 under our protection, got out at 
 Rugby— and I needn't tell you 
 that your — that Mr. Egcrton got 
 out, too, and helped them with 
 their numberless packages with 
 chivalrous politeness — well, nat- 
 urally we laughed a little when 
 he got in again. Of course, I 
 couldn't refuse to talk to him 
 after our common experience, 
 and he was very pleasant and 
 
 amusing.' 
 
 "Oh, Nell, dear! how delight 
 ful ! I am so glad you have seen 
 him. Don't you think he i<, 
 handsome— or anyhow good- 
 looking? Of course, he is vcrj 
 dark, and people always like the i 
 opposites ; so I daresay he would 
 not strike you as much as he did 
 me."
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 75 
 
 " I think he has — a beautiful 
 face," said Eleanor, very seriously, 
 and bent her dark head and 
 kissed her friend. " Felicia, dear, 
 I congratulate you." 
 
 Felicia's lip quivered, and the 
 tears dimmed her blue eyes. 
 
 " It is too good to be true ! " 
 
 'she whispered, tremulously, "I 
 
 am afraid. I am ashamed of 
 
 having told you, even you, Nell." 
 
 " Don't be ashamed, dear. 
 Telling me is only telling your- 
 self, you know. What is there 
 to be ashamed of in — liking — a 
 man like that ? " 
 
 Felicia rubbed her "cheek 
 against her friend's hand as she 
 held it between both hers. 
 
 " He didn't tell you it was to 
 the B lakes' he was going?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " He said he was on his way 
 to visit friends near the Junction," 
 answered Eleanor. 
 
 She did not mention that the 
 young man had appended to that 
 harmless remark a few words — 
 spoken with an expression in his
 
 7'' STORY ..i in \\,,i: ,. VMI;| ,. , 
 
 dark eyes that added much to 
 their weight— to the effect that 
 the hope of seeing his fellow- 
 traveler again would considerably 
 enhance the pleasure of his visit 
 '" Keston. And looking back 
 into those dark eyes which almost 
 matched her own, Eleanor Lam- 
 bert would have been less than 
 woman if she had not felt a 
 sympathetic thrill in answer to 
 his words. 
 
 She had not returned his play- 
 ful, " Will Egerton, at your ser- 
 vice," induced by his discovery 
 of her abortive attempt to de- 
 cipher his name on his lurrcrao-c 
 by a corresponding revelation — 
 which he may perhaps have- 
 hoped for, though too true a 
 gentleman to try to surprise it 
 —but she had let him cany on 
 the conversation instituted by t he- 
 timid ladies (how Will blessed 
 them and their fears!) and 
 speeded by the laugh of health- 
 ful young spirits which had fol- 
 lowed their exit, and they had 
 talked for the last half-hour of
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 77 
 
 their journey together of the 
 country, the last new novel or 
 play, or what not, to find a dozen 
 points of agreement or of dif- 
 ference — what did it matter 
 which ? For were not both 
 young and fresh and ardent, and 
 what better converse could a 
 young man want than with this 
 noble, modest maiden, whose 
 serious soul looked out from the 
 most beautiful eyes in the world, 
 and whose true woman's instinct 
 told her she need fear naught but 
 honor and respect from this 
 chance companion with the glory 
 of his youthful manhood upon 
 him ? 
 
 So when Will Egcrton, hat in 
 hand as they parted at the Junc- 
 tion, had made his little speech, 
 Eleanor's brave eyes had looked 
 back into his, and she had an- 
 swered in that low-toned, tender 
 voice of hers, that seemed attuned 
 to all the deeper feelings of the 
 soul, " Yes, I hope we may meet 
 again." 
 
 And through the hours that
 
 7 X StORV Ol i n iNofe LAMB] 
 
 had passed since her home 
 coming-even while receiving 
 and returning with caressing love 
 Cousin Nancy's beloved welcome 
 Hannah's primly affectionate 
 greeting, and the general delight 
 at her longed-for return— a sense 
 of something, indefinite and in- 
 describable, a quickened pulse of 
 the heart, a sweet, strange pre- 
 sentiment of she knew not what 
 had been with her. As she lay 
 1,1 her white bed, watching with 
 dreamy eyes the full moon slop- 
 ing " her westering wheel " across 
 her window, thoughts new and 
 sweet rose and fell like music in 
 her m.nd, and it was not until 
 the short summer night was past 
 and the dawn had quenched the 
 stars that her eyes softly closed. 
 
 " Will Egcrton, at your ser- 
 vice," was her last waking 
 thought, and she smiled even in 
 her sleep. 
 
 And Will Egerton was the 
 hero of Felicia's maiden love. 
 story, and it was to woo and win 
 Felicia he had made that journey I
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 79 
 
 A servant approached the two 
 girls. 
 
 " Mrs. Lee is in the drawing- 
 room, Miss Eleanor," she said, 
 " and the mistress says will you 
 and Miss Gray come in to tea." 
 
 " Come along, Felicia dear," 
 said Eleanor, and none could 
 have guessed from her tone that 
 an airy something, which for 
 the last twenty-four hours had 
 haunted her sleeping and waking 
 thoughts, had within the last 
 few moments crumbled into the 
 "baseless fabric of a vision."
 
 IV. 
 
 face's spinning. 
 
 Tkii shall return no more, 
 Summer shall paint the floor 
 Of earth with flowers o'er ; 
 This shall not come to me." 
 
 ■—Caroline Fitzgerald. 
 
 jflFTEEN days had 
 passed since the sum- 
 mer's afternoon when 
 Felicia had told her 
 tremulous tale of dawn- 
 ing love and timid hope 
 in the garden at High Trees, and 
 on another afternoon that might 
 have been the same in its glory 
 of sun and sky, Eleanor sat alone 
 in her old place under the fir- 
 trees. Alone for the moment, 
 although seats placed in every 
 shady spot, and white-draped 
 80
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 8l 
 
 tables bearing dainty cakes and 
 cooling drinks at intervals 
 among the trees told of ex- 
 pected friends and the gentle 
 pleasures of a country garden- 
 party. 
 
 Eleanor, in her gown and 
 large hat of creamy white, a 
 fragrant bunch of roses at her 
 belt, was a winsome sight, and if, 
 as she sat alone, there had been 
 for a moment a certain wistful- 
 ness in her beautiful eyes, as she 
 rose and went to meet Cousin 
 Nancy across the lawn — a picture 
 of what reverend age should be, 
 in her black dress, the soft folds 
 of her white kerchief at her 
 throat, and the worn outline of 
 her noble face softened by the 
 filmy lace of her cap — there was 
 nothing in the girl's face but 
 loving brightness. 
 
 " You bad woman ! " she cried, 
 " how often have I commanded 
 you not to come out in the 
 blazing sun without a parasol? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, my dear," 
 answered Miss Escote, with a
 
 k«gh and a look of loving pride 
 at the fair young figure bcforc 
 "<-'• I really did not do it on 
 purpose his dm. ; but I am Z 
 old to alter my habits now, and 
 — know ,t is a IittIe , 
 
 Jg^ consider „ ly com . 
 
 "Vour complexion is p rettier 
 an,nan y a y oun ggir r, P stilI; . 
 
 said Eleanor, with a ^ 
 
 * , ' un a caressnm 
 
 touch on tin- -.1 i *» 
 
 chert i ■ i • er Oman's 
 
 check, winch, i n fact| stilJ b 
 
 he soft hue that matched the 
 ""dying youthfulness of her 
 
 heart. 
 
 " It's Felicia that will u 
 
 -y the pai, uj c :^:: 
 
 to-day, said Miss Escote ; « how 
 ^PPy the demure little puss £ 
 Ld7" gagement] Ifc does one 
 
 tt chM S T SUCh haPPinCSS « and 
 
 t>e child deserves all the good 
 things in the world." b 
 
 '; Ves," said Eleanor, in her 
 serious way, « sne does " 
 
 befn 0r fu^t' S Shy h °^ es ha * 
 been i fulfilled, and she and Will 
 
 Egerton were engaged.
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 83 
 
 If the intrusive vision of a 
 creamy oval face, the deep, dark 
 luster of a pair of love-compelling 
 eyes, the low tones of a serious, 
 tender voice, had risen unbidden 
 at moments between Will Eger- 
 ton and the memory of the gentle 
 blue-eyed maiden with whom he 
 had walked and talked in Scot- 
 land but so short a time before, 
 whose shy approval had been so 
 sweet, and whose bird-like sing- 
 ing had cast a spell over him, he 
 put it from him loyally. For 
 was not the rose Felicia had 
 plucked for him in that northern 
 garden in his pocket-book still ? 
 Had he not made the journey 
 down to Elmshire for the sole 
 purpose of seeing her and asking 
 her a certain sweet question, and 
 hearing an answer whose purport 
 he could scarce doubt ? Had he 
 not rehearsed the scene a hun- 
 dred times, and pictured the soft 
 bloom that would overspread the 
 sweet young face and the shy yet 
 happy glance of the clear blue 
 eyes? And was all this to be
 
 , i i ,|;\ 01 ELI VNI »H LAMB! I I 
 
 forgotten forsooth because of 
 the passing vision of another 
 
 w oman ? 
 
 If, even in his deepest heart — 
 
 in tlu.se depths we all try to 
 ignore — Will had hidden a dream 
 of disloyalty, the first sight of 
 Felicia's face when they met 
 destroyed that unacknowledged 
 dream forever. They met in the 
 company of others, and with 
 no chance of private talk ; but 
 there was that in the girl's face- 
 that made Will say to himself 
 that he would be the greatest 
 scoundrel unhung if he proved 
 disloyal to the implied troth his 
 farewell words had given her. 
 " No," he vowed solemnly to 
 himself; "not one pain or 
 disappointment, however slight, 
 shall touch that sweetest heart 
 through me." 
 
 And the vow brought back with 
 it a rush of the old feeling in its 
 first freshness, and he went to 
 rest full of so tender a sense of 
 his own good fortune in having 
 won the love of the sweetest and
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 85 
 
 dearest maiden in the world, that 
 it overran his heart with some- 
 thing that took love's guise. 
 
 " Eleanor Lambert ! " he 
 thought ; " and she is her 
 dearest friend ! " — for Felicia had, 
 of course, found opportunity to 
 discuss with him the astonishing 
 " coincidence " that it should have 
 been her dear Nell who had been 
 his fellow-traveler — " Well, it says 
 a great deal for the taste — of 
 both." 
 
 The next morning Mr. Egerton 
 rode over to Westfields. The 
 scene he had mentally rehearsed 
 so many times took place, if not 
 entirely after any one of the 
 various versions he had pictured 
 — since actual conversations are 
 apt to vary considerably from 
 imaginary ones, where the im- 
 aginer takes both parts — still 
 with the foreseen result, and Will 
 Eeerton returned to receive his 
 hosts' congratulations on his 
 luck in winning one of the 
 prettiest and best girls of the 
 country-side ; while the girl
 
 ' STORY oi i | , AN0R LAMBERT. 
 
 herself, after enjoying a perfect 
 ovation of rejoicing, mingled 
 With mild laments from hei 
 mother, noisy regrets at the 
 prospective loss of her never- 
 failing kindness from the younger 
 branches of the family, and a few 
 words of deep and tender sym- 
 pathy from her father, which 
 filled her heart anew with a rush 
 of enthusiastic love for him, went 
 her way to High Trees to tell her 
 tale to Nell with tears and smiles 
 and blushes. 
 
 And Nell answered and smiled 
 and petted her in return with- 
 out one backward thought— with 
 nothing in her heart but love 
 and rejoicing for the friend of all 
 her life. 
 
 She, too, had buried one little 
 memory so deep in her heart 
 that she prayed God it might 
 never— never— look her in the 
 face again. 
 
 There came a day when the 
 thought that it had been so— 
 that there had not been one 
 touch of aught but loyal sym-
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 87 
 
 pathy in her heart that day— was 
 well nigh the sole small thread 
 of comfort she could cling to. 
 
 But up to this afternoon 
 Eleanor and her friend's fianci 
 had not met. Westfields was a 
 good mile from High Trees. 
 Will's visits thare had to be 
 timed to suit the convenience 
 of his friends, the Blakes ; maybe 
 the young man himself had 
 lost his desire for a second 
 meeting with his fellow-traveler. 
 Anyhow, in response to Felicia's 
 representations of her great wish 
 to take him to her friend's home, 
 he always found some excuse. 
 He was so comfortable in the 
 Westfields garden ; it was so 
 hot ; he must soon be off again, 
 and so on ; and so it came to 
 pass that the first formal intro- 
 duction of Mr. William Egerton 
 to Miss Escote and her ward 
 took place at Miss Escote's 
 garden-party. 
 
 Eleanor came forward to the 
 little group from Westfields with 
 a smile on her beautiful face,
 
 
 »M "' I LEANOB l.\ ,11:1 
 
 and after greeting the others, 
 held out her hand to Will. 
 
 " We are old acquaintances, 
 Mr. Egerton," she said, brightly. 
 " If only I had known on what 
 errand you were conic, I should 
 have made even stronger efforts 
 to discover your name ! " 
 
 Yes ; she felt no flutter at her 
 heart as she spoke ; she could 
 look him straight in the eyes 
 without the slightest thrill. 
 Thank God ! that silly, base- 
 less vision had fled— fled' utterly. 
 I fer cheek had burned with shame 
 more than once that it should 
 have arisen from nothing more 
 than the chance companionship 
 of a few hours. 
 
 Will made some light and 
 suitable reply, and she stood 
 talking with him and Felicia 
 for a few minutes until otlx r 
 guests claimed her attention. 
 Will's eyes followed her, and he 
 seemed unaware that Felicia had 
 spoken. 
 
 "Isn't she just lovely, Will?" 
 the girl repeated.
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 89 
 
 Her lover's wandering eyes 
 came back to her face. 
 
 " Perfect !" he said, succinctly. 
 
 Felicia laughed a laugh of 
 perfect content. 
 
 "You'll make me jealous!" 
 she said. 
 
 " Never, I hope," answered 
 Will, more solemnly than her 
 tone seemed to warrant. 
 
 She laid a gentle hand on his 
 arm. 
 
 " Come and see the dear old 
 kitchen garden," she said, gayly ; 
 " I'm sure you'll say that's per- 
 fect." 
 
 Later in the afternoon, when 
 some of the guests had left, and 
 the remainder were enjoying the 
 freshness of the early evening, 
 strolling by twos and threes 
 about the old garden, which 
 had begun to exhale its twilight 
 perfume, Will being in discourse 
 with his hostess, the two girls 
 had leisure for a little talk. 
 
 " He is coming to Dawlish 
 with us," Felicia was saying, 
 ("he," of course, meant Will).
 
 9 ° J^RY_OF^ELEANo K LAMBERT. 
 
 ; <0,J - Nell, dear, won't it be 
 heavenly ? " 
 
 It had for many years been 
 the custom of the Gray family to 
 
 spend the month of September at 
 the seas.de, and a custom almost 
 as invariable that Eleanor should 
 •stay anyhow the first fortnight of 
 
 the time with them 
 
 " B f «t. Felicia," said she, 
 dnnt y°u think this year as 
 you will have Mr. Egerton with 
 y° l », ("oh, call him Will'" 
 interpolated Felicia, but Eleanor 
 went on), "it will be more con- 
 ven.ent to—your mother-not to 
 have another visitor as well? 
 You will have your own time taken 
 
 up, you know, dear, and " 
 
 "Eleanor!" cried Felicia, dis- 
 may on her face. "What are 
 you thinking of? Why.youJww 
 we should all be horribly disap- 
 pointed if you didn't come, too- 
 'twould be like breaking up .-,11 
 our old ways! And you know, 
 dear, it may be the last time we 
 shall all be together in the dear 
 old way."
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 9 1 
 
 That appeal was not to be 
 gainsaid. Eleanor slipped her 
 arm round her friend's waist. 
 
 " The new way will be as 
 happy — a great deal happier 
 even, I hope," she said, lovingly. 
 
 And so, in the first days of 
 September, to Dawlish the whole 
 party went, Mrs. Gray irritable 
 with the unusual exertion of the 
 journey ; her husband helpful 
 and thoughtful for her comfort 
 and his children's pleasure as 
 of yore ; Felicia not too much 
 absorbed in her individual hap- 
 piness to be, as always, the 
 capable daughter, sister, and 
 caterer for everybody's well- 
 being, and Eleanor to all ap- 
 pearance the Eleanor they all, 
 after their fashion, knew and 
 loved. 
 
 The carriage-full of noisy, 
 cheerful youngsters and their 
 elders bore but faint resemblance 
 to that in which the nervous old 
 ladies had served as the indirect 
 introduction to each other of two 
 " respectable young people ; '
 
 9 2 Story 6i i li wok lambi r i. 
 
 and it would perhaps be curious 
 to inquire if anything in the long 
 journey to Devonshire brought 
 back to either of the two any 
 memory of the earlier one and 
 their first meeting.
 
 V. 
 
 fate's weaving. 
 
 " Alas, hotv easily things go wrong ! 
 A sigh too much, or a kiss too long ; 
 And there follows a mist and a weeping 
 
 rain. 
 And life is never the same again." 
 
 — George MacDonald. 
 
 HE sun shone that Sep- 
 tember as if he, too, 
 desired to make Felicia's 
 last maiden seaside holi- 
 day memorable and de- 
 lightful. Day after day 
 he rose in a sky of unclouded 
 blue, or still better, a sky piled 
 at wide intervals with those far- 
 off masses of snowy cloud which 
 make the azure all the more 
 heavenly clear. 
 
 Evening after evening the rich 
 red cliffs glowed to his brilliance, 
 93
 
 94 SI ORJ OF I I I ANOR LAMBERT, 
 
 and before the glow was gone the 
 moon and her attendant stars 
 were keeping his place for him, 
 and wooing the waves into tremu- 
 lous paths and points of silver 
 sheen. 
 
 All day long the young Grays 
 bathed and boated, and fished 
 and raced and ran as only healthy 
 young folks can. Every morning 
 began afresh their mother's plain- 
 tive lament over the noise they 
 made and their not easily-ap- 
 peased appetites ; every morning 
 came as regularly Dr. Gray's 
 good-humored excuses for both 
 and the general tearing of him in 
 a dozen different directions as the 
 various plans of the various mem- 
 bers of his family suggested. 
 Long walks over the moors ; 
 journeys to Tcignmouth, Tor- 
 quay, and Exeter; picnics at 
 every available opportunity ; — 
 not a day but had its own 
 delights. And still the sun 
 blessed them, and the soft wind 
 from the south kept the atmos- 
 phere fresh without bringing
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 95 
 
 the rain on its wings that would 
 have brought gloom into the 
 young faces. 
 
 And Felicia was in Paradise ; 
 for was not Will the very gentlest 
 and most thoughtful of lovers? 
 Ready, if she pleased, to wander 
 away with her alone along the 
 cliffs or over the moors ; as ready 
 to join in the boating and racing 
 and picnicking, and always unsel- 
 fish and considerate. Why, he 
 was an ideal lover, and the girl 
 held her head high with pride as 
 she walked by his side and felt 
 him her very own. 
 
 And Eleanor? 
 
 She, too, laughed and talked 
 among the others ; she acted 
 mermaid in the waves at morn- 
 ing with Felicia and her young 
 sisters ; she walked for miles over 
 the moors with the boys with her 
 fine, free step ; she danced with 
 her old lightness and spirit in the 
 evenings, when, shore and moon- 
 light at last forsaken, the effer- 
 vescing spirits of the family were 
 fain for yet another outlet,
 
 96 STORY of ELEANO K I a.m. ;..,.,. 
 
 And yet, and yet— something 
 had come over the girl-some- 
 
 thin- she would not stay to think- 
 over, something she dared not 
 own to herself. 
 
 Why was it that, while the 
 others were in the full swing of 
 mirth and noise, she would so 
 often slip away, and, resting on a 
 fallen rock, gaze and gaze at the 
 waste of waters with eyes full of 
 a yearning other than that vague 
 Sehnsucht which is the gift of the 
 sea to all true sea-lovers ? What 
 drew her so often to her chamber 
 window, where, when dance and 
 song over, and the house at rest 
 she would sit for an hour so 
 quiet that she might have been 
 a white-robed statue in the 
 moonlight— to fall presently on 
 her knees by her bedside with 
 prayers to which tears were not 
 strangers? Why, when Felicia 
 "> the bird-like tones that had 
 won Will Egerton's heart, sang 
 a simple little song that told of 
 lover's parting— that trite story 
 that is as old as the world— did
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 97 
 
 Eleanor suddenly feel a swift 
 rush of tears to her eyes, and at 
 the same moment a conscious- 
 ness that Will's were fixed 
 strangely on her face ? She had 
 heard Felicia sing that song a 
 dozen times before with no more 
 than a gentle emotion. And 
 why — tvliy — did she always know 
 instinctively when those dark 
 eyes turned her way ? And 
 whence came the terrible — the 
 sweet — no, the zvicked conscious- 
 ness that they fell on her with a 
 look they never wore for any other 
 — not even Felicia ? 
 
 Why, too, since Will never 
 spoke to her one word that the 
 whole world might not hear, 
 since his manner to her was 
 not only chivalrous in its respect, 
 but almost formal, was she aware 
 that under the respect and def- 
 erence ran a current that told of 
 ardent forces as the gulf-stream 
 warms the cold ocean-waves? 
 
 She dared not guess ; it was 
 hideous disloyalty to the friend 
 of all her life to give any
 
 '' ; """ N '" EU VNOB LAMBERT. 
 
 "amc to her trouble even i„ 
 her thoughts. No; with God's 
 help it would pass away—Felicia 
 
 should never know— they would 
 be happy. This terrible visit to 
 Gaulish would soon be over 
 At home with dear Cousin Nancy 
 she would be able to tear away 
 forever the magic web that had 
 enwound her; she would forget 
 -him. And her pale face, 
 crimsoned with shame at that 
 first admission of the true cause 
 of her misery, was hidden in 
 the coverlet, the midnight waves 
 of her hair falling like a pall over 
 her. 
 
 So passed away ten days of 
 Eleanor's visit, days so full of 
 suppressed emotion and passion- 
 ate feeling that they represented 
 years in two lives. 
 
 "Not up yet, dear?" as ked 
 Eleanor one morning as she 
 entered Felicia's room.' 
 
 " My head aches," answered 
 her friend, turning it restlessly 
 on the pillow and lifting heavy 
 eyes to Eleanor's face.
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR tAMBERT. gj 
 
 " I'm so sorry, dear ; shall I 
 bring you up some tea ? And 
 I'll tell the boys not to make a 
 noise." 
 
 Felicia was subject to infre- 
 quent headaches, and with her 
 customary unselfishness took 
 them as matters of course when 
 they came, and made no fuss. 
 
 Eleanor brought the tea. 
 
 " I'm afraid I shall not be 
 able to get up to-day — anyhow 
 till the evening," said Felicia, 
 presently. " I'm sorry, because 
 of the picnic ; but it can't be 
 helped." 
 
 " Of course, we shall put it 
 off," began Eleanor ; " it would 
 be spoiled without you." 
 
 But Felicia would not hear of 
 such a thing. 
 
 "No, no," she said; "I 
 should be dreadfully sorry if it 
 were put off ; we shall have time 
 for another before you go. Be- 
 sides, you know — " she smiled 
 faintly — "the house will be 
 much quieter if the boys are 
 away, and I shall be all right
 
 IO °STOm 01 ELEANOR LAMBERT. 
 
 by the evening, I hope. Take 
 care of Will, Nell. Give him my 
 
 love. J 
 
 A faint flush rose i„ Eleanor's 
 cheek, and for asecond Felicia's 
 heavy eyes dwelt on her with 
 
 ""usual earnestness, but she 
 dosed them without speaking. 
 
 It was a glorious day, the sea 
 a vast expanse of varying blue 
 green, and purple, under a 
 brilliant sky over which the 
 soft breeze sent cloudy argosies, 
 while it crested the long curves of 
 the waves with just a line of 
 snowy foam. 
 
 They had eaten their rustic 
 dinner among a clump of trees 
 »> a field on the cliff-top, and 
 now with the access of spirits 
 which satisfied hunger had im- 
 parted, various more or less pre- 
 cipitous and risky descents to 
 the shore were being made by 
 the boys, while the little girls 
 picked out easier and more fre- 
 quented paths. Dr. Gray had 
 been carried off in triumph by 
 the feminine portion of the party,
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMLERT. IOI 
 
 to which, to the boy's loudly- 
 expressed disgust, Will Egerton 
 also attached himself. 
 
 And so it fell out quite natu- 
 rally, and without any conscious 
 intent on either side, that pres- 
 ently he found himself walking 
 by Eleanor's side. 
 
 The sweet sea-air, the sun, 
 the sky, the spring of youth 
 in her own strong heart, had 
 all together combined to-day to 
 help the girl. Under that glorious 
 light and shadow, with the ever- 
 lasting sky over her head, and 
 the everlasting sea kissing the 
 hem of the land, the terror that 
 haunted the lonely watches of 
 the night seemed to flee away, 
 and she felt strong in the trust 
 that the forgetfulness she prayed 
 for must come — nay, almost able 
 to believe that the feeling she 
 dared not name was subsiding 
 into nothing more ardent than 
 honest friendship. 
 
 Strong in this hope she felt 
 equal to talking to her com- 
 panion as they walked, with a
 
 lOiJTORY OK ELEANOR LAMBERT. 
 
 ; i ' lt ;": 1 ease she had long ceased 
 to feel with him. 
 
 Dr. Gray and his girls were 
 out of sight now, and Will and 
 Eleanor on their downward path 
 Beneath then lay the red beach 
 
 guarded by its red cliffs and 
 washed by the incoming tide 
 
 and all around them was the 
 sun-warmed air freshened by the 
 soft breeze. The long ribbons 
 at Eleanor's throat flew out 
 upon it at moments like a ship's 
 pennon and whipped it with a 
 shrill music that rang j„ bill's 
 ears for many a day to come. 
 Suddenly one long streamer in 
 »ts fl.ght was blown across his 
 breast and clung there. Eleanor 
 laughed. 
 
 Will disengaged it gently and 
 carrying it to his lips, kissed it 
 reverently as the pilgrim kisses 
 the relic from his shrine. 
 
 Eleanor did not laugh now 
 she turned her head as if she 
 had not noticed the action ; but 
 she fell silent, and when Will 
 ventured some small remark,
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. IO^ 
 
 she answered a little at ran- 
 dom. 
 
 They had reached the strand 
 now, and Will held out his hand 
 to aid her descent from the rock 
 that formed its last step. As 
 she laid hers in it their eyes 
 met. 
 
 Both were pale, and there was 
 a mute entreaty in the eyes of 
 each — in his for forgiveness, in 
 hers for silence. 
 
 They walked slowly and in 
 silence along the shore, close 
 under the overhanging red sand- 
 stone cliff, until Eleanor paused. 
 
 " Go on, please," she said, 
 very gently, but firmly; "I will 
 sit down on one of these fallen 
 rocks and wait until you all come 
 back." 
 
 He obeyed her without a word, 
 and, turning away, had begun 
 to follow the track of Dr. Gray 
 and his little girls, who could 
 be seen some distance beyond, 
 when there was a strange, rend- 
 ing sound on the face of the cliff. 
 
 In the flash of an eye — before
 
 104 rORY 01 I 1 I \.\,,k LAMB] i I 
 
 the girl had time to realize what 
 had happened— he had seized 
 her in his aims and torn her 
 away from her resting-place- 
 even as a mass of the soft cliff 
 fell, with a dull roar, upon the 
 very spot, scattering fragments 
 all around to the hem of her 
 gown where she stood, clasped 
 tight to Will's heaving breast, 
 while words of passionate love 
 burst incoherently from his white 
 lips and his eyes devoured her 
 pale face like a consuming flame. 
 She raised her eyes to his. 
 "You saved my life!" she 
 whispered, tremblingly, and at the 
 sound of her voice in his ears, 
 and the passionate love on his 
 face in her eyes, the whole world 
 •save themselves faded away, and 
 their lips met in one long kiss. 
 
 It was the kiss that woke the 
 sleeping Princess— but not to 
 happiness now. 
 
 Eleanor awoke and tore her- 
 self out of the Prince's arms 
 with a wild cry. 
 
 "Oh, what have I done?"
 
 Story of eleanor Lambert. 105 
 
 she wailed. " Oh, Felicia, my 
 dear ! " 
 
 Will fell at her feet, white and 
 trembling. 
 
 " You have done nothing! " he 
 cried ; " it is I — I alone. Don't 
 blame yourself! — only don't hate 
 me ! Oh, my dearest, my dearest 
 — don't hate me ! " 
 
 There was a call from beyond 
 the curve of the shore. "Father! 
 Will ! Nell ! Where the dickens 
 have you all got to?" in Tom's 
 most stentorian tones. 
 
 Eleanor looked at Will. 
 
 " Go to them, please," she 
 said, faintly ; " I will walk on 
 after Dr. Gray and the girls." 
 
 The misery in his face made 
 her heart tremble. 
 
 "I don't hate you," she said, 
 very low ; " only myself." 
 
 A quiver passed over the poor 
 fellow's face. She turned and 
 walked slowly onward. 
 
 In the merriment of the walk 
 home in the twilight, the silence 
 of two of the party passed almost 
 unnoticed. The doctor, to whose
 
 J°<"> STORY ,., ELEANOR LAMBERT. 
 
 side Eleanor clung as if she felt 
 his strong kind presence a pro- 
 tection and defence, looking at 
 her pale face, said kindly, « Tired, 
 my dear?" and on the girl's 
 affirmative response, drew her 
 hand through his arm in his 
 fatherly fashion. Will loitered 
 with the latest of the party, and 
 when the whole family met in 
 the dining-room, where Felicia, 
 a little pale still, but her head- 
 ache nearly gone, was waiting 
 with her mother for supper with 
 them, no one could have guessed 
 what that much-belauded picnic 
 had done for two of its members. 
 If in Felicia's eyes, as they 
 fell on her lover and her friend, 
 there still lingered something of 
 the morning's inquiring gaze, it 
 passed, and presently she was 
 laughing with the merriest. 
 
 But the pitying moon has not 
 often looked down on two more 
 anguished young hearts than 
 those that outwatched it that 
 night under Dr. Gray's kindly 
 roof at Dawlish.
 
 VI. 
 
 AN APPEAL. 
 
 "You know you never named his name to me — 
 You know I cannot give him up — ah God, 
 Not up now, even to yoxi / " 
 
 — Robert Browning. 
 
 Q^OOKED at from the point 
 ■v^tfe^ °f v * ew °f the cynical 
 student of human nature, 
 there may possibly be a 
 humorous side to the 
 fashion in which the 
 conventionalities of civilized life 
 enforce a strict adherence to their 
 received formulas as pitilessly 
 when the heart is racked with 
 torment or heavy with anguish 
 is when all goes merrily with it ; 
 but the experience is apt to be 
 the reverse of humorous or pleas- 
 ing to the sufferer. 
 107 
 
 /j,-^
 
 I 8 i I . OJ I l.i \ NOB LAMBERT. 
 
 Eleanor Lambert never knew 
 by what force she lived through 
 the two days after that fatal pic- 
 nic ; how she sat at tabic with 
 her friend and her friend's lover, 
 and asked one for the salt and the 
 other for bread— salt that might 
 well symbolize the tears that 
 flooded her heart but must not 
 rise to her eyes, and bread that 
 choked her as she tried to swallow 
 enough to prevent kindly notice 
 of her want of appetite. In that 
 large and merry party there was 
 a chance of silence— broken by 
 feverish bursts of assumed mirth 
 —passing unheeded, at least for 
 a time. 
 
 She never looked at Will, and 
 knew all the more vividly when 
 his appealing eyes were on her. 
 She avoided him persistently, 
 never giving him a chance of a 
 word alone with her, yet felt 
 with an anguish as of a sword 
 through her heart that his was 
 suffering no less. 
 
 When she thought of Felicia 
 she was torn with feelings mingled
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. IOt) 
 
 of remorseful love and pity, and 
 a torturing consciousness of some 
 new shade of expression in her 
 friend's blue eyes that told of 
 awakening— what ? She dared 
 not think what. 
 
 So two miserable days passed — 
 days of those that sap the heart's 
 strength and mock at life itself. 
 The third morning the boys were 
 all agog over a plan for walking 
 to Exeter, sleeping there, and 
 walking back the next day. Will 
 must come, too ; Felicia could 
 well spare him for one day, they 
 were sure. Eleanor felt the swift 
 glance of his eyes on her face ; 
 but she gave no sign. He went. 
 
 The morning had been heavy 
 and unusually hot, and the 
 feminine portion of the family 
 had felt content with bathing and 
 afterward lounging on the sand 
 in company with the doctor, 
 while Mrs. Gray lay on her sofa 
 at home and complained feebly of 
 the heat. But during the mid- 
 day dinner clouds began to rise 
 and gather, slowly at first, then
 
 no STORY 01 ELEANOR LAMBERT. 
 
 more swiftly, until the greater 
 part of the heavens was a mass of 
 lurid purple. Then there sprang 
 up the sudden cool breeze so 
 gen-rally the precursor of a thun- 
 derstorm— to pass away again 
 as suddenly. A distant rumble 
 was heard— then another and an- 
 other—nearer and louder. Then 
 the cloud-rack was cleft by a 
 great quivering flash, and the 
 storm was upon them. 
 
 For an hour it blazed and 
 crashed, now nearer, now farther, 
 while the rain came down in 
 sheets; and then, little by little, 
 it died away as it had come ; the 
 blue sky laughed out again ; the 
 sun shone, and in his rays the 
 remnants of the great vault of 
 cloud turned once more into airy 
 vapor, so whitely innocent that 
 it seemed ungenerous to look 
 upon them as belated skirmishers 
 from that thunderous cloud- 
 army. 
 
 During the storm the inhabitants 
 of the sea-side villa had behaved 
 after their various kinds. The
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. Ill 
 
 doctor, who thoroughly enjoyed 
 a thunderstorm and whose in- 
 clination would have led him to 
 watch its grand movements from 
 the window, sat by his wife's 
 sofa, holding her hand, since the 
 poor lady had an intense dread 
 of lightning, and cried out at 
 every flash. The younger mem- 
 bers of the family shared in 
 greater or less degree their 
 father's fearlessness, and Eleanor, 
 as she sat at her bedroom win- 
 dow, felt a certain strain of— 
 not comfort, perhaps, but satis- 
 faction, in the clash of the great 
 forces of Nature which appealed 
 to the trouble within her. 
 
 There was a light knock at the 
 
 door. 
 
 "May I come in, Nell? " said 
 
 Felicia's voice. 
 
 A spasm passed over Eleanor's 
 
 face. 
 
 "Of course!" she answered, 
 and her friend entered. 
 
 Felicia drew a chair to the 
 window and sat down, but she 
 did not speak for a moment.
 
 "-' rORY °* ELEANOR . -.,,.,, r . 
 
 The silence began to thrill i„ 
 Eleanors ears. 
 
 "The storm is almost over " 
 she said ; « uc shaI] haye a , o » 
 
 evening. " 7 
 
 " yes ;"said Felicia, no more; 
 and Eleanor heard the blood 
 dicing ,n her brain during the 
 Pause that . followed-so strong 
 was her instinctive foreboding of 
 approaching trouble. 
 
 'Nell," said Felicia at last 
 vcy gently, but with an appeal! 
 »"g intonation in the little en- 
 dearing name that held a whole 
 history; « NeIlj dea ,. , ^ ^ 
 
 say- want to ask you-some- 
 thing. 
 
 Nell's heart stood still for a 
 
 second, and her hands grew cold • 
 
 she could have died gratefully" 
 
 that moment. But Felicia paused 
 
 once more, and she must speak. 
 
 . What ls *. dear ? " she asked 
 
 in a vo,ce that seemed to herself 
 
 to come from quite a different 
 
 part of the room. 
 
 "Nell," Felicia began again, 
 but now her voice had lost its
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. I 13 
 
 firmness and trembled piteously ; 
 " Nell, you are a thousand times 
 better, and cleverer, and more 
 beautiful than I am ; it is natural 
 that — people — should see that, 
 and admire and — like — you. But 
 —I love him ! Oh, Nell, Nell ! I 
 love him so dearly ! Don't — don't 
 take him from me ! " Her voice 
 broke into sobbing. 
 
 But Eleanor was on her knees 
 before her, her arms around her, 
 and Felicia's head fell on her 
 shoulder. 
 
 Then Eleanor spoke, and her 
 voice was like a solemn psalm. 
 
 " Felicia, " she said, " God is 
 my witness that I will never take 
 him from you — that I will never 
 do you wrong or repay your dear 
 love with treachery. My dear, 
 my darling ! It is you who are 
 a thousand times better than 
 I ! You who are so good, so 
 generous, so forgiving ! " 
 
 Her voice failed, and the two 
 girls clung yet closer together. 
 
 At last Felicia raised her head 
 and smiled a tremulous smile,
 
 114 STORY OK ELEANOR LAMBERT. 
 
 and they kissed each other with 
 
 a lo»g kiss. 
 
 " My dear old Nell ! " she said, 
 
 " we will never speak of it again." 
 When her friend had left her 
 
 alone, Eleanor knelt and cried 
 
 with passionate prayer for strength 
 to do right— for help to be worthy 
 of the love and trust of the friend 
 so true and generous that they had 
 not failed in that sharpest ordeal. 
 The past was irrevocable — she 
 could not alter it or her remorse 
 for her share in it ; but again 
 and again she registered her vow 
 that, whatever the cost to herself 
 or Will— ah, the sting of thai 
 thought ! — she would prove in 
 the future not unworthy of that 
 dearest, sweetest friend. 
 
 If only she might go— go home 
 to Cousin Nancy— away from this 
 bewildering pain and divided 
 loyalty ! But what excuse could 
 she find for shortening her visit 
 without arousing suspicions in 
 the minds of either her hosts or 
 her cousin? Well, Will was 
 away till to-morrow night ; before
 
 STOKY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 115 
 
 then, perhaps, some reasonable 
 excuse might present itself to 
 her mind. 
 
 The excuse did present itself, 
 but not in any of the possible 
 forms over which Eleanor had 
 pondered in the sleepless hours 
 of the night. 
 
 On her plate at breakfast she 
 found a letter from Allersley, and 
 opened it hurriedly, seeing that 
 instead of Cousin Nancy's still 
 firm and masculine handwriting, 
 it bore Hannah's prim char- 
 acters. 
 
 "Dear Miss Eleanor," she 
 read, "I think it my duty to in- 
 form you that my mistress is far 
 from as I should wish. She was 
 took with a specious of faint last 
 night, and I have kep her to bed 
 to-day. I could have desired as 
 Dr. Gray was here, not as Dr. 
 Thomas is not a clever gentle- 
 man in his way, no doubt, but I 
 don't hold much with young men. 
 Miss Eleanor, my dear mistress 
 send her love, and you are not to
 
 IM, I'ORY OF ELI \N' >B I AMU KT. 
 
 hurry, but she must con f est she 
 would like to sec you. Do come 
 home, my dear. 
 
 " Yours respectfully, 
 
 " Hannah Print." 
 
 Eleanor's face blanched as she 
 read. It was not the actual 
 facts the letter told her that paled 
 her cheek, so much as the simple 
 fact of Cousin Nancy letting her 
 hear of her illness through the 
 faithful Hannah; for she knew 
 how her tender guardian would 
 shrink from alarming her without 
 dire necessity. Moreover, under 
 the stilted wording of the missive, 
 above all in the relaxation of the 
 old servant's dignity in adding an 
 endearment to her mistress's title, 
 Eleanor read a solicitude on 
 Hannah's part that boded ill. 
 She handed the letter to Dr. 
 Gray without a word, and sat 
 silent and shivering as he read it. 
 His face grew grave. 
 
 " I must go directly ! " Eleanor 
 broke out ; " by the first train ! 
 Oh, Dr. Gray, what can it
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 117 
 
 be ? Oh, Cousin Nancy, Cousin 
 Nancy ! " 
 
 The doctor had passed on the 
 letter to his daughter. 
 
 " Felicia, dear," he said, as she 
 finished it and then put her arm 
 tenderly round her friend, "just 
 pack my bag, will you ? We have 
 time to catch the express. I will 
 go up and explain to your mother. 
 Nell, my dear child, don't look 
 so white and frightened ; very 
 likely it is nothing. Come, drink 
 a cup of coffee and eat something, 
 like the brave girl you are, and 
 then get together any small 
 things you want. Don't bother 
 about anything else. Felicia 
 will send everything after you. 
 We shall find my dear oltd friend 
 ready to laugh at us for coming, 
 I daresay." 
 
 "Are you really coming, too, 
 Dr. Gray ? Oh, how good you 
 are ! 
 
 " Why, you didn't think I was 
 not going to my old friend Anne 
 Escote, when she wanted me?" 
 began Dr. Gray with some
 
 l iS 5TOR\ 01 i II I '•< IF LAMBERT. 
 
 emotion, and then turned it off 
 with a laugh, " and going to 
 leave my locum tenens in Hannah's 
 clutches ! " 
 
 Eleanor managed a faint smile. 
 
 The two girls held each other 
 in a close embrace as Eleanor 
 started. 
 
 "Say good-by for me to — the 
 others — when they come back," 
 she said, bravely ; and Felicia 
 kissed assent.
 
 VII. 
 
 THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH. 
 
 " Mine honor keeps the weather of my fate. 
 — Troilus and Crysida. 
 
 FORTNIGHT had 
 
 passed since the even- 
 ing when, at sight of 
 her darling's face, and 
 the touch of her tender 
 kisses, Anne Escote's 
 dim eyes had filled with the light 
 of joy and love; while under her 
 playful rebukes of the doctor for 
 his want of faith in any one but 
 himself being able to treat her 
 properly, her old friend read a 
 great relief in his presence, and 
 a knowledge of possible danger 
 119
 
 120 StORY oi r.I.F.ANOR LAMliF.RT. 
 
 to herself that she would fain 
 conceal from the girl as long as 
 might be. 
 
 In a few days, to all appear- 
 ance, she had almost regained 
 her usual health, and, although 
 her active habits were perforce 
 laid by for the present, she was so 
 unaffectedly cheerful and bright, 
 that Eleanor's heart would have 
 felt at case about her, but for the 
 fact that Dr. Gray utterly refused 
 to rejoin his family at Dawlish. 
 He made light of it himself, say- 
 ing it was too long a journey to 
 make more than three times in 
 one month — that, having once 
 got back to his work, he felt too 
 much drawn to it to leave it 
 again — that he must stay to pro- 
 tect poor young Mr. Thomas 
 from Hannah, and so on. 
 
 But when he made these ex- 
 cuses, while Eleanor, with the 
 quick comprehension of love, 
 knew in her secret heart that 
 her cousin felt grateful for his 
 decision in spite of her having 
 urged him to go, a sick appre-
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 121 
 
 hension she dared not face shook 
 her at moments. 
 
 The thought of Will kept 
 bravely out of sight was be- 
 ginning to fade, she prayed, under 
 the pressure of anxiety for the 
 dearest friend of all her life. 
 Never, never, she vowed to her- 
 self, should that dearest friend's 
 loving heart be troubled by the 
 knowledge of her darling's past 
 anguish and lapse from the high 
 standard of honor she had 
 learned of her — never, at least, 
 while she was not her usual 
 strong self. Some day, perhaps, 
 when Will and Felicia were 
 married, and she had outlived 
 the last pang of the serpent-pain 
 that had twined round her heart, 
 she would confess to that ten- 
 derest and noblest soul how far 
 she had fallen from the heights 
 of loyalty, and in the counsel 
 of that reverend experience gain 
 future strength. But not now. 
 
 The last days of September 
 were at hand. The Gray family 
 were to return early in October.
 
 122 STORY <>| 1 IKaNmR l.AMIW.RT. 
 
 Will was to leave a few days 
 earlier to join a friend's shooting 
 party in Sussex, Felicia had 
 written. Her letters were as 
 frank and loving as of old ; no 
 trace of any haunting memory 
 of her appeal to Nell could be 
 read between the lines — nothing 
 but affectionate sympathy for her 
 friend's anxiety, and joy that her 
 father had decided to allay that 
 anxiety by remaining at Allersley ; 
 although Nell knew she missed 
 him greatly, and his absence 
 caused the whole burden of 
 Mrs. Gray's exacting fretfulness 
 to fall on her shoulders. 
 
 " How much more generous — 
 how much better in every way 
 she is than I ! ' Eleanor said 
 again and again to her own sad 
 heart. 
 
 One afternoon, after Miss 
 Escote had been promoted from 
 her bedroom to her pleasant up- 
 stairs parlor — the room in which 
 more than twenty-one years ago 
 she had read Dick Lambert's 
 dying letter— she and Dick Lam-
 
 Story of eleanor lambert. 123 
 
 belt's daughter sat talking, Cousin 
 Nancy in the great arm-chair 
 drawn near the bright fire — for 
 her illness had made her chilly — 
 and Eleanor on a stool at her feet, 
 her beautiful head against the 
 old woman's knee, and one hand 
 holding the thin aged one that 
 lay upon her neck. 
 
 The ciri's face was turned to- 
 ward the fire, and if the leaping 
 flames reflected themselves in 
 eyes that were filled from time 
 to time with a tragic sadness, 
 they told no tales. 
 
 There had been silsnce for a 
 space. 
 
 " Eleanor, my darling," said 
 Miss Escote, at last, " I want 
 to talk to you a little." 
 
 A horrible pang contracted 
 Eleanor's heart ; the words bore 
 so painful a likeness to those 
 Felicia had used so short a time 
 ago, and seemed to presage as 
 great a calamity. 
 
 She turned her cheek against 
 the hand she held, and Miss Escote 
 heard her quickly-caught breath.
 
 i 24 story "i i i i \ \mk LAMB] i i . 
 
 " My dear," she went on, 
 "you have been my dearest joy, 
 my greatest comfort — more to 
 me than words can say — ever 
 since the day of your birth. I 
 want yon always to remember 
 that. But, my child, sooner or 
 later we must part." 
 
 A sob broke from Eleanor, and 
 she cried passionate]}- : 
 
 "Oh, Cousin Nancy! Cousin 
 Nancy! Don't say it! It may 
 be — it will be — a long time — " 
 
 "My darling! it may be; but 
 somehow I think it will not. 
 Don't sob so, my dearest ; be 
 my brave Eleanor. God may 
 let me be with you a little while 
 still. But, my child, while 1 
 have the strength and the sense, 
 I want to gay a few words to 
 you about your future. Can you 
 listen now ? " 
 
 Eleanor fought down her sobs, 
 and assented brokenly. 
 
 u You have always known," 
 Miss Escote went on, " that this 
 dear home passes into distant 
 hands at my death. I hope you
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. I 25 
 
 have guessed — although I fear 
 you have never been worldly-wise 
 enough to disturb your mind 
 about it," she continued, with 
 a smile that drew another sob 
 from the girl, " that I should 
 not leave you unprovided for. 
 You will always have a sufficient 
 income, though you will not be 
 an heiress." 
 
 " Oh, don't ! don't ! " whispered 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " I would spare you the pain, 
 my darling, if I could ; but it is 
 right you should know. There, 
 now we have done with business. 
 But there is something else. 
 Eleanor, you must not think it 
 means anything worse than that 
 it is right for an old woman who 
 has had her warning to put her 
 affairs in order ; but I have been 
 talking over things with my dear 
 and kind old friend, Donald 
 Gray. He said in his fine, manly 
 way, that of -course your home 
 must be with them ; he loved 
 you as his own daughter. It 
 comforted me greatly when he
 
 126 PORV OF ELI W »H L 1MB] i I . 
 
 a 1 
 
 said it ; but, Eleanor dear, I 
 have been thinking it over since, 
 and I am not so sure. You see, 
 when Felicia is married, things 
 will be very different, and I have 
 i strong presentiment that Mrs. 
 Gray would not altogether wel- 
 come you. Men don't always 
 sec these things in the same- 
 light as women. What do you 
 think, dear? " 
 
 Eleanor felt how deep and 
 urgent was the anxiety in her 
 cousin's mind, and her own brave 
 spirit rose and beat down the 
 anguish of hearing her discuss a 
 future wherein she should no 
 longer be able to cherish and 
 guard her darling, and enabled 
 her to answer with some show of 
 calmness. 
 
 " I think you arc right, Cousin 
 Nancy dear. (" If I might tell her 
 why it must never, never be my 
 home!" she cried, in her heart.) 
 I don't think Mrs. Gray would 
 like it. She has never been very 
 fond of me, you know ; she thinks 
 you spoiled me. And io j ou did ! 

 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 127 
 
 my dear, dear, dearest ! And so 
 I don't know how to live without 
 you ! 
 
 Then she dried her eyes once 
 more, and spoke more firmly. 
 
 "I am a wretch to cry and 
 make you miserable," she said; 
 " let me hold your hand tight, 
 and I won't again." 
 
 "My dearest child!" mur- 
 mured Miss Escote. 
 
 "There, now I'm going to be 
 brave," said Eleanor. " Cousin 
 Nancy, when — if — when I have 
 to part with you, I think I will 
 ask Mrs. Graham to take me in. 
 I have often laughed at her and 
 made fun of her ; but she is good 
 and kind — good and kind enough 
 to be very fond of me in spite of 
 my laughing at her to her face 
 sometimes ; and she is alone in 
 the world. I think she would 
 like to have me ; and she is — so 
 unlike — you, that it would be 
 best " 
 
 The last incoherent words 
 came in sobs. But Miss Es- 
 cote understood the passionate
 
 i - KV OK KLEANOR LAMBERT, 
 
 loyalty t<> herself that prompte 
 
 tilt Ml. 
 
 There was another silenci 
 
 while she laid her disengag< '1 
 hand <>n the girl's hair, a\m\ de 
 t< rmined to write that very night 
 a few words to Mrs. Graham, 
 asking her if, in the event of her 
 not distant death, she would h el 
 inclined for her sake, and the 
 sake of the girl herself, to give 
 Eleanor the shelter of her liou.se 
 and protection. 
 
 " I think you are right, dar- 
 ling," she said. " Mary Gra- 
 ham is a good woman, and 
 kind-hearted, and she will give 
 you a cordial welcome, I feel 
 sure, and a home until .1-. I 
 pray — you make the happiness 
 and beaut)' of some good man's. 
 Ah, my dear ! to think I shall 
 not see it or him ! No ; don't 
 cry, my own dear, don't cry. 
 I ought not to have said it. I 
 have had so many blessings." 
 
 Silence again, while Eleanor 
 fondled the thin hand she held. 
 
 " Eleanor," began Miss Escote
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 1 29 
 
 presently, " once upon a time I 
 loved your father very dearly. 
 Did you ever guess it ? " 
 
 " I have thought it might 
 have been so," whispered the 
 girl. " Tell me, dear Cousin 
 Nancy." 
 
 And so for the first time in all 
 the years that had gone by since 
 the days, in Eden, Anne Escote 
 told— told to the child of the 
 man she had loved — that old tale. 
 Told, in tender words that passed 
 lightly over her lover's forgiven 
 faults, and paused upon his graces 
 and talents, on to the end and to 
 the story of the girl's own beauti- 
 ful young mother, whose memory 
 Anne had kept fragrant in her 
 child's heart. 
 
 " Poor Cousin Nancy ! " sighed 
 Eleanor, when the story was 
 ended. 
 
 " No, not poor, dear — richer 
 far than I ever dreamed of being. 
 Eleanor, when Dick and I meet 
 yonder, I shall say to him from 
 a full heart that if he caused 
 me some little suffering of old,
 
 130 rORY Ol ELEANOI 1 \M1KRT. 
 
 he has made mc overflowing 
 amends for it in giving me his 
 daughter. " 
 
 " Now, dear," she added, a 
 little later, "you have been in- 
 doors all day. Go out and 
 breathe the pure, fresh air a while. 
 Hannah will be only too happy, 
 dear soul, to sit with me. I 
 won't talk any more ; I feel a little 
 tired." 
 
 Eleanor took her way across 
 the Common. Its broad, open 
 expanse drew her to-night with 
 the sense of space which the 
 wounded soul needs at moments. 
 There arc minds that under 
 pressure of joy or trouble crave 
 for such space — solitary and 
 wild — to move in ; the immeasur- 
 able leagues of ocean, the empty 
 sky, the wind-swept moors, speak 
 to them a language their spirit 
 understands. 
 
 Eleanor walked slowly across 
 the deserted common — her eyes 
 fixed on the golden glow the 
 sunset had left behind it, wherein 
 the evening star had hung its
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 131 
 
 slowly-brightening lamp — a great 
 sense of loss and pain, a passion 
 of love for her cousin rising and 
 falling within her. 
 
 In the distance a yellow spark 
 was beginning to glimmer from 
 a cottage window here and there 
 in the village ; a carrier's cart — 
 its tarpaulin curtain floating out 
 behind it like some gigantic bird 
 outlined against the glow — 
 jogged along the road. 
 
 Eleanor walked on until the 
 glow faded and the stars bright- 
 ened into fuller radiance. Then 
 she turned homeward once more. 
 In the southeast, tangled in a 
 web of mournful cloud, a mis- 
 shapen moon showed a dim and 
 fateful radiance, like a battered 
 shield of tarnished silver. A 
 man's figure, indistinct in the 
 dying light, was approaching 
 her along the path. 
 
 What instinct brought that 
 irresistible quiver to the girl's 
 brave spirit — fearless of any dan- 
 ger in that well-known spot ? 
 
 " You ! " she cried, with the
 
 I'ORV 01 I ii INOR I \Mi;i R i 
 
 < ry ol a trapped bird, as Will 
 Eg( rton itood before In i . 
 For a moment they fa( ed i ach 
 
 other in the dusk, silent an<I 
 motionless. Then Will spoke, 
 and liis very voice seemed 
 changed. 
 
 "Nell," he said, quietly, but 
 with an accent of strongly-re- 
 pressed passion that pierced the 
 girl's very heart, "I suppo 
 you mean me to understand 
 that — what happened —my mad- 
 ness — was to be between us as 
 if it had never been " 
 
 He paused, unable to go on, 
 and Eleanor dragged a faint 
 "Yes" to her lips, in answer 
 to his implied question. 
 
 " Well, I have tried," he went 
 on, beginning to lose control 
 over his voice ; I have tried — 
 God knows how I have tried — 
 and I can't ! No, don't go — in 
 God's name let me speak ! Let 
 us talk it over and find some 
 way out of this hideous laby- 
 rinth. Nell, if it were only my- 
 self—if you didn't -oh Nell!
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 133 
 
 forgive me, dear, for what I did 
 in my madness ; but if we love 
 one another " 
 
 Then Nell found words. 
 
 " Will," she said, in a voice 
 as soft and sad, and as strong 
 in its softness as the western air 
 that breathed around them — and 
 it was the first time he had 
 heard the name from her lips — 
 " Will, it is like dying now, and 
 I will answer you as if we were 
 dying in truth. I do love you. 
 But I have vowed before God 
 that I will never— never — play 
 the traitor to the woman who 
 has been my friend since we 
 were little children together. I 
 have vowed to God — and her — 
 that I will never take you away 
 from her." 
 
 " To her? " stammered Will. 
 
 " Yes, to her. Thank God, 
 she does not know — she never 
 shall — how far my disloyalty to 
 her had gone ; but she felt some- 
 thing was wrong. The day you 
 went, she appealed to me — oh, 
 Will, so gently, so generously,
 
 1 ; ) rORY OF ELEANOR ] \MBERT. 
 
 so lovingly ! — she begged me not 
 to take you away from her. Oh, 
 Will, dear Will ! don't tempt 
 me! I would never — never — 
 have told you this but to show 
 you how good, how worthy of 
 your love she is. You and I — 
 oh, you and I ! — we are not half 
 worthy of her; — but you will be, 
 won't you ? You will — forget 
 me ! " (Will broke into a wild 
 sob.) " You will make her 
 happy ! " 
 
 The wind went by with a long 
 sigh ; the moon had hidden her 
 pale face behind the veiling 
 cloud; the silence palpitated 
 with passion and pain. 
 
 Then Will spoke once more. 
 
 "This is your irrevocable de- 
 cision ?" he asked, hoarsely. 
 
 Eleanor bowed her head. 
 
 " Yes, " she said ; and then, 
 "Oh, Will! forgive me the 
 pain ! 
 
 Will's voice broke as he 
 answered. 
 
 " I have nothing to forgive. 
 You arc an angel — and I am — a
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 135 
 
 man — that's all. I will try to 
 obey you — I will try to make 
 her happy — what does it matter 
 about myself? Dear, let me 
 hold your sweet hand in mine 
 once more — just once — see, I 
 am quiet now — and tell me you 
 forgive me ; and — I'll go." 
 
 Eleanor put her hand in his, 
 unhesitatingly. 
 
 " I say as you did — I have 
 nothing to forgive. Good-by, 
 Will, and God bless and help 
 you now and always." 
 
 Will bent and put his lips to 
 the hand in his, without a word, 
 and then, with an inarticulate, 
 strangled sound as of words that 
 could not force their way up 
 from his swollen heart, he turned 
 and disappeared in the twilight. 
 
 Two days later Anne Escote 
 passed painlessly from a gentle 
 sleep to the healing sleep of 
 death, and Eleanor Lambert was 
 alone.
 
 VIII. 
 
 SEIINSUCIIT. 
 
 "Dear as remember J kisses after death. 
 And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign d 
 On lips that are for others; deep as love, 
 Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; 
 O Death in life, the days that are no 
 more." 
 
 — Alfred Tknnyson. 
 
 NNE ESCOTE had 
 been laid beside her 
 father and mother and 
 the little brothers and 
 sisters in the beautiful 
 old country churchyard 
 at Allerslcy ten years, and 
 Eleanor Lambert was still with 
 Mrs. Graham. 
 
 After the first overwhelming 
 grief, when Dr. Gray had in- 
 sisted on taking her home to 
 136
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 137 
 
 Felicia's tender care for a time, 
 she had shown a feverish eager- 
 ness to begin her new life that 
 was naturally attributed to the 
 keen sense of loss and her 
 anxiety to leave the neighbor- 
 hood of her old home, where 
 already an army of workmen 
 were painting and papering anew 
 the rooms she knew and loved 
 so well. 
 
 Mrs. Graham had hailed the 
 idea of her residence with her 
 with delight, and in a few weeks 
 the girl, her pale face the paler 
 for her black dress, and her 
 dark eyes wide with suppressed 
 emotion, was established as a 
 welcome inmate of the comfort- 
 able house at Kensington, which 
 was the scene of Mrs. Graham's 
 flights of fancy in bewildering 
 changes of taste and fashion in 
 furnishing, which kept pace with 
 equally perplexing changes in 
 the nature of the objects of her 
 temporary devotion in literature, 
 art, music, and science ; each of 
 which claimed her sole adherence
 
 I3S STOR\ "1 1 1 .1 A.\n|; 1 \.MI;l KT. 
 
 at revolving periods of different 
 duration. It mattered little that 
 she knew as little of each and all 
 of these matters as a woman of 
 limited capacity might well do. 
 She dressed herself in them as 
 she put on her gown and bonnet, 
 and fr<»m the same motive — they 
 were fashionable. 
 
 But if her head were not of 
 the strongest, her heart was un- 
 mistakably good, and she gave 
 a very warm and large share of 
 it to the beautiful girl who had 
 sought and found a home with her. 
 It would not be for long, people 
 said. With a face like that, and 
 a very comfortable little income 
 of her own, it was not likely 
 that Mrs. Graham's young friend 
 would remain on her hands long. 
 Hut the months and years went 
 by, and — spite of many admirers, 
 and maybe a lover or two — 
 Eleanor Lambert was Eleanor 
 Lambert still. 
 
 She lived to all appearance the 
 life of the ordinary woman of her 
 day ; she took her share in the
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 1 39 
 
 usual benevolent and parochial 
 "good works;" she played her 
 part in the gayeties of Mrs. 
 Graham's circle, and won a pla#e 
 in many hearts by a certain 
 gentle strength that was always 
 ready to rush out in help and 
 comfort. Her eyes filled with 
 tragic splendor, or softened to 
 tender beauty at music; she 
 laughed and wept at the play, 
 and held her own among her 
 fellows in the paths her steps 
 had fallen on. If there were 
 anything wanting to her life, she 
 never complained ; if her brave 
 bearing hid unhealed wounds ; 
 if her laugh might sometimes 
 have been more rightly tears; — 
 well, she was like many another 
 woman. 
 
 So it came to pass that by the 
 gradually tightening bonds of 
 custom, the mutual life went on 
 unaltered from year to year. It 
 was certain that to Mrs. Graham 
 a break in it would have been 
 unwelcome ; and if there were 
 moments when Eleanor's spirit,
 
 140 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 
 
 trained in Anne Escote's bracing, 
 vivifying atmosphere, felt cramped 
 and prisoned in the narrower one 
 she now breathed, there never 
 came a moment when it seemed 
 to her right or kind to propose 
 a permanent change. 
 
 The passing years had deprived 
 her of the loved and trusted friend 
 of her youth. Dr. Gray had left 
 his large family to mourn the 
 loss of the best and tenderest <>f 
 fathers, and, since they seemed 
 to inherit mostly from him, to 
 carry on his gentle and loving 
 forbearance to their mother's 
 weakness. 
 
 Since that day Eleanor had 
 never revisited the home of her 
 3'outh, for Mrs. Gray and her 
 children removed to Edinburgh 
 after the doctor's death, and 
 Eleanor had made her first 
 acquaintance with that glorious 
 city in her visit to them. 
 
 Hannah Print, made indepen- 
 dent by her beloved mistress's 
 bequest to her, had not been 
 long in following her. The new
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 141 
 
 owners flourished at High Trees ; 
 but Eleanor Lambert was but a 
 name to them, and the dear old 
 home remained among the un- 
 changed and undying memories 
 of the past. 
 
 And Felicia ? 
 
 In her husband's northern 
 home, among the Yorkshire 
 wolds, Felicia had spent the ten 
 years of her married life with but 
 a very occasional visit to London, 
 where dwelt her friend. On those 
 rare occasions the two women 
 met with all their old affection. 
 Hand in hand and knee to knee 
 they sat and talked of everything 
 in the world — but just one very 
 near each heart. 
 
 Will's name was never shirked 
 between them. Eleanor listened 
 to the wife's account of his 
 doings ; his craze for improve- 
 ments on his land, and among 
 his tenants ; his horse and cattle- 
 breeding; his growing distaste 
 for town life, and his love for the 
 country — and made due comment 
 on it all.
 
 142 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 
 
 But from the evening when 
 she and her despairing lover had 
 bidden each other farewell on 
 Allersley Common, they had 
 never met. 
 
 Her cousin's recent death had 
 been more than enough excuse 
 for her absence at her friend's 
 wedding, and although Felicia 
 had proved her noble trust in 
 husband and friend by urging 
 the latter to pay them a visit, 
 it may be she had felt grateful 
 for Eleanor's carefully - worded 
 letter of excuse, and instinctively 
 shrank from a renewal of the 
 invitation. Her hopes of mother- 
 hood, more than once disap- 
 pointed, had been at last ful- 
 filled. Felicia was one of the 
 myriads of women in whom the 
 love and longing for children is 
 stronger than any other love or 
 longing, and in proportion to her 
 grief at the failure of her hopes 
 was her delight in the healthy 
 and lovely boy who, two years 
 since, had come to bless her, and 
 to bring back something of the
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 143 
 
 old boyish brightness into Will 
 Egerton's face — which had grown 
 grave of late years. 
 
 Of this baby - boy — of his 
 beauty, his intelligence, his daily 
 growth in all delightfulness, his 
 father's devotion to him — 
 Felicia's letters were full, and 
 if she had not feared the change 
 from the clear air of his native 
 country to London's smoky at- 
 mosphere, she could scarce have 
 resisted the temptation to bring 
 him for her friend's approval and 
 sympathetic delight. 
 
 So the days slipped away until 
 a change came, and something 
 — she knew not what — woke up 
 in Eleanor Lambert's heart, and 
 would not be stilled to sleep. 
 
 Why is it, will any adept in 
 the science of the soul tell, that 
 however sternly one may turn 
 one's back upon the past, and 
 bury it out of sight, however 
 firmly one may close the book of 
 life, one day there comes, from 
 none knows where, a little breeze 
 of memory, and the buried past
 
 i ( | 5T01 • 01 M I VNOK I \ Ml. I I I . 
 
 is alive once more, and the 
 closed book opens, and one by 
 one its leaves flutter back', and 
 there, clear as on the day they 
 were printed, lie beneath the 
 aching eyes the old, old stories 
 — the tales of love and loss, and 
 failed hopes, and foiled endeavor 
 —the records of the days that 
 are no more ? 
 
 How did it happen that, after 
 ten years of more or less success- 
 ful effort to walk straight along 
 the narrow path of duty without 
 strayings of the heart into the 
 old by-ways that had been so 
 dear and fatal, there came a day 
 when Eleanor Lambert felt that 
 her strength was gone, and her 
 heart a waste of desolation, 
 wherein walked the specters of 
 the past, and refused to be laid ? 
 
 What was altered in the daily 
 course of her life, that she should 
 feel all at once that it had be- 
 come unbearable? And yet so it 
 was. 
 
 Mrs. Graham's vagrant fancy, 
 revolving in its eccentric orbit,
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 1 _; 5 
 
 had recurred once more to music 
 as its deity* — a phase that in 
 its. effects brought benefit to 
 Eleanor; for while it lasted, they 
 haunted concert - rooms, where 
 Eleanor sat entranced, while Mrs. 
 Graham's enthusiastic comments, 
 couched in the jargon of the 
 hour, more or less hid from her- 
 self as well as others the fact 
 that she was inexpressibly bored, 
 and that the music which really 
 delighted her, and set her kind 
 old head in its irreproachable cap 
 wagging, was the weakly senti- 
 mental ballad concerning the 
 sailors that never come home, 
 the choristers that never grow 
 up, or the aunts and other female 
 relatives that live and die un- 
 wed ; which ballads her avowed 
 adherence to the higher forms 
 of the art obliged her to dis- 
 dain. 
 
 But to Eleanor the music was 
 the spell which set her soul free 
 — with the magic of a joy that is 
 like anguish. 
 
 What a power, what a mystery
 
 i [6 STORY or El I. ami. i i i 
 
 that same magic of music is! 
 The music of the spheres ! the 
 heavenly harpers of Paradise! 
 
 the angelic host chanting their 
 hymns, of rejoicing! What do 
 they all mean to us mortals, 
 whose earthly music at its 
 sweetest "tells of saddest 
 thought, " and whose noblest 
 songs of triumph evoke a passion 
 that is quenched in tears? No; 
 the music of heaven must needs 
 be very different to that which 
 lifts the soul into space from this 
 low earth, or spirits but lately 
 flown into those higher regions 
 must surely miss the accustomed 
 yearning in the strains, or endow 
 them with it. 
 
 It was in the last days of June, 
 and the two were present at a 
 magnificent pcrformace of Ber- 
 lioz's " Faust." 
 
 Eleanor had been sitting spell- 
 bound, as Marguerite's last song, 
 instinct andnlive with its passion- 
 ate longing for her lost lover— to 
 see him but for a moment — to 
 die with his kiss on her lips—
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 147 
 
 thrilled and shook the silence ; 
 her eyes shining and dilated ; 
 her lips just parted with flutter- 
 ing breath ; every pulse rising 
 and falling with the strains, 
 and a passion of despairing 
 sympathy in her heart. 
 
 The song ended, leaving a 
 pulsating vibration in the air. 
 Mrs. Graham forgot her role for 
 a moment. 
 
 " My dear, " she whispered, 
 audibly, after the burst of ap- 
 plause which followed the song 
 had subsided, "did you notice 
 Madame Sombra's dress ? That 
 kind of classical upper drapery 
 would just suit you." 
 
 "No, I didn't notice it," 
 stammered Eleanor, brought 
 back bewilderingly to earth. 
 
 It was unpleasant, but by no 
 means so unusual a performance 
 on her old friend's part — for had 
 she not smiled good-humoredly 
 a hundred times over similar 
 downfalls? — that Eleanor should 
 feel so fierce a revolt in her soul 
 as to make her tremble.
 
 I .|.S STORV 01 ill INOR LAMBERT. 
 
 I5ut her toubles fur that day 
 were nut yet over. 
 
 That evening Mrs. Graham 
 was to entertain some friends, 
 and it chanced that one of the 
 guests -a girl with a sweet, fresh 
 young voice — among other songs 
 chose the simple little bal- 
 lad of the parted lovers that 
 Felicia had sung years ago at 
 Dawlish. 
 
 As Eleanor listened, the room 
 around her with its occupants 
 faded away ; those old days stood 
 up alive once more, and she was 
 walking with Will upon' the 
 cliffs ; her ribbon fluttered across 
 his breast ; he tore her from 
 beneath the falling rock ; his 
 arms were round her — and the 
 tears were running down her 
 face. 
 
 Fortunately she was in the 
 shadow of a curtain, and before 
 the song was over, and attention 
 turned her way, she had slipped 
 from the room to recover her 
 composure. 
 
 But that night, as she sat at
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 149 
 
 the window, looking out into the 
 summer sky, which even London 
 air could not rob of its star- 
 sprinkled depths, even until the 
 dawn appeared in the east, the 
 waves of memory broke the 
 bounds she had built for them, 
 and flooded her soul. 
 
 In the end, when memory had 
 done its worst, and the waters 
 had gone over her head, there 
 came a yearning to see once more 
 the old home, the house where 
 she was born, where her mother 
 had died, and Cousin Nancy had 
 been father and mother and all 
 the world to her ; to climb the 
 steep churchyard path, and lay 
 her head upon Cousin Nancy's 
 grave, as she had laid it in her 
 lap of old ; a longing so intense 
 that it seemed impossible to de- 
 lay its fulfillment until morning. 
 But when once she had made 
 her plan and settled its details, 
 weariness came over her, and 
 she crept to bed, and slept till 
 the maid entered. 
 
 After the first morning greet-
 
 150 STORY 'ii 111 \;,,.|- 1 \ >ii:i |;|. 
 
 ing, Eleanor broke the propo- 
 sition to her hostess without 
 delay. 
 
 " I am thinking of going down 
 to Allersley to-day," she began. 
 
 " To Allersley ! ' exclaimed 
 Mrs. Graham. " For the day ! 
 Such a journey as that ? You 
 never told me you were thinking 
 of going there ! " 
 
 " I have only thought of it 
 since last night," answered 
 Eleanor, with a smile. " I have 
 taken a sudden fancy to see the 
 old place again, and the weather 
 is so beautiful," she finished, 
 lamely. 
 
 " But such a journey in one 
 day ! " expostulated Mrs. Graham. 
 
 " I think of staying a night, 
 or perhaps two, at Hollisford, 
 since I am not sure of finding 
 accommodation at Allersley. The 
 ' King's Head ' used to be the 
 best hotel ; I daresay it is still." 
 
 " But, my dear, you are too 
 young and too good-looking to 
 be going about to hotels by your- 
 self ; do consider."
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 15I 
 
 Eleanor laughed. 
 
 " I am not so young or so good- 
 looking as all that," she said. 
 " Don't be afraid, dear Mrs. 
 Graham. I will be very discreet. 
 It is a very respectable and 
 homely old place, if I remember 
 rightly. We used to have our 
 parcels left there when we drove 
 in from Allersley for shopping. 
 It is in the Market Place, if 
 there should be any letters to 
 send on to me." 
 
 So Eleanor had her way, and 
 that afternoon, having taken her 
 room at the old inn in the old 
 town that looked so familiar and 
 yet so strange, she hired a car- 
 riage and was driven along the 
 country road, whose every curve 
 she knew by heart, to the village 
 which was still the dearest spot 
 on earth to her. 
 
 And now, when she had reached 
 it and dismissed the carriage 
 with orders to wait at the village 
 inn for her return at no fixed 
 hour, her heart trembled with a 
 vague unwillingness to seek at
 
 152 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 
 
 once the goal of her sudden 
 journey— an instinctive shrinking 
 from the sight of alterations she 
 might find in that beloved home ; 
 and leaving the village at the 
 end farthest from High Trees, 
 she loitered for an hour among 
 the blossoming hedgerows of 
 the embowered lanes, now and 
 again leaning on gates where she 
 had leaned of old, gazing with 
 dim eyes over meadows in which 
 the hay-makers were at work, 
 at the far-off spires of the distant 
 town, and living over again with 
 sharp pangs of loss and grief the 
 days of childhood and youth. 
 
 At last she turned back, and 
 
 wending her way through the 
 
 village, beneath the old church, 
 
 high up among its graves, past 
 
 the inn, and the forge, and the 
 
 school-house, she turned into 
 
 the little lane, from which she 
 
 knew that across a bit of 
 
 meadow-land she should gain 
 
 the nearest view of the old house. 
 
 amid its tall elms, to be had 
 
 without approaching its entrance
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 153 
 
 more closely than she felt inclined 
 
 to do. 
 
 She had reached the well- 
 remembered gate in the hedge 
 now; but for a moment she laid 
 her head on its topmost bar and 
 hid her eyes — she dared not 
 look. 
 
 Then once more she stood 
 erect, and then she was clutch- 
 ing the gate hard, and gazing 
 and gazing as if she knew not 
 how to tear away her eyes. 
 
 There, unchanged, its mellow 
 walls glowing in the golden light, 
 surrounded by its immemorial 
 elms, it stood, its twisted 
 chimneys breathing here and 
 there a light haze of opaline 
 vapor that told of habitation 
 and domestic life — and home ! 
 Not her home ever again ! 
 
 Above the slender feathery 
 heads of the uncultivated 
 meadow-grass before her flittered 
 a myriad of tiny wings, their 
 gauzy films aglow in the sun's 
 level beams, the whole field en- 
 chanted into magical beauty.
 
 154 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 
 
 But Eleanor's eyes, unheeding, 
 never left the house. 
 
 It was not of Will Egerton 
 she thought now, nor of love or 
 love's failure ; it was of Cousin 
 Nancy— Cousin Nancy, in her 
 black gown and her soft laces, 
 walking over the smooth sward 
 of that lawn ; Cousin Nancy, 
 holding the little hand that 
 clung to her, and leading the 
 childish steps to the small plot 
 that was to be the child's very 
 own; Cousin Nancy, the dearest, 
 noblest, tenderest soul in all the 
 world. 
 
 There, across the common 
 behind her, ran the path where 
 Will and she had said their last 
 farewell ; but she would not tread 
 it afresh to-night ; to-morrow, 
 perhaps, she would return and 
 make that sad pilgrimage. To- 
 night no memory — not even of 
 Will— should reign beside the 
 thought of Cousin Nancy. 
 
 At" last, with lingering eyes, 
 she tore herself away from the 
 gate and retraced the lane.
 
 STORY OP ELEANOR LAMBERT. 155 
 
 Then she climbed the church- 
 yard path and took her way, 
 amid graves she had known 
 all her life, and newer ones that 
 had arisen since her time, to 
 the well-known corner where, 
 among many dead and gone 
 Escotes, her own mother and 
 Cousin Nancy lay side by side. 
 
 There she knelt and laid her 
 cheek to the dear name, and 
 dropped her head upon the turf 
 and kissed it with fast falling 
 tears. 
 
 When she rose, and, having 
 found the carriage, drove through 
 the sweet June twilight back to 
 the town, she felt that in that 
 outburst of long -pent -up grief 
 and pain, something of the over- 
 whelming bitterness at her heart 
 had passed away — as if in truth 
 she had laid her head on Cousin 
 Nancy's lap.
 
 IX. 
 
 " THE REST IS SILENCE.' 
 
 'I end with — ' Love is all and Death is 
 nought ! ' quoth she." 
 
 — Robert Browning. 
 
 DEAREST NELL, 
 — Will has had a bad 
 fall from his horse. 
 They tell me there is 
 no hope. He wants 
 to see you. Come as 
 soon as possible. 
 
 " Your loving 
 
 " Felicia." 
 
 Such was the letter — directed 
 to her at Kensington and re- 
 addressed in Mrs. Graham's 
 writing — that Eleanor Lambert 
 found awaiting her when she 
 went down to breakfast on the 
 156
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. I 5 7 
 
 morning after her visit to 
 Allersley. 
 
 The blow was so crushing in 
 its suddenness that for the 
 moment she felt no pain. It 
 was not until she had torn the 
 meaning out of the railway 
 guide, and discovered that there 
 was a train in half an hour which, 
 by slow stages and many chang- 
 ings of line on its tortuous way, 
 would enable her to reach the 
 station nearest to the Egertons' 
 Yorkshire home by six o'clock, 
 that she began to feel the agony 
 of life creeping back to her be- 
 numbed heart. But she must 
 not let herself think of it yet. 
 Not until the telegram, telling 
 Felicia of the delay in her receiv- 
 ing her letter and announcing 
 her coming, had been written 
 and dispatched ; not until in the 
 solitary compartment she had 
 bribed the guard of the train to 
 reserve for her sole tenancy, she 
 felt the iron wheels beneath be- 
 gin to grind their hoarse tune, 
 did she dare to face the calamity
 
 I58 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 
 
 Felicia's few words had told with 
 so overpowering a simplicity. 
 
 "Will dying— Will dying!" 
 The words set themselves to the 
 song of the wheels and beat in 
 her brain. " He wants to see 
 you — he wants to see you." After 
 ten years — and this the end of 
 all! ' 
 
 The fire in her brain burned 
 up the tears. And through the 
 long hours, as meadow and wood 
 and stream and hedgerow slipped 
 past her; through maddening 
 waitings at dreary wayside sta- 
 tions, and only less maddening 
 creepings of long-expected trains ; 
 even until passing imperceptibly 
 into the wider and wilder scenery 
 of the Yorkshire wolds, one 
 agonizing longing mingled with 
 and overpowered every other 
 feeling — that she might only be 
 in time ! 
 
 The delay in the delivery of 
 Felicia's letter had been so short 
 — only a few hours. Only a few 
 hours— but hours to the dying, 
 how much they mean !
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 159 
 
 Her thoughts circled and 
 circled round that terror until 
 it grew a black blot before her 
 eyes and the wheels took up their 
 refrain once more. " He wants 
 to see you — he wants to see 
 you." And then out of the 
 past arose the ghostly vision of 
 another journey, and the cruel 
 wheels changed their song. 
 " Will Egerton, at your service," 
 they beat out in their iron music, 
 repeating the words, now louder, 
 now softer, until Eleanor was 
 fain to fall on her knees and pray 
 them to cease. 
 
 The sun was declining toward 
 the west when at last that terrible 
 journey came to an end, and the 
 train stopped at a small wayside 
 station. As Eleanor alighted, a 
 groom approached her, and 
 touching his hat, asked if she 
 were the lady for Wakeford 
 Manor; and on her assent, he 
 led the way to a dog-cart which 
 stood waiting, and in a couple 
 of minutes they were bowling 
 swiftly along the road.
 
 l6o STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 
 
 Sick dread of what the answer 
 might so probably be froze the 
 question that was racking 
 Eleanor's heart. The man kept 
 the deferential silence of his 
 kind. 
 
 Eleanor's pale lips parted 
 once — twice, but no sound would 
 come. The third time her voice 
 obeyed her. 
 
 " Mr. Egerton— " she began ; 
 
 " is he " 
 
 " Very bad, ma'am," said the 
 groom, with an accent of sorrow 
 in the words that somehow sent 
 a faint ray of comfort into the 
 tortured heart of the woman 
 beside him. " He can't last the 
 night, they tell me." 
 
 A choked gasp was the only 
 comment. 
 
 A long gray house — its many 
 windows aglow with the sun's 
 rays— came in sight ; a pretty 
 child at the lodge-gates dropped 
 a curtsey to the lady as she 
 passed, and as the dog-cart drew 
 up at the foot of the long flight 
 of stone steps and Eleanor
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. l6l 
 
 alighted, Felicia appeared at the 
 hall door, and the friends were 
 in each other's arms, without a 
 word from either. 
 
 Felicia drew her friend into 
 a pretty morning-room entered 
 from the great hall, and then 
 for a moment Eleanor clung to 
 her with a passionate embrace, 
 before they stood apart and 
 looked into each other's faces — - 
 Felicia's pale and worn with grief 
 and watching, Eleanor's dark an- 
 guished eyes making hers seem 
 ashen in hue. 
 
 There was silence for a space, 
 then Eleanor spoke painfully. 
 
 " There was never so generous 
 a woman on the face of the 
 earth as you, Felicia." 
 
 A wan smile flickered over the 
 wife's white face. 
 
 " That is what Will said — and 
 bade God bless me for it — when 
 I told him this morning of my 
 letter to you and your telegram. 
 I dared not until I knew you 
 were really coming. Ah, Nell 
 dear ! what a mess we have
 
 l6_> SlnkY 01 ELEANOR LAMBERT. 
 
 made of it all between us ! I 
 wonder, if I had had any proper 
 pride in those old days — if I had 
 let him go — how it would have 
 ended." 
 
 Eleanor gave a wild moan. 
 
 " Oh, my dear, my dear ! 
 Don't, don't ! " she cried. " I 
 wish I had died then to spare 
 you this ! " 
 
 Felicia's arm went round her. 
 
 "Nell," she said, very gently, 
 " you and I loved each other 
 long years before we either of 
 us knew Will Egerton existed. 
 Dear, don't let us exaggerate. 
 Don't pity me too much. I 
 have had some happiness. You 
 don't suppose Will could ever be 
 anything but tenderness and 
 gentleness itself to his wife? If 
 I have known that — I was not — 
 always — first in his love — " 
 She paused and sighed patheti- 
 cally. " Well, I could always 
 trust him utterly, and how many 
 wives can say that ? " 
 
 She softly turned Eleanor's 
 face toward her own.
 
 STORY OF ELEANOJ LAMBERT. 163 
 
 "No, Nell," she went on, " I 
 hink after all you have had the 
 ■vorst of it, for I have the 
 ;hild." 
 
 " Yes, thank God ! you have 
 :he child," echoed Eleanor, with 
 the solemn ardor of a prayer. 
 
 " I suppose I am very feeble 
 and poor-spirited," said Felicia, 
 after another pause, and with 
 again the faint, wan smile; 
 "but I couldn't help it. He 
 suffered so terribly the first day, 
 Nell — he scarcely knew what he 
 was saying. But when I heard 
 him once or twice whispering 
 your name—' Nell ! Nell ! ' — it 
 was as if my little Donald were 
 ill and in pain, and crying for 
 something I could give him. I 
 couldn't help it, Nell ; I wanted 
 him so dreadfully to have what 
 he wanted before he died." 
 
 "Felicia!" cried Eleanor — no 
 more ; but the single word 
 vibrated with a passion of love 
 and worship. 
 
 " Dr. Lomax has not left him 
 since," said Felicia. "Will has
 
 164 STORY <>!• ELEANOR I \Mia.Kl - . 
 
 seemed to be in a sort of uneasy- 
 sleep the greater part of the 
 afternoon, and he took no notice 
 when I came away to meet you. 
 But he may wake any moment. 
 Come up-stairs with me and take- 
 off your hat and bathe your poor 
 face, and I will go in and see if 
 he is awake. " 
 
 Ten minutes passed and Felicia 
 came. 
 
 " He is awake and conscious, " 
 she said, " but very weak. Come, 
 Nell dear, I have told him you 
 are here." 
 
 " Nell ! " 
 
 "Will, oh, Will !" 
 
 No more words, but a long, 
 long gazing into each other's 
 eyes — a silence that told every- 
 thing. 
 
 The last crimson glow of sun- 
 set flushed the check of the dying 
 man and cast a glory on the 
 woman's raven hair where she 
 knelt beside him ; but their eyes 
 never fell from that intense un- 
 spoken speech.
 
 STORY OF ELEANOR LAMBERT. 165 
 
 The glow faded, and with a 
 sob Eleanor's head fell forward 
 on the hand she held. 
 
 Then Will spoke. 
 
 " It was — well worth — dying 
 for," he panted. 
 
 They were Will Egerton's last 
 words.
 
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