kk^/ssd. 
 
COMIJSP THEO' THE EYE. 
 
COMIN' THRO' THE RYE 
 
 H iRcwel 
 
 HELEN B. MATHE 
 
 RS l-fLtA-ba 
 
 li Had we never met sae kindly, 
 Had we never loved sae blindly, 
 Never met and never parted, 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted " 
 
 Hontton 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited 
 
 NEW YORK : THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 1898 
 
First Edition, 3 vols., crown 8vo., June, 1875. 
 
 Second Edition, in 1 vol., crown 8vo., November, 1875. 
 
 Reprinted from stereotypes in December, 1875 ; June, 1876 ; August, 1876 ; 
 
 September, 1876; June, 1877; September, 1878; December. 1879; 
 
 December, 1881; Jfareft, 1884; ilfarcft, 1887; J^we, 1891; June, 1893; 
 
 December, 1896 ; September, 1898. 
 
.95-r 
 
 
 COMIN* THRO' THE RYE 
 
 -o-oj^oo-- 
 
 SEED TIME. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "It is the admirer of himself and not the admirer of virtue that thinks him- 
 self superior to others." 
 
 4 : ' Poob Martha Snell, her's gone away ; 
 Her would if her could, but her couldn't stay ; 
 Her'd two sore legs and a baddish cough, 
 But her legs it was as carried her off !' 
 
 That's mine. Have you got anything to-day, Alice ]" 
 
 " Nothing," says our lovely sister, lifting her head from " Paley's 
 Evidences," "but Nell has." 
 
 " Bring it out then !" says Jack, rapping the table smartly with 
 his ruler. 
 
 Happy Jack ! who is deterred from amusing himself by no such 
 considerations concerning Scripture exercises and the like as lie 
 heavy upon the rest of us ; he is home for the holidays, and as his 
 soul is supposed to be well weeded and watered by his pastors and 
 masters while he is away, it is left in peace while he is at home. 
 
 " ]>. is a little vulgar," I admit, looking round, " but then you 
 
 886 1 
 
COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 know, you all like vulgar jokes. Not that this is a joke, — far from 
 
 it, it is a veritable, properly authenticated family " 
 
 " Business is business," says Jack, interrupting ; " give us the 
 epitaph first, and your remarks after." 
 
 " ' Here lies the body of Betsy Binn, 
 Who was so very pure within, 
 She bust this outer shell of sin, 
 And hatched herself a cherubim ;" 
 
 " There ! hurst, not bust," says Jack, reprovingly; " don't expose 
 your ignorance, Nell." 
 
 " It is not," I say, stoutly ; " burst is quite a leisurely way of 
 doing things. Bust gives you the idea of cracking all over like a 
 chrysalis and flying straight up through the air, as Betsy did." 
 
 " I don't think it's as good as Thomas Woodhen," says Alice, 
 gravely. " His widow showed so much sense in adapting herself 
 to circumstances." 
 
 " Or that other one," says Milly, looking up — 
 
 14 * Poor Martha Kitchen ! her days were spent, 
 She kicked up her heels and away she went.' " 
 
 " I like the baby's best," says Jack ; " that one on an infant 
 three months old, you know — 
 
 ' Since I am so quickly done for 
 I wonder what I was begun for ?' " 
 
 " Nurse told me of one yesterday," says Milly, resting her elbows 
 on a Pinnock, " that she saw with her very own eyes— 
 
 'Here lie* the unworthy son of a worthy father.' 
 
 The stone was erected by the father." 
 
 " That is nasty," says Alice ; " the others only show extraordi- 
 nary levity. I wonder what the people were like who made them 
 upT 
 
SEED TIME. 3 
 
 " Shaky as to their grammar," says Jack, " and sadly in want of 
 a dictionary V 
 
 " Would you like a grammatical one," I ask, " and a properly 
 spelt one 1 I don't say it's a particularly good one." 
 
 " Good heavens !" says Jack, leaning forward. " Nell is,— yes- 
 no— yes, she is positively blushing I" 
 
 "lam not !" I say, looking at them all steadily. " No one ever 
 accused me of such a thing before !" 
 
 " Then, to what," asks Alice, laughing, " may we ascribe this 
 sudden access of colour? Heat, modesty, shame, or pride at 
 having made a rhyme 1 for I do believe you have." 
 
 " Heat !" I say, shortly ; " how we shall broil in church !' 
 
 " Now then," says Jack, " we must not permit the first literary 
 effort of the family to die for want of air, let's have it.'' 
 
 " It is not much of it," I say, apologetically, " but our riddles and 
 epitaphs were running so low that I thought it was high time some 
 new ones were invented, and anything is better than nothing, you 
 know ! Here it 
 
 ' Here lies the body of 
 Helen Adair, 
 Cruelly alain in the Flower of her 
 Youth and Beauty, by 
 Amberley's Nags. 
 
 p.g. — Amberley's Nags were the only horses visible at 
 her funeral, for she died a Pauper.' " 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha!" goes Jack. "'Youth and beauty,' first-rate 
 that." 
 
 " And Amberley does nag at Nell shamefully," says Alice. 
 
 " And you all say," I put in, standing up for my bantling, " that 
 my extravagant tastes will bring me to want some day, do you not 1 
 Only I don't see how I can ever be very lavish on nothing." 
 
 1—2 
 
COMHST THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " The governor tells us every day that we shall come to the— 
 union, 1 ' says Milly. " I wonder if it is very bad V 
 
 " They separate the sexes," I say, looking fondly at Jack, who 
 is whistling away at a pencil in utter ignorance of my affectionate 
 glance, " and I should never like that" 
 
 " What's the matter with Amberley 1" he asks, looking up. u Has 
 she got spasms V 
 
 " Bilious," I say, nodding. " She calls it sick headache, but 1 
 know better. She won't be able to get up till to-morrow, there- 
 fore can't harass our already too highly cultivated brains with 
 Paley and Pinnock. 1 wonder why Sunday is called a day of rest 1 
 It is not to us." 
 
 ** I wish the holidays would come," says Milly, sighing. " Why 
 should we have them in July instead of June 1 It can't make any 
 difference." 
 
 " Amberley is not going away for her holidays," says Alice ; " her 
 brother, who is sixty, has got the measles. Did I tell you about 
 her boots yesterday 1" 
 
 " No ; what was it ?" 
 
 " You know we walked into Silverbridge ? Well, she went into 
 Summers's to buy a pair of boots, and she managed to squeeze her 
 feet into a pair much too small for her, then said to the old man,who 
 was standing by with his mouth screwed up on one side, ' I think 
 these will do, though they may hurt me a little at first.' ' Lor, 
 miss,' said old Summers, ' that don't siggerfy, that ain't of no 
 account, but / knoivs they'll bust /' " 
 
 "And after that delicate warning did she take them?" ask3 
 Jack. 
 
 "She did!" 
 
 " Let us hope then," says Milly, " that she will not wear them 
 in one of our breathless scampers behind the governor, or she will 
 come back without them !" 
 
SEED TIME. 5 
 
 "I have done my exercise," says Dully, speaking for the first 
 time, *' and so has Alan." 
 
 * Of course you have," says Jack ; '' did either of you ever do 
 anything without the other 1 You eat, drink, weep, wipe up the 
 blots from your copy-books with your noses, and, I believe, snore 
 simultaneously !" 
 
 " I wonder how soon the bells will strike up," I say, walking 
 to the window and looking out into the broad, peaceful fairness 
 of the Sabbath morning. There is no sound of work or voices 
 abroad, the court is very still, save for the voice of a thrush in 
 the yew-tree yonder, who sings as gaily and loudly as though it 
 were not Sunday at all, but common, homely week-day. The 
 shrill bark of the grasshoppers sounds quite plainly from the 
 lawn, the flowers are ruffled gently by the soft light wind ; they 
 have not changed their lovely garments or put on a different 
 colour because it is Sunday, happier in this than we mortals 
 who make it a point of honour to smarten ourselves up for the 
 Lord's day, and yet never emulate those dainty blossoms in their 
 delicate, heaven-dyed tints. The cocks and hens pace gravely 
 by, dirty and disreputable as on any other day, and I look at 
 them with attention, wondering whether either of them has laid 
 an egg, a practice in very great disfavour among the tribe, and 
 am inclined to think, from the sidelong strut and complacency 
 of a youthful matron of the Brahma species, that she has done 
 her duty in that state of life to which it has pleased Providence 
 to call her. 
 
 "I shall kill that pair of black Hamburghs to-morrow," says 
 Jack, nodding towards two straggling wretches (why are all his 
 fowls so lean 1), who are scratching in blessed unconsciousness of 
 the Nemesis of impecuniosity that walks behind them. " I want 
 three shillings, and I don't know any other way of getting it." 
 
 " Mamma won't buy any more of you," I say with conviction ; 
 
COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " the last were so stringy and thin that she said she dared not, 
 the governor would call on the poultry woman, and it would all 
 come out." 
 
 " If he only knew," says Milly, " that after feeding their bodies 
 in life he had to pay for their carcases in death, how comforting 
 it would be to his feelings ! and every morning, regularly, he says 
 their heads shall be cut off before night." 
 
 " And they deserve it," says Jack with unusual viciousness, '* for 
 of all the ill-behaved brutes I ever came across, they are the worst. 
 They never lay eggs, or grow fat, or do any of the things all other 
 well-regulated fowls are supposed to do." 
 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Skipworth are coming to dinner," says Alice, 
 1 to their quarterly festival, you know, and, thank goodness, we 
 shall not be expected to talk. I wonder," she adds, with the gay 
 laugh that never degenerates into a bellow like Jack's, or a cackle 
 like mine, " whether she will wear her purple satin gown 1" 
 
 " I hope so," says Jack unkindly ; " for sooner or later 1 am 
 certain that she will blow up in it, as Betsy Binn did, and sit calm 
 and smiling in the midst of the purple ruins. Why should not 
 the event take place to-day, indeed % n 
 
 Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! goes a squeaky little bell hard by, it is 
 the voice of Silverbridge church, summoning its flock to worship. 
 We are so near the churchyard that from our windows we can 
 throw a pebble at the railings that close in the vault of our ances- 
 tors, by whose side we must all lie some day (if there is room), 
 every one. There are so many of us though, that some will have 
 to lie in state, and some simply, as poor folks do ; those who go 
 first will have the best place, those who go last the lower one. 
 We do not pause to put away our books, but set off down the 
 long passage and up the stairs and down more steps and up 
 others, for the Manor House is built with the especial purpose of 
 breaking the necks, legs, and arms of the inhabitants thereof, and 
 
SEED TIME. 
 
 though we, from long acquaintance, escape scot free, so do not 
 stranger servants, who usually pitch head-foremost down one or 
 other of the many pitfalls, and come heavily to grief. Our bed- 
 rooms are low and wide, opening one out of the other inconve- 
 niently enough, and they have latticed casements, through which 
 the queen of flowers herself nods gaily in, reflecting herself in 
 myriad shapes of crimson, yellow, white, and pink. Out of her 
 beautiful breast drop those ugly parasites the earwigs, and make 
 themselves very much at home among our hair-brushes and the 
 simple appointments of our dressing-tables. As yet these latter 
 are primitive enough : they hold a glass of flowers, a pincushion, a 
 few trinket-cases, a ribbon or two, and that is all. We have no 
 powder, or cosmetics, or appliances for painting the lily, but look 
 in our glasses and see our faces, pretty or ugly, just as God made 
 them. Alice's mirror gives back a dainty picture enough as she 
 stands before it, tying the brown strings of her quakerish brown 
 bonnet, that is just the colour of the soft love-locks that lie rich 
 and smooth beneath. I wish that you could see her as she is at 
 this moment, with the freshness of a wild rose in her exquisite 
 cheeks, with the bloom of perfect health in her blue eyes, with 
 the lovely severity of a sculptured Venus in the low white brow, 
 and curved lips, and perfectly modelled cleft chin, and slender 
 neck. We are. very proud of our sixteen-year-old sister, our eldest 
 and our only beauty ! we are not a bad-looking family, people say, 
 but none of us comes within a mile of Alice. Milly is handsome 
 after a vigorous; determined fashion, with a pair of magnificent 
 blue eyes, black lashed, and a shock of fair hair that sets 
 straight out from her head in every direction. Now, if there is one 
 thing for which we owe gratitude to the governor, it is for pro- 
 viding the family with such real, good, blue eyes. Reckoning his 
 own and mother's, we number just twelve pairs among us ; and by 
 blue I do not mean that mixture of slate and grey, or green, sc 
 
8 COMIN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 commonly misnamed blue, but a colour as pure and vivid as the 
 tint of a flower, from the clear saucy blue of the forget-me-not to 
 the deep purple that lurks in the heart of the violet. We are 
 eleven boys and girls altogether, and I have said that we number 
 twelve pairs of eyes of one colour, so it is plain there must be one 
 exception to the general rule, and that is me. My eyes were green 
 from the day of my birth, and will be green to the hour of my 
 death; mamma calls them grey, but where one's personal ap- 
 pearance is concerned, it is always safer to believe one's enemies 
 than one's friends. 
 
 " The governor is brushing his hat I" exclaims Jack, bursting in 
 upon us spick and span in his correctly fitting gloves and tall hat, 
 and we follow him precipitately. In the hall are assembled mam- 
 ma, Dolly, Alan, and such of the young ones as are old enough to 
 go to church, and the governor*. He has finished brushing his hat 
 and put it on his head, but as he is rummaging in a drawer for 
 his gloves, he does not notice our late arrival. And now he sets 
 out, mamma by his side, the procession is formed, and we all tail 
 two and two behind them. Across the lawn, through the wicket- 
 gate, in at God's Acref past our ancestors Geoffrey and Joan, who 
 lie in duplicate, marble effigy above ground, bleached bones below, 
 flat on their backs, with their toes turned stiffly up, and their 
 prim hands folded palm to palm. If the effigies are good like- 
 nesses, I should say that Geoffrey must have been an obstinate 
 uncomfortable sort of old fellow, while Joan was pleasant to live 
 with and very much under her lord's thumb. An impertinent 
 rose-bush planted by Geoffrey's side is holding its sweet red blos- 
 som to his marble nose, and from it he seems to be turning away 
 disdainfully, just as, maybe, he did in life from all fair and plea- 
 sant things. Under the porch, along the cool dark aisle we go, 
 and file into the long pew that seems expressly made for a man 
 with many children. Mamma sits at the top, papa at the bottom ; 
 
SEED TIME. 
 
 and the great object of our Sunday morning existences is to get as 
 far away from him and as near to her as we possibly can, hence 
 various silent and rapid manoeuvres behind his back that is as well 
 for us that he does not suspect. To-day I am the hapless left- 
 behind, and take my seat with a wrathful heart and a sickly smile 
 that seeks to convey to my brethren the fact, that I do not mind 
 my situation at all, indeed, rather like it than otherwise \ there is, 
 however, a covert grin on the row of triumphant faces to my right, 
 that plainly informs me my little hypocrisies will not go down in 
 that quarter. We all look upon the governor as a kind of bomb- 
 shell, or volcano, or loaded gun, that may blow up at any moment, 
 and will infallibly destroy whatever is nearest to him ; therefore 
 our fears are usually lively when ill-luck plants us very close to 
 him. 
 
 As usual we are early, so we sit and watch the old village people 
 come in. prayer-book in hand, with the clean handkerchief folded 
 on the top, and a rose or sprig of wallflower laid between, at which 
 they will sniff between whiles, when they are not listening to an 
 exposition of their sins, or looking to see if the quality has any new 
 clothes on. The village hind comes in rosy faced and well greased, 
 he has taken his weekly wash, put on his weekly clean-boiled rag, 
 and with the bit of roast beef and pudding provided for his dinner 
 lurking in his memory and tickling his nostrils, feels not un- 
 amiably disposed towards the wife of his bosom, and has no incli- 
 nation to beat her as is his wont on week-days when he has a little 
 spare time. In the gallery opposite sit the Sunday-school girls 
 and ploughboys, an unruly tribe, impervious to the verbal remon- 
 strances of Prodgers the schoolmaster, of which fact he is well 
 aware, and possesses a more substantial claim to their regard in 
 the shape of a stout cane, with which he discourses sweet music 
 on their rustic backs, coming down with an inspiriting whack ! in 
 a pause of the sermon or interval of prayer. 
 
io COM IN' THRO? THE RYE. 
 
 Last Sunday he made a faux pas, for, being at the back of the 
 gallery, and spying the unmannerly conduct of an obstreperous 
 purple-cheeked lass in the first row, he leant forward to take sum- 
 mary vengeance on the same, but alas ! she was " so near, and yet 
 so far," and in striving to reach her he overbalanced himself, and 
 fell upon a cluster of maidens of tender years, who howled dis- 
 mally, while the cane succeeded in doing no more than poking the 
 crown of the offender's bonnet in ! We did not smile, and papa 
 could detect no unseemly mirth on our faces when he glanced 
 sharply up and down our pew, for we have by long practice acquired 
 the art of laughing inwardly, and can be in ecstasies of amusement 
 without moving a muscle of our countenances. 
 v At last Mr. Skip worth is in his place and the service begins. 
 The' governor makes his amens as fervently and loudly as the 
 clerk, and we all follow, down to the very smallest child ; in fact, 
 such a wave of hearty sound runs along our ranks as might almost 
 suffice to blow a thin man off his legs if placed directly before us., 
 And now we have all settled our backs against the hard pew, we 
 have planted our feet firmly on our respective stools, and we have 
 opened our hearts and ears widely for such spiritual comfort as 
 Mr. Skipworth may think fit to administer. Papa turns himself 
 about and, resting his elbow on the edge of the pew, has us all 
 safely under his eye. The sermon begins, and though we fix our 
 attention upon our pastor unwinkingly, we cannot follow his 
 meaning, or indeed discover that he has any ; his words beat upon 
 our ears with a sense of wearying, empty babble. Is not a man 
 supposed to select a text for the purpose of expounding it % But 
 Mr. Skipworth does nothing of the sort. He walks up to it, it is 
 true, and looks at us over the other side, he ambles round it, 
 makes dashes at it, repeats it over and over again, but never really 
 grasps its meaning and brings it home to us. In his i amblings he 
 mentions Methuselah, and the name catching my wandering 
 
SEED TIME. ii 
 
 thoughts 1 fall to speculating about that old worldly- weary man, 
 who must have been so tired of his life before God permitted him 
 to lay it down. Surely his latter days were ghastly, grey, and 
 lonely, with all his people and the friends of his youth lying in 
 their graves, and no new ones to fill their places. At what period 
 of his life, I wonder, may he have been considered to be growing 
 a trifle elderly, and did his father whip him after he was a hun- 
 dred years old 1 What must his tailor's bills have come to, and 
 how many Mrs. Methuselahs and little Methuselahs may there 
 have been? Papa is not much past forty, and he has eleven 
 children; if he lived until he were nine hundred and sixty-nine 
 years old, how many might he be reasonably supposed to have ? 
 That is a sum, and more than my head, unaided by slate or pencil, 
 is good for. I have not half exhausted the subject when Mr. 
 Skip worth blesses and dismisses us, and we are out again, pacing 
 along the narrow path that divides these soft swelling green mounds 
 that we call graves. 
 
 How I pity you, poor, patient, forgotten dead iolk ! I know 
 that you are not here, that your spirits are transplanted to greater 
 bliss or greater misery than the world ever gave you, but with my 
 human heart I think of your bodies laid away in the earth's 
 breast, not of your deathless freed souls. They have buried you 
 away so deep that not a glimmer of God's sunshine can pierce 
 through to your dark, narrow beds. You are hidden away so close 
 that the gurgling song of the thrush, and the shrill call of the black- 
 bird, can never reach or thrill you; though your best beloved were 
 passing by, you could not stir one hair's breadth from your bond- 
 age; though you are cradled in the very heart of the earth, you 
 cannot feel her throbbing pulses, smell her fresh flowers; her joy, 
 her riches, and her sweetness are not for you — not for you ! I am 
 sorry for you, dead ! just as some day some one will, perchance, 
 be sorry for me, and looking down at the grass that grows over 
 
12 COMIN' THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 me, heave a sigh and say, Poor soul! and turn back, as I am doing, 
 to the breath of God's air, the caress of His south wind, and the 
 thousand thousand treasures that He has so bountifully poured 
 into the hands of the living. 
 
 We pass into the garden, cool with the shadow of the dark- 
 leaved beeches, a rambling queer old place, with many odd twists 
 and corners infinitely dear to our hearts, for by their aid do we 
 contrive to dodge the governor with surprising success. Away to 
 the left is the kitchen garden, ample, well-stocked, closely guarded, 
 before which we are wont to sit down with watering mouths, and 
 hearts as sighing as ever was that of Petrarch after Laura. This, 
 our paradise, is enclosed by an envious and abhorred wall, too 
 high to climb, too dangerous to jump, over which we have all in turn 
 jeopardized our necks and legs and come to cruel grief, as many a 
 bruised shin and dismal lump attest, while the potato bed, which 
 we always select to fall upon under a mistaken impression that it 
 is softer than gooseberry bushes, could tell many a tale of shame 
 and disaster. At the present moment, however, we are indulging 
 in no such monkey tricks, we are walking two and two behind the 
 governor, dutifully listening to his fulminations against Dorley, 
 who has permitted two sticks and a stone to disgrace the velvet 
 smoothness of the lawn. Dorley has been discharged without a 
 character, departed from here to the union, from the union to gaol, 
 and from gaol to the gallows, before we reach the house. 
 
 " There will be some fun at dinner to-day," says Alice as we 
 go upstairs, "for Mrs. Skipworth had on her purple gown in 
 church 1" 
 
SEED TIME. 13 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail, nor no 
 railing in a discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove." 
 
 We may not be a very uncommon family, I do not say we are ; 
 and we may be a very handsome family (with one or two ex- 
 ceptions), I do not say we are not ; but I defy our worst enemy to 
 accuse us of being a sociable family. We care for nobody, no, not 
 we, and nobody cares for us ! ) If we ever had any friends, which 
 I strongly doubt, they have betaken themselves to foreign parts, or 
 melted like snow, or died of a " waste" or— something ; and as we 
 have no relations— uncles, aunts, or cousins— we never see a soul. 
 The truth is, papa quarrels with every man and woman he knows, 
 on principle, and has come to the very end of his acquaintance, 
 being (I think) heartily sorry that there is no one left that he can 
 get a chance of being rude to. 
 
 Once a year or so, some determinately peaceful neighbour, who 
 is fond of mother, and wishes to know how she fares, drives 
 through our hospitable gates, and in fear and trembling pulls the 
 creaking body of our front-door bell, rusty with disuse as was ever 
 that one belonging to poor, down-trodden, cowardly Mariana, 
 who, in my opinion, was never worthy of the honour of being sung 
 in verse. The sound of that bell when it does ring strikes as much 
 consternation to our souls as the last trump might ; from far and 
 near we gather to see the fun— doors open, heads are popped round 
 corners, the footman rushes hither and thither, seeking to ascertain 
 the whereabouts of " master," lest, unhappily, he usher the daring 
 intruder into that awful presence, and thereby secure his own 
 instant dismissal. In the distance is seen papa furiously dashing 
 his hat upon his head, and rushing out of the house by some back 
 door, while the air is pleasingly filled with his shouts of welcome. 
 
i 4 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 (It is needless to say that he hates callers even worse than his 
 friends, and with an intensity that you will find nowhere, save in 
 the breast of a well-born, well-educated English gentleman, whose 
 house and family are all that could be wished, and who has 
 nothing in the world to be ashamed of.) Meanwhile, the cause 
 of the commotion cools her heels upon the door-step, and is at last 
 admitted, much as though she were something dangerous, or had 
 come from a fever hospital, or was suspected of having intentions 
 on j;he spoons. 
 
 <(Once in every three months the Skipworths are invited to 
 dinner, and there our entertainments end, for no other strangers 
 eat of our salt from January to December. How is it papa has 
 not succeeded in quarrelling with the reverend gentleman, I cannot 
 imagine, for goodness knows he has tried hard enough. Mr. 
 Skip worth, however, is one of those dear affectionate souls who find 
 it absolutely impossible to quarrel with any one who has it in his 
 power to bestow certain substantial gifts ; and when the governor 
 slaps him on the one cheek, he is Christian enough to offer to him 
 the other, and what is more, look as if he liked it He is talking 
 to mother now ; a stout, sleek, pear-shaped man, whose legs always 
 seem to me to have been swallowed up by his body, as the lesser 
 rods were by Aaron's. He has a smile that would butter the whole 
 neighbourhood ; a smile that Jack and I hate, and would wipe off 
 his face with a duster if we could. > Papa is talking to Mrs. Skip- 
 worth. How the broad June sun is flooding her purple gown and 
 purpler face ! How hot and kind and uneasy she looks, for her 
 dress is stretched across her tight as a drum ! Poor soul, she 
 squints ; not harmlessly, wonderingly, inoffensively, but diaboli- 
 cally, while one eye appears to be surveying the person she ad- 
 dresses, the other is firmly fixed on some one the other side of the 
 room. Jack and I have worn ourselves out in speculations as to 
 whether she can see with both eyes at once, or only one ; whether 
 
SEED TIME. 15 
 
 she is literally able to keep her eye on two people at once, or whether 
 she makes up her mind which eye she means to look out of, and 
 drops that one and takes up the other at a moment's notice ; in 
 short, shifts the seeing power at will ; whether — but our marvel- 
 lings are not worth the writing down, Plain as she is, there is yet 
 something very unique and interesting about her — she has no chil- 
 dren ! And as she is probably the only parson's wife on record 
 who has not half a dozen, she deserves to be chronicled as an 
 amazing and historical fact. x Greatness has its drawbacks, how- 
 ever, and she is not satisfied with her childless home, her husband 
 does not like it either, and I have seen him glance at our overflow- 
 ing numbers with a scarcely concealed bitter envy that sends a 
 pang, I am sure, to the womanly heart beating so warmly under 
 the gorgeous satin yonder, that would never be on her back if 
 little feet were gathered about her, little voices clamouring for 
 milk and bread and butter.^And now we are walking in to dinner, 
 and Jack, taking an unfair advantage of my proximity to him, 
 trips me up in such wise that I take a header into my pastor's 
 ample back, and am only saved from ignominious disgrace by the 
 fact that the governor is too far ahead to notice the slight scuffle. 
 
 I wonder why people always feel so much more hungry on Sun- 
 days than any other day ! Is it the sermon, or is it because we 
 have kept our mouths shut so long that we have not taken in 
 enough air % Any way, we settle to our dinner in earnest, and 
 there is a long satisfied silence. I come to the surface first and 
 glance around me, thinking how very like animals we all look 
 though we do use knives and forks and dinner-napkins. 
 
 Mrs. Skipworth looks uneasy ; her dress certainly is tighter than 
 it was in the drawing-room. Surely there will be an explosion 
 soon. There is ! She lays down her knife and fork, gives a mighty 
 sneeze — a loud crack, as of hooks and eyes being violently divorced, 
 is heard, then she settles herself in her chair and looks relieved, 
 
16 COMTN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 It is very strange, but there is no gaping fissure visible in front, 
 therefore there must surely be one behind ; yet James, who is at 
 her back, has no speculation in his eye, and he does not offer to 
 fetch a shawl to hide her ruins, so it can't be there. It is certainly 
 very mysterious. How delightful it is to sit still and to know that 
 we shall not be called upon to provide conversation ; for of all the 
 hard tasks the governor sets us, that is the hardest. When we 
 were small children we were ordered to be silent, and bade never 
 to open our lips in his presence. We never went to him in any of 
 our childish joys or troubles, he took no interest in us ; and we, 
 who would have loved him if he had let us, came to have no feel- 
 ing for him save that of fear. Now that we are growing up we are 
 not afraid of him, but the old restraint lies heavy about us, and 
 upon his bidding us to talk, lo ! we find that the fountain is dry, 
 and the harder we pump the less we bring up, and it is the daily 
 puzzle of our lives to find " something to say," or to hit upon some 
 
 e subject concerning which we may furbish up a few remarks. 
 We are not afraid of him ; but, nevertheless, it is a degrading and 
 mortifying fact that whereas, behind his back, we are as bold as 
 lions, before his face we are meek as lambs, while our voicec re- 
 main obstinately in our boots. If our lives depended on it we 
 could not give one such Whoop ! in his presence as we utter a hun- 
 dred times a day when he is out of earshot./' 
 
 The butler and footman hurry hither and thither, executing 
 impromptu slides in their flights across country, that move us to 
 admiration ; but woe betide them if, in their slavish haste, they 
 clink one plate against another, or fail to appear at papa's elbow, 
 vegetable or sauce laden, the very moment he is ready for a fresh 
 supply ; while, as to the dishes, if as soon as one disappears 
 another does not instantly take its place, his face becomes such a 
 study of scorn and disgust as any living actor might seek in vain 
 to imitate. We all sit round and watch him with a never-ending 
 
SEED TIME. 17 
 
 amazement not unmingled with admiration, and wonder how on 
 earth he does it. His face seems to be made of india-rubber, and 
 takes every inflection and shade of ill-temper and uncharitable- 
 ness. I believe if we watched him till doomsday we should see 
 some fresh contortion every day. He does not confine himself to 
 looks though— he acts. A dish-cover in his hand becomes a shuttle- 
 cock that the battledore of his wrath may send into the grate, 
 or out of the window, or after James's rapidly vanishing calves ; 
 it is impossible to tell where, we can only watch his eye and 
 speculate as to the probable direction it will take. To-day, how- 
 ever, there are no such compliments flying ; and, if Mr. Skip- 
 worth does now and then intercept a diabolical look intended 
 for Simpkins, what then 1 He is used to the governor's little 
 ways. 
 
 And now dessert is on the table, and papa is telling the 
 reverend gentleman (who occasionally hunts on a cob as fat 
 as himself) a pleasing little anecdote about a parson who came to 
 
 grief last winter in shire. Taking an awkward jump, he 
 
 rolled off his horse into a pond, from whence he piteously besought 
 a passing squire to extricate him. " D— n you !" cried the squire 
 dashing his rowels into his horse's sides, " lie where you are ! You 
 won't be wanted till next Sunday." 
 
 Mr. Skipworth, who, in his travels across country, has explored 
 every pond, ditch, and brook for ten miles round, utters a feeble 
 " Ha, ha, ha !" at which the governor, who is one of the pluckiest 
 and hardest riders in the county chuckles unkindly. Blessed 
 hunting, that in winter takes him from the bosom of his family 
 twice a week ; and oh ! long-tarrying first of September, when 
 will you come and set his feet among the stubble ] We are eating 
 strawberries, that, to my fancy, always smell and look so much 
 more delicious than they taste. A jerk of papa's thumb pre- 
 sently dismisses us with our mouths half filled, and we walk 
 
 4 
 
1 8 CO MUSI' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 decorously past his chair, but once outside the shut door, scamper 
 away like the wind to vent the spirits that have been so tightly 
 bottled up for the last two hours. We all go our different ways 
 —Alice and Milly to stroll about the garden, Dolly and Alan to 
 ome mysterious haunt known only to themselves, Jack and I to 
 our birds and beasts. They are a rascally lot, consisting of the 
 lame, the halt, and the blind, and in any eyes but ours would not 
 be worth a pinch of snuff. We have a dog without a tail, a 
 canary without an eye, a raven without a leg, a crippled rabbit, 
 and various other poor wretches who have been compelled by the 
 force of circumstances to part with one or another of their natural 
 appendages. 
 
 Papa is safe for another two hours. He and Skippy will tell 
 tales one against the other that would beat Munchausen into fits 
 and make him green with envy ; so we let out the rabbits, the 
 parrot, and the raven, and they follow behind as we take our 
 way through the garden and paddock into the orchard. 
 
 " Don't you feel rather patriarchal, Jack V I asked, looking over 
 my shoulder to see that the rabbits are not nibbling at the raven, 
 " like Noah f 
 
 " No, I can't say I do," says Jack. u How he would grin if he 
 could hear you comparing our measly little menagerie to his. 
 " Why, he had thousands of 'em !" 
 
 "So he had," I say, considering ; " and how they all managed in 
 the ark I can't imagine. They went in two and two, but of course 
 they all had families ; and, if there was only just room at first, 
 they must have found it a tight fit after a bit." 
 
 " Very," says Jack absently. " I say, Nell, will you get up early 
 to-morrow morning V 
 
 " I don't know," I answer doubtfully. " You don't want me to 
 go fishing, do you V On such occasions I enjoy the proud dis- 
 tinction of fixing wriggling worms on the hooks, while he has all 
 
SEED TIME. 19 
 
 the honour and glory of the undertaking, and eats the fish after- 
 wards. 
 
 11 No, you little silly, I don't ! It's something much better. 
 Can you keep a secret V* (holding my arm tight). 
 
 " Of course I can !" I say indignantly ; and, extraordinary as 
 such an assertion may appear from a female, I can. 
 
 u Well," says Jack deliberately, " if you're not nervous, you know, 
 or squeamish, like other girls, I'll take you with me ; but you 
 must not call out or scream, or anything of that kind, or we shall 
 be caught, and there will be a shine in the tents of Shem." 
 
 <[l won't scream," I say eagerly ; " and you know I am not a 
 bit like a real girL You always say I am more than half a boy." 
 
 " I'm going," says Jack, eyeing me closely, " to see a pig killed." . 
 
 " A pig ]— oh, Jack ! — you don't mean it ! They squeak so 
 dreadfully ! I'm sure it must hurt them very much !" 
 
 " Nonsense !" says Jack philosophically. " They are noisy 
 brutes, and always make a fearful row over everything : besides 
 it's a very good thing they do squeak ; for, if you happened to be 
 frightened and called out, you know — for you are only a girl— the 
 men would think it was the pig, not you." 
 
 " Oh !" I say dubiously, for the idea that my voice cannot be 
 mistaken from that of an expiring pig has not before occurred to 
 me. 
 
 "The fact is, Nell," says Jack, glancing sharply at my face 
 " you're afraid, and I didn't think it of you— no, I didn't. How- 
 ever, I'll let you have till to-morrow to think it over ; and if, when 
 I throw a handful of gravel up at your window at five o'clock, 
 you are not dressed and ready, I shall know you are a coward." 
 
 "No you won't," I say, rebelling against this injustice, "if I 
 don't go it won't be because I am afraid, but because I don't want 
 to see the — the— mess." 
 
 " Make up your mind one way or the other," says Jack care- 
 
 2—2 
 
20 COM IN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 lessly ! "if you don't come, I shan't say anything to you about it, 
 but I shall blow." 
 
 We fall into a silence, and sit down under a tree, and the 
 parrot who has been gravely walking behind with the rest of the 
 riffraff, hops on to Jack's shoulder and swears fluently. His name 
 is Paul Pry, and he is a sharp and ungodly bird, who has picked 
 up many wicked sayings but never a good one. Jack brought 
 him from school, and we are obliged to keep him dark for fear the 
 governor should overhear his talk, and make his head pay the 
 penalty of his manners. He gets very drunk when he has a 
 chance, and reels about in his cage like a very disreputable, tipsy 
 old man, muttering " Polly very drunk," in a boozy voice. He is 
 smart, but he never said anything half as clever as that parrot of 
 which Jack told me, who attended a show of his brethren, held 
 for the purpose of giving a prize to the owner of the cleverest 
 bird present. He arrived last of all, looked round at the collec- 
 tion of feathered bipeds, cocked his eye at the company, and 
 ejaculated, " What a d— d lot of parrots !" Alas ! for morality, 
 he won the prize, or so says Jack. 
 
 Under the trees it is very cool, very quiet. The sunbeams 
 flicker faintly through the screen of green leaves and unripe fruit 
 overhead; the gnats whirl giddily round and round, spending 
 their one summer's day in t ceaseless revolutions ; the birds are 
 singing their blithe clear song, and though they sing all at once and 
 each in a different key, there is not one note of discord in the 
 whole concert. The sky is one stretch of deep intense blue, 
 flecked with clouds that show white as snow against its vivid 
 colour ; a rustling, creeping little breeze, warm with the breath of 
 new-mown hay and dog-roses, is stealing about us, frolicking 
 softly with our hair and lips ; and as I lie flat on the grass that 
 makes so yielding and luxurious a couch for our young bodies, I 
 am lulled into an exquisite dreamy sensation of delight at the 
 
SEED TIME, 21 
 
 mere fact of existing on this bountiful, rich-hued, glorious June 
 day. The parrot ceases to make naughty remarks, he puts his 
 head on one side and appears to be thinking ; perhaps he is re- 
 membering the days of his youth, perhaps he too enjoys the per- 
 fect day and hour, who can tell] The rabbits wander about, 
 the raven stands motionless on the one slender leg that must 
 ache so often ; Jack is silent, but for some prosaic reason I am 
 certain, not because his soul his filled with pleasure. 
 
 " Nell," he says presently, while I am wondering why the clouds 
 fall into grotesque likenesses of earthly things, not heavenly — 
 human faces, castles, cities, hills — " I'm going to the top of Inky 
 Field, will you come Y* 
 
 Never yet did I disobey Jack's behest, so I sit up, but very un- 
 willingly. " The governor will see us," I say suggestively ; " Inky 
 Field is right before the dining-room windows, you know." 
 
 But Jack takes no heed to my caution, so we return to the 
 garden by the way that we came, and inveigle all our animals into 
 their abodes, save our crippled rabbit, who escapes to a verbena 
 bed and there disports himself. A rabbit is an aggravating beast 
 to catch : he has a way of remaining perfectly still till one's hand 
 almost touches him, and then starting suddenly off in a jiggetty 
 jog fashion highly impertinent, while the pursuer measures his 
 length upon the green sward, angry and empty-handed. At last, 
 however, he is caught, and Jack carries him away, while I sit 
 down on an adjacent seat, and fan myself with the top of my 
 double skirt, which I use as duster, fan, or for ornament indis- 
 criminately. 
 
 Mother and Mrs. Skipworth have just gone in, but every one else 
 is walking about in a leisurely way ; Alice and Milly under the 
 south wall, Dolly and Alan sitting close together in the sun like 
 two plump little partridges, dogs straying about, and fry dimly 
 visible in the distance, everything, in short, looks peaceful and 
 
22 COM IN' THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 comfortable, when from the verandah issue two black figures. Can 
 it be %— Yes, it is Skippy and the governor ! Is the wine corked, 
 or have their stories run dry ? I am too close to them to escape ; 
 not so, however, the rest, who vanish round corners, behind trees, 
 over palings, anywhere, and the garden, that a moment ago was 
 f ulk is now empty. 
 
 • .Papa's approach may usually be known by the flight of every- 
 body else in an opposite direction ; and I think he has a 
 vague suspicion of the fact, for he looks about him sharply, as 
 he approaches. Jack, lucky fellow, has hidden himself in the 
 rabbit-hutch, and from a well-known loophole, I see his eye 
 fixed upon me with a mixture of pity and self-gratulation. I 
 have pulled my hat straight, set my feet in the first position, and^ 
 am doing my utmost to look modest, sabbatical, and cool. The 
 last is the most difficult of all, and papa stops short and surveys 
 me with the admiration that any new or particularly startling 
 phase of my ugliness always evokes from him. 
 
 "What a mawkl" he says contemptuously, "can't you keep your 
 mouth shut fl'p- 
 
 I close it with a snap and a rebellious glance that he is about to 
 call me to account for, when an unwary fry, venturing into the 
 open, attracts his attention, and away he goes like a shot ; horribly 
 active is he, as any one can aver to whom he has given chase. I 
 heave a deep sigh of relief, and turn away to make good my escape, 
 when Mr. Skipworth lays a fat and detaining hand on my arm, 
 and in an unctuous voice bids me sit down. He has got me into 
 the seat, and wedged me in with his overflowing body before I get 
 my breath back and recognise the fact that I am in for a sermon, 
 and that he will presently come back and finish me off. I cast a 
 despairing glance at Jack, who is close prisoner as well as I, but 
 oh ! the rabbits won't stand up on their hind legs and preach him 
 a sermon. 
 
SEED TIME, 23 
 
 " My dear," says Mr. Skipworth, closing his eyes slightly, whether 
 overcome by the sun or Madeira it would be hard to say (how I 
 hate being " my deared"), " did you hear the sermon to-day?" 
 
 m Yes, sir." 
 
 *' And what did I say?" 
 
 * Something or other about Methuselah." 
 
 " No. I spoke of grace, the effects of grace. Without grace," 
 he continues, folding his fat hands, and simmering gently in the 
 hot sunshine like a seal, u we are lost, vile, miserable creatures, 
 lower than the beasts of the field." 
 
 " You and I may be," I say stoutly, " but mother isn't, she is 
 much more like an angel." 
 
 " You are a wicked girl/C^e says, turning slowly and surveying 
 me, " you are also ignorant. Do you not know that all mankind 
 is born in sin, and that even a new-born babe is tainted with evil 1 ? 
 It would appear that the infant is aware of that fact, for what is 
 the first thing it does on coming into the world V 
 
 " It howls," I say briefly. 
 
 " It weeps," says Mr. Skipworth rebukingly; "and why does it 
 weep V 
 
 " Because it's hungry," I say promptly. 
 
 " It does nothing of the sort," he says irately, " it weeps because 
 it knoivs it is bom in sm.'^ 
 
 " Oh, poor little soul," I say, laughing immoderately, " I— I— beg 
 your pardon, Mr. Skipworth, but— but it's such a ridiculous idea, 
 as if it knew anything." 
 
 " Your levity is exceedingly unbecoming, miss," says my pastor, 
 in a voice that reminds me of vinegar tasting through oil. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, I do really," I say again, stifling my mirth 
 as well as I can, " but when you were a baby— I suppose you were 
 a baby once, Mr. Skipworth V 
 
 " I suppose so," he says stiffly. 
 
24 COM IN 1 THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " Did you ever cry?" 
 
 " I have always been told," he says pompously, " that I waa 
 an unusually reasonable infant, and that my voice was seldom 
 heard." 
 
 " Then you could not have been born in sin," I say triumphantly, 
 " for you said just now babies cried because they were sinful and 
 of course if they don't cry they can't be sinful; don't you see, sir T 
 
 But Mr. Skip worth does not see; my impudence has at last had 
 the desired effect of making him turn his back upon me, and as he 
 stiffly rises I make my escape, barely in time, though, for I am 
 scarcely hidden when the governor appears round the corner, look- 
 ing red and heated, and as though the fry had led him a chase foi 
 which there will be a heavy reckoning to pay by-and-by. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "The morn in russet mantle clad 
 Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill. 
 
 It is five o'clock in the morning. Through my open window come 
 the pure notes of the lark's first song, the Cloth of Gold roses nod 
 their creamy heads in at me, heavy with dew-drops, and whisper, 
 "Come out! come out!" Yes, but surely they don't mean to say, 
 " Come out and see a pig killed /" My mind has somehow or 
 other made itself up, and though I every moment expect to hear 
 Jack's footfall below, 1 am attired in a nightgown, no more. Who 
 that has tasted the first spotless freshness of the early morning 
 could go back to dull, senseless sleep in that white bed, yonder ? 
 When Jack is gone I will dress and go out into the lanes and fields, 
 
 and get a bunch of fresh wild flowers. I will there is Jack. 
 
 I mount the window and present my white-robed form to his 
 astonished and disgusted gaze. 
 
SEED TIME. 25 
 
 "So you're not coming;" he asks in an indignant whisper, heed- 
 ful of Amberley, whose room is below mine, but reassured by the 
 rhythmic regularity of her snores. " So you're a " 
 
 " Don't be angry," I say, imploringly, " I'm not a coward, and 
 I'll do anything else you like, but I can't do that." 
 
 "Oh! I dare say," he says, scornfully, " I dare say ! Well, I'm 
 going, but before I go I may as well tell you that I'm disappointed 
 in you. I thought, mind you, Nell, I thought you were plucky 
 enough to be a boy ; but I was mistaken, you're only a girl." 
 
 " I know I am," I say, almost in tears, " that's just why I can't 
 go and see it- boys feel differently about those things J& 
 
 11 1 should hope so," says Jack, significantly, " I should hope so," 
 and turns on his heel and goes his way, pigsty-wards, leaving me 
 to the miserable conviction that he is perfectly right, and I am a 
 very small and cowardly person indeed. 
 
 By-and-by I pluck up sufficient spirit to put on the despised 
 female garments that I hate so thoroughly. (JIow cumbrous, and 
 useless, and ridiculous they are ! how my gowns, petticoats, crino- 
 line, ribbons, ties, cloaks, hats, bonnets, gloves, tapes, hooks, eyes, 
 buttons, and the hundred and one et ceteras that make up a girl's 
 costume, chafe and irritate me ! what would I not give to be able 
 to leave them all in a heap, and step into Jack's cool, comfortable, 
 easy, grey garments ? ) When I am dressed I go through Alice and 
 Milly's room on tip-toe. A sunbeam is lying on Alice's nut brown 
 head ; a blackbird is singing on the window-sill, but she sleeps 
 soundly on. Out in the garden the grass is all silvered over with 
 dew, and the flowers are opening their beautiful eyes one by one ; 
 all night they have stood pale and still, but now, with the first 
 quivering beams of the sun, they have awakened, and stirred, and 
 trembled, turning eagerly towards their king, who is rising in such 
 pomp of amber glory out of the great eastern plains of translucent 
 6ea-gre3n sky. As yet there is that faint, chilly freshness in the 
 
26 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 morning air that is like some strange, intangible, wind-blown per- 
 fume, as though the breath of the moonlit night had tarried be- 
 hind, and was merging itself into the dawning warmth of the 
 morning. 
 
 There is a nameless stir and throb of expectancy in the air, as 
 though all nature were awaiting the advent of her master; field 
 and meadow, flower and garden, stretching out towards his golden 
 splendour and swift, vivifying beams. 
 
 When I have fed the animals,— who are as wide-awake as though 
 they had the work of the world to perform, instead of nothing to 
 fill the long hours but sleeping and eating, while, strange contra- 
 diction ! the human beings who have their lives to carve out, their 
 names to make, and their souls to save, sleep soundly and long, 
 awakened not by the sun or the birds, or because they have had 
 rest enough, but because (oh, prosaic reason !) they are called, — I 
 take my way across the dew-spangled meadows, where the cows 
 are being milked, and John the milkman and Molly the dairy- 
 maid are sitting on contiguous stools, and flirting at the top of 
 their voices, loudly confiding to each other those gentle secrets that 
 are usually supposed to be of a somewhat private character. 
 
 There is nobody to listen though, save the brook, the birds, and 
 me ; and as I am behind them they are not put out of countenance 
 by discovering that I have been an involuntary listener to their 
 love talk. After all, I dare say, flirtation at five o'clock in the morn- 
 ing is as agreeable and amusing as at any other time, and a great 
 deal more sweet and wholesome than in the evening. I do not get 
 much of a nosegay, for June, bountiful month as she is, gives not half 
 the wild flowers that follows spring's footsteps and gem her mantle 
 so preciously; I only find some dog roses, travellers' joy, a fewragged 
 robins, a handful of moon daisies, some meadow-sweet, and honey- 
 suckle. 
 
 Turning into the orchard, I run against Jack coming from the 
 
SEED TIME, 27 
 
 opposite direction ; he withdraws himself with dignity, but does 
 not look very angry, so I proceed to try and make my peace after 
 a sneaking feminine fashion. 
 
 " Was it very nice V I ask, in a propitiatory tone. 
 
 " First-rate ; wouldn't have missed it for anything." 
 
 " Did it squeak much V 
 
 " Awfully ; didn't you hear him 1 There will be some prime 
 bacon though, and I shall take a ham back to school." 
 
 Bacon ! ham ! Three hours ago it was a breathing, enjoying, 
 reasonable pig, now 
 
 " It is Pimpernel Fair to-morrow," I say, suggestively, hoping 
 by a change of subject to divert Jack's thoughts from my delin- 
 quencies, upon which I am certain they are running. 
 
 " I know ; but it's no good, the governor won't let us go." 
 
 " Mother is going to ask him ; let us pray that the answer may 
 be favourable." 
 
 Eight o'clock strikes as we turn in at the back door, and at the 
 sound we both start as if we had been shot. To drag off our hats, 
 and make a rush for the breakfast-parlour, is the work of a 
 moment ; and by the skin of our teeth are we saved, for by great 
 good luck the governor this morning enters the room at ten seconds 
 pasj> the hour, instead of on the stroke, as is his wont. 
 S Now there are laws and laws in our house, to break either of 
 which is a very serious matter, but to be late for prayers is crime. 
 To fall sick, tear our clothes, tell lies, steal fruit, and roll in the 
 flower-beds, is bad, and will be punished accordingly, but to be 
 late for prayers ! — far better were it for that luckless wight that 
 he or she had never been born. I wonder if, when I am quite old, 
 I shall ever be able to forget that awful sickening moment, when, 
 having torn down the stairs at headlong speed, I found the door 
 shut, and heard papa's voice booming away with angry fervour 
 inside 1 
 
 ind 1 
 
28 COMIN' THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 Our family devotions are conducted in a curious fashion, but 
 one that is eminently satisfactory to our youthful and irreligious 
 minds. The governor goes through chapter, prayer, and bene- 
 diction as hard as he can pelt, without a moment's pause, from 
 beginning to end, and when the chapter is ended, and we have 
 rapidly reversed ourselves, we are scarcely settled on our knees 
 when the book, closing with a smack on Amen ! shoots us all up 
 into the perpendicular again. Every now and then the morning 
 scamper is agreeably diversified by the unseemly conduct of the 
 canaries, who, when papa begins to read, begin to sing, and the 
 louder he reads, the more shrilly they shriek, until he pauses to 
 say, in a voice of thunder, " Take those wretched birds down !" 
 then settles to his stride again with a furious countenance, while 
 the culprits, from an abased position on the floor, twitter de- 
 risively. 
 
 Prayers being over, breakfast is brought, and partaken of much 
 as the Jews partook of the Passover (save that we have seats), in 
 hot haste and the shortest possible time. 
 
 I think papa's digestion has been murdered long ago, and ours 
 are on the high road to destruction, but, fast as we eat our meals, 
 we heartily wish we could do it faster and get away. 
 
 This morning we are cudgelling our brains as usual to find a 
 remark that shall be neither too fresh, nor too stale, nor too fami- 
 liar, nor too dangerous, for ventilation, and every natural subject 
 that suggests itself to our minds we reject in turn. The governor 
 would not understand it, or he would wonder at our impudence, 
 or — something. / We are all nervously anxious to talk ; it is from 
 no obstinacy or contumaciousness that we sit tongue-tied, but 
 somehow the stream that flows so over-bountifully among our- 
 selves is in his presence reduced to a few scanty drops. Amberley 
 is pouring out the coffee, limp, and meek, and drab, and fair, 
 v/ith putty-coloured curls, concerning which we have never ceased 
 
SEED TIME. 29 
 
 to admire the self-restraint that has kept the governor from pulling 
 them in his frequent rages. 
 
 " Do you think it is going to rain, papa V asks Alice, making her 
 small votive offering in a voice that refuses to come boldly forth, 
 but seems to be strangled half-way. The sky is one clear vault of 
 blue, and it has not rained for a week. 
 
 " I don't know," says the governor crossly. Apparently he has 
 seen the pumping-up process, and is not grateful for the effort. 
 
 Alice looks over at Milly with a glance that plainly says, " Your 
 turn now;" for it is a point of honour with us that when one 
 makes a remark, each shall follow in turn, and thus divide the 
 labour of conversation. 
 
 " Dorley killed a lot more snails last night," says Milly, looking 
 at papa; but the snails go the way of the weather, and no notice 
 whatever is vouchsafed to this delicate morceau. 
 
 It is Jack's turn now, but he is stolidly eating his breakfast, 
 with a mean and reprehensible indifference to his duty; therefore 
 it devolves upon me. 
 
 " The pig was killed this morning," I say, starting with a toler- 
 ably loud voice, and dying gradually into a very little one. " It 
 made such a noise!" But, alas! the pig goes the way of the snails 
 and the weather. 
 
 There is an anxious silence, broken only by Amberley's meek 
 voice offering the master of the house more coffee, but upon being 
 told it is filthy stuff she collapses, as do we, and sit counting the 
 moments to our departure. Jack sneezes violently, and we look 
 at him gratefully; it makes an agreeable little diversion, but he 
 must not do it twice, or he will be ordered out of the room. Papa 
 has finished his bacon and coffee, and we are just thinking we may 
 venture to rise and make our escape, when his angry voice makes 
 us bound in our seats. 
 
 " Can't you ta]k, some of you V he asks, eyeing us wrathf ully 
 
30 COMIN 1 THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 " There you sit, gobble, gobble, gobble, with never a word among 
 the whole lot, and behind my back you can bawl the house down ; 
 a set of wretched dummies !" And so he dismisses us with a few 
 more expressions of admiration and good-will. 
 
 " I am afraid Pimpernel Fair looks rather bad," says Alice, when 
 we reach the schoolroom. 
 
 " After all it is not much of it I" says Milly* 
 
 No, it is not ; and in our heart of hearts we despise, with its one 
 circus, its penny peep-show, and its fat woman ; but it is better 
 than nothing, and when one has looked upon nothing but the face 
 of one's own family for twelve months, anything is agreeable to 
 the eye, and now that it seems to be receding in the distance 
 Pimpernel Fair appears very attractive indeed ! 
 
 Amberley comes in — Amberley to whom it is given to labour 
 heavily at the tillage of our brains, and whom we look upon as a 
 sedate and amiable old cow, who never kicks up her heels or does 
 anything unexpected, but gives down knowledge in any quantity 
 or quality whenever we choose to apply for it. She is a queer 
 creature, Amberley. We used to play her tricks, and try to drive 
 her out as we did all our other governesses ; but she opposed a 
 passive resistance to all our endeavours, that in the end conquered 
 us. We might as well have knocked our heads by the hour against 
 a stone wall. For oh ! she is so meek ! Give us a passionate 
 person, an impulsive person, a person who loudly declares she will 
 have her own way, but a meek, obstinate woman, no one can stand 
 against her! 
 
 Lessons begin, and after our different fashions we attack the 
 Tree of Knowledge. Alice goes at it gaily, and with a good heart; 
 Milly weeps at its prickly rind; I skirmish round it; and Dolly 
 
 rand Alan sit down before it with moderate appetite. Happy Jack ! 
 who goes by with his dog at his heels; and unlucky me, who pos- 
 sess the tastes and spirit of a boy, and the useless body and petti- 
 
 coats of a girl! 
 
SEED TIME. 31 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, 
 And merrily hent the stile-a ; 
 A merry heart goes all the way, 
 Your sad tires in a mile-a." 
 
 We are waiting in the schoolroom for mother, who has gone with 
 a serene front, but (we believe) trembling knees, to ask her lord 
 and master's gracious consent to our setting out for Pimpernel 
 Fair. She has been absent a quarter of an hour, which we are in- 
 clined to think a hopeful sign, as his " Noes " are usually short and 
 sharp, and for him to condescend to argue a matter promises well. 
 Here she comes ! We tumble one over the other to the door, and 
 fling it wide. No need to ask her ; she has " Yes !" written all 
 over her in big capitals. As she sits down we swarm round her 
 until she looks like something good encompassed by a hive of buz- 
 zing, noisy bees. 
 
 " You are coming with us, eh, mother V I ask eagerly. 
 
 " No, dear, I think not ; there is baby, you know." 
 
 " We are not going to have all the fry at our heels, I hope V asks 
 Jack, with some anxiety. 
 
 " The two nurses are going with four of them, and Miss Amberley 
 will take you elder ones." 
 
 " Hurrah !" cries Jack ; " if there's anything I hate it's going out 
 in dozens. And what time are we to be back V* 
 
 " Six o'clock. And don't make yourselves ill with gingerbreads, 
 dears." 
 
 " 111 !" we all echo in chorus ; " who could get ill on nothing?" 
 
 " We have not a rap, mother," I put in on my own account. 
 " There was a shilling somewhere among us last week, but it was 
 so valuable, and we took so much care of it, that somehow it got 
 Lost. One of us hid it away, and forgot where we put it" 
 
32 COM IN' THRO y THE RYE. 
 
 " I will give you a shilling each," says mother, " and you must 
 make it do." 
 
 She takes out her purse that is so much too slender for the size 
 of her family ; and though we all scorn the scanty shilling that is 
 to fall to our share, we do not say so. Shall we give one additional 
 pang to that tender, gentle heart? The governor must have his 
 hunting, his shooting, his horses. We must be kept so long with- 
 out a sight of the Queen's countenance as almost to forget what she 
 is like ; and I am certain that when we are grown up we shall be 
 spendthrifts. When mother has given us our shillings and kissed 
 us all round, she goes away, and we also depart to make our toilets, 
 and beautify ourselves according to our scanty means and* several 
 lights.. Alice puts on a white hat with a long white feather, sole tail 
 of an ostrich that the family possesses, and considered by us Adairs 
 to be the ne plus ultra of beauty and fashion. Whatever our other 
 shortcomings may be in the matter of dress, when that feather is in 
 our midst, and Alice's blooming face is under that feather, we feel 
 respectable, and defy anybody to beat us. She also wears a white 
 cloak and a black silk dress, and when it is all put on, where will 
 you, in the whole of England, find a fairer, sweeter sixteen-year- 
 old, than our Alice? Milly wears her out-door gear as uncom- 
 promisingly as usual. Jack appears with a button-hole the 
 size of a small cabbage, that gives him an uncommonly gay and 
 festive air, and I, having tilted my Leghorn hat to the back of my 
 head, for the better observation of men and matters, we descend 
 and find Amberley awaiting us in a green bonnet, and with a large 
 smut on her nose. We admire the former, but are all much too 
 delicate to point out the latter to her, so it goes to the fair with the 
 rest. 
 
 Pimpernel is only a mile away, but a noonday mile in June is a 
 long one, and by the time we reach the High Street we are very 
 hot indeed, and very thirsty. It is the second day of the fair, and 
 
SEED TIME. # 
 
 the fat farmers and their fatter beasts have waddled off the scene 
 while their smart wives and daughters have appeared upon it, and 
 are walking about in raiment, compared with which Joseph's coat 
 was a mere joke, exchanging jests and cracking jokes with their 
 friends, and looking— thanks to the exceeding heat— very uneasy 
 and exceedingly moist. Behind and about prance their maidser- 
 vants and hinds j every Jill who has a Jack hangs fondly to his 
 arm, and while her large crinoline bangs affectionately against his 
 legs, she casts scornful and triumphant glances at the unappro- 
 priated Jill who sidles by, deeply conscious of her forlorn and de- 
 graded state. 
 
 PTard-by Punch is setting a bright example to the British house- 
 holder as to the management of his wife and family, and we pause 
 under the shadow of Lawyer Trask's door to see the instructive 
 little drama played out, and the ends of justice defeated. 
 
 In the market-place is a queer edifice that looks like a gigantic 
 house of cards, and upon the steps thereof, apparently too solid for 
 the shabby structure, stands a man beating a gong that rends the 
 air with its hideous tom-tom !— that is the circus. To our right a 
 crowd of white-waistcoated, blue-coated, shiny-faced youths are 
 shooting for nuts at a gallery which is presided over by a young 
 person with black eyes and blacker ringlets, a brazen countenance, 
 and a nimble tongue. She seems to have as unlimited a supply of 
 chaff as of nuts, and holds her own against all comers. Farther 
 on is the peep-show, beyond that the merry-go-round, upon whose 
 wooden horses the boys and girls are clinging with such giddy, de- 
 lighted grasp, and round the corner the fat woman bursts upon 
 our view, or rather her picture does, which has much the same 
 effect. She wears a low-necked gown and short skirts, displaying 
 a calf of which the circumference is about equal to our united 
 
 waists. Her neck We turn away shuddering. 
 
 " Now what are we going to see first V asks Jack. 
 
 3 
 
34 COM/N' THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 What, indeed ! it is an embarras de richesses. 
 " The circus," says Alice. 
 
 " The fat woman," says Milly, who has been much struck. 
 " The peep-show," says Jack. > 
 
 ' k Anywhere out of the sun," say I; so Jack, being the only male 
 present gets his own way, and we are speedily lifting the dirty red 
 curtain, and standing on forms arranged in a circle, beholding im- 
 proving illustrations of battle, murder, and sudden death, 
 
 The first scene represents a field, strewn with dead bodies, whose 
 heads, arms, and legs, are scattered around them in graceful con- 
 fusion ; a few horses seem to have got into the melee by mistake, 
 and lie on their backs with all four legs turned up piteously to the 
 gory sky, as who should say, " We kicked to the last !" 
 
 The beauties of this affecting picture are forcibly pointed out to 
 us by the showman, who describes it as being the scene of a " most 
 'orrible massacre," as depicted by a " hi witness." 
 
 We are next treated to an artistic study of murder in low life, 
 the murderer being in hot pursuit of a young female in a night- 
 gown, whose hair sets out straight as porcupine's quills from her 
 head, and within an inch of the itching fingers of her pursuer, 
 while behind him are laid out in an ascending scale the dead bodies 
 of an old man, an old woman, and a child, the same being the 
 victims he has just finished off. 
 
 In the midst of the showman's description of this tableau vivant, 
 his voice suddenly ceases ; turning to ascertain the cause of his 
 silence, we find that he has temporarily retired behind a pot of 
 beer, " Not before it was required," as he remarks when he returns 
 to his duties. It strikes us that before the day is over, his expla- 
 nations will be somewhat hazy and obscure. And we see several 
 other horrors which Amberley regards with extreme disfavour, as 
 being possibly subversive of our morals. 
 When this stock of delicacies is exhausted, we adjourn to the 
 
SEED TIME. 
 
 35 
 
 pastry-cook's, and eat sandwiches, buns, and tarts, with extreme 
 relish, due needfulness, and the nicest discrimination, for we are 
 limited as to money, and must get its worth, if we can. 
 
 11 1 could eat 'em all !" murmured Jack, on our first arrival, 
 gazing fondly at a pyramid of jam tarts before him ; but expe- 
 rience soon teaches him that his eye is decidedly larger than his 
 stomach, and after a decent tuck-in he is satisfied. Having drunk 
 our lemonade, we betake ourselves to the square, where the 
 circus man is still sturdily beating his gong for the one o'clock 
 performance, and mount the rickety steps, and go through the 
 entrance to the red baize-covered seats that circle round the 
 arena strewn with saw-dust. Although we know it all by heart, 
 and just what is coming, what a thrill of excitement rana through 
 us as we glance around us, at the eager faces of the poor folks and 
 their children, seated in the lowest place ; at the dissipated pieces 
 of orange peel that are strewn hither and thither, suggestive rem- 
 nants of the visits of those who could enjoy themselves without 
 striving to be " genteel;" at the men with their brazen instruments, 
 that will presently burst forth in a volume of sound more startling 
 than dulcet ; at our neighbours and their olive branches, who, like 
 us, possess the upper seats in the synagogue, but who do not look 
 at as, oh ! dear no ! The governor's sins are visited very fully 
 upon our heads, and though he never goes abroad to encounter 
 either good looks or bad, his sins will be visited on his luckless 
 children, to the third and fourth generation. ) 
 
 And now the entertainment has begun ; the pretty little girl in 
 pink is taking her flying leaps through the hoops, and our hearts 
 beat high with pride and delight as she clears them successfully, 
 but a shiver runs through us as once she jumps short and falls. 
 What a piteous quiver there is on the poor little painted face at 
 the frowning, black-browed man who cracks the whip, scolds her in 
 a low fierce voice ; how we hate him, and would like to make him 
 
 3—2 
 
36 COMIN' THRO' THE RY£. 
 
 suffer as he is making her ! The clowns come in and make their 
 jokes ; old as the hills, no doubt, but to us exquisitely fresh, and 
 we greet them with the hearty zest and admiration that no laughter, 
 save that of childhood, ever knows. Presently something very 
 dreadful happens ; the hero of the piece (it is a grand piece, with 
 robbers and horses and ladies and a splendid fight) who has been 
 killed is being carried out, laid very straight and stiff on the 
 shoulders of four men, with his eyes tightly shut, and the band is 
 playing the Dead March in Saul very slowly and impressively, 
 with a pause of several seconds between each note, when the music 
 abruptly ceases, and with a discordant crash, musicians, instru- 
 ments and all, vanish from our sight, and nothing is to be seen of 
 them save a great dust that rises from their ruins. What has hap- 
 pened 1 The dead man is lowered to the ground, upon which he 
 sits up and stares. We all gaze with fascinated and dilated eyes 
 at the box from which the men have vanished Are they killed 1 
 But sounds of wrath, of disgust and vituperation, mingled with a 
 rattling of bones and brass instruments, speedily reassure us on 
 that point, and before long the missing gentlemen creep out one 
 by one, very red in the face and dusty in the throat, and take up 
 their station on the benches, which may possibly be trusted not to 
 serve them the dirty trick the box has done. Once settled, they 
 take up the burden of their Dead March where they laid it down, 
 the dead man carefully stretches himself out on his bearers* 
 shoulders, and the piece is brought to a decent conclusion with 
 " God save the Queen," to cover all deficiencies. 
 
 The sunshine makes our eyes blink as we emerge into it, and 
 bend our steps towards the fat woman, to whom we must assuredly 
 make our bow. The apartment in which that august lady receives 
 us is out of all proportion to her charms, being in fact but a care- 
 van upon wheels, across the hinder part of which is drawn a 
 musty curtain, that we dimly imagine hides unsavoury sights. 
 
SEED TIME. & 
 
 As she lifts it and stands before us, I involuntarily draw back and 
 get behind Jack, and Dolly gets behinds me ; her ponderous foot 
 shakes the boarding as she approaches, and her huge body oscil- 
 lates from side to side, like a badly filled sack set upright in a 
 cart. It is impossible to help feeling that if she happened to 
 tread on one of us we should be crushed into pulp ; for once re- 
 port has not lied, and her picture has failed to do her charms 
 justice, or represent her as she really is. " Look at 'er !" cries the 
 showman in a voice of rapture, hitching up her already short petti- 
 coats with his cane, and indicating first one colossal leg, then 
 another : " Look at 'er, ladies and gentlemen ! Did ever yer see 
 sich flesh, sich size, sich proporshun ? And mind yer, it's all real 
 genuine bony-fidy fat ; no make-believes, shams, or saw-dust in 
 this exhibition ! Look 'ere !" and he prods her with his stick in 
 her overflowing sides, and he pinches her fat neck and arms as 
 though she were a prize ox or sheep. " Turn round !" he says, 
 and she turns slowly as though on a pivot, and displays a back 
 that is such a mountain of flesh as I have seen nowhere, save on 
 the body of a prize pig. As she faces us again, a fat smile of 
 pleased complacency dawns on her features at marking our 
 amazement and admiration of her manifold beauties. At her 
 knee, but overlooked in the neighbourhood of her mountainous 
 presence, stands a tiny dwarf, who nearly dislocates his neck in 
 peeping up at her. It is plain that he admires her beyond ail 
 earthly things, and that she is to him, not only the lode-star of his 
 existence, but the type of everything that is comely and pleasant 
 to the eye in woman. Decidedly impressed, we take our departure, 
 and repair to seek our fairings in the smartly laid-out stalls in 
 the shadow of the old grey market-house. We buy mother a 
 thimble, not that we are aware she is in want of one, but a silver 
 thimble is a nice, useful, comfortable sort of thing, that is sure 
 to come in handy if you wait long enough, and we have no notion, 
 
38 COM IN' TttkO* THE RYE. 
 
 we Adairs, of spending our infrequent money in kickshaws, or 
 merely ornamental presents. We sometimes give her a purse by 
 way of a change, and when she has had enough of them, we 
 present her with a prayer-book ; so there is a good deal of variety 
 after all. 
 
 We pause for a minute or two to listen to the amazing lies of 
 a cheap Jack, compared with whom Ananias was the most vera- 
 cious man on record ; and I, at least, look with some envy at 
 the merry-go-round, remembering a day many years ago when I 
 escaped from nurse, and surreptitiously took a ride on a side- 
 saddled wooden pony that stood beside one ridden by Johnny 
 Stubbs, the sweeps son, and was enjoying myself with all my 
 heart, when a heavy hand made a clutch at my vanishing gar- 
 ments, and nurse's voice said, in tones of deepest wrath, "I'm 
 asha?ned of you, Miss Nell !" 
 
 The fun of the fair is just beginning as we turn our faces home- 
 ward towards Silverbridge. By-and-by it will become a frolic, 
 later on grow into a carouse, last of all degenerate into a hurly- 
 burly, where women will be seeking their husbands, and the same 
 will be shaking hands with the town pumps, and attempting to 
 walk home in a circle. Most of the sober folks are leaving like 
 us, and in the cool lanes athwart which the sun is laying dark 
 shadows, Lubin is kissing Phillis's ruddy and willing cheek, 
 blessedly unconscious of our near vicinity. With what honest 
 delight do they gaze on each, other's ugly red faces, and how en- 
 joyingly does the smack ! smack ! of their salutes come to our 
 ears ! The lady is not coy, and kisses him full as often as he does 
 her, and almost as loudly. They are beautiful in each other's eyes, 
 an 1 long may their love last ! ~ 
 
 " I wonder," I say to myself, looking at Alice's flower-like face, 
 " if any one will ever love heiilike that 1— or— or— we f 
 
 Presently we overtake the fry whom we have once or twice come 
 
SEED TIME. 39 
 
 across in the fair and avoided successfully ; very gummy and warm 
 and dirty and happy they look. If the governor could only see 
 them ! Fortune smiles on us to-day ; we do not meet him in the 
 court or in the hall or on the stairs, so we are able to retire in 
 peace to change our dusty clothes. 
 
 " Thank goodness, there won't be a walk to-night !" says Alice, 
 sitting down restfully in her white petticoat on the broad window- 
 sill. Thank goodness, indeed ! Walks are the plagues of our 
 lives and the terror of our existence. I do not mean those non- 
 descript leisurely rambles that Jack and I are partial to taking, or 
 the saunters that Alice and Milly affect ; I mean a three or four- 
 mile race over hill and dale at the governor's heels, that leaves 
 us with aching, blown bodies, sore hearts, and angry souls. We 
 resort to various cowardly and sneaking devices to get out of 
 these excursions, but altogether in vain ; severe illness even 
 and a prompt retirement to bed, avail us nothing. Papa is 
 up to that trick, and we are promptly unearthed, dressed, and 
 sent forth with the rest. We have even, on occasions, tried the 
 desperate expedient of salts and senna, but even that cruel remedy 
 failed us, for papa, believing our sufferings to be only another form 
 of humbug, insisted on our accompanying him ; therefore from that 
 day to this, we have left Messrs. S. & S. alone.) 
 
 The Adair family out a-walking is a sight to be seen. The 
 governor leads the way, steaming on in front all alone, like a ship 
 in full sail, while behind him his family stretch out like a pack of 
 beagles, puffing, blowing, groaning, gasping, the ciders well up to 
 the fore, the youngsters, by reason of the shortness of their miserable 
 little legs, straggling behind, while last of all comes Amberley, 
 doing her duty like the Christian woman that she is, and praying 
 that her second wind may come quickly. From time to time papa 
 turns and surveys our scarlet and distressed countenances with a 
 grim smile. After all, I believe he has some sense of humour, and 
 
40 COM IN' THRO? THE RYE. 
 
 only manages to support his own discomforts by witnessing the 
 infinitely greater ones of his childrenX. Past cool sweet fields, 
 where the cows are taking their meals at their leisure — happy cows, 
 who have no father to harry them ! — past easy stiles and broad flat 
 stones to which our bodies seriously incline ; up hill and down 
 dale, across fields and down lanes, with never a pause for breath 
 or flower or fern, and so home again " in linked sweetness long 
 drawn out." 
 
 Next to those scampers we hate drives. Papa has several con- 
 veyances in which he jeopardizes the lives of his family, and makes 
 our " too fretful hair " rise from our heads. First in danger is a 
 very high gig, in which he drives a powerful rakish chestnut, with a 
 rolling eye, who invariably runs away twice or thrice whenever he 
 goes out. In this, knowing her fears, he loves to take out mother, 
 who has some respect for her own neck, seeing that it is the only 
 one she is ever likely to possess, and by hook or by crook, she 
 usually manages to get out of going. Now and then, however, she is 
 fairly caught, and drives from the door with a backward look at 
 her assembled flock, that has in it the solemnity of a dying fare- 
 well. Next in danger to the gig is a mail phaeton, drawn by a 
 pair of fiery cobs, thoroughbreds, and matched to a hair, in which 
 two of us girls are always made to sit, occupying inglorionsly 
 enough the seat intended for a man-servant. Many and many a 
 time have we clung to each other with our breath gone, while the 
 horses thundered on in their mad career, and the snapping of a 
 rein or the smallest obstacle in the way would Lave probably sent 
 us all to kingdom come. Providence, however, who apparently 
 keeps special angels to watch over reckless people, has always 
 brought us safely home, and will, I hope, continue to do so ; for it 
 is an ugly thought to be dashed into little bits on a heap of stones, 
 with a horse's grinding hoofs hammering your face. Mother has 
 a basket carriage with two fat grey ponies, which are so far beneath 
 
SEED TIME. 41 
 
 papa's notice, that they enjoy a meed of peace no other animals in 
 the stable possess, and behind them we youngsters have many a 
 pleasant amble and comfortable confab. 
 
 " Are you girls coming down to tea this evening or to-morrow 
 morning'?" asks Jack, putting his head in at the door. "The 
 governor is just coming up the carriage drive. 
 
 CHAPTER V, 
 
 •* Wooing, wedding, and repenting, is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque- 
 pace: the first suit hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the 
 wedding mannerly-modest as a measure full of state and ancientry ; and then 
 comes repentance, and with his bad legs fell into the cinque-pace faster and faster, 
 till he sinks into his grave." 
 
 Jack and I went to see a wedding this morning that began yester- 
 day, and was only finished to-day. It was not a mannerly-modest 
 one though ; far from it. We make a rule of attending all the 
 weddings and funerals we can, but school hours are a sad hindrance 
 to me, and Jack often has to go by himself. We always watch 
 the mourners with great attention, and have, after careful study 
 of their countenances, made up our minds that it is almost always 
 those who care least who are most demonstrative, and that dry- 
 eyed grief is far more deep and deadly than a tempest of sobs 
 and cries and wails. Not that poor people as a rule regret their 
 dead very passionately ; their hard, dull, working lives are so 
 heavy to bear, that a little more or less misery matters but little. 
 You will even see a mother with many children taking some com- 
 fort from the thought that the Lord has " provided" for the little 
 ones taken away from her. 
 
 But I am forgetting all about yesterday's wedding. It was at a 
 convenient hour, nine o'clock. So, having watched papa safely 
 into the stables, we were soon across the lawn and churchyard, 
 
42 COM IN' THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 and in our usual hiding-place in the organ-loft. Mr. Skipworth 
 was already waiting before the altar, book in hand, and looking 
 decidedly cross, when the bride and bridegroom came in, followed 
 by a few people. We couldn't see their faces, but theer seemed 
 something very wrong about the bridegroom's back, for he was 
 lurching, tripping and rolling from side to side, and strange to 
 say, the bride, a stout and buxom young woman, was supporting 
 him ! They reached the altar, and Mr. Skipworth began to read 
 the service, but when it became necessary for the young man to 
 make his vows, nothing was heard but a series of hiccoughs ; 
 and although the bride pinched and shook and whispered him 
 energetically, no responses were forthcoming, and in another 
 minute he had fallen an inert mass upon the chancel floor. 
 
 " Oh my !" exclaimed Jack in high glee, " he's drunk J" 
 
 Mr. Skipworth shut the book in disgust and walked away ; but 
 the intrepid bride, with no trace of anger, raised her man, and with 
 her friend's assistance conveyed him to the door. 
 
 We followed the couple to the village as far as we dared, and 
 during the day contrived to get posted up as to the latest par- 
 ticulars. At noon he was fast asleep, with his head on the bride's 
 lap ; at three he was recovering, and calling loudly for beer ; at 
 five he was locked up by her friends for safety ; at nine he was 
 sitting with his head in a basin of cold water, forced thereto by 
 the same in hopes of enabling him to go to church on the morrow. 
 And their indefatigable efforts have been rewarded, for this morn- 
 ing he came up to time, and was able to make his vows, if some- 
 what unsteadily, at least audibly. The bride's beaming face was a 
 study as she bore her swinish-sulky mate away. Truly matrimony 
 must have had charms for her. 
 
 It is a never-ending puzzle to Jack and me how people can like 
 being married. Dorley has a wife, a very fine woman, who beats 
 him, and of whom he is intensely proud. Once she rather overdid 
 
SEED TIME. 43 
 
 it ; and as a worm will turn, so did Dorley ; and, having repre- 
 sented to her that her little attentions were incompatible with the 
 respectability of appearance Colonel Adair required from/ his gar- 
 dener, it was agreed that they should separate, she possessing one- 
 half of his wages and household goods, he the other. They had 
 not been apart a week when Dorley came and gave papa warning. 
 " lie could not live without his missus," he said, " and he was 
 going to her." And go he did ; but matters were ultimately ar- 
 ranged, and Dorley came back to us with his spouse, who beats 
 him more than ever, to his great satisfaction and content. 
 
 Dorley, however, if meek at home, is not meek to us. He is a 
 tyrant, and looks upon the fruits and flowers of the garden as his, 
 while we are little thieves and pickpockets, who menace the same. 
 And oh ! he has to be sharp, has Dorley, or there would be never 
 a gooseberry, peach, or apricot to send in for dessert. I wonder 
 where he is this afternoon] I wonder where everybody is? 
 Though I have been prowling round the garden for half an hour I 
 have not met a soul. 
 
 It is very mean of Jack to go off and leave me in this way— on 
 a Wednesday afternoon too. I did not think he would bear me 
 so much malice about the pig ; boys aren't forgiving like girls. I 
 wonder what he is doing 1 Fishing 1 Bathing 1 Taking a scramble 
 across country with Pepper ? It is too hot for that, for Jack loves 
 his ease as well as anybody else. I wonder if any apples have 
 fallen from the quarantine tree 1 I turn my steps towards it and 
 look about ; there is not one on the grass. I cast my eyes up- 
 wards, and mark with approving eyes the rosy fruit hanging so 
 stirlessly on the boughs. If only a breeze would spring up, and 
 give those boughs a gentle shake, down would fall the apples at 
 my feet, but the sky is one hard, fierce glare, and there is not the 
 ghostliest shadow of a breeze abroad on the land. 
 
 Looking begets longing, longing in a depraved and energetic 
 
44 COM IN 1 THRO 7 THE RYE. 
 
 mind begets acting ; and seeing that the gentle gale my soul craves 
 refuses to blow, I conceive the daring thought of myself acting the 
 part of gentle zephyr. I look around ; no one is to be seen. 
 Dorley is invisible ; the governor I saw fast asleep in the library 
 a while ago : the coast is clear. In the twinkling of an eye I have 
 swung myself up into the tree, and am shaking with a will. The 
 fruit is falling in a bounteous red shower, when a voice directly 
 below me makes me start so violently, that I drop the bough and 
 lose my footing. But, alas ! instead of respectably smiting mother 
 earth with my nose, I remain suspended, petticoats above, legs 
 below. Even in this awful moment, the verse over the barber's 
 shop comes into my mind — 
 
 u O Absalom 1 O Absalom ! my poor ill-fated son, 
 If thou hadst only worn a wig, thou hadst not been undone." 
 
 Only in this case, if I had been clad in Jack's clothes, not my 
 own, I should not be undone. My face has disappeared into the 
 crown of my sun bonnet in my abrupt descent, so I cannot see 
 my discoverer. Can it be— caw it be the governor 1 No, for if it 
 had I should have received palpable evidence of his wrath before 
 this. 
 
 " I wish your pa could see you," says Dorley's deliberate voice, 
 sounding more sweetly in my ears than ever did song of nightin- 
 gale ; " 'ow he would whack you V 
 
 " I know he would," I murmur indistinctly from the depths of 
 my bonnet. " Do, there's a good, kind Dorley, take me down !" 
 
 But Dorley has suffered many things at my hands, and now his 
 day has come, he means to enjoy it for a little while. 
 
 " You've been a bad young lady to me, Miss Ullen," he says 
 slowly (and at the sound of his leisurely voice I aim a sudden 
 kick at him with my dangling legs, for oh ! at any moment he may 
 appear on the scene and then ~). " You and your beasts hafl 
 
SEED TIME. 45 
 
 trampled my flower-beds and messed my lawn beyond believing, 
 and you've stole my paches, broken my glass, and misbehaved 
 yourself ginerally ; and if it wasn't for yer pa, and his being so 
 vilent, I'd leave you there for an hour, Miss Ullen, I would. Pr'aps, 
 with the Lord's mercy, it might be a warning to yer. But I don't 
 want to have nothing to do with murder, so I'll take yer down 
 this time ; only if ever I finds yer a disgracing yerself in this mis- 
 becoming manner again, I'll leave yer there, Miss Ullen, sure as 
 my name's Dorley. And kickin' won't do no good when you're in 
 the wrong, miss, leastways, it won't wi' me." 
 
 He departs slowly in search of the steps, while I dangle at my 
 ease in creeping, curdling terror, lest even now the governor may 
 be turning the corner. 
 
 Dorley comes back at last, and disentangles me with some diffi- 
 culty, and oh ! with what joy do I once more plant my waggling 
 feet on firm ground ; never, never will I play the part of gentle 
 zephyr again. 
 
 In the depths of my pocket, tenderly hoarded, fondly cherished, 
 lurks a sixpence, which I disinter and hand to Dorley, with my lips 
 pursed up very tight. 
 
 " There, take it," I say ; " it's for you." 
 
 " No, no, Miss Ullen," says Dorley, holding it out in his earth- 
 stained hand, " I won't deprive 'ee of it ! Happen you want it 
 worse than I do !" 
 
 " Dorley," I say, drawing myself up with dignity, " I am amazed 
 at you ! Sixpences are no object with me, or— or — shillings, or — 
 half-crowns." 
 
 Having uttered this last astounding lie without winking, I walk 
 away with a stately strut that I hope impresses him, and which is, 
 I suppose, born of the occasion, for I never owned it before. 
 
 What a burning, breathless, sleepy afternoon it is ! The earth 
 seems lapped in a nerveless, luxurious, indolent slumber, The very 
 
46 COM FN' THRO' THE R YE. 
 
 flowers seem to heave gone to sleep, and the birds to be taking a 
 siesta. Passing the school-room window, I see Alan, the solemn- 
 faced, who is apparently not so overcome with heat as the rest ol 
 the world, indulging in the rather active recreation of spinning 
 Dolly round and round on the top of the large school-room table. 
 It is evidently a new treat to them, and I have not time to give 
 the warning that painful experience has taught Jack and me, when 
 whirr ! whiff ! the top of the table flies to the other end of the 
 room, shooting Dolly into the fireplace, and Alan dances up and 
 down, as though the perils his toes have just escaped make him 
 anxious to assure himself of their integrity. 
 
 Piteous whimpers and groans from the fireplace announce ex- 
 tensive and painful damages to the poor little maid who was riding 
 aloft so triumphantly a minute ago. Bruises and tears are how- 
 ever alike merged in the all-absorbing question of how the table is 
 to be joined together again. In the middle of the room its legs 
 stand stark and bare, like a thin little man, from whom his ample 
 and overflowing spouse has departed. 
 
 All this while they have not been aware of my presence on the 
 scene, but now as I remark, " A very pretty amusement, certainly," 
 with all the gravity and weight my thirteen years entitle me to 
 display, they hail me joyfully, and with my assistance, and much 
 puffing and straining, the divorced parts are put together, and 
 Dolly has time to bewail her misfortunes, and Alan to rub his un- 
 harmed shins responsive. 
 
 Pursuing my prowl, I wander round the irregularly built, three- 
 sided court, and am shortly awakened from my abstraction by 
 hearing a door bang violently. 
 
 Have you ever lived in a house, reader, where the merest chance 
 sound, the bang of a door, the sound of a loud voice, or a distant 
 noise makes you start up, your nerves tingling, your heart beating, 
 your body trembling, while an instantaneous photograph of falling 
 
SEED TIME. 47 
 
 chairs, flying crockery, broken bell-ropes, and dancing china, with 
 a dervish dancing in the midst of the confusion, presents itself 
 vividly to your eyesy 
 
 All this I see when that distant bang reaches my ears. To-day 
 it means " Bills." It is an insult to papa's understanding for any 
 one to dare ask for his money. We must be clothed, it is true, and 
 fed but shall the paying for these small trifles be taken as a legiti- 
 mate, every-day duty ? Perish the thought ! It is disgraceful, it 
 is unseemly, it is an upside-downness of everything, that these 
 rascals should, week after week, be sending their paltry bits of blue 
 paper in to him, and he resents the impertinence accordingly. Ah, 
 poor mother ! You are in the midst of that hurly-burly yonder ; 
 when I am older I will walk straight in and share it with you, now 
 I should be ordered out. Experience tells me that the sooner I 
 hide myself the better, for when papa is in one of those furies there 
 is no safety for any one from garret to coal cellar ; in this mood 
 he may even feel that a slaughter of the innocents is necessary for 
 the rehabilitation of his peace of mind, so I hastily retire to the 
 rabbit-hutch, which is in a central position, and from thence watch 
 the march of events. From my coign of 'vantage I presently see 
 him come out, and throw his eyes hither and thither in search of 
 prey, then he goes down through the garden and out of sight. I 
 am just thinking that perhaps the house will be safer than my 
 present quarters, when in the distance I see dogs, fowls, fry, 
 nurses, Amberley, Jack, Alice, Milly, and Dolly, all flying towards 
 the house, like autumn leaves before the wind. No need to ask 
 what is behind them, only one person on earth could have that 
 effect ; so, remembering that there is safety in numbers, I join the 
 flying squadron and reach the house with the rest. As we enter 
 by the side door, the rusty front-door bell is smartly pulled by a 
 business-looking man in black, at whom we all peep privily from 
 convenient lattices, and make up our minds that Providence sent 
 
COMIN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 him straight from heaven to be our deliverer. He has come to see 
 papa, we ascertain later, and is even now closeted with him. 1 
 wonder how he will manage to so far smooth his ruffled plumes as 
 to carry on any conversation that is not strictly vituperative ] 
 
 We are all sitting together save Jack, when we hear his steps 
 coming down the passage, and he enters and closes the door with 
 a cheerful bang, that does not make us all bound on our seats as 
 the bangs of a certain other person do. There is a peculiar look 
 on Jack's face, a kind of knowing twinkle in his eye, a modest 
 elation in his glance, that owes its origin, I am certain, to some bit 
 of news that he has possessed himself of, and which he is secretly 
 enjoying in its full relish before imparting it to us. 
 
 " News !" we all cry starting from our seats, " surely he cannot 
 -—cannot be— going away?" 
 
 Oh ! those two delicious words, can any others in the whole dic- 
 tionary contain such sweet music 1 
 
 " I say," says Jack, vigorously repulsing the avalanche of female 
 charms that threatens to overwhelm him, ' I can't tell you any- 
 thing, can I, if you stifle me V 
 
 " Go on ! go on !" we all cry, withdrawing hastily from the 
 oracle. 
 
 " Well," says Jack complacently s rveying the row of open eyes, 
 mouths, and ears, " he is going away" (shouts of delight) ; " he is 
 going to-morrow " (fresh rejoicings) ; " and he is coming back next 
 day" (howls of dissatisfaction). "Nevertheless there is one 
 assuaging circumstance, he is going early, so we shall have one 
 clear day in which to accomplish our deeds of darkness." 
 
 " Hurrah ! I know what / shall do." 
 
 " You'll take me with you," I say, imploringly, " do." 
 
 " Can't," says Jack, briefly, "I shall go out shooting." 
 
 We all gasp ; Jack with a gun in his hands ! Oh, if the governor 
 could but 
 
SEED TIME. 49 
 
 11 What are you going to shoot ?" asks Alice, with interest. 
 
 " Blackbirds." 
 
 " Yourself, you mean," I say, nodding and feeling much hurt, and 
 somewhat spiteful that I may not go with him to see the fun. 
 " Only if you do, you must do it thoroughly ; the governor hates 
 sickness, you know ; and if you did have a bad accident, how you 
 would catch it." 
 
 " Funerals are expensive,* says Alice. " On the whole, I think 
 papa would rather he only crippled himself." 
 
 " I shall take his new gun," says Jack, pursuing his own train of 
 thought, and paying no heed to our cackle, " it's sure not to burst." 
 
 " I shall make treacle tarts," I say, feeling my abasement very 
 keenly, and wondering if Jack will relent. (I could make myself 
 useful in picking the birds up.) 
 
 " What are you going to do, Alice V* 
 
 "I don't know," she says, turning a lovely thoughtful face upon 
 me, " there is so little mischief girls can get into. I think I shall 
 make Amberley take me into Pimpernel, and I will have my pho- 
 tograph taken ; it has never been done yet, jou know." 
 
 " Whatever do you want a likeness for ]" asks Jack, opening his 
 eyes ; " can't you look at your face in the glass fifty times a day if 
 you like *? And there's nobody to give it to, for we haven't a friend 
 in the world, and you wouldn't give one to us, surely !" 
 
 But Alice does not answer, she is wondering what the sun will 
 make of her face, of which— 
 
 ,: 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white 
 Nature's cwn sweet and cunning band laid on." 
 
 " I shall go with xilice," says Milly, promptly. 
 
 " And I," says Alan the solemn-faced, " shall look over papa's 
 new edition of the ' Ingoldsby Legends ;' I've had one or two peeps 
 at it already." 
 
 4 
 
50 COM IN' THRCy THE RYE. 
 
 " What are you going to do, Dolly 1" 
 
 " I shall take two Seidlitz powders with sugar, you know. They 
 are so nice, and nurse says they make me thinner. I am never 
 able to take them when papa is at home, because they make me 
 look pale." 
 
 "Bravo, Dolly !" cries Jack, M happy the mind that a little con- 
 tents. Well, girls, you shall have a fine dish of blackbirds for 
 supper, and Nell's treacle tarts, if they are eatable." 
 
 " Will you ?" cries a terrible voice behind us, that galvanizes our 
 recumbent forms into most intense and rigid uprightness, while 
 every soft hair on our miserable young heads stands on end with 
 freezing, curdling horror. " Will you, I'll teach you, miss (with a 
 fierce nod at Alice's pretty trembling figure), to go gallivanting off 
 to Pimpernel, to simper at a low photographer, you miserable, doll- 
 faced, conceited puppet ; (to Jack) : I'll teach you, sir, to use my 
 guns, and bring me in a doctor's bill a yard long for mending your 
 wretched bones : (to me) : I'll teach you, you object, to waste my 
 substance with your filthy treacle tarts ; and you, sir (to Alan), to 
 maul over my books ; while as to you (to Dolly), although I can't 
 offer you Seidlitz powders, perhaps brimstone and treacle will do 
 as well, oo — oo— oo — ooh I You deceitful, vagabond, shameless 
 pack, get out of my sight ; go !" 
 
 He need not tell us that twice, away we flee, every man for 
 himself, and the devil take the hindmost ; along the passage, up 
 the stairs, in at the nursery, to which we always go on these 
 occasions, for mother is usually there. At our heels comes the 
 governor, and a lively time follows ; we become a prose version 
 of that deplorable story of ten little niggers, which we all know ; 
 as rapidly as they dropped off, so do we : this one for a cane, that 
 for a bible, another into space with boxed ears, until, from begin- 
 ning with a goodly number, we end a forlorn remnant. Over and 
 above our other punishments, we are one and all sent to bed, and 
 
SEED TIME. $l 
 
 thither, when he had stormed himself away, we retire, only too 
 thankful to have that refuge to sneak into. Anything is bearable 
 while we are together, the only real misery he could inflict upon 
 us would be to commit us all to solitary confinement. Jack comes 
 in by-and-by, and sits down on the edge of Alice and Milly's bed, 
 while I perch myself on a chair hard by. 
 
 " What fools we were," he says, with a dark look in his blue eyes, 
 " not to have set a scout to watch ; the snealciness of him — why 
 couldn't he have walked in like a man instead of hanging about 
 outside f He gives his shoulders, which are still tingling with 
 the sharp lash of the governor's cane, an impatient shake. 
 
 " I can't think what fathers were invented for," I say, dolefully. 
 " I am sure we should have got on much better without ours. For 
 my part, if I had been asked whether I would or would not come 
 into the world, I should have said, ' Yes, and thank you kindly, 
 sir, if you can manage for me to have no papa !' * 
 
 " And yet he almost forgives our daring to exist, when he reflects 
 on the number of times we have afforded him the exquisite satis- 
 faction of whipping us," says Jack. " Well, when I come back 
 from school next Christmas, if he tries to beat the devil's tattoo 
 on my back again, he shall find he won't get it all his own 
 way." 
 
 " And we will hang upon his coat tails," I say, comfortingly, 
 " while the fry harass him fore and aft in countless swarms." 
 
 " Don't forget that he is going away," puts in Milly ; " I was 
 turning that sweet thought over in my mind the whole time he 
 was making that row." 
 
 " He will lock us all up," I say, with conviction. " He will never 
 go away and leave us free to do all the things he heard us arranging 
 to-night." 
 
 " You little silly !" says Jack, crushingly ; "don't you know that 
 he thinks us all dummies, and no more believes us capable of daring 
 
 4-2 
 
52 COMW THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 to do anything that he has forbidden, than that the moon is made 
 of green cheese? I shan't shoot to-morrow ; I mean to do some- 
 thin. cr ivorse." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " Hnppy in this, 6he is not yet so old 
 
 But she may learn ; and happier than this, 
 She is not bred so dull but she can learn." 
 
 Breakfast is over, and the monotonous burden of our sins sung 
 into our ears, from the saying of amen at prayers, to the last drop 
 in the governor's coffee-cup, is over. It has been very bad, but in 
 listening to his f ulminations we have been let off the active misery 
 of conversation ; and on the whole, for we are very hardened sin- 
 ners, we almost prefer this breakfast to our usual ones. He is 
 standing in the hall now, brushing his hat, and the sound sends a 
 thrill of delight through our bodies ; we know the full import of it so 
 well though we hear it so much, much too rarely. Up the carriage- 
 drive comes the sharp trot of a horse's hoofs ; it is the dog-cart that is 
 going to take him to the station, Simpkins carries out his travel- 
 ling-bag (the old varlet is as pleased in his heart as we are, he too 
 will get a little holiday), and we all go into the hall and make a frosty 
 peck, one by one, at the governor's face, occasionally hitting his 
 nose or eyebrow by mistake. He eyes us keenly to see if he can 
 detect any indecent joy upon our faces, but they are perfectly 
 blank and stolid, to such abhorred hypocrisy have we already 
 brought our innocent, indeterminate, pink-and- white features. 
 He kisses mother (how droll it seems to see him making a peck at 
 anybody !) and now he is in the dog-cart, he is starting, he is 
 giving a sharp look at our assembled countenances, he is off, and 
 has turned the corner of the drive. Still there is unbroken silence ; 
 then as the last sound of the wheels dies away in the distance, the 
 delight that has been running riot within us, breaks forth in excla- 
 mations, laughter, leaps, dances, whoops, and (on my part at least) 
 
SEED TIME. 53 
 
 rolls of bliss. When they have subsided a little— " Children," 
 says mamma, " I have something to tell you." 
 
 " Won't it keep, mother, dear V asks Alice, " till some day when 
 we are not quite so happy ] We don't get many treats; had we 
 not better have them one at a time V 
 
 " It will keep," says mamma smiling; " but I must tell you now. 
 We are going away." 
 
 Going away ! We know the sound of these words well enough 
 as applied to the governor, but as applied to ourselves they have a 
 strange, unusual flavour— a romantic freshness that breathes of 
 distant lands, gorgeous cities, and unknown, mysterious pleasures. 
 Not one of us has ever been away from home in all our lives, save 
 Jack. 
 
 " Where, mamma 1" we ask after a pause; it takes a little while 
 to get used to the idea that we are going away without requiring 
 any further knowledge on the subject. 
 
 " To the sea !" The answer strikes us dumb again. Have we 
 not longed ourselves sick for a sight of it ? Have we not splashed 
 ourselves from head to foot over a dirty pond in trying to make 
 real waves with stout sticks 1 
 
 " When, mamma, when V 
 
 " Early next week. Your papa has heard of a house that will \ 
 suit us.'' 
 
 So soon ! it takes our breath away. " And is he coming too X 
 I ask anxiously. 
 
 " Not for a fortnight V J We draw a deep sigh of satisfaction. 
 
 " What strolls we will have!" says Alice. " And donkey rides'' 
 " and shrimps 1" " and peace I" " and cuttle-fish tooth-powder !" " No 
 walks!" "or punishments!" "No one to call us dummies!" "or 
 make us talk !" " or send us to bed !" 
 
 " Come along, Dolly," says Alan the solemn-faced. " I'm going 
 to begin racking up." 
 
54 COM IN' THR<y THE RYE. 
 
 Jack and I go out into the garden and discuss our plans— what 
 beasts are to go with us, what to be left behind. Paul Pry must 
 come, of course, and the raven and the canaries, and Pepper, the 
 tail-less. Dorley, must take care of the rabbits; and as to the 
 fowls, they have lately misbehaved themselves so perseveringly 
 that it would cause us no great sorrow if, on our return, we found 
 papa had made a holocaust of the whole lot. Possibly the 
 amazing news puts out of our heads our several intentions of evil- 
 doing; at any rate we get into no mischief to-day, and merely 
 walk about, laugh, talk, and stretch, not only in the school-room, 
 but about the house, just as if we were used to doing it every day 
 of our lives. 
 
 The governor comes back a trifle sweeter than he went. For 
 once business does not seem to have rubbed him the wrong way; 
 and somehow the few days slip away, and the golden morning of 
 our departure arrives. 
 
 The coach stands at the door. It is going to take us all the 
 way, and we are packed within it close as herrings, happy as 
 lords; every nook and corner inside and out is brimmingly full; 
 where a body is not squeezed in, a hamper or a parcel is, and how 
 we shall ever be got out again is something of a mystery. We 
 have smuggled all our little private belongings in safely. Under 
 my petticoats lurk the birds and Paul Pry, who, with the sense of 
 a Christian, utters not a sound, raps out not a single oath; a large 
 basket of quarantines hides its modest head under mother's legs; 
 the young ones firmly grasp spades and buckets as though they 
 expected to find the sea upon the road; Ambcrley embraces five 
 distinct bundles, bandboxes, and bags; the babies, set bolt up on 
 end, utter fat little chirps of satisfaction. On the doorstep stands 
 the governor, to whom we have just said good-bye with a freedom 
 and affability that I think astonishes him as much as it does our- 
 selves; for once in his presence our voices come honestly forth; 
 
SEED TIME. 55 
 
 for once we kiss him, and I at least feel that I love him. And now 
 the last forgotten parasol is handed in, the last servant has climbed 
 with many a creak to her place on the roof, the coachman cracks 
 his whip. "Chirrup, chirrup, '' go the canaries. "Hip, hip, 
 hur-r-r-ahP goes Paul Pry. " Bow-wow P barks Pepper, wriggling 
 her head out between Jack's legs. 
 
 " Oh!" says Dolly, with a deep sigh. 
 
 " Balmy! 5 ' I ejaculate, pushing my hat to the back of my head; 
 and away we go, nodding and smiling, and saying good-bye, good- 
 bye ! to the little gentleman on the door-steps, who somehow looks 
 quite insignificant and a little forlorn now that he is not the centre 
 of a dozen duteous white slaves. 
 
 " We are off!" says Alice. 
 
 " We are dreadfully hungry !» sigh Dolly and Alan, pointing 
 their prophetic noses at a bulging hamper that obtrudes its portly 
 body in an uncomfortable way between nurse and Balaam's Ass, the 
 under nursemaid. It is only eight o'clock, and we had breakfast at 
 seven, and it is rather early to be setting out; but when everybody 
 is so anxious to start, so ready to go, why should there be any 
 unnecessary tarrying ? Yoicks ! away we go, along the dewy, 
 bloomy lanes, between the fresh, green hedgerows, with the early 
 breath of the morning blowing coolly in on our happy, eager faces; 
 past the staring, silent cows, and the dull labourers who, poor 
 souls, are going about their work just as on any other day, who are 
 not tasting our first delicious, strange draught of " going away P 
 We feel like pilgrims setting out for an unknown land; we do not 
 know what is before us, whether of sweet or sour, but that it will 
 be something very different from anything we havo ever known 
 before, we are perfectly certain, and that is enough for ua. Jack 
 pooh-poohs our transports, and pretends to have seen everything 
 that we observe before, which is not right of him, for I know he 
 goes to school in quite an opposite direction, and by train ; 
 
56 COM IN' THRO? THE RYE. 
 
 whereas travelling by coach is a very different and far more know- 
 ledgeable thing. 
 
 We keep our eyes very widely open all the way, and observe 
 with interest how the country changes as we near the coast, and 
 how blue the cottage children's eyes are, as though a bit of the sea 
 had got into them and stayed there. Happy folks are always 
 hungry, and by ten o'clock we are clamouring to attack the hamper; 
 at two we are dying of want, and finish it up; at four we pounce 
 upon the quarantines (which were to last us a week, Dorley said), 
 and eat them all too— every one. We get rather fagged the latter 
 part of the way; our bodies are stiff and tired, and we cannot 
 stretch them. By degrees one voice ceases, then another; one of 
 the babies cries; Paul Pry makes remarks that he should not before 
 the children. "We look very different to the noisy, bustling, smil- 
 ing people who started a few hours ago. 
 
 By-and-by we are startled out of our apathy by a shout with- 
 out of " The sea ! the sea !" and we leap up to the sight of a broad, 
 boundless expanse of deepest, darkest blue, that thrills us through 
 and through, and holds us spell-bound with a breathless delight 
 and strong awe. How our souls seem drawn towards it, though 
 our bodies remain in the coach 1 Presently (I do not know how it 
 happens, we are standing before it, gazing almost deliriously at 
 the glittering, belted-in treasure. When the first shock is over 
 how we stretch out our arms to it, as though we would clasp its 
 beauty in our embrace ! How we stoop and dabble our fingers in 
 the strange, salt liquid ! How we stand watching the waves lap- 
 ping softly over each other with no fuss or hurry, or effort, rather 
 as though they were in play not earnest, but, as we quickly find, 
 impelled by an on-coming strength that makes the babyish ripples 
 resistless as fate, inexorable as death ! We gather trails of brown 
 seaweed, and when our hands are full, cast them away for others. 
 We are distracted by the abundant riches of the feast set out before 
 
SEED TIME. 57 
 
 us ; something new, unimagined, and wonderful meets our eyes 
 at every step. Into my heart comes a dim ache that is not 
 keen pleasure or satiety, but a passionate regret that my soul is 
 not bigger, grander, capable of holding more of the great tide 
 of rapture that sweeps through me in such a mighty flood. 
 When Amberley comes for us, I turn away as one in a dream ; 
 from a long way off I seem to hear her exclamation at our con- 
 dition ; though, indeed, I am well aware that we are as forlorn, 
 dirty, dripping little wretches as any to be found in the king- 
 dom, all save Alice, over whom untidiness and dirt hold no 
 power. 
 
 As we go inland my senses seem to come back to me, and I hail 
 with delight the jolly, red-brick face of our new abode, which 
 appears to smile jovially upon us and bid us kindly welcome. 
 Inside it is in a most immoral, delicious state of topsy-turvydom— 
 luggage, servants, children, and animals, all mixed up in most ad- 
 mired disorder ; babies crying, small fry falling downstairs, ser- 
 vants rifling half -filled boxes, canaries shrieking for water and 
 groundsel, Paul Pry cursing his fate with peculiar bitterness and 
 intensity from his perch on Minerva's head, to which he has evi- 
 dently betaken himself for safety. It is a fine hurly-burly, and if 
 papa could only walk in and see it all, his appearance would put 
 the finishing stroke to the scene and make it Bedlam. 
 
 We sit down to a nondescript meal, but can scarcely eat for 
 talking. A thousand tongues would not express the half that we 
 feel ; and oh ! how bald the words are that language provides for 
 expressing a great delight. Deeply impressed as Jack is, he can 
 find no words whereby to convey his admiration of the ocean than 
 by those of " jolly " and " stunning." 
 
 It is too late to go out again this evening, so we go to bed that 
 we may be able to rise with the first streak of daylight on the 
 
58 COM IN' THRCT THE R YE. 
 
 morrow. Sleep binds me so safely though, that on Jack's calling 
 me, I am scandalized to find it as late as six. What a lot of time 
 we have wasted already ! 
 
 In half an hour we are out on the beach and among the rocks, 
 making queer discoveries ; for instance, that shrimps and crabs do 
 not grow scarlet but drab ; also that the saying, " stick like a 
 limpet," has a sound, healthy truth of its own that many proverbs 
 have not ; also that the seaweed-covered rocks have a remarkable 
 knack of slipping away from our feet, compelling us to turn 
 somersaults more rapid than elegant. We hunt for and find deli- 
 cate shells, curious rose-hued freaks of Neptune, and we muse over 
 them, marvelling in what sea-palace the carver lurks who casts up 
 to us such dainty and mysterious shapes. We hold the bigger 
 ones to our ears, and listen intently to the faint murmur that 
 must, we think, so exactly represent the shoaling noise the sea 
 makes at a great distance. We have listened to the same murmur 
 before at Silverbridge, and nurse always told us it was the sea 
 that we heard. 
 
 After breakfast we accompany Amberley and our sisters in 
 a sober trot through the one long street that forms the town of 
 Periwinkle, and sit down on the shingle where, apparently, the 
 beauty and fashion (!) of the place do congregate, for no other 
 purpose than to watch the rows of fat and lean kine who are 
 taking their daily dip in the sea hard by, bobbing up and down in 
 the sun like seals, with snaky locks of hair clinging round their 
 cheeks, and tight, sticky bathing-gowns that most lavishly display 
 their charms, or the lack of them. 
 
 Jack and I have a hot dispute as to whether a very lean woman 
 or a very fat one looks worst in the water. / say the former, he 
 says the latter, and implores me on no account to submit my per- 
 son to the public gaze without at least six thick bathing-gowns 
 put on, like an old cluthesman's hats, one above the other. 
 
SEED TIME. 59 
 
 They are a gruesome spectacle, these fat matrons and lean old 
 maids ; even the young girls, who might be good-looking if their 
 faces were dry, have an unsavoury appearance, for salt water seems 
 to have an ugly knack of washing out shams, stripping off bor- 
 rowed charms, and leaving the original visage clear and visible. 
 Aphrodite herself must have found it rather a hard matter to look 
 as handsome under the circumstances as she did. , It must be on 
 the principle that there is always something pleasing to us in the 
 misfortunes of our friends that makes these people flock to 
 see their acquaintances au naturel, sans crinoline, sans bustle, 
 sans pads, sans everything, save their own unembellished bodies 
 and countenances. I wish the performers would go through their 
 paces with a little more vigour and spirit, take a good sousing 
 header into space, and look as if they liked it, instead of taking a 
 dip as though they were going to be hanged ; coming up, not 
 smiling, but with shut eyes and screwed-up nose and mouth, 
 sputtering, coughing, gasping, groaning, and holding on to the 
 rope as though they were being shipwrecked. Others do not go 
 so far as the heroism of dipping ; they hug the shore and sit 
 basely down on the sand, letting the water ripple over them by 
 degrees. For decency's sake one could wish the process were less 
 gradual. Others again shiver on the steps of the machine, and 
 are afraid to venture in at all. } 
 
 Now and then a daring young woman creates enormous excite- 
 ment by lowering herself carefully into the water, and, bringing 
 her pink toes to the surface in the first position, staring up un- 
 winkingly at Father Sol. Gallant creature ! the pint or so of 
 salt water that she swallows is but a slight set-off against the 
 glory she achieves, and the admiration her prowess evokes from 
 the lookers-on. 
 
 Jack and I soon weary of looking at this raree-show ; and 
 having promised Amberley not to drown ourselves, not to get 
 
60 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE, 
 
 into a boat without a boatman and with a large hole in the bottom, 
 not to sit upon a rock until the tide surrounds and flows over us, 
 not to climb to the highest pinnacle of the cliff with the express 
 intention of toppling over it to the rocks below, we take our de- 
 parture, and speed the morning hours well enough. 
 
 Oh ! the sea is a rare playfellow, for, unlike many a human one, 
 he never wearies you ! Each day he wears some new aspect, com- 
 pels from us fresh wonder, admiration, and fear. He is terrible 
 in his angry splendour of wind-tossed, thundering breakers, when 
 his surface is all deep-green valleys and towering, snowy-crested 
 mountain tops. He is soft, tender, caressing as a summer breeze, 
 with his shoaling, rippling murmur and lazy, creeping wavelets. 
 Sometimes he is sulky, not angry, that is when the sun has hidden 
 his face ; then he catches the reflection of the sky and is sad- 
 coloured and dralL Another day he will lie calm as a lake, like 
 a great monster soundly asleep, and we do not love his mono- 
 tonous peace : dearer far is he to us when he stirs and flashes and 
 quivers in the sun, his kingly breast sown with millions upon 
 millions of sparkling diamonds. He gives no sign of the dark 
 secrets he hides away so deep, so deep ; of the water-slain bodies 
 that lie below with the swish ! swish ! of his green waters, swirling 
 over their pale, drowned faces, of the souls that trusted them- 
 selves to his smiling mien and silvern whispers, and whom he has 
 drawn down, down ! to the sea-chambers, of whose treasures we 
 can but dimly guess from the rainbow-tinted shells and bloomy 
 seaweed that are now and again washed up to us from their 
 depths. 
 
 Hath not the sea its cities and towns and gardens and dwelling- 
 houses 1 Do not flowers as lovely, as glowing, as fragrant grow 
 in those silent gardens as any the dry land affords % They must 
 have rare jewels down there ; pearls such as no mortal empress 
 ever wore ; precious stones, common as pebbles on the shore ; 
 
SEED TIME, 61 
 
 rare and costly gewgaws, plentiful as the sand, with goodly store 
 of gold and silver, rilled from the gallant ships laden with splendid 
 store of merchandize brought from foreign lands. Oh ! it must 
 be a rich land, and might be a fair land, if that great and countless 
 army of the dead did not claim it so urgently for its own. 
 
 We have not been in Periwinkle a week ; we have not learned 
 one-half his moods, one-half his secrets, when something happens 
 —something that sends me shuddering away from him inland, 
 and makes me hate the sound of his voice and the dazzle of his 
 brow. 
 
 Jack and I are standing on the beach one morning, watching a 
 haul of mackerel in. The men have been pulling for hours. " It 
 is strangely heavy," they mutter : " the net will break ;" but by- 
 and-by it comes safely in, and we all gather round to where it lies 
 on the edge of the sand, with the waves rippling gently up to it. 
 At first I see nothing but a glittering, brilliant, opal-tinted mass 
 of glistening fish, which sparkle and scintillate in the sun, as they 
 leap to and fro in their restless, unknown agony ; then I make 
 out a strange, dark, shapeless mass beneath them, that is— what ] 
 A dead man, with horribly discoloured face, and wide, staring 
 eyes, looking out with dull and awful meaning from among the 
 quivering, leaping fish for which the net was cast, and which has 
 brought in this. A woman thrust her way through the crowd and 
 falls on her knees beside the net. " My lad I" she says, " my 
 lad /" ... He went out alone in his boat a week ago, and did not 
 return ; but she said she knew that he would come back, and she 
 has been watching for him night and dayy. . . 
 
 " Come away," I say to Jack dizzily ; and we go away, away in- 
 land, and it is many a long day before I love the treacherous sea 
 again and can forget. 
 
 We do not see much of Alice and Milly, who prefer the town and 
 the shingle to the rocks and the caves ; and it sometimes strikes 
 
62 COM IN' THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 Jack and me as odd that, when we do come across our sisters, all 
 the black, grey, and blue coats belonging to the youth abiding in 
 and sojourning at Periwinkle should be in their immediate neigh- 
 bourhood. But then Alice is so lovely ; who can help liking to 
 look at her] The very girls turn and stare at her with that 
 grudging, unwilling, breathless interest, that I am already learning 
 to know is the highest compliment one woman can pay another, 
 and which I shall never, never wring from any of my own sex. I 
 may even fall to the degradation of being called "nice looking" by 
 them. 
 
 Alice looks demure as a nun ; and how can the pretty soul help 
 it if rude men will stare at and follow her about 1 All I know is 
 I love to look at what is pleasant to the eye ; and if I had been 
 born comely should have carried about a pocket-mirror with me, 
 and refreshed my eyes with a sight of my charms every five 
 minutes, while nobody would ever have admired me half as heartily 
 and appreciatingly as I should have admired myself. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ** Some there be that shadows kiw, 
 Such Lave but a shadow's bliss. 
 There be fools alive, I wis." 
 
 It is nine o'clock, and I am making my toilet for the night, and 
 smiling to myself at a ridiculous story Jack told me just now about 
 an old sailor down here. He would like to be devout, but has not 
 time to save his soul, so has copied out the longest and finest 
 prayer he knows of, and pinned it over his bedstead, and every 
 night and morning, when he turns in and turns out, he looks 
 towards it and says, " Thi?n's my sintiments, O Lord !" I have 
 time, plenty, so there its no fear of my following his example. Afl 
 
SEED TIME. 63 
 
 I take a last look out of the window preparatory to jumping into 
 bed, my attention is arrested by the extraordinary appearance 
 presented by the hedge that lies on the other side of the road, 
 which appears to be animated with, what might be a row of uneven 
 trees swaying to and fro, if, on this stirless night, there were wind 
 enough to stir anything.^ 
 
 It is growing dark, and in the uncertain light it is difficult to 
 pronounce distinctly on the phenomona ; but I, nevertheless, come 
 to the conclusion that the bobbing objects are hats, hats which 
 may be reasonably supposed to have human beings inside them. 
 Burglars ! I say to myself promptly, and descend to Jack's room, 
 which overlooks the back garden, not the front. He is not in bed, 
 so returns with me, and surveying the enemy with some interest, 
 squashes my theory by saying, "Burglars? Why, you little 
 sawney, burglars hide, they don't hop up and down like Jacks-in- 
 tke-box ; besides, there are too many of 'em !" 
 
 All at once a light breaks in upon me. I have surreptitiously 
 read two or three words which have given me some small insight j 
 into the imbecile practices of courtships, and now I am able to ; 
 put two and two together, while Jack, poor lad, is completely aj/ 
 sea. 
 
 " I know !" I say, nodding my head violently, " I know / it's 
 lovers / " 
 
 " Lovers !" repeats Jack, quite unimpressed, and in a most 
 scornfully contemptuous voice : " how exactly like a girl with her 
 silly notions ! Who do you suppose they'd come after, miss ; 
 you ?" 
 
 "No; but there is Tabitha, you know, and Balaam's Ass" 
 (Balaam's Ass is our under nursemaid, whose obstinacy is so in- 
 curable that years ago we gave her the above name, which has 
 stuck to her). 
 
 " Very likely either of them would get a lover, is it not V asks 
 
64 CO MI 1ST THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 Jack, peering about. " Perhaps you would not mind cook's having 
 a chance V 
 
 " It may be cook," I say, brightening up ; "I heard James call 
 her ' an old flirt' the other day, and she was so pleased." 
 
 " I should say it was cook," says Jack, grinning, " for one man 
 would not be of much use in that quarter ; perhaps if they all 
 stood in a circle they might be able to clasp her charms. No, it's 
 not cook, it's somebody or other in the school-room under, for I 
 just saw one beast deliberately kiss his hand towards it. I'm 
 going down to see who is there." 
 
 " Wait a minute for me," I say, furling an Elijah-like mantle 
 around me, and so equipped, go down the stairs with him. We go 
 into the school-room, but there is nothing there ; nothing, that is 
 to say, but Alice and Milly, who are sitting by the window in their 
 white gowns. We retire and walk slowly up-stairs ; half-way Jack 
 stops short and looks at me. "It's not cook," he says delibe- 
 rately, " and it's not Tabitha, nor Balaam's Ass, it's Alice." 
 
 Alice ! I stand staring at him. " Are you mad 1" I ask at 
 last. 
 
 11 No," he says, walking on, " but I'm disgusted. To think that 
 
 those impudent " the remainder of his speech is lost in a 
 
 mutter. He is very young, but he has in him the germ of that 
 dislike (so tenacious in the breasts of all Englishmen), that every 
 brother, husband, or father has, to having his womankind looked 
 upon too familiarly or too nearly by any stranger. 
 
 "What a row there will be when papa comes !" I say, drawing a 
 deep breath. ^ 
 
 " Serve her right, too," says Jack, as he vanishes into his bed- 
 room, and I retire to bed with a troubled mind and a resolve to 
 give my pretty sister a friendly warning to-morrow. Finding my 
 opportunity, I put my arm round her neck, and, looking into her 
 fresh face, that is not, I hope, 
 
SEED TIME 
 
 " A violet in the youth of primy nature ; 
 Forward, not permanent ; sweet, not lasting; 
 The perfume and suppliance of a minute, 
 No more." 
 
 say, '* If I were you I would not have quite so— so many, dear ; 
 there will be such a row when papa comes !" Alice laughs, blushes, 
 and is about to answer when mother comes in, and no more is 
 said. 
 
 We go out donkey riding this afternoon, everybody except Jack, 
 who is too proud. A small drove of asses has been chartered for 
 the occasion, and at the appointed hour they stand at the door 
 meek and stubborn, each provided with a small boy, whose duty 
 it is to " whip up " the aforesaid beast and make it " go." Amber- 
 ley's charger staggers ominously as she mounts him ; and, when 
 seated, her long legs touch the ground, but she would rather die 
 than be left behind, or prove unequal to the emergency, so she 
 hitches them up and leads the van with some dignity, and, I 
 think, much discomfort. Alice has the best beast ; it has a broad 
 back and a fat body, and she sits on it at her ease, shaded by her 
 cool straw hat, under which her face takes no yellow reflections as 
 does mine, looking as the queen of Sheba may have looked in her 
 young and palmy days. Mother has insisted on our taking two 
 or three of the fry, strong-backed, stout-limbed boys, of whom 
 there is an endless succession after Dolly, so we make a goodly 
 cavalcade as we jog away with our attendant gamins. 
 
 Now there are few things pleasanter than to idle along the 
 Devonshire lanes in summer time on a well-grown, broad-backed, 
 peaceable donkey ; one is not at the trouble of walking, nor yet at 
 the trouble of riding ; one can just amble along at leisure, enjoying 
 the air, the sky, and the light that quivers on the path through 
 boughs that meet coolly overhead There is a dreamy sensation 
 of utter rest as one wanders in and out of the tangle of lanes that 
 
 5 
 
66 COMW THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 seem to have no beginning and no ending, but to indulge this feel- 
 ing, the boy with the stick, whose whacks, r gular as a flail on a 
 threshing-floor, fall upon your animal's hide, must be left behind : 
 there is little romance in these darkly-shaded, flower-starred lanes 
 to the tune of such music. We have a few mishaps by the way. 
 Amberley is painfully thin, so is her beast, and their bones do not 
 agree, so every now and then she slips noiselessly over his head 
 and glides into the ditch or dusty road. We get used to it after a 
 bit, so does she, and takes it as a matter of course. Dolly's steed 
 walks into a turnstile and is with some difficulty disentangled. 
 The fry have, to our great relief, long ago succeeded in goading 
 their asses into a trot, and have vanished amid clouds of dust, 
 closely followed by their attendant sprites, yelling with delight at 
 the spirit their several proteges evince. At Alice's request our 
 party of beaters has fallen behind, so we pace silently along the 
 dim green lanes, meeting neither man nor horse ; it is all as hushed, 
 as still, and as solitary as an uninhabited island. 
 
 Lothfully we turn homeward at last, and are met at the house 
 door by mother with the intelligence that the governor is coming 
 to-morrow. Our jocund laughter ceases, we all dismount anyhow, 
 and go indoors to sit down under the shock of the intelligence 
 which (though we know it must arrive at some time or other) comes 
 upon us like an ice-cold shower-bath. We all seem to have for- 
 gotten our days of bondage during this past fortnight. Farewell, 
 dolce-far-niente days ! We did not make half enough of you wh :i e 
 you lasted ; and now you are gone, and we shall never get any at 
 all like you again ! Farewell, social breakfasts, leisurely dinners, 
 pleasant strolls, and general ease of body and soul ! Farewell, 
 donkeys, crabs, shrimps, rocks, seaweed, early walks, and natural 
 conversation ! 
 
 Now that those happy days are gone, I become aware that Jack 
 and T did not half fill them. We might have got into so much 
 
SEED TIME. 67 
 
 more mischief, done so many more things, enjoyed ourselves twice 
 as keenly. How shall we ever pull ourselves together by to- 
 morrow \ Morally speaking, we have fallen to pieces during the 
 last fourteen days, but all that must be seen to at once. We must 
 put on our stays, gird up our loins, and look sharply to our man- 
 ners, morals, and clothes ; the very expression of our faces must 
 be altered, and our voices be brought down a great many notes. 
 We must get out of that loose and ridiculous habit of laughing at 
 everything and nothing ; we must smooth the gay smiles out of 
 our faces, and he or she who has any dimples must put them away 
 for the present. The school-room must be set in order and some 
 school books laid about to look as though they had been used, the 
 dining-room must be polished till it winks again ; James must be 
 awakened from the sloth into which he has fallen, and the cook 
 stirred up to punctuality ; the fry must be promptly broken of the 
 habit they have lately fallen into of tumbling down and cutting 
 open their heads, noses, and legs ; in short, the whole house and all 
 that dwell therein must be thoroughly revised, weeded, and drilled 
 against the ordeal of that awful to-morrow that is rushing upon 
 us as fast as it can pelt. It does not seem half-an-hour ago that 
 mother told us the news, and, lo ! the night has passed away, the 
 morning has come and gone, one o'clock has struck, and in the 
 distance we hear the smart trot of horse's feet, and we know that 
 behind that cheerful trot sits our uncheerful governorX. 
 
 We are drawn up in well-brushed, well-scrubbed, solemn-faced 
 ranks in the school-room. There is not one vagabond smile among 
 the whole lot. And now he is in the hall, he is kissing mother, 
 and in another minute stands before us. Why can I not infuse 
 into my salute that warmth and alacrity that I did on wishing him 
 good-bye on the Manor House doorstep % Why, indeed ! As we 
 pass in review before him, he looks at each from head to foot, 
 but we all pass muster safely until he comes to the last of all, 
 
 6—2 
 
68 CO MI 1ST THRC THE RYE. 
 
 Alice. We know what is coming when his eye lights on a certain 
 portion of that young woman's dress— nothing more or less, in 
 short, than a crinoline row. The fact is Alice loves a big crinoline ; 
 papa, accustomed to the straight up and down charms of his mother 
 and grandmother, Hates it ; and as sure as ever her petticoats swell 
 beyond a certain limit, there is a fearful to-do, and the whole house 
 is turned upside down, and out of windows. Now, Alice knows 
 the length of tether permitted to her perfectly well, but she is 
 under a mistaken impression that the more balloon-like her skirts, 
 the more charming her pretty form appears ; and when she wants 
 to look particularly ravishing, puts on a little more crinoline, just\ 
 as a South Sea islander puts on a little more paint : so that in the \ 
 excitement and novelty of the Periwinkle life, she has forgotten j 
 her parent's little prejudices, and stands before him confessed^™/ 
 all her amplitude of five yards and a half. 
 
 It is odd that she should be caught, though, for her crinoline is 
 like some magical flower that opens and shuts, expands and con- 
 tracts, according to the state of the weather, i.e. papa's temper. If 
 he is in an amiable or engrossed mood, she usually lets out an extra 
 reef or two : if he is in a bad one, she collapses at a moment's 
 notice, and looks like a folded butterfly : but Alice's admirers have 
 evidently turned her ideas topsy-turvy. 
 
 " You disgusting spectacle !" says papa, deliberately looking at 
 her from top to toe, " you object / Go to your room ,and take that j 
 vile barrel off, and if you ever dare appear before me in it again / 
 I'll pull it off and burn it." 
 
 Off goes Alice, whisking a pile of books from the table in her 
 passage to the door : she does not mean to do it, poor, pretty Alice, 
 it is only an evil trick played her by that fatal combination of 
 whalebone and calico, but the governor thinks she does, and flies 
 after her. Thank God, she is too old to have her ears boxed, and 
 he soon returns : but, oh ! we heartily wish we had no ears at all, 
 
SEED TIME. 69 
 
 as we sit for half an hour listening to his tirade against Alice, 
 mother, Amberley, and his own evil fate in marrying to become 
 the father of such a daughter. (It was the best thing he ever did 
 in his life.) 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " If she be made of red and white, 
 Her faults will ne'er be known, 
 For blushing cheeks by faults are bred, 
 And fears by pale white shown." 
 
 The clock is striking eight, and we are all hunting ventre-a-terre 
 for the family book of prayers. Not once since we came to 
 Periwinkle have we looked upon its godly face, and now it is 
 revenging itself by refusing to come forth and save us from 
 utter disgrace. If papa discovers that we have eaten our morn- 
 ing meal without the seasoning salt of chapter, prayer, and bene- 
 diction, then woe, woe, woe betide us ! We distractedly turn 
 the books over and over, but nowhere does that much-coveted 
 old brown cover meet our eager gaze. Overhead we hear his 
 warlike tread as he walks to the toilet table ; he is putting on 
 his coat, now he has opened the door, and is telling mamma 
 she is the laziest woman in Christendom, and a disgrace to her 
 sex; his foot is on the stair, oh! — o—o—ohf) We tumble 
 madly over each other in a dancing agony, and a pale tear 
 trickles down Amberley's nose, when, hallelujah ! I have found 
 it, wedged in with its back to the wall, between the "Arabian 
 Nights" and the " Pilgrim's Progress." We are saved by the skin 
 of our teeth, and fly to our seats with thankful hearts while Alice 
 finds the place, and sets the old marker, " Jesus wept," with its 
 back broken in three places, on the open page. He is in the room 
 before she has done, and having received our morning salutes, and 
 
jo COM IN' THRa THE RYE. 
 
 glanced sharply at Alice's collapsed charms (she looks like Samson 
 shorn of his strength), rings the bell for prayers. He is half 
 through the chapter before the servants can get in at the door ; 
 but that is of little consequence, they would not hear a word if 
 they were present. Breakfast passes over better than might be 
 expected. There are so many safe remarks we can make abouf 
 Periwinkle ; every man and woman we see is not an enemy, the 
 mention of whose name must be shunned as the plague ; and I am 
 even able to provoke a smile by remarking that it is difficult tu 
 hear the sermon on Sunday evenings, because the sailors snore so 
 loudly. 
 
 I think that if we were to travel much we should find plenty to 
 talk to him about, become quite colloquial in fact. Ah ! travel's 
 a wonderful thing for enlarging the mind. No wonder splendid 
 Will said, " Home-keeping youths have ever homely wits " (of 
 course he meant that for girls as well)^ 
 
 After breakfast our troubles begin. We go for a walk, and 
 make the depressing discovery that in every deep there is a lower 
 depth, and that, bad as the Silverbridge walks were, the Peri- 
 winkle ones are infinitely, immeasurably worse. 
 
 The governor is apparently as impervious to shingle as to 
 ploughed fields, for he leads the van without a falter, while we 
 flounder, slip, and stumble after him like a badly drilled squad of 
 infantry. The sun is fiercely smiting our backs, blistering our 
 cheeks and noses, making us feel that our bodies have suddenly 
 grown gross and heavy and suffocating ; our clothes might be of 
 woollen, so irritatingly do they chafe us. It is one of those broil- 
 ing mornings when existence under a green tree is bad enough, 
 but existence taking a race over a glaring shingle is diabolical. 
 
 We are bound for the rocks now uncovered by the receding tide, , 
 and over them we are going to Cod's Bay, a fishing village of evil 
 reputation and bad smells, that hides its dirty head round the 
 
SEED TIME. 71 
 
 corner of the cliff. It seems near enough, but, judged by the end- 
 less succession of slippery boulders that intervene, we find it a 
 very long way indeed, and groan in our spirits as we slide and 
 scramble after our leader, who bounds on in front, agile as a 
 chamois, and twice as sure-footed as his progeny. Not one cropper 
 does he come ; but Amberley makes up for him — she slides majes 
 tically down the rocks as though born to the accomplishment, and 
 even sits in the pools among the scurrying little crabs, from whence 
 she has to be fished out by our united efforts. She makes no 
 complaint though, far from it ; her bruised shins, damaged elbows, 
 and wet petticoats all come in the day's work. 
 
 We reach Cod's Bay at last, looking as though we had fallen 
 among thieves, and take our way through its one unsavoury street, 
 and climb a hill that would be trying in mid-winter, but in these 
 dog-days is simply brutal. In two hours' time we get home, 
 blowsy, footsore, and worn out, knowing that our evil days have 
 indeed begun. Somehow the hours go by and blessed night-fall 
 comes. 
 
 At the present moment I am standing with my hands behind 
 my back, affectionately regarding a crab, garnished with frequent 
 prawns and abundant bread and butter, which Jack and I have 
 provided for supper, as a set-off against the disagreeables of the 
 day. He has gone to fetch a jug of cider, when he comes back we 
 shall fall to. I walk to the open window and look out. The dim 
 grey of night is creeping over the land ; the cold, salt smell of the 
 sea blows faintly but most freshly up across the town ; the lights 
 yonder look like coarse reflections of the bright restless lamps that 
 quiver and burn in the pale vault overhead. I lean my elbows 
 on the window-sill, and look across at the rose garden, that, like 
 many another in Devonshire, is on the other side of the road, and 
 from whence a fragrant whiff comes now and again, and make a 
 disastrous discovery. Those moving shadows yonder, what are 
 
7^ COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 they ? Followers ? Not one or two or three but dozens ! Oh, 
 Alice, Alice ! do I not know well enough what will happen 1 In 
 five minutes the governor will come in from the garden at the back 
 of the house, and sit down to supper (his seat faces the road and 
 the hedge to the left of the rose garden), he will see them— he will 
 rush out— and here conjecture fails me. 
 
 Jack enters, bearing the cider. " Jack !" I cry, rushing at him, 
 " they have come, they are here, dozens of them !" 
 
 " Beetles V asks Jack abstractedly, his thoughts plainly running 
 on the crab who is waiting to have his body dissected. 
 
 " Lovers !" I say, shaking him by he arm, " oh ! what shall we 
 
 dor 
 
 Jack goes to the window. Below we hear the scraping of chairs, 
 the rattle of plates ; the lamplight streams across the road \ evi- 
 dently Alice is in full view of the enamoured host, for there is a 
 sudden movement in their ranks, and they increase their capers 
 tenfold, much as you may see Chucky, the pig, curl his tail and 
 grunt excitedly when he sees a delectable wash approaching. 
 
 " If they would only keep quiet," I say in despair, " perhaps he 
 would not see them. Do you thing they know what a dreadful 
 man he is V Jack vanishes. A thought strikes me ; seizing my 
 nightcap, I lean out of the window and wave it energetically, 
 pointing first to the room below, then at the town yonder. 
 Surely, surely, my nightcap says, as plain as it can speak, " Go 
 away V Alas ! to them such is evidently not its meaning, for at 
 sight of my modest signal, at the dim vision of my white-robed 
 form, the besieging army seems inspired with fresh vigour, and 
 even begins to clamber over the hedge. My flag of danger is con- 
 strued as an amatory signal pointing to indefinite favours, perhaps 
 a love-letter. In another moment I hear a chair pushed sharply* 
 back below ; the next I see the governor tearing across the road. 
 He is up the hedge and over it before you could say Jack Bobin 
 
SEED TIME, 73 
 
 son ; but, quick as he is, Miss Alice's admirers are quicker, and he 
 shortly returns furious and empty handed. I am so petrified at 
 the catastrophe my well-meaning efforts have brought about that 
 I am utterly incapable of moving away, so when the governor 
 returns, and casts his eye over the house in search of the waiting- 
 maid to whom he attributes the ovation, he beholds me — night- 
 gown, nightcap, open mouth, and all. He shakes his fist wildly 
 at me, and the gesture breaks the spell. I turn to hide myself in 
 bed, but before I can reach it the governor is before me. I receive 
 a box on the ear that makes me see two enraged parents, two 
 crabs, two jugs of cider, two nightcaps ; then, with a thunderstorm 
 of abuse and wrath bellowing about me, I am hustled out of the 
 room and down into Jack's— a narrow slip of a place overlooking 
 the back garden, and which is only— oh, horror !— partitioned off 
 the governor's chamber. There I am left crabless, supperless, tear- 
 less, to reflect on the extreme folly of ever meddling in other 
 people's affairs ; no matter what one's intentions may be, since the 
 better they are the worse the results seem to be. Alice comes by- 
 and-by and condoles with me— as well she may, since her sins 
 have brought down upon me the sentence of three days' imprison- 
 ment to the house./ 
 
 Finally, for I shall have plenty of time for reflecting on my 
 woes, I fall asleep. I scarcely seem to have reached the land 
 of Nod, when I wake suddenly and open my eyes wi^ly on 
 —what ! At first I am divided between a doubt whether it is 
 papa come to finish me off, or that I am at last face to face with a 
 ghost ; it is so difficult to make out anything in this half-light (for 
 the green window blinds are very thick and dark), and it cannot 
 yet be more than very early morning. Do ghosts seize you by 
 the arm and shake you till your teeth rattle in your head, and the 
 breath is nearly out of your body 1 Do ghosts 
 
74 COMIN* THRO? THE RYE. 
 
 " It's four o'clock," says a voice in a harsh whisper ; " wake up, 
 Master Jack, wake up." 
 
 " Master Jack !" James / I disappear under the bed-clothes 
 like a shot ; but if I think I am going to be left there in peace, I 
 am much mistaken. To leave Master Jack snoring in bed when 
 (I now remember) James has received particular injunctions over 
 night to eject the same, however unwilling, is no part of his duty, 
 so he punches and prods my prostrate body with a most laudable 
 vigour, making violent efforts to dispossess me of the clothes. 
 To these, however, I cling like grim death, wrapping them about 
 me as tightly as a hedgehog in his skin, and for a space there is a 
 desperate tussle, intensely ludicrous by reason of its silence, for 
 neither of us dare to make a sound for fear of the governor's 
 hearing ; finally, altogether worsted and confounded, he goes, and 
 I am left to sit up in bed like Marius among the ruins of Car- 
 thage. Presently Jack's head is popped gingerly in at the door, 
 and he stares a good deal at the sight of the tossed bed, my 
 tangled locks, and flushed, indignant countenance. 
 
 " Has the governor been taking a turn at you V he asks in a 
 whisper. 
 
 " No," I answer solemnly, " Jeameo. I am black and blue. 
 He thought it was you, you know." 
 
 " Oh, he did, did he V asks Jack, sitting down on a chair and 
 going off into a noiseless explosion. ' " I quite forgot to tell 
 
 him " He rocks himself to and fro in an agony of mirth. " / 
 
 know what his awakings are." 
 
 " And so do I," I put in with conviction. " I'm sure they are 
 nothing to laugh at." 
 
 " I must go," says Jack indistinctly, " or I shall burst f and he 
 goes away on some unlawful excursion or another that I should 
 have loved, leaving me to moisten my sheets with unavailing tears. 
 How slowly the hours creep by ; how shall I ever get through 
 
SEED TIME. 75 
 
 three whole days'? For once in my life I enjoy the honour of 
 lying in my bed while the others are all scurrying down to prayers. 
 [ eat my breakfast in a s]atternly way with a book before me, I 
 dawdle through the morning reading Shakespeare, for oh, blessed 
 oversight ! papa forgot to set me any tasks. I pass my afternoon 
 in imaginary conversation with two blackbirds and a linnet, en- 
 joying with a certain complacency the knowledge that all the 
 others, Jack included, are expiating their sins in the burning sun 
 at the governor's heels, over shingle, rock, and sand. But by the 
 time night falls I am heartily sick of my own society. I am long- 
 ing to be in the midst of the chaff and noise and bustle of my 
 brothers and sisters. If papa wants a recipe for making me ripe 
 for Bedlam, he has only to shut me up alone for a fortnight. 
 Somehow the days drag away and I am released, free to go down 
 the stairs or up as my spirit wills. Below I find things very 
 crooked indeed ; he is in a state of chronic ill-temper. Alice 
 looks alarmed ; she is red one moment, pale the next ; and the 
 very day of my re-admittance to the family bosom disaster marks 
 us for its own. We are awaiting the announcement of dinner, 
 and the governor is looking out of the window, prepared to quarrel 
 with anything, from the thrush singing yonder, to the baker's boy 
 with the bread, when a smart dog-cart drives slowly past, in which 
 are seated two graceless, handsome, wide-awake Oxonians, who 
 stare deliberately in at every window in search of Alice's blooming 
 face. Papa turns round, and I think he is black, he can put two 
 and two together as well as any other man, and he knows?) 
 
 11 Go to your room, miss," he says to Alice. " So this is the care 
 you take of my daughters V he asks Amberley. 
 
 Poor Alice, poorer Amberley, poorest mother : We have one 
 of our extra, double-distilled, most virulent rows. It is not worth 
 writing down : no one would believe it if I did. Let it suffice 
 that out of all the windy talk and abuse, one abiding resolve 
 
COMIN* THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 remains, Miss Alice will go to school immediately, and a stronger, 
 firmer hand than Amberley's shall be paid to crush the naughtiness 
 out of her. The governor, as I have more than once remarked, is 
 a man of action, and in an incredibly short space of time he has 
 found a school and schoolmistress after his own heart and pattern. 
 All preliminaries are arranged, the day for her departure is fixed, 
 and to us all there is nothing left to do but to lament. All too 
 soon the day and hour come round, and we crowd about her with our 
 kisses and farewells ; weeping in every degree, deeply and- bitterly, 
 loudly and effusively, silently and painfully, each according to our 
 several natures ; every one down to the babies furnishing his or 
 her quota to the stream. "Good-bye, lovely sister, good-bye." 
 For how many weary, long months shall we see your sweet face no 
 morel 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " Love is a familiar, love is a devil ; there is no evil angel but love. Yet Sam- 
 son was so tempted, and he had an excellent strength : jet was Solomon so 
 seduced, and he had a very good wit." 
 
 It was a year ago that I waved my nightcap out of the window 
 at Alice's lovers ; she has left school altogether now, and is home 
 for good. She has been the terror of her schoolmistress, the admi- 
 ration of her school-mates, the delight of her pastors, masters, and 
 every pair of male eyes that have lit upon her, in the straight and 
 narrow precincts of her sheltered, quiet life ; and now she has come 
 back to us lovelier, waywarder, more bewitching than ever. 
 Strictly speaking we are at home ; we are not at St. Swithins, 
 whither papa, having no very pleasant memory of Periwinkle, has 
 brought us for the holidays, and for the setting-up of mother's 
 health, which of late has been indifferent. 
 
 St. Swithins is a long, long way from Silverbridge, and the 
 governor's doughty reputation, not having spread so far, the resi« 
 
SEED TIME. 77 
 
 dents of the place actually call upon us (Oh ! it makes me smile tc 
 think of it) quite comfortably, and as a matter of course, without 
 the slightest notion of the danger they are running, and lie, in the 
 most baffling and unaccountable manner, not only forbears to 
 shout " Not at home V in their faces, or hold the door wide open 
 for them to walk out, but permits mother to return these visits ; 
 and though he never goes out himself, does not forbid her partaking 
 of the very mild and temperate amusements offered — croquet, five 
 o'clock tea, and the like. With mother goes Alice, who has, I 
 think, high jinks. ^XEhetker papa is tired of living like Diogenes 
 in his tub, or whether he finds it a new sensation to be treated just 
 like any other man, I know not ; at any rate a change has come 
 " o'er the spirit of his dream," and it is positively refreshing to see 
 him sinking the misanthrope in the moderately ill-tempered, re- 
 tiring English gentleman. If he goes on at this rate he will be quite 
 convivial by the time he is sixty, and excellent company at seventy ; 
 while at eighty years he will be so jovial that he will be quite sorry 
 to have to go away ; he will be beginning to enjoy life so much J 
 (Happy thought ! why did not he begin earlier ? ) It was only 
 yesterday I saw him shake hands and walk down the street with 
 old Mr. Tempest, who has, it appears, a place near Silverbridge ; 
 but as the latter has never lived there within the memory of man, 
 papa has had no chance of falling out with him. As it is, he is 
 probably saving up the old gentleman as a bonne bouche to demo- 
 lish at some future day. Mr. Tempest is an invalid who spends 
 his life in wandering about the world in search of health, thus he 
 has chanced on St. Swithins, which is by the faculty considered 
 salubrious. He has a son, tall, straight, yellow-haired, with brave 
 blue eyes that might belong to us Adairs. He looks nice, but 
 neither Jack nor I have ever spoken to him yet. 
 
 St. Swithins is a dull little place, but none the less does that 
 pretty young woman, Miss Alice, in all the pomp of her seventeen- 
 
78 COJIf/AT THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 year-old, piuk-and-white beauty, quickly gather about her as fine 
 an army as she did at Periwinkle. She was only a bit of a girl 
 then, she is grown up now, so there are no more unseemly scrim- 
 mages of admirers behind hedges, or flying columns on the beach ; 
 things are conducted respectably, and it is no longer a question of 
 a kiss of the hand or a love-letter, but of love and marriage. Yes, 
 love and marriage ; and if we don't look very sharp after our 
 Alice she will be carried off by somebody or other, to a dead cer- 
 tainty. Over and above half a dozen indiscriminate lovers, she 
 has a shadow, a tall, bronzed, dark-faced, handsome shadow, that 
 every young woman in St. Swithins has vainly tried to make her 
 own. Captain Lovelace, however, has his own ideas about female 
 beauty, and until his eyes lit on our sister's fresh, saucy, charming 
 face he has never felt inclined to lose his own identity ; but now 
 —one, two, three, and away ! — head over heels into love he falls, 
 and Alice follows at a respectful distance. There have been some 
 half-dozen public meetings, one stolen one, a rose given and ex- 
 changed, eager words spoken, a proposal made and answered, a 
 kiss or two (who knows ?), and Alice, with a promptitude that does 
 her credit, has made up her mind that she loves him ; that she 
 will marry him ; and that, if papa does not see things in the same 
 light as she does, he must be brought to reason. 
 
 Young people are very intolerant, very daring ; they defy cir- 
 cumstance, and would rule the world in their own way, and in 
 return receive many a hard knock before learning the inevitable 
 lesson of giving in. So, one fine morning, when the governor is 
 unsuspiciously swearing over the weekly bills in the library, Cap- 
 tain Lovelace is announced, and with a pluck that does him in- 
 finite credit, requests the honour of Miss Alice Adair's hand in 
 marriage. (We are all listening at the door, Alice in the post of 
 honour at the key-hole, the rest of us spread out behind her, 
 anxiously looking forward to the excitement of seeing the bold 
 
SEED TIME. 79 
 
 wooer shoot out through, the open door with considerable assist- 
 ance from behind.) We can almost hear papa's gasp of amazement 
 as he sits in the midst of his disordered papers (he usually dances 
 on bills) and stares at the young man ; then he pulls himself to- 
 gether and refuses the proposed honour with a clearness and 
 brevity that admit of no mistake. He has, however, met his match 
 for pnce. 
 
 -Captain Lovelace hears him out, then quietly remarks that 
 having obtained Miss Adair's promise, he is content to wait to 
 time for the fulfilment of his wishes, and is sure that, although 
 Colonel Adair may refuse to give his consent now, he will do so 
 at no very distant date. Papa gasps again ; but I think an un- 
 pleasant recollection of his daughter's wilfulness crosses his mind, 
 and in his next speech, although he still repudiates the wooer's 
 pretensions, there is more bluster and less determination than in 
 the first, and oh !— miracle of miracles !— he has not yet tried to 
 kick him ! After that the deluge ; and it would not astonish us 
 if the governor suddenly fell on the young man's neck and kissed 
 him, and, sending for Alice, wept holy tears over them both, say- 
 ing, " Bless you, my children j£ 
 
 Captain Lovelace is speaking. He is asking what reasons Colonel 
 Adair has to give for this summary refusal % Can any exception 
 be taken to his character, means, or position 1 Has Colonel Adair 
 other views for his daughter 1 No ; he has none, and he knows 
 nothing to the detriment of Captain Lovelace's character, pocket, 
 or place in life, and he is forced to say so, for this is no woman to 
 be stormed at, or child to be whipped, but a man who will have his 
 answer. It is not easy to say no, no, no, over and over again, be- 
 cause it is no to a question that requires a more reasonable answer; 
 thus papa, pressed for his reasons, can find none, save that Aliee 
 is a mere child, far too young to think of marrying for many years, 
 etc 
 
8o CO MI 1ST THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 "Iain told," says Captain Lovelace, " that Mrs. Adair was no 
 older when you married her ; you did not then consider her youth 
 a drawback ?" 
 
 " What Mrs. Adair did is no affair of yours, sir," says papa, 
 fiercely. 
 
 " None whatever," says Captain Lovelace, " save that it forms a 
 precedent." 
 
 There is a pause, and Alice makes a significant face, to convey 
 
 to us that the governor's countenance is the reverse of angelic. 
 
 The fact is, he is in a dilemma. He has had some experience of 
 
 his daughter's admirers already, and he knows perfectly well that, 
 
 if Tom is not in love with, and wanting to marry her, it will be 
 
 Dick or Harry, and that if this young man is sent to the right 
 
 about, there will be fifty others popping up before him asking the 
 
 same troublesome question. He also knows that Miss Alice has a 
 
 spice of his own wilful, perverse temper in her (as, indeed, it would 
 
 'be odd if she had not ; I often wonder we are not all demons), and 
 
 i that she is not very likely to prove a meek little fool, who will see 
 
 I all her lovers rapped on the head, and sent about their business, 
 
 without knowing the reason why ; and altogether for once in his 
 
 life, he is compelled to think instead of to act. 
 
 There is some more conversation, and pretty sharp practice, 
 between the two men too ; and more than once it seems probable 
 that our expectations will be fulfilled, and the parting gu«st sped 
 over our listening ranks, but in the end — oh ! wonder 1— the lover 
 prevails and wrings a most reluctant permission from the governor 
 to pay his addresses to our sister for six months, and if at the end 
 of that time no specks are discovered upon his character, or vice 
 in his ways or words, he shall be considered engaged to Alice for 
 an indefinite period, matrimony appearing dimly in the far horizon 
 (Papa is a sly old fox, he means to make fools of them both ; as* 
 
SEED TIME. 8r 
 
 soon as ever they press for anything tangible, he will send Captain 
 Lovelace adrift, he only wants to gain time.) 
 
 Our faces express even more amazement than delight. We had 
 so confidently reckoned on a violent scene, an unseemly exodus, 
 and, behold ! . . . . We all tumble backwards over each 
 other, as the door opens, and her victorious sweetheart comes out, 
 and catches her up in his arms like a baby, and what happens next 
 I don't know, for we all scamper away like mad. 
 
 For many a day papa's face is black as ink, and he surveys 
 Alice with a wonderfully equal mixture of scorn, impatience, and 
 wrath, as though he found her a most indelicate and unpleasant 
 spectacle. 
 
 It is very strange that fathers who fell in love so naturally and 
 comfortably when they were young, should so bitterly resent, and 
 feel so utterly disgusted at their children's doing the same. If he 
 had his way he would keep all his daughters withering for ever on 
 their virgin stalks, and when they were miserable peaky old maids 
 turn round upon them, and twit them with their incapacity to get 
 a man to marry either of them. 
 
 For the first time in my life I am in a position to critically study 
 the ways, looks, and words of a real handsome young pair of lovers. 
 (I think all lovers should be young and good-looking: I can't fancy 
 laded or elderly people peering into each other's dull faces.) I 
 should not have so much opportunity, but that, after patient and 
 dispassionate trial of all her elder brothers and sisters as goose- 
 berries, she has fixed her choice upon me, as being the sharpest 
 most unseeming and most un hearing of the lot, and fully one- 
 half my time is spent in boudoir, garden, or summer-house, 
 craning my neck round corners, in anxious watch against the 
 governor. 
 
 Charles Lovelace is supposed to pay two or three decorous visits 
 a week, and sit. in the drawing-room opposite Alice, with mother 
 
 6 
 
82 COMIN" THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 for dragon, talking of the weather. In reality he is here every 
 day, and twice a day ; but he is not proud or above being towed 
 in and out, and on occasion hidden in the shrubbery or a cup- 
 board. Once or twice it has been a very close shave, and nothing 
 but a special Providence and good luck has saved him from igno- 
 minious discovery. Their two faces look rarely well together, 
 dark and fair; the bold, manly beauty of the one against the 
 round, feminine, dainty perfection of the other. I think no 
 woman's face ever shows its beauty to such advantage as when 
 seen beside that of a man. How unweariedly they make love ! 
 How untiredly they utter their love-talk, of which now and then 
 a word or two comes to my ears (I always turn my back upon 
 them)— pretty, fanciful, tender stuff, that makes me smile and 
 vaguely stirs my heart. If ever I have a sweetheart (and why 
 should I not, since it is a well-known fact that all the plainest 
 women marry before the good-looking ones, and to be married one 
 must of course be courted) I hope Dolly will make as excellent a 
 gooseberry as I do. 
 
 When Charles is paying lawful visits he brings with him a little 
 book, called " The Bundle of Sticks ;" where he picked it up 
 it would be hard to say ; and this he reads diligently if papa ever 
 comes into the room where they are sitting. The sarcastic twitch 
 of the governor's nose and lips as he looks from the one lover to 
 the other is something to wonder at. Now and then, when his 
 back is safely turned, they go out together for a stirring spin in 
 Charles's dog-cart, in which he drives two fiery grey ponies tan- 
 dem, and a very charming turn-out it looks, with the two hand- 
 some young people smiling over the white rug ; and every one 
 thinks so, save the disappointed old and young maids of St 
 S with ins 
 
SEED TIME. 83 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " Those that Fortune makes fair she scarce makes honest ; and those she makea 
 honest she makes very ill-favourably. " 
 
 We are at a children's party, Dolly and I. Jack was asked, but 
 is too proud to come. It is five o'clock, and the sun, who has 
 been standing over us all the afternoon, frizzling our brains, and 
 making himself obnoxious, as he only knows how to do in the 
 middle of July, is kindly sinking somewhat in the west. We 
 have, with the usual insanity and waste of very young people, 
 been playing at all manner of energetic games, and are now en- 
 gaged in the comparatively mild recreation of " Kiss-in-the-ring." 
 Kissing is not reprehensible until one is grown up, I suppose ; at 
 any rate, these little girls take their boisterous forfeits quite 
 placidly, occasionally return them even with an artless generosity 
 that is not half appreciated by the stolid recipients of the same. 
 
 I am not a little girl, but a big one, and there is no boy present 
 old enough or tall enough to kiss me unless I chose. Besides, 
 no one has caught me yet : I can beat them all. I always was j 
 good at running; that and jumping being the two doubtful 
 accomplishments Jack has taught me to perfection. 
 
 I am laughing heartily at the dismal fate my last pursuer has 
 just met, his white duck trousers being in fact one green smudge, 
 from an involuntary acquaintance he has made with mother earth, 
 when Mrs. Floyd, our hostess, comes across the garden, and by 
 her side is that yellow-haired laddie, young Tempest. Hardly 
 a laddie though, for he must be twenty if he is a day, and has the 
 square, broad-shouldered figure of a man. 
 
 A not particularly clean piece of cambric dropped at my heels, 
 and a vision of a nimble youth of tender years scurrying away in 
 the distance, sets me off in fleet pursuit. He has a good start, so 
 I do not catch him, but walk slowly round until I come to Teddy 
 
S4 COM IN' THRQ THE RYE. 
 
 Minto, who is the spryest on his legs of the assembled company, 
 next to me. He is after me like a shot ; but though I take him 
 twice round the ring, his fingers do not once touch my gown, and 
 I dive in between Dolly and Lily Floyd, victorious. All at once 
 young Tempest joins the ring ; and presently, on receiving a 
 dropped token from Lily, rushes after, catches, and kisses her, to 
 her huge delight, for is he not the biggest person present 1 I wish 
 Jack was here ! He would not care about it though, he would 
 think it beneath him, while I — it only shows what an insignificant 
 creature I am — love it. I am eD joying myself down to the 
 ground. 
 
 "Look, Nell !" cries Dolly, unloosing my hand; and turning my 
 head, I see behind me the symbol that invites me to pursuit. Off 
 I set with a will, but I do not come up with the hare, who is young 
 Tempest ; on the contrary, his long legs bear him away with a 
 fleetness that moves me to grudging envy. 
 
 " I wonder," I say to myself, as I walk round, swinging the 
 pocket-handkerchief, " whether he could catch me 1 We will see." 
 Gingerly I drop it behind him, swiftly I fly along; but I am not a 
 dozen yards away when he is up with me, and I am caught, with- 
 out his ever having given me a chance. 
 
 " Now for the forfeit," he says, as he lifts me from the ground 
 and stoops his head to mine. I meet his saucy, bent face with a 
 vigorous slap that turns it scarlet ; but he never moves or blushes, 
 only looks at me with frank, amused blue eyes, before which my 
 sudden anger melts like snow before tho sun. 
 
 " Put me down," I say, and he puts me down. " I hope I — I 
 didn't hurt much V — (looking up at him rather anxiously). " I 
 did not mean to do it quite so hard, only you should not be rude, 
 you know." 
 
 " Lily did not mind," he says, looking down on me with a queer 
 smile. 
 
SEED TIME. 85 
 
 " But Lily is not grown up," I say with dignity. " Lily is only 
 ten." 
 
 " And you V 
 
 "lama great age," I say, nodding, " but I shall not tell you 
 how much." 
 
 " Are you not tired ?" he asks. " Would you not like to sit 
 down V I look round ; the ring is broken up ; the boys and girls 
 are strolling about ; Mrs. Floyd has vanished. 
 
 " I don't mind," I say ; " but we are going in to tea soon." We 
 sit down under the beech tree and look at each other. " I know 
 who you are," I say, smiling. " You are young Mr. Tempest." 
 
 " And you are little Miss Adair," he says. 
 
 " How did you know that 1" 
 
 " My father knows your father ; besides, I sit opposite you in 
 church." 
 
 " Do you V I ask with some dismay. Can he have marked any 
 of Jack's and my ungodly tricks during sermon time ? For at St. 
 Swithin's we sit behind papa, not beside him. 
 
 " Is that your eldest brother who sits beside you ?" 
 
 "Yes," T say proudly, "that is Jack. There is nobody like 
 him !" 
 
 " Is he here V asks the young man, looking round. 
 
 " No, he would not come. You see he is fifteen, and he likes^ 
 boys. He used to be satisfied with me, but now . ..." A 
 tear trickles down my nose, and I turn my head away. It is a 
 very, very sore subject with me. " It is all such a mistake," I say, 
 rubbing my nose and eyes hard, " that I was not a boy, you know. 
 
 He and I would have been together always, whereas now It 
 
 is very hard !" 
 
 " Very," says the young man, and indeed he seems to under- 
 stand. " Who is that pretty little girl yonder 1 She looks like a 
 crumpled pink rose." 
 
S6 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " Does she not f I ask eagerly ; " that is Dolly, my sister." 
 " You are not a bit alike !" 
 
 " I know we are not," I say, looking at her with pride ; " my 
 listers are all pretty, every one ; I am the only unpresentable one 
 out of the whole lot. Now, if you were to see Alice — " 
 
 " E have seen her," he says, " she is quite lovely. But you are 
 every bit as good as Dolly, or— nicer." 
 
 " Oh, no !" I say, laughing ; "you need not bother about saying 
 anything like that to me, please ; I am quite used to being plain. 
 Nurse comforts me by saying that the ugliest children sometimes 
 grow into the best-looking folk, but I know better." 
 
 " George," says Mrs. Floyd, bearing down upon us with all sails 
 spread, " you promised to help me give the children their tea ; are 
 you coming V 
 
 So we go in and eat cake and drink coffee, and by-and-by, 
 having washed our hot faces and hands, and smoothed our tumbled 
 locks we assemble in a large room, forty souls odd, for the purpose 
 of dancing. The Floyds' governess sits down to the piano ; but 
 alas ! whether it is the painful consciousness of their extreme neat- 
 ness, or whether they are really unequal to the duties of " footing" a 
 polka, all the little boys present hang together in groups, and look 
 askance at the rows of shiny-cheeked, smooth-headed damsels, who 
 are waiting to be fetched out. 
 
 This uncomfortable state of things having lasted for some time 
 the female wit (as is usual when things are at a dead lock) comes 
 to the rescue, and Madge Weston, a black-browed miss of twelve, 
 rises from her seat and walks across the room to the halting army. 
 '* I shall dance with you, Clem," she says decidedly ; and, taking 
 the biggest boy by the arm, she leads him away. The spell once 
 broken, each little girl walks boldly up to the boy that is goodliest 
 in her eyes, and bears him off triumphantly, though some of them 
 utter feeble protests, and show a tendency to hang back. A.nd 
 
SEED TIME. 87 
 
 now they are off, giggling, ambling, floundering, and young George 
 Tempest, entering hurriedly, looks about the room, and then 
 comes up to me. 
 
 "I can't dance," I say confidentially, as he sits down beside me ; 
 u it is like a donkey gambolling in a drawing-room. Can you V 
 
 " Pretty well ; but I should have thought you knew how ; you 
 are quite the nimblest runner I ever saw." 
 
 " One does not want to be nimble in dancing," I say gravely, 
 " or it must be reduced to a method to answer. Jack says my 
 head always hits the ceiling when I try to waltz." 
 
 " Miss Dolly seems to be labouring under difficulties," says my 
 companion, glancing toward my little sister, who is ambitiously 
 trying to reach the shoulder of the very tall lanky boy she has 
 selected as partner; "he has lost her altogether two or three 
 times. Supposing you and I see what we can do V 
 
 " It would be worse than Dolly," I say, laughing. " No, no ! 
 let us sit still and look on. I want to ask you something, if you 
 don't mind. Is Mr. Tempest your real father V* 
 
 "Yes. Why?" 
 
 " You are not a bit like him," I say, considering his comely 
 features and the fresh bright look that, let folks say what they will 
 about the expression that comes with years, etc., is goodly and 
 pleasant in a young man's or a maiden's face. " He looks so dried 
 up ; so, so brown. Do you know, it is very rude, but Jack and I 
 always call him the Mummy /" 
 
 Young George Tempest laughs, and reassures me as to a doubt 
 that has just crossed my mind, as to whether that was a suitable 
 remark to make to a young man about his father. 
 
 " Don't you think that on the whole papas are a great mistake, 
 and that we should get on much better without them V 
 
 "I don't know," says the young man, smiling, "but you surely 
 would never say that of mothers V 
 
COMIN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " Never !" I answer energetically ; " but tell me, what does youi 
 fatlier do ? Does he expect you to talk 1 Does he insist on your 
 going out walking with him, all the lot of you, except your 
 mother V 
 
 " I have no mother," he says soberly, " and no brothers or sisters. 
 No, he does not make me walk unless I please ; but I am his 
 walking-stick, his pourer-out of medicine, his lacquey (rather bit- 
 terly), who wanders all over the world with him, learning no good." 
 
 " Learning no good !" I repeat. (I was always rather like a 
 monkey, and fond of echoing other folks' words.) " Have you not 
 a profession ? Do you not do anything 1 You are old enough !" 
 
 " Ay 1" he says, and a sudden shadow falls upon his blonde, 
 bright face. " I was to have gone into the army, and even had my 
 commission in the Guards, but at the last moment my fatlier 
 refused to let me join. He said I was his only son, that he could 
 not live many years, and so (with a short, impatient sigh) I am 
 knocking about with nothing on earth to do. If only Providence 
 had sent me one or two of your brothers !" 
 
 " I have six," I say proudly ; " there are five running after 
 Dolly, but I could not spare one of them to you." 
 
 " I suppose not," he says, with a smile. " Do you ever smack 
 their heads as you did my cheek this afternoon V 
 
 " Sometimes ! only to tell you the truth, they are getting rather 
 beyond me. Were you angry when I slapped you this afternoon V 
 
 " Very ! 1 hope you will never do it again." 
 
 " But then you must never do it again." 
 
 " But I did not." 
 
 " If you were me," I say seriously, " you would be sick of the 
 very name of kissing ; we have such oceans of it at home !" 
 
 " Ah ! I suppose so. Your fatlier must be very fond of you 
 all V 
 
 " Very !" I say with a wry face, " but it is not he who is lavish 
 
SEED TIME. 89 
 
 in that respect " (I giggle inwardly at the notion of his going about 
 the house kissing us promiscuously), " it is my sister ; she ia en- 
 gaged, you know." 
 
 " To Lovelace i So I have heard." 
 
 " I am gooseberry, you see," I continue, " and I do get so tired 
 of it all. Do you think our fathers and mothers ever required 
 gooseberries V 
 
 "I don't know," he says, laughing, "but I suppose they did 
 pretty much the same as their children do 1" 
 
 The polka is over, and very hard work the dancers have appa- 
 rently found it, for they are all, boys and girls alike, crimson. 
 
 By-and-by we dance a quadrille, young Mr. Tempest and I, and 
 lie guides me through the mazes of that mysterious dance with 
 much discretion. I wonder why the sight of two people chasseing 
 to each other always reminds me of two amiable ponies, who 
 curvet about face to face with each other, preparatory to turning 
 round and letting out their heels in good honest kicks ] We do 
 not kick up our heels though ; and when the dance is over go to 
 supper, where we eat chicken and tipsy cake with the hearty and 
 unjaded appetite of youth, and then, for it is past ten o'clock, we 
 all say, " Good-night, and thank you," and go away to put on our 
 cloaks and hats. 
 
 Balaam's Ass is waiting for Dolly and me, and George Tempest 
 takes my little red cloak from her hands, and ties the ribbons under 
 my chin, 
 
 " Good-bye, little Red Riding Hood," he says, " and shall I ever 
 see you again T 
 
 "I shall be sure to run up against you sooner or latter," I say, 
 nodding ; " St. Swithins is so very little : besides, do you not live 
 at Silverbridge, and are you not going back to live there some 
 day?" 
 
90 COM IN' THRO 7 THE R YE. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 " We are such stuff 
 As dreams are made of, and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep." 
 
 We are in August now, and there is no coolness anywhere, not in 
 the house, nor in the garden, nor in the sea ; twice to-day have I 
 dipped in its salt waters, and each time I have come out of it ten 
 degrees hotter than when I stepped in. Through the dining-room 
 windows yonder we can hear the manly bass of the governor, and 
 the shrill little pipe of the Mummy, following each other in friendly 
 monotony, and out here, under the big linden tree, are sitting 
 Jack, young Mr. Tempest, and I. 
 
 The weather has surely softened papa's brain, for, not content 
 with shaking hands with Mr. Tempest, he invited both him and 
 his son to dinner, and has just peaceably partaken of the same 
 with them ; Mother, Charles Lovelace, and Alice being also of the 
 company. George and I are old friends now, and he gets on very 
 well with Jack, so he has forsaken claret for our company ; and 
 very sociable and merry we are as we sit and fan ourselves with 
 cabbage leaves, for oh ! though the sun is sinking, he has heated 
 the earth so thoroughly that it is red-hot through and through ; it 
 is impossible to think of even the hours of the night being cool. 
 
 Yonder, in the winding ways of the formal garden, Alice and 
 Charles are walking with their heads touching ; she is holding up 
 her white silk train with one hand, and her pretty little feet are 
 peeping in and out, while the white roses in her breast and hair 
 are no fairer than her round arms and neck. 
 
 " I wish we were at Silverbridge 1" I say, swaying my cabbage 
 leaf gently ; it goes to my heart to be sitting here, gooseberryless, 
 currantless, raspberryless, while all the little Dorleys are, I am 
 certain, taking their nasty little fills ! " Mother wanted to have the 
 
SEED TIME. 91 
 
 fruit sent to us once a week, but papa said it was to be pre- 
 served." 
 
 " I hate preserves," says Jack, " nasty apologies for fresh fruit ; 
 blackberry jam's good though F 
 
 " Did you ever make jam of sloes F I ask George Tempest, 
 " that cleaves to the roof of your mouth and won't be swal- 
 lowed r 
 
 "Never! Did you?" 
 
 " Once, but we only made one pot, and it lasted years; when- 
 ever we were very hungry, and quite at our wit's end, we used to 
 take it out and look at it, but never got any further, and at last it 
 withered up. I wish I knew where to get some blackberries now, 
 large juicy, soft ones, like raspberries ; but it's full early, I don't 
 think we'll get any worth having before September." 
 
 " I saw a lot this morning," says George, as I was riding across 
 
 the lower (" Jack !" calls mother in the distance, " I want 
 
 you.")— landslip," finishes George as Jack goes. "Would you 
 like to go and get some F 
 
 " So much !" I say quickly. " Are there many F 
 
 " 1 think so ; why cannot you and Dolly come with me to-mor- 
 row morning F 
 
 " We are forbidden to go out alone," 1 say thoughtfully j " you 
 won't mind Amberley coming F 
 
 " Indeed, I shall," he says laughing. " What do you want with 
 that stupid old woman ? We could have such a jolly morning." 
 
 " So we could," I say, considering ; " I think I could dodge her 
 all right ; but how about the governor F 
 
 " He goes for a ride sometimes." 
 
 " Yes, but not always. Supposing he were to inquire for us 
 and we were missing F 
 
 "What then F 
 
 1 What then Oh, nothing !* A vision rises before me of the 
 
92 COMIN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 condition of the household under the circumstances, and his simple 
 question makes me smile. 
 
 " Don't take any notice of him," says George indifferently (It is 
 all very fine for him to talk) ; " I shall be waiting on the Parade 
 for you to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock punctually." 
 
 " I am afraid you will have to wait/' I say disconsolately ; " but 
 never mind, if we don't come, you will know it is not our fault !" 
 
 " The governor !" signals Jack, beckoning in the distance ; so 
 without waiting for farewells I hastily decamp. By-and-by the 
 sound of music rising from the drawing-room gives us a new sen- 
 sation. Never within the memory of man, certainly not within 
 ours, has the piano's modest voice been uplifted in papa's pre- 
 sence ; but, lo ! at the magic touch of company, its long-frozen 
 melodies stream forth, and there is a convivial, rakish, bacchana- 
 lian sound about the festivities below that lifts the hair from off 
 our youthful heads in amazement; we should not be surprised 
 even, if on peeping in we discovered papa affably turning over the 
 pages of Alice's music ; he may, for all we know, be drinking tea. 
 This mildness of temper if agreeable is alarming ; can he be going 
 to have a fever or a fit 1 or has the sun actually melted some of the 
 obstinacy out of his brain 1 Middle-aged gentlemen don't act in 
 direct opposition to all the traditions of their past lives for nothing. 
 If his wits would only go on softening until he is just like any- 
 body else ! I fall asleep with the cheerful tune of " Kiss me quick 
 and go, my honey," in my ears. Somehow it seems indecent as 
 sung before the governor. 
 
 We have all slept, risen, dressed ourselves— (of all the machines 
 that are yearly invented for reducing labour to a minimum, why 
 is there not one for turning us out ready dressed 1 Who is there 
 that does not now and then kick against the wearisome, ever* 
 recurring duties of the toilet ?)— listened to prayers, eaten our 
 breakfasts, and scattered hither and thither to our several pursuits 
 
SEED TIME. 93 
 
 and occupations. It is holiday time with us, so I am not expected 
 in the schoolroom, and my present object in life is to ascertain 
 what the governor is doing, where he is going, and whether there 
 is any dire chance of his catching Dolly and me just as we are 
 trotting off to "pastures new." I carefully track him to the 
 library, and am presently surprised and relieved by the appearance 
 of his man of business, who is shown to that sanctum by Simpkins, 
 and left for four good hours, I hope. And now to find Dolly. I 
 have not mentioned to that young person that I meditate taking 
 her out, or her eyes would have become so round that everybody 
 would have suspected she was up to mischief, and on searching 
 inquiry she would certainly have let it out. I discover her in 
 the nursery with Alan, learning Scripture history— the fag-end of 
 a punishment given by papa weeks ago. I give nurse a hug. 
 Dear old soul ! is she not like a second mother to us 1 but wish 
 she would turn her back ; for if she is loving she is shrewd, and is 
 too well acquainted with my knack of getting into scrapes to trust 
 any one of her charges to my tender mercies. She is hemming 
 dusters and rating Balaam's Ass, who with her usual obstinacy 
 has been doing that which she ought not to have done, and leaving 
 undone such things as she ought to have done. Apparently she 
 has been taking the air on the leads, for nurse is remarking with 
 a violent sniff, " that rent will soon be dear in these parts if so 
 much beauty is seen disporting itself on the tiles." (B.A. is the 
 most ill-favoured young woman I ever saw.) 
 
 " Like Bathsheba," says Alan. 
 
 " Nurse," says Dolly, looking up from her book, " who was Bath- 
 sheba]" 
 
 " Nobody in particular, Miss Dolly ; nobody you have any call 
 to ask about. A woman." 
 
 " She was an improper person," says Alan unexpectedly-. 
 
 u Sakes alive !" ejaculates nurse holding up her hands ; " what 
 
94 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 ever is the boy talking about T Hold your tongue, Master Alan. 
 and mind your book." 
 
 " I shan't," says Alan, resting his chin on his hand and regard- 
 ing nurse with meditative eyes. " You know as well as I do. I 
 heard Jack humming something the other day about— 
 
 ' That naughty little dragon, 
 And she without a rag on.' 
 
 And I asked him who she was, and he said Bathsheba. And 1 
 looked it out, and I shan't ever think much of David again, psalms 
 and all." 
 
 Nurse looks at him helplessly as he returns to his book. Why 
 do our elders always look so completely put out of countenance 
 when we show any signs of shooting up in unexpected directions ? 
 They did the same when they were children. 
 
 Taking advantage of her departure to quell a riot among the 
 boys in the next room, I catch Dolly's hand and pull her away 
 with me. 
 
 " May not Alan come?" she asks, looking back. 
 
 " No," I say in a whisper ; " I only want you.'" I trot her into 
 my bedroom, and having informed her of the trip I propose 
 taking, ask her if she can get at her hat and jacket without nurse's 
 knowing. 
 
 Yes, she can, and, all delight and round eyes, she departs on 
 tiptoe, obtains the coveted articles, and in five minutes, after 
 patient and careful dodging of mother, Amberley, Simpkins, and 
 Alice, we stand on the high road, and are scampering away as fast 
 as we can pelt towards the Parade. 
 
 Oh ! the bonny, bonny sea ! Though I see and stand by it 
 every day, it always gives me a new delight every time my eyes 
 light thereon. It is only half-past ten ; there is plenty of time 
 and to spare, so we betake ourselves to Tippet's, the confectioned 
 
SEED TIME. 95 
 
 and as— oh, wonder ! — I actually possess a sixpence, we indulge in 
 one bun each, one sponge-cake each, and a pennyworth apiece of 
 bull's-eyes. Delicious ! We are thirsty, but lemonade is beyond 
 us, so we drink water unthankfully. (Why does every one take 
 kindly to adulterated and manufactured drinks, and turn away dis- 
 dainfully from the only pure liquid the world contains ?) and then 
 take a comfortable little trot round the town, glueing our noses to 
 shop windows ; pausing to look at the omnibus starting for the 
 railway station ; helping to pick up an unfortunate pair of twins 
 who have been rolled out of their perambulator by an elder sister, 
 aged seven years ; standing still to watch a man walking round 
 and round his horse in the vain effort to mount it ; diving into a 
 chemist's shop to get out of the way of old Mr. Tempest ; feeling, 
 in short, very dissipated, very happy, and intensely, grandly inde- 
 pendent. Eleven o'clock is striking as we reach the Parade, and 
 at the far end is George. Seeing us, he steps out briskly, and in 
 another two minutes we are shaking hands and laughing over the 
 success of our undertaking. 
 
 " We must be very quick, though," I say, " for some unlucky 
 spirit may put it into his head to ask for us, and then " 
 
 " How do you do, Miss Adair ?" asks a voice behind me. Turn- 
 ing, I see Bobbie Silver and two or three other young fellows, 
 friends of Jack. 
 
 " Bow do you do T I say, rather chapfallen : they will see Jack 
 presently, and tell him they saw me down here alone. Oh, the 
 ways of disobedience are very crooked ! 
 
 " And where is the duenna V asks Bobbie. 
 
 I am opening my mouth to answer him, when in the distance I 
 espy Balaam's Ass bearing down upon us with a portentous mien 
 that betokens some deadly tidings. The words I am about to speak 
 die on my lips ; my open mouth remains open ; my widening eyes 
 
96 COMIN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 enlarge to their fullest extent, and remain fixed. The young men, 
 marvelling, turn to ascertain the cause of my petrification. 
 
 " If you please, Miss Helen and Miss Dolly," says Balaam's Ass, 
 appearing in our midst, " your pa says you're to go home and go to 
 bed directly f* 
 
 She might have whispered. I do not look at Bobbie or 
 
 George. I look nowhere ; I see nothing. Why does not the earth 
 open and swallow us up 1 Somehow, I do not know how, to this 
 day, we get ourselves away. 
 
 " How dare he do it V I say, as I climb the steep hill that leads 
 to our abode, with bitter tears raining down my burnt cheeks, hot 
 anger and outraged pride scorching my heart, " just as we were so 
 happy, Dolly ! How shall I ever look one of them in the face 
 j again !" And I am fourteen years old ! Truly " pride goes before 
 a fall !" 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 "This is the excellent foppery of the world, that when we are sick in fortune 
 (often the surfeit of our own behaviour), we make guilty of our disasters, the 
 sun, the moon, and the stars ; as if we were villains by necessity, fools bj 
 heavenly compulsion." 
 
 My last little escapade has cost me dear. Not only have I been 
 condemned to a week's imprisonment in the house and grounds, 
 but the edict has gone forth that I shall be sent to school without 
 loss of time. I have long ago wept my eyes dry. I do not think 
 that I shall ever be able to cry any more, not even when I find 
 myself set down in the midst of a crowd of nasty, spiteful, odious, 
 chattering girls ; if there were a few boys I would not mind, but 
 to have nothing but petticoat company for five months, will, I am 
 certain, drive me mad. "If Dolly were coming, even, it would not 
 be so bad, we could at least hold together and talk about home ; I 
 should not be so miserably lonely then ; but no such luck, Amber- 
 
SEED TIME. 97 
 
 ley is still good for another two years' cultivation of that pretty 
 little person's mind. How I shall hate the needlework and the 
 bread and butter, and the making my own bed every morning ! 
 and oh ! how I shall have to mend my manners and revise my 
 vocabulary ! Remarks that are merely spicy among ourselves 
 may be regarded by a schoolmistress in a different light, and our 
 freedom and ease of invective and retort be considered immoral. 
 
 Everybody is out this evening, papa and all, and I have not a 
 soul to speak to but Paul Pry, who does not understand if I do 
 talk to him. I cannot even make myself of use by playing goose- 
 berry. How Alice will miss me when I am gone ! The ghost of 
 a tear comes into my eye at this touching thought (which is after 
 all nothing but that %nti£ de soi-meme that is at once so pitiful and 
 so natural). They cannot choose but miss me, though, I befear 
 me, the cause of my being so regretted will be but selfish. Love 
 on, poor lovers! By Christmas your billings and cooings will 
 be over, and you, Mr. Charles, will be sent to the right-about. 
 How the governor's patience has lasted as long as it has done, I 
 can't imagine It is dull work marching about here all alone, 
 with no fruit trees to rob, or sociable soul to exchange remarks 
 with. I have not seen George since that fatal day, although he 
 has been here two or three times. Somehow I cannot forgive 
 him for having been a witness to my disgrace, and I owe him a 
 grudge for having a nasty little father who did see Dolly and me 
 when we bolted into the chemist's shop, and, meeting papa on the 
 hill, told him, but with no malicious intent, that he had just seen 
 us ; hence the catastrophe. There never was anybody as unlucky 
 as I am ; everything has gone wrong with me ever since I was 
 born, and everything will continue to do until my death, which is 
 certain to take place in some unseemly, unexpected manner, at 
 some unsuitable time and spot I suppose my own bad conduct 
 is at the bottom of most of my misfortunes, though. Now, that 
 
 7 
 
98 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 last fiasco was caused by love of blackberries, ergo greediness, 
 which is distinctly a failing of my own, and nothing to do with 
 an unlucky star ! I wish I could commit my sins with my eyes 
 shut. I know so perfectly well always when I am doing anything 
 wrong, I see the good and the evil so clearly, the one on the right 
 hand the other on the left, and yet, oh, shame ! I nearly always 
 choose the ill. Perhaps it is because I know my own wicked 
 heart so well, that I, who am the merriest, noisiest, happiest of us 
 all, have such deep, bitter fits of depression and misery now and 
 then. In comparison with the keenness of enjoyment is the power 
 of enduring pain, they sayx^If ever God sees fit to send me a 
 great joy, I shall taste its sweetness to the uttermost ; but if a 
 great trouble come upon me, I shall bear every jot of its weight 
 and hardness, and never seek to shift it to other shoulders, or 
 contrive to bear it lightly. Clearly I am in a lachrymose and dis- 
 mal frame of mind this evening ; generally speaking, after a good 
 howl, my spirits fly up to the skies, but this time I do not feel 
 any the better, and if tears were forthcoming I would begin it all 
 over again. 
 
 As I stroll along the coppice that divides our grounds from the 
 high road, I hear a gay young voice whistling, " My love, she's but 
 a lassie yet ;" it sounds quite cheerful, and almost puts me in 
 spirits. I hope he will not go away directly, for oh ! I do hate 
 to be all alone without a human voice within earshot. I have not 
 looked upon the countenance of man, woman, or child for a whole 
 hour ; to see anybody would be company, so I mount the hedge 
 preparatory to taking a small peep over it. Even a commercial 
 traveller, or a rustic Lubin waiting for his sweetheart, would be 
 nicer to look at than these still, straight trees and the stupid 
 silent grass. Popping my head somewhat suddenly over the 
 hedge, I find myself face to face with George Tempest. For a 
 moment I stare speechlessly at him, then I drop the boughs, 
 
SEED TIME. 99 
 
 vanish from his sight, and run fleetly down the coppice. I hear 
 his voice calling " Nell ! Nell!" after me, and in another minute 
 he has overtaken me, and stands in my path. 
 
 " Won't you speak to me, Nell 1" he asks, rather blown and out 
 of breath with his exertions. 
 
 " Can't stop now," I say, indistinctly, turning a scarlet counte- 
 nance over my shoulder ; " somebody is calling me." 
 
 " Nobody is calling you !" he says, quickly ; " are you angry 
 with me, Nell ?" 
 
 " Angry !" I repeat, turning round a face which is, I think, 
 assuming its normal tint, "why should I be angry]" 
 
 " Come back into the coppice for a little while then," he says ; 
 " you can't be going in yet, it is only seven o'clock." 
 
 For a moment I hesitate. I am ashamed to look him in the 
 face, but will it not be intolerably dull all alone in the empty 
 house yonder] I turn and walk beside him. "Do you know," 
 he says, " that I have been looking out for you every clay, and all 
 day for the last fortnight, but I have never caught a single glimpse 
 of youf 
 
 " For the best of all reasons," T answer ; " did you not know I 
 was in punishment ?" 
 
 "No!" he replies, indignantly. "What a shame! and pray 
 whose doing was that 1" 
 
 " There is only one person in the world who has the power to 
 make us miserable," I say, " and you know who that is." 
 
 " But you have not been locked up," he says, looking puzzled, 
 11 for one day I was here with Jack, and 1 am certain 1 saw you in 
 the distance, and went in hot pursuit, but you had vanished. 
 When I got back I asked Jack why you ran away, and how it was 
 I never saw you now, and he said he didn't know." 
 
 " Good boy !" I say, laughing, " he would not betray me. It is 
 
 7-2 
 
roo COM IN' THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 not nice, is it, when one is beginning to be grown up, to be kept 
 prisoner for a fortnight 1" 
 
 " He is a wretch," says George, vigorously, " how he can have 
 the heart. . . ." 
 
 " I want to ask you a question," I say, looking up at his face, 
 reassured by the unsmiling look it wears—" did you— did you— 
 laugh much V 1 
 
 "About what, dear?" 
 
 " That— that morning, when we went out blackberrying." 
 
 " No," he says, gently, " I was far too angry for that." 
 
 H And Bobbie Silver V I ask, with my head turned away, " did 
 he laugh f 
 
 " I don't think so," says George, with some slight confusion in 
 his voice, that plainly tells me that whatever he did not do, the 
 others did. 
 
 " I shall never forget it," I say, turning my red face full upon 
 him—" never I You see I am just beginning to be grown up. . . ." 
 
 " Never mind !" he says, gently, " it is he who ought to be 
 ashamed of himself, not you S" 
 
 "And you will promise," I say, anxiously, "never to laugh, 
 never even to think of it, or I could never feel comfortable with 
 yon r 
 
 u I promise," he says, gravely ; " and now tell me, is it true you 
 are going to school 1" 
 
 " Quite true !" I answer, " horribly true ! To-day is Friday, 
 and I am going next Wednesday." I thought I had no such things 
 as tears about me, but somehow they have got into my voice, and 
 as I turn my head away, George takes my hand with a gentleness 
 that Jack never knew, and keeps it. 
 
 " I wish you were my brother," I say, with a sob ; " of course 
 I could never have loved any one so well as Jack, but you would 
 have been kinder to me I" 
 
SEED TIME. ioi 
 
 " If I had had a little sister," he says (how soothing his voice is ! 
 how quiet his ways are ! He is not like any one I have ever 
 known before. Can it be because he has no brothers and sisters *?), 
 " I should have liked her to be just like you, and I should have 
 loved her beyond everything ; but it is too late to think of that 
 now" 
 
 " Yes, it is too late," I say, releasing my hand to pluck a sorrel 
 leaf that is close to my elbow (we are sitting down on the warm 
 burnt grass) ; " but if you had only thought of it before, say ten 
 years ago, you could have asked your father to marry again, could 
 you not % n 
 
 " Yes," says George, looking rather puzzled. 
 
 " And then you know you would very likely have had a sister. 
 Step-brothers and sisters are not the same as one's own, though • 
 sometimes they quarrel dreadfully !" 
 
 " Nell," says George, bending his fair head to look me straight 
 in the face, " Do you like me ]" 
 
 " Very much," I answer promptly ; " next to mother, Jack, Alice, 
 and Dolty, I don't know any one I like so much." His face falls a 
 little. 
 
 " I can't expect you to have much room in your heart for me," he 
 says, ' ; you have so many to fill it, while I have— nobody." 
 
 " You have the Mummy." 
 
 " Yes " (laughing), " but I have room for plenty more." 
 
 " So have I ! Now I should not wonder if, in a year or two, 
 when I get to know you better, you know, I were to like you very 
 much indeed, almost as well as Jack ; you are always so good to 
 me!" 
 
 "Dear little Nell," he says heartily, "I only hope you will. 
 You'll have plenty of opportunity of getting better acquainted 
 with me, for my father talks of going to Silverbridge next mid- 
 summer, to live at The Chace." 
 
ro2 COM IN' THRV THE RYE. 
 
 " How deliglitf ul !" I say, clapping my hands, " but why not 
 before midsummer V 
 
 " We are going on our usual wild goose expedition round the 
 continent," he says disgustedly, " and a lively time I shall have of 
 it." 
 
 "It will be such fun," I say, following my own train of thought, 
 " when I am grown up and come home for good, you and Jack 
 and I will be such friends !" 
 
 " Nell," says the young man, leaning over towards me, " do you 
 think you will ever care for me as much as Jack 1" 
 
 " It is not likely," I say, smiling into his bright, eager, beautiful 
 young face, " you are not my brother, you know !" 
 
 " And I am. very glad of it," he says decidedly. 
 
 "Glad 1 ?" I say, opening my eyes, "and you said just now you 
 should like a sister just like me !" 
 
 " Just like you, perhaps, but not you. Nell, do you think you 
 will ever be married V* 
 
 " Oh ! I suppose so," I answer indifferently ; " everybody is 
 sooner or later. It is wretched to be an old maid, with no one to 
 stand up for you, is it not %" 
 
 " Very ! Have you any notion of what your husband ought to 
 be like, Nell V 
 
 " My husband !" I repeat, breaking into a peal of laughter. " How 
 droll it sounds ; it is like playing at a feast ; and yet mother knew 
 a lady who was married at sixteen, her mother at fifteen, and her 
 grandmother at fourteen !" 
 
 " Then it is high time you were married ! But you have not 
 told me what he must be like V 
 
 y 
 
 Dark," I say, pursing up my mouth, and looking at the sun 
 who is passing away to his rest in such gorgeous pomp with his 
 bright children, the clouds, thronging about Mm. " Very dark ; 
 
SEED TIME. 103 
 
 and he must have black or very dark eyes, and a long black mous- 
 tache that sweeps, but is not waxed." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " He must keep me in rare good order, and not let me get my 
 own way, for though I love to have it, it is bad for me ; but he 
 must never slap me or call me names." 
 
 " Good heavens !" exclaims George, " does a gentleman ever do 
 that I" 
 
 " Sometimes ! And he must be very fond of my people, ana. 
 have them to stay with us very often, and let me go and stop with 
 them." 
 
 " And you are quite sure he must be dark V 
 
 " I think so ; but if he were very nice and kind, I should not 
 mind so much about his complexion." 
 
 " Do you think that I should do, Nell V asked the young man, 
 half eagerly, half jestingly, "when you are quite grown up— eigh- 
 teen or thereabouts ?" 
 
 " You /" I say, staring at him. " Oh, George ! do you mean 
 it; are you joking]" 
 
 " Not a bit of it ! You are the dearest little girl, and the nicest 
 little girl, and the prettiest little girl I ever saw, and you'll only 
 be dearer and nicer and prettier as you grow older, and I'm fonder 
 of you than anything or anybody under the sun." 
 
 " Including the Mummy V I ask, rallying from the shock his 
 calling me pretty has caused me. 
 
 " Including him J" 
 
 " George !" I say, beginning to cackle again. " Don't think me 
 very rude, but is it, is it a real offer you have made me ?" 
 
 " I suppose so," he says, beginning to laugh too, " why V* 
 
 " Because not one of us, not even Alice, had an offer made her 
 at the age of fourteen before. I am certain no one ever asked 
 Milly to marry her, and 1 don't think any one ever did Jack." 
 
io4 COM IN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " Highly improbable ! But you have not answered my question 
 yet." 
 
 "Papa could not send me to bed if I were married, could he? 
 or set me chapters in the Bible, or box my ears 1 " 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 " And you would always live at Silverbridge, close to the Manor 
 House, so that I could run in and out every day?" 
 
 " If you liked." 
 
 "Then," I say, stretching out my hand, "if you are quite sure 
 that you will always be polite to Jack, and never call me names, 
 or make a row about the housekeeping bills, or keep the key of 
 the kitchen-garden, I will marry you ' Not for years and years 
 though, when I am twenty or so." 
 
 "That would be much too old to be married," says George. 
 " It would be a pity not to come to The Chace while you are young 
 and able to enjoy the fruit. Eighteen is the proper age I" 
 
 " Too soon," I say, shaking my head, " let us say eighteen and a 
 half ; but, of course, if I see any one I like better, you won't 
 mind my having him V 
 
 " Not mind V he says blankly ; " but I shall mind very much 
 indeed ! However, I'll take care that you never have the chance !" 
 
 " You need not be afraid," I say, consolingly ; " no living man 
 is ever seen in Silverbridge who is not married, or old, or a fright ! 
 Besides, who would be likely to fall in love with me V* 
 
 " Everybody !" he says warmly, " they couldn't help it !" 
 
 " I think," I say, disregarding this pretty compliment (of course 
 he does not expect me to notice it, he only does it to please me !), 
 " that it would be safer to promise conditionally. Most likely you 
 will see some one or other who would just suit you, and then you 
 might feel uncomfortable about me ; and though it is very un- 
 likely that any one else will ever want to marry me, for at home 
 we 6ee nobody, it is just possible that I might run up against 
 
SEED TIME 105 
 
 bomebody I liked better or I might not care about being married 
 at all, you know ; so we will leave it open until I am eighteen aud 
 a half !" 
 
 " And it is a promise V he says, holding my hand between both 
 his own, and looking very kindly into my face. (How his mother 
 would have loved him if she had lived, he has such lovable ways.) 
 " You will not forget ?" 
 
 11 No," I say promptly, " I always keep my promises : ask Jack 
 if I do not— that is one reason why he says I ought to have been 
 a boy ! But look, how dusk it is growing ! I must go. Good- 
 night !" 
 
 " Good-night," he says, standing over me, tall and fair in the 
 gathering shadows. " Perhaps this is the last time I shall have a 
 chance of speaking to you alone before you go, dear ]" 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 " Then, Nell, as you're going to be my little wife some day, and 
 as I have no sister, you know — nobody to be good to me, won't you 
 give me a kiss, just a little one, before you go V 
 
 " Of course I will !" I say, touched to the heart by the allusion 
 to his narrow, loveless home life ; then, as he stoops his head, I 
 lift myself on tiptoe and kiss his cheek as heartily as though it 
 were Jack's. " I wish you were my brother," I say warmly — " I 
 do wish it with all my heart !" 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 "Virtue ! a fig ! 'Tis ourselves that wc are thus or thus. Our bodies are our 
 gardens to the which our wills are gardeners .... either to have it sterile 
 with idleness, or manured with industry ; why, the power and corrigible 
 authority of this lies in our wills." 
 
 The morning of my departure has arrived. The carriage is at the 
 door, my boxes are on the roof, and if anything could console me 
 
io6 COM IN' THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 at this trying moment, it would be the knowledge of the number 
 of good things one bursting hamper contains. As it is, I am 
 vaguely conscious of some pleasant morsel at the back of my mind 
 that will by-and-by emerge to the front and comfort me. I ha\e 
 swallowed half an egg and a pint of salt tears for breakfast ; I have 
 wished papa good-bye, or rather I have aimed a damp shot at his 
 nose, between the sheets (he is ill) ; and now I am standing in the 
 hall, hugging my plentiful brothers and sisters all round, kissing 
 them passionately with streaming cheeks and loud sobs, that might 
 melt the heart of a stone. Finally, I bolt headlong into the car- 
 riage, where mother sits awaiting me, and burrow on the floor 
 thereof. Charles Lovelace puts his head in at the window to 
 squeeze a tiny packet into my hand. I canuot thank him, for my 
 voice is attuned to nothing but howls ; and away we go. I lift 
 myself from my abased condition, to wave my dripping pocket- 
 handkerchief at the group by the door, and find some small com- 
 fort in the fact that they are crying, every one, except Charles. 
 The sight of their regret gives me a fresh access of grief, and I am 
 just retiring behind my useless handkerchief, to indulge in a storm 
 of sobs, when the carriage stops, and George Tempest comes to the 
 window. " Good-bye," he says, taking my hand in his, and look- 
 ing painedly at my blubbered, miserable face, " good-bye !" That 
 is all he says, and yet he conveys as much sorrow and sympathy in 
 the homely word as though he had talked for an hour. As wo 
 drive on again I begin a fresh bout that includes the leaving him 
 in its grievances ; and by the time we reach the station I am damp 
 enough to give any one near me a cold, if it were winter instead of 
 summer time. Jack fishes me out, and puts me in the waiting- 
 room, with the rest of the light luggage, and, while the footman 
 gets our tickets, he tries to revive my drooping spirits by sketches 
 as to what we will do in the Christmas holidays. But oh ! on this 
 burning dog- day, Christmas seems a very, very long way off; be- 
 
SEED TIME, 107 
 
 sides, why should I not be having my holidays now, instead oi 
 looking five months a-head % I ought not to be going at all. 
 
 The train comes snorting in — how sickeningly hot it looks ! — 
 and somehow I am bundled into it. As it is starting, I lean out 
 of the window, and, regardless of porters and his own disgust, I 
 hug Jack round the neck with despairing energy and a splashing 
 shower of tears. " Good-bye !" I cry, waving my wet rag and 
 scarlet nose out of the window as long as he is in sight ; then I 
 tumble back into the carriage, plump into the arms of a nervous, 
 spindle-shanked, elderly gentleman, who shoots me off his kneet 
 with such vigour that I take an involuntary seat on the opposite side, 
 
 It matters very little to me where 1 am, for my whole attention is 
 taken up with hard crying— crying that is as unlike other people's 
 tears as a floodgate is to a brooklet. I wonder if, when I am 
 grown up, I shall get out of this habit of wasteful, exhaustive 
 weeping? I always did save my troubles up into a lump and 
 clear them all off at once. It takes me some time to begin, but 
 when I do I don't stop in a hurry. We are half-way to our desti- 
 nation before my nose and cheeks have lost their first glossy 
 shininess, and the elderly gentleman has shut his gaping mouth of 
 amazement. Thank goodness, I have mother ; and after a while 
 she brings me to a tolerable state of composure. 
 
 Charteris, the place to which I am going, is eighty miles from 
 home : so it is evening before we arrive there — the last six miles 
 being performed by coach through scenery that would delight me 
 were not my heart so heavy. We stop before a long, low building, 
 with a great many windows in two level lines. It is approached 
 by a handsome carriage drive, terminating in a species of court, 
 and the house door is entered by a porch. We are shown into a 
 moderately large room, hung with maps. It has a stiff, schoolish 
 air that chills me and prepares my soul for all manner of cold, 
 barren, loveless laws and habits. What would I not give for our 
 
io8 COMIN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 battered, noisy, disreputable old school-room at Silverbridge % 
 The door opens, and Miss Tyburn enters, stately, imposing, grave. 
 She scans me so closely as she takes my hand that I feel she is 
 reading to the very bottom of my soul. *^^Whi ie sne ta ^ks to mother 
 1 study her face, which is an uncommon one : command sits on her 
 forehead ; intellect and power look out of her eyes : upon her lips 
 passion and will have set their seal ; over the whole countenance, 
 and in the marvellously, perfectly formed head, is a remarkable 
 air of penetration, determination, and clear common sensed Pre- 
 sently she asks mother if she would like to see the dormitories and 
 schools, and we follow her along a glass corridor and into a dining- 
 room, vast and square, with three large windows. The walls are 
 hung with busts of Homer, Aristotle, Cicero, and all the grand old 
 poets, senators, and orators. Over the mantelpiece hangs a picture 
 of St. John and the Lamb painted in oils. We go through endless 
 school and class-rooms, filled with girls who look with some aston- 
 ishment at me as I walk behind my elders, and so upstairs to 
 the dormitories, which are long and wide, with windows on both 
 sides, and partitioned off into narrow bedrooms just large enough 
 to contain a bed and a small square box, while a curtained shelf runs 
 across from one side to the other exactly above the bed, and a 
 thick curtain closes in the room at the entrance. We go down- 
 stairs again, and very soon mother takes her departure. She is 
 going to sleep the night at the house of a friend who lives twenty 
 miles away. Oh, mother ! mother ! as you drive away do you 
 know what a wretched, wretched child you leave behind ] 
 
 Ay ! she knows, and her heart is every whit as heavy as mine. 
 I am too much in awe of Miss Tyburn to do more than sniff 
 noiselessly after mother goes ; besides, I have literally no tears 
 left. One can be sorrier, I am sure, when one's eyes are dry than 
 when they are wet. Miss Tyburn speaks to me kindly— indeed I 
 am a spectacle that might move any one to compassion— and 
 
SEED TIME. iog 
 
 sends for " Mary Burns," who presently comes — a gentle, fair, 
 slim girl of fifteen, and into her charge am I given and dismissed. 
 She takes me upstairs, and having washed my face and smoothed 
 my hair, I go down with her to the school-room, where (for it is a 
 half -holiday) about fifty girls are reading, writing, talking, laugh- 
 ing, moving about, and buzzing like a hive of bees. The noise 
 comforts and reassures me. What I have dreaded was the still- 
 ness, the stiff formality of the life of routine ; clearly my notions 
 of female school life were mistaken ones. 
 
 On our arrival we are quickly surrounded, and I am chaffed, cate- 
 chised, and overhauled in a sufficiently merciless fashion. Though 
 somewhat taken aback, I prove however equal to the occasion ; 
 for T am not one of a large family for nothing — she who oould 
 retain any of that mauvaise horde yclept bashfulness, or be unable 
 to fight her own battles after the training I have had, would either 
 be a vicious idiot or a solemn and self-satisfied prig. So I retort 
 and riposte with a success that presently beats my assailants out of 
 the field. They bear me no ill-will, though, any more than I do 
 them ; they do but seek to test the value of the metal, and small 
 blame to them if on finding it to be false they cry out. I think 
 they find I am not that, however ; and though some hard knocks 
 are exchanged, no malice is borne. By supper time I am feeling 
 tolerably cheerful, but my heart sinks again as after prayers a 
 chorus of " good-nights " echoes around me, and a storm of kisses, 
 both deep and loud, beats on my astonished ears. There are about 
 sixty females of all ages present, and they all kiss one another 
 with a hearty vigour that sounds as if they liked it... 
 
 We are not a kissing family at home : there is much affection 
 between us, but little sentiment. Save when we have quarrelled, 
 or are going a journey, we rarely embrace each other. It is a 
 matter of course to kiss mother whenever we can, but we never 
 dream of indiscriminate caresses among ourselves— that must in- 
 
no COMIW THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 deed be a wonderful gush of misery or affection that produces a 
 hug. Therefore, lest I be pounced on and kissed in mistake for 
 somebody else, I precipitately retire to my bed, where I sleep as 
 soundly and well as though leaving home and going to school were 
 a most regular, everyday affair. 
 
 An evil bell clanging through the pleasant tangle of a dream 
 awakens me. Before I am half dressed it sounds again, but some- 
 how or other I scramble downstairs behind the rest to the school- 
 room, where lessons are gone through for an hour, while I look on ; 
 then prayers, conducted in a widely different fashion to that pre- 
 vailing at home ; then breakfast — good tea, good bread, sweet 
 butter ; then to church, where the service lasts half an hour. The 
 church is scarcely bigger than a chapel, quite lovely in its dainty 
 smallness, and far more richly garnished than are many more 
 imposing edifices. The seats are of carved oak, every window is 
 of stained glass — (I wonder why those strange stiff figures of saint 
 and apostle, that violate every rule of art, impress us with the 
 idea of a supernatural beauty that no amount of exquisite and 
 correct drawing could afford?)— the east one, a soft blaze of colour 
 through which the light falls on the tesselated chancel floor in 
 glorious patches of amber, purple, green, and gold. It looks very 
 hushed, and quaint, and solemn ; and as I slip into my seat in the 
 chancel, which is divided from the body of the church by a carved 
 screen, a wonderfully strange, novel sensation steals over me. It 
 seems so odd to be kneeling without papa's stern eye upon me, and 
 all the dear brothers and sisters stretching out right and left, in 
 goodly sober ranks. The thought of them nearly sets me off cry- 
 ing again, for I have given my eyes a good rest during the night ; 
 but I fight the tears back and make my responses with the rest. 
 
 The clergyman almost makes me jump as I look at him ; I have 
 seen the same face, only twenty years younger maybe, hanging up 
 in papa's study between a print of Taglioni in her best days, and a 
 
SEED TIME. in 
 
 sporting celebrity, name unknown. We have even studied this 
 man's face with impertinent interest, thanks to a remark mother 
 made one day to the effect that papa and he had been " old 
 friends," and we have speculated often enough as to whether they 
 ever kicked each other, or never fell out from sheer lack of oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 I am sorry when the last " Amen " is spoken, and we step out of 
 the dim cool church into the gaudy brisk day. I am sorrier still, 
 when, at ten o'clock, I am summoned to the committee-room, and 
 undergo at Miss Tyburn's hands a searching examination into the 
 extent of my very limited mental capabilities, and to whatsoever 
 questions are asked me on this, that, and t'other, write the answers 
 down in a large volume that is called the committee-book, but is 
 in reality a Book of Doom, in which in her time many and many a 
 girl has written herself down an ass. That I do the same you may 
 be very sure, and I presently retire with the proud conviction that 
 in ignorance I have beaten all my predecessors, every one. 
 V^In the afternoon I began my real school life with needlework, 
 over which in very good sooth my trouble begins, for though well 
 versed in the arts of climbing and jumping, I am utterly ignorant 
 of such gentle accomplishments as " felling " and " stitching." And 
 so the day wears away, and the morrow comes, and very soon I 
 get into the ways of my new life, and in spite of sundry homesick 
 qualms and heart-sinkings, grow to love it very heartily.Vlt has 
 its ups and downs, its jealousies and bickerings, its hard lessons to 
 be learned, and hard knocks submitted to ; but none the less I 
 find my school existence a wholesome, pleasant, happy one:^There 
 is no tyranny here. It is in a girl's own hands whether she 
 gets on well or badly. She will not be censured for faults she has 
 not committed, nor praised without just reason. Her work is plain 
 and clear before her, and she can pursue it without let or hindrance. , 
 Every hour is well filled, every pleasure well earned, and the sleep 
 
fi2 COAflN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 that each night brings is sound and deep. Now and again I am 
 seized with a passionate longing to see them all at home. I shut 
 my eyes and picture them to myself so strongly that my spirit 
 seems to go out of my body and stand in their midst ; I wander in 
 at the school-room door, and look on all their faces, one by one, 
 and if they only knew I was there, if they spoke to me, I am sure 
 I should hear them. . . . 
 
 I had a letter from mother this morning. She bids me use my 
 time profitably and waste none, for it is more precious than gold. 
 She need not be afraid : I know that now is my apprentice time, 
 now that breathing space that is given to all young people, and 
 which, once wasted, will come back to them never more. Some- 
 how a girl's mind at school always makes me think of a field on 
 which the seed is sown, which will either take root and ripen 
 abundantly, or wither away, leaving it bare and unadorned. 1 
 never knew how really ignorant I was till I came here. I don't 
 remember ever thinking about the matter, but I had a vague idea 
 that I was a good deal worse than Milly, but rather better than Jack. 
 JVow I stand forth a confessed ignoramus, and am beaten at all 
 points by pert youngsters of twelve and thirteen. Fortunately I 
 know the nakedness of my mind, so there is a hope that at some 
 future day it may be decently clad. It is curious that the more 
 one knows the more acutely one feels one's bareness. Intensely, 
 thoroughly ignorant people attain to a height of self-esteem, that 
 the man who has spent a lifetime in amassing knowledge, only to 
 find that all he knows is but a drop in the full cup of knowledge, 
 can never hope to reach. My studies do not prevent my getting 
 into plenty of scrapes ; often and often my madcap pranks get me 
 into hot water, but good luck pulls me safely through. We go for 
 wonderful walks through such lovely country as Silverbridge could 
 never boast The school is built on the top of a hill, and on three 
 sides the ground slopes away to the valleys. Following the road 
 
SEED TIME. 113 
 
 you descend this hill, and, crossing a bridge on the left, paps 
 through the flower- bright fields, and so to the valleys through 
 which a brook runs, leaping, sparkling, widening, narrowing, with 
 a dainty border of forget-me-nots, and reeds that stand up stiff 
 and straight, like sentinels guarding the pretty flowers. On either 
 side banks and woods rise steeply to a great height. In spring 
 time, the girls say, they are speckled all over with spring flowers, 
 of which there are many curious and unknown species, never met 
 with in flatter, duller regions. And oh, it must be a rare and deli- 
 cate sight to see these picturesque slopes putting on their thou- 
 sand tints of green and yellow, and one for which my eyes look 
 eagerly. These valleys are strangely cool and deep and silent ; not 
 a sound breaks the stillness save the fretting of the water against 
 the stones, or the infrequent song of the birds— clearer, sweeter 
 here, I always think, than anywhere else. To me these valleys 
 always seem to have remained just as they left God's hand at the 
 creation of the world, they are so fresh, so pure, so untrodden with 
 their vernal shades and dim, cool alleys. A deep peace broods 
 ever over them, and the weary, struggling, sinful world seems very 
 far away. Walking in them one feels the faint echo of some such 
 exquisite delight as Adam and Eve knew when they walked 
 together in the garden of Paradise for the first time, when it was 
 all new, fresh from God's hand, and their souls were innocent and 
 pure enough to taste its exceeding delicacy. I think none but the 
 very young, or the very old can enjoy nature thoroughly ; with the 
 latter the heart and mind are dulled, and ordinary events and 
 interests have little power over them, and they go back to that 
 simplicity of mind that makes the treasures of the earth suffice 
 without the excitement of the passions of the heart ; while the 
 very young look on it with un jaded eyes, and no restless longing 
 after things they do not know and have never dreamed of. The 
 nightingale has made his home down here. He sings at night to 
 
 3 
 
ir 4 COMTN 1 THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 the brook, to the silent glades, to his mistress ; and I know by the 
 rapture of his voice that he rejoices in the beauty around him as 
 keenly as though he had a human soul. Often I softly open my 
 window to listen to his deathless song, and wish that I were in the 
 valley below standing on the moonlit sward alone with the night, 
 the little brown bird, and my own delight. And I grow to love 
 these hills and valleys with an exceeding love that I never knew 
 for Silverbridge ; and I know that some day when I lie a-dying, 
 in fancy I shall go back to and visit them ; I shall look with clear 
 eyes on the purple brow of the hills, hear the running silver babblo 
 of the brook, and the trill of the nightingale will come to me out 
 of the heart of the silence. . . . 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 "Love all, trust a few, 
 Do wrong to none, be able for thine enemy, 
 Rather in power than use ; and keep thy friend 
 Under thy own life's key ; be checked for silence, 
 But never taxed for speech." 
 
 A new era in my existence has begun* All my life long I have 
 hated petticoats, and longed for trousers as hopelessly as an old 
 maid of sixty sighs for a sweetheart ; and now, lo and behold ! 
 Providence, who so rarely grants to any human being his heart's 
 desire, drops them at my feet, and any day I may step into them, 
 and enjoy the exquisite satisfaction of not only feeling a boy, but 
 looking one. Upstairs, in my box, lie two simple garments never 
 yet worn, but which I may be called upon to don at any moment. 
 Perhaps this very afternoon the summons may come, and I shall 
 cast my encumbrances to the wind, and for once feel like Jack. 
 If he could only see me ! On the whole, though, I am rather 
 
SEED TIME. U5 
 
 glad he cannot, for I know he would laugh, and I have a sneaking 
 conviction that my tout ensemble in my new gear is more likely 
 to provoke derision than admiration. But oh, it is so comfortable I 
 I have put it on behind my drawn ourtain over and over again, for 
 no earthly reason than to assure my eyes and touch that I am not 
 dreaming, and that it is my very own, made for me. „-- 
 
 We are all at work in the school-room, toiling at " seam, gusset, 
 and band," and envying heartily the blackbird who is free as air, 
 and knows it, singing at his ease as he swings on the apple bough 
 that looks in at the tall narrow window ! The sunbeams dance 
 and flicker on the dull school-books impudently, saying, as plain 
 as they can speak, "We can play hide-and-seek all day if we 
 please ; we are not answerable to any one, and we have no lessons 
 to learn or work to do." 
 
 Steps come down the corridor ; no mincing feminine ones this 
 time, but a man's bojd decided tread. I lay down my stitching to 
 listen. The door opens, a head is popped in. " Cricket 1" says a 
 loud clear voice, the door is shut again, and down go work and 
 thimbles, a Babel of delighted cries bursts forth, and in thirty 
 seconds the room is cleared, and we are all upstairs, pulling off rib- 
 bons, gowns, crinolines, all our feminine belongings, and pull- 
 ing on knickerbockers and blouses 1 Yes, knickerbockers I Let no 
 one blush or look shocked, for they are long and ample, and tied 
 modestly in at the ankle ; and as to the blouse, which descends 
 below the knee, and is trimly belted in at the waist, is as decent / s 
 and uncompromising as that worn by Dr. Mary Walker ; our cos- 
 tume being, in short, nothing more or less than that whick is 
 designated by the somewhat opprobrious title of " Bloomer." The 
 knickerbockers bring comfort, the tunic confers respectability. It 
 is a lovely thought that I can kick up my heels to my heart's con- 
 tent, and yet preserve decorum. As to what manner of female I 
 look, I care nothing ; my sensations are all I think about, and they 
 
 8—2 
 
u6 COMIW THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 are blissful. I feel as light as a feather, and equal to Jack at run- 
 ning, vaulting or hurdle jumping. . 
 
 On my way downstairs I fall in with the girls— shrunken, insig- 
 nificant creatures, measured by the standard of half an hour ago, 
 when they boasted a circumference of from four to five yards of 
 petticoat. ^"They even look meek ; for it is a fact that a large por- 
 tion of a woman's assurance lies in her tail. Shear her of that and 
 she is no way superior to man. Out in the cricket field I scan the 
 assembly critically, and nothing but the consciousness of looking a 
 greater guy than any one present prevents me from going off into a 
 fit of convulsive laughter.. If only Charles Lovelace, George Tem- 
 pest, or Jack could see us U 
 
 We have roly-poly girls and bean-stalk girls, little girls, big girls, 
 long girls, short girls ; girls whose plump proportions fit their 
 garments as closely as a kernel fits a shell ; girls whose garments 
 hang upon them loose, as did the armour on Don Quixote's gaunt 
 form ; girls who waddle, amble, jig, trot, hurry, and stride — their 
 action plainly shown in the narrow, straight costume.- Can an 
 English girl walk 1 I trow not. It is a pity the time spent in 
 needlework is not used in drilling. Conspicuous, even among this 
 remarkable throng, is the German governess, short, square, stout, 
 not over young, with a large flat face, enormous feet and hands, 
 and that general look of a Dutch doll that usually marks her stolid 
 race. She wears the regulation trousers and blouse ; but whether 
 under an impression that she is not sufficiently clad, or whether 
 she wishes to give a full dress air to a somewhat severe costume I 
 know not ; at any rate she has over and above arrayed herself in a 
 very large, ample, white muslin jacket, profusely frilled and starched, 
 and tightly belted in at the waist, and these frills set straight out 
 from her sturdy form in a fashion that would bring a smile to the 
 face of a crocodile, / 
 
 The wickets are pitched ; the ball is fiymg from hand to hand ; 
 
SEED TIME. 117 
 
 we are all waiting for Mr. Russell, the man who introduced the game 
 of cricket at Charteris, or rather, made it an institution, for it has 
 flourished many years, and many a pretty young mother makes an 
 excellent long-stop or field to her sons, thanks to the training she 
 received at school. To Mr. Eussell, therefore, be our eternal 
 thanks due, in that he has, for a time at least, emancipated us 
 from the slavish thraldom of our petticoats and enabled us to 
 stretch our limbs and use them. He is coming over the grass from 
 the school with Miss Tyburn now ; tall, erect, a little grey, his 
 dress showing but little of the clergyman about it (he is one of the 
 committee, and owns " The Charteris," the only big house in the 
 place. He is married and has olive branches.) How my heart 
 leaps as I look at him. Why did he not come home sooner 1 His 
 daughter is with him. And now sides are being chosen, the game 
 begins, and as my side is in I have no opportunity for making 
 myself look ridiculous as yet, I merely look on. 
 v. It is a droll sight to see a girl walk up to the wicket and send 
 her ball in, if not as powerfully as a man, well nigh as straight ; 
 and to see another standing, bat in hand, with body slightly bent 
 forward, awaiting it. Mr. Eussell is against us, and in the next 
 over his fast, round-arm bowling gives me an uneasy sense of fear, 
 the ball hurtles along so swiftly that surely a slender ankle or 
 arm might snap like sealing-wax at its onslaught ; and something 
 of that Frenchman's astonishment comes into my mind who could 
 not conceive the reason of Englishmen being so fond of cricket, 
 for where was the pleasure of standing up in a hot sun for a man 
 to shy a hard ball at you, while a lot of other fellows stood round 
 and looked on 1 If I do come to grief I hope that any amount of 
 arms and legs will be broken, but not my teeth. I never could 
 stand false ones, and I could not do without any, so it would be 
 awkward. 
 
 How hot it is ! We are all sitting and lying about under the 
 
n8 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 trees ; a little farther off are Miss Tyburn, and Mr. Frere, who has 
 just come over from the parsonage. In common mercy to our 
 numbers he ought to play, and allow us to enjoy the distinction of 
 having a man on each side ; but apparently he is more careful of 
 his shins than ambitious of honour, so sits in the shade at his 
 ease looking on. All too soon comes that terrible moment when 
 " Helen Adair !" is called, and bat in hand, I walk forth to my 
 fate. I begin my illustrious career by hit-wicket, but in consider- 
 ation of my extreme greenness and inexperience am permitted to 
 take my innings, that is to say, if I can get it. The ground 
 flies up into my face, the sky lies at my feet, as I stand awaiting 
 my first ball, holding with stiff nervous fingers my bat, in what 
 may be called the " first position " of cricketers— bolt upright, with 
 my person carefully curved out, and away from it, like Cupid's 
 bow. In comes the ball, and I swipe wildly at it. Have I hit it 
 or the wickets, or the wicket-keeper, or myself ? I am still in 
 doubt and undecided as to whether I ought to walk off to the 
 shade of the friendly tree when another ball comes creeping in, 
 very insidiously this time, and somehow I give it a neat little tip 
 that sends it straight into Fraulein's face ; and while I am looking 
 all about, and marvelling where it has got to, she is led away, 
 weeping bitterly, with a bleeding nose. Quite overpowered by 
 this proof of my skill, I send the next ball, which somehow seems 
 to run of its own accord against my bat, a tolerable distance ; and 
 being pleased at the circumstance, and engaged in looking round 
 with a modest smirk for admiration, am amazed at being violently 
 hustled by my fellow bats-woman, who wildly exhorts me to run. 
 Ah ! I had forgotten all about the runs, I was too much taken up 
 in congratulating myself, but I set out with a will, and am con- 
 siderably taken aback on arriving at my bourne to find that 1 am 
 ignominiously run out. 
 Moral : stick to business. Back to the tree I go, as crestfallen 
 
SEED TIME, 119 
 
 miserable, and ashamed a lass as the world contains. As I am 
 seating myself disconsolately, Miss Tyburn calls me, and I jump 
 up to obey her bidding. 
 
 " Mr. Frere knows your father, Helen Adair," she says ; " he 
 would like to talk to you," and she rises and sails away towards 
 the house, for which I am thankful. How could I talk to auy one 
 before her ? 
 
 " And so you are Alan Adair's daughter 1" says Mr. Frere, stretch- 
 ing out a kind hand : " and I never found it out until to-day." 
 
 " I knew you, sir," I say nodding. " I have seen you hanging 
 up in the library, you know." 
 
 ' ; Has your father still that old likeness V he asks, smiling. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! Were you and papa very great friends, sir V 
 
 " Not very," he says, smiiing again ; " what made you think 
 sor 
 
 " He does not keep photographs or— or pictures, generally." 
 
 11 1 knew him when we were both young men at Silverbridge." 
 
 " At Silverbridge !" I exclaim, my eyes sparkling. " You 
 know my old home, then V* i ' 
 
 "Yes, but your father was not married then. I suppose he has 
 several children by this time V 
 
 " A few, sir ; twelve." 
 
 w Twelve V he repeats, starting back. " You are joking V 
 
 " No, it is quite true ! and goodness knows — for Fm sure we 
 don't — whether there won't be as many more ! At home there 
 is always a baby, and they mount up, you know." 
 
 " And I have not one I" he says in a voice that is cheerful, and 
 yet has a faint undertone of regret. 
 
 " Oh ! you need not wish you had any !" 1 say, shaking my bead : 
 " ou would never be able to keep them in order— never. Papa 
 often says that if he had his time over again he would not have 
 
120 COM IN* THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 
 half so many ! And I am sure," I continue, looking at his kindly 
 face, "that you would never have the heart to whip " 
 
 u And does your father V he asks, laughing. 
 
 " Rather ! Only ask the fry ! Shall you be likely to go to Silver- 
 bridge soon ?" I ask suddenly and apprehensively. 
 
 "Not in the least. Why?" 
 
 " You might tell papa I was naughty or— or something." 
 
 " I never tell tales," he says. " And now do you think Miss 
 Tyburn would allow you to come over to the parsonage sometimes 
 and make tea for me f 
 
 " Delightful !" I say, clapping my hands. " Oh ! it will be so 
 \ nice to get away from all these girls sometimes ! They are all 
 Wy well, sir, but I prefer hoys.* 
 
 "I expect a nephew in a few days, but he is not a boy, unfortu- 
 nately." 
 
 "Will he play cricket with us ?" I ask with interest; "one 
 black coat does look so lost among all these girls ! " 
 
 " I am afraid Miss Tyburn would object," says Mr. Frere, laugh- 
 ing again (really he is not a bit like most elderly gentlemen) ; " he 
 is coining for some shooting a friend has placed at his disposal 
 near here. I shall not see much of him." 
 
 " Is he nice, sir V 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 " Helen Adair ! Helen Adair !"' echoes on all sides. The time 
 has come for me to field. Surely I cannot distinguish myself as 
 lamentably in that duty as I did in the other? " Good-bye !" I 
 say in a violent hurry. " Good-bye ! But before I go I want tc 
 tell you that I like you very much indeed /" 
 
 By-and-by I am able to do my side some small service. Mr. 
 Russell is in, and batting away with a determination and vigour 
 that strikes consternation to our feminine souls, and presently he 
 sends a mighty ball straight over my head (who am standing long 
 
SEED TIME. 121 
 
 field on) straight across the cricket-field, and into the next. " Six !" 
 cry the Russellites ; but six it shall not be, if I can help it. Laying 
 my legs to the ground with a will, I have cleared the field and 
 leaped the hedge beyond, before he has got one. I go plump into 
 the midst of a stinging-nettle bed— but that is nothing, I espy the 
 ball, and send it home with all my might. And after all he only 
 gets two. He casts an approving glance on me as I return, evi- 
 dently he is not used to seeing girls jump ; if he only knew how 
 thoroughly Jack has grounded me in that doubtful accomplish- 
 ment ' 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ' ' Beauty's ensign jet 
 le crimson on thy lips and in thy cheeks, 
 And death's pale flag is not advanced there." 
 
 It is three o'clock on Saturday afternoon, and I am making my 
 toilette preparatory to setting out for the parsonage. I would 
 rather be playing cricket, but Mr. Russell, after giving us a glorious 
 week, has gone away again ; however, he is coming back, and the 
 sooner the better, say I. Meanwhile, let me arrange my clean and 
 crackling gown, as gracefully as the inequalities of my form per- 
 mit, and try and persuade my curly thick hair to lie flat. 
 
 " Good-bye, Mary," I say, putting my head in at the class-room 
 door, where she sits illuminating a text, " I'm going now." 
 
 I never did care about girls, or want to be great friends with any 
 of them, but I like Mary. 
 
 The parsonage is only a few yards away ; it is right before my 
 eyes, as I walk along the bit of road that divides it from the school. 
 As I lift the latch of the gate, and go through the old-fashioned, 
 sweet-smelling garden, I give a long sigh of content, it is all so 
 peaceful, so dainty, so still. There is a faint suspicion of magnolia 
 
122 COM/AP THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 in the hall, a scent of roses abroad ; and when Mr. Frere himself 
 comes out to greet me, I feel blessedly, delightedly, restiully 
 happy. 
 
 " Run upstairs and take off your things, my dear," he says, and 
 Mrs. Pirn, his housekeeper, shows me the way. 
 
 Coming down again, I find that he has vanished, but she pushes 
 open the door of a room on the left, and I enter. 
 
 It is low and wide, like our Silverbridge rooms, and it is orderly 
 and prim as an old maid's parlour, with great formal bowls of 
 flowers planted about it, and a stiff bean-pot set in the hearth- 
 place. The windows are open, and, though it is September, the 
 late roses nod in at the windows. A big, deep arm-chair is pulled 
 up to one of them, with its back turned to me ; approaching to 
 seat myself in it, for a long course of upright chair backs has made 
 me hanker very seriously after something easy, I see the crown of 
 a dark smooth head resting against it. I am about to take a peep 
 round the corner to see who it can be, when the occupant of the 
 chair rises, stretches himself, and opens his mouth for a yawn, 
 stopping midway as he descries me. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he says, shutting his mouth with a snap, 
 " I never heard you come in." 
 
 " You are Mr. Frere's- nephew," I say, sitting down on the edge 
 of a sofa, and looking at him, " why are you not out shooting V 
 
 " I have been out all the morning How do you know i am 
 Mr. Frere's nephew T 
 
 " There is no one in Charteris," I say, shaking my head ; ' no 
 one ever comes here, except to see the girls, or Miss Tyburn, or 
 Mr. Paissell." 
 
 " And are you one of the girls." 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " The biggest of them T' 
 
 " Oh no ! but there are much smaller ones than me. Do you 
 
SEED TIME. 
 
 123 
 
 think me so very little 1 At home, at Silverbridge, you know, they 
 always thought me so leggy." 
 
 " You will shoot up some day," he says, passing his hand over 
 his moustache, " perhaps be a giantess, who knows 1 And do you 
 really live at Silverbridge V 
 
 " Yes. I suppose you have heard a good deal about it from Mr. 
 Frere?" 
 
 11 1 was born there," he says. 
 
 " But you have not been there lately V 
 
 " I lived there until fifteen years ago. Have you never been to 
 The Towers T 
 
 " Yes, I have been there/' I say slowly, remembering certain 
 stolen afternoons spent under the shadow of the oaks in the grand 
 old park ; " and that is yours V 
 
 " Yes, it is mine. My father died in Eome last year." 
 
 " I don't think that Jack and I ever knew who it was that owned 
 The Towers, not that we should ever have been any the wiser if we 
 had heard the name." 
 
 " No. I went away before you were born." 
 
 "And yet you cannot be very old," I say, lifting my eyes to the 
 dark, proud, somewhat worn face, that is as far removed from mere 
 effeminate beauty as it is from ordinary everyday looks. 
 
 " Old enough !" he says, with something very like a sigh ; " I 
 am thirty years old !" 
 
 " More than double my age," I say soberly. " Oh ! it seems a 
 great deal ; but then you must have seen so much, been all about 
 the world ; it must be nice to have had experience." 
 /**I would give it all," he says, looking into my eager face, "to 
 have your youth and freshness and belief." 
 
 "Belief I' I repeat, "what is thatj^ 
 
 " I can hardly tell you," he says, " for you would not understand. 
 Do you not look forward to having your life all your own way. 
 
124 COMfN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 meeting with the men and women you think heroic, having yom 
 ups and downs certainly, but also your rewards and pleasantnesses 1 
 I did when I was your age." 
 
 " And why should I not V I ask, puzzled. " Are all our hopes 
 of future happiness illusions 1 I should hate to think that." 
 
 " Do not think it then," he says, standing up with a quick, im- 
 patient shake of the shoulders ; " let us go out into the garden. 
 By the way, what am I to call you, little madam V 
 
 " Helen Adair," I say, laughing ; " at home they call me Nell." 
 
 " Then I shall call you Nell, too," he says promptly. " I wonder 
 where my uncle is 1" 
 
 He goes to a door leading into a smaller inner room, that is, I 
 think, Mr. Frere's study, but he is not there. 
 
 " Sent for to some old woman who thinks she is dying, I suppose," 
 says his nephew. " He is always being imposed upon." 
 
 We go out into the kitchen garden, which is not close locked as 
 ours at home, but open to all comers ; and since there are no little 
 thieves here to make busy work among the fruit, there is plenty 
 and to spare. 
 
 " You are as good as a pair of steps," I say, watching him with 
 much interest gathering the pears that grow on the sunny side of 
 the wall ; " how useful you would have been at Silverbridge !" 
 He gives me a satin smooth Marie Louise. How I wish Jack was 
 here! 
 
 " And of what use should I have been V 
 
 " You could have jumped the wall and thrown the fruit over to 
 us." 
 
 " And supposing it was breakable V 
 
 " We should not have minded,'' I say, laughing. " Have you a 
 first-rate kitchen garden at The Towers 1" 
 
 "We used to have; I don't know whether the raspberry and 
 gooseberry bushes have grown, like me, aged." 
 
SEED TIME. 125 
 
 11 1 do so love gooseberries," I say, looking fondly at the bare 
 bushes we are passing ; " grapes never came up to them in my 
 estimation." 
 
 H Then when I am at The Towers will you come and help strip 
 my bushes V 
 
 " That I will," I say heartily, " only I am afraid that if you once 
 let me into your garden you will never get any dessert." 
 
 " I shall not want any for a long time ; I am not going there for 
 three years, except for a day or two to arrange matters." 
 
 " Three years !" I say blankly. " Oh dear ! I shall be past goose- 
 berries by the time you come back !" 
 
 " There will be the peaches V 
 
 " Yes, but they will never taste the same, you know, after I am 
 grown up. Are you going very far V 
 
 "To India, America, Siberia, Australia, China, and— I forget the 
 names of the places almost." 
 
 " It is a pity," I say, shaking my head, " a very great pity ! You 
 should do a little at a time. You cannot enjoy all that at once ! 
 Why, when we went to Peri winkle-by- the -Sea we were worn out 
 with the novelties. We felt they were almost too much !" 
 
 " But supposing," he says, with a queer look upon his face, 
 " that you wanted to be worn out, wanted to tire yourself, what 
 then?" 
 
 " I never felt like that," I say thoughtfully, " so I cannot tell." 
 
 " You have a blessedly blank memory, child," he says ; " would 
 to God I had !" 
 
 " My master is expecting you," says Mrs. Pirn, appearing sud- 
 denly before us, so we go in and have dinner ; a cool, quiet repast, 
 that is very unlike the one of which I partook at one o'clock to-day. 
 I think Mr. Frere is fond of this nephew ; Paul, he calls him, his 
 other name, I find, is Vasher* We are out in the garden again 
 by seven o'clock— at so primitive an hour does Mr. Jb'rere dine— 
 
126 COM/AT THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 and smelling at the roses, the carnations, and those sweet last 
 gifts that summer leaves behind when she sweeps her bright skirts 
 away to make room for autumn, and I have gathered me a nosegay 
 at Mr. Frere's request, and am tying it together with a wisp of dry 
 grass. We have wandered to the gate that gives on the road, and 
 while Mr. Vasher smokes his cigar, and Mr. Frere talks from time 
 to time, we watch the cows go past, making all the air " like the 
 sweet south, that breathes upon a bank of violets," and half a 
 dozen labourers, and a tipsy man ; for, strange to say, even in this 
 out of the world corner, people are as much inclined to be wicked 
 as anywhere else. Mr. Frere has his eyes fixed upon the portals of 
 the shining city, through which the sun seems to have only just 
 passed ; his face is grave ; perhaps he is thinking of the gold and 
 silver and jewels of his youth that are stored away there, to be 
 given back to him by God's hand maybe, when this life is over 
 past. Mr. Vasher's face is so calm and still and indifferent as he 
 leans over the gate, blowing a smoke wreath up into the clear blue 
 azure above us, that I inly marvel whether he were not joking a 
 while ago when he spoke as though the past had proved more 
 bitter than sweet to him. 
 
 The sound of hoofs strikes sharply on my ears ; looking up 1 
 see a horsewoman approaching at a foot pace, her head is bent, the 
 reins are hanging loosely from her hand, her face is almost hidden. 
 At my side I feel a sudden leap, a stir, and a hoarse voice, deep and 
 shaken, says below its breath, "JSly God !" Turning, I see Paul 
 Vasher's face convulsed by love, hate, scorn, longing, loathing . . . 
 which is it of all these feelings that possesses and shakes him 1 I 
 look at the girl, she is riding slowly by ; she has not lifted her 
 head or moved one hair's-breadth. I feel rather than hear the sigh 
 of relief he gives (surely it is relief 1) when she lifts her eyes, looks 
 full in his face, then, it is all in a moment, the reins slip from her 
 hands, she sways and falls headlong to the earth. She does not 
 
SEED TIME. 127 
 
 touch it though, for Paul Vasher has leapt the gate, has caught 
 her in his arms, and is looking down on her with a strange expres- 
 sion as the groom hastily dismounts and catches his mistress's 
 horse. ^} 
 
 " Bring her in !" says Mr. Frere, pale with alarm. (Are not old 
 bachelors and old maids easily daunted %) And Paul brings her 
 in, and lays her down in the big arm-chair, in which I found him 
 sitting a few hours ago. I do not think she has fainted, but her 
 eyes are shut, and she makes neither sigh nor moan, nor does she 
 stir hand or foot. As I look at her, I hold my breath for wonder 
 at her. Well might Shakespeare have said of her, " for the poor 
 rude world hath not her fellow." She is all white and gold, like 
 a pure lily, and as tall ; for though her little hands and feet might 
 belong to a child, she is really of fair stature, and so softly, sensu- 
 ously lovely at all points, in every dimple and curve of cheek, lip, 
 chin, and body, that it is a feast of the eye to look upon her 
 while — 
 
 " Here in her hair 
 The painter plays the spider, and hath woven 
 A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men 
 Faster than gnats in cobwebs." 
 
 Once I look at Mr. Vasher, then back again at her, for the face 
 fascinates it. I do not like it, but, oh ! I love to look at what is 
 rare and unusual ; and is not this such a picture as a man might 
 dream of and sigh after, all his life long, and never see % Mrs. 
 Pirn is trying to pour brandy down her throat, but the beautiful 
 mouth does not unclose, the fast- set teeth do not unlock, and yet 
 somehow she does not give me the idea of being an insensible 
 woman. I am thinking this, when she opens her eyes with a 
 long-drawn, shuddering sigh, and looks about her, first at 
 one, then another 1 She does* not see Paul, who is standing be- 
 hind her, 
 
128 COMIN* THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 " I hope you are better," says Mr. Frere, advancing, and looking 
 at her very kindly. " We were afraid " 
 
 " I thought," she says, glancing about with dilated sapphire blue 
 eyes, " that I saw " 
 
 Paul steps forward out of the shadow. " I am here," he says, 
 quietly. " I hope you have received no hurt V 
 
 I had thought these two were lovers, but they cannot be : his 
 voice is as cold and indifferent as though he were speaking to Pirn. 
 She looks up at him, and her lips quiver, like a beautiful child 
 that seeks love and is given a blow ; under the look he winces and 
 turns away. She is very young, not more than eighteen, I think ; 
 and somehow, down in my heart, though why or wherefore I can- 
 not tell, I am sorry for her. 
 
 " My dear," says good Mr. Frere, " are you sure that you are 
 quite recovered]" 
 
 " Quite," she says, standing up and giving him such a bright, 
 winsome smile that the middle-aged man blushes up to his ears, 
 pleased as any schoolboy. u I must have been very careless, for 
 Dandy never gave me a fall before." 
 
 '' It is fortunate we were at the gate," he says, '" and that my 
 nephew was able to be of some assistance." 
 I "Your nephew !" she says, staring at him; " is Paul Vasher your 
 / nephew V* 
 
 " You know him V exclaims Mr. Frere. " My dear boy, why did 
 \ you not tell me so V 
 
 " We have met before," she says, looking at Paul ; " that is all." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," says Paul, coming forward. " Allow me, 
 Miss Fleming, to introduce my uncle, Mr. Frere, to you. This 
 young lady, sir, is Miss Fleming." 
 
 " Lady Flytton's niece 1" asks Mr. Frere, as the girl lays her 
 lovely slim hand in his ; " then we are near neighbours J" 
 
SEED TIME. 1 2Q 
 
 " I have heard my aunt speak of you," she says, gently, " and we 
 were coming to hear you preach to-morrow." 
 
 " And you know Paul?" continued Mr. Frere ; "how very odd ! 
 I suppose you did not know he was in this part of the world 1" 
 
 " I thought he was in Scotland." 
 
 " You said you were going to Scarbro'," says Paul, "you changed 
 your mind 1" 
 
 " Yes, like you. It is £ot a difficult thing to do, to change one's 
 mind, is it T 
 
 Their eyes met ; ay, these two were hot lovers once, but what 
 are they now % 
 
 " You have laid me under a great obligation, Mr. Vasher," she 
 says, in her proud young voice. "Pray understand that I am 
 grateful. Good night, Mr. Frere, and forgive me, if you can, for 
 startling you so much." 
 
 " Good night ! good night !" he says, and so with a hand-shake 
 she goes, and the two men accompany her to the gate. 
 
 Now if Mr. Frere had possessed the most rudimental idea of his 
 duty on this occasion, he would have stopped behind with me. 
 Clearly he has about as much notion of being a gooseberry as a 
 cabbage ; but my instinct is active enough if his is not, and a 
 long course of sympathy with Alice and Charles has made me 
 very tender-hearted on the subject of lovers ; so as Mr. Frere 
 passes the window with the two young people, I utter a dismal 
 groan and call out to him that I have tumbled down and hurt 
 myself very much. Back he comes in a twinkling and finds me 
 nursing my leg on the floor, with a twisted ankle. " I tumbled 
 over a footstool," I explain, " and will you assist me to the 
 sofa ?" He wants to call Mrs. Pirn, and have it examined ; but 
 this I object to, giving it as my opinion that rest is all that is 
 required. 
 
 "So odd," says the poor gentleman, as he brings me a book 
 
 a 
 
130 COM IN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 and some papers, "that there should be two accidents in one 
 evening !" 
 
 On some pretext or another I keep him in the room for fully ten 
 minutes ; then he goes out into the garden after Paul. 
 
 I wonder if, when I am grown up and am quarrelling with my 
 lover, any good Samaritan will take as much trouble to serve me as 
 I have taken to serve those two who are standing down by the gate 
 yonder, looking into each other's faces with such a different expres- 
 sion on each 1 So much I see as I hop nimbly to the window as 
 soon as Mr. Frere's back is turned to me 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 " Hamlet. — I did love you once. 
 Ophkli a.— Indeed, my lord, you made me believe flo." 
 
 " Come and pray ! come and pray !" ring the sweet bells through 
 the hushed peace of the sabbath morning ; and obedient to the call 
 we rise up, and, ascending to the higher regions, proceed to cloak 
 and bonnet ourselves after our school-girl lights and abilities. There 
 must be a little fashion wandering about the world somewhere, but 
 it has not yet found its way to Charteris ; only in one respect do 
 we follow the mode, and that is by wearing spoon bonnets. Very 
 fresh and fair look some of the faces inside those absurd monstro- 
 sities, but unlovely folk are not improved by their shape, and of 
 those hapless latter virgins I am one. I would not mind if the 
 tiresome thing would keep straight ; but it will not, and I usually 
 reach church looking as though I had had a fight on the way 
 and come off second best. I am in short frocks still, so that from 
 a distance I look all legs and bonnet—" like a wind-mill," as one 
 of my friends kindly remarked the other day. . 
 We are out in the road now, winding along it, like a dingy 
 
SEED TIME. 131 
 
 riband, and as we pass the parsonage, Mr. Vasher comes out, fresh, 
 perfectly dressed, with a delicate button-hole in his coat ; alto- 
 gether a pleasant and refreshing sight among this regiment "of in- 
 differently clothed young women. He scans our ranks as care- 
 lessly as though we were a show of azaleas or roses (not that we 
 are those pretty flowers by any means — far more dandelions than 
 beauty-blossoms grow in our parterre), and does not discover me ; 
 apparently my bonnet is as good a disguise as an entirely new 
 body. He has passed us all, with his long, quick step, before we 
 have turned in at the churchyard. I wonder why a black coat on 
 any man's back who is not fifty sends such a twitter of excitement 
 through a girls' school 1 A few years hence and a hundred men 
 would not cause the excitement that a single one does now in the 
 breast of a school-girl. And now we are in church ; anon Mr. 
 Frere is in his place, and "Dearly beloved" is half through, when 
 a prodigious clatter outside makes all eyes turn to the door. A 
 hand with arm coated in grey and scarlet livery opens it, and a tall, 
 fair, majestic woman sails in and rustles up the aisle, her bracelets 
 clanking, her dress trailing behind her, looking uncommonly like 
 a ship in full sail. Miss Fleming follows. She does not rustle and 
 she does not clank ; she sweeps noiselessly along in her cool white 
 dress, and she is in white from head to foot. The very church 
 seems the brighter for her coming, as she kneels against the 
 carven oak ; she looks as sinless, and fair, and adorable as Mar- 
 guerite may have looked before Faust came, and yet— and yet 
 
 I wonder why with this lovely bit of porcelain I am always think- 
 ing of the outside, never of the nature and inner life !< For the 
 best of reasons : save for beauty her face is the merest blank ; if 
 she has a soul she keeps it mighty well hid, but in the teeth of 
 such perfection who would ask anything more 1 No sensible man 
 or woman. s \tt is a pity to look at the mother and daughter side 
 by side. Will the lovely red and white of the girl's cheek 
 
 9—2 
 
1 32 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 strengthen into the fixed colour that the other wears ] Will the 
 dainty contour of brow, lip, and chin in the daughter's face be- 
 come thickened, even lost in time, as in the mother's case ? They 
 are so alike in features, colouring, and proportion, that the doubt 
 is natural. Paul Vasher sits in the chancel opposite me, the Flem- 
 ings a little below in the body of the church ; once he turns his 
 head and their eyes meet, and are held fast and long. It is a diffi- 
 cult look to read, but though no change passes over his face, it 
 
 " Makes her blood look out ; 
 Good sooth she is the queen of curds and cream." 
 
 Now the Benediction is spoken, and we rise and go our ways, 
 standing aside in the road as Lady Flytton's carriage goes by. The 
 girls are buzzing in low tones of the stranger, of her beauty, her 
 bonnet, her gown ; she has even astonished them into forgetting 
 Mr. Vasher. We have dinner, that liberal meal at Charteris, that 
 does not stand godmother to resurrection pies, cold remains, and 
 potato puddings, or any other abomination. Our parents pay for 
 us to be well fed, and we are ; therefore the school prospers. We 
 are in the first class-room now, and — oh, wonder ! — I am actually 
 seated in the midst of the potent Buffs : for so the six head girls 
 of the school are called, who w T ield an authority in the school second 
 only to that of Miss Tyburn. By no virtue of my own am I here, 
 but Kate Lishaw, the head of them, has been pleased to take some 
 small notice of me ; therefore am I sitting cheek by jowl with my 
 betters. 
 
 " Girls," says Kate, resting her charming, dark-eyed, mignonne 
 face on her clasped hands, " I have some news ; we are going to 
 have a party? 
 
 "Not really V " How I hate them!" "A lot of trouble for 
 nothing !" " We shall get some supper, though !" " And there 
 will be at least one man !" '* He won't be asked." These ejacula- 
 
SEED TIME. 133 
 
 tions burst out on all sides, I alone holding my tongue, for as yet 
 a party at Charteris is a thing heard of but never seen by me. 
 
 "It is even so, my brethren," continues Kate, "and the edict has 
 gone forth that our quarterly, low-necked, manless, partnerless, 
 full dress ball is to take place on Thursday week. But do not be 
 down-hearted, my friends, about this impending festivity. There 
 is an unusual and beautiful halo of novelty, for at it will probably 
 be present — a man ! None of your miserable old rectors, or half- 
 penny hobbledehoys, but a downright well-dressed, presentable 
 man. There is no knowing to whom he may throw his pocket- 
 handkerchief ; therefore my advice to all and sundry is, curl up 
 your hair, starch up your skirts, put on your most ravishing ogle, 
 your finest languish, and— every man for himself, and devil take 
 the hindmost." 
 
 " Only he cannot dance with more than a quarter of us," says 
 Laura Fielding, a languid beauty of the Lydia Languish type, who 
 is ripe for flirtation, but doomed to bread and butter. 
 
 " I have thought of that," says Kate. " We will have a lottery 
 with fifteen prizes, and whoever draws one shall pin it to the front 
 of her dress, and walk up to Mr. Vasher, and making a curtsey, 
 say, ■ My dance, I think V and lead him away." 
 
 " I wonder what he would be doing all that time 1" says Belle 
 Linden. " He does not look like a man who would be made to do 
 anything he does not choose." 
 
 " So much the better," says Dora. " I don't fancy the coup d'oeil 
 of our assembled charms will have the same effect upon him that 
 they had on that little man who came to our last with Mr. Russell 
 and who gave one look at our hungry and awaiting ranks, and ran.'' 
 
 " Where did he go V I ask, opening my eyes. 
 
 " Nobody knows. Of one thing only are we certain, he never 
 came back," 
 
 " Perhaps Mr. Vasher will not come," says Kate. " Men like 
 
134 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 girls, you know, but, I fancy, in moderation. He does not look like 
 an universal lover of womankind— we want a diffusive man." 
 
 "If he does not come/' says Belle, "to view our forlorn and 
 piteous gambols, then all spring and verve will depart therefrom*, 
 and we shall be like apple tart without the apples." 
 
 " If he only knew," says Emma, " that every petticoat, skirt, and 
 tucker in this establishment will be washed to his glory, he could 
 not choose but come. He could not be man born of woman with- 
 out feeling touched." 
 
 ** Helen Adair, you shrimp ! you have spoken to him, have you 
 not V asks Laura. " Is he made of gentle stuff, or likely to kick 
 over the traces V 
 
 " I don't know," I say, laughing. '' Shall I ask him when I see 
 him r 
 
 " Do," says Kate, impressively, laying her hand on my head. " Go 
 down on your knees to him, and refuse to get up again until he says 
 he will come ! There will be a ragged look about us all if he does 
 not !" 
 
 A bell ringing in the distance calls us together like a flock of 
 sheep, to go out for a walk. 
 
 It is Wednesday afternoon, and we are all, great and small, up- 
 stairs unearthing our evening dresses, and fishing up boots, gloves, 
 and other minor appendages. To me this party is a new experience. 
 Never have I been to anything that bore the most ghostly resem- 
 blance to one ; therefore my festive garment is not, like that belong- 
 ing to some of my less fortunate school-mates, grown too short, too 
 tight, or too narrow. Nevertheless, it is not much to boast of, 
 being a species of Phoenix, revived from the ashes of one of mother's 
 dead and gone tails. It is rusty, it is musty, it is villainously bare 
 of ornament and green of hue, but it comes decently down to my 
 heels, and does not refuse to meet over my chest— a piece of good 
 luck on which I may congratulate myself, seeing that on all sides 
 
SEED TIME. 135 
 
 I hear the popping of hooks, and bursting of buttons, as " bodies," 
 after undue pressure, fly off at a tangent, and gape widely when 
 they should close ; while petticoats, that ought modestly to touch 
 the ground, display ankles that refuse to blush unseen 
 
 The woes of one girl in particular might draw tears from a stone. 
 Poor Emma's existence is one long struggle to get into her frocks ; 
 for Providence, who ever loves to serve mankind nasty tricks, has 
 predisposed her to fat, with an ever-increasing solidity that sets 
 dressmakers at defiance. Not that this fact in itself calls for pity; 
 for are not the fat ones of the earth the happiest, the cheer fullest, 
 the best-tempered people living 1 The sling of it lies in this, that 
 Emma has a stepmother who objects to new dresses on principle, 
 and will allow no more than a certain number a year, and has 
 decreed that when she has had those let out to their extremest 
 limits, if they will not accommodate themselves to her form, then 
 her form must be brought down to the size of her gown. So, 
 when poor Emma shows signs of over-growing she is put on 
 Banting, and made to eat the things that she hates and leave 
 untouched those that she loves, and, over and above, to skip 
 for an hour before breakfast every morning. The latter in hot 
 weather is trying, but, nevertheless, she works her stepmother's 
 will ; and though her life is a burden to her, by degrees her fat 
 diminishes, and she comes down to the size of her garments. If 
 this is not a practical example of the triumph of mind over matter 
 then where shall one be found % Just now she is in the increasing 
 stage, and efforts that would not disgrace a blacksmith are being 
 made to " fasten " her low blue and white silk frock ; but, alas ! 
 until Emma has returned to Banting the glories of that frock are 
 not for her. 
 
 Consultations, serious and profound as those held with a court 
 dressmaker over a London beauty's first Drawing-room, are going 
 on in all directions ; bareges, grenadines, and muslins being the 
 
136 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 aristocratic subjects under discussion. It seems a great waste of 
 good starch and time, so much preparation, so little to gain by it, 
 But though no strangers worth mentioning will be present to 
 appraise all this bravery at its true worth, will it not be something 
 for Rose Mary with her superior flounces to cut out Anna Maria 
 with her scanty ones, and are not the merits of the rival beauties 
 of the school on these occasions of dress parade afterwards dis- 
 cussed as fully and exhaustively as any Almack beauty, by any 
 group of beaux and wits at Whites'? Hence these puckered 
 brows and weighty discussions. 
 
 I hang up my black bombazine to try and get some of the 
 creases out ; then I dig out a pair of very large, very baggy old 
 white kid boots, at least four sizes too big for me— family heir- 
 looms that were originally worn (I think) by my grandmother, 
 then by mother, now by me, and will be handed down in turn 
 to future generations. They are as yellow as autumn leaves ; 
 surely their complexion might be improved? Not unlikely ! So 
 might my own, so might the bombazine, by upsetting a pot of ink 
 over it. It would then at least be black : but I am not going to 
 take the trouble. 
 
 I put my bat under my arm and go downstairs with a pleased 
 smile on my face, for am I not going to clean it, and is not this 
 duty a real labour of love with me ? But half-way down I meet a 
 servant, who says— 
 
 II If you please, miss, you may put on your hat and go over to the 
 parsonage, Miss Tyburn says." 
 
 I put away my bat and fetch my hat, nothing loth, and set out 
 immediately. Arrived at the house, I find no one visible, but 
 after some search discover Mr. Vasher in the orchard, swinging in 
 a hammock under an apple tree. Very cool and lazy and com- 
 fortable he looks, with the September sun glinting through the 
 green leaves, and on the sides of the rosy apples that hang over 
 
SEED TIME. 137 
 
 his head ; though I fancy a smart shower of them upon his face 
 would scarcely improve the flavour of his "Balzac." He looks 
 rather astonished as my head suddenly appears at his elbow, and 
 lays down his book. 
 
 " How do you do V I say quickly. " Do not try to shake hands, 
 you will only tumble out ; I have come to ask you something very 
 particular? 
 
 "Well, what is it f 
 
 " You like to do kind things, do you not % You like to please 
 people T 
 
 " That depends on who they are." 
 
 " Oh, these are rather nice," I say, nodding ; " they can't help 
 being only girls, you know." 
 
 " Oh, girls !" says Mr. Vasher ; " and how can I please them V 
 
 " We are going to have a party," I say, seriously, " and you are 
 going to be invited, and the Buffs were talking about it on Sunday, 
 taking it as a matter of course that you would come ; but some- 
 how I felt in my bones that it was not the sort of thing you would 
 care about, and I made up my mind to ask you to come as a great 
 favour to us all." 
 
 " And why did you think I should not come V* he asks, amusedly. 
 
 " Because," I say confidentially, " I know that, as a rule, men do 
 not care for girls in a lump ; they do not mind a few, but they can't 
 stand fifty.* 
 
 " Only fifty ] I thought I saw over a hundred on Sunday." 
 
 " Oh, no !" I say, laughing ; " do not make us out worse than 
 we are. And so — and so I thought I would just tell you how 
 anxious we are for you to come, because I thought that, how- 
 ever much you disliked the idea, you would come as a matter of 
 duty." 
 
 " You must think me a good-tempered sort of fellow," says Mr. 
 Vasker, scrambling out of his hammock somewhat inelegantly (the 
 
138 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 handsomest man alive could hardly perform that feat gracefully) ; 
 " before I promise, tell me what my duties will be." 
 
 " There will be fifty girls," I say, walking by his side, " without 
 teachers, and you will have them all to yourself to pick and choose 
 from, and you need not hurry yourself in the least about a partner, 
 or be afraid of any one saying No, for you will be the only young 
 man there." 
 
 " Delightful privilege !" says my companion. 
 
 " You will not be expected to dance with us all," I say reassur- 
 ingly ; " not more than fifteen at most ! The other girls dance 
 with each other." 
 
 " And what are you going to do V' 
 
 " I never dance/' I say, shaking my head ; " I have never learnt, 
 and it is better not to make a spectacle of myself." 
 
 " Then you will not dance with me 1" 
 
 " Oh no !" I say, " I could not think of such a thing. Even if I 
 knew how, I should be ashamed to deprive the other girls of you ; 
 I see you sometimes, you know, and they do not, and they would 
 think it so mean of me !" 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " O thou weed, 
 Who ait so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet, 
 That the sense aches at thee." 
 
 Thursday evening has arrived, and eight o'clock is striking We 
 are all assembled in the big dining-room, and our petticoats are so 
 voluminous and our bodies so pranked forth, that, instead of fifty 
 souls, we look as though we numbered two hundred at the very 
 least. If a Frenchman were let loose among us, he would clasp 
 his hands in speechless admiration at the amount of raw material 
 before him, the fine eyes, the abundant hair, fair skins, and perfect 
 
SEED TIME. 139 
 
 teeth ; but he would also deplore, from the bottom of his soul, our 
 chaussures, coiffures, and choice of colours — he would lament the 
 total absence of style, toumure, chic, whatever it may be called, 
 that in England is so conspicuous by its absence, and, while he 
 hankered after our red and white charms, would console himself 
 with the recollection of his sallow spouse's matchless taste and 
 subtle costume, perfect in every detail. 
 
 We each have a little card, or at least everybody has but me 
 upon which are inscribed the partners selected for the dances, 
 although it is an understood thing that if a man should miracu- 
 lously appear and request the honour, the former engagement is to 
 be considered null and void. 
 
 After all, we have not had a lottery on Paul Vasher's account, 
 and he will be free to go where he lists, although I privately enter- 
 tain very grave doubts whether he will trot out one-half of the 
 damsels who confidently expect to be asked. 
 
 The door opens, and our little music-master appears, followed by 
 his son, bearing a fiddle, out of which he will presently harrow up 
 our souls with shrieks that might wake the dead. 
 
 Miss Tyburn comes in. She wears maize silk and black lace ; 
 very imposing she looks as she bends, in answer to the crackling 
 bows every one makes all round the room. And now enters the 
 Rev. Thomas Shrubb (rector of an adjacent parish) with his wife* 
 who wears a blue gown and a green and gold cap. Their son fol- 
 lows, a dyspeptic, parboiled youth of eighteen, who looks like a 
 beast led to the slaughter, and while he gazes fatuously about him, 
 seems dimly to understand that he has fallen among thieves. We 
 are not proud, we school-girls ; anything in the shape of a man is 
 comely in our eyes, but we scorn to reckon this fat youth as a man 
 or anything approaching to one. 
 
 At a sign from Miss Tyburn the fiddle strikes up, the little 
 music-master thumps at the piano, and a quadrille is formed. Mr. 
 
HO COM IN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 Shrubb leads out Miss Tyburn with tottering steps (at his time of 
 life he ought to know better), his wife sinks into an easy chair ; 
 the fat boy advances a step, apparently meditating a plunge into 
 the sea of white muslin before him, gasps, blinks, ruminates, thinks 
 better of it, and finally sits down, puffing apoplectically. " Gentle- 
 men " girls fetch out their lady partners, and lead them to their 
 places. 
 
 "If there is anything I hate," says Laura Fielding, as she sweeps 
 her pale pink skirts over my feet, " it is having a girl's arm round 
 my waist !" 
 
 The room is one struggling mass of tarlatan, muslin, and barege ; 
 every now and then a hitch occurs, and half a dozen young women 
 get firmly wedged together by their hoops, and are disentangled 
 with great difficulty. In the ladies' chain, too, there is some con- 
 fusion, but one can't expect everything. The old vicar sets, bows, 
 and shuffles with the rest most valiantly ; like the Shaker of Ar- 
 temus Ward memory. The dance over, every one who can, sits 
 down and drinks negus \ which might be better, but then, on the 
 other hand, might be worse. The fiddler is just executing a pre- 
 paratory scrape, that seems to take his hearers into the very bowels 
 of the earth, when the door opens, and enter Mr. Frere and Mr. 
 Vasher. As the latter stands talking to Miss Tyburn, I see him 
 glance about him with a keen amusement ; then, as the music 
 strikes up, he leaves her and comes straight to the corner where I 
 lie pe> du. 
 
 " This is our dance," he says, placing my hand under his arm, 
 disregarding my murmurs of dissent with masculine sangfroid. 
 
 I feel my shortcomings very grievously, as he leads me forth. 
 How I wish my gown were not so rusty, and that my boots did not 
 curl up at the toes quite so much, seeming to require chains, as did 
 those of our ancestors long ago. He puts his strong arm about my 
 waist, and away we go ; but, alas ! if a lamp-post and a bottle 
 
SEED TIME. 141 
 
 elected to dance a jig together, they would bear about the same 
 proportion to each other, that Mr. Vasher does to me. 
 
 " Stop !" I cry, when we have taken one round and a half, " it 
 is no good." 
 
 So he stops, laughing, and takes me to a seat. 
 
 u Long and short," he says, " and decidedly much too long !* 
 
 " I told you how it would be," I say, ruefully ; " you see, I am 
 only a little above your elbow ! If one could only roll one's self 
 out !" 
 
 " Supposing you grew up like that 1" he says, glancing almost 
 imperceptibly at a maypole of a girl who is standing near, and who 
 measures five feet ten in her stockings. 
 
 " One can always avenge one's injuries when one is that size ; 
 and, after all, must it not be nice to be able to snub people 1" I 
 say, laughing. 
 
 " That is a pretty little girl," he says, looking at Kate Lis haw, 
 who has paused for a moment in her dancing near us. 
 
 " She is a duck," I say quickly ; " do ask her to dance." 
 
 In a moment I have fetched her, and they go off together, he 
 looking with real admiration at her fresh, bright young face. I 
 leave my place, and go to the top of the room ; hard by Miss Tyburn 
 is speaking to Mrs. Shrubb, and as her voice is raised in rivalry 
 with the fiddle, I cannot avoid hearing what she says. 
 
 " Remarkably lovely ; but you will be able to judge for yourself, 
 she is coming to-night with her aunt, Lady Flytton. I was calling 
 there yesterday, and happened to mention Mr. Vasher's name ; 
 she said she knew him very well, and seemed to like the idea of 
 seeing him again, so I asked her to come." 
 
 " Miss Fleming is coming ! I wonder what Paul will say f 
 
 The music ceases in a crescendo of shrieks that might well make 
 Weber, whose waltz it is, stir in his coffin. The room is scarcely 
 clear again when the door opens, and a little withered, bent old 
 
H2 COMIN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 woman in a pearl grey satin, half covered with lace, totters in. 
 Behind her comes her niece, Miss Fleming. More than ever like a 
 white and cold lily does she look as she advances by the side of 
 that brown old witch, and pays her devoirs to Miss Tyburn. She 
 wears white garments that sweep in great soft folds to the ground ; 
 they are bordered with a Greek pattern of gold, and about her 
 neck, arms, and waste are clasped heavy dead gold coins. She 
 looks all white and gold, from the crown of her head to the tips of 
 her embroidered brodequins. The scanty folds of the Greek 
 bodice fall away exquisitely from the ivory white shoulders and 
 bosom ; the arms, bare from shoulder to wrist, taper divinely, and 
 are softly nicked at elbow and wrist like a baby's. We all hold 
 our breath as we look at her ; and Paul Vasher, standing hard by, 
 marks every matchless point of face and figure as no feminine eyes 
 ever could, and— does not go near her. On the contrary, he says 
 something to Kate, who leads him up to Mary Burns— comely 
 gentle, honest Mary— and she goes off with him, looking hugely 
 flattered. Miss Fleming is seated in a low chair talking to Mrs. 
 Shrubb, fanning herself slowly with a quaint fan of crimson 
 feathers. The fat boy on seeing her has gasped once and never 
 got his breath back. His father is sitting with a hand grasping 
 each knee, surveying her with senile admiration. Why is not 
 Mr. Vasher by her side % Why is she sitting there alone ? She 
 looks as though she did not care, and yet I am sure she does : 
 not often can it fall to her lot to be slighted and set aside for 
 school-girls. 
 
 He goes up to her by-and-by though, when the evening is wear- 
 ing away ; and surely she is not proud, for she lays her hand upon 
 his arm, and they waltz together, melting into the long gliding 
 step that each possesses in such perfection. For a time I sit still 
 and look at them, at the dark magnificent looks of the man, and 
 the fair luxuriant beauty of the girl, and think that never surely 
 
SEED TIME. i 43 
 
 did a more splendid couple stand up together ; they seem to be 
 made for each other. Presently I leave my seat and go out into 
 the corridor, which is bright as noonday in the clear, pale beams 
 of the September moon. 
 
 The hall door stands widely, invitingly open. Beyond its lintel 
 lies the broad, sleeping, moon-washed earth, and from down 
 below the faint call of a night-bird rises now and again. For a 
 moment I hesitate— over that threshold I am forbidden to go ; 
 then, as the tread of many feet comes down the corridor, I snatch 
 up one of the wraps lying about, and step forth into the silver 
 peace and beauty of the night. Just outside the door is a dark cor- 
 ner, formed by the projection of the porch, and into this I slip, 
 lest a teacher or Buff should come to the door and discover my 
 unlawful whereabouts. 
 
 The flowers are all fast asleep ; they look ghostly and weird in 
 the glistening light. I wonder if they will wake up by-and-by, 
 as Hans Andersen's did, and whisper flower secrets and love talk 
 as they trip their dainty measures'* Somehow I never can 
 believe that these flowers are but coloured shapes : they seem to 
 me to be so much more worthy of souls and nerves than the ugly, 
 stupid folks that walk about the world. There is not a breath of 
 air abroad ; the land is as still and unruffled as the dark blue 
 vault overhead, in which the stars glitter countless and brilliant 
 as though a royal hand had strown them. We think queer thoughts 
 sometimes, when we stand perfectly alone and in utter silence, face 
 to face with the great mystery of nature : the common, prosaic, 
 everyday life falls from us, habit fades away, and custom is not ; 
 the thousand ways and words and thoughts that lay as a screen 
 between us and her great truths, vanish like thin air ; the mortal 
 coil does not press so heavily upon us at these times as at others, and 
 some dim perception of the universal law that governs God's earth 
 breathes itself imperceptibly into our souls. 
 
144 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 I think I must have been out here a long while, for I am grow- 
 ing cold. Time to go in. I am just emerging, when, down the 
 corridor, click clack ! click clack ! come the tap of high-heeled 
 shoes, and I hastily draw back into my corner as the new-comer 
 steps over the threshold and stands, face and form and robe, bathed 
 in a flood of pure silvery light. It is Miss Fleming, and she stands 
 quite motionless, looking up steadfastly at the sky overhead. All 
 the soft beauty of her face is gone ; in its place there reigns a cold, 
 still determination that contrasts almost violently with the youth 
 of her lineaments. As she slowly lifts her arm and right hand to 
 heaven, her lips move, and she looks like some relentless goddess, 
 who has been turned to stone in the act of calling down confusion 
 and curses upon her enemy. More footsteps— a man's this time- 
 come down the passage and approach the door, pause for a moment, 
 then come on again. 
 
 " Had you not better have a shawl. Miss Fleming V inquires Mr. 
 Vasher's voice. " You will take cold." 
 
 At his polite, chill words she neither speaks nor stirs, neither 
 turns nor looks ; she stands motionless, with her eyes fixed upon 
 the ground, looking with her straight brow and antique raiment 
 like a Greek slave standing before her master. He looks at her 
 with a keen, hard scrutiny from head to foot, and turns to go. He 
 is within the house, when she calls to him— 
 
 "Paul/" 
 
 " Do you want me ]" he says, pausing ; but she does not answer, 
 and he comes back slowly and stands a little apart from her. " Is 
 there anything more to be said between us 1" he asks. " Is it not 
 all finished— done with V 
 
 " To you, perhaps," she says ; " but not to me— not while my 
 life lasts !" 
 
 " You will forget," he says, looking down with a dark and bitter 
 frown ; " you are young yet." 
 
SEED TIME. 145 
 
 " Have you forgotten V* she casks below her breath. "Do you 
 find it so easy V 
 
 " God knows !* he says, lifting his head and staring up at the 
 sky, that is so "thick inlaid with patines of bright gold." 
 " Women don't feel things as men do." 
 
 "Do they not]" she cries, with a fierce jangle in her sweet 
 voice. yHave you forgotten that it is the one who sins, not the 
 one who is sinned against, that suffers the most keenly ? Do you 
 tbink that if it had been through your fault or folly I lost my 
 happiness I should have mourned half as heavily as I do now, 
 knowing that it is my own doing ?"\ 
 
 " Why did you do it V he says, looking down on her with an 
 infinite yearning in his eyes, an infinite agony in his voice. " We 
 could have been so happy . . ." 
 
 "You were too hard upon me," she says, with a shuddering 
 moan. " Any other man would have forgiven me— if he had loved 
 me." 
 
 " And did not I love you V he asks, quietly. 
 
 " You cast me off," she says, lifting her lovely face to his ; " T 
 did not you,"' 
 
 " I never loved, never wanted any woman but you," he says, 
 slowly. " I chose you out of the whole world for my wife. I 
 would have worn you as my fairest honour, my priceless pearl ; 
 and how did you reward me V 
 
 " I was never unfaithful to you," she says, drearily. "If ever I 
 did anything wrong it was before I knew you.'j) 
 
 " And there it was that you deceived me," he says, with a heavy 
 sigh, f You had seemed so pure, and honest, and true." 
 
 "And so I was to you," she says swiftly — "always true to 
 you !" 
 
 " Heavens !" he says, throwing back his head with a quick, 
 sudden gesture, " when I think of it all ! It was much such a 
 
 10 
 
i 4 6 COMTN 1 THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 night as this three months ago — only three months, that you and 
 I stood together in that garden— and I asked you to be my wife, 
 and you put your arms about my neck ; and, as we stood together 
 your lover came towards us and looked, first on one, then on 
 another, and went away. You never said, ' That is my betrothed 
 husband, whom I have kissed and betrayed, as I will kiss and 
 betray you if I have the chance.' When he rode that steeplechase 
 next morning so madly, so recklessly, that all saw the goal he 
 strove to reach was death, and a quarter of an hour later was 
 carried back to his mother's carriage dead, did you feel no remorse 
 - -no sorrow 1 You gave no sign. You were shocked ; but he 
 might have been a common acquaintance, no more ; only later, in 
 looking over the poor lad's papers (for I was a friend of his mother's), 
 I came upon a packet of your letters, a id, you being my promised 
 wife, I thought no shame of reading one." He pauses, and she 
 droops her head in the moonlight and shivers. Is she cold or 
 shamed 1 " You know the story," he says, wearily, " and how we 
 parted. I loved you then ; I love you now, but differently, and it 
 is all over.'* 
 
 " You love me," she says, in her low, passionate voice, " and I 
 —my God ! do I not love you ? And yet we are to live apart ! 
 Must it be so, beloved— must it be so V 
 
 " It must be," he says, very gently. " We can never be anything 
 to each other — never any more !" She lifts her head, and the 
 agony in her face shows clear and strong in the moonlight, as they 
 stand looking at each other, she so surpassingly fair, he so lofty of 
 statue and dark of face ; it seems sad, unnatural, that they should 
 suffer so. As she turns away he puts out his hand and draws her 
 back. "Silvia," he says hoarsely, and in the September evening 
 he shivers slightly, "I would have gone to the world's end 
 rather than have met you here to-night. What evil fate has 
 brought us together again so soon- -so terribly soon? Since we 
 
SEED TIME. 147 
 
 parted I have been trying with all my strength of body and 
 soul to forget you, and it seemed as though I were beginning 
 to succeed ; and now you have appeared before me, to dash my 
 hard-won peace from my hand, and give me all the raging 
 pain and misery over again. If I were differently made — if I 
 could forget everything and love you in the old fashion, I would 
 do it; but I cannot. ... I love you still, but with the worst 
 half of my heart, not the better. Something has gone from 
 you in my eyes that will never come back. Though I married 
 you I should have no respect for you ; in my eyes you would 
 be no more than a beautiful toy. The old worship is dead, and 
 it will never come back. And though you think you love me 
 now, a woman who betrays one man will betray another ; and 
 it would not please me to see my wife's eyes roving among my 
 friends in search of admiration.") 
 
 " I would have been faithful to you," she says, very low. 
 
 " No, you would not," he says, with a heavy sigh, " it is not 
 in you to be true to any man. You only care for me because I 
 am out of your reach. If I were your husband you would not 
 rest till you had played me false." 
 
 " And I have loved you so well, so well !" she says, with a sob, 
 lifting the pale, lovely face that has so changed during the past 
 minutes to his. 
 
 " God help us both !" he cries passionately, pale as she through 
 his bronzed darkness. He takes the soft face between his two 
 brown hands and gazes into it eagerly, devouringly, as a man may 
 look his last on his heart's delight, lying in the envious coftin 
 that will by-and-by hide her from his sight for ever. " Kiss me 
 once, love, before we part, and then pray God that on earth we 
 may never meet again." 
 
 She lays her arms, white as any lilies, about his stooped neck ; 
 she lifts the beautiful lips, out of which all colour has fled, and 
 
 10—2 
 
i 4 8 COMIN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 Kisses him— once. And he snatches her in his embrace, and kisses 
 her, not once but many times, on lip and brow and shoulder, with 
 a strength that seems to crush her. Then he sets her down abruptly, 
 and strides away into the night, and the girl stands breathless, 
 panting, with a deadly pallor upon her face, a wild agony in her 
 eyes. "My love !" . . . she says, "my love." . . . She puts her 
 hand suddenly to her heart, as though a knife had struck her 
 newly ; then she turns and steps over the threshold. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 " But mine and mine I loved, and mine I praised, 
 And mine that I was proud on ; mine so much 
 That. I myself was to myself not mine 
 Valuing of her ; why she — oh ! she is fallen 
 Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea 
 Hath drops too few to wash her clean again." 
 
 " Most extraordinary !" says Laura Fielding, resting her chin on 
 her hands, and her elbows on her desk. " He actually left his hat 
 behind !" 
 
 " Does any one know what became of it !" asks Kate Lishaw. 
 
 " It was put in a bandbox," says Dora, " and carried to the par- 
 sonage by a maid-servant, who made him a curtsey and said, ' I've 
 brought you something as you dropped among our young ladies, 
 sir !' " 
 
 " Nonsense !" says Kate ; " but I must confess I am disappointed 
 in him ! After all he proved a very little more valiant than Mr. 
 Russell's friend ! He is very nice, though," she adds, " and he 
 dances splendidly." 
 
 "He is magnificent," says Belle. "Did you ever see such 
 shoulders, or such a head? And then his style— unimpeachable !" 
 
 " His moustache is ," says Laura ; " it has that long, bold 
 
SEED TIME. 149 
 
 sweep that you never see on a plain man's face ; and as to his 
 eyes " 
 
 " Bravo ! Laura," says Kate. 
 
 " He was a man You know the rest. Ill tell you one thing," 
 
 says Belle, " that I am sure of ; that exquisite piece of white and 
 gold, Miss Fleming, was at the bottom of his sudden departure ; 
 and I am certain that if they are not lovers now, they were once 
 with a vengeance. They disappeared together that night. I would 
 have reconnoitred, but was curveting in the Lancers. After that, 
 you know, he went" 
 
 " I should not mind being you, Helen Adair," says Kate, patting 
 me on the shoulder. " You do all the visiting, while we stay at 
 home." 
 
 I am sitting in my bonnet and jacket, awaiting the carriage that 
 is to take me to Lady Flytton's. 
 
 " I don't want to go," I say, earnestly; " indeed, I do not. Why 
 Lady Flytton asked me I cannot think, for she did not know 
 mother very well." 
 
 " What it is to have so many friends !" says Belle. " I wish I 
 had some !" 
 
 " Are you coming back on Monday, child V* 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I wonder if Mr. Vasher will go there V says Kate. " Keep your 
 eyes open, Helen Adair, and tell us all you see when you come 
 back. Hark ! there is the carriage." 
 
 We go out. Yes, there it is ; and the spirited black horses, with 
 their scarlet rosettes, looked far more fitted for a drive in Hyde Park 
 than to bowl along these country lanes. 
 
 " Good-bye ! good-bye !" say the Buffs. 
 
 The footman puts in my portmanteau, and away I go, feeling 
 like Cinderella without the beauty. It is a lovely day ; but oh ! 
 I wish I had a companion, for it is dull sitting all alone behind 
 
rso COM FN* THRO 9 THE RYE. 
 
 those two gorgeous-backed men-servants. How invitingly the nuts 
 nod their brown faces at me from the hedge ! I should be happier 
 walking in the road with Jack, free to pick them, than perched up 
 here with nothing to do. I wonder if I dare ask one of those men 
 to gather me some 1 I cannot call them, for I do not know their 
 names ; so I uplift my voice in a " hem !" which I delivered point 
 blank at the middle of the footman's back. 
 
 " Did you speak, miss V he asked, touching his hat and turning. 
 
 "A— not exactly," I say ; " but I want some of those nuts, can 
 you pick them for me V 
 
 " Certainly, miss," and in another minute he is in the road, and 
 scrambling up the hedge ; his long coat hampers his legs, the 
 powder flies from his hair to his shoulders, but he is a man "for a' 
 that" ; and finally, he brings me my nuts with an unruffled counte- 
 nance. I fancy I hear him saying later in the servants' hall, "She's 
 low, she is ; she ate nuts out in the carriage, and cracked them 
 with her own teeth, she did." 
 
 And now we have passed through the lodge gates, and are roll- 
 ing along between the avenue of tall trees that mark the approach 
 to Flytton. It is a beautiful old place, and a footman ushers me 
 through stately passages and ante-rooms to the drawing-room, in 
 which I have some difficulty in discovering Lady Flytton — so little, 
 so wizen, so shrunken is she. I make her out at last in a far 
 corner. I think she is asleep, but she opens her eyes suddenly, 
 and bids me welcome very kindly, desiring the footman to bring 
 white wine and grapes : while I eat the latter she chatters away, 
 with the garrulity of old age, of mother, who was, she says, " a 
 beautiful young woman ;" of everything, in short, that her wander- 
 ing thoughts hit upon. Presently she leans back in her chair, and 
 without the smallest sign or word, goes soundly to sleep. I am 
 just wondering what I am going to do with myself, and thinking how 
 lively it will be here, when the glass-door leading to the garden 
 
SEED TIME, i Si 
 
 swings back, and Silvia Fleming comes into the room, and, without 
 looking about her, sits down with her back to me in a low chair. Her 
 hair is hanging down her back in thick curls ; she wears a plain 
 white wrapper, that by its severity makes her beauty more than 
 ever conspicuous. 
 
 There is a listless droop about the whole figure as she leans 
 back with her arms clasped under her head. She has not 
 been seated there twenty seconds, when the door opens, and 
 "Captain Chichester" is announced: he is tall, languid, blase, 
 but his steps and face quicken as he spies the recumbent figure in 
 the red velvet chair. 
 
 " How do you do V he says, stooping over her and holding out 
 his hand ; but she does nut put out hers ; she only looks up at him 
 with a lazy look of welcome- provocation, which is it 1 ? 
 
 " Too hot f she says ; " would not one think it August instead 
 of September V 
 
 He sits down beside her, and they talk in low voices. They do 
 not seem to know any one is present ; however, as I cannot hear 
 what they are saying, it is somewhat unnecessary for me to announce 
 myself, though indeed I am not anxious to play the degrading part 
 of eavesdropper again, as I did a week ago. 
 
 Is yonder coquette the passionate, despairing woman that Paul 
 Vasher kissed a while ago so hotly i Was it but a fine piece of 
 acting— her love and her misery 1 For surely, surely she is acting 
 her own proper character at this moment ] No, she was not acting 
 then, but she was taken out of herself for the time ; and Paul's 
 estimate of her is the right one, the taint of infidelity in her nature 
 is too deep to permit her to be either a good or a faithful woman. 
 Admiration is meat and drink to her, flattery the very air she 
 breathes ; no man could keep this woman straight any more than 
 a rope can be made of sand. She does not love this man to whom 
 she is talking, does not even admire him, but she will fool him to 
 
1 5 2 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 the top of his bent. A woman's vanity takes many lives to feed 
 it. So much I guess randomly as I sit and watch her; 
 
 " Little devil /" says Lady Flytton, softly. On turning to look at 
 the old woman, I find that she has come out of her sleep as sud- 
 denly as she entered it, and is surveying the couple yonder with 
 an expression of countenance, that is, to say the least of it, vicious. 
 
 " Good afternoon, Captain Chichester !" she remarks austerely. 
 
 The young man looks round with an astonishment that is 
 ludicrous, rises and comes toward the old lady. Silvia, I observe, 
 does not move an inch. 
 
 "I did not know any one was here," he says, holding out a 
 hand that Lady Flytton altogether overlooks. 
 
 " I dare say you did not," she says, frostily ; and he goes back 
 to his charmer, looking somewhat red, and decidedly snubbed 
 Tea is brought in and we partake of it apart. Oh, it is dull ! If 
 the little woman does not like her company, why does she not 
 leave it? Anon Captain Chichester takes his departure, and it 
 being near the dinner hour, I am shown to my room, where I 
 array myself in my little all, and modestly habited in the same, 
 descend to the drawing-room. Silvia Fleming is there, and she 
 speaks some half-words of greeting, giving me the contemptuous, 
 indifferent regard that apparently she always bestows on her own 
 sex. Mrs. Fleming comes in, fat and kind (I like her better 
 than her daughter) and last of all, Lady Flytton. We go in to 
 dinner, where there is next to no conversation, for the hostess 
 devotes herself to her knife and fork with the assiduity of a 
 woman who knows her time for wielding the same is short, and 
 the other two have little conversation. In the drawing-room later 
 the two elders sit together, knitting and talking, while Silvia's 
 restless figure paces up and down, up and down, the terraced walk 
 outside, and I sit at a table, turning over a photograph book, and 
 pitying myself from the very bottom of my soul. 
 
SEED TIME. 153 
 
 " It is too ridiculous," says Mrs. Fleming's vexed voice, rising 
 in her excitement, "and the oilers and the admiration she has had 
 too." 
 
 " She is a bad little cat," says Lady Flytton, shaking her un- 
 godly, Madeira-warmed old head, " and she'll never come to any 
 good, never ! As to Paul Vasher, he won't marry her ; he knows 
 her too well for that !" 
 
 I move quickly away before I hear more, and marvel for the 
 ninety-ninth time why I was ever invited to Flytton. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " Give me that man 
 That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him 
 In my heart's core; ay, in my heart of hearts." 
 
 A tap at the door. " Come in," I say, pausing in my wrestle with 
 my bonnet strings— which I am trying to settle in a bow that 
 will not disgrace Lady Flytton's smart chariot— and enter Silvia. 
 Apparently she is not going to church, for although we start 
 in five minutes' time, she wears a white morning gown and 
 slippers. 
 
 " Will you do something for me V she asks, sitting down. 
 
 u Tell me what it is first," I say, cautiously. 
 
 " You know Mr. Vasher T 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 " Will you give him this note after church V 
 
 I look at the h eld-out billet, and for a moment hesitate. I love 
 to help lovers ; but I like him, and I do not like her ; shall I 
 hurt him by taking it 1 He is strong enough to take care of 
 himself. "Yes, I will give it him," I say, and put it in my 
 pocket. 
 
154 COMIN' THR<y THE RYE. 
 
 " You are a good child," she says, and goes away. 
 
 I wonder if he will be in church 1 Yes, he is there, as I dis- 
 cover twenty minutes later, and he gives me a friendly look as I 
 go up the aisle behind Mrs. Fleming. That old heathen Lady 
 Flytton never goes to church. The Buffs give me a smile or two, 
 and I wink affectionately at Mary Burns at a favourable oppor- 
 tunity. Ln the porch outside, when the service is over, I find 
 Mr. Vasher, which is lucky ; for supposing I had been obliged to 
 run after him 1 
 
 " And when are you coming back, little one V he asks. 
 
 " Soon ! To-morrow ! Some time \" I say, flounderingly, then I 
 thrust the note into his hand and flee. 
 
 " Did you give it him V asks Silvia, as we are waking in the 
 garden after luncheon. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How hot it is V she says, shrugging her shoulders, "there is a 
 storm brewing !" 
 
 She speaks truth, the morning was sultry, the afternoon is worse, 
 the air is charged and heavy with heat, the skies are closing in, 
 black as night, the very birds have ceased singing : all creation 
 seems to be holding its breath, awaiting one of nature's fierce con- 
 vulsions. With the same instinct that has sent all the animals to 
 their hiding-places, I go in, leaving Silvia pacing up and down, 
 with clasped hands, and an intent look of listening upon her face. 
 I am not ashamed to confess it, I am horribly, terribly afraid of a 
 thunderstorm ; the dread crack of the awful, invisible hosts above 
 always makes me shiver, and through my eyelids the lightning seems 
 to strike and blind me. After all, I must be a coward, for Jack 
 does not mind it at all ; he opens his eyes wide, and never puts 
 bis fingers in his ears. The sisters are fast asleep in a remote 
 corner of the queer-shaped, many-angled room ; every now and 
 then a gentle snore attests to their happy unconsciousness. When 
 
SEED TIME. 155 
 
 I am old, I dare say I shall consider it a godly and suitable em- 
 ployment to spend my sabbath afternoons in slumber ; being young 
 and broadly awake, I find the time hang very heavily on my 
 hands. I take a peep at " Good Words," I look at the pictures in 
 the " Sunday at Home," finally I take up Lady Flytton's album, 
 which I have indeed already explored, but still find interesting, 
 thanks to the extraordinary unhandsomeness of her friends and 
 relations ; her defunct husband bearing the palm away from them 
 all for general unsavouriness, imbecility, and grimace. I am just 
 grinning at the photograph of a very short man, who has a most 
 ferocious expression of countenance, and looks as though he were 
 saying, " Laugh at me if you dare ! " when the door opens, and 
 Paul Vasher is announced. The sisters do not awake, and he does 
 not see me. In another moment he is face to face with Silvia, who 
 enters hastily through the glass-door. 
 
 " You sent for me," he says, " and I have come." 
 
 " Come out into the garden," she says, abruptly. 
 
 And they go out together, along the terrace, and disappear 
 among the trees. An hour slips away, the light fails strangely ; 
 the skies are of ink, save where a lurid- tipped cloud betokens 
 mischief ; every leaf and tree and flower stands stirless ; there is 
 not a living thing to be seen. 
 
 Steps come quickly along the terrace, and Paul Vasher comes in 
 alone. I am half leaping up to speak to him, when something in 
 his face checks me, and I fall back ; in another moment he is gone. 
 The closing door awakens Lady Flytton, who sits up, and asks, 
 sharply— 
 
 " Who was that just went out V 
 
 " Mr. Vasher." 
 
 " Vasher here !" screams the old woman. " Has that little cat 
 been up to some more of her tricks % Well, he didn't stay long !" 
 And she composes herself to sleep again. 
 
156 C0M1N* THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 " Was I snoring, child ?" asks Mrs. Fleming, with some anxiety. 
 
 "Not much." 
 
 Hark ! A few drops of rain, heavy as lead, fall with a hissing 
 sound upon the pavement ; a low faint moan comes sweeping up 
 over the land, and now with an awful, shivering reverberation, the 
 heavens are rent in twain, the forked lightning leaps out, the flood- 
 gates of heaven are loosed, and the storm is upon us. I bury my 
 head in my hands to shut out the glare of the lightning, but 
 through the hideous discord, I hear Mrs. Fleming's voice ask, in 
 sharp fear, " Where is Silvia V 
 
 Out yonder ; out in the fury and teeth of the storm, as reckless, 
 as wild as the hurricane itself ; and God only knows what depths 
 of misery and shame she is sounding. Paul Vasher's face was not 
 hard to read. And, child as I am, I know that she has played hey 
 last stake, and lost / ^ 
 
 In her present mood she will court death, if I know anything of 
 her character. Some one must find her, and bring her back. But 
 who ? I will. My life out there is as much in God's hand as here ; 
 and though I do not love her, I would do this much for my worst 
 enemy. I take my hands from my eyes, snatch up a shawl lying 
 near, and, heedless of Mrs. Fleming's exclamations of horror, step 
 out on to the terrace. Down comes the waterspout in its resistless 
 strength, almost beating me to earth ; blinded with lightning, 
 deafened with thunder, bewildered by the hurly-burly, I push on. 
 looking hither and thither, in every nook and corner, but I cannot 
 find her. Stronger and fiercer grows the storm. At my side a tree 
 smitten in mid-air by an unseen hand, is whirled aloft, and hurled 
 crashing to the ground ; a rabbit, struck dead by lightning, lies in 
 my path ; overhead, from end to end of heaven, echoes that long, 
 hollow, shuddering peal that always sounds to me like the shrieks 
 and wild laughter of lost souls in Hades. At last I come upon her 
 sitting under a tree, in a far-off corner, looking out at the storm as 
 
SEED TIME. 157 
 
 indifferently as though it were a pageant arranged for her especial 
 amusement. 
 
 11 Silvia !" I cry while yet I am a little way off, " Silvia !" But 
 she never stirs, never lifts her head, or unclasps her hands, or 
 seems to know my voice, while all about her lie the wreck and 
 ruin of the wild hurricane ; and a few yards away, an oak struck 
 with lightning stands bare and ghastly, stripped of its bark. I 
 am stepping towards her, when— oh, my God !— the heavens above 
 us open ; a great light shines upon our faces, and, cleaving the air, 
 there rushes towards us a great crimson ball of flame. I shut my 
 eyes, and stand motionless : is not this death % and with a hiss and 
 a swirl, and a burning breath that scorches my face, it smites the 
 ground at my feet, and a great smoke belches forth, and hides 
 everything from my eyes. Dimly I grope my way round to the 
 
 other side ; I am not killed, therefore Silvia must be But there 
 
 she sits looking just as she looked before the bolt fell. 
 
 " Alive and unharmed, thank God !" I cry, taking her cold hand 
 in mine. J> 
 
 " If it had only killed me," she says, in a whisper, pointing 
 her finger at the sullen flames ; u if I had been only one step 
 nearer " 
 
 " Come away !" I say gently, and she does not resist, but lets 
 me lead her away like a child. Her face is pale as the dead ; her 
 lovely eyes look straight before her, as though they beheld only 
 one object ; her hair hangs dank and heavy down her dripping 
 back. An uncommonly nice couple we look as we reach the house, 
 with pools of water running from our clothes ; as beaten down and 
 draggled as yonder poor flowers that lie with broken stalks in their 
 churned-up beds. 
 
 Mrs. Fleming shrieks at her daughter's face — and, indeed, she 
 might well have taken some grievous hurt out in the storm to 
 judge by her looks— but the girl pulls herself wearily away. 
 
158 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " Leave me alone," she says, and goes slowly up the stair, to the 
 great embellishment of her aunt's carpeting, and I follow. On the 
 landing she turns round. 
 
 " Come into my room, by-and-by," she says. 
 
 I have slipped out of my wet clothes, and am almost attired in 
 dry ones, when Mrs. Fleming comes in bearing a tumbler of hot 
 wine, which she makes me drink. It tastes very good, but surely 
 it is rather strong 1 
 
 She goes away, and I proceed with my toilet ; but somehow, I 
 don't seem to be quite mistress of my own legs, and in crossing the 
 room I have to tack a good deal. My ideas, too, are very hazy. I 
 find myself surveying various articles of my attire with a be- 
 nignant and fixed smile, instead of putting them on ; and I am 
 by-and-by distinctly conscious that, with no apparent volition of 
 my own, I am standing before my looking-glass, swaying from 
 side to side, and saying, in an indistinct voice, 
 
 " My intentions is good, Jack, but my legs is weak." And 
 after that I know nothing, save that I am blessedly, soundly 
 asleep. 
 
 The clock is striking seven as I awake, and Mrs. Fleming is 
 looking down on me with some anxiety. 
 
 " What does it all mean V I say, rubbing my eyes ; " I never 
 went to sleep like this in the daytime before. Was it the thunder- 
 bolt r 
 
 " No," says Mrs. Fleming ; " I think it was the wine. I put 
 brandy in it to keep the cold out, and forgot you were not used 
 to it." 
 
 " And so I have been tipsy," I say, putting my hand to my head. 
 " Oh, what would papa say if he could see me 1" 
 
 " Say it was my fault," says Mrs. Fleming ; " and now, my dear, 
 don't trouble about that. Can you go to Silvia now ? She has 
 been asking for you." 
 
SEED TIME. 159 
 
 " I will be ready in a minute ; but, Mrs. Fleming, you will never 
 tell any one about it, will you V 
 
 " Never," she says, smiling, and goes away. 
 
 To my knock at Silvia's door, I receive no answer ; pushing it 
 open, I enter. She is standing by a window, looking at the smoke 
 that rises from the spot where the bolt lies embedded. She is 
 talking to herself, and does not seem to see or hear me, although I 
 am before her eyes. 
 
 " I was wrong to wish it had killed me," she mutters. " After all 
 it's a stupid thing to do— to die. Talk of the proud contempt of 
 spirits risen ! it is the living who have the best of it, and despise 
 the dead. If I had died to-day, the women who hate me would 
 have said, ' Poor creature !' he would have said, ' Poor Silvia.' I 
 should have been poor Silvia, a weak loving fool to all eternity to 
 him. I will live ! — live to punish the scorn and coldness that has 
 dared repay such love as mine — live to make him rue the day he 
 made Silvia Fleming stoop to pray in vain. When he least expects 
 me, I will be there : in the hour of his joy, I will stand by his side, 
 and strike the cup from his lips ; in his night of sorrow, I will re- 
 joice over him — and since I cannot have his love, I will work his 
 misery — and this I will do, so help me, God !" 
 
 The last lurid gleam of the storm is on her set face, and in her 
 wide eyes. Has the afternoon actually crazed her brain 1 
 
 " Are you there, child V she says, turning round sharply. "Have 
 you heard all the nonsense I have been talking ?" 
 
 " Some of it." 
 
 " Bah !" she says ; " I have a bad habit of talking aloud. You 
 were a good little thing to come out and find me like that. It 
 would not have been pleasant to be killed by that bolt, eh V } 
 
 "No," I say, shuddering ; "but it was very near, a narrow es- 
 cape. Have you told Mrs. Fleming V 
 
 " Not I ! How that old woman, my aunt, would have hopped, 
 
160 COM IN 1 THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 if she had seen it all ! That red thing coming through the air ; yon 
 
 and I with our mouths open ; at least, yours was " She goes 
 
 off into a fit of laughter, that does not strike me as being particu- 
 larly seemly. She ceases as suddenly as she began, her fancy changes. 
 
 11 You can go now," she says. " Will you send my mother up to 
 meT 
 
 Truly, Silvia Fleming has somewhat odd manners. Down in 
 the drawing-room 1 find the sisters looking out of a window at 
 the desolation of the garden, and having delivered my message 
 to Mrs. Fleming, proceed to inform Lady Flytton of the shave we 
 have bad, to which she listens with many upliftings of her bands 
 and exclamations. 
 
 " And all that little cat's faulty she says. " Whatever will 
 your mother say, when she hears that I took so little care of you 1 
 As to that Silvia, it's my belief she is being saved up for something 
 worse F* 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " A lieat full of coldness ; a sweet full of bitters ; a pain full of pleasantness 
 which make th thoughts have eyes and hearts and ears ; bred by desire, nursed 
 by delight, weaned by jealousy, killed by dissembling, turned by ingratitude — 
 
 and this is love. " 
 
 "I wonder if Paul will come to-night," says Mr. Frere, stirring 
 the fire with a recklessness highly reprehensible in a godly man 
 during these days of greedy coal-merchants and champagne-drink- 
 ing colliers. 
 
 It is rainy October now, and the nights are cold and frosty, and 
 without, mother earth is drawing the flowers, her darlings, down 
 into her brown breast, as Hans Andersen tells us, away from the 
 Frost- King's breath, which strikes chilly against the tender green 
 stalks and late- tarrying fuchsias, myrtles, and magnolias. 
 
SEED TIME. 161 
 
 <{ I don't think he's coming back at all !" I say, nodding, " he has 
 been gone such a long, longtime, you know — weeks !" 
 
 " Paul always keeps his word," says Mr. Frere. " He is sure to 
 come back. Besides, he left all his things here.* That is conclu- 
 sive, for however heartbroken a man may be, he does not usually 
 forget bis dressing-case and his little comforts. 
 
 " The ground is good for walking just now," says Mr. Frere. 
 " I dare say he has got as far as Devonshire." 
 
 Yes, the ground is good for walking, but I think all roads are 
 pretty much alike to him just now. As I sit staring into the fire, 
 I seem to see Mr. Vasher walking swift and fast, trying to escape 
 from his restless thoughts : trying to quench a flame that will not 
 be put out. Pshaw ! Probably I see a myth and a fallacy, and at 
 this very moment he is dancing a jig or 
 
 "Are you asleep V asks a cheerful voice behind me. 
 
 " You have come back !" I cry, starting up ; " how glad I am. 
 We were beginning to think you were lost !" 
 
 As the firelight falls on his face, I see that it is pale and worn as 
 that of a man who has fought a battle against fierce odds, and 
 though wounded and hard pressed in the conflict — won. 
 
 " Where is my uncle ¥' he says, looking round. 
 
 " He was here a minute ago, but Mrs. Pirn fetched him to go to 
 Sally Lane, who says she is dying." 
 
 " I wonder how long she will be about it V 
 
 " She has been dying for twenty years," I say, laughing, " and 
 she will probably be dying for twenty more ! Dying with her 
 means port.'' 
 
 " Does my uncle give her a bottle to soothe her last moments V 
 
 " Always ! About once a month, you know ; and she is far too 
 careful a body to go off until she has drunk the last drop ; then 
 the thought of the next bottle supports her." 
 
 Mr. Vasher laughs. "Do you know," he says, "that I have 
 
 11 
 
1 62 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 missed you, child, during these past weeks % Over and over again 
 I have wished I had your saucy chatter to listen to. What havo 
 you been doing with yourself— anything particular I" 
 
 "Something very particular," I say, solemnly, "or at least — 
 almost. It is a miracle you do not find Miss Fleming's pieces 
 and mine laid out in baskets." 
 
 " What do you mean 1" he asks, sharply. " You have been in 
 danger — and Silvia f 
 
 " It was a thunderbolt," I exclaim ; " she and I were only a few 
 yards apart, and it fell between us." 
 
 " And you were out in the storm that day, you two % n 
 
 " I went to look for Silvia, she was out in it." 
 
 " Did she come in after I left V 
 
 " No !" 
 
 " Good heavens," he cries, striking his head with his clenched 
 fist. " What a brute I was ! Where is she now T 
 
 " At Homburg." 
 
 " I wonder what she is doing !" he says, half to himself. 
 
 " Flirting !" I answer, almost before I know what I am saying. I 
 have an unhappy knack of blurting out the thought that is upper- 
 most in my mind. 
 
 "What makes you think that, child V he asks, turning quickly 
 to me. 
 
 " I did not mean to say it, Mr. Vasher. I was only thinking." 
 
 " And your opinion of her?" he says, looking at me. " I always 
 like to have a very young person's opinion about another— it is 
 always true ; what is it V 
 
 " She is young," I say thoughtfully, " and well-born and rich and 
 beautiful, and — I am sorry for her." 
 
 " Sorry !" he says, looking at me keenly, "and why are you 
 sorry 1 What more does she want % n 
 
 " She is not happy," J say, turning my head away that he may 
 
SEED TIME. 163 
 
 not see how red my face is. Tf he only knew that I know the 
 whole story, that I have been an eaves-dropper ! 
 
 M You have not told me what you think of her," he says ; " I 
 want an answer." 
 
 "lam not fond of her," T say, slowly. " I would not trust her ; 
 she is rather cruel, but she could love well " 
 
 " And never be faithful," says Paul. " Well, you will be a 
 woman some day, little one ; shall I give you some advice % But 
 no, you would not take it ; you will fall in love like the rest, some 
 day !" 
 
 " And why should I not V I ask ; u everybody does !" 
 
 " Love," he says, "is made up of vanity and vexation, folly and 
 bitterness ; it turns to dust between the teeth.'' 
 
 " Your creed is a hard one," I say. " Now, I have seen some 
 lovers (I think of Alice and Charles), who never have any of that ; 
 they are fair in each other's eyes, and though they squabble some- 
 times, they never think of using any of those long words you do ; 
 they positively would not understand them." 
 
 " Perhaps they are worthy of each other," he says. " When two 
 people trust one another, then their love is a pleasant thing, a 
 jewel. But if a man loves a woman, and she proves unworthy, 
 and he loves her still, cannot you guess something of the battle 
 that is fought in that man's soul— the higher nature crying, 
 Desist ! the lower, Yield ! The indomitable will and self-respect 
 of the man fighting against the quenchless passionate longing after 
 the beauty of the woman he renounces . . . the integrity of the 
 mind warring against the heart that rises in fierce revolt against 
 such sacrifice . . . the lily of renunciation against the crimson 
 blossom of love . . . and the crowning sin and shame of it all must 
 be that, while he knows her worthlessness, he cannot forget her—her 
 sweet words and ways . . . her veil of rippling hair, her clinging 
 lips ... in these memories must lie that man's chief tortures . . . ; ' 
 
 11—2 
 
164 COMIN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 He passes his hand impatiently over his forehead and starts up. 
 " Forgive me, child," he says ; " I have been thinking aloud. Does 
 my psychological study interest you ! Poor devil, I hope he may 
 reach the shore, don't you 1 A past error thoroughly repented of 
 i* the best basis for future good conduct ! Can I take any message 
 to Silverbridge for you to-morrow, little one?" 
 
 " You are going there 1" I say, clasping my hands. " Oh ! can 
 you not put me in your pocket % Shall you stay long V 
 
 " Only a couple of days. I am going abroad afterwards ; and 
 when I come back you will be a grown-up young lady V 
 
 " Worse luck !" I say, dolefully. " I should like to put off ' tails' 
 for another ten years !" 
 
 " Tell me," he says, leaning forward and taking my face in his 
 hands, " how old are you?" 
 
 "Fourteen!" 
 
 " So much 1 you look about twelve ; you have a dear little face, 
 
 and a sweet But I won't say I hope you will be pretty when I 
 
 come back ! If ever you pray heartily for anything, child, pray 
 that you may never grow up beautiful." 
 
 11 There is not much fear !" I say, ruefully. " I don't think any 
 amount of praying would mend matters !" 
 
 "If you are good," he says, "that is all you want, and I think 
 you will be." 
 
 K People like one so much better when one is pretty than when 
 one is plain," I say, meditatively. " Plain people get all the leav- 
 ings. Might not one be good and pretty too T 
 
 " They might, but they very seldom are ! No ; when I come 
 back, child, I hope I shall find you just as you are now." 
 
 " May I not grow, sir V 
 
 "Grow as ro"^ as you please, child; but don't grow out of 
 honesty !" 
 
SEED TIME. 165 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 "At Christmas I no more desire a rose 
 Than wish a snow in May's new fangled shows, 
 But like of each thing that in season grows." 
 
 Christmas has come with his garment of snow and crown of hollies 
 and icicles, with his jolly red face and lavishly-filled hands, and 
 he has abode with us a little space, wielding his sceptre royally at 
 feast and wassail ; but now that the poor old year, the friend out 
 of which he grew, is dying, and the new one in all its pride and 
 pomp is dawning, he sweeps away from us sorrowfully, and we see 
 his face no more. Jack and I, home for the holidays, have been 
 literally obeying the golden mandate that bids mankind " Gather 
 ye roses while ye may," and we have eaten plum-pudding and 
 Christmas cakes galore, reaping the punishment of our unholy 
 gluttony in aches and pains that we have had to take upon our 
 backs and bear in silence, venturing on no complaint ; for in the 
 somewhat unique rules of our family there is a stringent one : 
 "Thou shalt not be sick." Ill or well, faint, pain-stricken or 
 bilious, in our places at table we must appear ; and if unkind 
 nature, refusing to be tutored, makes our faces pale and anxious, 
 by angry looks and words are we made to feel the shamelessness 
 and iniquity of our conduct. If either of us have a bout of real 
 illness that refuses to be knocked on the head in deference to the 
 governor's will, the culprit is placed under the ban of an awful and 
 crushing displeasure below stairs, that person's name is never 
 mentioned, and when the convalescent makes his appearance in 
 public, white and attenuated, his presence is ignored ; he is con- 
 sidered to have disgraced himself past all forgiveness. To call in 
 Esculapiua is a dangerous and most ticklish proceeding, and only 
 ventured on in a case of extreme emergency; he knows his peril, and 
 comes with reluctance and departs with alacrity. All things con- 
 sidered, we have had a stormy time of it lately. Over and above 
 
166 COM IN 1 THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 the perpetual little disasters that will occur in so tightly managed 
 a household (for every one knows that human nature if squeezed 
 in at one place will burst out in another), the long expected diffi- 
 culty about Alice's and Charles's matrimonial affairs has appeared 
 upon the scene. The six months of probation having expired, 
 Captain Lovelace had pressed for a formal engagement, and hinted 
 at a wedding day, only to be met with contumely and dismissed 
 with insult and mockery. He does not come here now, — his place 
 knows him no more, and the rebellious look on my sister's lovely 
 face brings her many a bitter word and hard sneer ; but outwardly, 
 at least, she acquiesces in her lot, and says no word on the subject, 
 good, bad, or indifferent. She is growing very thin, our pretty 
 Alice. It might move any man's heart to see how her face pales 
 day by day, how slender her little wrists and waist are. But papa 
 never heeds, never looks ; he lays hard burdens upon his children, 
 and does not touch them with so much as the tip of his finger. I 
 think we would deal him out greater mercy than he deals us. 
 
 Although I was so faithful a gooseberry to Alice, she never 
 speaks of Charles Lovelace to me. Often I come upon her and 
 Milly in close confabulation, and feel unreasonably vexed ; for, 
 after all, is not Milly sixteen, and old enough to understand, while 
 I am but fourteen, and supposed to know nothing whatever on the 
 subject of love and courtship % Ah ! they don't know I have got 
 a sweetheart too ! That is a secret. I am a good deal puzzled by 
 Miss Alice ; I thought her so plucky, and good for any amount of 
 fighting. Can she be going to " lay her down and dee " without a 
 protest 1 On this point I am speedily disabused, making, in fact, 
 a discovery so astounding and petrifying, that for a while I feel as 
 though some one had rapped me on the head smartly and then run 
 away, leaving me to recover as best I might. 
 
 It is on this wise. Diving under Alice and Milly's bed one day 
 after a slippery vagrant orange, I discover the ample snace beneath 
 
SEED TIME. 167 
 
 the huge old four-poster to be filled with packed and corded trunks 
 —Alice's all, from the imperial down to the bonnet-box. 
 
 Is she going away % She has nowhere to go to. An awful thought 
 strikes me, and I sit down on the floor, valance in hand, to follow 
 it up. Can she be going to run away ? She has no money. Ah ! 
 but Charles Lovelace has, and I read of a couple the other day who, 
 after wasting apart for six months, ran away and got married, and 
 became fat directly. But then their governors weren't a patch upon 
 ours. Alice never can be meditating anything so desperate as that,' 
 
 As I sit ruminating, she herself comes in and sits down opposite 
 me— a charming figure in her winter gown of dark blue, with the 
 snowy Quakerish kerchief and apron of muslin. 
 
 " Alice," I say, lifting the valance and pointing at the aosemblage 
 of boxes, " are you going away V* 
 
 She looks at me considering. 
 
 " I did not want you to know, Nell," she says, " but as you have 
 found it out it can't be helped. I am going to be married." 
 
 " Married !" I repeat. " Oh, Alice !" 
 
 She looks such a child, as she sits yonder, to wear a wedding ring 
 on her finger and be called Mrs., and order the dinner. 
 
 "It is all his fault," she says, nodding towards a distant field 
 where we can see the governor harrying his workpeople. "There 
 is nothing else to be done !" 
 
 There is a clouded, sorrowful look in her blue eyes ; lovely bits 
 of colour that savants say are becoming year by year more rare, — 
 the dark brown and slate slowly, but surely, hustling the saucy 
 azure off the human countenance. 
 
 " Charles says it would have gone on like this for ever, and that 
 we may as well get it over now as in a year's time. If I stayed 
 here much longer, Nell, I should die I" 
 
 " Dear love !" I say, jumping up and running to her. " Well, it 
 will be wretched without you— disgusting'' (the tears trickle down 
 
1 68 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 my cheeks) ; " but I am not sorry, for you will be happy, dear J 
 But Alice, Alice, papa /" 
 
 " His capers, you mean V 
 
 " He will kill us !" I say, with conviction. w Do not ever expect 
 to receive any account of what happens after you leave, for there 
 will not be one man left to tell the tale ! You may look in the 
 Times for the following announcement : "At Silverbridge, the wife 
 and eleven children of Colonel Adair, the sad result of domestic 
 circumstances over which he had no control.' " 
 
 " Indeed, I do think of you all very much," says Alice : " it 
 makes me very miserable." 
 
 "Don't fret, dear ; we have weathered storms enough, and why 
 not this ! When are you going ?" 
 
 "To-morrow!" 
 
 " Oh, Alice ! And you are going to Mr. Skipwortb's to-night V 
 
 " Yes ; that was why we fixed to-morrow. Charles's man will 
 get all the boxes out of the house, and Tabitha will help him." 
 
 " And would you have gone without telling me V I ask, putting 
 my arms round her neck and raining down a steady drip of tears 
 on her pretty head. 
 
 " I should have wished you good-bye, dear, but I did not mean 
 to tell you, for fear he should ask you all round afterwards if you 
 knew anything." 
 
 "Milly knows f 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And mother V 
 
 " Good heavens, no ! How shall I ever say good-bye to her 1 
 She will see you have been crying, Nell." 
 
 "Do you think you will ever come back?" I ask piteously. 
 "Do you think you will go away for ever V 
 
 " No, no," she says ; " we will come and see you at school, 
 Charles and I, next half, and we shall stay somewhere near here, 
 so as to see mother. Besides, sooner or later, it will be made up." 
 
SEED TIME. 169 
 
 " Never !" I say, shaking my miserable head ; he will never for- 
 give you for getting out of his clutches/' 
 
 " Alice !" calls mother in the distance, and with a warm hug and 
 kiss she goes away. 
 
 " You do look a beauty V says Jack, meeting me half an hour 
 later. " Have you torn your last remaining frock to ribbons V 
 
 " Preserved gooseberries," I say, determined to put as bold a 
 face upon matters as I can ; " they were very sour you know, and 
 they made my stomach ache, and I howled." 
 
 " Well, I never knew you cry about such a trifle as that before," 
 he says loftily. 
 
 I should like to tell him, but I must not. Eight o'clock has 
 struck. The governor and mother, Alice and Milly, set out for the 
 parsonage, an hour ago ; scarcely within our memory has he been 
 known to spend an evening out, but to-night he has really gone. 
 It is to be hoped Charles's man and Tabitha will do their spiriting 
 gently, and not be caught. I wonder if Charles Lovelace is 
 wandering about among the flower-beds keeping watch 1 ? We 
 have supper, Amberley, Jack, Dolly, Alan, and I. I am just think- 
 ing of retiring to my couch, there to indulge in a good comfortable 
 roar, when Dolly appears bearing a small and elaborately folded 
 note, which she hands to me : "/challenge you to a bolstering match. 
 —Jack." Now, if there is one thing on earth I love more than an- 
 other, it is a hearty, no quarter-giving bolstering match round the 
 house with Jack, and it is a treat I very seldom get, thanks to the 
 governor's barnacle-like habit of sticking at home. To-night is a 
 splendid opportunity, we are never likely to get such another ; 
 but with to-morrow's event impending over me, and with my heavy 
 heart holding me down, I doubt if I should be able to give Jack 
 those vigorous whacks to which he is accustomed, so I take a sheet 
 of paper, write on it, " Can't. I'm ill. — Nell," and fold it as 
 elaborately as his. Dolly goes away with it, but quickly returns 
 
£70 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 with another. " You are afraid ! you ate enough supper for six — 
 Jack ;" to which I make answer, " / ain't ! I didn't ! Come on !" 
 I then prepare for the conflict. I take off my dress and upper 
 petticoats and shoes, put on my nightgown, tuck the sleeves well 
 up over my arms ; then, selecting my strongest and stoutest pillow^ 
 I sling it over my back and sally forth. The dimly lit passage is 
 empty, but I creep warily along, keeping a keen eye to right and 
 left, for behind yonder chest the foe may lurk, or from out yonder 
 half-shut door he may suddenly spring ; and if I am not prepared 
 with my weapon, whack ! upon my defenceless head will come a 
 blow, heavy in proportion to the skill of the hand that aims it. 
 Gingerly then I go, breathless with expectation, every nerve strung 
 to its highest pitch, but the foe does not appear, and I am just 
 wondering whether he is lazy or meditating a dishonourable attack 
 from the rear, when, whirr ! from the oriel window comes a swift 
 well-directed blow that would smite me to earth did I not catch it 
 midway with my pillow, which meets the other in a sound crack 
 that reverberates through the house. Now the engagement is 
 opened, the exchange of compliments is brisk, and ducking, dodg- 
 ing, slashing, backing, retreating, advancing, we have a hand-to- 
 hand encounter, until Amberley appears at the top of the stairs 
 candlestick in hand, meek, scandalized, open-mouthed. Down the 
 corridor I flee, Jack in hot pursuit, showering liberal blows on my 
 vanishing tail ; past Amberley, who, being in the line of battle, 
 receives a blow intended for my worthless back, which smites the 
 candlestick from her hand and flattens her, a heap of ruins, against 
 the wall ; down the stairs like a flash of lightning ; through the 
 nurseries like a clap of thunder, where nurse cries "Shame !" and 
 the youngsters, " Go it !" out on the other side, down the lower 
 staircase, across the hall into the dining-room. . . . but where is 
 Jack 1 He was at my heels a moment ago ; now he is neither to 
 be heard nor seen. . .Is he listening at the door, or creeping up 
 
SEED TIME. 171 
 
 behind me 1 The room is in total darkness, save for a tiny stream 
 that shows under the half-opened door from the hall-lamp. I 
 wonder what all that commotion in the hall is about ? Can Jack 
 have run against Simpkins in his pursuit, and upset the old thing 1 
 He is sure to be here in a minute. ... I mount a chair behind the 
 
 door As he comes in I will deal him a blow that will make 
 
 him wink. Footsteps are approaching ; he is coming. ... I grasp 
 my bolster convulsively, the door opens, and, bang ! with all the 
 strength of my body and soul, I bring it down on the head of— 
 Jack % Scarcely. Does Jack swear like a trooper, and dance like 
 a dervish? Does Jack rush madly hither and thither, vowing 
 when he catches me to "break every bone in my skin?" My 
 heart sinks like lead, the bolster drops from my limp fingers, my 
 feet are glued to the chair, as the awful conviction strikes me that 
 I have been bolstering the governor. Some instinct of self-pre- 
 servation, as he comes near me in his furious search, makes me 
 leave my perch and dodge him swiftly and noiselessly round and 
 round. Finally, watching my opportunity, I bolt out of the door 
 just as William appears with candles, shoot past him like a meteor, 
 and am up the stairs before you could say "Jack Robinson.'* 
 Papa, dashing out in hot pursuit, butts head foremost into the out- 
 stretched arms of the footman, and they roll over and over and 
 over, master, man, candles, and all, A confused sound as of 
 Wombwell's menagerie ascends to my ears, as I fly past the maids 
 and fry who are hanging over the stairs anxiously watching the 
 march of events, and having locked myself into my chamber, 
 I sit down on the side of my bed with my eyes fixed upon the 
 door, expecting it every moment to fly asunder and admit my 
 executioner. But though I hear terrible sounds of devastation and 
 fury in the distance, the minutes pass, and still he comes not. After 
 a while, I am able to draw a deep breath, and contemplate the fact 
 of my being still alive without any particular amazement. 
 
172 COM/N' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 By-and-by a gentle knock comes at the door. "Who is it?" I 
 ask, trembling. Perhaps it is only a trick of my outraged parent 1 
 
 " Me," says Jack's voice. Why will people persist in believing 
 that " Me " is known of everybody and requires no bush 1 I open 
 the door, let him in, lock it again, then turn round and face him. 
 
 " You sneak !" I say slowly ; " you took good care to hide your- 
 self, didn't you 1 And yon took good care not to warn me, didn't 
 you 1 Tm ashamed of you." 
 
 " That's just like a girl," says Jack, sitting down. " Stow your 
 heroics a bit, and listen to me. I followed you as far as the hall, and 
 half-way across I caught my foot in a beast of a mat, and went 
 head foremost. When I picked myself up you had vanished, and I 
 was just wondering whether you had gone into the library or 
 the dining-room, when a ring came at the front-door bell ; and I 
 had hardly got behind Venus, when in walked the governor! 
 Quarrelled with Skippy, I suppose, or yearned for his family ; 
 at any rate there he was. He went into the dining-room, and the 
 next thing I heard was a fearful whack I then noise enough to lift 
 the hair from one's head. Then out you rushed, the governor at 
 your heels, and bang he went into William's arms, and over they 
 went. Oh ! shall I ever forget it !" He stuffs a corner of the 
 sheet into his mouth and rolls. " The candles were squashed as 
 flat as pancakes, and the governor, only too glad to vent his rage 
 on somebody, pommelled William like mad, who was underneath 
 and offered no resistance, merely saying, ' Don't, sir ! don't, sir! 
 don't, sir !' without stopping for a single moment. I was behind 
 Venus all the time, and I shook so that I nearly knocked the poor 
 soul over. By the time the governor had finished off William, 
 Amberley appeared, bleating. The governor soon squashed her 
 into a jelly ; and after shaking his fist at your door, and muttering 
 darkly about to-morrow, he stormed himself into the library. 
 
 " Jack," I say, in a voice that I try hard to make, " don't carish" 
 " do you— do you think he will kill me f' 
 
SEED TIME. 173 
 
 11 No," says Jack, judicially, " because he knows he would be 
 hung if he did ; but if he was sure he wouldn't be, he'd do it like 
 a shot ! It's going rather far with him, you know, to bolster him !" 
 
 I shudder. Has this wretched hand of mine really dealt him a 
 smashing blow on the head 1 Perhaps it will wither up. 
 
 " What a mercy it is there is a gallows in this country !" i say, 
 with a sigh. " It is such a protection !" 
 
 " ' Hard words break no bones,' " says Jack cheerfully, " and he 
 won't whip you, you're too big ! Don't bother, Nell," he says, 
 putting his arm round my shoulders ; "you shall come and live 
 with me some day, and we'll be as jolly as sand-boys." 
 
 " Dear old fellow !" I say, rubbing my miserable face against 
 his cool red and white one. u You'll sit next to me at breakfast 
 to-morrow, won't you f 
 
 " All right," he says, and presently gives me a hug and goes away. 
 
 Oh, if only to-morrow would never come ! If I might go to 
 sleep now, this minute, and not wake up again for five years ! 
 Papa would surely have forgotten then % If time would only 
 step over breakfast, even, I should be safe ; for by dinner time 
 Alice's elopement will be known, and the one overpowering fact 
 will have cast all other misdemeanours into the shade. But, 
 despite prayer and longing, the cold grey dawn comes at last. 
 Groaning I rise and attire myself for the slaughter. As in a 
 dream, I go downstairs and listen to prayers, and then— I will 
 not write down the details of that breakfast. I must be a har- 
 dened sinner, indeed, for when it is over my spirit is not broken, 
 nor my hair grey. I am even able to reflect with complacency on 
 the fact that I still possess my full complement of arms, legs, 
 teeth, etc. ; for at one time I trembled for each and all of these 
 valuables. And now I am watching Alice put on her cloak and 
 hat. She is very pale, very trembling, but she does not cry ; and 
 when she is dressed, she goes into mother's room and kisses her, 
 saying " she is going to church." 
 
r74 COM IN' THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 Ay ! she is going " to church," from whence she will come out 
 Alice Lovelace, not Alice Adair -never our own pretty Alice any 
 more. As this thought strikes me, I give a loud sob outside the 
 door, which makes her turn apprehensively ; so I cram my hand- 
 kerchief into my mouth, and choke inwardly. And now we are 
 walking with her across the sodden grass of the dismal, bare 
 garden, towards the postern gate, where Charles Lovelace waits 
 with travelling carriage and greys. 
 
 " Good-bye," she says, looking into our faces and weeping pas- 
 sionately. Tears do not matter now ; there are no more appear- 
 ances to be kept up. 
 
 " Good-bye," say Milly and I, weeping too, but with a difference. 
 Through her present sorrow the gay bright future looks ; we know 
 what we are going back to. 
 
 " Good-bye," says Charles Lovelace, kissing our dripping coun- 
 tenances. 
 
 " Good-bye, good-bye !" cries Alice, clinging about our necks in 
 turn. 
 
 And now she is in the carriage, the valet jumps into the rumble, 
 and they are off ; Alice's lovely pale face looking out of the win- 
 dow to the very last moment, away, away, through the cold winter 
 morning. A couple of hundred yards away, papa is walking 
 about, happy in the comfortable belief that he holds all our lives 
 in his own hand, and that he can mete us out happiness or misery, 
 according to his sovereign will. Well, one at least of his white 
 slaves has turned rebel ; he will know it by twelve of the clock, 
 and then 
 
 " Dilly, Dilly, Dilly, come and be killed," I say to Milly, as we 
 go heavily back to the house. " After all, we can only be killed 
 once." 
 
SUMMER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 u Leak. — So young and so untender P 
 Cordelia. — So young, my lord, and true.* 
 
 I am eighteen years old. It sounds a good deal, does it not 1 It 
 seems only yesterday that I was quite little, scrambling about in 
 short frocks and leaving bits of the same on every railing, hedge, 
 and gate the place contains : now I am in " tails," real downright 
 tails ; limited, it is true, as to length and width, but still tails which 
 come in useful when I want to snub Dorley or the boys ; but on 
 the other hand, hamper me sadly when some forlorn remnant of 
 my active youth prompts me to scale the trees, or go bird's nesting. 
 On the whole I am sorry to have reached that broad flat table- 
 land of grown-upness that is so easy to ascend, but can be stepped 
 down from never again. If one's young days might only be pushed 
 farther, if we might be given thirty years of growing instead of 
 sixteen, surely the forty beyond, that are allotted as the period of 
 man's existence, would be enough for us to be grown-up, and 
 steady, and sad inl I hate to part with my merry insouciant 
 young years. I dread to let them go, and feel the old tastes and 
 loves slipping away from me, and the new fancies and pursuits 
 taking their place. I am sorry that I shall never grow any more 
 — never measure my back against the school-room wall to see if 
 my head is any nearer the notch that marks Jack's height — never 
 look anxiously in the glass to see if time brings me less ugliness 
 
176 COMIN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 as she brings more inches (for at eighteen one is able to form a 
 pretty tolerable estimate of what one is going to be like for the 
 rest of one's days) — never go donkey riding, or pig-nut hunting, 
 or shrimp getting, any more — never love bull's-eyes, blackberries, 
 and treacle tarts with the exceeding love that I knew for them of 
 yore. I can even get over a gate without feeling any over-master- 
 ing impulse to vault or leap it. I can see Pepper taking an ecstatic 
 roll in the grass without straightway longing to cast myself down 
 and roll too. 
 
 The kitchen-garden has lost some of its charm in my eyes, for, 
 thanks to my being so old, other affairs than gooseberries and 
 currants occupy my mind, very much against my will. I am the 
 eldest daughter at home now, and obliged to mind my morals and 
 manners to a maddening extent ; for every sin of omission and com- 
 mission of my brothers and sisters is laid to my charge, and said 
 to be the fruit of my example. It is dismal at the Manor House 
 now so many are away. Jack is in London. He is going to be 
 a barrister, and I call it mean of bim ; for if he had only elected 
 to be a fat gentleman farmer, I could have gone and lived with 
 
 him in a little house, and been as happy Well ! brothers 
 
 never love their sisters quite as their sisters love them. 
 
 Milly has been " woo'd an' married an' a' " over a year and a 
 half, and the family has not done gasping over the miraculous 
 event yet. How it fell out that papa's unwilling consent was 
 wrung from him ; and how she never ran away at all, but stood up 
 to be married, in a white satin gown and trimmings ; and how 
 papa gave her away with an ineffable hitch of his nose ; and how 
 up to the very last moment every one believed that he did not 
 mean her to be married at all, but intended to turn the whole 
 affair into a joke ; and how he disappointed us all, as he always 
 does — are not these things writ in the chronicles of the house of 
 Adair ? 
 
SUMMER. t77 
 
 After so far forgetting himself as to make two people happy, he 
 gave it to be understood in the family that nothing else of the kind 
 would be permitted to take place for another century or so, and 
 that this lapse of authority on his part was not to be taken as a 
 precedent, but regarded in the light of a comet, a plague, or any 
 other irresponsible appearance for which there is no accounting. 
 About two years ago Alice was formally forgiven, and invited to 
 stay here, with her little son ; but the sight of her perfect liberty 
 of speech and action, the amplitude of her petticoats, the abun- 
 dance of her pin-money, were too much for him, and the flag of 
 truce came down with a run. If the governor could put his 
 thoughts into rhyme, I think he would say : — 
 
 " Oh ! while my daughters with me staved, 
 Would I had whacked them more !" 
 
 It must be hard to know that they have got safely out of his 
 clutches ; and that he may have nothing in the future to reproach 
 himself with on my account, he makes my existence an uncom- 
 monly pleasant thing. 
 
 Sometimes I feel that I must run away, or that it would be 
 better to marry anything than live the life I lead. Common 
 sense, however, whispers that a spinster's troubles are but passing 
 ones ; but, once married, she must sit down under her misfor- 
 tunes, and bear them to her life's end. For married folks have 
 their troubles, have they not 1 ? just like single ones. I Oh ! what 
 a black bitter hour that must be, when a woman lifts her eyes, 
 and looking at her husband, sitting opposite her, realizes for the 
 first time that she has made a mistake ! " Men," says Madame 
 Scud^ri, "should keep their eyes wide open before marriage, 
 and half shut after." Surely women may very safely say tli6 
 samel) 
 
 I wonder why I have fallen on the subject of matrimony this 
 
 12 
 
1 78 COM IN' THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 afternoon ? I am wandering alone through the garden, bright with 
 its late July pomp of geraniums and verbenas, and across the or- 
 chard, into the wide hot fields. There is no shade anywhere, but, 
 my big sun-bonnet is tipped over my nose, so I may defy sun- 
 stroke ; and in "my mind's hi," as I once heard a man, of more 
 worth than letters, remark, I see a cool, shady, green little cham- 
 ber, of which the ceiling is woven branches, and the carpet of 
 mossy grass, while the walls are made of the sturdy brown bodies 
 of the oak and the beech. It is not far away, but it is shut in so 
 deftly that a stranger might pass it by close, and never see it 
 though he went through the field of rye that stretches out to its 
 left in a whitely ruffled sea of light. " After all," I say to myself, 
 as I turn out of the last big field into a cool, shady alley through 
 which a brook runs, " what does it matter if the governor is trou- 
 blesome 1 He can't take away any of God's gifts from us ; and all 
 the tempers and hard words in creation could not take the glow 
 out of this summer afternoon, or the colour out of the sky, no, 
 never !" 
 
 Thus moralizing, I sit down by the brook to rest for a moment 
 before sallying forth into the sun-flooded fields of grain ; and it 
 seems to answer " Never !" as it hurries along over the clear stones, 
 not knowing when it is well off, sighing to lose itself in the wide 
 river. Its babble sounds very pretty, as though it were talking to 
 the fragrant meadowsweet that borders its banks like foam, or 
 the yellow milfoil that Jack and I call ladies'-slippers— a frivolous 
 substitute for the grand old name of lotus, of which there are 
 three species, and this common unbeautiful yellow is one. Lotus ! 
 what an exquisite name it is ! and what exquisite visions it brings 
 up before us ! The river is a rare sun-worshipper : almost all his 
 flowers are either yellow or gold-coloured : look at those brazen 
 marigolds yonder, and those handsome irises a yard away : and 
 farther down, where he deepens into a mimic lake, lie more yellow 
 
SUMMER. 179 
 
 flowers, great sleepy, languid lilies, to do him honour and deck his 
 breast. It is a relief to look away at the forget-me-nots, with their 
 innocent candid eyes, that look straight into mine, saying as plain 
 as they can speak, " Do not forget me !* 
 
 A bee-orchis lifts itself out of the hedge, straight and tall, with 
 its absurd resemblance to the insect, as though it had alighted 
 freshly on the flower, and been frozen there, retaining its own 
 vivid colours. Hard by, the foxgloves rise with a ragged yet 
 stately stoop. I wonder if ever at night their speckled bells 
 ring out a dainty peal of music learned in Foxglove land % The 
 reeds stand round, tall and bare ; with their long stalks and 
 olive-brown spikes, they look too obstinate to shiver and shake ; 
 yet a curse lies upon them — for was not one of their number 
 placed in the Victim's hand in direct mockery as a sceptre 1 
 Yonder, in the pale blue blossoms of the ivy-leaved bell-flower, 
 lies a naughty, sleepy little insect which Linnaeus named Floris- 
 simus, from its love of sleeping in flowers. He must be a luxurious 
 dainty little Sybarite and a happy, to be able to choose his couch 
 of red, white, pink, or blue, at will ; while we, poor mortals, have 
 to seek our dull four-posters night after night. 
 
 I pick up my sun-bonnet, put it on, and lean over the stile that 
 lies between me and the corn-field, that is turning brighter and 
 more golden day by day under the sun's fierce beams. The scarlet 
 poppy-heads, gorgeous vagrants, with their leaves as freshly 
 crinkled as though they had but just left Nature's laundry, and 
 imperiously at me, saying, " Gather me ! gather me \" The 
 corn-cockle, pride of the harvest-field, and abomination of the 
 farmer, cries, " I am handsomest, pick me \" The field knautia 
 lifts her insolent head high above the corn, seeming to say, " See 
 how much higher a parasite can climb than her master V The 
 pheasant's-eye, or the flower of Adonis (over which, as the story 
 runs, the lite-blood of Adonis gushed, staining its white petals 
 
 12—2 
 
i8o COM IN 1 THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 crimson) looks up invitingly ; the pansies, " three faces under one 
 hood," as the 'country folk call them, from their lowly seat at the 
 roots of the corn, please the eye with their modest velvet-eyed 
 beauty. And, since I know and love them every one, I dash in 
 amongst the corn and gather my hands full. A scentless, brigkt- 
 hued, vagabond cluster they make ; for they are but saucy parasites, 
 that love to creep about and hamper the knees of the strong, bene- 
 ficent grain, as all useless, gaudy things, ever do about the stalwart 
 and brave. Already the scarlet pimpernel — the only wild flower 
 that dares dispute the poppy's pre-eminence in colour, has closed 
 its leaves, for it is past three o'clock. I wonder how it always 
 knows the time so exactly, when human people's watches are so 
 often out of gear ? The intolerable heat stops my somewhat un- 
 reasonable speculations, so I hastily retreat to the brook, and there 
 weave my flowers into a garland, with many a nodding grass and 
 leaf between, idly, carelessly, for no other reason than that my 
 hands are idle, and the flowers are pretty playthings. When I 
 have finished it I turn it round aud round, and marvel whether 
 Ophelia's could by any possibility, have looked any madder? 
 Poor lost Ophelia ! 
 
 "Larded all with sweet flowers 
 Which bewept to the grave did go, 
 With true-love showers." 
 
 Whose drowned face comes to us so freshly across the dead centu- 
 ries, while the echo of her sweet voice singing, " Lord, we know 
 what we are ; but we know not what we may be/' lives in our 
 hearts with all our household words and treasures. I always think 
 of Ophelia as a slender maiden, with far-away dreamy grey eyes, 
 that saw Death beckoning to her, in strange and lovely guise, down 
 among the rushes, and to whom she went gaily decked with flowers, 
 as a bride to her bridegroom. I wonder if Ophelia had long hair, 
 and whether it was golden, or yellow, or brown like mine % It 
 
SUMMER. 181 
 
 ought to have been yellow — every woman should be fair, every 
 man should be dark, in my opinion. I don't think many young 
 women could drown themselves with decency now-a-days : their 
 locks are not ample enough, unless eked out with pilferings from 
 the impecunious living and helpless dead. And if they tied any 
 false curls and tails on for the occasion, it would somewhat take 
 the edge off our pity to see the hapless maiden lying in one place, 
 and her back hair in another. We Adairs are well off in the 
 respect of head coverings, rather too well off in fact ; for in hot 
 weather our abundant manes are no joke, and we are inclined to 
 envy our more lightly crowned neighbours who appear at church 
 in chignons, that are the most innocent of deceptions, and provoke 
 mirth, not admiration. Only last Sunday a disastrous casualty 
 occurred to a farmer's wife sitting in the pew exactly before us. 
 Her chignon parted its moorings, and, suspended by a single wisp, 
 hung down her back and over our pew, bobbing up and down in a 
 horribly active manner, causing lively fear in our ranks ; for in 
 the too probable event of its falling into our midst, who among us 
 would be found to possess sufficient aplomb to hand it to the 
 denuded lady % 
 
 I pull off my sun-bonnet, for no one is likely to see me, and the 
 cows yonder will tell no tales ; and putting my wreath upon my 
 head bend over the brook to try and see my own reflection. Close 
 to the edge there is a little shallow, fenced about with sticks and 
 stones, and in it I see my face, framed in its poppy wreath and 
 loose veil of brown hair. 
 
 " Not bad !" I say aloud. " Now if your nose were a little 
 longer, and your mouth a little smaller, you wouldn't be an ill- 
 looking young person, as girls go ; but as it is, you are precisely 
 what your amiable papa says you are, the " 
 
 " Prettiest little girl in Christendom," says a man's voice behind 
 
182 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 me, making me start so violently that I nearly topple over into 
 the brook 
 
 " Did I not tell you, w I say, without turning my head, " that I 
 was tired to death of the very sight of you ; and that you were not 
 to come near me for three whole days 1" 
 
 " The three whole days will be up to-morrow, Nell." 
 
 " To-morrow is not to-day," I say, turning round. " Now 1 
 wonder what you would say if you were followed everywhere by a 
 tiresome, teazing shadow, that never left you alone for a single 
 moment, and the more you told it to go away, the more it stopped T* 
 
 " Everybody has a shadow," he says, " I among the rest." 
 
 " Does your shadow make love to you f I ask, stamping my foot 
 on the soft grass. " Whether you will or no, does it V 
 
 "No, it does not," he says shortly. " Go on, Nell; don't be 
 afraid of hurting my feelings !" 
 
 " Then you should not worry me so. Now I have had quite a 
 little holiday the last two days, and of course you have come this 
 afternoon to spoil it all 1 If you would only talk to me sensibly, 
 as Jack does " 
 
 "Only I am not Jack," he says—" worse luck. You would like 
 me if I were." 
 
 " I like you now," I say quickly ; "next to mother and the rest 
 of them, I do not know any one I like so well. Why can't you be 
 satisfied with that V 
 
 "Nell," says the young man, standing before me, straight and 
 tall and fair in the sunlight, with a vexed look in his blue eyes, 
 and restless fingers that tug at his yellow moustache, " what did 
 you promise me four years ago ?" 
 
 " That when I was eighteen and six months old I would marry 
 you, if I had not seen any one I liked better." 
 
 " And you are going to break your promise V 1 
 
 " No," I say, looking up into his honest face. " Did T not tell 
 
SUMMER. 183 
 
 you once that I never broke my promises % But you must give me 
 time, George ; you must not hurry me. I am not very old yet, you 
 know ; and love isn't easy to learn all at once. I wouldn't promise 
 you anything I did not mean to slick to ; but if I said to-day that 
 I loved you, and would marry you, it would be wrong, for I do not 
 think I am the least in the world in love with you, do you V* 
 
 "No," he says, with a rueful sigh, "there can't be very much 
 doubt on that score l" 
 
 " So," I say with alacrity, " I will wait till I am in love with you 
 before we settle it all. Don't you think it would bemuchpleasanter?" 
 
 " For you, perhaps," he says, " but I know my own heart." 
 
 " Do you know," I say diffidently, " that sometimes I think you 
 don't go the right way to work to make me love you ] If you 
 were to be cross sometimes, or — or shake me — or something — I don't 
 exactly know what. Perhaps if you made me jealous now, for a 
 girl hates any one else to have her lover, even if she does not want 
 him herself, you know " 
 
 I pause. After all it is not easy to instruct a young man how to 
 woo you ; but I am so really anxious to fall in love with George, 
 and so sorry for him, that I would take any pains to cultivate the 
 gentle passion. 
 
 "I don't think you meant that," says George, with as much 
 scorn as his manly, pleasant voice will borrow ; " or if you did, I 
 can't follow you. I know there are women who don't care a rap 
 for a man as long as he is entirely their own, but directly he turns 
 up his nose at them they are head over heels in love with him ; 
 but I never thought you were one of that sort, Nell. Now, when 
 a man loves a girl he doesn't like her any the better, I can tell you, 
 for staring at and hankering after this man and that. All her 
 value is gone in his eyes if she does not stick to him in thought, 
 word, and deed. II er flirtations with any one else provoke dis- 
 gust, not love ; and she makes him feel not so much piqued as small." 
 
184 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 11 And that a man hates to look," I say, slyly. " Touch any man's 
 or woman's self-conceit, and they never forgive you !" 
 
 " It is not self-conceit," he says, stoutly ; " it is self-respect." 
 
 " I wish you were not so honest a man," I say, looking at him 
 wistfully ; " perhaps if you were not so good 1 should like you 
 better." 
 
 I wonder what it is that George lacks, and which holds me back 
 from acknowledging him lover and master 1 He is the best bred, 
 best mannered, best grown man I ever saw ; he is likable, true, 
 admirable in every way ; and if he does not find favour in my 
 eyes it is hard to say who will. And yet I feel that I could love 
 — ay, and well too — when the right man came, but I may 
 never meet my Prince Charming, and as years go by dawdle into a 
 comfortable, safe, friendly affection for my yellow-haired lover 
 yonder. Perhaps if we had begun with "a little aversion," it 
 might have been more hopeful, our exchange of words would have 
 been heartier, brisker. In squabbles there is some heat, and I 
 always think the people who quarrel the most fiercely love each 
 other best ; they must have power to move each other, or they 
 would not bandy so many useless words. 
 
 Long ago I took off my poppy wreath, and now I am swinging it 
 slowly backwards and forwards. 
 
 " George," I say, looking at him thoughtfully, " were you ever 
 very wicked ¥' 
 
 '■Why?" 
 
 " Nothing," I say ; " only to be wicked gives experience. I have 
 heard experience is nice, is it not V 
 
 " That depends on the sort a man gets." 
 
 " Did any one ever jilt you ?" I ask. " Have you ever made love 
 to any one before me V 
 
 The young man looks at me with a queer kind of half shame on 
 his face. 
 
SUMMER. 185 
 
 " And if I had," be asks, " would you mind V 
 
 " I should be delighted !" I say quickly. " If you had made love 
 to people, and been thrown overboard, you know, and people had 
 made love to you, you would be so much better qualified to make 
 love to me ! I should like to have a lover who had been in love 
 hundreds of times, but considered me the nicest, and liked me the 
 best of all ! That would be something to be proud of, would it 
 not V 
 
 " You don't understand about these things, dear/' he says sadly. 
 " If you cared for me you would wish to be the first girl I had ever 
 loved. You would begrudge those other women having known me 
 before you did." 
 
 " I wonder what it is to care," I say, drawing a long tress of hair 
 through my fingers, and looking down at the water flowing at 
 our feet. "If to care for you is to like you very much when 
 you are not making love to me, then I care for you very much in- 
 deed !" 
 
 But George does not answer ; he is looking straight away over 
 my head at the distant hills, thinking hard and deep, and the 
 misery in his blue eyes hurts me. I never could bear to see any- 
 thing, even a worm, suffer. 
 
 " George," I say, slipping my hand into his, " don't fret about 
 it ; perhaps it will come in time, you know, and " 
 
 " Have you ever seen the man you could care about Y* he asks, 
 stroking my hand gently between his own. 
 
 " In my dreams, perhaps," I say, laughing. " Where else could 
 I have met him ?" 
 
 " You have never been away from home," he goes on, " save to 
 school ; and you could not see any one there. But do you know 
 Nell, sometimes I have thought that the reason you don't love me 
 is because you have a fancy for somebody else 1 A silly notion, ie 
 it not f 
 
1 86 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " Very !" I say, taking my hand away. " Did you suspect me o\ 
 an unlawful love of Skippy V 
 
 " God forbid !" he says, laughing. " No ! I did not suspect you 
 of that misplaced tenderness ! Do you know, Nell, that I think 
 you are the coldest little thing I ever saw ! I don't believe any 
 one would ever move you.'' 
 
 " I am not tender," I say, making a grimace ; " none of us are— 
 we all had that nonsense knocked out of us in our youth; but I am 
 true !" 
 
 11 Are you V he cries eagerly. " Then when these six months are 
 up " 
 
 "I shall keep my promise," I say, my heart sinking ; " only (re- 
 viving) don't make too sure of me, for six months is a long time, 
 and there is no knowing whom I may see in it 1" 
 
 " I am not afraid,'' says George, smiling. How happy he looks ! 
 " No one ever comes to Silverbridge, and you never go away, so 
 how can any one see you." 
 
 " Don't forget," I say, by way of damping his exhilaration, "that 
 papa will have to be asked." 
 
 And for the first time in my life, my parent's little prejudices on 
 the subject of marriage commend themselves favourably to my 
 eyes. 
 
 " That doesn't matter," says George. " Mrs. Lovelace ran 
 away !" 
 
 " But there were exceptional circumstances in that case," I say 
 with dignity. " Besides, it would never do for that sort of thing 
 to become a habit in the family. They were properly engaged for 
 a long while !" 
 
 " And why may not you and I be 1" 
 
 u Because he would never hear of it !" I say, looking forward 
 with dismay to that dreadful engaged period of " pecking " that I 
 have until now successfully evaded. 
 
SUMMER. 187 
 
 " Your governor and mine get on splendidly," says George, in 
 a hopeful voice. " That would surely go for something V 
 
 "That is one of those things no one can understand," I say, 
 shaking my head. " My father has known your father for four 
 years, and they have not quarrelled yet ! Mr. Tempest must have 
 the temper of an angel, or papa has never kicked him, because he 
 thought he was so little, and old, and frail !" 
 
 "Which redounds to Colonel Adair's credit," says George, 
 laughing ; " but I have often wondered he does not take a turn 
 at me !" 
 
 " Don't be afraid,'' I say, nodding. " As soon as he knows you 
 are anxious to have him for a father-in-law, he will be good for any 
 amount of that. Is it not droll that parents should see things 
 going on under their very noses, and then be so surprised and dis- 
 gusted when anything comes of it T 
 
 " I suppose their fathers were before them," says George ; " and 
 some day we shall be the same ! I say, Nell, what a little duck 
 you look, to be sure !" he says, as after stooping over the water, I 
 turn round with my wreath set jauntily on my head. 
 
 " You have not half admired me yet !" I say, holding out my 
 dress ; " now do you know what I am going to do V 
 
 "Stay with me." 
 
 " I am going to walk across the field of corn, and then the field 
 of rye, just as I am, and then " 
 
 "Well, and then?" 
 
 " 1 am going to sit down," I say, guardedly. Not for worlds 
 
 would I have George know of my little green parlour. He would 
 spend half his days in it ! 
 
 " And I shall come with you," he says, promptly, " in case you 
 meet anybody with that wreath on your head." 
 
 " No, you will not," I say, decidedly. " What good would you 
 be to me, pray 1 and who am I likely to meet, except a ploughman, 
 
1 88 CO MI 1ST THRO' THE RYE, 
 
 whose looks I should mind about as much as the stare of that cow 
 yonder ? I am going by myself." 
 
 "Very well," he says, sitting down on the stile, " I will wait here 
 until you come back !" 
 
 Now, if there be anything harassing, it is to know that some one 
 is waiting for you round the corner, and counting the minutes to 
 your arrival. To enjoy one's self is impossible— some of his dis- 
 comfort is passed on to you, and the result is nasty. 
 
 "I always thought," I say, with dignity, " that when a person 
 was not wanted, he generally went." 
 
 " Thank you !" says George, jumping up with alacrity. " I won't 
 require you to say that twice." 
 
 And away he stalks, his head well up, while I take the seat he 
 has just left vacant, and congratulate myself on the success of that 
 last shot. Really I never saw him go away so quickly before! 
 What a nice back he has ! How well he walks ! he ought to have 
 been a soldier ! He is really cross this time, for he does not turn 
 his head once. 
 
 And now for a rush across that burning, broiling, expanse of 
 
 grain. I fly along so fast, my feet scarcely touch the ground, and 
 
 as I go I sing a verse of the old, old song — 
 
 " Gin a body meet a body, comin' through the rye, 
 And a body kiss a body, need a body cry?" 
 
 I never could sing a bit, but there is no one by to hear me, and I 
 feel so unaccountably joyously happy, as though I must make a 
 noise. With my head bent to avoid the level glare of the sun, I 
 see nothing approaching me, and rush head foremost into a black 
 something. . . . "I beg your pardon !" I say, as I hastily re- 
 coil, and put up my hand to tear off my ridiculous wreath. " I 
 beg your pardon. 1 ' And then I lift my eyes and see that this some- 
 thing is Paul Vasher. And I stand staring at him with my poppy 
 wreath in my hand, mute as a stock-fish— I, who have the longest, 
 
SUMMER. 189 
 
 glibbest tongue in Christendom — with never a word to say for my- 
 self. Although I know him, he does not know me. There is no 
 recognition in his glance, only an alert sort of surprise ; but, thank 
 heaven, no amusement, which is under the circumstances simply 
 angelic in him. My heart is crying over and over again, " He has 
 come back ! He has come back !" with a glad, breathless hurry 
 that amazes me ; but my lips are dumb, my hand does not steal 
 out in friendly greeting, and if ever a young woman looked an 
 awkward, gaping, silly bit of rusticity, that young woman is me. 
 For the first time in all my life, perhaps, I do not take the first 
 word, and he speaks. 
 
 " I am trying to find my way to the Manor House, but I am not 
 sure if I am in the right path. Can you direct me 1" 
 
 His voice breaks the spell, my tongue begins to wag again. 
 
 " I am going that way, and will show you." 
 
 I turn my back upon him, for the path is narrow, wondering 
 heartily whether he is relieving his feelings by having a good grin 
 at my back 1 Such a figure as I look ! though on the whole I 
 fancy my back view is not quite as disreputable as my front. 
 Shall I turn and ascertain ] No, for it is always more bearable to 
 suspect people are making fun of you than to know it. Arrived 
 at the stile I find myself in a dilemma : to scramble over it any- 
 how by myself is one thing, to be delicately assisted over it by a 
 gentleman another ; for it consists of a single upright slab of 
 stone that affords no foothold whatever, and the only legitimate 
 means of surmounting it is to take it in your stride or vault it. 
 In the present instance I can do neither, so I look in sore per- 
 plexity from Mr. Vasher to the stile, and from the stile to him, 
 until, he probably seeing the difficulty, we catch each other's eye 
 and go off into sudden laughter. 
 
 " I never saw anything in the least like that before,'' he saya. 
 " Was it erected for acrobats T 
 
190 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " I think so !" I say, recovering. " But please do not attempt 
 to help me over, or we shall infallibly roll into the brook ! Now, 
 if you would not mind walking on and turning your back I can 
 manage it quite well by myself !" He walks on, for he is a man 
 of sense— a fool would stand on the other side of the stile and 
 argue the matter for half an hour— and I am over it, and after him 
 like a shot. 
 
 " Do you know/' he says, as I join him, " that when I saw you 
 come dancing towards me I could not believe you were mortal ? 
 I thought (laughing) that you must be the goddess of joy dropped 
 out of a cloud, you looked so happy." 
 
 " And may not one be happy V' I ask, looking at him in surprise. 
 " Are not all folks sometimes ?" 
 
 "Sometimes," he says; "but moderately, not so overflow ingly 
 as you were." 
 
 " Ah ! if you only knew all my troubles," I say, shaking my 
 head, " you would wonder I could ever laugh at all ! And yet I 
 do, morning, noon, and night. I often think I shall be punished 
 some day for having such a light heart." 
 
 " Fuller says, ' An ounce of contentment is worth a pound of 
 sadness to serve God with,' so I don't think you will be heavily 
 judged !" 
 
 " By the bye," I say, turning very red and dropping my voice, 
 " when you met me just now you did not hear me singing, did 
 you?" 
 
 "Of course! Why?* 
 
 " And you did not laugh V 
 
 " There was nothing to laugh at !" 
 
 " I will tell you a secret," I say smiling. (May I not be con- 
 fidential with him, since I knew him so many years ago, when I 
 was quite little and childish ?) " I would give the world to be 
 able to sing, but I never could. It seems so natural to sing when 
 
SUMMER. 191 
 
 one is happy, does it not ! Just as a bird breaks out into song, 
 because he feels that life is good and he loves it. I had singing 
 lessons at Pimpernel once, and the man did his very best with me, 
 but at last he gave it up. One must be bad, must one not, before 
 a singing master washes his hands of you 1 About two years ago, 
 Milly (my sister, you know) and I were at a little party at the 
 Vicarage, and I stood up to sing a duet with her. It was a fool- 
 hardy thing to do, but I had practised it for weeks ; and when I 
 opened my mouth there was not a sound to be heard — literally 
 not a sound. Perhaps it was as well — but oh ! I was so bitterly 
 ashamed. I think I sat down and turned my face to the wall and 
 wept." 
 
 " And did your sister sing it alone V asks Mr. Vasher, laughing. 
 " She sang another instead I" 
 
 " It is very odd," says Paul, " but I know your voice quite well 
 — I am sure I have heard it before ; and your face seems familiar 
 to me." 
 
 " People are so alike," I say evasively, turning my head away 
 from his keen regard. Somehow I do not w r ant him to recollect 
 me just yet. " Nature makes all her people in sets, aud mine is a 
 common pattern." 
 
 " I think not," he says slowly ; "for I never saw but one person 
 a bit like you before, and that was Helen Adair." 
 
 I see his mind trembling on the brink of a discovery, so I hastily 
 hold up my poppy wreath for his inspection. 
 
 " Look !" I say, " is it not bizarre, extraordinary 1 Did not that 
 make you smile V 1 
 
 He takes it from my hand and turns it ound. " It looked very 
 pretty on," he says. " Did you make it, yourself, Nell V 
 
 " You know who I am : you knew it all along V I say, starting 
 back. 
 
r92 COMIN' THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 " Only since a moment ago, 7 he says smiling. M And now, alter 
 all these years, have you not a welcome for me V 
 
 1 hold out both my hands with a deep sigh. " If you only knew 
 how glad I am you have come back !" I say—" how I have 
 wished for you to come back ! You have been away four whole 
 years." 
 
 "And you remembered me all that while T he says, looking 
 down into my face eagerly—" you missed me V 
 
 " So much," I say gravely, " that often I have said to Jack, that 
 if I knew where you were I should write and ask you if you had 
 forgotten your promise about the fruit garden." 
 
 " And that was the only reason you wanted to see me back V 
 
 " Oh, no ! I wanted to see you toe." 
 
 He seems to have forgotten he is holding my hands, so I take 
 them away. 
 
 " Are you married V I ask, looking up at the dark strong face, 
 that is altered no whit, save that the restless expression has fallen 
 away from it, and a better, nobler look grown upon it. 
 
 "No." 
 
 " I am so glad," I say, clapping my hands ; " so glad, do not 
 be angry with me, but after you went away I used always to think 
 that when I saw you next you would be married to " 
 
 I stop short, I had forgotten he does not know that I know that 
 he loved Silvia Fleming ; my cheeks turn scarlet as my poppies at 
 my stupidity. 
 
 " Yes," he says, " and to whom V* 
 
 " No one in particular," I say, looking down at the grass ; " it 
 was only a ridiculous fancy of mine." 
 
 We walk on again, and there is a little pause in our brisk con- 
 versation ; perhaps he is remembering, and I am recalling Silvia 
 Fleming's vow, and marvelling if she has tried to wind him again, 
 or forgotten her wild love in sober, respectable marriage. 
 
SUMMER. 193 
 
 " It was lucky I came through these fields," says Mr. Vasher 
 * for I was going to the Manor House to see you? 
 
 " If you want to find me of afternoons," I say, laughing, " you 
 must scour the country and look under every hedge and tree ; I 
 live out of doors in the summer. And were you coming to see 
 me so soon 1 That was good of you." 
 
 u Will you believe," he says, looking down on me (my head 
 barely reaches his shoulder, and yet I am a very decent height, 
 five feet four inches), " that you were the first person I thought of 
 when I came back to England 1 I only arrived at The Towers 
 yesterday, and, as you see, have set out to visit you to-day. And, 
 after all, you are a disappointment," he says, with a queer smile. 
 " Somehow I always thought of finding you a bright, frank-faced, 
 
 honest little girl, just as I left you, and now " (he scans me 
 
 slowly from head to foot) " I find you grown up and " 
 
 " I wish you had come back sooner," I say, interrupting, " for do 
 you know, I am getting beyond gooseberries, and can exist with- 
 out apples !" 
 
 We are passing through the orchard now, and several of the fry 
 are standing about in the distance, distinctly marvelling who on 
 earth sister Nell has got hold of. In the garden we meet the 
 governor, and, to my amazement, instead of Mr. Vasher being\ 
 ignominiously ordered off the premises, papa welcomes him with 
 much politeness, speaks with respect of Mr. Vasher's defunct father, 
 and finally floats him away in a stream of amicable conversation.' 
 Verily, this is a world of change J 
 
 IS 
 
[ 9 4 COMIN" THRO THE RYE. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " There is no woman's sides 
 Can bide the beating of so strong a passion. 
 As love doth give rfiy heart: no woman's heart 
 So big to hold so much. . ." 
 
 It is nearly a month since Mr. Vasher paid his flying visit to 
 Silverbridge, and we are drawing very near that illustrious First, 
 which is the one day of the year to all Englishmen, from the keen 
 sportsman and crack shot to the aimless booby who never goes out 
 with a gun save at the risk of his own and his neighbours' lives. 
 Although the partridges on the Vasher estate may be supposed to 
 have long ago taken to eating each other, as there is no one, save 
 poachers, to shoot them, their owner will not be here to sally forth 
 with his friends, and send them to kingdom come ; on the con- 
 trary, he is bound over to appear in S shire at that date, and 
 
 will not be among his own stubble until the second week of 
 the month. After that he is going to settle down in his own 
 house, and become, he says, a respectable country gentleman. I 
 wonder why the words " country gentleman " always bring up a 
 vision of a red-faced, fox-hunting, ample-bodied, mutton-chop- 
 whiskered, rather vulgar-looking man, who loves beer and doubt- 
 ful jokes, and has a weakness for kissing the pretty Maries at 
 road-side inns % 
 
 He seemed very sorry to go away, Paul Vasher. Papa says he 
 was absolutely obliged to go, business affairs accumulated, etc., etc. 
 He made a pleasant change ; I hope he will come back soon. 
 At the present moment I am walking along the passage that leads 
 to mother's room, with a fresh nosegay of flowers in my hand for 
 her table. 
 
 " Come in !" she says, as I knock ; and entering, I find her sitting 
 by the open window, smoothing the primrose-coloured locks of 
 her youngest born with a brush as soft as swans' down. 
 
SUMMER, 195 
 
 I have never written very much about mother, but she is as 
 much the life of her children as the air they breathe ; whoever 01 
 whatever we love we always place them " after mother." As 1 
 give her a hearty hug, I become aware of a pleased smile on her 
 face, that not only lurks in every pretty corner, but covers it as 
 with a garment in a most unequivocal manner. 
 
 "Jack" I say, with a sudden leap of joy through my veins, " he 
 is coming home V 
 
 " No," says mother, f it is not Jack. It is an invitation." 
 
 "An invitation !" I repeat. " Are any of our neighbours mad 
 enough, or forgiving enough, to try that on again V 
 
 " It is from Milly. She wants you to go on the 30th to stay 
 with her for a month." 
 
 " Lovely !" I say, with a deep gasp ; " but he will not let me 
 go." 
 
 " It is just possible that he may," says mother, " although he 
 has refused all Alice's invitations for you. You would like it, 
 dear V 
 
 " Like it," I say, sighing ; " did not the country mouse love to go 
 and stay with the town one, even though he came to terrible grief % 
 But mother, mother, I have no clothes. Running wild here is one 
 thing, but footing it at Luttrell another." 
 
 " What have you got V asks mother, setting down her darling, 
 who speedily accomplishes his one object in life, which is to over- 
 turn himself. 
 
 " One black silk, which is skimpy and rusty, and tight and 
 green ; two decent white dresses, and one indecent one ; a few 
 prints that look passable enough in the dim vista of a woodland, 
 but are not quite, ahem ! the thing for visiting. Have you got 
 anything at all left in the wardrobe f 
 
 Mother's wardrobe is a kind of museum of dead and gone 
 fashions and garments, among which she always rummages when 
 
 13—2 
 
196 COM IN" THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 any of us are particularly ragged or naked. Unfortunately, the 
 rummaging of twenty years has left it very bald and miserable 
 indeed ; and as everything of any value has been taken out long 
 ago, I stand but a poor chance of fishing up a garment fit to go 
 visiting in. 
 
 " There is the yellow satin," says mother, " but then you don't 
 like yellow satin." 
 
 " Especially when my great grandmother upset a dish of gravy 
 down its front," I say, grimacing. " Would you have me like the 
 serving-man in ' L'Avare,' who was bidden by his master to hold 
 his hat over his clothes, that the company might not see the rents 
 and stains V 
 
 " And there is the plum-coloured pacluasoy," says mother, un- 
 heeding my flippant interjections, "and you don't like that." 
 
 " No, I do not ! If I can't have one or two moderately respect- 
 able gowns, I must stay at home." 
 
 " I don't know what your papa will say," says mother, with a 
 sigh. 
 
 " If he only says * Yes,' " I say, kissing her, " I'll forgive all the 
 rest. Is that other letter from Dolly V 
 
 " Yes, she likes it very much at Charteris, but she seems rather 
 home-sick." 
 
 " Poor Dolly !" I say, kl I wish she were back again. I do miss 
 her so. Mother, mother, why did you not have more girls V 
 
 " Nell," says the Bull of Basan, rushing in, " the governor says 
 you're to go down directly ; the Tempests are in the garden." 
 
 " Bother !" I say, crossly ; for would I not a hundred times 
 rather be up here talking of new gowns with mother, than trotting 
 round the hot garden and fields with George, talking of love 1 I 
 know those little morning walks round the estate well enough ; 
 and as to the Mummy's being an invalid, I don't believe a word of 
 it ; his legs are made of cast iron. I follow my sturdy young 
 
SUMMER. 197 
 
 brother, who has earned his nickname by the extraordinary power 
 and volume of his bellow (when papa is out of the way), down- 
 stairs very unwillingly. 
 
 The gentlemen are all standing together in the porch, and I say, 
 " How do you do V to the father, and lay my fingers in the warm 
 grasp of the son ; and after that little formula we all stroll forth 
 together, the two old souls in front, and we young ones behind. 
 
 " Do you know," I say, lowering my voice cautiously, for in our 
 family we all firmly believe that papa has not only eyes but ears 
 in the back of his head, " that perhaps something most delightful 
 is going to happen to me ] That there is a chance of my going 
 
 away 
 
 ?» 
 
 " Going away," he repeats blankly, and a pale dashed look comes 
 over his face ; " do you mean it, Nell !" 
 
 " Why should I not V I ask in astonishment, tipping my sun- 
 bonnet a little farther forward ; " is there anything so very aston- 
 ishing in that, pray V 
 
 " It would not be in some people, but it is in you ; I thought 
 you never went away." 
 
 " That is just why I am so anxious to begin,'' I say, briskly. 
 * Do you think he will let me go 1 do you think he will V 
 
 " I don't know," says George, switching at the grass with his 
 stick ; " do you want to go so very much V 
 
 " I think I should break my heart if I did not !" I say with con- 
 viction. " You see I have never been anywhere really ; and think 
 of what it would be to go to, perhaps, a ball (Do you think thty 
 will dance at Luttrell 1) and have a real ball dress, and a real " 
 
 " Lover !" puts in George, with a pale smile ; " for you are as 
 sure to have the one as the other I" 
 
 " You silly boy !" I say, patting his coat sleeve, "have you not got 
 over that ridiculous notion yet ? I wish you were coming too ; 
 yes I do, with all my heart !" 
 
198 COM/N' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " Are you sure of that V he asks, looking into my eyes with those 
 blue ones that have never met mine yet without their warm love- 
 light burning steadily. 
 
 " Quite sure !" I say, smitten with a quick compunction ; for am 
 I not devoutly glad at the prospect of going away from him % and 
 when did he ever leave me without regret ? " You ought to be 
 there to take care of me, ought you not V* 
 
 " If you go away this time, Nell," he says, "some other man will 
 fall in love with you, and you will never come back to me any 
 more. I can see it all quite plainly. Will you not stay, dear, and 
 try to put up with a poor, rough fellow, who loves you P 
 
 11 There is no fear of any one I shall see there," I say softly ; 
 " besides, who is likely to fall in love with me there or anywhere 
 else 1 Every eye hath its own Naboth's vineyard (Did not some one 
 or other say that ?) and I am yours, but I'm not likely to be any- 
 body else's. I shall come back again like a bad penny, never fear." 
 I stoop to pluck a handful of small bind-weed, whose pale pink 
 cups are opening to the sunshine with a dim faint fragrance. 
 
 " If only I were sure of you," says the young man ; " if only these 
 wretched months were up !" 
 
 " Poor George !'' I say gently. Alas ! that I should have to say, 
 Poor George ! When a woman pities her lover, she is a long, long 
 way from loving him. I think he knows it, for he shakes his 
 shoulders back impatiently ; he looks as nearly wretched as his 
 blonde, sunny, good looks permit. These fair men never manage 
 to look as disconsolate and woe-begone over their misfortunes as 
 do the black- eyed, black-haired, funereal lovers. 
 
 In these morning rambles, we always visit every outbuilding 
 and corner, clean or unclean. We have now arrived at the pigsty, 
 and the two papas are inside, prodding the fat sides of the porkers, 
 and disputing loudly over the superiority of this breed or that. 
 " Poor Chucky !" I say, resting my elbows on the top of the stone 
 
SUMMER, 199 
 
 wall that overlooks his unsweet dwelling, " you must have disagreed 
 very seriously with our ancestors before they decided that your 
 savoury body was unfit for food. Do you think," I ask, turning 
 to George, " that they had trichinosis in those days V 
 
 " Probably, only they called it by a less grand name !" 
 
 " The pigs must have had an excellent time of it when there was 
 no one to eat them, you know ; not that T will ever believe the 
 Irish abjured the sweet creatures. I got into such a scrape here 
 once," I continue, looking across to where the Mummy and the 
 governor are waxing warm over their discussion. (After all, a 
 pigsty is not a very dignified place to quarrel in.) " Dorley used 
 to milk a particularly vicious cow just in this corner ; and one after- 
 noon I popped my sun-bonneted head suddenly over the wall, and 
 away went the cow, kicking over the stool, milk-pail, and Dorley, 
 who lay on his back, with the milk all sweeling over him, never 
 offering to move or get up, but just turned up the whites of his 
 eyes, and murmured, ' 'Ow could 'ee do it, Miss Ullen % 'ow could 
 'ee do it V What a row there was about it to be sure !" 
 
 I go off into a fit of laughter, in which George joins, and the two 
 old people, having settled their dispute without coming to fisticuffs, 
 move on, and we follow. How miserable it all is without Jack ! 
 Going over these old haunts without him, I feel almost as ancient 
 as the " oldest inhabitant " does when he toddles round the house 
 where he was born. It seems quite a century since we sat, one at 
 each end of yonder plank, see- sawing, and tumbling flat on our 
 noses five times in every minute. " I wonder what poor dear Jack 
 is doing V I say aloud ; " working himself to death, I dare say ! It 
 was very inconsiderate of him, choosing a profession : there was 
 no need, as he is the eldest son !" 
 
 " Jack is a lucky fellow," says George, with a quick envy in his 
 voice ; " don't be sorry that he is not here idling his time away ! 
 He is out in the world making his life or marring it ', he has the 
 
COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 chance of proving himself to be of good stuff or bad ; he is not laid 
 on a shelf like an old maid's gown, with sprigs of lavender between. 
 Pythagoras says that, ' in this theatre of man's life, it is reserved 
 only for God and angels to be lookers on ;' and Arnold exclaims 
 1 Have we not all eternity to rest in V Depend on it, Nell, every 
 man ought to work? 
 
 " But what could you do 1" I ask gently, for do I not know how 
 this purposeless, idle life chafes him. " I don't think you are clever 
 enough to cut a good figure in Parliament ; and you would not 
 care to be a clergyman or a doctor 1 If you had gone into the 
 army as you intended, your time would have been filled up, 
 but it would only have been like playing at being busy, for we 
 never have any real fighting now, you know ; we only make 
 faces at our enemies, and show them that we are ready, and 
 they never come on." George laughs. 
 
 " There are other things in the world besides fighting," he says, 
 
 " plenty of good work to be done ; but, however, it is no good 
 
 talking about it. If ever I say anything to my father, he asks me 
 
 if I shall not have time enough to do as I please after he is dead. 
 
 \Pleasant that !" 
 
 " After a certain age," I say gravely, " old people ought to go 
 off ; all that have any sense of propriety do, and make room for 
 the young ones. They have had their day, cracked their jokes, 
 drunk their wines ; and when their lives are flat, stale, and un- 
 profitable, they ought to make their bow and vanish." 
 
 " Only they don't think so," says George, laughing ; " and De- 
 brett chronicles many a depraved and inconsiderate old man, at a 
 good deal past the orthodox three-score years and ten, and whose 
 heir will have suffered the sickness of hope deferred, and have 
 grown-up sons and a purple nose before he comes into his inheri- 
 tance !" 
 
 " At any rate, George, you may be thankful that you are not a 
 
SUMMER. 201 
 
 woman, shunted on to a siding, and bound to remain there for the 
 rest of your life, unless some one has a fancy for murdering you, 
 or you distinguish yourself in some discreditable way !" 
 
 "Women ought to be seen, but never heard of," says George, 
 decidedly; "you don't want to scream on hustings, do you, 
 Nell?" 
 
 "No, indeed, women possess far too much power to wish to 
 wrest the semblance of it from man. A woman's rights ! by gain- 
 ing them woman always seems to me to have lost all the privileges 
 of her own sex, while obtaining none of the dignity of the other." 
 
 " Well done !" says George ; " I'm glad you're not bitten like all 
 the rest." 
 
 " That is because I am not clever," I say, laughing. " I should 
 cut but a sorry figure among those highly cultivated females, and 
 no one likes to look small !" (I turn aside to gather a spray or 
 two of sweet woodruff that has no scent in life, but when dried 
 possesses the fragrance of new-mown hay.) "Do you see that 
 vervain, George % It is said to make the company it is in gay and 
 jocund ; had we not better take some home for our fathers V 
 
 " I don't think you want any," he says, looking at me ; "I 
 never saw such a merry little soul as you are ; and the way you 
 laugh !" 
 
 " I read somewhere the other day, that every laugh is a nail out 
 of your coffin," I say gaily; "if that is true there cannot be one 
 left in mine, can there ? Don't try and take from me my poor 
 little cheerfulness ; trouble will come fast enough ; it always does 
 to very happy people. It is the croaking, grumbling, ill-used folk 
 who get through life comfortably and make other people bear their 
 burdens !" 
 
 " You would never laugh as you do if you were in love," says 
 George ; " you couldn't." 
 
 " I do laugh very loud," I say, considering j " almost as loud as 
 
202 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 the Bull of Basan V George does not answer, he appears to be 
 thinking ; so if I expect to be assured that my laughter is always 
 low and sweet, I am mistaken. 
 
 " Do you know," I say, feeling rather ruffled, " that you never 
 pay me any compliments now 1 No one ever paid me any but 
 you, and besides amusing me, I got quite to like them !" 
 
 " When a man is profoundly in love he does not make pretty 
 speeches," says George ; " he feels them, but he does not speak 
 them. It would be like saying to the sun, ' How warm you are !' 
 when he is warmed through and through with its rays. I don't 
 think I ever paid you compliments" 
 
 11 George," I say presently, as we walk noiselessly over the close- 
 cropped, sweet meadows, " do you not think that a woman may 
 have several fancies and only one heart 1 or do you believe her 
 heart and her fancy always go together V 
 
 " What put that into your head V he asks, opening his eyes. 
 
 " Nothing !" I answer dreamily ; " only I can understand a man 
 and woman falling out terribly, because he thought she loved 
 some one better than she did him, when in reality her heart be- 
 longed perfectly to that man, although a fleeting fancy for some 
 one else had for the time being obscured her vision : there would 
 be misery and confusion come, would there not ? But after all, it 
 is the heart that stands, the fancy dies away like a puff of summer 
 wind." 
 
 " Have a fancy for who you like, dear," says George ; " only keep 
 your heart for me !" 
 
 " If ever I had a fancy for any one," I say, looking out at the far 
 away, blooming hills, " I think it must have been in dreamland. 
 Bah ! we are talking nonsense. Do you know that I shall look 
 such an old guy, if I go away 1 look at this frock !" And I hold 
 out the skirt of my modest garment for inspection. 
 
 " Well ! and what is the matter with it ?" 
 
SUMMER. 203 
 
 "Everything! material, fashion, cut, and age I" 
 
 " Never you mind !" he says, looking at my face, not my gown 
 " People will look at you, not your dress !" 
 
 " Not they !" I say, shaking my head. " Women look at youi 
 dress first, and your face after ; men look first at a woman's general 
 turn out ; they would rather be seen with an ugly but perfectly 
 appointed woman, than ever such a pretty one in a bonnet out of 
 date and ill gloved and booted." 
 
 " I should prefer the pretty woman with the out-of-date bonnet," 
 says George ; " but surely you can have everything you require for 
 a visit r 
 
 " I ought, but ought is an ill-used word that never gets its rights. 
 Papa's daughters are never supposed to require anything so super- 
 fluous as clothes" 
 
 " If you would only marry me, you should have a new silk dress 
 for every day in the year," says the young man, with masculine 
 ignorance of the number of yards every well-brought-up young 
 woman considers it necessary to cram into a skirt. 
 
 " You would not have me marry you for the sake of silk dresses, 
 wotild you % n I ask reproachfully, feeling somewhat allured, never- 
 theless, at the notion of trailing about in black, white, green, blue, 
 lilac, cream colour, or pink attire every day. I could not enjoy 
 them all, though ; and perhaps, after a bit, I should even get as 
 used to them as I am to my cotton ones ; and it would be no 
 pleasure to choose a new one. " Heigho !" I sigh ; " well, there is 
 one comfort, I shall not have any of the women abusing me for my 
 smart toilettes ; a woman will forgive another one for being better 
 looking than herself— that is Nature's fault, not her own— but she 
 will never forgive her for being better dressed." 
 
 " That is true," says George, " and I believe that numbers of 
 people do not dare to be stylish, or they would lose all their 
 friends. There is to some folks a species of immorality in a per- 
 
204 COM IN' THRO? THE RYE. 
 
 fectly fitting dress, or a becoming bonnet ; it is a snare, a lust of 
 the eye, and as such to be shunned by honest, sober people ! I 
 have often seen a man looking with positive pleasure at his dowdy, 
 ill-dressed wife ; it gives him a comfortable feeling of safety, to 
 think that he can put her down in the middle of a crowded public 
 room, and be certain to find her there unmolested when he comes 
 back. In fact, too much style is the devil (they think), and men 
 are often afraid to marry a very pretty or elegant girl, because they 
 think her morals cannot be quite what they should be, or that she 
 \will take too much trouble in looking after !" 
 
 " And I have heard that a girl can have no higher compliment 
 than the dispraise of her own sex, and that when you hear them 
 abusing and picking to pieces some particular woman, and assuring 
 each other that she has not a good feature in her face, that her 
 figure is padded, her complexion kept in a box, and that not even 
 her eyelashes are her own, you may be quite sure she is good- 
 looking, or fascinating, or uncommon : on the other hand, if you 
 hear them praising some girl to the skies, you may be perfectly 
 sure that she is meek, insipid, and tame, too uninteresting to be a 
 rival, and too vapid to attract the attention of any one's lover, 
 husband, or brother. Is that true V 
 
 " Perfectly." 
 
 " Well, I can't understand that feeling. When I see anything 
 beautiful, I love to look at it I never used to weary of looking at 
 Alice or Silvia Fleming." 
 
 " Silvia Fleming !" he exclaims, " where did you ever see her !" 
 
 " At Charteris." 
 
 " At the time Vasher was there V 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 11 Whew !" whistles George ; " why he was in love with her ; 
 engaged to her some years ago ; no one ever knew why the match 
 was broken off. Vasher must be getting an old fellow by now." 
 
SUMMER. 205 
 
 " Old !" I say in astonishment. " Old ! did you say % He can- 
 not be much past thirty." 
 
 " That is a good deal," says George, with all a young man's im- 
 pertinence ; " why, you were only a child when you first knew him, 
 Nell?" 
 
 " Yes, I was only a child !" 
 
 " And I can't imagine how you recollected him when you ran up 
 against him in that field." 
 
 " It is not a face one could possibly forget," I say, rather tartly ; 
 " Paul Vasher is the handsomest man I ever saw !" 
 
 George stares at me blankly ; he does not mind my not appre- 
 ciating his good looks, but it cuts him for me to place another man 
 before him. 
 
 " You always admired dark men," he says, with a fall in his 
 voice. 
 
 " Always !" I say, beginning to laugh. " Do you know what I 
 am laughing at T 
 
 " No." 
 
 "I was thinking of that day when you were so angry, and 
 walked off in a huff, and never turned your head once. I have so 
 often thought since, that — that if you had only looked round, you 
 would have seen how silly I looked when I ran into Mr. Vasher, 
 and the moral I deduced was, ' never turn your back on your 
 friends, but keep your eyes wide open to see when they make fools 
 of themselves !" And I laugh heartily ; I always had a bad knack 
 of laughing more amusedly at my own small jokes than those of 
 anybody else. 
 
 We are in the orchard now, and the Mummy is beckoning from 
 afar to George to accompany him home to luncheon, for above all 
 earthly considerations does he place his stomach and the comfort 
 thereof. 
 
 M Good-bye/' says George, standing bare-headed under the trees, 
 
206 COMIN* THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 through which the sunlight flickers lovingly on to his fair, bright 
 locks. " If you do go, which I devoutly hope you will not, Nell, 
 there will be plenty of time for another nice long talk, will there 
 
 not r 
 
 " Plenty !" I say, my heart sinking, for I know he will try and 
 win an unconditional promise from me before I go, and that I 
 never will give. " Good-bye, George !'* 
 
 And so he goes away, through the light and shadow, a stalwart, 
 knightly figure that many a proud woman might look after with 
 glad eyes of love and pleasure. 
 
 u Oh, love, love !" I say to myself as I go on towards the house, 
 11 that some people eat their hearts out in trying to win, and others 
 take as thanklessly as though it were dirt ; why do you not go 
 where you would be welcomed with eager, grateful hands, instead 
 of beating at a fast-shut door that can never be opened to you, 
 never, ah ! never !" 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " If thou art rich, thou art poor; 
 For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, 
 Thnu bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey, 
 And death union ds thee." 
 
 It is Saturday, the thirtieth of August, and I am speeding along 
 through golden sun-flooded fields of wheat, and shorn brown-green 
 meadows ; not on my own two indifferently shod feet, but in a 
 carriage drawn by a puffing, snorting, hissing, dirty monster, who 
 makes a prodigious noise, and hurry, and fuss, as he goes on his 
 iron way rejoicing. I am off ! Actually off ! I am still doubt- 
 ful as to whether it is really my veritable body that is seated 
 on the hard blue cushions of the railway carriage. I keep on rub- 
 bing my eyes to be quite sure that I am awake, that I shall not 
 
SUMMER. 207 
 
 find myself sitting up in bed, bitterly sorry and wrathful that a 
 mocking dream has made a fool of me again. I have pinched my- 
 self hard six times, and at the end of each nip have felt relieved 
 on finding that the train, my vis-a-vis, and my novel have not 
 vanished into thin air. For a week I have been dancing like a cat 
 on hot bricks, alternating between feverish hope and grovelling 
 despair ; I have packed and unpacked my modest wardrobe at 
 least twelve times, and only a short hour ago, I was drowned in 
 tears because the latest verdict had gone forth, " She shall not go." 
 Whether mother thereupon went down on her knees before her 
 lord, as Philippa did to hers, and softened his flinty heart with her 
 tears and prayers, I know not ; at any rate his decision was 
 reversed, and that delusive jade Hope spread her wings and 
 vanished, leaving blessed and calm certainty in her place. 
 
 It is a quarter of an hour since I left Silverbridge station, and 
 wished mother and George good-bye. He did look so down in the 
 mouth, and I always did hate to see a man miserable : all women 
 whimper more or less, but men ought not to be bothered. Well, 
 he'll get out into the world some day I hope ; and there's nothing 
 puts a love affair out of a man's head so quickly as having a lot to 
 do: it is only the people who sit down and think, think, think of 
 one particular person, who take a disappointment so much to heart. 
 I think most lunatics in love lived in the country. I wish I had a 
 pleasant travelling companion ; some one who would not be afraid 
 to open his or her lips, and with whom I could exchange a few rea- 
 sonable remarks. There is small hope, however, of this lot. They 
 belong, I can see at a glance, to that large class of people who 
 look with horror on the smallest approach to conversation from a 
 stranger ; who are bound hard and fast by that ridiculous law of 
 society which commands human beings to be in each other's com- 
 pany for hours, and yet give no more sign that they are aware of 
 each other's presence and existence than if they were carrots or 
 
208 COM IN" THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 cabbages, or tables or chairs ; you may know who they are, and 
 they may know who you are, but until the magic words of intro- 
 duction have been spoken over you — they are not. You are voice- 
 less, eyeless, earless ; so are they, and nothing short of your being 
 all jumbled up together in a horrible accident would give any of 
 them back their faculties. To this class of people, the offer of the 
 smallest civility, a newspaper, a book or any other trifle, is regarded 
 with grave doubt, and you are suspected of having designs on their 
 purse, their bodies, or their acquaintance. " Nothing for nothing," 
 is their motto. They never give without receiving a fair return, 
 and why should you ? It looks queer, to say the least. Therefore, 
 when you are travelling, if you wish to be considered respectable, 
 and neither an adventurer nor adventuress, put on a stony counte- 
 nance ; look at the ceiling or your boots — never at the countenances 
 of your fellow-travellers ; receive any offer of book, paper, etc., 
 with a haughty " Sir !" or " Madam !" look down your nose if any 
 one address you: but to be pleasant, to say " Thank you f and 
 discuss the state of the weather, the state of the country, and the 
 last new murder then indeed you are low, hopelessly low, and 
 you have yourself to thank if the silent ones dub you as something 
 rather different to what you suppose yourself to be. 
 
 Now I should, above all things, like to ask one of those little 
 virgins yonder to lend me the Graphic ; there is a lovely picture 
 in it, and I always did like pictures. I should like to announce 
 publicly, that I am burningly, consumedly, unbeaiably hot ; not 
 but what my looks sufficiently attest the unwelcome fact, but it is 
 always such a relief to talk over one's misfortunes ; half mine 
 always vanish when I can get any one to sympathise with me over 
 them. In this case, however, I might be burnt to a cinder before 
 I should dare to comment on the fact. 
 
 The two little people sitting opposite me are sisters, as alike as 
 
SUMMER. 209 
 
 two peas, and I think as green ; and the only difference that I can 
 discern between them is that one has a permanent hitch in her 
 nose, and the other has not. They are neither very young, nor 
 very old : they hover on that chilly neutral-grey border-land that 
 divides the young maid from the old one; they look as if they had 
 never had a lover, or a sorrow, or a joy, or a hope, or a disappoint- 
 ment. I wonder what it feels like to have a torpid existence like 
 that ] Even the poor flies get wakened up and warmed by the sun 
 sometimes. 
 
 A stolid British matron sits on my right, with a red account' 
 book in her hand filled with rows of figures that should make her 
 eyes ache. If ever I have a husband, I will take care of two 
 things : that he keeps the accounts and orders the dinner. 
 
 The only cheerful people present are two fat clergymen— com- 
 fortably dressed, happy, well-shaven souls, who are not only 
 pleasantly provided for in this world, but are blessedly safe for 
 the next. One is telling the other the latest bon mot of a certain 
 witty bishop, and I strain my ears to catch the pregnant syllables : 
 but he laughs so much over it, that the point is lost in successions 
 of chuckles, and I feel unreasonably though distinctly cross. The 
 other man says, " Hey V at every tenth word. It strikes me he 
 must spend a good half of his waking existence in saying, " Hey V* 
 What a small insignificant person a spinster travelling alone 
 looks ! She is a poor creature, compared with the " married 
 woman," and all her smart paraphernalia, the footman, the lady's 
 maid, the nurse, the baby, the husband. I place him last of all, . 
 advisedly ; for, though he provided all the rest, he is often the 
 meekest and most unimportant of all. 
 
 No wonder men call themselves lords of creation ! It is not ftk 
 what they are, but for what they give, that they are of so much I / 
 importance : all good things come to a woman through a plain/ 
 gold circlet, apparently ! 
 
 14 
 
210 COMIN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 There is no denying it— I like to feel important ! or rather, I 
 think I should if I ever got the chance— for I never had one yet. 
 I do not want to be married for years and years ; but if I could 
 have all the nice, pleasaut, dignified surroundings that married 
 women have, without being obliged to take the husband, I should 
 like it. Now, if I happen to get smashed up to-day, there is no one 
 to gather my pieces together, or acquaint my friends of my demise, 
 or give me decent burial. I shall be simply an unattended, un- 
 appropriated female, and of no account whatever. I am proud to 
 say that I do not bear a bandbox, a bag, and a sheaf of umbrellas 
 and parasols, as is the wont of most unmarried females: I have only 
 one bonnet, and that is in my box, and in a bad way, I fear ; for 
 finding the trunk would not close, I sat down on the contents with 
 much vigour, forgetting the bonnet in my excitement ; and to- 
 morrow morning I shall be a sorrowful sight to see. We wanted 
 to buy a new one— mother and I ; but an empty purse stared us 
 sternly in the face, and forbade the purchase. Next to being 
 hungry, I wonder if there is any misfortune, short of death, equal 
 to that of an empty purse ? To be ill in body is bad, to be ill in 
 mind is worse, but for real downright, biting unpleasantness, and 
 bitterness of soul, commend me to the empty pocket ! I fancy 
 Nick hates to see us penniless as heartily as we hate to see our- 
 selves : he knows it is so easy for us to get into mischief when we 
 have gold, so hard to distinguish ourselves in his court without it. 
 I wonder how many extravagances and naughtinesses have been 
 nipped in the bud for lack of the glittering dross? Well, if I do 
 possess a sneaking love for smart clothes (is not love of dress one 
 of his distinct and evil promptings 1 does he not ruin body and 
 soul by hundreds every day, for the sheen that lies on a satin, the 
 lustrous bloom on a silk, and the fairy cobwebs of a priceless lace ?) 
 it is pretty plain I cannot indulge it. 
 
 How hungry I am ! In the breathless hurry-skurry of my de- 
 
SUMMER. si] 
 
 parture, sherry and sandwiches found no place : I was too intent 
 on conveying my person and box to the station (anticipating a re- 
 voke of the favourable sentence) to think of probable hunger; now 
 as the train slowly glides into Pringly station, the sight of the re- 
 freshment bar, with its fossil sandwiches, leaden buns, and orange- 
 coloured decanters, rejoices my heart. 
 
 " Guard," I say, jumping up as that individual goes past the car- 
 riage with his flag under his arm, " will you get me some sand- 
 wiches, and two buns, and a glass of ale, please V 
 
 " Yes, miss,"— and he vanishes. 
 
 In my hurry I have trodden heavily on the foot of one of the 
 elderly young ladies, and she gives me a look as I make my apolo- 
 gies that quite revives me, it is so healthily vicious. They exchange 
 glances of horror out of their pale eyes as I drink Bass's best or 
 worst. In all their lives, if their complexions may be trusted to 
 speak truth, they have never tasted anything stronger than barley- 
 water. Now, why drinking a glass of ale in a railway carriage, 
 when you are burnt up with dust and thirst, and scrammed with 
 hunger, should be any worse than drinking ale at the family table 
 when you do not particularly want it, I cannot understand; never- 
 theless, the British matron, the divines, and the little elderlies, all 
 look at me with shocked eyes. If they only knew how I am inwardly 
 laughing at them ! for is not this one of those little affectations 
 that make one smile at human nature 1 
 
 Away we go again, tearing through the bright, beautiful country 
 as though it were the desert of Sahara, and we could not leave it 
 behind fast enough. How the sun pours down on our devoted 
 heads ! Truly August is giving us some straight burning strokes 
 before it goes. How I fuss, and fidget, and fan myself, and adopt 
 the hundred and one flapping and fussy measures that mortals suf- 
 fering under discomfort always affect, until they resign themselves 
 to the inevitable, and learn that hardest of hard lessons— endurance. 
 
 14 2 
 
zti COM IN' THkO THE RYE. 
 
 The little females sit white and silent : they are very warm, they 
 are suffering horribly, but they make no complaint. Somehow they 
 irresistibly remind me of little boiled hens with melted butter 
 poured over them. They do not grumble, even to each other. Now 
 if Dolly were here, I should keep up a never-ending stream of 
 nouns and adjectives, and grow cool over the comfort I received. 
 The British matron has closed her eyes, the account-book has 
 slipped from her fingers, and she is asleep, giving utterance now 
 and again to a majestic snore, that once or twice wakes her up, when 
 she looks round fiercely at us all, as who should say, " Who made 
 that noise ] I did not," and then goes off again. 
 
 The fat parson is no longer saying, "Hey r f" aloud, though he 
 may be shouting it in the land of Nod ; his flabby cheeks are 
 damp and unbeautiful, his mouth is a long, long way open. As 
 a rule, human beings do not look well asleep : there is a start- 
 ling resemblance between them and the ruminating animal world 
 when the brain is dormant and the soul away. 
 
 After a while I think I fall off into a doze like the rest. I 
 am conscious of making a deliberate effort to keep my mouth 
 shut when " Luttrell ! Luttrell !" comes sweetly to my ear. I start 
 up in prodigious excitement, dancing up and down on both the 
 little females' feet this time, but in too great a hurry to apologise; 
 in fact, I am out of the carriage and across the platform almost be- 
 fore the train has stopped. 
 
 There is Milly in her carriage, but an ampler, grander, different 
 Milly, somehow, to the bouncing, golden-haired, handsome sister of 
 the old days. 
 
 " How do you do f I say, rushing up to her. " How glad I am 
 to see you !" And I give her a hug, for I have not seen her for a 
 long, long while. 
 
 " I am so glad you have come," she says ; " but, good heavens, 
 Nell ! xohat a hat you have got on I" 
 
SUMMER. 213 
 
 The gladness dies a little out of my face and voice ; I feel ruffled 
 and vaguely chilled. I have not seen her since her marriage, and 
 she might have looked at my face, not my hat ; besides, under the 
 shadow of just such an one had Milly walked for all the years of 
 her life before she married. As we drive away, she asks for all a t 
 home kindly enough, but already, I think, her husband and child 
 fill her heart, and the pomps and vanities, and gauds and pleasures 
 of her new life have shouldered away the memory of the old one at 
 home. As I look at her I marvel if she ever could have dodged 
 papa round corners, and gone water- cressmg, or worn a sun-bonnet 
 and double skirts ? And although I shut my eyes tight, and try to 
 conjure up the vision, I cannot. 
 
 " Where is Alice V I ask. " I thought she would have come with 
 you V> 
 
 " Charles is driving her this afternoon, but she will be in by the 
 time we reach the Court." 
 
 " I am longing to see the babies," I say, looking at Milly's dress, 
 and thinking what uncommonly fine birds fine feathers will make. 
 (I am sure I could be made very presentable.) 
 
 " Mine is a splendid boy," says Milly, warming up directly : 
 
 li he has the Luttrell skin and hair, and his eyes " Words 
 
 fail Milly at this point. 
 
 " And Alice's !" 
 
 11 The youngest is a nice child." 
 
 " How droll it seems to think of Alice as a mamma with two 
 children ! And I have never seen the last one yet." 
 
 " Have you many people staying with you V 
 
 " Not many— a dozen or so. There is Fane !" 
 
 We are in the park now, and across the grass comes a tall, 
 bonny, fair-haired young-fellow, with a sunshiny face and a bright 
 manner that makes every heart warm to him. It was but little 
 
214 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 that I saw of him at Milly's wedding ; I am glad to have the 
 chance of knowing him better. 
 
 " I am so glad you have come," he says heartily ; " we were 
 afraid that " 
 
 A glance from Milly at the servants checks him, and he jumps 
 into the carriage and we bowl away. I wonder if all married 
 people behave as these do? There they sit face to face, hand 
 locked in hand, gazing at each other with an absorbed spooniness 
 that I do not know whether to smile at or admire. Well, I don't 
 wonder at her loving him. In another minute we are at the 
 house and in the hall. Through the half-opened drawing-room 
 door comes a sound as of many tongues, a chinking as of many 
 tea-cups ; evidently all the world is there. 
 
 " I will go to my room, thank you," I say in answer to Milly's 
 question. " Your maid will show me the way." 
 
 As I mount the wide staircase, shallow and wide enough to 
 drive a coach and six down, I heave a deep sigh of relief. I am 
 tired, hot, dusty ; but oh ! I am at my journey's end, and I am 
 here, not at Silverbridge. My room is vast, and wide, and cool ; 
 it looks over garden and pleasaunce, hill and dale, fashioned after 
 nature's rarest and most lovely pattern ; and away to the left 
 glitters my splendid old friend, the sea, upon whose face I have 
 not looked for many a long day. I have removed my travelling 
 dress and am drinking tea, when Alice comes in with a rush. 
 
 " How delighted I am to see you !" she says ; and we fly towards 
 each other and kiss heartily. 
 
 " You disgraceful young woman !" I say, holding her at arm's 
 length ; " so you have actually got another baby, have you !" 
 
 " Is it not shocking V she says, laughing. " 1 have my hands 
 full, I can tell you." 
 
 "And what is the last one like?' I ask with interest; "as 
 pretty as the first was V 
 
SUMMER. 215 
 
 " Prettier !" says Alice, with emphasis. 
 
 " And what is Milly's like f I ask, slyly. 
 
 " Oh, all very well ; but he does not come up to mine/ 
 
 (I expect some fun out of these babies.) 
 
 " And you are better looking than ever," I say, concluding my 
 lengthened survey ; " may I ask if you find any improvement 
 visible in me f* 
 
 "Now I come to look at you," says Alice, "you are— yes — you 
 decidedly are less plain than you used to be. There was a time, 
 Nell, when I simply trembled for you, but your hair is lovely, your 
 eyes are good, and your dimples are charming. I think you'll do." 
 
 " Thank you," I say, meekly ; " it is a case of ' it might have 
 been worse,' is it not % Now, would you believe it, but I know a 
 young man who thinks me very pretty indeed ?" 
 
 "A young man !" says Alice, opening her eyes ; " not in Silver- 
 bridge, surely? Did you advertise for him, or was he dropped out 
 of a balloon V* 
 
 " Neither," I say, laughing ; " but I am not going to tell you any- 
 thing about him. I know so well how everything filters through 
 to the husbands with married women, and I'm not going to have 
 my heart's best affections made the theme of your unfeeling jokes. 
 Did you think I should come, Alice V 
 
 " Not in the least ! Charles and Fane have been making bets 
 on you. After this I shall expect you to come and stay with me 
 at Lovelace Chace." 
 
 " I wish I could," I say, devoutly ; " but, this ' outing' ove 
 expect to be shut up for the rest of my days." 
 
 " Marry," says my beautiful sister, resplendent in all the pride 
 of her matronly young beauty ; " you will be able to do as yoi 
 please then. Now — about this young man " 
 
 " i won't tell you now, 5 ' I say, putting my fingers in my ears, 
 "lam so glad to have got clean away from him, you know ; another 
 
216 COM IN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 day I will. Are any nice people staying here, Alice— any one 1 
 am likely to fall in love with V 
 
 " What a question !" says Alice, opening her eyes again. " If 
 you think of doing any such thing, there is no need to talk about 
 it beforehand, is there V 7 
 
 " In this case," I say, seriously, " there is a great deal of need, 
 for if I do not fall in love with some one within the next five 
 
 months " 
 
 %w What then V 
 
 " What, indeed I" I say, gaily. " Come now, tell me, have you 
 any Prince Charming staying here?" 
 
 " There is one handsome man," says Alice, " Sir George Vestris ; 
 but he is in love with somebody ; and there is little Lord St. John- 
 whose possessions are charming, if he is not, but he is in love with 
 me ; there are two detrimentals looking out for heiresses, and there 
 is some new man who arrived this afternoon, whom I have not 
 seen. It is very odd, he lives near Silverbridge— I can't remember 
 his name. Fane and Milly knew him abroad. I am told he is 
 good-looking." 
 
 "And this other man, the one you mentioned first, who is he in 
 love with 1 Any one here ? I should fall quite naturally into my 
 character of gooseberry again." 
 
 " With the loveliest woman I ever saw," says Alice, "and she 
 has a pretty name — Silvia Fleming." 
 
 " Silvia Fleming !" I cry, starting up, " are you joking V 
 
 " Why should I be V asks Alice " Why, the Flemings live only 
 twenty miles from here, and it seems Luttrell mere and Fleming 
 mhre were old friends. Fane asks them every year." 
 
 " What a little place the world is !" I say, sighing ; " how one 
 does run up against everybody." 
 
 " But where did you ever meet with her, Nell 1" 
 
 " Did I never speak of her ? At Charteris.' ? 
 
SUMMER. 217 
 
 " Ah ! I remember. Well, she is a lovely bit of china, but I 
 can't endure her." 
 
 " You are jealous," I say, looking at her proudly. 
 
 " Oh, no 1" she says, laughing, and in her voice there is the un- 
 grudging admiration that one very pretty woman can always afford 
 to give another : it is only your half-and-half beauties who deny 
 the existence of anything comely in their fair neighbours — " but 
 somehow I can't like her. There is something so silent, so secret * 
 about her, one never feels sure of what she is up to." 
 
 " And she is engaged to this Sir George Vestris V 
 
 Alice shrugs her shoulders. " They are inseparable, they behave 
 like engaged lovers ; she takes no notice of any other man, and he j 
 is quite in earnest ; but she, I believe, is amusing herself. Milly 
 is considerably scandalized, Fleming mere shakes her head, and 
 says nothing, the young woman keeps her own counsel, and we are 
 all in the dark." 
 
 " I wish she was married to him," I say, heartily. 
 
 " Do you, indeed V says Alice. " May I ask, Nell, if you have 
 any intentions on any one who admires her?" 
 
 " No intentions," I say, turning my head away that she may not 
 see how red my face has grown, " but I think she is dangerous— a 
 man-trap !— and the sooner matrimony locks her up the better." 
 
 " I must go," says Alice, jumping up, as the sound of a distant 
 bell comes to our ears. " Come into my room on your way down- 
 stairs, dear — it is the next but one on the right — and I will take 
 you into the nursery to show you baby." 
 
 " Wait a moment," I say, running after her. " I never was a 
 gusher, you know, Alice ; but oh, I am so glad to see your pretty 
 face again !" 
 
 I put on my white silk gown, and twist a string of dim moon- 
 shiny pearls among my brown locks ; I clasp about my throat and 
 neck mother's pearl necklace and bracelets, and when all is done 
 
218 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 survey myself in the mirror with sneaking admiration. "You 
 little fool !" I say, shaking my fist at my pleased face ; " you don't 
 look so much amiss there all by yourself, but wait till you get 
 downstairs among the rest —that'll take the conceit out of you !" 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " A man that fortune's buffets and rewards 
 Hast ta'en with equal thanks ; and blessed are those 
 Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled, 
 That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger 
 To sound what stop she pleases." 
 
 In the Luttrell drawing-rooms, that open one out of the other, 
 almost as lofty and wide as the aisles of a church, and which are 
 darkly splendid with the pictures of the old masters, and bright 
 with glowing, brilliant flowers, that bloom in every nook and 
 corner like jewels set in dull brown leaves, are sitting a dozen or 
 so of people, enduring that mauvais quart d'heure that precedes 
 dinner. Silvia has not yet made her appearance, but all the other 
 guests are present, I think, and I have bowed to so many, that my 
 head feels like a pendulum that is bound to go on wagging by the 
 force of its own momentum. 
 
 Mrs. Fleming reclines in an easy chair, fatter, kinder, fairer 
 than ever— an agreeable contrast to the lady to whom she is talk- 
 ing, who is sallow and lean and ill-favoured. Her name is Lister, 
 and she is mother to those two sweetly simpering young ladies 
 who are frisking on yonder causeuse like lambkins, displaying an 
 ostentatious affection for each other that speaks volumes for the 
 encounters they have in private. Their nods and becks and 
 wreathed smiles are evidently directed at two good-looking 
 captains sitting near, who appear very insensible, and make no 
 amative grimaces in return. 
 
SUMMER. 219 
 
 These latter are, I suppose, the detrimentals of whom Alice 
 spoke. I like their clean, well-groomed looks much ; they are the 
 first " warriors bold " I ever saw, and they certainly seem to fulfil 
 the whole duty of man, as understood by the youth of the present 
 century, which is to be dressed to perfection and have the best 
 possible manners compatible with the fewest possible ideas. 
 
 Talking to Alice is an ugly little fair man, who is looking at me 
 through his eye-glass with attention, for do I not live near the 
 rose? 
 
 Charles Lovelace, handsome as ever, a trifle steadier than he was 
 on that terrible day when he ran away with Alice (and we wretched 
 left-behinds were left to pay the piper), lounges beside my chair, 
 giving me little historiettes of the people present. 
 
 Leaning against the mantel-piece is a rather tall, very dark man, 
 with a perfectly handsome face, that does not give me the impres- 
 sion of being particularly sensible or wise. That is Silvia's lover. 
 She seems to have a rare taste for dark men, but this one does 
 not to me approach or touch the grander, more masculine good 
 looks of that other, who could renounce his heart's desire rather 
 than forfeit his own self-respect. How strong and kind he looked 
 when he said " Good-bye " to me under the porch at the Manor 
 House ! How surprised he would be if he knew both Silvia and 
 I are here ! I wonder if he has ever seen her since that Sunday at 
 Flytton % I wonder if he will ever see her again % 
 
 I look up and see Paul Vasher coming in at the open door. My 
 heart seems to stop beating as he comes forward. Are my eyes 
 playing me some trick 1 Am I dreaming 1 No ; for he comes 
 straight to my side after Milly has introduced him to Alice (ap- 
 parently he has seen all the rest this afternoon), and holds out his 
 hand with a quick look of gladness. 
 
 " I had no idea, I should see you here, or that you were Mrs 
 
220 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 Luttrell's sister ! Did you know that I should be here too V he 
 says, as he takes a chair next me. 
 
 " No, indeed !" How small my voice sounds ! How tongue- 
 tied I always am before this man ! 
 
 " I hope you left all well at home T 
 
 " Quite well, thank you." 
 
 (Is Silvia ever coming 1 It only wants one minute to eight.) 
 
 " Do you know," I say rather nervously, " that you will see an 
 old friend presently— or perhaps you have seen her already?" 
 
 " Do you mean Miss Fleming ?" he asks quietly. " No, I have 
 not seen her yet." 
 
 The door opens and enter Silvia. As she comes up the long 
 rooms I see her clearly enough, a thought larger, a shade more 
 voluptuous than she used to be— a woman now, not a girl. She 
 wears dead white silk, with costly lace at breast and elbow, and 
 faint golden yellow roses in her hair and the front of her gown. 
 Her beauty strikes me as freshly and surprisedly as it did the first 
 time I ever saw her. 
 
 Sir George Vestris goes to meet her with almost humble devo- 
 tion, but she looks around her, seeking, I think, Paul Vasher, and 
 he rises and approaches her. They are so near me that I could 
 touch either with my hand, and cannot choose but hear their 
 words. 
 
 " How do you do, Miss Fleming V says Paul. 
 
 "Quite well, thank you, Mr. Vasher." 
 
 " It is many years since we met," says the gentleman politely. 
 
 " It does not seem so long," says the lady. 
 
 " Dinner is served," announces the butler. 
 
 " Will you take in my sister, Mr. Vasher V says Milly : and I 
 put my hand under his arm. 
 
 So this is the meeting after long years between these two once 
 passionate, despairing lovers. Cold and indifferent as their words 
 
SUMMER. 221 
 
 were, their looks matched them ; not a ray of excitement or interest 
 stirred Mr. Vasher's face, and she was no whit behind him, and yet 
 methinks there must lurk some danger when two people who 
 parted so wildly meet so coldly. 
 
 Somehow or other we are all matched ; the stray men come out 
 of their corners and fall in with the rest, and we go across the hall 
 and into the dining-room, dim with wax lights, faint and subdued 
 as a room devoted to the worship of the palate should be— or so 
 gourmands tell us. 
 
 As yet, however, I am too young to love my dinner very heartily. 
 As yet I " eat to live "; in the fulness of time I may perhaps " live 
 to eat," but not now, not yet ! I would rather be out in the gar- 
 den than sitting here watching unhungry people tempted with good 
 things, and I want to be able to think. It is all so wonderful, that 
 Silvia and Paul Vasher should have met again. Will it be my lot 
 to see the last act played out, and the lovers, after all their mis- 
 understandings, made happy ] 
 
 " It is the oddest thing, my meeting you here," says Paul, as we 
 sit down. " Did you know you were coming when I wished you 
 good-bye at Silverbridge V 
 
 " I did not even know it for certain myself until eleven o'clock 
 this morning," I say laughing, "When I saw you last I never 
 thought any such dissipation was likely to befall me as paying a 
 visit." 
 
 "You have left your colour behind," he says, looking at me, 
 " with the poppies." 
 
 " Those poppies P I say ruefully. " Oh ! how good it was of 
 you not to laugh !" 
 
 " I felt no inclination," he says ; " the picture would not havo 
 been half so pretty without the flowers." 
 
 Here he betakes himself to his soup, for apparently he is hungry 
 if I am not. Across the table, and plainly visible (for Milly'a 
 
222 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 servants understand the art of arranging a dinner table, and no 
 enormous epergnes and show pieces of plate make a wall to block 
 out our opposite neighbour, compelling us to gaze at our plates or 
 our left and right companions for several hours), are Silvia and 
 Sir George Vestris— she flirting as lightly as though the man sit- 
 ting before her had never been any more to her than any other 
 present ; he, with his soul in his eyes and words, watching her 
 exquisite face as though his life hung upon her favour. 
 
 " Do you think she is altered 1" asks Paul's voice beside me ; and 
 I turn with a start. 
 
 " She is more lovely, I think. I see no other difference." 
 
 He is looking at her with a glance that is most coldly critical. 
 It has none of the suppressed intensity of the unwilling lover, or 
 the open admiration of the enamoured one ; it is simply and utterly 
 indifferent. Verily, a man's love passeth quickly. And yet I 
 wrong Paul Vasher in this, for his love did not pass away ; ho 
 wrestled with and cast it out. 
 
 " Do you know," he says, " that you are the quietest young lady 
 I ever took in to dinner in my life 1 I have not heard the sound 
 
 of your voice for quite " 
 
 / " A minute !" I say, laughing ; "and those at home would tell you 
 that is an enormous time for me. But I know men hate to be 
 talked to at dinner. You look upon women as a nuisance in that 
 respect, and would abolish us from the table altogether if you 
 could ; now, would you not f 
 
 " Not when they are as considerate as you," he says ; " although 
 I will confess that I have before now got up from dinner as 
 hungry as I sat down, thanks to my companion's conversational 
 talents." 
 
 " But if she talked, you were safe, surely ? You need only have 
 answered in monosyllables.'' 
 
 " Only, unfortunately, she had the finest knack of interrogatory 
 
SUMMER, 223 
 
 conversation that I ever beard. She would ask questions that 
 could not be answered ' in russet yeas and honest kersey 11068.' " 
 
 " I should have feigned deafness," I say, laughing. " She could 
 not shout at you !" 
 
 There is a little pause while he helps himself to vol-au-vent, and 
 T look round the room at the dark oak, at the massive sideboard, 
 on which is carved the date 1690. How small and insignificant 
 that date makes me feel, and how evanescent a thing life is. For 
 how many generations has not that sideboard held food and drink 1 
 for how many more will it not hold the same ? Just as those dead 
 and gone Luttrells, looking out from the canvas on the walls, once 
 sat here, jocund and happy, so will others fill up our places who 
 are sitting here to-night, and these sober pictures will look down 
 on them as benignly as they are looking on us. Stately old houses 
 certainly lessen one's sense of self-importance. It is impossible, in 
 the face of the stored traditions and memories of many hundred 
 years, not to feel that these things remain and we go. 
 
 I glance round the table. Mrs. Fleming is steadily laying the 
 foundation for a fourth chin. Mrs. Lister is boring Fane to a 
 pitch that almost brings tears into his eyes. He makes no secret 
 of hating old women, and every night he is bound to take one in 
 for his sins. Lord St. John is gazing at Alice, who is placidly eat- 
 ing her dinner ; every one of us Adairs has fine appetites, and are 
 not ashamed of them. Miss Lister is worrying Captain Brabazon 
 who is trying with secret wrath, I am certain, to eat his dinner. 
 The other sister looks sulky ; apparently her squire is better skilled 
 in the art of repelling unwelcome advances than the other poor 
 captain. 
 
 Ah, me ! I wonder why it should be that when lovers do not 
 come to look for Chioe, Chloc should invariably go to look for 
 them ! 
 
224 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " Can you tell me who that gentleman sitting next to my sistei 
 is V I ask Mr. Vasher. 
 " Silvestre of Melton. Do you like his looks V 
 " He seems good-tempered," I say, smiling, " and he is very 
 amusing to listen to. His ideas seem to sprawl all over the place, 
 and he requires his companion to pick them up and put them be- 
 fore his eyes in a recognizable form ! Is he not very lazy 1" 
 
 u Very," he says ; " and are not you rather sarcastic V 
 
 " Sarcastic !" I repeat, staring. " Where could I have possibly 
 picked up that trick ] I only watch people, you know." 
 
 "And some day you will turn my character inside out, and hold 
 it up for me to look at," says Paul. 
 
 "If you cannot hold your own against a village maid, I am 
 sorry for you !" I say slyly. " Does it not seem droll that Miss 
 Fleming and you and I should all have met together again here % 
 It reminds one of the witches' meetings in Macbeth— does it not 
 you f 
 
 " Only I trust we shall not work such disasters as they did V he 
 says laughing. " Do you know that I was in such a hurry to get 
 back to Silverbridge, that I only came here intending to remain 
 until Wednesday, but now I shall stay." 
 
 " So he loves her still," I say to myself, glancing at Silvia. 
 
 " Will you be glad or sorry V he says, looking at me. 
 
 " I am glad you are going to stay," I say, " very glad. I will 
 even, if you like, play gooseberry for you. There !" 
 
 I have made another mistake. He never knew till this moment 
 that I knew he was in love with Silvia. Having made the obser- 
 vation, however, I will not attempt to eat it : telling stories is so 
 painful and hard, one had need to be so clever to fib successfully ; 
 and I never was clever, thank heaven ! 
 
 " Gooseberry !" he says, with a swift amused gleam in his eyea ; 
 " for me and whom V 
 
SUMMER. 22 s 
 
 I do not answer, for the sound of voices is ceasing, Milly is 
 drawing on her gloves ; and who cares to hear his or her witty or 
 flattering remarks cut ignominiously short by an universal up- 
 rising of petticoats 1 
 
 " And whom '?" says Paul's eager voice in my ear, but I turn 
 my head away with a mischievous smile. Milly is collecting 
 the glances of her compeers now, and I leave my seat with the 
 rest. 
 
 "You shall tell me by-and-by," says Paul decidedly, as he holds 
 the door open for me to pass out last of all, behind the bashaw- 
 like tails of my elders and betters. 
 
 " Do not be too sure," I say laughing. " And now," I think to 
 myself, "for a time of penance. Women can be cosy enough 
 together if they all know one another well, but a jumble of rela- 
 tions, friends, and acquaintances— never !" 
 
 Silvia has vanished when I reach the drawing-room. No one 
 abhors her own sex more heartily than she, and I do not feel in- 
 clined to make friends with the sisters, who are sitting on a dis- 
 tant couch, chattering very earnestly, reporting progress no doubt. 
 The matrons sit in a ring and discourse of babies and the extra- 
 ordinary rascality of their servants, male and female. I am not 
 married, and I have no servants, not even a lady's maid, so I 
 turn my back on the drawing-room and go upstairs to the Love- 
 lace and Luttrell nurseries, and look at the babies, happy little 
 souls, with their perfectly blank memories, that enable them to 
 sleep on and on and on, with nothing to awaken them save hunger. 
 They look such soft, round little cherubs, with their tiny clenched 
 fists touching their cheeks. I never can see a baby without 
 pausing to dream over it, and recalling with an amazed wonder 
 the fact that all our great heroes and statesmen and illustrious 
 men were even thus once— yes, and our murderers, our felons, and 
 our outlaws^ 
 
 15 
 
226 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE, 
 
 The young mothers and the others come up, and an enormous 
 amount of baby-worship is gone through, during which I slip 
 away, and going to my room look out at the night and promise 
 myself a stroll by the sea on Monday. I wonder why people 
 always eschew the sea on {Sundays? On the same principle as 
 they make themselves uncomfortable in every imaginable way, I 
 suppose. 
 
 We all go downstairs, and as T cross the drawing-room I see 
 Silvia sitting by the window. She has not spoken to me yet, but 
 then she has had no chance ; I will go and speak to her. 
 
 " Have you forgotten me V I say, putting out my hand. " I 
 stayed with your aunt once at Flytton, you know ; I am Helen 
 Adair." 
 
 She looks at me for a moment, considering ; then she lays her 
 hand in mine. " You are Helen Adair 1" she says, with a kind of 
 amazement. " I thought I had seen you somewhere before, but I 
 did not know it was at Charteris." 
 
 And as we stand hand in hand, the door opens and Paul Vasher 
 comes in, first of the advancing party of men, and looks at us with 
 a quick and keen scrutiny. In another minute Sir George Vestris 
 is beside her, and I am sitting on a velvet chair, professedly look- 
 ing at Milly's album ; in reality wasting a little malicious pity on 
 the Misses Lister, who, having laid themselves out in shady cor- 
 ners, with room beside them for one, are baulked by Silvia, whose 
 lovely face detains the Captains on their enforced pilgrimage to 
 those charmers. Has she not Sir George Vestris, and is it not 
 mean of her to prevent those flies from walking into the parlours 
 the spiders have so carefully prepared ! Mr. Vasher comes and 
 sits down beside me, taking half of the heavy book on his knee. 
 
 " Do not make fun of them," I sny, laughing, " for nearly every- 
 body here is a relation." 
 
 " Do relations love one another •"' he asks. " If I wanted a real 
 
SUMMER. 227 
 
 service done me, or had got into a scrape, 1 would go to a friend 
 not a man bound to me by blood. Relations give ton-loads of 
 good advice, and there they stop." 
 
 " I never had any," I say ; " and I always have been so sorry 
 that I had not. Why should one always be getting into scrapes V 
 
 "It is human nature," says Mr. Vasher. "Now, does she not 
 look a little duck V 
 
 The " little duck" is our queen, and the photograph represents 
 her as she was in her beautiful youth, with the gentlest, prettiest, 
 most lovable face in the world ; looking upon it one's heart aches 
 as one thinks of the long, dark, empty years that came to her after 
 those blessed and happy early days. Her daughter-in-law looks 
 from the opposite page, with her exquisite tender smile. As Eng- 
 lishwomen beat all other women, does not our princess beat all 
 empresses, queens, and princesses with her fair face 1 Our prince 
 was in luck when he went a-wooing. 
 
 *' Are you loyal V I ask, looking up at Paul Vasher ; " I hope 
 so, for I could never like you if you were not. Some people say 
 rude things about royalty ; they think it sounds grand, but / think 
 it is simply very bad taste." 
 
 " Shall you think I am disrespectful if I say that in my opinion 
 kings and queens are not as good-looking as every-day people V 
 he asks. 
 
 " No, for that is often true. For instance," I say, looking across 
 at Silvia and her lover, "where would you see such a pair as 
 that r 
 
 He does not wince in the very least, as his eye falls upon them, 
 and yet he is going to stay on here for her sake. 
 
 " So that is the couple for whom you are kindly going to act the 
 part of gooseberry f he asks with a smile. " I thought you said 
 you were going to play it for me f 
 
 15—2 
 
228 COMIN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " So I was," I say, turning very red, but still looking him well 
 in the face ; " it was you I meant." 
 " And the lady ?" 
 
 " Look at this photograph," I say, quickly ; " is it not pretty F 
 In my hurry I have laid my finger down on a fat baby taken a la 
 fig-leaf, so precipitately shift it, and indicate a couple of Luttrell 
 lovers, who look even more foolish than they feel. 
 
 " Very,'' says Mr. Vasher, with emphasis. " But where is the 
 gooseberry V 
 
 " 1 wonder," I say, raising my voice a little, that I may talk my 
 colour down, "why plain people have their photographs taken so 
 much oftener than handsome ones 1 It is such a rare thing to find 
 a pretty face in an album. Do you think those people know how 
 ugly they are V 
 
 We are looking at a man whose eyes, already well rolled by 
 nature, have evidently acquired a distinct and supererogatory roll 
 by long practice ; he looks as if a smart rap on the back of his 
 head would send them into his lap. 
 
 " No," says Paul, " for the plainest people always think them- 
 selves the handsomest Have you ever had yours taken V 
 
 " Once, at Pimpernel ; it was a horrid experience, and I never 
 wish to have another like it." 
 
 "What did he do]" asks Paul. "Did he, like the little fat 
 photographer in Punch, say, 'Look at me, miss, and don't 
 smile V " 
 
 " No, but he did worse ; he wished me to smile, only he would 
 not let me do it my own way— he regulated it. When I had got 
 up a moderate grin, he would say, ' A little more, miss !' but on 
 trying to oblige him, I showed a little of my teeth, which was 
 strictly forbidden. Then, when I had nailed a painful smile to my 
 countenance, and at his command made an arch grimace with my 
 eyes, he took the cap off, and it was a horrible thing to feel my 
 
SUMMER. 229 
 
 smile slipping away from me, though I held on to it with my eye- 
 lids, and to know that it was going— going— gone !" 
 
 " I am afraid the Pimpernel process is a long one," says Paul, 
 laughing. 
 
 While he puts the book back I glance around me. The men 
 look amiable and cheerful in the extreme, as all mankind has 
 a way of doing after dinner— one or two of them sentimental; 
 tears will stand in their eyes by-and-by, if a plaintive ballad is 
 sung. It is not an ennobling reflection that the best of men is 
 better after a good dinner than he was before ; and that the 
 hottest lover can be made hotter still by a choice vintage. Miss 
 Lister is going to sing ; she spreads out her green skirts, and 
 takes off her bracelets, and clears her throat. Do the birds make 
 any preparations before bursting out in a rush of exquisite song ? 
 She sings " Only," and Jack's ridiculous verse comes into my mind 
 as I listen — 
 
 '•Only a face at the window, 
 Only a face, nothing more ; 
 If ever it owned any legs, 
 They must have walked out at the door." 
 
 Some songs move me, but this one never does. Give me, " When 
 sparrows build," with the yearning cry of the girl's broken heart 
 wailing through it, and " the faded bents o'erspread." Alice sits 
 down and plays glorious " Tarn O'Shanter." How the rollicking, 
 dare-devil, spirited notes ring out ! How we seem to see the hot 
 pursuit, feel the witch fingers creeping nearer and nearer to the 
 terrified galloping horse! An hour slips away. It has been a 
 charming evening. 
 
 " Good-night !" says Paul Vasher, standing before me ; " we are 
 banished to billiards. Are you going to begin your duties as goose- 
 berry to-morrow morning \" 
 
230 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 "He Lath twice or thrice cut Cupid's bow-string, and the little hangman dart 
 not shoot at him : he hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clap- 
 per ; what \m heart thinks his tongue speaks." 
 
 It is half-past eleven o'clock, and we are all in church (save Fane 
 and Captain Oliver), confessing ourselves to be miserable sinners, 
 although in our secret souls we think ourselves nothing of the sort) 
 We are in a big pew that contains besides hassocks and chairs, a 
 carpet, a table, a cupboard, and red curtains, which latter hide us 
 when sitting or kneeling from the open-mouthed, open-eyed gaze 
 of the Luttrell hinds. In former and more unmannerly days the 
 cupboard held good store of cake and wine, of which the squire, 
 his wife and daughters, and the stranger within his gates, partook 
 during the sermon. Rather trying for the poor parson overhead 
 on a hot summer's day, with his parched throat, and secondly, 
 thirdly, and fourthly still before him. 
 
 And now we are all standing up, able to take our fill of staring 
 at the well-washed, well-greased congregation, who are singing 
 " Jerusalem the golden," with all the strength of their bucolic 
 hearts and voices. 
 
 I wish they had a few H's among them, these good and bad 
 people ! They let them all go so recklessly, but with the universal 
 law of compensation, put them in again in the wrong place. How 
 loud and clear presently sounds their "Incline our 'arts to keep 
 this law !" It is no use to struggle against overwhelming numbers; 
 we may as well let ours go with the rest, for we can never leaven 
 the lump. I think that whoever invented the letter H did not 
 sufficiently take into consideration the prevailing tendency of man- 
 kind to ease. A itch ! It is a word in itself, and a hard one ; in 
 hot weather especially, how comfortably and easily does it slip 
 away altogether ! 
 
SUMMER. 231 
 
 The rector is very like Mr. Skipworth in appearance, voice, and 
 manner. For an hour we sit under him and listen to his discursive 
 ramblings, which, so far as I can make out, are about Jeremiah in 
 the briars, though what on earth he did there, and how he got into 
 such an uncomfortable position, we are not told. Could not a 
 clever man say all he has to say to his congregation pithily and 
 well in twenty minutes ? Is there anything that damages the cause 
 of Christianity so much as the incapacity of these servants of God 
 to expound the Scriptures lucidly and well ? In the Houses of 
 Parliament, and wherever enlightened men are gathered together 
 to hear clever, wise, or improving talk, would they sit silent for 
 an hour listening to twaddle that is an insult to their understand- 
 ings 1 A thousand times, no ! They would walk out, or cry aloud, 
 or silence the speaker quickly enough ; but in the house of prayer 
 that cannot be done, and so folks with starving souls go Sunday 
 after Sunday seeking bread and having a stone offered to them. 
 Surely, men who stutter, men who speak indistinctly, men whose 
 hearts may be pure and good enough, but whose words are weak ; 
 men who have no strong sympathy with their hearers, and cannot 
 express themselves concisely and to the point— should not be set 
 up above their fellow men, to preach the grandest, highest truths 
 the world contains ! A man should be proved to be a good 
 and bold orator, a sound logician and accomplished scholar, so that 
 he may appeal as irresistibly to the mind and imagination as to the 
 souls of his congregation, before he enters holy orders : for is not 
 an enormous power put into his hands for good or evil O 
 
 When a fine preacher arises, how people flock from the north and 
 from the south, from the east and from the west, to hear him ! 
 How his fiery, heart-searching words pierce his listeners' hearts ; 
 How he holds the mirror up to the bad, wicked soul, and cries, 
 " Behold ! to this you have fallen and are falling !" We almost 
 see the gaping bottomless pit, with the writhing scorpions, and 
 
232 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 the worm that never dies ; feel the licking fire of the curling 
 flames ; hear the voice of the Man of Sorrows calling us away 
 from destruction. I heard such a man once at Pimpernel. 
 
 And now we are out again, and walking across the churchyard ; 
 and the sun flickers down gaily on the living who walk erect, and 
 on the green shield of earth that lies heavy on the breast of those 
 who have "fought their fight with the pale warrior," and been 
 vanquished, as all men have been and must be. At the gate the 
 carriages are waiting, for Luttrell Court is more than two miles 
 away, and I find myself seated next to Mr. Vasher, and opposite 
 Milly and Mrs. Lister. 
 
 " How well you behaved in church," says Paul, " you never 
 smiled once, not even when that fat lady tried to pass the fat man 
 in the narrow pew, and they got wedged together !" 
 
 " Did I not !" I say laughing. "And yet I could not help think- 
 ing of a rhyme in one of the nursery books at home — 
 
 ' There was a young lady of Yarrow 
 Who went up to church in a bai-row, 
 She eaid with a smile, 
 As she shuck in the aisle, 
 Thoy build these here churches too narrow 1" 
 
 " The lady in church must have been a direct descendant of the 
 one at Yarrow," says Paul, looking at me. 
 
 I hope he is not observing the crushed and forlorn appearance 
 of my bonnet : in future I will, at all risks, carry a band-box. 
 Milly 's airy erection is quite faultless. How good-tempered people 
 ought to feel when they are perfectly well dressed ! I could be 
 quite angelic, I think, if I were. Mrs. Lister looks as prim and 
 unapproachable as though she were made of buckram. Her lips 
 are pursed up very tight ; she grasps her prayer-book as though it 
 were a pistol, and altogether she is not a pleasant object to con- 
 template. 
 
SUMMER. 233 
 
 " There is Fane !" says Milly suddenly, as we roll smoothly 
 along under the shadow of the giant trees that line the park ; and 
 there, sure enough, in the distance, sneakily dodging behind a 
 tree, and looking very hot, dirty, and ashamed of himself, is her 
 missing lord and master. 
 
 Did I ever say that Fane is only a few years older than Milly, 
 and that they are a very young couple indeed? Every Sunday 
 morning, regularly as clockwork, does Milly make Fane dress to go 
 to church with her, and every Sunday morning at the very last 
 moment does he succeed in making his escape, and she has to go 
 without him. This morning he has seduced Captain Oliver from 
 the path of duty, and the pair have evidently been up to some un- 
 lawful amusement, for they appear exceedingly anxious to hide 
 their persons from our view. But Milly gets out of the carriage 
 and majestically walks across the grass to where they lie perdu. 
 (Where could she have learnt that dignified swagger 1 I should 
 like to see her try it on with the governor), and we all follow. 
 
 Fane and his companion, thus run to earth, emerge and present 
 their disreputable persons to our gaze. Their light summer suits 
 are all patched and stained with green, as though they had been 
 rolling on the grass. The Captain's face is scratched, and so is 
 Fane's hand. Half a dozen dogs are tearing round and round a 
 tree, at the top of which a piteous miau ! sufficiently explains the 
 nature of these gentlemen's Sunday morning amusements. 
 
 " I am disgusted with you, Fane," says Milly ; "and as to you, 
 Captain Oliver, I am surprised at you." 
 
 And she sails away with her lord, leaving poor Captain Oliver 
 utterly squashed. He does not know that it is Milly's habit to 
 visit all her husband's misdeeds upon his friends, and that nothing 
 will ever make her believe that they do not lead him into every 
 scrape— not he them. 
 
 " Poor Oliver !" says Paul, as we walk away, leaving that abased 
 
234 COM IN' THRCP THE RYE. 
 
 warrior to the tender mercies of Mrs. Lister. Very tender thej 
 will be too, as she wants him for a son-in-law. " How crestfallen 
 he does look, to be sure ! And he is considered to have more brass 
 than any other man in his regiment." . . . 
 
 " He is quickly routed, then ; but it is impossible for a man to 
 be rude to a lady, is it not V 
 
 " Quite." 
 
 "Are fathers generally polite to their families?" 
 
 " If they are gentlemen." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "I want to know," says Mr. Vasher, looking down on my 
 tumbled bonnet, " what I am to call you. 1 won't call you Miss 
 Adair ; I don't like Helen. May I call you Nell ?" 
 
 " Oh, no. What would Milly say 1 Besides, I was young when 
 you use to call me that ; I am grown up now." 
 
 " And no longer young V 
 
 " Oh, yes ; pretty well. When we have known each other a 
 little longer, you know " 
 
 " Yes, we shall be near neighbours," he says, with quite a sudden 
 gladness in his voice ; " we shall have plenty of time for getting 
 to know each other better." 
 
 " I do not improve on acquaintance," I say, smiling. " Oh, you 
 will find me out to be such a little wretch. If you saw me in a 
 rage once, you would not forget it." 
 
 " Who puts you out V 
 
 " Dorley, or Basan, or — or—another person." 
 
 " And supposing I do V 
 
 " You will be frightened." 
 
 " I am not afraid," he says, looking deep into my laughing face 
 with his brown, brown eyes, that are self-willed and strong and 
 tender at one and the same time. " Did any one ever keep you in 
 order, Nell T 
 
SUMMER. 235 
 
 " Never !" I say, proudly. 
 
 And I smile to myself as I think of my lover and bond-slave 
 George, who never swayed, never could sway me in will, or mind, 
 or heart. .No, certainly, I have never been managed by anybody 
 yet. 
 
 " Women ought not to have their own way," says Mr. Vasher. 
 "After a while they go in for Women's Rights, and at last it 
 comes to the husband's standing on the platform and holding the 
 baby, while they hold forth upon everything in heaven and 
 earth." 
 
 " I don't think those sort of people ever have anything so frivo- 
 lous as a baby," I say, considering. " Talking of babies, do you 
 know that you will see two at luncheon to-day ? They are coming 
 down for certain." 
 
 ' Horrible !" he says shuddering. " If there is one sight more 
 appetizing, clean, and savoury than another, it is a baby at table." 
 
 " Take care the mothers do not hear you," I say, as we enter the 
 house ; " they would never speak to you again if they did." 
 
 We have taken off our bonnets and pulled out our locks, have 
 powdered or not powdered our hot faces as our habits or inclina- 
 tions will, and we are sitting one and all in the cool dining-room 
 eating cold lamb and salad. The griffins outside shadow them- 
 selves grotesquely on the drawn blinds ; they seem to grin in upon 
 us malevolently, with their great misshapen noses and curling 
 wicked mouths. Everybody is talking at once, eagerly, alertly, as 
 though the loss of his voice for two hours had been a severe trial, 
 and he is determined to make up for lost time. 
 
 "I saw a man in church who was even smaller than I am," says 
 Lord St. John to me, " and 1 was so pleased. Not but what 1 
 always console myself with a couplet that I saw somewhere once ; 
 it began — 
 
236 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 1 Man wants but little here below, 
 Nor wants that little long.'" 
 
 " I fancy that appplies to things, not people," I say doubtfully 
 " and I am nearly sure it is a hymn." 
 
 " St. John has lost himself among the Psalms," says Charles. 
 
 " The safest place he ever got into," says Mr. Silvestre. 
 
 " That comes of going to church," says Captain Brabazon. 
 
 Lord St. John smiles blandly at his friends and continues : " It 
 may be that I am prejudiced, Miss Adair, for a man naturally likes 
 to think that he ought to be exactly like what he is, but I like 
 being little. There is a peculiar charm in the upsidedownness of 
 being a lord of creation and yet so much shorter than most ladies 
 —to feel that they could take me up and horsewhip me without 
 an effort, and yet that they do not ! Delicious creatures ! And 
 it is a fact, Miss Adair, that if ladies cannot have a gigantic slash- 
 ing fellow for a lover, who could crush them between his finger 
 and thumb, they like to have something that they can protect, and 
 pet, and spoil. Women's love is divided into two classes, the 
 adoring and the protective, and upon my word, I think the dear 
 souls enjoy the one as well as the other." 
 
 There is a chorus of laughter all round the table, in which 
 Alice joins. I wonder if she pets the little man 1 
 
 He betakes himself to claret cup, so do I, and sit listening to 
 the nonsense that is flying about. How very seldom Silvia's 
 voice is heard. It is the rarest thing to hear her speak, and then 
 it is only to Milly or Fane, or Sir George Vestris. Although she 
 lives among us, she somehow seems to be set apart ; if it were not 
 for her perfect loveliness, one would not remember she was present. 
 I have seen neither look nor word exchanged between her and 
 Paul Vasher to-day. If he loves her still, how can he bear to see 
 her appropriated by another man as he does 1 Lovers are kittle 
 cattle ! The butler is opening a bottle of Bass leisurely ; but 
 
SUMMER. 237 
 
 some imp of the weather has got inside it, and he shoots out the 
 corkscrew in the man's face, hitting him severely on the nose, and 
 deluging him in frothing, foamy liquid. To his credit be it 
 spoken, however, there is not the ghost of a smile upon his face, 
 only ale, as he takes a cloth and wipes himself. Mr. Vasher 
 catches my eye and laughs. T am glad he has some sense of the 
 ridiculous ; people are so difficult to get on with who have none. 
 I wish he was on my side of the table, and not all that way off. 
 Mrs. Lister is opposite me, and I make a discovery concerning 
 her ; she wears false teeth and they do not fit her. She will 
 choke herself some day. Perhaps if she were to return them to 
 the dentist and say — 
 
 " Take back the teeth that thou gavest — 
 What is their use, sir, to me ?" 
 
 he would give her a set that might fit her better. 
 
 "There's my precious," exclaims Alice, lifting her head and 
 listening ; and sure enough certain clucks and coos and chokes 
 in the distance announce the advent of the olive branches. 
 
 The door opens and enter two nurses bearing aloft a small 
 Lovelace and a smaller Luttrell, who are deposited by the same 
 on their mothers' laps. Milly's baby is very young yet, and has 
 that peculiarly decrepid look that extreme youth and age seem to 
 share equally. His wonderful little hands are as shrivelled and 
 wrinkled as though he had taken in washing for a hundred years. 
 He is too small to be troublesome, and lies flat on his back, star- 
 ing about him and taking a meal off his fists. Alice's son is a 
 different matter. He is eighteen months old, and of an inquiring, 
 avaricious turn of mind. He drinks wine out of his mother's 
 glass without winking; he smashes a plate or two, and nearly 
 puts out his eyes with a fork. He takes a fancy to some bright, 
 golden coloured jelly before him, but when he has some on a plate 
 
z& COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 does not eat it ; only churns it all up between his fingers, be- 
 coming so absorbed in bis occupation, that his voice is not heard 
 for fully two minutes. 
 
 Little Lord St. John leaves his place, and goes round to look at 
 the youngster, addressing it affectionately as " chucky, chucky, 
 chucky !" whether under the mistaken notion that he is a species 
 of young pig, I know not. 
 
 " Little angel !" murmurs Alice, gazing at her son. 
 
 " Pretty king !" says Milly, as her infant sneezes in her face. 
 
 " Never makes a sound," says Alice, kissing the top of her baby's 
 golden head. 
 
 "Never cries at strangers," says Milly, rubbing her cheeks 
 against her heir's primrose down. 
 
 I never knew until to-day how mothers drivel. Lord St. John 
 ventures his face too near Alice's boy, and he puts out his plump, 
 jelly-covered little fingers, and firmly grasps that gentleman's 
 moustaches with a solemn and delighted countenance. The more 
 the poor man tries to get away, the harder the baby holds on, 
 and not until tears of pain stand in Lord St. John's eyes is ne 
 released. At the top of the table there is a sort of happy family 
 show, that is calculated to fill all beholders with an insane desire 
 to jump up and rush, all of us, to church and be married on the 
 spot — the spectacle of connubial bliss is so beautiful. Fane looks 
 at Milly, then at the baby ; Milly looks at the baby, then at Fane. 
 It is very touching, no doubt ; but is it not rather public % Young 
 Lovelace has struggled to the Moor, and made friends with the 
 dog. They are eating a biscuit between them. The dog takes 
 a bit, then the baby does. It is very interesting, but rather 
 dirty. 
 
 We go into the drawing-room, and stare at one another, and 
 marvel, as everybody does every Sunday of their lives, what we are 
 going to do with ourselves. Jf I were twenty years older I should 
 
SUMMER, 239 
 
 retire to my bedroom and go comfortably to sleep, as Mesdames 
 Fleming and Lister are going to do, I am morally certain. Alice 
 and Milly have vanished after their babies ; the Misses Lister are 
 whispering together ; Silvia is giving Sir George Vestris a liberal 
 education at the window. A sound of merriment comes faintly 
 from Fane's study ; clearly men have a better notion of passing 
 time than ladies. Reading novels on Sunday is forbidden, but it 
 is no sin to act them. Spicy, full-flavoured, exciting lover-stories 
 run through more quickly and easily on this day than any other, 
 and more love nonsense is talked on a Sunday than in all the 
 remaining six days of the week. 
 
 " Are you going to church this afternoon V asks Paul Vasher's 
 voice behind me, as I stand drumming my fingers against the 
 glass. 
 
 " It is too hot," I say, turning round. " Oh, I do feel so cross ! 
 Why may not one work, or dig, or do something useful on Sunday 
 afternoon f 
 
 " We are going to church," says Miss Lister, appearing before 
 lis ; " will you come, Miss Adair V 
 
 " No, thanks," I say, looking up at the burning, cloudless vault 
 overhead. " Is it not too far for you V 3 
 
 They do not think it is, and go away to " put on their things," 
 which means half an hour's hard labour before the looking-glass, 
 trying to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. 
 
 " Don't betray me if I tell you a secret," says Paul, laughing, 
 " but I think the Listers expect Brabazon and Oliver to accompany 
 them to church, and they are hiding " 
 
 " What cowards ! Did they promise to go V 
 
 " They temporized, I believe." 
 
 " Alas ! for the glory of the British flag," I say, " is not that one 
 of them peeping round the beech-tree V 
 
 " it is." 
 
240 CO MI 1ST THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " I have a great mind, a very great mind, to tell the Listers 
 where he is ; they would not stand on ceremony, they would fetch 
 him." 
 
 " Brabazon and Oliver would run," says Paul, " and it is too 
 hot for a chase, is it not 1 Here they are." 
 
 Yes, here are the young ladies freshly touzled, freshly repaired, 
 with smart white veils that now stand out jauntily enough from 
 their faces, but will by-and-by stick to them or melt imperceptibly 
 into the same. 
 
 " Have you seen Captain Oliver ]" asks the one. 
 " Have you seen Captain Brabazon ]" asks the other, looking 
 anxiously about. 
 
 They are not looking in the right direction, or they would see 
 the whole of one gentleman's right boot and half of the other 
 gentleman's left eye. They hunt about for a little while, poor 
 souls, and at last, shame forbidding them to take their bonnets 
 off, they set out across the park, quarrelling fiercely as they go, if 
 one may judge by their backs. When the coast is clear the Captains 
 cautiously leave their hiding-place, and make off, looking as pleased 
 as two school- boys. 
 
 " When I look at those girls," says Paul, emphatically, " I feel 
 thankful that I have no sisters." 
 
 " I am going out into the garden," says Milly, appearing with 
 Fane ; " will you come, Nell V 
 
 I fetch my hat, and we all go out together. Husband and wife 
 walk on in front. His arm is round her neck, her arm is half-way 
 round his waist; they lean towards each other like a tall and short 
 weeping willow. It is rather trying to one's gravity to walk behind 
 them, and, catching Paul's eye, I go off into a fit of laughter. 
 
 " Do they always behave like that V I ask. " I never saw them 
 together before, except when they were engaged, and there was 
 some excuse then." 
 
SUMMER. 241 
 
 "They always did abroad," says Paul, "or at least when I met 
 them ; they were the amazement of all beholders." 
 
 " I would rather get up early in the morning to do it," I say, 
 energetically, " than have every one smiling at me, would not you 1" 
 
 "Much rather !" he says, with emphasis ; "it would pretty well 
 take the bloom off to have any amount of people looking at 
 one." 
 
 We are in the park now, where are cool shady paths and long 
 pleasant glades, through which the hot tyrannical sun cannot 
 pierce. In the distance Silvia and Sir George Vestris are walking ; 
 do they never, I wonder, grow tired of each other's society 1 
 
 " There go the lovers/' says Paul, looking towards them. 
 
 " Are they both pretending, do you think V I say, speaking my 
 thoughts, as I have a bad knack of doing, since for what are 
 words given us, save to delicately disguise our meaning 1 
 
 " Pretending !" he repeats, with real astonishment; " why should 
 she 1 I did not know people ever pretended to be in love." 
 
 Evidently he has no suspicion that she loves him still ; far less 
 is there any of the quick eagerness in his voice that a lover's 
 should borrow. 
 
 " Nell," he says, looking down on me with a queer smile, " don't 
 ever try to deceive any one, for your face will always betray you. 
 Now, I know what you are thinking ; pray, was it to me and Silvia 
 that you meditated playing gooseberry V 
 
 " Yes, it was," I say, turning my red face round. " I have 
 always wanted to tell you. I knew all along that you liked her ; I 
 Knew it at Charteris." 
 
 " And you think I like her now V 
 
 " Do you not V I say, lifting my eyes to his dark face. " Do you 
 forget so quickly V 
 
 "I do not forget," he says, "but that old fancy is dead anrl 
 buried, thank God !" he throws out his arms with a gesture u£ 
 
 16 
 
242 COMIN* THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 freedom, " and is as little likely to be revived again as a body that 
 has lain in the earth until it has fallen into dust." 
 
 "And she 1 ?" I ask, involuntarily. 
 
 " Has forgotten/' he says ; " why should she remember me ? In 
 fact, she seems positively to dislike me ; never looks at or notices 
 me, and I don't think we have exchanged twenty words." 
 
 "Yes," I say to myself, "and that is what makes me so sure. 
 
 If she ever looked at or talked to you as to any one else " 
 
 But in him love is surely, certainly dead, for jealousy is the very 
 pith and marrow of the passion, and he does not feel a single 
 twinge. 
 
 " She does not care for him !" I say, stoutly ; " I have seen real 
 lovers often : they are different. These are sham ones ; to watch 
 them is like looking at make-believe feasts, like we used to have 
 at home." 
 
 Paul is loyal even to his buried love. He does not say, " She 
 is a coquette to the heart's core ; she can never really care for 
 any one." And I honour him as he holds his peace and says 
 nothing. 
 
 It is a glorious afternoon. The hum of insects and birds is all 
 about us ; the ripe earth seems to hold the year's full perfection 
 in her lap, like a gold flower that is wrought to its uttermost 
 beauty. All too soon, alas ! will it tremble and fade and wither 
 away, for does not decay tread ever on the heels of all absolutely 
 fair and lovely things % It is the common, ugly, everyday belong- 
 ings that are never taken from us. 
 
 " And to-morrow this time," I say, as we turn back towards the 
 house, following the gracefully interwoven forms of my sister and 
 brother-in-law, " you will be perfectly happy among the birds ! 1 
 wonder if any instinct tells them that this is their last day on 
 earth V 
 
 " It is to be hoped not ! And what will you be doing V 
 
SUMMER. 243 
 
 " Oh, I'm going to enjoy myself too," I say brightly ; " I shall 
 have a long gossip with my sisters in the morning, and in the 
 afternoon I shall go down by the sea." 
 
 "And take a book T 
 
 " No. I have such heaps to think about 1" 
 
 11 People ?" 
 
 " Plenty !— Mother, and Jack, and Dolly, and— and others." 
 
 " And others ?" he repeats, bending his head to look into my 
 face. " Tell me, amongst these others is there— a Lubin ?" 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " In the indications of female poverty there can be no disguise. No woman 
 dresses below herself from caprice." 
 
 At Luttrell our letters are brought up to us with our cup of early 
 tea. Wise men tell us that our inveterate habit of tea-drinking is 
 in reality but another form of dram-drinking, and that we are 
 hardly less to be blamed than the poor gin-soddened wretches who 
 reel hither and thither in our streets, a blot and a shame upon 
 our country's manhood. They love their strong, coarse, deadly 
 cups, and fly to them over ruined homes and women's broken 
 hearts, and their own lost souls ; and we who love our delicate, 
 piquant, refreshing cup of tea, fly to it also, and reap our reward 
 in shattered nerves and a hundred and one of the intangible, irri- 
 table disorders that our grandmothers and great-grandmothers 
 never knew, or so many of them had not lived to such a full and 
 healthy old age. It is a habit of self-indulgence, no doubt ; and, 
 perhaps, if the liquid really intoxicated us, we should have a tough 
 battle with our inclination, and give it up. Fortunately, however, 
 it does nothing of the sort. 
 I have only one letter, and it lies on the tray, staring me in the 
 
 16—2 
 
244 COMIW THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 face. Letters ! What a little word, and what a lot it means ! 
 Only a flimsy bit of paper to guard secrets that might set the whole 
 world agog ; only a few beaten-out rags between prying, jealous 
 eyes, and the written down confirmation that, blared abroad 
 would carry wreck and ruin to many a proud and unblemished 
 home. 
 
 Milord, reading his letters with a covert smile, on one side of the 
 shallow breakfast table, glances over to where miladi sits, reading 
 hers, with a curious expression flitting over her features. Neither 
 knows any more than the dead who are each other's correspond- 
 ents ; but if each were to make a snatch across the table and 
 exchange notes, perhaps husband and wife would get a better idea 
 of the real character, aims, and life of the other than they ever had 
 before. I like this Luttrell fashion of receiving and reading one's 
 letters alone. It must be trying to have your neighbour watching 
 your crestfallen countenance over unpleasant news, or your satis- 
 fied smile if you receive good. The face will sometimes expound 
 the letter as clearly as though the writing were laid before the 
 looker on. 
 
 And now for George's epistle. I have heard that love words 
 written down are even sweeter than love words spoken ; if it be 
 so, must not unwelcome love-making be even nastier on paper 
 than when spoken 1 ? I break the seal and take out the sheet, 
 which is written over in a bold bright handwriting, very like his 
 own looks. It is not very long or particularly eloquent, but it is 
 manly and lover-like, and not sufficiently spoony, thank heaven, 
 to read ridiculously. I think a good long course of such letters 
 as these would impress me very favourably as regards him. If he 
 only would be made to understand how much better I like him 
 when he is sensible, than when he is talking nonsense ! A man 
 should be firm, yet tender ; strong to govern, yet easily led. A 
 woman despises him when he grovels abjectly at her feet ; but he 
 
SUMMER. 245 
 
 chills her when he soars away into the clouds, I wonder if I shall 
 ever have a lover who will hit the happy mean ] 
 
 This first of September has come upon us in kingly state, with 
 mantle of azure and broad level sunbeams, with soft wooing breath 
 and dew-spangled grass and leaf, and as I lean out of my window 
 in the still early freshness of the morning, and look abroad at the 
 beauty of hill and valley, land and sea, I marvel to myself whether 
 the pretty brown birds are up and about, preening themselves in 
 the sunshine, tasting of the gleaming dew, as happy and careless 
 and ignorant to-day as they have been all through their short, 
 merry, pleasant young lives. 
 
 Breakfast is early this morning, to suit the sportsmen, and when 
 I go downstairs I find it well begun. The men are eating with a 
 healthy vigour, that nothing short of some prospective slaughter 
 of bird or beast ever inspires in their manly breasts. They all 
 look intensely awake, and upon their countenances is that satisfied, 
 all-is-well expression, that nothing on earth, save the first of Sep- 
 tember, ever brings there. Shorn of their nether garments, and 
 clad in knickerbockers, they stand confessed — stalwart men of 
 flesh and muscle, or weakly miserable creatures, whose legs look as 
 though a touch would break them. Fane, Charles Lovelace, Sir 
 George Vestris, and Paul Vasher stand the test well ; but the 
 others — ah, what a falling off was there ! 
 
 The conversation is not particularly interesting ; it is of 
 "covers" and "coveys," "bags" and "beats," with many other 
 phrases that convey small meaning to our ears, and once there 
 is an indistinct murmur of "luncheon and ladies." Yes, ladies 
 come last of all! For this is that day of days when women, 
 with a certain sinking of the heart, or a sore smarting of their 
 vanity, are forced to confess that they possess but a divided 
 empire over the hearts of men, and that fairer than all the 
 charms of his mistress, yea, sweeter even than the breath of her 
 
246 COM IN* THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 lips and the music of her voice, is to a man on this day the 
 stubble under his feet, the feel of a gun in his hand, and the 
 sight of a flock of little, soft, plump brown birds. The know 
 ledge is degrading, and we all have a more or less hang-dog, 
 neglected air. Alice looks as though she were going shooting 
 too in her deft, workmanlike Norfolk suit of grey. I wonder 
 if, in the city of veiled women in Siam, shooting is practised 
 by the gentler sex, as well as the calling of policeman, soldier, and 
 blacksmith 1 
 
 Breakfast is over, and we are all leaving the dining-room. 
 
 " Won't you wish me good luck ?" asks Paul Vasher, standing 
 before me, big and masterful in his cool grey clothes. (What splen- 
 did legs he has got 1) 
 
 " No, for you're bound on a bad errand. On the contrary, 1 
 hope you will miss everything, and that *< — I cast about flounder- 
 ingly for a suitable sporting phrase — " that your neighbour will 
 wipe your eye I" 
 
 He laughs. " Who taught you that expression V 
 
 '* I forget. Jack, I think. It was quite right, was it not V* 
 
 "Quite." 
 
 We are all at the hall door now, where are gathered together 
 sportsmen, keepers, and dogs, and a handful of young wives and 
 maids. Milly is bidding her lord farewell for a whole day, with 
 a fervour that many a death-bed parting lacks ; Alice is standing 
 on tiptoe to kiss Charles. Silvia and Sir George are in the back- 
 ground. It is as pretty a picture to my mind as any of Mr. Frith's. 
 
 "I hope," says Paul Vasher, "that you will enjoy your afternoon 
 by the sea, and — You never answered my question yesterday — 
 was it an impertinent one 1" 
 
 " It was," I say, looking at him steadily through the burning 
 red of my cheeks. " What if I had asked you if you had a Dul- 
 cinea V 1 
 
SUMMER. 245 
 
 "What, indeed !" he says, looking down on me with an amused 
 laughter in his eyes. 
 
 " Are you coining, Vasher V calls Fane ; and he goes with the 
 rest. 
 
 The girls they leave behind them stand at the door and look 
 after them, and, when the last pair of legs has vanished, turn and 
 look at one another with somewhat lack lustre eyes. Eight women 
 left to each other's society for a whole day ! Well may we look 
 dull. I want to get Alice and Milly to myself for a bit, but how 
 about these others 1 Silvia speaks first. No fear of her putting 
 up with a morning with her own sex. She is going to write letters 
 in her room, she says, if Mrs. Luttrell does not mind. Mrs. Luttrell 
 does not mind, and she goes away. The Listers are going to spend 
 the morning in the garden, if Mrs. Luttrell pleases, so they vanish 
 likewise. Mesdames Fleming and Lister are still in bed, their 
 morning toilettes being affairs of some importance, so we are free 
 of all incumbrances, and able to follow our own devices. Having 
 worshipped the babies on our knees for a full hour, we go into 
 Milly's boudoir. 
 
 " Only to think," I say, executing a pirouette on the tips of my 
 toes, " that we three should be all together again here, and that 
 there is no one to send us to bed, or call us names, or insist on our 
 talking /' 
 
 " Is he as bad as ever T asks Milly. 
 
 "He is worse!" I say with conviction. "When a person has 
 got into a habit of making himself and everybody round him 
 miserable, he does not stand still— he goes on improving. By the 
 time he is sixty I cannot imagine what he will be !" 
 
 " Marry !" says Alice, encouragingly ; " that is the only thing a 
 spinster can do in self-defence !" 
 
 " You have been so lucky !" I say ; "but how do you know 1 
 
248 COM IN' THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 shall be the same 1 Besides, where is the husband to come from 1 n 
 I add, laughing. 
 
 " But you have a lover," says Alice, " only you will not tell me 
 anything about him." 
 
 " There cannot be much to tell yet, I should think," says Milly, 
 with some sisterly rebuke in her tone. " Why, she has only known 
 him since the day before yesterday !" 
 
 "Who are you talking about V asks Alice, looking puzzled. 
 " Nell's lover is not here at all ; he is at Silverbridge." 
 
 " Is he not V says Milly, with a queer smile. " I suppose I was 
 mistaken." 
 
 " How refreshing it is to see any one blush," says Alice, medita- 
 tively. " Now in London, or good society, you never see the ghost 
 of a blush anywhere !" 
 
 " But this Silverbridge lover," says Milly, with interest, " who 
 is he — what is he — where did he come from V 
 
 " He is a travelling packman," I say gravely. " I met him in 
 the fields, and he came from Glasgow. We won't talk about him. 
 Tell me, Milly, do you think that while I am here you will have a 
 balH" 
 
 " Tell me about this young man first," says Milly, " and I will 
 tell you about the ball afterwards." 
 
 This is what I have been dreading : a long, comfortable, married 
 women's conversation over my matrimonial prospects, with a 
 calm and dispassionate balancing of pros and cons, in which my 
 own heart will have no concerm._Jor of all the strenuous advo- 
 cates of two people marrying who are not particularly fitted for 
 each other, commend me to a couple of young women who have 
 married for love and are perfectly happy ; they do not know what 
 uncongenial wedlock means, and cannot be brought to understand 
 its misery. I give a deep groan^ With these inquisitors I know 
 of no arts that will avail me save flight, and I do not wish *o run 
 
SUMMER. 249 
 
 away ; for, judging by an intangible something in Milly's face 
 just now, I have a shrewd suspicion that not only is there a ball, 
 but that the day is fixed— so here goes. 
 
 "Alice, Milly, I won't deny it. I have got a lover, and his 
 name is Tempest, and he lives at Silverbridge, and I don't mean 
 to marry him if I can possibly help it ; and I have told him so, 
 and he is very good-looking, and — and that's all !" Here I stop, 
 out of breath. 
 
 " Tempest !" says Milly ; "I am sure I heard Fane talking 
 about some Tempests the other day. Are they not very rich 
 people V 
 
 " I believe so !" 
 
 " And why on earth don't you marry him V* asks Alice, warmly. 
 " You will see nobody in Silverbridge ; and as to living at home 
 
 with papa By the way, what does he say to your having a 
 
 lover V 
 
 " He does not know it, or at least he never says anything." 
 
 " Although it is all going on under his very nose !" says Milly. 
 u Well, one of these days he will open his eyes very wide and be 
 furious, and you will be sent to bed for a week." 
 
 " I expect he will make a great fuss," I say cheerfully. " I only 
 hope he will lock me up altogether, for then George Tempest will 
 not be able to get at me." 
 
 " Nell," says Alice, with a serious disbelief in her voice, u have 
 you kept back anything V 
 
 " What, about Mr. Tempest V 
 
 " Of course. Now you said he was good-looking — is he 
 short V 
 
 " He is over six feet." 
 
 " And he has not a hump V* 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Does he talk through his nose V* 
 
2 5 o COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Or wear large plaid suits 1" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Is he ignorant 1 Not that that signifies, for nowadays only 
 the middle classes are well-informed ; well-born people are nearly 
 always doubtful as to their spelling." 
 
 " No," I say again. 
 
 " Is there insanity in the family V asks Milly. 
 
 "No ! No ! No !" I say, jumping up and going off into immo- 
 derate laughter. " He is nice, charming, desirable in every way ; 
 but— is it so very hard to understand ?— I can't marry him, for I 
 do not love him !" 
 
 " Then you must be in love with somebody else !" says Alice, 
 scanning with broad-eyed candour my disturbed face, "though 
 where you can have seen him I'm sure it is difficult to imagine." 
 
 " I am not in love !" I say, indignantly ; " I never was in love ! 
 I would not do anything so silly, so — so ridiculous. If I had had 
 any fancy that way I should have made a donkey of myself at 
 Silverbridge long ago." 
 
 " And how long have you been sure that you do not care about 
 Mr. Tempest 1 ? Since the day before yesterday V asks Milly, 
 saucy persistence in her splendid eyes. 
 
 " I have known it all along," I say, steadily. "What should the 
 day before yesterday have to do with it f 
 
 "Nothing," says Milly, with a baffling glance at Alice. How- 
 ever, I will not notice their looks. 
 
 " And now for the ball," I say, fanning my heated countenance 
 with the tail of my pannier. "Are you really going to have 
 one?" 
 
 " On the 17th. Shall I send Mr. Tempest an invitation V 
 
 " How delightful !" I say, drawing a deep breath. " I have 
 never been to a dance in my life, you know, and ■" 
 
SUMMER, 251 
 
 " What are you going to wear 1" asks Alice, and her literal 
 question brings me very suddenly down from the rose-coloured 
 clouds on which I am floating. My jaw drops, and I stare at her 
 blankly. 
 
 " I never thought of that/' I say, slowly ; " I was thinking of 
 the dancing, the fun, and " 
 
 " Have you not a single ball dress V asks Milly, rather cruelly, I 
 think, for she knows as well as I do how the governor mulcts us in 
 pin-money. 
 
 " A ball dress !" I repeat, derisively. "Indeed, you may thank 
 your stars that I have come in a gown at all, and not a petticoat 
 body, for there is so much trouble to get any clothes at Silver- 
 bridge, that very soon, I believe, we shall have to do with none 
 at all." 
 
 " Of course you must have a dress," says Milly, calmly: " had 
 you not better write to Howell and James, and order one !" 
 
 Howell and James ! When even that refuge of the destitute, 
 William Whiteley, is far, far beyond me ! Clearly, Milly has for- 
 gotten the days of her youth. 
 
 " I shall not appear," I say, miserably ; " I could not dance and 
 enjoy myself with an awful bill hanging over me all the evening, 
 and knowing what it would cost mother, so I shall be ill the night 
 of the party, unless you think a costume a la squaw, consisting of 
 a pearl necklace and a pair of boots, would be full dress enough." 
 
 "It would be quite full enough," says Alice, "and extremely 
 suited to the weather, only Mrs. Grundy might object." 
 
 " If you had only been at Silverbridge at the last bill row," I say, 
 sinking into still deeper dejection, " you would not feel inclined to 
 laugh at the prospect of another." 
 
 " Tell us about it," says my lovely sister ; " these rows were ter- 
 rifying things, but very amusing to think of after/' 
 
 " The last was amusing," I say, laughing heartily, in spite of the 
 
252 COM/AT THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 dismal business of getting a gown that unpleasantly pervades niy 
 mind ; " you remember Snooks, the draper 1" 
 
 " Rather." 
 
 "You know the consternation his modest handwriting ever 
 caused in our domestic circle ? Well, at midsummer he sent in his 
 account, and of course papa, instead of paying it, danced upon it 
 as usual. I fancy he has a notion that after dancing a pas sent 
 over bills they are, in fact, discharged, don't you? Well, times 
 being bad with Snooks, he plucked up a spirit, and wrote a gentle 
 request for his dues, but when it arrived no one could be found 
 brave enough to present it to the governor ; for two days it was 
 handed round the house, everybody, servants and all, repudiating 
 it, and then with one consent it was decided that something must 
 be done. The Bull of Basan proposed that we should lay it on 
 the Prayer-book, and receive in a body his overflowing wrath, but, 
 after some consideration, that plan was rejected. Finally it was 
 decided that we should place it in that little study at the top of 
 the stairs, by his bedroom, where he often sits, and the time for 
 putting it there was fixed at immediately after dinner, when he is 
 always sitting in the library over his wine. Dinner over, Basan 
 fetched the fatal epistle, and we set off, full speed, for the study, 
 clattering up the stairs like mad, he first, I following. You know 
 how narrow the staircase is, and that the door opens abruptly to 
 the left, so that until you are right on to the threshold you cannot 
 see in at all ; well, Basan flung the door open, and— stopped short. 
 Alice ! Milly ! over his face came the most awful, indescribable, 
 wonderful change ; he looked as if he was turned to stone. No- 
 thing short of the governor could produce that look on any of our 
 faces, and he was down in the library. 
 
 " ' What on earth is the matter ¥ I said, poking my grinning 
 countenance round the corner ; 'you look as if you had seen the 
 dev — ' There, within half a yard of my nose, stood the governor / 
 
SUMMER. 253 
 
 The old gentleman would have been an agreeable apparition com- 
 pared with that. Do you know, the grin absolutely froze on my 
 face ; for a moment I stared, then turned tail and ran, Basan after 
 me. Half-way down the stairs I remembered the bill. 
 
 " ' You must go back and give it him V I said in an agony, and 
 I pushed him back. 
 
 " Meanwhile papa was capering at the top of the stairs in a per- 
 fect fury, asking how we dared go to his room, what we wanted 
 there, did we mean to break the staircase in with our confounded 
 boots, etc. When Basan went back with the letter, he tore it out 
 of his hand, saw what it was, and then threw it at him ! Basan 
 never stopped to pick it up that time ; he ran in good earnest, so 
 did I. To this day it was a mystery to us how he got up there, for 
 we saw him go into the library." 
 
 " 1 know it all so well," says Alice, drying her eyes, " but we have 
 had more amusing rows than that." 
 
 " Do you remember " And here we slide off into a crowd of 
 
 ludicrous reminiscences, that are very real and true, and ridiculous 
 to us, but maybe would seem sad and unlikely enough to other 
 people. Perhaps they would not understand how we could laugh 
 at all over such things ; but, thank God, we have ever been able 
 to find a silver lining to our clouds, and it is better to bear our ills 
 with a smiling countenance, is it not, than to turn bitter, and hard 
 and cynical, and rail against heaven ? 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " The best of rest is sleep, 
 And that thou oft provok'st ; yet grossly fear'st 
 Thy death, which is no more." 
 
 We are feeding the gold and silver fish in the pool before the 
 drawing-room windows, Paul Vasher and I. He is providing for 
 
254 COMIN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 the silver ones, I for the gold, or at least am trying to, for the for- 
 mer, if they have duller backs, have far brighter wits than their 
 orange-coloured brethren, and get the crumbs oftenest. " Do you 
 know," I say, as I drop my last bit deftly into the greedy maw for 
 which it was intended, " that we are going to have something most 
 charming and delightful V 
 
 " And what is that 1" he asks, as we pace along the terrace side 
 by side. 
 
 " A ball !" I say, clapping my hands ; " a real onc„ no make- 
 believes this time ! Will you ever forget that party at Charteris V 
 
 As the words leave my lips, he looks across at Silvia, who is, for 
 a wonder, sitting alone hard by, seemingly watching us with a list- 
 less indifference. 
 
 " I shall never forget that party," he says quietly ; " and so you 
 like the prospects of this ball V* 
 
 " Yes, indeed. Will you believe that I have never had a real 
 partner in my life but once, and that was when I danced with 
 you V 
 
 " Have you not ? Then for the sake of that old dance, you will 
 give me the first, will you not V 
 
 " Yes, but you must not be angry if I bungle dreadfully; I never 
 could dance well !" 
 
 " Then why are you pleased at the prospect of this party V 
 
 " I shall like the music, and the fun, and my partners, and all 
 that." 
 
 " And I suppose you are full of delight at having to choose a new 
 gown and wreath !" 
 
 " Full of delight f I stare at him blankly for a moment, then 
 look away. He little knows what a gnashing of teeth business, 
 having a new gown in our family is. " It is not much of a plea- 
 sure," I say, with an odd smile ; " it is far more of a misfor- 
 tune." 
 
SUMMER. 255 
 
 "You are afraid of its not being becoming]" says Paul, looking 
 puzzled. " Have you decided on what it is to be f 
 " I have not thought much about it yet : anything." 
 " Wear white," he says, with a man's fixed belief in the perfecti- 
 bility of that colourless colour. Black or white, or black and white 
 —every man believes a woman to be well dressed when she is 
 arrayed from top to toe in either, or both. Men have no notion of 
 the innumerable little details that go to make up a perfectly ap- 
 pointed toilet. They will say that a woman looks well or ill, but 
 they can't pick her to pieces, and tell you in what part of her dress 
 the fault lies. They will pronounce one of Worth's choicest con- 
 fections to be " hideous," and a simply but gracefully attired girl 
 to be " charming ;" having no feminine admiration— the barbarians ! 
 — for the costly lace and exquisite trimmings that mark the former, 
 while the charming creature, poor soul ! wears only ordinary mus- 
 lin and ordinary silk. 
 
 " There are so many whites," I say, considering ; " white silk, 
 white satin, white brocade, white muslin — the materials are end- 
 less." 
 
 " And what had you on that day I met you among the rye I* 
 " A white cambric," I answer ; adding mentally, " or a ' clean 
 boiled rag,' as Jack calls it, and which the washerwoman knows as 
 well as her own face !" 
 
 " If I tell you what to wear," says Mr. Vasher, " will you pro- 
 mise to have it V 
 " So long as you do not put me in pink or yellow." 
 " Then you shall wear white of some glistening light fabric ; and 
 on one side you must have great bunches of gold wheat and scarlet 
 poppies, with a little bunch of the same against your left shoulder, 
 and with a wreath in your hair." 
 
 " Not in my hair, please, Mr. Vasher ! It is not so very long ago 
 that it was almost red, and " 
 
256 COMIN 1 THRO? THE RYE. 
 
 " I don't think yon need be afraid of the poppies," he says, look- 
 ing at my untidy ruffled locks ; " they looked well enough the 
 other day." 
 
 "I only wore that wreath across the field out of sheer bravado," 
 I say laughing, " because I had been told not to." 
 
 " Who told you not to V he asks quickly ; " who had the right, 
 to 1 ?" 
 
 " No one !" I say, turning my head away ; " at least, no one in 
 particular." 
 
 We walk in silence up the little steep path that leads towards 
 the upper terraces. In front of us are Mrs. Fleming and Mr. 
 Silvestre ; following behind, Alice and Lord St. John : the men 
 have returned from shooting early to-day. I am wondering 
 what my drees will cost, and whether boughten poppies are ex- 
 pensive, also whether they are as handsome as their living sisters. 
 After all I think I shall take Milly's advice. Papa could not pos- 
 sibly storm more over a big bill than he would over a little one, 
 and let the cost be what it may, I am resolved that on the 17th I 
 will for once in my life be not merely clothed but dressed. 
 
 " I have made up my mind," I say, briskly, " my gown shall be 
 made of white gauze. It ought to be beautiful, ought it not V 
 
 « Very." 
 
 He is not looking at me but straight before him, and there is a 
 thwarted, glum look on his face. 
 
 " Are you cross V I ask. " Are you thinking how frivolous and 
 senseless I am to be thinking so much about my first ball V 1 
 
 " No, child ! I was wondering if it were possible for one to meet 
 with a girl who had never " 
 
 "Never what V 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 A silence falls between us as we pace along the gravel walks, the 
 coolness of the late afternoon all about us, the greenness of the 
 
SUMMER. 2V 
 
 earth at our feet, God's azure carpet hanging royally over our 
 head ; only the faint pure smell of an occasional wild flower 
 comes to us on the air, for we are high up on the cliff now, and 
 the gay garden flowers are too proud or too lazy to climb so 
 high. 
 
 " And how soon will you be going back to Silverbridge]" asks 
 Paul, his voice disturbing me in the midst of an agonizing calcula- 
 tion of how many yards of stuff an orthodox ample ball dress 
 requires. 
 
 " Not until the end of the month." (Thirty, I should think. I 
 wonder what gauze is a yard 1) 
 
 " I suppose you are in a great hurry to get back f 
 
 "Not at all! why should I be? Jack is in town, Dolly at 
 school ; it is very dull at home just now. And I have not been 
 here ten days yet." 
 
 " But you have other friends in Silverbridge ; there are some 
 residents, are there not V 
 
 " One or two." (I must have a pair of white satin shoes from 
 Marshall's, and long gloves with a great many buttons— I shall 
 not stick at a button or two.) 
 
 "Tell me their names, for they will be my neighbours too very 
 shortly." 
 
 "We have neighbours, but do not visit them nor they us. 
 Papa does not like them. We know only one family, and their 
 name is— Tempest," I say, turning aside to pluck a modest spray 
 of euphrasy, and looking down on its purple-streaked petals. 
 
 "A large family?" 
 
 " No ; only a father and son." 
 
 Whether it is that I have really forgotten all about my absent 
 lover, or that the thought of my new gown absorbs my faculties 
 to such an extent that I am unable to entertain any other ideas, I 
 do not, I am proud to say, blush in the very least, and am able 
 
 17 
 
258 COM IN' THRO* THE R YE. 
 
 to meet Paul's searching eyes without a ray of embarrassment or 
 self-consciousness. 
 
 "And I suppose that it was because you have seen so few people 
 that you recognised me when we met in the field of rye 1" 
 
 " Perhaps. I had never known but two men in all my life- 
 young men I mean— until I came here, so I could not very well 
 forget, could I ?" 
 
 " And I am very glad of it !" he says heartily. 
 
 " Are you ] I am not ! I do not think one is able to judge of 
 whether a man is admirable or the reverse until one has seen a 
 great many." 
 
 [" Women ought not to see too many men," he says decidedly ; 
 " it is bad for them." Paul Vasher is like the rest of his sex, who 
 value their privileges too highly to permit women to encroach the 
 merest jot upon them, and would build so prickly a wall of pro- 
 priety around us, that we shall not even be able to climb up and 
 see what is going on on the other side. 
 " That is very hard upon us," I say. " Is it not the author of 
 ' Guy Livingstone ' who says, ' that a man must see and admire 
 many roses before he plucks the fairest of them all, his Provence 
 rose, to lay in his breast V You are free to walk about, looking 
 at this flower and that, critically surveying all, able to make your 
 choice after mature deliberation, while we may not look around 
 us or seek to judge for ourselves ; on the contrary, we must accept 
 
 (the first flower that is offered to us, think it adorable, perfect, 
 fall down before it in worship, and look at it contentedly to the 
 end of our days !" Here I stop, somewhat out of breath and 
 laughing. 
 
 " Is she always bound to take the first T he asks, looking at me 
 very keenly. 
 
 " Almost always," I say, with a heavy sigh. " Must it not be 
 hard when some day, and all too late, a woman who has given 
 
SUMMER. 259 
 
 away her life like that, ignorantly, meets with some other who 
 would have suited her ] Ah ! what ugly words those are, ' too late !' 
 They always make me think of Balzac and the dream that ran 
 through his toiling, barren life of the tender woman's hands 
 that should one day smooth the hair back from his weary brow, 
 and say, ' Poor soul, thou hast suffered !' They came to him a/ 
 last, too late." 
 
 "Do you know," says Paul, "that you have the saddest face 
 sometimes, child, that I ever saw V 
 
 " Do I look like a girl who is going to have a miserable story !' 
 I ask, stopping short ; " do I look like a girl who is going to die 
 young ?" 
 
 He takes my two hands in his, and looks down with infinite 
 gentleness on my pale, scared face. 
 " God forbid !" he says gently. 
 
 " Do not think me a very great coward : do not despise me," I 
 say, shivering ; " but I so fear death. I have such a bodily horror 
 and shrinking away from it, not for what it brings, but because I 
 so dread to go away, to be caught out of this warm, beautiful 
 earth that I k?wiv, and away from all the people and things I 
 love. I enjoy my life so keenly that I could not bear to let it 
 go. Do you think I shall be punished ? Is it impious to feel like 
 this r 
 
 " You sweet little soul !" he says, in his strong, tender voice, 
 " you be punished for aught in your fair young life ? I wonder 
 what God would reserve for sinners such as I, then V 
 
 " You are not a sinner," I say stoutly, looking into his noble 
 face — a face that gives so much more promise of grand things 
 than he has ever worked in his life yet. " You are good," 
 
 I loose my hands from his, and we walk on again side by side. 
 " Do you know," I say laughing (Why does laughter often follow 
 Bo quickly on the heels of sighs ]), " that if J know you long I shall 
 
 17—2 
 
26o COM IN* THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 become the most egotistical, maundering little person in Christen- 
 dom ] You listen to my complainings, at home no one ever does ! 
 Who was it said that there were two people in the world one 
 should never trust one's self to talk about — one's self and one's 
 
 enemy 
 
 v 
 
 " A foolish man whoever he was," says Paul, " who knew nothing 
 of human nature, for aie not those two naturally the most inter- 
 esting people under the sun T' 
 
 " I do not think I have an enemy ?" I say, considering : " have 
 you]" 
 
 " No particular one that I know of, though there are plenty of 
 people who dislike me, no doubt. When you are back at Silver- 
 bridge, Nell, I shall see you very often, shall I not 1" 
 
 " If papa does not take a dislike to you." 
 
 "I shall be glad to be back there," he says, with a hearty con- 
 tent in his voice. " After a bit, I suppose, I shall settle down and 
 grow fat !" 
 
 "I don't think so," I say, glancing at his clean length of limb. 
 " A man need never do that unless he pleases; he has so many 
 active exercises by which he can ward off stoutness. Now. a woman 
 has only got to sit down, and be free from worry of body or soul, 
 to grow fat directly !" 
 
 " Then some day I may expect to see you of very comely pro- 
 portions V 
 
 " No, lean and haggard and ill-favoured very likely, but stout 
 never. J. bother myself too much over everything for that." 
 
 " Your husband will take better care of you/' he says ; then, 
 bending his head to look into my eyes with those splendid dark 
 ones, that send so sharp and quick a pain through my heart, " has 
 it never occurred to you, child, that some day you will marry V 
 
 " Everybody does at some time or another, do they not 1 It is 
 a solid heavy pudding of which all taste in turn |" 
 
SUMMER, 261 
 
 " Except the old maids." 
 
 " I had forgotten them, but they have probably had lovers in 
 their time ; and after all, the courting must be so much pLasanter 
 than the hard and fast wedlock !" 
 
 " I think your experience of married people cannot lave been 
 very fortunate," says Paul, looking amused. " Why should not 
 people love each other after they are married as well as before V 
 
 " They ought, but very often they do not ! They begin very hot 
 and end very cold ; and I was wondering only yesterday whether, 
 if one married somebody one did nob care about, one would gradu- 
 ally get warmer towards him V 
 
 " It would be rather a dangerous experiment," says Paul ; " were 
 you thinking of trying it 1" 
 
 I do not answer, and as at this moment we fall in with Fane and 
 Milly, he has no opportunity of repeating his question. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 " Attgelo. Nay, women are frail too. 
 Isabella. Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves, 
 
 Which are as easy bruke as they make forms." 
 
 It is high noon, and we are "six precious souls, and all agog,* 
 dashing along the dusty, hot, turnpike-road towards Beecham 
 Wood. The sun, knowing that his time is short, and that he will 
 ere long sink from the proud overbearing tyrant into a mild, 
 benevolent, dull old luminary, is beating down upon us with broad, 
 level strokes, cleaving our parasols and tickling our faces, making 
 us, in short, very uncomfortable, cross, and miserable. It is the sort 
 of day when one longs instinctively for an open unoccupied space, 
 no living being near to touch one, and nothing to do save imbibe 
 cooling drinks, therefore pity me, oh reader ! in that I am shut up 
 with three other females in Milly's landau. Behind us follows a 
 
262 COAf/N' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 carriage similarly filled, and we are en route for the vernal shades 
 of Beecham and the society of the sportsmen, with whom we are 
 going for the first time to take luncheon. They have several times 
 asked humbly enough for our society, but with the first lust of 
 slaughter upon them Milly judged wisely that they were best left 
 to their own and the birds' company. They are somewhat sated 
 by now, though, for to-day is the ICth of the month. 
 
 How fast the days have slipped away ! How utterly pleasant 
 and sweet they have been ! Let me not begin to rejoice over them 
 though, lest evil ones follow. Far away I see a little soft cloud of 
 grey under the trees, with dogs lying about. As we approach 
 nearer it resolves itself into the gentlemen, who are lounging about, 
 cigar in mouth, looking as cool, and fresh, and comfortable, as we 
 are precisely the reverse. We all tumble out of the carriages any- 
 how, and make a dash through the gate, only longing to get into 
 the shady woodland beyond. In the general scrimmage, Lord St. 
 John is tossed up nearest to me. 
 
 " Have we much farther to go 1" I ask, looking with affection at 
 a big tree we are hurrying past. 
 
 " Not much !" he says ; " two or three minutes' walk, perhaps." 
 
 I don't think he has done much shooting this morning : he looks 
 as if he had come out of a bandbox, and his wicked little eyes are 
 fixed with doting fondness on Alice's vanishing tail, for with all 
 my haste I am somehow the very last of all. 
 
 Everybody seems to have got badly matched to-day : Alice is 
 with Captain Brabazon, Milly with Mr. Silvestre ; Fane's back ex- 
 presses intense disgust as he walks by the side of Mrs. Lister, and 
 her daughter's head has a sulky air as seen in the company of 
 Charles Lovelace, while— oh, wonder of wonders— Silvia Fleming 
 has fallen to the lot of Paul Vasher, and Sir George Vestris 
 gloomily stalks with that young woman's mother. 
 
 I am casting my eyes about the wood, and thinking how pretty 
 
SUMMER. 263 
 
 it is now, and how infinitely prettier it must be in spring-time 
 thickly powdered over with dainty forest flowers, when I put my 
 foot into a rabbit hole, and take a breathless header into space. 
 Lord St. John picks me up without a smile, likewise my hat, which 
 has ambitiously flown far beyond my head, like a rider who clears 
 a fence while his horse remains behind. Goethe says men show 
 their character in nothing more clearly than in what they think 
 laughable. Now Lord St. John does not even smile, whereas if 1 
 had seen him meet with the same accident I should have laughed 
 immoderately for five minutes. There is no one behind to mark 
 my confusion, so, as one's misfortunes are always bearable when 
 there is no one by to observe them, I put on my hat with unruffled 
 serenity and proceed on my way. 
 
 What a dull little lord this is ! It is lucky that he does not, like 
 other mortals, depend on " the quantity of sense, wit, or good man- 
 ners he brings into society for the reception he meets with in it." 
 He is neither handsome, nor wise, nor witty, yet he will never 
 know the lack of good looks, wisdom, or sense ; he will pass over 
 the heads of men better in every way than himself, only they are 
 born with wooden ladles in their mouths and he with a silver one. 
 
 Here we are at last. The white cloth on the grass commends 
 itself favourably to my eyes, and the twinkling silken calves of the 
 footmen, as they go hither and thither, look festive and cool. I 
 sit down with a sigh of relief, and Paul Vasher comes to my side 
 and sits down too. Sir George flies to Silvia, Milly to Fane ; the 
 sisters, alas ! to the Captains— it is a general post. I wonder what 
 Paul and Silvia have been talking about : there is no expression 
 on her face ; on his there is a great deal, as he looks at me. I have 
 hardly dared to seek to learn its meaning yet — hardly ventured to 
 put out a trembling hand to touch the skirt of a mantle of great 
 joy. . . . 
 
 Everybody is sitting down now, and finding by painful expe- 
 
264 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 rience that though eating one's luncheon on the grass is a pictu- 
 resque thing to look at, it is by no means a comfortable thing tc 
 do: one's back has an awkward trick of curving outwards, and 
 one's knees of encroaching on one's chin. Then the eating — whether 
 is it better to bend two-double over the plate on the damask, 01 
 permit it to reverse itself and its contents on our slippery laps % 
 In spite of these drawbacks, however, the grateful shadow, gay 
 voices, welcome champagne cup, and the right companion, make 
 the hour a pleasant one. If only these pleasant hours that come so 
 rarely to us mortals would abide with us, not hurry so fleetly 
 away ! 
 
 " I think you must have snubbed St. John pretty well," says 
 Paul ; " he left you so precipitately just now." 
 
 " He is so stupid." I say, looking across at him ; " and as I am 
 not clever myself, I like to be with amusing people ; do not 
 you V 
 
 " Indeed I do ; but I don't think the cleverest people are the 
 most amusing. They go too deep. It is the nonsense talkers who 
 are most companionable ; just as you will laugh heartily at a book 
 that you keep on saying to yourself over and over again is the 
 silliest stuiF imaginable." 
 
 M Then there is some hope for me, is there not f 
 
 The servants come and go, merry jests are born and die, the 
 sunbeams flicker jubilantly down on our uncovered heads, the 
 butterflies flutter idly by, the gnats swarm above us, there is a 
 sleepiness in the air, a sense of comfort in our bodies. 
 
 " What have you been thinking about all this time V asks 
 Paul. 
 
 "You will laugh if I tell you," I say. " but just then I was rumi- 
 nating about bread sauce. Partridges grew and so did bread, but 
 the man who wedded the two must have been a clever fellow, inuot 
 he not V 
 
SUMMER. 265 
 
 " And you were really thinking that T 
 
 " .Really ! I suppose it was the sight of the birds yonder put it 
 into my head." 
 
 He looks at me amusedly. 
 
 " I wonder if you could keep a secret if you had one V he says. 
 u I think you would bring it straight out. I always know when 
 you are glad or sorry, vexed or pleased, in an instant ; do you think 
 you could be deceitful, if you tried V 
 
 "You don't know what stories I can tell at a pinch," I say, 
 laughing ; " and if that is not being deceitful, what is V 
 
 " You do not mean that you tell lies T } 
 
 " What a downright word ! How ugly it makes the smallest 
 deviation from truth look ! No, my fibs are only harmless ones, 
 extemporized to save the boys from getting into rows with papa, 
 and so forth. I don't ever remember telling a real lie." 
 
 "And you have never deceived anybody?' he asks, with a 
 strange persistence. 
 
 " Never !" I say, truly — for have I not told George the plain 
 unvarnished truth hundreds and hundreds of times % 
 
 Luncheon is over, and most of the men are not sitting, but 
 lounging at their ease, with a comfort very irritating to feminine 
 eyes. Alice and Milly are making use of their respective lords by 
 leaning against them dos-a-dos ; the attitude is comfortable, but 
 not particularly elegant. A score of yards away a stalwart oak 
 presents to our view a stout brown body that offers friendly sup- 
 port to an aching back, and towards it I turn my eyes. 
 
 " You are tired," says Paul ; " shall we go and sit over there V 
 
 He holds out his hand, pulls me up, and in another minute we 
 are sitting against the old monarch. 
 
 " How tired that lord must have got who went on a tour round 
 England without once leaning back in his carriage t* I say laugh- 
 
266 COMIW THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 ing. " Don't you think he must have taken it out in a long course 
 of easy chairs afterwards V 
 
 " I don't fancy they had any worth mentioning in those days. 
 What hardy old people they were, and to what an age they lived ! 
 Now-a-days it is the old who bury the young. I think it was 
 their leisurely way of taking things, their conversations, their 
 journeys, their love-makings, that kept their bodies and souls so 
 fresh. They were content to take life gradually : one emotion at 
 a time was enough for them ; they knew how to wait. Our gen- 
 eration is not satisfied with looking forward ; it must desire, long 
 for, possess, all in a breath. There is very little patience any- 
 where in this nineteenth century." 
 
 " I should have liked to live in those days," I say, thinking ; 
 " they lived much grander, sweeter, honester lives than we do ; 
 they must have had so much more of eternity, so much less of the 
 present, in their thoughts than we have !" 
 
 " Let me tell you, Nell," says Paul, " that there are girls in the 
 world every bit as nice and honest and sweet as their grand- 
 mothers were. Do you remember," he asks, drawing nearer to 
 me, " that once, years ago, I assured you it was much better to be 
 good than pretty ? And you disappointed me a good deal, by 
 seeming to prefer the prettiness to the goodness !" 
 
 "It was not for beauty's sake I wished it," I say, looking 
 ashamed ; " but because I had always thought it a great power, 
 and because I saw handsome people treated far more kindly than 
 plain ones !" 
 
 "Do you not know, Nell, that far more deeply rooted in a 
 man's breast than the mere admiration of physical beauty is his 
 veneration of what is pure, and not to be corrupted, something 
 better than himself, in a word— good 1 Many women believe that 
 they can hold an undivided empire over a lover's heart by being 
 simply lovely to the eye, and charming ; they trust to the come- 
 
SUMMER. 267 
 
 liness of the body effectually preventing any search after the soul 
 or mind, and their experience of a certain class of men justifies 
 them in so believing. Of the far larger class, who put aside all 
 the dazzle and beauty of the outside appearance to look beyond, 
 they have no conception, little knowing that every sensible man, 
 if he do admire the sparkling casket, always looks within to see 
 if it contain a gem of value and purity, or a tawdry bit of coloured 
 glass." 
 
 " You are very hard upon us, ;; I say, surprised. " Are all men 
 so difficult to please as you V 
 
 " Shall I tell you why we see the faults of women so clearly V 
 he says. " Because we know how infinitely above us most of 
 you are in purity, unselfishness, and goodness ; it is because we 
 hate to see you step off your pedestals and come down to our 
 level, that we are so severe upon every failing and shadow of evil , 
 doing. Do we not honour you more in setting you a high standard 
 than a low one T 
 
 " But do you not help to lower it V I ask. " I have never been 
 out into the world ; I have only read and heard people talk : but, 
 I think, if girls are frivolous and vain, it is you who help to make 
 them so. If you talked nobly and sensibly to them and tried to 
 bring out, not the amusing weaknesses of their characters, but the y 
 hidden worth that lies in every nature, you would make less of 
 toys, more of companions of them." 
 
 " You are right," he says ; " men do incalculable harm in foster\ 
 ing the vanity and conceit of girls ; but it is a fact that you may 
 tell a woman she is virtuous, discreet, admirable in every way, and 
 she will not say thank you ; but tell her she is pretty— and smiles 
 will break out all over her face. Fellows know this, and of 
 course take advantage of the weakness, and so society becomes; 
 leavened with a general idea that beauty is the greatest good aim 
 blessing on earth, and that all the other virtues and graces are 
 
268 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 set down second to it. There never was a greater fallacy. Now 
 if I had a wife, her good looks would be the last thing I should 
 care to hear commented on. It would give me no pleasure to 
 hear people exclaiming, ' How pretty she is !' ' How beauti- 
 fully she dances !' but if they said, ' She is a thorough little lady,' 
 1 She is sensible and charming,' ' She is good/ I should be proud 
 of her, and in nothing so much as this, that no one would dare 
 offer her the smallest liberty, in look or word." 
 
 " Are you reading me this homily on the beauty of goodness 
 versus the goodness of beauty, to comfort my forlornness V I ask, 
 laughing. " Indeed, you need not : I have quite grown used to 
 not being pretty like the rest." 
 
 " Pretty," he says, staring at my face, " can you be so V 
 
 He checks himself, and breaks off. " I see your brothers are 
 smoking," he says presently, " may 1 1" 
 " Yes." 
 
 I look around me. Mrs. Lister is fast asleep, propped up against 
 a neighbouring tree. Her mouth is wide open, and the flies are 
 walking in out of the same as seemeth good to them. Her daugh- 
 ters are pursuing their up-hill, one-sided flirtations ; and the head 
 of the elder is wobbling plaintively towards Captain Brabazon's 
 shrinking shoulder, in a manner that seems to say, " let me lay it 
 down, and leave it" Mrs. Fleming is reading a letter, and her 
 squire — Mr. Silvestre — lies on his back by her side, deeply, soundly, 
 noisily asleep. Silvia is telling her fortune on a spike of grass, 
 and looking with lovely, lazy eyes at Sir George, whose face i- 
 aflame with love, pleading,and God alone knows what. Fane's cheek 
 rests contentedly on Milly's elaborate chignon ; and Alice, leaning 
 against Charles's broad back, listens to Lord St. John's mild con- 
 versation and flatteries with half-shut eyes. The content on Paul's 
 face is good to behold, when he has his cigar fairly between his 
 
SUMMER. 269 
 
 Z\ 
 
 lips. Was ever woman, I wonder, as true and faithful and soothing 
 a friend to man as tobacco 1 
 
 " Your sex ought to be better tempered than ours," I say ; " for 
 you are able to smoke away all your troubles and disappointments 
 and annoyances, while we can only sit down and think." 
 
 " You have one great resource that is denied to us — you can 
 weep." 
 
 " That is so cowardly. I always look upon tears as a refuge only 
 to be fled to when everything else fails (I mean, of course, when I 
 am put out), and of the two I would far rather storm." 
 
 " And yet," says Paul, " utterly as you can rout us by the sigl 
 of your tears, I prefer even them to being reviled by you- 
 woman's power is pretty well gone when she takes to scolding." 
 
 " Cleopatra kept hers well enough/' I say, half to myself. "Now 
 if I were you, I would far rather have a woman who was outrageous j 
 sometimes and sorry afterwards, than a meek, obstinate, crying ) 
 creature who never forgot herself — or a grudge." 
 
 " Then you prefer Katherine to Bianca ?" 
 
 " Infinitely ; and I am certain I should have slapped Bianea 
 even harder than Katherine did. She only insisted on her own 
 way until she found some one with a stronger will ; then she gave 
 in directly." 
 
 " And would you give in to any one 1" 
 
 " If I were quite sure his ways were better than mine, if not I 
 should take my own." 
 
 " You ought to take his whether you are sure or not." 
 
 " Indeed ! I see the race of tyrants is not quite extinct." 
 
 " Or that of rebels !" 
 
 " There should be no question of ' giving in ' or ' looking up,' " 1 
 say demurely. " Alfred de Musset says a woman should above all 
 things be bon camarade / and between comrades there is equality^' 
 is there not ]" 
 
270 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " The man should always rule," says Paul, in his masterful way; 
 " and you may say what you like, Nell, but you would love to be 
 ruled, you would like to be kept in order." 
 
 " No, no," I say gravely ; "that Frenchman's idea was a much 
 better one. He went on broader grounds than you do. Yours is 
 an English notion. He recognised the fact that however pretty 
 and amusing it may be to play at love, it cannot be made the busi- 
 ness of a life-time ; and that after a while a man grows tired of 
 treating his mistress or wife like a goddess or a baby : he wants 
 more solid stuff to live on, and the one everlasting dish palls then. 
 If she will look the knowledge in the face that such is the case, 
 and putting sentiment on one side enter heartily into his ambitions 
 and aims, and hopes and amusements, she becomes not only the 
 beloved woman, but the bright pleasant comrade, who is bound to 
 him by fifty ties of mutual interest and support ; they are equals, 
 and he considers her as capable of giving advice as taking it " 
 
 I stop short in my serious disquisition on love and matrimony 
 as I catch Paul's amused smile. 
 
 " Wait until you fall in love," he says ; " I shall see it some day, 
 and I wonder where all your philosophy will be then V 
 
 " Where it is now," I answer stoutly, through my blushes ; 
 " nothing will ever alter my opinion on that point. I think it is 
 nothing but bad management that makes so many married people 
 who begin with so much love end up with so little. Mr. Vasher ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Do you think Silvia would ever have been bon camarade?" 
 
 " No; she would keep a man to her side by sheer fascination, but 
 she could never " 
 
 " What do you call fascination V I ask, as he pauses. 
 
 " I suppose the real essence of it lies in the power a woman 
 possesses of making herself so delightful, that every hour spent 
 away from her is an age.' 7 ,. 
 
SUMMER. 271 
 
 " Do witty people fascinate V 
 
 " In a different way. They amuse and astonish more than they 
 inspire respect." 
 
 " How I should like to be witty !" I say, laughing. " It is a great 
 power, is it not, to be able to say clever, brilliant, sparkling 
 things V 
 
 " Yes, but one not often to be coveted. A very witty person is 
 no one's enemy so much as his own : he amuses people at the ex- 
 pense of others, and the former have a pleasant conviction that 
 their turn will come presently, and no one feels safe." 
 
 " Like Lady Hester Stanhope," I say, " who lost all her friends 
 through her tongue, and was also known to boast that no one 
 could give such a slap on the face as she could !" 
 
 " Yes, her wit worked her ruin," says Paul, " as did poor Drum- 
 mers, although indeed his was but barefaced effrontery !' ; 
 
 " I always admired that man," I say, laughing : " he was so bold, 
 and his insolence was so splendidly audacious. I wonder what 
 master of ceremonies now-a-days would dare say to a duchess, ' In 
 heaven's name, my dear duchess, what is the meaning of that 
 extraordinary back of yours ? I declare I must put you on a 
 back-board. You must positively walk out of the room back- 
 wards that I mayn't see it !' " We both laugh heartily. 
 
 " It makes one feel very small, does it not V says Paul, " that 
 people should feel so much more angry at being made fun of, 
 than being called ugly, or wicked, or disagreeable ? Is it not 
 Macaulay who says, ■ Alas for human nature, that the wounds of 
 vanity should smart and bleed so much longer than the wounds of 
 affliction V " 
 
 " One can forgive unkindness, ill-usage, neglect even— but ridi- 
 cule never !" I say, laughing ; " and yet it is curious, is it not 1 to 
 see how people like to make fools of themselves comfortably, 
 but hate to be told of it. That, I suppose, is why you men 
 
272 COM IN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 always like to marry a stupid woman, for she never finds you 
 out !" 
 
 " You are wrong," says Paul. " A stupid woman, i.e., a fool, 
 admires everything, and everybody, 1 cr husband among the rest ; 
 a sensible woman looks all about her, and seeing nothing half as 
 good as the man she has married, admires him" 
 
 " A most delicate flattery ; but supposing he is not wise V 
 
 " Would a woman of sense marry a man who had none V 
 
 " She often does. Now Mrs. Skip worth, at Sil verb ridge, she is 
 sensible, and she married a very prosy, foolish man. And yet," I 
 add, looking out at the cool green shadows and gold patches of 
 sunlight that lie athwart the woodland, " I don't know that he is 
 so foolish as irritating. Did you ever know a man who smiles 
 when he tells you the day is fine, smiles when he tells you your 
 soul is lost, and would smile over your new-made grave, and say 
 the funeral had gone off beautifully 1 That is Mr. Skipworth.^> 
 
 " Well," says Paul, " I shall see him before long, and listen to his 
 sermons, which I suppose will be rather worse than himself. Is 
 your seat in church anywhere near mine V 
 
 " Oh, no ! The Towers turns up its nose at the Manor House, 
 and while you rejoice in a curtained pew under the pulpit, we 
 occupy an abased position in the aisle ! The pew opposite yours 
 was ours once, but it would not hold us all, and papa exchanged 
 it for a big one ; but there is scarcely any one to sit in it now— 
 there are only nine of us, babies and all !" 
 
 " Only nine !" he says. " Well, I shall come over to the Manor 
 House often, and you will ■" 
 
 ■" Nell, Nell ! cries Milly's voice in the distance, and I jump up 
 hastily. Everybody has left off sleeping, talking, laughing, and 
 flirting ; the men are repossessing themselves of their guns, and 
 the ladies are standing about. 
 
 " At any rate," says Paul, * we have stolen two pleasant hours 
 from that old thief, Time, have we not V 
 
SUMMER. 273 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " Through tattered 'clothes small vices do appear ; robes and furr'd gownp 
 hide all." 
 
 Nine o'clock is striking, and I am standing before a looking-glass, 
 admiring myself with a hearty appreciation that it would be folly 
 indeed to expect any one else to feel. For the first time in my 
 life I am en grande tenue. With something of the recklessness of 
 a man who decides that, if he must be hung, it may as well be for 
 a sheep as a lamb, I am arrayed with a sublime disregard for such 
 vulgar considerations as pounds, shillings, and pence, as might 
 well set the governor dancing a fandango if he were but here to 
 see ; not but what he will dance it safely enough over the bill. 
 Out of my glistening dress of gauze, poppies burn redly, in great 
 bunches at my side, and on my shoulder, and in my hair ; they 
 even twinkle cheerfully on my little white satin shoes, that look 
 vastly pretty, but pinch most horribly. 
 
 A tap at the door, and enter Milly's maid with a bouquet, 
 " With Mr. Vasher's compliments." As she retires I take it in my 
 hand. It is of blood red and yellow gold roses with a few ferns, and 
 they look out of place with my vagrant wild flowers. I shall carry 
 them though for all that. A supremely happy, well-dressed, blessed 
 young woman I look as I take up my fan and gloves, and run lightly 
 down the stairs. 
 
 My first ball ! Will it be as disappointing, I wonder, as the 
 fulfilment of most earthly wishes usually is 1 I make my way to 
 the ball-room, wide and cool and lovely with the beauty of fair 
 proportions, and delicate, brilliant dazzle of flowers. 
 
 The musicians are in their places, but nobody is visible, not even 
 that mythical personage, the first arrival. Was ever any one known 
 to confess that he or she arrived first anywhere ! And yet some- 
 
 18 
 
274 COM IN 1 THRO 7 THE RYE. 
 
 body must, unless indeed several people race each other to the 
 hall door, and from the hall door to the reception room, and burst 
 in on the host and hostess simultaneously, " like three jolly butchers 
 all of a row.'' I have laid down my bouquet, and am fighting 
 with the fourth button of my long gloves (I think I rather overdid 
 them, they nearly reach to my elbow), when Milly sails in, majestic, 
 beautiful, with the value of the clothes of twenty ordinarily well- 
 dressed females on her back. 
 
 " Good gracious !" she says, catching sight of me, " how — how 
 decent you look !" 
 
 " Yes," I say with delight, u is it not wonderful ? 1 had no idea 
 so much virtue lay in a gown !" 
 
 " Upon my word !" says Alice's gay voice behind me. " Talk 
 about the ugly duckling " 
 
 I turn round to look at her, a dainty apparition in pale amber, 
 with sapphires twinkling on her arms, neck, and hair. Alice is 
 one of those fortunate people whom each colour seems to suit 
 better than the last. Dress her in blue she is heavenly ; in pink 
 she is ravishing ; white sets her off to perfection ; and I have even 
 known her emerge radiant from a bilious bottle-green serge that 
 might have puzzled the fairness of Cytheraea herself. 
 
 " Do not revive that stale, stale old story," I say, entreatingly. 
 " I know it is my clothes, not me ; but let us try and shut our 
 eyes to the fact. Let us for one evening indulge in the pious fiction 
 that I am good looking I" 
 
 " I don't know that it is altogether your dress," says Alice, con- 
 sidering. " I have seen you look astonishingly well once or twice 
 lately. If I had not always been so used to the idea that you were 
 plain, Nell, I should say you were rather pretty." 
 
 Profoundly as I have been admiring myself, this unexpected 
 praise makes me feel modest, and I turn the conversation with con- 
 siderable haste. 
 
SUMMER. 275 
 
 " Has any one seen Silvia yet ? I suppose she will be in some- 
 thing wonderful." 
 
 " Was Silvia Fleming ever known to waste her sweetness on the 
 desert air V says Alice, seating herself. " When the company is 
 assembled, and the music strikes up, she will appear, not before !" 
 
 "1 do wish Fane would come down," says Milly, who is ar- 
 ranged in the expectant attitude of a hostess, on a high and ample 
 crimson velvet chair, that to the vulgar eye bears a wonderful re- 
 semblance to a throne. " He always behaves in this way : it is 
 too bad." 
 
 Like other women, Milly likes to be supported when she is re- 
 ceiving her guests ; but Fane, doting lover and obedient spouse 
 that he is, distinctly objects to the process of standing still and 
 saying, " How do you do V for an hour at a stretch, and when it 
 is his plain and bounden duty so to do— makes himself scarce. 
 Here come the Listers ! Lister mere in a low (save the mark !) 
 black velvet, with uncommonly fine diamonds resting on her 
 withered, brown, fleshless old collar-bones. I suppose mahogany 
 is a better foil to the precious stones than alabaster, since it is so 
 much oftener seen. Her daughters wear apple-green silk and 
 apple-blossom flowers, harrowing contrast ! and the eye aches as 
 it rests on the inharmonious whole. Will our matrons and maids 
 ever, I wonder, learn to drape their garments, following the lines 
 of the figure as a sallow Frenchwoman does, instead of breaking 
 out all over in angles, tags, bumps, and excrescences % 
 
 A confused sound in the distance heralds an arrival. 
 
 " Nell," says Milly, hastily, " will you find Fane, and make him 
 come here at once V 
 
 Rather a difficult matter that ; I set out, however, with a bold 
 front, and a regret that I have not been able after all to see the 
 first people walk in Ascending the stairs, I hear cackles and 
 sounds of merriment above me. Looking up, I discover Fane and 
 
 18—2 
 
2 76 CO AT FN 1 THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 that other choice spirit, Captain Oliver, cutting capers on the land- 
 ing, and evidently prepared to d camp at a moment's notice, if any 
 emissary from Milly appears up n the scene. 
 
 " Milly says " I begin, rebukingly. 
 
 "I know," says Fane, swinging me round to his side in a manner 
 that may be indicative of brotherly affection, but certainly is not 
 good for my gauze trappings. 
 
 " Now, Nell, did you ever see so much back as that before 1" 
 
 Following his example, I crane my head and body over the 
 banisters until I nearly precipitate myself into the hall below, and 
 am rewarded by the sight of a dowager, who looks as though her 
 enemy had assaulted her from the rear, and robbed her of half her 
 clothes. 
 
 "The older she gets," says Fane, "the more she shows ; and the 
 Lord only knows what further revelations Time may have in store 
 for us !" 
 
 " She couldn't go much farther," I said, comfortingly. " I never 
 knew before that middle-aged people's backs were of a rich coffee 
 colour, did you, Fane 1 Who is that shambling little man f 
 
 " Bareback's husband. She might wear him as a bustle, and 
 never know he was there." 
 
 The stream below widens, swells ; people come pouring past in 
 tens and twenties, sleek, and clean, and glossy, freshly powdered, 
 freshly crimped, freshly smiling. What a pity that they will all 
 be so draggled, and hot, and untidy in two hours' time ! Fat 
 mammas, portly papas ; pretty young girls, well preserved old 
 ones ; young boys, old boys, middle-aged boys ; women white- 
 backed, yellow-backed, brown-backed ; women dressed by Elise, 
 women dressed by themselves, well-groomed, ill-groomed, over- 
 dressed, under-dressed, and not dressed at all. Truly it is a 
 " motley crowd," and from our vantage ground we criticize them 
 with the unripe sarcasm of our not over-wise youth. 
 
SUMMER. 277 
 
 I wonder why the young, and those who have only had the 
 bright side of life turned to them, are so pitiless to the peculiarities, 
 the faults, and the follies of others ] It is only the old who are 
 tolerant and merciful, speaking more kind words of their fellow- 
 men than malicious ones. 
 
 After a quarter of an hour's impartial survey of the charms 
 passing beneath us, " I think/ 3 says Fane, " I may venture 
 down now without being let in by Milly for twenty-five duty 
 dances." 
 
 Rum-tum-tum-tiddy ! goes the music. 
 
 " Come along," cries Fane, "you and I will have the first together, 
 Nell !" 
 
 " Miss Adair is engaged to me for this," says Paul's voice behind 
 me. How long has he been there, I wonder 1 "I have been look- 
 ing for you everywhere," he says, as Fane and Captain Oliver go 
 downstairs. " I thought your toilette must have proved a wonder- 
 fully complicated affair." 
 
 " Do you like me V I ask, stepping back from him, and holding 
 out my skirts in my hands. " You chose it for me you know ; 
 and, to tell you a secret, to-night I am not Helen Adair at all : I 
 am Howell & James /" 
 
 "Like you]" he says, coming a pace nearer and looking at me 
 keenly from head to foot, and from foot back to head a^ain ; "No, 
 I don't like you !" 
 
 " I am sorry," I say disappointedly. " I thought I looked so 
 nice ! I was so charmed with myself !" 
 
 " I like your poppies," he says, touching those upon my shoulder 
 with the tip of his finger. " They make these things very well, do 
 they not V 
 
 " I will never ask you anything again as long as I live," I say, 
 with dignity. " You might have tried, at any rate, to say some- 
 thing just a little polite j" and I march away. 
 
278 COMIN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 But he catches my hand, flowers and all ; and then I remember 
 that I have not yet thanked him for his bouquet. 
 
 " Did I vex her," he says, looking down on my flushed face. 
 " Was she such a vain little soul after all % Nell, Nell ! after all 
 the times I have exhorted you not to care about being pretty I* 
 
 " I am not vain," I say, turning my head away : " I never had 
 anything to be vain of ! But when one has been quite ugly for a 
 very long while, and been told so every day of one's life, it is very 
 disheartening, just as one begins to think one can look decent, for 
 a person to say your dress looks nice, not you." 
 
 " There will be plenty of men to tell you that when you get 
 downstairs, Nell," he says. " Can it make any difference to you 
 what I think V 
 
 " No, of course it does not !" I say, magnanimously, and ashamed 
 of my temporary fit of vanity. " I could not expect you to say 
 what you did not think, could I V 
 
 " If I were to tell you all I thought,'' he says, looking down on 
 me, " I should frighten you, perhaps, and you would not under- 
 stand. Perhaps you will let me tell you some day.'' 
 
 "Let us go down," I say, with a sudden shrinking away from 
 him ; " the first dance is already over" 
 
 " Yes, it is over, and in the hall the people are pacing up and 
 down, backwards and forwards, talking, laughing, flirting, in all 
 the first gloss of their smartness ; the men reduced to the smallest 
 possible quantity of clothes, the women swelling forth in a lavish 
 prodigality that mocks at " yards " and makes light of " breadths." 
 Among them all I do not see any face I know ; but a great many 
 people nod and bow, and call acquaintance with Paul Vasher. 
 
 The haunting, matchless strains of " Blue Danube " come float- 
 ing out to meet us as we enter the ball-room, and Paul puts his 
 arm about my waist and we glide away, the first couple. After 
 all. it is not difficult to dance when one has a perfect partner : per- 
 
SUMMER. 279 
 
 haps he adapts his step to mine— at any rate, we move in harmony 
 As the room becomes crowded we stop and sit down to look around 
 us. Truly the scene is amusing enough, for everybody is revolv- 
 ing who has the means, without any question as to suitability in 
 the age or size of that means : tall men dancing away from little 
 partners, little men convulsively clutching tall women, old men 
 and young maids, married women and young boys, fat girls danc- 
 ing with Don Quixotes, Sancho Panzas, puffing round with lean 
 virgins. Everybody seems to have got the wrong partner and not 
 to mind it in the least. There are couples who rush round and 
 round the room, crashing through every obstacle, and leaving over- 
 turned bodies, sore shins, and angry hearts behind; leisurely 
 couples who tread tneir measures delicately, and are invariably 
 overtaken and run down by the more bustling couples who come 
 behind ; couples who aimlessly drift about and are knocked to and 
 fro by the rest. . . . 
 
 " I never saw myself dancing," I say to Paul, " but do you think 
 I ever looked like that ?" I glance at Miss Lister, whose head is 
 wandering all over her partner's shirt front, seeking rest and find- 
 ing none. 
 
 " I will look at you presently when you are dancing with some- 
 body else, and tell you," he says, 
 
 " How well she dances !" I exclaim, nodding towards a moun- 
 tain of fat that is going by, held together by a whipper-snapper 
 whose arm refuses to go any farther than the last hook and eye. 
 " Can you tell me why those enormous women go round so sweetly 1 
 They seem to turn on a pivot ! What a pity it is this one does 
 not live in a place I once heard of, where women are sold by the 
 pound— flesh, not good looks, being considered the most market- 
 able commodity !" 
 
 " Only she might object to being sold," says Paul, laughing. 
 H Shall we go on again V 
 
28o COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 "Look at St. John," says Paul, as we pause to take breath. 
 " However earnest his solicitations, do not be prevailed upon to 
 dance with him : he has a knack of making spectacles of his 
 partners." 
 
 " But I have promised," I say, with some dismay. " He asked 
 me at dinner, and of course I was obliged to say yes. Do you 
 not know that anything in the shape of a partner is better than 
 none at all V 
 
 " You will know plenty of people presently," he says. " Don't 
 believe all the nonsense they will talk to you, Nell." 
 
 ** But I like nonsense : it is far more amusing than heavy 
 common sense ; besides, ball-room conversation is never expected 
 to be very wise, is it 1" 
 
 The music has ceased, and we are walking down the room, past 
 the wall-flowers— prim and patient, with their white, white boots, 
 that by-and-by will be their shame not their glory, and their 
 sweet little smile that seems to say, " We are sitting down, cer- 
 tainly ; but only because we much prefer doing so to dancing V 
 —past the portly, coffee-backed observant dowagers, and so to 
 Milly, who is looking with real indignation at Fane's rapidly 
 vanishing heels, which he has been shaking with much agility 
 ever since he came downstairs. She is talking to a long, lean, 
 liver-coloured gentleman whose name I hear is Viscount Bingley. 
 We are all standing together when Silvia Fleming comes slowly 
 past, the eye of every man and woman present following her. She 
 wears white brocade slashed with crimson, and her fairness shows 
 more dazzlingly than ever against Sir George Vestris' dark beauty. 
 
 " Are you not going to dance with Miss Fleming to-night ]* I 
 ask, as we move away. " If so, you had better be quick in ask- 
 ing her, for in five minutes her card will be full." 
 
 " Therefore I will not presume to ask so great an honour," he 
 says. " And now, Nell, will you let me see your card V 
 
SUMMER. 281 
 
 It is hanging at my side— an unmarked expanse as spotless as 
 the wallflowers' boots ; and I feel rather ashamed of it. 
 
 " You will keep all your waltzes for me V he says, scribbling 
 down his initials at somewhat short intervals. 
 
 " Yes ; that is to say, if you do not meet with somebody whose 
 waltzing you prefer to mine." 
 
 We walk about and make confidential remarks to each other 
 concerning the company. We agree that those bare-necked, 
 plumed old dowagers are unpleasant spectacles ; but that the 
 decorous, high-gowned, middle-aged folk who wear their own 
 hair, and not too many fal-lals, are good to look upon, and by no 
 means to be pitied, since they have had their fun } danced their 
 jigs, and now, youth's fits and fevers, ups and downs past, cannot 
 surely be sorry to sit down in their comfortable prosperity and 
 rest. We agree that it would be a kindness on the part of any 
 one present to fetch a shawl to cover Mrs. Lister's unveiled 
 charms ; but on my suggesting that Paul should take a neighbour- 
 ing antimacassar to her with his own compliments, he proves him- 
 self to be greater at discretion than valour. We think it would 
 be a hard nut for a philosopher to crack if he were called on to 
 decide why so many ancient, purblind, doting old people persist in 
 going to balls, where they are neither useful nor ornamental, and 
 are divided in opinion as to whether supper or scandal are the 
 attractions, or an absolute determination not to confess them- 
 selves too old for society and conviviality, is at the root of the 
 matter. We decide that the lack of tournure in the girls present 
 is appalling (although, for the matter of that, I am about as well 
 qualified for giving an opinion on that point as a G^uth Sea 
 Islander) ; and that whenever one sees a good figure i 1 generally 
 capped by a plain face ; and that the pretty-face^ miss almost 
 always has her head very ill set on her shoulders, and wears a 
 badly made gown. 
 
282 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " I have often wished I were a man," I say, as we turn back into 
 the drawing-rooms, " but I never wished it as heartily as I do to- 
 night. Even that silly-looking boy, propping himself up against 
 the door yonder, is free to choose his partners, while I have to wait 
 until some one or other condescendingly fetc/ies me out." 
 
 " But you can always say ' No !' " 
 
 " Not in the face of this half -filled programme," I say, glancing 
 down at it where it sprawls widely open across the front of my 
 dress. " It looks very like an advertisement, does it not V 
 
 " Shall I tell you something," says Paul, looking down upon me 
 with half-pleased, half- vexed eyes. " It is great nonsense : but 
 then you like nonsense, do you not 1" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, then, I heard one man say to another, a moment ago — 
 'Does any one know who is that pretty little creature in the 
 poppies V And the other answered, ' No ; but I am determined to 
 be introduced to her before I am half an hour older.' " 
 
 " You are making it up !" I say quickly. "Did you think it 
 would please me V 
 
 "Nell," says Milly's voice beside me, 'I have brought some 
 gentlemen to introduce to you," and she goes through half a dozen 
 introductions and sails away. My card is produced and duly 
 written upon by them all, then they make their bows and retire. 
 
 " I should not know one of them again if it were to save my 
 life, so it is to be hoped they will claim me all right," I say with 
 some dismay as they vanish. 
 
 " I don't think they will forget," says Paul reassuringly. " And 
 now here comes St. John to fetch you ; it was the third round you 
 promised him, was it not V 
 
 " Our dance, I think Miss Adair," says the little man, and I put 
 my hand under his arm and go away, with a rueful look at Paul. 
 
 John Peel is ringing forth in glorious fashion as we enter the 
 
SUMMER. 283 
 
 ball-room. Can anything be more maddening, I wonder, than 
 good music and a bad partner % Lord St. John does not wait for 
 an opening, but gripping me round the waist, plunges wildly into 
 the melee. On watching him I had been struck by the way in 
 which he appeared to run away from his partner : on careering 
 with him, I find that — proud and happy as I should be to be left 
 out of his gyrations altogether — there is no such luck, for he holds 
 on to me like grim death, " without any regard to my squalls or 
 my kicks" (as a poet once wrote of a victim very little worse off 
 than I), and that fast as he tears round me 1 am forced into a 
 very similar and indecently hasty appearance of likewise tearing 
 round him. In vain I ask him to stop. ... I am, indeed, too 
 deeply engaged in the all-absorbing business of holding on, and 
 praying that Providence will bring me out of this galere without 
 the loss of my front teeth, to say much ; so on we rush, running 
 full tilt at the company ; dashing into the couples before us, re- 
 coiling violently on to those behind; landing with convulsive 
 energy on the wallflowers' toes, taking headers into the wall or 
 space, pelted with blows, harassed with return kicks, abraded with 
 sharp elbows, verily we run a race as perilous as ever did Dick 
 Turpin, but are not, like him, clothed with honour, but disgrace ! 
 
 " Stop !" I cry loudly, when we have upset our fourth couple, 
 and only saved ourselves from rolling upon their prostrate forms 
 by a succession of aerial bounds that would not have done 
 discredit to Taglioni. " Stop !" And being tired by his exer- 
 tions, he looses me, and I tumble into a chair, and go very near to 
 weeping. There is a smile on the countenances of the lookers on, 
 the very wallflowers are grinning — nasty little wretches, who 
 would not object to be twirled round like mops, rather than not 
 dance at all ! Examining into the extent of my injuries, I find 
 that I have a lump on my forehead that will probably be black 
 and blue to-morrow, a partially-skinned arm, and a tolerably 
 
284 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 severe cut over my left elbow, which I have indeed been using as 
 an active weapon of offence and defence, as is the wont of women- 
 kind in a ball-room skirmish. 
 
 " Poor little soul T says Paul's voice beside me, and looking up 
 with eyes that are filled partly with anger, partly with tears, 1 see 
 that his face is dark with wrath, and that his glance at Lord St. 
 John is of no very friendly character. 
 
 "You should have taken better care of Miss Adair," he says, 
 sternly. " Do you see how you have hurt her V 
 
 Poor little Lord St. John ! He has no idea but that he has dis- 
 tinguished himself in a very spirited and successful manner, and 
 is mopping his forehead preparatory to doing it all over again. 
 
 " Is she tired ?' he asks, with genuine astonishment. " And we 
 got on so well, too !" 
 
 " She is too tired to dance the rest of this galop/' says Paul, im- 
 patiently. " Miss Lister is not dancing, I see. Why do you not 
 ask her f 
 
 Lord St. John is essentially docile, he always does as he is bid, 
 so he fetches the young lady, and starts off again with much zeal, 
 if little discretion. 
 
 " I should like to thrash that little fool," says Paul, looking at 
 my scratched arm, and making a sudden movement towards it 
 that he as quickly checks. " Dairymaids and cooks should be his 
 partners, not delicate girls like you." 
 
 " I have one mercy to be thankful for," I say, sitting up and 
 putting my hand to my head to see if my poppies still bluom 
 there, " he did not let me down I" 
 
 " Miss Lister will not be so fortunate then ; for if they don't go 
 down before they are five minutes older I am much mistaken. 
 Look at them now !" 
 
 I do look. Lord St. John and his unhappy partner are taking 
 a header straight down through the room ; and another couple 
 
SUMMER. 285 
 
 equally daring and unconscious, are also taking a header from the 
 opposite end ; and, alas ! before either couple has time to get out 
 of the way of the other, they meet with a violent impetus that 
 scatters all four to the winds of heaven, or rather to the polished 
 oak shades of the earth below. They may be severely damaged— 
 no doubt they are ; but the laugh of the multitude is ever against 
 those who cry out under misfortune, so they all jump up again in 
 a trice — all, that is to say, but Miss Lister, who sits on the ground 
 and weeps bitterly, displaying a good quarter of a yard of flat 
 ankle, that considerably mars the effect of her pearly tears. In 
 vain her unfortunate partner assures her of his sorrow in reducing 
 her to such a plight — in vain her friends hold out friendly hands 
 to help her up : there sh e sits and weeps. 
 
 " Perhaps if Oliver were to come to the rescue she would be 
 persuaded," says Paul ; and as he speaks that gallant warrior, 
 attracted by the crowd, and not having seen the catastrophe, 
 approaches with much interest, and peeps over. At the sight that 
 meets his gaze— to his shame be it spoken — he turns tail and runs. 
 " It must have been her ankle !" says Paul, in deep disgust " I 
 wonder they do not call in two stout footmen." 
 
 She gets up at last, though, with unavailing tears running down 
 her hot angry face, and her apple-blossom wreath cocked 
 rakishly over one eye, as though it rather enjoyed her miserable 
 condition than otherwise. 
 
 "Let me see your card," says Paul, stooping over it; "ours is 
 the second from this. I see your next is with Sir William 
 Alclous." 
 
 " Was not he the man who was all nose and no legs V I say, 
 considering ; " or the one with a big forehead and no chin V 
 
 11 You are very disrespectful to your admirers," says Paul, laugh 
 ing, " considering your charms brought the assemblage together." 
 " My charms !" I say, laughing aloud, ** Are they then un fait 
 
286 CO MI 1ST THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 accompli t Are they placed beyond the region of doubt ? Well, 1 
 am proud, really proud of the collection my charms brought to- 
 gether ! Take me back to Milly, please, before my partner comes 
 to fetch me." 
 
 On our way Silvia passes us on Viscount Bingley's arm. His sal- 
 W face is alight with admiration. 
 
 11 He seems to admire her very much/' I say. 
 
 u He loves every pretty woman he sees," says Paul, with a queer 
 smile, " whether she be white, brown, or black. If the love of 
 woman is really a ' liberal education/ then he reflects great dis- 
 credit on your sex, child ; for the older he gets the worse he 
 grows !" 
 
 I am scarcely by Milly's side when Sir William Aldous comes to 
 claim me for the Lancers, and I find myself excellently well-amused, 
 for he turns out to be a fool of the finest quality and most exquisite 
 water. All through these sober, decorous old Lancers (how much 
 longer will they be permitted, I wonder, in this age of break-downs 
 and fast dances 1 The nineteenth century stands them ; but will 
 the twentieth 1) he amuses me charmingly; for fools may be divided 
 into two classes— those who know it, and those who do not. My 
 partner is of the latter class ; therefore, since his silly remarks are 
 always uttered with a perfect air of good faith, and are neither re- 
 called nor repented of, he is boundlessly fresh, inexhaustibly 
 amusing, as no wise man could be with solid reason, admirable 
 logic, and weighty pro and con. It is tolerably easy to guess at 
 what a sensible man will do, under any given circumstances ; but 
 I defy any one to forecast the words and acts of a downright talk- 
 ing fool. He will unconsciously say things that are almost like 
 flashes of genius, his words will be the very inspiration of folly, 
 and he will scale heights and plumb depths before which wise men 
 have stood silent and abashed. 
 
 The dance over, we go into the hall, and so to the refreshment- 
 
SUMMER. 287 
 
 room, where he leaves me in a comfortable chair, and departs in 
 search of claret-cup. Close to me a group of men are discussing 
 the charms of their late partners, with a freedom that should de 
 light those ladies, if they were by to hear. 
 
 " Give you my word of honour, Dalrymple," says one, " she had 
 an entirely new set for this evening. Only had a very few teeth 
 left — remaining stumps were taken out yesterday— new set put in 
 this morning— here to-night !" 
 
 " Don't believe any mortal woman could stand it," says another. 
 
 " Then she's immortal, my dear fellow," says the first speaker, 
 " for 1 know it to be a fact. She's engaged too. Rather awkward 
 person to kiss— eh ? Things may come to a dead lock." 
 
 " Or lock-jaw." 
 
 " I hope this is right," says Sir William, appearing before me. 
 " I did not quite like the flavouring, so I have been showing the 
 butler how to improve it." 
 
 So that accounts for the disgusted expression on Birkhead's face. 
 Evidently he does not appreciate a fool as keenly as I do ! 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
 Look how the floor of heaven 
 Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold." 
 
 Supper is over, and I have danced a great many dances with part- 
 ners, good, bad, and indifferent, have been startled, amused, pleased 
 at the pretty speeches made to me, and which I have tried hard to 
 convince myself are not meant in the very least, though in my 
 secret soul I do believe that a few of them were not spoken in jest 
 but earnest : and now we have stepped out of the crowded, noisy 
 rooms, Paul and I, on to the terrace, where couples are walking up 
 and down in the clear white light of the moon making love, or the 
 
288 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 semblance of it, Corydon to Phillis, and sometimes — alas, for the 
 order of things ! — Phillis to Corydon. Paul has stolen a warm 
 white shawl from the back of a chair, where it had been left by an 
 unsuspecting dowager ; there will be a fine hue and cry after it 
 by-and-by. 
 
 The night is very lovely, more like an August one than Septem- 
 ber, the air is so warm, and the perfume of the flowering myrtle 
 wanders abroad so sweetly. Down yonder, by the trout stream, 
 the great masses of foliage lie dark and stirless ; there is not a puff 
 of wind to rock the pigeon-cotes hung aloft in the boughs ; there 
 is no sound of insect, bird, or beast, to ruffle the silence, only the 
 far-off swish of the sea as it softly laps the shore. Turning the 
 corner of the house, we come to a stone parapet, that overlooks 
 the flower garden dappled all over with flowers, and melting imper- 
 ceptibly into the woods, that in turn seem to merge themselves 
 into the sea. From the bed of mignonette below comes up to us 
 a pure, fresh breath, that recommends itself more favourably to 
 me than any of the voluptuous heavy perfumes of the hot-house 
 flowers we left in the room behind us. 
 
 "I wonder if Juliet had a bed of mignonette?" I say, looking 
 out at the silver streak of sea beyond the dusky woods. 
 
 " I dare say. What made you think of her V 
 
 " This parapet and the flower garden stretched out below. ( 
 can almost fancy I hear Ptomeo calling — 
 
 ' Call mo but Love, and I'll be new baptized ; 
 Henceforth I never will be Romeo ;' 
 
 an 4 Juliet calling back— 
 
 • My bounty is as boundless as the sea, 
 My love as deep ; the more I give to tbee, 
 The more I have, for both are infinite.' " 
 
 " Do you think any girl could love like that now-a-days, Nell T 
 " Was she not very quick 1" I ask doubtfully ; " do you not think 
 
SUMMER. 289 
 
 it was strange she should have fallen in love with him all at onct 
 like that V 
 
 " It is a poor love that is afraid to discover itself as soon as felt," 
 he says, " and that beats about the bush until it is certain of the 
 same being returned. I believe that the strongest and most endur- 
 ing love is that which is sudden, or fallen into." 
 
 " I am glad they both died," I say ; " perhaps if Romeo had 
 lived he would have loved some one else and spoilt the whole 
 story." 
 
 " Yes, I think he would have forgotten in time and loved again, 
 as you say ; why should he not 1 Do you believe that a man can- 
 not care as much the second time as the first V 
 
 " I do not know about men," I answer ; " I only know that a 
 woman could not Juliet would have had no second lover, I am 
 very sure." 
 
 " If you had been Juliet," he says, stooping his head to look into 
 my face, " and Romeo had died, what would you have done V 
 
 "I should not have killed myself, but I should have loved him 
 dead as passionately as I had loved him living ; and no word of 
 love from another should ever have shamed his memory." 
 
 " I am going to ask you a question, Nell ; an impertinent one 
 you will no doubt consider it, but I will have an answer. Have 
 you ever had a lover f 
 
 My heart stands still as I lift my eyes to him, standing there by 
 my side. For a moment I hesitate : then, for speaking the truth 
 has always come more naturally to me than to tell lies, I answer, 
 « Yes." 
 
 He turns away. " They are all alike," he mutters half-aloud, 
 'all alike!" 
 
 " And he makes love to you, I suppose V 
 
 " Yes, indeed !" I say, with a rueful sigh, given to the memory 
 of how bootless that love-making has proved. 
 
 10 
 
2 9 o COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " And do you like him V 
 
 There is a confident, lialf-teazing ring in his voice as he asks the 
 question, and I turn my head away ruffled and hurt. Shall I talk 
 over George's true, honest love] 
 
 " Nell !" he says, coming round to the other side and looking 
 into my averted face, " did you hear me 1" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Confess now that you do not care a straw for this — this 
 Lubin ?" 
 
 " Do I not !" I answer, roused by his tone and the slighting 
 allusion to my absent lover, who is so leal to me, and to w T hom 
 I " There you are quite mistaken ; I like him very much in- 
 deed ; next to my own people I don't know any one whom " 
 
 "Next to your own people?" he says, with a queer smile. 
 " Would you not put the man you loved before V 
 
 " That would entirely depend on who he was ! If he were a 
 selfish person " 
 
 " If 1 Have you not made up your mind then T 
 
 But I do not answer him. I slip from his side and run fleetly 
 away, and reach the ball-room before he can overtake me : certainly 
 it was a narrow escape that time. My partner for the dance meets 
 me as I enter, and 1 walk through the Lancers absently enough ; 
 fortunately, however, he has the gift of the gab in high perfection, 
 and I am only required to throw in an occasional yes and no. We 
 have for our vis-a-vis a very stout lady and a very active little 
 gentleman, and looking upon them, I am irresistibly reminded of 
 an elephant labouring after a flea, she is so slow, he so spry ; 1 
 am sure he takes a dozen steps to her one. On my left is a broad- 
 faced young man, who wears a perpetual and uneasy smile, that 
 neither seems able to expand into a grin or depart in peace ; I 
 have a great mind to make a face at him as we advance in the 
 figure, and see whether it deepens or vanishes. 
 
SUMMER. 291 
 
 It is growing very late, or early ; daylight will be soon looking 
 in upon us, but the fun of the ball is at its height. Supper has 
 made shy men bold, bold men impudent, silent men garrulous, and 
 cheerful men harlequins ; prim young women relax into hearty 
 laughter, fast young women wax faster j admiration degenerates 
 into flirtation, and flirtation into downright love-making ; love- 
 making, that is to say, which is born of champagne, propinquity, 
 and opportunity— a poor imitation of the genuine article. The 
 dowagers beam unctuously over their double chins ; there is not a 
 single wallflower left to grace the wall. Have they indeed risen and 
 touted for partners i Several proposals are flying about, and the 
 general appearance of everything points to the fact that time is 
 scurrying with flying feet, and that they who would enjoy them- 
 selves must do so speedily or not at all. 
 
 How the society masks drop off the faces ! How the true ring 
 of the voice comes out, and the real expression of lips and eyes 
 reveals itself ! If a physiognomist could stand in our midst, how 
 easily he would read the relaxed countenances of those present ! 
 Of some it is true, there is no evil or mischief to learn, but of others 
 much. Many of the men and women here to-night bring into 
 society faces as carefully prepared to meet the world's eye as the 
 clothes they wear ; it is not often one can get a peep at them as 
 they really are. 
 
 We go into the supper-room, where are congregated a good many 
 people, drinking, talking, laughing, fanning themselves, making 
 love, and talking scandal. Scraps of conversation come fitfully to 
 my ears. "What colour eyes do you like best]" "Blue, like 
 yours." " My dear Mrs. Backbite, I saw the man deliberately kiss 
 her hand, and she actually looked as though she liked it V " Yes, 
 first-rate action. Is it true she is scratched for the Vasher stakes ]" 
 "Yes; and entered for the Vestris." " It was Vasher who sheered 
 off, not the Fleming." " St. John says that Vasher is mad about 
 
 19—2 
 
292 COMIN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 that Miss " (I do not catch the name). " Any one can see 
 
 that." I do not hear the rest, for Paul himself stands before me. 
 " This is our waltz," he says. " Are you too tired to dance it V 
 "No." 
 
 I put my hand under his arm, and go back to the ball-room. 
 Already it is growing empty; some one or other has made a move, 
 and like a flock of sheep every one is following, Willing mothers 
 are running about after their unwilling daughters, who have, in- 
 deed, the advantage over their anxious parents, inasmuch as they 
 can dance away from the same, "up the sides and down the 
 middle," 
 
 Faster and faster goes the music, quicker and quicker go the 
 flying feet ; all are enjoying it with a zest that nothing, save the 
 knowledge that it will be quickly over, could possibly give. Into 
 the feet of some of the middle-aged waiting folk the music gets, 
 and partners being forthcoming, they essay a turn or two, at first 
 with some shyness, much as Mr. Aminadab Sleek and Lady 
 Creamly did in " Home," then with vigour ; finally they revolve 
 with much enjoyment, perfect in the steps of thirty years ago. 
 
 Oh, this last dance ! The light, the music, the perfume of the 
 flowers, the long harmonious movement, they are woven into one 
 exquisite sensation that blooms for a little space and dies. And 
 now all too soon the waltz ceases, and delivers over the girls to 
 the custody of their mothers, and they go away torn, spoiled, 
 flushed, with all the carefully built up finery of a few hours ago 
 in ruins. It is always wretched work seeing the last of every- 
 thing—the lights put out, the daylight on weary faces, and the 
 winding up. So at the foot of the stairs I say good-night to Paul. 
 But he does not take my hand, and as I turn away he walks along 
 by my side. 
 
 " Good-night, again," I say, wearily, as I reach my door. " Oh^ 
 1 am so sleepy 1" 
 
SUMMER. 293 
 
 "Good- night," he says; then pressing both my hands against 
 his lips, " Good-night, little Nell !" 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 " When Phoebus doth behold 
 His silver visage in the watery glass, 
 Decking with liquid light the bladed grass.'' 
 
 Nine o'clock is striking as I open my eyes, brightly, broadly 
 awake, and rested. Sleep is a cunning fellow ; he knows when 
 his subjects have had enough of him, and when he strikes them 
 with his fairy wand, crying, " Awake !" they only are wise who 
 leap up and begin their day ; it is the foolish ones, who do not 
 know what is good for them, that turn away from the light, 
 heavily courting the slumber that is not necessary, therefore will 
 not refresh them. 
 
 Looking out of the window, I discover that the morning is per- 
 fect ; never did nature wear a fairer robe than she has put on to- 
 day, and I long to be out, assisting at her morning show, brushing 
 the dew from her meadows with hurrying feet, smelling at her 
 freshly opened buds and flowers, taking a long draught of her 
 beautiful, vigorous, healthy life. I have some difficulty in getting 
 my breakfast, to which is added one welcome and one unwelcome 
 addition in the shape of a letter from Jack and another from 
 George. I read Jack's, the other will keep. The dear boy is 
 coming home for a few days the end of October ; he is very busy, 
 he says, and will be very glad to see me again. 
 
 Downstairs I meet nobody, save sleepy servants, who look, poor 
 wretches ! as though they had not been to bed at all. As I open 
 the glass door of the drawing-room, a cold, sweet breath of the 
 sea comes faintly up to meet me, and seems to die pleasantly on 
 
294 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 this warmer air that creeps about the sunny terrace and south 
 side of the house. The trees are still bravely clad, although the 
 ringer of decay has touched their greenness here and there into 
 flaming scarlet and vivid yellow ; the birds are singing loudly and 
 jubilantly enough, but somehow their notes do not seem to be as 
 sweet and joyous as they were a little while ago. To them the 
 summer meant warmth and comfort, the fruits of the earth fed 
 them, the nights gave them shelter, but with the first breath of 
 the frost-king they see hunger and cold stretching out before 
 them, and the iron hardships of the long winter ; at least, so their 
 song seems to say to me as I listen. On the upper terraces, and 
 in the glades that the sun's eye cannot reach, since the screen of 
 leaves above is so thickly woven, the hour might be six o'clock in 
 the morning, not ten, and there is as yet some of— 
 
 " That same dew that sometimes on the buds 
 Was wont to swell with round and orient pearl." 
 
 And of the few scanty autumn flowers left I make myself a posy 
 and fasten in my belt. 
 
 I wonder why one feels so much brisker, fresher, brighter, in 
 time of autumn than in time of spring, which is so infinitely love- 
 lier and more grateful to us 1 Somehow these trees, whose leaves 
 are dying in such splendid livery of gold and sepia, crimson and 
 brown, strike no pang to our hearts ; they do not suggest unplea- 
 sant thoughts of our own decay ; on the contrary, we walk erect 
 and cheat ourselves with the vain belief that, though all things 
 fade, yet do not we ; or, at least, not now. How we cling to our 
 little atom of life, that is so small and yet so huge, and, placed 
 directly before our eyes as it is, assumes grand proportions that 
 block out the far off and dimly seen plains of eternity — very misty, 
 very vague, are they to our earthly, filmy eyes. Religion bids us 
 hold ourselves ready to quit at any moment the world and every- 
 
SUMMER. 295 
 
 thing we value and love ; and human hearts, recoiling, are called 
 craven and sinful, as though a child would go willingly from the 
 warm arms of the mother it trusts, and is used to, into the un- 
 known embrace of a veiled and shadowy stranger, that may be 
 more tender, more loving, more satisfying, than the earthly mother ; 
 but, oh ! the child cannot see its face, cannot hear its voice ; it is 
 all strange, and it turns back trembling to the face it knows, just 
 as we who are grown up cling to life, with its sweetness and its 
 sorrows, its love and its suffering, and hug it to our breasts, our 
 very own, and a most familiar friend. When my time for dying 
 comes, and I know that surely— certainly it must come some day 
 —that I shall lie straight and still, with blank eyes and heavy-shut 
 lids, with ears into which no common call or e very-day word can 
 enter, I hope that all my dear ones, the few that I lay in my heart, 
 will have gone before me ; then, indeed, I shall not fear to die, for 
 where they are there will be my home. 
 
 I have fallen on sad thoughts this bright morning. Am I not, 
 indeed, becoming somewhat sentimental) a state of mind for 
 which I have a most hearty contempt. I will go to the kitchen 
 garden and-search for figs and pears. I have eaten three treacly- 
 sweet figs, and am considering the Marie Louise pears, when a 
 voice behind me says, " Good morning !'' I turn round, and there 
 stands Paul Vasher. Is he shod with the shoes of silence, or does 
 he wear goloshes 1 for I never heard him coming. 
 
 " Good morning !" I say, holding out my hand. " I thought you 
 were still in bed or out shooting \* 
 
 " Luttrell is lazy this morning," he says, " and nobody would 
 turn out. Have you breakfasted V 
 
 " An hour ago," I answer, looking at my watch. " It seemed a 
 crime to stay in on such a morning as this, so I got out as quickly 
 as I could." 
 
 " I hope you slept well V 
 
296 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " I always do, always, that is to say, when I have nothing on my 
 mind." 
 
 "Well, I did not sleep at all." 
 
 "Why did you not r 
 
 " I began to think, and then it waa all over." 
 
 "About bills?" 
 
 "No," he says, smiling. " What made you think of bills, of all 
 things T 
 
 " Because they keep " I am about to add, " mother awake,' 
 
 when I stop short. " Is it not very odd," I continue, as we walk 
 along between the cabbages, " how the merest trifles that we hardly 
 notice by day assume gigantic proportions at night 1 Do you know 
 that all the silly things I have said and done, and all the times I 
 have made a fool of myself, rise up before me when I lie awake, 
 and seem to pelt me 1 and when daylight comes they appear quite 
 small again, and I recover my self-respect. Do you ever feel like 
 thatr 
 
 " Often enough," he says, rather sadly. " Only the blows my 
 sins deal me are somewhat heavier than those your little white 
 misfortunes give you. I often think, though, that there is no 
 exaggeration about those night thoughts ; that things do but 
 assume their real significance then ; truer counsel comes to us in 
 those silent hours than in the broad garish day, with its thousand 
 sights and sounds, and words to come as a screen between us and 
 our souls." 
 
 " Let us take comfort in that our consciences are active and 
 healthy !" I say, laughing ; " it is when people do not feel their 
 shortcomings at all that they may be considered to be in a bad 
 way, is it not 1 I suppose all eminently wicked folk have no con- 
 science at all?" 
 
 " Nell," he says, looking down at me, " what a merry, heart 
 
SUMMER. 297 
 
 whole laugh you have — any one could tell you had never lost your- 
 self." 
 
 " Lost myself l" I repeat ; " what is thaH" 
 
 " Never been in love," he says, slowly, and with an odd hesita- 
 tion in his voice, odd by reason of his being usually so self- 
 contained, proud, and cold. . 
 
 I turn away my head that he may not see how the colour goes 
 out of my cheeks. I am glad he thinks me so safe and untouched. 
 No woman should wear her heart upon her sleeve for every eye to 
 look into. . . . 
 
 " Do people give up laughing when they fall in love ?" I ask. 
 " I should have thought it would be the very reason why they 
 should be all the happier ! My sisters never wore long faces when 
 they were engaged. I do not think I ever saw any other lovers, 
 unless indeed one can call Silvia and Sir George lovers." 
 
 " And are they not V 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 My thoughts go back to that moonlight night at Charteris four 
 years ago, when a man and woman stood face to face, and wished 
 each other a bitter, long farewell —ay, they were lovers ; and a hot 
 sharp pain runs through my heart that I know well enough is 
 jealousy. 
 
 " Mr. Vasher," I say, stopping short, while the blood leaps into 
 my face and mounts to my very brow, " I have something to tell 
 you— something I ought to have told you long ago." He does not 
 answer, but I see him draw in his breath and set his lips hard, 
 and in his eyes there is a look of strong, eager expectation. 
 "That night, at Charteris, when you had that interview with 
 Silvia, I was hidden close to you, and saw and heard every- 
 thing." 
 
 " Is that all ]" he cries with a quick gesture of relief, and yet a 
 certain shame in his face. "I thought you were going to tell 
 
298 COM IN' THRO y THE RYE. 
 
 me So you heard our farewells, Nell ; were you sorry, or 
 
 did you laugh. V 
 
 " It was nothing to laugh at," I say, seriously ; " but I have 
 always wanted to tell you. I felt such a sneak, but it was not 
 my fault, and I thought I should vex you so by walking out in the 
 middle. I wish I had never been there." 
 
 11 Do you?" he says. "Why?" 
 
 " Until then I had believed in love, and that it lasted. Now I 
 know better ; and that however hotly a man may worship a 
 woman to-day, he forgets her to-morrow." 
 
 " Not if she is worthy," he says. " Would you have him pour 
 all his treasures into the sea ? A man must be true to himself 
 first, his love afterwards." 
 
 " And I cannot understand this distinction," I say, looking down 
 at my flowers. "If I ever loved any one, and afterwards he 
 proved unworthy, I should not let that turn me back. I should 
 go on loving just the same." 
 
 " Because you have a sweet and unselfish nature, while I am 
 selfish through and through," he says, slowly. " It is a cowardly 
 /thing, is it not, to be so careful to assure one's self against loss ? 
 But I have always felt that on the woman I married depended the 
 making or marring of my life, and— still in my own interests of 
 course— watched natures as narrowly and carefully as a man 
 would look to the joints of his armour before going into a battle 
 on the issue of which his life depended. Do you blame me that I 
 will not sacrifice my life— I have only one, remember ! — simply to 
 gratify a woman's caprice 1 Can you show me a greater misery 
 than to be bound to a person one can neither trust nor respect 1 
 With me worth ranks before beauty." 
 
 " I cannot argue," I say, slowly : " I can only feel ; and it seems 
 to me that lovers once, who love each other, should be lovers al- 
 ways ; nothing but death ought to come between." 
 
SUMMER, 299 
 
 " Then Silvia and I should be lovers now V 
 
 " If you had loved her really, I think you would be loving her 
 still, faults and all." 
 
 " Faults V : he repeats. " You don't understand. What if I give 
 you the key to the puzzle ? What if I tell you why Silvia's beauty 
 moves me no jot ? Why it is as impossible to me to have any love 
 for her as to breathe life into dry-as-dust bones ? Shall I tell you 
 a story ? You may suppose it to be my own, or that of any one 
 else, just as you please." 
 
 We have come to a gnarled old garden seat, that is set where the 
 eye can view the garden and woods, and a glimpse of the sea below, 
 and we sit down. 
 
 " Once," he says, leaning towards me and watching my face, " a 
 man wandered over the world, searching in cultured gardens and 
 wayside roads, at the gates of palaces and the doors of the poor, 
 for a certain spotless, delicate flower. He saw many very like the 
 particular blossom he was seeking, but there was always some 
 trifling flaw, or speck, or stain, and he passed them all by, for he 
 said to himself, ' I know that this flower exists, for other men have 
 found it, and why should not I V And at last to him also came 
 the happy hour, and he found it. Long and carefully he watched 
 it, lest after all it should be no more perfect and faultless than the 
 rest ; but at last he put out his hand, and with a great rejoicing 
 in his heart plucked it. It was but freshly in his hand, he had 
 scarcely tasted of its sweetness, hardly felt his soul filled with its 
 exceeding beauty, its petals had not withered with neglect or been 
 scorched by the hot breath of passion, when a chance blow struck 
 it, and lo ! the dazzling whiteness fell from it like a veil, and 
 there it lay, robbed of its deceitful mantle, lovely still, but speckled, 
 tainted, soiled. No one but God knows what that man felt then. 
 He had sought for it so long, exulted in it so deeply ; he could 
 have laid his life on its perfect purity and soillessness, and now. 
 
300 COM IN" THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 broken and shamed as it was, he loved it still, though he knew that 
 he could never lay it in his breast, never wear it through life as his 
 glory and pride ; and therefore, though it nearly cleft his heart in 
 twain to leave it, he cast it from him, and went his way alone. 
 
 " Not long afterwards, when he was in the very midst of his 
 hard, fierce struggle to forget, he came by chance upon it, and 
 though he knew its worthlessness, he longed after its beauty with 
 a deep and passionate longing, that nearly overcame him ; and 
 after all, the speckled stains were faint and invisible to al] eyes 
 save his own ; but his standard of purity was a high one, else had 
 he not so long sought the one who should come up to it ; and a 
 second time he conquered this madness, and went his way. Years 
 after, when he was no longer seeking either good or evil, when his 
 old search after anything perfect seemed faint and far away, he 
 chanced upon a little flower that grew up sweet, and sturdy, and 
 honest, in its quiet corner, past which the world never ran. It 
 was not so gorgeous and stately as the tall white flower, but it had 
 a fair, winsome face, and its clean, fresh sweetness came more 
 gratefully to the weary, jaded man, than had ever the voluptuous 
 beauty of the other. And though his love of the first had long 
 faded away, this fresher, healthier love took and cast out the last 
 fragments of a lingering, haunting memory ; and his heart was as 
 empty of all feeling for it, as though he had never loved and re- 
 gretted so bitterly. And so — he was mad, you will say, for had 
 not his experience been disastrous enough?— he longed for this 
 little flower with a keen intensity that he had never known for the 
 other." He pauses, and down-dropping into the silence come the 
 exquisite notes of a bird, who seems to be singing miles above us, 
 oh, so sweetly ! in at God's gate. 
 
 "Was he quite sure this time VI ask, watching a little snowy 
 sail that is scudding across the bit of jasper that shines through 
 
SUMMER. 301 
 
 the trees. " Was he not afraid that this was a deception like the 
 other r 
 
 " He was not afraid of that ; he knew its nature through and 
 through, but sometimes he feared he was too late ; that another 
 man had set his mark on that flower, and that its treasures were 
 not for him ; at others, he felt sure it was his own, and, at last, he 
 made up his mind that he would speak and find out the truth, 
 and know." 
 
 A rabbit scampering suddenly out of the bushes behind us 
 startles me so violently that I leap up, and out of my shallow 
 pocket fall two letters, and lie at my feet. Paul stoops, picks 
 them up, turns to give them to me, when something in my face 
 seems to arrest his attention, and he looks from me to George's 
 big, bold handwriting, and from the letter back to me. 
 
 " Are either of these from your lover V he asks, striking them 
 with his fore-finger. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And he writes to you ; you write to him V 
 
 " Yes." (I have written George three bald epistles since I came 
 to Luttrell.) 
 
 He does not speak again immediately, but his glance falls upon 
 me heavy as a blow. Ah, me ! men are hard taskmasters. Do 
 they love us women at all, save for their own pleasure 1 Are they 
 not mercilessly cruel when we make them suffer passing pain or 
 discomfort 1 I want to tell him that it is all a mistake ; that if 
 George is my lover, I am not his ; but somehow the words refuse 
 to utter themselves. . . . 
 
 " I have not told you the end of my story," says Paul Yasher ; 
 " will you care to hear it V 
 
 " If you please." 
 
 " I don't know how it was I came to tell it you, unless indeed it 
 were to convince you that I do not love Miss Fleming. The 
 
302 COM IN" THRO> THE RYE. 
 
 ending is simple enough ; some tales do end happily, you 
 know." 
 
 " And it did end happily ?" I ask, very low, while the dread that 
 has for the past minutes been creeping about my heart, trembles 
 and dies. 
 
 " Yes ; I will show her to you some day." 
 
 Has the bird gone in at heaven's gate, or are my ears too deaf 
 to hear him % What is this greyness that is creeping over land 
 and sea ? The little white sail has vanished, and the diamonds 
 that broidered the ocean's breast have died dully out. 
 
 " I hope, sir/' says a gentle voice, that sounds something like 
 mine, " that you found her all you could wish." 
 
 Looking idly down at my lap, I see all my pretty flowers lying 
 headless ; did my fingers strip them from their stalks 1 
 
 " It is cold," I say, shivering ; " let us go in." 
 
 Side by side, down the green glade, we move in silence. " Oh, 
 fool !" the trees seem to whisper as I pass. " Oh, fool !" cry the 
 birds, in their mocking shrill voices. " Oh, fool !" cries louder 
 and deeper my heavy, heavy heart. If I could only laugh aloud, 
 jest, speak carelessly. . . . About fifty paces from our seat 
 we meet Alice, fresh and fair and blooming as the morning itself. 
 Alice is one of those few people who can look as well by daylight 
 as waxlight. After the usual salutations — 
 
 " How pale you are !" she says to me. " Why did you get up so 
 early?" 
 
 " You forget how I danced last night," I say, turning aside to 
 pick up my small nephew, who is rendered the freak of fortune as 
 much by reason of the length of his swallow-tailed pelisse as by 
 the unsteadiness of his legs. How she ever got him so far up is a 
 mystery ; how to get him down again, I find by experience, is a 
 work of time and difficulty. 
 
 Alice and Paul are talking about the ball ; she with much spirit. 
 
SUMMER. 303 
 
 he with a listlessness that makes me look at him once with shrink- 
 ing, perplexed eyes. For a man who is successful in his second 
 courtship, he does not look happy ; there is a chafed, disappointed 
 expression upon his face. 
 
 "It seems to me," says Alice, "that you are two very lively 
 people ; have you been quarrelling T 
 
 A timely upset of her son takes up my attention at this moment ; 
 but I hear Paul's answer plainly enough. 
 
 " Quarrelling, Mrs. Lovelace ] I think not. I have been telling 
 Miss Adair a story ; that is all.'' 
 
 To Alice's sisterly looks and asides of inquiry I turn blind eyes 
 and a blank countenance, and presently, having guided the 
 cherub's steps past the gold and silver fish, whose watery abode 
 he evinces a rooted determination to share, I get away, and 
 upstairs to my own room, and lock the door. As I kneel down 
 by my bedside, and press my knees hard against the floor, I do 
 not say to myself that an exquisite hope that has sprung up, at 
 unawares, in my heart is dead, slain by a sharp, swift death that, 
 maybe, is more merciful than a haltering, lingering one. . . . 
 
 I am not conscious of thought, I only know that I thought my- 
 self rich, and that now my kingdom has passed away into other 
 hands : my poor kingdom that was never anything but a fanciful 
 one, and which I have seemed to see growing stately and beautiful 
 
 day by day There are some miseries over which one 
 
 may weep aloud with not only deep self-pity, but the pity of the 
 world beside ; there are others over which it is a shame to make 
 one sigh, to drop one heavy tear, that can know of no relief, but 
 must be carried about with us, a burning cross to lie on the naked, 
 bleeding heart 
 
 " Luncheon is served," says Annette, entering half-an-hour 
 later. 
 
 I have smoothed my untidy locks, put 021 fresh ribbons, rubbed 
 
304 COM IN' THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 my cheeks hard with a towel, and now I look no worse than any 
 other country miss, who is not used to racketing, and who stood 
 up for her first real ball, and danced twenty-one dances over 
 night. 
 " And now," I say to myself, as I go down the broad stairs— 
 
 " Away ! and mock the time with fairest show, 
 False face must hide what the false heart doth know." 
 
 " I dare say George would say my heart was false." 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " Where lair is not, praise cannot mend the brow." 
 
 Out in the garden I am pacing up and down, up and down 
 through the silver bars and the dark shadows, backwards and for- 
 wards as for a wager, trying to trample out the aching pain in my 
 heart, as many a man and woman has tried before me and will try 
 after me, in vain. And only a week ago at this hour I was so 
 happy, so happy ! And by this day twelve months I shall, per- 
 haps, have got rid of this ugly ache, and be moderately happy 
 again, but, oh ! I never knew the prospect of a cheerful to-morrow 
 bring any comfort to a chilly to-day ; it is the present hour that 
 we hold fast between our hands that is our care. It is a pleasant 
 thing, is it not, to find that your heart has slipped away out of 
 your safe keeping, and knocked at the wrong door, and that your 
 affections have set in a broad, liberal stream towards a man who 
 wants none of them, who has even been at the pains to tell you he is 
 in love with somebody else 1 My cheeks burn, my foot presses deep 
 into the grass, as I wither under the shameful thought ; taking all 
 due blame to myself, has he not been somewhat in fault, did he 
 not mislead me by his looks and words 1 Bah ! it was all my own 
 
SUMMER. 305 
 
 wretched vanity ; could not a man be kind and friendly with me, 
 but I must suppose he had lost his head, and fall in love with him 
 myself, a little fool ! as though I had never had a lover, or heard 
 a love word in my life, and was ready to leap at the ghostliest 
 shadow of a man's light fancy ! 
 
 I stand still to think, suddenly, of how thoroughly George is 
 avenged, of how I have come to suffer all the pains that I laid on 
 him ; I can feel for him now, my poor fellow ! as I never felt 
 before ; truly pity is sometimes a selfish thing. I think that, con- 
 sidering our youth and the few opportunities that we have had of 
 gambling, George and I show as clean a sheet of bankruptcy in 
 our heart affairs as could be seen anywhere. We shall be able to 
 mingle our sighs and groans in a pleasing duet by the river side, 
 for I know now very certainly that, difficult as I have always 
 found it to look upon George as my future husband, when nothing 
 more than a girl's idle fancy stood between, we are now as 
 utterly separated as though either or both of us lay in our coffins. 
 His instinct warned him truly, when he stood before me and 
 entreated me not to come on this visit ! had I not in truth done 
 better to stay at Silverbridge ? Might I not have come to love 
 my yellow-haired laddie, and never had my heart wakened by the 
 Prince Charming who came too late % My heart is sore as I think 
 of the words I shall have to speak to him, sweet, pleasant-sounding 
 words, bright with truth ; " / have fallen in love with somebody, 
 George, who is in love with somebody else." That is plain enough at 
 all events. I think I must have loved that other ever since the 
 old Charteris days without knowing it. Was it his memory, I 
 wonder, that made my eyes so fastidious when they rested on 
 George 1 ? Was I ever unconsciously comparing my fair-browed 
 lover with the dark strong face that I had seen soften and pale 
 under the lips of the woman he loved, and who loved him 1 Were 
 George's Bunny blue eyes but handsome, commom-place bits of 
 
 20 
 
306 COMIN* THRO" THE RYE. 
 
 colour beside those splendid dark ones, that flash and burn and 
 subjugate and sway my heart with their masterful will as none 
 ever did or could 1 
 
 We shall be a lovelorn assembly at Silverbridge : the thought of 
 how everybody will be in love with everybody else provokes an 
 unwilling smile from me. George is in love with me, I am in 
 love with Paul, Paul is in love with somebody else : now if she 
 would only come to Silverbridge and fall in love with George, we 
 should be the most amusing partie carree of lovers that the world 
 ever saw, and our united sighs would form a high wind wherever 
 we went. In time of drought we might go out in a body and 
 water the land, and at all the funerals in the neighbourhood our 
 looks would be far more grief-inspiring than any amount of well- 
 fed, sober-faced mutes. I wonder if I shall always be able to see 
 my misfortunes in a ludicrous light, no matter how painfully I 
 smart under them ? 
 
 Will Paul expect me to listen to the tale of his lady-love's per- 
 fections 1 I am puzzled to know why he should have told me of 
 her at all, for clearly he has told no one else here. Probably he 
 has favoured me with his notice because he has all along had me 
 in his eye as a nice comfortable sort of person to whom he can 
 maunder on by the hour about his charmer's perfections. I told 
 him when I came here that I would be gooseberry to him ; has he 
 taken me at my word, and is going to make a listening one of me ] 
 I have always been afraid that he would come under Silvia's in- 
 fluence again, but he has not 
 
 Paul Vasher is neither a weak nor a forgiving man. I like 
 these strong, deep natures : the impulsive, pleasant-mannered, 
 facile folk may be twice as lovable, but they are like sand, and 
 that which they receive quickly is as quickly effaced ; while the 
 favour of the proud, reserved man or woman is precious and rare, 
 since it is vouchsafed to but few. I should like to know what 
 
SUMMER. 307 
 
 Silvia would say if she knew 1 For all her indifference, I have 
 caught some strange glances shot at Paul's unconscious face, and 
 several times lately perceived her watching me with a keen intent- 
 ness that tells a different story to her idle, listless ways, and non- 
 chalant, careless speech. 
 
 How the men are laughing in the dining-room ! What guffaws 
 and explosions and exhausted roars peal forth ! Something vulgar 
 is on the tapis, I am certain, for I have long since learned that 
 anything broad appeals irresistibly to man, whether he be prince 
 or potman, prelate or parson, learned sage or simple squire ; men's 
 hearts warm to each other over a good joke, and Shakespeare 
 might as well have written, " A touch of vulgarity makes the whole 
 world kin," as " nature." In the drawing-room the married ladies 
 are holding up their hands, and relating to each other stories 
 tending to the discredit of their men and maids in waiting, who 
 are, strange to say, addicted to much the same vices and weak- 
 nesses as their masters and mistresses (such presumption !), only, 
 poor souls ! they are not delicate over them ; and romance without 
 an " h v to bless itself with does not appeal to the imagination as 
 the more aristocratic failings of their betters do. 
 
 You, Sarah Ann, who have been discovered with Jeames's arm 
 pressing your too adaptive form, are a bold-faced, abandoned 
 hussey, and out you must pack without a character, and with a 
 scanty wage ; and you, Jeames, are a shameless varlet, who ought 
 to be above such lowness, but as you are not, there is not much 
 difficulty in prophesying your end. You neither of you seem to 
 be aware that only rich people, high people, good people (so called 
 from a polite fiction, for is not the best society the worst 1) can be 
 immoral with impunity, and embrace other men's wives and 
 daughters when they please ; to be wicked with safety you must 
 roll in a carriage, and keep your unlawful assignations with a 
 coachman and footman to vouch for your respectability. Sarah 
 
308 COMIN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 Ann is married and her husband has left her, and Jeames is mar- 
 ried and his wife has left him, but as neither of them are rich 
 enough to procure a divorce, and since (as I have said before) 
 they are not in that state of life where their flirtations would be 
 pleasantly winked at, I fear the poor woman will go down, down, 
 down ! 
 
 Birkhead was drunk the other night, could anything be more 
 disgusting 1 All his life he has seen gentlemen with hard heads 
 drinking a great deal more than is good for them ; he has a weak 
 one, but is indecent enough to wish to be convivial " below stairs" 
 too, and, of course, came to grief. Now drunkenness, sitting hic- 
 coughing at the head of its table, and able to offer its guests the 
 choicest wines is one thing, and drunkenness in low life, without a 
 cellar to bless itself with, is another. Faugh ! send him away, 
 and let him not come 'twixt the air and our nobility ; that man 
 will die in a workhouse. 
 
 Silvia comes stepping across the grass all in white ; is she rest- 
 less, I wonder, like me 1 Bad as my thoughts are I would rather 
 have them than her company, so I move away towards the terrace ; 
 but she calls to me— 
 
 " Helen Adair ! Helen Adair !" 
 
 She has that most excellent thing in woman, a low, sweet voice. 
 
 " I wonder what she wants with me V I say to myself, as I go 
 Hlowly towards the seat she has taken. Our conversation has 
 always been of the baldest ; if, indeed, she can ever be said to con- 
 verse with any woman. 
 
 " Did you call me 1" 
 
 " Yes; sit down here for a few minutes, it is miserable out here 
 alone. How long have you had a fancy for moonlight walks V she 
 asks, leaning her shapely head against the wooden seat ; " for my 
 part 1 always hated the moon, a great empty, bare splendour that 
 chills one." 
 
SUMMER. 309 
 
 She shivers and draws her shawl closely about her— and, indeed, 
 these September nights are growing treacherous. Looking down 
 at her feet I see that she has adopted the sensible precaution of 
 thick boots, as I have done. 
 
 " How those men are laughing," she says, " at some racy story, 
 no doubt. Paul Vasher's lungs seem to be in a satisfactory state. 
 Have you and he been quarrelling V she says, turning her head till 
 her eyes rest on my face. 
 
 " I did not know it." 
 
 " Sir George and I have both remarked it. Until a week ago you 
 were inseparable, now you are conspicuous by your distance from 
 each other." 
 
 Some slight intangible insolence in her tone gives flavour to her 
 words, and warns me that she means mischief ; and, indeed, I 
 might have known her better than to suppose that she would take 
 the trouble to come out here to talk commonplaces ; but since she 
 has thrown the gauntlet down, I will not fear to take it up. 
 
 " You do me too much honour," I say, quietly, " and him. We 
 should never have taken the trouble to watch the affairs of you and 
 Sir George Vestris so closely." 
 
 And as I meet her eyes full under the moonlight, I smile scorn- 
 fully, securely. How heavy my heart is she shall not know, and 
 of her pity I shall have none, therefore rally to my side coolness, 
 disdain, indifference. As I look into her face with a fuller know- 
 ledge of the truth than she possesses, I can see clearly enough that 
 she believes me to be her rival, that she is jealous ; I see that the 
 love Paul believed to be long dead lives as fiercely and hotly in 
 her as ever, and at this moment we read each other's hearts, see 
 each other as we really are . . . henceforth no shams or subter- 
 fuges will rise up between Silvia Fleming and me ! She looka 
 away. 
 
 " May I then be allowed to congratulate you on your felicity V 
 
3 io COM IN* THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 With the intonation she gives these words, they sound more like 
 a menace than a politeness. 
 
 " When you will condescend to explain yourself, I may possibly 
 be able to answer you, Miss Fleming." (How I must have disliked 
 this girl all my life, to flare up so heartily at a moment's notice !) 
 
 " You are rather slow of comprehension to-night ! I allude, of 
 course, to your engagement with Paul Vasher." 
 
 A smile parts my lips as I listen to her. How sweet those 
 words sound, spoken even by an enemy's tongue ! For a moment 
 I forget the woman by my side, and that she waits my answer ; I 
 am looking at a happy, far-away picture, that makes my eyes ache 
 with longing ; only in dreamland does it exist, in reality it never 
 will 
 
 " And it is so," says a low, breathless voice by my side. " You 
 sit there smiling ; you dare to mock me with your gladness. . . ." 
 
 Her words come hurrying out as though past her control. For 
 the second time in her life, Silvia drops the mask before me ; for 
 the second time in my life I see her as she is. 
 
 " Let me tell you this, Helen Adair, that you will never be Paul 
 Vasher's wife, never !" 
 
 " I have not aspired to that honour," I answer, quietly ; " have 
 you ? I should not, were I you !" 
 
 " You have such faith in your powers of keeping him V she asks, 
 scoffingly. 
 
 " I have much faith in the power of the woman he loves. Pray, 
 do not put yourself out !" I say, looking away from her pale face 
 to the pearly sea beyond ; u we need not quarrel over Paul Vasher, 
 since he is neither yours nor mine." 
 
 " Not yours V she repeats, staring at me, while a swift surprise 
 dashes all the triumphant scorn out of her face, "whose is he 
 then r 
 
 ** Some stranger's." 
 
SUMMER. 311 
 
 M And her name I* 
 
 " I do not know it." 
 
 " And so he was amusing himself with you all that time V she 
 says. 
 
 " You can call it that, if it so pleases you." 
 
 " And he told you this himself V she says. 
 
 But I do not answer, and she goes on like one who is thinking 
 hard and deep. 
 
 " I do not believe it. It is you whom he loves I have 
 
 watched him " 
 
 I turn my head away, that she may not see the pallor that has 
 crept over my face. Others were deceived by his manner to me, 
 then ; I have not been the only mistaken one. 
 
 " It is all the same," she says, indifferently. " I told you thM 
 you should never be Paul's wife, and you never shall, but neither/ 
 shall any other woman." 
 
 " Are you mad ?" I ask contemptuously, for the shameless, god- 
 less selfishness of the creature angers me deeply. Does she give 
 one thought to him 1 She would trample his life beneath her feet 
 rather than see another woman take the place she once filled ; that 
 which she calls love is one corrupt, foul adoration of self. 
 
 " I am glad you love him," she says, with a malicious cruelty of 
 look and word that sets ill upon her fair, innocent-looking beauty. 
 (No wonder Paul thought he had found his spotless white flower 
 at last when he beheld her ; no angel could boast a more perfectly 
 fair face !) " Glad that there is some one who will suffer as I have 
 suffered, endure what I have endured, weary for him as I have 
 wearied." 
 
 " Hush !" I say, rising and lifting my hand ; " do not dare to 
 link my name with yours, or call your wicked passion for Paul 
 Vasher love! You, who would sacrifice his whole life to grasp 
 your own paltry, pitiful wish— you dare to call that loving him i 
 
312 COM IN' THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 No wonder you never kept biin ? Thank God, I can love him 
 better than that ! I wish I had been lovely, for his sake. ... I 
 should have liked to be good, for his sake. ... He might have 
 loved me then, but even as it is, and though he never loved me, 
 while he loved you once (you should never forget that), my love 
 for him has only taught me sweet and tender and sorrowful things ; 
 it has not set a flood of wild, impious passion ravening through my 
 heart, as it has done through yours. If I could have my empty 
 heart back again, I would not, for if he has brought me pain he 
 has also given me an exquisite happiness. And since you never 
 truly loved him, or as he ought to be loved, I tell you now that, 
 however low you stoop, you will never win him back ; though 
 Satan were your bondsman, and delivered Paul Vasher's body over 
 to you, you could not touch his soul, his mind, or his heart, they 
 are dead to you now and always. And now go your way, fight 
 your fight, do your worst— win him if you can, Silvia ; but if the 
 memory of the girl he loves do not protect him from your un- 
 womanly pursuit, believe me when I say that in his integrity you 
 have an enemy that will never yield to you. By fair means you 
 will not win him ; from foul ones may God protect him." 
 
 And I move away and leave her with that faint, wintry, strange 
 smile on her face that I have so often tried to read and cannot. 
 How cool and peaceful the sleeping garden looks ! how fair the 
 silver-braided sky ! how hot and angry is my passionate, indignant, 
 outraged heart ! It was hard enough to bear my shame of love- 
 lessness in my own eyes; it is something harder to have that 
 sneering, evil woman speak openly of it. For she is wicked j 
 I know it now, and that the intangible dislike and distrust I 
 have always had for her is a well-grounded one, and that she 
 means mischief to the man she professes to love. Does she 
 love him, though % There was more of hate than tenderness in 
 her voice just now. How can she reach or do him harm] A 
 
SUMMER. 313 
 
 woman is so bound by the trammels of society, she cannot 
 watch and baulk him in life as a man might do ; perhaps after 
 all it is mere empty talk and babble ; and, granted that she 
 has the wish to cross him, she is not likely to have the power. 
 She seemed in earnest, but she was jealous ; I saw it in her eyes, 
 and that threw her off her guard and made her talk wildly. 
 
 We must have looked very nice just now — two women quarrel- 
 ling over one man ! There is an intense vulgarity in the situa- 
 tion, whether the actors be clad in silk and velvet, or homespun 
 and duffle-grey ; perhaps, though, the fact of his being not in the 
 least in love with either of us somewhat lessens the disgrace. 
 And all through my night dreams, ringing now near, now far 
 away, sometimes in my ears, sometimes seeming to call faintly 
 across the long years, comes a bitter, silvern voice, saying, " You 
 will never he Paul Vasher's wife — ?iever." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " Sir, the year growing ancient, 
 Nor yet on summer's death, nor on the birth 
 Of trembling winter — the fairest flowers of the season 
 Are our carnations and streaked gillyflowers." 
 
 u What is that V says Milly, pausing on her way upstairs. 
 
 " Can it be the ghost V I ask, standing still to listen likewise. 
 
 Luttrell Court, like all other respectable family mansions, 
 possesses its ghost : and an exceedingly ill-conditioned one this 
 particular spirit is : given to heaving up beds (and their occupants) 
 in the dead of the night, dashing down cart-loads of crockery out- 
 side chamber doors, beating members of the family with invisible 
 whips, and boxing the ears of trembling footmen in dark corners, 
 or so those gentlemen aver. 
 
 " I don't think a ghost could give such a substantial groan as 
 
314 COMIN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 that," I say; and indeed, as we ascend, a succession of wails, 
 sighs, and squeaks float out to meet us, that could not reasonably 
 be supposed to proceed from the throat of that uncanny, fleshless, 
 bony, counterfeit of a human being, that we call a ghost. The 
 mysterious sounds issue from the yellow room, and Milly pushes 
 the door open, and stands on the threshold. No poor daylight 
 spirit is answerable for the hullabaloo ; but on a stool, before an 
 open harmonium, sits a real tangible human being, who is rolling 
 from side to side, in an ecstasy of delight at the hideous discord 
 he is evoking. He wears a smart grey and scarlet livery, his silk 
 calves are en evidence ; he is, in short, one of the footmen, who 
 has apparently a taste for music, and who believes Milly to be miles 
 away at the present moment. 
 
 Some terrible instinct makes him turn his head, and standing 
 behind him, he sees— his mistress. 
 
 " May I ask," inquires Mrs. Luttrell, " if I hired you to act as 
 my servant or to play on my harmonium f 
 
 The man gazes wildly at the ceiling and the floor alternately, 
 as though he prays Heaven to either draw him up by the hair of 
 his head, or pull him down out of sight by his heels. 
 
 l 'l thought you were out, madam," he stutters, casting his eyes 
 wildly to and fro. 
 
 " Another time," says Milly ; " will you make sure 1 Go." 
 
 He vanishes like a stone shot from a catapult. 
 
 I look at Milly in amazement at her moderation, but suddenly 
 recollect that the detected performer is devotedly attached to the 
 small heir of the house, and carries him about by the hour : a 
 royal road, that, to his mistress's favour. 
 
 " That man is a character," she says, as we go away. 
 
 " He certainly has a soul above his station," I answer laughing, 
 as 1 turn into my room to lay aside my hat. Shall I lay it aside, 
 though 1 It is only five o'clock. I can do without my tea, and 
 
SUMMER. 315 
 
 the clack of tongues in the drawing-room ; besides, the gentle- 
 men have come in early, and I have no mind to spend an hour in 
 trying to run away from Paul Vasher. Why does he seek me so 
 persistently, I wonder % To make a confidante of me, I suppose, 
 but, at any rate, I have never given him the chance, and during the 
 last week I have become so adroit at dodging and avoiding him, 
 that I am sure I shall find my experience useful when I go home, 
 and have to circumvent the governor. 
 
 As I stand before the table considering, my eye catches the re- 
 flection of my face in the looking-glass, and startles me, it is so 
 pale, so sad, so dull. I used to have such a merry, saucy face, 
 folks said ; but now there are dark shadows under my eyes, and a 
 close, folded look about my mouth, as though it rarely knew smiles 
 or laughter now. Verily my story is writ upon my face, people 
 will begin to pity me next, O heavens ! and I must bear it, since 
 there is no means of forcing the body into subjection, even if one 
 can the spirit. 
 
 At the end of the corridor is a door by which the grounds can 
 be reached, and I leave the house, and climb to the upper walks 
 and terraces. I should like to go down to the sea, but it is too 
 late to go alone ; and upon its shore I could not be more lonely 
 than I am up here. I come to the seat where Paul Vasher and I 
 sat a week ago — only a week ! And it seems a year. Everything 
 looks different to what it did on that morning ; a faint chill bleak- 
 ness lies over the landscape, the trees shiver a little as the leaves 
 fall rustling to the ground, the bit of sea in the distance is not blue 
 at all, but a dull greyish-green, the birds are all cross, or asleep, 
 and there is no pleasant hum of insects on the evening air. Per- 
 haps it is I who am out of sorts, not Nature. When we begin to 
 study the passions, can we indeed go hand in hand with her, as 
 when her gentle lore and tender secrets were all the wisdom we 
 sought, when her peaceful voice seemed satisfying and sweet to us ? 
 
3 i6 COM IN 1 THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 We cannot hear it clearly when louder and more selfish voices are 
 beating at our ears, and echoing in our hearts. Some day I shall 
 come back to you, oh ! nurse-mother, but not now, not to-day. 
 Give me a little while to strive with this passionate, restless heart, 
 it will wear itself out quickly enough, never fear. 
 
 On my way I have pulled a handful of late carnations, and some 
 of Shakespeare's streaked gillyflowers, and I am smelling at them 
 idly, when a fragrant whiff of another sort floats up to me — that of 
 a cigar. This is a remote corner, and people rarely come up so 
 high as this, so I give it no thought, and have closed my tired eyes, 
 and am looking inward at the vista stretching out before me of 
 endless, empty, dull to-morrows, when footsteps, brushing through 
 the short grass, make me open them suddenly, and there stands 
 Paul Vasher. 
 
 For a moment I stare at him without speaking, then—" I think 
 I have been asleep !" I say, starting up ; " and it must be past five 
 o'clock, time to go in !" As I turn to go he puts out his hand and 
 lays it on my arm. 
 
 " Is this game of hide-and-seek to go on for ever V he asks 
 sternly (a moment ago his face was overspread with a swift glad- 
 ness.) " Am I always to be avoided by you in this way, morning, 
 noon, and night V (I am in for it !— he is determined to make a 
 listening gooseberry of me, will-he nill-he.) 
 
 " If you call drinking tea " I begin ; then, looking up by 
 
 accident and catching his eye, I stop short ; evasions are always 
 worse than useless with him. 
 
 " Your tea can wait," he says ; " and you shall not go until you 
 have answered me." 
 
 " Shall not ! Who will prevent me 1" 
 
 "I will" 
 
 For a moment I look straight at his resolute face and bent 
 brows ; then I sit down again and wait for him to begin. 
 
SUMMER. 317 
 
 " I want to know," he says, standing before me, M what you 
 mean by behaving in this way to me V 
 
 My hands are locked fast together, my gillyflowers lie in my 
 lap ray cheeks could grow no paler than they were before : if only 
 my lips will keep steady, and my eyes tell no secrets 
 
 " In what way, Mr. Vasher F 
 
 " In never speaking to or looking at me ; in never giving me a 
 single chance of a few words alone with you— though Heaven 
 knows I have worked hard enough to compass it. Could you 
 have treated an enemy with more coldness and disdain ? And I 
 have been your friend, Nell, for many long years." 
 
 Yes, I have been wrong, as usual. I ought to have met him 
 just the same as I did before he told me his story ; instead of 
 which, I have left him to guess the miserable truth ; and now, no 
 doubt, he pities me. . . . But I could not do the other ; my 
 strength did not go so far as that. 
 
 " You have always been my friend," I say gently. " I know it, 
 but — you will not be angry with me V 
 
 " Angry 1 No!" 
 
 " When you told me that you loved somebody, I thought you 
 would always want to be talking about her, like other lovers, and 
 that you would expect me to listen ; and I always was a bad lis- 
 tener ; any one who talks as much as I do, must be ; and so— and 
 so I avoided you. Besides, you can always think of her, you know, 
 and that must be better than praising her to me, who never saw 
 her." 
 
 " And this is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the 
 truth F he says. Then, as I do not answer, for his searching voice 
 arraigns me before my own conscience as having answered disin- 
 genuously : " Would it bore us so much if we were to exchange 
 confidences — you about him, I about her 7" 
 
318 COM IN' THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 " Make as many as you please to me," I answer steadily, " and I 
 will listen ; but I have none to give you in return." 
 
 "None?" 
 
 " None." 
 
 " You <tsed not to be so secret.** 
 
 " Am I bound to give an account of myself to you V 
 
 " I will have no more of this miserable uncertainty," he saya 
 suddenly. " Tell me, Nell, are you engaged to that man at Sil- 
 verbridge f 
 
 " That is a matter that concerns myself only." 
 
 " Are you, or are you not ?" he asks again, while the veins risa 
 in his forehead like cords, and his hand clenches. 
 
 I may as well tell him, after all ; why should there be any 
 mystery over it % It can make no possible difference to him or 
 any one else. 
 
 " No. But there is a kind of promise between us." 
 
 " A kind of promise % Tell me what it is 1" 
 
 " When I was fourteen I gave him my word of honour that when 
 I was eighteen years old and six months I would marry him 
 if 
 
 " If !" he repeats quickly. " Go on !" 
 
 " I did not see any one I liked better." 
 
 " Indeed ! And are the six months up i 
 
 " No." 
 
 He draws a deep breath ; and then in the voice of a man who 
 puts a strong restraint upon himself, says, " Tell me one thing now: 
 Do you love him 1" 
 
 " You ask too much," I answer, turning my pale face away. 
 " What is it to you whether I love him or no T 
 
 And then, against my will, I lift my eyes to his, which are deep 
 and tender with a warm love-light . . though he is speaking 
 to me, he is thinking of her , and somehow the thought of her 
 
SUMMER. 3*9 
 
 riches and my heart-bareness unnerves me, and my lips quiver, 
 a,nd slow, painful tears fill my eyes. 
 
 " You poor little white blossom," he says, casting himself down 
 on the seat beside me. " Nell, Nell ! are you fretting after that 
 Silverbridge man !" 
 
 He is looking into my face with a passion of eagerness that 
 startles me, still thinking of her, I suppose. 
 
 " I will be good," I say, as two big tears fall with a heavy splash 
 on my clasped hands. " Do not be afraid, I am not going to cry 
 any more. ... I will listen to you patiently, if you would like to 
 have a comfortable talk about her." 
 
 " I shall keep you to your word presently," he says ; " meanwhile 
 you have not answered my question." 
 
 " I will not," I answer with spirit. (How dare he torment me in 
 this way %) 
 
 " Will you make me a promise then ?' 
 
 " Tell me what it is first." 
 
 " I cannot. Will you promise V 
 
 There is nothing more to tell — he knows about George ; is it 
 worth while to bandy words about a trifle 1 And I am longing to 
 get away. 
 
 " I promise," I say, listlessly. 
 
 ** Then, when we are both at Silverbridge — for I have a fancy for 
 hearing you tell me where I met you first, in the field of rye—/ 
 you will tell me the name of the man you love." 
 
 I sit silent, pale as death. Is it kind, or manly, or fair of him 
 to trap me thus ? 
 
 " I break my promise," I say, firmly, " although I never broke 
 one before." 
 
 " It is too late now," he says ; " you are bound. You never failed 
 in truth yet, Nell ; are you going to begin now V* 
 
 But I do not answer. 
 
p.o COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 "I think I never told you the name of my little girl 1 ? T will tell 
 it yon when you keep your promise to me — when we stand face to 
 face in the place where I saw you first." 
 
 Ay ! I see the scene clearly enough, the two figures, the shamed 
 confession, the truth uttered as before God, the cart before the 
 horse — the amazement of the man, who, with all his faults, was 
 never vain or coxcomb. But that hour shall never come to either 
 him or me. 
 
 " Although I have asked you so many questions," he says, "you 
 have never asked me one about my sweetheart. Why do you noU" 
 
 " How tall is she V I ask, looking up at the chilly leaves as they 
 rustle softly down — down — down, like silk, to the ground. Since 
 he wishes to talk, I will put him through a whole catechism of 
 questions, and, by haphazard, I begin with the one that loveless 
 Elizabeth asked of her beautiful rival Mary. 
 
 " Just as high as my heart." 
 
 " Of what colour is her hair V 
 
 " Brown, with a warm ruddy golden tinge running through it ; 
 it is all over little billows and cunning waves and ripples— the 
 softest, prettiest head !" 
 
 " And her eyes f 
 
 "She has two sweet* serious, saucy, tender grey eyes ; they tell 
 a different story every minute, but they are always true to her 
 thoughts, which are honest ; her face is the mirror of ber heart, 
 which is pure." 
 
 "Is she fair r 
 
 " She has the whitest, softest neck and throat and hands I ever 
 saw. She looks as though she were made to be kissed and spoiled.'' 
 
 " And her mouth T 
 
 " Not very little, but the sweetest I ever saw ; ancl she has a 
 dimple set at each corner." 
 
 " Is she merry V' 
 
SUMMER. 321 
 
 " She laughs more than she sighs, bub I have seen her sad . . so 
 sad. . . ." 
 
 And so this is why he has taken notice of me ; this is why he 
 has sought my society— because I am a plain likeness of, because 
 I reminded him of her. My hair, too, is rich brown ; and I have 
 green eyes, while hers are grey — not much difference there ; and 
 I used to have some dimples, I think, not so very long ago. 
 
 " And does she love you V 
 
 " I will tell you that when you tell me what you have promised 
 to tell." 
 
 " Arid you love her V I ask, while a bitter, jealous pain creeps 
 about my heart, and stabs it through and through, while every 
 pulse of my body seems to stand still awaiting his answer. . . . 
 
 " Do I not 1 God knows !" 
 
 " You are a brave man," I say, smiling with pale lips. " Are you 
 not afraid to risk your life's happiness so utterly V 
 
 " Is any man wise who loves 1 But I am not afraid : she is 
 honest to the core, and could no more play one false than she 
 could alter her innocent face." 
 
 " God send you happiness with her !" I say, gently, and rising, I 
 go away through the silent glades, and leave him sitting there 
 alone, with his pleasant thoughts for company, and, maybe, a pic- 
 tured girl-face to murmur fond love- words over— to press close 
 kisses on, with a chafed, angry impatience that the warm living 
 lips are not under his own instead of the silent painted ones. 
 
 :.'l 
 
322 COMIN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " If he would despise me I would forgive him ; for if he love me to maclnes9 I 
 shall never requite him." 
 
 " Good-bye !" says Paul Vasher, as he stands on the step of the 
 railway carriage with my hand in his. " I am coming home in a 
 day or two, and I shall then keep you to your promise." 
 
 I do not answer or look at him, although I feel his eyes searching 
 my face. The guard waves his flag ; Alice kisses her hand from 
 the distant carriage—" Good-bye ! good-bye !"— a swift glance at 
 Paul's dark face, a wave of the hand to Alice, and I am off, either 
 to render up my valueless body at Silverbridge Station at 5.25, or 
 make an unsightly corpse on the top of the engine-boiler, or there- 
 abouts. 
 
 There was a horrible railway accident a little while ago, and 
 following that another and another. They have come hurrying 
 after each other so fast that men going a journey wear sober 
 faces, and enter a railway carriage with an ugly presentiment of 
 its being a probable tomb, and are haunted with dread visions of 
 a fast train dashing up behind, or a slow one right in the path in 
 front, and cannot settle to their newspapers and slumbers as usual. 
 What a pity it is bridges are not built higher, and people cannot 
 travel outside trains as they do on coaches ; one would at least be 
 able to keep a look-out and see if Nemesis were overtaking us, 
 and have a chance for our lives, instead of sitting stived up, blind 
 as moles, helpless as infants, awaiting the crash that shoots us in 
 one awful moment into eternity. If I come to grief to-day it will 
 be alone, for I have a compartment all to myself, and can walk 
 about, yawn, stretch, lounge, even laugh or cry, if it so pleases me. 
 
 Can it be only a month ago that I sped past those prim hedge- 
 rows and fields, with the ruminating cows and insensate children, 
 
SUMMER. 323 
 
 who wave their dirty bits of rag at the train as it rushes by 1 It 
 is thirty-one days by the almanac ; but when I last came this way 
 I was eighteen years old, and young for my age ; now I feel fifty 
 at the very least, and old for my age. By the time I really am 
 fifty, I suppose I shall feel a hundred, and by the time I reach 
 three-score and ten— bah ! It is a nasty thought that I may pos- 
 sibly live to that age, and live without teeth, taste, hearing, seeing, 
 enjoying, without memory even. 
 
 As the day goes on a thought that has been lurking in some 
 back lumber-room of my memory, forced thither by my will, steps 
 nimbly out and stares me evilly in the face— I have to tell George. 
 I know what I have to say to him well enough, but that does not 
 make it any the better ; and even when that terrible wrench is 
 over, there will be the long inevitable afte?*wards. If only there 
 were some city of refuge to which rejected lovers might flee, and 
 be kept there until they had made up their minds it was no good 
 to sigh after what they could not get ! It is bad enough to say 
 no over and over again to a man, without having the word crystal- 
 lized into a two-legged illustration who struts up and down your 
 little stage an image of despair, and never for a moment permits 
 you to forget that your being such a wretch to him has brought 
 him to this miserable pass ! I can feel for him now, poor George ! 
 as 1 little thought I ever should. Some men might be glad that 
 I should know something of the pangs they had suffered, but 
 George is not one of those— there never was any selfishness ir 
 him: I should have cared for him more, perhaps, if there had been. 
 I am glad that I know the truth about Paul ; that I can take my 
 lot and look it fairly in the face, and know that if no better, still 
 no worse can befall me. Oh ! it is easier to endure the long 
 barren bondage from which there is no escape, than to exist 
 trembling on the frail support of a hope that may vanish and leave 
 the horizon more utterly dark than it was before. I wonder how 
 
 21—2 
 
324 COMIN* THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 soon he will bring his wife home to Silverbridge 1 I wonder how 
 soon he will call upon me to fulfil my promise 1 He may call upon 
 me, but I will not go — in the field of rye alone he vowed to receive 
 it, and thither to meet him my steps shall never turn. 
 
 I walk restlessly up and down the swerving carriage — for the 
 train is express, and we are racing against time— then sit down 
 and pull out my letters received this morning. That from mother 
 contains news that a month ago would have driven me wild with 
 excitement, that a few years ago would have made Jack and me 
 happy as king and queen, but now brings no shock of surprise, 
 pleasure, or expectation ; indeed, until the present moment, I have 
 scarcely thought about it. The news is this: papa is going to take 
 a long, long journey to Australia, and he will be away many 
 months. I do not quite understand why he is going; it is some- 
 thing about money, and perhaps he is tired of staying quietly at 
 home (he was a great traveller in his youth); at any rate he 
 departs in about three weeks, mother says. What a time the young 
 ones will have of it ! To Jack and me, this gift of the gods comes 
 too late. Now if such a chance as this had only been given to us 
 while we were young, we would have got into every bit of mischief 
 the place contained, and possessed consciences clear of ever having 
 missed a single opportunity of evil-doing when he returned ! As 
 it is, with no one to harry and vituperate me, with no one to drive 
 me out for walks, or compel me to overlook the morals and manners 
 of the boys, or to labour daily at the dry pump of conversation, I 
 shall become a drivelling willow- wearing lack-lustre- eyed damsel 
 for folks to mock at. I shall hang out all the forlorn insignia of 
 the love-lorn maiden— shall 1 1 never! If the roses will not come 
 back to my cheeks, the smiles shall to my lips, I will be as merry 
 and noisy and saucy as ever I was, before people; I will defy any 
 one to pry into my heart and see what is there, and that peace 
 will come to me after a while I doubt not, 
 
SUMMER. 32J, 
 
 I wonder where Silvia is now, and what she is doing 1 She left 
 the day after our conversation in the garden, and we never met 
 again. Sir George Vestris remained one day after her departure. 
 If she cast him on one side, as report says she casts all her other 
 lovers, he took his punishment quietly and gave no sign. 
 
 Alice goes to-morrow. She has asked me to go and stay at her 
 country-house for Christmas ; and perhaps, as papa will be away, 
 I may be able to go. My sisters have pressed me hard with their 
 questions about Paul, but I have managed to keep them off. They 
 are puzzled, I think, as well they may be. 
 
 My journey's end comes at last, and at 5.35, reasonably punctual, 
 according to the notions of country station-masters, the train 
 reaches Silverbridge. There is mother in the pony-carriage ; and 
 on the platform, broader, bigger, more swaggering than ever, is the 
 Bull of Basan, but Corydon, where is he? Invisible, thank 
 Heaven ! I jump out quite briskly. If young men whose atten- 
 tions are unwelcome only knew how they endeared themselves to 
 the objects of their affection by their absence, they would surely 
 practise the virtue much oftener ! I give mother and Basan a 
 vigorous hug, and then, my box having been duly produced and 
 handed over to the dog-cart in waiting, we set out, mother and I. 
 side by side, Basan occupying an abased and harassing position 
 between the reins. 
 
 "My eye ! How white you are !" he remarks at once. "Just 
 look at her, mother !" 
 
 She looks at me with the anxious perfect love that no earthly 
 face save a mother's ever wears, and says, " So she is. The dissi- 
 pations have not agreed with you, dear. We must nurse you up 
 now you have come home." And I know that in her gentle heart 
 she is meditating a course of port wine and rum-and-milk. 
 
 " I say, Nell, have you heard the news ]" asks Basan, dodging 
 an insinuating irruption of leather into his right eye. " Won't 
 
326 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 we have a time of it — eli, Nell 1" But mother shakes her head a 
 little sadly. 
 
 " Poor papa !" she says ; " he is very sorry to go away and leave 
 as all." I stare at mother. Can she bejoki?ig1 Can she mean 
 (oh, the idea is too ridiculous !) that he likes us, that he is sorry to 
 go away from us 1 I look at Basan. His mouth and eyes are as 
 round as mine. We have the two longest tongues in the family, 
 but the notion has sobered him as well as me. Papa sorry to leave 
 us ! The idea is so amazing that it literally strikes us dumb* 
 " And how are Alice and Milly and the babies f asks mother ; 
 and for the rest of the drive our talk is nothing but question and 
 answer. 
 
 At the house door are drawn up the young ones, whose shouts 
 of welcome attest without any need of inquiry, that at the present 
 moment papa does not pervade these parts : and as I embrace them 
 all round, I find it in my heart to wish there were even more of 
 them, that Jack stood near for me to put my arm round his neck, 
 that pretty Dolly was " finished" and sent home from school. They 
 escort me to my room in a body,and make themselves very happy and 
 busy until nurse appears to welcome me, and sweep them all away. 
 
 11 Eh ! but your stay has done you but little good, Miss Nell !" 
 she says, as she stands before me. " Maybe you've been fretting 
 after your lover, honey V* 
 
 " No, no," I answer, pressing my lips to her brown wrinkled 
 cheek. " I have been gay, nurse, amusing myself." 
 
 " And if that's amusing yerself, my dearie, you had better have 
 stayed at home," she says as she goes away. 
 
 I have removed my dusty travelling dress, and am drinking tea 
 and eating chicken, when the trot of horses' hoofs comes up the 
 avenue, and in another moment George and my father appear on 
 horseback. Already ! I had hoped for a little grace— just a little 
 time to draw breath and gather up my strength. He evidently 
 
SUMMER. 327 
 
 knows 1 am here, for he is casting his eyes over the house in the 
 aggressively eager manner all unfavoured swains affect. It is your 
 lover who knows he is kindly welcome that walks in lightly and 
 easily, sure of seeing his lady-love in good time. Although I have 
 precipitately rolled off the window-seat, tea-cup and all, I have an 
 uneasy feeling that he is looking at me through the bricks and 
 mortar, and that his importunity will compel me into his presence 
 whether I will or no. 
 
 When papa appears upon the scene it is one of the rules of the 
 family for everybody to turn out and see what he will do next. 
 From the force of habit, therefore, I go to the top of the stairs and 
 peep over. He is in the hall, inquiring hew many hours I intend 
 to spend in " figging" myself up. Reassured at finding him in his 
 normal state of temper and character— for that other phase, as 
 suggested by mamma, is too horribly subversive of all our tradi- 
 tions to make me feel anything but uneasy — I return to my room 
 to finish my toilette, and in another minute am in the dining-room 
 standing before the gentlemen. 
 
 My peck at papa's cheek is soon made ; and then George takes 
 my hand with a gladness in his face that I turn away my 
 eyes from beholding. After all, he only says, " How do you do V 
 and when I have answered " Quite well, thank you," and told him 
 that my journey was tolerably pleasant, our exchange of words 
 ceases, and the conversation is sustained by him and the governor. 
 The latter going away shortly, however, on some (probable) deed 
 of vengeance, the young man comes quickly over to me. How 
 frank, and fearless, and handsome he looks !— a better looking 
 man than Paul, the world would say. 
 
 Can you tell me, George, why you never made me love you 1— 
 why, when my heart was empty, you could not fill it ? Was the 
 fault yours or mine ] 
 
 " How I have missed you !" he says, looking into every line of 
 
328 COM IN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 my face with greedy love. " How pale you are, Nell, and how 
 pretty— prettier than when you went away, I think !" 
 
 " No, no." I say, while a pained, miserable flush creeps slowly up 
 to my brow ; " I never was anything to look at, George ; no one 
 ever thought so but you." 
 
 "Did they not?" he says quickly. "I am glad of that. 1 
 grudge every admiring look a man casts on you, Nell. I wish you 
 could not be fair in any one's eyes but mine, then they would not 
 want to take you away from me." 
 
 " That is kind to me," I say, smiling. " However, you have 
 your wish ; no one ever wanted to take me away from you." 
 
 " Thank God !" he says, with a deep thanksgiving in his voice 
 that is almost solemn. " And so you have come back to me, my 
 own little sweetheart, never to go away from me any more !" 
 
 " Hush !" I say, turning deadly pale. " Is not that papa V 
 
 " I don't care if it is— Nell " 
 
 " I am going now," I say, starting back. " I cannot stay now. 
 To-morrow afternoon at four I will be by the brook." 
 
 " To-morrow !" he says below his breath ; and the rapture in 
 his eyes makes me shiver. "I have waited so long, dear, and 
 
 now " an cl on his face is a look of such utter, pure content as 
 
 makes his beauty something to marvel at. 
 
 Ay, to-morrow ! and ere the sun has set a few words will have 
 dashed it all out— all the sweetness of his hope's fruition— all the 
 reward of his long, faithful service ; and never, I wish, on this 
 side of the grave, will my lover's face again wear the look it wears 
 to-night. . . . Somehow I creep away and up to my own room, 
 where a bitter anguish tears and rends me. Heavier than all the 
 pain I have suffered is this task set to my hand ; and until to- 
 night I have thought almost lightly of his misery, wearily and 
 continually of my own. Human beings are very selfish— the pain 
 they do not see they do not believe in or heed ; it must be placed 
 
SUMMER. 329 
 
 before their eyes for them to feel the mo urnf ulness and pity of it 
 in their hearts. If only I had hearkened to George's words 
 that day when he stood under the trees and entreated me not to 
 go away, or, if I went, to bind myself by a promise, there would 
 be two miserable people less on God's earth to-night. 
 
 " Supper is ready !" cries Basan, bursting wildly in an hour 
 later ; and I lift my head from the window sill, and smooth my 
 hair, and go down to a meal that fills me with a blank sense of 
 amazement, it is so constrained, so unnatural. The sociable 
 freedom of the Luttrell table, and to which I have grown accus- 
 tomed, opened my eyes to the wretched discomforts here : the few 
 and forced words, the abuse of the servants, the perpetual look- 
 ing out for imaginary faults in dishes and attendance, the unman- 
 nerly manners. Towards the end of supper a slight contre-temps 
 occurs, for Basan, being ordered in a voice of thunder to ring the 
 bell, starts up, poor willing youth, with extraordinary celerity 
 and not spying a large silver dish- cover lying near him, plants a 
 well-directed kick in the centre of its hollow body, which sends 
 it flying across the room into the fire-place, where it lodges amid a 
 crash of falling irons. 
 
 " Dolt ! booby ! fool !'' yells papa, bounding in his chair ; and 
 Basan returns to the table covered with shame and confusion. 
 
 I wonder if papa will pay some family in Australia so much a 
 week for permission to call them names 1 It would be hard upon 
 him to have all his little comforts cut off at once. Supper over, 
 poor Basan goes to bed (I wish I might), mother works, papa 
 smokes his pipe, and I make spills, a suitable and becoming occu- 
 pation for a young woman in his estimation, but one that I never 
 excelled at, for laboriously as I roll and roll at them, they never 
 have nice taper points or strong backs. Jack's are as stiff as 
 pokers. How I hate these silent dreadful after-supper hours. 
 How Alice and Milly hated them in their turn ! How the young 
 
33° COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 ones look forward to them with dread ! In summer time it is 
 not so bad— we are out till supper, but in autumn and winter 
 our evil days begin, for immediately after tea we all have to take 
 our work and sit round the table, while papa reads his newspaper ; 
 or rather, we used to, for they are all away now, the married 
 sisters, and Jack, and Alan, and Dolly. As I look round the 
 empty table, I seem to see us all as we sate night after night 
 mute as fish, but engaged in twenty reprehensible modes of pass- 
 ing the time. 
 
 How difficult we sometimes found it to restrain our hysterical 
 giggles ! Is there anything on earth more irrepressible or catch- 
 ing than a giggle % And never so irresistible as when one knows 
 that it is as much as one's life is worth to indulge it. Once out 
 of the room, and free to laugh as much as we pleased, we felt no 
 inclination to do so ; it was only down there, when our spirits 
 were so tightly bottled up, and we were denied all natural vent 
 for them, that we felt so riotous. Making faces was a favourite 
 amusement, and in the art we all attained a fine proficiency ; and 
 quick as lightning we often had to be in regaining our person- 
 ality when papa turned his head to look at us. Pinches, tweaks, 
 and nips were given and exchanged with a Spartan fortitude 
 that should prepare us in some measure for the hardships of 
 life. But our great and mighty temptation was to throw paper 
 pellets at the place where the hair grows thin on papa's head. 
 How often have we sat round the table; pellets in hand, and 
 longed to launch them, certain that we could hit that little patch 
 with a most delicate precision. . . . 
 
 Well ! I am likely to sit here making spills for a very, very long 
 while. By the time I am an old maid, I suppose, I shall have made 
 millions. Papa asks no questions about his daughters, and their 
 spouses ; so, when I have told him that they are all well, and that 
 Luttrell Court is a fine place, my stock of conversation is exhausted. 
 
SUMMER. 331 
 
 At half-past ten I say good-night, and take my bed-room candle 
 thankfully ; but oh ! there is little rest for me, for does not a bitter 
 task await me on the morrow % and in the long days to come ia 
 there so much as a shadow of any pleasant thing that is likely to 
 befall me 1 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " Shall I command thy love ? I may : 
 Shall I enforce thy love ? I could : 
 Shall I entreat thy love ? I will." 
 
 Four o'clock struck ten minutes ago ; but I am not at the ren- 
 dezvous. I am loitering slowly along the meadows that lead to 
 the running brook, and I am possessed by a keen overmastering 
 inclination to turn round and run home again as fast as ever I can 
 pelt. As yet, however, I have not forfeited my claim to valour, 
 and as I go along, scarcely dragging one foot after the other, I look 
 idly about me. This last September day is very different to that 
 one little more than two months ago, when I wore my wreath of 
 flowers, and later when I told George, with such grand triumph, 
 that I was " going away." Then the world was all quivering lights 
 and dancing shadows. Nature was gay and debonnair with her 
 full summer's smile, now she seems to have unfolded her arms to 
 let autumn's chill breath steal over her warm beautiful breast. The 
 sunlight does not brood over the earth as it did then ; rattier it 
 seems woven into a dainty network that hovers over the distant 
 woods, and through the still clear air, the far-off beaches gleam 
 like jewels of gold and amber. Over all there is that nameless 
 silence that spring and summer with their warm bustling life never 
 know, and the few remaining flowers seem to be dying sorrow- 
 fully, while the fallen and falling leaves cast their faint impalpable 
 scent of decay abroad. And now my heavy feet have brought me 
 
332 COM IN 1 THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 within sight of the brook, and of a man who stands by its side 
 waiting ; and once again the irresistible inclination to take flight, 
 even at this eleventh hour, possesses me ; but remembering that 
 if I do shirk my evil task now, I cannot get out of fulfilling it in 
 the future, I walk quickly on, and he, spying my approach, comes 
 forward to greet me. 
 
 " My darling," he says, and takes my two bare hands and kisses 
 them ; and I look up into his face, without a smile, without a 
 word. . . . but he is very blind, he does not see, does not heed. 
 " You have come to tell me that you will make a happy fellow of 
 me at last 1" 
 
 But I draw my hands out of his, and hide my face in them 
 shivering. 
 
 " Are you sorry, dear 1" he asks gently. " Are you afraid 1 It 
 must seem strange to you to promise yourself to any one — to a 
 stranger ; you have always been so fond of your own people ; but 
 
 I will be as careful over you, Nell, as gentle . You do not 
 
 doubt that I can make you happy V 
 
 Then, as I do not answer or lift my face, he goes on—" I have 
 waited so long for this hour, Nell, for so many weary, weary years, 
 sometimes I thought it would never come. If any one wants any- 
 thing as badly as I want you, he rarely gets it ; and you know I 
 have never liad any one to care for but you — neither mother 
 sister, nor brother, and I have often noticed that when a man 
 centres his whole happiness in one object it is taken from him. 
 That is why I have always so feared, Nell, that some one would 
 come and take you away from me. That was why I hated your 
 going to Luttrell, for I thought all men must love you as I did, 
 and perhaps a stranger would take your fancy. But when you told 
 me yesterday that no one loved you but me, when I knew that my 
 darling had come back to me safely, then, Nell, my heart was at 
 rest, and 1 knew a perfect happiness, than which earth could give 
 
SUMMER. 333 
 
 ine no better, not if you were my own true wife, love, and bore 
 my name. ... I believe I thanked God." The reverent, simple 
 voice ceases for a moment. "And now," he says, drawing my 
 hands gently away from my eyes with one hand, while he gathers 
 me to him with the other, " I have my reward ; have I not, my 
 darling?" 
 
 Ay ! he has his reward, as I recoil from his embrace, slip away 
 out of his arms, and stand looking at him with a measureless 
 suffering in my eyes, with a deadly pallor on lips and cheek. A 
 faint dread comes into his face, and dashes the surpassing bright- 
 ness out, a terrible suspicion grows in his eyes, and dwells there. 
 With that look upon him I can tell him better than I could a 
 moment ago, when his beautiful face was all transfigured with its 
 great happiness. 
 
 " I do not love you," I say in a whisper ; " but love has come to 
 my heart." . . . And then I cover up my face that I may not see 
 his, and turn away. 
 
 For a moment there is a deadly waiting silence ; then 
 
 " Some one has stolen her from me !" he cries, in a fiei 
 awakened voice. " God !"— and falls downwards like a dead mai 
 on the grass. 
 
 He does not speak or move, not even when I go and kneel doA 
 by his side and entreat him to answer my voice, to make soi 
 sign. 
 
 " George, George !" I cry through my shuddering sobs ; and then 
 (" for he may be dead," I say to myself in my wretchedness), I lay 
 my hand upon the golden- tressed head that lies so stirlessly on his 
 folded arms. 
 
 " Do not touch me," he cries ; " do not dare." . . . 
 
 Oh ! the relief it is to me to hear his hoarse voice. 
 
 "I might have borne it yesterday but not to-day—not to-day 
 
. 
 
 334 COMTW THRO? THE RYE. 
 
 . . . the joy I have been hugging to my heart was all a myth— a 
 sham. ... I was putting myself in his place." . . . 
 
 A tremor shakes him ; he buries his face deeper in his arms. 
 
 " In whose place V I ask gently. " No one loves me but you. 
 George !" 
 
 "No one but mef he repeats, lifting his haggard face, all 
 blotted and marred with grief and passion. " The man you love 
 does not love you V 
 
 " No," I say, subsiding into a tumbled, miserable heap by his 
 side, while the tears trickle slowly down my pale cheeks. " You 
 love me, George, and he loves somebody else, that is all !" 
 
 " Don't cry, darling," he says ; " I can't bear it." 
 
 Even in this hour of supreme suffering my true, brave lover 
 sets his own bitter grief aside to comfort mine. 
 
 "So that is the reason you look so pale and thin? Nell, you 
 are quite sure you love him V 
 
 " Quite— quite sure, George !" 
 
 " It is not an idle fancy ; you will hold to it V* 
 
 " Do you love me V I ask. " Do you think that you will eveT 
 love any one else f 
 
 " You know that I love you ; and I am quite certain I shall 
 never love any one else." 
 
 " Then, George," I say, piteously, " as you feel for me, so I feel 
 for him, and " 
 
 " I understand," he says ; " I know." And a bitter heavy 
 silence falls between us. 
 
 " And this man V* he says, waking out of it with a fiery angeT 
 that somehow comforts me. Who would not rather see a mar, 
 swell with rage than bow his head in grief 3 " Who has worked 
 this misery to you ? Who has made you suffer like this 1 Who 
 has dared V 
 
SUMMER. 335 
 
 " It is not his fault," I say, slowly ; " it was all a mistake, 
 George ; all my own doing and vanity." 
 
 " I don't believe it," he cries, with flashing eyes. " You make 
 love to any one 1 you let your heart go before it ever was asked 
 for ? Never ! I have known you long enough, and well enough ; 
 and you could not have cared for this man without his having 
 given you good reason." 
 
 " There was no reason," I say. " He told me he was in love with 
 some one else. Can anything be plainer V 
 
 " Did he tell you that at first— at the very beginning 1" 
 
 " Not quite," I say, in a troubled voice ; " but he did not know, 
 he could not guess, that I should — -" 
 
 A burning, shameful blush covers my cheeks, and dries up the 
 salt pricking tears. 
 
 " By Heaven ! he shall answer for it !" says George, between his 
 teeth ; and in his blue eyes is a fixed resolve that makes me 
 tremble. " I will find him out, whoever or wherever he may be, 
 and " 
 
 " My poor fellow," I say, with a faint smile, " are you the one 
 to seek redress for my imaginary wrongs'? You are not my 
 brother." 
 
 " For once I wish I were," he says, quietly; " I should then have 
 the right to punish the scoundrel who has dared to trifle with 
 you. Nell, won't yeu tell me about it 1 We are not lovers now, 
 you know, we are friends, and, dear, you need never fear my pes- 
 tering you with unwelcome words and attentions : I thought no 
 shame of entreating your love when there was a hope of my winning 
 it, but now that I know how irrevocably it is given to another, 
 and judging your heart by my own, I accept my fate, and will 
 bear it, please God, like a man. So could you not trust me, 
 Nell r 
 
 " I could trust you," T say, very gently, for the tender pity of his 
 
336 COM/N' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 voice almost breaks my heart ; " but I cannot tell you, George 
 I have never spoken to any one living of it save you, and more 
 than I have told you I shall never tell." 
 
 We have risen, and are now standing by the brook that leaps, 
 and chatters, and froths, and fusses as it goes, pausing not a 
 moment to look at the old, old sight of a miserable man and girl 
 who have wrecked their lives for love. 
 
 " Do not suppose that I do not care," 1 say, passionately ; " do 
 not suppose that I do not know, George." 
 
 " Yes, yes," he says ; " but you must not fret about me. Think 
 of yourself, my poor little darling. If I could only bear it for 
 you V 
 
 He breaks off, tries to speak again — fails ; then, without a word 
 or sign, goes quickly away, and I stand still looking after him with 
 aching, burning eyes, and the heaviest heart woman ever had. 
 Have I passed the pure gold by to covet the baser metal 1 Could 
 Paul Vasher ever love a woman as purely, as truly, and as unsel- 
 fishly as George loves me ? There is a stronger, more selfish grit 
 about Paul ; he will have his own way, and no one shall baulk him 
 of it ; he will be master, and no one shall say him nay. He will 
 assure his own happiness first, that of the woman he loves after ; 
 and while George would look up to his idol, Paul would look 
 down. 
 
 George is quite out of sight now, and with weary steps I go to 
 the stile that divides the meadow from the field of rye, and lean 
 over it, thinking dully of that day two months ago, when I made 
 my wreath and sent George away cross, and ran against Paul 
 Vasher in the midst of the ripe grain. 
 
 " History repeats itself," I say, half aloud, as I watch those cun- 
 ning workmen — the ants, scurrying about at the base of the primi- 
 tive stone stile; " but only up to a certain point, and there it always 
 fails. Now there is no Paul to come over the field to-day ; he 
 
SUMMER. 337 
 
 is probably shooting with the rest at Luttrell. I shall never 
 have a chance of seeing him here either, for after to-day T will 
 not come this way." 
 
 I lift my eyes, and see Paul Vasher coming across the field 
 of rye to meet me. I do not speak or stir ; the hour has come, / 
 and must be met ; and somehow, perhaps it is because my heart 
 is so filled with George's misery, as to leave no room for pity 
 of my own, I feel a kind of indifference. "Nothing matters 
 much now," I say to myself, as Paul stands before me. He makes 
 me no greeting, nor do I him ; he only looks into my pale, tear- 
 stained face with a quick triumphant gladness that vaguely sur- 
 prises me. Why should he look so eager and happy when his true 
 love is nowhere near 1 
 
 " I have come to claim the fulfilment of your promise," he says ; 
 then as I lift my eyes to his, he catches and holds them fast to his : 
 and, lo ! my listlessness falls from me like a garment, and a living 
 writhing pain stirs and leaps in my dull heart, and I know that 
 the old glamour is upon me, that all the world has faded away, and 
 that in all my past, present, and future, naught has place save the 
 dark beloved face that is looking so intently into mine. 
 
 " You never broke your word yet," he says, and his hands tight- 
 ened their hold upon mine. " You will keep your promise, Nell." 
 
 With his eyes upon mine, with the resistless power he ever 
 wielded over me compelling me, I open my lips to speak the truth 
 as before my God . . . then I tear my hands out of his, my eyes 
 from his. 
 
 " I cannot," I say, with a bitter cry, " oh, I cannot ! ,; 
 
 " Is it Paul ?" he asks, folding his arms about me, and pressing 
 my head down against his breast ; " tell me, sweetheart." 
 
 " Tell me her name," I ask, in a whisper ; " tell me quick." 
 
 " Nell. Do you understand now f 
 
 As he lifts my arms and lays them about his neck, as he bends 
 
 22 
 
33& COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 his dark face and seeks my lips with all the unsated hunger of the 
 first kiss, I turn my head quickly away and hide it on his breast. 
 Shall I receive the kisses of this new lover while the words uttered 
 by the old one have scarcely ceased to echo in my ears % 
 
 '" What is this V asks Paul, holding me away from him to look 
 keenly into my face : " after all, do you not love me, child 1 I 
 should have waited for an answer to my question. Do you love 
 me, my sweetheart, my flower V he asks, looking into my face with 
 a passion of tenderness. 
 
 " Love you 1" I answer, with a long, long sigh. u What is love ? 
 But let me go now, Mr. Vasher ; let me go !" 
 
 " Let you go V he says, smoothing my hair back from my face, 
 " now that I have just got my little witch ? No ! I will keep you 
 safe enough, love, never fear !" 
 
 u But you do not know," 1 say, anxiously ; " you do not under- 
 stand ; it is so quick, so soon." 
 
 " Soon ! and you have kept me at arm's length for more than a 
 month ! Ah ! child, if you had known the restraint I had to put 
 upon myself over and over again. I almost broke down." 
 
 " Did you love me all that time ?" 1 ask, softly. " Are you sure 
 you did P 
 
 " Loved you !" he says ; " I think I have loved you ever since 
 the Silverbriclge days. I know I have loved you ever since the 
 day I met you in yonder field. I never was so sorry to say good- 
 bye to any one as when I said it to you under the porch at the 
 Manor House, and all the while I was getting through that con- 
 founded business in town, I was fidgetting to get back to Silver- 
 bridge, and if it had not been for the absurdity of the thing, 1 
 should have come back just to get an hour's glimpse of you. Then 
 I was obliged to go to the Luttrells, never dreaming they were 
 relations of yours, and there I found you ; and, sweet, I had not 
 known you a week before I lost my head completely. Living as 
 
SUMMER. 339 
 
 quietly as you did I never supposed for a moment that you could 
 have had a lover ; but very early in the day, from one or two 
 chance remarks of yours, I gathered that you had, and never did 
 a man chafe more under the knowledge than I. You would neither 
 deny nor corroborate anything, and sometimes I felt certain you 
 were beginning to care for me, sometimes, I believe, you were 
 hankering after that man at Silverbridge, and at last " 
 
 "You told stories," I say, laughing gently ; "you told me you 
 were in love with somebody." 
 
 " So I was." 
 
 " And that you would show her to me." 
 
 " So I will." 
 
 " And your behaviour was inexcusable." 
 
 " I know it ; but why, you little minx, did you rout me so utterly 
 that morning in the garden 1 I was telling you my love story 
 full sail, on the point of asking you if you would try and love me, 
 when out you tumbled a letter from your precious lover, with 
 whom you told me, with inimitable sang /void, you corresponded. 
 And I had fondly imagined (after getting over the first unpleasant 
 shock of your having a lover at all), that you cared nothing about 
 him, flouted his attentions, and would none of them ! In self- 
 defence I invented a fiction, and even then, so stubborn were you, 
 madam, I could not gather from your face any more than that you 
 were disturbed, though whether on his account or mine, I could 
 not for the life of me tell. I caught you by a promise, Nell, and 
 made up my mind that here, where we first met, I would ask you 
 a plain question, receive a plain answer." 
 
 " It is a plain answer," I say ruefully ; " for your sake I wish it 
 were a prettier one !" 
 
 " Little sweetheart!" he says, devouring my face with his eyes, 
 " do you remember how I told you years and years ago to pray that 
 you might never grow up good-looking ? Well, I am glad you did 
 
 2^—2 
 
340 COM/N' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 not thus pray, for I could not bear to lose a single one, not the very 
 smallest, of your charms— your lovely hair, your sweet eyes, and 
 sweeter lips. Nell, what do you suppose I am made of V 
 
 "Flesh and blood, I suppose," I answer, giving him a soft 
 pinch. 
 
 " Well, then, I can't stand this ; do you know that we have been 
 here more than ten minutes, and that I have not had a single kiss ; 
 do you think I am so patient V 
 
 " Not to-day, Paul," I say trembling, " some day perhaps, or to- 
 morrow, but not to-day, I cannot because of— of him, you know." 
 
 " Him ? there should be only one man in the world to you now, 
 Nell." 
 
 " George Tempest, then," I say, turning crimson ; " Lubin, you 
 know." 
 
 " What of him V asks Paul in surprise ; " surely you are not 
 bothering your head about him 1 Poor devil ! he must be cut up 
 at losing a little pet like you ; but it is not your fault, you can't 
 help it. I have a notion " — he goes on, smoothing my hair with 
 his hand — " that this admirer of yours is a great, awkward, 
 country-looking fellow, who does not know what to do with his 
 arms and legs; in short, just what I first called him to you, a 
 Lubin r 
 
 " Perhaps you will see him some day," I answer, smiling a 
 little to myself at Paul's notion of George ; it must be a source of 
 small wonder, then, that I fell in love with himself. " Paul," I say 
 gently, "do you know why I have been fretting to-day 1 ? do you 
 know why I have been crying so bitterly ?" 
 
 " Well," lie says, looking down on me with a whimsical air of 
 pride and amusement, "I thought that you might have been 
 thinking a little bit about me, perhaps V* 
 
 " No, no," I answer, smiling rather sadly, " it was not of you I 
 was thinking just then, but of Mr. Tempest, who had scarcely left 
 
SUMMER. 341 
 
 me when you came ; he was so wretched, and it seemed so soon, 
 so indecently soon, for you to make love to me." 
 
 " And you care so much as that f he asks, with a sudden jealousy 
 in his voice that startles me ; " you could be sorry for him ; could 
 think of him at such a time as this ? Heaven knows I had no 
 other woman in my thoughts when I told you that I loved you !" 
 
 " Yes, I can," I answer steadily ; " and 1 should not be worthy 
 of your love if I could fling away all memory of his gre<it misery 
 one moment to lose myself in happiness with another lover the 
 next." 
 
 " Did you ever care for that man V he asks coldly, but he does 
 not loose me out of his arms. " Did you ever have the smallest 
 fancy for him V 
 
 "Never!" I answer gravely ; "if I had l should be with him, 
 not you, at the present moment, should I not ]" 
 
 He looks deeply into my eyes, and what he reads there must 
 satisfy him, for he murmurs fond, mad love words over my drooped 
 head, calls me his queen, his heart's delight, his idol. 
 
 " Papa may come this way," I say nervously ; " he does not 
 often, but he might ; let us go and sit down in my parlour." 
 
 We cross the bare brown field, and reach my little green 
 chamber, where a big log of wood affords us a seat, and sit down 
 side by side. 
 
 " And now," he says, " I am going to show you my little girl f 
 and out of his breast-pocket he brings a velvet case, touches a 
 spring, the lid flies back, and there, looking out at us from under 
 a veil of hair and a wreath of poppies, is — me ! 
 
 "How did you get it 1 ?" I ask, staring hard at it. (Surely, 
 surely, I never was so pretty as that !) 
 
 "I asked an artist who was at the Luttrells' ball, to study youT 
 face and paint you with loose hair, and here it is." 
 
342 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 (So it was my face that I left Paul to muse over that day on the 
 terrace.) 
 
 " I have kissed this painted thing very often," he says, drawing 
 me gently to his breast ; " now the real lips are my own, do you 
 deny them to me, Nell ? I could take a hundred if I would, but 
 I am too proud to do that ; have you not one to give me, love V 
 
 For a moment I tremble and hesitate ; it is so soon, so terribly 
 soon ; if that other only knew ! then, for my duty is to this my 
 lord, I lift my lips to his, and as he folds me in his arms, he kisses 
 me as I kiss him for the first time. Across that perfect kiss, than 
 which the earth can give me no such other, why does a picture rise 
 up before me, of a man and woman standing in the moonlight, 
 wishing each other a passionate, last good-bye 1 
 
 [f you were not so strong/' I say, stroking his hand with my 
 slim fingers, " I would keep you in such order, banish you to such 
 a distance ; you should sue so meekly for ever such a little favour!" 
 If you were like that," he says, kissing me passionately on 
 cheek and brow, and eyes and lips, (verily, one salute leads to a 
 great many more !) " you would never have me at your feet. It is 
 the soft, adorable, bewitching little creatures like you who get into 
 a man's heart and stop there, though, Heaven knows ! you kept 
 me at a distance long enough." 
 
 " I suffered for it enough !" I say, sighing. " Oh ! I shall always 
 consider you treated me very badly ! It is a wonder my hair is 
 not grey with all the misery I have had." 
 
 " My sweetheart !" he says. 
 
 Here there is a long and ridiculous pause, that people may fill 
 up as they please. 
 
 11 Do you know that I felt glad sometimes to see you looking 
 sad 1 I thought you were fretting after Lubin ; and I said to 
 myself, ' Now she will know a little of what I am enduring. ' " 
 
 Yes, he loves differently to George, not half as well ; and I 
 
SUMMER. 343 
 
 worship the very ground Paul walks on, and I esteem and like 
 George as a brother. 
 
 It grows late, time has passed with such hurrying swiftness : 
 through the dark stems of the trees before us shows the pale blue- 
 green of the evening sky, cold and pure and beautiful exceedingly. 
 Nature is robing herself in her cool twilight garment of silver grey, 
 shrouding the trees and fields softly, as though preparing them for 
 sleep ; the sun has gone down, leaving a rack of amber and crimson 
 clouds behind him, the leaves rustle gently in the autumn wind, 
 that wanders over the face of the land. 
 
 " I must go home now," I say, springing up. " But, Paul, Paul 
 —papa /" 
 
 " What of him ?" asks my lover, pinching my cheek. 
 
 " He is furious at the notion of any of his daughters thinking of 
 such a thing as being married." 
 
 "And he married himself, and had twelve children," says Paul, 
 " which points the moral. Well, I am going to call on him to- 
 morrow, and I shall tell him that you and I " 
 
 " Do not !" I say, with much concern. " He would first of all 
 kick you, or try to," I add, mentally measuring Paul's stalwart 
 proportions ; " then he would lock me up, and as he is going away 
 in a fortnight, for some months, it would be a serious business, for 
 no one would dare to let me out." 
 
 " Poor little woman !" he says ; " they shall not treat her like 
 that while I am anywhere near !* 
 
 " If you would not mind waiting," I say, wistfully ; " if you 
 would not say anything till he comes back, (it would not be very 
 deceitful, would if?) we could have such a glorious time while he 
 is away ! I have been looking forward to such a dull one, too," I 
 add, thoughtfully ; " but now I shall be able to get into heaps of 
 mischief." 
 
 " And do you think I am going to wait for you all that time. 
 
344 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 child ?" he asks ; are you not afraid that my patience will weai 
 out, and that I shall fall in love with somebody else ?" 
 
 " No !" I answer saucily ; "lam not in tne least afraid ! Will 
 you wait, Paul V 
 
 " He must not be away too long," says Paul, significantly, " or 
 he won't find his daughter Nell waiting for him when he gets 
 back. For your sake, though, what would I not do for your 
 sweet sake. I will not speak to him about our marriage before he 
 
 " Our marriage !" how sweet the words sound ! As I muse on 
 their goodness, like a chime of jangled silver bells sweep Silvia's 
 words across my memory, "You will never be Paul Vasher's wife — 
 never /" 
 
 Ay ! but I am Paul Vasher's love, and that is what you are not, 
 never will be, Silvia! Your wild words are very far away, very 
 puerile and empty to me, as I stand with my lover's arms around 
 me ; harm can be worked between two lovers apart, and misun- 
 derstanding each other, but what between two who are together 
 in the first flush of acknowledged love, and without a shadow be 
 tween them 1 
 
 We take a long while to make our adieux to our parlour, and to 
 cross the field, but now we are standing in the meadow, arguing ; 
 he wants to see me safely in at the home gates, 1 want him to go 
 back to The Towers, lest we meet any one. Where we now stand 
 is perfectly retired, save in harvest- time or seed-time people rarely 
 come this way, but the meadow once left, there is a chance of seeing 
 anybody. 
 
 As we stand close together in the gloaming, talking our half- 
 earnest, half -jesting nonsense, out of the grey shadow a man's 
 figure emerges, and comes slowly towards us— George Tempest ! 
 He is looking down and walking heavily, with unstrung limbs and 
 bent head he does not see us until he almost brushes our gar- 
 
SUMMER. 345 
 
 Hients, then he lifts his eyes, and oh heavens ! I could cry aloud 
 at the dull misery of their regard — the set, fixed stupor of his face, 
 with not a glint of hope or peace or every-day indifference in it — 
 and my face is radiant with my new found joy. 
 
 At first, although we are in his path, he does not seem to see us, 
 and is about to pass on, when some gleam of consciousness comes 
 across his face, his ordinary bearing comes back to him, his eyes 
 brighten. 
 
 " George !" I say, stretching out my hand involuntarily ; 
 " George !" 
 
 He takes it as gently as though it were a flower. 
 
 " Is that you, Nell V he asks, in his natural voice ; and then he 
 looks at Paul, and, by some subtle intuition, he knows : I feel it in 
 the sudden shock that passes from his hand to mine. 
 
 " You have not introduced me to your friend," he says. 
 
 Stumblingly I go through the form of introduction between the 
 man I love and the man who loves me, then, I do not know how- 
 it comes to pass, we go on, and George passes on his way alone. 
 
 It is Paul who speaks first. 
 
 " And that is the man who loved you, Nell !" he says, slowly, 
 M whom I have sneered at, pitied — I ! Heavens, that I should 
 dare ! Sweetheart, are you sure that you love me— not him ] He 
 is noble, unselfish, grand, as I never was, never could be. It is 
 not too late now ; do you repent of the bad bargain you have 
 made V 
 
 "I love you," I answer, clasping my arms, of my own free will, 
 about his neck ; " I love you, my darling ; what is any man in the 
 world to me but a shadow, save you V 
 
 " What is any woman on earth, what was one ever V he asks, 
 peering into my face through the closing darkness, "compared 
 with what you are to me, my love, my idol, my wife V 
 
346 COM IN' THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " Think you I can a resolution fetch 
 From flowery tenderness ?" 
 
 " Nell ! Nell !" cries the Bull of Basan, rushing headlong into 
 my room, " come down, quick ! The governor is chasing Larry V 
 Anything more exciting than a race between papa and one of 
 his offspring could not well be imagined. So I fly downstairs in 
 Basan's wake, as eager for the fray as himself. It appears that 
 five minutes ago the governor discovered Larry — aged eleven — 
 seated in the kitchen, on a three-legged stool, eating bread and 
 cheese ; and, of course, made a dash at him as a terrier does at a 
 neighbour's cat. But Larry, instead of dutifully yielding himself 
 up to condign punishment, showed a most unexpected spirit, 
 dropped his eatables and bolted out of the back kitchen door, and 
 into a paved walk that runs parallel with the kitchen windows, 
 and about as bad a place as he could well get into, for the only 
 outlet from it is by an entrance to the house higher up, or a return 
 to the same through the kitchen door. The governor is well aware 
 of this fact, and instead of giving a straight chase after the culprit, 
 gravitates between the staircase and the back kitchen, Larry out- 
 side, he in; pursuer and pursued plainly visible to each other 
 through the windows. When I arrive upon the scene I find papa, 
 his face purple with rage and amazement, doubling, dodging 
 swearing, dancing ; I see a pale but obstinate little face peeping in 
 at the window, and then shooting back ; I see the youngsters 
 posted about, evidently divided between delight at Larry's pluck 
 and awful speculations as to his probable fate, one or two servants 
 looking on, who are too much alarmed to offer the assistance the 
 governor thinks it beneath his dignity to ask,though I am much mis- 
 taken if a certain hem! from Bridget, the cook, does not warn Larry 
 
SUMMER. 347 
 
 of his danger, when his gentle parent nearly catches him round the 
 water-butt outside the back door. Father and son are so well 
 matched in agility and acuteness, that it seems as unlikely Larry 
 will be caught as that the governor will permit him to escape. 
 Unhappy Larry ! he must have been mad to begin the contest. 
 What would his sin of eating bread and cheese at eleven o'clock in 
 the morning have been compared with leading the governor this 
 impious dance? No doubt he knows his foolhardiness by now, 
 and repents him of it. But, perhaps, he reflects that life is sweet, 
 and the longer he can put off the evil hour of being caught, the 
 better, so he doubles and dodges with renewed vigour. 
 
 " What is the matter T asks mother, coming in, and glancing 
 with amazement from papa's infuriated countenance to that of her 
 miserable son, who is just peeping in with a ludicrous mixture of 
 fear and bravado on his small face. 
 
 " Do you see that little devil, madam 1" asks my father. " Do 
 you know that he has been dodging me, me, for the last two hours? 
 (Ten minutes he mean.) I'll break every bone in his skin when 
 I catch him ! and not one of these boobies (he points to us all 
 standing about) can put out a hand to stop him ! Stand at the 
 foot of the staircase, and hold on to him when he comes past. Do 
 you hear % n 
 
 And off he dashes through the kitchen, and round the water' 
 butt this time. Poor mother, she is in a quandary ! She is as 
 utterly incapable of delivering the least deserving of her children 
 up to the slaughter, as she is of disobeying her lord. So she 
 meekly takes up her position where she was bid, and when Larry 
 comes pelting in at the door, and hits her a smart blow with his 
 head " below the belt," she puts out no detaining hand, but sub- 
 sides into a comfortable heap on the mat ; while the governor, 
 entering in hot pursuit, catches his foot in her petticoats, and 
 turna an energetic somersault over her prostrate form ! Tableau 
 
348 COM/N* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 vivant t One can scarcely look on such sacrilege and live, so I 
 retire upstairs precipitately in search of Larry, who, evidently not 
 valuing his life at a brass farthing, if he remain under the roof 
 that shelters his parent, has escaped by some upper window and 
 got away. In the midst of the wrathful clamour below, comes a 
 shrill tinkle from our rusty front door bell, and straightway papa 
 retires to the library, and is plainly audible to something more 
 than the ear of faith, taking it out of the furniture. 
 
 " It is only Tempest," says Basan, who has followed me, peeping 
 round the big leaves of the magnolia tree that clothes the outside 
 of our house with glossy green in winter, and creamy, fainting 
 flower-cups in summer. 
 
 " Only George ! It could not well be much more !" I say. 
 
 " He looks so queer," says Basan, stretching his neck again. 
 " He has on a long grey overcoat and a boxer ; and his face is as 
 long as my arm." 
 
 " Does he look as though he were going away V I ask anxiously. 
 " Does he look as though he had come to say good-bye f then, re- 
 collecting myself, "Go downstairs, there's a good Basan, and 
 make as much noise as you can, so as to drown the row the 
 governor is making !" 
 
 I have been " fetched " twice, and now I am standing outside 
 the drawing-room with my hand on the knob of the door, fearing 
 to turn it. A crash of amazing magnitude from the library hard- 
 by suggests the desirability of my immediately hiding somewhere, 
 so I enter the room with some haste to find George standing with 
 his back to me, stooping over something that instinct tells me is a 
 little ugly, disreputable photograph that the sun and a Silverbridge 
 photographer worked between them to my eternal discredit. He 
 has on a travelling coat, just as Basan said ; and there is aboul 
 him that brushed up, stiff, touch-me-not air that Englishmen 
 mostly put on when they go abroad, and take off when they stay 
 
SUMMER. 349 
 
 at home. He turns at the sound of nay steps, and comes to meet 
 me. 
 
 "May I have this, Nell The asks, holding up the poor little 
 picture. 
 
 " It is mother's," I say, gently ; " but I dare say she would let 
 you have it. It was only yesterday papa said that if he found any 
 more of his daughter's likenesses littering up the mantelpiece, he 
 would put them all in the fire !" 
 
 He does not join in my uneasy laugh, and we stand side by side 
 looking out at the gay dahlia beds, whose gorgeous colours will 
 ere long be nipped and dulled by the chill night frosts. I have 
 looked at him once, and then turned my eyes away. In all 
 my misery at Luttrell did I ever look for one single hour like 
 that ? 
 
 " You will guess why I am here, Nell," he says. " I have come 
 to say good-bye to you for a time." 
 
 And it was only yesterday that I was selfishly wishing he 
 would take himself and his disappointments away out of my 
 sight ; well, to-day I have my wish. 
 
 " You will come back soon ?" I ask, wistfully. " You will not 
 stay away long V 
 
 " I shall come back," he says quietly. " There is my father to 
 be considered, you know." 
 
 "Promise me one thing," he says, turning his haggard face 
 away, " that you will be married before I come back." 
 
 " Married !" I repeat. " Oh, George ! and it was only yesterday 
 that I told you — I have not thought about such a thing !" 
 
 " But Vasher will. How came you to suppose he did not love 
 youf 
 
 " It was all a mistake !" 
 
 " When I met you last night," he says, slowly, " I was picturing 
 you with a heart as wild and un&atisfied as my own ; I was think- 
 
350 COMIN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 ing that I would bear twice my own burden if I could but lift 
 some of the trouble from your weak shoulders, and all at once 
 something stood in my path, I looked up and saw your face, Neil, 
 passionate, tender, transfigured, with a look upon it that had never 
 through all these years grown under word of mine, and almost 
 before I looked at the man by your side, I knew, Nell, I knew 
 .... When I come back I shall find it easier, please God. 
 After all," he says, with an attempt at cheerfulness that does not 
 deceive me, " it is only now ; it will not be so hard after a bit. 
 But I did not come here to whine over my misfortunes. Good- 
 bye, dear." He holds out his hand, and I put mine in his without 
 a word, without a tear, and so we look hard at each other's pallid 
 faces, for a moment, then—" God bless you !" he says. " God bless 
 you ! ,; I echo, and he is gone. 
 
 When the door has closed, 1 sit down on the floor, and heedless 
 of the fact that tears are a thrice-forbidden luxury in the house of 
 Adair, cry long and bitterly, with no sneaking reservations as to 
 quantity, quality, or the state of my appearance after it. Bitter 
 and sweet, sweet and bitter, how have you not been mingled in 
 my cup yesterday and to-day ! and there should be only sweets in 
 these my early, freshest days of happy, assured love. Perhaps this 
 heavy-heartedness about George will wear away after a while, but 
 just now my thoughts seem to go out more constantly to the lover 
 who has gone away from me. than to him with whom I shall be 
 face to face in a few hours' time ; nay, in my keen burst of sorrow 
 for George's misery, I can find it in my heart to wish it was to- 
 morrow, not to-day, I was going to see Paul. And the hours slip 
 away so quickly, four o'clock has even struck, and I am still 
 standing before my looking-glass, gazing blankly at my puffy eye- 
 lids and red nose. It is quite certain that Mr. Paul will discover 
 that he has made a shockingly bad bargain, for he does not strike 
 me as being a man likely to look at his lady-love through rose* 
 
SUMMER. 351 
 
 coloured spectacles — not but what that has its advantages, though, 
 for when a man like that pays a compliment, he means it, and he 
 has paid me one or two lovely ones. By the time my foot is on 
 the first stair, the smiles have come back to my mouth, the gladness 
 to my heart ; is not my lover waiting for me? am I not going to 
 him now, this minute % 
 
 All along the garden and orchard I go with hurrying steps. 
 The convolvuli, hanging their marble vases over the hedge, blow 
 out their faintly scented welcome to me as I pass ; the pale 
 bramble blossom hanging on the bough whispers, " He is waiting ! 
 he is waiting I" the brook, as it hastens along, mutters, " Time is 
 short, do not linger !" and very soon I have reached the trysting- 
 place, where he stands erect, impatient, watch in hand. 
 
 " How late you are !" he says ; then, holding me away from him 
 to look into my face, " Why, little one, you have been crying !' ; 
 
 " Yes," I say, rubbing my cheek against his hand, and feeling 
 that now I am here it does not much matter whether I begin to 
 cry again or laugh ; by his side all is well with me. 
 
 " Who has been vexing you V he asks, with an unamiable frown. 
 
 " No one ! It is about George." 
 
 " George," he repeats, and his arms slacken their hold upon me ; 
 " why, this is the second time within the last twenty-four hours 
 that you have been crying over Tempest ! You must have liked 
 him very much !" 
 
 " I did like him," I answer stoutly. " / do / He is the truest, 
 
 noblest, most unselfish lover a girl ever had, only (I lift my 
 
 eyes to Paul's jealous face) I like you best /" 
 
 " Do you, indeed 1" he asks, with a queer upward twist of his 
 brows. " And have you no such word in your vocabulary as 
 love V 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 u At any rate you are quite sure that you do like me V 7 
 
352 COM IN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " Quite sure, Mr. Paul Vasher ; quite sure !" 
 
 Here our conversation becomes indistinct and ridiculous. And 
 in our little green parlour leave us, oh reader ! to our idiocy, and 
 cast your memory back to the days when you loved and were 
 beloved, and your happiness was but freshly born to you ; remem- 
 bering that time, you will, while smiling at our folly, understand 
 it . . . 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " That is the true season of love, when we believe that we alone can love , 
 that no one could ever have loved so before us, and that no one will love in the 
 same way after us." 
 
 November has come upon us with a garment of rain and fog, with 
 leaden skies and sodden earth, and the land looks like one vast 
 mournful burying ground, with its fallen leaves, dead plants, and 
 howerless brown stalks. Nature is shrouded, motionless, bound 
 hand and foot beneath her covering of decay, and looking abroad 
 it is hard to believe that spring will ever come back, that green 
 shoots will thrust their way through the sullen earth, tender buds 
 spring out of yonder bare brown trees. The gloominess of the 
 weather has its outcome in the newspapers, where murder succeeds 
 murder with sinister rapidity, and the heavy, deathly air seems to 
 prompt the souls of men to deeds of rapine, crime, and slaughter. 
 But to me these sluggish days bring no sense of dulness and op- 
 pression, I am not even longing for spring, with the passion of 
 longing I used to know all through the dead, silent, winter 
 months. I have Paul now, and he is life, and home, and love, and 
 seasons bound up in one, and since he is mine I lack nothing. 
 The chill winds have shaken every leaf from the trees in our green 
 parlour, the ground is all dank and dripping, it knows our faces 
 
SUMMER. 353 
 
 no more ; but we do not care. We are cosier indoors than we ever 
 were out. 
 
 We have been playing at a foolish game this past month, Paul 
 and I. We made a bad beginning in being so much in love with 
 each other, and we have gone steadily down, deeper and deeper. 
 Every day we go a little further, for love either increases or di- 
 minishes ; passionately as one may care for a thing to-day, one can 
 love it even better to-morrow, there is no standing still. And as 
 besottedly fond as Paul is of me, so I am of him, and an uncommonly 
 pretty pair of fools we make. At the present moment there is no 
 one to take heed of us, fortunately ■ no one, that is to say, but 
 Venus, who is shaking an uncommonly loose leg in the distance, 
 and as she is hanging on the wall without any visual power, save 
 that given by cobalt blue badly laid on, we may be said to be 
 tolerably secure from unkind criticism. 
 
 We are in the old school-room, from whence Amberley's rule has 
 for ever departed ; the curtains are drawn, and we are sitting before 
 the fire. It is our favourite haunt, for the boys are far too well- 
 bred to intrude upon us, indeed they avert their jolly faces if they 
 happen to meet us, as though a recognized pair of lovers were the 
 most immoral spectacle in the world, and there is no chance here, 
 as in the drawing-room, of Simpkins or the footman walking in 
 every five minutes or so, on some trifling pretext or errand. 
 
 "Have you heard from your father yet]" asks Paul. 
 
 "No. Paul!" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Do you know, that I really think he was sorry when he went 
 away " 
 
 ''Well, darling?' 
 
 " Nothing ! only I don't think I can ever feel comfortably re- 
 bellious with him again ; I shall have a sort of half-and-half feel- 
 ing that will make me a detestable mixture." 
 
 23 
 
554 COM IN' THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 " You won't be here very long, little one," he says ; " you will 
 be at The Towers before he has been back very long." 
 
 " Shall I ]" I ask, doubtfully. Somehow it seems natural to me 
 that Paul should be my lover, but I never look ahead or fancy my- 
 self his wife. 
 
 (A pause, which we fill up.) 
 
 " I want to ask you a few questions," I say, presently. " Will 
 you ever swear at me when we are married 1" 
 
 " Good heavens, no ! I never was a very good temper, but I 
 hope I know how to behave like a man." 
 
 " And do not all men V I ask, meditatively. " I always thought 
 they did at home, you know ; it's very nice to find they don't. 
 You had better never put me out," I add, pinching his brown 
 cheek ; " for I have a command of language that would frighten 
 you. Tell me, do you ever shy dish-covers at people V 
 
 11 Never." 
 
 " Would you ever call me a peacock, a dummy, a mummy, a 
 gawk, a mawk, or a beast ]" 
 
 " I won't promise. They are pretty names, Nell— some of his V 
 
 " Of course ! but when he wishes to be especially withering he 
 calls me ' that beauty.' " 
 
 " Lucky little woman," says Paul, fondly, " for both her lover 
 and her father to have such a high opinion of her good looks !" 
 
 "Yes, indeed!" I say, laughing ; "only, you see, he means it 
 rather differently to the way you do !" 
 
 Here our conversation becomes too ridiculous for repetition. 
 
 "It is my turn now," says Paul, presently, "to ask you a few 
 questions ; for it may be as well that we should know each other's 
 little weaknesses before marriage as after. Do you ever go into 
 hysterics V 
 
 " It is like poor Martha Snell's staying," I say, laughing ; " * who 
 would if her could, but her couldn't.' I would if I could, but I 
 
SUMMER. 355 
 
 don't know the way. Hysterics is a luxury papa would never have 
 permitted." 
 
 " Do you nag T 
 
 " I despise a nagging woman !" I say, sitting suddenly upright , 
 "it's so intensely mean ! No, Paul, I shall get into a boiling rage, 
 and then I shall have done with it." 
 
 " Well spoken !" he says heartily. " Get into as many passions 
 as you like, my pet, but never nag, and don't sulk ; more love is 
 worn out that way than by any other. Now for another question. 
 Will you ever flirt ] I could stand a good deal from you, Nell, 
 but I would never stand that." 
 
 " Are you afraid V I ask proudly. " Is your opinion of me so 
 bad as that V 
 
 " There is only one man I should ever be afraid of your taking 
 too much notice of," he says. " You know who that is ; some day 
 perhaps you will compare me unfavourably with him, and " 
 
 " Have you not lost that old madness % Paul, Paul ! is there not 
 a wide difference between pity and love V 
 
 " There is, but I hate to think that any man ever uttered a word 
 of love to you save me, and — confess now," he goes on, half 
 jestingly, half earnestly, " that you don't think me half as good 
 as he is V 
 
 " You will not get me to say that you are, for you are not," 
 I say, shaking my head. "You are too masterful and deter- 
 mined ; you will have your own way, and you are more than a 
 little bit selfish, and " 
 
 " A jealous fool !" he says, finishing my sentence in a differ- 
 ent way to what I had intended. " Well, you have taught me one 
 vice I never knew before, and that's jealousy." 
 
 "Is it a vice 1 ? I think the very pith and marrow of love 
 must be gone when lovers grow careless about each other's likes 
 and dislikes. Paul," I ask, suddenly, "do you think that by 
 
 33—2 
 \ 
 
3 $6 COMIN> THRO? THE RYE. 
 
 any possibility, under any circumstances, you could fall in love 
 with Silvia again ?" 
 
 " Can a man be in love with two women at once 1 Could you 
 be in love with two men, Nell V 
 
 " I suppose not ; only you loved her first, you know." 
 
 " And I love you now, you know." 
 
 " Are you as fond of me as you ever were of her V 
 
 " What do you think V 
 
 " That you like me best." 
 
 " Well, I'm inclined to think the same. For one thing, I have 
 a respect for you." 
 
 " That is a funny idea ! I never heard of lovers doing that 
 before." 
 
 " Nevertheless, it is ' the sweet marjoram of the salad/ the very 
 salt of real love. The divine passion, as it is inaptly called, may 
 burn brightly and hotly enough for a time, but it does not last 
 unless it has something more substantial to go upon than sheer 
 love and admiration." 
 
 "And did you respect Silvia V 
 
 u Until I found her out." 
 
 I do not think I am jealous now of Paul's first love ; I might be 
 if she were here in her real flesh and blood beauty, but out of 
 sight is very truly out of mind, and she is to me in my warm 
 living, every-day happiness, no more than a half -forgotten shadow. 
 Paul's thoughts are mine, and since he never thinks of her, neither 
 do I. I have never repeated to him her wild words at Luttrell ; 
 somehow it has seemed to me needless and, in a certain sense, dis- 
 honourable—she has lost, I have won ; would there not be a 
 species of cowardice in holding her impotent boasts up to ridicule ? 
 
 " I wonder what she would say if she knew about us," I say 
 aloud. 
 
 M It would not interest her," says Paul, carelessly ; " her own 
 
SUMMER. 357 
 
 affairs are far more engrossing no doubt. I say, Nell, when is 
 your father coming back V 
 
 " In March." 
 
 " Three whole months and part of another. If you think my 
 patience will hold out till then, little woman, you are mistaken. I 
 shall make you marry me before he comes back, to make all sure." 
 
 "No, you will not!" I say quickly; "just think of mother 
 And she has been such an angel to us. Onty think of what it 
 would be if he came back and found me gone ! Supposing she 
 had refused to hear of our being engaged or let you come here, 
 save as an ordinary visitor, what should we have done then, pray V 
 
 " Fitted up a cow-house, my dear, and sat in it from ' rosy morn 
 till dewy eve.' * 
 
 " And quarrelled when we grew hungry," I say, laughing ; " but 
 mother is really frightened out of her wits. It is all very fine for 
 us, you know, but we dance and she pays the piper." 
 
 " Sweet soul !" says Paul. " Now, if all mothers-in law were 
 like her " 
 
 " Wait until she is yours," I say slyly ; " you don't seem to know 
 half the difficulties that lie in our path !" 
 
 " If he is very bad," says Paul, " it's easy enough to run away. 
 Alice did." 
 
 " Yes ; but The Towers is not far to run away to." 
 
 " I should like," he says, tightening his clasp on me, " to walk 
 into a church one morning (you could put on a white bonnet and 
 a clean print), without a gaping crowd of people looking on, and a 
 pack of idiotic children throwing flowers for us to tumble over, 
 and you and I be made man and wife ; then eat a good breakfast, 
 and set out for Paris, without being spattered with salt and pelted 
 with slippers." 
 
 " You would take me to Paris T I say in delight. 
 
 " Rather ! you have never been abroad, have you V 
 
358 COMIN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " Never !" 
 
 " I wish I could take you with me to Rome next month." 
 
 " To Rome ! next month !" I repeat, sitting up and pushing the 
 hair back from my eyes. 
 
 " You are going away, Paul V 
 
 " Yes, little one, for a few days. I have to settle poor Lennox's 
 affairs ; and it is a tning that cannot be got out of. I have been 
 putting it off as long as possible, but I shall be back by Christ- 
 mas." 
 
 " I have only just found you," I say, my lips quivering : " and 
 are you going to leave me so soon V 
 
 " My flower," he says, taking me in his arms, " it is worse to me 
 than to you, this separation, don't make it any the harder, for I 
 must go." 
 
 But I only clasp my arms close about his neck and shiver ; 
 somehow this going away seems to lay a cold finger upon my 
 heart, and change all my safe, glad trust in Paul's love to a trem- 
 bling, miserable fever of unrest. 
 
 " Paul !" I say in a low voice ; " when two people love each 
 other beyond everything, don't you think something or other 
 generally happens to them V 
 
 " They get married." 
 
 "No ! one or other of them dies, or they get separated, or -or 
 — something." 
 
 " Who could possibly separate us V he asks, almost sternly ; 
 " are you not sure of yourself, NelH'' 
 
 " I was thinking of you, Paul ; you will see so many people." 
 
 " Are you judging me out of your own heart V he asks, still 
 gravely ; " would any amount of seeing people, make you forget 
 me for a moment T 
 
 " I do not answer ; I am struggling against the unreasonable 
 feeling of dread that the mention of this short absence has 
 
SUMMER. 359 
 
 brought me. I have been living in a fool's paradise lately ; every 
 day, every hour, he has been close at hand, under my very eyes. 
 and it smites me with a bitter, desolate pang to think that for a 
 space he will be gone, his place stand empty, be out of reach of 
 the sound of my voice, the touch of my hand. 
 
 I think Paul sees the misery of my face, for he takes it between 
 his two hands, and looks at me with passionate love and tender- 
 ness. 
 
 " Is it not worth the pain of parting, sweetheart, to come back 
 to each other again 1 Shall we not love even better for the days 
 spent apart f 
 
 " ' Absence makes the heart grow fonder,' " I quote ruefully ; 
 " but we don't want to grew any fonder than we are now ; and as 
 to that hateful word, good-bye, I wish I had never, never got to say 
 it to you !" 
 
 II When I come back," he says, " I will never leave you again 
 until you are my wife ; never any more, little Nell ! I shall miss 
 you horribly," he says, with a falter in his strong voice, as he winds 
 a long tress of my hair round his neck ; " I shall weary for a sight 
 of your soft face, for a touch of your sweet lips ! Will you long 
 forme, Nell?" 
 
 I look up into his dangerous, passionate, brown eyes— the eyesx. 
 that have swayed me so absolutely from the beginning, and which, X 
 if they beckoned me over flood and flame and yawning pit, T mm>t 
 needs follow, never recking where my feet trod. 
 
 " I love you" I say, with a long-drawn, quivering sigh ; " do you 
 know what that means V 
 
 " Never desert me, my angel," he says, looking down with almost 
 fierce worship into my upturned face ; '' for if you do — better far 
 had it been that I died before I met you." 
 
360 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 " Love's voice doth sing 
 As sweetly in a beggar as a king." 
 
 Do what I will, I cannot get used to the fact that I may run up 
 and downstairs, sing, laugh, talk at the top of my voice, not only 
 in the school-room, but in the passages and in the drawing-room ; 
 sit nose and knees into the fire if I please, instead of looking at it 
 from afar off with blue cheeks and pinched nose ; give my opinion 
 with a pleasant conviction that it will be treated with considera- 
 tion ; in short, conduct myself generally as a human being and 
 independent member of society, whereas, until now, I have been 
 but a miserable and insignificant atom gravitating around that tre- 
 mendous magnet, the governor. 
 
 I don't suppose that he would be considered a very great man 
 out of his family. Folks might call him a handsome little man, 
 or a cross little man ; and if he tried on his pranks in society, no 
 doubt society would show him the door. (Happy thought ! per- 
 haps that is why he has eschewed it ; and unhappy we, who are 
 made to act as buffers between him and the outer world.) But to 
 us he is Queen Victoria and the Emperor of all the Russias, and 
 anything else that can be suggested as important, awe-inspiring, 
 and not to be set at nought. 
 
 It is all very different now. The house echoes from morning to 
 night with gay young voices, doors bang, not compelled thereto by 
 a wrathful hand, but naturally ; dogs bark, the parrot struts about 
 at its leisure, conversation goes on briskly and evenly " upstairs, 
 downstairs, and in my lady's chamber f our meals are no longer 
 served up and eaten by steam. 
 
 Simpkins has made a long farewell to all his greatness in 
 impromptu slides and races against time, subsiding into a dignified 
 
SUMMER. 361 
 
 demeanour that is far more convenable in a man of his years and 
 size. 
 
 And Paul Vasher comes and goes. Never were two such lucky 
 lovers as we are. Mother is the most absent of duennas, the chil- 
 dren the most invisible of pickles (Basan is at school), and we have 
 the garden and school-room to ourselves ; and, oh ! we are not 
 unthankful for our good luck ! Life can give us no fairer, sweeter, 
 days than she gives us now. Are we not more fortunate than our 
 fellows, in that we can gather up so many precious hours, and say, 
 'They were wholly satisfying ; there was no speck of alloy mixed 
 with their pure gold V Perhaps, if we only knew it, this is the one 
 green spot in our lives, to which, in days to come, we shall look 
 back with a keen longing. If only this golden time might remain 
 with us a little ! But it may not. 
 
 " Move on ! M cries the inexorable voice, " move on ! Take up 
 your chain or your garland where you laid it down, and go your 
 way : life gives no time for dallying or sitting still." It is moving 
 on until we reach the grave ; and, oh, spirits ! can you tell me 
 this— Is it not moving on after ? 
 
 The desolate old Persian proverb comes into my mind : " It is 
 better to kneel than to stand, it is better to sit than to kneel, it is 
 better to lie than to sit, and it is better to be dead than lying." I 
 think the man who wrote that must have been a cowardly, half- 
 hearted fellow, who had not enough pluck to take up his burden 
 and bear it. It is an ignoble longing to wish to lay down the wea 
 pons of life, and rust away in stirless, helpless sleep. 
 
 My thoughts seem to be taking a dismal turn ; but I feel dismal. 
 For the first time in my life I am waiting for Paul. He is delayed, 
 I suppose, by some more of those tiresome people who have been 
 flocking to call upon him since his return has been made known. 
 He has seen a few, escaped a great many, but this morning, I 
 imagine, he has been fairly caught, to his own disgust, no doubt. 
 
362 COMIN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 as much as to mine. I have not seen his home yet ; mother would 
 not allow me to go there, and he does not want me to see it just 
 directly, he is getting a surprise ready for me, he says. I have 
 not told Alice and Milly a word about him. Mother did not wish 
 it until papa's return, neither have I mentioned Paul's name to 
 Jack, who did not come home in October after all. Christmas he 
 is to spend with the Lovelaces, and Alice thinks I am going to 
 accompany him there. But indeed I am not ; Paul is going to be 
 here, and where he is I shall be. 
 
 " It is quite certain," I say aloud, " that he is not coming for 
 ages ; he will very likely not be here till luncheon time, and then, 
 of course, mamma and Simpkins will be there, and I shall not be 
 
 able to speak to him, and " Here my fortitude gives way, and 
 
 tears run down my cheeks. " How wasted every minute does seem 
 that I spend away from him !" 
 
 " They are something worse than wasted to Paul," says my lover's 
 voice behind me, and as I turn my forlorn countenance to him, he 
 catches me up in his arms, and lifts me from the ground. 
 
 When he has wiped my tears away— and it takes a very long 
 while, although I have not shed a single one since he came in — he 
 puts my hat straight, and we go out into the garden, and stroll up 
 and down the gravelled walks, talking the silly, selfish stuff that 
 is vastly entertaining, important, and absorbing to us, but would 
 be flat enough to anybody else. 
 
 The world (says Alice and Milly) calls Paul Vasher haughty, cold, 
 proud ; if they could only see him now, planning out our married 
 life with all the zest and abandon of a schoolboy out for a 
 holiday ! 
 
 He is going to teach me to ride, he says ; it is to be hoped that 
 Ills efforts will be crowned with more success than were those of 
 the governor. Not that he took any pains with me, he used to 
 sjallop away, and leave me to follow as best 1 might, and follow J 
 
 
SUMMER, 363 
 
 did — over my animal's nose. How often have I not sat at my ease 
 on the dusty road, weeping plentifully, while my steed refreshed 
 himself from the hedge, waiting till Providence should send some- 
 body to put me into the saddle again ! Altogether it was a failure : 
 and after my pony had walked me in at the open door of the 
 village public, and was forced to be backed therefrom, to papa's 
 rage and disgust, he washed his hands of me, and I was left in 
 peace. " You won't be very angry if I break the horse's knees," I 
 ask, anxiously ; " that was what unnerved me so when I was out 
 with the governor; my own would not have mattered half as 
 much !" 
 
 " Poor little sweetheart !" he says ; " well, I don't know that I 
 should care particularly for a stable of broken-kneed horses, but I 
 would far rather they came to grief than you did." 
 
 " I can stick on pretty well," I say, with modest pride, " but you 
 will never be able to teach me to trot / You will be so ashamed 
 of me when you see me shaking up and down in the saddle, with 
 my hat at the back of my neck, and my hair tumbling down— you 
 should only hear Jack talk about it ! Poor fellow ! how I have 
 forgotten him lately ! All your fault, sir." 
 
 We stand still among the cabbages to make ourselves ridiculous, 
 and then go on again. 
 
 " Do you know, Paul, that there is one thing I shall not like at 
 the Towers f 
 
 "What is that P 
 
 " The visitors ! Don't you think it would be much better to 
 quarrel with our neighbours all round, as papa does ] We never 
 should have had this glorious time here, if callers had been popping 
 in at all hours ! Now, if visitors only came when they were asked, 
 or when they had something nice to say, or because they knew they 
 were welcome, there would be some sense in their coming ; but 
 when they only call as a duty, and don't care twopence for you, 
 
364 COM IN" THRV THE RYE. 
 
 and yon only receive them as a duty, and do not care twopence 
 for them, is it not a great waste of time and trouble ?" 
 
 '"' I don't think it would do to quarrel with them all," says Paul, 
 laughing, " but we will keep as clear of them as we can. You 
 won't be always here ; we shall go to town in May, for you to be 
 presented." 
 
 " Presented !" I repeat, stopping short, and staring at him ; " do 
 you mean it V 
 
 " Of course I do, child ; why not V 
 
 " Why not V I repeat again ; " oh ! the very idea ! why— why— " 
 I say, going off into a hearty roar, " the Queen would laugh in my 
 face ! Oh dear ! oh dear ! only think of me, in a tail three yards 
 long ; me, in white feathers ; me, walking out of a room backwards 
 — why, I should turn a somersault as sure as fate !" And I go off 
 again into a louder explosion than the first. " Papa would never 
 get over it," I say, wiping my eyes ; " he always called me a pea- 
 cock, and if I went to court, I should be— be one ; tail, feathers, 
 strut, and all !" 
 
 " Nell," says Paul gravely, " I am afraid you will not make a 
 very dignified Mrs. Vasher." 
 
 " Do you mind my being so noisy V I ask, suddenly sobered. 
 " Would you rather I were quieter 1 Only I am so happy, you 
 know, and I never was quiet over that ! And if you really mean 
 me to go to court, Paul (I check myself on the edge of another 
 outburst), I will promise you not to smile even, or turn a somer- 
 sault—if I can help it ; I will be as sober as a judge." 
 
 " Will you V he asks ; " I don't think I should know my Nell if 
 she moved slowly and spoke seldom." 
 
 " Did you ever think your wife would ever be a bit like me 
 dear T 
 
 " Did you ever think your husband would be a bit like me, 
 Nell?" 
 
SUMMER. 365 
 
 " No," I say absently j " for I always thought I should have to 
 marry George." 
 
 " Don't say that/' he says, frowning ; " it sounds as though it 
 did not matter much to you whether you married him or me ; and 
 I suppose if I had not come you would have married him T 
 
 " I suppose so, sooner or later !'* 
 
 " You are very cool over it," he says, giving me a little im- 
 patient shake ; " I do believe that after a while you would have 
 got a comfortable sort of a liking for him, and never found out 
 that you were capable of feeling anything different." 
 
 " Of course I should ! And when you came back to The Towers 
 later on, we should have looked upon you as a sort of benevolent 
 elderly gentleman, whom we should have prevailed on to intercede 
 with the governor to obtain his consent to our marriage, and we 
 should have become very fond of you." 
 
 11 Would you, indeed ?" he says. " Let me tell you, child, that if 
 you had been betrothed wife or wedded wife when I came back, it 
 would have been just the same, you would have loved me as I 
 should have loved you — instinctively. " 
 
 " Would you V I ask slowly. 
 
 " Ay ! that would I ! And your heart would have come to me 
 as mine would have gone to you, across everything." 
 
 " No, Paul, it would not. If I had belonged to George, and, too 
 late, met and loved you, you should never have known it. You 
 praised me once for being honest. . . ." 
 
 We are in a remote corner of the garden now, and we stand still 
 with the dull, sodden ground at our feet, and the grey, blank skies 
 overhead, and he takes me in his arms. 
 
 " Sweet and honest, fair and true !" he says ; " was ever any one 
 like my sweetheart] Thank God that no other man has a shadow 
 of right over you, Nell ; who is there, indeed, of all the living 
 world, that could come between us and make our love a sin T 
 
366 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 And the chill wintry wind that is moaning and creeping about 
 the leafless trees, echoes eerily, " Who ?" 
 
 " If you please, Miss Ullen," says Dorley, appearing, '" I've got 
 a nosegay for 'ee." 
 
 I take the scanty little bouquet with a very red face, and a not 
 very gracious " Thank you." 
 
 " Mebbe that's your young man, Miss Ullen f he says, in a 
 stage whisper. " An' it seems ony yesterday I saw you a-dangling 
 from that quarinder tree with yer pantaloons " 
 
 ° That will do, Dorley !" I say hastily, and he shuffles away. 
 
 " What was the end of the story V asks Paul, inquisitively ; 
 " your * 
 
 " Dorley does not know his manners !" I say with dignity ; 
 " we will not talk about him !" 
 
 We go and look at the rabbits, Basan's now, not Jack's, soft, 
 helpless, pretty creatures, whose bodies, alas! we too often 
 nourish to feed our greedy cat 
 
 " I should like a good many pets at The Towers,'' I say, as we 
 move on again. " Will you read prayers, Paul V 
 
 "I !" says my lover, looking considerably astonished ; "well, no, 
 I think not, Nell." 
 
 II Then I must. What made me think of it was the canaries." 
 " The canaries ! what on earth have they got to do with it V 
 
 " When papa begins to read they begin to sing, and then he gets 
 in a rage, and altogether " 
 
 " Hum !" says Paul, " prayers and temper seem to go together. 
 Don't you think we had better do without both V 
 
 '■' Oh, Paul !" 
 
 " Look here, little woman !" he says, " I may as well tell you 
 now, to save bother hereafter, that I don't believe any amount of 
 praying by rote does a man a vestige of good. Let him set to 
 work to mend his morals and weed his heart first, and keep the 
 
SUMMER. 367 
 
 outward observances of religion after. Many a man who makes 
 a great parade of religion is at heart ten times more sinful than he 
 whom the world calls infidel, yet has throughout his whole life 
 been true to every generous, noble instinct, doing his duty to his 
 neighbour without shrinking, asking and expecting no approval, 
 save that which is given by his own conscience. Such a man's life 
 is, to my thinking, a far truer worship of his Creator than any 
 amount of empty prayer ascending daily from a selfish, presump- 
 tuous soul, that glorifies self in his Maker, and believes that words, 
 not acts, are reckoned up above." 
 
 " Then you would abolish prayer ?" I ask ; " you would do away 
 with a man's going to church 1" 
 
 " No," he says ; I believe in the efficacy of the one and the 
 good of the other, if he seeks them because he feels the need of 
 them ; not from custom or habit, or because the omission will be 
 observed of his fellow-men. Do you believe that prayer is of any 
 use to a man who takes his every-day thoughts with him to wor- 
 ship and, outwardly observant, hugs himself in the consciousness 
 that he is doing something at once pleasant and profitable, making/ 
 his peace with God and mankind at the same moment V 
 
 I shake my head. H You would sweep away all the old land- 
 marks, Paul. How would you teach a child to understand this t" 
 
 " I would say, ' Be good, for goodness' own sake, and because lT*"^ 
 is honest and right,' not ' Be good, and you shall go to heaven ; be 
 naughty and you shall go to hell.' I call that plan one of lollipops 
 and terrorism. The child is too young to take in all the things 
 that are poured into its mind ; it gets a vague idea that being good 
 is a very hard thing, but to be rewarded by something nice, and 
 that to be naughty is very pleasant, but will be followed in due 
 course by something uncommonly nasty ; and, between the two, 
 the poor little wretch loses its head and gets an entirely false idea 
 of religion. Now, if the instinct of right were implanted in that/ 
 
368 COM IN THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 child's mind, and it were taught to follow after good and reject 
 evil, not because it would be rewarded for the one and punished 
 for the other, but because goodness and virtue were beautiful and 
 to be worshipped, while vice and sin were ugly and hateful, and to 
 be shunned for the sake of its own deformity, then would be laid the 
 foundation for a race of men who would be neither free-thinkers 
 
 LOr Pharisees " 
 
 " If you please, miss," says Simpkins, in a patient voice, that 
 signifies he has made the announcement more than once to us 
 M luncheon is served !" 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " Rosalind. — Oh ! how full of briars is the working-day world. 
 Celia. — They are but burrs, cousin, thrown upon us in holiday fooloiy. 
 
 We have never quarrelled before, Paul and I, never. We have 
 had little disputes about this, that, and t'other ; he has been jea- 
 lous, I provoking, but we have never actually quarrelled till to-day. 
 We are at it at this very moment, and oh ! what dull, dull work I 
 find it ! We are not saying bitter things to each other shrilly and 
 fast, with angry tears in our voices and treacherously soft hearts. 
 (When one is having a good downright quarrel with a person one 
 loves, does not the tongue wax the bitterer in proportion as the 
 heart grows softer] Mine does.) We are in the sulky, dignified 
 silent stage, each waiting for the other to speak, and each grimly 
 determined not to be first. Paul is in one arm-chair, I am in 
 another — we are yards apart ; and on the hearthrug, sprawling on 
 their backs, as though they had alighted in a hurry, lie two books. 
 I shall not say what the quarrel began about. I was certainly very 
 rude ; but what business had he to take up a newspaper, and read 
 it right before me, after I had said what I did ? I lost my temper 
 
SUMMER. 369 
 
 then— always an easy matter with me— and my manners along with 
 it, and threw a thin little book at him, and it just shaved his nose. 
 
 He looked up and said, " Don't do that again, Nell !" And his 
 cold voice so provoked me that I threw another one, and could 
 have wept for shame when it struck his newspaper, and then fell 
 down beside the first ; for he neither spoke, nor moved, nor looked 
 at me. 
 
 How different a man is to quarrel with to a woman ! Now, if 1 
 were falling out with the latter, she would be so amazed at my 
 holding my tongue, instead of going at her hammer and tongs, 
 that she would be thoroughly nonplussed, and suspect me of pos- 
 sessing some weapon against her of which she knew nothing ; in 
 short, to thoroughly rout and overcome a female opponent, nothing 
 answers like a stolid silence, whereas a man considers a woman 
 who holds her tongue instead of storming at him, a good, sensible 
 little soul, worthy of his best consideration. Therefore I am ha- 
 rassed by fears that he will think I am meek and sorry ; and, in- 
 deed, I am neither. 
 
 I always thought men remained on their knees until they mar- 
 ried. I know a good many of them hop up pretty quickly after- 
 wards, for the cold plunge of matrimony once taken, they have an 
 nwkward knack of remembering Byron's words, — 
 
 " Love is of man's life a thing apart, 
 'Tis woman's whole existence," 
 
 but I never heard before of a lover behaving as Paul is doing. 
 
 In novels, if Amanda is offended with her Adolphus (although 
 she may be entirely in the wrong), Adolphus always tears his 
 hair, and beats his breast, and does everything but walk on his 
 head to restore serenity to her ruffled brow. I am sure George 
 would never have sat in my presence mute as a fish fo/ 
 five whole minutes. I wonder if I should have cared so intensely 
 if he had 1 not that I do care much. 
 
 24 
 
370 COMIN 1 THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 How the minutes drag— the ugly, empty, dull minutes. The 
 hands of the clock are surely standing still, for I am sure that 
 it is hours that Paul and I have been sitting apart, with this 
 leaden silence between us. I was very rude to him just now, and 
 when he held out his hand to me and said, " Nell, did you mean 
 what you said just now 1 ?" why did I not jump out of my chair and 
 say, " No, no, no !'' instead of answering, " Yes, certainly," in the 
 confident expectation that he would cross over to me the very next 
 moment and fetch me 1 But he is sitting in his chair, and I am 
 in mine ; and if he will not come to me, or I swallow my pride and 
 go to him, shall we sit on and on in this old school-room till 
 Doomsday 1 I shut my eyes and count sixty seconds at a smart 
 gallop, then sixty more ; then I unlatch one eye cautiously to see 
 what he is doing. 
 
 The newspaper hangs from his hand ; he is staring into the fire 
 rather wearily. Suddenly he looks full at me, but as my one open 
 optic is more suggestive of mirthful winking than penitence, he 
 looks away again. It is full a minute before I take another peep 
 und discover that he is, to all appearance, following my example, 
 and courting slumber— or pretending to. I had no idea Paul was 
 so sulky ! He looks very handsome with his head lying back 
 upon the cushion, and I am just thinking so, when he opens 
 his eyes and looks at me as I hastily shut mine. After all, it 
 is very like a game of bo-peep, and if it goes on much longer 
 I shall burst out laughing, which would be dreadful ; for how 
 could I dictate terms of surrender in the midst of breathless 
 giggles! 
 
 I wonder what will bring him into a state of repentance quickest 
 —reproaches'? It would be very infra dig to speak to him. 
 Hysterics'? I don't know the way, and he hates them. Faint 
 away 1 He would not know when I began unless I made a series 
 of horrible faces ; and he might consider them purely vicious, and 
 
SUMMER. 371 
 
 take no notice. Tears 1 The very thing. Decent, touching, non- 
 compromising tears, that may mean anything or nothing. If only 
 I could get them up, there's the rub ; tears never came easy to me 
 at any time. Joy or sorrow must prick me pretty sharply before the 
 salt fount is unsealed. I sit bolt upright, take out my handker- 
 chief, and with the heartiness with which I always set about all 
 my undertakings, I try hard to " weep a little weep." I think of 
 my own tomb, and nobody to weep over it— always a subject of 
 dismal contemplation with me ; of the end of the world, and the 
 sorry figure that I shall cut ; of Jack, cut off in the flower of his 
 youth ; of George, a victim to my charms, standing on his head 
 with his heels sticking out of the Thames mud ; of every dismal 
 picture, in short, that I can conjure up before my mind, but all in 
 vain. My tears come not ; and though I scrub my eyes and nose 
 and cheeks into a high state of refulgency, they remain dry as 
 bones. 
 
 I am putting away my handkerchief, feeling that my last weapon 
 has broken in my hand, and that nothing is now left to me but 
 dignified flight, when I catch Paul's eye, and discover that he is 
 absolutely— yes, absolutely laughing. I stare at him for a minute 
 in amazed silence : is this his way of going down on his knees 1 
 
 " Have you quite finished trying to pump up those tears V he 
 asks, passing his hand over his mouth. " I have been watching you 
 for some time, and I am sure you must have hurt yourself with 
 that piece of cambric." 
 
 " I am going," I say, jumping up. " Oh, I had no idea you could 
 behave so ill ; I thought you liked me." 
 
 He snatches at my skirts as I pass him, and in a second has 
 perched me on his knee, holding me there with a firm grasp that 
 I cannot shake off. Tears, real tears, are in my eyes now, but they 
 do not fall ; he shall not think that what is a laughing matter with 
 him is a crying one with me. 
 
 24—2 
 
372 COM IN 1 THRCT THE RYE. 
 
 " Now, Nell," he says, and there is no laughter in his voice, it is 
 very grave ; " I want to know what you mean by this stupid 
 behaviour T 
 
 Stupid behaviour ! I never heard of a man saying such a thing 
 as that to his lady love before ; and I thought Paul was so hope- 
 lessly, drivellingly, besottedly in love with me. . . . 
 
 " I think it is you who have been stupid," I say blankly. 
 
 " What did you say to me when I asked you to V 
 
 " That will do," 1 say hastily; "we have discussed all that before." 
 
 " And do you call that a proper way to speak to me V 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " Do you call it a proper thing to throw books at my head V 
 
 " Do you call it a proper thing to read a newspaper before me V 
 
 " Certainly ; if you are sulky and will not speak to me." 
 
 "You were sulky too." 
 
 " I spoke to you." 
 
 " And I answered you." 
 
 " In a nice manner." 
 
 " I had better not speak to you at all," I say with dignity: " per- 
 haps you will allow me to leave you, Mr. Vasher V* 
 
 " Presently. Now, Nell, do you think that because we are lovers 
 we are to be careless of each other's feelings 1 The most passionate 
 love that ever existed between man and woman would make 
 neither happy if consideration did not form a part of it. Do you 
 think I would wound you as you did me ten minutes ago ; do you 
 think I could ever make such a speech to you as you did to me I" 
 
 " Is it only ten minutes ago V* I say, looking at the clock ; " it 
 seems like ten hours." 
 
 " Are you sorry that you made it, Nell T 
 
 I lift my head and look him in the face silently, and for a 
 minute I have a sharp, short struggle with myself, then, for I love 
 him very dearly, I say " Yes." 
 
SUMMER. 373 
 
 " Little darling !" he says, clasping me tighter ; but— oh, wonder 
 of wonders !— he does not kiss me ; does not even try to. What 
 a deal of time we have wasted, to be sure. " But that is not all ; 
 there are the books." 
 
 " The books," I repeat ; " what of them ?" 
 
 11 You have not picked them up yet." 
 
 "Did you suppose I was going toTI ask, smiling at his joke 
 which is excellent. 
 
 " I am sure you will." 
 
 I look at him quickly, fancying my ears have played me false 
 but he is grave enough." 
 
 '• Do you mean it ¥' I ask slowly. 
 
 " Most certainly/' 
 
 " Then I never will," I say with spirit " Oh ! I did not think 
 you were so mean, after I had said I was sorry too." 
 
 " What did I say to you after you had thrown the first one I" he y 
 
 " That I was not to do that again." 
 
 " And you threw another the next moment ; so you were uot 
 only rude but disobedient." 
 
 " Am I your daughter V I ask, turning round to look at him 
 with a hovering smile. 
 
 11 No, miss, but I am your lord and master, and you are bound •,- 
 to obey me." 
 
 " Don't be so sure of that," I say, putting my head on one side 
 to look at my smart engagement ring of big opals and diamonds 
 — the "jewels of calamity," as folks say. " If you are such a tyrant 
 now, when we are only courting, whatever would you be if wei 
 were married f 
 
 I don't feel a bit miserable now, or sorry or ashamed. He is 
 talking to me ; there is not a dreadful wall of silence built up 
 between us. 
 
374 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " Do you expect me to tell you I am pleased with you when 
 I am notf he asks gravely. " Would you like me to be a hypo- 
 crite 1 I cannot say one thing and mean another, and the same 
 with you ; when you are vexed I should like you to speak out and 
 have done with it." 
 
 " I am very much vexed with you now/' I say with alacrity ; " I 
 wish to get off your knee this very minute, and you will not let 
 me." 
 
 " You shall go when you have picked up those books. 7 ' 
 
 v Then we shall stay here until we are fossils," I say, swinging 
 my foot. "Simpkins will be here presently to say dinner is 
 ready ; shall we eat it as we are V 
 
 " The dinner can wait." 
 
 ** Only I can't wait for my dinner." 
 
 There is a little pause, during which I look into the red-hot 
 heart of the fire and take counsel with myself. Clearly he is not 
 to be managed by dignity, and I don't mean to give in. Never- 
 theless, I have no mind to sit here mumchance till we do turn into 
 fossils. I will try coaxing, and see if that will bring him to a 
 proper frame of mind. I steal my arms round his neck and hold 
 up my mouth to be kissed, but he does not bring his face a jot 
 nearer to mine ; and for the first time in my life my offered caress 
 is refused. If he had slapped me he could not have astonished 
 me more. 
 f~~ u Nell," he says, " Nell," and he looks into my eyes with a vexed 
 and strong pain in his own, " could you not give up your wilful- 
 ness for once to please me V 
 
 For a little space I look at him ; then I slip out of his arms and 
 sit down on the hearthrug. There the books lie, nasty little 
 toads ! How I hate the man that wrote, the printer that printed, 
 and the person that brought them here ! I turn them over with 
 the point oi my shoe, and take a covert look at Paul ; his head is 
 
SUMMER. 375 
 
 turned away, thank heaven I or I could never pick them up. neverY 
 A thought strikes me ; and I smile to myself as I scramble up, \ 
 and into a chair, and lift up one of the volumes between my two/ 
 feet and hold it towards him. 
 
 " Paul," I say, in a very small voice, " here it is !" 
 
 He turns quickly, but, on seeing the fashion in which my offer- 
 ing is made, he reseats himself. 
 
 " That is not the way, Nell," he says ; and is it fancy, or is there > 
 a keen disappointment in his voice? I lower the book to the 
 ground, and consider for a little while, then I jump up and knee*' 
 down by his side. 
 
 " Paul," I say, wistfully, " won't you let me off, dear ? I'll never 
 throw any more at you, big or little, never ! ;; 
 
 He turns and looks at me. 
 
 "I misunderstood you, child," he says, "I thought you would 
 have done it ; but never mind." 
 
 " And so I will," I say, heartily. " I would pick up a whole 
 library full rather than you should look at me like that." And I 
 stoop down to gather up those nasty, nasty little volumes, but 
 Paul snatches me in his arms. 
 
 " My plucky little girl !" he cries ; " after all she has not disarX 
 pointed me. Do you know, Nell, that I had made up my mind\ 
 just now that, with all our love for each other, we should never/ 
 hit it off if you were too proud to own yourself in the wrong V 
 
 " Only I did not pick them up, after all," I say, slyly. " And 
 how do you know I ever intended to V 
 
 " Did you not V he asks, pinching my cheek ; " I know 
 better !" 
 
 11 If I have come out of the ordeal well, sir, so have not you ! A 
 more pig-headed, self-willed, obstinate person I never met ; and 
 how you could bring yourself to behave in such a way to a 
 lady " 
 
376 COM IN' THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 11 Why did you provoke me so, then V lie asks, quickly ; " have 
 you forgotten what it was that you said V* 
 
 " Hush !" I say, putting my hand over his mouth. " At any 
 rate, I will kiss you now." 
 
 * If you please," says Simpkins the ubiquitous ; " hem ! dinner 
 is waiting !'" 
 
HARVEST 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Hermia. — Why get you gone ; who is't that hinders you ? 
 Helena. — A. foolish heart that I leave here behind. 
 
 The lOtk of December has come, and the hour of Paul's departure 
 —a black and bitter day — and I am bidding him farewell ; not in 
 the old school-room, or by a warm fireside, but out here in the 
 cold, raw winter's day, with the wind blowing wildly, dismally in 
 our faces, with the dead leaves whirling about our feet like a host 
 of restless spirits, with a dull, hard, cold sky above, and a deso- 
 late sweep of barren landscape stretching out before us. We are 
 standing by the old stile where we first met, and our faces are not 
 gay and warm as they were then, but pale and cold, his w r ith the 
 sorriness of a man who hates to part with the thing he loves best 
 on earth, I with the restless misery that only a woman's heart 
 knows who sees her treasure go forth into the world, and knows 
 not if it will come safely back to her. It is such a little while that 
 he purposes to be gone— only ten days— a mere nothing— why, 
 therefore, do I feel such a dragging, heavy foreboding at my heart 1 
 why do I hold his hand in both mine, and look at him as though I 
 were taking my last fill of gazing on him for years ? Why do I 
 kiss him again and again, with a passion that I never knew until 
 to-day— as I could kiss him no more tenderly if he lay dying in 
 my arms ] Ah ! Why, indeed ! I have had a dream, but that is 
 nothing ; I have an instinct, but that is nothing— something 
 
378 COMIN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 above and beyond these seems to tell me that our parting to-day 
 is for evil : there is sorrow in the air, there is dread in the rustling 
 leaves, a keening of mortal anguish in the sobbing wind, a dark 
 shadow passing like a doom betwixt my lover and me. 
 
 " My sweetheart," he says, " how pale you are I I should not 
 have let you come out in this cold " 
 
 " Only you promised," I say, buttoning his coat closer about his 
 throat with trembling fingers. " You will come back, Paul : you 
 are sure you will come back V 
 
 " Come back to my pearl, my darling ? Aye, that I will ! You 
 are not yourself," he says, looking into my face ; " you are ill, 
 suffering ; I cannot leave you like this, dear, I shall take you back 
 to the house." 
 
 " No, no," I say, faintly ; * but you are quite sure that you must 
 go?" 
 
 " Quite sure, little one ; if it had been possible to get out of it, 
 you may be sure I should have done so. But it is such a little 
 while, you will scarcely have realized that I am gone before I shall 
 be back, and then, Nell " 
 
 " We shall be very happy if you come back," I say, dreamily. 
 " Take care of yourself, Paul ; do not forget that any harm to you 
 passes straight through me, and that every hour you are away I 
 shall be wearying for you. Do not let any one put me out of your 
 head ; do not forget me." 
 
 " Forget thee P he cries, kissing my pale lips again and again ; 
 < ' who could forget thee 1 not Paul. Write to me twice or thrice, 
 darling, it will pass the time more quickly to you, and I will 
 write too, but I never was a good scribe, pet, so you must not 
 expect much. Of course I shall scrawl you a line from Mar- 
 seilles." 
 
 " Ten days !" I say to myself, as he smoothes the hair back from 
 my forehead with his brown hand. " Only ten days !" what could 
 
HARVEST. 379 
 
 happen in that time % Yesterday I seemed to have no fear; to-day 
 
 I see into shadow-land. What has happened to me between the 
 days that has shaken me horribly % Only a dream ; a silly, mock- 
 ing, intangible dream, that Paul would laugh to scorn — shall I tell 
 him of it before he goes % shall I warn him 1 
 
 " Don't flirt with George while I am away/' he says, jealously . 
 
 II you will have lots of opportunities, you know." 
 
 " Poor George !" I say, sadly ; " I don't think there is much 
 fear." 
 
 " Darling !" he says, " I shall give up this train, and take you 
 back to the Manor House." 
 
 " No, you will not, Paul ; for where would be the good ? If you 
 missed that you would have to catch the next. I should only have 
 to say good-bye to you at home instead of here, and you promised 
 me that I should say it here, dear, and nowhere else." 
 
 " I did promise," he says ; " but I can't let you go like this." 
 
 " Yes, you will go," I say, gently ; " you will kiss me once, Paul, 
 and then you will go." 
 
 And so he takes me in his arms and kisses me many times 
 " Good-bye, little sweetheart, good-bye," he says, and at last goes 
 away. 
 
 Half-way across the field he turns and looks at me. All un- 
 consciously I hold out my arms to him, and he comes back. 
 
 " Do not forget," I whisper, " that here, where I kissed you first, 
 I kissed you last. . , ." 
 
 There is one more swift embrace, a passionate clinging of hands, 
 and he is gone ; and I stand staring after him, with aching, burn- 
 ing eyeballs, and a heart heavy as lead. Why do I feel so certainly, 
 desperately sure that he is going away from me to-day— for evil, 
 not good 1 I watch him over the brow of the hill, turning often 
 as he goes. Then I go along the meadow with halting, lagging 
 steps, and presently meet George with his dogs at his heels. 
 
3 8o COM IN 1 THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 '* Is that you, Nell ?" he asks, and mechanically I put my hand 
 in his, and look dully into his face. 
 
 " You are ill," he exclaims ; " you must let me take you home 
 at once f 
 
 "I am going. He is gone," I say, looking up into my com- 
 panion's face with a chilly smile, "and I think my heart is 
 broken." 
 
 " He will come back," says George, soothingly ; " it is only for 
 a little while. " Can't you live these few days without him, Nell V 
 
 " He will never come back," I say, standing still. " Do you not 
 hear the fairies and spirits whispering it—' He will never return 
 to you, never, never V That is what they are saying quite plainly; 
 
 and I oh, God !" I cry, standing still. " He will never be my 
 
 Paul any more, never any more. I can see it— the dream !" I 
 shudder from head to foot, and stagger. George holds me for a 
 moment, then I shake the blindness from my eyes, the lassitude 
 from my limbs, and break away from him. " Hark !" I cry, hold- 
 ing up my hand; "surely that was his step— listen !" But no 
 sound comes to us, and though I run to the bend of the meadow 
 and look around, there is no one to be seen, all is blank and bare 
 and chill. 
 
 " It is too cold for you here," says George; " come away home^ 
 Nell !" And he puts my hand under his arm and takes me away. 
 
 " It sounded just like his step," I say over and over again ; 
 " could he have come back V 
 
 " George," I say, looking up into his worn, kind face, " do you 
 
 (think I am mad"? I am not— only I feel strange, as though I had 
 had a bad blow. Do you think a person could die in ten days, or 
 that any one who hated him could do him a mischief in that 
 time?" 
 
 " Do not think of such things," says the young man ; " youi 
 nerves are unstrung, dear. You will feel differently to-morrow." 
 
HARVEST. 381 
 
 " Do you know," I say in a whisper, "that when he was saying 
 good-bye to me, I seemed to see as clearly as the daylight that we 
 were saying good-bye to each other, not for a little while, but lor 
 ever. It was second sight." 
 
 " It was fancy," he says, decidedly. " Who could possibly come 
 between you 1 Who has the power to do it f 
 
 " A woman," I say, dreaming ; " her words sounded empty 
 enough to me once — they have a different meaning to-day." 
 
 " But how can she do you mischief," asks George, " if you and 
 Vasher thoroughly understand each other 1" 
 
 " I will tell you my dream first," I say slowly — " about her after- 
 wards." 
 
 " I thought I was in a church crowded with people. Among 
 them I saw the faces of mother, and Jack, and Alice, and you, and 
 Dolly, and many others that I knew. Before the altar rails were 
 standing a man and woman ; the marriage service was being read, 
 and he was putting a marriage-ring upon the woman's finger. 
 Both the figures seemed familiar to me, but something seemed to 
 hold me back and prevent my seeing distinctly. No one heeded 
 me, although I was standing at the foot of the altar steps. When 
 the service was over, the two turned and descended the steps ; and 
 as they stood face to face with me, the cloud lifted, and I saw 
 Silvia Fleming in her marriage robe of white and her marriage 
 ring of gold, and on her beautiful face as she looked at me was that 
 slow, faint, dawning smile that I knew so well. ... I turned my 
 eyes away from her to look at the bridegroom, and there, with a 
 terrible face of shame and horror, stood Paul Vasher. * Nell !' he 
 cried, and held out his arms to me, and though I knew he was 
 that woman's husband, I strove to get to him as madly as he was 
 striving to get to me, but we could not reach each other. Then 
 church and crowd, and bride and bridegroom, faded away, and in 
 its place I saw the field of rye, and Paul coming quickly across it 
 
382 CO MI 1ST THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 to meet me, and I seemed to know that the picture of the wedding 
 had been a hideons dream, and that now I was awake, and the 
 familiar trysting-place looks so natural and familiar, that all my 
 misery fell from me like a veil, and the blood leaped in my veins 
 for joy. And he came nearer and nearer with his dark glad face, 
 and we were but a hand's-breadth apart, when between us there 
 came a woman, fair as a rose, with a marriage ring upon her 
 finger, and though we tried to grope round her, we could not find 
 each other, for between us she stood smiling, always smiling — and 
 in calling madly upon him I awoke." 
 
 " And that is what has made you so fearful T he asks. " Nell, 
 Nell ! it is not like you to believe in such folly— you always were 
 such a sensible little thing !" His cheerful, robust philosophy 
 heartens me. Does he not know more about everything than I 
 do] But, oh! he does not know the whole story. "I know 
 Vasher was engaged to Miss Fleming once," he goes on, " but it is 
 sheer folly to suppose that, loving you as he does, he can ever 
 come under her influence again. Why, Nell, are you afraid he will 
 flirt with her V 
 
 " No," I say, thoughtfully, " I can't picture him doing that ; 
 but I always had a vague, intangible feeling that she would do 
 him a mischief, and that dream confirmed and strengthened the 
 belief. I could not say positively what it is I dread, but it is 
 something bad." 
 
 " And are you really so silly, Nell, as to suppose for a moment 
 that he will marry her V says George, smiling. 
 
 " No," I say, slowly ; " a woman can't make a man marry her— 
 can she 1 It is not that ; as I told you before, I do not know what 
 it is 1 fear." 
 
 " Comfortably indefinite," he says, cheerfully ; " but you have 
 not told me why you think she is so ill-inclined towards Vasher." 
 
 "Because he would not fall in love with her again," I say 
 
HARVEST. 383 
 
 gravely, " and I heard her vow that she would be revenged. Then, 
 at Luttrell, when she thought he cared for me, she told me that I 
 should never be his wife — no woman should be but herself." 
 
 " Rather cool that," says George ; " but a jealous woman will 
 say anything. And so you have put yourself into this state, Nell, 
 because of a few spiteful words V 
 
 " No, it was the dream. It was so real— so vivid " 
 
 " As mine have often been," says George, " when I dreamt I was 
 falling down a bottomless well, for instance." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Do you never have bad, ugly, haunting dreams V 
 
 " The realities of life are about enough for me," says the young 
 man, with a quiver in his voice that pierces through my selfish, 
 complaining sorrow, and reminds me that all this while he has 
 been soothing and listening to me when his own heart is heavier 
 even than mine. These ten weeks of absence that have sped so gaily 
 with me have left their mark on his face. Neither heart-broken, 
 nor complaining, nor preoccupied does he look, but something 
 has gone out of it that will never come back in this life, though 
 he bears his lot like a man, and never speaks of the past — never 
 gives a sign that he remembers, save when a chance break in his 
 voice betrays him. 
 
 " George," I say, wistfully, " if you only knew how much happier 
 you have made me ! When I met you I was so wretched." 
 
 " Whenever you are in trouble, dear," be says, " I hope you will 
 always let me be of use to you. Try and think that I am Jack." 
 
 " You are better than Jack," I say, heartily, " for he never gave 
 me much sympathy ; he would not understand " 
 
 "Sister Nell's hitched up with young Mr. Tempest!" says 
 Larry, thrusting his head out of the school-room window as we 
 pass. " I say, Geoff, what would the other one say if he could see 
 them r 
 
 The hours go by very slowly ; and now George is gone by fore- 
 
3&4 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 bodings creep upon me, strong and vigorous as ever. They haunt 
 me all through the night, waking and dreaming ; but with the 
 morrow they wax fainter and duller —already I have the inevitably 
 blunted memory that attends things that happened yesterday, not 
 to-day. I hurry downstairs quickly, and scramble through my 
 breakfast, for am I not going to do something most charming and 
 delightful this morning, and can I possibly begin it a moment too 
 soon? 
 
 It is barely half-past nine when, with a sigh of delight, I fetch 
 my desk and sit down at the school-room table to write my first 
 love-letter. How Paul laughed at my writing-paper the other 
 day, as well he might, for it is mysterious and wonderful indeed. 
 The colour is a sort of bilious yellow, and the monogram (of Pim- 
 pernel manufacture) is eccentric, the H being so very little and 
 the A so very big ; while the whirligigs and nourishes that surround 
 it remind one of a loose bundle of snakes. It is not an easy 
 matter to find a pen that is good enough for addressing my sweet- 
 heart, and the ink is not what it should be, but at last I begin 
 with many a smile and pause between, and what I say to him I 
 shall not tell you, for that is a secret between Paul and me. The 
 mere touch of the paper sends a swift delight and comfort to my 
 heart : is it not going from me to him, and if he holds it in his 
 hand and sends me an answer, shall I not know then that all my 
 miserable fears are vain and idle as a breath of summer wind 1 
 He does not seem so far away from me now ; I am speaking to 
 him, and I know that the words written on this paltry bit of paper 
 will cleave to him, straight as an arrow, over moor and field, and 
 town and sea, And as I write it seems to me that now— not days 
 later, but now— he is listening to me and replying. It is not a 
 very long letter, saucy, and loving, with none of my doubts in it 
 They are silly enough spoken ; they would look more ridiculous 
 still on paper* 
 
HARVEST. 385 
 
 I lay my letter down inside my desk and go out into the 
 garden, for I am going to put in a tiny nosegay ; he will like it, 
 I know. 1 can fancy how a lover sees a tender meaning in every 
 flower . . . the girl's face stooping over them, the slender 
 fingers binding them together, the kiss given to every blossom, 
 the lingering care with which she lays them down for the last time 
 upon the written love words — they must be like spiritual tokens 
 of her presence. So they would be to me if Paul sent me any ; 
 but men do not often think of those things, least of all he, who 
 is so strong and proud and manly— something to hold on by 
 and look up to. No, I do not think he has enough sentiment in 
 him for that. After all I get but a sorry bunch — a few honey- 
 sweet violets, a spray or two of scarlet geranium, a bit of late 
 flowering mignonette, one or two brightly tinted leaves, and that 
 is al. 1 
 
 Entering the schoolroom I meet Jane, the under housemaid, 
 coming out— a pale, unhealthy, evil-looking young woman whom 
 I have heartily disliked ever since she came to us, two months 
 ago, on Milly's recommendation. I tie my flowers together with a 
 scarlet thread, I lay them in my letter with a foolish, foolish pan- 
 tomime, and then look about for sealing-wax and seal. The former 
 is here, but the latter I cannot find. Perhaps mother has fetched 
 it. So I seal my letter with a trumpery little beehive affair, in- 
 stead of my own large one, with " Nell " cut on it in old English 
 letters. I should like to go and post it myself, but the rain is 
 coming down in torrents, and Simpkins (who looks as if he knew 
 what was in my letter quite as well as I do myself) is waiting to 
 put it in the post-bag, for it is going by the morning post, not the 
 evening. So with a sigh I hand it over to him, and wish that I 
 had not been in such a hurry to write it, for what am I to do 
 with myself the rest of this long, dull, empty day % 
 
 " Come quick, to-morrow !" I say, looking out of the blurred 
 
 25 
 
386 COJlf/N' THRO THE RYE. 
 
 window-panes at the driving sleet and rain, " and bring me a lettei 
 from you know who." 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 " Come what may, 
 Time and the hour run through the roughest day." 
 
 Paul will have been gone a week to-morrow, and I have not had 
 a single letter from him, or tidings of any kind, good or bad. I 
 know now that my presentiments were true ones, and that all is 
 not well with him. If I could only think him careless, or neglectful, 
 or busy, or that the letters have miscarried, I should not care ; it is 
 this deadly conviction of evil that makes my heart so full of fear. 
 Is he dead % He said he would write, and he never broke his word 
 yet ; he knows how eagerly I must be looking out for his letters 
 day by day, and he always hated to disappoint me of the smallest 
 thing. The letter from Marseilles might have missed, but not the 
 one from Rome, though indeed it is unlikely enough that either 
 should be mislaid, for when letters are posted safely they usually 
 come safe to hand, unless indeed they contain postage stamps, to 
 tempt un virtuous postmen to their ruin. If I could only be angry 
 with him, if I could give him a good downright scolding in my 
 heart, and call him hard names, I should be so much easier ; but I 
 cannot. I feel like a mother who is looking for a naughty Little 
 truant child, who has strayed away from its home and wandered 
 into danger. Seeking for it in fear and trembling, she forbears to 
 blame it— for what if she find her darling dead, will not her angry 
 words rise up and strike her as she looks on the silent, still, de- 
 fenceless face ? So I, who have lost sight of my lover, will not 
 blame him until I know whether the fault be his or no, only if he 
 conies back to me safe I shall be so angry with him, so angry. , . , 
 
HARVEST, 387 
 
 " That's the first smile I've seen on your face for a week, Miss 
 Nell," says nurse ; " do it again, dearie, for it makes my heart ache 
 to look at you !" 
 
 " I was thinking how I would tease Mr. Vasher when he comes 
 back," I say, looking at her ; " he is quite sure to come back, is he 
 not, nurse V 
 
 " Quite sure, Miss Nell. Never was a gentleman who set more 
 store by a young lady than he do by you." 
 
 " But I have not heard from him yet," I say, wistfully. " You 
 don't think anything has happened to him, nurse dear 1" 
 
 " No, no, honey ! Maybe he's busy or bothered ; 'tis not the 
 man who loves warmest that is the best hand at writing, many a 
 man as is a fine fellow at his pen is a poor hand at courting. 
 There was a young fellow once came courting my sister Susan, 
 his letters was beautiful, a perfect show, and when he came to see 
 her, he was a miserable little sparrow of a creature that it 'ud 
 make you smile to look at. Some does it well on paper, and some 
 does it well on their tongues, and I think your lover, Miss Nell, is 
 one of them last." 
 
 " Nurse," I say, watching her as she sits darning the boys' socks, 
 " do you remember you used to say I was certain to have a deal of 
 trouble some day, because I am always so merry and laugh so 
 much?" 
 
 " Did I V she asks, peering anxiously at me over her spectacles ; 
 " I can't call it to mind, Miss Nell. Why should you be worse off 
 than other folks ? Rain and sunshine come pretty much alike to 
 all, and you've got such a spirit 'twould take a great deal to make 
 you give in. You're terrible fond of Mr. Vasher," she says, 
 shaking her head. " Father used to say 'twas wonderful the dif- 
 ference there was in people when they fell in love : with some it went 
 to the head and was safe, for pride protected it ; with others it 
 went to the stomach, and if things turned out contrary, got dan- 
 
 2fr— 2 
 
3 88 COAflAT THRC? THE RYE. 
 
 gerous, and sometimes killed. Now, I think yours is the last, Miss 
 Nell. Not that you've any call to look out for sorrow that way ; 
 things '11 go straight enough, never fear, for he loves you as the 
 very apple of his eye." 
 
 " Does love keep off misfortune V I ask, as I get up from my 
 seat ; "it seems to me that those who love least come off best." 
 
 My restless feet have brought me into the nursery, and now 
 they carry me out again. All day long I wander hither and 
 thither, to and fro, and can settle to nothing, think of nothing, 
 save Paul. I go downstairs and search the newspapers of the past 
 week through and through, those useless ugly papers that come 
 every day regular as the clock, while my eagerly looked for letter 
 comes never. How I dread the sound of the postman's knock and 
 ring, how I shiver as Simpkins places the bag upon the table 
 beside me, how plainly I see his alert look at me as he leaves the 
 room (he knows what I am looking for as well as I know myself !) 
 How my heart sinks as I unlock it and take out the letters, some 
 for mother, one or two for me, welcome enough at any other time, 
 but a hateful mockery to me now ! Other people's letters come 
 safely enough — why should not his 1 
 
 In to-day's paper I come upon the account of an Englishman 
 murdered at Florence. Perchance some woman looked out long 
 and vainly for news of him, as I am looking now. Per- 
 haps her soul sickened within her with dread, just as mine 
 does, only God grant the awakening from my night of dread may 
 not be even as hers ! I wonder why, when our friends disappear 
 from our ken in any unaccountable way, we always think they are 
 dead 1 That is always the dread boundary to which our thoughts 
 fly, that, the only sure and certain thing that can come to us in this 
 life, is the theme of our sharpest fears. Neglect, loss of love, ill- 
 ness, misfortune, all pale before the ghastly visage of the " king 
 of terrors." " Take everything else," we cry ; " leave us naked, 
 
HARVEST, 389 
 
 sorry, maimed, and loveless : but leave us life !" I wonder why, 
 when a man or woman is ugly, selfish, and unlovely in life and 
 character, he or she nearly always lives to a good old age % — why the 
 young, the beautiful, the beloved, should always be called away 
 first ? Death passes by the wicked, whose evil deeds increase and 
 multiply, to take the adored husband, pillar of the house, the 
 happy, loving wife, the tender house-mother ; he spares the vicious, 
 wretched cripple, to gather the beautiful, vigorous child. Oh, he 
 has a rarely, dainty taste, and there must be some sweet blossoms 
 up above, since he takes our best from us so ruthlessly. 
 
 I fetch my hat and jacket and go out into the garden, leaf- 
 less, sodden, miserable, that looked almost cheerful when Paul and 
 I walked in it a week ago. Round and round I go, visiting every 
 haunt in which he and I have sat together, pausing to recall the 
 memories that hang about every nook and corner, standing still 
 at last at the place where Dorley came upon us with his untimely 
 nosegay. Yes, it was just here, and I hold out my arms to the 
 empty air, with a bitter yearning of body and soul. He was here 
 only a few days ago, but where is he now ? How lonely it is ! If 
 only Jack or Dolly could suddenly appear before me to fill up this 
 deadly, drowsy silence ! Even the echoes of papa's belligerent 
 voice would be better than nothing, or Amberley's bleating mono- 
 tone, which I disliked so heartily in the old careless school-days. 
 One of the children has the chicken-pox and mother is nursing 
 him ; she has no time to attend to me, and if she had 1 could not 
 say much to her about Paul : it is never easy to talk to one's elders 
 about one's lovers. 
 
 Steps come along the gravel path behind me. I know whose 
 they are — George Tempest's. 
 
 " You have heard ?" he asks eagerly. 
 
 1 shake my head. 
 
 " Then he must be on his way back," he says, walking by my 
 
390 COMTN' THRU THE RYE. 
 
 side. " No doubt the business has been concluded more quickly 
 than he expected, and he did not think it worth while to write.'' 
 
 " It could not have been that, George, for he would not have 
 known at Marseilles, and he promised to write from there." 
 
 M Do you know, Nell," he says, looking down into my wan face, 
 " that you are making a mountain out of a mole-hill 1 Because you 
 have had a dream, and because you have not received a letter, you 
 have made up your mind that something dreadful has happened. 
 I wonder what Vasher will say, when he walks in and finds you 
 have been fretting yourself into a shadow V 
 
 When Vasher walks in!— how comfortable and safe the words 
 sound ! 
 
 " I'll try and not be foolish," I say, my spirits rising, as they 
 always do when I have some one to speak to, " but oh ! George, 
 this past week has been so wretched : I think if I had such another 
 I should go mad. I have learnt the length and breadth, and depth 
 and height, of that ugly word ' endure.' " 
 
 " Have you, dear ]" he says, and brave man that he is, he does 
 not add, " and so have I." 
 
 It is a strange hap that makes my old lover my friend and con- 
 soler in the absence of my new one. Are there many men, I 
 wonder, who could fill the post with such unselfishness, dignity, 
 and single-heartedness as he does 1 All too often I forget how he 
 loved me, and in speaking of Paul say something that touches him 
 to the quick. Noble George, for whom no woman that I ever saw 
 was half good enough ! 
 
 " How near Christmas is," I say, looking at the flaming scarlet 
 berries that close round the green stalks with such prim, glossy 
 precision. " Only think that to-morrow week is the 25th. He is 
 sure to be back then, is he not, George V 
 
 "Quite sure!" says the young man; "he may come auy day 
 mow." 
 
HARVEST. 39J 
 
 " We meant to have such a merry Christmas Eve," I say, half 
 
 aloud — "snap-dragon with the children, and George, what 
 
 are you going to do this Christmas] Will you be dull at the 
 Chace 1 Come and spend it with us, do!" I add, laying my hand 
 on his arm. 
 
 " No, no, dear !" he says, looking down on me, with no hidden 
 bitterness of word or tone ; " you will not want me. After all," he 
 says, looking up at the sullen sky that has given over raining, but 
 gives ample promise of plenty more dropping, " I am afraid we 
 ahall not have, what you are so fond of, a white Christmas !" 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " No, no ! 'tis all men's office to speak patience 
 To those that wring under the load of sorrow, 
 But no man's virtue or sufficiency 
 To be so moral, when he shall endure 
 The like himself." 
 
 George's prophecies prove as fallacious as those of most other 
 people here on earth, and the night after his assurances of dirty 
 weather the snow comes down, silently and delicately covering the 
 face of the earth with a gleaming white mantle, that makes my 
 eyes prick and burn with its exceeding purity, as I look out at it 
 from the dining-room window. The postman is coming up the 
 carriage drive. How slowly he walks, and what ugly marks he 
 makes on our soilless, dazzling carpet ! I do not watch him with 
 any interest ; for it is not a letter I am looking for now, but the 
 sound of a step in the hall, the sound of a voice in my ear. Will 
 they not be better a hundred-fold than a few hasty words on paper 1 
 And yet 1 should have loved to have a love-letter from him. I 
 have flung all my foolish fears away in a bundle ; smiles have 
 crept back to my mouth, lightness to my footfall. Does i^ot 
 
392 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 George say that Paul may come in any day, and would he like to 
 find me pale and wretched-looking] 
 
 For the first time since he went away I have made myself look 
 smart. I have put on the gown he liked me in best — Quaker grey, 
 wifih crimson ribbons ; and a cap which he liked too, though it 
 iibver was straight when he was with me : and one day (we had 
 both forgotten it) I gave Sim plans some orders with it perched 
 rakishly on one side, and, alas ! his breeding was not equal to the 
 occasion, and he disgraced himself by a smile. 
 
 At present it is straight enough, but when he comes back I 
 
 am laughing softly to myself, when Simpkins comes in, bringing 
 my breakfast, the post-bag, and the Times. 
 
 There are two letters, one from Alice, one from Dolly, both for 
 mother. I send them upstairs, and begin my breakfast. Then — 
 for I have fallen into bad ways during my lonely morning meal, 
 day after day — I open the paper, and proceed to look at the " Births, 
 Marriages, and Deaths f not that I know anybody who is likely to 
 be married or dead, but because they interest me. Many a sad 
 story is told here in three lines ; many a bitter tragedy chronicled 
 that moves me far more than the fictitious woes of an imaginary 
 man and woman, whose misery lasts through the regulation three 
 volumes of a novel. 
 
 " Nothing in the papers," folks cry, and perhaps they are right ; 
 there is nothing new. Newspapers are but a faithful transcript of 
 human nature, with its vices, sins, faults, and follies, and human 
 nature is pretty much the same to-day as it was yesterday, and will 
 be to-morrow. 
 
 I glance through the agony column, and find it in my heart to 
 smile at its fustian pathos. I wonder is it true that most of these 
 heart-broken maunderings are signals from the greatest thieves in 
 London to each other? My eye travelling downwards is caught 
 by the announcement of the death of a Mrs. Wadclell, who, after 
 
HARVEST. 
 
 393 
 
 surviving her beloved spouse Thomas forty years, has gone to join 
 him where he dwells, let us hope in comfort. Thomas must have 
 been about making up his mind that she had gone somewhere else. 
 A poor young wife of nineteen is dead, " passionately regretted." 
 Another announcement says three little children, aged two, four, 
 and six, respectively, are dead of scarlet fever, all within one short 
 week. An elderly gentleman of ninety is " deeply lamented," and 
 has R.T.P. placed at the end, though surely if any one deserves to 
 rest in peace he does. 
 
 Turning to the births (for 1 am reading in a purposeless, desul- 
 tory fashion), I see that Lady Fatacres has a daughter, and the Rev. 
 James Poorman a son. I observe that most of the happy fathers 
 are either clergymen or officers, and I wonder for the fiftieth time 
 why Providence sends such an abundance of children to the men 
 who can barely fill their own mouths, and withholds them alto- 
 gether from those who could bring up a dozen handsomely and 
 never feel the shoe pinch. 
 
 Now for the marriages. How jolly that first one looks — two 
 sisters married on the same day to two brothers. Douglas marries 
 Ruby, and Donald marries Violet. What a big wedding it must 
 have made, and what fun the four young people will have when 
 they meet (as I dare say they will) on their wedding tour ! Rather 
 awkward, though, if the sisters ever quarrel ; there will be a 
 scrimmage, husbands and wives, all of a lump. This one looks 
 more sober : plain John James marries Eliza Ann, her name is 
 Prodgers, his Trimmins. I can fancy that they make a very 
 decorous couple, she in a grey satin gown, he in a brown coat and 
 a blue stock, and that the festivities are more of a funereal than a 
 jovial character. (I wonder what my wedding dress will be 1 It 
 is odd, but I never thought of it till to-day. All things must be 
 pretty much alike, though, on that day, when every woman who 
 has a heart looks her worat.) Here is a male Brown married tu a 
 
394 COMIN' THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 female Brown, which must have been very convenient in the 
 matter of marking her clothes, though one would have thought that 
 when she did change her name, she would take a prettier one. In 
 that respect we have a great advantage over the other sex, who 
 if they are born plain Higgins, Hodge, or Stubbs, must remain 
 so to the end of their days, unless indeed they are guilty of the snob- 
 bery of being re- christened through the columns of the Times; 
 while their sisters and daughters, if they are lucky or good-looking, 
 may be metamorphozed by marriage into Fitz Jameses, Fortes- 
 cues, Sutherlands, and the Lord knows what. 
 
 I wonder why a familiar word, lying before one in a news- 
 paper always catches the eye so smartly, seeming to leap up into 
 one's face. Thus, " Silverbridge," and the " Rev. Thomas Skip- 
 worth," look up at me in larger type, seemingly, than any of the 
 other words. Who on earth could have been married in Silver- 
 bridge without my knowing it, or considered their admission into 
 the holy state of matrimony sufficiently important to demand an 
 advertisement of the same 1 
 
 A scuffle in the court outside makes me turn my head. Larry 
 and Walter are snowballing each other with admirable vigour and 
 skill. No quarter is given or taken, and 1 watch them for 
 sometime with keen interest, remembering the days when Jack 
 and I * indulged in the same recreation, although we were not so 
 fortunate in getting the court : we had to walk a mile or more 
 before we got a nice quiet corner to shout in to our hearts' content, 
 Presently they vanish in a whirlwind of snow and laughter, and I 
 pick up my paper and sit down to read this marriage comfortably. 
 t was near the Browns'. Here it is : " On the 16th inst., at the 
 Parish Church, Silverbridge, shire, by the Rev. Thomas Skip- 
 worth, George Dalrymple Tempest, only son of Laurence Tempest, 
 Esq., of the Chace, to Helen, third daughter of Colonel Adair, oi 
 the Manor House, Silverbridge, shire." 
 
 /! 
 
HARVEST. 395 
 
 Yes, there it is, word for word, line for line, and for a full minute 
 I sit staring at the paper. The words are there, but my brain does 
 not seem to be able to grasp their meaning ; no, not even when 
 my tongue repeats the announcement aloud, as though the sound 
 of my voice might reassure and convince me. I am married, 
 married ! and here I give my head an impressive little nod, as 
 much as to say, "You are a poor crcature,Helen Adair, and you don't 
 seem to know exactly what you are about : but one thing you may 
 be sure of— you are married." I feel something like the old woman 
 who left it to her little dog to decide whether she was herself or 
 somebody else. The little dog decided against her; the paper 
 decides against me. Here I sit, without the ghost of a wedding- 
 ring on my finger, and yet I am George Tempest's wife ; clearly 
 there must be a slight hitch somewhere. My stiff hand relaxes, 
 and the paper flutters to the ground. If it were only out of sight 
 I might get my breath back, but with its respectable, commonplace 
 front facing mine, how can I possibly treat it as a myth 1 I take 
 my eyes away from it, and glance round the room. There is the 
 breakfast-table : there are the canaries pecking at each other from 
 contiguous cages : there is the old family Prayer-book, high and 
 dry, among Blair's sermons, on the book-case ; there is the cat 
 asleep on the hearth-rug. It all looks familiar and real enough, 
 but nevertheless I am asleep, and I know it, just as one may have 
 a dream within a dream, and in the last one believe that one is 
 awake. I lift my sleeve, and give my arm a good nipping, rousing 
 pinch (not that people under the influence of bad dreams usually 
 have the sense to bethink themselves of that homely remedy), and 
 expect to see all my surroundings dissolve, but no, there they are 
 still, and here am I, in a grey gown, not a robe de nuit. That I am 
 broad awake there can be no reasonable doubt, and that the paper 
 is a very evident fact there can be no doubt either. Oddly enough 
 the first idea that now enters my head is, " What will the governor 
 
396 COM IN' THR<y THE RYE. 
 
 say V The Times is read in New Zealand, I suppose ; and a vision 
 of his dumbfounded face, as he comes across the intelligence, 
 tickles me into sudden laughter. I have heard of such tricks being 
 played before, practical jokes people call them, but I never believed 
 any one could do anything so foolish ; where could be the good of 
 it ? Why did they do it, these other people 1 For fun 1 A sorrier 
 jest, surely, neither man nor woman ever perpetrated. For mis- 
 chief 1 It could not work any. 
 
 Let me try and think. I do not seem to be able to follow up 
 any one thought. Did those other people ever do it not in sense- 
 less wantonness of folly, but to try and work a girl harm 1 When 
 her lover was away from her, was it ever done that he might see 
 the paper, and believe her false to him 1 He would only laugh at 
 it : it looks like a lie ; he would know it is a lie. He would be 
 angry at my name being coupled with George's, but of course he 
 could not believe it. I wonder who wrote it % We have no friends 
 we Adairs, to trouble themselves about our affairs, or play us 
 tricks, and no enemies, that I know of, who hate us heartily 
 enough to try and do us a mischief. 
 
 A thought suddenly strikes me : Silvia ! And yet, why should 
 she 1 How can this absurd ruse benefit her in any way 1 My 
 being married to George, even if it were true, could bring her no 
 nearer to Paul. And yet how can it be Silvia, who has never been 
 here in her life % How does she know about George Tempest, or 
 Mr. Skipworth. and all the names 1 The traitor must be some one 
 in our midst. 
 
 Well, I must go and tell mother ; and I have just reached the 
 door, when it opens, and George comes in. 
 
 " Good morning !" I say, making him a courtesy. " And do you 
 know that you are my bridegroom V 
 
 But he does not smile : he looks very grave. He does not seem 
 to see the joke in quite the same light that I do. 
 
HARVEST. 397 
 
 " Nell," he says, quickly, " this is a very serious matter. Can 
 you guess at all who is at the bottom of it T 
 
 " Serious !" I echo. " Pray how can it be that ? Some one has 
 taken a most insolent liberty with our names ; but serious " 
 
 " Vasher will probably see it," says George, uneasily, "and " 
 
 " I thought," I say, indignantly, " that you said he was sure to 
 be on his way home — that he might walk in any minute. He may 
 come this morning, even, and probably he won't see the paper until 
 T show it to him !" 
 
 " I did think he was on his way back ; I think so still," says 
 George ; " but supposing that he has been delayed, and he does 
 see this announcement, of course he will believe it." 
 
 "You mean to say, George, that he would really suppose you 
 and I had got married the minute his back was turned V 
 
 " I don't know. Tell me, Nell, was Vasher ever in the least 
 jealous of me? God knows he need not have been !" he adds, 
 half to himself. 
 
 " Yes, he was," I say promptly ; " and I always laughed at the 
 idea !" 
 
 "Did youf 
 
 There is a pause, in which my short, blessed span of one day's 
 content slips away from me, and the old presentiments, doubts, 
 and fears, creep upon me like living cruel shapes, grown rational 
 by the sustenance of fact — for he has been gone nearly ten days, 
 he has sent me no word of tidings, good or bad, since he set out ; 
 if he were alive and well and my own true lover, he would never 
 have left me to watch and wait like this. God only knows what 
 treachery has been worked between us. . . . Yes, I see it all 
 now ; it is Silvia's doing. 
 
 " Do you remember my telling you that he would never come 
 back V I say, trembling violently. " He never will !" 
 
 '' Nonsense," says George, hastily. " In all probability he is on 
 
398 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 his way back ; but in case he has been detained in Rome, I shall 
 set out at once — or at least as soon as I can get off." 
 
 "You will gol" I ask. taking his hand between both mine. 
 " Oh ! George, but you will be too late. Something tells me that 
 it is all over now. If you do find him, and he asks who did it all, 
 tell him l Silvia.' » 
 
 " Impossible !" exclaims George, starting. " Can she be such a 
 wretch as that V 
 
 " She loves him. Women will do a great deal to get a man 
 they love, will they not V* 
 
 " Of a very different sort to you, dear. Will you give me 
 Vasher's address f 
 
 I write it down for him— yes, I can actually write— and in no 
 hour of my life have I known the breathless agony that I know in 
 this one. 
 
 " If he arrives here within the next three days you will telegraph 
 tome, Nell?" 
 
 " Yes. And if you come back — if you both come back, I mean 
 —when will it be?" 
 
 " I cannot be quite sure, but I should think about Christmas 
 morning." 
 
 " Do not come back without him," I say, in my selfish misery ; 
 " only if he is dead you cannot bring him " 
 
 "Only he is nothing of the kind," says George, cheerfully. 
 ■' Keep up your spirits, dear, and put all these fancies out of your 
 head. As to that Silvia, he's no more likely to fall in love with 
 her than I am." 
 
 In another minute he is gone, and I am standing at the window 
 looking after him as he strides over the snow. This is his 
 departure : I wonder what will his return be 1 
 
 As in a dream, I go and tell mother, hear her exclamations of 
 horror and anger, read the letter she writes to the editor of the 
 
HARVEST. 399 
 
 Times, asking by whose authority the advertisement was inserted , 
 as in a dream, fetch my hat and jacket, and wander out over the 
 fields and meadows, walkly stiffly and slowly through the deep 
 snow-fall, on and on for miles and miles, my feet carrying me 
 where they will. Why did I let him go without a warning 1 Why 
 was I so mad as to leave him ignorant of Silvia's threats and 
 vow to work him evil 1 ? For I know as surely as I am living 
 that it is she who has done this thing. I was so confident, so 
 sure, when he was with me it was so impossible to fear. I should 
 have spoken when he went away. Did not my good angel call 
 upon me to speak when I wished him good-bye 1 Supposing George 
 has an accident on the road ! supposing Paul is not at Rome when 
 he gets there ! Somehow I feel in my heart that any way he 
 will get there too late. It was a sure hand and a strong that struck 
 that bold and open blow through the newspaper. That the same 
 hand has reached hin in Rome in some different way I cannot 
 doubt. And Paul was always a little jealous of George. . . . But 
 here I stand still to ask myself if it is likely that he will credit so 
 monstrous a story. Granted that I had played him false, could I 
 be so horribly quick in my treachery % Over hill and dale my feet 
 leave their restless track ; by frozen pool and ice-cold rill, by 
 cheerful homestead and farm, through the wood and over the 
 fir plantations I go, and the afternoon is closing in when I stand 
 in my parlour and look up at the frosted trees overhead, and down 
 the familiar walk, longing with an intensity of longing that shakes 
 me like a leaf, to see him coming down the path to meet me, to 
 hear the sound of his step on the snow. But not a sound comes 
 to me— not even the faint chirp of a bird. There is not the ghost- 
 liest breath of air to ruffle the clear splendour of the boughs ; 
 nature is pulseless, voiceless, without heart, a great glittering shell 
 that estranges and chills me. I cross the field of rye, that was so 
 bare and brown a week ago, and reach home, tired in body, but 
 
4 oo COMIN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 with my misery as keen and vigorous as when I walked out with 
 it in the morning hours. In the drawing-room I find mother, and 
 standing before her with a perturbed countenance is Simpkins. 
 
 "You should have told me this before," she is saying, with an 
 unusual severity in her voice ; and I sit down idly wondering what 
 that foolish old man haa been doing now. 
 
 " I know it, ma'am," he stammers. " When I caught the young 
 woman meddling with the post-bag, she said she only wanted to 
 get out a letter of her own that she had written, but did not wish 
 to have posted. I believed the story, ma'am, and did not tell 
 you." 
 
 11 What is all this about V I ask. " Mother, who has been tam- 
 pering with the post-bag V 
 
 " Jane, the under-housemaid," says mother. " It seems she ran 
 away from here this morning without a word, and Simpkins tells 
 me that he caught her meddling " 
 
 " She must have meddled with it more than once," I say, putting 
 my hand to my head. " Why did you not speak of this before ? 
 I cry, turning upon the man in a fury. " Do you know what you 
 have done 1 Go out of my sight !" 
 
 He stares at me for a moment ; then, as I stamp my foot, he 
 turns and flees. 
 
 " Mother ! mother !" I say, groping my way across the room 
 to her. " I see it all now. He never got my letters ; I never got 
 his. That woman was Silvia's spy." 
 
 " Poor little daughter !" she says, and her tears fall fast and 
 heavy on my uplifted face. If only / could weep ! — if only this 
 terrible tightness about my heart would relax ! 
 
 "Mr. Skipworth," announces Simpkins, tremblingly, half an 
 hour later ; and I escape by one door as he enters by another. He 
 has come to talk about my marriage, no doubt. In my present 
 state of mind his voice would send me straight into Bedlam. I 
 
HARVEST. 401 
 
 wonder, I say to myself, as I go wearily upstairs, why so many 
 good and moral peoplo irritate us so intensely % why we would 
 rather be beaten by some hands than stroked by others ] Their 
 very virtues make us feel vicious, and their pious and proper sen- 
 timents impel us to flatly contradict every word they say. In my 
 bedroom I stand looking out at the night, that seems to enwrap 
 me like a cold, dark mantle, while the stars draw my soul up to 
 them. I feel not so much a miserable, passionate, struggling speck 
 of humanity, as a disembodied spirit that is wandering abroad, 
 searching after, crying after, Paul, my darling— who will never be 
 my lover any more. 
 
 All night long I lie awake, hearing ghostly steps coming up the 
 carriage- drive, hearing ghostly hands beating against my window- 
 pane — ghostly voices that whisper in my ear. My ears are strained 
 to the faintest echo of sound in the world without. Shall I not hear 
 him towards the morning coming lightly over the snow to tell me 
 he has returned % I know that he is not dead, or he would have come 
 to me in that supreme wrenching of soul from body, us 1 should 
 go to him straight if I died to-night. 
 
 The morning breaks, grey and chill. 
 
 " How shall I bear it V I cry aloud, as I sit up in my bed, and 
 rock myself to and fro in my restless agony—" with all these long 
 days and nights to live through before Christmas morning 
 comes 1" 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Oh ! let me Dot be mad, sweet Heaven ! 
 Keep me in temper ; I would not be mad !" 
 
 It is Christmas morning, and I am leaning out of the open window 
 of the dining-room into the cold clear air, looking at the clean 
 
 S3 
 
402 COM IN' THRO* THE RYE, 
 
 white world, that during the night has been covered over freshly, 
 so that she is fair and spotless for the great, high festival, as a 
 bride coming out of her chamber to meet her bridegroom. It is 
 splendid enough, but a little cruel, perhaps, if one happens to 
 notice that little dead robin yonder, whose crimson breast shows 
 prettily enough against the snow. He has struggled gallantly 
 through the bleak days and bitter nights, but to-day— on Christmas 
 morning, the time of feasting and plenty — his poor, slender, starved, 
 little body has found death. 
 
 Behind me the house is all alive and merry, with bustle and 
 noise. They are all at home now save Jack, and they have 
 decorated the whole place with holly and mistletoe, which gleams 
 brightly red and white from every corner and cranny. The church 
 clock strikes ten : in another hour church will begin, but I shall 
 not go with the rest. I think I should stand here listening, though 
 a year and a day passed before Paul came back. 
 
 What a noise the boys are making ! I shall never be able to 
 hear the sound of the carriage coming over the snow. Hark ! 
 What is that ? My heart stands still, every pulse pauses, then 
 bounds madly on, as a sound, a certain, dulled, muffled sound, 
 comes to my ears from a distance. It is the sound of wheels — it 
 is coming this way. Is that a carriage coming towards me 1 the 
 snow has blinded my eyes, I cannot see. ... I look up seeing, 
 and there is George, alone. I do not move or speak as he comes 
 over to me and looks into my face. 
 
 " He is dead V I say, gently, looking away from him to a bird 
 perched on a bough near, who is singing, absolutely singing — 
 starved, and bitter cold as he is. Why do I not sing too ? 
 
 " He is not dead," says George. 
 
 " Not dead !" I shriek, recoiling from him with parted lips and 
 wide eyes—" not dead, did you say % Thank God ! Thank God !" 
 
 And the frozen blood in my body stirs nimbly in my veins, and 
 
HARVEST. 403 
 
 circulates once again ; and whereas a minute ago I was a dead 
 woman, now I am quick. 
 
 " But why did you not bring him ?" I ask. " There could be 
 nothing to detain him." 
 
 " He is here," says George ; " he bade me to tell you," he goes on 
 slowly and painfully, " that he was waiting for you at the old 
 place — yes, at the old place, and you were to go at once, he said." 
 
 " He will have to wait a little, then," I say, with a delicious 
 happy laughter bubbling straight up from my heart to my lips. 
 " Oh, he has kept me waiting for him long enough ! I don't seem 
 to be able to take it all in at once," I add, putting my hand to my 
 head ; " but by-and-by, yes, by-and-by I shall be perfectly happy ! 
 How tired you look, George ! how pale ! How can I ever thank 
 you enough for bringing him back to me ? We shall never forget 
 it, George — Paul and I — when we are so happy we shall never for- 
 get that we owe it all to you, for if you had not gone to Rome in 
 time " 
 
 " I know," he says, shivering. " Vasher is waiting for you, 
 Nell." 
 
 " What a hurry you are in," I say, as I tie the strings of my 
 cloak. " Now do you know that I mean to scold him — perhaps he 
 was afraid I should, so did not come up to the house ? Perhaps ! 
 But I shall be able to see him whenever I please now, you know, 
 for he has come to stay." 
 
 George groans. 
 
 " Are you ill ?" I ask, turning round from tho looking-glass, 
 where I am putting on my hat. 
 
 I must try and make myself look nice now Paul has come 
 back. 
 
 But George does not answer. 
 
 And I have been so wretched," I say, laughing softly, " though 
 you always told me there was nothing in that presentiment, or the 
 
 26—2 
 
404 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 Jream ! Do you know you have not wished me a merry Christ- 
 mas, sir? But, never mind, you have brought me the best Christ- 
 mas gift of all." 
 
 He has turned his back to me, and is looking out of the window. 
 
 "Good-bye," I say, pausing at the door. "I shall not go to 
 church this morning." 
 
 In the hall Dolly and the children crowd about me, but I just 
 tell them Paul has come back, and break away from them all 
 
 I wave my hand to George through the window. How terribly 
 pale and strange he looks! Then I go away over the snow with hurry- 
 ing, dancing feet. Have I not got my Christmas morning at last 
 -real, golden, perfect? In the whole wide world does there beat 
 such a happy heart as mine % I have not asked George how it 
 happens that Paul never wrote : he shall tell me that himself, and 
 I will be so angry with him, lazy, naughty, careless fellow. As I 
 turn the corner of the meadow I see him standing with his back 
 to me, leaning over the stile, and for a moment I stand still — the 
 absolute delight of seeing him in the old familiar place is so keen, 
 that it leaves me no immediate longing iio touch his hand or hear 
 his voice. Then I walk quickly on. He does not turn his head, 
 and he used to hear my footfall quick enough. Perhaps the 
 snow dulls it. I am close upon him when he looks round and 
 faces me. 
 
 " You have come back," I say, thrusting both my eager hands 
 into his ; "and I have been so frightened, so miserable. . ." 
 
 He does not answer, only, as Hay my head down on his shoulder, 
 he lifts his arms and folds them about me, pressing my head close 
 against his breast. 
 
 " Do you know that I thought you would never come back, that 
 you were dead, or that some one had come between us, and even 
 now I cannot believe that you are here . . . you ought to have 
 written, darling. Did you not guess what a miserable time it would 
 
HARVEST. 405 
 
 be to me ? I am going to scold you for it by-and-by, sir ; but 1 
 shall have plenty of time for that — plenty of time ! And I was 
 wicked enough to doubt you, Paul — as though I might not have 
 known better 1 I had all sorts of queer fancies. But I will never 
 be afraid again, Paul — never again. I could even let you go away 
 from me and be quite sure you would come back safely." 
 
 How silent Paul is ! because he is so happy, I suppose ; and 
 how quickly he is breathing, as though he had been running 
 hard. 
 
 " And you have come back to me on Christmas morning," I say, 
 dreamily, " to give me the whitest, happiest, merriest Christmas. 
 Do you know I asked George Tempest to wish me a merry Christ- 
 mas just now, and he turned away. I suppose he i-s very tired, as 
 you must be, darling." 
 
 I lift my head to look at his face, but he presses my head back 
 in its place, stroking my face with his hand with a passionate ten- 
 derness that fills to overflowing my hungry heart. 
 
 " How quiet you are," I say ; " bat I do not want to hear you\ 
 talk— it is quite enough for me to know that I have you so near \ 
 me. What can come between us now that we are together V 
 
 He draws my hand across his lips. How hot they are ! how they 
 quiver ! 
 
 The church bells ring out sweet and cheerful across the fields ; 
 the peal rises and falls gaily. Can any sound be sweeter than 
 Christmas bells when one is happy 1 
 
 " Paul," I say in a whisper, " did you see that wicked paper] T 
 might have known you would not believe it." 
 
 " It is cold here," he says ; and I lift my head suddenly, and 
 look into his face. 
 
 Is this my Paul— gaunt and worn, and pale as death, with deej^ 
 burning eyes? He looks like a man just risen from a bed of ill-) 
 ness. J 
 
406 COM IN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " You have been ill,** I cry. " That was why you stayed so long 
 away and never wrote V 
 
 " No," he says slowly, " not ilL We cannot talk here. Let us 
 go to the old place/' 
 
 But as we go I look at him again and again, and see plainly 
 enough that he is ilL I should scarcely know him again for the 
 man who went away from me a fortnight ago. As we cross the 
 field I slip and stumble on the uneven, snow-covered ground, and 
 hold out my hands to Paul to help me, but he does not seem to 
 heed me ; he walks forward alone. 
 
 In our snow parlour I sit down on the old log of wood ; but he 
 does not— he stretches himself out at my feet and lays his head 
 against my shoulder. His face is hidden ; he does not move, or 
 stir, or speak. Is he only weary, or in actual bodily pain ? I have 
 so much to tell him, he has so much to tell me, I think that if I 
 were not so perfectly happy in merely knowing that he is with me 
 I should be piqued, and a little angry. I never noticed until to- 
 day that Paul's hair is streaked with grey— I always thought it 
 was raven black ; and it is full early for the colour to change. He 
 is but little pnst thirty. I pull the short locks out between my 
 fingers, and he shivers under my touch. Yes, he is ill, and it is 
 madness for him to be out here in the cold. 
 
 " Paul !" I say, stooping over him, " you must not stay out here; 
 come with me to the house." 
 
 He lifts his eyes to my face, painfully, giddily ; then his head 
 falls heavily back, and he clasps his arms tighter about me. 
 
 " Can you not wait a little while ? w he says, and his voice 13 
 strange and harsh. 
 
 "Yes, I can wait," I say gently, looking out at the wide stretch- 
 ing sweep of white, just as I looked at it a few days ago, when 1 
 came hither alone ; only then my heart was heavy as lead, and now 
 it beats under the head of my lover. 
 
HARVEST. 407 
 
 I fold my arms about his neck close and warm : it is such a 
 new delight to me to know that he is all my own. If he had 
 been given back to me from the dead, I could not look at him 
 with greater wonder and thankfulness. And yet it is altogether 
 unaccountable, but though Paul has been with me all this time 
 he has not kissed me once ; no, nor seemed to think of such 
 a thing ! It never happened so before. 
 
 " Hark at the bells V I say, as they ring out, now loud, now 
 clear, across the fields. "I wonder will they ring as sweetly 
 as that when you and I are wed, Paul ? And I actually dreamt 
 that you were married to somebody else, dear. Was ever any- 
 thing more foolish and senseless]" 
 
 He lifts his head, suddenly rises, and stands before me. Th<* 
 minute bell has almost done ringing as he begins to speak ; it ceases 
 and with the last stroke every joy and good and hope the world 
 contains has died out to me for ever and ever .... and this is 
 my white, merry Christmas morning ! 
 
 Not a sound breaks the silence as we look in each other's deathly 
 faces ; then his mouth opens, and a terrible curse breaks from his 
 lips and wanders out over the desolate stirless land ; and my heart 
 begins to move again, and sluggish life to creep into my body. His\ 
 words do not shock me— do not even seem strange to me. I listen 
 to them as idly as I used to hearken to the frozen brook yondei/ 
 when it ran its summer course between the green banks. \ 
 
 " And why did you come back T I ask, and my voice is much) 
 the same as usual, only maybe a little slower. " Why are you 110/ 
 with your wife V 
 
 " My wife !" The words leave his lips as though he cast a foul 
 stain of leprosy from him. " Why did you let me go without a\ 
 warning V he cries, with clenched hands. " Did you know all the \ 
 time that we had such a bitter enemy ? Did you know that for I 
 years I have been spied on, dogged, followed ; and that here, inV 
 
4 o8 COMTN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 your very home, lived one of that woman's spies to report our 
 every word and act V 
 
 " I knew we had an enemy," I say, sitting with stiffly-folded 
 hands, and eyes that never lift themselves from the blank, blinding 
 carpet of my parlour, " but I thought she had no power to harm us." 
 
 "And that has undone us," he cries, with a despair and a fury in 
 his voice that makes it sound like nothing human. " If you had 
 
 only warned me that morning before I left you " He stops. 
 
 "God forgive me for blaming you, when my own mad folly has 
 brought us to this. And to think," he cries, smiting his brow with 
 his clenched hand, "that I have lost you to get that vile — thing ! 
 After parting with you the day I set out for liome, I walked some 
 distance ; and then, reproaching myself for having allowed you to 
 return home alone, I retraced my steps. Turning the bend of the 
 meadow, I saw you in George Tempest's arms, your head against 
 his shoulder ! and, acting under I don't know what impulse, 
 instead of walking boldly forward, I turned sharply, and in 
 another moment was out of sight I returned to the Towers, just 
 caught my train, and at Marseilles sat down to write to you. My 
 first hot anger had passed by then : your parting words of love 
 and sorrow had come back to me with the stamp of their own beau- 
 tiful truth upon them, and though I could not understand *,he 
 situation in which I had found you I felt sure you could explain 
 it. And though I did not like it— what man would 1—1 was not 
 at that time actively jealous of him, or doubtful of you ; that vvaa 
 to come after. In my letter I asked you how it was you came to 
 be with him, and whether you had been ill cr miserable, when 
 I saw him holding you. I reached Rome safely, and on the day 
 after my arrival I looked for the letter that you had promised to post 
 to me the day after I left Silverbridge ; but there was none— no, noT 
 on the next day, or the next. Can you wonder that by degrees there 
 grew up in my heart a terrible fear, a sickening doubt, with m\ 
 
HARVEST. 409 
 
 absence had your love grown so faint and life] ess ? And if I could 
 have hurried back, I should not have done so ; no word of mine 
 should ever seek to determine your wandering allegiance. Only I 
 could not yet suppose such a thing possible — you had seemed so 
 honest, so true ; your love-words were so freshly in my ears. But 
 sometimes I remembered that so others had sounded, spoken to 
 other men by women who had betrayed them." 
 
 " And did you never receive a letter from me V I ask, slowly, re- 
 membering the dainty knot of flowers that I gathered so carefully 
 and kissed so tenderly. 
 
 " I received one," he says, " later. Meanwhile, I was detained 
 by business beyond the time that I had fixed to return to Silver- 
 bridge ; and on the 21st a letter and a newspaper were brought 
 to me. The former was in your handwriting, and your seal, 
 with your name 'Nell' on it, looked me in the face so naturally 
 and sweetly, that my doubts forsook me on the spot, and I 
 kissed it like a fool, child. I opened the letter, and out fell a tiny 
 withered nosegay of flowers, that seemed to have been plucked 
 many days and had little scent ; and for your sweet sake, I kissed 
 them too, Nell, many times. Then I read your first love-letter. I 
 took it in my hand so carefully, remembering that it had touched 
 yours, and started as I read the first words — 'Dear Mr. Vastier.' 
 With all your wilful ways, I could not understand that. Well,>it 
 was a simple epistle enough. It was only to say that, after matuns 
 consideration, you had come to the conclusion that you would be 
 happier as George Tempest's wife than as mine, and that you had 
 already married him, and were going abroad immediately with him' 
 and his father. You sent a newspaper to corroborate your state- 
 ment ; you asked forgiveness from me for any disappointment you 
 might cause me ; and you signed yourself ' Helen Tempest.'" 
 
 " Have you it here?" I ask ; and he takes it out of his pocket- 
 book and hands it to me, and 1 sit looking at it much as a man 
 
410 COMTJST THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 may look at the knife that lias stabbed Lis nearest and dearest 
 to the heart. The writing on the envelope is mine, that on the 
 sheet inside is not ; but the forgery is so excellent that, were this 
 letter a copy of one I had ever written, I should pronounce it to 
 be my own. I give it back to him without a word. 
 
 M The sight of your handwriting," he goes on, " had so routed 
 the jealous demons that had for the past ten days tormented me, 
 that the letter itself came upon me like a rude, violent shock. 
 Then I grew angry, and thought how unlike you it was to play me 
 such a trick, and (knowing my weakness about Tempest) how un- 
 worthy of you ! The joke seemed to me to be in the worst possible 
 taste. I pushed your letter and the flowers aside, and mechanically 
 opened the paper— not that I expected to find there the an- 
 nouncement you bade me look for, but because I thought some 
 curious similarity of names to yours and Tempest's had suggested 
 the sorry jest. And I found no less than the actual announce- 
 ment of your marriage. I was still staring at it, incapable of any 
 reasonable thought, when Mills knocked at the door, and asked 
 for orders about something or other. As he was going out of the 
 room, 1 asked him if lie had heard any Silverbridge news 
 since he came away. He hesitated for a moment, then took 
 from his pocket a letter, which he laid on the table, then 
 went away without a word. Like all the other servants, he 
 knew pretty well how matters lay between you and me. The 
 Letter was addressed to him, and the enclosure was from a 
 housemaid (apparently) living in your house. She said that you 
 were married to young Mr. Tempest, to everybody's surprise ; that 
 people said it was like a stolen marriage, even though Mrs. Adair 
 went to church to see you made man and wife, and Mr. Skipworth 
 read the service. Nell, I bad treated your letter as a bad joke, I 
 had doubted the newspaper, for I know mistakes sometimes occur, 
 but this third piece of evidence I could not, and did not doubt ; 
 
HARVEST. 4" 
 
 none but a madman would. The gross improbability of the whole 
 thing ; the unlikelihood that you should be in so indecent a hurry 
 to marry another man the moment my back was turned ; the 
 strangeness of your mother's abetting your rash act by her pre- 
 sence, when she had countenanced your engagement to me ; your 
 father's absence, and the tacit disobedience displayed to him by 
 the marriage in his absence— all these unnatural circumstances I 
 recognised clearly enough, but they vanished before the one great 
 fact that you were married ; how or why, or where, mattered little 
 enough — you were Tempest's wife." 
 
 " And then V I ask, lifting my dull eyes to his bleached, wild 
 face. 
 
 " And then I went mad — as utterly mad for the time as any 
 wretch in Bedlam ; as drunk with grief as any senseless beast on 
 the pavement ; as incapable as either of accounting for or guiding 
 my actions. Well, I wandered about all that day; at night I found 
 myself back again in my rooms; and, as I sat there, my despair at 
 losing you gave way to a fierce fury — that you should have dared 
 to so trick and shame me; you, who had known of the disappoint- 
 ment I had found in my first love; you, to stab me so surely to the\ 
 heart, who knew how entirely my whole life and belief in all things 
 rested on the trust I had in your honesty and faithfulness. In 
 that hour my love for you seemed to pass away even more utterly 
 than it had done for Silvia when I found out her falsehood, for, / 
 be her sin what it might, she had been true to me, while you had 
 deliberately left me without a pang, without a care. 
 
 "As I sat there, out of the darkness suddenly came clinging 
 arms, and stole round my neck, drawing my burning head down 
 to a soft embrace ; a tender voice, gentle as a mother's, whispered 
 words of comfort in my ear. I did not know whether I was 
 actually mad or dreaming. Had an angel dropped from heaven to 
 tend me, or was my unknown consoler some earthly creature, like 
 
412 COMIN' THRO } THE RYE. 
 
 myself, who could care for so heart-bare, desolate a man as 1 1 And 
 some touch of the hand, some tone in the whispering voice, by- 
 and-by informed me that this woman, who could lay aside all 
 pride and thought of self, to come to me in my hour of agony, was 
 Silvia, to whom I had dealt out such bitter mercy, and who, it 
 now appeared, had loved me through it all, aye! from the first day 
 to the last, while you, whom I had loved a hundred-fold more than 
 I ever did her, had cast me from you as unhesitatingly, as coolly, 
 as a withered flower or a soiled glove. I did not question how she 
 knew my story. I asked no reasons for her coming ; she gave 
 none. She had only fled to me in my misery ; recking, caring 
 nothing for name or reputation — so I thought then — good God ! 
 
 " The night wore on : her love, her tenderness, her clinging 
 beauty, her great love worked in me like a charm. I have told 
 you that in that hour I hated you for your falseness ; well, in that 
 hour I loved that woman for her truth. Had she not through 
 good and evil report clung to me 1 Did not her own sin show 
 white as snow beside your black, barefaced desertion 1 And re- 
 member that I was mad, child ; utterly mad ! My higher, better 
 nature was dead within me. All reasoning, thinking power had 
 gone out of me, and so — God knows the rest ! — the maddening 
 wiles of the woman, the rage that filled my heart against you 
 . . . and the morning found us standing together before a 
 priest, and, later on, at the British embassy man and wife. 
 
 " Even then the madness had not passed. I did not know what 
 I had done, did not know what I had married. The darkness still 
 lay upon my eyes. She was to me simply a woman who had been 
 faithful ; you a woman who had betrayed me. My thoughts 
 never went any further than that. I did not love her, and did not 
 hate her ; I had simply no feeling for her whatever. 
 
 " We went to Florence immediately. Tempest was at that 
 monu nl in the town, if we had known it. With the usual fatality 
 
HARVEST. 413 
 
 where men's lives are concerned, there head been no less than three 
 break-downs on the road, and he had arrived too late. After- 
 wards I found that, half-an-hour after we set out, he reached my 
 door, but no message had been left, and he had no clue to our 
 whereabouts, so he had a long search before he found us. At that 
 time I never thought. It did not occur to me strange that Silvia 
 should be in Rome alone and unattended ; I never asked myself or 
 her how she knew of your marriage, or how she could care to 
 marry me knowing what effect the news had had upon me. I felt 
 something like a man under the influence of an opiate that has not 
 made him perfectly unconscious — everything passes around him 
 as in a dream, but he knows that by-and-by he will awake and see 
 things as they really are. 
 
 " On the morning after we reached Florence, my senses came 
 back to me ; for the first time I saw face to face this thing that 1 
 had done ; knew that, married though you were, I loved you as 
 madly as ever ; knew that the woman I had made my wife was 
 less to me than one sound of your voice, one touch of your hand. 
 And, strangely enough, you had not seemed so lost to me when I 
 knew you to be the wife of another man, as now that I found my- 
 self the husband of another woman. I walked out of the house in 
 the still early morning, and the first man I met was your husband, 
 George Tempest. There must have been murder in my eyes as I 
 looked at him, for he said at once, ' It is all a mistake.' 
 
 M I don't know what happened after that. In an hour we had 
 set out for England. You know the rest." 
 
 Yes, I know the rest, as I look upon the face that is now no 
 more than a shadow. The features are there, but where is the life, 
 the glow, the spirit, that filled it in bravely a fortnight ago — only 
 a fortnight ago ! 
 
 And we stand looking, looking into each other's haggard counte- 
 nances, and dare not put out so much as the tips of our fingers to 
 
4H CO Ml IP THRV THE RYE. 
 
 each other — 'twixt him and me a great gulf lies. I wonder if I 
 shall always be this dumb, senseless stone . . . will the spirit ever 
 wake in me, and cry, and rend me % 
 
 " If I had to choose between dying now this minute and living 
 over again the last hour, I would choose to die," he says slowly. 
 "I have suffered enough, God knows, since you and I stood here 
 together, but never half of what I did when I heard your foot- 
 steps coming over the snow, and dared not turn to face you ; and 
 then, when you thrust your little hands into mine, and ran on in 
 your loving welcome . . . when I think of the future, of how I 
 shall never watch for your coming, never see you stepping across 
 the rye to meet me ; never, in summer or seed time, or winter 
 or harvest, listen for your steps and the sound of your gentle voice 
 ... we shall miss each other's morning kiss, child ... at even- 
 tide we shall hold out despairing arms to each other — the days 
 will be empty and dreary ... we shall call upon each other across 
 the silence that gives back no answer. . . ." 
 
 His words enter my ears, but do not stir my heart ; by-and-by 
 they will come back to me perhaps. I shall have plenty of time 
 after he is gone to muse over and be sorry for them — yes, all the 
 rest of my life. 
 
 " We need not have quarrelled about the books — need we V I 
 ask with a faint smile. " I shall never have a chance of throwing 
 any more at you." 
 
 " Hush 1" he says sharply. " You used to say we were too 
 happy. . . ." 
 " Paul," I say, shivering, " when do you go back to your wife V 
 " Go back to her 1 ?" he asks, frowning. " Did I hear you aright f 
 "Yes. Of course you will go back to her — you are bound 
 to." 
 
 " Am 1 1" he says between his teeth. " I think not. 7 
 
 " Sh'j could not force you to marry her," I say steadily ; " you 
 
HARVEST. 415 
 
 did it of your own free will. What reason would you give to the 
 world for casting her oil' ?'' 
 
 " What reason ?'' he asks, with a deep, steady blaze in his eyes. 
 " She is no wife of mine, and it shall be my business to prove that 
 she is not !" 
 
 " She loves you." 
 
 11 Loves me 1" he cries, with a fierce scorn in his voice. M She 
 would have shown her love better by stabbing me to the heart 1 
 And you would send me back to her % n 
 
 " Yes, I would send you back." 
 
 *' Ay !" he says below his breath, " I will go back to kill her P 
 
 " Will you ] Was Paul Vasher born to be a murderer T 
 
 " Yes," he says doggedly, " even that !'* 
 
 " No, you will not. That weak, sinful woman has no power to 
 plunge your soul into guilt. She has ruined your life, but she can 
 do no more. Shameful though she is, she is yours. You took 1 
 her not for a day or a week, but for belter for worse. You must | 
 bear the burden of the rash act you committed ; and, remember, ; 
 that any discredit you lay upon her will recoil upon yourself ; for/ 
 she is, in the eyes of the world, your wife, and the bearer of your 
 name." 
 
 " In the sight of God she is not ! Did you ever love me V he 
 asks bitterly. " After all, I do not think you can know what love 
 means to wish to send me back to that woman. Do you think 
 that if you had been cheated into marrying another man, and you 
 came to me, I would send you back to him ? I would hold you — 
 keep you— bind you in my arms so safely that no one should wrest 
 you from me — my love, my darling !" He covers up his face, he 
 trembles in a strong man's agony, and still, still I can look at him 
 and feel absolutely nothing. 
 
 " As you will not take up your burden and bear it like a man," 
 I say — and at my words he lifts his head — " I must take it up 
 
416 COM IN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 and bear it for you. I will never live to have people pointing at 
 me and saying, ' That is the girl Paul Vasher loves, and who loves 
 him — the married man. It is on her account that he does not 
 live with his wife.' Do you think that T could bear it] If you 
 will not go back to her, I will leave Silverbridge and go far away, 
 where the prying finger of scandal cannot reach me." 
 " And why should you ? Who will know the story V 
 " Every one. Do you think she will keep silence V s 
 " There can be no possible reproach to you in it." 
 " None if you are with her, much if you are apart. She who \z 
 known to stand between husband and wife receives but scant 
 mercy from the world." 
 
 " Ask me something less hard," he says ; and the veins in his 
 forehead stand out like cords. " Even for you I cannot do tins. 
 Set me some task that body and soul do not utterly forbid. I am 
 not mad, Nell ; but I know my own strength, and I could not do 
 it. What do you think I am made of, that I could see her fill 
 your place, bear your name, stand by my side usurping your rights 
 — she ! Do you think I could ever let my eyes rest on her false 
 face, without yours rising up before me 1 ever hear her called Mrs. 
 Vasher, without longing to strike to earth the man that said it 1 
 ever endure to so much as touch her hand, when I was wearying, 
 aching after you 1 — you think that I could do all this and live I 
 
 Sooner or later I should break down — and 
 
 " Paul," I say, and my voice is so hushed that I can scarcely 
 hear it, " do you not see that there is no safety for either you or 
 me if you are not by the side of your wife 'i For the sake of all 
 the love you bore me, in recompense for all the misery you have 
 brought me, I ask this one mercy of yon ! Live with her as a 
 stranger, if you will ; but, in the eyes of the world, be man and 
 wife." 
 A shamed streak of red comes into my cheek as I speak ; then 
 
HARVEST. 417 
 
 I bow my head and wait, and a terrible doubt crosses my mind aa 
 to whether I am acting for good or for evil in demanding this 
 supreme expiation \)f a life. The silence is so long and unbroken 
 that time seems to stand still ; when he speaks his voice seems to 
 come from a long way off. I lift my eyes and look at him, and in 
 his there is the beaten, broken look that never comes into a man's 
 face until the last hope is gone — the last stake lost. 
 
 " You have conquered," he says. " I will do it for your sake. 
 Could any man do more 1 You must give me a little while to get 
 used to the idea, a little while to get rid of some of my prejudices 
 (he laughs harshly), then she shall be offered a place in my house 
 as the mistress of it, to be treated by me as any other stranger 
 within my gates ; if she refuses, she can live alone." 
 
 A sick, jealous pain, the first that has begun to stir my dull 
 heart, awakes as I look at him. What if he grow to love her 
 again 1 Is she not fair as the day 1 and do men remember for 
 ever ] And I am sending him back to her ! There is a little 
 bitter silence, and then Paul kneels down in the snow and looks 
 into my face, but I do not look at him : my heart is waking from 
 its torpor, and I dare not. Yesterday he was my lover, to-day he 
 is Silvia's husband. Not in one moment can I pass from the 
 familiar friendship to the new unnatural position we hold towards 
 each other. 
 
 " You have fixed my lot, child ; what is to be your own ? ,; 
 
 "' I shall live." 
 
 " Will ever any one fill my place ?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 " No one man more than another T 
 
 " No man." 
 
 u 1 was always a selfish brute," he says, slowly ; " I am selfish 
 still, and I tell you that I would rather see you lying in your 
 coffin with violets in your pale hands, than know you to be another 
 
 27 
 
4i8 COMIN* THRC THE RYE. 
 
 man's wife. And that is my love for you, Nell. I would have you 
 love me to the very last beat of your heart. I would have the last 
 thought of your sweet soul, the last call from your lips ; as your 
 name will be on mine when I die, sweetheart ; as I shall love you 
 to the day of my death — and after. And when we meet, as we 
 shall meet, in another world, where there are no marriages, will 
 you come to my side with lips as pure and untouched as they have 
 ever been, save to me ? as on mine no touch of living woman shall 
 rest between now and then — so help me, God I" 
 
 " I will come to you," I say, simply. 
 
 The calm that lay on me, heavy as the snow on the once throb- 
 bing earth at my feet, has broken up now, and a wild fever of 
 agony possesses me — a breathless longing to touch his hand, to 
 speak one word of love and comfort to him — and I may not, dare 
 not, though we are young, loving, together, though not a yard of 
 space lies between us. We are separated, not for a week or a 
 year, but for ever. Since he lifted his head from my shoulder 
 when the bells were ringing, there has been space between us — 
 Death himself could not set us farther from each other. I must 
 get away soon — soon, or I shall break down utterly. I stand up. 
 " Good-bye," I say in a whisper ; "lam going now." 
 
 So soon V he says, and his voice is almost as faint as mine ; 
 " shall we not be apart all the rest of our lives V 
 
 " Will talking give us back our murdered happiness, Paul? will 
 talking about our beautiful yesterday quicken our dead to-morrow? 
 We can never be any more to each other than we are now ; we can 
 never be any less. Let me go now while I have the strength." 
 
 " Strength !" he repeats hoarsely, as he peers into my face ; 
 " and I have brought you to this, my poor broken little white 
 flower. It is my mad, senseless sin that has driven the colour 
 from your cheeks, the gladness from your sweet eyes. Nell, Nell ! 
 
HARVEST. 419 
 
 I cannot let you go ; you are my real wife, not that other, my life, 
 my lily I" 
 
 " Should I be your lily, then V I ask, tremblingly. But he who 
 has been so chary of touching me since he has told me his evil 
 tidings, comes closer ; would fold his arms about me. 
 
 " Back !" I cry, springing aside ; " what ! would you be the 
 falsest traitor on God's earth V 
 
 " To her !'' he cries, with a fierce gesture of loathing. 
 
 " To me !" 
 
 " To you," he mutters, then an ashen grey replaces the fire of a 
 moment ago ; his hands fall to his side ; and so, with a hand's 
 breadth between us, we stand looking on each other's wild faces, 
 then — 
 
 •' Good-bye," I say, in faintest, dreadest whisper ; but he does 
 not move or answer, and noiselessly I step past him ; but when I 
 have gone a score or so of steps, T pause shuddering, for over the 
 cold desolate fields sweeps the wild and bitter cry of a strong man 
 in his pain : O God ! . . . . O God ! . . . 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " When daisies pied and violets blue, 
 And lady-smocks all silver white, 
 And cuckoo buds of yellow hue, 
 Do paint the meadows with delight.'* 
 
 Spring ! The dainty, lovely guest has stolen upon us early this 
 year, sweeping away the clinging mists and frosts of the dying 
 winter with her warm, fragrant skirts ; touching the sober brown 
 hedges with her fairy wand, until, lo ! they have bloomed forth 
 into rarest tapestry of powdery green and downy delicatest spikes 
 of yellow, starring the banks with faint pale primroses and purple- 
 breasted violets, carpeting the woodlands with greyish windnowers 
 
 27—2 
 
420 COM IN' THRO THE RYE. 
 
 and slender blue-bells, that sway all their dainty blossoms with every 
 soft wind that steals about them. She has set all the young leaves 
 waving, the birds singing, and her south wind blowing, and over 
 the pulsing, throbbing, blossoming earth her light feet have 
 skimmed, leaving beauty, life, and gladness everywhere. The 
 poor, the sick, the lonely, the rich, the happy, the sad, love her 
 equally, and welcome her with eager, smiling faces, and out- 
 stretched, loving arms. 
 
 She is a rare friend to the poor; to them she means respite from 
 that black, bitter aching of the bones, known as cold. She means 
 soft green food to put between their lips, weary and starved with 
 the broken dry morsels of bread ; her fair bountiful blossom brings 
 warmth to their chill bodies. Oh ! spring is comforting, spring is 
 faithful, she never yet failed her poor, but comes back to them 
 year by year, ever young and fair and sweet, for she is one over 
 whom time has no power. They look up at her azure ceiling ; 
 they look down at her emerald carpet ; they take her delicate 
 flowers reverently, gently in their hard, rough hands, and, remem- 
 bering for one little moment, 
 
 "The days when we were young, lads, 
 The days when were we young," 
 
 feel a softening, ennobling gleam of beauty strike across their 
 rugged hearts, and go back to their toil and labour better, stronger 
 men. The children rolling in the fields, golden with king- cups, 
 forget the winter with all its hardships : in their beautiful to-day 
 yesterday has no place. The poor drudge at her house door looks 
 out at the fields and sky, and gives a tender thought to the time 
 when she and her good man were young, and took a long day's 
 holiday together, and a quick gleam shines athwart her dull, care- 
 worn face. 
 
 Ay ! spring brings a holy, softening influence with her, and jogs 
 the memory of men and women alike to better things and bettei 
 
HARVEST. 421 
 
 hopes. And she brings to me no more and no less than green 
 leaves, blue skies, and gay flowers. No delight creeps through me 
 as I see the first early blossom parting the brown earth ; no thrill 
 stirs me as the trees, one by one, each after other, don their varied 
 livery. I think I shall soon be like that man of whom it was 
 written that 
 
 "A primrose by the river's brim 
 A yellow primrose was to him, 
 A.nd it was nothing more." 
 
 I would give a year of my life — and that is little enough as I 
 value years just now— to know another such moment as I knew 
 long ago, when Jack and I, searching in earliest spring for wild 
 flowers, came upon the first delicate primrose of the year, nestling 
 in its green leaves. How we stood before it, breathless, entranced, 
 and forbore to put out a hand to pluck it, with some strange, un- 
 known reverence stirring at our hearts that we could not under- 
 stand, and were only dimly conscious of .... I think it must 
 have been our fresh, untried souls that made things, common to us 
 now, so rare and lovely to us then. 
 
 Often I shut my eyes, that I may not see the flowers growing so 
 bravely on their stalks. They were here last summer, they will be 
 here next ; they are but poor perishable little things, and yet they 
 come back to us every year, unlike those human blossoms that we 
 lay away from our sight with such bitter, passionate tears and 
 cries. 
 
 We know that the flowers, pretty, soulless, lovely toys, have no 
 future life ; and we do know that our dead will rise again, immor- 
 tal and incorruptible, to bloom for ever fair and stately in the gar- 
 den of the Great King. But oh ! is not that far away, uprising 
 shadowy, and vague, to the fleshly, eager eyes that would see and 
 know f Here are the flowers, we cry, but where are they ? And 
 we fold our empty arms closely above our ravening hearts, that 
 
422 COM IN' THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 will never be satisfied on this side Jordan's wave. Never, ahl 
 never ! 
 
 What man or woman mourns his dead in the bitter, ice-bound 
 winter as they do in the tender, warm, passionate spring, when 
 every flower and bud and leaf and bird is quick and living, 
 rioting in life, and praising God each after his kind 1 All things 
 seem to remember. 
 
 The birds cry, " We are calling him, we are calling him !" 
 The leaves rustle and whisper, ° Where is he, where V The 
 flowers murmur, as they shake their bells, "He used to pass 
 this way." Every tiny blade of grass, every trill of the black- 
 bird, brings the past quivering before us— the days when we had 
 our beloved, and could look in his face, and put out our hands to 
 touch him, that we seek to bridge and cannot, with a bitter, yearn- 
 ing pain that is the intenser by reason of its impotence. To some 
 people forgetfulness comes naturally and unconsciously ; day by 
 day memory softly detaches first one link, then another ; in the 
 bustle and moving to and fro in the vigorous, working-day world, 
 the lost or the parted from gradually become vague, impalpable 
 receding shadows, dear still but indistinct ; unlike that first hor- 
 rible sense of loss that was theirs when their darlings were snatched 
 suddenly from their side, and, whereas a minute before they had 
 been face to face with them, now they were not ; the full minute 
 ago, the empty present standing side by side in bare and shocking 
 contrast. Who that remembers has not a hurt anger at the quick- 
 ness with which mortals forget 1 Do not our dead and absent ones 
 seem to cry to us out of the darkness, " Speak for us, for we cannot 
 speak for ourselves "l It is the noisy, selfish, living, and present 
 people, who fill our ears with common, everyday talk, and shoulder 
 the memory of those others away. " The proud contempt of spirits 
 risen," has been grandly sung ; with more truth and less beauty 
 haa it been said, that " a live dog is better than a dead lion." If 
 
HARVEST. 423 
 
 any one doubts the fact, let him go to the funeral of a man who is 
 not followed by any heavy-hearted relation or friend, and yet who 
 is better a hundred-fold than the men who walk behind him. 
 Through the mourners' regret may be detected a faint though 
 certain under-current of self-complacency, as who should say, 
 " Yes, there lies So-and-So, dead. He was a clever f ello w. In 
 life he made some stir ; but his race is over, his day is done, 
 his place in the world is empty, and he has no longer a voice 
 in anything. lie cannot avenge his injuries or punish the man 
 who assails his memory ; he is no longer to be flattered, feared, 
 or regarded ; he is simply — nil. Let us thank God that we are 
 upstanding, cake-eating, wine-drinking, vigorous men, able to 
 walk about the earth, speak our minds, have a voice in the world's 
 affairs, and hold our own against anybody, instead of being reduced 
 to a helpless log like that" These men never put their thoughts 
 into words ; they are, indeed, scarcely conscious of them, but 
 they are there. 
 
 I wonder why I am thinking so regretfully to-day of those poor 
 voiceless, eyeless dead people 1 I have my dead, it is true, though 
 they are not lying under the grass, but deep down in my heart. 
 God has not yet come to the names of any of my people or the 
 few strangers that I love. 
 
 There is some one of whom I always think as dead, though I 
 know that he is numbered among the living. Only by thinking 
 of him thus can I keep the high wall standing between us from 
 falling and crushing beneath it my hard-won, icy composure. If 
 I ever thought of him as living, breathing, sleeping, laughing, 
 sorrowing, I could not bear my lot : every common sight and 
 sound and act would send my thoughts leaping towards him ; and 
 since I cannot forget, I will not think. I will not stand in a fair 
 garden and, lifting my eyes, behold him — far away, indeed, but 
 still like unto me ; subject as I am to God's sun and rain and snow 
 
424 COM IN" THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 and heat- rather do I set my feet on a barren shore, where no 
 living thing can come ; where I can look north, south, east, and 
 west, and see not one speck of aught to break the dull grey 
 monotony. But I did not come out to think dismal thoughts. . . . 
 The world looks very fair this morning, like a great, softly splendid 
 emerald set about with sparkling precious stones. The 
 
 Flowers purple, blue, and white. 
 
 Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery/ 
 
 speckle the meadows and banks, exquisitely pure and delicate, in 
 their first robe of thousand, thousand shades of green and yellow ; 
 so young and fresh are the leaves yet that they look as though a 
 rough hand would brush the bloom from their surface. The 
 light quivers and plays hide-and-seek with them, the shadows 
 dance on the grass, as though they were tripping a measure to 
 music from unseen fairies, the bees and waters mingle in a low 
 symphony, bearing up the exulting song of the birds, who sing not 
 because they are bid, or because they have anything in particular 
 to say, but because they are happy— their little bodies are full of 
 rapture, and it overflows in their voices. Down here in the wood- 
 land, the earth is carpeted with pale azure blue-bells, that seem 
 but a reflection of the sky overhead ; and among them spring the 
 wind-flowers swaying their pinkish white heads with every passing 
 breeze ; the celandine glistens like gold in the sunlight, and the 
 frail stitchwort, pearliest of beauties, opens her snow-white breast 
 to the soft air ; the lords and ladies, stiff and tall, overlook all the 
 little woodland flowers, like a proud king and queen set to watch 
 over the revels of the humbler folk. 
 
 A clash of bells rings out across the fields, and I lift my hands 
 to my ears, trembling violently. Since a certain Christmas morn- 
 ing, three years and more ago, the sound of those bells has been 
 to me like the touch of a coarse hand on an unhealed wound, and 
 
HARVEST. 425 
 
 I have to hear them so often. All through that desperate brain 
 fever I had, they jangled and pealed through my head ; bells, bells, 
 bells, that almost rang me out of this world and into the next. 
 
 I take my hands away from my ears ; shall I not have to listen 
 to the sound through all the years of my life ? and think to myself 
 how like wedding bells they sound. There is a mad, exulting 
 hurry in their peal, as though they could not utter themselves foi 
 joy, and yet no one is likely to be married at four of the clock 
 in the afternoon. Poe's weird verses always come into my mind 
 when I listen to bells. I wonder could any other man have 
 caught their meaning so perfectly, and written it down so faith- 
 fully 1 That is a great gift to have not only a beautiful idea but 
 to clothe it in the right words. 
 
 As I listen, my thoughts go back to that day, just three years 
 ago, when I looked in the glass and saw my hair just beginning to 
 grow in short thick locks over my head ; it has almost all come 
 back to me now, but it is not so long as it used to be. When I 
 began to get about, I made up a chignon out of all that had been 
 cut off, and used to put it on over my short curls, but I was always 
 losing it, and at last Pepper found it and worried it to bits, and 
 there was an end of my first unlawful adornment. I wonder if 
 I look that popular object of ridicule, a blighted being, as I sit 
 under the oak tree in my smart print gown, with all the flowers 
 creeping about my feet and the bonny blue sky over my head. I 
 pull back my sleeve and look at my arm ; it is not very fat, but 
 it is not lean, and my fingers have dimples in them still — decidedly, 
 grief has not altogether made a wreck and a ruin of me. That 
 is the beauty of never having been particularly handsome ; when 
 there is so little to lose, the difference is not perceptible. 
 
 Dolly says that if I had more colour I should look exactly as I 
 did three years ago, and I believe that she and mother both think 
 that 1 am beginning to get over it Well, I live, it is true, and 
 
426 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 sleep,, eat, drink, laugh even, much as I used to do, but I am like 
 a body of which one half is paralyzed, while the other retains its 
 vigour ; the inevitable, every- day, common side is quick and capa- 
 ble ; the other — God and my own heart only know about that. I 
 never was one to keep up a running complaint about anything : 
 when I was glad or sorry, I always made a great noise over it and 
 had done with it ; so in the fortnight that preceded my illness I 
 think I exhausted all power of active suffering, and that for the 
 rest of my life I can only endure passively. 
 
 I do not believe in any healthy man or woman dying for love, 
 unless they set themselves deliberately to do so. They must be 
 either very vicious or very weak, for it is a little- minded nature 
 that, possessing many good gifts, counts life as stale and worthless 
 because the one thing he desires is withheld from him. Shame and 
 disgrace may well kill, and do, but mere suffering never; the 
 human heart must have something more than simple pain before 
 it breaks. Folks do die of broken hearts must assuredly ; or 
 rather, it should be said, that a morbid and sinful indulgence in 
 the luxury of grief, a dogged resolution to contemplate no subject 
 save that of his own misery, causes remembrance to become a 
 disease ; the mind and heart consume themselves in unvarying 
 regrets, the powers of both mind and body fall into disuse 
 and gradually, but surely, the silver bowl is broken at the 
 fountain. 
 
 It is considered a poetical thing enough to die for love ; surely 
 men must know by this time how infinitely easier a thing it is than 
 to live for love % The man who takes up his burden and bears it 
 bravely has my honour, but he who lies down, and lets the waters 
 of adversity swirl over his head, has my hearty contempt. Every 
 man and woman too has work to do ; the time for rest comes 
 surely enough to all ; let us wear out, I say, not rust out. And so I 
 have tried, yes, from the very beginning, not to make my trouble 
 
HARVEST. 427 
 
 a misery to those about me. I ask no pity and, what is better still, 
 no one ever offers me any. I make just as much hurry to be down 
 in time for prayers as ever I did in my life ; I still love that un- 
 lawful ten minutes in bed after being called, that has cost me so 
 dear on many a terrible occasion ; still, with a dexterity acquired 
 by long practice, work at the rusty pump of daily conversation at 
 the family table. I feel snubbed and miserable when the governor 
 calls me by the time-honoured title of a dummy, and distinctly 
 indignant when he apostrophizes me as a peacock, when my tail 
 does not even touch the ground, and though I am growing as old 
 as the hills, I have never yet relieved my feelings by making a 
 good face at him to his face. 
 
 I can still see the absurd side of things as quickly as the sad, 
 though for the matter of that the one frequently suggests the 
 other. Now and then I feel a desperate distaste for my bright- 
 coloured dresses and insouciant ways, and lean severely towards 
 sackcloth and ashes, while as to lamentation I doubt not I could 
 lift up my voice in a dolorous howl with the best. These luxuries 
 being denied me, I am garbed like any other Christian, and my 
 voice is seldom raised in anything more distracted than a bellow 
 across country alter one of the boys. 
 
 1 wonder if I shall live to be an old woman 1 Perhaps, and 
 take to flirting in my old age, like Cleopatra, Helen of Troy, 
 and the rest. Until the other day I never knew that Antony's 
 goddess was thirty years old when she fell in love with him ; that 
 Helen of Troy was forty when she eloped with Paris, sixty when 
 she returned to her long-suffering husband. Madame R^camier 
 was reckoned the most beautiful woman in Europe from the age 
 of thirty-eight to fifty-three, Aspasia ruled royally from the age 
 of thirty-six to that of sixty, and ever so many more of them ; 
 and to my thinking it is a miracle, with all these frisky matrons 
 on record, that our mothers and grandmothers don't cast about their 
 
428 COM IN* THRC? THE RYE. 
 
 eyes among the neighbouring squires for a Paris, an Antony, or 
 anything else with a presentable name. 
 
 What silly thoughts I have fallen upon ! I look at my watch ; 
 nix o'clock ; more than time for me to go home. I pick up my 
 aat, almost as sftabby and quite as unbecoming as the one I used 
 to wear at the old trysting-place — that trysting-place that I have 
 never passed, never looked at since that Christmas morning. In 
 our rambles at papa's heels, if he has gone that way I have dropped 
 behind and struck across the fields by another path. My way 
 back to the house lies very near it ; from a hedge that I shall pass 
 I can see it quite plainly, but I never have any wish to see it. I 
 should even like an earthquake to come and swallow up the spot 
 that has such bitter-sweet memories. I leave the woodland, think- 
 ng how pretty it is, and that I will bring Dolly with me to-morrow, 
 and go along the narrow lane that leads homeward, and, coming 
 to the place from whence the field of rye is visible with the old 
 stone stile, some over-mastering impulse impels me to climb the 
 bank and look over. 1 part the boughs, and see standing, with 
 arms folded on the top of the stone, Paul Vasher, looking out at 
 the tender green and fresh spring beauty of field and meadow and 
 wood. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 u Make me a willow cabin at your gate, 
 And call upon my soul within the house." 
 
 " You know ?" asks Dolly swiftly, as she lays her two hands on my 
 shoulders and looks into my face. 
 
 " Yes, I know ;" and in the soft spring twilight I go upstairs into 
 my dusky pink-and-white chamber. 
 
 " When the bells rang out," says Dolly, with a certain anxious 
 
HARVEST. 429 
 
 hesitation, " everybody wondered, and Larry went into the church 
 to ask the reason. 'Mr. and Mrs. Vasher return this afternoon,' 
 the ringers said ; and ten minutes after they drove by. I looked 
 for you everywhere, dear. Nell ! Nell ! do you mind so very 
 much V 
 
 " Mind !" I say, looking at the dimpled, fresh face of my 
 eighteen-year-old sister, "I don't think I mind. I have seen 
 him, Dolly." 
 
 " What ! And spoken to him V 
 
 " No. He did not see me." 
 
 " How long ago T 
 
 " Perhaps an hour." 
 
 " Don't fret, darling," she says, putting her arm round my neck ; 
 " perhaps he won't stay long, and you need not meet him." 
 
 No, I need not ; but will he not breathe the same air that I 
 breathe — see the same people that I see 1 Is he not alive and 
 quick, here, instead of a shadow moving somewhere out of my 
 sight 1 Sooner or later, I have always known Paul must come to 
 the house of his fathers, but not thus— not without warning. 
 He should at least have given me time to get myself away, and now 
 he is here. The whole world was not wide enough to lie between 
 us : and now there is a patch of grass, a few trees and flowers, and 
 that is all. And the woman is with him who took my life in her 
 hand, and trampled it under her foot, and her son is here, hers 
 and Paul's. Ay ! she has triumphed over me in very truth, 
 and she is not only Paul Vasher's wife, but the mother of his 
 child. 
 
 They must make a handsome family, the dark, strong-face 
 father, the exquisite mother, the pretty boy. I dare say I shal 
 see it some day. No doubt he has grown to love her. Is she not 
 bound to him by a closer, tenderer tie than he dreamed of, when 
 he swore not to go back to her that Christmas morning ? and may 
 
 
430 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 not time, man's inconstancy, and her own maddening loveliness, 
 have closed the wounds that gaped so widely three years and more 
 ago? Three years ago? Little enough to a woman, with her 
 empty, uniform days : an eternity to a man who has a man's busy 
 eventful life to lead. He must have forgotten me, or he could 
 never have borne to come back to a place which must remind him, 
 at every turn, of the old days. And yet the man I saw looking 
 out, over the field of rye, two hours ago, looked like anything 
 rather than a man with his heart at rest. If he would only go 
 away soon, and leave me in peace— or that dull refuge of apathy 
 that I misname peace ! Mother comes in, and sits down beside me 
 in the half light. 
 
 " You know he has come back, dear !" she says. 
 
 " I know it, mother." 
 
 " He might have stayed away," she says, with a quick anger in 
 her tone ; " he ought to have known better than to come." 
 
 She does not love him. Poor mother ! to her he is the man 
 through whom her daughter's life has been spoiled. She thinks 
 him weak and sinning, as many another would think who did not 
 know the man or his temptations. 
 
 " He has been away long enough, mother. He could not stay 
 for ever. You forget the estate. No doubt he was forced to 
 come." 
 
 " Well !" says mother, sighing, " the misery of it all we know, 
 the unpleasantnesses of it have now to be faced." 
 
 Yes, they have to be, surely enough. What mortal can remain 
 on the mountain-tops of misery always, and is not obliged to 
 descend to the valleys of commonplace consideration now and 
 then? 
 
 " I don't know what to do," says mother. " As to calling on, 
 and receiving that woman, I will not." (It must be a very bad 
 female indeed that goads mother into calling her "that woman") 
 
HARVEST, 431 
 
 " And if I refuse to do so, your father will insist on knowing the 
 reason, and you made me promise you, that I would not tell him 
 about you and Mr. Vaslier." 
 
 " And you must not," I say, starting up, and sitting down again. 
 " Tell the whole world, but never tell him F 
 
 " Very well," says mother, sighing ; " then you must put up 
 with the chance of meeting her ; and remember, Nell, that you lay 
 a heavy burden upon me, not only of deceit towards your father, 
 but great unpleasantness as regards myself. It is something, in- 
 deed, that I should have to take the hand of a woman who has 
 done you such horrible injury !" 
 
 " She won't come here, mother dear," I say, kneeling down by 
 her side ; " and you need only leave cards." 
 
 " It is such a pity," goes on mother, " that your father liked the 
 Yashers always : if he were quarrelling with them, as he does with 
 everybody else, there would be no trouble. I am afraid you will 
 have to meet him," she says, stroking my hair gently ; then she 
 adds wistfully—" Is it so very hard to you, dear *? It should not 
 be by now." 
 
 Mother does not understand quite. My story seems a very long 
 while ago to her. 
 
 " Don'"t be afraid, mother : if we do meet face to face, I dare 
 gay I shall know how to behave." 
 
 • l Supper is waiting !" says Dolly, entering hurriedly ; and we 
 go downstairs with much haste and more fear. 
 
 The governor's visit to New Zealand has not altered him m any 
 way, neither have the added years made any perceptible change in 
 his appearance. To-night he is in an amiable mood, and there are 
 no desperate pauses and pregnant hiatuses in the conversation. 
 How easy it is to amuse a man when he pulls with you, not against 
 
 you ! 
 
 " So Vasher has come back ?" he sa3 T s to mother, when he has 
 
432 COMIJV THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 got his pipe, and is blowing out long comfortable clouds, that make 
 us all cough and wink again. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " High time he did, too : the estate's going to wrack and ruin. 
 And he has brought his wife and son. There are queer stories 
 abroad, I am told, about his relations with the former." 
 
 Here the governor pauses, and gives an uneasy glance at Dolly 
 and me, as fathers and mothers have a knack of doing when they 
 find the conversation turning more to meat than to milk. 
 
 " What are they V asks mother, with a certain curiosity in her 
 voice ; gentle as she is, I am sure it would not grieve her to hear 
 evil spoken of Silvia Vasher. 
 
 " A pack of lies, no doubt ; they always are where a handsome 
 woman's concerned. I am told she is magnificent. They say he 
 left her two days after he married her, and never returned to her 
 for a year. I don't believe a word of it myself, for the Vashers 
 were never hasty men, they always looked before they leaped, and 
 I never heard of one of them marrying beneath them— which is 
 more than can be said of most good families now-a-days, where at 
 least one cook, or housekeeper, or worse, moves in the family circle. 
 Mrs. Vasher is one of the Flemings of shire." 
 
 Never before did I hear so long and peaceable an oration from 
 the governor. Plainly the subject has a soothing effect upon his 
 mind. 
 
 " If these reports are afloat," says mother, " will you wish me to 
 call upon her % There are the girls, you know." 
 
 But this little diplomatic move avails her nothing. 
 
 " Vasher must not be slighted," says the governor ; " so you will 
 call upon her and take the girls." 
 
 Dolly turns as red as a turkey-cock, and screws up her mouth in a 
 form that says plainly enough, " Never /" I go on with my fox's 
 nose without a word. Mother subsides: it is never easy to argue 
 
HARVEST. 433 
 
 anything with the governor ; to question the wisdom of any one 
 of his edicts, is to reduce his conversation to a highly animated 
 monologue of one. As he often says, " Let any one dare to cross 
 me, or say this, that, or the other, to my face, there shan't be a bit 
 of him left in two minutes \" 
 
 Now, though I can easily imagine him reducing any one to the 
 condition of body that he mentions, it has always puzzled me as 
 to what he would do with the remains ; it certainly opens out a 
 vast field of conjecture. 
 
 He gets up for some more tobacco, and, turning his back upon 
 us, we perceive that a very ornamental antimacassar has caught 
 in the buttons of his coat, and is dangling elegantly at his heels. 
 It is quite out of the question to tell him it is there, equally oat 
 of the question to relieve him of it, so he will carry it to bed 
 with him, and, on discovering it, will cast his mind backwards to 
 try and remember whether, during the evening, we showed any 
 signs of unusual levity. 
 
 Why am I noting, even smiling at, all these trifles, when brain 
 and heart and mind are aching and tense with the consciousness 
 of a great fact ? I thrust it away from me — I will not think of 
 it— I shall be alone by-and-by, then I will look it in the face. 
 
 " The Tempests return next week," says papa, with a grateful 
 change of the subject. " What the old man can be thinking about 
 to race about the world as he does " Here he pauses express- 
 ively. 
 
 " Do you hear, Dolly ?" I say to her. " George is coming back ! 
 Are you not glad ?" 
 
 " Very," says Dolly. 
 
 As I look at her pretty blooming face a happy thought strikes 
 me. Why should not she and George make a match ? She always 
 liked him, and he would suit her far better than he ever would 
 
 28 
 
434 COM IN' THRO THE RYE. 
 
 have suited me. I wonder what he has been doing with himsell 
 these last two years'? distinguishing himself, I hope. 
 
 It angers me sorely sometimes when I think that neither of the 
 men who loved me have ever done anything to lift themselves 
 above the ruck of other men, being held back, in truth, as much 
 by a superabundance of gold and lands as anything else. 
 
 What I should have liked, if I had my life to choose for myself, 
 would have been to love and be loved by a moderately poor, 
 ambitious man, who would fight his way up, step by step, taking 
 me with him. Then when we had reached the top, we should 
 have loved each other so much better for having borne the burden 
 and heat of the day together. He could never have sneered at me 
 then by saying, " You married me because I was rich." 
 
 If women who openly, shamelessly marry for money only knew 
 the despicable, degraded wretches they look, and are ! Selling 
 their bodies for what 1 Sensual material enjoyments, that none 
 but a coarse, vulgar mind would set any great store by. Soft car- 
 riages, good food, rich habits, bodily comforts, that the beasts of 
 the field might sigh after if they knew of them. And for the 
 heart, the soul, what ? Nothing. It is the gross shell that encloses 
 those minor considerations that is the care of this class of women. 
 And yet, can she be always eating choice meats, drinking choice 
 wines 1 Can she spend her whole time lolling in her carriage among 
 her gauds 1 Does she never find a time for looking upon her hus- 
 band, who in his heart despises her, knowing that his money has 
 bought and paid for, not only her body and allegiance, but also 
 every look and embrace she gives him ]/ 
 
 I hold that woman who deliberately marries for money as more 
 utterly fallen than she who leaves husband, children, and home to 
 follow the man she loves through the world. The latter sins 
 heinously, it is true ; but is she not obeying the divine, though in 
 this case erring, and self-sacrificing instinct of love, while the other 
 
HARVEST. 435 
 
 hands herself over to a man she detests for lust of gold— the 
 basest, most ignoble greed man or woman evei stained hia or her 
 ooul with ? 
 
 Bed-time comes. " Good night ! good night !" At last I am in 
 my chamber ; the door is locked, and I am alone. I open my 
 window wide, and the soft, moist air creeps in with the faint 
 earthy smell that ever wanders abroad in early spring, whispering 
 that nature's forces are stirring at their sources, and preparing new 
 and beautiful treasures for our eyes' delight. 
 
 There is no moon, and the darkness enfolds me in its softness, 
 and seems to hide me away — body and soul, unborn thought and 
 conscious feeling, anxious fear and trembling joy. Joy ! What 
 have I to do with it this night 1 As though it were a demon, I 
 must send from me the heavenly visitor that has stayed so lon& 
 away from me, lest my soul perish. 
 
 Is it a sin that my eyes beholding him to-day have been blessed 
 indeed 1 Is it a crime that my body is one ache to feel the merest 
 friendliest touch of his hand, my ears one eager hearkening for the 
 sound of his voice 1 
 
 And this is my strength, this my composure, that I had built up 
 so slowly and painfully, to melt away like snow before the sun at a 
 mere glimpse of his unconscious face. Is it as another woman's 
 husband that I think of him, or as my lost lover, who cleaves to me 
 through time and space, and who is mine as I am his 1 Less of 
 fear than delight moves me, I wis, at knowing he is close to me, 
 that I have seen him, a living, breathing man, instead of a grey 
 shadow in spirit land, divided from me by a river my feet shall 
 never cross 
 
 My mind contemplates the misery and bitter circumstances of 
 the situation — the sight of my enemy filling my place, usurping 
 my rights. My heart sweeps all paltry, trivial considerations 
 aside ; and looking the truth fairly in the face, sees and recognises, 
 
 28—2 
 
436 COM IN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 trembling, the danger of the hour. It bids me put all my armour 
 on, since love that is lawful strengthens, and love that is unlawful 
 makes men and women alike weak as water — ay ! better and 
 stronger ones than are Paul and I. 
 
 And since I know my danger, and meet it, not hiding my coun- 
 tenance from it as a phantom that a lying spirit would tell me does 
 not exist, I show a fairer courage than he who vaingloriously goes 
 forth to battle trusting in his own strength, without sending up 
 one prayer for safety. 
 
 This night, then, is my breathing space, and in it I will struggle 
 to convince myself that to disobey any natural beautiful instinct 
 of my heart is virtue— to indulge every irresistible impulse and 
 longing, sin ; to make my heart cold and hard as steel, my eyes 
 blind and dull as those of a mole ; to transform myself from a 
 creature of flesh and blood, subject to human passions, to a chill, 
 blank automaton. Then, maybe, I shall be able to meet him, not 
 as my lost, lost lover, but as the husband of another woman. 
 This is my task. 
 
 O Night, your hours are long and silent, and the faint daybreak 
 of the morning comes not yet. 
 
 CHAPTER V1L 
 
 " Leave her to Heaven 
 And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge 
 To prick and sting her." 
 
 It is Sunday morning, and all Silverbridge that is not bed-ridden, 
 infidel, and naked, is sitting in church listening to Mr. Skipworth's 
 droning voice that makes up in sound what it lacks in sense. The 
 chancel door is open, and through it my eyes, weary of gazing at 
 the vacuous rotundity of my pastor and master's countenance, 
 
HARVEST. 437 
 
 wander, refreshed by the pale green of the young leaves on which 
 the lights and shadows quiver and leap. A bird, alighted on the 
 threshold, is sending his shrill clear song straight into the church, 
 and Mr. Skipworth shakes his head impatiently, as though he 
 said, " How dare that impudent bird lift up its voice while I am 
 speaking I" But oh ! bow much more sweetly does the voice of 
 the ignorant bird inform our hearts and ears than that of the 
 preaching, reasoning man ! 
 
 The bucolic part of the congregation sits stolid and sleepy. 
 They have listened to him Sunday after Sunday for the last twenty 
 years, most of them will listen twenty more ; and if he were 
 suddenly to awake out of his sloth and preach a good rousing 
 sermon, it would probably disagree with them horribly, and give 
 them a moral indigestion, making them uncomfortable for weeks. 
 If you put the question to them whether they would like to be 
 spiritually awakened, they would tell you that they do very well 
 as they are, and see no necessity whatever for a vigorous stirring up. 
 To them, heaven is on the right hand, hell on the left, and church 
 in the middle ; to go to church is to be safe for the former, to stay 
 away from church is to go to the latter sharp and sure. Church 
 is church, and it does not much signify to them what they hear 
 there — there's always the Bible and the Prayer-book to fall back 
 upon. They do not make any very strenuous efforts to unlock the 
 gate that leads into the kingdom of heaven : they walk decorously 
 and slowly according to their lights. There are certain well-known 
 landmarks in sin that they steer clear of ; for the rest, it is out of 
 all conscience to suppose that honest industrious bodies, who say 
 their responses and amens every Sunday of their lives, can be any- 
 thing but safe for a comfortable place in the next world. Among 
 these simple folks are some wolves in sheep's clothing ; men who 
 beat their wives, neglect their children, and spend their earnings 
 in the ale-honse ; who are, m fact, veritable mauvais siyels. But 
 
438 COM IN' THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 mark the difference ! These men come up to time every Sunday 
 morning: in their places they sit with their pommelled wives and 
 hungry children, with a decent coat, and a clean face, and steady 
 legs— respectable. Let them commit one tithe ot these misde- 
 meanours and stop away from worship, and they are outcasts. 
 
 Under the pulpit, in the square red-curtained pew of the Vash- 
 ers, sits Silvia, Paul Vasher's wife. I know she is there, though 
 I have not glanced once in her direction. But now, as Mr. Skip- 
 worth closes his book and we all rise, I look across the church and 
 we meet each other's eyes fully and fairly, face to face at last. The 
 dawning look of triumph wavers and dies before the cold steady 
 scorn of mine. Ay, Madam Silvia ! though you stand there, his 
 wife, and I star d here lonely, forsaken — though your words have 
 come true and you have got your heart's desire — you are a cheat, 
 an interloper : it is I who am conqueror, not you. You stole 
 Paul's body and name from me : but his heart, his love, his life are 
 mine, and you know it. He will not even be seeu by your side on 
 this your first appearance among his own people. All this my eyes 
 say to her as we look upon each other, and then we kneel down. 
 At the gate Mrs. Vasher's carriage awaits her, superbly appointed, 
 as are all her surroundings at all times ; and I think to myself of 
 how small I should feel in spite of all the frippery and bravery of 
 it if I had to get into it and drive away alone. 
 
 " Handsomest woman I ever saw in my life ;" I hear the gover- 
 nor's voice saying as we cross the churchyard behind him ; " and 
 Vasher ought to have been with her." 
 
 I smile to myself as I listen. Will not every man who looks on 
 Silvia's face condemn Paul as a selfish, cold-hearted wretch for his 
 indifference ? Talk about " Beauty being only skin deep," " Hand- 
 some is as handsome does," and the rest of these worthless, lying 
 sayings that man never spoke, which are rather the embodied spite 
 of generations of plain women, who, finding the grapes denied 
 
HARVEST. 439 
 
 them, declared them to be sour -it is no such thing. Beauty is 
 power, love, influence, rank, and riches ; beauty covers a multitude 
 of sins for which the possessor will never be punished so long as 
 she can ravish the eyes of men with her sweet looks and smiles. 
 Ugly folks may starve and nobody cares, but Providence sends 
 good things to fill the mouths of the beautiful. Who does not 
 feel his heart turn warmly towards the joyous, winsome, lovely 
 woman, as to a flower, a picture, or anything else delightful to the 
 eye 1 The very sense of pleasure it communicates to us makes us 
 grateful to the cause, therefore we love it. 
 
 Yes, Silvia will have consolation offered to her, enough and to 
 spare. She is altered : there is more expression in her face. She 
 has suffered keenly, I think, since that night at Luttrell when I 
 saw her last. She has her wish, but, if her eyes speak truth, it 
 has brought her little peace. 
 
 I pause in untying my bonnet-strings, to think of how Paul and 
 I would have spent this Sabbath morning if I had been his wife, he 
 my husband. We should have walked to church, I think, across 
 the glistening, fresh park and fields ; we should have paused now 
 and again to gather a flower or two by the way. We should have 
 given each other lectures as to our deportment when we got into 
 church ; he would have put my bonnet straight, and made me 
 tidy in the porch before we went in. In the Litany I am sure he 
 would have kissed me, and in the Ten Commandments I am sure 
 I should have kissed him, and during the sermon — for there is 
 nobody to see— I should have dipped my hand into his big brown 
 one. 
 
 I catch the reflection of my face in the mirror, and start back : 
 !t warns me of what I am doing— thinking ; and I have vowed that 
 I will never look back— that I will keep my eyes fixed straight and 
 steady on the monotonous level of to-day. 
 
 " If you don't want to find the governor dancing a hornpipe od 
 
440 COMTN 1 THRO'' THE RYE. 
 
 the dining-room table, come down !" says Dollv, rushing in ; and 
 I follow her in hot haste. 
 
 Heavy as my heart is, my heels are light enough. On Sundays 
 for some unknown reason, papa always seems to feel our numbers 
 pressing more heavily upon him than any other day, and so to speak 
 throws our existences in our faces as a fact of which we ought to 
 be deeply and abidingly ashamed, although what finger we had 
 in the pie, and why our presence in this life should be set down to 
 our own determined and unaided obstinacy and vice, is rather 
 more than we can understand. At these times the governor does 
 not look upon us as decent responsible souls, but as so many mouths 
 that he is bound to fill, and for my part I feel intensely ashamed 
 of being obliged to eat at all, and that I should hold a very 
 different position in his eyes if I could do without any such sub- 
 lunary matters as food and drink and clothing. While he fulmi- 
 nates against the beef, the butcher, the carving knife, the plates, 
 and the round world and all that is therein, I speculate as to 
 whom he might consider a suitable person to rear and maintain his 
 family, reserving to himself the small rights of controlling our 
 souls, bodies, looks, words, and actions. Clearly he thinks it no 
 legitimate affair of his ; but a man who will adopt ten children 
 and provide for them, is not to be met with every day. While as 
 to Providence— whom he possibly regards as the person to blame — 
 why, Providence, in providing us with a father, evidently considers 
 it has done its duty, and there is an end o't. By the time the 
 governor's plate is empty his angry mutters have ceased, and peace, 
 dove-like and beef inspired, broods mildly over us. 
 
 The best of men is better full than empty, and the most rampa- 
 gious of men is ten degrees less rampagious when he has eaten a 
 good dinner ; and if I were going to keep house, I would not 
 forget that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. J 
 will give Dolly excellent advice on the subject when she marries. 
 
HARVEST. 441 
 
 At dessert a remark of papa's strikes me like a blow. 
 
 " Vasher is coming here this afternoon ; I saw him yesterday, 
 and made a point of it." 
 
 Fancy papa pressing anybody to enter his hospitable house— it 
 sounds wonderfully like the spider and the fly ! 
 
 " Did he seem unwilling to come, then ]" asks mother. 
 
 " Not exactly, but he hesitated in a queer way— said he never 
 went anywhere. He inquired for you i" continues the governor, 
 nodding at me. 
 
 " Did he V I say, with my eyes fixed on the apple I am peeling. 
 
 " You will call there to-morrow," he says to mother, " and take 
 the girls r 
 
 " 1 will call." 
 
 " I won't go," says Dolly, in an angry tone aside to me: " not it 
 I am tied in a cart like a pig going to market !" 
 
 " Supposing he comes now," I say to myself, " before I can get 
 away f and I sit in a restless misery until the familiar chuck of 
 papa's thumb releases us. 
 
 " Mother," I say, in the drawing-room, u I am going out at once. 
 I shall not come in until the coast is clear." 
 
 " May I come with you ?" asks Dolly. 
 
 " Not now, dear," I say, kissing the soft cheek that has never 
 blushed or paled for love of any man living yet ; " we will go out 
 together to-morrow." 
 
 As I go through the garden I press my hands hard against my 
 heart, and a mist creeps over my eyes, blotting out the garden, the 
 flowers, and the sky. He is coming, here where his feet trod every 
 nook and corner beside mine, here where we had our one perfect 
 day of happiness and content ; but he is not coming to me — he 
 will sit in the old familiar room where we sat together so often, 
 and I shall be out here alone. We are both alive, and well, and 
 strong, living in the same place ; but between us lies a woman's 
 plain gold wedding-ring. 
 
442 COMW THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 I hurry away to the orchard, and sit down under the very v^me 
 tree where Jack and I sat so many years ago with our beasts and 
 birds all about us. I wonder if the time seems as long to him as 
 it does to me, or if T look as old as I feel ] (Jack's ridiculous old 
 question of whether I would rather be a bigger fool than I look, 
 or look a bigger fool than I am, here comes into my mind, and pro- 
 vokes a smile.) Twenty-two next birthday is a considerable age ; 
 but, perhaps, if I were happy, it would not seem so much. How 
 the bees are humming and buzzing all about the trees, as though 
 they smelt the pink and white buds that are forcing their way 
 through the dull brown boughs ! How carelessly the birds are sing- 
 ing ! bees ! birds ! can you not give me a little of your light- 
 headedness, your forgetfulness 1 You have hardships, no doubt, 
 but you do rot seem to be able to remember. . . . God does well 
 to make your memories blank ones. 
 
 I leave my place and saunter along to a belt of trees that girdles 
 round a dark, sullen pool, set with dank weeds, and ugly henbane 
 and nightshade lying in the far corner of the orchard. It is, in 
 tact, an outlet to the meadows beyond, for behind the pool rises a 
 low stone wall with a stile. I do not often come this way, for I 
 hate the spot, and yet it fascinates me, and I pause to look down 
 into the sluggish depths. A sudden tongue of sunlight pierces the 
 close-set trees, and trembles on the black water, and in the 
 momentary illumination I see strange, loathsome, misshapen 
 horrors, that writhe, and turn, and wriggle away into dark corners. 
 This pool typifies to me a foul heart that conceals many an ugly 
 secret, and slinks away from the light that reveals its deformity. 
 
 A step behind me makes me lift my eyes from its black surface, 
 and there, on the other side of the wall, stands Paul Vasher. I 
 had meant to put out a cool, friendly hand to him so easily (if 
 ever we met), looked at him with such careless, friendly eyes, and 
 said, " How do you do V to him so glibly. Why then do I stand 
 
HARVEST. 443 
 
 silent, with unlifted hand, staring at him ! I am dumb with pain 
 — not love ; I am looking at him in sorrow — not love. Oh ! what 
 have these past years held for him that they have altered face, 
 look, and figure so fearfully % You may be loved for your own 
 sake, Paul Vasher, but never more will a woman love you for 
 your beauty. Grey, haggard, worn— who could believe that you 
 had ever been proud, imperious, passionate % A bitter pain shoots 
 through my heart as I recall the face that I saw in my looking- 
 glass three hours ago — pale as it was, and a little fallen ; but with 
 such suffering writ on it as on this ? No ! After all it is he who 
 speaks first, and my words used to be so much more frequent and 
 ready than his/^ 
 
 " I was going to the Manor House," he says. 
 
 He is standing beside me now. We make each other no greet- 
 ing. 
 
 " Let me look at you," he says, coming a step nearer ; " I have 
 not seen you for three years, remember." 
 
 He stands looking into my face, line by line, feature by feature, 
 for a full minute, then he turns away. 
 
 " You can never have cared as I did," he says — " never— to look 
 as you look to-day." 
 
 " Hush !" I cry, starting aside ; " we made our last farewells, 
 spoke our last woids on that Christmas morning : in this present 
 we are nothing to each other— nothing." 
 
 " And may we not remember V 
 
 " Remember !" I repeat, turning pale. " Do you not see that 
 there is the sin, there the wickedness 1 We must not remember— 
 we will not !" 
 
 " Speak for yourself, child," he says bitterly. " I am too old 
 now to learn the meaning of the word forget. Have you learnt 
 it V he cries, with the old jealous ring in his voice that I know so 
 well— and it turns me giddy and sick with the memories it brings. 
 
444 COM IN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " Why did you come back f I ask, smiting my two hands to- 
 gether, " why did you do it ?" 
 
 "Why did II Because if I had not I should have gone mad, 
 or died of longing to hear the sound of your voice, and for a look 
 of your sweet face." 
 
 " Then you did not love her ?" the erring words leap straight 
 from my heart to my lips without my own volition. 
 
 " Love her ?" He looks down at the pool at our feet, looks up 
 at God's heavenly azure shining through the exquisite leaves. 
 " This is my life with that woman "—he makes a gesture towards 
 the black, foul waters ;— tl that i >1 — with a gesture towards the sky, 
 — " is my love for you. Tell me," he says, — " tell me how have 
 these years passed with you f 
 
 " They have not killed me," I say, turning away my white face, 
 11 and (with a little laugh) they have not made me thin, but " 
 
 Why do I lift my desolate, tearless eyes to those dark, weary 
 ones, heavy with the love that must not, dare not be given to me ? 
 
 He draws a deep brenth and turns as pale as death. 
 
 Suddenly I step out of the shadow into the sunlight, and he 
 follows me. Half way across the orchard I turn to him and speak. 
 
 " You have come back, Paul, which you should not have done, 
 without warning ; and we have met, as we should not have done. 
 But this is our last talk together : henceforward we are acquaintances 
 and meet as such If ever we fall again into such words as we 
 have fallen into to-day, I shall go away, and never come back while 
 you are here. You will not drive me away, will you 1 Paul ! Paul ! 
 you are stronger than I — help me to be strong too !" By which it 
 will appear that my long night of fierce struggle with my unruly 
 heart has availed me but little. 
 
 " Am I stronger 1 ?" he says, standing still. " Whether I am or not 
 you shall not have appealed to me in vain ; have no fear — I will 
 not drive you away." 
 
HARVEST. 445 
 
 A minute later, and he is in the dining-room, and I am sitting 
 in my chamber alone. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 " No metal can. 
 No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness of thy sharp envy." 
 
 It is a week since mother, sorely against her will, drove her fat 
 grey ponies over to The Towers, and left cards for Mr. and 
 Mrs. Vasher. For a week we have gone out every afternoon im- 
 mediately after dinner, lest in the very plenitude of audacity she 
 should elect to return the visit. We might have spared ourselves 
 the trouble, however, for her chariot wheels have not turned in 
 at our gates, and — somewhat to my surprise, I confess — I come 
 to the conclusion that for once in her life her haughty spirit is 
 abashed. 
 
 I am going to my pretty woodland this afternoon, alone as usual. 
 Mother is in the village, Dolly invisible, and I am hunting for a 
 basket to bring back my flowers in. Suddenly I bethink me of 
 the one that contains mother's wools, and I cross the hall and enter 
 the drawing-room to fetch it. What a noise those tiresome boys 
 are making ! I wish papa was not quite so conspicuous by his 
 absence. It is no use to box their ears, I say to myself with a 
 sigh : they are altogether past that. The wools have got entangled 
 
 round the handle of the basket, and What is that noise in the 
 
 distance 1 surely a bell rang 1 The door opens almost instantly, 
 and Simpkins announces " Mrs. Vasher." 
 
 The room is a long one, and as she comes stepping across the 
 space that lies between us I stand still, with my face turned toward 
 her. When she is quite close to me she holds out her hand. I do 
 not stir, but stand looking from her false face to her false hand, 
 from her false hand back again to her face. 
 
446 COM J N' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " What !" I say, very low. " You dare offer an honest woman 
 the hand of a forger 1 Has not even your varied experience taught 
 you the gulf that lies between the two ? You do my father's house 
 far too much honour, madam. But, since you are here, I will ask 
 your permission to retire." 
 
 As I pass her she lays her hand upon my skirts. 
 
 " You shall not go," she says quietly. " I came here to speak to 
 you, and I will." 
 
 I cannot struggle with this woman, so I stand still perforce, 
 scornful and silent, while she scans my face with an intentness 
 that I can feel. 
 
 " You are very much altered," she says, slowly. " You are not 
 very pretty now. What my husband saw in you I never could 
 imagine." 
 
 In spite of my anger I break into a hearty joyous laugh. 
 
 "It is very strange, is it not? For you really are a far better 
 looking woman, and yet he preferred me." iSome wicked spirit 
 ever waits on me, and informs me how best to irritate Silvia. Her 
 eyes darken and flame under mine like those of a furious animal. 
 I never saw so fair a face so apt at illustrating ugly passions. " If 
 you have anything to say to me," I continue, contemptuously, 
 "release me and say it ; it won't trouble me." 
 
 For a moment she draws her breath hard, looks at me under 
 her drawn brows, then releases me. " Perhaps you wonder at my 
 coming here V she asks, sinking into an easy chair. 
 
 " Very much," I answer, laconically. (What a nerve the woman 
 has!) 
 
 " Your father made a great point of my coming. He does not 
 know the relations that formerly subsisted between you and my 
 husband, I think V 
 
 u No, or your share in the matter. You would not have been 
 
HARVEST. 447 
 
 admitted within his doors if he had. We are honest folk we 
 Adairs." 
 
 " Indeed !" she says, with a faint sneer ; " then deceit must be 
 reehristened." 
 
 " Tell him your worst, madam ; and to hear you talk about 
 deceit is about as suitable as if the father of lies took to preach- 
 ing morality. We know nothing here of such womanly accom- 
 plishments as spying, forgery, theft ; in our part of the world we 
 do not track men for years and marry them when they are mad. 
 Our neighbourhood should be the better for containing a lady 
 who is so great a proficient in all these branches of a woman's 
 education." 
 
 "Don't call the means I made use of to reach my ends by 
 such hard names," she says indifferently ; " they served me well 
 enough." 
 
 " Such ends as they are !" I say quietly ; " and such a reward as 
 they have brought you !" 
 
 " Yes," she says, with her old slow smile, the smile of my 
 dream, " they have brought me all I wanted. I was his first love, 
 and now I am his wife, and the mother of his son, and you were 
 never anything but his — sweetheart'' 
 
 " You were his first love," I say slowly—" true ; and he cast you 
 aside like a soiled glove when he found out your real nature, nor 
 could you win him back, though you stooped to the dust to bring 
 him. You are his wife — but did you become a wife in any 
 commonly decent, nonourable way 1 And you are the mother of 
 his child. Yes. Does he love that child] Does he ever look 
 upon him without remembering your immodesty, your perjury, 
 your fraud 1 Trust me, Silvia, that innocent child will never be 
 any link between you ; rather is he a chain to drag you f arthei 
 and farther away from the man you call husband." 
 
 " Yes," she says, deadly pale. 
 
448 COM IN 1 THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 (Have I touched her at last \) 
 
 " But, after all, 1 have conquered, I am Paul Vasher's wife, and 
 you are only Helen Adair." 
 
 M Yes," I say, slowly, " only Helen Adair ! but she has a pure 
 heart, an unseared conscience, a fair name, and the entire perfect 
 love of Paul Vasher in the past, in the present, and for ever." 
 
 An infinite content fills my voice as I speak, looking up, with 
 happy eyes, at the blue vault of sky beyond us. 
 
 " I am husbandless, childless, lonely ; but do you think I would 
 change places with you 1" 
 
 " Take care," she says, with a low wicked laughter lying under 
 her sweet voice : " your good name, did you say 1 You are very 
 proud and sure of yourself now ; but take care, take care you 
 don't lose it some day. All things come to him who waits, you 
 know ; and I could wait a long while to see your pride brought 
 low." 
 
 " You judge others by yourself," I say, with contempt ; " but 
 I know that honour is of small account in your eyes. Here we 
 set some small store by the commodity." 
 
 " Are you not afraid of meeting my husband again V she asks, 
 " It must be very hard upon you, poor thing !'' 
 
 " We do not find it so, Madam." 
 
 "You have seen him V she exclaims, thrown off her guard. 
 
 " Certainly. Is there anything so extraordinary in that ?" 
 
 " Sooner or later you will burn your fingers," she says, rising. 
 
 " Thank you for your good advice," I say, taking up my basket 
 with alacrity ; " but I should say you wanted it all for yourself. 
 You cannot be expected to understand me — or Paul." 
 
 " By the way," she says, looking in the glass at her own exquisite 
 person, " how did you hear my husband is not proud of my son ? 
 Servants' gossip ?" 
 
HARVEST. 449 
 
 "No ; I leave that to you. Have you your spy Jane at the 
 Towers V 
 
 " Yes ; she is an excellent wretch. Well, I am going. I intended 
 to see you, and I have done so. I'm glad to find your misfortunes 
 have not broken your spirit. Tell your father I came," she says, 
 from the door ; "unless, indeed, you would wish to tell him the 
 whole story. 5 ' 
 
 I ring the bell, and she vanishes. 
 
 " Was ever such a womanf I say to myself, as i sit down: " no 
 shame, no fear, no conscience. No wonder Paul and I were like 
 wax in her hands. Her words cut me like knives, again and again. 
 Did I wince under them, I wonder % I think I touched her once 
 or twice : I am sure I tried hard enough." 
 
 I pick up my basket, innocent cause of my being caught, and go 
 out into the garden, my heart beating, my pulses throbbing. How 
 that evil, lovely face brings back to my memory that night at Lut- 
 trell when, though I knew it not, such happiness lay before me. 
 Now the warning is fulfilled, and my lot in life is fixed. 
 
 My adventures this afternoon are doomed to conclude in a some- 
 what ludicrous manner, for, in crossing the orchard, I find poor 
 Dolly in a state of siege, standing on a pile of planks against the 
 wall, whither she has been driven by our new and potent tyrant, 
 the ram. He was installed in the orchard last Monday, and a very 
 lively time we have had of it ever since; indeed, it would be 
 hard to say why he is here at all, unless the abundant abrasions 
 inflicted by his horns on the family legs and shins find favour in 
 the governor's eyes. Not but what he comes in for his share, for 
 the ram is no respecter of persons, and only yesterday did we all, 
 from behind corners, indulge in the exquisite diversion of watching 
 him dodge papa round a tree, the governor— to his credit be it 
 spoken— coming off victorious, although with some slight loss of 
 dignity. 
 
450 COMIN' THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 To-day it is Dolly's turn. The orchard being the universal high 
 road to everywhere, we all have to cross it more or less often every 
 day, and she, less spry than the rest of us, has evidently, after 
 long and painful capers, returned to her present perch as a last 
 refuge, while her pursuer, with a perseverance that speaks well 
 for the intelligence of the genus mutton, has stretched himself out 
 on the grass before her, leaving small hope of escape. 
 
 " Oh, Nell !" she exclaims, divided between wrath and tears, as 
 I appear, " I have been up here more than an hour. I was begin- 
 ning to think that I should be here till doomsday F 
 
 "I'm coming," I say, approaching warily from the rear; for I 
 have no notion of attracting Mr. Barn's delicate little attentions to 
 my own defenceless legs. 
 
 " Can't you get him away V cries Dolly, piteously. 
 
 Now, with the very best intentions in the world, it is pleasauter 
 to see another person's knees buffeted than one's own ; besides, I 
 enjoyed the luxury no later than this morning, and I intend to 
 make no efforts at assistance, save what are compatible with my 
 own safety, so I answer somewhat faintly, " I'll try, Dolly," and 
 hide myself carefully behind a tree. 
 
 This sneaking conduct does not at all meet Dolly's views, who, 
 I know, wants to get me into the open, and then, while he is attack- 
 ing me, make good her own escape. A nice little programme for 
 her, but not quite so pleasant for me ; so I think I will stay where 
 I am. 
 
 " Well /" says Dolly, " I had no idea you were so mean ! Now 
 if you were up here " 
 
 " Yes f I say, with a sisterly wink, " just so. I say, Dolly J 
 have you tried smiling at him 1* 
 
 " Nonsense !" she says. 
 " Nevertheless," I say— 
 
HARVEST. 45 » 
 
 " ' There was an old man who said how 
 Shall I flee from this terrible cow ? 
 I will sit on this stile and continue to smile 
 Till I soften the heart of that cow ;' 
 
 his position was very similar to yours, Dolly !' 
 
 Meanwhile the ram has discovered the new aspirant to honours, 
 and is surveying me with attention, but he does not move ; evi- 
 dently his heart is set on Doily. Emboldened by his apparent 
 supineness, and wishful to do her a goo4 turn, I leave the shelter 
 of my tree, and advancing a few steps towards him, make a fright- 
 ful face, and utter a loud and warlike Shoh ! I don't go far though, 
 for past experience has taught me the painful celerity with 
 which the beast moves ; so when he scrambles to his feet, and 
 rushes at me, I have found time to interpose the stout body of an 
 apple tree between his horns and my petticoats. He has an ex- 
 cellent notion of dodging, so have I, and we set to each other as 
 diligently and indefatigably as, now and again, you may see two 
 people who are going opposite ways do at a street corner, first 
 seriously, then angrily, until both stop to burst out into hearty 
 laughter. The ram does not laugh though : he is far too much in 
 earnest for that. He has only his horns and haunches, poor beast 
 — with the former he defies mankind, with the latter he feeds it, 
 and life is a very earnest matter with him indeed. 
 
 Meanwhile Dolly, perceiving the foe to be thus actively engaged, 
 has several times debated the safety of descending from her perch, 
 and at this moment elects to do so ; but alas ! wicked fate causes 
 her to lose her footing, and sprawl full length on the grass, and in 
 the twinkling of an eye, the ram has wheeled, rushed at her, and 
 is rolling her over and over on the turf in a transport of buffets. 
 " Help !" cries Dolly. 
 
 " Help !" cry I, suffocated with inextinguishable laughter ; and 
 Dorley happily appearing at this juncture, the too-persevering 
 
 29—2 
 
452 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 mutton is beaten off, and Dolly, very green about the dress, tangled 
 about the head, and sore generally, is hustled out of the way. 
 
 " I hope that brute will break somebody's legs soon!" says Dolly, 
 in tears, as we go back to the house, by by-ways and short-cuts, 
 fearful of meeting the governor, '* he will never be got rid of— else 
 —till he has committed murder F 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " Although the print be little, the whole matter 
 And copy of the father : eye, nose, lips, 
 The trick of his frown, his forehead — nay, the valley, 
 The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek, his smiles " , . . . 
 
 A month has passed since Silvia came to see me, and now we are 
 in May — fragrant, blossoming, voluptuous May; and the world is 
 covered like a bride with the month's white flower of flowers, that 
 here and there melts odorously into faintest, palest pink, or burns 
 into vividest crimson and scarlet. You are very royal and sweet, 
 you May-flowers, but I do not love you so well as my 
 
 ' ' Daffodils 
 That come before the swallow dares, and take 
 The winds of March with beauly : violets dim 
 But sweeter than the lids of Judo's eye 
 Or Cytherea's breath : pale primroses 
 That die unmarried ere they can behold 
 Bright Phcebus in his strength," 
 
 and all the delicate army that your gorgeous coming has caused to 
 fade away. They did not wait, like you, till the earth was warmed 
 and pranked to receive you; they grew with the grass, and crept up 
 through the cold, hard ground, braving the lingering chilly winds and 
 night frosts to bring us beautiful messages from the busy, teeming? 
 
HARVEST. 453 
 
 earth-mother. Already in this fuller spring the indescribably 
 delicate tints of leaf and flower and grass and sky are gone ; the 
 fresh, new, impalpable bloom that lay over all has vanished ; the 
 vague rapture and stir of nature is over. It is the fulfilment, not 
 the promise ; the reality, not the dream Over my head the apple 
 blossoms are hanging, rosily white, pearly pink; they are so exquisite 
 that I long to take a bough of them in my arms and bury my face 
 in their cool, snowy beauty. 
 
 As I look up, a thrush, who has been swaying himself to and 
 fro, hurries aw;iy, and a shower of pink and white scented leaves 
 flutter down upon my head and face — what a feast is this for eye 
 and heart and senses ! And so it would have been to me a while 
 ago : now it fills me with admiration, not love. And yet I would 
 not have the days when nature contented me so thoroughly back 
 again if I could. 
 
 " 'Tis better to have loved and lost 
 Than never to have loved at all," 
 
 sang the poet, with a deeper philosophy than the words at first 
 sight seem to contain. Better is it to have a heart that has only 
 quickened to die than one that goes beating torpidly on, knowing 
 as little of joy as of pain. I think those who have a great capacity 
 for suffering are not to be pitied, since they have an equal capacity 
 for happiness ; to such the great flood of ecstasy that has once 
 swept over their souls, though quickly followed by sharpest 
 misery, more envy may be given than to those whose hearts are 
 watered only by puny rills of pleasure, who can only suffer as they 
 endure — in moderation And though forgetfulness might bring 
 me a base and sluggish peace, I would not lose memory— that sad 
 and sweet faced maiden, in whose face I can look without re- 
 morse, and who, though she offers to my lips a full and bitter 
 cup, cannot say " You mixed it ; drink, for the evil is of your own 
 
454 COM IN' THRO y THE RYE. 
 
 working." I think that if through fault or sin of mine our misery 
 had been made, I could not Lave borne it. That is why Paul 
 suffers so terribly, because he knows that his own hand was the 
 means of our undoing. Paul ! Paul ! and I can give you no word 
 of comfort ! no, nor ease your shoulders from one iota of the 
 burden laid upon them. 
 
 I have seen him twice, before all the rest. Fortunately, papa is 
 not so far gone in madness and hospitality as to invite Mrs. 
 Vasher to dinner, and as she has been here he is perfectly unsus- 
 picious of the wheels within wheels ; and long may he remain so, 
 say I. He, mother, and I, have been invited to a dinner party at 
 The Towers (ye gods !), but as papa has fortunately quarrelled 
 outright with every other neighbour invited, and as it might be 
 awkward if he had to take his enemy's wife in to dinner, he has 
 declined for obvious reasons. Mrs. Vasher has returned her visits 
 as she received her visitors, alone, and the county to a man cries 
 fie ! upon Paul ; and the county to a woman, with a spiteful 
 though true instinct, takes the part of the husband, and calls fie on 
 the wife. 
 
 Sometimes I think I never made a greater mistake than when I 
 made Paul go back to his wife. Upon him I entailed a life of 
 utter wretchedness; what his existence is his face tells plainly 
 enough ; and the tongue of scandal even has r.ot been stopped, 
 although my name has not yet appeared in the matter. He might 
 have got over his disappointment in time if he had been away from 
 her, but how can he forget for one moment when Silvia is ever 
 before him, a living witness of the past 1 God forgive me if 1 
 acted arrogantly and unwisely ; I did it for the best. 
 
 Footsteps come softly over the grass, and Sim plans appears 
 somewhat unexpectedly before me. There are signs of hurry and 
 discomposure on the ancient man's countenance, that nothing short 
 
HARVEST. 455 
 
 of papa's agency could call up, and I look round hastily to see ii 
 that gentleman is harassing his rear. 
 
 " You are wanted directly, Miss Nell ; Mr. Vasher is here." 
 
 " What has that to do with me T I ask, reddening, as I remem- 
 ber the countless occasions on which Mr. Simpkins has seen us 
 together. 
 
 " Mrs. Vasher is dying, Miss Nell f and may he be forgiven, 
 but a look of positive satisfaction overspreads his face as he makes 
 the announcement. 
 
 " And what has that to do with me V I ask again. 
 
 " Oh ! nothing, miss, nothing !" 
 
 " I don't believe a word of it," I say, promptly. " What is she > 
 dying of V* 
 
 " Something in her inside, Miss Nell — her 'art, I think." 
 
 " Very well ; I am coming. I don't believe one word of it," I 
 say to myself, as I follow Simpkins towards the house. "It's 
 only another of her tricks. Besides, if she were, why should she 
 want to see me, of all people?" 
 
 In the drawing-room I find Paul Vasher alone. 
 
 " You will come V he says, meeting me half-way across the 
 room. "Deeply as she has wronged you, you will not refuse 
 her r 
 
 In his voice there is some strange, new feeling. Is it remorse ? 
 
 " What is the matter with her »" 
 
 " Heart disease. Her mother died in just such an attack as the 
 one I left her in just now. The doctor said she might die at any 
 moment." 
 
 " Are you sure V I ask, sceptically. " People may have heart 
 disease for a very long while before they die of it. And .1 can't 
 understand why she should wish to see me." 
 
 " Perhaps she wants you to forgive her," he says, in a low 
 voice. 
 
456 COM IN' THRCf THE RYE. 
 
 " Do not be angry," I say, after a few seconds' hard thought, " but 
 I cannot go. 1 could do her no good ; and I have a feeling, a 
 conviction even, that she is not so ill as you think. Remember 
 her powers of dissimulation. If I go harm will come of it ; and I 
 could not tell her that I forgive her— I do not" 
 
 " During the past hour," he says slowly, " I have begun to feel 
 for her what I never felt before— pity. If you had seen her face 
 when she sent for me. ..." 
 
 " I will go with you," I say, quietly, and leave the room. 
 
 Mother and Dolly are to be found nowhere ; so I fetch nurse, 
 make her dress herself, and then go down with her to the carriage 
 that is waiting at the door. It is a strange setting out to the house 
 that I have never entered, and to which I was to go as bride, and 
 now I am going there to see Paul's wife, my bitter enemy. 
 
 Nurse's amazement distracts my thoughts during the short period 
 that elapses between our leaving the Manor House and reaching 
 Paul's door, where he stands to receive me. He takes us through 
 halls and vestibules, into an octagon-shaped room, looking out on 
 to a gay flower-garden, and leaves us. A queer taste for a man's 
 room ; it looks far more like a lady's boudoir. . . . 
 
 " Eh !" cries nurse, lifting her finger and pointing towards the 
 mantelpiece ; " only look, Miss Nell !" 
 
 I start violently as my eyes fall on the picture, which represents 
 a young girl with the first freshness of early youth lying on her 
 lips and cheeks, looking with joyous, happy smile out of her veil 
 of loose brown hair ; upon her head is a wreath of poppies and 
 woven flowers and grasses ; she wears a white gown, and she is— 
 Helen Adair, as she used to be. 
 
 " Nobody 'ud ever know it was intended for you,'' says nurse, 
 impartially, " you used to look summit like it — but, Lord \ the 
 difference the paint do make to be sure !" 
 
 I look round the room ; at the walls hung with pale yellow silk 
 
HARVEST. 457 
 
 with a deep rich border of poppies and corn-flowers running round ; 
 at the damask curtains, with the same border ; at the white carpet 
 on which the same flowers are scattered in delicate knots. I know 
 now why he uses this room ; it was to have been mine. The sex 
 of the occupier is shown by the massive writing appointments, the 
 whips and driving gloves, the half-smoked cigar on the table, and 
 all the orderly litter of a man's favourite room. And this is my 
 Eden that I have never entered, until I come to it as a visitor to 
 his wife. I look up, Paul is standing at the door, and I rise and 
 go to him, leaving nurse behind. At the door of the room where 
 Silvia lies he leaves me, and I go in alone. The room is so 
 darkened that, coming out of the broad daylight, I can barely 
 make out the outline of Silvia's face against the pillows. As I 
 approach her an elderly woman by her side rises and passes out. 
 
 " You sent for me," I say, looking down on her, " and I am 
 here." 
 
 Now that my eyes are more accustomed to the light, I see that 
 she is mortally pale, and her breath comes in quick, short pants. 
 
 " Do you know that I am dying T she says, lifting her haggard 
 lovely eyes to my face. " I dare say you are very glad V 
 
 Desperately ill though I see plainly enough that she is, something 
 in her voice tells me that she is not dying, no, nor in immediate 
 danger of death. 
 
 " Did you only send for me to ask me that I if so, I am better 
 away." 
 
 "Are you so hard-hearted f she asks between her short pants. 
 " Feel !" 
 
 She takes my hand and lays it against her heart, which seems to 
 be leaping out of her body with every beat. 
 
 " Do you think that is shamming ? Sooner or later it will kill 
 me — not to-day, perhaps, or to-morrow, but some time." 
 
 She looses my hand and sits up in bed, and her fleece of hair 
 
45® COMIN' THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 ripples all over her shoulders and the counterpane like a shower 
 of molten gold. 
 
 " If I were dead you would forgive me, would you not V 
 
 u I would try to." 
 
 " If you knew that I could not live very long, you would forgive 
 mef 
 
 " Perhaps/' 
 
 " Then say so now," she says feverishly, with her hands clasped 
 over her labouring heart, " that you do forgive me." 
 
 " I cannot," I say slowly ; " it is all too sudden. ... 1 do not 
 forgive you ; would you have me tell a lie 3 And you seem to 
 have forgotten all that was between us ... . how can there be 
 any shadow of friendship between us V* 
 
 " I don't ask ior friendship," she says, falling back upon the 
 pillows. 
 
 How pale and lost and lovely she looks ! No wonder Paul 
 found it in his heart to pity her just now. 
 
 " Do you know," she says, opening her eyes, " that it is you who 
 should ask forgiveness of me, not I of you ? Paul was mine first, 
 do not forget that, and he might have been mine again, if you had 
 not bewitched him ; if I stole him from you last, you stole him 
 from me first. How did you make him love you so well % n she 
 cries, with a low wail : " whether with you or away from you, it 
 was always the same — you were the very apple of his eye. Men 
 are not usually so faithful to the absent, or so cold to a beautiful 
 woman who loves them. And all these years that I have been his 
 wife, he has never spoken one word to me, save before servants— 
 never touched my hand in commonest friendly greeting. I came 
 behind him once and put my arms round his neck ; he started up 
 —you should have seen his face, there was murder in it ; he left 
 me without a word— and for all of this, I have to thank you, Helen 
 Adair ! Oh ! it is pleasant to steal into his room, like a thief in 
 
HARVEST. 459 
 
 the night, and hear him cry, ■ Nell ! Nell V over and over again, 
 and toss his outstretched arms into the air; often as I have watched 
 and listened, I never jet heard him whisper, ' Silvia /' " 
 
 A deep pity wells up from my heart as I look down on this 
 passionate, sinful woman, between whose lips the fruits of evil- 
 doing have turned to such bitter dust and ashes. Has not God 
 punished her heavily enough for me to forego my little impotent 
 condemnation 1 
 
 " If I had known how it would be, i never would have tricked 
 him into marrying me — never. I thought that if I was his wife I 
 should regain all my old empire over him ; no man ever withstood ^ 
 me yet. My one heart's desire was to make him love me again, 
 then I should have known happiness at last. Happiness ! good 
 God ! though I have always hated the very name of death, I 
 shall not be sorry when he calls me ; only I dread the cold, narrow 
 bondage, and the thought of the blind worms creeping over my 
 breast— pah ! 
 
 " Will you give me some of that medicine 1 I sent that fussy 
 doctor away, he was no good, and I know the proper remedies. 
 Thank you. I told them just now to send my " 
 
 " Mamma ! mamma !" says a gentle little voice outside the door, 
 which opens softly, and on the threshold stands Paul's son, and 
 Silvia's. A breathless calm binds me hand and foot as he stands 
 still for a moment, hesitating, then comes on his little unsteady 
 feet straight across the room to my side, looking up into my face 
 with Paul's own proud, wilful, beautiful brown eyes. And still I 
 do not stir, until, perplexed, he lifts a tiny, dimpled hand, and 
 slips it inside mine— and the clinging baby fingers touch some 
 
 strange, till now unknown, chords deep in my heart I 
 
 tremble, and a passion of new-born love, fierce regret, and bitter 
 pain shakes me like a reed, and I bow my head low over the inno- 
 cent, childish face. . . Nay, Silvia, it is you who have conquered, not 
 
+60 COMIN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 I. To this unsoiled treasure, "fresh from God," you are mother, 
 not I. Through all my years of misery, I have never once felt the 
 loss of my lover as I feel it now, while my arms close around his 
 son 
 
 " You like children V says Silvia, as the boy slips away from 
 me, and clambers over the bed ; " I never did." 
 
 " Pitty mamma !" says the child, pulling at her loose hair, 
 " pitty mamma !" but he does not kiss her or lay his face against 
 hers, nor does she hold out her arms to him Silvia spoke truth, 
 she has no mother-instinct whatever. 
 
 " And you do not love him V I ask. 
 
 " No. I might have, perhaps, if he had been any link between 
 me and his father, but he was the one crowning misdemeanour for 
 which my husband never forgave me. T was told he went on like 
 a madman when he heard it. I never loved but one person in my 
 life, and that was Paul." 
 
 "Was there ever such a shameless woman V I say to myself, 
 looking at her. The deathly pallor has left her face, her breathing 
 is quieter, and the bluish tint of her lips is replaced by a tinge of 
 colour. I look at the child ; they make a beautiful pair. He hac 
 his father's eyes, his mother's skin, her golden hair, his father's 
 mouth and chin, with a haughty trick of holding his head, that 
 brings Paul before my very eyes. Father and son, son and father, 
 how my heart aches for you both— the consolation that the one 
 might afford the other, the love the other might give the one. 
 Somehow the touch of the little hands has smoothed all the re- 
 sentment and unforgivingness out of my heart. I could not, if I 
 would, speak such words to his mother as I did a while ago. 
 
 " I feel better now," she says, wearily ; " I shall not die thi3 
 time, at any rate. Tell me now, once for all, will you forgive me V 
 
 " Yes, I will forgive you." (For the child's sake, I add to my- 
 self.) 
 
HARVEST. 461 
 
 " You will V she cries, sitting up ; " you are not pretending !" 
 
 " Why should I V I ask, steadily ; " are you V 
 
 " No !" she says, dropping her eyes, " only 1 did not think any 
 woman living could be so noble. And you will speak to me when 
 I. meet you ; you will come to see me V 
 
 " We are not likely to meet, and I will not come to see you. 
 Friends we cannot be — no, nor acquaintances." 
 
 " Then your forgiveness is an empty form of words," she says, 
 falling back ; " I need not have praised you for it. Shall I tell you 
 why you extend to me the form of forgiveness and not the spirit T 
 she asks, lifting herself upon her elbow. u Shall I tell you why 
 you will not come here 1 Because you are afraid of your own 
 heart." 
 
 There is an instant's silence, in which Satan whispers, M What ! 
 Acknowledge your own weakness and his V and my good angel 
 cries, " Confess it, and be not led into temptation f then I answer 
 coldly, " You are mistaken, Mrs. Vasher ; I am no more likely to 
 forget that he is your husband, than he is to forget what is due to 
 me. No, I am not afraid to meet him." 
 
 " Then sometimes, not often perhaps, but sometimes you will 
 come here. You will not keep up an open enmity V 
 
 " Sometimes !" I say, against my better instincts ; then looking 
 suddenly into her face, " Silvia, you are quite certain that 
 whatever of sin and subterfuge there has been in your past, you 
 now mean fairly and honestly by me and your husband ? Is there 
 any fresh plotting of wickedness in your heart V 
 
 " Does a dying woman weave plots V she asks bitterly, as she 
 turns away her eyes from mine. "Is there any further harm 
 that I can work you, him, or myself ? Your heart is not a soft 
 one, Helen Adair." 
 
 For a minute I stand musing, and the child pulls at my dress, 
 he is tired of the quiet room, and wants to go away. 
 
462 CO MI 1ST THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 "Wattie takes to you," she says, looking at him; "though he 
 never liked strangers." 
 
 The change in her voice brings me back to common-places. " Is 
 that his name 1 I am going now. Good-bye." 
 
 She stretches out her slim hand, and lays it in mine ; a queer 
 sensation runs through me as I look down at it — the hand that 
 worked my life's misery so deftly and well. 
 
 "You have promised," she says, "do not forget. You have 
 promised to come here sometimes and see me and Wattie." 
 
 " I shall not forget." 
 
 She closes her eyes, and as we pass out of the room, I pause to 
 look at her, thinking that she looks far more like a dead woman 
 than a living one. In the corridor outside several servants are 
 standing. 
 
 " That's Miss Adair," says one of them in a very low voice, as I 
 pass, " her as master's so sweet on." 
 
 Have we any secrets from the detectives who eat our salt, take 
 our wages, and do our bidding 1 Wattie trots along by my side, 
 the nurse follows, at the foot of the stairs we meet Paul Vasher. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " God protect me from the man I trust, I will protect myself from him whon, 
 I trust not." 
 
 Time, four o'clock. Scene, a level sweep of velvet-smooth lawn 
 before The Towers, upon which are pacing up and down and sit- 
 ting about some sixty or seventy men and women of every size, 
 make, age, and appearance, and among them in festive raiment, 
 like unto the rest, are— oh, wonder of wonders ! — Dolly and I, 
 sitting one on either side of Mrs. Skipworth. That lady, as a 
 delicate compliment to the devouring heat of the day, wears a 
 
HARVEST. 463 
 
 crimson-coloured silk gown, that makes one glow freshly every 
 time one looks at her. 
 
 " You here V exclaims a young man who is walking slowly by, 
 but has now stopped short to stare at us, " Nell ! Dolly /" 
 
 " Did you never see us before V I ask, rather tartly. " Do you 
 take us for ghosts f* 
 
 " Not exactly," he says, recovering himself, " only I did not 
 expect to see you here." 
 
 He shakes hands with Mrs. Skipworth, and looks about for a 
 chair, but as the supply of seats by no means comes up to the 
 demand, after a little search he comes back. 
 
 " Would you not rather stroll about than sit still, Nell V 
 
 " I think I would." 
 
 "Will you come, Dolly?" 
 
 But Dolly, bearing in mind the excellent lines that set forth 
 that "two is company, three is trumpery," declines the honour, 
 so we depart without her. 
 
 " May I ask why you looked so astonished just now when you 
 saw us V I ask. " Is there anything so very extraordinary in our 
 coming here, pray V 
 
 " Nothing," he says, coldly : " only you had not told me you 
 were coming, that was all." 
 
 "And how could I tell you, when I have not seen you for three 
 whole days 1 I will tell you the truth," I say, suddenly, my voice 
 falling ; " I hate being here ; I hate it, but I could not get out of 
 it. Mrs. Vasher asked the governor to let us come, without my 
 knowing anything about it, of course, and papa said * Yes/ and 
 told us he had accepted the invitation. Dolly declared she would 
 not come ; she is a good hater. Mother got out of it in some won- 
 derful manner, but all our manoeuvres were unavailing, and — here 
 we are." 
 
 " It was a pity your father never knew the truth," says George, 
 
*64 COM IN 1 THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 "It seems altogether wrong that you should be the guest of a 
 woman who played you so vile a part." 
 
 " Hush !" I whisper, as his voice rises in his excitement, for we 
 
 are in the crowd now, " and take care " for with his head lifted 
 
 skywards, and his thoughts busily engaged, he is taking no heed to 
 his steps, which are encroaching on the train of a lady before us, 
 who looks as though she had seized Fashion forcibly by the nose, 
 and wrested a costume from her, so bizarre and outrageous and 
 eye-offending are its properties. If it be true that the test of a 
 perfect toilet is that one does not know of what it is composed, al- 
 though one is distinctly aware that the person in it looks charming, 
 then are those here present found seriously wanting, for the dress 
 and the manner of it strikes the beholder first, the wearer of it after. 
 And yet there are a few beauties, beautifully dressed ; a few grace- 
 ful women, with the grace that is almost as great a gift as beauty; a 
 few grandes dames, who hold their own against fairness, wit, and 
 youth, by merit of a certain air du faubourg and fascination, that 
 it is hard to define, harder still to resist. I. wonder w T hy some 
 women have so much chic, individuality, what you will, and others 
 none at alii Hundreds and thousands of women are made on 
 precisely the same pattern, but now and again you come across 
 one who, by right of some sturdy strain of character or inde- 
 pendence of thought, marks herself out from the rest, and is 
 not merged in the common ruck, but leads it. 
 
 " Do you men never have any hankerings after your lost doublet, 
 hose, velvet cloaks, and other smart trappings, George 1 I should 
 if I were a man. Now I have no doubt that blue would be as 
 becoming to some of you as it would be fatal to others ; that 
 some particular colour sets you off as well as it does particular 
 women, and that the very ugliest of you might be furbished up 
 into something uncommon-looking or picturesque." 
 
 " I can't say it ever bothers me," says George, laughing ; " but 
 there is one thing I should like to have back, and that is the good 
 
Harvest. 465 
 
 old days when a pretty woman was a pretty woman, and every 
 one knew that ; and the line between Madam Beauty and Madam 
 Ugly was drawn hard and fast. It is all very different now. The 
 plain women make themselves such excellent imitations of their 
 lovely sisters with their dyed hair, painted cheeks, and artificial 
 charms, that it is not always easy to separate the make-believes from 
 the really handsome people — in fact, the only difference between 
 them at a distance is that the former wear veils and the latter do 
 not. Now, our grandfathers were not obliged to look close into 
 a woman's face to find out whether she was beautiful or only pre- 
 tending to be ; they gave hearty honest admiration to the lass 
 with the ropes of yellow hair, and the skin of cream and roses, 
 and kindly pity to the one who possessed but scanty pepper-and- 
 salt locks and a sallow skin. Now-a-days the latter would plump 
 out her head with another woman's hair, and dye her own golden 
 in imitation of the legitimate beauty's fairest adornment, and 
 copy with pigments what the other possesses by nature's gift. 
 So it often happens that a man, seeing the deceitfulness of the 
 one, doubts the honesty of the other, and his mind gets into a 
 horrible and disgusting jumble." 
 
 " Well done \" I say, with much astonishment, as he pauses for 
 lack of breath. " I had no idea you were such an acute observer, 
 Mr. George. There is a good deal of truth in what you say though, 
 and there is a ghastly mixture of false and real beauty about ; 
 but for all that there is some conteuted ugliness wandering about 
 the face of the earth, making no attempt at whitening itself. At 
 any rate, you could not accuse that wreck yonder of being a sham V 
 and I nod towards a very old woman sitting a little in the back- 
 ground in a wheeled chair. She wears a false, black front, blue- 
 bottle spectacles, and an enormous white bonnet ; her mouth is 
 grim as death, she does not move a muscle, or a finger, or an eye- 
 lash. No one speaks to her, and she speaks to nobody ; she just 
 
 30 
 
466 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 sits there looking out at the gay scene before her, like a spectre who 
 is silently noting the uselessness, the folly, and the evanescence of 
 it all. 
 
 " Why do such people come out at all V asks George, shudder- 
 ing. " Pah !— they spoil the look of everything. It can be no 
 pleasure to them to take their aching old bones abroad ; they only 
 give the blues to every one who looks at them, and yet they come 
 with the rest until death taps them on the shoulder and takes 
 them away." 
 
 " Poor souls ! perhaps they like the excitement — who knows V 
 
 "Mrs. Bareacres is smacking her lips over something," says 
 George. " Another reputation demolished no doubt. Those old 
 women are perfect emporiums of scandal and venom, out of which 
 a story, redounding to the discredit of every one present, may 
 be fished at a moment's notice !" 
 
 " I wonder what mine is," I say, laughing. 
 
 " Heaven grant they may never have a chance of making you 
 the subject of their talk," says the young man, soberly — so soberly 
 that I stare at him for a moment in surprise. He used not to be 
 so grave and thoughtful, or think so seriously about people and 
 things His philosophy is touched with somewhat more of bitter 
 than it was three years ago. 
 
 A fat man and a lean woman vacate their chairs, so George and 
 I promptly sit down on them and look about us. Several pro- 
 mising flirtations are in full swing ; several lines are being thrown 
 out by dexterous maidens to entice into their nets certain comely 
 fish ; there is a buzz of conversation, a nutter of fans, above which 
 rises, sweet and clear, the music of the band nidden in the trees 
 away to the left. In the assemolage the female sex, as usual, pre- 
 ponderates largely, and, beholding the number of petticoats as 
 set against the infrequency of the lavender and grey legs, I fee] 
 slightly snubbed and rather small, for is it not an unpleasant re- 
 
HARVEST. 467 
 
 flection that in Great Britain we are supposed to be three females 
 against every male? No wonder men think so much of them- 
 selves ; no wonder it is considered more honourable in a young 
 woman to possess as betrothed, or lord, ever so pock-marked, 
 broken-winded, weak-kneed, soft-brained a man, than none at all ! 
 And Fate, with her unfair fashion of lumping her favours, has a 
 bad knaok of giving two or three lovers to one girl who wants none 
 of them, and never a one to another girl who would say thank you 
 for any little mannikin. 
 
 " Dolly seems to be amusing herself very well," says George ; 
 and I look across to where she sits, soft and round and fresh as 
 the pink roses that lie half on her brown hair, half on her white 
 lace bonnet. Dolly has exquisite blue eyes, and out of them she 
 is looking up, half shyly, half pleasantly, at a very tall, good- 
 looking young man, whom one would, at a moderate guess, suppose 
 to be a trifle shorter than Chang. 
 
 " He is a giant," I say looking at the man, not Dolly. " Why, 
 he must be eight feet." 
 
 " Not quite," says George ; " in fact, he is only six feet four and 
 a half. He is Molyneux, of the Fifth." 
 
 " I wish they would stand up ; I should like to see what they 
 look like together," I say, with interest. " Dolly was measured 
 yesterday, and she is exactly four feet eleven !" 
 
 "And she will bowl him over like a nine-pin," says George. 
 " Those little bits of women always bewitch these big men." 
 
 " They would look very nice if they went to a fancy dress ball ; 
 he as Tom Thumb, and she as the Kentucky giantess, would they 
 not 'J But I do hope he will not be falling in love with Dolly." 
 
 " Why not V 
 
 " Because," I say, thoughtfully, " I have a plan in my head 
 
 about Dolly; I have made up my mind whom I should like her to 
 
 marry." 
 
 30—2 
 
468 COMIW THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " And who may that be 1 I did not know Dolly had ever seen 
 anybody !" 
 
 " George," I say, lowering my voice, " will you promise me not 
 to be angry with me T 
 
 " Don't try me too far." 
 
 " Well, then, don't you think Dolly is a little like me, George V 
 
 " Not a bit ! No one would ever know you were sisters!" 
 
 " Oh !" I say, disappointedly. " Don't you think, though, that 
 on the whole blue eyes are prettier than green ones, and rosy 
 cheeks than pale ones V 
 
 " To some people's taste they may be." 
 
 11 But not to yours ¥' 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Oh ! " I say again, dismally. 
 
 " You have not told me yet what you are going to make me 
 angry about. " ; 
 
 " I can't tell you," I say, slowly. " Yes I will, though ; I only 
 thought, George (this in a prodigious hurry), that .... for she is 
 very sweet, you know, and a hundred times as pretty as ever I 
 was— that perhaps, after a bit, you might get to like her as well as 
 you did me." 
 
 " Did 1 Was there ever any past tense in my love for you 1 You 
 remind me, Nell," he goes on, looking at me with half-sad, half- 
 bitter eyes, " of a story I once heard of a man who proposed for a 
 young lady to her father, and on finding her to be already engaged, 
 the suitor said he was not at all particular, any one of her sisters 
 would do just as well ; it didn't matter a pin to him which he 
 married. Do you think I am so accommodating 1 There never 
 was but one girl in the world that I wanted, and as I can't get her 
 I'll have nobody." 
 
 " Dolly would never forgive me if she knew what I had done," 1 
 6ay, my cheeks crimson with vexation ; " and I have wounded yon 
 
HARVEST. 469 
 
 too. T am very sorry, George " and, forgetting the people all 
 
 about us, I put my pale yellow hand into his straw coloured one, 
 and give it a friendly squeeze ; he holds mine for a moment, then 
 I draw it away, and looking up see Paul Vasher standing before 
 us. 
 
 " I hope you are not feeling dull, Miss Adair f he says ; and, 
 cold as are our ways and looks to each other always now, his 
 voice strikes upon me like an unexpected douche of ice-cold 
 water. 
 
 "Not at all, thank you, Mr. Vasher.' 
 
 He moves away among his guests, and George and I look after 
 him silently ; between us Paul's name is never spoken. Dolly 
 goes by with her tall cavalier, giving me a saucy, side-long look of 
 triumph. She just reaches his elbow. Smiles follow them as they 
 pass, but they are so taken up with each other that they do not see 
 them. As the assemblage ebbs to and fro, scraps of conversation 
 come to our ears. " Pity Adair quarrels so confoundedly with 
 everybody," issues from a knot of men discussing the people present 
 (apparently), " for he has the prettiest family of daughters I ever 
 saw." And a minute later I hear a woman's voice exclaim, " That 
 Helen Adair ? Impossible 1 How she has gone off, poor thing !" 
 George's eyes meet mine, and I smile. 
 
 " Hags !" cries George, in a fury. " I should like to knock all 
 their spiteful, ugly heads together !" 
 
 " Am I so very much altered, George ?" I ask, with a sharp pang. 
 " I never was very pretty, you know ; and if people say that, 1 
 must have grown absolutely ugly." 
 
 " You are altered," he says, scanning my face with his honest 
 tender eyes ; " but you have lost none of your good looks ; to me 
 you are always sweet and lovely, Nell. You are very pale now, 
 and you do not smile a bit as you used to do, but I don't think 
 you need be afraid of growing ugly, Nell." 
 
470 COM IN' THRO 1 THE RYE. 
 
 "I don't see how I could go off!" I say, laughing, "for that 
 pre-supposes the possession of more than ordinary good looks at 
 some period or other of my existence, and I never was anything to 
 speak of, except to you, and " I stop abruptly. 
 
 " Have you seen my roses V asks Silvia, coming up tc us. 
 Beautiful Silvia in a robe that is all gleaming yellow and blood- 
 red knots of ribbon among her laces. 
 
 " No, not yet." 
 
 " Then will you come now, and Mr. Tempest?" 
 
 " I shall be most happy," he says, stiffly. 
 
 Silvia is his neighbour's wife ; he cannot refuse to be her guest 
 without folks wondering why, so he comes, but between the pair 
 there is a steady, strong dislike. 
 
 " Have you seen WattieT' she asks, as we are moving away ; " I 
 heard him calling out for you just now." 
 
 Silvia and I never speak to each other on any subject save the 
 child ; he is a link between us, and she knows it, but I think she 
 often wonders with a certain pitying scorn at my love for him. 
 Very rarely have I entered her doors, always against my will, but 
 bound by the promise I made her on the day Paul fetched me to 
 ner side, and he thought her dying. Well, she looks strong enough 
 to-day, and sometimes I wonder if it was all a trick from the very 
 beginning ; and yet the illness could not be a pretence. 
 
 " We are going to the rose garden," she says, tapping her hus- 
 band lightly on the shoulder with her fan, as we pass where he 
 stands talking to some gentlemen ; "will you take care of Miss 
 Adair?" 
 
 His face is very dark as he joins me, his wife and George walk- 
 ing on ahead. He does not speak, neither do I ; then, for silence 
 is often more dangerous than words, I say, lamely enough, " that 
 the party is a pleasant one." 
 
 " Or rather, that you have been very pleasantly engaged !" he 
 
HARVEST, 471 
 
 says, with a sudden, swift, jealous glance out of his brown eyes 
 that makes my cheeks paler than ever. 
 
 I do not answer, and in another minute we are in Silvia's rose 
 garden. 
 
 It is the month of roses, and this corner is a very feast of roses. 
 From lily white to faintest cream-colour and amber and yellow, 
 they melt by every exquisite gradation into richer, fuller tints, 
 fainting away in voluptuous crimson and purple, paling from sea- 
 shell pink to flesh-colour. How they mock at our narrow human 
 capacity for enjoyment ! How they fill the soul with one drench- 
 ing, glorious wave of delight, and overflow it, only to be filled 
 again and again ! 
 
 " I always was so fond of roses," I say, nervously, as I lift my 
 face out of a great golden splendour, with a breath as sweet as its 
 own fairness. "Some people like lilies best, but I do not ; they 
 have only one scent, only one face always, and the rose has so 
 many !" 
 
 " If you were dying," he says, " and had to choose the flowers to 
 be laid in your coffin, which would you have V 
 
 " Roses ! I should like to be smothered in them ! Don't you 
 think dead people know the flowers are there, and smell them 1 
 I am sure I should. What made you think of my dying ] Yon 
 forget that I was always a coward about that." 
 
 " I had not forgotten . . . but a strange thought was passing 
 through my mind ... of how some people get their flowers in 
 life and some in death, and of how cursed is the man who causes 
 the life's flowers of another to wither." 
 
 " Only," I say, gently, " it is God who sends the blight, not man." 
 
 I look round, Silvia and George have vanished ; there is no one 
 here but Paul and I. 
 
 " You will allow me to give you a bunch of your favourites," he 
 says. 
 
472 COMIW THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " Another time, perhaps. We will follow the others now." 
 
 " No, I will pick them this minute," he says ; and while I stand 
 a little apart he gathers me a great glorious bouquet of yellow, 
 crimson, gold, and scarlet. Clearing the thorns from the stalks, 
 he gives it to me and goes away, returning shortly with one snow- 
 white, stainless rose that has no fleck or flaw to dim its absolute 
 purity. " Will you wear this one ? ' he says ; and I take it from 
 his hand and fasten it with my brooch against my throat. 
 
 " They are very lovely," I say, looking down on my roses. " We 
 will take them and show them to Dolly." 
 
 " Nell !" he says, " Nell ! are you growing at last to care for that 
 yellow-haired lover of yours V 
 
 " Hush !" I say, holding up my hand and listening A smile 
 breaks over my face as a certain sound that I know well enough 
 by now is heard in the distance — a scutter of little hurrying feet, 
 a naughty little laugh of mischievous glee . . and in another 
 minute Wattie appears before us, his curls tumbled, his cheeks 
 flushed, and the skirt of his frock full of daisies. 
 
 " Lallie ! Lallie !" he calls out, and down we go on the grass side 
 by side to make our daisy chain ; not the first we have made 
 together by any means. The nurse, seeing that he is with me, 
 goes away. His father does not turn on his heel and go away as 
 he did that first time he saw us together (shall I ever forget his 
 face when he caught sight of us ?) he stands looking down on us- - 
 on the rapt, intent face of the child, as he hands me daisy after 
 daisy, on my busy hands as I thread them. As I look up from the 
 son to the father, the extraordinary resemblance between the two 
 faces strikes me with fresh surprise. 
 
 " You love him V says Paul. 
 
 " Yes, I love him." Does he guess, I wonder, that I love this 
 child above almost all things on earth? 
 
HARVEST. 473 
 
 " If you had been his mother," says Paul, jealously, "you would 
 have loved him better than your husband." 
 
 "Should I V 
 
 I bow my head over the child that he may not see my face ; 
 careless and impatient as I have been with children all my life, 
 does he not know why I love his son so passionately, so deeply 1 
 The daisy chain is round Wattie's neck now, and he is nearly 
 throttling me with his kisses and vigorously clinging arms. 
 Gently I set him down and whisper something in his ear, giving 
 him a little push ; he hesitates a moment, this little son of not yet 
 three years old, who is worse than fatherless, motherless, then (for 
 he is as brave as he is beautiful) he goes with his little, short, un- 
 steady steps to his father. 
 
 " Papa ! papa !" he says, in his childish tender voice ; and no 
 hand being held out to greet him, he clasps his arms around Paul's 
 knees. Paul stoops and unclasps them without a word, setting 
 him aside, not roughly or hastily but inexorably. A piteous droop 
 comes about the baby lips, and puckers up the baby brow, as 
 Wattie stands alone, in disgrace as he thinks (a child cannot 
 reason, but it knows when it is slighted and the tender little heart 
 is grieved); then he runs across to me, and hides his head in my 
 breast. Poor little desolate son! how many repulses have you 
 not had from him before you could understand his ways so well? 
 
 " God forgive you !" I whisper to Paul with burning anger, as I 
 lift Wattie in my arms and press my cheek against his, and so I 
 carry him away through the blooming, fragrant alleys, and leave 
 Pad standing in the midst of his rose garden alone. 
 
474 COM IN' THRO' THE R YE. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 " Thus do all traitors ! 
 If their purgations did consist in words 
 They are as innocent as grace itself — 
 Let it suffice ihee that I trust thee not." 
 
 " Geoege !" I say, in a muffled voice. 
 
 " Yes !" he answers in another. 
 
 " Supposing somebody comes and sits down on us T 
 
 " A little more or less could not make much difference V 
 
 " I wish we had not let them do it. Does not your nose tickle 
 horribly 1" 
 
 " Rather. That's your fifteenth sneeze, Nell." 
 
 " Yes, you ought to condole with me over them, as the ancients 
 did with each other when they were convulsed in like manner." 
 
 "I would if it prevented the repetition." 
 
 " I wonder when Dolly and Basan will come back. Supposing 
 they forget us altogether V* 
 
 " We should become meat for pitchforks." 
 
 George and I have the use of our ears, but of our faculties not 
 at all ; although we are out in a field in broad daylight, we cannot 
 see an inch beyond our noses, and nobody can see us, unless indeed 
 the two mounds that represent us may be supposed to give some 
 grotesque outlines of our shapes. In point of fact we are snugly 
 buried in the hay, Dolly and Basan having officiated as sextons, 
 and we are weighed down almost as securely as though solid earth, 
 and not heaps of dried grass, were piled above us. Hay by the 
 handful is one thing, hay in the lump is another ; and with our 
 arms and legs laid out straight and flat, and an unlimited quantity 
 of the material heaped upon us, we can move about as easily as 
 though we were in a vice. Not to kill us, however, by too much 
 cherishing, they have put a light covering over our faces, so that, 
 
HARVEST. 475 
 
 full as our eyes, noses, and mouths are with the pricking, irritating 
 hay-dust, we are still able to draw breath and make ourselves 
 heard. 
 
 In the distance are faintly audible the shouts of the hay- 
 makers and the voices of the maid-servants, with which latter this 
 period appears to be one of flirtation and pleasure ; shaking grass 
 at the men's heels seeming to please them infinitely better than 
 shaking carpets in each other's faces. 
 
 " It is not very comfortable," says George, " but I am glad we 
 are buried, because I shall be able to talk to you." 
 
 " If you are going to take advantage of my not being able to 
 run away from you, to say things I don't want to hear," I say, with 
 a dignity that is much marred by a tremendous sneeze in its 
 middle, " I consider it mean of you." 
 
 11 1 don't think I have bothered you much lately," he says, and 
 through all the hay his voice has a hurt ring in it. 
 
 " Indeed you have not," I say, compunctiously ; and indeed, 
 since I gave him a certain answer to a certain question, asked 
 doubtfully a year ago, he has not troubled me with one word of 
 love, entreaty, or anything else but real friendliness ; " only you 
 have looked so sober lately, George, as though you were going to 
 read me a lecture " » 
 
 " Would it do you any good if I did T 
 
 "I don't know. One thing I can tell you though, you will 
 never get a better chance of making me listen to you than you have 
 now." 
 
 There is a pause and a faint windy murmur ; I think George is 
 sighing. 
 
 11 Nell," he says presently, and something in his voice informs 
 me that he is going to disburthen himself of the matter that has 
 been oppressing him lately, " I wish you would not have anything 
 to do with Mrs. Vaaher." 
 
476 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 " I can't help it ; I promised, you know." 
 
 " It was a great pity." 
 
 " I think so too. But supposing you had an enemy whom you 
 believed to be dying, and he asked your forgiveness — wretched, 
 cast down, broken, punished heavily of God — would you refuse 
 your tithe of mercy V* 
 
 " If I was quite sure that he meant dying I might, but I don't 
 think it's very likely. Like Dolly, I am a good hater. If any 
 man had behaved to me as that woman behaved to you, I should 
 hate him as long as I had a kick left in me. Besides, she is 
 well enough." 
 
 " She is not ; she may die at any minute, and that was why I 
 forgave her" ("and for Wattie's sake," I add to myself). 
 
 ''Creaking doors hang longest," says George, sceptically. "There's 
 nothing like a bad complaint to go upon for a long lease of life. 
 She may outlive us all." 
 
 " I wonder if you and I will live to be very old," I say, thought- 
 fully. " How droll it would be if you were a dried-up old bachelor 
 at The Ghace, I a dried-up old maid at the Manor House. You 
 would be able to come and see me every evening, and we could 
 play double dummy whist, or draughts, if we were weak in our 
 heads. It would be quite proper for you to come when we are 
 both seventy or thereabouts. We shall wear spectacles, of course, 
 but I do hope that never, never shall we stoop to the degrading 
 practice of taking snuff." 
 
 11 Don't be premature," says George. " You may love it when 
 yon come to that age." 
 
 " Don't be nasty ! And we shall go to church every Sunday in 
 Bath chairs, as grandpapa and grandmamma did, side by side, only 
 they went so slowly ; we will run races. Perhaps we shall live to 
 an enormous age and be put in the Lancet as ' cases.' " 
 
 '* I hope not," says George, with a vague rustle of hay that sounds 
 
HARVEST. 477 
 
 like shuddering. " The gradual decay, the loss first of one sense 
 then another, the tastelessness and weariness of everything, the 
 
 incessant craving for rest must be terrible I would die 
 
 swiftly, at my best, with my powers in full vigour, be remembered, 
 not dawdle out of existence to the tune of folks' pity ; so that when 
 I really went I should be missed. . . . The liveliest sensation one 
 should experience on hearing of the death of a man should be that 
 you are violently shocked — grief should follow in due course." 
 
 " I think it would be very selfish of you if you died before me," 
 I say, foolishly enough, " for if there is anything I should hate, it 
 would be to leave nobody behind to make a great howl over me. 
 All my brothers and sisters would be married, of course, and have 
 their own selves and families to weep about. It must be unplea- 
 sant to live so long that people think it rather indecent of you to 
 be so long about saying good-bye, must it not ?" 
 
 " Very. I don't think you and I will ever sit down to double 
 dummy whist though, Nell. I don't mean to rust all my life out 
 here ; I mean to try to do something, be somebody." 
 
 "'Be good, my child, and let who will be clever/" I quote; 
 " though if you do succeed in doing anything remarkable, which I 
 doubt, you must run back to Silverbridge and tell me all about it, 
 for oh, I shall find it so dull here !" 
 
 " Well," says George, " you have more spirit than any girl I ever 
 saw or heard of. Here you are, at the age of twenty-two, making 
 up your mind calmly to a long life in this wretched little village, 
 with nothing to break the monotony of it, save the deaths and 
 marriages in your family. I tell you it's monstrous, Nell, and you'll 
 never do it." 
 
 " I don't know what all the other young women do who have 
 been crossed in love, and aren't lucky enough to catch a fever or 
 be run over by a postchaise or a railway train ; they must live 
 somewhere, must they not? And one place is as good to live in 
 
478 COMIN* THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 as another. And I have memory too ; if I can't look forward 1 
 can look back, and Wattie will be growing older every year, you 
 know." 
 
 " Good Heavens !" he bursts out, " and that is the life you pro- 
 mise yourself V 
 
 Here he breaks off, and indistinct mutterings follow, that the 
 hay does not faithfully transmit. 
 
 " If you loved him as I do " I begin, but a succession of vio- 
 lent sneezes completes the sentence. 
 
 A rather loud mutter from George seems to announce the 
 fact that he "can't understand" something. 
 
 Presently— "Nell!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You and I never talk about Paul Vasher." 
 
 "No." 
 
 " But I want to talk to you about him now — may I '(" 
 
 I do not answer for a moment, it is like stabbing a fresh wound 
 to speak of him to any one who knows; but George was so good 
 to me in that terrible time years ago . . so good. 
 
 " Yes, you may — only say it as quickly as you can, George." 
 
 u Then, Nell, can you tell me why he ever came back ?" 
 
 " Surely he had a right to come if he chose ?" 
 
 " I don't think he ought to have done it." 
 
 " If I do not mind it I think you need not," I say, proudly ; 
 u a man may be permitted to manage his own affairs, may he 
 not ?" 
 
 Having made this speech, I instantly repent me of it, as is so 
 often the way with us foolish women. If only we could learn to 
 think first and speak after ! . . . 
 
 " I did not mean that, George. I know you only say it for my 
 good . . . but why should he not come back ?" 
 
HARVEST. 479 
 
 saying 
 
 v > 
 
 " And do you know," I say, slowly, " that since he came back, 
 three months ago, we have not so much as touched each other's 
 hands V 
 
 " It would be far better if you did," says George, with an im- 
 patient sigh—" far better if you could y I mean. It is dangerous 
 
 " Because you love each other far too well," says George, sadly ; 
 " because you ought never to have met again, never." 
 
 " Are you afraid for me V I ask, so low that surely his ears can- 
 not catch my words, while the blood leaps into my cheeks like a 
 living thing and shames me. 
 
 " Not exactly afraid, Nell — but both you and he have had more 
 laid upon your shoulders than mortals can well bear, and — be 
 angry with me if you will, but I must dare to speak the truth — 
 there is danger," he says, slowly and reluctantly. If it is bitter 
 to me to listen, it is bitterer still to him to speak. 
 
 " Do you think," I say, trembling under all the weight that binds 
 me down, " that we are so sinful, so weak, so worthless 1 Do you 
 think that I ever for one moment forget that he is another 
 woman's husband 1" 
 
 " I know you do not," says George, " your behaviour has always 
 been perfect ; but can you tell me from the bottom of your heart 
 that the mere sound of his voice, the merest chance look at his 
 face, is not the greatest good this world contains for you 1 True, 
 you never forget he is another woman's husband, but do you 
 ever forget that he was once your lover — that he is your lover 
 still r 
 
 He pauses a moment ; but I do not answer, and he goes on — 
 
 " Can any one help seeing that you are his idol, the very core 
 of his heart ; that his eyes follow your every movement and step, 
 his ears wait on your every word ; that he breaks off in the midst 
 of a conversation if you speak, and loses himself in what you are 
 
48o COAfM' THRO* THE kYS. 
 
 work, Nell ; you are walking on thin ice — some day he will break 
 down, and then " 
 
 " Hush !" I say, pale as death ; " do you know what it is that 
 you are saying— do you know that he loves me? You do not 
 know Paul, or me. We might meet each other for years and 
 years, just as we do now, content with having a glimpse of each 
 other now and then (I don't deny that it is my greatest happiness 
 on earth to see him, to hear his voice ; it is sinful, I dare say, but 
 it is human nature), and never ask, never dream, of being any 
 more to each other— how can we ever be anything to each other 
 all our life long 1 And if this one consolation were taken from 
 me, if I never saw his face , . . I could not bear my life. Paul ! 
 . , , Paul ! . . . and that is why I love the child so passionately. 
 ... I may not give a sign of the love I bear the father, there is 
 no sin in loving the child. When Paul came back, George, I was 
 afraid, just as you are now ; I seemed to see all the danger of our 
 meeting . . . and I tried so hard to make myself cold, indifferent 
 uncaring ; but I could not — only after the first meeting was over 
 I found it so much more easy than I had thought it would be . . 
 and I gradually got to feel quite safe ; and now, do you know 
 that I am not afraid of seeing him, I am almost happy some 
 times." 
 
 " Happy !" cries George, with a deep, strong urgency in hia 
 voice, " ay ! as happy as the man who lies down in the snow and, 
 abandoning himself to the exquisite slumber that creeps over him, 
 perishes miserably. . . . Far better and more wholesome for you 
 were your keen sharp fears, your consciousness of danger, than 
 your preseDt easy sense of security." 
 
 " George V I say, sharply and suddenly, " what is it that you 
 are afraid of — what do you mean V 
 
 There is the silence of a few seconds ; brave man, true friend 
 
HARVEST 481 
 
 that he is, he pauses before he speaks words that may never be 
 forgiven him. 
 
 " I fear," he says, slowly, " that some day this existence will, 
 become so intolerable, that his love for you will break all bounds ] 
 , . . and he will ask you to go away with him." 
 
 Dead silence. 
 
 "And this is your opinion of my true lover V I ask ; " and do 
 you think I should go with him, pray V 
 
 He does not answer. 
 
 " Oh, heavens !" I cry, with a tearless sob, " that I should have 
 fallen so low as for you to think this of me !" 
 
 "Have I thought it?" he cries, swiftly. "God knows that in 
 my eyes you are the most innocent of His creatures ; but, Nell . N . 
 Nell, are you so strong, is he so strong, that you should fare betted 
 than many a woman as fair and pure and proud as you 1 I don't 
 •speak to you in fear, but in warning. I am your brother now — 1\ 
 ihave taken care of you for a long while past, and if ever any words ! 
 ■of mine will keep you from sorrow, I will speak them, though you ' 
 igrow to hate me for speaking them to you." 
 
 There is a long silence ; then I say— 
 
 " George, / thank you." 
 
 " God bless you, darling !" he says, so impulsively, that he 
 ^eerns to be flying straight through the impedimenta of hay 
 that divided us ; "you are as plucky as you are good— not one 
 woman in a thousand would take it as beautifully as you have 
 done." 
 
 " George P 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 " I don't think there was ever any fear — not much. But I had 
 never thought of such a thing, never ; and, perhaps, if it had really 
 ■come to that dreadful pass, I should have been so astonished — I 
 .might have lost my head and done something wicked . . . but 1 
 
 31 
 
462 COM IN 1 THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 don't think I should. However, there is no fear now. . . . Are you 
 always to be doing me good, dear, and am I never to do you any T 
 
 " You have done me good all my life," he says, heartily ; " you 
 have been the one flower to brighten my dull grey garden." 
 
 A bitter, bitter pain runs through my heart at his words ; is it 
 not hard for him, hard ? There he is, free and young, loving me ; 
 here am I, free and young, loving somebody else, who is not free 
 to love me. Oh ! why cannot I pluck that other love out of 
 my heart, and putting my hand in his, make his imperfect, spoiled 
 life a completed, happy one 1 And I cannot. 
 
 " Nell," he says, presently, " do you remember how I have always 
 warned you against Mrs. Vusher— after she tried to make friend? 
 with you, I mean V 
 
 "I remember." 
 
 " Well, she has been a worse enemy to you lately than she eves 
 was before ; and that is saying a good deal.'' 
 
 " How can she be that V I ask, startled ; " surely there is no 
 other misfortune left for her to work me V 
 
 " She has tried, Nell. If ever a woman put another in the way 
 of temptation, Mrs. Vasher has tried to put you. Not an oppor- 
 tunity does she ever miss of bringing you and her husband to- 
 gether ; over and over again I have watched her manoeuvres to 
 have ycu alone, and smiled at the unconscious way in which you 
 have foiled her — she has been acting a black and wicked part to 
 you both, though neither of you knew it." 
 
 * Let me think," I say, slowly ; " yes, I remember now. Rarely 
 as I have been to The Towers, she has always contrived some 
 excuse for sending us off together. . . . But what should she do it 
 for — what object could she have had V 
 
 " God knows ! To take your good name, perhaps." 
 
 "Yes," I say, recalling her evil threat three months ago, that 
 "she would have my good name, too." "But I can't believe it 
 
HARVEST. 483 
 
 George — I did not know any woman living could be as bad as 
 
 that." 
 
 " You remember the day of the garden party at The Towers, 
 when she took us into her rose garden]" 
 " Yes." 
 
 " She hurried me away with her, leaving you and Vasher there 
 alone, and when we got back to the lawn she got rid of me cava- 
 lierly enough, and I lost sight of her. I should have liked to go 
 back and fetch you, but I was not sure that you would not con- 
 sider it an interference, so I walked up and down in the outer 
 garden leading to where you were, the two being divided by a 
 thick clump of trees. Any one inside these trees could see what 
 was going on in the rose garden, but not from where I was, and as 
 I strolled past I saw a bit of pale yellow silk, about the size of a 
 shilling, shining through the thick leaves, and it told me that 
 Madam Silvia was hidden inside, watching you." 
 
 11 And you really believe that she means me evil V 
 
 " I am sure of it." 
 
 " But what harm can she do me % n I ask, persistently. " I don't 
 see how she can do any more." 
 
 " Shall I tell you V asks George, hesitating. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " She would lead you and her husband into evil, she would 
 shamo you to the dust : she could half forgive you for being the 
 girl Paul Vasher has loved so long and faithfully, if she could 
 degrade you in his eyes and your own. . . ." 
 
 " And this is the woman I forgave /" I say, below my breath ; 
 "this is the mother of my little angel Wattie ! You were right, 
 George, to say I was like a man who has been asleep in the snow 
 ... I have been asleep, but I am broad awake now. When do 
 the Vasher s go away V 
 
 « The middle of July." 
 
 31-2 
 
4 8 4 COM IN* THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 "When they come back," I say, slowly, "I will go away to 
 Alice or Jack. ... I will never meet Paul again of my own free 
 will. George ! George ! how shall I ever get through my life 
 without a sight of him now and then f 
 
 He does not answer, for what can he say? Keal comfort 
 he has none to give me, false he will not offer, so he says 
 nothing. 
 
 " I am afraid you will be very lonely in August, Nell," he says, 
 presently ; " everybody seems to be going away but you." 
 
 " I do not mind. It seems so odd papa's going to Scotland with 
 you ; he has not been anywhere since he came back from New 
 Zealand." 
 
 " No. Dolly and your mother are going to the Lovelaces', are 
 they not?" 
 
 " Yes ; and I am to keep house here. What a muddle it will 
 be ! I wish Jack were coming home for August, not September." 
 
 " Ah ! you'll not speak to me when he is here." 
 
 " Wait and see." 
 
 " They're not dead," says Basan's voice, sounding immediately 
 over our bodies, " for I heard one of them speak." 
 
 " We forgot all about youP says Dolly's fresh voice, with some 
 dismay in it, as she, too, leans over our mounds. " The fact is, 
 we have been eating strawberries, and it does pass the time so 
 quickly." 
 
 And, alas ! when we are disinterred, and sit up on end, thirsty, 
 scratched, blinking, dishevelled, with our heads stuck as full of 
 wisps of hay as a pin-cushion is full of pins, we find that Dolly and 
 Basan have, with a greediness that has no parallel in these modern 
 times, very literally confined their attention to eating them, for 
 they have not brought one berry with which to cool our parched, 
 and dry, and dusty throats. 
 
HARVEST. 485 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 "Death lies on hirn like an untimely frost 
 Upon the sweetest flower of all the field." 
 
 We are out in the orchard, Wattie and I, among the unripe apples, 
 that are day by day taking new shades of glossy redness on their 
 fat green sides, and announcing to all whom it may concern that 
 after their beautiful youth of pearly blossom, and the long interval 
 of unlovely brownness and uselessness, they are now rapidly near- 
 ing the respectability and accomplished work of fruition. They 
 need not be in such a hurry to ripen ; they are better off swinging 
 up there on the bough than chopped into small pieces by the cook's 
 knife, or lost to sight through the agency of my young brothers' 
 vigorous teeth and appetites. We have been pelting each other 
 with them, Paul's little son and I, and now he has fallen fast asleep 
 in my arms, and is far away in the unhaunted dreamland of child- 
 hood. Nothing, surely, can be fairer than a very handsome child 
 asleep, and Wattie's face might well linger in the memory of any 
 one who saw him at this moment — people, even, who did not see a 
 resemblance, in every lovely curve and haughty trick of feature, to 
 a stern, proud-faced man, whom no one would ever call comely 
 now, who lost his beauty when he lost all the pleasantnesses of his 
 life, many years ago. 
 
 It is four weeks since he went away, four weeks since he took 
 my hand in his, and I left it there because I knew that hencefor- 
 ward I was going to make it my care that I should never see hia 
 face again. ... As our eyes met, how the passion and misery leapt 
 straight from his heart to the brown depths ; how I trembled, re- 
 cognizing clearly enough that George had not warned me too soon, 
 or too urgently. . . . He never said a word beyond good-bye, nor 
 did I— people were all about us— but I saw wild words trembling 
 
486 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 on his lips, words that I thank Heaven he never spoke to me nor I 
 listened to. 
 
 Silvia came and wished me good-bye ; false to the last, she put 
 her hand in mine (he had not touched it then), and wished me well. 
 And I held my peace and said nothing. I let her think I had 
 never suspected all her vile plots, for if I had spoken the words 
 that lay at my heart, how should I have been able to see Wattie, 
 whom, like any other fashionable, heartless mother, she was leaving 
 to the care of servants 1 She bade her people bring him to me 
 whenever T liked to have him, and he has come nearly every day. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Vasher went away together, but she was going on 
 some visits, to return here in September, while he was to join the 
 Tempests and papa, later, in Argyllshire ; he is with them now, I 
 suppose, as the twelfth is already past. (When he comes back in 
 September I shall be gone to Alice, and it will be a long, long 
 while before I come back again.) 
 
 And while our sportsmen are shooting away so contentedly at 
 the grouse, with no other object than to prove themselves good 
 shots, and make a good meal off the poor birds, other men are 
 shooting, hacking, and hewing at each other like madmen, water- 
 ing the fair lands of France with blood, until they reek, sowing the 
 meadows and valleys with dead bodies thick as the grain of the 
 sower in spring-time. , . . For the greed and pride of two men, 
 for the errors in diplomacy of a few more, the land is made one 
 hideous gaping sepulchre, that opens wide its scarlet mouth, and 
 sends its murdered cry of tens of thousands up before God. . ■ . 
 How the brain reels and the heart sickens as one reads, day by 
 day, of the success of the infernal weapons forged by man to dash 
 out all semblance of humanity in that which God created in his 
 own image. Is not life sweet to those poor fellows who have to 
 lay it down because one crowned head covets his neighbour's vine- 
 yard ] Oh ! a million desolate wives and mothers, weeping for 
 
HARVEST. 487 
 
 the husbands and sons who will come back to them never any 
 more, could tell us somewhat of the value to them of those mangled, 
 crushed, mutilated bodies that are set down in the returns under 
 the laconic heading of " losses." The day's paper is by my side, 
 but I do not read it, its accounts turn me sick ; the " special cor- 
 respondent seems to relish his horrors as he writes them down. 
 I used to read his tale of carnage, carnage, carnage ! every day, 
 until it rang in my ears like a bell, and my rest was full of blood 
 and slaughter. ... I never lay me down to rest or enjoy the 
 merest common pleasure, without thinking of these poor Frenchmen 
 fighting this losing game against terrible odds in the burning sun 
 without discipline, proper food, or able directors. I do not know 
 whether the Emperor of France or the King of Prussia is in the 
 wrong ; I never did understand anything about politics, and never 
 shall ; but I take the side of the French, for a woman's reason, 
 that they are weakest. Thank Heaven, no brother or friend of 
 mine is in the midst of the fighting. I should make so very sure 
 that he would never come back ; for to one mother or sister to 
 whom a man will return, will there not be ninety-nine bereft % 
 
 God help you ! poor mothers, and grant that your agony of 
 waiting be a short one ; better far to know that your son is num- 
 bered with the dead than be alternating in the intolerable agony 
 of doubts and fears. 
 
 Although every tongue in even this remote Silverbridge wags 
 from morning till night of the news of " the war," an enemy, no 
 less fatal to some than the deadly bullets flying in such abundance 
 yonder in la belle France, has crept in upon us and set his mark, 
 first on one, then on another, and drawn them away out of our 
 sight into that straight and narrow bondage that waits for us all, 
 king or pedlar, queen or kitchenmaid, sooner or later. His name 
 is Death, but he comes, not peacefully and naturally, but with a 
 tiery burning breath — with a strong clutch at the throat, and a 
 
488 COM/N' THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 close, hot grasp, under which his victims burn and faint and withei 
 . . . and his other name is Fever. Since mother and Dolly and 
 Little Daisy went away a fortnight ago, four little children, two 
 young girls, and one house-mother have died, so quickly, so 
 mysteriously, that lo ! they seemed to be here one moment and 
 gone the next. Mother had no idea that fever was in the villager 
 when she went, or she would be in fear about the children, and I 
 have not written to tell her— she so seldom has a holiday, and she 
 would come straight back. Nurse says these things are not to be- 
 run away from, and that the boys will do better to stay where they 
 are ; and Silverbridge village is more than a mile away, so we are- 
 not in the midst of the danger. A terrible pang seizes me as I look 
 down on Wattie's unconscious face, and think that even now the 
 phantom hand may be creeping out of the darkness into the light 
 to touch him, my angel of consolation, who is the one pure and 
 perfect thing my life contains. I lay my hand on his head : it is 
 cool ; on his cheek, on which lies the exquisite tint that his 
 mother used to wear (that she has lost so completely lately, 
 whether from pain of mind or body I cannot tell), and that is cool 
 and fresh too. 
 
 This child, with his bold, beautiful looks, with his father's eyes 
 and his own winning, lovable ways, is the delight of my days ; he 
 is himself and my lost lover in one. It is Paul who looks at me 
 out of the splendid, wilful brown eyes ; Paul who lurks in the 
 haughty curves of the little mouth, and smiles at me with all the 
 old resistless magic from these baby lips ; and to these he adds his 
 fresh, unsoiled young heart and words, his eager, quick love and 
 childlike trust ; and over all is the innocence that only those who. 
 have loved very young children can tell of. 
 
 I take out my watch — six o'clock, and the nurse ought to have- 
 fetched Wattie at five, he should be in bed by now ; she is both 
 tiresome and stupid. I am wondering what can have become of 
 
HARVEST. 489 
 
 her, when Simpkins, that ancient man, appears upon the scene, 
 and his eye betokens trouble. 
 
 " What is the matter V I ask quickly. 
 
 " It's Symonds, Miss Nell ; she is down with the fever. She 
 had scarcely got back to The Towers when she fell ill, and— it's a 
 very bad case, the doctor says." 
 
 Symonds ! Wattie's nurse— the woman in whose charge he has 
 been up to the time she was seized with the fever ! Oh, Wattie ! 
 Wattie ! if my heart could break, I think it would break now, as 
 I listen to Simpkins' words. 
 
 "Do you think he looks feverish," I cry, in a sharp voice that 
 does not sound like my own ; " do you know how people look when 
 they are going to have the fever V 
 
 " Indeed, Miss Nell, I cannot tell you," he says, sadly. " Their 
 throats just get sore, and their faces flushed, and then God takes 
 them — tit least, that was how the other poor souls went in the 
 village/' 
 
 ' Be silent !" I cry, harshly, ' Do you want to drive me mad f 
 
 I stoop over my darling's face, and my eyes grow to it. Is it 
 here already— does it lurk under this beautiful guise, that deadly, 
 deadly fever ? 
 
 " You'll not be sending him back to The Towers, Miss Nell V 
 asks Simpkins, with some hesitation ; " it wouldn't be safe — but 
 there are the young gentlemen here to be thought of." 
 
 I put my hand to my head in thought. 
 
 " He cannot go back there," I say aloud, " so he must stay here. 
 Could he not be put somewhere, a long way from the rest, in case 
 there is any infection %" 
 
 (Oh, my darling, my darling, that already it should come 
 to*//) 
 
 " There's the room adjoining the school-room as was fitted up 
 as a bedroom for Master Jack last year, when he sprained his 
 
49" CO MUST THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 ankle," says Simpkins, thoughtfully. " That's a long way from 
 the nurseries, and down a passage ; don't you think that might do, 
 Miss Nell r 
 
 " Yes, that will do," I say, feverishly. " Go and have it pre- 
 pared at once, and ask nurse to have the bed made up instantly ; 
 I will come in when all is ready. Oh, Wattie, Wattie !" I say, 
 with a shuddering, long-drawn sob, as Simpkins goes away, " could 
 f bear to lose you, my flower, my angel 1" 
 
 But his face gives me no answer. The black lashes lie heavy 
 and shadowy on the smooth, fair cheeks : he looks as healthy and 
 strong and vigorous as ever he did in his life before, but somehow, 
 somehow, I seem to see the outstretched hand waiting to touch him. 
 ... In my agony I clasp him so tightly that he awakes, and opens 
 sleepy, misty eyes that, when they fall on me, smile in concert 
 with his lips. He stretches himself, and kisses me with a child's 
 spontaneous, unasked-for caress, than which nothing more pre- 
 cious can be found on the whole earth, for it can neither be bought, 
 or forced, or stolen. 
 
 I was always jealous about the people I loved ; I never cared to 
 be liked by people who liked everybody else as well as me — I like 
 to be the only one beloved. It is the most exquisite of flattery 
 to be preferred by one who affords his favours to few ; and the 
 fact that Wattie has never been known to volunteer an em- 
 brace to any living person save me enhances its value a thou- 
 sand-fold. 
 
 His hand is cool enough as I take it in mine, and we go back 
 through the long shadows to the house. He is backward with his 
 talk yet ; but he has a language of his own that I understand, and 
 we talk the funniest shibboleth as we go along. 
 
 The house seems very cool and quiet after the outside world, and 
 Wattie is somewhat awed, and takes a firmer clutch at my 
 hand as we go down the long stone passage, on whose matting so 
 
HARVEST. 491 
 
 many vigorous pairs of feet have stamped up and down in theii 
 day, and reach the school-room. 
 
 It is a battered old place enough ; walls, books, floor, and chairs 
 are the one as disreputable as the other. A little passage runs out 
 of this room into another of the same size, formerly a place of resort 
 for old books, lumber, and sulky or ill-used people ; now it is bare 
 and primitive enough, with its four-poster, scanty chairs, plain 
 toilette table, and dingy washstand. The windows, opening to the 
 ground like those of the school-room, and looking out over the 
 court, are open. 
 
 The bed is made, and I proceed to undress Wattie, who is evi- 
 dently much struck by the novelty of everything. He is not afraid 
 though, and he does not cry ; he is too brave a boy for that. I am 
 wondering perplexedly what I can put on him in the shape of a 
 nightgown, when nurse comes in with one of Daisy's old night gar- 
 ments for him. 
 
 " Eh ! Miss Nell," she says, after her old fashion, " and are you 
 going to get yourself into more trouble % The bairn ought to be 
 with his mother." 
 
 " Only he is not, you see," I say, tying the strings of Wattie's 
 night-gear. " Nurse, have you heard about Symonds P 
 
 " I have, Miss Nell, and I fear me the poor wean has run a 
 terrible risk." 
 
 " Hush !" I cry sharply, just as I bade Simpkins hold his peace. 
 11 It is never possible to tell, nurse ; you said so yourself the other 
 day. You know it passes over one person to take another, and it 
 is impossible to tell" 
 
 " Eh I" she says again, doubtfully ; and I could beat her that 
 she will speak to me no word of comfort. 
 
 Wattie is ready for bed, but Wattie will not go. He has escaped 
 from me and is dancing to and fro on the carpet, where the sun- 
 beams are playing at hide and seek ; his little pink and white toes 
 
492 COM IN" THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 are like rose leaves flying hither and thither ; the boughs without 
 throw their shadows on his eager, delighted, wilful face, Oh, 
 Wattie ! through all the years to come shall I ever get you out of 
 my head, as you patter to and fro to-night, a laughing, beautiful 
 little hovering shape in white ? Not until the sun in dying has 
 withdrawn his errant sons and daughters does Wattie tire of his 
 play ; then I catch him up in my arms, and we roll over and over 
 together on the bed, he shouting with laughter. Then, when he is 
 quieter, to my surprise he scrambles on to my lap, and kneels 
 there ; laying his tiny dimpled hands palm to palm, and shutting 
 his eyes tight, he makes his evening prayer, something after this 
 fashion: " Peese Dawd — peese Dawd bess pap-a, mem-a, Lallie ; 
 make 'Otty vay dood boy, T'ist's 'ake. Yaymen." Then, being 
 between the sheets, he pulls my head down on the pillow beside 
 him, clasps his arms round my neck, and in another minute is 
 sound asleep with doubled-up fists. After a while I leave him and 
 go to nurse, for there is much to think of and settle. If any other 
 case of fever happens near us, she is to go away with the boys 
 (who are at school all day in Pimpernel) ; if Wattie (my lips 
 blanche as they utter the possibility) is already infected, she is to 
 go away all the more. She says she shall take me too, but I 
 laugh in her face j it is so likely that I shall leave him here with 
 hirelings to wait upon him. 
 
 " And it will be a pleasant little surprise for your mamma to 
 come home and find you dead and buried, Miss Nell," says nurse, 
 in grim conclusion. 
 
 " Only wretched people never catch fevers or die of anything 
 but hard old age/' I say. " It is the happy ones, who have so 
 much to leave behind, who go." 
 
 I sit by Wattle's side far into the night ; but his skin is still 
 cool and fresh, he sleeps calmly, and seems to know no uneasiness j 
 and at last I undress and lie down beside him. I awake suddenly, 
 
HARVEST. 493 
 
 when the light of the moon is still shining in, broad and clear, 
 tracing silver patterns on the carpet and the wall, and bend my 
 head down to look into my darling's face. What if he have 
 sickened while I lay senselessly, dully asleep 1 But he looks just 
 as he did when I saw his face last, and I go to sleep again with 
 my arms round him. Wattie went to bed with the sunbeams ; 
 he wakes with the sunlight, and oh ! the happiness that fills my 
 heart as he runs about, active and bright, getting into every bit 
 of mischief, bless him ! that the place contains. I wash him, 
 dress him, feed him with the bread and milk nurse brings a 
 seven o'clock ; then I dress myself, and we go out together into 
 the glorious morning, among the sparkling dewdrops and early 
 radiance that seem to have no knowledge or thought of disease, 
 pain, and death. And all through the day we are so happy to- 
 gether, he and I. No fits of passion or sulkiness ever deform the 
 character of Paul's little son ; he is as spirited as he is gentle, led 
 by a word, turned to iron by an injustice, as his father ever was. 
 
 " Symonds is very ill," say the accounts gleaned from a distance. 
 Can it be possible, I ask, trembling, that a woman so thoroughly 
 infected with the fever could avoid giving it to the child she was 
 always with ? But the day wears on to eventide, and the roses do 
 not burn too brightly in his cheeks, his steps know no flagging, 
 and he goes to bed as he went last night, against his will. 
 
 It must be the very early morning, just when the moonlight has 
 gone and the greyness of the dawn has not yet appeared, that I 
 am awakened by a hoarse little voice asking for " water." It is 
 one of the few words that I have been able to teach Wattie's baby- 
 lips to utter. I do not move for a moment ; I am like a dead 
 creature who has been slain by one lightning blow from a two- 
 edged sword — I know what the cry means. ... I know that 
 Death has called my angel away from me. . . . 
 
 Then I rise stiffly, and bring water, which already, already it 
 
494 COMIN 1 THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 hurts him to swallow. I lay the little head back upon the pillow, 
 I do not kiss him or speak to him ; I fall down on my knees by 
 his side. Wattie ! . . . Wattie ! . . . God has taken all else on 
 earth from me, and now he is beckoning you . . , my darling ! 
 . - . my darling ! . . . 
 
 Half an hour later and a man has returned from Pimpernel with 
 the doctor ; an hour and he is gone again. He can do no more 
 for the only son of Paul Vasher than the son of a cottager ; a few 
 days, or hours even, will determine the issue. 
 
 "It is in God's hands," say the servants, as they move to and 
 fro, and the words sound to me in my agony like direst mockery. 
 If it be in His hands, why need He have stricken my flower, my 
 treasure, my ewe-lamb? Somebody takes away the telegrams 
 that I send to the father and mother — though why should they 
 come here % They never spoke to my darling in life, why should 
 they come to look on him now he is going away % He is mine now, 
 mine ; he wants no one else. And I send the servants and every 
 one away out of the room (I believe they think I am mad), and 
 with the simple remedies they have left for him I take him in my 
 arms and hang over him, hour after hour, watching every change 
 in his face, every throb of his pulses . . . and his beautiful dumb 
 eyes seek mine piteously in his new unknown misery ... he 
 cannot understand it ... he never suffered any pain or oppres- 
 sion before ... he seems puzzled and afraid, and if I leave him 
 for a moment he calls after me, " Lallie ! Lallie !" not with the o]d 
 merry voice, but in a sharp, altered note, that makes my heart 
 stand still. 
 
 The doctor comes and goes ; he spends half his time fighting 
 with the grim enemy over this little, resisting frame. A nurse 
 takes up her station in the room, but she never touches him ; he 
 takes everything alike from my hand. He has still some hopes of 
 the child, the doctor says, and calls in a greater man than he, and 
 
HARVEST. 495 
 
 the two consult together ; but, oh ! I know that Wattie has been 
 called, that he is going — I knew it from the very first. . . If no one 
 had cared whether he lived or died, he would have lived ; as he is 
 more to me than life itself, he is going fast. His sweet broken 
 babble grows fainter and weaker, then dies altogether. The doctors 
 look down on him in silence. Not all their cunning can breathe 
 life into this beautiful little body— only the Great Physician can 
 do that, and he is drawing hourly nearer ; every minute sees a 
 fresh change on the face of my boy. 
 
 They go away, these men, saying they will come back presently; 
 they need not come, for they will be wanted by Wattie never any 
 more. 
 
 He has always known me right through: he knows me now, and 
 smiles at me with his parched, dried lips, as I give him some cool- 
 ing drink ; he shall be troubled with no more medicine, no more, 
 little Wattie . . . you had little enough of it in your short three- 
 year-old young life. He has never been fretful or wilful, or com- 
 plaining in this illness as other children are ; if he had only shown 
 some of his old masterful little ways, I should not feel so sure . . . 
 but he jnst lies on my knees, fading away before my eyes, and as 
 he grows fainter and weaker a passionate cry rises from my bitter* 
 wrung heart : "If he must go, let me go with him !" But my 
 prayer passes unheeded. I am strong and well, only sick with 
 weeping, worn with watching and fasting, brought to the lowest 
 depths of misery by having the child taken from me ; and so it* 
 falls that on the third night (he has been very quick about it, my 
 little Wattie, who was always so loth -to leave me for an hour even) 
 as he lies on my lap, about six of the clock, he opens his beautiful 
 brown eyes, his hand nutters a little in mine, and as I hang over 
 him in agonized, breathless dread, " Dood-bye, Lallie !*' he says; a 
 loving smile flickers over his face for a moment, then ... he is 
 gone. 
 
490 COM IN 1 THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 "Yet hath my night of life some memory, 
 My wasting lamp some fading glimmer left. 
 My dull deaf ears a little use to hear. . . ." 
 
 My little dead angel is lying alone on the wide white bed, with 
 •roses in his folded hands, and tapers burning on either side. You 
 would never know that he had been ill at all to look round the 
 room ; it is all so neat, so simple, so fresh. No ugly medicine 
 bottles or any of the paraphernalia of sickness is there ; everything 
 looks peaceful, untroubled, usual. Through the open windows 
 the moon sends a flood of light that washes the floor, the bed, the 
 waxen features of my darling, who lies there so still and quiet — he 
 who used to run about so indefatigably, whose feet were never 
 tired, whose voice was never still save when ho slept : and he is 
 not asleep now ... yet that eyeless, voiceless, pulseless shape is 
 my little lad. I am not by his side now ; no tears would come to 
 me as I looked down on the little dead face that had smiled on me 
 so lovingly four hours ago, on the lips that had syllabled " Good- 
 bye, Lallie !" with the last hovering breath, on the hands that 
 only slackened their hold on mine when death detached them . . . 
 When I brushed out his beautiful golden curls, and felt them cling 
 round my fingers like living sentient things, they woke no memory 
 in me of those other times when I had brushed them, finding such 
 trouble in keeping the restless head still ... I was as unfeeling 
 as silent, as placid as he. The nurse has gone away with the rest ; 
 she would have watched with me beside him all night, but she 
 shall not — no one shall do anything for him but me. I am sitting 
 in the school-room alone, and the sound of the church clock 
 striking ten comes with sudden loudness through the silence. 
 Ten ! and at live o'clock Wattie was living ; I had him in my 
 
HARVEST. 497 
 
 arms, I was able to kiss him, to call upon him by every foolish 
 name my heart prompted, and he was able to answer me, to put 
 out his weak hand to me, to smile at me . . . only five hours ago » 
 He cannot be dead : I must have dreamt it ... If I open yondei 
 shut door I shall find him there. Ay ! but did I ever leave him 
 for a minute while the breath was in his poor tortured little body 1 
 Oh, Wattie ! . . . Wattie, five hours ago you were here, in my 
 arms ; but now, where are you % 
 
 All my life long I have had so keen a pity for dead folk, that 
 it has seemed to me that in some former state I must have loved 
 some one very passionately, who died ; but this experience is so 
 new, so strange, so awful, that I cannot grasp it. I pitied then ; 
 but did I ever see a human being speaking, smiling one minute, 
 the next a blank, a mockery, a shell, from whence is withdrawn 
 the beautiful loving spirit that I knew ? 
 
 " Oh, God ! oh, God !" I cry, as I rock myself to and fro, 
 " make me understand, make me see it ; remove this terrible in- 
 terval that lies between my living Wattie and this dead one." 
 
 If only he could come back to me for one brief moment, if only 
 he could tell me about it ! ... I cannot get hold of you, Wattie, 
 my angel : you are not dead, so I have no memory of you ; you 
 are not living, so I cannot speak to you To-morrow, per- 
 haps, you will seem farther away : I shall learn to remember. 
 
 I go to the window, and look out at the night. May he not be 
 somewhere near me, though I do not know it ] Can he have gone 
 so far already ] Were you afraid, Wattie, I wonder, when you 
 went forth alone % Did you hold out your hand to me in the awful 
 strangeness of your passing ] Is any one taking care of you up 
 there, as I took care of you here below ? 
 
 ■ Wattie ! Wattie !" I whisper, and my voice sounds hoarse and 
 
 sinister in the silence, " can you not speak to me I" But no 
 
 answer comes to me ; not a leaf stirs, not a sound is abroad. 
 
 32 
 
498 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 Hark ! what is that ? Hasty footsteps are crushing the gravel , 
 coming nearer and nearer. Who can it be that comes here so 
 late 1 And farther away I seem to hear lighter steps, that follow 
 after the first. Have the father and mother returned, too late ) 
 And my dull heart gives an exultant leap that Silvia should come 
 too late— that Wattie died in my arms, not hers. . . . The steps 
 pass on, retreat, come forward again, and in another minute a 
 man steps into the flood of moonlight that fills the room — Paul 
 Vasher. How wild he looks, how strange ! After all, did he love 
 the poor little dead son yonder, only his pride forbade his show- 
 ing it 1 
 
 " I thought you would have come sooner," I say slowly ; "I have 
 been expecting you for days." 
 
 " And I am here," he says, as slowly as I. 
 
 His face is pale and set, his dark eyes are flaming under his 
 drawn brows. 
 
 " Love," he says quietly, and in his quietness there is a deadly 
 strength that chills me, " I cannot live without you. I have come 
 back to tell you so. . . . Will you end this life of hell and misery, 
 and come away with me V 
 
 But I do not answer ; I only fall back before him, and stand 
 with dilated eyes and parted lips, staring at him. 
 
 " Are you afraid, sweetheart 1 Do you believe that the words 
 uttered by a mumbling old priest make things sacred that are 
 not sacred in themselves 1 Do you believe that you would be any 
 the more my wife if a form of words had been spoken over us ? 
 Are the man and woman, forsooth, who are made for each other, 
 and would cleave to each other through time and death and 
 eternity, to be considered less married in God's eyes than the 
 wretches who are bound together by the fetters of expediency, 
 fraud, and the love of gold V 
 
 But I only hold up my hands and wave him back. I am dumb 
 
HARVEST. 499 
 
 —dumb as my innocent darling lying yonder, dumb as the stones 
 t hat lie at my feet. 
 
 " Sweetheart ! Wife !" he cries, coming a step nearer, and the 
 old fire has come back to his eye, the old masterful vigour to his 
 voice, "I must have you. ... I can't live without you. Ever 
 since that Christmas morning I have been wrestling and fighting 
 with myself as no other devil-tempted, God-forsaken man ever 
 fought, in vain. . . I knew that the other day, when I touched 
 your hand at parting, for the first time for three years and more. . . 
 When I got to Scotland, a chance remark told me that you were ; 
 here alone ; I set out. . . . You will come with me to-night, 
 Nell, to-night. All is prepared, everything is in readiness ; no 
 one knows I am in Silverbridge. ... By the morning we shall 
 be far away. . . together at last. Oh, heavens !" he cries, with 
 a strong wild leap of exultation in his voice, "at last. ... I 
 had been very doubtful about you, my beautiful darling. . . . 
 I did not think your love would stand the test. . . . but when 
 you said that you had been expecting me, that you thought I 
 should lave been here sooner. ... I knew then, Nell, that your 
 love was as perfect as mine." y 
 
 A dark shadow crosses the moonlight, a white hand alights 
 like a snow-flake on Paul's arm. He turns, and at his elbow 
 stands Silvia, smiling. She steps through the window, and 
 there we stand in the moonlight, that shows our faces clear as at 
 noonday — my lover, his wife, and I. It is Paul who speaks first. 
 
 " So it is you, madam V he says slowly. " And, pray, are you 
 following your old and successful avocation of a spy ?" 
 
 "Yes,'" she says, quietly, "if following one's own husband be 
 spying, for I have been following you. I always knew you would 
 come back to this girl, sooner or later, and ask her to go off with 
 you ; and I always knew that, for all her proud disdainful airs, she 
 would go — when you asked her. Don't suppose that I want to 
 
5oo COMIN' THRO* THE RYE. 
 
 hinder you from going ; on the contrary, if you do not, I will take 
 good care that the country rings with the story of how I found my 
 husband and Miss Helen Adair alone, at eleven at night, when all 
 her people were away. . . arranging an elopement between them. 
 I wonder whether it would be you or I who would be blamed then 
 for not having got on together 1 I don't want to stop you ; I only 
 came after you to shame her. Ha, ha ! Have I not my revenge 
 on you at last, Helen Adair V 
 
 Paul does not speak, only his hands clench and unclench them - 
 selves rapidly, and his breast rises in short, quick pants. 
 
 " You taunted me once with the possession of a good name, that 
 no living man or woman could lay finger on," she says, in her 
 mocking, flute-like tones ; " do you think it is so white and soil- 
 3 ess now V* 
 
 " Now," I say, lifting my hand and beckoning to her, "you will 
 come with me." 
 
 Like a woman who moves without her own volition, Silvia leaves 
 her place and follows me. Again I lift my hand and beckon to 
 Paul, who also comes slowly, like a man in a dream. ... I open 
 the door, traverse the short passage, and enter the bedroom, the 
 husband and wife following. I walk to the bed and look round at 
 them — they are standing by the door — and lift my hand once 
 more, and they come and stand one on either side of the bed . . . 
 and they look down on the dead face of their little fatherless, 
 motherless son, Wattie. 
 
 u He died at six of the clock this evening," I say, monotonously; 
 then something seems to snap in my brain, and I fall down like a 
 log, with my arms round my little dead lad. 
 
 * • * * • 
 
 In God's Acre, a man stands holding my hand in his for the 
 last time, and asks me, as though I were his judge, to forgive him 
 the terrible sin and treachery into which his mad, sinful love and 
 
HARVEST. 501 
 
 . 1 
 ,nd : 
 
 agony drove him ; and I forgive him, yes, from the very bottom 
 my heart, and bid him God-speed, for I know that, just as surely 
 as that Wattie is laid away out of my sight under the brown 
 mould at our feet, so I shall never look on his father's face again 
 in this life . . . and so we say good-bye, reverently, tenderly, 
 knowing it is our last farewell, and then — he goes. 
 
 And on the night of the last day but one of August, in the yet 
 early morning, he comes to me in my sleep, with the clear light of 
 the immortals on his brow, and I awake, knowing full well that he 
 is dead. Fourteen days afterwards a letter is brought to me, and 
 the superscription of the envelope is written by a Frenchman. I 
 lake it away to my chamber, and sit down with it in my han 
 I am in no hurry to read it, for I know ; then I break the seal. 
 
 ' Mademoiselle," the letter begins, " I have a sacred duty to 
 perform to you ; I pray you to forgive me that it is so painful an 
 one. . . . Before Sedan I fought side by side with M. Vasher, and 
 it was towards evening that he fell, badly wounded. By goo 
 fortune I got him away to a place of safety, and a good Sister cam 
 and tended him, but he was past human aid. He gave me your ac 
 dress, and bade me tell you how he died. . . < Mademoiselle 
 was the bravest man, the truest gentleman, that ever took sword in 
 hand. . . . He was very restless all night, but he never com- 
 plained ; and — forgive me. I had fallen asleep for a moment— 
 towards the very early morning, I was awakened by his voice ring- 
 ing out, loud and clear as a trumpet, ' Comin' thro' the rye— GocN 
 rye, Nell !' then he fell back dead. We buried him, mademoiselle,' 
 at sunset, and laid on his heart a miniature he had always worn, as 
 he bade us. An hour afterwards a lady came ; she was very beauti- 
 ful, and seemed wild with grief. . - . Mademoiselle, she said she 
 was his wife With humble assurances of my sympathy, I am 
 u Your faithful servant, 
 
 "Gabriel Risoliere." 
 
502 COM IN' THRO' THE RYE. 
 
 Will they find each other up above, I wonder, my lost love 
 and my little lost angel 1 ? And since I shall go to them, but 
 they will not return to me, I pant, I weary, I burn for the moment 
 when death, " like a friend's voice from a distant field," shall call 
 to me, and, taking my hand in his, lead me to the plains and fields 
 that girdle round the shining city . . . where shall I not see my 
 darlings stepping to meet me through the unfading, incorruptible 
 Vspiendour of u God's rye F 
 
 THE END. 
 
 BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD. 
 
 /. D. <k Co. 
 
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