UCSB HBRAfTY 
 ^ - 535^3
 
 SIP
 
 *
 
 LOVE AID MOIEY; 
 
 AM 
 
 EVERY-DAY TALE 
 
 AVTHOR OF " NO SENSE LIKE COMMOK SENSE," " VOfiK AW» 
 WAQES," "WHO SHALL BE GREATEST," ETC., ETC. 
 
 NEW-YORK-: 
 D. A P P L E T O N & C M P A N Y . 
 
 443 & 445 BROADWAY. 
 18G3.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 I. Mrs. Morland's Arrival - . . 1 
 
 II. What Mrs. Morland heard ok her Neighbours 8 
 
 III. Experiences of a Gentle Spirit . 
 
 IV. A Merry Christmas Day 
 V. A return in kind . • 
 
 VI. Ebb Tide 
 
 VII. A Turn in the Tide 
 VIII. A Second Christmas Day 
 IX. The False Lote and the True Lovb 
 X. Parting and Meeting 
 XI. The Old friends and the Old Homb 
 XIL All's VTkll that Ends Well 
 
 IG 
 
 45 
 
 60 
 
 76 
 
 89 
 
 104 
 
 121 
 
 141 
 
 148 
 
 162
 
 LOVE AND MONEY. 
 
 CHArXER I. 
 
 MRS. MORLAND S ARRIVAL. 
 
 ** Mrs. Morland is come!" exclaimed Sarah at 
 Mr. Barker's, the wine-merchant's, rushing into th« 
 parlour where her mistress was sitting at work ; 
 " and you can see the tea-things set out in Mr. Mor- 
 land's parlour." 
 
 Mrs. Barker started up and looked through her 
 window towards the parlour-window of her neigh- 
 bour, but the blind was down, and nothing more 
 than light in the room was to be seen. 
 
 " Morland has just brought home his wife," said 
 Mr. Barker himself, coming with a newspaper in his 
 hand ; '' the chaise has just driven off." 
 
 " What sort of person did she look ?" asked Mrs. 
 Barker, eagerly. 
 
 " Like most other folks," said he, sitting down to 
 the table, and turning over his newspaper. 
 
 " Well, but was she tall or short ; and how was 
 she dressed ?" still questioned she. 
 
 " Never looked out to see," returned the grocer ; 
 " what is Mr. Morland or his wife to me ?" 
 
 Mrs. Barker asked no more questions, for zhe saw 
 that her husband was out of humour ; so she let hisi
 
 2 MRS. MORLAND S ARRIVAL. 
 
 read his paper undisturbedly, and began to make tea, 
 thinking to herself, that, when the shopman came in, 
 she would ask him, for no doubt he had looked out ; 
 and then she began to regret to herself that that dis- 
 agreeable affair about Mr. Crawley's cat had occurred, 
 which had made not only Mr. Crawley, but Mr. 
 Morland and them bad neighbours, for the Morlands 
 were sure to be genteel people ; and, after all, the cat 
 did no great harm, though it did come prowling 
 about, and how were they to know that Mr. Crawley 
 had given it to Mr. Morland ; but, after all, whether 
 the cat belonged to Morland or Crawley, it was, she 
 must at the moment confess, somewhat unneigh- 
 bourly to lay poisoned meat for her. 
 
 At this point ]\Irs. Barker's thoughts were inter- 
 rupted by the three little Barkers rushing in, the 
 youngest roaring with all his might, and the two 
 elder ones speaking at the very highest pitch of their 
 voices ; Tommy accusing Fred of having knocked 
 down little Harry, and Fred protesting that it was all 
 Tommy's fault, who would push in to get hold of the 
 back of the chaise which had just driven away from 
 Mr. Morland's. The shopman was sent off to the 
 apothecary's for a pennyworth of plaister to mend 
 Harry's broken forehead with; and the two elder 
 boys, right or wrong, had a psalm of twelve verses 
 given them to learn, to keep them quiet, which set 
 them both a-crying ; and poor Mrs. Barker, who 
 had enough to do in scolding the two elder, and 
 pacifying the youngest boy, who was her favourite, 
 gained n > information from the shopman respecting 
 the newly-arrived Mrs. Morland. 
 
 " Mrs Morland is come !" said Ann, at Mr. Sop-
 
 MMS. MORI.AND g ARRIVAL. 3 
 
 •rorth's, the tea-dealer's, on the other side of Mr. 
 Morland's, as she took in the kettle of boiling water 
 for tea. 
 
 " Have you seen her 1" asked Miss Eliza Sopworth, 
 a lively brunette of two or three and twenty, who 
 was her brother's housekeeper, and who had invited 
 that evening Mary Wheeler^ the pretty niece of her 
 brother's landlord, Mr. Crawley, to take tea with 
 her ; " have you seen her ; and is she nandsome ?" 
 
 Ann could not exactly tell whether she was hand- 
 some or not, but she had seen her sure enough, for 
 she had contrived to be in the entry when they got 
 out of the chaise, and she had heard her speak too : 
 she had heard her say, " and there is a black and 
 white straw basket, George," — that was Mr. Morland, 
 for she knew that his name was George : she seemed 
 to stand a good height too, and by her figure Ann 
 would fancy she was handsome. 
 
 "And how was she dressed?" asked the young 
 mistress, eagerly. 
 
 Ann again could not exactly tell, for the entry was 
 dark ; but she seemed to have on a black and white 
 plaided cloak with a large cape, a dark boa, and 
 some sort of a silk bonnet, but whether it was blue, 
 or black, or green, or drab, was more than she could 
 say ; there was a deal of luggage, however, that she 
 knew, besides the "big box," which had come the 
 day before by the carrier. 
 
 Upon this information the two young ladies began 
 a most interesting conversation, which was no way 
 abated when j\Ir. Mark Sopworth, the young tea- 
 dealer, came in to his tea, bringing with him the 
 iame tidings which the maid had done five minute*
 
 4 MBS. MORLAND S ARRIVAL. 
 
 before, namely, that Mrs. Morland was come, but 
 differing from her in some of the minor particulars, 
 as, for instance, thai her bonnet was straw, with a 
 black veil, and that she had a squirrel boa and muff; 
 and, moreover, that she had a very pretty foot and 
 ankle, and that ]\Ir. Morland had given her a kiss as 
 soon as she was in the house, as he himself had seen 
 through Mr. Morland's hall window, which was 
 opposite his back shop-window. 
 
 Mr. Sopworth looked at Mary Wheeler as he said 
 this ; and Mary, who was a very pretty, though some- 
 what pale girl, blushed very much. Why did she 
 blush ? — Nay, how can we tell, for she really did not 
 know herself, and was quite vexed that she had done 
 so. Mr. Mark Sopworth, however, thought she 
 looked so very pretty with that crimson glow on her 
 cheeks, that he placed his chair close to her's, and 
 then went to the tea-table, and selected from a plate 
 of fancy cakes one covered with sugar, in the form of 
 a heart, which he gave to her. Again she blushed, 
 and this time deeper than she had done before, and 
 smiled very sweetly at the same time, which made 
 Mr. Sopworth think, suppose now he were to give 
 her a kiss, what would she say ? Would she be 
 offended ? 
 
 He had almost a mind to try ; and perhaps he 
 would have done so, had not one of the apprentices 
 tapped at the window, which was the signal of his 
 being wanted in the shop : so Mary ate the cake, 
 thinking to herself, poor girl, how happy she should 
 be, if Mr. INIark Sopworth really liked her ; and her 
 friend the while poured out the tea, and went on 
 talking about the new Mrs. Morland.
 
 MJIS. MORLAND S ARRIVAL. O 
 
 ** I should not at all wonder if she is handsome," 
 said she, " for he is just one of those men to make a 
 point of beauty. I never fancied him very steady, 
 though," said she ; " you know he was a commercial 
 traveller for many years, and those gentlemen always 
 lead such gay lives I" 
 
 " Some people reckon him so very handsome," said 
 Mary Wheeler, " do you think him so ?" 
 
 "Very!" returned her friend, "very handsome! 
 do not you v" 
 
 Mary demurred ; he came to her imcle's, she said, 
 very often ; they drank brandy and water together, 
 and someway or other she did not tliink him so very 
 handsome ; his nose was not straight, and he had such 
 large whiskers. 
 
 " A light man pleases you better," said Eliza Sop- 
 worth with a nod, and again Mary blushed, for she 
 had indeed thought many a time that, according to 
 her taste, Mark Sopwortk was a great deal better- 
 looking than the universally-reckoned handsome Mr. 
 Morland ; and, beyond this, she could not help feeling 
 pleased, this being the first time that Miss Eliza 
 Sopworth had ever in any way named her and her 
 brother in the same breath. Very slight things are 
 taken as omens of what the heart wishes ; Mary 
 was pleased, and felt that, some way orother, she had 
 never been happier than she was at that moment. 
 " Of course you will call on Mrs. Morland ?" said 
 she. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Miss Sopworth, " certainly she 
 ghould ; so would Miss Wheeler ; and when would 
 she call? and might not they 3S well both go toge- 
 ther 1" ;Mary said that Mr. Morland had made her
 
 6 MRS. MORLAND S ARRIVAL. 
 
 promise to go very soon ; he had told her that she and 
 his wife would like one another very much, and that 
 she hoped she should, for that she was always glad to 
 have lady-acquaintance ; that it was a great deal 
 pleasanter to her now, than it used to be before she, 
 Miss Sopworth, came ; she used never to speak to a 
 lady, perhaps, sometimes from one week's end to 
 another ; it was such a thing, she said, that her uncle 
 never made up his mind to marry : she was very fond 
 of Miss Harris, who was the lady, as Miss Sopworth 
 kne\v', whom all the world expected Mr. Crawley 
 to marry ; and a wife, she really did believe, would 
 make a very different person of her uncle. But 
 seeing, however, that her uncle was not very likely 
 to marry, she hoped Mrs. Morland would turn out a 
 nice neighbour, that she did, indeed ! and that she 
 w^ould not be like Mis. Nixon, who had alw^ays 
 thought herself too good to associate with trades- 
 people. 
 
 From this they began to talk of the Nixons. Miss 
 Sopworth lia(i never knowTi them ; they were Mr. 
 Morland's* predecessors, and Mr. Sopworth had been 
 yet scarcely a year in his shop. The Nixons, it was 
 said, had made a fortune there ; he was the inventor 
 and patentee of various perfumed essences, which had 
 j^-ained great celebrity. Mr. Morland, who, as a 
 commercial traveller, had been in part employed by 
 him, had, after his death, which occurred before 
 middle life, purchased his business, his stock in trade, 
 and his valuable recipes, from his widow ; and, leaving 
 his travelling, had established himself here as manu- 
 facturer, hoping, of course, to make as much, nay, a 
 gitjat deal more, money than his predecessor, inasmuch
 
 MRS. MORLAND S AKRIVAL. J 
 
 as he had a far higher opinion of his own abiiitiea 
 than he had of those of Mr. Nixon. 
 
 From the conversation of Miss Sopworth and her 
 risitor, any third party would have discovered that 
 Mrs. Nixon had been a very haughty lady, who had 
 associated only with the wives of professional people, 
 and that it was greatly to be desired that Mrs. Mor- 
 land might not be like her. Mr. Morland, too, it 
 "would have been learnt, from the same unquestion- 
 able authority, had taken not only Mr. Nixon's stock 
 in trade, but a deal of his furniture likewise ; Mrs. 
 Nixon had only removed china and glass, pkte, and 
 linen, leaving all the rest as it had been when they 
 lived there. It was very good furniture, they said, 
 but Mr. Morland had paid dear enough for it. Becky, 
 too, Mr. Nixon's old cook, lived there still ; Mr. Mor- 
 land had taken her with the rest of the fixtures. He 
 had a little servant-boy, whom he had put into a sort 
 of livery. Miss Sopw^orth had seen him only the last 
 Sunday ; and she was quite sure that the Morlands 
 would be very genteel sort of people. 
 
 Mr. Morland, Mary AVheeler said, was every way 
 a very different kind of person to Mr. Nixon ; he 
 used always to be down in his distillery in a paper- 
 cap, she had heard say, and a working-dress ; she 
 had been told that he never let any soul see him at 
 work, nor know any of his secrets ; he never used to 
 go out anywhere of an evening, and only just bowed 
 to her uncle when they met. Mr. Morland, however, 
 W36 quite another kind of man. Old Matthew, who 
 had been Mr. Nixon's porter for so many years, did 
 the distilling now, and Mr. Morland went out some- 
 where or other every evening — he was a capital singer.
 
 8 WHAT MRS. MORLAND 
 
 *' Oh," she said, " if Miss Sopworth had only heard 
 him sing ' W^ill Watch,' and ' Oh, Nannie, wilt thou 
 gang wi' me,' she would be delightod !" Mary 
 Wheeler was exceedingly glad, she said, that they 
 had such a neighbour, for her uncle was very fond of 
 his company, and it always put him in good humooi 
 to see him come. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 WHAT MRS. MORLAND HEARD OF HER NEIGHBOVAS. 
 
 " Who in the world is that 1" asked the bright- 
 eyed Mrs. Morland, from her husband, a few morn- 
 ings after her arrival, as at nine o'clock they sate 
 together at their breakfast, and tlie angry, Hiormy 
 voice of Mrs. Barker was heard outside, scolding her 
 three boys, who were all quarrelling together among 
 the great hop-bags, where they had been at play ; "for 
 Heaven's sake, George, who is that terrible woman ?" 
 
 "It's only Mrs. Barker," returned he; "you'll 
 get used to her in timje, as I have done." And then 
 he began and told the neighbourly history of the 
 white cat which either she or her husband had 
 poisoned. The cat, Mr. Morland said, belonged to 
 Mr. Crawley. They were overrun with rats since 
 she was killed ; and this cat was a capital creature, 
 and very handsome, too. Mr. Crawley had declared 
 that he would not have taken a guinea for her. She 
 used to come into his, Mr. Morland's, premises, and 
 had, it was supposed, wandered after her prey into 
 those of Mr. Barker. However, the cat was poisoned.
 
 HEARD OP HER NEIGHBOURS. 9 
 
 and was then thrown over the wall down into Mr. 
 Crawley's area. 
 
 Mrs. Morland agreed with her husband that it was 
 the most unneighbourly thing she ever heard of; and 
 then she inquired what sort of people they were who 
 lived on the other side of them, and the family, too, 
 who lived at the bottom of the yard ; for these, after 
 all, were of the most consequence, because they had 
 all of them but one common entrance-court to the 
 three houses. 
 
 " Oh, they are quiet, respectable people enough," 
 said he. " There 's young Sopworth, who has the 
 shop aud the rooms behind it, and who has been in 
 business hardly twelve months. He is a good sort 
 of person, I believe, though not one of my sort — 
 rather humdrumish. His sister keeps his house, 
 and is a pretty black-eyed girl ; his family, who are 
 respectable farmers, live in the country ; and the 
 place, on market and fair-days, is overrun with 
 country-folks. All the family dine there on market 
 days, and they are — " Mr. IMorland hesitated. 
 
 " What are they ?" asked his wife. 
 
 "Commonish sort of folks," said he, and sipped his 
 coffee. '" I fancy he has a bit of a notion," added he, 
 the next moment, " of Miss "NV^heeler, old Crawley's 
 niece, at the bottom of the yard ; she is a very nice 
 girl — quite a genteel girl ; but she leads a miserable 
 life with the old fellow — not that he is so old either, 
 but he has all the vices and disagreeables of an old 
 man, with some of the follies of a young one. There's 
 something odd about him ; he is a miser and a spend- 
 thrift at the same time ; a churl, and a downright 
 good ftllow."
 
 10 WHAT MRS. MORLAND 
 
 " Not a very pleasant neighbour," said Mrs. Moi- 
 land. 
 
 *' Well enough for tliat," said Mr. Morland, " but 
 I 've heard that, twenty years ago, he had one of the 
 finest chances in the world of being a rich, an enor- 
 mously rich man. He was of low parentage, I believe, 
 and was apprenticed to the now rich drapers of this 
 place, Hacket and Smith, who owned and occupied 
 all these premises. They did an immense stroke of 
 business, and employed as much as fifty young men, 
 which, for a country business in those Jays, was 
 souiething extraordinary. Crawley, when out of his 
 time, remained there as shopman. He seemed to 
 have uncommon talents for business, and, by degrees, 
 got greatly into the confidence of the firm. Hacket 
 and Smith were both of them old men : Hacket had 
 nothing but daughters, and Smith only one son, who, 
 having an independent fortune, had never turned his 
 mind to business. Old Smith withdrew from the 
 concern, and, at Hacket's death, about twenty years 
 ago, Crawley took to the business. No doubt he had 
 to borrow 'money, and thus began with considerable 
 incumbrance ; but that, however, is only conjecture. 
 I know nothing about it; only this is certain, that^ 
 even if that had been the case, single man as he was, 
 never did any one begin life with a better prospect 
 before him. He was fitter, however, as one may say, 
 for a servant than a master ; he managed badly. New 
 establishments in the place had taken the lead ; and 
 in comparatively but a few years his retail business 
 had nearly dwindled away. Upon this he took to 
 wholesale, and had all kinds of schemes of trade, li 
 he did not take many orders, however, the life suited
 
 HEARD or HER tfKlOHBOVRS. 11 
 
 him very well. It was thus that we first became 
 acquainted : he is a capital fellow over a bottle, 
 and never got to the end of his merry stories : 
 that, however, is his good side ; and even after he had 
 been more tlian once kicked out of the travellers' 
 room, he had his partisans, who defended him through 
 thick and thin. In a while, his wholesale business 
 would not pay his travelling expenses ; so he returned 
 to his shop again, which, even all this time, he had 
 kept on. I knew the place and all tliese premises 
 long before I ever thought of living in them. Nixon 
 then lived here, and Crawley had the shop which 
 Sopworth has now ; and his wareroonis were those 
 which are now converted into Sopwovth's house. The 
 whole establishment, in those days, had a most un- 
 prosperous look : the shop was full of old-fashioned 
 goods, which he either could not afford, or out of 
 stupidity would not sell at reduced prices. He took 
 shopmen at low salariei, who, from want of address 
 or character, could not get better situations, and half- 
 starved them and his apprentices, whom he still 
 took, not for their services, but for the small fees 
 which he received with them ; while he drove about 
 in his gig to get orders from cotintry shops. Yet all 
 this time he dressed well, and reckoned himself 
 quite above all other tradespeople, for lie still, in his 
 own imagination, estimated himself by tiie reputation 
 of his predecessors. He told a merry story, listened 
 td a merry song, and sate down among his old com- 
 mercial acquaintance, as cheerfully as ever, to a bottle 
 of wine, though, I must confess, that he generally 
 contrived to shirk his share of the expenses. With 
 ftll his bad qualities, however, as I said before, he waa
 
 12 WHAT MRS. MORLAND 
 
 rather liked in a travellers' room ; and whether he be 
 bankrupt or not, it will continue to be so, 1 suppose, 
 to the end of the chapter." 
 
 " Well, I don't know whether that is quite right," 
 said Mrs. Morland ; and her husband, without noticing 
 her remark, continued his narrative. ' Shopkecping, 
 as you may think," said he, " did not answer ; and 
 he soon found that even his diminished premises were 
 more than he required. He had the lea^e of the 
 whole at a low rate ; Nixon occupied that which we 
 now have, and the remainder he redivided, with- 
 drawing himself to the back, where he has one or two 
 good rooms, and still pretends to carry on a sort of 
 wholesale business — though Heaven knows in what 
 it consists. He gives it out that he has an independent 
 property ; many people believe so : others think that 
 his income consists merely in the profit he has made 
 in subdividing and underletting these premises. 
 Four different trades have occupied the shop which 
 Sopworth has, in about as many years ; all quarrelled 
 with their landlord, failed, and made bad work of it. 
 Sopworth, the fifth adventurer, was reckoned a bold 
 man to begin there ; but he is like enough, to my 
 thinking, to redeem the character of the place. He 
 lias got, as if by magic, a capital trade. He is a 
 thorough man of business, has good connexions, and 
 his family has money, all which are more than half 
 the battle with a young beginner. He is sure to do ; 
 but yet, after all, he is no favourite of mine ; there is 
 something mean about the fellow that I despise — " 
 
 At this very moment old Matthew came up with a 
 woefully grave face, to desire Mr. Morland's presence 
 iu the distillery. Something had gone wrong ; and
 
 HEARD OF UER NEIGHBOURS. 13 
 
 two minutes afterwards, Mrs. Morland heard her 
 husband below stairs cursing and swearing, and pre*, 
 sently afterwards a tremendous explosion, in which 
 was heard the crash of glass, a hissing of steam, and 
 the whole house seemed filled with a mixture of hot 
 and stifling smells. 
 
 Mrs. Morland was frightened out of her senses, for 
 she thought nothing less had happened than the 
 blowing-up of lier husband, and she, too, rushed down 
 with the distracting i(iea that she was a wretched 
 widow. But Mr. jNIorland, who was alive ^nd well, 
 was damaged only in temper ; and she rushed up- 
 stairs again so happy to find that things were no worse, 
 that she troubled herself neither about his anger even 
 against her for coming down, nor for the loss of the 
 hundred pounds which he declared this mismanage- 
 ment to have occasioned, — merely reading to herself 
 the quiet lesson, '' that to be sure she had no business 
 down there, George was quite right, she would attend 
 to her own affairs, and not interfere in his ; but," 
 thought she, " it all comes of one's sitting gossippLng 
 80 long over breakfast. I declare it is now past eleven 
 o'clock, and the things are not taken away yet !" 
 
 Mr. Morland looked after his distillery all the day; 
 and she looked again over her nevv home, and found 
 much in it that required her attention. To all ap- 
 pearance this new home of hers was well furnished ; 
 there was mahogany furniture in the dining-room ; a 
 Turkey carpet, somewhat the worse for wear it is 
 true, on the floor ; a large sideboard, with two new 
 plated waiters, which looked like solid silver, reared 
 up upon it, to say nothing of liqueur-stand, castoi-s, 
 wine-glasses, and tumblers There were crinison 
 

 
 14 WHAT MRS. iMORLAND 
 
 moreen curtains to the windows, and two arm-chairs, 
 one on each side the fire-place ; Sx^ that, altogether, 
 there was nothing to object to in tile room. Then 
 there was the drawing-room, as it was called, up stairs, 
 furnished very properly with rosewood and yelloMr 
 damask moreen ; there was a sofa and a sofa-table ; a 
 pair of ottomans with tassels at the corners; there 
 was a looking-glass over the chimney-piece, and Mr. 
 Morland's own portrait, the size of life, with black 
 eyes, black whiskers, black hair, large white forehea<J, 
 and red cheeks, looking out of a massy-gilt frame at 
 you, go wherever you would. How Mrs. Morland 
 rejoiced over this portrait ; it was so life-like, so 
 good-looking, so handsome, as she thought her beloved 
 George to be ! She never felt more happy in all her 
 life. She loved him with her entire soul ; the house 
 was to all appearance well furnished ; he had a good 
 business; they should be rich, and they would be 
 happy ; for, thank God ! " said she, but not with 
 tears in her eyes — for she was not at all sentimental — 
 but with a happy smile on her lips, and a feeling of 
 success at her heart, "domestic happiness depends 
 quite as much upon the wife as on the husband !" 
 
 " We are shockingly off for house-linen," said Mrs. 
 Morland to her husband, a day or two after this, and 
 when she had been informed by the veracious Becky 
 that " for certain sure there never had been any more 
 linen in the press since the time Mrs. Nixon left than 
 she found in it — that is to say, two pair of sheety 
 and four tablecloths, two large and two small ; that 
 there were only these, and what was in use; and as 
 for kitchen-towels, Becky assured her that nobody 
 but herself could have managed with only four, Mid
 
 HEARD OF HER NEIGHBOURS. 16 
 
 two knife-cloths, as she had done; but then she 
 "Washed every other day. One did not expect," she 
 said, "everything to be complete in a bachelor's 
 establishment ; so she put on as well as she could, for 
 slie knew wlien the missis came, things would be 
 different," Mrs. Morland, therefore, who was a rea- 
 ionable woman in every respect, took the earliest 
 opportunity of speaking to her husband on this sub- 
 ject; and Mr. Morland, who appeared altogether as 
 reasonable as his wife, replied, " Oh yes, he knew It, 
 they must have linen, but that he left it to her 
 buying ;" and then he took up one of the new silver 
 spoons, engraved with what he called his crest, dis- 
 played above a German- text M., balanced it on his 
 finger, arid said these all were good solid silver. She 
 knew that good solid silver was one of his hobbies; so 
 she took up another spoon and said how handsome it 
 ■was, and that their table was really handsomely set 
 out, and that she should be ashamed of nobody seeing 
 it, especially when they had handsome table-linen. 
 Mr. Morland, who had been accustomed, as com- 
 mercial traveller, to dine at the best inns, thought as 
 much of good table-linen as his wife did, gave her 
 unrestricted permission to make what purchases 
 she thought proper. She could get them from 
 Hawkins, the draper, he said, with whom he had a 
 bill. 
 
 " I love to see good table-linen," said he, thinking 
 of a good dinner; "and every day a clean napkin," 
 added he, rubbing his hands at the same time, for a 
 couple of well-roasted and savoury ducks were set on 
 the table. 
 
 Mrs. Morland thought of the good house-llncn sh«
 
 16 THE EXPERIENCES Or 
 
 would buy ; and Mr. Morland thought of the good 
 dinner he was eating ; and never was a wedded pair 
 happier since Adam and Eve ate their first dinner in 
 Paradise, than were the cheerful-hearted Mrs. Mor- 
 land and her husband. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OP A GENTLE SPIRIT. 
 
 Mrs. Morland made her appearance at the parish 
 church on the fust Sunday after her arrival, and all 
 the neighbours had the pleasure of seeing her going 
 there. 
 
 " She Avore a dark-blue wadded lutestring pelisse, 
 with a chinchilla boa and muff," said Mrs. Barker to 
 the Sopworths, with whom she was very intimate, 
 and on whom she called that Sunday afternoon. 
 
 " Her pelisse was levantine, not lutestring," said 
 Miss Sopworth, whose pew being adjoining the Mor- 
 lands, was undoubted authority in the case. 
 
 "Oh, levantine was it?" said Mrs. Barker, "well, 
 levantine let it be then ; but she is not at all hand- 
 some." 
 
 " Not at all," echoed Miss Lizzy Sopworth, who, 
 from some unaccountable cause, had felt a depreciat- 
 ing sentiment towards her ; " she has no complexion 
 at all, and a person of her style ought to wear curls." 
 
 Mr. Sopworth, her brother, said that Mrs. Morland 
 walked well, for that he had followed her to churchy 
 and that she had a remarkably handsome foot; he 
 bad seen her smile, too, and that he thought hei
 
 A GENTLE SPIRIT. l7 
 
 handsome ; she had fine wliite teeth, and very good 
 eyes. 
 
 There was quite an excitement through the whok 
 neighbourhood about Mrs. Morland. She was ob- 
 served a good deal, as being the successor of the proud 
 Mrs. Nixon ; but still more on account of her own 
 personal appearance and handsome dress. The whole 
 neighbourhood, such at least as aspired to any equality 
 with the Morlands, talked all that evening about 
 calling one of the next days upon them. 
 
 For three days the little servant-boy at Mr. Mor- 
 land's had nothing to do but to open tho door to callers. 
 There came wine-merchants and their wives, but not 
 the Barkers ; there came the principal linendraper 
 and his wife ; the wife and daughters of the first 
 booksellers ; there came the proprietor of the town's 
 newspaper and his lady ; and three professional 
 families, and two or three wholesale dealers and 
 manufacturers. It was established at once that the 
 Morlands were to take their station among the first 
 tradespeople of the place, no little of which was owing 
 to his being the successor of Mr. Nixon, who was 
 said to have made ten thousand pounds in ten years. 
 
 Among the earliest callers was " old Crawley," as 
 he was called, although everybody added, in the next 
 breath, '' and yet he is not so old either," — accom- 
 panied by his niece, Mary Wheeler. Mr. Crawley 
 was extremely merry, clapped Mr. Morland on the 
 back, and drank Mrs. Morland's health, with an 
 accompanying sentiment, which made her feel both 
 angry and uncomfortable. Her husband laughed 
 lou'dly, as if it were a capital joke ; whilst Mai-y 
 Wheeler looked as much annoyed as she herself did.
 
 18 THE EXPERIENCES OF 
 
 There was something very quiet and sweet about 
 this young girl which pleased her greatly. "She is 
 really very pretty," said she to the Sop worths, who 
 came in immediately after they were gone, — " such 
 soft blue eyes, and such a sweet complexion ! Don't 
 you think lier lovely, Mr. Sopworth?" said she, ad- 
 dressing him in preference to his sister, whose warmth 
 on the subject seemed not by any means to equal her 
 own. 
 
 "Oh yes, very — very indeed, ma'am!" saia he, 
 and looked very conscious. Mrs. Morland remem- 
 bered what her husband had said of his having a 
 fancy for her, and grew all the warmer in her praise; 
 "there is something graceful about her," said she; 
 " she is quite the gentlewoman, has such propriety of 
 manner, and is so quiet and self-possessed ; my hus- 
 band has often spoken of her, but I did not expect her 
 equal to what I find her." 
 
 " Well, of all the people that have called on me," 
 said Mrs. Morland to her husband a week afterwards, 
 " none please me so well as that pretty Miss Wheeler. 
 I am glad she lives so near, for I shall try to make a 
 good neighbour of her; but what a wretch is her 
 uncle !" 
 
 Morland, remembering Mr. Crawley's attempt at 
 wit, laughed again as loudly as he had done before ; 
 and his wife, for the first time in her life, felt vexed 
 with him. 
 
 " You are so over-nice ! " said he ; and while these 
 words were on his lips, old Crawley came in, to finish, 
 as he said, whatever bottles of wine Mr. Morland 
 might have uncorked. Morland understood wine too 
 Well not to prefer an unopened bottle even for his own
 
 A GENTLE SPIRIT. 19 
 
 drinking ; so taking his cellar-key, he went down for 
 f^esh wine ; and his wife, seeing the two gentlemen 
 were thus not very likely to part early, protested that 
 she would send in for Miss Wheeler to drink tea 
 with her. 
 
 She did so. Becky made them a fire up stairs, and 
 then they took tea together ; and there they talked 
 themselves into a state of verj' friendly feeling, although 
 their acquaintance was not of many days' standing. 
 They talked about their neighbours; they talked about 
 
 the country round W , which was the t«wn where 
 
 they lived ; ]\Iiss Wheeler informing Mrs. Morland 
 that the prettiest village in the whole neighbourhood 
 was Sommerton, where Miss Sopworth's father and 
 mother lived — not Mr. Mark's — oh, no ! she never 
 said a word about him ; and then she informed her 
 friend, in a half-whisper, that before long, most likely 
 next week, if it was fine, they were all to be invited, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Morland of course, because the part^ 
 was invited for them, to go and spend a long afternoon 
 there. " It was a most charming thing," she said, 
 *'to go to Sommerton to old Mr. Sopworth's; they 
 were such hospitable people, and there was such 
 plenty of everything — new milk and fresh butter, and 
 cream and cheese-cakes ; she was once there," she 
 said, " in haymaking time, and they had strawberries 
 and cream in the hay -field, and rode, all of them, in 
 the hay- wagon ; and old Mr. Sopworth was so merry 
 and good-natured, and Mrs. Sopworth made such 
 excellent gooseberry-wine ! Had Mrs. Morland ever 
 been to a farm-house ?" 
 
 Oh yes ! Mi-s. Morland had — but it was yeai-s ago; 
 and she was too good-natured not to be quite sure that
 
 20 THE EXPERIENCES OF 
 
 the farm-houses which she had known years ago 
 were iwfhing to compare to that of the Sop worths 
 of Sommerton ! 
 
 From people they went on to talk about dress* and 
 Mary said how everybody admired that of Mrs. 
 Morland. The pelisse she wore on Sunday was 
 thought so handsome ; so was the silver-gray Irish 
 poplin which she had on the Monday she first saw 
 her. The silver-gray Irish poplin, Mrs. Morland said, 
 was not her own favourite — she had others which 
 she admired more ; she had some rich levantines and 
 satins — one, a figured one, which really was hand- 
 some ; and so, after a while, the two having grown 
 quite warm on the subject of dress, nothing in the 
 world could be more natural than that they should 
 adjourn into the bed-room adjoining, in oider that 
 Mary Wheeler might pass her judgment on the things 
 they had spoken of. It was almost enough to excite 
 envy to see the many handsome gowns which Mrs. 
 Morland drew forth from their new home in wardrobe 
 and chest of drawers once occupied by the proud Mrs. 
 Nixon, whose apparel, however, Mary Wheeler could 
 assert fearlessly, could bear no comparison in any 
 way with Mrs, Morland's. 
 
 " How very handsome they are !" said she with a 
 sigh. " I have a pink mousseline-de-laine and a 
 black silk, but — " She did not finish her sentence; 
 and Mrs. Morland, who was brimful of benevolence, 
 declared that the pink mousseline-de-laine which 
 she had worn when she saw her first, was the prettiest 
 thing she had ever seen ; and that the blue French 
 merino she was then wearing was very becoming, 
 and fitted her so well : " but then," said she, putting
 
 A GENTLE SPIRIT. 21 
 
 ber handsome things back again into ]ier wardrobe, 
 " you are such a pretty figure !" 
 
 " This is the third winter I have worn this merino,'* 
 said Mary ; " I hope my uncle will let me have a 
 new one this year. I wish for a morone -coloured 
 dress ; I never had such a one in my life, and I fancy 
 it would suit me." 
 
 " You would look sweetly in it," said Mrs. Morland, 
 " it is so warm a colour." 
 
 It is astonishing how intimate this conversation 
 about dress made them. Mrs. Morland stirred up the 
 drawing-room fire, when they went back to it ; and 
 they sate down side by side, with their feet on the 
 fender, and the cheerful firelight shining on their faces, 
 with as friendly feelings towards each other, as if 
 they had been acquainted for years. 
 
 ••' I hope you will allow me to come often," said 
 Mary W'heeler. 
 
 " Yes, indeed ! and I am heartily glad to have such 
 a pleasant neighbour," returned Mrs. Morland, and 
 that so cordially, that poor Mary was almost ready to 
 worship her. 
 
 " I shall tell Lizzy Sopworth how charming she 
 is r thought she, as she laid her head on the pillow 
 that night ; '' and I hope they will ask us to Sommer- 
 ton next week," added she in thought the next 
 moment ; and then came in suggestions of fancy, 
 which were not without their charm, as how, if ever 
 «he came to be Mrs. Mark Sopworth, it would be so 
 pleasant to live still next door to Mrs. Morland, and 
 she was quite sure, — that she was ! — that Mr. Mark 
 Would like Mrs. Morland altogether as well as she did. 
 
 Mi-8 Morland's coming into the neighbourhood was
 
 22 
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OP 
 
 the pleasantest thing that had happened to Mary 
 Wheeler for these many years ; and yet, poor giri, 
 she was only nineteen : but what we say is literally 
 time ; for many years she had not been so happy aa 
 she was now, and yet the next week passed over and 
 they went not to Sommerton. Old Mrs. Sopworth, it 
 is true, had called on the market-day with hei 
 daughter, and had asked them all to go on Friday 
 but, unfortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Morland had a prior 
 engagement for Friday, and so it was agreed that 
 Mrs. Morland herself should fix the day, only with 
 the proviso that it should be very soon. Mrs. Mor- 
 land proposed an early Tuesday ; but, alas ! Mr. 
 Sopworth was going to a great cattle-fair in a neigh- 
 bouring town, so it was again put ofl'. " Only 
 deferred," said Mrs, Sopworth, "and pleasure deferred 
 is not pleasure lost ;" then Mrs. Morland had a cold, 
 and was confined to the house ; and then old Mr. 
 Sopworth was oo lame with the rheumatism, that 
 they could not ask anybody till he was better ; and 
 then, alas ! it was the end of November, and there 
 was no moon ; but next week, when the ii.ights would 
 be light again, Mrs. Sopworth hoped that they really 
 might be able to make all points meet. 
 
 Next week, however, came and went, and the 
 Sop worths gave no invitation ; and the week following 
 came Mary \V'heeler one evening with her work-bag 
 ia her hand, and a shawl thrown over her head, to 
 beg that she might sit for an hour or two with dear 
 Mi"S. Morland. Nothing in the world could be more 
 d propos^ as Mrs. Morland had just determined to 
 send in for her, as her husband was gone to the Blue 
 Boar, to spend the evening with some gontlemeo
 
 A GENTLE SPIRIT. 28 
 
 there. She had put, she said, some pieces of what 
 remained of her wedding-cake on a plate, and had 
 given orders to Becky to cut them some nice sand- 
 wiches for their supper, and thus they should be as 
 snug and happy as possible. She was l^isy, she said, 
 hemming table-linen, and she was so glad that Miss 
 Wheeler had brought her work; yes, indeed, they 
 Bhoul'J be perfectly happy! 
 
 So spoke the joyous-hearted Mrs. Morland, in the 
 fulness of her own contentedness ; but the more she 
 looked at her young visitor, the more she felt assured 
 that she had been crying : there were dark rings 
 round her eyes, and she looked unusually pale. Poor 
 thing ! thought Mrs. Morland, who had immense 
 sympathy for sorrow or suffering of any kind, and 
 she felt more than ever determined to like her. 
 
 " Why do you try your eyes, dear girl," said she, 
 " with that everlasting backstitching ? — it is the worst 
 work in the world for the eyes, and more especially 
 by candle-light." 
 
 " My eyes are very good," replied Mary, " and I 
 am used to it." 
 
 " I have never seen you about any other work 
 than shirt-making," said Mrs. Morland, taking up 
 the wristband which Mary had just finished ; ''it is 
 so fine. You are making a set of shirts for your 
 uncle ?" 
 
 " I am always making shirts, or fronts, or collars," 
 Baid Mary ; " I was doing it this time last year ; I 
 shall be doing it this time next year, for my work is 
 never done," said she, in a tone that touched Mrs. 
 Morland's heart. 
 
 " Does your uncle, then, require so many ?" asked 
 she.
 
 S4 THE EXPERIENCES OF 
 
 A slight blush passed over Mary's face as sns 
 replied, "• Yes, I work for my uncle ; 1 made four 
 dozen shirts last year, and, oh, I don't know liow 
 many collars." 
 
 " Indeed !" said Mrs. Morland, thinking to herselt 
 that she should not M'onder it the old fellow dealt in 
 shirts ; and then she remembered all her husband 
 had said of his various schemes of business, and of 
 his severity and unkindness to his niece. 
 
 " But you should not stitch at night — indeed you 
 should not, — young people ought to take care of their 
 eyes ; but," added she, rather thinking aloud than 
 addressing her companion, " I hope he pays well for 
 all the work which you thus do for him." 
 
 "He gives me threepence a shirt," said Mary. 
 
 *' Threepence !" repeated Mrs. Morland, almost 
 laughing at the idea of twelve shillings for four 
 dozen shirts. 
 
 " Yes," returned Mary, " threepence for a shirt, let 
 it be as fine as it may ; and if I should leave it to be 
 sixpence, that I might receive silver instead of copper, 
 I should never get it. I have got a save-all, like a 
 child," said she, smiling at her own miserable means, 
 *' to put my money in, and then, when it amounts to 
 two or three shillings, I can afford to buy some little 
 trifle or other that I want." 
 
 " Poor child !" said Mrs. Morland, in her very 
 kindest manner; " but for all that, Mary," added she, 
 *' you always look so nice." 
 
 Why was it that Mary Wheeler could no longer 
 keep back her tears? It was because a kind word 
 affects a wounded heart little used to kindness, even 
 more than a stern one ; and Mrs. Morland's sympathy
 
 A GENTLE SPIRIT. 2b 
 
 was like the one drop which makes the brimming 
 cup run over. She laid down her work and burst 
 into tears. 
 
 " Don't cry, dear Mary," said Mrs. Morland, wip- 
 ing her own eyes ; " young people ought never to cry, 
 it makes them look such figures ; when people get 
 old, it does not matter, but nothing destroys beauty 
 like crying : tears and weeping sound all very fine 
 in poetry, but they do not do in real life." 
 
 Poor Mary's heart was too full to think about hei 
 looks, and her tears gushed forth like a torrent. 
 
 '* It will do me good," at length said she, growing 
 calmer ; " it always does me good to cry." 
 
 "Poor thing!" said Mrs. Morland ; "but you 
 really should not though ; and yet," added she, " you 
 do not know what interest I feel about you, and how 
 it has always made me love you, when I have seen, 
 as I often have done, that you had been crying." 
 
 "Well, it really is very foolish!" said Marj-; 
 "and crying, as you say, makes one look very ugly; 
 but I can't help it sometimes." 
 
 " Every heart has its own bitterness," said Mrs. 
 Morland cheerfully, and who, though she had been 
 crymg, had eyes again as bright as ever. 
 
 " Yes," returned Mary ; " that is true, but only in 
 degree ; few young hearts, I hope, have known as 
 much bitterness as mine has known of late years. 1 ] 
 am so dependent, you see," said she, feeling a sudden 
 willingness to pour out all her troubles into the 
 bosom of one who sympathised so kindly even with 
 her tears, " so very dependent," continued she, " I 
 cannot call even my clothes my own. My uncle ia 
 BO strange-tempered, so violent, so tyrannical, I may 
 
 D
 
 26 THE EXPERIENCES OF 
 
 say that it really prevents my loving him as 1 ought 
 to do," said she, with a deep sigh , *"' if he is out of 
 humour, he is always angry with me, and his way of 
 punishing me is to lock up my best clothes — for 
 months, sometimes, I have had only one dress, till I 
 feel so shabby that I cannot bear myself. He has 
 now taken my black silk and my mousseline-de-laine, 
 and I have nothing but this merino and my old 
 morning frock ; and if Mrs. Sopworth was to ask us 
 to go there, I have nothing to go in but this ! 1 
 cannot think how he can do so," said she ; " and, oh, 
 it is a dreadful thing to be so dependent as I am !" 
 
 " It is indeed," said Mrs. Morland. 
 
 "He once turned me out of doors," continued 
 Mary ; " I was very young then, and could not do 
 anything for myself; but if he were to do so again, 
 and I sometimes think he will, I never would return 
 to him : I would go out as servant, or teacher in a 
 school, and that I really do think of," said she. " And 
 don't ^■ou think, dear Mrs. Morland, that I might get 
 such a situation ; reading, and writing, and needle- 
 work, and geography, and all those common things, 
 and a little music, I could teach very well. There 
 was a Miss Smith in the school I went to, who was 
 not any more competent to teach than I am, and I do 
 think that Mrs. Harris, the lady who keeps this 
 school, would take me if it were not for a sort of 
 connection with my uncle — they think it would offend 
 liim; and therefore, though they are good sort of 
 people, they never take my part ; and in any situa- 
 tion that I might get," said she, " I would try to do 
 my best, — nobody knows how useful I should try to 
 make myself I"
 
 A GENTLE SPIRIT. 27 
 
 "I am sure you would !" said good Mrs. MorJand. 
 
 ** I'll tell you what I once did," said Mary 
 " though 1 never before told anybody else. I had 
 saved my money till I had four and sixpence ; I was 
 very unhappy, and I thought if I could get a situa- 
 tion as lady's maid, or to travel with a fanjily, or as 
 nursery governess, how good it would be ; so I put an 
 advertisement in the paper to that effect, but it never 
 was answered : I ought to have repeated it week 
 after week, but, oh dear, it takes such a deal of 
 money to advertise, and then my uncle got into good 
 humour again, and so I am here still." 
 
 " Have you lived long with your uncle ?" asked 
 Mrs. Moiland, anxious to know the particulars of 
 Mary's life. 
 
 " Ever since I was ten," returned she ; " nine long 
 years ! People talk about time being short," said 
 she ; " to me those nine years seem as an age ! I'll 
 tell you about my early youth, for that all seems like 
 a summer's day." 
 
 Mrs. Morland said, warmly, that she wished she 
 would ; she should like to know all about her ; and 
 Mary, smiling, yet sighing at the same time, began as 
 follows : — '' My mother was my uncle's sister : there 
 is still another uncle, but I shall tell you about him 
 afterwards ; my father was the master of the Gram- 
 mar School at Morton, in Devonshire ; I don't know 
 what the income was, but it must have been small, 
 for my mother kept no servant. There were two 
 children, and we were twins — my brother Edward 
 and I." 
 
 " Oh ! that, then, is Ned, of whom I have so often 
 heard you speak ?"
 
 28 THE EXPERIENCES OK 
 
 " Yes, dear Ned !" exclaimed Maiy with enthu- 
 siasm, for her afFeciion for her brother amounted to a 
 passion. " My earhest remembrance is of him," con- 
 tinued she ; " we slept in one cradle, we lived as it 
 were for one another, it seems to me in remembrance 
 as if he had his arm always round me. He was but 
 an hour or two older than me, but he might have 
 been years m}-^ elder, so much of a protector was he 
 always to me. I remember so well his carrying me 
 over wet places in the road, when we went out toge- 
 ther ; his scrambling up the banks to get flowers for 
 me, and his climbing trees for birds' nests and eggs 
 for me ; — oh, he was always so good and so very fond 
 of me ! 
 
 " Morton, where we lived, was but a small village ; 
 and the boys whom my father taught came from 
 neighbouring villages : they used to bring their 
 dinners with them, which they ate in the school- room, 
 and then, between morning and afternoon school, 
 they used to play. There were some very large 
 sycamore or lime-trees — I do not know which now, — 
 which grew around the school and the school-house 
 where we lived, and under these, in summer and in 
 dry weather, the boys used to play. Ned was a very 
 merry, active boy, and as fond of play as any of them ; 
 but, for all that, he never forgot me, but used to take 
 care that I had my share of fun as well as himself; or 
 if, as it often happened, I was poorly and could not 
 play, it never put him out of humour that he had to 
 sit beside me, or even sometimes nurse me, instead of 
 playing. He made all the boys as considerate of me 
 as he was himself; and when it was cold, always took 
 c&re that I had the warmest seat by the school-room
 
 A GENTLE SPIRIT. 29 
 
 fire. I remember his once beating a boy bigger than 
 himself, because he would not give me some cherries, 
 for which I wished, and which wore part of liis 
 dinner. Poor, dear Ned !" exclaimed she, with glis- 
 tening eyes, " there never was such a boy as he was ! 
 Then he was so strong, and active, and handsome, 
 whilst I was weak and delicate, for, as a child, I had 
 weak health. My mother was very delicate, too, 
 and was often poorly. My father was very fond of 
 her — lie was all to her that Ned was to me ; we 
 were, indeed, as you may think, very happy people. 
 My father was one of the most cheerful, hopeful- 
 tempered men in the world, and had a heart as kind 
 and gentle as a woman's. Ho was not one of those 
 people who are kind and amiable by fits and starts ; 
 he was always so : he was full of goodness and con- 
 sideration for others. He used to get up in a morning 
 before my mother, and make a fire for her, that she 
 might have a warm room to come to : he used to do 
 all the errands for her in the town, which was three 
 miles off, because it was too far for her to walk ; 
 and after teaching in the school all day, he walked 
 out with her on summer evenings, or worked in his 
 garden — for we had a lovely garden, and both my 
 father and mother were fond of flowers. He was a 
 famous cultivator of auriculas and hyacinths ; and 
 do^vn one side of the garden were sheds, in which 
 stood stages of those flowers in pots. I can so well 
 remember the garden, with its neat beds of pinks 
 and carnations, and eveiything in such trim order ! 
 Monthly roses, and a trumpet honeysuckle, grew up 
 the front of the house, which was very warm and 
 sunriy ; and one end was entirely covered witli ivy, 
 d2
 
 90 THE EXPERIENCES OP 
 
 quite up to the chimney. There were two little win- 
 dows which peeped out from the thick ivy at this end of 
 the house : the upper one was our bed- room window ; 
 the lower one was in the kitchen, by the fire, where 
 my Jather's arm-chair used to stand — for we were not 
 grand enough to live in the parlour, though we had 
 one. I remember so well that corner, for we children 
 had two stools beside my father's chair, on which we 
 used to mount to look out of this window, which 
 peeped out, as it seemed to us, from a yard's thickness 
 of ivy, and where the birds used to come for crumbs 
 in winter, and nestle all day in the ivy, because it 
 was so warm. How I should like to see that house 
 again !" exclaimed she, interrupting herself ; " and if 
 Ned and I ever come to be rich enough to afford it, we 
 will go there and see the dear old place, as well as two 
 good old relations that we have there, of wliom I 
 shall tell you. But to go on — we were, as you may 
 believe, very happy. The country all round the 
 village was pretty, and the people themselves were 
 so friendly ; the fanners and their wives, and the 
 Clergyman and his sister — they and the squire's 
 family were the only gentry in the village — and they, 
 like all the rest, were very kind to us, and came often 
 to look at my father's flowers, and to see my mother, 
 when she became ill. 
 
 *' My father's uncle lived in the village ; he was 
 the old relation of whom I just now spoke ; he had, 
 I believe, a little independent property, and he and 
 his neat, little old wife, lived very comfortably, 
 although, like us, they kept no servant. He was 
 very fond of music, and from him I had my first 
 lessons. He and the old organist of the church never
 
 A GENTLE SPIRIT. JHL 
 
 could agree — I don't know why ; but my uncle, Mr. 
 Fielding, as he was always called, used always to 
 shake his head when he heard the organist spoken of. 
 I suppose there might be some rivalry between them, 
 but of that I knew nothing; nor do I, indeed, remem- 
 ber who the organist was. 
 
 " My mother sang very well — beautifully, as it 
 seemed to us children ; and I never shall forget the 
 pleasant evenings we used to spend at my great uncle's. 
 We used to be invited to make these visits, just as 
 ceremoniously as if we had been grand gentlefolks, 
 and we had always, I don't know why, our best things 
 put on to go in. My father, too, used to put a rose, 
 or whatever flower was in season, in his button-hole, 
 just as lie did when he went to church and carried a 
 nosegay with him, in his hand, for the old lady. My 
 mother used to take my father's arm, and we two 
 children, washed as clean as soap and water could 
 make us, and with our hair smoothly combed and 
 brushed, walked before them, hand in hand, exactly 
 as we used to walk to church on Sundays. There 
 was a something very ceremonial in these visits, and 
 yet they were always occasions of rejoicing. We 
 always went on Thursdays or Saturdays, because they 
 were half-holidays, and we were invited to tea at four 
 o'clock, because they were very old-fashioned people ; 
 thus it was always, both winter and summer, daylight 
 when we went ; and when our neighbours saw us thus 
 walking up the village — for my uncle lived quite at 
 the other end — they used to say, as they met or passed 
 us, ' So you are going to Mr. Fielding's to tea ?' 
 
 " We always had hot pikelets, well buttered, to 
 tea. The old lady used to begin baking them as soon
 
 32 THE EXPERIENCES OF 
 
 as we entered the house ; and when we children had 
 eaten what my mother thought v.-as quite enough, 
 she used to say, ' No more, not a bit more, children !' 
 And then the old lady would say, ' Poor things ! they 
 don't get hot pikelets to tea every day !' And then 
 she put two bits on each of our plates, smoking hot, 
 and swimming in butter, and winked at us, as if to 
 say, 'Now get them eaten, children, before your 
 mother sees it !' And so it was always, and precisely 
 the same ceremony and the same words were repeated, 
 with the little thick squares of seed-cake, which were 
 handed to us at parting. ' Get it eaten, children,' 
 she would say, ' before your mother sees it — or put it 
 in your pockets ; for I '11 warrant me you '11 be glad 
 enough of a bit of seed-cake to-morrow !' At wliich, 
 of course, our mother and the old aunt smiled at one 
 another. They were dear old people, those !" said 
 she, luxuriating in the pleasant memory of those past 
 years — '' and they must have been rather well to do 
 for their station, for they lived so comfortably : and in 
 winter-time, never let us come away without a cup 
 of warm elderberry wine. After tea, my uncle seated 
 himself at his grand piano — a most costly and splendid 
 instrument, which almost seemed out of its place in 
 60 poor a house — and played for an hour or two ; he 
 had very great knowledge of music, and must have 
 played remarkably well. I can remember even now 
 what he used to play ; both Beethoven and Mozart 
 were favourites with him. He must have spent a 
 deal of money in music, for he had a great deal ; and 
 one of the perpetual subjects of complaint with him 
 was, that people sent to him from far and wide to 
 borrow music, and that he had great trouble in getting
 
 A GKNTLB SPCKIT. 33 
 
 !t back, and even when he did, it was returned to 
 him dirty. He was very clean and precise himself^ 
 and liis wife was just the same. There was a green 
 baize cover kept over the piano ; and lie never closed 
 it, after playing, without carefully wiping the keys 
 with a clean silk pocket-liandkerchief. 
 
 '' I learned to play a little from him, and he always 
 maintained that 1 had great talent for music. My 
 uncle Crawley is fond of music, too, and I must 
 acknowledge that he took care tiiat I should not lose 
 that which I had already learned. But to proceed 
 with my history. As a child, you may believe that I 
 was very happy. Home, with father and mother, and 
 loving brothers and sisters, how blessed it is ! and our 
 home was like a heaven en earth. I remember no 
 such thing as disunion ; there was neither unkindness 
 nor hardship. Summer and winter, morning and 
 evening, all had their duties and their pleasures. 
 
 *" One of the most mysterious ordinations of Pro- 
 vidence," said she, after a pause, " is the breaking up 
 of households like ours ! Slowly, as I can now 
 remember, did the health of my mother give way. 
 At iirst, my father drove her over to the town in a 
 taxed-cart, which he borrowed for the occasion, to 
 consult the physician ; and then we children were 
 sent to our uncle Fielding's, where the two good old 
 people never failed to treat us — we little knew why 
 — with more than their usual kindness. After a while, 
 however, our poor mother became too ill to go to the 
 doctor's ; he, therefore, came now and then to see her. 
 We liked at first to see his handsome chaise drive up 
 to the door, and thought that we should never be 
 tired of admiring the well-harnessed horse, and the
 
 34 THE EXPERIENCES OF 
 
 briarht box-axled wheels. By degrees, however, a 
 fearful sort of apprehension mingled itself with the 
 doctor's visits ; our mother lay in bed, and our father 
 looked thoughtful and unhappy. He was more than 
 ordinarily kind to us, nevertheless ; but he told us 
 not now merry stories, as he used to do ; he wept 
 passionately over us, and we saw him weeping, too, 
 in the garden, where he walked to and fro apparently 
 unregardful of his favourite flowers, though it was 
 then the time of the auriculas. 
 
 " It is a dreadful thing, dear Mrs. Morland," said 
 Mary, " when sorrow first takes hold on the heart of 
 a child ! Long and bitter sorrow have I certainly 
 known since then, but nothing equal to the agony 
 that weighed down my heart, when my father took us 
 to the bedside of our mother, and told us that she 
 was dead ! We had taken leave of her the night 
 before. There was something very solemn in that 
 leave-taking. The Clergyman was there, and the 
 doctor, too, and our old aunt Fielding, who had come 
 up for us. She had cried, but we did not ; for she had 
 promised us seed-cake and gingerbi-ead ; and we never 
 thought but that we should see our mother again 
 on the morrow, and that she would then, perhaps, be 
 better." 
 
 Mary paused here. She v/ept at the remembrance 
 of that last leave-taking. Mrs. Morland wept, too ; 
 and it was not till after a pause of a few minutes that 
 she continued. 
 
 " We were nearly nine years old when our mother 
 died. It was fine summer weather ; the garden wag 
 full of roses and all kinds of flowers ; bees were hum- 
 ming in the thick-leaved lime-trees that shaded the
 
 A GENTLE SPIRIT* Pb 
 
 lAJPool-house door; everything looked cheerful excep^ 
 ing our father. And yet he went on with his teaching 
 just as usual ; he worked again in his garden, he 
 walked out with us, and took us to church just aa 
 when our mother was alive, — the only difference w^as, 
 that now, instead of our walking before him and our 
 mother, he took one of us in each hand. A decent kind 
 woman lived with us in the house ; the clergyman 
 and his sister came often to see us, and we went again, 
 as usual, to visit the old grand-uncle and aunt. Our 
 father was a good man ; he must, indeed, have been a 
 pious, good ciiristian, to have borne his loss as he did. 
 
 " \Vii children, after our first grief, were certainly 
 not unhappy, for everybody was kinder to us than 
 ever ; the squire's lady, herself, sent for us now and 
 then to the hall ; we were rather frightened at these 
 visits, and never felt quite at ease till our father came 
 in the evening to fetch us home. I remember won- 
 dering at him as I saw him sitting quite unembarrassed 
 with her, in her handsome room, while she said all 
 kind of friendly things to him, more especially about 
 us. Not a week passed without some farmer's wife 
 or other sending us a present — a goose, a couple of 
 fowls, a pork pie, or ham, or something or other nice 
 or useful ; for, after all, there is a deal of goodness in 
 the world ! " 
 
 ''That there is !" responded Mrs. Morland ; "a very- 
 great deal !" 
 
 " And especially in a simple country-place like 
 Morton," continued Mary, "the kindness of people is 
 unknown ! But I am making a long story," said she, 
 *'• and if I tire you, you must tell me." 
 
 " lire uic !" repeated Mrs Morland, " impossible^ 
 pray go on."
 
 36 THE EXPERIENCES OP 
 
 Mary, therefore, proceeded : — " About a year and 
 half after our mother's death, in the winter -time, 
 there were great floods, — the river which runs 
 between Morton and the town overflowed its banks 
 — it rose suddenly in one afternoon. It was just at 
 the end of the Christmas holidays, and we children 
 were sent for a day to our uncle Fielding's, while our 
 father went to the town, to buy quills, and such sta- 
 tionary as he required to begin again his school-keep- 
 ing with. He said he should be back about six 
 o'clock, and was to call for us as he passed the house 
 on his way home. I remember, so well, how the old 
 lady had got supper ready — there was pork-pie, and 
 mince-pie, and there was to be mulled ale for my 
 father, who, she thought, would be cold after his 
 walk, and we children, she said, should have a drop, 
 too, to keep the cold out, before we went home. 
 Supper waited — and waited — and one half-hour went 
 on after another, and he came not ; and first we had a 
 mince -pie divided, to still our hunger, as she said, 
 and now a whole one given to us, to keep us awake, 
 for eight o'clock came, and now nine, and our father 
 was not returned. At last, somebody came in, and 
 said that the waters were out, and that nobody could 
 pass the ferry ; it was imagined, therefore, that our 
 father had staid in the town all night, and would 
 return in the morning, by the bridge, and the turn- 
 pike road, which was four miles round, but — ." 
 Mary could say no more; she covered her face with 
 both her hands, and sobbed violently. 
 
 " He was lost in the waters, which, unhappily, he 
 had attempted to cross," continued she, after some 
 time ; *'the ferryman saved himself; but he was lost.
 
 A GENTLE SPIRIT. 3? 
 
 They wanted him to stay in the town, for the night 
 had set in wild and stormy, but he would not, for, he 
 said, he must return to his poor motherless children. 
 
 " Oh, it was terrible !" said Mrs. Morland, wiping 
 her eyes, in the pause which Mary had again made ; 
 and then handing the plate of bride-cake to her, she 
 eaid, " eat a little morsel dear, and let me give you a 
 glass of wine." 
 
 How kind I will be to the poor girl ! thought she, 
 with a heart brimful of kindness, as she went to the 
 sideboard for the wine. Mary took the cake, but did 
 not eat it, and tears chased one another down her 
 cheeks, as she sat for some minutes in deep and 
 thoughtful silence. 
 
 " We were thus orphans," at length continued she, 
 " and there was not a house in the village but was 
 open to us. My poor mother's two brothers, our 
 nearest relations, were sent for ; the one, my uncle 
 Joseph, with whom I live, and the other, who had 
 been far less successful in life, a saddler in Exeter, 
 and who had a large family of his own. The clergy- 
 man and the squire's lady took the most lively 
 interest about us ; Mr. and Mrs. Fielding, the goor. 
 old uncle and aunt, proposed at first to take me 
 they, however, were old people, although^ I believe, 
 still living ; and to obviate the necessity of another 
 change for me, or to secure, as it was thought, a richer 
 home, and better prospects in life, the clergyman, and 
 all the rest adopted, with great apparent satisfaction, 
 the after-proposal of my uncle Thomas, the saddler, 
 that they two brothers should each adopt one of us. 
 Nothing, on his part, could have been more generous ; 
 he liad, as I said, a large family, ana was not rick.
 
 38 THE EXPERIENCES OP 
 
 My uncle Joseph gave, I know not why, the prefer- 
 ence to me, and he being a bachelor, and wealthy, I 
 was considered the most fortunate. My uncle Joseph, 
 who knows how to be gentlemanly, and how to appeal 
 amiable, won the good opinion of everybody ; he was 
 invited to dine both at the clergyman's and the squire's, 
 whilst everybody thought much less of the other 
 brother. He was a plain, homely man, and rather 
 blunt in his manners, and preferred staying, the few 
 4ays he remained in Morton, at our old relations', 
 even to winning golden opinions from the villagt 
 grandees. Edward and I, as you will readily believe, 
 were heart-broken at parting ; my uncle, the saddler, 
 gave me sixpence not to cry, and my uncle JosepK 
 gave poor Ned half-a-crown for the same purpose , 
 but we cried nevertheless. Affection is deeply rooted 
 even in the heart of a child ; and we had been too 
 much brought up in love not to feel how dear, not to 
 say needful, we were to each other. 
 
 " I came here ; everything was very different to 
 what I had been used to ; the town was large, and 
 the house was large. My uncle was then in business ; 
 he had several young men and apprentices; there was 
 no female in the house but the housekeeper and one 
 maid -servant; the housekeeper was a coarse, vulgar 
 woman, without education, but who had unbounded 
 influence over my uncle ; she did not, however, hold 
 apparently any situation in the family but that of a 
 menial, and the house had all that forlorn, cheferlesa 
 character, which the want of a female ruler always 
 gives. It would, indeed, have been a very Avretched, 
 not to say unlit home for a young girl, had it not been 
 for one circumstance. For many years my uncle had
 
 A GENTLE SPIRIT. 39 
 
 been supposed to have matrimonial intentions towards 
 a most excellent young lady, — though young, indeed, 
 she then was not, — who, with her mother and sister, 
 kept, and yet' keep, a school. She had, it was said, 
 refused better offers out of regard to him, and in tho 
 belief that he certainly would fulfil his engagement 
 with her. But year after year went on, and he still 
 paid, if less warm, at least not less constant attentions; 
 but, unquestionably, his matrimonial wishes grew 
 fainter and fainter, whilst she, with the unwavering, 
 unwearying, constancy of a woman, loved him as tri^Ly 
 as ever. To her care I was confided as a day-boarder ; 
 and, for his sake, if not from real affection to me, she 
 performed her part, as teacher, most religiously. She 
 was an accomplished woman, and taught me all she 
 knew with an affectionate zeal, which soon made it a 
 pleasure for me to learn. She thought, poor thing ! 
 to show her affection to my uncle by her attention to 
 me ; and, in proportion as she enabled me to be use- 
 ful — no't to say ornamental — in his house, she lessened 
 the necessity which my uncle had once felt, or had 
 imagined he felt, of a gentlewoman to sit at the head 
 of his table, and of some one to play and sing to him, 
 when in good humour, and to tease and tyrannioe 
 over when in bad. 
 
 - '' Often in my troubles, when, what appears to 
 rae, the disreputable conduct of tlie liousekeeper, — 
 who is now our sole domestic, — and my uncle's 
 violent temper, have almost driven me distracted, I 
 have thought of flying to this lady, and taking refuge 
 with her ; but calmer reflection, and some little 
 experience, has taught me that that will never do. 
 Much as she and her family like me, they would not
 
 10 THE EXPERIENCES OF 
 
 run the risk of displeasing my uncle, by taking ms 
 under their protection in defiance of him ; or even by 
 letting him suspect that they listen to my complaints. 
 Poor Susan Harris still cherishes the hope of being his 
 wife ; he visits there at least once in the week ; and it is 
 really pitiable to me, to see what an idol he is made 
 among them ; how he is flattered and courted by 
 them ; all the more, as he is cool and worldly ! God 
 knows ! but with all their efforts to win him, it is my 
 opinion they will never succeed, though he himself 
 will still keep up hope, because, to say the least, it 
 still keeps him connected with a respectable family." 
 
 "And your brother?" asked Mrs. Morland, "hove 
 did he go on V 
 
 " Yes, poor dear Ned," returned Mary, with spark- 
 ling eyes ; " it is my greatest joy to think that he is 
 born to be fortunate. Something or other good 
 always turns up for Ned ; he himself has often 
 said, that his bread never falls to the ground on the 
 buttered side. My uncle Thomas did his duty by 
 him most faithfully. He lived hardly, of course, as 
 the adopted son of a poor tradesman must live ; 
 but he was sent to school, and made the best of his 
 opportunities. My aunt was a somewhat severe 
 woman, a rigid Calvinist, and had very strict notions 
 of duty both to God and man ; she made Ned, how- 
 ever, as hap{)y as she made any of her own children, 
 for she was strictly conscientious, and had great com- 
 passion on the poor orphan. Fortunately, Ned was a 
 boy of strong health, and of strong moral constitution 
 likewise, and therefore he made the best even of 
 trouble and hardship ; and amid all kind of kicks and 
 cuffs, both morally and physically, grew up a fine,
 
 A GENTLE SPIRIT. 41 
 
 handsome, and, what is far better, a thoroughly good- 
 principled and warm-hearted youth. My })oor uncle 
 Thomas, however, whose one fault was good-nature, 
 unfortunately had given his bond for his wife's bro- 
 ther to the amount of five hundred pounds — and this 
 he was called upon to pay. For iiim, it was a 
 monstrous sum. He had not five hundred pounds in 
 the world ; my uncle Joseph refused to assist him ; so, 
 all that he had was sold up, and, with seven children, 
 to say nothing of Ned, he was made a penniless 
 bankrupt. It was a most sorrowful thing ! All that 
 my uncle Joseph would do was to take my brother 
 till something could be decided upon for him. Ned 
 came here — but before I tell you about him, I will 
 finish the history of my good uncle Thomas. His 
 children, fortunately, were some of them grown up. 
 They were good steady young people, and found no 
 difficnlty in getting situations. Some of them were 
 able not only to help themselves, but had every pro- 
 spect of being able to help their family also. Some- 
 body advanced a little money for the father, and he 
 again began business ; but the true help came from 
 the eldest daughter, Hannah. She was, according to 
 Ned's account, one of the most excellent of God's 
 creatures ; not pretty, not accomplished of course, but 
 a bright, cheerful-spirited girl, with a ready hand and 
 a ready will, and a heart overflowing with kindness. 
 She went to live as housekeeper with a lady, the 
 widow of a respectable tradesman in Portsmouth ; 
 before long the son, a man worthy of her, as his after- 
 conduct proved, fell in love with her. He was about 
 emigi-ating to America, and not only took this young 
 girl with him as his wife, but her whole fiunily also.
 
 42 THE EXPERIENCES OF 
 
 They were people, all of them, cut out for emigration j 
 they knew what hardship was, and they possessed the 
 best of all power — the power to help themselves. 
 They were not too proud to work either, and could 
 turn their hand to anything ; and the result has been 
 happier than might even have been imagined. The 
 sons and daughters are all well married, and the old 
 people live like patriarchs amid peace and plenty. 
 The mother, too, of Hannah's husband followed them 
 in a few years ; and we have been told, by people who 
 have seen them, tkat the old lady lives, as it were, in 
 the bosom of felicity ; and whether she is proudest of 
 her son, or his wife, or her grandchildren, it is impos- 
 sible to say. 
 
 " But this," said Mary Wheeler, " is bringing 
 things down to the present day ; I must return back 
 to the time when dear Ned came here, and when I 
 saw him last." With these words she took up her 
 little black silk bag, and drew from it a small bronzed 
 profile likeness of a youth. It was a common kind 
 of thing, glazed in a cheap black wooden frame, but 
 for all that, she gazed on it with intense affection. 
 
 " This is a likeness of Ned," said she ; " I brought 
 it on purpose to show you, though I never thought 
 of giving you this long history of myself. He is very 
 nice-looking, is he not V said she, showing it to Mi-s. 
 Morland ; "only this does not do him half justice." 
 
 " It is a beautiful manly face," said her friend, " a 
 splendid face ; and a deal like you, too !" 
 
 " Oh, do you really think so ?" said poor Mary, 
 more flattered than ever she had been in her life be- 
 fore ; " if I thought that I were at all like Ned, I 
 should have a very good opinion of myself; but Ned'i
 
 A GENTLE SPIRIT. 43 
 
 eyes are so fine ! — he has never cried so itjucIi as 1 
 have done," said she, smiling ; ''and then lie has such 
 a lovely mouth — and there is so much in a mouth ! 
 and his teeth are so white and regular, that reall}'' it 
 is quite a happiness to see him smile. Then he is 
 such a gv>od figure, too — tall and straight ; though he 
 was but a boy when he went !" 
 
 " He hcts the shoulders of a well-made, fine youth," 
 said dear jNlrs. Morland, again taking up the likeness; 
 "and I don't wonder at your being proud of such a 
 brother." 
 
 " But his face and figure," said Mary, " are nothing 
 to his good disposition and his cleverness — you can't 
 think how clever he is ! he talks so well, and is so 
 witty and merry ; and then he has such good sense 
 and kindness ! I don't know how it is," said she, 
 " but I do not think there is another such boy as Ned 
 in the whole world ! My uncle said, at first, that he 
 was to be a draper, and help him in his wholesale 
 business, for he then had given up his shop. 1 wished 
 this at first, but Ned could not bear it; he wanted to 
 go abroad somewhere ; and so, after a deal of per- 
 suasion and trouble, my uncle consented to his being 
 apprenticed to an East Jndiaman. It really was very 
 good of him to consent, and I cannot tell you how 
 grateful these things make me feel. I would love 
 him, I would be all that a daughter could be to him, 
 if he would only in some respectsT^e^ifferent to what 
 he is! But to return to Ned. He has made one 
 voyage, and was in London for two weeks last spring; 
 but alas ! my uncle would not pay the expenses of 
 his journey here, so I did not see him. I would havo 
 walked to London if I could ; neither had he any
 
 44 THE EXPERIENCES OP 
 
 money — at least hardly any. He wrote to me, and 
 some day I must show you his letters, for they are 
 very interesting ; and he sent me from London this 
 likeness of himself — it is but a common thing — but it 
 cost hal.f-a-crown, and that was, he said, all the money 
 he could spare : he sent it by your husband, Mr. 
 Morland, with whom he accidentally met, and who 
 said he was travelling this way, and knew my uncle. 
 Next autumn, the ship will again return to England, 
 and my uncle has promised me that he shall come 
 down here. I hope he will keep his word — if he do 
 not, I think I really cannot bear it ! It is the only 
 pleasure I have to look forward to ; and I would 
 forgive my uncle any treatment of myself, so that he 
 will only gratify me in this one respect, and more 
 especially as Ned prays ibr it as ardently as I do. 
 You should have seen the beautiful letter he wrote 
 to my uncle to ask the fovour from him last time ; I 
 thought he never could have withstood it : but he 
 did ! Ned sent another letter for him before he left 
 England ; he told me to read it before I gave it to 
 him, and I never cried so much over anything in all 
 my life as over it. Jt was enough to touch a heart 
 of stone ; but for all that, I dared not give it to him. 
 I knew my uncle better than Ned did ; and 1 feared 
 that it would have made him so angry that he never 
 would have forgiven him ; so I burned the letter, 
 and have only endeavoured, by submission and obe- 
 dience, to deserve from him this one greatest of all 
 favours, when Ned returns next year, wliich, after 
 all, though it is more for me than all the world, is so 
 very little for him to do." 
 
 She clasped her hands, and looked quite pale as she
 
 A OENTLE SPIRIT. 4fl 
 
 Bpoke, 80 greatly was she aflfected by this doep wish 
 of her most affectionate heart. 
 
 " He'll let him come ! Never fear, he will !" said 
 Mrs. M orland ; " he never can have the heart to 
 refuse you ; I am sure he never can ! " 
 
 Mary felt a good omen in the cheerful assurance 
 with which her friend spoke, and began herself to 
 think, too, that her uncle never could refuse her 
 again; so they talked together, just as if they had 
 been old friends, of next September, when Ned would 
 be here ; and of all the little parties and excursions 
 which Mrs. Morland would bring about to give him 
 pleasure. So talked and planned they ; and at ten 
 o'clock, after they had both of them thoroughly 
 enjoyed the supper of sandwiches and bridecake, 
 Mary took her leave, and Mrs. Morland sate down 
 again to wait for her husband's return, thinking to 
 herself that she had rarely seen a girl who had pleased 
 and interested her more than Mary Wheeler; and 
 remembering that she herself had never ail this time 
 said one word about Mr. Mark Sopworth, as she had 
 intended to have done. 
 
 CHAPTER IV, 
 
 A MERRY CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 Christmas approached, and the visit to the Sop- 
 "vorths of Sommerton began again to be talked of. 
 The old gentleman was better of his rheumatism ; 
 there would be a full moon at Christmas ; and if the 
 weather were but seasonable, as every one predicted
 
 46 A MERRY CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 it would be, nothing could be more charming. It 
 was no surprise, therefore, to Mrs. Morland, when 
 Miss Sopworth came in one morning with a magnifi- 
 cent country-made pork-pie in a basket, and her 
 mother's compliments, and begged that, if Mr. and 
 Mrs. Morland were not otherwise engaged, they 
 might have the pleasure of seeing them to meet a 
 party at their house on Christmas day. Mrs. Mor- 
 land answered, both for herself and her husband, 
 " Nothing iu this world," she said, '' would give them 
 greater pleasure ; and there was no fear whatever 
 but they would come." 
 
 In the course of the day, Mary AFheeler came in 
 also. She, too, had an invitation ; and the animation 
 with which she talked of this approaching pleasure, 
 made her still lovelier than ever. Siie was in ex- 
 tremely good spirits that day, and all the world 
 seemed to wear a cheerful aspect. Her uncle was 
 no longer out of humour ; she had not only received 
 again the key of her wardrobe, but the promise of a 
 new dress for Christmas. She had been used^ at 
 least of late years, to so little kindness and indul- 
 gence, that a very little of either made her heart beat 
 with a pulse, quicker and stronger than even Youth 
 itself: — pity is it, that hearts such as hers, should 
 have to bear and suffer 1 But God ordains it all ; and 
 the sustaining angel of His consolation steps in, sooner 
 or later, to turn aside the bitter cup, and to mete out 
 good instead of evil; so we will not trouble ourselves. 
 
 Mary an ound netting-silk for a purse, which, before 
 his return, she meant to make for her brother, and 
 talked all the while about the party which would 
 assemble on Christmas day at Sommerton. She said
 
 A MERRY CHRISTMAS DAY. 4? 
 
 that there would be all the Sopworth family, 
 married and single, and that they were numerous. 
 There was the son, who was a brewer, and the 
 daughter, who was married to a rich farmer, and 
 who had many children ; and there was the youngest 
 Bon, who was apprentice to a surgeon, to say no- 
 thing of Mr. Mark, and his sister, Lizzy. Then 
 there would be the Barkers, she said ; for though 
 Mrs. Morland did not know the Barkers, the 
 Sopworths did, and were very intimate, too. She, 
 herself, did not like them, nor the Pocklingtons 
 either, who would be there also. The Pocklingtons, 
 she said, were farmers in a village equally distant 
 from W — as Sommerton. They lived on their 
 own farm, and were rich. Mrs. Barker was the 
 eldest daughter ; and, beside her, there were two 
 others, Susan and Barbara. Barbara was reckoned 
 handsome ; Lizzy Sopworth thought her so, and 
 they too were very great friends ; some people said, 
 that both families wished there to be a match be- 
 tween Barbara and Mr. Mark Sopworth : she did not, 
 however, know anything really about it — only Bar- 
 bara and she never were good friends, even when they 
 went to school at Miss Harris's together. She should 
 be very glad, she said, to know what Mrs. Morland 
 thought of the Pocklingtons, and especially of Barbara. 
 
 Mrs. Morland thought to herself that she could 
 very well understand, now, why Mary A\'heeler dis- 
 liked Barbara Pocklington, however it might be 
 with them when they were school-girls ; and she 
 resolved, on Christmas day, to observe very narrowly 
 Mr. Mark's behaviour to these two young ladies. 
 
 Fortunately, a moderately deep snow fell in the
 
 4b A MERRY CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 week before Christmas ; strong frost set in at the 
 dame time, and there was no doubt in anybody's 
 mind of the moon sliining through unclouded skies 
 through all the Christmas week. It was the very 
 weather for the season ; the carol-singers went of an 
 evening from house to house, singing, in their plea- 
 sant child voices, those melodies, half hymn and half 
 legend, which are only too much passing away from 
 our popular literature. Mary Wheeler sate with a 
 working dressmaker, busied in preparing her new 
 morone-coloured frock, and could not resist giving to 
 the little carol-singers, in the cheerfulness of her 
 heart, twopence-halfpenny, which was all the money 
 she had in the world. 
 
 The frock was finished, and fitted admirably, and 
 Mrs. Morland said, as she declared everybody else 
 would say, that it was precisely the colour Mary 
 ought to wear, and that she never looked so well 
 before in all her life. Greatly pleased Avas the poor 
 girl, as was natural, at the idea of looking so well, 
 more particularly as she was to appear in the presence 
 of Barbara Pocklington. 
 
 Sommerton lay between three and four miles from 
 W — , on one of the pleasantest turnpike-roads in 
 England. What then could be more charming, 
 thought Mr. and Mrs. IVIorland, than to walk there 
 over the 'hard-trodden, yet crisp snow, with the 
 bright sunshiny winter heaven above them. Mr. 
 Crawley was to have driven his niece over in his gig; 
 but as the Morlands walked, of course, she would 
 prefer walking too ; so her uncle, in the best temper 
 in the world, said, that he would take young Sop- 
 worth, the doctor's apprentice, instead. It was all
 
 A JfKRRY CHRISTMAS DAY. 49 
 
 capitally managed, and at eleven o'clock, just as the 
 bells left off ringing for church, the liule walking- 
 party set out, early enough ; but as they walked they 
 wished to be in time for a rest before dinner, which 
 was to be at two. 
 
 Everything had a holiday-look inSommerton as they 
 entered ; church-service was over, and every house 
 they passed had its windows garnished with holly, 
 whilst savoury odours of Christmas dinners, to which 
 even cottagers were going to sit down — for the squire 
 had given even the poorest a handsome joint for the 
 day, — met them at every turn. They walked on- 
 ward through the village, hungry and happy. The 
 clipped yews and hollies in the formal little garden 
 before the Sop worths' house, looked wonderfully 
 spruce in their winter greenness, amid the general 
 snowy covering, as if they had been trimmed up for 
 the occasion. The last half-mile of the way had 
 been over the fields, and therefore, when they arrived 
 at the house, they saw that the guests had mostly 
 assembled : the Barkers' fly, and the Pocklingtons' 
 gig, and flight-green market-cart, stood in the farm- 
 yard ; and even at that very moment, Mr. Crawley 
 drove up ! They were certainly late ! 
 
 Before they reached the garden-gate, somebody, 
 who had seen them coming, had given intimation 
 thereof; the house-door opened, and Mr. Mark 
 Sopworth, without his hat, scampered down the 
 garden-alley to open the little gate for them. The 
 lower windows of the house were filled with faces, 
 young and old, all smiling a welcome ; old Mr. Sop- 
 worth hobbling on his sticks, for, after all, his rhcu- 
 matigm was not quite gone, came outside the door to 
 F
 
 60 A MERRY CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 meet them ; while the mistress of the house, dressed 
 in lilac bombazine, and a cap trimmed with green 
 gauze, was heard, even before she was seen, with wel- 
 comes, and upbraidings for their lateness, intermixed. 
 
 They were the last arrivals, and great was the 
 ceremony of introduction. Mrs. Morland, who con- 
 sidered herself the chaperone of Mary AVheeler, had 
 no little pleasure in her good looks ; her dress un- 
 questionably became her, it was new and pretty; and, 
 to say nothing of the influence of her good, not to 
 sny happy, spirits that day, the walk in the fresli air 
 had given a glow to her cheek, and a brightness to 
 her eye, that made her really lovely. At the first 
 glance, Mrs. Morland preferred her infinitely to 
 Barbara Pocklington. Nor was Mrs. Morland alone 
 in her admiration ; , there was a vacant chair by Bar- 
 bara Pocklington, where, no doubt, Mark had been 
 sitting before their arrival ; but, though it was left 
 vacant, still he did not take it, but stood leaning 
 with his elbow on the chimney-piece, pretending to 
 talk to Mr. Morland, but, with an eye of undisguised 
 delight, glancing continually at Mary, who was seated 
 on a sofa between two elderly ladies, listening to a 
 long history of somebody, who had the day before 
 fallen sick of a quinsey. 
 
 Dinner, however, was announced ; and as all things 
 were done with perfect propriety that day at the 
 Sopworths', each gentleman took in a lady, and Mrs. 
 Morland had the great pleasure of seeing ]\Ir. Mark 
 start forward to her protegee^ leaving the stout and 
 dashing-looking Barbara Pocklington to his younger 
 brother. 
 
 We are not going to describe the dinner, though
 
 A MERRY CHRIST3IAS DAY. 51 
 
 there is no doubt whatever but that the Sepworths* 
 Christmas dinner miglit have served as a model for all 
 Christmas dinners whatever, that were destined to 
 come after it. It was, indeed, a capital dinner! and 
 the wonder was, how people, ^after they had eaten 
 and drank so much, could ever think of eating again, 
 at least for fuur-and-twenty hours ; spite of which, 
 however, both Mr. Sopworth and his wife did nothing 
 but protest all the dinner-time, that nobody ate any- 
 thing ; that they feared their friends did not enjoy 
 their dinner; that they wished it had been better; 
 but that, such as it was, they were heartily welcome, 
 as they only wished people would show that they 
 felt! Amid all the eating and drinking, and the 
 pressing to eat more, and the protesting that indeed 
 they had quite done — that they had never eaten such 
 a dinner before in all their lives — and after Mrs. 
 Pocklington had declared that she must have the 
 receipt for the forced-meat balls, which encircled, like 
 a string of precious stones, tlie dibh of roast turkey ; 
 and after Mrs. Morland had begged for the receipt for 
 mince-pies, the dinner came to a close. The gentle- 
 men walked out, and the ladies sat and chatted, and 
 talked of the rest of the company, which was 
 expected to come in for tea. 
 
 When the gentlemen came back to the house, the 
 shutters were all closed, even though, by this means, 
 the full moon was excluded. If, however, the glo- 
 rious Christmas moonlight was concealed from within, 
 other objects, if less poetical, of an extremely agree- 
 able kind, began to present themselves. The plenti- 
 ful tea-table was spread, candles were lighted, and 
 every polished leaf of holly on mantel- piece and in 
 window, shone lustrously.
 
 52 A MERRY CHRISTMAS DAY- 
 
 Never did anything look so cheei-ful and inspiriting 
 as the great kitclien, as it was called, and where 
 they had just dined, witli its large dresser filled with 
 shining pewter-ware, and all decorated with holly 
 and ivy twigs ; its large pendent kissing bush which 
 swung from the ceiling ; its chairs ranged all round, 
 side by side ; its table cleared away, leaving ample 
 space for dance or merry games, and suggestive of 
 these things at the same time ; to say nothing of the 
 young gills laughing merrily, and walking about arm- 
 in-arm, as if, when seen in connection with the 
 swinging mistletoe, to bring tempting thoughts of 
 kisses stolen from rosy lips, or from round and blushing 
 cheeks, to the mind. So looked everytliing when the 
 door opened, in answer to the loud laughter and 
 talking of the returning gentlemen, and there, actu- 
 ally, as Mrs. Morland came to the parlour-door, which 
 opened into the great kitchen, what should she see, 
 but Barbara Pocklington and Mary Wheeler walking 
 arm-in-arm up and down, as if there were no such 
 things as gentlemen in this world, and as if rivalry, 
 and least of all rivalry in love, was the last thing 
 that could agitate their hearts ! 
 
 The gentlemen were heard talking and laughing as 
 they approached the house ; they seemed to taks the 
 door by storm, and entered quite tumultuously. Mary 
 and Barbara walked oh still, as if such wild animals 
 as these were quite below their notice ; when, behold I 
 just as if by the merest accident in this world, they 
 passed under the mistletoe; and at that very moment, 
 an arm of Mark Sopworth, who had stolen behind 
 unperceived, was clasped round the waist of each, 
 and the audacious young man kissed the cheeks of 
 both girls.
 
 A MERRY CHRISTMAS PAY. 53 
 
 " Oh, for shame !" exclaimed both, starting sud- 
 denly away. 
 
 " Bravo, Mark 1" said half-a-dozen voices-; and then 
 a company of young girls, who had been invited for 
 the evening, came in with their mothers, bonneted 
 and cloaked ; and before they were aware of where 
 they were, or what was going on, all found themselves 
 under the mistletoe, and declared, every one of them, 
 " that they never could have thought of such a thing 
 ' — that they never were so surprised before in all their 
 lives; and that, really, the gentlemen ought to be 
 ashamed of themselves !" 
 
 There was such a clamour of tongues, and such 
 shrieks and laughter, as never were heard in any great 
 kitchen before, since great kitchens were built ! It 
 was a long time before this Babel subdued itself 
 sufficiently to render audible old Mrs. Sopworth's 
 voice, which kept uttering, '' Do, gentlemen, walk in 
 to tea ! Do, ladies, walk into the parlour and find 
 seats !" At last, however, one heard, and then 
 another, and presently the comfurtable carpeted par- 
 lour, with its great gingham-covered sofa and window- 
 curtain?!, received them all ; but then it was found to 
 be so full, that really it was like a crowd at a fair. 
 But, no matter fur that ! " The more the merrier!" 
 said first one, and then another, till the sentiment was 
 quite universal ; so those sate who could find seats, 
 and those stood who could not, protesting, with all 
 their might, that if the room were ten times as big, 
 and brimful of chairs, they would rather stand — 
 that, indeed, they would ! 
 
 " Where is my son Mark 1" asked old Mr. i?op- 
 worth, from his arm-chair by the fire, where h« 
 f2
 
 64 A MERRY CHRISTM-AS DAV. 
 
 sate talking of " fat stock," and "oorn-iriarkets," with 
 old Mr. Pocklington. " He has got the Mark-Lnn€ 
 Express in his pocket. 1 wonder, now, where he is," 
 said he, looking round. " Lizzy," said lie, addressing 
 his daughter, " ask your brother Mark for the 
 paper." 
 
 " Have you seen Mark X' asked she, from Barbara 
 Pocklington; "it's very odd, but he's not in the 
 room." 
 
 " 1 'm sure I don't know," said Barbara ; " I saw 
 him come in, though." 
 
 " Mark !" cried Miss Lizzy, loud enough not only 
 to be heard by all the company, but to draw every- 
 body's attention to her. 
 
 " Do you hear, Mr. Mark ?" said a voice, softly, 
 behind the long gingham window-curtains, which fell 
 over the window. 
 
 " I hear," returned he, and laughed and rubbed hia 
 hands, &s if the joke were capital. 
 
 " Mark !" again cried Lizzy ; and just at that 
 moment a mischievous gentleman drew apart the 
 curtains, one in each hand, and there stood Mark 
 Sopworth and Mary "Wheeler ! 
 
 Mark laughed louder than he had ever laughed 
 before, and so did everybody ; while poor Mary 
 blushed crimson, and thought that she looked ex^ 
 tremely foolish. From that moment, Barbara PjocIc- 
 lington hated her. Mrs. Barker inquired from her 
 neighbour whether she did not think that Miss 
 Wheeler had been flirting shamefully all day with 
 Mr. Mark ; and old Mrs. Pocklington said to hers, 
 that "she should be very much ashamed, if a daughter 
 of hers behaved as Miss Wheeler did 1"
 
 A MERRY CHRISTMAS DAY. 5fi 
 
 It was a very merry evening, and games of all 
 kinds were played — hunt-the-slipper, blind-man's- 
 buff, and cross-questions and crooked-answers ; and 
 then came the merriest of all — the redeeming the 
 forfeits. 
 
 Mrs. Barker, it was voted, was to hold the forfeits 
 in her lap, and Lizzy Sopworth was to kneel before 
 her and prescribe tlie penalty for each. 
 
 *' Now, what shall the owner of this do ?" asked 
 Mrs. Barker, holding a something in her hand. 
 
 *' Lady or gentleman ?" inquired Lizzy. 
 
 Mrs. Barker stooped down as if to look at what 
 she had, but whispered the name " Barbara" into her 
 ear, and then replied aloud, " The owner is a lady." 
 
 " She shall go round the company," replied Miss 
 Lizzy, " and inquire from each ' what they would 
 write on her heart, if it were a sheet of paper ?' " 
 
 "■"It is yours, Barbara!" said Mrs. Barker, holding 
 forth, at the same time, a small and very pretty glove. 
 
 " It is not mine ! " said Barbara, who had advanced 
 half-way to her sister, ''I believe it is Miss Wheeler's." 
 
 " Mary "NVheeler, are you the owner of thi*glove ?" 
 asked Lizzy Sopworth. 
 
 " It is mine," said Mary, and then commenced her 
 round. 
 
 " If my heart A\ere a sheet of paper, what would 
 you write on it ?" asked she, in the first place, from 
 Mrs. Barker. 
 
 " The words of a song which I have heard you 
 eing," returned she, somewhat tartly, "Behave your- 
 scl' be ore folk." 
 
 " And you, dear Mrs. Sopworth ?" asked she, from 
 the friendly old lady.
 
 56 A MERRY CIIRISTfllAS DAY. 
 
 " What would I write 1" repeated she. " Oh, I 'm 
 no hand at writing — I 'd make out what gentleman 
 was highest in your books, and hand the pen to 
 him." 
 
 " Well done, mother 1" said Mark ; and all the 
 Pocklingtons thought Mary a greater flirt than ever. 
 
 *' And if my heart were paper, what would you 
 write on it. Miss Pocklington ?" asked she, from 
 Barbara's unmarried sister. 
 
 " 1 ?" returned she, as if offended by the question ; 
 " what would be the sense of my writing anything ? 
 I would hand it over to Mr. Mark Sopworth." 
 
 It was beginning to get quite too personal, and 
 Mary felt confused, especially as Mark Sopworth 
 himself came next. " And you, Mr. Mark?" asked 
 she, almost tremulously, " what, if my heart were 
 blank paper, would you write on it ?" 
 
 »" I would write," said he, in a half- whisper, "all 
 that I wish that heart to feel — what I wish to say- 
 yet dare not/' added he, in a whisper, meant only for 
 her ear. 
 
 " Faint heart never deserves fair lady, does it, 
 Miss Wheeler ?" asked Mr. Morland, quite loud, who, 
 having a remarkably quick sense of hearing, had 
 caught every word. 
 
 " ^Vbat did Mr. Mark say V asked Mrs. Barker. 
 
 " Something quite too stupid to be repeated," re- 
 turned he. 
 
 " It was not so very stupid either!— was it, now, 
 Miss Wheeler ?" said Mr. Morland, chuckling. 
 
 " I need not go all round," said Mary Wheeler; 
 '* I am sure I have done quite enough to redeem two 
 gloves instead of one."
 
 A MERRY CHRISTMAS DAY. 67 
 
 The company agi-eed that she had ; and Mrs. 
 Barker tossed the glove to her, and began crying 
 another forfeit; never seeing, as our own Mrs. Mor- 
 land di 1, that Mark Sopworth caught the glove 
 instead of Mary ; and, instead of giving it to her, put 
 it^into his waistcoat pocket. 
 
 " What sliall the owner of this do X' asked Mrs. 
 Barker. 
 
 " Lady or gentleman ?" inquired Lizzy. 
 
 " Gentleman," returned Mrs. Barker. 
 
 "He must bow to the wittiest, kneel to the prettiest, 
 and kiss the one he loves best." 
 
 " It is Mark's !" exclaimed his sister, looking at 
 the cigar-case which Mrs. Barker held. " Mark, you 
 have heard your penalty." 
 
 " That is soon done !" said he, starting from his 
 chair, and, at the same moment, both Mary "W^heeler 
 and Barbara Pocklington felt as if the eyes of the 
 whole company were on them. 
 
 " No," said Mark, the moment afterwards, " I 've 
 changed my mind — I won't do it." 
 
 " You must ! you must !" stormed on all sides. 
 
 " You shall never Iwve your cigar-case again, if 
 you do not," said Mrs. Barker. 
 
 " Never, as long as you live !" said his sister. 
 
 " Then I '11 go without i^" said he, folding his 
 arms, as if in token how determined he was to keep 
 his word ; " for where all are so witty and so pretty, 
 how is it possible to make a choice ; and then, unless 
 I may kiss all round, I '11 kiss none." And with this, 
 Mark unfolded his arms again, and looked first at one 
 and then at another pretty girl, as if he were half in 
 the min<i to do as he said.
 
 58 A BIERRY CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 ** Oh, Mr. Mark !" exclaimed or.e, and " Now, did 
 one ever !" exclaimed another, and " Don't let him 
 have his forfeit back !" exclaimed half-a-dozen at 
 once ; and then amid all this confusion of tongues and 
 laughter, supper was announced. 
 
 Three or four gentlemen sang songs after supper, 
 among whom Mr. Morland figured to the greatest 
 advantage ; and then three or four ladies did the 
 same ; and then, so enthusiastic did the whole com- 
 pany get, that they all sang in chorus. 
 
 '■' Would you really believe it !" at last exclaimed 
 Mrs. Morland, looking at her watch, *' that it is 
 actually half-past two 1" 
 
 The Sopworths declared that that was not late, 
 and everybody else protested, that never before in all 
 their lives had they heard of such a thing ! that it 
 was shockingly late ; that they ought to be quite 
 ashamed of themselves, and twenty other such 
 things. 
 
 It took a long time to cloak and bonnet such a large 
 company ; and it took a long time, too, before the 
 flies, and gigs, and shandrydans were all brought out 
 of the yard, and drawn up to the garden-gate. The 
 Morlands had a fly sent from the town to fetch them ; 
 and of course Mary Wheeler went with them, while 
 young Sop worth, the* doctor's apprentice, who was 
 obliged to be back that night, returned, as he Avent, 
 with«old Crawley in his gig. 
 
 "You can make room for mc, too, cannot you?" 
 said Mr. Mark Sop worth, buttoning up his great-coat, 
 and coming up to the Morlands'. fly-door. 
 
 " You are not going to-night, Mark !" exclaimed 
 his mother and sister, who both stood at the garden-
 
 A MERRY CHRISTMAS HAY, 6S 
 
 gate, with candles in their hand, although the moon 
 shone bright. 
 
 " We can give you the seat which you will like 
 ahove all others," returned Mr. Morland, who smelt 
 prodigiously strong of wine and br^indy-and-water— • 
 *' the seat opposite Miss Wheeler." 
 
 Mark sprang into the carriage ; his sister said it 
 was too bad that he left her to walk alone in the 
 morning; the carriage-door was shut, and* off drove 
 the Morlands, not a little pleasecT with their Christ- 
 mas-day's entertainment. 
 
 " Poor Mr. Mark !" said Mrs. Morland, a few days 
 afterwards, and when Mary and she next met, *' he 
 lost his heart on Wednesday evening, and you lost 
 your glove." 
 
 Mary smiled, and blushed, as she always did, and 
 then, loosening the strings of her black silk bag, took 
 out a neat little packet, which appeared to have been 
 sealed ; it contained a really beautiful pair of French 
 kid gloves. " I wanted to show you these," said 
 she, opening the little packet ; " Mr. Mark sent them 
 to me ^vith a note ; he had lost mine, he said, and 
 sent me these instead; it is a good exchange for me, 
 for mine were not new ; — and then, really, it was so 
 nicely done !" 
 
 *' Everything is nicely done, that is done by those 
 we love,'' said Mrs. Morland ; " but, really, those are 
 beautiful gloves," said she, looking at them ; " and, I 
 dare say, there was something very particular in the 
 note — now, I hate mysteries, so you must tell me all 
 about it, for I see, by your blushes, that you have 
 something to tell." 
 
 " Oh, no," said Mary, looking crimson as a red
 
 60 A MERRY CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 rose, '* indeed I have nothing so very particular to 
 tell you. There was this with the gloves, and thak 
 was all/' 
 
 Mrs. Morland opened the gilt-edged sheet of note 
 paper whicli Mary handed to her, and read, in a verj 
 neat tradesman's hand, four lines, meant to be poetry, 
 in which "heart" rhymed with " smart," and "glove* 
 with "love." She felt rather disappointed that i< 
 was not a <lirect declaration of love ; but never doubt- 
 ing but that that, too, ■would come in due season, said 
 'it was very pretty, and that she was sure Mr. Mark 
 would set quite as much, if not more, etore by the 
 old glove than she would by the new ones. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A RETURN IN KIND. 
 
 "Will you, dearest Mrs. Morland," said Mary- 
 Wheeler to her one evening, not very long after the 
 Christmas entertainment, which we have chronicled 
 in our last chapter, " tell me something about your 
 early life and experience ?" 
 
 " Heaven bless you, my dear child !" said Mrs. 
 Morland, " I have nothing in the world to tell !" 
 
 " Nor had I," returned she ; " and yet you said that 
 you found that which I told you interesting ; do talk 
 about yourself to-night, or I shall be ashamed of 
 what I have done, and think I wearied you by talk- 
 ing 80 much about myself." 
 
 " If it is on this condition," replied Mrs. Morland, 
 smiling, " I will tell you all that by any possibilitv I
 
 A RETURN IN KIND. 61 
 
 ean remember about myself, just to prove with what 
 delight and good-will I listened to you. 
 
 *' My fatV»er, then,^ you must know, was curate of 
 a rich living in Cumberland, — the living was rich, 
 but he was only a poor curate. This parish wa» 
 large, and the population, though scanty, was widely 
 scattered ; and as my father desired conscientiously 
 to perform his duties as pastor of his people, his life 
 was one neither of ease nor indulgence. He was a 
 singularly learned man; and had he been a bishop, or 
 even a wealthy rector, he would no doubt have made 
 his name famous among the scholars of the age. In 
 many respects, however, my father was not a happy 
 man ; he had expected preferment in his younger 
 years ; he had been promised it, but had been dis- 
 appointed ; he had hoped and hoped, but in his 
 middle life he was only a curate still ; and, somewhat 
 soured with the world, but yet with the elements of 
 satisfaction in himself, had fortune only favoured him 
 in other respects, he settled himself in his curacy, and 
 devoted himself, body and mind, to study, which soon 
 became his greatest earthly delight, and thus found 
 enjoyment m his books, and peace of mind in the 
 performance of his pastoral duties. The misfortune 
 of my father, however, was not his worldly disap- 
 pointment, but his having married a wife unfitted for 
 him. She was in every respect a worldly woman ; 
 and, courting distinction in the world, despised my 
 father, who seemed contented with his humble lot. 
 Had my father been a stern, overbearing man, or even 
 in degree less amiable and yielding than he was, he 
 would have gained more respect, if not more affection, 
 from my mothe? As it was, they were singularly 
 o
 
 82 A RETURN IN KIND. 
 
 unhappy, and the remembrances of my early life, 
 unlike yours, Mary, are of domestic disunion and 
 bickering. But we were poor — of ihat there is no 
 doubt ; and I have always foOnd," said she, " that 
 though fortune may, and does, no doubt, bring with it 
 its train of discontents, no discontent, no wear and 
 tear of temper, is like that which a narrow income 
 brings with it, and especially when there is one 
 member of the family troubled by ambition and love 
 of show, as my poor dear mother was. My father 
 promised, that in case his family was large, he would 
 again sue for preferment, or at least increase of 
 income ; but year after year went on, and though he 
 said he would do it, he never did ; my mother could 
 not understand his feelings on this subjict, and had 
 no forbearance with him. Poor man ! the sanctuary 
 to which he fled from all his vexations, worldly and 
 domestic, was his study ; there he passed most of his 
 time, and there I believe he was happv. His books 
 were his true friends ; they had not deceived him ; 
 they counselled him in trouble, and infused gladness 
 into his wearie'd spirit. 
 
 " Years went on, and he lived in a world of his 
 own, out of which when he came, he looked like one 
 of tiie Seven Sleepers awakened. The family con- 
 sisted of five boys and myself; and my father, as 
 well as my mother, saw the necessity of something 
 being done for us ; and, to better his income, in a 
 Way much easier than suing from the great, he took 
 to authorship. It was exactly the life for him, as it 
 furnished him with the most plausible and best of all 
 possible excuses for shutting himself up in his study ; 
 but, alas! though he wTote books without end, they
 
 A RETURN IN KIND. 63 
 
 were such as nobody read, and, worse than ail such 
 as nobody bought. 
 
 " In many respects, there were points of resem- 
 blance between my pooi motlier and good Mi-s. Prim- 
 rose, in the Vicar of Wakefield. Among other things, 
 she aspired to intimacy witli the gi^eat ; she would 
 visit with the scattered gentry of the neighbourhood, 
 and scorned all under the pretension of esquire ; she 
 knew her husband to be a learned man, and she 
 expected fame, if not fortune, from his works. Such, 
 at least, were her earlier aspirations. But disap- 
 pointment on disappointment cools the most sanguine- 
 hearted ; and, alas ! not only cools, but often embitters 
 also. It was so in my poor mother's case : unable to 
 visit with the rich, she despised the humbler class, and 
 thus came to be disliked by the parishioners. From 
 her upbraidings, my father took refuge in his study, 
 and buried himself still deeper in his books. Often, 
 for days and days, not a word passed between my 
 parents ; my father forgot, or seemed to forget, his do- 
 mestic annoyances there ; and this, to an irrita])le tem- 
 perament like luy mother's, seemed an additional wrong. 
 
 " My five brothers ran wild like untamed colts; 
 my mother thought and said, that, as boys, they were 
 my father's charge, whilst I, as a daughter, belonged 
 especially to her ; and to me she unhappily soon 
 looked as to the future prosperity of the family. 
 Poor thing ! she fancied me handsome, and a genius, 
 and God knows what ! I was as fond of reading as 
 my father himself, and the circulating libraries of 
 the neighbouring town furnished for awhile food for 
 my inexhaustible appetite. I drew, as all lively 
 %hildren do, and my scrawls were exhibited as mira-
 
 64 A RETURN IN KIND. 
 
 cles of genius ; music I began to learn, but too impa« 
 tient to advance, step by step, in that most difficult of 
 sciences, I composed vagaries of my own, and at 
 thirteen set up for a musical composer. 
 
 " I was, as you may imagine, ignorant, vain, and 
 overbearing, and must, indeed, have been a most 
 detestable child. Our respectable neiglibours, offend- 
 ed by my poor mother's pride, looked on me, as was 
 natural, with pity, if not coil*empt. They were 
 homely people, who thought homely virtues and 
 homely knowledge the most estimable things in life, 
 and they had justice. For myself, I was helpless as 
 a child, in the common business of life ; my mother* 
 blindly doting on me, as she did, permitted me to 
 take no part in household work ; everything was done 
 for me, and that by my mother, for my time, she 
 believed, was much better employed in those accom- 
 plishments, in which I was, and never could be other 
 than the merest dabbler, than in learning either to 
 help myself or others. Unfortunately, too, as I said 
 before, she had a great notion that I was handsome, 
 and that my face, if my genius failed, must make all 
 our fortunes ; all needlew^ork, therefore, was prohibit- 
 ed, lest 1 should spoil my eyes, or injure my figure 
 by stooping. I was permitted to do no household 
 work either, lest my hands should become coarse and 
 red. It was in vain that my poor father now and 
 -then woke up, as it were, from liis books, and 
 objected to my mode of education : * Why does not 
 Ellen mend the boys' stockings ? why does not Ellen 
 do this, that, and the other?' he would inquire ; and 
 then my poor mother, stung by questions which were 
 not easy to answer, grew angry, and, in her turn,
 
 A RETURN IN KIND. 65 
 
 upbraided him with the untamed wildness of her 
 sons, who, early in life, had given both parents cause 
 of uneasiness. 
 
 " We were an unhappy, disorganised family ; and 
 my brothers seemed likely enough to bring lasting 
 disgrace on the family, if not on the clerical name 
 also ; add to which, long accumulated debts threat- 
 ened to conduct my poor father to a prison. In this 
 crisis of affairs, the parishioners complained, I believe, 
 to the rector ; the bishop interfered, and my father 
 was in a fair way of losing his curacy. 
 
 " Ruin stared us in the face ; I was then nearly 
 seventeen, and my eldest braiher nineteen ; we were 
 like people overtaken at once by -shipwreck or fire ; 
 we looked on and around, and there was nothing but 
 ruin and dismay. 
 
 " My mother had a brother, a tradesman, in Bristol, 
 a well-to-do man, who often, in reply to her com- 
 plaining letters, had sent her a ten or a twenty 
 pound bill. To him, of course, application was 
 made in our distress ; and in reply to my mother's 
 letter, instead of writing, he came instantly. Never 
 shall I forget his arrival, and the influence of his 
 presence ! We were all dreamers, as it were, and all 
 our actions M'ere characterised by indecision. ' What 
 IB to be done ? what is to become of us ?' exclaimed 
 my poor mother, distractedly. 'Done!* repeated my 
 uncle ; ' why, work ! Are not these young people,' 
 asked he, ' endowed like the rest of their kind ? — 
 hands have they, and heads — what would they have 
 more V 
 
 " Three of my brothers he sent off in a few months' 
 Ume to Australia, with a hundred pounds each ; and 
 g2
 
 6G A RETURN IN KIND. 
 
 there, with ample space for their wild energies, they 
 have (lone well. Me, without asking even leave of 
 my parents, he took to live with him, as his own 
 housekeeper. Nobody thought, I believe, of object- 
 ing to anything he did : he settled all as with a' 
 moment's thought ; but the truth is, he had come 
 witli plans ready arranged, and it never entered his 
 head that things could be better than he arranged 
 them ; nor indeed could they. 
 
 " He staid with us a fortnight, and in that time 
 wrought a complete change in our affairs. He went 
 from house to house, among the parishioners, and 
 everywhere he dropped, as it were, a seed of goodwill 
 and forbearance. He went, also, quite unsolicited by 
 my parents, both to the rector and the bishop, and 
 said so much in my father's behalf, as excited their 
 sympathy and kindness towards him ; the end of all 
 w^as, that he was re-established in his curacy more 
 firmly than ever ; besides which, though he was not 
 able to gain an augmentation of his salary, he made 
 some little diddition to his income from his own purse. 
 But that which, after all, was most to the purpose was, 
 that he roused my father from his learned lethargy, 
 to feel and to see the kindness and the goodwill of 
 those around him ; and to make my father feel this 
 was to give a new impulse to action, and a new value 
 to life. My mother made no objection to anything, 
 not even to my leaving her ; but I had been, it is true, 
 but of very little use to her. I could do, compara- 
 tively speaking, nothing ! and my uncle said that my 
 absence was better for her than my presence, at least 
 for some time ; and that when I returned to her, if 
 I were fit for nothing better, I should be fit for a 
 respectable man's wife.
 
 A HETURN IN KIND. C? 
 
 ** My uncle was a very peculiar person, but one of t he 
 
 wisest and shrewdest of men. He accomplished that 
 which he desired, however improbable it might at first 
 seem, not so much by a conp-de-mam^ as by calmly 
 sapping and mining, and never being turned aside, or 
 daunted by any impediment whatever; such had been 
 his course through life, and thus he went to work in our 
 affairs. It was thus that he operated with my father's 
 parishioners and patrons ; he did not present himself 
 as his violent partisan and upholder through right 
 and wrong, overpowering his opponents by many 
 strong words and arguments, to prove my father 
 faultless : no ! but all the while that he was conced- 
 ing and agreeing, and letting people think that they 
 were having everything their own way, he was, by 
 the few kind, vrise words which he let fall in the right 
 place, winning more good- will for my father, than 
 anybody but himself supposed. It was so with my 
 parents themselves ; he never seemed to blame either 
 one or the other of them, nor yet did he set about to 
 convince them either of this or that; and yet he ended 
 by making them think exactly with himself, and take 
 different views of life, and its business, to what they 
 seemed to have done before; and if they did not, here- 
 after, always act in concert, at least they dated a new 
 era of domestic happiness and comfort from that time. 
 It is i-emarkable, that after then, my father wrote no 
 tnore books, and my mother condescended to visit 
 such families in the parish as did not write esquire 
 to their names. My three elder brothers, as I told 
 you, have all become respectable men in their colonial 
 life, and, of my two younger ones, tlie one is in my 
 uncle's service, and the other has taken a bachelor'i 
 degree in the Universitv of Cambrida** "
 
 68 A RETURN IN KIND. 
 
 '*And with yourself," said Mary Wheeler, "h 
 must have gone equally v.-ell." 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Morland. " But only think of 
 me, a romantic, inexperienced girl, ignorant as a 
 child of cvcry-day business, with the notion that I 
 was handsome, and a genius, and, heaven knows what 
 of other absurdities, brought at once into a large 
 house, and being told that I must consider myself as 
 the mistress of it ; that much would be required from 
 me, and but very little excused ! I was, mdeea, 
 frightened almost out of my senses ; and yet, on our 
 journey to Bristol, which was made leisurely, in *rder 
 that I might see something of the country, and the 
 places through which we went, he had so far excited 
 my respect, not to say reverence, for him, that I 
 accepted my oflfice, sincerely determined to do my 
 best. My uncle did not, as so many would have 
 done, — who, with half his acuteness must have seen 
 what a poor creature I was, — humble me, and depre- 
 ciate what little knowledge I had ; on the contrary, 
 he gave me credit for all the knowledge which I ought 
 to have possessed, and, when I l)lundered and failed^ 
 he purposely shut his eyes. What he saw of arro- 
 gance and folly in me, and, heaven knows ! he must 
 have seen a deal, he never spoke of it, or even reproved 
 it, but, by the most extraordinary tact, set things 
 before me at once in their true and most beautiful 
 light. I was humbled, but ennobled at the same time; 
 a new life, useful, and good, and real, seemed opened 
 before me, in which I longed to become an actor. 
 He was satisfied to awaken the better part of my 
 nature, without asking my confidence. I made, thus, 
 no confessions, either of regret for the past, or of 
 resolve for the future: but esteem and affection filled
 
 A RETURN IN KIND. 09 
 
 my heart, and they did most to make my good reso- 
 titions effectual. 
 
 " However much my uncle must have blamed my 
 jarents, and especially my mother, for* my faulty 
 education, not one word was evsr spoken by him 
 to their disparagement ; on the contrary, he used 
 all his endeavours to keep alive our family affec- 
 tion, and was very exact in my writing regularly 
 home/' 
 
 " What an excellent man ! " exclaimed Alary 
 Wheeler. 
 
 '' Excellent, indeed !" returned Mrs. Morland. 
 "Spirits such as his are the very salt of the earth. But 
 to continue my narrative : — ' On the last stage of our 
 journey, my uncle first began to speak of that which 
 he had done for my famil3\ I expressed my gratitude 
 with tears. '1 mention this only,' said he, 'in order 
 that you may understand why your duties in my 
 house are as arduous and responsible as you will find 
 them. Hitherto, I have kept a hired housekeeper ; 
 I cannot afford that longer; you must supply her 
 place, and thus you will confer real service on me. 
 The keys of all that my house contains will be put 
 into your hands. I require order, regularity, and 
 propriety; without these 1 cannot live. You will 
 endeavour to please me, and you will succeed.' 
 
 " My uncle's manner was always so firm yet calm, 
 that, while it excited no opposition in the mind of 
 the hearer, it had the power of assuring and of 
 inspiring self-respect. Thus it was, that I was not 
 discouraged on entering on my new, and, really 
 responsible duties, ignorant and inexperienced as I 
 had come to know myself; nor, though I was, at
 
 70 A RETURN IN KIND 
 
 first, almost too anxious, and too much frightened to 
 sleep, <]\d I despair of sucooeding in the end. 
 
 " A large house, as-1 told you, was put under my 
 charge. I had two servants to manage, and a house- 
 hold of five persons, independently of servants, to 
 provide for. T found, however, c rder and precision in 
 the whole establishment. ' A place for everything, 
 and everything in its place,* was my uncle's watch- 
 word. H^ took me over the whole place the day 
 after my arrival ; showed me into every chest, and 
 drawer, and closet, of the house, and, in a few clear 
 sentences, laid down a plan of household management 
 for me. He had the rare, but great gift of expressing 
 himself in very few words; and thus all was clear and 
 definite from the bcgiiming. My heart almost died 
 within me, when I saw that whicli devolved upon me, 
 more especially when, in a few days' time, my uncle 
 brought a piece of linen — which I had to make Into 
 shirts, and wool — which I was to knit into stockings, 
 and table-linen — which I had to mark. I was un- 
 skilled with my needle, and, strange as it may seem, 
 could neither back-stitch nor make button-hole^, 
 and as for knitting — I hardly knew how to hold my 
 needles. Not the least notice, however, did my uncle 
 take of the consternation depicted in my countenance, 
 but only remarked, that he was in no great hurry for 
 these things; if all were done in a year's time, that 
 wns enough. 1 suspected, what was really the case, 
 that my uncle knew how woefully ignorant I was of 
 these common things, and I was piqued to let him 
 fiiui me cleverer than he imagined. I practised my 
 ne die, therefore, in private; unpicked the whole of a 
 shirtj that I might the better understand the making
 
 A RETURN IN KIND. 71 
 
 of one, and, in process of time, felt not a little vain in 
 seeing the work proceeding regularly and well, in 
 his presence. 
 
 My uncle spent his evenings mostly at home ; a 
 /outh, whom he hired for the purpose, came in 
 regularly from six till nine to read aloud to him. 
 Newspapers, history, and travels, were his favourite 
 reading ; and whilst he listened he drank his coffee, 
 which was his favourite beverage. He required me 
 to be always present at this reading, and to employ 
 myself the while at needlework. 
 
 *■' All the powers of my genius ceased the moment 
 I entered my uncle's house. I neither drew, nor 
 painted, nor composed music. I wrote neither poetry 
 nor romances ; nor had I time to read those written 
 by other people. Someway, I don't know how, I 
 lost my relish for these things ; I despised my own 
 miserable attempts at the whole range of the fine arts, 
 and, like an appetite which has been satiated with 
 sweets, I turned with ten-fold relish to solid and 
 substantial things. I mentally hungered and thirsted 
 after strengthening literature and improving know- 
 ledge. My whole being seemed to respond to my 
 desires; whatever I did, or heard, or saw, seemed to 
 , unfold new and ennobling views of life, and to make 
 that clear which had been hitherto dark and confused. 
 My heart was cheerful in the consciousness tiiat my 
 life was and would be useful ; and every day developed 
 powers in me of which I had had no conception, 
 and which I had hitherto envied in others. 
 
 " You must not, however, imagine, dear Mary,** 
 •aid Mrs. Morland, " that, with all my ignorance and 
 inexperience, my uncle had nothing to excuse or over-
 
 12 A RETURN IN KIND. 
 
 look. I'll tell you," said she, laughing merrily, 
 ** what an affair I made of the dinner I first arranged 
 and cooked for my uncle and three gentlemen, fricndg 
 of his. ' Now, my dear,' said he, ' to-morrow I bring 
 three gentlemen to dinner; I wisli something plain 
 and nice — soup — a roast — something boiled if you 
 will — and a pudding ; that is quite enough.' I ha(i 
 no cook ; all devolved upon me, and I was determined 
 to do something quite super-excellent. By some 
 means or other, however, I quite forgot the soup, and 
 thought only of the roast and the boiled. I considered 
 with myself what my uncle liked the best ; I 
 knew that veal was in season, and that it was a 
 favourite di|h with him — so I bought a handsome 
 leg of veal, crammed it, someway or other, full of 
 stuffing, and roasted it whole — think only of a whole 
 leg of veal ! I boiled the most beautiful tongue I 
 could find, and the finest new potatoes and cauli- 
 flowers ; all of which I cooked by the most approved 
 receipts in the cookery-book. A bread-pudding, too, 
 I made — not forgetting wine sauce — and an apple- 
 tart. It was not at all a bad idea of a dinner ; and I 
 never felt better pleased in my life than when, 
 punctually as my uncle and his friends entered the 
 house, I saw my leg of vealj richly browned, and 
 done to a turn. It was, as I thought, a magnificent 
 loint, which the very largest dish in the best dinner- 
 service was hardly big enough to hold : the tongue 
 smelt savoury, the potatoes were mealy, and the 
 cauliflower unbroken and delicate. I anticipated foi 
 myself unmingled glory, and hastily changed my 
 dress to take my place at table, thinking with m^'self 
 that if the pudding would but turn well out of the
 
 A RETURN IN KIND. 73 
 
 mould, I should have achieved for myself great honour 
 that day ! This great big dish, for which we had not 
 a cover large enough, was brought in and set before 
 my uncle ; the tongue was set at the bottom of the 
 table, and the vegetables on each side. 
 
 " 'But the soup?' said my uncle, glancing at me. 
 I felt as if a thunderbolt had struck me ; I don't 
 know whether I turned pale or red, but all at once I 
 remembered that I had forgotten the soup. ' So 
 then,' said my uncle, intei-preting my silence aright, 
 * there is no soup!' 
 
 " The ill-fitting cover was taken from the dish, and 
 I -saw at once a smile on every countenance. I saw 
 that I had again done wrong, and I was mortified and 
 ashamed ! ' 1 hope your veal is done,' said my uncle, 
 as I thought, rather sternly ; and all at once it struck 
 me — of which I had never thought before— that people 
 did not cook legs of veal whole. I thought of legs 
 of mutton and legs of lamb, but I could not console 
 myself. 'What will become of me,' thought 1, 'if 
 my potatoes and caulillowers are wrong also !' My 
 apple-pie I felt sure was a failure, and my pudding 
 would stick to the mould. ' "What a responsible thing 
 cooking a dinner is!' thought I, and was ready to 
 burst into tears. 
 
 " Whether the veal really was thoroughly done or 
 not I cannot tell, but my uncle and his friends said it 
 was excellent ; they praised- the tongue, too, and the 
 vegetables ; and though the pudding did not turn out 
 perfectly, and I was obliged to confess to myself that 
 the apples were not quite done, stiU all ate heartilj 
 and seemed so good-humoured, that even 1 might 
 have been reconciled to myself. But that was not so 
 u
 
 74 
 
 A RETURN IN KIND. 
 
 easy. I knew that I had failed ; that the dinner; 
 after all my efforts, was ridiculous ; and, leaving my 
 uncle and his guests to enjoy their wine, I went into 
 my own room and cried bitterly. 
 
 " Not one word, however, did my uncle say about 
 it. I was terrified when he came to breakfast next 
 morning, but he read his newspaper just as usual ; 
 and had I not known him. too well for that, I should 
 have imagined he either did not care about it, or had 
 quite forgotten it. 
 
 " ' Ellen,' said he, in about a month's time, ' I shall 
 have six friends to dine with me next week ; let all 
 be properly arranged. I will write down what I wish 
 for dinner, and mind that all is done well.' — ' Might 
 I only just for once have a hired cook, or somebody 
 to direct me ?' said I, full of apprehension and terror. 
 ' No, no,' said he, good-humouredly, ' you must learn 
 to rely upon yourself; you will not again roast a 
 whole leg of veal.' — ' Oh, for Heaven's sake, dearest 
 uncle,' exclaimed I, ' do not mention it ; I am ready 
 to cry whenever I think of it !' " 
 
 "And how did you succeed this time ?" asked Mary. 
 
 " I begged my uncle," returned Mrs. Morland, " to 
 give me immediately a list of the dishes he wished ; 
 and whatever was new to me, or about which I was 
 not confident, I made trial of for the dinners which 
 intervened ; and this time all succeeded well. My 
 uncle was greatly pleased ; I was put in good humour 
 with myself, and never feared, and never ver)^ greatly 
 failed, after that time. 
 
 '•A few years, as you may believe, made a very great 
 change in me. I was as practical as my uncle him- 
 self, and was well skilled, if not clever, in all that
 
 A RETURN IN KIND. 76 
 
 ViBB useful and domestic, and as far as character and 
 views of life went, if I had been judged by these, 
 my own mother would not have known me. 
 
 •' The income which my uncle allowed my parents 
 enabled them to live much more comfortably, and to 
 maintain my youngest brother, as 1 have said, at the 
 University. My parents wished that I should return 
 1o them, but my wishes were adverse to it ; I was 
 not necessary at home, and I flattered myself that I 
 was so to my uncle. My uncle was greatly pleased 
 by my decision, and his kindness to me increased 
 daily ; unhappily, however, my mother was hurt by 
 my refusal, and this was most painful to me. Time 
 slid on — I was now seven-and-twenty ; and one of 
 my uncle's sons, who was happily married, wished to 
 become, with his wife, an inmate of his father's house. 
 This was most desirable to me, as I had then become 
 acquainted with Mr. Morland, and he was impatient 
 for our marriage. My uncle, who in goodness and 
 consideration is superior to all other men, made me a 
 present of three hundred pounds, one of which he 
 insisted on my laying out in preparation for my mar- 
 riage, and counselled me to return for a few months 
 to my father's house, that a perfectly good under- 
 standing might exist amongst us, that my father 
 might unite us, and that I might begin my married 
 life with his and my mother's blessing. 
 
 '• Such, dearest Mary," said Mrs. Morland, " has 
 been my life; there is no romance in it ; but please 
 God only that I rightly make use of the lessons it 
 has given me, I shall not be altogether useless in my 
 sphere, be it large or be it small."
 
 7« 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 EBB TIDE. 
 
 Whatever the party at Mr. Sopworth's on Christ- 
 mas-day might think of Mary Wheeler, and her 
 flirtation with Mark Sopworth, as the Pocklingtons 
 all called it, the impression which Mrs. Morland 
 made on every one was extremely favourable. She 
 was unanimously saif to be handsome; her dress was 
 admired, and altogether, she was declared by every- 
 body " one of the genteelest people they ever saw ;" 
 and to be "quite an acquisition to their acquaintance." 
 
 Accordingly — spite of the tragical history of the 
 white cat, and spite of Mrs. Morland being so intimate 
 with that " flirting thing," Mary Wheeler — Mrs. 
 Barker commenced an acquaintance with her, and 
 determined not to let it die away for lack of very 
 frequent calls on her part, and by showing her good- 
 will in bringing all the news and gossip of the neigh- 
 bourhood. 
 
 Months went on, and Mrs. Barker came in one 
 summer afternoon, brimful of news about old Mr. 
 Crawley.' " ^Vas it not a shocking thir.g ? — and had 
 not she really heard ? — and this was not the first 
 time he had been arrested ; — his name would certainly 
 be in the Gazette before this time next year; and then 
 what was to become of Miss Wheeler? for it was cer- 
 tain sure that Mr. Crawley's lease had only a few 
 years to run, and his creditors would take that aa
 
 EBB TIDE. 77 
 
 property ; it would be sold, and then, maybe, Mr 
 Morland would buy it; or perhaps Mr. Mark Sop- 
 worth — the Sopworths were very rich people. Mr. 
 Mark had already had a thousand pounds from his 
 father to begin business ; it was all nonsense about his 
 ever marrying Miss "Wlieeler ; his family, she was sure, 
 would be very angry if he did ; she did not doubt 
 but that she would jump at him ; she was always 
 flirting witli him ! JJid not Mrs. Morland, now, 
 honestly think her a flirt V " No I" " Well, now, 
 that was odd i Mrs. Morland was the only person 
 who did not think Mary Wheeler a flirt ; and then 
 so afiected ! She comes into a room with her head on 
 one side, and if anybody looks at her, she bJushes — 
 all coquetry and affectation ! Mrs. Barker hated 
 coquetry and aff"ectation, but she knew what she knew. 
 Mr. Mark Sop worth would never marry her; he 
 knew on which side his bread was buttered too well 
 for that ! and if all was true about old Crawley, Mary 
 Wheeler must go out into some situation, for she 
 had no rich relations to take her." 
 
 So talked Mrs. Barker to Mrs. Morland. In a day 
 or two she was sitting with Miss Lizzy Sopworth, 
 and talking about Mr. Morland. " Well, she thanked 
 God that her husband was a man of business, and not 
 like Mr. Morland ! But, really, it was a shooking 
 thing, such a fortune as Mr. Nixon had made ; and 
 now people said that Morland, though he began with 
 three or four thousand pounds, was insolvent ! But 
 he really was never likely to make any business suc- 
 ceed ; he paid no attention to it — he neglected his 
 business shockingly. Moorson, the druggist, was 
 making all the same perfumes now. Morland was 
 h2
 
 78 EBB TIDE. 
 
 a wild, dissipated sort of man they both agreed, 
 and neglected his wife shamefully ; he never went 
 with her to church now, and he spent nearly all hia 
 evenings at the Blue Boar, drinking there with com- 
 mercial gentlemen ; they did not believe that Mrs. 
 Morland was happy — how, indeed, could she be 
 so ? Mrs. Barker had heard hints dropped — but she 
 hated repeating all that she heard — however, she was 
 certain that if she had such a husband, she would 
 read him a pretty lesson ! But they should all see 
 soon what would be the end of all this ; Mr. Morland 
 would get into the Gazette as well as old Crawley, and 
 then he must take to his travelling again ; and if that 
 did not bring down his wife's pride, they did not know 
 what would." 
 
 The summer wore on, and old Crawley and his 
 niece, and Mr. and Mrs. Morland, furnished much 
 material for gossip. It may, perhaps, be imagined, 
 that, if there were really cause, or only ground for 
 some of the many and painful things that were 
 said, the intimacy between Mary Wheeler and her 
 friend must have become greater than ever, out of 
 natural interchange of sorrows and mutual sympathy: 
 but that was not exactly the case ; Mary Wheeler 
 and Mrs. Morland had, of late, 'met less frequently 
 than hitherto, and neither one nor the other spoke 
 much of the sorrow that haunted ihem. Mrs. Mor- 
 land, indeed, said nothmg, whilst she respected her 
 young friend's delicacy of feeling too much to pry 
 into whatever she might choose to conceal. As to Mrs. 
 Morland, we will look a little nearer into her growing 
 and unlooked for troubles. 
 
 Mrs. Morland had always regarded herwelf as most
 
 EBB TIDE. 79 
 
 happily married, and had the most intense admiration 
 and affection for her husband. He was, by many 
 people, considered as very handsome. He had been 
 a commercial traveller all his life, and, with his 
 guinea a day, and his handsome horse and gig, had 
 lived a gay and easy life ; secure of his income, con- 
 fident of his own cleverness in all that was required 
 from him, and proud of his character among his com- 
 mercial brethren, as one of the most respected and 
 respectable travellers on the road. And a thorough 
 good fellow into the bariruin. What smiling lips and 
 brightening eyes of buxom landladies and pretty 
 chambermaids welcomed George Morland, or " the 
 handsome traveller" as he was called, to all the best 
 inns in England ! What travellers' rooms he set in 
 a roar with his gay, witty stories ! and what reputa- 
 tion had he not gained for his good singing ! There 
 was not a rich tradesman with whom he did business, 
 that, if his wife had a party, would not invite him as 
 one of its most honoured guests. Yes, indeed ! it was 
 a merry life, and a life greatly to his taste, which he 
 had led. 
 
 Much as he knew of trade, he had never felt any 
 inclination for it on his own account ; he pitied people, 
 indeed — let them make what incomes they would — 
 who were tied down, all their lives, to a counter. 
 " Free and easy" was his maxim ; and just in tho 
 fiame degree in which he compassionated the home- 
 bound shopkeeper, did he regard the married man. 
 He said, and so said all who knew him, that he would 
 remain a bachelor, and keep true to his sample-bag 
 to the end of the chapter ; but unexpected events 
 happen, every now and then, to vary the dull routine
 
 80 EBB TIDE. 
 
 of things, and so it was here. Mr. Morland found 
 himself, without the remotest expectation of such a 
 thing, heir to a thousand pounds ; and then, all at 
 once — quite as unexpectedly — the desire to be in trade 
 on his own account took possession of him, and that 
 more especially, as Mr. Nixon, for whom he had done 
 business, died just then, and his business was offered 
 for sale. Amid a host of applicants for the business 
 he was successful ; he purchased it and the stock in 
 trade, together with all the late Mr. Nixon's recipes, 
 and thus became patentee of one single perfume, it 
 was said, by which its original inventor had cleared 
 some hundreds a year. Morland thought he had a 
 fine prospect before him ; borrowed an additional 
 thousand pounds, and established himself, as he 
 thought, for life. No sooner, however, was he in a 
 house of his own, than he began to think about a 
 wife; and just as unexpectedly as he had found 
 himself possessor of a thousand pounds, he discovered 
 that the niece of a certain distiller in Bristol was in 
 possession of his heart. They had known one another 
 for years. It was our own dear Mrs Morland : he went 
 over to Bristol, said all kind of noble-seeming things, 
 as, how he never had thought himself worthy, a poor 
 traveller as he was, to aspire to her hand ; but now — 
 here, he was with his first good luck — might he but 
 be thought worthy of her! We know how all 
 this affair went on : he married her, and brought her 
 home, as we have seen. 
 
 Mrs. Morland, with all her sound judgment, was 
 the last person in the world to see faults in any one 
 whom she loved. She almost adored her husband, 
 and thought him about as near perfection as any
 
 EBB TIDE. 81 
 
 human being could be ; she found excuses for what 
 any one but herself would have called faults, and 
 palliated and justified, not to say cheerfully shut her 
 eyes, wherever her honest reason might have blamed. 
 A loving true-hearted woman was this, our dear i\Ir3. 
 Morland, and even while her neighbours, Mrs. Bar- 
 ker and Lizzy Sopworth, made themselves quite sure, 
 that a person who loved handsomely to dress and 
 handsomely to live, as she did, must long ago have 
 discovered that her husband would never make a 
 fortune like Mr. Nixon; — for nothing at all did he 
 know of distilling, and old Matthew had hinted how 
 badly things were managed, and that hundreds of 
 pounds' worth of spirit, and such things, were wasted, 
 because Mr. Morland no more understood his busi- 
 ness than a child ; — wliilst all this, and a deal more, 
 was talked of by her ill-natured neighbours, Mrs. 
 Morland herself was trying more and more to make 
 home comfortable and attractive to her "dear George," 
 as she always called him. 
 
 When people are unprosperous in a worldly point 
 of view, or even when they are dissatisfied with them- 
 selves, it mostly happens thattlie temper is the moral 
 barometer which indicates these things. " A pros- 
 perous man can afford to be good-tempered," said 
 Morland, hundreds of times to himself, and not to 
 himself only, but to his wife also. Thus it was that 
 the very first acknowledgements which she made to 
 her husband's disadvantage, were on the score of his 
 temper. ''His temper," she argued, " was not very 
 good — was not always alike; but she could not expect 
 all men to be like her uncle ; he was a man in ten 
 thousand ! " And then, recalling the domestic unhap-
 
 «S EBB TIDE. 
 
 piness of her own home, which, candid as she was, 
 she attributed more to tlie faults of lier mother than 
 her father, she resolved to use redoubled efforts that 
 nothing on her part should be wanting to secui-e 
 comfort and affection to their fireside. The idea 
 that her husband was inadequate to his business, and 
 that he was in a fair way to lose not only what was 
 his own, but what he had borrowed likewise, never 
 entered her mind. She feared only that he missed 
 some accustomed pleasures and indulgences ;therefore- 
 she only the more consulted his tastes, gratified his 
 whims and fancies, and met him always with affec- 
 tionate smiles and cheeif ul words, nor ever breathed 
 a syllable of the wish which lay nearest to her heart 
 — that he would spend more of his evenings with her 
 than with his old friends at the Blue Boar. 
 
 Mr. Morland was a man who had a perfect passion 
 for clothes ; his wardrobe was most extraordinary, at 
 least it seemed so to his wife, who had been accustomed 
 to her father's painful but necessary economy, and to 
 her uncle's moderation. What a number and variety 
 of great-coats, cloaks, and macintoshes, did she not 
 find him possessed of ! To say nothing of other 
 clothes, there was a whole closet-full of trousers ; and 
 waistcoats had he by dozens, satin, and velvet, and 
 cloth — of every variety of manufacture. It was neces- 
 sary, he said, fur him to dress well ; travelling spoiled 
 many clothes, and he often got tired of a thing as soon 
 as it was made ; or it went out of fiishion, or some- 
 thing or other. Mrs. Morland thought that, now her 
 husband did not travel, and lived quite at home, it 
 would be much better to wear some of the old things 
 out ; but he had different views ; he sold half hie
 
 EBB TIDE. 88 
 
 wardrobe to a Jew, and then bought a fresh supply. 
 Not a month passed but something or other came 
 home from the tailor's, and Mrs, Morland, who found 
 he would have his way, only smiled. 
 
 Midsummer, however, came, and Avith it Mid- 
 summer bills. " My dear George," exclaimed she, 
 opening a long bill from Hawkins, the draper, " do 
 we really owe him five-and-forty pounds ! I have not 
 bought one single thing since the table-linen, and we 
 paid for that at Christmas — nay ! and here it actually 
 is again 1 fifteen pounds, as you may remember ; and 
 all the rest is for — " She did not say for Avhat, 
 because it was for his clothes, and she never even 
 hmted that he did wrong. 
 
 " And what the devil did you lay out fifteen pounds 
 for table-linen for ?" returned he, roused out of the 
 silence into which he had sunk. 
 
 " Fifteen pounds 1" returned his wife ; " why, my 
 dear George, you surely do not call that much for 
 family table-linen ; and there was none, you know, 
 dearest, when I came. We ought, really, every year 
 to make a little purchase till we had a good stock ; 
 but I am so surprised that this was not paid at Christ- 
 mas !" 
 
 Modand started up, and, without another word, 
 went out, banging the parlour door after him, and the 
 next moment she heard him leave the house. The 
 thought of the unpaid Christmas bill lay most un- 
 pleasantly on her mind. It was a dull, sultry evening ; 
 her parlour-windows opened into the Barkers' yard ; 
 there was no fresh air to be had, and she was begin- 
 ning to think of taking a little solitary walk, when a 
 low tap at the door was heard, and Mary A\' heeler
 
 84 EBB TIDE. 
 
 entered. Poor Mary ! her eyes, too, were red ; she 
 had been weeping — she, too, was unhappy ! All at 
 once it seemed as if a veil were withdrawn from Mrs. 
 Morland's mental vision, and human life lay before 
 her, not steeped in the roseate light of affection, as it 
 mostly seemed to her cheerful spirit, but dark and 
 troubled, and full of difficulties and uncertainties 
 What if she and her husband came to be dissatisfied 
 with each other — came to live in strife together — to 
 have secrets and misunderstandings ! And it might 
 be so ! There was a deal of unhappiness in this 
 world ; much disunion and bitterness in families — and 
 if it came to be their case! And, with this thought 
 she suddenly burst into tears ; it was what Mary 
 Wheeler had never seen her do before. She^ then, had 
 troubles of her own ! Perhaps, indeed, thought Mary, 
 all those unpleasant things which people say are 
 true ; perhaps Mr. Morland is nearly ruined ; perhaps 
 he is unkind to his wife ! — A flood of sympathy 
 overflowed the kind-hearted girl, and without saying 
 one word, she laid her head upon her shoulder, and 
 wept too. She had come to open all her troubles to 
 her friend ; to ask her serious and most friendly 
 counsel, byt this was not the time ; nor, of course, did 
 she solicit the confidence of Mrs. Morland. Very 
 little indeed was said by either of them. Mary took 
 out her work as usual, and Mrs. Morland got hers. 
 Yet, though their conversation was all of common- 
 places, never did they part before with such friendly 
 feelings towards each other. 
 
 " I 've been devilishly cheated in this cursed con- 
 cern," said Morland, one day, throwing himself into a 
 chair, " and I'll commence an action against Nixon'g 
 executors for imposition."
 
 EEB TIDE. 85 
 
 *' Has Matthew failed again, then?" asked his wife, 
 for she had long been accustomed to hear of his 
 hlunders. 
 
 In the fulness of his indignation against Nixon's 
 executors, he told her that Matthew knew nothing ; 
 that Nixon, he found, had never let him into his 
 secrets, that he had done everything himself. The 
 processes, he said, he believed to be simple enough ; 
 but tliat, as he could not make them succeed, he was 
 convinced that something or other had been withheld 
 from him, and he was determined to commence a 
 prosecution. 
 
 Mrs. Morland thought that such a step would be 
 the most imprudent in the world, as it would only be 
 publishing that he could not produce articles equal to 
 those of the late Mr. Nixon. 
 
 " Do not do so, for Heaven's sake ! " said she, 
 " Try again : try again and again, and that with only- 
 small proportions, so that, in case of failure, there may 
 not be much loss ; ])ut, above all things, keep from the 
 public the knowledge of any want of success what- 
 ever. Try yet again, dearest," said she, kissing him 
 affectionately, "and all will go right!" 
 
 Morland tried again, and again ; but things did not 
 go right, "\reeks went on; his temper got more 
 irritable than ever ; and the draper's bill remained 
 unpaid. 
 
 Mary Wheeler, one day, brought in the purse 
 which she had made for her brother; it was quite 
 finished, rings and tassels and all, and was handsome 
 enough to contain the gold of an earl. 
 
 " How pleased your brother will be with it !" said 
 Mi-s, Morland ; " and when does he come V 
 I
 
 80 
 
 EBB TIDE. 
 
 Without answering, Mary burst into tears, and 
 Mrs. Arorland instantly imagined that her uncle 
 would not allow him to come ; she felt almost as 
 much excited as Mary herself: "Oh, do tell me, 
 Mary," she said ; " is he not coming ? " 
 
 " Oh dear ! I do not know," said Mary, at length, 
 wiping her eyes; "I never felt in such a state of 
 excitement and anxiety in my life before ; for I 
 know that, in the temper my uncle now is and has 
 been for many weeks, he would not let him come if 
 he were now in England. And then, only think ! he 
 that has lived all this time in the hope of seeing me, 
 that has been away from his native land so long, to 
 come back and have no home, and everybody else 
 have homes to go to and friends to welcome them ! 
 And when there is nobody in this world that can be so 
 dear to another as Ned is to me, not to be allowed to 
 come to see me ! I really think it will make me lose 
 my senses." 
 
 " He must — he will let him come !" said the hope- 
 ful Mrs. Morland. 
 
 " Oh," said poor Mary, " what have I not done to 
 get him into good humour, and how frightened have 
 1 been to see how the time was going on ! To-morrow 
 is the 1st of September, and so as I have wished for 
 the time to come ! Now, if it were in my power, I 
 would make it stand still ; for, oh, if this time goes 
 by and I do not see him, it may be years before I see 
 him again — if I ever do — for I may die, or he may ; 
 or — one docs not know what may happen !" 
 
 " But, my dear girl," said Mrs. Morland, " you are 
 terrifying yourself about imaginary things ; when he 
 really comes, your uncle will be as glad to see him as 
 ou will."
 
 EBB TIDE. 87 
 
 Mary heaved a deep sigh, and then continued : " I 
 have so longed to talk to you, dear Mrs. Morland, 
 but I dislike so much to be always complaining ; and 
 then, for a long time, I thought I ought not to men- 
 tion many things which made me uneasy ; but you 
 must have heard — everybody has — all the neighbours' 
 servants know it — about my uncle's arrest, and all the 
 terrible rumours there are about him. They say he 
 will be a bankrupt ; I do not know, I am sure, for 
 you know one cannot speak of these things ; but I 
 have had many thoughts and questionings with myself 
 of what I ought to do. Heaven knows, that if J could 
 do anythmg for my uncle, I would ; he has found 
 me a home for many years, and then he let Ned be 
 gratified in the choice of a profession. I feel that I 
 owe him something ; but, oh, Mrs. Morland, indeed, 
 indeed," sobbed she, " my uncle's house is hardly a 
 fit home for a young girl ! Many, many things, more 
 than the world really knows, make me unhappy. 
 I want — indeed I do — a friend to counsel with and 
 to advise me. If Ned were to come, I should tell 
 him all, and ask him what I should do. If my poor 
 unfortunate uncle is bankrupt, or goes to jail, I then 
 must do something. -I will take a place in a school ; 
 I will serve in a shop ; I will even be a common 
 servant, for indeed I am not proud : and let me be 
 where I may, I cannot have much more to bear than 
 I have already borne !" Mary wept, and Mrs. INIor- 
 laud, full cf sympathy and kindness, forgetting all 
 her own anxieties, began to think that she would 
 persuade hor husband to invite Mary's brother to 
 their house, in case Mr. Crawley refused to let him 
 go there.
 
 88 EBB TIDE. 
 
 "Don't be disheartened, dear Mary," said she; 
 "you'll see your brother — I'm sure you will. And 
 then, as to all you say about its being an unfit home 
 for you with your uncle, that I am sure of. We will 
 all three of us — Ned and you and I — consider what 
 is best to be done!" Mary made no answer; and 
 Mrs. Morland began to think of her young friend's 
 future, in which of course, as it always did, mingled 
 the idea of Mr. Mark Sopworth. She began, there- 
 fore, quite naturally to speak of the Sopworths. 
 
 " Ah ! there's another trouble," said Mary. " Lizzy 
 Sopworth is not at all friendly with me now. I don't 
 know how it is, but she has never been quite friendly 
 with me since last Christmas, and if ever her brother 
 shows me the least attention, it is sure to displease 
 her." ' The last attention, as she frankly confessed, 
 but not without blushes, which he had shown her, 
 wiis in walking home with her from Sommerton, 
 where they had accidentally met. She did not think, 
 either, that his family were as friendly to her as they 
 used to be ; she fancied that they were influenced by 
 all those shocking things respecting her uncle. People 
 used to fancy him rich, and that she would be his 
 heir ; but, however that might be, Mr. Mark had 
 been more than commonly friendly to her that even- 
 ing ; they had talked a deal about liej brother : she 
 could not help crying, she said ; and then he had 
 been so kind — it was impossible fur her to say how 
 kind he had been 1 
 
 Mrs. Morland, as was very natural, spoke of the 
 time when she would be Mrs. Mark Sopworth, and 
 of what a happiness it would be for her to have a 
 house of her own, to invite her brother to. Mary
 
 EBB TIDE. 89 
 
 Baid that she had often tliought of these things lier- 
 self, and that really the prospect of having a home 
 of one's own was enough to make a woman marry, 
 provided she had any respect for a man. 
 
 Mrs. Morland thought so too ; and then added, 
 that, whatever the family of the Sop worths miglit 
 feel regarding her, she was quite convinced that Mark 
 was excessively in love with her ; and she felt sure, 
 that if anything really unfortunate happened to Mr. 
 Crawley, Mary would have a home provided for her, 
 without the necessity either of serving in a shop or 
 going into a school. 
 
 Blessed are those friends and counsellors who think 
 as we do ! Mary was happier that night, as she laid 
 her head on her pillow, than she had heen for months. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A TURN IX THE TIDE. 
 
 " I'll never stir another stroke in this cursed busi- 
 ness r said Morland, bursting into the parlour one of 
 the next days — "never, as long as I live; and the 
 devil may do his worst with it !" ♦ 
 
 Mi-s. Morland, as she had done many a time 
 before, tried to pacify and soothe ; and hoped and 
 felt sure that all would be right, and that her hus- 
 band would succeed if he would only persevere. It 
 was such a thing, she said, to be disheartened, and to 
 give anything up in despair ! She should never doubi 
 succeeding herself, if she were to try ; and she was (juite 
 i2
 
 90 A TURN IN THE TIDE. 
 
 sure, that if he would only think so, he would suD- 
 ceed too. Oh, it was absurd to think of anything else ! 
 
 " If 1 could only have been contented to be as I 
 was !" exclaimed he. deaf to the voice of the charmer, 
 — " with a guinea a day, and no responsibility, instead 
 of paying a thousand pounds for what is not worth a 
 thousand pence, and then to have borrowed mouey 
 besides ! Heavens ! it makes me mad." 
 
 His wife still talked cheerfully, still tried to 
 make him take a more hopeful view of things — and, 
 above all, to have confidence in himself. 
 
 " I am next door to a beggar ! " said he, looking 
 fiercely at her ; for all that she said, in the honest 
 belief of her soul, of his abilities for business and 
 ultimate success, seemed to him bitter irony. " In 
 half a year — ay, in three months — I shall be a bank- 
 rupt. I hate the whole concern, and that's the long 
 and short of it ; and I wish the devil had it ! " And 
 then, in a sort of desperation, which was not without 
 a tinge of malice, he brought out his books to show 
 her how his affairs really stood, and to prove to her, 
 he said, what a fool she was to talk of ultimate 
 success, and such stuff. jNIelancholy indeed was it to 
 see large, heavily-bound ledgers, which seemed calcu- 
 lated for a business whose proud returns should be ten 
 thousand a year,' containing, at their very outset,. a 
 balance of loss — loss — loss ! She thought to herself, 
 that her husl)and did well indeed to keep them undei 
 lock and key ; for what would Barker or Sopwurth 
 say, could they surmise even of such things I 
 
 It was an astounding discovery — one for which sho 
 was not prepared ; and she sate with her head resting 
 on her hand in deep thought, from which she wa»
 
 A TURN IN THE TIDE. 91 
 
 roused by her husband's words. He would sell, he 
 said, his business for what he could get for it, and 
 take again to his commercial travelling— from the 
 salary for which he must contrive to allow her a 
 hundred a year, or something like that. It was a 
 good thing, he said, that they had no family ; she 
 and a servant could live very well on that, for nobody 
 would expect much show from a bankrupt's wife. 
 
 This was the cruellest blow that could have fallen 
 on poor Mrs. Morland ; she could not at first believe 
 that her husband really meant wliat he said. To live 
 separated from him — him whom she loved so ardently, 
 was to her inconceivable ; she would rather live on 
 bread-and-water with him, than like a queen without 
 him; his affection for her must indeed be very different 
 to hers, if he could mean what he said. But then, 
 that that husband should be a bankrupt ! Oh, heavens ! 
 with all her upright notions of trade and tradesmen, 
 as derived from the knowledge of her uncle, that waa 
 worse even than all the rest ; for, to be a bankrupt 
 was to her mind the height and depth of disgrace ! 
 To have begun with two thousand pounds, and in 
 two years not to be able to pay more than three 
 shillings in the pound, as her husband's books seemed 
 to prove, what a disgraceful thing it was ! She thought 
 of Hawkins's unpaid bill ; she thought of manyanother 
 un})aid bill ; and the prospect seemed most appalling ! 
 
 But Mrs. Morland — bless her noble spirit ! was not 
 a woman to sink down tamely under misfortune," 
 especially when that misfortune was of a kind to leave 
 a stain on the fair fame of her husband. Her first 
 thought and hope was that sbe would encourage him 
 to help himself out of his difficulties ; her second.
 
 92 A TURN IN THE TIDE. 
 
 and more mature one, was, that she herself would 
 endeavour to help him. 
 
 " George, dearest," said she to him one day, soon 
 after these terrible things had come to her knowledge, 
 *'two tliino^s are certain, — our affairs are desperate, 
 and they must be mended. Let me undertake the 
 preparation of the perfumes. I am no fine lady, 
 thank God ! I care not what this person or that says 
 about anything I do, so that we can only keep a 
 good name ! Oh, George," continued she, " you know 
 not what difficulties I have conquered in my life, and 
 if I were to tell you, you would perhaps think 
 nothing of them; but they have given me confidence 
 in myself ; and self-reliance, with judgment, will 
 overcome great difficulties ! Yes, you may smile," 
 said she, " but a drowning man will catch at a straw ; 
 here, then, see the straw which 1 hold out to you, 
 and which, please God to prosper me, shall not prove 
 a straw, but a good sound bridge to carry you over !" 
 
 "V\''e need not go through all the pros and cons in 
 the affiiir. Like the widow in the gospel, in the end 
 she cariied her point. Her husband consented — but 
 with an ill-grace, we must confess — that she should 
 make the attempt ; he all the while assuring her that 
 she was a fool, and would only end by making the 
 three shillings in the pound, which the creditors 
 might now receive, three halfpence ; but it did not 
 matter, he said ; she should be a nine days* wonder, 
 any how ! 
 
 Poor Mrs. Morland ! A great responsibility seemed 
 laid upon her, as the next day she set about her work 
 in good earnest. Her husband, however, prepared his 
 portmanteau, and set out, as he said, on an absence
 
 A TURN IN THE TIDE 93 
 
 of a week. She never inquired where he was going, 
 nor did he seem inclined to tell her ; but, just at that 
 time, she could not help finding his absence a great 
 relief. 
 
 It was one of the most delicate and renowned of 
 Nixon's perfumes on which Mrs. Morland made her 
 first attempt. She found the process most clearly 
 laid down by Nixon in his private book, and the 
 process seemed easy and simple ; it only required 
 precision and strict attention. Her husband had 
 failed every time — if she could accomplish that, she 
 need despair of none. She scarcely breathed as the 
 work went on ; with her watch in her hand, she saw 
 it distilling drop by drop ; if it succeeded, it was like 
 60 much pure gold : if she failed, what then? — Why 
 she would try again, and again ! 
 
 " Thank God ! thank God !" exclaimed she, ex- 
 amining the ethereal liquid, which she had prepared, 
 and inhaling its most refined odour ; ''this must be 
 right." 
 
 The postman brought in a letter — it was from her 
 husband in London. He wrote to say, that he was 
 in treaty to dispose of his business, and had already a 
 prospect of re-cngagement with the old firm for which 
 he had formerly travelled. He should not be back, 
 he said, for a fortnight, and he intended that she 
 should remove to London, which would be a much 
 more agreeable home for her than a gossiping place 
 like W — would be, after the disagreeables which 
 were inevitable. He asked, he said, eight hundred 
 pounds for his business, but would be quite willing to 
 take five for it. In a postscript he added that it wag 
 not the least use in the world her endeavouring to
 
 94 A TUnN IN THE TIDE- 
 
 turn him ; his mind was quite made up, and he should 
 close the bargain as soon as possible. 
 
 All the pleasure of success was damped by this 
 letter ; she wrote instantly to her husband to inform 
 him of her success, and to btseech of him not to dis- 
 pose of a business which was worth ten times the 
 money he asked for it. 
 
 The letter was despatched ; and as she sat in the 
 evening, pondering almost gloomily on the unfortu- 
 nate concurrence of circumstances, Becky came in, 
 and said that Miss Wheeler wanted to see her. " Let 
 her come, certainly,'' said she ; and Mary Wheeler 
 entered. Both of them looked out of spirits, and for 
 some time scarcely anything was said. 
 
 " You have heard, of course," said Mrs. Morland, 
 at length, " what everybody is saying about us.** 
 Mary confessed that she had ; people were so sur- 
 prised, she said ; it seenied to make lier uncle's affairs 
 sink into insignificance, and she could never herself 
 express how gnevea sne w-no. 
 
 " Please God !" said Mrs. Morland, " all may be 
 better before long; but this is a blow I was very 
 little prepared for," added she, imable to avoid weep- 
 ing. Mary so seldom saw her weep, and weeping too 
 on her own account, that there was something inex- 
 pressibly affecting to her in it ; she clasped her arms 
 round her neck like a loving child, and while she 
 kissed her tenderly, wept too, for sincerest sympathy. 
 
 " But," said Mrs. Morland, rousing up at length, 
 " I want to know, Mary, whether your brother ig 
 coming 1" 
 
 Tile question turned poor Mary's thoughts at onco 
 Into their old channel ; she grew quite pale, and,
 
 A TURN IN THE TIDE. 05 
 
 without replyinj^, fixed her eyes on Mrs. Morland, 
 with a look ahnost of despair, that went to her 
 very soul. " Poor dear child !" said she ; and Mary, 
 opening her little black silk bag, took thence a letter, 
 which ^he put into her hand. It was a letter from 
 Ned himself, dated " off Gravesend" but a few dayg 
 before ; a joyful, affectionate letter, full of the anti- 
 cipation of meeting. Whilst Mrs. Morland read it, 
 Mary sate with her eyes fixed upon her, almost 
 breathless ; and, when she had finished, clasped her 
 hands, and burst into a passion of tears. 
 
 " And do you really mean to say that your brother 
 is not coming ?" asked she. 
 
 " He is not coming," returned Mary, in a mcum- 
 ful voice ; " my uncle has utterly forbidden it. I 
 went down on my knees," said she, " to him yester- 
 day, — I besought him with prayers and tears, but it 
 was no use ; nothing but despair, which drove me 
 almost frantic, would have made me venture so far; 
 and if I had been begging for my life, I could not 
 have prayed more earnestly, but it was no use ; — he 
 says he cannot afford it I Oh, what a miserable 
 thing it is to be poor!" exclaimed sh^-. " If I could 
 only in any way raise five })oundtJ, that he miglit 
 come ! but all the money that ever I could sav«-, I 
 laid out for him in a silk handkerchief, and that 
 miserable purse, which I thought I should have such 
 pleasure in giving him 1" 
 
 Mrs. Morland thought of her own former wishes to 
 invite Mary's brother to their house, in case his uncle 
 refused ; and she sighed deejdy, remembering, ahis 
 her own inability to do so. 
 
 "Perhaps," said Mary^ aftei a few second.*, during
 
 96 A TURN IN THE TIDE. 
 
 which Mr5?. Morland made no remark, " you think 
 that, in the present state of my uncle's affairs, 1 ought 
 not to have urged him to spend even one penny on 
 me or Ned, and that I am unreasonable ever to^hink 
 of such a thing ; — perhaps I am : but this I know 
 that I feel as if I could not live without seeing him. 
 and I think it is only natural that I should feel so, 
 especially when 1 know that he is in England, and 
 that he has no particular friends in London, and that 
 he wants to see mo so much. And, oh," said she, 
 speaking almost wildly, " there are so many, so very 
 many things on which I want his counsel ; he alwaya 
 seemed so much older in judgment than I ; and he 
 has travelled so far, and seen so much, that I am sure 
 he could advise me for the best !" 
 
 Mrs. Morland thought to herself that a youth who 
 had lived so much at sea, very probably had had 
 really far less experience in life than the poor girl 
 hereelf, hut she did not say so ; and Mary added, 
 " There are many things on which I wanted to open 
 my heart to him, and to know his opinion." 
 
 Mrs. Morland readily imagined what these were. 
 The state of her affections, probably, was as little 
 happy as her prospects in life, for she herself had 
 often thought, though she had never said so to Mary, 
 that if Mark Sopworth really had no matrimonial 
 intentions towards her, he was trifling very cruelly, 
 not to say shamefully, with her feelings ; and if he 
 had, now was the time of all others to come forward 
 — now when she so deeply needed true friends and a 
 home. 
 
 "I don't wonder, dear Mary," said she, "at your 
 wanting to see your brother; it is no more than
 
 A TURN IN THE TIDE. 97 
 
 natural, and I wish to Heaven you could !" And then 
 she told her what had been lier intentions, and what 
 nothing but their own misfortunes Avould have pre- 
 vented her from doing. Mary threw her arms again 
 round her neck, and kissed her tenderly, for this 
 proof of intended kindness touched her beyond words. 
 " I know how good and generous you are," said she ; 
 " and if it had not been for you, what would have 
 become of me ? And I would, and should," added she, 
 '* have asked your advice long ago, but I knew thai 
 you had troubles and anxieties of your own ; and & 
 hoped that Ned would come ! " 
 
 Days went on, and many a wild scheme had pook 
 Mary to procure means to enable her brother to com« 
 to W — . His letters, though intended to reconcile 
 her to their mutual disappointment, almost broke her 
 heart ; and when at length she received from him a 
 packet of beautiful Indian trifles, which he found an 
 opportunity of sending to her free of cost, she was 
 almost beside herself. " If I could only borrow five 
 pounds," thought she, '' I would go into service, anil 
 never rest till it was paid back again ;" and had it not 
 been that Mrs. Morland was unfortunate herself, she 
 would have asked it from her. She thought of Miss 
 Harris ; but, oh, no ! Miss Harris would do nothing 
 which seemed counter to Mr. Crawley's wishes. She 
 thought of Mark Sopworth. Heaven help her, poor 
 girl ! she had thought of him all the time ; but though 
 ehe told Lizzy Sopworth of her distress, Lizzy's 
 sympathy was cold, for she and Barbara Pocklington 
 were going to the Assize ball, and had neither time 
 nor thought to spend on anybody's troubles. Mary 
 caw Mark himself — met him in the street, and actu- 
 
 K
 
 98 A TURN IN.TUE TIDE. 
 
 ally stopped liiin — such a thing as she had never dono 
 before, to tell him htn* distress. He turned back with 
 her, and walked, not homeward, but into the pleasant 
 fields below the town. He was sympathisingly kind, 
 more than as a friend, almost as a lover ; but yet — 
 oh yes, a woman's heart is sensitive as life itself, — it 
 was not, after all, quite that generous, self-forgetting, 
 ' all-sacrificing kindness, which is the true characteris- 
 tic of true h)ve ! She was more than ever depressed 
 as she sate down in her own chamber, after her return, 
 not knowing that Barbara Pocklington, who liad seen 
 them together, was sitting also in her chamber, a 
 prey to the fiend jealousy. 
 
 The day after Mrs. Morland received her hus- 
 band's letter, she wrote to her uncle, begging him to 
 come to her immediately. He came ; and the very 
 day he came, Morland wrote again to his wife, but 
 in wretched spirits ; he thought nothing at all of her 
 success, but was greatly disturbed that the bargain 
 was all off about disposing of his business. There 
 was a rumour abroad, he said, to his disadvantage; 
 and everywhere people were imitating Nixon's per- 
 fumes. Nobody would purchase the concern, because 
 the patent vvas so invaded. He talked of prosecution, 
 and tlien cursed liis poverty. There never was such 
 a miserable letter written before ! 
 
 By the time Mrs. Morland's uncle came, she had 
 worked up all the stock which her hurband had left, 
 and had re-supplied the warehouse with sundry 
 dozens of whatever articles were most in demand ; 
 and what was yet more to the purpose was, that what- 
 ever she had prepared was finer almost than that 
 which had been made by the original inventor. " 1 am
 
 • A TURN' IN THE TIDE. 09 
 
 lucky ! God be thanked ; I am indeed lucky !" said 
 dear Mrs. Morland, with tears in her eyes, at the very 
 moment when her uncle's rap at the door startled her. 
 
 We tell nothing of the meeting of uncle and niece ; 
 we merely say, that he was perfectly satisfied of her 
 success, and of her ability to conduct the business ; 
 that he gave her the most cordial encouragement and 
 approbation, and consented to become nominally the 
 purchaser of the business, for five hundred pounds, 
 which he would advance immediately, to enable her, 
 and, in fact, on condition of her becoming joint con- 
 ductor and manager of the concern. All was happily 
 and satisfactorily arranged ; and while not only the 
 Barkers and the Sopworths, but the whole neighbour- 
 hood were, not whispering of the Morland's embar- 
 rassment, but almost shouting it aloud, Mrs. Morland 
 wrote a joyful letter to her husband. 
 
 " Return, dearest," said she. '' for things are not so 
 bad but that they will readily be repaired. Your 
 business has begun already to flourish. I hoped, in 
 marrying you, to bring a blessing into your house ; of 
 money, Heaven knows I brought but little, but that 
 is of less consequence, if I can help you to acquire it. 
 
 "But, in order that I may make myself intelligi- 
 ble to you, I must tell you, that, by the blessing of 
 Heaven, I have entirely and altogether succeeded in 
 making and distilling those particular perfumes on 
 which you set most value. My uncle, for whom I sent, 
 and on whose judgment Iknow you too set a high value, 
 has been here. He entirely approves of all that I have 
 done, and testifies to my success. He will advance us 
 the necessary money to go on with, so that there is no 
 fear of your becominar bankrupt. Gracious Heaven t
 
 100 A TURN IN THE TIDE. 
 
 the idea of your being so disgraced would almost drive 
 me mad ! I am happy, George — supremely happy, 
 in feeling myself to be the means of helping you, and 
 keeping your name free from stain. 
 
 " Thank God ! we may now live together ; for, to 
 tell you the truth, nothing in this world, excepting 
 disgrace itself, is so bitter as to be separated from you. 
 Come home then, dearest, as soon as you can, and 
 give up the horrid idea of travelling, which, in point 
 of respectability, is nothing to compare to a clever, 
 flourisliing tradesman, who is his own master, and 
 whose profits are all for himself. I am proud of 
 being a tradesman's Avife, and, above all, of being 
 yours ! Come back, then, to your own wife, and make 
 her perfectly happy, by saying, ' Well done, good and 
 faithful servant !' Yes, George, I say come back, and 
 your wife will be your helper — your helpmate, as the 
 Creator from the first intended all wives to be." 
 
 Mori and read the letter, and came home, not so 
 much because his wife wished it, as because he had 
 completed his own arrangements, signed and sealed 
 his agreement with A\^illet and Skeggs, to become 
 once more their commercial traveller, and was now 
 at liberty to look after his own brangled affairs, and 
 to make an end one way or another of that " cursed 
 business," as he still continued to call it. He read 
 his wife's letter, and did her the justice to say that 
 there was not in this world a better wife than his, 
 and that it was a pity she had ever married an unfor- 
 tunate dog like himself ; but as to having any faith 
 in her distilling and perfume-compounding, he had 
 none ; and as to the five hundred which the uncle 
 had lent, why, if he chose to purchase the business,
 
 A TURN IN THE TIDE. 101 
 
 and let his niece manage it for him, that was another 
 thing : but as to borrowing the money, with interest 
 to pay on it, that he would never consent to ; and he 
 did not exactly like that the state of his affairs, with- 
 out his own knowledge, should have been laid open to 
 anybody, and more especially to a precise, clever man 
 of business like his wife's uncle, who looked on insol- 
 Tency as worse than leprosy. 
 
 So thought Morland ; and, so thinking, came home. 
 The uncle was gone when he arrived, and his wife 
 was busy again distilling, and working down in the 
 little laboratory with as much zeal as ever Nixon had 
 "worked there before her. Her husband's laugh, as 
 he entered unperceived, and stole softly behind her, 
 made her first aware of his presence. She threw her 
 arms round his neck, and kissed his lips, his cheeks, 
 and his forehead; — the joyful affection of his wife 
 made him for the moment unspeakably happy. 
 
 " And now," said she, putting the key of the 
 laboratory into her pocket, " before you eat or drink, 
 you shall see the grain of mustard-seed which I have 
 sown for our future prosperity." 
 
 Morland saw what his wife had done ; and, after 
 examination, proved to him how well she had done it 
 too : yet. for all this — and we write it with regret — 
 he gave her but very measured commendation. He 
 did not say, as he ought to have done, and as in the 
 bottom of his heart he felt all the time, that she, in 
 having succeeded where he had failed, had become 
 his good angel, and had saved him from disgrace and 
 ruin ; and beyond that, that she must be regarded aa 
 the agent of their future prosperity. 
 
 Nothing of this sort did Mr. Morland say, but
 
 102 A TURN IN THE TIDE. 
 
 talked very coolly. He hoped things would turn out 
 well ; hoped she might ultimately sueceed, but crid 
 not feel at all sure; the things which she had pre- 
 pared might or might not be right, time would prove 
 — and time would prove, too, whether her present 
 success was not rather accident than anything else ! 
 He could n(jt say, for his part; and so on. 
 
 Buoyant-hearted as Mrs. Morland naturally was, 
 she could not help confessing that it was a little dis- 
 couraging to hear him talk so ; her uncle had spoken 
 very differently ; she was sorry that her husband 
 was not as well pleased as she had hoped he would be. 
 But, after all, added she, what did it matter ? the 
 main thing was accomplished, — the business would 
 succeed ; he would give her all the credit she deserved 
 as soon as the money began to come in ; and, in the 
 meantime, she should have him with her, to make 
 happy and to love ! 
 
 Alas ! the coolness with which he had regarded all 
 her good works gave not half the pain which she 
 endured a few days afterwards, on finding from him, 
 that on the 23d of December he 'must be in London, 
 in order to prepare for entering on his new situation 
 with the commencement of the year ! He said she 
 should have the management of the business for the 
 next twelve months, but that if there were loss, it 
 must stand against her uncle's name ; he would keep 
 to the bargain she had made with him, — the five 
 hundred pounds was the purchase-money of the con- 
 cern. He washed his hands of the affair, he said, and 
 would be responsible for no further loss ; and if, at 
 the end of the twelve months, it did not answer, the 
 uncle must make his best of it, and she must go to
 
 A TURN IN THE TIDE. 103 
 
 London. He himself, he said, had found a friend, 
 too, who had advanced him five hundred pounds ; he 
 would settle with all his creditors, and thus leave her 
 and her uncle a fair field to start upon. 
 
 Mr. Morland went, as he said he should, on the 
 23d of December, but not, however, before he had 
 compensated to his wife for his former coldness to her. 
 The truth was, he loved her better than he ever 
 fancied he could love a wife ; and all the noble efforts 
 she had made to save him from ruin touched his 
 heart deeply. 
 
 " I cannut think," said he to himself, as he was 
 putting up a case of those exquisite perfumes, which 
 she had prepared with such singular success, as a 
 sample of what he was able to supply to Nixon's old 
 customers, " I cannot think," mused he, " how a 
 worthless, wretched dog like me, who cannot manage 
 to keep a good business from bankruptcy, ever came 
 to get such a good wife !" 
 
 He rolled up the black morocco sample-case, and 
 went on thinking of his wife, and liow much hand- 
 somer she really was, and how vastly superior every 
 way to all those handsome clever landladies who, at 
 so many an inn which he had been accustomed 
 to frequent, used to be his admiration. 
 
 " Hang it !" thought he to himself, as he put the 
 sample-case into his carpet-bag, "the wannest wel- 
 come is not always at an inn. I'm spoiled for travelling 
 now, I'm afraid ; and with such a^wife it's no wonder ; 
 and yet I can't think how ever I had the impudence 
 to ask her to have me ; however, I'll save something 
 out of ray guinea a-day, as sure as my name is 
 Morland ; and, instead of buying so many clothes for 
 myself, I'll now and then buy somethmg for her !"
 
 104 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A SECOND CHRISTMAS-DAY. 
 
 It was Christmas Day — a cold, wet, and miserable 
 Christmas Day ; and Mrs. Morland, who had, spite of 
 the weather, been to church — for when the heart is sad, 
 it is naturally disposed to communion with its Maker^ 
 sate late in the evening, as she had sate for the greatest 
 part of the afternoon, alone and sunk in deep thought, 
 by her own fireside. She had been taking a review 
 of her past life, and looking forward to the future, 
 and had been covenanting v,ith herself and with God 
 for the conscientious and zealous and unwavering 
 fulfilment of all the requirings of her duty, let them 
 be what they might. Her thoughts were serious, 
 but not desponding; and, like a light, at once cheering 
 and warm, there lived about her heart the remem- 
 brance of her husband's parting words. Let us see 
 what they were as she at that moment recalled 
 them to her mind — " God bless you, Ellen, and let 
 me tell you what I think of myself. I ought to be 
 torn with wild horses for not making you a better 
 husband. I don't know how it is, but I never thought 
 what sort of husband you deserved till of late ; but I 
 shall be an altered man, Ellen, and all the good that 
 comes to us is owing to you ! I can't think how in 
 the world you came to marry me ; but I'll make you 
 a good husband yet, never fear! and I'll rtiake you 
 amends one ^^ ay or another, that I will ! And so,
 
 A SECOND CHRISTMAS-DAY. 105 
 
 flod bless you, Ellen ; and take care of yourself, for 
 my sake ; but don't cry now, Ellen ! and I shall write 
 to you every Sunday. I am no great church-goer, as 
 you know, but love to one's wife — and such a wife 
 as you — is every bit as good as religion ; and whenever 
 I think of you I shall bless God, and that is religion, 
 too ! But I must go, or I shall cry myself; and a 
 big fellow like me looks such a fool crying ! So, good- 
 bye !" And as he went out of the .house he blew his 
 nese very Igudly, which his wife never failed to 
 remember also, for it was a sign that, big fellow as 
 he was, he could not help crying too. 
 
 Mrs. jMorland sate by her fire quite alone ; and 
 while she was thus sitting, the Barkers, and the 
 Pocklingtons, and dozens of people beside — all those, 
 in fact, who had met at the Sopworths', of Somraer- 
 ton, twelve months before, with the exception of 
 the Morlands and old Crawley and his niece, met 
 there again for another Christmas party. Again 
 there was the same good dinner ; the same swinging 
 mistletoe, the same games, and the same merriment ; 
 but at dinner and supper, and even in the midst of 
 all the mirth, two most interesting topics occupied 
 every one ; and they were the ruin of Mr. Crawley 
 and the embarrassment of Mr. Morland. According 
 to them, Crawley was a bankrupt not worth a penny 
 in the pound ; and if Morland could pay half-a-crown, 
 that was the outside. 
 
 " And what will become of Miss Wheeler ?" asked 
 some one. 
 
 '' What will young Sop worth do ?" or, " Was it 
 only a flirtation ?" asked many another ; and to these 
 last questions the very next moment seemed to give
 
 106 A SECOND CHRISTMAS-DAY. 
 
 answer, in what they beheld before them. Barbara 
 Pocklington was telling fortunes with cards ; and 
 Mark Sopworth, who was leaning over the back of 
 her chair, kept whispering in her ear. Nobody heard 
 exactly what he whispered, but Barbara looked more 
 than pleased ; and somebody who saw it declared, 
 afterwards, that he not only whispered into her ear, 
 but that he impressed a kiss upon her clieek. 
 
 " Oh yes," said everybody, " the Pocklingtons 
 have very good fortunes ; old Mr. Pocklington farms 
 on his own land, and Mr. Mark Sopworth might do 
 a deal worse than marry the handsome Barbara ! " 
 
 Nobody whatever that Christmas day seemed to 
 think that there was the least chance of Mary 
 Wheeler becoming Mrs. Mark Sopworth. Then, 
 as for Mrs. Morland I AVell ! it was the oddest 
 thing in the v.orld that Morland should take to his 
 travelling again; and his wife take upon herself the 
 management of a half- ruined concern like that! It 
 was very odd indeed ! for somebody had said that 
 Mrs. Morland really could manage the distilling and 
 all that, better even than her husband; but it was 
 not at all likely, for how could she read Latin ? And 
 yet, old Matthew said she did manage, one way or 
 another, and went on, for all the world, just as Mr. 
 Nixon used to do. It was a very odd thing, they 
 said, and more especially as everybody expected to 
 find Morland's name in the Gazette ; but all his 
 town bills were paid, and that did not much look like 
 bankruptcy ; but, at all events, there was an end of 
 her gentility. They wondered now whether sho 
 would go out in all her fine satins and velvets; they 
 should not, they were sure, if they were in her place,
 
 A SECOND CHRISTMAS-DAY. 107 
 
 seeing she was not much better than a bankrupt'^ 
 wife, and a deserted wife into the bargain. 
 
 Somebody said, that, as to dressing, she dressed 
 every bit as well as ever; they had seen her at the 
 parish-church that morning, and she was dressed ever 
 BO grand ! But, however, this time next year would 
 show what would be the end of all this ! Yes, said 
 everybody, they should see this time next year ! 
 
 Whilst people were thus talking of her, she wtis 
 sitting, as we have seen, by her own fireside, think- 
 ing of her husband and his parting words. The 
 sleety rain drove against the window; the wind 
 howled down tlie chimney, and all at once, the dismal 
 weather without forced itself, as it were, upon her 
 heart. She thought of poor wanderers and home- 
 less people ; of wretched mothers, and little children, 
 night-travellers on the tops of coaches ; she thought 
 of her husband — great-coated, yet cold — who, on many 
 a night like this, would be driving on in an open gig, 
 over wide windy moors, towards some dreary great 
 town, where he had no friends, and only a noisy ina 
 for his home ; and as she thought, life seemed a sad and 
 painful chapter of miseries. She stirred up the fire, 
 which was burning black, to cheer away the despond- 
 ency which seemed creeping over her, and just at 
 that moment, Becky burst into the room, and at once 
 diverted her thoughts and demanded her attention. 
 
 ' Only tliink !" exclaimed she, " of that old brute 
 at the end of the yard ! He has turned out that poor 
 thing on a night like this into the driving rain, with 
 nothing but a shawl over her head; and she his own 
 flesh and hlood, as one Diay say ! " 
 
 " Mary 'Wheeler tJ-.:j7ed out on a night like thisl *
 
 108 A SECOND CHRISTMAS-DAY. 
 
 said Mrs. Morland. " Fetch her in ! " exclaimed she, 
 rushing at once to tlie door. Becky opened the front 
 door, and the wild wind which met them almost 
 took away their breath. 
 
 Mrs. Morland looked out, but the night was pitch- 
 dark. Sopworth's back-shop windows, as it was 
 Christmas-day, were all closed, and not a glimmer of 
 light shone in heaven or on earth, and the driving 
 rain beat into her face. 
 
 '' Oh, you can't go out ! " said Becky ; " she 
 stands, poor thing, in the shed below Sopworth's 
 kitchen, by her uncle's door ; but the rain drives 
 through the broken roof, and she will be wet to the 
 skin ! " 
 
 " Fetch her in ! fetqji her in ! for Heaven's sake ! " 
 said Mrs. Morland, hastening back to the parlour, 
 and piling up a good fire; whilst the kind-hearted 
 Becky, almost as full of pity as her mistress, threw 
 her apron over her head, and went out into the 
 Btorm. 
 
 Mary came in very pale and wet, and looking ill, 
 and very wretched. Her hair, which was dripping 
 with rain, hung forlornly about her face ; there was 
 something so wild and melancholy in her appearance, 
 that Mrs. Morland was almost frightened. 
 
 '• Why did you not come at once to me ! " said she, 
 somewhat reproachfully ; " you ought to have known 
 that I should stand your friend ! " 
 
 "It is a miserable thing to have no home," re- 
 turned the poor girl ; "and I have been so wretched, 
 tliat I cared not what became of me. I knew," con- 
 tinued she, ''• how good, how inexpressibly good you 
 were ; but it is possible to be miserable even beyond 
 caring for oneself ! "
 
 A SECOND CHRISTMAS-DAY. 100 
 
 ** You should not say so ! You should not think 
 so!" said Mrs. Morland. "God gives us friends, 
 Mary, that they may help us ; he makes our friends 
 the instruments of his mercy." 
 
 " I have had dreadful thoughts — dreadful tempta- 
 tions this night," at length she said ; " but thank God 
 the worst is over now. I thouglit of Ned — and I 
 thought of you, dear Mrs. Morland, and I prayed to 
 be able to resist temptation, and strength was given 
 me for it. I was coming to ask you for present 
 shelter, and for counsel — for, God help me, 1 need a 
 friend ! — when Becky came to me ! " 
 
 Like the tenderestof mothers or sisters, Mrs. Mor- 
 land took her into her own warm chamber, and laid 
 her in her own bed, comforting her, and encouraging 
 her to open her whole heart, and make her troubles 
 light by revealing them. But it would not have 
 been possible to make her troubles light, nor was it 
 possible either for her, in the state of mind she then 
 was, to have revealed them all. But though the kind 
 Mrs. Morland only at that time knew Mary's troubles 
 in part, we can tell something of them to the reader. 
 
 Mr. Crawley, who had lived for weeks under the 
 hourly fear of arrest, poured the whole rigour of his 
 tyrannical temper on his unhappy niece. He was at 
 length bent upon sending her, or rather conveying 
 her to London, to an acquaintance of his of very 
 questionable character, with whom he promised him- 
 self, as well as her, a comfortable home. She refused ; 
 and at length, wrought up to passion, which knew no 
 bounds, and was terrible to witness, he had struck 
 her, entered her chamber, locked up her few poe- 
 Bcsaions, taken the key, and, throwing to her ft
 
 110 A SECOND CHRISIMAS-DAY. 
 
 woollen shawl, had turned her out penny less into 
 the wild night. Mary described somewhat of her 
 feelings at that time ; she stood, she knew not how 
 long, before the door in the open rain and wind, 
 without one definite thought, but of utter wretched- 
 ness ; the world, she said, seemed so wide ; but she 
 had no home in it, and as it seemed, no hope. Sho 
 thouglit of her brother ; but the wind howled round 
 her, and the thought of shipwreck and misery by 
 sea fell on her soul like death. A kind of dark fore- 
 boding came over her, that she should never see him 
 again, for that he was lost ; and a strong wish to die 
 took possession of her. In that dark moment, too, 
 she thought of Mark Sopworth, and then came back 
 the bitter thought which had hung about her all the 
 day, nay, which had haunted her for many days, 
 that he and his sister were at Summerton ; that it 
 was Christmas-day ; that the party which had met 
 there the year before, was there again — yet, that 
 she had not even been invited, was perhaps forgotten 
 by them. She was of no consequence to them ; they 
 could rejoice without her ; they could be gay, even 
 while the bitterness, as of death, was on her soul. 
 She thought of Barbara Pocklington — and the miser- 
 able feeling of jealousy stung her heart almost to 
 madness. Heaven forgive her ! for she loved truly, 
 and could not have wounded, even in thought, the 
 heart she loved ! Whilst she was thus suffering 
 from the intensest torture which the soul can expe- 
 rience, a simple, and otherwise almost ridiculous 
 circumstance occurred, which only yet more har- 
 rowed her excited feelings ; this was the conversa- 
 tion of two servants — Ann at the Sopworths, and
 
 A SECOND CHRISTMAS -DAY. Ill 
 
 the Barkers' Sarah. They came into the back- 
 kitchen, near which poor Mary was standing, and 
 while Ann cleaned a saucepan, in which she was 
 intending to mull some wine, Sarah held the candle, 
 and thus they continued the conversation, which 
 seemed to have commenced before. 
 
 "Bless me!" said the Barkers' Sarah, "marry 
 her ! never ! for all she 's as fond of him as ever can 
 be ! I heard our missis say so myself ! Miss Bar- 
 bara," continued she, "will have two thousand 
 pounds on her wedding-day." 
 
 " "VFhicli do yc$L think the handsomest ? " asked 
 Ann. 
 
 " Miss Barbara," returned Sarah ; " she has so 
 much more colour. Miss "Wheeler is the genteelest, 
 may be : but I wouldn't give a fig for gentility." 
 
 " Yes, she is very handsome," said Ann : " she is a 
 deal with our folks now-a-days ; and it was very 
 pretty of her to give me the lace for my cap." 
 
 " The Pocklingtons give a dance on New Year'* 
 Eve," said Sarah, "and our folks go, of course." 
 
 " And ours too," said Ann ; " master has got a new 
 coat to go in. Oh, it will be a match, as sure as I'm 
 alive ; and yet, I used to think he was very fond of 
 Miss Wheeler." 
 
 "It was she as was so fond of him," said Sarah ; 
 «ind with the*i words, the saucepan being sufficiently 
 cleaned, the two returned to the kitchen, leaving poor 
 Mary heart-sick, and doubly wretched. 
 
 The very servants talked of her love for him. 
 Heaven help us ! how very little can any heart bear 
 to have the naked truth rudely presented to it ! 
 Shame and humiliation seemed at once to crush her
 
 H2 A SECOND CHUISTMAS-DAY. 
 
 to the eartli, and make her utterly despise herself. 
 She thought of self-destruction, and, almost frantic, 
 rushed into the shed, where she sat for an hour or 
 more, and where Becky, going for fuel, had seen her. 
 
 Better thoughts at length came over her. She 
 recalled the memory of her parents ; she thought of 
 her beloved brother, and of Mrs. Morland, who had 
 always been so steadily kind to her. Tears of affection 
 and tenderness gushed from her eyes ; she sank on 
 her knees, and prayed for strength and resignation, 
 and then, calmer, if not more hopeful in spirit, rose 
 up, determined to sin neither against God nor man, 
 but to ask protection and advice from Mrs. Morland, 
 whom, it seemed to her at that moment, was the 
 ftiend jmrposely designed by Heaven to help her. 
 
 Nothing, however, could Mrs. Morland advise for 
 the present ; and nothing definite could be done, for 
 the immediate consequence of Mary's excitement and 
 exposure to the weather was violent fever, which, for 
 a considerable time, endangered even her life. 
 
 Mr. Crawley was arrested, and without the power 
 of finding bail ; the creditors took possession of all his 
 effects, and he himself was removed to prison. Mary 
 was unconscious of all that was going on around her ; 
 but Mrs. Morland, ever watchful, and ever thought- 
 ful, interfered with the creditors, and saved for her 
 her few possessions, the keys of which Mr. Crawley 
 obstinately refused to give up to any one, but kept 
 with him in his waistcoat pocket, even in his prison. 
 
 The Pocklingtons gave their dance on New Year's 
 Eve, to whicli, as a matter of course, the Sopworths 
 went — Mr. Mark in his new coat, made })inposely for 
 the occasion, as his servant still persisted in saying.
 
 A SECOND CHRISTMAS-DAY. 113 
 
 And, again, what a fertile topic of conversation waa 
 old Crawley and his affairs ! his cruelty to his niece ; 
 her illness, and Mrs. Morland's kindness to her ; — it 
 was quite a God-send to the party. 
 
 " Well, and what will become of poor Miss 
 ^V'heele^?" asked many a one. She must go out 
 somewhere, everybody agreed ; perhaps into a shop, 
 or perhaps into a school, or perhaps she would live 
 altogether with Mrs. Morland, now that Mrs. Mor- 
 land lived alone, and maintain herself with her needle. 
 Everybody pitied her, and many a one kept their eye 
 fixed, while they talked of her, on Mark Sopworth, 
 to see how he looked ; but Mark was aware of that, 
 and though all declared that he looked out of spirits, 
 he either was gay, or assumed purposely an air of 
 gaiety. 
 
 Every I'ody said that they had never seen Barbara 
 look so handsome before ; and Barbara devoted her- 
 self that night, as everybody said, to fascinate young 
 Sopworth ; but as for that, all the Pocklington family 
 overwhelmed him, and his whole connexions, with 
 civilities. 
 
 " Oh, it will be a match, as sure as I am alive ! " 
 whispered many a one. 
 
 One person had heard old Pocklington and young 
 Sopworth t liking about somebody purchasing the 
 lease of Crawley's premises from the creditors. Ano- 
 ther said it was young Sopworth who was going to 
 purchase ; he had said he was intending to live in old 
 Crawley's house, and should turn his own sitting- 
 room into a warehouse. There was, too, a deal of 
 talk on family affairs, between the two mothers. 
 Mrs. Pocklington took Mrs. Sopworth into her bed- 
 l2
 
 114 A SECOND CHRISTMAS-DAY. 
 
 room, where there was a fire, and there they two sat 
 talking quite confidentially together for more than an 
 hour. Nol)ody had the slightest doubt but that the 
 marriage of these two young people had become quite 
 a family affair. 
 
 That evening, Mary's life was despaired of; and 
 Mrs. Morland thought much less of the letter she had 
 received that day from her husband, though it was 
 the first he had written since his departure, than she 
 did of her young friend, who lay insensible on 
 her bed. 
 
 She sat on one side the bed, and Dr. Wentworth, 
 the physician whom she had called in, sat on the 
 other. He showed the warmest interest for his 
 patient ; and no wonder, for she was young and 
 lovely, and Dr. Wentworth was one of the very best 
 and kindest of men, whom all loved, but more espe- 
 cially the poor. He was unmarried, and perhaps five- 
 and-thirty^ and lived vrith a respectable old house- 
 keeper, and a good establishment of servants, in one 
 of the best houses of the town. Mrs. Morland had 
 known him only by character, till she called him in 
 to her young inmate ; but they very soon became 
 intimate as old friends. He often prolonged his 
 visits to half an hour, or rather so arranged his visit 
 that he could stay thus long with them. He had 
 done so on this occasion; and they two had talked over 
 the virtues, the sorrows, and the desolate prospects of 
 the young sufferer before them, till their hearts 
 seemed overfiowing with Christian love and sympathy. 
 " I shall send my housekeeper to sit up with her to- 
 night," said he, rising to take his leave ; " we must 
 not make unreasonable demands on you, Mrs. Mor-
 
 A SECOND CHRISTMAS-DAY. 115 
 
 land ; to-morrow niglit you shall again sit up with 
 her — to-night you must sleep." 
 
 Dr. Wentworth's housekeeper came, the very per- 
 sonification of benevolence, cleanliness, and kindness. 
 It was a real comfort to see her in the chamber; 
 Bnd, leaving Mary in her care, Mrs. Morland lay 
 down for a few hours in the next room. 
 
 Mary was no better the next day, nor for the three 
 days following. Lizzy Sopworth stayed at the Pock- 
 lingtons' for a week, and Mark, when he returned 
 home, on the third day of the New Year, was greeted 
 with the news, that it was doubtful whether Mary 
 would live through the day. If faith could be put 
 in the countenance of man, he was not only surprised, 
 but greatly distressed ; if he never had loved her 
 before, he felt as if he really loved her then ; and the 
 recollection of many things which had occurred since 
 this last Christmas-day, since Barbara Pocklington 
 and he had been so much together, rose up in his 
 mind like accusing spirits. 
 
 Like many another man, Mark Sopworth was 
 infirm of purpose ; the present wind, from whatever 
 point it might blow, carried him before it. He had 
 been hurried on, as it then seemed to him, farther 
 than he ever intended with Barbara Pocklington ; 
 he really loved Mary Wheeler, and he knew it now, 
 though he had never felt quite sure of it before ! So 
 argued he for the first momer>t,^nd gave way to a 
 despondency of feeling which indicated itself in his 
 countenance, and gave every one of his shopmen a 
 •omething to talk about. 
 
 It is true, thought he to himself in the course of 
 Ihe day, that no positive declaration and proposal hai
 
 116 A SECOND CUKISTMAS-DAT. 
 
 been made to Barbara Pocklington ; but it was vain to 
 endeavour to persuade himself that it had not been 
 implied. He had gone no farther with her, nor 
 indeed so far, as with Mary Wheeler; but then, 
 Barbara, unlike poor Mar}*, had friends to stand by 
 her — brothers, and father, and mother, and sisters; 
 and then, there were his own family — father, and 
 mother, and sister, too, who all would expect this 
 from him ; what a host they were ! and if he did not 
 fear to disappoint any hopes he had excited in Bar- 
 bara herself, he did fear all tliis combined force of hef 
 friends. If it were not for all these people, thought 
 Mark, I would give up Barbara at once, for I love 
 Mary a thousand times better ! And then he thought 
 of her death : and liow if she died — what then ? he 
 should be quite free to marry Barbara, if he then 
 liked ; but, oh no ! if Mary died he never would 
 marry — at least, not for many years ; it was a beauti- 
 ful thing to love truly ! But he hoped, above all 
 things, that she would not die ; for if she died, he 
 never should be happy again ! 
 
 Mark was extremely glad that his sister was not at 
 home, for if she had, he never could have let her see 
 his feelings ; and he never should have ventured to 
 go, as he now would, as soon as ever it was dusk, and 
 ring softly at Mrs. Morland's door, and learn some- 
 thing himself about the poor girl, 
 
 Mrs. Morland, who never doubted but that Mark 
 Sopworth really and truly loved, thought it the most 
 natural thing in the world that he should look pale 
 and ill, and that he should be almost too much 
 agitated to speak ; so she talked to him in the most 
 kind and friendly manner; told him how ill pool
 
 A SECOND CHRISTMAS-DAY. 117 
 
 Mary was, but fearing to distress him too much, gave 
 him hope, and said that she really believed she would 
 get better ; and then she began to say how good and 
 amiable she was, and how sure she was that every- 
 body who loved her would come forward and show 
 their regard ; that she was so pleased he had been, 
 for she knew what he must be suffering in his own 
 mind ; and that she was sure Mary might depend 
 upon her friends. Oh, she was so very good and 
 charming ! said she in her enthusiasm, offering her 
 hand, as if in congratulation to Mark ; and he might 
 depend upon it she would take all the care of her 
 that was possible, for she knew very well what his 
 feelings must be ! 
 
 Mrs. Morland's words made him very uncomfort- 
 able, strange as it may seem, for he \v;is not quite 
 prepared for anybody else thinking he ought to marry 
 her, or that he was in love with her.' Nevertheless, 
 as Lizzy was not at home, he went in most evenings, 
 when it was dusk ; and, though he never again 
 allowed Mrs. Morland time for any particular con- 
 versation with him, he only strengthened her belief 
 by this attention, and kept alive his own inferest so 
 strongly, that he almost came to the heroic deter- 
 mination that he would marry her when she got 
 better, spite of everybody. 
 
 A week went on, and Mary was pronounced quite 
 out of danger. Dr. Wentworth, who had come twice 
 a day, came now but once : and when he was asked of 
 her, had replied, yes, yes, he could give hope now ; 
 ahe had youth in her favour, and a good constitution ; 
 and he trusted, nay, he felt tolerably sure, that sho 
 would recover.
 
 118 A SECONFl CHRISTMAS-DAY. 
 
 It was astonishing how much anxiety and whal 
 general interest- was excited about her. Peoj)le who 
 had li^rdly ever spoken to her or Mrs. Morland in 
 their lives, came forward and offered their services, 
 and thanked good Mrs. Morland for her benevolence, 
 just as if tliey themselves had been benefited by it ; 
 they said she had come there a stranger among them, 
 and had set them such a beautiful example, that they 
 looked upon her as a public benefactor. It was quite 
 cheering to s^e how much enthusiasm and good feel- 
 ing was excited ; and Mark Sopworth felt it comfort- 
 able to hide his own individual feelings in the general 
 excitement ; and without much difficulty, now every- 
 body sent to inquire after her, he could present him- 
 self at Mrs. Morland's door without waiting for the 
 privacy of the dusk; nor was he quite sure whether, 
 if his family were in the town, they would not get 
 as enthusiastic, not to say as heroic in love, as himself. 
 
 Lizzy was coming home, however, and Mark went 
 in the afternoon of that day to inquire after Mary, 
 that he might be able, as he said, to give his sister the 
 latest intelligence when she came. Mrs. Morland 
 was just coming out of her laboratory, where for the 
 first time she had been busied since Mary's illness, 
 and was then going with her sewing in her hand to 
 her room, when Becky opened the front door to Mark 
 Sopworth. 
 
 " Mary is better — really better ! " said Mrs. Mor- 
 land, quite gaily. She then told how calm she was, 
 how grateful to everybody, and really looked so 
 much like herself again, that it was quite a pleasure 
 to see her. He looked so pleased by wliat she told 
 him ; and Mrs. Morland could not resist saying,
 
 A SECOND CHRISTMAS-DAY. 119 
 
 "Do corne up and see her! Poor girl, it -will make 
 her so happy to see you ! Go into the dining-room, 
 Mr. Mark, while I go and prepare her for your 
 visit !" 
 
 " Mary, dearest," said Mrs. Morland, going into 
 her room, "here is a friend come to see you, hut 
 you shall not see him unless you promise to be quite 
 calm ; it is a friend who loves you dearly, and would 
 be as sorry to agitate you as I should. Now, be a 
 good girl, and keep calm. There, you look very 
 pretty now! A night- cap really is very becoming; 
 and I assure you," said she, kissing her, "that 
 you never looked lovelier in your life. Pne can't 
 help thinking of those things, you know; and I 
 would not have let him come, if you had not looked 
 80 nice ! There now, I think if you were a queen 
 you could not be more in order ! " 
 
 So said Mrs. Morland, happy in the thought that 
 she was about to bring two loving hearts together; 
 and then, with looks beaming with pleasure, went 
 down and bade Mark follow her. He thought of 
 Mary only, as he had seen her last when they had 
 walked together in the fields below the town, as they 
 often did ; and, though he knew how ill she had 
 been, he never had realised to his own mind the 
 change which that illness had made upon her. What a 
 shock, then, was it to him when he entered that dark- 
 ened chamber, which seemed inexpressibly solemn, to 
 find her lying more like a beautiful corpse than a 
 living being, on the bed before him ! The delicate 
 hand which lay on the bed-clothes, but which the 
 violence of fever had made weaker than a new-born 
 child's slightly moved, and a faint blush passed over
 
 120 A SECOND CimiSTMAS-DAT. 
 
 the countenance, which welcomed him, hovvever, with 
 A smile that seemed almost angelic. 
 
 He felt as if he could die for her ; as if he could 
 defy both his family and Barbara Pocklington's ; 
 and had it not been, perhaps, for the presence of Mrs. 
 Morland, he might have fallen on his knees by tho 
 bed, and poured out the most passionate declarations 
 of love. He did not do so, however ; he merely 
 seated himself in the chair by the bed, which Mrs. 
 Morland placed for him, and took her hand in his 
 without speaking one word ; but to Mrs. Morland's 
 mind his silence and his manner spoke more than 
 words, and she was greatly pleased with him. 
 
 "I have been very ill," said Mary, at length,ina lo\» 
 voice ; " and it is so kind of you to come and see me." 
 
 He said a great deal ; all which at the moment he 
 felt. He spoke of his sorrow, of his anxiety, of his 
 sympathy, and of his happiness now that she was 
 better. She would soon get better, he said ; and 
 when spring came, and she could go out, she must 
 go, he said, to his mother ; he would get her, he said, 
 to invite her for some weeks, and then she would be 
 well nursed, and soon would be strong again ; Som- 
 merton was so warm and pleasant, he said, and Mary 
 loved the country so much ! 
 
 Thoughtless Mark Sopworth ! And did he really 
 mean and believe all that he said ? Perhaps not 
 entirely ; but he was carried away by the impulse of 
 the moment : and while he thought to himself, "but 
 suppose my mother will not invite her" — the next 
 moment he thought, that perhaps he could persuade 
 her to do so — he really would try, and it was such a 
 pleasure to be generous and friendly 1
 
 A SECOND CHRISTMAS-OAr. 121 
 
 Poor Mary, ^vho saw in his behaviour everything 
 to which lier own heart could so joyfully respond, 
 felt almost overwhelmed by happiness when he left 
 her; and Mrs. Morland, perfectly satisfied that all 
 was right, grew quite warm in praise of his lover-like 
 conduct. "It is just what I expected from him," 
 said she. " I knew he loved you ; but now, for 
 Heaven's sake, be quiet ; don't excite yourself — you 
 may again bring on fever !" 
 
 " When Mary is better," thought she to herself, 
 I shall contrive that they shall be left '^)gether. The 
 very first opportunity he will make a declaration, 
 and then all will be aS it should be." 
 
 Mary was indescribably happy ; she believed that 
 she was really loved. He of whom she had thought 
 so much in her illness — nay, God forgive her, of 
 whom she had thought when she believed that death 
 was before her — was true to her, and worthy of her ! 
 She had done him some little injustice — she had 
 doubted of his truth to her ; but now ! Those only 
 who know the happiness of doing justice to one we 
 love, can appreciate and understand what Mary's 
 feelings were. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE FALSE LOVE AND THE TRUE LOVE. 
 
 As Mark was leaving the door he met his own maid- 
 servant. He had been seen entering Mrs. IVIorland's 
 house, and was now sent for to his own. His sister 
 was returned, and with her Barbara Pocklingtou, who
 
 122 tHE FALSE LOVE 
 
 was come to spend the night with her. Barbara was 
 come to the town about a dress which was being made 
 for a subscription ball in a neighbouring town, which 
 would be given on the fifth of next month. The two 
 girls were almost in wild spirits. Lizzy wanted to go 
 to the ball too ; she had made up her mind to do so; 
 but. before she went out about her dress, they 
 wanted to know if Mark would not go too. Mrs. 
 Sopworth would go with them as chaperone if her 
 son went, but not otherwise; if Mark did not go, 
 they must see if they two could go with the Websters; 
 but then the Websters weic such horrid people ! He 
 must go ! He sliould go ! and so it was no use his 
 thinking of anything else. 
 
 Mark, however, so immediately after his interview 
 with Mary, was not in any humour to think about 
 subscription balls, and more particularly of going to 
 one with Barbara Pocklington. He was vexed that 
 Barbara was come ; was vexed with them both for 
 being so wild and foolish. " As if there was nothing 
 in this world," he said, " to think about but dancing 
 and jigging. He did not mean to go, and so they 
 need not ask him !" 
 
 " Well, if ever I heard the like !" exclaimed Bar- 
 bara, not a little piqued. 
 
 'Oh, just as you please Mark," said his sister, 
 tossing her head : " there '11 be plenty of nice young 
 gentlementhere without you. Thank HeaV'ens, neither 
 Barbara nor I would give a pin for dancing with you !" 
 
 The two girls went out to purchase their dresses, 
 making themselves sure that he would go after all ; 
 and he sate down in an ill humour, vowing that he 
 never would go, and that was the long and short of it.
 
 AND THE TRUE LOVE. ]?.! 
 
 The next day his father came; and they two were 
 closeted together. His father came, ostensibly, about 
 the lease of the premises which was to be sold the 
 next week by public auction, toj^ether with Mr. 
 Crawley's effects, unless, in the meantime, it were 
 disposed of by private contract. "It was," his father 
 said, and so the son knew, " extremely desirable that 
 it should be secured for him." The situation was 
 the best in the town for trade; and no less than three 
 different parties were in eager treaty about it, one of 
 whom was a tea-dealer, the bitter rival in trade of 
 Mark Sopworth himself. " There was no possiblity," 
 Mr. Sop worth, sen. said, " of Morland's purchasing, 
 but he had seen Mrs. Morland that day on the sub- 
 ject, and she was extremely anxious that Sopworth 
 should be the purchaser ; she had said a great many 
 handsome things about his son : said she should 
 prefer him to anybody, both for neighbour and land- 
 lord; and that, for her part, and she would answer too 
 for her husband, they would rather pay an advance 
 of rent than leave, or have any changes. j\Ir. Sop- 
 worth, sen. was charmed with Mrs. Morland ; she 
 was a straight-forward, business-like person ; and, as 
 everybody said she was making her husband's business 
 answer, she would be a safe tenant." 
 
 Mark agreed to every word his father said : un- 
 questionably the premises must be secured to him; 
 he thought he had understood his father to say that 
 they should be. 
 
 " Why, you see, Mark — " said the father, and 
 then paused. 
 
 Mark fixed his eyes on his father, and wondered 
 what he had to say.
 
 124 THE FALSE LOVE 
 
 The father then went on to say that, for his part, 
 he could not conveniently raise the money ; his son 
 had had already a good deal; and it really was a 
 serious thing advancing so much now-a-days. But 
 he had, he said, spoken with Mr. Pocklington, or 
 rather Mr. Pocklington had mentioned it to him. 
 
 Mark felt a sick sensation about his heart, and hii 
 father, who always spoke very slowly, went on. Mr. 
 Pocklington had said that he had no objection to 
 advance the money for the purchase of the lease, as 
 he understood there was to be a family connection 
 between them. '' Now," said Mr. Sopworth, " this 
 is a thing, Mark, that has my consent ; I have great 
 respect for the Pocklingtons ; we 've known one 
 another all our lives. Your mother, too, wishes it 
 above all things ; but I did not know that you and 
 Barbara had come to such an understanding. She 's 
 a good girl, however ; and as I hate flirting and non- 
 sense, you 'd better get married pretty soon. Her 
 father will give her the lease of the premises in part 
 as her fortune ; and I think, as times go, you may 
 reckon yourself a lucky fellow." 
 
 Mark began a stammering speech to his father, 
 which his father could not understand ; at least it 
 seemed to him that his son meant to say he had 
 not made up his mind ; he should like a day or two 
 to consider of it ; and that it was quite a mistake, if 
 anybody said he and Barbara understood one another. 
 
 The old gentleman c(juld hardly believe his ears ; 
 ho said that his wife and Lizzy, as well as old Ralph 
 Pocklington, had told him so. What did his son 
 mean ? Did he mean to say he was going to jilt 
 Barbara? If that was his meaning, why, then he
 
 AND THE TRUE LOVE. ] 25 
 
 might take his own course ! he, the father, would go 
 at once to the Pocklingtons and say he had nothing 
 to do -^ith it, and he would cut off his son with a 
 shilling — that he would ; and he would never stir 
 another step about the lease. Brockham might buy 
 it for anything he cared, and his son might 'be a 
 bankrupt like old Crawley ! 
 
 Mark was not at all prepared for this ; it quite 
 frightened him, more especially as his father, taking 
 up his hat, thrust it violent I3' on his head, and went 
 out, banging the door after hini. It seemed to him 
 like a foretaste of the Avrath to con:ie, if he should 
 prefer Mary Wheeler to Barbara Pocklington. 
 
 " "Well, I am in a pretty mess," thought he to 
 himself, " and, for the life of me, I do n't know what 
 I am to do ! " He walked up and down the room in 
 great agitation, and at last looked out of his window 
 into tlie yard. The principal creditor of old Crawley, 
 and the rival tea-dealer, came out of Crawley's front 
 door. Mark felt as if the chance of the lease were 
 gone for ever, and that decided him as to what he 
 should do. He put on his hat and followed his 
 father to the Green Dragon, the inn at which he put 
 up when in town ; but his father had mounted his 
 horse and was gone. 
 
 " Strike while the iron is hot ! " thought the weak 
 young man to himself, doubting his own strength of 
 purpose ; " if I see Mary Wheeler again, it may be 
 too late to run back. I never fairly proposed to her. 
 I must behave ill to one of them— either to Mary or 
 to Barbara. Mary I love the best, but Barbara has 
 money and friends who can help me ; besides, it is 
 ay fafher's will — so I decide ! " 
 v2
 
 126 THE falsi: love 
 
 ** It is my father's will ! " said he, many a time 
 to himself, '•'• so it is no fault of mine ! " 
 
 His father was pacified hy his wise decision, as he 
 called it, and his mother said she had always known, 
 ever since Barbara was a child, that it would be a 
 match between Mark and her ; and nothing could 
 equal the good humour and apparent satisfiicticn both 
 of father and mother. The next morning he went 
 to the Pocklingtons and made his declaration in due 
 form ; the next evening the two families drank tea 
 together : the morning afterwards the lease was 
 purchased by private contract by old Sopworth, for 
 his son, with old Pocklington's money i and, on the 
 5tli of February, the three young people and tlie two 
 mothers went, as gay as could be, in a coach hired 
 for the occasion, to the subscription ball. 
 
 Mary Wheeler was recovering daily : nay, indeed, 
 ever since that afternoon of Mark Sop worth's visit, 
 she had recovered strength as if by magic. The first 
 days of February were mild and genial, and the good 
 Dr. Wentworth said that on the morrow she might 
 leave her bed for an hour or two, and, supported by 
 pillows, take her tea while seated in the great easy 
 chair. 
 
 The sun shone into the chamber warm and cheer- 
 fully, and Mrs. Morland, who had received a most 
 happy, satisfactory letter from her husband, went 
 again into her laboratory to prepare a fresh supply 
 for the demand which was now being made on all 
 hands for their articles. 
 
 Mary sat, in her long white wrapping- gown, ia 
 the easy- chair, occupying herself partly by reading 
 and partly by thoughts which were not anxious. She
 
 AND THE TRUE LOVE. 127 
 
 had left off her night-cap, and had that day, for the 
 first time since her illness, arranged lier lovely hair 
 in its usual mode. She looked more than ordinarily 
 interesting, for she was full of grateful and affectionate 
 feeling, and looked both good and happy. 
 
 The door opened, and Becky announced Dr. Went- 
 wcrth. It always had been a pleasure to see him, 
 but at this moment it was, Mary knew not why, 
 even more so than usual. Agreeable, however, as 
 had been his coming, he did not stay very long ; and 
 Mrs. Morland, who was coming up stairs with a 
 letter in her hand, met him as he went out. The 
 letter which she held in her hand was one of great 
 importance to Mary, but yet it was not of that of 
 which Mrs. Morland spoke first. 
 
 " What in the world is amiss with Dr. Went- 
 worthl" asked she; "and you, Majy ? — in tears, I 
 declare." 
 
 Mary wept still. " The excellent, noble, generous 
 man'" exclaimed she, at length, "to think only of 
 his loving me — of his asking me to become his wife!" 
 
 Mrs. Morland looked at her earnestly without 
 speaking. 
 
 " What am I to do, Mrs. Morland?" asked she; 
 " I that would not give pain to any human being if 
 I could help it — what pain and distress have I not 
 given to him ! " 
 
 "And have you really refused him!" exclaimed 
 Mrs. Morland. " Really and truly refused Dr. Went- 
 worth!" 
 
 '* I have indeed 1" said Mary, " how could 1 do 
 otherwise?" 
 
 Mrs. Morland again fixed her eyes on Mary and 
 looked troubled.
 
 128 
 
 THE FALSE LOVE 
 
 *' But for one person," said Mary, " I could have 
 loved him — and then how happy, how inexpressibly 
 happy and fortunate I sliould have been ! — but you 
 know I co\iId not." 
 
 Mrs. Morlaiid felt angry : perhaps it was unrea* 
 sonable, but still she certainly felt angry. 
 
 " Well Mary," said she, " you have done a most 
 foolish thing, and what, if you really have done it, 
 which I can hardly bring my mind to conceive, you 
 will repent to tlie last day of your life ! " 
 
 "Oh Mrs. Morland!" said Mary, "how can you say 
 so — and how can you make me thus miserable ? My 
 heart aches for Dr. Wentworth ; I honour and esteem 
 him, and admire his generosity beyond words !" 
 
 " Admire and esteem ! " repeated Mrs. Morland, 
 in a tone of such bitter mockery as cut her to the 
 heart — "why, Mary Wheeler, there is not a girl in 
 the town, hardly in the country, who would not be 
 ennobled by marrying Dr. Wentworth. He is a 
 gentleman, and not only that, but is so good and so 
 rich — and then you have refused him just for a paltry 
 tea-dealer !" 
 
 She threw the letter down upon the table, and 
 walked hastily up and down the room, never sympa- 
 thising with the poor girl, who felt, even more than 
 she did, the pain of having given pain to a noble 
 heart. 
 
 " Dearest Mrs. Morland," said Mary at length, 
 " what in the world was I to do 1 You know all 
 about Mark as well as I do ; you think highly of 
 him — you said you did. 1 confess, before Heaven 
 and you, to loving him sincerely ; how then could 1 
 have accepted Dr. Wentworth ? And as to Mark being
 
 AND THE TRUE LOVE. 129 
 
 only a tea-dealer, why, what am I ? Poor as a bee:?ar ! 
 and it is generous in him to love me and to be willing-, 
 as I believe he is, to make me his wife. Oh Mrs. 
 Morland, think, only dispassionately about it, and 
 would you not really have despised me, as I am sure 
 I should have despised myself, if I had accepted Dr. 
 ^Ventworth merely because he was a richer man and 
 of higher station ? And, good and noble and right- 
 minded as Dr. Wentworth is, J. am sure he would 
 not have wished me to do otherwise, nor could ho 
 have respected me if I had ! " 
 
 " You are right ! you are right, dear Mary," said 
 Mrs. Morland, throwing her arms round her neck ; 
 " I only hope and trust that Mr. Sopworth may 
 deserve love as noble and disinterested as yours!" 
 
 Mary sighed deeply, for amid her deep, deep 
 sympathy with her rejected lover, all at once the 
 sense came over her soul that as yet the preferred 
 lover had not proposed. 
 
 " I wish, however," said Mrs. Morland, that this 
 had not happened, for Dr. \\'entworth is one in ten 
 thousand ; and though my own heart tells me that 
 you have done right, I am anything but satisfied. 
 This affair, however, has put something out of my 
 head — something very pleasant, and which you will 
 like to hear." 
 
 " Vou have a letter, then, fiom Mr. Morland ? * 
 said Mary, as she took it up again. 
 
 " No," returned she ; " but do you know this 
 handwriting ? " asked she, showing her the direction 
 Mary did not. '* Ah, that is odd," said she ; " but 
 you must know that, when you were so ill, I wrote 
 to the clergyman of Morton, to inquire if that good
 
 130 
 
 THE FALSE LOVE 
 
 grand-uncle, and aunt Fielding, of whom you told 
 roe so much, were still living, and in case they were, 
 I begged him to give them my letter. In my letter 
 I told them all about you ; of your uncle's failure, 
 and of your illness, and a great deal more than I choose 
 to tell you just now, because it was all praise ; — 
 and I, just now, am not so very well pleased with 
 you," said she, smiling. Mary listened breathlessly, 
 and she continued. " I thought it very odd that I 
 did not receive an answer ; but, however, this is 
 inclosed in one from the clergyman, who tells me 
 that this village is properly Morton-le-AV'old, and 
 that my letter had been travelling to all the Mor- 
 tons in three or four counties, before it reached its 
 destination ; however, it got right at last, and here, 
 then, is a letter from your dear old uncle himself, 
 which I will read to you : — 
 
 « Morton-le-Wold, January 28, 183—. 
 " Dear Madam, 
 
 "Thank you for yours. I and my wife are still 
 living, thank God, and in tolerable health. What 
 you write of the dear child has grieved us greatly. 
 We always understood Mr. Joseph Crawley to be, 
 not only a man of substance, but of great respect- 
 ability. May the Almighty bless you for finding a 
 home for the fatherless and motherless ! We shall 
 bo greatly pleased to have the dear child with us ; 
 we remember her well, and all her little affectionate 
 ways. She, and poor Edward, were the offspring of 
 upright and God-fearing people ; and while we have 
 bread to eat, they shall never want. 
 
 *' "Wc shall hope to hear from you again by return
 
 AND THE TRUE LOVE. 18l 
 
 of post, as, from what you write of her illness, w* 
 are full of anxiety about her. I will, if you think 
 it advisable, or if it would be any comfort to her, 
 come over to see her, for I am hearty, though some- 
 what in years, and rather rheumatic; but should 
 not fear a journey, the season being so mild, and 
 especially if it would be any comfurt to her who is 
 so dear to us both.. 
 
 " It is, indeed, a great pleasure, that she remembers 
 us with so much affection. Tell her net to be cast 
 down, for that she shall have a home with us, and 
 should have had that long ago, had we not thought 
 her better provided for than with us. She will be 
 a great comf()rt to us in our old age ; and my wife, 
 who begs me to send her love to her, is quite impa- 
 tient that I should set off for her. But before I do 
 that, it is best that we hear again from you. 
 
 " With respectful compliments from my wife, and 
 our most sincere thanks for the kindness you have 
 shown to one who is so dear to us, which truly 
 verifies the words of the Psalmist, ' I have been 
 young, and now I am old, yet I never saw the 
 righteous forsaken, or his seed bogging bread,' 
 f " Believe me, dear Madam, 
 
 ** Yours very faithfully, and gratefully, 
 
 " Bernard Fieldiwo." 
 "ToMr8. Georee Morland, 
 "in W^^ ." 
 
 It is impossible to say what happiness this letter 
 tofiised into Mary's heart. The remembrance of 
 those dear old relatives had lived in her mind as a 
 beautiful part of that beautiful dream of childhood.
 
 132 THE FALSE LOVE 
 
 which, in the hard realities of her after experience 
 seemed to have passed away for ever ; but here 
 again were they all unexpectedly presented before 
 her. It seemed as if the clouds of life were passing 
 away, and the true and the kind were opening their 
 arms to receive her. 
 
 ""' What a kind, thoughtful, and active friend have 
 you not been for me," said Mary, addressing Mi-s. 
 Morland, '' and for how much, indeed, have I not 
 to thank God ! " She could say no more, but clasp- 
 ing her hands before her face, she poured forth silent 
 thanksgiving to her Father in heaven. 
 
 She was too much excited by all the events of the 
 day, to be able to write to the old people. Mrs. 
 Morland, therefore, undertook to make the imme- 
 diate reply. 
 
 She could not do other than write cheerfully, for 
 she had much good news to communicate. Mary 
 •was better ; was now out of all danger, and was made 
 perfectly happy by this prospect of reunion with 
 them. She begged to think of them as beloved 
 parents, to whom she might show a daughter's duty 
 and affection, and she looked forward impatiently to 
 the day when she might be received under their 
 roof. So much was written as dictated by Mary 
 herself; and then, Mrs. Morland added, that until 
 the weather was quite warm and settled, and until 
 Mary's health was quite established, she must 
 remain where she was. Mrs. Morland said, that 
 she was extremely attached to her, and would not 
 readily have consented to part with her, did she not 
 feel that relations so excellent as these, and to 
 whom Mary herself was so warmly attached, had a
 
 AWD THE TRUE LOVE. 133 
 
 prior claim to her. She would be, she said, a bless- 
 ing and a happiness to them ; and then, she wrote 
 about all her virtues, and her good qualities, which, 
 seeing we know them all so well, need not be 
 repeated. 
 
 Poor Mary had been so much excited that day, 
 as not to be able to sit upon the morrow She suf- 
 fered from intolerable headache ; and, spite of the 
 happiness which her uncle Fielding's letter had 
 occasioned, there was a something unsatisfactory in 
 her own feelings. It was now a fortnight since that 
 afternoon when Mark Sopworthhad sat with her; and 
 since that day, only occasional inquiries after her 
 health, had shown that he kept her in remembrance. 
 
 Mrs. Morland had seen him many times since 
 then, but that only on business ; it is true that he 
 had always spoken of Mary with an appearance of 
 the same interest as formerly, and that had satisfied 
 her. She was, however, very closely occupied at 
 this time by her own business, which, as we liave 
 before said, began to promise the most complete suc- 
 cess. Sometimes for whole days she was occupied 
 in her laboratory, and then again in seeing that 
 orders were made up and sent off. Old Matthew 
 was fully employed in the heavier work, as in 
 Mr. Nixon's days, and a young man, whom her 
 uncle had strongly recommended, and sent to her, 
 served her as warehouseman. She had, indeed, 
 enough to do to attend to her own affairs ; and, had 
 shebeen a selfish person, she would have said so ; but 
 as it was, she found time not only to think about Mary, 
 but to be a little uneasy also on her account. 
 
 It was odd, she thought, that, if Mark Sopworth
 
 134 THE FALSE LOVE 
 
 really was sincere in all he said, and really meant all 
 his behaviour implied, that he never came to the house 
 excepting on business; and that he always declined 
 her invitations to stay, though by staying he might 
 have the opportunity of seeing and talking with the 
 girl he professed to love. There was something un- 
 satisfactory in it, which she attributed to the influence 
 of his sister, who had now, for a long time, behaved 
 towards Mary with great coldness. She gave him 
 the benefit of everything in his favour ; he had been 
 so occupied about the lease, but now that that was 
 completed, she felt assured that he would soon set 
 all things right. 
 
 Two or three days more went on, but no Mark 
 Sopworth made his appearance, nor was he now to 
 be seen when she looked out of her front door, 
 standing, as usual, at the desk in his backshop 
 writing, or with the pen behind his ear. 
 
 " I '11 certainly contrive to speak with him," 
 thought she, one day. " I '11 call for a pound of tea, 
 or I '11 make up some errand about the lease ; but I 
 really must have some opportunity of talking with 
 him ! " 
 
 AVhilst she was thinking thus, Becky, who was 
 laying the cloth for dinner, began to tell what was 
 the on dit of the Barkers' Sarah, and the Sopworths* 
 Ann. Mr. Mark Sopworth was going to be married 
 at Midsummer ; he had bought the whole premises, 
 and workmen were even now beginning to get the 
 place in order. He was going to live in old Craw- 
 ley's house. 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Mrs. Morland ; " and to whom ia 
 he going to be married, Becky ? "
 
 AND THE TRUE LOVE. 135 
 
 •* To Miss Barbara Pocklington," returned she. 
 
 "Indeed !" again said Mrs. Morland. 
 
 " So they say," continued Becky, " and I believe 
 BO myself. They say it is all a settled thing ; and 
 only last night he came home from somewhere, where 
 he had been with her to a ball. It''s a sin and 
 a shame," said Becky, looking quite angry, " after 
 all the notice he took of Miss Wheeler, to serve her 
 80 ; and if I were yo\i and her, 1 'd never let him 
 darken my doors again as long as I lived ! But she 's 
 a deal too good for him — that she is," said poor 
 Becky, in a self-consoling tone — " a world too good 
 for him ; and so I said to Ann, '• He 's no such great 
 shakes,' says I, ' after all, and there 's plenty, better 
 than him, as will jump at her ! ' " 
 
 " I think so too, Becky," said Mrs, Morland ; 
 " but I advise you, nevertheless, not to talk about it 
 with the servants — it is a great deal better not ! " 
 
 "No, I 've had my say," said Becky, "and I shall 
 say no more ; only this I will stick to, that, if ever a 
 young lady had a right to think a man loved her, 
 why, it was Miss Wheeler. He could not let her go 
 out of the house, but he must follow her; and then, 
 as long as old Crawley was thought to be rich, all his 
 folks was making so much of her. It 's been so ever 
 since they came to the shop ; nothing was too good 
 for her then. I hate to see such money- worsliip ! — 
 But let him take his Miss Barbara! he'll have 
 enough of his bargain before he 's been a married 
 man twelve months ! But, bless me, my mutton will 
 be burnt to a coal ! " said Becky, cutting short her 
 tirade, and hurrying out into the kitchen. 
 
 Mrs. Morland heard first from one, and then from
 
 136 THE FALSE LOVE 
 
 another, the same thhig as Becky had told her: 
 Mark Sopworth was to be married at Midsummer, 
 and was getting ready his house to receive his wife. 
 She had not seen him for a- long time, that is for 
 several days, and she suspected, therefore, that he 
 avoided seeing her. She went out, however, one 
 afternoon, and met him point-blank in turning a 
 corner, not far from his house. 
 
 " Good afternoon ! Mr. Mark," said she, stopping 
 him ; " we have seen nothing of you of late. You 
 are so busy preparing your new house, 1 hear." said' 
 she, as he made no answer, and she was determined 
 he should not escape. 
 
 He turned alternately j)ale, and then red : stam- 
 mered something, and looked uneasy. 
 
 " The good people of W — ," continued she gaily, 
 " are infinitely obliged to you for giving them some- 
 thing to talk of." 
 
 " To talk of!" repeated he ; " what do they talk of?" 
 
 *' Nay, 30U must not come to me for the news," 
 said Mrs. Morland, smiling ; " you know what every- 
 body is saying ! " 
 
 " No, upon my word ! No, I protest! What do you 
 mean ? " stammered he, looking an object of almost 
 pitiable confusion. "But — but — how is Miss 
 Wheeler ? " asked he, endeavouring, but in vain, to 
 speak in an assured tone of voice. 
 
 " Very much better — nay, indeed quite well !•" 
 returned Mrs. Morland, not quite adhering to the 
 strict truth, but determined to convince him, if pos- 
 sible, that his faithlessness affected her but very little. 
 
 He made no reply, but abruptly left her, blessing 
 his stars that he had got away.
 
 AND THE TRUE LOVE. 137 
 
 '* He knows himself to be a villain ! " said Mrs. 
 Moiland, as she walked onward; ''a raean, pitiful 
 sneak as he is — I despise him from my very soul ! " 
 
 As she entered her own door again, she* saw him 
 sitting as usual at his desk in his back shop, with his 
 chin resting on both his hands. *'The worst I wish 
 for him," thought she, " is, that he may just have 
 sense enough left to feel what a despicable being 
 he is!" 
 
 Whatever his feelings might be, the very next 
 time Mrs. Morland went out of her door, she saw 
 that a green silk curtain was put half way up the 
 back shop window, and thus the desk and its occu- 
 pant was concealed from view. "It's an excellent 
 thing ! " said she to herself, " for I hate to see him , 
 and I would not for the world that poor Mary, just 
 for the short time she has to stay here, should be 
 annoyed by seeing him ! " 
 
 " Thank Heaven," said Sopworth to himself that 
 afternoon, as he sat resting his chin on his hands — 
 " Thank Heaven that Mary Wheeler has nobody to 
 take up her quarrel ! Both her cue and Mrs. Mor- 
 land's, will be to say as little about it as possible. 
 Nobody ever can say that I made her a direct offer ! 
 Like her, I certainly did ; and . I would be glad 
 enough to change Barbara for her ; but that can't be. 
 Barbara 's a handsome girl ; and, as to Mary, it 's only 
 just now that I think so much about it. M'hen I 
 have seen her a time or two it will all be nothing : 
 but as for that, at present I 'd rather go ten miles 
 round than meet even Mrs. Morland !" 
 
 The fear of seeing either Mrs. Morland or Mary, 
 made him have the green blind put up ; and th« 
 y2
 
 i38 THE FALSE LOVE 
 
 unpleasant feeling of having met Mrs. Morland so 
 unhinged him, that he set off the day following to 
 Sommerton, and on his way there resolved to 
 embrace the offer which young Pocklington had 
 made him, to go out for a couple of days snipe- 
 shooting. " I "11 come back on Wednesday morning," 
 said he, " for market, and by that time I shall haTe 
 got up my spirits again." 
 
 Not a word was said by Mrs. Morland to Mary of 
 what Becky had told her, and of what all the world 
 said ; nor yet did she tell her of her meethig with 
 Mark Sopwortli. Poor Mary suffered dreadfully 
 from head-ache, and, poorly as she continued, Dr. 
 Wentworth never came to see her. It is impossible 
 to say how much this circumstance troubled her. 
 She feared that she had lost his esteem and friendship 
 for ever, and she thought of him continually. 
 
 " I should be so glad to hear his carriage stop as it 
 used to do ! " thought she many a time ; " but it is 
 not likely he will ever come to see me again. I 
 know I have offended him ; and yet, if he could only 
 understand my feelings — could know how I admire 
 and esteem him — he would not blame me 1" 
 
 Fear lest she had lost his friendship for ever, 
 almost equally shared her mind with the one thought 
 which otherwise would have occupied it altogether, — 
 and that was, that Mark Sopworth never came near 
 her, never sent even to inquire after her, that she 
 heard of. 
 
 No wonder was it that her head became so 
 intolerably bad. One Sunday afternoon she lay 
 with vinegar cloths on her forehead, to allay the 
 throbbing pain there. It was at the end of February,
 
 AND THE TRUE LOVE, 139 
 
 wet and cheerless, and the twilight seemed to come 
 on as early as on the shortest day. Mrs. Morland 
 sat reading in a volume of sermons by the fire, and 
 Mary lay on her bed, the silerlt tears, which she did 
 not wipe away, trickling down to the pillow. Mrs. 
 Morland was called out of the room, and in about a 
 fluarler of an hour returned. 
 
 " Dr. Wentworth has been to inquire after you, 
 dear," said she. 
 
 " Thank God ! " returned Mary, taking np her 
 handkerchief and wiping away the tears, which now 
 flowed with hysterical violence ; " I feared he would 
 never come near me again ! " 
 
 " He has sent every day to inquire after you," 
 returned Mrs. Morland, without noticing Mary's 
 emotion ; '• I have not seen him, however, since that 
 day till now, and really, poor fellow, he looks so ill !" 
 
 Mary covered her face with her handkerchief, and 
 sobbed bitterly. 
 
 •'For Heaven's sake be calm, Mary!" said Mrs. 
 Morland ; " what is to become of your poor head if 
 you cry thus ? He desires you may be kept calm, 
 and your forehead cool," said she, dipping a fresh 
 cloth in the vinegar. '* Bless me, how burning hot 
 your forehead is," added she, taking the other away. 
 
 " And it throbs dreadfully," said Mary. " Thank 
 you ; how deliciously cool it now is ! " added she, 
 when the fresh linen was laid on. " But oh, Mrs. 
 Morland," said she, seizing her hand, '' I do so wish 
 my mind could be made easy ! I do wish I could 
 honestly and truly know what you think — " 
 
 She paused, and Mrs. Morland, who understood 
 her meaning perfectly, replied, " Not to-day, dear 
 Mary, will I talk of anything that can agitate you ;
 
 1- 
 
 >Vfe, ET( 
 
 140 THE FALSE LO 
 
 keep quiet — do not dwell on any painful or disquiet- 
 ing thought, and if there be one thing in this world 
 that is calnily and soothingly pleasant to think of, 
 think of it, or I will lalk to you of it, calmly and 
 softly, just as I think best ; but not one word to-day 
 either about Dr. Wentworth or Mr. Sop worth." 
 
 '• I have been thinking a great deal," said M^ry, 
 "of my good uncle and aunt: Fielding. I shall be' 
 so glad to see them ; and I think — I have thought so 
 for several days — that if you would not think it 
 ungrateful, I should liW to Jleave W — altogether, 
 and go to Morton." .r ^i,r' 
 
 Mrs. Morland knew wjfat the true spring of these 
 thoughts was, &nd, stooping down and kissing her, 
 she replied, " Yes, love, and so I think. In Spring 
 the country is so^pleasant, and Morton, you say, is 
 so pretty |;.«tid j|inen, those good old people are so 
 kind, and love ^you so much ! You shall go, and 
 then, when yjOfi are better, and quite strong, perhaps 
 next ChristcBas, you shall come here again on a visit 
 to me." }^^ 
 
 rMary pressed her hand, but made no reply. 
 
 If *' Yqu shall write me long letters from Morton," 
 continued Mrs. Morland — "long letters, which to me, 
 living in the close-built town, stoving all day down 
 in my laboratory, will come breathing of the country 
 like fresh fruits or flowers. You shall study music 
 with the good old uncle, and learn all kind of house- 
 hold accomplishments from the dear old aunt ! Yes, 
 dear girl — jesting apart — it will be a holy and a heal- 
 ing life for you. We will get all your clothes in order,, 
 and when the warmer weather comes we will send 
 for the good old uncle to fetch you."
 
 141 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 PARTING AND MEETINO. 
 
 Not a word ever passed between Mrs. Morland and 
 Mary, respecting Mark Sopworth and his false love. 
 When she left her chamber for the first time, ard 
 went into the dining-room, she saw, through the 
 staircase window, the workmen busily employed on 
 the premises which her uncle had occupied, and Mark 
 Sopworth, without his hat, standing there. He was 
 pointing out somethitig about the upper story to young 
 Pockliugton, who was with him ; but not a word did 
 Mary say, although a deep sigh escaped her, and 
 Mrs. Morland could not help remarking the deathly 
 paleness which overspread her countenance, and robbed 
 every tinge of colour from her lips. 
 
 She had come to know, but Mrs. Morland never 
 discovered how, that he was about to be married to 
 Barbara Pocklington ; she mentioned it once, but 
 never again, and Mrs. Morland us*ed all the means 
 in her power to divert her thoughts and enliven her. 
 
 March came and passed, and then came April 
 with flowers and budding leaves ; but Mary was still 
 an invalid. Her sickness, however, was more of the 
 mind than the body, and both she and her friend 
 unanimously agreed that the time was now come 
 when she must go to Morton. She had not yet 
 been out of the house ; she had a morbid dread of 
 it ; and Mrs. Morland, though she wished it, and
 
 142 PARTING AND MEETING. 
 
 thought it would be much better if she had — nay, 
 even that she had accustomed herself to see Sop- 
 worth, had not the heart to urge it. 
 
 All the preparations necessary for her departure 
 were made ; the great leathern trunk lent to her by 
 her friend, stood in her chamber ready filled, and 
 the carpet-bag, lent also, out of Mr. Morland's inex- 
 haustible store of such things, lay upon it. Old Mr. 
 Fielding was to come the next day ; he was to 
 remain with them one day, and on the following, 
 Mary was to commence her journey. 
 
 If the name of Sopworth was carefully avoided by 
 them, no less so was that of Dr. Wentworth. Mary 
 had never seen him since the day when he had 
 declared to her his passion. A great change since 
 then had taken place in her life's prospects. Mrs. 
 Morland wished, above all things, that she could 
 again bring about the affair between them ; but in 
 the then sensitive state of Mary's feelings, she would 
 not even speak of him, and, as regarded himself, if 
 he even were desirous of renewing his suit, which his 
 now total absence hardly, perhaps, seemed to pro- 
 mise, he was not exactly the person that anybody 
 could suggest anything to, especially a delicate 
 affair like this. Mrs. Morland, therefore, thought 
 that everything must be left to take its own course; 
 but, sai<l she to herself many a time, " If there be 
 one thing more than another that makes me detest 
 Sopworth, it is, that he has made Mary lose a hus- 
 band like Dr. Wentworth." 
 
 Both Mrs. Morland and Mary that evening were 
 very low-spirited ; and, had it not been that a foreign 
 letter came in quite unexpectedly, directed to Mrs.
 
 PARTING AND MEETINO. 143 
 
 Morland for Mary, they certainly would both liave 
 wept to keep each other company. The letter waa 
 from Ned, and was written from the Cape of Good 
 Hope, and was such a letter as none but a heart like 
 his could dictate — affectionate, full of sound good 
 sense, and taking, at the same time, the most cheer- 
 ful views of life. He said that this would be hia 
 last voyage as ship's apprentice ; and, unlike hia 
 former voyages, this would enable him to return to 
 England by the end of the year. In the meantime 
 he said — for he had been thinking much and seriously 
 on his sister's prospects — he wished her to write to 
 their relations the Fieldings, and if they still lived, 
 to solicit a home with them, where he would visit her 
 on his return. But if they lived not, he besought 
 her to ask the same from Mrs. Morland : and, as to 
 money, he said he should soon be in the receipt of 
 sufficient to pay whatever had been incurred for her . 
 and, please God he again reached England, they 
 would have many a merry hour together, and laugh 
 at all old troubles- 
 Had the letter been the voice of an angel from 
 heaven, it could not have produced a more happy 
 eff'ect than it did. For the first time for these many 
 months, Mary felt perfectly cheerful. In comparison 
 with Sopworth, how true-hearted and straightforward 
 did Ned seem, while, in point of character and good- 
 ness, he lost nothing when compared with the excel- 
 lent Dr. Wentworth. 
 
 The evening really was cheerful; Mrs. Morland 
 laughed and told amusing anecdotes ; Mary smiled, 
 and felt as if, some time or other, she might be 
 perhaps again light-hearted.
 
 144 * PARTING AND MEETING. 
 
 In the course of the next afternoon, she heard 
 Mrs. Morland bring some one into the passage- 
 somebody was taking off a great-coat — it might be 
 her uifcle ; she rushed to the door the very moment 
 that it was opened, and the bending figure of an old, 
 but not feeble man, with strongly marked, but most 
 singularly mild and intelligent countenance, and 
 snowy white hair which fell upon his shoulders, 
 met her eye. It was her uncle, and the next 
 moment she was clasped in his arms. He did not 
 speak for some time, but gazed tenderly into her 
 face. " She is so like her mother !" said he at length, 
 wiping a tear away, and turning to Mrs. Morland; 
 " so very like her poor dear mother ! " He then put 
 her back at arm's length, and surveyed her from 
 liead to foot. " She was but a little child," said he, 
 " when she parted from us : she is now grown tall, 
 poor thing ! and very like her mother I" He kissed 
 her again and again, and seemed greatly pleased with 
 her. 
 
 It was indeed a happy meeting, and the kindly 
 cheerful spirit of the dear old man operated most 
 beneficially on her mind, even in the course of a few 
 hours. 
 
 Mr. Fielding had most correct notions with regard 
 to money matters. He had come prepared to dis- 
 charge all debts which had been incurred on account 
 of his niece — more especially as regarded medical 
 attendance. As yet, Dr. Wentworth had had no 
 fee. He bad not received it in the first instance, and 
 after circumstances had made Mrs. Morland feel 
 some delicacy, at least while Mary remained with 
 her, in renewing the subject with him. But Mr.
 
 PARTING AND MEETING. 145 
 
 Fielding, of course, knew nothing of all this ; and, 
 after Mrs. Morland had refused to receive one single 
 penny for the expense she herself had incurred, he 
 set out to discliarge the just debt to the good physi- 
 cian, and at the same time to express his tlianks to 
 him, for botli Mary and Mrs. Morland had spoken of 
 his extreme kindness. 
 
 Poor Mary ! how her heart beat as he set out, soon 
 after nine, that he might be sure of finding him at 
 home, before he went round to his patients; and hovr 
 impatient was she, too, for his return, and yet at the 
 same time afraid of his returning too soon, for then 
 she should fear he had not seen him ; and someway 
 she did not know how she felt. She would have 
 liked, of all things, to have seen him once again 
 before she left, to have known at least that they two 
 parted friends. 
 
 Her uncle at last came back : there was an expres- 
 sion of pleasure in his countenance, as he entered the 
 room, which indicated that his interview had given 
 him satisfaction. He was, like everybody else, 
 charmed with Dr. Wentworth, for he was one who, 
 though he was old, could understand and appre- 
 ciate fully a noble and uncommon character, and 
 such h& felt Dr. Wentworth to be. Every word 
 which he spoke gave both pleasure and pain to poor 
 Mary. 
 
 Dr Wentworth, he said, had refused a fee, and 
 that so peremptorily, that he could not think of 
 urging it. He had inquired most particularly after 
 his niece : had warmly approved of her removal into 
 the country ; he said that she reouired change of 
 

 
 146 PARTING AND MEETING. 
 
 scene and perfect repose of mind. He had asked, 
 too, of their intended mode of travelhng ; and, as 
 there was no direct coach from W — , and they must 
 take a hired conveyance the two first stages, and 
 it was altogether a long fatiguing day's journey, 
 he had proposed to send his own close carriage with 
 them till they took the coach, which he said would 
 be better for an invalid than any hired carriage. 
 Mr. Fielding was delighted with the benevolence of 
 the offer, and could talk of nothing else all the 
 morning but the extreme kindness and consideration 
 of tliat good physician. He thought his niece parti- 
 cularly fortunate in such a medical attendant ; ha 
 did not wonder at her getting better, particularly 
 when she had a nurse like Mrs. Morland. 
 
 Mr. Fielding and Mrs. Morland talked of old 
 Crawde}^ and of the house in which he lived ; and 
 when the old gentleman set out in the afternoon to 
 look about him, he walked down the court to take a 
 survey of the house in which his poor niece had 
 experienced so much unhappiness. Mr. IMark Sop- 
 worth was with his workpeople, and the old gentle- 
 man began to talk with him. He told who he was, 
 and that he was come to fetch his great-niec^ away ; 
 she was a very good girl, he said, and he thanked 
 God that he had it in his power to provide for her. 
 Sopworth moved first here, and then there ; felt 
 anything but at his ease, and wished the old gentle- 
 man would go. He would almost have told him to 
 remove himself, for nothing made him so uncomfort- 
 able as to hear Mary AVheeler talked of ; and as this 
 was her uncle, he did not know how much of hi3
 
 PARTING ANJ) MEETING 14? 
 
 miserable weakness — not to call it by a worse namo 
 — had been revealed to him. Poor old gentleman, 
 nothing, however, did he know to Mark Sopworth'a 
 disadvantage, nor indeed did he know who Mark 
 Sopworth was ; but thinking that this person, let 
 him be whoever he would, was either out of humour, 
 or naturally uncivil, he turned himself about, and 
 walked slowly up the court again. 
 
 " ^V'hy, is not that old fellow from Morton-le- wold, 
 in Devonshire V asked a commercial traveller who 
 dealt in spices, and who, not finding Sopworth in hi3 
 shop, had followed him here. '* It is, as sure as I'm 
 alive ! Why, he is as rich as a Jew ; I heard so at 
 Exeter tliis week. He lives at Morton like a miser, 
 and does not spend fifty pounds a year : but he's 
 laying up money by thousands ! " 
 
 Not one word of all this was true, excepting that 
 he lived at Morton, and that the commercial travell-er 
 had seen him in Exeter, where he had been the week 
 before ; but the traveller was a wit, and his wit 
 many a time showed itself by rhodomontading storiea 
 which he mad6 up on the occasion. " I hope you 
 have not offended the old fellow," said'he, '* for they 
 say lie is looking out for an heir ; I laid myself out 
 to please him la<t week, but, unfortunately, I dropj>ed 
 the ashes of my cigar into his negus, and the ashes ol 
 a cigar are his aversion, so I lost my chance ! " 
 
 Had there been the most bitter malice in the mind 
 of the commercial traveller against Mr. Mark Sop- 
 worth, he could not have tortured him worse than 
 he did by all this. " Perhaps, then," thought he to 
 himself, " Mary ^V'heeler after all may be a groat
 
 (48 THE OLD FRIENDS 
 
 heiress — may be richer a hundred times than Barbara 
 Pocklington !" 
 
 In the early morning, before the shops were yet 
 open — except to the youngest apprentices, who were 
 cleaning outsides of windows and such things — a 
 private close carriage conveyed away from the entry- 
 end Mary Wheeler and her uncle. Ann, the Sop- 
 worths' servant, told this at breakfast. " It was a 
 very handsome carriage," she said, " every bit as 
 handsome as Dr. AVentworth's." 
 
 " It was Dr. ' Wentworth's," said the youngest 
 apprentice. 
 
 "Yes, that it was, and Dr. Wentworth's horses 
 too," said the youngest apprentice but one. 
 
 Sopworth said nothing at all, but felt as if the dry 
 toast he was eating, spite of all the butter which he 
 had laid thickly upon it, would stick in his throat, 
 for he made no doubt whatever but that it w^as in 
 the private carriage of the rich old uncle, and not 
 that of Dr. Wentworth, which she had been con- 
 veyed away. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE OLD TRIENDS AND THE OLD HOME. 
 
 Mary wrote to her dear friend Mrs. Morland; and 
 we think we cannot oblige our readers more than by 
 giving a long extract from a letter, dated in the early 
 part of May. 
 
 " By my last," she wrote, " you would know how 
 well this place and this quiet country life agree with
 
 AND THE OLD H031E. 149 
 
 me. The weather has completely changed within 
 the last fortniglit, and all is like Paradise around 
 me. It is the Morton of my childhood ; and. thank 
 Heaven, the peace of mind, if not the joyous-hearted- 
 ness of childhood, seems to have returnea. 
 
 " But you ask me of my dear uncle and aunt 
 How could I write so hastily, or be so completely 
 self-absorbed as to say so little of them in my last ? 
 I have found them as simple, and kind, and good, as 
 my memory had chronicled them. In one or two 
 little particulars, however, their .style of living is 
 changed, — for instance, they keep a woman-servant 
 now ; and the grand piano, which is a far finer and 
 nobler instrument than ever my childhood imagined 
 it, stands now in the parlour, which has become their 
 daily sitting-room, instead of the kitchen, as formerly. 
 The furniture, however, is the most simple that can 
 be imagined ; and it really seems most singularly 
 strange, not to say startling, to see a magnificent 
 instrument like this standing in so humble an apart- 
 ment. * The only thing,' says my uncle many a 
 time, ' for which I covet a large house, or at least 
 one large and noble room, is to hold my piano, and 
 to do justice to its power.' Poor dear old man, he 
 sometimes talks of sinking some part of his income 
 in order to erect such a room, and if he had only 
 himself to think of and care for, he would do it. 
 He would, I am sure, sleep on a chafF-bed, and live 
 on bread and water, to purchase the full enjoyment 
 of music ; but then, he is so deeply attached to his 
 wife, thinks so much for her, and studies her com- 
 forts so earnestly, that I am sure he will never do it. 
 o2
 
 150 THE OLD FRIENDS 
 
 He has told me often, and that with tears in hia 
 eyes, that it was she who proposed and induced him 
 to purchase this magnificent instrument, though it 
 obliged them for ten years to deprive themselves 
 of their few luxuries, and to practise the greatest 
 economy and self-denial. It was during this time 
 that I knew them as a child, and when they lived 
 without a servant. She never complained, he hafs 
 told me, all that time, though, when he saw her 
 hands becoming coarse with hard household work, 
 he felt many a bitter reproach on himself. She loves 
 music, however, as well as her husband, and is so 
 proud of his great skill, that I am sure she had 
 always her exceeding great reward ; but I cannot 
 tell you how the contemplation of their virtues, and 
 their beautiful unselfish attachment to each other, 
 has strengthened and gladdened my heart. If my 
 aunt is not in the room, my uncle seems not wholly 
 satisfied, though seated at his instrument ; if the 
 door opens, he instantly looks round, for he feels 
 that he yet fails of something, and that is the pre- 
 sence of his wife : but when she comes in, and is 
 seated by him, he gives himself up with undivided 
 soul to the full enthusiasm of his art, and plays 
 superbly. 
 
 "He is not at all satisfied with my playing. I 
 learned, he says — and that is true — from inferior 
 masters, and my playing is full of faults. I have 
 begun to study industriously under him, and to sing 
 also ; and, with such a master to teach, and such an 
 instrument to practise upon, I hope to make some- 
 thing out.
 
 AND THE OLD HOME. 151 
 
 " I must relate to you an anecdote of my uncle, to 
 prove to you how good a man he is. I told you, I 
 think, of the misunderstanding which, as a child, 
 1 recollected to exist between my uncle and the 
 organist of the parish churcli. He was the only person 
 who lived in strife with the dear old man ; he was 
 of a most violent temper, and, feeling my uncle's 
 superiority to himself in music, regarded him always 
 ae.a rival, and that more especially after there had 
 been an attempt on the part of the clergyman, and 
 some of the more respectable parishioners, to displace 
 him in favour of my uncle. But my uncle declined 
 to accept the offer, for the organist was a poor man 
 with a family, and the office was of consequence to 
 him. The organist, however, never gave him credit 
 for his forbearance, but lived on in bitter enmity 
 with him ; which was a cause of great regret to my 
 uncle, more particularly as, though the organist was 
 but an indifferent musician himself, his youngest son 
 exhibited no ordinary talent, and was intended by his 
 father to succeed him in his office. My uncle was 
 greatly interested in the youth ; he was, poor fellow, 
 of a sickly constitution, and afflicted with so great a 
 weakness in his back as to produce gradually a pain- 
 ful deformity. My uncle wished to have given the 
 poor youth instruction, but the obstinate unfriend- 
 liness of the father prevented this. At length the 
 organist fell sick, and lay on his death-bed. and then 
 my uncle went to him, and besought that all ani- 
 mosity might cease from his mind, promising that he 
 would promote in every possible way the advance- 
 ment ani worldlv advantage of his afflicted son. The
 
 152 THE OLD FRIENDS 
 
 heart of the dying man was touched : this was an 
 instance of forgiveness and Christian love which far 
 surpassed his belief: yet, Avhile it affected him mtist 
 deeply, it blessed and consoled his death-bed. My 
 uncle saw him every day till he died, and his last 
 words were, ' May God Almighty be only as merci- 
 ful to me as Mr. Fielding ! ' 
 
 " jMy uncle fulfilled his promise , the poor youth 
 came for a year or two to him daily, and evinced 
 extraordinary talent for his art, while my uncle 
 became almost as much attached to him as if he were 
 his son. At length, however, his spine was affected, 
 and he could not leave the house ; my uncle then 
 went to him, and still continues to do so dally, for 
 the poor fellow now is in the last stage of consump- 
 tion, and cannot himself touch the instrument, but 
 my uncle sits for hours in his room, and plays to 
 him, which is his greatest delight ; he will die, no 
 doubt, listening to his music. The doctor says he 
 cannot continue long, and not a day, let the weather 
 he what it may, passes without my uncle visiting him. 
 
 " Have I not, my dear friend, reason to be proud 
 of my dear old relatives ? 
 
 " You ask me of the house in which I was born — 
 the old school-house. Alas! it is an altered place 
 now, and perhaps it is as well it should be so, for 
 had the ivy still covered the end up to the very 
 chimneys, and had the monthly roses and the trumpet 
 honeysuckle still been trained up the front, and the 
 sheds of auriculas and hyacinths still stood down the 
 length of the garden, it would have reminded mc 
 almost too painfully of my parents ; but it has ni
 
 AND THE OLD HOME. 153 
 
 Hook of home about it now. The schoohnaster, who 
 is a fat man, and an old bachelor, fancied the ivy 
 made the house damp, and found roses and honey- 
 6uckl(*s too much trouble to keep well trained, bo he 
 had them all cleared away; the house was new- 
 roofed and stuccoed, and made as trim as a new 
 building, with the school-house to match. Beside 
 all this, he discovered that all those great elms and 
 limes which grew round about and in the front, made 
 the school dark, so lie persuaded the parish to cut 
 down four of them, and thus had plenty of light both 
 winter and summer. Instead of prize-flowers, he 
 grows pink-eyed potatoes, the richest marrow-fats in 
 the parish, and pumpkins, which are the wonder of 
 half the county, for he loves good eating above all 
 things; but he brings the boys on, say all the villagers, 
 and the squire is satisfied with him, and so is the 
 clergyman, and thus whatever he does is right. It 
 grieved me, however, to see all these changes, and I 
 protested that he was a Goth ; but he sent me the 
 other day a bushel of new potatoes, and a kind mes- 
 sage to come whenever I liked, and see ' his improve- 
 ments ;' so I think the man has a good heart, after 
 all, and, like everybody else — I mean to be satisfied 
 with him. 
 
 " My uncle's income, as I told you, is about eighty 
 pounds a year. I must do something for my own 
 maintenance ; for, though they begrudge me nothing. 
 I cannot bear to encumber them in any way, or 
 oblige them to deprive themselves of any comforts 
 on my account. Besides all this, as a matter of 
 necessary duty to myself, I must keep my mind
 
 164 THE OLD FRIENDS 
 
 occupied, and that as much as possible, with things 
 dieconnected with myself. I must have full employ- 
 ment, and tliat of such a character as, while it 
 demands exertion on my part, leaves me no tune to 
 dwell on painful and engrossing, and at the same 
 time enfeebling subjects. I am not, my dearest 
 friend, as yet strong either in mind or body, but, 
 thank God, light seems breaking in around me ; I 
 begin to see what is best for me, and what it is my 
 duty to do. I am reconciled to much that at one 
 time seemed bitter to me as death. I ajii, too, at 
 peace with myself ; and to have peace with one's self, 
 to see clearly what is one's duty, and to feel a 
 willingness to do it, is having advanced many steps 
 on the riglit j)ath. Yes, my best friend, the worst is 
 over noif ; all will in time be right, and in time, I 
 doubt not, I shall see that all has been indeed for the 
 best. But, in the meantime, 1 must find active and 
 constant employment, and this, not only as a duty to 
 myself, but to my excellent relations also. 
 
 " My present idea is to propose myself as daily 
 governess to J\Irs. Morton, the lady of the squire, 
 for her two little girls. I love children, and these 
 are amiable and tractable ; we are already good 
 friends, for the squire's family, as well as the clergy- 
 man's, have shown me great kindness ; and I feel 
 that I could make these children love me, and, per- 
 haps, be useful to them. Their mother is inquiring 
 for a governess ; I will go this very day and propose 
 myself. AVlien I take up my pen again, I will tell 
 you the result. 
 
 " Tke morrow. — I went yesterday to the halli
 
 AND THE OLD H03IE. 155 
 
 It is all delightfully settled ; but you shall hear. 
 I knew that a governess was wanted, and therefore 
 I had no difficulty in proposing myself, especially 
 as the children are quite young, the eldest being but 
 ten. To my great joy, I found my proposal gladly 
 accepted. Mrs. Morton expressed the greatest plea- 
 sure ; said many flattering things to me, and pro- 
 posed* to give me five-and-thirty pounds a year, 
 which is more than I expected. I am to enter on 
 my office immediately. She has heard me play, and, 
 being a less severe critic than my uncle, commends 
 my playing greatly. I commence my duties at 
 9 o'clock on Monday morning. I am to walk with 
 the children from twelve to one ; dine with them at 
 one ; walk again with them for an hour in the after- 
 noon, if the weather is fine ; and Avhatever I am 
 required to teach as yet, I understand tolerably well. 
 At six o'clock I return home for the evening. I 
 shall thus have several hours each day to spend 
 with my uncle and aunt, and to practise music 
 under my uncle's eye. My greatest pleasure is, that 
 both my uncle and aunt entirely approve of this 
 arrangement which I have made ; they enter into 
 my motives as regards themselves, and were not 
 only satisfied, but really affected by it. Their kind- 
 ness to me is indescribable ; were they my •wn 
 parents, they could not show me more affection. In 
 many respects, they remind me of my parents ; in 
 their attachment to each other, for instance, as well 
 as in simplicity of character, and in uprightness and 
 purity of mind. 
 
 '' What a blessing is it, my dear friend, to be
 
 166 THE OLD FRIENDS 
 
 descended from, and connected with, worthy people ; 
 people of whom one is proud, and with whom all 
 that is good in one feels to be allied ! 
 
 " A week later. — My letter is becoming a journal; 
 but I have strange things to tell you. 
 
 " I was sitting two evenings ago at the piano, 
 playing a beautiful sonata of Mozart's. My uncle 
 said I played remarkably well, and I was unusually 
 cheerful, for I had had a happy day with the chil- 
 dren. The door opened, and our little maid-servant 
 announced — a gentleman. Why, dear Mrs. Mor- 
 land, did I feel ready to faint ? God forgive me ! I 
 thought — but will not say of whom — and felt dizzy. 
 It was Mr. Sopworth ! Never was there a more 
 awkward and constrained meeting. I thought of 
 Barbara Pocklington ; and I wondered why he was 
 there. He sate, and we were all silent, for my 
 uncle, it seems, had seen him before at W — , and 
 had not liked hhn. I, for my part, felt as if I could 
 not talk ; I did not even ask him how you were. 
 My aunt, who is the very soul of hospitality, and 
 has a deal of natural politeness, did, as she said, 
 double duty for us both. I never saw her so civil 
 tp anybody before ; she talked of a hundred things, 
 and asked a hundred questions, to all of which he 
 gave short and broken answers. 
 
 " ' Let us have some more music,* at length said 
 ray uncle, and then bade me play that sonata over 
 again. 
 
 " Anything was better than that constrained 
 silence in which we sate ; so, though my heart beat 
 almost audibly, I yate down and played. The mag-
 
 AND THE OLD IIOMK. 157 
 
 nificent instrument poured forth its volume ol .soimd, 
 and my uncle again greatly commended my playing. 
 Mr. Sopworth rose the moment I had ended, and 
 begged, in a low voice, that, if it were not convenient 
 to be alone with me that evening, I would grant 
 him an opportunity in the morning. ' I can see you 
 but from eight to nine,' said I, with greater calm- 
 ness than [ thought myself capable ; for, strange as it 
 may seem, I felt there was no danger now of hia 
 troubling my peace of mind. 
 
 " My uncle and aunt were greatly disturbed by 
 his visit ; tliey, of course, believed him to be a lover ; 
 and my uncle, who, as I said before, had seen him 
 at W — , began an earnest persuasion against him. 
 They could not bear the thoughts of losing me ; and 
 neither of them were at all favourably impressed 
 towards him. 
 
 " But you shall hear of our interview. I was not, I 
 assure you, by any means so calm when we met again; 
 my heart beat violently, a strange choking sensation 
 made me feel as if I could not speak, and, catching a 
 glimpse of myself in the glass, I saw that I was 
 deadly pale. I suppose all these seemed to him 
 favourable signs, for he began, almost confidently, to 
 pour forth the most passionate avowal of love. 
 Whilst he spoke I grew composed, and hi a vein 
 w^hose calmness quite astonished me I replied : — 
 
 " ' This time last year, or even six months a^o, 
 I might have listened to all this, and have believed 
 it ; and, if you then loved me as you say, why waa 
 such a declaration withheld 1 I was Chen extremely 
 unhappy, wanted friends, wanted protectors, Avanted 
 r
 
 158 THE OLD FRIENDS 
 
 even a home ; my melancholy circumstances were 
 well known to you, for, in my misery, 1 in part 
 unfolded them to you. Then was the time to have 
 made offers of affection ; and, had you done so then, 
 I should almost have regarded you as an angel seat 
 from heaven ! ' 
 
 •' He protested, he wept : and, oh Heavens I there 
 are men whose weeping steels one's h^avt against 
 them. I felt almost indignant, and continued — 
 ' You are accountable, Mr. Mark, to your own con- 
 science, and to God, for your actions; but neverthe- 
 less, I demand from you, how you dare offer vows to 
 me, while you have already plighted them to another 
 — to Barbara Pocklington !' 
 
 " He shrunk back as if a serpent had stung him, 
 and then vehemently protested that he loved me far 
 better than her ; that he had alwaj-s done so, that the 
 happiness of his life depended upon me, and that 
 nothing but obedience to his father's will would have 
 induced him to address her. He seemed aln\ost 
 beside himself, and besought for my love and my 
 esteem. 
 
 " ' Time, and sickness, and knowledge of good and 
 noble hearts,' returned I, ' have made me see many 
 things in a very different light to what I did when 
 -we were Acquainted — in a very different light to that 
 in which you see them. Love I can never give you ; 
 the time for that is, thank God, long past ; and if my 
 esteem be of value to you, you should never have 
 presented yourself thus, with broken vows on your 
 lips, and falsehood to poor Barbara in your heart !' 
 
 " I was angry, and said many bitter things. I only
 
 AND THE OLD H031E. ]£9 
 
 wonder he was not offended ; but instead of tliar— 
 which to my mind would, at Teast, have been manly, , 
 he crouched like a beaten hound, and talked still of 
 his love, and his broken heart. I was ashamed for 
 him, and despised myself for having loved such a 
 creature, especially as he said he had never had the 
 courage to avow his love to me, and that his father 
 compelled him to make love to Barbara against his 
 own wishes. 
 
 '• ' Say not another word,' said I, rising, ' for a 
 man that has not the heart to declare his love, does 
 not deserve to have it returned ; and he who could 
 avow love to a girl, whilst that love is a lie to his 
 own heart, is a despicable creature ! You have signed 
 your own death-warrant ; and the very least that you 
 can do — if there be the soul of a man in you — is to 
 bear your punishment patiently. You have much to 
 atone for to Barbara, in having thus deceived her ! 
 Return home, and endeavour to keep, if not to deserve, 
 h^r love ! ' 
 
 '*■ He left me. Thank Heaven ! if my love were 
 not cured before, it is perfectly cured now. This 
 scene, however, has not been without its effects upon 
 me. I am again suffering from headache, and my 
 mind is not as calm, to perform its daily duties, as it 
 ought to be. 
 
 '' I feel out of spirits, and the sense, how :very little 
 we are fit to be the arbiters of our own destiny, 
 weighs heavily upon me. I have lost somewhat of 
 my own self-respect ; for, only a few months since, 
 and this was the man to whom I would have united 
 myself! I will not, in future, set my mind on
 
 160 THE OLD FRIENDS 
 
 anything. A good Providence disposes all things 
 fright ; I will put myself in His hands, and leave all 
 to him. 
 
 " May God Almighty bless you ! Your letters 
 always do me good, and no one sympathises so much 
 in your happiness and success, as your affectionate 
 and grateful " Mary Wheeler." 
 
 Sopworth went home. No one, of course, knew 
 whither his journey had been directed, or what had 
 been the object of it. The news, however, which 
 greeted him on his return was, that old Mrs. Pockling- 
 ton was ill, and that the family was in the greatest 
 distress. He felt ill himself; and, if he might have 
 followed the dictates of his own feelings, he would 
 have taken to his bed, and seen no human being; 
 but his sister hurried him to the home of his bride 
 elect, and, poor weak young man, it was no little 
 consolation to him, that the agitation which was 
 painted on his countenance might be mistaken, by 
 the Pocklington family, for anxiety on their account, 
 and natural sympathy with them. 
 
 Not a little surprised, of course, was jMrs. Mor- 
 land by the contents of Mary's letter, but she 
 breathed not a syllable of it to any one. It was not 
 long, however, before a gossipping lady, who called 
 upon her, asked her if she had heard that the affair 
 was all at an end between Mark Sopworth and 
 Barbara Pocklington. Nobody, she said, justly knew 
 why ; the mother was very ill — the family in great 
 distress, for she was both a good wife and good 
 mother ; and that altogether, just at this time, it wai
 
 AND THE OLD HOME. 161 
 
 quite a shockins; thin-^. It was, indeed, very strange, 
 she continued, for the house was nearly ready ; wed- 
 ding-clothes were bought; and, as everybody knew, 
 the marriage was to take place at Midsummer. 
 Eveiybody, she said, was talking about it, but nobody 
 could at all understand it! 
 
 So said rumour. In two weeks' time poor Mrs. 
 Pocklington died, and the wedding could not now take 
 place for the present, had the lovers been ever so am- 
 icable; but, strange to say, old Sopworth was at Mrs. 
 Pocklington's funeral — Mark was not, because he was 
 said to be ill, and confined to his bed ; but when he 
 was next seen in public, he was wearing mourning. 
 "Oh," said rumour then, "there must have been 
 nothing in the quaiTel — Lizzy Sopworth was staying 
 with Barbara Pocklington, and the two families we're 
 as friendly as ever; there must have been nothing in 
 it ; or if there were, it was only some trifling lovers' 
 quarrel or other; but at a time like this, when the 
 family was in such distress, all quarrels would be sure 
 to be made up. 
 
 Mrs. 3IorIand said nothing ; she had no doubt 
 whatever but that suspicion, if nothing more, of 
 Mark's faithlessness had reached the Pocklingtons, 
 which had occasioned a quarrel, and perhaps might 
 have led to a total breach, had not that family sorrow 
 softened and knit together all hearts, or had not 
 Mark himself, perhaps, discovered some means of 
 making his peace with them all. 
 
 P2
 
 162 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 all's well that ends well. 
 
 The summer wore cheerfully away. Nothing 
 could have succeeded better than dear Mrs. Mor- 
 land's management of her business. By Midsummer 
 the superior quality of the articles she manufactured 
 was acknowledged everywhere. Her husband, who 
 had been twice at home for a whole week each time, 
 declared that there was not a woman equal to her in 
 all England, and that he grew more and more in love 
 with her every day. The one pleasure which he had 
 in life, he said, was the thought of the visit once a 
 quarter which he should pay her ; and the one sorrow 
 was, that once a quarter he had to part from her. 
 He did not buy nearly so many clothes for himself 
 as formerly, although he appeared in new waistcoats 
 each time he came ; the one expense, however, which 
 she had now to complain against was that of pur- 
 chasing little presents for her. She tried to scold, 
 but nsver was woman more pleased and flattered by 
 presents than she was by his. 
 
 " What a lovely ring that is which you are 
 wearing," said somebody to her one day. 
 
 " It is lovely," said she, " but its greatest beauty 
 in my eyes is, that my husband gave it to me." 
 
 Mrs. Morland wrote to her uncle, and told him 
 how successful she was in the business, and how
 
 all's well that ends well. 1C3 
 
 happy she was besides as a wife. She told him that 
 she should pay a hundred pounds of" the borrowed 
 money at Christmas ; and at Christmas, she could not 
 help telling him, that her husband would spend a 
 whole fortnight with her, instead of a week ; but she 
 did not tell him, because she did not know, that he 
 would then bring with him a hundred pounds which 
 he, too, should have saved ; she did not tell him this, 
 because this was her husband's secret with himself 
 — it was to be his Christmas present to her. 
 
 A happier woman than Mrs. Morlarid it would 
 have been difficult to find ; a better one, impossible. 
 So her husband said every day of his life, never 
 omitting to add, " and that for the life of him he 
 never could tell how she ever came to marry a good- 
 for-nothing dog like him ! " 
 
 It was now August, and we must present our 
 readers with a letter from Mary Wheeler to Mrs. 
 Morland, written at two diflferent dates. 
 
 '•August 5th. 
 
 " All goes on well with me here. • My little pupila 
 love me, and that is a great happiness ; they make 
 progress, too, and that pleases their parents, and 
 keeps them in good humour with me. I find teaching 
 agreeable, for the children learn readily, and 1 under- 
 stand thoroughly what I have to teach. 
 
 " I begin to find that I make rapid advances in 
 music ; I understand and feel it much more than I 
 used to do, and my uncle's encouragement and praise 
 makes me happy. 
 
 " I must write to you again, of these dear old
 
 164 all's well 
 
 people, and I thank you for encouraging me to do 
 so, for every day unfolds some beautiful and amiable 
 trait of character in them. I never could have ima- 
 gined anything so perfect as the union of soul 
 between them. She adores her husband, and with- 
 out being slavishly imitative, she has adopted all his 
 tastes and opinions, till they have come to harmonise 
 together, like a fine accord in music. Their life has 
 been without any great events, as calm as unrufifled 
 water ; but the living soul w ithin them has kept it 
 from stagnation. Never regret, my dear friend, for 
 yourself, that you are without family, or imagine 
 that married life, under such circumstances, cannot 
 be perfectly hap])y ; my uncle and aunt had never 
 children ; they married young, and have lived toge- 
 ther fifty years, — half a century of unbroken felicity, 
 — what can human beings expect more ? 
 
 " My uncle was a teacher of music ; but his health, 
 ■which suffered from confinement in a close town, 
 induced them to retire to this village, where they 
 hired a couple of rooms in the very house they now 
 occupy, and hoped for the re-establishment of his 
 health. This country life suited them both admir- 
 ably ; and a legacy which was left them of a small 
 funded property,- producing about eighty pounds 
 a year, decided them upon settling down here for 
 life. The occupant of the house, in the course of a 
 few years, died, and they became its sole tenants, 
 with no fear of ever being disturbed, because they 
 had the good friendly squire, the father of the 
 present one, for their landlord. 
 
 " The quiet and respectable life which they led, ,
 
 THAT ENDS WELL. 165 
 
 together with his extraordinary talent for music, 
 made him imiversally esteemed, and even courted ; 
 the squire's family, and the clergyman's, hcive always 
 been his fast friends, and it was tlirough his influ- 
 ence with them, that my father was appointed school- 
 master here. But this reminds me that I have not 
 yet told you how many proofs I have had of the 
 esteem in which my parents were held. In one 
 cottage, I was shown a black profile likeness of my 
 father, which was framed, and hung on the wall, 
 and I was assured that nothing would induce them to 
 part with it ; and many a cottager and farmer has 
 brought me little presents, because I was the daughter 
 of my parents. I wish you could see the stand of 
 hot-house plants, which one poor young man, a gar- 
 dener, and a favourite pupil of my father's, brought 
 me. With your love of flowers, you would be 
 almost envious of them ; they stand in a sunny win- 
 dow of the parlour, and, together with the piano, 
 give an air of beauty, and a character of mind to the 
 humble apartment. 
 
 " My uncle and aunt say, that I add greatly to 
 their happiness ; they lavish the greatest kindness 
 upon me, and humour me like a child ; yet, at the 
 same time, my uncle pays me thd greatest of all 
 compliments, by consulting my taste and understand- 
 ing. What a happiness it will be to have Ned here ! 
 I often talk of him, and his coming here, to the dear 
 old people ; but they seem to think that they shall 
 never like him as they like me : that distresses me 
 no little; but I am sure they will, and that again 
 consoles me.
 
 166 all's well 
 
 *' ]\Iy uncle is very particular about female dress. 
 I told you once how exquisitely neat my aunt always 
 was ; she is still more so, now that she has a ser- 
 vant, and, for an old person, dresses with a great 
 deal of feeling, if I may use such an expression. 
 My uncle likes best to see me in wliite, and I would 
 wear it always, as I too think it becoming, were 
 it not for the washing; but, as my aunt pays for 
 the getting up of my dresses out of the house, I am 
 extremely careful. Every Sunday, however, while 
 the weather is so fine, I put on a clean frock, and 
 you may fancy me, if you will, in sucli a dress, a 
 black silk scarf, the present of my aunt, and a white 
 chip bonnet, plainly trimmed, and with pink roses 
 inside, — a dress which pleases both myself and my 
 uncle ; see me then, thus apparelled, walking out 
 with the two dear old people, on these fine evenings, 
 or on a Sunday afternoon ; my aunt leaning on his 
 arm ; she rather handsomely dressed in black silk ; 
 the least in the world vain, dear old soul ! of a foot 
 and hand remarkably small and well made, and 
 which are always well gloved and well shod. See 
 us walking up the village, and here a cottager runs 
 out with a little nosegay of flowers for us, and there, 
 a little girl courtesys to us as we pass ; and now, the 
 clergyman's servant is sent out to invite us in to eat 
 a little fruit, which shall be freshly gathered for us ; 
 and now, one farmer's wife begs us to come in and 
 take tea, and another, to eat a syllabub fresh from 
 the cow ; and thus, wherever we turn, we find 
 ft'iends and kindness. The fat schoolmaster has 
 to-day sent us a present of vegetable marrows ; and
 
 THAT ENDS WELL. 10? 
 
 yesterday, a poor cottager, who lias a remarkahly 
 fiue peach-tree, the fruit of which he sends to the 
 town to sell, sent us a dozen peaches in a little 
 basket, hv his two youngest children. The children 
 were pretty, and were dressed as carefully for the 
 occasion as if they had been going to the squire's 
 instead. I cannot tell you how this little proof of 
 regard pleased and affected me. I did not give the 
 children money, for that would have been like 
 stripping the gift of its charm ; but 1 kissed the 
 children, and my aunt crammed- into their hands, 
 each a great hunch of seed-cake, for which she is 
 as famous now as when we were children ; and I, 
 who took also the measure of the children in my eye, 
 will malce each of them a warm winter frock, out of 
 my old blue merino. 
 
 " 1 have this moment received your letter, and 
 what you say of my poor uncle Oawley almost 
 reproaches me for thinking so much of my own 
 happiness. I am really distressed for him ; I 
 thought his bankruptcy would have delivered him 
 from a jail. Alas ! to be 'sick and in prison ! ' that 
 is mentioned in the Gospel as one of the most grievous 
 atflictions of human nature. I have two guineas 
 which I will send him, if you will undertake to let 
 them reach his hands ; by the first opportunity I 
 will send tiiein to you, but in the meantime, lose no 
 time in relieving him. Do not say that they come 
 from me ; I dare not establish any claim upon me, 
 for 1 may not always have it in my power to help 
 him ; say that they come from one who wishcg 
 him well.
 
 168 ALLS WELL 
 
 ''August 30. 
 
 " I take up my pen again, but I am hardly in a 
 state to write. I am happy — indescribably happy 
 — happy beyond the power of words to express. 
 Last night, when I ^vas alone in my chamber, I fell 
 on my knees, and would have blessed God, but 
 I had no words ; I laid my face on my hands and 
 wept, and the Almighty, who can read all hearts, 
 saw what was in mine. But I must not longer keep 
 you in suspense ; and yet I must be circumstantial. 
 
 " Listen, then : — After tea last evening, instead of 
 allowing me to sit down to my music during day- 
 light, my aunt insisted upon my taking a walk. 
 My uncle was gone up to the other end of the 
 village, to the house of the organist, to play to that 
 poor youth of whom I told you before. He had 
 been gone a couple of hours, and my aunt thought 
 that if I walked in that direction I should meet him, 
 and thus we two might take a walk together. It 
 was Monday, and I had my Sunday dress on. The 
 evening was heavenly, warm and bright, and some 
 way or other I felt a more than ordinary pleasure in 
 all around me, and, I know not why, dressed myself 
 with particular care — never thinking what was about 
 to happen ! But I will not proceed too fast. I have 
 a pleasure in dwelling on every little circumstance of 
 that happy evening. 
 
 " One of the little children who brought us the 
 present of the peaches, was going up the village with 
 a basket on her arm ; she was as neat and clean as 
 when she came to us, and I thought she was going 
 to the rector's, or perhaps to the squire's.
 
 THAT ENDS WELL. 169 
 
 '''And where are you going, Patty?' said 1. 
 
 " She -looked up at me so good and happy, and 
 lifted the lid of her basket ; there was a little cake 
 in it, and a pair X)f new Avoollen stockings. ' I 
 am taking the cake to granny,' said she ; ' mother 
 has baked to-day, and Jane' (that was her eldest 
 sister, out at service), ' has sent granny this pair of 
 stockings that she has knit herself; so I am going to 
 her with them ! ' 
 
 " It was quite a happiness to me to hear of so 
 much family affection and good will ; my heart 
 blessed them all, and I gave the little girl a sixpence 
 for herself. She looked as happy as I myself felt, 
 and trudged on before me almost conceitedly, with a 
 pair of stiff little legs in black worsted stockings, that 
 some way or other quite charmed me. 
 
 " "^Then I reached the organist's, my uncle was not 
 there ; he had been gone a quarter of an hour, and as 
 nobody could tell me exactly in which direction he 
 had gone, and the evening was so lovely, 1 deter- 
 mined to go onward to the cottage of the old grand- 
 mother, and see if she were not greatly pleased with 
 the presents which the little child had brought her. 
 It was about a quarter of a mile further to her cottage, 
 along one of the loveliest lanes you can imagine ; the 
 fields were full of harvesters cutting the corn, who were 
 laughing and singing as I went along ; the sound of 
 ringing bells came on the air from a not far-off village; 
 the evening sunshine cast a glow over everything, like 
 burnished gold ; a foreboding of happiness filled my 
 heart, and, saying to myself that there was far moro 
 good than evil in life after all, I ^^ ent onward. The 
 Q
 
 170 
 
 ALL^S WELL 
 
 old grandmother had put on her new stockings when 
 I got there, and was delighted to liave somebody to 
 show them to, and was aUogether as full of satisfac- 
 tion as I was myself. I had another sixpence in my 
 pocket, and gave it to her — in return for which she 
 made me up a nosegay of stoclcs and china-asters ; 
 and, well pleased with my little visit, as you may 
 believe, I set out again on my homeward way. 
 
 " Just as I reached the top of the village, I sawr 
 before me, coming towards me, and at about a hun- 
 dred yards distance — now I wish I could keep you 
 waiting before I tell you who I saw ; for, happy as I 
 am, I have a pleasure in toying, as it were, with my 
 happiness — I saw Dr. Wentworth coming towards 
 me, and looking as if he rejoiced in this meeting. 
 
 " I don't know really what he said, or how I came 
 to understand and believe that he was come purposely 
 to Morton to see me — that he had seen both my uncle 
 and aunt, and had set out wilfully alone to meet me, 
 and that I must take his arm, and walk with him, 
 and listen to what he had to say. 
 
 " What he said exactly 1 really do not know; I 
 only know that after the sun had set and the full 
 moon had risen, we were both standing together, 
 leaning against a gravestone in the churchyard — the 
 gravestone of my father and mother — and that never 
 in this world did human being feel happier than I 
 did. I could say nothing, however ; I could only 
 veish that I could kneel down and bless the Almighty 
 Father for his goodness to me. I thought of my 
 parents, who had lived so in love together, and were 
 now sleeping below that turf side by side ; my hand
 
 THAT ENDS WELL. l7l 
 
 was clasped in that of the man whom, above all others, 
 f honoured and esteemed in this world. He was 
 talking to me ; but though his voice was like music 
 in my ears, I know not exactly what he said, except- 
 ing that he spoke of love — eternal love ! 
 
 *' The purple light of evening had quite died away, 
 and the moon shone brilliantly in the cloudless heaven, 
 as, leaning on his arm, we walked slowly homeward. 
 It seemed to me as if the cup of my earthly felicity 
 were brimming full, and I feared to breathe almost, 
 lest it should run over. I Avas so full of happiness, 
 that I could not say one word, but felt subdued and 
 still ; he, on the contrary, seemed almost wild — nor 
 could I have thought it possible that he could be so 
 much excited. 
 
 " I called him Dr. Wentworth ; he told me never 
 to call him so again, but Herbert, which was his 
 Christian name. 
 
 '• ' Herbert Wentworth,' repeated I to myself, ' it 
 is a beautiful name !' but, like all that belongs to him, 
 it is superior to the rest of the world. Tell me, 
 dearest friend, is it not so ? 
 
 '• When we got home wc found my uncle and aunt 
 ready to receive us. Dear old people ! they never 
 for one moment imagined what Avas his errand ; but 
 for all that, my aunt had got supper ready, all so 
 neatly set out ; her best tal)le-cloth on her table, and 
 a bottle of her best wine on it too. My uncle had 
 opened his music-book at his favourite piece, by 
 Beethoven, which he meant to play that evening to 
 the Doctor. I went into my own room to take off my 
 things, and when I returned, my uucle and aunt
 
 172 
 
 ALLS WELL 
 
 came forward, each seizing a hand of mine,, and 
 kissing me tenderly, for Dr. Wentworth had told 
 them all. 
 
 " I never was so silent in my life. I thought I must 
 be stupid not to talk, but that overpowering happi- 
 ness had chained my tongue. 
 
 *' ' Well, if she will not talk,' said my uncle quite 
 merrily, ' she must play to us ; she can play very 
 tolerably. Dr. Wentworth,' said he, laying aside the 
 Beethoven, and opening at that sonata of Mozart's, 
 which he reckoned my masterpiece. , :■ | , 
 
 " I played ; Dr. Wentworth turned over iflbe; pages 
 of my music-book ; but oh ! never did I' play so 
 badly in all my life before. My uncle grew almost 
 angry, and seating himself at the piano, played 
 magnificently. Our little parlour reverberated the 
 almost deafening sounds, for my uncle was doing his 
 grandest ; my aunt was enchanted with his perform- 
 ance, and we two sat side by side on the little sofa 
 his arm round my waist, and my head resting upon 
 his bosom. 
 
 " Congratulate me now, for am I not happy — am 
 I not fortunate ? Oh, Almighty Father, how can 1 
 have deserved such unspeakable happiness ! 
 
 " I have, my dear friend, %viitten this long letter 
 during his absence for a few hours to visit a college 
 friend of his some few miles off. I have begged for 
 myself a holiday for to-day. This evening he 
 returns, and to-morrow he leaves us. 
 
 " Many things seem strange, and yet not incompre- 
 hensible to me either. When in the early year, Dr. 
 ^Ventworth proposed to me first, how astonished I
 
 THAT ENDS WELL. 173 
 
 was ! my foolish heart was then unworthily pre- 
 occupied. I was rudely shaken out of that dream, 
 and passed through a baptism both deep and painful : 
 but if I suffered, I acquired knowledge cheaply 
 bought by suffering — knowledge of myself, and a 
 truer estimate of others. In the six ensuing months, 
 I had become, I trust, worthier of my destiny ; I 
 understood and appreciated more thoroughly a cha- 
 racter and virtues like those of Dr.Wentworth. Love 
 for him I certainly did not cherish, because I had no 
 hope ; but excellence like his seemed to be that after 
 which I was striving; and thus, when we now met, 
 it seemed to me that we^had been in constant com- 
 munion ever since. He seemed to me like an old 
 friend whom I knew intimately, and I could have no 
 reserves with him. I have opened my whole heart 
 to him, for I desire to conceal nothing, and in him 1 
 have confidence the most undoubting. 
 
 " People talk of happiness bemg extatic ; to me it ia 
 a still and inward feeling. I have all I wish for, and 
 I do not fear change. The reality of heaven must be 
 like this ! 
 
 " He is returned ; farewell, dearest friend ! He will 
 take this with him. I enclose, too, the two guineas 
 for my uncle. Once again, farewell ! 
 
 " M. wr 
 
 THE END.
 
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